BRUSHFIRE BEHIND THE EYES: AN ALTERNATIVE OUTLOOK
Published by the Associated Students of the University of Nevada, Reno. Opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the ASUN of the faculty, staff, or administration of the University of Nevada, Reno. All copyrights in the BrushďŹ re are reserved by the authors and artists.
TABLE OF CONTENTS Linda B. Anderson
15
Christopher Chadwick
21
Chelsea Conboy
25
Gabe Frutos
30
Katie O始Dea
34
Claire Watkins
39
Clay Smith
46
Dolores Quihuiz
49
Dylan Shaver
51
Cody T. Salina
53
Molly Mainland
58
Erin Granat
66
Brian Muck
71
Carly Johnson
77
Todd Jewett
82
Cassandra Wedlake
85
Nick B ennett
89
Kristen Haberthur
100
Melanie Berg
104
Christine Spinetta
108
Dear readers.... I believe that this edition of the Brushfire set new standards. Of course, reaching a higher level does not come without trials and tribulations. My assistant, Ben Johnson, and I began the year by envisioning a literary journal, which encompassed creative vision, provoking prose, and dazzling artwork. Attempting to accomplish these three goals we established several new tactics. Most of the tactics proved successful. For example, this year every submission is highlighted with a biography of the creator. And other tactics failed, like the writing contest. Despite a few setbacks, I believe that this yearʼs Brushfire confirms the ASUN publication as an esteemed place for any up-and-coming writer or artist to publish. I owe many thanks to people within the ASUN community. Thank you, Amy Koeckes, for your excellent guidance and leadership skills. Thank you, Ben Johnson, for sticking out the last two years. Your vision has made this publication outstanding. Many, many, many thanks, Dylan Shaver, truly there isnʼt enough room on this page to list all your amazing qualities. And lastly, thank you to all the people who sit on Publication Board, you provided a great sounding board. Thank you to everyone who made this yearʼs Brushfire so successful. I hope the publication continues to grow in the same manner. With much appreciation— Massey K. Mayo Brushfire Editor 2004
It has been a great experience working on the BrushďŹ re during my time at UNR. I have had the opportunity to work on staff for three years and watch as the magazine has evolved. I want to thank Massey for her vision and for allowing me to be part of the process. Under her guidance the magazine has been brought to a new level. Additionally, thank you to all the writers, poets, and artists who have helped contribute to the BrushďŹ re. This year we tried to start a short story writing contest. It is often the writing format that we get the least submissions for and I wanted to try to help that. Unfortunately, there were a few unforeseen obstacles and we were not able to complete the contest. My appreciation goes to those authors who did submit a story and my apologies for having to discontinue the competition. We have laid the groundwork and know that a contest is possible, now the future BrushďŹ re staff needs to run with it. Congratulations to all the authors and artists featured in this book. You should be proud. Ben Johnson Assistant Editor
Linda Bernice Anderson
“So how do I see the world, I am American, I am in complete denial!� Age: 24 Major: Social Work Hometown: Reno, but I was born in California, like most Nevadans. I was raised in Reno and then moved to a bunch of different hemispheres when I turned 18 but I returned to Reno basically because I kept my residency in Nevada. AKA: UNR was the best price for a college degree! Why you write: So I can breathe! What is behind your eyes? So much that it is hard to blink at times, but so little in comparison to the people that I meet that I feel guilty when I think things are hard for me. How do you see the world? The world is either at point of change or it is doomed. There is no way to tell, I am not in a position to judge it. I am full of hope and 99.9% of that reasoning is because I live in this world. .01% of the time I am a pessimistic, due to that, I write bad poems or stories about those moments, but it is better to be hopeful right now because I am not ready to deal with grown up things like the world is killing it self, even if it if it is obvious. So how do I see the world, I am American, I am in complete denial!!!!!!
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AMOR Two lovers met In a work place Non the less He was a boy She was a girl He spoke Spanish From Mexico City From an American Suburb Together In private They were in love Other than that There was little to say They worked each shift Avoiding the truth their eyes said When the staff was gone It was just the two of them They laughed Drew pictures Taught each other words They didn始t care a bit Of what the world said That is until The world and them Came face to face He went with her With her little white friends Everyone sat stiff backed Do one knew what to say She went with him To a local Hispanic club They wouldn始t let her in the door They don始t like gringa始s She drove him home That was it Their eyes said nothing The world cleaned out All that had been there Their love died He walked home to Mexico She drove to her safe house There was nothing to say 17
No story to tell The promising plot Never came about Both settle back to their lives They never said farewell There was no reason to It is safer not to wonder why
17
STAYING THE COURSE Spinning Running Skipping Sitting Don始t make a difference I could travel the world Write a book Film a reality show Nothing stops life始s instinct War will happen People will die Where they go It is a debate I can始t say I can始t even say why So I run to my job Ignore the headlines Pay my bills Ignoring the main questions Because if I answered it I just might Have to change things My simple steps That make my day pass That make My life happen Is all I can handle
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SERVING MY CONGRESS MAN The drums beat Food to plate Smack down Lift it up Sweat beads pile up Drip down my face Run down the alley Stop at the mesa Tray down to stand Deliver the food Take the old plates Hustle bustle Fill the drinks Napkins forks Got what I need Go back They want more Then They leave Dollar on the table Goes to my debt No one says thank you No one sees me I disappear Like the dirty plates They remember the food Their company The ones they came with They don始t remember my name They don始t realize I am a registered voter In their region Not just a nameless server
19
LESSON PLANS Each class I sit Syllabus passed by me “Learn this shit!” I soak in the lessons Take their tests Pass their class This is what I must confess I answer what they want Regurgitate what they say When my heart knows I donʼt believe a word of it I am a student I had to conform
21
Christopher R. Chadwick
“Behind my eyes resides a confused individual who is constantly uncomfortable.” Age: 23 Major: English Literature Hometown: Placerville, CA Why do you write? My purpose in writing is to examine my own outlook on the world. It is a release for personal reflection that, hopefully, other can relate to. Itʼs intriguing and challenging. What is behind your eyes? Behind my eyes resides a confused individual who is constantly uncomfortable with the social necessities of everyday life, a socially inept person who finds human interactions more beautiful due to their complexities than most art created in the past hundred years. How do you see the world? The world is a cynical place for me. Despite that I have faith in the worst of humanity I hold to highly idealistic views with unrelenting dedication to achieving those distant views. It is the strive for a better opinion that keeps me looking so intently beyond the physical manifestations that is called “reality.”
21
DREAMS I ponder now from time to time At how things came to be What was it that led me to this? To this time and this place The metallic chain link fence Screams at me in the silence It is a barrier between the living and the dead It is all that keeps the spirits in It Separates me from the souls Of those deceased The soft red earth gives under the soles of my shoes Rivulets of red run down the paths And into the abyss The white graves stand out against this dark background Pines sway in the darkening sky This transition time Between afternoon And evening I walk between the narrow rows I ponder now from time to time And how this came to be I hope that when itʼs all over They will save a spot for me As the rain falls softly on swollen graves Silvery smoke hung between us, a comforting blanket to blur our forms. Exhalations of pungent matter, a release from the mundane and banal (at least for me). This begins a silent evening of smiles and connections. Your perception seems skewed. I sit and wonder at your real thoughts; slivers under a fragile, brown skin. Carefully, I needle them out, without pain or anguish, for examination that rarely occurs together. Eventually we went from stupefied to stupefied sleep, a natural release (well, two if you count the middle of the night). 23
I remember the feel of your soft skin, your taut bones and pliant muscles. Often I woke to the feel of your stomach; the subtle motion of breath always made me sigh. Silvery smoke hung between us, a comforting blanket to blur our forms. Exhalations of pungent matter, a release from the mundane and banal (at least for me). This begins a silent evening of smiles and connections. Your perception seems skewed. I sit and wonder at your real thoughts; slivers under a fragile, brown skin. Carefully, I needle them out, without pain or anguish, for examination that rarely occurs together. Eventually we went from stupeďŹ ed to stupeďŹ ed sleep, a natural release (well, two if you count the middle of the night). I remember the feel of your soft skin, your taut bones and pliant muscles. Often I woke to the feel of your stomach; the subtle motion of breath always made me sigh.
23
CLASS NOTES I sit a row behind her, just one seat to the right, so Iʼm not directly behind and can observe her profile. This way I can take notes and still keep her in the corner of my vision. Seeing her this way is my favorite, her blurred form bleeding in with the grey, carpeted walls, making her an indistinct assortment of tones. I look up, focus and Iʼm savoring the slope of her neck, the single strand of Vaseline-colored hair hanging from her black, machine-knit sweater. This desire to pluck the hair from its wool prison distorts my second rate attention on Boschʼs artistic style, turning the lecturerʼs concise explanation into a drowning cacophony. I watch the blue streams of her veins and slight rise of her angled shoulders, contemplating the texture of her skin just an armʼs length away. Marveling at the flow, the subtle patterns lying dormant in her flesh. So unattainable. Her braces-perfected teeth nip on a pen idly, sparking thoughts of what her teeth would taste like.
25
Chelsea Conboy
“There is a lot around us everyday that could be considered art, if only someone would take the time to put it down.”
Age: 20 Major: Major: English Literature Hometown: Las Vegas Why do you do art? I find it very rewarding, as well as fun. Art is a perfect way to communicate ideas, opinions, and emotions that just donʼt come out right when we try to put them into words. There is alot around us everyday that could be considered art, if only someone would take the time to put it down. Art takes us out of our comfort zone and allows us to see things in a new light. Whatʼs behind your eyes? Rods and some cones. At least, thatʼs what they tell me. How do you see the world? The world is out there for my enjoyment, as well as everyone elseʼs. Itʼs a shame that many people are put into situations that prevent the from living their lives to their fullest. We (in our advantaged position) need to do something about that!
