The Wayfarer 2006 by Edgewood High School

Staff Editor:

Joy Tesensky

Assistant Editors:

Andrew Aebly Lydia Lovell Emer Lucey

Technical Editors:

Jay Sekhon Cedric Meyers

Editorial Board:

Maggie Bracey Vivian Burnette Elizabeth Ehrmann Flannery Geoghegan Auriana Gilliland-Lloyd Philip Gorman Cate Hall Andrew Hovde Adam Kachelski Katie McLane Sean McLane Sam McLaughlin Louise Opel Page Schuh Jon Seaton Rachel Underwood

Layout Board:

Katie McLane Sean McLane Sam McLaughlin Rachel Underwood

Cover Artist:

Kristin Kopish

Consultants:

Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

Advisors:

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Table of Contents Writers 4

I Saw Him From Afar: Matt Knutson

Gentle Giant Seeks Love: Robert Yocum

We Sit Beneath the Trysting Tree: Alec Jankowski

A Restless Active Wolf: Sean McLane

No Ground Was Gained: Kevin Axe

Liberation: Kristin Kopish 26

*Road Trip: Kelly Schmidt

*A Simple Life: Nick Oliphant

Math Test Blues: Corey Chesley 30

*A Token of Clarity: Sam McLaughlin

*Happy Hap: Maggie Wood

*The House I Never Had: Mike Marshall

*Just a Falling Star: Kim Wild

*Cast Your Whole Vote: Haylie Linn

*An Ode to Chunky Monkey: Carissa Molina

*Ram in a Fishbowl: Joy Tesensky

Ushe’ta: Cedric Meyers

40*The Two sides of Joy: Joy Tesensky

Love Poem: Kelly Schmidt

A Perfect Collision: Jennifer Bishop

Inferno of Psyche: Philip Gorman

The Regulator: Milo McLinn

Conceptions of a Prayer: Krista King

This is Not a Poem: Kelsey Donald

*The Most Disappointing Feeling in the World: Joy Tesensky

20 The Wishbone: Krista King

Graphic Artists Haley Brink: 42 Susan Chang: 30 Chelsey D’Alessandro: 26, 27 Perry Danis: 9, 44 Lindsay Davenport:8 Adam Donald: 23 Jared Duffy: 11

Denotes Edgewood High School writing contest winner

Tiffany Duffy: 41

Katie McLane: 14, 19, 37

Paul Evans: 17

Sam McLaughlin: 32

Kelly Kopish: 47

Cedric Meyers: 13

Kristin Kopish: 25

Carissa Molina: 12

Liz Kremer: 28

Seung-Hyun Row: 6

Johnnie Left Hand Bull: 15, 30

Kelly Schmidt: 38, 39

Andrea Lutz: 20

Jay Sekhon: 29

Martha Mank: 33

Kirsten Widder: 34, 35

Courtney McKenna: 4, 5

Matt Knutson (12) With Apologies to William Wordsworth

Courtney McKenna (11)

I saw him from afar He ambled with melancholy steps Down a dusty dirt path Wound through grasses grown tall. Wandered from his path, Drawn to the sea with a thirst in his eye, He came near Sitting under a willow he gazed Over grey sea, endless space, time, Waiting. Soon he grew weary, Crinkled his brow, squinted his eyes. With clenched fists he rose to his feet, Cursed the sea, then fell to his knees. I knew what he longed for Not power, Not love, Nor even God’s grace. I let him struggle, Crumble, Beg for relief. In swift glance he spotted me, My gold hair to him shined like stars. With a sudden breeze I was swayed just a bit, But he saw “sprightly dance.” He sprang to his feet, And saw hundreds like me, Golden and bright, shining brighter than the forgotten sea. He gazed at his discovery for short time, No thirst in eye, Left with speed, Back to path, Never return. His “heart with pleasure fills” When he sees my dance in “pensive mood.” But I know with certainty It cannot last. He must search for me in new lands.

Gentle Giant Seeks Love Robert Yocum (11)

Seung-Hyun Row (12)

allas, Pa. - I was recently searching the streets of Dallas for a soul mate, someone with whom to spend the rest of my life. I didn’t find a soul mate but a friend. Most surprisingly, this sensitive soul came wrapped in a six foot, six inch frame and two hundred fifty pounds of muscle. I didn’t think I would meet my best friend this way- not just any best friend, but a gentle giant. I encountered what appeared to be a large hulking man. His arms were the size of milk jugs, and his legs looked as if they would be able to kick down a steel pole. He had on big white basketball shoes that appropriately matched his preppy white shirt. However, he seemed to be pouting or maybe even crying. At first I was afraid to approach him because I wasn’t sure if he was a bully or just a lost soul. I could tell he was here looking not for a soul mate but just for a place to go - maybe to find someone with whom to talk. Out of sympathy, I wanted to ask this man what was wrong and if there was anything I could do to help. Looking at this giant, it seemed he was not going to be easy to talk to. He could’ve squashed me with his shoe like an ant. All he would have needed to do was lift up his sneaker and SPLAT! I finally found the nerve to ask, “Is there anything I can help you with?” He turned and looked at me with his big puppy-dog eyes. He was indeed a lost soul. I could see he was in a world of anguish by the tears that could’ve filled a pond in minutes. The pain he was feeling was obviously going to stay with him. His eyes were red, as if he were swimming under water for hours with his eyes open. “NO,” he insisted as he inspected the ground. After an awkward moment of principal’s office silence, he slowly met me with his red, wet, brown eyes and began his story. His name was Josh Achucavage. He was eighteen years old, but he had the looks and build of a modern day Hercules. Josh said, “I am in the middle of a slow motion train wreck. I was in love with a girl. We shared a love that I never thought could be undone. We had been together for two wonderful years, full of great affection and happiness. Suddenly she ended it.” Josh remembered that night to be cold and rainy. Her words swarmed upon him like bees: “Too

compassionate!” “Overly sensitive!” “Clothes too bright!” She lectured on and on that he had twelve pair of the same style of shoes in twelve colors. She also couldn’t stand that he loved basketball so much even though he was the best player. Finally, after attacking all Josh was and ever would be, she was gone. Now he was stalking the streets searching for lost love. After the story, I gave Josh a big hug. He told me that he worked for all of his nice shoes and clothes, and

“Who wouldn’t want a guy that’s compassionate, tall, has a deep voice and plays ball like Michael Jordan?” he couldn’t give up the game that he loved. As Josh spoke, he convinced himself of his worth. Josh finally realized, “Who wouldn’t want a guy that’s compassionate, tall, has a deep voice and plays ball like Michael Jordan?” I pledged to help him find new love. That’s why today I write to all of you lonely girls. There is a man out there for you. His name is Josh Achucavage, the gentle giant, and he is searching for new love on the streets of Dallas, Pennsylvania.

We Sit Beneath the Trysting Tree Inspired by Asher B. Durand’s “The Trysting Tree” Alec Jankowski (11) The two of us sit Drinking in the scene before us Underneath the Trysting Tree The two suns One radiant, shining, illuminating the scene The heavenly mother to the Reflection below The second sun Shimmering, bathed in the cool water Emulates its divine mother As she prepares for another night’s slumber As the shadows lengthen, so do the days The sun flickers, flitting through the Green of the tree, our tree Summer is upon us We are at ease Only the subtle clouds sneaking Dare to threaten the domain of our star But their crusade is in vain The vicious peace of the sky’s ruler Deflects them And thus we sit Enjoying the twilight hours of our serene day Just two souls Underneath the Trysting Tree artwork above: Lindsay Davenport (10)

a REstlEss activE Wolf With Apologies to Walt Whitman

Sean McLane (12)

A restless active wolf, I markâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d where on the cliff it bayed longingly, Markâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d how it sniffed the crisp night air, It searched for meat, meat, meat, to engorge itself, Ever hunting it, ever tirelessly stalking it. And you, O my stomach, where you stand, Encircled, encompassed, in endless hills of nourishment, Ceaselessly grumbling, mumbling, aching, yearning the means to digest it, Till the arms rise to action, till the fork impale the steak, Till the gustatory pleasure coat your walls, O my stomach.

