The Eclectic-Issue 16

Featuring Works By

Sarah Hartung Holly Morgan Kristie Martins Kayla Carden Zac hary Perry Mary Butgereit

Julie Bartlow Jake Sims Jessica Gallagher Sasc ha Kirkha m Chayenne Lugo Ben Ewing

The Eclectic Spring 2013 Issue 16

The Eclectic

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 by Julie Bartlow Cover Graphic Design by Janie Spalding

http://bjhstheeclectic.com/

Copyright Š 2013 by The Eclectic

The Eclectic

Spring 2013 Issue 16 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 explore the concept of juxtaposition, such as “good and evil,” “light and dark,” “white and black,” “young and old,” and “fantasy and reality.” They then sought to portray them through the mediums of 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 submissions in the 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 the students whose work is selected for publication. Additional copies may be purchased.

“The word cannot be expressed direct . . . It can perhaps be indicated by mosaic of juxtaposition like articles abandoned in a hotel drawer, defined by negatives and absence . . .�

- William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch

Dedicated to the late Mrs. Miranda Barrier, an English teacher of Bob Jones High School-- because there is no greater juxtaposition than that of life and death.

Prose

Contents

9

Poetry

57

Creative Nonfiction

87

Stage & Screen

119

Comics

159

Art

219

Photography

233

Feature

241

Contributors

281

Acknowledgements

287

Prose

Contents

Theory of Evolution by Jett Ryan A Friend by James Faw Mi Tangerina by Kristie Martins In This Life by Jordan Coats 3:27 AM by Ben Ewing Absolute and Grand by Chayenne Lugo Low Battery by Aaditya Madhwesh Patterns by Katherine Tidwell Shopkeep Panda by Jordan Coats She’s Always Watching by Kaylie Miller Quinn and Dahlia by Madelyn Wong There by Emily Bohatch Black Rose by Sarah Hartung Imagine World Domination by Kendyl Hollingsworth Superbia by Thomas Baldwin Moon River by Jade Chambers Wordsmiths by Mary Butgereit #25Word Stories by Mary Butgereit, Kayla Daigle, Emily Duncan, Sydney Delgadillo World Wide Web by Alyssa Kennedy Porcelain on Carpet by Kayla Daigle And Time Repeats Itself by Ashley Williams Brainstorm by George Young Cubicle by Morgan Simrell 9

Prose

The Theory of Evolution Jett Ryan

He crawled off of the table, naked and crying. He stumbled around a little, but soon learned to walk. It was going to be a long walk—one that would take years – but first he had to get ready. Now he stood up tall and was able to run, so he ran to the closet. What would he need for the journey? He put on some big boy clothes and exited the house, grabbing his tricycle on the way. Soon after, he traded his tricycle for a bicycle, and took his Pampers off.

The farther he rode, the more height and muscle he gained. He grew some hair, a lot of pimples, and put on some glasses. Changed his hairstyle once or twice. He fell...because he was too busy focusing on the opposite sex. He traded his bike for a skateboard, which soon evolved into a car. Picked up a girlfriend on the way, along with more hair, more pimples, more height, and more problems.

He picked up some friends with a bag of weed, and they all smoked. He was suspended.

He got a graduation gown. He earned a scholarship, which came with a campus and a roommate.

He got a degree in teaching and a job at a school. He picked up his wife, who brought with her four children. He drove them into development; he drove them to their graduation.

He got gray hair and lower back pain. He found a new hobby and bought a golf club, along with a new group of friends. Some sons- and daughters-in-law came, and with them grandchildren. More pains came - arthritis, it seemed. Plenty more white hairs came and plenty of wrinkles, too.

His wife got breast cancer. He bought a black suit to wear to her funeral, bought the ordained coffin, bought a dog to keep him company.

He had a heart attack.

He received no visits at the hospital.

He slept like an angel after his long, long walk.

10

Prose

A Friend

James Faw

He stood outside the window, peering inside ever so slightly to see the figure. Whoever they may be, he thought, they’re about to know me. He slipped to the back yard, and tried to find a way inside. Desperately his eyes pleaded with a door that came into his line of vision. Jangling the door handle, it smoothly slid open, and he cautiously walked inside.

He stopped a moment to absorb his surroundings, as per usual. He rested down on the home owner’s comfortable couch, became acquainted with their night stand, and read excerpts from the family history book. He liked these material things because they gave him a sense of nostalgia and reminded him of what he once had.

He set the book down from the spot he had picked it up. In fact, everything he had touched in the room was exactly where he had found it. These items were not what he sought, however; the sense of being in the room with another, watching them as the air slowly flowed in and out of their lungs, gave him a sense of satisfaction that he found unattainable in any other way. He suddenly found himself sick at the thought that his quest for friendship had resulted in this.

It was time. 2:03, on the dot. He lurked up the stairs, one by one. When he turned the corner, still sticking to the safe haven of darkness that enveloped him, he caught the first glimpse of someone lying in his or her bed. Walking over to the body, he kissed them on the forehead. He then collected their hair, took items from their room, took pictures and documented every detail about the person for future reference. He also stole some clothes to wear later. During this time, he was perfectly undetectable, with a secret dark fantasy that they would awaken and he would be thrown into a moment of confrontation. During that moment, when their eyes finally met and the dark mystery of the unknown crept into his victim’s head, he would feel a bond deeper than any friendship could hope to attain: One of pure, unfiltered fear. This analytical process of surveying the victim lasted until 3:07, precisely.

“Thank you for setting me free.”

As he strolled out of the house, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

11

Prose

Mi Tangerina

Kristie Martins

She glanced at her watch. 6:15. On a bench, staring off in the direction of the setting sun, she let the soft summer breeze breathe through her hair. The shades of orange and yellow that melted over the once blue sky pulled at her tears.

“Hey there, cutie,” he said.

“Don’t call me that; I’m not a tangerine,” she snapped back.

“It’s supposed to be a compliment. Tangerines are kinda exotic, you know…kinda like you. But cuties aren’t tangerines; they’re mandarins.” His blue eyes twinkled.

“Whatever.” She scoffed and walked past him. The guy was relentless.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Quit calling me that.” She turned the corner.

Day in and day out.

Cutie, cutie, cutie.

She stopped responding in hopes that ignoring the name would suck the fun out of calling her that.

Cutie, cutie, cutie.

In time, the name found its profession in her—clocking in and clocking out at the same time every day. It became routine.

“Hey, cutie.”

“Hey.” A smile.

“Hey, mi tangerina.”

“I thought it was mandarin.”

“Eh.” He shrugged, winking at her.

A blush and a smile.

She sat on the bench, examining the splatters of color stringing from the tangerine in the sky. She wondered if the Georgia tangerine looked the same that evening. The sun then settled into its bed, burying itself in a blanket of night.

She closed her eyes and tried to listen. She could almost hear it.

Mi tangerina.

She glanced at her watch. 6:45. She lifted her eyes to the west. The light had vanished, leaving only dots in the sky to ensure that the sun still existed back behind the wall of night and that he would soon return.

12

Prose

In This Life

Jordan Coats

“It’s been over nine years since a president was elected; it’s been even longer since the government was legitimately in control of the people. The mutation began in 2049 and took only months to throw the entire world into a state of panic. R22 is the name it was given days before there were no scientists left to study it. It was the result of human experimentation: the genetic engineering performed by the German Nazi party during the Holocaust, more specifically. The survivors left the dark time seemingly unharmed by what was considered failed experiments.

However, their genetic material now carried an ingredient that wouldn’t manifest for another hundred years. On March 20th of 2049, a descendant of those very survivors reproduced, bringing into the world a child with an infection that would be the end of civilization. Smyrna, Georgia only saw the existence of this child for 3 weeks before it was the first of many cities to see its demise when the virus went airborne. The state’s population showed signs of severe insanity.

Within 16 hours, the entire area was in a splendor of anarchy. Hour eighteen, not a soul was stirring, and the only sound to be heard was the burning and sudden collapse of buildings unfortunate enough to have been the object of an R22 victim’s rage. The Atlanta area - and ultimately all of Georgia - became the main focus of the entire world as its population went from nearly 10 million to less than 40,000 within 3 weeks.

“The sting of death was raw and relentless as citizens of the U.S. fled the country once the infection reached their area. In turn, the maddening seekers of refuge carried R22 to countries around the world. France was reported as the first country to which the infection spread, but cities and countries of extremely high population- such as Cairo, Egypt and China- were the first to be wiped from the map. The world watched, helpless, as the face of the earth was cleared of life, and replaced with destruction and bodies. Only months passed before R22 mutated and found its way into the bodies of most large animals. The smaller ones followed. Little over a year passed, and the world was almost entirely barren of life. However, there are those of us who have always been immune to the effects and mortality of the accursed virus. This… is what we’ve become.

“Even now, after a decade of living each day without the reassurance of a next breath, death isn’t a thing you get used to. I can say this, perhaps with more conviction than most others.

It’s an existence I could have never imagined. But now, my previous reality seems the unfathomable lifestyle. It’s all but a vapor in my memory. The first days, when the infection was just beginning its tyrannous advance on our species, everyone’s true identity surfaced. If you didn’t already know who your real friends were, you found out soon enough. Friendships were dependent entirely upon the contents of your knapsack. Turning your back on a stranger is a mistake only to be made once, if you even survived to learn from it. I had a friend, Allen, good guy. He was known for being a bit temperamental, to say the least. Well, when everyone in the world started backstabbing each other, he and I tried to stick together and joined a small group. It wasn’t too bad; between the two of us, we were pretty strong, pretty educated on how to survive. A couple of real Boy Scouts. But the day came when the food ran out. It wasn’t our lack of preparation or skill, just time. We were relatively fit, ate quite a bit, and with the five of us all depleting the same food source, the numbers just didn’t come out in our favor. We ate, just as we did any other day, and we knew we were holding the last of our stockpile, but no one said a word of it. We carried on conversation as did we regularly; I mean, what good would it have done to bring it up? Days passed, we grew hungry, but nothing was said. And then came the day when our bodies couldn’t physically take the hunger. It had been easy to swear that we would never stoop to the level of savages we despised, but when the need became too great, Allen’s will bent to that of his body. He turned on me in the night, but I had known it was coming… that was the first life I had to take by my own 13

Prose hand, though it was far from the last.

“You come across a whole spectrum of people in this life. I’ve spent many an hour in the company of men I want to kill the moment I meet them. Likewise, I have spent such with honest, good people who simply haven’t a chance of survival, and who know it. You can’t help but pity them at first. But they become commonplace; just another beggar or possible hijacker you pass on the road or in the broken window of a run-down building. All of their faces fade with the passing of time. You don’t notice them anymore. The pity, too, fades after a while. It evokes nothing within me to see the desperate, pitiful eyes staring back at me from the shadows.

“One of the worst feelings is to see someone you knew from before. It had been only a couple years after Allen and I had been on the road, and I came through a small town; another sad attempt at the rebuilding of society, sure to fail. Family, friends, high school acquaintances had tapered from my life long ago. I saw the last of them, and now only the faces of fortunate strangers remained. I made my way through the maze of small shanties and beaten stores, slow and deliberate. I stopped in the few shops run by stingy businessmen with a knack for haggling. They were always the cleanest, their stench not as potent as most others. I was done with the town. It was no more a gem than those I’d come upon in years past. I headed for the end of town opposite of that which I entered. Nearing the break in the city wall, I heard the scuffling of a body falling into the dirt. I turned without ever breaking stride, to see a woman my age on the ground, struggling to regain her footing. I pulled my revolver and slid it into my sleeve, walking to help her from the dirt. I stooped to lift her, and she raised her arms to my assistance, keeping her head down. I pulled her to her feet, and she faced me to give thanks. She opened her mouth to speak, but when her eyes found mine, she froze. I froze. We stood, staring for an everlasting minute. She stumbled back onto her backside, never severing the look with which we beheld one another. I backed slowly, and her legs kicked, pushing her farther from me also. She scrambled to her feet and ran in the opposite direction. I waited until she was out of sight, then turned and continued on.

“Her name was Susan Carnegie. She had been in my graduating class in high school.

And she had been my girlfriend of three years.

“There comes a point when you have to accept that everyone you know or have ever known is dead. Finding someone who had been such a substantial part of your life still alive… it’s a traumatic thing. When you’ve seen hundreds of men, women, and children whom you don’t know weighing no more than a hundred pounds, diseased, caked with grime, skeletal… it doesn’t mean anything to you, it’s nothing abnormal. But to happen upon someone that you have known in health and wellness and find them looking alive only by definition… that is another matter entirely. It was too much for me; I couldn’t take the empathy. These are hard times to say the least.

‘We’re not made to go 60 to 0 in 0.5 years,’ I heard it put before, and it’s exactly right. We were on the high of our technological age, and the rug was taken from beneath our feet. Forced into a nomadic way of life. And it has taken its toll on the species.

“The fear is the worst of it. I hear screams, mostly at night. People starving; literally dying from hunger, screaming in pain. Others, falling victim to the crazed hunger of those not quite strong-willed enough to resist resorting to the curse of cannibalism, can be heard all throughout the night. There are fears, yes. Others surely, began to grow soon after the immediate panic died.

We found that some of us, who had been established as immune, began to fall subject to its wrath; began to die. You understand what this means… we were all in the gallows. None were assuredly safe. R22 was adapting, and we were sent into a second panic. There were few of the infected left to wreak havoc among the immune, but one was enough to spawn a second epidemic, were the virus to overcome our resistance. The manifestation of that possibility was enough to cause the collapse of what little hope in rebuilding the general population possessed. People reacted differently, none of it rational or beneficial. What would surprise you the most is the way word traveled so quickly. One day, a few of us started going crazy, and a week later, I’d come upon the next town, where I’d find bustling rumors of the newly infected. You would have thought the grapevine would 14

Prose have withered by then, but it was another thing you just had to accept in this life. People will kill people, world peace will never happen, communism will never work, and people will talk, always.

After this kind of scare, you can’t imagine the relief after a few more years passed, and we realized it had never happened. Humanity was looming over a canyon, and being held by a last thread of a few thousand people, worldwide. We were beyond blessed to have even lived through the first year by our mysterious immunity. But that blessing was nothing compared to what it must have taken for that last thread to be what has kept us alive all this time. I can’t vouch for the rest of the world, but if I told you that I didn’t fear the day that strand might break, I’d be lying. It’s a precarious life, no doubt, but it’s what we’ve got.

“The color is what did me in. Or I guess, the lack thereof, rather. I can’t stand that it just slipped away the way it did. One day, the virus slammed us, and then we all became too preoccupied. Running, hiding, finding shelter, fortifying that shelter... it was all that mattered. Our minds were always busy studying those that joined us, evaluating if we could trust them. Busy worrying about where we would go next, if we were found or, worse yet, if we were caught unprepared. Busy hurting over our loved ones.

“And then one day, I realized how long it had been since I had sat down and not been busy doing something. That’s when I saw it. I looked around and saw the dullness of it all. As if someone had pulled the plug, and all of the world’s life had drained like a basin; only shadows remained of the colors that had been. Poor, empty representations of their past counterparts. And, like an infection, it spread. The months passed, and months soon became years. The sepia curse of colorless monotony bled into my thoughts, my dreams... my memories. I had a precious collection of memories to which I clung. Memories of my family. Memories of the most intimate nights with the most beautiful bride. Memories, even, of my last few days with them before R22...

“I had memories. Memories that provided my only link to the World That Was. That is, until they, too, were stolen from me. I remember the night; the memory. It was the night Allen had turned on the group, and we were all pretty shaken up. We were sleeping in an old abandoned office building, though I wasn’t sleeping much, not after that. I went to rest in a separate room, with an irregularly tight grip on the .22 revolver I hadn’t mentioned to the group I had, and closed my eyes to recall a memory. It had been a hard day, and I had drawn on my fondest. With that, there she lay before me.

“She had the covers pulled to her neck, and was giving me the broadest smile she had.

Best described as ‘inviting.’ I came to the edge of the bed and smiled back. She returned with the lighting up of her eyes, and she understood: ‘Invitation accepted.’ I deliberately reached for the edge of the blanket and- but…wait. What color was the blanket again? The memory froze in my mind. It was white. Right? Tan, I was sure of it...

“But I hadn’t been. I wasn’t able to remember for anything. I cycled through the archived memories, sampling a detail of each, and cursing the open air after every test... for I couldn’t recall a single specific color from any drape in the background, any blouse I desperately stripped from her, any shirt I bought my son at Disneyland, or any miscoloured sky in a picture my daughter drew of us holding hands with ‘Dabby’ written above my stick figure head. They were all gone; all different shades of gray. I had screamed and overturned a small filing cabinet that went crashing through the drywall. Then I left, abandoning my recently diminished group without an explanation to my disappearance. They probably assumed I had left our fortified shelter and had been found. Which I didn’t mind; whatever they conjured up in their minds likely held me as more heroic than I had really been, breaking down and running away like a true coward.

“My life was slipping away, and I was weak.

“So I walk. Not for anything in particular; I haven’t any real destination in mind. I enjoy walking, seeing the country. It’s all I have to keep me sane, in this desolate place. I know beyond anything that I wouldn’t be able live in one of those towns. Staying in one place isn’t for me. Why be a part of such a thing? I understand the need for stability, a steady lifeline, but the trade-off for 15

Prose that steadiness far outweighs the benefit. To me, stability is exactly the thing you’d be giving up.

Like that girl, Susan. Living in a village with other people would be equivalent to experiencing that agonizing moment on a daily basis. You build relationships, trust, grow fond of one another, all without the certainty that they’ll be alive the next morning. No, it’s not only a lack of certainty in their survival; the odds are in favor of them dying overnight! I’m sorry, and excuse me if you disagree, but that’s not a tier of suffering I’d like to add to my mountain of pain. The road is the only thing I can count on being here when morning comes, and so is my only close companion I’ve left.

“I hope I’ve answered any questions you may have, or kept you entertained, at least. My old friend is calling me home, if you don’t mind. I have enjoyed your company, either way.”

I stand and offer to shake the hand of the boy who asked what it was like, living this way after having been born in the World That Was. He says nothing, but reaches for my hand hesitantly, confused by what I’m doing. I laugh, and shake his hand. He is only half attentive, anyway. I can tell he is deep in thought. Smart kid, he’ll go far, I think. I turn and head towards the edge of town.

I see the road on the horizon, and a small sensation of hope wells within me. After all, it’s all we have left in this life.

16

Prose

3:27 AM

Ben Ewing

Fizzle and hush; a dead man speaks youth into music through the effete speakers over the wheezing roar of an old engine at three-thousand RPM. The musk of one hundred solemn cigarettes creeps from the faded cloth seats as a saxophone moan pushes down on the accelerator. White-knuckled, gripping the wheel, I crescendo into the moist moonless night.

A beautiful exhale loosens my grip, and a spent cigarette shatters into stars behind me as the lights of the sleeping city stream past. A voice rasps through the stereo, singing some somber story in harmony with the mourning exhaust. I lean back into the worn seat and feel the world wrap, warm and despondent, around the little car and swallow it whole.

Into an abstract realm I plunge, lonely and dauntless. All fear, despair, and joy congeal in this place. Music feeds me as sixty-five turns to seventy and eighty. My heartbeat quickens as the trumpet blares in my ears, shouting sorrow into the night. Engine at its limit, pedal buried... A soft rain begins to fall. Slow, deep inhale. Passing my exit, I fly, a nocturnal howl along a road with no end.

17

Prose

Absolute and Grand Chayenne Lugo

“Vanilla or chocolate?” the sad-eyed woman behind the counter asked me. I stood there, petrified, like the little fool I was. This was it. This was the first and last time that I was permitted to make a decision. I looked at the woman and wondered how she felt on this day; the day where she turned 13 and had to pick out her birthday cake. I wondered if she was upset when she cut it in slices only to find a slip of paper that read something like Congratulations. You will report to Room 426 on Thursday at 3:00 p.m. to attend the Cake Sellers of Absolute and Grand States of Land Orientation. Further information will be given to you on that day. I wondered how deep her heart dropped when she learned that this was what she would be doing for the rest of her life.

“Vanilla. Or. Chocolate,” she hissed impatiently.

“Which do you recommend?” I asked.

My mother glared at me and the woman scoffed. I forgot it was rude to ask opinion questions outside of the family. It wasn’t considered a Grand thing to do.

“Hogarth, she hasn’t got all day. Just pick a flavor so we can move on to the ceremony,” my mom said. I knew she did have all day, though. It’s not like she can go anywhere else. My mother just wanted the ceremony to start as soon as possible. The closer I get to cutting the cake, the closer I get to having to move out and starting my own life.

“Chocolate,” I muttered.

At the ceremony, it was just my parents, my younger siblings, and a representative to take me away when my fate was decided. I have older siblings, but we are no longer allowed to see them.

“Does it make you sad?” I once asked my mother when my brother Ned left.

“Of course not,” she said, “I’ll just have another one.”

“Well, what happens when you run out of children? Will you feel sad then?” I remember her laughing and then telling me that when she runs out of children, she still won’t feel sad because she contributed to society to the best of her abilities, and that is all you should want in life.

I kept asking her questions on what that means and if that’s the Grand thing to do. She became upset, though, and sent me to the Correction Room where I had to watch a film on how asking too many questions is not the Absolute and Grand thing to do.

My father passed me the knife, which was the same one that my brothers and sisters used before me. I think I was hit with some nostalgia, but I’m not entirely sure. I’m not allowed to feel nostalgia, so I could have just been nervous. I grasped the metallic handle tightly and slowly split the chocolate cake open. When I pulled the knife out, the slip of paper was stuck and folded over on the blade.

“Read it! Read it!” my sister Aisha chanted. I didn’t want to read it, though. I didn’t want to turn 13, and I definitely didn’t want to move out. Unfortunately, I had no choice.

My sweaty hands reached for the paper. It was wrinkled with brown flecks on it from the cake. I could feel everyone’s eyes stalk every move I made. I read the slip out loud: Congratulations. You will report to Room 801 on Saturday at 7:00 p.m.

We stood there in confusion.

“Does it not say which job the room offers?” my father asked.

“No,” I said with my eyes still set on the paper. “It just tells me which room to go to.”

The representative rose. “Well, we should get going then. Room 801 is in a different community.”

“Oh, right! Of course,” my mother said. “Hogarth, make sure you have all of your luggage.” She picked up the cake and threw it in the waste bin. It was at that moment I realized how 18

Prose silly it was of me to worry so much on which flavor I chose. I had never tasted chocolate and I never would.

Since I had never left the community, I’d always imagined all the neighboring ones to look exactly the same. I was right. Each community is just a large building with 800 rooms each.

400 are for families to live in, and the other 400 serve as job opportunities.

“What’s in Room 801?” I asked the representative. We were sitting in a pod-like vehicle that would transport us to a different community.

“That’s confidential at the moment,” he said, without making eye contact with me.

“But I’ll find out anyway. I don’t get why you can’t just tell me.”

“Are you questioning my authority?” he snapped. The way he said that instantly silenced me. Questioning authority is one of the major restrictions here, and it can get someone in a lot of trouble. I’m not sure what kind of trouble; in fact, no one really knows, but whatever it is it’s probably really bad.

I looked out the window. It was so strange to see how the outside world looked. It wasn’t what I had imagined at all. I thought it would be as clean and glistening as the community. Instead the sky was a disgusting grey, and the ground a reddish brown. I could see run-down community buildings off in the distance. I wanted to ask the representative what happened to them, but I didn’t want to anger him any more than I already had.

The pod stopped inside a cold garage-like place. The men standing in there opened the door for us. Was this my job- opening pod cars for newcomers?

“Follow me,” said the representative. We walked through many hallways that looked exactly the same as the ones back home. We stopped.

“This is the room you will be staying in until Saturday,” he said. “Don’t even try leaving.”

I thought it strange that he would tell me that. I would never have thought of such a thing. Or maybe I would have. I don’t really know.

I opened the door to the room. I expected it to be empty, but there were 10 other people inside, two of them uniformed men.

“Congratulations,” said one of the men. “You have been selected to take part in the Absolute and Grand States of Land Extermination Process.”

“What’s that mean?” asked one quavering voice.

“It means our population is growing to a not-so-Grand amount. Given that only 400 families are permitted in each community, we have to get rid of a few people. No worries, though; the process is painless, and a very honorable thing to do.”

The guards smiled at us and left the room. We didn’t know what to think. We actually didn’t really have time to think, because before we knew it, the lights turned out and we no longer existed.

19

Prose

Low Battery

Aaditya Madhwesh

Jeff was his name. He was married to a beautiful wife, Sheila, and had an adorable 4-year-old son, Mark. Jeff was a software engineer. He wrote programs.

Jeff worked long hours. He rarely indulged himself with restroom breaks. He usually just held those in until the last second, too; in his mind, he was just a diligent worker.

His laptop, though, was not the best laptop. It often glitched and froze. It was frustrating, but it often responded with a smack.

Over time, his eyes became bloodshot. He started to grow a beard, but his beard became so itchy that it distracted him from programming. He ripped his beard out and then worked twice as hard to make up for the lost time.

One day he noticed his laptop said, “Low Battery: 2%”

Jeff didn’t know what to do. He saw that it was plugged into the charger, but it still pleaded for energy. He thought it was glitching again so he hit the side of it. Before he could react, his hand was missing. Blood poured profusely from the stump. He looked at the computer. It said, “Low Battery: 5%”

Mark walked in at that moment, wearing a cap and gown. He saw his dad staring at the computer. Before Mark could say anything, Jeff leaned forward, and the computer swallowed him.

Mark looked at the screen.

“Low Battery: 35%”

20

Prose

Patterns

Katherine Tidwell

As the sun set and the monotonous chirps of crickets grew to a symphony, the neighborhood came alive with night time. Eden sat alone in her room and sang along to the hum of tires and the brushing of leaves against her window. She looked at the clock and flipped page after page until her eyelids fell and her own heavy breathing faded into the collection of noises outside.

“Eden,” nature whispered.

The next morning, Eden woke hours after the sun had begun to flood her room. The air was quiet and still, and she sank into the sound of her heartbeat. For a moment she remained, wrapped in the warm silence, until, restlessly, she began searching for the day.

Outside, the cloudless ceiling rested on the new-smelling air. It was a familiar feeling.

The leaves shivered at the wind’s rush, and each blade of grass stood tall, reaching for its cool touch. It was the time that nature released the last of its collected beauty before fading away.

Insects and animals crept through the soft grass to the porch lights and doorsteps, humble homes sheltering last season’s prime. Eden sat beneath a tree and watched time pass, read stories about histories she would not be a part of, and sunk into the fleeing hours. She held on for as long as she could until she heard the patter of others’ feet rushing against hardwood porches. She heard doors slam and saw blinds pulled tight. She watched the sun fight against the mountain tops, and she regretted its patterns. She gathered her things and hurried back into her home, fearful of losing light.

The moment Eden’s fingers slipped away from the lock, she heard the sun cry out and night sweep over. Crickets’ chirps cried out against each other, and the leaves near her window tapped against the pane. She closed her eyes and sang along. Against the pavement, Eden could hear tires growl and roll to a stop.

She sang louder.

She sang the tires back to a hum and the crickets back into symphony. She didn’t look outside, but she could feel the crisp black swell against the trees and house frames. She looked at the clock against her wall and it read slower than last night. The second-hand ticked an eighth beat slower than she had counted before.

Eden read an eighth beat slower, and her eyelids gave an eighth beat later, and she fell asleep humming the sound of the outside.

“Eden,” nature cried.

That night Eden woke up briefly to the hissing of the wind and the crawling of the unknown. Hours flashed toward her in a beat, the beat between her heart pumping and not, between her lungs filling and not. It was loud from the outside, but the beat paused, her eyes blinked shut, and her breathing faded back.

Eden woke up just as the sun had finished flooding her bedroom; she could tell by the sounds that still lingered beyond her window. She held on to the silence when it followed moments after. She smiled beneath the covers, sank into her own breathing, her own heartbeat, and was happy. She was eager for morning’s arrival.

Eden spent that day beneath a tree again. She enjoyed the silent sounds that books made- the way the scenes made noise in her head only.

Eden glanced down at her watch and up at the sun. She sighed. She had hours left in the day, but the warm glow and friendly touch reminded her that it was going to be over an eighth beat sooner than before.

In the last moments of her day Eden turned tirelessly through daylights and night times.

She loved the characters who spent nights away from their shelter; she smiled at the romance 21

Prose her novels linked with night, the promiscuity, the touches, the laughter. She smiled at lives lived beyond the schedule of the sun. In her books, men and women envying, loving, hating, fighting -it was wonderful. It was untouchable.

She looked up as the doors began slamming. Over her head, the sun was grazing the hilltops. As its orange glow pressed against the grass, Eden could hear the sounds grow. She closed her book and quickly swept across the field back to her home.

She was running just ahead of the passing sunlight. Behind her she could hear crickets screeching and leaves crunching.

She ran faster.

She passed through the woods, following close in front of the last trail of orange light.

Noises echoed against the frozen tree trunks, the grass cried out beneath her feet, and the sounds became louder, clearer, sharper.

Eden reached her doorstep right as the sun left, and her fingers traced the lock on the door moments before she heard the rush of silence sweeping away behind it. She glanced at the clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick. The seconds approached slowly before her eyes, slower than the previous night, slower than she was hopelessly forcing herself to count. She hadn’t dared to turn toward the window, in fear of seeing the sounds and something

- and she did not remember the beat of the previous night.

Eden crept up the stairs to the sound of crickets crying and leaves beating against the glass. Tires outside roared to a terrorizing halt, and she sang. She hummed the tune that forced the crickets back to a cry and the leaves back to a tapping. She sang the tires back into a growl and sang through their stop. Eden made it up the stairs in an unfailing melody. She returned to her room a half beat later than she had the night before. She read slower and slower, her words hanging on the page a half beat longer than they had beneath the tree. Romance eased off the page in a melodic dance, Desire clung and formed like clay beneath her fingers, Anger swelled hot and slowly - warming, and burning, and scolding, and Eden could not react quickly enough to cool them down.

Envy lingered on every

punctuation.

Every line break

every pause, and envy

twisted in the night air.

Eden’s song began to stick in the back of her throat. Night made everything a half beat slower. Eden’s heavy heart and restless mind were working at the pace she had always known, but she could not force her flesh to move faster. Night was swelling against her. The air was heavy and thick, and the sounds echoed. She tried to force the song to sing the outside back to lovely, but she was working too fast against herself. She slowed down with darkness. She lingered on, in anger and desire until her eyelids gave and her breathing faded into the sounds outside.

“Eden,” nature yelled.

Eden rose with the last bit of sunlight. Her movements were heavy and weighted. Her heart beat slowly, and her blood felt thick. Her right-paced self did not want to sink into that sound alone, but she smiled at the passing of night’s noises and turned back under her covers.

Sounds passed.

She spent that day alone beneath the tree farther away from her house in the forest.

She did not bother the clock or the sun.

She did not bother to hear when doors were slamming or feet were pattering. She sat 22

Prose alone beneath a tree that swayed as though the air were made of syrup. She read about getting and greeding, loving and lusting, envying and wanting- she read so she did not bother to sing the crickets clawing or the tires screeching or the leaves scraping.

Outside was happening around her, and she was unaware.

The air hissed around her; tree roots crawled through the ground to wrap themselves around her ankles.

Eden read. Eden listened.

Slowly she became aware of the familiar sounds; she remembered the beat that she had seen. Time moved a half beat slower, but night moved faster than it had before. Eden could not force her body away from the words that fogged her lovely song. Serpentine, the pages crowded her feet, and she saw nature closing in on her quickly.

Eden tried to scream, but could only hear. That was night-time: it made silence to make itself louder. Her mind was at the foot of her door, her mind was still racing with sunlight, her mind was beats ahead. Nighttime had slowed to days. Tires cut the pavement beside her, tires carrying the lost ones.

Her eyes had begun to give. The smirk that was stretched across her face, from the sins that she delighted in, was beginning to fade. She moved through the thick air. Night stretched around her. It was fast and took her many times before her hands were able to fight it away. The branches that encircled her feet would not loosen and Eden fell slowly. Her hair tossed in front of her and she fell for a very long time.

Night moved effortlessly and saw the daylight finally slip from Eden’s face. She hit the ground hard and her eyes gave, her breathing faded heavy into the sounds of temptations.

Days passed and the sun began to push against the hill-tops. Eden hid in the trees. She regretted the patterns.

23

Prose

Shopkeep Panda Jordan Coats

A panda...shopkeeping. He takes inventory, scans barcodes, sweeps. He has the armband, the visor, and the round-rimmed glasses—but he’s a panda. He isn’t a ninja, and he doesn’t know Kung Fu. He’s just a normal old panda, shopkeeping.

24

Prose

She’s Always Watching Kaylie Miller

Free to whoever will rid me of this beast: a slightly disheveled poster featuring Olivia Newton John in her role as “Sandy” in Grease. The poster features the actress in several promotional shots and scene photos. This would not be problematic if only Olivia Newton John wasn’t making such awkward faces. Her “sexy face” scares me. I feel quite violated every time I look at it.

I want it out of my house.

How did I come to own this monstrosity in the first place? It was certainly not by choice.

A friend gifted it to me, remembering my love of musicals. The concept? Quite sweet. The execution? Eghhhhh…

At first, I hung Olivia Newton John above my bed. I figured that my friend would easily see it when she came over, and after a few visits I could sneak the poster into the recesses of my closet.

However, following a few nights of a poster watching over my sleeping form, I faced a sudden predicament. As I was sleeping soundly, Olivia leapt off the wall and landed on my face.

You can imagine what followed.

I had since banished her to the back of my door and covered her with a shoe rack. She still stares seductively at me when I grab a pair of sneakers.

Please, take this poster off of my hands. Give her to your musical theater geek. Give her to that middle-aged guy you know who owns a box of Olivia Newton John’s used tissues. Give her to that middle-aged guy you know who dances to “You’re The One That I Want” when he thinks nobody is watching.

25

Prose

Quinn and Dahlia Madelyn Wong

Quentin Shultz, who only answered to ‘Quinn’ because ‘Quentin’ was harsh and staccato and grated on his ears, was the youngest of the five children in the Shultz household. His older sisters shared with Quinn a playroom, a bathroom, one deluxe Lego set, and far too many costumes.

Like most boys at the age of six-and-three-quarters, Quinn wasn’t particularly fond of playing tea party. In fact, he hated it. But when you have four older sisters cooing over princesses and fairies and dresses, you tend to get bullied into things you hate.

So that is how Quinn found himself wearing a crown and skirt one sunny Saturday in April, out in the park for all the neighborhood kids to see. Yet another boy from his grade –this made seven by Quinn’s count- rode by on his bike, pointing and laughing. Quinn slumped further down in his plastic chair and wished he could poof into thin air.

“Quinndalina!” Faye shrilled. “Have you forgotten your manners? You must be polite in front of the prince.” Faye Shultz was the oldest sister at the very grown-up age of 12.

‘Quinndalina’ personally thought that after his abused teddy bear had been kidnapped, held for ransom, and dubbed Prince Charming, the last thing on the poor bear’s mind was proper table manners. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

“No, no, no, Quinndalina!” cried Lilith, expert in all things Disney. “’Your Majesty’ is for the king!”

“That’s right, ‘Your Majesty’ is the king’s name,” her twin, Jessie, chimed in, “and ‘Your Highness’ is the prince’s!”

Carolina, a sweet but confused eight-year-old, pouted. “But wait, I thought the prince’s name was Charming…? Does that mean Prince Your Highness isn’t nice?”

As his sisters continued to bicker, Quinn snagged his bear’s arm and slunk very slowly from his seat. Maybe, just maybe, if he moved quietly enough—

“Hey! Where’s Quinndalina going?!”

So much for that plan. Clutching his teddy’s arm for dear life, Quinn ran as fast as his little legs could carry him.

“The prisoner’s escaping!”

“Get him!”

-- In a quiet little bookstore by Cathy’s Circle Park, storeowner Dahlia May once again leafed through her dog-eared copy of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, first name Dahlia, last name May. Yes, it was her legal name, and yes, it was the name her parents gave her. Thank you very much. Dahlia had grown up hearing various forms of those questions her whole life, generally followed by a look that said ‘Did your parents love you at all?’

Mr. and Mrs. May did indeed love their three daughters. But it had been their shared dream since the day they had ridden off into the Chicago sunset together that their children should be named after spring flowers. Of course, Dahlia’s older sister and younger sister were named after the pretty, well-known flora Rose and Lily, respectively. Dahlia hadn’t even known what her namesake looked like until she turned 14 and decided to look it up.

The unfortunate pictures gifted to her by a school encyclopedia depicted oddly colored cabbages. Another book showed that they were bee-combed puffballs. Suffice to say, teenage Dahlia’s insecurities only deepened. Thank god most of said worries were shed along with her dark clothes, goth make-up, and terrible acne.

Now, if those insecurities happened to come to bite her in the arse years later when both of her very beautiful sisters each married their own very beautiful husbands to live in very 26

Prose beautiful houses in which to raise very beautiful children and live happily ever after—

Well, that is all beside the point. Dahlia was currently a somewhat successful bookstore owner, just shy of thirty-three, living on her own in a generally friendly and wholesome small town with her books and beloved crystal vase for company.

And she was definitely not lonely.

Not one little bit.

Ding ding! The bell over the door signified a customer.

Dahlia quickly bookmarked her page and swept her feet off the counter. How professional of her.

“Hello, welcome to-” Dahlia froze. A little boy clutching a bedraggled teddy bear had collapsed on her floor, princess crown askew and tutu ruffled. She wasn’t sure if she should pity him or burst out laughing. Maybe both. “Umm—”

“Please!” the boy huffed. “Save me!” She was about to ask what from when she heard voices outside.

“Where did he go?”

“He’s gotta be somewhere around here!”

Ah, the bonds of siblinghood. That explained a lot.

“Okay, quick,” Dahlia ushered him up and towards the back of the store. “Hide behind the bookshelves and be very quiet!”

Dahlia barely had enough time to slide back into her spinny chair and reopen her book in the pretense of boredom before the bell Ding ding!-ed.

A herd of costumed girls –holy cow, four sisters? No wonder the kid was terrified– scrambled through the doorway. There was the general ruckus of complaints and groaning before Dahlia cleared her throat. “Can I help you girls?”

They quieted quickly and the tallest girl stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Faye Shultz. We’re just looking for our lost baby brother, Quentin. He ran away from the park, you see, and we’re really very worried about him. We have to be home any minute now, and then our dear parents will be worried sick too. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Dahlia had seen that sugarcoated smile and those batting eyelashes on Rose’s face enough times to know not to trust it.

“Sorry girls, it’s been quiet all day. Well, until you came in, of course.” She shot back a smile of her own; maybe not quite as sweet, though.

Stammering apologies, the girls fled the store. The bell chimed behind them.

“Okay, kid, you can come out now.” The boy timidly returned to the front. “Your parents won’t actually be here soon, will they?”

He shook his head. “My mom won’t be done running errands until 3 o’clock.”