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ZEN 27
URBAN PRINCESS 27
PIANO MAN 29
BUMBERSHOOT 29
Gabriel Frutos
“Writing allows me to put my thoughts down on paper, and to try and make sense of them.” Age: 25 Major: Social Work (MSW Program) Hometown: Nevada County, CA Why do you write? Writing allows me to put my thoughts down on paper, and to try and make sense of them. In addition it gives me a way to creatively express my ideas, and not be concerned with censoring them. Finally, because it is an outlet for me, and a way that I can express frustration positively. What is behind your eyes? The Truckee in springtimeÉ How do you see the world? I have a very unique worldview. I come from a bi-cultural family, and this has given me the ability to see things from more than one point of view, and to respect other viewpoints, even though they are much different than my own.
31
GRAVEYARD Silvery smoke hung between us, a comforting blanket to blur our forms. Exhalations of pungent matter, a release from the mundane and banal (at least for me). This begins a silent evening of smiles and connections. Your perception seems skewed. I sit and wonder at your real thoughts; slivers under a fragile, brown skin. Carefully, I needle them out, without pain or anguish, for examination that rarely occurs together. Eventually we went from stupeďŹ ed to stupeďŹ ed sleep, a natural release (well, two if you count the middle of the night). I remember the feel of your soft skin, your taut bones and pliant muscles. Often I woke to the feel of your stomach; the subtle motion of breath always made me sigh.
31
Cold desert air Blown in on a fresh nights breeze. The lights shine a colorful Dancing hue Against the distant mountains A car roars by on McCarran leaving behind its echo In the night I spark up a hand rolled smoke The light at Glendale is red And wont turn green Sublime plays on my stereo Track seven of the self titled album (my personal favorite) I take a drag, and the light changes I push down on the gas and my old jalopy starts into the intersection I don始t have to think about the shit job I始m coming from Or that I have to go back to it the next day My mind is somewhere else I want to be at home With her And be stoned.
33
Seamy undersides of bright lights Marlboro reds with jack and coke Playing the machines long after you should have stopped One armed bandits taking paychecks Cars, relationships, houses The lure is too strong for some It ruins them Its like pushing on 21 You can only do so much with the hand your dealt The same can be said about life
33
Katie OʼDea
“I see the world as hopeful and in desperate need of poetry, beauty, & art” Age: 23 Major: graduated Dec. 2003/ was Eng Lit/general studies Hometown: Vegas baby Vegas Why do you write? for love, passion, misery, to connect experiences and people, to understand, and to pull the words ripe out of my head before everything turns to mush What is behind your eyes? Behind my eyes sarcasm lurks with hints of brilliance, constellations of ideas spin about, love is there, the hard lessons to assume nothing and not to judge by appearances burn into tears as reminders, words from great ones linger, and poetry resides How do you see the world? I see the world as hopeful and in desperate need of poetry, beauty, & art
35
A MONDAY NIGHT IN NOVEMBER I consider myself a postmodern Victorianwith a twist or maybe a dash of lime juice like martini olives and portobello mushrooms I am off and on answering no one but endlessly calling and wanting you because you look like someone I would see at an airport– charming–mysterious daring to wear dark sunglasses in the tired evening and a long black wool pea coatcigarette in hand flinging your black boa scarf purposely over shoulder and walking away into my line
35
DYLAN THOMAS ON MY STOOP Pine needles dripped with poison sap Stroking thin piercing blades an ant who changes the word the meaning bringing needles to the ground with feeble body lacking soul where do these blades once green go– To the ash tray of the earthalong with cigarette trashWhere is the beauty in that–
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PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN Your hands are sycamores whose leaves touch the soul. Which soul? The soul where Kerouac drank a bottleʼs port. Your arms are a western light––or a hint of rain. Ah! what sort of man was Nietzsche? —as if that answered anything. Ah, yes—above the arms, since the tone floats that way, it is one of those winter fall days, the flat sand of your feet lingers upon the sky— Which sky?— The light sticks to my breath— Which sky? Ah, leaves maybe. How should I know? Which sky? Which sky? I said leaves from a sycamore.
Imitation of William Carlos Williams Portrait of a Lady
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THE DRIVE HOME Youʼre such a dragA drag the last puff whizzing out the window blowing in my smokeless face Fuck this time and placeNo-Erase this Fucking time I have no place rub it out smother the flame rotting ashes breathing away
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Claire Watkins
“I don’t think I really see the world at all.”
Age: 19 Major: English-Writing Option, Womenʼs Studies minor Hometown: Pahrump, NV Why do you write? I donʼt know, it just sort of happens. I am sure the reason is entirely selfish though. What is behind your eyes? Probably enough mascara build-up to coat the eyelashes of Rhode Island How do you see the world? I donʼt think I really see the world at all. I am a middle class white American college student. I have no idea what the world is like, what goes on in it or how I feel about any of those things. All I see is myself.
39
SOAP She bought soap today. There were other things too: grossly overpriced shampoo, extra absorbent paper towels, and Vitamin C- rich cranberry juice. But the soap was last. It was the heaviest. She felt like she was baking under fluorescent sunshine but her bones were cold. She drew in a deep breath, resembling a 30-year-old man braving the Feminine Hygiene aisle more than a nineteen year old girl browsing the body wash. She forced herself past endless shades of blonde and brunette, past esoteric hair removal systems and turned to face the towering shelves of soap. They loomed over her like a deep-cleansing skyscraper. Another deep breath helped her narrow her choices to those bars designated for combination skin, for no other reason than it made her feel complex, impossible to pigeonhole into the castes of “oily” or “dry”. After ruling out these and those sanitizes over $7, she grabbed a moderately priced 3-pack and exhaled. She paid no attention to the scent; anything was better than what was at home, lurking in her shower. Embarrassed by the pathetically excessive amount of courage required for such a menial task, she huffed to the Express Lane. She effortlessly snatched up a Rolling Stone and peanut M&Mʼs. $17.98, not too bad for quenched thirst, clean counters and the end of a broken heart. Being with him was like falling. As soon as she was brave enough, she fell into him. She could close her eyes and feel his arms wrapping around her 3 and 4 times. They made love early on Saturday mornings in front of a thousand hush boganvilla spectators and an audience of sunrise spilling over them. They melted into each other and it felt like home. And then together they would retreat beneath the cool confines of blue bed sheets. They woke up early to sleep the day away, feet enveloping one another, fingers lost in forests of hair, perhaps never to be seen again. Their life together was overflowing with hurling spaghetti noodles and the desertʼs starry skies. It was bounding into swimming pools fully clothed. They were always under the influence of their own endless, fearless laughter. They made each other stupid-happy and a little lightheaded, but warm. She was not afraid. Something about him overthrew her fear, she let herself be filled with him. There was nothing she could have done. She was falling. It wasnʼt lust or passion or even purely love. It was gravity. 41
But then one day everything became not ok. It wasnʼt ok to let herself fall into him anymore. After that, they broke each otherʼs hearts everyday. For a year. And then they ran away: he to soggy redwood forests, she to smoggy city beaches. His dad had given her a gift hours before she tore across the desert. She knew what was in the white box before she ever opened it. The soap was like a member of the family. It had its own stack of shelves right in the living room, where it subtly joined in conversations, injecting its smell into debates and discussions. His family had made soap longer than she could remember. As a little girl concerned with nothing more than going to jump on the trampoline, she could stand on her tiptoes and just barely see long rolling plains of soap, waiting patiently to be cut into familiar angular cubes. Once cut they were laid on end to display their swirls of purple or chunks of scratchy cinnamon. They reminded a younger, more romantic her, of snowflakes as none of theme were the same. Depending on their scent or maybe their mood, they could be pure calm white with wisps of chocolate color or deep green that seemed to have bits of pine tree trapped right inside them. Some bars were such a rich mud color that they prompted the young child to wonder why one would use it to remove dirt, it seemed more suitable for applying it. Some shelves housed rows of light dusty pink careening into the peaceful cr me, others were home to legions of chunky soaps, medleys of all scent runts, scrapped into one final batch. Her favorite was the vivid purple splashed into the lavender soap, as if someone had mischievously spiked the ingredients with a violet crayon. They hardened and grew into real bars of soap, then they were ready for packaging and labeling. The labels were simple sandstone colored papers spit out by their family computer, cut into strips and wrapped around the bars, secured with Scotch tape. At the bottom was their home phone number. The soap had a sneaky way of making you at home. It made her sleepy and safe enough to close her eyes. It cast a spell over his home that made it impossible to open the door without coming inside, and impossible to come inside without staying a while. The soap had a way of making every room smaller and warmer. That was something you never noticed until you left. Sometimes she thought she could almost see the velvet fumes wafting up from sudsy elbows and shoulders,
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intoxicating her with memories. It smelt like cinnamon and cloves and Saturday mornings. In her suffocating new shower it bombarded her with the way he would smash up his graham crackers and drown them in an unrelenting sea of milk before religiously savoring his honey gruel. The scent penetrated her mind, polluting it with his spider toes, his ocean eyes. The smell filled her lungs with lavender and the chocolate moles peppered across his back. The glass panels of her foggy shower choked her with the scent of despair. She wanted for him so bad that it hurt, physically, deep within her chest, within her bones. The hurt devoured her, buckling her knees, crumpling her into a heap of agony. And so tears streamed down her face, tangling with the suds and water already cascading down her body. They dove off her knees in a suicide plummet between her toes and swirled neatly into the drain. It was dark and suffocating and practical. Steam hung like lead from her lungs, teasing the eager oxygen outside. The loneliness and longing pushed her up against the tile and made it hard to breathe. She was no match for her gigantic misery. It consumed her every single day. So now she is trembling just outside her shower armed only with a flimsy Kleenex. She leans across the scummy threshold and captures her current bar. It is still wet from this morningʼs use and tries subtly to wiggle free from her fingers. But she is desperate and her grasp holds tight. She knows if she looses this battle, she must brave 20 more minutes of futile warring tomorrow morning. She slowly strangles it with the starch tissue, being sure to leave no surface exposed, no means of escape. She then places the innocent tormenter into the impenetrable fortress of a Ziploc bag, as though she were the personal hygiene mortician, sent to be sure her condemned nemesis received a proper burial. She places the suffocating bar back into the white box from which it came and lays it beside itʼs more-than-fragrant brothers. As she tucks the cardboard flaps into their designated and secure position she pauses for a second to pity that Pandora never got this sort of opportunity. She banishes hair dryers, curling irons, cotton swabs and rations of tampons and razors into her only other bathroom cupboard, where they will be cramped but at least they will be safe. What if her other helpful, friendly toiletries were exposed to this epidemic? It was sheer luck that saved the shampoo and conditioner from infection, she will not take that risk with her sun block or deodorant. The 43
remaining cabinet safely quarantined, she places the vicious little box on the shelf and closes the door. She promptly exits the bathroom, only to return, open the door again and exile the box all the way into the farthest, deepest, most desolate corner of itʼs under-sink lair. She ends the ceremony by unwrapping a new scurvy yellow, sterile, safer bar. Now she will finally be clean. Years later or more likely, months, that shower will be vast, empty. She will stoop down to that forbidden cabinet. Sheʼll open the cheaply painted cupboard door and sheʼll scoot the fragrant tomb out of its forgotten corner. She will open the lid and scoop out her half-used bar, release the poor thing from the its Ziploc cage and unravel itʼs tissue sarcophagus. Sheʼll turn the water a little hotter than normal, leave her clothes in a heap on the lineoleum and quickly pull the glass door shut behind her. She might be startled by the slam. Sheʼll let the water scurry down her body in a familiar way, like a lover. And then, one more time those sad, angry suds will make that same old journey, from her shoulders, cliff diving past her knees, landing in toe canyons and submitting finally to the drain. But this time they will not be escorted by tears. She will feel no ache deep within her, and her knees will provide adequate support. She will think of work or her new cycling class, of new shoes, or e-mails. She will consider cutting her hair. There will be no sounds of his laughter, no graham crackers, no swimming in school clothes. She will scour herself without a single thought dedicated to stars or bed sheets or pasta kisses. She will not even notice this accomplishment. She was just out of Dove. She will not feel emptiness consuming her and she will not feel alone or afraid. She will not feel anything.
