The Wayfarer 2003 by Edgewood High School

What Is the Meaning of Death? Kate Holoyda (12)

The clock incessantly clicks away moments, Glimmering flecks of time, Sparkling for an instant. One candle may go out, its smoke rising, But the torch is still lit, Shining through the ages, unnoticed, The only dependable thing.

The Poet Eddie Malnor

Naked. Before the piercing eyes I stand. A turtle without his shell, A porcupine without his quills. Vulnerable.

The smoke dissipates and clogs the lungs, Not altering the rhythm. Eternal sleep disturbs it not, But the cough disturbs the soul. Shaking and feeble, it will produce Vibrations but not disruption Rippling through the pool.

Under the blinding white lights I squirm. Uncomfortable. My insides on display, and Each listener armed with a scalpel Painstakingly dissecting Every word, thought, belief.

Clarity fades Into the mud and grime. In its wake the flame endures, Mirroring all eternity, Glimmering flecks of time, Continuing perpetually into the unknown The only dependable thing.

Bridget Smith (12)

I bear all, reveal all Before the cynical crowd. I plead for nothing. Not Acceptance, Not Love. Just to be Naked and Free.

Staff

Editor:

Maureen Backman

Assistant Editor:

Elise Meyers

Art Editor:

Alayna Lemmer

Editorial Board:

David Barta Jennifer Bobula Henry Duwe Paul Hoffman Mariah Quinn Hannah Walser

Cover Artist:

Rory Lucey

Consultant:

Mr. Jim Ottney

Advisors:

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Peter Kraus (11)

Figment

Inspired by “Hetch Hetchy Canyon” by Albert Bierstadt Victoria Vasys (11)

Traveling days throughout the grassy valley Flourished with fresh blossoms, sweet fruits, Emerald foliage, and nascent shrubbery, She has found but mere mirages to quench her thirst. Hush of flowing waters becomes mutely audible, And just between the muscled limbs of her curious mother, The youthful fawn delights in the new spectacle As a brilliant sparkle catches her eye. No wondrous effect of her surroundings— Warm glow of the sun, tranquil echo of the canyon, Sweet mist of the morning, or soft shift of the clouds— Is enough to divert her devoted attention. Her approach toward the brook is eternal, All of nature spying on the wanderer. She brushes the hide of her mother, and Her anxious lips quiver as she inhales the imperceptible vapors. She glimpses at her twitching ears reflecting in the pool, And the sight teases her as she yearns for refreshment. Slowly, her spongy, parched tongue emerges from her mouth. Her head lowers, but the taste is again a figment of her imagination.

Table of Contents Contributors 1 The Poet: Eddie Malnor

52 Sister Stream: Diana McFarland

5 Movie Set: Hannah Walser

54 Mod 6: Joe Salvo

6 Grow Up: Joe Rickey

55 Monkey Tongue’s Labor: Adam Braus

8 The Tamarack Reckoning: David Barta

56 Killing Innocent Songbirds: Joy Tesensky

13 Solitary Male: Elise Meyers

58 1947: Number 42’s Fearless Journey: Maureen Backman

15 Carbonated Love: Matt Lutz

61 Light and Peace: Drew Braucht

16 Coffee: James Zabawski-Williamson

62 Figment: Victoria Vasys

18 Elizabeth: Aileen Wall

64 What Is the Meaning of Death?: Kate Holoyda

20 The Storm: Katherine Kozarek 23 Steel Dreams: Maureen Backman

Artists

24 Vines: Aileen Wall 26: Shadows: Joe Rickey 30 Gone: Jennifer Bobula 32 The Envelope: Eddie Malnor 34 Three More Years: Maureen Backman 42 Nobility Lost: Joe Rickey 44 Mosh: Ali Dumphy 45 Adapting to a Foreign Country: Elbek Daniyarov 47 Sauna: Katie Godfrey 48 Touch: Elise Meyers 49 A Case Too Clear: Margaret Cianciara

Liam Dale: 48 Maia Ferrella: 17, 31 Katie Godfrey: 32 Seth Hurd: 25 Sara Janonis: 22 Tyler Jefferson: 13 Derek Koons: 28 Kristin Kopish: 12 Peter Kraus: 7, 26, 53, 63 Rory Lucey: 50 Andres Matiz: 58 Ian McCormick: 5, 46 Samantha McDonald: 8 Mark Murphy: 14, 35, 43 Jack Petty: 18, 36 Kristen Schenborn: 11, 38 Jost Schrooten: 57 Kelly Schmidt: 61 Bridget Smith: 39, 64 Pat Steidl: 44 Chuan Wang: 21, 55

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

Light and Peace

Inspired by Jasper Francis Cropsey’s “Autumn on the Hudson River” Drew Braucht (11) Beneath the sky Above the ground I rest. All around me I see what is true. The autumn leaves glow with color. The sun radiates its light. Stretching my eyes across the horizon, The lake reflects the blazing sun. The cliffs in the distance stand tall against the elements. Golden water, rustic woods, penetrating sunset, The Light shines with brilliance. As I dwell in amazement, As I reflect on the majesty, With glory my soul is filled, Empty cup made to overflow. As life has drained, He has filled Restoring, transforming. In this spirit, I stand And go forth To carry the light, To shine.

Kelly Schmidt (9)

with silence. “Thinking about the things that happened, I don’t know any other ball player who could have done what he did,” remarked teammate Pee Wee Reese in retrospect. “To be able to hit with everybody yelling at him. He had to block all that out, block out everything but this ball that is coming in at a hundred miles an

hour.... To do what he did has got to be the most tremendous thing I’ve ever seen in sports.” Many connect Robinson’s break into baseball with the birth of the Civil Rights Movement. Yet Jackie’s rookie year preceded desegregation in America. His baseball debut came one year before Truman desegregated the military. He preceded the 1954 Brown vs. Board of Education case that desegregated schools. He played baseball when Jim Crow laws vehemently existed in the South. The fact is, Robinson fought racism without help from the government. When the Dodgers traveled to St. Louis, Robinson had to fight to stay in the same hotel with his teammates. He had to live under Jim Crow. “Robinson was the target of racial epithets and flying cleats, of hate letters and death threats, of pitchers throwing at 60

his head and legs, and catchers spitting on his shoes,” wrote Sports Illustrated’’s Bill Nack. Yet Jackie Robinson prevailed. Despite intentionally up-and-in fastballs and spiked slides, he went on to become an offensive machine and a perennial winner for the Dodgers. Never before has a player faced with so much

adversity excelled so much. Robinson’s 1947 season did not stop at the entrance gates to Ebbets Field. On the contrary, the number “42” became an inspiration to blacks across the country, including Hank Aaron. Civil rights activists in the 1960s had a hero to look back on. As The Kansas City Call stated, “When things look dark, void, and altogether hopeless to the colored youth of America..., when they need an inspiring thought that should urge them onward to the road of achievement despite forbidding obstacles, they will only need to read of and reflect upon the remarkable career of Jackie Robinson.” Before Robinson graced the field, blacks were not permitted to sit in the grandstands in St. Louis. Yet, when Robinson and the Dodgers played the Cardinals, blacks were admitted into the stands. Yes, they had poor

seating and were segregated from the white spectators, but, stepby-step, Robinson helped shake the legs upon which Jim Crow stood. After 1947, other blacks started to emerge from the Negro Leagues. Roy Campanella and Don Newcombe, and later on Lou Brock and Willie Mays, followed Robinson’s path to professional baseball. Without looking at the past, Jackie Robinson’s legacy merely becomes a name on an old scorecard. Jackie Robinson. Second Base. Number 42. Brooklyn Dodgers. Yet, looking at the racial situation in the United States in 1947, it is amazing what this man did. Never before had there been a black man associated with professional baseball. It was shocking for Americans to see two dark arms protruding from a baggy, woolen major league uniform. And however he performed in a game, if he made an error, if he hit a home run, if he were to retaliate against a racial remark, everyone would be watching. Yet he did not succumb to the pressure. “But how this lion sprang,” wrote Roger Kahn. “Like a few, very few athletes, Babe Ruth, Jim Brown, Robinson did not merely play at center stage. He was center stage; and wherever he walked, center stage moved with him.” Jackie Robinson broke the color line.

MOVIE SET Hannah Walser (9)

The sky looked like doom — all orange and red, purple. It was snowing in through the car window, and you could see office buildings with a few lights on, like abandoned ships almost, the ones they find neat but hollow after a great unknown disaster. I thought, if ghosts are anywhere, they’re here, not in some old empty house on a moor, right here under the spinning decorations in the grocery store, inside the headlight tracks. On the radio someone was singing in Vietnamese with a French accent; it was the only good thing on, and I was thinking about how everything looked so fake, how it looked like the world was only lit up by colored spotlights, and even the snow didn’t look real, like little pieces of tissue paper falling in your eyes.