Perry Danis (12)

H a p p y H a p Maggie Wood (10)

olidays are a time for family and friends to gather and enjoy each other’s company. They are a time for relaxation and celebration, days spent with loved ones. Every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving and most birthdays, my entire family gets together to celebrate. The year goes by quickly, and holidays are a great time for my family to come together to catch up and relax with one another. Holidays are usually celebrated at my house, a central location for everyone. I look back on all the holiday memories, and, although there are many, I always remember my Uncle Hap’s sense of humor around a group of my laughing family members. The doorbell rings, and I rush to the door to welcome my Uncle Hap. His loud voice echoes throughout the house as he greets everyone with a rolling “Happy Easter,” despite the fact that it is December 25th. He ends with a Santa Claus-like belly laugh. My visually impaired dog hears all the commotion and runs directly into the sound, stumbling over Uncle Hap’s gigantic feet. “Can’t you see my foot is there?” Uncle Hap questions my dog with a chuckle. I take his coat, which is big enough to encompass my frame three times. Immediately, his penguin-like walk leads him to the aromas of food in the kitchen. His round face and walnut-sized cheeks crease with laughter after one of his many humorous jokes. With a plate full of food in his hulk-like hands, he sits on his favorite stool with his left arm resting on the counter and his back propped up against the wall for support. One leg is slanted on the floor, and the other is bent, resting on the bottom bar of the stool. Only fifteen minutes have passed, and he is already on his fifth joke. My stomach is aching like a cavitied tooth as roars of laughter fill the house. Without his awareness, some dip from his chips lands on his mustache, looking like a birthmark on a furry brown caterpillar. Without stopping to take a breath, he informs the family about his love and devotion to game shows. He states he cannot get enough of Bob Barker and “The Price is Right.” After he has his daily breakfast with Bob, he continues to watch game shows until lunch. His voice rises as he eagerly tries to convince the family that watching game shows for hours is normal. As we sit in

With a handful of Christmas cookies in his hand, he says a jolly “Mewwy Chris- mas!” as he stuffs another cookie into his mouth.

Jared Duffy (12)

disbelief, he gets flustered with our reaction and continues to defend his position on watching game shows. The noise level of the house is deafening but calms down after a thorough discussion of Uncle Hap’s game show obsession. Knowing Uncle Hap, this topic will resurface at a later date because he has not yet prevailed in his argument. We could all see the hunger in Uncle Hap’s face after this intense game show debate. Right after our meal, Uncle Hap tries to entice a few people to participate in a game of cards. He is usually the dealer, making the cards crackle, like the noise of clean sheets snapping in the wind. While dealing, he is nonsensically jabbering, which keeps everyone entertained. When it is his turn to lay a card, he snaps his elbow onto the table with a popping noise and slams down his massive forearm while dispensing his card. With the force of a gale wind, he sweeps up the winning hand and gives a boisterous sound which exudes a sense of

satisfaction. Time flies while we play cards; even the family members who aren’t playing are gathered in the kitchen with smiling faces. As the evening draws to an end, the laughter continues. The many jokes of Uncle Hap resound in my head as most of the family members begin to leave at the front door. With a handful of Christmas cookies in his hand, he says a jolly “Mewwy Chris- mas!” as he stuffs another cookie into his mouth. His bright, contagious smile and the roars of laughter echoing throughout the house from his antics replay in my head as I chuckle and give him a good bye hug. Returning with a giant bear hug, he turns to step off the front porch, heading for his car whistling, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” He gives a honk of the horn and yells, “Ho! Ho! Ho! and to all a goodnight...” as he waves his arm out his car window, ending another magical holiday at the Wood family household.

Found Poems Words From The House on Mango Street by

Sandra Cisneros

The House I Never Had Arranged by Michael Marshall (10) Everything is waiting to explode. We have four little elms In the front yard, When I’m sad I look at trees, I’m tired of looking at what we can’t have.

I never had a house, A house of my own. A little farther away every time People like us keep moving. Our house is small, Red With tight steps, With ordinary hallway stairs, With bricks crumbling. We didn’t always live On Mango Street, One day I will say goodbye to Mango, But Mango says goodbye. Everything is waiting to explode, Explode like Christmas.

Just a Falling Star Arranged by Kim Wild (10) She comes over black and blue Tired of being beautiful Beautiful is trouble ...waiting for someone to change her life… All of a sudden he let go Real quiet at first but then louder Like a pile of dishes breaking I had to run away. The colors swirl You can’t erase what you know. You can’t forget who you are. I don’t ever want to come from here.

The sky didn’t look the day she fell down Just a falling star. She is in a world we don’t belong to. Carissa Molina (12)

“He has nice eyes. He never hits me hard.” And how was she to know

Cedric Meyers (11)

Love Poem Kelly Schmidt (12)

We stand I wait Still air whistles faintly Through the gaping chasm Of my open chest Sticky remnants of utopian dreams Stain my fingers I am fixated Watching my heart pulsate gently In his palm Gripped awkwardly Like a foreign object should be My emotions bubble over his knuckles His fingers tense experimentally The squeeze pumps my lungs With hope My soul runs down his forearm Puddles at his elbow I cross my viscid fingers Silence fills my ears An ugly, foreign sound My empty chest hitches As his fingers fall My eyes dilate His hand relaxes …Rejects My heart drops to the floor With a hollow splatter The stars fade from my eyes With every muted drip From his saturated fingers

“You Got Blood On My Designer Shoes” Katie McLane (9)

A Perfect Collision A reflection on “Grand Canyon” by Thomas Moran

Jennifer Bishop (11) Emerald leaves lazily uncurl, reaching eagerly toward Inquisitive rays of sunshine that gently probe Thousands of hidden crevices. Golden beams of life caress the deepest valleys, Inquisitively searching, as though for ancient treasure. Fiery cliffs, blinding in their inspirational glory, Summon its warming spirit To awaken symphonies of color And to escape impending gloom that menaces nature’s harmony. Ignorant darkness advances, ominously gliding. Wind whispers through unsuspecting leaves. It gathers stampeding clouds, stifling terrified glittering sunbeams That leap frantically through sparkling heavens, delaying manifest destiny. Heaven strikes whirlwinds of clouds, piercing with her pointed rays; She foils vicious plots that threaten to tear her from her precious earthly domain. Silhouettes of clashing forces are artfully displayed On the endless canvas of expectant mountains below.

Through final wispy traces of the freshly scattered adversary, A conquering, shining orb radiates victory in joyful vigor. Peace reigns, fusing a harmonized bond of all elements. A single emerald leaf shyly stretches toward creation once more.

Johnnie Left Hand Bull (11)

The Regulator

Milo McLinn (12)

ome people really need to die: people who hunt ducks with AK-47s; people who fish using M80’s; people who tell store clerks to run their rejected credit card when they know they haven’t paid their bills; people who say they want to lose weight but continue to eat ice cream for breakfast. Of course, we all have moments of weakness and we all have flaws, but some people are truly spectacular in their repeated demands to be forcibly removed from the gene pool. Fortunately, a mysterious figure of whom few are aware has taken it upon him to do just that. He is known as The Regulator. Today, we will have a special treat. The Regulator has agreed to allow us to observe him as he performs his duties. Hurry now, we don’t want to keep him waiting. ‡ ‡ ‡ As we enter the lobby of the building at the address which the Regulator has given us, we are greeted by a young, blonde female receptionist seated behind a semicircular desk. Except for an elevator in the center of the back wall and a depressed-looking potted plant in one corner, the lobby is empty. “We’re here to see The Regulator,” we say, our voices uncertain. The receptionist smiles and tells us his office is on the fifteenth floor. Upon entering the elevator, however, we discover there are only five buttons, numbered appropriately. The doors have closed behind us, and as there is no “door open” button. We cannot return to the lobby. Thinking for a moment, we press the “one” button, then the “five” button. An illuminated number fifteen appears above the doors, which immediately spring open. The elevator has not moved, but rather than the lobby we just left, we see a large office. In one corner there is a water-cooler, which upon closer inspection is actually a fish tank. In the opposite corner is a much happier looking specimen of the plant in the lobby. The other two corners contain a coat-rack and a bin for the storage of items such as

umbrellas and canes. Against one wall, between the fish tank and the coat-rack, is a bookcase cluttered with worn pulp-fiction magazines, many of them dating back to the 1950’s. Against the opposite wall there is a pair of metal folding chairs. A ceiling fan spins lazily over the center of the windowless room, directly above the sole occupant. Dark, handsome, tall and fit in his exquisitely tailored pin-stripe suit and fedora, his face is always hidden in shadow, even under apparently direct illumination. He sits in his office watching a monitor mounted horizontally in the surface of his expensivelooking oak desk and occasionally snapping the whitegloved fingers of his right hand and chuckling to himself. He looks up as we step out of the elevator and says matter-of-factly, “Ah, you’ve arrived.” The Regulator’s voice is deep and resonant, like a bass drum, and seems to come from all directions at once. “Have a seat,” he continues, indicating the folding chairs. As we sit, we notice that in the brief moment we were facing the other way the elevator doors were replaced by a large television screen similar to the monitor in the desk. “You have arrived just in time to see something rather unusual,” says The Regulator, as the screen flickers to life. “Watch.” ‡ ‡ ‡ 9:30 AM. A house in southern California. A man dressed in Bermuda shorts and an AC/DC t-shirt is digging his cell phone, which is playing “Backstreet’s Back” via dial-tones of varying pitch, out of his pocket. “Hello?” “Mike?” “Oh, hey, Sally. ‘Sup?” “You’re SO not going to believe this – remember that guy I told you about, the one with the really really cool hat? Well, he’s, like, coming over to my house! I, like, can’t believe this! Can you believe this? I totally can’t!”