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Clay Smith
“Luckily the voice of confidence is much louder than whispers of
Age: 22 Major: English Writing Hometown: Elko, NV Why do you write? I submitted two poems this year and I have never really written poetry. I just felt like writing something different one day, exposing a shade of my personality that I have never really payed attention to. I write for myself. Everytime I write something I learn more about my personality, my thought process, and the way I view things. Writing is good for me. What is behind your eyes? The confidence that I will be great in life accompanied by a nagging fear of failure. Luckily the voice of confidence is much louder than whispers of failure. How do you see the world? Sometimes I am very worried about the world. I fear that within 50 years the world will be run by a few select oligopolies. The rich will be drastically richer and the majority of peoples will be too poor to support themselves. I suppose that is more a description of how I see the direction of man. The world itself is gorgeous. There is nothing more holistically beautiful than a body of water. The world is a masterpiece. 47
LUV POEM We are strangers but I have written you this song Sorry to be forward but this feeling canʼt be wrong My life has become a danceÉ in circles with myself Hoping these verses will be of some help This melody to express my veiled desire Brushing the hair from your eyes I gently inquire “Will you kiss me on my cheek before we fall asleep, or smile when I walk into the room?” These things I will do for you, I will be your groom The answer may be noÉ I had to check it I will learn to accept it Having told you I will never regret it But let us not think of the donʼtsÉrather the doʼs The Iʼll be trues The I love yous In the morning, you slip into a beautiful dress In the afternoon, your day has been a mess. I drop everything to listen. In the evening you take off the dress and our skin glistens We will be together when the sun rises and rests Prepare the kids for all of lifeʼs tests A kiss on the lips as my eyes close for the last time Take away this rhythm and take away this rhyme You are still left with the truth I hope this is smooth “Hi my name is Clay, I have something for you.”
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9/11 In New England there lies a beautiful garden Seeds of all cultures have blown into the garden It is their home where the seeds yearn for the freedom to grow For decades two roses stood above the garden Seeds drew strength from the roses One fall morning a cruel little boy saw the garden He felt threatened by the beauty of the roses Without a thought the boy began collecting stones 8:45 a.m. Contact The Roses toppled to the soil Seeds were thrown from the injured petals Dirt roofed the garden from sunlight Emptiness ooded the land The seeds wept The moisture from their tears made the soil rich The seeds began to grow stronger than ever before Eventually the garden became even more vibrant and beautiful than ever The lives of the Roses and its seeds lived through the garden
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Dolores Quihuiz
“To capture a moment or feeling in time.”
Age: 34 (is this necessary? Just kidding) Major: Secondary Education (interest in Social Studies) Hometown: Tracy, California Why do you take pictures? To capture a moment or feeling in time. Later, you can look at the picture and sometimes find that the look in a personʼs eyes speaks much louder than the smile on the same personʼs face. What is behind your eyes? Behind my eyes lies optimism deliriously trying to override tears and skepticism. How do you see the world? I see the world through broken rose-colored glasses.
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INSOMNIA The clouds slid across the sky in a methodical haunting manner slowly encompassing the sky. Cold, leering eyes formed and a silent howl emerged taunting me. Once again, time was having its sadistic way with me. The cool December air brushed across my neck with a freakish kiss, my skin instinctively bristled with dismay. The waxing moon hung in the background, helpless a victim of circumstance charged with guilt by association with such a scandalous night. My devoted companion, my beloved night, has betrayed me for the amusement of Timeʼs scheming debauchery. Fatigue has weakened me, my defiance is inept my veteran ally has exploited my delicate nature tonight, my spirit is vanquished in a whirlwind of despair.
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Dylan Shaver
“I see a world standing at the edge of insanity, desperately pleading for
Age: 22 Major: Political Science Hometown: Reno, NV Why do you write? I think writing is self-indulgent. I write to indulge my fantasy that one day something I say will change the world. If not, at least I can say Iʼve been published. What is Behind your eyes? One time I was trying to put in a contact and I missed my retinas I just of pushed it into my eye and it disappeared. I bet itʼs floating around back there somewhere. How do you see the world? I see a world of good people brought to its knees by greed and squabbling over petty differences. I see a world standing at the edge of insanity, desperately pleading for peace.
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MOVING FORWARD It used to be that graduates from the University of Nevada had to sign their names in the “Book of the Oath,” which asked them to, among other things, “,,,honor the dignity of all persons” Essentially the oath asked students to leave this place and work for a higher purpose. They were to leave here and advance a common cause: making the world a better place. But sadly, long before I was even born, administrators discontinued the practice, the practice was deemed both too archaic and too impractical at a modern university. In its absence, although not because of it, we seem to have lost our way. Instead of leaving the university community with such high-minded ideals, we leave seeking a more conventional end to our means. We look for the bestpaying job, in the nicest cities. We hide behind rational self-interest, to shirk our responsibility to the world around us and to our communities and neighbors. I am not without my share of the blame, but I am tired of wandering aimlessly through a world of strip malls, McDonaldʼs and Viacom. I do not want to see my generation sit idly by, while a world in chaos cries out for our help. There must be more to our lives than paychecks and payouts, and there must be more to our lifeʼs work than earning the means to buy more stuff. In the United States, students are attending college in record numbers, and yet now more than ever there are many millions in need. This spring, graduates will face a critical juncture, one far more important than where to work or what grad school to pick. The decision we face is whether we will pursue advancement for ourselves or pursue advancement for a brighter world. Our degrees will be worthless, absolutely worthless, if we cannot leave here and be good people. If we cannot respond to the worldʼs call for help; if we cannot form amongst ourselves a force for positive change; if we cannot even simply honor the dignity of all persons around us, our time at this university will have meant nothing at all. 53
Cody Tate Salinas
“Most everything behind my eyes are the feelings of wanting to know what’s behind Age: 19 (June 25, 1984) Major: Toss-up between English and Journalism (Still technically Biochemistry) Hometown: Carson City, Nevada Why you take pictures? I got bored one day and decided to do something other than spend the day online. =) I take my pictures when I become inspired by something. Typically when I take photos, Iʼm in a happy mood with something to look foward to. When I was in Germany, for example, I felt like I needed to explore my new surroundings and by doing so, take pictures to explore that newfound ʻsomething.ʼ What is behind your eyes? The same eight-year-old found in everyone, still afraid of girls yet wanting to explore all there is to explore. Most everything behind my eyes are the feelings of wanting to know whatʼs behind othersʼ eyes. How do you see the world? Like nobody else can see it - from the eyes of Cody T. Salinas, eyes in which see people and things for who or what they truly are.
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FOOTPRINTS IN HEAVEN 55
PONDERING PEACE 55
BARENESS 57
CONNECTIONS 57
Molly Mainland “There’s no point in arguing the why of a creation or the plans of her
Age: 22 Major:English Writing Hometown:Goldfield, Nevada What is behind your eyes? Besides the hamster in his cage, infinite impossibility. My eyes simple shield the grace God has given within, they askew everything to perpetuate his light and love for the world. > How do you see the world? With an ounce of sodium and a pound of sugar, i.e., imperfectly perfect in everyway. Why Do you write? Why does one breath? Because they can not live without air. That is what words are to me, Oxygen. I write because I have to. I wake up in the middle of the night and know that if I donʼt churn out my thoughts quickly on paper that I will lay sleepless until I do. Writing is essentially an extension of who I am, without it I cease to exist as who I am. God has given me an ability that defines me and I plan on using it. Thereʼs no point in arguing the why of a creation or the plans of her creator. Writing and existence, for me, are sympatigo.
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UGLY-FAT Maybe Iʼm shallow. Maybe Iʼm shallow because I canʼt get past it. Maybe Iʼm shallow because it keeps me up at night. Maybe Iʼm shallow because I sold my heart to a witch doctor to make me stop crying in the dark. I see him two times a week, back of class just sitting there. He waddles in like an Emperor Penguin. His meaty man breasts sag over the black cloth balloon shaped body. Nappy brown curls, jagged white teeth, Mengele blue eyes, breathy asthmatic voice. Then he plops down in his chair spreading out papers and textbooks. Weʼre all fat in my family. My mom calls it fluffy. My neighbor Bob, too. Iʼve got more rolls then a bakery. Soft, white, and malleable. Thereʼs something about the way he laughs. Kind of like a donkey choked on cotton candy. Iʼm trying to like him, trying to be a good person, but he makes my skin crawl. A constant reminder of monsters in my closet when Iʼm five and no one can hear. They told me they loved me. I was their baby sweet plum pudding apple pie sugar dandy honey kisses gum drop. Now Iʼm acrid because I wonʼt see a shrink to fix my head. I feel ashamed when I look in his direction because he frightens me. I see all my societal shortcomings spilling out from his pours like butter and I lap them up like candy. 59
Maybe Iʼm shallow. Maybe Iʼm shallow because I think Iʼm better. Maybe Iʼm shallow because Iʼm trying to be something Iʼm not. Maybe Iʼm shallow because I canʼt escape the hole in my chest I thought I could fill with empty kindness.
