Wa
yfa
rer
Edgewood High School 2219 Monroe Street Madison, WI 53711 www.edgewoodhs.org Volume XXIII Spring 2008
Wayfarer ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. ~T.S. Eliot The Waste Land
Published by the students of Edgewood High School Volume XXIII Spring 2008
artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)
Staff Editors:
Louise Opel Sam McLaughlin
Technical Editor:
Rachel Underwood
Assistant Technical Editor:
Steve Underwood
Editorial and Layout Boards:
Sarah Allen Vivian Burnette Rebecca Cray Fiona Findlater Rebecca Gehrmann Ty Humphrey Alicia Kort Martha Mank Claire McLaughlin Neil Sekhon Nicholas Smith Brittany Staskal Bayley Waters Molly Winding
Cover Artist:
Martha Mank
Consultants:
Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering
Advisors:
Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz
Table of Contents Writers: 5
Pack Rat: Claire McLaughlin
27 Lady Lucerne: Sam McLaughlin
6
Sunshine Day: Maggie Wood
28 Boys and Girls: May Cho
10 Revenge: Michael Arthurs
29 Flights of Imagination: Sabena Khan
11 Owl: Max Andrews
32 Frankenstein: Portia Danis
12 Call Me a Safe Bet: Taylor Behnke
33 Life: Nicholas Smith
14 At Peace: Colin Urtes
34 The Other Son: Vivian Burnette
15 Red, White, and Blue: Doyle O’Brien
37 Upon a Misty Day: Maggie Bracey
16 A Breath of Fresh Air: Sam McLaughlin
38 Coming to America: Sabena Khan
18 Come Spring: Luke Peters
39 Drum: Chuckie Brown
19 Snow: Anneke van Lith
40 Glass in Starlight: Rachel Underwood
20 Catharsis: Sam McLaughlin
44 Last Voyage of the Amygdala: Alex Monday
21 The Forest: Mary Kate Wall 24 Letting Go: Becky Gehrmann
Artists:
Taylor Behnke (5)
Manya Hose (10)
Vivian Burnette (25, 28)
Ty Humphrey (39)
Ellen Cervantes (34, 38)
Lindsay Kloppenburg (6)
Portia Danis (31)
Caitie Kolberg (15)
Lindsay Davenport (1, 13, 14, 17, 20, 43)
Martha Mank (40)
Cosette DeChant (29)
Melissa Mutch (37)
Patrick Hansen (33)
Lauren Nebel (11)
Derek Hatley (44)
Page Schuh (22)
Laura Hiebing (27)
Elizabeth Wadium (19)
Kate Holmquist (18) Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner
Pack Rat Claire McLaughlin (9) JUNK You may say These trivial knick-knacks of mine Rubber bands and bottle caps Paper dolls Postcards Mountains Born from desktop clutter Embedded With winking scraps of aluminum Peaks piled high With spools of colored thread JUNK You may say These charms of yesterday And yet my bones ache For such simplicity Such virtue And my greedy, sentimental fingers Will not surrender This innocence To the Devil that lies within the dustbin JUNK You may say But I am wiser I see riches In my so-called worthless trove I carry a heart Crafted from pop tabs and paper cranes And I possess a soul Filled with buttons, marbles, and velvet bows For in every fiber of my bone Lies buried Hidden treasure 5 artwork by Taylor Behnke (11)
Sunshine Day Maggie Wood (12)
artwork by Lindsay Kloppenburg (9)
I
think I’ll go for a walk outside now; the
After twenty minutes, the girls return to
summer sun’s calling my name; I hear ya
the cabin. As usual, we are running late and
now; I just can’t stay inside all day; I gotta get
still have to make the journey to the main
me some of those rays. My wake up alarm.
cabin. I figure it is time to wake up, so I open
Every day a different song, impairing my
my eyes to see the sun shining.
hearing for the first couple minutes of my
“The Brady kids were right!” I yell, racing
morning.
to catch up with the girls, forgetting that they
“7:00! Rise and shine, everyone!” Mekel
have been up for the past half hour and know
screams over the blaring sounds of “The Brady
the sun is out. Apparently, our seven minute
Bunch.” “I’m not leaving until all of you are
walk to the main cabin is a four minute jog this
out of bed!”
morning.
Impossible. I only had seven hours of
“Not one mosquito has landed on me
sleep, and my eyes will not open. My nose
yet; usually, I’ve killed ten by now.
and ears are ice cold from the nightly
Today’s going to be a good day!” Anneke
temperature drop; I am cozy in my sleeping
says energetically as we approach the main
bag and unwilling to get up. Everyone is
cabin. She is right.
moaning, slowly obeying orders and getting
The sweet smell of maple syrup and
out of bed. Instinctively, I pull my covers over
creamy buttered pancakes makes my
my head to hide so Mekel cannot find me.
mouth water as I open the door. By far,
“Up, up!” Mekel orders as she rips the
meals are the best part of the day; Dr. Bob
covers off of my sleeping bag. Instantly, goose
is a cooking expert. He somehow manages
bumps spread across my body, and my
to make food so delicious that everyone
comfortable, body-heated covers are out of
continues eating, even though their
reach—possibly the worst way to wake up.
stomachs can’t hold any more. Breakfast is
I scramble out of the top bunk, stubbing
also a time to wake up for the busy day
my toe because, of course, my eyes are still
ahead—our mornings are packed with
closed. In preparation for the exact rude
lectures, and afternoons are filled with
awakening I have just experienced, I placed
labs.
my outfit on top of my suitcase the night
The glorious day goes by quickly. In the
before. Now, all I have to do is find my clothes
afternoon, Kate and I finish collecting data for
and manage to put on three layers. In record
our project so we would have free time before
time I get dressed and jump back into bed for
dinner.
extra sleep while everyone else showers.
“Let’s go to the swimming hole,” Kate
Everbody’s smiling, sunshine day, everbody’s
suggests. Agreeing, we anxiously head out the
laughin’, sunshine day, everybody seems so happy
door.
today, it’s a sunshine day. The music fades as
The swimming hole is a five minute walk
Mekel walks from cabin to cabin for her
from the main cabin. The path twists and
morning wake up calls. “Hillary, make sure
turns through the tall, green trees. As we get
you wake me up when you come back!” I call
deeper and deeper into the woods, I take a
for a quick reminder.
deep breath of fresh air. We reach the 7
swimming hole and immediately climb the
a lightning bolt just struck in a white cloud, a
tall, white lifeguard stand that overlooks it.
white cloud! Not a gray cloud, a white one!
From the top of the two-person stand, the sun
One white cloud in the whole sky! It’s not like
glistens off the water. The horizon of vibrant
a huge storm is going to roll in anytime soon.”
trees and sun rays squeezing through the
Within seconds of heading toward the
clouds makes a perfect day. For a while, we
wooded path, we see the bright, clear day fade
continue our useless girl talk but then stop to
away. The wind whirls, getting stronger the
sit in silence, absorbing the beauty of the clear,
closer we get to the cabin. Soon my casual
blue sky overlooking a vast, green land. We
pace is a jog, as the trees sway back and forth
have not seen the sun in days, one week to be
in every direction. I hear the ring of the dinner
exact. Everything seems to be alive now,
bell from the main cabin—a noise only made
without the gray clouds and endless rain. The
when it is time to eat or in an emergency
birds chirp, and the crickets create music in the
situation. My heart is racing, and a bad feeling
forest that surrounds the swimming hole.
is stuck in the pit of my stomach.