“Seriously? Dude! Awesome! Is he, like, bringing his hat?” ‡ ‡ ‡ As we watch, text scrolls by the bottom of the screen, explaining Mike’s current thought processes. Mike is realizing that he is woefully undersupplied should Sally bring The Dude With The Cool Hat over to meet him, so Mike decides to go out and buy some beer

because all the Dudes With Cool Hats he has previously encountered, no matter their other characteristics, love beer. But rather than excusing himself from the conversation, he continues to talk on his cell phone as he climbs into his super-safe gasoline-electric hybrid and speeds off toward the nearest mini-mall, steering with his knees as he talks on the phone and fiddles with his stereo.

Paul Evans (12)

Then he sticks his foot out the open window in order to increase his personal airflow, rather than turning on his air-conditioner. ‡ ‡ ‡ “What you see here,” The Regulator booms, the confidence of an expert enhancing his already-imposing voice, “constitutes only run-of-the-mill idiocy. Most people grow out of it by the time they reach age thirty. Normally it would not warrant my attention. This man, however, is a special case - a consistent and unrepentant repeat offender who has neither shown any signs of improvement nor self-destructed.” On the screen, we see Mike breaking contact with the steering wheel entirely so that he may turn around and fish a half-eaten burrito out of the back seat. Several people run their cars into the ditch to avoid colliding with him. All the while he continues to talk on his cell-phone. ‡ ‡ ‡ “Totally, Sally. You should totally get that foosball table.” “Like, are you sure? I already have that adorable pink air hockey set that I, like, never use.” “I know, but you have to, like – HOLY-!” The proximity alarm in Mike’s car goes off just in time for him to hook one foot on the steering wheel and avoid driving under the rear six wheels of an eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer in the oncoming lane. ‡ ‡ ‡ “And that does it,” says The Regulator, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the surface of his desk. “Mike has overstayed his welcome. The incident we just witnessed makes a total of one million offenses in the past year alone, not counting social improprieties and bathroom humor. Now comes the fun part.” Raising his left hand, The Regulator snaps his fingers.

‡ ‡ ‡ “Dude! I, like, totally almost died!” “Seriously? Omigod! Are you okay?” “It’s cool, I, like, totally dodged just in time. It was like that one movie, y’know?” “Like, LOL! I love that movie!” “…could ya like, hold on a second Sally? I feel kinda, like, warm.” Mike bursts into flames. ‡ ‡ ‡ We are in awe as Mike burns, his car spinning into the path of an oncoming bus. The screen fades out to black and the word “SEARCHING” appears on it in bright blue letters. Then something unexpected happens. The Regulator gets up from his desk and stretches. Turning to us, he confesses he had an ulterior motive in asking us to come and watch him at work. He asks if we would be willing to fill in for him for a short time. Naturally we agree; one does not refuse The Regulator. “Take this,” he says, pulling a handkerchief from his suit’s chest pocket. “I don’t need it. It will allow you to set people on fire with your mind. It’s not much, but it will do. The monitors will run themselves until I get back. The diagnostics are running so they should tell you when an offender is on-screen.” We notice that the elevator doors have returned, though there is no sign of the large monitor. “Where are you going?” we ask, hesitantly. Though we cannot see his face, we get the impression that The Regulator is smiling. “There’s a case that requires my … personal attention.” The Regulator tips his hat to us and the closing elevator doors steal him from view. We cannot help but think, “Gosh, that fedora is really, really cool.”

...some people are truly spectacular in their repeated demands to be forcibly removed from the gene pool.

Toddler fingers curve with happy greed around the polished pewter knob atop the snowman cookie jar. Toddler fingers with deft purpose swiftly decapitate Frosty swinging the hap-less soul’s head in circles down clunking against clear shiny countertop. Toddler fingers like insects’ feelers spreading, tapping, searching claiming victoriously bounty for the belly.

Toddler fingers raise the cookie to expectant lips, pervasively desirous for the decadence of delightful chocolaty sensation tasted with the first vociferous face-stuffing bite . . . ICK! Like two silver balls at opposite ends of Newton’s cradle the cookie crumbles down toward linoleum as a tide of nausea heaves up from a toddler stomach. RAISINS . . .

Toddler fingers grasping homemade treasure support, ease feet, shins, knees crawling, shimmying off the tall high-backed wooden chair.

Katie McLane (9)

W hb is

e n

Andre Lutz (11) 20

Krista King (12)

The air was crisp; the days were short and cloudy while the nights were long and pristine. It was the holiday season. The Delevan family was packing their gas guzzling SUV for the long Thanksgiving weekend. It was the same routine every year. Spoiled, stuck up Jessie complained about the drive ahead, while her younger brother silently endured endless requests from their parents. “Get the cooler! Pack the car! Feed Sparky! Hurry up, Josh!” And without so much as a whimper, he did. Josh was a quiet boy when he was with his family. He never spoke unless he was spoken to. He didn't laugh at jokes or anything for that matter. But he wasn't sad or unhappy, just indifferent to his family as they were to him. He had friends, though. He laughed with them and told stories, played video games, threw water balloons, created trouble… everything that twelve year old boys do when they get together. Mr. Delevan pulled the car out of the driveway. Four hours to Uncle John’s house. Josh put his White Sox pillow up against the back window and closed his sharp green eyes. His wavy, auburn hair was covered by a Sox baseball cap, backwards, of course. The rhythmic thump

of Jessie’s music from her headphones pounded inside his head. She pinched his arm and rolled her eyes at his slight grimace. “This is going to be a loooong trip,” he thought to himself. Josh pulled his knees in close to his chest and fell asleep. He dreamed about his family during Thanksgiving and how different they were compared to the families of his friends. His friends’ families all sat around a large table making jokes, telling stories, and playing board games or cards. His family would eat their Thanksgiving dinner and then go their separate ways. Josh envied his friends and the love that they experienced at home. Mr. Delevan pulled the SUV within inches of the old, chipped garage door as Josh groggily opened his tired eyes. The house was made out of stone and covered in dying vines. The paint around the windows was chipping and discolored. Despite the house’s desolate appearance, it was a very welcoming house. The Delevans had been going to Uncle John’s for as long as Josh could remember, and the house had never changed. Aunt Rosie came toddling out of the rickety front door. “Oh God,” Josh thought, “here comes the most obnoxious cheek pinch

ever.” “Oooooh! My sweet Jessica, Darlin’! Hi Josh. Oh my, Jessica, honey, you look greeeeat!” She half jogged to the four of them and wrapped her thick, wobbly arms around Jessie. An older man poked his head out of the doorway and waved. He was small and his hair was almost as thin as he was. “Hi, Aunt Rosie; Hey, Uncle Pete!” Josh hugged his bulky aunt with one arm and waved at the man in the doorway with the other. “Hey little man!” Uncle Pete yelled to Josh. “Jessie, how many hearts are ya breakin’ Doll Face?” “A few here and there, Uncle Pete!” Aunt Rosie was asking Jessie about cheerleading and just like that, the two were off in their own little world. Despite the figure difference, Rosie and Jessie both had pretty faces but were saturated with fakeness. Jessie had always been Aunt Rosie’s favorite, and there had never even been a question as to why. They both loved the materialistic things in life, dated (and in Rosie’s case, married) rich guys, stabbed people in the back without thinking twice, and lacked a conscience. As Josh walked into the house, Grandpa Joe walked past him, hunched over and limping with a cane, without so much as a smile. Josh wasn’t offended. He was used to being ignored by his family while Jessie was worshiped. The only person in Josh’s family who paid any attention to him was Grandma Anne. She was the oldest member of the family. Her hair was flowing and silver, but she always kept it in a long, tight braid. Her skin was dark and wrinkled. She had soft, pale blue eyes that were shielded by tiny silver glasses. Josh found her sitting in an overstuffed armchair into which she seemed to sink. “Gramma Anne!” Josh half shouted to her as he ran to her side. “Oh, hi there, Josh. I haven’t seen you in ages, Dear. How are ya doin Sweetie?” “I’m good, Gramma. I got an A in math! And I found a turtle in the backyard. I named him Shell. Are you gonna come see us for Christmas again Gramma?” “No, Dear, I don’t think I can make it this year. But I have a surprise for you. I stole the wishbone from the turkey. What do you say, you and me crack it?”

