the Flame 2013
theFlame 2013 Art
Cover 1 2 3 4 6 10 13 17 18 20 22 23 24 25 28 30 31 33 34 36 37 38 39 40 41
Barrett Redmond Ella Massie Maddy Crews Katie Lee Liza Dent Jack Maraghy Maddy Crews Kyle Mosman Ansley Foster Megan Foster Eleni Agapis Kyle Pate Jack Sutton Ella Massie Kyle Mosman Charlotte Nasworthy Grace Mountcastle Katie Lee Megan Foster Reilly Klein CJ Harvey Marshall Pittman Jo Wrenn Max Gordon WinstonWillett Hannah Myers
Thank You to the Darr-Davis Advisory Board, B&B Printing, Taylor Dabney, the English and Art Departments, and to theFlame Team Writing Contest judges: George Wickham, Kate Cunningham, Charlie Williams, and Rives Fleming.
Poetry
3 All the Wrong Ways Katie Ciszek 10 Patience,Terror, and Romance Ben Kelly 12 Drifting Max Gordon 16 Lifeguard Madison Strauss View it All Cathryn Campbell 19 Train Tracks Mac Blain 24 Illusion of Esus Will Dixon 29 Digital Drone Ryan Dickerson 30 The Shattering Light Matt Howell 31 Moonrise Jack Maraghy 33 Hopelessness in the Air Jeb Beeghly 34 Commute GarrettVollino Peasants’ Blade Brody Schneider Autumn’s Paradox Katie Ciszek Evening Harvest Max Gordon Wondrous Moon Kathleen Leavitt 35 Oceans Pantoum Kaitlin Crews 37 Losing Innocence Katie McCauley 38 Stuck Kristie Turkal 39 Native Sun Brian Davia 40 An Imaginary Existence Katie Ciszek
Nonfiction
5 Biography of a Place Brian Davia 32 Uncle Fred Madeline Nagy 36 For Kevin Kelley CJ Harvey
Fiction
7 I Can Still Remember Kyle Pate Drew Fulton Emma Brown Ansley Foster Olivia Spurlock 13 Warrior’s Code Jack Maraghy 25 The Story of Steve Marcus MaryWeston DeVoe
Drew Fulton Literary Editor Ansley Foster Art Director Ojel Pathak Managing Editor Staff Addie Johnson Creative Technologist Erin Cross Creative Technologist Mireille Heidbreder Creative Technologist MaryWeston DeVoe Dorcas Afolayan Allison Grainer Anna Morgan Clair Spotts Ginny Zhang Advisors Allen Chamberlain Pete Follansbee Editors
From the Editors
As we go on with our lives, we rely on bits and pieces of our memories to keep us whole. Losing them would mean to lose something beautiful. So, without further adieu, we present the bits and pieces of 2013.
The Flame is a creative arts publication produced by and for the students of the Collegiate Upper School, Richmond, Virginia.
Ella Massie
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Maddy Crews
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Katie Lee
All the Wrong Ways Katie Ciszek I took a year-long walk in the nearby forest to clear my head. I found myself chasing rare patches of sunlight. The stupid cities were hogging it all, I suppose. As if they need it. I dove to the bottom of the murky ocean to sit with my subconscious. I learned a lot from the strange creatures banished to the low world, their eccentricity out of sight. Funny, because the world wasn’t built for any of you. I caught a ride on a gust of wind up to the clouds–a disappointment I assure you, for they are cold and wet. I cried a single tear into a cloud and prayed that one day something beautiful might grow from the pain.
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4 theFlame
Liza Dent
Biography of a Place Brian Davia
T
hree stacks of wrinkled cards rest on the wooden table. Two safe, one compromised. One weathered hand and two soft palms reach toward the piles. They gingerly slide across the oak and upward to the resting position. The eyes scan for any unwanted guests. A sigh, a pair of exhales. Round one. The first signs of morning come from the peacocks. Movement slowly begins across the farm. Countless paths wind through the surrounding acres, emerging at views of the Wisconsin River. Every step across the woods’ debris unfurls both new sounds and images. Five minutes in, all but seven cards have been dispatched. Now, luck and deception are the key elements of the game. Have one, your chances are good. Both, it’s a done deal. Two doves whistle atop a birch tree. Similar trees crafted by the Indians years ago. Many of these hills once home to a variety of Native Americans. Two mounds of dirt remain. Burial chambers for the tribal leader and his wife. The game is now down to three cards and two competitors. No time limits exist between moves. Every decision either ends the struggle or renews the mind games. Contemplation is key. The farm consists of three buildings: farmhouse, tool shed, barn. Infinite stories exist inside their walls. As old as the 1920’s, not only can they be retold in person, but also through the objects inside. Nobody has spoken in an eternity that the clock reads as four minutes. A hand moves slightly before recoiling back to a fist. Cardinals and Blue Jays sing to each other out the window. The clock continues to tick.
Long overgrown grass is all that separates the farm from the road. It leaves a gap just far enough to drown the sound of occasional traffic, while still allowing a car horn to be heard. A card is chosen. Incorrect. There is no time for second guessing as the attack transitions to defense. The strategy cannot be forgotten. The microwave beeps. The bacon is flipped. Lunch in eight minutes. Antique recipes, firearms, and fishing tackle litter the back rooms. They look too far gone to be salvaged. But they are lasting memories and tales of early America. Emblems of the past and future. The card reluctantly slips out of the smooth fingers. The last two cards are placed on the table. The game is over and lunch is served. Each card is placed back into the wilted 1940’s box. I slide the Old Maid safely against its counterparts and fold the box shut. I walk the cards back to their home atop the antique mahogany chest, where they remain asleep until the game comes to life again tomorrow.