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GRACE KINDʼS DECENT Morning I can taste her Sunshine laughter Singing Tom Dooley and Captain Kid. Holding me close, with Lenient ʻI love youʼʼs On her lips. Her skin is Flavored, sweet Jasmine With Seals & Croft records Playing in the background. Eyes always crinkled upward In filled contentment. Afternoon But now the sugar-paste Lip-gloss tastes acrid And salty. Tubes Fill the arms Of whispered nothings. And empty lines the Merry crinkles. Her summer breeze curls Fall away in crackled ringlets. As the elevator rhapsody Hums the living tempo When I was the child And she my mother And we together in benign existence. Evening I hold her close Lifting my fingers Through her bristled Crown of thorns. Touching once crimsoned skin Now pallid hue 61
And drink the pungent Odor of her saline perfume. Still I hunger For her mouth on Mine. Reminding me, Tempting me, letting Me ďŹ ll her With the lost Sunshine laughter of our Stolen youth.
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THE HUMAN CHAIR He dyed his black. He dyed his hair black to impress me, to impress you. To impress anyone listening for his cracking knuckles, clanking boots. I rub the blue plastic chair he sits in before he walks into class. Itʼs cold and chilly and frozen a statuesque iceberg beneath my roaming prints. It would shatter like shards of sugar candy, spread across the dirty linoleum in a million piece puzzle, if I kicked it, but where, I wonder, would he sit? Perhaps wrapped in the pillowed flesh of my open arms. Lost in the cushion and bouncing of my breasts. My legs contorting into jagged hinges and rigid steel to fit his slightly muscular frame. He would never long for the blue plastic prison again. But I hear his cracking knuckles, clanking boots. I see my disillusioned figure Distorted into a furniture marionette and move away from his icy haven. Iʼll stick to rubbing synthetic. The real thing much more than I can handle.
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THE LIGHTHOUSE Standing in the darkness that we call living Confusedly walking in this shadow brigade Fighting the torrid winds of fortuneʼs giving Walking the time-lost pathways paved. We search for that hidden aperture revelation Longingly look for the celestially spoken reprieve Stepping along the sea-shores and oceans wild contemplations Waiting for a knowledge weʼd not likely to receive. Ah, but alas there is a lighthouse on yonder hill A shinning beacon of heavenly skyward illumination A questioning voice raised from languid oceans still Speaking in tongues beyond mere trivial lifely infatuations It holds the secrets of ages to come With simplistic omnipotent finality Rising like a four-cornered wooden rung A symbol of an innocent carpenterʼs reality We as mortals have not faintly forward trod Upon the glory that stands transformed at hand We do not see the shining face of God In the flashing of this mechanical man. But alas we search on with feverish step Seeking what bows before us in complacent grace We do not see the taste of heaven in the oceans depth Carried by the light of Christʼs face.
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THE TWO-LINER “Look at me,” he said. It was zero degrees outside Little white puffs of fury spouted from my mouth like an overworked steam engine. I looked at him through the fire flushed in my face; thatʼs when I felt his right hand bones collide with my left cheek bone. There was no Hollywood fight scene just slow motion as I fell off my champagne legs and slumped against the pubʼs fa ade in the dirty snow crying cheap alcohol and self-pity. “I did you a favor. Those guys would have fucked you up a hundred times worse. Go home—donʼt take a taxi. Walk, breathe, rest. Remember, Iʼm a friend.”
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Erin Granat
“I constantly have characters and plots running around in my mind, and by writing them down I give them all a
Age: 19 Major: Journalism Hometown: Gardnerville, NV Why do you write? I need to write to feel human, to feel like me. It is the only way I can truly express myself and all the random ideas in my head. I constantly have characters and plots running around in my mind, and by writing them down I give them all a chance to be heard. What is behind your eyes? My retinas. How do you see the world? As one giant opportunity. I think we all have the chance to let life happen to us, or to go out and make life happen for us. Our time here is so short, I want to do everything, see everything. We underestimate the power and control we can have in life, the power to self-destruct and the power to do incredible good. How you use that power is your choice, independent of everyone and everything. And world peace.
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HE SAID NEW ZEALAND SMELLED LIKE KIWIS I was bored that summer. Sick of idling and swimming and tanning and flirting. I wanted more, to travel to California and see the Hollywood sign, to go to New York and stand in Times Square. But I was stuck in suburbia just outside of Detroit, at the time of the year when the fish flies invade and settle like a black, squishy blanket on the town. His name was Frank Fontana and his eyes crinkled when he smiled. He had curly hair the color of maple syrup. He too wanted to be somewhere else so everyday he picked me up at noon in his shackled up GTO to drive outside of town to the chain-link fence where the planes passed overhead. I thought the airport was original and terribly romantic, but really it smelled like burnt fuel. We sat on the hot hood and talked, the sound of the roaring plane engines overhead punctuating our sentences. Planes that took some people some place, places we had never been and would probably never go. We talked about how much we hated our parents, although we really didnʼt. We talked about Plato, the Beatles, and smoked cigarettes. Lots of cigarettes. Cigarettes that became an extension of our bodies like an arm or beckoning finger. We loved to watch the smoke curl into the sky. He was 23 that summer and I was 19, though I told him I was 21. I loved that he was older, I loved that he had a tattoo on his right shoulder of a dragon spitting fire, I loved that I had to lie to my parents and say I was going to lifeguard at the pool when he met me at corner to drive around our gray little town. Most of all I loved the possibility that he might know things I didnʼt. That he might teach me something about the world I desperately wanted to be a part of, the world I saw only through my hazy television every night as Grandma did needlepoint on the divan and my little brother played Evil Kaneval on the orange carpet. It was a world where women were elegant and didnʼt neck on the first date and had long, smooth hair and sparkling gowns. It kept me occupied during the hot days to dream about that world and swear it existed, although I knew it really didnʼt. Frank also lived at home. The farthest heʼd ever been was Des Moines once to see a Zeppelin concert, but he had a great imagination. Every day he would describe to me how the afternoon in New Zealand smells like kiwis and how it feels to hold a ticket to the Louvre in your hand. When he wasnʼt with me he sat on the couch with his step-dad, a greasy man 67
everyone in town said spent five years in jail for almost beating a man to death. They were real good at drinking their beers slow enough so as to avoid conversation. Frank really wanted to be an auto mechanic someday, and wear those blue coveralls that spelled out his name in cursive. We talked about getting out of our town, about going to Arizona, a postcard of which I found on the sidewalk one day on my way to the dime store. The picture was of a desert sunset, and the sky was all pinks and purples. The desert had only one lone cactus in it, and ARIZONA written across the sand in black. I thought Arizona might have lots of cactuses, but I guess it only had that one. We talked about everything waiting for us in that place, a place where people didnʼt work in either a factory or a restaurant and where people got married because they were in love, not because they were pregnant. Frank would hold my hand as we talked and give me his grin that was more like a sneer with his chipped front tooth. He said he was wild about my red hair and called my gray eyes smoldering. He said he liked the way I only smiled at things that were pretty or cruel. We talked about a lot of things, but mainly we just smoked cigarettes. We loved to smoke cigarettes. We loved to watch the smoke curl into the sky.
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Brian Muck
“I wish that everyone I saw was covered in pink latex suits, white, knee-high wrestling boots, and
Age: 24 Major: Art Hometown: Wasilla, Alaska Why do you write? Because if I didnʼt Iʼd work in a convenience store (that might still happen anyway.) What is behind your eyes? A lounge bar with midget waitresses and drag queen singer who looks better than the original Marilyn Monroe— the guy on the piano is a short, sharp nosed man with a rat whisker moustache who smokes Davidoff cigarettes and drinks Cosmos from the shaker. How do you see the world? Actually, probably like everyone else, but I wish that everyone I saw was covered in pink latex suits, white, knee-high wrestling boots, and silver helmets. I think that because weʼd all look so ridiculous we wouldnʼt have the tendency to want to shoot each other— or maybe we would just to put each other out of our fashion misery.
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FRAGILITY LEANED THROUGH A SUCKER PUNCH “Look at me,” he said. It was zero degrees outside Little white puffs of fury spouted from my mouth like an overworked steam engine. I looked at him through the fire flushed in my face; thatʼs when I felt his right hand bones collide with my left cheek bone. There was no Hollywood fight scene just slow motion as I fell off my champagne legs and slumped against the pubʼs fa ade in the dirty snow crying cheap alcohol and self-pity. “I did you a favor. Those guys would have fucked you up a hundred times worse. Go home—donʼt take a taxi. Walk, breathe, rest. Remember, Iʼm a friend.”
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SOMETHING HERBAL, SOMETHING LIGHT Woman who once loved me, who I tried to stop loving came to my room while the morningʼs still dark to get me up. The gentle patting of her foot on brick floor was enough to wake me; I never slept well in that adobe house while days of a nostalgic Prague colored my dreams and filled my heart with a hope that sheʼd sit bedside, caress my hair, and whisper “I still love you.” But she stood by the doorway silhouetted in the hall light and whispered, “Simon, itʼs time to get up.” Before we left for Albuquerque, she asked if Iʼd like coffee or tea. “Tea,” I said, “something herbal, something light.” She said my choices are in the cabinet above the can opener. At one time, sheʼd have read those choices and steeped the bag of tea; Iʼd have done the same for her, but we werenʼt in Prague or in love. We slept in separate beds and steeped the tea ourselves.