“The wishbone? Jessie and Aunt Rosie always get it.” Josh hesitated to take the side that his grandma had offered to him. “Oh, c’mon, boy, you can’t let that witch of a sister push you around all the time.” Grandma Anne pushed. “Okay, Gramma…” Josh slowly lifted his small hand to the wish bone. He wrapped his twig-like fingers tightly around the smooth, thin bone and gently closed his eyes. “I wish,” he thought, “for a whoooole new family.” He tugged on the fragile bone. SNAP! Josh opened his eyes. He was in bed but not his bed. He was shocked to see a Bulls banner hanging from the ceiling. He looked around, trying to find something that he recognized. Trophies, baseball posters, a hockey stick… Josh didn’t even know anyone who liked hockey, much less played it. “Where am I?” he thought. Josh threw the covers off and ran to the window. He spread the slats of the blinds and peered outside. “Snow?! How can there be snow?” he thought. “I live in Phoenix!” Josh opened the door, again not recognizing a single item in the hallway. There were wooden floors and navy blue wallpaper. Picture frames lined the hallway walls. He crept through the house, silently peaking at the photos. One of them caught his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the unfamiliar picture. “That’s me!” he thought. A door at the end of the hall swung open. “Happy 13th James!” a middle-aged man smiled and shouted in Josh’s direction. Josh looked behind him. No one. He stared at the man trying to figure out what was going on. “What’s wrong, Sport? Cat get yer tongue?” The man chuckled and walked toward Josh. He put a hand on his shoulder and started to walk down the stairs to the right. “So James, ya excited fer yer birthday… The whole day is yers,” the man continued. “Um, I, uh, guess so?” Josh said, unsure of what the man was looking for. “Ya guess so? It’s the big 1-3! Yer a man now, Son. Let’s start the presents!”

“Um, ok?” Josh said nervously. “But ya can’t tell yer mom. She’d have my head if she knew I did presents without her. Josh walked with the strange man down to the kitchen. Everything was in its place and looked like it had been disinfected every quarter hour for the past year. The windows were handprint free. The counters were crumbless and the floors were lacking a scuff mark. On the center counter were two smaller boxes and one large one, all neatly wrapped. The man handed Josh one of the smaller ones. “Here ya go, Champ!” “Uh, thanks…,” Josh said unsteadily. He opened the box and pulled out a gold watch. It was clearly the most expensive item that Josh had ever touched. It was diamond encrusted and extremely elegant. Josh hated it. It was something his sister would have liked. “Jessie,” he thought. “Where is she?” “Um, do you know a Jessica Delevan, by chance?” Josh asked the man. “No Kiddo,” He laughed. “Do you?” “Uh, no. Um I thought I heard her name on the answering machine.” He lied. “K, well, I’m gonna go wake up your ma so we can have cake. That’s my favorite part of your birthday ya know. I love the cake… it’s just so sweet and...” the man trailed off as he walked back up the stairs. Josh sat, puzzled. He didn’t like this man. He gave Josh the willies. Tears started to form in Josh’s eyes. He missed his Grandma and, surprisingly, Jessie. He thought about all the times that they had raked leaves together when they were younger. He remembered how she used to play football with him and his friends before she got to high school. She wasn’t always that bad and neither were his parents. They took him for granted a lot, but they never hurt him or made him feel unwanted. Josh realized that he liked the quirkiness of his distant family.

Josh had to find a way to get back to his real family. “Happy birthday, James!” a woman’s voice called from the kitchen doorway. “Are you ready for your cake, Pumpkin?” “That’s it!” Josh thought. “Yeah! I am! Can we do it now?” “Well, of course, whatever you want.” She walked to the refrigerator and removed a white cake. The slender woman placed thirteen candles on the top of the cake and carefully lit each one. She then placed the cake in front of Josh. “Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear James. Happy birthday to you!” the strangers sang horribly off key. ‘I wish for my old family back!’ Josh closed his eyes tightly and blew out all of the candles. WHEW! Josh opened his eyes. He looked up and saw his Grandma Anne’s comforting face. “Ya a’right Josh?” She asked with care. Both of them were still holding onto the unbroken wishbone. “Yeah, Gramma, I’m fine, but maybe we should save the wishbone for Jessie and Aunt Rosie... You know it means a lot to ‘em.” “Well, I guess you’re right. But you gotta stand on your own two feet sometime Josh.” “I will someday Gramma. But I’m only twelve now. Happy Thanksgiving Gramma Anne.”

‘I wish for my old family back!’ Josh closed his eyes tightly an blew out all of the candles.

No Ground Was Gained Dedicated to Randall Jarrell Kevin Axe (11)

For King! We cried For Country! We claimed As we flew over the top But They were ready But They were prepared And the guns began to roar Forward! We cried Attack! We shouted As we surged across the mud

But They were ready But They were prepared And the men dropped among the craters Backwards! We cried Retreat! We shouted As we started crawling back to shelter But They were ready But They were prepared And the artillery pounded closer Reserves! We called Prepare! We ordered As we realized we had gained nothing But They were ready But They were prepared And the defenders began their attack

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Backyardâ&#x20AC;? Adam Donald (11)

Kristin Kopish (12)

L i b e r at io n Kristin Kopish (12)

Tugging at the heavy, arduous chains shackling you to a warped and misshapen floor, you bravely challenge the critical, exacting crowd. Surprised, they slink back—and some extra links you gain. The crowd, confused, fails to comprehend. Until now you’ve been complacent and calm, drugged into conformity by their psychological sedatives. This new refusal to be labeled like a specimen seems to offend. The crowd clatters and clanks, agitated, forging new chains with its distress, renewing its endeavors. But for each new link added you break three old away. A cry of indignation as realization dawns—they’ve been outsmarted. Unchained, unlimited, you walk away without a glance back As the chains shackle the crowd with a blissful, resounding clack.

ROAD TRIP Kelly Schmidt (12)

he early afternoon sky billowed warm and yellow over the flat sweep of rural highway. The road was empty, save for a weathered sedan carrying a young man and a young woman. She squared her thin shoulders and affected a low voice. “Whadja major in again, son?” “Well, sir, education with a focus in- will he really say ‘son’?” “Yeah.” “Has he ever called me that before?” “I don’t know…maybe.” “Don’t you think that’s kind of a hint?” “Don’t be so paranoid.” “…Okay.” She leaned in and smiled at him, curling her bare toes on the dashboard. “Okay. Again. What do you do?” “Economics… stuff.” “Bring that up first. He’ll like that.” “Really?” “Yeah, but not the whole ‘stuff’ bit.” “Well, right.” “You’ll keep him ranting for hours. ‘The economy needs a smart boy like you. None of these kids know a damn thing about money today…’” His long fingers dangling from the worn steering wheel, he turned to look at her. “Are you sure?” “Oh good lord, yes.” “Okay.” “Okay.”

Chelsey D’Alessandro (12)

“…I just don’t want it to be awkward.” “It won’t be!” “Maybe not for you, you’re used to him!” “He already loves you!” “He’s never met me!” “That’s why we’re here!” He fumbled idly with the radio, settling on a moderately-paced song that faded into white noise. He turned to her suddenly, “You didn’t tell him how we met, did you?” “Um.” “He’s going to kill me on sight.” “I didn’t really tell him.” “‘Really’ tell him?” “I told him on the phone with a series of artful euphemisms.” “…” “I said it was a blind date.” “Nice work.” “Yeah, well… ours isn’t really a tale for the grandkids.” “…Maybe he liked Studio 54-themed kegger parties in his day.” “Drop it.” “Okay.” “Hey, ah, speaking of grandkids-” “Your mother’s going to be there?” “Yeah.” “I thought we were eating at your dad’s house first.”

“Well knowing her, she’ll stop by.” “Hmph.” “What does ‘hmph’ mean?” “What do you mean, what does ‘hmph’ mean?” “Don’t you like my mom?” “That woman should just have more of her own kids, is all I’m saying.” She dug out a bottle of mouthwash from the suitcase behind her and took an enthusiastic gulp, swilling it thoughtfully. “Wew… I ahm urr ohny gihr.” “Come again?” She rolled down the window, held her bangs back from her face, and tried to spit daintily. Failing, she wiped her mouth and chin and settled back in the seat. “I said, ‘Well, I am her only girl.’” “Hmph.” “Again with the hmph!” “…I hate when you do that.” “What?” “Why can’t you use that in the bathroom?” “I do.” “I mean only in the bathroom.” “My mouth gets gross.” “You use it all day!” “I like it.” “You’re ridiculous.” “I’m minty fresh.” “…Touché.” His slight grin faded to a sigh as he shifted in his seat. She dropped her head to his shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry so much.” “I can and will.” “Well fine then.” “Fine.” “Fine!” He snorted and shook his head. “We sound two.” “We are two.”

“Okay, then.” “…Do I smell clean?” She gathered the front of her shirt and sniffed. “Hm, I can’t remember if I packed my perfume.” She looked at him frowning. “Stop it.” “What’d I do?” “You’re giving me that look.” “What look? I’m not giving you any look.” “The you’re-an-idiot look.” “What? I’m not giving you the idiot look. I’m giving you the weird look, tops.” His winning, lopsided smile was met with an exaggerated pout. He laughed and swiped the hair out of her eyes, settling his arm over her shoulders. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry. I’ll never give you the weird look again.” “Or the idiot look.” “I have never given you the idiot look!” “Just promise you won’t do either.” “Fine. I won’t give you the weird look or the idiot look ever again.” “…Yes, you will.” “This argument is going nowhere.” “You’re going nowhere.” “…Scathing.” “Shut up.” She leaned back in her seat smiling and watched the hills dotted with dandelions and field violets ripple past her window. “It really is pretty out here. Must be a nice place to live.” “Yeah, it’s very peaceful. Dad loves it.” “How much time do we have?” “…Twenty minutes, give or take.” He inhaled deeply and tightened his grip on the wheel. “Hey, I told you not to worry.” “Easier said than done.” “Just…just smile a lot.” “Does smiling guarantee me success?” “Well, no.” “Okay.” The road followed the swell of a large, low hill. When it fell away to level land, a small cluster of trees and a house were on the horizon. He visibly paled as their destination crept closer. “He will love you.” “How do you know?” She turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Because I do!” “That’s adorable.” “Shut up.” “…I love you.” “I love you, too.”