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Jack Maraghy
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I Can Still Remember Kyle Pate, Drew Fulton, Emma Brown, Ansley Foster, and Olivia Spurlock
I
Winners of theFlame TeamWriting Contest 2013
can still remember those soft eyes gazing down upon me; those gentle hands, lightly touching my chest; that sweet voice, repeating my name again and again until my eyes closed. Every night she would sit beside me on my bed, hold my hand, so small in her worn palms. Every night she flashed that smile, so pure, so alive. Every night I held that smile in my mind as I sank into sleep, quiet sleep. I never forgot that smile, I never forgot. I remember one time asking her, “Why go today?” “It’s my job dear.” “Don’t go today. Stay with me.” “I’ll see you tonight. I have to go. I’ll be late.” “You don’t like it. I know you don’t.” “Sometimes we do things we don’t like `cause we have to.” “But you don’t have to! Stay with me and we can have fun.” “I’ll see you tonight.” “Please! I’m scared.” “Take my hand.” She sat me down on the floor and took a seat next to me. I was happy she wasn’t leaving. I held her hand in mine, I held it tight. “Once I knew a boy named Jake Chapman. He was wild. Came from some farm out of town. One time I saw him with a pitchfork, sitting on a pile of hay in the back of a pickup truck. He smiled and winked at me. We became friends. Once he took me to a quarry. The night was dark like obsidian; and the moon, full. My hands shook, not from cold, but because I was nervous. He made me feel like I could be someone. I liked his arm on my shoulder. I liked his confident, cocky smile. He took my hand and we jumped, jumped straight into that quarry, maybe 25 feet down. I remember hitting that water. My whole body sank under, so cold, so real. I felt life; I understood what living really was. I could be someone. I felt, for the first time in my life, happy. Truly happy. I belonged in that lake, beside that boy, clenching his hand.” “But, soon, dear, the lake became too cold, and I found that my hand couldn’t belong in Jake’s any longer. Aging tells much about the soul. As Jake grew older, his eyes lost their spark, and before I could do anything to help, they were dull and lifeless. He went through the motions of living and ceased to truly be alive. His hand, which once clenched mine so tightly, gradually began to slip. His pitchfork, which once gleamed in the sunlight, started to rust. His smile, which once caused my heart to race so fast, fell into a frown. He was not the man I once saw the potential for him to be.” Mama cupped my face as she told the story, smiling a sad smile. That smile told me as much about loss as her story could. “Mama, don’t stop,” I begged. “What happened to Jake?” “Once I realized I couldn’t help him,” she continued, “I gave into his obsidian eyes. I let him do to me what God had done to him. It took me five years. Five years to snap out of the shell I had also become. Do you want to know when it happened? One day, after I cooked supper for Jake, I caught my reflection in the window.”
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“The reflection in the window wasn’t who I wanted to be. I clenched my fists in anger and frustration. All of those years I had been living off of cornbread, watered-down stew, and naïveté. I can still taste the grit at the thought of it.” She paused a moment to feel the gap between her two front teeth with her sandpaper tongue. No doubt her body had once been full of life, sun-kissed yet vibrant and youthful. Now, her lips were cracked and her calloused hands moved across the crevices slowly, searching for rejuvenation. But she sold away that piece of her soul long ago, long before I was ever born, almost 14 whole years ago. “I told him, I said, ‘I’m comin’ Jake!’ even though I didn’t want to work no more.” Her bottom lip twitched. “When I got out there, he just looked at me with those dead eyes. His finger pointed to the bales. His finger pointed to me. His finger shook as he yelled, ‘You better be done by the time I get back out here, girl! Where’s my supper?’” Another pause. “I never blamed Jake. It wasn’t his fault. God guide and keep him, wherever he is.” Her bottom lip quivered. “I ain’t seen him for 14 years. I wanted to go back, I–” Absentmindedly stroking my forehead, she stared out the window into dawn. A crack of light meant the sun was making its first stand against the obsidian of night, as it always does. She was probably going to miss the train into town; she didn’t seem to mind. “I wanted more,” she said softly. “I didn’t always want to work from dusk ‘til daybreak. And with those stupid hay bales that made my skin itch and flake, and that sorry plot of land and our pathetic wagon pulled by that dusty, slow, lame horse that Jake bought for next-to-nothing, I wanted more out of my life.” The first rays began to illuminate the one windowpane and shine on my mother’s face. I could see salty confessions glistening on her cheeks. I choked back my own. Her pain is my pain. “So I did the only thing I could think to do. I clenched that rusty pitchfork in my hands and began to work. And when night fell cool on my weary body, I threw it down on a pile of hay and just ran. I didn’t know where I was going, but I wanted to get away from the life Jake had created for me. I needed to escape, to start anew.” “What happened when you started to escape?” She gazed into the distance with a longing yet composed smile on her lips. “He didn’t even chase me. Didn’t even realize that I left til the next morning. I can imagine him, stretching out of bed and stomping down the stairs, sinking into his favorite oak straight-back chair, staring blankly at the stained ring on the table where his coffee should have been. I’m sure he burst into anger and broke something important, then clenched his fists to his temples and ran outside, screaming my name. I remember how it goes.” Her eyes filled with shame and regret. “Mama, did he ever go looking for you?” I really wished I hadn’t asked her that. That’s when she really started to cry; the tears brimmed over her tired eyes and pooled down her face in obsidian streams as they mixed with her unnecessary makeup. “No, sweetie, he never did,” she sobbed, “he just never did. And I suppose that’s the best thing he ever did, because it let me keep you safe. Safe from a world of deceitful chivalry, safe from a life of pitchforks and hay and the sole satisfaction of a six-pack of PBR after a hard day’s work. Safe from my mistakes. I wish I could give you the father you deserve, sweetheart, and I just want you to know how much I love you.” She wrapped herself in my small arms and I cradled her back and forth, like she did when I was little. That’s when I realized I didn’t need a father, and I realized how silly it was for me to wish for one in the first place. Then the doorbell rang, lashing out against the silence.