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TEACHING JANA ENGLISH There are twenty minutes left to teach, and the minute hand and the second hand leisurely stroll around the clockʼs circumference. I should be teaching right now, but I am looking at Jana again, the sixteen year old Czech with gray eyes and dyed red hair. Her tiny body with smooth cream for skin, has captured my lecherous eyes. Itʼs her sunflower yellow dress, I swear, that makes me stare so much, and the way she wears that boyish white T-shirt beneath that dress. I should stop reading Lolita. Everyone knows that I am staring at her, but I promise itʼs necessary to do so. Ana is gone, and I need to occupy her vacancy with something. I listen to Jana sketch in words fields of tall grass where she is talking, with eyes lightly closed to block out the sun, to a young man lying next to her. Through the blades of grass she whispers in my ears her dream of being in the field forever with nothing to do but look at the clouds and— My students stare outside at the sky silently waiting for me to teach. I reel off my lesson like a well-rusted machine feeling the sweat collect on my forehead, and cotton balls crowd under my tongue. A rum and coke, a beer, a joint, I need something to relax. Ah, Jana— the curves of a young woman from chest to calves are slowly sculpting through your—
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I have to stop staring; Iʼm sweating too much Five more minutes left, the students dig for words to say they donʼt want to talk anymore, but at least Jana is still talkingÉ to me. Teacher teacher, what are you staring at?
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WELCOME TO RENO After fifteen hours in an overnight Greyhound from Portland to Reno we arrive at the curb in front of the Sands. A woman, about sixty, with short gray hair, a yellow fleece vest, and pink sweatpants exits the bus for a smoke. She clenches the cigarette between her lips as she brings the book of matches to the anticipating tip. Before she strikes a match, her loose, vaginal eyelids stretch open, her bloodshot eyes dart from one end of the sidewalk to the next, and she steps against the wall in front of my window and crouches between two dry bushes no taller than her knees She pulls her pink sweatpants past her labia and releases a spray of piss against the dirty white walls of the casino. While a loose trickle leaks, she jerks up her sweatpants, leaving dark stains trailing down her legs. She stands on the sidewalk strikes a match, calmly lights her cigarette, and poses like a model for a postcard reading: “Welcome to Reno.”
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Carly Johnson
“I like to look at the world while walking
Age: 25 Major: English Hometown: Reno Why do you write? I write because it pushes me to be more aware of the world. What is behind your eyes? A mind that is saddened yet hopeful about the environmental and societal states of our global community. How do you see the world? I like to look at the world while walking slowly.
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MAMA PERUANA Her breasts droop over her rounded tummy. She reaches for her shawl, scratchy raw wool, held together by her own knitting. Her hair, matted with dust and sweat, falls below her waist and tangles with her skirtʼs tattered edges, re-sewn hems, sunlight sapped colors. She makes a cradle of skirt between her folded knees. Callused toes of the nestling child curl in open air. She sways between offering her breast and stirring soup. Fire snaps, shadows scurry across the mud ceiling, her sunburned eyes, illuminated, stare through spreading cracks in thick walls, past moonbathed corn terraces, into darkness. The child squirms from dreams. Mama massages the earth with her feet and fills her chest with all the air in the room, to ensure silence, to plea for a moment void of movement.
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PANAMA CITY SALE They lock the plaza at ten oʼclock. Young soldiers in pressed blue pants and polished shoes link cumbersome chains around iron twisted into blades, that slice up toward the moon. The rusty locks are clinked shut by military men who talk in hushed voices about feeling up Josafina and Maria de la Luz. The soldados used to make the rounds, their hands fisted, thumbs lined up on the pleats of their pants, theyʼd clear the moldy cement benches of passed-out drunks and strung-out whores. Now the stragglers are left locked in, caged for the night like exhibits at the zoo, animals frozen and exposed in the headlights and horns of Panamaʼs working class who rush past the plaza on their way home to kiss their wives, pat their childrenʼs warm heads, and sit down to a dinner of fried meat and fluffy rice. The ones who missed the warning whistle pace behind the bars like inmates out for a night on the town. They run their empty hands and stares through the slots between the iron until morning. That was when I saw her pressing herself against the bars, wearing a pink summer dress, the front buttons undone. From her thin ribbed, sun scorched chest her breasts swayed like last seasonʼs fruit rotting on the tree. She showed them like badges and marketed them through the bars, over-handled merchandise on sale.
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ANTICIPATION A persimmon has stewed sunlight into sweetness and waits, like a polished play-dough ball of autumn, to be picked, waits to stain our lips with sticky saffron juice. It has traveled from seed, to tree, to ower, to fruit, to hang like an amber gem, swooping like a daring dress-line, a gigantic drop of pumpkin spiced dew birthed from twisted branches.
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EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE Shhh, woman, look at me woman, todo seria bien. Of all the impromptu English lessons, that line makes its way over his Spanish tongue to take me away from the metal waiting-room chair, from cylindrical florescent flickering, from the smell of saline and fresh plastic, away from my cold, clammy body. Look at me woman. My swollen eyes look, and he stares back with brown that encompass dirt, distant peaks, and the moment after sunset when the sky is almost black. Todo seria bien. He says it slow as if in a dream. The pounding of my thoughts calm to his rhythm. He cups his hands around mine, giving me his warmth, taking my chill, we straighten our fingers to pray our hands together. I pray the doctor gives this illness a name and a quick death. He prays tiny angels come to collect my sickness, cottony fingers swabbing every crevice, then theyʼll flutter off, jars of ailment with tight fitting lids tucked under their wings.
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Todd Jewett
“If you don’t take your chances when they are presented, then life can be an ordinary Age: 23 Major: Anthropology Hometown: Carson City, Nevada Why do you do art? I take pictures because I enjoy being artistic, but donʼt have the skills to draw or write. What is behind your eyes? Behind my eyes are my past experiences. They shape the how I live and enjoy life. How do you see the world? I think that the world is full of opportunity to learn and enjoy. If you donʼt take your chances when they are presented, then life can be an ordinary experience.
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Cassandra Wedlake
“Writing poetry is how I deal with the good, the bad, and the surreal.” Age: 21 Major: English writing Hometown: Reno, Nevada Why do you write? To write poetry is to challenge the art of mastering the human language and the expression of emotions. I like striving towards that and love the creativity that it entails; there is something so effective about words on a page. Writing poetry is how I deal with the good, the bad, and the surreal. It is how I deal with life. My intent is that my catharsis is universal so that it creates a place where people can find themselves. What is behind your eyes? How do I see the world? We each have to find the thing(s) in life that will open our eyes because we are blinded by everything and nothing at all. Opening our minds to new perspectives is freedom of the soul.
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BREATHING STARS Our fingers interwoven, you and I, smiling, send praises outward— our words, thoughts, lips— everything one, perfectly synchronized. “Forget this! All the details and minor mishaps,” you say. We are unified, you and I. Forever wishing forward— in this world of streamline. Beyond the earth, we watch stars dart across the midnight sky, and forget to breathe.
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DESIRE “Desire is full of endless distances” (Robert Hass: Meditation at Lagunitas) You were a distance That I could taste and see and feel You were in front of me— at a distance tempting me awakening senses within Smiling, knowing the clarity of our desires Smiling, knowing the distances separating desire from reality You were a distance That I could taste A thought, a wonder forever out of reach, yet close enough to touch You lost distance Breathing in front of me tearing into my eyes hurting because their desire meandered, strayed out of my heart lost forever to a far off place unknown You are at a distance now because of a choice Because with you, Desire was always beyond a distance
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PILLOW TALK He used to be so much like me I believe, deep down, that he still is— both passionate and sensual— I just have conveniently become the subject of his experiment He knows the one— Where, for the first time, he decides not to become “emotionally attached.” Does his experiment prove correct? (Applause, please!) I am his bright-eyed fool So this morning I try in vein to wash it all away, as water beats down on me, almost reprimanding my foolishness; A reminder of how he used to be, how I completely missed that.
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Nick Bennett
“I write because I have stories in my
Age:24 Major: Journalism Hometown: Las Vegas, NV Why do you write? I write because I have stories in my head. What is behind your eyes? My brain, wherein lies the stories. How do you see the world? Cynically but with some highlights of optimism.
