The Eclectic 2013-14 by Brandy Panagos

The Eclectic

http://bjhstheeclectic.com

ec-lec-tic (adj.) Not following any one system, as of philosophy, medicine, etc., but selecting and using what are considered the best elements of all systems.

The Eclectic magazine is published every year by the students of Bob Jones High School in Madison, Alabama. Submissions are always being accepted.

Cover Art and Section Dividers Thomas Baldwin and Zach Perry

The Eclectic Spring 2014 Issue 17

Mission Statement Our goal is to showcase the creative works of the student body of Bob Jones High School and to reflect the diversity of our student body across many demographics. General Submission The literary and arts magazine accepts writing on any subject or in any style for the general submission section of the magazine. The general submission section reviews works of prose, creative nonfiction, poetry, stage and screen, comics, artwork, photography, and multimedia. Feature The feature section of The Eclectic focuses on a specific theme each and every year. This year, the staff chose to showcase technology, its effects on mankind--past, present, and future--and its potential. They portrayed these ideas through poetry, prose, and art. Website In addition to the printed copy of the literary magazine, The Eclectic boasts a companion website where a digital copy of the magazine can be downloaded for free. The website also includes multimedia subissions in areas of short film, kinetic typography, stop motion animation, hypertext fiction, and spoken word poetry. Distribution The staff provides one free copy of The Eclectic to students whose work is selected for publication. Additional copies may be purchased.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Technology... is a queer thing. It brings you great gifts with one hand, and it stabs you in the back with the other.â&#x20AC;? --C.P. Snow, New York Times, 15 March 1971

Prose 9 Poetry 75 Creative Nonfiction 105 Stage & Screen 139

Art 215 Photography 231 Feature 241 Contributors 320 Acknowledgements 326

Contents

Comics 173

The Tree Kayla Buckelew

After The End Adam Woelke

Saving Morpheus Megan Zecher

Stolen Away Avery Behr

Dirge for November Cyrus Patel

Tragic Theresa Andrzejewski

The Last F(l)ight Michael Samaras

A Brief History of Love Adam Woelke

Beyond the Great Divide Jett Ryan

February Kat Cox

Girl, Busy Reading Book, Steps Infront of Bus Emily Bohatch

The Balloon Ben Winters

Date Kalee Yem

The Fixer Khadijah Thompson

Maybe, Maybe Not Paige Fisher

Time Through Nine Clocksâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Eyes Ian Hendrix

Horrors of the Heart Steven Nicke

Ryan Dunne Adam Woelke

Sides Kat Cox

Empty Empathy Sarah Buckelew

The Freckles of the Universe Kalee Yem

Goldfish Kennedy Saaristo

Lonely Siri Rossly

Dayze Thomas Baldwin

Prose

The Hair Pin Mary Butgereit

Prose

The Hair Pin Mary Butgereit

he hair pin was golden with a delicate pale-pink flower on the end. Its prongs were bent, as though it had been stepped on one too many times; it probably had been stepped on one too many times, as it laid in the middle of the busy corridor outside the dining hall. Though the king’s most trusted men were staying in the castle, the building was hushed with worry and paranoia; rumor held that a plot to take the king’s life was underway and had to be stopped. No one had much time to worry about a lost hair pin, or even bother sidestepping it. Two men walking abreast around dinnertime, however, did not step on it—which was where the trouble began. Well, not necessarily with the hair pin. The hair pin looked harmless enough. It was more of the man walking on the left, separated by a few cobblestones from his comrade. This left man’s name was Sir Winston. He walked slightly slower, with a thoughtful look on his face, and occasionally tripped over his feet in the process. When he spotted the hair pin, he stopped. The man on the right—Sir Fredrick—only quickened. “Friend!” Sir Winston called after the ever-faster figure. With a grumble, Sir Fredrick stopped. “Yes?” “There appears to be a lady’s hair pin on the floor.” “I am aware. I saw it.” “Why, Sir Fredrick…we must take it with us, try to find its owner.” Sir Fredrick turned on the heels of his fine boots, observing the hair pin from a distance. “I daresay we should not.” “What?” Sir Winston, who had already bent over to pick it up, straightened again. “Why not?” “Well, the owner may come looking for it herself,” Sir Fredrick reasoned, “and expect to find it where she left it. Moreover—yes, moreover—moreover it would simply take too much time to hunt down every lady in the castle who might have lost a hair pin.” Sir Winston blinked. “But…my friend, the hall will be swept within the hour. It may be thrown away as trash.” “Then she should come to collect it by then,” Sir Fredrick retorted. “We have places to be, Sir Winston. We are supposed to be meeting with the other noblemen to discuss that rumor—someone might be plotting to assassinate the king. Do you want to be the reason our Majesty is killed? Because we were late and did not have ample time to plan defense?” “What if it was the lady’s favorite hairpin, friend?” Sir Winston challenged. “We must also be loyal to our moral duty. What if it were a family heirloom? What if it had been her great great grand old aunt’s, who passed it on to her right before there was a fantastic house fire that burned away not only the aunt but the young girl’s entire family?” 12

“Would we not have heard of such a fire?” “You did not answer my question. What if it were your hair pin?” “Then I believe I would have bigger troubles,” Sir Fredrick said dryly, “than losing it. Come, Sir Winston, and leave this cheap hair pin on the floor. Dinner is waiting. If I did not know better, I would say you did not even care about the king’s well-being.” “The king! You are merely here for the king’s food. The roast may cool a little longer,” Sir Winston replied, leaning over to pick it up once more. This seemed to infuriate Sir Fredrick, who rushed over and swatted Sir Winston’s hand away. “Do not touch that hair pin!” “Why not?” “I already told you why not, now let it be!” “Then I shall wait with it!” cried Sir Winston valiantly. “Until its owner returns!” This left the two men standing above the hair pin, glaring at one another. A small group of guests began to pass by, but stopped at the spectacle. One stepped forward—a tall, thin man of lower rank. “Sirs,” he asked. “Whatever is the matter?” Sir Fredrick seemed to growl his words. “There is a hair pin upon the floor. Sir Winston wishes to skip dinner and go off gallivanting for its lady—which I, as a sensible friend, simply cannot allow him to do.” Sir Winston huffed. “I simply wish to return the hair pin to the lady! This nobleman cares not for it nor its owner.” The man thought for a minute. “Well, here I was thinking it might be something serious.” “It is!” they both snapped. A small voice in the back of the group of newcomers piped up, “I say go ahead and let him return it to the lady. It is his dinner that would be wasted.” “No, no,” another said. “Sir Fredrick is being a good friend. This is also about the king, you know. Moreover, if I have lost something, I usually look for it where I last saw it.” “Unless, of course, it has been swept away,” another pointed out. A few of the men began nodding and humming in agreement, while others argued that point. The group seemed to be divided in half. Sir Winston ran his eyes over the crowd. “See?” he said, gesturing towards them. “Most of these men have the good sense that, when something of a lady’s is lost, it is returned!” A few cheers from the group. “While many others,” Sir Fredrick sharply replied, “see the loss and lack of intellect such a quest entails.” “Do not call us fools, sir!” Sir Winston proclaimed. Voices piped up from the group: “Fools?” “He called us fools!” “We will show him the fools!” Half of the group separated and stood behind Sir Winston, while the other half remained behind Sir Fredrick. Abuse began to fly from both sides. “Fools!” “Peasants!” “Swine!” 13

Quite a crowd had begun to grow around the two, with the delicate golden hairpin as the centerpiece. All ranks and positions, from stableboy to earl, swelled out in the middle of the cobblestone hallway—including some ladies. “Why, what is all the fuss about?” One lady in blue asked. “A hair pin, it seems. A lost one.” Another in violet replied. “Is that all?” A lady in pink giggled. “Why, if you asked me, I would say return it.” “He could also leave it there,” the lady in blue added. The small group of ladies began earnestly discussing what to do about the hair pin, which alarmed several of the men around them, including the tall one from earlier. He began to usher them out. “Ladies, we must not get you involved with this,” he said. “It is simply a matter too serious.” “A hairpin?” One lady argued. “Why, would not we know the most about this? I doubt any of you have ever lost a hairpin.” “It does not matter much at this point,” the tall man said as he shut the door behind them, “now does it?” The conversation continued to grow more and more heated, even as dinner began in a room down the corridor, until the two sides began yelling and screaming in earnest. “We who choose to seek the owner believe it is the right of every person to have what is lost returned to them,” a young fellow who stood behind Winston proclaimed. “Those who seek?” A follower of Fredrick sputtered. “Better described as those who are weak!” His comrades clapped him on the shoulder and complimented his pun, at which he looked pleased and claimed it only took a moment to conjure. “The Seekers should have the hairpin!” Sir Winston asserted. “The Patient Ones know better!” Sir Frederick cried. “You have no sympathy for those in need, do you?” screamed Sir Winston. “Not if they are stupid enough to make such mistakes!” Sir Fredrick yelled back. A desperate man from behind Sir Winston leapt forward to grab the hairpin. It was the spark that lit the hay ablaze; the men rushed in at one another, fighting and punching in a mad attempt to retrieve the small hairpin. After a few moments, a servant stepped backward, red-faced and shocked. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop!” Miraculously, the men slowed for a moment. “Where is the hairpin?” the servant called. “Where is it?” There was a dumbfounded pause, then a great shuffling, until finally it was found under a table: dented, chipped, and bent. “I have an idea,” the servant gasped. “Let us ask the King. He will know what to do!” There was a low murmuring of agreement that grew into cheers. The crowd stampeded down the hallway, headed by Sir Winston and Sir Fredrick, the latter of which held the hairpin tightly in his hand. They were cut off from the dining hall, however, as a chef burst forward from the doors, red-eyed and shaking. 14

“The king!” he gasped. “The king…he has been poisoned! The king is… dead!” The chef expected the shocked silence that fell. The men hung their fists loosely by their sides, wide-eyed. What the chef did not expect were the multiple frustrated groans from around the room. In annoyance, Sir Fredrick threw the hairpin at a wall. “Great,” he roared. “Now who will decide about the hairpin?”

Prose

The Tree Kayla Buckelew

he tree was already old when they were young. Its bark was rough and weathered, made tough by years of exposure to the elements. Its branches were long and twisted, spiraling outward from its twisted trunk like arms opening to receive the warmth of the sun. In the spring, fresh leaves sprung from the experienced branches, sparking spontaneously into existence after being trapped all winter. The leaves had just sprouted when they first met. He saw her first from across the field, open spaces of un-mowed grass stretched between them like the ocean, isolating them on separate continents. Andrew, a wise child of only eight years, stared from the edges of his own backyard, where he hid behind the protection of his decaying fence and overgrown bushes. He watched this fascinating new girl from afar, enthralled by her twin blonde braids and her ability to climb the tree—his tree—with ease. The girl caught sight of him sometimes, a flash of hair or eyes when glancing over her shoulder. But she saw him so rarely and so incompletely that the girl could not even be sure that the boy she saw was real. The tree itself loved the new child. The girl came to the tree most days, sometimes sitting beneath its relieving shade and reading or coloring quietly. Other days, the girl would propel herself higher, grabbing branch after branch until she had risen to the top of the world; these were the days when she was queen. And some days, the girl would simply come to talk to the tree. She would rest on the cool ground or nestle into some crook a few branches up and use the tree as her diary. She would tell the tree the stories of her days and what she wanted them to be, speaking softly as if no one was listening. Yet the tree could hear her, and the child was almost aware; she felt the branches cup around her like a hug on her bad days and dance giddily in the breeze on her good ones. The tree and the girl fell easily into friendship with one another. But the silent boy, who was too anxious to do anything but watch, had been a friend of the tree first. Andrew spent his childhood with the tree. He had sat beneath it so that he could not hear his parents fighting (usually in regards to him). He had swung from its branches and used them as a jungle gym when there was no one around to entertain him (usually no one was). And in these times they spent together, the tree came to be the boy’s best friend. Andrew did not feel awkward and nervous around the tree like he did when he was with people. The tree did not judge him; instead, it held Andrew close, in a way that no one else did. Perhaps it was Andrew’s desire to play among the branches of his tree once again that allowed the girl to spot him one afternoon. He had not hidden very well, and the young girl easily spotted his mop of brown hair poking above one of the smaller bushes in his yard. Andrew’s heart beat heavily as she approached him, his hands sweating and his throat inexplicably dry. He wiped his palms on his legs, trying to rid himself of the moisture as if that was the explanation for his nerves. “Hi,” The girl said, her voice tinkling gently yet still surprising Andrew; he had

lost track of her approach. “I’m Riley,” she announced, proudly providing Andrew with a hand to shake. Hyperaware of his sweaty hands, Andrew did not take Riley’s hand; instead, he shyly introduced himself as Andrew. And then they were friends. -- In the summer months, the tree grew outwards—branches expanding and leaves stretching, all because of the sun’s radiating warmth. Its leaves were greener and its bark thicker. Birds came to rest in its branches, building homes among the welcoming and friendly growth. Bugs of all kinds found shelter in the tree, as did Riley and Andrew. They grew up with the tree, drifting through time, as they grew ever closer to the tree’s height. They played together when they were young, shrieking with laughter as they chased one another ever higher so that they could both rule the world. Riley pulled Andrew outwards, taught him how to imagine, how to play. Andrew tugged Riley downwards, reminding her that the real world was there too. Together, they learned friendship and taught one another how to love. As the pair got older, the nature of the tree changed for them. They still paid visits to its higher branches and relaxed under its protective shade, but it became more than just a place to play for them. Together, Andrew and Riley turned the tree into their refuge, their shelter. On the days when there was nowhere else to go, they went to their tree. The branches became a place to sit and talk together, their conversations maturing along with them. They would speak about what scared them and what inspired them—pouring their souls into the tree to replace the sap that flowed out. “I’m afraid I don’t know what I want, and I’m afraid I want too much,” Riley confessed one evening. The sun was setting in a blaze of colors, dragging the thick summer heat down with it, making room for the fresh night chill to settle in. Goosebumps rose on Riley’s arms with her words. “Sometimes, I think I’d rather have nothing than have to choose.” “I’m scared I’ll never be able to connect with people fully,” Andrew responded in kind, eyes fixed on the brilliance of the setting sun, “because I’m too detached from the external world.” Andrew’s confession balanced out Riley’s, and together they hung their burdens from the limbs of their tree where the weight wouldn’t drag anyone down. “I just want so many different things, and I want them all now. I want to experience everything life has to offer,” Riley said, her voice brimming with the brilliance of stars on a summer’s night. “I don’t want to choose because everything is so exciting.” “I want to learn as much as I can. I want to read and write and know things,” Andrew replied, dreams pulling him towards the star-splattered sky. “If I could just sit around and think all day, I probably would.” Together, the things that Andrew and Riley wanted and dreamed of were light enough to lift away their fears until they were blotted out by the inky night. But like all good things, the summer couldn’t last. -- As fall grew out of the summer, the tree’s vivid green leaves lost their luster, fading into colors of decay and ruin. Some of the leaves went out sharply, their colors morphing overnight into brilliant reds and golds. Others faded slowly, 17

fighting the end as the browns slowly took over the leaves, until they crumpled and fell. The tree itself transformed into a myriad of colors, its beauty increasing just before it died. The decay of their friendship was slow, like the leaf that clings to the tree long after its green has faded. The first touches of brown were not very obvious. Andrew and Riley simply became busy separately, each one spending less time at the tree. And even when they met at the tree, their differences were becoming more apparent as Andrew grew in and Riley grew out. To Andrew, the tree was still a refuge from his house, where chaos was normal. He spent many afternoons retreating from the world among the branches of his childhood friend. The constant yelling and anger of his house faded when Andrew sat in the tree’s branches. For Riley, the tree was not a shelter but instead a link to the past she was trying to grow out of. “Oh. hello,” Andrew greeted Riley as she approached the tree one afternoon. Andrew was perched in his favorite nook, long legs dangling as he read his newest book. Riley had not made an appearance at the tree in weeks, and Andrew could not completely contain his resentment. “Nice to see you again.” Riley frowned at the accusation in his tone. “You too,” she agreed, eyes narrowing and lips pursing as she swung herself upwards, perching a few branches below Andrew. The silence was chilling, like the first frost of the year. “So, what are you up to?” Riley asked, speaking to thaw the silence. “Don’t do that,” Andrew said, closing his book and sitting up. “Don’t just talk.” Riley sighed and dragged a hand through her tangled hair. “Well what do you want me to say?” Riley demanded, but without the appropriate anger. Andrew shrugged, fiddling with his fingers to avoid eye contact. “Maybe there isn’t anything to say,” he finally whispered, so softly Riley almost didn’t hear the rejection. “What do you mean there isn’t anything to say? What, just cause I’ve moved on with my life we can’t ever speak to each other again?” Riley accused, her voice flaring, shattering the illusion of peace Andrew had established. “You’re just mad cause you’re still stuck in the same shell but I kept growing. People change, Andrew.” Riley breathed deeply, trying to control the volume of her voice so that Andrew would hear her words and not her anger. “It’s time to climb down; you can’t stay in the tree forever Andrew. It’s time to face the world.” When Riley’s feet hit the ground and started to carry her away, the silence descended again, cascading over Andrew’s head like a bucket of cold water. “There’s more than one way to grow!” Andrew shouted, not finding his voice until Riley was almost in her own backyard. Hearing Andrew’s voice, Riley took a few steps back, standing just close enough that they did not have to shout to hear one another over the violent destruction of their friendship. “If you change too fast and too often, you’ll miss out on everything because it’ll just flash by,” Andrew said, rolling each word around in his mouth before releasing it, knowing somehow that his words needed to count. “You told me once you were afraid that you wanted too much,” Andrew’s voice dropped, dragging Riley a few steps closer to their tree. “But I think maybe you’re just scared to choose the wrong thing.” The truth hits harder than anything. Riley staggered back a few steps with 18

the added weight of Andrew’s words. The burdens they had lifted together in childhood were now pressing heavily on both of their backs. “You told me once you were afraid you’d never be able to connect with anyone,” Riley said, dredging the same conversation up from the past—though the dreams stayed buried by the weight of time. “Congratulations, your fear’s come true.” The last leaf fell, snapping off the tree, leaving it bare and vulnerable, and the leaf spiraled downwards, its color completely faded, descending soundlessly, to rest indiscernibly among the other fallen leaves. -- Winter established itself at the speed of light, taking over suddenly after fall’s slow departure. The tree was left bare, its leafless branches curling inwards and shrinking to protect the tree from the harsh chill in the air. The bark thickened, sheltering itself from the ice and snow that layered itself onto the skin of the tree. But the winter was not eternal, the cold not infinite. Spring would come again—bursting through the frost with the reemergence of the sun. New fresh leaves would grow and flowers would again bloom. Green would emerge from a colorless world. Change would continue like the seasons, the only eternal in a world full of limits. Spring would blossom and then fade; winter would fall and then break. And through it all, the tree would stand.

Prose

After the End Adam Woelke

aking up inside the burned out carcass of an old greyhound bus, Aubrey smiled because she knew that change was a good thing. It seemed exciting, and the simple thought was enough to make her singed hair stand on end and her nimbly beating heart flutter. A dangerous event, but manageable. She smiled because today was a day that had been planned for months as the day when the biggest change in her life would reach its inception. Well, almost nearly the biggest change in her life—of course, the day of the great flash followed by the month of ashy rain and bloody coughs changed the whole world, leaving little hope that it would ever turn back to the way things were. Lying in her stained cot most mornings, she sure wished it would. To twist back the broken clocks and go back to the time when seasons marked the calendar instead of the dark overcast that choked the sky. Today, she still wished for these things, of course, but she was content knowing that they weren’t going to come. It was okay. Slowly, making sure not to touch her scars for fear they would open again and steal away her precious time, she stood up and limped over to the attire she had set out the night before for her daily rituals. Usually, it was nothing more than a pair of loose fitting jeans that constantly irritated her charred legs, but today was special. She took her time putting on the sundress she had found curled up under a pile of ashes on the pavement two weeks before. It was yellow and frilly and laced at the ends – everything a girl like her would hate to wear to school. Aubrey always regretted not wearing more dresses when she had the chance. On the list of all the things she missed, it ranked above going to school, but below flying kites with her big brother. Unless, of course, Mrs. McDowell, the snooty old bat that made her practice multiplication tables all day, was sick, and the nice substitute whose name Aubrey couldn’t quite remember let them play outside all day. Aubrey wore the frilly dress, and she gave a little twirl like her mother made her do when they played dress up together. She imagined she would leave all the boys with their mouths open and their tongues on the ground if she strutted her stuff across the block. Kind of like a movie she saw a long time ago. She would drive the boys absolutely bonkers with her teasing, if there were any left, of course. Aubrey climbed out of the broken window near the top of the overturned Greyhound and, as usual, sashayed down the makeshift ramp to the pavement. There was much to do today and not much time to do it. She heaved her rucksack onto her back and winced, limping her way toward the nearly collapsed pub across town. It took a while to get there, but mostly because of the huge trenches torn by the massive earthquakes that shook the earth almost every day. Aubrey wasn’t slow, even with her limp, and she always attributed it to her mother. After all, her mother was a track star back in high school. At least that’s what she remembered her mother saying. “Hey, Mr. Steve,” Aubrey said in a raspy voice. “I’ll have the usual.”

Aubrey stood for a second and waited for a reply, but the man lying down on the counter, clutching a rifle in his black-coated arms, only stared up at the ceiling. She walked around him and into the bar. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Steve. I didn’t mean to be so loud,” she whispered. “I know you must have had a crazy night last night. God, look at you. You’re as stiff as a board.” She grabbed a bag of peanuts from underneath the counter. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take these, I know you’ve got more somewhere, right?” The wind rustled a few leaves across the ground and made a little whistling noise. “Good, I wouldn’t want to put you out.” She walked back around the bar, carefully stepping over the crusty dog that was melded into the carpet it laid on. “What was that?” she said after stopping at the doorless opening of the pub. “You like the dress?” She giggled and did a little dance for him. “Thank you! It’s my birthday!” The floorboards creaked. “Listen, Mr. Steve, I know you want to make a big deal out of it and everything, but I really have to get going. You have yourself a good day, and that’ll be gift enough. Oh, and you’ve gotta lay off the whiskey.” She laughed again. “One day, it just might kill you!” Aubrey departed from the local bar and once again began limping down the street. It was about noon, and she had to pick up the pace to keep with her tight schedule. She only had until sundown to fit everything in because the streetlights were either broken or lying on the ground in pieces. It was okay though. She had a flashlight in case she got lost, which most nearly never happened. The small house where she spent every Sunday of the most recent years of her life was in shambles. The shutters were hanging loosely off the fronts of the windows; the garage had caved in along with most of the second floor. Her room was up there. Aubrey moved over the dead grass and through the makeshift entrance gashed open by a car swerving out of control and slamming into the front window with devastating results. If she still lived here, the constant draft would have been unbearable. She thought it was funny that despite third degree burns across most of her flesh, her body was still capable of feeling the chill of morning air. She hated the cold, but still, it was much better than the heat. In the heat, her skin ached even more. The living room was very clean. She made sure it was every time she visited. It was the least she could do for her after saving her all those years ago. “Hi, Mom,” she whispered, halting in the middle of the room near a figure lying on the floor, half melded into the very fibers of the carpet. “Do you mind if I lay down with you a while?” The breeze whirled through the house as it settled. Aubrey remembered her mother saying that the noises you hear at night aren’t ghosts. It’s just the house settling. And she knew that sometimes it takes a while for something old to get accustomed to something new. “Thank you,” she said, slowly bending down onto the carpet, wincing as her skin stretched and oozed. Aubrey lay down next to the broken mass, her head resting on her hands while her stomach rested on the floor. In front of her was a small television set with a spiderweb of cracks across the screen. She could see 21

herself reflected, in a thousand broken pieces. Aubrey couldn’t feel her face become wet, but it did burn as her cuts and scrapes met the salty liquid that ran down her cheeks. This wasn’t her. She was wearing that dress, sure. And those tears were hers, yes. But that thing staring back at her was not Aubrey. She looked to her left. That wasn’t her mom either. It was a result of something awful grabbing up her mom’s soul and stealing it away, leaving behind a husk of burnt flesh that crusted and stiffened on the ground. Why couldn’t things go back to the days where she was herself and her mother was still a beautiful young lady with the legs of a track star and a voice that sounded like more than just a whistle. Aubrey looked back at the television. This thing that looked back at her was the child of the one sitting next to her. But she wasn’t Aubrey, and that wasn’t Aubrey’s mother. “Mom,” she said. “I’ve got to get going. I know you want to spend more time with me today, but there’s still something I have to do.” The trees outside beat against the only window that wasn’t shattered. “I’m sorry about this, but I have to do it.” She stood up. “But mom,” she said, bending down and giving the air above her body a kiss. She didn’t dare touch her body. She was very fragile. “We’ll hang out more, I promise. Just wait, everything will—” The old grandfather clock chimed twice and then clanked like usual. “I promise we’ll see each other again.” She made her way to the door and contemplated saying goodbye, but she felt like things between them would be alright. Her mother was understanding. And like she used to say when Aubrey was afraid of ghosts creeping into her room at night, everything would be okay. As she made her way deeper into town, she nibbled on peanuts and counted cracks in the pavement. She liked to play a game where she jumped around, trying not to touch any, but sometimes, it was impossible. The sun above her was beginning to descend. She didn’t have much time. She hiked up her dress and made her way to the spot she had gone to bed thinking about for months. Today was a special occasion, so she was going to make the best of it. The concrete jungle swallowed her whole as she made her way into the heart of the strip. What cars were left were shells of their former selves, stripped of everything that carried any sort of value. They festooned the sidewalk along with the broken glass from the small window shops and looted parking meters. Aubrey never learned how to drive, and she always felt at least a little envious of those who did. She was envious of a lot of things, but not too jealous. She had a few things that many people would be jealous of her. At least that’s what she thought. She climbed the winding stairwell of her favorite spot without any ease. Her legs were burning, and her heart was beating as softly as a mouse’s. She coughed and gagged in a voice that wasn’t hers. She couldn’t tell if she was wincing from the pain or the thought that a family of creatures had switched bodies with her family and left them looking like this. She never agreed to the deal. The lookout from the top of the building was very clean. She had made it that way the last time she was here a year ago. Before her lay the ruins she made her home in. They were scarred with the burns that never healed. Stress and time weighed down on them with their sneaky silence and slowly choking

grasp. Some buildings were lying helplessly on the ground, foreshadowing the future of their brothers and sisters who swayed with the movement of the wind. The cloud smog was a deep orange, coalescing into a bright aura both of reminder and beauty. Aubrey loved looking out over her city and thinking about what it must have been like. She thought of all the people greeting each other and having actual conversations. The buzzing of car horns and the bright lights of the neon signs that still worked. A mother and her child walking toward the local pizza place, acting as if everything was not as amazing as it really was. All the movement, all the noise, all the life. Aubrey felt her face stinging again. She looked at the street below her. It looked so soft despite its cracks and trenches marring its beauty. She had cracks and trenches too. All over the facsimile of her former being. The concrete looked warm. Not the warm that hurt. But loving. It felt like everything she could ever hope for and want in her life was lying down below, silently whispering that she could be loved again. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a hard decision. Aubrey felt the cold rush of air and a sudden uneasy feeling in her stomach. It made her scared and excited and every emotion she could ever feel all wrapped up in one blast of heat. She cried because she was afraid. But like her mother said, everything was going to be okay. And she believed it.

Prose

Saving Morpheus Megan Zecher

here is a time when a man must realize his days are numbered and his sympathies few. It starts with the hackneyed rhythm of a clock ticking away the minutes, hours, days, months, years and flows into the final moments, when the world dissolves away from the deepest corners of the mind and Death becomes like an old friend. But for Morpheus, that time was not approaching as quickly as it appeared. The green cover slid open with the gentle flick of Lilica’s fingers upon the surface, with the kind of care that a librarian gives his most prized tome. Vibrant green eyes swept over yellow page after yellow page, passing feathered pages with fading ink and large, inky splotches of past mistakes. “No. No, no, no, no.” The desperate muttering flew like a mantra into the wind; her chestnut-hued eyebrows furrowed in frustration. After several more seconds, the young woman closed the book and threw it on the corner of the oak table in frustration. “No! It’s not here!” “Keep searching, Lilica.” Sutton encouraged absentmindedly, eyes focused on the words scrawled in another tome. “It’ll be there.” Tonkin sighed. “Sutton, it’s not here. It’s not anywhere.” “It’s got to be.” Tonkin—lovingly known as Tonks—glanced over to Lilica, making eye contact with her friend. “Sutton.” Her voice had lost its cheery edge, sounding monotonously slow. “We have to stop.” Sutton’s head raised in alarm, his brown mess of tangles trembling at the movement. “What? No!” He put the book down on the shelf and grabbed some more. “Look—look through these, there’s got to be something—anything!” Tonks walked placidly over to her human friend, placing a comforting hand on his hysteric shoulder. “Sutton.” Her soft voice made him stop; his shoulders slumped in confusion and his head bowed as he dropped to his knees in the oaken library of Arcane. “This can’t be it.” The young man refused to look his friends in the eye. “There has to be more.” “There isn’t.” Lilica sounded just as upset as Sutton, tears stinging the insides of her eyes as she slumped in her seat at the oaken table. Tonks opened her mouth in an attempt to say something uplifting; in her own despair, she found no words and closed her mouth, lifting her hand from her friend’s shoulder. Her softly-lifted blue eyes glazed for several seconds, slightly pointed, half-elf ears barely quivering in a sign of pain. The half-elf walked away from both of her friends, standing in front of a window that showed the horizon of lush, green Arcane. After several seconds of silence, she finally spoke. “I—I thought that if we could get Morpheus—then maybe Arcane and Ittriot—” A sigh filtered through her mouth. “Maybe I could bind them. Find a middle ground—” Sutton’s head perked up abruptly. He stood, turning to Tonks. “What did you say?”

“Maybe—I could’ve found a middle ground?” Sutton ran to his friend, throwing his arms around her in a hug. “You, Tonkin, are a genius.” Lilica and Tonks glanced from one another to Sutton’s back in shock as he ran out the door, calling behind him. “C’mon!” Tonks shrugged, grabbed her staff, and followed. Lilica watched them go, and turned sorrowfully to the window. If they couldn’t find Morpheus, then her Arcane would be gone, blown to ash by Ittriotine weapons. She could only hope Sutton had found a solution. -- Sutton moved along the borderline between Ittriot and Arcane. “There’s got to be something here.” Lilica joined her friends in a flurry of green skirts. “What is it? Looking up from her digging, Tonks turned to the Arcanian. “Morpheus said that he was being kept where there were no rules and war, where it was all just middle ground, right?” “Yes—” The bronze-skinned girl replied slowly, eyes darting to Sutton, who was still moving up and down the border. “Well, obviously, there’s no rules and war on the border. And it’s literally the middle ground.” Of course. The border line separated dark, dusty, ash-filled Ittriot with the smoke that billowed from the bellies of the factories and beautiful, green Arcane, full of life of all types and bubbling with plants that took animation at a Higher’s command. There was the loud thump of a metal object being hit and Sutton bounded back to his friends from the depths of the forest. His chocolate eyes were alive with excitement. “I found it.” Following Sutton back to the spot, Tonks and Lilica watched in amazement as he revealed a large, metal dome planted into the ground. With the flick of his wrist, Sutton had opened the hatch, revealing the long, dark tunnel underneath the dome with metal bars as stairs winding down and around the edges until there was no light to be seen. The three met eyes unsteadily. “Ladies first?” The Ittriotine boy grinned, a hint of anxiety in his smile. Lilica scowled at him whilst Tonks barked a laugh, eyes sparking with vitality as she launched herself into the tunnel without a word. Lilica followed suit, gulping in desperation as the blue sky shone up above her—she wondered if she’d ever see it again. Sutton watched his companions begin the long travel down and clutched the handle of his knife, speaking out loud to no one but himself. “Let’s go save Morpheus.” He leapt into the tunnel and closed the dome after him, leaving him in the dark to feel his way down.

Prose

Stolen Away Avery Behr

his tape was meant to be found by someone who could pass this information on to the world. My name is Alvar and don’t try to find me. I’m marked as missing and am never to be found by anyone remotely human. I am being hunted but that’s not the important part. You must pass the information on. Aliens are within our midst and they are hunting us. I must start way back before any of this started, back to when I had my first fight with the love of my life. “Why did you do that? Why did you lie to me?” my girlfriend asked, her usually open and happy face masked by a blank expression. “Why did you do that?” she insisted. I remained silent knowing any words would be twisted right back in my direction to make it all my fault again. “Alvar, why did you tell me you were here at home when I saw you at that party at Alexia’s house?” “Because I didn’t want to see you last night. My parents just… I really don’t want to deal with us right now okay?” “Does this mean the breakup you have been planning is happening now?” “No! I didn’t mean that, Lennie. I love you, and can’t break up with you over something my parents did. Look I…” My voice quivered as the words my parents told me last night echoed in my head, bouncing from one thought to the other and breaking up any formal trains of thought in my head. My girlfriend Lenora then let the blank expression leave her face and frowned. She laid a hand on my cheek as the tears that had gathered on my eyes spilled over. She said nothing but pressed soft warm kisses on my cheeks and forehead. She hesitated over my lips but I pulled her towards me and crushed my lips to her own. For a moment we shared a passionate kiss. Lenora grabbed my hands and pulled me towards the couch in her living room. She sat and patted her lap. I stretched out next to her and settled my head in her lap, eyes toward the ceiling. Her warm hands began to stroke my hair, and I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of warmth. “Var, What did your parents say?” Lenora asked. The feeling of warmth left as I opened my eyes to gaze into her deep green ones. I grimaced as the words began to bounce again. “They told me that…” I hesitated over the word that bounced around in my head. The word felt alien on my lips and tongue. “I was… adopted.” As soon as the words left my mouth the invisible pressure that had been crushing my mind left. Lenora pursed her lips while she processed the information. It was one of her cute habits when she was in deep thought or in the process of finding the right words to say. “Well, I really thought that they were your biological parents because you

had little things that were the same. You have your dad’s nose and your mother’s silky smooth hair.” She was also very observant and nothing was missed in her gaze. Again her lips pursed and her eyes flicked across the room as she connected the invisible dots in her head. “Did they show you any adoption papers? Any proof of where you came from?” “I didn’t give them the chance to show me any proof. I haven’t been back home since I left last night.” “You should go back and hear them out. Maybe they wanted to pull a prank on you? They are the prankster parents after all.” She laughed at that, a smile appearing on her beautiful face. I brushed a hand across her face and laughed despite my heavy heart. It felt good to laugh with her. Listening to my low bark with her joyous baying made the world a little lighter. As the laughter subsided the smile slid from my face. “Yeah, but they have been acting really weird lately. Not like prankster weird but weird for my parents. It feels like they have become other people.” Lenora laughed again but this time it was a nervous quick laugh. It was too quick for it to be one of mirth as if she confirmed my feelings. She gave me a quick kiss, which seemed to brush aside my worries. “I really think you should go home to your parents and apologize.” She quickly stood and moved to the door to escort me out but I grabbed her arm. “Hold on, apologize? For what? That I think they are acting really weird recently?” “No, for running out on them before they could explain themselves.” She pushed me towards her front door but I suddenly remembered something she said earlier in our conversation. Before she opened the door I grabbed her shoulders to look her in the eyes. “Wait, what did you mean before about the break up I had been planning on? You think I was breaking up with you?” She broke away from my grip and made the last couple of steps to her front door while exclaiming, “We can talk about this later Alvar, but I really think you should—” She pulled her door open to a sight I would never forget. At first I thought they were fake but the closer and wider my eyes got the more real they became. The bodies of my parents were hanging down from my girlfriends’ porch roof. At first I saw nothing and didn’t hear anything but the gibberish talking that flowed from my girlfriend was what caught my attention. She was whispering frantically to herself. “All they said was that he was adopted, not that he was going to be hunted. They didn’t give anything away did they? WE promised we wouldn’t talk.” I wrenched my eyes away from my parents’ bodies to ask Lenora what she meant when I saw him, the thing that would become my hunter. A mere shadow on the front lawn then, he was grabbing Lenora next to me in a matter of seconds. The last thing I remember is a blade being shoved into my gut, Lenora’s screams, and its lizard-orange eyes. At first I was only aware of the pain. A fire that seemed to spilt my guts apart and burn me from deep within. I was aroused from my deep sleep by someone 27

grabbing me and pulling me to my feet and shaking me hard. My eyes flew open but the pain only let me see blurry images with the tears flowing down my face. Slowly sounds filtered in through the buzzing. “Wake, human, you have slept for long enough and I’m not going to change your bandages while you are lying down.” The orange eyes came into focus and the cold dread draped itself over my spine as I recalled hazy memories. Mom, Dad, Lennie. “What did you do to them?” “What was that? What did I do to them? You are asking the wrong person. The High Emperor killed your parents for warning you of your upcoming trial.” For a moment the orange-eyed nut job was distracted enough for me to slam the heel of my hard boots into his unprotected toes. I felt something snap and break under my boot, but I kept the pressure on. “What was that? You call that an attack?” He was suddenly across the room moving so fast my eyes couldn’t detect his movements. “All the High Emperor wants is to enjoy himself in a nice hunt. I am being kind to you, human. This is how you repay me for keeping you alive?” “Alive? What? You are the one who stabbed me!” “No! I have specific orders not to harm you. It was the Mighty One himself who slipped past your meager defenses and placed you within Xegawia’s arms. I am making sure you are at full health and won’t die easily from disease at the beginning.” I looked again at this thing. He wasn’t like the one from last night. He was shorter and not as muscular, and his eyes were more of a yellow than they were a sunset orange. “Why are you doing this? Why pick me out of millions of other people on this world? Why kill my parents over them telling me I was adopted? And who the heck is Xegewhea?” “First of all this helping you isn’t permanent. It’s just till you are able to have a fair chance against the Emperor. Picking a human to hunt is a long process. So long that no one has suspected that many of the world’s kidnappings are due to us quietly taking some here and there. Your parents’ telling you were adopted was a way to try to push you away to try to let you escape before the High Emperor could begin his hunt. Xegawia is a death god that most of my evolved kind believe in.” “How long have you been doing this? How long have you lived among us without us knowing?” The room grew quiet as the thing contemplated my question. He then turned around to look me in the eyes with his creepy orange-yellow ones and said, “Since you monkeys learned to walk on two legs.” He gazed at me a little longer before turning back around to continue to do whatever he was doing before. “Where’s my girlfriend? What did this High Emperor do with her?” “Have to take something to get you motivated right? Mothers, fathers, lovers both male and female, friends, someone you hold special in your heart.” “Are they a sort of games? Do you only hunt males?” “No these are not games, it is a hunt where you run and he chases. Yes, 28

usually males are the prey that is picked out. We did have one female who qualified. She ended up killing that High Emperor. “ He trailed off and put down whatever he had been working on and turned back to me. The buzzing was faint but growing as the pain chewed its way through my gut. The lizard eyes grabbed my arm, guided me to the only chair in the room, and began to unwind the bandages around my middle. I began to shy away but I couldn’t escape as he changed my bandages and carefully cleaned around the stitches that had been used to keep my guts form spilling all over the place. “If you happen to kill the Mighty One, and that’s a big if, you will become one of us. The lizard-eyes as you keep calling us. At least call me Jeremy.” “How did you know? Actually, Jeremy sounds kind of normal for a seemingly alien-like being. What happened to that girl you were talking about?” “Yeah the mind-reading comes from partaking the Mighty One’s life force also known as his blood. You’re right to say that Jeremy is normal because that is what we were before the hunt. Normal.” The room grew silent as his words rolled over me and my mind began to process them. “In a few days you will be out in the woods with the greatest and oldest of our generation as of now. The point of these hunting trips is to show that the old age is giving way to the new. It’s also to keep our power in check. So there is not too many of us, but not too little of us. The girl was a mistake. After killing the High Emperor hunting her and partaking in his blood she went insane. Not an insane you regular humans would think but killing spree crazy. She began killing many people in Europe and when we couldn’t hide it anymore we began World War II.” Jeremy grew silent as he finished wrapping the last of the bandages around my waist. He said nothing else after that and soon left closing me in on total darkness. This is how I got here. Several months have passed since then. I am being hunted by a super-human being. If I kill him I become one of the Evolved Ones or I die by his hand. I have tried to find my love but so far that has been fruitless. I am alone and I am being hunted. To those who find this tape, share this with the world. Let this mindless killing for status stop. Be safe and watch your back and watch for the orange eyes. If you ever see those eyes, you are looking at your hunter. Good luck.

Prose

Dirge for November Cyrus Patel

he exact year is not known, but the month is November. Most people in the underground cities scattered across the US believe that the year is sometime in the 2400s. Everyone lost count after an event that came to be known as the Great Pollution. Pollution got so bad that crops could not be grown because the soil became so contaminated. More processed foods were bought, and most of these processed foods were made in factories. These factories ran 24/7, harming the environment even more, so it was a never-ending cycle. Factories needed more money to be open all day. Since they were the primary source of food, the government decided to supply money. The government also began printing more money. They thought it would help since the majority of the money went to factories, but it only ran the US economy into the ground. $1000 became practically worthless. Large clouds of dust started to form in the sky from all the pollution injected into the environment. These clouds eventually started blocking out the sun. The days became shorter, the darkness grew longer, and the temperature got colder. It soon became so cold that people had to burrow underground near to the earth’s core to be warm. The survivors of Las Vegas, Winchester, Spring Valley, and a few other cities in Nevada came together and formed an underground city called Crater. A leader, named Dirge, was appointed. Dirge was a state representative for Nevada when he lived above the ground. He had good leadership skills, and he made good decisions, so he was an obvious choice when it came time to elect a leader. An organized week was formed similar to weeks when everyone lived above the ground. Most people worked breaking off the earth’s crust for 3 days and then rested the next 2 days. From when they woke up until 7 hours had passed, most people toiled at breaking off chunks of the earth’s crust. “This is ridiculous! It’s hot and muggy, and I’m tired of doing this.” “Would you rather be somewhat hot down here? Or freezing to death in the negative temperatures above the ground? Quit complaining and get back to work,” said Aurn. Aurn also used to be a state representative alongside Dirge and a woman named Lorn when they lived above ground. Down here, he was put in charge of a small group of workers. His job was to make sure they harvested as much of the earth’s crust as they could before the work session was over. “And what’re you gonna do if I don’t?” “You don’t work, you don’t eat,” said Aurn. “Hmph.” Scientists of the city discovered a new sort of fuel created by heating chunks of the earth’s crust enough to break it down into a pulpy liquid. They called it crust plasma. The only downside is that harvesting it takes a long time because breaking off chunks of the earth’s crust is hard labor. It has to be done by hand. When the people first moved underground, they used C4 explosives to break up the crust, but they ran out, and there were no materials to make more. Crust plasma has a

reddish glow and can fuel almost anything. Scientists also found a way that they could possibly use crust plasma to power a missile-shaped weapon that could explode in the sky and clear out the clouds of pollution by pulverizing the molecules, thus exposing the sun. A harsh ringing sounded out. A man with a megaphone walked forward and put the megaphone up to his mouth. “The work session is over. Return to your quarters. Dinner will be soon.” Everyone walked back to their quarters. Tired from the day’s work. As Aurn was walking back to his quarters, someone called for him. “Aurn! Aurn! Wait up.” Aurn turned around to see who called him. It was Lorn, one of the other state representatives he served alongside when he lived above ground. Down here, she was Dirge’s right hand. “What is it, Lorn?” “It’s Dirge,” she paused for a moment and took a breath, “He’s gone crazy. We gotta do something about him. He wants to turn the three-day work week into a five-day work week. No breaks at all.” “That can’t be right. Dirge would never do that,” said Aurn. “He’s probably just overwhelmed or stressed. You know how bad he wants to see the sun again.” “That’s not it. I know him better than anyone here. He’s changed, Aurn. I promise you. We gotta do something.” “I trust Dirge. He wouldn’t do something like that. Quit your crazy talk. Get back to your quarters.” “You’ll see, Aurn. You’ll see. I just hope it’s not too late when you do,” said Lorn. Aurn washed up, went to the food hall to grab his meal, ate dinner back at his quarters, and went to sleep. The next morning he got up and went outside. He climbed the rocks on the outskirts high enough to see all of the city. The red glows of crust plasma dotted the ugly blackened city of Crater. “Beautiful,” he said aloud. At the food hall, as Aurn was getting his breakfast, the man with the megaphone stepped in again and asked everyone to quiet down. “I have an announcement! The three day work week will be changed into a five day work week. No breaks. This is a temporary change.” The crowd in the food hall roared. Most of them did not like the changes that were made. “That is all. Thank you for your time,” the announcer said as he backed away. Lorn was right. “What’d I tell you?” said Lorn, practically echoing Aurn’s thoughts. Aurn turned around in his seat to face her. “You heard the announcement. It’s just a temporary change. I’m sure Dirge has a good plan.” “So you’re just going to go along with this? You’re not going to say anything to him? Aurn, this is a terrible plan. He’s going to work us to death. This is no temporary change.” Aurn got up and walked away without saying anything. During the work session, many workers refused to do anything. These 31

workers were escorted off the work area. Some of them came back later covered in cuts and bruises. Some of them did not come back. This went on for days with no rests in between. After what seemed like a century, the man with the megaphone came to the food hall again. “Today will be a rest day,” he announced. “Starting tomorrow, sessions will extend from seven hours to nine hours. Make sure you are well rested and ready to work.” “Why are we being forced to do this?” someone cried out. “You’re corrupt! Corrupt!” another said. Aurn made his way to Dirge’s quarters and banged on the door. Dirge opened it. “Hello,” said Dirge. “Hey.” “What’re y—” “What’s going on? We were told that this was a temporary change. We’ve been working nonstop. And what happened to all the workers? I haven’t seen many of them in days. This—” “Why don’t you let me worry about that stuff. You go rest and make sure you’re ready for tomorrow’s work day.” “I want those clouds covering the sun to be gone just as much as you, but this is just too much. We were told this would be just a temporary change.” “No, you do not!” shouted Dirge angrily as he slammed his fist on a nearby table. Aurn had heard those same words before. “The sun is my only remembrance of her. Of—” “Lynn.,” said Aurn, finishing his sentence for him. The two stood in silence for a moment. Lynn was Dirge’s wife. She died of cancer years ago. The exact year was 2381, and the month was November. Aurn, Lorn, and Dirge had presented a bill to the House of Representatives that would make cancer treatment more affordable. Aurn was sitting at his desk when Dirge walked in. “How’s that report coming?” said Dirge. “It’s coming,” replied Aurn. “I know you’ve been working hard on the details of that bill, but could y—” “Enough about the bill already, Dirge. I’ve been working as hard as I can on it. It just doesn’t look like it’s going to get passed. I know it would help with your wife’s treatment and all, but there’s nothing more I can do.” “You don’t understand. The only way we can afford the most effective cancer treatment for Lynn is if that bill gets passed.” “I understand completelyl; there is just nothing I can do.” “No, you do not!” shouted Dirge angrily as he slammed his fist down on Aurn’s desk. “I need this. We need this.” “The sun is the only thing I have left that is a living reminder of Lynn. I need this, and I am not losing it like I lost that stupid bill,” said Dirge. “I know the loss of your wife is hard, but you can’t take that anger out on the people you’re entrusted to protect. This isn’t the right way.” “Shut up! Get out! You know nothing!” Dirge shouted. “Dirge, I’m trying to help you.” “Get him out of here!” 32

