Shoofly

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This issue of Shoofly was made possible through the generous support of Kutztown University’s

College of Liberal Arts and Sciences and the English Department. Shoofly is an annual journal published

by the English Department’s Professional Writing Program that features work by student writers at Kutztown University.

Kutztown University of Pennsylvania is a member of the State System of Higher Education.

Shoofly, Volume 3

Copyright 2007 by Kutztown University

Kutztown University of PennsylvaniaEnglish Department

P.O. Box 730Kutztown, PA 19530-0730

Cover Design by Thaddeus Pasierb

Website Design by Brian Robinson

www.kutztown.edu/activities/clubs/shoofly/News.html

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Managing EditorsEmily Hammel-Shaver

Christopher Tiefel

Cover DesignThaddeus Pasierb

Layout DesignAngela CarrAlicia DeLeo

Rebecca MoulderLauren Petrillo

Jessica M. Shimer

Associate EditorsAshley Gellert

Laurenmae HausmannElizabeth Norris

Grant PhippsBrian RobinsonKrissy Scatton

William Stevens

StaffJenna DelGrossoMark Emerick

Heather GuentherHeather Hogstrom

Abby HunsickerJonathan Kalb

Deb LelugaNathan Matz

Sean McIntyreRenee Price

Lora SeiverlingErin Waters

Faculty AdvisorsProf. Karen Blomain

Dr. Heather H. ThomasProf. Jeffrey Voccola

S T A F F

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TABLE OF CONTENTSHAVENJennifer E. Hartman

THE BEHAVIOR OF FLOWERSMichele Lynne Martineau

WATERFALL INNAaron Smyk

SWEET PEAEmily Hammel-Shaver

TRIBUTE TO KUTZTOWNAmanda Rosenblatt

I GAVE UP WAITING FOR YOU IN THE...Elizabeth Winkleman

TAKE OFFMissy Coleman

STONE’S WEIGHTBen Heins

PAINT BY WORDSAshley Gellert

SHADE TREEMichael A. Lenhart

ON THE ROAD: A POEM THING, NOT THE BOOKErin Waters

NIGHT DRIVINGStephen Schmoyer

THE COUNTDOWNMelanie Hirshberg

DRIVE (SUMMER ’06)Krissy Scatton

ASHVILLEBill Pucci

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MUSEDebra Leluga

SOMETIMES I FORGETAbby Hunsicker

SEVEN YEARS LATERDebra Leluga

MADALINMary Novak

HOW MANY LEAVESChristopher Tiefel

2 A.M.Dawn Santos

CASTLauren Maslowski

THE 7 HAIKUS OF CREATIONJohn Curcio

NO APOLOGIES, OKAY?Katrina Albert

CEILINGPerry Piekarski

BLACK NOTEBOOK POEMGreg Lane

I REFUSEMae Keener

PEN, PAPER, AND LIL’ OL’ MENatasha Mottola

IN THE ABSENCE OF WORDSDevon Kramer

CLOSUREErin Waters

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SOUNDS OF HOPELaurenmae Hausmann

SESTINAJessica M. Shimer

SISTINE CHAPEL IN SANDJennifer E. Hartman

THE PEPPERONI PRINCE OF PEACEAlexandra Cavallaro

ATHEIST WEDDINGGrant Phipps

HEAVEN’S DAYGreg Hafer

LIKE MINARETSMichele Lynne Martineau

THE DEVIL HAS SYMPATHY FOR YOUWilliam Stevens

ALWAYS THE OCEANAubrey Frazier

ANXIETYJennifer E. Hartman

CAN ALWAYS BUY MORE HINGESJoy Pinkney

TEN MINUTES AND A GUILTY CONSCIENCENick Beishline

LIFE IN MY ROOMKatie Frey

STUDENT UNIONChristopher Tiefel

ADVENTURES IN RHETORICLANDHeather Hogstrom

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CHASING THE SQUIRRELNick Beishline

LISTENING TO A LECTURE ON MARIANNE MOORE...Michael A. Lenhart

GRAFFITTI LITERATURENick Beishline

WHY I WANT AN ACADEMIC FORUMAlexandra Cavallaro and Missy Coleman

EVER GREENGreg Hafer

THE MURDER OF THE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE...Renee Price

TEA TIMEChristopher Tiefel

MADNESS WHITE PETUNIASRicky Schupp

EARLY MORNINGS IN THE HOUSE MY FATHER BUILTEmily Hammel-Shaver

SNOWGLOBEBen Heins

THE PINNACLEElizabeth Hornbach

SNOWFLAKEElizabeth Winkleman

WAR TIME LOVESarah Brown

ROMEO AND JULIET: THE GOLDEN YEARSKrissy Scatton

A POETIC AND VENGEFUL RESPONSE...Zach Lonergan

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WHAT USED TO BEKayla Hockenbroch

HOLLOWErin Lewis

A GENTLE SOUL, A BRAVE WARRIORAmanda Rosenblatt

SHIROMA NAKAI: A SONNETJessica M. Shimer

OFF TO THE RACES AND BACK TO THE...Angela Carr

DENIALMissy Coleman

BILLY SULLIVANPatrick Sweeney

MAYBE POSITIVEGreg Lane

TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY LOVE LETTERSEmily Hammel-Shaver

REGRETFULLY YOURSRicky Schupp

LIKE A CATKatie Frey

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HAVEN

Jennifer E. Hartman

Reach upward into thecloaking oak canopy.Knees grip sandpaper crust,scrape against moss coveredrind, while ragged chestnut-suited companion criesfor her fire-breasted beau

He cheats! He cheats! He cheats!

cackles in through my ears.She flitters around whiletending her handmade home

Weathered, but not broken.

She rises, masked by sheathselevated armor,tawny and jade, searchingfor a bough to rest herweary body. Up here

There is sanctuary.

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I watched the flowers clinging to the hillside.I thought they looked quite charmed.Gaia’s foot soldiers dancing in the half-light.Do they so enchant all who stop to stare?

I thought they looked quite charmed.My mind’s eye fluttered and dazed.Do they so enchant all who stop to stare?Their color washed through me like water.

My mind’s eye fluttered and dazed.I was overcome by their heady perfume.Their color washed through me like water.Listen close to hear secrets of the flowers.

I was overcome by their heady perfume.Wildflowers were always my favorite.Listen close to hear secrets of the flowers.I never could coax life from store-bought pots.

Wildflowers were always my favorite.Even now I get excited as they bud in spring.I never could coax life from store-bought pots.I wanted to gaily garden like a lady.

Even now I get excited as they bud in spring.Do you hear the easy refrain of the wildflower?I wanted to gaily garden like a lady. To wear my floppy hat and fill my house with vases.

THE BEHAVIOR OF FLOWERS

Michele Lynne Martineau

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Do you hear the easy refrain of the wildflower?I watched the flowers clinging to the hillside.To wear my floppy hat and fill my house with vases.Gaia’s foot soldiers dancing in the half-light.

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WATERFALL INN

Aaron Smyk

It was hard to wake up today because I dreamt of you. I almost always do. I had to go away. When you left, I couldn’t stay. I took all the clothes and books that I could fit into a backpack. Everything else I left behind. None of it mattered as much as it used to. I started walking. That’s what brought me here. When I first saw this place, I thought I was dreaming. I heard the sound of water crashing down and followed it. Breaking through trees, feet on soft dirt, the smell of warm earth, plants I can’t name, foot on a hard rock, squirrels and insects scurry excitedly, a break from the trees. There it was. A Victorian era mansion perched on a cliff, appearing to my disbelieving eyes to be painted against the backdrop of a waterfall beneath, and the infinite sky above. Balconies of lovers, towers magnificently clawing at the air in a desperate attempt to bring back something lost, gigantic arched windows to let all the beauty and sunlight in, tiny round windows for lonely eyes to peer out. I saw the mansion and felt it at the same time. Its form in the mind is rich with raw emotional presence. A sign hung in front, illuminated the nature of the place: “The Waterfall Inn” and in smaller print below: “Help Wanted.” This felt like as good a plan as anything else. Now I spend every day behind the reception counter. Inside and out, this place is trapped at the turn of the twentieth century. All ornate candle holders and browns and reds and wallpaper of flowers and ivy. When couples come in they look so overwhelmingly happy to be here. Who wouldn’t be? It is exquisitely beautiful. No one has seen anything like it, and visitors never stop talking

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excitedly about just that. I take them to their rooms with a “Thank you for coming; I hope you enjoy your stay.” For these couples, money brings them this chance to be happy, surrounded by beauty, and in love. For me, money has none of these powers. I give all my money away. I sit behind the counter and stare at the flame from the candles. Two o’clock comes and with it a young couple. I can hear their laughter and gleeful chatter before they even stepped in the door. They pause upon entering, eyes wide as they breathlessly take in the many paintings and spiraling staircases. “Thank you so much for bringing me here,” she says. “It’s beautiful.” She wraps herself around him in embrace, and they kiss a kiss that threatens to melt the ice caps with its warmth. The room is brighter, and they are the lamp. I almost see us in their faces. They are incredibly polite to me at the counter, both smiling brightly. I show them to their room, and tell them that I’m very happy they were able to visit and I truly hope they enjoy themselves here. Then I pause for a second, thinking I might ask them about where they’re from, or how long they’ve been together, or what sort of books they like. I leave with a smile and not another word. Three o’clock comes and I sweep the wooden floor in the lobby. Four o’clock comes and I wash dishes in the kitchen. Five o’clock comes and I’m free to do what I please. I have a sandwich and some tea in my own room and I pull out a book. Midnight comes and I’m still awake. I feel the pull of the stars and nature, that waterfall and all of its allure. Merely letting its shapes and colors filter through the eye fills others with love, but it only makes me lonely. What is all the beauty in the world good for without you? I don’t need it for myself; I just want to see your face lit up

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with smile and wonder in the midst of it. Did I mention one of the most spectacular features of this inn? No, I didn’t. There’s a very tall tower off one wing and a spiral staircase up it that brings one out, once at the top, one hundred feet above the ground below, with at least another two thousand feet to the bottom of the cliff. On a balcony here there is a hot tub for the guests. That’s where you’ll find me now. Beneath the stars, beside the waterfall, and above seemingly everything else. Everything down there is so small, I can pick the world up in my hand and crush it from here. I give and take away all your dollars and cents, world leaders are mine to place and remove. Hope is effortless up here. From this perspective, the problems of the world seem controllable; it is too small and too beautiful to cause trouble for much longer. A roll of the dice, a flip of the coin, and all will be set right. But where are you? I wish I could be who you wanted all the time.

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SWEET PEA

Emily Hammel-Shaver

Home again, home again. This place—with the drains that back up and the window frame spiderwebs and the curtains for bathroom doors—I don’t think I can grow up here twice. No one told me getting fired from my first real job would feel like failing my one shot at being a grown up. “Sweet Pea,” said Mom, “don’t be so hard on yourself. Move home with your brother.” Moving home is like finally drawing the Get Out of Jail Free card to discover all I ever had was Baltic, a fifty, and an ugly Terrier gamepiece.

Sweet Pea…that stupid, sour nickname. Mom with her ironic sense of humor. So now I’m twenty-four, but my nickname keeps me in third grade. Nicknames are one of those things you’re stuck with forever, that you can never really escape. Like your family. So welcome home, Sweet Pea.

Actually, the only person I don’t mind calling me Sweet Pea is my brother, Eli, who has enough problems of his own that I can’t blame him for not being able to keep mine straight. He’s epileptic, but still manages to function better than I do on a daily basis. I’d hate him, but I love him too much. Simon, Eli’s caregiver—which is bullshit—lives with him to make sure he doesn’t burn the house down. I don’t know why I don’t like Simon. I just don’t. His nose kind of spreads out too much at the bottom and he says “anyhow” about five times a minute.

The last time I saw Eli was almost a year ago. I was home, here, for Thanksgiving. I remember because it was the last holiday we were together as a family before Mom and Aunt Betty moved to the nudist colony in Bellafast, Arizona. No way was I about to strip down and trim a Christmas tree with a bunch of holly-jolly, saggy nudists.

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I didn’t go home to see Eli that holiday and I called Mom instead of visiting to wish her a Merry Christmas. Aunt Betty answered, who was really getting into the spirit. “If God wanted people to wear clothes, he wouldn’t have plunked Baby Jesus into that manger, naked as the day is long,” she crowed. There’s no reasoning with Aunt Betty; she’s a Bible-thumping nudist to the core. Thankfully, Mom doesn’t think being a nudist has anything to do with God; she says she just got sick of putting on clothes every morning. They still have to wear shoes, though. Aunt Betty wears a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots because she doesn’t want to step on “any of them pickers” on the way to the badminton court. Mom wears the Tiva sandals she wore in the YMCA showers when she took Eli and me to the pool.

Eli and I are a year and a half apart. He knows me, probably better than I do. Before I left for college, Eli was always doing stuff like talking to me when I was trying to pee or asking me stuff when I was putting on mascara and my tongue was hanging out of my mouth. I guess the stories you tell when you’re on the toilet say more about you than kitchen table stories. Now, I talk to him a couple times a week on the phone, which gives our voices this weird distance. There’s always something in our conversations that reminds me of talking with an acquaintance who knows too much about me.

I called Eli last night when I was packing the final entrails of my life into the dumpy grocery store boxes I got for the move. Our conversations generally go the same way. Usually Eli says, “Sweet Pea, how are you?” And I tell him, “Shitty,” because that’s usually how I am. So last night he asked, “Shitty like the swim meet in ninth grade or shitty like date three with The Republican?” I said, “Swim meet,” and then we both remembered the sound of my vomit splattering on the tiles around the pool before the 400 free-

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relay. Eli said, “That’s a shame,” and then, “I wore corduroys today.” So we talked about pants for a while. And that’s been our system since I moved out. He knows me.

Like last Thanksgiving, the last time I was home: I walked in the door and Eli was over the stove, making eggs sunny-side up. I knew right away he’d been at it for a while, because there were only three eggs left in the carton and so much butter in the pan that his forearms were shiny and spackled with grease. After I looked in the trashcan and found a pile of egg yolks seeping into the junk mail I asked Eli what the hell he was doing. Instead of answering me, he brandished the butter knife over the egg bubbling in the pan like a milky yellow eyeball. With the flick of his wrist, Eli sliced the top right off the egg, the yolk bleeding yellow before clotting in the pan. Another thing: in our house, none of the pans are ever, ever clean.

He’s not supposed to cook alone, so I think I asked where Mom was, because Eli scraped the eyeball egg into the trash and told me she had gone with Aunt Betty to “get the Thanksgiving Scotch.” I must have gotten some kind of pained look on my face, because Eli started looking at me politely, like my dentist, but I knew he was remembering something personal and terrible about me, finding my level of shittiness. Maybe that I wet the bed until I was twelve or how I once accidentally sat on my hamster and squashed it into the sofa. Either way, he knows what this house does to me. It’s not just the dead hamster, the bathroom curtains, the dirty egg pans, and the Thanksgiving Scotch.

And right now I’m imagining getting out of my truck and walking up to the stupid front porch with the flickering light that probably gives Eli a fresh seizure every time he opens the front door. And I won’t knock or anything because I live here, again. A “Wish You Were Here” postcard from Mom and Aunt Betty will be on the

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sideboard in the entranceway and Simon will be on the phone saying “anyhow” every four seconds. I’ll walk into the kitchen and there’ll be Eli at the stove. I’ll be kind of slouching, because that’s how I always stand, and Eli will put his hands on my shoulders, making me stand up straight. “Sweet Pea,” he’ll start. “Don’t call me that,” I’ll tell him. He’ll pull out one of the stools that used to make me feel like I was sitting so high at the kitchen counter when I was a kid. “You haven’t been home in so long,” he’ll say. “Let me make you an egg.”

Home again; home, again. Home. Again.

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I found all that I sought in this greatCowshit town.It reeked, but it glowed.And eventually I found home here, or it found me.My belly was well fed.I slurped up the big sky, grazed uponSucculent fields, sucked in the sweet corn.I wanted to consume it all.I worked my worn flip-flops hard down Main Street When the rain wasn’t heavy.I’d find a smile hidden deep in my drooley pillowSome sleepy mornings and I’d wear it, Try not to get it dirty, or tired.Throw bent and unremitting hairsInto some sort of pony-tail mess,And off I’d go.I skipped and sung a bit when No one was in sight.I even chirped a bit to stir up the birds, lazy in their nests;“Wake up, you damned birds, it’s gorgeous out.”I’d creep through quiet cemeteries,Dance with the spirits that stirred and hummed In their shallow graves,And gaze at the tiny town from my favorite overhang.Ah, the horses. I smelled them.Hell, I tasted them.A lingering stench so thick, so familiar.Seeping through every nook of my body.Every day, I was full.

TRIBUTE TO KUTZTOWN

Amanda Rosenblatt

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I GAVE UP WAITING FOR YOU IN THE RESTAURANT AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE

Elizabeth Winkleman

Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.– Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

My story begins in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, with graphite, magazines, and a series of sketches. Summer was concluding, the August air hung hot and sweet, coating a layer of thick silk inside my painting studio, which also served as my bedroom. The windows stretched open and the lavender drapes nettled gently at my back. The room held the pungent aroma of turpentine and I inhaled it, slowly welcoming the discreet poison that over time eventually embraces and agitates the lungs of every artist. My palette spun with a deep Alizarin Crimson, bold Cadmium Red, a brilliant Cerulean Blue, and the cooling calm of French Ultramarine. Round tipped brushes, flatheads, and fans all lay next to the palette ready to create a portal into Douglas Adams’ legendary narrative, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

He, the one who had been my first real love, had never valued art, whereas I, on the other hand, could not drink from any of life’s elixirs without first rendering them. Paintings were dismissed and scoffed at, not because they fell flat, but because he did not understand what went into them. We had been together for almost four years and I wanted to give him something self-made, so I delved beyond the boundaries of still life and

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portraits into the literary volume of his favorite author, the British-born Adams. Having read both Hitchhiker’s Guide and the second book in the series, Restaurant at the End of the Universe, I selected a portion out of the latter. The restaurant was a time warp in which the universe was perpetually ending; diners could enjoy the finest food and watch as all was consumed by a star having ruptured and turned supernova. By September the painting was unfinished and past his birthday. I told him about its conception and about its delayed delivery, but promised it by Christmas.

Dolphins swam outside the restaurant, a chortling pair gazing in on the revelries of the diners. The sky was also plotted in. Chaotic and swarming with a dalmatian’s speckled coat, stars glittered against the surface, concealing initial mistakes. Characters began to take shape and with them came my own Freudian analysis.

I once had a painting teacher who described figure painting as “gazing into yourself and others around you. What you see and feel comes out in the faces of the people you paint.” I think back to this when I look at Arthur Dent, Adams’ protagonist, the hero of this epic sci-fi piece. I have always found Dent to be a stuffy character, continually looking inward and melded out of shape when faced with a little pressure and heat. So he was rendered arms crossed and glowering, while a cup of perfectly good tea lay untouched and cooling in front of him. Dent, dressed in his bathrobe, was sloppy, hair unkempt, unshaven, and basically in a state of physical and mental disarray. Trillion, the female heroine, sat to his left. She gazed boldly outward with a yearning and a desire for adventure. Though Trillion appeared average, I gave clues to her inner restlessness. Streaks of reds and pinks highlighted her auburn hair as she impatiently spun

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a tendril around one hand. Diane, my sister, dropped in to look at my progress and asked, “Is that you and ----?”

October stretched and so did our relationship. I kept unearthing errors in the painting; he had problems with me. Four years had leached the luster of a once lush love. Flowers had long ago stopped coming. Where my calls were once greeted with eagerness, they were now answered with annoyance. Time, to me, was short and precious. Time to him became a deflated tire, sloppily slapping the pavement, drudging on until it faltered and froze forever. I clung on to ignorance and focused on coating the transparencies with a heavier layer of oil.

November brought frost and the end of four years. The painting went untouched for nearly a month while I lay dormant and grieving. At school I drove myself to a wasp’s frenzy knowing if I stopped to rest, my wings would not work again. The painting became a sign of loss, failure, and decay. I debated throwing it out.

