The Wayfarer 2002 by Edgewood High School

What was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mold in which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is life itself. -Willa Cather

Published by the students of Edgewood High School Volume XVII Spring, 2002

Staff Maureen Backman

Art Editor: Technical Assistant:

Jon Hoffman

Editorial Board: Cover Artist:

Alayna Lemmer

Margaret Cianciara Henry Duwe Ray French Jon Hoffman Paul Hoffman Elise Meyers Meghan Miller Megan Schaaf Thaddeus Thaler-Shultz

Pools

Jack Petty

Consultant: Advisors:

Emily Glinert (12)

Mr. Jim Ottney

Never-ending pools Of aquamarine Muddied By specs Of brown Whirling As the devilish wind flies past Leaving nothing As it had been Before.

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Kate Drea (12)

Editor:

Brandon Herbert (12)

people so quiet, as if the Stadium were empty and no ballgame was going on. Yet, the silence also seemed to shout through the air with such loud intensity, expressing the deep unity of all American people. After the silence, a familiar song began to play over the speakers. One by one, fans began to rise from their seats, listening to the now-emotional music. “God Bless America” rang across the park, a park that had lived through the Great Depression, one world war, the Vietnam War, the Gulf War, and now the first attack on American soil in the twenty-first century. People passionately sang the words, now filled with a deeper meaning. Players came out of the dugout and sang along with the fans, and for a few moments, it seemed like everything was going to be all right, that time had suspended itself, and all the week’s events were but a memory. After the song, the entire stadium erupted into loud cheers, American flags waving in the air. That night I realized that baseball provides a type of healing that no other event or institution can bring. Baseball is our game, a game that has been around for over a century. The nation’s pastime, by remaining unchanged and constant throughout the years, gives us something that we always know will exist, every year, from March through October. No matter what happens, no matter how the world changes, we always know that baseball will be there to assuage our fears and give us something to cheer for. In Ken Burns documentary, Baseball, a writer from The Sporting News expressed this concept most sensitively when he said, “Great is baseball – the national tonic, the reviver of hope, the restorer of confidence.”

Table of Contents 5 The Clam: Jennifer Dodge

35 A Mother’s Melody: Elise Meyers

6 September 11, 2001: Meghan Miller

38 My Aunt Tracey: Lindsay Williamson

8 Justice: Amanda Roark

40 Gateway to Freedom: Elise Meyers

9 The Storm: Rachel Wise 10 Blank: Maureen Backman

49 The National Tonic: Maureen Backman

12 Playing Tetris: Chris Knutson

52 Pools: Emily Glinert

14 String Play: Elise Meyers

Artists:

15 Tee-Ball: Chris Marotta 17 Shadows: Laurie Pantages 19 Cut or Run: Meghan Miller 20 Fragmented: Eric Prendergast 21 Narcissist: Chris Hanson 24 The Executioner: Brian Holoyda 26 Dear Irene: Elise Meyers

Maggie Brick: 36

Drew Braucht: 28 Robert D’Alessandro: 48 Kate Drea: 19, 25, 52 Cindy Fraser: 44 Ross Hagens: 39 Emily Hanson: 21 Kelly Hensler: 32

28 Vile Edification: Rachel Tumerman

Brandon Herbert: 51

30 Consumed: Veronica Raulin

Alayna Lemmer: 8, 26, 34

31 A Walk Through the Cemetery: Colleen Curtin 32 Autumn Pansy: Elise Meyers 34 Oversoul: Megan Schaaf

Megan Barlow: 49

Shannon Hoernke: 13 Michael Lonergan: 16 Meghan Miller: 14 Stephanie Reed: 40 Matt Shipley: 4 Robert Short: 10

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

Matt Shipley (11)

tional Anthem” could inspire such a fervent celebration of patriotism. Little did I know that the event at Comiskey Park would repeat itself eighty-two years later. A week after the terrorist attacks, I decided to watch a baseball game on television, interested to see if America’s game could unite people and become a healing measure in the wake of tragedy. The game was at Yankee Stadium - ten miles from downtown Manhattan. The aura surrounding the Stadium that evening was unusual, maybe even a bit eerie. As the Yankees took batting practice, the normally boisterous crowd was drawn into a mood of solemnity, as if the entire ballpark was lifted into a silent meditation. There were signs of a different time in America all over – fans carried small flags with them as they found their seats. Players’ uniforms had American flags stitched upon them. Fans were embracing in the stands. As the television camera drifted away from the stands and out to center field, into the night sky of New York, my eyes saw the Stadium’s façade. (Yankee Stadium, built in 1923, has always had a white fence called the façade surrounding the park.) Yet, that evening, the façade looked different. About twenty American flags flew, at half staff, waving gently in the breeze. It was strange, seeing those flags flying against a structure so old and solid, as they had done since the Stadium’s opening. It was almost as if the country was showing its own strength and unity. According to tradition, the game started with the “National Anthem.” The fans, over 50,000 in number, rose from their seats, and

the players lined the field facing the flags. The camera showed the faces of the players. Some had tears in their eyes; some just stared off into the night sky. Fans sang along, fighting back tears and waving their flags fervently in the air. My mind immediately thought back to the story about the ballgame in 1918…. The game started, and, for a few hours, it seemed as if baseball and the world had returned to normalcy. The umpire’s call of “Play ball!” seemed more like a cry of peace, a cry for unity. The crowd gradually became boisterous, and the players played the same game America has played since the nineteenth century. Seeing the players on the field, playing the game that America knew so well, it was comforting to know that the game was the same despite all of the tragic events. There were still three strikes for an out; there were still nine innings in a game. When the baseball made contact with the bat, the same hollow “crack” echoed across the night air. All of those things were the same; fans could close their eyes and immediately be transported to a game at any time, in any decade. The mood of the Stadium slowly lifted to one of moderate joy. I had lost myself in the game, perhaps forgetting for a few moments the pending tragedy in the United States. Yet, during the seventh inning, everyone watching the game was reminded of what the country had been through. During the time when “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” was normally sung, a moment of silence spread throughout the park. Everyone in the Stadium bowed heads in mourning of the tragedy. It was strange seeing 50,000

The National Tonic Maureen Backman (11)

aseball. When many, including me, hear this word, it instills a sort of calmness, a serene state-ofmind. Crisp, pristine grass, carefully groomed soil, and a soft, geometrically perfect field contribute to the calming atmosphere of this sport. Yet, after September 11, 2001, this calming atmosphere seemed out of place in a more serious and frenzied world. After the terrorist attacks upon the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, baseball officials recognized the “out of place” nature of baseball as well, deciding to cancel all Major League Baseball games for the first time since the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. A week after the terror-

ist attacks, debates began, questioning when baseball should resume. Was it appropriate to play a “game” amidst a troubled and changed world and, if so, when would the appropriate time come for baseball to begin? Yet, to me, the answer to those questions seemed quite simple: let baseball resume as a healing measure for America. Baseball has, throughout history, proven to be an institution of healing. In 1918, shortly before the end of World War I, fans gathered at Comiskey Park in Chicago for an afternoon ballgame. In order to show patriotism for America, officials at the park decided to play the “National Anthem” during the seventh inning stretch. A witness to the event wrote, “September 6, 1918: Far different from any incident that has ever occurred in the history of baseball was the great moment of the first World Series game between the Chicago Cubs and the Boston Red Sox, which came at Comiskey Park this afternoon during the seventh inning stretch. As the crowd of 19,274 spectators stood up to take the afternoon yawn, the band broke forth to the strains of the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’ The yawn was checked, as the ballplayers turned quickly about and faced the music. First the song was taken up by a few, then others joined, and when the final notes came, a great volume of melody rolled across the field. It was at the very end that the onlookers exploded into thunderous applause, and rent the air with a cheer that marked the highest point of today’s enthusiasm” (Ken Burns’ Bzseball). When I first heard about this event, I tried to envision what it would be like for the United States to be so united, to band together with such intensity, that the “Na-

The Clam Jennifer Dodge (12) Violently extracted from The soothing water The clam trembles with anxiety Waiting to be forcibly pried open By a judgmental stranger Whose intent is To conquer the precious pearl The clam struggles To remain closed To keep the pearl For itself Knowing it will Be unsuccessful Fearing the stranger’s criticism The clam ponders What if the pearl is inadequate Not the perfect hue Not the perfect figure Will it be crudely discarded Or will it be cherished as is

