Eyrie 2009 by Eyrie Publications-EMCC

The Eyrie A Literary/Trades Journal 2009 Issue 1

Eastern Maine Community College

The Eyrie A Literary/Trades Journal 2009 Issue 1

Eastern Maine Community College

Welcome to the debut issue of the Eyrie! We began this project with the goal of highlighting the best writing our students are doing in classes here at Eastern Maine Community College. Our goal is to provide both a showcase of our studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC; work and a resource for students and instructors alike; toward that end, we have chosen the very strongest work submitted to us. While it does contain a balance of analytical and creative pieces, this first issue is heavily weighted with submissions from general education courses. In future issues, we hope to strike a balance between the work being done in those classes and the excellent work produced by students within their technologies. We are accepting submissions on a rolling basis, and we encourage every student in every course at the college to submit their best work to us for consideration. While our emphasis is obviously on writing, photographs or sketches of projects accompanied by explanations of those projects are also encouraged. We have an enormous variety of talent at the college, and we want to share it all. Enjoy! Lesley Gillis & Devin Wood, Co-Editors

Special thanks to: Rick Brooker for photography Kim Campbell for formatting assistance Ron Turner for taking a chance and everyone for patience and support

All materials herein are copyright protected and remain the sole property of the contributors.

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Table of Contents Jane Eyre as a Calvinist Parable .............. 1 Eric Lawson

Joy .................................................. 7 Lindsay McCoy

Perfection ....................................... 10 Jonathan Birmingham

Culture Shock ................................... 12 Jordan Albert

Evil Prevails ..................................... 14 Sarah Robinson

Acne .............................................. 17 Amanda Ledford

The (Auto)Biography of Elizabeth Bennett 25 Victoria Davis

This is My House ............................... 28 Daisy Campbell

Garage Band Recording ....................... 29 George J Harris

Iron Parachute.................................. 31 Paul Blood

Ghost Story ...................................... 34 Angela Commeau

Tough Decisions ................................ 41 Paul Blood

Aren't We All .................................... 43 Nicholas Applebee

Apologies in “The Author to Her Book” ... 44 Victoria Davis

Get Real, Get Maine ........................... 46 Brittney Ginn

Ghost Story ...................................... 47 Sarah Robinson

Bruh Man ........................................ 50 Marlon Weaver

Not the Question ............................... 52 Anna Arquette

On the Passing .................................. 58 Joyce B Hedlund

Jane Eyre as a Calvinist Parable Eric Lawson For ENG 225 Literature by Women Reader response In Calvinist thought, it is believed that mankind has no free will, that every moment, every decision, every event in our lives is predestined by God. This extends even to faith; there is a belief that God controls every waver in belief, every doubting thought, every epiphany as to His grace and glory. Our salvation or damnation has already been decided upon our entry into this world. As a result of these ideas, it was (and presumably still is, by some) thought that the prosperous among us were chosen by God, that their wealth was proof of His preference, and conversely, that the poor were not thought of so well by the Almighty, that they were tainted souls condemned by God himself. It is through this lens of belief that Jane Eyre will be examined in this paper, for it is a tale of a dependent, an orphan, lifted up from her lowly heritage by Providence. She is guided through life by an invisible hand, and though there is hardship, through the grace of God she becomes a woman rich in both pocketbook and love.

This concept of divine preference enters into the novel early, thrust upon the reader and Jane when she is told by Miss Abbot ―you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed … they will have a great deal of money, and you will have none‖ (641). In addition, Abbot says she ―wouldn‘t have [Jane‘s] heart for anything‖ (641), underlining that Jane is seen as a low creature, forsaken by God. Jane tells us further that ―All said I was wicked‖ (643), showing that this is not simply the opinion of one, but of the entire household of Gateshead. Even when asked if she would like to go to what Mrs. Reed referred to as her ―poor, low relations‖ she ―should not like to belong to poor people‖, telling the reader that she connected poverty to ―debasing vices‖ and that ―poverty for me was synonymous with degradation‖ (649). It is in this passage that these Calvinist beliefs of the inferiority of the poor extend beyond adults, seeping into and hardening in the hearts and minds of children. When the decision is made by Mrs. Reed to send Jane to Lowood School, under the direction of Mr. Brocklehurst, the precepts of Calvinism show during the interview held at Gateshead prior to her admission. After Jane says that she does not find Psalms interesting, Mr. Brocklehurst tells her ―That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it‖ (655), thus implying that it is not our actions on earth that make up our souls, but rather action in heaven. Furthermore, Mrs. Reed requests that Jane ―be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects‖ shortly after relaying to Brocklehurst her opinion of Jane‘s character, of her ―tendency to deceit‖ (656), again tying her perceived wickedness and her social class. This is found to be ―perfectly judicious‖ by Brocklehurst, who goes on to give an account of his own daughter‘s reaction to the pupils at the school as being ―almost like poor people‘s children‖. Mrs. Reed approves of this, finding it suitable that Jane be kept in her social strata and again seeks reassurance that Jane will be ―trained in conformity to her position and prospects‖ (657). And trained in conformity to her position and prospects she is, for after completing her education, Jane remains on at Lowood as a teacher, but she cannot be still. Striving for

something better in the wider world, she is troubled by what to do. She asks herself ―There are many others who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers; and what is their resource?‖ (694). The answer does not come for some time as ―for nearly an hour it worked in chaos, and no result came of its efforts‖, and when it does come, it comes from some external force (attributed to a kind fairy). This external force speaks to her telling her exactly the plan, that she must advertise, and how to go about this. An argument can be made that this is no fairy, but is rather the hand of God leading Jane down the path He has cut for her. The same hand that led Jane from Lowood to the gates of Thornfield and the arms of Rochester again appears when it becomes clear that she must leave, that those arms are not meant to hold her. After the revelation of the existence of Bertha, Jane ponders, asking aloud ―What am I to do?‖, she receives a ―answer… so prompt, so dread‖ to ―Leave Thornfield at once‖. She at first denies this command, but then she recounts that ―a voice within me averred that I could do it; and foretold that I should do it.‖ (847) It is this disembodied voice that commands her next move, its foretelling ringing of God‘s predestination. This is further reinforced when her plea for help is met with words from the Bible ―No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you … your heart shall be the victim; and you, the priest, to transfix it‖ (847). At the hearing of these words, Jane says she ―rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judge haunted, -- at the silence which so awful a voice filled‖. This serves as further evidence that these were not the words of Jane‘s own heart, but of some external force. When she does follow the command of this voice, dropped without means or connection at the crossroads of Whitcross. That night she seeks shelter under a rocky overhang, and Jane has a moment of religious understanding while looking into the night sky, ―We know that God is everywhere … we feel his presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us … we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence … I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was

I of His efficiency to save what He had made‖ (866). In the last part of this statement ―save‖ carries a double meaning – not only that she should not perish in the bodily sense, but that God was going to save her, that she was one of God‘s children chosen for salvation. In the coming day, hunger gets the better of Jane, and she is reduced to begging, whether for a piece of bread from a farmer or saving porridge from the pig trough. (870) With hunger still getting the better of her, and her strength failing, Jane calls upon that which has guided her this far – ―Oh, Providence! sustain me a little longer! Aid – direct me!‖ (870) It is shortly after this plea for divine guidance that Jane espies a distant light. This light she follows to the door of the family Rivers, where she finally finds shelter. Revived, Jane befriend this family, and goes to hear St. John Rivers preach. In his sermon he makes ―stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines – election, predestination, reprobation‖ (886). These are the basic tenets of the Faith – that God selects individuals for salvation (election), makes all their decisions (predestination), and condemns those not elected (reprobation). Though he is speaking of the central doctrines, Jane is moved by an ―inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me … that the eloquence to which I had been listening had sprung from a depth … where moved insatiate yearning and disquieting aspirations‖ (886). When telling the reader this, Jane makes a particular point that she ―knew not whether equally so to others‖ this underlying tone to St. John‘s sermon was felt. That could be interpreted as again some force acting upon her psyche, in this case allowing her to see what was being spoken out of the other side of St. John‘s mouth. Shortly after she is given her position as teacher at the girls school in Morton, there happens a conversation between St. John and Jane, where St. John is checking on her in her new accommodations, the quality of them and the like, and Jane replies ―five weeks ago I had nothing … I wonder at the goodness of God, the bounty of my lot, I do not repine‖ (893). In this Jane is praising the path that had been laid out for her.

In this same conversation, St. John makes a statement that can be seen as anything but Calvinistic – ―It is hard work to control the workings of inclination, and turn the bent of nature: but that it may be done I know from experience. God has given us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate; and when our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get – when our will strains after a path we may not follow – we need neither starve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden fruit it longed to taste – and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one Fortune has blocked up against us‖ (893). This may be further evidence of his ―disquieting aspirations‖, but it is evidence that Jane does not see. In fact, she in a way falls under St. John‘s spell and nearly follows him to India. Something prevents Jane from following him down this path that he has ―hew[n] out‖ for himself, perhaps because it is not the road to salvation for her. That lies somewhere else, partly in a letter from Madeira, and partly at Thornfield. That very letter from Madeira, on the death of her uncle and the bequeathment of his estate is what further cements the Calvinist effect of this story. When Jane receives the sum of 20,000 pounds, it is then that the reader is finally shown that indeed God has favored Jane. The sudden presence of wealth catapults Jane into a different social echelon, making possible her marriage to Rochester, allowing her to jump over the hurdle of wealth that separated the two. Even Rochester, prior to this a worldly man, begins to see the predestination of his life, telling Jane ―Divine justice pursued its course … I was forced to pass through the valley of death‖ ―Of late, Jane – only – only of late – I began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker‖ (954). In this passage Rochester expounds on the Calvinist belief that it is God who determines our fate, condemns us, saves us. Through the seeds of His making, he has turned the heart of this man towards Him. This is further emphasized when Rochester says ―I thank my Maker that in the midst of judgment He has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth

a purer life than I have done hitherto!‖ (955). This passage reflects the belief that salvation comes only through God and God‘s actions, not our own here on Earth. In the end, we see the hand of Providence has guided Jane to a blissful life, endowed with wealth, embraced by love. Also, we discover the fate of the man who has attempted to make his own path. St. John Rivers ―left England: he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself‖ and ―is unmarried: he will never will marry now … his glorious sun hastens to its setting‖, writing to Jane ―My Master has forewarned me. Daily he announces more distinctly, - ‗Surely I come quickly!‘‖ (958). The path chosen by St. John is a short one, unaccompanied by Providence, to die under that tropical sun, alone. Whether or not the path taken by St. John is the one intended by God is unclear, for it seems that he has an internal struggle until the day of his departure, that he has shied away from the love of Rosamond Oliver, fought against that which was laid before him, attempted to steer Jane away from what was her own destiny. For all of this, his life is cut short, his mission unfulfilled. Through the trials and tribulations, Jane Eyre stayed resolute, always listening to that external voice within, taking God‘s hand as He led her down the path. Because of this, and the unenviable fate of St. John and his belief that man must (and may) forge his own way, the novel Jane Eyre can be read as a Calvinist parable, the story of a woman not of means made good. Made good not on her own, but by the plans of her Maker, plans that led her to wealth, happiness, and strengthening her faith. It is not clear if Charlotte Brontё intended this novel to read this way, but surely her own beliefs were influenced by Calvinism, brought up the daughter of a clergyman. And surely it is possible to interpret her novel as a tale of redemption through obedience to the will of God, one of the primary tenets of the Calvinist doctrine.

