THE
CRITERION
EZINE
THE CRITERION EZINE – SPRING 2016 EDITION
President of the College Dean, School of Business, Arts and Sciences English Department Head English Department Liaison Editor-in-Chief
Vincent Maniaci Susanne T. Swanker Robin Varnum Lori A. Paige Julie R. Bodnar
Featured Artists Kathyria Beltran
THE TURN THAT LOOSENED HER SCREW
Brian Wheeler
PITY PRESENTATION
Criterion Staff
EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
Rebecca Gray
THAT NIGHT
Criterion Staff
RODIN’S GATES OF HELL
Anon Y. Mous
PRINCE
Kathyria Beltran
WASTING AWAY
Lamont Waites
OPULENCE WILL EMERGE
Jack McIntyre
THE FINAL TURN
Rebecca Gray
CLIFFS OF MOHER
Terrell Williams
HOW?
Lamont Waites
LOVE IS PAIN
Anonymous
THE CHASE
Ruthlyn Richards
WHY AM I HERE?
Kathyria Beltran
THAT ONE SMILE
AIC Professor
MONSTEROUS POLLUTION
Cassie Bennett
BLSHT
Lamont Waites
AFFINITY
M. Jones, alumna
A MOTHER’S LOVE
Ruthlyn Richards
OUTCAST
Criterion Staff
SPRING
William Shakespeare SONNET 18 Not by William Shakespeare A. Cheater Michelle Jones MY FATHER’S PORTRAIT All text and artwork © individual contributors.
The Turn that Loosened her Screw by Kathyria Beltran Gather round everyone for a ghostly, mad tale It’ a story of a governess whose heart was ensnared By a rich, handsome uncle in search for a nanny To take care of his niece and his nephew, and their burdens to carry. Oh Bly, what a beautiful place, and the people here so kind Was the nanny’s impression when arriving to Bly. A beautiful angel ran outside to greet her Flora was her name, delighted to meet her. Later on came Miles, the young man of the house Who was polite, kind and as meek as a mouse. He’d been expulsed from school For reasons shrouded in doubt. As the days went by the governess felt at home Teaching Miles and Flora everything from math to Rome. They laughed and they skipped and they loved her a lot But what was buried in Bly was beginning to rot. It started with rumors and secrets of Mrs. Jessel The children’s old governess, their love and knowledge vessel She had passed away without leaving a trace Some suspect she had a relationship with Quinn And left in shame from her fallen grace.
Now their ghosts haunted Bly, and the governess felt betrayed When asked about their escapades, The children would always stay silent Their secrets and whispers were beckoning violence Slowly the ghosts were consuming the mind Of the poor unknowing governess who came over to Bly No one believed her, no one else could see That Mrs. Jessel and Quinn were as real as could be They haunted her nightmares, her dreams and her life And the children were slowly consumed by the night They would slip out of her reach Like sand through her fingers She cursed the evil spirits of the couple that lingered. One night Quinn appeared like a vision of death Right in front of her and Miles, she then held her breath And screamed at the specter, Quinn you devil be gone! With Miles strapped to her chest, holding him them for a bit too long. It’s ok little one, He can’t have you now Were the words of the governess as she fell to a bow.
Pity Presentation by Brian Wheeler I’m sorry Professor, but I cannot present my poem in class, I forgot to write it down, do you think I’ll still pass? I have actually never rhymed one before,
What the hell even is a Metaphor? Alliteration, personification, and similes too, Do you think I will be able to get out of writing it, if I catch the flu? And what if I cannot write because I am about to die. If you fail me then, I might just cry. Or what about the measles or mumps? If you still give me a zero my life would be in the dumps. Perhaps the chicken pox beat me up last night? Would you give me an A for enduring that blistering fight? Okay, you couldn’t get mad if I got West Nile or Malaria? Cause if you failed me then, it would create mass hysteria. Oh Professor, I really can’t present in class today, Or wait, I guess I just did it after all…. Hooray!!