Then, one day in early December, my hand itched. I recalled what it felt like to dip a brush into paint—the feelings almost like laying into fresh linen and the touch of it like spreading warm butter gently on the canvas. Colors swelled into a prism that became a pan-galactic gargle blaster green and bubbling. They became the flourishing lips of an alien waitress, and the firecracker explosion of cadmium reds and yellows taking place in the upper left signifying the end of all existence. When I at last finished Trillion, though sad, she looked determined and hopeful and as I drove on my last journey to his house, the painting completed, I remembered words we once exchanged:

“Hope,” he said. “That’s the problem with being human. You hope and then you’re always let down.”

“No, that’s what’s great about being human. You

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get to hope,” I said smiling. Time now has come trickling softly almost like

water glistening and glimmering with a silent slickness into the fathomless body of a soft, moss covered well. Once there it gently pools into a peaceful endlessness where I acknowledge and welcome the tampering of memories and sorrows into an unbiased understanding. I reflect back at our period together and realize that while I may have missed with you, it was in that act of missing that I was truly able to fly.

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TAKE OFF

Missy Coleman

Horizon rising toThe hum of gears carryingA girl who can fly

She’s pedaling as fastAs her sun burnt legs canGigglingAt the fences blurring intoClouds beside her

The dirt of the road,Red and orange clayUnder aPerfectBlue sky

And the hill aheadStretching out into the deep turquoiseShe can’t waitTo getTo the top

She can’t waitTo throw her legs out and feel the airAbove and below and around her

She can’t waitTo feel the jumping of her stomach

Fear and delight—she can’t wait

Pedaling with all her might

For take off

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STONE’S WEIGHT

Ben Heins

We duct-taped the Generalto the largest stone at Wimmer Pondafter slaughtering his mennear the picnic bench:Summer Extermination, 1997.No one else heard the splash,the sputter of scum bubbling up--ate the stone whole.

Three feet of snow, I trudgedthrough the brittle brush to the pond’s edge,stepped on the light green ice, slippedface-first to meet the glass sheet.His eyes caught me there:Murderer!With a quick burst of frost breathI sprang to my feet,heard the ice begin to crack.

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PAINT BY WORDS

Ashley Gellert

A single object catches my eye.Slowly ideas condensate in my mind,Droplets uniting to form a great brainstorm. Phrases, words, visions trickle steadily at first.Picking up speed they flood my headAnd rush out through my fingertips,Pounding the black keys,Painting rolling hills, fiery leaves, andPastel sunrises with watercolor strokes.Coloring outside the lines,Breaking all of the rules,Animating a bare canvas.Breathing life into the words andWatching them walk off the pagesLeaving behind puddles of creativity.

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SHADE TREE

Michael A. Lenhart

Tonight, I looked at the tree my parents planted:one hundred feet tall,silhouetted against the night sky.

Thirty years agoit was to be their shade tree.And Grandma chuckled at such agawky sapling ever giving reliefall those years ago.

But now it stands a solitary finger,rising above the rest to indicate the moonlit sky.And Grandma’s in the ground.And I chuckle while crying.

It is funny.

I ask, “Will it remember me?”And I know the answer.That is what is beautiful.We do our best to impress ourselves upon these things,knowing they won’t remember uswhen we are gone

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ON THE ROAD: A POEM THING, NOT THE BOOK

Erin Waters

“Don’t you get paid like, twenty dollars to hold a sign?”Like, no, it’s $10.62. Sixty-two. Kind of random but either way, a PennDOT college temp gets $10.62, yes, to hold a sign. And occasionally shovel blacktop. 200 degree blacktop in the already scorching heat. $10.62 to wear jeans in the blaz- ing sun and get tan. A farmer’s tan. $10.62 for girl temps to learn to stare forward, to look miser- able so as to avoid ogling and whistling old men in old pickup trucks. Certainly it’s a colorful job, what with the yellow trucks, fluorescent yellow vests, helmets, elastic banded leggings. Lit up like Christmas trees and we’re still invisible, or at least there’re lots of blind people out. Curiously, or not, these selected- vision drivers seem to belong exclusively to the elderly and New York/Jersey demographics. I once heard that people in Jersey have to pay for an instructor to teach them how to drive. They all need to demand a refund. So I’m minding my own sore-footed, painful-backed, road-standing business when mid-way through my second PennDOT summer,F L O O D 0 6 Bridges collapse and float downstream, roads disappear, Taking millions of dollars in half-assed patch jobs downstream with them. Entire sections of blacktop join n, doing the backstroke down the Lackawaxen. “Ahhh shit.” The collective thought of DOT employees for a span of four counties. So

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we need help. It comes from Bucks, Perry, other counties I never heard of. But they must be richer. They have nicer dump trucks. Six-to-six shifts for nine straight days, on the weekend too. This’d be a great paycheck if wasn’t all going to pay the rent. Brokeass roads need to learn how to fix themselves.

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NIGHT DRIVING

Stephen Schmoyer

Jason Teek drove wildly up the mountain road in the dark of night. His car was just a boxy, little thing—an old tan Plymouth Reliant K car—but it did have some pep, Jason had to admit. The wheels spit gravel around the sharp switchbacks and the odometer never slipped below 70kph. It was a dry, moonless, autumn experience. He yanked the wheel hard to the left then quickly hand-over-handed it back to the right. The car fishtailed, but the tires caught and continued to take him up in flight. I’m flying, man, he thought. Flying. And Jason was, too. He had already done four bumps of cocaine from the fleshy web between his thumb and forefinger since he had left his house. And his house was where the last good shards of his life lay scattered in the study. He didn’t want to think about it; it was one of the reasons for his flying in the first place. She had left him over two years ago, but that didn’t matter as long as the radio was playing and a cold cylinder of beer remained tucked between his legs. This time the song was “Bad Medicine,” by Bon Jovi—a classic—and Jason raised the can to his lips, upended it empty, and whisked down the power window to send it off into the dark like a good dead soldier to his grave. The moment seemed steeped with meaning: pep, power windows, numb nostrils, and cold beer. What else could anyone desire or hold dear? Sharon…

But Jason wasn’t thinking about her.He was thinking about love and how it was

bad medicine and how bad medicine was what, what he

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needs. Jason pulled another can from the ring on the passenger seat and cracked it immediately. The beer was icy going down and the burp was just as cool coming up. It was cleansing and it was pure and it burned. At least something in life was just as it should be. Jason savored the sensations of sweet libations and ponderous pontifications with no ramifications. The words in his head danced in symphonic correlations. He punched the radio button with the tops of his knuckles and the inside of the car reconstituted to only wind, engine noise, and Jason’s own breathing. He liked to do this—to turn the sound on and off; doing it was a controlling rhythmic action something akin to birthing, he thought. Jason closed his eyes and opened them only when he heard the evergreen branches scrape against the side of the Reliant K car. That might have been a close one, but for now the headlights were still taking him skyward in a startling starburst of artificially thrown rays. More gravel clanged and pocked. That was a close one, too, and Jason smiled. He was in the wilderness and the wilderness was a great grand part of the world. Sharon’s smile was also a part of the world—in her presence, in her absence, just by the Earth and the human condition existing. It was toothy—and yes—it was even predatory in its own way, just like Sharon herself. She could tear meat off the bone. Sharon was a scientist, an empiricist, a realist—she could chew hearts and necks with teeth like Occam’s razors. High-level mathematics and quantum theory were her things—but Jason never understood either. The best he gathered was one seemed to have a lot to do with math and the other not so much. He supposed at the end of the day there were many things he did not understand, just like there were many things he

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was made to stand. Sharon was a goddess and mortal men aren’t able to look upon the divine without reprimand, he supposed. Sharon would have called such statements “sentimental crap.” For her, if an expression couldn’t be stated in the form of an equation, it didn’t mean anything at all. They had now been apart almost the same amount of time they had been together. Jason Teek squeezed the wheel hard and gunned the Reliant around the next turn. He didn’t remember the distance being so long, but things distort at night, he remembered: sound travels faster and louder; darker patches bend even the shadows. It wasn’t a special anniversary in Jason’s mind because with memories and a soft touch every day was their anniversary…and anniversaries are always special.

Jason continued to fly up the road. “Anniversaries are always special,” Jason contributed to the car’s interior while he punched the radio button again. This time it was Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax”—another golden oldie. He stabbed the button off and took another swallow of sweet beer. Then with great legerdemain and oblivion to danger he produced a small brown bottle filled halfway up with white powder. A moment later he threw his head back with a snort. Fuck it…it doesn’t matter, Jason thought. Fuck everything…just let me have the sting! Jason tried to laugh, but it came out a throaty croak…so he took a drink instead. “A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou beside me in the wilderness—Oh how Wilderness were Paradise now!” Another dead soldier went whispering off to its wild grave. The headlights beamed out over the open road and the monstrous trees, framing whatever heavens might be. He couldn’t be far away, now, traveling

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past all these leafy boughs. But it did matter, of course. Of course it mattered. It had to matter. The image was still clear—if ever it would leave Jason’s mind—the one of the blue teacup falling—the teacup with the etched roses and the dried brown stain seeped into its depths—to shatter over the hardwood floor of his study—of his sanctuary. The cup was the last thing Sharon had ever touched in his life and he had left it sit where she had—on the edge of a brown credenza Sharon and he had always joked was an apocalypse box. Sharon had said the box looked like something one would keep the end of the world in. Oh, how they both laughed. Jason remembered it as one of the most creative things Sharon had ever said. The love they lived was now a love long dead. Button on, button off. Jason didn’t recognize the title, but he gathered it was from the rock ballad group Journey. It just seemed destined to be a journeying kind of night. Oh, how they had met and loved! He noticed her shining smile and peach-colored lips and she noticed how he had used the term “Occam’s Razor” without straining the soup too thin. It was a college romance and it was perfect. She told him about fractals on a blanket in the grass green quad and he discoursed about themes far beneath the stars. They made love not like two pieces of wood joining in a frame, but like a frame complete—seamless and picturesque, exclusive and elusive. We were jocund with the fruitful Grape of sex and love, Jason thought, as he mused the endless rub. He had to slow down to break through the yellow entrance barrier leading to the zenith of Khayyam Mountain. There was a hell of an overlook up here and

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Jason paused the car to take in the transition zone where the headlights ended and the darkness began. Oh, yes, he had brought Sharon here, too. It had been their second to last date…right before the one when she had come over and he had offered a nice cup of Darjeeling tea. Here was the last time there had been a he and she; it was moments before she took her leave. “Don’t you get it, Jason? I don’t need you. I don’t need anything about you. We’re over and done,” she had said. But Jason Teek loved her and didn’t know what to make of it. He kept wanting to think it was a joke that he didn’t understand or part of a theory he didn’t recognize—that was the simplest explanation. But really it was just confusion. It was as if all words had lost the essence of their effusion. “Let’s move in together,” he replied. It seemed like the right thing to say. She would have more trouble leaving if they lived together. Besides, he loved her. He loved her, and would go on loving her forever. “Are you kidding!?!” Her tone was exasperated and a little raw with effort. “I mean, just accept it. I don’t want you; I don’t need anything about you—ever!” “Not ever?” Jason repeated. “EVER!” She screamed and then she was gone. Her tea was still steaming and brimming on the credenza—the apocalypse box—trembling and vibrating with the turbulence of her departure. He must have watched it for hours before he finally got up. And now that cup was broken; his Sharon had become his Charon. It had shattered by a careless bump he had administered while trying to pick up the fallen TV Guide—of all things. He had just barely caught the delicate handle with his sleeve and the cup went tumbling.

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It turned over and over as it fell, revealing the brown stain and making him wonder briefly why he had never bothered to clean up after himself, why he had waited, and why he even cared. It was just a dirty cup, right? He had five more in a cupboard somewhere, and his pantry was chockfull of tea. But those shards resembled white and blue daggers, studded with roses, and Jason could not abide anything sharp or haggard. They did something to him. Seeing them, he nearly ran to the car and began his night driving. It seemed the only thing to soothe his interior writhing. And just might be the ruby to his surviving. The precipice dropped somewhere up ahead of him. Two hundred meters…three at the most…and then there was just the fall. Jason thought of turning the radio on one last time, but reconsidered as he began to appreciate the idling silence. He turned off the headlights with a click and stepped on the gas pedal until it was flush with the floor. Gravel began to fly again and Jason flew with it. Somewhere, sometime, Jason awoke between the dull pain, the dim throb, the dainty ache, and the damp wetness to himself looking through the peephole at her wide and brilliant grin. He opened the door with a boyish air. There was something different about her, there. And then, before Jason had even time to think: “Sharon,” he asked, “Perhaps…you might like something hot to drink?” The story he lived was the story he was told, and in living the story, made the story unfold.

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THE COUNTDOWN

Melanie Hirshberg

My brother Tony and I were eight years apart in age. When I was a child, we were never close because of this difference, so I was surprised when he got home from the army and I was the first person he wanted to be with. That first day was filled with excitement from everyone--except him. He was very quiet, more quiet than I had ever seen him, and very solemn. He made sure to hug everyone twice, though. That night he tucked me into bed and read me an article from my Space Today magazine about the upcoming shuttle launch, then one about predictions of landing on Mars. I listened intently and hung on his every word. He had never tucked me in before, and I had been afraid that it would be the last time. It was ironic, too, because I had long since forbidden my parents from doing the exact thing, but I never wanted him to stop. I was so intent on listening that my eyelids began to close from the sheer exhaustion that using my brain apparently caused. I was so tired that I almost missed the question that I had always wanted to hear. “Do you want to hang out with me? There’s something I want to show you.” I was too tired to do anything but smile.

We left seventeen days later, not five minutes after the last bell rang to announce the opening of Summer Break. That first day was long, filled with uneven conversation, music I had not yet learned to appreciate, and endless miles. That night we stayed in a little motel right on the highway. There was no TV or radio, so Tony asked me to read him one of my space books to help him fall asleep. Soon

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I had fallen asleep, but Tony had not. At about two, I woke with a start. A sliver of orange light came in from over the curtain, showing me that my book had been put on the table beside my bed. I looked around for the cause of my disturbance. I found it in the neighboring bed. My brother was tossing and turning, violently, and I thought he might fall off. He sat up suddenly, breathing heavily. He moved silently across the room, opened the door, glanced up at the sky, and went outside, closing the door soundlessly. I only saw him for an instant in the orange light, but the sight still haunts me to this day. He was clad only in pajama pants. His muscles, so many more than when he had left, gleamed in pouring sweat, despite the air-conditioned chill of the room. His hair, which he had been growing out since his return, was plastered against his forehead. His eyes looked scared and sad and angry and confused. But his jaw was clenched in certainty, and sweat sat uneasily on his upper lip. I thought for sure he was going to blow. I tried to stay awake for his return, but after forty minutes I fell back into a deep sleep. He was back in his bed as if nothing had happened before I was awoken by a truck honking its horn in the first rays of sunlight. We left before breakfast time, thanks to the truck, and drove straight through lunch. I munched on pretzel rods, barbeque chips, and Yoo-Hoo. Tony never once asked for food or a drink. He concentrated only on the road and the music blasting from the stereos. His eyes still radiated a sense of unease, but I admit I didn’t much care at the time because Green Day, CD number 2, had piqued my interest. We went through a lot of CDs that day, more than the day before. The miles seemed more endless than before, as well. But one thing that was less than the day before was the conversation. It was not uneven; it was all but non-existent. Once, when I started singing along to one of the bands, he had laughed and commented how he knew I’d come

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around, but that was the most he said in one sentence all day. Soon after, we stopped at a diner, but he disappeared into the bathroom while I ate. That night, after I had again fallen asleep while “putting Tony to sleep,” he went out for a walk. I know because he awoke me out of a nightmare when the door clicked closed at his return. It was one in the morning; I still remember the dream as vividly as if it had happened last night. It had been sunny out, and Tony was going for a swim in our Yoo-Hoo-filled pool. Despite the fact that the pool was only up to his waist, he began to drown. The Yoo-Hoo then turned into a clear gelatin, freezing him in place. He stared helplessly at me as I looked on frightfully from the deck. In actual time, Tony was dressed just as he had been when I had been reading to him. He wore baggy jeans, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and his cross. No shoes or socks. He never wore shoes when he could help it. His eyes glanced nervously about the room, though they looked like nothing compared to the night before. It seemed like he was looking for something. Apparently finding whatever it was he had been searching for, he stripped down to his boxers and climbed in bed. I fell asleep soon, as did Tony, but two hours later he was tossing again. In fact, he had kicked his covers off the bed. He got up and started pacing the room. My heart thumped in my chest. I was scared for my older brother. Eventually, I could not take it any longer. I turned on the light. He froze in place, staring at me in horror. Then, slowly, his eyes gained understanding and he relaxed a little. “What’s wrong?” I asked him, almost pleadingly. “Nothing,” he answered, looking at the wall above my head. “Can’t you sleep?” “I’m having a little trouble, that’s all.”

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“Why?” “Nightmares.” “I had one, too.” “What happened in it?” he asked alarmingly, almost as if he thought we might have had the same one. “You drowned in Yoo-Hoo.” Tony laughed uneasily. “You don’t have to worry about that happening anytime soon.” “But you are,” I retorted matter-of-factly. He paled, but made it seem as if he didn’t care. “What do you mean by that?” “You seem like you’re drowning.” “I’m not. You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?” He sounded defensive. “Then why don’t you sleep?” I was pushing for an answer. “I told you.” “What are they of ?” “Stuff you’re not ready for.” “From the war?” “Yes.” “Maybe if you tell me--” “I don’t think so. You’re too young.” “How do you know?” “Because I’m too young, too.” “Are you ever going to stop having them?” “I don’t know,” he said. He sat down on his bed. He was obviously worn out and tired, but he still looked nervous. I moved over to him and put my head against his arm. He sighed. “Get under your covers,” I commanded; he did as he was told. I think he was too tired to argue. “I’m going to tell you a story. It’s about this kid named…Bob. Bob wanted to go on an awesome adventure one day…” I didn’t have to go on. Tony was already asleep.

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Which was good because I had no idea what Bob was going to do next.

I crawled next to him and fell asleep, too. He didn’t stir for the rest of the night. The next day’s ride was not like the previous two. We played the License Plate game and the Letter Game. He told me about his friends from the army (most of whom had, unknown to me at the time, perished in the fighting) and he asked me about mine. He asked about school, too, and my teachers and classes. He had basically missed three years of my life, and was trying to catch up. He was surprised to hear that we had the same English teacher because, as he put it, he thought they had chased her to retirement. Then he told me about the bands that we were listening to. Some were classics--Grateful Dead (They were a classic the minute they formed, he said) and The Doors. Some were new, that he had just barely heard about before he left--the Libertines, Hawthorne Heights, Coheed and Cambria. Some were his favorites “growing up”--Green Day and Red Hot Chili Peppers. I could not follow the vast varieties. I had always listened to rap and R&B, which he chastised me for. At one point, when he was feeling extremely talkative, I thought it was safe to ask the question I had been waiting to ask for a long time. “Tony? Where are we going?” “What did I tell you before we left?” “Not to ask where we’re going.” “That’s right.” “Why can’t I know?” “It’s a surprise. Now shush.” He grabbed a handful of pretzels and stuffed them into his mouth.

The same went for the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. It was the same for the next week. We had gone through two time zones, at least ten

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states, and I was tired of driving. Sometimes he would let us stop and walk around in a park or something, but he kept saying how we would have plenty of time for that later. I could not foresee this possible free time. I had asked him at least fifteen more times about our destination, but he would give me no hints. One day--the eighth or ninth day on the road, we did not listen to music. He wanted me to read him more of my book. I did not understand because I read to him every night, during which he had slept pretty soundly, and we only had a few more pages before the end, but I did as I was told. I read to him as he got off the highway and made his way around some unknown city in some unknown state. Just as I read the last word of the book, he pulled into a random parking lot. He told me to get out. I did, and I looked around. It was dusty and dry. The pavement was uneven under my bare feet, and it was extremely hot, like the beach on a really hot day. There was a garbage can a few feet away that the flies were going crazy for. “This is why we drove so far?” I asked, pissed out of my mind. “Yep,” he laughed. He seemed to know something I didn’t. “Why are we here?” “You’ll see. Come on, sit on the roof with me.” I did, just because I didn’t want to believe he had led me all that way for nothing. I looked up at the sky making shapes out of the clouds like I used to. Tony was silent, but it wasn’t like the silence that had shaped the first three days. He was thoughtful and, glancing at him out of the corner of my eye as much as I could, he even seemed to be smiling a little. His watch went off, breaking us out of our trances. “You ready?” “For what?” Then all at once I heard something where only silence had been moments before. “For this.”