The sky is now a greenish color with massive brown clouds rolling in from all directions. “Did you just see that?” I ask Kate after
“Come on, Kate!” I yell, but the rustling of
lightning strikes in a perfectly white cloud.
the trees and the screeching wind make my
“Lightning! I think we should go back.”
words sound like a whisper. I run faster and
“Maggie, are you kidding me?” Kate
faster. Soon Kate and I are in a full sprint
quickly responds, not believing what she has
through the woods, wishing for the open cabin
just heard. “You seriously think we should go
area to appear. The wind pushes against my
back; there’s not one dark cloud in the sky!”
body, making my sprint seem like I am
“Remember the rules. If you see lightning,
walking in slow motion. Finally, we reach the
you’re supposed to head back to the main
main cabin. The sky is now a greenish color
cabin immediately.”
with massive brown clouds rolling in from all
“I think we are okay,” Kate chuckles,
directions. Many of my classmates are
mocking me for wanting to obey the rules.
scrambling to the main cabin from the second-
“Well, I’m getting hungry. Dinner must be
year cabin, running through the open field.
soon, so let’s just go back anyway,” I lie. For
“Maggie! My coat is in the second-year
some reason I have a bad feeling about the
cabin! I have to get it! Come with me!” Kate
lightning bolt, especially because we are
yells, as I stand in awe of the intense weather
incredibly close to the water.
change.
“Fiiiiine,” Kate replies with a sigh, still in
“Are you kidding me? Kate...Tornado! All
shock at my reasoning. “But come on, Maggie,
you can think about is getting your coat?” I 8
reply in disbelief. Apparently, I have no
to tell them. But this is it; I’ll never speak to them
choice because instantly, she grabs me by the
again. My thoughts explode as tears flow
hand, yanking me across the open field to the
down my cheeks. “I love you!” I shout.
second-year cabin. “Hurry up!” I shriek over
“I love you too!” a voice shouts back; it is
my screaming classmates and howling wind.
Megan, running down the stairs to join me in the cellar. I cannot see her eyes because of
She enters the cabin, but I stay outside
shadows, but I can tell she has been crying
the door, looking up at the sky.
from the sniffles between each word she
“Oh...My...God,” I say out loud to myself as I take a step backward to get a
speaks. She rushes over to me, linking her arm
better view. The only white cloud left in
in mine with a grasp so tight that instantly my
the sky is getting sucked into a massive
right arm goes numb. “Hey, you got a letter, too,” we say in
grey funnel cloud. The speed of the funnel cloud increases rapidly, and the center
unison. I scurry to open my letter and read
comes closer and closer to the ground.
it aloud to her, tears rushing out of my
Terrified, I am convinced that at any
eyes as I continue. Megan does the same,
second, the funnel cloud will land on the
sniffling so much I can hardly tell what she
main cabin. “Oh my God!!!” I scream at the
is reading. After we read our cards, we
top of my lungs. Completely forgetting
start to pray for all the people we think we
about Kate, I rush into a full sprint, moving
are leaving. Suddenly, everything stops.
faster than before into the main cabin.
Megan and I look at each other and, without saying anything, stand to
Entering the cabin, I quickly look around in panic to see everyone staring out the screen
investigate the abrupt silence. Everybody’s
windows. “We all need to get to the cellar!
smiling, sunshine day, everybody’s laughin’,
Hurry before it touches!” I see that the mail
sunshine day, everybody seems so happy today,
came—a letter from my mom and dad. My last
it’s a sunshine day. The familiar song
connection to my parents before I get swooped up
becomes louder as I climb the squeaky
by this tornado, I think to myself as I snatch the
cellar stairs. With one shove of the heavy door,
letter and head down to the cellar. No one follows, but a concerned counselor sees my
Megan and I enter the main cabin with red
fearful look and hands me a big, black
eyes. Everyone is in a circle. “We thought
flashlight.
we would play this song to make the storm go away,” Mekel calmly greets us. “I think
Quickly, I rush to the floor of the cellar, with my heavy-duty flashlight and the letter
it worked.” It is still outside—nothing is
from my parents. I sit in the dead center of the
moving, and the eerie presence affirms the
cold cellar floor and wrap my arms around my
storm has passed. Still shaking from the
knees, rocking back and forth in panic. I hear a
scariest moment of my life, I sigh with
boom from the floor above; the commotion
relief and think to myself, Not the sunshine
upstairs increases my nervousness. What am I
day I thought it would be.
going to do? I want to tell them I love them; I need 9
artwork by Manya Hose (10)
Hiding in shadows, Death’s long finger
REVENGE Michael Arthurs (12)
Singles out a lone deer.
Lurking in shadows,
Lungs cease.
A bear lingers.
One dead leaf falls…
Pointing no finger,
Bone rattling roar, A lion released, Splitting the air, Sinking its teeth, Ripping through nape. Two dead leaves fall…
10
Death watches death, Baring teeth like ruthless razors. One death will die. With him, No leaf shall fall.
artwork by Lauren Nebel (9)
Owl
Max Andrews (12) Dark green grass sways in silence Night’s soft breeze billows feathered sails Peering through the veil of darkness Hunting silent on thermal tails Midnight chorus takes its place Begin their pitch-black ballad They sing to the hunter’s chase Beneath the moon so pallid Nimbus titans glide aside Casting pools of black From hungry eyes, prey can’t hide Then sails react On waves of wind, death descends As quarry flees from Luna’s light With single swoop, chase now ends The hunter eats tonight
Call Me a Safe Bet
T
Taylor Behnke (11)
he bowls clinked slightly in gentle
really know how they work? Next on Channel
argument as they shifted for position,
8 News at 9.” Two dead. Two dead. Now there was a
then lay in a neat stack, white and
gleaming. She awkwardly pushed back her
commercial on for some great deal on some
sleeve as her sudsy, wet hands went to work
great car. Some event of the year that was too
on another dish. She scrubbed softly at traces
good to miss. Two dead. He switched off the
of salad dressing and mashed potatoes, the
TV. He heard a soft Kah-Lack! from across the
dishwater absorbing every speck with its lemon-fresh scent of shame. Sometimes as she washed the dishes, she would gaze out the window to admire her daffodils blooming, a welcome breeze stirring the oaks in the yard, the neighbor’s collie in pursuit of a squirrel or a falling leaf. It was too dark to see much of anything now, save for the occasional flash of headlights on a passing car. She turned her attention back to the glasses and spoons. It was a simple task to get them shined up again and put them carefully back where they belong.
hall, where his son, lying on the bedroom floor, had just hurled a pencil at
Sighing, he the ceiling. Kah-Lack! He threw it again. Kah-Lack! This time, it rolled onto his bounced off his forehead on the way down before landing just a stomach, few feet left of his ear. He move. His bedroom floor groping for that didn’t was a collection of lost objects: a pencil, some loose change— forgotten he stared at the angry pencil, for a smattering of pencil marks him—some abandoned notebook still above math problems, a well loved lying empty. copy of Hot Water Music—they looked like tiny shooting
Upstairs, her husband was watching the
stars—a house key, a half eaten pop tart. He
local news. He never missed the local news.
arranged constellations from the artificial night
There had been an electrical fire in some
sky. He could pick out Ursa Minor,
apartments on the other side of town.
Delphinius. Sighing, he rolled onto his
“Nobody hurt,” he mumbled.
stomach, groping for that forgotten pencil, for
“Two dead.”
a notebook still lying empty. He stared down
Hrmmmh, he cleared his throat. There had
at the blank page for a few seconds, minutes. No words came. If you— he erased, leaving a
been an electrical fire in his vocal cords. “After the break, we go inside hybrid
clean, aching absence on the page. A few
cars—you’ve heard all about them, but do you
minutes, an hour. No words came. Defeated, 12
artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12) he collapsed onto his back, pencil in hand. Kah-
You are the smell before rain; you are the blood in
Lack!
my veins. She smirked, knowingly, and killed the engine.