Joy Lindsay McCoy For ENG 225 Literature by Women A ghost story for the Women‘s Lit Halloween celebration Based on a true story. ―Wake up, Joy,‖ hollered Betty as the tea kettle whistled like a freight train rolling into the station. Joy rolled out of bed, inhibited by her entangled hair, and slumped up the stairs. Betty dropped a bowl of oatmeal in front of Joy for her breakfast and called down the hall to Fernald. Fernald clunked down the hallway with his oversized rubber fishing boots, rubbed Joy‘s head as she ate, and kissed Betty farewell for his routine day out on the boat. ―It‘s going to be an overcast one today, folks—blustery but no signs of flurries,‖ announced the meteorologist from the hollow radio speakers. ―I can‘t wait for this winter to be done with. Your father is at risk lobster fishing every day.‖ Betty declared hastily. The ocean was fairly choppy that day with the sky constantly threatening snow. Fernald was a dedicated worker. He needed to make money to support his daughter and wife. The boat pierced the ocean‘s flesh as it made its way into the deep sea. The first few hours were freezing but bearable to Fernald and his stern man, Charlie. ―It‘s nippy out here, Fernald,‖ confessed Charlie as a ghostly white cloud of breath escaped his lips. The temperature continued to drop and the ocean‘s cold felt like a million knives threatening to attack. White snowflakes danced around like the sky was a dance floor, blinding Fernald to any direction home. ―I‘m starting up the boat. We need to go home. This is getting bad, Charlie,‖ demanded Fernald. He placed his popsicle fingers on the ignition and nothing happened. The boat was affected by the freezing as if it had seen a ghost and refused to move. ―Charlie, get that radio so we can buzz Chip‘s

boat and have him come help us out, We ain‘t getting outta here for a while,‖ Fernald instructed. ―Ummmm, Ferny? I left it at home with the Missus ‗cause she‘s fixin‘ the electrical cord, remembah?‖ A terrified shock ran through Fernald to his face as he wondered what to do. He forcefully walked to the boat‘s bench inside the cabin and discovered two thin felt blankets. He threw one at Charlie and unfolded the second blanket for himself. ―We gotta wait for this here storm to pass, Charlie. Stay in the cabin and God‘s sakes stay warm,‖ Fernald, the captain of the boat, said with as much warmth as he could. The snowflakes suffocated every recognition of living matter on Little Cranberry Island. Betty sat at the kitchen table, staring at the snowflakes as if they were accumulating on her heart and weighing it down. After two hours she forced herself from the kitchen table to shut off the porch light, only to turn it back on just in case Fernald made his way home. She placed herself under the cold bedcovers and shut off her mind for the night. After only three torturous hours of half-sleep, Betty jumped out of bed and raced to the continuous ring of the telephone. ―Hello?‖ ―Yes, Mrs. Sprague?‖ ―Yes, yes. Who is this?‖ ―This is Chutty Buck. I found Fernald this morning.‖ ―Oh my God! Is he okay?‖ Betty asked, holding back tears. ―I‘m afraid to say he froze to death with Charlie last night on the boat.‖ BANG! Betty dropped the phone, fell into the kitchen chair and hysterically cried. The moon was telling the ocean secrets as it reflected its luminous glow against the rippled black canvas. The

fisherman‘s boathouse was nearby, lit up with uncovered light bulbs and laughter. ―John, you think you‘re a king with that new boat of yours. I‘m gonna steal it one of these days.‖ All three men howled laughing and washed it down with a gulp of bitter beer. ―Hey, Tommy, throw me another beer,‖ said John, his hands out eagerly. ―Wait a minute, man. You hear somethin‘? I think someone‘s out on the beach. I can hear footsteps on the rocks.‖ ―Now, why would someone be out there at three in the morning, Tommy?‖ said Colin, the burliest of the three fishermen. John got up from his comfortable position and grabbed the beer from Tommy‘s hand. While cracking open the beer, he peered out the window. The shadows were walking towards the middle of the beach as if they were coming from the black universe of the ocean. ―Who the hell is that?‖ asked John, causing Tommy and Colin to stand up and run to the other window. The two shadows made their way to the middle of the beach. With their skin colorless and eyes black, the two men appeared to be on a mission to some unknown destination. Their arms were swinging from their heavy walking, but their feet were invisible. They were gliding along the beach, not saying a word, not looking at their surroundings. ―That‘s Fernald and Charlie. What the hell, man,‖ said Colin, the burliest, clearly most terrified. The two figures evaporated into the darkness. Betty had shut herself off from society, hopelessly waiting for her husband to miraculously return. All she had left of her husband was her daughter, Joy—the only person who brought some joy to her soul. One afternoon, Betty sat lonely in her husband‘s favorite chair, knitting the sweater she was making him to wear on his travels. She hadn‘t felt his touch since that morning two months before. While weaving her handles in and out, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Betty froze with

fear, not knowing who was behind her. Then she felt the warm essence of her husband‘s face next to hers, cheek to cheek. At that moment her weight lifted and she felt her Fernald telling her it was okay to keep living. Life doesn‘t always bring happiness, but Betty will always have her Joy.

Perfection Jonathan Birmingham For LAE 013 Introduction to Writing I My car Oscar, how I found it, how I clean it, and how I maintain it. My car is my pride and joy. I worked hard to purchase my 1998 Nissan Altima, otherwise known as Oscar. Oscar gives me freedom and independence. I worked many hours of hard, back breaking labor to purchase my car. It was definitely worth every agonizing, painstaking, tiring hour I put in as a construction laborer. Oscar has taught me about responsibility. My car is like a new baby, and it takes a lot of tender loving care to keep it alive. I spend a lot of time doing maintenance on it. The art of keeping it looking sharp and clean can be monotonous, but is well worth it when the end result is a shiny, spotless machine. The first time I saw my car sitting all alone beside the road I knew I had to buy it. The tall grass that was covering the bottom half of the car, and the giant bee‘s nest that had developed under the left rear bumper, were the only imperfections that I could see. Take away the weeds and the unwelcome passengers in the rear, and I knew I had found a real gem. The golden tone that covers the outside sparkles when the sun hits it, and the reflection of the tiny sparkles reminds me of thousands of diamonds buried on a sandy beach. The four brand-new tires that carry this machine are ready to go and take me on a journey. The windows are so clean that I feel like I am riding in an open air machine.

I have spent hours washing my car. I use the softest sponges, warm water, and special car washing soap. I make sure the weather is perfect, sun shining, with just a lit bit of a gentle breeze to help dry my car. I then wipe Oscar down with my extra soft chamois cloth. I check and recheck for smudges and streaks. Glass cleaner is my next weapon of choice. Washing the windows can be a long and tedious job because I have to inspect and re-inspect each time I wipe the glass cleaner off to make sure I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t have streaks and smudges. There is nothing worse than spending all day cleaning my car and riding down the road only to look out of streaked windows. I spray and wipe each optical device with care. The windows look like they are nonexistent. I feel ready to move onto the final procedure to make Oscar look as great as a 1963 Corvette. The vacuuming of a car is similar to vacuuming your home. I start at the outside edges of the seats and work toward the center. I then proceed to the floor. I move the wand from side to side, going over the same area a few times. The interior now is as spotless as the exterior. I sit down in the driverâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s seat and adjust my seat so I am comfortable and confident driving this machine. I check my left mirror, right mirror and the rearview mirror. Everything looks great and I am anxious to get going. I ever so gently turn the ignition key and start my car. I sit and let it idle. It still sounds like perfection! I glance down to the middle of my dashboard and look for the green light on the perfectly mounted stereo system. It is on. I then glance over my right shoulder and look in the back seat and see that my big and loud sub woofer and speakers are all in their places. I proceed to turn on my satellite radio that is mounted to the right of the stereo and start the music. The bass is roaring. The car is moving and I am on my way.

Culture Shock Jordan Albert For ENG 101 College Composition Comparing life in Bangor to my rural hometown in northern Maine. As you traverse the path of adolescence, you will undoubtedly confront change. One of the most important changes to a young adultâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s lifestyle, however, is that of living arrangements. The vast majority of students graduate from high school, go on to college, and live in college dorms. Although this change merits a new sense of freedom, it commonly delivers a tinge of homesickness and subsequently demands major adjustment. Not only did this past autumn season require me to transition from high school to college, but it also insisted that I adjust to a new city: Bangor, Maine. I grew up in a small town tucked away in the pinnacle of the state of Maine called Madawaska. Because the town of Madawaska lies directly on the U.S.-Canadian border, the French and American cultures blend quite frequently. Not only are the majority of people bilingual, but they also hold a distinctive characteristic of having a superior work ethic. Whether it be participating in the annual potato harvest or working several jobs throughout high school, the children raised in the northern part of the

state begin their adult life with the determination and drive to fulfill their goals. Madawaska houses a mere five thousand inhabitants. The main source of employment in the town is the local paper mill—which employs the vast majority of adults who reside in the area. Although it is quite easy to cross the border to the nearby city of Edmunston, New Brunswick, which has a population of about twenty thousand, Madawaska remains a small suburban area. Though the town may not have a shopping mall, a single set of streetlights, or a wide array of activities to partake of, it offers the tranquility of a rural area that is perfect for someone who loves the outdoors. I fell in love with the privacy of my wilderness home lying among the outskirts of town. When I was not working or attending school, I enjoyed fishing or hunting, or riding my quad or snowmobile— depending on the time of year. Because of the geographical position of my hometown, we also had rather distinct seasons. The summers never got very hot, but the winters occupied a good portion of the year with cold temperatures and beautiful measures of snowfall. Some may cackle at the life of northern Maine because of its rural location; however, one must be raised in the region to truly appreciate its beauty— which is unique from my new, second home. The city of Bangor is by no means a large, bustling city in comparison to the largest metropolitan areas in the nation. However, in comparison with my upbringing, it requires a drastic transition. No longer can I conveniently have a break from my homework to take a walk in the woods or enjoy a scenic ride on my four-wheeler to occupy a boring afternoon. These activities may be performed on the outskirts of the city, but they are by no means as convenient as they were in the northern part of the state. The city life also emits a sense of urgency. Everyone around, whether they are driving on the road or walking in the street, seems to be in such a rush. Time is of the essence and everyone‘s patience seems to dwindle if they are caused any inconvenience. The large number of retail stores and restaurants adds a new element of convenience to my life that was not present before. Normally, if I desired a specialty item, I either had to order the item online or wait until a shopping trip to Bangor or Portland. That is no longer the case. However, planning a

trip to the store to avoid traffic is also a foreign topic to me. I do not dare head out to Wal-Mart at noontime if I want to avoid impatiently idling at red lights for half an hour. This is something I never had to deal with before, since traffic congestion in Madawaska was only somewhat of a reality after Sunday mass had ended and the parking lot full of churchgoers was emptied into Main Street. The city life certainly requires a lifestyle adjustment for one who tends to plow deep â&#x20AC;&#x201D; or someone who holds traditional standards, sticks to a schedule, and is satisfied with the same old routine â&#x20AC;&#x201D; since many of these values are compromised in Bangor. Several weeks have expired since my initial move to Bangor. Although I visited the city countless times throughout my life, I had not actually prepared to reside in the area. I am hesitant to admit it, but moving to Bangor was a slight culture shock. I am slowly adjusting to the new lifestyle, but I have only done so after living here for a month. Bangor might be a great place to live since it offers the convenience of a city without the overpopulation and active crime rate, yet it is contradictory to the life I had in Madawaska. Only time will tell whether I can fully adjust to a permanent life in the area, or if my cultural roots will drag me back to the northern end of the state.