Ian McCormick (10)

Grow Up Joe Rickey (12)

I was born too late, In a post-nuclear age, In a corpse of a planet, So I would have the privilege of seeing it rot. It wasn’t my fault. It was theirs, But it looks like we have to clean it up, Thrust with the responsibility of saving their way of life.

overshadowed by Hank Aaron’s 716th home run and Cal Ripken’s record-breaking consecutive game streak. Yet there is no question that Robinson’s year in 1947 should have been by far the most memorable moment in the history of the major leagues. From a purely statistical standpoint, Robinson’s rookie year and

“A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” The impact that Jackie had on America is what makes his rookie year truly remarkable and, yes, memorable. Dodger president Branch Rickey approached Robinson in 1945 after seeing him play with the Kansas City Monarchs, a Negro

ment between the two men, that Robinson would not lash back at racial attacks for two years, is what makes Robinson’s accomplishments so great. Yes, he was a black man who broke into a white man’s game. Yes, he defied the myth that blacks could not succeed in athletics and that teams with blacks could not win.

subsequent career was outstanding. He led the league in stolen bases in 1947 and ’49. He won the 1949 batting title with a .342 average, and his career average was .311. He led National League second basemen in double plays from 1949-1952. He played on the National League All-Star Team from 1949-1954. In a ten year span, he led the Brooklyn Dodgers to six World Series and one World Series Championship. Although statistics make a good case for why Robinson was selected as Rookie of the Year in 1947 and inducted into the Hall of Fame, they do not tell the actual story of what happened in 1947 and what it meant for America. Robinson once said,

League team. He wanted to sign Robinson not only for his athletic talent but also for his fighting prowess, his ability to be, as Roger Kahn wrote in The Boys of Summer, a “lion at dusk.” During their first conversation, Rickey preached to Robinson about the abuse he would hear on and off the field. “This is the kind of language you will hear,” he said. “And it may even be worse. The man I want must wear the armor of humility. He must have guts enough not to fight back.” Robinson broke his silence and replied, “I’ve got two cheeks, Mr. Rickey. Is that what you want to hear?” That was exactly what Rickey wanted to hear. This silent agree-

Yet, while doing this and hearing endless abuse from racists, for two years he responded with humble and stony silence. He channeled his fury on the basepaths and with the strength of his bat, but never in his first two years did he lash back at a racist remark or a racist action. Had he chosen to do so, it would have meant an enormous setback in baseball’s desegregation efforts. Many make the argument that had Robinson not come along, another man would have taken his place. It is true that there would have been another black athlete who could have broken into professional baseball, but it is very unlikely that another man would have met prejudice

How was I supposed to know? Why am I supposed to care? What was I supposed to notice? Where did it say that I would be thrown out there? Why can’t I just have fun? Why can’t all of us just live our way? Oh, I see, The world doesn’t work that way. It’s sad really when you get right down to it. You’re always too old to stay young, Now I’m too young to help, Young enough to die. Maybe that’s the reason Why children don’t care, Their sunshine daydreams take them away. But then They have to stop. Someone claws in and rips their walls down So they become drones And grow up before their bodies do. Perhaps if… If they could dream a little more They could Wake us up. It’s a damn shame When apathy strikes out.

1947: Number 42’s Fearless Journey Maureen Backman (12)

t is April 15, 1947. Amidst jests of “Here, boy, shine” and racial jeering from his own teammates and the opposing team, a black man steps onto the baseball field. People threaten to kill him if he even attempts to play that day’s game. Spectators throw black cats from the stands. And all he can do is remain a stone of silence. He has to block out humiliating shouts and fearful 58

threats and concentrate solely on a speeding white baseball thrown to him by a white pitcher in front of white fans in a white man’s league. Thus begins the baseball career of Jackie Robinson. Since his rookie year in 1947, Robinson created tumult when he, a black man, broke into the white man’s realm of professional baseball. It has been fifty-five years since the day Jackie Rob-

inson stepped onto a prejudiced baseball field and eased it into one of equality and acceptance. Yet, as can be seen from Major League Baseball’s Memorable Moments presentation during Game 4 of the 2002 World Series, much of Robinson’s legacy has faded in those five-plus decades. His rookie year was voted the third-most memorable moment, Peter Kraus (11)

The Tamarack Reckoning David Barta (12)

y hands felt frozen to the steering wheel and shifter, and I was halfafraid that when I tried to pull my hands away, they’d stay stuck to the car. My cousin Joseph was riding shotgun, and he was shaking like a sapling in the wind. It was the first real cold snap of the year, and I’d forgotten my parka at home. It was the middle of November and all hope of a last nice day died with the tamarack needles. Last week it snowed five inches; we didn’t have to go to school for two days. Now it’s just cold. I drove down Birch Haven and onto County X. The stand of birches where the DNR had cut looked like a crowd of skeletons. We took a left onto Hall Road where there were lake-front houses. Their owners were generally rich people from Minneapolis or Chicago. These houses weren’t the ritzy ones on the northwest side of the lake, but lake property is lake property. I drove on down the dirt road, praying that even with the four-wheel drive we wouldn’t get stuck. At a fork in the road, there were signs designating which family lived in which cabin. The Cooks, Cortys, and Taylors lived on the road going to the right, and the Haags lived in the cabin straight ahead. It was Sunday morning, and the folks who stay the winter out here are usually the churchgoing type. We went on to the Haag residence. The Haag house was Samantha McDonald (10)

That burns in their eyes. Nine. Ten, Eleven - It is not enough to merely kill this man; They must deface and deform his body To quench their savage thirst. Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen - The relentless fire beats on. Fifteen, Sixteen - He swims in a pool of his own guiltless blood Spilled by the guns of cowards. It certainly takes a “big man” to kill and mutilate a cripple. Seventeen. The storm has dispersed For now. So fly away little songbird, while there is time, To a new world Where men do not suffer cruel punishments At the hands of their brethren. Fly away little birdie From this demented world Where guilty men walk free, Where the color of one’s skin measures the size of one’s character, Where men have the audacity to walk with heads held high, Blind to their mortal transgressions, For they are ignorant of this fact: It is a sin to kill a mockingbird.

Jost Schrooten (11)

Slaying Innocent Songbirds Based on To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee Joy Tesensky (9)

I awake in the cool, gray dawn of morning As I have done on many other peaceful days, To the sweet melody of the mockingbird Perched atop a nearby tree. The purity and spotless innocence of the bird’s song Stirs deep feelings of serenity in the core of my soul. A calm, gentle breeze whispers through the window. All is tranquil. I am content. But, alas, a storm gathers on the horizon And threatens to ruin my perfect harmony. And, I remember a scene . . . Of a stainless songbird trapped amid bloodthirsty hunters. I see an innocent man convicted for a crime he would not dare commit. I see a deadly germ strike down upon the people, Leaving them totally defenseless against the disease of prejudice. I see a sickly red geranium growing amongst the thorns, Reaching desperately for sunlight Only to be smothered in corruptive darkness. I see twelve men, All are morally bankrupt. They have not the courage to live by conscience Nor the fortitude to uphold the ideals of justice. I see all these fatal hunters Mercilessly pursuing their helpless prey. Unaware of the ugliness of its surroundings, The mockingbird sings on Filling my days, But never my memories, With heavenly music that seems vastly out of place in my melancholy life. But the storm is fast-moving and gaining force, Hurdling along on the steeds of lightning and thunder. And suddenly, I hear the searing ringing in my ears. One - His wing is shot. He tumbles down, falling from the sky. Two - He has lost the other. The desperate flight has ended. Three - He is done! He cannot move! Why must you persist? Four - Stop! Have you no pity? You have accomplished your goal! Five - Your work is complete. The poor mockingbird is dead. Six, Seven, Eight - Yet, the hunters are not finished. Death will not satisfy the hunger Fueled by hatred 56

home that was white with black trim. The driveway was circular and appeared to be just a dirt ring on the lawn. The woods were thick around the house; the lack of underbrush made the trees appear even taller than they were. The trees cast long shadows in the morning sun that looked like an army of black fingers all reaching in the same direction. There weren’t any neighbors, so it was dead quiet. “Hey, Steve, all the cars are gone, and the garage door ’s open,” Joe said. “Let’s poke around a little, but let’s make it quick; I don’t want to go back to County again,” I said. We piled out; Joe brought his hunting knife in case of any dogs, but I didn’t hear any barking. The Haags used their garage like some kind of three-season porch. The whole thing was packed with various tools, lawn care stuff and other assorted junk. There were also chairs and an overflowing ashtray sitting on a propane grill. I looked around and found a brown leather purse sitting on one of the folding chairs. I picked it up and went through it. I found cigarettes, a few pens, a flashlight and a plain envelope. The envelope was thick. I opened it up and found a whole mess of hundred dollar bills. “Joe, come get a look at this!” “What?”

“This lady has a war chest in her purse!” Joe walked over to get a closer look. “Aw, man, let’s quit while we’re ahead and get on out before the people who live here get back,” I said. “No, I want to keep on looking.” “You better get in the truck unless you want to walk back home.”

