Noir ; or, a Thematic Haiku
Editorial Collaboration Stark, black, faceted All colors blend in one hue Unification
Noir Harbinger 2011
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Harbinger Staff Harbinger 2011 Editors-in-Chief
Noir Volume 35
Maggie Scheer Katherine Oosterbaan
Layout Editors
Publicity Editors
Submissions Editors
Copy Editor
Hillary O'Toole Lauren Stark
Copyright 2011 by Harbinger, a publication of Carmel Catholic High School. After publication, all rights return to each work's creator. The views expressed do not represent the views of Carmel Catholic High School or the Harbinger Staff.
Charlie Topel
Katie Short Sherry Vazhayil
Carmel Catholic High School One Carmel Parkway Mundelelin, Il. 60060 Cover Art by Maggie Scheer Back Cover Haiku: "Noir" by an Editorial collaboration Background Art by Hillary O'Toole
Alise Murawski Tony Russo
Contributing Members Frank Cohen Emily Davenport Henry Dominicis Jackie Durnil Ted Eppel David Esterquest Travis Gibbs Caroline Grebner
Anna Heinrich Nicole Kvist Isabella Kwiecinski Sonya Lara Annie Lentino Shelby Leuders Sophie Lombardo Kelly McCauley
President
Judith Mucheck, Ph.D.
Matt Michalak Graham Misak Greg O’Block Abhisek Rameswaram Martha Reilly Jamie Reyes Alexa Rollins Emily Sheridan
Principal
Lynne Strutzel
Yujin Shin Sanjana Singh Sam Solomon Aliah Taylor Megan Thompson Rose Watson Molly Zadell
Moderator John Uhrik
Noir Poetry & Prose 4….Porozmawiajmy ~ Alise Murawski 5….Wish You Were Here ~ Samantha Solomon 6….Teddy ~ Amy Drangines 7….Culture from Color ~ Nathaniel Schmeling 8….Everyone Has a Story ~ Anna Heinrich 10….My life: A Pencil ~ Erin Pilotte 10….Pie ~ Anna Brandmeier 11….Preparation ~ Maggie Burke 12….My SatBROday (A Haiku) ~ David Esterquest 13….Legend of Maggot Death ~ Theodore Eppel 13….Jay Cutler ~ Aaron Ogunro 14….Psyche ~ Daniel Uhlir 14….Perfection ~ Amy Drangines 15….The Box ~ Samantha Solomon 16….Sunday Morning ~ Robert Zukowski 17….Cool Duck ~ Charlie Lacke 18…Pirate’s End ~ Matthew Varner 19….Noise ~ Jackie Durnil 20….I Need a Vacation from My Vacation ~ Nikki Murgas 22….Arlington Rose ~ Abhisek Rameswaram 23….The Boy ~ Connor Delaney 24….The Land of Misfortune ~ Katherine Oosterbaan 25….The Unwanted Wish ~ Emily Nierman
Harbinger 2011
Letters from the Editors 26….They Had Nothing to Say ~ Jackie Watters 27….is this real? ~ Chloe Morris 28….Ode du Creeps ~ Gwyn Armour 29….Summer Nights ~ Matt From 30….An Icy Baptism by Fire ~ Ryan Geusz 32….To Do List ~ Liz Edwards 33….Song ~ Emily Cocks 33….The End ~ Matthew Varner 34….The Corn Stalks ~ David Markiewicz 35….War and Other Things ~ Ian Flick 36….Americano ~ Steven Fisher 38….Elevator ~ Katherine Oosterbaan 39….Patches ~ Liz Edwards 40….The Empty Room ~ Travis Gibbs 40….Equidistant ~ Emily Nierman 41….Scotty Doesn’t Know ~ Ashley Serrano 42….Angel of God, My Guardian Dear ~ Natalie Geoffroy 43….Sent ~ Marissa Ritter 44….Heart’s Song ~ Emily Huth 45….Before ~ Sanjana Singh 46….All That I Am ~ Caitlyn Cuba 47….Remember Me Now ~ David Markiewicz
When I found out in May of 2010 that I would be Editor-in-Chief of Harbinger this year, I failed to consider what that would mean for my senior year, so let me clue you in: It meant stressful games of email-tag with Mr. Uhrik and my fellow editors; it meant giving up my schoolwork—and letting my grades fall, if only for a week—so that I could spend more time organizing and preparing for the next meeting; it meant okaying posters at the last minute; it meant getting rides home after especially late meetings because my brother already took the car; but more important than all of this is that it meant that my last year of high school was better than I could ever have imagined, and it meant I got to spend (nearly) every Thursday with the most creative and crazy people that Carmel has to offer. Through all the anxiety and late-night meetings, this wonderful group kept me sane and excited to do it all again next week, and if it weren’t for their positivity and critical eye, I may not have survived this year. Thank you always. Mr. Uhrik, you were supportive and encouraging from the very beginning, so thank you for your listening ear whenever I needed to vent. Katherine, you were more than a co-editor-in-chief, you were a friend when I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was doing. Thank you for everything. My lovely layout, submissions, publicity, and copy editors, without your willingness to live with my, uh…eccentricities, this magazine would never have come to be. I thank you with all that I have. And to all those who were brave enough to submit their hard work, ideas, and hearts for our judgment, you must know how much that means to me. We merely provide a medium for you to share yourself with others; you make Harbinger, and you made this year’s edition, Noir. Thank you all. Now, read and be inspired! -Maggie Scheer
Artwork 4….Summer Daze ~ Katie Speth 5….A Curious Mink ~ Kelley Dodge 6….The Experiment ~ Kevin Deasey 9….Under the Yellow Sky ~ Natalie Geoffroy 11….Spring ~ Natalie Geoffroy 12….Lite Brite ~ Katherine Wiacek 14….That’s It. ~ David Markiewicz 15….Dusk ~ Kevin Deasey 16….Horizon ~ David Esterquest 18….Crash ~ Marissa Ritter 20….Paradise ~ Maggie Scheer 22….Remembering ~ Lauren Stark 23….The Long & Dusty Road Lies Ahead ~ Katie Vallorano 24….Alone ~ Kevin Deasey 25….Natural Path ~ Abby Nierman 26…Sweet Tooth ~ Natalie Geoffroy
Dear Reader,
28….Seasons ~ Abigail Poplawski 29….Take Me There ~ Kyle Belting 32….Wedding ~ Abby Nierman 35….A Mushroom ~ Kelley Dodge 36….Old Glory ~ Maggie Scheer 38….The Sun Sets in Singapore ~ Aliah Taylor 39….Peter Rabbit ~ Katherine Wiacek 40….Two Roads Converged on a Snowy Evening ~ Katherine Oosterbaan 41…. …Up There ~ Kyle Belting 42….God’s Light ~ Natalie Geoffroy 43….Attraversiamo ~ Hillary O’Toole 44….Wonders of Nature ~ Ed Banderowicz 45….Underneath It All ~ Katie Speth 46….Sea of Glass ~ Natalie Geoffroy 47….Remember ~ David Markiewicz
What a year it has been. I remember the day that I was chosen to be co-editor-in-chief along with the lovely Maggie Scheer: I had just taken my AP World exam, and I was in something of a daze. In fact, I later thought that I had imagined the entire event. Happily, I was mistaken, and I look back, a year later, proud of all that we have accomplished. This year, we have experienced an amazing outpouring of creativity from everyone involved with the magazine, from editors to members to those who submitted. This magazine does truly represent the diverse talent of Carmel students, and I hope that everyone who reads Harbinger will enjoy the fruits of their classmates’ creativity. I have been lucky to work with such talented editors this year: Maggie Scheer, my co-editor-in-chief, who always kept the magazine on track even when we were all panicking; Lauren Stark and Hillary O’Toole, our amazing layout editors without whom, I am certain, Harbinger would never have been laid out so skillfully and on time; Alise Murawski and Tony Russo, our publicity editors, who worked ceaselessly to bring news of the magazine to the school; Katie Short and Sherry Vazhayil, our submissions editors, whose dedication to Harbinger knew no bounds; and last but not least, Charlie Topel, our lone copy editor who deserves the title “Grammar Fanatic,” with all its positive connotations. Mr. Uhrik, our moderator, has been phenomenal this year, always ready to meet, reassure, and calm. Of course, we editors are only the tools through which you, the students of Carmel, can display your creativity for all to see. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy the talents of your fellow students in this year’s Harbinger: Noir. -Katherine Oosterbaan
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Porozmawiajmy Alise Murawski
Summer Daze ~ Katie Speth
It was a secretive language while I was growing up. My father, all too familiar with his language’s poverty, let the little he knew lapse. He was Polish second, he told me, and American first. My grandfather, however, was different. It was he who taught me my mother tongue. English was what I used, French was what I studied, Italian was what I only dreamed about, but Polish had always captured my heart. Nevertheless, it is complicated. Even the simplest and most humble of English words, “I’m sorry,” are thorny. In Polish, this simple phrase is transformed into the terrifying, “Przeprazam.” It is, as I know all too well, a very intimidating sight. That is, unless one knows how to approach it. And thanks to my grandfather, my Dziadek, I do. It was he who taught me this secret to unlocking my language. Work from the end up, and then pronounce it front to back. This language is a product of Russian, and I have to admit, I was and still am afraid of it. I am hesitant to embarrass myself in front of my Babcia, my grandmother. It is not for the faint of heart to learn. It takes commitment. But that commitment, no matter how hard it is to create, fosters a deeper connection to the land of my ancestors. I only know a few select words, but I’m proud to know those few words. Slowly, I began to pick up the language my father had left behind. The language he wanted to keep me from because, in his mind, it would not get me anywhere in this new land. This America. Despite how much he loved it, he had to acknowledge that it wasn’t practical. I didn’t need it. But I wanted it. Soon, “happy birthday” became “wsystkiego najlepszego.” Soon, words became different. In time, I would understand. Even my Irish mother taught me some Polish. It was only one phrase, but I have a feeling it will be quite useful one day or another: Pocałuj mnie. Kiss me. Honestly, it all boils down to this: these are our people; this is our language. And language is a living, breathing organism. If we do not speak it, it will die. So, porozmawiajmy. Let’s talk.