Evil Prevails Sarah Robinson For ENG 225 Literature by Women Zora Neale Hurston response paper Marriage can be a wonderful institution. In todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s western culture, marriage is meant to unite two individuals that love each other for the rest of their lives. There are many social, religious and emotional reasons that people decide to enter into matrimony. Although it seems most marriages begin with love and bliss, many do not end that way. The story, Sweat, by Zora Neale Hurston portrayed marriage in a different light for me. It illustrated the individual harm that can come from a bad marriage if it is not ended promptly. In this story, Delia Jones was weakened and broken down by a terri-

ble marriage to a horrible man. She was not only physically damaged, but she was emotionally and spiritually defeated as well. I felt that her perseverance ultimately yielded more pain and suffering than she ever needed to experience. Hurston clearly defines an abusive marriage in Sweat. Sykes Jones was both an abuser as well as an adulterer. He made it very clear that he would rather see Delia dead than alive as his wife. The story alludes to multiple physical encounters in which Sykes abused Delia. His constant threats and beatings took their physical toll on her. According to the people of Eatonville, his abuse was well known and quite visible in Delia‘s appearance; ―Too much knockin‘ will ruin any ‗oman. He done beat huh ‗nough tuh kill three women, let ‗lone change they looks‖ (352). The physical affects of Sykes‘ abuse were visible to Delia as well, ―She was young and soft then, but now she thought of her knotty, muscled limbs, her harsh knuckly hands, and drew herself up into an unhappy little ball in the middle of the big feather bed.‖ Delia resented Sykes for what he had done to her throughout the course of their marriage. Her physically broken down body was a segway into her emotional and spiritual defeat. One night, Delia reflected on her marriage that had started out with love. ―She lay awake, gazing upon the debris that cluttered their matrimonial trail. Not an image left standing along the way. Anything like flowers had long ago been drowned in the salty stream that had been pressed from her heart.‖ This quote directly revealed Delia‘s recognition that in her mind, her marriage had ended. With the quote; ―Too late to hope for love now, even if it were not Bertha it would be someone else,‖ (351) Hurston exposes Delia‘s hopelessness and her realization that Sykes will never change his adulterous ways. Sykes had effectively taken the wind from Delia‘s sail both physically and emotionally. However, there was one thing that Delia felt Sykes could not take from her, and that was her faith in God. Throughout the story, Delia‘s devotion to her religion is clearly shown. During this time period, and still today, divorce is considered to be sinful. Breaking the solemn vows of marriage could result in being ostracized from the church. I felt that Delia‘s commitment to God and the commitment to her marriage went hand in hand. Instead of leaving Sykes

and making a new life for herself, she stayed married to him and living with him for fifteen long, miserable years. All of the misery and hate that consumed Delia eventually opened the door to a dark apparition. In the story, Sykes brings a very large and venomous rattlesnake to the house. Hurston uses a snake as a biblical reference to symbolize the devil or evil in the story. Delia directly acknowledges the snake as the devil when she addresses the box that it is kept in; ―Whut‘s de mattah, ol‘ satan, you aint kickin up yo‘ racket?‖(355) At the end of the story when Sykes is bitten by the snake, it is obvious that the evil has won over Delia. In the barn she reflects on her near death experience with the snake, and is overcome with the evil rage of the devil; ―With this, stalked through her a cold, bloody rage. Hours of this. A period of introspection, a space of retrospection, then a mixture of both. Out of this an awful calm‖ (356). The cold, bloody rage that stalked through her was the devil entering her soul and the awful calm that resulted from this rage represented the evil that had finally taken over in her time of weakness. When Sykes is bitten, Delia does not help. She listens to him scream and die inside the house. The byproducts of evil consume her in the end; rage and resentment take hold, and she lets Sykes die in agony. This story showed me what can happen if a bad marriage is not ended. Hurston portrayed a dispirited character that was capable of taking care of herself. In the story, Delia braved an uphill battle against a horrible man and a hopeless marriage. The end result was her being physically, emotionally and spiritually defeated. In the end, she was reduced to a point of extreme vulnerability. It was then that the evil in story was able to intrude upon her moral fiber and take over. Instead of adhering to her virtuous ways, she collapsed into the arms of resentment, rage and evil. Unfortunately, Delia did not realize that the hate in her heart would eventually consume her.

Acne Amanda Ledford For BIO 121 Anatomy & Physiology I A research report in APA format Over seventeen million teenage males and females that hit puberty around the world suffer from a very common skin disorder known as acne vulgaris, more often referred to as acne. Acne is not a disorder that only occurs in adolescents, but can occur at any age. Acne is an inflammatory disorder of the pilosebaceous gland of the skin that presents as pusfilled sacs, caused when oil secreted to the skin's surface meets resistance (Tom & Fallon, 2008). This paper will discuss a common disorder related to the sebaceous glands of the integumentary system known as Acne Vulgaris. The paper will describe how acne can causes psychological effects, outline types of acne treatments, and why it is important to take control of acne at the first sign of exposure.

Sebaceous glands are oil glands found in hair follicles that are located in the dermis of the integumentary system. Sebaceous glands are found all over the body, except on the palms of hands and the soles of feet. The oil secreting portion of the sebaceous glands remain deep in the dermis, but they secrete their oil into the hair follicles or directly onto the skinâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s surface known as the epidermis. The oil secreted by the sebaceous glands is called sebum, a substance containing triglycerides, cholesterol, proteins, and inorganic salts. Sebum helps to keep hair and skin moisturized, preventing brittleness of the hair and flakes or scales on the skin (Jenkins, Kemnitz & Tortora, 2007). During puberty, hormones are regulated through the human body by the reproductive system to prepare males for sperm reproduction and women for secondary oocytes to become fertilized (Jenkins, Kemnitz & Tortora, 2007). If estrogen and androgen hormones (progesterone and testosterone) remain equal in the body, acne is more unlikely to occur, but if androgen hormone levels are higher than estrogen, certain elements in the integumentary system could act dysfunctionally. Unequal amounts of hormones can cause problems with the sebaceous glands and the production of sebum in the integumentary system, causing inflammation to the skin, resulting in acne (Tom & Fallon, 2008). Androgen hormones are released by the adrenal glands in women. Acne can flare up when a woman becomes pregnant, due to the fluctuation of hormones. Acne in older women is more commonly known to be caused by the drop of estrogen levels due to menopause. Hormones tend to stabilize in men, but are constantly fluctuating in women throughout their lives because of pregnancies, their menstrual cycle, and menopause (Passarella, 2008). Stress plays a big role in the release of hormones as well and can cause acne breakouts. Acne is more common on the head, face, back, neck, and shoulders, because sebaceous glands are more densely clustered in these areas (Hill, 1994). In normal conditions of the skin the epithelial cells lining the neck of the sebaceous glands should exfoliate onto the skin's surface through the pores, resulting in clear skin. In abnormal conditions, the epithelial cells have the tendency to build up in pores because of their sticky surface rather than be released onto the skinâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s surface (Hill, 1994). In addition,

conditions tend to heighten during puberty in males and females that overly produce androgens, causing sebaceous glands to become stimulated, resulting in the enlargement of the gland and the production of extra sebum (Tom & Fallon, 2008). Epithelial cell build-up, the over production of sebum, and the expansion of the hair follicle is known as a comedo. A comedo that has formed in the skinâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s hair follicles causes blackheads, acne pimples, and abscesses to form (Merck, 1997). Sebum continues to produce into the hair follicles even though the pores of the skin are clogged. If the pores are only partially clogged a blackhead will form, but if they are completely clogged the epithelial cell build-up and the trapped sebum have a lipolytic effect, releasing fatty acids and other lipids, which cause the formation of pimples or abscesses (Hill, 1994). A pimple is a collection of pus caused by oil and bacteria build-up trying to be released. If the infection and irritation in the pimple gets worse by a rupture in the underlying hair follicles, an abscess could form. The reason an abscess could form is because the rupture in the hair follicles results in all the material build-up to spill into the surrounding tissue of the hair follicle (Merck, 1997). As the body's immune system tries to clean up this mess, chemicals are released that damage these surrounding tissues. Eventually, the damaged cells will be replaced by fibrous tissue, but this will result in the formation of a scar. There are two types of acne. Superficial acne that is mainly pimples that do not scar, and deep acne that is inflamed pimples that project down into the dermal layer of the skin, causing pusfilled cysts that may rupture into larger abscesses. Deep acne can result in scarring or lesions (Merck, 1997). Though acne is more likely to arise due to hormone levels, there may be other causes such as heredity, personal hygiene, environment, drugs, etc. Acne can be a side effect of drugs, including antidepressants, antibiotics, tranquilizers, anabolic steroids, and oral contraceptives. Chocolate and oily foods do not cause or prevent acne, but dieting and staying away from oily foods may prevent flare ups from aggravating the current condition. Food plays very little role in causing acne. Consumption of certain foods only affects the occurrence of acne in individual cases, but not in society as a whole. Oil-based make-ups and hair products also result

in aggravating the already existing acne (Olendorf, 1999). People tend to scrub their skin with abrasive soaps, making matters worse. No amount of scrubbing is going to dislodge a mature comedo millimeters deep in the underlying dermis. The only thing you might do is damage the hair follicle, cause it to rupture, and end up with severe scarring (Hill, 1994). Superficial acne does not usually leave scars, but scars are possible when trying to open pimples by squeezing them with your fingernails. Trying to pop or pick pimples leaves room for infection, inflammation, and scarring. Deep acne is not only noticeable on the surface, but usually spreads subdermally as well. Deep acne is known as cystic acne, which can remain a problem into someone's thirties or forties if not controlled. Deep acne can result in lifelong scarring that may be almost impossible to get rid of. There are ways to reduce the look of scars and maybe eventually remove them, but it will be very costly and may be more beneficial and dollar saving just to get acne treated. More insurance companies offer some kind of coverage now that acne has been recognized as a more serious problem in society (NEA, 1999). Males tend to get more severe acne than women, but women tend to become more psychologically affected by the skin disease (Hill, 1994). There are many reasons treatment for acne should be sought out. Acne is often not taken seriously by parents or doctors, which leads to psychological problems in teenagers. Most teenagers that have acne feel embarrassed and insecure about themselves because of their skin condition. Parents tend to tell their children that they will grow out of it because they do not realize the emotional state of their child or the long term effects that may appear on their skin if not taken care of. Teenagers with acne suffer from anxiety, severe depression, anger, low self esteem, and often withdraw socially from school events, parties, dating, etc. (NEA, 1999). Adults often suffer from the same symptoms, but socially withdraw from other events and may end up unemployed. Studies show that a higher percentage of women acne sufferers have more chance of unemployment than men do. Researchers believe it to be a lack of self esteem and very little confidence, or employers will not hire applicants with visible acne. The only proof of this is applicants tend to have great interviews over the phone, but

