2013 Volume 4
Circuit
Catharsis
Berliner Rathaus, David Perlmutter, Digital Photography
letter from the
editor When I began high school as a freshman, Catharsis began its journey too. Every year since, I have witnessed the magazine’s growth; the writing has become more mature and varied, the artwork more vivid, and the class more unified. When we started the publication this year, it felt like the magazine and I had come full circle, from beginning to end. What better theme could we have then circuit, a movement that starts and finishes at the same place? Circuit, a system of independent parts that join together to create something truly illuminating. Every year, Catharsis starts from scratch. The work is sometimes harsh, even edgy,
not unlike WIRE. Then there are those tantalizing FLICKERS of creativity and innovation. And when it all comes together, we are rewarded with the GLOW of success. The writing in this issue, our fourth, contains aspects of all three that come together to create a unified work of literary and artistic creativity that will surely course through the reader, much like a circuit itself.
Catharsis Volume 4 2013
Circuit “There must be a positive and negative in everything in the universe in order to complete a circuit or circle, without which there would be no activity, no motion” - John McDonald
Isaac S. Andino Editor-in-Chief
Catharsis is the official publication of: Coral Gables Senior High School 450 Bird Rd., Coral Gables FL 33146 Phone (305) 443-4871 Adviser: Camile Betances e-mail: cbetances@dadeschools.net www.catharsismag.com
Cover: concept & design, Katya Sarria; photography, Rinita Rasheed
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Stephanie Elmir M.M. Eisenhart Danke Goethe Yosselyn Andino Brendan Borowski Aliyah Symes Joel Torres-Moran Francesco Sautto Ann-Marie Bracho Evan Caldwell
Spaces of Silence False Façade Clear Glass Ingrid Understands Aurora Regretful Falls Scattered Memories Destination Spring, Rain, Fall Driven by Impulse Rightfully Wrong
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33 35 37 39 41 43 45 47 49 51 53
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F F F F N F F P P F P
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oetry
02 / flicker
tion; P: P
F P F F P N F F F F
e Nonfic
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; N: Pros
9 11 13 15 17 19 21 25 27 29
e Fiction
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s a; F: Pro
For All of Them to Know I Want Her to be Wonderful A Candid Letter Love is Blind Miles Away Wednesday 12 Crimes and a Purple Potato Desert Sea Guilty Pleasure How to Hide a Body
D: Dram
01 / wire
Camile Betances Katya Sarria Arlet Aguiar Bianca Perez Stephanie Elmir Soannie Maldonado Mario Olivares Katya Sarria Jenny Jimenez & Aliyah Symes Katya Sarria Avery Budin
03 / glow Flames of the Soul Dear Captain Lethal Greg’s Shoe Fairy Tale News: Cinderella Story Regarding Snow White The Pygmalion Theory Tangible Ode to a Watermelon
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57 59 61 65 67 69 71 75 77
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F P F D D N F P P
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Michelle Dubon Christopher Arias Paulina Picciano Elizabeth Gonzalez & Natali Hernandez Justin White Isaac Andino Rinita Rasheed M.M. Eisenhart Nicolas Rivero
contents table of
writing
01 / wire The Eye On the Wall Nature’s Love Flower Girl Little Darling Christopher Convoy Vaea Peace Sex Appeal ia Orana
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10 12 13 16 17 19 21 25 28 29
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Aliana Leyva Josue Brizuela Aliana Leyva Joanna Valdes Christopher Almeida China Opland Justin White China Opland Christopher Almeida China Opland
02 / flicker Addicted to Nostalgia Frosty Sleeping Window Ink The Mask This Would be a Beautiful Death Dance in the Sky Tahiti Falling for You Bitter Pill
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Maxim Seitter Mary Koehnk Margarita Rentis Rinita Rasheed Christopher Arias Josue Brizuela Josue Brizuela China Opland China Opland Christopher Almeida
03 / glow
contents table of
artwork
Searching Out to Sea Around the World Flower Optics Steven Hyde The Hunter Figure Drawings Lorenzo de’ Medici Ginger Whimsical Curves of Wonder Food Arizona
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57 60 61 63 63 63 64 64 64 66 68 72 75 77
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Nicole Sielsky Paulina Picciano Christopher Arias Clarais Cala Nicole Sielsky Natali Hernandez Marjorie de la Cruz Marjorie de la Cruz Cesare Giuffredi Roxana Mendez China Opland Christopher Almeida Mary Koehnk China Opland
Endless, Rinita, Rasheed, Digital Photography
wire The most fundamental part of a circuit, a wire, is stretched taut with tension and decidedly unyielding. Similarly, the pieces in this selection are defined by their biting wit and sharp insights.
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For All of Them to Know Stephanie Elmir he color of my dress is black, and as luck would have it there was no sun to make me perspire; no sun but lots of rain. That makes me smile, knowing that the rest of the girls will look like drowned rats in white dresses that cling close to their skin, dripping through, revealing the vibrant colors of tasteless undergarments. I sit in the back to be able to take a last look at all my classmates, see what everyone else is wearing; all the sundresses were ruined, of course. Other girls were smart enough to at least bring an umbrella but even that couldn’t prevent the frizzing of newly primped hair, the metamorphosis of soft shiny curls to fluffy birds’ nests. Meanwhile, I remain dry inside the auditorium, bra and cotton panties safe from view and hair unruffled, thanks to my coming half an hour early. Yes, today was a good day for graduation. I could barely afford this dress but it was worth the fifty dollars and thirty two cents. It was worth almost missing rent too, especially since I was flat out the best looking girl in this mausoleum of sheep. Every day, I would come to school dressed like a bag lady; no make-up, monstrous hair, baggy sweats, thick glasses, and old flip flops—but today was different. Today, I’m wearing a black dress with transparent sleeves that cut off elegantly at the edge of my collarbones. It continues down to solid colored fabric that shapes itself around my body, and it stops midway to my knees. And my normally unpainted face is now caressed with subtle eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lip stick. For once in my life I feel beautiful, like one of the girls that actually spend hours grooming themselves to come to class gorgeous and were always more willing to look at their reflections in compact mirrors instead of paying attention to lectures. I hated them to the core, but I couldn’t help but respect their talents at masking true ugliness. “Oh my gosh, Kayla, is that you? Oh my gosh it is you!” Ugh, speaking of people I hated, here was one that I barely tolerated: Judy Bloomberg was known as the worst kiss up wannabe puppy follower in the entire school. Anyone who was anyone tried their best to steer clear from her leech-like adoration—fortunately for me I was a nobody. “Wow, I barely recognized you! I mean you look so pretty, not that you don’t always look pretty but you know…..” I smiled politely and kept my hand from punching her in the gut. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying. Do you want to sit with me?” I ask her this but the answer is already obvious. “Oh no, I’m gonna go sit with Dorris and the other girls but thanks for offering.” Ah, unintentional sweet release from another hated foe. Dorris and ‘the girls’ were Judy’s objects of adoration when it came to clawing her way up the social ladder. As she makes a beeline toward the front I felt a twinge of pity for her, already knowing that Dorris and ‘the girls’ never saved her a seat…..but then again it’s her fault for being a masochistic idiot. It was always better to be happy and alone than sad with a group of assholes. Soon enough the room is filled with the living dead and Dorris’s group of henchgirls surround her glowing being like a giant halo of dripping white gowns—on the outskirts were the boys that never bothered to look at me even when I did otherwise. They were all so different yet alike as they clung to their clique like a life jacket; the sort of bad boy with piercing eyes and a shiny motorcycle, the captain of the swim team with a killer smile, the loveable class clown with a load of cash, and who could forget the God graced looker that is Mr. Senior Class President. They all excelled at high school
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life but there was a good chance that they would have all flunked without copying off of the students like Judy….or me. God, I was such a moron. Truth is, I’m still a moron because the only reason I bothered to feel beautiful was for them to finally see me. It makes me just as bad as Judy but I need this for closure; I need every single jerk and bitch in that front row to know that I could have been one of them if I wanted to, that I’ll always be better than them for not succumbing to their agenda of suburban malice. I need them to know that even though my father left me when I was two and even though my mother was too busy shooting up heroin to come to my graduation, I would find a way to be better than them and never be like them. I can hear the principal calling up the students to get their diplomas. Soon I can go back to the ratty apartment I’ve been working nights to keep rent; soon I can start packing for NYU, the dream college that shockingly bothered to give me a full scholarship; soon I can leave this God forsaken town of cookie cutter zombies with perfect lives and even more perfect lies. In the end, the eighteen years of monotonous torture was worth the freedom but it would mean nothing if I couldn’t show these devils just who was going to be their superior in the real world. Then the moment came. My name was called, a haunting song that warned those sheep that the wolf was coming. I emerge from the crevice that I had hid myself in and strut proudly past Dorris’s halo and onto that spacious stage. I pray for every sharp clack of my heels to cut their skin, to make their ugly insides bleed out. I want them to gasp in horror to see me in a black dress worth gasping for. I hope that they melt under my gaze as I stare out, more smug and confident and beautiful than I’ve ever been. But most importantly, I need them to know. And when I hear utter silence for the ten seconds that I’m in that righteous spotlight, I know that they know. Yes, it’s definitely a good day for graduation.
I smiled politely and kept my hand from punching her in the gut.
The Eye, Aliana Leyva, Pencil on Paper
I Want Her to be Wonderful M. M. Eisenhart
Hideous. I want her to be hideous: I want her to have cottage cheese thighs, I want her skin to be discolored, I want her to have strange growths… Everywhere. Manners. I want her to have bad manners: I want soup to leak from her lower lip, I want lasagna to cover her lap, I want an earth-quacking belch to escape her chapped lips… Chapped lips. Chewbacha, I want her to have more body hair than Chewbacha: I want her growths to be seasoned with long, brown, curly hairs, I want her nipples to be unseen beneath the hair… The hair. Smoker. I want her to sound like a 40-year, two-pack-a-day smoker: I want people to hang up in fear upon hearing her voice, I want children to flee like beach-goers from sharks from sharks, I want her voice to give him nightmares… Nightmares.