He gave me a look and jumped into the truck. I got in, put the truck in gear and crawled up the hill. Even though the half-ton truck had four wheel drive and snow tires, I still had to ride the clutch up the hill. On Birch Haven, Joe said, “Jesus man, there’s 5,700 dollars in this envelope.” “And all I needed was 350 bucks.” “What for?” “For kicking your ass if you don’t shut up.” “Hey man, back off. You should be happy; this means you get 2,850 bucks. Why are you so up-tight?” “I don’t want to talk about it now or ever.” “All right. Hey, let’s go to

my dad’s hunting shack out in Danbury; I’ve got a bottle of whiskey saved up for a special occasion.” I didn’t say anything. I knew where my uncle’s hunting shack was, and I also knew I would soon be forgetting my problems. We stopped at the Little Turtle on 70 and gassed up. My cousin Alison, Joe’s older sister, was working the register. She was twenty-one, but she already looked like she was in her thirties. She was starting to put on weight, and her long, black hair, which used to shine blue and fluorescent in the sun, was now dull and starting to gray. She was as ashen and dead looking as a leafless tree. Alison’s two children were at Grandma’s house, and her exhusband disappeared without a trace last year. I asked for the tribal gas register clipboard and wrote my name and the amount of gas that I put in the tank. It was painful to look at Alison, so I left without talking to her. The car felt warm and dry, and the hillbilly music playing on WOJB was also, in a way, warm and dry . We went west on Highway 70 and north on 35 to Danbury, which is only a few miles from the St. Croix River and Minnesota border. The whole time I felt like nodding off, but Joe couldn’t drive because he’s only fifteen. I looked out the window through my tiredness. A lot of the businesses and homes were 9

boarded up. Weeds, saplings and blackberry brambles started to invade the lots. The woods had a way of eating the leftovers of people like buzzards on a weekold kill. During the winter, things weren’t so bad on the reservation, but in white man’s land in the North there were always hard times without all the rich people from the cities. Uncle Jimmy’s hunting shack was located on the edge of a bog; on one side there was the woods; along the other there

said. “Things aren’t always as they seem.” “It’s like something that you think will last through the winter really doesn’t in the end.” I kept looking out the window; I couldn’t stand to look at Joe right now. Though I was only two years older, we were worlds apart. I took another long swallow from the bottle. The tamarack marsh looked as cold and lonely as ever. “What’s been eating at you

tion?” “Yeah, I guess so.” “She can’t do that! You know how your mama feels about that.” “She doesn’t have to know about it.” “How is she going to pay for it?” “With the money I lifted from that house; that’s the reason I wanted to go out and get stuff from people’s houses.” “Jesus, you know how wrong this is, stealing money so your

was nothing but frozen scum, black spruce and tamaracks. Joe unlocked the door and we went inside. Joe got the whiskey, and I gathered the materials for the fire. I lit the fire and examined the bottle of whiskey Joe set on the table: Pheasant Brand Five Star Whiskey. It looked cheap, and it probably tasted like varnish. I unscrewed the top and took a swig. I was wrong; it tasted like furniture polish. I took as much in my mouth as I could without having to spit it out. I set the bottle back down on the table and looked out the window, waiting for it to take effect. “Ya know, it’s funny how the tamarack is a pine tree, yet it still loses all its needles in the fall,” I

lately?” Joe asked. “My sister.” “What’s up with Carol?” “She’s pregnant.” “ Who did it?” “Some white senior from Grantsburg.” “Aren’t you going to do something with him?” “Can’t. His folks own some lumber mill and a whole slew of property up in Douglas County.” “Who knows?” “Just me and her and now you.” “What’s she going to do about it?” “There’s this place up in Superior that takes care of stuff like that.” “You talking about an abor-

sister can have an abortion. Hell, you might as well sprinkle sugar on communion wafers and eat them like breakfast cereal.” “Breakfast of champions.” I took another slug from the bottle. “Who’s to say it’s such a bad thing anyway?” “It’s bad ‘cause it’s murder.” “Oh, who said that, the Church, Mama, the President? Has anyone of them really helped Carol? I get so tired of these people passing withjudgment on other people out doing anything for them.” “Your mama will help out Carol.” “The hell she will. I know for a fact she’ll kick Carol out of the house as soon as she fesses up or starts showing.”

Monkey Tongue’s Labor Adam Braus (12)

Slip the lip and hold the tongue, for if words be meant to pour so heedlessly would not the creator’s hand have graced other creatures just as foully? What dolphin fills the waves with phonics, or sloth the jungle with half thunk thoughts? Not the giraffe who gently chews, chewing his leaves nor the cow his cud nor is dry camel self-consciously mumbling about his hump; all do not bother with their facts or fictions. ‘Tis only us who do declare our earnest and false whims and wares on the streets beneath the nigh blazing sun or by candlelight when supper’s done then out with it they come. Overshadowed are the spars geniuses, by the tall, heady, lying weed. Fill me no longer I plead! For my head is weighing ever more with trite and wordy greed. We are but cattle, but monkeys, and instead we traipse about our tongues, our words and not our nudity, our behinds red.

Chuan Wang (10)

Mod 6

Joe Salvo (12) Eleven fifty-five: The lunch mod ends. I journey to the third floor with all of my friends. “Ms. Mertens, we’re coming!” I hear someone yell. Class commences before the second bell.

In deep discussions, Maureen raises her hand. Jordan pays close attention so she can understand. Arguments by Adam and Emma become fiery While Ms. Mertens chimes in with, “I am the Diary.” We study poetry, write essays, and discuss themes unknown. We perform Oedipus and Hamlet while disturbed by Matt’s groan. The laughter and commotion makes the class very blunt. Rory gets asked to move to the front. The trees behind Tim, Taylor, and Melissa are swaying in the breeze Before Cori awakens the class with her patented sneeze. Rachel’s and Kate’s notes are organized and neat. Dan reveals words of wisdom, “Poetry is Sweet!” We read a great collection of poetry, but I don’t know all the names. “What do you think of ‘Poetry,’ James?” Ideas, inspirations, intentions and a belief Eddie sympathizes with Dickinson’s grief. “What’s the purpose of the poem?” Ms. Mertens asks the class. She’s looking at me to answer, but I think I’ll have to pass. I wasn’t paying attention, and now I feel very odd. But I’m saved by the bell, and it’s time for seventh mod.

Kristen Schenborn (10)

I enter the room to hear Fran singing a song. Sean has a bagel and milk, but it won’t last very long. We retrieve our homework, which makes our knowledge grow. We open our books and share what we know.

“She’ll just live with your dad then.” “I’m not sending my only sister to live out at the Bad River Rez, away from me and away from her school. If she went out there it would screw up all her schooling, and she’s the only one of us who’s got a chance to get away.” “I still think it’s wrong.” “I don’t care; it’s her decision. Just condemning it without fixing what’s wrong is just plain lazy. It’s much harder to let the ones you love do something you don’t approve of to help themselves than it is to forbid them and not think about it. I don’t like it much either, but I’d sure as hell rather have the life of someone I don’t

know on my conscience than the life of my sister. You know what happened to Alison. I’m doing this to save Carol’s life or at least give her a life worth living.” At this Joe got real quiet. The alcohol and the hollering made my face red and got my dander up. I took another swig, and finally, I started to feel numb. “What are you going to do with the extra money?” “I don’t give a damn about the money; keep it, give it away, burn it for all I care. All I want is 350 dollars for the operation.” “I don’t feel so good about keeping the money either; I’m leaving my share of the money in the Haags’ mailbox.” We sat there drinking and not

saying anything. The booze was starting to work at my mind. Something important was exchanged that afternoon. I kept thinking about Carol and that rich bastard in Grantsburg and just how awful everything was. I felt like crying, but I didn’t have it in me anymore. It’s not like Joe would have cared. He’d understand. It’s just that, at that time, I felt like I was in the eye of a hurricane; everything around me was falling apart, but I remained unaffected. I just hid in the alcohol mist. We sat there for hours not saying much. “Well, I suppose it’s time to go home now,” I said. “Yeah,” Joe said numbly. 11

We got in the car. I didn’t feel comfortable driving, but Joe was almost as drunk as I was, and he didn’t know how to drive stick. We went off down 70 and back toward the Rez. I was driving as well as I could manage, but I must not have been paying attention to the speedometer. I saw red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror, and I knew we were screwed. I pulled over. The smokey got out of the car and walked to the truck.

Kristin Kopish (9)

He paused for a moment and said, “You better get out of the car.” I got out. “You too, kid,” he said to Joe. Just as he was getting out, Joe grabbed the money and the hunting knife and headed out into the woods. The highway patrolman was momentarily distracted, and I took that opportunity to also bolt for the woods. Even though I was half in the bag, I felt totally in control. We both ran through the woods like deer, jumping over logs and ankle grabbers. Tree by tree flew by, but the smokey was nowhere to be seen; I could hear him crashing through the underbrush, cursing all the while. We came up to a frozen marsh. Joe was running across the marsh when he suddenly tripped over something in front of a tree and landed flat on his face. Joe didn’t get up right away. This wasn’t good since we were both so scared. At first I thought he had broken his ankle or something. He started to get up on his knees, and I noticed that there was a red spot where he had fallen. He had stuck himself in the guts with his hunting knife. He managed I rolled down the window and to get himself up on his knees said, “What seems to be the prob- and pull the knife out of his gut. lem, officer?” This only made the blood flow “Awfully far from the res- faster. Then I saw what made ervation, aren’t you, boy?” he him fall; he tripped over one of asked. those burial mounds that you see “I suppose so, officer,” I said, all over these parts. He tripped angry but trying as hard as I over one of our ancestors. He could to sound sober and civil. stayed still for what seemed to The officer sniffed and said, “You boys been out drinking tonight?” “No, sir.” Peter Kraus (11)

Solitary Male

Sister Stream

Inspired by “Autumn on the Hudson River” by Jasper Francis Cropsey Diana McFarland (11)

Shimmering, shining, singing, The naïve little stream skips through the amber forest. She dances out of the dank, dismal wood, Playing among the filtered rays of light Descending from the sun’s radiance far above, Giggling as she trips and tumbles Into this unmarred Garden of Eden. Dipping, glistening, eddying As the sun speckled flora sweeps by in a heartbeat Satisfying nature’s thirst before pouring Excitedly into the expanse of the translucent, tranquil bay. Chuckling fondly, the sun gazes Through the ominous, impending clouds Looking down on the valley, Recalling his clear, youthful vision Of crystal blue skies And bright white light Unencumbered by the shadow now Rolling forebodingly across the bay.