His sister…somewhere, was waiting for…
Soon curtains were closing, lights were
something, her feet up on the dashboard of a parked car, trying to light a cigarette. She kept
shutting off, people had put their dishes away
the engine running, so the music still played.
and gotten the facts on hybrid cars. They had
You are calm and reposed, let your beauty unfold,
called their dogs and children inside; they had
pale white like the skin stretched over your bones.
packed tomorrow’s ham sandwiches. The
She cracked the windows, rolled them all the
familiar sounds came: The switching off of
way down. The air was the most wonderful
television sets; the cl-chnk of locking doors; the
kind of cold. Spring keeps you ever close; you are
fwshh-ing of fervently brushed teeth; a car door
second hand smoke. She flicked the cigarette out
closing; a front door opening; the soft pah’s of
the window. It lay smoldering on the damp
tiny heads hitting tiny pillows; a Kah-Lack!; and
ground. You are so fragile and thin, standing trial
then settling. Quiet. Now that nothing was
for your sins. She leaned forward, folding onto
audible, everything was. Tiny constellations…
herself to peer out the windshield. The night
Two dead, Two dead…you are the blood in my
was anything but clear. Holding onto yourself the
veins…then humming, humming, then
best you can. The moon’s intensity was muffled
nothing.
by the misty charcoal sky. It shone anyway. 13
*lyrics from “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot” by Brand New
At Peace Colin Urtes (12) 7:00 AM, a light mist
Peacefulness retained
Dew still grasping to blades luscious green
A “Ping� echoes
Morning birds call
Metal meeting a sphere
Spikes impale soft dirt
Perfection
A serene walk to my destination
It lands
Building
Rolls and rolls
Preparing
Until it stops
A single spike, impales dirt
Resting in the dew-covered blades
Mentally prepared
At peace
Visualizing, predicting the future Aligned now A complexity of mechanics and precision Sphere flies Relaxed Feeling of love In love
14 artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)
Red, White, and Blue
are hidden behind a contemplative smirk. His straight hair with a dusting of gray blows in the light breeze. As he considers the route of the flyover, he wrinkles his brow, which shows in its
Doyle O’Brien (10)
E
texture the stress of having four wonderful but
very year, thousands of Madisonians come
active children. My dad’s piercing, deep blue eyes
out to watch the spectacular fireworks
look with responsibility into the eyes of the other
show of Rhythm and Booms at Warner
pilots. Even a simple mission such as this
Park. Rhythm and Booms is a night filled with
demands adherence to each and every flight
energetic music and hundreds of different colors,
protocol, and my father gives this mission as
shapes, and sizes of fireworks booming right above
much thought as the next. What I love most about
your head. The evening begins with a fly-over from
my father is that he puts as much thought into the
four F-16 fighter jets from the 176 Fighter
simple tasks of life as he puts into the challenging
Squadron. But little do they know that the fighter
ones. His newly polished, gray helmet gleams in
pilot leading the charge is my dad, Colonel Timothy O’Brien. His qualities as a fighter pilot,
the moonlight as he holds it tightly in his right
including his deliberate nature, thoughtful
hand. The faded green, full body uniform shows
intentions, and strong organizational skills, are
many signs of wear, affected by the numerous
some of the reasons why he is also a great dad.
years of intense training and practice. On his
As he leaves the hanger, heading towards his F
flight suit, many badges reflect his
-16, my dad’s stride looks just like that of Tom
accomplishments as a fighter pilot. One badge
Cruise approaching his first Top Gun mission. Each
stands out from the rest. The United States Air
step is in perfect tempo with his teammates as they
Medal is light blue with yellow stripes, including
approach the crew chief, and the clock comes even
a sun-shaped medallion with pointed edges and a
closer to take-off. With each deliberate stride to the
picture of an eagle looking down fiercely while
plane, my father still contemplates his mission
standing on a lightening bolt. The squeak of each
ahead. The rhythm of his swagger evidences his
step caused by the black, calf-high flight boots
confidence and his understanding of the dangers of
echoes over the concrete flight deck. His laces are
flying a fighter jet. As the team arrives at the chief,
woven tightly to secure the boots, which is just
my dad stands at attention, offering a flawless
one more sign of the intense preparation and
salute to his superior officer. Even as he relaxes, his
organization required for flying an F-16 fighter
muscles stay tense, his pose perfectly straight, his
jet. The mere sight of my father in full uniform
arms hanging directly at his side, and his feet
reflects his attention to detail in all aspects of his
shoulder length apart. Whether on the flight deck
life. As my family awaits the fly-over at Maple
or at home, my father can be counted on to act
Bluff Golf Course, hole number 8, I can only smile
deliberately when the need arises. While listening to his crew chief, his white teeth 15
and look up, feeling so proud of my father. artwork by Caitie Kolberg (12)
A Breath of Fresh Air Sam McLaughlin (11)
W
histling quietly, Jim shuffled
Jim ran a hand through his thinning salt-and-
across the dusty bottom of the
pepper hair, hat drifting languidly through the
canyon, bent nearly double under
air for a moment before settling like an ugly
the weight of the bag that bore down on his
goose on the surface of the pool. Filling his
back and flowed up and over his shoulders.
cupped hands and drinking, Jim watched his
Jim flexed his shoulders and momentarily
hat out of the corner of his eye as it slowly
relieved the strain on his back, ceasing to
sank through the crystalline depths of the
whistle in the process. Tune interrupted, he
pond and blocked out small bands of colored
glanced around the canyon furtively, skittering
stone and waving plants on the bottom of the
quickly from one stand of dead
pool. Jim watched the hat’s
bushes to another. Stopping at
descent lazily as he drank,
each stand of scorched brush, Jim would carefully spot his path to the next collection of withered shrubs before proceeding. Nearly an hour had passed when Jim finally reached his destination, a cerulean teardrop of a pool near the northern end of the canyon and a good mile and a half from
The hottest part of the day was ahead of him, but the train was still an hour behind.
the winding llama path Jim had
gauging its progress before finally plucking it out of the water just as it reached an arm’s length below the surface. As he settled the sopping piece of tattered leather that masqueraded as a proper hat onto his head, Jim started whistling again, wiping a few drops of water from the stubble that blossomed across
followed down into the canyon from the
his chin and cheeks. Coarse, calloused hands
nearby town.
probed through his pocket, eventually settling
Approaching the edge of the pond, Jim let
on his watch, which Jim withdrew. Eleven
his bag slam onto the concrete hardness of the
o’clock. The hottest part of the day was ahead
packed earth at the edge of the pool and fell
of him, but the train was still an hour behind
heavily to his knees in what would have been
Jim. Whistling slightly more loudly, he
a position of greatest contrition in a chapel. But
shouldered his bag and continued on to the
here it was only the pose of a thirsty, tired man
bridge that was a few hundred yards up the
grateful for a small reprieve from his labors.
canyon.
16
A young officer, fresh from another bout of training and wooing young city girls, stood on the dusty outskirts of a nearby nameless town
brown by excessive exposure to the sand and sun, and his creased, careworn face. “Hello there, son. Don’t be holding an old
in a patched and faded uniform and wondered
man from his home, now.” He started to pass
if he really was damned to guard this
the officer but was stopped by a weak grip on
godforsaken bit of nowhere for the rest of his
his shoulder. “Well?”
life or military career (the difference was
The officer stared at him nervously for a
marginal in terms of years and even less from
moment and then waved him into the town.
a social perspective).
