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Can’t Be Taken Michelle Schwartz I’m standing at the train station. The cool fall breeze gives me goosebumps. Not many people are around as I stare at the tan cement, waiting. Suddenly, I hear the train tracks rattle, feel the vibration from the constant speed of the machine that will take me across several states of emotion. The ear-wrenching and aggressive sound of the horn fills the silence at the train station. As the train approaches a stop, I feel relieved. The doors welcome me, and greet me with comfort. I take a step on making note of the muted blues and tans that make up the walls and seats in the corridor. The train suddenly moves and I rush to take my seat. The adventure begins. I feel giddy inside as our next stop is made. My eyes are glued to the train entrance anticipating the person who makes me feel whole, who I’ve spent far too many months without. I hear steps, I see a glimpse of her long, straight, warm brown hair from around the corner, and in all her glowing beauty Gill stands still before me. Her dark blue dress perfectly hangs from her shoulder, as does her big brown purse, which overflows with a gray sweater. Her eyebrows are filled in and dark, framing her almond eyes. We lock eyes, and run down the aisle towards each other and embrace. I pull her towards me as tight as my arms allow, as if I am trying to pull her into my soul. Her arms wrap around my neck as she stands on the tips of her toes. Her perfume rises to my nose, and I am immediately taken back to one of the many memories we will soon live again. Not a word was spoken. There needn’t be. We know each other so well, our thoughts are simply understood. Gill pulls back from me to look at my face. Her then closed smile shows its teeth and she pulls me back in for another hug. We sway back and forth as if we are dancing of joy. “Are you ready?” she eventually finds her voice. “I, I don’t know” I respond, hands holding the back of my head. Her presence is still overwhelming. “I’m just really happy to see you” “I’ve missed you so much.” She grabs my hand and leads me to the seat. “I’m so glad we’re doing this. You know, I really hate to say it, but after all that’s been going on this year, I feel like this is the only thing that can take me back to how happy I was before.” The train jolts forward, starting itself up, and steadily the train gains speed. I look at her and the window simultaneously. As the speed grows, the lush green trees turn into lines streaming by us. Faster, faster, faster, the green lines turn to white, the white starts transforming into a scenery I can almost depict. It’s foggy, blurry, shades of gray. I start to hear voices bouncing off title. Cash registers chime and paper printers hastily crack out receipts. It’s coming into focus now, we are at the mall. Gill gasps and turns towards me. “This is where we first met.” She looks out the window, and then straight ahead as the memory is flooding her mind, her eyes glaze as she becomes frozen in time. “We both ran into Julie and she introduced us.” I watch her curved smile turn into a firm line, discontent.
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The vision appears in the front of my mind, taking over my senses. I can find no evidence of the train I am sitting in, only the mall. I am reliving every moment of it, just like she is. I’ve never met anyone like her before, so full of mystery and wit. The train chugs forward, as my brain begins recognizing bits and pieces of my reality. I turn to look at Gill’s blushing face in the mall, and the memory fades away. Slowly the rumble of the train crawls in my ear. I regain my vision of my surroundings as I watch the gray lines from the mall turn back to green. The train slows down revealing trees blooming against the side of the train tracks. The trees are suddenly overpowered by buildings that contrast against the pale blue sky they scrape. “I guess we are making another stop,” she says. A screech comes from the wheels, and like a great flood, humans of all different background pour through the doors. They fill the stale train with color and life. Voices consume the air with excitement and joy, looking to relive their own memories. The rush of water starts subsiding from the aisle into the seats as everyone gets situated. I try to take note of everyone who joined our adventure. There’s a lady with bright orange hair, being pulled back messily into a bun. I see a man who I think goes to my church, sitting beside him is a woman with bright blue eyes wearing a gray top. The train chugs forward. Everyone is amused, occupied by the fast lines that take over the trees. I watch their faces turn to smiles, the young people start jumping in their seats. As the colors of our different memories appear to us, and the scenery sets in place, uplifts of laughs and awe make me feel excited for my own memory. The green lines turn dark, and pops of neon zoom past me. The lines fall perfectly in place, as I recognize the house party I found Gill at months after we met at the mall. The exclamations from other passengers are faded out by the loud bass that fills my ears. All sunlight is dimming, as I see nothing but the bright colors thrown against the walls by a disco ball. I try to find a familiar face in the crowd. I spot her. Gill is across the room talking to a group of friends, laughing and enjoying herself. I make my way through the fence of people, and tap Gill on the shoulder. She swings around, her face blank. Moments later a smile bursts open as she recognizes me. She opens her mouth, and suddenly – bang. Her face turns cold. I look around in fright, but no one else at the party seems to have noticed. Once again, bang. Another loud sound pierces my ears. One after the other, it seems to never stop. This isn’t the memory. Wake up. Wake up. I feel my hands strangle the elbow rests on the train seat. I need to wake up. I blink repeatedly, trying to get my eyes to surface to reality. I bend over and push with all my might. Another bang. I gasp for air as I sit back up. I am awake. I look around and see everyone still frozen in their memory. Their eyes are glazed, staring into the nothingness, senses overtaken. I look around again, trying to find where the gun shot came from. I look down the aisle. There is a person wearing a gray hoodie. They are approaching a slumped over body, but there is no blood. They put away some sort of weapon, and pull out a blue device from their pocket. I freeze in shock. I brace myself for the slap the sound will make against the air, yet all I hear is a light hum. They’re not killing people, they are stealing memories. I slowly stand up and approach the hooded figure. I do not know what I’m doing, all I know is that I cannot let them take everyone’s lives away. 3
The figure whips their head to look back at me, looks down at the device, looks at me, and with a pop, the device is ripped off the body’s temple. The hooded figure sprints down the aisle of the train. I take off running after them. With all my might I chase them. All I can think about is how precious my memories are with Gill, and how I can’t let someone else’s Gill be erased from their mind. They reach the end of the train and stop moments before hitting the wall. I cannot control my brakes. I smash into them, our bodies colliding flat against the hard train wall. Their blue device is shattered into a billion pieces, the tiny shards piercing my limbs. As I fall back, I find myself falling into a hole. I am falling into their memories. I see it and live it all within seconds. I hear their own minds, their thoughts and emotions. I hear Gill’s voice. “Why can’t that be me,” her voice echoes in the hole. “I want to be happy,” she cries for help. “I want more than my life.” Birthdays, walks, vacations, dates, holidays flash around me. I’m falling, falling, falling. I land on the floor, my senses tingling. I recollect myself and jolt up. I grab the person and rip off their hoodie. It’s Gill.
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Igloo Mohala Kaliebe
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The Woman in Tinted Sunglasses Sasha Kostenko If you speak any louder, You'll tear out your voice. Trust me, I know.
Always trying to be heard. Hey, it's only natural To puff up Like that. I'm not about to hold a grudge: I know it's not you. It's these fools Who know exactly what to do To make you dance.
But you can't just not try, You say. And I'll reply: "Says who?"