when asked to come in for a second interview in person the reactions tend to differ (Bowser, 1997). Acne sufferers can also become suicidal. Many articles dealing with the psychological aspect of acne urge parents not to use the wait-and-see method and to seek medical treatment for their children right away (NEA, 1999). Doctors do not always treat acne as a serious problem, which can inevitably frustrate the patient. Doctors are not always clear with their patients about how the acne treatment that is prescribed to them will work, so they expect instant results, and when they do not see them they may stop taking the prescription too early and grow angry and frustrated, feeling as though acne is an incurable disease they will have to live with forever. Sometimes people try numerous treatments and they either do not work or stop working, which causes these same feelings of hopelessness. If acne is not taken seriously, numerous problems can arise and lead to an unhealthy mind state, inevitably causing additional problems that need attention (NEA, 1999). Patients that have acne scars tend to have greater distress levels, proven by psychological survey instruments and questionnaires. Scarring caused by acne can result in psychopathology. The degree of scarring determines the psychological change in a person. Acne does not just leave noticeable scars, but inner emotional scars as well. Taking care of acne at the first sign of the disease prevents scarring and the need to reverse psychological problems, which will take up extra time and money. Studies also show that treatment improves patient quality of life (Bowser, 1997). Acne patients usually just see a family doctor, but if the case of acne is more serious they are usually referred to a dermatologist. Doctor's will diagnose a patientâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s acne by asking a series of questions about their skin care, medication use, diet, factors causing flare-ups, and prior treatment. Doctors often give a physical examination of the face, upper neck, chest, shoulders, back, and any other affected areas. The type of acne the patient has is determined under good lighting (Olendorf, 1999). Acne treatments are created with the intention of destroying acnes and other bacteria, slowing down the cell turnover in

the hair follicle, which will also help reduce the sebum production. Acne treatments can take up to 2-3 months to even take effect, and results are not guaranteed. Usually, people end up trying numerous treatments before finding one that is right for them. It takes awhile to find a treatment because everyone's skin is different and will react differently to different drugs and treatments. Once someone starts a skin clearing regimen, normally what happens is the acne will worsen before it improves, because the treatment will pull out all the bacteria and other materials that have not yet surfaced so it can then start to repair the condition (Harvard, 1995). To get rid of acne, the focus must be on gentle, consistent exfoliation, cleansing, and hydration to help normalize oil production. Unfortunately, it is not enough for most people to just wash their affected areas every day, but getting in the habit will minimize the risk of flare-ups and should be done with or without a prescription from a doctor. There are a few highly recommended treatments by doctors and dermatologists. Retin-A is a very effective treatment for comedones, papules, and pustules. Retin-A increases the production of slick surfaced cells along the hair follicle walls rather than sticky surfaced cells. The slick surfaced cells dislodge the impacted sebum and allow it to flow to the skin's surface. Retin-A can cause redness, peeling, and sensitivity to sunlight, but it is very effective in treating acne within just a few weeks (Harvard, 1995). Topical antibiotics such as topical tretinoin, benzoyl peroxide, adapalene, and salicylic acid inhibit the growth of bacteria, and the numbers of papules will lessen dramatically. Accutane (oral isotretinion) shrinks the sebaceous glands to put a halt to the over production of sebum. Approximately 40% of patients treated with accutane do not have another breakout for 4-5 months. Twenty-one percent of patients only need topical medications after the accutane treatment to keep the skin conditions under control. The rest may need oral antibiotics (Harvard, 1995). Studies have shown that treating acne by taking accutane and oral antibiotics correlated with improved psychological changes in patients (Bowser, 1997). There are also several surgical or medical procedures available to alleviate acne and the resulting scars. Dermabrasion is a procedure where the affected area of the

skin is frozen with a chemical spray and removed by brushing or planing. Comedone extraction is a process in which the comedo is removed from the pore by a special tool. Chemical peels are a popular procedure where the application of glycolic acid is applied to the top layer of the skin for peeling off, reducing the chance of scars. Deep scars are excised and the area is repaired with small skin grafts in a procedure called punch grafting. Intralesional injection is an operation where inflamed pimples are directly injected with corticosteroids. Collagen injection is a procedure involving the elevation of shallow scars by collagen (protein) injections (Olendorf, 1999). There are not really any ways to prevent acne, but there are a few things you can do to avoid irritating the current skin condition. Stay away from abrasive soaps, use noncomedogenic makeup and moisturizers, shampoo often and wear hair off of the face, stay away from oily foods, do not pick or squeeze blemishes, reduce stress. A limited amount of sun exposure may help. It is also good to steer clear of smoking, alcohol, caffeine, dairy products, sugar, processed foods, and foods high in iodine, such as salt (Orlendorf, 1999). Acne is not curable, but there are certain methods that may keep the skin clear, if the methods are used continuously. Most of the time if someone uses a treatment and stops the treatment, acne will reappear. Sometimes it may not return quite as badly and may heal spontaneously over time, but it is not worth finding out, because it could come back worse (Orlendorf, 1999). Conclusion Acne is a skin disorder caused by problems that arise in the sebaceous glands. Acne can affect people of all ages. Acne does not yet have a cure, but can be maintained. Treatment ranges from basic hygiene to more advanced medical or chemical interventions. The psychological effects of acne can be devastating. As you can see, acne is a very serious skin disorder that should not be taken lightly. However, acne can be controlled with proper treatment.

References Bowser, Andrew. (September, 1997). The effect of acne scars are more than just skin deep. Dermatology Times. Article; Supplement, Vol. 18 Issue 9, pS21, 2p. Harvard Women's Health Watch. (March, 1995). Adult acne. Article, Vol. 2 Issue 7, p4, 2p, 1bw. Hill, Marcia J. (1994). Acne and rosacea. Mosby-Year Book, Inc.

Skin Disorders.

Jenkins, Gail W., Kemnitz, Christopher P., and Tortora, Gerard J. (2007). The integumentary system. Anatomy and Physiology From Science to Life. John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Jenkins, Gail W., Kemnitz, Christopher P., and Tortora, Gerard J. (2007). The reproductive system. Anatomy and Physiology From Science to Life. John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Merck Research Laboratories. (1997). Sebaceous gland disorders. Merck Manual of Medical Information. Merck & Co., Inc. NEA Today. (November, 1999). Understanding acne and its effect on self-esteem. Article, Vol. 18 Issue 3, p41, 3/4p, 1 color. Olendorf, Donna., Jeryan, Christine., Boyden, Karen. (1999). Acne. The Gale Encyclopedia of Medicine, Vols.1.

The (Auto)Biography of Elizabeth Bennett Victoria Davis For ENG 225 Literature by Women A ghost story inspired by the literature we read this semester. I moved into a beautiful Victorian house, the perfect image of the homes that I‘d admired growing up. I‘d always dreamed of living in one someday but never thought that I‘d be able to afford to. This house, however, had been stunningly inexpensive and in good condition at about the same price as a raised ranch. I figured it was good luck and good timing that I‘d found it. Soon, however, I began to suspect that there was another reason that the house had been so inexplicably inexpensive. I kept waking up in the middle of the night, feeling like someone was in the room with me. I often heard the rustling of pages, the sound of a book slamming shut and being pushed aside before I was fully roused and opened my eyes. I‘d be shaken like when I was a child, and my imagination kept me plastered to the center of my bed in fear. I didn‘t dare get up, didn‘t dare move at all, behaving as if whatever was there was only movement and if I were still I would be safe and invisible. After a few nights of this, I took out my diary to write an entry, hoping to figure out what was going on logically by writing about it. I found that there were strange entries made since I‘d last written in it—several pages filled with unfamiliar handwriting—bitter monologues about fame and family. When I sat down to read, it became clear that whoever had been writing was not happy. The diarist was a writer and was definitely a ―she,‖ but other than that, I had no idea who she was. One entry seemed to be a reaction to her family‘s dismissing her writing. She wrote venomously of her father, who accused her of being just another ―scribbling woman.‖ He was compared unfavorably to the great misogynist Alexander Pope, and she railed with almost childish anger against him and his criticisms. The entries, however personal, were unsigned, as if she had to vent but was afraid of the conse-

quences were her angry words to be found and attributed to her. I wondered whether this was some sort of sleepwalking that I was doing, something like the poor Ambien-prescribed do, who clean out their fridges at night and catch their pajamas on fire, but writing as my dream alter-ego. Had I been reading too many posthumously-famous woman authors and growing bitter on their behalf? I removed the diary to the living room after discovering the phantom entries, either to make it harder for my sleepwalking self to get to it or to keep whoever was writing in it farther from me during my vulnerable unconscious state in the middle of the night. I heard nothing the night after I moved it and wasn‘t awakened once. I crept out to the living room in the morning to check the diary and couldn‘t find it. I‘d placed it on the couch, but, heart-racing, checking between the cushions, on the floor, under the coffee table and on the hutch, I could not find it. At a loss for what to do, I decided that I might as well get dressed and ready for work and try to forget about it for a while. The forgetting didn‘t last even five minutes, as, opening the top drawer of my dresser, I saw the diary topping a stack of camisoles. I didn‘t remember a thing and yet there it was! Opening it, I discovered a new entry—a sonnet, to be specific, two drafts. That ruled out the idea that I could be writing the entries—I couldn‘t write a sonnet while espresso-fueled with a rhyming dictionary; the idea of writing one while asleep was beyond laughable. The poem reminded me of a book that I owned; the style was strikingly similar and I leapt up to fetch the volume. Sitting down again, I began to flip through the pages, scanning each poem until I hit upon the poem that was almost exactly the same as the one that had appeared in my diary. Only a few words of the finished poem on page 32 differed from the second draft that sat next to me on the couch. Elizabeth Bennett was the poet‘s name, and, as I had suspected, she had become famous only after her death. What little was known about her verified that the struggle with her family over ―scribbling‖ and a woman‘s duties paralleled the

frustrations of the diarist. Her father had been a lawyer who had not approved of women attempting to write and had encouraged her to take a post as a teacher or to marry. It then hit me that Elisabeth was from Lisbon, the town I had just moved to when I bought the house. I scrambled to get my laptop to see if I could Google where she had lived exactly. The search engine provided a number of links, but none of them gave more information than that she had lived in Lisbon for her entire life. There was no address, no home with a plaque to mark it as having been hers and thus having historical significance, but I knew that it had to have been my house. I wondered what it would take to satisfy Ms. Bennett, since I had become convinced that it was she who haunted my home and my diary. Her unfinished business couldn‘t be that she wasn‘t known as a poet, because she was, if belatedly, and she didn‘t seem to want me out of her house, since she had done nothing threatening, even if I was frightened. But there was something…there had been so little information to be found about her. Not much was known about her personal life, writing habits, or inspiration; who she had been as a human being was very much a mystery. She wanted that amended, I figured. I wrote her a note in the diary, inviting her to use it to write her autobiography, which I would then publish as a biography, and left the book open before going to sleep that night. I asked that she just begin writing, if that was what she wanted, before completely leaving the world, and I said that I would supply any more necessary notebooks until she was finished. I awoke to the rustling of pages and the scratching of a pen coming from the living room. The noise traveled to me unceasingly until dawn, thanks to my forgetting to close the bedroom door, so for four hours I lay, frozen in bed, waiting for light and the leave-taking of my guest. When the sun rose I was exhausted but anxious to see the answer to my question, so I made my way to the living room. There, on the coffee table, was the reply—the first twentysix handwritten pages of her life story. And now, before re-

tiring for my first full-night‘s sleep in half a year of literal ghost writing, I present this explanation as the source of my unlikely introduction to The Biography of Elizabeth Bennett.