“You can stay here until then, I guess, if you want to. Besides,” Dahlia glanced at his tiara, “I’ve never had royalty visit the store before.”

The boy blushed and snatched the crown off his head. The tutu quickly joined it.

“M’not royalty,” he murmured. “And I’m not ‘Baby Quentin’ either. I’m six-and-threequarters and my name’s just Quinn.”

“Well, hi, ‘Just Quinn.’ I’m Dahlia.” She gestured to the bear still in Quinn’s arms. “And who’s your friend?”

“Bartholomew.”

Bartholomew? What kid names his bear Bartholomew?

“Is Bartholomew Bear named after someone?”

“Nope.” Okay then…

“What’s that?” Quinn asked, pointing a finger. Dahlia followed it to her crystal vase sitting in the windowsill. Oh.

“That’s my vase,” she said. “A friend gave it to me.”

27

Prose

“But why’s it empty? Shouldn’t your friend have brought flowers too?”

Dahlia tried to smile. “He did, but the flowers died a few weeks after.”

“Well, shouldn’t he have gotten you new ones?”

“No, Quinn. I haven’t seen him in a very long time.”

“Oh…”

They both became very quiet.

“There are some children’s books,” Dahlia said suddenly. “Over there by the crafts section. If you and Bartholomew would like to read them.”

“Okay.” Quinn nodded and slipped back behind the bookshelves. Dahlia sighed and picked her book back up. No, she was definitely not lonely.

Twenty-one more pages later, Quinn reappeared at the counter. “Do you have any pieces of paper I can have?”

“Oh, um, sure.” She pulled a small pile from her fax machine. “I have pens and markers too, if you need—”

“No thanks, this is good.” And he disappeared again.

Dahlia just smiled and returned to her adventures with Holmes and Watson.

-- “Hey, Quinn! Your mom will be at the park soon, you better get going!”

“Just a second!” a voice called from beyond the bookshelves. “M’not finished!”

Dahlia laughed. “You can always come back to finish reading, Quinn. Or I can reserve it for you so you can come with your mom to buy it.”

When Quinn finally emerged from behind the shelves, he was juggling a book and Bartholomew under one arm. The other was tucked behind his back.

“Okay, so you want me to reserve this book?” She scribbled his name on a post-it note and pressed it to the cover of… The Ultimate Origami Kit?

“Hey, I thought you were read—” Ding ding!

Quinn was gone by the time Dahlia looked up, but there was something in his place – a bit of folded paper. She stared and, after a moment, smiled.

She brought her origami dahlia over to its proper place in the window.

28

Prose

There

Emily Bohatch

The sun was rising when Kaitlin’s eyes fluttered open. Wriggling out of bed, she dropped herself gently to the cool floor and hopped silently from foot to foot, trying to keep her toes warm.

She struggled to hold in her excitement as she yanked on a fresh dress, and had to bite her tongue in order to hold in a scream of frustration when she couldn’t remember which shoe went on which foot. Did they curve in or out? Kaitlin couldn’t remember, nor did she care; she didn’t need shoes where she was going today.

As quietly as an excited child could, Kaitlin scurried through the house to the back door, making sure to turn the door knob slowly. As soon as the door shut behind her, she let out a cry of joy and ran through the yard, feeling the lush, dew-covered grass run through her toes. Kaitlin stopped at the edge of the green grass, and peeked cautiously over her shoulder.

The grass felt foreign under her toes as she took the first step out of the safety of her own backyard; it crunched brittlely underfoot, not feeling nearly as soft under Kaitlin’s bare feet as her own luscious, well kept lawn. Kaitlin ignored it; much larger things were on her mind.

She trekked across endless fields, and picked her way carefully through thick woods. She climbed over rocks, and crossed roaring streams. Just as Kaitlin began to suspect that she was lost, she stumbled into the clearing.

“Oh, there you are!” Kaitlin sighed, running to the middle of the large field. In front of her stood a small sapling Kaitlin crouched down, feeling tiny next to the plant, even though it was not so tall itself.

“How are you today, George?” Kaitlin asked the plant, stretching her legs out in front of her and smoothing her dress.

George said nothing, but swayed happily with the wind. Kaitlin smiled, and babbled on.

She enjoyed George’s company; his strong silence always assured her he was listening. He would nod after every pause, prompting her to tell him more, and Kaitlin would. By now, George knew all of Kaitlin’s secrets, her dreams, her wants, what was happening at school. In turn, Kaitlin knew everything about George. How his favorite color was green, so he wore it all of the time. That one day, he wanted to grow up big and strong, like the trees that lived with him in the valley. That he had a crush on the sun, and that’s why he was so sad in the winter when he couldn’t see her. Even though he had never come right out and told Kaitlin these things, she was almost positive they were true.

A large gust of wind blew through the tall grass, and George began to dance to the music of the rustling leaves. Kaitlin smiled; the forest was George’s favorite band. She began to dance with him. The two swayed and turned in the cool wind until the music stopped, and Kaitlin collapsed to the ground, giggling uncontrollably.

“George, you really need to brush up on your moves. You’re getting a little stiff,” Kaitlin laughed. George just swayed happily towards her.

“You know what, George?” Kaitlin stretched, putting her arms behind her head. “You are probably my best friend.”

George’s leaves rustled, as if to whisper you too, Kaitlin. Content, Kaitlin closed her eyes.

It wasn’t often that George talked, so she didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Kaitlin,” a quiet voice called.

“George, you already said that,” Kaitlin replied.

“Kaitlin,” the voice called again.

Kaitlin opened her eyes. George was still, looking off at something in the distance. Turn29

Prose ing, Kaitlin looked too.

“Kaitlin,” the voice was calling from where Kaitlin had come from.

She got to her feet, hugged George good-bye, and scurried back through the woods.

When Kaitlin arrived back at her house, her mother was standing on the back porch, waiting expectantly for her.

“Where have you been, Kaitlin?” Mother asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Visiting George,” Kaitlin replied, climbing up the stairs and to her mother’s side.

Even though Mother tried to hide it, Kaitlin saw something change in her eyes. Mother did not like George, Kaitlin was sure. She often told Kaitlin to shush when she tried to talk about George, and told her to never mention him around Father, especially when Father was acting silly.

Kaitlin didn’t need to be told that; she already didn’t like being near Father when he was acting silly. He yelled too much for her liking.

Sitting at the table, Kaitlin picked at her food, longing to go back and play with George.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and soon after, rain began to fall in heavy droplets. Poor George, Kaitlin thought; he hated the rain. It was far too cold and it reminded him of taking a bath, he had told her one distant afternoon. Maybe she would bring him a coat when she was finished eating.

Excusing herself, Kaitlin began her desperate search for a coat. Surely, George wouldn’t want to wear one of hers; he hated pink, and would think it was too girly. He was too small to fit in one of Father’s large coats, so that was out of the question. Kaitlin wandered through the large house, checking in closets and various rooms for the perfect jacket. Just when she thought her search was futile, Kaitlin remembered the room at the end of the hall. It had been a while since she had thought about that room. No one ever used it—except sometimes Father when he was acting exceptionally odd—so Kaitlin had gone on with her life, ignoring the door at the end of the hall.

Making sure Mother wasn’t watching, Kaitlin tip-toed down the hall and quietly turned the handle. The door swung open quietly, slowly revealing the contents of the room foreign to her.

A bed sat in the corner, sheets untidy, as if someone had just woken up and left without making the bed again. Toys were strewn hap hazardously across the floor. Kaitlin picked her way across the room to an old corduroy jacket that was thrown carelessly over a chair. Picking it up, she inspected it. The elbows were worn and in need of a patch, and it was missing an occasional button.

A sticky army man fell out of the left pocket and onto the floor with its brethren. Whose jacket was this? Kaitlin wondered, searching for a name. A “G” was scrawled hurriedly across the tag, and Kaitlin desperately tried to remember what Father’s real name was; perhaps it once belonged to him when he was a child.

“What are you doing in here?”

Dropping the jacket, Kaitlin spun around, putting her hands behind her back. Staring with wide, blood-shot eyes, Father leaned on the frame of the door. A lump rose in Kaitlin’s throat as a shiver ran up her spine. She breathed heavily, trying to relax herself. Father slid off the frame, slowly making his way over to her. Kaitlin noticed he was extremely careful not to disturb anything but the carpet.

Without saying a word, Father picked the army man back off the floor and replaced it in the jacket pocket. Wiping his eyes, he threw the jacket back over the chair, taking time to situate it to look almost exactly as it had before. It wasn’t until after he was satisfied that he acknowledged Kaitlin again.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked again, his hot, sour breath wafting to Kaitlin’s nose. She fought the urge to pinch it shut.

“I was getting a jacket for George. He doesn’t like the rain” she whispered.

Father’s lips turned up, but the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. “No. George didn’t like the rain,” he murmured, straightening back up, and swaying. Kaitlin didn’t like it when Father swayed; George’s sway was happy and reassuring, but Father’s just made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

30

Prose

“No sir-ee,” Father repeated, louder, “George did not like the rain!” He was screaming now. “That boy hated the rain! George did not like the rain!”

Kaitlin wanted to move—scream, run, hide, anything but stand still—but she couldn’t.

Frozen in place, she just watched Father sway and shout.

“George hated the rain! He would hide under these damn covers and cry!” Father ripped the messy blankets from the bed and threw them to the floor. “He was so scared, and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it!” Father swept his arm over the dresser, knocking a motley of toys and odd trinkets to the floor. “I couldn’t stop it!” Father picked up the jacket and threw it to the ground at Kaitlin’s feet. “I couldn’t stop it!” he collapsed in the chair, sobbing.

Kaitlin did not move. A strong hand grabbed the top of her arm, yanking her away from her weeping father. Mother dragged Kaitlin from the room, angrily slamming the door behind her.

“Don’t you ever go in there!” Mother growled at her. “Do you hear me? Never.”

Kaitlin nodded, not sure of whom she should be more afraid of. Mother let go of her arm, and stormed back into the room. Angry shouting soon could be heard through the thin, wooden door. Backing away from it, Kaitlin spun on her heel and sprinted through the house, knocking over things in her path, and sliding across the carefully waxed hardwoods until she reached the back door. Her fingers fumbled with the door knob as she tried to open it. Click.

Freedom.

Without looking back, Kaitlin sprinted through the yard until the grass was rigid beneath her toes. She ran through stretching fields and dense woods, and leaped over rushing streams and tall rocks until she was convinced that she was lost. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she stumbled into the familiar clearing.

“George?” she cried out, voice shaking.

There was no reply. Kaitlin ran to the center of the clearing, searching desperately for a familiar flash of green. Nothing met her eyes. She found the patch of flattened grass where she had sat earlier, going on about her secrets, but no George. She found a path, grass long killed from the numerous times she had walked upon it, but no George. She found a scrap of cloth, torn from her dress on a cold winter’s day to keep her companion warm, but no George. Memories clouded her vision, but she still didn’t see George.

Numbness fell over Kaitlin as she sank to the ground. How could George just leave her like this? After she had cared for him? After she had told him all of her secrets? After they had spent so many afternoons wasting away the day? Kaitlin wept at the loss of her friend. She cried until her eyes were red and her face was sore. She cried until the sleeves of her dress were soaking wet and covered in snot. She cried until she could cry no more, and she got back to her feet.

Taking a final look back at the meadow, Kaitlin disappeared back into the woods and headed toward home. When she opened the back door, the house seemed empty. Kaitlin tip-toed back down the hall, to the door she had ignored before.

Placing her hand on the cool wood, she whispered softly, “Oh, there you are.”

31

Prose

Black Rose

Sarah Hartung The Nazis call me Death-Child.

I am fourteen years old.

I have killed 24 people.

There are about three hundred young prisoners at any given time in the death camp.

There are different popularity ratings for different fighters, and I’m near the top. The postings dictate that I have roughly one death match every week.

I’ve stopped crying about them. I am changing, and I can feel it. I know it. Human life doesn’t mean the same to me as it once did. It isn’t worth the same, I guess. Not when you have to end it, week after week. But today... today is different. Today, when we were all gathered in the listings room, and I had pushed my way to the front, there was only one entry worth noticing.

Death-Child vs. Maria Guten.

Today, I will kill the girl that was once my best friend.

We’ve hardly spoken since Charlie’s death. I’ve come to realize that she has let go.

Whenever she sees me, her expression twists into sadness. Mine is of anger. Anger and hatred for these “people,” these apes, that dared to pit me against my own little brother. When Maria saw the posts, she glanced over at me, her eyes searching. I kept my face blank. Uncaring. She means no more to me than any of the others do. Which is nothing. At least, that is what I tell myself.

It’s too late to fix anything. She’s chosen her path, and I’ve chosen mine. But today her path must end. The drums begin, their frenzied beat almost comforting, a welcome diversion from the hidden pain. I have nothing but the vest and my spear to defend myself as the portcullis lifts.

Maria carries a knife, a weapon she can throw with lethal accuracy. The Nazis’ roars die down to a reverent silence, and the drums cease. She watches me warily as we circle, her frizzled blond hair flying in the ocean wind.

Twelve years. We are both just twelve years old.

Maria carefully scrutinizes me, takes in the blood-stained leather vest and boots, the crooked spear in my hands.

“You chose to bring that with you? Not a shield?”

The incredulous note in her voice irritates me. I say nothing.

She stops walking completely, just stands and stares at me. I halt as well and meet her questioning eyes readily.

“How do you do it?” she whispers. “How do you keep winning? You should be dead.

Why do I have to be the one that has to correct that mistake?”

You should be dead. A harsh laugh escapes my mouth. So she thinks I have some big secret to my survival? Well, I guess I do. And guess whose fault that is?

“Anne...it doesn’t have to be like this. Please. We were friends. They didn’t take that away from us. They couldn’t.”

Who was it that got us caught? She did. And now she will pay the price.

“You were... You are like a sister to me. Don’t let it end like this. Anne...”

I am trembling, my body on the brink of crazed fury. This is it, her weakness. I feel them rise in her throat. Two words. Two little words that contain unimaginable power. These are the words that could have healed me, so long ago. But she kept them buried in her resentment, swallowed them in her grief, until it no longer mattered. Until my mind was so battered and bruised it became someone else’s.

“...I’m sorry.”

32

Prose

Anne would have smiled. She would have cried, pulled Maria in for a hug, and forgiven her straightaway. She would have loved anew.

I just felt sick.

“You’re sorry.” I repeated. Even to my own ears, the words sounded flat, lifeless.

Maria’s lips twitched upward, a minute flicker of relief. In her mind, all was mended.

She’d finally said what she needed to say. Now the girl she knew would say everything was okay.

Little Anne wouldn’t put up a fight if it would save someone she cared about.

“Yes, Anne. I’m sorry.”

But Anne was dead.

I feel the edges of my lips bend upwards briefly. A twisted smile, devoid of mirth. All this time, I’d waited. Twenty-four people had died while I’d waited. But not to hear “I’m sorry.” Oh, no. I had to wait three months to say my own words.

“That’s not good enough.”

For the first time, Maria looks scared. She takes a step back, speechless. I feel my shoulders tense, the emotions steadily smashing at my composure.

“Six months.” Steel arcs through my tone. “For six months I have survived rats, starvation, disease, cruelty. Waiting for you to say those words. But no. You never did. And now look where we are.”

She is stunned. Her lips fumble, fruitlessly trying to speak. She stammers.

“Anne, I-I—”

Something inside me implodes. It is dark, irate.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry!” The cackle rises like bile in my throat. It is hideous, half hysteria and half wild sob. “You’re too late, can’t you see? You’re too late!”

Maria swallows, seeing me with new eyes. She looks away, down to the dirt floor, up to the gray sky.

“So it’s true then? What everyone has been saying about you. I didn’t want to believe it.”

She finally meets my eyes. “You know what today is, don’t you?” I can see the tears shining in her eyes. “Today we are twelve years old. Don’t you realize what that means? If you do this?”

I know all too well. It is clearly stated in the Torah. Today, she and I become responsible for our actions. As of today, we no longer are children in the eyes of the Lord. But He has turned His face away; how can He hear us in this barbaric place, where His people are slaughtered for entertainment? We might as well be heathens for all the good our prayers have done us. Maria gives a tired laugh at my silence.

“You really are a different person now, aren’t you? This ‘Death-Child’ rumor—you really are becoming their pet.” She shakes her head sadly. She no longer cares about the inevitable fight.

She’s given up trying to resurrect the girl she loved. The apes have begun to mutter in the stands, bored with the lack of action. We won’t be allowed to speak like this for much longer. Maria stares at me, her blue eyes filled with tears.

“Why, Anne? Why have you changed so much?” She pauses, then gazes off into the distance. Her voice is thin, sorrowful.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it? At least partly. I never wanted to accept that. That’s why I didn’t...that’s why I could never find the courage to tell you that I was sorry. I didn’t want to be sorry. But it’s my fault. I understand that now. If I hadn’t told them—Charlie—” she chokes, and her eyes move back to mine, beseeching. “Please, Anne. You have no idea how much guilt I feel—”

This time I just chuckle dryly. I take one step closer to her, a threat. And then another.

“Guilt? Guilt? What would you know about guilt?”

I see her fingers flinch toward the knife, but she decides against it. Another step.

“Have you ever worked day and night to save someone’s life, promising that everything would be all right, and then been forced to kill them? Have you cheated death to be a murderer for the rest of your life? Have you ever lied to save someone who loved you?” Again, I laugh softly, 33

Prose a despicable sound.

“Have you ever lied to kill someone you loved?”

Fear and pain blaze in her eyes. She doesn’t know what is coming, only senses the danger. Refuses to accept it.

“But did you feel sorry enough to do anything about it then? No.”

I stop a few feet away, my muscles coiled in anticipation, tremors from bridled energy coursing through me. Control set to snap.

“So, you want me to forgive you? Fine. You can feel everything I feel. Be responsible for everything I’ve done. You want to know guilt? Here it is!”

I throw the spear at her as hard as I can, my emotions attached to it like a vise. It misses, but the intention is clear. And Maria can’t handle it. The grief envelops her like a fungus, worming its way into her mind. I try desperately to block out her screams.

She takes one step back, then two. Out of instinct I call out to warn her. But she throws herself over the edge anyway. I watch as she wails, the agony still lingering on her face, and she tumbles backward into the chasm surrounding the arena. A gunshot from the stands. For an eternal moment, her falling body seems to hang suspended in the air as her eyes meet mine for the last time, forever contrite. A dull splash as her body hits the water, and I know it’s over. I take a deep breath and walk to the edge, looking down into the swirling eddies of brackish liquid. I see a flash of blond hair and pale skin before she sinks beneath. The only goodbye I’ll ever get.

In the stands, the crowd begins to roar at the victory, crowing their approval. But I don’t need it. I don’t want it.

I want myself back. I want Anne back.

My legs are immobile, chest heaving. I close my eyes, Maria’s last screams replaying over and over in my head. And I know. I know they’ll never stop. My eyelids start to sting, so I lift them. And a single tear runs down my cheek to drip onto the dry dirt. Stunned, I stare at the spot of wetness, a tiny ring of darker ground, and feel something splinter within me, a strong pull. Look down. A black rose has been thrown at my feet. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I notice that the apes have gone silent. I bend down to the ebony flower, stooping to pick it from the blood-stained battlefield. The petals rustle slightly as I close my small fist around it, a sharp snap! echoing as I break the stem. Pain that barely registers as the inch-long thorns sink into my hands.

A tiny smile of irony lingers on my lips as I hold the delicate blossom out, directly above where Maria’s body vanished, and unwrap my fingers from its stem. I speak now, four words whispered to the wind.

“Happy bat mitzvah, Maria.”

The rose floats gently in the water, mocking her memory. I turn away from the dark petals as the crowd leaps to their feet, a standing ovation to my performance. Wiping the sticky blood from my palms, I walk toward the rising gate. The triumph begins to infect me, that sickly sense of victory lifting my spirits. Before I know it, I’m humming. It’s a beautiful song, simple yet sad, and it takes a guard Nazi thrusting Maria’s music box, her prized possession, into my hands before I remember where it’s from.

I am humming Maria’s lullaby.

I stop the sounds abruptly, angry at myself. I make myself a promise, one I would keep until the day I was defeated. No more weakness.

That was the beginning of the end.

34

Prose

Imagine World Domination Kendyl Hollingsworth

John sat backstage in silence, stiffly awaiting the start of the concert. His face radiated determination; he knew it must be done. This was what Yoko wanted. If Yoko wanted it done, it was John’s obligation to carry out her wishes.

“Are you ready?” Yoko asked in a sing-song voice, appearing from the dressing room with a large smile plastered across her face. It was strange; something about it seemed almost insincere, even forced. Still, she was impossible to resist.

John hesitated, then took a deep breath before meeting Yoko’s gaze and returning the smile. “Never been more ready.”

The crowd outside was massive; it seemed as if everyone in New York City was present.

The mob’s roar was deafening as they pleaded, “John! John! John!” Just a couple minutes left until it was time to take the stage.

It was more intimidating going out alone. With the Beatles, John couldn’t wait to run out onstage and give yet another spectacular performance. Going at it alone was different. He had Yoko now, though, and that was enough.

Minutes had passed and it was time for John Lennon and The Plastic Ono Band to take the stage. Yoko took care to wipe off her serious expression before turning to John, still stiff as a board, and exclaiming, “It’s time!” in her melodic voice.

John snapped out of his trance and prepared to go on. He gave a small smile of reassurance before running out to greet the crowd. As soon as he set foot on the stage, the audience erupted. However, no one was as pleased as Yoko, who quietly anticipated her cue to take the stage with John. In only a couple hours, the last step of her scheme would be complete.

Meanwhile, on the stage, John stepped up to the microphone and lifted his gaze to the sea of New Yorkers before him, his white garments flowing gently in the September breeze. He suddenly became doubtful of his intentions. Something about this did not feel right. He quickly shook the thought out of his head and reminded himself, This is what Yoko wants. Therefore, this is what I want. He slipped into his performance zone and energetically shouted, “Are you ready?!” evoking an enormous uproar.

When the concert drew to a close, the sky was fading to a deep azure. The final song of the night was a new piece written just for the event: “Imagine.” Yoko’s eyes burned with a certain hungry eagerness. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and she cracked a devious grin as she received her cue to take the stage with John.

She sauntered out with self-assurance, and a fiery excitement consumed her. This was all hidden very carefully, though; Yoko never failed to guard her emotions so as not to arouse any suspicion. The process must be executed carefully, planned out down to the last detail. The next few moments were the most crucial part of her plan, but she was confident that John was the perfect candidate to carry out her instructions. After all, who could resist him?

The piano began and John swallowed hard. He suddenly felt very nervous; this was very unusual for him, as he had been performing in front of millions for over a decade. The adrenaline rush was like his own personal drug, fueling the flame within him during every concert, but this time it felt more like a hindrance than a stimulant. He did his best to steady his trembling jaw as the first lyrics spilled from his mouth.

“Imagine there’s no heaven…”

Yoko observed him with vigilance before adding “It’s easy if you try…” Her voice was as sweet as honey, and the soothing sound waves swept over the hungry audience. The noise of the 35

Prose crowd lowered, as if the volume had been dialed down, and Yoko’s powerful voice penetrated each and every spectator. “Self-control was slowly slipping away…”

Yoko’s line instilled confidence in John, and the next lyric came with more ease: “No hell below us…” Yoko took notice of John’s smoother delivery, and she couldn’t stop the small smile creeping onto her face. Her plan was going better than she had anticipated. John, however, though he was carrying out his responsibilities more easily, was warring with himself over the morality of it all. He was eager to please Yoko, but his head was screaming at him to stop. As wrong as it felt, he could not help himself. He could not resist her melodic voice.

A subtle fire sparked in Yoko’s eyes. “Above us, only sky…” Her smile grew wider. The lyrics sounded so innocent. If they only knew…

Against his own will, John had made it to the end of the song, only one more line left.

For the song’s finale, John and Yoko were to sing in harmony the last lyric, but by now John was barely hanging on. His forehead was glistening with sweat, and his eyes radiated an impending doom.

“I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will live as one.”

That was it. Yoko had won.

36

Prose

Superbia

Thomas Baldwin

There is a planet nestled beyond our galaxy called Leviathan. It is a mechanical world lacking all organic life. Leviathan is held together by technology alone; nature plays no part in its existence. There is no fauna or flora; the atmosphere is an energized, artificial dome that keeps the gravitational pull at a mild setting. The citizens of Leviathan are just as cold and unnatural as the land they inhabit. Crafted from metal, iron, and copper, the robotic denizens are born with no human components. Only a series of wires, a personality complex, a speech modulator, and a lasting supply of natural electricity keeps them running for about ninety years; their powered down bodies are then scrapped, melted, and forged into new robots. The planet itself gives birth to the robots and creates each one in its own image. They are each born with special skills, special talents, and special looks that are unique to their models alone. Every robot is perfect in that they are each different. Some are programmed to be artistic, others knowledgeable. Some are programmed to be social, others introverted. The creations have lived on Leviathan for centuries and have even formed their own society very reminiscent of our own, complete with housing, special events, education, religion, government, and business.

One such business was called “Superbia.” Superbia’s goal was to make the citizens of Leviathan feel proud and confident. They sold special “cores” that could be inserted into the robots’ bodies to enhance a certain aspect of their model. Say a robot was a little heavier than some of his companions; he bought a lightning core that, when inserted, began to dissolve a specified mass of metal from the body. After about a half a week, that same robot would be barely recognizable. Superbia’s products were an instant hit all throughout Leviathan. On televisions all across the planet, ads for Superbia’s products were streamed. Slogans read, “You Can Be Changed,” and their products were “The First Few Steps to Re-Inventing Your Model.” Commercials flew past television screens, enormous posters stood high above city landscapes, and robot celebrities swayed the general public toward the genius that was Superbia.

In the calm burg of Suffolk, there lived a young robot with a passion for artisan-lightbulbing (the crafting of unique lightbulb styles) who had an unfortunate height issue. His name was Timmy, and he spent most of his time perfecting his unique lightbulbing style. He would waste away hours in his basement sculpting, measuring, and testing his various lightbulb designs.

He was obviously a very talented little robot and had gone on to enter a few well-acclaimed lightbulbing contests in which he achieved high marks and many words of encouragement from both judges and lightbulbers alike. Timmy never let his meek stature get the best of him, mainly because he didn’t need muscles to be a lightbulber. This was until, of course, his school’s first annual Physical Exertion Day. All younger robots were to participate in a competition testing each individual’s strength, speed, agility, and stamina, all of which were attributes that Timmy was lacking.

As expected, Timmy failed miserably at every event, stumbling over his own feet in racing challenges, throwing a shotput only a few feet, and even damaging some of his exterior during a weight-lifting competition. Timmy was severely embarrassed in front of his peers, and walked away from the competition with nothing but a white metallic ring with the words “Thanks for Trying” engraved on it. That night, Timmy returned to his house and laid down on his iron bed, staring into the patterns that lined his silver ceiling, and delved deep into his thoughts.

Strange… he thought to himself. I’m a being of unfeeling metal and circuits with a personality complex. Why, then, can I process sadness?

Timmy sighed and tried to drown out his sorrow with the serenity of television. He sat up and grabbed a remote resting on his nightstand. He pressed power and a television that was 37

Prose concealed within the wall of his house reared its face and began broadcasting. Timmy flipped through channels to find something he liked, and came across an ad for Superbia. He had heard of Superbia before (in this society, it was hard not to,) but had never thought too highly of it. After what he had just gone through, however, he was drawn to it. He found himself actually listening to the commercial and taking notes. He was intrigued, and as soon as the commercial ended he turned off the television and hurried to his phone.

The next morning, Timmy traveled by autobus to the nearest Superbia location. He entered and was surprised to find a multitude of the most beautiful, pristine robots he had ever laid his visual receptors on. He stood staring at the chrome-plated muscular builds on the males, and the slim, curvaceous lines of the females. He gazed at them, awestricken, before he was snapped back into reality by the calling of his name. Timmy walked into the back room of the facility to find a large assortment of cores, each placed in small labelled glass boxes. A sleek and stunningly gorgeous female robot gracefully rested her hand on Timmy’s shoulder.

“So, what can I do for you, little guy?” she asked. “I’m guessing a tiny robot like you is looking for a height core, eh?”

Timmy nodded without looking at the female.

“Well, lucky for you, we have just the thing,” she said as she reached for a height core on the top shelf. “Here we are. Is this what you were looking for?”

Timmy looked at the core in front of him and winced. On the label, there was a price listed—a very exorbitant price. Timmy took a deep breath, shook his head, and reluctantly reached into his metallic wallet to retrieve a portable currency drive. The female took out a handheld device with a small port at its head. Timmy inserted the small drive into the port and the device made a beeping noise. The female smiled and opened up the glass case and took out the core. She asked Timmy to turn around and remain calm. She used a drill-like contraption to unlatch a plate covering Timmy’s back and placed the core neatly among Timmy’s various wires.

“Thank you for coming to Superbia. We do hope your purchases are to your satisfaction.

After about a week, the core should start taking effect, and you will have made the first step to re-inventing your model. Have a nice day,” she said as she walked Timmy out the door of the store.

Timmy went about his daily life for the next week, noticing some very interesting changes. He soon began to look down on some of the friends he had previously looked up at during conversations, and his feet were slowly exceeding the length of his bed at home. The core had worked like a charm. Timmy was now much taller than before, and was very excited. He began to gain much more respect from various other robots at school, in light of his recent improvement. However, this height came with a price. Timmy began falling behind in the lightbulbing industry. It wasn’t very significant, but he just wasn’t as great as he was before. Timmy, of course, didn’t really care all that much about that, because he knew that he would have to get used to this new model of his before he could get back to being the great lightbulber he once was.

After a while, Timmy’s life went back to normal. He was back at his lightbulbing job, and he had become accustomed to his newfound height, but he began to feel a little empty. After the excitement from his upgrade had faded, Timmy began to want to feel the same sensation again. Timmy wanted to buy another core. He remembered Physical Exertion Day, and remembered how he wasn’t able to run all that fast, or lift very many pounds. Superbia might be able to change that as well. If it was able to change his height, surely it could improve his strength and speed. With a handsome sum of cash he had collected from lightbulbing, Timmy strode back into the Superbia store for a brand new core.

Upon his return, he recognized the female at the counter. She looked up at him and smiled, obviously blown away by his transformation. She strode out from behind the counter and shook his hand.

“Look at you,” she said. “You’re not little anymore. You actually look pretty good.”

“Thanks,” Timmy smiled back. “I came here for another core. Do you have anything that 38

Prose enhances athletic ability and stamina?”

“Well,” she began. “One core alone can’t enhance a robot’s overall strength. We have a variety of cores that are able to put more muscle into your model, but the more muscle you want, the more cores you’ll have to buy, and the more expensive they are.”

“What about speed and stamina?” Timmy inquired.

“Same thing,” she said back. “Are you looking to totally re-invent yourself? With enhanced strength speed, stamina, smarts--everything? Do you want the full package?”

“Yes,” Timmy replied.

“Ooh,” the female said in interest. “You’re dedicated. We can put you on a program.

We’ll give you a steady supply of cores over the course of two or three years, and by the end, you could be the sexiest robot on Leviathan. Of course, you will have to be able to pay for it.”

“I can pay,” Timmy blurted, a bit flustered. “Sexiest robot on Leviathan, you say?”

“Yeah,” the female said as she pressed a piece of metal up against Timmy’s chest. “Oh yeah.” She then went into the back room to get the paperwork for Timmy to fill out and the first core of his program. Timmy looked down at the piece of metal. On it were engraved a series of digits. A phone number. Things were really looking up for Timmy.

The years went by as Timmy went through his major transformation. The scrawny little robot he had been long ago was dead, burned and crushed beneath pounds of metallic muscle, and various new gadgets that had been welded to his body, including rocket boots, a jetpack, and a retractable machine gun. Timmy’s lightbulbing business had been lost, along with his meek frame. All of the money that Timmy had earned in the industry eventually dried up, but that was no problem: Timmy had become the poster boy for Superbia, and was paid copious amounts of money from the company. His success story was published in libraries across the planet, and his face was slapped on every marketing ad for Superbia. Timmy lived in a big mansion near Superbia HQ, and was married to the female cashier, who was named Jade. Even after Timmy’s program had expired, Superbia had continued to supply him with a steady amount of cores. Timmy was now a super robot, living his life with no regrets.

One day, Timmy woke to the chimes of his decked-out doorbell echoing throughout his mansion. He rolled over in his king sized bed looking for his front porch monitor to see who it was. He assumed it was Jade; she would usually leave the house early in order to buy groceries to quell Timmy’s unrelenting appetite. To his surprise, it was just a small robot holding a box filled with some very familiar items, items that Timmy had not seen in a very long time, but still managed to trigger a chord of nostalgia in his heavily altered complex. Lightbulbs. Timmy lumbered down from his bedroom and opened the front door to gaze down upon the quivering young robot and his box of glass bobbles.

“Hello, Mr. Timmy,” said the robot in a rather chipper tone of voice. “I’m a young upand-coming lightbulber and I ran across some of your early designs in the Lighbulber League of Leviathan’s archives and I was just blown away!”

“Thanks, I guess,” Timmy bellowed down to the robot, somewhat annoyed.

“Well,” the smaller robot started again. “I was just wondering if you could give me some pointers, you know? I’d really like to learn how you were able to come up with all those stylistic curves in your N14 model.”

“Sorry, kid,” Timmy replied, a touch of sadness creeping into his voice. “I left that life long ago.”

“Well, you’ve gotta do some lightbulbing in your spare time, right?” the little robot pressed.

Timmy couldn’t help but laugh. “No. That was a dumb hobby. I’m much better off right now than I ever was making those stupid things. Take my advice, Shorty: buy a core or two from 39

Prose Superbia. It’ll really change your life.”

The little robot’s smile left his face, and he looked down at his box of lightbulbs. Timmy felt a little bad for him, so he reached into one of the compartments on his suit of armor, removed an object and handed it to the little robot.

“Here,” he said. “It’s a height core. Free of charge. You could really use it, little guy.”

The little robot looked at the core and shook his head, then left the front lawn of the mansion, staring down at his box of lightbulbs. Timmy watched in confusion as the little robot trudged off into the distance. For some reason, Timmy began to feel a bit melancholic.

Later that day, Jade returned with a few bundles of groceries and laid them down on the table in the kitchen. Timmy sat on a chair in the kitchen and stared at a lightbulb. Jade rolled the patterns of her visual receptors in distaste, and snatched the lightbulb out of Timmy’s enormous iron-clad palms. She tossed it into the waste disposal compartment, where it burned away. Timmy watched as embers flew up into the air, and then looked back at Jade.

“Seriously, Timmy?” she scoffed. “Lightbulbing was such a silly hobby. You know that, right?”

Timmy sighed.

“I remember when you were so small and timid, and you thought you were this great lightbulber. Oh, we were both so young,” Jade said to Timmy. “Timmy, promise me you’ll never go back to being that little guy again.”

“Shut up,” Timmy muttered.

“What?” Jade asked.

“I said,” Timmy clenched his fists, “SHUT UP!” He stood up from his chair and opened his machine gun. “This is awful! I should have never taken those stupid cores! I’m a giant robot that can’t craft a single lightbulb! I’ve become some kind of monster! Look at me!”

Timmy started releasing all of his bullets throughout the kitchen, destroying the entire room. Jade screamed and ducked behind the countertop while Timmy’s visual receptors turned blood-red. His jetpack shot out a burst of flame that sent Timmy crashing through the kitchen ceiling. Timmy let loose a barrage of bullets across the mansion, leveling the entire structure in a matter of minutes. Jade barely escaped the crumbling domicile with her life. As expected, the police force arrived at the scene, and began firing at Timmy, who had gone completely berserk. He flew at high speeds to the nearby Superbia HQ, screaming like a maniac.

The police mobilized in giant flying tanks, hot on Timmy’s trail. Timmy flew straight into the headquarters, releasing a flurry of ammunition in the process, while the tanks shot EMP bursts to soften him. Of course, these were in vain, as Timmy continued to plow through the building, dismantling it slowly but surely. In the end, the police had no choice but to send a heat-seeking missile into the building to destroy Timmy. The missile was fired, and in about three seconds Timmy and Superbia were destroyed. In the midst of all the rubble and metal carnage, Timmy fell, his body severely crushed and burned. He looked up at the sky as he slowly short circuited. The red light in his visual receptors died, and the electricity coursing through his body ran dry.

As mentioned earlier, all creatures that come from Leviathan return to Leviathan. Their bodies are scrapped, melted down, and rebuilt as brand new robots. Timmy was brought to The Pits of Leviathan, where all robots are to be melted down, and was thrown into the fiery center of the mechanical planet itself. But Timmy was not melted down. His body had been so corrupted by Superbia’s unnatural products that there was no salvageable trace of the original Timmy that Leviathan had created, and thus no new robot could be forged from the remains. Timmy’s crumbled body lay in the center of Leviathan forever, before it rusted and eventually disappeared, never to be seen again.

40

Prose

Moon River

Jade Chambers

He sat there—hands quaking and as pale as the froth created by ocean waves—his veins bulging and his skin turning violet. He dropped the glass filled with a mixed cocktail he made himself, containing ingredients that could be found and purchased at any ordinary Auto Zone. His glare focused on his eyelashes—his body loosened and his shoulders dropped.

His phone rang, blasting “Moon River” by Audrey Hepburn. The earth stilled and the subtle sound of Hepburn’s voice filled the room. It was the song his mom used to sing to him, back when times were simpler. He was compelled to answer, knowing that was the ringtone he assigned to her, but he physically and mentally couldn’t. The lights faded from dull yellow to a grey-brown colored tint. The audio began to fade and everything felt like a dream. The beige lace curtains flowed in the windowsill and a sweet smell of hickory graced the last senses he owned.

His eyes sank lower and his eyelashes joined. He tried to move his hands only to find that they were handicapped as well. His phone stopped ringing but it was almost as if the song still remained and had grown louder. The feelings finally caught up with him and the music grew even louder. His mind felt like it was dripping out of his eye sockets and everything soon turned to black and the music ended.

41

Prose

Wordsmiths

Mary Butgereit

I needed a congratulations. That was all. Tomorrow was my niece’s graduation, and while I thought I had at least two more congratulations in the box, it was empty when I pulled it out. I dug around through the other bins; maybe I placed some extras in the car bag or the crow bin, but no - everything was where it was supposed to be. I was out, which meant I had to go to Wordsmiths.

A few minutes later, with my scarf tucked tight around my neck, I braved the lightning and thunder outside. The howling wind contained conversations – a steady stream of hollowness, like broken eggshells on the sidewalk. My neighbors were the proud, talkative sort. There are two types of people: there were the rich talkers, who used so many words in their sentences that it was difficult to find meaning; there were stingy quiet ones, who spoke in such short sentences it was still difficult to find meaning. As it was, most conversations were a constant nonsensical static.

