The Wayfarer 2001 by Edgewood High School

The Masquerade Maureen Backman (10)

Hues of amber, tangerine, and mauve Embrace a placid sky. The tinctures paint colorful masks upon The sleepy audience below; A masquerade of nature. Shimmering zephyrs pulled by transparent fairies Blow sweet-tasting air across the earth. Shadows dart and play Within the gentle breeze, Calming the resplendence of the sky. A glowing, heavenly sun Enigmatically sinks down Into the ocean of colors and wind. Its dying rays grasp The shadows of the world with it, Making them long and slender. Wisps of ochre clouds mark spots Where wings of angels Brushed gently across the sky, A silent blessing to the slumberous world. The sun tries to hold onto the sky, Grasping desperately onto the shadows beneath With its rays. The soft zephyrs Push the sun through the colors of the sky; The fairies sweep the clouds from its path. It dips beneath the horizon, Gone to the watching earth. All that remains Are the sun’s resplendent rays, Nature’s omnipresent blessing.

Wayfarer For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.

– Vincent VanGogh

Published by the students of Edgewood High School Anne Erhardt (10)

Volume XVI Spring, 2001

Staff

Editor:

Colleen McHenry

Assistant Editor:

Maureen Backman

Art Editor:

Heather Waldeck

Technical Assistants: Jon Hoffman Eric Offerdahl Editorial Board: Kate Drea Elizabeth Jaramillo Alayna Lemmer Luke Medis Meghan Miller Megan Schaaf Thaddeus Thaler-Schultz Sarah Turner Cover Artist: Scott Bowen Consultants:

Mr. Jim Ottney Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Ms. Diane Mertens

Advisor:

Arboretum of Verse

Harmony in Purple Garden Purple orbs of light Surround the garden of life, Bringing harmony Jason Gonzalez (11)

Autumn Birches in Sunset birch tree of dream-light emotion of bittersweet smiles thy autumn gleam reminds. Meghan Miller (11)

Reisha Mitchell (10)

Table of Contents 5

Only Words: Colleen McHenry

Confidantes: Alana Herro.............................

As the Moon Pulls: Elizabeth Jaramillo

Climbing Mountains: Jocelyn Kempema.....

Dark room quiet night Voices murmur warmly faces hide from sight.

The Wise Man and the Farmer: Ben Pierce.............................................................

Arboretum of Verse: Jason Gonzalez, Meghan Miller ...................................................................... The Masquerade: Maureen Backman

My Own Private Idaho: John Walsh............

Heavy lids Eager ears the hidden common Thread vividly appears.

Unsolved Mysteries of the Worm: Chris Hanson..........................................................

Confidantes Alana Herro (12)

Silly advice Words of sages hearts unlatch like whispers to a book of empty pages.

Veronika Tobiasova (12)

Artists: Scott Bowen: 27 Megan Caldwell: 23

Cage of the Mind: Meghan Miller

Colleen Curtin: 13

Wonder: Elizabeth Butman..........................

Peter DeSalvo: 33

TV: Peter Schmitz

Anne Erhardt: 48

Night Goddess: Lauren Helletewark...........

Cindy Fraser: 35

As a Snowflake Falls: Sam Mylrea

Carlos A Jaramillo IV: 29, 36-7

ihearBlue: Carlos A Jaramillo IV

Alayna Lemmer: 11, 20

Nightmares: Jessica Robertson

Allison McDonald: 39, 43

Storm of Betrayal: Mandy Hampton............

Reisha Mitchell: 47

Natural Thoughts: Jason Gonzalez, Meghan Miller, Megan Schaaf

James Murphy: 8, 16

Goose Pond: Maureen Backman

Ode to My Dog: Ryan Beresky

Exchange: Joanna Stroncek

The Nameless Child Who Called Me â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mamaâ&#x20AC;?: Sarah Turner

Jack Petty: 19 Veronika Tobiasova: 25, 45, 46 Heather Waldeck: 4, 40 Mike Wilker: 7

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

The hours passed quickly, and it was time to leave the orphanage. I walked back to the crib, and the child began to scream the only name he had for me. “Mama! Mama!” he shrieked incessantly, as if he knew I would never see or hold him again. I set the child in his crib, stroked his cheek, and gave him one last kiss on his forehead. Listening to the child scream for me, I walked out the door, leaned my head against the rough wall, and began to sob. I am a different person ever since my experience in Haiti. I have never felt so wanted by a person as I had when I listened to the child scream. The orphan in Haiti showed me that the only thing we need to do to make

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a difference in another’s life is to care for him more than we care for ourselves. I now strain to listen for people around the world and in my community who are begging to be heard. I have increased concern for those who do not have food, shelter, clean air and water, or someone who loves them. There will be many more people in my life who will speak to me and show me a new perspective of the world, whether they are friends or strangers, but I will always remember the child who loved me for simply being myself, the nameless child who called me “Mama.”