A Simple Life Nick Oliphant (12)

He lives his life, simple as can be Up at seven, down by ten-thirty Same tie, same pair of slacks, Same weathered briefcase, full of facts He hops on the bus and goes to work Never a frown, and never a smirk Reports to the boss at eight-fifteen Doesn’t mind that the man is so mean 28

Always around the corner for lunch, Nothing too sweet, nothing with a crunch Back to the office to talk on the phone His ears tire from the endless drone Heads home when his work is done Never a thought of anything fun Some may think his life a bore, I wonder, “Does he ever want more?”

Liz Kremer

(11)

Jay Sekhon (11)

To 30

ke n of

Cl a

Sam McLaughlin (9)

artwork by: Susan Chang (11) Johnnie Left Hand Bull (11) arranged by: Cedric Meyers (11)

unlight lanced through the thick, green canopy of the ancient forest. The trees were massive, great in bole and height, all standing well apart from each other. Grass carpeted the forest floor and muffled the footsteps of the two travelers slowly making their way between the enormous trees. Crion glanced about idly as he strode forward, fairly relaxed, but still alert. His mail clinked softly as he moved, and he felt the weight of the thick metal plates resting on his shoulders acutely now, though they weighed much less than the long, curved sword hanging at his side. For a while his gaze rested upon his traveling companion, Ria. Her robes were a soft red-brown edged with silver, and her shining black hair was pulled back in a thick, long braid; she held a halberd loosely in only a few fingers. Swinging his head to the left, Crion ignored the gentle swaying of his long spikes of jet black hair as he glanced at a patch of bushes. Some of the branches moved slightly, and he could acutely hear the sound of something small moving about in the depths of the foliage. Nodding to himself, Crion turned forward once again. His eyes were cold, burning spheres of blue that raged with unmatched ferocity. Walking lightly, he was a coiled spring, but his deathly alertness showed through only the stunning smoothness of his movement. Crion was particularly aware of his surroundings today; for the last hour or so he had been growing steadily more convinced that they were being followed. Crion was tempted to ignore the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind, but he had learned the hard way that indiscretion was a good way to get himself in trouble, and he really did not wish

to relearn this lesson for what must be the third or fourth time. Ria did not seem to notice Crion’s tense alertness, though her composure could match his own at times. “Have you ever been in a fight?” Ria inquired. Crion’s face twitched into a slight frown for the briefest moment before he regained his composure, though his eyes gained a bit more intensity. “Yes,” Crion said slowly. Ria nodded to herself as if she had anticipated such a response. “Many?” “More than I would like,” Crion replied curtly. He was becoming rather annoyed with her growing persistence in digging at a buried area. “I should think it would be exciting,” Ria commented mildly, more to herself than Crion, though she certainly intended him to hear what she had said. Crion shook his head slowly--she carried an unused halberd, but would she still carry it after she had fought with it? “No… Not exciting, just frightening… which is almost akin to excitement, I guess… Ria, just hope that you never are in a real fight.” “I would still like to see one,” persisted Ria. “No…Ria…No, you would not…” Ria sensed his discomfort and let things be, though whether she saw him as uneasy or vexed, Crion did not know. He rather hoped the latter for he was certainly comfortable with such topics, though he didn’t flaunt them. She restrained herself from asking just why he was somewhat evasive on the subject, realizing that he avoided the topic for a reason, and that pressing it on in conversation would likely be something that he did not appreciate.

He Fixed Ria with a fiercely stern gaze which softened into a sadder expression.

As they walked through the trees at an easy pace, Crion continued to scan the woods, becoming more certain with every moment that they were being followed. The crack of a stray stick trod upon, the rustle of a cloak against bushes or the trunk of a tree, shadows where there ought not be any, all these observances weighed rather heavily upon Crion. By the time the sky was tinted orange and the light fading, he was visibly on edge, looking about constantly for their pursuers, though he continued to see only faint signs of being stalked. An arrow whistled through the air a few feet left of Crion and buried itself into the wide bole of a nearby tree with a dull thud, the shaft quivering for a moment or two. Crion’s burning blue eyes flicked towards the arrow for a moment, and then he turned casually, sliding his sword free from its scabbard, the grey blade glinting red in the fading light of the sun. The shooter was a good fifty yards away, dressed in a rusty coat of mail and a torn, patched, greasestained tabard, his hair a mangy nest of tangles, a rough beard covering the better part of his face - a brigand, and by his looks and the rust spots on his notched sword, not a very good one. He fitted another arrow to his bow and loosed the shaft at Crion, this time a little more accurately, for Crion had to step lightly to the side a few moments before it sailed past him. He was light as the summer breeze wafting through him - a feather in the wind, darting away through the trees towards the brigand, sword flashing viciously in the sunlight. Crion moved smoothly, with almost unnatural delicacy, crossing the fifty yards separating him from the shooter quickly, avoiding another arrow on the way there. The man was a quick shooter, but an inaccurate one.

Crion’s sword slid easily through the air just as he danced around the man who was busy yanking his sword free form the tattered remains of his scabbard. The brigand lunged at Crion, who stepped lightly to the side and probed out with the tip of his sword as easily as if it were his finger tip. Recoiling away from the searching, deadly point of steel, the brigand tried to step around Crion who cut him off and lightly struck at him with his sword, driving with the edge this time instead of the tip. Again the brigand was forced back. And then the man attacked, recklessly, stupidly, taking a two-handed swing over his head and down on Crion’s, who flowed to the side, eyes blazing like blue suns. Smooth as water, Crion stepped up to the side of the man as his sword sheared through old mail rings like a knife through cloth, and then even more easily through fatty flesh. The fire faded from his eyes, at least to some degree. Dropping away, Crion walked slowly, determinedly towards Ria, ears pricked for any sounds of further movement. Bending slightly, he wiped off the blade on the ground and then straightened, returning it to the black leather scabbard at his side. He fixed Ria with a fiercely stern gaze which softened into a sadder expression. He shook his head. Ria, pale-faced and trembling, quaked under his gaze, though needlessly. Crion closed his eyes, then slowly, painfully, fighting for his composure said, “Ria…” He sighed heavily. “There…There are some things that don’t come easily… and there are others that are all too simple…” His eyes were no longer vicious pits of deadly, controlled ferocity, but they were no less stern, no less terrible.

Smooth as water, Crion stepped up to the side of the man as his sword sheared through old mail rings like a knife through cloth, and then even more easily through fatty flesh.

artwork above: Sam McLaughlin (9)

I spread my translucent wings, brittle yet strong Catching the warm valley updrafts Carrying me to remembered places Focusing a thousand ommatidia2 lenses of polarized light not color.

I escape this unnatural development Buzzing back to nature Antennas sensing bitter creosote and black beasts Following the path of iron crossed by tar-black wood.

I see a few scraggly blurry trees Destroyed for a never-ending path That tattoos the flesh of the Earth Once I counted a million Now dwindling reminders of what once was.

I tune my leg hairs to Nature’s cry of agony Intensifying, a growing crescendo Multiple pitches sounding one steamy note Undertoned by the rhythmic pumping of beastly growling.

I and my kin survived the destruction of our natural habitat Finding new homes among humans Eating no longer sweet nectar but rotting waste Flying not through sunbeams But death traps of rolled newspaper.

Others in the forest join in shrieking Hollering warnings to me: “Look Out!” I turn to see Too late Too fuzzy SMACK!

1. ushë'ta' is the Susquehannock word for “housefly” 2. Optical sensors in a compound eye like that of a fly

Back to Nature. Smeared to the front of a locomotive.