IV
Wish You Were Here Samantha Solomon I lay here all day long, Waiting for you to come home. My day is filled with longing, Longing for your company. I do not like being home alone, The house echoes its nothingness. When you leave me behind, My heart sinks a little. I slink about the house, Settling on one of your shirts, Burrowing in your scent, And falling asleep. I wake up, Fully reenergized and anxious. It’s almost time, Time for you to come home. I rush up to the door, Plop down and wait. My eyes are glued to the door, Tail slowly wagging. I hear the garage opening, And the car door shutting. My tail wags faster, My ears perk up. There you are! You enter the house, And I’m pleased to greet you, Jumping up and licking your face. You are finally back where you should be, Home with me.
A Curious Mink ~ Kelley Dodge
V
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Teddy Amy Drangines
The Experiement ~ Kevin Deasey
The old, dilapidated teddy sits on my bed, waiting for me to come home from school. Every day for twelve years I have come home at three in the afternoon, sat on my bed, and, hugging Teddy, told my mom about my day. She asks about friends, school, teachers, homework, and anything else going on in my life. I always tell her everything, and she always listens to what I have to say, and so does Teddy. When the seams in Teddy’s ear began to split, I asked my mom why. She said I had talked Teddy’s ears off because he’s such a good listener. The old, dilapidated Teddy sits on my bed, waiting for my breakups. Through every broken heart, I hug Teddy. While crying on the phone to my best friend, while eating mountains of ice cream, and while crying again in my sleep, Teddy is always there. When Teddy’s eyes slowly broke away from his face, I asked my mom why. She said that every time I cried, Teddy cried too, because it hurt him to see me so upset. The old, dilapidated Teddy sits on my bed, waiting for me to fall in love. At 11:11 pm every night, I whisper a wish for one boy or another to love me back, and Teddy hears. He is the only one who knows about my heart’s latest conquests, and that’s a secret he’ll keep. When Teddy’s stuffing started to fall out, I asked my mom why. She said it was because he was just too full of love; because love is contagious, and he caught it from me. The old, dilapidated Teddy sits on my bed and waits for a fashion show. After shopping, I always put on all my new clothes to show my mom, and Teddy sees them too. When the bow around Teddy’s neck came untied and fell off, I asked my mom why. She said it was because Teddy wanted a new look too. The old, dilapidated Teddy sits on my bed. When Teddy’s arm almost got ripped off, I asked my mom why. She said it was because he fell and got hurt, just like when I was four, fell out of a tree, and broke my leg. When Teddy’s fur got stiff and matted in the back, I asked my mom why. She said we all have bad hair days, even Teddy. When the stitching started to come out of Teddy’s mouth, I asked my mom why. She said that when Teddy saw me frown, he tried to give me a part of his smile. Next year, Teddy will sit on my bed and wait for me. I hope he’s not scared of heights because lofts are pretty high up. I hope he’s not shy because we’ll have a new roommate or two. I hope he’s not lonely because I might not be around as much. The old, dilapidated Teddy will sit on my bed at college, waiting to share my adventures with me.
VI
Culture from Color Nathaniel Schmeling The tension rises as students subtly glance in my direction. Being half Haitian and half German, I’m dark enough to be mistaken as simply black and light enough for the mistake to seem clear in hindsight. The attention of the room inadvertently centers on me, which isn’t unusual. To be truthful, it’s been this way all week. My sophomore English class was studying Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. The students attempted to be racially sensitive by saying “African American” instead of “black.” I prefer the term “black” because I’m called “African American” when I’m not. One, I’m just American. Two, if you were to include my heritage next to “American” it wouldn’t be “African.” but “Haitian” or “German.” I was the only black person in my class, and all eyes were on me. The obvious effort at sensitivity alleviated any hostile tension, but tension existed nonetheless. “‘We are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with,’” my mother read aloud from Marin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail.” Safely in bed at seven years old, I was first exposed to the idea that being black would have any effect on my life. The apprehension of being black followed me like a dark cloud, in everything from words (“dark” connotes malevolence) to life experiences. A familiarly unpleasant nervousness accompanied me when I walked into a room as the only minority. As always, I went to books for answers. If I had experienced this feeling, others from another time must have too. I desperately wanted to understand who I was and how I came to be that way. My heritage and present condition were intricately linked, and by learning about one, I came to understand the other. My quest continued with The Autobiography of Malcolm X, opposite from where it had begun. His violence and intense racial pride opposed King’s values. His support of Garvey’s separation from whites sat in my stomach like Pennzoil and I was relieved when he denounced the idea after his Islamic pilgrimage. I continued my search in Black Boy and The Bluest Eye. Both gave me different vantage points of the single picture, which I decided meant being black stopped at your skin; any elements associated with it were purely cultural. The differences between others and myself were our experiences. With that understanding, the anxiety within me dissolved, although the tension outside me continues.
VII
Noir
Harbinger 2011 Everyone Has a Story Anna Heinrich
It had been another bland day. It was finally the week before Thanksgiving and my teachers decided it was a prime opportunity to load up on as much information as possible before break. I came home from school in a bad temper, fully aware of the four-page AP World History paper I had to write. It was going to be a long night…and little did I know that it was just going to get worse. Procrastinator that I am, I waited until eight that evening to even sit down at the computer, flip open my much-abused 5-subject depository of doodles, and type Kate Smith Mr. Schuster AP World History 19 November 2009 using correct MLA format in the top left hand corner of a blank Microsoft Word document. Feeling rather accomplished at the progress, I yanked free a crisp, unblemished piece of loose-leaf from my spiral and, trusty blue pen in hand, began a rough outline. The trial thesis was halfway completed, “The discovery of the Americas by the Europeans benefited, disrupted, and impacted world civilization because of…,” when a thunderous pounding directly above my head diverted my attention. I snatched a quick glance at my mom, who lay collapsed on the sofa after a debilitating day at work, knowing that whatever was coming was not going to help either of our conditions. “Hey,” my brother announced, in the monotonously cold voice that crept into his tone easily those days, like a cloaked criminal, slithering in to steal away my precious sibling. “Where are my keys?” This question stabbed at my mother, piercing into her tired soul and attempting to dim the immutable speck of hope dwelling deep within. “Where are my keys? Where’d you put them?” His voice jumped down an octave, edging away from any expectation of an armistice and veering into the sinister unknown that was regrettably too familiar. My mother received his malignant glare and reciprocated it with a soft, pitying gaze. “Did you do your homework?” Her voice echoed in the vast expanse of silence that cloaked the room. Even the TV, painting the room blue with its images, had silenced itself in preparation for the impending catastrophe. “You’re not going anywhere until your homework is done; you know that’s the rule.” Her focus shifted back to the screen; however, I knew her well enough to sense her mind was still on the creature that my brother had become. Will stood rooted in place. His face portrayed no emotion, and if it had not been for the exaggerated clenching of his jaw, I would have thought he had given in. But no; he was only just revving up. “Give. Me. My. Keys…Now.” His body tensed, the anger brimming to the surface, ready to explode at the slightest touch. “NOW!” The nesting monster awoke from its slumber. His face colored blood red. The veins in his neck strained. I sat frozen, my paper left like an orphan. My mother did not respond, did not move, did not flinch. The rest of the events happened so quickly that I could not process them, and yet each tiny movement seared a scar into my memory. My brother, my role model, my partner-in-crime, ran. He ran for the nearest exit; he bolted past me without as much as a second glance, and was just about to escape when my mom caught up with him. My poor mother, working 11-hour shifts in the Alzheimer ward of a nursing home and single-handedly raising two rambunctious teens, chased after him, throwing every last ounce of energy into the pursuit. She flung herself in front of him, blocking the door with her arms and body. “Will, NO! Don’t go! Please!” Her sobs reverberated back to me, and my body froze. I remained glued to the rickety wooden chair, my eyes fixated on the computer screen, neither seeing nor caring about what was in front of me. “LET ME GO! I HATE YOU! YOU’RE THE REASON I’M LIKE THIS!” Homerun William, homerun. Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he thrashed around trying every possible way to get out. “KATE! HELP ME! YOU CAN’T KEEP ME HERE!” His shrieks took on the desperateness of a doomed prisoner; the immense pain and fury and pure malice lacing his raggedly high-pitched screams shook me to the core, the most frightening sounds I have ever heard. And still I sat there, tears silently streaming down my face, my outline clenched
VIII
between my white knuckles. “KATE!” He broke off again, physically fighting off my mom. “HELP! LET ME GO! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LET ME GO? Why can’t you just let me go…” I listened to them fight, a situation I would never wish upon anyone. My brother’s animalistic outbursts were followed by my mom’s heart-wrenching sobs. “Stay, please. Why won’t you stay? What did I do? I’m sorry I’m a terrible mother! Just stay…please?” I could not stomach it any longer. Abandoning reality, I dashed into the living room, crawled under the table and chairs, curled myself ~ into a tight ball, and hoped to disappear. I covered my ears with my hands tightly, but the sounds of their fighting seeped in through every pore in my body; I listened to Will’s brutal attacks, trying to sprint from door to door, hoping to outsmart my mother and escape, which he finally did. He left. Barefoot, no coat, no phone, and no car in the middle of another viciously cold Midwestern November—where he went was a mystery to us. I spent the remainder of that night comforting my mom, putting my whole soul into showing her that she was loved, that she was the best mother, that it was not her fault. She finally sent me off to bed, where I spent the rest of the evening and early morning silently weeping, yelling at God in my head and asking Him to end the hell he had put my family through that year. It all started when my brother, seventeen at the start of the whole debacle, was diagnosed with depression after a miserable recovery from leg surgery that rendered him immobile for months. We did not fret too much over it; after all, he was an energetic, happy senior, with everything falling into place, college-wise and friend-wise. It was not until a few months later that it all spiraled downhill. He stopped talking to us, stopped eating, disappeared or locked himself in his room for days on end, refused to go to school, and turned vicious at the slightest comment. He, my former best friend and cohort, refused to acknowledge my existence, only calling me from his friend’s to bring him clothes or to act as messenger. It hurt, even to the extreme that I stopped going to school, as I got physically sick over the emotional beating this dealt me. My family forbade me to tell anyone; after all, this was no one’s business, just our fair share of dirty laundry. I came to school on November 20th a ghost. My mom had emailed my teachers briefly stating that a family emergency had prevented me from doing my homework. I floated down the halls, oblivious to the petty high school drama surrounding me, my eyes two empty pools. I thought about my friends then, and how little they knew. I thought about the other seniors, my brother’s classmates. Had others gone through this? Was a student at school at that exact moment currently suffering what I, my mother, or my brother experienced? Students and teachers alike went through the motions of the day, but the eye can only see that much. What happened once they all went home? What occurred behind the closed doors of my fellow peers? It saddened me, knowing that maybe someone else was suffering too, if not in the same way, but in another form. Everyone is fighting their own demons. Everyone is struggling with something, fighting with someone, or feeling lost. Everyone has a story. Maybe more people just need to listen.