You're hearing from a master here. Don't you know? I was taught to hate women like you. Getting ready is an art. Your high-heels can kill a man. It's why you wear them. Your lip gloss paints a target From a mile away. Any boy can account for that 6
From when his heart was shot At point blank And you've mastered how to cross your legs At just the right angle For a pay raise.
You lift your chin when you walk down the street, Purse clenched tightly to your side, Keys for slashing Tight grips Around your waist When they're unwanted.
Your nickname Is your name. You're Selfish and you're proud. And if they cross you They'll find you're not one To mess around With boys who can't make their way around The office Without help.
And they all know you, If By a different face. They've mentioned you before. On TV Screens
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And Radio It won't stop them From avoiding your gaze
Until they see a MISSING Poster On national television.
Though the TV host won't use Your name, And call you what they use In backwards Alleyways.
You interrupt At corporate meetings And send complaints to your Manager That they don't listen
And turn in your report on time To an empty inbox
You proudly wear your New blazer That you bought yourself That drew looks from a man You didn't know
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That signifies your Collared work And Separates You from those same girls In alleyways You promise That you weren't.
You seal the deal And your coworker shakes hands.
And speaking of hands, You sport 1 inch Long Claws To rake the smug grins off their faces when they call you, B****.
Lionness Of the hunt.
You crawl your way back to your Pride. It's 3:00 in the morning. You stayed late again.
You stand In front of
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The bathroom mirror, Rinse your hands Of unsuccessful hunts. If you had cubs They would not eat Today. You watch your shame Runs down into the plumbing system.
You wear your tinted sunglasses So no-one sees you Cry.
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Untitled 1 Sanjana Chillarege
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Untitled 2 Sanjana Chillarege
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To Cradle the World Margaret Velto When I was a young girl, I dreamed of cradling the world in my hands, to catch the pain of humanity in my palms, to fight for peace with my knuckles, to watch my wrists strain and tremble beneath the burdens of injustice, to show the power of my fingertips that stood still, ready and waiting to reach out and touch, to help someone in need. I dreamed of being a protector, a warrior, a fury, a shelter, a thunderous force no one could stop, but those dreams of fighting soon died.
You see, I remember the first time someone told me I'd never be enough. I remember the overwhelming sense of worthlessness surrounding me for years. I remember those dreams slipping through those same fingertips that swore to hold the world together, to heal and seal each crack in society, to bring peace for good, to put an end to bigotry and hate. I remember becoming a shattered soul in the sea of the lost, drowning in the sadness, suffocating under the weight of the world
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that no longer sat in my hands but instead, atop my bone thin chest. I remember the day I stopped hoping, stopped dreaming, stopped praying for the light to break through the pervasive, ever-present darkness. I remember when my eyes stopped shining, no longer ocean blue with stars like a midnight sky, but a dull, stormy gray masking a hurricane of emotions. I remember when I believed the only way to fix the world was to rid the world of me.
I know you're beaten down. I know you've given and never received. I know life is all about taking, even when there is nothing left to take from you, yet it continues taking, and taking, and taking. I know they'll tell you you're not enough, that you've never been enough, that you'll never be enough, but they say this out of jealousy, out of pettiness, because they can't dream like you and me. These voices will feed you lies and doubts, shoving excuse after excuse of why you should crack down your throat until the only thing coming back out is a plea for help that no one seems to hear, but believe me, I know you're calling out, because while they claw at your skin, I'm clawing at theirs in order to wrap my arms around you, clutching at your body to keep you from disappearing.
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They'll try to rip you to shreds, break your spirit, but they'll never tear you down completely, for your dreams carry you to the sky, and I hope you never lose those stars that shine so brightly in your eyes, but if you already have, I hope you get them back because it's a beautiful thing, watching those broken pieces fall back into place, watching those dreams slip back through our fingers, watching the world come off our chests and land back in our palms where we carry it forward, wrists straining, hands shaking, fingers trembling, cradling the world just as before.
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Many Parts Margaret Velto I am made of many parts. Not just an arm, leg, head, or heart. I am a combination of empty spaces and open places, a brain capable of triggering numerous sensations. I am made of many parts. I have been pieces from the start. Born with wings that spread to fly, born with lungs meant to cry. I am made of many parts. Each piece of me shall depart to spread joy, and love, and luck, and smarts. You shatter me into thousands more, but the more I break, the more gifts I pour. You cannot make me fall apart for I am made of many parts.
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Pizza Face Charlie East
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The Chronicles of Colonel Cluck: Against all Odds! Harrison Zhang Previously on the Adventures of Colonel Cluck: Sam Mounsour lives out his mild-mannered life as a chef for local private school Cary Academy. He loved to bring back the student’s favorites, that is, anything with chicken. Sam Mounsour lived out his bland life as a mild-mannered chef for local private school Cary Academy. He loved bringing back the student’s favorites, which was of course anything with chicken. Sam loved using chicken in anything he made for his students – chicken sandwiches, chicken cake, chicken yogurt, you name it; however, it was his love of chicken that would change his life forever. One day many years ago when Chef Sam was picking out the best chickens to use for his brand-new dish, chicken vegetarian tacos, he picked up a chicken that, for some odd reason, was the color green. He turned the chicken around to get a look at the animal’s face when suddenly the chicken bit Sam’s hand. Sam noticed a weird green liquid oozing from the wound before he blacked out for 3 days. One day many years ago on a Tuesday morning, Chef Sam was preparing to make his new creation for the Cary Academy students. He was innocently slicing slivers of chickens to use for his dish, chicken vegetarian tacos. He had just gotten through the first batch of slimy chicken breasts when he noticed the lightbulb above him flickering in an unusual pattern. Figuring it was just a drill that Dr. Ehrhardt was running to test all the lightbulbs, Chef Sam returned to slicing his chicken, but before he could finish the second batch, an enormous electrical surge radiated from the lightbulb and struck Chef Sam, frying all the chicken in the room and causing every strand of hair on Chef Sam to stick straight up. Sam was immediately rushed to the nearest hospital (or the next closest thing- Nurse Doyle’s office), where he wouldn’t wake up for three whole days. When Sam had finally woken up, he realized that he had the ability to turn anything he wanted into chicken, or even make chicken appear out of thin air Nurse Doyle gave him a lollipop to soothe the wounds he had sustained, but when Chef Sam tried to grab the candy, it immediately turned into a live, clucking chicken. Chef Sam soon realized that the electric shock had given him the magnificent ability to turn anything he wanted into chicken, or even make chicken appear out of thin air. Sam was delighted! He could finally make chicken for all the Cary Academy students without having to spend a single penny. At first, Chef Sam used his power for good, making unlimited amounts of chicken for the students of Cary Academy. Sam was happy grateful for the powers he received that one fateful night; however, evil was stirring right under his nose that would cause him to rethink why he was destined for his powers. Chef Sam’s most faithful devoted fan of his chicken, Cary Academy math statistics teacher, Craig Lazarski, was slowly becoming more and more evil with every taste of Chef Sam’s supernatural chicken. Pretty soon, Mr. Lazarski, or Dr. Stat, as he was later known, was on the rise. He was soon terrorizing the entire city of Cary, North Carolina with his ravenous chicken-eating talent, and he soon devoured every last piece of chicken in the city could offer. No one in the city of Cary could eat chicken without the constant fear of facing Dr. Stat’s wrath. After seeing his fellow citizens being denied the God-given right to eat chicken in peace, Chef Sam decided that he had had enough. He had to answer the call. Because of Dr. Stats’s evil ways, Chef Sam was forced to become someone else-something else. He had to give up his mild-mannered alter ego of Chef Sam