This is My House Daisy Campbell For ENG 162 Creative Nonfiction Writing prompt Into the time machine and back to that unforgettable moment. Rewind one year: There I am, sitting on the couch with my mom, when the police start banging viciously on our front door with the handle of their large flashlight. We open the door to them, and they all but arrest us. ―What are you doing in here!‖ they yell at us. My mom anxiously replies, ―We live here. This is our house.‖ Rewind one year minus five minutes: My mom and I are having a lovely conversation together in our living room. We‘re in the dark. The only lighting is our two flashlights that are moving around crazily as we laugh. Rewind three months: I cry as our electric and heat are being turned off. We no longer can afford it, nor can we afford our house. I found out a few months earlier that the bank would be taking it back during the next several months through foreclosure. It breaks my heart to lose the house, the only house that I‘ve ever known. The house I‘ve grown up in. Fast forward three months: We‘ve been living in our house in layers of clothing ever since the cold weather has come. We have no heat and we‘re dealing with it the best way we can. We sleep with at least five blankets on the beds, with that same number of layers of clothing also on our bodies, to keep warm. I look forward to going to school every day. It‘s warm there, and I can pretend everything is okay. My clothes are

nice, my hair clean, my face smiling. No one knows what‘s wrong. Fast forward five minutes: The police think we‘re breaking into our own house. We have to explain our whole story of having no electricity, the revocation of our house, and we have to show them my mom‘s driver‘s license, which has the house address. They finally agree that we do live there and leave. After they leave, I can‘t stop my tears. I‘m accused of breaking into the house I‘ve lived in my whole life. It hurts my heart. What a HORRIBLE and unforgettable day.

Garage Band Recording George J Harris For LAE 013 Introduction to Writing I A process essay explaining how my friends and I set up and record our music in the garage. I have been playing music for over thirty-five years. On occasion, my friends and I enjoy assembling in my garage, which also serves as a recording studio, and laying down some blues and rock music. If a few relatively easy steps are taken, the end product is usually a high quality recording and some good camaraderie. Our first step is to set up and tune the instruments and the sound equipment. Once we are satisfied with the set up, deciding what we want to play and possibly record is next. We seldom have a unanimous decision on what song list we want to play, so this is usually the longest step. However, once we do have a song list in hand, the final step is deciding whether or not we want to record and what format we want to use. I start by tuning up my guitars, four of them in all. I own two acoustic-electrics: a Dean six-string Exotica Series with an eye-catching bird‘s-eye maple finish, and an Ovation 12string single cut-away. Stephen Stills of the renowned group Crosby, Stills and Nash plays this same guitar. I also own two electric guitars: a Dean Evo Noir, customized for a heavier music tone, and my favorite, an Eric Clapton Special Edition Fender Stratocaster, which I can make scream or sound soul-

fully blue with a glass slide. I utilize my ears, not guitar tuners, for this step, as does the other guitarist, Roger. After playing guitar for so many years, my ears have become my tuner. While we tune our guitars, the bassist, Eddy, tunes his bass guitars, easily heard over two fifteen-inch bass drivers; and Mike tunes and adjusts his drums and other percussion instruments. Once we have the instruments in tune, we check the sound equipment, making sure we are satisfied with the vocals. We have a good time while doing this; we have been friends for over twenty years. The sound check sometimes turns into a comedy open-mike routine â&#x20AC;&#x201D; lucky for us we are better musicians than comedians! Now we try to decide what playlist we want to perform. This usually takes more time than setting up and tuning the equipment. Although we are a talented bunch, we do have very different musical backgrounds. While Roger tends to lean toward heavier music like Alice in Chains, I am more of an Allman Brothers fan. Mike and Eddy frequently go along with whatever song or type of music Roger and I start to play. We more often than not play both types of music, anyway. If we keep the garage door open while playing, we often end up with an approving audience. On occasion, my wife will make a suggestion, frequently music from the 1980s, and enjoy the show. With a song list on paper, and having performed a song or two, the decision to record what we are playing comes next. Do we record on a compact disc or on a four-channel open reel-to-reek recorder? The latter is my favorite. I have two of these machines. Did you know that when a compact disc is purchased, chances are the original studio recording was done first on a professional reel-to-reel recorder? They are quite versatile machines. Although they are large and rather heavy, about seventy pounds each, sound reproduction utilizing one of these is absolutely flawless. This type of recording is sometimes thought of as â&#x20AC;&#x2022;old school,â&#x20AC;&#x2013; which is just fine with me and the band. We can also record compact discs directly. This is actually much easier than the reel-to-reel format. I turn on the compact disc recorder, drop in a compact disc, and press the record button. With the old school format, I have to load a blank open-reel tape; make all the tone, balance, and microphone adjustments by hand; and cue the tape to the starting point. Care must be taken not to

rush this process; the person recording could end up with tape all over the studio. Tune up, decide on a song, and record. Our band frequently utilizes these three steps, resulting in a lot of fun, music, and friendship, and a respectable recording showcasing our talent. Our recordings have become gifts to family and friends alike. To other musicians, aspiring to record or not, these uncomplicated steps could bestow the same entertaining results. Rock on!

Iron Parachute Paul Blood For ENG 162 Creative Non-fiction A story to illustrate that one man‘s poison is another man‘s meat. Floyd Albertsen daydreamed. He dreamed of fishing in his stream and he dreamed of the far away hunt. All this while he gently bounced his giant yellow Caterpillar loader straight down the broad main artery of his City of Junk. Plumes of dust billowed from the tires, settling on every chrome and colorful painted part of the host of cars he presided over. The Albertsen parcel sat between two streams that each followed their own paths to the sea. On that part of the Washington County coast there exist many short streams that never organize into deep systems of tributaries, instead having short runs from low inland hillocks directly flowing to the bay. Beady Stream bordered one side, below a sandy ridge that followed the stream for three miles. Between the ridge and the stream was low bog, and on the other side of the ridge was broad, undulating ground covered with forest and the City of Junk. Creaky Stream flowed down past the junkyard, then through the collection of houses and trailers known to the sheriff‘s department as Albertsenville, then into the bay.

Floyd Albertsen always let his buddies and family fish the Beady Stream but not the Creaky Stream. No fish ran back up Creaky Stream, and no clamming was allowed near the mouth of the stream. Floyd generally let it be known that the lack of wildlife there was due to all those relatives piping their poop down the brook, ignoring the putrid contribution from his junk collection further upstream. Floyd was a pack rat but an organized one. The sandy roads drained well, and he dutifully filled the potholes so he could scream around the yard on his articulated loader with the two long pipes sticking out the front like two lances carried by twin knights into battle. Right now he swung the loader around, put the twin lances through the open windows of a 1994 Riviera and lifted it up onto the top of a five-car-high pile of Buicks. Cars were piled by make and sometimes by model. The straight roads were laid out on a nearly perfect grid, and in between the roads were nearly square plots dedicated to a given make and, in the case of really popular cars, whole blocks of one model. The squares were as long as three station wagons or four compact foreign cars lined up end to end. He usually had cars piled up four, five, even six high and stacked in rows of seven or eight across. Sometimes there was room on a block to make an end cap of cars on one or both ends. He liked to use real old cars for end caps so he could admire them as he whizzed around the streets of the City of Junk. There were a couple of extended blocks of metal where he had been lucky enough to get a hulk of a 1962 Douglas Stratoliner, wings and all. That took up two city-of-junk blocks. Floyd figured he had enough 1980â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s vintage Chevrolet station wagons alone to afford three years worth of chartered fishing trips and big-game hunting expeditions. As he whizzed past the Cavaliers, he thought of running over the savanna in a guided Landrover, head out the sunroof, 30-oo-6 loaded in hand, scanning the horizon for lions. Or maybe this year it would be a helicopter ride into the high Canadian Rockies for mountain goat. He would just have to get the crushing company in here for one last big push.

There was just the small matter in his mind of the town ordinance enforcement officer. But what could she really do? Only make him fix his fence or make the piles of cars a little lower so the neighbor, Chester Howard, could not see the cars in the winter after the leaves turned red and fell from the swamp maples. Six years ago when Floyd last crunched a lot of cars Chester had complained of noise and dust and finally got him to stop when he claimed to smell oil running down the ditch from the city down onto the Howard estate. Trouble was, he got the state environmental cops down here with the sheriffâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s department and they scared away the crushing company. None had dared to come back, until now. Floyd heard through the recycled auto parts grapevine that there was a rough-and-tumble crushing outfit just this side of outlaw. They did not care one bit for environmental enforcement, the cops, or the district attorneys. Word was they had their own pack of politically connected lawyers and used them to hold environmental authorities at bay while they plundered the treasure trove of vintage cars accumulated after nearly a decade of strict supervision of car crushing operations. He knew the rebel crushers would not be around forever. They would run out of overstuffed yards and the profits would eventually be too small to justify the legal smokescreen, so they would disappear into the warm and sunny places of the world. Floyd imagined all the happy and rich recycled auto parts dealer they would leave behind, the ones who were quick enough to recognize the opportunity and pounce. He stopped the loader and decided to make his daydreams into realities. His big thumb on the tiny cell phone keys dialed the crusherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s number as he smiled his big silvertoothed grin.

Ghost Story Angela Commeau For ENG 225 Literature by Women A story to celebrate Halloween. Sisters struggle to understand an abusive mother. It all started happening after that one day mother went a little mad. The rejectionâ&#x20AC;Ś no, more like isolation. Sure, I didn't like the attention from mother anyway; after all, she wasn't your typical loving mother. My sister and I liked to make jokes behind her back. I came up with the nickname Lucy, short for Lucifer. Evelyn is her name after all and, ironically, if you say her name slow enough and switch the "a" sounds to "e," the word evil comes out of your mouth. I don't quite get my sister's nickname for her though, Mommy Dearest? It sounds like a respectable name to me, but what do I know? I'm only 10; it's probably way over my head. Mother had a weird way of punishing us when we did something wrong. My least favorite was being locked up in the creepy old attic for a couple hours. Ah! And the spiders; I hate spiders. But this time I didn't quite understand why she grabbed the back of our heads and dunked us into the water in the tub. I mean, honestly, what kind of weirdo punishes her children that way? All that really did was piss me off. We don't need to be baptized here. It's not like I'm saying "Oh, mother, please don't get my head wet! I promise I'll never do you wrong again!" Sure, we were caught sneaking out of the house, and I guess we deserved some kind of punishment, but Katherine and I were already washing our hair that day. At the time we were getting ready for school, and we were even trying to please Mother by making it quick by bending over the tub to wash only our hair. She always got annoyed when we'd take forever in the bathroom. She called it her domain. I think it's because she spent so much time putting on all of that make-up, when in reality it doesn't do anything. Nothing that ugly can turn pretty just by adding some lipstick and mascara. Anyway, for some reason that whole day after that was such a blur. I don't really care much, but I still find it odd

that mother hasn't' spoken a word to my sister and me since. I think we really must have disappointed her. The next morning, Katherine and I raced down to the living room to catch our favorite show. It's on every Saturday morning at ten o' clock. Shortly into the show mother came over and took the remote and turned off the TV. Katherine and I were looking at each other like what the heck? Then mother just screamed "Can't I just be left alone!" Sis and I jumped a little bit and were a little confused, because it's not like we were really bothering her with the TV. The volume was on low and she was in the other room. Katherine says mom is going through medipose. Whatever that means. My sister's the little rebel in the family and can't help the temptation of pissing mom off, so she turned the TV back on. Sure, I was a little nervous for mother to come back in, because she'd punish us both just for Katherine not listening to her. Sure enough, I was right;, mother came running in and turned off the TV. She gave me some weird look that kind of freaked me out. I couldn't tell if she was pissed or what, but I didn't stay long enough to find out. Sister and I ran outside to go play instead. We spent the whole day outside, because it's the only place we find peace and quiet. Mother gets too loud and obnoxious. You just never know what's going to happen. No wonder father left us when we were little. I refuse to admit it was because of my sister and me. It had to have been Mother with all that screaming and bitching. Night was on its way, which meant it was time for bed. Mother always made Katherine and me go to bed right when the sun went down and wake up right when the sun rose. I don't like bed time now. I used to be able to sleep with the door open and have the hallway light creeping through. A little bit of light for some reason helps me sleep easier. Now, every time I leave the door open, she comes by and slams it shut. I think she really must be mad at Katherine and me for sneaking out. It's not like we were leaving forever... (Although I've thought about it, ha-ha!) But she's given us the cold shoulder for the past two weeks. Now all sis and I hear come out of her mouth is her crying and

