AmLit Spring 1998

ibstry

Editors in Chief

Silvie Semenec

Anne Sheridan

Assistant Editor

Design Director

Poetry Editor

Prose Editor

Art Editor

Submissions Review

Claire Ward

Ryan Wickstrand

Johnny Bardine

Mary Shearer f a

Sandra Gulbicki

Alison Blackwood

Chris Costa

Becky Cowley

Becky Frankel

Heidi Gerbracht

Sonja Grulich

Brooke Lehrer

Jill Lomaz.

Shannon Marriotti

Mary Sanderson Printed by:

Edtors Nies

What a year this has been for amlit. First Anne left, and Kate and Chris had to take over. Then Kate and Chris left, and Anne and I had to take over. It's enough to strip any college student of their sanity. Still, sor how, barely, we made it. Will the chaos ensue next year? Imay never

Now all my friends are wearing worried smiles Living out a dream of what they was Don't you think it's sometimes wise not to grow up?

Went out walking in the woods the other day

Can't you see the furrows in my forehead?

What tender days, we had no secrets hid away Now it seems about a hundred years ago

-100 Years Ago, Jagger/ Richards

know since I am not going to be at AU next year. I think there must be a curse on the editor in chief position. Once you get into it, you end up leaving after a semester. AU and especially amlit, although I must say I will be relieved I won't have to run around campus twelve million times a week and stay up til 5 in the morning in the amlit office, desperately trying to create the layout before the deadline for the printers. Yikes. Still, it was fun, and the contributions we received this semester were overwhelmingly good (even in this critic's eyes). I think the quality of the submissions improves every time we spit out a new edition, so look for some Pulitzer prize edition of amlit Coming up soon. It seems like it can't get much better than this.

But I will miss

Jonathan Lemelman

Moon

Johnny

Bardine

The moon shines down With a somber glow And casts a sympathetic frown Upon eyes that know She ignores the man Who isn't blind, but cannot see But she lends a hand To aid the prospect of me

The moon lights the flock Tightly huddled together As they anxiously watch the clock Waiting for the weather

The moon had a mission For she knew they were trapped She also had ambition Which was cleanly-cut and mapped

The eyes, they see The moon in very distant skies Desperately needing to be What is reflected within their cries

Walter Ortoleva

AtHome

Virginia L. Campbell

Brookc

M Campbell

I dreamt about the beach the other night. I was walking along the sound. I was home. It was the beach of my childhood, my adolesence, and now my adulthood. I am there in winter and spring. In the rain and gray. In the brillance of snow. The heat of summer with the screeches of gulls intermingling with the screeches of children splashing on the water's edge. I am there now in the fall. Gulping down the crisp cool air tinged with the scent of the sea. Walking through the drifts of sand, sun glinting above in a blue, blue sky. Ahead looms the darkened shape of two wooden boats run aground in a previous century. As a child, I played in the shallow pools collected in the hull as the tide went out. Splashing in the tepid water, silver fish My eyes scour the earth beneath my feet for the beach glass I collect and cherish. The fall and winter months are the best time to find it. This jewel - once something plain and simple, made unique and

swam between my toes. beautiful by a rough and tumbled existence. Sort of like me I think, as I pick up a piece white glass clouded and dulled by the sea to opaqueness. I climb atop my favorite rock to sit and contemplate the tides. I can smell the salt in the surface of the boulder. I stay there, unmoveable, until the cold and hardness of the rock seep through my clothes and chill my bones. This is my church, my sanctuary. It is here that I worship; in the dead of night and the bright of day. This is the place where I can pray: where the rest of the world melts away and I can find peace and solace in the crash of the waves. It doesn't have to be this beach But it has always been my escape. It is where I spent the gloomy days of last spring sitting in my car, It is where I have spent many summer days, eyes shut tight and red against the sun as its radiation baked my exposed skin until fire tingled just below the surface. It is where I continually baptize myself in the cool salt water with each new season. When I return home, it is to this place, where I sit in the sand and let the grains slip between my fingers. A part of me is always there, reveling in the beauty and necessity of the place as salt water is the key to all life. This is me at my most basic, and me at my most beautiful. I identify with this part of nature in a manner which stirs my soul like nothing else I have ever experienced. I exist

- it could be any strip of sand and water at any place or time in the world. staring through the smoke of my cigarette at the gray turbulant sea.

for the beach as it does for me.

I awoke in my dark, cool room, confused by such immediate displacement. I got up to find a piece of beach glass I keep on my shelf. It is a large piece of frosty green, reminiscent of the shallows of the sea on a calm bright day. I went back to bed, the cool surface clutched in my warm palm, a smile on my lips, and warmth in my heart. At peace in a way which only comes with the crash of the waves, the screech of the gulls, and the sand crunching beneath my bare feet. 7

atntbl

The Ambuance

"She can't be going into shock," he radios in, "cause she's correcting grammar." He doesn't care about me's or I's, he saves lives, not languages. Sirens scream that I'm not okay as tides of cars politely divide, like a few kind words for a schmuck

some conming, others going. And then he teaches me a lesson about direct objects through layers of clothes-scissors discovering skin, the tapping out of life in contrary motion. Each touch leaving more frigid an ambulance innocent in professional hands. at his funeral.

A two-story fall, yet all he can identify is gravel in my cheeks. He picks at them as I spit up bluestone, and the lingering taste of a Taiwanese lunch. I want to brush my teeth, gargle myself whole again in mint-flavored remediesand he's joking about clean underwear.

I know the truth about the light at the end of the tunnel. It's the bumps of the road, mixed with a too-bright overhead lamp, and a half-baked consciousnes. And all the other dying souls are headlights on the highway,

He covers me in blankets resembling disposable table cloths from midsummer feasts.

They're white like cream-colored hospital walls manage to seem white-not like my own which smell of dogs, life on a horse farm, and me. Everything smells sterile, except he sweats like a man.

Rachel Howell

Ryan Wickstrand

Love and Truth

I walk and I run and the thoughts run through my mind faster than my feet pound on the ground, and I wonder why I am walking at all and the sound of the beating of my heart makes me wonder if there is a sound any sweeter than that of the love that makes the days pass swiftly and life goes on and forever I feel that the love is a passion that needs to be satisfied an insatiable hunger that carn never be fulfilled a hedonistic feeling that blinds me of what I will want and I only see what I need now the touch and the feel of another a beating heart next to mine the love that I have never known and will never know and to finally realize that love, like truth, shall set you free.

Your soft, even breath

Gently tickles the nape of mny neck

While my hair tumbles over the edge of the couch, The television mumbles distantly, And a lamp quietly looks on.

I can feel your heartbeat

Pounding through my body. Its rhythm soothes me, excites me, Hypnotizes me

As I fall deeper

Deeper into your arms

Your strong arms which cradle my sleepy head, Hug me closely in a warm embrace, And make me forget everything, everyone But you.

We melt together

As your leg slips into place behind mine, My hand reaches to meet yours, And our bodies rise and fall in unison

Dancing to the music of our peaceful slumber.

Diana Bergman

Mary Sanderson

My

Last Poem To

You

Johnny Bardine

"Altruism is for those Who can't endure their desires."

I heard that once-And it's true.

You broke me

I wanted you so Badly

That I beat myself Into the antithesis of my deepest values-Self-sacrifice.

But never again will I Put anyone above myself Never again will I Betray my deepest virtue-The virtue of selfishness. It was eight months ago when I Told myself I could bear suffering And justify it with the hope of later Happiness. But there is no hope now and No one Should ever have to Suffer. Ever.