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and become Chicken Man Colonel Cluck in order to stop the terrorization of Cary citizens and to put an end to Dr. Cluck Dr. Stat. *
*
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Sam Monsour opened the door to his tiny apartment and let out a big sigh as he removed his chef’s hat and melted into his hot pink leather couch. He looked out the 1 foot by 1 foot glass window, the only window in his cramped apartment, and stared out at the Raleigh skyline. Every muscle in his body ached from slaving away over a scorching stove the entire day, cooking for teenagers. Despite his pain, Sam was happy that he could provide every student with the joy of eating his special recipe chicken. As Sam pondered about what chicken masterpiece he would craft the next day, his eyes began to droop. Sam had just begun to doze off when he was immediately jolted awake by the ear-piercing cluck of his chicken phone. He stumbled off the couch and dragged his nonresponsive, exhausted body to the petite French coffee table upon which the cluck was emanating from. “Hello?” Sam yawned. “Colonel Cluck?” the man on the other end queried. “Mr. Mayor?” “Cluck! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! What were you doing?” “S-Sorry Mr. Mayor, I must have been in an extreme-extremely deep sleep. You see, I was exhausted cause I spent the entire day cook-” “Yes? Yes?!” The mayor prodded. “Oh. It’s nothing of importance Mr. Mayor.” “You know I’m going to find out who you are eventually, Colonel Cluck. You might as well tell me now.” “Not a chance. Anyways, why-why’d you call?” “Oh yes! Evil in the city! Dr. Stat is attacking SAS, but if you’re too tired, I can always send someone else.” “Nonsense! Evil never sleeps, why should I?! You can count on me, Mr. Mayor!” Sam slammed the chicken phone down with such force that the coffee table started to crack, but there was no time for such trivial concerns. Chef Sam bolted to his closet and pulled out his yellow suit. He hopped around and around the house on one foot trying desperately to squeeze into his tights. In a last ditch effort to get his tights on, Sam jumped with all his might, sending him tumbling down the stairs. Meanwhile at SAS… “MWAHAHAHAHA FEEL MY WRATH CARY! What did I tell you about trying to hide chicken from me!!!” Dr. Stat yelled as he picked up a piece of fried chicken an employee had brought from Bojangles’. “I calculate a 90% chance that I will eat this piece of chicken!”
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But before he could sink his devilish fangs into the succulent morsel, a live chicken came speeding at him, knocking the fried chicken out of his hand. Infuriated, Dr. Stat turned in the direction of the assailant. “Ahhhh. Colonel Cluck, my arch-nemesis…how unexpected…and by unexpected, I mean…TOTALLY EXPECTED!” Dr. Stat pressed the button on the remote he held firmly in his hand, and suddenly a cage made from chicken bones dropped from the ceiling and trapped Colonel Cluck. “Hahahaha, Colonel Cluck…so predictable. Before I came, I calculated an 87% chance that you would come through that way. Hehehehehe, tremble before me, Chicken Little!” Colonel Cluck kept silent and stared down his archenemy. “Now,” Dr. Stat continued, “It is time for me to tell you my entire plan so that you may not stop it! As you know, I have quite the appetite for this magnificent bird, chicken. But I bet you’ve been wondering all this time ‘Why is he eating all this chicken? Does he really need to eat that much to stay alive?’ NO! Hehehehe I’ve been secretly storing all the bones from the chicken I’ve devoured to make a gigantic chicken bone cage much like the one I have you trapped in right now. Oh, what is he going to do with it you ask? I PLAN TO TRAP THE ENTIRE TRIANGLE AREA WITH THIS CAGE. WITH NO WAY OUT, EVERYONE WILL HAVE TO NAME ME THEIR LEADER!!! MWAHAHAHA!!!.......Really? Nothing? Wow, tough crowd. Anyways, the best part is that I won't have little Colonel Cluck in my way this time. I did the math, and I calculate a 99.99% chance that you fail!” Dr. Stat was suddenly interrupted when another flying chicken slammed into his head, causing him to stumble and accidently press the button to free Colonel Cluck. Colonel Cluck instantly sprang into action, firing chicken after chicken at Dr. Stat; however, Dr. Stat’s mathematical ability proved a worthy opponent as he instantly calculated which chickens to hit back, deflecting two of Colonel Cluck’s own chickens back at him, knocking the hero to the ground. “Hehehehe see you later Colonel!” Dr. Stat taunted as he sprinted away. Colonel Cluck picked himself up and followed in hot pursuit of the mad man. When he had caught up, it was too late. Dr. Stat had already started to enact his plan to enslave the entire Triangle area. There was one last hope to save the citizens of the Triangle area, and it rested in the hands of Colonel Cluck. In a desperate last resort, Colonel Cluck tried to use his powers to piece the chicken bones together to turn the giant cage into a chicken, but it wasn’t working and time was running out fast. “I can do this! I can do this! Everyone is counting on me!” Colonel Cluck repeated to himself. Fueled with hope and the determination to save the citizens of his favorite state, Colonel Cluck used the last of his energy and the plan worked! Enraged, Dr. Stat yelled, “HOW! My math! It was so perfect! There was no way you could win!” “I had secret weapons up my sleeve that your math couldn’t account for! Hope! Perseverance! Determination!” Colonel Cluck rebutted, “Here’s some words of advice: The man who says he can and the man who says he can’t are both usually correct!” “AURRGGGGH! I would’ve gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling superhero and your stupid chickens!” 20
Torn Pages Chandler Cree The floor waits endlessly for the next set of limbs to traverse its vast emptiness. But this time, rather than those four damp paws flying in and skidding to a stop, the silence is broken with a violent crash. The echo still rings from the emanated thud of the seven hundred and forty-three pages impact with the solid floor. For nearly seventy years, the stories held within have been protected by the creased clean corners. Before today, these pages never once have found themselves anywhere other than in the hands of a curious learner looking to grow. Held within are stories of previous generations that have been passed down through the ages. Now, it just rests there, corners collapsed in on themselves, the wrinkled pages are forced to lie open but face down. They have been folded in such a way that cannot be remedied. The dust from the dirty college dorm floor seeps in between the gaps and crevices. Cockroaches circle the carcass, nibbling away at the words. As they nibble, the text is lost to existence never to be found again. The glue that once held the entity together shows rigid cracks like those of a broken heart. As they sit there, the folds and wrinkles stiffen, permanently ingraining the signs of the change. The change of a generation. From one that would rest and let their minds wonder for hours on end burying themselves in these pages, to one that must require change and stimulation. One with no desire to learn of stories from the past, stories that carry lifetimes of guidance and teachings. One might think these books arrival to the ground was accidental, but instead it was the result of a complete lack of interest. Its owner rests on a nearby couch entranced by a newly released video game. He stops periodically to glance down at his cell phone, hoping for some sort of recent update. His life no longer desires the old-fashioned passion for reading. Hours now he has been there, and similarly hours now these pages have been stranded and alone. So much knowledge lies between the destroyed panels of cardboard. That knowledge, however, is on the brink of being forgotten, just as these poor seven hundred and forty-three pages are soon to be. They rest there, drifting off into hibernation. They have served their duty and now await their last few moments. These torn pages are in no way ripped, but as they lie there on the surface of the dusty college dorm floor. What's the point in them not being torn, they no longer serve a purpose.