)

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Only Words

The Nameless Child Who Called Me “Mama”

Colleen McHenry (12)

Sarah Turner (12)

There are literally hundreds of people immense poverty among the people there, and who influence our lives. Every person we see I was unsure how to deal with the emotions has an impact on us in some way, whether it I felt – fear, sadness, guilt, and despair. The is someone we see every day or a person we Haitians greeted us with warm smiles and meet once and never see again. There are open hearts but with a mutual awareness that the parents who have cared for us since the the United States is largely responsible for the moment of our birth, the teachers who have poverty in their country. I longed to help them taught us more about life than about English with money, food, clothing, or a promise that or history, and the friends who have lent us tomorrow would be better. their shoulders for tears after challenging days On the sixth day of our trip, my group at school. The impacts they make on us are went to a local orphanage for the last time to play with the children and very large and obvious I sat in a cold folding chair and to say our good-byes. I because they are a part of rocked the entered the small building our lives for a long time made of cinder-blocks and child back and forth, and speak many words to immediately walked to us. There are also people falling in love with a the crib of the infant that whose influence on us baby that wanted I had held for the past two is small. These are the nothing from me days. I was not sure of waiters who go out of except my presence. the child’s name because their way to give the best hismany identification bracelet service and the mail carriers who stop to talk had faded during his baths and hours while on their route. They influence our lives in the sun. The child lifted his arms into with their kindness and their presence. One the air as I walked by, so I obediently bent very influential person sticks out in my mind down and picked him up. The baby was not because we were little more than strangers the cutest or the most interesting child in the when what he said changed my life. I knew room. He would sit with a stone face as I this person for only three days and heard sang songs or made funny faces in attempts him speak only one word, but he has made to make him smile. I quickly learned that puta greater impact on my life than any other ting the child back in his crib would produce person has ever made. ear-piercing screams that I could not bear to It was my sixth and final day in Porthear. I sat in a cold folding chair and rocked au-Prince, Haiti. I had traveled there with a the child back and forth, falling in love with youth group without knowing the reason why a baby that wanted nothing from me except I had agreed to join the trip. I saw nothing but my presence. 44

How can a thousand words, letters piled like puzzle pieces in fragmented chaos, one following another, cascading off the limit of my page in their vain eagerness to share my story – How can they ever do justice to what I feel? A few words, Equally insufficient. How can my words satisfy my soul’s longing to speak? Words are just letters, mere scribbles of the hand, And my heart remains mute. I seek in frustration to express the elusive and fleeting feelings, To record them before the memories fade… I mourn my mortal heart, the simple but sincere emotions and experiences that grow dull as the gray winter sky over time, But the thought of distorted and fractured memories – an incomplete puzzle not true to the original image – hurts far more. Words cannot illustrate how the sun sprinkles his silver rays on the blue-gray water, flashing his cheery smile at me like thousands of blinking cameras Words cannot imitate the sensation of the cool, soothing wind on my face, gently pulling my hair loose, brushing the leaves of the trees, and whirling a child’s kite in a colorful dance across the blue sky They cannot share the taste of fresh kiwi – sweet, juicy, falling to pieces in my mouth Nor can they record the lullaby of the water’s rolls and splashes against the rocks, the flapping of the kite’s wings, the whisper of the trees’ leaves tiptoeing on the wind They cannot describe the perfume of the water’s spray that calls me to the lakeshore, aching to tell what my heart cannot speak. My words are only words, letters, drops of ink, Just dull, dry scratches on unglamorous 100% recycled paper. They have no magic to share the beauty I see and feel, They are powerless, uninspiring, common, illusion – After all, they are only words.

A Journal Entry: As the Moon Pulls Elizabeth Jaramillo (11)

Monday, November 6, 2000 I wake up this morning, eat my cereal, take my shower, try to choose between several outfits, and, finally, I go to school. My day is normal, quite mundane. I paddle through the halls with my pack slung over my shoulders, smiling effervescently into the eyes going by. They all have the same loads on their shoulders as me. During homeroom, we pray for the simple things in life, and the announcements are read as usual. Some thoughts are shared with the community. The competition, the deadlines, and all the work â&#x20AC;&#x201C; there is so much to do! The load on my back is heavy; the tension is high. It is like steel that is ready to explode and make me fry. With 4500 psi, I

I sit down and sink into the peace and tranquility of another world closer to the core. breathe it in and relax. I am absorbed as I sit down and sink into the peace and tranquility of another world closer to the core. It is one hundred feet beneath the surface where the temperature is cool and my vision is clear. I am in my room, separate but not alone. I want to fish something up to submit for critique and analysis. Something that conveys a message that can anchor itself to the mind. Where do I start? My audience is my best friend and my worst enemy, the boy I have a crush on and the boy that has a crush on 6

me. My audience is the teacher that saw me dance and the teacher that saw me succeed, the teacher that yelled at me and the one that almost flunked me. But what do you tell this school of shimmering beings as they float on by? How can I submerge all these people without drowning them? It has to moisten the imagination but not become soggy, too long, or arduous. It has to be cultured and show mastery of the English language. Does it have to use big words that seem lofty and sound unnatural to my ear? Well, one must listen, not simply hear. Words are fun and reveal ideas, emotions, and isolated thoughts. Without these I would be adrift on an iceberg and truly alone. With these words, a thought is communicated, and a message is passed from one mind to another. But what message do I send, and what words do I use? This composition has to fit in and be accepted, yet be something different and new. The school in uniform flutters by, each giving off its own sparkle and creating a current for the next. But when a surge current comes by, one delicate creature is vacillated and shies away into the reef. As the world turns and the wind blows against my window, the moon pulls. An upwelling brings the coolness and crystal clarity from the bottom and spills its energy onto the beach. It should be a piece from the heart. The celestial beam that shines through the surface could be reflected into the true colors

Allison McDonald (10)

Exchange

Joanna Stroncek (12) One pair of dust-covered Nikes. Forty-four calloused, aching soles Standing distances from Their mud-floored homes in the mountains. One baseball cap protecting a fair complexion. Twenty-two tired brown faces Bombarded with the yellow rays of reality. Salty droplets form to relieve them of their hot burden. One hand with clean, even nails Reaches not down, but out With a bottle of Coca-Cola and two granola bars To experienced, soiled hands.