My happiness will not wait. Should it not eat at me And I will let it drill me With Ego. And let it let me laugh. And rise.

And rise higher still.

And my love for you Will remain

As hungry and fierce As ever

And the smell of vanilla will tear At my memories whenever It finds me.

And I will miss you.

For now, I will force All of that down into False indifference and Rejoice at my life.

And pretend that You never happened.

green

Claire Ward

You wore green today

I thought of grass and how we haven't seen grass for days. I thought ofChristmas wondered if I should get you something something green to compliment those almond eyes, if it would scare you that I thought of you, in green. If you would wonder if I only think of you in green. You passed and I smelled pine mistaking the "you" smell for trees

and I blamed it on the green, though color doesn't really smell. I thought of you camping, rugged and working with the earth. The last time you made love was in the woods surrounded by green and that made you green. Even though I wasn't there I can see you, green and in love, blending in and out with the earth, with her.

Just as you blend in and out with that shirt, today.

Shades of Janvary M BrianK.Fitzgerald

There is a portal in the sky

A hole in the clouds Through which color shines Upon the earth

Like a kiss, Softening steel.

INDIANA

Silvie Semenec

Rough like sandpaper his hairs stand straight off his sweat beaded skin,

he is mine for this night back in time smart desire knowing smile close cut, they tickle my neck as we embrace unafraid of the open window someone might see

crooked slick not sinister clever not caustic he knows me a dreamn he is to me unreal perfect childhood sighs in remembrance of premature desire

always he has known as I have always known his flesh his soul always together with mine

IforGot

Virginia L. Campbell

i forgot what it feels like to love

to be loved to want to be wanted

i forgot what it feels like

when lips touch

when skin tingles

the passion contained in a look the heat of a smile

i forgot what it feels like to feel

you renmind me

Spealkingôn the wamti ofaquet famlai roON, Wallang uhe mudily shekesof à stll nigi pend Sitingen thegoilalenwamta of a lonely suummerhstl; Ü whiaper "Hiear Me" to $ilent Bklřs

Speakingin thedeşRaralion sen vacaitlhospilalleom Gentle kiss in the lbadk seat of a Cat; Wailking n thegraceiul willerness of apeoplewho dil notsumrenda, Iwhisper See Me"" to Slent Ears.

Drinäng dleaply on a irozan sientGrestt; Weepingfcily in an emptyy room; Uieringbarshwords hrough apontiless míade, whfisperKnow Me toSlent Ears,

CaojfineGM

Wall

Breshgreen salks ofcom inadtstydy liowa

field, Wheresumneswelcomes romance andlhe tall salks hido

you,love, Rmningblnd fito therazorsedge

ofa leaf,pierced byy a restng mosquitols bite as she taps

intomy blood,sudking

LGal cut whille wincing inpain aS my Gyes swel shut fromstang folage. Dhe breezehàs stopredl Isense youndosenes. hear asling

ntfheleaves itum, starled by your toud:

IDaiñel K Shedk

Staria

J.C. Santelices

In the purple room

There are no bad dreams. Outside the blue-silled window, There is nothing to fear. In the security of her sleigh bed, Gliding quickly over the snowy planet, A pink beret sits atop her head And her long braids reach out into the night.

Yes, she hugs her satin pillow, Stroking its smooth softness And smiling to herself. She closes her eyes, Imagining she was a Star, Wishing the night sky was her home, So that she could make friends with the sun And become the moon's mistress.

But even in her iridescent cloud

A little rain seeks shelter. The violent world is not ready for her; Even her smile could not bring world peace And the envious rainbows scoff at her innocernce.

So she packs up her magic charms, Saving her toys for a rainy day And she heads for home Atop a proud pegasus that flies Away into her sky.

TheGirs

Johnny Bardine

I remembered vaguely who I had been And it caused me to shudder. I returned my gaze back to her silhouette Bracing against the sunset as it dipped into the sea. And I rejoiced at who I was at that moment.

Virginia L. Campbell

The promise of a new green leaf is fragile to the cold vulnerable to the wind loved by the sun cleansed by the rain water

washing away what is wrong making the world sweet a fresh scent hanging in the air the fragrance of a new green life is a promise.

EOstdard

I asked you to write completely naive to the disconnection I could conjure by the time you got around to it. So thereI was faced with the reality of your existence while I toasted bread, the only way you like bread toasted and remembered how simple you seemed in the abstract and that I could never quite imitate your beauty with words.

You are hitch hiking through Edinburgh while I still refuse to believe in Edinburgh until I see it.

It is good to know somewhere on some dusty road there was a pen and a postcard large enough for three word sentences written in some duty to those you left behind, to eat toast in faux disconnection and to question the universe from a resort town that leaves nothing to the imagination and advertises everything that we always swore to hate. A place I would be better off denying, though I have seen.

All I can do is wait for another postcard somewhere between your dusty road and my reality wait, and try to forget.

Silvie Semenec

Claire Ward

THE BOMB SHEIITER

Sean E. Farrell

Walter Ortoleva

I went to church today. The pews were all full. There were even some people standing in the aisles. Funny, the pews never seemed so full before.

They shut the vestibule doors after awhile; People on the outside were still climbing and crawling over each other to get in. Why do they come now I wondered, for the tasty bread? I had already had my share, they should have theirs too.

I couldn't pray anyway, so I just left.

As I left I could see our radioactive sun in our grey sky: how poetic. It was a good time for walking, and thinking too. I thought again of the person who had been let in on my behalf,

I thought perhaps a grandmother got in, And the priest saw her little grandson and let him in too. But then I realized: it was probably the strongest guy who got in, The guy who had crawled, and climbed his way over the most people. But

it didn't matter anyway,

The air was getting thin.

As I lay my head down to rest on the grassy sidewalk, I thought Who made the church a bomb shelter anyway?

The dead flowers have lost their sweet summer smell. The rot has eaten away everything.

Your words sting my ears

As I listen carefully for the 3:25 bus.

I think of beach trips as a child--

The same taste has returned with the same fury.

I look at my imprisoned face in the mirror

And wonder how I can break free.

Everything I touch crumbles..

Even the ledge under my feet.

K. Stano

As I wave to an old woman in the yard next door

Brian K. Fitzgerald

A warm breeze blows off the Pacific. The sun shines down during the midmorning hours of a cloudless day, and the smell of the ocean salt gets my senses into a calm state. I breathe deep and walk on, passing a barbed wire fence and junkyard. Finding myself on a dusty back road, I turn the corner to make my way back to the car. I look to my left and see an Eden garden of trees and bushes surrounding a tiny house. On one, I notice fuzzy, brown kiwi fruits. They seem almost out of place, in their natural state, as I have only seen them nested in green cellophane and boxes at the grocer. The tree next to it, as I move on, smacks me with its powerful scent, my knees weaken, buckle from the unexpected startle. I recover, brace myself, and leaning over the decrepit old white fence perimeter of the garden, I stick my nose into one of its flowers, each shaped the size of an avacado. I breathe deep, and chew the fragrance. To say it is pungent hardly peels the surface. A cactus or two is mingled in with the floral fiesta, adding a sting to the sweetness that hangs around the house. I want to sense each of them to the point where I orgasm five times over.

Despite the khaki road dust that seems to have settled on everything in the neighborhood, the garden is vibrant. I forever want to stay at this little oasis in the desert dust, for it stimulates my body in a way that awakens my senses, dulled from being stuffed in a car for almost a month. Continuing on, I think about wanting to capture it, to keep it fresh, from rotting into rancid. And so I walk.

landing a plane for a father who didn't make it

Rachel Howell

for a Timothy Price who grew up.