Elise Meyers (10)

A commotion, The half-empty Pepsi, a cocktail Of melted ice, Sugar and salt Rejects its erect Stance, falling Unknown to the table At its recognition The shouts All rise from their chairs, Grabbing belongings And fleeing the crime scene A solitary male, Not guilty of the spill Stays with rags in hand Sweeping the sticky, Amber liquid Back into its cup A clean table Invites the deserters Back to enjoy The rest of lunch From the effort Of their friend A kind, innocent Male left To clean Alone

Tyler Jefferson (11)

businessman; he’d been found slouched in his chair that was nailed eight feet off the ground in his high-rise office building. His blood had been used to paint a portrait of the man on the wall beneath his body. The second had been found in a dark alley downtown. The victim, this time a woman, was found lying next to a perfect chalk outline of her body. Inside the outline a description of her torturous last moments had been scrawled in shorthand. The other victims had been found in equally bizarre settings, spurring such headlines as “The Art of Murder.” This was no case of circumstantial evidence. The apprehension that hung in the air was not unease over what the verdict would be, but rather a fear of the defendant himself. The jury had already made up its mind long before they were even called up for duty. Joshua entered the courtroom. The accused man sat very still behind the defendant’s table. He was a heavy, solid man with narrow eyes that were set far apart on his head and a bulbous red nose protruding out the front of it. His stocky frame was pronounced by the way his prisoner’s garb clung tightly to him. He was an ugly one – someone you’d cross the street to avoid on a dark, rainy night. Like tonight, Joshua thought. He found an open seat behind the plaintiff’s witnesses. The judge suddenly appeared from behind the bench and a dome of silence descended upon the crowded courtroom. The 14

Mark Murphy

stand, calling for order in the court. Zoft fell back in his chair amidst an uproar of cheering and shouting. Joshua stood and left the courtroom unnoticed.

he sky had cleared, and it had turned into a calm night. Joshua walked down the steps in front of the courthouse, jingling the change in his pocket. A cool breeze blew dry leaves across the sidewalk. He smiled. A light snow began to fall as he made his way through the city, stopping and looking in the store windows of the now abandoned town. He came to a stop before the large window display of a used television store. More than fifteen TVs, all sizes and conditions, blared the same judge, setting his gavel aside, channel: the news. There had took a long hard look out over been another murder. “A waithis realm. His gaze came to rest ress by the name of Myrtle Higon Joshua. gins...” The reporter prattled on “Would the accused, Zoft, please as Joshua continued on his way, stand. You have pleaded not guilty to charges brought against you, is that correct?” The defendant rose from his chair. He cleared his throat and stammered. “That is correct, sir.” “Would the jury please stand. Do you, the jury, find the accused Zoft guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty, your Honor.” Zoft stifled a cry. “On all eight accounts?” “That is correct, your Honor.” That falls well within the state qualifications for the death penalty, Joshua thought. There’s no way he’s escaping the chair. “Sentencing will take place...” No one could even hear the judge, now pounding his gavel upon the 51

Carbonated Love Matt Lutz (12)

Shining Crimson Cylinder Sitting on my wooden desk A taste like no other Just cracking it open Adds to the experience I quench my craving and think Brown bubbly sugar water Empty calories and chemicals Phosphoric acid, you hurt so good This doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop me from drinking This is my own addiction Others share the same habit A legal drug, in a way A drug that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make you crazy Only hyper and obese Now the can is empty along with my heart I will stomp, crush and recycle And maybe the metal will be reborn Not as a Coke but a Pepsi can Which I will not drink

Rory Lucey (12)

Coffee

A Case Too Clear

James Zabawski-Williamson (12)

Cuppa Joe More like Cuppa Jesus Stir it counterclockwise Black with zero calories Nothingness Wonderful Check the clock 5:30 Just me and my Hand-picked Hand-brewed Columbian bean juice Oh, but Christ That smell Roasted reflux Feces au lemon This is horrible And I’m nauseous But I can’t take the headaches So here we go

Margaret Cianciara (12)

oshua Durtzky sat contemplatively at the table by the front window of the coffee shop on Cartage and Fourth Avenue. Small drops of rain pelted the window fiercely, a thousand angry hands pounding the glass

like a fairy godmother to them. Her tender, warm countenance and equally welcoming smile had never turned anyone away. When Joshua had wandered in aimlessly the month before, new in town and looking for a bite to

and swung open her umbrella. A chill rushed in as Joshua tugged the old wooden door open and followed her out into the cold rain. The door slammed closed behind them, returning the small café to a warm, quiet haven from

vengefully. It was only half past four, but it was that time of year when darkness began to fall much earlier in the day. Light spilled from the café window onto the sidewalk below, and Joshua watched his shadow as he lifted his cup to his lips. Returning his gaze to the newspaper in front of him, he read the headline once more, “Dalí Murderer Trial Today,” before standing and folding the paper under his arm. “Will that be all for you tonight, Mr. Durtzky?” the small, plump waitress asked. She had been working here for a long time from what Joshua gathered. Her face reflected in its lines the many worries and troubles her customers would bring to her; from halfway house rejects to the strayest of cats, she was

eat, she had all but tucked him in bed herself. “Yes, thank you, Myrtle,” he replied, returning her warm smile. “I’ve got to get going.” He emptied his pocket change onto the counter. He knew Myrtle appreciated any small gesture of gratitude; she gave so much, but many to whom she gave had nothing to give in return. “Oh, really? Which way are y’heading? I’m on my way out myself,” she said, untying her apron. She swept the change into her hand and dropped it into her coat pocket. Joshua pulled on his own coat. “Toward the courthouse.” Myrtle’s face brightened. “Grand! We can walk together,” she said, checking herself off the timesheet. She grabbed her coat

the downpour outside.

oshua shook the rain off the umbrella as he stepped through the courthouse doors. A roar of voices swept over him like another torrent of rain. The smell of people and the rank stench of the anxietydrenched crowd filled the air. Reporters and camera crews packed the room. The case was unlike any the city had seen before. They had named it the “Dalí Trial” in the headlines after the title that had been given to the murderer because of a startling theory: that the serial killer was using Salvador Dalí’s art as disturbed inspiration. They’d all been stabbed. Eight of them. And their bodies found throughout the city. The first was a wealthy 49

Touch

Elise Meyers (10)

A gentle breath That inevitable caress With its invigorating Sense of movement Skillfully folds Two isolated flowers Into an accidental shiver Surmounted with ecstasy As cashmere petals Exchange remembrances of color Brushing their slender stems In the intertwining joy Of touch. They repel Confused for a moment Shocked by the power Of the breath which folded Them into one. Green stems strain To remain aloofly erect Guarded by the invisible film Of respect Anxiously awaiting The next inevitable breath In which they can touch again.

Liam Dale (11)

Maia Ferrella (10)

Elizabeth

Sauna

Aileen Wall (9)

n the eight years that I knew Mrs. Tatarsky, I only knew her first name for the last two. It was considered a privilege to know the names of certain teachers; to this day I still do not know some of them. Mrs. Tatarsky was one of those people we considered to be a teacher, although she 18

Katie Godfrey (12)

Jack Petty (12)

was just support staff like Father Stan and Brother Dominic. Mrs. Tatarsky was the second person I met at Blessed Sacrament. Since we lived so far away before we moved, I rode the bus. On the first day the bus driver dropped me off at the far corner over by the church. If I

Twenty-five below We stand outside, Barefoot in the snow, Clinging to our towels as if the Thin terrycloth could possibly warm us. For miles the only sound is our chattering teeth. It’s ready. We hop inside the smoke-filled room, Ass-pads in hand. Eyes fog over. We sink back into our thoughts. Stories and songs hang loosely in the air Not a care in the world. Sweat pours out of us as if we are Rain clouds. Throw more water on the stones. Watch the thermometer rise, We’re roasting alive. Time to run out, The arctic air slicing into our bare flesh Steam rolling off our shoulders. The hole in the ice, Just big enough One, two, three jump! It’s not so bad, just don’t dunk your head under. They say this is good for your health… Spring back out onto the snow Not sure where to place your burning toes. Take a quick glance at the shimmering moon before Running back inside, Careful not to slip. Let’s do it all over again.

had seen the school before that day or not, I cannot remember. I wandered around until I found a middle-school girl and asked her for help. She knew exactly who to take me to. She took my hand and led me to the front office where Mrs. Tatarsky sat. By then I was in tears. Mrs. Tatarsky 47