Meghan Miller (12)

hat does it feel like when a day of infamy dawns? Pretty much like any other day. Flopping wearily into a desk in the back row of Ms. Mertens’ nearly empty classroom for AP English after homeroom on September 11, 2001, to hear Chris Hanson exclaiming as he entered the room and removed his coat that someone had bombed the World Trade Center. And that there was smoke coming from the Pentagon. It meant nothing to me. I took out Oedipus Rex and flipped through my notes as the conversation continued around me. It held no meaning for me out of my ignorance and fatigue. Did we bomb someone’s World Trade Center? Oh, it was ours, lovely. What was the significance of Oedipus blinding himself to see? The topic quickly fell to the onslaught of literary analysis. After all, Chris was the most creative and ingenious person in the class and often entered with sarcastic references to things I didn’t understand, so could he be joking? It was only in Photography class the next period, mounting my photogram and listening to the snarling radio, that I began to comprehend the events unfolding. The World Trade Center was indeed ours, and it had been attacked. The Pentagon was burning. There were rumors that Chicago, Camp David, and the White House had also been attacked. The PA cracked to life, announcing to all students that they should report to homeroom after third

period ended. The glue on my photogram was dry. Who would attack the United States? Fear. There is a videotaped prayer service. How typical that Edgewood’s reactions would be newsworthy. There is no Cross-Country Badger Conference Challenge. No one on the team really wanted to run today, but when we say we don’t want to run, we’d rather have a meet than a terrorist attack. Emily and I walk down the hall. People are crying, scared, and sad. I want to go home, but fundamentally what would that accomplish? The day continues on into AP Calculus where a discussion of the dangers of revenge precede a discussion on limits. The periods are peppered with discussions of war and the chattering of the TV in between notes on velocity and Judaism. After school Gary Thornton, the cross-country coach, is more subdued and reflective. He is thinking back to when he was young and remembering events like the Challenger explosion and several assassinations. He reminds us to run and releases us to our homes and families. There is no race today; it will be rescheduled. Riding in my father’s car with my brother, I hear the radio repeat the same breaking news in different frantic words. Stopping at my father’s office so he can finish some business, my brother and I sit in the Bio Bistro and watch TV. The images are the same. At home my mother is frantically speculating about who might have

Robert D’Alessandro (11)

September 11, 2001

attacked us and the course of action the country should follow. We all settle in the living room on the couch and watch the same horrifying images of the second plane crashing into the tower, the World Trade Center collapsing, the Pentagon smoldering, and a charred wreckage somewhere in Pennsylvania. President Bush gives a short speech before I go over to a friend’s house to study physics. He is quiet and angry, and his speech is quick and confident. America will continue, and there is no day of mourning. Patrick and I will go to school again tomorrow. The enormity of the event is amazing. Before September 11, I didn’t even know the World Trade Center existed, and now I will never forget what it was or for what it stood. The incomprehensible horror, wreckage, and death are amazing. Photos of people leaping to certain death and firefighters mounting flags, Iwo Jima-style, fill the newspapers and appear in still images for photo collages set to Jewel’s “Hands” and “I’m Proud to Be An American.” Flags line the streets, houses, and anywhere else it is conceivable to fly the stars and stripes. There is no protestation of First Amendment rights when the nation is called upon to pray. The peace advocates are outvoiced by the thunder of fires and the breaking steel. The country donates money, blood, and time to help fellow countrymen in a more patriotic and giving spirit than was thought to still exist in America. There is still, on my part, an overwhelming lack of understanding. I cannot understand what it was like to have a building collapse around me and know I was going to die, or to attempt to rescue survivors and find only pieces of bodies. Bodies who were people that had hopes and dreams and kids. People who didn’t deserve to die. Unfair. As the days pass, America, more wary, is beginning to blink away her tears and look around again. Military attacks are inevitable. The Bush administration called the attack

lan’s hand firmly, for he keeps edging closer to the drop-off. Ann continues to insist I use a cane because of the uneven rocks. She also makes me wear glasses all the time. Never before has Ann been worried about my safety. A flicker of red draws my attention away from the canyon. A bird alights on a branch near where I stand. I watch the bird fix its feathers and feed a demanding chick, and then, as quickly as it had landed, fly off. “What a free little bird,” I think, “What a free bird.” As I think more and more about the free bird, excitement boils up within me. I let go of Dylan’s hand. My slow, wobbly step quickens. As I near the edge, I toss my cane far and high in the sky. It draws an arch, a gateway to freedom.

an “act of war” and will for better or likely worse seize the opportunity to take advantage of the overwhelming public support to attack Afghanistan and Bin Laden. Yet, the voices of those who feel that enough killing has transpired cannot be heard over the public outcry. Edgewood’s Rock continues to bear the patriotic artwork over the countless layers of homecoming glory and athletic rivalry, and so America carries her patriotism over her pride and successes. She will recover from her loss of innocence and continue prosperous and bright because that is what her people wish of her.

Justice

Amanda Roark (9) Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep My country tis of thee Sweet land of liberty For thee I weep.

Waiting to set things straight. We’ve got to dig them out again So hate can finally die. But for now we send this prayer For protection to Lord on high.

Crying echoes through the night Are we safe in our beds? Will terrorists be brought to justice Or drop bombs on our heads?

Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the Lord my soul to keep My country tis of thee Until we find liberty, I shall not sleep.

Justice. What a strange, strange word. It just can’t be defined. Peace. Does it really exist? Or is it a myth in our mind? Does justice mean revenge or peace? It can’t mean both of them Since revenge is such a common thing And peace, an undiscovered gem. If we’re the new generation To make justice come alive And merge with peace, the question is Will we manage to survive? Survive long enough to put the pieces Back into their place Survive long enough to catch a dream That we just long to chase. Justice. Peace. Two powerful words That simply must unite To keep the end from coming And to set all things right. Beneath the dust and rubble Of buildings once called World Trade Lay the stolen dreams of justice

Alayna Lemmer (11)

sure. I laugh as we pass next to a huge marble statue of St. Henry guarding the gateway. Ann and I walk up the aisle hand in hand. A cream purse occupies my other hand. Ann is smashing a wad of already wet tissues. The ceremony is to start in two hours. Flowers have not arrived, nor has the priest or any guests. As time fast approaches, Ann begins worrying, “I am sure I told the florist to be here with the flowers before 11:30, and where is the priest? I hope he hasn’t overslept. And the guests, you told them the correct time?” “Yes Ann, I told all the guests when to be here. I am sure everyone is just running a little late. Henry won’t care if the funeral doesn’t start on time,” I reassure her. “Oh Mom, it doesn’t help. Just, just…” Ann talks back, her face set in a childish pout. She then walks away. At 11:30 Krissie and Dylan, escorted by their dad, John, make their noisy entrance into the church. Dylan is nicely dressed in a black suit, but keeps tugging on the tie at his throat. Krissie straightens her pink taffeta dress as she walks down the aisle next to Dylan. Both children run up to greet me. I give each one a big kiss and a bear hug. As I hold my grandchildren, the wonderful parenting days come back to me. I remember the smell of Ann after a bath, and how soft was her fair skin. John embraces both Ann and me in his arms telling us, “I’m sorry Henry died. I know you really loved him.” This comment makes me smile as I push out of John’s embrace. John is a homemaker who sometimes works as a substitute teacher. His kids love him dearly, and he makes the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The funeral starts punctually at noon. I sit down in the first row pew alongside John. Ann weeps throughout the entire ceremony. I sit unblinking at the coffin, still in disbelief of his death. John comforts Ann as much as possible. Dylan straddles the kneeler, but Krissie gently spreads her skirt out and sits on the kneeler like a proper lady. They each have a small, gray

plush bear that they pretend is walking around and sitting down to eat Cheerios. The church is sparsely filled, and I hear only the sobbing of Ann whose shoulders quiver and whose nose is raw and red from being blown. The pastor drawls on his homily, “Henry was very dear to us…” As the final song is being sung, I sit glued to the pew, my eyes never moving from the coffin covered in violets. What am I going to do with my life? Why did he have to die? What made me stay with him? The latter question is the only one I can answer, and I answer it time and time again. I keep reminding myself that I devoted my life to the man inside that box. That I picked him above all other men, and loved him and loved him. I took care of him and cherished his presence always near me. I loved Henry, and I still love Henry. A tender hand touches my shoulder. I start and then turn. My eyes meet one on one with Ann. I look deep into those eyes, all puffy and red on the outside. Pain smirks at me. It punctures my heart, and I see how much Henry’s death hurt her. Looking deeper down I see gratitude and thankfulness, not to Henry, but to me, for being her mother. For standing by her in times of trouble. For comforting her and teaching her how to be a woman. For sewing her prom dresses and her wedding dress. And for serving her beloved Henry. “Mom, John thinks we should all get away. He made reservations for everyone to travel to the Grand Canyon,” Ann informs me. “Mom, mom did you hear me?” “Yes, darling Ann. I listen whenever you speak, but this time I was just thinking…how wonderful an idea that is. Let’s go!” I reply.



