I AM A CAMERA magazine 3, Spring 2014 by Adam Shemper

I AM A CAMERA

IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper

SUMMERFIELD WALDORF SCHOOL & FARM• SPRING 2014 Dahnia Campos, Nora Miller-Fitzpatrick, Lyric Perez, Isaías Puentes, Siena Shepard & Salma Qazi

I AM A CAMERA

IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE created and taught by Adam Shemper

SUMMERFIELD WALDORF SCHOOL & FARM SANTA ROSA, CA • SPRING 2014 Dahnia Campos, Nora Miller-Fitzpatrick, Lyric Perez, Isaías Puentes, Siena Shepard & Salma Qazi

The views in this book are the writers’ and do not reflect those of the Summerfield Waldorf School & Farm. This is a not-for-profit, educational publication of student work.

CONTENTS The Fox in the Writing by Siena Shepard

2-3

Pepto-Bismol Pink by Lyric Perez!

4-5

August Boys by Salma Qazi !

6-11

The Shooting Star Over Travis Lake by Dahnia Campos!

12-16

Lost and Found River by Nora Miller-Fitzpatrick

17-19

Nicotine by Lyric Perez !

20-21

Squares and Circles by Dahnia Campos

Scars by Dahnia Campos

The Sharpening by Salma Qazi! !

24-25

Splintering Paint by Salma Qazi! !

26-27

Inside the Painting by Siena Shepard! ! ! ! Road of Memories by Nora Miller-Fitzpatrick

28-31

Secondary Images by Siena Shepard! ! Nothing But Numb by IsaĂas Puentes

! !

32 !

33-35 36-38

I AM A CAMERA:

IMAGINATIVE WRITING & THE IMAGE Spring 2014

I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! --Christopher Isherwood In this workshop, students used the lives of people and places in photographs as inspiration for their creative writing. They chose from a variety of images from art photography to documentary to photojournalism. Through the process of working with words and pictures, students began to discover the similarities and differences between the way people are represented in images and the way characters come to life in a story. As well as the way images give us an immediate visual sense of place and the way stories use verbal description to slowly reveal a setting. The ultimate aim was to teach students to trust the unique shape of their individual lives and voices and to trust the raw process of writing. In the end, six students wrote in a variety of unique forms, including vignettes, short stories and poems that are wildly disorienting, suspenseful, mysterious, and deeply felt in their descriptions of character, mood and setting.

photo credit: Joel Meyerwitz

THE FOX IN THE WRITING by Siena Shepard ! No one has ever been more aware than the fox. He will always be the crafty one, stalking small birds as prey. The birds can be heard throughout the rows and rows of cabbage and carrots, tomatoes and kale, green beans and roses. The fox, in all his slyness, crosses un-noticed through the shadowed rows of green and purple leaves. His nose in the air, he slows and stops, senses dulled by the heavy smell of manure. The cows, in their own excellence, are munching on grass one field over, not caring about the setting sun and the rising cold. Step by quiet step, paw by delicate paw, the fox feels the soft earth beneath his feet, cold and damp. ! The setting sun casts long shadows over the scenic fields, across the mighty oak, shadows bright as day and equally dark as night. The fox stops to sniff the air again, smelling the flowers, fruits and smaller animals. He hears a bird, spies it perched over a kale bush, and crouches, not wanting to give up his position. The bird, unaware of impending doom, innocently picks away at strung seeds and grass, trying to feed its small body. The fox stops, digs his hind quarters into the soft ground, then pounces. He misses and falls in front of the most unlikely creature imaginable. He falls in front of a girl writing. She jumps, but holds her scream. ! They eye each other, the fox in a defensive position, his back against the wet rows of kale, the girl still sitting in a wide path, surrounded by dirt clumps, pulled-up roots. There is a distinct silence, as the different species size each other up. And then...he is off, down the path at full speed. At the end of the field, he turns left, sprinting passed a black-haired boy, contemplating a tuft of grass. He sprints between the oak trees, into the field with the cows. Coming to a stop, he turns right, down a path of apple trees. He passes three more girls, also writing, who look up, see him run by, share a glance with each other and continue writing. As he runs through the orchard, he begins to pick up voices. They get louder with every step he takes. Realizing they are coming from in front of him, he turns left, nearly running into a cow. The cow jolts and the fox continues, never looking back, unfamiliar with the notion of returning to a place where he failed. So he continues to run. When he reaches his den, he rests, until he takes off again, on the next hunt, into the next field, for the next meal and next interaction.

PEPTO-BISMOL PINK by Lyric Perez

photo credit: Mitch Epstein

The walls are pink. Very bright pink. Not quite Pepto-Bismol pink, one hue lighter

then that. And it’s not just one wall; it’s all the walls. ! It smells like... well, new furniture, except a little run down. You know how you leave your house for a week and no one’s been there and you come home and it smells different? Almost new, or fresh? I can’t quite describe it. ! There’s a carpeted, kind-of-stained, light brown platform around the edges of the wall around 5 feet wide. Possibly used to display the furniture for sale. The dark-brown, speckled carpet on the ﬂoor of the whole room has bits of trash here and there, and smack in the middle of the room is a pale blue, ﬂoral-printed couch with its back facing me. A big, red price tag is stuck on the back on the fabric. Usually, there would be a 4

plastic covering on the couch, but I guess the owners found that unnecessary (while I just ďŹ nd it totally unsanitary). ! Near the walls and scattered around on the ďŹ&#x201A;oor are lamps of all sizes and colors. Each one different in some way: the lamp shades different shades of white with a different stem holding them up. The only things they have in common are their plastic covering and the long yellow cords used to help light them up. Other than that there are so many types of lamps down to the last little detail. Some lamp shades tan, some white, one is even dark blue. All these lamps, and nowhere to go.! ! !