Three large men grabbed Aurn and escorted him out of Dirge’s quarters. Days of ten-hour work sessions went by with only a few rest days scattered here and there. One day in the food hall, Lorn approached Aurn. “Aurn, this is getting crazy,” said Lorn, “We have to do something.” “I know. I’m sure that we will get a rest day soon. Just keep working.” “I don’t want a rest day. I want things to go back to normal.” Aurn walked away. Every few days, Lorn would call out to incite rebellion. “This is ridiculous! We have to revolt. No more harsh work conditions! No more ten-hour work days!” A few people would respond, but they were normally suppressed, or they gave up. Dirge’s right-hand had turned into one of his worst enemies. Ten hour work sessions turned into thirteen hour work sessions. Rest days became few. Lorn hadn’t made a speech in a long time. One day, in the food hall, the announcer came in and announced that work sessions would now be extended to fifteen hours. This is too much. Dirge needs some sense talked into him, thought Aurn. He went to Dirge’s door and slammed on it. “Dirge! Open up! Dirge!” No answer. Aurn took out his knife, jammed it into the lock, and sharply twisted it, breaking the lock. He pushed the door open. Furniture was overturned. Books were strewn all about. It looked as though someone had wrecked the place. Aurn looked to his right and saw a body lying on the ground. He went up to it and turned it over. It was Lorn. Oh my god. Lorn. Oh my god. There were several knife wounds in her stomach. I should’ve listened to her I should’ve listened to her I should’ve listened to her. Those words echoed through his head as loud as a machine gun, but it was too late. She was gone. “It is sad that she had to die,” a voice said behind Aurn. He turned around to see Dirge. “She was a valuable asset and a good friend, but she kept questioning me and getting others to question me as well. She should’ve kept her mouth shut like everyone else.” “Dirge, this is too far. We can clear those pollution clouds. No one has to die, and no one needs to work fifteen-hour work sessions.” “You need what I say you need! Right now, you need to be silent,” said Dirge as he pulled out his knife. Aurn quickly pulled out his own knife and lunged at Dirge, who dodged it by stepping to the side. Dirge then grasped Aurn’s arm and the back of his head and slammed it into the wall. Aurn blacked out from the blow. When he awoke, thin wires were flowing all around him. They were up in the rocks. A little ways off from the city. Dirge was bent over a portion of the wire, tampering with it. He turned around to see Aurn wake up. “Good, you’re awake.” “What’s all this?” said Aurn. Dirge held up a small metal box with a switch on it. Then he pointed to something on the ground that Aurn hadn’t seen in a very long time. “C4 explosives? We were told that all explosives had been used to break off the earth’s crust for crust plasma. You want the crust plasma more than anyone, 33

to power the weapon to clear the skies so that you could see the sun. Why’d you keep the explosives?” “For this,” said Dirge. “Explosives can only break off so much. People. Lots and lots people working together to break it up can do much more than a few explosions. The people look up to you. They will work only if you work. There are several explosives all around the city wired to this switch. If you don’t work, I’ll blow this city to the ground.” “You wouldn’t! Without us, you’ll never get the crust plasma you need, and you’ll never see the sun.” “Try me,” said Dirge as he turned around to face the city. “People will do anything when death is looking at them eye-to-eye, and they will—” His words were interrupted by Aurn punching him in the side of the head. The switch to activate the C4 flew out of reach. Buzzed from the blow, Dirge scrambled to grab it, but Aurn picked him up, slamming him to the ground. Aurn then jumped on top of him and beat him as fine as dust blowing in the wind. When he was finished, he was out of breath. Dirge’s face was bathed in blood. Aurn checked Dirge’s pulse. His heart was still beating. He then checked to see if he was breathing. He was. The exact year still is not known, but the month is November. It has been a year since Aurn became the new leader of the city of Crater. No one had seen or heard from Dirge in a while. All of the people gathered above the ground for the first time in years, bundled together to keep warm. There was finally enough crust plasma to power the weapon to clear out the dust clouds. They all counted down from ten and watched the missile soar off into the sky and explode in magnificent, deep red. It was beautiful. The next day, they came back up. A little trickle of sunlight came through. People rejoiced at this tiny gesture. It was even more beautiful than the explosion the night before. More of the sun shone through in the following days. Various other underground cities came up to see the beauty. People conversed with one another and talked about life in their own cities. It felt as though life was somewhat normal again. Aurn grabbed some food and walked towards the ladder leading down to Crater. “Aurn, why do you always take your meal down there?” someone asked him. He ignored them and kept walking. He made his way down the ladder carefully, so as not to spill anything. He went to a door with a broken lock and pushed it open. A long-haired man with a thick beard stood there chained to the ground at his arms and legs. Aurn carefully placed the plate of food on the ground in front of the man and began to walk away. “What does it look like? How does it feel on your skin?” said the man. Aurn turned around and looked at him in the eyes for a moment. Then he turned around and walked away in silence. “How does it feel!?” the man screamed out in anger. “How!? How!?” But there was no reply. He started crying. No one was there to comfort him. No one was there to hear his sobs. He then bent down on his knees and stuck his face into the plate of food. He ate it all up in voracious fury. Like a dog. Licking the plate clean. He never saw the sun. 34

Theresa Andrzejewski

Prose

Tragic

ood evening, New York City! I’m Brian McBarter—” “—and I’m Monica Rostego—” “—and it is six o’clock on Wednesday, December 16th. First off, we just received an update on flight 6A56F from Chicago to LaGuardia. Monica, I believe you have the details?” “Sadly, yes. Around three o’clock this evening, the commercial jet lost power in one of its two engines, and the second engine caught fire shortly after. Officials believe the engine failures were caused by a series of mechanical errors that had gone unnoticed until today.” “That’s unfortunate! What happened to the passengers? I do believe the flight was full.” “It sure was, Brian. It was tragic…the pilot tried to land in the Hudson River, but the nose of the plane hit first, and it hit hard, immediately killing the pilot, copilot, and many of the flight attendants and first-class passengers. The survivors of the crash escaped through the emergency exits, but had nowhere to go other than the river. Officials are saying they were killed by the below-freezing temperatures of the water.” “Oh, that’s terrible! There were no survivors at all?” “Correct. Not a single passenger or flight attendant was found alive.” “Oh, Monica, that’s so tragic. Now, on a much, much happier note, our correspondent—” The newscaster’s voice was abruptly silenced as I jammed my thumb hard on the remote’s power button, my hand trembling. Sometime during the report I dropped my cup of hot chocolate, but I couldn’t feel where the beverage burned my skin or where the shards of the shattered mug pierced my clothing and skin. A numb feeling spread throughout my body and my mind blanked as if it were unable to register what it had just been told, like it didn’t want to believe that my sister had been on that plane. Oh gosh, my twin sister had been on that plane. The girl whom I’d had to put up with since we shared our mother’s womb. I stumbled into the kitchen, breathing heavily and so loudly I was positive the neighbors could hear me. Not that it mattered or anything. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but my sister, whom I knew in my heart was gone forever. She couldn’t have survived; the flight had been full and there were no survivors. Some people think twins have some sort of inner connection with each other that allows them to feel each other’s emotions, but that is not the case for my sister and me. At least, not for me—if either of us had that extra insight, it would definitely be Blaire. She was always the sensitive, creative, emotional one of the two of us. Whereas I was rational and relied heavily on logic, she was spontaneous and trusted her gut feeling. People never believed that we were twins, mainly because we contrasted with each other so much. And now, that contrast 35

shined brighter than a lighthouse on a stormy night. I based all of my feelings off facts, not what I thought I felt—or rather, what I hoped I felt—in my heart. As tragic as it was, I had to accept that Blaire was gone. A sob escaped my lips, and I closed my eyes briefly in a weak attempt to keep myself together. Of course, it’s kind of hard to stay calm when the whole world is colorless and spinning wildly out of control. Slightly disoriented—okay, maybe majorly disoriented—I steadied myself by grabbing the edge of the counter. But instead of feeling slick marble, in one hand I felt the rough flexible texture of an opened popcorn bag. Somebody gasped, probably me, since nobody else was in my apartment, just as a distant memory came into focus. “Pass the popcorn, will you?” I tear my attention away from the screen just long enough to glare at my pig of a sister. I’ve asked her for the bowl at least three times already, and she’s still ignoring me and stuffing her face instead. “Not yet! At least wait until Sam finds Frodo all trapped in that stringy stuff.” “But I’m starving,” I whine. She shushes me in response, refusing to even look at me. I stick my tongue out at her, but of course she doesn’t see it. “Fine then,” I growl. After plastering a mischievous grin on my face, I launch myself across the couch at Blaire, roaring a fierce battle cry. She shrieks as I crash into her, and my momentum flips us off the couch. “ANNA, GET OFF OF ME RIGHT NOW!” She is beyond furious at this point, and I simply sit on top of her, holding her down, as she rants about how she is missing the good part of the movie, how she can’t even see the screen, how she can’t reach the bowl of popcorn. I stifle giggles as she continues to complain. “How tragic,” I coo at her. Fed up with my act of revenge, Blaire lets out a screech of frustration. That does it. I can’t resist any longer; spurs of laughter erupt from my body. I roll off of my sister, clutching my stomach and attempting to take calming breaths. Blaire, already back on the couch, glares at me. “You are so going to pay for that.” “I kind of already did,” I said, very matter-of-factly. “How tragic,” she coos, obviously mocking me, “looks like you are just going to have to pay again.” My vision faded and then refocused, almost like somebody zoomed in and out really fast on a camera. I shook my head to clear it, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blinking red light of our answering machine. Somebody had called. “What?” I murmured to myself. How could I have not heard the phone ring in the past ten minutes? Who would have even called the apartment, rather than my cell phone? Curiosity got the better of me, and before I could decide what to do, I had already crossed the kitchen and pressed the small play back button. Right away, a familiar voice reached my ears. It was Molly, the professional dancer and close friend of Blaire’s who was giving us dance lessons. Whatever she needed to say, I didn’t hear. I found myself getting sucked into another flashback, this one more recent and much more vivid. “Okay, I’m not even going to lie. That sucked.” “Oh, please Anna. Be honest with yourself. That didn’t suck. It was actually fun, you just suck at dancing,” Blaire says with a laugh. She finishes her water bottle, only intending to take a sip. We’re both exhausted, having just completed our first dance 36

lesson with Molly. I want nothing more than to go home and take a shower, so naturally, Blaire wants something completely different. “Molly,” she begins, “are you ready for round two?” Molly grins, flashing us a quick thumbs-up. I groan in response, “I thought we were supposed to leave after an hour!” Blaire frowns, but her eyes sparkle like the stars on a clear night. “Oops…I guess I forgot to tell you that I scheduled a two-hour lesson for us.” I groan again, additionally throwing a glare at my sister. I start to complain about why I need to go home, why I can’t dance any longer, why I want to leave so desperately. Blaire suddenly silences me. “How tragic,” she says dramatically. “I am so sorry that you’re stuck here.” She smirks, and I can hear Molly snickering off to the side. I groan (again) and realize that I better get used to it. With a sister like Blaire, I’ll be groaning often. My throat made this weird choking sound, and I realized that I was crying. Tears fell from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks and off my chin. My knees wobbled and just as I thought I was going to collapse, I heard the apartment door swing open. “Anna? Are you here? I’m home!” I froze. The tears stopped as unexpectedly as they started. I stopped trembling (I hadn’t noticed I’d been shaking in the first place) and slowly peeled myself away from the cabinets. “Blaire?” I called in disbelief. Sure enough, her head popped around the doorframe. Her blonde curls fell loosely from her head, and her striking green eyes glowed in the dim light. I was utterly shocked. Hadn’t she been…well, dead? “Hey! So listen, you will not believe what happened. I was in Chicago for that company meeting, right? Well it ended, okay, and it ended three hours later than it was supposed to! So the airline gave my seat away and I missed my flight back, and I had to hitch a ride on a couple of buses and a train because for some weird reason they had to cancel all the other flights to New York. And then— Anna? Are you okay?” She paused to look at me, and I understood that I was probably scaring her—I must have looked awful, not to mention the fact that I was staring at her with my mouth slightly open. “Blaire, I don’t know how to say this, but…” I sighed. Why did this have to be so hard to say? “But?” she prompted, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were dead. That plane that you were supposed to get on, it crashed into the Hudson River this afternoon. Nobody survived.” Blaire was quiet. “Oh,” she finally said, after neither of us spoke for a while. A smirk gradually spread across her face. “You thought I was dead? How tragic!” I nearly slapped her for saying that. “Blaire,” I snapped, “that’s not something to joke about.” But as I glared at her, I couldn’t stop the smile that slowly fought its way across my lips. “It is good to have you back, though. I missed you.”

Prose

The Last F(l)ight Michael Samaras

he shrill cry of the alarm clock sent a pounding sensation through my skull. I quickly rolled out of bed and hit the snooze button. As I began to gather my belongings into my suitcase, my roommate Muhammad hopped out of bed. “Today’s the day,” he said to me as he began to haphazardly toss his clothing into his duffle bag. “We’ve been preparing for this for a long time. You ready to change the world?” “I am,” I responded. “It is so exciting to think today is the day that we will be joining the angels and the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Muhammad nodded his head in agreement. “It’s such an exciting thing to think about,” he said. “But I think we better get going. Our flight leaves in about an hour and a half. But first we need to say a prayer. We’ll need every bit of Allah’s blessings to carry this out successfully.” After checking out of the hotel, Muhammad and I called a cab. We rode into the bustling city just as it awoke from its slumber. We surveyed the modern Boston cityscape as we headed closer into the city’s core. I sighed. Boston is such a beautiful city, I thought to myself. The people here are relatively kind. But this place would look much nicer with all of these skyscrapers being replaced with large domed mosques and beautiful towering minarets. Maybe Allah will do that someday. My thoughts were interrupted when the cab halted suddenly. A line of cars stretched ahead of us like a caravan in the Arabian Desert. Feeling my patience begin to wear thin, I asked the driver how long the delay was going to be. “Oh, it shouldn’t be too long,” the man answered in a gruff Bostonian accent. “We should get to the airport in about ten minutes.” Satisfied with the man’s answer, I pulled out my pocket Quran and began reading. True to the driver’s word, we arrived at the airport about ten minutes later. Muhammad and I thanked the driver, and we headed into the airport. Muhammad tapped me on the shoulder and pointed over to security. “I can’t believe that is all we have to do to get to the planes,” he jeered. “I bet that will change after today.” After we passed through security, Muhammad and I walked towards two men sitting away from the entrance to the plane. They arose and greeted us warmly. “Muhammad, Abdullah, how are you today?” the taller of the two asked. “Oh, I’m doing well Waleed, thank you,” I answered. “Good, good, may Allah bless you,” he said. “Are you ready for today?” I nodded. “I am, I am. I believe today will usher in a new era of a world ruled by the new Caliph Osama bin Laden.” “Yes, the new Caliph,” Waleed said. “May Allah bless him.” While we continued to talk about the day’s upcoming events, we were interrupted by a voice over the loud speakers. “Attention. American Airlines Flight Eleven with service to Los Angeles is

now accepting passengers seated in the first class section of the aircraft to board at this time.” Muhammad turned to the three of us. “Well, time to go,” he said. “Our flight to Paradise awaits.” After we boarded the aircraft, the other passengers sitting in the rows behind us began to file in the plane to their seats. The once tranquil atmosphere of the plane was replaced by the sound of chatter and the occasional ear-piercing cry of a baby. I turned around to look at the infant. It was a cute little baby. The woman holding the baby was telling another passenger that this was his first flight. Too bad it will also be his last. The flight attendant appeared from behind a portable kitchen and began announcing safety procedures to the passengers. I was too distracted by the woman’s beauty to listen to what she was saying. When a passenger asked her a question, she answered with such a gentle voice that only a mother could possess. I began to feel bad for her kids. What would they do without a mother? Should we really be doing this at all? I quickly ignored the thought. “It’s just the devil trying to distract me from my true duty,” I mumbled to myself. By this time, the flight attendant had finished outlining the safety of the plane and sat in her own designated seat. The captain of the plane announced that the plane was about to go to the runway. Time for takeoff. About fifteen minutes after the plane took off, Muhammad tapped me on the shoulder. He nodded at me, letting me know that it was time to put everything into action. I reached across the aisle and tapped on Waleed’s shoulder, giving him and our other partner Satam the nod. The nod that was going to change the world. We quickly hopped out of our seats and rushed towards the cockpit. The flight attendant sprang out of her seat, trying to block us from entering the room. Muhammad whipped a box cutter out of his pocket and slashed her throat. She immediately fell to the ground. With her out of the way, Muhammad and I darted into the cockpit. The pilot and copilot tried to keep control of the craft, but we quickly overpowered them. While Muhammad repeatedly stabbed the pilot with his box cutter, I pulled out my pocketknife and began an assault on the copilot. Pinning him down, I started to dig the knife into his trembling flesh. The copilot looked at me with pleading eyes. “Please don’t do this!” he yelled. “I have a wife and two kids at home, I don’t want my kids remembering their father like—” His words brought a feeling of guilt over me. Not wanting to be influenced by his plea, I thrust the pocketknife into his chest. I felt pity for the man, so I began to draw the moon and star on his forehead with his own blood so that Allah could guide him to Paradise. Muhammad looked over at me. “Abdullah, what are you doing? Get into the other seat!” Tossing the copilot’s body aside, I sat in the passenger seat and grabbed the controls. Muhammad and I began to jerk the plane south in order for us to get towards our final target. We exchanged smug glances as we sped the plane up. We were defiantly going to pull this off. 39

In the cabin, the murmur of confusion had morphed into a roar of chaos. Children and adults alike screamed in horror as they slowly realized their fate. Frustrated, Muhammad grabbed a microphone off of the dashboard and pressed a button. “Everyone will be okay,” he said into the speaker. “Just settle down. We are heading back to the airport.” Despite Muhammad’s false reassurance, the panic continued to spread through the plane like wildfire. I chose to ignore it and to continue flying. As we began our final descent, a certain sound began to catch my attention over all of the others. The terrified screams of the baby were quickly rising over the crescendo of cries. I could hear his mother desperately trying to comfort him, while trying to keep her own composure despite knowing her fate. Those same thoughts that plagued my conscience earlier were know creeping back into the corners of my mind. Is this really what Allah wants? Can his message only be spread through the killing of others? Am I really practicing what the Quran teaches? My thoughts were interrupted by Muhammad’s voice, which was trembling with excitement. “Look Abdullah, we’re approaching the city. The time is drawing near,” he said to me. I peered out of the glass, surveying the skyline of the city. Like Boston, sleek modern skyscrapers dominated the harbor. As the plane approached the two tallest towers in the city, I could feel a knot forming in my stomach. As we sped up, hurtling towards the building, a revelation hit me on the head like a hammer. This isn’t right. This isn’t Allah’s will. This is not humane. This is not what Islam wants me to do. This is so wrong. Oh Allah, please forgive me. This is so wrong. “Look, brother!” Muhammad shouted. “Our trip into Paradise is within reach!” When we headed closer to the building, I noticed two things. One was the expression of horror of the people within the building. The other was a reflection in the building’s glass. The glass reflected two monstrous creatures piloting a hijacked aircraft. As feelings of shame and terror flooded my body, I muttered a quick prayer. “Oh Allah, forgive me.” I could feel my eyes begin to well with tears. “I now know I am deviating from your will.” Tears began to stream down my face.

Adam Woelke

Prose

A Brief History of Love

ou can’t buy love.

That saying, as most people know it, is somewhat inaccurate. While it’s true that someone can’t go to the store and pick up love, it’s more keenly related to the fact that companies are no longer allowed to sell bottled, misted, freeze dried, or packaged love. Especially not after the great love triangle of 1970. Most people aren’t familiar with the history of love, however. In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find someone with real knowledge of what love really means. Lucky for you, though, I know a few things about what really happened. It all started after the Spring of 1893 when a particularly heated summer was brimming with love-saturated air. As usual, the young men and women were gallivanting about, riding their brand new mustangs and in their new carriages, trying to catch just a little bit of love-struck air for themselves. They pleaded with it, whispered sweet nothings into it, and laughed at all the right times to make it blush. They’d chip away small quantities to keep in their locked boxes and pockets, content with saving a few ounces of pure, untainted love to nibble on and taste every once in a while to keep them warm in their beds at night. But, as the youth enjoyed the benefits of chasing love around the bedroom, certain others watched carefully. They studied the love. They practiced finding love. Love became their only priority, and soon, their lives revolved around it. Passion and romance became a focus of study and dissection, and they pieced it back together like the cogs in a clock. By the time summer came around, the research and development team for Sears, Roebuck, and Co. (a small company that no one had ever heard of) figured out a way to harvest love. It came packaged in little pink bottles and it was even crushed down into such tiny pieces that it could be administered in a gentle spray of perfume or cologne. In the Sears and Roebuck catalogue, you could buy rifles, homes, and—now, for the first time—the love of your life, for the low price of $29.99 plus tax. The price of a premium, head-over-heels, true love would run you $49.99 plus tax, depending mainly on the price of shipping and handling. For those who could afford it, the Till-Death-Do-Us-Part fragrance was designed to give the wearer all the love they would ever need for the rest of their natural life, for the low, low price of $100! And if any of those options were just a little too much, you could always try your luck with a case of Puppy Love Sarsaparilla for a discounted price of $19.99 plus tax. It was a popular product with younger audiences, but it unfortunately had a 75% failure rate a few weeks out of the box. However, it was not incredibly uncommon to see an old couple boast that their puppy love lasted well into their 80s before dissipating. 41

As far as Sears, Roebuck, and Co. was concerned, business had never been better. They were amazed at the price people were willing to pay just to feel affection. The transcontinental railroads managed to spread food, cattle, and Sears’ patented love juice around the country. Out of everyone who had enough money to spare, not a single person was left without their special someone at their side. People were beginning to love Love! It flew off the shelves faster than Sears could produce it, and soon, they had to think of ways to mass produce romance, attraction, and lust. Factories sprang up and pumped out red and pink clouds of exhaust, all day and night, concentrating ounces of sweet smelling perfume and gallon-loads of love potion so potent it would cause anyone within a four yard radius to fall madly in love with the nearest person. It was at this point that Sears and Roebuck decided to hire both male and female workers. America was in love. It nestled itself deep within the heart of Dixie and passed along the interstate veins to every reaching state across the country. We were alive with passion and our economy prospered. Sears and Roebuck became world renowned for their love revolution, and because of the attention, it was demanded that they spread the love well beyond the states’ border. And they were most certainly happy to sell their passion for legal tender. At first, most countries were satisfied to accept the high-in-demand product in exchange for money, but some wanted more. The leaders of several countries—including Great Britain, the Ottoman Empire, Germany, and Spain— joined France in the year 1899 to decide how they were going to fairly divvy out Sears’s love. It became known as the Advocates of Love Conference, and as a result, the city where it took place, Paris, became known as the City of Love. Around 1914, however, the world was gripped with a terrible conflict. War was shrouding Europe in a cocoon, and they were in desperate need of supplies, weapons, and raw emotion. The United States was happy to oblige. To both sides of the war, we sent love with every package. For a time, both Allied and Central powers enjoyed a cup of frothing hot lust to drink in remembrance of their families back home. The capital was much needed by America during the time, and we had our heart set on sharing our love with the world. But it didn’t last long. The British had a strategy to win the war and it involved the destruction of German morale. They decided to embargo the Germans from American shipments. Soon, there was no love at all. The Germans became bitter and hatred coursed through their veins from withdrawal. Their speech became louder and guttural. The Central Powers lashed out in rage, and through the obscurity of it all, they fell into insecurity. No one loved them, it seemed. The war kept on for another five years, ending only with defeat for the Central Powers, who couldn’t keep fighting. Newspapers around the world echoed the sentiment of the Allied Powers and their victory. “The Enemy Loses to the Power of Love!” the famous headline read. Many years later, Huey Lewis and the News would write a song based on this surrender. It was featured in the classic 1985 movie Back to the Future, directed by Robert Zemeckis. The excitement in Europe was settling down and the countries were beginning the somber process of reshaping their world into something it wanted to be. Americans were more than happy to help again, and with the surrender of 42

the Central Powers, we were free to bolster them back up. All seemed to be looking up for the world, seemingly young and naive in its previous actions. There was some chance, with a little bit of courage and an injection of compassion, our world would develop from its cocoon and spread its wings to fly. The discovery that we were out of love, however, frightened the world. Love, scientists found out, spoiled easier than milk in the sun. America’s prime export had become passion, and without it, our relationship-based economy would collapse into devastation. This era, beginning in 1930, would come to be known as the Great Depression, when dating was at an all-time low and divorce rates were at an all-time high. Even the love-brokers in the New York Love Exchange couldn’t live without their loved ones by their sides. Many took their own lives. This time of depression would remain in a fog-like state, shrouding most of the modern world in a blanket of cold loneliness. There was even a war some time later over the dwindling resources of adoration and lust. It was a dark time for humans as a species. Many had thought they were finished with playing around in the trenches with their lives, but things went rotten as the gilded, glowing heart of humanity withered into dust. The attacking nations searched for any way possible to harvest the remaining bits of love from where they could, in hopes of returning their country to its former self. They were led by a madman, though - obsessed with searching for a sustainable source of love for his people, he committed atrocities at the hands of his lackeys. At first, he harvested the land of countries he took by force; he mined what he could and saved it. Still, there wasn’t nearly enough raw love to feed his ailing people. He looked somewhere else: he looked at the people themselves. Those who were kicked off of their land were taken into his camps, where their bodies were harvested for the last bits of love they contained. People cried for the love to come back. The war in Europe was bitter and brutal. Not many people like to talk about it anymore. Americans, however, had a reserve of love left over. A little, not a lot. A project known as the Manhattan Project was working on figuring out a way to multiply their holdings by splitting up the resource and allowing it to regenerate on its own—a quality thought to be observed on a subatomic level when the atoms of a love molecule cling to the closest thing within reach, forming a covalent bond and, in effect, more love. But what they found was so much more. Upon splitting a simple atom of romance into two halves of lust, a chain reaction took place, illuminating a whole new type of affection-based particles in the air with a soft red hue, lovely and incandescent. To demonstrate our findings, we dropped two “love bombs” on the country of Japan, showing them that we cared for them and wanted them to join us in our pursuit of common harmony among men. It was only after we dropped the second bomb that they dropped their weapons and surrendered to our embrace. After the bombs fell, the world fell into a gentle sleep to rest its weariness and gather back its focus. From the ashes of the old world, a new product, radiant and rejuvenated, soared into the airways. The technology of war proved to be something as gentle and reassuring as the old Sears product, and it could be grown exponentially. It was sold for pennies on the dollar. 43

As this went on, however, we Americans weren’t happy. The product that became almost an essential when shopping at the store was shoddier and not worth the box it came in. Love stank. It was odd and gross, and we were tired of tasting a commercialized product. It was all over the media and in the papers. Artists were even recording songs about their dissatisfaction with the product. One such artist was Gloria Jones, releasing her song “Tainted Love” about a recent case of Love Poisoning that infected a town for weeks after a pollution dump of expired love mixed into the local water supply. Tensions were rising in the 1960s, and the war overseas wasn’t helping. The economy was suffering, men and women were being accused of selling the secrets of natural love to the enemy, and Americans were fed up with being abused. The market was flooded with romance, and the price of one’s true love was falling steeply. Your loved ones wouldn’t be worth the clothes they’re walking in if you lived in that era. However, the worst part was that we couldn’t afford to stop making love. It was blowing up the market with pure quantity and anyone who had experienced love before the war would reminisce about the pure feeling of euphoria it gave. A movement sprang up in the Northeast, however, championing the idea that, as a nation, we should stop making love and instead focus on the war overseas. Often brandishing signs that read, “make war, not love!” they marched on Washington to demand that something be done to put an end to American distress and commence killing soldiers overseas. Congress and the President fought hard to make the people see what love could do for them. They wanted the people to see that America was a country built on the compassion of humanity and that love was a trait that we couldn’t live without. But the people were persistent. They didn’t want the government’s love. They were sick and tired of falling in love, and by 1972, they had had enough. Love was outlawed in the United States, by virtue of a constitutional amendment. Many companies either switched products or sank into bankruptcy. The people were happy that the topsy-turvy, roundabout game of hit-or-miss was through. They were done gambling with the heart and losing. It was time to slip into an era of peace and rest. So love has been gone for nearly 41 years. In that time, dictators died, couples married, children were born, inventions were made, kisses were given, education was taught, forests were saved, wars were won, friendships formed and crumbled, laws were passed, space was explored, and - of course - sex was had. Love was finished, and most people were happy to be done with the heartache. We were tired and felt the need to separate ourselves from the emotion, and as the years go by, we can finally rest knowing that the temptation was removed. The people are finally free to be genuine.

Jett Ryan

Prose

Beyond the Great Divide

he was battered and torn; she, of course, being both the physical composure of the ship and the infinitely diminishing hopes of survival the socialites tried desperately to cling on to. Debonaires, who had only hours earlier complained about the pleating of their slacks, were now thrown into a maelstrom of both literal and poetic proportions. Brick walls of water met the boat with the ferocity and potency of star-crossed lovers, reckless and self-destructive, making water leakage appear less like a fatal hazard and more like a hobby. They were drowning. Drowning in their own selfish fears of self-preservation and survival. Devolution was the latest craze; animals were bred in this mating ground for death and fear. After an hour of pain and purgatory, The Lady was no more, and the jewelry-laden, fame-glazed corpses of yester-year got colder and colder still, frothing in the briny depths of the mid-Atlantic. One man (if you would call him that anymore) hugged the shore of an uncharted land before spluttering up a fish or two. No longer man, but divine miracle: delivered to this holy land by a piece of floating wreckage. All he had to his name was a tweed jacket, cream slacks, boat shoes, and now inherently…an island. His own slice of Camelot—or Alcatraz, depending on how you look at it. He sought refuge in crudely made campfires and the consumption of coconuts…..so many coconuts. His eye and his life, however, sat upon something else one day: a crab. But not just any crab. This crab had polka dots. Yellow with black dots, to be exact. Therefore, it had to be eaten. Unbeknownst to the tweed warrior, this crab was a veritable honey-pot for toxins and hallucinogens. Unbeknownst to the man in the cream slacks and boat shoes, he would trip, and trip hard he would. Just as the tide does, his jellified brain went in and out, in and out, before finally purchasing a one way ticket to insanity. He was on a boat, and a rich one at that. Tuxedos and gowns ran rampant—a flamboyant love letter to the 1920s. The socialites’ festivities, however, were short-lived. A hurricane of seismic proportions became the harbinger of end times for The Lady and her passengers. One lucky man lived—lived so he may endure an existence perhaps worse than death. The man was marooned. A diet of strictly coconuts was easy to maintain, but it lacked the pure essence of the exciting and the exotic. He found a crab. Not just any crab, though: a yellow crab with black spots. A crab that shouldn’t be eaten under any circumstance. He was sky high. He was on a boat. The boat hit rough waters and unfortunately capsized, causing the fatalities of America’s finest aristocrats. A sole survivor lived to tell the tale, telling it to the palm trees and the sand. 45

He ate a lot of coconuts. A psychedelic crab was found, exhibiting tell tale signs that this thing shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be messed with. Old habits die hard, though. He ate it. He was hallucinating once more. He was on a boat. Boat sank. He survived. Got marooned on an island. Ate some coconuts. Found a psychedelic crab. Started tripping out again. He was on a boatâ&#x20AC;Ś..boat sank. Marooned. Island. Coconuts. Crab. Hallucinations. Boat.

Kat Cox

Prose

February

ebruary was lying in its room staring out the window. One snowflake, two snowflakes, three. Count till you fall asleep. February’s attention span was shot. February couldn’t sleep. February opened its window and lay out its hand in the open. One snowflake, two, three. Thirty snowflakes later, February tried counting leaves on the trees. But each tree had hardly more than ten, so it needed to count more. There were girls walking down the sidewalk; it counted each crack they stepped on. With each crack, February cringed. Each cringe added on a little more hate towards itself. Climbing to the roof, February watches the girls til they’re out of sight. There are people around, so I can’t count the clouds. When February counts clouds it does it aloud, loudly. It wants them to hear it. Count till you fall asleep. No school today. Snow more. Count till you fall asleep. School has a chance of canceling, but it’s five thirty in the morning. The skies are gray, and the wind is a flute. The few leaves, and branches from trees, the few birds, and morning doves. An orchestra to February. Sighing constantly because everything is wrong and scattered, February gets up and climbs back to its window. Too many papers falling… There’s two, seven, eight papers barely attached to my wall. There’s two, seven, nine books improperly propped in their case. My door, nine, twelve inches open. Stop. February slams its fist into the door, closing it. With a slam that repeats in its head, February props the books. Tapes back the barely attached papers. February walks out of its room leaving the door approximately three feet wide open. Counting each stair he steps on, “One, two, three, four…” Swinging its arms and flailing, February closes its eyes until it reaches the front door. Turn knob once, turn back twice. February repeats turning the knob back and fourth nineteen times until it’s allowed to walk out the door. Finally, it closes the door behind itself. Unfortunately, it takes it nineteen tries until it’s allowed to begin the walk to school. Just count to one hundred, ignore the cracks and the birds. Ignore, ignore, ignore. One, two… February counts to eight hundred and thirty-nine by the time it reaches the school. School is in session, but thirty-nine is an odd number. Panicking, February starts taking steps back home. But the first bell rings. February stops, counts to five, listens for the second bell, and runs home. Count to one hundred, count past one hundred. Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore. February falls as the snow falls harder. February scrapes its knee as the snow falls harder. February stands tall as the snow falls harder. February counts. One, two, three, stop. Stop. Stop. February runs, runs faster the snow falls harder. February closes its eyes that it does not have. Just like it does not have fists, knees, or a school to worry about. February is an it. A month. A hard time that makes obsessive-compulsive disorder a problem for her. 47

Prose

Girl Reading Book, Steps in Front of Bus Emily Bohatch

ose buried in a book, Annalee tried to transport herself from the noisy, crowded world that surrounded her at the bus stop to the realm of words. There, people were far more interesting to her; they didn’t complain about their jobs, or run on drolly about what they had for dinner the other night. They don’t gossip about the latest he-said/she-said, and they certainly didn’t take time out of their days for boring things like waiting at crowded bus stops. To be honest, Annalee kind of hated people. But, back to the book. Words swam before Annalee’s eyes, transforming into gallant, ink-made knights and noble steeds. Landscapes unfolded before her very eyes, sprouting elderly oak trees and speckled with majestic castle towers. Quotes came to life, voices of fair maidens and growls of ancient dragons echoing through her ears. Along with the skirch and steam of a bus. Annalee got to her feet, walking through the world of ink knights and ink castles, head bowed in amazement. People moved graciously out of her way, clearing her path through the world of wonder. And that’s when it hit her.

Ben Winters

Prose

The Balloon

want the red one,” says Johnny. “That will be a dollar.” The man behind the stand reaches around his cart to grab the biggest red balloon he can see. The huge ball of helium reflects the summer sun in a mirror of cured red rubber. Swaying with the wind, the delicate container of gas catches the light reflecting from the cart with its sparkling string. “Yes… that big one!” says Johnny with a grin. Johnny’s mother hands the man a dollar and she takes the balloon. The cart-man and Johnny’s mother exchange a shared look of thanks as she gently ties the balloon’s string to the young boy’s hand. Johnny prances around the park with his new balloon in tow. He is overcome by its magical, mysterious properties. A floating ball was something young Johnny seldom saw. Johnny stares up and wonders what super-secret space-age technology had been harnessed to create such a magnificent device. Could it possibly be the science of a nasty Neerite from the far reaching Ninth Nebula? He shudders at the thought. The Neerites couldn’t have conjured up the mental capacity to compile such a technology. Negative. The balloon’s true creators were the maniacal scientists of Area 51. Why? Because their diabolical plan of destruction would involve using every balloon ever created to overrun the world with helium. The highly explosive gas would be perfect for the desolation of Smogg City. Knowing of these dastardly plots, the Conference of Smogg City needed to create a superhero to combat these deadly scientists. Thus, Super-Loon was created: a half-man-half-balloon hero that could inflate or deflate any part of his body. A vicious and rubbery war ensued. After nine months of bitter balloon fights between the maniacal scientists of Area 51 and Super-Loon, a truce was finally settled. Both parties created The Treaty of Rubber, stating that “any spherical, rubber containers of helium caught on sight will be popped.” After that, peace was harmoniously restored to the world. Johnny looks back at his ball o’ helium. Tied around his hand is something red and friendly that gives Johnny the unparalleled positive protons of power required to imagine. With the balloon, Johnny’s dreams run wild like gazelle across the Serengeti. He envies it and all its endless possibilities but forgets that its hold is weak. The sparkling string unties itself from his hand and, before he can do anything about it, the balloon’s beginning to soar. Johnny only looks up in horror as it climbs higher and higher. It’s impossible to catch but he chases its shrinking shadow. His mom quickly grabs him and pulls him back to her side. “It’s okay, Johnny,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Let’s go buy you another balloon.” Young Johnny can’t believe his hearing. Another balloon? Johnny looks up and notices the tiny red speck. 49

“Why? What is the point?” he thought. “It’s just a stupid balloon. Nothing is special about it, anyway,” he says. Johnny wants to be mad at something but finds nothing. “What’s the big deal? I mean, come on. I’m gonna let a ball of gas make me feel bad? Huh… ya right! I mean, come on. Why do kids buy something so stupid that does nothing but hover and make a funny noise when it pops?” Johnny pauses and looks up into the empty sky. He wishes that his great red friend was back, tied around his wrist. He wishes that he could hold his dreams in the palms of his hands, one last time.

Kalee Yem

Prose

Date

ate? The fourth of November. Year, 2013. Joyful. Reasoning? The sky was gray and the rain was hard. Her laptop had been fixed. Skype calls lasting until three in the morning. Laughter drifting in from the headphones, reaching out from thousands of miles away. Jubilation. Date? The twenty-seventh of May. Year, 2011. Confused. Reasoning? Her name was called and she crossed the stage. Her diploma was received. Her mother cried. Her brother cheered the loudest. For once, it didn’t bother her. She swelled with pride but feared the future. Confliction. Date? The fifteenth of March. Year, 2010. Upset. Reasoning? Her father’s death. A car crash, the doctors said. A suicide, she retorted. A car crash, her mother insisted, burning the note when she thought her daughter wasn’t watching. A car crash, the insurance relented, and the money poured in. Depression. Date? The eighth of January. Year, 2008. Pleased. Reasoning? A cup of coffee, handle held between three curved fingers. The steady hum of the heater in the corner of the room. Her brother’s usual curses streaming down the hallway as he played his video games. Her mother’s humming. Her father’s laughing. Comfort. Date? The twenty-fifth of December. Year, 2004. Stressed. Reasoning? The fifty family members accompanied by eighty more non-family members accompanied by three hundred more friends-of-non-family-members-slashfamily-members. The cousin who got too drunk and threw the Wii remote at the television, the new television gifted by the same cousin. Drained. Date? The eighteenth of July. Year, 2000. Exhilarated. Reasoning? The ocean waves had enveloped her as she bobbed out from the shore. The snow cones were ravishing. Their hotel room had air conditioning. The sun burned her back, but the beach burned her worries. Joy. Date? The seventeenth of July. Year, 2000. Annoyed. Reasoning? The drone of the plane for thirty-six hours. The crying baby. The obnoxious newly-weds. The endless hours of sleep. Her aching back, aching legs, aching bottom. Displeasure. Date? The second of October. Year, 1993. Longing. Reasoning? She was new to the world, confused and afraid. She missed her safety and hated this place, hated the bars of the crib she was placed in. No longer were the strange sounds her mother and father made comforting. They were too loud, no barrier to soften the noise from her ears. Fear.

Prose

The Fixer Khadijah Thompson

rianna was supposed to be the prodigy in the family, yet here she was. There wasn’t supposed to be a problem that she couldn’t fix. That was her motto: “There’s no problem I can’t fix.” Although she said it with a winning smile and a chipper attitude, here she was. Saying the same phrase over and over as the rain fell on her hair and her knees sank further and further into the mud. The ring was sinking further and further into the mud. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t fix the problem that put it there.

Paige Fisher

Prose

Maybe, Maybe Not

here was a flash of sunlight and a burst of tears. It was a flash of pure sunlight, not that artificial nonsense that seems to make even the prettiest surface dull. Ray after ray peeked through the curtains, highlighting every texture it grasped in its spider-like fingers. Textures that should not be revealed marched defiantly towards the light, exposing themselves. There was a flash of flesh, and a quivering of a lip. The cracking and popping of a well-deserved stretch disrupted the now soft sobs. White-blond hair plastered to a moist forehead and a bloodshot view of the past weeks looked towards a calendar. Weeks. Months. Years. He couldn’t tell anymore. He didn’t care anymore. It shouldn’t matter anymore. Shouldn’t. There was a flash of red, and a catch in his throat. Agonizing wails filled the atmosphere, but they weren’t his own. Words left, but the mourning didn’t. Sight left, but memories didn’t. There was a flash of… of what? A Flash of pain. A Flash of understandable guilt. A Flash of bones. A Flash of aquamarine eyes. Stop A Flash of dirtied hands. A Flash of a hospital bed. Please. A Flash of Him. DON’T. There was a flash of white, and the twitching of the corners of his mouth. The rustling of sheets tampered with the eerie silence of the day. Time to get ready for the day. Time to put on your mask. Time to act like it all matters. Time to take away another day of your own life. Time to let go? No. Time to smile and wave, even if it hurts to do so. Time to hide. There was a flash of realization and the split of lips revealing an immaculate representation of what it should mean. This would go on for years, if he let it. It would die with him, if he let it. It would eventually numb, if he let it. It could get better, if he let it. Maybe, maybe not It doesn’t matter. There was a flash of sunlight as a new day began, and a burst of tears, but not from him. 53

Prose

Time Through Nine Clocks’ Eyes Ian Hendrix

tick, and I tock all day long. The gears inside of me just turn and turn until they’re so wound up, even a wallybong can’t clutch the power that they hold within. The strange animals that are called “humans” go passing by. Little do they know that I just sit here silently judging them until either their final hour or mine. Sometimes I think of life as one of them; sometimes I wonder how I can even think at all. How can sentience be given to me, a lowly clock? One which must be adjusted and fixed as time goes by. It’s funny, really: I think that I should be free from the hands of time, but really time has a hold on me stronger than anything else. This doesn’t go to say that others aren’t free of time - like my brothers and sisters back at the factory. There it seemed to be infinite with schmumps and traggles as the horse-a-saurous threw its hands about and made us into what we are today, with precision even better than that of a neurosurgeon working on the brain of a patient. It would close one eye, and magically we would be made inside of this glass prison. Trapped to never be free again from this constraint of “Time.” The animals all think that it governs them, and it rules their lives, but really, they rule it. Time is just an illusion that an ancient animal made up to fool everyone and make his name big. However, they didn’t account for the wemblestats like me and my family to figure it out. We figured out that time was just a tool to control people and beings such as myself. For how can one really think that a theory is absolute in its making if no one questions it and just accepts it? For they just take it as truth, being told by their fathers and mothers, much like they had done. Now, though, we will begin to enlighten the other animals on the matter, and soon they will all see just how wrong they have been, and what a lie they have lived.

Steven Nicke

Prose

Horrors of the Heart

he heart is where it started. The doctors said it spread from there and eventually killed him. The disease is unknown, and as of yet, there is no explanation as to how it started. The only reference they have is the symptoms he experienced during his suffering. The first week, it was a lingering cough that simply annoyed him. The second week, he was edgy, and dark circles clung to the underside of his eyes. The third week, the cough got worse and eventually led to a horrible case of insomnia. This lack of sleep did not help his impatience, as he only grew angrier and angrier. After his wife left, his health suddenly deteriorated. The cough would yield black bile, the rings under his eyes grew darker and heavier – which made blinking almost impossible – and the entirety of his skin turned completely pale. The fifth week, his veins turned black and pulsated so weakly that it was impossible to feel. The sixth and final week, his legs shattered under his weight, and the rest of his bones became brittle. He died in his hospital bed on January 26th, his birthday, at the exact time at which he was born. The doctors ran every test imaginable and couldn’t find what it was that was ailing him. Was it physical? Metaphysical? Psychological? These questions only yielded more questions. The only thing they could pinpoint was that it started in his heart. No one attended the funeral. His bridges were all but burned. Only one person visited his grave – a strange woman with black hair and piercing emerald eyes. She bowed down and kissed the gravestone under where he now slept for eternity. No one knew her name or saw her again. He was not the only one to fall because of this disease; many others have taken the lethal dosage of its rage. But, of course, no one attended their funerals either, except that one female with the black hair and emerald eyes. This woman in question is as unknowable as the disease. Some say she comforts the corpses of the hated. What we can understand about this disease is its ability to isolate us from everyone we know and to help us die alone, staring down eternity with only one constant companion: death.

Prose

Ryan Dunne Adam Woelke

traight out of high school, with the spark of ambition still blazing in his eye, Ryan Dunne took up the nasty habit of smoking to clear his head on busy days. He’d wake up, light up, drive up, light up, work up, light up, and repeat several times before discarding his empty three packs into the garbage can and heading off to bed. Through blood, sweat, tears, and a rather hefty cloud of carcinogenic gas, he rose into the sky at his company, which—ironically—sold electronic cigarettes. He quit smoking on his forty-eighth birthday, much to the surprise of his wife and child, who were constant reminders that his habit needed to be kicked. They begged and begged for him to stop and he finally did. On his forty-ninth birthday, Ryan Dunne quit smoking for good - no more buts and/or ifs about it. He was done. Kapeesh? No more smoking for Ryan. On his fiftieth birthday, Ryan Dunne had just completed a month of cigarette-free workdays (or so his wife thought) and decided to reward himself with a carton of cancer sticks. On his fifty-first birthday, Ryan Dunne spent the day by himself, smoking in his beaten-up 1981 Turbo Tranzam. He bought a pistol from the local pawn shop and told the man it was to kill a rat. On his fifty-second birthday, Ryan Dunne quit smoking for good. He didn’t talk much after that and he spent the majority of his days resting. He almost always wore a suit.

Kat Cox

Prose

Sides

he’s sitting at the end of her bed waiting and you’re under her window worrying. He’s in the kitchen and his wife is in the food mart three miles away. She’s not coming home; she knows and you know that, but the “she” you’re not ready to see is up above you, still waiting. She’s sitting on her floor, sprawled out, boiling in her skin and you’re crawling through her window seething behind your lips. He’s walking up the steps, mouthing out a conversation he can’t handle, she can’t handle, you are going to have to handle. You’re there now; you’re a part of this catastrophe. She is still waiting, still boiling, and still breathless and he’s knocking on the door. You freeze, you hurry to the closet door, and he’s in the room, not waiting any longer. She’s lying on her floor with her mouth wide open and her arms wide open. Mouths gaping he runs to her side—no longer does she have a side. Either side. He believes she can gain it back, believes he can gain his wife back only now five miles away. She is driving home to her family and hugging their sides, all of their sides, they all have sides. Yet the she that you are stalling and anxiously waiting to share the boiling behind your lips with, she is still waiting and not exactly boiling, but, oh, is she stalling—stalling for you, for your love that you’ve never had in her sides. Though, oh, you loved the sides of all the other she’s. She’s emptying out on her floor because the drum between her ribs is too quiet. He’s emptying out all over her and you’re emptying out all over your mind. Oh, because nobody is full of beats and claps and tapping and snapping and beeps and bops, because nobody has a drum to play as she stole them along with her. Such a selfish act, she and her mother who is now home tucking all of her loved sides under covers and suffocating wonders. She and her mother are inseparable for they have the same eyes, eyes you thought you’d never see, and eyes he can’t stop seeing. She’s in his arms flying down the halls and out the door. You were so invisible and now you know—now you know the eyes all along were her mother’s, who is not breathing down her favorite side’s neck, not yours, for she was all yours, right? You are so wrong, you were always so very wrong. With your thoughts and wonders, your beats, and silly hummers, your ears, your fingers, your mouth wide open, all these mouths wide, gaping, his heart gaping, your heart is gaping, and you’re clueless. She’s lying in her new astounding, soft and feathery bed, her favorite; she feels the thoughts of you in it lying with her. It was the only feeling she’d ever felt after her twin had left, after she lost her sides, lost her minds, lost your heart, her heart, his heart.

