The Wayfarer 2005

Homework Postponed With Apologies to Langston Hughes

What happens to homework postponed?

Does it dissolve like an ice cube in the sun?

Or sound like an alarm and then warn?

Does it haunt like a past ghost or amass and pile up like smelly, old garbage?

56

Maybe it just weighs like a crammed backpack.

Or does it fail?

Ian Thornbery (12)

~ Nicholas Richardson (12)

1

hile

walking home from school, sometimes my friend and I would see him. Sometimes we would not. Usually we caught sight of him sitting by an old, rotting, white-chipped fence, smoking cigarette butts and drinking warm Colt .45 beer. He minded his own business, and we minded ours.

After seeing him many times, though, we began to admire him. He was an unusual yet appealing man.

When bored, my friend and I would yell at him:

“Hey Orange Man!” He just mumbled random things to himself. We could never understand his cold, hollow mutterings.

We began to call him “Orange Man” because we

2

did not know his actual name. He was obviously elderly.

His long, wrinkled face revealed sorrow, and his deep eye sockets made it difficult to see his lost and colorless eyes.

He never looked directly into someone’s face. If he wanted to look at something, it was in sharp, nervous glances. His oily beard was dyed green and sometimes orange, while the top of his head remained the same, balding, gray and dirty hair with streaks of white. His posture was tense as if a prisoner of his own life. When standing, he was tall but not intimidating. His body was nothing but skin draped over a weakened skeleton.

I found it ironic that he wore the same blaze- orange hunting snowsuit even in the middle of summer. It covered his whole body except for his withered hands, his dirty feet and his leathery face. The suit was completely soiled and smelled of spoiled food. Year-round he sat by that old, rotting fence. If he ever left that spot, he was probably scrounging for food through the dumpster near the local cooperative or going to the Port Saint Vincent homeless shelter. His only means of transportation was an

ancient r ust-covered bike with deflated tires and wobbly wheels. The 55 bike was as unique as he was. It had bent wire baskets on the front and back. He collected beer bottles and pop cans in the basket to earn a few dollars. There were other small items in the baskets that most would consider junk, but he considered them

treasures. His favorite treasure was

his old, dented flute, which he deftly played. The songs he played were beautiful and complicated. When asked to play a song, he always performed the theme song to “The Simpsons.” He never acknowledged our existence but played at our request.

After watching him for awhile, I feel in awe of him.

I do not make fun of him anymore. This man struggles with finding a place to sleep, food and water, things I take for granted. He appears to have no friends, no family, no money and no job. I wonder why or how he got into this state of poverty, but I can only guess. I still see him, sometimes, riding his bike down State Street or wandering on the railroad tracks. Wandering…

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3

Amanda Roark (12)

Staff

4

Editors:

Henry Duwe Elise Meyers

Assistant Editor:

Joy Tesensky

Editorial Board: Andrew Aebly

Perry Danis

Maura Foley

Ben Malnor

Milo McLinn

Carissa Molina

Kristin Rowley

Anna Sanders

Layout Board: Andrew Aebly

Cedric Meyers

Carissa Molina

Cover Artist: Jackie Zore Consultants:

Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

Advisor:

Ms. Diane Mertens

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Lonely Heart I love you.

So alone, Each silent night I die Without its echo. ~ Perry Danis (11)

Grey Days with Drizzle

Table of Contents Writers

Grey days with drizzle Make mud Sole assailant Refugee worms Stretched smooth—flat While buds extend Imbibe too much Sputter and spit Penetrates umbrellas Venture into the storm

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Connections: Elise Meyers 9 Liquid Love: Shannon Murphy 11 The Difficulty with Zore: Jackie Zore 12 Mother Nature: Perry Danis 15 A Psalm to - - -: Elise Meyers 16

Sun holds forever Mud dries stable Buds mature strong Umbrellas—derelict—free

Inner Light of a Grandmother: Flannery 17 Geoghegan

City Streets: Mawuena Akyea 20

~ Elise Meyers (12)

La Belleza: Alexandra Noboa-Chehade 18

The Backpack: Christy Kau-Chapin 21 Chessboard Woes: Joy Tesensky 22

Graphic To Pick Artists a Bramble Berry: 24

Shannon

Matt Belopavlovich: 20 Chelsey D’Alessandro: 35, 42 Perry Danis: 16, 33, 44 Tam Daychapratoomwan: 17 Gregory de Roussan: 15, 25 Kristin Dewey: 28 Henry Duwe: 8 Paul Evans: 22, 46 Kristy Getts: 13, 37 Seth Hurd: 45 Sara Janonis: 10 Kristin Kopish (11)

The Mistake: Ben Malnor

29

A Plea for Heartache: Anna Sanders

34

Grandma Vissers: Alex Zwettler

36

Helen: Laurie Eighmy 37 Under Your Watch: Melanie Meyer 40

An Awful Coffee Table: Shannon Murphy 42 Soul Language: Elise Meyers

43

Barley Boy: Shannon Murphy 46 Who Are You?: Andrew Aebly

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Spread Too Thin: Elise Meyers

50

Skeet: Henry Duwe

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Grey Days with Drizzle: Elise Meyers 52 Lonely Heart: Perry Danis Orange Man: Robert Bolz Peter Jeffris: 48 Brian Kim: 19 Caitlin Kolberg: 6 Kristen Kopish: 52 Liz Kremer: 39, 41 Cedric Meyers: 36 Carissa Molina: 27 Amanda Roark: 54 Brittany Strassman: 30 Joy Tesensky: 50 Ian Thornbery: 50, 56

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

53 55

5

Skeet

6

51

~ Henry Duwe (12)

Caitlin Kolberg (9)

Who Are You? Just a typical, atypical teenager Extraordinarily ordinary Athletics, academics, sex, drugs I pick my passion and poison Holding fast the belief I will never die That is my immortal innocence

Ian Thornbery (12)

Defying reason, living in a moment Predictably unpredictable Sleepless nights run on ceaseless days Ever toiling to achieve Subdued perfection

~ Andrew Aebly (11)

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7

Joy Tesensky (11)

Spread Too Thin We are not paper thin—with words haphazard Crinkle as we wrinkle and crush flat Folded over—and over We tear uneven—love for duty shred sanity and discard

~ Elise Meyers (12)

He wanted to go home, but he was afraid of his mother’s

apparition. A dainty foot stepped across his chest, halting

anger. As he considered the consequences of returning, his

just a moment to scoop a blossom from his thick hair. Her

hiccupping breaths sounded over the “shhhh”s of the sway-

eyes, black with fire pits around the center, looked through

ing yellow. He remembered the too-tight love his mother

him indifferently. He opened his mouth to speak but emitted

gave and the sinister cruelty he had passed each day. As

only a soft breeze, which danced with her hair. Panicked,

if in answer, the breeze pushed the barley’s yellow fingers

he reached for the rock in his pocket, but before his eyes

over his chest, and its golden stalks fingered through his

stretched a skinny stalk of barley branching into reedy finger

untamed hair. He felt the cool stone in his breast pocket

shoots. He touched his face and found a saffron blossom.

and began

He looked down and saw his waist become undetect-

digging in the mud for food.

For many years, the boy survived in the field. He

able, tangling into the surrounding stalks. The air coursed

grew accustomed to the solitude, keeping his stone pocketed

through his leaves, warm and cool. His bewilderment faded

in his chest, learning that he did not need another to survive;

into the nothingness of acceptance as he glanced at the rock

he did not want to need more than what he could find in

half-buried in the ground. He let her walk by. Alone again,

that field. His memory percolated into the soil.

he began to whistle the wind through his stalks in a song

One August day, years later, the boy was awakened

so high-pitched it was barely audible. The tune raged into

by an uncommon sound. It jerked at his memory like a gar-

a quivering howl, hissing the story of the human runaway.

dener’s weed as it appeared. It was a pure note, lighter than

Electric tremors and sonorous frissons carried his secret

the air it possessed. It traveled clear across the field, leaning

existence through

and curtsying. The ringing surrounded him and began to

8

press in. Anxious, his chest dissolved into excited particles, jumping like loose dirt-dust. The intrigue beat within him.

Suddenly a body came into view.

Long sheets of silk passed gracefully near his body.

He thought he could feel her cross over him as she neared, floating as light as an

Henry Duwe (12)

the air: He was the barley boy.

49

48

the boy entered the autumn sunshine hastily. He left the

leg-ups to make his blind scramble more comfortable.

schoolyard, deciding to meander instead the vacant lots

The field seemed to grow taller and vaster as it carried him

near the outskirts of town.

through the thicker, outer layer and into a more sparsely

I

relax into one of the few available airport chairs, its vinyl seat split open by glaring sun and heavy bodies.