AUGUST BOYS by Salma Qazi

photo credit: William Eggleston

The southern summer is slick and hot: the sky like thick white cotton, the trees huge

and wide, and the asphalt on the road sticks to your bare feet. As the seasons change and the air congeals, as the days lengthen endlessly and the men begin to sweat underneath their starched white collars and their wives blast air-conditioning in their pretty, pale houses, as the grass withers and the night becomes raucous with crickets, that’s when the boys start to trickle out. * August was the worst. August was the hottest, and it was close to September, which meant that school was looming closer and closer. In the afternoons the boys sweated resentfully in their houses, standing beneath the fans or in front of the A/C, melting ice on their sun-raw limbs and crunching cubes between their teeth and on their tongues, the taste of dirt and salt from their ﬁngers. They had gone out in the afternoons of June and July, but in August it would be unbearable. The boys who could stand the heat lingered with their balls and bats beneath the shade of the trees and didn’t move into the sun, didn’t move at all except to get ice cream from the man who drove by every four hours. They were bored, and boredom is toxic for young boys. Someone will always end up hurting. * It was just before dusk. One by one, the boys left their houses - some went quietly, letting their screen doors shut carefully behind them, and some noisily, shouting insults at their siblings over their shoulders and running from irate parents. They met at the park. All six were there: Rich, Max, John J., John P., Robbie and his little brother Harry. They ranged in age from twelve to fourteen, except Harry, who was eight and was only there because Robbie’s ma insisted that they take him along when they went out. The other boys tolerated him, because it was fun to have someone smaller to pick on sometimes, and because they all liked Robbie, who was a champion footballer in the neighborhood. Little Harry just hated being left alone at home, and he didn’t care when they teased ‘em for being small and slow because he knew that if he cried hard enough his brother might just feel sorry and beat the other boys up, and his ma might ﬁnd out and give them a real hiding. As boys went, they were harmless. Until summer came. * They didn’t mean to, of course. No one ever means it, when these things happen.

photo credit: DoubleTake

They stood silently for a long time together and their thoughts went to their mothers. Somehow they knew their usual apologetic whines (previously so convincing) would not work this time––or ever again. * The shadows were cool in the grass, and the last rays of sun were orange and bronze, shining through the trees dimly. The boys, who had foregone shirts, were regretting their decision when mosquitoes began to appear, little gray specks in the ever-deepening sky. The nights were cooler. Robbie brought his football and they played until they were limp-muscled and exhausted, ﬁercely glad to move around after hours stuck in the haze. At last they stopped playing. It was night, and the sky was thick with stars. The boys dropped like ﬂies, throwing themselves to the ground and spreading out their arms. The grass was dry and tall and itchy, and a couple of them shifted uncomfortable. But since no one else got up, they all remained down, hair blending with the grass and their sweaty faces upturned to the sky. They talked to each other, between snatches of starved breath and laughter; they accused each other of cheating and denied it, grudgingly complimented each other on a particular pass, ripped up grass and dirt and threw it into each others’ faces. When this happened, it didn’t take very long for the boys to jump up again, their vigor renewed. Spluttering and laughing through mouthfuls of soil and grass, Max got his revenge on Rich by throwing a small rock at him, which hit him on the cheek so hard 8

that it made him yelp, his voice cracking. His face ﬂushed as the other boys doubled over, breathless with laughter. Rich tackled Max and knocked the wind out of him. Still giggling, John P. leapt on top of the two and brought them all crashing down in a hollering tangle of limbs, soon joined by John J. and Robbie. Harry held back, afraid of being crushed, but he soon relented and, shyly, allowed himself to be pulled into the mass.

photo credit: Robert Maxwell

It was late, now, and Robbie knew that he couldn’t keep Harry out too long. Reluctantly he broke up the tussle, shrugging at the protesting groans that emerged from the others. “Gotta go home,” he said, and placed his hand firmly on Harry’s thin shoulder, steering him away from the field. The other boys followed, slowly at first and then speeding up to 9

a run. It seemed like a crime to merely walk anywhere on a night like this, clear and almost-cold, with the sky open and endless above them. So they all sprinted off the field, their feet flashing through the shadowed grass, Harry and Robbie leading the way. Robbie kept running when he reached the road, even though he was barefoot and the concrete was rough and cracked. He didn’t care; he was weightless, breathless, tireless. His feet barely touched the ground. He could hear Harry panting slightly behind him, and he knew he should slow down, but he simply didn’t want to. The other boys had caught up to him when the car came driving carefully up the road, coming straight towards them. As a unit, the boys veered to the opposite side of the road, letting the car pass––and then, in a flash of reckless energy, Robbie let out a whoop and ran in front of the car, waving his arms and laughing as the wheels squealed and the driver cursed. And, because Robbie had done it, the other boys did the same: grinning and shouting in the white headlights, smacking the sides of the car with their hands. The driver was yelling at them to stop when suddenly the car lurched forward. John P., who was directly in it’s path, screamed in real fear and leapt to the side. He fell to the ground and skinned his knees, but Robbie wasn’t looking at him. Robbie was staring, suddenly still, as the car which went skidding past him and into the dark tangle of swamp-trees on the side of the road. * Summer in the south is enough to drive people crazy: the endless wetness rising up from the swamp; the oppressive sky; the blistering, broken roads leading into the indistinguishable horizon. And it’s no small wonder that people do go a little crazy. But, after all, it’s August, the worst month, and boys will be boys. No surprise that someone ended up hurting.

photo credit: Arthur Tress

The Shooting Star Over Travis Lake by Dahnia Campos

photo credit: William Eggleston

! How do I begin this? A story that has yet to have an ending? I suppose I should start from the beginning, that's usually how stories start. It was late summer, 1968, in Holly Springs, Mississippi. The day was coming to a close. I had set down my coke bottle on the broken-down cigarette machine and rubbed the grease off my hands onto my jeans. I took out four quarters and slid them into the coin slot of the old machine. They landed with a sharp ring. I then pressed a button for my favorite cigarettes, Marlboro, yet there was no response. I slammed my hand against the machine and the 12