Jim grinned and whistled to himself as he
It’s not like I abandoned my post, he thought
strolled down the main street, his jaunty little
bitterly to himself. I was just keeping myself
tune poorly accompanied by the simultaneous
busy…I could see the roadblock from her window.
roar of a large explosion and the screech of a
The officer blinked as a crusty old man
train tumbling through a hole in a bridge.
approached from the desert, nearly passing
Smiling, Jim wriggled his shoulders
him before he stammered, “Hold there, sir, if
luxuriously; the walk back from the canyon
you please. I mean…” He eyed the old man,
was much more pleasant without sixty pounds
taking in the clothes, stained permanently
of dynamite slung across his back.
artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)
Come Spring Luke Peters (12)
Leaves turn colors and fall Autumn blossoms brown No life in shades of fall Appearing dead Always with life Green once more Come spring And the tree will bloom Fill with songbirds Echoing life
artwork by Kate Holmquist (12)
Snow Anneke van Lith (12)
Whirlwind of insignificance Immaculate Momentous for me Perfect midnight snack Dance past the streetlight Outside my window Plastered to the pane Only briefly Came in early November Time to bundle Prepare the blaze For snowy dreams 19 artwork by Elizabeth Wadium (9)
artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)
Catharsis Sam McLaughlin (11) An empty space to fill the void Or burn the tapestry of reality In wisdom’s candle while The wax clots and boils, Flesh sloughs off into yesterday, Carrying the lives away into Nothing Or something Meanwhile we sit in oblivion and talk About books and… Stuff
The Forest Mary Kate Wall (11) Arthur Miller, a renowned American playwright, wrote The Crucible, which tells the story of the witch trials in Salem, Massachusetts. The catastrophe began when a few teenage girls defied Puritan conventions by recklessly wandering off into the woods, dancing wildly, and attempting to contact the dead. When caught, the girls blame “witches,” and eventually the whole town is in an uproar. In the following scene, which does not appear in the actual play, the author imagines what happens when an oppressive Puritan society drives ordinary girls to extraordinary madness.
ABIGAIL WILLIAMS,
and SUSANNA
age seventeen, and
WALCOTT, age sixteen,
BETTY PARRIS, age
head toward the clearing.
ten, enter a small
Twigs crunch loudly as the
clearing in the woods at
two girls creep nearer.
night. The sky is pitch
MERCY: Could you be
black, and a cool spring
any louder, Suzy? All of
breeze caresses their
Salem will hear you if
faces. BETTY huddles
this keeps up.
close to ABIGAIL,
SUSANNA: I’m not
clearly agitated. They
trying –
are followed closely by TITUBA, a slave of the
ABIGAIL, cutting her off: Nonsense, no one
Parris household, who is holding a candle and
will hear us. We’re too deep in the forest.
craning her neck about worriedly.
Alright, now that everyone’s here, we can
TITUBA: If this be where you said to meet,
begin.
where be the other girls?
SUSANNA: Just what exactly will we be
ABIGAIL: Ruth Putnam said she’d be here
doing?
after her mother went to bed, and Mercy and
Just then, a soft thump and a muffled cry are heard
Susanna told me they’d come around the same
behind a bush nearby. The girls look around hastily
time.
as MARY WARREN, age seventeen, is seen flat on
Enter RUTH PUTNAM, age twelve. She seems out
her face. As she picks herself up, she glances
of breath and has several twigs in her hair.
nervously at the others, hoping they will not be
RUTH: Sorry Abigail, but my mother made me
angry with her.
wait until everything was perfectly quiet
ABIGAIL: Why, Mary, we didn’t expect you
before I could leave, and I got a little lost on
to come tonight. What changed your mind?
the way in here.
MARY: I only thought to come and watch. I
ABIGAIL: That’s fine. We’re still waiting for
couldn’t bring myself to sleep, knowing you
Mercy and – wait, this could be them.
were out here conjuring spirits in the dark.
The girls listen as MERCY LEWIS, age eighteen,
ABIGAIL: Did you tell anyone else about this, 21
artwork by Page Schuh (11)
Mary?
ABIGAIL: Surely you have some Barbados
MARY: Upon my life, I would never.
songs you can sing?
ABIGAIL: Good. Now we can begin. Tituba,
TITUBA: I suppose I do. Alright, Ruth, you be
start collecting wood and make a fire for us.
sure to keep your mind on those sisters of
TITUBA: Aye, miss. She gathers a few nearby
yours.
pieces of kindling and arranges them. The girls
RUTH nods solemnly as the rest of the girls scoot
watch with keen interest. Using the candle she
closer. TITUBA grabs a pinch of dirt and flings it
brought along, she lights the fire and waits a few
on the fire. She begins to sing with a disturbing,
seconds for it to fully ignite. She turns expectantly
chant-like quality that makes the hair on the backs
to ABIGAIL, not knowing in what direction this
of the girls’ necks stand up. She extends her hands
will go.
over the flames and sways to the rhythm of her
ABIGAIL: Ruth, you come and tell Tituba
song. The girls look on wildly. BETTY starts
what you want her to conjure.
fidgeting uncomfortably. TITUBA becomes very
RUTH, tentatively, coming closer to the fire:
involved in her conjuring, losing her previous
Tituba, can you conjure the spirits of my baby
doubts and encouraged by the girls’ trust in her.
sisters? They were murdered, and Mother
TITUBA, eyes wide, gesturing at the girls: Dance,
wants to know by whom.
girlies, for the spirits respond only to
TITUBA: Oh, Abigail, you know I can’t really
movement! ABIGAIL seizes the opportunity and begins leaping
conjure no spirits –
energetically around the fire. The other girls follow
ABIGAIL: Of course you can. What were you
her lead, spinning in circles and screeching,
doing the other day at our fireplace?
releasing their suppressed fears. MARY watches
TITUBA: Well, I was only prayin’ and –
from farther back in stunned silence. They continue
ABIGAIL: You were waving your arms and
dancing for a while as TITUBA chants gibberish.
chanting some wild language that I couldn’t
BETTY stops shaking and joins them; a haunting
understand. What else do you call conjuring
smile creeps onto her face. After a few minutes,
spirits than the likes of that?
MERCY steps outside the circle for a moment,
MERCY: Abigail, you promised us she could
tugging at her shoes.
conjure. We didn’t come all the way out here
MERCY: I can’t dance in this dress and shoes.
for nothing. Tituba, you must hurry, or we’ll
They’re much too cumbersome. She slips off her
not be able to finish before sunrise.
shoes and begins removing her dress, to the 22
astonishment of the others. SUSANNA and
SUSANNA, who hands it to RUTH, who gives it
MARY gasp. MARY covers her face and turns
to BETTY. Each girl contributes to the ritual.
away. ABIGAIL walks over to MERCY and helps
RUTH: Bring back my sisters! Kill the
her undo her dress.
murderer!
MARY, glancing over her shoulder: Mercy, you
SUSANNA: Strike down this hateful town! Let
mustn’t –
us run free!
ABIGAIL: Who will see her? You are too
BETTY: Bring back my mama! I want my
much of a prude, Mary. What have we to fear?
mama! She sobs but keeps dancing violently.
MERCY: Besides, none of you will mind, that I
ABIGAIL, with hatred in her eyes: Give me John
know.
Proctor! Make Goody Proctor suffer for her
The girls continue dancing. RUTH has a feverish
repulsive ways! Kill her! Kill her! She takes the
look in her eyes as TITUBA screeches ever louder.
rest of the blood from BETTY and hands the flask
BETTY is panting, and her eyes grow wider and
back to TITUBA.
wider. MERCY runs wildly, free of her clothes.
MARY watches, stupefied. Fear pervades her
Only MARY refuses to take part in the spectacle,
features. The other girls run madly around the fire
instead choosing to sit and hide her face. As the
as TITUBA wails louder and more forcefully. As
girls become captivated by the songs and dancing,
the chanting reaches its climax, none of them hear a
TITUBA begins shouting various grievances at the
rustle in the bushes. REVEREND SAMUEL
fire. The rest of the girls join in.
PARRIS, father to BETTY and uncle to ABIGAIL,
TITUBA: Spirits! Souls of the Putnam sisters!
pokes his head through the bush. His bewildered
Speak to us! Who murdered you? Who in this
face spies BETTY.
village tortured you and laid you to eternal
PARRIS, leaping out from behind the bushes:
rest? At these words, RUTH slows her dancing and
Betty! Betty!
stares into the fire.