My over-packed bags react to gravitational forces land-

ing at my feet. I seize Cat’s Eye. I’ve already read the ending

As he neared the blacktop highway where the sun

planted haven. Miles later and breathless, he stopped to look

spilled over the horizon, a small, abandoned garden bor-

around. Welcoming protection cowered over his small body,

and a few random chapters in the middle, compelling me

dered with wooden planks beckoned him to sit. He re-called

revealing a blue sky between its crowded golden shoulders

to explore the chapters in the order intended by the author.

his mother’s tight embrace and her “6:00” command while

and blossoming faces. Without thinking, he lay down to

A squeal and some motherly murmurings in an unfamiliar

tracing circles and animals in the dirt with one of his sharper

sleep, finding his new bed warm and soft and his secluded

language distract me from Margaret Atwood. The chair,

fingernails. He guessed the time to be nearly 5:00.

freedom nourishing.

two-down from mine, rocks backward, accepting another

When he awoke, itchy hands crossed over him like

tired body. People rarely choose seats right next to a stranger.

tons, allowing the cool air to swim down his chest. Lifting

a blanket. Sitting up, he felt for a branch to pull himself

He’s far enough away that I grasp just pieces of his image: a

his head after teasing the last button free, he noticed before

to his feet, but none offered. Confused and disoriented, he

dark-brown leather coat, crossed legs, no luggage. The latter

him a vast yellow barley field dancing enticingly on the other

spun his head around in search of his mother or any face

is rare in an airport, but he sits like he’s waiting for someone.

side of the road. It seemed to cover the black earth like a

distinguishable in the field of stick blossoms. He began to

A loyal grown daughter, I conclude, that could not make

lion’s mane. The saffron tips shivered with each invisible

shout frantically, but his voice resonated back in fading cries,

it for Christmas Day, who will grab “Daddy’s” neck and

breeze as his mother’s voice echoed in his mind and the

“Mother! I’ve wandered off! I’m late! I’m sorry! Where are

kiss him on the cheek. A woman brushes my bag with her

mistreated boy’s shadowy face haunted his memory. There

you?”

black-heeled boots, and startled, I collect it closer to me. She

was an electric tingle throughout his scalp and neck. He

jumped suddenly to his feet and began to run full-paced

the tall barley, searching for something warm he could

against her chest as protection. It’s the

toward the field. His heart thumped with each footstep, each

touch and hold. He bent over to scoop up a cool rock, half-

has walked by. The toddler’s brown eyes communicate that

leap that brought him closer to the yellow fleece. Finally his

concealed by moist, black dirt. After squeezing it covetously,

she does not mind the secure squeeze. I surrender my head

body met the tufts of barley that stretched out like hungry

he stuffed the rock into his pocket and relished the extra

to my mother’s shoulder, hoping she’ll lean her head over

fingers to meet his flat chest with a scratchy smack. The

weight pulling on his shoulder straps. The panicked tears

or comment that I smell the same as when I was a baby.

tufts reached toward his face as he closed his eyes and began

subsided, leaving broad, glossy

Eventually some piece of all I observe will make its way into

climbing through the thickets. Thousands of streaked-yel-

swollen cheeks. He

Pulling at his collar, he slowly loosened the tiny but-

low arms mossed over the rocks

Tearing his way out of his nest, he roamed around

does not notice her accident, pushing her pigtailed toddler

streaks down his

second time she

a story, poem or essay. Airports are a great source of insight

was lost.

into human beings and their complex relationships.

and unleveled ground,

I forget the wait at the ticket counter, the security station

offering

and the gate, lost in watching, remembering and creating.

Occasionally my inattention results in running over someone’s toes with my wheeled-bag or jogging to rejoin my family. I enjoy being lost in the intrigue of eyes, clothing, body shapes, shoes, hairstyles, gestures and tone, my mind creating a story to explain “why.” I wonder at the diversity, the miracle of chromosomes. Millions wait, get lost or pace through the airport, each bearing a unique appearance and

Elise Meyers (12)

history. I can plop down on a bench in any airport, train station or at any street corner and savor this wonder. My mom sometimes gets lost with me, nudging my shoulder and

Peter Jeffris (10)

9

At eighteen I’ve made some discoveries about affection.

10

discreetly gesturing with her eyes. Pointing is too obvious,

large fuzzy hat, glasses and a long red braid. I’m really old,

though I often find my eyes pointing. A young man offers

a high-schooler, almost grown up. I want to talk with them

me a mint because my eyes catch his hand exchanging ciga-

but not only is that against airport etiquette but also we don’t

rettes for mints and venture to his face. Sometimes I’m too

speak the same language so our eyes do the talking. Already

curious to be discreet with my innocent eyes exploring for

I’m rehearsing the explanation for my hat and my hair. I’ll

clues to understanding. It requires penetrating observation

reassure them that I’m not that old and that we both have

to actually uncover the truths. When I do sense a mean-

a lot more to learn from the diverse people we encounter.

ing, I scramble for my notebook and scribble a beginning

Our curiosity about the world will uncover deeper under-

thought to develop later.

standings about humanity and its relationships.

Children are especially intriguing because my watching

The sources of inspiration for my writing are at least as

does not disturb them. They stare right back at me. I catch

numerous as the number of people who pass through

a brother holding hands with and hugging his sister. My

O’Hare airport in any given year. I could, if you’d let me,

sixteen-year-old brother cringes when I kiss him, though he

write and write…

only gets two a year. At eighteen I’ve made some discoveries about affection, but he is still in his awkward years. I manufacture the siblings’ image of me: a bright green shirt,

H

e bit his cheek and cringed silently as his

The sun bounced off of everything in sight, giving faded

mother’s heavy wooden brush clunked onto

shirts glowing vibrancy, lending windows mercury’s chemi-

the top of his head, then dragged over to his

cal traits, allowing bicycle spokes a diamond-quality sparkle

blazing, crimson neck in even strokes. It nicked his ears as it

that wriggled coyly with each movement of his eyes. As he

tore through thickets of soft, curly snarls the color of straw.

passed his school, something faint rang through his ears,

He tried not to listen, but each time it scratched across his

and he shrank like a bristling cat, arching slightly to taste

skull, low-toned like record-player static, he could count the

the delicate sound. He heard the familiar pitch of a teasing

hairs being noisily ripped away. He strained his rubber neck

voice, high, flat and drawn out. It was a sound so unmusical

in an effort to be a tree trunk that would resist the backward

that it left him irritated and kinetic. He redirected his legs

pull. “Hold still!” she spoke in a screech that felt like a door,

toward the back alley, slowing to a fast walk and occasional

rusted and creaky. Her concentrated voice held him static,

skip.

his shoulders tautly raised. With bated breath and eyes that

More than one cruel voice echoed in a discordant

sweat tiny tears obedient to their lids under the strain of

croon from an alley. He recognized the heavy breathing,

squinting, he waited for his morning to end.

the scuffling feet and the stuffy shirt sounds as the bullies

“Look at me,” she rasped. At last the brush hit the

“beat and flee.” They would undoubtedly take some of

table with a final, reverberating clunk, and she turned him by

the victim’s money or pride before he could arrive to help.

the shoulders so she could examine her work. A quick scan

Was that what he had meant to do? Help this person? He

meant that his hair was effectively flattened into a moderate

had been sure of this fact before. Surprised at his sudden

wave divided by a straight line and pulled evenly to one side.

cautiousness, he approached the dark lane.

He held still as she took a cloth hot with steamed water and

“Uh, hello?”

scrubbed his face shiny pink to match his neck and ears.

A dark outline bent over to pick up a mangled

Another scan and “This oughta last you to dinner, got it?”

sweatshirt as the boy crept out of the light into the damp

meant he was nearly free to go.

cave. The victim’s movements were less frustrated than

He examined her arms so brawny and freckled.

discouraged, slow and swinging like a tired pendulum, eerily

Their skin, like squishy layers of tissue paper, hung loose

offbeat. He crept around the strangely bent figure, trying

and flabby as their firm hands stretched across his back to

to catch a glimpse of his face and something responsive,

meet each other in a tight embrace. She smelled like flour

something he could address. After a bizarre dance around

and homemade soap bars mixed unevenly with skin. After

the victim, involving much ducking and leaning, he sighed

a sloppy kiss on his forehead and a light pull at his chin,

and angled his head slightly right and upward to face the boy.

he was finally free.

Un-bruised and tear-stained, the victim carried the shadows

“6:00!” she screeched as he scurried out the door in

in splotches and smudges, illuminating the stunning whites

denim overalls strapped much too high to be comfortable.

of his eyes. His eyes glared up, dawdling in angry humiliation

A quick adjustment of the straps freed his shuffling legs to

beneath black, furrowed brows. Two skinny arms wrapped

run and skip unrestrained.

the sleeves of the flannel shirt around a slight waist with

Outside the August air traveled hot and cool

astonishing speed and stalked away down the alley. Each

through his veins as he passed familiar houses and stores,

footfall reverberated guiltily in the boy’s ears. Afraid of

parks and offices. It was the perfect temperature to run in,

the silence that seemed to sink lower and deeper into the

just warm enough to cool him down when he needed it.

blemished air as the hollow stomps faded in the distance,

47

The Barley Boy

Liquid Love You pour warm over my brow, trickling through my hair, down my neck, a streaming sensation that saturates through my soul.