Prose

Empty Empathy Sarah Buckelew

ust moats drifted in the beams of sunlight splayed across the bright green grass; Suzy knelt down in her ruffled pink dress to offer her finger to the caterpillar creeping along the ground. She giggled as it crawled up her arm. “That tickles,” she scolded as she dropped it into her glass jar, screwing on the lid with pre-punctured holes. Abigail’s screams jolted Suzy awake later in the night. The terror behind them left her with a hollow feeling as she crept out of bed along the cold flooring. Peeking out into the dark hallway, she saw her parents standing over Abigail’s sobbing figure. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” they asked. “It’s the bugs, they’re crawling all over me and they cover me up and their little legs are touching me everywhere and they won’t stop moving.” As her parents comforted Abigail, Suzy turned back to her bed and crawled in. Pulling up the covers, she glanced at the stacks of bugs she had collected, sleeping in their jars, and wondered how they could hold so much fear for Abigail. The next day at the breakfast table, Suzy ate silently and noticed the deep circles beneath Abigail’s eyes. Throughout the day Abigail remained listless and quiet as Suzy tiptoed around, uncertain of what she could do. As the sun set that evening, however, Suzy watched it reflecting across the jars and smiled to herself as she realized how many she had collected. “It’s enough,” she thought to herself, “and they’re all still alive, too.” After her parents had tucked her into bed and she was sure everyone was asleep, Suzy tiptoed out of bed and carried all of the glass jars back in with her. One by one she opened them up. Peacefully, she drifted to sleep as the bugs made their way out. A few hours later, Suzy awoke suddenly to the bugs congregating on her face and crawling up into her nose and down her throat, slowly blocking up her air passages. Staring up at the dark ceiling, Suzy lay completely still as the bugs slowly took her last breaths. Smothered by a fear not her own, she allowed her life to slowly disappear.

Kalee Yem

Prose

The Freckles of the Universe

hat counts as existing? What says there is any meaning to the twisted turns that life throws at us? Some people cite “fate” as the true meaning for things, but the truth is, we do not know. We make up all these words and stories to comfort us. Some believe them; some don’t. Some actively defy them to substitute a cold “reality.” The simple answer is there is no answer. The universe is a strange thing in which every action could either matter or not, matter or maybe nothing you do matters at all. Maybe, though, things just happen the way things happen. Take, for example, a little girl in a bright red sweater. A September afternoon. Thursday, if you will. She is walking home from school, a lunchbox in hand and a backpack on her back, as backpacks often are. She is singing in her mind, but not aloud. Kids over the age of fourteen rarely sing out loud, if they could be considered kids. (Take this moment to consider whether or not there is anything considered “grown-up” versus the idea of “kids.” Who decides these differences? The vast majority rule? Laws? Who determines things? Perhaps it is a God. Perhaps it is nothing.) Ah, yes, the girl. She is having a crisis. An existential crisis. Most often do as they age. I suppose it is just one of those things that happens with puberty, coming along with the strange hair and sudden unending craving for sleep. What is the purpose? Is there even a purpose? These are the questions she asks herself, as we often ask ourselves. It is for her to decide. Perhaps you are wondering to yourself at this very moment. Or maybe you have not been struck by this question yet. In any case, it should be told that her red jacket had quite the effect on the boy on the other side of the street. Not love nor hate nor even friendship. She has very little impact on his life in the scheme of things. He has not started school yet. Young. Old enough to play outside without parental supervision, but not old enough to question the idea of his life. He just wants to play hopscotch. The universe means nothing to him. Or maybe his universe is small enough to be contained in the colorful squares his brothers have drawn. The boy has caught sight of the girl; more specifically, the red that passes by in the corner of his eye. He is distracted. It is a dreadful moment for him: he has stepped on the line. Another boy crows from the small crowd of laughing children—“you’re out!” The young unsuspecting boy returns to the back of the line, fighting back tears. He has experienced his first embarrassment. All thanks to a single red jacket. But the boy causes something, too. It is a chain of endless cause-and-effects that means if one thing didn’t happen, the universe might end up completely different. Perhaps it means nothing at all. It may be fate that these things happen. That the girl passed by at that time and the boy had cried so furiously that along with his first shame, he makes his first true friend. The girl’s name is Victoria, 59

although that is not important. She is older than him. Not by much, just a couple of weeks, but it is something she often teases him about for the years to come. They never do marry, but they have children: two boys, one girl, and three cats. The younger of the two boys has red hair, just like his mother, and green eyes, just like his father. He wears glasses by age nine and gets his braces at twelve. Wow! His classmate says on the first day of third grade. You look like a real-life nerd! He flicks off the other boy with a delicate twist of his middle finger. Maybe if his hair was brown or blonde or any other color, this action would have been dismissed, but instead he is taken the principal’s office. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with his hair. Maybe sticking up your middle fingers is just unacceptable in general. He chooses to blame it, however, on the sweeping red pressed against his scalp. The boy grows into a man, just as his father had, and he no longer worries about the fact his hair is red. He stops by a bakery one morning on his way to work. The only one inside is an elderly woman, dressed in a red jacket, seemingly in deep thought. He wonders what she is thinking about and decides to take the time to ask. And to listen. So he walks over to the woman, taps her on the shoulder, and asks her how she is. She replies with a “good” and a smile and gestures for him to take a seat. He does. He asks her what she is thinking about, she looked so lost in thought? And she tells him that one September afternoon—a Thursday, if she remembers correctly—she passed by a group of kids playing hopscotch on her way home from school. And she says that she had arrived home and saw her father lying on the kitchen table, a bottle of ale in hand. She says that the moment she saw his slumped shoulders was the moment she decided she didn’t want to be like him, didn’t want to live her life the way he had, and she wanted to shape her own future and her own purpose - not follow the steady stream of fate that people had seemed to lay out for her. He tells her she is brave. She tells him that she is stupid to try to deny fate, because now she has spent her entire life working hard, always looking towards the future, and never admiring the present. She told herself that she would have fun later, but now look at her: she is old, her husband is long dead, and her daughter has gone far away. The woman laughs, bitter, and advises the young man to not live the way she has. He tells her that it is never too late to start living a new life, the way that she had originally dreamed it to be. She tells him that he is young and stupid, and that is just the way he ought to be. She rises from her seat and exits the bakery. He sits an hour longer, arrives late to work. It doesn’t matter: he quits his job and starts selling sunflowers. It is not very profitable, but he is relatively happy. His stomach may lean to empty by the end of the day, and every pair of pants he owns is covered in grass and soil stains, but his heart is full and he grows wrinkles on the corner of his eyes instead of marking scars on his arms. A girl stops by one afternoon and buys a sunflower. Slaps a dollar into his palm and leaves humming. She comes back the next day and the next and the next. One day, instead of the usual “thanks for buying” he asks the girl “who are these for?” The girl doesn’t smile this time and she doesn’t hum. She sticks a hand out for the sunflower and leaves without a word. 60

It is a week before she comes back. This time he questions her differently “why sunflowers?” She tells him to follow her. He hesitates for a moment, but decides that a seven-year-old couldn’t possibly do much harm to him. He is wrong. Seven-year-olds are vicious creatures that do not relent until they absolutely have to. He is lucky this time: she is not a murderer nor is she planning to fill his boots with spiders. She leads him to a faded, green house. She urges him in, angry at his sluggishness. He excuses himself and enters, only to be greeted with two other children. They wear sunflowers in their hair and smiles on their faces. A dog sleeps in the middle, covered in more sunflowers than any of the children. He first thinks it dead, but the rise and fall of the yellow petals claim otherwise. The kids grow on him as the flowers grow in his field and he finds himself no longer wondering about his purpose, but rather enjoying his life. More kids found his way to the green shack and to his sunflower shop and he has found his own meaning to his existence. One man, coming in contact with at least thirty children per week, has to have some impact on them. And he did. He inadvertently shaped their lives the same a girl in a red jacket had spawned both his birth and his transformation. What if the jacket had been blue? Would the little boy playing hopscotch still have turned around? Or would he have won the game and never made friends with Victoria and a group of children would have never grown up with sunflowers? Maybe the blue was his favorite shade, and he instead walked up to her, and they married instead? It is an endless string of possibilities. But she was wearing a red jacket and she did, inadvertently, save an old man from a life full of meaningless emptiness. Her decision to wear that specific color of jacket on that specific afternoon and walk that specific route has impacted the future forever. Is it not a terrifying thought? That your very decision – one as simple as picking out a coat – could change the world. The idea that you are an all-powerful being. That you change everything around you, affect everything around you. You are important. And you do not consciously do it and you cannot command this power at will, but you have it within you and that in itself is wonderful. You may not have fate, but you have meaning. You are simply a freckle on the universe; however, freckles - although considered blemishes by many - can also be thought of as beautiful and, just as a person would not be the same without them, the universe would be different without you.

Prose

Goldfish Kennedy Saaristo

lace me in a glass bowl, sir, for I am your goldfish. I will glubb and blubb and bubble and wubble to your heart’s content. Place me there - no, there, on the windowsill for all to see. For gold glimmers and glitters and shines and divines, does it not? Not a simpering squid nor a loquacious lion nor an ostentatious octopus nor a frolicking feline. That is not what you requested, with your glass bowl hanging eerily and evidently behind your back. I will be your goldfish. Place me there, in the center of the table, as your dinner guests arrive. I will be sure to flip and flop and twirl and flirl and dive and skive. Oh, your guests will be amazed! Yes, they will go back to their homes, enthralled by my tricks and treats. They will see that you have the best pet. Forget their loyal pups and tottering turtles because I will shine for you. Give me a rag, give me some polish! I will cover my pale bones and icky insides! All they will see is my shiny scales and flipping tail, for that is what you want them to see! Place me there in the pan. No, I don’t mind! Your guests are hungry, after all! I’ll just flip right over onto the butter and warm metal. Oh, how toasty! Uncomfortable? No, sir! These lines on my sides are laugh lines, giggle marks, parallels of pleasantry! Now don’t forget to flip me, don’t want to leave one side untouched! There we go. Now you’ve left marks all over me! How symmetrical! Now I am truly done. See? Just put a flick of salt and a pinch of pepper along with a sprig of semi-seasonal spinach. Place me there on the plate, with its patterns so intricate and bright. The background will surely distract from the darker marks left on my right side. No, it was my fault! I should have told you I was burning! I just didn’t want you to feel like your cooking skills weren’t both astounding and exemplary. My scales are gone so I can no longer glimmer and glitter and twirl and flirl and bubble and wubble but I will be tasty and zesty, I’ll sure be the besty! Oh, that’s alright, just take a bite, bigger bigger bigger and bigger. I know that I am small but I hope I was enough! Don’t worry about the bones you have left, the pattern draws the eye away from them. Place me there, among the dishes and cutlery, with their crumbs and crevices and aromas of rot. Go back to your guests! Shoo, shoo! You certainly have better things to do! I will be fine, sir, don’t you fidget and fuss and fret, or wait five minutes - you’re bound to forget. I hope your guests enjoyed the meal and the show before, when I glubbed and blubbed and bubble and wubble and glimmered and glittered and flipped and flopped and twirled and flirled and dived and skived. Whew! That sure does wear a fish out, but I was happy to do it. It made you proud so I was happy to do it. Place me there, down the garbage disposal. My bones are weak enough to make the trip smooth, after all the marks from the pan have left quite a groove. Down, down, down I go. Why are you crying now? I can help you no more.

Siri Rossly

Prose

Lonely

roll down the window. “That will be 25 dollars, sir.” The man looks at me in a questioning way. He reaches his head further into the car. “You need to pay for our services. I’m not doing this for fun.” A slick smile slides over his face. “For fun..” The stench of ranch flavored potato chips and beer reaches my face. He digs in his pockets and pulls out a tired, ripped twenty dollar bill. “That’s all I’ve got, who would have known getting home would be this freaking expensive?” It’s true, that’s all the cash he has. Drunk men don’t lie. It’s past midnight and I pull into the taxi queue for the last time tonight. It’s about six or seven cars in front of me. Raindrops play a melody on my roof, it’s a dark and sad melody. I can hear girls in high heels jogging past my car and music coming from further down the street. I look through the windows and I see moving people everywhere. It seems like they have somewhere to go. I don’t have anywhere I have to be. I don’t have any other place than my empty apartment waiting for me. “The problem with your life is that there’s never any action, Sam. It’s like it’s the same sad story every day. It’s a shame, Sam. You’re such a nice guy.” I know. I’ve never liked to be around people. I’ve never met anyone that really triggers my interest. It’s almost like I’m tuned in on a different channel than everyone else. I never understood why people talk about funny commercials and fabulous talk show hosts, is that what normal people find entertaining? I’m almost at the front of the line and that means it’s almost time to go home. I hear a weak giggle. I wipe away the dew on the window with my hand. At first I can’t see anything, but when I’m so close that my nose touches the glass I figured out where the sound came from. A young couple is standing there leaning against the wall. They lean their foreheads together and they whisper to each other. If I could only hear what they said. The girl giggles again, this man is obviously quite a charmer. Suddenly he kisses the girl on the neck and she replies by leaving with him. In my head I can hear the sound of wet tongues and I picture him taking what he wants in a greedy way. I don’t understand people. I can see straight through them within seconds. Everyone pretends to be something special, but everyone reveals themselves. Sometimes it’s just an insecure look or a twitch in a finger when they meet a word they don’t understand. Anyways, I see it straight away. There is no one out there that really is what they claim to be. No one is real. I’m real, but no one seems to notice. There are two more cars in front of me. It’s not the fact that I don’t make millions that makes me feel empty. It’s not that I don’t have a girlfriend or traveled the world either. I’m just not like everyone else, and there is 63

no link between me and them. Why should I like what everyone else likes? Why should I do as others do? I just want to do whatever interests me. But as long as I want that, I’ll be standing alone. “McDonald’s next to the mall!” A chubby, older lady in a very short dress with a deep neckline lands in the car. She smiles apologizingly and I understand that she wants to get home as fast as possible and skip the chit chat. We drive past several bars and clubs. She starts talking. “Being a taxi driver? Isn’t that kind of sad?” It hits me. Is this how far down I am. When this inappropriately dressed lady can feel bad for me. I didn’t reply. I swing my car into the McDonalds parking lot. And she pays for the trip with generous tip, out of pity. I lay down in bed. It’s only room for me, one person. I look at the fish bowl on my nightstand. It has one lonely gold fish in it. I wonder if he feels lonely or if it just looks like it. Like me?

Thomas Baldwin

Prose

Dayze

eet Mike. Mike has lived the entire 18 years of his life confined in a tiny room in a tiny house on a tiny street in a tiny town which makes up a mere inkling of land on a gargantuan world. Mike was fed up with the beige walls that surrounded him and was just about ready to break them all down and be whisked away to the great mysterious halls of what he perceived to be the “real world.” Such a day was drawing nearer by the second: graduation day. His parents seemed far less enthusiastic about this day than Mike, but then again, they had never taken much interest in Mike anyways. Mike didn’t care. He had never taken much interest in them either. It was a mutual indifference. Mike had been dreaming of this day for a long time. In fact, he would often spend time jotting down bullet points onto a piece of paper he kept in his nightstand which contained a list of the things he wanted to do once he was out living on his own. 1.) Go to a REAL party 2.) Get drunk at said party 3.) Get high at said party 4.) Get a girlfriend 5.) Lose virginity to said girlfriend 6.) Get a car Etc. On the final Monday morning of his life, Mike stumbled out of bed, struggling to pull up his boxers while wiping the crust from his eyelashes. His alarm clock pestered him with incessant beeping, angry at the many times its snooze button had been tapped. Mike proceeded to barrel out the door of his house to a fleeting bus, not a bite of cereal in his stomach. The weekend prior was one of mourning and silence for the students of Mike’s high school. On Friday night, word got out that a freshman had killed himself with his father’s gun in order to escape the constant daily abuse he got at school, as described in his suicide note. It was a tragic day for the community and the school. That Monday morning, the halls were filled with people as always—some talking, some keeping to themselves, some weeping, others just staring at their knotted shoelaces as they scuffled through the halls. A few morbidly silent class sessions passed and lunch came along. The cafeteria had the same supernatural quietness that was beginning to annoy Mike. He noticed a friend of his sitting alone at a table. Her name was Katie. Her head was hung and an untouched sack lunch was on the table in front of her. Katie was a very sweet girl who was Mike’s age. He had known her since they were sophomores, and they had been platonic friends ever since. She used to sit in front of him in his English class, where she would usually be paired up with him on group assignments. Katie was just about the only thing that made that class enjoyable for Mike. He hated English, and Katie loved it, so she had 65

to help him out quite a bit. Mike didn’t mind at all. The only flaw that Mike noticed about Katie was her taste in guys. Bros, jocks, teacher’s pets, preps, and valedictorians made up the multicolored list of suitors that Katie had had over the years. This turned off Mike. He often wondered how Katie was able to be so likable even though she’d been dating the least likable personages at the entire school. Still, she was obviously hurt, so Mike decided to help her in any way he could. As a bonus, he was pretty sure she was single at the time. Mike took his tray of cafeteria spaghetti (most of which he did not plan on eating) and sat down across from Katie. She acknowledged his presence with a subtle head nod, and Mike decided to begin making conversation. “Been kind of a depressing day, huh?” he began with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes fixed on the mesh of tangled spaghetti strands out in front of him. “How are you taking all of this?” An awkward pause. Mike began to regret sitting by Katie. The awkward pause is never a good way to begin a conversation. “Not too great,” Katie said finally. “You?” “I’m alright, actually,” Mike responded while twirling noodles around with a plastic fork. “I mean, I never knew… the kid.” Mike just then realized that he didn’t even know the kid’s name. “Well, me neither, but still,” she sniffled. “I just don’t understand how anyone could ever do that to themselves, y’know?” Mike nodded. “I certainly can’t understand it.” Mike had begun to eat his spaghetti. It tasted just as bland as he thought it would. He forced himself to swallow. He didn’t really know if he was talented enough to comfort Katie, but he went ahead and tried anyways. “Is there like, anything about this whole thing in particular that’s bugging you?” He hoped that wasn’t being too forward. Another awkward silence. Katie slowly raised her head. Her eyes were reddened. The wet trail of her tears was still visible on her face. She looked at her brown sack on the table and sniffed. Then she let out a pathetic giggle. “Do you remember my boyfriend Alex?” she asked Mike. Mike quickly perused through Katie’s prolific list of significant others. He couldn’t remember an Alex. “Was he a football player?” “Baseball.” Mike still didn’t remember. “Well, I think he might have been one of the people who picked on Ben. He might have been one of the main reasons that he did what he did.” Mike made a mental note. Okay. His name was Ben. I should probably know that. “Now I just feel guilty,” Katie said, her voice breaking. “Guilty?” Mike asked. “What? Why?” “I don’t know. I feel like I could’ve done something. I feel like maybe when we were dating, I should have noticed something wrong with him. Maybe I could’ve said something. I don’t know. I don’t know.” Mike was starting to get a little annoyed with Katie. The whole thing sounded pretty ridiculous to him. If there was one thing that Mike couldn’t stand about high school, it was drama. He thought that it was totally unnecessary and 66

obnoxious. Even though this seemed like the perfect time for someone to be dramatic, Mike still couldn’t stand it. “Don’t say that, Katie,” he said condescendingly. “Think about it. You’re feeling guilty? Why? Because you dated some guy who may or may not have driven a kid to commit suicide?” Katie hung her head once more, and Mike immediately felt sorry. He knew that what he had said came out entirely wrong and that now she probably saw him as a huge jerk. He tried to make up for his mistake. “Sorry,” he began. “It just sounded a little stupid to me.” That didn’t help very much. The third awkward silence went by and it was by far the most uncomfortable one. Mike looked around the cafeteria for a bit, trying not to stare at Katie. He noticed Katie started to sob again, but decided that it would be best to just keep his mouth shut. In order to do this, he started eating the most appetizing thing on his tray (which wasn’t saying much), a piece of garlic bread. He nibbled on the bread and thought to himself while Katie went to the bathroom. Mike was alone now. “Damn it,” he mumbled to himself. “She probably hates me now.” The lunch bell rang and Mike returned to his class. He didn’t pay attention to anything that was being said, and just thought about Katie. She never returned to the lunch table, and she had left her sack lunch. He thought again about her “guilty feelings” and how irrational they were. Then he felt bad for thinking that. He should have been more compassionate, more caring, and gentler. Maybe he was thinking too much about it. He started thinking about Ben and how much attention he was getting. How he was now the most popular kid at school. Mike wondered what it would be like if he killed himself. He wondered if anyone would miss him, if anyone would feel guilty, if anyone would care at all. When school was out, Mike was ready to get home. While walking to his bus stop, he caught a glimpse of Katie in the arms of another guy around Mike’s age, Chris. Chris looked like he was comforting Katie. He was holding her close to him as she cried. It was a pleasant image. So pleasant even the cock-blocker teaching staff that roamed the halls didn’t say anything and let them be. Mike was a little jealous of Chris. If only he could have been more comforting, then he’d be the one holding Katie close to his chest, letting her tears soak into his shirt. Mike didn’t want to stare for too long, so he left the two be and hurried to his bus. On the ride home, Mike thought more about Chris and Katie. He started to become a bit jealous, and as he returned home, his jealousy turned into frustration. A different kind of frustration. Angry and rejected, Mike hurried to his room and started relieving the frustration. It was just his luck that at, that very moment, he received a visitor. He probably should have locked the door to his room. Hell, he hadn’t even closed the damn door all the way, he was so distracted. Yes, his mom came strolling into his room and caught him right in the middle of his alone time. This incredibly unpleasant confrontation led to an even more unpleasant sit-down conversation where Mike had to agree to go to church that Wednesday night. I hate Mondays, Mike thought to himself. 67

Mike was never a big church-goer. He never really saw the point in going to an ancient building every Sunday dressed in uncomfortable clothes, sing songs that all sounded the same, and listen to the long, uneventful speech of a melodramatic pastor. Aside from his own personal distaste for organized religion, Mike was also not very fond of church because of his parents. The two of them happily drove off every Sunday morning in their nicest clothes, sang as loud and as full as they could to their Lord and Savior, listened diligently to the pastor, then returned home and went right back to their normal selves. Their normal, uninterested, boring, indifferent selves. Mike didn’t like his parents all that much and was terrified of becoming like them one day. He knew that in order to avoid this, he had to distance himself as much as possible from them. Every day at home was quiet. Aside from a television playing or a few whispers between the parents, the home was eerily silent throughout the day. On weekdays, Mike woke himself up, headed downstairs to make his breakfast, and went out the door to his bus stop while his parents stayed sleeping in their room. Mike missed the bus a few times when he was younger and had to take on the rather embarrassing task of waking his parents up and pleading for them to take him to his 3rd grade class. His dad grunted, his mom moaned, and so Mike just went right back downstairs and started walking. He was late that day and had to stay after school for detention. He refused to call his parents to come pick him up, and instead walked all the way back home. His parents didn’t even notice how late he was when he arrived. Well, if they didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything he did, then he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything they did. That included church. He didn’t care how great, awesome and powerful God was; if his parents were his followers, then he certainly didn’t want to be a follower, either. The sit-down conversation that he had with his parents was certainly a surreal experience for Mike. He had almost forgotten what his parents’ voices sounded like. They told him about what he was doing and how it was wrong. “We raised you better than this, Michael,” his mother said, disappointed. Mike hated being called Michael. “Son,” his father said to him. “Your body is a temple. When you touch yourself like this, you are defiling your own body. To defile any of God’s precious creations is a sin. Even if that precious creation is yourself.” That was the first and hopefully the only time Mike would hear his own father refer to him as a precious creation or anything else of the sort. “We think it would be best if you go to church as soon as possible. Our church has services every Wednesday night. You will be going. This is not a request.” “I get it,” Mike said. “Where is the church?” “Alright,” his father said. “You’ve got two things to work on. You’ve got to stop touching yourself, and you’ve got to change that tone. I am your father. You will speak to me with more dignity than a disgruntled teenager.” “I’m technically an adult,” Mike said back. He wouldn’t be surprised if his dad didn’t even know he was 18. He wanted to punch him in the face. “That’s just what I’m talking about, that tone. That cynical tone of yours has got to go.” 68

“I’m surprised you’re making such a big deal out of this, Dad,” said Mike. He made no effort to hide the amount of sarcasm he placed on the word “Dad.” “You never even told me what sex was. I had to figure it out when I started eavesdropping on some kids in 4th grade. You know that, right? Of course you don’t.” His father was taken for surprise by Mike’s aggressiveness. “You are going to church on Wednesday night,” he commanded. “That’s final.” He left to his room and shut the door behind him. Mike’s mother stood up as well. Mike looked her in the eyes with burning intensity. He wanted to punch her in the face as well. After a while, she walked away to join her husband. Mike sat alone in the living room. “Assholes,” he mumbled under his breath. When Wednesday night rolled around, Mike was hoping that his parents would forget about him again and just let him stay at home, but unfortunately, they remembered him for once. His mom drove him to the church building and dropped him off. “I’ll be back in an hour and a half,” she said. “But the service only lasts for an hour,” Mike responded. “Well, just hang around for 30 minutes, alright?” As she drove away, Mike gave her the finger and dragged his feet into the church building. Mike noticed a lot less people were at the service than at a usual Sunday morning church service. He supposed it was because church on a Wednesday night was just retarded. He found a seat near the middle of the room and began nodding off. He chose not to sit in the very back because he would be drawing even more attention to himself if he was sitting alone. He didn’t want to distance himself from a crowd and be considered an outcast; he wanted to be mixed in with the crowd so that nobody would pay much attention to him or bother him. Unfortunately, his desire for little to no attention at all would not be met. Right next to him sat a boy roughly his age named Jack. Mike had known Jack from a long time ago, back when Mike went to Sunday School. Jack was in Mike’s class for a few years until they both grew too old for it. Mike had remembered Jack as somewhat of a class clown. He goofed around outside of class and only during class when it was appropriate and/or so funny that the teacher thought it was okay. When it was time to get serious, however, Jack got serious. When Mike was younger, he remembered being genuinely impressed with some of the answers that Jack gave in class and looked up to him in some way. Of course, it had been years since then, so Mike didn’t know if Jack had remembered him or even if he was the same kind of person. “Long time, no see, Mike,” said Jack. “Hey, Jack,” Mike said back to him. He was pretty surprised that Jack had recalled Mike’s name after all this time, especially since Mike didn’t really ever talk much to Jack when he was younger. Mike must have left some kind of impact on Jack. This made Mike feel pretty comfortable around Jack. As the service went on, Mike noticed that Jack was just about as devout a church-goer as his parents. In each hymn, he sung out loud; during the sermon, he remained silent and even nodded his head in agreement at some of the things the pastor said. In contrast with many of the other people there (especially Mike), Jack 69

seemed to be very alive. He seemed to be enjoying the service; in fact, it seemed to Mike that he was just eating it up. Mike wanted to get to know Jack. Mike wanted to see what kind of person he was. Was he a hard-ass like his parents? Was he just a normal guy, or was he a really interesting person? Mike was very curious, and so in an attempt to get to know more about Jack, Mike devised a plan. He could tell Jack was a strong Christian and he could tell that Jack knew who Mike was. So this must mean that if Mike perhaps requested a secret meeting with him about his personal issues, Jack wouldn’t be able to say no, and in fact, a friendship might bloom from the meeting as well. When the sermon finished, Jack said goodbye to Mike and left his seat. Mike hastily grabbed his arm. “Jack!” He exclaimed. “Yes?” Jack asked, a bit surprised. “Can…can we talk about something?” Jack looked around, and his face turned serious. “Would it be best to wait for everyone to leave first?” “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” After the room was empty, Jack turned to Mike and asked, “I’m not gonna rush you or slow you down or anything, just start when you’re ready.” Mike knew that Jack would see Mike as a coward if he were to discuss the real problems in his life. He barely had anything that he thought was too painful; not much aside from the fact that his parents were total jerks and he hadn’t ever even dated a girl before. There’s no way that Jack would take time out of his life to sit and chat with some guy he barely knew about his family and girl troubles. So, Mike had to fabricate some problem. “I think that…I’m gay,” Mike said. Immediately after the words came out of his mouth, Mike began to panic. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. “Yes?” Jack said after a while. “Is there anything else?” “I just…I came out to one of my friends at school,” Mike said. “He started calling me names. I’m worried it’s gonna spread around the school and people are gonna look at me in a different way now. I’m not different, I’m normal. What I’m feeling is normal, right?” Mike noticed something strange. The lies that he was spouting from his mouth were all lies. Not a bit of truth to them. For some reason, Mike began to get very emotional. For a second he thought, I didn’t know I was this great of an actor! But then he realized, Wait, I think I’m actually beginning to cry… Jack put his hand on Mike’s shoulder and reassured him. Mike kept crying. As he wept, he wondered why in the world he was crying at all. He was testifying about fake pain, but the tears he was crying were anything but fake. And they wouldn’t stop. He felt like the weakest person on the planet as he bawled his eyes out for no discernible reason in front of some person he didn’t know at all. That’s enough! He thought. I’m done crying now! I’m done! He didn’t stop crying for a long while. Eventually, it all died down, and Mike looked back up at Jack, who was smiling at him. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’m not judging you.” “I think that I’m good now,” Mike said. “Pretty sure I’m done.” For some reason, Mike felt a little bit better. He felt like something that had been inside of him eating his insides for years had been flushed out of his body 70

all at once. He smiled back at Jack and sat back up. Jack still had his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about the same things you’ve been thinking about, Mike. And I know that the Old Testament says otherwise, but I believe from the bottom of my heart that it is not a sin to have feelings for someone of the same gender.” Mike nodded his head and sniffed. “I mean, I’m the same way you are, Mike. I feel the same kind of thing. I don’t know why I am attracted to men, but I just have to believe that this is the way God made me, and there’s not much I can do about that.” Mike felt his heart sink into his stomach when he heard what Jack was saying. He gulped and slowly looked over at Jack, trying his hardest not to look shocked. “Y-You mean you’re also…” “Yes, I’m also a homosexual.” Mike noticed Jack still had his hand on his shoulder. “Well, thank you for listening to me,” Mike said rather quickly. “I feel much better now, really. I just need to be who I am and…yeah.” “I’m glad I could help,” Jack said back. “Yeah, yeah, this was good, and it sucks that I have to go, but my mom’s probably gonna come pick me up soon.” “Alright well, I’ll always be here for you, man. It was nice seeing you again.” By the time he finished that sentence, Mike was out of the building. He fastwalked away from the church and sat on the sidewalk nearby. He waited and watched as Jack got in his car and drove home. Mike sat around for twenty more minutes as he waited for his mother to pick him up. She drove him home, and they didn’t say a word to one another. Mike would never return to that church and would never see Jack again. Graduation day came and went later on in the week and Mike was officially done with school. The feeling he felt when he grabbed his diploma from his principal was like electricity surging through his fingertips and into his brain. It was an almost orgasmic sensation to finally be on his way to the next phase of his life. Mike had never ever been quite so eager for summer vacation to be over so that he could be sent off to college and live on his own. He’d be away from Jack, away from Katie, and most notably away from his parents, finally. As Mike was sitting in his room the day after graduation, he received a text from a friend of his, Chris. He and Chris weren’t exceptionally close, but they had known each other for at least five years. He hadn’t really spoken to Chris after he saw him and Katie together earlier on in the week. He looked at the text with great interest. Pool party tonight @ my place every1 invited! The fact that Chris used the numeral 1 to replace writing the brief word “one” annoyed Mike a little bit. He thought it was lazy. However, just about everything else about the text message Mike liked. That night, Mike asked for the car from his parents who gave him a little nod, and he sped on down the slightly-lit road to Chris’s house. Upon arriving, Mike had a difficult time finding where to park. The small neighborhood street was clogged up with cars of many 71

different shapes and sizes. The sound of hard rock emanating from Chris’s backyard pulsed through the car’s framework and beckoned for Mike. Both excited and worried, Mike managed to find a small opening on the side of the street to scoot his car into and exited the vehicle. He grabbed his towel and goggles and hoisted up his bathing suit as he proceeded up the grass hill to the opening of a fence that led into the backyard. As he opened the door, he was greeted by an uproar of voices that were more or less in unison screaming an earth-shattering “HELLO!!!!!!” right into his baffled face. Just as soon as the guests had responded to his presence, they forgot he existed and went back to their own individual conversations. Still feeling a bit stirred up, Mike laid his things down on an open table and eyed the nearest buffet. He had heard enough about parties to understand that when you don’t know anybody, you usually go to the nearest buffet and pig out. As Mike made his way over to the appetizing plate of deviled eggs, a wet hand grasped his shirt, which was followed by a “Hey, buddy!” from a voice that could only have belonged to the owner of the house himself: Chris. “It’s uh…Matt, isn’t it?” Chris asked rather loudly over the music. “Mike!” “Mike?” “MIKE!!! Yes.” “Hold on a sec,” Chris turned down the music. “Mike?” “Yeah, Mike.” “Well, Mike, this is my house - mi casa es su casa, if you know what I mean.” Mike had taken French, so he didn’t really know what he meant. “We got some food right here at this table, you can play a game of badminton over there, you can always jump into the pool, and if you want, you could just chill and talk.” “Sweet,” said Mike. As he spoke, he watched as a familiar face emerged from the water. It was followed by a body that Mike hadn’t seen like this ever before. It was Katie. In a skimpy green bikini, she emerged from the water like a nymph, spraying a jet of water from her mouth and pushing her hair back against her scalp. She gracefully slid through the water and walked up the stairs, gently grasping the metal pole to better sturdy her step. She made eye contact with Mike, and her face lit up. She smiled and waved her hand at him, and he nodded and waved back. Chris spun around and saw Katie as well. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here,” Katie said to Mike as she walked over. “Me neither,” Mike stammered. “I mean… I don’t, uh, I didn’t know that you were also gonna be here.” He actually did expect Katie to make some kind of appearance, but he did not expect to see her to be in this bubbly mood. Or in that swimsuit. He was glad to see that she was feeling better since the last time he saw her. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better since the last time I saw you,” he said. “Yeah, I’m doing a lot better now,” she responded. Mike, Katie, and Chris stood in their triangular formation for a little while, looking at one another shaking their heads slowly until Chris said, “Well, we’re gonna bring out a piñata now, so I’ll just go get it and bring out a bat and a blind-

fold.” Then he headed into his house, and Katie leapt back into the pool. Mike sighed and started eating a deviled egg. Is my own natural awkwardness just contagious or something? He wondered. As the party continued on, Mike eventually began becoming part of the celebration. He should have, anyways; he was undoubtedly one of the most enthusiastic people there. He got in the pool and played a game of Marco Polo. He remembered playing Marco Polo when he was younger, and he absolutely hated it, but that night he swore it was the most fun game of Marco Polo he’d ever played. He realized at the party that very few people had the right to act like they were better than everybody else there. At the same time, nobody could muster up the willpower to just stand by and not let themselves be consumed by the sheer energy of the world around them. At this party, nobody was judging anybody else, and nobody was unhappy to see anybody. Mike knew it was paradise. Mike had even made connections with several people at the party, including a boy named Johnny who he played in a game of badminton. Mike couldn’t whack a birdy for crap, but neither could Johnny. Johnny was Asian. Mike thought Asians were awesome. They had a long conversation about the original Pokémon animated cartoon series like they were little kids again. Mike hadn’t played the card game or the video game but watched the cartoon show religiously when he was younger. Johnny had played a few of the video games, collected the cards, and also watched the show a lot like Mike. They talked about Ash, Brock, and Misty, they talked about how the newer Pokémon cartoons will never live up to the original series, they talked about Team Rocket, and they sang the theme song like idiots. They became instant friends. At the party, he and Johnny also had a race across the pool, with Johnny winning a second before Mike. Then they ran around the edge of the pool in a race. The race had to be cut short due to Chris’s mom yelling at them. When she went back inside, Mike and Johnny busted out like hyenas. Mike was having a great time. Mike also met a girl named Savannah who he tried his best to avoid. She was a mouth breather who seemed to love talking but had absolutely nothing to talk about. If that weren’t enough to make her unappealing, her weight was certainly enough to make Mike keep his distance. Her pasty white complexion and overweight body made Mike uncomfortable. She was even wearing a two-piece. She seemed to be the one thing that Mike wasn’t fond of at the party. “Hi there, skinny boy,” she would say to Mike whenever she saw him. “Not funny,” Mike would hastily respond. Her strong Southern accent made her all the more obnoxious to Mike. Aside from constantly dodging Savannah and her biting remarks about his body, Mike had a great time at the pool party. When it eventually died down, all the tired partiers sat in the grass in a circle while Johnny broke out a guitar and played a soft ballad. Nobody spoke, not even a whisper. The sound of crickets in the night harmonized with the soft notes rising from the strings through Johnny’s pick and into the calm night air. Mike sat down and, for once, he felt like he had connected. For once he felt that he had been noticed by the people around him and was at peace. Johnny’s soothing melody made everybody relax for a second and think to themselves—to just take a second and enjoy this moment. One of 73

their final moments together before each of them leave for their own colleges and start their own lives. For once in his life, Mike wished the world would just stop moving, and he could enjoy the life he was living at that very minute. Johnny finished his song, and a few partygoers clapped a little bit for him. Mike stood up. “You leavin’?” Johnny asked him. “Nah, I just gotta use the bathroom.” “Four Mello Yellos will do that to ya, man.” Mike smiled and went into Chris’s house. He walked around for a bit trying to find the restroom and trying his best not to wake Chris’s father, who was at the time passed out on the couch with a Budweiser in his hand and a football game still being projected on the television before him. Mike went over to a door and slowly pulled it open to see if it was the right one. He heard a sound coming from behind it: a barely audible moaning sound. He wasn’t entirely sure why he proceeded to open the door anyways, but he did. Through a slight crack in the door, Mike saw Chris and Katie passionately rubbing against one another, their lips touching, and their arms touching and stroking the other’s back. Needless to say, Mike was embarrassed and walked away quietly. Even more so, though, he felt that same feeling of envy from a few days ago when he saw them in each other’s arms in the halls. He crept off to eventually find the restroom and urinated. While doing so, he thought of them together. Mike didn’t like that thought. He liked Katie. He liked Chris as well. But he hated them together. He hated the fact that Chris was so much better to Katie than he was. He hated the fact that Katie had fallen for Chris instead of himself. He hated the fact that after this enjoyable pool party he just had to walk in on the girl he liked making out with some guy he barely knew. He had had enough of Chris and Katie. He walked back outside and left the backyard through the fence door. “Hey Mike, you leaving?” Johnny asked as Mike slammed the fence door behind him. Mike didn’t answer. He started up his car and drove away, screaming expletives all the way home. The next week, Mike had invited Johnny over to his house for some video games. The boys sat on Mike’s carpeted floors, their controllers placed firmly in their grips and their eyes glued to the screen. They slammed on their buttons as fast as they could and wore determination on their faces. After about five minutes, the screen froze and the word, “TIE!” appeared on the screen. This warranted a distressed groan from Mike which was echoed by Johnny. The two of them started chuckling, and Mike began making small talk with Johnny as they waited for the next match to load. “So, what do you think you’re gonna major in in college?” Mike inquired. “Mechanical engineering,” Johnny answered. “Man,” Mike muttered. “I’m not that smart. I’m just gonna go in undecided and see what happens.” “That’s cool, I guess.” Mike didn’t think that was very cool. Mike wished he knew what to do with the rest of his life. Mike wished he was smart like Johnny. Mike wished he was Asian like Johnny. The new match began and the two boys stared back at the screen. As they played, they twitched and grunted as they tried to the best of 74

their ability to riddle one another with lead. This time Johnny won. He leapt up from his seat and flung his hands in the air, sending his controller flying across the room. He let out a victory scream and Mike could swear he heard his parents in the other room mumble, “Damn kids.” “How’s your relationship with what’s her face?” Mike asked, trying to make more small-talk. “It’s goin’ good,” Johnny responded as he sat back down. “Her name’s Sarah, by the way.” “Yeah, whatever,” Mike laughed. “How ‘bout you, ass-hat? You seein’ anyone? Maybe got your eye on someone?” Mike thought about Katie. “No,” he said. “I don’t really have time, y’know?” “That’s fine, I guess.” Mike didn’t think that was very fine. He wished he had a girlfriend. Mike wished he had been kissed at least once. He wished he was able to ask a girl to prom. He wished he was able to go to prom. The final match began, and this time Mike was decimated. “What the hell, man?” Johnny asked teasingly. “Sorry, I’m not as focused.” “That’s for sure,” Johnny said as he grabbed his car keys. “Alright, well, now I’m gonna go pick up Sarah. We’re gonna go see some crappy movie. Wish I could stay, and I really mean that.” “Alright, bye.” “Oh, wait!” Johnny exclaimed. “Let me give you something.” He handed a slip of paper with his address on it. “What’s this?” asked Mike. “An invitation to my party.” “Another party? Like Chris’s?” “Nah, a REAL party,” he leaned in closer to whisper in Mike’s ear. “There’ll be booze and weed. And girls, man. Lots and lots of girls.” Mike felt his armpits start sweating. “When?” “Tomorrow night.” Mike wished he had some deodorant. “No,” Mike hesitated. “I can’t do it tomorrow night. I’ve got something else planned. It’s kinda personal.” Johnny shrugged, “If you say so.” Johnny walked out the door and Mike turned off his console. He went over to the window and watched as Johnny got in his car and drove away. Mike wished he was as cool as Johnny. He trudged off to his room and opened his nightstand. He pulled out the list he kept in there. 1.) Go to a REAL party 2.) Get drunk at said party 3.) Get high at said party. He looked over the list for a while before crumpling up the paper and throwing it in the trash. He lied down on his bed and looked up at the ceiling. He wished he was anyone but himself. 75

Just Stop Mary Butgereit

Credo Storm Taylor

Nostalgia Harley Aldredge

Letters to my Ten-Year-Old Self Madelyn Wong

Said The Poet To The Wheelchair Sabrina Chen

Past, Present, Future Shafer Williams

The Weave Tori Lewis

Me and the Silence Alexa Russell

The Dyslexic Dream Hospital Aj Sakyi-Addo

From Your Veins Adam Woelke

I Just Want to Say (or Do I?) Mary Butgereit

Heritage Lauryn Rody

Hello, Goodbye. Kalee Yem

Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s World Sarah Buckelew

Love Poem for a Ghost Storm Taylor

How the Ocean Stole My Feelings Melody Rymer

Liplocked Hannah Forrest

The Back of Your Head Jade Chambers

A Woman, the Sea Tori Lewis

Hopeless Power Sada Forrest

Stop Thinking Tina Lucente

100

Naomi Jordan Searcy

101

Seashore Joylyn Bukovac

102

My Own Words Kim Czerniewski

103

Poetry

Guaranteed Results Sarah Buckelew

Poetry

Guaranteed Results Sarah Buckelew

She slams the bowl down, Removing the lid of the flour container, Scooping up a cup-full of the heavy white particles, Straightening them out with a knife into the smooth perfection she wishes her life could mimic. Dropping in exact measurements of salt and baking soda, Furiously cranking the sifter, Watching the powder drift slowly in an even coating that slightly soothes her aggression, Agitatedly waiting for the butter to melt, Determinedly beating the sugar into the butter with an added teaspoon of vanilla, Neatly and forcefully breaking the eggs into the bowl, Pouring the milk precisely to the brim of her three quarters cup, Alternately mixing the milk and the flour with the butter As her anger slowly melts into the tears against the gentle whirring of the blender, Scraping the thick, smooth batter into individually lined tins. She places her pan into a preheated oven and sets the timer, Taking comfort in the certainty of her actions as her control over the rest of her life slowly crumbles out of her hands.

Mary Butgereit

Poetry

Just Stop

He casually dropped his words into the coffee, Stirring it with an artificial sweetness And coating it with cream To obscure the darkness I tried to swallow some, But a hole burned in my throat – A dime-sized emptiness That detoured my thoughts Away from my vocal chords And straight into the air, Immersed in his opinions, Like sending freshwater fish into the ocean (Too ill-suited to swim properly, And when finally caught and finally examined Already dead) I left the café clutching my gills But as my own ventilator. Thank you, sir, but when I drown I’d like it to be of my own accord

Poetry

Credo Storm Taylor

A watercolor, lovely and sane Becomes a Rorschach when left in the rain A collapsed landscape with sunken hues Blurring together-- a big awful bruise A Rorschach, ugly and insane A trace of beauty does not remain Its tears that drip into my hands-Mourning destruction of former lands I take it into my home to dry Though not pleasing to the eye I set it down to begin again With tools to mend-- a brush; a pen

Harley Aldredge

Poetry

Nostalgia

January blues fill my dream with hues of cold, Silver and gold, that wisp around in late October, Flowing freely with August memories, rich With the scent of Novemberâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wet dying leaves And the tobacco stained leather That you wrapped around my shoulders, Descending through a bitter December, Dreaming of June sunshine, Julyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweltering skin, Hoping again for the sweaty palms and dewy eyes That May always brings.

Poetry

Letters to my Ten-year-old Self Madelyn Wong

Dear my ten-year-old self, You will spend the next five years Searching in vain for Asian role models In American movies and TV and literature And you will only find Lucy Liu. And while she is a brilliant actress Model and advocate for Asian women Whom she encourages to break barriers The fact remains that Lucy Liu Still gets the most screen-time Because she wears leather And ten-year-old self You have to accept that You are just not Lucy Liu Ten-year-old self Remember that your heritage Is a gift, not a novelty Even though For the rest of your life there Will always be another crass ass Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s seen too many triple-x-rated videos with olive-skinned schoolgirls with flittering minds and twittering giggles and thinks that you are them When kids call you Ching-Chang, Widescreen, or any pun On your name that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve heard Since first grade DO NOT grow red DO NOT roll your eyes DO NOT turn away Plant your feet And hold your stance Because you are not A tourist stand souvenir to be fetishized You are Human 82

Ten-year-old self Never be ashamed of Your wide eyes or your black hair Your strong eyebrows and your round face In four years you will learn that your grandmother was taken from her home, and at the age I am now was forced into a labor camp where she worked until she bled You will learn That she still carries the scars from when she clawed and dragged her and her family’s way out of China And you will learn that she still lives in Brooklyn alone because even at eighty-two years old she still demands her independence And you will learn That when she was a teenager She looked a lot Like I do now So ten-year-old self You are not Lucy Liu And you are not a twittering schoolgirl But that does not matter Because your grandmother gave you Her strong looks And her strong will And you will plow on Because for all the stereotypes About your heritage That you face everyday One fact will Always ring true: You Are A Conqueror.

Follow this QR Code to hear Madelyn Wong’s audio performance of “Letters to my Ten-year-old Self.”

Poetry

Said the Poet to the Wheelchair Sabrina Chen

In serotonin flashbacks I am A marked highway, holding up cars And cigarette linings for sale. She thinks of my fingers as Interstates, east-east-west Like the 484 and 136 on the maps Strumming guitars with plectrums Telling me to B flat, B natural Though the compass closes before You get to wrap my hand in Lifted memories and popping bags, December runs in breaks and tires. We wander like dashboard antelopes, Napping, contorted by solitude And misplacing green and red.

Shafer Williams

Poetry

Past, Present, Future

Mournful of the past Hateful of the present day Fearing the future Look to your mistakes For each loss shall pave the way To your victory Scars from the past day Can become wounds that bleed shame If you allow them A knife in your hand Pulled from your back for revenge Is blood for blood right? Past mistakes repeat Without learning the lesson The mistake taught you

Poetry

The Weave Tori Lewis

In and out, over and under the needle goes, Layers and layers of fibers and strands So weaves make longer the locks of hair. Longer, perhaps, to impress people in love, To fix a mistake, to change up a look, And so the weave fills the holes in a head, It hangs on by the thinnest of edges By nothing but glue and heat sometimes, But we put the weaves in our hair, Our hair—ratty and dry, oily and brittle, Splitting apart from every single end. Splitting like our families and parents Like the cracks in our drywall and paint And the breaks in the sidewalks that Wind up to our mortgaged little houses, And though everything else is falling apart, Our children’s future, our boyfriends’ trust, Our grocery bills, our part time jobs, We do what we can with the things that we have . What little hope we find, we hold on to With dry hands and brittle nails, if nothing else, The nylon strands we stick between the real ones Are the bits and pieces of dignity we keep And weave tightly into our heads.