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Moon Girl Sasha Kostenko
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A Guide to Procrastination Jay Sagrolikar It’s the morning of December 24th, a Wednesday. You’ve just handed in one of the most important essays of the semester. Your professor has been raving about it for weeks. Being an organized person, you spread your work out over this time. Each week, your workload progressively increased. Daily trips to the library and studying with friends have all given you a balance of life and work. And you managed to sleep before midnight every day. Reasonable, right? For college, you’d call this incredible. But you can’t help but wonder, what about the procrastinators? They relax until high pressure has kicked in, where they finish everything under heavy duress. It must be tiring. You think to yourself. What’s odd is, they still manage to produce great results. Sometimes you wish you could be like them. Procrastination is an art form, and to be mastered correctly, it has to be learned with plenty of practice. You’d like to devote your time to this process, but you don’t have the time. The rough and tumble of college life is not to be underestimated, so this lesson won’t take long. The best way for you to learn is to follow, so let’s follow the journey of a young, studious student who goes by the name Eric. Eric deftly wasted 59 of his 60 days contemplating the topic of his essay, meaning no real production occurred. The real fun only begins however, on day 60… Tuesday, 6:31pm, 0 pages Shuffling and organizing his papers, Eric and his fellow peers hastily exit the enormous classroom. Classes have ended for the day, and sunset has already come and gone, engulfing him and his surroundings into a coat of darkness. The December air bites into his exposed skin like claws of ice, and he now feels heavy snow layering itself onto his head. He clenches his fists and groans; he speeds across campus to his room. The gravel on the college walkways pierces through his old, thin soled shoes, causing him to wince all the way back. He throws his 50lb backpack next to his bed, then nestles himself inside the covers. He closes his eyes and asks himself the critical questions. What’s the essay topic again? How many pages did the professor say it was? 1? 2? 10? That sounds about right. He proceeds to bury himself underneath his blanket. Note that Eric has completed the first step in this lengthy process, which is to accept his procrastinated assignment. He regrets procrastinating in the first place, but he comes to the realization that he must deal with his past mistakes and follow through. Tuesday, 7:43pm, 0 pages Back aching from bad posture, he sits at his degraded wooden desk, wondering why after one hour of seemingly diligent work he only has a header and one topic sentence typed on an untitled document. Tonight, he decides he will have to make and keep some predetermined deadlines. He sets himself the target of 8:00pm to finish his introduction. Tuesday, 8:06pm, 0.5 pages Done! Now he has a much more serious problem. He doesn’t have any sources for research. He packs up his computer and shoves his disorganized papers into his bag, and randomly grabs one of the many sweatshirts from his closet and throws it onto his body. Slamming the door behind him, he exits the room and jogs down the staircase. He bursts through the front door to find a gust of wind blowing in his face. Grimacing, he shuffles across the faded grass, now partially covered in a white blanket of snow. Leaving his mark on the slippery ground, he skips up the library steps, and flings open the door. 23
Squinting to get used to the brightly lit lights, he makes his way to the reference section. His essay topic is 12th Century England. How predictably boring. While flipping through books on the shelf, he comes across a note in the space between A History of England and Jewels and Crowns: A Guide to Medieval Britain. Scrawled in the left-hand corner with sloppy handwriting was the date, “12 February 1984.” Before we continue in following him, we need to properly analyze Eric’s situation. He executed the second step in the process perfectly, as he wasted plenty of time thinking. One must remember that procrastination still entails finishing the assignment. With that in mind, Eric completed the third and fourth steps very well, as he began his essay through an introduction and afterwards made a trip to the library to dig into the meat of his paper. Again, wasting time thinking is always a good idea, and Eric spent the time between 6:31 and 7:43 doing just that. Thinking precludes working, and thinking allows your mind to flow in many different directions. A game played by many procrastinators (including Eric) to exercise creativity is what we like to call Connections. To play, you take one object; then, you connect it to as many things as possible. For example, Eric writes using a pencil. Pencils are made of wood, and lumberjacks use axes to chop up trees for wood. Vikings also wielded axes, both the Scandinavian and the Minnesotan types. Minnesota is covered with snow in the winter, and families gather around eating large amounts of food for the winter holidays. Hanukkah and Christmas both fall around this time, and both of those corresponding religions recognize Jerusalem as their holy city. Jerusalem is in Israel, and Israel was founded in 1948, meaning it was recognized as a state by President Harry S. Truman. You see? We could move from an insignificant object such as a pencil to someone as grandiloquent as President Harry S. Truman. These combinations are endless, allowing for hours upon hours of procrastination fun! One of the key aspects of any procrastination expert is their ability to become distracted. Anything from a speck on the wall to a large, hairy spider crawling across the floor is sufficient. The idea is to become so incredibly enthralled by the object that you waste a significant portion of your work period in the process. In reading that last part of the guide, we have distracted you from the topic at hand. It is doubtful you remember what Eric’s current predicament is. Let us refresh your memory. Interesting. 1984: the same year as the famed NBA draft of 1984. What seemed to be a lost year for the Bulls when they fell to the #3 pick turned into a spectacle that produced arguably the best player in NBA history. Olajuwon, Jordan, Barkley, and Stockton – four legendary players who changed the game itself. Focus! He says to himself. He looks at the clock and nearly jumps out of his seat. Wednesday, 2:06am, 6 pages Now begins the longest and most crucial step of the procrastination process: the writing. To cope, Eric enters into a mental state that can only be reproduced under very certain circumstances. His fingers fly across his keyboard; his eyes move quickly from the reference books back to his computer, paraphrasing chunks of text incredibly swiftly. Like a machine, his eyes process piles of information and collect them to be used in his paper. Pages and pages of eloquent prose flow freely through his fingers like a raging river. A blindingly bright lamp stands in the middle of the table, acting as Eric’s beacon in the dark. A mug of coffee, grown cold, stands on top of his notes, leaving a murky circle on the thin paper. Music is a very useful tool that procrastinators use to overcome their challenges, especially in this part of the process. He has headphones in his ears, allowing for energy to flow directly from his ears to his brain. Wednesday, 4:23am, 8 pages However, all good things must come to an end. Like after a sugar high, a somnolent Eric crashes. His books, papers, and computer are strewn across the wooden table. He is sent into a coma-like state – 24
completely knocked out. In doing so, he completes two of the most important steps in the procrastination process. He first enters his maximum production zone (MPZ), which is defined as a procrastinator’s maximum efficiency period. He subsequently falls into a deep sleep, allowing his body to rest after this exhausting step in the process. Both of these are vital to the success of any procrastination expert. Wednesday, 5:59am, 8.5 pages The centuries old library door creaks open with a piercing sound. The librarian strolls in, flips the light switch, and proceeds to walk to his desk. Eric, disoriented, looks up and glances at the clock. Again, he nearly jumps out of his seat. Hurriedly, he throws his computer screen open, and continues to type. Before he knew it, he had finished the rest of the essay, allowing a huge wave of relief to rush over himself. Wednesday, 8:01am, 10 pages Eric grapples with reality, and asks himself the question: how did I do it? The easy answer is he did it through those simple steps. From first accepting your procrastination to waking up from your deep sleep, procrastination can be exhausting and exhilarating. The steps presented are easy to learn but difficult to master. With luck, you can become the expert procrastinator you’ve always sought to be.