Under the Yellow Sky Natalie Geoffroy
IX
Noir
Harbinger 2011
My Life: A Pencil Erin Pilotte My life is a pencil. I was created not to make my mark on paper, but rather to make my mark on the world. A pencil is flawless and untouched when first taken out of the package, as was I when I was born. The start of my journey and the new challenges I encountered were the first sharpening of the pencil. As I grew, I faced obstacles that dulled me down. The hand holding the pencil is my family and friends that support me, help me to stand strong, and sharpen me up. The pencil shavings left behind in the sharpener are memories of the tough times drifting away. The eraser is my ability to try to fix my mistakes and learn from them. Today, I continue to face obstacles, overcome them, and learn from my faults. This pattern will repeat, and the pencil will get shorter as time goes on, just like life.
Pie Anna Brandmeier Apple, pecan, and coconut cream, Am I in heaven or is this a dream? Pie is sweet, all fluffy and light,
Each bite is delicious, A heartwarming treat,
It tastes so good when I take a bite.
So fruity, or nutty, or creamy to eat.
I cut it in pieces
Apple, pecan, and coconut cream,
To share all around, I top it with ice cream And make it a mound,
Any or all will make me just beam, I really and truly enjoyed every one, Too bad my pie and my poem are done.
X
Preparation Maggie Burke
The lights were hot as she tried painstakingly to apply her fake eyelashes. Evidence of the time she hadn’t accounted for, the hot bulbs could still be seen on her right-hand’s pinky. One second of lost focus meant a slip of the hand, and then she had to start all over on that eye’s lashes. As time passed she watched herself transform from pedestrian to ballerina. The black eyeliner rimmed her eyes to define them for the audience. Her lips were painted cherry red, and her cheeks were a perfect rose color. The makeup was flawless. Her hair was slicked back into an immovable bun. She already was in her white leotard and pink tights with seams up the backs of her legs. She sat down wherever she could fit with all the other frantic bodies in the dressing room to tie her pointe shoes. She carefully placed the ribbons left over right, around once more, and then tied them on the inside. She was sure to tuck the knot in behind the other ribbons to hide it and used a bit more hairspray to ensure that they stayed in place. Lastly, she slipped each leg through the holes in her white pancake tutu and pinned the pearl-covered headpiece that matched onto her head. The bobby pins stung as she shoved them around the bulky headpiece and into her hair. She got chills every time they stabbed her head, but she knew there was no other way to make sure that the headpiece would stay on. Everything was perfectly in place. I shook as I rolled through my shoes to ~ warm up my feet. I was terrified and did not feel ready to go on that stage. What if I froze on stage? What if I couldn’t remember the steps? What would I do? The other girls in the corps surrounded me, all of us bumping shoulders as we tried to mentally and physically prepare ourselves. The stage manager did the final call for all dancers—it was time for us to go backstage. I stood between the wings in the darkened backstage as I saw the curtain begin to slowly rise. The lights blinked on, and the corps dancers stood on stage, smiling and waiting for the music to begin. The orchestra stuck its first note. Holding my breath, I ran on stage.
Spring Natalie Geoffroy
XI
Noir
Harbinger 2011
My SatBROday (A Haiku) David Esterquest Fist Bumpin’ My Bros Chillin’ with my lacrosse stick Bro hard or bro home
Legend of Maggot Death Theodore Eppel It was the year of our Lord Cutler, two thousand eleven There was a bowling team with a handicap of three hundred eighty seven Made friends that were as tight as clams They headed to Bill’s for the bowling slam No teams were there But they did not care They were to exhibition Channel 4 Bro Team And they would most likely lose or so it seemed It began with crashing pins sounding through Bill’s Hall Maggot Death needed to go balls to the wall They started off ahead, but tears they would soon shed The Bro Team was closing in fast It looked as if Maggot Death would not last Their balls traveled in paths that were curved Maggot Death might win, as they deserved The last ball rolled and brought Maggot Death’s pin count to +18 They had crushed the other team’s dream Maggot Death celebrated For they were truly exuberated They won at four and a half hours past noon And made the other team look like bowling buffoons
Jay Cutler Aaron Ogunro Oh, what a day Happy Jay Cutler Day! It’s not so easy to say When you’re from Green Bay
Lite Brite ~ Katherine Wiacek
XII
He’s so quick on his feet Ooooo, what a treat His arm is so strong It makes me want to sing a song
His little head nod Makes me think that he’s a god He will always be a Bear With that number six they make him wear Under pressure, he is so cool He makes Tom Brady look like a fool Oh what else can I say? You slay me Jay!
XIII
Noir
Harbinger 2011 The Box Samantha Solomon
That's It. ~ David Markiewicz Psyche Daniel Uhlir
Perfection Amy Drangines
In my mind, I’m immersed by thoughts Like a fish in the ocean. Captivated by ideas Mesmerized by wants Trapped by my desires Tortured by my fears Concealed from outsiders I escape reality For it is my mind’s own design
The way you smile at me, The way beads shine in the sun, The warmth of a heavy blanket, The feeling of the rain on your skin, How crayons are always so bright, How smooth fingernails are after being painted, A good hug when it is most needed, A song that perfectly portrays a current emotion, Letting go and dancing, The crunch of fallen leaves, Fog on top of a heated pool, And the way you smile at me.
XIV
I remember the first time I heard of Chet McKnight and his box. It was June 19, 1998, and I was out camping with my friends. It was exactly eleven o’clock on a humid Friday night when we decided to tell stories. Chet McKnight was a handsome nineteen-year-old boy with jet-black hair and icy blue eyes. He would dress in all black: from a black t-shirt down to his army boots, and he was always carrying around a wooden box. When he went to school, he had the box; when he went to the drug store, he had the box; it was always safely tucked under his arm. Nobody knew what was in the box. However, people had their suspicions. Some thought it carried drugs, others thought a weapon, but nobody knew for sure. It wasn’t until one Saturday night that people found out what was really in the box. Chet’s neighbor, John, saw him go into the woods that night. He was suspicious by nature, but this night his suspicions got the best of him. He decided to follow Chet into the woods to find out what was so special about the box. On his way out, John unconsciously grabbed his shotgun that was sitting next to the door. As he entered the woods, John began to have second thoughts, but he pushed them aside and continued on. The ~ farther and farther he followed Chet, the uneasier he felt. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chet’s shadow turn. He sped up, determined not to lose the shadow. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Chet had a feeling that he was being followed and stopped. A twig cracked behind him and out stepped John, shotgun in hand. Chet told him to go back home, but John didn’t budge. Chet stepped towards him, hands reaching in his jacket. John pulled the trigger. He didn’t mean to shoot Chet; it just happened. Chet was dead. John stood over the lifeless body and bent down to retrieve the box. He cautiously opened it, and was shocked at what he found. Inside was a picture and newspaper article. The picture was of Chet, wearing blue jeans and an apple red shirt, with his arms around a girl, both smiling at the camera. The article was about a car crash that had killed one and injured another. The names in the article matched the names written on the back of the photo–Emily Rivers and Chet McKnight.
Dusk Kevin Deasey
XV
Noir
Harbinger 2011 Sunday Morning
Robert Zukowski
Nothing to do on a dull Sunday morning, We went fishing, even though it was going to start pouring. Loaded up the bait and rods, I knew we were ready, when you gave me “the nod.” Got to the dock and backed in the boat, Grabbed everything and started to float. We went to “our spot,” where we were guaranteed fish, But after an hour or so, getting a nibble is something we wished. Such a long time passed and we didn’t even know, That half a day was gone, and we had nothing to show. We pulled in the boat, and packed up everything, Maybe we’ll try again, late in the spring. On the way home we laughed about the empty cooler, “Maybe we should tell mom, we got one bigger than a ruler!” That day at the lake, was the most fun I ever had, Let’s go back out next Sunday, Dad!