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“What is it?” “Shh. Ten. Nine. Eight,” he said, watching intently at his watch. “What are you--” “Seven, six, five, four--” a great rumbling shook the car, and for a moment I thought there was an earthquake. “Three, two, one.” A great light came up before us, shooting towards the sky. A shuttle on its way to space. I watched, breathless, long after the shuttle had disappeared from sight. Finally, Tony broke the silence. “Do you know why I brought you here?” he whispered, as if he were afraid to talk louder. “Maybe. Tell me anyway,” I whispered back. “Because someday that’s going to be you.” That trip will stay with me until my dying day. That day, frozen like a photo in my mind, plays in my head over and over. That is my only great memory of Tony; he died soon after--a drunk driver hit him on his way home from dropping me off at a friend’s house.

I keep a picture my mother had taken the day he came home--of me in civilian clothes and him in his uniform--with me at all times, though. It’s taped securely into my helmet right now, so that he can be with me as I fly up into the sky. Ten, nine, eight, seven…

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DRIVE (SUMMER ’06)Krissy Scatton

Saw the Fourth of July throughA car window on I-81 south.The rockets exploded and fizzled;The last vestiges of my childhood.

Speeding home from your house, The witches’ moon at my back,Reflected in the rearview mirror,Chasing me up the Broad Mountain.

State routes, state linesCrisscross friendshipsBut cannot sever their ties.You are only a car ride away.

Connected by the maze of miles andOld turnpike roads,I hear your voiceAbove the roar of 18-wheelers.

I passed by summer on the highway.Midnight fog rose, blurred my view,As I looked through the rearview mirrorAt the road already traveled.

Through the windshield I try to anticipateThe next bend on the inconsistent road,Shifting gears between work and playCrossing the bridge into my future.

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ASHVILLE

Bill Pucci

You wait for each breath I takeLoitering by my side,I fill you up with charred remainsThat I so willingly provide.

A graveyard packed with smoking bonesClearly my demise,I take a breath and in returnBlacken my insides.

Habitually I visit thee Like the lover and his whore,I love to bury fire In what was smoked before.

I embrace the grasp of the grey smellAs the smoke fills up my head,I look down on this graveyard And wish that I were dead.

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Isn’t it funnyhow you can get so tangled in a word, a moment,then it unravels as quickly as it set in.

Armed with only poetry and wine,I attempt to mold you into a masterpiece,preserve you in wooden rectangles of regret,and chain you to diaries.

When the alarm sounds,I drift in and out of you.The waves of forgetting and remembering have become second nature.

And so it breathes,a pain so reliable that it is a part of me, like the beating of my heart.

I think I would miss it if it were to cease,because then it might mean that I have forgotten you.

And as much as I say I want to,it is nothing more than a carefully crafted lie

because sometimestragedy is beautiful

and your beauty sustains my art.

MUSE

Debra Leluga

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MONOLOGUE: KIMBERLY KELLERSON Sometimes I forget. You see, I have spent my entire life in search of a boy. Ever since kindergarten, when I realized that Matthew Kramer not only liked my favorite TV show, but also had the same favorite color as me, I have been planning to get married. Me and Matthew Kramer never worked out, because he moved to Illinois before first grade, but that is when it started. I came up with a list; it changed over time and consisted of the things that I wanted in a boy. My boy would first and foremost have to be cute. Not completely gorgeous, because those boys are too high maintenance. He would have to like the same music that I do, because what is the point if we can’t go to concerts together? He would definitely have to hate pickles, because I love them, and whenever we’d go out to eat, he’d have to give me his pickle garnish. I was constantly on the look

SOMETIMES I FORGET

Abby Hunsicker

The stage is set as a girl’s room. There are band posters on the wall, a closet

full of clothing, a large dresser with a mirror, a bed with a colorful bedspread,

and clothing strewn around the room. Kimberly Kellerson walks in. She is 19,

average height, thin and pretty with blond hair. Kimberly is wearing a cami-sole and jeans. She begins by putting on

some makeup, and then starts pulling out clothing to decide on an outfit.

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out for these things and so much more. As expected I would start with the looks. It’s hard not to notice a cute guy. Then came the clues: band tee shirts, pins or patches on his backpack, stickers on his car. These would help determine his musical taste and overall coolness. Then came the conversation. It was amazing how easy it was for me to change my mind about a guy in these beginning stages. I would be totally in love until he said, “Well, actually, I’m really into country music right now,” or “I have this great girlfriend,” or “I’m just visiting from Illinois.” That was all it took, and I was off scouting for the next prospect. It was after the conversation stage that letting go got harder. I was nuts about the boys who passed my tests. The kind of nuts where my tongue would fall into my stomach every time they were around. Sweaty palms and nervous smiles nuts. And as awful as that felt, it also felt exhilarating, even good. I was pretty talented at courting these guys, so eventually we would date. There would be all of this excitement. Bad excitement: “Will I say the wrong thing?” “Will I sweat through my top?” “Will I be able to escape if he turns out to be a homicidal maniac?” And good excitement: “Will he kiss me?” “Will we fall in love?” “Should I let him get to third base?” After a few weeks, dates would be old news, and hanging out would be the thing. Watching movies, ordering pizza, making out. And not long after that came the bickering, and soon it was over. My heart would swell with pain. I’m surprised I could walk with all of that extra weight, though I’m sure it made my boobs look bigger. I would make the most depressing mixed tapes imaginable, sit in my room, and

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wallow in disappointment. There would be no wedding, no children, no adorable yellow house with blue shutters and a white picket fence. But there would be Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and Oreos dipped in peanut butter. I probably gained 20 pounds over those weeks. But once I got over it and found my new boy, the nervousness came back. How could I possibly eat with my tongue way down in my stomach like that? So I got back on the ride. My heart racing with anticipation as it moved up, the joy of breezing down, and the sick feeling when it was over. Again and again I got on the ride. Different rides that I had chosen very carefully until...until I found the right one. Joe and I are good together, but this whole thing has my body confused. My heart has been waiting to swell for over a year. My tongue hasn’t had a malfunction in even longer. And my mind can’t help but look. Like a robotic woman, I scan the crowd. That one’s cute, he likes Green Day, and his favorite color is blue. I get so caught up in it that sometimes I forget for a whole fifteen minutes that I am not that girl anymore. I have my boy. But it’s just not that easy to give up the hunt. This is my nature, and what does it matter if I never act on it? I always pull myself back before it goes too far. It’s just—and this is gonna sound weird—that I miss it. The excitement, the pain, the heartache, my expanding organs, and dysfunctional tongue. I miss sad songs and cheap dates, and not knowing if this relationship will last until tomorrow. Is it wrong to miss it? To forget? This whole time I thought I was looking for the boy I would marry. Maybe I was just looking for the next ride that would knock the wind out of me.

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SEVEN YEARS LATER

Debra Leluga

I apologize.

Pastel pills failed meso I erased you.

Two liessucked the life out of the only truth.

Afterwards, they went next door,placed a bet,washed it down with liquid comfort.

And that innocent little girl,who toted a pink elephant as if it were a newborn,cries each December.

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MADALIN

Mary Novak

The Thrush sang sweetOn that morning cold,Sang on in sad defeat;We walked out past our fold,Our breath cold, frozenOn the late mid-night air.Cruel fate made us the chosenTo carry her who cared.

Beneath the scraggly, out-stretched rockWe buried sweet Madalin.Where the snow-white fowls all flock—We buried sweet Madalin.

(The Lover)Dear Madalin! Love was cruelTo separate this way.Our love so always dualThat nothing needed say.Oh Madalin! This is wrong!Like a blood-red star aboveYour death had no point—no songCould sing the depth you loved.

Beneath the stooping, weeping treesWe buried sweet Madalin.Wherein came the soft winded seaSo here we buried sweet Madalin. (The Father)My child! Oh sweet child—Woe is the day upon my head

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To think life could so vile—So to take you away as said.I used to kiss your golden hairAnd sit you upon my knee;But now my heart is ripped and bare,For I no longer have you.

Beneath the mountain all clouded and highWe buried sweet Madalin.Amongst the rocks all wrangled and wryWe buried sweet Madalin.

(The Mother)I blame—I blame myself aloneAs only a mother can.I should have kept you close to homeAnd should myself have run.Oh where is the girl I taught to bakeTo sew and mend and knit?Never again at my wakeI’ll see you sing and sit.

Beneath the Thrush’s little nestWe buried sweet Madalin.As far as east is from the westWe buried sweet Madalin.

(The Sisters)We cut our hair for you, our dear,And weep with eyes so red!We cut our hair—our mourning drear To find you oh so dead.We cover our heads with ashesAnd lay you in your veilSo when our mourning passes We’ll set your soul to sail.

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Arrayed in lace and bridal gownWe buried sweet Madalin.Beauty in pyre can be foundFor we buried sweet Madalin.

(The Brothers)We break our bowsAnd vow your revengeAgainst your evil foe!Our grief is such a bitter blendge,Yet we drink without thought.They stole your life:Oh may they wail and rotUntil we drive the knife—As atonement for their sins!

Beneath the rising sun’s cold tearsWe buried sweet Madalin.This tragedy will stay o’ the yearsAs we bury sweet Madalin.

The Thrush was silentOn that morning cold.The sun looked down so violentThat winter should have gave way.We went back to our lives,Back to what we’ve been.But cannot forget—so heave a sigh:For we buried sweet Madalin.

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HOW MANY LEAVES Christopher Tiefel

How many leaves

does it take to fill a question marka pen pal

letters every other week

Wendyʼsher favorite restaurant

Baked potato & a cup of Lipton tea

a three room apartmenta cursive k

she never had a driverʼs license

a letter about squirrels

the name Nana, instead of Grandmother

the internet

a spacebara minivan

a block in Levittown

an above ground swimming pool drained, with the cover off

a locket with pictures of her grandkids inside

card on Halloween with a dollar bill inside

a hope chest missing a wheel

a mailbox

a green Ethan Allen armchair

three shoeboxes of

the end of her letters signed with an XO

buffalo nickels

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2 A.M.Dawn Santos

The lights flicker in between the shadesSilence except for the random truck barreling down the streetThese streets seem to hum with friction at 2 a.m.The ceilings are so high that it makes the room colderI turn and see you but it’s so farI could reach but I know you wouldn’t reach back The distance between us is astoundingI can’t remember how I got hereDon’t understand who I used to be Every day is a cycle reoccurring, every secondAnd it rushes by until we get hereHere together but aloneEvery thought that runs through my head is horribleThat’s how I know that I’m alone I can’t speakI write in fear of the words that fall out of my mouthIn fear of the judging ears and the questioning eyesAfraid that I’ll make you hate meSo I lie here at 2 a.m., no 3 a.m.Letting the humming of the street noise envelop meGetting lost gazing at the 12-foot ceilingScribbling until the morning comesHiding in secret so no one can read it And I stay up all night to do this Rip the papers out of the notebookPoem after poem and shove into my little boxMy little box of liesDreamsFearsHopesSecrets

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Lauren Maslowski

CAST

The oversized pebble bares a scar.Its dimple is quiet, but screams with the anxieties of a fingerprint.My stone wears a coat of grey slate,cast with loops of cream glimpsing through the hard shell.

My stone is weighty, it nestles into my palm.Balanced and comforting,it beckons my thumb to its concavity.

My stone is porous;through the shim of my palpatory touch,the premature boulder arrests my butterflies.

If I split you, would you bleed the qualms of other palmswho have embraced you before?Would your guarantee be safer,if I cast you back to the brisk creek bedthat delivered you?

In one bubbling swallow,you are baptized amongst other tight-lipped pebbles.You will find new life tumbling within the rosy fingertips of a child;kneading over the cracked soles of an impossible dreamer.

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THE 7 HAIKUS OF CREATION

John Curcio

Chi—earthBe it gently ofA grassland’s swaying movementOr great Earth quaking

Mizu—waterBe the rain tenderTouching the skin lightly orThe torrents of storms

Kaze—windBe my breath exhaledMaking gusts of small breezesOr great hurricanes

Kasai—fireLike a spark of flintA roaring infernal burstOr a sunbeam’s light

Kon—soulThe children laughingThe mighty army at warOr love inside us

Seimei—lifeA newborn babyA man waiting for his fateOr a woman’s eyes

Zetsumei—deathA cadaver rotsThe pestilence eats at usInevitably

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NO APOLOGIES, OKAY?Katrina Albert

“Hey, Ginny! Do you want to come out to eat with me after school? I mean, a couple of us are going out—you know—and I thought it would be cool if you came along...that is, if you want to.” Ginny twisted her hands in knots, a nervous habit. She had only been attending Fairmont Prep for two weeks, but it seemed as if she had been in love with Julian Webber forever. Any other day she would have jumped at the opportunity to be near him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t any other day. It was Tuesday, and Ginny’s father was away at some type of business engagement or another. So, he had arranged for his latest love interest, Brandy, to pick Ginny up after school. It was his way of forcing them to bond. “Uh, I can’t. I’ve already got plans.” Ginny sighed. She had trouble forming the words—let alone spitting them out. “Maybe some other time?” she added hopefully, a last desperate attempt to salvage her deteriorating social life. “Yeah, I’m sure we can work something out.” Julian flashed an I’m-much-too-cool-to-show-any-teeth smile and turned to leave. As he walked down the hall toward a group of friends, Ginny felt that her life could possibly be over—long before her eighteenth birthday. Slamming her locker door in a fit of rage, the auburn-haired girl headed out of school. It was already after three and she certainly did not want to keep Brandy waiting. She sighed again. Virginia Bennett had never been particularly clairvoyant, but she could foresee that it was going to be a very long afternoon. “Ginny! Hey sweet stuff, hurry up! I’ve got the best afternoon ever planned for us.”

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Brandy sat parked across the street in a jet black Escalade. A part-time massage therapist/full-time new age hippie tree hugger, Brandy didn’t own a car. Instead, it belonged to Ginny’s father. Apparently, you weren’t destroying the environment if you drove someone else’s. Ginny’s legs were lead. An afternoon with Brandy just wasn’t something she could convince herself to look forward to. Brandy was loud and embarrassing—everything Ginny tried to avoid. In addition, Brandy was such an acquired taste, one that Ginny’s father had recently acquired. He sat behind the wheel of the car in the middle of January with both windows rolled down wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt barely large enough to cover his scrawny frame. He was also swaying his head and singing, rather loudly and off key, along with Billy Joel as “Only the Good Die Young” blasted from the car’s massive speakers. Ginny’s cheeks radiated warmth as she tried to hide her head behind some schoolbooks. “‘Come out, Virgina, don’t let me wait...’ Oh, the song fits!” Brandy giggled for a few moments at his own cleverness. “Gin, you know I’m all for being fashionably late, but God, it sure took you long enough. Can’t you walk any faster? Anyway, how was your day, sweetie?” Maybe it was the fact that Ginny had just been asked out on an almost, sort of a date by the guy of her dreams and had to turn him down. Or maybe it was that the same guy and his friends were walking past the Escalade giving odd looks towards the thirty-something-year-old man behind the wheel who could probably pass for a seventeen year old. They would probably think that Brandy was her boyfriend and then Julian would never ask her out again. It also could have been that Brandy didn’t wait for a response to his question. Instead, he went on about some random B-list celebrity whom he gave a free

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massage to. Moreover, Billy Joel was still blasting and the blood rushing to Ginny’s cheeks was giving her a headache. Finally, she just couldn’t take it any longer. “Actually it sucked, not that I care to tell you about it—and don’t call me sweetie.” Something within her snapped. “Can I ask you a question, Brandon?” Ginny made sure to emphasize the masculine form of his name as her anger, frustration, and annoyance poured out, saturating every syllable. Slightly taken back by the hostile teenager before him, Brandon tried his best to be polite and not lose his temper. After all, the whole purpose of the afternoon was to get Ginny to accept him and maybe even learn to like him, wasn’t it? Brandon Shaw refused to go down without putting up a fight. “Okay, Virginia. Shoot.” For a few seconds the two passengers engaged in a fierce and cutthroat staring match. Neither backed down--scouring for any sign of weakness to use against their opponent. Finally, Ginny spoke. “Why?” It wasn’t exactly the type of question that Brandon had been expecting, or anything near it for that matter. “Why what?” “Uggggh.” Ginny had been blessed with her father’s temper and was seldom able to emit frustration without blowing up in anyone and everyone’s face. “Why everything, Brandon?! You’re like what—twelve years younger than my dad...isn’t he a little old for you? And why did you have to meet him in the first place? He was on the rebound from my mom, Brandon...my mom...a woman. A woman, with...breasts! He loved her. He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t need to be gay with...with...you! I don’t care how you go about with your private...thingssssss...but that IS NOT how my dad does things. Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

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Ginny felt sorry as soon as she had heard the words shoot from her mouth. Her tirade had sounded much less ridiculous inside of her head and she was afraid Brandy might have taken it the wrong way...or the right way...or had just listened to what she said at all. It wasn’t that Ginny totally disliked Brandy; but he was often too much to swallow. As if having seemingly happy parents split up, being dragged cross-country with your dad, and enrolled in a prep school where you’ve never felt so out of place in your life wasn’t bad enough. But then, finding out your dad was homosexual and had been secretly dating a very good looking, younger man (who you could never even like because he was gay—and dating your father!) seemed certainly uncalled for. Waves of nausea washed over Ginny as she searched for any signal from Brandon, any clue as to what to do next. He looked as if he were on the verge of tears. “I...I didn’t know our relationship bothered you so much,” Brandon stammered. “I’m sorry, Brandy. I didn’t really mean all that stuff. It’s just that...” Brandon placed his finger over his lip as if trying to “shhh” a small child. “No apologies, Gin. Even if you meant exactly what you said, it’s okay. I really hadn’t thought about it before, but all of this has to be pretty hard on you. Let’s just try to enjoy ourselves for a while, okay?” The two agreed to a compromise, or at least a standstill, in their conflict. Ginny and Brandy spent the next hours driving all around Fairmont stopping at classy dress shops and little cafés. After purchasing four new outfits, with the help of Brandy’s impeccable taste, and successfully reaching her caffeine quota of three venti mocha frappachinos, Ginny started to wonder if she could get used to having Brandy around. It was almost like

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having a big brother, well...kind of. “Hey, darling, let’s get a move on. I want to stop and pick up a sandwich for your dad before we head back to your place.” Brandy placed a somewhat generous tip on the small table before standing up to leave. “Oh, Brand, let me go to the restroom first, okay? I’ll meet you in the car.” Ginny remembered that she had been meaning to use the restroom for at least the past two hours. Naturally, the prospect of coffee and clothes had seemed more important at the time. “’Kay, hun. I’ll be parked out front.” Feeling much more comfortable, Ginny made her way out of the café towards Brandy, who was sitting in the car on his cell phone. She wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but he seemed engrossed in the information being relayed to him. Not wanting to intrude on anything personal, Ginny took her time getting back into the car and was only able to catch the last bit of conversation. “Yes, yes, I understand. I don’t think I should be the one to--really I’m not sure if that’s—I...I know. Of course, baby. I will. Yeah, I love you, too. I’ll see you soon.” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Gee, Brandy, I sure hope that was my dad.” Her face fell a bit when she didn’t get the rise she was hoping for out of him. “Hey, what’s wrong?” She watched the tears pricking the corners of his eyes fall into little rivers, which flowed down his cheeks. “What happened?” Silently Brandon sat behind the wheel of the Escalade looking as if he had just run a marathon. His hand still clutched the sleek black Motorola, but his whole body appeared to be shaking. “Brandy, what is it?” “That was your father on the phone.” Brandon’s face paled, making his already dazzling blue eyes even more evident. Mixed with the now steady tears, Brandon Shaw was quite a sight to be seen. “He was at work and all

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of a sudden he just kind of collapsed. The doctors don’t know for sure what’s wrong. Apparently there are a lot of tests that need to be run, but they think it might be some form of muscular dystrophy. It’s still too soon to know for sure, though.” The man before her broke down into sobs, so heavy that Ginny could barely make out what came next. “He was allowed to call me. It didn’t seem like he was in too much pain, but he’s going to have to stay at the hospital for a while. I’m just...scared. I guess you wouldn’t know this, but...my dad died of a heart attack about six months ago. I just couldn’t stand losing your father too, you know.” At first Ginny couldn’t quite piece together what Brandon was saying. All she wanted was to know who was responsible for making him so upset. Brandy was sweet and happy and understanding. He wasn’t supposed to be sad. After a few moments of only Brandy’s sobs and the sound of traffic, Ginny finally began to make some sense out of everything. “Oh my God.” In that instant when everything hit her, Ginny was caught in a vacuum chamber, suspended, frozen in time, just waiting for gravity to set back in. Then came the fall. She was fully aware of the information she had just taken in yet somehow unsure of exactly how she was supposed to react. She sat there until finally she felt Brandon take both of her hands and hold them in his. “I’m so sorry, Ginny. God, I’m sorry about everything.” Without thinking Ginny added, “Hey, no apologies okay?” The statement seemed to cheer Brandon up because for an instant he seemed almost “okay”—if okay was any way to describe how one could feel, given the circumstances. “That’s right. No apologies. Everything

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is going to be all right. I promise, sweetie. Oh,” Brandon laughed a nervous laugh—remembering earlier that afternoon. “You told me not to call you sweetie.” Virginia Bennett and Brandon Shaw remained parked outside of the tiny café for another ten minutes, crying and talking before they finally decided to head to the hospital. “Ginny, even if you’re not totally comfortable with me as your dad’s boyfriend...I just want you to know that I love him very, very much. I promise to be here for both of you as much as I can, that is, if you can put up with me.” Ginny realized that she didn’t even need to think over an answer to his question. How could she? The next few days were going to be difficult, with hospitals, tests, and changes. Her father needed someone there for him. Brandy needed someone, too. However, most importantly in the mind of a seventeen-year-old girl, she needed someone. Ginny knew that somehow her father would have ended up with someone—male or female. In that very instant, as Brandon enclosed her in a comforting hug, Ginny couldn’t have been more satisfied with her father’s taste in men.