You drip down into my eyes, gliding through the pocketed Vs, ‘til brim full, you sink deeper still, gleaming purer as you seep.

Your words leave me wrinkled, soaking significance through my fingers, thirsty-pored for your distillation, lying, serene, bathed in thought of you.

46

It’s when I see your eyes, a cascade of fire and rain, when I hear your voice, thundering and low, when I feel your touch, sultry and encompassing that you pour over me, and I am cleansed in your liquid love. ~ Shannon Murphy (12)

Shannon Murphy (12)

Paul Evans (11)

11

Ö

zlem Keyder felt unjustly foolish. Unjustly because in-

“All? All? Demir, I was standing in the middle of

stead of enjoying her day off, she was filling in for

the airport holding a sign that read difficult. Now what would

another tour guide who was sick. Foolish because the

you have thought I was?”

Thud!

woman she was waiting for had the surname “Zore.”

Normally a surname would not have bothered her, except

“I would have thought you were a person

that this surname translates in Turkish to difficult.

ing a sign that said difficult.”

So she stood there, with a sign reading difficult in the middle

“And making a fool of myself.”

of a crowded Atatürk airport terminal,

looking vaguely

“I didn’t say that.”

American in blue jeans and dark, short hair. Her one-shade-

Thud!

darker-than-usual skin was the only sign that she was

“But you were thinking it.” Özlem leaned back in

not from the states.

her chair, absently dropped a sugar cube in her chai,

She stood with a raft of other tour

and stirred. She pushed away a few stray strands

guides, who, after twenty minutes (with

of hair that had fallen into her face, which

obligatory two-minute intervals), still

contorted, as if trying to remember,

thought their puns were hilarious.

painfully, what she had been talking

“Hey! Hey, Diffi-

about.

cult! Are you trying to give us a

She decided it might

be easier just to ask.

sign or something...

12

hold-

“So where was I?”

a hint, maybe?”

Thud!

Okay. Fool-

“The airport, if

ish was the

I’m not—”

wrong word.

Ticked

“The

airport!” Her mind

off. *

45

wandered through the *

*

events that had brought

“Is that all?” Demir, a

her here in the first place.

soft-spoken man with longish hair,

“The airport…Did I

asked as he handed Özlem a glass of

mention how I had to hold a sign that said difficult?”

chai. For the past ten minutes or so, Özlem had been recounting the earlier events at the

airport to Demir, the owner of the carpet shop.

Özlem’s tourist looked at the various carpets as they

Demir, deadpan, replied, “Yes.” Özlem looked almost disappointed.

“Right.”

were rolled out on the floor. As was customary of a rug

Thud!

dealer, Demir gave his customers complementary drinks.

Demir and Özlem bantered a great deal in Turkish, while

ested.

his assistants scrambled about,

“After that we came here.”

“You haven’t done anything else?”

catering to the tourist.

The thud of ancient carpets, or rather, carpets that

“After that?” Demir sounded genuinely inter-

were beaten or left out in the sun to give them the appearance

“No.”

of antiquity, punctuated Özlem and Demir’s conversation

“You just brought her here?”

as they were smacked down on the floor and

“Yes.”

for display.

unfolded

“Knowing she’d be the first customer?”

Seth Hurd (12)

Perry Danis (11) Pe

44

we are quite forgiving. Our focus shifts from grammatical

silence. Several medical schools now use poetry to teach this

particulars to an appreciation of the desire and need to

language to medical students. The students tend to focus

communicate, however imperfect the expression. Thus we

on physical ailments, observing their patient as a complex,

unwittingly communicate at the deepest level—empathy and

biochemical phenomenon instead of as a pained individual

understanding. Language diversity forces us to speak the

who loves, dreams and hopes. Poetry’s power to bring us

language of the soul. To weave the fragments of the world

to deeper understanding leads the students to empathize.

into a united community, we must essay for fluency in the

Empathy is the essence of the language of the soul, and

onomatopoetic and empathetic soul’s language.

poetry speaks this language.

Poetry, which is pure emotion at its core, presents

Our world longs for a tangible, unifying force

a rare challenge and opportunity in the study of soul lan-

to bring real understanding between people separated by

guage. I confide my soul’s murmuring through the manipu-

geography, distance, dialects and prejudice. A universal

lation of English in my poetry. Few claim to

understand

spoken language would not be sufficient to close this gap of

poetry, even when composed in their first language. The

understanding because we humans regularly miscom- mu-

“conifer dipping with the wind,” when

abstracted to

nicate even when we speak the same language. We rely too

mean a fatalistically-guided soul, seems to be a concoction

heavily on words to express meaning and under- standing.

of nonsense. The abstraction frustrates, and we miss the

Profound understanding in communication occurs where

poem’s intent to speak a deeper meaning. Similarly, a poem

no words are necessary. Two persons, who do not share

composed in an unfamiliar language, when read aloud, also

a common language, often communicate using all their

confounds understanding. Yet, the unintelligibility of the

senses, which reveals a fundamental understanding. Poetry

poem frees, not frustrates. No agitation arises at our inability

has a similar power to communicate on this emotional level

to decipher a poem in an unknown language. Instead we

using few words and often confounding metaphors. We feel

fully enter the poem’s auditory world and become oversen-

the meaning of the poem when we fail to understand the

sitive to pause, pitch and tempo. Our ears hear gibberish

words. Despite the inability of language alone to unite our

but feel pure emotion. We understand the foreign poem’s

fragmented world, facial expressions, gestures, touch and

emotional tone but not the familiar poem’s convoluted

meaningful silence speak with empathy, forming a global

metaphor. Which poem has truly

understanding through the language of the soul.

communicated the es-

sence of its message? Conventions of our spoken language bind us with rules and denotation. A language of the soul exists in our natural pitch, volume, tempo and tone variations as well as our facial expressions, gestures, touch and

13

local vendors, I’m obligated to impart that wisdom.” Demir

later because at that moment Zore decided Özlem had had

cocked his eyebrow in exasperation, but his lips curled in

enough of a respite.

the tiniest of smiles.

Soul Language Soul Language

“You’ve been really nice, really. Very funny. But

Özlem grinned widely as she continued. “I’ll cut

all I want to do is get my picture in front of this fountain.

you in on any tips I make, of course.”

Now if you don’t know where it is, that’s fine. I’ll pay you

“You’ll cut me in because I’m your husband.”

for the day, and I’ll find someone else who does. Now can

By now all of the carpets had been rolled out, and

you take me there or not?”

the assistants were pulling them back to show Zore the

Okay. Maybe not later. Maybe right now.

previous selections.

“I can, but don’t you want—”

“Just take me to the fountain!”

“Well, what does that have to do with it?” He didn’t

buy it. “Demir, I’m trying to make your day good. You sell

Defeated, Özlem replied, “Okay.”

*

helping you.”

Somewhere between the romanticism of Old Con-

“Right.”

stantinople and the slow advance of western architecture lay

Zore got up to leave, and Özlem followed.

the newly-renovated residential district in Istanbul. Actually,

“Is there another problem?” Demir whispered

it was completely westernized. It only shared the ground

in Turkish.

*

Elise Meyers (12)

to this customer, and the rest of the day will be lucky. I’m

*

with Old Constantinople. One must question the sanity of

I

once juggled sounds, skipped words, and modified

understanding and alienation. The multilingual world exists

tenses, eventually uttering an onomatopoetic descrip-

in fragments, lacking the ecotones that provide nature’s

tion of what I desired. “Upa-Upa!” I would insist with

continuity. Haphazardly-drawn lines on the globe isolate

arms outstretched. My parents understood and lifted me

and define people. Language diversity develops along those

“She wants me to take her to a fountain where her

a tour guide who would bring someone here. Not because

father took his picture every ten years. He died. Now she

of danger or anything, but because there was nothing of

up for a different view of the world. “Rawlf fwybees?” I

same boundaries out of a sense of nationalism rather than

wants to continue the tradition.”

real interest for a tourist to see. An earthquake hit the area

would question as my mother lifted the flyswatter from its

as a response to the deeper needs of the global community.

“So?”

a few years back. It was completely remodeled into a nice

place, echoing the swish of a flyswatter sifting air through its

The need for language to form and be formed by societal

“The fountain is in the new district.”

residential area but a residential area nonetheless.

holes and the bee-like buzz of the fleeing fly. My primitive

needs prevents its use as a sole unifying force. The seclu-

This was exactly where Özlem had taken Zore.

form of language that matched sound to sense

enabled

sion of communities by distance and geographic obstacles

They were in an empty square. Concrete was the

comprehension beyond the memorized denotations of

fosters dialect formation. Dialects further divide the native

words. A keen ear and sharp eye from any region of the

language into smaller exclusive groups. A

world would have understood the meaning of my utter-

at dialect formation in my own country, the United States,

ances. Communication and understanding occur on many

shows how stereotypes and self-righteous sentiments can

different levels, considering both verbal and non- verbal

easily form. The Southern drawl communicates an ease of

forms. On a fundamental level, we all speak the same

life and slow mental processing. The California Malibu style

language, so the world does not need one global, spoken

conjures an image of outer beauty and shallow purpose in

language. Many times, however, we do not

communicate

life. The Midwestern newscaster voice is plain, inviting and

14

“Oh.” “Yeah.”