that are rarely seen. It is difficult to submit something from beneath. It becomes like a creature leaping out of the water. The ocean has a constant motion. The water recedes and

fin slices the surface, and the door opens. The creature is placid while a dolphin leaps out of the water. And although reticent by nature, the creature embraces the peaceful

As the world turns and the wind blows against my window, the moon pulls. leaves a creature to the mercy of the wind. The wind is dry and whirls in my ears. Thoughts become garbled and blow around. The tide changes and all the creatures rise and fall together. Everyone gets to be fair game; everyone gets to be in the white sun. In dry times it is important to be an optimist. You must embrace your talents and be yourself. A

sea with an open heart. A peace of my mind, an opus, is submitted for critique and analysis. The needle has hit the red zone. I reach up for the stars and twirl with my eyes on the goal. Ebb tide has come and gone as the wind blows and the moon pulls.

Words in two languages Are silently transmitted Through the scorching airEqually given and received. Two blue eyes Open wider Glimpsing into the chocolate windows Of a home with suffering and unbroken love.

42 Mike Wilker (12)

Climbing Mountains

Ode to My Dog

Jocelyn Kempema (12)

Ryan Beresky (12)

James Murphy (12)

There is a haunting page behind you that you’re trying not to see, A mountain range of time and work – Of things remembered and things forgotten, A peak of white filled with scribbles – circles – scars. The lurid mix of words on white, the challenge that you face

Has found an end, or a beginning, the choice is yours. One question remains to be answered – One mystery left to be solved.

She is the shades Of an October forest Full of vivacious tints and hues. Her tail is a branch in the October wood, swaying Under a gentle breeze. Her fur is a gentle fabric Made of the warmest cloth Fitting snuggly around her. Her cavernous ears Gorge themselves Upon the world’s song. A silent observer, A better listener Couldn’t be found. Her snout glistens Like a black rock Extracted from a river. The fur around her mouth Is frosted with the Gentle snow of age. Under her sturdy brows Eyes, like an ocean At night, shine. The broad amber sea Glistens, as with moonlight, Concealing a hidden world If you are only willing to look.

Ba-boom, your heartbeat warns you; this is the end – the last, To end this problem is to end the test. The dilemma looms before you, the final peak 8

In a long and arduous climb. You read it warily, your deliberation turning As cold and heartless as the question that you face. Two answers are given, twin snowflakes That, once formed alike, now fall into contrary valleys. The first you recognize; you have seen it before. The other is new and different – alarming. Ba-boom, your heartbeat warns you; this is the end – the last, To end this problem is to end the test. The first answer mocks in its reminder of the past. All the work and toil and time, climbing mountains When you could barely breathe the air – Learning and changing with every step you took. The second scares you; it is a free fall Into the cavern of your soul. Into the darkness that threatens and comforts – Where you, alone, are in control. Ba-boom, your heartbeat warns you; this is the end – the last, To end this problem is to end the test. You know that to choose is to decide forever – To pick an uphill path to a destination That will only conclude this journey So that a new one might begin. You close your eyes for a brief second. Slowly, a sigh is released from deep within. Your hand shakes as you circle The answer that you did not seek. Ba-boom, your heartbeat soothes you; this is the end – the last, By deciding you have passed the test. 40

Heather Waldeck (12)

The Wise Man and the Farmer A cabin stands within the woods, connected to the concrete highway by a simple gravel road. The outside of the cabin is spartan, bare of any adornments. There are grasses, bushes, ferns, flowers, weeds, and trees that all grow under nature’s whim. Yet, there is someone who resides in that cabin. If one is careful and sneaks up quietly through the patch of spruces, past the soft bed of violets, and around the dried wood saved for the fire, an old man can be seen reading. The man has a long, gray beard and a wrinkly face. Within the cabin, there is an enormous pile of knowledge, information, enlightenment, and encyclopedias that fill most of the room. If a watcher keeps silent and patient, he or she will see this man read with astonishing rapacity, finishing books as thick as his gnarled hand. This is the wise man; he desires to know everything there is to know. As the curious explorer walks away from the strange cabin, there is more to be seen. Yet it is nothing more than the typical countryside. A grizzled farmer, his scruffy beard resembling the burnt toast he ate that morning, drives a tractor through the fields, spreading seeds. The farmer is nobody special compared to the wise man. He looks at the watcher with a simple gaze, then returns to his common task. The wise man turns the final page of the final book, bringing his gaze up to peruse the wilderness outside the window. The enormous pile of books that sits to his right is 10

as complete as his task of knowing. A small smile comes over the wise man’s face with the realization of completeness. Equations, theorems, ideas, philosophies, calculus functions, advanced anthropological studies, complicated thermal values of the solar system, arcane political followings, and knowledge about everything in the world whizzes and whirls through the synapses, neurons, and receptors of the wise man. The genius studies the green leaves of the ferns outside his windows, knowing the evolutionary process of how the fern developed, the historical value of ferns within dozens of civilizations, the twodimensional area of the leaves, everything there is to know. Lazily, the wise man allows his gaze to drift to the blue sky. Narrowing his eyes, he begins to ponder a subject that he has read about and puzzled over countless times yet has never answered. The grizzled farmer turns the large wheel that steers the tractor. Having gone too far, the farmer is forced to stop the tractor and think of a new course of action. Leaning back in the slightly comfortable seat, he stretches his stiff arms and looks at the blue sky. For a moment he thinks of a question that he had within his mind during church but never answered. What is God?