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CEILING

Perry Piekarski

Stitched eyesAnd a formal tie.

Canvas tuxedo.Calloused concrete walls.One left to dress for the occasion.

He worked construction.

Laborious; steel on steel On stone On wood.

A roofer

Placing the last kissOn the love letter of every homeowner’sAmerican dream.

And like dreams,So are nightmares.

And like nightmares,So are accidents.

And like accidents,So are people.

Like the cracking of a man’s foundation,Aroused by his disloyal bride.

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Subtle dilapidation.Drywall and timber fall.Deficient craftsmanship. Devastation.Family of fourFound in the damp, flooded residue.

Four have died

Of a fallen sky.

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BLACK NOTEBOOK POEM

Greg Lane

Into rut and routine we trace our footstepsOne in front, one behind back to placeswe once knew. These lonely hands shakeso fiercely on the way down. Breathe innew air going along your old tricks. Onlythe dasein will recall where you breathed them in, where the factory spewed them out.I couldn’t get like this if I was alwayschoking, but I’ll be back to my old trickssoon enough. I just pray that I don’t wake upto realize I’m the fake one looking in. Now only ifthere was talent or a voice to go with it, but alasthose gifts aren’t mine (few are). I need a new chaser for what flows through these veins, a little pushto get off the ledge and find a hand to hold.Was that veiled enough from cautious eyes to letslip? There is no room, again I am on the outside.The storm has come to bear down and let itselfbe known every day I’ve been here. Even I can’t beso bold, so keep moving your feet searching for a lesson.I belong no place, and would love to be there now.My memories haunt me in the day time, so I guessthat’s a fair trade for not having nightmares, but I don’tdream at all. Singing the songs of my father and calling them classics won’t help, this isn’t his warit’s all in my head. Betrayal is the order of the hour and I’m the first casualty. The others don’t careto march in step they just shuffle their feet like they are dancing corpses.

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I REFUSE

Mae Keener

I RefuseREFUSEto call myself whiteWhen the word white crosses my mindthe words blank, empty, and cultureless follow itAs an artist, I see a blank canvas that has just had the foundation of gesso laid down The art is not even there yet the meaning is missing the symbols are missing the story is missing the journey of the creation is missing

The culture is missing.

This is why I refuse to call myself whiteI am not by any means blank, empty, or cultureless.

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PEN, PAPER, AND LIL’ OL’ ME

Natasha Mottola

I am alive. I know this because my pen hits paper occasionally. I have been reminded time and again to write if for nothing more than the importance of staying present. Focusing on the here and now. I write to remind myself I exist, that the day before last actually happened and that a month prior to that I was in a room full of women telling me their deepest secrets, all disturbing, all frightening, all of which I related to. I write until my hand hurts to remind me I have a hand. I write long enough until I disappear into my own head and can fight what distracts me all day. I scare myself. I startle those who read, but I do not hide. I have been away for much too long and this diatribe is overdue. I live with that awkward feeling every day. To hate the body I possess, the person I am. I write to distract myself long enough to catch a breath—convince myself I deserve each one. Every day that my pen hides is another day I devote to self-pity, self-hatred, and waste of self. I am nothing when I do not write. I remember the day, the hours, the inconsequential, mundane reactions, and my words are the references to my life, one that I still have a hard time existing in. Each day that passes without a page or two filled with words leaves me absent, vacant. I have sat here for an hour. Please don’t ask for more. I can not afford to avoid writing. The breath of my mind, body, and soul are dependent on it. To wake and write is the most painful. To be tortured with the thoughts I could have quelled all day with a busy schedule. My body is riddled with guilt until my thoughts are released on paper or in a room alone because I am scared someone

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will hear. I feel as though at times, my thoughts are autonomous, can be removed, or is that what I wish? Like cancer they spread from my mind through my body. If there were only a way to remove them without enduring and expending the painful energy it takes to pick up a pen. I have sat here for forty minutes. Please don’t ask for more. I feel as though it takes some greed to acquire the spirit, wherein lies my reluctance to let go of my writing. I feel everyday sensations that I ache to define and it does require more every day, more energy, more time and more pain. I have hopes of living a life less ordinary; more passionately with extravagant ideas that others will want to know, but must I hoard my writing until something makes sense? And when do my greedy little fingers let go of my soul? Someone needs me to write. Someone is just as confused and I want to share my self-exploration in hopes of reaching them. I want my writing to eclipse my environment and become me. I want self-pity to dissolve in the ink I use. I want to indulge my inspirations and let them wake me up at night. I ask all of this of my soul and spirit both of which I’ve stifled for so long. Knowledge fulfills my empty longings. I want to spread what I know to those who feel empty. Let my soul be full. I want to edit in the daylight. It has been there my whole life, genetics I assume, and one event triggered another to bring me where I am today, admitting to myself that I am a writer and with that admittance, I am accepting the future tasks at hand. The hours spent in front of blank pieces of paper, the hours deciding whether I am worthy to pick up the pen, the hours I will spend walking away from my work and the endless guilt I’ll feel until I return to fill that empty

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page with presumably nothing. I do not know why I have accepted this job. There is always doubt. I do this to live. I write because my mind craves it. There is no medicine I have tried that makes this go away. Meretricious my words, my face, my voice, my thoughts are disgusting, putrid, toxic and must be extracted with urgency, but they’re nothing in the end—only to be put in a jar with the other specimens like it, nothing different, nothing clearer—just a few moments of peace until something else invades my body. There is death in my body and I fear that a thought might trip a wire, cut a vein. I cannot keep track of the verbal purges; at times I am frightened to look back. I try to think it’s possible to explain my purpose of writing and that it is a purpose I am worthy of having. There still remains inside of me guilt for wanting some recognition for my pain, but I let that go by believing someone could feel connected to my words. These thoughts are so unique, so uncalled for, so confusing, how could anyone understand? I feel guilty for having the ability to be aware of my feelings and put them into words. The strength that is preparing me to share all of this is frightening. I want to share. I was taught to share. As my confusing, disjointed, written word permeated my life, I finally commit myself to writing. I try to encourage thoughts suitable for eyes other than my own. Feeling self-centered, I question who will want to read my writing or what could inspire them to trust my words. Something inside tells me that to share what I write will make me stronger, truer, and beautiful. My poetry evolves from journaling and from journaling I have gotten to know my penmanship as an old friend. One who is a bit moody. Sometimes strong, tight, and under control,

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while at other times she’s a mess, barely legible, and running off the page. It’s the time in between the words—that second the pen lifts off the paper to dot an “i” or cross a “t” that I get to catch my breathe and decide if I really want to keep going—knowing that I might not come back for a while. At times of seclusion, I feel as though I am the only one I will listen to, but I fight the hope my healthy mind tries to create. “Write Natasha. I keep trying to remind you to write.” If you must read, I’ll take my work out of the trash. I’ll sew the pieces back together and prick my fingers all the way—inflicting pain to try to stop. “But someone cares to read this.” I will try to convince myself, but pinch, stab, blood. “It’s not out of conceit, you are a worthy person. You deserve to feel. Don’t block yourself from the rest of the world as you’ve done for years. Write! I beg of you.” Here take it. It’s no longer mine and I will not put my name on it. I am nothing. It’s been 68 minutes. Can I stop now? Now I sit here feeling full, satisfied, but I know there’s something missing. I know something is not ok. I am not the same. I can’t be. The desire for some sort of release still has not gone away. Whatever health I’ve had has diminished. This all makes me feel the least and most human, most disconnected from my soul when I try to fight these thoughts. I repeat a sentence over and over in my head so I don’t have to write it down, so I don’t forget it. Writing makes it real. It’s a maddening process. The more I try to forget, the more I cannot let go—the more I think. It is only when I let thought turn into words that I am released. It reminds me of when I would play games alone as a child. Convinced I needed no one, I would choose a word, write it down, and try to forget it so I could play Hang Man with myself the next day. I remember all of those words today.

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I still do this now, pick the words and try to forget them, but this is not a game. This is life. The words I choose are my life. They can haunt me and bring me peace. In poetry, words remind me of safe places and let me illustrate childhood memories silently so I can reenact them in more adult form. Sentences let me get away from life. This is enjoyable, these times when my words carry me to safe places, when my handwriting is almost childlike, illegible. This is the most rewarding place my thoughts bring me. The secret places of written words, the wonderment of descriptive tree houses and the open backyards of youth, the desperate plea to stay up one hour later or for one extra cookie. How is it that now I fight my initial cravings? I once had cravings that let my imagination spin me upside down. Now I deny myself pleasure in the simplest forms. I am so tired. I feel like I have nothing left to give. I want all this buzzing to go away and my cravings to come back. Insatiable as they are, but so nice to have. Indulge them—feel them—let them stay. Keep the words in my mind. “Do not pick up the pen. Keep it to yourself, no one wants to know.” The paper growls again. It’s only been a few hours; you cannot possibly want more. There is nothing left. Nothing is coming out. I am tired and starving, lonely and full. How much did this passage stop me from accomplishing? I could have finished washing the dishes that were distracting me. I could have finished baking the cookies I won’t let myself eat. I could have been sleeping the sleep my body doesn’t need. What has this passage done for me? Most likely nothing, useless unless I let myself read back, but I will run. I will fight it. I am scared it will go too deep. Shards of wood are thrown at my body with each sentence I let myself reflect on. I do not

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trust the tweezers my mother held, so I kept most of the splinters I had. I should be an oak, I wish I were, but all I have now are splinters to protect me from my mind. Staggering to sprout, shamefully expressing thought through movement, rooted, but barely existing this tree is falling over. It is needed, sought after, invaluable, and a treasured resource. Each leaf sings a song before falling and reenters the earth to give more than before. The oak knows not what it does because it can’t see. It’s been blinded by the earth’s beauty, but it is in the tree’s own beauty where true strength lies. I am stopping now.

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IN THE ABSENCE OF WORDS

Devon Kramer

They say language is power(persuasion rhetoric control influence propaganda convince charm sweet talk liar) But sometimesI feel my wordsare inadequate (doubt straining attempt disappoint frustration deep struggle)

If I could explain—walking through the woodson a sun-streaked day(alive green deep earth mystery curious connection life awe)

The feel of the sun’shealing rays on my face(free calm warm illuminate peaceful shine soar smile dream)

Being held by my love(warmth belong comfort bliss right perfect destiny burn forever heart)

The wisdom in my grandmother’s eyes(experience pain loss knowledge memory life understand content proud family)

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The joy of learningto love myself for who I am(joy shine love inspire beautiful being unconditional strong)

Then I’d have the powerTo explain my soul—But I don’t thinkI have the words.

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CLOSURE

Erin Waters

I watched your dad walk away to summon youHis smile was strained, his eyes confusedYeah, I don’t know what I’m doing here eitherYou appear in a tank top and gym shortsStrange that you didn’t bother looking your bestI guess being yourself around me isn’t necessary anymoreWithout making eye contact we deliver our contrabandSweatshirts, a scarf, and my hoodie that smells like you nowThe smell is too strong, too recentCouldn’t resist giving it one last spray before you handed it over, I supposeAs if you were releasing a newly-branded hostage“So that’s it.”“Yeah.”“Drive safely.”And with a look back at your dogs who just now started barkingI give your just-appearing mom a waveA nervous reply to her look, tentative and identical to your dad’sSo ends my last invasion of the household I so desperately wanted to be a part ofMy footsteps down your driveway are the sputtering of a war’s last bombshellsI reach my dented car that I didn’t even park on your propertyI drive, safely, waiting to feel somethingRegret or tears or even an approaching smile But nothing comes. I’m an emotional tabula rasa.I call your replacement. Busy writing music with his brother.

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Okay then. Music of my own fills the air and I’m still neutralDriving, still safely, I leave behind your town and my high school dreamI sigh. I’m fine.“So that’s it.”And it is.

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SOUNDS OF HOPE

Laurenmae Hausmann

Thud. “No man is gonna get me down,” Sarah said quietly to her herself. “No, I have seen the light and it is reaping day!” The latter was said with a purple pulsing arm held over her dead husband. Her arm was so dark and disfigured the hanya mask that once shown bright embedded in her skin was longer visible on her bicep. Tonight Sarah became the tattoo that was hidden. She transformed into the vengeful woman behind the devil’s face. Sarah waltzed over to her gray secondhand couch and plopped down. “What to do?” Dancing on the cool breeze was the runaway voice of J.R. Cash and Sarah thought to herself, “It is all all right!”

Beep. “Wake up!” You’re twenty-six and middle aged already. My mask has returned and I am starting to feel like a woman again. Not like the prancing ones in Jane Austen novels, but female enough, for now. There is no delicacy in hard labor that puts a callus on your hand and whiskey on your breath. I flex my arm and make the hidden evil on my bicep laugh. My mom thought I was crazy and Lord knows my high school sweetheart made me pay for this ink. Ha! High school sweetheart. That clichéd term sums up to a blue-eyed boy masquerading as man, who plucks a loner girl from obscurity to small town fame. He dotes on the fact that I listen to music of days long gone by, and that I read during the pep rally. It’s a boy who promised her the world and that he’ll teach her things that she can’t even imagine. Then the boy blows his

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knee and the world confines itself to this one-horse town. That’s when the girl learns quickly that the only thing he is teaching her is how to stand still when his golden right arm is coming towards her. And such is my life, but I have my thoughts now, which is a handful more than I did six months ago. Not to mention, I am gainfully employed by a farmer and his wife. What a serene and eerily familiar image of a cookie-cutter rural American family. I know better of this scene and it’s where I belong. It’s everything I was promised.

Pop. Toast is up and coffee is fresh. All work and no play makes Kiley...Oh, if only I could take it that far. The kids are off to school but not before Eric looks under my left eye, the violet cheekbone I’m sporting again. Her shakes his head and keeps moving towards his means of escape. “Take me with you!” I scream silently as the old white door swings and separates me from hope. What happened, Kiley? I’ll tell you. You were sixteen; you got swept up in green eyes and the promise that he would show you the universe. At the end of the day all he shows you is a world of pain wrapped up in a pity me fist. George is awake with a slam and my thoughts are stolen. He stumbles into the kitchen and kisses his love wound. “I’m gonna fire that goddamn girl today!” He shuffles off the stairs stinking of whiskey and three day old sweat. “Why?” I ask even though I already know. “She’s lippy and I don’t care for that.” “Clearly.” I rub my cheek. “Oh, poor you. She sings that goddamn un-Christian Johnny Cash all day long.” “Doesn’t he sing gospel?”

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“No, he sings the words of evil people and he divorced his wife, which is not right to do to the mother of your children.” My mouth widens with a grin that is worth a thousand words and smart-ass comments I only dream to make. “I think she is good people; there’s something kind about her and strong,” I bravely state. “You don’t think.” Yep. As far as you know I don’t.

Yawn. Out in the field and the sun is warming my freckles right off my skin. Snapping peas is the easiest part of my day. That’s right, hanya, save up some energy for your dear Sarah. I hum a little soul to myself. “Don’t you know anything other than that heathen music?” George shouts. “Yeah, Miles Davis, Billie Holiday and voodoo premarital relations ritual songs.”

Crack. I wonder if her neck snaps like those peas. That woman needs to get a man to keep her in line. “When I was just a baby my momma told me son...” I’d like to slap that song right out of her mouth. Lordy knows I used to listen to some Cash but I straightened up. Now this woman needs to learn some self-discipline. “Always be a good girl don’t you ever play with guns...” Get the friggin’ words right! She needs to stop staring at me or I’ll make her look crooked. “But I shot a man in Lyons, just to watch him die.” What an idiot! How pathetic is this? She’s looking at me like I’d throw her one, crazy woman.

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“Hey, sing it right if you’re going to pollute my ears.” She says nothing. She just stares. “Did you hear me? I didn’t stutter. That’s not the way the song goes!” “It does in my version.”

Thud. Sarah staggers back up to the house. She hits every step with a defiant stomp. She wants to let the world know who she is. She wants every woman that is scorned by small-town boys to know what she has done again tonight. “You got a little something besides peas in that bucket, Sarah?” chuckles Kiley. “Well, Miss, it’s reaping day and I brought a feast for the matriarch of the household.” Sarah rubs her sore mask. “Well done, girl,” she whispers while kissing her bicep. Kiley’s green eye has a twinkle beyond its purple halo as she stares at the bucket filled with George.

Click. The radio lights up with the sound of a man walking the line. A cool, familiar breeze floats across the stomachs of two free women. Tomorrow there will be a new place with new calluses for you, Sarah. Her wounds will be paired with the company of a quiet housewife and a husband with hands too sore to do the fieldwork alone. She smiles and she knows all is all right.

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SESTINA

Jessica M. Shimer

Asphalt, taxi traffic, he doesn’t have the time for pleasure;his seconds are dollars until five. And tonight, Katie, shewants to dine in Chinatown, dance, buther analysis needs to be edited, polished, readout loud. Tonight, anythingloud, distracting—The novice dissecting Milosz! Amputated poetry!

In the silence of evening he appreciated poetry:Rucksack as pillow, constellations for verse; the pleasureof split wood, as it crackled and hissed in the fire— anything solitary or harsh. Masculine imagist! Yet once printed sheis raped of power, the poem suddenly feminine when read.He cannot stomach so vicarious an experience, but

Tavern brawls--stench of blood, liquor, cigarette butts—these too are poetry,Not only to be lived but also to be read.Whitman understood! From a nameless whore, such pleasurepen on paper rustled; did shewhisper vulgar verse? Of him, did the whore remember anything?

Now Emily, she loved God; nature; Susan; anythingwritten by the Brownings. Loved Amherst butrarely left her room. Instead, shewrote letters colored with dashes, exclamations—prolific poetry!

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Why leave her room? Every pleasurewas there to experience in a book. Emily chose to read.

Dr. Hinnefeld said, “I cannot believe you haven’t read!”He walked out of office, voluminous texts in hand; anythingwritten in verse, he ate it. Ate his words. This not pleasure:Work. There exists no absolute quality of exist—Free verse. Butwhy did it come so easily to the women in his life? Cadence: poetrythat did not hang itself on rhyme! Why? Because she,

Shedid not readpoetryfor anythingbut PLEASURE!