The girls whip around in fright. BETTY sees her
RUTH, pointing into the flames: I see a shape! It
father, screams, and faints on the spot. ABIGAIL
moves!
rushes over to her and tries to revive her. MERCY
TITUBA: We hail thee, oh spirits! Tell us your
snatches her dress and shoes and dashes off into the
secrets! Give us power! She takes a flask from
forest. MARY and SUSANNA quickly make their
inside her dress. It is full to the brim with chicken
own escapes. TITUBA douses the fire and hides her
blood. She grasps the flask with both hands and sips
flask. She and PARRIS rush over to BETTY and
from it. Then she passes it to ABIGAIL, who is
lift her into PARRIS’ arms. They carry her back to
nearest. To the girls: Drink the chicken blood! It
the house. ABIGAIL meekly follows. In BETTY’S
will turn your mind to the spirit world! It will
room, PARRIS puts her down carefully on the bed.
give us their knowledge!
PARRIS, to ABIGAIL: Get thee to bed this
ABIGAIL, after drinking the blood: Hail! Hail!
instant! To TITUBA: Leave this room!
Rid us of our troubles! Teach us your ways!
They exit, leaving PARRIS to care for BETTY. He
MERCY, catching on and taking the flask: Curse
kneels down to pray. End scene.
those who torture us, our so-called masters and guardians! Purge the village of their villainous ways! She passes the flask to 23
Letting Go T
Rebecca Gehrmann (10) he mist of the early morning still
forgotten to take theirs out.
hadn’t cleared when the roar of the
Blake watched from his perch on the metal
engine cut through the alleys of the
truck. A middle-aged woman behind the truck
quaint, peaceful neighborhood, waking up all
came rushing out to the driveway, still clad in
of its inhabitants. Within moments of waking,
a peppermint pink bathrobe and dragging the
some would grumble, some would fall right
plastic, cylindrical containers down the
back to sleep. Some would slowly, in a half-
gradually sloping pavement. She was
awake manner, come to the realization that
screaming at them in a groggy voice, her hair
Thursday was garbage day, and they had
still matted down with bedhead, but he couldn’t hear her over the loud engine’s groans. “Keep going,” Blake commanded to the driver gruffly, who seemed hesitant as he noticed the woman out of the rearview mirror. “That’s a little harsh!” the new driver, Blake’s co-worker Gerard, protested, craning his neck like an owl to see the woman still running toward them and shouting profanity. “She just forgot! And she’s just a little late!” Blake shook his head, irritated, as if he were a dog shaking its wet coat. “ ‘Citizens are supposed to have all garbage out at the end of their driveways by the time the proper
sanitary disposal vehicle arrives parallel to each curb.’ It’s all in the handbook, Gerard, all in the handbook—perhaps you should be reading it a bit closer.” They stopped at the next few houses, the vehicle slowly inching forward as Blake jumped out, expertly handling the gray canisters and pouring all the garbage down into the metal jaws of the truck. He was a robot when he acted like this, his movements the same for every plastic bag, every blue recycling bin.
hands was a moving box, filled to the top and
Blake was silent as he worked, never one to
almost overflowing with what looked like an
make conversation. It was only reserved for
assortment of clothes, pictures, and useless,
lunch break, when he would drone on about
tacky knick-knacks. Blake grumbled under his
the same topics of rumored new uniforms and
breath, motioned to Gerard to stop the truck,
pay increases day after day. Blake remembered
and jumped out, confronting the sobbing
when Gerard once asked about football as he
woman.
slowly drove the truck around a corner,
“Pam, I don’t have all day!” he shouted
delaying time. Blake had responded with a
over the roar of the truck, clearly frustrated,
dull, “Drive faster.”
having gone through this scenario many times
They blindly plowed through the mist to
before. “Put the damn box in the truck, and
the next row of identical apartment buildings.
we’ll all get on with our lives!”
Blake suddenly inched forward to the edge of
Her bloodshot eyes flickered up to him,
his seat, concentration on his face.
then to the truck, and panic spread on her face.
It was a woman, already dressed and
Suddenly her fingers clutched the box more
moving her garbage cans neatly to the edge of
furiously, as if it were a child she was reluctant
the road. She was wide awake, unlike the rest
to let go of. “N—no! Not yet! Just…just…”
of the residents of the subdivision, sounding
The engine of the truck suddenly cut off,
like a duck as she screeched out cries and
making the neighborhood of apartment
patted a tissue to her red-rimmed eyes. In her
complexes, at five in the morning, seem devoid
artwork by Vivian Burnette (11)
25
of all life. Gerard hopped out, raising his
Blake put his arm on her shoulder. He
eyebrows at the scene.
carefully took the box from her. “It will be
“Gerard,” Blake said weakly, “this is Pam.
okay, Pam. Let’s get this over with.”
Pam has some problems… letting go.”
Pam hesitated, but only for a moment. She
Pam sniffed, her voice no longer watery
took back the box.
but twice its normal speed. She was clearly
“You know the drill, Pam. Just toss it in!”
paranoid. “I do not! You don’t understand. If I
said Blake. Pam closed her eyes fiercely and
put the box under my bed, I’ll just take it out
waited, as if making a wish before blowing out
and cry some more. If I shove it in the closet,
birthday candles. Then she chucked the box
I’ll get up in the middle of the night and never
into the truck. Blake could see the loose limb of
be able to sleep. If I put it in the trash, it’s not
a stuffed animal poke out, pieces of crumpled
enough—I have to send it off myself, or it’ll
paper, maybe the shiny surface of a
drive me mad thinking it’s somewhere at the dump, rotting away…” “What’s she talking about?” Gerard hissed. Rolling his eyes, Blake explained in a monotone drone, “It’s her ‘boyfriend box’, or something like that. After a guy dumps her, Pam puts all of the
“This is Pam. Pam has some problems… letting go.”
things that remind her of
photograph. Gerard started up the engine. In due time the metal jaws began to move again, slowly at first and then chopping up and down like a vegetable grinder, getting faster and faster and compressing all of the garbage already in the truck into a small,
him inside this box and dumps it in the back of
equal mound of filth.
my truck.” He gestured to the metal mouth of
Pam seemed relieved, a heavy weight
the machine, suspended momentarily from its
removed from her. “There,” she said
constant chewing. Then he turned back to
forcefully. “It’s done. It’s over. It’s time to
Pam. “Who was it this time?”
move on.” Blake smiled. Move on, he thought. That’s
“It was Kyle,” she said with another small
right. What I was supposed to do.
sniff, her face red as she looked down sadly
He still had the box from Sheila in the far
into the depths of the box once more.
right corner of his closet…
“Kyle? That guy? I thought you really liked him.” “I did! But we weren’t getting along, and we got into a really big fight, and, well…now he has himself a box.” Gerard squinted his eyes, his face showing many signs of confusion. 26
_twç _âvxÜÇx Sam McLaughlin (11)
Inspired by Albert Bierstadt’s “Lake Lucerne” Lady Lucerne speaks to me And in dappled clouds is draped. Girt in brilliant skirts of green, Over tranquil blues she waits And beckons with soothing words, Pledges of warm summer rest. “Will you wander through vales of shade Laced with solar lances?” She queries soft and low, “Or amble along silent shores, Azure pools and sunlit plains, Viridian crowned in gold?” Lady Lucerne speaks to me, And I am numb to reply, But follow close and swiftly Led softly by the hand.
artwork by Laura Hiebing (12)
UÉçá tÇw Z|ÜÄá Words from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
The boys and girls live in separate worlds. The boys in their universe… and we in ours. Thick hands and thick shoes, Who comb hair with water, Sitting on bikes in front of the house, pitching pennies… Little lemon shoes, Red red lips, Eyes like Egypt and nylons the color of smoke… What’s your name, pretty girl? Come closer…please… Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it. Waiting for a car to stop, A star to fall, Someone to change life. All wanted to love and to love And to love And to love And no one could call that crazy. He said I love you, I love you… I like the boys and the boys like me.
artwork by Vivian Burnette (11)
May Cho (10)
Flights of Imagination
D
Sabena Khan (12) inner was cold. It had been sitting
she was able to speak without lips.
on the table for fifty-six minutes, as
“This is stupid. I’m hungry, you’re hungry,
well as the mismatched plates and
and Jamie’s hungry.” He pointed at me. “Look
silverware, surrounded by my family. My
at him. Every time he looks at the biscuits, his
mother’s already thin lips had been
eyes become huge! He looks like a
becoming a thinner and thinner line
starving African child.”
as the time passed. I guessed
My mother told him to shut up.
that in two more minutes, they
Andrew sighed, mumbled
would become non-existent.
something I could not hear,
Her face was becoming
and sank into his chair
more rigid as if it were
with his arms crossed.
made of wood. She
My father calls this
had not moved in over
being “stereotypically
twenty minutes. She
angsty.”
looked like a puppet.