he rock face is jagged and uneven, spreading down one mile to the floor and the Colorado River which grumbles and roars. Vegetation is scarce. Only a few trees have rooted around the lookout area. Tiny tufts of grass sway in the wind. I hold Dy-

The Storm

Based on Thomas Cole’s “The Notch of White Mountain” Rachel Wise (11) The brewing storm arrives from the west, Striking across the sky. The peaceful light leaves from the east, Its time to shine has passed. The rain falls to the earth’s gentle ground, Feeling quite at home. And the animals find comfort in the brush, Listening to falling drops. I run from the danger of the attacking storm, Escaping from the mist. I seek the protection of my sturdy home, To hide from this darkness. I take no comfort in this ferocious beast, Bringing devastation with no end. It comes to annihilate all that man holds dear, Like a warrior destroying. The grateful trees greet this coming storm, For nourishment and for health. Men hide away in their homes for shelter, From darkness and from death. The joyful forest sings her contented song, For new life will soon be here. And man waits in a darkened and lonely corner, Dreading what soon will follow. A storm hugs the silent and immense forest, But frightens humankind. Why does one run for fear as the other rejoices, For the coming of this rain? Change comes to affect all that is in her path, Understood in different ways. Storms come and go, for existence or for ruin, But life passes over all.

Blank

Inspired by George Inness’ “The Lackawanna Valley” Maureen Backman (11) Blank. A white stucco canvas stares in front of me. No thoughts, no feelings, Just blank. Emotions stir In the depths of my soul, Trying to be set free within my mind. Yes! An idea – I know how to fill the blank space with life. Swish, the paint swirls, A chaos of colors, emotions, and feelings. Rolling hills emerge on the blank space, Sliding through tides and ebbs of paint, Green and lush with life and vivacity. The canvas is alive.

Robert Short (11)

the blanket and my crocheting needle and begin working. Traffic through the house clears up around noon. At that time, Ann and I sit down to discuss funeral plans and make calls to family and friends. I volunteer to make the first call, one to Henry’s sister. Henry’s sister is the most detestable person I know, but she is Henry’s only living relative from his immediate family. I dislike talking to her, but know the call is important. The telephone rings six times before a scratchy, harsh voice picks up the phone and says, “Hello, Bertha speaking. What do you want, waking me up and all?” “Bertha, this is Esther, Henry’s wife…” I start. “Yah, yah whyd cha call,” I am rudely interrupted. “Bertha, Henry passed away last night, unexpectedly. The coroner thinks he had a heart attack,” I finally finish. “Good for him, that old son of a gun.” “The funeral will be tomorrow at St. Henry’s Catholic Church in Baytown, starting at noon,” I go on with the details. “Well, ya won’t see me there. I ain’t got no desire to see any of ya,” Bertha ends and hangs up. “I’m sure glad I got that over with,” I mutter to myself. Ann looks up and opens her mouth, but does not speak. “It’s okay, Ann. Did you have something to ask me?” I reassure her. “Mom, I think we should have violets surrounding the coffin and altar,” Ann suggests, her eyes cast down at the papers scattered on the table. “No, Ann, we should put that old green recliner and television that broadcasts snowstorms around the altar,” I reply.

“Mom, that was an awful thing to say, and right after your husband died,” Ann says shaking her brown curls in disgust. “Ann, you may do whatever you like with the funeral. You’re in charge,” I reassure her. Ann takes what I say literally. The funeral is to be perfect with tons of flowers and decorations. We’ll even have a catered brunch. The day after Henry’s death slips out of my grasp. I try to hang on as tightly as possible, for I do not want the funeral to come. But soon the morning of the funeral is upon me. I get up early and dress hastily in a floral skirt and white silk blouse, one of Henry’s least favorite outfits of mine. As I put it on, my conscience tells me that I am only doing this to agitate Henry on his way to heaven. Ann has stayed the night and helps me get ready. The buttons down the front are too difficult and painful for me to do. Ann pinches the tiny ivory buttons between her tan fingers and swiftly slips them into the buttonholes. We eat a small breakfast of toast with honey. I am not very hungry, only nervous about the upcoming event. As I watch Ann push the toast around her plate with a fork, I notice her red puffy eyes. I can almost see the lump she has in her throat from holding back more tears. Ann looks marvelous in her black velvet dress and silver scarf pinned on her shoulder. I compliment her as we drive to St. Henry’s. “How beautiful you look all dressed up, and your curls are adorable. Your father would be very proud of how lovely his daughter is today.” No cars are parked in the church lot as we pull in. The doors to St. Henry’s are open, and Henry’s coffin already lies before the altar. As we enter the church we pass underneath a great arch. It looks like a gateway; to what I’m not

eternity before the motor of a car approaches, and I hear the engine shut off. One car door bangs shut, and feet brush against the grass. At last there is a knock, and I set Henry’s hand back down in his lap to answer it. The door sticks and creaks as I tug it open. Ann stands on the porch in her pajamas with a light sweater covering her arms. Her dark brown curls are messy, and her arms are folded across her chest. I step back to let her in. She comes quickly and demands I tell her what is wrong. We walk together to the den. Ann stops in the doorwell and feels for the light switch. I continue to my Henry and pick up his hand once again. Ann flips on the light switch, and the room illuminates. Henry is peaceful. His eyes are closed, and a smile creeps across his face. Ann, seeing her father and me holding hands, rushes in. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me! Dad is not dead, right?!” “Mom, you should have told me,” Ann screams. I let go of Henry’s hand and stand next to her, my arm around her shoulder. Tears drip down her face, and she mutters to herself, under her breath, that he didn’t die. Dad couldn’t die. I comfort her. Ann and Henry were inseparable. Henry drove Ann to school every day and to all her other activities. He was always at her recitals and sports events. I can see how painful it is for her that Daddy is gone. She never had to wait on him hand and foot. He never sat in his old green recliner and yelled at her to get him food and water. He would only take her up on his lap and tell her funny stories about his childhood. The coroner comes about five in the morn-

ing. It takes three huge men to lift Henry’s lifeless weight. Ann weeps as they heave Henry’s body off the recliner and carry him, like a doll, out of the house. I stand strong and watch as my peacefully sleeping husband is taken away. By the time dawn comes round, work on the financial issues has begun. I pull up a chair to our kitchen table and try to give my opinion. A large, clean-cut man, the lawyer, barks at me to get away. Ann helps me out of my chair and down the hallway to my bedroom. I sit, with the door cracked open, and listen to the sounds of scuffling feet and shouting voices. A chair slams against the ground, and I hear the lawyer’s demanding bass yelling at Ann, who tells the lawyer what she wants in her firm soprano. I listen to the argument, which soon relents, and the house goes back to the normal buzz of voices. My head rests in my hands, and I begin to think about what life is going to be like. What am I going to do without someone to serve, someone to boss me around, someone to sit in a green recliner and issue orders? Across the wooden chair, in my bedroom, a blanket lays, not finished. I pick up

More green, more life, more softness. Swish, a tree, a bush, Shades of emerald, olive, and jade weave A gossamer labyrinth of pigments into the lifeless canvas. The green is finished – the canvas throngs with life. Sigh, it is not enough; How can I paint what is real? Swish, a soft stroke of mahogany. Scritch, another stroke of brown, this time heavier, dirtier. Dirtiness invades the lush green background. The excitement fades away; my mind contemplates. I need a source for the dirt, the smog filling the green labyrinth. Scritch, small sketches appear, A steeple, a factory, houses with drab siding. A myriad of boxy structures harshen the soft scene. Scritches of gray tumult into the crystalline sky, Blotches of dirty brown splatter onto the verdant hills. Still more. Swoosh, a stroke of black, Cutting into the once-green scene. Thick, dirty streaks of ebony. Tracks, steam, A train emerges from my brush, plummeting Through the tree, the bush, the life. Sooty scratches penetrate the canvas to its core. I pause at my work, then reach for my palette. Swish, a stroke of white, a stroke of beige. A creation of myself, my soul, emerges in the foreground – Looking at my own masterpiece. Despair, passion, and life spill out in front of me. My eyes are shocked at the emotions Created from the tides of pigments, Until I realize the blank became Reality.