Eye of the Beholder by Criterion Staff
That Night by Rebecca Gray The city is completely dead. It lacks the bustle of pedestrians, honking car horns, crazy taxi drivers, and most noticeably, noise. It is three o'clock in the morning, and I am sitting on the cold, hard ground in a dark, frigid city. There are only seventeen more hours until the greatest night of my life. My friend, Katie, and I are waiting in line for a concert, and we are not the only ones. We were lucky enough to be first but even luckier to be able to spend the next seventeen hours with some of Boston's most dedicated Fall Out Boy Fans. Playing from one fan’s iPhone I hear, "Time crawls on while you're waiting for the song to start, so dance alone to the beat of your heart." I think to myself how fitting that this song comes on while we are all just passing the time. The beaming sun began to rise, and the city began waking up. We knew it was "normal people time" because Starbucks had finally opened. The hours seemed to pass by, each slower than the last. The next time an irritating passerby asked us why we were sitting outside of a concert venue waiting I was ready to punch them in the face (not really but it was annoying). This wait seemed like it would never end until the security guard told us all to stand up.
A wave of anxiety rushed over me. I worried about everything from whether or not I
would make it to the front row to what would I do if I have to use the bathroom during the show. I was excited. My heart was pounding, my knees for shaking, my face was getting warmer, and my breathing getting heavier. I waited over three long years for this day, and it was finally here. I was more than ready. After nine years of buying every album the day it came out, countless hours listening to the songs on repeat, more than one sleepless night doing as much research as possible on these four men who meant the world to me, and dedication, I was ready. The doors opened, and I had to hold back my scream. He scanned my ticket in my shaking hand and gave me that one nod that everyone is waiting for, the nod that says,
"you're all set to go in." I ran. I ran faster than I had ever run at any cheerleading or softball practice, any gym class, and any neighborhood kids’ game. I had never run so fast in my life. I nearly catapulted myself over the barricade because I was so determined to be in the front row, and that is exactly where I was. Not only was I front row but, I was directly in front of Patrick Stump's microphone and against the tall, metal barricade. I was in the one spot that every other fan would want to be in if they had the choice. Unfortunately for them, I was not moving. Even after one girl offered me $150 to change spots with her, I refused to move. The lights went down, and it was dark as night. We heard the first pound of the bass drum. Everything behind the curtain lit up and as all four men began playing the curtain fell. I screamed. I screamed louder than I ever thought possible; it was hurting my throat, but I didn't care. This was more than just my favorite band in the entire world; this was my childhood, and I was in shock that they were directly in front of me. The vibrations of the noise traveled up through my feet and into my chest. The energy from the crowd was contagious. Everyone was moving; everyone was singing. I found myself being shoved into the cold, hard barricade more than once. Those nutty crowd surfers kept being brought forward with their black and worn out Chuck Taylors hitting me in the head nearly every time. My sweat dripped down my body, and it felt more disgusting than anything else I had ever felt, but I could not care less. My smile was stuck on my face as if being held in place by concrete. As I screamed every word to every song my voice would crack and my throat would start to throb. When my favorite song came on, there was no holding back the tears that rushed down my face. I never thought I would ever be able to hear this song live, and this emotional rush was hitting me hard. I was euphoric. Why did this music feel so good? The show was coming to an end. Following tradition, Pete Wentz stepped out into the crowd and stood up on the barricade. The spot where he stood just happened to be in front of me. The fans began pushing harder. My arms were getting caught in between the tiny spaces of the barricade. My shoulders were being shoved down by the weight of what felt like a thousand screaming fans. I reached up to him and held on to his knees. His pants were shiny, smooth, black and drenched in sweat. He looked down at me and saw that I was struggling with all of these fans around me. He saw my wrist and immediately smiled from
recognizing the word "Believe" in his handwriting. The song was coming to an end, and the crowd was as wild as it had been all night. As Pete stepped down from the barricade, he wrapped his arm around my neck to hug me before he walked away. That was the fifth time I had been able to make contact with him in person and unlike other celebrities, he always remembers me. The band was gone, and the fluorescent house lights turned on. The fans started walking away as I stood there. My heart was beating faster than ever, and I had the greatest sense of happiness overcome me. I thought to myself, "That was incredible." I could feel the bruises over my entire body. They hurt as if I had been hit by a truck going full speed down a hill. My feet were hurting so bad I was surprised I could walk. We left the venue and the cold, night-time air hit our sweat drenched, over-heated bodies, making us feel human again. I was happier than I had ever been on any other night in my entire life. That night was incredible.