Martha Mank (9)

Inspired by “Lackawanna Valley” by George Innes

Cast Your Whole Vote Haylie Linn (11)

34 “Untitled” Kirsten Widder (10)

pen almost any history book and you are sure to find the recounting of a war. The war may have been fought for various reasons— for freedom, power, land, and resources, among others. It may very well have been justified, or it may have been unjust and immoral. Open the book to America’s Revolutionary War against Britain and find that nearly every American says that it was a just war—a war that was fought for freedom and liberty for all of the colonists. On the other hand, open to the Vietnam War and find that it was greatly protested. Go back to the days of Henry David Thoreau and find there was the debatable invasion of Mexico by America in 1846, one of America’s first major conflicts driven by the ideology of “Manifest Destiny.” Today there is the very controversial war in Iraq, a war that the American government claims to be justified and to be making the world a safer place while liberating the oppressed people of Iraq. Others say, however, the government pushed for and rushed into the war on grounds of false evidence and accusations, calling it an unwarranted invasion, claims similar to those of

Thoreau in regard to the Mexican-American War. The nineteenth century words and teachings of Henry David Thoreau are still relevant today because they offer advice on influencing government policy in regard to the war in Iraq. The war in Iraq is unjustified, and now, instead of rooting out terrorism and bringing a greater peace to the Middle East, the situation has worsened and thousands of American soldiers have died. The United States invaded Iraq on the pretense that Iraq was an immediate and serious threat to the security of the nation. Iraq’s harsh, cruel dictator Saddam Hussein was said to be harboring terrorists and collaborating with al Qaeda. However, in reality, this was not the case; some evidence even suggested that there previously had been tension between Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, the terrorist mastermind. “By some intelligence assessments, other democratic governments had much closer links to al Qaeda than Iraq…The news media instead routinely reinforced the Bush administration propaganda goal of linking Iraq to 9/11 and the war on terror, generally

framing coverage of Iraq in the terms of being part of this war” (McChesney and Nichols 57). In addition, the American news media’s frequent coverage of Iraq as a part of the war on terror compounded the effectiveness of convincing some Americans of the false connection between Iraq and the al Qaeda terrorist network. Iraq was also said to be producing and hiding dangerous nuclear and biological weapons—weapons of mass destruction (WMDs). Former Secretary of State Colin Powell went before the United Nations in February of 2003 with supposed indisputable evidence of weapons of mass destruction existing in Iraq in an attempt to make a clear case for the invasion of Iraq. However, no matter how much Powell persisted, much of his evidence was controversial. “Powell provided little verifiable evidence for his extravagant claims” (McChesney and Nichols 59). Even after thorough searching, United Nations weapons inspectors still found no weapons. “There were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. The Bush administration pushed its claims with little concern for evidence, and the news media participated in this fraud to

an appalling extent” (McChesney and Nichols 57). Again, the government completely disregarded the true facts, and again the news media heightened the effects of these claims with nearly constant coverage of the many WMDs supposedly in Iraq that were posing an immediate threat to the United States. President George W. Bush and the American government refused to believe this clear information, and so President Bush authorized the sudden attack on Iraq on March 20, 2003. This was done without the support and approval of the majority of the American public and without a formal, constitutional declaration of war from the United States Congress. Shockingly, the attack on Iraq was also a blatant violation of international law. “The UN charter and a number of other treaties signed by the United States prohibit the invasion of one nation by another unless it is under armed attack” (McChesney and Nichols 57). This invasion was a violation of fundamental international law that the United States, as a leading free, democratic nation in the world, should be responsible and expected to not only enforce, but also, at the very least, uphold. At the time of this

unjust invasion, many of the American soldiers were not fully prepared for the situation; many did not have the proper equipment, especially essential body armor. Others were ordered to high-risk areas and put in positions for which they were not necessarily trained. Some American soldiers were also found to be guilty of committing what could rightly be considered inhumane and despicable war crimes of torture and humiliation against Iraqi prisoners of war in the Abu Ghraib prison. Today, three years since the beginning of the war in Iraq, over 2,000 American soldiers have died. Saddam Hussein has been captured and a new democratic government instituted, yet President Bush refuses to begin to set deadlines for the withdrawal of American troops from Iraq. “The Pentagon has not committed to any specific drawdown of U.S. forces next year” (Riechmann). Not only is there no end to this war in sight, but also terrorism in Iraq has dramatically increased rather than decreased, which was one of the White House’s most important arguments for war in the first place—to continue to fight its worldwide war on terror through Iraq, the most prominent terrorist threat to America. “A CIA classified report in the summer of 2005 reached exactly this conclusion: ‘Iraq has become what Afghanistan was under Soviet occupation, only more so: a magnet and training for Islamic extremists, who will eventually threaten other countries’” (McChesney and Nichols 57). Instead of Iraq becoming a safer, more secure and peaceful nation, the opposite has occurred; terrorism in Iraq is now more prevalent and dangerous than ever. So as the situation in Iraq in many respects worsens, American soldiers continue to die, but the Bush administration refuses to take action to bring about withdrawal of U.S. troops and an end to the war in Iraq. Henry David Thoreau was a man of convictions; he was strongly against the Mexican-American War and believed that it was his duty to himself, his God, and his country to speak out and stand up for his beliefs. Thoreau felt that the Mexican-American War was an unjust war, and he passionately agreed with the words of then Congressman Abraham Lincoln: “This unnecessary war was unconstitutionally commenced by the President, who may be telling us the Truth—but he is not telling the

whole Truth. He has swept the war on and on, in showers of blood. His mind, taxed beyond its powers, is running out like some tortured creature on a burning surface” (Lawrence and Lee 95). Like Lincoln, Thoreau felt that President James Polk rushed into an unwarranted war without a declaration of war and without support from Congress and the American people. Thoreau believed the United States never should have invaded Mexico in the first place, and he was disgusted and horrified by the tremendous loss of life, both of American soldiers and innocent civilians in Mexico, caused by the war. Because of this, he did everything he could to ensure that he in no way, neither directly nor indirectly, contributed to the war effort. “I will not pay one copper penny to an unjust government!…You want a dollar from me? If I don’t approve the way that dollar’s spent, you’re not going to get it!” (qtd. in Lawrence and Lee 60,63). Thoreau absolutely refused to pay his taxes because his tax money would go straight to help pay for the war, which he would not contribute to at any cost. He felt so strongly against the war that he was willing to give up his own freedom and go to jail rather than pay taxes to a government that would use the money to help pay for the war. In addition to not paying his taxes, he believed it was his responsibility to speak out and let his voice be heard in support of his views. “What the government of this country is doing turns my stomach! And if I keep my mouth shut, I’m a criminal. To my Conscience. To my God. To Society” (qtd. in Lawrence and Lee 62-63). He felt it was one’s duty to speak, to shout, to do whatever was necessary to ensure that one’s cries of the injustices around him or her were heard. He believed this to be true even if someone was the only person who was not conforming to the rest of society or going along with the majority. Instead of following the easier path accepted by society, he felt a person should become a strong, persistent majority of one. “A minority is powerless while it conforms to the majority; it is not even a minority then; but it is irresistible when it clogs by its whole weight” (Thoreau 276). By the steady, persuasive, unrelenting voice of the minority, the majority of society is forced to acknowledge its cries. In addition, he felt it was necessary to not only cast one’s

vote on a ballet every election day but also to cast one’s vote by spreading and promoting his or her views. “Cast your whole vote, not a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence” (Thoreau 276). Thoreau believed it was not good enough to just mark one’s views on a ballot and from then on ignore the pressing issues that had been voted on. Only by publicly standing up for one’s beliefs and persistently speaking out until one’s views are addressed would his or her whole vote and influence be cast. Thoreau felt it was his responsibility to himself and to society to stand up for his beliefs and cast his entire vote so that his voice was heard. In many ways, the wisdom and philosophy of Henry David Thoreau can still be applied in today’s world, especially to America’s involvement in the current war in Iraq. It is now clear that the Bush administration deceived the American people, presenting them with false evidence in an attempt to justify an unwarranted invasion of Iraq. The government claimed that Iraq was producing lethal weapons of mass destruction and that Saddam Hussein was closely linked to Osama bin Laden and the al Qaeda terrorist network. However, this was not the case, and the war in Iraq is unjustified. Today, terrorism in Iraq is worse than ever before. Over 2,000 American soldiers have died, and there is still no end in sight. Action needs to be taken now to bring this war to an end and the soldiers home. Thoreau would encourage opponents of the war to relentlessly and vehemently speak out and protest against the war and let their cries of the unjustness of the war be heard. He would advise organizing assemblies and sending petitions to the government calling for the withdrawal of American troops from Iraq. Thoreau

would not be afraid to put his reputation on the line, nor fear being labeled as “unpatriotic” for questioning government policy in regard to the war in Iraq. He would call for others to do the same and use their voices to bring about change. As contemporary poet and song writer, Bob Dylan, insightfully questioned in his well-known song, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “How many deaths will it take ‘til he knows that too many people have died?”

Action needs to be taken now to bring this war to an end and the soldiers home. 37

“Africa” Katie McLane (9)

Works Cited Dylan, Bob. “Blowin’ In The Wind.” The Essential Bob Dylan. Columbia, 2000. Lawrence, Jerome, and Robert E. Lee. The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail. New York: Hill and Wang, 2001. McChesney, Robert W., and John Nichols. Tragedy and Farce. New York: The New Press, 2005. Riechmann, Deb. “Bush: ‘Time, patience’.” The Capital Times. 30 Nov. 2005: 1A. Thoreau, Henry David. Walden and “Civil Disobedience.” New York: Signet Classics, 1999.