Ian McCormick (10) the battles I had to fight. Luckily, the buzzing in my ears as if they were filled with outraged wasps and the feeling of floating in the air like a hawk left me in three days; however, overcoming jet lag is only a small step toward adjusting to the local time. The most promising rule of thumb for time adjustment is, perhaps, the idea that it takes a day of sleep to compensate for every hour of the trip. Only after two weeks did I stop waking up at night and dozing off at noon as if I were a hundred-year-old owl. There is no way of successfully adapting to the foreign time other than sleeping. After successfully sleeping through the time adjustment, I had to wake up to the bigger and more daunting challenges of 46

adapting to the climate. Having never seen a lot of snow, I was awestruck when my parents told me they had blizzards and snowstorms in Wisconsin. I prayed so the fierce blizzards and the bone-chilling winds wouldn’t reach Wisconsin, but when they did, I was only grateful for the comforting warmth of my jacket. The horrifying stories of frostbitten people only reinforced the idea that I had to dress warmly to survive the morosely long Wisconsin winters. Once I formed an agreement with the weather, along came another bloody battle involving foreign germs and bacteria. I was terrified when my host parents said, “We will have to shoot you if the sinus infection and the coughing doesn’t stop.” I thought being shot could be

easier than throwing up my heart every time I coughed. It took me half a year to get rid of headaches and occasional fevers. Brave travelers have to be ready for anything and everything related to the weather. No doubt the wonderful experience living abroad is worth the hardships of traveling. A person who travels usually encounters very interesting situations as he or she adapts to the climate of the foreign country. First, a person who plans to be abroad sooner or later packs his luggage. Secondly, a foreigner begins to adjust to the time and suffers from jet lag. Finally, an alien acclimates to the weather and foreign bacteria. Despite the intense emotions of packing and leaving my family, the torturous aspects of adjusting to the local

smiled, gave me a Kleenex, and asked my name. To me, a terrified first-grader on her first day at a new school, she was like an angel. I saw her five days a week. As I came into the school, she was invariably sitting in the office. I cannot ever remember her miss-

of which teachers’ names I knew and which ones I did not know. Then one day when I was in the office waiting for something, I heard one of the teachers talking to someone named Elizabeth. I had never heard that name before, so I looked around to see who she was talking to. The

ing more than one day at a time. She would smile, wave, and deal with the multitudes of students asking for Band-Aids, ice packs, Kleenex, or permission to use the phone. It was a well-founded rumor in the lower grades that she knew everything; she knew whether someone was sick or just on vacation, and she could remember your phone number when you forgot. We could not see the files full of numbers and notes that she always kept near her. She just knew; she was Mrs. Tatarsky. Everyone accepted that. When I was in fifth or sixth grade, I started to notice that the teachers all used each other’s first names when there were not many students around. I would half-listen to see if I could catch a name. I kept a list in my head

only other person there was Mrs. Tatarsky. Then it clicked. Her name was Elizabeth. I had never realized that before. A few more years passed, and I graduated from Blessed Sacrament and moved on to Edgewood High School. My three younger siblings still went to Blessed Sacrament, so I saw everyone often. On October 17, 2002, one of my classmates left our religion class for an appointment. When he got back, he went to talk to the teacher, then came over to me. “Mrs. Tatarsky died last night from a heart attack. Father Stan told the students in church this morning.” I would not have believed most people, but this was different; it was too serious to joke about. I asked him questions about it, as if I had not heard him.

How? When? Are you sure? He answered them all, but I had not asked the one I knew he could not answer. Why? In the days after her death, I saw people come together. I heard stories of how the eighth-grade boys asked for the flag to be lowered to half-staff because someone important had died. At Edgewood some of us looked around for people who had known her so that we could be together. None of our other friends understood what she had been to us. But what struck me most of all was that almost every adult who talked about her called her Elizabeth. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never heard more than a few people call her that. It seemed as if she was no longer Mrs. Tatarsky and needed to be called something else. But that wasn’t the reason. When someone spoke of Elizabeth, we all knew who they were talking about. It was no longer necessary to use last names. She was Elizabeth. She had planted seeds of kindness and love in us, grown in us like a flower, and now she lives in all of us who knew her. Maybe we didn’t know her as well as we would have liked to, or maybe it was that we were children and she was an adult and that was why we didn’t know her well. Each person knew her differently. I, for one, had never called her Elizabeth before. It would have been rude even to think about it. But now she is inside of us, and she knows us and we know her. We do not need to worry about being rude anymore. She has touched us all and grown closer 19

The Storm

Adapting to a Foreign Country Elbek Daniyarov (11)

Inspired by “The Notch of White Mountain” (Crawford’s Notch) by Thomas Cole Katherine Kozarek (11) Crawford’s unrivaled majesty descends upon the valley, Casting colors of crisp and smoky autumn on slowly dying trees. Bold colors of smoldering fire melt themselves Into a select number of fortunate leaves. Rolling thunderous clouds foreshadow the Descending of a wild storm on the valley. Its happy human inhabitants will be Sent cowering into a corner. Leaves will soon forget their exuberant Rainbow of color and be crushed to The ground by the screaming wind. It rushes through trees and Knows where to find a weak link Between provider and product. Trees will whip around and sting previously Cordial neighbors and some will breathe their last. Yet none of the destroyed will hold a grudge. They know it is a cycle. They will lie soft in a bed of moss and mud, Staring up at the painfully blue sky, Knowing their beauty and worth. Man occupies the valley. He will continue killing precious land Until his thirst for hacking trees to Unrecognizable stumps is quenched.

Unaware of the powers of nature Into which he has embedded his life, He will fear the storm, then curse it, Believing its fury will ruin all he has built. To him it is an inconvenience, To the land, a vital, never-ending cycle. Continual life and death ensures endurance. At the turning of the dawn, he will throw open The door, expecting a destroyed scene, Stomp outside, only to find a stillness and peace Never before experienced. His lips will slowly turn upward in a faint smile as a Triumphant rainbow thrusts it colored fingertips across the sky. He is grateful for beauty, unaware It existed before he did.

acant deserts covering millions of acres, snake eggs being fried in the boiling sand where it can reach eighty degrees celsius in the shade, great sandstorms creating new sand dunes as high as five-story buildings, cruel robbers with sabers and pistols — this is what Marco Polo, a thirteenth century explorer, experienced as he traveled on the Silk Road from Italy to China. He loved his challenging adventures and turned them into a book. Traveling nowadays is certainly not as dangerous, although it is as exciting. As an exchange student, I had to cope with some of the basic yet crucial aspects of traveling. I had to pack a suitcase with necessities and “wants” before boarding the plane bound to the United States. After arriving in Wisconsin, I had to adjust to the time of the country. Then came the longer struggle of adapting to the cold climate of my host country. Though very simple, packing a suitcase is quite an emotional activity. Unfortunately, it is not as crucial to take favorite possessions as it is to load the luggage with necessities such as warm clothes, medication, and traveling items. To my disappointment, my mother crammed the suitcases with an overcoat, some wool hats, a pair of fleece gloves, and several heavy scarves, as if I were going to stay in the North

Pole for the rest of my life. Little did I know, I would be thanking my mother for the warm clothes when the cold winds blew and the temperature dropped dramatically in Wisconsin. As I prepared my luggage, I knew I could not take my boom box, computer, the comfy sofa, my favorite pillow, and the teddy bear I used to sleep with. Needless to say, I had to leave behind my family and Rocky, our hundred pound German shepherd. Knowing how dearly I would miss my family, I found it very essential to pack some pictures that proved comforting in the times of despair and loneliness that every traveler faces. Beside packing my luggage to get it scanned by my dear mother and dragging it through the airport, I had to survive jet lag and

adjustment to the local time. The giant Airbus took off at seven on a Tuesday morning. The flight, which took over twenty hours, was smooth and rather satisfying. Fortunately, the plane didn’t encounter any technical difficulties, and, to my great astonishment, we arrived in New York at six in the morning of the same day. “Had I just traveled on a time machine?” I wondered, struggling to keep my eyes open. At this stage of getting used to the new time, I should have gotten a lot of sleep. Refusing to do so due to excitement, I was embarrassed in a foreign country by yawning at my new friends and “crashing” at formal dinners. Very problematic indeed, jet lag is a torture faced by all travelers. Exhaustion, extensive daydreaming, and floating were a few of 45

Mosh

Ali Dumphy (12)

The edge a calm disillusion to the chaos that lives within you step forward and start to feel it, the vibrations clinging to the shirt in front of you you take the smallest steps changing directions pausing often straining to see suddenly it happens you lose your grip your guide is gone all alone you are at its mercy crushed backward your feet feel broken rushed forward now leaning at that impossible angle you tilt your head back gasping for air, searching for the cool breeze with the fresh energy you remember your mission turning to the people behind you soliciting their help you are up, soaring, tumbling, arms out, balance doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist in this world crashing through hands you see it grey, cold, looming in your face inches away you are righted to continue your pursuit elbows, knees, feet your weapons ribs, stomach, head, your weaknesses fingers point behind you you look, and catch the legs charging at your head forever on you push sweat dripping, yours and othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; muscles, legs aching, one last shove and there it is the hand you smile and reach out 44

Chuan Wang (10)

Pat Steidl (12)

Sara Janonis (10)

Mark Murhpy (10)

Nobility Lost Joe Rickey (12)

Your free spirit is gone, Taken by your masters, Honor stripped and thrown away, Your knighthood is no more. And for what? A master’s affection. But I can tell you long for those days; You always wait in solitude, Calling to your cousins. They answer but never invite. They never submitted To the masters. For all their work…they are free. You still carry their coat And their voice, But never again can you have The aspect of the wolf.

Steel Dreams Maureen Backman (12)

1929 – As overzealous capitalism Cascaded to its humble beginnings, Spires upon spires of corrugated Chrysler steel Ascended at the corner of two bleak Manhattan boulevards. Eighty silver floors of Fitzgerald jazz and monopolistic gain Soared above Gatsby-like figures Toiling in four-cornered, stuffy offices below, Working for their share of steely skyscrapers. It stood, an Art Deco bayonet Raised in Wall Street Battle against economic tragedy, A relic of post-war gain and greed. “It’s the tallest in the world,” Said white-scarved, top-hatted esquires. “Surely unsurpassable.” Yet, in a year, towering Empire floors Destroyed dreams of economic domination, And left Chrysler’s vision Buried amidst towers reaching far higher Than the Roaring Twenties could offer. Yet the steel steeple stood, as echoes of Depression, Japan, Korea, Vietnam, September 11 Resonated the glassy metal dome. While lofty towers of entrepreneurial endeavors Quickly erected and fell, Its thick foundations remained eternally poised On the corner of 5th and 42nd, Its sleek metal climbing, climbing, Disappearing in the blurring clouds, Forever escalating upwards Into a sky of yearning American Dreams.