Rodin’s Gates of Hell by Criterion Staff
Prince by Anon Y. Mous Let’s go crazy In your Little red corvette When doves cry Wanna be your lover darling Nikki It’s gonna be lonely When doves cry When you were mine I would die for you When doves cry Kiss Your Raspberry beret When doves cry As I stood in the Purple Rain Saying goodbye
Wasting Away by Kathyria Beltran The scale becomes your worst enemy. Day One: 120 pounds. You cringe at the number Hoping that if you wish hard enough it will decrease. That’s not the case. There’s no such thing as magic. You have to make it happen. But you want it to happen NOW. There’s no time to waste. No time for exercise, you’re busy as it is. You stare at your reflection. “I hate you”. That’s all it takes to start the slow downwards spiral. Day Two: 119 pounds. You refuse to eat lunch. There’s better things to do than eat. For dinner you count your food. ¼ cup of rice and 8 peas. It’s not filling, but it’s a start. Day Three: 118 pounds. Throwing up works. You discovered it from a friend. She wants to be a supermodel. You admire how skinny she is,
You can even count her ribs. It’s beauty, it’s perfection. It’s what you want to be. Day 4: 116 pounds. You feel elated as you see the progress. Your stomach is killing you, But you’re too overjoyed to care. No breakfast today, just water. You skip lunch with your friends. They suspect about you, but you shrug it off. Dinner: A full serving of rice, chicken and vegetables, Courtesy of your mother. You practice pushing food to the edges of the table. You lift the fork up to your mouth, As if you were going to eat it. You suddenly start a conversation, And discreetly lower the fork onto the plate, Its contents untouched. You successfully avoid dinner for one night. Day 5: 113 pounds. You wipe your mouth after expelling half a slice of bread. You wash the taste of bile from your mouth. You stare at the mirror and notice something different. Cheekbones are slowly making an appearance on your face. You smile a hollow, lifeless smile. It’s all working. Perfection is closer. Day 70: 88 pounds.
You wake up just as weak as you have for a while now. You’re exhausted, Dark circles can be seen under your eyes Only adding more to your beauty. The shape of your clavicles can be made out from under your shirt. You can see others accepting you already. You lift your shirt to look at your ribs. You start counting them, Each bringing a twinkle to your eyes. Day 80: 80 pounds You wake up to an unfamiliar room. It’s white and there’s a faint beeping in the air. You try to remember how you got here, But your mind is fuzzy, Your thoughts are distant. All you remember is refusing dinner, Then going to sleep. Your mother had gone up to your room to wake you up. She was worried about you, and wanted you to have a snack. You wouldn’t wake up. You couldn’t move. You were dying. You were so close to perfection, but now it was taken away.
Opulence will emerge by Lamont Waites The black man prides himself For the very same reasons they hate him for, Made it in a country where every day is a war Even tho we have to make it And strive with the ones we call our boys, Every day it’s some race s*** Every day it’s some hate s*** But when you striving for greatness There are straight roads That are not provided for you, Balance is the only way to reach prosperity The only way to reach a truth that is absolute, As a kid we were taught Treat others the way we want to be treated Judge me by my character Not the way I look Judge me by what I do Not where I’m from Judge me by knowledge Not what you think you know about me, The African American is the product of The U.S. The black man is the product of The universe
The Final Turn by Jack McIntyre The governess sat there, weeping, for what she imagined was hours. However, in just a short time, Mrs. Grose hurried to the room that the loud screech came from. Her body became weak when she had seen what had happened. “ Can you see him Mrs. Grose, can you see him now? “ The Governess sorowfully exclaims. Mrs. Grose remained stunned, struggling to spit out what few words she could “ what? Did I – “ Interrupted by the governess, “Peter Quint out side of the window, he was just there.” “ No miss, there’s been no one outside. “ “ Oh but I am sure of it, little Miles could see him too but was overwhelmed by fear and now lie here limp; the red haired devil took his last breath from him. “ Persistant that it was Peter Quint who had left the boys body cold, and lifeless, the Governess inquires from Mrs. Grose what to do next. Mrs. Grose instructs the Governess to her quarters; taking control of the situation. She gathers dark linen from the clothes line outside, and enter the room where Miles lay motionless. She wrapped the pale boy in the dark linen, hoisted the dead weight over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes and continued outside toward the lake. By the lakes bank, she added the largest stones she could find to the linen body bag. No stranger to cleaning up others’ messes, Mrs. Grose moved swiftly, and thought quickly of what needed to be done. She loaded the heavy linen sack onto the estates small boat, and rowed the vessel into the middle of the lake. Reciting a prayer, Mrs. Grose lowers the lifeless sack into the dark water of the lake, and watched it sink into the black abyss.