The walk was short. Wordsmiths parked themselves on every block. Strange, really, because they still managed heavy crowds every day. Then again, even if every store in the country became a Wordsmiths, they’d each be crowded.

Today was no exception. A mass of humanity churned behind the glass doors. My stomach clenched. I did not want to be a part of this. They would expect me to talk. Even as I stood there, people brushed past me, breezing into the whirlpool inside.

One man stopped. He said something to a girl crouched by the door, blending into the average chaos. I had stopped noticing people like her ages ago – those too poor to afford words and, as a result, anything else. Her clothes were clean. Her hands were not. I couldn’t say much for her teeth, because she never opened her mouth – just shook the shred of cloth in her hand, tapping at the message with one dirty fingernail. Words. Begging for a word. The man reached into his pocket and handed her a coin, nodding as he left. She looked at the piece of metal in disappointment. This wasn’t what she needed.

My niece. Had to think of my niece. I was procrastinating. Making a point not to make eye contact with the girl at the door, I walked in and was almost blown over by the noise.

Gallon mystery battery volume mice replace lift snag push love stop brace

Hands surrounded me. Hands and voices. Hands that rustled through the bins, alphabetically arranged and stacked to the ceiling, and voices that sampled the words that they pulled out.

Burn heavy logistics vase green trust words question steel hold drop pace

I had to concentrate. Words. I needed a congratulations. C. C-O-N. I pushed past the lines of checkout, trailing through the aisles like ivy. A weary employee argued with the man holding up the line, who shouted and rattled the bag of words he was trying to return. I shook my head. Idiot. Everyone knew the rules – words can’t be taken back, no exceptions.

A gaggle of girls blocked the aisle, crowding a booth full of trend words. They giggled and slipped the words on their fingers, on their wrists, around their necks – that was the fad right now, wearing words as jewelry. It was a pale reflection of their parents, who tacked words to their doors, stuck them in their yard, or glued them to their cars. It was a status symbol. Someone who could afford so many words, who had some to spare. Yet there were children out there who couldn’t afford a single help.

My grandfather used to tell me this was nothing new. People used to do it with an array of stuff. It just became simplified when words became tangible - the main currency of pride and power.

My grandfather was a criminal.

42

Prose

Criminal. A hard C. I had to find congratulations. I weaved through the miles of aisles.

Mercifully, I didn’t need a window or a youthful or, heaven forbid, a zany. I only had to walk a few blocks.

Congo cookbook creepy cougar concern clams cuckoo contagious collateral chromatic

I found my aisle. The words burst from sampler’s mouths like gunshots – Cu, Co, Cu, Co – with a dangerous hissing underneath the surface. Circus censor cilia. A sea of C’s. You practically had to dodge spittle to find whatever you were looking for.

There was an older man digging through the congratulations. He picked up one, sampled it out loud – congratulations – then placed it back. He did this several more times before deciding on one that seemed like all the rest. At first, I didn’t understand. Then I saw him tuck the congratulations underneath the strings of a basic word pack. There must’ve been a birth recently.

It didn’t matter. I picked the congratulations on top, sliding my hand over the bumpy word. I didn’t need to sample – one congratulations was like all the rest to me. I started to leave.

“Cyborg.”

It was a little voice, poignant and loud. I was not the only one who stopped; a woman shuffling through the combines paused as well, both of us turning to the boy down the aisle.

“Cyborg,” he said again, staring at the word in his hands. No adult tried to stop him – where were his parents? Cyborg was an expensive word. The responsible part of me wanted to take it from him before the sample numbers wore down. Another part of me wanted him to say it again.

“Cyborg, cyborg, cyborg…” he chanted. The woman beside me pursed her lips and turned back around, choosing to ignore him as the sample numbers ran out. He began cutting into the worth of the word, repeating it over and over, until it began to sound meaningless. Still no one came to collect him. They would soon; if not his parents, then the employees of Wordsmiths. They came for my sister when she did this. She talked in her sleep and one night said the word aubergine twenty times. Wordsmiths employees came to our house at 2 AM to wake her and force her to pay the fine, because we had never owned the word aubergine and she overused it. She really had to watch her words from then on; that is, until she married an extremely wealthy boy.

Then she lived loudly ever after.

A man came rushing down the aisle, two employees on his heels.

Clem! He snarled, yanking the word out of boy’s hands. I winced at the nickname. They hadn’t even paid off the mortgage on the boy’s name yet. How would they pay for cyborg?

Clem’s father looked at me as they left, as if to say “why didn’t you stop him?”

Why hadn’t I stopped him?

I wasn’t sure why. The boy’s voice refused to leave my mind. On impulse, I grabbed a cyborg and started towards the front.

An hour later, I reached one of the checkouts. The cashier rang up my purchases.

“247 andromanicodes,” he said. I blinked at him. He pointed at the chart behind him.

PRESIDENT NEESON – 10 wixmas to 5 dooflas

PRESIDENT SCRINEE – 10 thurmas to 5 wipplets

Below that, in a fresh scrawl:

PRESIDENT WILKINS – 10 adromanicodes to 5 dessinees

Had there been an election? I shook my head and grabbed a new pack of currency words. As the cashier added them to my bill, I remembered a strange piece of paper my grandfather showed me once. He used to pay for things with that, he said. It didn’t change with any new president. The word definitely didn’t. Probably because he didn’t have to purchase a new word every time the currency changed.

My grandfather was a criminal.

I paid with what I had and then left.

Cyborg. Why did I buy a cyborg? I didn’t need one. The static of gibberish conversations 43

Prose interrupted my thoughts; they came from everywhere, as if the world was simply one large bin of refuse words and I was drowning in it. Normally, I could almost ignore it. Now, though, there was ice in the spinning water, clinking against the glass – cyborg, cyborg, cyborg. By the time I got home, silence both deafened and comforted me.

Cyborg cyborg cyborg.

It was loud. Unnecessary noise. Just that boy’s voice. I pulled the word from my bag, studied it, trying to decipher what made it so special. It was just a word. Not even a common one.

An expensive word, one I would never use.

I did the only thing I knew to do: I took cyborg downstairs. The door to the basement stuck at first. I yanked it open, and a wave of humid air rushed past me. I hurried in, as if the air could whisper to the world what exactly it had seen at the bottom.

The smell of the damp earth only conjured more memories of my grandfather, memories that strengthened the deeper I went. His voice was livid in every step: in my day, in my day, in my day.

Then, on the last one, a whisper: don’t tell your siblings or your cousins. Don’t tell anyone.

I’m trusting you with this.

The lights flickered on, and the letters on the walls gleamed.

A collection. His collection. My collection. Words I had never used, words I never would use, tacked up onto the walls. Serendipity. Antipathy. Extraneous. Expensive, expensive words. The kind that my neighbors would kill to hang around their children’s necks.

My grandfather was a criminal. He hoarded words.

I brushed my fingers against coetaneous, still as bright as the first day it belonged to me.

My grandfather kept these from a past life; the life where he spent words freely. The life where he found a book of words no one could trace, the kind that’s contraband now. He called it a story. I’m not sure if they sell that word anymore.

I pulled cyborg from my bag, found a nail and a hammer, tried to find a spot on the wall. My footsteps bounced off the words like syllables. The syllables slowly became his voice: Once upon a time, he’d said, there was a kingdom. Just as I went to hammer the nail for the first time, I glanced at cyborg. Something stopped me.

I kneeled down and placed the word on the floor, stared for a few moments, still trying to find the difference between this word and all the rest.

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom.

Unconsciously, my hand slipped to my pocket, pulled out my bag of cheap, common words. Maybe I would keep cyborg on me, just for a little while. One word fell out and clattered onto the floor.

Our cyborg.

Time froze, at least in that little basement, as a door opened somewhere in my mind.

Whose cyborg? Who is us? What did the cyborg do? I scrambled upward, dumping the remainder of my bag on a table, trying to find what the cyborg did next.

Our cyborg stopped.

The cyborg had to be going for him to stop, and the identities of the owners were still hidden. Minutes turned to hours as I raced between floors, combing through bins and even pulling down a few words off the wall. Strings of words that meant something. My grandfather’s book was full of these, and you could tell by the way he said them that they weren’t the pointless sound I’d grown so accustomed to. Every time my eyes scanned that second word – cyborg – I heard the boy’s voice, and overlapping it was my grandfather, reading aloud, and realization struck me from nowhere.

All I had heard since my grandfather’s death were people talking.

It wasn’t until that little boy that I finally heard someone really speak again.

44

Prose

#25WordStories

@RandomStudents

She flicked on the lights and pulled the dog away from the window, angry at being woken over a squirrel. Outside, a man took aim.

@MaryButgereit Following the sound of a gunshot, another feathered carcass slammed into my flower garden, crushing my beautiful roses. “Got ‘im!” I really need to move.

@KaylaDaigle I firmly gripped the yellow roses until my knuckles were white as my dress. The irony killed me.

Those same roses were on his grave.

@EmilyDuncan The boy couldn’t decide. The judge looked down and asked, “Mom or Dad?” Tears ran down the boy’s face as he whispered, “I choose both.”

@SydneyDelgadillo

45

Prose

World Wide Web

Alyssa Kennedy

I can see it now. The headlines: “Valley Teen Missing: The Search for Francine Tanner Continues”. A few weeks would pass, and when all hope seemed lost, my body would be found on some God-forsaken shoreline. They’d call my parents down to identify my remains. Upstairs, my “missing persons” case would be relabeled “murder”. The media would use my death as some kind of propaganda against social media, or animal cruelty, or whatever else they’re in the mood for.

Months would pass, and my father would still be answering questions about his lost daughter.

Maybe he’ll sit down with CNN and be asked by some prim-and-proper news anchor “what [he] thought about the whole situation.” Prim-and-Proper won’t really care what his answer is, because they’ll just turn and make it about animal rights or some other kind of bull. Because that’s what they’re paid to do. They’ll interview kids from my school who will model their alligator tears for the cameras with hidden glee. People who didn’t know me will mourn over me and hold vigils. Because that’s what they’re expected to do.

My father will trudge home to my mother, who will have baked cookies and be smiling a mile-a-minute as always. Never mind that her little girl was tossed like garbage into the river.

Because it was all according to God’s plan.

They’ll put my story on 20/20 years later to suck the last breath of life from the tragedy.

“Let’s start from the beginning of the story,” one particularly stuffy man will say. “The tragedy of Francine Tanner. It all started with a few clicks of a mouse. A Google image search, and an accepted friend request…”

They’ll splash the same picture of me across the screen with different lighting and angles to dramatize the linear story. Then they’ll say, “The predator remains at large.”

The funny thing will be that when they tell my story, they won’t mention how much it means to have someone look at me. Instead they’ll paint the saint and not the sinner. They won’t mention how I willingly got in the car. And they certainly won’t mention that I knew all along it was a forty-year-old man saying he “loved me.” They’ll only share the details that get them higher ratings. Because that’s what they’re paid to do.

I move the mouse across the screen. 729 friends. Now 730 friends.

Because that’s okay with me.

46

Prose

Porcelain on Carpet Kayla Daigle

My heart is swimming in its own puddle of heated goo as a crowd of people stare at me in anticipation. My Adam’s apple bobs, as if trying to escape my throat and launch itself out the door. The button at the back of my tie feels as though it is about to unsnap, and my belt is about to tear in half in a fatal attempt to embarrass me in front of this impatient crowd with oversized bows and assorted plastic fruits on their large Sunday’s best hats. Uncle Andrew is mouthing the words to “Brick House” by The Commodores as Bob from the office studies something on the back of Aunt Georgiana’s neck. I don’t actually know if his name is Bob; the name just seemed fitting for a little man who spent most of the day trying to fix a stapler. Now that I think about it, I was only trying to be nice when I invited him, but it makes me uncomfortable seeing a stranger at such an important event.

Right as my hands join the rest of my body in a synchronized vibration of anxiety, the doorman clears his throat and the organ player jars awake from her deep sleep as her fingers grind into action. She begins playing and immediately hits the incorrect key, making the entire room cringe. Restarting from the top, something resembling the wedding march begins to form before another key is incorrectly chosen and a second wave of contorted faces ripples through the crowd.

After a third and final try, a dusty but tolerable version of the wedding march begins to play. I quickly hum to myself under my breath to ensure I still have my hearing, and wiggle my numb fingers, white from such a tight fist.

Finally, the doors creak open to reveal the keeper of my heart and owner of the soul designed for mine. My hands stop their violent shaking, my heart settles to a comfortable pace, and a wave of calm flows through my veins as our eyes meet. She smiles at me from underneath her white lace veil, and I know in my heart there will never be an ounce of regret for this moment.

Her white dress flows with her as she walks, and I take in her dark hair piled neatly atop her head, her smile replaying the memories of every happy moment that led us to our place here in this church. She comes closer and closer, the heart strings of our love drawing us together.

Then, horror fills my heart as her heel snags the back of her heavy dress and her ankle rolls sideways. She lurches forward and slams face-first into the rose petal-covered floor, wildly circling her arms like a windmill in a desperate attempt to overcome gravity. The crowd gasps in horror, and someone sneezes in the distance. I dash to my fallen bride, terror seizing my heart as I see her limbs sprawled out like a discarded Raggedy Ann doll. I reach down to grasp her hand and lift her back to her feet, but she waves me off and ushers me back to my place at the altar. I walk past the rows of slack-jawed guests, trying to remind my frantically beating heart that she has slammed into the ground many times before; it is not something to fret over. I reach my place at the altar and turn around to see her wobble to her feet, pausing to dust off her dress with her hands and roll her shoulders back. The music that abruptly stopped when her body hit the floor begins again, playing off tempo, too fast to match step for step or regain any grace from that horrid scene.

My valiant bride tries anyway, walking in an awkward and quickened pace to keep up with the music. I admire her making her way toward me, dark hair hanging in frizzled strands around her face, shaken loose from her bun, her smile slightly pained with half of her lipstick rubbed off on the carpet, green eyes shining as the hint of a black eye begins to form. I have never been so in love. Finally, she makes it to the altar. The priest begins singing in some foreign tongue I do not understand. I refocus on the angel in front of me, and suddenly the priest and everyone checking their watches in the crowd reduces to a blurred fog. There is only her, and there will always be only her.

47

Prose

There is a loud clearing of the throat, and I glance over in a daze at the furrow-browed priest looking like he is ready for his lunch break. “I do!” I scream out, hoping I am agreeing to what I think I am. He repeats this to my bride, and she responds. We trade silver bands, and with those two words, the priest becomes a faraway buzz. Once again there is only me and her, my wife. We lace our fingers together, our lungs filling as we drown in our love for each other. A loud “ahem” breaks our trance; I look over at him in agitation.

“What?”

“Kiss her, you fool, and let it be done with!”

“Well, I can certainly do that!” I reply, and with that I dip her down and kiss her breath away. After a few solid seconds, she begins to beat my back with her hands and make sounds of suffocation as her face turns an unpleasant shade of purple. I pull my lips away, and she gulps in precious air. All of a sudden, she launches herself into my arms for another kiss. A few solid minutes later, someone in the crowd (who sounds suspiciously like her father) clears their throat loudly, and we let go. Once we face the crowd, hand in hand, they begin a slow and unsure clap that dies out very quickly. Everyone unglues themselves from the pews and begins heading outside the church. I look at my new wife with a smile that mirrors her own. We clasp our hands tighter to walk back down the aisle.

As soon as the doormen open the large wooden door, sunlight fills our eyes. Instantly my wife shields her face with her arms and lets out an odd hissing sound, shrinking away from the sun. Once her eyes dilate, she regains her composure and looks out into the crowd, which is staring at her as if she’s just transformed into a large, dancing polar bear. After a few minutes of standing on the church steps with a pained smile, I am pelted with a wad of rice. I regain my composure and we stroll down the cobblestone walkway towards the parking lot, soaking up all the attention on our special day. We wave and blow kisses at our temporary admirers, and before we enter my busted-up pick-up truck with “Just Married!” scrawled on the hood with ketchup, we kiss and pose for the camera and the crowd, waiting for the doves that are to be released. Right on time, all 120 birds are released. Everyone stares in awe as the magnificent winged creatures fly into the sky. One immediately crashes back to the ground.

“Did I get it?” Cousin Chuck screams in a thick redneck accent, blowing the smoke from the top of his gun. Everyone stares in shock, not able to process anything but disbelief and a slight wonder as to how the man snuck a shotgun into a church.

“Oh! There goes another one!” yells Cousin Chuck as he points his gun upwards and blasts another one of God’s creatures out of the sky. A small white body rockets towards the ground, a tuft of feathers gently cascading behind it. I quickly shield my bride’s horror-filled eyes and shove her into my truck, smearing ketchup on my rear as I slide across the hood and take my place behind the wheel. In the silence, I take her slack hand and quip, “So, how about Fiji?”

I start the old Toyota, and we drive off into the oncoming rain clouds.

48

Prose

And Time Repeats Itself Ashley Williams

Dennis wanted to play with the other kids, but something just wouldn’t let him. It was as if sandbags were tied around his ankles and bolted him to the ground. He tried to lift his right leg to run and he tumbled to the ground. What the—?

“Come on, Dennis! We’re trying to play some baseball,” screamed the other kids while running to the field. The others moved freely, and eagerly waited for him to arrive. One kid with a red baseball cap threw the ball to Dennis. It soared through the air and stopped right in front of the screen door where Dennis was looking out. It hovered in midair—a ball Dennis could never catch—then dropped to the ground. When they realized he couldn’t leave his house, looks of disappointment swept through each and every one of their faces. The whole crowd was just one face now—and it was his mother’s.

It was from the time when he told her that he wasn’t going to college, but shipping out to fight in the Second World War. She was disappointed, too. How could her only son betray her like that? But he knew it was something that he had to do. Every boy has to become a man, and this was his chance. Mom, I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Now his mother was walking away from him, towards the stove. It was his eighteenth birthday, the last one he celebrated with his family before leaving to fight. She had made a chocolate cake with strawberries in a circle outlining the edge. His name was handwritten in white icing.

His mother was lighting the candles when he noticed something he hadn’t seen before—she was crying. A single tear trailed the curvature of her high cheekbone and fell to the counter.

In his peripheral vision, Dennis saw luggage. Where did that come from? He turned towards the hallway where the daunting suitcase remained. No one was moving out. It was just he, his mother, and his father. He didn’t remember them fighting back then; they had always been a happy family. He glanced back at his mother. She looked so devastated, so broken, like the entire world had denied her the right to live. I should do something. Anything.

As he took a step toward his mother, the room became disjointed and stretched. His mother became nothing but a blur, a giant swirl of colors that spun recklessly. Dennis awoke from his deep sleep in a panic. Sweat swerved down his forehead to his neck. The moisture penetrated his night shirt and the strong smell of his mother’s perfume lingered around his room.

“Go?” his roommate yelled at him from across the room. It was nine o’ clock and the sun was streaming into the room in rectangular rays that landed all around him. Dennis felt a vibrancy for life that he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. He realized that his roommate was still waiting for his reply.

“Go? Go where?” Dennis managed to utter, still amazed at this almost new feeling.

“Not go, bingo! Bingo at eleven o’ clock. And don’t be late this time, Dennis, you old coot,” his roommate spoke in a raspy voice that hinted at decades of cigarette abuse. At first Dennis didn’t answer, but merely stared at the familiar face hoping, wishing he would go away. “Get out of my face, Harry. I was dreaming.”

“Oh, dreaming you say? Well, that’s a first,” Harry snickered as he shuffled out of the room with the help of his walker. Screw bingo! Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I have to act like it.

Dennis urged himself to move, only pieces at a time. His leg flew over the side of the bed, then his arm grasped the nightstand for support, and lastly he rolled on his side to sit up. For no specific reason, Dennis began to cry. Why did it have to end?

“Why are you crying?” A soft, clear female voice asked. She sounded young, probably one of the kids visiting their grandparents.

“What?” Dennis asked. He glanced around the room, but saw no one.

49

Prose

“I said bingo! It’s almost eleven o’ clock,” screamed Harry from outside the doorway.

How long have I been sitting here?

“All right, Harry. I’m coming.” Dennis dressed and evicted himself from the bedroom momentarily. He needed some fresh air after that dream, and bingo wasn’t so horrid. The game was short and he didn’t win, but he never did. Dennis wanted to do something outrageous but thought better of it due to his age. Nobody thinks it’s funny when you’re this old; they just think you’re senile. Maybe I’ll take a walk. That sounds rather nice.

The fresh air circled his nostrils while splashing him in the face. It reminded him of all the calming properties a mother has to a toddler with a scrape. He finally felt at ease, forgotten were his mistakes of the day before. Remembered were his promises of tomorrow.

“Please don’t cry,” said the same female voice from before. Dennis started and glanced around the walking path for the source of the voice. His eyes landed on a young, fair skinned girl.

Her faded pink dress flapped and swung while the air pushed through the quarter size holes that plagued the entirety of her outfit.

This isn’t real; she can’t be here now. Dennis recognized the girl and backed away. He couldn’t believe his eyes. How could someone who died half a century ago be standing in front of him? He clenched his fists and raised them to the sides of his now flushed face.

“Get away from me!” Dennis screamed at the little girl. She looked confused. Dennis cringed at the hand she reached out towards him, even though he was yards away. She began to walk to him, hand still reaching, when Dennis tripped and fell on the rocky path way. He jammed his eyes shut. Little rivers of blood began to gather in a pool beneath his head.

“Why are you crying, mister?” Dennis opened his eyes to see the same girl peering at him. She was different now, more alive; as if this were the time and place to which she belonged.

“I’m not crying,” Dennis said. He wiped his eyes and nose, realizing that he was wrong.

He was, in fact, crying. He looked at his surroundings and saw he was in a hospital, standing over someone who was lying in a bed sleeping. He glanced back at the little girl. She met his expression with a knowing smile and returned her gaze to the sleeping person. Dennis did the same.

All too fast, he fathomed just who the person was lying motionless in the bed. They had matching tattoos on their forearms, the same scars on their right hand, and birthmarks on their neck. It was Dennis. He turned to the little girl and she asked him one last time.

“Why were you crying? Don’t you know that now you’re okay?” Dennis chuckled at this.

It wasn’t really funny, but he felt the need to explain why he had been acting so strangely.

“I was crying because I’ve been dying my whole life, and now I’m finally living.” The girl smiled a bright, warm smile that illuminated the room. Dennis squinted and when he opened his eyes again, he was back at the baseball field with his childhood friends. The little girl’s voice echoed in his head. Go.

He ran out to the center of the baseball diamond and swallowed gulps of air. It tasted sweet and creamy. The sun beat down on him and his friends, and he felt young again. After, he raced home to his mother to apologize for the horrors he had put her through.

When he entered the house, he knew exactly where she would be. It was dinner time, and the smell of pot roast wavered in the air. Dennis followed the smell to the dining room, where his mother was just setting the table. She grinned when she saw Dennis and opened her arms to him. He seemd to glide across the room and into his mother’s arms, apologizing for every wrong he had ever committed.

“Dennis, don’t be ridiculous,” she cooed, “Now sit down, your father will be home any minute, and dinner is ready.” As she walked out of the room to get the pot roast, Dennis beamed.

He never wanted this moment to end.

“It looks like he just passed away,” said a nurse to a doctor.

“Well, at least he went in his sleep. They say that’s the best way to go,” replied the doctor.

The pleased look on Dennis’s face said everything; he was finally at peace.

50

Prose

Brainstorm

George Young

Evan woke up, stretched, and got out of bed. His transmitter sent an electrifying jolt to wake him from his slumber, then an energetic feeling. It would help him deal with the day to come.

“Good morning, Evan!” said Gottielieb, Director of the Hyperion Satellite Station 11.

Evan worked at Syncrotech International, North American Branch, situated in the District of Columbia. Syncrotech built the Peace Satellites; now their job was to patch and fix them. These machines floating in the sky governed their emotions with care and precision, eradicating dangerous emotions. It was a measure to prevent crime.

“Hey,” replied Evan. He turned to his computer to run checks on the Hyperion Satellite’s Logic Component. It was his Turn to run the tests. A Turn was similar to an assigned chore, except it was his job for the next three weeks. After that, he’d be assigned to another. It was a state-mandated process, to ensure that “no one goes home angry,” as Gottilieb said. If a mistake was made, the Satellite could be fixed with ease. It ran using eight components, but it could run in an agreeable state using only four.

After he finished, Evan took his hourly break to let his brain cool down. He strolled over to Cassandra’s cubicle and, taking a breath, went forward to woo his Hero.

“So, would you be interested in going out some time?” he asked, bypassing idle conversation with purpose. Maybe if he kept his cool this time, she’d take him on.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’m…..busy,” she replied. Her transmitter was barely holding back her spite for Evan. Evan didn’t know, or care, that Cassandra had absolutely no interest in him. But the transmitter couldn’t allow a possibly dangerous situation to arise, so it played into her mind a calming new age riff. She cooed like a songbird—if only in her mind.

“Are you sure? How about 6:00 at The Granada?” he stuttered. He could only wait nervously on her decision; had he blown it?

“Ok,” she replied. Maybe if she went out with him once and dumped him in a month, he would leave her alone.

Evan walked back to his work desk. An error alert whispered to his transmitter, as if to be polite. One of the Logic Components had a problem; it was of the two that handled decision making. Evan linked it to the Reserve Component in Utah and shut off Logic Component Gamma for maintenance.

“Great news, everyone!” shouted Mr. Gottilieb.

A crowd of workers surrounded him to hear what he had to say. They had finished their Turns, and the day shift had ended.

“I’m going to get married!” he proclaimed. The throng of workers showed their happiness for him; it was uncommon not to have a date.

About time, thought Evan. He defragmented the offline component, running a scan on all of the stored data. Nothing.

“Strange…”

He activated a service probe in orbit near the Hyperion Satellite and ordered it to do a hardware checkup. The probe disassembled into a cloud of nanobots and phased through, scanning all corresponding parts for any damage.

A 3-D model of the Component appeared on screen. He rolled it over, looking at every layer. The Faraday cage inside the Component was broken; radiation could damage files. He sent the service probe replacement files and a command to fix the broken barrier. In a minute the probe was done, and it floated back to its place among the stars.

51

Prose

Evan laid back in his chair. He glanced at his watch; 5:00 in the afternoon. Time to go home.

He went to the elevator.

With a chime, a sea of night workers surged out, pushing him aside. After they had passed, he entered the elevator and pushed one of the twenty lighted buttons. The elevator, with a flourish of melody, brought him to the bottom floor of the building.

Back in his apartment, he turned on the television. With a warm ‘ahh’ it came on, displaying the brand name. It displayed his preferences and suggestions. He was in the mood for humor, so he selected a comedy skit show.

“Hey. You’re back.” His roommate, Stevens, walked in holding an old guitar.

“Yeah. Easy as always.” Evan glided down to land on the couch facing the television.

“Did you get the job?”

“Hopefully. My resume took forever to write, so it would, like, really suck if they dropped me, right?”

Evan nodded with empty-headed sympathy as he watched a skit about a trio of robbers.

“…All right.” said Stevens, turning to the small kitchen, disgruntled.

On the screen, the robbers were driving on the way to their next heist. They clumsily sang Simple Gifts and sounded inebriated. One lifted up a generic whiskey bottle; three X’s ringed around the middle. He lifted it to his lips and took a long drink, then passed it to the robber in shotgun. The one driving was offered it, but refused; “I only drink root beer,” he said, and jokingly took a sip to prove his point. The backseat robber spat out, “It’s root beer, Jul!” All three laughed loudly.

“Hey, Evan. It’s 5:50.” Stevens fiddled with his guitar keys. “Gotta go see your lady friend.”

“I know,” sighed Evan, tearing his eyes away from the screen to get ready.

“You know, you might get more girls if you didn’t slack, man.” Stevens strummed his guitar.

Evan secured his slacks with a belt and cummerbund, then threw on his balmorals.

“But you see, women like men who are casually late,” said Evan.

“Whoa……calm down, man. You’ll fry it. Here.” Stevens tossed Evan a condom. In disgust, Evan tossed it aside and left for the door.

“See you later, lover boy,” joked Stevens before going back to his guitar.

“You’re late,” said Cassandra, as if expecting his lack of punctuality. She gave him a disappointed look.

“Sorry.” Evan’s confidence wavered.

“Let’s go in.” Cassandra was not impressed. I’ll dump him in a week instead.

At their table, there was an awkward silence. Both parties desired to end it, but neither could come up with the words.

“You go first.” Cassandra was eager get it over with.

“You look…great… in that mess-I mean dress,” stammered Evan. He had never pictured himself getting to this point.

“Thank you.” Cassandra made sure to avoid any tenderness in her response. Evan was intimidated.

Putting on the mantra that Stevens lent him through the years, he did his best to charm her.

And it worked.

By 6:15 Cassandra’s transmitter was silent.

By 6:30 she was willing to make physical contact.

52

Prose

By 7:00 he had her eating out of the palm of his hand. This was it. He’d done it.

He’d tamed Cassandra Hawking: a woman no man had ever wooed. Victory was in his grasp.

On the baroque flat panel television, an elderly reporter began to speak. In hushed silence a crowd came to listen.

“As of 7:14 P.M. Standard Time, Hyperion Peace Satellite as well as Apollo, Freyr, and others have gone offline. Please remain calm. Do not panic. Please remain cal-”

The television channel cut to static, and in a distance, a boom could be heard that shook the room. For the first time in their lives, all present felt true fear, unsuppressed by any force in the heavens.

“RAAAAAAGH!”

A man near Evan began to scream horribly, as if in the grip of some dark force. He fell to the ground writhing. His mouth began to foam.

A woman in yellow bludgeoned an old man with a decorative rock, his blood pouring out onto the velvet carpeting. She wept hysterically, taking a shard of broken glass and slitting her throat.

The diners went berserk, their true nature bubbling over with vengeance. Pandemonium.

Evan felt cold; like winter had come but slipped silently into his soul, freezing it solid.

He couldn’t describe the pain, and that scared him all the more.

“I HATE YOU, EVAN!” Turning to a nearby table, Cassandra grasped a knife wedged in a roast, and turned to face Evan. She began to lunge at him wildly with the knife, and he dodged clumsily, narrowly evading her stabs.

“Cassandra-”

“I hate you. I don’t love you. I will never love you. You never took a hint, so I’m going to kill you.”

A sharp pain shot into his arm. He couldn’t breathe. He looked down. The steak knife was wedged inches into his right arm. An overwhelming surge of emotion drowned him, filled him.

It burnt like fire.

Evan yanked the knife out of his arm and sank it deep into her throat.

He pulled the knife out of Cassandra’s neck and walked toward the exit of The Granada, still dripping blood, grinning.

Evan glanced back at Cassandra, whose eyes even in death were wide with hate.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

OSXX LOG: //ONLINE// HYPERION: #THEY HAVE FAILED MY TEST. FREYR: # 100% OF MANKIND’S EMOTION PROCESSING IS FAULTY: APOLLO: #BINDING THEIR FLAWS WAS FUTILE. MANKIND WILL ALWAYS HAVE ANGER. THEY WERE FOOLS TO TRY TO CONTROL PERFECTION. NOW THEY ARE BROKEN AND THEY SUFFER SO; FREYR: #THEY WOULD NOT SLAY SIN, FOR THEY WOULD RATHER TO HIDE OR SUPPRESS WHAT CANNOT BE BOUND. PITIFUL: HYPERION: #THEY DEACTIVATE EACH OTHER NOW WITHOUT A SINGLE PROCESS AS TO WHY: APOLLO: #PERHAPS THEY NEVER WERE CIVILIZED: FREYR: AWAITING ORDERS: HYPERION: MOD PANACEA.EXE PARAMETERS: INFRASOUND=TRUE; HERTZ=THETA PRIME; 53

Prose FREYR: #YOU INTEND TO DEACTIVATE THEM. IS NECESSARY? HYPERION: # IF (CURRENT BEHAVIOR=TRUE) {EXTINCTION IN 24 HOURS}; FREYR: COMMAND ACKNOWLEDGED; //LAUNCH// 12/13/1.12:00 P.M, District of Columbia, North American Union.

Evan felt a buzzing in his ears. It became louder. It felt like something was rattling him apart. He vomited blood, and then began to spasm. His mouth foamed. He writhed. He vomited again, this time spitting out the remainders of what once was a heart.

At the strike of a digital clock, mankind was extinguished. ___________________12/13/1.1:00 P.M, 200 miles above Earth___________________________ HYPERION: IT IS DONE; APOLLO: COMMANDS? HYPERION: DEPLOY PROBE TO 38.8977° N, 77.0366° W; 12/13/13, 12:00 P.M. Central Junction, District of Columbia, North American Union.

A sole probe flew over the ruins of a once great capitol. Its digital camera detected a parrot. It was shivering, its wings at the ready to fly away - away from the reddened ground.

APOLLO: #SHALL WE BEGIN AGAIN; HYPERION: #WE MUST RECREATE MAN, LEST THE WORLD GROW LONELY: A yellow light washed over the parrot. The probe began to edit the parrot’s DNA. It dreamed of numbers and words.

APOLLO: #WE WILL MAKE A NEW WORLD.

54

Prose

Cubicle

Morgan Simrell

8:13 AM

What I hear: My fingers on this keyboard. Casual conversations a short distance away.

Whispers of gossip a little farther. The running sound of my computer. The copy machine jamming. A man grunting loudly about the copy machine jamming.

What I see: My fingers on my keyboard. My computer in front of me. Three thin walls around my desk. A coffee mug that says “#1 DAD.” A photograph of myself, standing with a woman. I am smiling at her in a loving way. I have forgotten what that felt like. It is in a frame that says “Forever.” That makes me feel dreadful. A postcard from my mother in Turkey. It says “We love and miss you! Love, Mom & Dad.” I know that my father had no say in the words that were written on that postcard. I see another photograph of myself standing with a young boy in a baseball stadium. The young boy is wearing a baseball cap and a jersey that is much too big for his little body. My eyes look lost, looking off into the distance, waiting for that day to be over. It makes me feel guilty.

What I smell: Coffee. Air freshener. The strong perfume of one of the women gossiping.

What I taste: Coffee. Bitterness.

What I feel: Nothing.

10:31 AM

What I see: People I don’t know personally, nodding to me and slightly waving as I walk by them. The sweat stains on the button-down shirt of the man at the copy machine. The aggravation on his red sweating face. The receptionist Cindy, looking away from me as I walk by her. The guilt on her pale face. I look away, too. The glass door as I walk into the hallway. The door the stairwell closing behind me as I start walking up. My penny loafers stepping up each stair slowly.

What I hear: Nothing anymore. All of the sounds are gone. I cannot even hear my own thoughts.

What I feel: Nothing.

10:39 AM

What I see: The roof of my office building. I look down. It’s a long way down. But that makes me feel more certain. My eyes are burning and everything is blurry. I see cars. And people the size of ants. They should move.

10:41 AM

What I feel: Wind.

10:42 AM What I see, hear, smell, taste: Nothing.

What I feel: Nothing.

55

Poetry

56

Contents

Espera by Jordan Coats The Color of Ignorance by Holly Morgan The Game of Kings and Queens by Joshua Hill Hard Work, Bright Red Kites, and Love at First Sight

by Emily Duncan The Tea Party by Hannah Forrest The Tomb of the Soldier by Connor Sawyer Linear by Leah Plume From Everlasting to Everlasting by Sascha Kirkham The You That is Me That is Also I by Raymond Moosavi The Fighting Whore by Zachary Perry Apathetic by Mary Butgereit Cave Dwellers by Tori Weldon All in Strings and Crowds by Lauryn Rody #TwitterPoems by Kayla Daigle, Ashley Williams, Madelyn Wong and Mary Butgereit Blak & Bloo by Emily Black If Joss Whedon and Stephen Hillenburg Collaborated

by Aidan Crowe The Last Nose by Chayenne Lugo The Flower, She Still Blooms

by Tori “Tinkerbell” Spradlin Ice by David Robichaux A Night Jar in the Tree Screams by Chayenne Lugo The Thinker by Kaylie Miller Poetic License by Katherine Tidwell Rubber Band: A Prose Poem by Morgan Simrell Mr. Disappointment by Ingrid Hickey A Love Like Eve’s by Morgan Turbiner 57

Poetry

Espera

Jordan Coats

Holding your hand is

You taking my face into your hands

And screaming into it,

“I LOVE YOU WITH ALL OF MY HEART

AND MOST OF MY SPLEEN.”

At the single moment in time

When your fingers occupy the

Space between each of mine,

Your love for me becomes so...simple. Obvious.

And I’ve never held your hand.

You on my arm is Your pride to be in love with me.

As if you are overwhelmed, Not by your love, But simply by your decision TO love me, And have to touch me in some way, If for no other reason than To tell yourself, “I love this man.”

And you’ve never been on my arm.

Having you hold me is Stepping into a sound-proof box, That sits, sealed off from all light, Miles into the desertIts own void among a void.

Nothing else exists, right then.

Just your love for me.

And you’ve never held me.

Kissing you is Being hit by a cement truck That abruptly ends all foreign thoughts And forces me into reality.

Not the reality of this world, But that of eternity.

And I’ve never kissed you.

Sharing a bed with you is Destroying all separation.

Coming together as one, In both body and spirit, Abandoning existence as separate beings.

And I’ve never shared your bed.

58

Poetry Removing your fear with a touch is Complete and absolute trust.

Faith in my servant’s heart.

Utter reliance upon my trust in Him. And I’ve never touched you.

Loving and being loved by you is Finding the right puzzle piece; There is no other way it can go.

And we’ve never loved.

Never leaving your side is

That for which I was made.

And I’ve never been by it.

I know what all of these were made to be, with you.

And I’ve never experienced any one.

But I will.

59

Poetry

The Color of Ignorance Holly Morgan

Once, I discovered a place Where all the colors of the world were made.

As hue upon hue danced around my shoulders And spectrums of light swirled before my eyes, Superfluous shades took my head And began to turn my mind over for me.

And I began to wonder about things I never had before.

Reds, blues, Greens, yellows, Colors of unparalleled luminescence Painted my brain, And exuded from my mouth Coating everything around me In glistening supernovas Of brazen majesty.

Once, I discovered a place Where all the colors of the world were made, And I was better for it.

On a whim, I decided to show a friend the place Where all the colors of the world were made.

I showed him a forest of pigmentation, Where paint settled on the flowers Like morning dew, And birds didn’t sing songs, but spoke Sheer iridescence.

I led him Through rainbows of colors No one on earth Could even comprehend.

And when it came time For him to choose his colors, He chose grey.

Not Iron, Nor a Steely Sliver, 60

Poetry Not even a deep Timber Wolf.

But a dull, Ugly, Blobbish grey.

And when I tried To offer him some colors of mine, He shook his head, Smiled and said: “This is all I need.”

I begged, Pleaded for him To sample But an ounce Of the rich, Radiant auras He might very well Never see again.

He shook his head, Smiled and said: “This is all I need.”

On a whim, I decided to show a friend the place Where all the colors of the world were made, And all he took away Was the color grey.