Allison McDonald (10)

Ben Pierce (12)

The last flock spiraled into the waters and cleared the air, letting the sunlight break through its black barrier to sing once again with the crying reeds. The breeze let out its last heave of excitement and blew gently once more, its gentle sighs skipping across the determined reeds and tousling their tips. The reeds began a gradual decrescendo until they gently whispered the refrain of their aria. The geese floated upon the glossy waters, their calls becoming scarcer, fading away into the

cool tapestry. The sun softly caressed the sky until it slipped gently beneath the horizon. Darkness enveloped the earth and turned the chaos into serenity as the reeds softly lulled the geese to sleep. “Awark!” A soft cry pierced the heavenly silence. The haunting call echoed across the infinity of the sky to remind me where I was: upon the mystical earth of Goose Pond.

Goose Pond

Maureen Backman (10)

“Here!” The sweet air of autumn filled my “Where?” nostrils as the placid breeze gently swirled “Here!” around my head. Sage-colored reeds, rising “Over there?” out of the ground like minarets of a mosque, The noisy chatter continued steadily whistled a somber aria to the strumming until I finally spotted them. The long slender of the wind. Beyond the reeds was a pond neck, the white patch over the eye – their – Goose Pond. Miniscule ripples gliding identities were unmistakable. Geese. Canada across the water disturbed its smooth, glassGeese come to disturb the stillness of the like surface. The water shone resplendently, pond, to inhabit its glossy waters. A small mirroring the brightness of the early evening flock flew over my head, their wings whissun. Behind the reeds and marshy grassland tling in the wind. Soon more flocks joined was a crop of corn. Its succulent smell was in, enthralling the area with their chirp-like carried occasionally with the omnipresent chatter. The sky filled with ebony ovals; the breeze and warmed me within like the scent sunlight was blocked from of warm cinnamon rolls reaching the pond. The on a winter evening. A first flock of geese started rustic trail meandered to All was quiet until a swirling in circles, beginthe cornfield where one noise disturbed the ning their intricate descent could stand next to the gentle hum of placidity. to the waters below. Other towering stalks, feeling groupings followed until dwarfed by the power of “Awark!” all were swooping in a nature. All was quiet until a noise disturbed spiral-like labyrinth. The funnel cloud of the gentle hum of placidity. “Awark!” The birds enveloped the lake and made the reeds hollow sound echoed across the marshes. sing their aria loudly and boldly. The whole “Awark, awark!” The haunting calls became pond screamed and swirled in the strengthennearer and more numerous. “Awark, awark, ing breeze. Geese consumed the entire sky. awark!” The calls overlapped, answering The serene, glossy waters became speckled each other. with black until the entire pond seemed like “Where are we going?” one charcoal mass.

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My Own Private Idaho John Walsh (12)

He asked, “Where am I? What do you want? What is this place? What are those flames? Who is in there? Why can’t any light get through? Who is making that awful sound? Where does that road lead?” A door of nails is nothing to be opened. A stool made of charcoal is as weak as sandstone. A floor of wood that came from the dead trees outside is A place where no one wants to stand. “How did we get here?” I say, they made a wrong turn. “How long do we stay?” Forever is your fate. “How is this justified?” You should have thought about that in the first place. “How many days go by before we learn of our mistakes?” Eternity. You never knew what you were into until it was too late. You looked at the darkness with sunglasses on. You felt the only escape was the one you had already taken. You always saw your past as an excuse to move blindly into the future. Why don’t you remember what’s waiting for you on the other side? Was it not painful enough the first time? O, I remember our youngest days of dreams. I lived them over in my head as if you stood right by my side. Can you somehow remember what it was like When we were together in this world? But the evil temptations got in our way And you did not have the strength to stay with me. I am sorry I am here and I am sorry you are there. I wish I could have saved you. I wish. I know you would have turned the other way. That is what men do sometimes. I dream of your return everyday. I dream.

Just one more day in the darkness and you will see. Just one more hit and you will feel. Right? Just one more shot, whatever it does to you; will you remember what it did before? Just one more flight home and you will stay forever.

Colleen Curtin (11)

My own memory of you darting down that hill Reaching your way toward the end. My own memory of you on that fateful final day of summer when you Met your own worst fears. Yes, all my own as if they never really happened. But sadly, todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heroes are tomorrowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tragedies, a lesson That we wish we could have learned sooner. It is the worst place you can imagine. Now I say that if he had chosen some other route, He would not have ended up in My Own Private Idaho. 13

Unsolved Mysteries of the Worm Chris Hanson (11)

It is hard to say exactly what happened on the last day of the life of my closest friend, Anthony Esquire. I can recall all of it with clear detail, but I cannot say it is exact because I still don’t believe that what I saw actually happened. I do know, whatever the case, that it was that book: The Mysteries of the Worm. De Vermis Mysteriis.

In late December of 1998, Anthony and I were doing last-minute Christmas shopping for our girlfriends. We found our way a hole-in-the-wall specialty bookshop downtown. We misinterpreted the name as a novelty gift shop and walked in to discover that it actually was a bookshop. There were books there which we thought even God had never seen. The shop itself had a unique atmosphere. It was by no means dark; the two windows in front provided plenty of midday light. However, it had a musty, dank feel to it. The air was thick and hot with the heavy smell of old paper. We browsed the different sections, finding that there were no real novels. The books were leather-bound with brittle paper, though kept in impeccable condition. Most of the books were historical accounts, ranging in subject from the Spanish Inquisition to the confession of a serial killer, the latter being the most recent book, written 14