Cindy Fraser (12)

Playing Tetris Chris Knutson (12)

When I press Start, I leave this world and enter another The music plays The screen says Level 1 Shapes start falling down: square, line, T and L Down they go, slowly and steadily Like sprinkles till they hit the ground Making a rumbling sound Here more come, Must rotate them Line them up Moving from side to side Hoping to form one colorful line As I form lines The music beats faster Feeling not worried, not scared I can manage the pieces some more Since I have experienced this before As I increase my score Picturing an audience Cheering for me I become extremely conceited Thinking I will never be defeated Now that I reach Level 4 The background changes The music changes too I hope my score will end up Way ahead of you

Falling down like a rainstorm Pieces falling everywhere heavily, rapidly Must they continue? They cannot fit in every place

since school; at least Henry hadn’t? The grandfather clock strikes eight chimes. I nudge Henry’s shoulder, but he only grunts and turns his head away. I push Henry’s arm, but it only flops back onto his lap. Henry is over 300 pounds and six feet tall. Very reluctantly, I decide against moving Henry or waking him. Alone, I walk down the hall into my room. With each progressing step, my heart aches more and more. I am leaving Henry alone in a recliner. His favorite recliner, which is much more comfortable than the bed, my conscience reassures me. Besides, I’m sure he’ll be fine. I listen to my conscience and force myself to continue on. My floral shift slips easily off, and I am soon ready for bed. By now my chest is aching with my heart. As fast as my old, weak legs can carry me, I run back to the den. Henry’s eyes are sealed shut, and his mouth is open sucking in air from the outside. A globule of drool falls out of his mouth. As usual, his lips are posed in a frown. I kiss the large, dry forehead. Something about the way he flinches and then smiles when my lips touch him lets me know he will be fine staying alone in the den.



y eyes fly open, and I sit up in bed. I look all around the dark, still room, and feel the flat bed covers next to me. Henry isn’t there. I then remember that I left him in the den. I fling the covers off and climb out of bed. I don’t even put on my dressing gown or my scuffs, but just head down the hallway to the den. The grandfather clock tells me it is one in the morning. As I reach the doorway to the den, a rush of cool air blows past me. I figure the window is open. My head turns, and I look back to my dark room and then down to the kitchen. I think that I hear the screen door rattle. Without any thought, I go and check things out. The screen door is shut tightly and locked, but the heavy, oak door is open. I push

Shannon Hoernke (12)

the wood door shut. Its creak rings painfully through the silence. I then return to the den doorwell. After a couple minutes, I regain my confidence and enter the dark den. I walk straight ahead to Henry’s green recliner, only a blur in the darkness. Henry is still in the same position in which I left him. I pick up his hand and squeeze it in mine. It is rough and cold to the touch. We stay like this for a minute, and then I let go. Henry’s hand drops lifeless into his lap. The thump deadens my ears. My small, knarled hand trembles as I ease in onto Henry’s chest. I let it rest right over Henry’s heart, and my whole being hopes to feel a thump, thump. Nothing thumps my hand; Henry’s chest doesn’t heave up and down like usual. My legs give way and I fall to the ground weak and trembling. I cover my face and then the tears come, flooding my eyes. He’s not dead. He’s not dead, I tell myself, but know he is. “Henry wouldn’t leave. Henry you’re not dead,” I whimper between sobs. For ages I sit here on the cold wood floor letting tears run out of my eyes onto my hands and into my nightgown. My conscience takes over after the shock, and I venture into the hallway. There, mounted on the wall, is the telephone. I pick up the yellowed receiver, and with trembling fingers, I dial Ann’s number. The phone rings, rings, rings; I wait, sorting out my thoughts, thinking about what to say. At last a man’s weak voice answers, “Hello.” “Hello, this is Mom,” I manage to get out. A grumbled mumble of words reaches my ear. I then hear a female voice. “Hi Mom, it’s early in the morning. Why did you call?” Ann sounds shocked and nervous. “Oh, no reason. Well, just come over here.” I can’t think of a better response. “Mom, tell me what’s wrong,” Ann urges. “Just come over Ann, darling.” A few tears drip onto the receiver. I hang up the phone and go back into the den. Again, I pick up Henry’s clammy hand and wait. I wait for an

grunts as he does the same with a flannel shirt and then matching pants. I pull back the patchwork quilt and blue sheets underneath, and we both crawl into bed. My head rests against the lumpy pillow; so does Henry’s. We turn to face each other and with one last goodnight, we kiss and fall asleep. The sunlight comes streaming through the window. It tickles my face, and plays shadows in the room. I sneak my left foot out from under the covers. It touches the hardwood floor, followed by my right foot, and I stand. The early morning chill greets me, and I hurriedly grab my dressing gown. My feet slip into my scuffs, and I walk down the hallway, past the den and stairs, to the kitchen. From hooks above the stove, I grab a frying pan, and set it on the gas burner. A drawer below the sink houses my spatula and meat fork. In the freezer I find sausage links and bacon. The refrigerator houses four eggs. I round everything up, and in no time, delicious smells waft into the rest of the house. Henry rises to these smells and follows them into the kitchen where I have breakfast set out on the table. He mutters a grumbly good morning and sits down to devour. I greet Henry cheerfully and sit at my place right next to him. The rest of the day flies by in an instant. I wash Henry’s shirt, boxers, and pants, wash Henry’s dirty dishes, scrub the toilet Henry made a mess of by accidentally missing the bowl, vacuum Henry’s crumbs off the floor, and cook Henry’s food. Henry gets off his chair and sits down atop the rider mower. He slouches forward to start the engine, and then sits up straight. The mower seat allows some of Henry’s squishy, fat rolls to hang over the edge. Henry enjoys mowing. He feels in control sitting so high above the

helpless grass. I think that is why my grass never gets mowed in less than three hours. When dusk finally approaches, I am out in my garden tending to my pansies and petunias. It is my escape, that small plot of land where Henry never mows, where fresh dirt and good smells can be found. It is my time to get away from the house and the endless demands. I work, on my knees, crouched close to the ground. I pull weeds and plant seeds and water the flowers. It is not easy work, though. My arthritis aches constantly. I only keep the garden going because of the new life. Making and watching things grow is very rewarding. That is why I love being a mother and now a grandmother. When Ann was young, she was adorable with brown curls and soft, fair skin. As she grew, her curls became less ringletlike, and her skin darkened. As a grandmother, I now watch Krissie grow and change like her mother did. I don’t have to discipline Krissie. I only spoil her. That makes watching her grow much easier and more interesting. Slowly, the sun eases its face down in the sky, until finally it disappears, taking all natural light with it. I go in, and Henry is waiting for me in the den. His head is tilted back against the green recliner. His eyes are shut and snores gurgle out of his mouth. I go into the den and sit in my recliner. On the table between our recliners lays Facts on Death and the How-To’s. It is open to the 99th page out of a hundred. I carefully pick up the book and begin reading. “You have now come to the stages in which death is knocking at your door. Answer the door and let death walk in.” As I read, questions race through my mind. Why would Henry read this book? Why start reading books now, when you haven’t read

They keep falling at a continuous pace Where to put them? What to do? Like a puzzle missing some pieces The shapes become a jumbled pile I need them to go away in awhile Gradually the shapes build up Higher and higher they go Sweat starts running down my face I think, “Can’t let them reach the top Otherwise the game will stop” Game Over the screen reads Entering back into reality I have lost, my mission failed What’s this? The screen announces “You reached a new high score” I type in my name Acting like I have some claim to fame

String Play

Elise Meyers (9)

Meghan Miller (12)

A delicate hand releases a string that falls, coils, uncoils, like a snake in air. I turn my head slightly and begin a visual search of all corners, cracks, and crevices, Hoping, wishing not to find him, a black, scarred cat. Nothing in the vast room moves, except the hand, me, a fitful mosquito. He’s not here. The string quivers. I approach, ears-perked, and cautiously nudge the string with my nose. No scent.