yelling "Leave me alone! Let me be!‖ Or, ―What do you want?" That's it... Sis says she thinks mom is bi-polar, another thing I don't understand and it‘s too over my head to try. Like I said before, it's not like I really want the attention. It's just now she isn't even buying our favorite foods we always liked to eat. I love strawberries and Cap‘n Crunch cereal. Sis loves peanut butter and fluff sandwiches and potato chips on the side. But no, mom didn't want to pick those things up this time when she went grocery shopping because she's having a hissy fit and can't cope with the fact we are kids and are bound to make mistakes once in awhile. So instead she acts my age and ignores us to the point she won't even buy the food she used to for us. Whatever. I'm over it and her crap. I thank God every day I have a sister, because I would go crazy in this house without her. Mother's friend Melissa was stopping by. I heard mother talking about it on the phone. I knew something was up when she was cleaning like a mad woman. Oh, wait, ha-ha, she is (wink, wink). I wanted to redeem myself so mother would stop giving me the silent treatment, but every time I tried putting away the dishes or sweeping the floor she would start to breathe really hard. I'd look at her every time and think "What is your deal; you sound like a bull ready to charge." Then she screamed one of her few lines "Just leave me alone!" She then started balling her eyes out. My eyes bugged out of my head in shock. I softly said "I was only trying to help, I'm sorry," but no response. I just left her be and stayed out of her way the entire day. I think she is having a mid-life crisis or something, I read in a magazine about something like that. As my sis and I were hanging out in my room I couldn't get something out of my mind that I overheard earlier. When Melissa and my mom were talking down in the kitchen, I overheard Melissa comforting Mother and telling her everything was going to be okay. She kept saying "Your secret is safe with me. No one is going to find out, I promise." I kept thinking "Mom has a secret; I wonder what it could be." I didn't want to be caught snooping by the stairs, so I went up in my room to hang out with Katherine. I wasn't going to say anything, but I couldn't get it out of my head. So I told Ka-

therine what I heard. Katherine never cared much about what Mother had to say since Mother was the same towards her, but I think this time she acted like she did because it gave her an idea to get into mischief. Katherine said "When mom goes out tomorrow night we will snoop in her room and see if we can find out what this little secret is all about." I agreed to it if only she promised we would put everything back where it was supposed to. She promised. The last time we were caught in Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s room, I was 7 and Katherine was 9, and she beat us with a spatchalur twenty times over. I thought I had learned my lesson, but apparently not. It was 9:00 and mother just left to go out for the night without saying good-bye. Surprise! Surprise! Sis and I acted fast. We bolted down the hall and slid against the hard wood with our socks on. We were much faster when we could slide on the floor. Sis ordered me to look on the right side of the room while she took the left side. I looked under the bed, in Motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s jewelry box, her night stand, in her dresser, her closet and even in her dirty laundry. I came up short, until I got this weird feeling come over me that told me that I needed to look under the bed again. Don't ask me where that feeling came from, but I listened to what my body was telling me. As I scoped out under the bed for a second time, I decided to lie down on my back and slide under to view it from a different angle. I was a little thrown off by what I saw. I saw two huge yellow mailing envelopes. I yelled over to my sister telling her I thought I found something. She ran and jumped over the bed to me on the right side. We pulled the envelopes from the bottom of the mattress. They were taped there, which I thought was strange. All filled with excitement, my sister opened one envelope and I opened the other. It wasn't long until there was dead silence. "What is this," I thought to myself. News clippings. "Mother Accused of Drowning Two Children." The second articleâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s heading said "Mother of Two Found Not Guilty for Lack of Evidence." I started to breathe really hard. I had this strange feeling come over me, like my heart and soul were being ripped out

of me. I started to feel really cold and weak. I felt so sick I wanted to faint. I looked up to get myself together, and that's when I saw my sister in tears. She wasn't making any noise, for she was covering her mouth like she was trying to stop herself from speaking. I asked her "Sis, what is it?" She then dropped what was in her hand from the second envelope. I screamed. "What is that?" I jumped up and started yelling. I pointed down at the pictures on the floor of my sis and me. We were lying on the bathroom floor. It looked like we were asleep, but we looked so pale and purplish. I don't remember every lying on the bathroom floor like that. I said, "Oh, my god, please don't tell me that is us in the pictures! Please, god, that is not us!" "NO! THAT IS NOT US!" I kept thinking, what is going on? The articles and the pictures were making my mind race. I then read the news articles some more. First line, Mother of two children was accused October. 30th of drowning her two young girls, Katherine (14 years) and Alicia (10 years) in the bathtub of their Kennebunk home. Interviewed by police, Evelyn Marceral, the mother of the two, stated she was sleeping when she heard a noise from upstairs. She went upstairs to check on the children where she found them both in the bath tub, with the water overflowing. "No!" I screamed! I'm alive!â&#x20AC;&#x2013; I know I am. How could I be dead if I can see and talk to people? How can I be around? I thought when you died you went to heaven. I'm not in heaven; I'm in my house with my sister and my mother. My mother wouldn't kill us; I mean, yea, she's crazy, but not enough to kill us. My sister stood up and hugged me. She still hadn't spoken a word. We were both in shock. My knees were weak and I wanted to just collapse. I would have if my sister wasn't there to hold me up. I ran into the bathroom and threw up. I was so miserable I couldn't even grasp what was going on. As I was trying to keep myself from getting sick again, I was thinking back to the day mother punished us. That day was a little blurry, and I didn't want to think it was because she murdered us. Then it hit me. "Katherine!" I screamed. "Get

in here!" She came running into the bathroom and I just rambled on and on. I was unstoppable. "I get it now, oh, my GOD, we are dead!" I said. "That is why mother hasn't spoken to us". I thought back of the last couple of days. ―That's why she only speaks those words to us. ‗Leave me alone, let me be, and what do you want.‘‖ It all made sense then. We could see her, but she couldn‘t see us. It's like we were ghosts or something. "Oh my god," I said out loud to myself. "Katherine, that is why she turned off the TV and looked so scared. That's why every time I open my bedroom door at night she comes running and slams it again. In her eyes the house is haunted. Oh, oh, and that's why when I was helping her with the dishes she was breathing so hard. She was scared. "HOLY COW! Do you know what this means?" Katherine shook her head. ―It means whatever we do or touch, Mother can see the object being moved, and hear us, but she can't see us. That‘s why she hasn't bought our favorite food, and why she hasn't spoken to us. WE DON'T EXSIST ANYMORE... That is her big secret! Our mother murdered us!" Once those words came out of my mouth I hugged my sister and felt a sense of anger and vengeance. I put up with my mother‘s bull and I still loved her as a mother. I was so furious that I no longer cared if it was the truth. I stood up and said to my sister "If we are dead, dammit, then I'm using it to my advantage." My sister smirked because she knew what I was thinking. Shortly after Mommy Dearest came home we decided to have a little fun. First off, we didn't put away anything we touched in her bathroom, and we laid out the disturbing pictures and articles. We turned off all the lights in the house except one, the lamp on her night stand that glistened right on her bed where all the articles were. Mother came into the room and saw the articles. It was the strangest feeling. Now knowing the truth, I knew mother couldn't' see me. It was weird being right next to her and her seeing right through me. I saw the look of fright on her face, so right then and there I pushed her so she fell on the bed. She screamed and then turned around as if she were expecting to see someone.

My sister was over by her vanity in the bathroom. My mother could hear from a distance her make-up being rustled through. She slowly walked over to the bathroom and saw lipstick in mid air being written on the glass. She interpreted slowly as my sister was writing, WE...WILL...GET...YOU!! She screamed bloody murder as soon as she read what was on the mirror. Then I pushed her into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. I could only imagine what she was thinking. Her being alone in the bathroom but knowing she really wasn't alone. She dropped down to her knees, begging us to leave her alone. She kept saying to herself ―It's only my conscience, it's only my conscience.‖ Yea, right, like she ever had such a thing. I turned the knob to let the water run steamy hot into the tub, to let her know we were there and were not happy. In fact we were so mad, it wasn‘t just the hot water steaming up the room. It was very cold, like a cold, cold winter day. My sister and I didn't want to physically hurt Mother ourselves, but the only thing on our mind was revenge. It was as if my mind was blocked from all reality, and all I could think of was my hate for mother. I opened the door and nodded my head toward the door to signal Katherine to get out with me. She walked out of the bathroom, stepping on Mother‘s back as she lay on her stomach, weeping to make the horror go away. As I closed the bathroom door behind us, leaving my mother inside, I thought to myself, ―I'm doing exactly what mother asked us to do, simply leaving her be, leaving her alone. I jammed the bathroom door shut so she couldn't get out. That way we'd never get in her way again, since we were such a nuisance. Katherine and I slowly and quietly walked down the stairs and walked outside to watch the sun come up. We didn‘t open the bathroom door until a month later, when we found our mother dead of starvation in the very place where she lay us to die. No feeling of sorrow came over Sis and me. Only peace. For being ghosts, my mother's spirit didn't come in contact with us, for we are positive she is rotting in hell, right where she belongs.

Not a day goes by that I think what life would be like if I were actually living. I'm not a free bird, and I never will be. My spirit is stuck in this house and not able to leave, and I'm only left to watch over this house that reminds me of such terrible things. The only joy out of being trapped here is the joy of seeing newcomers check out the house that is now for sale. One family came in earlier that that had a little boy and a girl, a mother and a father. Cute family, except I noticed that the mother‘s mood paralleled our devil of a mother‘s. We both hope the family moves in, for if we ever see that mother treat those two kids poorly in any way, Sis and I are going to step in and do what ghosts were made to do. To haunt all those that disturb us.