Once
there was a small pond in the park. In that pond lived a flock of ducks.
Sometimes lonely old people would throw bread at the ducks to fill a void in their lives where human companionship should have been. Sometimes geese would come to the pond and harass the ducks. After this had happened many times, one duck tired of it. He wondered what he could do to stop the geese from bothering his friends.
This duck was tired of always being made fun of for his skinny legs and weak upper body.
He made up his mind to join a gym. He found one a few blocks from the pond and signed up for a membership. He started out slowly, riding on exercise bikes and using those little colored weights with the numbers on the side. He began to request that the old people throw wheat bread instead of white bread, because it helped him carbo-load. He finished every workout with Muscle Milk and a protein bar, and after a few months, the duck noticed some significant improvement and increased lean muscle
Horizon ~ David Esterquest
XVI
Cool Duck Charlie Lacke
tone. But he wasn’t satisfied. He began going to the gym every day, spending hours at a time on the equipment. Still, he was not satisfied, so he started taking performance-enhancing supplements to increase his muscle mass.
One day, the geese came back. They honked loudly at the ducks and made them feel very
uncomfortable. Then the duck showed up, fresh off of his “chest day.” He flew into a violent roid rage and snapped several of the geese’s necks before anyone could react. The others geese fled, and the duck’s friends tried to hold him back, but he was far too strong. He turned on them, and soon the pond was colored blood red. Eventually, the duck stood alone on the edge of the pond, looking upon the havoc he had wrought. He realized that he had not only become a gigantic d-bag, but also a monster. He felt great regret and even considered cancelling his gym membership. Then he realized that it was the steroids that had caused him to become who he was. He gave them up immediately and today is a personal trainer at the same gym. He truly is the coolest duck there ever was.
XVII
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Here Up There Down
Pirate’s End Matthew Varner
Left
Right
Sometimes, I am everywhere.
Her laughter broke the silence; They stared at the grey sky. The grey started to shed tears of sadness As the heavens began to cry.
But now was the time to end her life So the verbal legend could be born. The noose was wrapped around her neck, But she didn’t look forlorn.
She looked left and right from where she stood, She finally understood, The pirate’s life was a life from law, And she could never have trusted her flaws.
She couldn’t keep but feeling swell, Her smile still strong and unbroken. She felt the sea, the waves in her heart, And the floor suddenly flew open.
She knew this was coming When she first flew her homemade flag, And from the many islands, from the many ships, She stole all into her greedy bag.
Mostly, I am everywhere. Always, I am everywhere. But sometimes… Sometimes I am nowhere. Hidden. No one can find me.
I like it that way.
Most of the time. Sometimes.
Crash ~ Marissa Ritter
…Sometimes Quiet moments, those I need.
N
in
O
between
I
the
S
constant
E
But then, Back to noise. And then, I don’t mind.
XVIII
XIX
Jackie Durnil
Noir
Harbinger 2011 I Need a Vacation from My Vacation Nikki Murgas
Disney World, where dreams come true. Every child longs for the excitement and adventure of Disney World in Orlando, Florida. I remember the elaborate commercials that once appeared on every TV channel to which I flipped, reminding me of how I could hardly wait to return to the happiest place on earth. All of the commercials contained the same scenario: parents would secretly plan their vacation; on the night before the trip, the parents would surprise their children. The commercials always ended zoomed in on the face of an especially cute three-year-old boy clutching his Mickey doll exclaiming with a slight lisp, “I’m much too excited to sleep!” Then, the big day would come when, with all the bags packed, complete with Mickey ear shaped luggage tags, the ecstatic family would board the plane. After all the months of planning and hours of work that go into preparing for a trip, parents often feel the need to make every single minute of their vacation packed with visiting Disney characters, making dinner reservation, waiting in line, shopping for the perfect set of Mickey Mouse ears, waiting in more lines, seeing Cinderella’s Castle, and swimming in the pool. However, the leisure of vacation is often lost when every second is scheduled and planned. I have discovered, through both my own experience and that of others, that sometimes the best vacations are taken slowly, are unplanned, and are filled with spur-of-the-moment decisions. My mom, completely guilty of over planning a vacation, has even figured out how to maximize the minutes spent in Disney by flying into Orlando International Airport as early as humanly possible. After enduring the three-hour flight and checking into my family’s hotel, walking into the Magic Kingdom right at two o’clock is always an experience that I hold near and dear to my heart. After scanning my ticket and pushing my way through the turnstiles for the first time each trip, I am greeted by the familiar site of Cinderella’s Castle, majestically standing like a sparkling skyscraper over the heads of people from all around the world bustling from shop to shop. The tantalizing smell of the Main Street Confectionary mixes with the humid Florida air, creating an aroma that is somehow both slightly sickening and comforting from its familiarity. The sound of hundreds of voices murmuring, children shrieking with excitement, moms barking orders to keep their children in line, and children crying what I doubt are tears of joy is so overwhelming that I can barely hear my own thoughts. My eyes dart from place to place people-watching. I see a confused Asian lady asking a man selling balloons, “Which way to the Tower of Terror?” He answers with a small chuckle, and a slight southern accent, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, that ain’t even in this park.” Dejected, the couple walks away, more confused and lost than before. Next, I spy a women decked out in a Tinker Bell shirt that reads “Miss Attitude,” cheetah print Mickey Mouse ears, and a hot pink Cinderella fanny pack. She jabbers loudly on her phone, “Honey, I told you, Christina has to be woken up from her nap! We have lunch with Cinderella in twenty minutes!” She speaks so enthusiastically and dramatically—her arms waving frantically like a chicken trying to fly—that she almost knocks a grinning girl’s ice cream right out of her sticky, messy hands. The final scene that catches my attention is one I see far too often; a child, covered with snot and tears running down his face, and his mother trying to coax him into getting back in his stroller so they can go visit Mickey. She pleads with him, “Come on, baby, please! Mommy planned everything! We are gonna have so much fun! Mickey can’t wait to see you, honey. He’s waiting. Just get back in your stroller, and Daddy will buy you that toy gun you wanted.” Her son’s only response is another wave of tears. It is moments like these that make me realize that vacations should never be about scheduling every second and sticking to that plan. That crying boy would have much rather gone back to the hotel and spent a few hours swimming in the pool or escaping the 1000 degree heat by taking a nap in a dark and air-conditioned room. In the past, I was this crying child. My mom wanted me to enjoy every second of my vacation, and often forgot that I was young and needed time to rest. Not to mention that my mom would
XX
be much more relaxed upon returning home than if she spent seven days running from ride to ride and waiting in lines. It did not take her long to discover that, as young girl, I quickly turned into a bratty, tempertantrum-throwing, screaming two-year-old when I had been over-stimulated and needed to rest. One instance when this was painfully obvious occurred when I was about three years old, in what should be considered “The Two o’clock Meltdown Capital of the USA,” Disney World. After spending a long day at EPCOT, an acronym for Every Person Comes Out Tired (according to multiple Disney employees), my mom wanted to go to another park, while my dad wanted to go back to the hotel; however, I, acting like a typical three-year-old girl, wanted to stay with my mom and go back to the hotel, clearly not an option. I screamed at my mom, “I wanna come with you. I wanna go swimming!” My dad whispered sarcastically to my mom, “Oh, well she’s in a good mood. She’s definitely not tired at all,” then turned to me and explained, “Okay you, we are going to go take a nap.” My only response was a new flood of tears and a surge of demon-like anger. I then proceeded to pick up my black and white polka dot Peg Perego stroller and hurl it through the air towards my dad. Obviously, I was slightly worn out. How I was physically able to do this remains a mystery to me, and my little brother, who was not even alive at this time, continues to tease me about it today. A vacation should never get to this point. Vacations should be like a spa visit: enjoyable, refreshing, and relaxing. But when they become more stressful than everyday life, something is wrong. My mom and I have discovered the perfect way to vacation in Disney World that not only fulfills our personal needs and wants, but also reflects the idea that the ~ most enjoyable vacation is one that is leisurely and unscheduled. She still plans the essentials of transportation, hotels, and some dinner reservations, but she never denies my brother’s request to go back to the hotel, or my dad’s wish to go swimming; therefore, vacations have become much more restful and pleasant. My mom and I sleep in until noon and stay at the Magic Kingdom until one in the morning because we want to. My dad hides in the cool shade of the pool until the sun sets because he wants to. My brother rides Toy Story Mania three times in a row, regardless of what parade is going on, because he wants to. Not only have our vacations become more enjoyable, but also more relaxing. Somehow, doing less has actually allowed us to see more. Instead of rushing past the Jungle Cruise on our way to snag perfect parade viewing spots, we boarded the ride and discovered what has now become a family favorite. Instead of zooming past the gardens in EPCOT, we stopped and admired the topiaries, including the art and time necessary to turn petunias into Pooh Bear. We still find time to see shows, attend favorite restaurants, and always see “Wishes,” the firework show and my personal favorite. I find that Disney’s fireworks end the day with a bang. The part that makes them more enjoyable? Not being so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open to see the explosions of color and sound light up the night sky.