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On the Wall, Josue Brizuela, Digital Photography
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A Candid Letter Danke Goethe
20 February 2013 It’s soon to be 5 months since our relationship officially ended, though I must say it ended well before then. The platonic love I thought was ubiquitous in our 2 years together had long been absent before September 26. I didn’t know it. Even if I did, I probably would have shunned the idea; you were all I needed, all I wanted, and all I knew. My conception of love was perfectly shaped and comfortably stable in an oppressive relationship where I was the dominant figure and you were a silhouette. I was oblivious to this. In my mind, I had wrongly developed an image of you which I expected you to meet; I envisioned you how I wanted to and didn’t appreciate you for who you truly were as much as I should have. You, in an attempt to maintain the serenity in our relationship, foolishly tried to meet these expectations, thereby hiding your genuine self many times behind a façade imposed by me on you. After you rightfully ended things and towards the last months of our relationship (i.e. beyond our boyfriend and girlfriend titled relationship and into our failure friendship in late 2012), your true personality starkly manifested itself and I despised it. I further exacerbated our friendship and ultimately destroyed it by attempting to make you see that you were being rebellious. I’m sorry for that. I was just upset because by that time I had realized that our friendship was over; you were developing your own life in a separate sphere from mine and it seemed terribly difficult to peacefully coexist. This brings us to today. I just read 1 Corinthians 13 with a blind 84 year old man who, I must say, is one of the happiest, if not the happiest, human being I have ever met. I believe the chapter we were reading was chosen by some kind of divine intervention; that is, I was meant to read this chapter today with this man. The chapter defines what love is, what it is not, and what it does. Love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” This verse stuck out at me in particular because I was sitting next to an 84 year old blind and jubilant man who lived in Cuba and experienced communism at its worst. You see, every day I see this man he is always happy (you’ve met him before and you’ve witnessed his enthusiasm). Everyone speaks
Nature’s Love, Aliana Leyva, Pencil on Paper
of him in such vivid and lively terms. Inherently, the question I immediately asked myself was “Why is this man so happy all the time?” I wasn’t only thinking about this question because he was blind and suffered in Cuba, but also because he was a human being like you and I. How can he, a human being, always seem to glow with gratitude and genuine exuberance? I came to the conclusion that it’s the love Paul speaks of in 1 Corinthians 13. This man’s love “endureth all!” (well, maybe not all, but a lot). Even though his eyesight was taken from him halfway through his life and even though he lived in communist Cuba, the love he found in Jesus Christ endured all of this and many more tribulations! Love is the most important thing to God, and at the
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Love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
end of the day (and during the day) he wants us to genuinely feel true love for one another. I went on to compare this love that Paul describes with the love in our relationship. Throughout the two years we were together, I believed, and I still do, that our love was beyond the erotic love that infests other relationships. But was it anything close to true platonic love? Or better yet, did it incorporate Agape? We can answer this question by just looking at our present lives: We don’t have any kind of communication with each other. I think it’s perceivable that our love didn’t endure it all. Clearly, it didn’t endure our break-up. And that’s what truly hurts the most; realizing the fact that we didn’t have a love strong enough to withstand the thing that makes people despise relationships: the breakups, the nasty stuff, the stuff that ends friendships. A year ago I would have thought our love could have “bore all things, believed all things, hoped all things, endured all things.” Now, it is evident that it couldn’t. For the most part, I’m to blame for that. Mockery usually comes my way because people think “I’m too young” to wish to be in love or because I’m too young to comprehend love-- actually, that might be it. Maybe I am too young to truly comprehend the love beyond friendships. After all, you were my first sign of true love. Till today, I have never felt the feelings I did for you towards anyone
else. In the relatively small amount of time that I’ve been blessed to roam this planet, no one that I’ve met can compare to you. In those two years together I knew the real you, but I constantly seemed to ignore it and not completely appreciate it. You are a kind and caring individual with so much passion and love for everyone and everything. You are beautiful. But to not further put “my heart into my mouth” and fail, I will cease to continue turning my feelings into words. As I said before, till this day, I’ve yet to meet someone as awesome as you. I think that statement, however, reveals some underlying hope. My relationship with you was so meaningful, and I am forever grateful to God for putting such a beautiful and passionate soul in my life. Our break-up, more than a nasty event which elicited anger, sadness, and many tears, was a lesson. You have fortunately awakened me from my obliviousness of my oppressiveness and I promise you that my future relationships will not be ruined because of this. I’m young and, god willingly, I will go on to live many more blessed years! Somewhere in those years, I know I am bound to meet the girl with whom I will happily and gratefully grow old, retire, and eat oatmeal with. Most importantly, we will share a love that, to use Paul’s own words in 1 Corinthians 13, “is kind.” I’m sorry for all I’ve you put you through and I love you. I hope someday in the future we can be friends again. Perhaps we can get some mamey shakes and discuss how much we’ve learned from our relationship. Thank you for sharing so many wonderful experiences with me, for being by my side through the misery of high school, for introducing me to things I never appreciated before you, and for always listening during those two years. All I really wish for you is sheer happiness in your future years in college and for the remainder of your life. Pursue happiness at all times and I believe you’ll meet the right guy, someone who will treat you with the respect you deserve. I’ll do the same. The future looks promising and I will look onward with hope, faith, and most importantly, love. From the New King James Version “ 4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-7
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Love Is Blind
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crate and there he found Hate, who ruthlessly sent Love away because he refused to play such a hideous game. Love did not insist. He left Hate in the crate and moved in sync with the late afternoon wind. Madness was the only one left. Love kept searching, but couldn’t find him anywhere. It was strange. Madness was not known for being easily ignored, which made Love wonder if he really knew Madness that well. Stopping for a moment, he wondered if he’d be able to find Madness. He realized then that of all his friends, Madness was the one he knew least of all. After walking around for some time, Love grew tired of searching. He searched everywhere, but didn’t find any clues to locate his crazy friend. Love was frustrated. He went inside the garden to relax a bit. Once there, Love went around the rose bushes, and then he saw, listened, and sensed something strange in the roses. Love reached out his hand and tried to carefully push some of the little branches of the bushes to make his way. Once he cleared out a bit of the roses, Madness suddenly jumped out and surprised his friend Love. As Madness was laughing because of the thrill, he realized Love wasn’t laughing at all. Madness bent down closer to Love, and to his dismay some of the roses’ sharp thorns had fallen into Love’s eyes. Madness didn’t know what to do. Because of him, Love was hurt. As Love kept screaming and crying tears of blood, Madness helped him to stand up. Both of them left the garden and went across the fields, along the paths, and arrived to where everybody was waiting for them. As the friends gathered around, Madness promised Love that he would always accompany him. From that day forward, it was decided that Love is blind and Madness will always be with him.
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hey all broke apart and scattered around the field and gardens like a shattered piece of glass. One by one, they all went to hide as dear Love began to count, looking for a perfect hideout that nobody, not even Love, could find. They ran through the gardens, across the fields, up a hill, and down the path next to the river of Truth. How much they enjoyed and hated to play hide and seek, the game that all of them learned together and that brought them together, but then innocently broke them all apart. As they faded away through the place, Love was already at number 88. By the time they all found a hideout, Love was at 98. Before Love was almost done, Madness was desperate to find a place to hide. He crazily tried to hide under a puddle, but it was all in vain. As Love shouted that he was ready to go, Madness ran through the garden’s gates, and as he entered, he found a perfect place to hide; Love would never think of such a place to try to look for him. Love reached 100. He turned around and began his quest to find his dear friends. He skipped around the paths, the fields, the gardens, and up the hill. Love knew his friends so well; he didn’t have to look too hard to find them. A few minutes passed, and Love had already found Sloth, who gave up halfway at 50 because he felt too lazy to find a hiding place. Not long after, Love found Greed, who hid behind the royal treasure of a king. Just like that, Love also found Envy hiding behind the back of Greed, who was too full of himself to notice Envy behind. Love kept skipping around the field. He found the river of Truth, and as he was passing by he found Vanity, who was too engrossed looking at her reflection in the crystalline water. Little by little, Love kept finding his friends. He found Fear under a blanket, Pride on the king’s throne, Happiness nowhere, Sadness everywhere, and tiny Hope below the altar of the ivory church. Only two friends remained, Hate and Madness. Love kept skipping along the path until he left the fields, the gardens, and the hill. He reached for a
Yosselyn Andino
cils Pen r o l o des, C Flower Girl, Joanna Val
on
White
Brendan Borowski
Save me I’m lost Somewhere in the reaches of my psyche Looking for an answer to the almighty question. Why do I exist? I refuse to become another model of ‘The American Dream” Would prefer a bullet over the white picket fences And never – ending identical boxes we call the suburbs. Life on the road is an option. Another rambler that keeps on rambling Until he ends up where he belongs. Maybe that’s just something I tell myself To dull the everyday racket for a moment of quiet contemplation. Only time will tell
Miles Away Chaos and order Normal and odd All ways to explain Ways to determine the cause of our madness Some fight for the right Others attempt to stomp it out Like the last embers of a dying fire To you, dear reader I ask; is it so bad to be you?
Little Darling, Christopher Almeida, Digital Photography
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Christopher, China Opland, Digital Photography
Wednesday ednesday, to put it metaphorically, is a treadmill; you’re going forward, but you’re not actually moving. Wednesdays are smack dab in the center of an academic week, and because it is after Monday and Tuesday (the most intolerable days of them all) and before Thursday and Friday (the days that fill me with an anticipation only equaled by the sight of blueberry muffins), they are a theoretical no-man’s land. Nobody wants to be anywhere near a Wednesday—they’re dreary. Nothing really happens on Wednesdays except for American Idol, and who really watches that anymore? Wednesdays are only tolerable to me because of my perseverance to always see the glass half-full— except on Mondays, when the cup is dryer than the Sahara during a heat wave. Anyone you hear say that their favorite day of the week is the ‘W’ word is a liar and you should never listen to them again. Liking Wednesday in general is synonymous to liking Monday—and NOBODY likes Monday. However, Wednesdays do have their perks. The positive side of a Wednesday is that every minute past noon
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is a minute closer to Thursday, which is a minute closer to Friday, which, of course, is a minute closer to the glorious 48 hours that we call the weekend. Wednesdays are also the days where I am allowed my weekly cup of Starbucks coffee (promptly chugged), which is always rewarding because it then gives me enough energy to form coherent sentences. It is the day where naps seem most appropriate, pizza seems to be rewarding (actually, that might be Friday), and when my cell phone is constantly ringing with pleas for help on all sorts of things (mainly homework). They are the days where my mother seems to find the energy to get me blueberry muffins from Fresh Market—and I would do anything for those pieces of baked deliciousness, I tell you. Wednesday, finally, is the day when my sister has dance class for 5 hours, and I can spend my precious time (after my homework is somewhat completed, of course) counting down the minutes until Thursday, Friday, and consequently, the weekend. In that sense, Wednesdays are pretty good.
Aliyah Symes
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12 Crimes and a Purple Potato Joel Torres n August 11th I woke up, ate the most amazing French toast ever for breakfast, and then I got to work exactly on time. My boss promoted me to assistant manager for my “constant success and great work ethic,” and I was finally able to say something witty and amazing while the girl of my dreams was listening. Traffic was great as I got home and my neighbor’s gigantic Ford pickup was in the shop so he wasn’t blocking my parking spot by the apartment. It was the most stress-free, amazing day I’ve had since I was twelve. That all ended at exactly twelve o’ clock when a bunch of delinquents broke my bedroom window with a stone and bombarded me and my favorite bed sheets with rotten eggs. It was a horrible night. My eyes were sore from scanning around the dark street, and I smelled absolutely horrible, but I couldn’t doze off for even a second. Fatigue was killing me by the time the sun rose and I decided to simply call in sick; my work would probably suffer anyway (possibly due to the fact
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that I could not spend five minutes without dozing off). Luckily my boss seemed to be in a hurry when I called so he didn’t question my blatantly obvious fake cough and sniffles. I had some breakfast, took a shower, and pinned a sheet over my busted bedroom window before sitting down and turning on my TV. After about thirty minutes, I was dozing off and John Wayne was giving his final monologue in some war movie. I never managed to fully close my eyes though, for at the very moment something that looked like a man in a suit crashed through my living room window and landed on my coffee table. “Jenkins! I need your help!”, said the person emerging from the wreckage of my antique, handme-down oak coffee table. As I took a closer look, I recognized the person as Mr. Nicholson, my boss. “What the hell are you doing in my house Mr. Nicholson!”, I screamed. The shattering window had woken me up a bit, but the sight of my precious coffee table in splinters had invigorated me with rage. “Jenkins, calm down. I’m here on important business,”
he said, gesturing at a large suitcase in his hand. “I need to borrow your car.” “What the hell for?”, I said. “You have your own car, and why did you crash through my window instead of knocking like a normal per-“ Suddenly, there was an eruption of gunfire from outside and Mr. Nicholson tackled me to the ground, lying on top of me. “Are those guns? What the hell!” “I’ll explain later, Jenkins. Do you have a back door?” I nodded to the door on the opposite side of the kitchen. “Good, I need you to take this briefcase to the car while I distract these jerkoffs.” “How will you do that? Who are they? Why
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are-” I stopped talking when he pulled a pistol out of his back pocket along with a small object that looked like a pipe with blinking lights. “What is that?” I asked. “Just hurry,” he said, before he ran back into the living room and started shooting. I had no time to think about what was going on, and amidst all the shooting I managed to drag the briefcase around my building to my car. As I turned the key, my apartment exploded into a gigantic ball of fire and all the shooting stopped. I stared blankly at the uninsured wreckage that was my home, and sure enough Mr. Nicholson emerged from the smoke gesturing for me to start moving. “What the fuck did you just do to my ho-” Mr.
It’s a potato, you idiot, a purple potato. But not just any purple potato.
Nicholson cut me off with a massive slap across the face. “Eyes on the road Jenkins! And why is that briefcase not buckled in?” He grabbed the briefcase from the backseat and began examining it. “This briefcase is our future.” For the next ten minutes, Mr. Nicholson directed me through backstreets while clutching his briefcase dearly. I couldn’t find a way to express my anger to him so I simply asked him where we were going and what was in the briefcase. “We’re going to work Jenkins, but we have to avoid main roads.” “And the briefcase?” His mouth spread into a wide grin. “I’ll show you,” he said. He put the code in and cracked the case open. Looking into it, I saw four kilos of cocaine in plastic packages, and a small black box about the same size as the cocaine packages.
Convoy, Justin White, Film Photography
“What are you doing with that?” I said, swerving the car to the side of the road and putting it in park. “Why do you have cocaine? I want nothing to do with you, you psychopath! I’m leaving!” I opened the door and started to get out, but he reached over and dragged me back to my seat. “Calm down boy! You can’t just leave now. We need to get to work.” “Work? What the hell do you mean? I have to go to the damn poli-” Have you ever felt like your boss had a gun to your head? I think most people use that as a figure of speech, but at that moment in time, when Mr. Nicholson pulled his Glock 45 and placed it on my temple, I realized that any person in the world who used that phrase metaphorically was grossly underestimating the amount of fear such a situation would produce. “I don’t need you to get arrested and then
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turn me in, you little white collar bastard! We are going to go to work and sign you in as having been there early. That will make the cops think the shootout at your house was a random gang thing and eliminate you from suspicion. Now, as for the cocaine, that’s not important right now. Just know that I have been heading a large cocaine drug ring in order to perform some corporate espionage.” He pulled out the little black box from the briefcase, opened it, and pulled out a small purple object. “This is what’s important,” he said. “What is it?” “It’s a potato, you idiot, a purple potato. But not just any purple potato. This is going to throw our small snack business straight to the top.” He placed the potato back into its box. “Not just the top of the snack business, the top of the world man.” He looked at me and gestured at the road. “We have to hurry and get to work. I’ll explain on the way.” As we drove on, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about potatoes and running cocaine rings. He explained to me how he had gotten into the cocaine business in order to get close to an aspiring food scientist, who had a crippling addiction and was on the verge of creating the perfect potato using the south Chilean purple potato. Mr. Nicholson had stolen a completed potato while making a sale to the scientist. “I waited months for the bastard to slip up and let me in his lab,” he said. Now, he planned on planting the potato he had stolen to make hundreds and then launch his snack business. Before long, the company would be making enough revenue to expand into the starch business, for which this potato was also useful, and then move into every other business that potatoes played a part in. Using his perfect potatoes he would rule every sector of business. “That’s fairly ambitious,” I said. “But was the cocaine aspect really necessary?”