in the early 1900s. None of them were really worth buying unless you were some type of twisted collector. Then we found a rather unique book. It was almost twice as thick as the other books on the shelves, and the leather binding still had a shine to it, as if it hadn’t been touched in years. It was in the back of the store, and we had to bring it toward the light to read the faded engravings. De Vermis Mysteriis. “I’ll bite,” I said. “It’s Latin. It means ‘The Mysteries of the Worm,’ I think,” Anthony told me. “Very good,” we heard a shrill voice say from the counter near the door, “an almost perfect translation.” “What did I say wrong?” Anthony asked the clerk. There was a pause. “All right, so it was a perfect translation; I was just trying to be dramatic.” The clerk came around the counter and cleared his voice, losing the fake creepyman accent. He took the book from Anthony’s hands. “This is a very unique book. The entire text is in Latin...” he flipped through some of the pages to show us, “...and supposedly only pieces of it were translated. Even if we were to take all of the separate translations and put them together, they still wouldn’t equal even half the book. No one has ever translated more than a few pages; they either refuse to read more of what they see, or they…” he trailed off, then turned to-

Cindy Fraser (11)

Storm of Betrayal Mandy Hampton (12)

The sun quietly peeks over the swaying chestnut trees, Slowly discovering mysteries hidden within the hazy shadows, Gently questioning – prodding – waiting – Begging the resilient leaves to reveal the unexplored ground below. Cautiously – impenetrable defenses are withdrawn. Beneath the sheltering canopy, a beautiful Forget-Me-Not emerges. Trustingly – she seeks Protection from the sun’s warm rays, No longer relying on reclusive Darkness to keep her safe. The bodeful wind softly whispers “Beware Deception!” Yet Innocence and Naivete hinder the faint admonitions. On the horizon, shades of Treachery creep in stealthily, But the flower’s illusions of Perfection prevent their detection. Unnoticed – injurious clouds advance and blue skies fade into sinister grays. Menacingly – Nature continues its merciless game, Relishing the success of its present endeavor, Destroying any hope the vulnerable bloom has for survival. Crashing through the trees, the ferocious Tempest approaches. Too late – the frail blossom realizes Nature’s cruel intentions, Frantically – she tries to restore the neglected barriers. But the sun’s presence lures – unvanquishable from her memory. The trees writhe in the wind, and angry waters quarrel with the shore. The Fury continues its destructive rampage, ignoring the withering flower’s plight. Abandoned and defenseless, she falls Victim to the storm’s rage – Suffering – as pelting Raindrops shred her delicate blue petals.

ward the window, “…go mad.” He said this in a deep voice, while he smiled and waved to the people window shopping. “Courtney would love this!” Anthony said. “What?” I shouted. “Did you listen to him? This book is sick! Ok, so I don’t believe that anyone actually went mad, but come on! The Mysteries of the Worm? What the hell does that mean?” “No, seriously, she studies these old,

“No one has ever translated more than a few pages; they either refuse to read more of what they see, or they… go mad.” dead languages. She’s going abroad this year, and she could study this book over in Europe. How much?” The clerk turned back to us. “It is a rare book and has a very unique history; this is one of the only copies. It has never been translated, and there are no English texts of the few translated pieces. But there are only a few people who have ever heard of it, and I don’t think there will be a rush on it any time soon. I’ll give it to you for two-hundred dollars.” The deal was made. Anthony and I walked out of the store with something that should have stayed on those shelves. The

following week we presented our presents to our ladies at Christmas dinner, and Courtney did love it.

I’d like to end the story there, but I can’t. In July of 1999, Anthony came to my house. He had a folder of papers under his arm and a note. Courtney had disappeared in Milano, Italy, only a few days before. There was a search out for her, and as a precaution her studies were sent to her parents, who in turn sent them to Anthony. He showed me the files, not crying but with a worried look. It was babble. The pages were filled with the sort of thing you read in cult horror novels. Yogsothoth, the Worm from beyond the stars, creatures like shamblers and shoggoths, which I imagine, given the description, were gelatinous black masses that looked like living tree trunks with goat hooves. There was a whole set of pages on advanced geometry, creatures coming into our dimension through angles. And the section on the Great Old Ones, demigods who walked the earth long before humans, was pure drivel. I told Anthony he could spend the night at my place if he would be more comfortable. He agreed to stay but didn’t sleep. He sat at my desk reading the papers he had been sent. I fell asleep on the couch. At about midnight I woke up. There 15

were papers and sketches all over the floor. I called for Anthony but got no reply. Then I felt a draft. I saw that my front door was open. I moved toward it. In the halo of light cast by a street lamp, I saw the body of my friend. He was banged up horribly. His body was crunched into the fetal position, and his head was turned completely around. He was smiling. I couldn’t move. Or at least I thought I couldn’t. But I was walking towards his corpse. I stared at him for a while, wide eyed, then up at the moths swarming around the street lamp. They seemed different. “Nice night, huh?” The voice came from my feet. I felt like I was having a heart attack. I didn’t look down. “The stars sure are bright tonight, aren’t they?” Then I looked down. His smiling, bloody, twisted face was nodding. At that moment something inside me snapped. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. I wasn’t sure what to scream for. Should I scream for happiness that he was alive, or horror that he was some kind of living-dead16