A few minutes
I imagined a
later, I heard the
puppeteer controlling
garage door open
her with strings,
and then close. He
swinging her arms,
was finally home. He
making her do a little
walked in looking
jig on top of the table.
exhausted.
I giggled to myself. My
His hair was messy;
mother darted her eyes
his shirt was untucked;
at me, and they cut my
there was a yellow stain
skin. I apologized meekly
near his shirt pocket—
as I touched my bleeding cheeks.
artwork by Cosette DeChant (10)
“We’ve been waiting for an
maybe it was mustard from his turkey sandwich from lunch. He let out a sigh as
hour. Can we please eat? Who cares
he sat down at the table.
if he’s late? Why do we have to wait for him?”
“Hello family,” he said heavily.
Andrew asked.
“I’m sorry I’m late. I got into a fight with my
My mother’s eyes slashed Andrew’s face.
boss.” He looked at my mother. My mother
“Because he is your father, and it is rude to
stared at him. I could see more than twenty
begin eating without him.” I wondered how
29
tiny cuts scattered across his face.
“You should have called. We’ve been
monarchs. Their delicate wings tickled my
waiting for you for an hour.” Her voice was a
face.
straight line. Her face was not moving.
Our dining room was filled with these
“I’m sorry,” my father said quietly as he
creatures. They were the most beautiful things
loosened his already loose tie. “He said I made
that had ever come out of my parents’ mouths.
some error in the financial reports, and I could
As I was walking to my room, I heard
have lost the company thousands of dollars if
Andrew laughing in his own. I knocked on his
no one had caught it. And if it wasn’t caught, I
door.
would have been fired.”
“Come in,” he said lazily with a low
My mother stopped talking, but her
chuckle.
expressionless face never changed. She just ate
His room smelled strange, and it was a little hazy. His TV was playing The Office.
her mashed potatoes. We all did the same without talking.
“Hey Little Man. Are they still fighting?”
My mother spoke again. “We got another notice from the bank…” And then I spaced. Whenever I hear “bank”, “money”, “bills”, I know it’s time for me to stop listening. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. I would randomly hear, “mortgage”… “repossess”… “irresponsible” … “fired” … “divorce”…
“I guess. I spaced out. I saw birds and
I saw hundreds of tiny blue birds fly out. A river of them, flying smoothly and gently. They were wrapping themselves around my dad’s and Andrew’s heads.
And then I opened my eyes
butterflies come out of their mouths.” “Awesome.” I sat down on his bed and stared at the TV. We both watched Steve Carell talk into the camera for a few minutes. Andrew would laugh occasionally, but I didn’t understand why.
again. I looked at my mother. Her lips had
Finally, I asked him the questions that were on
come back, and she was putting them to good
my mind: “Why do Mom and Dad fight all the
use. Her mouth was wide enough to fit a
time? And what are they fighting about?”
couple tennis balls into it; I saw hundreds of
Andrew stared at me for a few seconds.
tiny blue birds fly out. A river of them, flying
“They fight all the time, and you don’t know
smoothly and gently. They were wrapping
what they’re fighting about? They have
themselves around my dad’s and Andrew’s
different versions of the same fight every day.
heads. One of them was even eating off
It’s the only thing they ever talk about. If it
Andrew’s fork, but he didn’t notice. I laughed
weren’t for these fights, they would have a
at how clueless he was.
mute relationship.”
Now it was Dad’s turn. His mouth was even
“But what are they fighting about? Well, I
bigger than Mom’s, and his hands were trying
know it has to do with money, but I don’t
to de-weed his head. As he yelled, butterflies
understand why.”
drifted out. They flew to me and landed on my
Andrew paused for a few seconds, as if
arms and hands. I was in a rainstorm of
trying to put into words what was wrong. 30
Finally he said, “It’s a lot of stuff. You’re too young to understand.” “Everyone says money isn’t important. Aunt Kathy always says money can’t buy you happiness.” Andrew stared deeper into the TV and said flatly, “That is the problem.” Andrew was right. I didn’t understand, so I left his room. I went back downstairs to see if they were bringing more birds and butterflies into the
I sat on the stairs watching them. I wasn’t surprised to see them like this. When they were home, they did this or fought. How boring. I remembered Andrew saying happiness was the problem. How could either of them be happy when they were so boring? Why don’t they just dream? That’s what I do whenever I’m bored or am forced to do something I don’t want to. It makes everything so much more exciting and fun. Maybe no one ever told them they could imagine anything they wanted and be happy.
house. They weren’t. All of the flying creatures were gone. My parents were in their usual spots. My dad was in his favorite recliner watching ESPN. His eyes were so attached to the screen that I wasn’t sure if he was deeply interested or if now he was spacing out. My mother was on the couch, with her legs tucked underneath her, knitting a scarf. We have boxes full of scarves and hats and socks that she’s knitted, because that is all she does at night. Neither one of them spoke. Both of them were so deeply entranced by their activities.
artwork by Portia Danis (12) 31
FrankensteIn
Portia Danis (12)
Stand close a while. Have you come here for me? With your broken limbs And rubber breast.
I see your lips, Blistered and torn. I'll give you mine. The vibration of complexity.
Look at your hand. Is it empty? Here is a hand, To fill it and fit it.
You can stay, To fill your pockets With the smooth pebbles Shaken loose from my bones.
And bring it stars and paper birds That hang from strings, While you gaze at bandaged wrists And remember you are real.
Is this why you have come? To be the screw Twisting into the grooves Of my wooden soul, The carpentry of angels?
I can help you remember.
You stand naked, Exposing your stitches And empty jars. So I sew you a blanket Of seashells and promises To shield you From the whipping sands Of the storm.
Will you dance with me? To see what it is like? And hear the murmur of spirals Tangled in your hair. Tell me Can my touch weld The jagged metal scraps That replaced your ribs And pierced your heart?