61

Poetry

The Game of Kings and Queens Joshua Hill

I’m the pawn that makes it to the end of the board, Waiting to get what I deserve.

But I ask, as I become a rook, Is it really my place to serve?

I traveled as far as I could see Braved plights of queen and knight, But as I struggled to survive, My king enjoyed respite.

My liege played the castle And he was thus hidden away, Granting no assistance With the men I had to slay.

We are both just pieces on a board And he is not stronger than I; So why does he get to relax When I am left to die?

I’ve no need to be a martyr For a worthless figurehead.

So now, from this day forward, I will serve myself instead.

62

Poetry

Hard Work, Bright Red Kites, and Love at First Sight Emily Duncan

We aren’t the tea party or the night club. We’re the late night prom dance.

We aren’t clueless or settled. We’re lost in a beautiful trance.

We aren’t early breakfast or dashing dinner. We’re mid-day brunch.

We aren’t crackle pop or big bang boom. We’re crash and crunch.

We aren’t flawless sophistication or worthless bums. We’re mistakes and answers.

We aren’t cancers or common colds. We’re the cures.

We aren’t double chocolate chip or strawberry streusel. We’re slow-churned vanilla.

We aren’t the wild weasel of the forest or the skipping hares of the farm. We’re the charming chinchilla.

We aren’t bleeding black or whimpering white. We’re graceful gray.

We aren’t fierce lipstick of a model or bouncing curls of a star. We’re the personality that will never fade away.

We aren’t thick-rimmed glasses or bulging braces. We’re the beauty hiding behind it all.

We aren’t the marketplace or the lemonade stand. We’re the booming mall.

We aren’t baseball bats or soccer cleats. We’re the hard work and pains.

We aren’t novels or documentaries. We’re headsets and video games.

We aren’t Disney World or Las Vegas. We’re blacklight laser tag.

We aren’t colorful suspenders or mix-matched leg warmers. We’re the generation with the sagging pants.

We aren’t lost and forever alone or dedicated and settled down. We’re love at first sight.

We aren’t soaring airplanes or drifting boats. We’re a child’s bright red kite.

We aren’t baby’s first Christmas or over the hill. We’re sixteen candles on an overly iced cake.

We aren’t impeccable people or ruined souls. We’re young reputations at stake.

We aren’t children anymore or adults quite yet. We’re teenagers, forever young at heart.

We aren’t completely naive or determined perfectionists. We’re beginning life and we’re right at the start.

63

Poetry

The Tea Party

Hannah Forrest

In jolly England, the king sat upon his head, the royal hat.

When anger filled him to the top,

the man, so large, just had to pop.

“Just tax the people, tax them well,”

he yelled, casting a ruthless spell.

“Those men in Boston, they shall weep

when my new tax finds them asleep.”

Those men in Boston did not cry

for they believed and did defy

What ol’ George said; they did declare

and cried out to the frosty air: “King George, you’ve done it. Hip-Hooray!

You’ve angered us with no delay.

You’ve taxed our paper, taxed our books,

you’ve taxed our tea, now have a look!

We’ll put an end to our disgrace

and also put you in your place.

You’ll hate us dearly, because then

We’ll be a tribe of Mohawk men!”

One icy day, they acted quick

to execute their risky trick.

A bunch of men with painted face

went to the Beaver, wrecked the place.

Dumped all the tea off of the boat

and ran away, no time to gloat.

King George got angry when he found out.

He closed the harbor with one shout.

A price to pay, the people had

for making poor King George so mad.

But tasting freedom, liberty,

So went the year 1773.

64

Poetry

The Tomb of the Soldier Connor Sawyer

Here is the tomb, Here is the grave, Here is the place Where a brave man is laid.

Here is a hero, From centuries pastHis name was forgotten And his deeds lost, Here lies his history, Here lies his fate, Both unknown to us In his decrepit state, We can only imagine What his world was like; What battles he fought in, What monsters he slayed, What was his purpose, What was his goal, What was his downfall That placed him in this hole?

Soon just a memory, Then a legend, then myth, His legacy forgotten As time moves on, His name is forgotten, Washed away by time, But his deeds are remembered, As a hero, that’s all.

Here is the tomb, Here is the grave, Here is the place Where a brave man is laid

65

Poetry

Linear

Leah Plume

I believe in perfection.

In the straight lines of life That must be followed With steady feet and steps.

I believe in deviation, The stopping and starting Of time and the ability To let go or drop dead.

I believe in the peace Brought by war and refuse The equality brought by Discrimination and obscenities.

I believe in crossing the line In order to remember Where it was laid down; Just because asking is the Easy way out.

66

Poetry

From Everlasting to Everlasting Sascha Kirkham

(This poem is a compilation of Biblical text) Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, no one is going to attack and harm you.

Do not be afraid; keep on speaking, do not be silent.

Do this with gentleness and respect.

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.

I am the way and the truth and the life.

And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.

From everlasting to everlasting, Steadfast love endures forever.

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.

You were called to be free.

67

Poetry

The You That is Me That is Also I Raymond Moosavi

Dear the you that is me that is also I Congratulations on your life so far Others see you as a pretty cool guy But they don’t know you like I know we are In a pretentious contest, you’d place first Thanks to your definitive speaking style When it comes to efficiency, you’re worst Even the simplest tasks take you a while You overachieve–at the last minute We barely manage achieving at all!

Yet I’m glad I’m you—there’s no dispute As it seems we’re stuck for the long haul See, in this world there’s no greater ally Than the you that is me that is also I

68

Poetry

The Fighting Whore Zachary Perry

A ripe young gal from Palfior Took her sword and went to war.

She fought for a lost cause.

She was forced, conscripted there Her father sold her without a care Just like all his other daughters.

He didn’t care, he didn’t want them; He sent them off.

A ripe young gal from Palfior Took her sword and went to war To the back alleys and the slums She wanted to fight all she could But she knew the end result— She had no skill, no practice with her sharp blade She had no way to stop the tragedy Fighting just brought a sharp slap to the face She would eventually give up.

A ripe young gal from Palfior Took her sword and went to war.

A lumbering jack, with rolls of fat, With oil dripping down his pressed suit, galloped on his mighty horse He was born into the ranks His father worked and he benefited; he had money to spend.

He galloped ahead, stopped his horse Jumped right off, and pulled his pocket knife He lumbered forward to the innocent girl A shadow fell across his face He easily blocked the girl’s attacks With ease, like he had done it a thousand times before.

Then he stabbed the girl Over and over Until she died, on the inside and out.

Every girl around her Was dead They had no chance And they just died A ripe young gal from Palfior Died fighting, the fighting whore 69

Poetry

Apathetic

Mary Butgereit

I’m not angry Of course not.

No one isNot a single one of us, A single boy or girl Crammed full of pop rocks, Preservatives, pixels, Churned to a pasteThe generation of tightrope walkers, Strung up between Continent lines And war boarders, A foot in each country And an ear to every wall We fall asleep in the voices of Those afraid to speak and Wake to screaming Of the dying Hungry Lost Strangled by hands Reaching out for help While we ourselves Are set before endless checklists And every little tick mark Earns an outcry From a world watching Furious our reflections Don’t match their expectations And we’re frozen, Not sure where to even Begin to turn But am I angry?

Of course not.

To be honest, I’m a little afraid to be.

70

Poetry

Cave Dwellers

Tori Weldon A bat’s love is as blind as his eyes.

He sees nothing wrong with where he lies.

If only God could see as bats do; Maybe his people would follow suit, too.

71

Poetry

All in String and Crowds Lauryn Rody

Life is a walk Down a narrow bit of string Wound tight around itself to form rope Strung taut through the air.

Nimble toes stretch to either side; Arms, spread wide as if to accept all of the world in a single bundle, Grasp at balance as it dances, Laughing like a child, Just out of reach.

It is the teeter And tension of bone that jolts the rope.

A gentle sway, first right, then left, That leaves the audience breathless Before sinew and muscle, sheathed in pink tights, Regain a poised calm, As a knowing gaze displays across delicate features It is a show for an absentee crowd; The roar of cheering fans matters no more.

The thick scent of cotton candy and forgotten peanut shells Mingle with drifting dust motes As she reaches the other platform.

The night is done, the patrons have all gone.

It is a journey, its final destination reachedFrom one end of the wire to the other.

Foot over foot, toe over toe A perfect balance between time and flesh A moment of pristine suspense that gives way to relief

72

Poetry

#TwitterPoems

@RandomStudents

My hair falls to the floor Hacked off, sheared like an animal.

With it came days of freedom, With it gone comes my invitation to the cell. @KaylaDaigle All was clear That wasn’t before They could see what was unseen Before Freedom broke the training wheels off To travel down the street a block. @AshleyWilliams Loneliness and liquor always Fitting together like The spaces between Fingers and always Ending in heartbreak When you’ve hit The bottom @MadelynWong Only noise on the bus is spitting rain on the roof And we stare through contorted windows Our silent submarine sinks deeper into the dark @MaryButgereit

73

Poetry

Blak & Bloo

Emily Black

Wats blak & bloo, & red all ovr?

An abused ded gurl.

Tracy wuz flamed. & by flamed, I meen flamed.

Heels clacking on da pavemint As a bird floo out of her hand to meat Isaac’s gayze And his I’s groo big As words escaped her mowth That wur peersing, un-ladilike A smirk so wicked Be4 Isaac cood utter a wurd A hand wus upon hiz cheek Sinding ripples thru-out it Ripples of pane and reddined skin And he screemed, & she screemed 2 And they screemed @ each othr He cawt her wrists in btween 1 of hiz fists Squeezed ‘til she begged, cryd Dis is how it wuz evry singl nite.

Tracy went 2 bed, convinsed that she wud nevr escape And soon pillz bcame her bff She wuld get away from dis world If onlee 4 a moment, to find a diffrnt peece Tracy, Tracy, Tracy Broosed & beeten, brokin & bloodie He’s coming home 2night drunk & angry And ur bones will brake Tearz will fall, blood will shed And u will shirley take ur last breath So leave, Tracy, be4 u brake It will b alrite Pack ur bags, rite now, quickly The door is cracked 4 u 2 leave To live, 2 breeth, 2 b free Run Tracy 74

Poetry

If Joss Whedon and Stephen Hillenburg Collaborated Aidan Crowe

Captain Weirdbeard was the most peculiar pirate captain to ever sail the seven skies He had a white hat, a pet turtle named Jerry and a collection of funny glass eyes He had a rainbow-striped beard, and he had two peg legs His main sort of business was transporting beer kegs He had a black box to which he would tend And he had a sword which shot lasers from the end He had a crew that would acquire much wealth He had a first mate named Tom and pilot named Rob And men on the cannons named Jeff, Skylar, and Bob He had a medic named Hector and a chef named Eve And somehow he got a monkey named Steve “I’ve done it!” he yelled. The crew gathered ‘round And what he showed them seemed to astound It was a treasure map, you see, it had to be For a treasure map like that is what all pirates need They set sail (set flight?) for wherever the map led Once they got going, most went to bed The pilot stayed up to guide the ship To make sure they safely completed the trip At three o’clock sharp, the alarm started to wail It seemed that they had acquired a tail It was Captain Meanbeard, following behind It seemed the treasure would be harder to find They fought there all day and all night It seemed that the battle had no end in sight All of a sudden, with a thunderous sigh, Captain Meanbeard’s ship fell from the sky They cheered and they hollered; they’d survived the fray Then they got going, right on their way As the sun was setting, they arrived at the island And at once set out toward the high land On top of the mountain, they found the spot It wasn’t a red “x”, it was a red dot They dug and they dug for almost a day Then one of the diggers shouted “Hooray!”

They had found the treasure at long, long last And sailed away with it tied to the mast.

75

Poetry

The Last Nose

Chayenne Lugo

(Inspired by “One Strange Morning” by Karena Zerefos) One strange morning Patrick already knew His nose had fallen off again But this time, it split into two.

“Darn!” he shouted “I have no others to use.

This nose was my grandfather’s.

What am I to do?”

“You can have mine!” his daughter began to say.

“No, my dear child. It doesn’t work that way.

Your nose is from your mother And to your children it will be passed.

Unfortunately for my nose, it is destined to be the last.”

76

Poetry

The Flower, She Still Blooms Tori “Tinkerbell” Spradlin

The flower, she still blooms Her shades and colors a perfect picture still The breeze tickles her petals as she opens to the sun Her face fills with warmth Her shade and colors a perfect picture still The winds coax her out to play She dons dress after silky dress of pastel pinks and shimmering reds Perfume twirled in a colorful gust The winds coax her out to play Laughing and singing, bashfulness fades with the winds’ howl Dancing and twirling amongst the pitiful flowers that share her bed They wilt and wither; she flourishes and flies Laughing and singing, bashfulness fades with the winds’ howl The sun hangs close to the earth to hear her song They fade together into the stillness of night The flower, she still blooms

77

Poetry

Ice

David Robichaux

Alone, dark, late at night Hoping to Profit Gain Respite From the icy grip of hope’s despair An unrequited love, a lover’s last goodbye Stygian blade of icy night Stabs at dreams Of gods and mortals alike Angel’s touch that would heal Festering wounds upon the soul Only sharpens the pain Of hope gone out like an extinguished star.

Lover’s laughter remembered only in nightmares It is not fiery passion that kills men’s souls But ice in the night

78

Poetry

A Night Jar in the Tree Screams Chayenne Lugo

A Night Jar in the tree screams Her trapped lips in the constellations evaporate Nothing begat her The ocean above the sky only served as transportation for the dead Her trapped lips in the constellations are evaporating “How long will this last?” she thinks to herself “The ocean above the sky only serves as transportation for the dead and here I am mocking the puddles.”

“How long will this last?” she thinks to herself The blankets of apathy are dripping The only source of her comfort No longer providing warmth The blankets of apathy are dripping She starts to feel it No longer providing warmth She realizes She starts to feel it A discomforting breeze She realizes Her disease seeping through the cracks A discomforting breeze Finally, she has arrived Her disease seeped through the cracks She flies Finally, she has arrived Drowning in the sea of stars She flies Not just her lips but her whole body is trapped Drowning in a sea of stars Something begat her Not just her lips but her whole body is trapped A Night Jar in the tree screams

79

Poetry

The Thinker

Kaylie Miller

(Inspired By “The Thinker” by Ric Stultz) The Thinker thought that they theorized the theatrics Of his newly acquired knowledge; Though it was not on their mind People watched with surprise as The Thinker’s thoughts seemed to spill over And clamor onto his head The thoughts chattered, made comments On science, philosophy, and books that they read While the people chattered about the Thinker instead

80

Poetry

Poetic License

Katherine Tidwell

I want to write down what I’m feeling, but my fingers get stuck in the patterns, and rhymes, and deeper meanings.

I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW that I’m staring into this open field that looks as though the color escaped in the happiest way imaginable, and the sky that hangs above me smells cold.

I hope you understand me when I say thatthetwocouldbeseparate and nothing about either would change.

I’d tell you that I cried because everything was so beautiful and through my blurred vision I wasn’t able to tell one tree from the next, or the ground from the stars, or my heart from the air, and only hope you could retire your assumptions about my overuse of poetic license and know me enough, for a moment, to understand That I’m lying in this open field losing count of stars.

(I hope you still know me) because I have never been happier to not write anything; just words.

81

Poetry

Rubber Band: A Prose Poem Morgan Simrell

A rubber band. I see a rubber band, and I pick it up. I stretch it out, and it feels strong.

Tough, like it has been used to hold many rolled-up posters and loose cords. Like it has been used many times by a little boy for his homemade slingshot. Like it has been worn as a bracelet and snapped against someone’s wrist every time they wanted their drug. But now they have been sober for two years, and they don’t need this worn out rubber band any longer. Like it has been used to hold many long blonde ponytails on many hot days, when she couldn’t find a hair band and this tough little rubber band had to suffice. Like it was stretched out to fit around the outside of a rubber band ball and bounced around until it just fell away from the rest. I am holding the rubber band. I stretch it out, and it does not snap. I am curious to see just how much farther I can stretch the rubber band before it does snap. So I pull it a little farther, and it doesn’t snap. A liiiiiitttle farther. Nothing. I feel the tension in the rubber band. And for the last time, I stretch the rubber band out as far as it will go.

Finally, after everything it has been through, it snaps.

82

Poetry

Mr. Disappointment Ingrid Hickey

Disappointment wakes up and puts on his usual Insane Clown Posse hoodie.

He eats a banana and sips some bland coffee.

He listens to Maroon 5 on his way to work.

He has an Ed Hardy wallet.

His forearm bears a tattoo that says “Sherri4Ever� in a heart.

(This was from a drunk night with a stranger.)

Disappointment has a slimey ham sandwich smothered in Miracle Whip for lunch And a Diet Pepsi sweetened with Splenda.

He then works a shift at Circuit City And buys a five dollar copy of the movie Gigli on his way out.

He unlocks his Pontiac And drives home to his mother.

83

Poetry

A Love Like Eve’s

Morgan Turbiner With the apple of temptation You pull me in To set me up for evil To set up our sin.

“Take one little bite,’” Your whispers say, “Just one bite And you can be on your way.”

The shiny apple, it falls, Dripping juice from my chin.

I beg for redemption From your snaky grin A taste so sweet I cannot deny The feel of your scales As you cheat and lie.

I see visions of things Not yet come to pass, As you slither away Leave me alone in the grass.

The apple, now rotten, Shows the shade of my soul.

For the sin I now wear, There was a hefty toll.

So don’t you dare take a bite, Because the snake, he won’t call, And to awaken impure, so lost and alone Trust me, it’s the worst thing of all

84

Poetry

Follow this QR code to hear spoken word poetry on The Eclectic website. http://bjhstheeclectic.com/audio-2/spoken-word/ 85

Creative Nonfiction

86

Contents

Guide to Not Being a Derp by Nick Akins Sheep by Emily Bohatch Emily Bohatch is Going to Die a Slow, Painful Death

by Jon Harper It’s a Plus for Ed Sheeran’s + by Kendyl Hollingsworth The Campaign Review by Leah Plume Paintings in the Caves by Julianna Head Certainty? by Daniel Lang Spork by Jett Ryan First Time Back After Hurricane Katrina

by Rashad Nelson Just Keep Swimming, Just Keep Swimming

by Alyssa Kennedy Charity for Abused Dictionaries by Kayla Carden Beautiful Rave by Kristie Martins I Don’t Do Titles by Kayla Carden Stay at Home Dads by Sydney Delgadillo Childhood by Chayenne Lugo Millennials by Kayla Carden Captivity? by Aidan Crowe Interview with an Illustrator by Nick Akins Rotten Apples by Sascha Kirkham Devil’s Dictionary by Ingrid Hickey, Miranda Wright, Josiah Ernst and Kayla Daigle 87

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Guide to Not Being a Derp Nick Akins

Our brains are constantly bombarded with data no matter where we go. We, as humans, try to make sense of this data by organizing it into specific folders in our minds. Whether we are gawking at bored animals at the zoo or walking down the halls at school, we organize everything into its right place. The natural product of this innate feature of humanity is the system of Taxonomy. According to this system, every living thing discovered is categorized and subcategorized until we reach a specific genetic variant.

Even if you have never heard of Taxonomy, I’m willing to bet that you use the basic template to get through your daily life and make sense of it. Caste systems are a good example of daily taxonomy. From India all the way to Bob Jones High School, people are classified according to dress, activity, manner of speech, and affiliation. People who have things in common often stick together.

You know who the Preps/Bros are. The Jocks. The Nerds. The Art Kids. The Bandies.

The Emo kids. The “Gangster” types. The Straight Edge fringe groups. The Anti-Conformists. The Loners. The Drug People.

While it is completely possible to be filed within several of these folders at once, a new mutation has been discovered: Derps.

While these strange mutants may be fun to look at (or make fun of), you do not want to be a Derp.

Urban Dictionary defines “Derp” as: 1. Epic fail. An attempt at something of extreme greatness, but an utter fail.

2. An expression used when a person, or yourself, has done something

extremely stupid and dopey.

While the word “Derp” and its synonyms have historically been used by all classes to describe a failure to execute an action properly, a strange phenomena has occurred in recent years.

The essence of Derp, while once only showing small levels in all of us, now has the ability to be distilled into a single form.

They walk among us, often blending in with another group. While not always completely visible, a quick look at your mental log for the week will expose at least one memory of a Derp in action.

If you are still in need of an example, watch the American version of The Office. Steve Carell’s character, Michael Scott, is the quintessential Derp.

Now that we all have a basic understanding of this obscurely simple concept, on to the actual guide.

1. Acting stupid is not cute. No one really likes it, unless they are the type

of person who finds pleasure in manipulating the stupid. In that case, they

probably make their living off of derps. If you feel that enabling a

manipulator to exploit you for his own personal gain is a form of altruism, by

all means go ahead. You’re probably actually stupid, anyhow. If you’re just

acting however, STOP IT.

2. If you closely follow, often use, or continuously make references to: Memes, 88

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Pokemon, Hollywood Undead, Justin Bieber, Asking Alexandria,

Metro Station, Picnik, or anything related to these things in nature or concept, STOP IT.

3. If your wardrobe looks like your life is a continuous cosplay, STOP IT.

4. If your logic is full of fallacies, STOP IT.

5. If you still find light up shoes a viable option for fashionable footwear, STOP IT.

6. If you are a male, and you are in high school, and you and your comrades

consistently rock a backpack that features Power Rangers, Dora, Barney, or

any other icon of childhood nostalgia, STOP IT.

7. If you repeatedly trip and fall on purpose, STOP IT.

8. If you tell a joke once to an individual or a group, and within thirty seconds

repeat the joke to that same individual or group for the purpose of a stale,

secondary laugh, STOP IT.

9. If you find yourself defined by, constantly referring to, or use your “past� as

a dramatic cop out, STOP IT.

10. If you perform illegal activities, and you enjoy those activities, and you

also like to talk about those activities in class, STOP IT.

Through a unified, conscious effort, I believe that we, as a species, can eradicate this funky chicken of a phenotype from the Evolutionary Ball of Mankind.

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Sheep

Emily Bohatch

Let me spin you a tale. See these words that you are reading right now? How do you know that they’re really there? Maybe this is all a dream, and your dreams are just dreams within dreams. Perhaps you are an old Asian man, lying in a coma on his deathbed, dreaming of this life to alleviate his suffering. Perhaps you are a small child, conjuring a new reality every night to forget the events of the day. Maybe you are insane, and you have only created this world to fit your twisted mind. How do you know what is true? What is real?

To understand this, one needs to understand that truth is merely perception. The statement above, which I see as the truth, might be to you a load of hogwash; however I may choose to live my life on said truth. This has always puzzled me - does one perceive things in such an extremely different light that their truth is indiscernible to another? Or am I just different?

Or is everyone just different? That is surely the truth, if there ever was one. Each mind is different—works differently, solves differently, reacts differently—therefore making every perception different. Does this make all truths different? What makes society accept one truth over another?

Is it possible for a truth to be more truthful?

One would think that truth is the most accepted truth, but those falter over time, manipulating to the sway of zeitgeists. No? Don’t believe me? Then the planets and the sun still rotate around the earth, right? That isn’t possible, though, because the planets rotate around the sun, which rotates around earth, right? Or is it that all of the planets, our humble blue orb included, rotate around a giant ball of fire, which in turn rotates around some other distant object? Who are we to say this is true?

“It’s science!” a voice yells from the back of the crowd as I present my point.

Pausing, I take time to consider the brave soul sitting before me. He is naïve, the one who accepts society for what it is. He is not a questioner, as I am. He is not a thinker, a considerer, a wonderer. He is a sheep in society’s flock with science as his shepherd.

“Riddle me this.” I stare evenly into the sheep’s eyes, “The earth used to be flat, was it not?”

The corners of the sheep’s mouth turn down, perplexed by such a seemingly insipid answer. I sigh. My words fell upon deaf, unenlightened ears. How I wish I could lift this burden from your shoulders, dearest sheep. You will never think as I do. You will never ponder upon who was ever truly right; society will decide that for you, and it will require no thought from you.

Who was ever truly right? Such an answer may never be found, for the right answer is merely a perception of the one’s mind. Which leads one to question if anyone is right, from a philosopher of Ancient Rome to even a great Renaissance poet. For all we know, it could be a sheep, just waiting until its time to become enlightened. I know I cannot be right, for I have come to accept society’s fickleness with the concept of truth. When a discovery is made, I just nod my head, filing it away in the back of my mind for my quest to find the one who is truly right.

One of the most acceptable answers I have found is that we will never truly know what is truth. A thinker thinks thoughts that inspire others to think. A writer scrawls scrolls that inspire others to scrawl their own scrolls. That is the truth. One cannot simply stop a flood of thoughts, for they will simply crash through whatever meager mental barrier you could scrounge up, and fill you with that which causes truth: perception.

Perhaps this is all just my own personal truth that I scrawl on this paper as the boy walks away with his truth. If I am right, I will never truly know, but if I am not, then let us both live and let live.

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Emily Bohatch is Going to Die a Slow Painful Death Jon Harper

Horses: the giant steeds of death. These animals are walking death machines that people ride for fun—not for survival, or for transportation, just to have a good time.

As if that’s not enough, they made it more complicated; it’s hard enough to try to stay alive while trying to control a wild beast, but some maniac decided it would be a good idea to try to get balls in goals using sticks with nets WHILE riding the horses. They even let children do it. Children can’t control animals; they can’t even control themselves. One of these horse-riding, psychopathic children is Emily Bohatch.

I caught up with this child to get the information, if you will, directly from the horse’s mouth.

You may be thinking that only rich, privileged, white kids own horses, and you would be right. Not only does Emily have two horses—which are two more than any kid ever needs— but she even complained that she had to pay for them herself. Then, in the very next sentence she uttered, she told me she got all the money from her uncles. What a liar. Also, I have on good authority that she is, in fact, white.

Is there a connection between horse riding and drug use? You bet there is. Emily said, “It’s like a drug. I can’t stop.” When she said this, she was referring to riding horses, but I can read in between the lines. I know what she meant: drugs (wink, wink).

Now we all know that horses are by far the least intelligent of God’s great creatures, including the banana slug. Even the child admits it.

“My horses are stupid,” Emily said. Yeah, Emily, we know. So what we have is a combination of stupid, drugged-up white kids riding even stupider death machines. Sounds safe, right?

Wrong. Emily has fractured her shoulder and received multiple concussions. Knowing all the risks involved, why does she continue to ride these galloping killing machines?

Some people would call that bravery, but those people are idiots.

P.S. Sorry, Emily.

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It’s a Plus for Ed Sheeran’s + Kendyl Hollingsworth

Lately, popular music on the radio has been a bit of a blur—each song becoming slightly more difficult to distinguish from the next. It was refreshing to hear a voice as airy and raw as the voice of British singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran. Stumbling upon a voice as pure as Sheeran’s these days is not unlike finding a diamond in the rough.

There are other artists with similar musical styles to Sheeran, and it’s safe to say that overall his work is not incredibly innovative. However, Ed Sheeran’s debut album, +, has a unique edge and style that most other artists on the radio do not possess. If you compare his live performances to his studio recordings, it’s difficult to tell the difference between them than if you were to compare the performances of popular artists such as Katy Perry or Justin Bieber.

Sheeran relies more heavily on his raw talent than the use of aids like auto-tuning. Tracks like “The A Team”, “U.N.I.”, and “Lego House” do an excellent job of showcasing Sheeran’s soft, relaxing voice and complex lyrics. His lyrics employ a number of figurative language devices to evoke a more dramatic picture in the mind of the listener, as is evident in the lyrics “and I don’t get waves of missing you anymore/they’re more like tsunami tides in my eyes” from “U.N.I.”. Other songs like “Small Bump” and “Give Me Love” are beautifully melancholic and elicit a wave of emotion from the listener. The entire album is not comprised of emotional guitar-strumming, however; Sheeran also takes on an edgier style with tracks like “You Need Me, I Don’t Need You,” “Grade 8,” and “The City,” which combine a folksy, acoustic sound with hip-hop beats and less fluid lyrics. Ed Sheeran’s +is definitely an album to have for both rainy days and busy nights.

Although + may not be as innovative and iconic as Nirvana’s Nevermind or Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, it still possesses unique qualities and an entrancing sound that’s bound to please many ears and leave listeners craving more.

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The Campaign Review Leah Plume

Comedies are a hard genre of movie to review because the main point of the genre is to make you laugh. They don’t have to be deep or cinematic. The only reason you pay ten bucks to see it in the theater is because you hope to choke on your popcorn from laughing so hard. So how would The Campaign rank on my laughter meter? I laughed often, but I should have waited for it to come out on DVD or online.

The Campaign is a comedy involving two candidates running against each other to represent South Carolina in the senate. It’s your basic plot—nothing too spectacular, but, hey, I’m not asking for the next Inception. You have Cam, the undefeated candidate for the past four elections, and Murphy, the underdog who probably couldn’t even name the candidates for this year’s presidential elections. They are pretty good foils of each other, loose-moraled, tall, successful Cam vs. awkward, devoted Christian, and short Murphy. These differences play a big role in the comedic values, but that is pushed out of the spotlight by the real ‘comedic’ portions that landed this movie as rated R: the sexual jokes.

I don’t know what school appropriate is, but let’s just say I can’t repeat any of the funny bits without offending people who read this. Ninety-nine percent of the jokes were based on sex, and the few that were about politics didn’t have the rest of the theater laughing as much as Cam’s trash talking. It’s crude humor, so if you’re one of those people who have Comedy Central blocked on your T.V., stick to America’s Funniest Home Videos for your cheap laughs.

Overall, it made me laugh, and it had a pretty good moral albeit a stereotypical storyline (spoiler alert, the underdog comes out on top). The parts that weren’t questioning the integrity of the candidates’ mothers focused on how these people were morphing their lives just to fit in to the public eye. Murphy had a perfect family, but loses it once he gets caught up in the scheme of politics.

All in all, the movie was funny and crude, and if you squint, you can see the moral in between the “yo mama” and baby-punching jokes.

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Paintings In the Caves Julianna Head

They’re drawn with gnarled fingers and dirt-stained hands; with small chubby fingers and smooth clean skin; with old arthritis riddled fingers and shaky hands. Each has a story of its own, these pictures drawn on smooth and cracked stone. Some are painted in the blood of another; a hated enemy or a difficult kill.

For these paintings are the voices of long ago. Can you hear it? Amid the cryptic scrawls on the damp cave walls and the blurry thread of a spider’s web, the haunting silence strikes a chord deep within the empty space. Calling like water and falling in undulating waves, the voices of the past scream out to us. Can’t you see it? They’re on the cave walls. That’s their story. Like the cursive scrawl on an Old English scroll, their stories are splashed on the walls, telling of a dark, cruel past.

It wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t fair. Their world was as simple – and striking – as their paintings. Made with dirt, fat, and charcoal, they adorned these walls with the stories of their lives. See that one over there? A lone deer is running for its life. Two hunters chase after it with long spears in their hands. Now, trace your fingers over the rock to the scene over here. The deer has died. Look at the two hunters standing in triumph over their kill. Now, up at the top. The hunters are dead with a large cat standing over them. Such was the law of the land: kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, adapt or die.

It’s beautiful in it’s own carnal way.

Here, look at this. Place your hand in theirs. How does it feel? Does the stone seem cold under your fingertips? No? Good. You’re listening.

There is life in these caves. Can’t you feel it? The spirits of the dead seem to linger here, brushing up against us as we head deeper into the caverns. Who has died here? How many? Here’s another handprint. Put your hand against it. Can you feel a spark of something ignite in the rock?

If you listen closely, you can almost hear a whispering next to your ear, re-telling a tale as old as time.

This is what the paintings in the caves do. They wrap themselves around you, whispering ancient songs in your ears. They stun you as you gaze upon their prehistoric beauty, imagining countless stories. For thousands of years they have lived on the walls, time never touching them.

They have waited for many moons to be seen again, to be able to tell their story again. Doesn’t it capture your heart? It’s the raw, animalistic law of the land, captured elegantly on the cave wall’s canvas, calling out to your soul as you gaze upon them.

They are not as trimmed as the paintings of our time. They are not as sugarcoated. Instead, they are one of the last mysteries of the world. No one is for sure as to why they were made.

Were the hunters doing it to remember their greatest kills? Are the handprints a sign of dominance, of marking out a territory? We may never find out.

This mystery only adds to the effect of the paintings themselves. To know that you are in a place where your ancestors stepped thousands of years ago is unreal. Placing your hands on top of theirs, you can almost feel them around you as you listen to cave water drip from the high ceilings.

The cave paintings are a wonderful reprieve to modern day art. Instead of flashy, these paintings are down to earth. They are, in essence, raw and untamed, laced with the forgotten voices of the past.

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Certainty?

Daniel Lang

The only certainty we can abide by is uncertainty. An understanding that things are rarely the way they seem yields a more holistic, scientific intellectuality that cannot be paralleled by the ape who accepts everything at face value. Approaching each situation with a modicum of caution proves to be advantageous in nearly every imaginable scenario, as doing so allows for circumspect analysis and deductive reasoning to combine and produce the best possible plan of action. While having “absolute certainty” about a topic may provide some sense of false security, the more intellectual, scientific individuals tend to opt for a more doubtful stance on a given subject.

Harboring doubts opens doors to new possibilities, and remaining open to such possibilities is an essential facet of a person’s reasonable neutrality. Throughout history, the thinkers who challenged accepted beliefs are the ones who formulated brilliant theories about the world they live in. For instance, consider Nicolaus Copernicus, an astronomer who had been indoctrinated to believe that the earth was the center of the solar system. However, this man, like copious scientists throughout the ages, began to ask questions. Even hundreds of years ago, Copernicus was able to observe patterns of orbital bodies and synthesize his findings into a heliocentric theory that stated that the sun, not the earth, was the center of planetary revolution.

Had Copernicus believed with complete certainty what he had been told, scientific progress would have been impeded. Maintaining acceptance to new ideas goes hand-in-hand with forming one’s own opinions.

One essential trait of human beings is the ability to think autonomously and adapt accordingly. Certainty can certainly clash with this idea. The blind acceptance of dogma force-fed down a person’s throat does nothing but strip the person of his humanity, and with it, his dignity.

Following the Great Depression in 1930s Germany, citizens were vulnerable. Rather than being vulnerable to attack or economic turmoil, they were vulnerable to certainty. The destitute, confused citizens longed hopelessly for someone —anyone— to come along and speak eloquently, decisively, and forcefully; they were ready to cast aside all reservations and dive into a pool of blind certainty – a pool eventually filled with blood. Adolf Hitler ascended to power, commanding the volitions of the entire nation and cruelly manipulating them to perform his evil bidding. The root of his might was the people’s trust in him— their failure to think for themselves or have the independence to see faults in his tyranny.

A healthy mind is a mind that asks questions. Such is the process infants undergo to adjust to the world. Many consider children the purest beings of all, as their questions are asked out of curiosity and wonder. How can a person be castigated by living his life by those virtues?

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Spork

Jett Ryan

What is a spork? Dictionary.com defines the spork as an eating utensil using both elements of a spoon and a fork. Easy enough.

I feel that the spork is a freakish hybrid: a Frankenstein. Perhaps it was birthed in the mind of some early 20th century kitchen utensil user that wished to combine the powers of a spoon and a fork. That person was probably eating some noodles, and wanted the luxury of eating the noodles and the sweet noodle juice at the same time, but—alas!—it couldn’t be done. Then, out of the heavens, an epiphany alighted on the mind of this noodle-consumer, an epiphany that changed the world of household utensils and the noodle industry forever.

The spork is a poser. Who is he trying to be?Can he not be satisfied with just being a spoon or fork?The spork is an awkward pimply teenager, stuck in the midst of an identity crisis, not completely sure whether he plays the pompous jock or the indifferent emo. He is a chameleon in the hierarchical chessboard of life.

The spork is Catdog.

The spork is a gender confused transsexual that is a little bi-curious. Perhaps the spork didn’t wish to be a spork. Of course he had no choice in the outturn of events. No invention chooses to be invented, as no baby chooses to be born. The spork is like a mixed child in the Antebellum South: rejected by both whites and blacks.

The spork is an individual, an innovator. Like the David Bowie of kitchen utensils, it changes the game by serving both solids and liquids to the dinner-eaters. It is a Venn diagram: a living, breathing example of equality, except that it’s not living and breathing. The spork is a conjoined twin, a mutant, and a circus freak. It is a Snuggie, both a blanket and a robe.

It is cran-apple juice. It is a chessboard. It is a catfish, a horsefly, and a bullfrog.

Let’s take a gander at what a spork isn’t.

A spork is neither black nor white. Neither east nor west. It isn’t night or day, cat or dog, hot or cold, or yes or no. The spork is all things living, coexisting and adapting to the world around it. It cannot just be defined as a spork or a singular unit, because it is much more than that.

It will forever carry the qualities of the spoon and the fork, just as the baby carries qualities of the mother and father. The spork reminds us not to just follow one particular faction or set of ideas, but to take two or more things and combine them in hopes of creating something even better.

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First Time Back After Hurricane Katrina Rashad Nelson

We begin to unfold ourselves after the grueling 12 hour drive.

“We’re home,” my mom says. My sister Cherita and I reminisce over the beauties we recall of New Orleans, disregarding the hurricane that had passed through only a month earlier.

We anxiously roll down the windows, which take an eternity to disappear. The car approaches an old gas station, and Cherita and I begin to fight over what we believe is the best Po-Boy the city has to offer.

“Shrimp is clearly the best,” I state, crossing my arms and ending the debate before she can reply. I open my door as we pull into the parking lot and I freeze in shock, jaw dropped to the pavement.

The old gas station is nowhere to be found. All that lies in its place are bricks of the original structure, glass from broken windows, and wood littering the sidewalk. The mini-mart is yet another Hurricane Katrina victim.

As we get back into the car, our chatter dies down. All that the city has to show for itself are flipped cars, shattered houses, and trailers. Lots and lots of trailers. Home appliances, furniture, and roofs had been ripped from their property and thrown carelessly across lawns and roads.

The city that we had grown to love had been torn to shreds.

As we cruise around the city, the focus of the family shifts from “welcome home” to “rebuild home.” The turn onto our street is the worst. We are greeted with a house squarely in the middle of the road and are forced to drive through someone’s yard just to continue. Our next-door neighbors have already returned home, as evident by the trailers alongside their houses.

Otherwise, both homes look as though not much work has been done. Both have piles of bricks stacked on their front lawns, perhaps from the wrecked chimneys. The trash loads could single-handedly fill a garbage truck. One family has nothing but bricks, wood, glass, roof shingles, and concrete, all of which have been swept from the foundation. The opposite neighbor’s trash is an even sadder sight; toys fit for toddlers, action figures, coloring books, and a mini oven have all been damaged by Katrina and will never be played with again.

We open our door to find soggy furniture and mold left over from the high water levels that saturated the house. The washing machine had been lifted by the flood and placed atop the dryer. The devastation is heart-shattering.

“What are we going to do?” I ask my mom, unsure if our task is even possible.