James Murphy (12)

of the skulls were staring at her. They were moving, turning in their fixtures, gazing into her eyes. The girl’s lips trembled as her eyes widened with fear. The empty, black holes mesmerized her. Shuddering, she screamed in denial and fainted. Her body landed gently on the ground a few seconds later, as lightly as if she had only fallen half an inch. Silence. Then the shad-

ows moved. Her arrival brought a seething mass of disfigured, humanoid creatures surging from a small cave nearby. One detached itself from the tangle and prodded the girl roughly with a staff it held in its misshapen limb. She cracked her red eyes open slowly and gazed upon the nearest of the figures surrounding her. A ray of light flashed past, and she caught the sharp glint of fangs protruding from their mouths. Their forms were bathed in blood. Moving once more, the creatures slowly closed in on her. The girl realized she was going to die… PIPI PIPI PIPI PIPI PIPI!! The girl jerked awake in a cold sweat. She stared at her alarm clock, which was beeping loudly. It read four a.m. Drenched, she panted and hastily grabbed stray strands of green and gold hair, tucking them back behind her ears. “Only a dream…” she whispered, falling limply back onto her pillow. As she stared up into the eloquent canopy of her bed, she suddenly remembered what her mother had told her when she had a nightmare during her childhood. Her mother’s words echoed as she gazed lovingly at her daughter. “Toki, darling, a dream is just a dream to you, but somewhere the dream you had isn’t a dream but something that really happened.”

Peter DeSalvo (10)

Nightmares

Jessica Robertson (9)

It was dark. A young girl cautiously glanced around, but she could not see or hear anything. The silence was deafening in the total darkness. She nervously fingered a lock of her long, dark emerald hair which became brilliant gold at the ends. As the strands glittered darkly in the dimness, she looked around uneasily with crimson eyes, trying to find any trace of another living being or a clue as to where she was. There was nothing to be found. A thick black haze hung drearily over a dead and barren ground. It seemed to reach out to her, choking her. The girl shivered. She thought she felt something brush past her. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tugged at the inadequate, flimsy silver nightgown fringed with exquisitely wrought lace. A small, soft glow came from behind her, but she failed to notice it. Trembling with cold, the girl started to walk slowly, not wanting to stay in one place. She cast her eyes around desperately, hoping to see something in the empty darkness, but she was barely sure there was a sky above her or a ground below her. Tilting her head back, her scarlet eyes grew wide. Where the sky should have been, a scorching orb of flame was descending to the ground on which she stood. The mist melted away before it, turning the air into a bloody, murderous red. She could see nothing but that blazing ball of fire which devoured everything. Fearful, her feet suddenly took 32

her into a wild run. She had to get away from the sphere of fire before it descended upon her, but she knew she couldn’t escape it. It crawled slowly closer and closer. She could feel the heat from it. In her panic, she forgot to watch where she ran and tripped over something. Stumbling back up, she quickly scrambled into a run again. Screaming, she fell into a darkened abyss that seemed to last forever. It was bottomless, endless. She lost all sense of direction, motion, and time. She seemed to be falling forever. Getting a grip on herself after a while,

She was barely sure there was a sky above her or a ground below her.

she managed to look around at the sides of the chasm. The black mist still sulked where the flame didn’t burn, but she could see through its density the shape of human skulls. The walls were lined with skulls, thousands piled upon thousands of crumbling, dirty ivory bones. They were bones of children, men, and women. Bones from thousands of civilizations lined the walls, embedded upon one another. Some even looked too bizarre to have come from humans, but the girl could not recognize what kind of species would have those types of bones. Their hollow sockets glared at her. All

backwards-head-dummy-man? A number of clouds were eating the stars. But that was images forced their way through my mind: impossible. the shop, the book, dummy-man, the word “The clouds aren’t eating the stars,” “Shoggoth.” I found myself grabbing my hair he said. “The worm is. The clouds are there and whirling my body around, making violent to keep you from seeing the worm.” movements in an attempt to get something “You said the worm never left. If out, a scream or a rant or something. Then I he never left, how can he be there eating the froze. I looked at my appearance, straightstars?” ened out as best I could, and returned to the “The worm is everywhere and everybody of my friend, now thing. Think of the worm convinced that this was a as life.” There were little dream and that I had fallen “The worm is patches in the clouds, asleep reading the papers. good?” and I could see the I soon realized it wasn’t. “It is to me.” The whole loss-of-sanityblack sky but no stars. Almost like I looked up again. process took about forty- the clouds were eating the stars. All across the sky there five seconds and sounded were pink-white, glowsimilar to when you open ing clouds, and in all the a bottle of soda. little patches there was black night sky and “Yea,” I replied weakly. no stars. “You know, it was there before your “After the stars,” he said, “it will eat God. And your devil. The worm, that is. The us. Not the planet, but individual people. It worm from beyond the stars.” will be incredibly painful, but everyone will “Is it coming back?” If you asked me go through it. Some will appreciate it.” now, I couldn’t tell you why I went along. While he said these things, I realized “No, it never left. It’s just waking I had calmed greatly. If I had indeed lost my up.” sanity, I now regained it. Or I had never had He stared at me for a while, then spoke it to begin with, and he was showing me what again. “I guess you don’t get it. Here, I’ll sanity is. show you. Turn around.” I looked back down, but he wasn’t I did, and I saw a cloud bank rise up there. I looked up to see him leaning against over the horizon. It was pinkish white and the street lamp. His clothes weren’t torn; he seemed to glow. The clouds moved swiftly wasn’t bleeding; he was in perfect shape. until they were directly overhead. There were “I can appreciate it,” he said, “but I little patches in the clouds, and I could see have seen too much now, and I am no longer the black sky but no stars. Almost like the 17

worthy to go through with it. Before I go, I want to tell you that if you found a clearing where there are no trees or buildings to cramp your view, I bet you can count all the stars in the sky on one hand.” While he said this, I stared in disbelief as the space around him seemed to ripple. From behind him, an eight-foot-tall white monstrosity walked out of nowhere. It grabbed him with one massive claw, ran the other one straight through his back and chest, pulled it out and snapped his neck. Then it threw him down on the ground and disappeared. He was lying in the fetal position, with his head turned all the way around, in

“If you found a clearing where there are no trees or buildings to cramp your view, I bet you can count all the stars in the sky on one hand.” the exact position I had found him. And he was smiling. I ran back to my car, started the engine, and just drove. I drove until I was at the

outskirts of the city. Then I pulled off at the side of the road and got out. I stared up into the sky and counted, but Anthony was wrong. I needed both hands.