For all the things he would have taught you but didn't get the chance, into the air you go-

staring at gauges through borrowed almond-colored eyes.

It's not like she asked for it, this being by herself a little boy staring back at her, growing the face she lost once before.

But she lets you go, pushes you through doors. Her son, the geographer, running fingers over maps craving heaven, grounded to her earth.

She wonders if you remember him enough to go where she goes when she sleepswhen her soul's good conscience lets her guide.

But every night you land a plane for a father who didn't make it forgeting where you've been in the dark as you greet the day with his eyes.

She mumbles prayers in an almost forgotten faith now her son is taking lessons, learning of a man unknown, on his first solo flight.

PROTECTIVE MEASURES

Rachel Ehrentreu

Carol wore her sunglasses inside the supermarket and during a rainstorm. The checkout woman looked at her, concerned and Carol knew what she was thinking.

"It's not like that," She was quick to say, but then thought for a second. The fight was still clear in her memory, the way the words hit her soft flesh with more force than a sucker punch. Beat her black and blue with pain, regret and harsh, harsh truths.

She removed her glasses, revealing bloodshot, tearing eyes and in a voice no louder than a whisper.

"Words leave bruises that never show." She walked away, shaking slightly and feeling as if she was about to shatter into nothingness. Each word he had said had made a tiny cut, she slipped back on her sunglasses. The glasses kept her soul from seeping out through the cracks.

Susan E. Heavey

Star

Loover

One night the moon fell down and crashed into the spitting ocean. It took less than four minutes for the great ball of glowing dust to plummet into the blue depths of the relentless sea without regret.

Meanwhile, man searched for fame and fortune below on the crusty rock earth. He barely noticed the sonic boom that accompanied the ostentatious moon's dive into the great primordial abyss, which sucked in the lunar dust like pure crack.

Ryan Wickstrand

Silvie Semenec

The sun looked on with apathy, waiting for his day to descend onto the tiny abscess of the universe's ass that man liked to call Earth. He found it quite amusing that these fleas pranced around as if they were somehow important in the Grand Scheme of Things. He yawned, spitting enough hydrogen, nitrogen, and whatever-gen into the non-atmosphere of outer space: Orbitals of cheap flo0zy atoms spiraled forever into the chasm of the universe, o0zing with sun juice.

Another asteroid came speeding by the sail boat Earth, evincing cusses and hisses from the navigator. But soon it passed, and another century rolled around, emptily slapping the world with age, and man with his final hour.

I saw moonlight on The car floor beside me, Filtered through the window

Through the bare trees

Though the raindrops

Through the clouds

And the night sky

And the space between Here and the moon.

Picture a giant Cheese cloth

Between the curdling Moon and me

And I have got my own One by one square of Milky whey puddle

Brian K. Fitzgerald

On the car floor beside me.

I.

Sometimes, late and dark

After all were sleeping except the Doll's eyes, glassy and vacant, I crept to the cellar where Each jar of canned Bing cherries waited in solemn Rows for the decision. Even as I planned my Ecstatic feast, I heard Loud stomping

Above, and

Neverminding the punishment, Dug with eager fingers.

I.

"Stay close," she hissed, crawling into the strawberry patch. We groped blind through spiny bushes. Tart, scarlet juice stained our lips and nails. A shot and a shout sliced the night, the farmer's black silhouette was a gaping, growing hole in the yellow porchlight glow.

STEALING

Sadie Breeland

Jonathan iemelman

Don't turn on the lights, Don't see my eyes. Tears in my laugh lines

A glaze on my upper lip

Hiccups breaking the silence of my breathing And cotton candy dreams spun around a paper mache picture frame. Running down the hall, Faster, faster, a colorful blur-

-Don't breathe-

This bright air isn't good for you.

Don't stop

Never look

No details

You can't see their whispers, but you can hear their stares, and you can smell them pointingJust laugh anywayKeep running, keep running-the darkness lies ahead-

She won't hold your hand this time

-she's with HIM again-

Push yourself on the swing

Brush your own hair

Tell yourself funny stories

Give yourself a hug---

-Let the arm linger-

Lie in the blackness.........*.

Don't feel the silence..

........

Don't turn on the lights....

They hurt my...

Brooke M. Campbell

I wonder where your heart is if you left it in Alabama and it is burning in the southern heat. Travellers may be able to pass it on a billboard in Florida, next to the little girl drinking orange juice straight from the orange. Or on the Ohio plains resting gently in the weeds. Your parents live in Hershey but you can't call Hershey home. If I asked you would say your heart is in Pittsburgh and will stay there, as long as she does.

Or perhaps you don't know exactly where it lies, in transition, like always. It will catch up with you, someday. You will keep it with you safe in your pocket not letting go. Because it took so long to find and it would hurt too much to lose, again. You will use it because you are strong to make your own home your own place to keep your heart. Even though now home is nothing but a pocket.

HOME

Claire Ward

TR&ASORE

Brian K. Fitzgerald

After walking dusty back streets of a California north coast quiet town a gem stone beach awaits our discovery, quietly reclined against the cliff gulping the salt sea water. We follow the foot wide street-like dirt path through aloe carpets and return the waves of the greeting sea grass we pass. Other folks look up from below to see four lemmings squeal in delight and wonder, picking their way down to the ocean edge picking up bits of softened glass making for stuffed cheeked rodents with pant pockets. Red, green, clear, blue, brown, that glittered when wet were mixed with pebbles; what a beautiful junkyard of broken bottles this beach ground out to be! And so we squat on our haunches to pick the prettiest of the assortment Or simply grab a handful to put in a zip-lock for safe keeping as a piece of shore to call our own.

MAPPINS HE CALLIPY6IAN MOUNTAINS

SometimesiI yondg hotoksat me inpassing And hinks fhet Im beaufilfn, Bhomisseshe

dtog 1 siently wetdhed

gtht byacar and heihLSe Ibroke into Ater weheard heoldl man hàd đfed (Gwveyanted to seea body, lwasoly 10) r hesoingofmy msgives ay het iteoahavebeggnađancer

butbrokemy foe,

cannot even run anymore. And once in a while I turn to the man next tO me and wonder if he reads me like a road map scars as landmarks, the folding and unfolding and me upside down, wondering if soon he will comb his hair in the reflection of my eyes.

Rachel Howell

ebuitourdellikei by0t saringeontihesaao? 00r

urchulbbyjyog gersinbledithglimg ite tikywiodlenshinglesonthenoot

As we nolilealoiridteam, sheoffered me aypleseof snshinewppedlin shnygeloptene thatHeagerlyur wsteit, ! was iwied byrünesiels of thisbuttersco

But our arms cotlagt reaeh hei inoihar's winlingpirk eardycts,. the ożhergoldlencoinslay Hetmottherenitered,cnálasiny aanle creased the skinbetweendhareyebroy aanalhreatlips soutly piukeredtatiiihe Sghiof vs,

pteanielygeping

fer ihehrigtieđhsh.

She softly called to us, and we were seduced into the kitchen by her promises of sweets. She carefully slid the cake tin off the top of the fridge, and she lifted the lid to reveal a half eaten birthday cake with a fork stuck in the landfill of dried crumbs and icing.

We left chocolate thumbprints and a trail of morsels behind, arnd our dog-eared copies of Gone With The Wind, which we had read together so many times before, lay around with a coating of dust. The pile of yearbooks with circled friends names grew taller, and the empty promises of summer filled our days together. And the cinnamon candle that had steadily burned in her room came to the end of its wick.