Katie, she knew what verse encompassed: anything.Reading wasn’t the excitement or beauty of life, butthe poetry of life parenthesized! That was the pleasure.

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SISTINE CHAPEL IN SAND

Jennifer E. Hartman

Something moves beneath me, slides between my toes

soggy imprints in speckled gritsifted by abrasive tides.

It creeps into sun-bleached locksstinging eyes,

settling in the crevices of my teeth.

It’s what makes you cringe-- the grinding,

scraping gum linesuntil they bleed.

But what if, like a lump of wet clay, it’s

Michelangelo potential I storefor renditions of King Arthur’s throne

and Jesus portraits, assembled in plastic bucket molds.

Could all that be the power of inspiration?

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Look inward: see meinside castle walls

surrounded by ocean puddles,defending my citadel from

gulls and pillaging children.

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THE PEPPERONI PRINCE OF PEACE

Alexandra Cavallaro

Jesus does not taste like pizza. No melted cheese, no sauce, and not even a hint of pepperoni. Nothing. The Eucharist was coarse and dry in my mouth. It cracked between my teeth as I bit down on it. It was probably the farthest thing from a nice cheesy pizza. I had been deceived. I glared at my older cousin as I returned to the pew in my stiff white dress. “You lied!” I hissed. “Huh?” “You lied! You told me the host tasted like pizza, and it does not!!! It tastes gross. Like a cracker or something.” I glared at him with all my might as he stuck his tongue out at me. “Ha-ha,” he said in that taunting voice I knew so well. Before I could respond, I felt my Mom’s hand tighten around my arm. “Shhh!” she hissed. “But...but...” I started. “Quiet! We are in church,” she said, giving me a look that said I had better keep my mouth shut...or else. If she would only let me explain, I thought as I squirmed in my dress, hearing its many stiff layers of material rub against the wooden pew. I sulked down, fuming, still furious with my cousin. I glared over at him again, narrowing my eyes to show that all had not been forgiven or forgotten. Boy, was he gonna be in trouble when we were done with the service and I told on him. Then they would see the great injustice that had been done to me. Such a trick would not go unpunished. “Sit up!” came my Mother’s voice. “You are going to wrinkle your dress!” Stupid poofy dress. I hate it anyway. Stupid tights. Stupid dress shoes. Stupid lying Jason. Pizza! Ha! Yeah right! He was older and wiser, and I thought he knew everything. I had trusted him, and he had deceived me. Oh yeah, he was gonna be in trouble all right...

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ATHEIST WEDDING

Grant Phipps

To defy the laws of tradition is a crusade only of the brave.- Les Claypool

Setting: Still in a church somewhere equi-distant from each other’s homes. Or, if living together, somewhere nearby.

Forward(thinking): When a minister normally recites traditional wedding vows, he recites them in respect to Christianity. My fiancée and I decided that we’re against that. So I proposed to her that we write another set for the non-believing that have to marry. Well, they don’t have to marry; it’s their choice much like it is everyone’s choice to do so. See, that’s a little joke since we’re free-will enthusiasts. As a victim of adult attention-deficit disorder, I found myself in a moment of complete motionlessness for the first time in my life. “Oh, shit,” I muttered under my breath. I had forgotten to write the alternate wedding vows. Luckily, I had spoken with the (unfairly convicted) “minister” about my changes on a cellphone a few hours prior, so I hoped he had taken some notes or at least remembered something I said. I was thinking about putting up flyers advertising this wedding, but I also forgot about that. Mary remembered and put some on some manifestation of the holy sacrament in the town square. Why would I do that instead of sending out invitations? Well, they were mainly to promote and describe to the general public what an “atheist wedding” is exactly. For example, my father boldly asked what he could wear. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I told him he could arrive in a sanitation/ravewear outfit if he truly wanted to. Of course, a suit and tie would be fine as well. If one of my friends wanted to arrive in a Ray’s Pizza uniform with tomato sauce and grease stains, that would also be fine. Mary probably wouldn’t object either. I figured this would be amusing,

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considering when you’re in a church, you really want to piss everyone off who feels a complete desire to follow tradition and prevent themselves from doing otherwise. Prior to arranging everything, Mary and I found a plethora of things at a local Goodwill including vintage clothing and props. To be honest, we saved about $5,000. Mary’s dress? A satin/polyester blend in the deepest Chinese red I could find. My chipped beige cufflinks? That’s right; Goodwill is also responsible. I pulled the rebel “minister” aside (complete with graying goatee and ponytail) moments beforehand to reaffirm a few things. I didn’t get beyond point number three before he stopped me by inadvertently waving a Bible past my face. “Oh, right...I don’t even read this thing,” he jested and carelessly tossed it under the podium. His collar was missing, so I’m glad he took my advice...although, I’m sure he wouldn’t have cared anyway with the amount of money I was paying left over from “Goodwill shopping.” Several pages of notes were tucked away in a leather binder he was carrying, too. He backed away and stood behind the podium, looming atop the families. Mary stood beside me, frozen in affluent light. Another Mary rose above me. As I stared into the Mother Mary above the scaffold, I imagined my wife and myself locked in the most unholy embrace. Before I could drift any further into unholiness, the minister spoke: “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered together here in the sign of Darwin--and in the face of this company--to join together these two monkeys in an evolution of matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all primates; and therefore--is not by any--to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly--but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly, etc. etc. Into this real estate these two present now come to be joined. If anyone can show just cause why they may not be joined together, please...shut up and don’t disturb this moment. You’ll have your fifty percent chance if there’s a divorce. “Webster’s Dictionary and episode 1F20 of The Simpsons describes a wedding as “removing of weeds from one’s

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garden.” It is intended for their mutual flowering--and for the help and comfort given on another in prosperity and adversity. But more importantly--it is a means they no longer have to figure out who calculates the tip at the end of restaurant meals, etc. etc. “Through marriage, Grant William and Mary Lucretia make a commitment together to face their disappointments, sleep through their eternal dreams, and openly argue about each other’s failures. Grant and Mary will promise one another to aspire to these ideals throughout their lives together, etc. etc. “We are here today--before the naturalists--because after all, marriage is a natural thing. Darwin engaged in it once himself. This occasion marks the celebration of love and commitment with which this man and this woman finally have their lives recognized after twenty-some years. “Who gives this woman in marriage to this man?” Mary’s father, named Heli (oddly enough), rose from the gallows...(sorry, the pews). He looked at me with something in his eyes. He may have been crying; I couldn’t quite tell. He may have visited the free purification spring beforehand and hadn’t dried his eyes. Clearing his throat, he mumbled, “Her family...and friends gathered here today do...” I threw my hand up in front of him, interrupting him mid-sentence. Then I grabbed the minister’s hand and rifled through several of the pages he’d prepared...most of them appeared to be pretty close to what I had asked. However, I was quickly becoming tired of the monologues, so I snagged pages in the middle, folded them in fourths in shoved them in my coat pocket. Well, it’s a jacket. And not a Member’s Only jacket, a bright blue and white 1982 Sears Collection one (also the same year the minister was convicted for “robbery”). The minister appeared to be disturbed by this action, so he shuffled in place, and folded the rest of the papers under his left arm. “Um...the exchange of vows.” I stared at him again and motioned with my head toward his left arm. Reluctantly, he reached down to unfold them and held them up heavenward. Scanning to find his place

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with his finger, the minister spoke once again. “Do you, Grant, take Mary to be your wife--to live together...” he paused mid-sentence to improvise (for lack of better words)...“um, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her as long as you both shall live?” “Yeah, sure,” I casually responded. “Do you, Mary, take Grant to be your husband--to live together as long as you both shall live?” “Ten years, maybe...I mean, yes, sir.” Realizing that I had ripped off The Simpsons earlier in the oration, I decided to follow through with it yet again. Inside a felt red box resided two small, flaky onion rings to which the minister held his comments. “What token of your love do you offer? Would you place the rings in my hand?” While the minister spoke, I snatched one of the rings and attempted to made another remark concerning the Lord of the Rings. “Only one...” I said while crunching on the hardened, battered ring. The minister simply continued, bewildered. “May you always share with each other the materialistic gifts (and food)--be one in heart and if you don’t mind, I will conclude, may you always create some sort of home together. In as much as Grant and Mary have consented together in marriage before this company of friends and family and have pledged their faith--and declared their unity by giving and receiving a single ring --are now joined (yet are not physically fused as one person)...” The minister paused for a final time, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “You have pronounced yourselves husband and wife but remember to always be each other’s best friend. Aw, how nice! And so, by the power vested in me by the state of confusion and the almighty dollar, I now pronounce you man and wife--and may your days be good and long upon this earth, etc etc. You may kiss the bride, but only if she says it’s OK.”

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HEAVEN’S DAY

Greg Hafer

Before my son turned eight, he used to walk out onto the frozen lake behind our house and watch the snow fall. It was so magical, tiny white stars falling from a distant grey heaven. But this year, the year he turned eight, the heartfelt mystery was replaced with a cold understanding. Snow was simply part of the water cycle. It was like rain, only colder. To him, they were no longer tiny white stars, just frozen water vapors drawn to the ground by Earth’s gravity. But he liked knowing things and when he was eight, he knew what snow was. Two weeks before Heaven’s Day, I was getting ready to go shopping. I was looking for my son and finally spotted him in the backyard, gazing at the falling snow, this time with a new understanding. I told him to get ready and that we were going to see someone special today. Usually he was excited to go to the mall and see the famous Heaven’s Day icon, but on the ride there, he had a look of discontent. “What’s wrong?” I asked as he drew shapes on the frosted car window. “Aren’t you excited to see God?” The line for God was terribly long at the mall, but it was a great way to keep my son occupied while I went Heaven’s Day shopping. “I guess so...but,” the eight-year-old started, “but I was out with Grandma and kept seeing God everywhere...How can God be at the grocery store and the medicine store at the same time?” “Well...it’s called omnipotence. God can be everywhere at once. And not only that, he is all-knowing and sees everything. He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake...That’s why you should always be on your best behavior, even when no one is around. Otherwise, he might not bring you presents on Heaven’s Day.” We finally made it to the mall, finding a parking space in the nether regions of the parking lot. No one was parked there because half of the space was covered by a mountain

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of mud-ridden snow plowed there in the wee hours of the morning. Walking toward the mall, my son started to cheer up. Eager shoppers were gathering around the entrance waiting for the building to open. The mall towered over the people with its enormous glass entrance decorated with images of the season: electric lights on strings, gold and white garland, and of course, Heaven’s Day crosses. When the mall opened, people poured in, eager to take advantage of the great Heaven’s Day savings. By the time we found God, there was already a line of children waiting to sit on his lap. I was about to go shopping, leaving my son with the other giddy children, when he tugged on my jacket. “Ten dollars,” he said, looking up at me. “What?” I responded, somewhat annoyed. “I can’t just sit on God’s lap and pray for presents. I have to have ten dollars,” he explained pointing to the sign by the cameraman with the dirty white robe, scraggly brown hair, and unshaved face. “I give God’s helper ten dollars and he takes a picture.” I fished ten dollars out of my back pocket and gave it to the boy. Charging ten bucks for a blurry, wallet-sized picture was a rip-off. Then again, it was God. In light of this high-paced season, I never asked my son how things went that day when he prayed to God at the mall. I was too busy buying presents for my friends and family. Plus, I had to plan the Heaven’s Day party at work. I was stressed, but it was partly my fault because I tend to procrastinate. I don’t even think about it until December, unlike the radio stations that start playing Heaven’s Day music three months prior to the holiday. I swear, people are going start celebrating Heaven’s Day all year long. The last thing I need is my kid praying to God in the middle of summer. Before I knew it, the night of Heaven’s Day Eve arrived. I tucked my son in and quickly finished wrapping his presents hidden under my bed. I waited until midnight to put them under the tree, hoping he would be sound asleep. Once the house was silent, I threw on a bathrobe and ran

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downstairs with the presents. Trying to stuff them under the tree, I knocked off three glass ornaments that shattered on the hardwood floor. Right after they shattered, I heard a small voice shout “God!” I turned around to see my son with tears in his eyes. “You’re not God,” he cried. I sat down on the couch and motioned for him to sit on my lap. “I’m not God,” I confessed. I knew I would have to give this speech eventually. “The truth is...there is no such thing as God. God was made up a long time ago.” “Why would someone make up God?” he wondered. “It was comforting I suppose. Thinking is hard work. With God, people could surrender their curiosity to a higher power, not having to worry about the mysteries of life or the pursuit of knowledge. God had all the answers.” “But why do we celebrate Heaven’s Day if we know God is make-believe?” he asked. “Tradition,” I responded. “Even though God is a fantasy, he is our fantasy. In a way, God reflects something deep within ourselves. When you learned the truth about snowflakes, did that make them any less special?” “That made them more special!” “See, that’s the same thing with God. Even though you know God isn’t real, the spirit of Heaven’s Day still has meaning.” He looked up at me questioningly. “So does that means I still get to open presents?” “Of course,” I said.

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LIKE MINARETS

Michele Lynne Martineau

Like minarets your voice leads me, Blindly, faithfully to sing your prayer.Your desires shape me. I am not free.Like minarets, your voice leads me.Briefly I wonder of tomorrow and what will be. Flashes of light flicker through your dark hair.Like minarets your voice leads me, Blindly, faithfully to sing your prayer.

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THE DEVIL HAS SYMPATHY FOR YOUWilliam Stevens

“Oh, the devil never could write a love song.Didn’t seem to matter how much he tried.And ‘cause the devil never got his heart brokeand the devil never cried.”

Prologue “Please allow me to introduce myself...” I am a man. Average in every aspect save sociology, but we have no need to explore that avenue. I could try to speak for my sex, my race, my country, my world, my family; yet I am not even qualified to speak for myself. But in any event, I shall try. Now that we have introductions out of the way, we can proceed to the discourse. Please, sit down. Relax. This won’t take long; it won’t even hurt as much as you want it to. You might even enjoy it just a little bit. (There; it’s your guilty pleasure for the week). Let’s keep this informal and, above all, irrelevant. After all, we wouldn’t want to talk about anything meaningful, would we? And so I will try to unravel the secret of love; no, the secret of loving; no, my particular take on the whole kit and caboodle. I’ll try. Because we all know that the devil couldn’t write a love song if he wanted to. So why can we? Hmm...

Argument “First, let’s check out the exterior: a hairy, hard bony frame with a thin layer of dough like putty on top. But that’s not what we want to see, what we yearn to vivi-sect! Let’s start with the brain! The kiddy gloves are off,

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Bonzo! Dig in!” *Gloved hands grasp the top and lower jaws and, with a great wrenching motion, spread the mouth open far beyond human capacity. Inside, we see a circular brick edifice, much like a walled garden, inside of which the shoddiest guitar player plucks out a melody reminiscent of “Wish You Were Here.” “Aha! The center of reason! But look at all this clutter! Too much and too little. See, the poor fool con-tradicts himself at every turn. Too much reason for his own good. Good grief, Dr. Tran! He can’t even tell if he’s doing the right thing or not! The judgment center is con-nected to something below somehow. Aha, I’ve found it!” *The flash of the scalpel gleams like a spotlight on the man’s chest, then flashes to open up the entire abdomen, revealing the beating heart and a festival of misplaced ribs; a pantry has apparently replaced the stomach. The rest is empty space. “Indeed, Dr. Tran, just as I thought; this red, lumpy thing is directly connected to the brain! Ah, poor prole! If only he knew the complications his life has been muddled with because of his anatomy. See, he can’t make objective decisions without his sentimentality and morals and feelings and hopes and desires and...I don’t even know what else...getting in the way. Let’s close him up. Don’t want fresh air to get inside.” *The two licensed unprofessionals began to staple the man’s body shut, snapping his hyper-extended jaws back into place and wrapping the whole thing in wads of duct tape. Both turn towards each other and meet in a mighty high-five and turn four big thumbs up to the camera. We pan upwards...

Closing Long have I pondered the human condition. Much have I studied the thoughts and feelings that dwell within my brain and, I suppose, my heart; I presume that you,

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dear reader, have similar feelings and thoughts upon oc-casion. They suck, don’t they? Wouldn’t it be just dandy if we were all simpler creatures? Or could easily commu-nicate exactly what we meant to one another? The other day a friend and I were discussing the possible use of “re-lationship indicators.” Little flags you could put up to let someone know if you were interested, taken, or very much nauseated by their presence. You know, anything to push the intimacy of conversation back a little more; anything to protect ourselves from risk, heartbreak, or chance. But, fortunately or unfortunately, that’s what life is. One big roll of the dice. So I charge you with this. Poets, share your poetry. Not with the public, but with strangers; accost people on the street and open their hearts with love sonnets. Artists, make everything about you as irredeemably beautiful and bizarre as possible. Lovers...embarrass yourselves. Shout it from the rooftops, surprise that special someone with flowers every day until the restraining order is in place. Musicians, play concertos and rock ballads at the earliest hours of the morning. If a neighbor is still asleep, com-mit seppuku to atone for your failure. Writers, make every work a modest proposal; you have the singular opportu-nity to offend that the others lack. Exercise it! Oh, the devil must have sympathy on us. We have something in common, do we not? He who denied his beloved creator, while we deny those things that we love every day. How often has someone you know not spilled their secret desires, their hopes, their fears? How often have we held back from that one dream, denied that one opportunity, hidden those feelings from the one person we think can save us? Satan must know the pain, the heart-ache, the frustration, the incredible loneliness. What could be worse than separation from God? Being cut off from

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that which we love? And yet we do it every day. Every day we deny that which we long for, what we desire, what we hope and pray for. I’m not talking about hedonism. I’m just pointing out how often we are our own worst en-emies. Even the devil must pity us, poor foolish creatures of flesh. Hey, I’d feel sorry for me.

Epilogue We all hide our dreams, and bury them in muddy holes; we all crush our loves and hopes into the bitter ashes of what we feel is acceptable. Screw the acceptable. Love is your only excuse and only escape. Whether you love the rubber ducky in the toy store just enough to steal it, or whether you love the patch of pavement on Main and Lyons just enough to drop to your knees and make sweet impossible love to it, or whether you love the feel of the wind in your hair just enough to sleep with a fan on top of your face, you must destroy yourself for what you love. Dedicate yourself to it. Have your heart broken. Because if you aren’t willing to destroy yourself for what you love, then I guess you don’t really love it, do you?

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ALWAYS THE OCEAN

Aubrey Frazier

I knew the way the wind Massaged my hairThat you were taken from your shipOne morning when the sky was redAnd otherworldly wavesAttacked the deck.

It doesn’t take a sailing man to hearWhat the ocean says to meOn winds like those. I meet you every time we Go around, And every time I lose you to The sea.

I have no quarrel with the waterSo what fight can that waterHave with me? You’ve been captain, first mate and One of the crew, With husband always coming last. Still, foolishly I thought that I’d know howTo counteract whatever pull or lureThe ocean has thatHas a hold on you.

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ANXIETY Jennifer E. Hartman

Winds whip back and forth; two-ton metal box is my safety net unless the air gusts a little harder to the right. Then it’s a buoy. How long is twenty more miles? Too long. White knuckles grip the smooth and gray plastic steering wheel as I look to the left: down into the cold, black morning tide and its seething, swirling waves, hiss-ing frothy-tipped warnings as they crash and climb up the support beams like an alligator stalking its prey. I assure you, I am not part of a well-balanced breakfast!! How long is thirteen more miles? Too long. Watch in the distance. Lights lining the bridge suddenly disappear into the bleakness of 4:00 a.m. dark-ness. Start my obituary now; I’m never going to make it out of Virginia. What happens when the lights go out? Little yellow orbs of hope, let’s be reasonable. Even Evil Kneivel has his limits. Play connect-the-dots to solid ground, but now the water ate my dots. How long is eight more miles? Too long. Wind whips to the left this time. Almost pushes us into oncoming traffic. Now even the butterflies in my stomach are getting butterflies of their own. Pull back. Regain composure just before the dots end. Tunnel. I’ve been swallowed whole racing through the salty belly of my wet foe past the blinding halogen lights. Dingy, musty walls. Piercing silence. I am moving toward a foggy white light to the other side. It’s official. I must have died some-where between mile marker seven and six. Tell the Grim Reaper I’ll meet him at the next rest stop. How long is five more miles? Too long.