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“I wanted to stick with the familiar.” When we had come to a full stop, he rolled down the window and called a young girl over to the window. They spoke for a minute in whispers until, finally, Mr. Nicholson told me to drive away after handing her a hundred dollar bill. “Who was she?” I asked. “She gathers info for me on the streets. You don’t remember her? You two got pretty well acquainted during our last Christmas party. Then again, I had slipped you a couple of roofies on her request...” “You drugged me? And I had sex with a prostitute?” I said. “Yes I drugged you, but I don’t know what you did when the doors were finally closed.” At that point, I punched him so hard across the face that my hand hurt. “I probably deserved that,” he said. We were two blocks away from work when two large black SUV’s blocked our path. “Oh, shit. What now?” I whispered. “It’s Professor Snorts-A-Lot. He probably wants his potato back,” said Mr. Nicholson. He pulled out another of those pipe-bombs and checked the ammo in his gun. “Drive to the parking lot.” Without any objection, I floored the car and crashed through the center of both SUV’s, gunfire errupting from them suddenly. Mr. Nicholson fired back then set a timer on his bomb. When we got to the parking lot, we switched cars and left the bomb in mine. “Whose car are we taking?” I said as he hotwired the small blue sedan whose window we had smashd in. “Jennifer’s.” “But she’ll hate me!” “Already does,” he said, in an almost proud tone.
“Why?” “She saw you at the Christmas party.” “With the hooker?” “Yup.” “Oh.” At this point things took a turn for the worse again. The black SUV’s pulled into the parking lot and approached my car. On the other side of the lot three black Mercedes sedans pulled in and also made a beeline for my car. By this point Professor Snorts-aLot and his armed goons were walking up to my car when the people in the Mercedes’s opened fire with automatic rifles. The professor and his men returned fire and suddenly the entire parking lot seemed like a warzone. “Who the hell are those guys?” I asked, pointing at the Italian looking men in suits piling out of the cars. “Mobsters,” said Mr. Nicholson, “Probably here for my head.” Suddenly we were surrounded by delivery trucks, all of which had the word ‘Lays’ printed on the side. “No!” Mr. Nicholson was sitting in the passenger seat with wide eyes. He looked around frantically and started shouting again, “No! No! No!” “What’s going on?” I asked, but he was already exiting the car and walking toward a man in a white suit who had emerged from the semi-trucks passenger seat. Suddenly the trucks opened up and a small army of men poured out armed to the teeth and pointing their guns at Mr. Nicholson. “This is the last time you steal from me,” said Mr. Nicholson to the suited man. But without offering any resistance he opened up his brief case and handed over the case with the potato in it. I realized what was going on. Lays wanted the potato too. “This is the last time we’ll have to,” said the man.
“Go to the intersection at 20th and 3rd,” he said with a furious look in his eyes. “Looks like I won’t be getting my apartment back after all,” I said and I put the car in drive and went to the address he had ordered me to. It turned out we had a second building in our company that handled research and product testing. As we walked in Mr. Nicholson’s mood improved immediately. He was practically skipping through the building. “Why are you so happy?” I inquired, “Didn’t we just lose everything?” he looked at me and smiled. As he stared at me he pulled out a small purple object from his inner coat pocket. It was about the size of a golf ball only elongated and I instantly knew what it was. “You stole two?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, “But the more mature one was a useless prototype, this one is the true perfect potato,” he smiled and danced off into another room labeled ‘Analysis Room’. In the following months we started to reproduce the perfect potato and were designing new snacks. Lays put out a new brand of chip using the fake potato, but had to pull them from the shelves when millions got sick. Their company had to pay billions in compensation for the sick and they filed for bankruptcy. Meanwhile, our company is rising with the announcement of our new perfect potato and our stock price has quadrupled. Mr. Nicholson replaced my apartment with a nice home, but with the money I’m making I could have done it myself. The police hardly questioned me about my old wrecked apartment and car. They assumed the apartment had suffered a gas leak and my car had been destroyed in the gang fight in the parking lot. When I was released from custody they said they pitied me for having such bad luck.
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Desert Sea Francesco Sautto
Vaea Peace, China Opland, Digital Photography
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he sun shone on a sarcastic illumination of what was once a proud and bustling colony. T’was now a desolate desert, no longer flowered by the citizens of modern society, but inhabited only by the frequent howling of the wind against the ancient structure of the ruins. There, where there now laid a vast, dry valley, once lived a glorious sea, a gulf that provided the very necessities of life itself. A torn and worn paper, a love letter, brought to reality from deep within a mind left over from the glory days of human existence. It stood trapped upon a symbol, a torch once exemplifying freedom itself. The piece of scripture, withered away by centuries of erosion, was non-existent, leaving only a remnant of a once beautiful memory. “I love you so very much… It’s a chain by now that heats the blood within my veins,” the fragment of a sentence that would have once
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meant something to the lonely hearts of the past. As a toxic, dusty fog continued on its patrol through the alien wasteland, a figure appeared, different from the rest of the rubble. Behind a stone mural, once covered with the work of the citizens of liberty, laid an abandoned home, a shack, a ruin, only a portion of what was considered shelter by millions of spirits. Yet, a single room, a single light, a single shining piece of gold in a bowl of lead stood unyielding to the erosions of time. There, as if tangled in the fabrics of time, a book sat upon a tattered, worn out desk of rust and metal offering itself to the ghosts that once flipped through its pages. Living on the thread of a miracle, the writing within its covers were unaffected by the radical changes of society, but the very irony of the world was collected in this single work of literature describing mankind’s first expedition to uncover his true light, the light that
would surely change the world as we once knew it to be. In the midst of the book, sat man’s first encounter and vision of the true light upon the sands of that dead dune sea. A mushroom that placed its radioactive roots within the land around it. The moment that the first shockwave was felt, the Earth shook in fear at the foreshadowing of her own death. As time passed on, she felt the pain of that parasite ever growing upon her bosom but stood standing, hoping her denizens would, too, share in her pain and repent for their sins. But mankind needed no such repentance for their crime. Their true worth, their true light, their true power sat caged in between its corrupt fingertips. Soon, the desert sea that first witnessed the light expanded ever more. The parasite infected every man, every woman, every child on Gaia and beyond. The once lush, vivid
nature of the third planet turned into a harsh, brutal tundra. And the fog continued its journey, oblivious to everything around it, drawn only by the wind, drawn only to desolation, drawn only to death. Death not of a mortal being, but of an immortal memory. Past the crumbled metallic skyscrapers, past the valleys and canyons, past the sinister sand that surrounded her, past the bones of a distant era, past the broken hopes of a species in their pursuit of happiness, the fog continued on, continued on into the distance, uncaring of the scorched earth around it. And the universe continued on. Our solar system, unchanged, our galaxy, unmoved, our cluster, unaware. None cared for extinction. No one cared. And so, the human race is no more.
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Guilty Pleasure Ann-Marie Bracho e had never laid eyes on such a thing. Such beauty, such guilty perfection. Such distilled exquisiteness. Those eyes, those undisturbed olive eyes, stared serenely at the green yields that extended from the curves of her hips. Those ruddy courteous lips slightly opened as if exhaling a gentle whisper. Her cinnamon skin was untouched by the erosional pass of time. Her plump soft breasts still pointed towards the sky like soldiers in command. The curves of her discreet hips now seemed voluptuously rude, but lustful in their perfection. Her arms were gently placed, as if she had been carried by angels onto the ground, and her fingers scratched piles of earth sprinkled by the morning dew. He had never perceived such flawlessness before. He had stared at her in awe for what seemed like years, craving her tenderness, her delicious aroma that surrounded her in a delicate aura, her virginal body left untouched; he craved for her so intensely. He craved for the deliciousness of her self, for possessing that self, for becoming as perfect, as striking as her. He craved for being wanted as he wanted her, for being as desirable as her, as unaltered as her. But he just stood. He stood there unable to touch her, in fear of destroying her immaculateness with his brute touch. What desperate situation, what a dilemma, to feel free of culprit after committing such a crime. But was it a crime to covet such a creature? Was it selfish to desire her to the point of making her immortal, unable to be spoiled by time? Her beauty was unable to make him feel such guilt. She had become his guilty pleasure, his terrible desire, his prohibited obsession. He knew he was unable to possess her, but nonetheless he embraced her in memory as he slowly vanished through the extensive rotten fields that surrounded her spotless corpse.
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Sex Appeal, Christopher Almeida, Digital Photography
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How to Hide a Body Evan Caldwell
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ello! If you’re reading this, you’ve probably just killed someone and you want to dispose of the body without getting caught. Or maybe you’re a bystander who wants to prevent a scandal. Well, lucky for you, you can dispose of the body in several simple steps! Start by gathering the following materials: • Victim’s body • Body bag • Shovel or digging tool • Secluded farmland or wooded area • Photographs and other evidence that show you away from the crime scene • Flammable liquid (optional) • Matches / Lighter (optional)
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ia Orana, China Opland, Digital Photography
First, after you gather your materials, make sure you have the right dead body, because the last thing you want is to go through all the trouble of disposing of a body, only to discover that you’ve buried the wrong body. Then, put the body into the body bag along with any internal or external organs that may have become separated from the body during the “pre-packing process.” (Make sure that you have all the personal items from the victim in a separate bag.) Once you have your body (technically, it’s their body, but dead people can’t sue for custody, so it’s really your body) in the body bag, find a secluded farmland or wooded area. If you choose a secluded farmland, make sure a senile, crazy old farmer lives there, because that will lessen your chances of being a suspect if the police do find the body. Bring the dead body in the body bag with you to the farm or woods, and use your shovel to begin digging a hole to bury the body in. Try to schedule your hole-digging time so that it falls during the night, because if you are digging a hole in the middle of a farm during the daytime you’ll probably get shot by the crazy farmer. After you have dug your hole, quietly place the body bag with the dead body into the hole. Fill in the hole with the dirt you dug out of it. You might want to add some leaves or branches to make the spot less noticeable, because if you have a big pile of dirt in the middle of a secluded farm, the police will find you pretty fast (unless the whole “senile-farmer-did-it” method works out). After this, you will want to build up a solid alibi and gather photographs and other evidence that shows you away from the crime scene. A final optional step to this process is to take the victim’s personal belongings and put them into a fire pit. You can smear the flammable liquid all over the bag the items are in, and then set it on fire with a match or a lighter. This will help guarantee that you won’t get caught as well as destroy some evidence. Well, now you know everything you need to know about burying a dead body. However, it is suggested that you stop murdering people and get a job because it’s really your fault the economy’s so bad. And if you were a bystander who buried the body, you should probably move to a better neighborhood. Good luck!