I attack. The string rushes into movement, flailing, whipping, beating the air. My eyes are glued, vision blurs, but I hold my stare Till the movement softens and the wild string calms; I hold my stare. A padded paw thrusts out from behind the door, just inches from the string. The paw attacks. The string goes back into frenzy, tearing, slicing the air. My heart smashes against my rib cage. My breath gasps, uneven, panicky. A growl climbs up my throat and out of my mouth. The paw disappears, and I turn my attention back to my string. No more frenzy, just a dull vibration. I rest back on my legs. A quick flash of pink draws me away. His paw! His paw disappears again as the string begins twisting, turning, slashing, tearing. I jump up and silently ease towards the door, my silky fur polishes the wood. I round the edge, one ear brushes the oak, my tail paints my scent. A sneaky black tail wavers away. I pounce and catch the shiny tip. The tail wiggles, squirms, slipping ever closer to freedom.

“How have you been doing?” I question Ann. “Oh fine, work is really busy, but I’m handling it.” “That a girl,” comes the hoarse, bass voice of my husband from the new cordless phone in our bedroom. Another Christmas present from Ann and the family. “Hi Dad,” Ann greets enthusiastically. “I was just telling Mom about work. Remember, I started my own bookshop.” “I remember, Ann darling. I don’t forget things like that,” Henry says. “Hi Gramma and Grampa,” the tender young voice of my six-year-old granddaughter, Krissie, makes its way to my ears. I am delighted to hear such a sweet, melodic sound. I can see Krissie right now with the white telephone receiver jammed against her ear. Her lovely brown eyes fill with an admiration she feels every time she sees or hears Henry or me. She tosses her head like she does when you compliment her, and her delicate brown curls bounce around her face. “How are you doing in school?” I question. “Fine, I love kindergarten,” Krissie responds. There is another pause and I hear Ann whisper something. “Bye-bye, Gramma and Grampa.” Krissie breaks the pause. Henry and I both say, “Bye Krissie.” “So the bookshop is doing wonderfully.” Ann comes back on the phone and says, “How are you guys? Any problems?” “None really, no more than before. My arthritis has been acting up, and Dr. Scope says Henry needs to stop eating so much and start exer…” “Will you please stop reminding me of that,” Henry says. “Sorry, Henry, I was just letting Ann know,” I excuse myself. “Oh shake it…” Henry starts to contradict, but Ann interrupts. “Here’s Dylan; he wants to tell you about soccer.”

“Hi Gramma and Grampa, we won our soccer game,” says the excited voice of my eightyear-old grandson. “We totally kicked butt!” In the background I can hear Ann scolding Dylan for saying that. “It’s okay. That’s a good expression,” Henry comforts Dylan. I want to tell Henry not to contradict Ann and her parenting duties, but decide against it. “Well, Mom, Dad, we have to go now. Krissie has violin practice and John wants to eat out tonight. So bye for now; I love you,” Ann ends our conversation. Henry and I both say bye and I add, “I love you too.” Ann almost always ends our conversation, and the good-byes are always the same. Slowly I turn and head back for the stairs, hoping that I will be able to get the wash started. From inside the den, Henry yells, “I’m getting hungry; could we have a little dinner?” I stop walking and change direction, now heading for the kitchen. My whole body aches with all the walking up and down stairs, and back and forth. Something easy for dinner, something easy for dinner, my conscience tells me. I tug open the old refrigerator. An apple falls out onto the floor. I bend down, with much effort, and replace the apple in the refrigerator. I then grab the leftover tuna casserole. As I straighten, my arthritis pain shoots up my spinal cord, but I continue on with dinner. It is not long, but it seems like ages, until dinner is hot and ready. I am finally able to relax in my tan recliner, with no padding showing, and fill my stomach with tuna casserole. Henry turns on the television, and together we watch the news on the only station that gets any reception. When you’re old, sleep is a necessity. At eight o’clock Henry and I retire for the night. Hand in hand we walk silently down the hallway, each supporting and steadying one another. We walk together through the doorway and into the larger of two bedrooms in our house. I slowly unbutton my white blouse, and ease my red and black check skirt under my feet and off. I then tug a lacy pink nightgown over my head. Henry

Gateway to Freedom

Tee-Ball

Elise Meyers (9)

sther, Esther, get me a glass of water. I’m dying of thirst in here,” Henry, my husband, yells from his recliner in the den. Immediately I drop the blouse, clutched in my hand, into the washing machine and scurry upstairs to the kitchen. The warm water comes out of the old, mineral-stained faucet. I grab Henry’s chipped cup, the one he never lets me wash, and fill it. “Esther! I’m getting dehydrated in here,” Henry urges. “Coming, coming,” I call as I finish filling the cup and hurry into the den. Henry takes the cup from my outstretched hand with a quiet thank you. I step back and watch as he gulps down every last drop of the refreshing liquid. The footrest is up, and padding is showing where the green velvet upholstery has been torn away. “You know, we really should get rid of that chair, Henry.” “No, I’ll keep the chair,” Henry responds firmly. That is the one thing I love about Henry. He never wants to give up anything. I leave the room just as the old television flashes on a snowstorm. We really should get rid of that, too. I hurry down the rickety wood stairs to start the wash. The great, shiny, white washing machine smiles through the eerie gray. I smile back at my Christmas present from last year. The whole family pitched in to buy it for me. I would be surprised if Henry had given any money toward the washing machine. He loved the monthly trip to the laundromat. The rest of the time, I had to wash his clothes by hand. The washing machine was the best Christmas present, besides the wonderful artwork 40

Chris Marotta (9)

by my grandkids. My grandson informed me that Ann did not want me to be bombarded with too many new fangled appliances. Next year, my grandson let it slip, I’m getting a dryer. Until then clothespin and air-drying will have to do. A loud ring brings me back to life. I turn and scuffle back up the stairs. At the top, I rest, but the urgent Bbrrriiinnnngg keeps me going. Just before the fourth ring, I grab the receiver, and let out a panty, “Hello, Hillburg’s residence.” I can hear the scuffling of feet and someone whisper, “Hurry up, it’s Gramma.” There is a pause for a few moments and then my daughter speaks, “Hi Mom, it’s Ann; we just wanted to let you know what’s been going on. Is Dad around?” “Dad is sitting in his chair watching television, but I’ll get him if you want,” I reply, still a little out of breath from the stairs. “Henry, Ann is on the phone! She’s calling long distance, you know!” I yell into the den. A grumble of words and the creaking of a chair, along with the buzz of the television going off, let me know Henry is coming, slowly, but surely, his size 12 feet scuffling across the wood floors.