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Buildings of Grasse Mohala Kaliebe
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Clear Eyes Angelina Chen There once was a girl who decided she had enough. Enough of the palace that confined her, and the walls that kept her in. She was called Cameline, and she was going to travel the world. It was not a tough decision, for she had always been aloof and untethered, like a cloud, blown wherever the wind took her. And it was blowing away from the castle. She wrapped her head in silk scarves, and packed up a few essentials. She knew she would be missed, but she did not care. No one would mind for a week and that was all she needed. A week of freedom and nothing but the bright, beautiful sky and the vast lands beneath it and her. She sidled past the kitchen workers and ran out a supply door. People noticed, but dismissed it. Cameline was always running about in places a lady of her position ought not to be. It was fall. The crisp, playful wind ruffled her scarves and ran tendrils through her hair. She laughed and twirled amid dancing leaves through the orchard. Weaving between the trees, she arrived at the back gate of the castle. She climbed an apple tree near the fence, carefully maneuvering her scarves away from the branches. The wind encouraged her, flowing under her dress and pushing her upward. The guard in the tower caught a flash of color as the girl jumped over the wall, but that was it. He dismissed it as a bird or leaf. The wind caught her before she hit the ground. She laughed and kissed the air before making her way down the cobbled path. She knew this was selfish and indulgent. Her duty, her responsibility, her people: they needed her strength and wisdom. But she was not strong enough to shoulder their burden. She needed this as much as they needed her. So, she tossed the thoughts behind with a flip of her scarves, and continued with a bounce in each step. Here is the scene: a gray sky sprawled like a blanket over an old gray castle, where a winding gray path leads to a bustling square veiled in a haze of gray smoke. The girl was not worried about discovery, for her face was quite plain, and the scarves she wore were quite common. She skipped along, waving to merchants and smiling at children. If anyone recognized her, they didn’t say. She made it to the river easily, and she felt a sense of peace come over her. Cameline stepped over mossy logs and leaves at the bank of the river, until she reached a small boat, moored by a large tree. She boarded the boat and sailed far away, far enough that the gray air turned blue, and the deep smell of wood smoke turned to the fresh caressing aroma of the sea. The girl was so happy, with the wind by her side and the water underneath her. She dipped her feet in the ocean as the boat skimmed along with the help of the loving wind. Suddenly, she felt something brush against her foot, light as a feather, but substantial at the same time. She bent forwards to peer into the water, and jolted backwards in surprise of what she saw. A pair of
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eyes, clear and blue as the water, laughed at her. The girl yanked her feet out of the water and stood up, trailing wet scarves behind her as she backed up against the mast of the sail. The wind quieted. As she stepped forward to get a better look, she slipped on the wet end of her scarf. For a moment, everything seemed still. The girl, windmilling arms, hair flung across her face, mouth agape, but no sound. The water and air and sky, unmoving. Then a splash. She was surrounded by cold, so much cold, and silence. She opened her eyes and screamed. In front of her were the laughing, clear eyes again, this time attached to a nose a mouth and a face. And a torso. And a tail. The endless waves engulfed her, tasting of salt and brine as they rushed past her tongue and forced their way down her throat. She choked and coughed, clawing at the pale, ghostly body in front of her. Legs kicking and flailing, the perfect world from seconds ago seemed so far away. Hands gripped her, sharp nails digging crescents into her soft skin. She fought harder, the cold numbing her mind, making conscious thought difficult. “Cameline.� It was a voice, clear as the water, and it rang inside her skull. Lungs burning and exhausted, the girl stilled for a moment and looked. The creature in front of her was staring at her, amusement and pity dancing in his clear eyes. Her heart would have swelled in awe if not for the circumstances. The creature was beautiful, in an alien and unearthly way. Ethereal. But she was underwater and so everything descended into darkness, as her mind and body succumbed to the ocean.
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Devil’s Liquor Mary Esposito Devil's liquor drank and swallowed, stems of roses cut and hollowed Skeletons to be discarded, tossed upon the brokenhearted Water threatens straining cheeks, tears traced in silver streaks Stalks of roses plucked sore, tossed upon the mourner's door The flowers snapped and left to rust, embroidering the petal's crust Just as humans live to crumble, on their knees and left to stumble Devil's liquor drank and swallowed, stems of roses cut and hollowed Pity turns a blind eye, as women weep and children cry Shots of nectar in a glass, tip it back and take it fast Sweet at first but starts to boil, blood spilt on reddened soil Steam leaking from a collar, pray to hear his brother's holler Roots absorbing scarlet puddles, as corpses lie in dampened huddles Devil's liquor drank and swallowed, stems of roses cut and hollowed Guarantees a sick addiction, to what ifs and twisted fiction Romanticizes bloody strife, the sharp knife of a shortened life Said to be nectar, milked from a rose, only the demon inside of him knows That nectar not, a devil's liquor, added blood makes it thicker Drawn up through roots, straight from hell, mixed and made from Satan's cell Disguised as honey on the tongue, drugged the old and drugged the young Into bloodshed, into war, guns on backs, shoulders sore And we remain in this bind, until the clocks can rewind Unless we can understand, peace begins with an outstretched hand.