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Chinatown Walk, Christopher Arias, Digital Photography
flicker 02
An idea dances in and out of your mind, tempting you with a small taste of what is to come. A circuit shakily powers a light bulb. The process is not over yet – it is in a transient state of change. Everything is simply a moment in time, much like the stories in this section, which embody the constant fluidity of life and the change that comes with it.
n the 125th day of her 32nd year, she finally came to accept the thing she had been fighting; no matter how hard she tried, and no matter how much she wanted, she would never have children. She realized this in the way that almost all of her realizations came to her, while sipping her espresso and milk in the early morning minutes before her husband awoke. It wasn’t that she couldn’t think around him; in fact there was nothing she loved more than laying her head on his chest and feeling him breathe, but for some reason her mind was most clear in those first sips of coffee in the morning, something Andy was never awake for. “Good morning, darling,” he gently kissed her forehead as he entered the kitchen. He stretched, and Mia smiled at him in adoration. His early morning hair was an attractive mess, his stubble making him appear simultaneously boyish and manly. His grey boxer briefs perfectly revealed
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a man who cared about his body, and his matching grayish blue tee hugged him in all the right places. Sometimes Mia wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. “How did you sleep?” He yawned. “Great, but I have a long day ahead of me. Do you want to have lunch around two? I’ll think I’ll take my break around then.” Mia smiled, “Of course, but let’s make it closer to one thirty. I want to go by the gallery before it gets dark.” Their scheduling was rather silly, since they both worked from home, but Mia and Andy always did this, always made a schedule. That was probably why they were as successful as they were, he a photographer, she an interior designer and artist. They made a comfortable living, and their beautiful loft in Manhattan’s Upper East Side was living proof of their success. Andy took his coffee and bagel into the front room and sat down at his large, dark brown, wood desk. Mia could see the familiar blue of Photoshop opening up on his computer. She
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padded in next to him and sat down at her desk on the other side. Her’s was large, white, and an extremely feminine antique, which she had sanded down, restored, and painted herself. This was how they spent their mornings, each at their own desk, and each at their own task. Every now and again they’d send each other a message, smiling over at each other like school children passing notes, stealing longing glances. Today, Mia struggled with focus, trying to imagine how she’d tell him. Should she do it at dinner? At lunch? Before they went to bed? She knew she’d be unable to hide it from him much longer. Already she had hidden Dr. Fiesenberg’s results from him for weeks, waiting for her own acceptance to settle in before bringing him in to share her sentiments. It wasn’t that she feared he would no longer love her, Andy could never not love her, but she feared that look he’d get when she told him. That look of resignation, acceptance, and broken-heartedness. She couldn’t bear that, disappointing him. It hurt her more than her own feelings of loss and sadness. As the hours passed and lunchtime grew closer, Andy went into the bedroom to shower and Mia entered the kitchen to prepare their meal. The boiling pasta fogged her glasses and she wiped them on her cotton cardigan. She was making baked ziti, his favorite. Mia heard the shower ending as she served the pasta. A few minutes later Andy entered the kitchen, the tips of his dark brown hair still glistening.
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“Are you having wine or water today?” “Just water. I’ve still got a ton of editing to do after we eat. How are you feeling?” “I’m okay,” she paused, unsure if this was the right time. “There is something I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused again, dreading that look. “But now is probably not the best time. Let’s talk tonight.” “Did you forget the Gala is tonight? I have to be there. They’re giving me an award, only because they have to, but still, it’s an honor.” “My goodness. I completely forgot.” “Are you sure you’re okay? Jeanette is bringing over your dress and my tux at around 7. Didn’t you say you wanted to go to the gallery before it gets dark? Are you sure we shouldn’t talk now? What is it?” She smiled at him because he always did that. Asked a million questions in one sentence while simultaneously telling her information. Usually she found it endearing, hence her reflexive smile, but today, it was enough to make her question her timing and lose her resolve. Did she really want to tell him tonight, before the Gala? Mia thought better of it. Andy would need to be happy and gracious tonight. He wouldn’t be able to do that if he knew. The spaces of silence between them continued for a few moments, Mia smiling and Andy staring at his wife, bliss smeared across his face. Sometimes her simple and uncomplicated beauty stopped him from speaking, even after nearly eight years together. “Everything is great, love. It isn’t important, it can wait.” She brightened. “So, what color bow-tie are you wearing tonight?”
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False Façade Katya Sarria ark closed the door behind him softly and began peeling off his gloves with trembling fingers. “You’re back so soon! How was work?” He glanced up at Sara, noting the warm smile she gave him. He felt compelled to return the look even though his cheeks were straining with the effort. “The weather was getting pretty bad so they let us off early today. It must’ve been my lucky day.” He held onto the strap of his messenger bag as his fingers began to tremble more from his false cheer. Sara came towards him and grabbed the lapels of his winter coat to give him a kiss on the cheek. “And you’re absolutely freezing. Dinner will be ready soon, so that’ll warm you up fast. You should go change your clothes, though. You’re looking a little pale.” With a nod and a softly spoken promise that he will, Mark watched her walk away from him, heading into the kitchen as she hummed to herself. When Sara finally disappeared around the corner, he slowly removed his messenger bag. He stuck his hand in the small pocket, searching for the checkbook that he always carried with him. Looking back once to make sure he was alone, he flipped it open to reveal the balance. The number $83.20 stared back at him. “Mark, dinner is ready!” He put away the checkbook before closing his eyes, holding on to the bridge of his nose as he tried to maintain his composure. “I’ll be right there, Sara.” It wasn’t of any use to tell her he had no job, he thought. Chances are someone would hire him tomorrow or the next day. They had enough money to last a week, maybe more if they stretch it out. There was still time.
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Frosty, Mary Koehnk, Digital Photography
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Arlet Aguilar
Clear Glass
was probably born how everyone else is born. How that was possible, I don’t know. Was I born blind? Or was the precious gift of sight stolen from me? Would it ever come back to me? Would I be blind forever? Am I the only one? Is there a cure? Ideas swarmed my head and questions began choking me like a tightened collar - ideas and questions that I would never find an answer to. At least trapped in here I wouldn’t, but there was no way out and no way would I ever be let out. When I was little I would ask my mom how I was born, but she never responded. I asked her how we got here and why we can’t get out, only to, once again, receive no response. If I do say so myself, it’s like she was dead next to me for my entire life. I open my eyes, but what’s the use? I can’t see anyway. I pull out a journal and mark another line on the page. Today I am 6,379 days old. In other words, it’s my 17th birthday. That was something my grandfather taught me before I stopped hearing him breathe and feeling the coarse skin of his hands. I tried to imagine what they might look like, but it was impossible. I couldn’t see a thing, and for a blind person there aren’t any kind of pictures stored in the brain to use as guidelines. When we close our eyes, it’s the same thing as keeping them open. There is no difference between what we see and what we do not. There are rumors, though, of people thousands and thousands of years ago who could see. They knew the colors of the rainbow, the sky, the grass, but to me colors are simply fantastical myths, something passed down from grandparents to grandchildren. They could all be lies. They probably are lies. Colors might not even exist, but it’s not like I can prove them wrong. For now, all I am surrounded by is something these ancient people called “darkness,” but there is also “light.” For all I know, over the years the terms might have been confused and the darkness I constantly see is really actually light. Mom came stumbling into my room, which meant that she had set up my breakfast. She never talked much. I got up and found my way to the kitchen through a memorized path I’d learned as a
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kid. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner; they were always the same, one giant pill that provided every nutrient possible except for one to improve sight, since it was not needed. She didn’t even know what day it was and I knew she wouldn’t recall it. I was the only one that knew it was my birthday. Just like every birthday before this one, it was no surprise when I didn’t receive a present. What’s the use? I was blind, we all were, and what present can a blind person possibly give another blind person? Presents weren’t even mentioned. Still, I miss how my grandfather would simply say, “happy birthday,” and how that would mean the world to me. The rest of the day carried on like usual. My mom and grandma sat downstairs listening to the lady on the radio talk about the good old days or whatnot. I went to my room, put on my favorite radio station, laid in bed, and listened to the real or made up stories of Thomas Homes, my favorite author. When his program finished, it was already lunch time; we all gathered around the table and chatted for a while. Twenty minutes later, I was back to my room recording my own stories on a tape recorder my father left me before he went off to wherever he went off to. I didn’t expect much from my dad, and my contact with him was brief. Every once in a while, I received a couple cassettes to record new stories. I’m not sure how he knew what I liked to do, but apparently someone told him. Before I knew it, dinner time came along and after I fell asleep listening to my favorite Thomas Homes story, The Man of Miracles. The Man of Miracles, the man whose life was all planned out for him, the man who didn’t have to dig deep or be risky or lift a finger because it seemed that life had been personalized just for him. That was the kind of life to live, where everything was handed to you on a silver platter. But who am I kidding? That’s just nonsense. Still, it was nice to imagine and pass the time. That night, I kept moving around, waking up to fix my pillows and collapsing again. I would wake up every hour and do the same thing. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I fall asleep properly and stay sleeping like a regular person? Maybe that was it.
Maybe I wasn’t a regular person. I stopped talking to myself and focused on going back to sleep. I woke up extra late that morning and no one seemed to be home. There was no rummaging in the kitchen, no radio on, nothing, just silence. That was impossible, though. My mom and grandma were always home. We weren’t even allowed out, so where were they? Four men, tall and with neatly combed hair, stood at the foot of my bed. I could see that they had clearly been waiting for awhile. Wait…. I see four men, I see men, I can see… What was going on around here and why was I suddenly getting a migraine? How is this possible? How could I really be seeing right now, and where was my family? Another man appeared
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I open my eyes, but what’s the use? I can’t see...
at my door. I could finally see my room, but it was too much to take in all at once. I just gave up the fight with my increasing migraine and collapsed onto my bed. I don’t remember waking up or how I got where I am, but I’m here. It almost sounds as if I was abducted by aliens, but for all I knew these weren’t even real people. God knows what I was doing here. I took a good look around the room I was in and saw all these bright walls. Colors. I wondered which one was green. It was then that I saw something move by the door five feet away. I got closer and closer until I was looking through what must have been glass. I had heard a lot about glass, a solid object that you could look through. I thought it was just crazy talk, but apparently it was true. I waited a while and sure enough the person’s head began peaking a bit through the glass. However, as soon as he saw me he hid again. I tried opening the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Then I tried calling out to this person, but no matter how hard I tried he couldn’t hear me. I tried knocking on the door. Finally, it opened. Two men came out and forcefully dragged him off the door
Sleeping, Margarita Rentis, Digital Photography
from which they came. That was it. I was done here. Where was I anyway? Some electronic I had never seen before turned on then, and it had a picture of a man on it. He was moving. It was a moving picture of a man with words. Ok, it really can’t get any crazier than this. But it did. This moving man knew my name, Maron Price. He was talking to me. I knew this, but I couldn’t comprehend it, and these men could tell. Soon enough I was taken away, too. I found out about my father from the man himself. He told me his story, how he was here, what happened to him, what happened to me, and pretty much everything in between. He even made sure that my mother and grams were alright. He told me that this was all planned out, that when I turned 17, I would regain my sight with no explanation what so ever. And so it happened. I was supposed to follow on in his footsteps, and be one of those prestigious men that holds this power over others and gives commands. How could I possibly do that? I wasn’t capable of ruling anything, much less people, but as my father said, it had to be. The few years after that dragged on sluggishly, with me taking commands and ordering them in return. It was all so complex, so planned out and ordinary, that I wouldn’t have thought after seventeen years of my life making stories so beautiful and perplexing that I would end up like this. Yet, I wasn’t ready to commit myself like my father did. I was turning into The Man of Miracles, and everything was handed to me. I detested it, despised it even. It was too much to take and I couldn’t have my life wasted away like this. I had the ability to see what one in a million people could see and it was as if I couldn’t use it. That was it for me. My mind was made up and it was all clear to me. It hurt so much that I still recall the pain when I wake up in the middle of the night. I could have wasted my entire life with a gift I couldn’t use, so I gave it back. Turns out glass wasn’t so see through after all. At least not when it was tiny shards in my eyes.
Ingrid
Understands never told anyone about my mother. She was too unpredictable. She couldn’t be out in public, so Ingrid and I decided to keep her a secret from the world. My father left when my mother was diagnosed with schizophrenia. She hears things and sees things that Ingrid and I can’t. Ingrid says that she’s special, that she’s magical like some sort of mythical being, a mermaid or a fairy or a psychic; something beautiful in its own way, something hard to understand by other people. Ingrid says that people just mistake her, because she’s a gift to us, something we should be thankful for. I don’t have the heart to tell her that mom’s just crazy. Ingrid holds her hand while my mother tells her lunatic type things. “There was a bird by the window today, did you see it?” “Yes, Momma” she said. “He told me not to go outside, he told me that there’s someone out there. By the trashcan, he’s waiting, with a gun, and sharp teeth. When your father comes home, he’ll protect me, because I don’t want the man to find me.” “He won’t Momma, I promise. The mailman is kind. I know being different is hard, but don’t worry. Gigi and I are here to protect you”. I roll my eyes and take my mother to the bathroom to bathe. Her hair is a faded yellow, and slips through my young fingers. It used to be golden, a reflection of
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Window Ink, Rinita Rasheed, Digital Photography
Bianca Perez
beauty. Now its weak. I gently wash her hair and comb through her wet curls. I make sure the water is just right. If its too hot, she’ll yell, saying I’m trying to cook her. If its too cold, she’ll cry, saying I’m trying to freeze her. She’ll say the man is coming to get her, that the man will kill her. I used to play along. Now I just sit in silence, waiting for her to realize she’s lost her mind. I used to compare her to the other mothers, to other people, and become infuriated. Why did I have to be cursed with a mother who can’t raise her own children? Cursed with a father who doesn’t care? He was a weak man who couldn’t handle her anymore, a man who left his high school sweetheart and two daughters for someone who was normal, someone who could provide him with the kind of life he wanted. My mother likes when Ingrid braids her hair. She stares blankly into the mirror, and Ingrid hums a song as she carefully weaves her waist-length curls. She would be beautiful to anyone who didn’t know who she really was. Her green eyes were captivating to some, but not to me. She was a monster. I love her with all my heart, truly I do, but she makes me so angry. Everyday, she reminds me of injustice. But not to Ingrid. She doesn’t think the way I do. Ingrid understands my mother. She sings to her, feeds her, reads to her, buys her clothes with the money she works so hard for. Ingrid is only twelve, but she understands.