Paradise Maggie Scheer
XXI
Noir
Harbinger 2011 The Long & Dusty Road Lies Ahead ~ Katie Vallorano
Arlington Rose Abhisek Rameswaram Helmet crooked in all angles The gun strap dances and dangles Pulling his body across the grit and grime His commander yelling at him, demanding double time A solider never stops. He rises Watching all his friends meet their demises. Ghastly, greedy death walks the bloody sand He can taste him in the air; bland
Bravery defines a solider. He fires With will unbroken, he never tires However, he is mortal and ages by war Soon he too shall stand at death’s door. Medals adorn his house as scars adorn his face Wishing his past he could erase For his heart is now hardened and done His hands forever remember the weight of his gun Dying in a countryside town Dying like a pauper for the strongest among us may not wear a crown As he passes from life to death, he will go to St. Peter and tell ONE MORE SOLIDER REPORTING FOR DUTY I have served my time in hell.
Remembering ~ Lauren Stark
XXII
The Boy Connor Delaney
The boy goes through his life disappointing his parents. He isn’t everything they hoped for. He isn’t the valedictorian or the football star. He isn’t even average, and he isn’t going to college. He is scared and alone. He sees no other way. He signs a form, and now he gets discounts wherever he goes. Soon he’ll be leaving, but he tells no one. He sits alone is his bedroom. He’ll miss this place. He thinks of childhood, of a music box his mother used to play for him. He hunts for it, and he finds it in the bottom of his desk drawer. Lying on his bed, he cranks the little metal key. The music plays. Tiny little notes surround him. He cries. He leaves a letter on his kitchen table. He shuts the door behind him. They shave the boy’s head. The boy trains, drills, hurts and aches and sleeps and repeats. He is trapped. He wishes he could try harder. He would give anything to go back. He knows it is too late; he thinks of it every silent night in his bunk. He receives another letter, and now he’s hot and dehydrated. His life is in the sand. The boy has sand in his shoes. He has sand in his pockets and even in his hat. He eats, sleeps, and breathes sand. He’s scared, and he doesn’t hear well anymore. He receives another letter; this time from a seventh grade student in Government class. He reads a lot of thank you’s and you’re stronger than me’s. The boy is only there because there was no other way. “It’s for my education.”
XXIII
He shoots. He hides and watches people die. He even kills them himself. He’s a murderer. He’s a hero. The boy is shot. There’s a bullet in his leg. He’s losing blood. He cries. Alone, he tears his sleeve and wraps it around his wounded leg. He is found. He gets a first class ticket home. He’s done his country a great service; he is owed a debt of gratitude. He receives a medal to wear around his neck. He is old. He walks with a cane. He lives alone. His grey beard goes long. He cries. He is still a boy.
Noir
Harbinger 2011
In the land of misfortune Under the sea There lived a man Who built a ship To sail to land But his ship sank And he was back where he began
The Land of Misfortune Katherine Oosterbaan In the land of misfortune Dreams come to die People sit and they stare As dreams go by As dreams go by
The Unwanted Wish Emily Nierman What happens to a shooting star that nobody sees?
In the land of misfortune One day thinkers met They made up a plan Of things to do yet So in the dead of the night They all slipped away They never looked back They looked towards the day
Or birthday cake candles blown out with a sneeze? When clocks read 11:11, but no one’s awake? Or the pennies in fountains that fell by mistake? What happens when a wishbone breaks, But there’s not a soul to be found? Or when the wind blows the seeds of a dandelion around?
Alone ~ Kevin Deasey
Does the wish disappear because no one was there?
In the land of misfortune Dreams come to die People sit and they stare As dreams go by As dreams go by
Because the chance for the wish wasn’t taken with care? Does the wish stay unwanted in a form of disguise, Just waiting for the opportune moment to arise? What happens when a wish is lost in this way? Does a wish stay alive once it has been set astray?
Natural Path ~ Abby Nierman
In the land of misfortune The people arise They look towards the heavens They look towards the skies And each of them wonders When life will pass by They don’t want to live They don’t even try
XXIV
In the land of misfortune Dreams come to die People sit and they stare As dreams go by As dreams go by
XXV
Noir
Harbinger 2011 Sweet Tooth ~ Natalie Geoffroy
They Had Nothing to Say Jackie Watters They had nothing to say to each other. Not anymore. After everything that had happened, how could they? Dishes were strewn on the floor. A chair was knocked over. The food that had fallen out of the fridge was scattered everywhere. The microwave door was still hanging open from when she had put the chicken inside to heat it up. Everything was a mess. For a while all she could do was stare at him. But the moment he focused his eyes back on her, she glanced away. Nothing seemed right anymore; everything was wrong. This was supposed to be a happy day, one of the happiest days of her life. “I can’t marry you,” he said. “I’m engaged to someone else.” The words cut through her like a knife through a steak, slowly tearing her apart. Her life was falling apart right in front of her eyes. Jake put his hand on her shoulder but she quickly shrugged it off. She didn’t want his pity anymore; she only wanted to get away from him as soon as possible. “I never meant to hurt your feelings. I didn’t know that you had all of these plans for the two of us. I’m sorry Ana.” Ana hastily turned around so he wouldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes and slowly streaming down her face. She promptly walked away from her fiancé and their fake plastic kitchen while others around them played with blocks and shaving cream. She was only in preschool, but it was still her first heartbreak, and something that she would remember for the rest of her life.
XXVI
i s
rainbow promises etched in blue craned to see my cultured face they stop and stare and wonder why lemons glow in the dark
rainbow compromises steam off purple shoring up for the winter green gathering not sharing nothing like their namesake
t h i s r e a l ?
rainbow lies create the night yellow twinkling an amateur sky soaring and reaching for no reason at all pines of gold and orchards of Venice
rainbow fights cast off the sheath daring to organ their humblest reds plopping and pulling down the hall they don’t stop at stop signs.
rainbow nothings teach me more orange as a tree, but blunt as you knowing not and saving explanation time is barely a motive to live.
~
Chloe Morris
XXVII
Noir
Take Me There ~ Kyle Belting
Ode du Creeps Gwyn Armour
Harbinger 2011 When I look in your eyes, I get a bit of a glare. I start to see sparks, but they die in mid-air. You’re really quite nice but a bit of a drag. You take my breath away, when I start to gag. When we first met, I couldn’t help but think, Perhaps this guy is missing a link. But mentally sound you are, unfortunately for me Because now I endure your constant company. I don’t care about your story and what went awry. I’m not free this weekend, so don’t even try. I won’t text you back because it’s really a pain. You better stop now; you’ve got nothing to gain. Now you’re driving me mad; I won’t like you back. Step away from my locker, or I will attack. Stop touching my hair, it’s getting quite weird. You’re creepier now than when you first appeared. Stop it right now: it really must end. I’m never going to like you as more than a friend. So give me my gloves back, and stop staring at me. Just walk away now, and please let me be.
Summer Nights Matt Fromm
It’s the summer of 09’ And were feelin’ fine. Nothing like hangin’ In the middle of a night.
The fires lit and the skies all right Singin’ our songs to the bright moonlight, But 2 AM comes fast When you’re livin’ the life. That was one of those days I’ll be seein’ again Either in my life Or in that outta-space trance.
Seasons ~ Abigail Poplawski
XXVIII
Just because our days fly by Doesn’t mean we can’t stop for a night. Maybe in our high-octane lives All we need is a little more summer nights.