*

*

*

The number of pigeons was really unfathomable.

first noticeable thing. Shortly after, it became apparent that concrete was the only noticeable thing.

Yet there they were, packed together so tightly in front of the mosque that it was likely some pigeons were dead but

Zore walked around the empty square, just

star-

ing.

could not fall to the ground.

“The fountain was…dismantled…about two years

cursory look

This was the last place Özlem brought Zore.

back.”

Throughout the day they had been to every con-

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

ceivable point of interest in Istanbul, from the Blue Mosque

“Well, I figured that, this way, you saw a city and

to the Grand Bazaar. Özlem had put up with the tourist.

not a dismantled fountain.”

well enough in any spoken language to reach understand-

non-threatening but not too exciting. Though a universal

True to her name, she was the most annoying individual

“You should have just told me.”

ing. Profound understanding emanates from what I call the

language may lessen miscommunication on a global scale,

Özlem had dealt with that year. It was November. Tourist

“I’m sorry.”

language of the soul.

miscommunication will continue to disrupt and fragment

season began in late May.

Zore’s shoulders rolled forward, and she walked

In my culture I am defined by and tied to the Eng-

out of the square. Özlem watched her for a few moments,

lish language. My Midwestern, colloquial English moves

to listen and to

at a moderate pace, humble, grounded and thoughtful. I

who speak the same first language often become battles

personify needlessly, talk to myself, argue and dream in the

of syntax and seman- tics. We expect perfect articulation

sound of English. This is my means of forming relation-

and fluency from those who share our language. It is also

ships and understanding the world. Without comprehension

commonly known, at least in the English language, that

of a society’s language, one cannot fully understand that

there are many different opinions as to what is “perfect.”

society’s culture or identity, leading to prejudgment, mis-

Yet, with those who speak English as a second language,

Özlem did her job despite the constant badgering

about the fountain. She still was not entirely sure how to deal with the problem. She would have to think about it

then turned and followed her out.

relationships. Humans regularly fail to say what they mean, empathize. Conversations with those

43

Mother Nature

Inspired by The Lackawanna Valley by George Inness

An Awful Coffee Table

42

There’s a dent in that table, A depression, dimple, pit-hole, cleft, Knocked in by a tiny porcelain Tooth.

It takes rubbing from frantic fumbling Fingers and chins, judging, searching The naked mahogany, just barely

Blatant.

Then a darkly reflected glare From the green leathered armchair Grades the perpetrator’s mark as Defiant.

Now it’ll catch your palm, Like it stuck that tooth, In forced, pliable, lacquered Finish, As you quick wipe the enduring Stigma, the licked abrasion, A bitter educator of Fault.

Why dost thou, child, delight In wind blown hair and salt sprayed skin?

How dost the restless water sound to thee, Like a gentle lullaby whispered only in thine ear?

What love thou must know in heaving water and stony beach!

Can thou feel the warm breath of thy Mother, Her salty kisses and soothing voice?

Despite this love, She still can see The brutish kind thou art meant to be.

No longer wilt thou admire Her graceful air, All will be lost upon thy ungracious stare.

Greed teaches the mind to no longer see The beauty that was wrought for thee.

15

Why dost thou, man, allow The wounds on thy Mother to grow deeper still?

How canst thou look upon Her cropped hair, And not long for the wild locks that once flourished?

Dost thou dare tread barefoot on Her bleeding body, Where, untouched, thou knew Her maternal caress?

How can thou harm the sweet Mother of Life?

~ Shannon Murphy (12)

When Nature first offered him Her sacred breast, He fed happily whilst he clawed Her tender flesh.

Man, thou art the thoughtless savage that rapes the Virgin Soil, Thy steady destruction slowed only in Nature’s desperate toil.

Yet Nature in Her selfless splendor still bears thy kind ­­­afresh And cradles thee in thy eternal rest.

Chelsey D’Alessandro (11)

~ Perry Danis (11)

Gregory de Roussan (12)

A Psalm to - - My love tumbles on vibrations Of silence, smiles—distant, with fire— Smothered, unseen, bleeds from hands And arms, limp, purposeless, but desiring Touch so much, made powerless, Drips down cheeks, Quivering with unspoken words, Embraces, kisses.

- - - boost me up Into tangled branches So I may leap into love Crying and shouting.

The arms of embrace walk off, Tripping on acorns without someone for balance, Watching the first flower yawn For a hummingbird without someone To turn to, smiling the same thought, And I stand alone.

16

- - - boost me up Into tangled branches So I may leap into love Crying and shouting.

Shooting out my lips I whisper delicate, desperate words A high tension wire undulating In the wind, a critical frequency Captures our souls and retracts With love tumbling on vibrations.

- - - boost me up Further into the branches So I may leap into love Again. Amen.

Perry Danis (11) Perr

~ Elise Meyers (12)

41

Under Your Watch Ingenious artist holder of the supreme paintbrush creator of language, color, light beholder of all I know

sacrificed for oil in a misunderstood land under your watch

I speak to you from a dark place dark because I cannot let belief in you comfort my aching tears

40

Yet you paint rainbows of iridescent green coral pink indigo blue leaves turn gold red tailed hawks soar under your watch

My dear aunt convulsed gasped struggled exploded in pain as cancer cells devoured her flesh gnawing at tissue under your watch

I ask you beacon of life give us strength to accept life’s colors harsh and soft keep us alive in this bittersweet struggle toward understanding what you allow to happen under your watch

My jovial teacher driving to school crushed by a semi-truck under your watch My childhood friend destroyed as she swallowed her last drugs under your watch My young neighbor

~ Melanie Meyer (12)

A

wrinkled, age-spotted and frail hand grips

challenge for someone eighty-two years old. She reaches

a tall, plastic, sea-green cup as Grandma

into the knotty pine cabinets and delicately removes six

promenades down the two oak steps into the

shiny cereal bowls. She draws open a drawer, the handle

soaring, book-lined library. Holding the cup aloft and smil-

worn by fifty years of frantic reaches from six hungry kids

ing broadly at the crowded room, she says, “Wanna swig?”

and an eternally hungry husband, and withdraws six

The adults smile momentarily while the children watch this

maculate silver spoons. With the help of her daughter, she

ancient wonder move among them like a friendly garden

carries them into the library.

snake. She weaves in and around small piles of books,

“Who wants ice cream?”

newspapers, and travel magazines that decorate the floor,

The day is a busy one with the game and the com-

making her way toward her spot on the pumpkin-hued,

pany. At 5:30 she is once more on the big couch, now worn-

leather couch. Her slight frame vanishes within the confines

out and with different thoughts on her mind. “I need to go

of the plush couch. Grandma is calm, content, and happy

to The Journal tonight and finish my article on my trip to Paris

to be alive and surrounded by her family.

so it can make the Sunday edition.” The Journal is the news-

Her eyes search the two-story, richly-paneled

paper that she and her husband have owned for over five

room behind thick, brown glasses that look as if intended

decades. It is second only to her family in terms of her pride

for someone

and joy.

with a much

Her zeal

broader face.

for her writ-

She notices one

ing and the

of her grand-

people in her

children coloring

life are still appar-

with tickle-me pink,

ent even at the end

macaroni-and-cheese

of an exhausting day.

orange, and fire-engine

With the touch of an an-

red crayons. “Oh wow, Cassi-

gel, she flips her hair off her

dy! That is just beautiful,” she

forehead and pushes herself off

exclaims with a sincerity and interest that leaves no doubt that this may be one of the world’s masterpieces

in progress.

the couch to remove the cereal bowls, now dirtied with chocolate syrup and vanilla ice cream. As she makes her final journey through the hall to the kitchen,

Two seconds later the Ohio State football crowd

she stops momentarily to gaze at her gallery of precious

roars in the background. Grandma focuses her attention

family photos, arranged neatly above her front table. She

on the twenty-inch television at the opposite end of the

stands, supported by her petite and unquestionably-funky

library. The game continues toward another monotonous

white Keds. Her cherry-red leggings are held tightly under

Buckeye route. She imitates the movements of an acclaimed

her cracked heels, and her long-sleeved shirt rustles in

ballet dancer as she makes her way back to the kitchen to

the light breeze that enters through the front door. Her

consider the delicacies within her vast refrigerator.

cheekbones seem to move upward, her lips break open to

reveal her gleaming smile, and her eyes begin to twinkle. She

“Can I help you, Mom?” her youngest daughter

asks.

Art on facing page: Liz Kremer (10)

im-

then sighs a long breath and moves back to the kitchen.