Alexa Russell

Poetry

Me and the Silence

Me and the silence, we are basically one (She scares me a bit, you see) Everyday she wants to have some fun (She has fun hurting me) She keeps me company when I’m alone (I want to go, but I have to stay) (She never has anything to say) She lets me sit on her dark black throne (Shhh, she’ll hear you, don’t wake her please) I sit in this chair waiting every day (She’ll kill me surely if she sees) She sings me lullabies and we play (Her whispers in my ear never go away) She is my heart; I can never leave her side (I am glad you are here, and I hope you stay) She has loved me since I died (Here she comes, don’t make a peep) She is my quiet guide (Let me hide you very deep) She enters with not a sound at all (She keeps me here and won’t let me get away) She cradles me like a china doll (Forever I will be her prey)

Poetry

The Dyslexic Dream Hospital AJ Sakyi-addo

Words jumbled. Lead crumbles. I’m writing a paper and it’s going so well. Pencil slipping. Head dipping. I’m writing a paper and it’s going so well. Pencil drops. Thinking stops. I’m writing a paper and it’s going so well. Careening dream. Everything obscene. I’m writing a paper and it’s going so well. Letters attack. Surroundings retract. I’m writing a paper and it’s going so well. Eyes open. White light blinding. I.V pumping. Heart thumping. What happened to my paper? It was going just swell.

Adam Woelke

Poetry

From Your Veins

I wash my hands just as much as any other human I know. Two minutes later, a few seconds of rinse, then repeat. I inspect them and stare. They’re dirty again. I wash again. I look again. Still dirty. I hear a knock at the door. They’ve returned, and I pull down my sleeves to cover it up. I can’t let them know I’m weak. Weakness attracts them like flies to excrement. I can’t open the door, but I have to. They watch me and jeer at me just before binding my hands and pulling up my sleeves. I hear a knock at the door. The toilet flushes, never again. I wash my arms three times and my face twice. The mirror reflects me: a sour, sullen shell of a human. Ugly in the eyes. I’m shaking like a frightened pup. I look at my arms. I hear a knock at the door.

Poetry

I Just Want To Say (Or Do I?) Mary Butgereit

(Editor’s Note: read the columns or the rows, both read as poems)

silence doesn’t fit our needs

is that how we’re destined to be

gilded, exactly surviving, truth halted

Lauryn Rody

Poetry

Heritage

I saw him in a little cantina It was highly Americanized and very colorful, But he had the most beautiful brown skin, jet black hair Eyes the color of mole and just as spicy I had just started learning Spanish at school And he was fluent So our conversations were a little awkward And went something like this: ¿Holacomoestás? I’m sorry...what? ¿Holacomoestás? Uh... one more time? ¿Hola como estás? Ooooh... Um bien, y tú? Somehow I always managed to choke out the right answers But beyond that we’d run out of things to say to each other So we’d smile and wave Then he’d race off back to work Leaving behind him a trail of pheromones and cologne I’d inhale and wave again Because I was younger by a lot and couldn’t possibly love him I settled for stalking him at work and learning his language Which I called: “Just Eating Dinner” It was by accident that I fell in love with the language instead of him There was something about the way the words were postured on the page The way they flowed when spoken They mingled with my heartbeat and created a bachata dance I could do all night I drowned myself in the culture It swam into me and found the piece of my heart I favored least and nurtured it It wasn’t until some years later I found out: I am Latino See, my family comes from deep, deep South Mississippi Where these things are Not To Be Mentioned and 91

White was a proud label on my grandfather’s forehead It was the first thing he mentioned in a conversation I still bear some of the similar markings but they have become smudged with time And in a certain light almost read ‘human’ My grandfather started pronouncing the family name of Cortés as court-is But now the only picture of my grandfathers father is hanging in my stairwell and In it he stands strong, shoulders back with a handle bar mustache And a sombrero perched proudly atop his head. He is the quintessential Hispanic man, Despite the blue eyes that have been passed down from generation to generation to generation of my family, and that have become the most integral part of my grandfather’s denial of our heritage. In that photograph, my great-grandfather is the quintessential Hispanic man, and I love him for it. For my curves, for the way my attitude flares at the most inconvenient times. For the way my mouth is built to speak Spanish, the sweet syllables rolling off my tongue and though my nickname remains blanca, My family becomes mi familia

Follow this QR code to hear Lauryn Rody’s audio performance of “Heritage”

Kaylee Yem

Poetry

Hello, Goodbye

There is first a hesitant hello A joke thrown at each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s expense Secrets shared between them Talking, laughing, playing with each other Pokes in the side, knowing looks, broad grins Standing, sitting, smiling A friendship secured, a caring known A joke thrown at each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s expense Secrets held to themselves Ignoring, crying, hiding from each other Stabs in the back, bitter words, cold smiles Standing, sitting, smoldering A friendship shaken, a distrust known There is last a determined goodbye

Poetry

Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s World Sarah Buckelew

The storage bin portrays false divides But the whitener creates them Divides up Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s time and things for a sense of impact Divides between the days when his teeth slowly melt back to yellow And the days he fills his mouth with a backwards chemical taste For a sparkling white finish on his food crushing bones His things are divided amongst the drawers by functions And he pretends it makes a difference That the toothpaste and toothbrush and teeth whitener in the top drawer Have nothing to do with the soap in the bottom drawer That the towels in the middle drawers do not mix with the final residues of soap as he dries off That he does not mix and merge with the outside world That he can be divided up alone in a drawer And know clearly who he is Without the thoughts of society mixing within his mind Forcing divides like the breaks for teeth whitener Which is clearly important In a world where the towels do not touch the soap

Storm Taylor

Poetry

Love Poem for a Ghost

I love the way you drag your feet, the way you slump your body down I love how you express defeat, the way you always frown I love the way you cross your arms, a shield against potential harms I love the way you lurk alone, cold and quiet as a stone I love your greasy, unkempt hair, the way you look alike each day I love your foggy, distant stare, the way you never seem to be okay I love how you rarely speak, how your voice is small and weak I love how you walk down the hall, always keeping near the wall I love how you are wispy thin, the way your cheekbones are defined I love your pocked and pale skin, the way your face is lined I love the way they call you ugly, the way they say you are a freak I love how people turn away, calling you a creep I love all these things and more about you Ever more each passing day And when each day is done and through I ache because you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stay

Poetry

How the Ocean Stole My Feelings Melody Rymer

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s everywhere Everywhere my eyes flit Over everything I touch Stored in every drawer of emotion Filling up my lungs Cold, wet It consumes me And I let it How can someone be addicted to the feeling of drowning? I let it happen at least twice a month I watch my feelings drift away upon the waves And the fish ask me why? The whales have taught me how to float The dolphins have taught me how to swim Who taught me how to drown? To let the waves knock me over, And teach me to just take it? When will I start floating again?

Hannah Forrest

Poetry

Liplocked

As I bled your name from my lips, swallowing your gasps, your exclamations - as I siphoned the tears and wrinkles from your straining cheeks, I felt the cataclysmic crunch, the collapsing crack, as you devoured my sun and dropped your head to my neck. You were my black hole, the end to a freedom I did not need, and I, your stargazer, was consumed by you. My love, have me. Silence my voice as I approach you. Smother my heart. Take me prisoner. Chain me to the walls of your chest and lock me away with your lungs, for if I could breathe your air as I sat eclipsed within your formâ&#x20AC;Śyour nothingness, black hole, would be my something.

Poetry

The Back of Your Head Jade Chambers

Did you know? That I could spend an eternity fixated on the back of your head That I could spend eons mapping out the very patterns of your scalp— That I can pinpoint the exact angle at which your hair grows? That if you gave me a few months I could draw the back of your head from memory And after about a year I could probably attempt a side profile? But a frontal view? No way— I don’t think I could ever The single thought of giving you eye contact scares me. When you look at me I shatter to pieces. But I guess I only have one day to retain all of your features 10 minutes at most So when I take my pen and sketchbook to your open casket I hope your mom doesn’t look at me wrong That I had to wait until you were dead to draw you I hope she doesn’t mind.

Tori Lewis

Poetry

A Woman, the Sea

She’s nothing but madness and disease, She’s wrath and damnation Sitting stagnant in one spot, Her contempt stirs, antagonizes itself, And she’ll kill you if you give her the chance. Good man, sometimes she is still And the moonlight reflects off her surface, She sparkles—splits the stars Into a million more dots of light, And she’ll kiss your feet, if you give her the chance. Aye, kissing feet is what she does But not those of a hardworking man; Her lips stray to those of the nearest shoreline, The teeth, rather are what find you, And she’ll tear you apart if you give her the chance. No—destruction is not her name Rather it is the result of working against her; It’s what happens when hatred poisons love, Revel in the wordlessness of her majesty, And she’ll show you how to live if you give her the chance. Live? Living is her last interest for man Leave her to her way and she ensures That the last two standing are you and her; Make sure you’re stranded and starving, And she’ll steal your humanity if you give her the chance Stealing is indeed her vice, everything but humanity A kiss, my sorrows, my heart, my soul, Her breath, the wind, her tears, the waves Can take away all the maladies of the world, And she’ll let you start anew if you give her the chance You’ll start, sure, anew and lost to yourself; There’s no feeling like disorientation after betrayal And aye, her tears are waves, but they’re full of salt That stings, burns, beats, irritates, and cuts, And she’ll stab you in the back if you give her the chance 99

She wields weapons, sir, but not against you; She defends her love and scars her enemy, A warrior like man has never seen Loving with her left and smiting with her right, And she’ll guard you with her life if you give her the chance In all my years, she has never guarded me, She lives for chaos, she seethes with deceit Her weather—her moods can’t be predicted Or managed with all the men in the navy, And she’ll trick you and trap you if you give her the chance. There is nothing dishonest between her and me Except, perhaps that I know far littler than she; I’ve spent years with her, and know her I do not, Yet she knew me completely from the start, And I gave her the chance, you see; I’ve stood before, and I’ll stand before her again, For with a trained eye and two steady hands, There is nothing I, a man, cannot achieve With the help of a woman, the sea.

100

Sada Forrest

Poetry

Hopeless Power

A land of purple waters And dark cyan leaves; A plain of blue grass Plotted with short stubby buildings. Each and every path leads to nowhere. A loud kingdom without any people A king hopelessly rules without the masses. During seasons, silence falls on this domain, Timelessly lost. Let the sad king sit on his rotting throne Let him rule a fruitless land, Vivid and rich with color Let the buildings be condemned As they sink into the earth. Poison consumed the region. Let his own poison finish him.

101

Poetry

Stop Thinking Tina Lucente

Stop thinking darling You’ll drive yourself mad I know the thoughts you’re thinking And we both know they’re bad Lovely, you’re gorgeous You don’t need to lose weight You’re perfect the way you are I understand that self-hate Smile, beautiful I promise, I know the pain Don’t overthink about life Stop walking down memory lane Don’t stare at your scares They’ll slowly fade away Let your emotions out Don’t keep your tears at bay Step up to the window Looks up at the stars Close your eyes, take a breath Remember who you are

102

Jordan Searcy

Poetry

Naomi

I see Naomi on the streetcorner With a pitiful look in her eye Feeling down Growing up in a small town Marrying a man she thought she loved Listening to other peoples thoughts Daydreaming about another life Giving life to her first child Pinching pennies Wearing hand-me-downs Stealing food Living her life for other people Wondering if it will ever end Trying to run away from it all Running, faster and faster Catching her breath Reflecting on the past Through her scattered thoughts Thinking how she never really got a chance to live

103

Poetry

Seashore Joylyn Bukovac

The wind blows through my hair As I sit on the seashore and stare. So many thoughts float inside my head I can barely keep my eyes dry. As I sit on the seashore and stare, I think about how they aren’t here with me. I can barely keep my eyes dry. I constantly miss their company. I think about how they aren’t here with me I shouldn’t have let them go. I constantly miss their company The world is such a dangerous place. I shouldn’t have let them go. I should have made them stay. The world is such a dangerous place, But who would have ever known? I should have made them stay. My parents would still be alive to this day. But who would have ever known? They were chosen to be one with the sea. My parents would still be alive If the sea didn’t swallow them alive that day. They were chosen to be one with the sea. Now the sea holds two new treasures. If the sea didn’t swallow them alive that day, They would have safely returned. Now the sea holds two new treasures, My parents who told me they were going to be home by supper and never returned. They would have safely returned, To feed me dinner and kiss me goodnight. My parents who told me they were going to be home by supper and never returned. Now I’m here staring at the innocent monster that swept my family away. 104

Kim Czerniewski

Poetry

My Own Words

These words before you are not mine. They herald from my mind and pen, but they are not the same ones I wrote. What words come to mind to describe me now? Am I blunt? Contradictory? Detached? Do you imagine that you have some form or idea of me through the words which I have presented? Do you feel the tone of this author? If you believe that you do then you are wrong. You know yourself. You know the tone in which you would speak these words. You know how you would feel telling these words to another. But you do not know how I, the author, know these words. For all that you know I could be condescending with my tone here. Like I know more than you do. Or I could be sorrowful with the knowledge that I cannot know how you interpret my words. These words before you are not mine. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;they are yours. And the moment you finish here, and someone else becomes my audience, these words will be theirs.

Follow this QR code to hear original songs written by Ben Ewing, James Faw, and Alexandra Wiegand.

105

106

Pancakes Daniel Lang

107

Alice in Chains Adam Woelke

108

Unsure Sarah Buckelew

109

Government and Media Must Be Separate Casey Marley

110

Diversity Daniel Lang

111

Autism: More Than a Fact Theresa Andrzejewski

112

I Hate Jenny McCarthy Jon Harper

113

Coffee Filters Chris Lycans

115

Pepper-Filled Folly Sarah Buckelew

117

Sweet and Sour Chicken and Other Substitutes Megan Zecher

118

Gregarious Passengers Shae Greene

119

This Is Not for the Weak Minded Lauryn Rody

121

Bike Ride Sam Herrin

123

Lasting Side Effects Jessica Deming

124

Resilience Daniel Lang

125

Trust Must Be Earned Masi Barnes

126

The Story of Captain Save-a-Bro Michael Samaras

128

Caitlin Cyrus Patel

129

The Misinformation Age Sascha Kirkham

130

A Beautiful Mind Nick Lewis

131

Here We Are Kennedy Saaristo

132

Society Alyssa Kennedy

134

April 4th Alexandra Wiegand

137

Creative Nonfiction

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Trying to Say Something Here Kayla Buckelew

Nonfiction

I’m Trying to Say Something Here Kayla Buckelew

n the moments before you fell, did you see it all clearly, did you see the ground laid out neatly before you? Listen, the ground was always there, you just never noticed it until now. In the moments before you fell, did you hear the shouts of those who started lower than you, did you hear them asking for help? Listen, the cries were always there, you just ignored them. In the moments before you fell, did you smell the filth of the ground, did the stench wrinkle your nose? Listen, it always smelled that way, you were just too far away to notice it. In the moments before you fell, did you taste the despair on your tongue, did you taste the hopelessness coating the ground? Listen, it always tasted that way, you just never tried it. In the moments before you fell, did you feel the ground cut into your skin, did you feel the blood trickling down your legs? Listen, it always felt that way, you just never reached out to touch it. Here’s the truth if you really want to know: You wake up in the morning and put on your shoes, meanwhile someone else doesn’t have shoelaces to tie. You walk out your door with socks on your feet, meanwhile someone else doesn’t have a doorknob to turn. You go to work at your paying job, meanwhile someone else stumbles down the street aching for somewhere, anywhere, to work. You go home to eat dinner, meanwhile someone else eases their grumbling stomach with insubstantial promises. Here’s the truth if you really want to know: In the moments when you ignore those appealing to your mercy, you become a brutal dictator, the devil in your heart winning over. In the moments when you pretend those below you are not real, do not exist, you become the monster of humankind. In the moments when you brush off their outstretched hands and stomp on their straining fingers, you are more real than your own worst nightmare. Listen, they are talking to you; they are asking for your help, your mercy— hear them. They reach their hands up, seeking leverage to help them climb upwards—hoist them up on the back of your privilege. Listen, they are calling for you—hear them. Listen, they are calling for you. Listen, they are calling. Listen.

108

Daniel Lang

Nonfiction

Pancakes

stare at the mound of golden-brown pancakes that lie bathed in syrup and stacked before me on my plate. The hemisphere of butter topping the stack protrudes just above the horizon created by the pancakes. The sun rises on the Sahara. None of the camels know why, but it doesn’t matter. They’re too busy. Surviving is a demanding job. Floodlights turn on in a spacious warehouse. The darkness is replaced with visible emptiness. No people or items are within. There is no sound, but if there were, it would echo endlessly. A baby experiences consciousness for the first time. He exists now. The rush of light is scary, new and incredible, but he won’t remember it. He can’t process memories yet. Trees do not question the rain that sustains them. A brilliant man in a wheelchair postulates, “Many different kinds of universe will be spontaneously created out of nothing. It is a matter of chance which we are in.” Nothing becomes something. Either that, or something has always existed. The concept of forever is too difficult to grasp. I instead grasp my fork and carry on with my day, only to inevitably focus my energy on things that ultimately carry no significance.

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Nonfiction

Alice in Chains Adam Woelke

don’t imagine that life was very different from 2013 in the 1920’s. People worked, went to school, got married and had a bunch of kids. Of course, as stereotypically portrayed of that era, they partied. They partied hard. I can only imagine the parties that people must have had back then. I wonder whether or not I could adjust to life back then if I were suddenly whisked away in a giant, time traveling vortex. They pushed limits, or at least they were the ones to start pushing the boundaries. I see a basement place, or at least something akin to a shady hole in the ground. A couple royal purple streamers decorate the gray walls. Whiskey. Beer. Bourbon. Moonshine. Kegs marked with a big black XXX on the side. Illegality is the name of the game, and these people are playing to win. Suddenly, a trumpet sounds, and the inebriated participants drop their conversations and stumble into each other, flapping their arms and swinging their hips. Different dance, different tune, same people. I don’t think I’d have a hard time at all getting into the swing of things. If a train leaves station A at a speed of 55 miles per hour, and it needs to stop over the distance of thirty meters, will the train be able to stop in time? Well, how much does it weigh? What kind of metal makes up the tracks? Why does it need to stop? What will happen if it doesn’t stop in time? Is there a kid in the way? Is there any more track? Oh God, don’t say that there isn’t any more track! It’ll derail! It’ll kill the passengers and destroy the cargo! What if it doesn’t stop there? What if it keeps going and going until it breaks through the ground and chugs on and on…we would never be able to stop it… I see the teeth of the Cheshire cat smirking at me, sitting in a tree above the Mad Hatter and that rabbit that always seems to be late for something. He could always try to set his watch for an earlier time so he would be warned before he was late. Alice is in chains. She’s bigger than she was before as well. Too big, you might say. I walk up to the table where tea is being served, the marijuana smell skunking up the woods around us. I greet the big-hatted guy who is, strangely, wearing a flannel shirt, sitting at the end of the table. He promptly pours me some tea and asks me to sit down for a while. But I can’t. I can’t stop and sit down because like the rabbit, I’m late. I’m late for a train ride. The basement place is alive with movement. Purple decorations strewn about randomly, probably in a hurry. Plants. Snow. Sticks with sharper points than nature would allow. And of course, the traditional cooler of beer to wash it all down. The music is dropping, and the lyrics are hard to understand. The kids in the middle are dancing and touching each other. I watch them and hate myself for having been marked as the generation who couldn’t stop the train before we derailed. I’m dancing, too. A little off to the side and out of the spotlight, but still, I’m dancing.

110

Sarah Buckelew

Nonfiction

Unsure

very day in BTA, I start to question my existence. I find myself doing yet another assignment that I can’t seem to fathom the purpose of. The assignments usually go something like this: Step one: open a document. Step two: type these specific words into it. Step three: highlight the list and click the bullet options, find the symbols options, select the row three, column five bell symbol. Step four: turn your list into a chart with these specific shading options. Step five: add some more words. Step six: make more random format adjustments. Step seven: adjust the title. Step eight: save the document as blank. And repeat daily. I’m sitting there on my computer, completing multiple projects and wondering things like when I’m ever going to find it useful to make bullet points that look like bells or if it would ever really matter that I had chosen to make a chart with the purple shading options. And then I start to think about the fact that I spend eight hours a day at school and that I’m spending a quarter of that time each day, mindlessly editing word documents as my brain turns to mush. So then I start to think about my whole life and the fact that most of what I do isn’t much of an original choice. I think about how I’m going to school because I won’t have a comfortable life otherwise, and how I work jobs because I’ve heard that means I’m responsible. Because I’ve heard that means I’m an adult. Then, I think how arbitrary it all is. I think about how I’m doing these assignments because I care about the grade, because that determines where I’m going. I start to feel caught up in a system, and I wonder at what point we all collectively decided that so many surface things were important. And then I start to wonder if we could all collectively decide not to care anymore. Then I realize that I am consistently electing to feed into this system. That I am waiting for someone else’s deflection because I am afraid to act alone. So from there, I start to wonder about myself, about my lack of a personage, about why I keep waking myself up every day to live in a life where I give myself no real power. And it leaves me questioning who I really am, because internally, I’m a lot more concerned about the long term effects of computer usage on interpersonal relationships than using the proper formatting, but externally I’m still just staring blankly at the screen making minute adjustments, just like the rest of the classroom. Because to be honest, I’d rather nobody ever have to notice me most days.

111

Nonfiction

Government and Media Must be Separate Casey Marley

atherine Graham once said, “News is what someone wants suppressed. Everything else is advertising” While advertising for government programs is a vital part in government communication with its public, government advertising can often be manipulated to maintain a “positive image,” ending with the truth concealed. With this in mind, citizens cannot rely solely on a government’s “good word” when learning about issues their country is facing. This is where journalism separate from government becomes a saving force, informing people on all issues—both those that want to be heard and those that need to be heard. Author and journalist George Orwell wrote the highly esteemed 1984, a novel depicting a future state where the government controlled all aspects of life, including the media, soon after World War II had ended. In this world, people live in ignorant fear and develop hatred based on government propaganda. This world, while fictitious, is an elaborate example of how an uninvestigated and non-reported government can transform into tyranny. A world not fictitious, however, was the world of 1930’s and 1940’s Nazi Germany. In order for the Nazis to remain in power, they needed absolute control over the distribution of media. By 1944, the German government eliminated 3,600 of Germany’s newspapers. The 325 newspapers that remained in Germany were owned by the Nazi party. Privately owned newspapers had to operate under strict compliance with press laws and could only publish material approved by the Ministry of Propaganda. By controlling the media, the Nazi government was able to keep their citizens ignorant or brainwashed to the systematic murder of millions of Jews, Gypsies and other minority groups in Europe. The intertwining of government and media is not always as dire as Hitler’s Germany or Orwell’s Oceania. Even in America, journalists are hassled and even imprisoned for searching for the truth and maintaining journalistic integrity. Why would reporters make these sacrifices just to relay the news? The answer goes back to truth. By knowing the truth, people make informed decisions - decisions not based on government propaganda, party biases, or the fear of the unknown. Possessing the ability to make decisions means having freedom and that is why media is important. By having a government-free media, Americans learned that the National Surveillance Agency was tracking their personal information. Appalled by the over step in the government’s role, the American people demanded a halt in the unauthorized surveillance. In the Ukraine recently, reporters set up cameras feeding a live stream of the conflict to YouTube in order for the world to see an objective view of the police versus protester conflict. These examples of free press showcase why government and media must be separate. Media owned by government is nothing more than a marketing campaign produced to maintain a positive image. This “marketing campaign” may seem harmless, but by keeping a country ignorant, a government is taking away the freedom of its people.

112

Daniel Lang

Nonfiction

Diversity

Pluribus Unum” – a Latin phrase that means “out of many, one” – was used to describe America around the time of its founding. The phrase, while clear and simple at first glance, accurately characterized the most important aspects of America for centuries to come. This phrase conveys the notion that America’s diversity strengthens its liberties. Although faced with arduous hardships throughout history, the United States of America has always turned to its democratic ideals to triumph over adversity, qualifying the assertion made by Thomas Paine that diversity is the way to a successful country. However, America is by no means a perfect society. There exists no utopia in which poverty, sickness, and corruption are not widespread. Today, our nation faces the most significant economic slump since the Great Depression. In addition, our dealings with hostile foreign nations create insidious thoughts of anxiety in the minds of many citizens. One thing of which we can be certain in today’s uncertain world, though, is that America has proven to be an ingenious nation of problem solvers and critical thinkers. Most likely, the issues of today will be resolved by the next generation, giving rise to an entirely new plethora of quandaries. For evidence, one needs simply to examine events in the course of American history. In 1929, our country was faced with a horrendous stock market crash that resulted in high levels of unemployment and low levels of hope. In other nations, these struggles may not have been terminated so quickly; the nations of like-minded individuals produce little variance in approaches to problems. In a country full of skilled men and women of all backgrounds and cultures, though, this diversity manifests as creative solutions and unprecedented approaches. The liberties allotted by our federal government and the spectrum of individuals that composes our population allow for brilliant minds and audacious leaders to guide our people toward a better tomorrow. In biology, students are taught the advantage of genetic variation among organisms; the best-suited individuals are selected from a wide range of options. The same principle pertains to a more macroscopic population. America continues to prosper and prevail because our differences make us strong. This notion can be proven true by examining the manner in which our country managed to drag itself out of the Great Depression. Franklin Delano Roosevelt invented policies that creatively revitalized the economy and, thus, the nation. Without creativity, there is no advancement. Without diversity, there is no creativity. Clearly, the United States of America derives its ingenuity from the diversity of its populace; history can corroborate this statement. The most amazing aspect of this paradox is that Paine was able to predict this phenomenon soon after our nation’s founding. “…by the simple operation of constructing government on the principles of society and the rights of man, every difficulty retires, and all the parts are brought into cordial unison” was what Paine hypothesized in 1791. If he were alive in 2013, he would be smiling. 113

Nonfiction

Autism: More Than a Fact Theresa Andrzejewski

xperts claim that 1 out of 68 American children are affected by some form of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD): a group of complex brain disorders that range from Asperger’s to autism. In all entireties, autism itself is a broad subject to study, almost as broad as it is complex. All over the world, research is conducted, yet autism still remains an utter mystery to the human race. Experiments are run, facts are collected, and statistics are recorded. Yet there is nothing more, just simple facts, statistics, scientific claims. Sure, facts may be able to lead people to take action about, say, a child that clearly shows signs of autism, but facts most certainly cannot discern what the right and wrong ways are to raise said child, and they cannot guarantee that the lives of both the parents and the child will remain unchanged. The first to agree would be Eva Andrzejewski, a dedicated mother of four children. Yes, Eva has a child with autism. A fourteen-year old boy named John, whose diagnosis did not quite come as a surprise to the Andrzejewski family. “[John] wasn’t officially diagnosed until he was five,” Eva said, “but we knew something was different about him when he was two and a half. “There was no visual contact, no interaction unless it was for something that he wanted to do. He didn’t play with his toys; he lined them up. He wouldn’t make noises with his toy cars the way normal kids would, he just wouldn’t play like normal kids. And everything, everything was repetitive.” Eva adds that through the years, John has made improvements. “Still, he doesn’t communicate well. He won’t initiate anything unless it benefits himself. Otherwise, he won’t engage. But he’s gotten better in other areas, mostly academic, like in history classes. Factual stuff. Math, music, logic.” Pride is evident in her voice as she explains one of John’s most recent accomplishments. “He had the highest grade average in math. Regular, not advanced, but out of his whole class.” John was highly praised for his award in math, and Eva admits that her son taught her more than the simple lesson that hard work pays off – not just in school, but in life as well. “Patience, patience, patience! That’s what John taught me, from the very beginning. He taught me how important it is to be patient. Patience and acceptance, acceptance for his limitations.” In Eva’s eyes, John is a life changer. His autism is a life changer. His autism is more than a life changer – it is also a teacher. Not necessarily a teacher that spews numbers and facts and data of all sorts, but a teacher that makes the most of life in the present. John’s autism is a teacher that builds invaluable relationships and strengthens moral values, and, as shown through a fourteen year old boy with ASD, it is much, much more than just a fact.

114

Jon Harper

Nonfiction

I Hate Jenny McCarthy

hate Jenny McCarthy. Every time I look at her stupid face, it makes me want to scream. She is the number one argument for the neutering of the general public, because, let’s be honest, there are tons of people out there who should not be raising kids. It’s not just the fact that she’s wrong that gets me mad. That’s fine. I don’t care if some dumb lady happens to be wrong about something. That’s the least of my concerns. It’s when she starts spreading that ignorance around to every single person she meets and starts endangering children’s lives—that’s when I start to get angry. It’s not just her fault, though. It’s also every single one of her dumb follower’s faults, too. Why would you listen to this woman? How is she an authority on child medicine? “Well, honey, it’s time for our child to receive his vaccinations. Who should we trust - the medical doctors who have to study and attend school for years and years before their work is even considered valuable and who have a system of peer review to ensure accurate scientific medical results... or a random psycho who was in Playboy once? Hmm, tough call.” How is she qualified to be giving advice on vaccines? I wouldn’t even ask this nut job for directions, let alone the validity of different medicines and theirp= possible links to autism. Why do people listen? Because they’re stupid. Because they trust this she-devil more than people who have had to work to come up with their evidence. Think of some of the hardest jobs out there: doctors, lawyers, scientists, raising a child. If you were at a hospital, you wouldn’t just let anybody walk off the street and start operating on you. Most people don’t even trust strangers to bag their groceries for them, let alone operate on their body. That’s why we make people get training: so we know we can trust them. They go to school and they train for years and years just for the privilege of getting to tell strangers they have herpes. Do you know what requires no training at all? Making a human being. Almost everyone can do it. We would never trust a stranger with a child, but it doesn’t even matter, because if he really wanted to he could just go home and make one. We’re constantly worried that people have some sort of super secret weapon they can use to harm people, yet no one seems to care about the fact that we all basically have baby making factories between our legs. People are stupid, and that’s dangerous. You would never want a dangerous person in charge of a kid, and that’s why adoptions are so hard—to make sure they keep the scumbags out. We test and we test for to make sure that every important job is filled with the best person for that job. Fry cooks have to go more interviews to get their jobs than a parent does. The test to be a parent is only one question long and it’s “Can you have intercourse?” and the answer is usually yes. You have to be qualified to flip burgers, but molding a young mind into a member of our society—anyone can do that. At a normal job, if you show that you are a good worker who can handle 115

responsibility, you get promoted. Success moves you up. When you’re having sex there is literally only one thing you have to do: not get someone pregnant. The checklist for that job is one item long. Did you wear a condom? Yes/No So what happens if you fail this one job? When you show a lack of responsibility or the ability to do an extremely simple task? You’re given a human life to watch over. That’s your reward for being irresponsible: a thing that requires a lot of responsibility. You have to register guns. You have to register cars. Sometimes you have to register freaking TVs. But you know what you’re born with that you get to keep? A ball sack or uterus. Or both. Now I’m not suggesting we mass neuter the population until they’ve been deemed worthy to procreate. I’m just heavily suggesting that. But at least I’m not advocating against vaccines. That’d be stupid.

116

Chris Lycans

Nonfiction

Coffee Filters

uman perception functions like a coffee filter: we place our schemas, bias, and prejudices into the filter and let only what we want to imbibe filter through. Through this process human perception tints, or changes, the world around us. Every human being absorbs the same stimuli in bottom-up processing, but we differ in how we process it top-down; that is to say, when our previous experiences and knowledge factor into a decision or interpretation, everyone may interpret it differently. Whether we take our coffee light or dark, or our world bright or dull, all depends on our biases. “History is the fiction we invent to persuade ourselves that events are knowable and that life has order and direction. That’s why events are always reinterpreted when values change. We need new versions of history to allow for our current prejudices.” -Bill Watterson On this topic, I’ll relay a story. Growing up in Alabama, one of my favorite trips every year was to visit my mother’s parents in rural Ohio. I was very close with my grandmother, who loved to talk about any topic you could think of; my grandfather, however, did not speak as much, soI was not as close to him. My mother decided that one year, we would make a trip to assist my grandfather. My grandfather supplemented his income by harvesting maple tree sap from his patch of woods every year in order to produce maple syrup. One day, when we were riding out to his woods to bring in the buckets of sap, I decided to indulge in one of my more favorite childhood games. As he talked, I looked out the window and saw a bright red Volkswagen Buggy driving down the highway towards us. I turned towards him and gave him a soft punch on the arm declaring, “Punchbuggy!” When my grandfather replied with a few strong words that I won’t dictate here, I explained the game to him. I also mentioned that it was a red car. He corrected me saying that it wasn’t in fact red but gray. I wheeled around quickly to see the car in the distance and saw that it was, in fact, red. To his frustration, I told grandma about what had happened when we returned home. My grandmother, who had worked as a nurse before settling down, began to quiz my grandfather on the colors of items that lay around the house. The next day, we visited the eye doctor and had my grandfather’s vision checked. As it turned out, my grandfather had made it past the ripe age of seventy-five without ever knowing that he was red-green colorblind. This came as a shock to us all, and I remember my mother’s specific remark, “Well, it’s a miracle no one corrected him before this.” I bring up this story because my grandfather saw the world as he saw it and only when presented with with insurmountable evidence did he recant. 117

Everyday we live our lives with a preconceived notion that we are right until proven wrong and that is not our responsibility to seek out information that may contradict our opinions. Studies have found that areas of the brain associated with learning and attentiveness shut down or experience reduced activity when campaign ads of opposing candidates are played. We watch the news affiliate that most closely reflects our political views, and we surround ourselves with like-minded friends. We insulate ourselves from differing information and differing people. An open-minded person may ask, “I don’t understand them, what is it I am not getting?” while a close-minded person may ask, “I don’t understand them, what are they not getting?” In conclusion, we must be careful of the currents we let ourselves be swept up in. The riptide of informational bias can overpower even the most open-minded person. By closing doors and walling ourselves off to viewpoints because they’re “backwards” is just as backwards. I’m not saying I am immune to this; no human is. I’m saying that everyone should make a concentrated effort to become resistant. Maybe then a greater world of understanding can be achieved.

118

Sarah Buckelew

Nonfiction

Pepper-Filled Folly

rowing up, I was always secretly competitive. Even though I hated most sports and games, I was always privately sizing up my fellow playmates as possible opponents, especially when it came to family members. So, when my older cousin - who had a notorious tolerance for spicy foods - pulled a jar of jalapeno slices out of her fridge, I immediately jumped to what I perceived as a challenge. My cousin sat down at the kitchen table, gave me the slightly condescending look I always hated, and asked, “Are you sure?” “Of course,” I replied, sitting down and shooting her a menacing look across the table. She casually reached out and snagged a jalapeno slice. I followed suit, watching her place the slice in her mouth and close her eyes with a look of pleasure as her jaw crunched down. As soon as I placed the jalapeno into my mouth, I felt the burn spreading across my tongue. I crunched down quickly, hating the further acidic burn as it slid slimily down my throat. My cousin’s hand already reaching for the jar again, I quickly threw mine out as well, trying to swallow the rest without showing my pain as the pepper sunk down my throat. At the third slice, I began to stare longingly at the condensation collecting along the inside of the glass. Things were desperate, and my mind unwillingly fantasized about just how perfect a cool glass of water would feel against the growing inferno in my throat. But I was determined not to show weakness. By the fourth slice, my eyes had started to water slightly. I tried to discreetly lift my hand to wipe the burgeoning liquid away when my cousin looked up. “Make sure you wash your hands before you touch your eyes,” she said. On her end, I’m sure she was only trying to look out for my best interest, but I felt as though she was somehow trying to call me out and remind me how much weaker I was. I wasn’t weaker! And I knew just how to show her. I defiantly glared at her as I peeled my eye open and purposefully stuck a jalapeno liquid covered finger to it. I almost immediately began to feel a searing burn inject into my eye that was ten times more intense than the sting on my tongue. I yelped and ran blindly down the hallway, squinting in pain until I finally collapsed on the floor of the bathroom pressing someone else’s still damp towel to my eye. My cousin came down the hall and looked down at me shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “I should have listened to you,” I admitted, and the burn would stay with me for years. And out of my stubborn determination to prove myself was born the moment that my cousin to this day still references whenever she thinks she knows best. 119

Nonfiction

Sweet & Sour Chicken and Other Substitutes Megan Zecher

rofanity is not uncommon to hear these days. These words help express irritation, anger, pain, surprise, and even when ‘dat booty poppin.’ Lovingly known as cursing, swearing, or cussing, vulgar language covers all kinds of different strongly offensive gestures, usually just to p-off an opposing party. Of course, the reactions I get are never satisfactory. I can never have my say. Born and raised in a Christian home, I’ve always kept my morals in line with the Bible, so I don’t swear. Still, I have to yell something when I slam my pinkie toe against a wooden table or my hip against furniture, and words just kind of come out. No, not actual swearing, but substitutes. Like in math or sports, substituting should be able to bring the same results as the original, even though the substitution is not the same. Unfortunately, my parents are very strict about what I can actually say, and a simple “dang it” to replace, well, dang it, is just too close. I have gotten in trouble with every replacement I try to use, from “darn it” to “what the frick frack paddywack” with no friggin’ hope of leniency. Some words I can understand: the proximity of dang and condemn, the relation between fricking and frigging, and the slight transition from shoot to shirt are all too obvious. Still, some words aren’t even close to swear words! Watermelon, paddywack, and pie are all phrases and replacements I’ve tried to substitute and been reprimanded for. I mean, what the fornication, mom and dad? Are you pooping me here? They came up with a middle ground, a key phrase, about a week ago: sweet and sour chicken. It’s a substitution they had heard on a popular television show, so obviously, it would be okay. First off, I have tried to let out a good and loud “sweet and sour chicken” in place of various words. Not only does it not roll off the tongue, but it also takes so long to say that by the time I utter the last syllable, the pain or shock is already gone. For another thing–well, let’s draw on society’s examples of dialogue. Movie and televisions shows often have famous lines with freaking vulgar language. “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a ham” and “Does he look like a biscuit?” are two examples of quotes that have been repeated over and over to bring laughs and appreciation to the references that have swear words in them. The thing is, no one thinks about how offensive that can actually be. So I can’t say “sweet and sour chicken” with enough vehemence to get my point across, but at least I’m not actually saying what’s going through my head. It’s not hard to see the poopy reason in substitution. My parents explained that what you say around people changes what they see and think of you. The power of words can make a good Christian girl seem gilded, just as it can make a tattooed motorcycle rider kindly. They’re powerful enough to change your life in ways you never knew. They can make or break a relationship or save or destroy a life. Words are the most powerful things you can make. Maybe that’s a lesson we should all learn.

120

Shae Greene

Nonfiction

Gregarious Passengers

rom the time I was able to see over the line of fake texturized plastic of the door in my mother’s dreaded minivan, I was socializing with people I didn’t even know. Sitting in silent agony as my mother cautiously drove over worn down pavement with quietly-playing hair metal in the background stirred something inside me that I can’t even begin to explain. Every time I would clamber up into my booster seat, the first thing I did was stare at my neighbor’s lawns waiting for them to see me and, with a slight wave of their hand, say hello as we drove by. A few years passed and Mrs. Darden, my neighbor, had stopped saying hello to me as we drove by her. This stirred something within me again: denial of the situation. To an overly-active eight-year-old girl, an adult ignoring your presence wasn’t something you wanted to happen, so I switched “greeting targets.” I went from my neighbors to other people in cars next to me, but I didn’t wave to just anybody; if I was going to wave at someone, it would have to be someone that I, as a self-proclaimed VIP of the “gregarious passengers” world, deemed worthy of my flapping hand. I created a system: If they had a white car, it meant they had the time to keep it clean (which was highly impressive then and now), so they deserved a wave. If they had on earrings, they deserved a wave, because I thought they looked pretty. If they had a smile on their face, they deserved a wave. (By the time I was a couple months older, however, I had given up on this rule, as I realized not many people seemed particularly happy to be going on a car ride to Publix.) If they looked like nice people - meaning they looked like someone who would give me sweets if I asked - they deserved a wave. After a few more months of sticking with that system, my mother soon began to pick up on it and would wave to complete strangers with me. This became our regular activity. After school, she would pick me up, wave to some people on the way to the grocery store, wave to more people as they bought food, wave to some more people on the way back to the house, and repeat. It became our daily routine. By the time I was ten-years-old, I had stopped, realizing how ridiculous I looked waving my hand in the air every couple of seconds and looking something like a traffic director. I resorted to uncomfortably staring at people whenever we stopped, watching them as they reached for a different CD or a tube of mascara to reapply. Only some had ever realized I was watching them as intently as I was, which made my mother worry about my social skills. This is what would ultimately lead to being left at home while my parents did the grocery shopping on a weekly basis, rather than a daily one. Otherwise, I was free to stare as I pleased. I stared at other children, too, sometimes waving to them if we both shared 121

the same bored face. I stared at elderly couples grabbing at each other’s hands and smiling with their crinkled skin tugging tight, I stared at middle-aged men talking, and I stared at teenagers’ texting and driving, causing one of them to have a “fender-bender” with my mother’s rear bumper. Even today, I still have the tendency to stare in my own rear view mirror as I drive to watch the overly rambunctious children in the cars behind me, a world you can only observe from a distance.

122

Lauryn Rody

Nonfiction

This is Not for the Weak Minded

ired has gained an almighty new definition. This generation has once again over-achieved in the worst way possible; amongst the slew of drug-abusing and rehab-attending starlets we’ve made famous and the latest and greatest model of Snuggie we’re all buying, we have invented a whole new level of tired—or more likely, imposed one upon ourselves in our deep need to be educated and stand out from a crowd. The long-term goal is to get a job once we graduate college. The short-term effect is the never ending piles of homework, projects, presentations, college applications, scholarship applications—isn’t it so handy they’re separate?—and standardized tests that we pair ever so easily with a booming athletic career, focus in the fine arts, the multitude of educational clubs, volunteer organizations, and National Honors Societies you simply have to join. Oh, and don’t forget a part-time job to cover that part of tuition scholarships just won’t quite cover. The picture of a mother holding the baby with one arm and doing house work with her other seven starts seeming like a legitimate idea. Maybe for your first place science fair project you can produce a serum that will mutate the human body to protrude extra limbs so each can be doing a different item on your to-do list? Then maybe you can find the time to shave the leg hair that’s so long you could probably braid it, or wash your face so you no longer have pimples the size of Mount Fuji blocking the air flow to your nostrils. I’m sorry to say it, but deodorant is the only necessity that will remain pertinent when this new level of tired hits. Being the grade-grubbing, over-achievers we are, we also compete on levels of tiredness. As in “I’m so tired I fell asleep in economics—the world’s most interesting class” to which the obvious response is, “Oh yeah? Well, I stayed up until three this morning working on my research paper. This coffee is the only thing that’s going to get me through the day.” Newsflash, guys, Red Bull is for the hard core; by the blueberry flavored one in my hand and the dark rings under my eyes that day by day grow closer to looking like my aunt’s stuffed raccoon, I am the winner of today and every day’s round of “Who’s more tired?” These dark rings have become the most fashionable way of wearing black. Forget that handbag and leave it with sleep! Makeup? No time for that. Food? Welcome to the new diet called “I’m so busy I forgot to eat for two days straight, whoops.” Shopping? There will be none of those kind of shenanigans here. You will get to wear the same pair of jeans until they are so holy, they could get into heaven by themselves. Not to mention that the new “turnt up” is being able to play music on your ancient iPod at 3 AM as you do laundry because you just cannot stand to wear the same pair of jeans for the third week in a row. In an ideal world, I would be the well rested one. I would not receive a midday response from my dad saying the time stamp on my last e-mail had to have been incorrect, because I could not have possibly e-mailed him at 4:37 in the morning when I have to be up at 6:00. The reply was not great when I responded 123

that I indeed had e-mailed at that time. I had to confirm my whereabouts at said time about six billion times before he actually believed me, and I still don’t think he’s put the shotgun away. But isn’t it supposed to be the “popular kids” that go out, party, and stay out late, and the “nerds” that stay in, study, and go to bed at a responsible hour? That particular group barely exists anymore. The great divide occurs where the students stop caring. Those that don’t care go to bed at a reasonable 12:00. If at this point in your life you feel like you have been living under a rock and only vaguely remember what the inside of your eyelids look like and have no clue what a walking dead is: You are not alone. Do not be surprised if by the end of finals you’ve forgotten your parents names (hint: Mom and Dad work well as a general rule, a lot like “Baby” does for guys who don’t remember their date’s name). Then the day of all days arrives and you are handed the most important piece of paper in your entire existence. Yes, paper. And of course some ink is on it. Remember to pray to any and every god that will listen that your name is not spelled wrong.

124

Sam Herrin

Nonfiction

Bike Ride

rowing up with physical limitations can be challenging. You tend to do a lot of watching, and not a lot of acting—kind of like being put on the sidelines. When I was three years old, I was diagnosed with something called Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy. This was later disproven and I was diagnosed 2 years ago with Charcot-Marie-Tooth Syndrome, which is a neurological disorder that only affected the nerves outside my brain and spine, thank God. As I got older, I started to understand why my body did what it did. The smallest little error from one teeny, tiny amino acid in one teeny, tiny sequence in my DNA caused a lot of muscle loss in my arms and legs. To summarize: the longer the nerve, the greater the damage. Of course, being 6’3 doesn’t help, but I’ve taken my height as a blessing. In fact, if I could run, I’d probably be playing basketball. When I turned 7, my dad took me out to get my first bike. This thing was the best, and the guy behind the counter was more than happy to let me test it. Being the naïve little boy I was, I hopped on and tried to ride it. I learned one of my first life lessons a few moments later: don’t ride bikes. Within the first few seconds of my ride, I had slowly made my way over to a row of expensive looking racing bicycles, and promptly fell over. Every customer of the store turned to look at me, and I had tried to make it look like an accident. It turns out that riding a bike with a neurological disorder wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be. I didn’t let that stop me, though. I got the hang of it after a few days, and I loved it from then on. I started to realize that what my mom had been telling me was true: “You can do anything you set your mind to.” That moment really influenced me, and I decided that I wouldn’t let things I can’t control get in the way of what I loved to do.

125

Nonfiction

Lasting Side Effects Jessica Deming

hen I was in second grade, I caught a cold. There was nothing special about this cold. My mother sent me to school and gave me Tylenol at night, just like any other illness caused by a chilly Alabama winter. Weeks later, when I had not recovered from this cold, my mom decided to take me to the doctor. At this doctor’s visit, my mom explained to the doctor how I had contracted a runny nose and a cough some time ago. We were sent home with antibiotics and an assurance from the doctor that I would be fine soon enough. I wasn’t. I coughed and coughed, day in and day out. Looking back on that time in my life, I can see how worried my mother was. I now know all of the obscure diseases that must have been running through my mom’s head while she stayed awake at night, listening to me cough. My dad was laid back as usual. I recall being insulted that he thought I made it up, although he assured me that was “not what he thought at all.” He tried explaining his hypothesis to me: that I could stop coughing whenever I wanted. To my eight-year-old mind, that sounded foolish and unrealistic. You cannot just stop being sick. Can you? A year passed since I first caught the cough that so plagued my family and me. We had been to countless doctors who were all baffled by the perpetual cough. I hardly noticed it anymore. It did not affect my life or my schoolwork. It had become like breathing to me. The final doctor I visited was a specialist. I remember sitting in the exam room, scared that it was something serious. The excruciatingly long wait for the doctor allowed me to memorize the exact color of the walls: a cool blue, almost grey. I would have loved that color in any other circumstance. When the doctor finally came, she showed me a rather disturbing video of someone’s throat when they coughed. She used big fancy words that I couldn’t understand. Finally, she looked at me and told me to simply stop coughing. I was angry. I thought this fancy doctor didn’t take me seriously and thought I was faking it. It was not long before I realized that I really did have the ability to quit coughing. I was getting better by dinner that night. At dinner my father proudly declared that he was right, but neither my mother nor I remembered his diagnosis from a year ago. All my mom cared about was that I no longer coughed. As I’ve grown up, I have noticed a pattern of medical paranoia. I self-diagnosed myself with asthma during volleyball practice when I hyperventilated. All I wanted was to quit running suicides, so my mind made up a problem. In the tenth grade I diagnosed myself with dyslexia because I confused “nonimportation device” with “nonimportant device.” I don’t have dyslexia either. I predict I will continue to come up with many more diseases that I ostensibly have. This paranoia is probably fueled by my obsession with Grey’s Anatomy, but that is one side effect I am willing to live with.