pack landed with a soft thud. I reached inside, grabbed the box, then took out a cigarette and lit it. Blowing smoke out, taking in the ecstatic taste I was momentarily entranced by the feeling. But, suddenly, I snapped back into reality. I took my coke bottle, grease smudged onto what was once-clear glass, and I dropped my burning cigarette inside. It submerged softly with a sizzle in the remaining soda. ! I turned on the radio to hear, “Vote for Haley Bar–,” and quickly changed the station. A rush of rock-and-roll came on. The sun began to set and I danced around like an idiot. I was thinking of summer and how I never wanted it to end. I was thinking about that day and how I'd rather be working for a pay check then go back to school come September. I took out my comb and streamed it through my hair, as I kicked the old machine. I placed an unlit cigarette behind my ear and walked away with music still blasting. With grease in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, I walked away, uncertain I'd ever come back. ! The moon was shinning bright. I remember that. My car engine roared in the night. I pulled into my driveway for the last time, slowly, quietly. I noticed the kitchen light shinning bright though the window, and my heart sank. I cleared any expression I had on my face, lit my cigarette and walked up my stairs to the front door. Before I could even reach for the knob, the door suddenly swung open. He stumbled out, this man that barely passed for what a man is suppose to be, a man I use to call, “Dad”. He threw himself on me, spilling his whiskey on the ground, burping and spitting, as though those slurs of nothingness were supposed to become words. He began to yell, “Where the... Hell ... have you been?!” ! I don't remember saying anything, just pushing past him to my room and packing all I had in a small bag. I didn't have much. He hung on the door frame, still slurring these nameless words, saying her name over and over: “Jammy, Jammy....” ! “Who's Jammy?” Sarah says to me in the quietest voice. ! “My mom. She died two months ago,” I reply. The room became so incurably silent, one of those silent moments that make it seem like it's been hours but it's been seconds, and then it's cut by her numb voice. ! “What then?” she asks. ! The next thing I remember was driving off. I watched in the rear view mirror as this “man” threw his whiskey and stumbled onto his knees. ! She doesn't say anything. She touches her hand to mine as we watch the waves breathing from her back porch. She faces me, but her eyes look down, and she says, “You can stop if you want?” ! I have to say, I'm lost with what exactly to say because all I can focus on is how beautiful she looks, the way the moon is shinning on her. “No,” I reply, “I promised I'd tell you why I have come here and that's what I'm going to do.” ! Well, I drove all night, but not once did I think about returning to Holly Springs. The next day I stopped at a 7-Eleven. There was this man that came out, I think I remember his name stitched in his shirt pocket: Theroy. ! “Fill er' up?” he asked. I nodded my head, yes, as I walked into the store. Theroy followed shortly after. I set a bag of chips, a bottle of coke and a pack cigarettes onto the counter and started to pull 10 dollars out of my pocket. “Twenty-eight, twenty-ﬁve.” Theory had said with a delighted smile, one of those smiles where you really just want to deck the guy. 13

! Sarah starts to laugh silently with an unexpected snort, and her face grows bright-red around her freckles, and her dirty-blonde hair falls over her eyes. I can't understand how I can find her so enchantingly beautiful when I have only known her for six days. I suddenly start to make snorting noises, teasing her and tickling her sides. Her laugh is lost in the sound of the waves and my sight is lost in the trance of her eyes. We looked at one another, feeling something so ineffable. ! “Did you hit him?”, she giggles. ! “What?” I ask so incredibly confused. “Theroy! Of course,” she says. “Oh, no no.” I say reassuringly. ! “Well go on! You can't stop now! Tell me the rest of the story?” ! Well after I heard how much the items cost I just slapped down 20 dollars, and he started to say, “Oh it's twenty-eight”. But I walked out of the store and Theroy didn't have one word to say about it. I continued driving for the next three days. There was this small blue dot on the map that said, Travis Lake, Texas. I drove down winding roads. I lit a cigarette and the smoke was consumed by the warm summer air. I pulled to the side, cars beeped at me, but I didn't care. I blasted my music, stepped out on the railing on the side of the road that seemed to go on forever and peered down the cliff before me. It was the strangest feeling, feeling so alive, yet feeling so close to Death itself. I stared down this ledge, this leap, this out, this escape and I wanted to––. I can't keep going, it's almost as though this thing I’m about to say is going to make it real, and that maybe by telling her the truth it is going to ruin everything. ! “Did you?” She clears her throat, and my heart begins beating fast because I know what she is going to ask. Right when I need them the most, all words fail me. “You wanted to jump?” she asks. ! “Yeah,” I say, shrinking unable to look her in the eyes. ! “It's okay,” she whispers. My mind scrambles with a million thoughts, but my vocal chords can't come up with a single vibration. “I'm glad you didn't... jump, I mean.” ! I still can't find the courage to look at her. She grabs my chin with her index finger and thumb, and shows her face to mine. She smiles, her dimples indent her cheeks, and she kisses my forehead and says, “I don't think you're any less amazing as I did before.” She shies away, her hair falls in front of her face again, and I swoop it behind her ear. “Obviously you didn't jump so how does the story go?” she asks. I grin and began again to tell this infinite story. ! I yelled at the top of my lungs over the cliff, threw my cigarette over the edge and hopped back into my car. I reached Travis Lake. I rolled up my pants, threw my leather jacket in the back seat, streamed my comb through my hair as always and walked forward feeling the sand between my toes. The moisture in the air, there was something about it I’d never experienced, and the birds sang, and though I was the only one around they didn't seem to care. I walked to the edge of the water and watched as it guzzled up my feet. It was so peaceful, and then I heard this loud scream and turned to see this girl chasing her bright turquoise scarf that seemed to be playing tag with the wind. The scarf landed in the water and the girl was still in the distance, suddenly sad. I quickly, but in all honesty, quite reluctantly, went in after it for her. ! “Oh and who was this girl?” Sarah asks, in the most obvious sarcastic tone of voice. ! “It was you of course,” I laugh and say. “What did you first think when you saw 14

photo credit: National Geographic

me, this crazy girl screaming like that?” she asks, after a simple pause. ! I’m thinking of so many things, but what am I to tell her? I look at her and simply say, “I thought you were beautiful.” She shies away again as she has done this whole night. ! “It's getting late. I think I'll be getting to bed. You remember where your room is?” she asks, still blushing. I nod my head, yes. Once again my breathing becomes easy as she walks inside, because in this moment we know the story is over. I step inside this old house and let my dreams take me to a life I left behind. ! I twist in my sheets. I can't get her out of my mind. I quietly throw my covers off, walk out into the hallway to see her room at the end. I open her creaking door and see her there, so entrancing. She rolls over and looks at me and throws over the sheets and gestures me to lie next to her. I feel as though butterflies carry themselves within me like a shooting star carries itself across the dark night sky. I wake up wrapped in something other than the thin sheets that gently touch my skin. Her arms grip me tight as though she is protecting me from something more dangerous than the world itself. I watch her eyelashes flicker like a projector showing a movie, and I place my finger softly across your lips. Nose to nose, our bodies intertwine and suddenly her eyes open, without saying anything, for words were not needed. She kisses me. Most of the time nothing seems to make sense in my life, but I know our love for each other makes sense. In the world around us this love might eventually fade, as all beautiful things do. But now, in 15