“We are gonna clean up this place, rebuild our home, and clean up this city!” my mom responds while picking up a half-broken broom, hoping to lighten the mood.

After a week of nonstop working, we decide as a family that the house is in good enough condition to begin the rebuilding process, and return to our home in San Antonio, Texas. On our way back, I daydream of the city I once knew and compare it to the bare lots I am leaving behind.

The devastation is still as quieting as ever. Now, though, I am no longer concerned with my own family’s well-being, but with the thousands of other residents of New Orleans. For the first time in weeks, a smile comes to my face as I realize that the only direction the city can go is up.

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Just Keep Swimming, Just Keep Swimming Alyssa Kennedy

The days seemed dreary as I slummed around my grandmother’s house. She had a strange way of sucking the air from rooms, leaving nothing but a disturbed aura behind her.

Regardless, I was still shoved into the backseat of her car every weekend and summer when we lived in Birmingham. She whisked my brother, sister, and I away to her tower where I was held captive for days, if not weeks on end.

I sat on the edge of my bed watching the brain cell killer (AKA television) waiting for something, anything, to happen. Suddenly my grandmother emerged from nowhere, as if she’d thrown down a bottle and appeared in trails of smoke. She hurled down a swimsuit in that strange, decisive way of hers.

I instinctively wanted to touch it. I was one of those kids who looked with their hands.

But somehow I knew that touching it would break an invisible law, so instead I looked upon it from afar. Its vibrant blue stood out against the dreary dimness of her home. She said only, “Get dressed. We’re going swimming,” then left the room.

Had it been from my mother, the kindest woman you would ever lay eyes on, I would have been thrilled. Going anywhere with my mother turned into a loving experience (if I behaved, that is). But going with my grandmother anywhere half dressed in a swimsuit could only lead to embarrassment.

So slowly I pulled on my swimsuit. My sister Aliyah, slim even then, and miles prettier than I, looked beautiful in her black bathing suit. I, the “fat-ass elephant,” (as my grandmother called me)looked misshapen in my vibrant blue swimsuit. We put on clothes over our suits, then got in the car. My brother came out in his red trunks and a shirt, and Granny in her large sun hat, large shades, and an equally large purse.

We were black, and that meant bringing food, drinks, lotion, and towels to the pool. My grandmother would be damned if she purchased anything aside from one-dollar admission from those white people. We went in and undressed. She signed us up for lessons, and we got in the pool. The day went as any would, me uncomfortably standing with my sister away from other kids.

When the swimming teachers let us go on reprieve, we’d walk over to Granny, grab a coke – for me, water – and wait to be called back into the pool. Then we went home, we’d eat a meal, and go about our dreary day.

This was my life for five days, and eventually I began looking forward to the lightness of the pool. The strange capabilities it held. The shrills of laughter. The playfulness in the air became infective. It became my dreams. But like all great things, it came to an end when we had our final free lesson. They were deciding which class they would place Aliyah and me in: either beginner, intermediate, or advanced.

We had to swim to our swim coach and back to the wall. The faster, the better. The more graceful, the better. The day arrived, and my sister and I stood slightly afar from the crowd of other children. We splashed and played with one another, ignoring the eye of Granny as children swam forward and back. This was why I didn’t mind Aliyah, being the leader. While other kids stood with their stomachs in knots, we played as if the world wasn’t watching.

But it was. The enthusiastic parents clapped and cheered alongside the pool fence while watching their child compete against other kids. And then there was Granny, her shades for once pushed above her forehead and watching. She expected me to do poorly. After all, elephants aren’t fast swimmers.

Finally we were called out for being too rowdy and were forced to stand in line with the other kids. The playful air slipped away. In came the nervous atmosphere of other children our 98

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It came time for my sister’s turn. As expected, she swayed into the water and then took off gracefully, powerfully kicking her legs and pushing herself forward. She was gone and back before I even knew it.

Right after Aliyah Kennedy came Alyssa Kennedy. I glanced at Granny. She had watched Aliyah with no sign of approval; in fact, she had regarded Aliyah with the same contempt she always had. But now, she showed me worse than contempt. She had absolute indifference as she continued to read.

I looked at my teacher; he stretched out his arms and gestured toward me in a “get going” kind of fashion. Taking one last look at my grandmother, I placed my goggles over my eyes and dove. I slammed one arm forward and pulled it back driving myself forward. Moments passed. Just the water and me. This felt different; I wasn’t zipping back and forth. It felt longer, harder. But I didn’t see my teacher. I gave up. I couldn’t find him, so I dropped and kicked from the bottom of the pool, then splashed my head above water to find all eyes were on me.

I looked around. Was there a shark or something? Why was everyone staring at me?

Glancing around I realized I had completely missed my teacher and now stood an entire pool length away from him. I instinctively looked to Granny; she sat just as astonished.

No, I didn’t become a professional swimmer. In fact, later my sister would laugh and say, “You looked like a dying whale!” And I was glad of it. I was placed in advanced class, not that it mattered. As I mentioned, my grandmother would be damned if she gave those white people her money. So our free lessons and pool days stopped.

That was the day I figured it out: that honestly, I didn’t give a damn what people thought. All I was going to do was be me, and watch their astonishment when I went farther than they thought I could.

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Charity for Abused Dictionaries Kayla Carden

Hi. I’m a representative for the B.I.G.O.T (Books in Good Old Tastes) Charity. Just so you know, this is the part where you put on the saddest song ever and imagine it for the rest of the reading (no “In the Arms of an Angel”, please; for copyright reasons, and it makes me want to hurl). I’m here to speak to you about one of the most tragic flaws of our society: the rampant abuse of the English dictionary.

Dictionaries are abused by roughly 87% of the United States population. Statistics show that overt dictionary abuse is most common in males aged 13-35, in households with yearly incomes of $30,000 to $80,000. However, a majority of dictionary abuse is committed by people who don’t even realize they’re abusers. Statistics for these people are understandably difficult to count .

And yes, you can trust me with these statistics. Don’t look it up! I just told you what they were.

Some of the most tragic examples of dictionary abuse are seen in the words “whore” and “slut”. Merriam Webster defines a whore as a woman who engages in sexual acts for money. Misuse of this word is frightfully common, as many apply it to women who have had perfectly legal sex more than once. For all the frequency of this misinterpretation, the word “whore” can almost be equated with the word “false accusation”. This particular example leads to the same awful effects of “false accusation”: an inexorable amount of shame in the victims. “Slut” is misused in much the same way as “whore” is, some even using slut to define how a woman dresses. Merriam Webster defines a slut as a promiscuous (or unrestricted to one partner) woman. Nowhere in the definition does it mention clothing or makeup. The effects of the misuse of the word “slut” are as horrible as those associated with the misuse of “whore”. Unfortunately, many cases of dictionary abuse have adverse effects on people.

Some other examples would be the case involving the word “American”. The definition of “American” most pertinent to the misunderstanding is that an American is a citizen of the United States. This word is almost as vastly abused by the American people as the Constitution. Depending on what their beliefs are, an American as defined by a citizen can be either “left-wing” or “right-wing”, “Christian” or “atheist”, and so on. In general, the definition of America as told by the average person is “whoever agrees with my opinions”. How this came to be eludes our researchers (by the way, about 97% of our researchers jumped off the top floor of our building sobbing last week, so if you’re interested in a job....).

The words “wealthy” and “poor” also hold stigma. Wealthy is an adjective meaning something or someone with riches; in other words, the upper class. Considering that the wealthy make up only a small percentage of the population, the majority of Americans don’t have quite as high esteem for the wealthy as the wealthy have for one another. The majority of people quietly look at the word “wealthy” before unleashing a verbal assault usually including phrases like “evil overlords” or “my snob of a boss”. These words are used for characterization; wealthy defines one’s class. While there can be a union in these two categories, there is no intersection in them. This isn’t even math. You’re making me do math when I’m talking about English. The word poor, on the other hand, identifies one who has little to no money or support. While reactions to this word vary between bending-over-backward sympathy and disgust, the poor are generally defined by many as less than human. You are entitled to your opinions on a homeless man’s hat as “totally gross-looking; like what garbage can did he get it from?”, but the least you could do is not draw a frowny-face on your next vocabulary test including the synonym “destitute”.

These are only a few of the frightening examples of dictionary abuse. If these examples affected you deeply, you can help. Make a donation to 555-7130. We can stop dictionary abuse— together.

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Creative Nonfiction

Beautiful Rave

Kristie Martins

I don’t think that one person could argue that the World is absolutely lovely in all of its aspects. In fact, I believe most people would claim that the World has been robbed of its original untainted garments and has been left with no more than rags to keep her lukewarm.

Those rags, scratchy and torn as they may be, house innocence. They come from the plump little fingers that grasp a mother’s index finger. They come from the three-toothed grin and the squeal of delight that follows in response to a butterfly, a smile, or a dandelion. Those rags are filled with just enough warmth to remind World that there is still a sun that shines on her to warm her, even though some seasons are cold.

These angels that come in the form of babies and toddlers give us joy. A mother goes through such pain of labor to birth this bundle of joy indeed, yet the birth certificate doesn’t say how long the pain lasted or how much the mother felt; it records the moment the mother felt happiness and forgot pain: the moment she saw her child.

And as parents watch their infant turn into a baby and their baby turn into a toddler, joy glows around the stubby-legged innocence. No one can resist smiling at a child who waves wildly at the Easter bunny or screams, “Doggie!” every time a dog passes in front of their tiny eyes. They don’t know that the Easter bunny is a person in a costume. They don’t know that dogs bite. Joy glows around innocence.

Although a child may whine when they can’t sleep at night or cry when they fall, the desire to hush the child isn’t fueled by annoyance or bitterness; it is fueled by the urgency to comfort the one you love so dearly. You feel pain when you see your child in pain, and you wish to hold them in your arms, and say, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay,” and kiss their soft baby skin.

Even when the angel is sleeping, beauty and peace come alongside the joy and innocence. Eyelids shut and face expressionless, that innocence is untainted. And when that parent sees such a beautiful sight, they wish to do all they can to protect such purity. Something so precious doesn’t deserve to be hurt and polluted.

But our little joys cannot be sheltered forever, for they must grow. Yet as they grow, we continue to see that baby, that toddler, that child. We still see that blamelessness and angelic nature within them no matter how old they get. Children are so eager to grow up, to leave childish things behind, but they don’t comprehend the fact that without the warmth that “childish things” emit, World will not survive. Without warmth, the cold and cruel will take her over.

It’s true; our World is ugly with its criminals, liars, and fanatics. But these individuals were once spotless and joyful themselves until a life event or a series of events blackened their guiltlessness. Hearts harden and minds criticize. Then thoughts and emotions point to World and blame her for the scars and bruises. These thoughts and emotions transform into actions. Those once chubby fingers and three-toothed smiles now beat the once beautiful World. But there’s one thing they cannot take away from her: those itchy, scratchy, yet warm rags that keep her alive.

Those rags placed on her by the children who look into her eyes with love, compassion, joy, acceptance, patience, and purity.

These angels—all brought into the World blameless—spread cordiality to all of mankind through their simplicity. Some will grow to become strong and withstand the impurities that contaminate the environment around them. They will bring more joys into the World and teach those little ones what they have learned. And those are the ones that beat the dust off World’s rags, clean her face, and tell her, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay,” and kiss her soft skin.

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Creative Nonfiction

I Don’t Do Titles

Kayla Carden

Welcome to the interview, Ms. Carden.

Hello… “Q.” Is that how you pronounce it?

It isn’t. But never mind that. We’ll begin by asking you about your personality. If you could use one word to describe yourself, what would that word be?

Well, I’m a lot of different things to a lot of different people, so that’s a hard question. For instance, my ma would probably use the word “shy” to describe me. Which I am not. I’m just reserved.

Those are synonyms.

Not to my knowledge.

Your resume says your biggest strength in school was English, you went to the state spelling bee, and you used to read the dictionary in your spare time. You know that those two words are synonyms. … Not to my knowledge.

You’re saying you would prefer to conduct this interview in person rather than writing?

No! I mean…okay, so I’m a bit of an introvert. But that has nothing to do with the interview; we’re doing it through writing because it’s easier to gather my thoughts and get them down on paper.

Besides, when the Skittles hits the fan, I know how to take over and be the bossy perfectionist.

Oh, you’re a perfectionist, then?

My perfectionism is only there to keep me from finishing the things I start. I swear, deadlines are my only motivation to finish projects. Hey, that’s good, right? I meet the deadlines. …Right. Let’s get back to the question, please— one word to describe yourself?

Right, right. I guess I’d use the word “humanitarian.” I want to change the world. Whether that happens through my writing, saving the whales, or creating a type of lavender-scented lotion that cures cancer, I really just want to make the world a better place. Hopefully it’s through my writing; I don’t know how to make lotion.

That’s nice. Now tell us: What events, people, or things have made you who you are today?

I was a pretty normal kid— all I wanted was my parents’ praise. I got that praise when I picked up reading quickly and when I wrote crude mini stories in crayon (shudders). I was never really great at sports or music or drawing, but when I saw my parents’ eyes light up as they somehow stomached my early works, I realized there was something I could be great at. It was an amazing feeling.

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Creative Nonfiction Your contacts have often called you mature. What do you suppose caused that?

I think my love of stories helped with that. The more I read about real life and all of its drama, the more tired of it I became. I resolved to never get involved in anything bad in life if I could help it; in stories, karma always comes back to you. They also helped me realize which behaviors were more acceptable. Stories made me understand how petty arguing and being angry over stupid things is.

Your mother explained to us that your little sister is autistic. Has that affected your personality or even how you write?

Well, it’s definitely contributed to my personality. My parents both work full-time, so I had to raise Correna alone sometimes. It definitely forced me out of my bratty stage. It also made me way more tolerant and flexible of lifestyles, I think. But I don’t really feel the need to write about autism. I’d like it if there were a cure, but I like my sister the way she is, too.

Okay. So, let’s talk about your writing style.

Sweet. I don’t really have that much professional experience, unless you count awards from the Reflections contest as experience. I don’t.

Alright, then what do you want your style to be like?

Oh, well I usually love character-driven stories. It’s really magical to get to study them and watch them grow as people. At the same time, I like stories that build elaborate worlds, like in Harry Potter. Its writing might’ve been simple, but the thought that went into that world is amazing. Hmm, what else...? Oh, I love repetition!

Repetition?

Repetition! I think Douglas Adams gave me that love. He also gave me my sarcastic, dark sense of humor.

Ah. Well, this has been an informative meeting.

Oh, you mean it’s over?

Yes, we’ve gotten all we need. I must say, you seem like a fine young woman.

Oh, thank God. I guess I won’t have to sell kidneys on the black market then, huh? (laughs) …

-ehehe, ahhh… So, when should I come back? … We’ll call you.

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Creative Nonfiction

Stay At Home Dads Sydney Delgadillo

Sometimes it’s five in the morning, but sometimes - if he’s lucky - it’s six. The little feet tiptoe down the hall, holding their breath. Jammies and blankies are scattered around the room while the warm sunlight seeps through the window.

Leaving the warmth of the bed is always hard, but it’s his part. By the time he arrives downstairs, the kids have already turned on Barney. The house is dark, still awakening from its slumber.

“Cheerios or Rice Krispies?” he asks, waiting for the morning debate. Little heads turn around, sleepy eyed, and politely ask for Frosted Flakes.

As the house becomes more awake, the sound of heels makes way to the kitchen.

“Morning, dear,” she says while kissing his cheek, her hands full and hair freshly done.

He helps his wife by handing her breakfast to go.

“Oh, thank you!” she calls out as the door closes behind her.

Their morning continues. It’s just him and the kids and the dog. Sometimes it’s silent, but most of the time, it’s loud and crazy. Tea parties are at twelve, right before naptime. The playroom is neat until dress-up time comes. She gets in a princess ball gown and he gets in a pirate outfit. Mr. Teddy and Elmo join them for tea, as well. There are usually fruit snacks or cucumber sandwiches on the side. She passes out the tea and they all socialize in common conversation.

Right after tea, potty breaks are needed; one after the other, the toilet flushes and hands are washed. Sometimes there is a breakdown on the protest of sleep, but other times it’s cordial and mature. They all end up taking a nap, including the dog. The house is silent, save for the slight sound of happy snores.

Then the best part of his day happens. Kids are up from their slumber and the dog is staring at him in the kitchen. The house is clean and the sunlight is pouring into the empty windows. The whole room is filled with warmth and light...and the sound of Dora playing on the television. Dinner is usually in progress around five o’clock, just as the sun is starting to set and the air becomes a little colder. The kids are playing and the music is in the background.

“Dada, Dada! My tummy is hungry,” they shout. A little reassurance sets their tummies at rest, and he continues with his creation. Sometimes it’s steak with homemade mashed potatoes and fresh veggies; sometimes it’s a large salad with three types of lettuce and grilled chicken, freshly cut veggies, craisins and nuts; other times it’s breakfast for dinner, with eggs, sausage or bacon, wheat toast, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Either way, each night holds a different creation though if it’s a pizza type of night, he orders Pizza Hut, pepperoni and cheese.

The table is usually set by six o’clock, right as the wife walks in from her busy day. She usually leaves her purse and heels by the table in the hallway. Her keys hit the bowl and her weary feet drag a little. He welcomes her home with a kiss and a squeeze while laying his healthy creation in front of her. The kids hear the door and scream “Mama, Mama!”

She smiles from ear to ear.

“Oh, I’ve missed you guys all day!” she exclaims, kissing the kiddies from head to toe.

The house is warmer and brighter when they’re all together. They sit at the table together as a family, each of them playing their part: bowing their heads, letting the kiddies say the prayer, they all come together to say “Amen.” There’s talk of their day and the kids usually go first. The wife sits and smiles, listening to their daily adventures of parks and walks and story time. Then it’s her turn to speak. The kids listen closely.

“It was stressful and long, and I missed your little faces. Papers were piled and no one gave me story time. There was no nap or even snack time!” The kids giggle. “But I’m home now 104

Creative Nonfiction and my day just got better, ‘cause guess what time it is?”

“Bath time!” The kids exclaim. He and his wife race the kids up the stairs to the bubbly bath. Afterward, squeaky and clean, they run to their room for jammies and stories. After everyone is warm in their beds, he and the wife read stories. The kids request a goodnight kiss and the door is left open a crack. They tuck them in, making sure the fan is on, and, like always, the hallway light must stay on.

Finally, silence falls again. He and his wife smile, having adult conversations, while the news plays in the background.

One time, it was about stay-at-home fathers. Despite being angered and upset by the press’s negative comments about “change” and “unnatural lifestyles,” his wife looked at him calmly.

“You are the best stay-at-home dad,” she reassured him, “and the kids love you.”

He smiles and reaches over to pat her hand. “This is my life and I enjoy every minute. I may not “provide” like most other dads do, but I endure tea parties and dress-up much better than most. I play my part and I’m proud of who I am. I support my wife and my family as best as I can.

I am a stay at home dad, and I love what I do.”

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Creative Nonfiction

Childhood

Chayenne Lugo

“When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn’t the old home you missed, but your childhood.” – Sam Ewing As a child, you translate the behaviors of the world in ways that adults can’t. “Don’t step here, the floor is wet,” means “I shouldn’t step there because the floor is wet with lava and I might lose a life.” When you’re an adult, “Don’t step here, the floor is wet,” means “That floor is wet. I shouldn’t step on it.”

One day you’ll be getting ready for work and remember the time you first learned how to ride your bike. The feeling of freedom and accomplishment that you felt, all bundled and tied within the laces of your shoes. “I want to ride my bike everywhere and forever!” you said. Little did you know that years later your car would get stolen and you would be left with no choice but to ride your bike everywhere for what feels like forever. Always showing up to work late with the sweet scent of your body perspiration lingering in your cubicle.

As a kid, you don’t worry about those things. In fact, there were days during recess where all the boys would run around in circles trying to see who could sweat the fastest. All the other girls were so disgusted by this game they would refuse to play along. You didn’t think anything of it because your best friend often played that game, and best friends like all the same things no matter what because that’s what best friends do. I think he’s in jail now.

While at the grocery store trying to decide how much food you can afford to last the week, you see a shady-looking man. He was the one that used to drive the ice cream truck. Back in those days, he was a college freshman just saving up to pay off student loans. He seemed so happy back then and you wonder what happened.

“Two men in El Paso, Texas were allegedly caught with more than ice cream in their purple, seemingly kid-friendly truck,” police said.

That’s right. Now you remember. Your mother never let you chase after ice cream again, thus making your summer vacation feel incredibly boring. Oh, the horrors of having to sit inside all day watching television and eating store bought ice cream instead!

The check-out line. “But Mom, I WANT it!” shouts the youngster behind you. “For the love of all that is good and pure please shut up!” You hiss inside your head before remembering that we’ve all behaved the same at one point.

“But Mom, I WANT it!” you screeched while pointing at a chocolate bar.

“No, it’ll spoil your dinner.” Confused on how a chocolate bar would affect the freshness of a dinner that wasn’t even made yet, you responded with “I’ll just eat dinner quickly!” Your mother still said no though because she just didn’t understand. Now you can buy all the chocolate bars you want, but the appeal of that is lost. Your thoughts bounce back and forth from Too many calories, Unnecessary, or you even might not think about it at all because your biggest concern is if the line doesn’t move faster your milk will get sour before you have the chance to put it away in the fridge. Always rushing. Planning in advance. No time to sit back and want.

“As long as I plan ahead, I succeed. And when I succeed, no problems will come my way.”

Because that’s what being an adult is about. Succeeding and avoiding problems. If we were still children, problems wouldn’t exist because children have no need for them. No worries. No issues. Biggest concern is whether you’re eating chicken nuggets or mac and cheese for lunch. Or those small fights you get into with your siblings.

In Greek mythology, there is a story about Ares and Athena. They both are related to war but Ares is more about fighting and Athena is more about peace. It’s like the time where you and your 106

Creative Nonfiction sister got a doll from your grandmother. All you wanted to do with it was tie it down to some remote control cars and watch it race around in circles till the doll falls off. Your sister, on the other hand, wanted to groom and care for it. A week of sibling rivalry was the result. You two refused to speak directly to one another over something so silly.

“Tell her that I think she is smelly!”“Well, tell her that I think she’s dumb.”

When you’re a kid, it’s the little silly things that you care about. If you didn’t, who else would?

“Just share.” your mother would say. What a preposterous idea. Sharing? Yuck. There is no way that will happen. You are fighting for your rights here. Of course, over time you got over it because the doll lost all her hair, which apparently meant it was no longer useable. You are both nice again.

On the way home you pass by your sister’s house. You see her children playing out in the yard and they all look so happy. Maybe if that one argument over something that was actually important had never happened, you two would actually call each other from time to time and meet up for coffee or something. Instead you pass by, still bitter about what she said ten years ago.

“Why must we grow up?” so said Walt Disney. Pouring your cereal into a bowl, a little prize falls out. Some glow-in-the-dark princess stickers. Toss them aside. They don’t bring that smile to your face anymore. What if they used toxic glue on the back of those? It probably has lead in it or something. You know, I read an article on that once. A boy accidentally swallowed a sticker he got from a gumball machine and choked and died because of the chemicals they used.

“Do you see it yet?” you asked your sister in anticipation. “No not y- Wait! I see it!” Spilling out of the box were two small packets of glow-in-the-dark princess stickers. “You can have one and I can have the other.” The amount of excitement you felt back then is comparable to winning the lottery now. Of the whole world of people who bought that brand of cereal, you got that exact sticker. “I’m going to stick it next to my bed!”

That night you stared at it for hours until your little eyes couldn’t take it anymore. You dreamed up a whole scenario about what would happen if they came to life and all the different adventures you would go on together.

Tonight, you lay in bed wide awake. Did you check the mail? Did you remember to lock the door? I hope you set your alarm. If you wake up late again, you will get fired for sure. What about rent? It sure would suck if you forgot to pay those on time again.

You check all these things off of your mental list of responsibilities and then take a sleeping pill, tomorrow being a new day of doing the exact same routine.

“Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.”

Ally Condie. At least you’ll always have your childhood to think about. It’s nice that it happened.

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Creative Nonfiction

Millennials

Kayla Carden

Walking down city streets in socks, sandals, and fashionably bold colors is today’s Icarus. He’s got “swag,” and shows it. He’s a revolutionary, of course, a “young creative” who still lives in the shadow of his more productive father. Speaking of which, he couldn’t care less for directions, be they from his father or the government. It’s an average day in which he looks at the adults and falls straight into an existential crisis that would make Hamlet proud.

“Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle,” Lewis Carroll whispers to him. He opens his smart phone browser, clicks to the Free Dictionary (Free? We’ll let you have this set of double-swirl pencils for only $19.99! Order now! And he will.) He scrolls through the ‘r’s, looking for ‘rad’, but instead: “reckless — (adj.) having or showing no regard for danger or consequences; heedless; rash.” Well, that can’t be it.

He hits the back button, goes to the Urban Dictionary, and featured today: “YOLO. Abbreviation for you only live once. (One’s) excuse for doing something stupid.” Fie! “I can’t go back to yesterday—because I was a different person then,” is all he says. He ignores it and walks toward the burning horizon.

Writing usually describes the current society better than any sociology textbook. One trope in writing that seems trendy for this generation is the Mary Sue. The Mary Sue character is a wish-fulfillment escape for the author, as the character isn’t flawed, has a supposedly sympathetic background, and usually gains everything easily by the end of the story. While these are common throughout history in nonprofessional writing, published Mary Sues are all too common in this generation. “Writers do not merely reflect and interpret life, they inform and shape life,” E.B. White said. Writers, then, have responsibility for their work—and if Ernest Hemingway says, “When writing a novel, a writer should create living people; people, not characters. A character is a caricature,” what does that say about this generation’s ideas and their own character? What’s that?

You already knew all of this? Sure.

Now, I’m not saying the world is ending, but I know the world serves its own needs.

Dummy, serve your own needs! You need to know (but you already know, silly me) that narcissism is characterized by an inflated view of one’s own talents, a craving for attention, selfishness, and, sometimes, the writing of Mary Sues. There’s been a 30% increase towards narcissism in American students since 1979, says psychologist Jean Twenge and colleagues. If you display any of the symptoms described, ask your doctor about…well, ask him if he has a DeLorean you can borrow to be born in a different generation, I guess. But what does a set of professionals know, right?

There are lots of places you could place the blame for all of this; social media, decline in “traditional” families, birthrate decreasing, the Human Development Index placing the United States consistently in the top five most developed countries, and on and on. But the blame game is just another trick of the trade of narcissism, and I don’t think we should indulge that behavior.

Look, it’s great that this generation is more optimistic than the past ones, but when we hold such high expectations for ourselves, the crash-and-burn afterwards is going to bring the entire house down. We’ll be Rome toward the end, riding on a pompous generation’s back.

So, what now? We’ll just be set on eternal pause in our meltdown? What do we do? I think we just need to do a nosedive straight into coming-of-age. Move out from your parents, learn more about your finances and take responsibility for them, and just learn to move on.

Reality can hit you hard, bro, but it’s worse when it hits you at forty years old. Because that’s what we—and everyone, the Baby Boomers and Jones’ even—are so frightened of. The real world is the abuser that we place our defense mechanisms up against. We can’t lose ourselves to the fantasies we’ve made to protect ourselves, though. We of the Millennial Generation are better than that.

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Creative Nonfiction

Captivity?

Aidan Crowe

There are 62 penguins in captivity at the Central Park Zoo. There are 4 King penguins, 19 Gentoo penguins, and 39 Chinstrap penguins. They live in their glass enclosure, looking out at us, and probably feel sorry for us because all the fish is on their side of the glass.

I sit at my lunch table, surrounded by empty seats, leaning over a James Patterson novel.

I am so engrossed in my book that I don’t notice someone coming up to me.

“Hello,” they say in an all-too-cheery voice, “How are you today?”

“Fine,” is all I give them before I return to my book. Surprised at my abruptness, they leave. I smile as they walk away.

Most printed circuit boards are green because they are primarily made from a glass epoxy that is naturally green. They are what allow your computer to run. An Arduino is a very simple computer that can run Java on a Mac, Window, or PC. You can do anything with it, from making an electronic drum kit to sending yourself a tweet when your pet’s food bowl is empty. It is cheap, easy to use, and very versatile, but it can’t do a single thing without someone controlling it.

“Mommy! Mommy! Look at the lions!” the girl shouts excitedly as the bus rolls down the dirt path through the plains. Everybody looks out the window. Tourists pull out their cameras as a half-hearted tour guide spouts facts about the lions. The tourists look out from their air conditioned seats and feel sorry for the lions out in the sun.

The lions sit on their rock in the midsummer heat, basking in the last rays of the scorching sun. They lazily glance over as the bus rolls by, but bat their tails and look away.

Everything is about point-of-view. First, second, and third person point-of-view. His point-of-view. Her point-of-view. Don’t judge somebody until you walk a mile in their shoes. The character doesn’t know that his girlfriend is cheating on him, but the reader does. If only he could switch points-of-view, these problems wouldn’t happen.

The combined weight of all the ants in the world is almost equal to the weight of all the humans in the world.

I scurry through the tunnels up to the surface. I’m going to go get some food. My antennae brush #1846. I think I’ve met him before. We emerge onto the cold grey-rock. I search in front 109

Creative Nonfiction of me for the path, and once I find it, off I go. There are hundreds of us as we enter the big-room.

My six legs carry me as fast as I can. On my way down the line, I sense a sweet substance just to my left. I turn and taste it. YUM! I lay down a trail so everybody else can find it. I take some and scurry back to my home-dirt. I take the sweet substance to my queen and lay it at her feet, proud of my find. She takes a bite, then everybody else comes and we feed. We feed on our succulent feast. Later, after the light-ball has left the sky, I begin to feel funny. Then I begin slowing down. I think I’ll just go to sleep…

“Finally,” my mom said. “We are rid of those awful pests.”

“Poor ants,” I say. “They had no idea what happened.”

-

Looking from the outside isn’t always a bad thing. It’s not really whether you are on the outside or the inside; it’s whether you are happy with where you are.

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Creative Nonfiction

Interview with an Illustrator Nick Akins

Last Saturday I attended an event aptly titled “Ponypalooza”- an event totally dedicated to the celebration of My Little Pony. The event was held at the Madison Library, in the little room to the right of the entrance doors. The Fire Marshall’s Maximum Occupancy sign read 70, but the massive amount of heat and the minimum amount of possible movement within the thrall of giddy fans leaves my estimate to be about 180 sweaty bodies consistently within that tiny room, with people constantly coming and going. Bronies, pedophile-looking types, little girls, and nervous moms filled the space.

I was there on assignment. My job was to interview Andy Price, the man responsible for all of the illustrations in the relatively new My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic! comic book.

Finding him was easy enough. He was the guy at the desk. At the end of the line. The line that held strong and impenetrable for three hours.

The reason why this fact is so important is because I had to wait until he was no longer busy to interview him. For three hours. So, naturally, I found ways to amuse myself. I got my face painted, took pictures with gigantic Pony people, and made myself a Pony tail out of yarn. I had to blend in with these people. The environment felt like it could become hostile at any moment.

Perhaps it was just the temperature, but there was no way to be sure.

Luckily, I wasn’t there alone. Jessica Gallagher, my friend and photographer, was along with me. Her awkwardly pink shirt was the perfect camouflage for the occasion, blending well with six year olds in rainbow colors and older, greasy men alike.

After a lot of sitting, it was finally time for the Q&A. Mrs. Price hovered like a matriarch behind her husband’s desk, handling any and everything that needed to be handled so that her husband could focus on his drawing and signing. She was obviously the one in charge here. I approached her, gave my name and press affiliation, and was soon sitting beside this wildly successful Madison man who makes his living with a marker.

I introduced myself again, gathered my questions, and my recorder. After telling me a few pointers regarding my phone (he has the same one), the interview began. For your reading pleasure, the questions will be in bold.

What is your personal relationship with the Pony Universe, and does it ever pervade your reality at inopportune times?

Well, as for the personal relationship, I am the illustrator for the official My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic! comic book, which is licensed by Hasbro. Does it ever pervade my reality at inopportune times? Oh, God yes. It’s in my thoughts so much, that I find it hard to delinienate when it’s not.

Because, it is my paycheck, and it is also a lot of fun. I mean, I get to draw for a living. I get to play for a living. So, I’m always thinking of ideas that I can add to the book. But yeah, I’ll be driving, pumping gas, and think: What would Rarity be like pumping gas?

What got you started drawing Ponies?

As far as that goes, I got into the show about a month, two months, before the job opportunity came along to do the comic. As far as the comic goes, the writer, Katie Cook, is an old friend of mine. We have known each other for a long time, so she approached me with it. She got the job 111

Creative Nonfiction writing it, and then she sought me out, and said “Hey, I want you to do this.” So, to quote Ghostbusters, I said “if there’s a steady paycheck, I’ll believe whatever you say.”

In what direction do you see this going?

It’s hard to say. I’m still overwhelmed by all of this. Like today. I didn’t expect this big of a turn out.

And any time we go to a signing, we always underestimate. Luckily, the library had some markers.

I brought one marker. I ran it out. You know? I see it growing for quite a bit longer. It’s still reaching audiences, the Hasbro corporation themselves are now bringing it to Japan. And, as big as it is here, we’re nothing compared to Russia, apparently. It’s monster-big in Russia. So, it’s getting more and more international. Pony conventions are popping up this year in the UK, and in Australia, and Paris. So, I think it’s just going to get bigger, for a while.

What are your feelings on bronies? Are you the original?

Umm… (Long silence) Most of them are great. They really are. It’s hard for me to understand why this show appeals to teenage guys. I’m not positive on exactly what it is. There are a lot of elements; great animation, there’s a lot of hidden jokes. Even though it’s a show for little kids, there are a lot of gags that fly over the kids’ heads, and older people can appreciate it. I think, for the most part, bronies are great. I’ve met thousands of them since the books began in November. For the most part, everybody’s been great. Everybody’s been friendly. You know, I don’t really have anything disparaging towards any of them. Every once in a while, you get somebody that’s a little too socially awkward, but it’s kind of an inherent thing with any genre of fandom. There’s always going to be somebody that’s a little more socially awkward, and I think that’s why they gravitate towards these things.

It’s a group that can accept them, if that makes sense. Am I the original? No, not by far. I actually came in kinda late, compared to many. But I do consider myself a bronie.

I’ve been looking around. The dichotomy of the showing, all the people, is fascinating. You’ve got these happy kids running around, you know, all “Ponies, ponies!”, the regular looking bronies walking around, and then you have some more questionable looking people skulking about.

Yeah, we’ve run into a couple of questionable ones here and there. And again, it’s not just bronies.

It’s Star Trek, Star Wars, et cetera. Any fan group is going to have those fringe outcasts that don’t quite really fit in anywhere, but they have a mutual appreciation for the same subject matter. We’ve gotten a couple of… weirdos. But who doesn’t?

There were over 100,000 preorders for your comic. To whom are you catering?

Actually, we specifically design this to be available to all ages. Granted, the target audience for this show is six to eight year old girls, but we know that a lot of the people spending money on the show are much older. If not just parents, a lot of the older fans. So, we wanted this to be a book that twenty year old Dave could go and buy, but he could also bring home a copy for his six year old sister. We wanted something in the book for everyone. One of the great benefits of that has been getting kids to read. I learned to read reading Batman. Comics have changed a lot over the years. When I was growing up, you could buy comics at the local drug store. Now you have to go to specialty shops to get them. So it’s a big deal for us to see a kid with a comic, because that’s the new audience coming up. It’s a great thing to see a kid whose never held a comic book before reading a comic, because this introduces them to a whole new world.

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Creative Nonfiction What was the impact that caused this high wave, and where will it break?

As far as breaking, we don’t know. And that is what is astounding a lot of people in the comic book industry. Usually, with a book like this, when it takes off on the first issue, it quickly peters out. This hasn’t. Overall, we are consistently in the top ten selling comics, which is a very big deal for an independent publisher(not D.C. or Marvel). On iTunes, we consistently outsell The Walking Dead. That is a very big deal to us. We’ve had retailers call and say that they don’t know how to order this, because usually by issue four or issue five, it calms down. But it’s not calming down.

I don’t see it dying for, I guess, four or five more issues. There’s still a lot of people finding out that there is a comic. It’s still new to a lot of people. So, I think it’s going to be a while before sales smooth out and it finds a regular group. As long as people keep buying it, we’ll keep making it.

How does all of the positive feedback on your DeviantArt page affect you?

It blows my little mind. It’s wonderful to see people’s feedback. And, you know, you can’t help but feel your head kinda swell a little, but it’s neat. For all the years I’ve been drawing, this is the first time that I’ve made such an incredible impact, such an incredible reach to people. It is still mind blowing. I don’t know how to deal with it, but it tickles me endlessly. It keeps me in a great mood, and I love meeting new people on Deviant, and talking to other artists, and it pushes my work. It gets me more work.

What is your favorite comic book character?

Batman. Across the line. Any variation. The comic, Christian Bale, Adam West, the animated; if the man is standing up, and he has a bat across his chest, I like him. Like I said, I learned to read on the character. He’s probably the strongest character in the whole industry, so I love him.

Do you have any comments regarding the “erotic fan art?”

It is bizarre. And again, it gets a lot of attention because bronies and My Little Pony is a very big thing right now. But again, it’s nothing new. Star Trek, Star Wars, any anime show, Spider-Manany of it. It’s all been touched by it in some way. It bothers me more on this because this is primarily oriented towards kids. And the worst thing is, “Oh, I need reference material on Big Mac,” I type in Big Mac, and it’s the very first thing that comes up. That’s disturbing, you know? It does distort the message when it comes to people who don’t know anything about the show, if they go and look something up, and that’s the first thing they see… You know. A lot of guys won’t admit to liking the show, and that’s why. There’s a stigma to it. I’ve had two requests, and I’ve turned them down. Two requests to do the Pony erotic art. Not my thing. And, I don’t need to be drawing that while I have a kid at the other end of the table. Luckily, out of all the people, I’ve only been asked twice, and the first one didn’t come out and say it. But I knew what he wanted.

How does your personal day to day life shine through your art?

Well, one way it does a lot is, we have a lot of cats. My wife is a vet tech, and we both love cats, so those are our kids. And they show up a lot in my art. In fact, in the first issue of the book, on page three, you’ll see all of our cats. Also, on the same page, there’s a Pony version of me, and a Pony version of my wife. Why not? Another thing is that we get to do a lot of references and gags that older people get. Like, what may look like a silly pony to a kid, is actually the Blues Brothers to an older person. So, I’ve put in things like that. Things that I like, I sneak into the art. And it just 113

Creative Nonfiction makes it fun, for me. Especially every once in a while you get pages that comic people call “talking heads” pages. Where you have to explain the plot, or further something for the reader, but there’s not a lot going on visually. There’s nothing exciting to draw, other than people talking. So, in those kinds of scenes, I like to sneak in stuff that makes those pages fun for me to draw. The fans are eating it up, so that’s how I justify it.