“No thanks, honey. I think I’ve got it,” she replies

as she hauls out a large container of ice cream, clearly Art above: TamaDaychapratoomwan (12)

17

stem, are the curtains. All talking ceases as a teddy-bear

“Yeah. I’m just curious, that’s all,” Jamie defends himself.

conductor walks up to the stand. The flower curtains pull

“Well.” I hear Jamie plop himself next to me. “When some-

back slowly, and a harp starts to sing softly in the silence.

one you love dies, or anyone dies, their spirits go to God,

Helen appears. “It’s Helena, Lars! Look! Look!” Mr. Bun-

or their spirits go to Hell. Helen’s spirit is, most definitely,

bun shakes me with excitement, his floppy ears perked.

in Heaven. When dead, a person’s physical self no longer

A tall, slim figure pin-points her pose to wait for her

functions so her soul or the spirit is free and goes to whatever

cue. The beam from the moon spotlights her and

place she knows best.”

La Belleza

everyone gasps. Helen’s blond hair reflects

“Do they do stuff in Heaven, like play games

Eres atardecer en el cielo Con envidia te miran las flores Tibia, transparente, alma de velo Dulce amanecer de mil colores

18

“Do ya wanna know or not?” I glare at him.

Rayo de sol, brillo de mar eres Apacible mañana de abril Única, deslumbras entre otros seres Nunca abrigas pensamiento vil Justa, tentaciones no te confunden Fortaleza, en el corazón habitas Cuerpo y alma en ti se funden Pasa el tiempo y no te marchitas Belleza, en el alma habitas Y tus virtudes nunca limitas

~ Alexandra Noboa-Chehade (12)

the light, appearing as a halo around her

or somethin’?” Jamie is now interested.

tightly-wound bun, decorated with

“Tell you what, Jamie. When I die, I’ll

wildflowers. I soak in her image. Her

come back into your body and make you write down

lanky body is poised with patience

everything my soul

and concentration. Her cheeks

sees, okay?” I pat him on the head.

are kissed with a pink, shimmer-

“Lars, come on!” Jamie pleads.

ing blush. Her deep-set, hazel-

“I suppose spirits have fun doing

brown eyes are sprinkled with

the hobbies that they once did on

white iridescent glitter. Her

Earth.”

leotard is strapless and cream.

“I think Helen is dancing for God,

Her tutu is the same cream color

Lars. Do you?” Jamie gazes at me

but has pink tips. Her

curiously.

ings are flesh-colored. Her pink

I pause for a minute. “Yeah, Jamie. I

toe-shoes glow. A

39

think she is too.” I give him a gentle

stock-

crescendo

in the music gives Helen her cue.

pat on the back and creep to my bed-

Helen glides across the glass stage

room, falling asleep on my bed.

on skates. She smiles with painted-

I step into the large theatre where Helen

red lips and glistening-white teeth. Her

had her final performance of The Nutcracker.

pointed nose shows whenever she side-

The aisle I walk on is carpet, which at intervals

steps. The dance, the music and Helen herself

changes into different geometric patterns in blood reds, deep

last almost forever. She spins, leaps long and lifts off. I

purples and bright pinks. The other guests filing in behind

watch in awe as she floats effortlessly toward the sky. The

me are Helen’s old dolls and stuffed animals, dressed in their

audience bursts into applause when Helen lands on a star.

best attire. The seats are so plush that I sink into them. The

She waves to us. Good-bye.

ceiling of the theatre is the night sky with stars as ushers.

Instruments coated in a blue-green iridescent glaze fill the pit. The strings of cellos, basses, violas and violins are as thin as spiders’ webbing, twinkling with gold. Gold composes the other instruments: woodwinds, brass and percussion. The stage looks like glass. Wildflowers, woven together stem by Art above: Liz Kremer (10)

in a row that I’ve had this vivid nightmare.

I force myself

out of bed to the bathroom. I cautiously avoid potential

“It’s G.I. Joe.” I carefully walk into his room, sitting down

obstacles, not wanting to awaken the rest of my family.

on the edge of his bed. “You need to get some sleep, Jamie.

Successfully bumping into the door, I reach around for the

You have to go to day camp tomorrow, remember?”

light switch, grunting at the abrupt

“Whatever! Day camp is for losers!” He crosses his arms

brightness.

I stand for a few minutes, staring at myself.

38

be a G.I. Jeff when I grow up.”

The hazel-

stubbornly.

green irises of my eyes contract the pupils into tiny specks.

I start to muffle a chortle. “You’re right, Jamie. Day camp

Leaning a little closer to the mirror, I discover some drool. I

is for losers.”

spot facial hair lining my square jaw. “Geez, I need a shave!” I

“Yeah, it is. Wait...you jerk!” He flails his fists at me as hard

think to myself. My short, blond hair is messy, and my face

as he can but doesn’t make much progress. Catching both

is more pale than usual. I manage to hit my head once again

of his hands, I easily defeat his struggle.

against the light fixtures. Sometimes I hate being 6’4”. Star-

“So what was the dream about?” Jamie’s voice drops to a

ing at myself for the last time, I step out of the bathroom

serious tone.

as quietly as I can and shut off the lights.

“The accident, Jamie. It’s been biting me in the-you-know-

“You had that dream again, didn’t you?” Jamie whispers.

what recently even though it happened two years ago. It’s

His eyes concentrate on my silhouette, created by the light

really weird,” I ponder aloud.

of the moon. His hair, a crew-cut for soccer, looks flat

“Yeah, I’ve been having dreams like that too. Helen doesn’t

on his head. He sits up, waiting for me to respond, in his

wanna go away, does she?” He curls himself up in a ball and

“Boo-Gi-Yo” shirt or some other card game adver-tisement.

tugs on the covers, attempting to cover his head.

The nightlight, a Ninja Turtle, casts a green glow against

“I dunno, Jamie. I guess we haven’t had time to talk about

his slightly-round cheek.

it with Mom or Dad. Mom acts all fine; then she’ll break

“The very same nightmare I’ve been having for the past

down crying while she’s driving or during other random

four weeks, Jamie,” I croak in my just-got-up voice.

times. It’s sort of frightening. All she says is, ‘She was such

“Ya know, Lars,” Jamie says, trying to mimic

a good dancer.’ And Dad doesn’t want to

authority.

remember.

“Mom says that you’re not getting enough sleep at night,

He acts like the whole thing never happened. That’s just a

and I think she’s right. That explains why you drive like

bunch of bull if you ask me.” I fidget uncomfortably at the

sh—.”

thought of Dad’s nonchalance.

“But that explanation does not automatically

allow you

19

“Lars, what happens to people when they die?” Jamie’s eyes

to use that word,” I scold. He sighs. Even in the dark I can

focus on me.

see him rolling his eyes.

“Hmn…that’s a tough question. I’ll have to think about

“I don’t care. You say it all the time when your friends are

it for a sec.” I fold my arms and start to bounce my leg

here.” Jamie turns the scolding on me again.

pondering how to explain. “Wait for it...He’s starting to sigh

“Well if you didn’t spy on me and my friends, then maybe

impatiently,” I narrate to myself. “Three...two...one... and...”

that wouldn’t happen, huh? You think you’re so sneaky

“Well, come on! Tell me!” Jamie nudged me with his foot.

coming down to the basement, but we can hear you. No

“Jamie, you’re getting more and more difficult to deal with,” I think

one in his right mind tries to creep down wooden steps

to myself, letting out a sigh. “Keep your pajamas on! I’m

with boots on.”

thinkin’.”

“Well...well,” Jamie stammers, “that’s just because I wanna

“At least I’m wearing pajamas,” he snorts.

Brian Kim (11)

City Streets

Helen

Warrior Cries Alone Men dead, friends gone Tears mix blood Grime Kneel and heave Ex… …haustion That black thing comes.

Laurie Eighmy (12)

B

lue and red lights urgently spin on top of five police cars. The cold air feels like shards of glass in my throat as I frantically scramble to my feet

trying to talk to the EMTs. The rain, cruelly cold against my scalp, entwines itself with my sweat and blood, rush-

~ Mawuena Akyea (11)

ing onto my clothing and skin. I look over at my smashed blue Ford, feeling the grainy pavement against my scraped hands and bruised knees, looking for my sister. The policemen hold back another victim of this accident, my younger brother. His hazel eyes are pink because of the salty tears streaming down his frightened, shocked face. His pupils are hardly visible; his white eyebrows lift his eyes wide to see what is going on. His small mouth lets out shouts of

20

protest and confusion. His helpless arms stretch out as far as they can to touch our sister, but his efforts fail. A gash on his forehead causes him to cry even harder; the blood stains his white eyebrows. His short, blond hair is frozen on his rosy skin from the cold.

“Stay still,” an indecipherable voice tells me.

“Stay

still.”

“No! I need to find my sister!” I cry in anguish.

“Your sister will be fine. Don’t worry. Stay still. Don’t move.

You’re injured.” The same indecipherable voice grows louder and more matter-of-fact.