Mrs. Grose makes her way upstairs to the Governess’ bedroom. The young
Governess’ face buried in her pillow, sobbing; in a lucid moment she calls out, “what have I done? Oh Mrs. Grose it was me who took his last breath, not Quint!” The Governess exclaims. Confused by the declaration, Mrs. Grose demands for clearification. “ I saw him,
and in fear of losing my Miles, I grabbed him, I held him so tight, no one could come between us but God.”
“But who is him?” “Peter Quint of course. He had come to take my Miles away from me.” “My lady, Peter Quint is dead, I saw his limp body, just as Miles, and same
with Miss. Jessel. Just as I cleaned your mess, I had done so near a year before.” “What had been done of them? It could be no worse than I have done here.” “It is never to be spoken of!” “At least, I believe I ought to know now, please Mrs. Grose.” “Bless my blasphemous mouth, the truth of the matter is, Peter, being the free soul he was, took advantage of our Miss Jessel, left her with a white elephant. Quint became ashamed of himself, and his acts, not only on Miss Jessel, but most all others on the manor as well; in his eyes there was only one solution. One morning I woke, and entered Miss Jessels bedroom to wake her just as everyday, only to find her white night gown, and bed linen turned to a sea of red blood. In fear of discovery by Flora, I wrapped her body in dark linens, and ran outside quickly to get Peter for his assistance. When I entered the valet quarters, I found him hanging there from the rafters, a large rope suspending him. A note in his pocket admitted his sins, and apologized for them. However he was not to be forgiven, those sins so great and appalling, no God could ever take mercy on his soul. Perhaps this is why you still see him around the property Governess.” “I must be leaving today Mrs. Grose.” “But governess, whatsoever do you mean?” “I must leave before any of this comes down on us, I shall send a letter to the master, telling of how Miles ran off from me, he could not bear this home anymore, and I will flee. You mustn’t share any of this with anyone. Our lives would be ruined.“ “The governess packed her things and disappeared later that evening without a trace. Still haunted by the demons of the manor today.” Douglas leaves the audience wanting more.
“But Douglas, what else? Tell us more, we need more!” The crowd eagerly egged Douglas on to give them more of the governess’ tale. Douglas refused and alluded that there would be more to be told at a later time, but he did not wish to ruin all of his stories in one night. The crowd left the dinner party satisfied, but longing for more information, allowing their minds to wander until the next time Douglas would tell them abut the governess’ adventures.
Cliffs of Moher by Rebecca Gray
How ? by Terrell Williams Your to young!... Your not big enough !... Go Play with kids your own age!... You can't hang with us!... That boy got in trouble again!....It's not your time!... Someone else took your spot!.... Sorry!.... Maybe next time young fella! Your never going to make it!..... Why did you choose that school?... Why aren't you working out?....why are your grades bad? Why are you depress? Why are you drinking a lot?... Why didn't you ask for help?... Why wait?.... What are doing with your life?.... Maybe this isn't for you young fella!... Your never going to make it!...... How did you graduate?...How did you make it?...How did you overcome every obstacle thrown at you ?... How did you prove the doubters wrong?... How didn't you give up?...How did you become a believer?...How did you gain faith?....How can I become like you ?.....JUST TELL ME HOW !!!!!!!
Love is Pain by Lamont Waites He who knows, knows internally. That love is pain. Love guides us to create And picks us up when we try again Love transcends time If I die for you then I die for you now
Love is the answer You kill me for what’s right I love for what’s wrong We wasn’t born to just survive like animals But when you’re fighting for crumbs that’s reality Love brought us together Pain will tear us a part He who knows, knows internally That pain is love Pain digs deep and sits like a candle fire Then sets off like a bullet released from the trigger Pain forever lives with us as we mourn death Over our loved ones until we learn to accept Pain is the master, we must forget everything So our cup may be filled Without forgiveness Pain shall always reside in our hearts Pain is the teacher of Love
The Chase by Anonymous The sea dashed against the rocks. The wind howled like spirits trapped in the rocky caverns below. Dark branches slashed at her face like the jagged claws of some unearthly beast. The girl ran, out of breath, too winded to scream. He pursued her, his tall form cutting neatly through the brush. His dark suit made it impossible to see him. Her own long skirts and button, high-heeled boots dragged her back every few feet.