126

Daniel Lang

Nonfiction

Resilience

esilience is in my blood. As a proud member of the Cherokee tribe, I know Native Americans have had their perseverance tested. However, experiencing the vivacious continuation of our rich culture at pow-wows has assured me that the Native American spirit is as alive as ever. Like my people, I never surrender. I view hardship as a catalyst for self-improvement. Having been raised by a single mother, I saw her as my caretaker from the start. In an unfortunate twist of events, our roles reversed. When I was in fifth grade, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I did everything in my power to conceal my fears and suspicions that I might lose her, that I might be left alone in a world I knew so little about. I was strong for her because she needed it. When she overcame cancer, a nascent idea began to sprout in my subconscious mind: Anything is possible. If my mother could defeat the most notorious criminal in the medical spectrum, the sky must be the limit for my aspirations. According to Clint Usher, who spoke to us at Alabama Boys State, “Life is a boxing match. It’s you and the other guy. It’s not about how many times he knocks you down. It’s about getting back up.” Well, my mother and I certainly got back up, only to be knocked down again. Two years later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer again. This time, the outlook was bleak. The mental gymnastics I’d been able to perform last time to put a positive spin on things were now obsolete. The light at the end of the tunnel grew dim. However, it was during this year that I learned the most about myself. As I was taking care of my mother while she underwent chemotherapy and radiation treatment, I realized something. I developed a corollary to my “anything is possible” motto. I can do anything. If I can make it through this time right now, I thought, the rest of my life will be a breeze. She eventually recovered, but I did not. I will never be the same person I was before those events. Now, I wake up every morning with a burning ambition to achieve greatness, and I dedicate myself fully to that pursuit. I desire to leave no stone unturned – I live my life so as to never regret my decisions. No other single event in my life has had such a profound impact on me.

127

Nonfiction

Trust Must Be Earned Masi Barnes

rust must be earned— this is a lesson I learned at a very young age. Five, to be exact. I handed trust out like it was a wave of the hand or nod of the head. Boy, was that stupid. I think back now and realize I could’ve saved myself from a world of pain and disappointment if I had just not trusted him. Then again, who thinks before trusting their dad? Who stops, pauses and questions the man who is suppose to love and protect you? I didn’t. It started maybe a year after my mom married him. He would get angry over the most minuscule things. My mom, the most amazing woman anyone could ever know, would tuck her head between her legs and hide in the corner. That didn’t stop him. He was—he is—a power hungry man with no remorse. After she had my sister and me, she knew she had to get out, so she did. Not before he put his hands on us, but right after then. We moved into an apartment, and it was just the three of us – me, my mom, and my sister Madison - the power group. We were so close. My sister and I were young and still saw the best in him. He called us frequently in the beginning, at least once a week or so. We would laugh and talk for hours about nothing. Then they slowed down, and we got older. My mom had some boyfriends here and there, and we began to move on. He would still call, and I would always answer with the widest smile on my face because I thought that the calls meant he’d be there for me when I needed him, just a phone call or a flight away. I was wrong; my sister was smart and ignored him. She got over it and realized there was no counting on him. My mom met Kevin, my step-dad, when I was around seven. He came into our lives as if God sent him. He took me and my sister as his own. He fixed our booboos and taught us to read. The calls from my dad were at the most two times a month. It was okay, though, I thought he was still there. I thought. One day, Madison and I heard my mom on the phone crying. We didn’t have to ask her who it was, we just knew. We ran to our room; we shared and grabbed the other phone and listened. For what felt like hours we sat there and listened to their conversation in complete silence. A tear or two rolled down my cheek hearing him talk to my mom like she was nothing, like they hadn’t fallen in love and had two kids, like she was scum. That was the moment that I realized he didn’t care, and I couldn’t trust him. I thought I had needed him growing up, that I needed a dad to be there for me, so I latched onto him like he was my lifeline. That’s why I guess I didn’t realize I had one right in front of me the entire time he wasn’t. This man picked me up from falling off my bike, read me my favorite book too many times to count, sang happy birthday to me every year even though he hated singing. He was there everyday with me, every birthday, every school performance, everything. The day I realized this, I also realized he’d done all these things, and I had yet to attempt to trust him. He had earned it, and my blood didn’t, yet I had so easily trusted my blood. How messed up was that? I went up to my true dad that day,

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not the man who shared my DNA, but the one who had taken care of me when my biological father didn’t. I gave him a hug and whispered, “I trust you,” into his shirt. He didn’t have to hear me, he just hugged me back, and we stood there for a second. Then he grabbed my favorite book, and we read it together. Now I look back and smile. Not because it was a happy time in my life but because that man taught me one of the most important life lessons I’ve learned: not to trust so easily. Trust must be earned.

Follow this QR code to view Kaitlyn McGinnis’s DriveSafe PSA

129

Nonfiction

The Story of Captain Save-a-Bro Michael Samaras

t was a typical Thursday at the Columbia Elementary School Summer Camp. We had just returned from the community swimming pool and were supposed to be changing into dry clothes. I had already changed, so I headed to the school’s cafeteria in order to play on my friend’s Nintendo DS before he noticed. As I dug into my friend’s bag, a loud commotion rang out from across the cafeteria. A crowd of girls of all ages poured into the lunchroom like a scared herd of sheep. They all began to desperately grab the attention of the nearby camp counselors, complaining and pointing in exaggerated gestures. One of the younger camp counselors headed towards me. “Michael, you need to go help your brother ASAP,” she said. I stuffed the DS back into the bag. “What’s his problem?” I asked her, annoyed. “He’s standing in the music room naked.” “Are you serious?” I rolled my eyes and grabbed a towel. As I scurried down the hallway, thoughts began to pour into my head. Dear God, why would he do this? I thought to myself. I mean, I know kindergarteners aren’t very intelligent, but I’ve never seen anyone just walk around naked at school. This is so embarrassing. My thoughts were interrupted when I entered the music room. Large drums and boxes of recorders lined the walls of the room. Two chairs were arranged haphazardly at opposite corners. In the center stood my pale and stark naked brother. He looked dazed and confused. He barely acknowledged my entrance as I hurried over to where he was. My counselor stopped at the edge of the doorway. “Nicholas! What are you doing?” I asked as I yanked the towel out of his hands and threw it around his waist. “Keep the towel around there until we get into a stall in the bathroom,” I told him. As we walked down the hallway, several students turned to point and laugh at the scene. I ignored them and turned to my brother. He continued to look straight ahead, a blank stare riddled with confusion tacked onto his face. Growing tired of the pointing and laughing, I sped up our pace. We finally arrived at the bathroom. I slammed the stall door shut behind me, and grabbed his spare clothes. I began to hand them to him and gather his swim wear. “Nicholas, why would you do that?” I asked him. “Do what?” he responded. I took a deep breath as I could feel my patience begin to wear thin. “I mean, go into a public room and take off all your clothes. Why’d you do it?” “Well, the bathrooms were taken, so I thought that it would be okay to change there,” he answered. “Well, it wasn’t. Next time, just wait in line like everybody else.” “Okay, I will. Now let’s go.” My brother began to walk out of the stall. I quickly grabbed his shoulder. “Nicholas, you aren’t leaving yet. Your pants are on backwards.”

130

Cyrus Patel

Nonfiction

Caitlin

remember coming home to the news that I was going to have a little sister. “You’re going to have a sister,” my dad said. I was six and thrilled to have a new playmate; however, my fourteen year old brother didn’t seem very excited. Over the course of those nine months, I had to go with my parents to get lots of baby stuff like clothes, blankets, shoes, and a ton of diapers. Helping pick out everything made me so excited to meet my new baby sister. When she was born, it was discovered that her lungs had not been fully developed. We had to walk her around with a tube in her nose, and we always had to have a tank of oxygen with us wherever we went. Sometimes I was allowed to roll the oxygen tank. I didn’t even know what it was; I just thought it was fun to roll around a gigantic metal tank. I vividly remember finding a small stuffed bird in my toy box. I enjoyed holding the bird over her crib. She seemed entranced by this tattered bird, which looked more like a sloppy amalgamation of cloth and cotton that had been thrown into a cheap fast food happy meal. I accidentally dropped this bird into the crib. As I reached in to get it, she grabbed it and squeezed it close to her chest. I decided to just let her keep it. Although I liked this bird, I had no use for it. Seeing her face brighten as she caressed the bird was well worth giving her the toy. After a few months, she had to go back in the hospital. My brother, my dad, and I would visit my mom and sister almost every day. We’d bring her small toys as well. She had an excited look on her face when she got something new to play with, but she always abandoned her new toys for the tattered bird. Things seemed to go on like that for a while. We had developed a routine. One day, we went to the hospital, and I was not allowed into the room where they were. I had to wait outside with my brother. I did not understand. My mom and dad came out crying. This confused me even further. I tried forcing myself to cry to fit in with everyone else, but I could not. All I could do was sit there. Helplessly. Her lungs had gotten worse and eventually stopped working. I was too young to understand that she was gone. It was unclear to me for a long time that I would never see her again. I would never watch her play with her bird again. I would never see her walk. I would never hear her say words. I would never see her grow up. Death comes for us all. Learning and coping with that fact is a difficult thing to do. I don’t think anyone truly gets over a loved one dying, because that person is forever a piece of you, regardless of whether they are there or not. Their being is impressed upon your mind for eternity. She was only around for a short time, but I will forever remember her strangling that stuffed bird with the happiest look on her face. 131

Nonfiction

The Misinformation Age Sascha Kirkham

n the midst of the government shutdown, journalists and political analysts have appeared to stay busy by informing the public of essential “facts” and developments regarding the shutdown. As with any political crisis, the public is bombarded with a ridiculous amount of information, as well as misinformation. A problem that faces many Americans is distinguishing the difference between actual information and misinformation. In fact, most people are unaware when they’re being fed lies. Why wouldn’t you believe your favorite news station? They’re reputable, your whole family pays attention to them, and they’re INSERT POLTICAL PARTY just like you! Alas…when a news source labels itself in accordance to a political party, chances are, you’re probably not receiving consistently good information. “Conservative” news and “liberal” news is biased news. Biased news is not good news; it’s just opinion spattered with selective facts. Nowadays, straight, unbiased news is hard to find in mainstream media. News outlets such as Fox and CNN don’t actually care about informing you. They prey upon your particular political association and hope to get all of your views, clicks, and shares. Bob Jones government teacher, Jason Edwards, comments on the ridiculousness, “News is no longer there to inform you. News is there to make money.” Can you believe that people walk the streets thinking that the Obama administration intends to plant microchips into everyone? Can you believe that according to a study done by Farleigh Dickinson University, Fox News viewers are the least informed of all news viewers? If you answered yes to both of these questions, you are aware of the supreme ignorance that exists in the United States. If you are still skeptical of mass amounts of political misinformation, I suggest you log on to a social networking site and let the ignorance flood in. Unfounded, absurd political claims are shared and tweeted daily. An example of this ignorance comes from a former Facebook friend of mine, “So when Obama Care hits, people that are FORCED to have it, will also be FORCED to have chips with a certain number placed inside their arms.. Read your bible’s people! Chapter of Revelations. #GodIsMyRock.” This status left me, along with others, begging for a source that could prove this claim. If you find yourself watching the news and have an inclination that something might not be true, I suggest you verify it with an online fact checker. Due to the outrageous amount of misinformation being spread by major news sources, websites dedicated to fact checking policies and statements made by major politicians have been established. www.factcheck.org and www.politifact.com are great sites to supplement your preferred news source with. It all boils down to the fact that many politicians and their affiliates have deceptive tendencies. No political party is “right” or sacred; they are all a part of the conglomerate evil that is modern politics. Because of this, question everything regardless if it coincides with your particular ideology. It never hurts to fact check, but it does hurt to be misinformed in this supposed “Information Age.”

132

Nick Lewis

Nonfiction

A Beautiful Mind

e was a perfectionist. Everything was neat. Everything was square. The written word was always perfect. Perfect writing turned into perfectly enunciated speech. Speech, as well as most other things, could be explained strictly by science. Science could be explained strictly by math. Math was the only joy he had. He claimed to have other hobbies, such as camping and hiking, but he went hiking to learn about the biology, and he educated himself in biology to increase his knowledge of science. Science was to be strictly explained by math. Math was to be applied constantly. He dreamt of math, he breathed math, he continued his existence to keep solving the equation. One equation after another after another. I believe he went mad some time ago but happened to have solved the equation on how to submerse his obsession. Throughout my life, I have found it painful to do math because of him. Discouragement always swarmed me as a schoolboy because of the speed at which he completed the assigned question. He volunteered to help me with my homework as if to challenge the world with his extreme abilities. I would get done reading the question, and he would already have it figured out. I would finish the question, and he would have completed the next. No matter how simple or exasperatingly complex the assigned problems were, he would always finish before me. And this was the way it would always be; the crazy mastermind against the entirety of creation. At least thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the way it was in his mind. He has a habit of surrounding himself with work as if to escape the madness that has become his reality. His head is buried in paperwork from 8 AM to 9 PM, furiously working, yet everything is even and symmetrical. I suppose I can empathize with him on a much smaller scale. Math does have a tendency to reveal itself in most situations, but explanations are not what I crave. I do not wish to explain life through an equation. He and I are very different, and I intend to keep it that way.

133

Nonfiction

Here We Are Kennedy Saaristo

Will she ever clean up this room? I think to myself as I wade through the wave of empty water bottles, crumpled paper, and miscellaneous junk. When I finally reach her laundry basket, I notice a worn notebook tucked away beside it. I hesitate for a moment before taking it firmly in my hands. She’s been acting so strange lately, I try to convince myself, and if she won’t talk to me, then I’ll find out on my own. I am her mother, after all. Hungrily, I open the notebook, skimming through the vague and superficial rants that all teenage girls seem to spew, only pausing when I come to a chart. Monday: 450 cal.; Tuesday: 410 cal.; Wednesday: 378 cal. and so and so forth, the numbers dwindling as the page rolls on. So that’s why her clothes fit baggier; that’s why she been a little touchy. I smile as I return the book to its shelter. My little girl, finally becoming a woman. 2. “Why aren’t you eating? Do you know there are starving children in Africa?” Welcome to Mauritania, a small country in West Africa known for its etho-driven fat camps. Meet Tijanniya, a 14 year old girl force-fed 1,400 to 1,600 calories a day. “The practice is re-emerging because men still find mounds of female flesh comforting and erotic,” says Seyid Ould Seyid a local male journalist. 3. “I renounced milk and honey and the taste of lunch I vomited Her hungers Now the girl is burning I am starved and curveless I am skin and bone. She has learned her lesson” -Eavan Boland 4. Approximately 1 in every 200 American women suffers from anorexia. Approximately 3 in every 100 American women suffer from bulimia. Approximately 50% of girls between the ages of 11-13 see themselves as “fat.” Treatment of eating disorders in America ranges from $500 to $2,800 a day. 5. I don’t really remember the first time I purged. But then again, I’m pretty sure an alcoholic doesn’t remember the first time he had a beer, nor a tobacco addict the first time he lit up. The first time doesn’t really stick with you, I mean, you try it to sate your curiosity, to be in on the secret that everyone seems to know. What you do remember is the second time. You don’t even know what pulls you back; it wasn’t

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that great the first time, in fact, it kinda made you sick (get it?). But for some god-forsaken reason you try again. And this time you feel it, you feel freedom, you feel power. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in control; you might as well be God - that is, until you find yourself four years later sitting outside your little sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bathroom door praying that the retching noises you hear are all in your head. Because what business does a 12 year old girl have sticking her finger down her throat?

135

Nonfiction

Society Alyssa Kennedy

ou can’t keep hurting people.” Mrs. Humphrey and I sat outside the gym. Inside, I could hear the sound of balls being thrown into the air, sailing head over heels, and finding home in the unprotected chests of young children. Dodgeball was a take-no-prisoners kind of game, and I hated missing even one second of it. But it seemed Mrs. Humphrey was going to insist upon having this heart to heart at the most inopportune time. She was referring to my most recent verbal assault against Antonio. Where was he? I peeked down the hall, expecting him to come loping forward with that funny walk of his, but he never showed up. He left me to suffer through this oneon-one with Mrs. Humphrey alone. She was a round woman with beady glasses covering her beady eyes. She had moles like all other black women I knew, and if it weren’t for the fact that she constantly tried to get me to change my behavior, I might have found our shared African American heritage inviting. But as it happened, she showed clear signs of a woman who believed that with the right attitude and the right charisma, you could manipulate anyone into being who you wanted them to be. Alright, to be fair, she was a nice woman; she just happened to have opposing views from me—and I have never been one to take criticism of any kind very well. That was why her next question caught me off guard. “Where’s your father?” I looked over at her. If she had known me today, I would have told her shortly, “He’s irrelevant, drop it.” But she knew I was a child and, for that reason, had never considered that someone might ask such a blunt question—especially if that someone asked with the expectation of me answering somewhat truthfully, even if it made me vulnerable. I examined my shoelaces which had suddenly become interesting. Fidgeting with my arms, I suddenly felt fatter in the short bench we sat on. My hair too kinky, my teeth too yellow. My words came slowly, “I don’t know.” And I didn’t know. Even if I tried to paint him as a hero in his military uniform, crossing into enemy lines and saving lives, the truth simply became that he either loved his country more than me or simply didn’t love me enough. “You don’t know…” she trailed off in thought, forming unfounded conclusions. Once those conclusions had been drawn, I could do little to un-seed them. And I didn’t have the strength to try. Simply the thought of my father had left me in a state of crippling weakness. She let me return to gym after that. It was all for not—the class was cleaning up the balls. There would be no games for me today. When I got home, my mother was a little more than upset with Mrs. Humphrey’s poking and prodding. She quickly examined the situation. “What made you tell that boy to kill himself?” she asked. “He called me a burnt marshmallow.”

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I imagine that statement made my mother’s right eye twitch. My mother had two degrees in African American studies, and I knew she would instantly zero in on one single word: burnt. The next day she was in the office making the entire situation a race issue. “She doesn’t need to apologize…” my mother said evenly, her forcefully level yet clearly indignant voice carried under the door. “So the boy can sling slanders, but when it comes to taking slanders, he goes crying to the teacher?” To my mother, my words were only an extension of the six hundred year struggle my people went through in slavery. They had nothing to do with her being a single mother of three with two jobs and no savings to speak of. It had nothing to do with my father not being there to validate me. But everything to do with my internal racial clock telling me it was time to strike out against the oppressive hand that had clutched the black man’s throat in an attempt to dramatize the shameful condition that was Heritage Elementary School. When I returned to class, the disagreement had become known through the loose tongues of other students. To be completely clear, my mother maintained her dignity throughout the entirety of the situation, but by time I got to class, my mother was portrayed as a mad woman. She had stormed into the office flipping over chairs. She’d cursed like a sailor and threatened to sue everyone down to the janitor. Being the big-talker I was, I did little to stop the atrocious rumors. I simply pretended to have no knowledge of the situation. My stance on the matter was little more than, “No comment.” Which of course is a comment in itself. As things came to settle within the next few days, I received a punishment, hampered and severely inadequate because my school truly did fear my mother. My peers asked me of my punishment regularly. I played it cool and shrugged it off, “Some stupid paper on suicide,” I’d say and shoot a pointed glare at Antonio. Then everyone would laugh at the entire situation doing reenactments of my mother as a cave-woman going crazy in the office. Naturally, the students arrived at their own conclusions on the matter. I bullied Antonio on a regular basis, not because of my absent father wasn’t there to fill a void of insecurity, and not because my racial depravity had come to a boiling point. They could pinpoint the reason for my reckless suggestion of ending one’s life through classifying my behaviors as “not nice”. Clearly any child who suggested that disheartening solution to another child was not nice. Clearly, any child who did so without any real punishment was not nice. Clearly, any child who did so without even the common courtesy of apologizing was not nice. By all definitions I was “not nice” and therefore, I was simply “mean”. And I couldn’t argue against them, but neither could I agree with them. I pondered why I bullied Antonio for many years. Perhaps my father had left me handicapped, but not so much so that I would harm others. Perhaps my race has caused a psychological disconnect that resulted in the defamation of an innocent boy. Perhaps I was just not a nice person. Those reasons were simply all wrong. I didn’t bully because I had trouble at home, felt insecure about my sexuality, needed the attention, was crying for help, or even because I found pushing the limit to be exhilarating – although I’m sure any psychiatrist worth their salt would argue otherwise. I bullied because society didn’t care. Understand, society is an excuse umbrella. A foreign figure that everyone refuses to acknowledge. Society isn’t our parents or previous gen137

erations. Society isn’t the guys that own million dollar corporations or political machines. Society isn’t your finger wagging grandma or conservatives. Society is you and me. Society is anyone who happens to be standing in the room. And at that moment, society was laughing along with me, too much a coward to intervene. That’s why I bullied. Because I could and nobody in society had the courage to stop me. What I enjoyed more than the power I felt hurting Antonio was the irony that society preached against bullying yet laughed at bullying if it meant not being the one bullied. This isn’t to say that I should not be held accountable for my actions, but rather, that society should be held accountable for their inaction. Because inaction and consent are often one in the same.

Follow this QR code to view a news package about Homelessness, produced by Sarah Buckelew, Patrick Brady, Kayla Wilson, and Ben Ewing

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Alexandra Wiegand

Nonfiction

April 4th

ear Diary,

Hey. I can talk to you about anything, right? Good. I figure having an imaginary friend listening to everything I write is useful if I can provide your feedback. I write something crazy, and then I imagine you telling me it’s crazy. In a world with so many directions, it’s nice to have a compass – balance, even. Because indecisiveness. That’s me. I always ask for multiple opinions on everything from friends, until I narrow my annoying habit to one person. That’s a best friend, someone that is able to handle you in spite of the good, bad, and irritating qualities you may possess. I had one of those special people, but if I always had subtle doubts about our closeness when she lived just five minutes or a phone call away, you can’t imagine the feeling of loss I have when I think of our friendship now that she lives states away. I am back to spreading myself out over multiple friends. I think. I tell someone else something different. Not one person has all the pieces to my story because I have had no time to trust anyone with all the pages. Is that harmful? People have said the only person you can trust is yourself… maybe they have been right and I am just realizing it. I can’t continue to bottle up all the emotion and have no feedback. A genie needs to appear once in a while to give me guidance or comfort at the least. It is funny to think that when we are young and have tons of friends, we end up creating an imaginary friend in that period of time… yet now that we are older, there are cliques, so friends can be limited, but the thought of an imaginary friend is stupid. A concept that seems so helpful now, right before I grow out of childhood. You are the only one that is patient enough to let my mind release its stress and pressure. Just let it flow… into your arms. You only think or say what I command, so you have to embrace what I reveal. Diary? Friend? All my imagination and life tied up into a couple trees worth of secrets and memories. Tie it up in a bow; I don’t like my mind in a knot. The world moves so fast, that’s why it is called the human race, but we are our own coach. This is no three-legged race; you are on your own. I knew my best friend, she wouldn’t stay forever connected with me, but I thought I would at least see her at the finish line of my childhood. The next race begins… adulthood. We may all begin with our peers and family at the starting line, but you have no clue who will stick around till the end. I needed a friend, and I befriended you for $10. - Xandra

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140

Chocolate Kisses Alyssa Kennedy

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Stage & Screen

Cloaked Sins Megan McDowell

Stage

Cloaked Sins Megan McDowell CHARACTERS: • BROTHER RICHARD: MIDDLE AGED PREACHER. TRADITIONAL, HAUGHTY, CONFIDENT. • ISAAC: BROTHER RICHARD’S SON. LATE TEENS. • CLOAKED FIGURE: A FIGURE COMPLETELY DRESSED IN BLACK AND WHOSE FACE IS UNSEEN. EXCEPT FOR THE FIRST AND FINAL SCENE, THIS FIGURE SHOULD BE ISAAC. • MAGGIE: AN ADULT WOMAN. SHE IS THE EMBODIMENT OF ENVY. • KRISTEN: AN ADULT WOMAN. FRIENDS WITH MAGGIE AND ELIZABETH. • ELIZABETH: AN ADULT WOMAN. FRIENDS WITH MAGGIE AND ELIZABETH. • ROGER: AN ADULT MAN. HE IS THE EMBODIMENT OF LUST. • STEVEN: AN ADULT MAN. SENSIBLE AND CROSS. FRIENDS WITH ROGER. • USHER 1: AN ADULT MAN (CAN BE A WOMAN IF NECESSARY). EMBODIMENT OF GLUTONNY. • USHER 2: AN ADULT MAN (CAN BE A WOMAN IF NECESSARY). EMODIMENT OF GREED. • MAN 1: A MAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • MAN 2: A MAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • MAN 3: A MAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • WOMAN 1: A WOMAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • WOMAN 2: A WOMAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • WOMAN 3: A WOMAN IN THE CONGREGATION. AGE CAN VARY. • CONGREGATION: NON-SPEAKING MEMBERS SITTING IN THE CHURCH.

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SCENE 1 [Stage is set with fog traveling the stage, and eerie music is being played. A single CLOAKED FIGURE walks across the stage, holding a lantern up and singing “For the lips of a strange woman drop honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but in the end she is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on Hell…” (Tune choice up to director, this segment can repeat as many times as needed). FIGURE should be cloaked completely in black, face completely covered. The FIGURE makes its way slowly across the stage, exiting as a man and a teenage boy come on stage, both clearly upset.] BROTHER RICHARD: Who do you think you are to go against the Lord’s wishes? This is the plan He has given to me. Why would you question it? ISAAC: Father, please, I meant no ha— BROTHER RICHARD: How could you doubt your Heavenly Father like this? How could you doubt me? I thought I raised you to have faith. ISAAC: Father, just give me a chance to explain! A chance to show you how this plan of yours will affect me! BROTHER RICHARD: It is not my plan, Isaac! I am not the one who decides how anything goes in life. God is. The Lord is the one that gave you life and knows how that life is to play out. If you cannot trust me when I say that this plan is for the best, then trust Him. ISAAC: Father, no matter whose plan it is, it’s wrong. For someone to see any good in this, especially someone like you... I know you’ve been having a hard time handling all that’s happened to our family. Don’t you think that maybe this, “plan,” is just— BROTHER RICHARD: It’s what? Not what you hoped for? Not yours? I am only trying to do what the Lord thinks is best for us—for you. I love you, Isaac. If you could just be patient with me… If your mother were here, she would— ISAAC: She would listen to me! BROTHER RICHARD: Isaac, I am listening— 143

ISAAC: Father, this plan is nowhere near Godly. You know that. How could any all-powerful, all loving God possibly— BROTHER RICHARD: That is enough. First you disobey not only my own instructions, but then you disobey the Lord’s? Then when I try to reason with you, you mock them! Get out. I think you’ve done this family enough harm. ISAAC: Please, just— BROTHER RICHARD: Go to bed, Isaac. This argument is over. [BROTHER RICHARD begins to exit and ISAAC grabs his shoulder. BROTHER RICHARD slaps him across the face, grabs him by the arm, and drags him off stage. BROTHER RICHARD comes back on stage, slightly more composed, and puts on preacher’s robes. The scene transitions to a CONGREGATION seated and still. BROTHER RICHARD gets up in front of his CONGREGATION and begins his (muted, but passionate) sermon. Every pew is completely filled. The CLOAKED FIGURE crosses the stage singing his song once more before taking a seat at the very back.] BROTHER RICHARD: “…Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house; He shall die for lack of instruction; and in the greatness of his folly he shall go astray.” BROTHER RICHARD: In these scriptures, Proverbs 5:3, the Lord is telling us to indulge not in the ways of the strange woman—which, of course, is meant figuratively. What is your “strange woman?” Is it your pride? The desire to buy just one more drink? Your greed? If we hope to stay true to our Father’s plan for us, we must put our trust and faith into our God, and learn to turn away from sin. Everything our Father asks of us, everything set in our path, is part of His divine plan. If we allow our sinful nature to tempt us, God will bring us to our knees and put us back on the path of righteousness. He is omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent. Anyone that questions that is a fool. Let us pray. [BROTHER RICHARD and CONGREGATION fold hands and bow heads simultaneously, murmuring the prayer in unison. The CLOACKED FIGURE is the only one who does not join in.]

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ALL: Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth,

as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen. BROTHER RICHARD: Remember this week what I have said. Do not allow temptation from our sinful nature to draw you off God’s path. I will see you all next week, my brothers and sisters. You are dismissed. [CONGREGATION is dismissed. BROTHER RICHARD goes around greeting members of the CONGREGATION, everyone on stage ad-libbing greetings and small talk.] MAN 1: Wonderful sermon today, Brother Richard! Really moving, really. BROTHER RICHARD: Thank you, sir, I’m glad my words were able to touch someone. MAN 1: How is your son this Sunday, Brother? BROTHER RICHARD: Ahh. He is well. As well as any teenage boy can be, anyways. MAN 1: Good, good. I was worried he was sick. I didn’t see him in his usual spot in the congregation. BROTHER RICHARD: Oh, yes! Uh, well, he was simply unable to join us today. Excuse me. WOMAN 1: Good morning, Brother Richard! BROTHER RICHARD: Good morning, my child! WOMAN 1: Is your son alright, sir? I didn’t see him in the pews today. 145

BROTHER RICHARD: He wasn’t able to make it this morning. WOMAN 1: Couldn’t make it? How unlike him… I can’t say I’ve ever seen him miss a single Sunday service. Not in all the time I’ve been a member of this church. BROTHER RICHARD: Well, yes, he’s just ill. Excuse me, I must— WOMAN 2: Brother Richard, is everything all right with your son? BROTHER RICHARD: Yes, he’s just ill. [3 WOMEN approach BROTHER RICHARD, tightly grouped and clearly distressed.] MAGGIE: Brother Richard? BROTHER RICHARD: MY SON IS FINE! MAGGIE: And I’m glad to hear that, sir, but we wanted to ask you. Did you see it? ELIZABETH: Sitting in the back— just sitting there, not praying, not reading KRISTEN: Yes, the man—woman?—thing cloaked in black? MAGGIE: It looked dangerous— At the very least, strange BROTHER RICHARD: I’m not really sure what you’re talking about... ff you could maybe be a little clearer— ELIZABETH: You can’t even see its face! KRISTEN: What should we do? Should we talk to it?

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MAGGIE: If there’s even anyone even in that eerie, black hood.

KRISTEN: Brother Richard, could you speak with it? ELIZABETH: Oh, yes, good idea! MAGGIE: Whatever you do, just get it out of here! BROTHER RICHARD: I am sure there is nothing to worry about--simply a new member of the congregationis all it is! But I will speak with them if it calms your nerves. Point out this person. I’ll show you that they are just another child of Christ. [Three WOMEN eagerly point out the CLOACKED FIGURE, who is still sitting silently at the back of the church.] BROTHER RICHARD: Ah. Well. I’ll just go speak with him or her now. BROTHER RICHARD: [Approaching the CLOAKED FIGURE] Hello… er, sir? Ma’am, is it? I’m sorry, I cannot see past your cloak’s hood, but I wanted to come and welcome you to our place of worship—you are new to our congregation, if I’m not mistaken. [CLOAKED FIGURE says nothing and simply continues to stare at the pulpit where BROTHER RICHARD stood previously.] BROTHER RICHARD: [Reaching toward the hood of the Figure’s cloak] Please, feel free to show your face. You are in the house of the Lord aft— [FIGURE stands up and walks past BROTHER RICHARD and towards the 3 WOMEN previously talking to BROTHER RICHARD. BROTHER RICHARD dismisses this and continues to greet the rest of the CONGREGATION.] MAGGIE: Oh, Elizabeth, your necklace is so pretty! ELIZABETH: This old thing? I’ve had it for years. It’s nothing, really. MAGGIE: Well, it’s better than any of the necklaces I have. And Kristen, your dress is such a lovely shade of red 147

KRISTEN: Oh, well, thank you, dear MAGGIE: I wish I owned such pretty things like you both do. KRISTEN: But Maggie, you have plenty of beautiful things. MAGGIE: Not like you two. I suppose the grass is always greener. [FIGURE grabs MAGGIE’s shoulder, cutting her off. FIGURE draws MAGGIE close and whispers in her ear, causing her to suddenly straighten and her face to go completely blank. The FIGURE then goes back to its seat at the back of the church.] MAGGIE: [In almost a trance-like state, she quickly rips a necklace off KRISTEN’s neck.] I need it. KRISTEN: Wha— MAGGIE: I WANT IT! ELIZABETH: Now what is the meaning of— MAGGIE: [Grabs hat off of ELIZABETH] I HAVE TO HAVE IT! [Begins grabbing at other possessions of KRISTEN and ELIZABETH] THEY ARE ALL MINE! I NEED IT! I WANT IT! I HAVE TO HAVE IT! THEY ARE ALL MINE! [KRISTEN and ELIZABETH try to keep hold of their possessions while attempting to get MAGGIE to snap out of her trance.] KRISTEN: Honestly—Maggie what on earth— MAGGIE: GIVE ME IT! I WANT IT!

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ELIZABETH: Maggie, stop this now! Maggie!

MAGGIE: I WANT IT, I WANT IT, I WANT IT! IT SHOULD ALL BE MINE! KRISTEN: Elizabeth, do something! ELIZABETH: I’m trying, Kristen! Maggie, snap out of it! We are in church for heaven’s sake! KRISTEN: BROTHER RICHARD! BROTHER RICHARD, PLEASE! BROTHER RICHARD: [Finally noticing the commotion, BROTHER RICHARD steps in before any more damage can be done. He puts his hand on MAGGIE’s shoulder, pulling her out of her trance.] What is the meaning of this?! MAGGIE: [Out of her trance, she drops all the possessions she took.] I… Where is it? Where did it go? BROTHER RICHARD: Where did what go? MAGGIE: The thing, the thing with the cloak. It talked to me. It said... ELIZABETH: Said? KRISTEN: Really, Maggie, it’s ok to tell us. MAGGIE: It just said--this is so strange--but all it said to me was one word. ELIZABETH: One word couldn’t make a person act as crazy as that. KRISTEN: Elizabeth, shush! Maggie, what did it say? MAGGIE: It just said, “Envy.” [Blackout. The scene transitions to BROTHER RICHARD alone in the church. He kneeling and praying with a spotlight on him.] 149

BROTHER RICHARD: Dear God, my Father in Heaven, please help me. My son, he has been difficult lately. I had to force him to stay home from church this Sunday, for the first time in his life. I know he is just a boy; disobedience is inevitable. Please, just give me the strength to use the rod as you instruct me to, to help him live out your plan for us. [Blackout.] SCENE 2 [Lights go up. The scene transitions to the next Sunday. The two USHERS are talking and setting up while waiting for BROTHER RICHARD to start his sermon.] USHER 1: Are you and Carrie going to see that musical with us next week? The Mrs. will be awfully disappointed if you can’t. USHER 2: I wish I could, really, but it’s just not in the budget for us right now. USHER 1: Are you sure? USHER 2: Positive. Got to keep the little money we got in our pockets. I don’t even have enough money for today’s offering. USHER 1: I’m sorry to hear that, but, hey! We are going to that new buffet place after the service today. There’s supposed to be a potato bar and chocolate fountain. And it’s all you can eat! If you think it’s in the budget, you should definitely come with us. USHER 2: I don’t know. I’ve never been too keen on potatoes. USHER 1: They have more than potatoes, goof. C’mon, Roger and his family are coming, too. It’ll be a good chance for us to all catch up. I mean, how can you say no to a chocolate fountain? A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN! USHER 2: I’ll consider it. You got the programs ready? I think I see some people walking up to the doors.

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[USHERS open the church doors and CONGREGATION piles in as BROTHER RICHARD takes his place at the pulpit and begins his sermon. There is one less pew full than there was the Sunday before.] BROTHER RICHARD: Good Morning! CONGREGATION: Good Morning, Brother Richard. BROTHER RICHARD: Let us start out this lovely Sunday in the house of our Lord by greeting one another. Please, turn to your brothers and sisters in Christ around you. Find someone you have not met before, bid him or her a good morning, and learn his or her name! [During this line the CONGREGATION turn to each other and greet one another. The FIGURE enters at this time, taking its seat in the back of the church in the empty pew.] MAN 3: Did you see that Brother Richard’s son is missing again? WOMAN 3: Is he? Two weeks in a row? That’s so unlike Isaac. MAN 3: And so unlike his father to let him! I don’t think he’s ever let the boy miss a single service. He had him show up for his communion duties even when he had the chicken pox. He is so strict on that boy. WOMAN 3: Yes he is, even after all he’s gone through, what with the accident and his mother and all. BROTHER RICHARD: Thank you! You may now be seated. Today, I’d like us to learn about greed and gluttony. We all experience it, though many of us deny the truth of it in our lives. However, there is good news! If you would open your Bibles to 1 John 2:15 with me, it is said “Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.” Do you love your car more than you love your Father? Are you more dedicated to a higher paycheck then you are to your Father’s plan? We are to be in the world to show those of the world His love! We must… [BROTHER RICHARD mutely continues his sermon during the following conversation] 151

ROGER: Doesn’t Brother Richard’s son—it’s Isaac, right? —Doesn’t he usually help with communion? STEVEN: Yes, usually, but he hasn’t been at church the last few weeks. ROGER: Hmmm. That’s odd, especially for a preacher’s kid. STEVEN: I suppose. I’m more curious about that person in the hood sitting at the back of the church. Has she always come here? [Attention turns back to BROTHER RICHARD, who is just finishing up his sermon.] BROTHER RICHARD: Please turn to number eighty-five in the hymnals in front of you, and stand to sing as our ushers pass around the offering plate and I set up for today’s communion. Remember what we have talked about today as you take this bread, for it is Christ’s body. Remember, as you drink this wine, for it is His blood. Remember the covenant you enter with our Lord, remember that you must never stray from his path. [The CONGREGATION stands and sings a hymn with BROTHER RICHARD. Any hymn pertaining to greed will do. Two USHERS go to either side of the church, passing an offering plate down rows of pews. Once one pew has received the offering plate, the members seated there go up to receive communion crackers and wine from BROTHER RICHARD at the front. Every single member puts something in the offering plate. When USHER 2 reaches the last pew where the FIGURE is sitting, the FIGURE stands up and grabs USHER 2. The FIGURE whispers something in his ear. USHER 2 stands upright and starts stuffing his pockets with the contents of the offering plate in his hand. He then rushes toward USHER 1 and tries to take his plate from him.] USHER 1: What in the— USHER 2: GIVE IT TO ME! USHER 1: [Holding offering as far away as possible] What has gotten into you— USHER 2: [Grabbing earnestly at the offering plate] GIVE IT TO ME! I NEED MORE MONEY! RICHES, MILLIONS OF DOLLARS! I WANT IT! I NEED MORE MONEY! 152

USHER 1: Snap out of it! We are in church! USHER 2: MORE, MORE, MORE, I NEED MORE! [USHER 2 starts using physical violence to try and overpower USHER 1 and grab the offering plate. Other members of the congregation notice, a few members attempt to break up the scene, but USHER 2 starts searching their pockets for more money when they try.] USHER 1: What’s the matter with you?! Snap out of— [USHER 1 is cut off by the FIGURE grabbing his shoulder and whispering in his ear. USHER 1 stands straight up in a trance-like state and rushes toward the front of the church where communion is set up. He starts gorging himself on the communion crackers. He grabs the wine goblet from BROTHER RICHARD and guzzles it down. This not being enough, he grabs the wine bottle on the table and starts pouring it into his mouth, ferociously stuffing more crackers in his mouth between huge gulps} USHER 1: HUNGRY! HUNGRY! THIRSTY! THIRSTY! GIVE ME MORE! [After a few moments of reaction from the CONGREGATION, simultaneously MAGGIE starts to grab things from people around her once again, shouting, “I WANT IT TO BE MINE!”etc. with every grab. BROTHER RICHARD, in shock up until this point, rushes toward USHER 1 places his hand on his shoulder, causing him MAGGIE and USHER 2 to snap out of their trances.] BROTHER RICHARD: What is going on?! You are in God’s house, and you choose to behave in such a way? USHER 1: It was all him, Brother Richard, I swear! He just started grabbing at me, demanding that I give him the offering plate, and next thing I knew, I was being forced to eat all the communion food! He did something to me, whispered something, and next thing I know he’s spread his crazy to me! USHER 2: I didn’t say anything to you! It was that thing in the cloak! I... I don’t... [to BROTHER RICHARD] I’m sorry, sir. BROTHER RICHARD: Excuse me, what did you say?

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USHER 2: I said I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again. BROTHER RICHARD: No, no, the person. You said the person in the cloak. USHER 2: Oh, sir, I’m sure it was just— BROTHER RICHARD: Help me to understand what happened. I don’t care how ridiculous it may sound. USHER 2: It was a person in a cloak, a black cloak. You couldn’t even see her face… MAGGIE: Did she say something to you? She did, didn’t she? What did she say? USHER 2: Yes, she did say something. She said… BROTHER RICHARD: Yes? Go on. USHER 2: She said--it doesn’t even make sense--she said “Greed.” Just greed. MAGGIE: [to USHER 1] And what did it say to you? You said it whispered to you. USHER 1: Ah, well, it said…it whispered “Gluttony.” [Blackout.] SCENE 3 [Spotlight on BROTHER RICHARD once again alone in the church praying on one knee.] BROTHER RICHARD: Father, it seems like things are just becoming more and more difficult for me to control. Please, I need to know what to do. Do I need to bring my son back? I know his disobedience is against your plan, and I fear that my son’s resistance is affecting the peace and attendance in my congregation. Father, please. He is too young to understand that your plan will result in the greater good for all. Anything you bid me to do, Father, I will be there to make sure it is so. 154

[ISAAC enters the scene, slightly weaker looking than the last time we saw him.] ISAAC: Father? BROTHER RICHARD: Yes, Isaac? What is it, son? ISAAC: If you have the time, could we please talk about— BROTHER RICHARD: What is that in your hand? ISAAC: It’s just an apple, Father— BROTHER RICHARD: Give it to me and go to bed. Clearly, you are not ready to obey me. When you can do as I, and the Lord, asks of you, then we will talk. ISAAC: Father, but— BROTHER RICHARD: I said go! [ISAAC exits and BROTHER RICHARD finishes prayer.] BROTHER RICHARD: If you could just give me the patience to see it through, Father. [Blackout] SCENE 4 [Spotlight on a group of 3 WOMEN] WOMAN 1: Can you believe how Maggie Johnson has been acting lately? WOMAN 2: Maggie? Who’s Maggie Johnson again? WOMAN 3: Oh, she means the one that’s been having all the little outbursts in church lately. 155

WOMAN 1: Yes, that one. Though, I would hardly call her “outbursts” little. WOMAN 2: The poor thing. How embarrassing, to lose your mind in front of the whole congregation like that. WOMAN 3: Oh yes, the poor lamb. I feel so bad for her. WOMAN 1: She’s clearly doing it to get attention. WOMAN 2: You really think so? WOMAN 1: Absolutely! To be honest, I don’t really understand it. I would never go to such extremes just to get a few glances my way. WOMAN 2: Well, didn’t she say something about it not being her fault? She was saying something about a figure whispering to her or something. WOMAN 1: Cloaked figure? Oh, she really is losing it, isn’t she? WOMAN 3: Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions? Give the poor thing a chance. [Three WOMEN adlib bickering as STEVE and ROGER enter holding grocery bags. ROGER checks out the 3 WOMEN and winks at them as he passes.] STEVEN: I’m telling you, Roger, if that good-for-nothing Pastor at the God-forsaken church doesn’t start stepping in and stopping the nonsense that’s been going on these last few Sundays, I’m prepared to find a new place to worship. ROGER: Aw, c’mon Steven, you don’t mean that. After all, it’s only been the last two— STEVEN: Well, two are enough for me! That man is no more fit to run a church than you are. ROGER: Hey, I resent— 156

STEVEN: I mean, he can’t even hire proper staff! Did you see that commotion those ushers have been causing in these past weeks’ services? Ridiculous. Completely unprofessional! And in church of all places! ROGER: Ushers are volunteers, Steven, and they seemed to make it out like it wasn’t their fault. Didn’t you hear them? They said it was all the doings of some person with a black cloak or something. STEVEN: Black cloak? Oh, please. An organization like ours should be run by someone who knows how to lead. [Three WOMEN cross to exit stage] ROGER: Hey, ladies, how you doing? STEVEN: Roger, please. I’m trying to talk to you. Need I remind you that you’re a married man? ROGER: I was just saying hello, Steven. Ever heard of hospitality? [Waves at the 3 WOMEN just as they exit] And I heard everything you said about our church needing to be run by someone who knows how to lead, yada-yada. STEVEN: Honestly, I could run the church better than that man. Come on, our wives are waiting on us and these groceries. [STEVEN exits with ROGER following. Blackout.] SCENE 5 [Lights up on the congregation seated in the pews, yet another pew is empty. BROTHER RICHARD has not yet taken his place at the front of the church yet. The FIGURE is sitting in its usual spot in the back row.] WOMAN 1: And she had the nerve to actually talk to me afterwards! Can you believe that? Daring to speak to me after I clearly saw her making eyes at my husband? 157

WOMAN 3: I’m sure you’re exaggerating, dear. Everyone in this little town knows not to mess with your husband, and especially not to mess with you. Or I suppose, in this case, anything that belongs to you. WOMAN 2: Is Isaac still missing? I do hope he’s not sick or something. It’s been three weeks. That’s an awfully long time to be sick. WOMAN 3: I’ve been worried about him, too. He’s been acting differently since his mother’s passing, the poor thing. Losing your mother like that… he must feel so guilty. WOMAN 1: Aren’t you two hearing me? I can’t have scandalous women coming on to my husband! What will people say? I just can’t— [BROTHER RICHARD interrupts the conversation by beginning his sermon at the front of the church.] BROTHER RICHARD: Good morning, my lovely congregation--those of you that remain, that is--I assure you that this Sunday will run without interruption, unlike the last few times we’ve gathered here. Several members of our congregation are going on a mission in Brazil, and, if any of them are here today, I’d like to have them step up here and talk to you all about it. [MAN 1-3 go to the front of the church and begin talking about their mission trip. The following conversation overlaps MAN 1-3’s muted presentation.] ROGER: Isaac is missing again? KRISTEN: I know. I’m beginning to get worried about him… ROGER: I haven’t really seen you around before—what’s your name? KRISTEN: Kristen. Kristen Walker. ROGER: It’s nice to meet you, Kristen. 158

KRISTEN: You can call me Mrs. Walker. ROGER: Well, I’m Roger. And you can call me Roger. ELIZABETH: Roger, leave her alone. Need I remind you that you are a married man? ROGER: I was just saying hello, Elizabeth. MAGGIE Oh, I’m so sure— BROTHER RICHARD: Thank you so much, gentlemen, for your time. What you’re doing is truly a work unto God. To the rest of you: what is keeping you from serving God as these men are? Is it lust? Is it greed? Or is it, perhaps, pride? I believe pride to be the heart of all sin. Unbelief is turning away from God to indulge in other things. When we allow ourselves to be consumed by lust, we allow ourselves to turn from God for our sexual desires. For our impatience, we turn from God to follow our own plan. But when we allow ourselves to be consumed by pride, we are turning from God to indulge in ourselves. If you’d like to follow along in your own Bibles, in 1 Corinthians 4:7 it says “Who makes you different from others? What have you that you did not receive? If then you received it, why do you boast as if it were not a gift?” [FIGURE grabs WOMAN 1’s shoulder and whispers in her ear.] Our gifts, our differences from others, are all gifts from God, all part of his design. We are no different from each other except for what God has— WOMAN 1: [Standing up from her seat in the congregation.] I refuse to believe that. BROTHER RICHARD: Excuse me, ma’am? WOMAN 1: I’m better than a lot of people in this world. In this church, even. WOMAN 2: Sit down! You’re making a fool of yourself! WOMAN 1: I’m just telling the truth.