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Start counting down as each little green sign mounted on the steel guardrail notes another mile con-quered. Four more. The first thing. Three more. I’m going to do. Two more. Is jump out of this car. One more. And kiss the ground.

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CAN ALWAYS BUY MORE HINGESJoy Pinkney

If you need a finger, you’re out of luck.A kidney...maybeTutor...can’t help you there!You need a ride; I’ll give you a lift. Need a friend? Someone who’ll always be there...You got me.Here to bring Joy to your world and never let you down.Don’t be sad, I can do a mean cheer-up routine. Want me to learn how to tap dance? I bet that’d make you smile.I can make you happy once again. Please just let me make you happy.Seeing you happy makes my day.I’m down...some one bring me Joy! Oh, boy!I’m down...come pick me up. I’m falling, slipping even!Give me a chance to make you smile.My pain can bring you happiness, literally.Just give me enough time; I can cry a pool for you to swim in. Invite your friends.My life’s not so great, and my smile is broken.No technicians are capable of fixing it.But I’m fine; don’t worry; it’s cool.I’m up now; no more down. Really, I’m fine.I temporarily fixed my smile with hinges; they might snap soon, though.I thought I was fixed, even cured, but good things never last ‘round here.“Snap” hinges go flying off. Oh, well. I told you so.I’m down again; I hope you’re up.If you’re happy, then I am. Yup, that’s what I always say.

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I’m here to the rescue ladies and gentlemen...here to save the day.I’m a superhero; I’ll beat up all those criminals.Dr. Evil, Professor Sadness, Mr. Gloom.All gone, just for you.But who will save me from myself ?I’m the queen of facades; I’ve mastered the art.Hiding my feelings...who are you kidding? I invented that.Hey you...yeah, you...pull my strings, will ‘ya? I’ll be your puppet. I can make you smile and laugh.Making you happy makes me happy.If the whole world pretends to be happy just for my sake, then I’ll be happy.If everyone pretends, then maybe. Well, if they’re good enough actors, people will believe their falsified happiness.Then they’ll be happy, too.Yup, a happy world. That’s all I want.Wow, who am I kidding? Since when do people care about what I want?Do you? I thought so.So let’s keep me the way I am. I’ll mask my feelings.You just sit back, and let me make you happy.Anything for you.I’ll buy more hinges, and fix that broken smile.If you’re happy, then I’m happy like I always say...then everything’s good, right?Well, at least for now!

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TEN MINUTES AND A GUILTY CONSCIENCE

Nick Beishline

The sun was shining thatday, but the wind was intent onruining the advent ofspring.

My sweetheart and I, weblew off our afternoon classesand went back to my room to sleep.

Hours later, half-awake,she said to me, “Baby, are you sureyou don’t want to go to your last class?”Behind the blinds, the sun was still shining,and the wind was still blowing.

I looked at the clock.

I looked at her.

My sock had a fatal hole in it.

“Sweetheart,” I said.“I’ve got ten minutes and aguilty conscience.”

She looked at me worried,but I couldn’t keep a straight face, andI finally gave up trying.

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The clock glared accusingly at me, and Iblocked its leering face byburrowing under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” I said and threw my damaged socktoward the trash can by the door.

I missed, and shelaughed.

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LIFE IN MY ROOM

Katie Frey

Why must they run amuck?Constantly making noiseSlamming doorsMoving things, andTalking just outside my door?It’s all done on purpose.No one could be so accidentally rude.

It’s not like I really want to be here,Friendless, in a cold, cluttered roomFilled with too much past:Old dreams discarded without knowing.Yeah, I like being old,Being young,On my own,Told what to do.

Please shut up.

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THE STUDENT UNION

Christopher Tiefel

The fountain in the Alumni Plaza isshut off. Its faux-riverbed dry.All the pennies have been scooped out,wishes spent.

Six sickly trees have given their all to fall& trampleddusty remainsgather in the fountain’s base.

The only rumble now is passing traffic,& the shuffle of students’ steps ona mud line cut through dying grass, always rushing five minutes before, or after class in

shields of iPod interference--sound trackedbubbles--& cell phones stringing invisibleelectric laundry lines for all to hear:(insert cliché here)

The students stacked in trailers behind Lytle Hall will soon moveto the Academic Forum; a giant glowing 17 million dollar fishbowl filled with

goldfish eyes in 200-seat amphitheaters, the teachers will never have to learn my name again.

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The dry recycled air echoesrecycled ideas pounded intofive-paragraph containers,reused in the library, wasted computer printout

pages, all grades the same--one pen stroke passor fail--like finding a parking space

five minutes before class.We are (the new) Penn Staterepackaged in another field, inanother ground broken ceremony

high-rise honeycombed dorms, where a single room is now a triple in a numbers game of how many studentscan we jam in one place, for one price

& still get away with it. Better yet--put a food court in the forum so they can buy freedom fries. Please just keep the Republicans away from bake sales.

The turned-up corn fields give again--the illusion of space--like the fairgrounds on a weekend, & diversity is half the population

taking a bus back to the city,taking a truck back to the country.Monday through Friday we walk in streams butnever pool into a student union,

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it’s just MySpace now, fauxFacebook-ed friends & waitingfor the season to slide by, a fountain filled again.

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ADVENTURES IN RHETORICLAND

Heather Hogstrom

Several weeks ago I had to visit a place I’d never known and speak the language. The name of the country (perhaps you know it?) is Rhetoricland. I did not know what kind of trip I’d gotten myself into. I was, however, not without a guide; John D. Ramage was there to instruct me, however confusing the customs and culture seemed. On day one, I tried to see too much. I met some of the natives called Rhetorical People. I was introduced to a Serious Person as well. He must have gotten lost, because I quickly learned that Serious People do not agree with Rhetorical People and therefore do not spend much time in Rhetoricland. I later found out this Anti-Rhetorical Person I met was actually a Rhetorical Person pretending to be Serious. He was simply an actor wearing a mask. After that I was not sure whether I could trust these Rhetorical People, but Ramage persuaded me I could. Of course he may have just been speaking at me to promote a cause that suited his interests (i.e. more guided tours through Rhetoricland. Tickets and guided tours now available online. Half price if you invite a friend). By the end of my first day, I ran out of gas and had to push my car through the rest of the day’s itinerary. Several Harley Guys passed me on the road, Tao Boulevard. They rumbled by in their carefully-chosen black leather clothing and head scarves that covered their professional identity. They were speeding away from their offices in search of an alternate lifestyle, singing “Born to be Wild” and “Bad to the Bone.” I gazed in wide-wonder at

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their “rebel without a cause” attitude. They were too cool to actually talk to me, though. I was confronted by a salesman who was willing to help me find a suitable mode of transportation to replace my car. He was a very friendly man. “Oh dear, you ran out of gas? Let me help you.” I am sure his sole purpose in life was to aid and befriend needy strangers. “I happen to have just the thing to suit you. I don’t usually do this, but I like you, so I’ll trade it to you for that useless old car.” Soon I, too, was roaring along on a motorcycle clad in a leather jacket that came equipped with a feeling of independence. This independence was only for show, since I still had to rely on Ramage to guide me through Rhetoricland. We didn’t have a map, because such things are shunned by Rhetorical People. I wandered through this uncharted territory and was surprised to meet a pirate. This pirate, Captain Heraclitus, orated on how Rhetoricland was the perfect place to live. He could get whatever he wanted with a word. The pirate spoke so forcefully and eloquently that I was soon convinced I wanted to sail with him through the land. How could any visitor to Rhetoricland leave without enjoying a pleasant cruise? We crossed a river, or maybe it was many rivers. Captain Heraclitus could not agree with his first mate, Parmenides, on the issue of change. Heraclitus insisted that the river was constantly changing and new, while Parmenides insisted it was all the same water. Where did Heraclitus think this water came from before it existed? I took the side of Parmenides, but did not say so, thinking it foolish to cross blades with a pirate. “Why are they trying to define a river?” I asked.

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“Shouldn’t they be making it into a metaphor, perhaps for life? A river, like life, is always moving, changing constantly, yet these changes remain part of one life.” “You are beginning to fit in here in Rhetoricland,” Ramage told me. “The river of life is fast at times, and other moments it drags on,” I continued. “Some times are peaceful, and sometimes life is rough and troubled...” “We get it.” The pirates fought over the river and parried with their sharp tongues. Heraclitus eventually won, proclaiming all rivers in Rhetoricland to be constantly new on the basis that Parmenides was not from Rhetoricland and should keep his mutinous ideas to himself. My tour guides indicated points of interest in Rhetoricland. “On your left, you will see the thin line between force and persuasion.” I stopped to take a photograph of it. “Please note Act and Motion playing hopscotch on your right.” Act was clearly more talented than Motion at this game, who could not create new moves. I got another snapshot of Achilles trying to race a turtle. Parmenides explained that it was only an illusion. The turtle race was going nowhere. Before Heraclitus could argue his philosophy on experience, Ramage and I jumped ship. I wanted to relax, and Ramage knew of a party. I figured it would be a good way to meet more of the Rhetorical People. I do not recommend this method. One man actually asked, “So what’s your story?” I managed to persuade him to define himself instead. Rhetoricians are always eager to talk. Ramage suggested I try the local cuisine. We had a long wait for our food, but it was delicious. Fast food, Ramage explained, was generally looked down upon in

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Rhetoricland for its lack of art and distinctiveness. At this stage in my journey I was beginning to question my identity. Was I a tourist? An anthropologist in the land of Rhetoric? A biker? A pirate? A narrative? Was this whole trip just an effort to “find myself ?” Perhaps I was a victim of identity theft. Ramage suggested I was a metaphor. We saw an old friend, Shakespeare, who supported Ramage in this. Shakespeare compared an old man to a tree and reminded me how love is like a rose. Ramage joined in with his own metaphor about crabbiness. I decided not to stick around for whatever identity metaphor they would place on me. I discovered the array of readymade identities, coming in flavors of workplace, consumer, and cultural. Just add water. It was hard to choose, so I sampled some of all of them. This was a bad move, as I wasted a day getting the multiple identities out of my system. The workplace readymade had me reading too many self-help books anyway. This delay set me back in my tour of Rhetoricland, and since I did not have a specific route in mind, I was able to rhetorically alter my travel plans. (Now I began to appreciate the disregard of maps in Rhetoricland). I decided to fly over the land in order to see more of it at once. We took off from Persuasion, the capital of Rhetoricland. The inhabitants were constantly trying to convince each other to cooperate and share their views. I was coerced to change religions three times and once to join a gym. By the time I reached the airplane, I had been persuaded I needed a parachute, Encyclopedia Britannica, and a lifetime supply of airline peanuts, not to mention magazine subscriptions, wrapping paper, and cookies those Girl Scouts forced me to buy. Any visitor to Rhetoricland should plan a large budget for such unforeseen expenses.

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I was seated on the plane next to a lawyer named Art Opposite. He kept trying to prove the opposite of everything I said. Art debated the values of his job and the importance of judging each case separately as unique and unfit for a mold of predetermined rulings. I pulled out my souvenir mask and acted like I was interested. There was a politician across the aisle. He promised all sorts of wonderful things. I was ready to vote for him right then and there (until I realized I was not a resident and registered voter of Rhetoricland). The plane circled over Logic Lake and the Mountains of Coercion. We landed in the state of Stasis, which causes everyone there to question “What is this thing?” or “Is this good?” I began to wonder why I was even in Rhetoricland. Ramage tried to convince me to stay, but after encountering so many confusing customs, I was prepared for his persuasive ways and ready to go home. All I had to do was close my eyes, click my heels, and think a Serious thought.

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CHASING THE SQUIRREL

Nick Beishline

sitting in thishot roomis bad enough, buta Chinese man isforcefeeding me histake onAmerican philosophy, andI don’t knowwhat thehellhe’s trying to say.

he thinks that ourupper-level classis inept atciting in papers,and he calls Trutha squirrel circlinga tree,and he claims thatcausality ispredetermined.

I’m inclined todisbelieve him just becausehe seems like a visitor fromouter space, andI think,

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I give up.

I don’t care.

if everything ispredetermined, thenI was predeterminedto take this class,in which case I have abone to pickwith fate.

my pen is broken;my foot is asleep;the fake fur trimof the girl’s coatin front of melooks like a moldyferret, and Iwant totell her, butI can’t, becausethe Chinese manis talking aboutregret, andTHAT I canunderstand.

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LISTENING TO A LECTURE ON MARIANNE MOORE, I REALIZE THAT STUDENTS ARE UNCONTROLLABLY COMPELLED TO WRITE DOWN NUMBERS WHEN THEY HEAR THEM

Michael Lenhart

When the teacher drops the number, allthe pencils in the room dip and glide in unison like a well-practiced string section:“When was that?What was that year?How old was she?What was her dress size?”

Why are we obsessed with counting the strokes of the ticking clock?Can we put it into our number machines,alphabetize the numerals,and write our own poems that answer the sublimehole in our own souls?

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GRAFFITI LITERATURE

Nick Beishline

The buzzing of thebare lightbulbhanging from the ceilingbrings to my mindevery horror movieever made(even thoseI haven’t yetseen).

What used to be knownas The Human Experiencehas been systematicallyreduced toThe Human Disappointment.

Once I read THE CONEHEAD BUDDHAit was carved into a desktop,and now the onlygraffiti literature at mydisposal isI BURIED MYSELF ALIVE.

SomehowI am still vaguelyaware thatmy best thoughts(best in terms ofgrandiosity) have beenmanifested on the page

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simply byturning away frommyself.

Living in symbolsis the newliving in sin, butnever deconstructing metaphorsleads only tocerebral arrest,as doesthe iron will todisintegrate one’severy thought.

Standing beneaththe infernal buzzing of thehorror movie light bulb,I am compelledto add my ownparadigmatic adviceto some abused desktop,but I am stuck withHOPE DIES LAST, and thatis nothing more thanmental masturbationmarketed astherapy.

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WHY I WANT AN ACADEMIC FORUM

Alexandra Cavallaro and Missy Coleman

I have been a student at KU for several years, and I am firmly in favor of progress and improvement. It is in this spirit that I look forward to the opening of the Aca-demic Forum this spring. As I admire its facade and imag-ine its potential, I’m only sorry that it didn’t open earlier in my academic career. Let me tell you why I, as a consum-er at this school, am so excited about this new building. I want to study at a university which simply and efficiently reduces my presence to a system-friendly num-ber in large lecture classes. I want a university that al-lows me to come to class if and when I choose without being harassed about attendance. I want a university that makes measuring participation impossible and measur-ing achievement purely objective by embracing Scantron evaluations. I want a university that allows me to lounge in a lecture hall and passively absorb whatever curriculum the state, in its infinite wisdom, has deemed appropriate with-out the pressure of having to contribute my thoughts or formulate coherent questions. I don’t want to be required to think critically. I want a university where anonymity prevents me from getting to know my professors on a personal level. Student/faculty interaction is an overrated waste of time anyway. I want a university that cares for its faculty mem-bers. I don’t want professors burdened by students’ per-sonal problems. They should not have to make accom-modations for students with learning disabilities, dying

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relatives, or chronic diseases. In fact, the faculty should have to deal with students as little as possible. I want a university that limits such contact by reducing office hours to less than one minute per student per week. After all, haven’t technological innovations made “human contact” obsolete anyway? I want a university that embraces these new tech-nologies and their potential for streamlining university functions. We can videotape next semester’s lectures and play them for years to come thanks to Smart Classroom technology. I want a university that takes my future out of the unpredictable and frequently unstable hands of academics and places it in the competent hands of profes-sional consultants. I want a university that knows how to save money and increase productivity by relieving professors of te-dious tasks like teaching, grading, and being employed. I want a university that cares enough to eliminate the soul-crushing anxiety of blue-book exams and red pens. I want a university with the foresight and ability to turn a profit and provide me with anonymity and deep-fried potato products on demand, all in the same building. This new building represents a thrilling leap into the future of education at KU. My greatest hope is that I, too, can be part of the 15% likely to fail an AF class so that I can stay at KU even longer to enjoy this great epoch of institutional triumph. My God! Who wouldn’t want an Academic Forum?

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EVER GREEN

Greg Hafer

A yellow breeze partedleaves, deciduous and dying.But I remainedto pine among the evergreens.

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THE MURDER OF THE STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE GANG

Renee Price

The pink wall surrounding meLike it was going to envelop and Make me a part of it.

The girl dressed in pinkSmiling down on me.

There are hundreds ofHer just staring.

The thought of why Is attacking my brain.

SISTER it’s her faultShe left me this legacy.

The legacy of the pink ogreThat she believed cute.

The ten years of her staring,And all that pink drove me insane.

Sitting there on my bed, I SNAPPEDAnd went in for the kill.

With a vengeance born of years of...I tore into her

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The head torn off,Then the next and the next.

The pieces of her areLittering my floor and yet I continue,Never deterring from my course.

This was the startOf the massacreOf the Strawberry Shortcake Gang.

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TEA TIME

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MADNESS WHITE PETUNIAS

Ricky Schupp

A haunting blend of violin and piano slinked through the living room and into the kitchen, dancing around Mr. Shepherds’ gray head. The somber sounds resonated off the creamy walls, sliding back into the living room where Leroy Cummings stood in the center of the dim space. A violin fixed upon his shoulder, he played Chopin’s “Nocturne” with a degree of surprising skill. His taxidermist fingers glided along the smooth, timber neck of the instrument. Leroy’s brown hair fell into his eyes as he followed the score. The music reached its crescendo and faded with the final notes. The recording ended, and all that could be heard were the faint crackles and pops of the record until all was silent. He slowly lowered the violin and put it neatly back in its case as if it were a newborn child, then he meandered towards the kitchen. Mr. Shepherds sat poised on the table, staring ahead, unmoved. As Leroy entered the kitchen, he glanced into the open doorway that led to the basement. It was dark and soundless. He quickly passed around the perimeter of the room and leaned against the marble counter to the left of Mr. Shepherds. With eyes filled with anxiety, Leroy glanced toward the open door leading to the basement. The counter made an “L” around the room; to Leroy’s left was the sink and above that, a window. A small glass vase containing Madness White Petunias was perched on the sill. The flowers were withered a bit,

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and the water stood stagnant. Beyond them, through the window, a late overcast afternoon wore on. Leroy peered at the doorframe. The paint was beginning to chip away around the molding. Flakes of old paint barely clung to the warped wooden frame. Beyond this decaying gate, the murky depths of the basement leered back at him. “She’s been in the basement for a long time, Mr. Shepherds.” He glanced towards the open doorway. Old wooden steps led down into the swell of darkness. “I hope she’s all right down there.” Mr. Shepherds’ blue eyes stared fixedly on a slab of meat rotting on the cutting board; a butcher knife was driven through the cutlet. Mr. Shepherds’ eyes did not waver from the meat. Leroy glimpsed at the countertop and found some old mail. “What’s this now?” Leroy wondered. “I can’t make out this chicken scratch.” Glancing at Mr. Shepherds, Leroy said, “This must be someone else’s mail.” He placed it back on the counter top. Leroy caressed the second highest button on his Dockers dress shirt, slowly tracing circles with his middle fingers around the circumference of the button. His finger crossed his right breast, back and forth across the light blue plaid. Leroy veered towards the cutting board and placed his hands on the counter. His head hung below his shoulders and hovered over the decaying lump of flesh. Putrid scents rose to his sinuses, burning from his nostrils to the back of his throat. A small portion of retch seeped into his mouth and left the bitter taste of half digested

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broccoli. He swallowed hard and quickly turned away. Mr. Shepherds’ eyes stared accusingly, watching Leroy’s every move. “Don’t look at me like that, Mr. Shepherds. You know I don’t like when eyes follow me,” Leroy blundered to the other end of the kitchen and reached out to catch himself against the off-white colored wall. “Shh!” Leroy pressed a finger to his lips. “Did you hear that?” Leroy snapped his head towards the opening, letting his hand drop from his mouth down to his buttons that he proceeded to caress again. “I think she’s coming up the stairs.” Mr. Shepherds listened quietly. Leroy ran his fingers back and forth across his breast. “We have to make sure supper’s ready,” Leroy exclaimed, bounding towards the cutting board with the slab of meat and slicing the warm hunk. Bloody juices oozed onto the cutting board. “She’ll be so pleased, my Petunia, my Petunia...” “Here,” he said picking up a bloody piece, “Try some, Mr. Shepherds. Make sure it’s okay. You always know what Petunia likes.” Leroy placed the hunk of flesh in front of Mr. Shepherds. “Try it, Mr. Shepherds,” Leroy urged. “Eat it, Mr. Shepherds...” He stuffed the rotten chunk into Mr. Shepherds’ stubborn mouth. “It’s good isn’t it?” He forced another into Mr. Shepherds’ face. “Mmm, that’s tasty.” Leroy’s eyes filled with sadistic delight. A sound rose from the basement. Leroy jumped and stared hard at the empty frame. “What was that?” Leroy cried. He stepped timidly

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towards the doorway and peered into the darkness. “My Petunia? Won’t you come up?” Leroy twisted back to the kitchen. Mr. Shepherds lay on the tile floor. His tail had broken off, and a glass eye dislodged from his head. Pieces of rotten meat stuck in his gray fur. “Oh dear, Mr. Shepherds. It looks like you need to go to the basement now as well.” Leroy leaned over and scooped up the remains of Mr. Shepherds’ feline form. “Come now, we’ll visit Petunia. We can see what’s taken her so long to rise from the cellar.”