32
Life
Nicholas Smith (10)
A single green leaf Whithers in the freezing snow Yet it does not die
artwork by Patrick Hansen (12)
The Other Son Vivian Burnette (11)
T
he house has changed. The paint is no longer chipping, and the driveway has been repaved. The twin elms that used
to block the front window have been cut down. Paul Harper stands before the place that he used to call home and wonders if he has come to the right address. He hesitates, his finger poised at the doorbell, debating whether to ring or retreat. Perhaps it was always this way, he thinks; perhaps I have only forgotten. A woman he does not know answers the door, and he realizes that he has come to the wrong address after all. He smiles uncertainly and apologizes for his mistake, tipping his hat and quickly backing away. “Paul,” the woman says. He stops and stares, confused. There are tears in her eyes, which he does not understand. “Paul,” she says again, “you don’t even remember your own mother?” He shakes his head as if in agreement, and she lets out a dry sob. He does not know this woman. She has short, red hair and crimson nails. Her face is lined, and she is frowning. This woman cannot be his mother. His mother had soft brown hair that fell to her waist; she used to kiss him on his forehead at night, and her hair would fall into his face, tickling his cheeks and his eyelids. His mother never painted her nails; she said that the smell gave her a headache. Her skin was smooth, and she was always smiling. He wants to tell the woman, “You cannot be my mother,” but he knows better than to
artwork by Ellen Cervantes (9)
34
say this. Again he thinks, perhaps I have only
“Here he is,” she breathes and
forgotten. And so he says to the woman, “I’m
ushers him into the room. There
sorry. It has been a long time.” He hopes that
are several others in the parlor,
his words will stop her tears from falling, for
dressed in a hundred different
no man likes to see a woman cry, whether she
shades of black. They shuffle and
is his mother or not.
whisper amongst themselves, the
“Too long, Paul, too long,” the woman
noise never rising above a dull
cries. She reaches out to embrace him, and he
murmur. It never feels quite right
steps reluctantly into her arms. She holds him
to shout at a funeral. Paul looks
too tight, too close. He wants to tell her,
around uncomfortably until he
“Please let me go,” but he knows that this will
spots the casket. He walks over to
only upset her, and so he says nothing at all.
it slowly, forcing his legs to carry
The woman pulls back and peers into his
him across the room.
face. “You’ve changed, Paul,” she says softly.
The casket is open, and there
He nods his head, anxious for her to release
is his father, eyes shut, lying
him.
solemn and serene. Paul surprises
“Where is my father?” he asks suddenly.
himself as he blinks back a few
For this is why he has come.
tears; he never thought that
“In the parlor,” she whispers, and tears fill
seeing the old man like this
her eyes once more.
would evoke such emotion.
“I would like to see him.” He says this
He jumps as he feels a hand
slowly, because he is afraid. He is afraid that
come down on his shoulder and
the woman will start to cry again, and he will
swings around blindly, half
be forced to comfort a stranger. He is afraid
expecting to see his father behind
that she will not understand him and will turn
him. But it is not his father; it is
him away.
only the woman who claims to be
To his great relief, the woman does not cry,
his mother. She is smiling up at
nor does she turn him away. “I will take you to
him, and beside her, with his
him,” she says, clearing her throat.
hand still resting on Paul’s
Paul steps into his old home and finds that
shoulder, is another person he
the interior has changed, as well. The walls
does not know.
have been repainted, the floors refinished. He
“It’s been a while, Paul,” the
shivers in spite of himself, a chill crawling up
man remarks. Paul stares at him
his spine, and wonders if he ever lived here at
in silence; the woman knows this
all. Discomfited, he removes his hat and
stare, and her smile fades away.
continues to follow the woman down the hall.
“Don’t you recognize your
When they reach their destination, the woman
brother?” she cries.
slows to a stop and turns to face him.
“Hush, Mother,” the man says, trying to quiet her, for it is 35
not right to shout at a funeral. The man looks
because of my father. His father is dead, but he
at Paul and laughs uncomfortably.
cannot forget. He has tried, but he cannot
“Sure, it’s been some time, Paul, but I can’t
forget; he was able to leave everything behind
believe you don’t remember me.” Paul looks at
but this. He closes his eyes, and his father
the man who is supposed to be his brother.
stands before him, red and seething, fists ready
Again, he has the acute sense that he is
to greet flesh. His father is dead, gone away
speaking to an utter stranger. He knows better
forever, but he cannot forgive.
than to voice this feeling, though.
He opens his eyes and sees the man who
“Sorry,” he says instead. “It’s been a long
was once his brother. He looks at Paul the way
time.”
a man does when he realizes that something
“I was beginning to think you really didn’t
has been broken and will never be mended
know me,” the man replies, chuckling softly. “We’ve all changed, but surely not to that extent!” The doorbell rings, and the woman goes to answer it. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, gliding out of the room. The two men stand in silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say. “Why did you leave, Paul?” the man finally asks.
again. Paul knows this look,
Beneath the new layers of paint and the gleaming floorboards is a tangle of lies, dangerous obsessions, and brooding chaos.
“I don’t really know.” But he does know,
and there is nothing left to say. “Do you want me to take your coat, Paul?” It is the woman again, the woman who thinks that she is his mother. He shakes his head. “I am leaving this place,” he says. He glances back at the casket with a grimace. “I only wanted to see him one last time.” He pushes past the
woman and the man, weaves through the
and suddenly he remembers everything.
hushed crowd of people dressed in black. He
Why did you leave, Paul? He looks around
hears the clack of shoes rushing to stop him,
frantically, trying to escape. I left, he thinks,
but he does not turn around. He walks down
because of this place. This place, which has
the hall, puts on his hat, and steps out the
changed so much, yet stayed the same. The
door. Once outside, he heaves a long sigh full
repainted walls and the refinished floors only
of sorrow and frustration.
serve as a quaint mask for what lies beneath
“It is done,” he says. “It is done.”
the surface. Beneath the new layers of paint and the gleaming floorboards is a tangle of lies, dangerous obsessions, and brooding chaos. There is a hostility that threatens to take hold of your throat, to throttle your dreams and your thoughts. Why did you leave, Paul? I left, he thinks, 36
hÑÉÇ t `|áàç Wtç Maggie Bracey (11)
Upon a misty day I tread Over yonder fields of dead Marching between the aisles, I look For shelter in some secluded nook Whereupon there is a cold, flat stone Engraved with letters richly enthroned By weed and thistle overgrown Fingers I outstretch to carve again the rivulet But receded in shocked regret.
The one beneath the stone, though dead Hath some strange power through me thread A shivering spine, a sudden chill And methinks I see, on neighboring hill A pallid visage, walking slow Its eyes alight, with violent glow And yet again I march, at faster pace To make gone in dreadful haste And ne’er will I return again To yonder field.
artwork by Melissa Mutch (9)
Coming to America Sabena Khan (12) Blazing cheeks, Wheat skin, Eyes searching for the unknown, Only abysmal chances in view. You dove into the unknown, Made an Odyssean journey across the Atlantic To the unfamiliar land With gold plated roads. But still A sea separated you From the warm, spicy smell of your mother’s cooking. Continents kept you From the sturdy, reassuring clap of your father’s hands on your shoulders. Twenty-eight years away from your heart. Has a new one grown in its place?
artwork by Ellen Cervantes (9)
Drum Like a conductor Waving his baton I create a story No words Just hands clenching a stick A foot stomping a pedal A mind transfixed by a sound Then with a strike Mind is free Sound drowns out pressure Flow relaxes a worn out body And when I am finished Anxiety will creep all over Hoping you heard my story With no words
Chuckie Brown (12)
39
artwork by Ty Humphrey (11)
Glass in Starlight
Rachel Underwood (11)
T
artwork by Martha Mank (11)
his is me. Ensconced in a nook by the
almost narrate the world as it never happened
side of the road, formed by the gap
with all the clarity of truth. Hyperlogia, again.
between the bar's bright facade and
Stop me if I get too fast.
the doorway. Green eyes focused on the
I'm brooding again, unhealthily — not
ground in front of me, asphalt and pebbles and
teenaged angst, for all that I'm still nineteen.
cigarette butts mixing in the gutter. Limbs
There's a distinction in my mind; angst only
arranged in the classic pose of submission, of
means that you hate life, whereas brooding has
someone with nowhere else to go — you
a definite object. In my case... Well, the object’s
know, you've seen it. I don't need to explain;
not really important now. That’s a different
there are enough homeless people around for
story, if—
you to know the look. Broken-hearted, like all I
Don't... Don't come any closer. I mean,
ever loved in the world has been shattered and
unless you like screaming fits, but I don't cater
lost. It's not exactly my finest moment.
to sadistic bastards. I tell the story, make it
And yet I can still talk, for some reason. I'm
come out pretty. If you like it, you give me a
a freak like that. Hyperlogia, or something. I've
couple coins, and I buy coffee. It's damned
made discourse in daydreams for so long, I can
cold around here at night. Yes, I'm babbling. 40
Squeaking, even. My voice stopped cracking a
her beau. Rather incongruous in a place like
while ago. There's a reason when I make flat
this; there was already a pickpocket walking
demands; I'm a pretty easy-going guy, in
up to them as the crowd pushed them past me.
general. Yeah, you're right. I'm not. But who
No, of course not. I don't envy legals. You can
cares? I make a business in lies; you wouldn't
have your cars and skyscrapers and white
be here wasting your time if you didn't see
picket fences, but it all breaks down once you
some... purpose in that.
get here.