Jonathan Lemelman

r phonerangunanswered,breakingthesilenceof dying home. The letters came to me on -inkled looseleaf with handwriting slanted Own the page. I visited her in the hospital. ler gleaming eyes stared blankly at stiff, white sheets; cr long, dull brown hair needed to be brushed, and it uck to her sweaty neck--her fingers could barely rip my own. Her smile had been shut away nayearbooksomewhere.

utterscotch coats my tongue, caves me with an aftertaste that nakes me vomit. ve decided that I prefer peppermint instead.

Afermath

Sadie Breeland

All night I slipped my legs from the slit of my skirt to win eyes from that tangled lioness who wore gypsy jewelry and drank wine like a doe placing the whisper of her lips to the skin of the liquid.

Jaques says he can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs I split my shell as Ella pours her mezzo yolk into my hands like crystal scooped from glacial meltwater, and I drink from their pierce, feeding that ache I adore.

Drivingvith my iend(rto dheGiy my itehearaasihtsp from fhe nighi moonsk, Itroareishosn y o:l, Aninststenthuntarofmy uture

LikeintpientdeathIembae t Without trohotce

Iartye oloyyed,folloyel, foloed byapersiserfhunter)

ofPupese, ofFate,ofDeath. Wispeinghunte, cdhoof mysef Stilkingin my fture bdind ne. Iwalk joyoly happily (tomy nal embrace

1Do noi vish rofose, Far, aroyo PromtghognsealiaginfheNghít

atrityeihtohesegphmp AarkiS

Gnataiálflreralsinoe

NiothingoniHfe vatáláhrekvdheat aftoioteahunfry

Steven Muftoz

Dantel KSaets

A Greyhound ClaireWard to Richnond

Bus station

trailing pieces of myself behind I am going home again each time it gets harder each timne I leave more of myself with you family notices the difference they think I am growing up when I am actually scattered about and I remember the time they forgot to pick me up as a child how it shattered my little world when I realized that I wasn't always a priority they will ask about you and I will blush thinking things mother doesn't want to hear and tell them that you know who you are and have a certain strand of vulnerability that you don't let most people see the words will run from my mouth

lips trembling shaky voice evidence that friend is far from what I call you you saw me off this morning along with my roommate the one who hates goodbyes even if it is only for two days I snuck in a kiss as she turned away And I know that in this lifetime I will see a thousand goodbyes and reunions like the walls of this station.

Jonathan Lemelman

D. Leah Moak

it was yellow and it was everything she saw she felt she knew about life about love the pain

the sorrow of heartache

the contentment of knowing the warmth of a solitary embrace

her world

her heart

her soul it was yellow as the sun as a lemon as pure as beautiful as gold

Back °step

The thunderstorm game was to rub light into your eyelids and have trees still illuminated when they opened. Day flickered out in lightening thousands.

He cupped my cheeks with callouses and tilted my head to the clouds. "Smile, Scoops, God is about to take your picture."

Malleable water pounded out sheets.

The linen was cool and soft.

Virginia L. Campbell

Kate C. Moore

Sadie Breeland

NiNpsie? prysic

J. Barbieri

Mr. Smith entered the lounge soaking wet this autumnn morning. The cv Winn rain meas

dow was stuck and the snmall crack between the door and the window let enoah slip inside to drench him. The lanky old man seemed to think hiscompact wad times as old as he was. His ride to the high school was gray but ratherenergized the clouds rubbed across each other into a static charge to create the bright thund ous crack of nature's whip. Mr. Smith was always amazed ofthunderstormsandi silent attention that these storms demanded. He was a simple man, who with th help of three cats, lived a simple life in a small apartment complex on the outsideof town. For three decades, Mr. Smith taught physics in the science department. Asha got older, he paid less attention to those who smiled to tell him he should take hi pension and move to someplace warm. Ever since he was a small child, thenatural laws of physics had captured his wonderment. He loved the universe andmore specifically, he loved the unflinching laws that the universe created. In Mr. Smith's life two things were constant. He would eventually die and only light wouldever dare challenge the laws of the universe. Even then, light had to stand perfectlystill. As others teachers began to trickle into the lounge, with a small amountof internal protesting, Mr. Smith withdrew out of his own universe with the finalgulp of his cofee. Intervening into their finite world, he smiled and was cordial tothe other teachers around him. His peers always expected Mr. Smith's pleasant demeanor and each teacher remembered to greet Mr. Smith in the morning andsay

Brooke M. Campbell

good-bye to him at night. After the cordial "hello's" of his social rounds, Mr. Smith slipped out of the lounge with his usual smile and quip about Newton's calling, He shuffled into his overcoat and walked across the small campus to the science building.

Pattering over the tiled floor, Mr. Smith took off the coat while rummaging through his rumpled leather briefcase given to him as a present by his departed parents upon graduation many years ago. The once gold embossed initials, now worn way, bore the letters "RPS." Pulling out his folder of notes, Mr:Smith scanned over his domain. He loved the minutes prior to the students arrival which would boil away the cold tranquility of the lab room. The lab was furnished by two rows of nine steel tables that totaled a capacity of eighteen students. Each student's table space was partitioned by a small sink in the center of the lab table, which the biology classes used during the middle of the day. Mr. Smith controlled the room for the first two periods as well as eight and the last period of the day, ninth. Upon returning to his notes, his eyes observed his own space. An elongated version of what the students sat at, the table had four top drawers and two cabinets totaling four doors. One half of the room was devoted to physics materials, the other was for biology. On the physics side was the entrance to the room, opposite that door was the physics/biology storage room where Mr. Smith and the biology teacher both kept their experiments for class. After a quick refresher on the day's lesson, he begarn to organize a set of student's homework while compiling their grades into the teacher's notebook. Mr. Smith's diligence became erratic by the interruptions of his first period students entering the lab. He chatted with his students until the bell and with a quick turn, began the lecture. He taught with zest, energized in talking about things such as velocity, speed, relativity, and distance. However, the bestowing of the small knowledge he knew of the universe upon his students slowly evaporated near the end of a class. Each day, for thirty years, the students would pack up before the bell. It seemed to Mr. Smith that the students only paid attention to the bell to remind them not to be late for class. In the beginning he was passive to this. However, as the slow drip trickled on him each day, he tried to make it fun to stay. It never worked. He then switched tactics and became

Brooke M. Campbell

ceful with enforcing the policy of using all the time allotted. However thesicken: ing sight of his students anxious bodies squirming to leave repulsed him evenmore. Physics was important and he hated to teach it to such disrespect. As first period winded down with Mr. Smith reaching the final point of his lecture, the clockgiggled and pointed to five before. The wave of the students' restless energy explodedupon him as they began their procedure of reorganization. Mr. Smith realized hisvoice growing stronger to combat this scourge, frantically trying to complete thelecture before they finished. As he was riding over the crest of the final equation, hebegan to feel the silence of the students. They finished, he lost again. His prize fordefeat was to turn around with all those eyes staring at him, waiting, questioning,pleading for him to say, "See you tomorrow everyone, class dismissed. "

Mr. Smith was having a terrible day. As he was driving to school, thespring Ihower hurtled through the crack of his window while the sun stood in thesky laughing at the irony of the situation. Upon reaching school, his car bounced overthe glass never swept away from those two students who smacked into eachothera week earlier. His serenity drifted away as he changed the tire and quietlyranted about the inefficiency of the administration to organize the custodians toclean upthe remainder of the accident's debris. Soon after he entered the teacher's loungeand sniped at those who passed him while he was changing the tire. He guzzleddown his fourth cup of coffee and stormed out of the lounge. Inside the lab room, hethren his briefcase upon the desk. He never enjoyed the end of the year. He always felt n a state of passive panic. The summer was slow and gave his mind nothing to do.He

Brooke M. Campbell

usually took a two week trip to Hawaii, where he watched mother nature either spit onto or bled over the islarnds. After his trip, he set into the routine of tending to the small garden in the back of the apartments while patiently waiting for the physics journals to be received in the mail. He opened his briefcase and put the lecture notes for the day onto the desk and with small traces of malic greeted his students as they entered the classroom.