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EARLY MORNINGS IN THE HOUSE MY FATHER BUILT

Emily Hammel-Shaver

early morning and the sound ofmy dad’s work shoes on the kitchen floor

leaving behind my great-grandmother’s quilted cocoon fororange slice light in the hallway and the cold wooden banister grippedwith tiny fingers so i wouldn’t slip on the stairs in my red flannel footie pajamas that haven’t asked me to grow up, yet

six a.m. and bleary-eyed, my dad and his briefcase in the kitchen, reading from a box of Raisin Bran with milk spilled on his tieall grown up with three kids and a house he built himselfmy mom still upstairs in their bed sleeping in his warm imprint

bright kitchen light and heat from the woodstove hot on my cheeksstanding on the bottom stair, my voice squeaky with leftover sleep and my messy hair, curly like his, smoothed by his freckled handmy dad calls me by a nickname that tells me i haven’t grown up, yet

putting his briefcase on the counter and cereal bowl in the sinkthe Volkswagen Rabbit running through, warming up, waiting for my dad

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as he pads butter on a slice of white bread for me, crumbs falling snowy on the sleeve of his navy blue suit, the one my mom says matches his eyes

early mornings i woke up for bread and butter and orange airmy grandmother’s quilted cocoon waiting warm for me to return with crumbs on my footie pajamas and a calmer collection of curlsafter sharing my dad with the hot woodstove and quiet house

now i wake early mornings grown up,listening to my own work shoes on the kitchen floor

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SNOWGLOBE

Ben Heins

A stone held in a circleof my thumb and pointer finger was the sizeof the brightest star in the northern sky.Thinking that, with this,the stars are no bigger than a fingertipthat someone painted dots of whiteon a black canvas and rotated it each night.Every dawn he painted differentlyto see how fine the tip of his brush was,so that every day his childwould gaze into this snowglobe,shake it, and put it back on the nightstandnear books and toys.Meanwhile, I released every small stoneupward, every night,each one hitting the glass edge,clicking, and sailing back down to my palm.

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THE PINNACLE

Elizabeth Hornbach

He stands on the edge of the clifflooking out at the frozen farmlands

The top of the world he has reacheda peaceful paradise hidden on the rim

Dried-out grass and cut cornstalksshape an illusion of golden splendor

A frigid wind blows through his baldness covered in knit

February and this mountain is his solitary state of separation

The torture of a lost soulweighs heavy on his back

He didn’t see the hurt she borethrough that beautiful smile

The crisp blue sky is blurry through his teary-eyed vision

He asks questions of how and whymissing the point of it all

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THE SNOWFLAKE

Elizabeth Winkleman

Tumbling from the blackened sky,She floated in pale white purity--A cold light hueAgainst the photographer’s backdrop.She drifted beside her fellow peersBut remained untainted and aloof.One lone snowflake,Unnoticed, travelingAmidst the tinsel of the icy winter’scape.

She was captured by the arctic winds’ chilly fingers.Almost lost, she floundered—The unrepentant nature held her enthralled.

Just as easily she was lifted free,Saved only to fall again.She settled onto the upturned palmOnly to melt in the softness and warmth.

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WAR TIME LOVE

FallAt the foot of the stoopWhat a golden ring of petals did my eyes seeBeside the wallWhere the fallen leaves lingered brown and bareStanding tall, two white birch trees swayedFrom side to side, doing a little dance with each other.Pumpkins lined the steps of the neighbor’s walkwayWhile others saw no need to celebrate.In the mornings, the autumn dew skimmed acrossThe silky damp grass creating a wind tunnelOf exuberant colors.Mother’s inside baking something.Perhaps it’s a pumpkin pie or twoWhile fathers toss the football with theirSons, or maybe even their daughters.He left that October.My military man, that is.Feeling both privileged and honored My desperate pleas meant nothing to his ego.His confidence smeared all over his arrogant grin.Oh, how I do love a man in uniform!The plane took offTo soar across the October skyWhile the autumn leaves still falling.Soon the trees would be bare.

WinterAt the foot of the stoopLay a shimmering blanket of the most beautiful snow

Sarah Brown

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Creamy white, glowing like a thousand crystals.The birch tree branches bent scratchingCar roof tops.I followed the footprints much bigger than my ownTo the center of the yard.Weightless in motion, I floated backCreating a perfect snow angel.If my military man were hereI thought perhaps he would create aSnow angel with me.With my limbs in motionI closed my eyes.As the snowy mist gently lay upon my lipsLicking the coldI missed the one who kept me warm.

SpringAt the foot of the stoopA gentle breeze of fresh rose petalsKissed the ground beneath the walkwaywhere my footsteps lay.The tiny ruffles of my knee lengthSkirt gleamingCreamy oranges and succulent yellows.The two white birch trees standingTall and proud.So masculine in statureThe great Maples and Oaks seemingly inferior.Oh, how we used to lie beneath these swaying branchesMy military man and I.Gazing through the canopy above making promises never kept.But now, he is knee deep in swamp

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Leech-infested waters.I can hear his tiresome grunts and moansSoldiers wishing they could nap like little babies do.The setting sunIn silent solitudeHe creeps on through the nightAs I yearn for him.

SummerAt the foot of the stoopI relinquish the idea of hopeUnlike any season previous to now.The sun’s rays beat down upon my shouldersAs tiny beads of sweat form between my Body’s cervices.Generations of menCrossed the line that he so bravely crossed.Looking back is for little girls.The origin of its beginningsWay before my time.But the outcome just the same.That day, I never thought the summer Would come to an end.I remember the childrenPlaying in the sprinkler across the way.A neighbor out backMowing his lawnDesperate for silence.All I could hearWas the telephone ringing in the background.It was the mother of my military manBearing the news no one wanted to hear.“Danny’s not coming back,” she said.“Danny’s never coming back.”

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ROMEO AND JULIET: THE GOLDEN YEARS

Krissy Scatton

In fair Verona Senior Living Community where we lay our scene, two lovers prepare for an evening honoring their sixtieth year of marriage. “Juliet, can’t you move your ass a little faster?” Romeo hollered, lowering himself into his Laz-E-Boy with a copy of the Boca Raton News. After sixty years, he still had no idea why it took so damn long to put on a girdle and lipstick. Juliet banged the can of Aqua-Net down on the marble-topped bathroom sink. “Will you relax?” she bellowed, pressing her freshly-permed silver bob into place. “If you’re so worried about being late, go start the car!” To her reflection in the mirror, Juliet muttered, “Goddamn old fart.” Phlegm caught in Romeo’s throat and he spent a good five minutes hacking before he was able to answer. “Nonsense,” he replied, reaching for his pack of Camel non-filters. “I’ll send my man, Balthazar, out to do it.” “You demented fool,” Juliet hollered, hobbling down the stairs. “Balthazar died last winter.” “He was lucky,” Romeo muttered, tucking the cigarettes into the pocket of his seafoam green Bermuda shorts. Standing under the doorway of the living room, Juliet surveyed her husband with distaste. It was difficult to convince herself that buried underneath the decrepit mound of arthritic bones and over-ripe flesh was the lean, sun-tanned boy that had made her weak in the knees long ago in the vineyards of Italy. From the comb-over to the

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bifocals to the argyle socks pulled up to his knobby knees, everything about Romeo made Juliet want to puke. “Put out that cigarette,” Juliet snapped. “Last week you fell asleep with one lit and nearly burned the complex down. Now come on, if you’re in such a hurry.” Romeo watched his wife waddle to the front door and sighed. What had happened to the radiant goddess who had transfixed him in the hall of his enemy’s house as they danced among the ravages of the Second World War? At some point, Juliet’s flowing golden locks had been replaced by a silver Brillo pad, and her creamy skin had been frozen in place with Botox. Still petite as she was the night they met, Juliet had continued expanding outward over the years. Although opening an Italian restaurant in New York City had been a lucrative business venture, perhaps making Juliet the head cook hadn’t been his wisest decision. “Don’t know why my family can’t leave an old man in peace,” Romeo muttered, negotiating his sore joints into the driver’s seat of his Cadillac. “I’d have a better time celebrating my anniversary in my recliner with a glass of wine watching Law and Order.” “Then stay home if you’re only going to be miserable all night,” Juliet sniffed, buckling her seatbelt. “I, for one, am looking forward to seeing our blessed bambina for the first time in... God knows how long.” Although Juliet had lived in the United States for nearly sixty years, when provoked, she lapsed back into her native tongue. “Prospero even flew in from that godforsaken island for this.” “They’ll still be there when we get there,” Romeo reminded her. “They can’t start the party without us. We’re the guests of honor.” “Or dishonor,” Juliet muttered, turning to throw

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her sweater in the backseat. “What?” Romeo asked over the hum of the motor. “Get a hearing aid, old coot,” Juliet muttered. Something blue and silky caught her eye and she froze. “What is that?” she screeched. With agility that defied her seventy-four years, she leaned back and extracted a filmy dress slip. With effort, Romeo looked over his shoulder. “I don’t know, one of those skirty things you were under your dress?” Juliet growled. “Romeo Montague, when, in the sixty years we’ve been married, have you ever seen me wear such a whorish shade of blue?” She hurled the slip at Romeo’s face. “You’ve been sneaking around with that filthy bhutante, Rosaline, while I’m out playing canasta, haven’t you?” Romeo clawed his way out from under the garment. “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, Mrs. Montague.” “Don’t lie to me,” Juliet hissed, angry blood surging through her corroded veins. “I may have fallen for your lies a hundred times before, but this old girl finally knows what a sniveling cheat you are!” “Can I help it if you turned into a nagging, self-centered bitch?” Romeo yelled, abandoning all pretense of innocence. “Rosaline makes me feel young again! She laughs at my jokes; you haven’t laughed at my jokes in thirty-five years!” “That’s because you’ve done nothing but complain for thirty-five years! Ooh, I’m going to give that hussy a piece of my mind tonight! And you!” Juliet’s papery lips trembled with rage that could not be put into words. The idling engine was the only sound as Romeo and Juliet sat lost in their fury. Finally Romeo said roughly, “What do you want to do? Want to cancel the whole damn party?”

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Juliet’s sunken bosom heaved. “No,” she answered firmly. “We are going to that party, and you are going to announce, in front of your children, your friends, and God that you are a cheating husband and a lousy bastard.” “Fine,” Romeo spat and took off the emergency brake. “Hold on one second,” Juliet snapped, unclicking her seatbelt. “What now?” Romeo cried. Juliet slammed the car door and yelled, “I forgot to take my Beano.”

The parking lot of the Paris Motor Inn and Banquet Hall was already full when the Montague’s Cadillac pulled in. Romeo and Juliet exited the car silently and walked in as the blazing Florida sun set behind them. “Mom! Dad!” cried the Montagues’ eldest daughter, Portia, as they entered the ballroom under a white trellis twined with roses and twinkle lights. As Portia and the rest of their brood encircled the guests of honor, Juliet forced a stiff smile on her face and elbowed Romeo, indicating for him to do the same. “You two look wonderful,” said their other daughter, Ophelia, kissing her mother on each cheek. “And you...” Juliet said, holding her daughter at arms length, “you’re too thin! What have you been eating?” “Mother, for the love of God, I’m fifty-two years old, I know how to take care of myself,” Ophelia snapped. “I eat just fine.” Juliet wagged a bony finger in her daughter’s face. “Before you go back to New York, you’re coming over the house and I’m making you manicotti.” “Mmm, do I hear talk of Mom’s manicotti?” Portia grinned, her brown eyes lighting up. “When are you making it, Ma? I’ll be there.”

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Juliet raised a pencil-drawn eyebrow at Portia. “It’s not for you, dear.” She poked Portia in the ribs. “You’re getting a little too round.” “...and the flight was absolute hell,” Iago, Romeo and Juliet’s third child, was saying as Juliet turned to her four sons, who were surrounding Romeo. Juliet saw Romeo wince as Iago flapped his right hand limply. It had taken ten years of silence and six thousand dollars worth of therapy for Romeo to finally accept Iago’s homosexuality. “I swear, when we have one of these bashes for your next anniversary, you are all coming to me in San Francisco.” “I’m sorry you had a bad flight, darling,” Juliet coddled, kissing Iago, then her other sons Mercutio, Antony, and Prospero. “Mom and Dad, there’s something we want you to see,” Prospero said, his puppy-dog enthusiasm betraying his forty-nine years of age. He led his parents to an easel standing to the right of the head table. Propped up on the easel was a white poster board plastered with photographs documenting Romeo and Juliet’s many years of marriage. “Isn’t that sweet,” Juliet cooed, running her fingers over a faded black and white photograph of her and Romeo on their wedding day, standing on the steps of the bombed-out church they were married in. “Did you kids do this all yourselves?” “Portia was the one who actually put it together,” said Ophelia, nudging her kid sister with her elbow, “but we’ve all been hording pictures for about two years.” “Your old man wasn’t bad lookin’ when he was a kid, huh?” Romeo joked to Antony and Prospero, pointing to a photo of himself and Juliet on the deck of the ship that brought them to New York City from Italy. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering went wrong everyday

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since that picture was taken,” Juliet muttered. Romeo’s bushy white eyebrows furrowed in anger, and he stepped towards her. “Mom, can you tell which one of us bundles of joy that is?” Iago intervened, pointing to a picture of Juliet standing beneath a neon sign reading “Montague’s Italian Restaurant” with a blanketed baby in her arms. Juliet squinted at the picture. “Well, that would be...Mercutio! Yes, we opened the restaurant only a few months after he was born.” “Speaking of which, how is the restaurant?” Romeo asked Mercutio, who had taken over the family business when Romeo and Juliet retired. Juliet gave her husband a swift smack in the arm. “We aren’t here ten minutes and you already have to start badgering the boy about the restaurant?” Iago threw his arm around his mother and beamed angelically under his clipped gray mustache. “We aren’t here ten minutes and already Mom and Dad are fighting.” The eight Montagues exchanged glances and sighed in unison, “Ahh, family.”

The banquet hall was buzzing with the chatter of a hundred guests as Romeo, Juliet, and their children took their seats at the head table in the front of the room. As the waiters scurried to pass out the platter, Juliet caught sight of Rosaline sitting in a corner table with the rest of the group from Verona Senior Living Community. Underneath her make-up, her cheeks flushed hot with rage. “Why don’t you say ‘hi’ to your little girlfriend,” Juliet hissed, grabbing the back of Romeo’s Members Only jacket. “Shut up, you crazy bat. Even if you can’t act civilized tonight, I intend to, for our children’s sake,” Romeo muttered back.

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Next to Juliet, Mercutio stood up and tapped his wine glass with his fork. “Excuse me, everyone. Before we begin eating, I would like to propose a toast to the two wonderful people sitting next to me, my mom and dad.” The guests clapped politely. Juliet gritted her dentures while Romeo, paying no attention, was already digging into his food. Only a sharp elbow jab from Juliet made his put his fork down. “To be quite honest, there were times I never thought the two of them would make it this far. Not after eighteen years of having Italian swear words and thrown pans as my lullaby or hearing screaming arguments from three blocks away. I thought it was more likely that I’d be answering questions from the police about why they killed each other than attending their sixtieth anniversary party,” Mercutio said ruefully. Next to Romeo, Antony sniggered. “Yeah, why couldn’t you two get a divorce like normal people?” he whispered. “Because the bonds of marriage are sacred to us, Antony, even if you don’t think so,” Juliet said, eyeing Antony’s fourth wife, Cleo. “Even though your father and I were only fourteen when we took that vow, we meant it. ‘Til Death Do Us Part.” “But I don’t want to give the impression that it was all bad. My parents were just two typical Italians who fought passionately but loved passionately as well,” Mercutio continued. Romeo snorted softly into his glass of Merlot. “Maybe you meant it. I was a horny fourteen-year-old. I would have said anything to get in your knickers.” “My parents made sure that us kids always had an abundance of two things: love and spaghetti,” Mercutio said, pausing for the requisite “awws” from the guests.

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“Well, I guess not much has changed, then,” Juliet hissed to Romeo, grabbing his wine glass. “Me, my brothers, and my sisters couldn’t have asked for feistier, stronger, or more caring people than our parents,” said Mercutio, picking up his glass. “Be quiet, and don’t try to steal my wine,” Romeo said, snatching the goblet away from his wife. “Which is why I would like everyone to raise their glass in toast to our guests of honor tonight, Romeo and Juliet!” Mercutio finished with a flourish, downing his wine. A hundred glasses tipped in the air as everyone drank. Juliet drained her glass in one smooth gulp, but next to her, Romeo began coughing and spluttering. “Oh my God, Dad!” Prospero cried, jumping out of his seat. “Is he choking?” Ophelia demanded, rushing over to her father. Instantly everyone at the head table was on their feet, except for Juliet, who surveyed her husband with a detached air. “Come on. Stand up,” Ophelia begged, trying to get her arms around Romeo’s ribs so she could perform the Heimlich maneuver. Red-faced, Romeo clutched his throat as his bulging eyes met the icy glare of his wife. “You,” he spluttered, jabbing his free hand at Juliet. His eyes darted from his empty glass to his wife and back again. “You.” “You’re damn right it was me!” Juliet screamed, leaping to her feet. She waved a tiny bottle with a poison symbol in front of Romeo’s purpling face. “You’re not going to go sneaking around behind my back ever again! I gave you the best years of my life, and this is what I get in return? Well, to hell with you!” Juliet’s face twisted

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into a grotesque mask of malice as Romeo doubled over, clutching the table as his throat slowly cut off all his oxygen supply. “It’s no use,” Juliet hissed to Ophelia, still insistently pressing on Romeo’s sternum. “This is deadly poison. There’s no antidote.” Disbelieving, Ophelia dropped her arms and huddled with the rest of her siblings, staring in horror at their mother, towering over their dying father with an evil grin on her face. “Serves you right,” Juliet hissed into Romeo’s ear. With a shaky hand, Romeo grasped his knife, and in a swift, desperate move, jerked the knife upward into Juliet’s chest. A collective scream rose from the guests, but neither Romeo nor Juliet heard it. With a final wheeze, Romeo collapsed facedown in his plate of chicken Florentine. As Juliet stumbled, eyes wide behind her bifocals, she fell backwards on top of Romeo, knife still sticking out of her chest. Romeo and Juliet Montague were pronounced dead at the scene at seven twenty-three p.m., when the paramedics arrived. The Montague children huddled in a corner, holding each other tightly while they sobbed. The visibly shaken guests and Paris Motor Inn and Banquet Hall manager gave comments to the police and TV camera crews who arrived shortly after the debacle. The statements were generally the same: this quiet banquet hall on Palm Avenue in Boca Raton had never known a story of more woe than that of a vengeful Juliet and her cheating husband Romeo.