I accept the reassurance of the complete stranger while the ambulance takes my sister away. The traffic,

sirens

and horrible rain mute my brother’s final shout

of

“No.” I awaken hot and startled by the pitch-blackness of my bedroom. Looking around, I slowly sit up and comb my hair with sticky fingers. My groggy eyes glance at the digital clock beside my bed. It is 3:13 a.m. This is the fourth week Matt Belopavlovich (12)

Kristy Getts (11)

37

W

alking hand in hand on that cold March

shot after another. I wondered to

night, Grandma and Grandpa Vissers were

this old woman get the courage and strength to portray

on the way home from my Aunt Bev’s house

such a strong image of love and

courage to all of her

after an evening of card-playing. As they were walking, my

grandchildren? She would dig deep down inside herself,

grandma reached her brittle hands into the white fluffy

pull out her love for life and keep on pushing through the

snow that covered the ground, grabbed a handful, shaped

obstacles.

it into a ball and started a snowball fight with my grandpa.

Despite all these difficulties, every time we went to

My grandpa, a true competitor, reached down to the side-

visit, she always had her famous ginger-snap cookies coming

walk, grabbed a chunk of snow and threw it back at my

out of the oven as we walked through the door. In the chair

grandma. They continued this snowball fight all the way

where she normally sat with the big quilt folded over her lap,

home. Once they got home, my grandpa

she greeted us with a big hug and cheery

went upstairs to his room and got

“Hello.” When we greeted her,

into his pajamas while my

we never touched her toes

grandma did her nightly

because of her diabetes.

routine downstairs.

Her

Grabbing her pills

36

myself: where does

diabetes had

taken over her toes,

and a cookie in the

and they were very

kitchen, then walk-

sore. She kept us

ing across the hall-

from stepping on

way to take a drink

them by wearing

of water from the

big, blocky slip-

bathroom faucet,

pers. My grandma

my grandma’s heart

was always cold, so she always kept the quilt on her,

stopped. A sudden

which made her look warm and happy inside. Grandma

thud resounded through-

hid her health obstacles with that quilt. She kept everything

out the house. My grandpa

that was tearing her apart underneath it and let her love

came running downstairs like a

for all of us shine through it. Her companionship made

bolt of

me feel like I was riding on the clouds of heaven. Her big,

lightening. At the bottom of

the stairs in the hallway lay my grandma with the cookie

blue eyes, which looked like sparkling diamonds, and her

in her hand.

round, thick glasses brought such joy to the room. Her hair

Growing up, I always knew that my grandma had diabetes

was a crispy, white fluff that was always curly. Her cheeks

and heart disease. My grandma had multiple heart surgeries,

were pale and chubby, and in the summer she would have

even a quadruple by-pass. I remember a time she was visiting

a few freckles.

my family, when I was younger, and she had a heart attack.

My grandpa rushed her to the hospital. She recovered, but

ever have. She was warm and comforting, though life wasn’t

it was scary watching all that happen. Deep down inside, I

so easy for her. She had many obstacles to overcome, but

knew that Grandma was struggling, one heart attack after

she always fought them with smiles, a quilt and a ginger-

another, one heart surgery after another, and one diabetes

snap cookie.

Grandma was the best grandmother anyone could

Art above: Cedric Meyers (10)

The Backpack Danger and terror lurk Strewn about the lunchroom A chaotic explosion Of color and shape Hundreds of bodies whipping In a mad frenzy Never suspecting The dormant predator Black and gaping Its jaws rip open To reveal a cavernous mouth And thousands of Sharp plastic teeth Course fabric and dangerous Hooks litter its exterior Lying in wait The unsuspecting lunch-goers pass Lulled into a false sense of Safety by its seemingly Harmless existence One false move and one Insignificant soul is Flung to the ground Ensnared in its web of treachery Silence The audience Jerks its ravenous attention Toward the heap Thrashing on the floor The small boy struggles to his feet Collects his mutilated lunch And slumps off in defeat Normalcy reigns again The monster retreats Into its dark lair Satisfied

~ Christy Kau-Chapin (12)

21

Chessboard Woes

Inspired by The Lackawanna Valley by George Inness

In solitude the master sits on a wind-weathered, faded, jade-green park bench.

Worn, leathery skin, jagged, paint-chipped wood, blend together Molding two unique ancients into one.

Strands of silver and pearl-white Decorate the smooth, balding head.

22

A disruptive, floppy-sneakered youngster Stomps destruction.

A heavy-weighted, pompously-determined march, In cadence with the drum line of warfare, Matches in perfect unison the audible heartbeat, Pulsing, vicious, yearning for dominance.

Lean, sinewy limbs Appendages containing the ripples The waves Of heedlessly, self-confident passion.

Hands, shaking with the pleasure of a singular desire, clutch a rattling box too tightly.

The high-strung body belies a controlled, firm, formidable, calculating mind.

Thoughts so steely and ambitious become deceptive words Filled with greater venom than a serpent’s tongue.

They seem to move pink, fleshy lips of their own accord.

“Care for a game?”

35

Two generals Two pairs of hands alive with anticipation Two different, opposing strategies All poised Teetering, leering, looming Above the black-and-white-checked battleground.

Throughout this war the principle remains the same: Make a move Then punch the clock Click!

Paul Evans (11)

Chelsey D’Alessandro (11)

A Plea for Heartache

Misery is a drug I crave.

Sedated by ease and ennui, Your burning pipe-ends exhale into my eager secondhand lungs, Promising the high of pain and the lingering scent of Real sensation.

Catching your acidic tears, My tongue rolls them gently to an unquenchably Parched throat, Dry from well-built dams.

34

Brand my chest with scalding fervor, Beat fury, rage and loss into my being And stop the dull throb in my head By tearing at my heart.

To wrack a body with grief, To propel a soul to desperate ends, To inspire expressions capable of imprinting Images on others’ minds,

One must have lost an inexpressible happiness

Quite foreign to me.

Send me your woes To grasp your bliss.

~ Anna Sanders (12)

The lone knight Clad in the shroud of shade and shadows Entrapped in an integumentary prison A mere pawn in a toy chess set An arrow in an amateur hunter’s bow A puppet in a grade-school pageant An unwilling rider who does not hold the horse’s reins The knight’s path is laid before him Steady, nonnegotiable, patterned Three-one, three-one Feudal bonds The princeling’s monarchal mandates Move the lone knight To the frontlines of the battle The valiant knight Reluctant leader Flees in horror before his own terrible, merciless cavalry hoard Of humans Two-legged, upright discords Thick-jawed animals, slathering tongues over glistening sharp fangs Salivating richly with the desire, the quest for power and supremacy They unleash Expansion, Development, Aggrandizement, Progress The four steeds of Nature’s Apocalypse Stumps rife with decay, ravaged terrain Fetid pools of murky , odiferous rainwater Arise from their hoofprints to replace the Verdant, evergreen forests The wealth of beneficence and nurture Hidden in the cool aroma of pine leaves Click!

Old Man Nature Body, bent and bowed, sagging, drooping in defeat.

The deep crevices, canyons, ravines of age Support a rush of saltwater crystals, A despair so acute Like a mother feels, Deserted by her son.

The youngster’s night-garmented jury Delivered one fateful verdict, The final, inevitable, last move, To the neglected, ignored Old Man. Checkmate

~ Joy Tesensky (11)

23

I almost asked him how he got here on time. Did he write it on the calendar or was he supposed to come on Thursday but

To Pick a Bramble Berry

kept forgetting until today? Either way, it was well-planned.

“And you were going to ask Bob for your job back? Bob

A coiled chaos of growing knots, budding tangles, saw-toothed stalks, swathing her, screening her Heart.

24

Bold, probing fingers, supple, peckish, quail, scraped, dribbling blood that rusts her tongue with failure’s pungent proof.

Her twisted sprouts wish for hungry tenderness, dexterior fortitude, pith whose kisses will savor the luscious syrup clumsy fumblers crush, dessert untasted.

Hunger – beware for tousled and snarly she’ll grow in perilous promises ’til soft experience dare pick her bramble berried Heart.

~ Shannon Murphy (12)

seems like a great guy. Why did you bring the gun?” I spoke as calmly and slowly as possible.

“Because I wanted him to listen.” Red flags! That’s what everyone says. Get creative, Larry. “I really need my job back, and I’m ready to work hard.”

“Well, Larry,” Bob stepped in, “I would be

willing to look

over an application, and we can schedule an appointment for an

opened it to the largest blade. Larry, being slightly slow in

interview.”

reaction, saw me in mid-stride. He immediately dropped Jill

“No! You are just trying to delay things! I need a

and turned to face me. I lunged at Larry with all my strength,

job now. I told you. I will change! What more do you want?”

grabbing for his trigger hand with my left and aiming for

Larry was getting frantic. I began to fear for my life with

his left hand with my right. I heard the shot as I cut at his

the way he was waving his gun.

vulnerable left hand.

“I’m sorry, Larry. I can’t do that,” Bob told him, looking him straight in the eyes.

In a second the skirmish was over. The gun was lying on the ground three feet from our sprawled bodies.