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Untitled Max Feliu
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Her Name Was Rebecca When You Met Her Evan Ehrhardt Her name was Rebecca when you met her. She had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. She was in the produce section, looking at oranges. You were in the produce section, looking at the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen, when suddenly, they looked up. You looked down, pretending to be interested in the cantaloupe you had in your hands, until you felt her gaze had left you, when you looked up again. You couldn’t help yourself. Moving towards the teetering piles of oranges, despite your distain for citrus, you tried to think of something to say. A joke would work, but it couldn’t be citrus related; that was too corny, and you didn’t want to come off as a dork. As you thought, you pulled an orange from the pile, to make it seem like you weren’t coming over just to meet her, but the orange you pulled was apparently a load-bearing fruit, so the pile began to slip, and an avalanche of citrus tumbled past your outstretched arms. Your cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but when you looked up, the girl with the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen was laughing. She introduced herself; said her name was Rebecca. You didn’t know it then, but you know now how important she was, and it seems unjust to undersell the impact she had on who you are. She was short, maybe five and a half feet tall, and had burnished, ochre hair down to her shoulders. Her face was soft and gentle, framing the bright green eyes that had so captivated you when you met. It was her personality that really drew you in, though. She seemed to glow; to always know something you didn’t, and you wanted nothing more than to learn her secrets. Her spirit abounded with possibilities; she created galaxies in her head, and if you were lucky, she might invite you in. You would learn these things about her, and they would captivate you. But all this comes later. On your first date, she was shy. Coy, without being timid, and as you lace up your skates, you were excited. Things went well. She was better at ice skating than you might have thought, and she took your mitten in her bare hand and pulled you across the ice. She had on a stocking cap; gray, maybe black. Whatever color it was made her eyes glow, and when you exhaled hard enough to see your breath, they pierced the mist. She pretended to fall, despite confessing a history of ice skating, and you got to catch her. You pulled her up, and held her on the ice. You both grinned wide, chapped lips cracking in the cold, as you drown in the lakes of her eyes. Second date went well too. Just dinner this time; she had a meeting the next day, and wanted time to prepare. She was hesitant to tell you what she did, although it was really nothing exciting. She didn’t like to talk about herself that much because she said there was so much more worth talking about. The next few dates passed, and you caught yourself falling in love with her. It was funny. You didn’t know how to tell, but you began to see your love in different places. When you were driving, and a love song came on the radio, you saw her face in your mind’s eye – not in any concentrated sense, but just by instinct. You wanted to tell your friends about her, but you hesitated because you wanted to keep her a secret, a hidden vision only you could see. By your sixth date, she was your girlfriend. You never talked about it; you bumped into a friend at a movie, and introduced her as such without even thinking. When you did, she looked at you with love in her eyes. Months went by, and you saw parts of her everywhere – hair color, height, the way she talked – your world became in reference to her. All but her eyes, which you could never see quite right anywhere but her. She moved in. These were the happiest months of your life. You started calling her Becca. It was more casual, something whispered across pillows and scribbled on post-its. You drove with the windows down, 31
wind in your hair, as the brutal winter gave way to spring. She liked yellow a lot, so you kept a sunflower or two on the kitchen table. It made sense that you spent more time with her now. That you didn’t go to church anymore, or that you never saw your friends on weekends. You remembered being told as a child that you and everyone you know are islands, connected by bridges. Some bridges were bigger than others, and you frequented some more often. Your closest friends had suspension bridges, capable of handling about any load, and simple acquaintances had walkways, traversed only once or twice. Becca was connected to you by an overpass. Buttresses crisscrossed beneath each arch, with gaudy adornment lining the sides of the bridge. You crossed it so often, others began to fall into disrepair, and you didn’t notice, or you didn’t care. These were the happiest months of your life. You and Becca went to a couple of weddings together. Her friends, mostly, and she was a bridesmaid. You joked, every so often, that bringing her to so many weddings would give her ideas. You weren’t afraid that it would. It was easy to get lost in daydreams: of a house in the suburbs, of a white picket fence, of kids running in the yard. You told her about them once – the constant visions of a future together – but she didn’t seem to like it. She said she lived in today, and didn’t worry about what’s coming. It was good advice, you figured, but her dismissal scared you. Did she see a different future? Was her future not together? All you wanted was to ask, as these thoughts gnawed at the back of your mind, incessantly, poisoning your every interaction. You thought back to the night when you first felt her love; the moon illuminating your foggy breaths, as you skated together under pellucid stars. Her eyes seemed greener then. It was muggier now, and hotter, and the moon didn’t shine nearly as bright as it used to. One day you asked her. Why didn’t she talk about your future? There was a fight. Her, outraged and defensive, and you, apologetic. You don’t remember it all – just snippets. She asked you why you were obsessed with the future. You asked her why she was afraid of loving you. She told you you loved her too much. You didn’t know what to say. She left. She came home the next day, in better spirits, having spent the night at her parents’ house. She wanted to make things work. She was sorry; she didn’t mean it. You had thought a lot about what she said. You realized it might have been true; that you loved her more than she loved you. These thoughts didn’t help, though, so you pushed them to the back of your mind – an area filling with murky waters of selfdoubt, confusion, frustration. You didn’t tell her about that part of you. You didn’t want to scare her away again. Becca’s mother was, funnily enough, in the produce section when you ran into her. This memory is spotty too; bits and pieces are all that’s left. You mentioned that Becca stayed the night a few weeks ago. Her mother didn’t remember that. You elaborated. She restated. You couldn’t understand. Then, you understood. You wanted a confrontation. To put it all out there, and ask her. But that’s not who you were, so you were meek, and pitiful, and deferential about it. You slipped it in as if you knew – she was seeing someone else – and she treated you like a human, at least, and told you it was true. This time, you got to be the one to leave. You remember the drive home. The rain encased the car in a sleepy cloak, with each rhythmic pulse of the windshield wipers offering your only view of what was ahead. The radio was off, so you could hear the pitter-patter of rain on 32
the roof, and you didn’t cry. You wished you had a convertible. You wished the rain could land on your head and flow down your cheeks and fill you up with whatever it contained. As you drove past each streetlight, you basked in the island of their muted light until you were resorbed by the darkness. Clouds, from one horizon to the next, deadened the glow of the moon to the point you couldn’t find it in the sky. You thought about lighting and thunder. Lighting, loving fast and loud and over quick. Thunder, loving slow and deep and still after the crack of her bolt had left you ringing. You wished for more rain; to wash away what had happened and what was still to come. You saw her eyes in each green light passing by. None of them were quite right. You wondered if he called her Becca.
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The Trip of a Lifetime Will Taber AMSTERDAM, PRESENT DAY. A STOREFRONT COMES INTO FOCUS, A DIRECT VIEW OF A ROW OF SHOPPING CARTS ALL SELLING DIFFERENT TOURIST ITEMS, TWO MEN STAND AT THE FRONT OF ONE OF THE STANDS AND PURCHASE A BAG OF SOMETHING THE CAMERA CANNOT SEE. THEY PUT THE BAG IN ONE OF THEIR BACKPACKS. THEY WALK OUT OF THE FRAME WHILE SPEAKING, THE CAMERA SHIFTS FROM BLOCK TO BLOCK AS THEY WALK CLAY AND MAX- BOTH AROUND 20 YEARS OLD, THEY ARE EVIDENTLY AMERICANS BASED ON THEIR ACCENTS AND ATTIRE. CLAY How much did she say we should buy? MAX Ten pounds for a good time. CLAY So I'm guessing that means five each? MAX Why don't we gauge it by how we feel? I mean I'm not trying to die out here. CLAY (NERVOUSLY) When in Amsterdam... THEY OPEN A DOOR TO A STAIRWELL. THEY WALK UP THE STAIRS. THE CAMERA SHOWS THEM WALKING UP FROM THE TOP OF THE STAIRWELL, SPIRALING UPWARDS. CLAY So, what’s our plan? MAX Well, after dinner, I thought they can be dessert. CLAY Ok, can we grab some food before we do it, though? MAX Sure thing man, let’s check them out first.