XXIX
Noir
Harbinger 2011 An Icy Baptism by Fire Ryan Geusz
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” I finished the prayer I’d been muttering under my breath and braced myself as the bitter wind stung my face, making my lack of a helmet painfully clear. I was at Alpine Valley, a ski resort, and I was currently hurtling down a black diamond slope towards the bottom of the hill, where I was sure, at the very least, a few broken bones awaited me… Twice each year, my school organized a ski trip for grades 5-8. I was in fifth grade, and when permission slips were sent home, I excitedly asked my parents if I could go. They consented, but on one condition: because I’d never skied before, they required that I sign up for one of the lessons offered at the resort. When the bus finally arrived at the resort, I walked to my lesson, while most of my friends, who’d been either skiing or snowboarding for years, hit the slopes. After waiting for fifteen minutes with the rest of the group, the instructor finally showed up. He was a tall, skinny teenager, and he obviously didn’t want to be there. In between texting his friends, he eloquently explained to us the delicate art of skiing: “To speed up, you French fry. To slow down, you pizza. To turn, you just lean and kinda angle your skis. So why don’t you guys practice on the bunny hill and maybe by the end of the night you can be on the beginners’ hills.” Soon after, he went to go meet his friends on the slopes and left us to practice. “French frying,” I came to find out, meant setting my skis parallel to each other, thus making the shape of French fries; “Pizzaing,” on the other hand, meant making a wedge with my skis, like the shape of a pizza slice. I practiced these techniques for about fifteen minutes, conquering the bunny hill, then a beginner’s slope. Before long, I got hungry and headed towards the lodge to get something to eat. Here, I met up with my friends. After eating a large plate of French fries (all the while thinking of the like-named skiing technique), I decided to spend the rest of the night with them. I left the lodge, never knowing that, soon, I’d be wondering if these salty morsels were to be my last meal. After we went down a few small hills, I followed my friends to the bottom of a larger slope. As I stared upwards, trying to judge the descent, I saw the outlines of many skiers making effortless “S” patterns as they zig-zagged down the mountain. It looked so easy that even the nearby sign noting that the slope was a black diamond couldn’t shake my confidence. Eagerly, I got on the ski lift and ascended the mountain. I reached top of the hill, stepped off the ski lift, and with perfect poise, prepared for my descent. I zipped up my jacket and glanced down the slope—and realized there was absolutely no way I was gonna do this. The hill, which had been unintimidating from the bottom, looked completely different from up here. Before, the angle of descent had appeared gentle and easy, but I now saw that this “slope” was more of a dropoff, with a descent of a little less than 90 degrees. Trying to conquer this deathtrap with about 15 minutes of training was suicide. I resigned myself to a ride of shame down the ski lift and turned around. And saw a familiar teenager. My ski instructor, now with some friends, was right behind me. As he recognized me, he cracked a smile. “Hey buddy,” he said, his voice positively dripping with condescension, “You’re trying a black diamond? You must be a pro now, huh?” That was it. As I stared at his acne-covered face, I knew that suicide or not, I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me chicken out. “You bet,” I replied, and without another thought, I stepped over the edge of the slope, letting gravity do the rest. And here I was, mumbling a prayer and awaiting my impending death. The air rushed past
XXX
my ears, making a gentle “whoosh” and drowning out any other noise. In fact, it would have been peaceful had I not been going a thousand miles per hour. It was at this point that I realized I couldn’t turn. According to my instructor, I was supposed to “lean and kinda angle my skis,” and I’d practiced that technique on the bunny hill; however, unlike on the bunny hill, I was approaching the speed of light, and I knew any unnecessary movement would cause me to fall. Therefore, I stayed in a straight path down the hill, willing other skiers out of the way as I picked up speed, waiting for the inevitable. The minute or two I spent going down the hill passed like an eternity. Down I flew, passing a group of snowboarders,—“When I get out of this, at least I’ll have some cool scars,”—squinting as my eyes began to water from the blast of wind,—“I wonder if I’ll have to be on crutches for a while?”—waiting for the sonic boom as I broke the sound barrier,—“I could easily break my neck and be in a wheelchair for life,”—feeling my heart straining against my ribcage, struggling to get out,—“Why did I do this?! I’m gonna die, right here on this godforsaken mountain!” I was a meteor, picking up speed before burning in the atmosphere. Then, salvation: the bottom of the hill was in sight; I was going to make it. I was elated until I saw the creek. To this day, I cannot fathom what advantage anyone could possibly see in having a creek run through a ski resort. But, for some reason, those in charge of Alpine Valley decided it would be a wonderful idea, and a small creek wrapped around the bottom of the slopes. Alpine Valley, however, wasn’t unaware of the danger this presented; the resort demonstrated its steadfast concern for safety by erecting a fence made of blue plastic netting to stop skiers from falling in. Unfortunately, this fence had many holes in it, some of which were suspiciously human-sized. This did nothing to calm my nerves, and I knew I had to stop soon. But how the heck did I slow down? Frantically, I searched my now-blank mind for the answer. Finally, a piece of sage advice came to me: “To slow down, you pizza.” As fast as I could, I pizzaed, like my very life depended on it (and for all I knew, it did.) Little Caesar himself would have been proud of the perfect pizza slice my skis made, yet nothing happened. Oh the irony! By some miracle I’d survived the hill, only to be devoured by the icy waters of a raging creek. When it was all over, they’d fish my dead body out. To my sobbing parents, the ski instructor would gravely explain that I’d disobeyed his explicit orders not to try any difficult hills. Furthermore, I hadn’t been paying attention to his extremely comprehensive lesson on skiing techniques. Alpine Valley, therefore, although sending its deepest condolences, couldn’t possibly be held responsible. I was fast approaching the end of the hill. It was all over. At ten years old, my life had come to an end. Goodbye, world. At the last second, some instinct lying dormant within me awakened. Without even realizing what I was doing, I made a full 90 degree turn, digging my skis into the snow, and, like a pro, completely stopped within ten feet of the fence. I’d made it. I’d successfully cheated death. I laughed out loud. The massive amount of adrenaline coursing through my veins made me feel more alive than ever. No longer taking my life for granted, I noticed, in my bliss, parts of the night that before had seemed trivial to me, like the beautiful way the light reflected off the snow and the clean smell of a crisp winter night. The torrent of wind had turned all of my unprotected flesh to ice, but even the burning, stinging sensation this created delivered to me a rush of pure vitality. More importantly, I realized the worst was over. I’d tamed the wild beast, felled the Goliath of ski slopes. I could now do anything. I rejoined my friends and went down many more hills, each time a little less certain of my impending doom. By the end of the night, I was even trying some jumps. On the bus ride home, I talked to a few of the people in my skiing class. They’d followed the instructor’s advice, sticking to the bunny hill and, if they were feeling adventurous, the beginners’ slopes. They hadn’t taken risks, hadn’t gambled with their lives, hadn’t been completely, utterly paralyzed by fear as they watched in horror as their deaths came upon them. Consequently, they’d had infinitely less fun than me.
XXXI
Noir
Harbinger 2011
I was sitting at my desk, surrounded by papers piled high, To Do List Fuming under my breath, rubbing the circles under my eyes. Liz Edwards “Mommy, take a break!” She climbed up on my lap.
Cupping my chin in her little hands, she advised me to take a nap. “Sit down and finish your picture,” I pointed to her crayons. She picked up the coloring book filled with Tinker Bell and Peter Pan. Looking over, minutes later, I discovered that Peter took second place To my treasured planner notebook, now bearing pink scribbles on its face. I screeched at her in fury, “Why can’t you sit still?! Now look what you’ve done!” She said, “I’m sorry about your schedule, Mommy, but I made you a better one.” “In the morning, I’ll snuggle in your bed, and we’ll watch cartoons on your TV. Then we’ll get dressed all by ourselves, and you’ll eat Lucky Charms with me. I’ll go with you to work and color while you do your stuff, But by 11 o’clock, Mommy, enough is enough! We’ll have a morning snack after you put your job away Then don’t forget, Mommy, you need time to play! We’ll skip to the park and roll down the hill, Fly on the swings like angels, and refuse to sit still. We’ll have a picnic lunch with brownies for dessert Because you’re beautiful, Mommy, and deserve more than fat-free yogurt. It’s okay if we get dirty; it’s okay if we stain our clothes. I promise you that the fun is worth the mud and scraped elbows. After we play princesses, we’ll settle for a rest. Even ballerinas need to sleep if they want to dance their best. You’re never too old to sing and dance, and always remember your smile. Your voice doesn’t have to be in tune ‘cause people have their own style. Finally, Mommy, at 7:30 sharp, turn out the light. God will take care of unfinished work after you say goodnight.”
Song Emily Cocks Her wet eyelashes fluttered and dipped, Pale blue eyes looked up at me. She promised never to leave, And slipped her hand in mine. Our bare feet kissed the sand; We shivered in the ocean spray. She ran away and never looked back, Leaving me to swim across the sea. Western wind you are so cold, Persuading us to get so old. Here in the outer space, We drink wine and dress in lace. It’s so quiet and it’s so cool; We have nothing else to do. But here it’s all a beautiful dream, Nothing here is as it seems. It’s almost a prison. It’s almost a poison. Western wind you are so cold, Persuading us to get so old. So when she came and brought me down, I thought I was drowning somehow, But she brought me back to life. She cured my fear of heights. I open my windows and think of space, And know that nothing is set in place. Because I used to drink the wine, I used to be a different kind.
Wedding ~ Abby Nierman XXXII
The End Matthew Varner Whether the end comes fast or slow, It always comes too soon. To live, to die, end it all, It’s nothing but utter gloom. Remember this, that life is good. It’s precious until its last. But humans forget, we never learn, Even if we learn from the past. We fight, we kill, we survive a day, But does it even matter? Because life with nothing but greed and pain Leaves bodies and souls in tatter. Now I challenge you, all humans of now, To live the life of peace and love Because the end comes whenever, wherever, And these are what life is made of.
Western wind you are so cold, Persuading us to get so old.
XXXIII
Noir
Harbinger 2011
The Corn Stalks
War and Other Things Ian Flick
David Markiewicz
Clomp…
Clop…
Seven—Coming down from heaven
Crunch…
Thirteen—Wiping the slate clean No four count—Now he dismounts
Where did he go?
The depth of the pool is too large—Gathering information before his charge
I turn.
Sinking deeper down—Within the increasing count Further, further down—Even higher, defining the nouns
The wind swirls, disappearing behind a cluster of cornstalks.
Falling into sleep (again)—Another full sweep Down for cannibals—The movement of one’s mandibles
I sprint.
Down for junkies—People acting like monkeys
Thud… Boom… Smash… Swoosh. I spin over my left shoulder.
A Mushroom ~ Kelley Dodge
Into the cross section of the line—No one’s left to find Finite numbers—The sounds of crashing thunder Sleeping—Keeping
Dreams cover Neverland (and Wonderland)—Handfuls of glass and sand Snuff the source in front—A deliberate affront
“THIS ISN’T FUNNY ANYMORE!”
Sleep deep, feel deep—As they fall into sleep
Swoosh. I spin back.
Slip into another suit—Points meet at moot
The leaves rustle impatiently.
Fourteen—The days left unseen
People crawling over one another—The people converging are smothered Twenty-six—With the disregarded left to be fixed
Crunch… Clop… Clomp…
Day and midday shades—No one helps or aids
Into days before the passed ones—People shooting each other with nonexistent guns Digits and factors move to the front—And large objects that are blunt Limits placed and then removed—Even while people remain unmoved
I’m standing still. That wasn’t me.
A breath on my neck, I freeze.