She ran until the edge of the island loomed up in front of her. No escape but the sea. Suddenly, she saw his figure moving through the shrubs. His dark suit and silk cravat made him blend into the night, but the white of his high, crisp collar and his pale skin virtually glowed in the moonlight. She couldn’t even hear him breathing, even though her own lungs rasped with the effort of running through the cold air. She couldn’t stop it. His super-sensitive hearing lighted on it at once. He swung around and started back in her direction. The girl turned and looked behind her. There, the cliffs dropped off sharply. The whitecapped water churned far below. Moving even a few inches in that direction would mean certain death. Yet it would be a quick death; would that not be preferable to letting him catch her? She thought again of his sharp teeth, his blood-red lips. She imagined the pain of his bite and the even worse agony of feeling her soul sucked out of her. His pale hand burst through the bushes, the tips of his white fingers just missing her arm. The rest of him came through a moment later. The man’s face had once been handsome, she could tell, but now it was twisted and sadistic as it loomed up out of the darkness. Anna took a deep breath, hugged her arms around her shivering body, and jumped.
Why am I Here? by Ruthlyn Richards Why am I here? Existing, living, breathing, yet not even comprehending. The emptiness has consumed every aspect of me. Standing firm on the ground, yet I seem to feel the after effects of the coldness that haunts thy aching soul. Grasping for air…when I lay before an emergency room filled with life force, yet the distance terrifies me. I journey on, holding my head and soul so tight. Numb from the cloud 42o, but detoxing on life and humanity.
That one smile by Kathyria Beltran I sit at home again, listening to your voice. It’s far away and surrounded by static. Still, it’s beautiful. Your song fills my ears with a sudden warmth I feel like I’m there next to you. Your words lift me up, and take me away, And for a moment, I can see. My eyes are no longer blinded. I can picture you perfectly, You look just as you’ve been described. Your chocolate brown hair, The same shade as your eyes. Beautiful, kind and enlightening. Your lips, although thin, are the gateways to my heaven.
Your nose, through which you breathe life, At the same time giving me life with each breath. After many months, I see. Staring at the screen at your image, I smile. I was wrong, You are a thousand times more beautiful than I could imagine. I walk away singing your song, Carrying your face in my memory. I have finally seen my sole reason for living. That one smile. The Words Never Spoken The train station is empty. I figured this much, since It’s not many people that travel to Paris on a Monday. I look at my watch. Midnight. I’m in from of our old house. Memories begin to flood my mind. Our first house. Our home. Early morning breakfasts, Late night movies. We had it good. In the darkness I see you standing at the window, Your back towards me. I see you’ve kept your hair long, The way I liked it. Your broad shoulders look just as strong
As the day I left you. I ring the familiar doorbell. I wait. The door suddenly opens Revealing your beautiful face to me. Your eyes are slightly swollen, just like your cheeks. You’ve been crying. Because you remember. I stand there submerged in your eyes, Love, fear, hope. It’s all still there. I raise my hand to wipe of the last tear from your cheek. It lingers there for a bit more than I planned. Suddenly I hear them. The words my heart ached so long to hear. “I love You”. Then I close my eyes And drift to oblivion.
Monsterous Pollution by AIC Professor
Blsht by Cassie Bennett
Perhaps I am made to be the villain... partner to trouble. Mainstream feeling but I make it seem appealing. Now, find me at ease with a baggie full of colors and a 10 movie screen with the visuals so appealing. Entertainment like this is a trade – For a poem I give you ignorance – like a white crayon on white paper illustrates a solid base but the spectrum is tapered. Sinned in bitterness. Insecurities flesh record low feels of what I’ve become. Only my prayers know the jealousy of dark ones. Only I’m pretty cuz my mom made 2 sons. Catch me – I’ll slip away and find away into a cipher. Something like Trigonometry’s
true decipher. Cosign pays the piper, stamped diploma signed “later.” This wasn’t meant to go off tangent, but it’s worth it for the paper.