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Lashing out against the silence, the doorbell froze our embrace. The only time that could be kept was in the fast rhythm of our intertwined hearts. My mother was the first to pull away and leave my arms to embrace this newfound coldness of the night. “You stay in bed. I’m going to see who’s at the door,” my mother said while tucking the covers around my frail body. With her cheeks still glistening with our tears, she straightened her hair, and smoothed the invisible creases out of her apron. She hurried out of my room, closed the door, and left me wondering in ignorant darkness. I couldn’t stay there, fighting the unbearable itch of curiosity that burned through my skin. I left the soft comfort of my bed and crept into the blackness of the hallway. With every step across the soft carpet, the blackness begin to fade into the gold glow of our family room. I followed the distant silhouette of my mother as she descended our steps. I quickened my pace as she reached to the final step of the stairs. I crept from out of the lingering shadows of the hall and hid between the bars of the railing. I watched as she checked her hair in the mirror. She gently tucked a strand of her hair back in place behind her ear and slightly acknowledged how time had given kindness to her eyes as she gazed through the looking glass. They had not stayed dulled with the cares of living. Gradually the life that she had lost in her eyes had rekindled an undying flame of life. She had almost became entranced by that flame, but the doorbell rung and she was met with an even more desperate knock at the door. “I’m coming,” my mother said as she straightened herself and reached for the doorknob. At first, there was nothing. At first, there was nothing visible in the seemingly endless darkness like obsidian. At first, I almost missed a slight shift in the blackness. My mother was frozen, mesmerized by the shift that let out a sigh of relief. A sigh that seemed to let out a decade of desperation, sadness and pain. A sigh that was heavily cloaked in passion and love, and it wasn’t from my mother. The shift moved from out of the darkness towards my mother. It wasn’t a body though; it was a strong hand that was marked and calloused by the work of a pitchfork. It cupped my mother’s cheek that was now dampened by fresh streams of tears. She rubbed against the hand, remembering the warmth that it once held. The owner of the hand slightly leaned forward to reveal his pitch-black hair that clung to his brow. I looked in wonder as I recognized the older features of this familiar stranger. I had seen them every day as I looked at myself in the mirror. Unlike mine, these features were worn and begged for tender care. His jaws were clenched as if one word would destroy what was transpiring between my mother and him. His eyes were different. They weren’t those empty eyes that my mother had once described. They had a slow flicker of light much dimmer than my mother’s, and only held desire and love. “I...” my mother let out with a moaned whisper. She couldn’t finish, for he just placed a gentle kiss on my mother’s lips. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to return to you, my love,” my father said as his eyes flashed with sweet remembrance of their timeless love.
[The above story, “I Can Still Remember,” was selected by a panel of four judges as the winner of the 2013 Flame Team Writing Contest. One writer writes his or her section of the story before passing it on to a teammate, who continues the piece until the fifth writer must bring the story to a close. Among the rules each writer had to follow was the required usage of this year’s three words: pitchfork, clench, and obsidian.]
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Maddy Crews Patience,Terror and Romance Ben Kelly Can you feel it in the air? The wafting aroma of decay in the moonlit fog. The clock read 2:00 a.m. He had been sitting there for at least twenty minutes, beeping. The gas station in front of him glows with florescent light, and the sloth sits inside waiting for a bird to fly. A deck of cards watches him; the two of them sit in his car. He must not fall asleep until dawn.
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A dentist at work, swimming around in a chest cavity. Maggots in a corpse draw him closer to the source. Birds sing soft, muffled sounds outside the window. A mind fills with bad thoughts and burrowing earthworms. Fluids fill my body every day, including today. That is why I know everything there is to know about plastic surgery.
A purple honey dew drops from the mouth of my lover into the depths of the wounded man’s gullet. Many unspeakable things happen in the closet I placed in my sister’s bedroom. If you cut into him too much, he will die. If he doesn’t, he will love you forever. Cannibalism is the purest expression of art. Eat too much, and you’ll end up like Jackson Pollock. The moon is the sun of the night, shining bright for the boy trapped in a dream. The clock is broken and he won’t wake up. Buzzard is the only creature clever enough to save us from our fears.
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Drifting Max Gordon Space. What is it? Just endless, empty space? Whatever. None of this matters when you’re just waiting to die. I wonder how it will happen. Meteors? Meteors sound logical. My hand has already experienced their cosmic wrath and it too floats endlessly, severed from that which gave it life. Maybe my hand will become one of those astral bullets and take the life of another. Maybe it will take mine. As I gaze ahead into the void, it seems I was wrong about the meteors and my demise. With the Earth now clear in my path, my fate is certain. Killed by the very entity that gave me life. I’ll soon drift into the atmosphere and become a shooting star, and, for an instant, light up the sky. Will anyone see my shining moment– my final act? Will anyone make a wish? [Written in the voice of Hollis, from the collection of science fiction short stories, The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury.]