XXXIV
Several places torn into one—Another day not to have fun The man said many things before he left—Leaving the rest with debts The woman cried many times after—The story ends with never after When the soldiers die for a cause—‘Cause everyone has their flaws They can rest in peace—Leaving others to cease Left forever in the dark—The declining arc
XXXV
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Americano Steven Fisher
XXXVI
XXXVII
Old Glory ~ Maggie Scheer
Santa Claus stopped coming to Mexico City. The big guy erased my grandma’s house off his delivery list years ago, and he took the Christmas fun with him. I blamed my parents for ruining the holiday because that meant only one other event remained on the family’s Christmas Day agenda: Christmas dinner with my maternal relatives. We rushed. We packed into a tiny green taxi, and I wedged myself between my big sister and my grandma, while my big brother and our parents went ahead in my aunt’s navy Sedan, driving the car into a blue blur. All around town we zoomed past colorful houses, one toppled on top of the other as if it were swallowing its neighbor. Red light. We lined up in the hectic avenue and waited for the go. Tall tacky billboards screamed, “Look at me!” street vendors sold their lottery tickets, and Latin music strummed out of the radio. This landscape has always been a part of me. Compared to Mexico City, an average drive in Illinois is unspeakably lame. In Mexico, the taxi would pass balloon and candy sellers. In Illinois, I got lucky if I caught a couple walking their dog. Here, palm trees bloomed from the street, swallowing the sunlight. Miles away, dead trees slept under a white sky that not even the sun could penetrate. Preferring the cramped taxi, I felt the opposite of homesick. Green light. We ditched the stray dogs barking into the polluted air and the fat lime trees poking out of the dust covered concrete. The taxi wandered through the labyrinth of streets and alleys until we finally reached our destination: the house where my relatives gathered each Christmas. I gave my grandma a hand as she toddled out of the car, and my aunt paid the taxista. We walked to the door. In the meantime, I tried to fasten the damn button to the cuff of my shirt. I tugged the button to its thin opening and never managed to get it through. “I give up,” I said in Spanish. “Could you get this?” I shoved the cuff of my shirt into my sister’s hands. Before I knew it my aunt was ringing the doorbell. Awakened from its slumber, the door let out a squeaky yawn and revealed the battlefield of a dinner I was about to endure. Walking into the courtyard, I could feel dread tunnel into my stomach, like seeing a teacher whose test I just failed. I stood for a moment and watched waiters bustle back and forth across the courtyard, dodging tables covered with white and red cloth, overrun with aunts, uncles, parents, and cousins, and kids scuttling between the chairs. This is the time when I have to greet, introduce, and occasionally reintroduce myself to everybody my siblings and I bump into. Although I visit the family once a year, I have no idea who they are, and even though I can come right out with it and ask, I do not even know most of their names either. To organize such a diverse collection of family members, I turn into a taxonomist, and classify them into their appropriate sphere.
The highest rank goes by generation: ancient, married, yet to marry, and those under four feet; I give them nicknames based on various characteristics and features. Among my favorites are Long-Nose, MakeUp Lady, Bookworm, and Snobby. I justify this sport with the distinct impression that they do the same, coupled with the fact that they never say my name but rather refer to me as “¡El Americano!” a dignifying nickname based on my handsome features, my mom argues. Here comes Long-Nose. “¡Hola!” Kiss. “How are you?” Next is Ol’Blue-veins. “¡Hola!” Shake hands. “Nice to see you!” Bookworm is too busy reading, and near him stands Black Beard. “¡Feliz Navidad! How’s it going?” By the time we finished acknowledging each other, the young tiptoed to separate tables, while the old diffused into their lingering circles. We waited for the dinner—the turkey, the ham, the pasta, the salad, and the fruit—and sit down, stuffing our legs under the tablecloth. Everybody was talking except me, for I had nothing to say about my job or the recent Latino celebrity gossip. I just slumped and listened in my sister’s shadow, my toes swelling because my old dress shoes were too tight. “What grade are you in now?” a cousin sitting next to me asked. This was not a tough question at first, but then I remembered the Mexican education system is in no way similar to the American one. My voice clogged in my throat, and my reaction wandered in my stomach, as if a balloon tied to an anchor; instead, I just nodded the same way most foreigners do when they understand a sentence has been finished. The look he gave carried the same tone my other relatives used when they called me Americano… Americano. I thought about all the culture and manners I inherited from my country—my clothes, my sense of humor, my taste in music. The way they said it made me feel like nothing. Americano. I am Americano. The look translated to, “The hell with you, Americano, and your silly shoes. You don’t belong here.” At that moment, Fuzzy Eyebrows came to the rescue and herded all the cousins to a table for a group picture. The girls were sitting and the guys were standing. I wondered if I belonged in this photograph. He flashed his camera several times while I tried to preserve my fake smile… When I was eight, at the same house, all my cousins and I lined up to hit the Christmas piñata, a star with seven cone-shaped points, wrapped in a frilly coat of blue, pink and silver crispy tissue papers. Our parents went wild flashing their cameras, eager to collect the fresh holiday memories. Forget memories. I was in it for the candy. Somebody tugged the rope, and the grand star ascended, floating above our heads. The youngest always went first. We sing: “Dale, dale, dale. No pierdas el tino. Porque si lo pierdes. Pierdes el camino...” Not one of my cousins had any luck, and finally I got the weapon, a long wooden stick, suitable to take down any piñata. A blindfold robbed me of my sight; nonetheless, I closed my eyes behind the cloth. Strange hands spun me round and round until my face felt hot. I heard singing: “Dale, dale, dale…” My skinny arms thrust the stick into an empty space of nothing. Swish. “Ya le diste una…” Second try. Swoosh. “Ya le diste dos…” Third try. Thump. The hit piñata rocketed into an explosion of spinning entropy, swinging back and forth, lollipops and chocolates raining from its wound. I took off the blindfold. I was the victor. I was in the right place. Not one of my cousins could ever change that. “Ya le diste tres y se acabo...”
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Elevator Katherine Oosterbaan
XXXVIII
Mama, do you remember sewing my dress’s tear, As you creaked back and forth on your wooden rocking chair? “It’s okay to stumble,” you so patiently said. “Any tear can be fixed with a little time and thread.” Then you readjusted the patchwork quilt across your lap. Some of the patches faded, others in mishap. “Mama, tell the stories!” I exclaimed with delight. And settled in to share the quilt’s memories that you told each night. Mama, now I’m lying snug under your quilt. I’m worried I’m gonna fall; it’s like I’m walking on stilts. The kids here don’t like me, Mama. I don’t fit in—it’s true While they’re all at a party, I lie here missing you. They say I talk funny, and when they make fun of me, they plug their nose Then they point and laugh at your patches on my clothes. But now looking at your quilt Mama, I just don’t understand: If different patches can fit together, why can’t people stand hand in hand? I’m praying hard, Mama, for this one last sewing mend. Oh won’t you please help me somehow find a friend? You can be the needle, and I’ll be the thread. We’ll sew these patches together into a quilt for God’s bed.
Peter Rabbit ~ Katherine Wiacek
They had nothing to say to each other. She was afraid to look at him, and he couldn’t make his eyes meet hers. They stood next to each other in silence, painfully aware that they were alone together for an uncomfortable amount of time. She reached desperately in her purse looking for something—anything—and he checked his watch for the seventh time in the past few seconds. The silence was growing now, and eventually she felt the need to say something. She cleared her throat. “So…how are you?” He muttered something noncommittal in response, and that was that. Ten more floors to go. She looked up anxiously at the glowing buttons on the wall and then back at the man standing next to her. He had absolutely nothing distinguishing about him that she could so much as comment on. He looked like a completely average, run-of-the-mill type of guy who never talks to anyone unless he has to. Not that she was any different. He glanced at her. When she had spoken to him, he had been extremely surprised, and he had been unable to compose a witty or even adequate response to her question. Her words had jolted him out of his self-absorbed reverie, however, which made him painfully aware of the slow advances of the elevator and the furtive glances of his partner. He suddenly felt ashamed for his silence towards her and decided to say something to prove he wasn’t being haughty. He took a deep breath. “So…you’re going to the eighteenth floor?” The girl stared at him. Oh, no. He had been too forward; he had broken the first rule of elevator riding: never speak to the The Sun Sets in Singapore ~ Aliah Taylor people with you, and now he was going to pay the consequences. Suddenly, she said, “Yeah. I’m going for a job interview.” You idiot, she berated herself, he didn’t want to know that. She had been pulled into this conversation, and if he didn’t respond she would have only herself to blame for the silence slowly settling back over the elevator car. Why wouldn’t the elevator move any faster? Couldn’t they see she was dying here? Oh, well. She was stuck with him, so she might as well make the best of it. “You’re going to the eighteenth floor too, right?” He practically jumped out of his polished shoes. An inane comment about the weather was normal for an elevator, but this? They might actually know each other’s names by the time they left the elevator. But he was committed now. “Yeah,” he said distractedly,” I’m going for a job interview.” Suddenly, they both realized what this meant. They were both going for a job interview. The same job interview. They were competitors. “Well,” she said with a nervous laugh, trying to make the best of the situation, “I certainly hope you don’t get it.” To her enormous relief, he smiled slightly and, for the first time, looked her shyly in the eye. “I hope you don’t get your job, either.” And just like that, the tension, the awkwardness, was gone. They both felt as though they had known each other for slightly longer than the two minutes it had actually been. He looked at her for a second, wondering just how much he was willing to say to her. They had already broken every one of his carefully constructed elevator rules, and now he had nothing to lose. “Well, if you aren’t too worried about talking to your competition, do you want to go get coffee after this or something?” The agonizing moment of silence that followed was worse than any of those before. He felt awful. He wished he could just sink through the floor. So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn’t hear her response. “What?” She smiled. “I think I would like to get coffee with you, actually.” He opened his mouth, and just then the elevator bell rang. The doors opened, and they both stepped out, unaware of just how much of a change two minutes had made.