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WHAT HAPPENS AFTER “Are we gonna play the game tonight?” Ian asked as he took his regular seat on the outskirts of the cafeteria. Max didnʼt respond. He was staring nowhere in particular. Only one thing was on his mind. “No, we play Baulderʼs Gate every weekend,” Max said. “Letʼs go to that party. So many people are gonna be there. Itʼll be fun, trust me.” “Do you remember the last time we went to a party? “Yeah, itʼll be different this time, I swear.” “We stood against the wall all night making cynical remarks until it got boring. We went there for one reason and you never did anything about it. This party is going to be at Sloan Montgomeryʼs house. Sheʼs the most popular girl in school. Thereʼs no way we can go.” “Weʼre going,” Max said. Ian unwrapped his burrito while thinking of ways to get out of going to the party. Ever since freshman year, Max had this mission, and yet he could never fulfill it. Taking a drink from his Yoohoo, the only thing that came to his mind was John Johnsonʼs Johnson. “Hey, Triple Jʼs playing over at Bommaritoʼs Bar tonight. We can get free passes from my brother.” “Weʼve seen them a million times. We never go out. Weʼre going to that party Ian. Iʼll go by myself if I have to.” “There is only one reason you want to go to that stupid fucking party anyway. We all know youʼre just gonna be a pussy.” “I heard their going to play “Geriatric Orgy” tonight,” Ian said. “Thatʼs your favorite song. My brother can probably get us backstage this time. Cʼmon, letʼs just go to that.” “I donʼt want to see them again. I want to see her.” “You know whatʼs going to happen. Weʼre just gonna stand around and itʼs gonna suck ass, you wonʼt do anything and then when we get home, youʼll whine about how close you came to talking to her.” “Sheʼs the most popular girl in school,” Ian said as he took the last bite of his burrito. “My brother can get us backstage, and we can hang out with the band. Thatʼll be way more fun then Sloanʼs party.” “I told you, I want to go to that party.” “Youʼll never talk to her,” Ian said. 91
“This timeʼll be different.” “Whatever, youʼll never talk to her.” # “Did you see what Ashley Jordan was wearing?” Lauren asked as she flicked her cigarette underneath a Jeep Cherokee. “Oh my God, she looked horrible. I mean sheʼs my friend and everything but that belt did not even match her pants.” “She looked so slutty,” Lauren said. “God I hate school. I canʼt wait until we graduate.” Lauren slid into the booth across from Lindsey and Sloan. “Can you clean off this table?” Lindsey said to the middle-aged waitress. “Itʼs disgusting.” “What would you gals like to drink?” she asked after cleaning the grease and oil from the Formica tabletop. “Three diet cokes,” Lauren said as she pulled her Compact out of her purse and diligently fixed her bangs. “I canʼt believe your parents are out of town, Sloan,” Lindsey said “I know. I canʼt wait till tonight,” Sloan said. “How many people do you think will be there?” Lindsey asked. “I heard that some college guys are coming.” “Me too,” Lauren said. “Nicole Reinhartʼs older brother is coming with some of his friends. He graduated two years before us. God, heʼs so hot. I wanna hook-up with him tonight.” “I want it to be big, but I donʼt want it out of control,” Sloan said as she ripped the wrapper off the straw and stuck it into the drink the waitress had brought over. “I wonder if itʼll be bigger than your last party?” “I hope so,” Lindsey said. “The more boys, the better. I just hope no fights break out. Guys can be so gay. Why do they have to fight?” “I donʼt know,” Sloan said. “At least Ryen and Daniel will be there. They always make sure my parties are fun.” “Yeah, your brothers are pretty cool, Sloan,” Lauren said. “When are you gonna hook me up with one of them?” “God Lauren would you shut up about her brothers?” Lindsey said. “I already said I get them first.” “Whatever, what time is everyone coming over?” “I think around nine, but you guys are coming over after school, right?” Sloan asked. 91
In chorus, they both said ʻyes.ʼ They ate in silence, stopping only to talk about the boys who walked into the pizzeria. All the girls had a date to the prom, except for Sloan. “I am just hoping that Scott Scoble comes tonight,” Sloan said as her eyes glazed over slightly. “I heard he might ask me tonight at my party.” “I hope so, Sloan,” Lauren said. “Itʼs only two weeks until prom. How come no one has asked you yet? You were the Homecoming Queen.” “I donʼt know, I donʼt know,” Sloan said. Slowly, as each of her friends had been asked to prom, Sloan had realized that maybe she was never going to be asked. “Scott Scoble is way cute. I hope he asks you to prom, cause you could go in our group.” “I know. I hope he comes tonight.” # Max drove home after school and didnʼt listen to the radio. He had to concentrate on his mission and the music was interfering with his thoughts. “Hi, Sloan, my name is Max Stiller. We have English 4 together with Mrs. Crawford.” He hated the sound of his own voice and imagined what a loser he looked like as he tried out different things to say. The nervousness swelled inside of him just at the act of practicing questions to ask her. His heart beat fast and tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead just below his hairline. He removed his sunglasses and wiped his brow. Four words repeated in his head: I gotta do it, I gotta do it. He continued practicing his lines until he realized that he had driven past the turn for his neighborhood. At least he had convinced Ian to go to the party with him. They had made a deal. If Ian goes to the party with him, he would give him a pair of his 19-year-old sisterʼs panties. Ian didnʼt have a date for prom, and Max knew they werenʼt even going to ask anyone. Their fear above all was rejection, and Max was afraid to even think about being rejected. With Sloan, he felt something different. He had never been to a dance, and prom was his last chance. “Hi mom,” Max said as he walked through the garage door. “Maxwell, honey, would do me a favor and take out these bottles to recycling?” Mrs. Stiller said as her tennis bracelet sparkled from the mid-afternoon sun coming through the 93
kitchen window. Max nodded. “Did you talk to any girls today?” she said as she did every day, trying to coax her son into telling her anything about his day. “No mom, but we are going to a party tonight.” “Whoʼs we and where is it?” “Ian and I are going to Sloan Montgomeryʼs house.” “I know I donʼt have to tell you this but no drinking and be home by midnight ok honey?” “Yeah, I know, mom.” Max walked into his bedroom, shut the door and collapsed on the bed staring up at the poster of Gillian Anderson. The nervousness crept back into his body as he thought of what to wear at the party. I gotta look cool he thought as he got up and opened his closet. He had no idea what to pick. Usually he just wore jeans and a t-shirt, but he wanted to impress Sloan. After trying on three different polos and a sweater, he was ready. He lay out his clothes on his bed and sat at his computer. He went online and started downloading music. The nervousness never left his body as he stared at the screen and searched for songs. I gotta do it, I gotta do it, I gotta do it continued over and over in his mind. # “Sloan, you definitely have to wear this top with those pants,” Lindsey said as she came out of Sloanʼs walk-in closet. “Every guy is going to want to ask you to prom if you wear that,” Lauren said as she sipped on her lemonade. “If I wasnʼt already going with Jonathan, Iʼd want Scott to ask me. He is so cute. Plus he plays water polo, so you know heʼs got a good body. “I know. I just hope he likes me. I think I look fat in these pants. Do you guys think I look fat in them?” Sloan asked after trying on the outfit that Lauren had picked out. “God no, you look hot. Sloan, you arenʼt fat. Jessica Buckingham is a fatty. What are you talking about anyway? You are the skinniest girl Iʼve ever seen,” Lauren said. Sloan went and changed out of her outfit and put back on her jeans and tank top. She never really got nervous about having a party since her older twin brothers would be there. The only thing that had been on her mind for the past 2 months was prom. She had been nominated for prom queen and after winning homecoming queen last year, was the sure 93
favorite. But she could never go without a date. Scott seemed to be her last hope. All the other boys had asked someone else. Being most popular sometimes kept the best guys away, because they were too afraid of her. Sometimes she wished she wasnʼt so well-liked. “I know itʼs trivial, but prom is the most important thing to me. I canʼt believe I donʼt have a date yet.” “Donʼt worry about it, youʼll get a date.” “Sloan, whatʼs trivial mean?” Lindsey said. Sloan just turned and walked out of her room and into the hallway. Sometimes she didnʼt understand her friends at all. They were nice girls but sometimes they could be shallow and superficial. Sometimes she was like that, but to her, it seemed she was different. # “Where the hell is he?” Max asked as he opened up Baulderʼs Gate on the computer and selected his saved game. “I wished heʼd hurry,” Max said. “What the hell are you wearing?” Ian said as walked into Maxʼs room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I want to look good for Sloan,” Max said. “Iʼve gotta look good if Iʼm going to impress her. At least I hope so.” The anxiety that Max had felt earlier had swelled into a lump in his stomach, and all the signs of nervousness were upon him. The urge to take a shit crept over him and as he closed the bathroom door, he heard his mother close her bedroom door. Instead of reading, Max concentrated on the mental script he had in his mind of the conversation he would have with Sloan. The moment he asked her, he would feel the tugs of his heart along with the clenching of his stomach as his anus held in what was bottled inside of him. He had never done anything like this before and he felt as if he had to prove something not only to himself but also to his mom and his friends. As he flushed the toilet, he imagined he was getting rid of not only the nervousness but also his former shy inhibited self. “Light a match, Jesus that stinks,” Ian said as Max shut the door to the bathroom and uneasily made sure his outfit still looked good. “All right man, when are we going to this thing anyway?” Ian asked. “Are you really going to talk to her?” “Yes, I have to, this is my only chance.” “What is it about this broad anyway?” 95
“I know beneath that exterior, there is something that is better than good.” “Letʼs go to this party,” Ian said. “We shouldnʼt get there early anyway. Weʼll look like nerds.” “What time is it supposed to start anyway?” Jason said. “I think around 9 so we should get there around 10 or 10:30,” Max said. “Do you want to drive?” “Yeah, Iʼll drive,” Ian said as he walked out of Maxʼs room. “Iʼve got my momʼs Taurus.” # “Guess what, Sloan? I heard that Scott is coming and that he wants to ask you to the dance. Heʼs going to do it tonight.” “I hope so. Heʼs way cute. Plus it would be fun to go in the same group.” “Your parties are so fun, Sloan. I wish my parents went out of town so I could have parties.” “Yeah, I guess Iʼm lucky,” Sloan said as she twisted open the Fuzzy Navel Boones she got from the refridgerator. She wondered what Scott was like because aside from his good looks, she knew nothing about him. “People are going to get here soon right?” Lindsey asked as she fixed her ponytail in the mirror. “Yeah itʼs after 9 Sloan, people should be here soon.” Lauren said. “I wonder whoʼs coming?” Sloan asked. # The music was loud and there were a lot of people. Most of them Max didnʼt know. There was only one person who he wanted to talk to anyway. When other people came up and started talking to him and Ian, he didnʼt pay attention to what they were saying. I gotta do it was pulsing through his mind in addition to the script he had concerning the conversation he was to have with Sloan Montgomery. He had seen her and he froze in his steps. She was wearing a black top with a red rose. Her pants stretched tightly across her ass. He got a boner. “Holy shit,” Ian said. “Did you see what Sloan is wearing? Good luck even walking up to her, Max.” “I am going to talk to her tonight.” “Weʼll see it when it happens.” # 95
“Have you seen Scott yet?” Sloan asked as she walked through the living room, past two boys. “No, I heard he is coming later, around 11 or something like that,” Lauren said as she pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “His friend Jordan was going to call me when they were on their way.” “There arenʼt many cute boys here tonight, Sloan,” Lindsey said. “I wonder when the college guys are coming. They are coming, right?” The only thing on Sloanʼs mind was Scott. She hoped he would come soon, because the fact that she was still dateless emptied her. She twisted her beaded bracelet round and round her wrist. “Donʼt worry Sloan, Scott will come and he will ask you,” Lauren said. “Youʼre being all nervous for nothing.” “I know but I canʼt help it. You all have dates while Iʼm just waiting.” # “Dude, there she is,” Ian said as he saw Sloan and her friends standing in the kitchen talking to each other. “I canʼt walk up to her when all her friends are there. Iʼll wait until she is alone.” “Youʼre just gonna chicken-out anyway.” The stone that Max felt before was nothing compared to what he felt when he looked towards the kitchen and saw Sloan. It had grown to a boulder and he felt like he was going to throw up. Why canʼt those bitches leave her alone for two seconds, he thought as he went over for the millionth time what he would say to her when he talked to her. # “Sloan, I just talked to Jordan and he said Scott and him are driving over,” Lauren said as she walked in from the backyard. “Theyʼre coming? Oh my God, what am I gonna say to Scott when he gets here? Should I act cool like I donʼt know he wants to ask me or should I be bitchy to him? What should I do?” “Just act natural and heʼll ask you,” Lindsey said. “I have to pee, letʼs go to the bathroom.” “Iʼll wait here just in case Scott comes,” Sloan said. She stood in the kitchen and looked in the window over the sink, fixing her hair. She was ready to be asked. # 97
Max saw the other girls walk past him and he was looking for Sloan, but she didnʼt come out of the kitchen. He walked to the doorway just to see if she might have gone out the door to the backyard. The mental conversation was going a mile a minute as he walked into the kitchen expecting it to be empty. # “Oh, um hi.” “Hi.” Silence. “My name is Max.” “Hi, Iʼm Sloan.” “I know. We have English together.” “Oh yeah. You sit near Bryan right?” “No, I sit in the back.” “Oh sorry.” “I like your party.” “Thanks.” “Can I ask you something?” “Yes.” Explosions, heartburn, diarrhea, puke, pulsing, throbbing, heat, hurting, ache, torn, fear. “Would you go to prom with me?” “Thatʼs really sweet, but I am kind of waiting for someone to ask me tonight.” As he ran out of the house, he thought that he was the one she was waiting for. As she stood in the kitchen, she wondered when she would get asked to prom.