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Kyle Mosman Warrior’s Code Chapter One of Bloody Knuckles Jack Maraghy “Why is it so cold?” he whispered to himself as he pulled his legs through the snow. “Why is it always so damn cold?” The cold wasn’t the true cause of his aggravation; it was the consistency of the cold. He hadn’t seen the sun in a week or so. It was the beginning of March, and he was approaching the end of yet another Boston winter. “I oughta move to Florida or something.” He wasn’t going to move to Florida. He hated the thought of Florida. To him, Florida was a paradise for old people to enjoy the last years of their lives. Just sitting on the beach, sipping a piña colada, slowly letting themselves be dragged to the underworld. No, he was a fresh 26, with a body made for toil. He had to stay in the harsh conditions and suffer, as all youth should. And, truth be told, he liked Boston. He liked its bars, its women, and of course he liked the Sox. But if nothing else its personality appealed to him. His face, peppered with scars, grimaced at the thought of old people and beaches. He was a little shorter than the average man, but he made up for it with his broad shoulders and thick, muscled build. He pulled his hood tighter over his slightly spiked up brown hair. It was a Saturday night, but due to the cold no one else was out. The absence of other people didn’t stop the man from trying to flatten his hair, which had flipped up at the front. He didn’t put anything in his hair, it just naturally poked out a tad at the front and it got on his nerves sometimes. The lack of people did, however, make him more relaxed. No one could see his puke green trench coat, the only article of clothing he owned that could effectively combat that degree of cold. theFlame 13
He passed under a streetlamp. The lamp made the inch of dirty, leftover snow shine as if radioactive. The radioactive snow sharply contrasted with the gloom the moonless night had cast. He almost had to look away due to its sparkle. Instead he turned into a pub with a sign shouting “Scotty’s” in green, lit-up letters above it. The familiar smell of alcohol and cigarettes snuck into his nose. The black floor clung to his shoes, failing to secure a hold, but trying again with the next step, only to fail once more. The green walls hoarded cheesy Irish paraphernalia. Pictures of random football teams, unused hockey sticks, and Guinness posters all had a home in Scotty’s. The red booth seats had worn out spots and caved in a little at the middle. In other words, it was your typical Irish pub. The man gave one of the waitresses a little wink. Not a sexual wink, just a little hello that wouldn’t distract her from the tray of food she was hoisting above a customer’s head. He then stuck out a fist to the bartender who proceeded to pound it. As he walked to the back, he gave a few of the guys in the kitchen high fives. The kitchen lead him to a locker room disguised as a broom closet. It was only big enough for five people to comfortably stand in. One wall was made up of lockers, another had a gurney pushed up against it. Using the gurney as a table he shed his outer layers, spotted with snowflakes. He then opened his locker. The locker had a pair of black and green athletic shorts, a black Scotty’s shirt, and a golden nametag that read “Mark.” He kept shedding layers until all that was left was a black AC DC t-shirt and a pair of purple boxers. He then pulled the black and green shorts out of his locker and over his underwear. When he removed the pants from his locker, his nametag fell to the floor. He picked it up, looking at his reflection in the gold metal of the nametag. An old friend returned his stare from between the A and the R. He never really liked the name Mark; he always wanted an exotic name, but no he was Mark. After jumping a few times to warm up, he then walked back into the kitchen and out another door. This door led to Mark’s favorite room in the whole place: a large old store room. The room was lit by uncovered light bulbs that clung to the low ceiling. But the storeroom had no boxes full of frozen patties or ketchup bottles. Instead, it had four wooden posts with planks of wood connecting them, making a perfect square. A few feet from one of the square sides there was also a bench, nothing more than a wooden plank bridging two cement blocks. Inside the wooden square, taped to the cement floor were a few layers of cardboard. The cardboard was pressed thin and had dirt imprints of invisible dancing feet all over it. Mark took a seat on the bench. This was, in the most primitive sense of the word, his coliseum. The musty storeroom smell and the dirty concrete on his bare feet provided him solace. And so he sat, absorbing the moment, and predicting what was coming. He pulled a roll of athletic tape from his pocket and started taping his hands. Mark liked the way his hands looked taped up. While he wound the tape around his fingers, people started to come in. First came the manager, to hang up the bet board. Then entered the kind of bouncer who collected the entrance fee from the spectators. Next were the other fighters: a normal looking late-20-something, a large early-40s police officer–it sickened Mark that a police officer would partake in such activities as this–and one guy with a monster handlebar mustache truly fitting for the occasion. Last there were the spectators themselves. Most of them were regulars, people who, every weekend, went to their favorite Irish pub to watch and place bets on good old-fashioned kickboxing. There were always a few guys who thought it would be fun to bring their girlfriend. For the most part this ended poorly. This was a man’s place, a haven for testosterone. Occasionally a woman really got into it and started screaming at the fighters, but mostly they want no part of this barbarism. Also, there were the new guys—easily distinguished by their skittish demeanor, constantly looking around, worried someone is going to pick a fight with them, or that the cops are going to shake the place down. And so the shady back room of Scotty’s, filled with people, became an arena. Scotty’s was one of many Irish pubs that hosted these events in their back rooms on weekends. Boston had become home to “Pub Fighting” as they called it—pretty much organized street fighting. The entrance fee and money made from the betting was big income for the pubs. Guys all over, look14 theFlame