Patches Liz Edwards
XXXIX
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Two Roads Converged on a Snowy Evening ~ Isn’t it strange how emotions can spread? Like one domino knocking down another that is miles ahead. A dismal frown turns into someone else’s tear; A joyful smile turns into another person’s cheer. Not a word need be spoken; No exchange need be made, For a powerful expression creates a short-term masquerade. Humans are related; We can read each other well. Our minds can sense what others feel, As a nose can sense a smell. So when someone’s looking lonely, or you can tell they’re feeling down— Offer them some courage ‘cause life’s a path that circles round.
Equidistant Emily Nierman
XL
Scotty Doesn’t Know Ashley Serrano Racing wheels, racing wheels that traced the lines on Michael Avenue Tire tracks imprinted in the lava of tar melting in the sun, oozing cul-de-sac My hair smelled like summer It got tangled in the wind, but cousin’s hair didn’t, Scotty’s hair didn’t That’s because they were boys My cousin raced past me, and I tried to catch up, but I had training wheels But why did Scotty fall behind? He didn’t have training wheels Then we’d park our bikes on the curb, I didn’t know Some place where no one lived, where no cars drove Scotty didn’t know Cousin and I sat on the asphalt, Indian-style, But Scotty still stood while his dad watched over him When his dad went back into the garage we told Scotty to sit with us on the street The sun-kissed road stung the backs of our legs Did Scotty even know? Now, I’m 15—going on 16, The same age the boys were when I was young And now I know. Now I know why Scotty fell behind Now I know why Scotty didn’t mind the burns on his legs Now I know why his dad was cautious when Scotty rode his bike Now I know why Scotty still lives in that same house today, And will for forever. But Scotty, Scotty will never know.
...Up There ~ Kyle Belting
The empty room echoes against my ears. The commotion spins and circulates around my head. As I sit there drifting into the nothingness of my mind, Those far, silent, deadly walls scream at me. Ticking quicker and faster, the clock of life is racing To speed up the days of the week. All that is wanted is more and more time For moments that I can remember.
But for all those times of the day I regret Should be eliminated from my mind and Put to rest because I make the time to create those Moments that I will remember. So now I can feel like the world Is not spinning on top of a point, those silent Walls aren’t so quiet because I am not alone In that empty room.
Katherine Oosterbaan
The Empty Room Travis Gibbs
XLI
Noir
Harbinger 2011
Angel of God, My Guardian Dear Natalie Geoffroy
That was me, the midwife that cradled your pink, wrinkled self and put you in your parents’ arms. They beamed down at you,
and I knew you would grow up happy with them. That was me, the day you tried to run away. It was raining. You had a backpack with your favorite stuffed animals, your favorite dress, and a jar of peanut butter. I only had an umbrella and a tissue, but it was enough to convince you that you missed your family. That was me, the stranger on the park bench. You told me all about the boy you asked to the Turnabout dance. He rejected you. You thanked me for my help, but it was you that did all the work. I just listened. That was me, pretending to be a salesman on the phone. I called you during that party. I gave you an excuse and you took it. You answered, telling your friends it was your parents. You fooled them all with your lie about that family emergency. I was so proud of you when you walked away. That was me, on your wedding day. I was a thousand people at once: the priest, the organist, the florist, the dress designer, the baker, the groom. You thought something would go wrong. I knew something would, something always does. But walking down the aisle barefoot wasn’t so bad. You didn’t seem to care anyway. All you could do was smile that ridiculous smile that stretched from ear to ear. That was me, a midwife again. This time, I handed your child to you. You wore your mother’s smile. Looking down at the small baby in your arms, you knew it’d be challenging to raise a son. But you weren’t alone. You had your husband, but did you know about me? That was me, the chair in the waiting room—I’m whatever lends you support. You nearly collapsed when the doctor told you about your son. Hydronyphrosis: kidneys too big, too full of water, and unable to function properly. All you heard was the doctor’s first words: “I’m sorry.” That was me, the doctor on the answering machine. You saved my message forever. Your son was fine; he was healthy. You cried when you heard those words. And when you were alone, you’d play them over and over again, just to make sure they were true. That was me, the kid on the red tricycle with a balloon tied to the handlebars. I saw you were upset. You gave me a half-smile that adults so often wear, and told me that your son had just left for college. You missed him already. I offered to buy you an ice cream cone with my allowance, showing you the dirty quarter in my pudgy hand. This time, your smile was real, God's Light ~ Natalie Geoffroy the kind that makes wrinkles appear by your eyes. You bought us both ice cream, and I walked you home. That was me, your son dressed in black. In front of us, a coffin. Behind us, memories. I stayed with you until everyone left the graveyard. We stood, no words were passed, but words weren’t necessary. I just knew. It was hard for me to lose my father too. That was me, your first grandchild. I gave you flowers at the hospital, the only color in the white room. You saw the distress on my face, but you smiled that half-smile again. And then you smiled for real, like your mother, when I called you grandma. That was me, your son one more time, the last time. You were so full of pain, suffering so greatly that nothing around you made sense. I had tears in my eyes. “I love you,” I whispered one last time, but I didn’t think you heard me. I kissed your forehead. Then I pulled the plug. That was me. I took your hand and you followed me through the tunnel, through the light, through the pearly white gates. I knew that you recognized me then. The midwife, the stranger, the phone call, the doctor, the chair, your son, the kid on the tricycle, your grandchild. That was me. You smiled.
XLII
Sent Marissa Ritter Waiting, waiting, waiting, Impatient Tapping fingers Sigh Waiting…waiting… Refresh, refresh again Inbox 224 emails No unread emails in your inbox Grunt Anxious, uneasy Move onto something else Typing Typing Typing Wondering… Check again Refresh, hold breath Sigh…nothing There’s no more time Last try Close eyes Refresh Open eyes YES! 1 new email in your inbox Happiness
Attraversiamo ~ Hillary O'Toole XLIII
Noir
Harbinger 2011
A harmony lost in time a tune I’ve heard once before a gentle fluid rhyme lyrics now an underscore
Far away and long ago enticing melody something I use to know now playing endlessly
Faded part of my memory a dream I can’t recall someone holds me tenderly her voice a distant call
My heart’s instrumental my personal symphony notes sweet and gentle a song composed brilliantly
Wonders of Nature ~ Ed Banderowicz
Before Sanjana Singh I look in the mirror, what do I see? The reflection is definitely not me. I guess I’ve changed but not in a good way; I wish I were the way I was before today. I used to see sea to shining sea, Now all I know is me, me, me. I was where I wanted to stay, Now wherever I am I say okay. Before, every time I heard somebody laugh, I felt so glad I’d start to clap. Now I could care less, So life came down on me.
Before, I used to be the nice one, Now all I want to do is have so-called fun. Before, I had so many true friends, Now I only care about the latest trends. Before, I liked myself, But that’s all history now.
Underneath It All ~ Katie Speth
Heart’s Song Emily Huth
Where is that time I used to love? It was magical and beautiful like a dove, Made me feel like I could fly Into the clear blue sky. The places I used to see, Showing me where I want to be. I think I had enough of my fake Me ‘Cause it’s not right, not the box I should put in my key, Not the song I should be playing. All I want to do is go back to the real Me.
XLIV
Before, I used to be the nice one, Now all I want to do is have so-called fun. Before, I had so many true friends, Now I only care about the latest trends. Before, I liked myself, But that’s all history now.
And now I seem so lost, And I don’t like anything new Even if I pretend to. I’ve put a stone wall in my emotions, Too bad it keeps coming out. I like the time I lived before, I like the dreams I dreamt before, I like everything before, I like the me I was before. Before life came down on me, Before I changed into my alter ego, Before, and now nothing’s the same, Before, when I looked in the mirror, it was me.
XLV
Noir
Harbinger 2011 All That I Am Caitlyn Cuba
You are twice the girl I will ever be When all I knew was weakness, you taught me strength When I showed fear, you taught me bravery When I saw only the ugly, you taught me what it was to be beautiful When I saw the negative, you taught me optimism When I shied off to the side, you taught me how to dance When I saw obstacles, you taught me to hope When I was beaten and burned out, you taught me to pick myself up and stand again When I showed cowardice, you taught me courage When I did everything without question, you taught me to think for myself When I was too shy to even speak, you taught me to laugh When I avoided the world, you taught me to walk with my head held high When I saw the imperfections, the reasons not to care, you found something in me worth loving And for that, I owe you all that I am
Sea of Glass ~ Natalie Geoffroy
They say I Can’t. I’ll try. They sAy I’ll fail, As I take flight aNd fly.
Remember Me Now David Markiewicz They tell Me I’m nothing. They tell me to just quit. So I Bear on And grunt “just wait till you seE this grit”
All the time to struggle, One moment to succeed, TheY bellow and boo, As my bOdy sweats and bleeds
They don’t cheeR. They don’t clap or clatter. They just wait for Me to crumple or crack And clang mE to crunch and shatter
I’m all alone, And yet they say we look the same. Give me one chance, YoU’ll remember my name. They snaRl at my sweat. ThEy stab me while I’m down. There’s no one to get Me up WhEn I’m grasping at air in this ghost town;
They tell me I caN’t. But I will; I have this One moment To Walk it all uphill.
Remember ~ David Markiewicz
XLVI
XLVII
Noir ; or, a Thematic Haiku
Editorial Collaboration Stark, black, faceted All colors blend in one hue Unification
Noir Harbinger 2011