Anyway, I'm... brooding again. Trying to
They walked by and wandered into the
remember something, if you really want to
sunset, even though you can't see it with the
know. Of course you do
buildings around here.
— you wouldn't be
I'm told the smog makes it
standing here if you didn't want a story. It gets hard to find reality here. To distinguish between the stuff you can only feel and the stuff that's really there. Weird stuff happens out here at night, even besides all the nasty and petty crimes. We get by. Last night, while I was sitting here at the corner of Burck Street and First,
It's so much easier beautiful from the to pass us by without looking, keep on in that haze that most people prefer.
rooftops. And that was that. But, you know, the sense that I was missing something persisted, almost gleefully. The problem was that she looked at me. Eye contact; it's not something most people try for with us, especially not lady debutantes. It's so much easier to pass us by without looking, keep on
I saw a monster. Not the
in that haze that most
usual run of half-rotting
people prefer. You're all
corpses and unsettled ghosts, not even La
infatuated with the world and deathly afraid
Llorona in her robes all of white, floating along
of looking for any flaws in it.
as she sometimes does. Nothing so terrible and
One flash of pale brown eyes, almost amber,
twisted; only a young woman and a man,
in my direction, curved in a fox’s smile before
walking along in their haze of love. We don’t
she shook the dust of our streets off her two-
see a lot of them down here, but it’s close
hundred dollar heels. Her long, black hair
enough to the business district that a man in a
reflecting the cheap neon lights as it flowed
business suit didn’t stand out at all. Not a big
down to the small of her back and the shimmer
deal. The lady was another story: designer
of the red dress that covered it. She was trying
dress with no arms or back and precious little
for the Goth look, I think, but she was the sort
front, polished nails, and the face to pull all of
of girl who’d look her best under expensive
it off. A little pampered debutante, out with
chandeliers. Mademoiselle Debutante. 41
And then her beau was dark and quick, a
And now you're
bit more non-descript in an expensive midnight-blue suit, but all the more
looking too; what
incongruous for all that. He was tall, the wolf to her fox, with sharp features melting into the
ever happened
rough lines of his suit, the pristine leather of his loafers, and the wallet peering out of his fashionably-useless pocket.
to you last night,
Mm-hm. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? And now you're looking too; what ever
I wonder?
happened to you last night, I wonder? You don't even remember passing by me, and now you've come seeking lies. A bit odd for the technocrats that rule the world, who always
or great wisdom.
claim to seek the betterment of humankind
Mademoiselle knew that she didn't have
and unadulterated truth. Unless, of course, it
the wit or inspiration for great deeds, or the
involves how they were out with the
will to seek great wisdom, and she feared that
competition's daughter a few nights ago, or
she would never find the great love of legends,
how their salaries got just a little extra bonus...
of Romeo and Juliet, Paris and Helen, or Don
Shall we find a lie? I'll even give you a fairy
Juan. She feared the great road out of town,
tale ending to suit your sensibilities.
black as cremation ashes and shrouded in grey
Mademoiselle Debutante was a lovely
storm clouds that never blew away. So she
lady, the daughter of the corporation's ruler,
wished and prayed that someone would come
who lived in a palace a thousand stories tall
and take her away from her awful fate.
made out of steel that gleamed like the sun
She wished for one day, and then the next,
and twenty thousand windows that reflected
and then the next, and then after the third day
the sky like a vertical lake, so all the songbirds
had passed, she gave up hope and wrapped
and falcons found their way to its eaves and
herself in her blankets to while away the days
filled the sky with their feathers and song.
until her birthday and her journey would
But Mademoiselle was afraid, for the time
begin.
was coming on her nineteenth birthday when
But two weeks later, a young man came to
she would have to go out into the world and
her door, with the sharp gaze of a wolf and the
find her own way. It was the tradition of those
strong features of someone who had made his
people that when their children came of age,
way in the world. He was so brave and so
they had to take the long, black road wherever
handsome, though older than her by far, that
it might lead them on a quest for love and
she ignored the ash-black shade of his hair and
glory, and they could only come back to their
the deep brown-red shade of his immaculate
fathers' arms on the day when they had found
suit. He promised her that if she came with
their fortune through great deeds or great love
him, he'd give her the world. 42
And Mademoiselle accepted. In her fear of
down to look at the town again, took one step
the unknown and of her own failure, and in
along the road, and wrinkled her nose at how
the cocoon of her blankets, he told her a secret:
it stained her shoes before turning away to her
no one ever really left on their journey,
towers and lights.
because there was nothing below the
After a few years, she had a child named
crystalline towers and lights of the town. This
for Monsieur Wolf, with her features and his
was everything in the world: the balls, and the
hair, who grew up much too quickly for her
masques, and the glittering lights of the
liking, but she loved him all the same. And he
chandeliers, and all the smoke and peasants
went down to the town, took three steps along
below were nothing but a fairy tale. Everyone
the black road, and told a pretty young girl a
swore that they'd left and listed their
secret.
accomplishments without a trace of shame and
And they all lived happily ever after.
then came back to their loving mothers and fathers without ever doing a thing. And they were happy all the rest of their lives. So Monsieur, with the wolf-sharp features and the ash-black hair, took Mademoiselle Debutante out on the town on her nineteenth birthday with a ring on her finger and tousled hair, and they were happy. And they came back home after a few days with a wedding plan and a new smile,
Now, Monsieur, have I sung sweetly? Or
and Mother and Father accepted their plans
does the ending taste too bitter in your mouth?
and were happy that they'd made their way in
Not to worry; one cup of coffee won’t kill me,
the world, just as they had.
nor the lack thereof. There are always plenty of
Mademoiselle looked back, just once, at the
sorry customers, looking to drown their
world below and the road and the ghosts, and
sorrows...
her eyes were laced in fear despite her coquette's smile. But she put it out of her mind, as Monsieur had long ago, and let it linger there, just as he had, worrying holes out of her mind. And, just once, just as he had, she came
artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12) 43
Last Voyage of the Amygdala Alex Monday (12) From christening this ship was doomed, To find at depth her lonesome tomb. I, captain, shall weather her throes, And with Amygdala I shall go.
From christening this ship was doomed, To find at depth her lonesome tomb. I, captain, shall weather her throes, And with Amygdala I shall go.
She cannot fight another storm, She’s long faced the ocean’s wrath, But as these waves destroy her form, I see that we are trapped. The skies are grey and dark as night, Waters, black as Hell, Slashed by a jagged whip of light, That shakes the watchman’s bell.
Like the damned, we are pulled under, By tentacles of sea. We are the ocean’s plunder, Amygdala and me. Cold waters numb my bones, Amygdala is lost. Amidst her final, haunting groans, I re’lize passion’s cost.
She’s tossed from heights to far below, And writhes as dying do. I see no coast, nor distant glow, Amygdala is through. Like many captains before me, I join myself and mast, With rope of sail and weed of sea, The ship I futilely grasp.
In sea that tastes of kelp and blood, Swallowed up are we, Chewed apart like cattle’s cud, I’ve found insanity.
artwork by Derek Hatley (12)