Tough Decisions Paul Blood For ENG 162 Creative Non-fiction When it‘s time for your dog, your faithful family companion of 16 years, to pass on to the next realm, do you take her to see the vet on that cold steel table or take care of her yourself? All I wanted was some new shingles on the roof, when I approached my neighbor Randy, the seat-of-the-pants contractor, one cold autumn Sunday morning. He was outside his house fixing his old pickup truck with his friend and part-time employee Ken. After asking about his schedule for roofing, I got more than I anticipated. ―We went to that Mexican restaurant on Main Street in Rockland last night. I had a few good drinks there, but it still didn‘t straighten me out after what I done yesterday. I had to put down my dog myself,‖ Randy said. ―She was howling somethin‘ awful all last Thursday night.‖ He pointed to the porch of his rented house. ―The way she was moaning I couldn‘t sleep, so I went out for a walk and saw the cop parked up at the pizza place. I asked if he would shoot the dog for me, but he said it was against policy, but they shoot deer if they‘re thrashing around after getting hit by a car.‖

―I‘ve seen them shoot dogs that weren‘t dead yet after an accident. I don‘t know why he didn‘t help you out.‖ I offered. ―Probably wasn‘t sure if maybe I wanted to get back at the wife by shooting her dog or something.‖ He went on. ―The cancer was all through her neck and stomach, and the vet told us to put her down last June. But she could still hobble out the door to do her business so we figured why do it. We thought she would just go in her sleep. We‘d had her for 16 years. She was like part of the family. Besides, would you believe the vet wants $310 to put her down, and then another $110 to destroy the animal after that?‖ His friend Ken took a drag off his cigarette and said, ―Yup, it‘s getting like a racket now.‖ ―And the vet put her on the scale and weighed her to give us the price for doing it. So much per pound.‖ ―They must have to put so much killing drug into her for each pound‖ said Ken. They were both a half-foot taller than me, so I kept looking up and back and forth as they spoke. ―So I had to do it myself, 50 cents instead of 400 bucks,‖ said Randy. He lit a cigarette and ran his palm over his two-day stubble. ―We dug a hole up at my brother‘s house and laid her down in it on her quilt and gave her favorite little chew doll. She looked up at me with my rifle in my hands and then just looked away and I shot her. She didn‘t suffer at all.‖ Randy worked for about $15 an hour under the table. It would have taken him the better part of the week to earn enough for the vet to do what he did for 50 cents. It cost him a bit more, though, in the memory of shooting his family companion of 16 years and covering her with dirt. A night out and a few drinks can quiet the pain for a while, but in the daylight it‘s hard to escape feeling down and lonely.

Aren't We All Nicholas Applebee For ENG 162 Creative Nonfiction Writing prompt The scientific classification of the insect is beyond me; we call them yellow jackets up here. This particular yellow jacket looked weak and injured. Its wings were too thin to fly and it shook as it moved slowly along. The yellow jacket was in search of food. I felt bad. It looked as though it was moving on with its biologically-embedded drive, and it looked like it would most definitely fail. There I was enjoying my Randy's Special Italian Chicken Sandwich without Bacon, and the yellow jacket was trying to break apart a red clump of something left behind by a previous occupant of the chair. I thought about leaving my cap full of Vitamin Water, Endurance: Peach Mango. But I had no idea how that would affect the yellow jacket, and I did not want it to become a safe haven for all the yellow jackets. Just because I can sit down

and enjoy a lunch with a yellow jacket does not mean that everyone else feels the same. I was glad to be able to choose to sit there in front of the small convenience store. The artificial orange color of the outside of the chicken blended well with the lettuce, tomato and mayo. In some ways, I was freer than those that arrived by car; I was most certainly freer than the yellow jacket, which had to try to break apart the random red glob just because it was the first bit of food it found.

Apologies in “The Author to Her Book” Victoria Davis For ENG 225 Literature by Women Reader response Anne Bradstreet‘s book of verse ―The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America” was the first published in America (p.144), which might explain the apologetic nature of the introductory poem that she wrote for its second edition (p.1 note 1). The fact that it was published without her knowledge or consent could also have contributed to her anxiety about its reception. While she is ostensibly addressing the book and bidding it good luck in the harsh world, it seems that she is attempting to defray critical attack by explaining that she hadn‘t meant for it to be seen, especially in its present condition, and that she, as a woman, is ―feeble minded‖ (line 1). My assertion is that the poem is not addressed to the book, but to its audience. Her attitude toward her book is largely influenced by the ideas proliferated both by men, and occasionally women, that, basically, women should neither be seen nor heard outside of their own households and, even there, in a limited sense. In the late 18th century we had Dr. Johnson‘s attitude that ‖ ‗creativity‘ and ‗femininity‘ were contradictory terms‖ (p.138), and Hannah More advising girls not to attempt to do anything outside of the ideas of their sex and, significantly, saying ―…it is your greatest commendation not to be talked of one way or another‖ (p.142). If these opinions were held

over one-hundred years after Anne Bradstreet‘s time, it is hardly surprising that Puritanical Anne would be abashed at her unwanted exposure. Anne Bradstreet, born in England to well-to-do parents, was educated by private tutors. She was more educated than the majority of women of her time, it would seem, between the tutors and unlimited access to her father‘s ample selection of reading material (p.144). Despite her educational advantages and her family‘s apparent belief in her mind and talent she begins ―The Author to Her Book‖ by referring to her brain as both ―ill-formed‖ and ―feeble.‖ The general attitude towards the aptitudes of women and their status as the ―lesser sex‖ affects her view of her work and causes her to doubt its worth throughout the poem. With the ―Puritan scorn for so-called scribbling women‖ (p.137), a Puritan woman writer, however successful her work may be, however well received, confessing to inadequacy would seem a way of deflecting at least some of the backlash sure to follow. The poem may be, in its apologetic nature, a clever distraction from her success as a writer. Many lines of the poem deal with the flaws that she sees in her poetry, which she feels is ―unfit for light‖ (line 9). She expresses that she would have liked the chance to polish her work before it met the world: ―Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:/ I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,/ And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw‖ (lines 12-14). She worries over the meter, though she admits to having worked hard at it: ―I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,/ Yet still thou run‘st more hobbling than is meet;/‖ (lines 16 and 17). From lines such as these, though, I think that she might never have felt her work good enough to be seen by anyone but her husband, and so it must have been that much harder for her to see the book out without her having been allowed to further pick at it. While women were being accused of ―mangling the language they wrote, read or regurgitated‖ (p.137), it‘s natural that a woman writer would be especially critical of her own work. Anne Bradstreet, though she did see flaws in her work, had other reasons to wish that her book not fall into the hands of critics but stay among commoners (to paraphrase lines 19 and 20). She knew that, however well she did, whatever the lite-

rary value of her work, the chauvinistic attitudes of the time would either stubbornly insist upon its frivolity or worthlessness, or, worse, if they were to admit that it was well-done, she would have been accused of having stolen it (p.146). If she could escape accusations of plagiarism, dumb-luck could be attributed to the work‘s success. Thus, the poem which is supposed to be read as addressing the book as one would her child as it goes off into the world, is actually, in my opinion, the work of a woman wary of criticism and wittily warding it off. It would be redundant for a critic to state what she has already stated in ―The Author to Her Book,” and Bradstreet has already explained that she was not audacious enough to print it herself. What more can a man say against her that she herself has not said, sincerely or otherwise?

Get Real, Get Maine Brittney Ginn For LAE 013 Introduction to Writing I Persuasive essay about Maine food and how Maine can help itself by buying local. Eating fresh local fruits, meat, and vegetables is better than buying from places where we don‘t know how the food is grown. You know what you‘re eating when you eat local. When you eat an apple from the apple stand down the road, you can ask, ―What has happened to this apple?‖ When you buy apples from a grocery store, you can ask the clerk that works at the store, but you can‘t ask the harvester. Therefore, you don‘t know what pesticides were used on your apple. Taste the difference! Local produce normally is picked inside a twenty-four hour window, unlike grocery store produce that could have been picked two weeks or even two months ago. Can you taste the difference between Aunt Jemima syrup and fresh Maine maple syrup? I sure can. When you shop locally you explore new depths of flavor you may never have tasted before.

Give back to your local economy; spend money supporting your farmer neighbors, not Wal-Mart‘s chain farmers. While you are boosting your own economy you will be giving jobs to the local farms—they might even hire your son or husband. You buy their produce and they can afford to hire people from the area instead of losing good local people to the unemployment line. Preserve farms in Maine so we will have green fields and tall trees for our children in the future. Also, there is less environmental impact on our country when food only has to travel from one town to another, if that. When you buy food from Wal-Mart, that food most of the time has been trucked, or maybe even flown, from state to state, or imported from another country. Finally, have fun while you eat healthy and buy local. Take your family to the apple orchard to pick apples. Take your grandkids strawberry picking; they will always remember it. Take a friend to a farm stand and then make a meal together. You will be eating healthy produce while sharing some laughs and having fun. Create memories and help support local farmers.

Ghost Story Sarah Robinson For ENG 225 Literature by Women As a part of the course’s Halloween celebration, students were invited to share ghost stories written by women or to write their own. This one was reportedly loosely based on a true story. We had just moved into our new house on Washington Street two weeks earlier. My husband and I had never been so excited to move! This house was perfect, built in the fifties with plenty of contemporary style. Everything in the house was updated, except for the finished basement that still had old wood paneling and a green shag rug. I only had to venture downstairs to do our laundry, so it wasn‘t so bad. We

had plans to remodel the basement in the summer; we were even going to put a hot tub down there. It had taken me a while, but I had finally finished putting away all of our things and just needed to hang some hooks for our family photos. Things were really looking up. I had given birth one month prior to our arrival in Bangor, and moving with a baby was no easy task. Lucky for me, sixweek-olds tend to sleep most of the day. I spent the majority of my maternity leave getting acquainted with our new surroundings and watching reruns of The Cosby Show. Fortunately, many days I also got to enjoy the company of my close friend and stay-at-home mom, Angie. Angie and her family lived two houses down and were a major factor in our final decision to live on Washington Street. My hair had grown long throughout my pregnancy and Angie always braided it for me when she came over. She didn‘t come over on that day though, so I just pulled my hair back into my usual low ponytail. I had Morgan down for her morning nap early and decided to face my massive pile of dirty laundry. I rounded up all of my ―dark-colored colds‖ and threw them into the basket. I checked in on Morgan quickly before heading downstairs. She was sleeping peacefully, so I quietly tiptoed out of the room. I heard Bill giving Rudy the usual lecture on the television, and I chuckled as I rounded the corner to head downstairs. The light switch was at the bottom of the dark stairway — just another basement defect we were going to fix. I always hated that dark descent. When I got about halfway down the stairs, the strangest feeling came over my whole body. It was a cold feeling, and I shivered as I watched all of the hair on my arms stand up. I stopped. Then, out of nowhere, I felt a quick yank on my ponytail. A hot sinking feeling swept through my stomach as I whipped around to see who was there. Assuming it had to be Angie, or maybe my husband home early from work, my brain searched for resolution. But I turned to find no one. My heart sank even further into my stomach; I felt paralyzed. My frozen silence offered no comfort and I still could not move. My blood ran hot through my veins, and I swear it was the only thing keeping me conscious. ―Hello?‖ I cried out in a fearful voice. No reply.

―Hello?‖ I cried out again, almost in tears from the terror. Only moments had passed, but it felt like days. I had seen enough horror films to predict what would happen next. So, I ran. Somehow, I ran. Up the stairs and down the hall into Morgan‘s room. My whole thought process clouded up; I just had to get out of there. I grabbed my sleeping baby in her blanket and hurried out the front door onto our lawn. The crisp November air stimulated my senses and brought me back to earth for a moment. It was freezing and I could see from my yard that Angie‘s car wasn‘t home, so I went to the house directly next to mine. I had introduced myself to the elderly couple that occupies the home earlier in the week and knew that they would surely let me inside. I pounded on the door with dread and waited for an answer. I reached to knock again when the door slowly opened. ―Hi, Mrs. McKay. I‘ve had an emergency; can I please come in and use your phone?‖ I asked anxiously. ―Of course, of course,‖ she replied, ―come in!‖ ―What happened?‖ she asked. ― I don‘t know. I was going down to do laundry, and Morgan was sleeping, and someone pulled my hair! I know this sounds crazy, but no one was there! I mean, when I turned around, I didn‘t see anyone in my house…I don‘t know what it was!‖ I frantically explained. ―There is something you should know, Sarah,‖ replied Mrs. McKay in a weary tone. ―I don‘t think you and your family have been alone in that house.‖ ―What do you mean, we haven‘t been alone?‖ I nervously asked. Mrs. McKay continued to explain what she meant. I listened in disbelief as she recalled the past seven months while our house sat vacant and for sale. She recounted numerous sightings of the lights turning on and off at all hours of the night. The most disturbing of all was her sighting in the upstairs bedroom. One afternoon, while she was doing her dish-

es, from her kitchen window she saw a small boy in one of the second-level windows staring back down at her.