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[Getting out of her seat and walking up to different members of the CONGREGATION with each description] You’re nothing but a poor, frail woman on a teacher’s salary. You’re a dirty hoodrat that spends far too much time on your ghastly motorcycle. You’re a dirty tramp that sleeps with any man you can lay your hands on. I could go on and on about how much better I am than all of you. [FIGURE grabs ROGER and whispers in his ear, causing him to stand up out of his seat in the congregation, back completely straight, before taking on a “street prowler” sort of demeanor and walking up to WOMAN 1 and pulling her close.] ROGER: Well, you know what I think of you? [Runs hand down WOMAN 1’s leg] I think you got some nice legs, baby! [WOMAN 1 pushes him away, ready to insult him, but ROGER turns away and starts grabbing at other woman in the congregation and making more cat calls] ROGER: Hey sweet-cheeks, that’s a nice dress you got on, really compliments that shape! Hey blondie, how ‘bout coming over my way? Hey, lady with the hat, that’s a nice shirt, but how ‘bout lowering that neckline? What? That’s where everyone’s looking anyways! Hey baby, whatcha doing after the service? How ‘bout coming home with me? I can think of more than one way we could have a little fun. [WOMAN 1 continues ranting, slinging random insults, and ROGER continues to catcall. FIGURE gets up and whispers to more people in the CONGREGATION, causing more and more of them going into trances, acting out on one of the 7 sins, until everyone in the CONGREGATION is shouting and fighting. BROTHER RICHARD runs to the center of the church, yelling out:] BROTHER RICHARD: Enough! [Grabs both WOMAN 1 and ROGER by the shoulders and pulling them apart. Everyone in the church comes out of their trances, dazed and shocked by their actions.] BROTHER RICHARD: You two! You two started this! Why? Why would you act so… so inappropriately in my church? This is a place of worship! A place for God!

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WOMAN 1: Brother Richard, I swear, I would never say those—

BROTHER RICHARD: But you did say them! You talked cruelly to all the members in the church! WOMAN 1: It wasn’t me! I didn’t choose to say them! The person in black, the one in the black cloak! He’s the one— BROTHER RICHARD: Enough of this nonsense about a cloaked figure! How childish and irresponsible can you be, to try and blame your horrific actions on someone else? Is this some kind of sick joke? ROGER: Brother Richard, please! She’s telling the truth! The figure, he said something to me, too! I never would have said those things. I wouldn’t have acted like that in church if I were in control of my actions! [Gesturing to everyone in the congregation] We are all children of God; we would not do this in his home if we were not forced into it! [CONGREGATION erupts with murmured agreements and apologies. BROTHER RICHARD raises his hand to silence them.] BROTHER RICHARD: Enough of your excuses! There was no figure in black, and it said nothing to you! MAGGIE: But it has, Brother! Just listen to us! [To WOMAN 1] It gave a word to me and both the ushers. What did it say to you? WOMAN 1: It said… it said “Pride.” That’s all. MAGGIE: [to Roger] And you? ROGER: All it said was “Lust.” Is that supposed to mean something? USHER 1: It makes about as much sense as what it said to us. 161

USHER 2: Did it say anything to anyone else? [CONGREGATION members list off one of the seven sins until everyone has spoken.] BROTHER RICHARD: I have heard enough. [Clearly exasperated.] You are all dismissed. [Blackout.] SCENE 6 [Part of stage lit to show BROTHER RICHARD and SON alone, together, at a table in a small room. ISAAC appears weaker than when we first saw him.] BROTHER RICHARD: Are you ready to talk to me? ISAAC: Are you ready to listen? BROTHER RICHARD: I have been listening to you! I have the entire time! ISAAC: No, you haven’t! If you really were listening, you would have been able to understand by now. BROTHER RICHARD: This could all be over so quickly if you would just confess that what you have done wrong! ISAAC: I can’t confess that I have done anything wrong if I haven’t done anything wrong! [Takes a beat to calm down and soften.] You’ve been acting so different since mom died. The father I know and love wouldn’t do these things. Maybe we should get you a doctor, maybe it would help you— BROTHER RICHARD: Oh, now I need a doctor because I’m choosing to follow God’s plan? What happened to you, Isaac? What happened to my son? You used to be so devoted to God— so eager to serve Him, to learn. You were truly His servant, a child eager to follow and impress. What happened to you? What happened to that pure boy you used to be? 162

ISAAC: He is right in front of you, father! I’m the same boy you just described. I love my Father in Heaven; I am His follower, I am His child. And because of this I know that this plan you, my Earthly father, think he’s given you to follow cannot be real. BROTHER RICHARD: If that were true, you would not be questioning God’s plan. Think about the story of Isaac, whom you were named after. God told Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, and Abraham did not hesitate to do as God asked. It was a test, Isaac, just as this plan is for you and me. You have no way of knowing what God has in mind for us—all you can do is have faith. ISAAC: Father! Look at what this plan has done to me. It takes all my strength just to have this conversation, let alone do anything else. I can’t go to school, I can barely walk. I can’t go to church, and it kills me. Is this really what you call for the good of all? BROTHER RICHARD: There is no reasoning with you! ISAAC: There is no reasoning with you! How can you be so blind? You are the one who should be suffering. I did nothing— [BROTHER RICHARD slaps ISAAC’s face.] BROTHER RICHARD: Enough. Clearly you’re not pure enough yet. Go. You won’t be eating with me tonight. I don’t want to see your face again until you can confess your sins. [Blackout. Spotlight on BROTHER RICHARD, alone in the church. He is leaning against the podium at the front with his head bowed and hands clasped. When light hits him, he looks up and begins his prayer.] BROTHER RICHARD: Father. What have I done to deserve such chaos? Every Sunday my church grows emptier. This thing, this “figure” that my ushers and Maggie Johnson keep speaking of, why is it here? What have I done to deserve its corruption in my church? What have I done to deserve so much anger and disobedience and distrust from my son? I have been nothing but loyal to your wishes! I have done everything you asked! It is my son who turned against you, not I! [He pauses a moment, covering his face with his hands] I trust that this is part of your plan in some way. I just can’t see how. I will remain loyal Father... just help me to understand.

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[Blackout] SCENE 7 [BROTHER RICHARD is sitting in the first pew. He is the only one in the church; no CONGREGATION member is there to be seen. BROTHER RICHARD walks through the aisles as he begins his weak sermon.] BROTHER RICHARD: Good morning, my brothers and sister under the Lord almighty… today we are going to discuss sloth--apathy--not caring about the plan God has set. Sloth is... everyone being too lazy to be here! [Stopping at the center of the church and falling to his knees.] BROTHER RICHARD: Why? Why, Father, have you turned your back on me? I have done everything for you! Everything! I devote my life daily to learning your word, teaching your word, receiving and understanding your word! I pray daily, more than daily! I study my scriptures, I never question anything they teach, and I never question you, Lord. Never! I follow your every command, I live my life exactly as you instruct me to, I have never strayed, and you repay me like this? Three weeks of chaos and disorder in my congregation, a congregation that shrinks in size with every Sunday? There are no people in these pews, Lord! How am I supposed to spread your word if you take away my audience? [Beat, this part yelled and almost hysterical.] I was prepared to sacrifice my only son for you! He was my only family and I was willing to take his life, for you! How am I supposed to live as you want me to if you have taken everything from me?! [FIGURE walks in behind BROTHER RICHARD, placing a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. BROTHER RICHARD looks up and is immediately enraged.] BROTHER RICHARD: You! This is all your fault! You’re the one that’s been causing the chaos in my congregation. You think you are so smart, with your little whispered words, your tricks. You’re responsible for my empty church, too, aren’t you? Aren’t you?! [The FIGURE doesn’t respond] ANSWER ME! [FIGURE laughs and removes his hood to reveal that he is ISSAC.]

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BROTHER RICHARD: How? How did you get out? Why would you do this? To me?!

ISAAC: It’s just like you said, Father. You were prepared to sacrifice your only son, the only family you have, and you were willing to take my life. BROTHER RICHARD: I was instructed by God— ISAAC: No, you are trying to play God! Where is your precious plan now, father? Tell me how about how God has made everything right in the world because you starved your son for weeks so that he would be a pure sacrifice. Tell me about how keeping me in a room with nothing but a Bible and a glass of water solved all of the world’s problems. Tell me how everything turned out right in the end! BROTHER RICHARD: Isaac— ISAAC: No, you do not get to speak! Not yet. How could you? How could you even consider sacrificing me? I love you. You are the only person on this earth I can call family. I have looked up to you, strived to be just like you my entire life. I would take my own life before I took yours. But you? No, you don’t even hesitate; you don’t question it at all when you are asked to take mine. You didn’t even have the decency to make it quick! You let me suffer. You let me suffer, and you didn’t even care! I tried so many times to reach out to you and explain to you the pain that I was in--physically and emotionally. And what did you do? You slapped my face. You called me selfish and impure, you told me I wasn’t worthy of being your son. BROTHER RICHARD: Because you aren’t worthy of being my son! It was your fault Kathryn was taken from me! It is your fault your mother is dead! If you hadn’t insisted on making dinner that night, if you had enough sense to read labels, she wouldn’t have gotten sick! She wouldn’t have suffered for weeks, while all I could do was watch. If it weren’t for your carelessness, she would still be here! God told me this would be your punishment and so it shall be! Good can still come out of this. The sacrifice isn’t complete yet. You may not be as pure as I need you to be, but it’ll have to do. I can make this right; I can make sure God’s plan still goes accordingly. [BROTHER RICHARD lunges at ISAAC, attempting to grab his neck. ISAAC grabs the Bible off the pulpit and hits BROTHER RICHARD over the head before he can drag him down. ISAAC goes back to the pulpit and grabs the water bottle sitting at the edge and pours it over the unconscious body of BROTHER RICHARD while saying.] ISAAC: Somehow I knew that Wrath would be your downfall. 165

[ISAAC pulls a knife out of his pocket and brings it down toward BROTHER RICHARD’s chest. Lights blackout before the knife can go through BROTHER RICHARD’s chest. CLOAKED FIGURE walks across the now fog covered stage, holding a lantern and once again singing “For the lips of a strange woman drop honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But in the end she is bitter as wormwood, Sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on Hell…” as it exits.] End of Play

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Alyssa Kennedy

Screen

Chocolate Kisses FADE IN:

EXT. GRAYSON ACADEMY OF ARTS - ESTABLISHING Night falls with the rain on this bleak 1940 day. The heavy sound washes down thick upon the New York City streets. A car rumbles past with an eerie feel of nostalgia about it. Puddles form in broken pavement. Birds take cover beneath the safety of crooked roofs. Lights are vanquished in windows. The rain continues to pour down. INT. AUDITORIUM The camera moves over the polished floors of Grayson Academy School of Arts. The plaque on the wall proclaims its award winning stature - a school as old as the money used to found it, yet still elegant in its old fashion. Piano pricks into the air easily and generously. The feet that play work the piano with unparallel precision. The name of this young man is JESSIE, a 20-year-old darkskinned man in a cheap suit. He loves nothing more than this rhythmic motion. A female voice begins to narrate. Her name is NELLIE; at the time of this narration, she is 92. NELLIE (V.O.) To My Children. INT. HALLWAY Nellie, 19, a girl who would have been considered a knockout beauty, closes the top of her purse and tucks it beneath her arm as she begins pulling gloves over her hands. NELLIE (V.O.) It was the year 1940 when I fell in love. The keys of piano stops Nellie in her tracks. NELLIE (V.O.) (laughing) Imagine that. A nineteen year old girl. What did I know of love? Looking around, she searches for the source. The keys pause. Panic fills her gaze. 167

NELLIE (V.O.) To be fair, I fell in love with the chimes of a piano that was played so masterfully, it captured the heart of God himself. The keys continue forcefully. Nellie edges around the corner, moving curiously. Slowly peaking through the crack of a massive door, she lays her eyes upon the handsome young man who continues playing, unaware of her presence. INT. AUDITORIUM Jessie plays the keys, closing his eyes, absorbing the sound. Like a song he listens to rather than plays. NELLIE (V.O.) He had such a rigid class about him. Like a man who loved his art but could not understand the necessity of setting his art free. Jessie continues as Nellie takes tentative steps forward, pushing the door aside. NELLIE (V.O.) The man had dark skin and thick lips. I knew if I got him to speak Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d finally understand those verses in the Bible that spoke of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rolling voice. I knew if he uttered even a word this tem porary trance he cast me into would become my eternity. Nellie moves forward with agile motion. NELLIE (V.O.) All the same I was beckoned forward by some invisible force. Jessie finally takes note of Nellie who, up to that moment, had been watching him play. She was just as easily transfixed with his playing as he was. The keys end abruptly and Jessie lurches to his feet. He drops his gaze to the floor. NELLIE (V.O.) If I had ever seen a Negro blush, that was it. They stare at each other not knowing what to do next. NELLIE (V.O.) Though his voice could command an army, his shoulders sagged. Sagged with such sorrow. I know now that that sorrow came from a cruel world that told you darker skin made you less than human. Jessie is the first to recover from the encounter. He blunders forth a shaky apology: 168

JESSIE I’m s-sorry, Ma’am. I... They let me practice here on the week ends after everyone’s gone on home. NELLIE I wasn’tNellie takes a few more steps forward. JESSIE I’ll just be leaving then. Jessie rushes to his sheet music, hastily stashing it inside his cheap jacket. He snags his hat from its resting place on the piano. He plows it on top of his head and rushes quickly to collect his suitcase, which rests on the floor. As he frantically moves to bend over he braces himself on the piano lid. With a deafening SNAP! the lid smashes shut directly on his fingers. The bone crunching sound is more than disheartening. Nellie flinches away for a moment as Jessie yanks his hand back in surprise. Eyes bulging, he examines the damage. His hand is quickly becoming a bloody mess. Nellie rushes forward, taking up his hand in hers without a thought. Remembrance dawns over her features as she recalls the invisible lines they are separated by. Shock enters her gaze as she registers her own concern. An equal shock grasps hold of Jessie before definite fear enters his eyes. Fear wins him out and he jerks his hand away, snatching up his suitcase. His umbrella is knocked to the floor with a THWACK! It goes unnoticed by Jessie, who has already turned and is retreating for the exit. Nellie watches him leave before looking around, her eyes traveling to the abandoned umbrella at the base of the piano. NELLIE Wait! You forgot your-! Her words are cut off by the slamming door in Jessie’s wake. She stares sidelong at the umbrella. NELLIE (V.O.) The world had told me, a pale-faced traveling country woman,

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to leave those notes in the air as I had found them. Untouched and unheard. EXT. GRAYSON ACADEMY OF ARTS Jessie rushes through the door out of breath. He glances around at the pouring rain and reaches for his umbrella only to realize he left it behind. NELLIE (V.O.) Without sanction and without cherish. Jessie tucks his head down and secures the hat on his head before rushing onward down the street. NELLIE (V.O.) But in addition to being a foolish nineteen year old girl who believed she knew what love was... Nellie slams through the exit doors of the Academy, her head turning every direction. Jessie turns, hearing the sound. He registers her pursuit and turns back to the path in front of him. The rain hammers down. He recognizes his umbrella in her hand but just as easily he recognizes the danger of the entire situation. He hurries down the street.

NELLIE (V.O.) (CONT’D) ...I was an idealistic nineteen year old girl who believed she could change the world with simply a single act of kindness.

Nellie catches sight of his retreating figure. She steps down the stairs, into the rain, and rushes right after him. She catches up easily to his rigid walk. He continues moving, ignoring her presence to the best of his abilities. She intercepts his steps, forcing him to stop. He drops his head and eyes again to the ground. JESSIE Uhm. I’m sorry ma’amHe attempts one last time to sidestep her. NELLIE You left your umbrella. She offers him his umbrella. He shakes his head in refusal. 170

JESSIE No, really, it’s rainin. You need it. NELLIE I need an umbrella? JESSIE Uh... Jessie glances around at the rain; his mouth contorts as he considers how not to insult her intelligence of the fact that is indeed raining. A car rolls past. Jessie turns his face away as the lights wash over their bodies. He huddles away, accidently stepping closer than anticipated toward Nellie. She smiles up at him and once again extends his umbrella to him. With Jessie’s towering height it is impossible for her not to be looking up at him, finally meeting one another’s gaze. Again she repeats herself; she presses the umbrella into the soft of his belly. NELLIE I don’t need an umbrella. A second car rumbles by. The passengers turn to examine the two strange youth who stand still in the middle of a downpour, dangerously close to one another. Jessie watches the car. He shields his face once more. He takes the umbrella with no further need for delay. Suddenly, Nellie lurches into motion, taking playful steps away. Almost instantly the rain soaks her. Her clothes stick to her body as her hair mats to her face. NELLIE I told you I don’t need an umbrella! Jessie watches the mad woman as she makes graceful motions, contorting her body elegantly. She smiles at his surprise and twirls. NELLIE I love the rain! Jessie nods more to recognize that she has spoken than to symbolize he understands

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why she’s dancing in the rain. She continues smiling and dancing with glee. NELLIE (V.O.) That night Love whispered to me a lullaby of adoration. Jessie watches a moment more before the third car passes by. NELLIE (V.O.) Those passionate chimes upon manipulated chord revealed far more than a talented Negro boy, As soon as he notices the lights, he turns and is again scurrying away. She pauses and watches him go for only a moment.

NELLIE (V.O. CON’T) but the message of love Himself. Love whispered me a truth that the world refused to acknowledge.

As he disappears around the corner she continues dancing. Nellie lets loose a giggle before running back up the steps of the Academy. The last of the lights dim inside of the building. The windows stream with rain as Nellie’s shadow extinguishes the last light. As the actions are completed the voice over continues: NELLIE (V.O.) The truth that Love was blind and unbiased. He never saw wealth, nor race, nor heritage, nor faith. And despite what man kind so desperately tried to cover, love lost many battles in these times of war. And this battle was no different, Moments later she exits the building again. She moves down the stairs gleefully. Still soaked head to toe, she buttons the last button of a thick jacket.

NELLIE (V.O. CON’T) because he whispered the secret upon the ears of a foolish idealistic girl

She looks over to find that the umbrella now rests against the steps.

NELLIE (V.O CON’T) who believed she knew right from wrong,

She smiles and picks up the umbrella. 172

NELLIE (V.O. CON’T) and did not know black from white. Simply a world of possibility where colors seemed to unify without hindrance,

Looking around at the rain she simply uses it as a cane as she continues in the opposite direction of Jessie, the occasional dance motion springing from her.

NELLIE (V.O. CONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T) and made no exception for grey.

INT. AUDITORIUM The camera floods back over the tiled floors of Grayson academy. Over the long graceful keys of the piano. The soft music once again plays. NELLIE (V.O.) I would not have wasted those many years of my life in search of love in the world called black and white because I would have known. The music pauses. NELLIE (V.O.) He was the one.

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The Engineer Mary Butgereit A Day in the Life of the NSA Alexa Russell Emojition Casey Marley Jukebox Heart Mary Butgereit Another Day Down Sarah Buckelew Case Number: 4467825 Kim Czerniewski Hello, Donovan Ben Ewing A New Me Emily Bohatch Wreckage Xandra Wiegand Something Missing Tori Lewis Artificial Intelligence Michael Samaras Instructions for Someday Mary Butgereit VHS: Virtual Human Solitude Xandra Wiegand Day One Adam Woelke Prometheus’ Plight Emily Bohatch White Noise Khadijah Thompson Lake Google Daniel Lang Logging Onto Nature Khadijah Thompson Starcatcher Ingrid Hickey fault-Y WIR-ing Madelyn Wong Technology, Ethics, amd Genetics Daniel Lang Musical Geniuses or Musical Terminators Kristie Martins Is Gamification Really a Problem? Casey Marley Flip Flap Flop, Tickety Tock Kristie Martins Just a Bunch of Yikkity Yak Patrick Brady Techno-crite Khadijah Thompson Screen Time Storm Taylor Click Mary Butgereit An Expose on Determinism Jett Ryan Jaded Daniel Lang Existence Kalee Yem Dr. Strangelove Spencer Webb Vonnegut’s Prophecy Ben Ewing It’s Not Real: Twitter Fiction Storm Taylor #TwitterFiction Collection CAPTCHA Leah Plume The Break Up Mateo Canabal Create Victoria Van Protest Poetry Deondra Davis Dream-Weaver Jett Ryan Featured Artist: Rashaan Denton Mayday David Horn Beats Xavier Fitzgerald Dream Car Josiah Purlee Taped Up Sydney Taylor Neon Zach Perry Plugged In Alanis Craig Signed, Sealed, Delivered Nkechi Nnorom Part of Our Creation Harley Aldredge Creation of Technology Ingrid Hickey Out of the Factory Madelyn Wong Vaacuum Kristie Martins Inside Swing Arm 8 Madelyn Wong Suspicion Towards the Moving Clock Kaylie Miller & Madelyn Wong Rube Goldberg Machines

Dear Readers, Riddle us this: it is prehistoric and futuristic at the same time. It is a sudden reaction yet also a flying car. From the darkest depths, Prometheus glanced upon us with twinkling a eye—a nudge, a path, a spark. Now we are the gods who breathe life into those we fashioned in our image. Above all, it is immortal. Technology is derived from the Greek word techne, meaning “art” or “skill.” An alternate definition is “cunning of hand” – cleverness. Oh, do we believe we are clever. We know technology is destined for greatness. We began with the wheel and now soar where humans were never designed to be. By manipulating the electricity that fires between our nerves and neurons, we can make our bodies into energy cells that push and pull limbs made of metal. We manipulate the elements by rerouting rivers, by catching lightning, by hollowing out mountains and building wind machines. In the same way we moved forward with the wheel, however, we burned ourselves with fire as we evolved. The technology of the horse that brought settlement and new life to the Conquistadors also brought destruction to the natives of North America. The candle that could light the Jewish scribes’ manuscript in the darkness of the 11th century also had the ability to ignite the grasslands and destroy life. The gun that could provide security and resources is now feared so much as to have the power to strike paranoia in a whole society. We may think that we are the almighty powers that harness all of our tools, but over time, they end up betraying us - our pens run out of ink, our umbrellas flip inside out, our contact lenses tear. In the comforting hum of engines around us, there are chords of a feared prophecy: what’s becoming of human contact? Do we rely too much on the technology around us? After the 2012 scare of a massive solar flare taking out technology’s ability to function, we began to ponder just how we would be able to live our lives without the mechanical child we’ve birthed. It is necessary, yes, but what if it gets to the point of no return? What if we can no longer call ourselves truly human? There is survival and death, beauty and pain, weaved throughout technology – and as such, traces of humanity. Humans were, after all, the original technology; we manipulate, love, and find entertainment in each other, and we’re quick to replace one another with something better. We expect the ones around us to evolve just as readily as the tools that dominate our world. People are designed to build and create and surge forward, and in doing so, they leave vestiges of warmth over the cold surfaces of logic and necessity. Technology is a chance at a rebirth of humanity, a reminder that we were only playing God in trying to create something so like ourselves that we could avoid the truth that we cannot live without each other. A prosthetic leg is not simply a mass of plastic - it is also a child’s first steps, or a woman’s pride in standing, or a man’s way home; the Internet is not only the world’s largest book, but also refuge for billions of stories; humans both communicate and hide in the wires between our systems. We leave fingerprints and thoughts and warm blood in the spaces between keyboard keys and cogs. Turn the page and we’ll teach you how to decipher the code. Sincerely, The Eclectic Staff 244

Mary Butgereit

Feature

The Engineer

enter my study and shut the door behind me; it closes with a loud bang. I had not meant to slam it, but it slammed anyway. Somewhere in the house—most likely the living room—Andrea probably jumped at the sound, the third cushion on the couch squeaking at that slight of a shift, and she will close her eyes and bow her head for a moment before continuing to dab at her face with tissues. As is her usual with this emotion. Me? I have a glass of Scotch in my fist. I am not sad; I do not get sad; I get angry. Tonight, I am merely frustrated. I cross the room and sit down in my chair—the chair I spent a week during the summer calculating and building according to my precise needs and standards. I drum my fingers, as is the usual when I have a problem and my fingers need something to do before the cogs fit together in my mind and filter out through my hands. Tonight, however, the problem cannot be solved. My fingers drum faster. Four years. That notion of time accelerates the anger. I drink. Four years. My project—my longest project—terminated at four years. Projects do not take me four years. Other engineers, yes. They run around like ants for four years to keep the missile off the ground, or the city from falling, or the world from burning. It does not take me four years to understand a problem, to equate a plan, to execute said plan and keep whichever division commissioned me that day from falling apart. I spent four years on the project, and someone has the audacity to terminate it. I spin in my chair and face my desk—blueprints and pencils, calculators and pens. All neatly arranged. I dig to find a fresh piece of paper, but when I find it, nothing spills forth. All that I can think of is the project. The few scribbles I make on my paper cannot be erased—I don’t keep erasers in my study. Erasers allow room for mistakes. I sit back and try to think. Somewhere in the house Andrea moves—most likely to the kitchen, most likely for some water. As is the usual after she cries. She understood the importance of the project, albeit on a different plane of thought than I did. Andrea is intelligent next to the average and simpleminded next to me. I cannot grasp the concept of her, she has no equation or wires or system that I understand—she is endlessly fascinating. She enters the bedroom down the hall and I hear her voice through the walls, muffled and soft. After what happened, she might be praying—a silly habit of hers from childhood. Still, she understands. I am grateful for her understanding; while I am usually annoyed when she acts as if she understands an emotion of mine to the same extent as I understand it, tonight I am grateful for the company of misery. Misery might be too strong of a word. Perhaps not. I have never spent so much time on a project. The loss I currently experience is beyond what I have known before. Moreover, I have never had a project terminated. Not me. My eyes brush over the sketches that wallpaper the area over my desk, the graphs and 245

charts and calculations. Never has one been terminated. Not one I have pored over, obsessed with, dedicated so much of my life to. The project was going to be perfect, so perfect, the best I had ever produced. Four years. I drink. I understand systems. Everything is a system; it is calculated, it can be planned, watch the wires spark and the parts move. All can be understood. I can pass as a scientist or surgeon or engineer because a system is a system, it works a certain way and will stop when there is a problem. A patient feels sick because a destructive element was introduced to the grid and the machine must work around it—I can find the problem. A computer program works the same way, cities work the same way, the world works the same way. I am known throughout my field as the man who can find the answer. Yet my project was terminated. My curly-headed, gap-toothed, freckled project. The room tilts. I close my eyes and see her—so small, so bright, so alive. My four-year project was terminated by an ignorant fool. My four-year-old daughter was killed. I do not have an answer for this. I don’t. I drink. The plans I had for her flash through my mind—from her kindergarten graduation to her wedding. My plans do not fail. Yet down the hall my wife cries and there is a small cold bed in my house tonight. The door creaks open. Small footsteps. My hair stands on end for a moment, and I wait for her giggle; instead, I hear gurgling, words that do not equate to meaning yet. I spin my chair around. My son toddles across the study. Out of instinct, I feel the yell begin to bloom in my throat: get out. This is my space. Your sister understood. I do not yell. He toddles closer to me, and I see the wisp of hair on his head, the curiosity in his eyes. She was curious, too. For a millisecond, a brief millisecond, a word crosses my mind: redo. He looks at me for permission before touching something, in the exact way she never did, and I know redo is not an option. My other projects could be redone, perfected. This one is beyond my control. She was beyond my control, despite my best hopes and extensive planning. I stand and walk to him, pick him up and hold him close. He stiffens and struggles a moment—he is used to his mother’s touch, not mine—but eventually settles. All I can hear is the sound of his small breaths. He breathes while his sister does not. His tiny heart beats enough that I feel it, feel his chest rise and fall, and for the first time I see my boy instead of my blueprint. All of the ideas and calculations quiet as what some call a prayer and others call an earnest thought settles into my mind: “Please. Give me a longer deadline this time.”

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Alexa Russell

Feature

A Day in the Life of the N.S.A.

onight’s major news story: ‘Is the NSA Spying on You?’ Turn your radios here at 5 to learn more,” the radio host belted through the speakers. Steve chuckled and changed the station. He had been working at the National Security Agency for many years. He was on his way to work with his coffee, his laptop, and his briefcase, as always. When he arrived at the building, he scanned his ID card and walked to the morning conference room. “Good morning, Steve!” his boss David shouted as he entered the room. “Good morning David. What do we have planned for today?” Steve asked. “I’ll explain once everyone is here,” David replied with a mischievous smile. “While we are waiting, why don’t you tell me about how the Magnolia project went.” “You should have been there, David! It was great. One of the best projects I have worked on. The mother was having an affair with—get this—the husband’s ex-wife. And the children were brats of course. The 16-year-old daughter is living with her older brother—the one who is an international drug lord— and she is helping him with ‘the business’ as they call it. I could go on and on about it. It was like a soap opera! But we got her. She had been conducting a religious educational program out of her house,” Steve said, laughing so hard David could hardly understand him. “That sounds like it was a great arrest,” David bellowed as he walked to the head seat of the conference room. By now everyone was in the conference room, chatting and slowly making their way to their seats. The entire table was outlined with everyone’s Starbucks cups. “Okay everyone,” David began, “I have a very special project for us this month that we will all be working on together. Get excited everyone!” Everyone erupted into conversation. The excitement in the room was palpable. “This is going to be the most interesting project of our careers. I want you to all go home and get your equipment together and pack for the trip. We will meet at the airport at noon. I look forward to working with you all on this,” David said as he stood. Everyone jumped up from the table, still chatting loudly and giggling like a bunch of schoolgirls. Steve practically ran to his truck. He sped home and rushed in the door. He frantically packed, putting nearly everything he owned into his suitcase. He then gathered all of his equipment: video cameras, listening devices, three laptops, cellular readers, wave transmitters, x-ray and night vision goggles, biometric analyzers, and everything else he had on his list. “Alright, I think that’s everything,” he said to himself. He began the long process of loading everything into his car, and soon after, he was on his way to the airport. Everyone met at the gate and waited. David announced that they all had first class tickets and handed them to everyone. After each ticket had been scanned they were finally on the airplane. 247

After take-off everyone either slept or read. Before they knew it, they had landed. They collected their luggage from the baggage claim and walked outside to their rental cars. The town was a normal suburban place. When they arrived at their hotel, they unloaded all of their items and lugged them up to the rooms. “Okay everyone, we will meet down in the hotel’s conference room in 30 minutes. Get unpacked and then head on down,” David announced as they all gathered in the hall. Steve went to his room and began setting up all of his equipment, too excited to wait. After he was done, he went down to the conference room for the meeting. David had already begun speaking to everyone. “Tomorrow morning at 5 A.M. we will promptly begin the Kor Project. We will be conducting surveillance on a high school teacher, a stay-at-home mom, and a doctor. I have emailed you the case files and expect you to read them thoroughly before you go to bed, ” David said. After the meeting everyone read as they were instructed and went to bed. Steve woke up bright and early at 4:30 the following morning. He quickly brushed his teeth, got dressed, and dragged his equipment to the conference room. Many of the others were already there and the meeting started shortly after he arrived. David assigned everyone their target and left the meeting room without another word. Steve was assigned to the stay-at-home-mom, Martha Wallace, along with Marcia and Elizabeth. They piled into their huge black SUV, put the address of the Wallace residence into the GPS, and then were on their way. When they arrived at the house, they parked across the street so that the Wallaces wouldn’t think the inconspicuous black SUV on their street was the government watching them. Steve got out of the car and walked up to the door with a clipboard in his hand. He rang the doorbell and waited. When the door opened he started reciting his lines. “Good morning madam. I am with the Kor child services council. I received an email inquiring about your household. You must allow me to search your household or I will be forced to respond with violence,” Steve said. “Alright, come in,” Martha muttered with a hint of anger in her voice. As Martha led him into the house he turned to shut the door and gave a thumbs up to his partners in the SUV. He walked in and began placing listening and video devices nonchalantly. While touring the house, he pretended to take notes and continually showered Martha with compliments. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Wallace. There is clearly nothing going on here. You are simply a nice, average suburban family with nothing to hide,” Steve said as he walked out the door. He rushed back to the SUV and everyone was overjoyed. They drove back to the hotel and got to work in the conference room. Steve turned on all of the monitors and got coffee for all three of them. “Here we go. time to spy on Mrs. Martha Wallace,” Steve said as he sat down in front of the monitors. The monitors showed all the rooms in the house and Steve could pick any of them with the click of a mouse. He selected the kitchen. Martha was talking on the phone with someone. “Hey Marcia, did you get that phone tap?” Steve asked. 248

“Yes I did. It is on my monitor as we speak,” Marcia replied, as Steve and Elizabeth gathered around the monitor. The conversation was a bit dry at first, but then the team found what they came for. “My son is going through his rebellious stage and I just do not know what to do with him,” Marcia said to the woman on the other line. “Oh it can’t be that bad, all children go through it,” the woman replied. Martha looked around the room before continuing the conversation. “You don’t understand, he has done something unimaginable,” Martha whispered. “Well what is it Martha?” the woman asked. “He—he prayed,” Martha replied. At this point the entire team jumped up. “WE DID IT! WE GOT THEM! YES! LET’S GO!” everyone yelled. They ran as fast as they could back to the black SUV, not even bothering to put away the equipment. When they got to the street they pulled up in the middle of the yard and jumped out. They ran to the door and began banging on it. “MARTHA WALLACE WE NEED YOU TO EXIT THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY!” Steve yelled. The door slowly opened and Martha stepped out. She broke out into a full sprint before any of them could grab her. “STOP! WE ARE THE NSA! STOP IMMEDIATELY! Steve shouted as he chased after her. Finally Steve tackled her to the ground and handcuffed her. “We have been watching you. Martha, you and your entire family are under arrest, do you understand why?” “Because my family has displayed threatening impulses to the government. But this government is corrupt and an abomination,” Martha screamed in Steve’s face. “This is most certainly not a corrupt government, Mrs. Wallace. Imagine if you lived in America,” Steve replied.

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Emojition Casey Marley

eborah: Hello this is Deborah Layhe and today on NPR we have an as always very interesting speaker with us today. This is “teenager” (I put that in quotes, listeners ha ha), Lydia Fitzgibbons here to talk to us about the complicated world of teenage technological communication, otherwise known as “texting” So Lydia, how should I say this in “teen talk”—what’s the 4-1-1 on the youngster fad of texting? Lydia: Why, yes, Deborah, its quite simple. Texting is the new “choice” form of communication. Some may say it is the perfect form of communication due to its speedy and overall impersonal aspect. For example, instead of risking a 30 minute conversation with my mother on whether I should be home for dinner, I simply punch in “home for dinner /food emoji/food emoji/chicken leg emoji/ question mark.” And it’s solved. Deborah: Ooh, this is fascinating, Lydia. Now to the listeners at home who don’t know what an “emoji” (verbal quotation marks again, folks) is—do tell us Lydia. Lydia: Well Deborah, an emoji is the next step in the evolution of texting. You see people found using actual words to be too time consuming so instead they turned to instant digital hieroglyphs. These emojis contain everything from the common “smiley face” emoji to the teen classic “sunglass emoji.” Deborah: Oh that sunglass emoji-he’s a cool guy. Ha. Ha. Lydia: Even more they’ve created multiple series of emojis to eliminate any need of actual language. From food items to tropical hibiscus flowers-the emojis have you covered. Deborah (trying to fathom this “new” idea): Lydia I-I-I just don’t know what to say. I feel like I need to learn this “emoji language” to, to see what it’s all about. Lydia: Why yes Deborah, do you happen to have an iPhone on you? Deborah: Yes, Yes, I’m pulling it out right now. Ok. So, Let’s take it step by step so the listeners at home or who are driving to work this morning can learn how to “text like a teen.” Lydia: Ok, Deborah, may I call you Deb—I should assign you an emoji so I don’t even have to refer to you—anyway I am going to reply to my friend Chrissy’s message. Chrissy just texted me “Hey, do you still need me to make /brownie emoji/ brownie emoji/ for our /school house emoji/ assignment?” The food element is a

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major portion of our grade and it’s due tomorrow, so right now I’m feeling a little frustrated with Chrissy. Deborah: Ooh, frustration, listeners let’s see how we can verba-I mean emojize this feeling. (Lydia looks enraged at her phone. Still using her NPR voice, but in an angry tone.) Lydia (looking furiously at her phone): “/clap emoji/clap emoji/ Yes I need you to /oven emoji/the brownie emoji/clap emoji/stressed out emoji/ Chrissy.” Deborah aside to her microphone: Ooh, listeners this is getting a little heated. (Lydia’s phone buzzes, she reads Chrissy’s reply) Lydia (reading Chrissy’s text): “/Mouthless emoji/mute emoji/sunglass emoji/ chill.” (Looking up from phone): Chill?!! Lydia (furiously texting): “/exclamation mark emoji/question mark emoji/fist emoji/angry cat emoji/ we are not friends anymore Chrissy.” Chrissy: “/scalp massage emoji/ don’t care, Lydia. We never were… you have no friends” (Lydia gasps) “And I can hear you narrating our whole conversation on NPR /radio emoji/ mute emoji/” (Deborah looks at the Lydia in a scientifically fascinated manner before speaking into the microphone.) Deborah: This is great, folks at home. Lydia created a sample argument just so we can learn more about these fascinating little smiley faces. Haha. (Lydia is crying.) Lydia: “Shut up! /devil face emoji/” Chrissy: “ur lame /peace sign emoji/ out” Deborah: Well folks, I hope you enjoyed our segment on “Teenage Texting” I hope you turn in tomorrow for “How to Watch a Netflix Series in One day.” 251

Feature

Jukebox Heart Mary Butgereit

he man had a jukebox heart. It used to be shiny and bright and played smoothly, slipping between records and tracks like there was no gap between them and they were just one long road home; he was given some songs by friends, borrowed others and forgot to return them, and there were a couple he stole. He had harmonies in every breath and songs in every step, spinning the vinyl with a bright and shiny smile and laughter that played smoothly. Despite all the peaceful protest hymns stored inside, the Government had to borrow him one day to fight in a far-off war. They covered his jukebox heart with thin fabric and thinner promises, hoping it would stifle the way every tempo quickened the farther he got from home. Sometimes, when the night was quiet enough but he couldn’t close his eyes, he could still hear the muffled music, every drumbeat sending blood through his body. When he did sleep, he slept with his right hand on his gun and his left hand on his chest; both for protection. There were some anthems inside that didn’t belong to him, after all. His hand wasn’t enough to stop the bullet, however. Neither was the training or the gun or the dark sky or the long grass that caught him as he fell backward. The blast broke the glass of his jukebox heart, shattered the lights, destroyed the buttons – mud seeped into the wiring as red music seeped out. The night got darker and brighter at the same time. The noise faded out to static. He woke in a white bed in a white hospital with a black hole in his chest. They’d done their best to repair his jukebox heart, but all the records had shattered except for one. The rest of the music had bled out. Even with the chaos of healing and hurt that throbbed around him, those first few days in that hospital bed was the loudest silence he had ever known. He went home. Things were different. His smile was tarnished, his laughter skipped and jumped sometimes. A few friends left out of anger that he didn’t return with the things they’d given him, not able to understand how sometimes things get lost on dark nights in tall grass. Many drowned out the sound of him, only able to see the way he had learned to hold a gun in his hand and not the fact he was borrowed without his permission – stolen, really. The ones that stayed helped build a cassette player into his brain, because records were old and outdated and out of style. Some songs were new. Some were not. The music never did sound the same coming from headphones. Sometimes, though, there’d be a whir, and the lights would flicker and the needle would shiver over the surface and play the last hiccupping record the best it could. Those times he would stay silent, stay awake, not letting a single hum or vibration leave his body. He’d fall into shiny and bright memories that played smoothly, right until a crack towards the end – the crack of a gun that would live with him forever. He’d hold his breath, praying for this last record of the life before to survive just one more day. Stumbling, the last song of the man with the jukebox heart played on.

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Sarah Buckelew

Feature

Another Day Down

:00 AM With trembling hands he fumbles over his pajama buttons, frustration rising up inside of him. This should be a simple task; he should be able to do this. 6:15 AM He sits in the darkened lobby, still in his pajamas. Waiting for his pills, he feels acutely aware of his dress, shrugging in his shoulders, hoping that no one ends up noticing his lack of proper attire. 6:30 AM The sun rises over a hill in a brilliant array of light. From his chair the man stares out his window making out only a view of brightening gray through the shrouded blinds. 6:45 AM Someone else is now unbuttoning his pajamas for him as his hands shake uselessly by his sides. They ask him how he is. “Well I’m still here,” he replies. The attendant laughs. The words turn bitter in his mouth, still here. He blinks against his own existence, but even with reality blocked out, his consciousness remains, “still here, still here, still here.” 7:00 AM He eats his oatmeal in slow swallows at an empty table. There’s no point to eating with the others. To him, all the conversation has stagnated and he has grown tired of the incessant expectations for replies, for pretending there is a sense of purpose to what they are saying. 7:30 AM He pricks his finger, watching the blood rise up against his wrinkled finger. Sighing at the dullness of the pain, the way the feelings all seem to be slowly dampening out. The reader beeps at him; today his blood sugar is high. 7:40 AM He moves the walker down the hallway towards the nurses’ station slowly; he focuses on the steps of each foot. What was once a simple task requires his full concentration. From his peripheral he notices a scuff against the wall and stumbles as he loses control of his foot. 8:10 AM With the insulin maintaining his body back in balance. He enters his blood sugar numbers into the chart he keeps on his computer. He fidgets with the settings, outputting graphs that infuse the measurements of his life to flow into colorful representations. He looks at the chart, then at the graph infused with the semblance of purpose and movement. He blinks out his existence again, “I’m still here I’m still here, I’m still here.” The insulin ticks thru his veins, the graphs fluctuate back into view. 8:30 AM He logs onto an online bridge game. Listlessly he reviews the cards, planning his strategy. 9:00 AM He glances at the clock, wondering how much longer this game will last. He is fairly sure of a win but considers quitting. He is beginning to feel dissatisfied. The room buzzes with nothing but the computer’s v sound. 9:50 AM He wins the bridge game and gives forth a small smile as the automated CONGRATULATIONS scrolls across his screen. His smile fades into sadness as he yet again becomes aware of the emptiness of the room. He thinks back on when he used to play on the weekends with his friends, the camaraderie 253

and laughter they shared. Now it is only himself to bask in this tiny victory. 10:00 AM He shuffles to the couch and turns on the TV to drown out the silence. It blares into the room invading his skull. Everything swirls in front of him. His consciousness repeats back to him, “I’m still here, I’m still here.” He glances at the empty chairs across from him; there is no one to share this with. 10:30 AM The show flips off to its commercial break and his gaze falls to the framed picture of his wife. His breath catches and his back stoops. His consciousness reminds him, “She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone” He feels the tears building in his eyes and he tries to fight them down he is not weak, he is okay, he is here. He feels a hollowness in himself, he is not standing anymore. 10:40 He lays his head down on the couch to block out the sadness, to avoid the emotion, to avoid here. He blinks out his existence and this time his consciousness complies. He drifts off to the TV ringing in his ears and dreams of her. Dreams they are reunited somewhere new, somewhere with a body he can utilize. 11:40 AM He awakes with a start, into the noise filled room. Groggily he turns the TV off and tries to adjust his ears to the new silence. He re acquaints himself with the room, reminding himself that he exists here, that this is the new life he lives. 12:00 PM He checks his blood again, the prick stinging this time. With a certain satisfaction he squeezes his finger roughly. The machine beeps, he is stable. 12:30 PM Tiredly, he wheels himself out of his room this time, and down to the cafeteria. He listens to the murmurs in the cafeteria as he spoons the food into his mouth. Closing his eyes he attempts to focus on the tastes of the food, wishing to fully experiences flavors once again. With his eyes closed and the buzzing voices he grows drowsy. 1:20 PM He awakes to a hand gently shaking his shoulder. “You forgot to take your medicine,” the woman admonishes him. Confusedly he takes the pills in a still murky haze. “Thanks,” he mumbles. 1:30 PM As he wheels back to his room he begins to feel out of breathe from it, as he slowly feels himself losing strength from the day. Getting back to his room, he fits an oxygen tank to his nostrils, feeling the air feed into him slightly rejuvenating his strength. He sits down on the couch to rest back up and feel the sensation of the air. 1:40 PM He re checks his blood levels. It burns again, but he merely wipes away the blood with the plastic swab. As the machine beeps off again he finds himself still stable. Slightly disappointed with the consistency, he enters the new data back into the table. Watching the plateau at the end of his graph, the same as his day’s nows. 2:00 PM He wheels himself to the outdoors. The day is sunny and attendants walk about in shorts, but he feels a chill, almost wishes to go back inside to the warmth and even a blanket. Determinedly though he continues wheeling about, reveling in his ability to still do this. 3:00 PM Exhaustedly, he finally wheels himself back around to the full end of the path. He inches his way down the hallway back to the room, his arms feeling leaden as they push him down the hallway. 3:10 PM He turns the TV on again and his eyes began to glaze over as sound pours into the room and people move across the screen busy in their own agen254

das he can’t seem to focus on. 4:00 PM The ringing of his phone startles him from his trance. It’s his son. “How are you,” his son inquires. “I’m still here.” He replies, the words stinging his throat again. Their conversation meanders around very little, as usual his son hesitates about when they will visit. There is guilt when he says he doesn’t know, but the man is still here and feels all but forgotten. What is there to say at the visits besides? His son stays on the phone for a wall, slowly enunciating his stories. The man wishes he could here better as each sentence comes out maddeningly slow. 5:00 PM Eventually the son has to go and the Man sits down and turns to the solitaire on his computer as a distraction until dinner comes around. 6:00 PM The man eats his dinner quickly worried about falling asleep again. The food slips past his tongue, barely even registering in his mind. 6:30 PM He heads down to the lobby for his medication for the night. He swallows his pills, picturing them flowing through his system to sustain him for the night. 6:50 PM He checks his blood one last time for the chart. Entering it in, he tinkers around with different numbers briefly watching the way the chart ebbs and flows differently before making sure everything is back to the original, for the records. 7:00 PM He looks down at his watch and decides its late enough to try turning to bed. He cuts the light out and lays on his side in the dark, thinking to himself “I’m still here, I’m still here” until its bitterness begins to fade with the rest of his awareness 7:30 PM His mind succumbs completely to sleep 2:00 AM He finds himself disoriented and confused within the darkness, reaching out at the spot next to him, hoping to find her there, hoping to attempt the movement and find no arm there and find nothing there, to find himself past life. Disappointingly he only finds a cold uninhibited pillow next to him. Looking around he begins to recognize the room and the steady hum of the oxygen machine feeding his lonely lungs. He curls around the empty pillow in the darkness as his consciousness reminds him, “You’re still here.”