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Aurora It’s easy to dream but it is hard to face reality. It’s easy to kill but it’s hard to live. It’s easy to remember but it is hard to forget.
Stephanie Elmir
ames Eagan Holmes was once human. He went to school, he had parents, and he basically lived the average life of a man his age. To some, this would be a life worth living. To others, such a mundane pattern would be repulsive. Either opinion is considered a natural part of human behavior. I just so happen to agree with the latter. Novels, movies, comic books, television: we take in anything that keeps us from confronting the standard fate that has been set for you, myself, and our ancestors before us—grow up, get a job, maybe get married, and then die. That’s what we’re scared of; dying for no cause worth remembering, dying without being remembered. Then, there are the names that are always remembered, the ones that are idolized for being so unearthly and legendary. An already obvious example would be Batman and anything affiliated with him. This fictional character—from a world created through ink graphics—has become a symbol of hope, strength, bravery, and overall, a symbol of good. It’s only natural for a child to want to become a hero and achieve such unrealistic glory. When reading comics, imagine yourself in a new life where everything is fast, bright, dangerous, and exciting; it becomes an unconscious habit. Similarly, James Eagan Holmes yearned to be remembered, but his fixation was taken to the worst extreme. Just as a little boy worshipped the good in Batman, another spat at the notion of purity and worshipped the taint of another’s infamous name. James meets Joker, and Joker meets James. What do two names matter when they both share the same fate? When both characters have succeeded in destroying lives, shattering dreams, stealing smiles, and shedding blood, the only difference between them is that one ends up as an apparition. James Eagan Holmes is not human anymore; he is the embodiment of the voice in his head that was never meant to leave the pages of a comic book. Unnaturally colored hair, pale skin, crazed eyes, and a sick mentality have replaced the physical form of a former man. Was it worth leaving reality? Was it worth the besmirching of a beloved symbol? Was it worth the trauma inflicted and the senseless deaths of innocents? There is no guarantee that even when he is crouched down in the shadows of his solitary prison cell that he won’t smile, knowing that his actions against humanity—the death crested shots he fired into the dark calm of a theatre filled with the common man, woman, and child—not only left him inhuman, but have also permitted his name to be remembered. Never forgotten. The victims will always remember; the press will always remember; the compassionate will always remember; even the cruel will always remember. They will all remember his name, because it is the inhumanly unreal characters whose names are never forgotten. And James Eagan Holmes will most likely and undeservedly die with no regrets.
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The Mask, Christopher Arias, Digital Photography
This Would be a Beautiful Death, Josue Brizuela, Digital Photography
Regretful Falls Soannie Maldonado
tanding at the edge of this building I take my last glance around. I see the buildings surrounding me, soaring high in a vain attempt to touch the heavens above them. The sky is full of different purples and blues blending together in harmony. The moon is shinning brightly, creating a path for those who can’t see in the dark pathway they’ve chosen. The people below me look like ants walking in a maze created by themselves; people stuck in their own world oblivious to what’s happening around them. I take one last breath, close my eyes. I jump. I start to feel the sensation of me falling but then I stop. I don’t know what caught me so I open my eyes and look around. Still falling, just really slowly. I felt like I was stuck in place, not moving. I remembered things from my past. I think of the girl I love, Vanessa, and how she would smile and make me flustered. When she looked at me, time stopped and she was all that mattered. Her eyes seemed able to unveil my secrets with just one glance. She made me feel vulnerable, which is something I hate. But I loved it, since it was her who caused me to feel this way. She never wanted me though.
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I see all the great moments I had with my best friends. Going bridge jumping, and the adrenaline it made us feel. Getting together to play Halo and Call Of Duty on Xbox. Always pulling pranks on each other, especially on Tony. Then on Friday we would always go play a show at a club at Coco Walk for our fans. My future, I don’t know what could’ve been ahead for me. Maybe I could have been a rockstar playing at Warped Tour or on MTV. Maybe I could be with Vanessa, walking hand in hand. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be with Vanessa but with someone else who was even better. My future could have had many outcomes, most that I probably wouldn’t have expected. All of these thoughts flash by my mind. I want to go back to before I jumped off the building. Maybe. But there’s nothing I can grab onto, nothing I can do. It all just goes on. I accept that I can’t do a thing to change what’s happening. I’m still falling to my reassuring death.
Scattered Memories Mario Olivares
he memories, in general, are scattered. Sometimes, I remember looking at the TV in a certain spot and the bed directly adjacent to it. I can only wonder if it’s a made up memory, created by lapses of remembrance. The locations of these items are years apart at times, as in the bed will be in one spot and my photographic image of the TV is in a spot near the bed. The real time at which I saw these two different objects are years apart, but I remember it in one specific moment, as if I had seen the bed when I was five and the TV when I was eight and I put it into one picture now. It was like Photoshop. I have this particular memory dating way back to what I believe to be the age of three, four, maybe even two years old. It’s an unforgettable image of being rocked by my mom on a chair, something I very much enjoyed because she almost never did it. Now, the most memorable part about it is that I would put small arms through the slightly bigger gaps in the chair and reach for the floor very carefully so that I wouldn’t hurt myself by pushing against it. I would stare at the floor and give into the comfort of the rocking and my mother’s arms. It’s hard to say if this
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particular memory is real or artificial. I’ve had this vivid recollection in my head for a while now, and in that time I’ve questioned it’s tangibility. I was simply too young to remember it so perfectly. Disconsolately, I don’t have a way of finding out. This brings me to my point: treasure your memories, especially those that are thought to be useless and just come and go. Memories, in one way or another, will always be with you and all you are is what you know. This extends to memories of how to solve a math matrix as well as a collection of memories on how to get around school. Above all else, don’t disresgard memories deemed “unimportant” because they may have been uncomfortable or not concerning to you at the moment. Value everything you have because you never know when you will lose it. I know I was young and unable to do anything about this, but if I had a top ten to do list, I would want to have that valuable memory recalled perfectly, know it fact by fact, rather than speculation of what I believe happened.
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p l Photogra uela, Digita iz B e u s o J e Sky, Dance in th
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Destination Katya Sarria
The forest is quiet and deep. Looking around, there is not a single peep. I take two steps forward, creatures scurrying from sight. I hitch my bag up with all of my might. There is no path paved that I can see, but maybe that’s the key to new destinations away from prying eyes where time stops rather than flies. The fresh smell of Earth carries me forth as I head due north. The underbrush leaves prints of my trail that start of an unknown adventure it’ll later detail.
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Tahiti, China Opland, Digital Photography
Falling for You, China
Spring Fresh, rosy, petals Dancing with the New Year’s wind Giving newborn days
Fall Aliyah Symes Cool, crisp, bitter wind Yellow, orange, red dead leaves Dancing with the street
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Opland, Digital Photo graphy
Rain Rumble; plink plink plink Tiny diamonds shattering Against dull pavements
Jenny Jimenez 50
Driven by
Impulse Katya Sarria hen she was younger, she liked to label things. The strange habit began when her kindergarten teacher brought a crate filled with multi-colored, rubber stamps to class. During recess, she watched as her class ran out the door to ride the slides and play tic-tac-toe on the ground with chalk. The door closed, their laughter muffled, and instead she would walk across the plush orange carpet to the back of the classroom, clean sheets of paper in her chubby hands. Placing them on the wooden table, she quickly made her way towards her goal. She deliberately stuck her fingers into the crate, loving the feel of the blocks weighing down on her hands, before she brought them to the surface. She equally liked the sounds of each of them clattering against the table, sounds that would eventually contribute to a masterpiece. It wasn’t an easy process for her to classify each into separate categories. The flowers and stars had their own piles, obviously. And the pinks and blues would each need their own as well. She kept the stamps that were
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complete words next to her, the pile itself also divided by the words she knew and those she didn’t know. Then, there were the pads with single letters that she kept away from the others. She could put together a string of letters to make words she didn’t have. Or she could make up words and no one would know what they meant except her. The possibilities were endless. She grabbed a particularly orange flower and pressed it onto a clean sheet. She didn’t know how long she continued to press the stamp onto the paper, but hoped the imprint would be unmistakably clear. It wasn’t long before all of her papers would be decorated in splotches of ‘good jobs’ and ‘outstandings’. But somehow, that still wasn’t enough. So she grabbed an ‘excellent’ and pressed it against her cheek. She eyed the wooden table where many Jakes and Alexanders and Bryans with reverse Y’s were carved into it. It seemed easy to stamp an ‘excellent’ onto the surface. Once. Twice. No one could doubt the mark she left. And that’s how it began.
From then on, everything in her life needed to be labeled. When her first goldfish died in first grade after only two days, she made a series of drawings to commemorate his existence. She wanted to remember Jimmy eating, Jimmy swimming, and Jimmy sleeping. She titled it “Jimmy’s Advntur”, using the very same rubber stamps she managed to sneak out after kindergarten graduation. The E’s were left out, because there were only so many stamps she could fit in her small hands as she ran home. When she was 11 and her parents divorced, she wanted to trace back the moment their marriage began to crumble. She flipped through family albums and poured hours into arranging them in order according to her memory. A scrapbook of her childhood was made within weeks. The photographs where she stood smiling held captions underneath, stars at every corner. The ones where she wasn’t, were left blank. After all, she didn’t like to dwell too long on those pages. When she broke up with her boyfriend, because they were going to colleges that couldn’t have been farther
apart from each other, she marked that moment as a new beginning. She crossed off Andrew’s name from each diary entry she had written about him, as well as the pink hearts. She’d have to stop by the store and buy new heart-designed stamps, because they were faded; thus, rendered useless. It was an easy way to categorize her experiences, later becoming clear to her that in order to find reason and meaning in her life, she would have to sift through her memories one by one, connecting the dots between the fragmented snapshots and missing pieces of what were supposed to create a whole. Her kindergarten teacher finally re-entered the classroom after making sure that Tommy and Jacob wouldn’t return a bloody mess and instead found her with an ‘excellent’ imprinted on one cheek, an ‘outstanding’’ on the other, stars on her nose, and her name across her forehead. It seemed obvious to smile.
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Bitter Pill, Christopher Almeida, Digital Photography
Rightfully Wrong Avery Budin
I’m sorry is what you say after you’ve made a mistake You’re right is another way of saying I was wrong My bad simply means not yours Whatever you say, argues that I don’t agree If you don’t make any more mistakes, You won’t have to apologize. If you stop being wrong, You won’t need to confirm that they are right. If it’s your fault, Don’t verify that it isn’t someone else’s. And if you don’t agree, Say so. Everyone makes mistakes Is wrong Is at fault Doesn’t agree If we believed otherwise We would never learn Or understand, Or listen, Or change Correct me if I’m wrong.
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Bang, Christopher Arias, Digital Photography
glow The circuit comes together and everything is bathed in the golden light of success. The process is over, and the results – illuminating. Like light itself, this section contains a series of bright and effervescent pieces.
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Searching, Nicole Sielsky, Digital Photography
Flames of the Soul Michelle Dubon
couldn’t tell you what color the sand was, but the sun that day seemed to reflect its hues on the water, making it glisten quietly. Sand squirmed between my toes as I ran towards the beckoning froth of the waves, pulling my foot free from the sand’s sucking grasp with each bounding step. The deep ocean raced in waves along the wind and against the mild heat. I ran until my sandy toes were placed right on the dark, rippling line in the sand that marked where the last wave had ended, and turned to see the smiling faces turned towards me, my shoes clutched in my tender hand to save them from the ocean’s salty caress. The trees swayed back and forth, whispering welcomes to new visitors and telling stories with each gently carved name. How the gentle laughter of friends filled my ears, mixing with summer winds that made my skin tingle. Ants’ once marching bands scurried into their hiding places by unwelcomed feet. Shells aligned as white patches and green seaweed created a lined walkway. My hands wildly dug into the sand and created dunes for an intricate sandcastle. My mother told me to play in the water, where my eyes blazed and made me feel like a blind prophet. My skin, kissed by the afternoon sun, was
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already a rustic orange. Playful hushed voices seemed to die out, and the air of forgotten years filled my lungs. Here, my reflection swam with the sun. It pulled clouds out of the sky before the spurs in my legs sent me backwards. Lying on my rugged beach towel below the afternoon sun, I now watched as birds soared across the sky. With their wings casting them into a melody, their words were left unspoken. I was prepped for slumber as day seemed to be consumed by night’s rhythm. In my mother’s arms, I could see the sparks of fire from the dying sun create my small haven. My hands embraced the fallen feathers and softened sea shells that made up my collection from this sanctum. Twinkling stars seemed to shine on the calm water, creating beautifully gentle twists that left my mind jaded, but held my soul. Their delicate heavens stained wonders of silent mastery. They were striking embers in the skies whose final light illuminated my path, letting me see fading footprints of our day. I can’t tell you what the color of the sand was, but pulling my memory out into a string splotched with ink, I can tell you that it was pure happiness. The masked sand was the color of peaceful blissfulness, my sanctuary.