As the day grew on, he became more and more irritated. As usual, the students felt spring in their bones and either showed up late or never paid attention. They began to cut away his time in bigger segments. The class sometimes would leave up to ten minutes early, the decision either made by the consensus of restless students or Mr. Smith's lack of patience as he politely threw them out. The only small relief to Mr. Smith was the last period of the day, ninth. With this thought, a shot of inspiration coursed through him. He went to the back of the room and looked for the model of today's lesson on potential,/kinetic energy that helped to describe relativity. As he searched through the darkened storage room, he mistakenly opened the biology teacher's cabinets. As he peered into them, he saw the gun. His mind instantly flashed to the story the biology teacher told him about his trip up the mountains to hunt. When the biology teacher brought in the skull from his kill to show his students, he forgot to take the gun out of the bag beside the skull. Now the skull and the gun nestled together for the past five years. Smith looked at the gun and the skull seemed to wink at him. He smiled. A few seconds later, he closed the storage room door and he tucked the surprise model inside his desk drawer. Looking up, he greeted the students as they began to enter the classroom.

"Excellent Ruth! That is right, if you did travel the speed of light, theoretically, time would stop...yes Robby?"

"Is this, like another dimension?"

Brooke M. Campbell

"Well Robby, Physicists would say it is the fourth dimension." A mutter.

"..the fourth dimension is what I am in this class, fucking bored."

Mr. Smith's eyes darted to the back of the tables to the class trouble maker, Josh Barbieri.

"Mr. Barbieri?"

"..huh?"

"Do you have anything to add?"

"No.."

A quick smirk finished the repartee and he began to sum up thelecture Besides the last quip by Mr. Barbieri, ninth period went exceptionally well. Hedid not even have to use the model. Poised, he looked at the clock, only threeminutes left and his students were all still attentive. Mr. Smith went to the board to putdown the formula.

"Now class, Einstein calculated this formula which came to be known asthe theory of relativity..class?"

Turning he flashed a nervous grin as the kids began to fiddle with theirpens and quickly look at their watches. Again, Mr. Smith's eyes rose above him tothe clock. The slim finger of the clock hit two minutes before as the thumblumbersd ever closer to the three. As his eyes reverted to the board, the chalk slowlybegant twitch in his hands while the quiet shuffle rose in intensity. He began to swelt

Behind him, he heard paper rustling like fallen leaves, the dull clicks of metalfaster ers, the sharp snaps of pens as they went to sleep and the chewing of zippers, hou ing chunks of information their mouths that would be regurgitated later.

Brooke M. Campbell

"Class... please class... we have a couple more minutes, I have to finish up my

lecture... please..." floor.

Snap. The chalk fell from his hand as the two pieces slowly spun to the tile

"Class!"

It was as if someone took the creator's remote control and pressed pause. One by one the class turned around in abject astonishment that washed into icy fear as they saw a pistol aimed at their general direction. scream, a few other began to cry. Smith pointed the gun at the girl with braces.

The girl with braces went to

"Now that I have your attention class, please be quiet and return to your Seats,

The class without any hesitation went to sit. What discipline these students really had. Like those zombies in the old films he sometimes watched with his cats late at night.

"I want to remind you, I have until the bell rings. I know today is Friday, but before you leave I wanted to show a demonstration of how this theory works. Remember how I told you how every action has an equal opposite reaction?"

He moved the gun away from the girl with braces and lowered it upon the

shock wave of dispersion.

"O.K. Mr. Barbieri, I'm going to use you as my example, get up and stand on

the outside of your desk in the isle."

The flash of defiance in his face quickly floundered into a forced recognition

of compliance with the gun aimed directly at him. As he slowly rose, Smith and the gun followed him as if it were his own shadow.

"Now class, remember. Each action has its own opposite reaction., hence canceling each other in a state of equilibrium. As the potential energy turns into kinetic they will both reach a point of equality resulting from their action."

Smith smiled and pulled the trigger. In an instant sound stopped and reverberated back with a thundering Snap. Barbieri skidded back as the bullet threw him into the wall of posters the class has made during the winter.

"O.K. class... tell me what happened?"

There was no answer. The students were silent, in a state of shock, mouths agape.

"Class? O.K. Ill choose a person... Anna?"

The girl with braces raised her eyes. The blood from Barbieri was splattered all over her body. He began to grow

Brooke M. Campbell

impatient.

"Don't know? Ruth?"

Ruth's head was on the desk. She was shaking. Pieces of Barbieri's skullpeppe

"Ruth?" No. O.K. I'm almost out of time.. Ill tell you. The bullet as ittraveledf her hair. the gun was rapidly losing it's kinetic velocity. As it impacted, the reservoir ofpoter energy caused Mr. Barbieri's head to explode. This created a dynamic equilibrium, H the law of relativity. What ever happens causes an equal energy reactionsomewhere Class dismissed."

He turned around. It was exactly 3:00 p.m. Finally, after thirty years, he gotad to stay until the end of the period and on a Friday no less. As he turned back to facehis empty classroom, he could here the students screaming as they went outside. Wo, must be excited too, thought Mr. Smith, could it be my lecture or just it being Frida.h ly didn't matter, Mr. Smith was happy. He went to the back of the room to wherether the mops for biology. When the police finally arrived they found a content Mr.Smith ting ready for tomorrow's class by cleaning the floor where Mr. Barbieri lay, nowsnus into a garbage bag. Mr. Smith peered up from the floor.

"Hello officers, can I help you with something?"

Brooke M.Camplel!

Btatue of a Lrsser tbobbess

Sadie Breeland and Kate Stano

prematurely greek

I am southern, northern, and western (She is the goddess of serpents) east's hammered curvature meets my directions (words come to mind)

She needs more arms

(strong) With cupping hands (poverful)

ked away

Oman)

nting her remarkable birth hering snakes try to find eir way out of her grasp

pn my compass with its one point vestigal (almost embryonic) mighty

dress and body of a mother figure (She is childless)

arts holding serpents be itching a bitter blacksmith (he d high)

he uilt herdivinitydeadly porcelain and bronze

Pyons brandished like burnished weapons

She can command Vith her bared breasts thing)

ern Eve about to banish blacksmiths ures of Woman)

st lonesomewanderers uty)

Brooke M. Campbell

Brooke M. Campbell

I'm waiting for the love of my life to grow up. Many people say that figuratively, but I'm saying it literally. I think she'lIl be ready to meet me in six years. Then, she'll becighteen and I'll be forty-four. I hope she doesn't think I'm a lecherous fool. The past twelve years have been the hardest of my life. Though it has nearly made me lose my mind,Ive made myself give her the time to be a child again. This go-round seems easier for herthan the childhood she told me about, months after we first met at the police academy. Though Id be arrested on the spot if anyone noticed, once or twice a year I drive slowly pastthe park where she plays during recess, On the rare occasion I glimpse her chasing one ofher classmates or skipping rope, little plaid skirt flying high above her knees, I feel solonel; Meeting Carla in six years is my last shot at true love.