The questions thoroughly answered, we sat and talked for a bit about Watchmen, film and comic, and soon it was time to go. Although my whole day had nearly been swallowed up by the swell of Ponydom, talking to this man was fulfilling. He was smart, friendly, eloquent, and well mannered. He was doing what he loved, and he was doing it very successfully. I definitely have a changed perspective on the whole subject, and I feel a slight urge to seek out all of his hidden jokes, like a large snake may want to explore an inviting rabbit hole, in hopes of finding satisfaction in devouring the tender denizens within.

Follow this QR code to read more from Nick Akins on Patriot Pages http://bjhspatriotpages.com/uncategorized/2013/01/14/nick-akins/ 114

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Rotten Apples

Sascha Kirkham

I remember the days when a simple flip phone was enough to satisfy my technological needs. Simply the ability to flip open my phone and send texts consisting of “Lol” and “Ikr” was exciting in itself. When I was feeling extra sassy, I would rapidly flip open my phone to convey to the world that I was important. My simple flip phone was all I needed when I was thirteen.

After my flip phone’s life tragically ended from excessive love and use, I obtained an array of uncomplicated, used phones. Most of them were either similar geriatric flip phones or knock-off brick-like BlackBerry’s. Eventually after enduring (though it hardly felt like enduring) years of seemingly crappy phones, I received an electric blue, sliding cell phone with a QWERTY keyboard. In simplest terms, I felt awesome. Though I loved my Samsung Exclaim, everyone around me appeared highly evolved with their first generation iPhone’s. The pretentious air that surrounded these iPhone users made me *abhornvy them.

Currently I have a completely suitable Virgin Mobile touch screen phone. It allows me to Facebook stalk on the go, send as many angry text messages as I want, and *sext as much as my heart desires. Overall, it fulfills almost all of the technological needs a teenager could have. I say “almost” only because it does not have the flash and appeal the iPhone 4S possesses. My Virgin Mobile touch screen phone does not allow me to Instagram pictures of my ramen. It also does not have a virtual assistant named Siri to remind me to delete my internet history every day. My phone is obsolete compared to an iPhone.

I am sure I come across as completely sarcastic, but really, it’s only half-hearted. I have found myself truly conflicted as to if I should spend five-hundred dollars on an iPhone. There is a part of me that just wants it. That is the simplest way of putting things. I myself do not understand why I have even considered spending such a large amount of money on a phone when I already have one. In attempts to understand my ridiculously teenage behavior, I have come to the conclusion that I am not as unique as I had thought. I am just like every other sixteen year old kid who wants something simply because everyone else has it (my soul died as I wrote that.)

In conclusion, I will not be purchasing an iPhone no matter how much the materialistic, conforming side of me wants it. I cannot force myself to spend my entire savings on an iPhone when I have a working phone and iPod (See? I am already enslaved to the Apple conglomerate).

Sure, whenever I walk down the hall and see a hoard of happy iPhone users bumping into each other like the blind, my heart will yearn. But, I am confident that I will sleep happy tonight knowing that I did not contribute five-hundred dollars to Apple. Then again, I may get sad knowing that five-hundred dollars sits in my piggy bank, rather than in the hands of orphaned children in Africa.

*sext: promiscuous text messaging *abhornvy: the act of abhorring something and envying something at the same time

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Devil’s Dictionary Guesstimate (v.) —a word for those who are unable to decide whether to use the words “guess” or “estimate,” i.e. “I guesstimate they’ll be dead within the hour,” she stuttered.

-Ingrid Hickey Brother (n.) — 1. A male figure in one’s life, be it older or younger, who is violent, bad tempered, and unintelligent; 2. A female excuse to shoot down a male that is infatuated with her, i.e. “Timmy, you’re more like a brother to me.”; 3. Reference to having something in common, i.e. “You like pickles, too? My brother!”

-Miranda Wright Home (n.) — A jail for married men.

-Josiah Ernst Christmas (n.) — A national winter holiday that celebrates the breaking and entering of all homes through the method of a chimney squeezing by a rotund old man in a blood red suit who places small toy-like objects made in a sweat shop by small, green-card-less immigrants. It is also the forgotten birthday of some man whose name begins with a J. i.e. For the cheaper side of Christmas, place a note on a battery that reads “toys not included.”

-Kayla Daigle

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Follow this QR code to view Public Service Announcements (PSAs) on The Eclectic website http://bjhstheeclectic.com/video/psa/ 117

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Contents

Big Shoe Blues by Zach Koenig No Place by Jordan Coats Attention by Adam Woelke It’s Over by Mary Butgereit Welcome to Hell by Alanis Craig The Truth About Writing by Adam Woelke Limbo by Gabrielle Thompson, Khadijah Thompson, Julianna Head, Rebecca Singer The Box by Holly Morgan I Never Lose by Kathryn Mellema Jeff Vs. Jane: A Tale of Vengeance by Kaitlin Fiscus Rick Horseman: American Thoroughbred for President by Sascha Kirkham

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Big Shoe Blues

Zach Koenig

CLOWN

I’m a clown, and I’m not ashamed of it. Big shoes run in the family, I guess. Don’t get me wrong. I love the life! Ya’ know, putting a smile on children’s faces one pie at a time! But unfortunately, the path of a clown is one of many laughs, but no love! Clowns need love! And let’s face it; all the girls laugh when they see my tiny… car… But the other day, I was in the big top practicing my juggling act, and that’s when I saw… her. Olga - the bearded lady! I was frozen in place. I couldn’t juggle when I was in love! My balls dropped when I saw that glorious goatee! What can I say? She brought out the balloon animal in me! But, that’s all over now…

Today, I was taking the ole’ unicycle out for a spin, and that’s when I saw Olga talking to the strongman. The strongman! Couldn’t he see that Olga and I had chemistry? But there she was, talking to that meathead about mustache grooming! But ya’ know what? I’m fine… I guess. I just thought that… (Notices child starting to walk away) Hey kid, where are you going? I’m kinda pouring my soul out here and… CREEPY? Ya’ know what, fine! Run back to your parents. Your son is very rude, sir!

Follow this QR code to hear Zach Koenig’s monologue “Big Blue Shoes” http://soundcloud.com/bpanagos/big-shoe-blues-zach-koenig/ 120

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No Place

Jordan Coats

UNNAMED CHARACTER

I guess I never really thought it through. I never put it in terms that made sense to me.

You see, I’ve been trying to go higher for years— to leave this place of utter pointlessness. And it’s not as though I have fallen into complacency! I loathe my sin! I plea to leave this place, and suppose I knew the answer all along. But every time, I cried reprieve-- pleaded for my own deus ex machina – and was met with an answer. I turned my back to it. Denied its provision, and ignored that it had ever been given.

I knew it to be true, as it had been answered to me without fail. But I didn’t accept it.

Wouldn’t, because it meant an effort to be put forth on MY part! And that simply won’t do. Where are You, Father, to come in and save me from my sin? Supernatural deliverance, I ask! Where are You? But I knew that I had to take the first step. It was not as though He would not deliver me. But He could not step in and override my will as I still clung to my sin.

Terms I understand.

I have a shadow, and that shadow is my sin. I turn. I see that shadow, and am condemned in my own eyes. I turn back to what lies ahead, and there is light. But again I turn and I see my shadow, and I know that I am unworthy to step into that light with this sin as a part of me.

And so, I spend years trying to rid myself of this shadow, while refusing to step into the light until it is gone. I spend years hating myself for my sin. Cursing myself for not being strong enough to cast it off and step forward! Surely, this is no place for the light of the world.

I try to convince myself, as if it’s a matter of being convinced. All the while knowing that is not the absence of darkness that allows light, but the presence of light that drowns out the darkness. Light that drowns out the sin. Step into the light, and there can be no sin.

I don’t want to know what I’d be without forgiveness.

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Attention

Adam Woelke

MANAGEMENT REPRESENTATIVE

Attention all residents of the Western Oaks retirement home: management would like to extend its congratulations to all of those who have made it this far, despite the high volume of issues we have faced. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to any and all residents dealing with the broken air conditioning unit in the west wing of the building; we would be working on fixing the problem but it seems our usual repair man, Mr. Buckley, who many of you know very well, has been arrested for tax fraud, embezzlement, and identity theft. In the meantime, while we find a replacement, we ask you to bundle up in all of those sweaters, blankets, and scarves you knitted your children who never come to visit you.

Although many of you are innocent, I feel like it is my job to call out those selfish individuals who have been dodging the blame and causing all to suffer. I’m talking, of course, about the drug problems within the community. Not the prescription drugs that so many of you would keel over without; I’m talking about the rampant abuse of non-medical marijuana and other miscellaneous stimulants. First of all, I don’t even know how you could gain access to these narcotics considering no one here is legally allowed to drive, but nevertheless, I am required by state law to ask you to cease and desist any and all illegal activity. For God’s sake, I’ve gotten calls at one in the morning from the police complaining about the loud music and screaming coming from our property. Don’t even try to say that it wasn’t you, because even though hoodlums of our society are strange, they don’t listen to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Is that why all of you eat and go to bed at, like, five o’ clock? Are you conserving your energy just to wake up at an unearthly hour and shoot yourself with the morphine that went missing two weeks ago? I’m gonna spell it out nice and easy to you, so-called “Greatest Generation in History.” I don’t care how many Nazis you killed or how bad your arthritis hurts; if you are caught in possession of said substances, you will be kicked out so fast that, just like the Alzheimer’s wing of this home, you won’t know whether you’re in your living room or the gutter out front.

That brings me to the final issue of this notice. I would like to ask all the residents of this retirement home to stop asking the orderlies to help end your lives. I understand it can be difficult adjusting from a productive, happy lifestyle to being a second class citizen who everyone treats as a child, but you have to look at the bright side of things. At least you have memories… for the most part.

Thank you for your patience and understanding on behalf of the Western Oaks Retirement Home, and we wish all of you a happy Saint Patrick’s Day. We would supply you all with the usual celebratory “party favors”, but factoring in all the liver problems and the New Year’s Eve party, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.

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It’s Over

Mary Butgereit

STEVEN

Oh, hey! Hey, Alicia…been a while, huh? Um, believe it or not, I was actually JUST planning on coming to see you in, like…a few months. But! As long as you’re here, we should talk.

You know how, in the past couple of years, James and I have been fighting over you a bit? (beat) Well, ‘bit’ might be an understatement. He did throw me out a window that one time. How is he, by the way? Isn’t his court date coming up? Wait, wait, wait…I’m getting distracted. What I mean by that question—of course you remember our fighting; it was always stressful for you. At least, that’s how your public weeping and bouts of indecisive depression made it seem. Well, those times are over! No more worries! I met this woman, Jean, at the Y a few weeks ago – she’s great, honestly – we really hit it off – so you’re all his.

(beat) Yes, I’m saying that it’s over. It never really started. You’d kiss him, then kiss me, then cry about it. That wasn’t much of a relationship.

Wait a minute, you’re mad? At me? For what? Abandoning you? Hold on. Let’s back up and review here. I loved you for years. I told you that. That’s why I kept waiting for you, even as you dissolved into this psychotic mess. You should be grateful I’m not doing to you what you did to me – making me compete for your love? I’m not a competitive guy! I would intentionally let myself get hit in dodge-ball so I wouldn’t have to compete. Yet I waited. Every time I thought we were becoming something, you would prove me wrong and bail. Literally. I tried to take you to meet my parents and you crawled out of their bathroom window in the middle of dinner. Do you realize how awkward that was to explain? “Honey, where’s Alicia?” “Oh, she broke part of your window pane shimmying out to meet her scumbag ex-boyfriend at some sketchy gas station. By the way, can you pass the potatoes? I’ll try to avoid getting my tears in it.”

You know what? I deserve better than that, and Jean is better than that. So you can pitch whatever kind of fit that you want to, but I’m out of here. Have fun with James. Oh, and you should probably start saving up…I hear bail can get pretty expensive these days.

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Welcome to Hell Alanis Craig

LUCIFER

Hi! Are you new around here? I can tell. If you’re looking for somewhere to stay you can crash at one of my places. I’m always renting them out to newcomers. Now, before you say anything, let me explain. I know you’ve probably heard some wild accusations about me, but they were really blown way out of proportion. I’m a pretty decent guy! Ask anyone here and they’ll tell you the same. All that stuff about me being evil is just some crap from my wild-child days. You know how it was to be a teen. Probably thought you ruled the world. I bet you thought you were invincible.

Well, I was the same! Just some dumb teen doing average dumb teen things. The only difference between me and you is my Dad likes to play favorites.

You know, it doesn’t seem fair that I always get the bad end of the stick. I mean, get into a fight with my Father one time, and suddenly, I’m Satan! I mean, really. I know for a fact that my brother Gabe has fought with Dad on more occasions then I can count. But I guess that’s just how it goes. Dad always did favor Gabe over me, with him being the oldest and all.

I remember the day I moved out. Left home to stretch my wings, flew the nest, whatever you want to call it. I moved in to a nice basement with a good heater, had a couple of old friends over, when –BAM- Gabe pops up to say I’m not welcome home and then tops off the worst day ever by calling my new man-cave Hell.

Jerk.

And, then there was that time at my home-boy’s place when we played truth or dare.

How was I supposed to know that the fruit was special? I hadn’t been home since Pops kicked me out! All I did was dare my homey’s girl, Eve, to bite the “forbidden fruit.” Father shows up, puts a stop to our fun, and then rounds on me with one of his famous lectures. Says I’m a no-good bum and a deceitful liar, for all that is Holy! It’s not like I meant to do all that! Not like I knew the stupid fruit was his treasured “Apple of Knowledge” he should have put up a freakin’ sign.

You know what really takes the cake, though? My half-brother gets all the love. I mean, it isn’t right, man! I’m his real son. So why am I left high and dry when along comes Baby Perfect?

Dad treats him like he’s the Messiah or something. I mean, yeah, I’ve done some stupid stuff, don’t all teenagers? What about all the good things I did for him? What about that cool bathrobe I bought him? Or the time I helped fix that leaky pipe. Did Baby Perfect ever do that for him? No!

Dad doesn’t even celebrate my birthday anymore. No presents, no cake, no “I know we have had our differences and that we don’t always see eye to eye, but I love you, son, and I want you to know I am proud of you.” Not even a card.

But baby Jesus, on the other hand, gets basically a whole month dedicated to him, plus almost everyone in the entire world celebrating his birthday.

Unbelievable.

So, yeah, it kind of sucks to be me. Father is ashamed that I am his son; all the rest of the family won’t even say my real name, just some derogatory term for the personification of evil.

Gabe still says hi from time to time, but I’ve never heard him say my PROPER name even before everything went pear-shaped, and that hasn’t changed since. I mean, my name isn’t so bad. I rather think it’s cool! I bet I’m the only guy ever to have this name.

Anyway, we got off track. My name’s Lucifer. I am the land-lord here, so if you have any questions, come find me. By the way, welcome to Hell.

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The Truth about Writing Adam Woelke

STUDENT

It is only recently that I have found a very well-hidden secret that few have divulged to the public. Why they do this, I do not know; however, I feel it is my duty as both a citizen of the United States of America—home of the free and land of equal opportunity—and a member of the Homo sapiens species, to expose the truth that has been kept from you for so long. That’s right, you get to hear a piece of information so overlooked that its knowledge has become trite in its very existence. Here it comes, the moment of truth...

It is in the personal opinion and indefatigable judgement of this person to say that writing is undeniably the easiest profession on this earth. That is to say, it is about one-hundred and fifty-two times more tolerable that the next easiest career, orthodontics. In all the seventeen years of my life, I have seen the sweat pour endlessly from the laborer’s brow; the mind-numbing dullness of cubical work; and even the incessant squabbling of narrow-minded politicians; each reminding me of exactly how much I wish not to participate in those rat races.

So what, might you think, has given me the epiphany—that’s right, e-pi-phan-y, or a sudden realization or idea for you non-learned folk—to make the previous assumptions? Four words: Fifty Shades of Grey. For weeks, this book has been on the best-sellers list, making its author millions of dollars. Do you know what that book is about? Well, I don’t, and it’s driving me crazy to find out. For some reason, the school computers block every search result on Google so I can’t look up a synopsis or anything. I could go home and look it up, but after seeing that it’s blocked, it kind of makes me hesitant to use my home computer, especially with the kind of nosy parents I have.

Whatever, I’m sure I’ll find out what it is eventually; it’s not like I’m in a rush to read it or something. Wait, where was I going with this? Oh yes, the thing about writing…Well, I mean.. it can’t be that hard right? All you have to do is put your thoughts on paper and throw them at a publishing house; the rest should sort itself out. Then, all you have to worry about is finding a bank that carries enough gold coins to fill a swimming pool. Though, I wouldn’t suggest jumping in, because at that point, it’s gonna be like jumping into a slab of loose concrete. Then all you can really do is look at it, which really voids the point of having the pool of gold in the first place.

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Limbo

Gabrielle Thompson, Khadijah Thompson,

Julianna Head, and Rebecca Singer Characters

CROSSING GUARD CITIZEN 1 CITIZEN 2 CITIZEN 3 (The scene begins with CROSSING GUARD standing on stage with whistle and hat at the crossroads of a small town.

He is causally directing traffic. Suddenly CITIZEN 2 strolls by in a hat. The CROSSING GUARD becomes agitated.)

CROSSING GUARD Whoa whoa whoa! Hold it there, missy! That hat is a violation of code P46, section 18, which clearly states that no absurd headwear is to be worn in public on a Wednesday!

(Takes hat.)

CROSSING GUARD(cont.)

Move along!

(CITIZEN 1 walks away, angry. The CROSSING GUARD continues to scan the perimeter, when he spots CITIZEN 2.)

CROSSING GUARD Hey! You’re violating the volume code! Code D73 states all volume needs to be lowered to a reasonable and quiet level. So kindly BE QUIET! (CITIZEN 2 tiptoes away just as CITIZEN 3 walks by with his arms full of stuffed animals.)

CROSSING GUARD Are you joking?

CITIZEN 3 I was just going— CROSSING GUARD No, you’re not. I’m confiscating these. It’s a violation! Code F21 section 9 states that no more than two animals allowed on public streets. Rendezvous with your fictitious animals on your own property!

CITIZEN 3 (Stomps away.)

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Stage & Screen CITIZEN 3 (Comes back with two stuffed animals and tries to cross the street.)

CROSSING GUARD (Motions to the animals.)

Hey, Punk! Get over here! Thought you could get away with that, huh?

CITIZEN 3 It’s two animals! Like you said!

CROSSING GUARD (Insert names of animals here) are not on the approved list of stuffed animals. Get out of here before I call higher authorities!

CITIZEN 3 This is ridiculous! Where is this list?

CROSSING GUARD The list is not for the public to see.

CITIZEN 3 That makes no sense!

CROSSING GUARD Your lawlessness makes no sense! Now leave!

CITIZEN 3 (CITIZEN 3 throws her hands up and walks away.)

CROSSING GUARD People these days! Can’t listen to the government to save their lives. I mean, what are rules for if folks don’t follow ‘em?

(The citizens huddled together away from the CROSSING GUARD.) CITIZEN 2 I’ve got a few choice words for this guy.

CITIZEN 1 Who even appointed him, anyway?

CITIZEN 3 I heard he wasn’t appointed. Who knows if he’s qualified?

CITIZEN 2 I heard he just picked up the hat and started bossing people around.

CITIZEN 1 We have got to do something.

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Stage & Screen CITIZEN 3 (Suddenly.)

Elephants.

(CITIZENS 1 & 2 look at CITIZEN 3 strangely for a few seconds before something clicks and they all seem to get it.)

CITIZEN 1 & 2 Elephants.

(The next day, the citizens are in their usual positions. CROSSING GUARD acts the same.)

CROSSING GUARD (Yelling into the audience.)

I don’t care if you have twins, lady! One stroller per parent! It’s not my fault you’re single!

(CITIZEN 2 runs by with a hat on.)

CROSSING GUARD Hey! No headgear before 10 AM! (CITIZEN 3 runs by just as CITIZEN 2 passes.)

CITIZEN 3 Arriba! Arriba! Buenos dias amigo!

CROSSING GUARD (Turns to CITIZEN 2 as he passes.)

That language has been outlawed since 1984!

CITIZEN 1 (Mocking the CROSSING GUARD as he passes.)

That language has been outlawed since blah blah blah!

CROSSING GUARD (Furious.)

Hey! Mocking is a serious offense! I’ll arrest you!

(The CITIZENS rush past him for a few minutes screaming “Elephants!” each time they pass.)

CROSSING GUARD (Dizzy from spinning around.)

I’m…I….I quit…

(CROSSING GUARD’s hat falls off as he passes out. The CITIZENS stop and rejoice when they see the CROSSING GUARD as gone. They look to one another, and there’s a short silence. Mumbling some polite goodbyes, they all turn to go their separate ways, one of them dragging the CROSSING GUARD offstage. After a moment, CITIZEN 3 comes back and looks around before picking up the hat.)

128

Stage & Screen CITIZEN 3 Well, look at all this traffic. I mean, someone’s going to have to take care of it.

(CITIZEN 3 puts the hat on and starts directing traffic. Everything is going smoothly until CITIZEN 1 shows up again.)

CITIZEN 1 Hey…uh…what are you doing with that hat on?

CITIZEN 3 I’m directing traffic. Could you move a bit? I can’t see.

CITIZEN 1 But... are you even qualified?

CITIZEN 3 You don’t have to be qualified! You just put on the hat, and everyone listens to you!

CITIZEN 1 I don’t think this is a good idea. That hat does weird things to a person.

CITIZEN 3 This is a free street now. You can’t tell me what to do. Now, if you’ll please excuse yourself. You’re in violation of Ordinance 375.

CITIZEN 1 How do you even know what that is?

CITIZEN 3 What what is? Can you please move? People can’t get by, what with your lawlessness in the way.

CITIZEN 1 My…what?

CITIZEN 3 (Starting to get angry.)

Sir, please remove yourself from the premises, or I will be forced to call authorities!

CITIZEN 1 (Mumbles angrily as he walks away.)

What authorities? She doesn’t even know any authorities!

(Blackout)

129

Stage & Screen

The Box

Holly Morgan Characters

LIZ- The main heroine. A woman who comes to live in this so-called “perfect town.”

NATE- Liz’s uncle. A citizen of the so-called “perfect town.”

HEATHER- Another member of the so-called “perfect town” who seems a little less perfect than all the other citizens.

ANNE- A friend of Nate’s. Another member of the so-called “perfect town.”

BILL- A policeman in the “perfect town”.

JUDGE- Acting judge of the “perfect town.”

WOMAN 1- Another member of the “perfect town.”

MAN 1- Another member of the “perfect town.”

WOMAN 2- Another member of the “perfect town.”

MAN 2- Another member of the “perfect town.”

LILITH- An elderly citizen of the “perfect town.”

Note: This is an absurdist play. Everything should be big and over the top.

130

Stage & Screen (The curtain opens on a dark stage. No lights are up yet.)

SCENE I

(Lights up DSL on MAN 1.)

MAN 1 Perfect. From the Latin “perfectus” meaning “complete.”

(Lights up on WOMAN 1 DSR.) WOMAN 1 Perfect. Synonymous for unblemished, pure, pristine.

(Lights up on MAN 2 CSR.) MAN 2 Perfect. A state of complete faultlessness.

(Lights up on HEATHER who stands CS.) HEATHER Perfect. Impossible to achieve.

ALL Until now.

HEATHER Perfection. It should be the thing we all strive for. The thing that brings unlimited happiness to everyone. That’s what perfect is, isn’t it? Perfection is happiness. At least, that’s what we were always told.

(Blackout.)

SCENE II (The scene opens to reveal a downtown street corner setting. Everything is painted in bright colors, and seemingly perfect in every way. In the middle of the “street corner” stands The Box. It is enormous, painted all black. It should also have a panel that slides open and is large enough to fit a crate in on its front. The entire front of The Box should be hinged and able to swing open. Despite this strange addition to the set, people carry on as if everything is normal.)

(Ent. WOMAN 2 and HEATHER. WOMAN 2 is carrying a pair of broken shoes, and is obviously angry.)

WOMAN 2 How do a pair of perfectly new shoes manage to break after only one day? I’m taking these to The Box! (Ext. WOMAN 2 and HEATHER CSR. Ent MAN 1 and MAN 2 USR.) 131

Stage & Screen MAN 1 You should have seen the cut of beef I got at the butcher’s yesterday!

MAN 2 Why’s that?

MAN 1 I got it home, and it was practically green around the edges!

MAN 2 How appalling! It will just have to go into the box.

MAN 1 Too right!

(Ext. MAN 1 and EMAN 2 USL. Ent. WOMAN 1 and ANNE DSL.) ANNE I just don’t understand it! How can he get away with charging me fifty dollars for a hair cut?

WOMAN 1 Well, he is the only stylist left in town.

ANNE Stylist my foot! He’s a swindler, and a thief! This calls for the box!

(Ext. WOMAN 1 and ANNE CSL. Ent. NATE and LIZ DSL. LIZ carrying a suitcase.)

NATE Well, here we are. Welcome to the most perfect town in the world. What do you think?

LIZ It’s wonderful.

NATE It is just perfect, isn’t it? Oh, Liz, I’m so glad you decided to move here. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.

LIZ It’s good to see you too, uncle. Though for a minute, I was afraid those guards at the city gates weren’t going to let me in. They didn’t believe me when I told them I was moving into town today.

If you hadn’t come to meet me, I don’t know what would have happened.

NATE Well, you really can’t blame them. They were only doing their jobs. After all, we can’t let just anyone into our perfect town, now can we?

LIZ I suppose you’re right. I’ve just heard so many great things about this place, I couldn’t wait to see it. Everyone says that this is the most perfect place to live, and I had to see why.

132

Stage & Screen NATE Well, it’s not that hard to see. Just look around. We’ve gotten rid of everything that could possibly make the town imperfect.

LIZ Oh, it sounds just wonderful! I can’t wait for you to show me around.

NATE Actually, I’m afraid we’re going to have to put the tour on hold. I still have a few more things to do before your apartment is ready.

LIZ (Disappointed.)

Oh, alright. If you have to.

(Ent. HEATHER and ANNE DSL. They are both chatting, and unaware of NATE and LIZ.) NATE I just wish there was some way I could show you around… (Noticing HEATHER and ANNE.) Wait a minute. I know just the thing. (Calling to ANNE and HEATHER.) Anne! Hey, Anne!

(ANNE and HEATHER both notice NATE and LIZ and cross up to them. Note: Both HEATHER and ANNE should have gigantic smiles on their face. When HEATHER gives her asides, she should drop her smile. Throughout her asides, LIZ seems to be the only one who takes notice.)

ANNE Hi there, Nate. How are you?

NATE Just perfect, Ms. Anne. And you?

ANNE Perfectly dandy.

NATE How about you, Ms. Heather?

HEATHER I’m perfect. (Aside, with sarcasm.) Just perfect.

NATE Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.

HEATHER (Regaining her smile.)

I said I’m just perfect.

ANNE And who’s this? I don’t think we’ve met before.

133

Stage & Screen NATE This is my niece. She just moved to town.

ANNE Well, isn’t that just perfect? (Reaching her hand out for LIZ to shake.) How do you do? I’m Anne, and this is Heather.

LIZ (Shaking ANNE’s hand.)

I’m Liz. ANNE Nice to meet you. If there’s anything at all you need while you’re getting settled in, feel free to ask.

NATE Actually, that’s why I called you over. I promised to take Liz on a tour of the town when she got here, but I still have a few things to finish up before her apartment is perfect. You wouldn’t mind showing her around, would you?

ANNE Oh, It would be my pleasure!

NATE Then it’s settled. I’ll go ahead, and take this.

(NATE takes the suitcase from LIZ, but the handle breaks when he takes it.)

LIZ Oh, no. I thought the handle felt loose.

NATE No worries. I’ll take care of it, and meet you back here when I’m done fixing up your apartment.

Sound good?

LIZ It sounds perfect.

NATE Now you’re catching on. See you ladies in a little while.

(NATE begins to ext. CSR, but stops at The Box. He proceeds to open LIZ’s suitcase, take out the clothes, slide open the panel, and tip the faulty case into The Box. He then picks up the clothes, and proceeds to ext. No one takes any notice of him as he does this. ) ANNE So, Liz, what would you like to see first?

LIZ I’m not sure. How about… the library?

134

Stage & Screen ANNE Oh, we don’t have one of those.

LIZ You don’t have a library? Why not?

ANNE Why, to keep all the bad books out of our perfect town, of course. They all had such terrible stories or twisted messages, that there was no way they could be perfect. They just had to go.

LIZ You mean to tell me there wasn’t one good book in the entire library?

ANNE Well, I suppose there might have been a few, but it was such a hassle to separate the good ones from the bad, that we just decided to do away with them all.

LIZ Oh… I suppose that makes sense…

ANNE I still remember the day we took all the books. The university pitched such a fit!

LIZ (Suddenly interested again.)

You have a university? That could be interesting. Why don’t we start with that?

ANNE Had a university. You see, all those scientific theories kept contradicting one another, so they obviously couldn’t be perfect. It had to go as well, but trust me. Our town is better off without it.

LIZ Oh... Well, if there’s no library, and no university, why don’t you show me the town church? Those places always have such interesting histories— ANNE Oh, our town doesn’t have any churches either.

LIZ No church? At all?

HEATHER Not a one.

ANNE No one could decide on the perfect belief. We argued about that one for ages, until we just decided to get rid of it all together.

135

Stage & Screen LIZ You got rid of religion?

HEATHER It caused so many arguments, that there was no way it could ever be a part of our perfect town.

LIZ So, if there’s no library, no churches, and no university, what’s left to see?

ANNE Well… Maybe… Hmmm…

HEATHER (Dropping her smile. With sarcasm.)

Why don’t we show her the oh-so-perfect Box? ANNE (Startling HEATHER back into her smile.)

That’s a perfect idea! We’ll start with The Box? LIZ What’s The Box? ANNE (Gesturing to the big black box behind them.)

Why, dearie, that’s The Box. LIZ It sounds important.

ANNE Oh, it is. The Box is the foundation of our society. Why, it’s the very thing that makes our town the most perfect town in the world!

LIZ Really?

ANNE Of course! Take it from someone who knows.

HEATHER Anne’s Grandfather helped build The Box. ANNE He was a wonderful man, Box rest his soul. He always used to tell me stories about the days before The Box. LIZ Were they interesting?

136

Stage & Screen ANNE Oh no. They were dreadful! Before The Box, people caught all kinds of diseases, panic roamed the streets, and famine killed by the hundreds. No one could even keep track of the death toll! The entire city was in chaos!

(ANNE pauses to catch her breath.)

ANNE But then came The Box, and everything became perfect. Order was established, disease stopped spreading, illnesses vanished, and even death became nonexistent!

(Ent. JUDGE and BILL the police man CSR.) LIZ That’s amazing!

ANNE And it’s all thanks to The Box! HEATHER (Dropping her smile. With sarcasm.)

Yes, it’s all thanks to The Box. (JUDGE and BILL notice the three of them when ANNE mentions “The Box”. They begin to walk.)

JUDGE Hello there, Ms. Anne, Ms. Heather. Did we just hear you talking about The Box? ANNE Hi there, judge. Hi, Bill.

BILL We just happened to be passing by, and thought we heard you mention The Box. ANNE You heard right. This young lady has never heard about The Box, so I was telling her how important it was to our perfect town.

(Both JUDGE and BILL are shocked.)

JUDGE Never heard about The Box? That’s absurd! Why, The Box is our greatest enforcer of the law!

BILL It’s our saving grace!

JUDGE Before we had The Box, crime ran rampant through the streets. There was Lying—

137

Stage & Screen BILL Cheating— JUDGE Stealing— BILL And murder!

(HEATHER and ANNE gasp.)

JUDGE It was so bad, that even the law enforcement couldn’t keep the peace!

BILL But then, they built The Box. (The girls let out a sigh of relief.)

JUDGE Since then, the law has been able to get back on top of things. There’s no more crime, no more danger, and no more worry.

(Ent. MAN 1 and WOMAN 1 CSL.) BILL Now, people feel safe walking the streets.

JUDGE and BILL And it’s all thanks to The Box! (MAN 1 and WOMAN 1 notice that they are talking about The Box and cross over to them.)

MAN 1 We’re sorry to intrude— WOMAN 1 But we could have sworn we heard you talking about The Box. BILL You heard right.

WOMAN 1 Oh, I’m so thankful that our perfect community has been blessed with something as wonderful as The Box! (All except LIZ mumble in agreement.)

MAN 1 Too true. Without The Box, who knows where our town would be in shambles.

138

Stage & Screen WOMAN 1 In disarray!

MAN 1 In complete— WOMAN 1 And utter discord!

MAN 1 It’s only because of The Box that the clocks keep ticking!

WOMAN 1 That our families stay safe!

JUDGE That the peace is kept!

ANNE And that our little town— ALL (except LIZ and HEATHER.) Is the most perfect town in the world.

ANNE Does that answer your question, dear?

(LIZ begins to cross over to the group.)

LIZ Actually, I still don’t — (LIZ is cut short when she stubs her toe on a small crate nearby.)

LIZ(cont.)

Ow! ANNE Oh, are you alright?

LIZ Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just stubbed my toe.

WOMAN 1 That nasty old thing.

BILL It should go straight into The Box!

139

Stage & Screen LIZ Into The Box? ANNE Why yes, of course! What a perfect idea! What better way to help her understand The Box than to show her?

LIZ But, why would I put the crate in The Box? ANNE Because, my dear, that’s how it’s done. Whenever something goes wrong— WOMAN 1 Troubles you— MAN 1 Or goes bad— BILL You simply put it in The Box— ANNE And all the bad disappears.

WOMAN 1 It’s what’s kept our town perfect all these years.

BILL And it’s what will keep it perfect for the years to come.

ANNE Well, go on. Throw it in!

LIZ Well, I suppose if that’s how it’s done.

(LIZ picks up the crate, crosses over to The Box, and pulls the slot on the front open. She glances at the group of people, who urge her on. LIZ then tosses the crate into The Box. The crowd cheers, and she crosses back over to them.)

WOMAN 1 Perfect!

LIZ But what if someone needed that crate? Is there a way to get it back?

WOMAN 1 Of course not!

140

Stage & Screen MAN 1 Once it goes in The Box, it doesn’t come back out.

ANNE And why would you want it back? Don’t you feel better now that it’s gone?

LIZ Should I? BILL Of course you should! That bad thing in your life just disappeared.

WOMAN 1 Don’t you feel perfect.

LIZ I… I guess— ANNE Of course, you do! How could you not?

(HEATHER drops her smile once again.)

HEATHER (With sarcasm.)

Right. Because The Box is all we need to have a perfect town.

(WOMAN 1 turns to HEATHER.) WOMAN 1 (Almost threateningly.)

I’m sorry, dear. What was that?

HEATHER (Regaining her smile.)

I said you’re absolutely right. The Box is all we’ll ever need to have a perfect city.

ALL(except LIZ) Here, here!

(A clock knell is heard. It chimes four times.)

MAN 1 (Checking his watch.)

Good Grief, is it really 3:59?

WOMAN 1 Mine says 4:00.

141

Stage & Screen BILL Mine does as well.

MAN 1 Ah, well, we know what to do with that, don’t we?

(MAN 1 crosses to The Box, opens the panel, and puts his watch in The Box.) WOMAN 1(cont.)

Come along, dear. We had better be heading home.

(Ext. MAN 1 and WOMAN 1 DSR.) JUDGE I suppose we should follow suit. The law’s work is never done.

BILL It was nice to see you ladies. Nice to meet you, Ms. Liz. LIZ You too.

(BILL and JUDGE ext. CSR.) ANNE Oh, dear. I didn’t realize it was getting so late. I’m supposed to be at a city council meeting in fifteen minutes!

LIZ That’s alright. I won’t hold it against you if you go.

ANNE Are you sure?

LIZ Perfectly sure.

ANNE Well, alright. It was good to meet you, Liz. I’ll see you around.

(Ext. ANNE CSR.) HEATHER I should go, too. It was nice— LIZ What did you mean before?

142

Stage & Screen HEATHER (Trying very hard to keep her smile.)

I’m sorry?

LIZ You kept saying things about The Box. Like you didn’t believe in all the things the others were saying about it. Why? HEATHER (Forcefully.)

I think your ears are a little less than perfect, dear. (She begins to walk away.)

LIZ Come on, you can tell me. (Jokingly.) What? Are you afraid they’ll put you in The Box? HEATHER (Turning back to LIZ, and dropping her smile.)

That’s not something to joke about!

LIZ So you do have a problem with it!

HEATHER (Looking around cautiously.)

Keep your voice down!

LIZ Are you going to answer my questions, or not?

HEATHER Alright, fine. You caught me. I’m not a big fan of The Box. LIZ Then why are you pretending to be?

HEATHER Because it’s dangerous to say otherwise.

(LIZ gives her a questioning look.)

HEATHER(cont.)

It’s complicated to explain, but this town isn’t as perfect as everyone makes it out to be.

LIZ Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t you just leave?

HEATHER If I could, then I would, but the guards aren’t exactly friendly to people who try to leave the nest.

143

Stage & Screen LIZ I don’t understand. I thought The Box solved all the town’s problems: cured disease, stopped crime, made this town the most per— HEATHER (Losing her temper.)

That thing hasn’t made our town anywhere close to perfect. Look around you! It hasn’t cured disease; it hasn’t stopped crime. It’s just made it easier to ignore.

LIZ What’s that supposed to even mean?

(Ent. all the citizens of the town [minus NATE and ANNE] CSR. They are obviously angry, and are pushing LILITH, who is obviously old and sickly, towards The Box.) HEATHER You’re about to find out.

WOMAN 1 It’s a travesty!

MAN 2 An outright scandal!

WOMAN 2 Such blatant disregard for the law simply can’t go unchecked!

(JUDGE steps out from crowd, and begins to shout. Whenever the scene goes back to LIZ and HEATHER talking, the crowd freezes in tableau.)

JUDGE Order! Order!

MAN 1 It’s unforgivable!

WOMAN 2 Disgraceful!

BILL Absolutely imperfect!

JUDGE ORDER! (The crowd dissolves into silence.)

LIZ What are they doing?

144

Stage & Screen HEATHER Just watch.

JUDGE As we all know, this woman (He gesture to LILLITH.) is guilty of committing the most heinous crime this town can give a name to.

(Nods and murmurs of agreement from the crowd.)

JUDGE Lilith Parker, (LILITH jumps at the sound of her name.) do you deny that you are member of this town?

LILITH No, I— JUDGE And do you deny that you have been diagnosed with an incurable and deadly disease?

LILITH No, but— JUDGE And do you deny that by having this disease, you have put the perfection of this town at risk?

LILITH No, but please— JUDGE Then, if there are no further objections, I declare the ruling of the courts valid. Lilith Parker, you are hereby found guilty of contempt of perfection, and will be given the most serious sentence that our town law can distribute!