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Kristen Haberthur
“The world holds an enormous amount of opportunity for everyone.”
Age:19 Major:biochemistry Hometown: Coupeville, WA Why do you write? Writing is the natural way for me to deal with things that Iʼd rather not discuss with others, as well as helping me organize my feelings and thoughts What is behind your eyes? The potential and confidence to be joyful with whatever I decide to spend my time doing. How do you see the world? The world holds an enormous amount of opportunity for everyone; all one has to do is either recognize the opportunities handed to them, or make their own.
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I am a vast berth of hopes and dreams And no one can hold me down!... Except for... Me... Myself... And you...
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I gave you everything I let you come into my world, Without a visa, And site-see to your heartʼs Content But itʼs no longer your heart that Is of any consequence You broke mine You hurt me The one person who was never supposed to I ʻve done everything to meagerly Attempt to live up to You... I donʼt lie I donʼt cheat I donʼt play games I donʼt know The rules to And I never break promises Can we ever go back to the way things were? Maybe Itʼs difficult to begin again with An empty cavity of a man Who doesnʼt respond to emotion, Or to the person who loved him most You were my hero Now, Now Iʼm not so sure Give me some time to think...
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This society is going through An Identity crisis Who are we? What are we here for? What is our purpose? What is the meaning of life... Life in general? Life in general? Life is general?? What the hell Does that Mean? However many times weʼve been told that no question is stupid, these are not the questions that need to be asked. Since when did any one person have such a strong influence on anotherʼs life that it was no longer theirʼs, but someone elseʼs? Since when did the answer to one question become the answer for so many others? Sanity of the individual has been lost and replaced by the insanity of the masses. When will it stop? Please... Do not conform to anotherʼs Idea of what you are, or rebel Only for rebellionʼs sake Just find yourself Know yourself Scream for all to hear “This is who I am. This is who I always have been.” And then, no matter what Happens, you will truly Be free. No one can take that away. No mass can take that away. They are not you. You are untouchable. You are an individual.
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MelBerg (Melanie Dawn Berg)
“To flaunt my buff drawing wrist of justice.”
Age: 22 Major: Biology Hometown: Sparks, NV Why do you do art? To flaunt my buff drawing wrist of justice What is behind your eyes? The secrets that I keep How do you see the world? Through candy colored glasses
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TANGENT 1 105
TANGENT 2 107
TANGENT 3 107
TANGENT 4
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Christine Mary Spinetta
“There is a lot of prejudice and hatred in the world, and the only way to overcome it is to truly look through someone
Age: 19 Major: Psychology Hometown: Reno, NV Why do you want? It is calming and fun all at the same time. Writing gives me a chance to explore the world in new; and while Iʼm looking around the world that Iʼve created I often see new things about myself. What is behind your eyes? There is a lot of mystery behind my eyes. Each of us has wonderful qualities that no one else knows about, and that we often donʼt even know about ourselves. Also, I try to put a mirror behind my eyes; allowing myself to see into others—and allowing them to see into their own mystery. How do you see the world? As a youth leader (and as a caring human being), I try to see the world through other peopleʼs eyes. There is a lot of prejudice and hatred in the world, and the only way to overcome it is to truly look through someone elseʼs eyes. In writing my story, I tried to see what is going on in the characterʼs minds and have a much more well-rounded view of the story as a whole.
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THE SPECIALIST PEN EVER Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries with all of her might to stop the tears. At seven years old, this isnʼt an easy task. “Be a big girl. Youʼre Daddyʼs girl, and Daddyʼs girls donʼt cry.” The words echo in her head as she holds her breath. Her mom is talking to her she knows she should be listening. She concentrates on her momʼs lips, trying to hear the words. “Heʼs gone, honey.” “No!” a sob chokes out of her mouth as she closes her ears to those words – those horrible, hateful words. “He would never leave. He loves me.” She stares at her mother accusingly. As her mom reaches for her, arms extending for a lifeline, her daughter pulls away. Hugging her arms to her chest, feeling every muscle in her body tighten, the little girl wants nothing more than to be held. As she raises her small eyes to meet her motherʼs, the fear and desperation clutches her heart tighter. The tears in her motherʼs eyes say so much more than that moving mouth. The little girlʼs body shakes with sobs as she throws herself towards her mother. Gasping for breath between the tears, a quiet voice pushes through the small lips, “Why, Mommy? Why?” “Oh babyÉI donʼt know. Your daddy loves you, but last night he left. He took his things. Iʼm so sorry.” The little girl presses her face into her motherʼs chest, refusing to see the tears she can hear in her motherʼs voice. Suddenly a thought comes into her head. She holds back a sob as she tears from her motherʼs arms. She runs to her parentʼs bedroom, ripping open her Daddyʼs ʻspecial drawerʼ. Taking no notice of the missing wallet, keys, papersÉshe shoves away the few things occupying the once full drawer and feels the tears stop. She happily grabs the blue pen – the blue click pen with the special rubber grip. She turns around and holds up the expensive pen. Seeing her mother standing in the doorway, looking so broken and afraid, the girl feels joy. “Look Mommy – Daddy didnʼt leave! He would never leave without his special pen.” Hearing a shaking sob from her mother, the little girl runs up and grabs her motherʼs hand. “No, mommy, LOOK! Itʼs the pen I gave Daddy for Christmas. He always takes it with him. He would NEVER leave without it. Heʼs coming back.” The little girl watches as her mom swallows hard. 111
“Come here, sweetie.” As she steps towards her mom she has a funny feeling in her stomach. ʻWhatʼs wrong with Mommyʼs voice,ʼ she thinks with worry. As her mom scoops her up, the little girl can feel how her Mommyʼs shoulders still shudder with each breath. *** Waking up, she has to resist the urge to breathe in a long satisfying breath and stretch every muscle in her waking body. As she lays silent and still in her dark room, trying to wake fully without moving a muscle, she reflects ruefully, it didnʼt used to be like this. I remember waking up to the crisp morning air and the sounds of the birds coming through the open window. Iʼd rise hours before him, and when he came downstairs his cup of coffee would be waiting. Well, that was long ago. She remembered vividly the first time there had been a problem. She had been stretching her limbs as far a possible when he had suddenly said through clenched teeth, “Why do you have to get up so early?” Surprised and still sleepy, she had responded with, “Because Iʼm awake.” “Donʼt make any noise!” He responded sharply.” “Ok,” she had said with confusion. “Donʼt move around!” “OKAY!” She retorted with aggravation. “Donʼt-“ “Oh, Shut up!” she had interrupted with anger. Rising quickly and slamming the door behind her, she had fumed away the morning hours. Since then he had been adamant about her being quiet in the morning. She turns her head slowly to make sure she hasnʼt woken her sleeping husband. With little surprise she sees the space next to her is cold and empty. ʻHe must have slept on the couch again. How much longer can this go on,ʼ she thinks. ʻFight, yell, stare, silence, angerÉover and over.ʼ The days of wedded bliss were left far behind, along with the morning coffee and peaceful sunrises. She rises regretfully from her bed, and walks gently over to the closet. “Hmmm, I think Iʼll wear that new sundress.” Her quiet voice comes out fresh, and the woman hopes that today will be better. As she reaches for the closet door she stops and thinks. Iʼll tell him today. I donʼt know if itʼll help, but... Her hand has absentmindedly drifted to her abdomen. Snapping back to reality, she opens the closet door. Standing in silence for what could have been seconds or minutes, but for what felt like hours – the woman finds herself completely paralyzed. No breath coming to her body, no blinking, no thoughts; just shock. She reaches her hand 111
forward to touch the half-empty rod in the closet. Where are all of his clothes? Irrational thoughts come to her mind, thoughts of taking all of your clothes to the cleaners, of some forgotten business trip. She steps into the closet, hoping to find them strewn haphazardly across the floor. Nothing. Rushing to the dresser, she throws open the first drawer, and is relieved to see it full. Full of swimming towels. Dropping each of the towels to the floor she hopes to find the clothes within the folds. As she opens each drawer, she comes across only her own belongings. Throwing aside everything that is hers, she looks frantically for her husbandʼs personal items. In a moment of complete denial, the woman rushes to the living room to ask her husband where all of his things are. Seeing nothing, no signs of sleep. In fact, none of her husbandʼs things are in sight in the living room either. Silently she walks back to the bedroom. Staring at the bed, she sees one side wrinkled from a deep sleeper and the other side cold from an angry man. Walking in a daze the woman collapses onto the floor – just inches from the bed that was her goal. Unable to rise fully, she half-crawls over to the night stand. Staring at the drawer which her seven-year-old daughter calls ʻDaddyʼs special drawer,ʼ she contemplates opening it. In a daze she reaches for the drawer. Opening it takes what seems to be hours, stretching her arm to a full extent while holding her stomach with the other hand. With her fingers shaking badly, the woman can hardly open it. A sob escapes from her mouth as she feels the drawer slide on its track. Not even looking, she knows what she will find. Everything is gone, of course. Glancing inside she sees a few pieces of gum, some paperclips, some old games of tic-tac-toe he had played with their daughter, and – and the pen. Holding up the thick blue pen, the woman notices the tears that are running down her face. Repeatedly wiping her cheeks, she finds the action to be useless. Her body is shaking with sobs, and the tears have drained her of her usual morning energy. Placing the pen back into the drawer, she knows that he is never coming back. Rising from the floor, littered with her clothes, towels, jewelry, shoes, and everything else that had been in her way, the woman looks with some surprise at what she has done. Firmly, she bends down, picks up a towel, and begins to fold it. She then bends down again, picks up another towel, and begins to fold it. After a while the room almost looks normal. How ironic. Normal. The woman has become cynical, thinking 113