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THEY WALK INSIDE OF A DOOR IN THE STAIRWELL, INTO A RELATIVELY AUSTERE APARTMENT, FULLY FURNISHED BUT SIMPLE DESIGN. THEY SET THE BAG ON THE TABLE AND STAND BACK MAX Woah. CLAY I know... they look like... well honestly they look like regular mushrooms... Clay and Max look at each other MAX Are you thinking what I'm thinking? They each take six dried, brittle mushrooms out, and pop them into their mouths. They both gag from the taste, but manage to keep them down. They look at each other. The shot shifts to them sitting on a couch watching TV. There is a clock in the background. MAX Do you feel it yet? CLAY (ANXIOUSLY) Nothing, I feel fine. I don't think we took enough. MAX Maybe a couple more each? Just to be sure? Max and Clay grab another couple handfuls, walk out of the shot and back to the couch. They sit on the couch for 30 minutes, the scene is fast forward so you can see the clock's hand move for 30 mins. CLAY Isn't the trip supposed to make us hungry? MAX (EXCITEDLY) Yeah man, the munchies! My friend told me pizza literally made him cry it tasted so good. CLAY We should go buy food, I mean if we just stay here hungry we'll go crazy! MAX Do you remember how to get to the grocery store? I mean what happens if we can't find out way back? CLAY
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I mean I still don't think we ate enough, I feel perfectly fine. I doubt we will get lost, I mean it’s literally only a block down from here. We should go, I don’t wanna stay here cooped up. They get their jackets, the camera shows them exit the door from the kitchen, and the stairwell shot shows them walk down the stairs. At the last flight of stairs, the shot descends to the bottom of the door. Clay stops for a second on the stairs, looking confused. His vision becomes the shot. Colors are slightly more vivid, looking much more vibrant and popping more. CLAY Dude- I- I think it just hit me. He looks at Max, but Max's face is distorted, morphing in and out of being compressed. The colors of the street swirl around Max's face. The camera changes back to the neutral view of the street. MAX What's it like? What are you seeing? What does it feel like?? Clay stares speechless at him with a blank stare You good, man? You look like you've seen a ghost. You think you're still good to walk? CLAY Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a bit disoriented. Everything is moving. MAX OK, just tell me if it like- gets to be too much. We can turn back if you want. The camera goes back to Clay's vision. They begin to walk down the block. As they walk down the street, the people walking past him start to morph, gradually they turn into trees with clothes on. Their faces are the trunk, with green leaves flowering from branches. The colors are constantly changing, waving and pulsing around him. The camera changes back to a view in front of them, keeping pace with them as they walk down the block. Clay looks incredibly mellow, yet filled with eye as they walk past several colorful cloth vendors with vibrant colors. MAX Dude- I think I'm starting to feel it. The shot becomes his point of view, but it looks totally different than Clay's. The world is pulsing, but as he looks behind him, a massive cockroach is sitting there. MAX JESUS! OH MY GOD! THAT THING IS HUGE!! CLAY What is it? I don’t see anything! Is it that tree woman back there?? MAX 36
NO, IT’S THAT GIGANTIC R-R- ROACH RIGHT BEHIND THAT BARREL!! For a second, the people passing by stop to look at them perplexed. Max and Clay look at each other. CLAY AND MAX THEY KNOW!! They begin sprinting away, the camera shows Max panting as he runs, then zooms in, becoming his POV. He looks behind him to find the cockroach running after him. MAX IT’S FOLLOWING US!!! WE NEED TO LOSE IT!! The shot switches to Clay's POV, where the colors pop and everywhere he looks, the tree people stare at him as he passes. He is sobbing. CLAY Oh God They know THEY KNOW!! The shot switches back to a neutral street view, and it shows them sprint across the screen yelling about tree people and giant cockroaches. They run past an old woman carrying a grocery basket, she looks back after they run past her, and she mutter to herself, "Tourists and their shrooms..." She walks out of the shot. The camera zooms back to Clay and Max's freak out. MAX Here! The grocery store! We need to go in! They sprint into the store, the shot switches to a security camera view. They walk slowly around the aisles CLAY What did we come here to get? Cereal? A couch? MAX (NERVOUSLY) Food, we came to get food. Let’s just get it and leave. I hope this is all just a hallucination, it just feels so REAL. CLAY Yeah man, these tree people are freaking me the hell out MAX Tree people? CLAY You don’t see them? All the people have trees for heads and arms, with leafy hair? MAX 37
I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about. Did you see the cockroach? CLAY Cockroach? What cockroach? MAX ITS THERE!!! IT’S RIGHT BESIDE YOU! Max sprints off out of the store, carrying several items of food. Clay looks around, starts sobbing, and sprints after him. The camera goes back to each of their POV's, switching between them while they sprint. After sprinting for a couple blocks, the camera goes back to the street level view of them running like madmen. CLAY Max! The apartment! MAX Quick! We need to get back inside! CLAY Up the stairs, GO, GO, GO!! Max rips off his shirt, throws it down the stairs as they run. People in the stairwell give them crazy looks as they run past them. The shot is at the top of the stairwell, looking down on them as they run up the spiral. They yank open their door, slam it shut, and run to the couch. CLAY That was too close, Max. MAX (NERVOUSLY) You're right, I have to watch the door. If that roach comes in here, I'm going out that window. CLAY It's fake, man, you need to stop worrying. These are all hallucinations. I know the tree people are fake- it’s just too real to let go. MAX How many of those mushrooms did we eat gain? They walk over to the bag on the table, and find it empty. They look at each other in disbelief. MAX AND CLAY FUUUUUUCUT TO BLACK. 38
October Rain Madison Kadis It began in the early evening, lasting two hours Resolute, incessant, deliberate Weighing down the colored canopy still clinging to the branches Seeping its way into covered porches and rusting the joints of old men Cold, wet, relentless I pull the blanket over my head, for just ten more minutes
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Sail Away Mohala Kaliebe
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Tum Tum Chh Chandler Cree INT. LIVING ROOM Cody and Jared sit by the fire gazing into the flickering flames. CODY: Jared, it’s getting pretty late. What time are you gonna go to bed? Mama always tells me a bed time story before I go to sleep but since she's out of town I was wondering if you would. Jared moves to stir the fire and add another log on top. JARED: Do you really think I'm going to read to you? I'm not 12 anymore. CODY: Jared, I know you're 14, but I won't be able to sleep without a story... Jared now moves over to the bird cage sitting behind the couch. The pet parrot Charlie gazes back at him. CHARLIE: Bed Time Story! Bed Time Story! Bed Time Story! JARED: Not you too, Charlie. CODY: Please Jared, please o' please? Cody now stands up from his seat on the couch and walks around to meet Jared in front of the bird cage. JARED: You're not going to beg me are you? CODY: (persuasively ) Listen to Charlie, Jared. He wants a bed time story too! CHARLIE: Bed Time Story! Bed Time Story! Bed Time Story! Jared now turns and strolls back over towards the fire. He stops right as he reaches the mantel gazing down at the flickering flames. JARED: 41