Stephanie Reed (11)

arents are funny. No, no, actually parents are crazy. They are seemingly normal human beings whose primal urges take over at even the slightest suggestion that their child is judged less than another child. Enter the game of tee-ball, childhood sport of passion. If you’re not familiar with the sport, it consists of hitting a baseball that is poised on a waist-high plastic stick. Customarily, the lad whacks the ball, or the stick in my case (more on that later), as hard as his little nonexistent muscles can. Then the young hitter waddles around the three bases, much like the game of baseball. Basically, it’s baseball for the kindergarten set, and it is an intense sport indeed. Let me clarify... intense for the parents. I wasn’t the best player on the tee-ball team, but, of course, I didn’t care back then. I got to whack things with a bat, and that’s what really mattered to me. Because of my low skill level, I was put in the outfield, an utterly pointless position in the game of tee-ball. The problem with the position was that the game was geared toward 3-7 year-olds, who are not exactly the most developed in the upper body. As a result, a hit moving farther than ten feet was cause for cheer. So despite my determination as I perpetually waited for the fly ball to centerfield, it never came. That was okay, though. I got to whack things with a bat. The actual hitting of the ball was definitely the most exciting and essential part of the game for me. Unfortunately, I ran into some trouble in this area as well. The ball is placed, unmoving, on a stationary plastic stick, put at the exact height my bat would be if I were to swing it straightforward. For some unknown reason, though, I would consistently miss the ball, hitting the plastic stick instead. After many coaching sessions and practice, I concluded that my best bet was to whack the stick as hard as I could, hoping the ball would go far enough so that it would not be ruled a foul. Later in life, I realized there were better strategies to follow, but by then, I had already come upon peewee baseball. Then there was the whole issue of the parents. In the mortally important game of tee-ball, good positions and playtime weren’t earned by the young players but forced by the parents. The problem was that the children were the ultimate extensions of their parents, and the parents’ most easy-to-flaunt bragging rights. The thought that one’s genes were superior to another’s made parents’ egos swell up like balloons. So at all costs, dignity and honor had to be upheld, despite the child’s actual performance. A great way to showcase this gene superiority is team sports which is the natural breeding ground for fights of epic proportion. The fights fall into one of three categories: team parent vs. team coach, rival team parent vs. team parent, and rival team parent vs. team coach. To demonstrate the sort of fights that would happen, I will give an example of the team parent vs. team coach conflict: TP: “So coach, I noticed you took out my son Bobby there.” TC: “Bobby has been playing for six innings, and Timmy hasn’t played at all this game.” TP: “But Bobby was awesome! Bobby was kicking butt!”

Michael Lonergan (11)

TC: “And I’m sure Timmy will kick as much butt as your son was, sir.” TP: “But Timmy sucks! I mean look at his Dad; he’s an insurance salesman for cryin’ out loud!” TC: “Now sir, no need to make this personal.” Then, occasionally, blows would be exchanged, and another parent would have to break it up. Fortunately, fighting like psychos over tee-ball field positions was not a habit of my parents. Thus were my days at tee-ball, a sport I faithfully played for three years. Why did I engage in such a crazy sport in such a crazy world for so long? I’d have to say, “Sure our team lost a lot, and sure, I wasn’t the best player in the league, and sure, my teammates’ parents were raging maniacal psychos; but I was playing tee-ball, and I had a uniform, and I got to whack things with a bat, and that’s what life is all about.”

Shadows

Laurie Pantages (12)

t is a dark presence that lingers behind us most of the day, but I believe it to be the most beautiful thing that the sun has created. Most literary scholars believe it to be an evil that lurks in the dark, but I understand it to be the most mysterious part of nature. The majority of people consider it to be an illusion that distorts the truth, but I think it shapes it. From Plato to C.S. Lewis, it has been used to suggest an absence of understanding of reality, but I believe, like the dreaded derivative, it reveals it. It is like a memory, a footprint that a person leaves on our soul. The unique beauty I see every day is the shadows that surround us. A shadow simplifies an object by creating a two-dimensional figure, but can it create major confusion when trying to discern what the original object was. A derivative simplifies the function by lowering the power by one. It helps reveal, but it causes much puzzlement when trying to figure what the original function used to be. Shadows allow us to understand the object in a different light. Derivatives do the same thing. When we take the derivative of position verses time, we can see when and how the object is changing its velocity at a specific moment in time. A shadow of an object allows us to see how the object is changing its shape at a specific moment in time. The purpose of a shadow is to express the object in different terms, but still allow the human eye to comprehend its meaning. The role of a derivative is to convey the function in another way, but still let the human mind understand its importance. A shadow’s importance certainly can only be understood in the human mind. It is, after all, only the remains of something else, like a memory. In every memory, each person has a different perspective; each person remembers the general outline of the situation but can’t remember the exact details. A shadow does the same thing. It takes the general outline of an object and takes the details out of it. But I believe that the details in life are less important than the impact they have on us as humans. Humans are caught up in trying to remember the details. But how often do we recall the dates for Marbury vs. Madison from the Law test three weeks ago, or remember the exact story for each character in Canterbury Tales? These things are the exact details we forget right after having to regurgitate them. Instead, we remember the significance of the case and remember the character’s journey to self-discovery. If by removing the details the true essence of something is left behind, then when we see a shadow of a statue, we see its true form. We see the curves instead of the muscles. The shadow’s simplicity causes the human eye to appreciate the detail of the curves, not the etchings in the stone. The eye can fully grasp the mystery behind the statue by looking at

the shadow. The statue can be breathtaking, but the shadow is soul-searching. The shadow is the part of the art piece over which the artist has no control. It is not created by the artist but by the sun. Shadows remove, but they create more than they destroy. I believe that a shadow illuminates the most beautiful aspects of things. When I see the human form I don’t see a breast. I don’t see the line the breast creates. I do see the shadow the breast makes. The human form is shadows created by the light from the bulb. The details I see are not the belly button, but the shadow the belly button creates. The most beautiful thing about the human body is that the shadows are so different between bodies, yet they produce the same animal form. Even as it differentiates, it emphasizes the similarities. These shadows are where my eye is drawn. When I draw, this is what I see. When I photograph, this is what I seek out. I believe that a shadow, a memory, is much more important than the statue creating the shadow or the moment that created the memory. When we see a shadow of a statue, we see its true form. We see the curves instead of the muscles. The shadow’s simplicity causes the human eye to appreciate the detail of the curves, not the etchings in the stone. When we are part of a cast and reminisce about a past show, we don’t remember the choreography but rather trying to learn the steps and the laughter that came along with it. That laughter and those tears of joy are more important than if we performed for a full house. I see life in terms of shadows. Shadows are the memories that remain. Every memory is a shadow, and every memory shapes us individually. It is in our shadows we find ourselves. It is in the shadows we find the truly unique beauty in life.

Kate Drea (12)

Cut or Run

My Aunt Tracey

Meghan Miller (12)

Lindsay Williamson (12) The yellow moonbeams dance on my pale yellow walls, Sleepy eyes wake up under soft feather pillows. A big yawn soon follows. STRETCH! Lazy smiles are exchanged, the sun and I, anticipating a new day. She has given me this anticipation. Salty air pushes its sweet fragrance through my window. I open it wider, like a fish, my goal is the surface. A soft sigh, the air and I, respect the beautiful sea. She has taught me this respect. A change in the sky. Pink is now black, with no stars. I hide my eyes, like a little girl. I’m crying. Where is a hand to hold mine? A drought, there are now no more tears. A soul, there is hope. She has given me the courage to dream. TOUGH! A young girl glides through the water. Sweat streams down her chiseled jaw, determined eyes pierce ahead, Teeth grit between her pursed lips. There’s no looking back now. She’s come so far. Almost there! Arduous title waves bombard her boat. She is STRONG, relentless. She has given me this strength.

Spread-eagled tumbling without a parachute Être1 Black in pastel Daisy in skull’s eye Ribbon in gray (Make a list.) Gravity yielding down on Green Rock Où 2 Designing vintage over modern Kissing under Vermont skies Heart beating through stars’ pulse (Make a list.) Pas d’accord 3 Chanting “choice” in mute words Knife-bite of scarlet Still color of void (Make a list.) Cours!

Emotions fluctuate uncontrollably. Solitude seems so far away. She worsens, she holds on, she won’t be defeated. Worry is now an intimate companion. A little girl must grow up. Fairy tale pages cease to be turned, inkblots curse the whimsical pictures. She has shown me this reality. A beautiful woman A lovely smile, a golden heart, a selflessness unique to one. God feels she is special; He wants her to Himself. Let Him have the sun, let Him have the sea, let Him have the sky, Leave her to me, God, please! She is my mother. She has taught me what it means to love.