Do you remember, Carla, the time you told me you wished you were a man, soyou could give me a child? It was after you'd had way too many beers. I was reallystoned.I guess pot doesn't make you forget everything after all. Over the years, I'veoccasionally wished I could forget you. When you died, you left me a twenty-five year oldfuck-up.I couldn't make it on my own. I called psychics, hoping to reach you on the other side,and I read hundreds of books about talking to angels. Nothing helped. Nothing took awaythe fact that we couldn't even spend Christmas together, because you never came homefrom the hospital. Well, that's not entirely true, I suppose. What was left of your first body, Ihad put into a marble urn. It's stayed right next to my bed ever since. I never could bear tosleep alone, especially not after one of our fights.

You hated it when I smoked up. "It's my choice," I said carelessly, already highafter two puffs. "Doesn't make it a good one," you retorted. I burned the weed away, littlecaring that I probably wouldn't get any that night. God, you made me feel like aschizophrenic, telling me that sleeping with me high was like sleeping with a stranger. I can'ttell you how many times I've wished I could reclaim those nights I smoked you onto theliving room couch. About 3:00 in the morning, I would come and fiddle with your fingersuntil you woke up, grouchy as hell.

"Please come to bed," I begged.

"No way, druggie darling. Go back to sleep," you mumbled groggily.

"You know I can't sleep without you by my side."

"Tough shit. Should have thought of it before you lit up."

With tears in my eyes, I climbed up the wooden staircase and crawled into ourbig bed, which seemed all the bigger without you in it. Then I lay quietly on my back,staring up at the ceiling in the dark. Before the sound of your footsteps neared the top of thestairs I closed my eyes and let a smile fade from my lips.

I don't smile much these days. Mostly, I just come home from work, flop ontothe sofa, and doze and cry. You'd be proud, though. As hard as it's been, I haven't smokedup, When I first stopped, it was because of my job at the police department-they made us start taking random piss tests. Since then I've been promoted, and I'm now n

not once.

charge of the piss test adminsitration. It doesn't really amtter. I'm not tempted to cheat. I can't believe how wasted I used to get. I can't believe you put up with me.

One psychic said you hear me best when I talk to you in the car. I talk to you everywhere, though mostly in my head. I haven't let anyone get close to me since you died, for fear they'd think I'm crazy. Mom thought for sure I was crazy when I volunteered my womb for Dow's cloning project. Both Mom and Dad were certain that I'd get over you in time, and that the cloning would just delay my grieving process. But I knew twelve years ago, when I volunteered myself, that I would never get over you. The Dow project has given me hope for the future. You were (you are) the one, Carla.

The Dow cloning team was very excited to have such a young, healthy body for their project. I signed on with them the day of your death, and I suckered one of the younger doctors into taking the necessary tissue samples from your body. I told him you were a certified genius, a member of Mensa and all, so that if we cloned you, he would be even more famous when the kid turned out to be a brainiac. These days, cloning is so passe that it might seem weird for a doctor to submit to his patients whims, but back then cloning was illegal. Everyone was afraid we wouldn't need sperm anymore, which meant we wouldn't need men. Now that they can clone without a woman, too, it's perfectly fair, square, and legal.

I carried you in my womb for nine monts. After your birth, Dow got wise to my plan and took me to court. They made me out to be a sicko, trying to raise my lover fromn the dead. As for that young doctor who thought he'd be famnous--well, he did a background check on you. He decided that a genius probably wouldn't have flunked out of the police academy and gone and becomnea janitor. So he had it in for me, too. I hope you weren't paying much attention to that whole episode, from your cozy spot on the other side. It was humiliating.

Dow called in your relatives from Pohick County, and they made me out to be a possessive, obsessive lover who kept them away from you in your dying days. They've always hated me, all the more so because I refused to give them our furniture when you died. Madame Mauritza stared at me apologetically from the witness stand, and wept as she admitted how may times I had called her for psychic counseling after you died. My phone bills spilled over onto the courtroom floor from the judge's desk. The prosecuting attorney got all self-righteous about clones being humans, too, with full rights under the Constitution. He cast me in the light of a child molester. I'm amazed I didn't lose my job. The only way I could keep from losing the respect of everyone I knew was to deny any desire to keep you as my child, and to deny that we had even been lovers at all. In retrospect, I supose it would have beena little incestuous, to raise you as my child arnd eventually make you my lover. But I could see you, Carla, in that tiny little squinched-up baby face. Right after you were born, I held you to my breast and thanked God for giving you back to me.

I wasn't surprised.

Now it's just a matter of time til I get you back for good. Tkeep you alive within me. Igo over my favorite memories at least twice a day, usually as I drive to work in the morning, and again right before I go to sleep. I picture you frying Jerusalem artichoke fritters in the kitchen, walking Trixie in the park, or behind the wheel of your own army jeep, your little blonde head bobbing with the bumps of the dirt road. I remember your hand in mine, small against my bigger, though younger, hand. I pray every night that your clone doesn't just look like you. I pray that she really is you, inside and out. In six years, I'll know.

REFLECTING FRANNY KEEFEGLIMC EKVINA

Laura Elizabeth Pohl

I only hoped it wouldn't hurt as much this time, that my dad would showsome mercy toward me. It was eleven o'clock, and I knew I should have been home by 10:30,but an accident on Harper's Road had delayed us. Scott and I had just spent three hours working on different light designs for Meet Me in St. Louis, and all I wanted to do wasgethome to bed.

The red lights of Scott's car faded down the street and I was on my own. I lookedup the cracked sidewalk and into the glass storm door which served as the bleak welcome tothe two-story Cape Cod-style structure called home. The ominous yellow bug light lit thehall, and beyond the coarseness I could see Dad's shadow pacing across the brown shag rug in the living room, waiting for me.

"Why delay the inevitable?" I thought. I walked to the door, a calm fearstreaming through me, and took a deep breath of the cool fall air before opening the door.

"Where were you?" Dad asked in his thick southern drawl. He moved over tothe mantle and pulled together his slightly soft yet still muscular frame. I held the doorbefore letting it fall into its latch and stood in the yellowed hall. Nothing moved. Somewherein the distance a car honked its horn.

"We hit traffic," I said, glancing away. I peered into the living room, my eyesfixed on the neat stack of Ladies Home Journal, Women's Day, and Sports Ilustrated piled atthe feet of my towering dad. He followed my line of sight and nudged the stack with hisfoot. Magazines slid to the floor in a graceful wave of smiling women and sweatybasketballplayers. Kathie Lee Gifford beamed at me from a cover of Ladies Home Journal.

"Couldn't you think of a more creative excuse, Franny?" dad said. I knew hewas glowering at me even as I still refused to look at him. Trying to concentrate onsomething other than the inevitable, I thought of my strange name: Franny. Mom took it from abook by J.D. Salinger, a book that she had never actually read. She just liked the name. Itucked Let's just get this over with, I thought. I smoothed out my Hello Kitty t-shirt, which smiled from my chest with cartoon-likeinno cence. I looked down at my feet and waited. I wanted him to forgive me this one time,to know that I didn't mean to be such a disobedient daughter. I wanted him to know I wastry

my brown hair behind my ears and waited. ing-

"Im telling the truth, dad," I whispered before he crossed the sea of carpetbetween us and tore into me. Ionly hoped mom wouldn't try to help me like last time. Sheendedup with three cracked ribs and a fractured wrist.