ing for excitement or to make some fast cash, signed up to fight. Some of them were very good, and others just watched too much MMA. The winner, regardless of skill level, walked away with 100 dollars. The loser limped away with only some bruises and a broken ego. It was beautifully simple. After they all signed waivers, names were drawn by the manager to see who would fight first. The first fight of the night was to be Handlebar Man against Average Joe. That means Mark has to take the Cop. Elegant was the last word that would describe Pub Fighting. After a quick introduction, bets were made, fighters took their shirts and shoes off, and the fight started. Fights took anywhere from 10 seconds to thirty minutes. Handlebar Man took a beating early on. Average Joe was going crazy with all sorts of punches. It went on like this for a good time until Average Joe started to get tired. Handlebar Man then swiftly took command of the fight and soon knocked out Average Joe. It was a good fight, the crowd loved Handlebar Man’s come back. Mark even couldn’t help but smile when the manager raised the fighter’s hand up. But the smile quickly vanished. Now it was Mark’s turn. “Over here we have Scotty’s very own Mark Robinson.” Cheering. “And on the other side is Cop.” More cheering. Mark liked to keep his opponents nameless. At this, the fight started. Fighting forced Mark into a part of himself that he couldn’t get to otherwise. It was complete detachment. His whole life was confined into that little square. Nothing breached those four wooden planks. It was Mark, Cop, and nothing else. Mark found the experience addicting; everything was so vivid and alive while he fought, almost to the point that fighting was his reality and the rest of his life was just a dream. Nothing made Mark happier than the first punch that Cop landed square on his left cheek, and damn, it hurt. It was startlingly strong for an old guy, and all the other punches he landed in the barrage that followed were equally as strong. Mark was getting pounded. His face had turned into Cop’s speed bag, and with each punch Mark’s body screamed for protection. He couldn’t find an opening in the fury of blows that were slung at him. Trying to cover his head, Mark was pushed up against one of the planks. Mark was helpless until he noticed something. The 40-something policeman had a strong punch, but his feet barely moved. Mark threw a kick that hooked around the back of his knee, causing it to buckle. Cop dropped to one knee; Mark felt bad, he had kicked a knee that had probably already been replaced once. But now was not the time to feel remorse. He landed a strong right hook to Cop’s head. Cop fell over. Mark, in the spirit of Pub Fighting rules, allowed him to get up. Mark continued with a series of body blows to Cop’s slightly saggy stomach. As his punches kept landing, Mark looked up at Cop’s face. For a fraction of a second it was no longer the face of the aging police officer. It had suddenly morphed into the face of a young Mexican male with a tight buzz cut. Mark froze, staring at the snarling face of his opponent where the image of the younger man had been only a moment ago. Cop took advantage of the pause in Mark’s attack and shot a strong uppercut that had Mark stumbling backward. Cop advanced, keeping a steady stream of punches hurling at Mark. He even threw a kick at Mark’s knee, maybe some revenge, but it missed and hit shin. Mark needed to end the fight soon. He couldn’t take much more of this pounding. So, when Cop threw an excessively large hook, Mark rolled out of its path, and started to work on Cop’s exposed kidney. When Cop brought his arms down to protect himself, Mark flung an elbow, making contact with a nose. As Cop’s arms went back up to protect his broken nose, Mark jumped and launched a knee that connected with Cop’s chest. The crowd roared; they loved when knees and elbows came into play. That was it. Cop was finished. Mark accepted various congratulations and compliments as he took his seat again. Winning felt good. His smile showed off his bloody teeth to the spectators, who had already started to file out. They had gotten what they wanted and now they were off to the next thing to distract them. They confused Mark, but he also envied them; they were so easily entertained, so easily distracted. Mark and Handlebar Man collected their winnings, 100 dollars each. Mark then changed back into his previous clothes and exited Scotty’s. Back to regular life, back to the mundane everyday reality. But Mark still had the aftertaste of the fight in his mind and 100 bucks in his pocket, so he smiled his red smile and started to trudge though the snow.
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Lifeguard Madison Strauss Laugh at a mongoose and stuff him with your happiness. Gather more happiness from a wounded butterfly. Run till you reach the boulders that never fell. Throw your enemies under the rocks and flee. Kill the germ and save yourself. Rip open your chest and let the beast escape. Find your inner self and then beat it to death. Don’t yell out to the lifeguard. He won’t save you. Loosen the grip of hope. Cling for survival. Bury yourself with the mongoose and your sanity. Don’t let the bouncy ball bounce to the sky. Fall until you reach a dark nowhere. Shoot the shooting star. Heat the sun so it drips away slowly.
View it All Cathryn Campbell In the future, never move forward. Find the thickest grass in the desert. Fly away to a nest filled with gold. Fill up the world with only air. Give your riches to the dead. Swim in the still ocean that’s never seen the moon. Smile at no one and for nothing in the dark. Don’t let the wall crumble down. Catch the cold of an ice cube. View the sky all at once. Gather more happiness from a wounded butterfly. Locate the largest tree underwater. Remember not to run into the sky.
[Two surrealistic command poems] 16 theFlame
Ansley Foster
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Megan Foster
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Train Tracks Mac Blain As I walk along the train tracks, I notice the reds, oranges, and greens of the autumn leaves, the gusts of wind chilling my back, the slap of the water against the cold rocks. I notice a squirrel emerging from its nest, the hovering of a lone vulture, the rustling of leaves as a deer trots into the forest. I notice the trees on either side of the tracks, the branches closing in on me, leaving me alone in the wilderness. I notice a small fish leap out of the water, a branch flowing downstream after breaking away from its tree, the sound of the branch snapping as it strikes a rock in its path. I try not to notice the possum, lying lifelessly on the track as I walk by. I notice the bright yellow light bursting onto my jacket sleeve, the warmth on my chilled body, the increasing vibrations of the track, the sound of the whistle piercing my ears. As I step to the train’s side, I notice the colors of graffiti sprayed on its cars, and its caboose, vanishing into the horizon. theFlame 19
Eleni Agapis
Kyle Pate
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Kyle Pate
Jack Sutton
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Ella Massie Illusion of Esus Will Dixon Peace comes through glass filthy with dust, onto war-tomes, entries with dust. The stars move in patterns to form thoughts of magic volleyed with dust. Trust ends as night becomes a veil, soon deceiving keen eyes with dust. Foresight cannot see through the murk sent by ancients greedy with dust. Ice falls in the dark of the night; winter fights all, coldly with dust. Failed strength can muster not enough rage to cleave easily with dust. Now even hope hides, craven in despair of those slightly with dust.
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Fire breeds fire to eat itself and flames will die, verily, with dust.