this moment I have fallen in love, like a shooting star falling into place into the night sky. Sarah leans over and whispers in my ear, “I love you.” When she whispers it, it becomes mine, and the world can't take it away or misuse it, those three words belong to me. ! I wake up, watch the dust dance in the streams of light coming through the window. I can smell fresh air blowing through the cracks of this old house. I step barefoot into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, only to see a carton of milk and what I think is...cheese? I wrote a note that read, “I'll be back soon,” and place it down softly next to her delicate back dimples. I drive into town and watch as the CLOSED signs flipped into OPEN ones, and see people, who are supposedly polite, obviously staring at me. ! I step out of the car and into the store, a loud ding-dong echoes as I walk past the doorway, a rush of artificial, cold air brushes past me. It's followed by a fake smile from the cashier with a fake, “Good Morning, how are you?” as though she really cares. I just nod my head. I search through this small store and quickly return to the cashier, set down eggs, bacon and orange juice. I'm thinking of her again, this time her bright hazel eyes. Then suddenly get brought back with the loud ring from the cash register. I pay and step back outside and walk down the sidewalk. I light my cigarette and walk across the street. Smoke rolls into the air and suddenly a woman yells: “Watch o–!” A sharp pain rushes through my whole body. And, then, I'm numb. ! I see the clouds, so beautiful in the sky, and I hear the faint sounds of screams, a man panicking who keeps saying, “I didn't see him, I swear I... I just.. oh God.” Blood. Is that blood? More importantly is that my blood consuming the surrounding black pavement? ! I feel tired, a little woozy. I'm losing feeling in my finger tips. There's a ringing I'm drawn into, a peaceful nothingness I can feel myself getting sucked into deeper and deeper. I'm falling asleep. It's quiet, but I'm brought back into the world by a sudden jolt. I look up to see her. Those lips, nose and eyes, her eyes that seem to be overtaken by a storm. I want nothing more than to hold her, but I can't seem to move. Why can't I move? I want to tell her I love her, but I can't speak. The ringing returns. I'm getting lost and it hits me, I'm dying. I can't control it, tears begin to stream down my face and hers and we begin to cry together. I'm falling asleep. I'm dying. I know the last thing I will see is her face. She has both her hands on my cheeks. As I slip away she kisses my lips, she whispers in my ear, “I love you.”

THE LOST AND FOUND RIVER by Nora Miller-Fitzpatrick

photo credit: William Eggleston

The morning had just begun as we set out on our bikes. I knew where we were going, but for some reason I forgot how to get there. It was a happy day for me, because I was turning 16 years old. ! We were all going the right way until one slight turn turned us all around. The streets we were on were simple and sweet, but as we neared the end a big barren hill lay in front of us. We had no recollection of ever seeing it, so we climbed up the hill using the footpath that had been made by other people walking up it as we were. As we 17

got closer to the top we could hear the faint sound of rushing water and an awful stench that reminded us of stagnant water. As we finally reached the top of the hill the sight below us hit us like a strong slap on the face, bringing us back to reality. Below us lay the Connecticut River looking like people had been using it as their dump for years. It was cluttered with trash and debris from the town and the building I once knew. It had been the fishing and boat supplies factory when I was a young child, though now there was only a few remains of the crumbling foundation. I knew something had to be done to make this river less polluted and better for the environment, but I knew it would only take determination. Ahhhhh…it’s Saturday, I thought, as I woke up and drearily crawled out of bed for breakfast. My mom had made an elegant breakfast of eggs, pancakes and bacon. My stomach grumbled as I walked down the stairs, but I had no time to eat because I had to call the city counsel group so I could get volunteers and permission to work on the river. ! Right after I quickly ate my breakfast, I ran up stairs to the office to place the call. No one answered but a stupid automated voice saying that no one was available to help at the moment, but some one would be with me as soon as possible. I waited for what seemed to be an hour before a gentleman, who said his name was Bill, answered the phone. I told him how I found the spot and what was wrong with it, and he thought about it for a few minutes and finally agreed that something should be done to the river. We set up an appointment for two weeks later. I hung up the phone and lay on my bed and realized that this was an opportunity to help the world and its atmosphere and help my hometown be a better place. The weeks trudged on as I walked through the hallways at school just waiting for the bell to ring so I could get home. Finally after waiting for two weeks, the day I had been looking forward to was just a day away. The night before, I woke up from the same terrible dream I had several times as a young child. My dream was that the government was after my father and we were always on the run trying to hide from their view. One night, while I was asleep in my room I heard the door creek open and I thought my father had come in from the barn, but as I went to the door to say goodnight I was too late, because as I stepped out of my room I heard a gun shot and my father’s body hit the floor with a heart-tearing thud. I quickly ran to his room. I always woke up from my dream at that point, and I always had to go quietly check on my father to make sure he was okay. For the rest of that night I could not fall back asleep, my head so full of thoughts and ideas. A big smile spread across my face as I woke up from three hours of sleep. I threw on my clothes and ran down stairs to gulp down my breakfast so I could get to the river before Bill and his volunteer group arrived. As I neared the river I started getting bad thoughts: What if they forget what weekend? What If they don’t show up? I tried to erase those thoughts from my head and just keep riding my bike to the meeting spot. I finally reached the river after what seemed to be hours. I looked at what I saw two weeks ago, but for some reason it looked like someone had the same idea as me and started picking up the trash and debris. I waited for what felt unbearably long before Bill and his volunteer group showed up. We all introduced ourselves but we didn’t want to waist much time so we got to work

pretty fast. Some people started picking up trash while others dragged branches and big objects out of the river. One day, while we were all working hard, I kneeled down to pick up something I thought was just an old, rusty chain. But, when I started to pull it out of the ground––to my surprise––it was more than just a rusty, old chain, it was a piece of old jewelry from the forties. I felt around with my hands, digging up dirt to try and ﬁnd more, and I found a box full of old necklaces, brooches, and hair pins, all from the forties. I called Bill over to look at what I found. We decided to keep them safe and bring them to a jeweler the next day. During the night I woke up to a terrible sound of pounding rain, booming thunder and cracking lightning. In the morning, I woke up and decided to call Bill and cancel our work for the day. I slowly ate breakfast and took a nice long shower, taking my time, because I knew I didn’t have to be anywhere for anyone. ! In the afternoon, my mom told me to go outside and do something productive, so I went on a bike ride to the river to see what damage the storm had done. I parked my bike and ran up the hill to see the river as if it was frozen in time. Then, it all happened at once, so fast I barely could wrap my mind around it. The one place my foot landed caused the side of the hill to fall and cover the bank below. I stood there wide-eyed and helpless, unable to move.