Affinity by Lamont Waites Residue from your love Left traces of hate, in my heart I once believed, we will never be a part I read the words on your face And we, we never even had a start Time transcended hate to a defense And the only way to reach my heart, Is to steal it Repeatedly over mapping The should haves and would haves Never calculating was she the one My feelings yearned for her presence As my spirit searched for freedom I want what I only experience in fragments Sacrifice is the only way We may reach a balance The only way to obtain prosperity But what is true love I say its compatibility Mixed with affinity We control who and what we love By the way we think
A Mother’s Love By M. Jones, alumna Dear Diary Every day I am forced to watch my daughter cry herself to sleep. I always knew that high school was going to be hard, but I never imagined that kids could be this cruel. They won’t leave her alone. I do not know what happened. She was once so popular and did so well in school. Her grades have fallen so much I just wish there was something that I could do. I called the school, and all they do is switch her classes. I call the parents of the other kids, and all they do is tell me that kids will be kids. I am losing my daughter, and no one will help me. I hear her phone going off. The text messages she receives are awful. Some of the names they call her I do not even know what they mean. My husband tries to talk to her and take her places. She is lost right now. The mental abuse she has suffered at this school will always affect her. Even though she will not like it, I have to do something. I went and got the paperwork to transfer her to a new school. I know how smart she is. She can do well anywhere if the other children can just leave her alone. She was very upset today. I am just going to let her sleep, and hopefully, that will help her a little bit. Dear Diary My daughter was attacked today. They surrounded her in a bathroom. Five against one, these children make me sick. Everyone keeps telling me that this is normal adolescent behavior, but it can’t be. I am so tired of watching my child suffer like this. I brought her to the doctors today. They said once the bruises heal up she will be okay. I told him I am worried about her mental health. He said that changing schools might be the best answer for her. He gave me medicine to help her sleep at night. My husband and I have decided to keep her home for a while. I hope I get my daughter back soon. This whole situation is truly breaking my heart. Dear Diary Nothing is getting any better. My husband cannot handle this anymore, and neither can I. I never thought my daughter would end up like this. There is nothing I can do. I feel helpless.
I am starting to become just as depressed as she is. Nothing will ever get better. Nothing will ever change. I just want to give up, and move somewhere else. I keep thinking if I can just give her a fresh start then maybe things will get better. Dear Diary I have not written for months. My psychologist believes that keeping up with my diary will help me. She went to bed that night, and I heard her crying herself to sleep. I was so tired I could not go in her room, and stand to watch her cry again. A little piece of my heart was breaking every time I had to watch that. I woke up the next day like I always do. The hours in the day began to pass, and I thought I would just let her sleep. At one in the afternoon, I walked into her room and noticed that she had not slept in her bed. I heard something in the closet. It sounded like something was swinging. I remember it reminded me of the noises I would hear at the playground when the other parents would push their children on the swings. I opened the closet door and saw her. This image does not leave my mind. The doctors want me to stay in the hospital for a while. They fear I may be on the urge of a mental breakdown. They do not know that I am already dead. Dear Diary It has been one year since being released from the hospital. My doctor says that I am doing very well. He says that as long as I take my medication, I should be able to get through this grieving process. I have found a better way to grieve. I have read many books on forgiveness the past few months. All I can think about is what those kids did to my daughter. I keep thinking about the messages I saw on her phone. All I can hear is the sound of her crying herself to sleep every night. I have nothing left inside my heart anymore. I have no reason to live. I miss her so much it hurts to breathe. I think about her every second of every day. I have been driving to her school lately. I see the children come out to the buses every day. I see the other parents coming to pick them up. I see how happy they are, and I am jealous. I am jealous that I will never get to see my daughter grow up. I am jealous that she will never get married. I am jealous that I will never have the chance to meet my grandchildren. That’s why I am about to do this. I know the school always locks
the front door and keeps the back door to the gym unlocked. I am going to go through the back door. They will never see it coming.
Outcast by Ruthlyn Richards Thank you for not seeing me, even though I was right in front of you. You did not recognize me; all I wanted was for you to see me. Was I unseen because all you did was paint me like a shadow? Was I meant to be seen in this sad world? Each day I was passed by like this world did not want me. My future looks disheveled, with no relief in sight. Did my life mean nothing, in a world where I did not matter? What could stop me from feeling like this? Why disown me like this when I need you the most? Locked away like an animal; that is what you think I deserve. No way! I deserve to be free with the rest of the world.
Spring by Criterion Staff
SONNET 18 by William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st; So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
SONNET 18 Not by William Shakespeare Will I relate you to a summer's day? You are prettier and more pleasant: Bumpy winds shake the lovely blossoms of April, And summer's occupancy is too short a date: Sometime too hot the judgement of paradise gleams, And frequently is his gold appearance dimmed; And every reasonable from reasonable sometime deteriorations, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But the perpetual summer won’t disappear Or miss ownership of that fair; Death won’t brag about you in his shade, When in everlasting lines to time grows; So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and gives you life.