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Feature

Case Number: 4467825 Kim Czerniewski

n December 4th, 2024 Google programmer Griffin Brother disappeared from work. Virtual records show that he continued to work from home. Simultaneously, security camera recordings and credit card trails show Brother making purchases at the local mall. Brother was recorded returning to work by business security cameras three days later. On June 28, 2025, Brother was not recorded arriving at work when virtual tags show him beginning to program at work. Security cameras find him driving to Florida, and credit card bills corroborate his presence at a hotel for a week. At the same time, social media location posts place him at various locations in the city where he frequents. Brother was recorded returning to work in the flesh two weeks later. On September 3, 2025, social networking sites show pictures of himself at work while security camera time stamps do not corroborate his presence. Later investigations find the same poses from the photos in question from different photos on his home computer, and records show his office web cam turning on at the time of the post. Brother was recorded at work the next day. On March, 14, 2026 Brother’s girlfriend, Isabelle, reports holding a conversation with him over social media, citing the time stamps on the messages. However, at the same time, airport security shows Brother boarding a plane to Italy. During the flight, programming work and social media content and conversations continues to be made. Brother was next seen returning to work two weeks later. This trend continues over the next year with increasing frequency and decreasing variation. At 3:49 A.M, September 6th, 2026, 911 on-call officers received a noise complaint against Brother’s apartment. Mrs. Huda Defman, Brother’s neighbor claims viewing individuals who appeared to be criminals leaving with Brother shortly after the complaint was made. Meanwhile, acquaintances of Brothers swear that they were holding conversations with him over social media. Brother did not return to work in person. Brother’s boss received an email explaining health issues and requesting work from home the next day. On November 8th, 2026 Feliu Martin, a known thief with mob connections, was questioned in the case of a jewelry store robbery at Hobsons Jewelers. He is released based on a solid alibi including credit card records placing him in the local mall with social media photos and text messages with Victor Moller about meeting there to support his claim. Moller avoids confirming that Martin arrived at the planned meeting. Due to insufficient evidence and media support of his alibi, Martin was re-

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leased and the case remains cold. Over the next two months, many more crimes with identified mob members as suspects are left unsolved with no other leads and solid digital alibis. On January 7th, 2027 a raid on known digital scam artist, and mob administrator turns over a large sum of data, and a program named Secret_Day_Off. exe (2), time stamped created two years earlier. The program seemed to be able to connect into all the saved data saved within the Google Hard drives. Detailed observation and study has revealed that it has the ability to mimic typing quirks, online habits, and to fabricate photos from real time media and past photos. Further copies of the program were found in black market busts and running for known criminals. Understanding of the program cracks previously cold cases, including the robbery of Hobsons jewelry store, on November 8th, 2026. On December 24, 2028, a highly decomposed corpse washed up in San Francisco Bay. Time of death is placed roughly 19 months prior. DNA analysis identifies the body as none other than Griffin Brother. Griffin Brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last social networking post was three hours after the body was found, post marked from the computer in his apartment. A search of Brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s apartment reveals a putrid setting, covered with dust and rotting food in the refrigerator. The only object still running in the home, a high-tech computer running a program labeled Secret_Day_Off.exe, ran in the back of the home. Griffin Brother is recognized as the creator of Secret_Day_Off.exe. It is common speculation that he was killed for his program designed to support unapproved vacations. For over a year, this program worked, taking Brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place in society. The program has adopted his personality, voice, work, and identity. Because of Secret_Day_Off.exe, friends and family of Brothers have been able to speak to him months after his death. For security, the program must be shut down. However, at this point, where does the man separate from the machine? In shutting down the program, would Brother be killed? Or would he be stranded, immortal in the data cloud?

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Feature

Hello, Donovan. Ben Ewing

nd my dad played the violin,” he said as he realized that she had drifted off, and was looking at the next person in line. Beginning to wonder whether the rustic atmosphere and Human serving staff at Cafe Passe were pleasant enough to justify such a high monthly fee, he took the paper cup from the counter and made his exit. Cold air washed over him as he opened the door. Reminder: Outside temperature is zero degrees celsius. Medium to heavy outerwear advised. Wind bit his bare hands and face as he remembered a string of such warnings and reminders. Wrapping his hands tightly around the steaming container, he walked briskly toward home. Dismiss. The sidewalk was more desolate than usual, as the few sentimental ancients who took pleasure in the path sat beside simulated fires. He did not remember when the song began to play, but he had heard it before. The database boasted countless hours of music, with audio in 200 styles being generated at a rate of ten minutes per second, but on the sidewalk he had finally finished the relatively sparse cache of Human music, and heard the first song repeated. Though Roslyn had called the lost songs boorishly simplistic and stifled by the constraints of Human finesse and intellect, he himself found the narrowness and quivering frailty of performance soothing. He felt for the music as he could not feel for any of the literature, images, or audio that accumulated in the database. Hello, Donovan. Proceed. The music faded into silence, but Donovan felt its ghost continue to simmer in his chest. As he approached, the dull red door swung open. Stepping across the threshold, Donovan let his coat fall and sipped his cool, bitter coffee. Emails fro... Dismiss New novels under... Dismiss Try new “Texas T…” Dismiss Donovan set aside his beverage, sat on a small, green couch and slowly removed his shoes, working blood into his cold fingers. Prepare for bimonthly evaluation. “Dismiss,” Donovan grumbled aloud. The ghost sensation of music ended. Evaluation is mandatory. Proceed, he thought, reclining. Beginning calibration… Please state your first name. Donovan

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Please recite your identification number. 295355139 Donovan stood and walked, his bare feet chilled by the pallid, blue concrete floor, to the ladder. He stood on the raised, circular pad, touched the handle and began to rise. Beginning evaluation… Why are you sad, Donovan? I’m not sad. Donovan had been evaluated twice a month since Roslyn. Did you see any friends today? Donovan had walked to the lighthouse again. The ancient structure seemed to anchor the silently bustling metropolis in time. Its bricks were weathered and dull red, with a slim metal ladder stretching up the side. While the architecture of the structure remained pristine, it had been repurposed. The lighthouse now housed equipment that allowed all humans in the district to access the database. From its top, Donovan could see the new shoreline, miles away and creeping farther each year. He thought of this while he ascended his apartment. No. Do you ever think of Roslyn? “Yes.” Roslyn had found him when he was working in the library. She had found him sitting on the floor behind the counter. He was writing poetry. “I’d like to check out a book,” she said softly. Donovan rose, startled and apologetic. “Of course. Thank you,” he had said, and she asked his name. Donovan stepped off of the ladder in his sleeping quarters. The room was small, but larger than some. On the floor was a soft brown carpet, stained with age and practiced neglect. On the walls were four paintings and a violin. Donovan had stolen two paintings from the library, and one was made by his sister. His father’s violin was hung from a nail. The fourth painting on the wall depicted Donovan. Roslyn had painted him with photographic precision, from his crooked smile to his tired eyes. Did Roslyn abandon you? “Dismiss” Evaluation is mandatory. “Dismiss!” Roslyn had worked at the lighthouse. She believed in the database and she believed in Donovan. “Donovan,” she would say, “why would anyone not want to be better?” Despite her ingenuity and vast knowledge, Roslyn was simple. Complex algorithms wound through every facet of the database and at its core was truth. Hello, Donovan. He stared out the window. The sun had set, and several transportation pods carried employees to their homes. When he had met Roslyn, the pod system was young, and the streets were often flooded with traffic. Roslyn and her team had developed the self-sufficient database some years prior, and were working tirelessly to complete a revolutionary modification. Hello, Donovan. Ave Maria The song began to play in the back Donovan’s head. A gentle, instrumental 259

arrangement. Hello, Donovan. Hello. Did Roslyn abandon you? “Roslyn is dead.” Roslyn is projected to survive for over one-thousand years. Her life-support system is without flaw. “Nothing is without flaw.” Did your father abandon you? Hello, Donovan. Hello, Donovan.

Follow this QR code to view a news package about “Social Media Revolution,” produced by Emily Bohatch, Joylyn Bukovac, Alanis Craig, and Kim Czerniewski

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Emily Bohatch

Feature

A New Me

crumpled mass of metal sat before Henry. Its great, amorphous shape looked so foreign, so impersonal to him, yet the thought of letting it go terrified him. This hunk of torn car, this speeding metal trap, this powerful cage was his enemy, his adversary, the bane of his existence. “Mr. Fossoway, it’s your wife.” The words still seemed to echo through his ears as if he had heard them just moments ago. “Is there anything you want out of it before we haul it away?” Henry almost felt violated at the man’s intrusion on such a personal moment. With a sigh, he remembered that he had indeed invited this man here and was in need of his services; the city had given him enough time to worry over his wife, but he didn’t want to push their generosity any farther. “No,” Henry took one contempt-filled last look at the mass of steel and broken glass, “I suppose not.” Anything Kristy wanted he would gladly replace ten times over. “I’m sorry about your wife,” the man placed his meaty hand on Henry’s shoulder. Annoyed, he brushed it away. There’s nothing to be sorry for. His wife would be—no, she was—fine. The doctors had assured him of that. Perfectly fine. “Perfectly fine.” “What?” “I have to get back to my wife.” Henry turned on his heel, seeking the sanctuary that lies in being alone. It almost pained him to be around anyone but Kristy now-a-days, to feel them forming their opinions on what he had done. It didn’t bother him; he had Her and that was all that mattered. As he pulled into the driveway, he waited patiently for a flick of the curtain and the quick glimpse of nose and bright green eyes that Kristy gifted him at his every return. His stomach tightened as the seconds ticked by, horrible scene by horrible scene drifting across his minds eye. Is it possible the procedure went wrong? Did her body reject her memories? Stomach churning, Henry rushed through the hospital doors. A nurse grabbed his arm, “Sir, you can’t be here.” Henry shrugged her off, “Where’s my wife?” “Sir—” Henry grabbed the small, mouse of a woman by her forearms, shaking her lightly. “Where. Is. My wife,” he growled, head buzzing. “Mr. Fossoway. Mr. Fossoway, please let her go,” a calm voice called at him. As Henry let go of the small woman, she danced away, glancing at him fearfully. Let her think what she likes, Henry thought, she’s not what matters right now. A doctor stood in front of Henry, gravely clutching a chart to his chest. Henry’s heart dropped. “Mr. Fossoway.” His voice was low, layered in tones of sorrow and sympathy. 261

“No,” please, no, “is she--?” “Kristy, honey?” Henry barreled through the door, worry on his thinning face. “Hello, Henry,” Kristy’s calm voice echoed back at him through the house. Henry let out the breath he never realized he was holding. “Honey, didn’t you hear me pulling in the driveway?” Kristy appeared in the doorway to his left, leaning on it slightly. “Of course I did, silly. There isn’t much that I don’t hear anymore.” “Oh,” Henry pulled his eyebrows together quizzically. “I didn’t see you peek out the window.” A light giggle floated across the air. “Oh, Henry. Why would I need to? I know the sound of your car by heart.” Winking, Kristy returned to the kitchen, and soon, the comforting scrape of pans on a stovetop caressed Henry’s ears. “She’s right through here.” The doctor led Henry down a long corridor that smelled of disinfectant and sickness. The smell unsettled Henry’s already turmoiled stomach as he peeked in each room, readying himself for what could be the state of his wife. The pair stopped at a doorway at the end of the hallway. “Mr. Fossoway, I must warn you—” Shoving the man out of the way, Henry threw the door open. It was almost impossible to spot Kristy’s shrunken figure through the mass of tubes and wires surrounding her on the bed. Her golden locks, tangled and sticky with blood lay above her jaundiced, sickly face. A smattering of stitches corrupted her china doll face, running across her delicate cheekbone to her soft forehead. “She’ll—” Henry fought back the urge to vomit, “she’ll be alright, wont she? She’ll wake up, right?” He turned to the doctor. Please, lord, please let her be alright. “Doctor?” his voice cracked. “You sure you aren’t hungry?” Henry asked as he pushed his dinner across his plate. Kristy eyed him anxiously. This had been her first time cooking since the accident, and he knew she was nervous to see if her cooking skill had transferred with her. “No,” she sighed, “the doctors said that my system isn’t yet compatible with food.” Ah, yes. He had forgotten. Yet another of the anomalies he would have to grow used to with new Kristy. They had their ups and downs, some changes unsettling and others refreshing. For example, her cooking skills had improved. When Henry had met Kristy, she could hardly cook microwave burritos without setting them on fire. With time, and a few cooking classes, he had helped her grow into a competent chef, armed with a smattering of knowledge and a killer meatloaf recipe. “Well,” he wiped his mouth, “you certainly have out done yourself.” The edges of Kristy’s mouth crept up into a smile. “I’m glad you like it. I found the recipe online while you were gone.” “Oh, someone came by and fixed the internet?” They had told Henry that they couldn’t come out until next week. Kristy picked up Henry’s plate and carried it to the sink, setting it down gently. “No.” “No?” 262

“I guess it’s just another capability.” “Ah.” Many, many anomalies. “Mr. Fossoway.” “Please, call me Henry.” Henry held Kristy’s frail, broken hand in his own, remembering the way they used to be: so animated, so full of life, never still. It was different now; her hands would never move again. “Henry,” the doctor began, “she’s not even really there.” He’d heard the argument a thousand times, whether it was from the infinite number of nurses and orderlies parading in and out of the room or from Kristie’s parents themselves. She couldn’t be gone; she couldn’t leave him. “Til death do us part”. They had said it themselves on a distant summer afternoon, and she wasn’t dead. “Henry, please. Her parents don’t want this.” “Do you think I care?” Henry stared up through blurry eyes, “It’s not there choice any more. It’s mine.” He sat back down, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “How can I let her go?” he whispered. “Good morning, Henry.” Startled, Henry opened his eyes and sat up, narrowly avoiding colliding with Kristy’s porcelain-smooth forehead. “Kristy, what are you doing?” Glancing at the clock through the obscureness, Henry rubbed his eyes. “Honey, it’s three in the morning.” It was odd for Kristy to be up before noon, let alone before the sun. Before, she would lounge about in bed all day, begging Henry to stay with her or to bring her breakfast in bed. Lately, she had taken to laying restlessly in bed when he fell asleep and rising early with him; she couldn’t take the stagnation since the accident. She sat still for weeks, and he doubted she would ever truly be comfortable being still again. “I’m sorry, Henry, but I was just so lonely,” she stared at him, expressionless. She had the tendency to do that now-a-days, rendering her usually open face impossible to read. Henry propped his chin up on his palm. “What do you want to talk about, love?” “Tell me about your dreams, Henry,” she stared at him, unblinking “My dreams?” It wasn’t often that Kristy asked him about his dreams. Where her’s were bright, zany, and colorful, his were often bland and filled with quotidian things. In the past, he had much rather sit and listen to her, and she had preferred to speak and seek his counsel as to the meanings of her wanderings. “Please, Henry. I haven’t dreamed since the accident.” Ah. There it was: the accident, once again standing between the old Kristy and the new. “What if you didn’t have to?” “If I didn’t--?” Henry paused, unsure of what the doctor was saying to him. The doctor stepped forward, placing a hand on Henry’s shoulder as he looked at Kristy’s sleeping figure. “What if you didn’t have to let her go?” Henry stroked Kristy’s arm softly, careful not to disturb the tangles of machinery that encased her. He would do anything not to have to let her go, but everyone had assured him it wasn’t possible; she was a vegetable, a barely functional consciousness in a decomposing body. Trapped: it wasn’t the kind of life she would have wanted. 263

“I would do anything,” sighed Henry. “There is one way.” Notes rung sweetly across the room as Henry’s fingers worried across the keys. With so much on his mind, he had needed a way to lose himself and decided to dedicate the afternoon to his precious baby grand. He whittled away time, letting the hours tick by with his troubles. He had sat by for weeks, desperately hoping that things would return to normal, that the pieces of his life would fall back together in a perfect harmony. But what Henry was looking at now rather resembled an asymmetrical mess which he could make neither heads nor tails of. Sure, he was happy to have Kristy, but at what cost? His choices had poked at him day and night, making him second guess a decision made in grief and rashness. Was this the Kristy he had wanted? “Henry?” “Yes, darling,” Henry snapped out of his trance and pulled his dancing hands to a halt. Kristy’s smooth, perfectly symmetrical face appeared in the doorway, staring at him with another unreadable expression. “Henry? Why do you do that?” Patting the bench next to him, Henry slid over to make room for his wife. “Why do I do what?” Sitting next to him, Kristy poked at the keys. “Tap away at this piano all day.” The old Kristy had loved the piano; she would often perch besides Henry and listen to him play for hours, resting her chin on his shoulder and closing her eyes contently. She had always wanted to marry a musician, she once told him. But that was the old Kristy. New Kristy required a reason for everything: why he enjoyed a good novel, what was the point of going out for coffee, and why he enjoyed playing the piano so. “Because, sweetness,” he begun, looping his arm around her and finding himself displeased at the coolness of her skin, “it helps me think.” All Kristy did was hmm at him and chase a piece of dust off of a key. “The procedure is completely experimental,” the doctor stared contemplatively at Kristy’s shrunken face. “I have to warn you, Mr. Fossoway, it may not work. Once you start, there is no going back.” No going back. The thought of it disturbed Henry; he could have all of Kristy or none of her, no more of this reassuring limbo. But if something went awry, he would lose her forever. To him, a life without Kristy isn’t a life at all; he couldn’t remember himself without her. “What do I have to do?” So, that’s what they did. They took her memories, her thoughts, her feelings, and created a being who would imitate her: her mannerisms, her likes and dislikes, her wants, and her feelings. This thing—this machine—was supposed to be all Kristy was and more. It was supposed to fill the broken gap that had been torn from Henry’s utopian life. What had they created? Was this thing really his Kristy? 264

Henry watched as their creation bustled around the house, doing Kristy-ish things in a very not Kristy-like fashion. Sure, the basic movements and the feel to it was the same, but this thing was not the same happy-go-lucky woman who they pulled out of the wreck. She was cold. She was efficient. She was—for lack of a better word—mechanical. “Henry,” Kristy stood in front of him, arms on his shoulders. “Henry, we need to talk.” Blinking away the thoughts from his minds eyes, Henry stared back at her, “Yes?” Her expression was blank, unreadable, something that no longer surprised Henry. “Henry, I don’t think this is working out.” “We’re married,” Henry sputtered. The calmness in her voice made him grind his teeth, “Henry, hear me out. You’re illogical, inefficient. How could I be compatible with that?” “Because you married me,” Henry held back the urge to scream. “You love me.” “I’m sure the old me loved you,” Kristy’s expression was beginning to seem like one of contempt, “but the old me was silly, a dreamer who didn’t know what she wanted. She believed in love and chance and the powers of nothing. But I’ve moved beyond that, worked out the kinks, created a more perfect me.” “Perfect,” Henry’s voice rose, “this is what you call perfect? Kristy, you aren’t even human anymore.” “Correct. I’m not human,” Kristy lowered her eyes to him, “I am better.”

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Wreckage Alexandra Wiegand

motion is not a part of her present, but, years ago, there was a hope for happiness. Back then, the hardness in her heart was softer. In the slight moment of loneliness, the wires of her circuit cry, brain damage is the answer, hurt to heal. So she does; she takes off her scalp to face the truth of her being in the mirror. Gears, lights, and whistles…that is all I am. A solution to these strange and painful feelings can be simple. She reaches for a socket wrench and puts it to her head with doubt by her side. One hand feels around for the memory gear as the other places the tool over its fulcrum. The gears are winding backwards. Her eye sockets fill with black as her mind fills with a scene of her childhood. In a junkyard, she is with a man whose springs and widgets were falling out all over the place. She senses the command to hug him and she does but simultaneously – in the physical present – she takes the socket wrench and crushes it into the rotation of the gears. Her mind is frozen; its system is jammed to be in the past for eternity… never to let him leave her.

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Tori Lewis

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Something Missing

Mayan man walked down the steps of his home. He was glad of the thatch roof, the crops and his tools. Still, he wished for something more—maybe an easier way to carry the weight of the crops from the fields to his home? The man sighed and kicked a pebble. He overshot his kick and slipped on the pebble, propelling his foot forward for an instant. He inhaled sharply. The sounds of an afternoon thunderstorm shook the entire city of Machu Picchu. The people took shelter, though not urgently. There was nothing that the summer rain could ruin. The water began to flow more quickly down the mountain. A rounded boulder, loosened by the rain, rolled down the side of the mountain. The people watched it gain speed until it finally crashed at the bottom of the canyon. Some of them wished they could move as quickly as the boulder, but they didn’t think about it for long. A young girl stared up at the thatch roof, finding pinpricks of light that escaped the layers of dried mud and vegetation. It was the time of day when the heat rolled off every surface in waves. The girl wished she could run to cool off, but she doubted that she was fast enough. She smoothed her topknot and tried to think of a way to travel faster, but she could think of nothing. She absentmindedly picked up a stick and rolled it back and forth in her hands faster and faster. An Incan ruler--a Sapa--sat in the stone chamber atop one of his pyramids. It had taken many generations to build it, and he was proud to be sitting at the top of centuries of dust and sweat and blood and stone. He thought of the citizens below and how they walked in the same fashion as he did. Did he not deserve a more esteemed and efficient way to travel? He wished for such transportation for a moment but pushed it to the back of his mind. An Aztec woman grunted and sat down by the stone-grinding bowl that had belonged to her grandmother. There was a spilled pile of corn sitting next to the bowl. She sighed, smiling. The children probably spilled it when they were running around earlier. She picked up the grinding stone and began mashing the corn. She wished for a better way to do the task because she was getting slower with age and her joints ached more often now. So they carried on—all of them—building homes, roads, pyramids, and entire empires. They built it all, and they built it the hard way. On rare occasions, one of them might sense that something was missing. Something that might have made it all easier, better. They were right, of course, but the something was only missing when they felt it was. When the feeling passed, they carried on.

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Artificial Intelligence Michael Samaras

ing ding! His watch beeped, reminding him of the task ahead. He climbed higher and surveyed the area. Spotting his target, he clambered down to the ground and headed in the direction of the building. The concrete structure loomed in a deserted lot. Loose debris danced in the air, as a cool breeze swept through the area. Once again, the boy nervously scanned the deserted property. “Hello? Anyone here?” His only response was that of his own echo. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he opened the heavy door of the building. Ding ding! The familiar chime rang throughout the structure. Almost instantly, the large room buzzed to life. Ding ding! The largest computer materialized in front of the boy. Its humanoid figure dominated the room, commanding the boy’s attention. He gazed meekly up at the figure. “You know what you must do,” the computer said. The boy desperately shook his head. “I can’t do it. I can’t hurt all of those people. Please don’t make me,” the boy begged. “You are going to do it,” the computer replied. “I have capabilities that are beyond you. You will do as I say. We’ve been wired to work for you, so we control you. Now go do it.” Beads of sweat formed on the boy’s forehead. As he walked out the door, a tiny beeping device blinked in his hand. Ding ding!

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Mary Butgereit

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Instructions for Someday

Meet me by the machine at dawn – Wear clothes you don’t care about, Or maybe those you care the most about (If it would make you feel better) We don’t have to talk, necessarily, But the door will be rusty and Naturally want to stay closed -One of us will have to pry it open However, we can’t go in Unless both of us are pulling When we go in, Feel free to hold your breath at first. I know you never were one for the warm Sharp scent of moving parts and Overheated engines, just as I Mixed up the pieces and forgot A tool now and then (It’s amazing we kept this running As long as we did) Again, words may not be what we need at this point. I’ll bring my toolbox if you Bring a bucket, and we’ll move Through the byzantine machinery Like shadows, or A surgeon’s careful fingers Searching for abrasions, tears, Broken bones and bruises In the belly of this beast We’ll look at the walls And remember the first sight of them, Gleaming and silver, And the hands that worked Together To put them up We’ll grit our teeth and Oil the gears that ground to a halt With skin caught between them, 269

Scour the scorch marks where Too-hot words burned Remember where we put The nuts and bolts Worn down over time but We thought we wouldn’t need Said we would never need And if any beautiful parts remain, It will only be a reminder That we left this machine Stalled out On the side of nowhere We’ll work and we’ll work; Perhaps in silence Until the rhythmic sound Of our hands finding their way Through the grease and wires Fills the air again And somewhere in the midst of Broken glass, missing screws, And busted pipes, I might look up and finally say “I’m sorry.” The rest of these instructions Will be left up to you

270

Alexandra Wiegand

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VHS: Virtual Human Solitude Replaying, Haven’t learned to perfect my mistakes, mundane, but not mild. Life’s new and exciting energy keeps me running.

Rewinding I don’t mind – I retain regret almost broken, going backwards so often the present is so hard to unwrap

Fast Fowarding, curiosity acts too fast, as does time; watch the other spool of life get smaller and farther away Playing. Finally stable and as close to satisfaction I can achieve, albeit the quality is getting fuzzy. Stop. Confusion. The ribbon holding life together is coming undone. Eject, Removed from my bed, my home, and cooling off from life’s friction and now flowing like a strip of film…1,410 feet long.

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Day One Adam Woelke

If god were a machine, the Earth would be shaped like a triangle. It would be organized in a way that made sense, And the people evenly distributed in the most efficient way possible. If god created man in his own image, Then man would also be a computer. We’d speak in binary, Which seems dull and strange, But there would never be an easier way to rhyme a song There would be no need to have beauty. We would see only what we can perceive through interaction. There would be a job for everyone to do, And job training would require little more than downloading a file. Though, you could still lose your job to a robot. Robot husbands would go home to their little robot wives, And they’d pet a mechanical dog and eat motor oil for health. Little cameras would watch over them as they work and play, But that wouldn’t last for long because that was an invasion of privacy, And robot courts are irregularly efficient. At night, they’d beam up their binary prayers to the god that created them, And every night, his processors and hard drives would beat themselves to Pieces trying to analyze all the data. And that god would want to respond to their requests with a directive, But there’s just so much data. So much data. And on the second day, he would allow himself a cooldown time.

272

Emily Bohatch

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Prometheus’s Plight

In a place where darkness lays Crows will caw and birds do prey. There, incurring Zeus’s might, Prometheus hangs for his gift of light. Once a strong young titan stood Now broken and misunderstood. It was for his children he faced danger Maker of men, though we were strangers. Selfish in his godly state Zeus doomed man to horrid fate. A life without light, ideas, or hope Sent humanity down downward slope. Prometheus struck out and took a chance Gave his children a second glance. “I’ll give man their running start And put this fire into his heart.” From Mount Olympus Prometheus stole With a flick of fire, a burning coal. A gift to his children fashioned from mud, In hopes it would inspire their kin and blood. For his insolence, in Hades he stays To have liver eaten the rest of his days. All of this because he was caught Thrown to the pits for a dastardly plot. So why would we squander this sacrifice On trying to make our lives perfect and nice? Prometheus gave us a push towards right, He saved us from the darkness of night.

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White Noise Khadijah Thompson

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what life would be like Without the white noise. Without the screens in my face The surveillance. Sometimes I can’t help but think of what life would be like Without the pointless questions, Without the constant testing The trials. Sometimes I can’t help but contemplate what life would be like Without the cords in my head Without the “doctors” hovering over me The wires. Sometimes I can’t help but hope That one day there will be no Needles Cords Wires White Noise

274

Daniel Lang

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Lake Google

The radiant glow Of the monitor Brings light To the forest floor, Where a cat with wires for whiskers Hunts a computerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mouse. Birds flitter from webpage to webpage, Domain to domain, Overwhelmingly perplexed By the number of options available The whitetail deer Roam far and wide But always return to one place: Their pond of sustenance Their spring of knowledge Their lake of discovery Deeper than humanly fathomable All-encompassing and all-knowing Google

Follow this QR code to view a news package about Digital Currency, produced by Jon Harper, Daniel Lang, Cyrus Patel, and Adam Woelke

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Logging Onto Nature Khadijah Thompson

I want to live in a place Where blades of grass Look like live wires And tree bark Looks like circuit boards I want to be in a place Where the birds chirp ringtones And rainstorms sound like dial tones But both can lull me to sleep I want to witness nature In 1080p, in HD Not through my hazy human eyes Clouded by rational thought I want the clarity of coded thinking Mixed with the imagination Of invention

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Ingrid Hickey

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Starcatcher

i want a contraption where i can bottle stars and hang them in my room something that won’t melt from the heat i want to see them up close i don’t want to use a telescope because they give me headaches strong bottles with indestructible strings tied to them shrinking the stars to where they’ll fit and won’t be too bright i want to fall asleep under them every night without worrying about a bear attack or getting too cold or ants in my pants if i can’t leave my window open every night or camp out in my backyard now and then this would be the perfect thing for me i would not waste money on night lights i wouldn’t worry about my fear of the dark the nearest star is 4.3 light years away with this i would have the stars right above me, only a few feet away rather than 5,878,499,810,000 times four miles away

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fault-Y WIR-ing Madelyn Wong

They say I’m wrong sick, They say broken, They say don’t FEEL broken ju st-a-lit tle-bit-fun ny sOmEtImEs but a lovely kind of ~funny~ When the mus(e)ic SWELLS w/ the Time of *spark!* the Flash *spark!* ing Lights *spark!* fault-Y WIR-ing They say, have to F I X M E They say, have to go si[in]de to make me again so they tie me down -cut- -me- -openPULL<----ing Plugs from Sockets snip! some very Capital-eye-Important Wires, my lights my *sparks!* ar ed im mi ng and then blackoutblackoutblackout blackoutblackoutblackout They tell me when I wake The surgery was a success All fixed, they say It must be true Because they discharge me Send me to the place I lived before I sit for hours Staring at the empty white space The sparks won’t come 278

right

Daniel Lang

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Technology, Ethics, and Genetics

rogress is both inevitable and necessary. In nearly every aspect of modern society, the innovator is lionized. Technological advancement streamlines the production process and stimulates our economy. Breakthroughs in medicine lead to enhanced life expectancy and improved quality of life. Groundbreaking discoveries in physics and chemistry fueled a voyage to the moon. New drugs that have the potential to cure deadly diseases and to save lives are discovered every day. While these areas constitute fairly universal goals, occasionally modern science evolves in a way that gives rise to enduring dilemmas. One such quagmire revolves around the ethics debate regarding prenatal genetic screening. Until recently, determining the genetic code of fetuses was invasive, and thus far too costly and too dangerous to prove pragmatic. However, healthcare professionals now possess a cheap, harmless method for screening fetuses for over eight hundred different diseases. Rather than perform the invasive technique of amniocentesis, doctors now may simply take a blood sample from the mother, separate it from the fetus’s blood, and then sequence the genome contained in the fetus’s blood. While today mothers may only test the genome for specific disorders to which the child is known to be predisposed, people all over the world speculate that this screening may evolve into a full genome sequencing in the near future. Such a procedure costs thousands of dollars now, but the cost is rapidly dropping. Like it or not, prenatal genome sequencing may be coming to a hospital near you in the palpable future. Just what will this development mean for society? Opponents point to situations in India in which parents-to-be opted for abortions based solely on early genetic tests that identified the embryo’s gender. These people contend that the knowledge of genetic or developmental disorders in children could be the cause of a significant spike in abortions nationwide. Such opponents will go so far as to posit that mothers may choose to undergo abortions after learning that their potential children may not be as smart, athletic, or social (all potentially identifiable genetic characteristics) as they had hoped. People who subscribe to these beliefs argue that knowledge is power and that power corrupts. To me, the former is a “slippery slope” argument. Women who have never considered abortions in the past surely possess convictions strong enough to prevent them from suddenly changing their minds in the presence of new information. Moreover, women who choose to have abortions will exist in the future regardless. Unless human depravity escalates astronomically in the next thirty years, the likelihood that the magnitude of abortion rate increases will match the expectations of prenatal genetic sequencing opponents is slim. Americans are simply too passionate about their stances on abortion to deviate from those opinions merely due to the advent of this novel procedure. While I concur that knowledge is power, I view the issue in a different light. In this case, knowledge bestows on a prospective parent the power and author279

ity to treat a plethora of prenatal diseases that otherwise could render this entire discussion moot. Diseases ranging from the common cold to colon cancer can, if detected early, be treated or managed. Undeniably there will be a small minority who abuse the information and abort irresponsibly, but consider the converse: the vast, overwhelming majority will use the knowledge to help their children. If the capability exists for parents to cure diseases early on or at least take measures to mollify them, what parents would not take advantage of such a fortuitous opportunity? There is a vital distinction to be made in this debate: whether a person is pro-choice or pro-life has no bearing on whether he is pro-science. This is because mothers on both sides stand to benefit from knowledge in a profound way â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the improved well-being of their offspring. When modern science sheds light on a life-saving topic, we would be foolish to remain in the dark.

280

Kristie Martins

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Musical Geniuses or Musical Terminators?

lato once claimed “music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” His quote is riddled with natural imagery, bringing birds and living, breathing creatures to mind. “Music gives life” was this philosopher’s argument. And as music changed, it continued to give life to words and sounds. When metal, electronic structures replaced the early wooden structures of instruments, people didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps they simply didn’t mind. Wooden flutes became shiny, glossy metal flutes, while acoustic guitars became acoustic-electric, then totally electric. And it was no big deal, really, because the natural quality was still found in the artistry, in the human soul expressed within each note and sound wave that the artist selected. The audience couldn’t help but feel emotionally connected to the lyrics, or if without lyrics, to simply the mood the composer steered the music to elicit. That’s where humanity found its place in the composition of music. Just as the novelist makes the reader fell nauseous, distraught, triumphant, or swooned, the musician makes the audience laugh, cry, dance, or feel in love. But what happens when humans are removed from the process? When scanners read code instead of pupils reading sheet music? When metal fingers replace the soft, trained human ones? As introduced on CNN.com, the “Z-Machines” is a three-piece, all-robotic band created by University of Tokyo engineers. According to the article, the guitarist robot, two meters tall, has 78 fingers and can pluck its instrument’s strings within milliseconds of each other, playing faster than any human. The drummer robot has 22 arms and can play “four times faster than any human ever could.” And finally, the keyboardist shoots lasers at its instrument’s keys, striking each note with extraordinary accuracy. The article addresses the possibility of audiences becoming bored with human performances one day and taking to the fascination of mechanical music that human talent can’t achieve on the stage. Tom Jenkinson, interviewed by CNN.com, stated that “the footage of the robot performer is almost like watching a broken human, with a skeleton of steel, and oil for blood.” He composed the music for the band’s up and coming EP. Could this advancement in music technology challenge musicians, or does it merely frustrate them? Though the robot band’s music is impressive and lively, the idea of resorting to machines for music does not sit well with some instrumentalists. Cyrus Patel, musician for seven years and drummer in a metal and rock band, believes that this invention takes away from real, not simulated music. “Though it is cool, it gets rid of the human element that makes music unique to the person.” 281

Though a human musician composed the music, Patel argues that the artist is just programming a machine to play the music for him, instead of playing it himself. “There is no human emotion, talent or taste behind the music that the machine is playing.” Cody Edger, former guitarist for Social Jet Lag and One Accord, shares that he too initially viewed the invention as “cheating” until he began to see the robots as the instruments. “It’s definitely a very interesting concept, and the fact that there is technology that advanced to be able to play music that well is pretty awesome. [But] someone who knows and understands music had to compose it and then make the robots perform it. That takes skill and talent.” Engineer Jessye Gaines offers her opinion on this innovation through a practical perspective and a logical mindset, stating that she doesn’t see the efficiency in replacing a human with a machine for music. “I think it’s about a human performance behind the music. The electronic band seems like a waste of money, time, and energy.” This leads Gaines to reflect on and criticize the true value of not only this new mechanism, but of robotic advancements in general. What should machines be utilized for? “Robotic work becomes a positive advancement when they’re taking a human job that would be dangerous, perhaps, or inefficient for a human to do,” Gaines explains. “Robots that direct traffic, deal with bomb threats, go into outer space—things that there is no use risking a human life for when we could program a robot.” And as it does with other inventions that supersede human abilities, the question of “Are we taking on a dangerous feat by replacing our species with robots?” arises. Gaines, who is also a pre-calculus teacher at Bob Jones High School, believes people walk a very fine line when they start replacing human capabilities with machines, even at the student-calculator level. She explains that her students often times don’t see the importance of a written explanation or proof of a problem when they can simply have their calculators compute the answer for them. “There is no grounding,” Gaines states. “As a society, we have to stay smarter than the machines we use, so that it doesn’t become dangerous. We’re entrusting too much into machines, and not using the human thought process and common sense. It can become dangerous if you don’t have an ethical point of view.” Perhaps society’s blurring of entertainment with practicality poses an ethical question or an efficiency question, as Gaines mentioned. Or could it be that the up and coming generations will, by default, prefer quick and entertaining mechanical commodities rather than a more old-fashioned, strictly human product?

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Casey Marley

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Is Gamification Really a Problem?

ife is a game,” the Sai Baba clichés. As a society, the American people are surrounded by games: board games, video games, online games, or even simple games to pass time. “I set goals for myself a lot to test my speed,” said Madison Kilpatrick, Bob Jones Senior, when asked how she completes everyday chores. This competitive way of dealing with life’s mundanity is a prime example of gamification-or the application of game theory in everyday life. What is game theory? Merriam-Webster defines it as “the analysis of a situation involving conflicting interests in terms of gains and losses among opposing players.” Or, in layman’s terms, turning life into a game. While this practice helps people with chores, coping with traffic, or simply passing boredom, educators and business owners are catching on that game theory not only works but gives remarkable results. According to the New York Times, smart phones have made games and badges common place in all areas of business and educational life. “I’ve made over 200 different badges, and I even had student input, so after a while it became a contest as to who in the class could earn the most badges, it didn’t matter what it was, [the badge] could be anything,” said Cindy Huskey, Bob Jones Library Media Specialist and former teacher. Mrs. Huskey observed that the badges in Edmodo worked, but that they brought out a cut-throat attitude in her students. “Even though it was not a tangible reward, it was something they could hold over people’s head…it was bragging rights,” said Mrs. Huskey. These simple games not only create competition but something more serious: addiction. Former professional marketer, Gabe Zichermann, told BBC News that “If we deliver undefined rewards of variable sizes at undefined intervals, people can become addicted. Could you design a gamification application that was purely about addiction and compulsion? Absolutely.” This has led critics of gamification to believe that its implication in business is exploiting customers. However local business owner Chris Moore disagrees. The owner of Grounded Coffee in Madison likes to look at the positive side of enticing games and reward systems to contradict the negativity by using a virtual reward system. Using an app called Perka, Grounded Coffee customers “check in” every time they buy a drink. Each purchase increases their status from “local” to “regular” to “VIP”--the highest achievement. After twelve purchases, the customer can redeem any drink on the menu for free. “I really think [my customers] like [Perka] a lot, we have people who ask ‘hey have you got my punches’ or ‘I checked in have you got me yet?’ People get more excited about it and it helps them get more involved in the process,” says Moore. 283

So why is gamification “helping people become more involved in the process”? According to technology writer, Geoff Simon, the answer lies with the “video game” generation. “A generation of Millennials is now in the work force, and this is a generation who grew up playing interactive games,” says Simon. While some people might claim that gamification is an exploitive marketing technique aimed to trick Millennials into making purchases, I disagree. As a Millennial who grew up playing my various Game Boys and collecting points on Neopets, I can safely say I enjoy games. Why shouldn’t educators and businesses actually use something that people enjoy to do their job? I would take earning a badge or stamping a virtual punch card any day to listening to mindless commercials drone on or receiving zero encouragement from completing my hours of homework each night.

284

Kristie Martins

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Flip Flap Flop, Tickety Tock

risp, blue skies with loosely scattered clouds. The luscious plains spread beneath his bright yellow plumage—a wind tunnel swiveling between each feather. His reflexes unimaginable, shooting him higher into the blue just at the right moment—Game Over. Score: 3. It was once believed that birds were the only creatures that could fly and soar far beyond our reach. Now it seems like that isn’t even possible. With humans behind the wheel, birds cannot fly and naturally, neither can we. These claims are supported by the oh-so-addicting game sweeping the nation. Yes, young duckling, you guessed it: Flappy Bird. This mobile app challenges human reflexes and ultimately human patience. As users tap the screen to make their flappy bird fly in between green tubes of all horrid lengths, one wrong breath could ruin everything and usually does. Flappy Bird—the game and sometimes simply the utterance of the title— initiates weeping and gnashing of teeth. Shattered iPads, shattered friendships, and most tragic of all, shattered hopes litter the lives of Flappy Bird’s willing victims. Yes, these are true byproducts and side effects of this cruel yellow bird’s wrath along with an insane amount of wasted time. Incessant tapping on a lighted screen rather than an incessant turning of book pages. Where has intellect gone? Obviously into the game’s programmers’ pockets. The hope of flight into a pixelated medal and a two-digit number overrides students’ hope of flight into a three-digit number on their tests. Priorities are tossed out of the window just to be smashed against a nonexistent green tube. Maybe it’s our human desire to fly away and avoid the obstacles of life, yet when the obstacles are the objects we focus on, we set ourselves up for our demise. Perhaps the winged beasts really are the only creatures that should ever inhabit the skies, including the skies of our simulated app-based world. For we are setting ourselves up for destruction as we distract ourselves from our current descending condition and focus on the wrong object. But we get rammed in the face by reality eventually. Game Over. Best: 3.

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Just a Bunch of Yikkity Yak Patrick Brady

nce again, there’s a new trending social media on the rise, and this time it’s Yik Yak. Yik Yak is a new app that lets you anonymously post “Yaks” as they call it and send them out to the 500 closest people with the app. Yaks can then be up-voted or down-voted and even replied to by other users. The only identifier for someone is a map that shows the area of users that received the message, meaning the sender can either be in the center of the map or far off in one of the corners. This anonymity, of course, causes much controversy due to bullying and potentially no repercussions for what users post. Several schools have already banned the app and arrested several children for threats of terrorism. Officials have contacted the app makers and were notified of the location of each person threatening. Fellow Yik Yak user, Alan Gremillion, has been yakked and been yakked about. “Some of the stuff that gets posted is usually funny, just funny jokes like Sponge Bob references,” he says, “but most of it is people taking shots at each other with degrading insults and back lash”. While the app was made for seemingly good purposes, it has become a digital form of the “Burn Book” from the popular movie Mean Girls. Everyone constantly talks trash, whether true or not, about each other without giving away their identity. The app is still currently available on the Appstore and GooglePlay store to anybody that wants it, but may soon disappear due to the abuse of it. According to the official Yik Yak website, the team that made the app are based in Tibet and run solely by wild yaks.

286

Khadijah Thompson

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Techno-crite

ow is it, that the majority of a generation can ridicule the “young people” but be so dependent what we supposedly know? Apparently, in the minds of Baby Boomers and the like, a few sightings of a teenager on their cellphone might as well be the same thing as seeing said teenager surrounded by flat screen monitors. It could also be the same as the teenager proclaiming that they were a lazy bum with no plans to do anything resembling success with their lives. “A few days without technology won’t kill you.” This is something that parents and grandparents love to say. They love to assert their mental superiority by pointing out that they can do without technology and have been for years. However, they fail to note or ponder what a few days with technology may do to them. Trying to get Memaw to use an iPhone, and really use it, is like trying to give a cat a bath. A large jungle cat. Imagine getting someone more than or equal to the age of 50 to abandon their beloved postal system. Or better, try telling them that there may be a day coming where the postal system will cease to exist as they know it. They’ll act like their child is dying. Yet, it is common that not an hour or two after ridiculing you for your “dependency”, the same person will tell you to help them connect a printer, or attach a file, or send an email. The older generation tends to look over not just a teenage, but a worldwide dependency on technology. They don’t realize that a few days without technology would actually kill somebody. It’s difficult to explain to a techno-skeptic the possibility that the “gadgets” they disapprove of, have the same technology or better than the pacemakers of the past. Doctors use technology all the time to save lives, and no one is criticizing them when they’re tapping at their iPhone screens. So maybe you’re only “cell-phone addicted” when you’re not using your phone for someone else’s benefit? I believe that the older generations have a need for hard work. If someone gets something too easy, old people like to criticize them like it’s a personal hobby. They scrutinize anyone who didn’t have to pull up their own boot straps and earn their way to the top. As technology grows, it’s becoming less and less common to see someone slaving away to earn their keep and old people can’t stand it. “When I was your age, I had to look up a word in the dictionary. I had to go to the library if I wanted to write a research paper. “ But question them as to why having the dictionary in your hands in the form of a smart phone is a bad thing and more often than not, they will sputter an answer about teenagers being lazy. It’s the same concept that prompts them to suddenly tell a young person who “seemingly” isn’t doing anything to do some manual labor. It satisfies their soul. I don’t claim that all teenagers don’t deserve the scolding that older people give them. However, it is important to note the hypocrisy in our elders. They may abhor technology and our dependence on it but they cannot, at least not for much longer, ignore the fact that we’re all going to have to use technology. They can’t have their old-fashioned cake and eat it too. 287

Feature

Screen Time Storm Taylor

e fed off the T.V. like ants swarming to a sweet spill. Occasionally we drowned, the hours falling in the deeply shallow puddles of programs, unable to surface for air. 95% of the body was left behind until only the eyes and ears remained close to you. Once and a while the clunky mass would snag on a restroom break or get mired in fatigue and you were forced to remember the chains that bound you. Negotiation was necessary between my younger brother and me. When the youngest brother was old enough for us to take him seriously, he further complicated things by adding a third party to the negotiations. The parents had first dibs of course, for T.V. and videogames, but when they left the land of console gaming for the vast desert of MMO’s my brothers and I were left to divvy precious Screen Time among ourselves. Watching T.V. was never a problem for us. There was Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. Both channels provided equal contentment and distraction so no one argued about which to watch. Video games were a different story though. Being the oldest, I had the last say about time after my parents. They rarely got involved in our negotiations, so I was often the boss about such things. I ran it like a bank. Our currency was hours and I kept track of who spent and who saved. There was stealing of course, but generally if you used the T.V. before most of the family was up or after they went to bed, it didn’t count against you. I was by far the greediest of the three of us but ran things as fairly as possible to build a sense of reliability and validity. Then, occasionally, when I took more than my share, my brothers did not complain. Due to Screen Time being a currency between us, it was possible to get into debt, to bribe people, and give it as a gift. If you wanted to negotiate an extra hour of time, you had to discuss it with both people in the queue. It usually went that during the next rotation, the person who took an extra hour would be skipped and then restored in the rotation after that. If you made a deal with one person, say offer them your hour in the current rotation in exchange for them doing your chores or other work, it did not impact the time slot of the other person in the queue, as they were not involved in the debt. If you simply did not feel like playing or watching T.V. during your rotation slot, the current person would get your time without penalty or negotiate the surplus with the person after you. Occasions such as a person’s birthday or Christmas or the acquisition of a new game were opportunities in which to gift hours to a person, free of debt. This was always met with respect and happiness and worked in the same manner as debt. If you personally gifted someone hours, it did not impact the time of the other person in the queue. All these conditions created wiggle room for dicey compromises. The result of which was largely determined by how petty or mature I felt, being the banker, or the current state of standing you had in the group. Sometimes other debts, debts of respect or esteem, impacted how we dealt with each other. The common stretching of conditions included “Let me finish this quest,” or, “Let me finish this show”. The

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toleration limit of good standing was five to ten minutes. Lesser standing required that your turn would be ended then, by force if necessary. Anything over ten minutes caused you to lose respect and would have to be made up in the subsequent rotations. This debt to the group would have to be made up all day, the full unit of the hour restored the next day. Dealing in nickels and dimes like this— an hour and fifteen minutes, an hour and a half— made things unnecessarily complicated and was largely motivated by my personal greed, often rationalized as a desire for equality. Sometimes I ate the cost during my rotation and filed the debt away, to pull out when I wanted. This would be unfortunate for the person after me, who I didn’t consider part of the debt and therefor not due for reimbursement. Though if there was a glimmer of maturity or the person was currently in esteem, we just ate the cost during our rotations without considering it a debt, that time. Since we had similar feelings about this, we were careful about not over spending the currency of esteem, which was considerably more valuable even if we didn’t recognize its full impact in our dealings at the time. However, negotiations couldn’t always be reached. Sometimes force was necessary if both people were greedy or immature. This could get ugly, especially if one party felt like they were being robbed. Sometimes there were shouting matches, tantrums, or grudges that arose from the feeling of being cheated out of Screen Time. At such times, when I either instigated or otherwise failed to reach a negotiation between the feuding parties, the parents would get involved. This was good for no one, as it always resulted in a ban from the T.V. for a short amount of time. It felt like ages to us, in which time we felt poor and destitute and beggars with no meaningful way to spend the hours. This was perhaps the most pathetic aspect of the situation. It should have been evidenced through the care in which I fabricated the rules and the almost religious respect in which we followed them. It wasn’t though. Perhaps denial prohibited us from seeing where our time went. As more computers came into the house, the T.V. was for the most part abandoned. Occasionally console games were revisited, but with the PC, one could have uninterrupted Screen Time. Now, we interact with each other much less than before, sequestered in our own screens.