NICOTINE by Lyric Perez

photo credit: Sally Mann

You were outside the house that evening having your afternoon smoke, even though your aunt had told you many times you shouldn’t. “It’s like pouring tar in your lungs!” she would say. You didn’t care. The feeling of inhaling the smoke was like breathing in new life. You would see different, hear different, smell different, be different each time you did. And you loved that feeling of being someone else. You always felt out of place, like a crying child in a quiet theatre. ! But, you are not a child––nor in a theatre where cigarettes are not allowed–– you’re nearly 13. You’re practically a teenager. You’re too mature for your class and fellow students. You feel like a 19 year old trapped in a 12 year old body, and you want 20

out. Badly.! ! They call you weird and joke about how you’re gonna die so young, because you’re basically killing yourself smoking. Kids can be so cruel. I mean maybe you have a lot going on and the nicotine helps you get by, but kids are just too damn inconsiderate to think of that. All they want to do is hurt your feelings and kick you down to the ground with their insightful words. Maybe they’re the ones who have issues. ! You must be pretty heartless if you can say such things without ﬂinching or feeling an ounce of guilt. Oh well. Karma will get them sooner or later. Besides, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You act like you don’t have a care in the world. The world is a bad place anyways. Why care for it? It hasn’t done you any good. Your mama always said: “Don’t let anybody tell you you aren’t special. Because if they do, they’re wrong.” She’s the one who got you smoking.

SQUARES AND CIRCLES by Dahnia Campos When I was a little girl I loved to play with blocks. My favorite game was where you had

to match the shapes together, so the squares went with the squares, the circles with the circles and so on. When I was a little girl my mom use to call me precious, like sweetheart or honey. I was precious. I don't quiet know why she stopped calling me this. I don't know when I stopped being precious. When I was a little girl my mom would sit me on her lap and let me tell her my dreams, she use to tuck me in at night and check for monsters under my bed. I don't know when I got too big to sit on her lap, or to tell her my dreams. I don't remember when I started tucking myself in at night. That the monsters where no longer under my bed, but a part of me. I don't quite know when my life became a series of shapes that I I couldn't quite put together anymore, like trying to put squares in circles in a game I wasn't meant to win.

And when was it that skinny stopped being just a word and started being an obsession? When did beauty stop being just six letters, two syllables and the only word I knew to describe my mom? When did beauty start being the way people want you to look in the world rather than the way you look at the world; like being beautiful is everything? And when did squeezing into societal norms become like squeezing into a size two jeans? When I was a little girl I loved to play, but one day I was told to stop. When I was a little girl I use to love to play games, but now it's been so long that I've forgotten. Maybe one day my Mom will start calling me precious again. Maybe, one day I will be precious again.

SCARS by Dahnia Campos She rolls over,

her arm gently falls into the empty covers, and she is unsure if she's dreaming or not. She grabs the thin sheet that is covering her beautifully imperfect body and touches her feet onto the cold wooden ďŹ&#x201A;oor. The moon shown through the windows and the soft breeze moved the transparent curtain like a leaf zig-zagging its way to the ground on an autumn evening. Walking out of the bedroom she places her hand on the door frame sliding her ďŹ ngers across the wall. She stops at the glass door looking out before her, to see the moon illuminating the soft twilight sky. She slides the door open just crack and closes it behind her with a slightly deadly thud. Walking down the stairs, feeling the sand between her toes, the sheet dragging behind her, the raw-ring noise of the beautiful silence consumes her and she let's it. She walks to the edge, the water almost at her toes, for the ocean it's surprisingly still. Walking and dropping the sheet to reveal the beauty within her, every scar, every freckle, every birth mark. Deeper and deeper until the water had consumed her. She lives there now, beneath the silent waves, she makes no noise because she's fallen in love with the constant dream. 23

THE SHARPENING by Salma Qazi

photo credit: Jean Mohr

On July 31st, the streets were empty in Paris. The two days of rioting had given

way to a thick silence. The narrow alleys gaped, like empty throats, bereft of their pickpockets and prostitutes, their deaths and dealings. ! Yet death was in the air. Revolution was smoldering beneath the streets, ready to explode once more. The barricades had been dismantled and the streets were quiet, but the memory of them lingered in the notches on the walls. The smell of old blood rose from the gutters. ! The corpses of the royalists had been moved, to bloat and swell somewhere else, but their miasma remained. The windows of small houses looking into the alleys had been clumsily boarded shut against the lingering scent of slaughter. Beneath the 24

unyielding press of the summer sun, the Seine boiled and the Palace of Justice, the stern statues of the Louvre, the gardens of Tuileries, all smelled of fetid river-water. Inside, the revolutionaries felt their limbs weaken and their gazes wander, but their anger remained hot and sure and strong. Beneath their layers of clothes, the aristocracy sweated as well, and it mixed with the perfume and powder in their ďŹ ne, heavy clothes, though the fear that festered within their stomachs made them more nauseous. ! Soon, the city would erupt in sound, in canon ďŹ re and pistol shots, in screams and wild laughter and terror, in chants and pleas. But for now, the only sound was the slow, steady sharpening of the guillotine.

SPLINTERING PAINT by Salma Qazi

The memory of your ﬁrst apartment in the city stays with you for the rest of your life.