The only rule is not to scream or protest too much. That always makes itworse, lengthens the whole thing. Just let it happen. Never attract attention.

I remember every detail of what he did. The whole progression. I always do. started on my face, slapping me twice across the left cheek, and then punching me on my right shoulder. I instinctively tried to protect my body, but my dad had years ofamateur boxing experience on his side. I felt the rough toe of his Reeboks against my shin andhean

I landed on my butt and then

his right fist burrow itself in my stomach. A silent yelp escaped my mouth and I saw hair fly around me as I fell backward onto the wooden floor. rolled over and curled up, holding my stomach and gasping for air. Open mouth, suck in air, blow out air. Open mouth, suck in air, blow out air. And feel the jolt of a kick on my left arm. I didn't remember closing my eyes, but I felt them open. The floor around me seemed to pulse with yellow light. I turned my head to the right--ow! another kick to my arm--and saw a blurred image of myself reflected in the glass plate of the storm door. Was that really me--a fifteen-year-old girl curled up in the hall with her dad coming toward her with his fists clenched? I turned my head and looked at him. In his eyes I saw no love, only the look of an angry man poised to bring his fist down on the back of a girl curled up on the floor. I could almost hear him deciding where to hit next. what target deserved the feel of his knuckles and the roll of his fingers. Pow! Pow! Pow!--down my spine. I covered my head.

The world stopped moving for a moment as I tried to think happy

thoughts--unicorns prancing near a babbling brook and rainbows shining over a lush green field--but these visions contrasted too harshly with dad's strong arms pummeling my body like a never-ending series of flesh bombs. blood and sweat flow down my back and into my jeans. I lay on the floor like an oversized tulip bud wearing a blood-soaked t-shirt. My body flinched in anticiation of another kick or punch and when no more came, I dared to look around. What would I see? Dad was gone. I still didn't move. In my mind, I went through everything that had just happened, every kick, punch, and cry, and filed it away in my memory: October 14, 1997. It couldn't have happened any differently.

When would this end? I felt warm

I decided to get up. I held the small of my back with both hands and stood up with pain throbbing through my spine and ribs. My body felt like it had been thrown from a moving car and had then rolled down a rocky hill. My matted hair stuck to the sides of my face, and I could feel the swollen puffiness of my left cheek.

I walked to the bathroom with slow deliberate steps, watching one foot make its way in front of the other, and flicked on the bathroom light. Black and white checkered tile all over the floor and wall ushered me to the yellow plush rug in front of the sink. I planted myself in front of the mirror and examined my face. It reflected only minimal damage: the cheek looked the color of strained peas mixed with blue food coloring. Alittle make-up could easily fix that up. At least it wasn't like the time dad punched me in both eyes. I skipped school for three days to avoid the watchful eyes of teachers and friends. No damage to the mouth or eyes this time. Good.

Next I shimmied out of my bloody t-shirt and bra, turned around and tried to twist my neck to check out my back. On the canvas of my shoulder blades, rib cage, and spinal cord were colorful bruises. Welts dotted with dried blood covered my back like a Picasso painting. At least no one would see my back unless they ripped off my shirt, which wasn't likely to happen. I could definitely go to school tomorrow.

I stopped looking at my back, pulled down the toilet cover, and sat down. No matter how many times he hits me and punches me, I never get used to it all coming into the bathroom, checking out my face and body, and then deciding whether or not Ill be able to go to school the next day.

Really, I don't think dad means to do it. Sometimes he's downright nice, like when he buys me a Seventeen magazine without my even asking. Or when he picks me

up form Kat's house after a sleepover. He doesn't have to do those things for me. He's just being a good dad. And I know this is partly my fault, too. I could be a better daughter. If I really wanted, I could have gotten home on time tonight, asked Scott to leave ealier. From now on, Ill always allow myself extra time in case of an accident of something.

At times I wanted to tell Kat or Scott what's going on, but I believe that would only make everything worse. There's no reason to bring more difficulty to Dad's life. I knowhe's had a rough time of it: in college he won several junior national championship titles inboxing and then had to give it all up because of me. I remember Mom telling me how hetried to lure her on a date with the promise of giving her a boxing lesson. She laughed whenshe said that. But then mom got pregnant with me in their junior year at Auburn. Nannaand Poppy and dad's parents made them get married. Boxing just wasn't a way to support a family. So after I was born, Dad hung up his boxing gloves. He graduated from collegeand shuffled into business management. Mom graduated and stayed at home to take careof me.

Sometimes I look at my parents, those people who created me, and I just wonder if they feel anything at all for each other. I wonder if they still love each other. I wonder if my dad ever looks at my mom and feels a wave of energy come over him, if he ever hasthe urge to slip his arms around her waist and kiss her. There are moments when Dadsurprises Mom with lillies, her favorite flower, or when Mom absentmindedly rubs the back ofDad's neck when we're waiting to be seated at a restaurant, and I can almost believe they love each other. But those are only moments, and they happen too infrequently for me toreally believe Mom and Dad share the kind of warm and happy love I see in my friends'parents. I shook myself out of my thoughts and stood up and looked at my face in themirror again. I needed a shower. I stripped off the rest of my clothes, turned on the waterand sat at the edge of the tub, waiting for the water to turn warm. When it did, I pulled the shower lever and climbed in. Warm water pelted my battered body like soothingcoton balls. And I thought about my dad and my mom, and staying after school tomorrow with Scott to work on the light design, and my history test on Thursday. I rolled a bar of lvory through my hands and patted the lather on my sore body, washing off the bloood,sweat, and pain. My spine ached as I contorted my arm to reach my back. The dull throbbingonly reminded me of the thrashing dad had given me only a half hour earlier, so I let it go. The water rinsed the soap from me and I relaxed in the soft drone of the showerhead for a few minutes before cleaning my hair with Pantene Pro-V. I lathered my hair like a girl in a shampoo commercial, bubbles everywhere. them out of my hair. My shower was done. When the bubbles started to fizzle, I rinsed

With a white towel shrouded around my body and another wrapped on myhead,

I left the steamed bathroom and crossed the hall to my bedroom. As usual, Mom waswaiting for me on my bed. She held my bruised face in her tired hands.

"You okay?" she whispered. "Fine," I answered, trying to smile with my swollenleft

cheek. She hugged me even though I was still damp from the shower, kissed megoodnight, and left. The towels dropped from my body as I climbed ito the softness of my navyblue ilannel pajamas and finally collapsed into bed.