Kyle Mosman The Story of Steve Marcus MaryWeston Devoe
W
e girls get shivers when we hear the name, Steve Marcus. A boy we cared so much for during high school, now reduced to distant fantasies or the extended Facebook thread we kept strictly for “Marcus Updates,” still exerted power over us through his persistent spirit. Although we all lived separate lives, we all shared a common bond, the intense and persevering connection to Steve Marcus that originated from our youth. He was leading a double life. One was a young man, troubled with the weight of the world and pressures of adolescence, and another was the stereotypical high school jock living in the present, epitomizing an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude. Although the popular side rejected us more times than not during high school, the lonely side embraced the company and comfort we provided to his broken soul. Steve lived a seemingly average life: average parents, average home, and average student. What was not average, however, were his looks. So immaculate, many found his physical appearance to be truly beautiful. “Oh, that body was famous. He was gorgeous and so chiseled!” Ansley Johnson later shared with us. His peach skin hugged his cheekbones and jawline, providing definition while maintaining a healthy, full face. He looked rugged, but sweet, and the girls at Easton High could not get enough. He was beyond popular. It was a battle for a seat next to him, a blessing to have a conversation with him, and a privilege to return his forgotten, or stealthily stolen items. An old friend of ours, Jackie Sommer told us later, “Ha, I stole a book out of Steve’s locker about once a month just so I could return it, and have some excuse to talk with him! Oh man, he was something else.” Although all the girls “loved” him, we knew him better than anyone else. We crawled into the innermost parts of his soul, warming and caring for it during his struggle throughout the months of 1980 in the midst of our senior year of high school. Steve moved to our Easton suburb in the Summer of 1980, a rather wet season preceded one of the hottest summers our families could ever remember. Our hot, sticky bodies attracted the mass mosquito offspring that populated our old bird baths and ditches that had collected infested water. Kendal Branch was the first of us to see the trucks from Ohio arriving. Kendal had been practicing soccer footwork in her front yard when she saw the moving truck. The large white truck pulled up, and two men wearing back-
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wards baseball caps jumped out and began unpacking the immense load of brand name, pristine, expensive goods, that called to the curious, naive eyes of Kendal Branch. Soon, the festivities attracted the women of the neighborhood, who began peeking out of windows and standing outdoors observing the family that was going to occupy the Larson’s home, a family that had never felt quite welcomed by the neighborhood. The Larsons had a teenage girl named Sam, who, because of our parents knowledge of her reputation, had been excluded from our neighborhood friendships, consequently excluding her parents from neighborhood functions as well. The family decided the neighborhood was unacceptable, moved, and now everyone was hoping for suitable takers of the house at the end of the cul de sac. The next day, more moving trucks stopped by, unloaded, and left. Finally, by the end of the second day, two rather large, silver BMWs pulled into the driveway. Although no one saw the family arrive, we estimated the arrival time around 10:37 p.m. We can almost all imagine what he looked like, calmly stepping out of the car, running his fingers across the silver finish of the door before pushing it shut, and walking up the stone pathway in his letter jacket, Levi jeans, and Nikes. Steve unknowingly brought a new wave of life among our routines. In order to raise her status, Susan Knight’s mother, the next morning, brought a casserole in an attempt to gather information on the new neighbors before the rest of the women could. Mother and daughter would do almost anything to have a popular, pristine image that Susan would find to be undesirable and meaningless months later. In order to evaluate the new family, Jess Stein’s mother and Kristen Thalheimer’s mother, in addition to various other women, brought by various baked goods many had purchased that morning, removed from packaging, placed on a nice plate, and claimed as their own. The Marcus’s made a good impression; they were conservative, and Mr. Marcus, a retired college football player, was a successful doctor. Of course, Steve’s cool, but polite, nature entertained the mothers. Mrs. Knight attempted to seize the golden opportunity and sent Susan over that night to introduce herself clad in a classy, but revealing dress, and red lipstick. Susan brags of being the first girl to meet him, “I was the very first girl he met after moving from Ohio.You all should be thankful that his first impression of our boring suburb was so dazzling. What’s to say his family wouldn’t have moved out after they realized their house was the only high-class one in the neighborhood.” Jess Stein, who lived across the street from the new neighbors, watched the exchange and claims it was less exciting, and goes so far as to say that Susan only talked to Mr. and Mrs. Marcus. The news of the Marcus’s arrival spread fast. After receiving word that Steve was to attend Easton High in the approaching school year, boys and girls buzzed with curiosity and excitement. “I first met Steve during our football preseason. We were gonna be teammates so I introduced myself. Cool guy, real relaxed, and a good player too,” Jacob Thalheimer, Kristen’s brother, informed us. Steve had an amiable, magnetic personality and made friends quickly with boys he met during the preseason. Steve quickly gained the approval of the football players, earning himself an invite to events, and soon became a well known figure in the area prior to school even commencing. However, during the first few months of high school, we discovered a profound burden Steve was carrying. The first time we truly recognized a significant problem in his life was the homecoming dance. All of Steve’s friends, much more popular than ours, asked a girl; however, to much of the school’s disappointment, Steve did not. He did attend with his friends, but he was nowhere to be found at the dance. After Susan Knight was taken advantage of by one of Steve’s friends and then left on the football field, she claims to have seen Steve. “It was weird, he didn’t show up to the actual dance. He just laid down on the bleachers. I wanted to go talk to him, but he looked upset so I just collected my belongings and left the football field.” After Susan told us this, we went back to Jess Stein’s house to await his arrival home. We stayed up almost all night before he came home at 2 a.m., meeting his parents at the door. “How was the dance?” “It was fun.” “Did your date have fun?” “Yeah.” Steve avoided further conversation by pushing through the doorway and running upstairs to his room, 26 theFlame