of all of the times her husband has been mean, angry, hateful, and cowardly. When she is done cleaning, she walks out to the living room. Sitting on the couch, she stares silently at the wall. The normal chirping of the birds and bouncing beams of sunlight completely gone from her gaze, she stares and stares at the wall. Hearing a noise from the room to the right, the womanʼs eyes finally move from the bare spot on the wall. ʻSeven years old, she may never understand. How long will it take for her to believe her Daddyʼs truly gone?ʼ These thoughts rattle her again, and in a shuddering, tearful, and broken voice, the woman talks to herself. “Itʼll be hard enough taking care of one child, but” Holding her abdomen, the woman thinks about what she will do. She almost believes she can feel something in there, but she knows itʼs too early. Angry at herself, she thinks, ʻWhy didnʼt I tell him! Everything would be different.ʼ Sheʼd been afraid to say it out loud – especially to him. She had tried a few weeks ago, but failed miserably. It had been a Tuesday night, and fighting sleep, she had glanced at the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. Waiting up for him to return from work, she knew he wouldnʼt be there for at least another half an hour. When he finally come walking in the door, he looked angry as soon as he saw her. “Why were you waiting up for me? Iʼm not some teenager out past curfew!” “Well, I wanted to talk to you, and you never seem to be around anymore.” He had scowled and turned to walk away. “Iʼm tired, Iʼm sure it can wait until the morning.” “NoI think we should talk now.” Her voice was hesitant and her well-planed speech began to fade away. “What?!” He had screamed in anger. “Shhh! Sheʼs sleeping! Do want to wake her up with your yelling again?” the woman had said, pointing at their daughterʼs door. Once again turning to leave, he said, “Iʼm sure you can deal with whatever it is until the morning, because Iʼm going to bed.” She had tried to grab his arm, to catch his attention, but he had simply stared at her with unblinking eyes. “LET – ME – GO.” Their daughterʼs door creaked slowly open, and the small child said with worry, “Hi Daddy.” He barely glanced at his daughter, turning to his wife and saying, “You take care of it.” That night she had slept in her daughterʼs room, and had stayed awake for hours wondering how to get his attention. After a while the womanʼs tears are almost dried and she has gained at least a resemblance of control. Suddenly 113
she sees her daughterʼs door move. All control is gone. Oh, God, I canʼt do this. I canʼt tell her! The little girl walks to her mommyʼs side, looks up with precious, innocent, concerned eyes; and says, “Whatʼs wrong, Mommy?” *** Winding through the empty back streets, he stares ahead without movement or thought. The radio is off, and the air conditioning is spitting out a wheezy sound, though there doesnʼt seem to be any cool air coming through the vents. The windows are all rolled up tightly against the billowing dust his tires are pounding out of the dirt. The plastic grocery bags filling his trunk and back seat, which are filled with everything he now owns, are jostling in a constant protest to the bumpy unused road. His hand reaches towards the radio, though his movements are slow and hesitant. As he pushes the small button, old country comes blaring out of the speakers. Quickly pushing another button, he scrolls through the few stations he can get in this barren land. Waiting only for the characteristic twang and teary voice, he changes the station before he can hear any of the words. Slamming the button with his fist, he mutters “Damn country music!” The anger in his voice is evident and understandable. For the past three hours, the only music he has been able to find is old country – the kind that talks about lost love and broken-hearted women. Songs that remind him of the choice he made. Glancing at the clock, he realizes that he has only been on the road for about five hours. Feels like more, he thinks ruefully. He glances in the rear-view mirror, noticing the black coat he had thrown back there only a few hours ago. The weather had since changed from the crisp, dark, early morning twilight to a suffocating desert heat. Seeing the jacket brings last Christmas to mind. “Daddy, Daddy! Open my present first!” He had glanced down at the lumpy package, which his daughter had obviously wrapped herself. Inside were three things – the black jacket, a beautiful watercolor his daughter had made, and an elegant pen. “Daddy – I picked out that pen just for you! The coat is from Mommy and me, but since I picked out the pen, Mommy said it was from just me!!” He had smiled and exclaimed, “I absolutely love it!” as he swung her around the room. He had stolen a glance at his wife, and joyfully winked at her. It had been a rare day, truly Christmas. Everything had been wonderful, and it lasted all through the night and even a few 115
hours into the next morning. Everything had been so easy, no yelling or harsh glances over their little girlʼs head. The whole day his daughter had ambled after him, exclaiming that she had found ʻThe specialist pen in the whole wide world!ʼ He finally sat down on the floor and pulled her onto his lap. Looking at her seriously, he said, “It is the most special pen I have EVER seen. Iʼll take it with me everywhere – no matter what. Will you go and put it in my special drawer, so it stays safe until I go back to work?” She had gleefully run off with her treasure, adding it to the full drawer. “No matter what.” “Specialist pen ever.” “Iʼll take it everywhere.” The words played over in his head relentlessly. Well Christmas was over now, and there was definitely no holiday cheer in his car. As he drove, he tried to hum to himself. The quietness was beginning to close in on him, and the memories were going to make him crazy. His vision drifted lazily from the deserted road as he fought off more memories. Suddenly a deer darted into the path. “Shit!” He screamed into the air as he swerved and stopped less than an inch short of the tree to his right. His head slammed into the back of the seat, and as he ricocheted forward, he shot his hands out in front of him. The blaring honk of the horn made him jump and pull his hands away quickly. Gasping for air, he fought back the tears. His body shook with every emotion he had been trying to hold inside of him and he rested his head forward on the steering wheel. A string of profanities escaped his mouth before he was able to gain control. It didnʼt take him long to recover – he was well practiced and good at it. Sometimes he would come home and find his wife lying in bed watching a movie with his daughter. The dishes wouldnʼt be done, dinner would be unmade, and unfolded laundry would be piled up on the side of the bed. “Hi daddy, were doing laundry!” He would shake his head and turn around saying nothing. Hours later when his wife would bring up something that had happened, he would have to hold his emotions in. “Donʼt tell me what happened to you today – I had to spend all day at work, and now I get to come home and help you make dinner.” “Well, why donʼt you just listen to me,” sheʼd try to say. Yes heʼd become very good at controlling his emotions. Unfortunately, sometimes he was too good. One night, while lying in bed after a similar incident, his wife had started crying. “What?” He had snapped. “Nothing.” She muffled into her pillow. “What! I donʼt want to play any games, just tell me.” “I got into a car 115
accident this afternoon. I was in bed because my neck hurt.” He had just stared at her in shock. He realized that she had a huge bruise on her cheekbone. How could he have not seen that!? “Iʼm-- Oh God, Iʼm sorry sweetie.” He had tried to comfort her, but she wouldnʼt even look at him. She claimed he didnʼt love her anymore, but she just didnʼt realize that he did love her – he just didnʼt show his feelings. Backing up slowly, he pulled the car onto the dirt road and continued on. Driving slowly through the numerous potholes, he tried to think of anything but his family. Itʼs not like he had abandoned them or anything. He had just done what was best. If he had waited until everyone was awake that would have been harder on his daughter, she wouldnʼt have understood. Anyways, he hadnʼt run out on them – not exactly. The thought had first come to his mind a little under a month ago when his wife had screamed, “Why donʼt you just leave, then!?” He had been late getting home; it had become a habit of his. He had opened the door quietly, and was shocked to see his daughter sitting on the sofa eating candy and watching TV. “Whatʼs going on?” He had said to his daughter. “Donʼt you snap at her! I told her she could stay up until you came home. Itʼs not her fault that you waited this long.” His wife looked enraged as she came into the room, carrying a huge bowl overflowing with popcorn. “Why didnʼt you just put her to bed?” he had said through clenched teeth. “Iʼm sick of playing both mommy and daddy. Iʼm not going to force her to go to bed while youʼre out” She had gone off, ranting about how horrible he was because he waited until eleven or twelve oʼclock to come home. “Just shut up! Why do you think I donʼt want to come home?” At this point his daughter had started to cry, and his wife picked her up quickly and carried her to bed. Coming out of the room, she walked past him without a glance. He had grabbed her wrist, hoping to talk to her. “Turning quickly, with tears glinting in her eyes, she had said quietly, “If you hate it here so much, why donʼt you just leave?” So he had. The decision had been hard, and he still wasnʼt sure if it was the right one. He was so sick of watching his little girl cry, of listening to his wife complain, of – of everything. Downshifting to first gear, he made a sharp turn to the right. Finally hitting pavement, he revved the engine. After driving for a while, he finally came to a more residential area. Speeding up to well over the speed limit, he rolled his window down and savored the fresh air. At the end of a long 117
driveway, he saw two young children. He couldnʼt quite tell what they were doing in the quick instant that he saw them, but it looked like they were lighting some papers on fire. He shook his head and muttered, “Where are their par-“ In shock, he realized what he had almost said. Revving the engine even more, he focused on the road and the trees that were flying past him at a rapid pace.
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