You were unused to life on your own, and you weren’t poor enough to be sparing with your money, so you meekly allowed yourself to be wheedled into renting a small, dank set of rooms at an exorbitant price. The place was unbearably muggy in the summer, when the city festered under the hot weight of its own pollution. The windows never properly shut, and the door made a sound louder than gunfire when you closed it. You refused to be daunted by all this, however, and as the sweat and gritty misery of August turned into crisp September, you continued on: patching up leaks when the first icy fall showers poured through the cracks in the ceiling, paying your rent dutifully when the landlord came around, laboring over your torn shirts when you hadn’t the money to spare for new ones. The rains came down in November, and everything was damp: the splintering wood of your floorboards, the threadbare clothes on your everthinning frame. The day-old bread you bought every other morning was damp too and molded faster than you had thought possible. You shivered all night, wet hair in your toowarm eyes. If you got ––you don’t want to think about it, but you force yourself––if you got sick, you would not be able to pay for a doctor. You could barely afford to buy more paint, and painting was your sole source of income. Your father, parceling out your inheritance in small chunks, had yet to send you more money. You debated writing to him, but postage stamps required money as well. It’s a letter, or dinner, you tell yourself, when in reality you couldn’t stand to give up enough pride to admit failure and return home, or beg for money. You were certain you could do this on your own. This changed when snow arrived. It had been getting colder and colder, and last night there was hail. Your winter, always fragile, shattered. You pinned a cloth over the window, but it wouldn’t keep out the cold for long. The very day the snows came, you mailed the letter to your father and dined on old bread and milk. You burned your sketches for a fire, and the pitiful flame offered no solutions.

photo credit: Edward Steichen

INSIDE THE PAINTING by Siena Shepard I. Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son II. Caspar David Friedrich’s The Abbey in the Oakwood III. Henry Fuseli’s The Nightmare IV. William Turner’s Slave Ship V. Friedrich’s Man and Woman Contemplating the Moon

It comes out of nowhere, this sensation of squeezing and pulling, like trying to

pull a finger out of a ring too small. You shut your eyes, try to think of anything but this, but nothing comes. Your head about to burst, your heart about to give out, your lungs being compressed into nothingness. ! Then it’s over, and you feel nothing. Like waking up in a dream, nothing. It’s black around you, you see, feel and sense nothing. But there is something, you hear it. It can’t be nothing for you defiantly hear something. A sound is coming from above you. A devouring sound, a gulping sound, a guzzling sound. A sound that come from the hungriest of people, the people who have to eat, the people who have nothing to lose. It sounds slimy and sticky, like someone shoveling down an entire Thanksgiving dinner. You look up, but nothing is there, only the smacking of huge lips, then the continuation of scoffing down Its meal. As you think on what to do, a wet, dripping sound beings to rise and over take the chomping, biting noise. Water begins to fall on you, small drops at first, and then the rain picks up and a waterfall is created in mere seconds. You back up, and as your eyes begin to take in the blackness, you see something more then the noise. Something from the worst of nightmares. Something unearthly and un-human. Something so abstractly hideous, there is no point to even scream. A creator, the size of any and every god, stands before you, eyes wild, deadly and terrified, unseeing as you stand in Its shadow. Its mane of unkempt, unruly hair, sticky and matted with scarlet, warm blood. You see the body in Its arms, and run, the image never leaving your mind nor soul, scaring you to the worst of your imagination. No head, no limbs, just gore dripping down its naked body, into the crevices of the monsters fingers and down its arm. This image wields itself into your physical and mental existence. Nothing would ever be able to shut the picture out to be forgotten. As you run from the disgusting creature and Its dinner, the blackness consumes you. The sounds from before fade away, and you are alone. ! Lost and isolated, feelings of doubt creep into your unconscious and force black opinions into your waking self. “Find your way back,” It said. “We dare you.” ! You continue on your steady route, hesitation edging into your already faltering step. Hoping for a sign is the only thing fueling your random direction. Nothing follows your movements and this same nothing creates your path. 28

! This erratic wandering continues for some time, each step as uncertain as the last. But as you feel all ambition forfeited, the sign you sought begins to emerge. You first notice the ground, as it rises up and down, wavelike and choppy, dirt crumbling beneath your feet. Your next sign is the trees sprouting around you, small at first, but as you continue forward they begin to rise out of the earth, twisting around themselves, branching out and growing to enormous sizes. The blackness around you turns into fog, the wisps of mist spinning around you in patterns of swirls and spirals. Crosses and tombs emerge from the black as the horizon of blues and grey push its way above the clouds. ! In the far distances, shapes take form into tall pinnacles of trees, long dead with the ages. As your surroundings become clearer, the sun begins to rise, you find your self in the wake of a building. No, not a building, a wall, the remains of something lost, imploding and collapsing. Two trees, bigger and older then any you can picture, stand on either side, sheltering the decayed relic. It draws you in, calls to you, stretches out its imaginary limbs and wraps you up. As you stumble towards it, figures are seen unmoving and black. You take a few steps, and then you are there, with no recollection of the misplaced time. The silhouettes are lifeless and opaque, stopped in two lines going into the old building. It’s much higher then you could have possibly imagined, extending into the brightening sky, towering over, about to crumble into dust. Wanting to know more, you begin to wake the odd figures. Your hand rises, then falls, going through the subject. For they are only shadows, stuck in time and space in the place they felt the most awake. Nothing now could ever stop you from seeing what they would have seen. You stand in the impossible doorway, the arch above you, massive in its excellence. You look behind, where you were only seconds before and see nothing but the past. You look forward and see only an abyss. You pause, breathe in and out, and take a step forward. ! And your foot finds not the dusty ground at which you were presently standing, but a smooth marble floor, cold and hard. Finally realizing that you had your eyes closed, you open them, and scream. ! Before you is a woman, beauty etched in her perfect, idealized face. She lies asleep in her bed, face contorted in horror, as two gargoyles loom over her, misshapen and ugly. Their eyes fixed on her full of emotion: anger, lust, glee and pity. She cannot seem to wake from her disjointed sleep, and cries of despair escape her lips. You rush to her, ignoring the squat-being sitting on her, and shake her, scream at her to awaken. She does not move and course laughter comes from behind you. The creatures smile their ghastly, nauseating smile. You swat at them, but then they are gone and you can here them guffawing at your useless trials. You bellow at them to release her, but all you get is a fresh set of cackling. Again, you attempt to revive her, but the gargoyles have had enough. Their laughter has stopped. They begin to swoop down and tap your head. You continue on, screaming at her to wake up. They continue their harassments, getting more and more violent, hitting you and bitting you, throwing things on your head. You search for a way out, and see a door, the one at the end of the room. Taking one last pitying look at the poor maiden, you start to run, the monsters behind you, swatting at you and hurling bricks and mirrors. The door rushes to meet you. The last thing you see is the lonesome girl and her two demonic angles.