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dear
captain
Christopher Arias
O Captain, My Captain, Steal me from these shallow seas Upon rough and delusional journeys. I, Imprisoned by shackles, bound by enemy, Cannot reach thee, cannot grasp thy hand. Dear Captain, Free me, release my dwindling soul. I long to see the treasures, The ones you showed me, of the world. I wait here Captain, withering away, Deep in this dark hull, filled with wailing cries. My heart shrivels inside, When I hear your voice flee The deck stirs above me, My faith has come undone. I forgot the feel of the pale blue skies, How the wind twirled around blank sails How the long days never trifled, The beauty streaked across your cheeks. How I was never not mesmerized by those navy blue eyes. O, how I’m cold and sick Of the ghostly shrieks. My mind slowly grows black, Wishing to see gold of sunlight, Maybe just once more. I wish, just maybe to love once more, It’s another treasure you showed me, Dear Captain.
Out to Sea, Paulina Picciano, Digital Photography
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Around the World, Christopher Arias, Digital Photography
Lethal Have you ever been on a plane before?
Paulina Picciano
arley was nervous, to say the least. To make matters worse, a pod of bile threatened to push itself out her throat and her Olympian heart was winning the gold. She kept her eyes closed, not daring to look out the small window to her right. It would only remind her of the torture she was due to endure for the next couple of hours. As she gripped the arms of her seat, already prepared for take off, another woman sat in the seat beside her, 17G. She was beautiful, in a lethal kind of way, with sleek black hair that cascaded down her back and sharp, yet delicate features. Her attire was simple, all black and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Why she was still wearing them, Marley didn’t know. It’s not like they were necessary in the enclosed space they were trapped in. The woman took one look at Marley and raised an eyebrow above her frames. She took in the girl’s shaking figure before asking, “Have you ever been on a plane before?” Marley shook her head in response. If she started talking now, the words would never come to an end. “I figured as much,” 17G said, pursing her lips. Having nothing else to comment on, she picked up one of the magazines from the seat pouch in front of her. Soon after, the seatbelt light dinged on and the pilot announced their impending take off. Marley didn’t need to be told twice. She had belted herself in the moment she sat down. 17G, however, did nothing except continue to gaze over all that Sky Mall had to offer. Marley had to tear her eyes away before the sight gave her an anxiety attack. How could this woman be so carefree? When the plane began its track down the runway, she closed her eyes. Its growing elevation caused her to bite down on her lip and grip the seat. Minutes later, when her ears had finally popped, she opened her eyes to glaring white knuckles, in danger of popping out of her skin. Marley reminded herself to breathe. The first step was over. Now, all she needed was a distraction to get her through the rest. She turned to her neighbor. “So,” she said, “What brings you to Nebraska?” 17G took her time answering. It was obvious she wanted to laugh. Marley’s apparent fear must have been hilarious when judged by a person with complete disregard for plane safety. “Business,” she answered. “Really? What do you do?” Marley asked, perking up. She was curious to see what this woman spent her time doing. The woman sighed, “I’m in the cleaning business.” “Cleaning business?” Marley was surprised. It seemed so ordinary. “Yes, I take care of people’s mistakes.” “I don’t quite follow.” “Someone makes a mistake, and then I get rid of them.” A small, wicked looking smile played on the woman’s lips. As she said this, a businessman passed their row, and her eyes fixed on his retreating back. Marley’s eyes widened. She quickly sat back in her seat and said nothing more. Beside her, 17G gave a slight chuckle, fully aware that she had killed any more attempts at small talk from Marley.
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Flower, Clarais Cala , Acrylic on Canvas
The Hunter, Marjorie de la Cruz, Ink on Paper
Optics, Nicole Sielsky, Digital Photography
Steven Hyde, Natali Hernandez, Acrylic on Canvas
Figure Drawings, Marjorie de la Cruz, Ink on Paper
Lorenzo de’ Medici, Cesare Giuffredi, Pencil on Paper Based on a sculpture by Michelangelo Buonarroti
Greg’s Shoe Characters GREG: Mid-forties. Pseudo-intellectual whose very grasp on the English language is tenuous. Unbelievably superficial despite being completely average looking. Delusional in every way, especially in regards to how others perceive him. RITA ACKLEY: Cute, likeable young woman in her late twenties. Potentially a rising star in the cosmetics industry. DANIEL SIMMONS: No relation to the actor Gene Simmons. Professional nutritionist, NYU graduate. Sensitive about the methods he takes towards improving his physique and building muscle (it’s best not to mention it around him). Has never met GREG before in his life. JIM THE CAMERAMAN: Mild-mannered, good-natured camera operator in his mid-twenties with a dry sense of humor. Due to the alarmingly low budget at GREG’s Shoe, he generously also performs the job of an auto engineer and demands only triple the pay. An informative talk show, “Greg’s Shoe” helps its audience find the path to a physically, emotionally, and spiritually healthy lifestyle. SCENE 1 (Two lush, comfy chairs are center stage. A small coffee table sits between them, on top of which sits a framed, autographed photo of GREG. He stands in front of it with a handheld mirror, rehearsing his lines, slicking his hair back, and doing breathing exercises. JIM THE CAMERAMAN sits stage right, behind the camera. He lazily holds up three fingers to initiate the countdown before he starts rolling. 3... 2... 1...) GREG: Welcome. Today, I have the answer to some of humanity’s most frequent questions; What do I do if I’m hideous? How do I build a successful relationship? How do I reach spiritual enlightning? How do I keep in shape to prevent myself from contracting diseases like obesity and Stockholm’s Syndrome? Stay tuned to “Greg’s Show” (pause with weird, expectant facial expression). Play the music now, Jim. (Short, catchy song plays quietly) GREG: Jim, we’ve spoken on several occasions about changing the music.
Elizabeth Gonzalez & Natali Hernandez
(JIM THE CAMERAMAN fiddles with dials, volume of music increases drastically) GREG: Jim? (LIGHTS FADE) SCENE 2 (Lights up to show RITA ACKLEY and GREG sitting in the guest and host chair, respectively. JIM THE CAMERAMAN entertains himself with a paper dream catcher he’s made for himself.) GREG: With me today is a beautiful, and very, (here GREG shoves the coffee table out of his path and scoots his chair uncomfortably close to RITA’s) very lovely doctor by the name of Rita Ackley, who is a member of the New Hampshire Beauty Department. Glad to have you here, Rita. RITA: Pleasure to be here. GREG: (leans in for a kiss) RITA: (pushes him away) No. GREG: (forcefully kisses her forehead, sits down) So, Susan-RITA: Rita. GREG: Can you tell this magnificent, handsome audience what exactly you do for the New Hampshire Beauty Department?
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You just spelled “shoe.” Show is with a “W” at the end.
RITA: Yes, I look over the cosmetics industry and determineGREG: Very correct. Tell us about your hobbies. RITA: (elongated pause) I… like to knit and collect foreign currency. But back to what I was sayingGREG: What is it that you look for in a man or woman? If you…you know. (Elevates into a raunchy laugh) RITA: I’m not sure this has anything to do with beauty. GREG: Can you professionally determine whether someone is attractive or not?And what do you advise for people who are (whispers) ugly? RITA: That are what?
GREG: You know, (inaudible) ugly. RITA: I don’t understand. GREG: I don’t understand ‘em either. Oh Ronda, we’re so alike. (Places hand on RITA’s thigh) RITA: What are you doing? GREG: (retracts hand) Are you on Facebook? RITA: (horrified) Are you hitting on me? GREG: That depends, are you propositioning yourself? RITA: No! GREG: Rita, Rita (“suave” smile) Your mouth says no, but your body betrays you (Leans in for a kiss again). RITA: (Pushes him away) I’m not interested! GREG: (Stares at her blankly. Quiet looms on set for a couple of seconds) ... And that’s a wrap for this segment, folks. (GREG stands up, moves his chair and the coffee table back to their original spots) A special thanks for Linda-RITA: Rita. GREG: For the visit. RITA: No problem… (sarcastic) it was a pleasure. (Gets up and leaves) GREG: (waves at her departing form) It’s always nice to have a new face on the show! Now let’s have a word from our sponsors! (elongated pause as GREG waits for JIM THE CAMERAMAN to switch to the sponsored messages. He then speaks directly to JIM THE CAMERAMAN) Desperate much? (Condescending chuckle) She is pathetic. (GREG seems to ponder something) What do you think, Jim? Do I have a shot at banging her tonight or what? JIM THE CAMERAMAN: (looks up from dream catcher) We’re still rolling, boss. GREG: (laughs, trying to act casual, then quietly, to JIM THE CAMERAMAN:) Dammit, Jim. What happened to our sponsors? JIM THE CAMERAMAN: Oh, your mom IMed us last week to say she won’t be sponsoring us anymore. She says she can’t afford to just throw her money away. (GREG sighs, LIGHTS FADE) SCENE 3 (GREG is back in host’s chair, holding ice pack to forehead) GREG: Next up is my old pal Daniel Simmons. We go way back! I’m talking like, crawling-around-in-diapers back! Daniel: (walks in) Hello Greg, nice to meet you. Glad I was invited to be here on “Greg’s Shoe.” Honestly, I didn’t even know this existed… or how you guys found me. GREG: Hold on, Danny Boy, what was it that you called
this show? Daniel: By the name on the e-vite you sent me, “Greg’s Shoe.” GREG: Oh, old friend. It’s called “Greg’s Show,” spelled S-H-O-E. (to audience) This is classic Danny! Daniel: You just spelled “shoe.” Show is with a “W” at the end. GREG: (light-hearted, dismissive laugh) Oh, you saucy dog. So stud, why don’t you tell our audience what you’re currently working as? Daniel: I recently graduated as a nutritionist from NYU. GREG: Right... well, to reiterate what I obviously already know, would you mind explaining what a nutrinist is for those viewers who don’t know, Dan the Man? Daniel: A nutritionist is a dietician. Basically an individual who is an expert in the field of nutrition. GREG: So, what do you take? Daniel: I take in lots of water, protein shakes, anything that I need to compliment my meal or complete my calorie count. GREG: No, I meant… do you take steroids? Daniel: (beat) Steroids? Why would you-- no, how dare you even-- I would never-- I don’t even know what steroids-- I am a professional-- the audacity, the nerve! GREG: (not paying attention) So how’s the family, old pal? Your mom? Daniel: (silence) My mother passed away last year... GREG: Living it up, huh? I swear, that woman is a hurricane! So, uh, normal transition here: Who’s your best friend? Daniel: Scott. GREG: Oh, are you still calling me that? I actually go by Greg now. Daniel: No, I meant Scott. Not you. Scott. GREG: What are you saying exactly, Dan? Daniel: You’re not my best friend. GREG: (long beat as this life-shattering news sinks in) I cannot believe my ears. After all the times I’ve put my ass on the line for you! I have always been there for you, always! But you know what? Since the moment we’ve met, this friendship has been a one way street! Daniel: We just met! GREG: Oh, this is SO typical of you! (Stomps off angrily) Daniel: (beat, then speaks to camera:) I really don’t do steroids. (Nervous laugh) JIM THE CAMERAMAN: (groggy, all the yelling woke him up from his nap) Hey, no judgments here, man. (THEME SONG PLAYS ONCE AGAIN)
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Fairy Tale News: A Cinderella Story Justin White Bo Handsome: Hello and welcome to Fairy Tale News, I’m Bo Handsome. Our top story tonight regards the tragic death of our beloved King Humpty Dumpty. The top suspect in this case is sudden rags-toriches Princess Cinderella. It is also believed that a mysterious elderly woman was somehow involved, leaving people wondering who is Cinderella. We go to field reporter Linda Bowen to find out more. Linda Bowen: Thanks Bo, to find out more we interviewed two people who know Cinderella very well. [Que audio clip] Stepsister: I always knew Cindy was capable of something like this [rolling her eyes]. I mean ever since my mother married her father and… Oh right, I’m not supposed to talk about that. Linda Bowen: We also interviewed the woman who raised her. Stepmother: I loved Cinderella like she was my own [sniffle], I gave her a great place to stay [sniffle], I showed her love, I took her to church. But you know how children are! You show them love, passion, kindness [serious voice] and then they turn on you. Linda Bowen: And what about the rumors circling you and Cinderella’s dad? Stepmother: No comment! Linda Bowen: We tried to interview the three blind mice but they were killed in a strange accident. Bo Handsome: Insightful stuff. We now go live to the court room where the trial is underway. Judge Teddy: The defense may proceed. Cinderella’s defense: Miss, you are Cinderella’s friend. Tell us how she was when you first met her. Snow White, the best friend: I met Cindy at a royal ball. Prince Charming was throwing it so every girl went and she was really nice but at midnight she become so tipsy. I mean, she has one
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shoe on, one shoe off, rolling around in a pumpkin! But I digress, I stand by Cindy. Oh and Mr. Lawyer, here’s my number (Snow White takes out a piece of paper from her bra and puts it in the defense lawyer’s chest pocket. (The defense regains composure and continues.) Cinderella’s defense: Miss Beauty, you are also Cinderella’s friend, what is your input? Sleeping Beauty: … [Three minutes of snoring] Judge Teddy: Who let this woman in my court room? (The bailiff removes Sleeping Beauty from the court and the prosecutor begins while Snow White continues to undress the defense with her eyes) Prosecutor Dipshit: I call the woman of the hour to the stand, Cinderella. (Cinderella approaches the stand) Prosecutor Dipshit: Princess Cinderella - if that is your real name - did you kill Humpty Dumpty?! Cinderella: I… Prosecutor Dipshit: How did you kill him? Cinderella: … Prosecutor Dipshit: Why did you kill him?! Cinderella: But… Prosecutor Dipshit: Where is Waldo?! Cinderella: Could you repeat the question? Prosecutor Dipshit: No further questions. Bo Handsome: Exciting stuff, but we are out of time. Tune in next time to find out who killed Humpty Dumpty. Was it Cinderella, the girl with many secrets, Snow White the best friend, or Sleeping Beauty, the girl who already stole three minutes of our lives? Find out tomorrow on Fairy Tale News.