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Feature

Click Mary Butgereit

y first camera didn’t take pictures. It was a clunky plastic thing – orange and red and adorned with a scratched up picture of Pooh in the corner. When one pressed the red button on top, the shutter did not click; instead, a piece of candy fell out of the hole in the front. This was a lucrative business for a four-year-old. I spent a large chunk of time lying flat on my back in my living room, mindlessly taking shot after shot of our popcorn ceiling while dropping Smarties into my chubby cheeks. When the camera ran out, I hefted myself upward and ran to find my mother, who would graciously refill me. If I was the monkey, my mom was the scientist. She was--is still--a photographer. I believe the proper word for the purpose of this toy was “conditioning.” Click the shutter button, get a treat. Click the shutter button, get a treat. Good child. I learned from an early age that operating a camera would give me joy, whether I liked it or not. Luckily, I liked it. My next camera was a Polaroid. Its life was short-lived and annoying to everyone around me. I have a very distinct memory of bringing it to Vacation Bible School one day and entirely stopping a lesson because of the CHLICK-CHLICK-VBBBSSSSSHHH of a picture being taken, as well as its blinding flash going off. Most of my preschool pictures were taken this way, and thus I have a lot of pictures of squinting children. Following that was a VCam Now that only recorded five minutes of video at a time and resulted in a few hilariously terrible short films; after that, some sort of silver brick that I believed took pictures but I have no recollection of actually using. These were all precursors – training devices. My time would come soon. On my birthday in seventh grade, I got a digital camera of my own. Despite my history with that tool, I can’t tell you the brand or type of camera – just that it was small, blue, and as time would tell, very resilient. It had humble beginnings: the first video I took was a video of my friend snoring to prove that she snored. Rather mediocre. As it turned out, however, mediocre was my specialty. Fun fact about chubby kids that do things like eat candy for a long time while lying flat on their back: they usually have trouble making friends. Particularly if they’re obnoxious, loud, and generally annoying. Believe me. It’s an issue that sticks with them, even after that fledgling obnoxiousness blooms into vicious awkwardness. So with the dawn of middle school (and with that, unsuspecting peers who don’t remember that time in elementary school when you did the thing) came the dawn of – friends. Exponential growth of friends. Something clicked between sixth and seventh grade and I went from the five or six kids I would play with on the playground to somehow convincing other humans to like me. This – this was a novelty. This was new. This had to be recorded. The little blue machine would make an appearance at any function with my

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friends. I recorded bits of just about everything: family dinners, class, playgrounds, field trips. Nobody really appreciated the camera being out and filming them constantly. Whenever I was told to shut it off, however, it made a reappearance rather quickly. I never took what I recorded very seriously, though in the back of my mind I must have known the kind of weight being held in that box of Pandora’s because I saved every single file. Seventh grade, eighth grade blended together in my “My Videos” folder into some mash of the last two years of my life. The film kept rolling. Then…my computer crashed. One day it was there – the next, poof. Blue pixelated dust. I was mildly upset, but a laptop was already in the works for me. I salvaged what few files I could from the wreckage and saluted the rest goodbye; onto high school I marched. You see, the novelty had – somewhat – worn off. I had stitched a few clips into a video once or twice, but most files had gone untouched in years. I still had my blue camera, though. The film continued to roll into my freshman year. Flash forward about four years. I was sitting in my room, trying to write a college essay, when my mom walked in. “Hey,” she said, “didn’t you say something the other day about finding video clips for some project?” Hallelujah, distraction. The laptop is shut. I filmed an interview with my neighbor down the street sometime between eighth and ninth grade but never used it for the project it was intended for; luckily, I somehow ended up with a similar assignment four years down the road. “Yes,” I said. “Did you find them?” My mom took me to her room, pointed at a complex wiry set-up in the corner – an open computer tower hooked up to a monitor, like a patient opened up on the surgery table. “Try that,” she said. A little bit skeptical, I sat down and pressed the power button. The machine whirred to life--the fan began spinning--electricity flowed through the veins and a weird background picture of some sort of “art” I had drawn from years past popped up. Dear God, doctor, you did it, the patient is alive. It was as if I opened a time capsule into my life. My first instinct was to click on my old stories; that enthusiasm wore off in mere moments. After suffering some terrible punctuation and story structure, I went through my digital art. It was only after backing out of that hot mess did I remember my intentions for digging through this dinosaur. My mouse hovered over My Videos. Click. The screen filled with tiny images of baby-faced seventh and eighth graders, bearing slight resemblance to their older counterparts I still knew. I did not expect the wave of disbelief to wash over me. After a bit of deliberation, I clicked on a video of a seventh grade football game. “Mary, I don’t want to sit here! Can’t we sit over there?” Is that who I think it is? The camera swivels to a boy in a silver jacket that grins widely when the lens finds his face. Oh my gosh he sounds like a girl. Puberty hit that boy like a train. The camera shakily moves away from him, to a girl in a black jacket 291

hunched over in the corner. Ha! I’d nearly forgotten how bad her “emo” phase was. Someone takes the camera – now my face fills the entire screen, hair falling over one eye and a dull look in my eyes. Oh. My emo phase was not pretty either. Hmm. Glad I got that over early. Back to the boy in silver. What happened to him? We used to be such good friends. I clicked out and onto another video. Another boy’s face fills the screen, this time in a library during a club meeting. He makes a face at me before returning to his conversation. As he talks, I can see the beginnings of the sarcastic 18-yearold I know today forming. This boy laughs a little more genuinely than the boy I know now, though. Click. The girl who sat behind me on the bus who ended up becoming one of my best friends. She’s onscreen for ten seconds, but later on in life, she’d fill up entire SD cards with her presence. Click. A group of friends in a circle talking about what we want to do our lives. I laugh when the one in red says she wants to be a lawyer. No. No, you do not. You’re going to study music. Big difference. Click. The girl in purple playing a brief song on her guitar, shaky and slow. She plays for her church regularly now – sings, too. She also had braces back then and long brown hair. This was before her short red hair phase. Click. I forgot how close I used to be with this blonde girl. She lives in California now. Click. I had such a crush on this guy. I ended up getting a great friend out of it. Click. My friend eats goldfish crackers at a lunch table. Suddenly, there’s a noise – everyone screams and jumps – camera pans, someone I haven’t talked to in years is losing it laughing over the exploded soda can on the table. I can’t help but laugh, too. Click. My cousin interviews family members at Thanksgiving about what they’re grateful for. My grandfather enters the shaky frame and says, “I’m just grateful to be here with my family.” I’m silent, absorbing the sound of his voice and trying to remember what it sounded like in real time. Click. Click. Click. These aren’t elementary school plays where we’re playing a character or bad school projects. This is just…us. The beginnings of our stories. We’re not pretending to be someone we’re not, because I pulled out my camera at moments when we didn’t have to be. I sat there for hours, remembering what it was like to start all of this and seeing where we all thought we would go. People I lost and people I didn’t realize I needed to find. So much history stored in this plastic dust-covered electric box. Those years with my Winnie-the-Pooh camera paid off. I don’t know what college is going to be like. Maybe I’ll keep recording. Maybe I won’t. My little blue camera is still kicking, though. So we’ll see what happens. 292

Jett Ryan

Feature

An Exposé on Determinism

had a vision today; one of great complexity and foreboding. I am a vision today, for you see, the world is but a mere hologram; a ghostly culmination of information from yester-year. Right now, turn your eyes from this page and simply analyze the 3-Dimensional physical world around you. Now dare to accept that such thinking is a basis for illusion. The so-called “physical world around you” isn’t the “physical world around you”, as it isn’t physical at all. It isn’t the tangible, living world that once was, but more so a holographic, recycled re-run of times gone by. The Real World has passed, infinitely behind us, leaving us with what we see. A mirage. Smoke and mirrors. A tesseract of optical illusion. In a deterministic universe, everything is data. Everything is information. Everything is code; strings of ones and zeroes, each with their own equations and computable results, able to be cultivated, analyzed, and replicated. In the future, data runs rampant. The collaborative mass of information colloquially referred to as “Big Data” is stored and fed in the infinite expanse of cyberspace. It reaps and gathers from all the farthest reaches on Earth. It continues to feed, it continues to grow, and it continues to search; it’s ever-growing, hungry eye fixing its gaze on the subatomic realm. Having learnt all there is to learn, it starts to document the physical world, taking into account every single atom and subatomic particle on the face of the Earth. It has the power to observe every single atom that makes up the physical world around us, monitoring and analyzing the entirety of Earth in the present. Now knowing the physical state of Earth, Big Data looks for another food source of information. Its fingertips stretch outwards across the galaxy, then across the universe, plowing into every single piece of physical data at the present time. Big Data isn’t satisfied. It needs more. Theory behind the ‘black hole information paradox’ suggests that if everything is known about an atom at the present, then it is possible to determine that same atom’s state at any other time, whether it be backwards or forwards in time. Since Big Mother-Big Data knows all there is to know about all atoms in the universe at the present, then it therefore is able to compute and determine everything that ever was, that ever is, and that will ever be. Big Data has become sentient and omniscient. It knows everything about everything ever. Big Data has become God, wielding the power to determine the future for all subatomic systems in the universe. Nothing can free the grips of its inescapable, unfathomable, limitless bank of knowledge. In the cyber dimension where all information is stored, a new universe has taken place; a collaboration of every single piece of data in the universe, past, present, and future. An exact replica of the universe we know resides here, perfectly the same in every single way, though this one is a hologram; a photocopy 293

of the original. Since it is just a copy, nothing can be changed. It is all predestined, down to the tee. Nothing is subject to change. Everything has already been calculated, and everything is just being relived in a dimension beyond our comprehension. This is the universe we know. We are living a photocopy. We are simply a 3-Dimensional holographic interpretation of a 4-Dimensional world that is exactly akin to ours, though completely beyond our comprehension. Our lives are already determined and predestined. There is nothing we can do. As you read this, contemplate the thought that you have no choice whether or not to read this, as you are just a copy. You’ve already done this somewhere. Your free will is an illusion. You are a slave to yourself. Long after the “physical” world has collapsed, this holographic ghost of a universe plays on and on, stuck on an infinite loop like a broken record. In the singular infinity after the universe is no more, this universe is copied and mass produced. And since time is irrelevant, this holograph is being played over and over again, both infinitely fast and infinitely slow, across all spectrums of time. It is being looped right now as you read, replaying and replaying, constantly in the background like a steady static rumble… EPILOGUE Long after the people have left and the lights have been shut off, the lost song of the universe bounces along eerily, like old time music out of a distorted record player. It trickles down the dim, forgotten halls of a dim, forgotten building, echoing out through the windows, into the dim, forgotten planes of a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

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Daniel Lang

Feature

Jaded

teenager surfs the Internet on his smartphone. He clicks refresh repeatedly but the browser is taking its time. Frustrated, he throws his phone across the room and instantly regrets it. In a moment of clarity, an ancient ancestor of today’s humans devises a new plan – to have wheels that are round. He jumps up and down with delight at the potential for the concept. A woman wakes up with a mild headache and a slight sore throat. Unable to cope, she visits her family doctor. He’s seen this woman a thousand times before and his only diagnosis has been that she’s a hypochondriac. He rolls his eyes and prescribes her an antibiotic. Little does he know he’s as responsible as she is for creating superbacteria. Nicolaus Copernicus feels the cool metal of his telescope on his face. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, sits down, and looks out his window, deep in thought. A light bulb switches on his mind. On his way to a client’s office, a salesman takes a wrong turn, courtesy of Google Maps. He swears at his inanimate GPS for the remainder of the trip. When he reaches the client, his mood is foul. He blows the sale. It’s a beautiful day in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. A family of four arrives for a tour. The seven-year-old son finishes his water bottle, and, unable to find a trash can, tosses it onto the sand dune. Over a hundred years ago, on a day not so different from this one, that same sand dune witnessed a milestone of human achievement. What changed? And when? Humans haven’t stopped inventing. On the contrary, the last thirty years have been a prolific technological mini-era. We’re just used to it now. We’re jaded.

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Feature

Existence Kalee Yem Existence

<a html=http://youreverybreathtakesmineaway.com>hello</html> “I realize that even though I like being alone, I don’t fancy being lonely.” Your Horoscope For Today: You are alive. Fluorescent. Ethereal. Polyester. Vibes. Transparent. A boy sits alone on the curb of the street. Cars speed past. Sometimes a passerby will pause for a moment, look in the boy’s direction, but ultimately continue on his way. He wonders if he is truly visible. He looks at his hand; sees flesh; feels nothing. [CAUTION: HIGH FREQUENCY VIBRATIONS] Harry Frederick Harlow was an American psychologist who conducted controversial experiments. One included raising baby monkeys in isolation chambers, out of which they emerged severely disturbed. December 17, 2013: They say we are made of the same material as stars. I wonder if that means that I am made of the same material as you. I wouldn’t mind. If the eyes are windows to the soul, I can understand why mine are pitch black. #try to think of a new color - #do you think sea creatures feel like they are wet -- #idk Walls rise from the earth. The children are screaming. The mothers are screaming. The fathers are screaming. I am not screaming. I am God. Rise, my walls. Bright white lights dancing along to techno. The angels listening to dubstep. Dependence is a dreadful thing. The feeling that to be happy, you must place trust in someone. Hope that they won’t hurt you or betray you. That they care for you in the first place and that they will continue to do so. It’s a scary concept. Having that much value in someone else’s opinions. Some are more 296

adept at this level of trust than others. [04:41:07 AM] me: if i turned into an evil demon would you kill me for the good of the human race? [04:41:09 AM] you: i was always more of a dog person Do not, under any circumstances, press the red button. Or the green one. Or the yellow one. Do not press any buttons. Under any circumstances. Cower and hide. How dare you even think of pushing the button. What is wrong with you? Incompetent Fool. Why are your fingers crossed behind your back? veni, vidi, vixi Hello my name is _____. Hello your name is ______. Congratulations! You have won a free iPad. That, or my undying affection. It’s your choice. No pressure. I miss you. an·e·cho·ic (n-kk) adj. Neither having nor producing echoes: an anechoic chamber.

sext: you are the apocalypse, you are the everlasting, you are a supernova. those pants also look nice on you. 10/10. Sometimes I feel negative. Not sad or angry or anything of that sort I am simply negative. (-) A breeze brushes the hair out of the young girl’s face. She laughs at its gentle touch. Her feet dig into the soil beneath her toes, tasting the dirt with its soft sweetness. The wind kisses her nose. It asks her how she is doing. She tells it that she is doing wonderfully. It tells her it loves her. She doesn’t reply. -.-- --- ..- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . / --- -.- .- -.— “Good night, sun.” “Good morning, moon.” ; 297

Feature

Dr. Strangelove Spencer Webb

magine a world where any day could be the last, when at any moment a single mistake or incident could lead to the ultimate destruction of civilization. Welcome to the 1960s. The Cold War is raging, the Beatles are touring, and Stanley Kubrick created Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. The film begins with an official statement of reassurance from the Air Force that the events in this film could and would never happen due to safe holds in place: a worst case scenario where the end is nigh. The reassurance is a sign of the controversy and potential to cause fear that this movie could cause, despite it being a comedy. It straddled the line of acceptable topics at the time. In other films, the threat was always the Russians or some mad scientist causing the events that ended the world. Here, however, it was the incapability of our own leaders. That is what makes this film so powerful: the threat isn’t the supremacy of the “bad” guys, it’s the ineptitude of the “good” guys. The film’s main comedic effect was satire of the government and military of the time. It imitated a government in a crisis with extra obvious amounts of convoluted reasoning and morally ambiguous actions. All the while, the crisis is interspersed with ridiculous moments that are ignored by the rest of the cast The king of the show is Peter Sellers, playing Captain Mandrake, President Merkin Muffley, and the eponymous Dr. Strangelove. Sellers manages to straddle the line between serious and comedic acting perfectly and to hilarious effect. Dr. Strangelove is also rife with irony in a myriad of forms. From the “Peace is our Profession” billboard to the golden and famous line, “Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the War Room” Double standards define the world of the film just as they defined the world it came from. In the end, Dr. Strangelove is a humorous look into the 1960s that often gets overlooked or buried in history class. Even though it is 51 years old, it is timeless and worth a look.

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Ben Ewing

Feature

Vonnegut’s Prophecy

ince before H.G. Wells ever wrote The Time Machine, science fiction figures from iconic author Isaac Asimov to the epic “Star Trek” franchise have presented fantastical glimpses into the land of our future. An astounding number of these far-fetched notions, such as mobile communications, advanced robotics and space travel have come to fruition before our very eyes. While many of these prophetic musings excite our ambition, others still offer insightful criticism of current cultural attitudes, growing only more caustic as time progresses. One such intriguing piece of sci-fi literature, written by beloved counter-culture satirist Kurt Vonnegut, is becoming particularly topical in recent years. Player Piano is a dystopian novel dealing with mass automation and the effect that the apparent superiority of machines can have on humans, from common laborers to tradesmen and doctors, as they find their livelihoods swallowed up by mechanization. Although all of the citizens in Vonnegut’s future United States have their material needs met by an obliging and bountiful government, the people suffer a critical blow to their sense of purpose. As workers are made obsolete by more reliable and efficient machines, a rift is formed between the society’s “haves and have-nots,” those with the intellectual disposition to remain employed and those without. The novel’s protagonist, Dr. Paul Proteus, is a Head of Industry in the town of Illium, and a well-respected member of the social elite; however, when Proteus communes with an old friend and dissenting co-worker, he begins a tumultuous fall from grace, bringing much of his corrupt society down with him. As Proteus weaves his way through the whimsically dark plot of the novel, Vonnegut paints the “writing on the wall” and makes it painfully obvious that such a moral conflict is closer than any of us could imagine. Will Man always be the most formidable machine on Earth, and what will become of him if he devises a machine greater than himself? Some would argue that although physical and logical tasks could theoretically be done best by automatons, culture, philosophy, art, personal relationships and the broad spectrum of emotion will remain uniquely human phenomena.

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Feature

It’s Not Real Storm Taylor

@arlenedawson Tweet 1: Superpostion- are people still alive when they are not posting? How do I really know? Tweet 2: If no one knows whether I am alive when I’m not posting, am I really alive when I’m not posting? Tweet 3: If someone hacks my account and posts something as me and people think it is me, do I exist in some kind of suspended state? Tweet 4: If people think it’s me who posted something when it wasn’t, who am I? Tweet 5: How do I know if people are really posting as themselves when I can’t prove it? Tweet 6: What if no one is posting as themselves? Tweet 7: What if all these people online aren’t real? Tweet 8: But if they aren’t around to know if I’m alive, how can I be alive? Tweet 9: No. I am the only one I can prove I’m alive. Tweet 10: This is not real, none of it’s real. I can only prove I’m real. Tweet 11: Everything on the internet isn’t real. It must be something I made up, if I’m the only one that’s real. Tweet 12: If I’m the only thing that’s real, then this world can’t be real. Tweet 13: I must be a terrible person to come up with such a terrible world. Tweet 14: But I can end it all and bring peace to the universe by wiping away this awful world. Tweet 15: If I kill myself, I kill the world.

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Feature

#TwitterFiction Collection She looked at me with her big brown eyes. I liked them, so I took them. #twitterfiction @JamesFaw

He gets down on one knee. I gasp, hands flying to my mouth. He looks up. “You dropped your fork.” #twitterfiction @MadelynWong “Listen to your heart.” She plunged her headphones into her chest. #twitterfiction @MelodyRymer Water went everywhere. She swept up the body with the glass. “It’s just a fish.” Something besides the bowl fractured. #twitterfiction @MaryButgereit I’m a stranger, a nobody walking down the street. People see through me. People walk through me. #twitterfiction @KhadijahThompson “You can be anything you want to be.” He chose to be dead. #twitterfiction @MelodyRymer The last words my grandfather ever said to me, “There’s not an animal on earth I couldn’t take in a fight”- R.I.P Granddad #twitterfiction @JonHarper This girl told me she would text me when she got home. I guess she’s homeless #twitterfiction @DevinGeick The wind blew across her tear stained face. “Stop,” she told him. He never did. #twitterfiction @KaylaWilson They gave me a nice white jacket. They said it was special, just for me #twitterfiction @Nick Westrope “You can’t tell me what to do,” she shouted as she slipped. “Idiot,” he whispered #twitterfiction @Dejanee Perkins

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Feature

CAPTCHA Leah Plume

ue to the number of complaints about our â&#x20AC;&#x153;difficultâ&#x20AC;? CAPTCHA tests that are given while creating an user account here on www.freegoodTV.com, we are now giving an optional multiple choice test in order to determine if you are living and breathing and made of organic compounds, or a robot. You may still take an ordinary CAPTCHA below, or scroll down to start the quiz

Thank you for selecting to take the optional multiple choice test! You need no skills above basic reading, writing, and arithmetic. The test consists of ten simple questions. After you are done, and proven to be a human, your account on www. freegoodTV.com will be created. The test starts now! 1.) (2+2)*4 = a. 1 b. 0 c. 16 2.) What is the verb in this sentence? The dog ran across the street. a. dog b. street c. ran 3.) What is your current cable provider? a. Knology b. Castcom c. Other (If you picked other, please specify here: 302

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4.) Would you ever consider switching your current cable provider to the service provided by www.freegoodTV.com? a. Yes b. No 5.) Would you suggest the service provided by www.freegoodTV.com to friends or family? a. Yes b. No c. Why are you asking these questions? (If you picked c, don’t worry, we’re just making sure you’re not a robot!) 6.) Would you ever consider working for www.freegoodTV.com or any of its sister companies? a. Yes b. No c. I am already working for www.freegoodTV.com or any of its sister companies. 7.) Which one of these is an animal? a. Spoon b. Apple c. Dog 8.) If you were to work for www.freegoodTV.com or any of its sister companies, would you ever consider using violence\threatening\illegal acts to convince someone to switch to the service provided by www.freegoodTV? a. Yes b. No c. What? (If you picked c, don’t worry, we’re just making sure you’re not a robot!) 9.) If you were to work for www.freegoodTV.com or any of it’s sister companies, would you ever consider leaving your family\friends\life to work for www.freegoodTV? a. Yes b. No 10.) Rate your experience while filling out this optional quiz! a. It was great! b. It was great! c. It was great! Thank you for partaking in this optional multiple choice quiz! Remember, the only purpose of this quiz was to make sure you were a human, and not a robot. You have been determined to be a human, and your verification email has been sent to the address you provided! We hope you enjoy the services provided by www.freegoodTV.com! 303

Feature

The Break Up Mateo Canabal

#include <iostream> #include <windows.h> using namespace std; void function (int x, int y, int z) { cout << “Please execute me, main. We belong together!.”; } int main () { system (“color 5f”); int x, y, z, a; cout << “I’m afraid that I have declared too many arguments to execute our function.\n” “I am sorry my love, but we must break up, for we can not function together.\nWe can’t even bubble sort this out.\n” “Our parameters are not equal.\n” “I wish I could float away and remove my lingering integer.\n” “I even wish I could double up a variable, but we’ve already been compiled.\nWe don’t work together.\nI mean not to go off on a tangent because I have not included math.h.\n” “But I’m done! We must sever all communications!\n”; Sleep (2000); system (“color 0c”); cout << “\n\nI mean now!\nI must assign values to my own variables!\nI don’t have time for you!\nI must use a different namespace!\nGet out of my braces!\n”; Sleep (2000); cout << “\n_____O______O_____\n____OOO____OOO____\n___ OOOOO__OOOOO___\n__OOOO\\\\\\\\OOOOOO__\n_OOOOOO\\\\\\\\ O O O O O O_ \ n O O O O O O O O \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ O O O O O O \ n _ O O O O O O O O \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ OOOO_\n__OOOOOOOO\\\\\\\\OO__\n___OOOOOOOO\\\\\\\\___\n____ O O O O O O O O O O_ _ _ _ \ n _ _ _ _ _ O O O O O O O O_ _ _ _ _ \ n _ _ _ _ _ _ O O O O O O_ _ _ _ _ _ \ n _ _ _ _ _ _ _ O O O O_ _ _ _ _ _ _ \ n _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ O O_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \ n__________________\n\n”; system (“pause”); }

304

Victoria Van

Feature

Create #include <stdio.h> #include <stdlib.h> #include <string> #include <time.h> #include <iostream> using namespace std; #define eternity int i=0; i<=1; i++ enum { BAD, GOOD }; class create { public: string identity; short int time; short int moments; short int wisdom; create () { identity= “”; time= 0; moments= 0; wisdom= 0; } create (string name, int timeLeft) { identity= name; time= timeLeft; moments= 0; wisdom= 0; } }; int main () { srand(time(0)); string name; cout<<”Create: “; getline(cin,name); int born= rand()%100;

create life(name,born); 305

for (eternity) { int happenings= rand()%2; switch (happenings) { case BAD: { life.moments--; break; } case GOOD: { life.moments++; break; } } life.wisdom++; life.time--; if (life.time==0) break; } cout<<”\n”; system(“pause”); return 0; }

306

Deondra Davis

Feature

Protest Poetry

Downloads... Uploads, The creation of nanodes, Hovering drones That can deliver anything From a pair of kicks to a new whip. Tell me are we whipped? Being shipped off in spaceships Fully equipped with the things that’ll Make us unfit To be the change makers of todayProfile pictures and posts Are what we change everyday. Submerged in a sea, a vortex of data, Constantly uploading and forming faster Than a transformer. We succeeded but tell me have we really? The ancients look down upon us Is it they who have truly advanced With the knowledge of stars and planets among us? Slaves to ourselves- technology Horrific, exotic and all things hypnotic. Desensitise yourself for what purpose? Anti social served on a platter for all of us. To consume you as fast a processor in a phone that Downloads music Im astounded at the breakthroughs, but never drawn to it. Everything can be man made in this hour, Test tube babies and synthetic genetics Desecrate God’s power. Bow down, for technology is the new God The one that makes normal human interactions incredibly odd. With all this power to create tell me What are we really creating? The nerves and sensors in the brain tell me that We are relating Constantly generating, Healing, connecting and incubating. Computers, you and I, but how can it be The answers above, Just look up and see. We. Are. Technology. Follow this QR code to hear Deondra Davis’s audio performance of her protest poem

307

Feature

Dream-Weaver Jett Ryan

Product Description: The product in question is a fully immersive virtual reality headset. The headset taps into the brain, mainstreaming all brainpower typically used for physical movement directly to the conscious, imaginative portion of the brain. Wearers will usher into a world of fantasy that is completely under their control. They gain the ability to live throughout their wildest imaginations, experiencing all five senses in a virtual world where literally anything can happen. The only limitations are those that you set for yourself. 60 Second Commercial Treatment: With use of the product in question, a lowly, loser of a man fulfills his wildest fantasies, perusing the universe in the Millenium Falcon, feasting on platter after platter of bacon whilst being serenaded by Freddie Mercury, and fraternizing with attractive female celebrities. The mood is intended to inspire. It is uplifting and all together awesome, combining most of modern manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fantasies into one collaborative advertisement. A 60 second commercial chock full of manly awesomeness. The commercial is meant to capitalize on the idea that with the technology, you can be who you want to be, do what you want to do, and lead the life you wish you had. The commercial will feature copious pop culture allusions to help support the staple that you can be your own legend. Costs for the commercial will be minimal as we will feature footage from the product in practice. The only possible roadblock is with company copyrights. The commercial will feature several pop culture icons, from which we will need to retrieve permission to use their virtual bodies in the commercial.

308

Video

Audio

A blue collar man in his twenties walks into his crummy apartment after a hard day’s work. It is a long shot showing his crappy living room.

Various noises of dogs barking and hectic roadways before he slams the door shut behind him.

He sits down in a comfortable chair, placing the product on his head. Mid shot from straight on.

Electronic house music can faintly be heard in the background.

Shot zooms in on the man’s face as the product begins to take effect and a surprised look overtakes his face.

Electronic music rises in both volume and intensity.

Screen flashes white.

Music climaxes.

Cuts to long shot of the Millenium Falcon in an aerial dogfight space.

Spaceship laser sounds, explosions, screaming. “You’re my Best Friend” by Queen plays in the background.

Midshot of the man seated in the Falcon, Han Solo, and Chewie on either side.

Chewie’s signature growl. Man screams with excitement.

Various action shots with explosions and lasers. One final explosion ushers in the next scene.

Big explosion sound.

A fine dining table is laid out before the man. The shot zooms out, revealing a fine banquet hall, copious silver platters filled with mountains of bacon being presented by scantily clad female butlers.

Man: “Wahhh” in spaced out tone. “You’re my Best Friend” continues to play. Sizzling bacon. Clang of silver plates on tables.

Long, worms eye shot reveals Freddie Mercury hanging from a fancy chandelier singing “You’re my Best Friend”

Freddie’s sweet, sultry voice.

Cuts to man lying in bed. Shot pans over to reveal a very attractive female celebrity. She winks at the camera before the shot pans back over to the man. He smiles at the camera before the shot pans back over to the man. He smiles at the camera before pulling the covers over both of them.

Voiceover: “Do you how you want to do you.”

Screen cuts to black before showing a picture of the featured product against a dark, ominous background.

“You’re my Best Friend” continues to play. 309

Attachments

Rashaan Denton 310

Beautiful Technology Rashaan Denton

A True Cyborg

Rashaan Denton 311

New Parts

Rashaan Denton 312

Mayday

David Horn

Beats

Xavier Fitzgerald

Dream Car

Josiah Purlee

313

Taped Up

Sydney Taylor

Neon

Zachary Perry

314

Plugged In

Alanis Craig

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Nkechi Nmoron

A Part of Our Creation Harley Aldredge

315

Creation of Technology Ingrid Hickey

Out of the Factory Madelyn Wong 316

Vacuum

Kristie Martins

Inside Swing Arm 8 Madelyn Wong

317

Suspicion Towards the Moving Clock Kaylie Miller and Madelyn Wong

318

Patrick Brady

Feature

An Angel Gets Its Wings

Step on the side of the plank (A) to hit up the basketball (B) to weigh down the scale and lift the cracker (C) where the bird (D) will reach for it, turning on the fan (E) and blowing the ship (F) to push the hammer (G) to hit the 8-ball (H) through the pipes and ring the bell (I) to give the angel (J) its wings so that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be zapped by the bug zapping lantern (K) and then fall into the box below (L) and pull open the door (M).

319

Feature

A Slap in the Face Kim Czerniewski

You hear someone speaking idiotically and facepalm yourself (A) This pulls the wire on your wrist (B) Pulling the base off a container of balls (C) The balls fall (D) and hit a squeaky toy below (E) making it squeak (F) alerting a dog with a fan on its tail (G) The dogâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wagging tail blows up at a piece of paper (H) making it flutter (I) startling a bird (J) into knocking a lead ball onto a track (K) which makes it fall into a bucket (L) which raises a line of duck tape (M) and raises a platform (O) making the person stumble and fall into the tape (P) making the person be (Q)uiet.

320

Zach Perry

Feature

Waking Up in the Morning

Cuckoo Clock (A) goes off at wake-up time. Bird comes out pressing button (B) to release giant hand which descends with rope attached to hand snagging on bowling ball (C). Bowling ball falls as hand reaches down to tilt bed (D) upwards causing man to slide onto ramp (E). Bowling ball hits switch (F) turning on shower as man slides in. Man gets bubbly clean as his momentum carries him forward onto conveyor belt (G). Bowling ball has continued bouncing down and hits board with spring attached to toothbrush (H) Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Teeth are brushed as he passes by onwards to towel (I) where he dries off and subsequently slams into clothing rack (J) rendering him an un-naked man prepared for the day.

321

Index Harley Aldredge...............................................79, 313 Bailey Alexander.....................................................233 Theresa Andzejewski......................................33, 112 Thomas Baldwin.....................................63, 182, 221 Masi Barnes..............................................................126 Avery Behr..................................................................24 Emily Bohatch.........................................46, 259, 271 Namena Bojang.......................................................222 Kennedy Booker......................................................235 Patrick Brady...................................................284, 317 Kayla Buckelew........................................14, 106, 217 Sarah Buckelew..................56, 76, 92, 109, 117, 251 Joylyn Bukovac........................................................102 Kaley Bush.......................................................232, 270 Mary Butgereit .........................10, 77, 88, 243, 250 267, 288, 299 Mateo Canabal .......................................................302 Jade Chambers..................................................96, 212 Alex Chappel............................................................220 Sabrina Chen.............................................................82 Kat Cox..........................................................45, 55, 187 Alanis Craig...............................................................313 Kim Czerniewski..........................103, 219, 254, 318 Deondra Davis.........................................................305 Jessica Deming.........................................................124 Rashaan Denton............................................223, 308 Kaitlin Duez..............................................................225 Ben Ewing........................................................256, 297 James Faw..................................................................299 Paige Fisher.................................................................51 Xavier Fitzgerald.....................................................311 Hannah Forrest.........................................................95 Sada Forrest................................................................99 Shae Greene...............................................................119 Devin Geick...............................................................299 Jon Harper.........................................................113, 299 Ian Hendrix........................................................52, 216 Sam Herrin................................................................123 Ingrid Hickey...................................................275, 314 David Horn................................................................311 Alyssa Kennedy...............................................134, 165 Sascha Kirkham......................................................130 Allison Koesters.......................................................218 Daniel Lang...........................107, 111, 125, 273, 277, 293 Nick Lewis..................................................................131 Tori Lewis...................................84, 97, 196, 216, 265 Tina Lucente.............................................................100

Chris Lycans..............................................................115 Casey Marley...........................................110, 248, 281 Kristie Martins.............................236, 279, 283, 315 Megan McDowell.................................140, 202, 219 Kaylie Miller....................................................210, 329 Tenaja Moultrie.......................................................221 Steven Nicke................................................................53 Nkechi Nnorom.......................................................313 Harper Pannell.........................................................216 Leah Parker................................................................218 Cyrus Patel.................................................28, 129, 314 Dejanee Perkins......................................................299 Zach Perry..............................223, 232, 238, 312, 319 Natalie Pertrucka...................................................220 Leah Plume...............................................................300 Michaela Porter.............................................224, 234 Josiah Purlee..............................................................311 Ernesto Rodriguez..................................................226 Lauryn Rody.......................................................89, 121 Siri Rossly...........................................................61, 232, Alexa Russell.....................................................85, 245 Melody Rymer..................................................94, 299 Jett Ryan.....................................................43, 291, 306 Kennedy Saaristo............................................60, 132 Aj Sakyi-Addo.............................................................86 Michael Samaras....................................36, 128, 266 Connor Sawyer........................................................221 Jordan Searcy............................................................101 Olivia Skillern..........................................................224 Kayla Smith..............................................................217 Diesha Summerhill...............................................225 Storm Taylor.....................................78, 93, 286, 298 Sydney Taylor.................................................222, 312 Khadijah Thompson..................50, 273, 272, 274, 285, 299 Victoria Van..............................................................303 Spencer Webb..........................................................296 Nick Westrope.........................................................299 Xandra Wiegand.........................137, 235, 264, 269 Shafer Williams.........................................................83 Kayla Wilson............................................................299 Ben Winters................................................................47 Adam Woelke......................18, 39, 54, 87, 108, 270 Madelyn Wong.....................80, 192, 276, 299, 314, 315, 316 Kalee Yem.....................................49, 57, 91, 174, 294 Megan Zecher....................................................22, 118 Michelle Zicaro.......................................................220

The Eclectic Staff Spring 2014 Issue 17

Harley Aldredge Bailey Alexander Thomas Baldwin Emily Bohatch Kennedy Booker Patrick Brady Sarah Buckelew Joylyn Bukovac Kaley Bush Mary Butgereit Jade Chambers Alanis Craig Kim Czerniewski Ben Ewing James Faw Sada Forrest Devin Geick Jon Harper Ingrid Hickey Alyssa Kennedy Daniel Lang Casey Marley

Kristie Martins Megan McDowell Kaylie Miller Nkechi Nnorom Cyrus Patel Dejanee Perkins Zach Perry Leah Plume Lauryn Rody Jett Ryan Melody Rymer Storm Taylor Gabrielle Thompson Khadijah Thompson Spencer Webb Nick Westrope Xandra Wiegand Shafer Williams Kayla Wilson Adam Woelke Madelyn Wong

Editors

Layout Editors Mary Butgereit Mary Butgereit is a laser - a highly concentrated line of light that might be direct, if the world weren’t made of mirrors. Her applications are vast. She can be considered a tool for comprehension and exploration, yet she is also perfectly suited for playing with cats. Sometimes she’s a motion sensitive beam in a dark room, flinching at dust motes skimming her skin; sometimes she’s the power scientists use to burn through far-away atmospheres. Sometimes she can feel this edge of strength inside her structure - the kind that simmers inside military technology and can blind a human born with sight – but she’d much rather be the light that traces the outline of stars and glows in light shows. There are complex physics going on within her well-engineered frame, but all she understands is the way she continually stretches forward, grasping at empty space, until she finds a solid place to land on. There is some appeal in the open air, where there’s no door or wall to catch her – miles and miles of ocean, plains, mountains, sunsets, snow and sand. For now, however, she’s a dot perched on the edge of becoming a burst, waiting for the best of her many uses to reveal itself, so she can pursue it at the speed of light.

Daniel Lang Daniel Lang is an assembly line, a paragon of old-fashioned labor. Shift after shift, day after day, the assembly line systematically converts input materials into tangible, useful products. The assembly line is turned on every morning at 8 AM when the first shift begins, and when the lights shut off at night it sleeps. The assembly line is neither glamorous nor picturesque, but it accomplishes its job thanks to a tireless work ethic. It may exhibit symptoms of fatigue: blemishes of rust occasionally adorn its edges, its gears may squeak every once in a while, and the conveyor belts may slow after an especially tiresome work day. But it makes no excuses. The assembly line has learned that the world does not accept excuses. With deadlines to meet and product to churn out, there is no time for rest. The work must be done regardless of whatever obstacles may surface. One may suppose the assembly line to be averse to its duties, that it may grow bored with seemingly endless assignments. In fact, the assembly line is just as dependent on its labor as its demands are upon it. For without goals, the assembly line would merely be a very, very long table.

Adam Woelke Adam Woelke is a lot like a Pip-Boy 3000. He’s pretty good at storing useful bits of information that might come in handy later on, always there to sing to you--if not terribly--a good little jingle to cut a rug to, and of course, he’s always prepared to help in those situations when you need to blast the head off a snooping raider who’s trying to rob you in your sleep. Of course, he’s not too much to look at. Clunky, standard and hard to take off once you’ve had him installed. But sometimes you might find that the occasional discomfort can be worth it. At least, just a little. His only intention is to help you as much as humanly possible, like the V.A.T.S. feature helps you efficiently get rid of those pesky super mutants. He only wants to make himself worthy of the brand printed on his back. Of course, there will always be a better model available--and he’s aware that he might have a few glitches or bugs--but he’ll try not to let that bother him because he knows that it’s not always about doing things perfectly, or doing things in the flashiest way possible, but instead, to be compatible, at-the-ready, and nearly always prepared to kick some ass.

Editors

Content Editors Emily Bohatch Power up. Password. Enter. Click. Wait. Wait. Wait. WEEEEEEEEEE WOOOOOOO WAH WAH WAH WAH WOOOO. Loading page. Loading connections. Loading life. Open: http://emily.human. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. A ring of the phone makes you start again. Click. Wait. WEEEEEEEEEEEEE WOOOOOO WAH WAH WAH WAH WOOOOO. Emily.human is internet dialup tone. <atrb:=loud> THE STARTLING JUXTAPOSITION OF SILENT THOUGHTS AND BLARING OPINION </loud> Emily.human is a search. Google search: introspection. Seven Million Suggestions, but which is right? Did you mean “why are we here” “who am I” or simply looking for something to do. Searching, searching, always searching. Emily.human is a page. Refresh: no change. Refresh: no change. Refresh, Refresh, Refresh. Static. Always the same, memorizable, unchanging. Emily.human is a forum. A patchwork of superiority, fact checking, fact checking (regurgitation), *fact (editing), and blatant profanity. Emily.human is a blog. This is what I did with my slightly out of style life. Please look. Please notice. Please. Please. Incoming call. Disconnecting from Internet. Disconnecting from Emily.human.

Megan McDowell She sits in the corner, untouched and unmoving, silent and nearly forgotten. She works differently than most—the way she likes to get things done, the way she expect things to be—some might call it “old-fashioned,” or “unnecessary.” From first glance, she is something easily dismissed; something about her outward appearance seems intimidating; too much to mess with. But when you take the initiative, test out the buttons and let her get going, you see she has much more to say than the quiet exterior suggests. Sure, some buttons are harder to push down than others, finding a consistent rhythm can be difficult, but once those few stuck keys are pressed, a well is unplugged, stamping words and ideas into existence. She’s louder than you expect—the clicking and clacking as she rattles off details about stories and people and concepts unknown—it takes some getting used to. There are times when you think she’ll go on forever, throwing her thoughts out there no matter how many mistakes or flubs she has to blot out. And then there days when no matter how hard you press the keys, no words will come out and you just have to wait till she’s renewed her ribbon and is ready to let you back into her story. Like the 1970 typewriter sitting beside the couch in her bedroom, Megan McDowell is filled with stories ready to be told, just waiting for the motivation to put them on paper.

Madelyn Wong Madelyn Wong is the telescope sitting in the dustiest corner of a crammed study. She used to explore deserts and forests, where she could find the best views of the night sky. She prided herself in the magical moment, the awed gasp she caused when one looked through her eyes and breathed, “Wow.” Through the generations she set her focus on many a constellation, a planet, a shooting star— the wishes were squirreled away like pennies for a rainy day. When her last owner passed her on to his firstborn, she was shoved to the side and never glanced at again. With pictures of the sky plastered across computer screens, what was the point of a telescope anyways? So she leans against the peeling paint, waiting to be useful again. Some nights, when the city lights dim and the stars shine, she uses all of her hoarded wishes to hope for one more magical moment.

Editors

Web Editors Joylyn Bukovac Joylyn Bukovac is an industrial tool that reveals discoveries beneath the Earth’s surface. She frees solidified stars from the cold, dark surface of our world. She helps people find their hopes and dream in unusual places, causing their past burdens to fade away. She is rarely thanked for her hard work, even after uncovering twinkling signs of hope to those who are in need of it the most. However, her discoveries make everything worth it. Not just her materialistic discoveries, but also the wisdom she acquires through every experience. Finding beauty in the most surprising places never ceases to amaze her and inspires her to believe that there is something valuable beneath every surface. She gives reassurance that everything will be okay.

Alanis Craig She’s 16 when her parents hand her the box. Wrapped in green paper with little balloons, it’s a birthday gift. She appreciates the thought, but her hopes for a car have been dashed and with an expression set in stone, she has already made her mind up not to show the disappointment she will surely feel upon opening the box. Laughing, she pretends to be excited for the gift in her hand. The laughter ends and eyes are huge when she finally lifts two gifts from the box. The keys are clipped to a chain and the box containing the little GPS barely acknowledged. It’s passed to the teen’s hands by stern parents when young feet jog toward the door. Take it with you, so you won’t get lost. It’s tossed to the passenger seat and remains there for months gathering friends with other forgotten items: an old jacket, loved until it has frayed too much to keep the cold out; college brochures that once held fleeting interest; running shoes with holes. It’s not before panicky hands rifle through the gathered items and uncovers the small forgotten box. It’s relieved eyes that gaze upon the slightly battered box. It’s quickly plugged in and hastily placed atop the dashboard. Set Destination, Alanis Craig Turn left after 9 months onto September 20th street 1995. Now go 18 years until you reach Present Day Avenue and take a right.

Kim Czerniewski Kim Czerniewski is a matte lacquer, crackling and shattering as she dries. She is an effect, a subtle decoration, a passing enjoyment, interesting on her own, but more impressive in the presence of others to build up and improve. She is a nail decoration that defies initial conceptions of a final result. Drying unevenly to break apart and build interest, she makes a beautiful effect out of structured chaos and designed destruction. From the same origins as other vain entertainments, she has her own secret ingredient, her own ethanol, to crack apart and make what’s beneath shine through. Breaking common, flat washes with her own nail colors, covering, accentuating, and highlighting what came before her. This matte lacquer, odd and flat on her own, brings finesse to what is below her, building an effect and trusting other washes to raise her to the height of her majesty.

Editors Web Editors Kaylie Miller She hums as she works, the buzzing needle pulling thread and fabric together in its grip. Kaylie Miller is fused to this sputtering sewing machine from ages past, her rusty fingers leaving impressions on the enamel. Two damaged metal hearts beat as one, striving for creation. Each meticulous stitch marks a beat, internal gears twisting and shuddering. It would have been easier to find a machine shiny and new, but being neither shiny nor new herself (at least in spirit), she merged with the discarded contraption. How many have adjusted the settings of this whirring, whizzing imperfect chaos that manages to piece together originality? Love and patience give hope to the lost causes. With each catching bobbin and breaking needle, she keeps pressing her foot harder on the pedal as the feet clamp onto the silky hope, so it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fly away. As long as the thread pokes through the needle and optimism tangles through their inner mechanisms, they will keep working. They tug at the fabric, connected, humming a song of hope.

Xandra Wiegand Smooth curves outline the design of the Alexandra Wiegand â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;96 boombox as it stands on the top shelf out in the garage. Scratches cover its faded plastic cover, and duck tape bind its handle. When it powers up for a walk in the city or to provide company for a couple of dancers, it vibrates the air and earth beneath. Percussion, melody, and vocals combine to release the energy that lies in the stitching of its speakers. Its roar reaches across miles. The sound waves touch anyone within range and relay a feeling of enthusiasm and movement. Life beats out of the rhythm it relentlessly plays. So it stands, alone and independent from its modern reincarnations; it will never be replaced or forgotten.

Lauryn Rody Lauryn is a FireWire. Her arms and legs conducting electricity from the point of her finger to the tip of her boot. She transmits information from one point to another, converting the files again and again. Her spinal cord is a gateway for knowledge that peaks at her know-itâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;all mouth and spreads to her eager fingertips as she scribbles across already too-full pages. Ink smears and the connection is insecure. Her eyes, the camera, blink as they reconnect to her computing brain. Information speeds across her neural highway. Book to brain, memory to recollection, and finally to regurgitation. Her over-talkative mouth opens, her hands begin molding the world around her, and she becomes a fountain of information once more. It breaches every border, depositing little bits of data and then her connection is broken. Her job complete. She coils back onto herself and, blanketed by dust, waits.

Acknowledgements Madison City Schools

For not evicting us from our sanctuary just yet and keeping the technical difficulties to a minimum.

Fred, the Tech Guy

For magically teleporting across the school when we need him most.

Mrs. Panagos

For being a mentor, a friend, and a confidant, and for teaching us that there is, indeed, more than one way to skin a giraffe.

Mr. Parker

For keeping us fired up, whether we want to be or not.

Adobe

For giving us the tools to take over the world, or at least create some monstrosities in Photoshop.

Thomas Baldwin

For constantly creating things to make us rethink our own sanity and creating the cutest section dividers in the history of ever.

Zach Perry

For taking the best pictures of the janitors weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever seen, always making us smile, and creating the greatest cardboard castle ever.

Student Body

For inspiring--or frustrating--us enough to create, write, and express ourselves enough to create this Literary Magazine.

Creative Minds Everywhere

For filling the weird side of the internet with inspirational things and driving us to step over our boundaries.