“Well, then, I’m not leaving until you’re all dead.” I

After the shock wore off, I rolled to my side and checked

could see that Larry meant it. It was time for action. I was

for injuries. I was magically unharmed. I walked over to

close enough to Larry that I could run, catch him off-guard

the gun. A cap gun! How incompetent can you get? I may be fat,

and maybe disarm him. At least that was the plan until he

but I’m sure not Larry.

snatched Jill, the pretty girl from the ticket counter who escorted me to my interview. He was holding the gun to her neck. “I’m starting with her. In thirty seconds, if I don’t have my job back, she dies.” His voice did not falter. He began to count. “One, two, three…twenty-five, twenty-six…”

I bolted at Larry, choosing the direct path to the gun. I keep a small pocketknife on my key chain in case I have to cut rope or open a box. I took out my knife and

33

like a nice guy. I just hoped he wasn’t the poor man who

it

had hired Larry.

ing fat, but that day it was awful. We had to shift that door

Right when I was thinking of Larry, I heard the

three times further for me than for Bob. I think he gave me

shouting. Was it someone’s birthday? No. It couldn’t be a birth-

a “I-wish-that-you-weren’t-fat-look” but hid it under his

day. The screaming was coming from the lobby area. Bob

“I’m-just-really-really-scared” look. I could tell. The coast

moved toward the door to check things out. As soon as he

was clear. “Shoot!” I whispered to Bob as we crawled to the

got there, we heard the first gun shot. Bob and I fell to the

concession stand. The gunman was standing in the lobby,

ground. A gunshot in the movie theater. Life was getting a bit more

looking straight over at our crawling bodies.

exciting. I raced up to crouch with Bob. We opened the door slowly to see what was happening. We couldn’t see much,

“We are doomed,” Bob said with a frown. “He’s motioning us to come over to the group.”

except people huddled in a circle in the lobby. As I peered

“We’ll just join the tea party!” I said, trying to make

into the lobby again, I caught a glimpse of the concession

light of the huge man holding his shotgun tightly in both

seller that I had passed earlier. He looked

terrified, and in

hands. We got up from our positions and slowly walked

that moment I was finally aware of the situation. Someone

over to the group of hostages. As we came closer, we saw

was taking the movie theater hostage. I glanced over at Bob,

the gunman’s face for the first time.

and we both knew what to do. Bob got up from his position near the floor and walked calmly toward the phone. I looked back through the open slit to check on the situation.

32

becomes evident. Most of the time I don’t mind be-

“Jesus Christ, the phones are dead!” he said.

“Let’s sneak out there and find out who’s holding the theater hostage,” I suggested.

“Larry!?” Bob and I shouted almost simultaneously.

“What? Why are you doing this?” Bob continued.

“You didn’t think I would forget, did you, Bob?” Larry said with furious eyes. “I was so humilated when you

25

fired me. My parents grounded me for two months. How could I forget, sitting at home unable to go out, hearing

Bob nodded and turned to glance through the

about all the parties? For weeks I was held captive, Bob.

opening again. “I can’t see the gunman. They must be on

For weeks!” Larry pointed the gun at Bob. Something about

the other side,” Bob said. “What do you suggest we do?”

madmen intrigues me. They seem so sensitive. They need a mother

I had become the expert, and whenever I’m the

that cares for them. Do you think Larry’s mother gave him a “good-

expert, we’re doomed. I remember everyone used to copy

luck” hug before his interview? I think not! Larry needs a little love

my math until Mr. Fransis handed back our first assign-

or maybe just some logic.

ments. Almost everyone who copied my homework got a

I wanted to say, “Hey, Larry, what do you hope to accom-

B. I warned them never to put faith in me, and so far no one

plish? You’ll never get a job anymore after this. How does that make

ever has. I was going to let Bob down. At least if I die, I don’t

you feel? It’s really your own fault you don’t have a job anymore, Larry.

have to worry about getting the job. So I took charge and acted

Do you remember your three for eight track record? That’s the worst

like I knew what I was doing. After all, I was the expert.

record in the history of Marmax Theaters. Did you know they’ve never

“Follow me. We are going to slide out and crawl

fired an employee before you? That’s how easy it is to work here. No

behind the concession stand. From there we’ll have a

employees fired until you.” But of course I didn’t say that. Why

better view,” I said with mock confidence. We gently slid

would I? How would that help? So I took it slow and easy.

the door open until it was wide enough for our bodies. I

“What are you here for, Larry?” I asked calmly.

forgot to say it earlier, but I’m fat. Sorry that I didn’t mention

“I…I just came to say that I wanted my job back.”

it. It’s a secret that I like to hide until you see me, and then

Nice Larry, real nice. You have to hand it to him. He’s determined.

Gregory de Roussan (12)

Big Business 3000

past time for you to leave behind such childish rubbish.

mood. The movie theatre was exactly fifteen minutes away,

lanky, but he carried himself with a grace that defied his

The time has come for you to learn the true tools of the

according to my mother, but using “traffic-flow” speed and

body’s natural coordination. His suit coat was loose around

family trade. You are the heir to a financial empire spanning

some quick maneuvering, I could get there in ten. I blasted

his shoulders and short, coming down to his navel on

the galaxy, and I, your dear old dad, am going to teach you

the tape as I stepped on the accelerator and raced down

both sides. As he walked over toward his desk, I stood up

how to run it. On my desk is your first lesson.

Blackberry Road, praying to God all the sub- urban cops

to introduce myself. We shook hands. It was an awkward

were off-duty.

interview shake where both participants were trying to put

But…I like my construction company.

Junior, put such childish notions out of your mind. I’m not

It was 8:27 as I rolled into the Marmax parking lot.

all their power into one hand motion.

I, of course, was

as young as I used to be, and these are lessons you must

Not exactly late but definitely not “Lombardi early” as an

trying to shake hard, but not too hard, to make him think

learn. Now will you listen to me, or must I put you in your

old cross-country coach used to say. Being fifteen minutes

that I was trying to shake hard. I had to think: This is my

quiet place?

early was

completely overrated

normal shake. I always shake other men’s

and mostly for overachievers. I got

hands firmly when introducing myself. I have

Capital, Junior, simply capital! Now, first lesson: how to

through the front door of the theater,

no idea if I con-veyed my point. Mr.

deal with competition that has consolidated their financial

and it was 8:28. Did I mention that I’m

Halwell had a diff-erent idea. He must

and management offices in one star system and refuses to

a time freak? If I go anywhere, I need

have been going for the “I’m going to

sell out. This is a serious problem, Junior; however, with

to know the time. I have to know if I

be your boss and I’m really strong”

a thorough knowledge of who-will-ignore-what-for-how-

have time to relax, if I have time before

idea, because my hand hurt like heck.

much-money, it is easily solved. The solution is on my desk,

dinner, if I have time to have dinner. I

After the shake, I introduced myself

Junior, a conversion bomb.

just need to know. Putting that aside, I

as Robert Norton, and he introduced

walked up to the ticket-seller and asked

himself as Bob Vail. Bob Vail. I knew he

A conversion bomb, Junior. You know that in an atom bomb

where I could find the manager for the

wasn’t Mr. Halwell. He didn’t look uptight

or a hydrogen bomb a tiny bit of matter is transformed into

interview. The ticket-seller was blond

at all. I had to catch myself; I was so

a ridiculous amount of energy. Well, a

conversion bomb

and moderately tall with a prominent

surprised. It turns out that he was the

legedly made by a home security system, was submitted as

transforms the entire mass of the bomb into energy. It’s a

nose. Her hair, curly with a little tint of

head manager, and we were meeting

evidence for the prosecution in the antitrust lawsuit against

portable nova. Just one can destroy an entire planet.

brown, came down to her shoulders.

in the owner’s office. That’s one point

the notorious businessman, Mr. Henry Spephington III, on

She led me back past the concessions

for Robert!

July 19, 3078 AD.

Yes. Boomage indeed.

Milo McLinn (11)

26 Setting: A recording of the following conversation,

Okay, Daddy.

al-

(knock, knock, knock) Come in, Junior.

You wanted me for sumfing, Daddy?

Yes, Junior. Come closer lad. I know I told you to stay out

What’s that on your desk, Daddy?

Oooooo. Boomage.

What’s it doing here, Daddy?

31

to the manager’s office.

“So, Robert, have you ever

Thus my inter view com-

worked at a theatre before?” Bob

Waiting for someone not very bright, you for instance,

menced. I sat down on the open chair

Junior, to come along and play with it and crack the Earth

in front of Mr. Halwell’s desk. At least that’s how the desk

“No, sir. I have only gone to movies and shared

in half like a rotten apple.

was labeled. I tried to decided if Mr. Halwell was a hardcore

in the ‘concessional extravaganza,’” I said, testing his reac-

name or not. In the middle of my thought, Mr. Halwell

tion.

Mmmmmmm. Apples…

Indeed.

asked.

came into his office and shut the door. Mr. Halwell was

“Yeah, we charge way too much here for con- ces-

not intimidating at all. He was hardly older than my sister.

sions, especially popcorn. Did you know that it actually costs

Why, my dear boy, there is only one thing to do with it.