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A POETIC AND VENGEFUL RESPONSE TO ALL THOSE WRITERS THAT I LOATHE, LIKE YOU TIRESOME STONERS THAT FEEL THE NEED TO SHARE YOUR DRUG-FUELED “REVELATIONS” WITH THE WORLD AND CALL THEM ART BECAUSE YOU CAN’T THINK OF GOOD IDEAS ON YOUR OWN, AND LET’S NOT FORGET THOSE OF YOU WHO WRITE BADLY-PUNCTUATED PROSE THAT DOESN’T TELL A STORY AND CALL IT “FREE FORM POETRY,” AND THE BADASS POETS WHO EXPERIMENT WITH TH ING S LI KE SPA CI ING, SWEET JESUS, WHAT A BREAKTHROUGH, NO ONE CAN READ YOUR CRAP, AND ALL THOSE DEPRESSED

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Zach Lonergan

Damn.I can never come up with a poem for my titles.

INDIVIDUALS WHO WRITE POEMS ABOUT YOUR OWN BOREDOM, IN CASE YOU HAVEN’T FIGURED IT OUT, THAT’S BORING, AND WHAT WOULD BE A VENGEFUL POETIC RESPONSE WITHOUT MENTIONING ALL YOU DAMN CHICK POETS WHO BITCH ENDLESSLY ABOUT YOUR PERIODS AND MEN HAVING SEX WITH YOU, IF YOU DON’T WANT TO HAVE A “BRUTE HEAVING ON TOP” OF YOU, THEN KEEP YOUR LEGS CLOSED

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Peel away thick, batteredrind.

Taste thesucculent juiceof her past:

the energyof a childhood spiritcart wheeling in the backyard,

the firmnessof a little hand’s grip on its first tire swing,

the loveof an innocent hearthugging a daddy so tight.

Replace thethick, batteredrind.

Hide

(what used to be).

WHAT USED TO BE

Kayla Hockenbroch

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HOLLOW

Erin Lewis

I’ve forgotten the soundof my grandfather’s voice.Seven years with no response.Did it roar with strong reverberationor hum with soft resonance?

I close my eyes.

He smiles exposing stability preserved in a single moment.His lips part to speak.My ears open eagerly waiting to consume.The sound is hollow. Static lingers in its absence.Not even a whisper escapes.I listen close, praying to remember.Water compromises my senses,blurring my eyes, filling my ears.

I see him talking but my ears are deaf.Seven years and still no response.

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A GENTLE SOUL, A BRAVE WARRIOR

Amanda Rosenblatt

Something peculiar shone in his stare; paled golden eyes caught pieces of sunlight so that she could see her own reflection in them. His paws jutted out onto the grass almost brushing her bare toes that curled out from her flip-flops. She took a step backward, hesitated, then tiptoed forward. She was too scared to touch him, but could not take her eyes off of him; he was so beautiful then. The heavy silence intensified like a cold wind, tickling her arms and legs. Momma’s loud sobs severed the still air. April 1995, Amanda watched as her father dug Roscoe a shallow grave. She’d never seen her mother so sad, her face sorrowed and soggy with tears, stained with speckles of eyeliner residue. Momma’s desperate screams from the backyard still rang fresh in Amanda’s ears. “If only I could’ve gotten here sooner.” Amanda thought. She struggled to forgive herself for the death of her cat. Before her father placed Roscoe in the softened soil near the big maple, Momma cradled him in her arms in a way that made Amanda’s stomach leap. Sick with nausea, she bounded to the house and shut herself away. She was only eight or so then, unaware of real worldly tragedy per se. Nonetheless, this first romance with death hung heavy in her heart. Scrambling to her television set, Amanda frantically scanned the channels for relief. Somewhere in between the action-packed Power Rangers and the inquisitive Rugrats she’d find peace of mind. Amanda wished she could dance in the air and do high kicks like the Power Rangers did, and still have time

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to win over the green ranger with her sweet pigtails, anthing to ease the pain. It was certain Amanda was madly in love with her cat. He breathed and shed and drooled all over her fingers and toes and she still adored him. He left little rodents on the porch and spent most evenings stalking the stars and running mad through the summer grass. Yet, she never gave up on domesticating him. She’d smother him with kisses and clip colorful bows in his tangled fur; much to his dismay, she’d collect an array of lipsticks she’d found in her mother’s medicine cabinet and paint his furry lips with each shade. He’d fidget and whine, but somehow he always gave in to her. Perhaps it was her gentle hands that she combed through his mane, or the way she hummed as she worked, but he became quite compliant and let her doll him up every time. Her brain thick with regret, she began to form a mental list of everything she’d done in an attempt to tame her little cat; the way she’d drag him inside just so she could heal his battle wounds and wrap him in down blankets so he wouldn’t be cold, even though his fur was clearly enough to provide body heat. She had even found something that resembled a leash and proceeded to put the rope around his little neck so that she could take him for a walk. He was not fond of the restraint, and had hissed and tugged and broken loose from her quivering hands as the leash whipped alongside his body. Amanda bawled, angry at herself for trying to tie him down and fearful for him getting strangled if the leash were to wrap itself around some thorny bushes. When he returned at nightfall, Momma looked to Amanda accusingly. “I...I...it was Aaron, he did it!” Amanda motioned to her younger brother. But Amanda had been struck with such pangs of

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guilt that she ended up telling her mother everything and felt awful, then relieved. She only loved him; her mother could sympathize. Momma had had Roscoe since he was a just a little ball of fur. They’re love for the wild aura of their cat only brought them closer. Amanda poked her head out the glossy windowpane; the ceremony had concluded. The backyard remained grey and gloomy, but peaceful. As Amanda approached the grave site, she saw Momma had etched the words, “A gentle soul, a brave warrior” atop a piece of slate. The words seemed to depict her cat wholly; she felt in her flannel jacket for a picture she had drawn of Roscoe sprawled on top of her on the deck. Amanda carefully placed it atop the tomb, securing it with a stone. She told Roscoe she loved him. She believed he heard her there underneath the soil. She believed he was going to become some mystical angel that would return, often, to stalk the stars at midnight.

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SHIROMA NAKAI, A SONNET

Jessica M. Shimer

Time is written in the curve of your eye,and history as well, preserved and nurtured throughthe centuries like your family tree, a bonsaisteeped in such rich soil it flourished like bamboo.Many have noted your silence and mistaken it forweakness, but Japan is in your bones—a quiet strength, the eloquence of metaphor!People are paper but you are origami, intricate folds.Your knowledge is ancient (to my pale gaze)severe as the cut of the Kimono you wear.Wisdom, yes –but your heart? Vibrant, ablaze!Entrenched and truthful, your love is a prayer.Your inner beauty runs the length of your figurelike the brush of a sumi-e artist, across rice paper.

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OFF TO THE RACES AND BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD

Angela Carr

I felt like I was 13 years old tonight. The perfect weather for a run. I take off my PJ bottoms and put on my red adidas shorts; tie my laces, put on my hoody and run off into the night. I’m about to explode. My heart, chest, lungs, they all ache. I need a release. At first I think nothing will ease my anxiety. My thoughts hold me captive and the thought of three more weeks left of school that have a total combined work load of 37 pages of business analysis, critical/functional approaches to the post-McCarthy era of Disney, and the comprehensive analysis of the conservative extremist group boycott on Ford’s homosexual advertising have my mind on overload. The air is cool, but not too cold that my lungs compress, making it hard to breathe. It is mid-November but today is filled with sunshine mixed with a slight breeze that smells of spring. Considering the pack-a-day minus four years of my life later, I still run without stopping to pick my lung up off the sidewalk. My chest hurts, but my anxiety hurts more...I have to run faster. My anxiety-stricken adrenaline felt like it was on crack, pumping through the blood stream, the heart compressing, squeezing, and tightening. I have to feed its addiction. I pick up the pace, and start sprinting full force. I don’t know whether it was a good thing or not, maybe nostalgic, but I have a pricker sticker in my side like a motherfucker. Wait, side sticker. No, side stitch. That’s the word. I want to stop but I have to let something take the place of the anxiety that is brewing. Pain at this point is obsolete.

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The side stitch reminded me of when I was younger. I would run everyday after school. My day—my life—was centered around the moment I could take the time out of the day to run for FUN. I still admit that the high I felt after every run was and still is better than any bowl I’ve hit. Running is very much like the way I live. Everything good in my life is the product of some pain or suffering. The side-stickers, Jell-O-legs, aching lungs, and desert-mouth quenching for a drop of water are just like the panic attack days, great expectations, bike across a nation, nothing less than everything. Both results bring the runners-high feeling I get when I’m finished. Life is about sacrifice, but with sacrifice brings something I have yet to realize; but I’m willing to keep sacrificing myself to figure out. I am still running, not thinking about all of this though. Honestly, I think the entire mile I was trying to remember the name of my fantasy football commissioner. The entire run; John, Dan, Shane, Gabe. Hmmm. Mathew, no. Mark, no. Luke, no. John, no. Enough with the New Testament! What is his damn name! At this point, I have already forgotten about my day, my month, my year. I stop worrying. I stop demanding the world of myself. I stop time. For the first moment in one week, two days, and sixteen hours, I’m not filled with anxiety. I don’t even have to worry about my breathing. I feel 13 again. I feel alive again. I feel like myself again. Besides the occasional lung/phlegm I have to hock up and spit into someone’s yard, I run pretty well. As I turn the corner of the last block, I feel the heat pour out of my hoody as sweat runs down my neck. My chest still aches, but not like before. Not like the metaphor. I can’t always be in control. I can’t, no, I don’t, no, I won’t demand such high expectations. I refuse to

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believe that life will ever be handed to me. I have to earn my life. I have to strive, thrive, but not so much that I have to carry a brown paper lunch bag everywhere with me kind of strive. There has to be balance. So that is why I ran tonight. To gain back control. Because tomorrow is off to the races and I’m once again back to the drawing board. I hate the drawing board. No, I love the drawing board.

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DENIAL

Missy Coleman

Denial—what a load of crap.Paper roses andCloroxDrinking tea in the basement of the churchWith too much sugar,And too many strangersAre wearing my grandmother’s perfume.

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BILLY SULLIVAN

Patrick Sweeney

Hey, Pat, it’s...umm, it’s Bill. Bill Sullivan. I don’t know if you remember me, but, uh, well it’s been a long time, shit...about 15 years. You and I used to be pretty good friends when we were about five or six or something like that. I don’t remember exactly how old we were. All those days bleed together now, for me anyway. Anyway, we were good friends, we did the whole after-school video game shit on Thursdays...hah, you probably don’t remember at all, but I do, and that’s why I am sending this to you. You see, right now...I’m over in Iraq, and it is kind of a hostile situation as I’m sure you’ve seen on TV and read about. I won’t go into how hostile it is for me right now, lets just say I’m living the cliché life-or-death situation, although when you’re living it, it doesn’t seem that much like a cliché. It’s real, and it was really starting to get to me. So much so, that I needed a hobby. Sending videotapes to people that I don’t talk to anymore about what’s going on with my life. It seemed like a good idea. So what is going on with my life, well I’ve been over here for about two years now, fighting and living. Trying not to get shot. OK, on the bright side I actually got married...I know, right, me married. I’m sure you can see me shooting people, killing people, before you can see me getting fucking married. Hey, think of it this way, war makes perfect sense for me, so why not marriage. Yeah, her name is Olga. I know, let that sink in for a minute. Olga. It sounds like a fucking troll doesn’t it. (Grunts) ME OLGA, ME wife, ME want to make dinner, ME want sex, Me want smash you. Haha. Actually in all seriousness, I met her in Germany, when I was off duty.

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I want you to picture the idea of beautiful European women—even if you haven’t been to Europe—you got it? OK. Now I want you to give them blond hair and blue eyes, and a body like a model, not fall-through-a-crack-in-the-floor body, I mean a real body. Every time I look at her, I pinch myself, I can’t believe she is with me, you know, she’s gorgeous. She’s smarter than me, too, knows all of these little things about everything that drives me crazy. Can you believe it, Pat? I married a smart beautiful German woman named Olga. I always thought Olga was Russian or something, but she gets mad at me when I say that, so I’ve stopped, I can’t fuck this up. My Mom was pissed though. I was home for a few weeks, and instead of getting “Oh, I am so happy to see you sweetheart,” I get “What’s wrong with you?” But I guess she just figures that I’m alive, so she might as well treat me as normal, which is good. That was the best part of when I got to go home, the normal things, things everyone takes for granted. I know I’m preaching. I’ll stop now. Hey did you hear about Stacy? She’s pregnant. Can you believe that? I’m gonna be an uncle. I can’t believe Stacy is letting herself be pregnant. The girl was anorexic. She thought she was fat when she was in 2-D. Now she’s gonna have to eat for two people. Haha. Yeah, she said that she called your mom the other day, and then she told me about it, so I figured to send you one of these tapes. But...that’s not the only reason. Something happened over here a few weeks ago. You see, I enlisted with my best friend, Thomas Dooley, and, well I don’t know if you met him, he was, uh...no you couldn’t have met him, I’ve only known him for seven years or so. We were doing an operation, where we were going into a house, because we thought it was a base with, you know, important shit in it, you see, doesn’t really matter now. Anyway, I was

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supposed to go in first, but something was off. There was this Barbie doll sitting in the window of the house, and it reminded me of something, something that...was telling me not to go in there and Tom saw me hesitate, so he went in first. (Long pause.) The building exploded. Not the whole thing, but enough to kill my best friend. I found this bracelet on the ground after the explosion. It belonged to Tom’s wife since she was a little girl and she gave it to him for protection. I guess it belongs to her again. Sorry, man, I’m not trying to depress ya, I just feel like I should be talking about this. Anyway back to the point, which was the reason I felt it was wrong to go into that house. I’ve felt wrong feelings before about doing things over here. It’s hard to feel right things to tell ya the truth. But it was that goddamned doll. Not just because it looked weird sitting there. It reminded me of something, reminded me of a day that you and I spent together when we were kids. Your mom had work and mine was out doing whatever it was that she did back then. And my sister was watching us. You had a huge crush on her, I remember and you were so pissed when her boyfriend came over that you told me, “Let’s embarrass this guy.” This came from you, and I was always the one to come up with the crazy shit and you always pussied out. So this time when you wanted to be a little bastard, it was all I needed. I remember we got her priceless Barbie doll collection, and we tied all of them to M80’s or something. Oh man, I was just that crazy Sid character from Toy Story. Anyway we tied em up. Then I remember we were both kinda worried about getting in trouble, so we were second guessing ourselves. Until we heard my sister and her boyfriend having sex upstairs and knew that God just gave us a sign to completely fuck up her good time. Haha, oh man, we had to have been older. Maybe I knew you until I was eight or nine. Otherwise I

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don’t think we would have understood what the screaming was all about. Haha, oh, those dolls blew into so many pieces that it took a few years to find all of them. Stacey was so pissed. Heh. (Long pause.) So...when I saw that Barbie doll in the window that is what I thought of, and it made me hesitate, which saved my life. It’s really difficult to be happy about it because of what happened to Thomas, but I have to be thankful for it, and I guess that is what I’m trying to say to you. Because of us being little assholes on that particular day so many years ago, I am alive or that is how I feel. So whenever you feel awful or just a little down or whatever, I want you know that in some very strange way you saved my life. You haven’t been part of it, but now you always will. Because of you, I still get to be married to a hot German named Olga, haha, because of you I am alive. Who knew that you can find love for people you don’t know any more, or strangers? It’s even more surprising that you can find it in war. Well, Pat, I’m going to end this now. I hope to see you again, so you can meet my wife and we can blow more shit up.

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MAYBE POSITIVE

Greg Lane

Open your mouth to speak and just hope your nerves don’t take that opportunity to escape.Look into these eyes, they don’t hold secrets wellWell, well, look what we have hereI have nothing to say to everyone, and everything to say to someone.

A simple note to get this outYou could take all 12 and still not cover everythingIn paint In space In time of needI would trade everything I have for another sunriseAll these little white suggestions, I could throw them all outOr throw them down my throat, if you throw me outWe’ll take it slowI don’t have the words for infinite smile

I will use the words “your eyes” insteadOn the edge of dreaming Where we both are perfect I want that foreverThe artist is a muse from a different angleI’d be pleased with any one.

I need you to be a hand to holdNot just a handhold to latch on toYou are a magnet You are attractive I’d stick by you

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And resist being pulled apartSo paint me something beautifulSomething I didn’t think possibleWe can push off sleepingI want to know more about youLet’s look at the things I don’t have As the things I can get from youBecause I’d love to get youThe weather has been coldSince I spent real time with you

These white pills silence the poet I can’t scream to get him backI’m a slave to their help—that’s how I met you

I know the songs on the stereoYou play them just for meI’d be pleased to never leaveFor weeks on end They’re coming short They’re coming quick They’re coming up.I love the way your mouth movesAnd all the sound that comes with itThe explosion of all that is wonderful Something I can’t duplicate on any level.And just keep talking—just keep talking I wanna know your dreams.No worries from where I layThe rest of the word can fend for itself.

I’ve got so many things to sayMy words can cover you in blanketsThe perfect ones to keep you warm

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Or make you feel safe

When you are missing someplace like homeYou don’t need to read deep for meaningsI mean, the meaning is deep, but the words are shallow

Like water safe for swimming

This could be our brilliant beginning.

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TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY LOVE LETTERS

Emily Hammel-Shaver

i can only handle one broken friend at a time. the cell phone in the grass as we lie flat on our backs in the park:“bryan said he doesn’t want to be with me.” my voicemail blinks blue in thedark with a message: “joe and i had another fight. i’m just calling to talk.” i wait for the beep of ian’s returned text message, which i told myself iwasn’t going to send, but did anyway. our phone’s failure to connect us with the ones we think we could love are our own failures for thinking we can love with just a phone. i can’t call her back; i can’t make her feel better in the grass (and the mosquitoes are coming out); he doesn’t text me back.

keypad comets skywriting halfwords, falling from satellites into silver vibratinghearts. a mess of consonants and vowelscollecting before eager eyes reading between lines (blame the sky).

let’s only talk in person from now on, because it’s too hard not to see your faceand i already forgot how you smile. tell me in person the story of you driving home, going west instead of east on the

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freeway because you were thinking aboutme. tell me in person how you’re doing, so i can see it come from your eyes withoutthe static on the line and the roommate in the other room watching tv. (but i don’t want to have the “where is this going?” conversation, because i’m trying really hard to see if this new thing could work, but you live too far away for me to be okay with not seeing you until the week-end, when we aren’t clear with anything.)

so let’s only talk in person.

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REGRETFULLY YOURS

Ricky Schupp

The sounds of the ivories intermingled with the smoke in the air to create a slow dance of the senses. I remember her: golden hair all in curls, all natural, all alive. She played and sang with her eyes closed, honing in on that emotion, ever present through each note she uttered. Beneath the flair of her piano performance and the eloquence of her voice, a silent sexuality slumbered. She’d always play on a Saturday night, a warm glow from the stage lights illuminating the ebony luster of the baby grand. The stage was small, a platform really, inside the pub. I always sat at the bar, sipping my whiskey tonic. She always played the same song, a soft, lilting tune. Her voice was crystal, a melody of haunting resonance. After she finished, a small clatter of appreciation ensued. The only patrons in the bar would be men, some would be lost in contemplation of the beautiful lyrics, others looked on with drunken lust. She always sat at the end of the bar, her spot, sipping her drink, wearing a sad smile on her face. Men would come and go, some just to show their thankfulness, some to try and persuade her for other activities. She thanked the grateful and disregarded the shameless. I never spoke to her. It was the same every week. Then, one Saturday night, she didn’t come in. No one was too concerned, just a bit disappointed. When she didn’t return for the next few weeks people became anxious, but after a while it all faded. She hasn’t returned, but the rest of us do. Not really hoping to see her again, just to get our normal fix of alcohol and melancholy. I still remember though, that golden hair and those delicate features. And that smile, God, what a smile.

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LIKE A CAT

Kate Frey

It’s almost like springHeat seeping through me,Pulling me,To curl up on the sidewalk,My backpack for a pillow.Just let everyone else walk around me.

“What’s wrong with you?” “Don’t ask.”

_______ surrounds me.Let’s mix that up with tank-tops and sandalsBut no job.Just you and me and some treesA breeze.And nothing.