! As you run out the door, you realize that the ground has stopped, and you are falling. You plummet for a while, picking up speed as the wind whistles around your ears. You attempt to see where you will land but all you see is a whirlwind of color circulating around you. A bright light abruptly appears from below and begins to rise suddenly around you, blinding you. You hear distant screams of pain and the steady swooshing motion, when suddenly you are thrown into a sea of water. Not cool, calm water, but boiling, bubbling, bloody water. Water with history and regrets. Water with sorrow and anger, fear and loathing. You are throw this way and that, no rhythm or time to keep. When your head is above the sea line, you see people clinging on drift wood and other people. Dead people. Something brushes your side, but it’s gone as fast as it came. Panic begins to envelope you as you go back under. Something hits you again, and you grab onto it, a severed plank with nails digging into your side, releasing blood into the already blood-soaked water. You pull with all your might up and your head breaks the water’s surface. This time you see the ship, a mere shadow in the far distance, almost a ghost ship yet still physical enough to place blame. People writhing in the hot blistering water, under the cold watchful sun. As you take in the massacre, sea beasts begin to thrash under the waters surface. People begin to disappear with yelps of sorrow, and the water turns to bigger, brutal waves. As you see a wall of water come hurtling towards you, you see a creature in its depths. Hysteria pushes its way through to your actions and you paddle with any and every strength left in you. You paddle towards the sun, your salvation, and the wave picks you up, not carefully, but with enough gentle force to keep you on your life boat. The waters were sparing to someone today, and you are more lucky then you imagine as you ﬂoat away, as the unheard screams of pain and terror fade in the distance. ! As you sail away, your mind takes you far from here, to a place full trees and moss and ﬂowers. Somewhere that smells of old forest, and with no sound but the birds and a little brook trickling down the mountain. You picture the day and night there, taking a trip there alone. You imagine the path would wind itself up the mountain and open up at the top. There, you would see the meadows. The wind would breeze through the long grasses growing up tall, and laughter would escape your lips. Laughter did escape you, as you lie, exhausted and covered in blood. You shut your eyes, the motion of the waters calming you and rocking you. You picture the mountain and smile. ! Then you are there, at the base. Your driftwood gone, instead replaced by tall grasses and the scent of the old forest. The path is there and you follow it, eager to reach the top, to see the simple joys of beauty. You run, turn a corner, and stop. Someone is there. No one terrifying, just two people sharing the road. They stand there, aware of your intrusion, but making no effort to acknowledge you. They are not hostile, they are just making the best of the moment. A man and a woman, contemplating the moon. You do not want to disturb them, but the idea of climbing up to the peak eludes your mind. You just want the company, after being alone for such a long time. You slowly join them, and stand and star as the sun falls and the moon rises. ! The man is on your left, and a gnarled oak tree is on your right, neither one better then the other. Both connected. You feel the connection, feel the emotion behind this connection and silently let the tears fall. These tears for everything you have seen, everything you have lost and everything that you have been through. You just let them fall. The woman comes to your right and turns to you. You almost step back, fearing the 30

worst, but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t come. The faceless woman takes her handkerchief and wipes your face. The faceless man wraps you up in his coat, and you feel your cold move through your body. You have never felt so tired, and the faceless woman, no, the woman with many faces, tenderly lays you down on the gnarled tree, tucking you into its pocket. You have never been so warm, so protected. She stands and returns to the man with many faces, taking up her position, turning her emotionless face back to the slowly rising moon. The man and woman turn to you and smile inside, letting you relax, telling you everything will be alright. You smile at them, nod your head, understanding that they can see more then you can ever know, and you fall into the most relaxed, comfortable sleep.

ROAD OF MEMORIES by Nora Fitzpatrick-Miller

photo credit: Thomas Struth

The road is bumpy and gray. I look to my right and the garden is full of green

leaves and brightly-colored flowers. I can feel the warmth of the sunflower petals warming my body. As I look around to the left I see the other half of the lush garden lining the road. Up ahead I can see the roof of an old cabin. The whole image reminds me of childhood, when I would go to visit my grandma every summer in Louisiana. I stop to explore the land but as I open the gate the spring scent of honeysuckle, rose, lavender and other flowers hit me and make me feel at home. As I walk, one foot after the other, I hear the faint cry of an owl. I look up and see nothing but clear blue sky. As I sit down I feel the cool, damp earth beneath me give way. I quickly get up and notice that all around me lay a huge blanket of small and large green trees. The landscape brings the image of my grandma back into my head, and suddenly I am falling, falling, falling until I hit the ground with a thud, and all memories are erased from my mind. 32

SECONDARY IMAGES by Siena Shepard

photos credit: Sally Mann

I wandered through the weird and twisted landscape, through mist and fog, when

I came into a clearing. It was cold and wet. My hair clung to my face. I was lost. There was no doubt that I was lost. I shivered and looked North, or what I thought was North. All I could see were trees and sky. I shivered as the wind blew through me, then it hit me, a wave of nausea. I was going to be sick and a moment later, I fell into the trees and retched. I was there for what felt like an eternity. ! When I was done my sides ached and my mouth stung. I breathed in and out, and raised my eyes. That was when I saw it: a pot, nothing more, nothing less. I wobbled towards it, falling over as it jumped back and forth in my vision. Then it was right before me. Or I was right behind it. I thought nothing of it and looking down into it 33