1 2

to be where 3 not okay 4 run

Ross Hagens (10)

Fragmented

Eric Prendergast (10) I woke that day to words of silence and smiles of sadness We were to visit my relatives, somewhere far away I don’t know why, though I’m sure someone had told me once Sometimes I have trouble remembering Our car sped past snowy pastures and lifeless trees My parents talked tensely about the pills, or perhaps not There wasn’t a signal to hear, but the music of the noise No, I couldn’t listen to that either By the road sat a man in the emptiness and the cold On the tightly shut lids of his eyes were fake, painted ones He blessed himself, and with a smile, he lifted his voice in a sickening hymn The world fell apart all around us I turned away, and we arrived at my relatives’ house I guess we had been there many times before Because when I greeted them with “Hello, nice to meet you,” They laughed nervously and then grew very quiet As we drove back, I couldn’t recall where we were coming from Wait, we were going, going to visit my relatives, somewhere But there was no one around, no one to be found Right, my parents weren’t there, that day And I wasn’t there, that day I was sleeping Alone

Peeking through the filthy, evil trenchcoat. As her arm slips around your shoulders, And her eyes drip droplets of cool water You know it was a night of forgiveness. The next day at school you sit lonely On the curb of the playground’s cement, And watch the songbirds flit, quickly. One sparrow, with a big black splotch, Alights on the branch of a steadfast oak And opens its small throat to let out a Melody of light pianissimo And legato phrases, so clear and lucid. Your mother’s mournful song begins again, But changes as the minutes pass you by To the lovely, tender melody she sang You to sleep as an innocent infant, Braiding with the sparrow’s delicate solo. You listen carefully, awake, alert, And hear the sparrow’s persistent whispering Drowning out your mother’s melody, Floating, quickly through the restless wind. Perched atop a branch that held her nest Full of scrawny, persistent young sparrows Sat, my sparrow, her chest thrust out, Her beak open, staccato melodies Trickling out, telling me her story. A young one called, from within its nest. My sparrow spread her wings and flitted away. Beak to beak her young ones ate contented. I watched until my eyes began to blur, And the sunlight faded quickly away. I watched my sparrow sing her tremulous tale While the last flickers of light gave way To the night and an unnerving stillness. Slowly, reluctantly, I walked away, Thinking about my sparrow and my mother, Whose sweet voice echoed peacefully in my ears, Coiled with the sparrow’s sweet melody.

Emily Hanson ( 9)

Narcissist

And turn on the ignition, and try to Back down the driveway, out onto the street And floor the gas and drive not in control Down the middle of the dark, uncrowded street. You slam into the tall telephone pole. Police car lights bring light to the night, And corner you inside a dreaded, unwanted Spotlight. They laugh at your drunken Excuses, and haul you, struggling, from the car That lies in a crinkled pile of trash. They force your head to duck in the door, Jamming it painfully upon the roof As you curse the officer with death. He does not try to move or release you. The night rushes away, while you Sit, alone, in a quiet police station, And think how ignorant your choices were To take that can, and force out all the beer, And let it trickle, cold, down your throat, And terrorize your liver, stomach, brain With cunningly sweet, vicious, deadly poison. Your mother struts in, her mouth angry, firm, And stands, towers over you, crouching, Her eyes baring down on you searching A gentle child she once sang to sleep. You slowly turn your head to look at her. No one speaks a word. The silence talks. She stands; her skirt hangs loose around her legs; Her arms are folded and her head tilted With disappointment of a filthy you Overflowing from her silver eyes. Her tongue is still, but her song sings, Not tenderly, but angrily and harsh. The minor notes slice through your ear, Echoing inside your hollow head, Piercing your heart with pitchforks, Cleansing your liver of the poison. Collapsing at your great mother’s feet, Whimpering apology, begging forgiveness. Her song stops, for she sees her gentle boy

Maggie Brick (10)

Chris Hanson (12)

ach knuckle was cracked individually and with perfect, twosecond intervals between each cracking. The left hand grasped the right fist, and slowly, ominously closed around the fist, the two hands clasped together under his chin. He propped his elbows on the desk beside the roast-beef sub and rested his forehead on his hands. He closed his eyes, and for a moment there was thoughtless serenity that would not last. His eyes flashed open, big dark eyes sporting bloodshot lines and purple bags underneath, eyes that did not have a story to tell but would tell one anyway, if only to draw focus. It was the third time that week he had tried, to no avail, to pray before a meal. He had taken so long trying to find religion, and now it seemed religion was reluctant to come out. He had nothing to say to God, though he believed they were on the same level. Nonetheless, he pulled his elbows off the desk and wrapped his once perfectly folded hands around the sub, mayonnaise dripping off the end. He took time to scrape the mayonnaise with a knife, and then nibbled the beef that stuck out of the edges, making the sandwich a perfect shape. He took the first bite of his sandwich, played with it in his mouth, and threw the remainder away. Then the angel appeared. The stupid little white-robed cherub playing its harp arbitrarily, whis-

pered in his ear about the starving people, and the person whose job it was to make the sandwich, and the selfish act of throwing it away after one bite. “It was bad.” And still the angel droned on in his ear, but the devil didn’t show up to help him; he was on his own. And then punchy, single-word thoughts entered his head, each corresponding

with the items he saw as he scanned his desk: Paperclip. Pencil. Staples. Scissors. Paperclip. His mind was unanimously in favor of the paperclip. He picked it up, unbent one end, and sent it through the angel’s head. There was a crunch, a squish, and he waited to make sure the incessant lecturing had ended before he turned to see his handiwork. The angel on his shoulder had turned from calliope to calamity, a mockery of modern art hanging from a paperclip, a tiny brain and halo skewed on one end. From over his shoulder, a smooth voice, a sharp contrast from the scolding cherub, congratulated him on his piece. “Where were you?” he asked the devil. The devil told him he was where he was needed least. “As is the case with your type,” he told the devil. The devil said, “And yours,” and then he was gone. He opened up the center desk drawer and took out a desk ledger. He flipped through the pages to that day and went through those he was yet to see. The one o’clock name read _______. As a superior smile spread across his face, he closed the ledger and replaced it on his desk with a sketchbook. In the book he turned to a page whereon comic-book type characters of his own design were embraced in mocking love, the posture and expressions painstakingly drawn to express both wanton desire and grotesque hatred. The male end was villain, and as with all villains, the artistic expression of the ego of the artist. Clad in a heavy black coat, leather bracers with steel rivets fastened around his arms, which either held the woman close or forced her onto him, it was all about interpretation. From his head sprouted a thick crop of hair, cream and black only because of the paper-and-ink make of this drawing; in his mind he imagined the hair to be a platinum white. The illusion of wind threw back the fold of the coat, and through the flowing leather, one

A Mother’s Melody Elise Meyers (9)

could see a classic revolver hanging from the villain’s hip. His slim face showed a smile of delight, maybe for love of the woman, maybe for hate and the plans that came with it. The woman was equally dolled in black. Her pants and vest, drawn with light in mind, had the characteristics of shine that would suggest leather. She had a black flat-brimmed fedora hat, pushed back to the top of her head. A hunting rifle with a scope was slung over her shoulder. Her hands were rested on the front of his chest, maybe to embrace the villain, maybe to resist him, maybe to strangle the life from him. Her face was beautiful, slim, with sharp features that he had taken time—much more time than his villain—to carve out and perfect, as if to pay homage to something. She smiled a smile of happiness with undertones of cautious awareness. It was apparent to the viewer that these figures had once been merely characters in some grand saga he had planned, but had now become part of something bigger, some

A mist almost as light as a feather, And softer than a duckling’s thinnest down, Blurring out a vast and distant horizon Of mountains, valleys shaded in with blue, And trees vanishing out of sight which dance A waltz of flying branches and strong leaves To every breath of wind, and play among Swaying green grasses and the radiant flowers. Of how the landscape touches and softens my Heart, and the wind tickles, playfully, my figure. Oh how the rabbits, squirrels and bees join in The happy frolic, and scitter and scurry. How wonderful the songbird’s melody A certain sparrow’s persistent song As she’s perched atop a laden branch The melody escapes her beak that feeds Her eager young’s open mouth awaiting Food’s arrival inside their nest of twigs She whispers through the wind her younger years. The younger years of steadfast health and strength When your favorite song was a nursery rhyme And your mother’s tender voice rocked you to Sleep singing Brahms’ lullaby sweetly, softly, And your lips were always fastened around A pacifier, keeping you from uttering Protest for not getting chocolate for Dinner. Instead you got mushy carrots. The years of friends for just a short, fast day, And chasing after skinny, blond, dumb babes, And drinking every last drop of Miller That you could manage to get from the can. Then stumbling out of the bright, drinking house, And throwing up the awful tonic on The driveway cluttered with junky, rusty Cars, which you are going to get into

Over Soul

subconscious drive that was surfacing.