SONNET 18 A. Cheater Might I contrast thee with a mid year's day? Thou craftsmanship all the more stunning and more mild: Harsh winds do shake the sweetheart buds of May, Furthermore, summer's lease hath very short a date: At some point excessively hot the eye of paradise sparkles, Furthermore, regularly is his gold appearance dimm'd; Furthermore, every reasonable from reasonable at some point decreases, By chance, or nature's evolving course, untrimm'd; Yet, thy unceasing summer should not blur Nor lose ownership of that reasonable thou ow'st; Nor might Death gloat thou wander'st in his shade, At the point when in unceasing lines to time thou grow'st; Insofar as men can inhale or eyes can see, So long carries on with this, and this offers life to thee.
My Father’s Portrait by Michelle Jones Three years ago I was awoken by a loud bang. I rolled over and looked at my clock. It was four in the morning, and my first thought was something had just fallen over. I decided whatever it was I would just deal with it when I woke up. I had worked very late that night, and the last thing that I wanted to do was to get up and inspect some weird noise. My dog started barking, and that’s when I got a sick feeling in my stomach. My dog never barks at anything especially at four in the morning. When I walked upstairs, I could hear my mother talking. I could tell by the tone of her voice that something was not right. When I went into my kitchen and saw her attempting to hold my dad up by herself. My Father was lying face down, and there was blood coming down his face. I immediately noticed the large gash on his head. There was no way a person like my Father would just randomly trip, and knock himself out. My father then attempted to speak, and that’s when I knew something was wrong. When I looked at his eyes, I saw nothing. They were completely blank, and I knew he had no clue who I was. My mother and I began to yell for him to say one of our names. We just wanted that reassurance that he was okay. He had been fine the day before none of this made any sense. I remember shaking like crazy, and the next thing I knew, there was three paramedics in my house. My mother started thanking me for calling an ambulance. I’ve tried many times to remember who I talked to on the phone that morning. I have yet to remember that conversation. I only remember the car ride to the hospital. My mother was dead silent the whole way. It was not until we got to the ER that I realized how sticky my hands were. I looked down and noticed all the blood on them. I still had no clue what was going on. My Mother had now called my brother, and other members of my family. Six hours had gone by, and we still knew nothing. My father was just lying there. I kept telling myself that he was just sleeping. He had fallen, and hit his head, and when he woke up, he was going to know who I was. Out of nowhere, my father began having seizures. Doctors rushed in and began to suction his mouth. We still didn’t have any answers. When the doctor finally arrived I could tell by the
look on his face that I needed to kill the thought of my father waking up and being fine. Something was very wrong, and I immediately tuned myself out of the conservation he was having with my mother. I remember the doctor saying the word sorry, and saying the word stroke. All I could do was look at him. He was covered in bruises, and now had bandages on his head. It looked like he was just sleeping. I looked over at the doctor and noticed there was now three other ones. “Were very sorry about your father, but we honestly cannot tell you what to expect right now. It is too soon to determine what his future is going to be.” I remember feeling angry and just kept staring at my brother. That’s when another doctor came in and told us we needed to be prepared to start making arrangements for his funeral. People who suffered rarely survived and my father’s chances to live were slim to none. Days in the ICU turned quickly turned to weeks. The doctors were surprised that he was able to stay alive with the amount of swelling in his brain. He had still not given us any sign that he knew who we were. I remember overhearing a nurse talk about me in the ICU “That girl needs to be told that talking to her father while he is in this state is pointless. If there were a chance he was going to wake up, it would have happened by now. People do not recover from a stroke like this one.” My heart sank. I did not repeat what that nurse said to anyone in my family. My father’s arms were now covered in marks from all the needles. It seemed like all they ever did was poke him with needles. He was not allowed to drink, or eat anything for fear of choking. He got all his nutrients from an IV. His mouth became extremely chapped, and his legs were covered in purple bruises. I questioned the nurse one day about those bruises on his legs. “We are doing everything we can his blood counts are so low that he just bruises easily.” I was so sick of hearing that they were doing everything when my father looked the way he did. I continued to talk to him every day and was so tired of everyone telling me how sorry they were. I remember feeling extremely annoyed one day, and when I looked down my father’s eyes were looking right at me. After weeks he had finally woken up. It had been so long since he had looked at me like that, and there he was staring at me like he had just been sleeping. I knew at that very moment that he was aware of who I was, and all those nurses and doctors were wrong. I began to tell myself to believe that he had a chance to survive this. There were so many memories that I still wanted to make with my father. I wasn’t ready to give that up yet. My dad needed someone to hope for him, so I began praying for recovery with everything I had.