When I returned home, my house was blocked off by squad cars and police tape. The blood on my hands and the fingerprints on Anthony’s body, combined with the neighbor’s testimony that I snapped his neck and rammed my fist through his stomach was enough evidence to convict me, despite my protests that I wasn’t strong enough to do that. They said my motive was “the overwhelming desire to possess the documents on De Vermis Mysteriis.” I must have fought for hours trying to convince them that I didn’t want anything to do with that book. But here I am, in my own private cell. That’s the story of the last day of Anthony Esquire and the story of the last few days of my own life. I’m about to go. Did you know prison bed sheets make excellent nooses?

unhumanity is blue in its defunct glory of all the animals are thee the most animal and ) labor and toil more than so much so that other animals to0 harness the power off and ihearBlue

blue is the cry of the dead [ whose live bones living ] in achillingblue callforth andi listen

“humanity i love you because when you are hard up you pawn your intelligence to buy a drink” blue messages i hear echo

so, so rry i)m late i spaced out in the shower under the warm water falling

the blue water that fell inmadglassybeads stingingmy bareback

ihearblue call all around

blue)

ihearBlue;

Carlos A Jaramillo IV (12)

dearest ) ,

(i hear [ Blue, ] andthat is hard to describe)

blue is in th ecool jazz that i love subtlyhidden in andclassical flamenco

blueis what ihear in the blushingstream and

She is made lust beautiful [ ravaging celestial divine ) andblue is the call of the stars.

blue is in the step of the supermodel and the cry of the weepingwhore

theblueperiod of Picasso whispers to meof society)s mangled secrets

blue in arched-back ecStaSyand hunched over tears that flow blue water of saltystreams

( thepain of dying dreams ] lying swollen in glassbeadbubbles that covering]pinkfleshedcheeks[sting) Cage of the Mind transparent steel cage expectationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pinching jail doorless metal mind. 30

ty (1

Pet Jack

Meghan Miller (11)

Alayna Lemmer (10)

Carlos A Jaramillo IV (12)

grave, they become like bricks in their tombs. the snowflakes resemble stars some twenty The snowflakes quickly disappear and join million light years away burning their gases their fellow comrades as water. to survive. Observed from a distance, a snow The euphoric mood of snowflakes flake looks like nothing more than a shred of is overwhelming. I can become lost in a ice. A closer look at a snowflake that is still snowflake’s intricate patterns of pureness and in its original form reveals an intricate ice geometric shapes that surround the hidden city. In the center of the flake is the capitol, glass city within. The only conclusion I can and the city roads split muster from the pureness off in all directions makand irreproducible figure The appearance takes ing commuting efficient. on that of a sparkling white spi- of a snowflake is that it is The roads multiply into a gift from G-d that spurs der web that more roads like branches unimaginable emotions is made of glass, on a tree until they reach and climax each of our their frigid, dead end at senses to their highest as if it was created the city limits. Streets are peak. The only rule is that by G-d himself. paved from rigid, broken I must never touch, but I always will, whichofdisglass glimmering in my eye. The size and plays the greed of humanity. The smell the shape of each snowflake is intricately differflake is like that of a spring creek full of nature ent when compared with another. As with and rejuvenation, of rebirth and freshness. As people there are no two snowflakes alike. G-d’s graceful hand releases the snowflakes Each snowflake contains its own Town Hall to slowly fall, our emotions come together and winding roads that lead to the outskirts turning one’s hate to love, anger to kindness, of the city. The appearance takes on that of and is sure to add a euphoric mood to anyone’s a sparkling white spider web that is made of day. Like a piece of paper that slips off your glass, as if it was created by G-d himself; desk, the snowflake twists, twirls, and turns there could be no master craftsman who could in a sideways spiral as it reaches its destiny replicate such beauty. The snowflake is the and slowly melts awa…………… whitest of whites, the color of G-d’s robe and the dove that brings only peace. It is a Author’s note: In the context of Judaism, God color that brings out the extreme pureness is spelled G-d to signify exaltation of God of the snowflake, once again deriving from as a higher form of being. Using God as the our Creator. A holiness is felt with snow as written word makes it perishable as opposed if the snowflakes are little angels sent down to eternal. to protect us. Each snowflake appears rough and rigid like a rocky mountain but touches our bottomless souls. Sparkling back at me, 28

Wonder

Elizabeth Butman (12)

Snow has fallen, illuminating the morning sky. The sun begins to dance across my sleeping eyes as the past night of slumber quickly approaches its end. As cozy as my blankets feel nestled up to my chin, I awake with the spirit of a child receiving a new toy. The possibilities awaiting me are infinite. It is definitely a cocoa day but not until my cheeks become rosy from being outside. My body shivers as my feet pitter-patter across the wooden floor. Putting on my socks and throwing on a cardigan, I bounce down the stairs. A glass of juice and half a muffin will do for now. Back up the stairs I climb to pull on my long underwear and fully button my cardigan. A wrinkled ribbon quickly fastens my messy curls as the excitement inside me continues to mount. Slumped on the kitchen tiles I add a layer of snowpants and give a sigh of exasperation. I lick