You want a story? CODY: Please Jared! It's the only way I'll be able to sleep tonight A grin covers Jared's face, he walks over and flips the switch to turn the lights off. Then he returns and sits by the mantle. JARED: Cody, come here buddy. I'll tell you a story. Cody hops over and sits criss-cross apple sauce facing Jared whose face shines with the light of the fire. CODY: You're the best brother ever. JARED: (under his breath) Yeah, let’s see if you say that after you hear my story. CODY: What'd you say? JARED: Oh nothing, don't mind me. Alright, you ready. Cody nods, then grabs a pillow from the couch and cuddles up under the blanket that he grabs from its spot resting on the mantel. JARED: This is the story of Tum Tum Chh. Jared now grabs a flashlight and shines the light up across his face from below. The camera shows his face up close JARED: A long, long time ago, there was a boy who lived in Germany during the second World War. It was late one night, his mother was tucking him into bed, and his father tucking his younger brother into the bed adjacent to him. All of the sudden a bomb explodes, obliterating the front side of the boy’s house. Jared now stands up and walks through the archway into the kitchen. INT. KITCHEN Camera shows the kitchen knife rack as Jared reaches in and collects two sharp steak knives. CODY: 42
Jared? (Panicking from the other room) Wait what? That's not it, is it? Where'd you go? Please come back. INT. LIVING ROOM Jared walks back over enclosing the knives in his hands so that Cody cannot see what he got. JARED: Sorry, where were we? Oh yes, shrapnel shot in every direction. In the madness, all that the boy heard was the sound of his mother falling to the ground. His father falling after her .And his brother being blown out of his bed and into the glass bookcase in the corner of the room. The camera switches quickly to Cody curling up in his blanket and covering his face with his hands. Then it switches back. JARED: When the mess cleared the boy found himself in searing pain, and looking straight down at his younger brother, his mother, and his father all dead on the floor. He screamed out in distress, a scream of pure horror and sorrow. It was minutes before he realized the searing pain was due to the loss of his whole lower body. CODY: This isn't like any of mommy's bed time stories. (Tearing up) You're scaring me. Cody covers his head with his blanket so that the only bit of him visible are his two eyes. The camera pans back to Jared's face. JARED: Oh don't you worry, it only gets better from here. (grinning) You wanted a bed time story, oh am I going to give you one. Oh yes, well you see, the strange thing was that the boy had been laying there in his bed for nearly 5 minutes, losing blood at an exceedingly dangerous rate. Nonetheless, he felt no sense of faintness. Rather, he felt more alive than ever. The pain drove him, it gave him a fiery desire to avenge his family’s death. Cody stands up wrapped in his blanket and starts to turn. CODY: Jared, I'm just gonna go up to bed, you're scaring me and now I won’t be able to sleep for sure... Jared jumps up behind him, wrapping his arm around Cody's chest and spinning him. 43
JARED: You asked for a bed time story, and you're gonna get one. Sit down and let me finish. Cody, reluctantly sits on the couch and balls up. JARED: As the boy laid there in his bed, the anger built up more and more as he looked down at his lost loves. Though he is was now limbless, he didn't let that stop him. Grabbing the bedside table, he pulls himself off of his bed and down onto the ground. There he grabs two glass shards from the broken bookshelves. As he clenches them, blood splatters from both of his hands. The pain doesn't faze him. He jabs the glass shard in his right hand into the ground. Jared jabs the knife in his right hand into the ground resonating the Tum sound. JARED: He then jabs the glass shard in his left hand into the ground. Jared jabs the knife in his left hand into the ground resonating the second Tum sound. JARED: Finally he pulls his torso across the ground in the direction of his mother. Jared slides his body feet across the ground resonating the Chh sound. CODY: Why are you telling me this Jared? I don't wanna go to sleep with a horror story on my brain. JARED: Oh, I haven't even told you the horrific part yet. Nowadays, the boy goes by the name Tum Tum Chh. (Creepily whispering) They say that he haunts and kills American children who say his name three times in succession. CODY: Jared? Why American children? JARED: It was their ancestors who launched the bomb that killed his parents ever so many years ago. Jared rests his body on the ground and starts to use the knives to slide his body across the ground towards Cody, creating the Tum Tum Chh sound. CODY: Jared, stop that. I'm going to bed. JARED: 44
Just say it, Cody. Just do it. I dare you. Just say Tum Tum Chh. Cody looks back disapprovingly. JARED: Tum Tum Chh. Cody turns and walks away. CODY: You aren't gonna be able to get me to say it... JARED: (Repeating it the third time) Tum Tum Chh. The camera switches to a view of the fire. As the final word Chh is said, the flame ceases, and a low hum is heard across the house. CODY: Alright, Jared, this isn't funny anymore. I'm going to sleep. The camera switches from Cody walking away back to the puzzled Jared standing unsure of the recent occurrences. Nevertheless he blows it off and exits the frame in the direction of the stairs following Cody. INT. BED ROOM Cody lays on the bottom bunk, and Jared on the one above. The camera shows a close up of Cody laying on his pillow with his eyes shut. A faint "Tum Tum Chh" echos off the walls and rattles the bed frame. Cody's eyes shoot open. CODY: (Breathing heavily) Jared I said stop, Please? "Tum Tum Chh" echo's again, still very faint. No response comes from Jared. CODY: Jared, this isn't funny. Stop it now! Again, the "Tum Tum Chh" emanates at a very low distant tone. CODY: Alright Jared, are you just going to keep teasing me then not respond when I speak to scare me? I'm already terrified as it is.
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The camera shifts to Jared laying in the bed above fast asleep. The "Tum Tum Chh" echo's faintly in the distance, this time noticeably louder as if it were getting closer. Then the camera shifts back to Cody laying on his pillow. CODY: (whimpering) That's enough. I can't take this. You're making me cry. Cody shoves his head under his pillow as tears start to roll down his eyes. The pillow blocks out the distant "Tum Tum Chh" and in minutes Cody is fast asleep as well. The sun shines into the room’s window, as it rises over the horizon. Cody lays in bed head still covered by his pillow. After a few moments he is woken by a steady dripping sound. Cody sits up wiping his eyes and gazing around looking for the location of the noise he is hearing. As he spots the dripping he notices that it is red and his eyes shoot open again alert. CODY: (Breathing heavily) Oh my. JARED. Cody jumps out of bed and climbs on the ladder, halfway up he peers over the top bunks bed frame and his eyes are met with the sight of his brother lying dead with two long lacerations down the middle of his chest. CODY: (screaming) AHH. NO JARED NO! Cody climbs the rest of the way up the bed and onto the top bunk. The camera pans over to Charlie's cage in the corner of the room. The bird sits there motionless in every part of its body but its beak. CHARLIE: (quietly) Tum Tum Chh. Tum Tum Chh. Tum Tum Chh. Camera goes black.
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T1 Magazine Editors: Mohala Kaliebe, Lucy Daley, Charlie East, Sasha Kostenko, Cate Pitterle, Margaret Velto Club Leaders: Mohala Kaliebe, Lucy Daley, Evan Ehrhardt Club Members: Kristin Draper, Charlie East, Sasha Kostenko, Savannah Lu, Cate Pitterle, Madison Swyers, Margaret Velto Club Faculty Sponsor: Mr. Urioste
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