Vines

Aileen Wall (9)

“They won’t make their final decision until a few days from now, but...” “But what?” persisted Eric, a sense of agitated urgency appearing in his introverted voice. “But they indicated that they will most likely decide to keep you in the minors for a few more years and contract someone else while you gain more experience.” Eric pursed his lips and nodded his head slightly. “I know you must feel awful... look, if you need to talk, I’ll be in my office for awhile. I’ll leave the door open.” He patted him on the shoulder gently, smiled slightly and then hurriedly walked off. Eric expected himself to slam the locker in anger and utter despair. He expected himself to utter profanity against the scouts and against baseball. He stood by his locker for several minutes, not thinking anything, just standing and staring blankly at the floor, listening to the drip, drip of the hollow, empty showers and the gentle whir of the fan in the locker room. After several minutes standing and examining the soiled carpet floor, he slowly dragged his feet to the dugout and climbed the steps to the field. His brown loafers made a hollow tap on the three steps. “So much of this game revolves around three,” he whispered softly. “Three strikes and you’re out. Three hits and you’ve had an amazing day. An ERA of three and you’re a supposedly ‘good’ pitcher.” He paused and placed his feet on home plate. “Three more years in

the minors, and you’re an overaged, untalented adult playing in a young kid’s league.” The stadium lights had been turned off and the only illumination came from the half-moon and stars in the cooling June sky. Eric kicked the dirt slightly with his shoes and breathed in deeply. He walked out past the pitcher’s mound, past second base, into center field and turned toward home plate – he saw the stands, the bases, the checkered lines of crew-cut grass. Looking to right field, Eric jumped as he saw a silhouette standing with him on the field. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was John, still in uniform. “Hey, what are you doing here?” Eric asked, walking over to him. “Just thinking. I suppose Mr. Lazzeri told you that the scouts said ‘thanks, but no thanks.’” “Yeah.” “Well, what do you think about their decision?” “I dunno. I mean, I expected to be a lot more depressed and mad about it. I guess I’m just kind of taking the news in stride.” John nodded his head slightly, never taking his eyes off home plate. “Say, what about you?” Eric asked after a few minutes. “What do you mean?” “You played great tonight, and I read in the paper that the Yankees catcher got a real bad knee injury. Could be out for the rest of the season.” “So?” John laughed airily. “Well, weren’t the scouts looking at you, too?” “Yeah, I guess they were.”

“What’d they say?” Eric asked, agitated at John’s ambiguity. “Same thing they told you,” said John blankly. “How long are you planning to stick with it down here?” Eric asked after several silent minutes. “Long as it takes or until I get too old. The latter option seems more realistic. I just don’t want to give up because I’ll be wondering the rest of my life if I could’ve made it to the majors had I stuck with it longer.”

to focus solely on the speeding white baseball. “Ball one!” He suppressed his urge to swing at a bad pitch. As he saw the next pitch approach, he instinctively started his swing, and without giving himself time to think, he muscled the ball to right field for a base hit. As he rounded first base, he stood, hands on knees, panting from mental exhaustion. It wasn’t pretty; it wasn’t heroic. It definitely wasn’t Robert Redford’s dramatic, soaring shot to right field in The Natural. It was simply a cheap base hit off a minor league pitcher. Yet, somehow, Eric felt that it meant more, that this one base hit proved if not to the scouts to himself that he had some sort of fleeting athletic talent left in him. As the innings passed, Eric flew out to center, hit a double to left, and bunted a runner over to second base. His fielding was errorless. Slowly the sweat beading on his forehead dried, and slowly he forgot about the imposing-looking figures watching his every move behind home plate. His team was ahead by four runs; he smiled when John hit a two-run home run; he jumped over the dugout railing, pumping his fist in the air when the relief pitcher got the last out with men on second and third. For the first time in three months, he played the game as it was supposed to be played, with exuberance, instinct and rhapsodic intensity. When leaving the field after giving congratulatory handshakes to his teammates, a young, mustard-stained boy with a faded red baseball cap and the team’s 40

official T-shirt yelled Eric’s name from the nearby stands. “Mr. Forrester! Excuse me, could you please sign this?” He held out the shirt and the pen and stared wideeyed into Eric’s face. “Sure,” said Eric. “What’s your name?” “Paul.” “To...Paul...,” Eric read aloud as he wrote on the brand-new shirt. “There you go.” “Gee, thanks a lot!” said the beaming boy, running off proudly to his friends.

s Eric filed into the club house, he cavorted with his teammates, forgetting about inquiring what the scouts thought. “Hey, John!” he shouted, scanning his eyes across the locker room. He was nowhere to be found. “That’s strange,” he commented, but as one of his teammates started telling a joke, he shrugged his shoulders and headed for the showers. As he dressed, Mr. Lazzeri approached him slowly. “Eric,” he said, putting his hands in his back pockets, “you did a real good job tonight.” “Thanks,” said Eric, diverting his eyes to the floor and sighing slightly. He knew that his performance that night had been mediocre, and Mr. Lazzeri rarely gave compliments. The expectancy of bad news filled his entire being. “I – I don’t know quite how to tell you this, but I just talked to the scouts.” “Oh yeah? What’d they say? I mean, about sending me up?”

Slowly creeping up Brick walls, crumbling and ancient, Unfurling new leaves

Seth Hurd (10)

oncrete walls ran up and down the hall. Bars shifted across the lengths of the corridor. From the layer of soot and dirt, it appeared that the place had never been cleaned once in its entire century of life. Shadows scuttled underfoot, giving the impression that there was more there than first presumed. She was in a near catatonic state while she walked. The fact that she couldn’t see twenty feet in front of her gave her the idea that someone was hiding behind 26

Peter Kraus (11)

Joe Rickey (12)

a pillar. To take her mind off the task at hand, she started to notice the mildew on the walls. It moved by itself and crawled onto the floor, just waiting to trip someone as a cruel joke. A crack sounded. Startled, she found it was only her pencil that she had stepped on. Then her human logic caught up with her primal instinct of flight. She continued at a brisk pace, subconsciously hoping she would be called back to the lobby, knowing it wouldn’t happen. Why, oh why does his cell have to be here? Cases like

this were not easy to overcome. It was apparent to her that deeper holes held deeper secrets. Society threw what it couldn’t deal with into here. Away from a distrustful, wary, and frightened public eye, people such as him could rot. An eon in her mind had passed as she reached the holding cell. It opened. Emanuel Moncrief was a tortured soul. He grew up in a small home with three brothers and sisters. His mother died in childbirth, and his father blamed him for her loss. A well-to-do student,

“Today? I thought they were supposed to come day after tomorrow.” “Hey, that’s life in the big leagues.” “Yeah, guess so,” said Eric, slumping back on his stool and tapping the paper against his knee. “Now look, I probably shouldn’t have told you this because I can tell that you’re already getting stressed out,” said John, exasperated. Eric noticed that his fingers made sweat marks that smeared the Yankees’ record on the sports page. “Don’t worry,” he said, partly reassuring John, partly reassuring himself. “I’ll be fine.” “Good. I’ll see you out on the field.” John walked determinedly up the steps to the dugout. Eric glanced at the newspaper a final time before tossing it on the top of his locker. He hurriedly put on his uniform – the white jersey and pants with blue pinstripes and the block red “C” on the right breast pocket, the uniform he had only known for two years, the uniform John had known for nine. He grabbed his leather glove worn from hours of hitting it with a ball and oiling it and spitting in it, working it to conform to his hand and wind intricately around the ball. He reached into his locker for his cap, placed it on his head, and with one swift motion, he slammed the locker door shut and ran to the dugout. As he left the room, the vibration from the slamming door knocked the newspaper off the top of the locker and into a nearby trashcan.

Bridget Smith (12)

Shadows

As Eric ran onto the field to stretch, he scanned the alreadyfilling seats for the scouts. Near the seats behind home plate, in place of the five or ten boys lined up for autographs, he saw three men clad in black and tan sports jackets, clipboards in hand and reference sheets spread about haphazardly. He saw them gaze and point, look down, confer, gaze and point, look down, confer. Their cyclic proceedings made Eric feel uncomfortable, and he quickly averted his eyes to the sun-setting sky. The team went through batting practice, and Eric stepped up to the plate for his dose of 50 mileper-hour hanging curves. He felt the scouts were stinging him with their indifferent, big-city, bigmoney glare. “Don’t look at them anymore,” muttered John as he walked past the batting cage. “You know they’re there, so you might

as well get used to them.” “Easier said than done,” he replied as he fouled off a pitch directly behind the plate and into the stands. The Star-Spangled Banner sung and the Umpire’s “Play ball!” shouted ceremoniously, the game began. Stepping up to bat in the bottom of the first, Eric still felt his hands shake despite the heavy layer of pine tar he put on his bat handle. He started to sweat despite the onslaught of evening. “Strike one!” yelled the umpire, a high fastball. Eric stepped back with one leg and took two practice swings, exhaling deeply each time. He stood up to the plate again and raised his bat like a knight with his sword in battle. “Strike two!” yelled the umpire, this time a curve that didn’t sink. Two prime hitter’s pitches; two prime missed opportunities. Eric blinked his eyes and tried 39

walk into a bar...” started one of his teammates as others crowded around to listen. Eric usually participated in these pre-game jokes, but today he sat on the stool by his locker, slowly put on his jersey and pulled his navy socks up to his knees. “And there was this bartender, see...” Eric slowly walked out of the clubhouse and onto the field, leaving the drowning laughter behind him. Fans were already filing into the 3,000-capacity park as the opposing team was finishing up batting practice. The park resounded the quiet murmur of an expectant audience awaiting the performance of the New York Philharmonic. As Eric took his bat from the rack, he saw kids with Cracker Jack boxes and t-shirts, waiting for autographs behind home plate. Eric individually curled each