THe TiEAAV OF DREAVS

Sandra H. Gulbicki

His eyes blurred and he tried to stay conscious for the remainder of his vigil. His thoughtswandered but his eyes stayed focused on the solely lit window of the gigantic house. His mind was thick with anticipation and fear crept slowly through his veins. He glanced |briefly at his watch but saw no time. He was consumed by blackness. Ominous clouds concealed the stars and the moon could barely be discerned through the foggy mist. He was on the brink of a peaceful slumber when from his perch he saw the lonely light flicker and fade into the night. His hopes diminished as he realized he was no longer needed. He decided to travel the miles back to his house on foot. His head sunk low and he began his journey. The sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon melted into the cool, brisk evening. He shivered, standing alone, glancing one last time at her home, before turning his back and continuing. He ventured on, not realizing how far he was straying from the road. His thoughts were elsewhere; on her and then on his uncertain future. The past few weeks had been bliss. She pulled away too soon, taking with her the half of his heart she owned forever. The part he retained was barely beating and crumbling slowly in his empty chest. His journey continued and through the fog, the clouds seemed to burst and the falling rain pelted him. His clothes clung to his tense body as a combination of salty tears and cold rain streaked his face. He remained in a state of deep contemplation and thoughtful reflection. Soon, however, he stumbled upona crushing realization: He was never going to get her back. Until this very moment he had forced himself to believe that through it all, she still loved him, that she was going to come back to him. As he recalled the day's events, he finally understood. The dream he had cutched onto with all his might had slipped away without warning. The single hope he had left in the world was snatched away from him by the vicious hands of Time. He sunk to his knees in a state of desperation, tears flowing from the depths of his soul. He looked up to the sky pleading for relief. Through the curtain of rain he observed lights shining brightly. Their luster illuminated the darkness and he discerned the shape of a house. He recognized the form and realized it was his mansion calling to him through the night. He began crawling to the lights and suddenly they transformed. He now saw a woman standing in the distance, just beyond his reach. He slithered faster through the wet grass and soggy soil but the image moved further away. It was like she was running, running away from him. Every tinme he gained on her she leapt ahead and could just barely be seen on the horizon. He chased her for as long as his body allowed before collapsing, He gasped for air as his frame shook from the strain. He mustered the last of his strength, lifted his head, and glanced to the east. He beheld her figure one last time and saw her laugh at him before dancing over the horizon. The morning sun awakened and peeked at him with weary rays before darkness stealthily crept over his body and he drifted into oblivion,

i just today remembered how your hand fits the curve of mny waist and how your smile fits the curve of my mind. your laugh is a symphony in my ear and your love warms my life always as necessary as sunshine. you lean the same way as my slant on life and fill the perimeter of my circle fitting neatly without spilling over or leaving too much emptiness. you are the tattoo the mark i choose as myself for life to keep under my skin. the mark to measure byheight, weight, standard standards and those i set for myself. and just today i remembered how your every expression fits my face and your self fills each lonely space and hugs mine from anyplace. and i am glad.

elisha efua bartels

ChrisCosta

Coritribstors

J. Barbieri is running from the law and now in the service of the French ForeignLegion.

Johnny Bardine is a freshman political science major who specializes in the art of self-fulfillment. He enjoys writing and lives by the creed: "I swear- by my life and my love of itthat I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine."

Elisha Efua Bartels is from Trinidad and misses hot sun, carnival, beach and rotis, and dancing in the moonlight.

Sadie Breeland is a sophomore in CAS She is not from Minnesota. She is from Montana. They both start with M.

Virginia L. Campbell is a senior studying anthropology & likes to frolic in springweather. Brooke M. Campbell is þarefoot and pregnant. She occasionally feigns morningsickness so she can spend the day in bed with her midwife.

Chris Costa was born in Baltimore, Maryland, August 6, 1978. He's a Leo and lovesmusic. Covell Day had a planetary collision with an Innocent Earthling. She is a wild and wacky sophomore at the University of North Carolina with a bathroom fixation and doesn'twrite as much as she should.

Rachel Ehrentreu is a freshman at AU from New York who enjoys writing, reading,and hiking.

Brian K. Fitzgerald is a member of the band Negative Skunk and enjoys after dinnertea. His drink of choice is vodka and tonic and he has no optically transmitted diseases.

Sandra H. Gulbicki is a freshman in SIS. She likes foreign languages and loves to write.

Susan Heavey is a junio studying journalism, literature, arnd international studies. She laughs in the face of stress and anyone who tells her karate is a man's sport.

Jonathan Lemelman is aljunior at AU majoring in visual media whose favoriteauthors include Lustig, Kerouac, Bukowski, and Kosinski.

D. Leah Moak is very happy in this, her second career as a filmmaker and photographer. Formerly a computer whiz in the information systems industry, she will complete AU's Masters program in the year 2K.

Walter Ortoleva is a photographer from CT. He also is a TV lighting and cameradirectot.

Laura Pohl is a senior in SOC.

Mary Sanderson hopes to earn a living by recording history on the backs of postcardsfrom Storm Center. She rarely speaks softly and is never bullied by anyone who carries a big stick. Even Ghandi.

J.C. Santelices is studying Peace and Conflict Resolution and Latin America in theSchool of International Service. She feels that World Peace is not a pipe dream.

Silvie Semenec is in love with a goateed art student from Syracuse University.

K. Stano will graduate in 2000 from a different university. Her dream job is to put herzan ness to good use on Saturday Night Live. Kate's sources of inspiration are Ani, Grammy and her Imaginary Friend.

Caroline Wall claims Baltimore as home (NOT A HON!), philosophy major, "chippy",reinvented everyday, a voicellike wine (so I'm told)- probably red.

Claire Ward wants to thank the muses home in NC and those at AU: She likes to play with words and hopes that one day someone understands.

Ryan Wickstrand is an ałt student at Syracuse University. He still has a goatee.

A R D ITS

Brooke M. Campbell

Matthew Gulbicki

Brooke M. Campbell

Jonathan Lemelman

Walter Ortoleva

Brooke M. Campbell

Ryan Wickstrand

Brooke M. Campbell

Silvie Semenec

Ryan Wickstrand

Silvie Semenec

Walter Ortoleva

Susan E. Heavey

Ryan Wickstrand

Jonathan Lemelman

Brooke M. Campbell

D. Leah Moak

Jonathan Lemelman

Steven Munoz

Jonathan Lemelman

D. Leah Moak

K.C. Moore

Brooke M. Campbell

Brooke M. Campbell

Chris Costa

Hands On: A Love Story, photo essay

Veiled Woman, pastel

untitled, photograph

untitled, photograph

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Henrietta, photo collage

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Shield, pencil on paper

Lazy, scratchboard

Hammersmith, photograph

untitled, photograph

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Sketchy, photograph

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On Track, photograph

untitled, photograph

untitled, woodcut

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Waiting for You, photograph

Snowy Tre, photograph

Hands On: A Love Story, photo essay

untitled, photograph

Women Shaker, photograph

Anlt hanks:

Ryan Wickstrand for being the design department, Jen Barton and the Media Board, Jim Briggs from Printing Images for calling back at nine pm, Printing Images for always doing a fantastic job, all the staffers who contributed evalsand ideas, Bonnie and Clyde, Domino's Pizza for late night meals, Mountain Dew for keeping us awake, the authors of Quark for Dummies, Brooke for being a weirdo, Chris & Grog, Anne's entire family (especially Mom and Dad), Martian Man,past and present staff of Phoenix and J.C., Leonard Hall staff for listening and being awesome, your mother, Monica Lewinsky for everything, Tina and Courtenay, everyone who contributed (even the author of Foul), Johnny Marr, PublicSafety r opening the office late at night, Karen Gerlach, the Rolling Stones, Palatino for the font, Umberto Eco, Jill Lomaz, her memo, and her dog, the Notorious T.I.M., Mr. Hand, Matt Stone and Trey Parker, Sarah & Graham cause you rock, Owen Meany, Anderson Computer Lab, Ocean City, Jason Pimble for computer advice, OIT for nothing, Strunk and White, 94.7 WARW, the State of New Jersey,Yam, Physical Plant for turning on the AC, Subs n Stuff, Harvey Grossinger and the 11:20 ICW class, the milkman for not being there, my fiance Brian, Jay and Alison, Screech for the mohawk, the Sex Pistols in all their permutations, the Beatlesfor company, Macintosh & Steve Jobs, Dave and Ed for driving me home and living just a little too close by, Mary "Stardust" Zim, whoever invented peanut butter,the Reese's company, Bob Dylan, Best Buy, chicken pot pies, and everyone thing else we forgot. Dpecial

amertcanftderary

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