where he sat by the windowsill. Before we knew it, our eyes were locked with Steve’s who was gazing out the window. Time froze and all senses besides sight were drowned out by the overwhelming presence of Steve’s focus. Jess, breaking the stillness, slowly brought her hand to her heart and kept it there. Although, Steve eventually left the windowsill, he kept the blinds open, inviting us into his life. The rest of the evening we watched him, because we knew it was what he wanted. Around 5 a.m. he exited his home and walked down to the cul de sac to sit. We quietly left Jess’s house and walked down to the cul de sac as well. When we finally arrived within twelve feet of him we stopped. He was facing away from us, and we stared at the back of his head as he said,“I’m not worth anything.” There was a silence as none of us could think of something to say. “My parents want me to go to school for football; I don’t, and I know I can’t. My grades aren’t going to get me anywhere, and everything good that happens to me is something I don’t deserve.” Kendal began to start a sentence, but he stopped her. “Nothing you say is going to change how I feel.” The rest of the night we just stayed with him. We knew what we had to say would make a lesser impact than the one of our presence. He sat with his head down until 7 a.m. when he slowly stood and walked back home. After that incident, we knew we had been accepted. The dark nights when Steve opened his blinds, we knew he was trying to find company in his painful lonesomeness. What we, and later doctors who we questioned, diagnosed as depression, became a secret Steve thought would ruin him. Our extensive knowledge and observation consequently honored us as the only ones who knew. However, despites Steve’s overwhelming emotions, he socially excelled. Everyone at school knew him and girls threw themselves on him and shattered the hard-to-get front he had previously chosen. Soon, Steve began to sleep around, an action we girls knew would hurt him further. The only girl we could get in contact with was Meredith Evans. “Before we even finished he rolled over and began staring at the ceiling. He started talking about how he was a jerk and begged me to tell him why I was doing this. He asked me if I even respected myself, and then continued to ask me why I was doing this. I didn’t know what to say and when he started crying I just left. I never told anyone about it because I was embarrassed.” Steve began opening his blinds more often, visiting the cul de sac, and even placing notes in our lockers to assure himself that we were there for him and that someone cared. Steve was spiraling and we were the only ones who knew. It was arousing to know that we were the only ones in whom he placed his trust. We cared for him. We sacrificed our time to sit with him in the cul de sac, listen to him, and comfort him with our presence. We cared for him more than anything, and stuck by him while the depression worsened. We knew why he didn’t want to tell his parents. We knew why he did those strange things sometimes that no one could quite figure out. Steve’s final interaction with us occurred during winter break. We noticed he hadn’t been out for three days. He just stayed in his room. He was having a hard time. We were watching his room, waiting for him to open the blinds when Jess’s cell phone started ringing. The number was unknown, yet somehow we all knew who it was. We answered and listened to the distant creature that seemed so close to us on the other side of the line. There was only silence, until finally music rang out, and then we replied. This continued back and forth, and although we’ve had trouble determining exactly what the list was, we scribbled down what we consider the most probable solution. Steve: Belong Cary Brothers Us: Let Her Cry Hootie and the Blowfish
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Steve: Colors Portugal. The Man Us: It Comes and Goes (in waves) Greg Laswell Steve: Skinny Love Bon Iver Us: Can’t Go Back Now The Weepies
Steve: Lime Tree Trevor Hall
At the end of “Lime Tree” we heard rustling, and then the line went silent and the call was over. This was the first time that we communicated back to Steve, the first time we shared our feelings. Everything we had ever felt, or wanted to express was expressed through the lyrics and tune of the music we chose. It was fulfilling. That night we went to bed content, appreciative of the evolution of our relationship with Steve, and hopeful for what was to come. We had never felt such a special relationship, and we were finally beginning to think we were helping, our greatest desire at the time. The next weeks, however, were empty. He never went to the cul de sac, he never called, and he kept his blinds shut. Never again would he communicate with us. He refused to answer our calls, and some nights the girls would just go sit in the cul de sac to try and feel what they had felt those late nights with Steve. It never worked. Then later, in the spring, Steve left for college, and that was that. It was all over. Many of us felt the void, an unsettling, uncomfortable feeling, but we did our best to continue through. We went our separate ways to college, marriage, and children. We accepted the disappointment.
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Charlotte Nasworthy
Digital Drone Ryan Dickerson The black vinyl disc spins. Its rich tone plays through the speakers. The needle digs the grooves deeper into the record as the label in the center inverts itself. Its rich tone plays through the speakers unheard by the earless masses. As the label in the center inverts itself, they focus more on their screens. Unheard by the earless masses, the mass-produced music lacks substance. They focus more on their screens. They don’t recognize the void where music used to be. The mass-produced music lacks substance. lacking anything resembling a soul. They don’t recognize the void where music used to be, now filled with melodic formulas. Lacking anything resembling a soul, music’s put together in computers now filled with melodic formulas. Creativity’s obsolete when technology can compose for us. Music’s put together in computers, hissing defiantly. Creativity’s obsolete when technology can compose for us as digital drone drowns it all out. Hissing defiantly, The needle digs the grooves deeper into the record. As digital drone drowns it all out, the black vinyl disk spins.
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The Shattering Effect Matt Howell I threw a brick through a window. It promptly exploded. I’m not sure why. I didn’t throw it very hard. The house seemed hurt. As if it missed that piece of itself. I ate the ice cream sandwich. It tasted like the morning dew: Cold, wet and dripping. I read the fortune inside the sandwich. It read, “Go now, you are forgiven.” I didn’t care. Scarlet begonias dance in front of the broken house. I respected their style, although too contemporary for my taste. They shot me looks of disdain and condescension. I walked to Franklin’s Tower. I looked out upon the sloped horizon. I gave ships the finger as they entered the harbour. They blew their horns at my stupidity.
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Katie Lee
Moonrise Jack Maraghy The stars dance at the moon’s arrival. Opaque night gives me a kiss. Others fear it, but we are well acquainted.
let your heart fill the holes in your head. Liberation will come quickly. Set it free and wrap yourself in shadow.
Opaque night gives me a kiss. Ebony sky sits on my head, but we are well acquainted. Isolation is not a curse.
Liberation will come quickly. Others fear it. Wrap yourself in shadow. The stars dance at your arrival.
Ebony sky sits on my head. Have you ever let yourself be truly alone? Isolation is not a curse; it allows your soul to stretch. Have you ever let yourself be truly alone, let your heart fill the holes in your head? It allows your soul to stretch. Set it free and
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Uncle Fred Madeline Nagy
H
is hand clicks the pen: open, close, open, close. I turn over, exasperated, ready to unleash a string of tired grumblings, until I see his face: soggy eyes, breathless expression. Click, click. He opens his mouth, closes it, waits for me to ask the unaskable question. “What’s wrong?” A deep sigh. Two more clicks. “Your uncle Fred was found in a parking lot yesterday morning.” Click. “He shot himself.” Click. Images of Fred race through my mind. A smile sweeps across his face as he triumphantly raises the fish he caught last weekend. He tells me I will be a track star in high school with my long legs. He teases his wife of over sixty-five years, Sookie. I see him, alone in a barren parking lot, dropping a gun. Click.