The Ram in the FishBowl Joy Tesensky (12) 38

March 31, 1988 destiny’s day for me February 25, 1988 reality checks into life’s game disrupts destiny’s plans kicking the threads of fate helter-skelter with beckham-like boots. 5 wks, 5 lbs too early a rambunctious ram suspended in an inflatable fishbowl of tie-dyed lavender and cerulean plastic, filled with Kleenex tissues I thrash. I flail hooves. I throw horns every direction, yet my absurd prison will not puncture. I’m drowning in this ridiculous pool of sensitivity Aries’s Destiny’s gifts versus Pisces’s Reality’s curses

a suffocating dichotomy a leader, born helpless a vibrant spirit, bold-daring imagination, fettered a mind too willing to conform to cheapen its potential for greatness an intellect sagging beneath an incessant concern over being well-liked. a courage . . . that 5-lb, 4-oz guppy physique belying a voice packed with its own megaphone and an expansive, bouncing hyena’s cackle . . . that does not know embarrassment’s rose upon its cheek, suppressed by the fear of alienation from people

Kelly Schmidt (12)

The

Two

Sides of Joy

The Two Sides of Joy Joy Tesensky (12)

’ve worked on the editorial staff of my high school’s literary magazine for four years, and in that time I’ve probably read nearly a hundred “Grandma stories.” It seems every person in my school has some story about his or her grandma baking special homemade cookies over the holidays that he or she finds exceedingly heartwarming. From reading these accounts, I have come to the conclusion that most grandmas naturally have a tendency to dote upon their grandchildren and that, in turn, imbues grandchildren with unshakable, sentimentalized beliefs in their grandma’s greatness. Obviously, very few people in this world have Grandma Joy for a grandmother. My Grandma Joy never baked homemade cookies for her grandchildren. I do have fond memories, however, of her sneaking my cousins and me glasses of wine and champagne after Thanksgiving dinners at my uncle’s house in Milwaukee. Grandma Joy has always bought all forty-six of her grandchildren Christmas and birthday gifts, and there has even been the occasional, spontaneous gift of a couple bucks for no particular reason. But in children’s greedy, bloated Christmas vision, the $5 and Hallmark Christmas ornament combo my cousins and I received from Grandma Joy never seemed to compare with the $50 gifts or cash checks we would receive from our grandparents on the “other sides” of our respective families.

But not one of my single, forty-five cousins, nor I, would deny that Grandma Joy is great. But our belief in her greatness is un-tempered by rosy emotions. From my family’s perspective, it is a fact that my grandmother is great. She is great because the record of her life’s experiences testifies concretely to her greatness. She is the veritable matriarch of my family, the source from which all my family’s inherent, inextricable craziness sprouted.    Grandma Joy’s parents, my great-grandparents, were lucky enough to escape Germany right after World War I. They reached the southern suburbs of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where my great-grandpa Bua (pronounced “boo-uh”) became a butcher with an affinity for cutting grass. Maybe I was slightly mistaken when I claimed that Grandma Joy was the source of all my family’s idiosyncrasies. Our weirdness could have originated less conspicuously in Bua. You see, this 6’7”, rail-thin, stoically solemn, non-talkative, imposing figure of a man didn’t cut grass in the conventional manner with a lawn mower. He liked to cut grass with a pair of scissors. He would grab the kitchen shears from my greatgrandmother’s drawers, march outside, and kneel on the lawn for hours cutting away. Cutting the grass for Bua was a weekend-long process, and he loved every minute of it.

My Grandma Joy didn’t inherit her father’s odd passion for cutting grass, but she did harbor an intense passion for dancing and the theatre. My Grandma had seventeen years of classical ballet training and eleven years of classical voice lessons. Her talent did not go unnoticed, and she was even offered a role in the original production of The Music Man on Broadway. But she turned it down to marry my grandfather, Grandpa John. So what kind of woman did my grandmother become? The kind of woman who survived the emotional trauma of losing her firstborn child one hour after his birth but went on to raise eight other children. The kind of woman who, after losing the 54-year-old love of her life to a painful battle with lung cancer, forged a new, unconventional life for herself as a widow. After Grandpa John died, Grandma Tiffany Duffy (9) Joy went to clown school, got her degree, and became a professional clown, traveling around the country with a circus troupe. And when the early stages of rheumatoid arthritis began to slow her down, she became a self-proclaimed “gypsy,” living with one of her children and his or her family for a couple of

months, and then moving on to the next child’s abode, with each of my aunts and uncles and my mom taking their turn at “having Grandma Joy.”    Reflecting on my grandmother’s life, it’s easy for me to respect and admire her. But it’s very hard for me to love her while living with her on a daily basis. This might just be because I’m named after her. Now I love the name Joy. I think it’s a slightly out-ofthe-ordinary name that suites me perfectly. But being my grandmother’s “namesake” has always served as a point of contention to my extended family because Grandma Joy has been accused repeatedly of showing me preferential treatment just because I am named after her. My aunts, uncles, and cousins further label my mom the “favorite child” because she named her children after Grandpa John and Grandma Joy, her parents. Imagine being named after your mother’s most intimate, influential role models. Feel for a moment the weight of the glorifying love your mother harbors toward her parents. By naming you after one of them, it’s as if she’s looking to you now to be as good a person as she makes her parent out to be.

There’s no worse feeling than when an embarrassing love washes over you.

Haley Brink (12) It’s a lot of unasked-for pressure and responsibility for a kid to inherit unwittingly during those pre-birth, “babynaming” discussions. I’ve always felt this awkward need to be impressive around my grandmother. I mean the woman decorates her walking cane according to the closest holiday, for gosh sakes! If Halloween is approaching, her cane is covered up and down with paper pumpkins. Wreaths of fall leaves encircle its brown metal exterior at Thanksgiving. And since there’s snow on the ground outside my window, I’m betting there are clumps of holly berries and little, white-silk flowers on Grandma Joy’s cane right now. How do I match her vibrancy for life? How can my personality compete with the unfettered expression of her fiery spirit? When I’m around her, I feel like an inadequate imitator. And this is just my attitude toward her on a good day. She just suffered a mild stroke, and on her bad days,

she’s alternately pathetic, annoying, and downright infuriating. She also repeats herself a lot. She’ll say the exact same sentence three times in one minute because she simply doesn’t remember saying it to you the first time. The perennial example of this behavior is the simple, three-word sentence, “Ross loves rice.” Every single time rice is served, Grandma Joy has to say this sentence at least six times during the meal. Sometimes she draws out the word “love” so that it sounds like my cousin Ross is having a torrid, romantic relationship with the food. But Grandma Joy always announces, “Ross loves rice,” as if it were the breaking news story at 6:00 P.M. But even more damaging, hurtful, and infuriating is her forgetfulness. It’s as if she has a selective memory hidden somewhere in her subconscious that allows her to forget all of the bad, painful things her own children did

and remember, instead, only the good, heartwarming times they shared as a connected, close family. Meanwhile, living with her children’s families, she sees all of the “less-than-savory” behaviors of her grandchildren, and she finds us appalling individuals. Grandma Joy refers to my cousins and me as the “bad seeds” generation of the family. As soon as we’re out of the room, and supposedly out-of-earshot, Grandma Joy will start talking to our parents about us, listing everything we’ve done wrong during the day and suggesting ways our parents could punish us and correct our behavior. When she’s really “in a mood,” she likes to spread rumors through the family about some of us particularly nasty grandchildren. For instance, one night at the dinner table, Grandma Joy put down her fork deliberately, folded her hands in her lap, and asked in perfect seriousness, “Ruth, you’re good at laundry. How do you fold thong underwear?” After dropping this bomb, Grandma Joy proceeded to tell the four of us about how my cousin Erin wears thong underwear, and how this, in turn, must certainly be a sign that she’s headed down a path in life marked by debauchery and sin. Now I’m especially close to my cousin Erin. She’s only one year younger than I am, we’ve grown up together, and I know what kind of character she has. I talked to my mom about Grandma’s comments after that dinner, and we came to the conclusion that Grandma Joy is simply not as knowledgeable on the subject of female underwear trends as she would like to consider herself, probably saw some of Erin’s bikini-style underwear, and jumped to quite a few unreasonable conclusions. She has also recently convinced the entire extended family that I am on drugs. Uppers and downers, to be exact. I made the mistake of going to bed as soon as I came home from school one day after having stayed up the night before doing homework. She spent the next

day, while my parents were at work and my brother and I were at school, calling around to different family members, letting them know about my drug problem, specifically how I couldn’t get to sleep anymore without the assistance of downers and how I couldn’t keep my eyes open without the help of uppers. Also, I had “pulled the wool over” my parents’ eyes in a sickeningly deceptive manner, even to the point where they didn’t suspect a thing and simply couldn’t see the truth staring them point-blank in the face. I find her antics – repeating “Ross loves rice,” accusing my cousins and me of debaucheries – irksome. Ironically, she’s even more irksome when she tries to compliment me. She always tells me how beautiful I look as I walk out of the house for school in the morning – me, the tres chic fashionista, sporting a pair of guys XLsweatpants and a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt about four sizes too big, topping off the trendy look with such elegant accessories as Reebok flip-flops, cokebottle glasses, and a ponytail bobbing straight off the top of my head. My face, devoid of make-up, is “so pretty” in my Grandma Joy’s eyes. I know she flatters me out of love. But when we’re in public and Grandma Joy starts to claim that every guy who looks at me “finds me attractive,” I find her a little ridiculous and embarrassing. There’s no worse feeling than when an embarrassing love washes over you. You know you’re grateful and appreciative that the other person cares in the first place, but, at the same time, you cringe and feel guilty. She also tells me, “Remember who you are, Joy,” as I’m rushing out of the house each morning. This always elicits a genuine smile from me. It’s a noble command, asking me to respect and celebrate the integrity and beauty of my personal self. It’s also a tremendous responsibility, even a burden at times.