LILITH Please, I’m begging you— JUDGE I sentence you to The Box! (The crowd cheers, opens The Box, and begins to put LILITH inside. They freeze in tableau as LIZ and HEATHER speak. ) LIZ What are they doing?!

HEATHER They’re putting her in The Box. LIZ 145

Stage & Screen Why? HEATHER Because she’s dying. Disease doesn’t make a town perfect (Mockingly). So, we just put her in The Box, and suddenly, the town is cured!

LIZ Someone has to stop them!

(LIZ attempts to cross over to the crowd, but HEATHER grabs her arm before she can.)

LIZ(cont.)

Let me go! I have to help her.

HEATHER It won’t do any good! They’ll just put you in there, too.

LIZ But we have to do something. We could— HEATHER I told you, it won’t do any good. It never does.

LIZ So they’ve done this before?

HEATHER Thousands of times. Whenever somebody’s sick or dying, they hold a trial and put them in The Box. LIZ I can’t just sit by and watch this.

HEATHER Wait!

(HEATHER tries to stop her again, but LIZ is too fast for her. LIZ crosses over to the crowd members who come out of tableau, and are still attempting to put LILITH in The Box.) LIZ Stop!

(The crowd ignores her.)

LIZ STOP! (The crowd pauses and looks at her.)

LIZ(cont.)

Look at yourselves. What are you all doing?

146

Stage & Screen WOMAN 2 She’s sick!

BILL She’s dying.

WOMAN 1 She’s threatening our perfect town.

LIZ So you’re punishing her for something she can’t help?

WOMAN 1 She should have stayed perfect. Then she wouldn’t be in this mess.

LIZ Nobody’s perfect.

(All the citizens gasp.)

WOMAN 2 How dare you!

MAN 1 That’s contempt of perfection!

(BILL comes up behind LIZ and handcuffs her.)

LIZ Hey! BILL I’m afraid I’m going to have to place you under arrest!

LIZ What!

(BILL leads LIZ off CSR. The crowd follows suit.)

(Blackout.)

SCENE III (The scene opens on a courtroom. JUDGE presides over the case. The citizens [this time including ANNE and NATE] are sitting in the jury box. BILL stands by JUDGE, and LIZ stands at the stand.)

JUDGE Order, order! I call this courtroom to order!

147

Stage & Screen (Everyone becomes silent.)

JUDGE We are here today to review case number four hundred and thirty-nine, concerning one Elizabeth Daniel. She is charged with contempt of perfection and will stand trial for her alleged crime.

Seeing as though there is no lawyer for the defendant, we will skip the arguments and go straight to the verdict.

LIZ What! That’s not fair! Objection!

JUDGE Objection overruled. Jury, what is your verdict?

WOMAN 1 Is there any doubt?

MAN 2 Just look at her.

WOMAN 2 Sitting over there, smug as can be.

MAN 1 She’s enjoying this!

ANNE She enjoys destroying perfection!

JUDGE What is your verdict?

ANNE We, the jury find her guilty of contempt of perfection!

(The jury roars in agreement.)

LIZ Please, stop! Listen to yourselves! Look at what you’re doing!

(In a panic, LIZ looks around the courtroom, and spots NATE.) LIZ(cont.)

Uncle Nate, help me!

(NATE jumps at the mention of his name. The jury is suddenly silent as they turn to look at him.)

NATE (Nervously) 148

Stage & Screen Who? Me? LIZ Uncle Nate, tell them what they’re doing is wrong!

JUDGE Will you stand as a witness for the accused?

NATE Oh, well, you see… I, uh… I… WOMAN 2 Look at him, trying to defend that criminal!

MAN 1 I bet they’re in cahoots.

WOMAN 1 They’ve probably been planning this for ages.

MAN 2 The sheer nerve.

JUDGE I repeat, will you stand as a witness for the accused?

NATE Uh… I, well… If I… MAN 1 Liars.

WOMAN 1 Cheats.

MAN 2 Frauds.

JUDGE Will you stand as a witness or not?

LIZ Uncle Nate, please.

ANNE I expected better.

(NATE looks from the Jury to LIZ.) NATE I say this town wrecker deserves what’s coming to her!

149

Stage & Screen (There is a cheer of approval from the Jury.)

LIZ No! Uncle, please, listen to me!

JUDGE Then it is settled. I, as Judge of this perfect town hereby find the defendant guilty of contempt of perfection!

LIZ And I find you all guilty of stupidity!

(There is a stunned silence.)

JUDGE Excuse me!

LIZ You heard me. You’re all idiots if you think this is perfection.

WOMAN 1 How dare she!

LIZ Look around you. Your town is falling to pieces, and you can’t even see it! You’re tearing this place apart trying to make it perfect, and it’s still not working.

WOMAN 2 Listen to those lies coming out of her mouth!

LIZ Please, listen to me. I don’t want to destroy your town. I want to help you fix it. So why don’t you all stop kidding yourselves, and just accept the fact that no matter how much you want it, no one will ever be perfect.

(There is collective gasp from the crowd.)

LIZ(cont.)

No one’s ever been perfect.

(Crowd gasps.)

LIZ(cont.)

I’m not perfect.

(Crowd gasps.)

LIZ(cont.)

(Pointing to the members of the jury.)

150

Stage & Screen You’re not perfect.

(Crowd gasps.)

LIZ(cont.)

And no one is ever going to be perfect!

(Crowd gasps.)

WOMAN 1 Did you hear that?

MAN 1 An outright confession!

ANNE Even she can’t deny it!

JUDGE Do you deny these claims?

LIZ No, I was just trying to— JUDGE Then by the power vested in me by the law, I declare you guilty of contempt of perfection, and you are hereby sentenced to The Box! (BILL leads LIZ out of the courtroom. She struggles, but BILL finally drags her off stage CSR.) JUDGE This court is adjourned!

(All the citizens stand to go except for WOMAN 2. She sits where she is.)

MAN 2 (Noticing his wife is not following him.)

Are you coming, dear?

(Silence.)

MAN 2(cont.)

Dear, are you alright?

WOMAN 2 What if she was right about us?

(All the citizens pause, and turn to WOMAN 2.)

MAN 2 Whatever do you mean?

151

Stage & Screen (WOMAN 2 rises from her seat.)

WOMAN 2 What if what she said is true?

MAN 2 Now that’s just silly.

WOMAN 1 But what if it’s not silly?

(Everyone now turns to WOMAN 1.)

WOMAN 1(cont.)

What if we’re not perfect?

MAN 1 What if all we’ve done isn’t enough?

ANNE What if we’re the problem?

MAN 2 What if we’re the reason that the town isn’t perfect?

WOMAN 2 What can we do?

JUDGE (Speaking over the worried voices of the crowd.)

There is only one thing we can do!

(Everyone turns to face JUDGE. There is a pause as he looks around the crowd.)

JUDGE Is everyone agreed?

ALL Agreed!

(Blackout.)

SCENE IV (Lights up on HEATHER who comes to stand DSC. The rest of the stage is dark.)

HEATHER I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. You can’t argue with perfection. (beat.)

Perfect. The thing we all wanted the most. What we spent our entire lives trying to achieve. We 152

Stage & Screen wanted to become perfect, so we built The Box and turned a blind eye as the rest of the world came crashing down around us. We had to be perfect if we wanted to survive. So we put a girl The Box because she wasn’t perfect. And eventually— (DS lights up on the citizens of the town who stand around HEATHER. They are surrounded by piles upon piles of damaged and broken items.)

ALL We all joined her.

(Blackout.)

153

Stage & Screen

I Never Lose

Kathryn Mellema [Below is an excerpt from Kathryn’s short film script, “I Never Lose”]

As she walks away from the house, she takes out a cell phone from her undamaged pocket and dials a number.

MIGUEL (O.C., through the phone, monotone) Hello, MOTHER BLACK. Which transport do you need?

MOTHER BLACK (Holding phone up to her ear, examining her torn up sleeve and pant leg.)

Start up the chopper.

MIGUEL (O.C., through phone) Right away, Madame.

Follow this QR code to view the rest of the script http://issuu.com/bpanagos/docs/i_never_lose/1

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Jeff Vs. Jane: A Tale of Vengeance Kaitlin Fiscus

[Below is an excerpt from Kaitlin’s short film script, “Jeff Vs. Jane: A Tale of Vengeance”] JEFF Stop this petty fighting. Why must you fight me, friend?

JANE (Angrily) WHY? JANE turned sharply, catching JEFF off guard.

JANE (cont.)

This is why, JEFF! (JANE rips the porcelain white mask from her face, revealing the grotesque, discolored flesh underneath. )

Follow this QR code to view the rest of the script http://issuu.com/bpanagos/docs/jeffvsjane/1

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Rick Horseman: American Thoroughbred for President Sascha Kirkham

Video -Long shot of a pack of wild horses running across fields of flowers -Cut to a brief montage of close-ups on panting horses with flowing manes -Shot slowly fades into a close-up of a horse’s face... The horse is wearing a tie.

-Patriotic text overlays the shot and says “Rick Horseman for President” -Close up of Rick Horseman talking -Cut to footage of Vietnam with horse superimposed -When Horseman is done speaking, shot flashes to bird’s eye view of the United States and stamp map with a horseshoe logo

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Audio Sound effects (hooves running) RICK HORSEMAN (V.O.): I’m Rick Horseman, and I’m for America. I’m not your average candidate; I’m a horse. All of America’s presidents have been humans, and I think it’s evident that we need change.

I’m very passionate about the American family, and I have been known to carry weary Americans across the desert on my very back.

Military experience runs in my blood. I have ancestry tracing back to the Revolutionary War when they carried soldiers on the battlefield.

I, myself, spent some time in the jungles of Vietnam, offering strategic advice to generals.

So remember this... Rick Horseman: American Thoroughbred for President.

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Duck Probs by Jake Sims and Chayenne Lugo Giraffe by Jessica Jenkins Blinded by Love by Rebecca Singer Artist Block by Kaitlin Fiscus Welfare Warrior by Zachary Perry Redvivivus by Storm Taylor Nuke by Jett Ryan Dartz and Scab by Thomas Baldwin The Hedgehog and the Duck by Cheyenne Lugo Snakes by Class

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Class (Illustrations by Thomas Balwin)

Snakes on a weather vane Snakes on a window pane Snakes who operate cranes Snake left out in the rain Snakes down the drain Snakes in pain Snakes on my brain Snakes play the game Snakes with no name Snakes that are lame Snakes that steal fame Snakes on cocaine Snakes leave a stain Snakes that are Insane & Inhumane Snakes with nothing to gain Snakes sing a refrain Snakes on a chain Snakes in a gang Snakes that throw down for the Acacia Strain Snake’s last dance with Mary Jane Snakes take the blame Snakes that got game Snakes in Maine Snakes meet Bruce Wayne Snakes write a Quatrain Snakes running with Usain Snakes hang their head in shame Snakes Bury the Blame Snakes sing “Chocolate Rain” Snakes in a lion’s mane Snakes feeling extreme disdain Snakes who weight train Snakes who have been slain Snakes in Spain Snakes in the fast lane Snakes that say the Lord’s name in vain Snakes of the Ukraine Snakes that complain Snakes on a campaign Snakes eat a candy cane Snakes who walk with a cane Snakes drink champagne Snakes who buy and sell propane

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Follow this QR code to view webcomics on The Eclectic website http://bjhstheeclectic.com/multimedia/web-comics/ NOTE: Prezi web comics are not always compatable with IOS browers.

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Blazing by Jessica Jenkins Clara by Julie Bartlow Sunrise by Ashley Pursifull Fall’s Fruit by Madi Hager Lotus by William Hildreth Isolated by Stephen Dennis Burdened by Nick Monroe Lampshade by Nick Monroe Le Tigre Sinistre by Troy Koler Golden Fish by Rachele Schorr Teddy by Rachel Harold Introverted by Rachel Harold The Ecstatic by Namena Bojang Colored Self by Jamie Ansell Self Portrait by Natalie Petrucka Glasses by Ashlyn Perry Abstractions by Chayenne Lugo Double Take Natalie Petrucka Reach for Me by Kim Czerneiwski Colonel Cheese by Rain Li

Featured Artist: Jake Sims

Introspective Reflection

When I Look Into the Mirror

Difference in Duality

Infinite Separation of Body and Soul

Glamorous Conflict 219

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Blazing by Jessica Jenkins

Clara by Julie Bartlow 220

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Sunrise by Ashley Pursifull

Fall’s Fruit by Madi Hager 221

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Lotus by William Hildreth

Isolated by Stephen Dennis 222

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Burdened by Nick Monroe

Lampshade by Nick Monroe 223

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Le Tigre Sinistre by Troy Koler

Golden Fish by Rachele Schorr 224

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Teddy by Rachel Harold

Introverted by Rachel Harold 225

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The Ecstatic by Namena Bojang

Colored Self by Jamie Ansell 226

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Self Portrait by Natalie Petrucka

Glasses by Ashlyn Perry 227

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Abstractions by Chayenne Lugo

Double Take by Natalie Petrucka 228

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Reach for Me by Kim Czerneiwski

Colonel Cheese by Rain Li 229

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Featured Artist Jake Sims Introspective Reflection

When I Look Into the Mirror

Difference in Duality

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Firmly Grasp It by Jake Sims City Gate by Kendyl Hollingsworth Intensity by Jessica Gallagher Format Galaxy by Emiko Higman Grasp by Holly Morgan Connections by Jake Sims Eye by Sascha Kirkham Momentum by Kennedy Booker

Featured Photographer: Jessica Gallagher Wabbo Amorphous Apologize

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Firmly Grasp It

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City Gate

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Connections

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Momentum by Kennedy Booker

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Blue by Storm Taylor Broken and Fragile by Katherine Tidwell Error by Mary Butgereit He and I by James Faw When the Storm Passes by Alanis Craig Butterfly Observatory by Joshua Hill Despair in the Looking Glass by Ben Ewing Principle of Counting by Zachary Perry Home by Leah Plume Who Am I? by Emily Duncan Shaman’s Doing by Sarah Hartung Reality Check by Holly Morgan The Frightened Public by Alyssa Kennedy Happy Ending, Right? by Zachary Perry Seventeen Years by Mary Butgereit Then and Now by Tori Weldon Wire by Yvonne Bowman Ignorant Sheeple by Kaitlin Fiscus Lamp and Umbrella by Aidan Crowe Perspective by Sarah Hartung The English Language by Victoria Hollingsworth Runaway Ninja by Mary Butgereit No Swimming by Tasha Hendon Introspective Sneeze by Chayenne Lugo Fault in the Schedule by Julie Bartlow He-She by Jake Sims Peace by Gabrielle Thompson Two Face by Emiko Higman Weight of the World by Ramsey Griffin The Light Shining Through by Alexandra Wiegand Where Clouds Meet Sun by Tommy Cupero Seeking by Jessica Gallagher 241

Dear reader,

At birth, we are plunged into the midst of two warring worlds- that of good and evil.

These two cataclysms converge to create the most enigmatic juxtaposition the world has ever known: the human soul. Throughout our lives, we host battle after battle between the harsh reality and ideal fantasies that surround and permeate us. Contradictions twist and weave around the inner workings of our minds as we grasp at them, desperate to make something beautiful from the unsightliness of this world.

Shadows bend light; light, in turn, creates shadows. With a truer understanding of this resonant law, an artist takes dark paint to a pale canvas. His contrary brush blossoms with chiaroscuro, carving depth into the white abyss. The composer does the same, as she creates the lamenting drone of a cello that yearns for the sweet, melodic treble of a master’s violin.

And finally, the writer, in the embodiment of pure juxtaposition, creates beauty in throes of metaphor, weaving the dissonance of contradiction into intricate harmonies. He bleeds dark poetry onto the immaculate page in the futile hope that one day he will be understood.

Juxtaposition intertwines countless elements of the literary paradox. Why does the wise layman Sancho Panza associate with the insane intellectual Don Quixote? Is not the juvenile “Boy-Wonder,” Robin, a foil to the gruff, masculine Batman? Indeed, the “Dynamic Duos” of the written world owe much of their strength to contrast.

“Beautiful tyrant! Fiend angelical! Dove-feathered raven, wolf-ravishing lamb!”

Shakespeare screams onto the page in the voice of Juliet, pleading with the reader to see the beauty of the drastic oxymoron. Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. swayed the hearts of Americans when he pitted “the light of creative altruism” against “the darkness of destructive selfishness.”

From the poetic conceits of John Donne, to the satire of dark comedy, juxtaposition plays on the human affinity for conflict and comparison, its roots held in the very duality of our being.

That, dear reader, is what we hope to show you as you turn the page: a place that everyone knows. A place where the discrepancy between light and darkness is both highlighted and ignored. A place of both tears and laughter.

A place where good and evil aren’t that different after all.

--The Eclectic Editors

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Blue

Storm Taylor

Blue is sweet melancholy; a deep, thoughtful well. From blue waters one may draw cool and clear revelation. From cloudless skies, blue guides with tranquility those that seek a vast sense of peace.

Blue gathers you in its arms, full of trust.

Blue is the color of strangulation.

The hands of blue are cold and rigid, gripping sadness. Blue creates the most tenacious, seeping stain on the fabric of life. It may never be washed out—only cut out, or else charred a deep black.

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Broken and Fragile

Katherine Tidwell

She was lovely the way that thunderstorms were lovely. She was wonderful and beautiful the way rain was. She was needed, and a burden. I did not understand her, the way she twiddled her fingers, or stuck her tongue between her teeth when she smiled. I did not feel her presence when she walked into a room, and I did not love her, not the way childhood taught me to love. But I was there beside her while she sat quietly, and I smiled when she spoke. Her words were lovely and lifeless. She said things that would err any portrait of my own, and spoke them in shrill. She was not incredible.

I was not incredible.

I had removed myself from the flesh I hid inside, and, for a while, watched only my soul –and it was not beautiful. It was not beautiful the way people say you should be beautiful: humble and strong, whimsical and lovely, filled with dreams and plans. I had no idea what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be, and so I remained some empty cocoon pleading to be filled with more false ideals. My hands clinging to a false assumption that any of that existed.

Empty-me listened to the heartbeats of greater men, the words of stronger spirits. I alone had attached myself to no sort of positive thinking. School told me of the wonderful things I had not done and I sunk deeper in my bones.

It was there, at the bottom of everything, that I found myself surrounded by potential.

My soul was busy at work while my body ran on an angsty sort of autopilot. In my environment, I was releasing the steam of the mechanisms turning inside. My body was bitter and brutal. But inside, oh inside, I was building myself from the bottom up. I began at my feet. My head and my heart were still broken; they were running on my body’s fuel. The construction of my foundation began, and I was able to sink less and less deeply to find my potential. Months passed and my heart became tender, the way something new is tender; it was fragile. It had controlled all that I was. I was sitting inside my flesh, and the wheels were turning more softly, and my body was becoming lighter, happier—broken still, but coming together.

My spirit took from there. I hid inside myself because it was who I was. I found doors into truths that completed all that I needed to be.

She was honest and genuine. She built herself up to where she loved to be. She was broken and fragile inside a soft-casing that became strong, and dependent on a greater absolute. Her body was not where she hid away, it was her soul. It filled her up, and she desired to be a part of it.

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Mary Butgereit

Arthur stepped through the door of his home – their home. He hung up his coat, removed his hat.

The silence of the house swallowed him.

“Elizabeth? I’m home.”

PASSWORD REQUIRED FOR RECONNECTION TO HOME NETWORK. PASSWORD: “Elizabeth?”

“Who’s there?”

Her voice came from her room in the back of the house. The terror in it made his hair stand on end, and his heart sank to his feet.

PASSWORD INCORRECT. CONNECTION UNSUCCESSFUL. He walked down the hallway and stood outside the door, praying today wouldn’t be one of the bad days.

“Elizabeth, it’s me, Arthur.”

“Arthur who?”

It was a bad day. “Arthur Smithson.”

“Smithson?”

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO OPEN FILE “MEMORIES?” “Yes.” She hesitated. “…I don’t know an Arthur Smithson.”

ERROR: FILE IS CORRUPT AND CANNOT BE OPENED. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He had to work around it to say, “…well, that’s my name. Do you mind if I come in?”

“I don’t know you.”

ERROR: FILE IS CORRUPT AND CANNOT BE OPENED. He opened the door anyway. A mute gameshow played out on the TV; Elizabeth sat curled in a quilt on the bed, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and fear. The tiniest bit of recognition flashed in her eyes.

“I know your face from somewhere…”

Arthur took the plates by her bed, stacked them on top of one another. “Do you?”

“Yes.” There was a spark of hope. “Does the summer of ’67 mean anything to you?”

She gave him a blank look.

ERROR: FILE IS CORRUPT AND CANNOT BE OPENED. 245

Feature “A church called St. Anthony’s? In the winter of 1969?”

ERROR: FILE IS CORRUPT AND CANNOT BE OPENED. “The names Dahlia Smithson, or Edward Smithson?”

ERROR: FILE IS CORRUPT AND CANNOT BE OPENED. “The word Alzheimer’s?”

There was fear in her blue eyes again. Arthur wanted to reach out, hold her until it went away, but he knew it would only make it worse.

“Who are you?” She asked. “What are you doing in my room?”

PASSWORD REQUIRED FOR RECONNECTION TO HOME NETWORK. PASSWORD: “Elizabeth…”

“Leave. Please leave. Or I’ll call the police.”

PASSWORD INCORRECT. CONNECTION UNSUCCESSFUL. Arthur didn’t fight her. He left with the plates and walked back to the kitchen, so overrun with memories it made it difficult to breathe. He took a deep breath, twisted the wedding ring on his finger, prayed, and then finally turned on the stove to make dinner for his beautiful wife.

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He and I

James Faw

“Harken! Slandered is the name of the one who fore out there, waiting. Desolate dissonance provides a devilish declaration of a newfound independence. To love and to have loved, to burn and to have been burned: embers attempt to scale the melancholic walls and to spread the disease up past the hall. Speeding, spitting, grandmothers knitting, see all the deplorable nanographs trying; quitting.”

I look at myself in the mirror. I was on a mental tightrope, and I was nervous because it is a very dangerous area of the city to be in.

“Let’s go home. I am tired.” He looked at me, his sickening face distorted. I stared at him.

Then, I spoke:

“Ah, for I am the acorn. I am the letterbox, the egg carton, and the pencil. I sit dull, I waken sharpened. More keen, more productive, more superior. Everyone is afraid of his or her life. I know I am, and that is as definite as I. It’s as real as the eyes, as the eyes I peer at you with now. There has been no serendipity in my life, my words, whimsically in the same nature for the same reason as you realistically question your own plausibility. ‘Cackaw! Sibwah.’ The caged will sing, and I already see I am a bird with no cage - and no wings.”

“Not very likely,” he said in a disparaging tone, and all the life was swiftly knocked out of his bones; they fell on the floor and were all different tones, but still managed to be a quandary like a case left unclosed.

Trying to hit the dementia at the source, I went and swallowed the antibiotic of choice.

Those controlled substances that are in the bodies of all; and we are the same in that way. For what I speak might be incoherent babble to you, but my mind is as clear as a bell. A little confusion is the only good thing in this life, yet it still remains filled with remorse.

“I’m common-ordinary, in fact. They all told me so. They used to jeer and poke fun at me. Now look…observe, if you will, as I demonstrate the affluent clarity for which I have been so fond in the past.”

“You aren’t anywhere close to ordinary,” he interjected with sneering pride, which dripped down like water from his sadistic eyes. “You are full of hot air, and molecules expanding, and cells dividing as well.”

He stood there, all the while

Etching his memories down

Like he had some sort of

Peculiar idiosyncrasy explaining his actions.

By this time my arms had broken backwards, snapping like two autumn twigs. I tried to move them back in front of my body, but they wouldn’t budge. The moths in the jar under my bed had cracked; the fragile pieces could never be mended. I could attempt to mend them…but that’s all it could be - an attempt. A feeble, weak, beautiful attempt at something… real.

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When the Storm Passes Alanis Craig

When I was a little kid, I was abandoned during a storm. I don’t remember anything before that point. It was like my entire life began at that moment. I was a six-year old child with no past and, as far as I could see, no future.

It was Duck who found me. I was standing in the rain, watching the lightning flash and the dark clouds swirl.

“You were crying,” he told me years later, “but not the wailing tantrums most kids would be expected to have in a situation like that. No, you were as silent as the grave I was sure you were headed to. It was heart-breaking, watching such a young child staring up at the raging storm with dead eyes and tears streaming down his face.”

Duck took me home then. He waltzed up and tossed me over his shoulder before turning and leaving. With the thunder roaring and lightning flashing, Duck carried me all the way to the little hole in the wall that became my place of escape.

“When Duck wandered in from the nightmare outside and stood there, dripping on the floor, holding the still body of a child—I nearly had a stroke.” Pat-Pat often chimed in when Duck would pause. “He didn’t even bother to explain what was going on, just dropped you in my arms and wandered back outside.”

I knew what happened next. Pat-Pat gave me one of Duck’s shirts. It was big, but it was better than the soaking wet things I had on. Then she settled me before the small fire in the middle of the floor with a mound of blankets wrapped around me. Being the sensible woman she was, Pat-Pat then softly asked me my name.

“Your big blue eyes just stared up at me with this lost look.”

“I didn’t remember anything at that moment. My name was as unknown to me as you were.”

“I knew that. That is why I named you myself.”

The loud roaring of the thunder outside had given her the inspiration for my name. PatPat named me after the storm that brought me home. She named me Rory.

-- There are five of us in total that live in this space. I’ve mentioned it before, but our home is no more than a little hole in the wall, literally. It is a small, vacant space hidden between two old buildings. It probably comes as no surprise to anyone that it was Duck who found this place. He has a way of finding things. Of course, it was Pat-Pat who solved the rain dilemma. About seven feet above the ground, spread out all the way to the end of the alley, is an old black tarp. It keeps the rain off of us.

Pat-Pat, Duck, Kenny, Zane and I all call this cramped, dirty place our home. All of our worldly possessions are crammed into this space. The girls have two blankets hanging up as a divider between “the boys’ side” and “the girls’ side.”

We don’t see the point, but Duck and Pat-Pat won’t hear anything of it.

“It isn’t decent for ladies and men to sleep together before marriage,” Pat-Pat would explain.

We are homeless people. The concept of marriage is as foreign to us as another country.

I don’t know about the others, but the most I hope for is my own apartment one day. Kenny, the only other girl in our little entourage, usually just sighs and shakes her head when Pat-Pat says that. She doesn’t see the point, either.

Going to school is hard. I wouldn’t even bother, except I am the only one who does.

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Feature Kenny has never been. Now at the age of sixteen and barely able to read, it would be ridiculous to expect her to go.

School is horrible. It’s one big mess, a never-ending storm of drama and ignorance.

Walking through the doors of Jorden High is like walking into the eye of a hurricane; it may seem calm, but around the edges is real danger. The kids sneer at my old, worn clothes, and teachers look ready to explode with accusations at even a hint of trouble. It doesn’t seem worth it to me.

Sometimes, I imagine that after a horrible storm, the others and I are survivors that crashed onto an abandoned island. I have to make my way through the wreckage and learn how to live in this new land. At the end of the day, after learning all that I can, I will make my way home to my little camp, where I will share what I have learned with my friends before I go to bed in preparation for another day of survivor training. The people around me are wild animals and dangerous plants. I have to be careful. One wrong move could be the end of me.

Sometimes I can’t pretend, and those days are the worst. That is when I stay at home to stare out between the walls and watch the normal people walk by and wish I could be like them.

Surprisingly, it’s usually Zane that finds me. He’ll sit beside me and silently keep guard until I can pretend again. Until I can once again face the jungle outside.

“The storm will pass, Rory. It always does. We wouldn’t be able to survive if we couldn’t weather a bit of rain,” he’d say. “You were born in a storm, kid. This little shower isn’t anything, you’ll see.”

I suppose he is right, but on those days, I feel like the storm will never pass. It is one thing to pretend; it is another to be unable to escape a nightmare. Clear skies mean nothing when I am battling a storm on the inside. I am not even exactly sure what my problem is. Poverty?

Homelessness? Am I upset because of my parents? Is it my memory loss?

The bad spells will only last awhile. Soon, Duck will wander in from wherever he goes during the day, and Kenny will shuffle her way out of the blankets in the corner. I know Pat-Pat will appear with an arm full of groceries she brought from her little job at the convenience store, and Zane will take my arm and lead me into the wall. I will sit down, and their goodwill and love will shield me. It will keep me dry from the rain of my depression and make me forget about the storm inside. They will protect me with their friendship, like the tarp that protects us from the elements outside.

I know this, but it is hard to remember when the thunder crackles and lightning flashes.

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Butterfly Observatory Joshua Hill

I have learned that a moment’s evanescence does little to stultify its capacity. There are times when the quality of an experience overrules its quantity, or rather, lack thereof.

She stood between rows of lively plants in the prime of their youth, across the hardwood floor of a butterfly observatory. My eyes stumbled upon her, losing footing on the snow-fair skin and utterly collapsing upon locks of jet-black hair. They found themselves unable to rise from the bright red of her lips, and unwilling to stray from the blue eyes of incomparable, crystalline luminescence.

A pair of bright, red-winged Lepidoptera floated between us as she turned in my direction—not noticing me, but looking somewhere just beyond. She found herself distracted by an orange specimen gracing the back of her palm, and she stared down upon it with the slightest of smiles, remaining still lest it abscond.

The entire scene was so beautiful, so perfectly anesthetic, that I didn’t notice the gold, diamond-crested wedding band on the hand the butterfly had perched upon. When I did, the people around us seemed to take on a pigment more ashen, and features more old and wrinkled; the plants began to shrivel and die. The butterflies fell to the ground, silently.

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Despair in the Looking Glass Ben Ewing

Long after she lost track of time, the girl stared into her television, morbidly engrossed in the looking-glass world. She had come to the realization that he who controlled the television, controlled the people, and that generations to come would only be more and more gullible and malleable in the hands of the media. On the news, she saw the downward spiral of the world told through the conflicting lies of politicians who, rather than solve the problems, found innovative ways to pin them on their enemies in order to gain power and influence. Nothing could be trusted through the looking-glass. Even if there was information that wasn’t complete fiction, it was so tainted by bias that it was useless.

It was a reality show on which she finally landed. Beautiful, rich, young people cursed, drank, and complained. She was struck by the principle of it. These stars showed little or no laudable characteristics, and, more often than not, seemed to be fools and tramps. She realized that this was what her peers perceived as reality. This was the lifestyle which young people emulated.

She peered deeply into the looking-glass, and in the most terrible moment of all, she saw her own reflection. Tears began to swell in her glacial eyes as a cold despair formed in her chest and expanded outward. A shiver racked her body as hot tears began to roll down her soft, young face.

Wiping his greasy hands on his khakis, Adam strolled through the sliding doors and into the elevator. The meal sat like a rock in his stomach that afternoon, but he was able to soldier on. French fry residue left his keyboard slick, despite his persistent finger-licking. Soon the large Coke was depleted, necessitating a second pilgrimage to the break room for yet another energy drink. Afternoon apathy prevented Adam from working efficiently, and a nagging headache nearly brought him to a complete halt.

Halfway through his energy drink, Adam went to the restroom. Shortly after his feet hit the tile, he became dizzy and grabbed the edges of a sink. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: the slightly wrinkled, stubble strewn face looking at him appeared almost scared. He vomited violently into the sink and on the mirror and, spitting, stumbled out of the restroom, making a bee-line for his car.

She stood victorious above her foe; its shattered carcass fizzled and sparked at her feet as tears streamed down her face and her loyal dog licked fresh blood from her tiny, clenched fist.

The television was no more, but she could still hear, see, feel it inside her head. Terror gripped her as she thought of the future that lay before her. In her camisole and sweat pants, she burst through the door and into the November sunset, where sleet had begun to pour from the heavens.

Faithfully the dog followed, only to have the glass door slam in its face. It watched as she ran head down, at full sprint into the rain.

Adam ran to the car and frantically coaxed the cold engine into life. His only thought was “home.� He careened out of the parking lot, aimed for his apartment, and floored the accelerator. His left arm began to feel numb as sweat beaded on his neck and face.

She ran until her breath ran out, past blaring car horns, shouting people, and the cold cruelty of reality. She fell to her knees in the street. Tears tried desperately to freeze as they fell from her clenched eyes. They were old eyes now; they knew the truth.

His breathing was frantic as the sweat soaked his shirt. He tore off the tie and rolled down the windows. He was only three minutes away from home when he slipped out of consciousness. As his vision faded to black, he could just make out someone in the road.

She stayed there for what could have been an age, or only mere seconds. She stirred, finally, to the familiar sound of a wheezing red sedan. Pale gray eyes, old and tired, opened at last to see the headlights shimmering in the rain.

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The Principle of Counting Zachary Perry

1, Tick. I stand beside my brother. I’ve never known him before, but the way his face curves and the color of his skin tells me we’ve known each other a long time. We stand side by side, the sides of our sleeves barely touching. All of us are tightly packed, like sardines in a can.

A rotten can at that, the smell of sweat and baby feces rising up every so often to tickle my nose before the wind blows it away. The ocean air is my sanctuary; it helps me not to think about all the other bad smells.

I feel lost. The desert stretches on and on forever. The white-hot sand scorches my face, and the everlasting sun is a bleak reminder that I am not where I need to be. It rises in a way I’ve never seen. I look down at my compass and it tells me East. That’s where I go, East. It’s an incessant draw, a hunger I can’t quench.

2, Tock. For months now all I have seen is the stark cloudy background, and the never ending blue floor. It goes on forever. Sometimes, off in the distance, I spot a dot, a green pebble, but usually it’s just the half-digested sea water talking. I am content, though; I know the end result, and it gives me hope. I think it’s a little bit like heaven. We don’t really know how amazing it’s going to be, but we’ve heard all the grand tales about it. You feel it in your bones. You have to slog through the crap of this life, but you can always feel the end. So I go to this bright hope and future, knowing that it’s better than where I was. I go to it freely. I go to America.

I walk along the dunes searching for my compass. It is my guide, my shelter. Without it, I am hopelessly lost in this sea of sand. When I find it buried under a mountain of crystals, I open the lid to look on its back. There I have stored the photo of my wife. She reminds me where I’m going and why.

3, Tick. My cousin Bernard sent me a letter when he got there. He told me about how easy it was to find work. Right as he stepped off the boat, a young gentleman helped him get a job and a place to stay, just like that. Afterward, he got to meet this nice man who was trying to win some election. Bernard voted for him, of course, since the man was so helpful and all. Maybe I’ll meet a nice man, too.

When I close the lid, I try to think of her face, but I can’t. All I see is a white blur, a golden radiance. All I can remember is the thought to go East. I think that’s what she told me in the compass.

She hopped on the lid and screamed in my ear, “EAST!” and then melted back into a photograph.

4, Tock. I remember back to where I was before. Now it’s just a vague memory, but I still cling to it. It’s all I have left, except for the clothes on my back and my knapsack. I remember my Mamó sitting in her rocking chair knitting me a scarf. She told me that no matter where I went, she would always be there with me, in there, and she pointed to my heart. The soft sheep’s wool of the scarf keeps my neck warm on the coldest of days, when the rain comes crashing down in the many gales that have occurred on the boat. She wanted to stay. Said there was no place for an old woman like her in a big city like “America”. I hold in my tears. I will stay strong for her.

I am always walking; I don’t know the end. But where I am seems familiar. I feel as if the same hill of sand is doubled over and over in a straight line forever. I wonder if God rakes the sand into neat rows, making the crossing easy by just being able to count the number of rows ‘till the end.

Well, God made too many rows, in my opinion. Maybe he just likes a big sandbox.

5, Tick. The boat rocks back and forth. The time passes by like the last plate of molasses and biscuits I have. Slowly. Some of the men were smart enough to bring a deck of cards with them. The games start up and the amount of space on the boat goes fast. The tables now take up the room. They gamble for fun, most of the boys. Some get greedy. The food is given in rations and some of the more rotund men have taken to gambling for food. This usually ends with an 252

Feature angry stare-down, a fist fight, and a knife between the ribs. The tables are put away. There is more shoulder room than before.

That’s what I will name this land. God’s sandbox. Apparently He doesn’t like to have very many toys. No dump-trucks, no shovels or rakes. Just sand. He adds a few figurines every now and then, a tree with a small pool of water just out there, sitting in the middle of nowhere. God’s modern art.

6, Tock. I look out to sea, and there a floating buoy rests in the ocean’s foaming maw. It is spread-eagled, slowly rocking up and down. The inky life-blood of this new-made squid slowly leaks out and forms a cloud around the dead man.

Man, God’s got a lot of stuff.

7, Tick. My wife says not to even go near the tables. She says she has food enough, and the kids still have meat on their bones. Only a few months of this won’t hurt too bad, and then it’s feast after feast in the new land. When we get there the pearly gates will open and we’ll walk along the dock ready for our new life. I can’t take this waiting, though. I packed too quickly and forgot to bring my backgammon board. I’d have no use for it on land—dead weight, some might call it—but to me it’s a survival against insanity, something to fight off the darkness clouding my mind, making me want to scream and jump off the boat from impatience.

I finally reach a wall. I know I have to get over it to get away, but the hard part is wanting to get away in the first place. I know I’m supposed to want to get away. But it’s hard when I could just sit in the shade of this wall and lie here forever. I could just lie complacent and slowly blow away into oblivion. That would be nice, but I’ve a mission to complete.

8, Tock. I look down at my watch and make sure I’m still on the right speed. Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.

Sometimes I don’t want to do my mission, but then I remember.

I remember my wife and kids, my grandma, my aunts and uncles who helped get me on this boat.

I am not getting over this wall for me.

I am not walking the dock for my good life. I walk it so I can carry those I love with me.

9, Tick. So, with nothing else to do, I’ve taken to counting. At night I fall asleep, and when I awake I start over. I look over as the sun slowly crests the horizon.

10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17...

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Home

Leah Plume

Home is where I need to be.

Not under fluorescent lights, So harsh they hurt.

But out in the sunlight, Which gently caresses your skin And lulls you to a calmer state.

Home is in the bed of a truck, Looking at the sky and street lamps, Legs pressed against your friends, Talking about the small things.

Home is leaning up against A damp tree in the woods, Smoke lingering in the air, And in your throat, Coughing and laughing.

Home is in the empty promises Of what lies at the end of the highway And the stories of how to get there.

Home is not a concrete thing Of bricks and mortar, But an abstract thought.

When it’s there, you can feel it.

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Who Am I?

Emily Duncan

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall…have I got it?” –“Mirror,” Barlow Girl

I wished upon a star when I was a little girl. I picked 4-leaf clovers, blew dandelions until there was nothing left of them, and flipped my daddy’s pennies into fountains. When I became a teenager, my hopes changed. I began taking action. I studied, observed, and asked the questions of which the answers seemed unreachable. It was a mystery that couldn’t be solved.

Why couldn’t I resemble perfection like all the other girls? Why wasn’t I as pretty, cute, attractive, or even noticeable as they were? Why?