I awake with the spirit of a child receiving a new toy. The possibilities awaiting me are infinite.

the ends of my laces so I can more easily rethread them through the eyes of my boots. Due to my anticipation, I am hasty in my lacing, wasting precious time as I begin again. My coat is zipped and cap is on. One mitten…two mittens… and out the door I go. My breath becomes visible as my face greets the wintery weather. I have been awaiting it all: the sound I hear as my boots meet the snow, how my eyes fill with tears when I run, the way my fingers become numb with every bit of snow I touch, my body falling backwards into an endless pit of snowflakes. The snow wraps itself around me as I embrace the cold. Large angels, small angels – a new angel added with every slow-motion jumping jack that I perform lying on my back. Should I slip, slide, or sled? Should I build a fort, create a snowman, dig a cave? Perhaps I should just sit and breathe it all in. Today I awake. The possibilities awaiting me are infinite.

Peter Schmitz (12) I am colored and ever changing, showing what is desired. Whoever sees me is swallowed immediately By my plethora of stations, misted by sports, violence, or passion. I am not true, only mutable – I am a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I am worshiped by young faces. They are blank, without expression. I have looked on them so long I think they are a part of me. Occasionally they flicker. Darkness and the opposite wall separate us.

Surrounded by snow, I might be inclined to take a deep breath absorbing snow’s fine aroma. The smell triggers memories of a rushing, clear creek with rocks and twigs,

need to grasp and hold onto it for all eternity. The seeker will not be able to touch or feel but only find disappointment in a snowflake’s impermanent physical qualities.

full of life, surging its waters in the spring

The snowflake melts down into a crystal-clear

when it is surrounded by freshly blooming flowers. The air feels fresh and renewed through Nature’s natural purification. Inhaling the cold air deep into my lungs leads me to think of nature and life, and then I exhale a fine mist and the jubilant smell goes back to Her. Once I have been delighted by the experience of snow’s blissful smell, I feel the

droplet of water resting in my palm, filling the deep, dried-up rivers of my skin, gone forever and only reproducible by the Almighty Himself. As the snowflakes fall, some live and fall upon the survivors, and others die in a puddle that acts as a mass grave. When the snowflakes hit their watery

(With apologies to Sylvia Plath’s Mirror)

Scott Bowen (12)

Now I am a treasure. People gaze into me, Searching my screen for what they really want. They do not turn away, not knowing how. I see they cannot leave me, and I am pleased. They reward me with time and attention. I am vital to them. They come and cannot leave. Each afternoon their faces replace the wall. In me they have drowned their imaginations, and through me filth Fills them day after day like a festering cesspool.

S n

o w f l

a k e

lls

Sam Mylrea (11)

Since I was seven, I have been a big aficionado of winter. It’s the season of giving, so who could dislike it? Every spectator, every onlooker is embraced by a certain indescribable mood that can change any frown into an iridescent smile. The lights, joy, and excitement fill the air with a certain euphoria. I have come to think that winter would not be so euphoric without snow. Snow is the cherry you put on top of your sundae; it is the crumpet you eat with your tea. On November 12, I was sitting on

the patio letting the dogs out for one of their fifteen daily breaks. I was in a terrible mood as a result of a quarrel my brother and I got into. Gazing across the yard and regretting the waste of these ten minutes, I noticed a little white flake appear on my leg. “Could it be a snowflake?” I asked. It was, and now winter had officially started. The snowflake triggered past memories long forgotten to resurface once again. I reminisced on the perfectly circular snowballs I made, defending my towering fortress of snow that I built with my best friend Danny. Suddenly I was as happy as a little boy in a toy store. My mind started to look forward to what happy memories winter will bring. As the dogs barked, my mind clicked back to the present. Later that day I came to the conclusion that snow evokes a euphoric mood in everyone who is willing to receive its intricate patterns of pureness. The snow descends from the heavens, way up in the sky, being made in G-d’s softwhite pillows that fill the air. Snow moves and dances in its erratic ways, jumping, falling, and twirling in the wind. As the snow falls, it hypnotizes me, putting me in the sacred snow trance, paralyzing me from looking away. Snowflakes move in all directions, defying the law of gravity, boundless in their destinies. Soon enough they will touch our heavenly earth, as everything must, but one can never guess where. The tiny snowflake that you hope will land on your tongue rarely may and usually disappears magically. Megan Caldwell (11)

Night Goddess

Lauren Helletewark (12) So beautiful Carelessly dancing in the night. Dancing for the stars, for the trees – For her heart.

She knows that she will have to return. Her chains once again Locked tight around her.

She dances on air in the warm night Throwing off her chains as she spins.

No one will see her. She knows that nature loves her. The stars kiss her face.

The sky’s regal evening gown flatters; She frees her mind – Her soul.

She dances alone. She waits for no partner For she would have to wait forever.

Soft breezes caress her face As they sing their lonely night song. Their crescendos and decrescendos Melt within one another Becoming spellbinding.

Her heart and soul are free. Her mind is ocean wide. She dances for the kissing stars And the singing winds.

She dances as though this night Were her last, as the stars Lovingly illuminate her. She feels turquoise, aquatic, and sweet As she gracefully sweeps through the Damp night grass.

She dances for her World And those who live beyond it. She cries for her Life And those who live within it. A Goddess. She dances alone So beautiful.

She is a Goddess Yet no one sees her. Not even she. She is not allowed to. She cherishes every moment of the night Yet tears flow from her eyes.

25 Veronika Tobiasova (12)