Bruh Man Marlon Weaver For ENG 162 Creative Nonfiction Writing prompt Who is it thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s driving what appears to be a miniature mobile home, or what most of us call a grocery cart? His appearance is reminiscent of what's chasing people in their childhood dreams; a shadowy figure that just keeps on moving, seemingly in slow motion. No matter how slow he moves, he can be seen all over the city. This is that old dude sitting in the back of the project hallway. He is going through the trash, past the food and the empty crack vials, just to find something to wrap up in, perhaps some clothes scraps of little children. Nobody walks past him to get to their apartment; they would rather take the fire escape because it is unclear whether he can be trusted.

This is the same dude with the scraggly beard in the back of the bus. ―It's Fraaayesh...They sho is!‖ He says, as he is observed talking to the remaining pieces of someone‘s grinder sandwich. It doesn't matter whether he has food stamps, bottles and cans or one hundred dollars; he is getting kicked out of the store. Just to eat he crashes cookouts, family reunions and even funerals. Brotha is just sitting there telling a story in his own language. It sounds like he is speaking E-Z Wider dipped in Heineken, and when that starts to make sense he puts a Quaalude accent to it. He can be spotted from far away just by looking for the military surplus jacket that he wears over some of the clothes that get ―borrowed‖ from the Goodwill Store dumpster. Is that jacket really green or is it so dirty that it is beginning to seed? He has arthritis, a lazy eye, and slipped discs in his back. Open toe shoes are in style for many, but for Bruh Man they are all that is left of his once spit-shined general issues. Underneath that do-rag/ winter wool hat is there hair or not? Is it just stuffed with the thoughts of life's wisdom like the scarecrow that Michael Jackson played in ―The Wiz‖? One earring or shining wax in his ear? He's musty and apparently he don't care about staying in the warmth of a shelter because he won't wash for any agency. He's always hollering at the police, ―YAW AIN'T S***!‖ The cops won't touch him; they can't touch him, because they know him. Everyone in this city knows who he is. Some would say that he is an angel in disguise, and some with a guilty conscience would fear that he is Jesus come to earth. He is not an angel or Jesus, but he is a messenger from the Almighty, sent to weigh the hearts of humanity. He at one time was a savior, in a sense, for the world. This is ―Bruh Man‖ and this is his song: He tries to GET MONEY and the VA won't fund him; He came back from overseas and society shunned him.

You support your troops but get mad when he poops in public; He joined the army after 9-11 when everyone loved it. Living off the land and dining in garbage cans; Whoever thought their little boy would grow up to be that kind of man? Enjoy your day and please don't feel bad, But think about the US citizens whose mind is still in Baghdad.

Not the Question Anna Arquette Adjunct faculty She was surprised by the box that he had left for her on the rug by the door. As she walked into the living room, she noticed the package sealed with brown packaging tape sitting on the short table waiting to be opened. She had forgotten that he had told her he would send it to her. She walked into the sparsely furnished room of living and was surprised by the average size box (obviously a package) waiting to be opened. It was about two feet square and sealed with tan packing tape. There was no address label on it, but she knew it was for her, because this was her house and her room of life. He had left it for her; she was sure. He always did things like this. He was a man of action. The box had no other purpose than to be opened. After it was opened, the cat could play in it of course, but as it sat, plain and brown, sealed in brown tape, with no decorative value at all, it only waited to be opened. So, she picked it up off the floor and set it on the shortlegged table that decorated the center of the room. The legs curved and had eagle feet that gripped the floor. It was as if the claws held the table in place and added stability to the room.

The box sat firmly in place on the smooth marble surface of the straight-legged table. It was a square table, firm and secure in its place of domination at the center, in front of the green couch. The stylish table had never truly gotten along with the shabby couch, but as practical as furniture was, the couch could not be beaten. It was soft, and long to sleep on. But, this was a room for living, not sleeping, and lifeless things like sleeping did not happen here. Thus, the potential of the couch was never fully realized. She sat on the modest couch to open the brown average size box, but she felt uncomfortable. Sitting took away the formality of the event. Sitting forced her to peer over the edge of the box like a child. It removed the grand experience of life from the room of the living. So, she stood. Carefully with her red, polished fingernail, she picked at the tape, which sealed the edges of the box that he had left for her. The tape came loose, not resisting. With one smooth motion, she ripped the plain brown strip from the box. Her fingernails had been short all of her life. Biting them at each nervous encounter with boredom caused them to be so. He was always active and never bored, but that was not her case. It was hard to be thoughtful all the time, and so her nails suffered. She had no way to get the tape edge up without long fingernails. She had no polished tips. She left the box alone in the living room while she searched to find a tool to break the seal. She saw that the box on the table was meant to be opened because next to it sat a pocketknife. The knife belonged to him. He was a man of action. He obviously had left her the knife so that she could open the box, and empty its contents into the room of the living. She slipped the knife open and split the seal. Ready to explore what lay within. Inside were two smaller boxes. They were white and sealed with white strapping tape. The two boxes sat side by side. Like the couch and the table, but they were in harmony in their box in the room of life. They both held potential, as yet unrecognized.

The large box contained two smaller boxes that were skewed forty-five degrees from the original box. If they were larger and intangible the whole thing would have made an eightpointed star, but they were not larger or intangible. They were small and white. Sealed with white tape, and completely contained within the larger brown box. Both quietly waiting to be opened. The box she opened contained two smaller boxes with air holes punched into the sides. She lifted these boxes out and threw the larger box on the floor. The table was happy to see it banished to a more fitting place for one so plain in the room of life. The cat was happy to have a new toy. The couch was sleeping, but no one noticed. The smaller white boxes were more delicate than their larger counterpart; they remained on the table. They were important. For the moment. Until they were unpacked. Then they too would be banished to be abused by the cat. Doubt raced through her mind, but she cautiously pushed doubt aside. Doubt had a way of spinning thoughts until all thoughts blurred and truth became unrecognizable. Was this her package, or his. He was a generous man of action. The two interior boxes were like them. Two. Yet, identical. They, on the other hand, were not; she doubted her actions, but he was confident. Seldom did she take action. She was one of thought. She looked at the two boxes and wondered if she should wait for him, but then remembered that she had sent these boxes to herself. She had given herself a gift and left it in her room of life. How could she have forgotten so quickly? Or, so she thought; reality sometimes blurred. She carefully opened the first of the two boxes. It was not labeled first, but merely the closest. First was always a relative thing. The couch was first in the room, but the table was first to be noticed. The table enjoyed its place among the elite. The boxes seemed no different, they were not elite. Just first. And second. The other could have been first, but then what happened would not have happened. The potential the

boxes offered the room would have changed. Something entirely different would have happened when she took the first box in hand. The box possibly would have remained unopened. For the box, she took in hand and opened, because it was first was his box. She was sure of this. And, though he was a man of action, he was not there. She took the action from him by opening the box, but her curious thoughts demanded satisfaction. She needed to know what the box contained. She needed to know now. She did not wait for his return. For his action. She realized that this was his box. She did not send it to herself after all. The green lizard that emerged was male. She was female. And then she remembered. Two boxes, two lizards, two of them. She remembered forgotten things in the room of life, and then was afraid to open her box. She became afraid of her memories of the future. He had no choice. She had taken his choice, given his action voice. He must now act. He must care for his lizard without choice, now that she had opened his box. It was out of the box and could not go back in. There is only progression in the room of the living. He was a man of action and would know how to act with his new not-choice. But she, she was not sure of her action now. She was a woman of thought. She remembered her future and what the box contained. What she could let out if she chose action again. There was her box, but she could not open it now that she understood the implications of opening it. She hesitated after letting the slow moving green lizard climb out of the box. It rolled its eyes around and saw the life of the room. It gripped with its fierce toes and climbed into the living room. Out of the quiet white box. She became afraid. What if she was not supposed to have broken that seal. What if she was to have waited for the man of action? What if she had done something without thinking? How could she be thought of then? The green-green of the chameleon and the delicate way it rolled its eyes charmed her as it slowly and methodically climbed from its box into the freedom of the room of life. She knew there was a lizard in the other box, because every-

thing comes in twos. That was the law. The second lizard was one that she must care for. This one, the one that watched her with its rolling eyes, was his. She was unsure and did not know. She did not know the future and what thoughts some actions led to. Doubts are thoughts that blur, but she was unaware that actions create clouds as well. Action, thought, thought, action. These new thoughts were fearful. Fear began to cloud her thoughts. Actions led to fear, and fear to action. Thoughts were clouded. Where were clear thoughts? Where was she in the room of life? She could always return it. Not accept the gift. Not accept the thoughts. She could always find out how difficult this slow moving lizard was to contain. How to put it back in the box. Action, she was not a woman of. She required knowing what it consumed. Could it live in the room of life. With answers, she could form thoughts and plans. Take action. But she rarely could do this. He was of action, she of thought. She took up her coat as she stepped through the doorway out of her room of life. She left the green-green lizard and the one unopened white box, strapped and tightly sealed with white tape, sturdily sitting in the staunch table that held the rug firmly in the center of the living room. The one that was hers. She stepped through the average size portal opening at the side corner of the room (a place of little or no distinction) and left her room of life. She stepped outside into the heat of the afternoon. She left the box, the lizard and the cat, and stepped lightly in the uneven gravel, in the alleyway behind the store that knew of lizards. She stepped around the beer bottles knowing that the street people would be along this evening. Like the snails of the forest, they cleaned the debris that others left. They were slimy and disgusting, having foul secretions; at the same time

colorful and mesmerizing. They cleaned without complaint the dirt of others. They were admirable and held a beauty all their own. She walked down the alley and carefully stepped over, careful not to disturb the four bottles and seven cans that littered this place. Someone would be along to clean them up. They were not her concern. She needed to know of lizards with bulging eyes that saw as she did. She left her living room and ventured forth to the pet store. The store for pets had many things, animals within its confines, but she was not concerned with them. She avoided the snakes and examined the lizards behind the glass walls, but she did not see any with bulging eyes and toes that gripped. These lizards were sleek and quick looking. These lizards did not have bulging eyes and gripping toes. They slept, like the couch, happily unaware. The cage was empty, the one she needed to be full. The one that would hold the answers. The one that would give her thoughts. There were no green-green lizards. The attendant of the animals explained very little. Knew very little. The pet store explained very little. She found only how to care for physical needs. Heat, water, food. All things needed those. That was very little. Light, water, earth. The essence of life. Like the rule of two, it took no thought to understand that. And she was one of thought. But the glass walls contained no thoughts for her. She did not know action. She entered the building to find that her answers were not there. She studied the animals and the people and found an answer, but not the one for which she had a question. She understood that all things needed light, water and food. That was caring for life. That was all the building that housed large quantities of animals knew. Caring for life without a room of living. That was nothing in the context of life. That was not the question.

On the Passing Joyce B Hedlund EMCC President We often wondered how ―Old Lady‖ Maguire was doing— immaculate white house, lights off at nine. We quit wondering when we saw her stain-covered ironing board along the road— sure sign that the need for it was gone.