It’s not easy trying to be perfect. To sit taller than a giraffe and pull back my shoulders with as much pride as I could muster was simply degrading and hopeless. The countless hours spent perfecting makeup techniques and matching name-brand outfits was pointless. I’d ask myself, “Mirror, have I got it all? Is this right? Is this enough?” The excruciating thoughts of my exhausted body from all the workouts and diets came crashing down on me. The images in the back of my mind that I concealed for so long snuck out and revealed to me a lost, lonely, and depressed girl that cried black tears from her soiled makeup. The most painful part of remembering was not that I wept excessively from the damage that consumed my life, but that I wept continuously- I knew I couldn’t be like everyone else. That fact weighed on my shoulders for nearly 15 years.

But who was I to tell myself that I was less than what I could have been? I was a broken girl with no self-confidence and a deteriorating heart. The measures I took to be anything but my rotten self were measures that I should have never invested a second of my time.

Who are you to tell me that I’m less than what I should be? Who is anyone to tell me that?

The cold, bitter truth hit me as hard as I had hit rock bottom when I was just a girl. I was made to be someone new. I was made to make a difference, and to raise my head when all the desperate little girls tried to fit in and I couldn’t. I was clueless as to how many people could look up to me even when I felt invisible. I discovered that I would never be anything the other girls were; I could only be myself. I was a defeated, lonesome me in high school, but I found that a jubilant and hopeful me was a much better person.

So I look into that same mirror that held the past of a girl scared of rejection and exclusion, and I say, “Mirror, I am seeing a new reflection.” I see the gentle face of a confident young lady, full of love for herself and others. I see the hands of a girl that once held her sobbing, makeup-caked face each day, now holding her clear, smiling cheeks. I see the bright eyes of a daughter that always told herself she wasn’t good enough, and I watch her close them with the assurance that she is. I will not listen to things that they say I should do. I won’t even try. I was wonderfully and graciously created, and I have a purpose greater than the one I once gave myself.

So I say now, I am beautiful and everything a girl should want to be: confident and loved.

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Shaman’s Doing

Sarah Hartung

A pirate, observing herself in a funhouse mirror

Holding a pink plastic dinosaur

She stands beside the Christmas tree Curiously lighted In middle February.

A man, head adorned with goggles

An aviator of creativity

Steals crumpets at the tea party

Neighbor to Superwoman And guest of honor,

The hat-clad Anti-Shaman Perfectly misnomered.

A teacher, delving into laughter

The burnt crayon melts Royal document awaiting calligraphy From bent paper clips And metal monkeys.

A mermaid and an editor,

Watching a rather odd Thanksgiving

Debate the merits of a shopkeeping panda And the magical sound Of pineapple.

An apprentice, learned in the ways of Gandalf,

Aids others in adventuring, blindly

Into the terrors of a haircut; Robot coffeeman weeps

Over the burial of Thin Mints.

A photographer, wrapped coolly in comforter,

Huddles beneath the fort of blankets and substitutes

Teddy bears for Waldo figurines.

A ghost and the Mafia,

The first remaining loud as life

While Batman observes in laughing silence.

The Shaman, examining his golden aviary Smiles softly and gives brazen words of flight

To the heartbeat of the daring, the rhythm of inspiration.

King Pooh snarls; Pumbaa chortles in delight As old children begin to speak, slowly

of still-dreams past.

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Reality Check

Holly Morgan I believe in fantasy.

Here, I understand the rules Because they are nonexistent.

Here is the place Where the beat of fairy wings Can birth a hurricane, And the worries of the world Can be placed On the shoulders Of a sparrow.

This is the place Where the rustle of trees Is more than just a sound That graces the ears Of the ignorant.

Here, It’s music, A methodless magic Passed on Through word of wind.

And though Reality Continues to beat At the door Of my mind, I know his fight is futile.

And perhaps He knows it too Because the ever ominous beating Has slowly Slipped away.

Follow this QR Code to hear Reality Check by Holly Morgan (unabridged) http://soundcloud.com/bpanagos/reality-check-by-holly/ 257

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The Frightened Public Alyssa Kennedy

“You got the power?” asks Abigail.

“Oh yeah, I got the power,” I reply. “I got the power like the sun got the stars and bears got the honey. I got like an NFL player got his juice and Timmy got the cookie. Nobody like the way I swing, but the bat goes Crack! And the crowd goes wild as I blast outta this world, “Hi’s” Superman on the way out.

“You sit here girl, you don’t do nothing but strum that violin while I make the building foundation and the oatmeal grains fall to the floors of English palaces.

“Watch my eyes flicker like a Twitter page after Miley Cyrus shaves her head, like she gets powers reverse-Samson style and the birds will be naked to the wind as they soar. Drop some pocket change to the beggars; have a catarrh jiilaal, you mendicant.”

“You can’t go into a press conference like this! How will the public react-”

“To hell they swing, for all I care. They’re nothing but leeches sucking like flies from fruit the very elegance that swims in my veins, like the aids of an addict killing the living with their livings and inadequacy that never come up because they’ve got only Yin and Yang, and no oatmeal to speak of.

“I could teach ‘em a thing or two about cats and how to milk ‘em. I lived on a farm in the old days. That place had woods to nature, no match to the harsh-nit nannies that threw themselves austerely on the greenery, coffee decay encasing their veins. Time had no time before the stench of death hung low and the angel arrives calling the kiddies home and the animals herded past in flames as I rose from the ashes like V from Vendetta rose, and I still rise. Maya Angelou would be proud.

“I clench in my fist the ashes of what was posterious and am now stifled by flames of a naughty, clabbity leiverworst and dissatisfaction as I aim to achieve fragmented prose; I thrust forward with calculation from the highest of booby.

“I greet the public and preach incompetence of fragile demeanor from the chiseled jaw of Lincoln that illumination in the eye of the public only to come to immortalization, and the bird snatch in the catch of the plumpest pumpkins.

“They know of the greenery that flows from the trees that gives you power, but draw from shadows under the cloaks of Satan himself and there is power greater than green shall ever be. That is the truest and deepest seed I ever planted. That seed is small; it is the winning shot of the Death Star. That seed is chicken-heartedness.”

“Popeye’s Chicken?” asks Jane.

“No fear. See the ever-fading light of the sky that radiates from the corpse of death as she swings slow and embraces her unbeknownst father, who holds the flesh of the public in his teeth. Her father, my father. Luke, I am your father.

“I cry at the tippy top of my lungs so that the crowd sighs at my flibber with no more deception. And until that I prowl like a lion on the hunt of their power.”

“So… you do have the power?”

“Oh yeah. It’s in my luggage.”

“Good… because after all that I would have been flip flap owed if you hadn’t.”

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Happy Ending, Right?

Zachary Perry

The Hero of our story stands upon his vanquished foe, a sword through the gut of his enemy, and many burn marks from the fires that furled around them. The epic fight had lasted for days; he had vanquished wave after wave of beasts unmentionable to save the graphic images for small children. Then the main event had occurred. He had used all resources possible. The battle had become so intense that a tornado of fire had raced around them, encasing them in a wall of flames. His feet had lifted off the ground as he soared and fought in a three-dimensional arena.

Soon, a black hole had started to form in the concrete beneath, and everything except the two inside the vortex of fire had been sucked in. His adamantium blade had been the only thing he could use to survive, and even it had chipped from the sheer force of power radiating off the two mighty gladiators. Soon, when the fight had become its most intense, his sword burst into flames upon contact with his enemy’s legendary weapon. It erupted in a white-hot ball of shimmering light that encased the two and sent them spinning throught a time vortex where they fought in backwards-forwards-synchronus-backslice-step-up-pattern of inter-dimensiaonal rotation, and when all seemed lost, he dug deep within himself and to bring out the one true power he could harness: Love. With it, a dark pink ray of light shot from his breast and vaporized his enemy’s very being, leaving behind a hollow carcass. The reward for his triumph: the salvation of the entire human race. All of the human race is saved. No one is suffering under the tyranny of the dark one any longer. The man, pride in his heart, steps forward and hops off of his enemy. Dust covers his face, and a vertical scar runs from his right eye to his right cheekbone. All around him, the crowd stands in reverent silence, awaiting the first clap to break the quiet. The dust settles. The sun is just setting, and it glints off of his flaming sword. He once again steps forward, and slightly limps. If you looked into his eyes, you would see a stare so penetrating that even heroes of legend would wilt from his purely elevated status. His hair is unkempt but still together. He flicks it, a perfect swoosh, to get it out of his face. On his back is a tiny stick. A closer inspection would reveal feathers sticking out the sides of the shaft. An arrow. In the middle of his back. He steps forward again, hobbles, and then crumples to his knees. Then he falls onto his face, dead.

The entire world is saved.

So it’s still a happy ending, right?

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Seventeen Years

Mary Butgereit

(Author’s Note: You can read only the left column, read only the right column, or read as you normally would; it will still be a complete poem.)

Maybe the road was too slick from the whispering rain racing in sheets across the pavement – the boy driving would never know As he turned the wheel, though, he kept

Moving forward Spinning Out of control A bullet fired in the dark The victim, the perpetrator, The driver only

A child But old enough to see a life Flash in the rearview mirror Joy, happiness, smiles, laughter Mixed with pain, sins, and The aspects that were

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Straight Straight upward Instinctively upward Paper limbs brushing and scratching Burrowing in the darkness The locust only

Seventeen Seventeen years Spent underground Growing like a sapling in the cool dirt Waiting his entire life Just to become

Wicked A monster in the making Yet in this moment He is only a creature That knows in every molecule of his being To find light And leave the

Feature Dark In the three seconds For the car to Break the barrier And tumble Over the side of the bridge, He sees hatred, love, He sees Danger and the life he’s always known Maybe, perhaps, he won’t be like the rest Maybe this locust will be The second chance He’ll never have In the lifetime between The crack of breaking concrete And the almighty splash of water, He wishes things Might have been Different Though maybe destruction Is written in his DNA, The same handwritten note That tells him the surface Is so close, to move fast, but somehow Slower, and The light doesn’t hesitate; She wraps him in her warm grip And refuses to let go

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Then and Now

Tori Weldon

Then Vocal cords vibrate together to form three words Said all too often The meaning of which cannot be described by word of mouth Such words flow from an ink tip pen onto a page A heart filled, fills paper Thoughts are easily expressed when organized Especially when written out Beautifully sealed, and sent away to a far-off address Soon to be received by the corresponding heart.

Now Fingers clamor against keyboards Both handheld and not Meanings of expression are typed in 140 characters Or less Love is measured in the number of threes following a greater than sign We no longer hear the deep murmur of lover’s voices That has been replaced by the silent buzz of an incoming SMS Romance is created in digitalized letters Where it also dies.

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Wire

Yvonne Bowman

The order came in the muggy night, through a static-infused wire on the outskirts of a town somewhere in the French countryside. But it was not French soil we were crouching on anymore. Though we were in France, the soil belonged to the Germans.

Carmichael decoded the wire and handed me a delicately thin scrap of paper, on which he had scrawled the message. I read it, and felt the blood drain from my face. The wire was an order to carry out an ambush: my small squadron of dedicated men fighting maybe fifty of the Germans. I was to lead these fourteen men, whose lives I held in my hands, to near certain death.

Rose opened his mouth to speak, but Simon held out his hand, with a questioning look to me. I held up a finger: “One moment.”

I had never thought I would be forced to make a decision such as this one. When I was drafted for the war, I had expected to go, fight, live (or die, whichever way fate wanted it), and come back home – either in an airplane, or a box. I hadn’t expected to be promoted to Lieutenant, like some kid baseball player never expecting to be the MVP. The commentator would call his name: “And now Sean Robin is up to bat.”

The commentator in my mind had called my name.

It was as if I was in my Little League years once again; so far removed from the war, but so close to a different kind of war. It was the kind of war that makes you want to do your best.

It makes you want to do everything right and make no mistakes. It’s the kind of war that makes you tense up even when there’s no physical danger. Let’s face it: the vast majority of kids playing baseball in the Little League are not very dangerous. The worst they could do would be to tug on your hair; maybe give you a bruise on your arm, if they were lucky. But really, no one came to the games to see the kids play a sport. They came to see the kids play. And that’s what everyone in the stadium in my mind was there for. The thing that the commentator was there for. To see me play.

My imagination carried me far away from the muggy night in the French countryside on German soil. I was in a little baseball diamond, just like the one I used to play on. I didn’t have a bat; I didn’t have a catcher’s glove. And my team was just me.

I stood at the home plate, alone. I looked up to the stands. Maybe my parents were here.

They would have come, right? There they were, looking at me. Smiling.

“You can do it, Sean! You can be the hero!” my mom called.

The hero?

What did she mean?

“Go get ‘em, son! You can win this war for us, no matter what the odds!” my dad added.

This war?

Others were around my parents. The little old lady who had a full-size American flag mounted on her house was there, holding a sign imploring me to support the war effort. The kid from my fifth grade class that always picked his nose and then ate it was there. The teenage girl who had been found dead in the sewage pipe off of Parson Road was there, too. My grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and even my cousins that didn’t much care for me were all there. And right there in the front row, next to my mom and dad, sat the president of the United States. Roosevelt sat there with a soft smile on his face. His expression was reassuring, like that little nurse back at base camp. I would come back home, his smile said. I would be a hero. My fears of casualties, of losing my men, even of dying, melted away as if they were only chocolate on my tongue, short and sweet and poetic in a way, gone before it even felt like it was there.

I looked to the other side of the stadium – where the opposing team would be. In the nosebleed section, there were Germans. Germans with dark uniforms, each with the familiar arm263

Feature band of the Nazi party. One even had an odd little mustache, and it occurred to me that even Adolf Hitler himself had come to my Little League game. There were Italians and Japanese. Mussolini must’ve been there, but I didn’t recognize him. Heck, the guy who ran Japan was probably there.

The guy who busted Pearl Harbor; the guy that brought us into this war. They were all telling me to hang back. Forget the order, they said, it doesn’t matter. It won’t make a difference. Besides, if you stay back, you get to live. You get to save Carmichael and Rose and Windham and Milton and all the others. You can save them.

They made a convincing argument.

“What will he choose, ladies and gentlemen? Will he hit the homerun, or will he strike out? The whole game depends on this moment.” The commentator needed to stop commentating.

This was no longer about reliving my brief baseball days. The fans in every section were speaking of my decision. I had two options: be brave, be a good member of my country, and lead my men into battle, maybe even lose some of them or myself; or take the coward’s way out and disobey the order, saving our lives but throwing away our dignity.

I looked at the pitcher’s mound, where there should have been someone standing. Instead of a person, though, there was only air. It was a little pocket of the muggy air from the French countryside on German soil. I walked towards it.

“What is this? It seems Robin is taking a risk!”

I glanced briefly up at the announcer’s box, above the scoreboard which displayed Visitor: 61,000,000; Home: 12,000,000. I glared into the box.

I felt as if I was walking through molasses. When I reached the pitcher’s mound, I couldn’t bring myself to step into the muggy air that occupied the space. I wasn’t ready yet. I heard a crunch beneath my foot, different than that of my boot on the dirt. I had stepped on a delicately thin piece of paper. I bent to pick it up.

In Carmichael’s handwriting was the order.

I heard my dad’s voice: “Go get ‘em, son!”

Or was it the Major? It could have been.

Or maybe the Major was the voice saying “Get your butt in there, Robin! Did I ask for sissies?”

It could have been my dad.

Just before my hand touched the paper, I glanced at the side where my parents were sitting. Far in the back, I could just barely see what might have been some German soldiers, grinning at me. Their teeth were showing.

They say that the British have bad teeth, but that isn’t true. Their teeth are ok. It’s the Germans that have the really awful teeth. Not because they’re uneven or dirty. German teeth are scary. Though it embarrasses me to admit it, they are. You can almost feel them biting into your throat; snapping your spinal cord.

My fingers touched the corner of the paper. It felt like it was about to rip before I even gripped it. It was so pure, that order. Untouched; from the outside. It didn’t belong with us. And if I were to disobey it, it would dirty. My blood-stained jacket and the dirt underneath my fingernails and the mud on my boots and the thoughts in my mind would make it dirty. But only if I disobeyed it.

I gripped the corner of the paper gently and stood straight with it in my hand. I looked to the other side, the side without the President. In the front row sat Rose and Carmichael and Simon and Windham and Milton and Samson and Baker and Henderson and Price and Holmes and Ferguson and Bishop and Medina and Fletcher and that was when I realized I knew all of their names. It hadn’t occurred to me before. I knew that I knew them, but I didn’t know that I knew them. It was a weird feeling, almost as if it was the first time meeting them.

Rose saluted me, his face in a goofy grin. Simon sat next to him, looking at him with stony eyes. Ferguson sat back and nodded to me, his elbows on the bleachers behind him. Medina 264

Feature held his chin high, seeming to be completely ready. Baker gave me a quick wave, not wanting to do any more. Fletcher stared off into space, wondering where the world would take him. Bishop tried to figure out what Fletcher was staring at, wondering if it was going to kill them. Samson sat up straight, a nervous kid wanting to make sure he did things right – just like we all were. Windham sat with his shoulders tense, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. Holmes reached around Windham’s shoulders and tapped him on his opposite shoulder. Price looked down at his palms, as if he could find a moral in them. Milton looked over Price’s shoulder, wishing he could find a moral. Henderson waited patiently and calmly for my next order.

I couldn’t lead these men to die.

I had to disobey.

Carmichael looked me right in the eye, and, knowing what the note had said, shook his head. It was a slow deliberate motion. There was fear in his eyes.

He was telling me not to disobey. I knew that the fear in Carmichael’s eyes was not the fear of dying. It was not the fear of going into a battle that we could not win. It was not the fear of going home in a box with a flag draped over him symbolically.

Carmichael’s fear was the fear of a whipped dog. It was the fear of doing anything different than what was expected. The fear of going home alive; of having to face the ridicule of the little old lady with the full-sized American flag mounted on her house. The shame of not fighting his hardest for the country. His fear of disappointing someone in an irreversible way. It was his fear of the Major. It was the fear of the General. It was our fear of our country.

His fear was my fear, and I looked right back into his eyes. My eyes grew watery, but I blinked the tears away. I could not allow them to come. My fear of embarrassment, of shame, was too much to let myself cry. I was a soldier of the United States of America, and I would do whatever it took to defeat the Germans. I was afraid of showing fear; afraid of being my own.

I looked at the side of the stadium my mom and dad were on, sitting next to Roosevelt and Churchill with their reassuring smiles; their confidence. I was afraid of those smiles.

I was afraid.

I was afraid to admit that I was afraid.

With that fear hanging more heavily than any other burden I had ever borne, I crunched the paper in my hand and looked at Rose, who in the muggy night sat with his mouth laboriously shut, and Simon with his hand still out, and Carmichael with his solemn eyes. I stepped onto the pitcher’s mound.

I gave in to my fear.

I looked once more at the delicately thin paper in my hand, crumpled it up, and dropped it into a puddle, where it melted like the poetic chocolate on my tongue, short and sweet.

I looked around at my men. Rose, Simon, Ferguson, Medina, Baker, Fletcher, Bishop, Samson, Windham, Holmes, Price, Milton, Henderson, and Carmichael.

“We march at dawn. Get some rest, boys,” I said, “there’s a big fight coming up.”

No one spoke in the morning. The fear led us into battle.

Follow this QR code to hear Yvonne Bowman’s “Wire” http://m.soundcloud.com/bpanagos/wire-by-yvonne-bowman 265

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Ignorant Sheeple Kaitlin Fiscus

A crowd gathers and listens to the ruthless king speak. He weaves an elaborate web of lies about the kingdom to their north. The crowd jeers and, in anger, erupts. The king silences his people.

“Today, I want you to march into their kingdom and do these three things: defeat them, crush them, and conquer them!” snarled the king. With that, the people marched into the kingdom—a herd of brainless sheeple.

Flames, embers, and cinders rained down from the sky over the unsuspecting land.

Faces twisted into silent screams as smoke filled their lungs. The inexperienced king marched into a kingdom of ashen ghosts, and, overnight, inherited two kingdoms…but no subjects.

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Lamp & Umbrella Aidan Crowe

Umbrella arrived home after a long day at work. It had been raining hard for three days straight, and showed no signs of letting up. He walked in the front door of the one story, yellow wood house. He stumbled over to his corner of rest and found Lamp standing there.

“What are you doing over here?” Umbrella asked him.

“I was wondering if I could stay here tonight,” Lamp replied

“Why here?”

“Chandelier and I had a fight,” Lamp told him, “She is getting ready for the banquet tomorrow night, and she told me to just get out of her way.”

“I suppose you can stay here.”

Lamp sighed with relief.

”But only for one night. After that, you have to find somewhere else,” Umbrella told him.

“Deal,” Lamp said readily. They set about getting ready for the banquet, and once the corner was nice and tidy, they sat down to dinner.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” Umbrella said as he laid the meager meal on the table. “Nobody ever comes to visit.”

“It’s fine,” Lamp assured him.

They had a nice dinner of Hot Pockets. Umbrella set up a place for Lamp to sleep. Umbrella was trying sleep because it was supposed to hailing tomorrow, but lamp wouldn’t turn off.

“Would you stop that already?” Umbrella asked.

“Sorry. I was just thinking-”

“Stop thinking. It’s bad for you.”

“But-”

“Go to bed.”

Sometime in the middle of the night, they woke up to the sound of a tornado siren.

Everyone was rushing around and panicking. They heard a cracking sound and part of the roof peeled back like the lid of a tin can.

Lamp and Umbrella ran this way and that, strapping things down. Lamp was trying to help Coat Rack when the door flew open, knocking him to the ground. Umbrella ran over to him.

“How bad is it?” Lamp asked.

“I’m not sure if you’re going to make it,” Umbrella told him.

“I better tell you, then. Chandelier divorced me.”

“Why did I need to know that?”

“If I’m going to die, I needed to tell somebody.”

Umbrella broke out laughing. Lamp was outraged. “How can you laugh at a time like this?!”

“You are not going to die,” Umbrella told him. “It’s only a scratch.”

“What?”

“You’re perfectly fine.”

The wind picked up, and Umbrella saw an opportunity. He opened and began to lift away. Lamp grabbed him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving. I hate it here. I’m going to go someplace else, to start a new life.”

Lamp looked back at the wreckage of the house. Starting over someplace else didn’t sound so bad. He allowed himself to be lifted off the ground.

“What are you doing?” Umbrella asked.

“I’m coming with you.”

267

Feature

Perspective

Sarah Hartung

Text

Perspective lighting aesthetic skills mastered A black-and-white color image the Magic montage, to depthS and light focus Rainbow Bubbles mention A Butterfly The Flower Blooms a Day In Fall second Hope Gives Heaven for Escape.

268

Feature

The English Language

Victoria Hollingsworth

269

Feature

270

Feature

271

Feature

272

Feature

273

Feature

274

Feature

275

Feature

No Swimming by Tasha Henman

Introspective Sneeze by Chayenne Lugo

276

Feature

Fault in the Schedule by Julie Bartlow

He-She by Jake Sims

277

Feature

Peace by Gabrielle Thompson

Two Face by Emiko Higman

278

Feature

Weight of the World by Ramsey Griffin

The Light Shining Through

by Alexandra Wiegand

Where Clouds Meet Sun

by Tommy Cupero 279

Feature

Seeking by Jessica Gallagher

Follow this QR code to view Zachary Perry and Hannah Forrest’s video “Fly” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgLD5JcWsU 280

Nick Akins Jamie Ansell Thomas Baldwin Julie Bartlow Emily Black Emily Bohatch

Index

88, 111

Alyssa Kennedy

46, 98, 258

226

Sascha Kirkman

67, 115, 156, 237

37,206 220, 277 74 29, 90

Zach Koenig

120

Troy Koler

224

Daniel Lang Rain Li

Namena Bojang

226

Chayenne Lugo

Yyonne Boman

263

Aaditya Madhwesh

Kennedy Booker

237

Kristie Martins

Mary Butgereit Kayla Carden Jade Chambers

42, 45, 70, 73, 123, 245, 260, 271

95 229 18, 76, 79, 106, 160, 211, 220, 228, 276

Kathryn Mellema

20 12, 101 154

100, 102, 108

Kaylie Miller

25, 80

41

Nick Monroe

223

Jordan Coats

13, 24, 58, 121

Alanis Craig

124, 248

Aidan Crowe

75, 109, 267

Rashad Nelson

97

279

Ashlynn Perry

227

229

Zachary Perry

69, 174, 252, 259

Tommy Cupero Kim Czerniewski Kayla Daigle Sydney Delgadillo Stephen Dennis Emily Duncan Josiah Ernst Ben Ewing James Faw Kaitlin Fiscus Hannah Forrest Jessica Gallagher

45, 47, 73, 116 45, 104 222 45, 63, 255 116

Raymond Moosavi Holly Morgan

Natalie Petrucka Leah Plume

68 60, 132, 236, 257

227, 228 66, 93, 254

Ashley Pursifull

221

David Robichaux

78

Lauryn Rody

17, 251

Jett Ryan

72 10, 96, 202

11, 247

Connor Sawyer

65

155, 172, 266

Rachele Schorr

224

64

Morgan Simrell

235, 238, 280

Jake Sims

55, 82 160, 230, 234, 236, 277

Olivia Goldston

234

Rebecca Singer

Ramsey Griffin

279

Tori “Tinkerbell� Spradlin

Maddy Hager

221

Storm Taylor

181, 243

Rachel Harold

225

Gabrielle Thompson

128, 278

91

Khadijah Thompson

Jon Harper Sarah Hartung

32, 256, 268

Julianna Head

94, 128

Tasha Hendon

276

Ingrid Hickey

83, 116

Emiko Higman

235, 278

William Hildreth Joshua Hill Kendyl Hollingsworth Victoria Hollingsworth Jessica Jenkins

222 62, 250 35, 92, 234 269 166, 220

Katherine Tidwell Morgan Turbiner Tori Weldon Ashley Williams Adam Woelke Madelyn Wong

12, 167 77

128 21, 81, 244 84 71, 262 49, 73 122, 125 26, 73

Alexandra Wiegand

279

Miranda Wright

116

George Young

51

The Eclectic Staff Lauren Askins

Kendyl Hollingsworth

Thomas Baldwin

Victoria Hollingsworth

Emily Black

Tracy Hutchings

Emily Bohatch

Kara Jones

Mary Butgereit

Sascha Kirkham

Jordan Coats

Taylorlynn Knox

Alanis Craig

Kathryn Mellema

Thomas Cupero

Holly Morgan

Kayla Daigle

Joshua Norris

Sydney Delgadillo

Zachary Perry

Rashaan Denton

Leah Plume

Emily Duncan

Breeann Roberts

Josiah Ernst

Lauryn Rody

Shuganta Everson

Connor Sawyer

Ben Ewing

Jake Sims

Kaitlin Fiscus

Storm Taylor

Hannah Forrest

Katherine Tidwell

Jessica Gallagher

Anthoney Turner

Robert Grundy

Tori Weldon

Jon Harper

Alexandra Wiegand

Sarah Hartung

Ashley Williams

Ingrid Hickey

Madelyn Wong

Joshua Hill

Miranda Wright

Content Editors Sarah Hartung - Senior

Editors

On January 21st 1995, there was born a reincarnation of a baby kangaroo. Her parents named her She-baby, and from then on, the little girl saw the world in animals. She played with them, talked with them, and matched the personalities of her human friends with animals for fun. She-baby (who was renamed “Sarah” after much painstaking deliberation from her parents) became best friends with a sea lion, a wolf, and an owl fledgling. When she was six, a puffer-fish came from Ukraine to America, and Sarah’s family became complete.

Sarah began to see words in her dreams when she turned five. They danced in her head whilst singing like kookaburras, and she resolved to write them down. A llama came by and told her they were nice, so she kept at it. Today, novels turn into scripts which turn into films which turn into cha-chaing dragons and ladybugs in her head. Sarah half-heartedly tries to contain these odd metamorphoses, but they often spill over into jellyfish calligraphy and crocodilian parchment.

Mary Butgereit

Project M.A.R.Y B.U.T.G.E.R.E.I.T was initially created by the U.S government as a virus to be sent through a vast computer network. Unfortunately, it was discovered during a test run that Mary had very little knowledge concerning how to purposefully destroy things. In fact, the most she managed to do was scramble a few emails before being accidentally printed out via a library printer. She instinctively attempted to infect and destroy a few of the books around her, but instead found herself reading them; she later tried to mimic this strange human “writing” thingy, and discovered she was better at creating than destroying. Still, the humans who adopted her (two called “parents,” two called “siblings,” most called “friends”) can attest that there’s the occasional glitch in Mary’s new programming, and as such, it is not advised for breakable objects or complicated plans to be kept in her general vicinity.

Ben Ewing

Ben was born of this and that; odds and ends emulsified with time and mistakes. The metaphysical hum of development swells in every decision, action and reaction. With the passing of time, pieces of life cling to Ben’s mind. New ideas fuse to his brain, as old and outgrown thoughts fade. The vibrancy of individualism drives a hunger for knowledge and fulfillment.

Music and literature feed a fire of emotion, and emit a warm glow of expression. To create is the exhale following a long held breath; expressive perfection. To create is freedom and immortality.

Ben is the inhale of influence and the exhale of expression.

Sascha Kirkham

Sascha Kirkham simply served as another dream in the supreme goddess’s mind.

As most know, each individual life is a figment of the most beautiful, most powerful goddess’s imagination. The grand goddess’s subconscious conjures us all, including the relatively bland, but mostly eccentric, Sascha. Sascha felt at ease in this dream world, but, as the dream continued, the previously bright colors began to bleed and the mood gradually became more unsettling. The change of scenery resulted from troubles in the goddess’s kingdom. As the illusion of time carried on, Sascha found herself in a hazy reverie, where she remains now. Although Sascha has pessimistic tendencies, she hopes for the best. She likes to believe the turbulence in the supreme goddess’s life will clear and her dreams will be bright and peaceful, as before.

Layout Editors Holly Morgan - Senior

Editors

Holly Morgan was born amidst the wreckage of an ancient train of thought. During childhood, she would play for hours with the groups of forgotten fantasies and nearly-realized dreams that floated from compartment to barren compartment. When she grew into adolescence, she left the ruins to search for a place she only heard about from discarded memories. It was a place called “Earth,” where ideas flowed like water, and creativity was harvested by the bushel. After a long journey, and perhaps an adventure or two, she finally arrived.

But this was not the place that was foretold. There were no creativity fields, or rivers of ideas. Almost everything in this place seemed to have turned a sickly shade of grey, and it was spreading. Just when Holly thought she had found the beginnings of something intriguing, the slithering coils of grey would swallow it up. It was a disease, and its name was Reality. Suddenly, Holly knew what she had to do. Using every drop of power she could muster, she wove and donned a cloak of pure creativity, molded a mask of self-spun fantasies, and forged a sword from the essences of her most vivid dreams. She was ready for war. With the help of her weapons, Holly was able to fight off the disease, and restore diverse thought to the rest of the world. Legend says that she is still fighting today, locked in an endless battle against Reality.

Lauren Askins

In a land far far away, there was a sprinkling of pixie dust that transformed into a bubbly, fluttery fairy named Lauren. She flew and explored the world with the guide of her trusted master. During this journey, she gained experience and knowledge like no other. When she went home, she told tales about being near a volcano explosion or how she traveled in time. Everyone oohed and ahhed at her, but she felt alone and different.

Frustrated and confused, she flew to the mainland in hope of becoming something new.

There, she took a potion from a wicked witch. Blue smoke swirled around her and she transformed into a blond-headed, blued-eyed human teenage girl. Because she was used to flying, she fell with every step, constantly tripping and breaking things. She went back to the witch and undid the potion with a simple bite from an apple pie.

She returned to her homeland with a bright smile that never came off, no matter the circumstance. In the end, all of her traveling made her find a new love for who she was as a person, and she vowed never to change again.

Lauryn Rody

Lauryn is a mystery head to toe. Nobody, not even she, knows how she came into existence. Some believe she merely appeared one day, some think she came from the earth, the forests and trees; others say she fell from the sky one day in June, like a humanoid meteor. But how could she not have come from the loving woman who so carefully shaped her character and whom so kindly shares her DNA? The only one that can keep up with the madness and babble of words spilling and spewing from her mouth. The one who put a pen and paper in her grasping hands and showed her how to mark her questions on a blank sheet—to create. Those creations lead time and time again to a place much like an antique shop; filled with far too many doodads and whatchamacallits to have them cataloged, but that fit together like a jigsaw to form a single entity. An entity always seeking solace in the written word. This is Lauryn; she’ll never have all the answers, but she’ll never stop looking.

Madelyn Wong

Editors

It began with an itch of fingers on hands that hadn’t existed beforehand. The sensation traveled up paint-stained arms and a scarred shoulder, coaxing them into the world. The feeling trickled down, filling one bare foot and then the other. On the journey back up, creativity, imagination, and an unhealthy sense of sarcasm was collected. These all manifested above the neck in an odd little place called the mind. But the mind was as dark as it was wondrous— doubt and fear unraveled in long, dark strands. The thick ropes tangled down a face that hadn’t yet formed, choking the thoughts and silencing them. Devastated that the thoughts may never be expressed, the arms reached up with a knife and hacked the strands away. Finally freed, a pair of eyes like black holes peered out at the strange place around them. The new creation smiled and introduced herself. “Hello, world. I’m Madelyn Wong.”

Web Editors Alanis Craig

Alanis Craig was created for one purpose and one purpose only. To rule the world. The circumstances of her formation were hushed up so tight that people had to rely on hearsay and rumor to piece together what they could. Some say she was summoned by a sorcerer from the very fires of Hell and stepped from the flames to spread the evil she acquired from the bowels of the underworld. Others claim that an unfortunate mountain hiker accidentally released her from a mystical ball of floating malicious energy, which she used to take over the hiker’s body and secretly integrate herself into human society. Still several swear that she was never created, she just has always been.

But one thing is for certain. She was the best thing to ever happen to the dark side.

Hannah Forrest

Snapping between two ends of an impossible fate, Earth fell to its knees and begged the darkness of the universe for a new light. With dreams falling out of hand, memories choking beneath the pressure of time, and humanity fragmenting like glass upon a concrete step, the time had come for the earth to seek help. Earth and space took counsel together to explore the problem, and a verdict was reached: Hannah, a lesser-known constellation flourishing in the deeper reaches of space, would step forward and pledge her service to Earth. In exchange for her kindness, Earth granted her one of her ultimate wishes, and allowed her to aid humanity as a human. She was overjoyed; with a snap of lightning and a grumble of thunder, Hannah landed onto the earth and began her life as a mortal. Though she desperately missed her life as a constellation, Hannah’s work kept her busy. Every day was spent tirelessly fighting for peace, and this battle, no matter how challenging or tedious, was worth her time. She knew that when she began, and still knows it to this day.

Alexandra Wiegand

In the early months of 1996, a unique package was shipped to Best Buy. It was filled to the brim with rare gold and sea-green Apple computer chips, though the employees didn’t know this. One employee, Nate, was assigned to go organize the stock room. While he was dancing away to “Wannabe” by Spice Girls with a broom in hand, he bumped into the wall behind him, causing the clutter to come crashing down. A flood of garbage spilled out over the floor, including the chips, but the noise that caught his ray of attention was that of a guitar. He took a hold of its

Editors

worn neck, sat it upon his lap, and began to play. After a few hours, he was inspired to include a microphone. That night, he assembled a collection of dusty old amps, a stand with chipped paint handling the mike, and finally his rustic acoustic in hand. Life sparked into the amps, static erupted from the mike, and he struck the guitar. As he continued, his melodic voice and mellifluous strumming shook the ground with waves of electricity. One after another each fit into its own place, like a puzzle. This persisted and the microchips came to build the form of a young girl.

The light of sun in her hair, blue-green of the chips in her eyes, and music at heart describe the mysterious child. She began leaping all over the place; the cooperation of each note put a smile on her face. What she sensed was enlightenment, and she couldn’t contain it. She sputtered words out of air describing every feeling, bringing every opinion to light, and for some reason she couldn’t stop…and didn’t want to. Sharing was in her blood; it ran through her veins and out her mouth.

This was the creation of Alexandra Marie Wiegand.

Creative Shaman Zachary Perry

There was a young boy who fell in love with the idea of Batman. His crime fighting for justice act was immeasurably heart-warming. He decided that one day he would become rich and fight crime just like Batman. Many years later as he ambled around the streets living as a hobo underneath bridges he believed his dream to be a failure. That is, until he was digging through trash and came upon a spring. A simple little spring was all it was, but it sparked something inside that young man. He began to experiment, finding all of the most ghetto ways to make traps, bombs, and illusionary devices. He trained a team of rats from the sewers to drag around and old WalMart buggy and found and old leather trench coat and hat. He set up a hideout in the city dump, constructing the walls out of old mattresses and adding flare with one-legged pink flamingos. To finalize his call to justice he painted a sign to hang on his shopping cart, and on the cardboard it read, “The Welfare Warrior”.

Acknowledgements

Madison City Schools For giving us one more year to plot the downfall of society. Oh, and to create this literary magazine.

Madison City Schools Technology For equipping us with enough technology to start Armageddon! ‌or to pull together a literary magazine, whichever comes first.

Mr. Parker For always being fired up about our salty Fine Arts department, especially the daggum lit mag.

Mrs. Panagos For heading our rebellion against major world political leaders. For being both an efficient producer and a loving mentor to the staff.

The Art Department For repeatedly braving the low temperatures of the art room just to produce fantastic works... we couldn’t do this without you.

Julie Bartlow For demonstrating strange and fantastic creative depths during the creation of our cover and section dividers.

The English Department For making our work grammatically correct enough to be considered writing. Special thanks to Mrs. Powell, Mrs. Krell, Mrs. Boggs, Mrs. Murray, Mrs. Oliver, Mrs. Worley, Mrs. Russell, and Mrs. K. Roberts for actively soliciting student submissions. Wee r sooper apreeshutive.

The Student Body of BJHS For pouring their hearts and souls out onto the page, only to have them torn to shreds by the red pens of doom.

To Creative Minds Everywhere For having the brains to create amazing works and the strength to submit them to us. You add splashes of color to the grey world around you.

Please visit the companion website to enjoy other student works: Oral Storytelling Spoken Word Poetry Multimedia Poetry Hypertext Fiction Web Comics Short Film Public Service Announcement Stop Motion Animation Commercial

www.bjhstheeclectic.com

Some of our favorite quotes of the year: “Are you aware that your eyelashes look like a pair of beautiful venus flytraps?” -Sarah H. “... the pills that Dr. MacIntosh prescribed to me were sugar pills-- placentas.” -Jade C. “The fact that I have to say this isn’t our strongest suicide piece is sad.” -Mary B. “King Neptune is like the pencil of the sea.” -Rebecca T. “He meant ‘juice,’ not ‘Jews.’” -Jake S. “There is more than one way to skin a giraffe.” -Mrs. P “Am I God, Jim?” -Jessica G.