He drops the gun, drives home. He tells Sookie he has been feeling down lately, tells her that they have been having money problems. They discuss their options; they devise a way to make their savings last the rest of their lives, maybe even longer. Thanksgiving arrives and they drive to see us. He gives me a tight hug, and I accept it without thinking. We sit and watch television together, and I hear the adults in the other room whispering about something scary. I walk in to get a soda. I ask my mother, “What are you all talking about?” She looks around, exchanges glances with my other family members. My dad, almost shouting, yells, “Nothing.” I walk outside of the room to wait for the adults to resume their conversation and hear the story of the dropped gun. I hug Uncle Fred again, but this time I am thankful for his presence. Click, click. He drops the gun as his face turns white. His head slumps into his neck, his neck slumps into his shoulders, his shoulders slump into his waist. Blood stains the car seat. The small-town police sheriff calls Aunt Sookie, crying. Aunt Sookie calls my grandmother, crying. My grandmother calls my father, crying. My father tells me about the dropped gun, crying. I turn over, crying. The gun drops onto the seat. Click.
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Hopelessness in the Air Jeb Beeghly The man walks to his death. Wind follows as icicles shatter on the path. As dusk turns to night, The batter steps into the box. The crowd leaves the stadium; Only the old and weak stay in the stands. The oasis in the desert invites the lost man in. Only the pits of the peaches are left Stumbling over the Bering Sea, And walking backwards down the sandbank. The man turns the corner toward the church, Stepping on every crack along the way, And slowing down, until he comes to a complete stop.
Megan Foster
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Commute GarrettVollino
Peasants’ Blade Brody Schneider
Legs pedaling; the warm breeze stirs. I’m late.
The scythe cuts cleanly Through the thick stalks of wheat. Peasants Stride behind the blade.
Autumn’s Paradox Katie Ciszek Nature’s auburn jewels Blown off the drenched trees Slide toward the gutter.
Wondrous Moon Kathleen Leavitt The blue tinted moon shines among the new puddles. The ran falls slowly.
Evening Harvest Max Gordon A man cloaked in darkness, with one swing of his scythe the stalk of corn tumbles. Reilly Klein
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Oceans Pantoum Kaitlin Crews A sailboat crosses the cove, whipping sheets of water away. The passengers look into the faraway horizon, as they fly over the dark waters. Whipping sheets of water away, the sail holds tight onto the boat, as they fly over the dark waters with wind as their engine. The sail holds tight onto the boat, pulling it gracefully across the cove. With wind as their engine, a calm sky is their only fear. Pulling it gracefully across the cove, the sail tilts the boat into the swallowing waters. A calm sky is their only fear, as stormy waves shoot them off in their fury. The sail tilts the boat into the swallowing waters, with salty residue misting their faces, As stormy waves shoot them off in their fury, The rusty sunset shadows their small town. With salty residue misting their faces, the passengers look into the faraway horizon. The rusty sunset shadows their small town; a sailboat crosses the cove.
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For Kevin Kelley CJ Harvey
So I just found out that my favorite art teacher ever passed away today. And it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to hear. He’s the one who got me hooked on art in the first place, and now I’m getting into colleges because of my art portfolio. Age is just a number, and even though he was old, he had the energy and enthusiasm of a college kid. I’ll never forget how much he put into his classes, and I can’t thank him enough for all he’s done for me. Mr. Kelley inspired me all the time, and inspiration like that is so hard to come by. A few weeks ago, I gave him a series of drawings I made that looks like what I did in 8th grade, only he could see how much I’ve improved since then. On the back I thanked him for everything and told him how much I love him. It’s true, I will always love him and what he’s done for me. Rest in peace, Mr. Kelley, I’ll never ever forget you.
CJ Harvey
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Losing Innocence Katie McCauley Hold on to innocence; Knowledge, not so great. Understanding drowns childhood with a rinse. Laugh and play without feeling tense From some looming due date. Hold on to innocence. We age and earn a driver’s license, But we lose the opportunity to enjoy the ride–why can’t we wait? Understanding drowns childhood with a rinse. Why does growing up hold so much suspense? Getting older is simply our fate. Hold on to innocence. We only see flaws in each mirrored glimpse, And cautious steps replace our happy gait. Understanding drowns childhood with a rinse. We lose ourselves in wisdom–words without substance– And learn to enjoy youth a little too late. Hold on to innocence– Understanding drowns childhood with a rinse.
Marshall Pittman
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Stuck Kristie Turkal You know that time of year when its not quite hot, but not yet cold, just stuck in between seasons. Those mornings you might be surprised to find an unsuspecting chill in the air. You might even pick up the jacket or trade in those shorts you’re wearing for something more cozy, comfortable. The first sign of a summer long gone. But not just a chill, also a silence that makes you think about all the things that are starting and what is ending or maybe just changing into something else. On that damp morning, at the beginning of another year, do you feel older or wiser or stronger as you breathe in the newly crisp air or even any different at all?
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JoWrenn
Native Sun Brian Davia It began with other arrows. A time when our arrows fired straight, whistling past our grins to find stray deer. Yet, so easily our bows wilted when we saw a target our arrows could not touch. Men, full of firepower and a strange magic, building staircases out of ideas. They spoke words tinged with deceptive words we could not understand. But we tried anyway. Now we are the deer, lingering in the mist of a lord deified (and forever wary of a strange hunter, firing arrows from a foreign sun).
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WinstonWillet An Imaginary Existence Katie Cizeck I allow my mind to wander to an imaginary existence. One where I’m not so afraid and a little more sure– but not so sure that the excitement drains from life. One where people look up more often instead of taking interest in the grey, monotonous sidewalks. One where the long golden days are followed by longer navy nights. And you’re there, of course. How could I rob you of joining me in this nonexistent world? One where we wake early and let the morning air fill our nostrils with the distinct scent of a day that has not quite begun and still brims with opportunities. One where the winters are warm and the birds stay with us. One where the strong tree is applauded for stretching its open arms toward the sky. 40 theFlame
One where the defeated tree is consoled for its dry skin that falls in ashen flecks. One where we are not concerned with each thread in our own tattered patch of life, but in awe of how beautiful it looks among the patchwork of other complex journeys. I allow my mind to wander to an imaginary existence. One where we aren’t locked in the prison of time, and there’s no need to rush from one place to the next. And, maybe, we have no idea what is next because we are no longer searching, no longer penetrating our thin hearts with quiet distress.
Hannah Myers