He looked twenty-one with black hair

$.45 to make our popcorn?”

Blow something up!

of his ear and jutting out just above his eyes. He had on

“What? That’s ridiculous! Who gets all that money?

of my office, but that is only when I have not extended a formal invitation.

A what?

So what do we do with it, Daddy?

covering half

The reason I have summoned you from your toys, Junior.

But Daddy, I don’t want to blow sumfing up.

gray Vans with a tear on the outside of the left shoe. He

I would like to sign onto this money-guzzling machine.” We

I gave you a construction company to play with when you

If you change your mind, I’ll give you caannn-deeee….

looked surprisingly good in his uniform, wearing it with a

both laughed at that, and Bob continued the lax question-

were four years old. Well, you’re almost nine now. It is

style that only some people can pull off. He was thin and

ing. My nervousness was already going away. Bob seemed

OK.

What if I didn’t get the job? I would be humiliated. It reminded

30

It was a sure thing.

So how will the submersion bomb get there?

Jolly good. Now, let us think for a moment. A device of

such immeasurable, destructive power should not be wasted

Your failure to master simple pronunciation never ceases

Ju-

to astound, dear boy. As to your question, I shall send it

Business!

to them in a fruit basket, which I will mail via the United

me of sophomore year when everyone was getting drivers

I put on my outfit and strolled into the kitchen

licenses. I was so scared when Sarah Irving came to school

to await my morning feast. “It’s 8:15, and you’re going to

on petty things like politics or religion. So, I ask you,

the day of her birthday to show off her license. Not only

be late. Did you need to take that long picking out your

nior, what should Daddy use it for?

does Sarah have a birthday just weeks before mine, but also

clothes?” my mother shouted. “Your shirt is wrinkled; that

Business!

Postal Service. It will be cleverly disguised

she is the worst (and I mean the worst) driver I have ever

tie has a stain. I told you to tell me what you were wearing

Splendid, Junior, simply splendid! I’ll

as a watermelon. By the time my ruse is

seen. She says that she just had bad luck. Yeah right, Sarah.

ahead of time so I could iron it! Did you think to ask me

make you a captain of industry yet! Now

discovered, the offices of PTS of M will

Two tickets and one accident in the first month of your driving career,

last night? What were you doing?”

who are Daddy’s biggest rivals?

be reduced to subatomic components and

and you deem it “bad luck.” That’s not bad

No feast. But I was impressed that

luck; that’s awful driving. With this being

my mother could say so many things in one

of Smellelin?

said, you can understand the extreme

breath? I wonder if she knew how to use circular

Yes, Junior, Pacific Transportation

pressure I was under to pass my driving

breathing. Maybe she could teach me. I’d have

tems of Magellan. Hmph. Having the

test. If I failed, I wouldn’t get my license,

to ask another time when she wasn’t so angry.

audacity to claim that they, not I, have

and I would be objectively “worse” than

I didn’t even know what she was getting

stewardship over the transgalactic aether-

Sarah. I had a suicide note and bottle of

so angry about. She had her priorities

ail transport network. Trollops and Cads the lot of them!

Now we shall begin with the execution of the plot. Wood-

pills ready just in case I failed. But I’m

all wrong. The stain and wrinkled shirt

But with this, Junior, I shall have the last huzzah!

sworth! Woodsworth, my good man! Fetch the green paint,

still here, so, “hooray.”

were all minor details. I wouldn’t have

My room was in a state of war,

trouble getting the job. My priority was

Yes, Junior, Magellan is thousands of light-years away.

or it was at least on the highest terrorist

the bacon, egg and cheese bagel that I

alert. There were shirts thrown on my

so intensely desired, but she didn’t pre-

dresser and underwear covering my desk.

pare. There would be other mornings,

My bed was not made. Something about

and, with this new job, I would have the

a dirty room compels me to clean. I get

money to buy myself breakfast. Take

a sudden tick to put all the clothes where

that, Mom.

they belong, even when I’m in someone

I was off with a quick, good-

else’s house. But now wasn’t the time. I

luck hug from my mother. She wasn’t

had to get dressed. I couldn’t stand naked

really wishing me good luck; she was

in my room forever. I could wear the blue

probably hoping that I wouldn’t get the

shirt and silver tie combo, complemented with black pants

job so she would have a reason for all the worrying and nag-

and black dress shoes. A classy look known for its sharp,

ging. Sometimes her reasoning isn’t very logical. I hopped

sleek style, but would that be going too far? It was a good

into our blue-gray Toyota Camry. It was a well-built car

look for a dance but not for a formal meeting. They were

with manual shifting, power windows, power locks, power

probably looking for someone respectable, someone they

steering and a tape player. I didn’t mention the CD-player, did I?

could trust. In other words, they wanted the polar opposite

Maybe that’s because we didn’t have one. I’d never been so

of Larry. After what seemed like an hour, I finally decided

angry in my life as on the day my parents brought this car

on a white shirt with a red tie and black pants. It looked

home without a CD player. It’s actually not bad. I’ve grown

good, and I was getting tired of changing so I just stuck with

accustomed to the tape player. I started the trip with Van

it. Ultimately, I concluded that this interview was worthless.

Morrison’s “Moondance,” a chill song that fit my morning

Art above: Brittany Strassman (10)

Specific Transmotation Systems

ultraviolet light. Hahahahaha…laugh with me, Junior. You must learn to find amuse-

Sys-

ment in the downfall of your enemies… haha hahahaha.

Hehehehehe.

Ahhh…quite. First lesson concluded.

But Daddy, isn’t Smellelin really far away?

post haste!

27

Carissa Molina (11)

The Real Prayer

28

T

Our Economy, Who art in Wall Street Hallowed be thy stock Thy surplus come Thy recession done On our country as it is in true capitalism Give us this DOW Our daily Standard and Poor Forgive us our credit buying As we raise interest rates against those Who buy with credit to devalue us And lead us to a Bull Market But deliver us from Depressions For free enterprise is America The home of the brave Now and forever

Amen

~ Ashley Fueger (12)

Kristin Dewey (11)

Ben Malnor (12)

he alarm went off at 7:30, with a sound dis-

job there can be. I ultimately decided that if Larry can do

turbingly similar to the Psycho soundtrack but,

it, then anyone with two legs and the ability to hand out

of course, louder and much more obnoxious.

change, not even the right amount of change, can do it.

Waking up is quite possibly the worst feeling in the world.

After my rude awakening, I scampered into the shower.

To top it off, I had a murder mystery soundtrack to jolt me

Showertime has become an alternate form of sleeping or

back into the real world. Whoever thought of that sound should

at least dreaming. I bent under the faucet to let the water

die a horrible death. But it does the job, so I give him credit. It

stream down my back. Do you ever wonder if they could make

was a dark Saturday morning in mid-December, a morning

showers a little bigger? I mean, showerheads are typically the

meant for sleeping in. After rising to turn off the alarm, I

size of a tennis ball. A tennis-ball circumference to cover your

laid back in bed, snuggled my last snuggle and waited.

whole body. Are you joking? I guess I understand the reasoning

“Robert! Are you up yet? You have your meeting this

behind it: water conservation. But I want more. I just want

morning at 8:30.” There it was, my mother’s voice, ringing

more. It’s my nature to demand the best. Some people say

through the house. She had a rare ability to motivate me in

that I am a picky eater, but I just demand more from the

the morning. I think she could motivate the dead if she ever

cook. Is that so wrong?

had the chance or the desire. But I was happy to have her

“Robert, what are you doing in there? It’s already 8:00.

on mornings like this one. I have an interview today with

You are going to be late.” It’s nice having a personal clock

the manager of Marmax Theatres. It’s going to be awkward

around, but sometimes it cuts off your creativity. I barely

and useless. Marmax Theatre interviews don’t seem to me

even lathered myself. I did get the main sections, though,

worth the time. You go in, answer a few questions and get

and that’s all you need. I skipped shampoo, but I had read

the job. I know a couple of people who already work in the

somewhere that it is healthier to use shampoo and condi-

theatre, and, believe me, if they interviewed to “weed out”

tioner every other day. That was a shock to me. It’s actually

(excuse the pun) their staff, they did a shoddy job. Take

healthier to be lazy every other day! I was pumped.

Larry, for example. I love the guy, but come on. He can’t

After getting out of the shower, I dried off while making

remember his daily homework, let alone memorize a work

the most important decisions of the day: apparel and ac-

schedule. Larry has missed all of his scheduled shifts except

cessories. I’m only kidding about “accessories,” although

three. He was late to those three shifts, arriving without a

I do have a lucky necklace. You could call that an accessory, if

uniform. The theatre fired him last week, opening up a spot

you’d like. Apparel is crucial. Not that it mattered for the in-

for me. Thanks, Larry. You’re the man. I hold no sympathy

terview, but it mattered for my overall image. This interview

for the theatre’s loss. After all, they interviewed him. When

was going to be a joke, but I wasn’t going to play it like that.

you think about it, working at a movie theatre is the easiest

29