of his fingers around the bat handle and swung it in the air several times. John walked up to him, putting on his catcher’s mask and pads. “Would you cut that out? You’re thinking again.” He picked up some pine tar lying on the dugout steps. “Here, put some of this on your bat. That way you won’t grip so hard that your knuckles turn white.” “Thanks,” Eric said, smearing the sticky substance on the bat handle. The game went on at a sluggish pace. By the eighth inning the home team led by four runs. Eric tried his hardest to play simply by instinct. He only got one base hit in the seventh inning off a tired starting pitcher who had already given up five runs, but he didn’t strike out the entire game. His fielding was satisfactory; only three balls were hit in his direction, and each time he made the required play. No finesse,

just essential skills. “A few more days like this,” he thought, “and I’ll be back to normal.” As the team went out onto the field after the game to give their teammates congratulatory handshakes, Eric met John’s eye. “You looked better,” he said. “Did you have fun?” “I don’t know – I guess I had more fun than I did yesterday.” Eric couldn’t help but smile slightly at his small progress. “Hey – you wanna catch some dinner?” asked a few of his teammates. “Sure.” Eric saw John’s shadowy, stocky figure walking toward the dugout. “Hey, John, want to go to dinner with us?” John kept walking, waving his hand slightly, saying, “Naw, I’m kind of tired. You should get some sleep, too. You looked a little sluggish out there.” “I s’pose you’re right. Thanks guys, but I’d better go rest up,” he said to his teammates, following John into the dugout.

s Eric sat in the club house the next day read ing the sports pages of USA Today, he saw John walk past. “Say, listen to this,” he said, trying to engage in conversation. “Since April the Yankees have gone 25 and 7. That’s pretty darn good. And it says here that the catcher...” “I wouldn’t be looking at that if I were you,” John interrupted. “Why not – they’re gonna be my team eventually.” “Not unless you do well today. I just heard from the skip that the scouts are here today.” 38

Kristen Schenborn (10)

he finished first in his class two years running. The downward spiral began when, at age fifteen, he saw his brother gunned down. Three months later, he was found admiring toy models in his bedroom while five neighbors were found hanging from an oak tree in his backyard. The community was outraged and demanded his head on a platter. But the state interfered and diagnosed him with schizophrenia. The courts didn’t take it lightly. To save his political career the D.A. chose

this tranquil young man had no qualms about killing. “Emanuel? How are you today?” she asked quizzically. “Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind today? Do you have a sore throat? Is that why you aren’t talking?” “No.” “Oh you can talk! Well, can you tell me how you feel today?” It was more of an order than a request. “I’m fine. Why do you always ask the same question? I’ll

me down here? Do they think I’ll do it again?” “I don’t know.” “You do know. I don’t like it. The shadows keep talking to me. They tell me that I can leave anytime. It’s really too boring down here.” “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve tried to move you to a different cell for months.” “It’s all right. I’m done talking.” “Emanuel, I want to talk later, okay?”

to send Moncrief to the worst institution he could find. It had been abandoned for twenty-five years and was reopened to send one man to a quiet death. Dr. Marlowe had been watching Emanuel for two years. In that time she found something that few could comprehend or believe. Imagine that someone kills not because he likes it, hates it, or needs it, but because he finds no real reason not to. His regressive state would puzzle even the most deranged killer. This was the greatest show on earth. The cell was freezing. A chill went up and down her spine. He sat motionless and expressionless with his books in the corner. It was so unnerving to know that

never give you the right answer. Why? Why do you pursue these untruths?” “Emanuel, for me to help you I need to know what’s on your mind. Why don’t you just tell me?” “I don’t think that it is necessary,” he retorted. Sigh. “Do you want to tell me anything?” “Yes.” “What?” She responded in the tone of an eight-year-old. “I want to know why you always pretend to open the door. I could get out so easily. There’s no door.” “What are you talking about, Emanuel?” “Ms. Marlowe, why do they want

“I won’t be here.” “Of course you will. Where else would you go?” As she abruptly left the bowels of the dungeon, a feeling of relief and distress came over her. She was away from a seemingly unsalvageable soul but would return again to do the impossible. The rest of the day was particularly uneventful, nothing more than listening to herself on a tape recorder, reading, and filing papers. After two years, she still was unable to delve into Moncrief’s mind. To crack into it would stop the pain of curiosity. But as she often told herself, it was more likely a Pandora’s box. Who knew what secrets lie in his mind? And more importantly, 27

Derek Koons (11)

who would survive them? Her mind quickly shifted to lunch. The local Mexican restaurant could satiate her hunger. She then chose to meander home. It wasn’t like she was in a hurry. Walking down St. Andrews Bou28

levard in the dark probably wasn’t one of her best ideas. Poorly-lit areas near the industrial district were always a bad idea. She picked up the pace and decided to rush home. Getting there was a true relief. At last she had outrun

tonight’s fears.. Like a man traveling without water through a desert, she decided it was best to retire. Walking to the bed, she noted that her closet was open and her shoes were out of place. How did I get this dis-

he had shown any emotion beside complete despondency in days. “How can you sit there and joke and tell me to quit?” “Well, it’s quite obvious you’re not having any fun.” “Fun?” “Yeah, fun. You seem to think that baseball’s all blood, sweat and tears. All of your physical and emotional torture has made you forget that the main reason we play this game is because it’s fun.” Eric stared at him blankly. “Look,” John said with a mouthful of food, “were you ever in little league?” “Yeah...” “Why?” “Well, because...because...” “Because it was fun. You don’t see kids getting all clammed up because they’re nervous about what kind of pitch their lookin’ at, where they should hit it, and what bat speed they should use. They just hit the thing and have a helluva time doin’ it, too.” “But that was little league – now I’m getting paid. I have to think about this as a career.” “And once you get to the majors, you’re going to have that same attitude? How do you

expect to play one-hundred sixtytwo games a-year until you’re forty if you can’t have a blast every time you step up to the plate?” Eric slumped in his chair and tapped his toast with his fork. “Then what do you suggest?” “When you get out on the field for the game tomorrow, you forget about everything except putting the barrel of the bat on that baseball. When you take your place at third base, don’t worry about form and technique, just get your body in front of the ball, stop it, and throw it wherever it needs to go. Don’t think one bit.” “It’s easier said than done.” “So is quitting,” said John, taking the last swig of his Coke and swirling the last piece of bread around the plate to soak up the remaining gravy. “C’mon, let’s go.”

league. He held the bat so that his hands were almost on the barrel, and his swing looked like a convoluted bunt. He envisioned he was Mickey Mantle that day, and, when he got a base hit, he rounded first base as if he were doing the classic Mantle home run trot. “I guess John’s right,” he thought, and as he fell asleep, he muttered over and over to himself, “Baseball’s fun...baseball’s fun...baseball’s fun....”

hile strolling into the clubhouse for the 6:00 p.m. game the next day, Eric noticed John lacing his shoes and tucking in his jersey. As John grabbed his glove and walked toward the field entrance, he stopped at Eric’s locker and whispered “fun” before turning his back and walking away. Eric sat down and began to gather his uniform together. A bunch of his teammates walked hen Eric got back to in and said, “Hey, Eric, how’s it his hotel room that going? We missed you at dinner night, he thought last night.” Chatting loudly, they about what John had said. He sat down in front of the lockers remembered when he was eight and haphazardly threw their uniyears old, his first game in little forms on the floor. “So, two guys

man on the team. Still young in normal life, the years of travel and rejection from the majors had taken a toll on his appearance. Gray poked through his disheveled mass of black hair, and days-old stubble covered his already wrinkled face. “You wanna catch some dinner? There’s this new diner on the corner of 5th and Main.” John’s stocky figure leaned against one of the dented lockers. “Sure,” he murmured as he put on his clothes. Eric wanted to be alone; he loathed the idea of having dinner with another baseball player and talking about the annals of hitting as if they were discussing a book written by Ted Williams. The air had cooled down considerably as he and John walked the several blocks to the diner. There was a sense of indifference that Eric noticed as he walked along the gray streets, brick and stone buildings and drab-colored houses. Nobody knew who he was. Nobody knew that he was Eric Forrester, age twenty-two, a dejected baseball player on a minor league team that had an 8-and-29 win-loss record. He began to appreciate John’s presence beside him. As they reached the entrance to the diner, Eric saw some of his teammates already leaving, beer bottles in hand and derogatory jokes on the tongue. Most of them were a few years older than him. They had to scrimp on $500 a month, some with families that they hadn’t seen in twelve weeks. Eric had no family beside his parents. He had the security of 36