“We honestly do not know what to say. In cases of a stroke like this one, they are little to no survivors. The few that do survive, usually never wake up, and have a tiny chance of a full recovery.” I was so sick of the doctor’s negativity. I had tried to tell him that my father knew who I was when he looked at me. The doctor just shook his head. I tuned myself out again and did not want to hear what he was going to say next. I heard the words not possible, and then I listened to the phrase talking, and walking. I just kept blocking everything out. When I got into the room, my father just kept looking at me and making these weird noises with his mouth. I told them they had to give him some water. He had been hooked up to machines, and I could not imagine how thirsty he was. “We do not want you to get your hopes up. The MRI shows only a small piece of his brain working. There is a good chance he does not even know who you are.” My father’s eyes became narrow when he heard this. I could tell his was angry. I knew right away that he was aware of what was going on, and I could not wait to get him out of this hospital. It was three days after he woke up when they finally allowed my father to have a drink. They said he had to pass his swallow tests first. “There is a good chance he will not know what to do with the cup when I put it near his mouth.” My father’s eyes narrowed again. I wish they knew that he was getting irritated with them. As soon as the cup was held up to his mouth, that water was gone within seconds. My father kept looking at me and making those weird noises. He also kept looking at his arms, and legs. They continued to do test after test. They determined that it was a complete left hemisphere stroke. That means that movement and speech were now gone. My father began to use blinking as communication. I learned how to communicate with my dad with only using yes or no questions. “Ok ok ok!” My father began to say the word ok none stop. To all those doctors and nurses "that" was just a word, but to me, that was a start. If he could say ok, then he could say anything. My father was moved to a nursing home. He required special care that we could not give him at home. The nurses could not believe it either. My father was showing signs of having stronger verbal skills every week that went by. The tests showed that speech would never be possible again. The doctors began to pour in again, and it was no surprise when they had no answers. A few weeks had gone by, and now my father was saying the word ok fifty to sixty times a day. It wasn’t just the word ok now. He began to repeat the words that he heard people say. The nurses told us that even though he was
saying these words he had no clue what they meant. I didn’t believe them then, and I do not believe them now. It was Monday, and I was on my way to work. My mother called me and told me that he suffered a massive seizure that morning. This seizure left him unconscious for a whole day. When he woke up, he had a puzzled look on his face. “Look! Look!’ he said the word look like he had never stopped saying it. I looked down to notice he was moving his fingers on his hands. Before I could even say anything, nurses were pouring into the room. They again, of course, had no answers. Six months had now gone by, and he suffered four more massive seizures. “He is on medicine that makes it physically impossible for him to have a seizure. The only conclusion that we can come up with is this is a rare form of neurogenesis.” I had no idea what that word meant all I knew was every time he had one of these seizure’s more and more things came back. “Ok! Down down down. Drink!” It didn’t take long for my family to create our "own" language with my father. We figured out that he was using certain words for our names. He was now able to say one word in the mix of words to tell us what he wanted. “Ok, me research.” When my father said that to me, I knew he wanted answers. He tried so hard every day to get better. He was now able to move both legs and arms. I began secretly keeping track of all the new words he was saying. I did not want anyone to think that I believed he would make a full recovery. He was now up to twenty-seven words. During the search for answers, I discovered that there were only seven cases of natural brain neurogenesis recorded in the United States. I learned how complicated neurogenesis is, and the easiest way to describe it is when a part of the brain that is pronounced dead comes back to life after a seizure. I continued my research, and my family did everything possible to get him the best therapy. I learned that strokes cause more deaths each year than heart attacks, and the very few that do survive a full hemisphere stroke usually never wake up. My father waking up was truly a miracle for which I am forever grateful. Today my father begins each day with two hours of physical therapy, and one hour of speech therapy. He is involved in three different research programs that examine brain recovery after stroke. My father is now able to take steps with walking braces and has a vocabulary of over 182 words. When people look at my father, they see a handicapped person. They see a person that needs help walking, and has a hard time communicating. When people look at him, they do not know that he beat the odds when every single one was against him. They do not know that he is functioning with many
parts of his brain missing forever. They do not know that there was one point where every single person with a medical degree had no hope for him. They do not know that my father took his first steps exactly ninety-three days after his stroke, which is something that they said he would never do. They do not know that the person that they label as handicap is one of the strongest people I ever met in my entire life. They do not know that they are looking at my father. They do not know that they are looking at my hero.