Ginger, Roxana Mendez, Acrylic Painting
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stages a coup to take over the kingdom. Duke Hammond, a nice old timer who was Magnus’s best friend forever, manages to escape with some other good guys, but is sadly unable to save Snow White, who then proceeds to spend the next 15 years locked up in the castle’s north tower as Ravenna establishes her iron fisted rule over the country. On the bright side, even though she is ruthless, calculating, and has no ethical values, she manages to stay looking super hot and badass because she sucks the youth and beauty out of young, attractive females so she can stay looking young and really attractive herself. Combine that with scary music and a scary wardrobe and nasty attitude and you have a great villain (the role did earn Charlize Theron a Teen Choice Award for “Best Hissy Fit”). After about 15 years of ruling, her Magic Mirror, which closely resembles a drug-fueled hallucinogenic experience (the mirror becomes molten and a humanoid figure emerges out of it, although no one else can see it so Ravenna looks crazy talking to a mirror in anxious, hushed tones) tells her that unless she consumes Snow White’s beautifully pure and innocent heart, Snow White will destroy her. Needless to say, she doesn’t like the sound of that and sends her metrosexual brother, Finn, to bring her from the north tower. Except, Snow White escapes! Huzzah! Shouts of joy erupt in the theater. And she’s off to escape/hide in the Dark Forrest, where Ravenna’s magic has no power. A word about the Dark Forest – that place is crazy. Branches and tress that slither and curl, poisonous mists that change color, swamps that aren’t swamps but then are swamps filled with gooey, putrid liquid, and really weird animals. Personally, I suspect innocent little Snow White is tripping on some combination of LSD, MDMA, and DMT, to name a few. Meanwhile, Ravenna
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now White and the Huntsman? What is this, you ask? Well, it is a movie. Never heard of? It’s ok, neither had I until I was forced to go see it. It silently infiltrated movie theaters across America and then silently – and very quickly I might add – left. Now, as I’m sure you are able to tell, the movie regards Snow White, everyone’s favorite apple-eating, dwarf-loving princess. Kristen Stewart, everyone’s favorite expressionless, I’m-in-love-with-a-vampire-no-wait-werewolfno-wait-vampire actress, does a very decent job of playing Ms. White. And who is this Huntsman guy, you ask. Well, he’s some drunk widower currently down on his luck who posses extraordinary survival skills that help keep Snow White alive and enable them to reach their destination, where he is rewarded and lives happily ever after. Chris Hemsworth, that guy in Thor, joins Stewart in doing a very adequate job of playing his character. Well that’s all very nice, but what actually happens, you might wonder. Snow White is a young princess that lives in the beautiful and prosperous kingdom of Tabor, where everyone is happy, business is good, and they probably have 365 days of sunshine. Then, of course, tragedy strikes. Snow White’s mom dies amd leaves her dad, King Magnus, heartbroken. And even worse, enemies have the nerve to invade Tabor. This cannot be tolerated. Magnus goes to war, and after a surprisingly intense and aesthetically awesome battle with shinny knights and imposing horses charging down a hill, the enemy army is destroyed; they also find a prisoner, Ravenna. Obviously, Magnus falls wildly in love and they get married. For a while, she looks really nice and understanding, until she kills Magnus on their wedding night and
ims
Isaac Andino
Wh
Regarding Snow White
is not pleased at all to learn that the one prisoner she’s had incarcerated for 15 years manages to escape just when she found out that failure to consume her heart will result in her destruction. Drastic action has to be taken. She hires the Huntsman to go after her; he’s been to the Dark Forest before and knows the place and has actually survived. In return, she promises to bring back his dead wife. The thought of being reunited with his wife gets him pretty motivated, so away he goes with Finn and some thugs to find Snow. I was getting ready for a semi-intense cat-and-mouse game, but it takes all of three minutes from when he sets out to find her to when he actually finds her. Fortunately for Ms. White, he feels reluctant to turn in such a nice gal to such mean people, and when Finn gives his dramatic evil speech about how he and his sis used the Huntsman because Ravenna cannot actually resurrect dead people because they’re, well, dead, he gets all angry and they pull of a daring escape. For the rest of this epically lackluster tale, go watch the Disney movie. They meet some dwarves (albeit, much grumpier and tougher dwarfs than the Disney phy version). The Huntsman gra o t o Ph starts to get feelings al t i for Snow White. Dig d, n She eats an pla apple l ica
given to her by a disguised Ravenna, and appears to die. All hope is lost. Huntsman kisses her; she wakes up. She lead’s Duke Hammond’s (remember him!) army to battle against Ravenna. Snow White and Ravenna have a really intense girl fight. Ravenna dies. All live happily ever after, kingdom restored. Overall, the movie isn’t exactly going to dominate at the Oscars but I give it credit for being a good Hollywood movie. If you want to watch a thought provoking drama, or epic sci-fi movie, then this isn’t for you. If, however, you want to watch a movie that requires no thinking and has pretty scenes with nice scenery and cool people, you have found your movie. It does a fairly good job of bridging the gap between staying faithful to the fairytale and creating its own unique plot. It’s not worth paying 10 bucks to go see at the movies, but when it comes out on Netflix Instant Queue – and it definitely will be one of those movies that come out on Instant Queue – feel free to kill two hours by watching it.
For the rest of this epically lackluster tale...
Rinita Rasheed
The Pygmalion Theory
he turned the page, reading anxiously to see what would happen next. Of course, she had read the myth before, but she was a dreamer, and now she wished herself to be in Pygmalion’s place. If she could just create the perfect man: someone who wouldn’t hurt her, someone who would actually care about her. There’d been so many men who had hurt her. If she could carve a man out of stone and he would come to life and truly love her – she uttered a silent prayer that he would. But then, she thought with a wry smile, she’d have to learn how to carve. In her mind’s eye, she saw Galatea, slowly animating, taking her first steps, and she saw Pygmalion, caressing her as he had done when she was still just a work of art, but now his sculpture was kissing him back… “Excuse me,” someone said, clearing his throat in the way one does when they’ve asked a question more than once and haven’t gotten an answer. Savannah Brooklyn’s head snapped out of the mythology anthology and looked at the man who had interrupted her fantasy. Regaining her composure, Savannah did what she was expected to from her first moment of job training. “Hello, and welcome to Stonybrook Publishing. May I help you?” w “Um, hi, I’m John Akley. I did the cover art for that one book, uh… The Theory,” he said, pausing and pulling out a manila envelope. “Who do I give this to, Mr. Akley?” Savannah questioned, taking the envelope and putting it on her desk. Mr. Akley paused, obviously trying to remember. He picked up the envelope and opened it up, pulling a beautifully done book jacket out of it. He turned it over, searching the back for something. The cover was amazing. It showed, with stunning visualization, a woman and a man reaching out for each other while on opposite sides of the earth. Their faces seemed to ache with longing for the other. “That’s… that’s gorgeous,” she said, sighing. “Oil pastel on canvas,” he said, shrugging, his
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eyes still scanning the back of the cover. His eyes got wider, he obviously had found what he was looking for, and he said, “Could you give this to R. Walters?” “Sure,” she replied. She put the envelope aside, and looked at the man again. He was staring at the book that she had hastily put aside. “What are you reading?” he asked, reading the text on the cover. “Mythology,” she replied, and picked up the book to resume her reading. “Obviously,” he said, “but what myth exactly? Roman? Greek?” “Greek,” she said, not really paying attention to the artist who was looking at her book, and added, “Pygmalion.” “Ah,” he said. Savannah kept on reading, and he just stood there. She cleared her throat, expecting him to leave. He seemed a little familiar, but she was sure she’d never met the man before. The prospect of not knowing that she knew someone was a bit scary. He held out his hand. “John,” he said. She shook his, and replied with her name. There were a few more moments of silence. Why wouldn’t he just leave? “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked. Savannah jumped in her seat. It was like John was repeating her thoughts. “I have absolutely no idea,” she said absentmindedly. She wanted to read, and then maybe continue on that romance novel she’d been trying to write for seven years, but he was pulling her last nerves. “You said you were reading Pygmalion, right?” he asked, and she nodded. “Have you ever wished you could just create someone?” This statement made Savannah snap out of her reading-induced trance and look at John Akley. Somehow, he was mirroring what she had been thinking, and it was getting creepy. “That’s why I paint. There’s this one person I keep painting, and I’m pretty sure she’s just a figment of my imagination, but every time I paint her, I just wish I could find someone exactly like her.” He sat
down in one of the chairs that had been set up “in case of a busy day”. Stonybrook Publishing never had busy days. He sighed. “She actually looks a little like you, come to think of it.” Savannah kept on reading, but she was glad that he had stopped hovering over her desk. She finished the story, put the book down, and opened up her laptop. He seemed to have noticed the change in her activity, and he stood up. As she waited for the laptop to load, (“Stupid technology,” her mom had always said,) she said, “I write,” and that appeared to satisfy his curiosity. The laptop finally started up, and after logging in, she opened the file of the latest chapter she had written, and the first phrase she saw startled her: John Akley. She blinked, refreshed the page, and even went to the bathroom to clean off her contact lenses, but the words were still there, the incriminating words that she had written years ago, staining the page with
‘‘
Why do we know so much about each other?
their blatant truth. She had written half of a novel about a man who she had just met. That explained the familiarity. No, she told herself, it was a coincidence; maybe she’d made a typo, trying to spell something else. Savannah Brooklyn, humble secretary, was no Pygmalion. John stood up. “Maybe we’ll see each other again, Ms. Brooklyn,” he said, and he turned to leave. “You can call me Savannah,” she whispered, as he walked out of the office and out of her life. ~ Savannah Brooklyn, newly promoted editor at Stonybrook Publishing, stood holding her 500-page novel in her hands. It was an accomplishment; after all, she had started the thing ten years ago. She handed it to the head editor. “You’ve got some good stuff here, Brooklyn. We’ll get started on editing, and you should go look at cover art.” The editor handed her a slip of paper with a familiar address on it. “By the way, Brooklyn, while you’re there, ask him if he’s okay with you using his name and address in the novel. He may not like it,” the editor added. Savannah then realized why the address was familiar. She had used
it as John’s address in the book! She stepped onto the porch of 27 Birch Street and rang the doorbell. Fear paralyzed her. She wasn’t sure if John Akley really did live there, and if he did, would he want to see her three years after they’d last met? Would he talk to her? Would he think she was nuts for writing a novel about him before they had even met? The doorknob turned, and with it turned Savannah’s stomach. The door swung open, and there was John Akley, staring at her with a mirror image of the look of shock that she imagined that she had. “Oh my God,” they both said, and then he smiled, trying to hide the shock. “Well, what are you standing out there for? Come inside!” he said, ushering her in. Savannah looked around, her writer’s mind trying to grab every detail it could. There was an oak tree in the backyard, along with a porch that looked as if it had had its share of paintball fights way back when. Hooks were lined at the door, and one had a smock on it. The walls of the house were tall, wooden, and lined with paintings. If she was in shock when she saw who was at the door, it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing those paintings. They were beautiful paintings, but they were of her.