Grandma Joy . . . is the

veritable matriarch of my family, the source from

which all my family’s

inherent, inextricable craziness sprouted.

Perry Danis (12)

some more open than others. Needles are driven into my pinky and ring finger as I flex my hand into a fist, fractures of the fifth and fourth proximal phalanxes. Isn’t it odd how your brain manages to recall such trivial facts while your vision is split and your head is pounding? My eyes linger on the open wounds, inquisitively, as if asking what happened? I straighten my fingers, and one gash winks at me with a flash of gleaming bone, almost smug, as if it has a secret. It starts to talk to me, a

chorus of voices, all suspiciously like my own. You walked from room to room. You had no idea what time it was, but all the normal people had been asleep

for hours. You were perfectly silent, a leopard stalking its prey, a deer walking through a meadow. You find yourself at the entrance to your

Philip Gorman (11)

parents’ room, two glass doors always ajar, leading into

Midway upon the journey of our life

symbol of how unimportant privacy is in your household.

I found myself within a forest dark,

You imagined two medieval iron doors hung from an arch

For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

of stone; you soon lost the need to imagine because they

-Dante Alighieri

the kitchen, truly an entrance and not a door, a blatant

were there. The walls began to bleed steal; the floors melted into lead. You became infuriated, your motions silent and graceful, your mind a hurricane of

wake up in hell…I’m sorry, I was mistaken;

counteracting forces, their only common motive being

I’m in my basement and my hand is on fire.

destruction. You found yourself against a wall of cement,

It’s an understandable misperception. I look

your head pounding, your brain barely contained by the

absentmindedly at my right hand and eight garish red eyes

shrunken cage of your skull; you closed yours eyes. Your

meet my gaze, each a knuckle, each open and glaring,

arm moved, the wall seemed to shatter, a scream erupted

in your mind…and you woke up.

they have not to believe? Lying well is remarkably like

Maybe. It is also entirely possible that you were

writing good fiction.

getting a textbook from your car after everyone else had

I wake up in purgatory…sorry, wrong again; this is

gone to sleep. You’re notorious for staying up late doing

my math class. I seem to be easily confused lately. I look

homework. In the dark of your garage, you tripped over a

around startled, making eye contact with someone sitting

skateboard, your arms full of books and papers, weighted

across from me whose name I cannot recall. We both

by your heavy backpack; you fell. As you fell, you

awkwardly look away at the same moment. My notebook

reached out your arms, throwing their contents into the air, and in the

lies in front of me filled with graphs and

Our teachers

process you struck your knuckles

notes in handwriting remarkably similar to my own. I casually run

could be providing us

against a shelving unit, altogether a very minor thing, something you

my fingers through my hair, verifying that it is relatively together, nothing jutting

with an equation that

would only tell someone

out at crazy angles; my

if asked. I dwell for several minutes on which of the two accounts is true. I decide on the

clothes don’t look

would convert lead into

concrete wall of our

either. I am consistently

gold...but, if it was said in

latter, and it becomes a truth. The barren

particularly bad

astounded by the

human mind’s

the last two minutes of

basement utility room looms before me, four

class, it would

identical smears of drying red staring at me, taunting me, the only part of the universe in violation of my clever, newfound truth. I spit at

the wall dismissively, as if to humiliate

propensity toward routines and how easily it seems to function on autopilot. My eyelids are

heavy and my face long. I am

never be written down.

it. I pull my t-shirt over my head and

curious about whether or not I slept last night. The bell rings and I become one

in a classroom full of Pavlov’s dogs, all instinctively rising and gathering our

scrub with calm efficiency at the harsh, pitted surface,

things together. Our teacher is left in mid-sentence about

thinking the same thoughts over and over again. I fell; the

some concept that will most likely be essential to the

fingers aren’t broken, I can move them, they were always

homework the majority of us will be hurriedly copying

crooked like that. I am just that clumsy and events like

tomorrow morning. Those of us who were paying

this happen all the time, ask anyone, not hard to believe

attention, not to the class mind you but to the clock, are

at all. And they’ll believe it. What possible reason could

the first to leave; we have stashed away our texts and

notebooks two or three minutes ago. Our teachers could

I become one in a

be providing us with an equation that would convert lead

classroom full of

into gold, or notebook paper into your drug of choice, but, if it was said in the last two minutes of class, it would

Pavlov’s dogs, all

never be written down. I move toward the doorway, filing in somewhere between the early risers and the people lagging behind for some sort of contact with the teacher, usually the very best or very worst members of the class. We make our

instinctively rising and gathering our things together.

way into the hallway, a congealed river of bodies, staring at the backs of the people in front of us in the dim yellow

I reach into a pocket and draw out two objects

of old fluorescent lighting, every other bulb removed for

significant in their regularity. In one hand I hold a lighter;

the sake of efficiency. There’s a boy, I believe a classmate

I twirl it between my fingertips, surveying the plastic

of mine, who is crying, hiding his face against a row of

casing, thumbing the toothed wheel, generally fixating

lockers. He is meek and uninteresting, extremely

upon it. It is fascinating how such a significant act as the

forgettable. Everyone sees him, but, to the best of my

creation of fire has been reduced to an assembly of cheap

knowledge, I am the only one who notices him. I remain

plastic, a veritable miracle-in-a-can, spawning a

motionless for what could be minutes or seconds, long

generation of casual Lucifers. In my other hand there is a

enough to get in several students’ ways. Those whom I

single stark white cylinder, a cigarette. I am not a

impede say nothing, unwilling to acknowledge that I

smoker. I quit thirteen months ago and will likely quit

affected their life in any way. An attractive person passes

tomorrow if I am so inclined. The occasional brush with

by me; I am further distracted, and I think about sex for

addictive substances and behaviors is to me a form of

several seconds. My thoughts, however, soon shift to non

vaccination against compulsion, a strengthening of my

-carnal pursuits. I decide that the crying kid’s problems

cerebral resolve. I move, placing the quivering white

are not my concern, and I continue walking. I hate myself

cylinder delicately between my lips, holding a newly cast

but only momentarily.

flame, each action a piece of clumsy poetry. I inhale

I wake up in paradise…and this time I assure you I

deeply, and the initial surge of smoke is like an acidic mist

am not mistaken. I am on my roof and I am wrought with

deep within my chest. I smile broadly and exhale

transcendence. Sitting up, I breathe deeply, delighting in

contently, tendrils of smoke flowing from the gaps in my

the harsh sensation of asphalt and grit scraping my back

tranquil grin, slowly dissipating in the increasingly pale

through a thin shirt, reveling in the forceful yet feeble

blue of predawn sky. It is the most beautiful thing I have

attempts of gravity to draw my body down the sloping

ever seen.

roof. I am giddy with reality. Every sensation, no matter

I grind my waning cigarette into roof-tar damp with

how trivial, satiates me to the very depths of what I

dew and awkwardly stand. I stare directly into minutes-

hesitate to call a soul, in the playful internal conflict of a

old sun. There is a pause of several seconds before I

spiritual epiphenomenalist.

become completely one with the universe, effortlessly.

Conception of a Prayer Krista King (12)

I sit down in this rickety old pew, a sleepy, early morning frown as I sit in slumber. I sense the little old priest toddle in not a second late. This little round man carries me to the Promised Land. My mind travels, pondering the past. Are there more to come, or was Jesus the last? A concrete answer, I cannot discover, but this flash of a journey always stirsâ&#x20AC;Ś Bowing my head in prayerLord, Guide Us Today And Into Tomorrow. Protect Us From Sin, Seclusion And Sorrow. Amen. Kelly Kopish (11)

This is not a“ Poem” Inspired by Rene Magritte’s painting, “Ceci n’est pas une Pomme” Kelsey Donald (12) A fruit deliciously fresh, Hanging upon the canvas mesh.

Tangibly present: how can this be? A spectral russet-- a mystery.

Biblically- referenced, temptingly ripe-Yet this is not the edible type.

You can see what it is -- it is shown; There must be something that is unknown.

Dewey skinned, delectably sweet; To eat it would be quite a feat.

It is this: Tu vois le nomme, Ceci n’est pas une pomme!1

Immediately apparent, undeniably there, Reach out to it -- there is nothing but air.

Cedric Meyers (11)

You see the name, This is not an apple