Megan Schaaf (12) Three lost souls Wandered an aimless path Diverged Finding Lives intertwined At the heartstrings.

he clock on his desk showed one o’clock. He closed the sketchbook in time for his secretary’s voice to tell him that _______ had arrived and was in the private waiting room. “Send her in.” The door to his office clicked and a young woman, twenty-something, entered. “Good afternoon, Miss _______,” he said as he rose from behind his desk and walked to meet her, hand extended. She shook his hand and smiled at him, a smile of happiness with undertones of cautious awareness. “Sit down,” he offered her, and as she took to the couch, he found his place in a leather chair and opened the notebook on the table next to it. “We’ve been making incredible progress with your case, but I think we should take a new approach to this.” He closed his notebook and rose from the chair. As he moved to the couch—to her— his slim face showed a smile of delight, maybe for love of the woman, maybe for hate and the plans that came with it.

Transparent stony Eyes Empty abyss Gray pools Of longing. Emotions flow In every body Sparks Slide back Forth Friction Crimson clash Of lightening Through tiny portholes Of life. We are one. Lost But have found Each other’s Outstretched arms Branching like tree limbs Envelope Barren faces.

Growing brilliant.

Alayna Lemmer

Together Skipping rocks On golden pools Of hope Hues overgrown.



The Executioner Brian Holoyda (9)

I stare at her, Her slowly flitting eyes Dart toward the door To discover an escape. She stiffens, No solace does she find Only those eyes she hates My eyes. Destroyed for eternity, Our relationship As whimsy as a pansy petal On a crisp fall breeze Shattered As lightning does unto the night sky.

It is gone now, The love that would blossom Into an unyielding flower That flower is now spattered with blood As if Mary had cried onto it. She walks closer to my bed And stands still, Afraid of any action, Silence fills the empty void between us I can think one last thought before she injects me With the death-inducing drug Will I ever love another?

No emotion, My eyes shall remain stoic Unfeeling as those Of a murderer They will not let her alone. She gulps, The soft, intimate movement Of her throat As the saliva drips Down into her depths. A tear, An intrusion on her face, The face of a porcelain doll The face I used to stare at And know was mine to love.

Kelly Hensler (12)

Autumn Pansy Elise Meyers (9)

Autumn Pansy You quiver in a Frigid, harsh, Devastating wind Of a late autumn Storm. Autumn Pansy You tilt your visage, A bold little cat And protect your Cashmere petals Of purple, yellow, black From sundering leaves, Typhoon winds. Autumn Pansy Your hearty, Frostbitten leaves, Rattle, shatter With each breath. Autumn Pansy Your strong, Vascular tissue Bows, flexes, Curtsies in the wind. Autumn leaves Make glitter On the dusty, Frozen soil, Your roots Suck the Life out of.

Autumn Pansy Do hold on To leaves, to color, To your unrelenting strength. Show the world You can survive. Hold on Autumn Pansy, Till winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s snowflakes Fall, and cover the last Tip of your petals.

Kate Drea (12)

A Walk Through the Cemetery Colleen Curtin (12)

Dear Irene

Elise Meyers (9) Dear Irene,

You humored Those who listened With tales of crazy events, “My cats’ names are Siglinda and Lucretia; Don’t call them By nicknames. You call them by their Entire name.” You argued with Your Irish friend, M.T., “No your kitchen Is not carpeted, and Your floors are Not marble. You Irish like to tell Miniscule lies.” You cooked many A mighty feast, Of broiled potatoes And baby carrots Cooked in Jack Daniels And garnished with Chives and onions, Along with roast beef, Tender, juicy, and German, With well-worn hands And a surprising touch. Your strong will, Which did not defer To even the bishop, Will not defer To God. You passed notes

In class that questioned, “Why do we have brains?” “Why should we listen To this talk?” “We know we’ll get A’s.” You burnt the sweet potatoes At a Thanksgiving party. We ate them anyway. Your death dented my heart. You left us down on Earth, Agitated and surprised, Weeping at your loss, And joking over The reason you left. God must have wanted To ask you a question. We hope you bring change In heaven. We know you will Teach God A lesson of life On earth, and how To help humans With their emotions Of love, which lead To betrayal, Of loneliness, Sorrow, and hate That creates war. Teach God of traditions, After analyzing Her view, That could lead to A blossoming Of faith.

My fingers collide nervously Fumbling as if to distract my mind The words revolve around me Ambush me Push meInto desolation. A newfound trepidation constructs A dwelling place in my throat. I am taken back again. Despondent and degraded I descend. Breathless and voiceless, I reach out, Into empty space, Only to find… …I can’t. Evocation of this memory is imminentIt cannot be prevented. My frigid feet rest on the freezing earth. Fingers tracing the engraved letters, Snow. The white powder covers And unveils Covers And unveils… As the wind blows. The clouds whisper to the trees, As they swim through the skies, Of secrets I’m sure I never knew I’ll never know. My head dreams on the flowers, The wind relentlessly whips my hair, Slapping it against my face. I remember that day, What I never said. My fists beat on the rock, Pathetically. And my silent cries Echo Echo Echo.

Consumed

Veronica Raulin (12) Gently falling unnoticed Creeping up on you Gliding silently through the dark sky Towards an unsuspecting dreamer. Softly and swiftly it falls, Sometimes piling up, and sometimes melting away, Quickly forgotten. Oh, but the binding obstruction it makes Circling around, Denying all else from entering It settles upon itself, Building barriers Until nothing else can be seen; It governs all action. Forever Winter Yet, all melts away With the ticking of the clock The departure as subtle as the approach Until a realization Of the disappearance is reached. But the lasting mark has been left, As all returns to what was before. Gently falling unnoticed Creeping up on you Gliding silently through the dark sky Towards an unsuspecting dreamer.

We know you will Pass notes to angels That question, â&#x20AC;&#x153;How can God do Anything, sitting on His throne?â&#x20AC;? We know the lightning Is only the flame Flickering on burned Marshmallows. Please let me know When my time has come. I will follow your lead. I will run to keep up With your long stride. I will throw my arms Around your steadfast body, Dressed in a simple gown Of pink floral calico, And kiss your cheek. We will laugh together again. We will tease M.T. For being Irish With German friends. We will do this For an eternity. Love,

Elise

Kate Drea (12)

Alayna Lemmer (11)

Vile Edification

Rachel Tumerman (12) Alone on a corner surrounded by strangers with probing eyes, Fluorescent lights casting disturbing shadows onto strange conformity disguised by the impersonation of intellect. The girl somehow knew the secret machinations of men who are willing to employ. She takes advantage of those who take advantage of her. Approval, Acceptance, Affirmation: all of these are the abstract she is desperately trying to obtain.

Perched on a comfortless seat in the hazy bar my education commences. A professor of love enters the scene, A sum is offered up. With a nervous flicker of the eye, she glances up the black boardwalk to see if anyone has noticed that she has fallen back into the dark box in order to play the game. Forgetting herself and remembering all too well her situation, She accepts the sum and is paid not in dollars but in bold red marks on a page. The same feeble restitution for such prostitution that fills her so with hatred feeds an emptiness deep within. Success: A hollow hack has found her worthy because she has proven that the two are similar creatures in mind. Consequently, she is accepted for what she is not, and the former is unaware of his part in destroying beauty’s most natural form. Once the deed is done, there is no possibility of second thought. The two are contented: one proud, for he has gained dominion over this neophyte; the other proud, for she has played his game and won the highest of scores. My glass drained, I ask for another and ponder the destitute fate of such girls who have been lost in this most nefarious system we have created for teaching our young of life. Why, then, would one sell one’s self in order to gain mere perfunctory sanction? Curiosity sparks: Tapster, do tell me, what is that girl’s name? A name doesn’t much matter when it comes to that sort of breed, fellow. An appellation signifies individuality, and, good friend, that has been lost long ago. She was once of good character and had indeed the very faculties of a strong creed; She even had the gift of planting in people a wise seed. Misfortune dealt a hard hand, one too many times I suppose, Did someone reject her very thoughts she had laid out for all in prose. Thus I see her every day selling pretense to whomever is willing to buy, And if I had not a drunken heart, I believe it might make me cry. A common street whore is all that is left for this and future worlds to see, For all of us, in our silence, slight her individuality.

Drew Braucht (10)