Curves Of Wonder, Christopher Almeida, Digital Photography
Every single one was a portrait of her. She looked at one of the paintings, the one that seemed the most worn, and she looked at the date – 1997. That was the same year that she started writing her novel, and it was seven years before they had met. “It’s a little strange, isn’t it? Seeing your face plastered across a stranger’s walls?” he asked, and she nodded. “Look, I made most of these before we even met, and I’m sure that’s why you seemed so familiar, but…” John had stopped talking, and he stared at Savannah’s hand, the one that was holding her manuscript. She looked down, and saw that her hand was shaking. “I wrote about you.” she said, “I started writing about you in 1997, the same year you did this portrait. I had your name, your appearance, even your address right, and I don’t quite know how I knew you would move here, seeing as you only moved here from Albuquerque four years ago, and…” “How did you know I came here from Albuquerque four years ago?” he asked, stunned. Savannah’s wracked her brains for a logical answer, but she couldn’t find one. “I honestly don’t know,” she sighed. John paced for a bit – a habit, Savannah knew, that came on whenever he really needed to think – and then stopped abruptly. “You get up at six every morning, right? So tomorrow morning, I’ll get up at six. You look in a mirror, and I’ll try to paint you,” he said. As if to answer her impending curiosity, he added, “That way, we’ll be able to tell if I’m painting you by memory, or if I’m actually seeing you in real time when I’m painting.” Savannah nodded, and turned to look at another painting, the largest in the bunch. It was a full-body portrait, and it looked rather blurry. From what she could make out, she looked extremely crabby in the painting, and she was wearing… “Oh no,” she mumbled, “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” She stared at the bright orange robe that clashed terribly with the blue nightgown that she’d been wearing underneath it. She looked down at her feet in the painting. Horror. “Not the bunny slippers! You had to paint me in the bunny slippers?” She looked at the slippers with eyes full of disgust. She had hated those slippers, and was elated when she’d taken them to a family reunion and her greataunt’s dog had ripped them to shreds. Her great-aunt had scolded the dog, but
Savannah had ended up buying treats for the dog that had so mercifully destroyed those rabbits! John smiled. “Die, slipper, die!” he whispered maliciously, an exact quote of what she had said at the slipper’s execution. Savannah couldn’t help giggling, and a few moments later, John and Savannah were rolling on the floor, laughing so much that they nearly could not breathe. The next morning, Savannah woke up to her alarm clock at six like she did every morning. Blearyeyed, she hopped into the shower and put on some new clothes (she figured that if he was seeing her real-time, then he’d get the clothing right, too.) After getting her hair to behave, she looked into the mirror as John had asked. She stood there for, well, she had no idea how long, but then she had the strangest feeling that he was done, so she drove over to 27 Birch Street. The door was already open when she got there, and when she walked in the house, John was putting up a new portrait, one that looked exactly like what she had seen as she looked in the mirror, new clothes and all. “Well, I guess that’s settled,” she said, and he turned around and looked her in the eye. “Now all we have to do is find out why this is happening. Why do we know so much about each other?” he asked her. She walked up to him and kissed him, and he kissed her back, and for that moment, she felt like she very well could have been Galatea. ~ The Akley household was bustling, as it usually was on a Saturday in April. Rachel had scraped her knee climbing the old oak in the backyard, and her older sister Laura was trying to calm her down as they waited for their mother to come back with a washcloth and a bandage. Chris had been trying to paint with a new easel and watercolors, but he had forgotten to put on a smock and was now sitting on top of the washing machine waiting for his shirt to turn yellow again, because he had made it clear that there was no way he was going to school with a purple shirt! Their father was in the process of teaching Andrew, the youngest, how to ride a bike, and the boy kept insisting that the training wheels weren’t necessary. However, his father was twice as stubborn, and the training wheels stayed on the bicycle. Andrew, angry at being treated like a baby, decided to go inside the house and help Laura make smoothies. Rachel, with a bandage on her knee, bounded outside to try climbing that oak again, and Mrs. Akley rushed off to her job as head editor at Stonybrook Publishing, which had started booming ever since her romance novel became a best seller. Her husband gave her a quick peck on her cheek, and said, “I’m watching you,” holding up a paintbrush.
She smiled, and replied, “Just don’t paint any more pictures of evil bunny slippers!” She hopped into the car and drove off. John felt a tug on his arm. He turned to see Laura, holding up a pencil. “Dad, can you help me with my stupid homework? My stupid teacher assigned us this stupid book about the stupid human mind, and I don’t understand a bit of it. I feel stupid,” she said. John smiled. Laura may have been born with her mother’s writing talent, but she could be redundant if she wanted to. “Of course I’ll help, sweetie. We don’t want you to look stupid, do we?” he questioned slyly. His daughter rolled her eyes, and the pair walked back into the house. They strode up to the kitchen table, and Laura pointed at the passage she had been assigned. John bent over and started to read: Chapter 6 Love at First Thought Once in a while, the human mind will be determined to duel fate, even if the conscious mind is not aware. In some of these circumstances, two people will be kept from meeting until years after they should have. When this happens, the two will start thinking about each other before they have even met, one, perhaps, sketching the other, or perhaps capturing the other in prose. The two will eventually be drawn together by their minds desperately trying to undo what it has done, and their lives will be back on course… John had to blink at these words. He had moved to Albuquerque to avoid his hovering parents, and something in his head had tried to stop him. The year had been 1997… After all their years searching for an answer, but having to give up for lack of information, the reason that he had been so drawn to Savannah was in their daughter’s homework! “What book is this, sweetie?” he asked. Laura flipped the cover closed so that he could see. He gasped. Upon the cover of the book entitled The Theory, there was a woman and a man reaching out for each other while on opposite sides of the earth, faces aching with longing. The author’s name was R. Walters. The answers they were looking for were contained in the book that had brought them together! “Remind me to tell your mother about this,” he said, but he knew that through the strange connection between his mind and hers, she would already know.
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Raw meat, Blistering cold from the freezer. I like to feel things with my hands. Rich sauce, Burning hot from the chilies. I like to taste things with my mouth. Fresh steam, Escaping hot from the saucepan. I like to see things with my eyes. Piquant peppers, Simmering hot in my sinus’. I like to smell things with my nose.
Tangible
Popping oil, Buoyant hot on the stove. I like to hear things with my ears.
M. M. Eisenhart
Defrosted, Approachable, Tossed in the pan. Effervescent, Pestilent, Poured over limp pasta. Dispersed, Condensing, Bedewing the window sill. Pungent, Diluted, Seasoning the dish. Fermenting, Scalding, Slowly sedated in the mix, I like tangibility. I like when things are real. Cooking is real. Cooking is real.
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Food, Mary Koehnk, Film Photography
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Ode to a
Watermelon Nicolas Rivero
When I look at you, So verdant green and tiger-striped When I look at you, With your waxy sheen, so overripe I see in you, O watermelon, A ticket to a tasty heaven No earthly cares, no woes, no stress! Just finger-lickin’ fruit goodness With you in hand, I climb a ledge And start to carve myself a wedge But you don’t mind, you seem to smile Getting mad’s just not your style. While eating you (and on the sly Spitting seeds at passersby) I realize, to my dismay, That while we sit and pass the day People rush and hurry round Faces angled towards the ground Thinking all there is is what they measure In dollars, cents, and worldly treasure While I sit so enjoyably With a melon for company
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Arizona, China Opland, Digital Photography
finale Circuit. A system that terminates where it originated. Catharsis, too, eventually comes to an end. We hope that the pointed insights of wire allowed you to sharpen your wit; that flicker seduced you with the fluidity of life; and that glow left you with a beaming smile. Ultimately, Catharsis was founded as a place of emotional release – that is what our name means, after all. In reading Catharsis, we sincerely hope that we were able to reach out to you and enable you to empathize with the numerous stories in our literary art magazine. Perhaps you even had a cathartic experience of your own.
The 2013-2014 Catharsis staff would like to thank all of our generous sponsors for their support. Volumve 4 would not have been possible without you!
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Colophon Catharsis is a literary & art magazine produced by the Creative Writing 3, 4, & 5 Honors class as part of the Academy of Communication Arts, Film, and Digital Media at Coral Gables Senior High School. Volume 4 was made using Adobe InDesign CS4 and Photoshop CS4. Volume 4 uses Walkway for all titles, bylines, photo credits, and pull quotes. Gentium is used for all copy text and Myriad Pro for all informational pages. The Printing Post, Inc. located in Hialeah, FL printed 400 copies of this book on 80 lb. gloss text. The cover is printed on 100lb. gloss cover. Catharsis solicits submissions of writing and artwork from the entire student body as well as faculty and alumni. All work submitted is evaluated for content and technical quality by the advisory board and approved by the adviser. We actively recruit new staff members from the entry level Creative Writing classes. The staff writers completed various writing assignments for consideration into the magazine. Although class time was used to complete this magazine, countless hours were spent after school and on weekends working to ensure the magazine’s completion. The section division descriptions were written by Isaac Andino. The goal of Catharsis is to promote literacy in our school and local community. We encourage writing and artistic expression for all students, faculty, and alumni. The editors and staff would like to thank everyone who submitted work to Catharsis, especially those who were chosen to appear in the magazine. We would also like to thank the faculty and administration for their support in this endeavor, especially our principal Adolfo Costa; Assistant Principal of Curriculum, Nestor Diaz; Assistant Principal of CAF&DM, Aida Diaz; Activites Directior, Ana Suarez; Language Arts Department Head, Paula Munnerlyn; our fellow CAD&DM teachers, Melissa Nieves and Nicole Muùoz; and our devoted academy leader, Ana Zuniga.
Magazine Awards 2012 Volume 3 Evaluations: Florida Scholastic Press Association (FSPA): Gold Rating National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA): All-American Rating with Five Marks of Distinction Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA): Gold Medalist Rating National Council for Teachers of English (NCTE PRESLM): Superior Rating Awards: 2012: FSPA Spring Convention: 2nd Place Sunshine Standout at the 2012 FSPA Annual Convention 2011 Volume 2 Evaluations: Florida Scholastic Press Association (FSPA): All Florida Rating National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA): First Class Rating Columbia Scholastic Press Association (CSPA): Silver Medalist Rating Southern Interscholastic Press Association (SIPA): Excellent Rating National Council for Teachers of English (NCTE PRESLM): Excellent Rating Awards: National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA): 4th Place National Magazine Design of the Year (award page) 2011: FSPA Spring Convention Second Place Literary Magazine Team Design 2011: FSPA Spring Convention First Place Poety Writing (Madeline Cowen) 2010 Volume 1 Evaluations: Florida Scholastic Press Association (FSPA): Silver Rating National Scholastic Press Association (NSPA): Second Class Rating National Council for Teachers of English (NCTE PRESLM): Superior Rating Awards: 2011: FSPA Spring Convention: Fifth Place Sunshine Standout at the 2011 FSPA Annual Convention 2010: FSPA Convention First Place Poety Writing (Madeline Cowen)
Layout Team
Adviser
Christopher Arias, Michelle Dubon, Stephanie Elmir, Nathaly Fierro, Gabrielle Garcia, China Opland, Rinita Rasheed
Camile Betances
Editor- in- Chief Isaac Andino
Business Team
Advisory Board
Layout Editor: Katya Sarria Managing Editor: Patricia Passwaters Literary Editor: Marianne Eisenhart
Section Editing Team
Prose Editors: Arlet Aguiar, Mario Olivares Poetry Editor: Paulina Picciano Drama Editor: Carlos Baez
Business Managing Editor: Gabriel Sardinia Social Media Editor: Nathaly Fierro
Staff Writers
Yosselyn Andino, Brendan Borowski, Avery Budin, Natasha Deras, Kristina Hunter, Soannie Maldanodo, Katriel Paulete, Bianca Perez, William Perez, Brennan Sullivan, Aliyah Symes, Tarilyn Taylor, Jonathan Torres, Joel Torres-Moran, Jennifer Trujillo, Alexis White, Justin White, Stephanie Willis
Staff Awards 2013 Scholastic National Art and Writing Awards Rinita Rasheed Gold Key Finalist: The Pygmalion Theory Aliyah Symes Gold Key Finalist: Flick Your Fingers Katya Sarria Silver Key Finalist: False Facade 2013 Regional Miami-Dade Youth Fair Awards Blue Ribbon, 1st Place: Rinita Rasheed, Katya Sarria, Aliyah Symes Red Ribbon, 2nd Place: Arlet Aguiar, Isaac Andino, Yosselyn Andino, Christopher Arias, Carlos Baez, Brendan Borowski, Michelle Dubon, Marianne Eisenhart, Kristina Hunter, Mario Olivares, Patricia Passwaters, Bianca Perez, William Perez, Paulina Picciano, Jennifer Trujillo, Alexis White, Stephanie Willis White Ribbon, 3rd Place: Natasha Deras, Gabrielle Garcia, Soannie Maldonado, China Opland, Joel Torres-Moran Yellow Ribbon, 4th Place: Gabriel Sardinia, Tarilyn Taylor, Justin White