Jack Petty (12)

a huge pending contract. Yet by the time he and John walked into the eatery, his shoulders slumped so much it looked like he had an arthritic back. The diner had the stagnant smell of grease, and the round, red-checked tablecloth tables smelled like an old dishrag that had been left damp for several days. Eric looked at the onepage menu as the waitress approached the table. “Whatta ya want?” she snapped in between chews of gum. “I’ll have the meatloaf sandwich,” replied John. “With a Coke.” “And you?” The waitress turned toward Eric. He wasn’t really hungry, even though his stomach churned

painfully. As the items on the menu lay bleakly before him, he monotonously replied, “I’ll have a glass of milk.” “That’s it?” The waitress looked at him as if he had ordered in a foreign language. “Fine – and a piece of toast.” As the waitress walked away, John tapped his fingers on the table, biting his lower lip and thinking about what to say. “You aren’t very happy, are you?” Eric ran his fingers roughly through his loosely-curled dark hair. “I’m as happy as I’ve got any right to be – big contract, supposedly huge potential, but...” “But you can’t perform up to the expectations?” Eric looked into the milk that the waitress just delivered. “No,” he mouthed silently, brushing his finger across the rim of his glass. “Then I guess there’s just one thing you have to do.” “What?” asked Eric, expecting John to enlighten him with advice that would change his entire situation. “Quit.” John took a swig of his Coke. The waitress delivered the food, and John started to delve into his gravy-covered meatloaf sandwich. “You know,” he said, changing the subject, “if there’s anything I like it’s a good meatloaf sandwich. It sticks to your insides – good for bat speed, you know.” He pointed his fork at Eric. Eric glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his tongue in between his upper lip and teeth – it was the first time

At eleven she awoke, thirsty for some water. In the kitchen she found her glass and filled it. The curtains on the window were swaying. Did I leave the window open? As she went to close it, she was grabbed from behind. “Say nothing,” the man said. He tied her to a chair. She couldn’t make him out in the dark. He asked for her valuables. She obliged. “Thank you for your time.” His tone was cold. The gun was silenced. Thou-

glar dodged it. An entire clip went into Emanuel, but he was not wounded. Screaming, the burglar ran upstairs into the bed room and locked it. Dr. Marlowe was still tied to the chair. “Emanuel! Untie me!” “No. I don’t want you hurt. I have to show him the truth.” “Stop rambling! Tell me now!” “I’m sorry but nothing angers me more than the rambling of an idiot.”

was no body to be found. There was no damage to the house. Dr. Marlowe had to see Emanuel. She had to know the truth. This was the first time she ran down to see him. This inci-dent had stripped away all of her doubts and fears. The unknown was no longer frightening; it was intriguing. “Emanuel!” “Yes?” “Why did you do that? How did you do that?” “Do what?”

sands of thoughts rushed through her mind. It startled her to realize how alive one feels on the edge of death. Then the burglar fell. She didn’t notice he was bleeding. “Where? Where did he go?” the burglar screamed. “Don’t hit her.” It was Emanuel’s voice. “What!” “You heard me, sir. Now please throw away your gun,” Emanuel said in a calm voice. Three shots fired but none hit. Emanuel stood unphased. His arm moved twenty feet forward. It reached for the gun. The bur-

Emanuel reached for an axe near the fireplace. Upstairs the burglar was contemplating his escape. Emanuel asked him to open the door so that no harm would have to be done. He received nothing but sputtered expletives. The burglar went to brace the door and found an axe moving through it. Emanuel calmly walked, as if possessed, through the door to catch him. His eyes showed the lack of a soul. The shadows gathered around the burglar. His screams were muffled. No harm would come to Marlowe tonight. The police never came. There

“My house is fine! You went through that door like it wasn’t there! Those bullets should have killed you! And why weren’t you in the cell?” “I told you. This cell isn’t put together right. There’s no door! And there were no bullets fired.” “What are you saying? I saw it with my own eyes!” “Reality has cast me aside, Doctor. I am no longer bound by its laws.” She never saw him again. He walked calmly through the walls. No one at the office seemed to remember him. They didn’t 29

Gone

To the tune of “Brick” by Ben Folds Five Jennifer Bobula (12) 2pm: Three days past V-Day My sisters get me from the play As I walk in My heart is racing I look at her and I am numb Whole family’s here – dad, aunt, and siblings Our hearts are struck with piercing pain We’re all right here, grieving together She’s no longer here with us And we cry

Her spirit left around 1:30 I hug my brother as we cry Then I walk toward the place she lies I softly kiss her forehead I can’t believe You are gone now from my life Now you’re in some other world I can be with you no more My life went on But I still missed her badly I told myself, it’s time to let her go, I’ll Always love her, Not forget her Cause she is my heart I think of what the future holds now We’ll be together soon I know I am here And she is here Now I feel it

Mark Murphy (10)

And since I have lost her now I’m feeling more alone Than I ever have before She is gone and I’m weeping sadly A life lost too soon and for no good reason She is gone and I’m weeping sadly

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Eric. “I can’t seem to pick any pitches up. I think it’s a curve, and it turns out to be a fastball right down the middle. I think it’s a straight-up fastball, and it dives and bounces a foot in front of the plate.” He slammed his bat into the rack and tossed his dirt-laden helmet on the dugout steps. “You’re concentrating so much you’ve forgotten how to swing. You don’t rely on your instincts anymore.” “But I don’t know how to stop concentrating.” “You’ll have to figure out how soon. Scouts are coming in a few days. If they see you like this in

a game, you’ll never get into the majors.” Mr. Lazzeri slapped him on the back, half-affectionately, half-scoldingly and disappeared into the dark tunnel leading to the locker room. The rest of his team was already showering and leaving for dinner. Eric slumped onto the hard, squeaky bench and looked out across the park. “This is the stuff kids dream of,” he thought with a sarcastic laugh. “A chance to play in the majors, a contract, tons of money.” The park was completely quiet, save a slight whistling of the grass from a sudden light breeze. “How many people would give everything to be in this situation,

and here I go and botch it up for myself.” He slumped his head, placed his clammy hands on his knees, slowly straightened his back and walked into the locker room.

he warm shower felt soothing on his tight muscles, and the heavy steam swirled through his mind and cleared his stress-filled thoughts. “Hey,” interrupted John, the catcher, ceasing Eric’s caesura from reality. “Hmph,” acknowledged Eric as he grabbed a towel and his clothes. John was thirty, the oldest 35

Three More Years Maureen Backman (12)

weat cascaded down Eric’s face as his callused palms gripped the pinetarred, ashen bat. Cakes of dirt smeared his white, pinstriped uniform pants, and sweat made damp, heavy circles in his navy practice jersey that clung to his tall, lanky figure. “Wait for the pitch...come on...stay in front of the curve,” he murmured, hardly moving his pursed and sun-baked lips. White, shiny baseballs veered past his swaggering knees and digging cleats. One, two, three. His bat seemed stagnant in the humid air as the balls passed by without the slightest notion of a swing. The hot, 3:00 in the afternoon, smoggy-aired sun 34

made sweat drip into his eyes, blurring the continuous current of balls like heat rising from a newly paved street. As balls passed by his unfocused eyes, Eric heard the demeaning sighs of his teammates sitting in the dugout. Feeling pressured to establish some sort of athletic credibility, Eric swung at the next pitch: a hideous sinker that hit the dirt an inch before it reached the plate. His arms swung back frustratingly in his follow-through, only to resume their original position to wait for the next pitch. It had been like this for weeks. He never thought rejecting a career in the NFL after college for

a multi-million dollar contract with a high-profile baseball team would end up with him struggling to hit 50-mile-per-hour hanging curves thrown by a retired firstbaseman in a low-budget, Ohio minor league team. When the season started a month ago, Mr. Lazzeri, Eric’s minor league manager, told him that the team wanted to bring him up to the majors by mid-season. If he did not produce successful numbers, he could potentially be stuck in the minors for another two to three years. “That’s enough for today, Eric,” said Mr. Lazzeri as several more knuckleballs ratcheted past his dazed bat.

Maia Ferrella (10)

rin’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the envelope jutting out of the mailbox. It came, it came, her heart screamed. Erin dropped her books on the lawn and raced to it, suddenly filled with a strong urge to hold it in her hands. From the outside it looked like any document-sized envelope: white, with her address in the middle, and a postage mark on the upper, right-hand corner. Ordinary, that is, until she noticed the return address: Stanford. As she sat at her desk, the envelope in hand, the gravity of the moment sunk in. This is it, she thought. This is the moment I’ve been working toward for four years. “I know I got in,” she repeated to herself over and over again, as if saying it would make it true. Since freshman year it had been her passion, her drive to get accepted to Stanford. Some nights, when she was tired of studying and just wanted to go to bed, she would take out her dog-eared copy of Stanford’s view book and glance at a couple pages. Soon, feeling reenergized, she would return to her homework, determined to finish. Once, her friends had asked her why she never went out on the weekends. “I’m just so busy with school work. It always seems like there’s something more I can do.” “Yeah, but it’s like you’re missing so much,” stressed Sally. “Is it really worth all that work?” “It will be when I get accepted,” Erin had answered. “I would do anything to go to school there.”

The Envelope Eddie Malnor (12)

Katie Godfrey (12)

Was it really worth it? She had missed so much because of her dream.

Erin had kept a diary of all her steps toward getting into Stanford. She put the envelope down and opened the diary. Her entire high school career was in here, she thought. Every test score, every grade, every extracurricular activity, and every award carefully recorded and dated for later reference. Erin put down the diary and looked around the room. It was a shrine to Stanford. Before freshman year, she had her dad paint her room in cardinal red and white. Over the years she had added posters and magazine articles about Stanford. If this is the moment I’ve worked so hard for, why don’t I feel excited, she thought. Was it really worth it? She had missed so much because of her dream. At

the time she had told herself that her sacrifice would be worth it in the end. She had never been to a high school dance. Nor, in her four years in high school, had she ever slept over at a friend’s house. “What was I thinking?” she exclaimed, as she threw her diary forcefully into the trash can and left the letter lying unopened upon her desk

Years later Erin pulled the envelope out from its spot in the attic and once again sat down at her desk. She quickly scribbled a sentence on the front and then got up and left her room. That night she handed the envelope silently to her daughter. On the front,33 in Erin’s handwriting, was written,