fell head ﬁrst into the pot. I was calm and my last thought was “It’s like Alice in Wonderland.” Then I hit the ground. The ground where? I had no idea. All I could see was red and gold and pink and white. The leaves––”What leaves?”––were moving but there was no wind––”Yes there was”––no there wasn’t, not that I could feel. The leaves were everywhere––”Only here”––everywhere, and they were whispering––”No they aren’t.” “Hello,” I asked, but my mouth said, “Goodbye.” “No,” I said, but my mouth said, “Maybe.” “Wait, what,” said I. Mouth said, “Ha Ha Ha.” “Not funny,” “peaches and cream.” I back away, but my feet took me forward. Oh well, was the last thing I thought, “-----no it wasn’t-----”, as my feet walked me into the red, gold, pink and white leaves. They grabbed and pulled me in, and I felt nothing. I wasn’t dead, more like I was underwater. I felt myself crouch then I pushed up. My head popped out of the water and I spluttered and spat. I realized I couldn’t breath and was sucked back under. Breathing in, I realized I was ﬁne, took a breath and pushed back up. Trees. Trees and sky. No, trees were sky. Wait, I was sky. I was backward and

upside down. Looking below, I saw the sky-ground. It was black and vast, open and challenging. I let out the rest of my breath at its depth and was sucked back under. Once again, I took my breath and pushed back up. I looked to my left and saw a black and white picture of river and rocks. I looked to my right and saw its mirror image, the image of perfection. Then the image cracked and the water began to fall into the black, wide sky. Slowly, the pieces broke and I fell along with them, down into the blackness. The backwards-upside-down-breathless picture shattered and disappears with no noise or evidence. I fell and fell, through the black then through myself. ! When I landed, I felt weird and watched. The trees surrounding me grew up and no sky could be seen through the heavy foliage. I looked around and saw myself. But 34

then I saw myself, watching myself. I jumped back. She jumped back. I saw both of us jump back, but I only felt myself jump. But which myself did I feel jump back. Which â&#x20AC;&#x153;Iâ&#x20AC;? was me? I waved and she waved, but she was me and I was her, and yet we could see each other. But we were different, her and I. I/we could see our own differences in each other. I stepped forward. She stepped forward. We stepped forward. They stepped forward. I ran to her, she ran to me, we ran to each other and they ran away. We all stopped. We all stared. We all moved. We all touched. Then we all were gone.

NOTHING BUT NUMB by Isaías Puentes

photo credit: Thomas Struth

! The old barn loomed in the distance, grey and dead, with no life left in it. It seemed to stand on the edge of disaster, ready to come crashing down on anyone unlucky enough to set foot inside. I looked up at the bright sky. It was a light grey and the clouds seemed to radiate a heavenly light onto the earth’s surface. As I continued walking it began to slowly drizzle, dotting the ground with an uneven amount of dark, wet rain drops. Looking up again I felt a longing to ﬂy away and be free from all the earth’s limitations holding me down.! ! Somehow the barn felt alive as I slowly approached it. A tingling feeling crept down my spine as I got closer. Turning around I saw some form of a shadow dash back into the woods. Blinking, I realized it must just be something in my eye. ! As I approached the barn its shadow stretched over me, causing me to shiver. The shadowy form darted again in between the cracks of the barn. My mind must be playing tricks on me. My imagination wandered, images of strange creatures vaguely 36

slid across my mind. I discarded them as nothing, but they were persistent and became more and more vivid. ! Before I knew it I was on my hands and knees, a slave to these images. Faces of horrific creatures and tortured souls filled my mind, darting in and out like an old slide show. The screams pierced the very soul of my being. The clouds began to darken and rumble, moving faster than they ever should. Then it all stopped as abruptly as a wine glass shattering on the cold stone floor. I could not move. I kneeled there breathing heavily like I had just got the wind knocked out of me. Silence was all that fallowed. There was no sound except for my heart and heavy breath. ! Panting, I got up, barely able to stand on my own two feet. Hobbling over to the ghost of a barn, the crunch of gravel made it hard to be quiet. Curiosity filled me as I approached the barn. I did not know why. “I should run from it,” I whispered under my breath. The barn creaked. I shuddered. My hand glided across the surface of the rough exterior of the barn. I could feel a sort of vibration through it. It was dark and empty, but still there. ! After a deep breath I tried the front entrance of the barn. For some reason it was fastened shut. It seemed it had a lock stronger than the rest of the barn. My legs took me around the barn, letting my hand trace the old walls. I could hear the barn’s story in its walls as it gave its last breath. As I turned the corner the cellar doors stood ajar, slowly moving with the ocean wind. They opened allowing me to step inside its dark emptiness. Without thinking I moved slowly down the stairs, dragging my feet. The darkness enveloped me as I went deeper. My eyelids drooped as I fell into a slumberlike state, closing me off from the world. I didn’t care to be in control any more. I did not care anymore. Something cold and pale grabbed hold of me, enveloping my soul, slowly dragging me down. I was no longer in control. ! What was I doing obeying orders from some unseen force. I was scared and needed to snap out of this state. Listening carefully I heard the blood of their sins drop to the floor. Chains dragged. Something was approaching. ! I snapped. I fell on one knee and bruised my self. I thought, This is not happening. I will not go out this way. Adrenalin hit me like a brick to the face. I got up and ran. Back up the steps and into the light. I broke from the barn running, not paying attention to anything, but I could heart the cold laughter mocking me. The laughter rang out from the tortured souls that had once cried out for help only moments before. I ran with every fiber in my body numb and focused on getting away. Tall grass whipped passed me, brushing my legs and arms. I stopped taking a deep breath, realizing my own pain, my lungs burned and my head felt like it was going to explode. I looked behind me seeing the grey clouds grow darker, move faster and grow in size. I realized that if I died by the hands of whatever was lurking in the depths of that barn I would end up just like them. I would be lost in the black abyss for all eternity. I could not go back. ! I let my eyes rest on the ocean horizon. The waves seemed to repeat with the never-ending splash against the rocks. This constant splash was reassuring and calming. I let my head drop and I took in my surroundings once more. I took a deep breath and smelled the cool ocean breeze. I closed my eyes, letting my other senses take over. Thunder shook me, and rain began to fall lightly on the ground around me. A drop hit me directly on the nose, causing me to blink. I felt them approaching, so I took my last step and fell. I felt nothing but numb. The rain slowed and fell with me. Light 37

shimmered off every single drop. It appeared there were more rain drops than stars in the sky. The cold water enveloped me, pushed me down. The sound of rain was mufďŹ&#x201A;ed as I slipped into darkness. I knew it was over when the last shaft of light faded away.