The Phoenix - 2013

THE PHOENIX MMXIII

Dear Reader, In 2008, after a ten year reprieve, a few Gonzaga students took it upon themselves to resurrect The Phoenix, Gonzaga’s finest (and only) magazine of literature and art. As Editorsin-Chief, we are honored with the opportunity to continue this tradition.

Gonzaga is an institution widely regarded for its academic and athletic programs, and rightfully so. However, it seems at times that these strengths can overshadow the lessrecognized, but equally vital, spirit of artistic creativity that thrives within the Gonzaga community. With this in mind, The Phoenix is not only a reflection of artistic merit, but a way to represent the breadth and variety of this creative spirit.

We hope that as you read this year’s Phoenix you can appreciate the hard work, talent, and creativity of your Gonzaga brothers, especially those whom you may not have expected to see in these pages.

Sincerely, Matt Druckenbrod Dominic Plantamura Andrew Richard

THE PHOENIX 2013 - Volume XXVIII Editors In Chief Matt Druckenbrod Dominic Plantamura Andrew Richard

Editorial Committee Max Beauboeuf Jack Caudle Ben Clougherty Joe Dahut Christian Forte Pat Healy Brandon Johnson Billy Kilgallin Will Lawler Christian Prince Miguel Rivera Drew Williams

Moderator

Dr. Harry Rissetto

Special Thanks

Ms. Jennifer Carter, Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Tom Baker, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Rick Cannon, Mrs. Helen Free, Mr. Allan L’Etoile, Mr. Brian Larkin, Mr. Lang Kanai, Mr. David Villeta, Ms. Sarah Miller, Mr. Jamie McIntyre, Mr. Patrick Welch, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all those who submitted art and literature for consideration.

Table of Contents Poetry & Literature Joe Dahut John Huldede JJ Mitchell Max Beauboeuf Max Beauboeuf John Hulede Matt Buckley Miguel Rivera-Lanas Jack Caudle John Hulede Inigo Villoria John Hulede Joseph Sweet Max Beauboeuf Joe Anastasi Patrick McNamaraHunter Watson Matt Buckley Miguel Rivera-Lanas Hunter Watson John O’Neill Joe Dahut Joe Dahut Kevin Gorman John Hulede Max Beauboeuf Max Beauboeuf Joseph Sweet

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Max Beauboeuf Hunter Watson Patrick Lynn Will Lane Will Lane Joe Anastasi Nicko Corriveau Ryan Nash Jamie Bash Nicholas Natelli Nicko Corriveau Nicholas Natelli Joe Dahut John Hulede John Hulede Matt Buckley Max Beauboeuf Luke Malanchuk Aiden Madison Miguel Rivera-Lanas Ryan Bliss Luke Malanchuk Ryan Matney Thomas Fitzgerald Marcus Jackson Aiden Madison Matt Borda

Cover Art: Connor Sharp (front), Jack Caudle (back)

36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 50 51 52 54 55 57 58 59 61 63 67 70 76 78

Art Jordan Person Jack Caudle Ryan Matney Evan Steingass Jordan Person Carrick O’Reilly Joe Dahut Christian Forte Connor Sharp Aidan Madison Matthew Weintraub Ben Lands Ulysses Lalor John Leach Christian Forte Andrew Robinson Joe Dahut Andrew Vazquez Connor Bell Connor Sharp Andrew Robinson Andrew Vazquez Joe Dengler Jordan Person John O’Neill Ryan Matney Joe Dahut Connor Sharp Anonymous Jack Caudle Daniel Coolidge Nate Hiligh Coleman Cunningham Timothy Kokotajlo Ryan Matney John O’Neill John O’Neill Matthias Kelley Christian Forte Ryan Matney

82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121

Christian Forte Andrew Robinson Christian Forte Christian Forte Jordan Person Liam D’Arcy Jack Caudle Christian Forte Matt Green Ryan Bliss Christian Forte Christian Forte Jack Caudle Christian Forte Aidan Madison Christian Forte Christian Forte Christian Forte Aidan Madison Brandon Tarbrake John O’Neill Christian Forte Aidan Madison Christian Forte Alexander DiMisa Christian Forte Ryan Matney Nick Vitale Christian Forte Christian Forte Nick Vitale Jordan Person Christian Forte Christian Forte Nick Vitale Matt Green Christian Forte Christian Forte Nick Vitale

122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160

Poetry “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words” - Robert Frost

Joe Dahut

Fox

Falsetto footsteps pace through the powder-like snow scape.

The exordium of the day has passed, and the fox has found his prey at last.

Harbored in the shrub, his temporary shelter.

The fox’s licorice eyes are like bottomless pits, similar to his stomach, empty.

Soon the rabbit might fill this void, for the fox seems lean, these winter months are sparse.

This rabbit rests, he might never wake.

A burnt orange blaze, a stain in the snow, the fox has filled his plate.

7

John Hulede

Faith Faith... is a concept that can be hard to grasp MLK thought this concept was easy He once said, “Faith is taking a step when you can’t see the whole staircase” Sometimes I don’t believe what my teachers tell me even if they swear they’re right But that’s natural because everyone struggles with faith even MLK wrestled with it occasionally You want to know why? It’s simple It’s because Faith... is a concept that can be hard to grasp

8

JJ Mitchell

One’s Cycle A baby age one dreams of walking, A boy age eleven dreams of creating new friendships, A young man age twenty-one dreams of an exciting night of romance, A new father age thirty-one dreams of gold and riches.

An old father age fifty-one yearns for gold and riches, A new grandfather age sixty-one yearns for an exciting night of romance, An old grandfather age seventy-one yearns for creating new friendships, A great-grandfather age eighty-one yearns for walking.

9

Max Beauboeuf

America’s Offspring “Scheming little one, lethal. Dreaming little one, peaceful…. fetal. Please do not be afraid, colors are stained and deeply rooted and constituted so they may never fade away. Rise by the sun or fall by the gun or run like a slave, and pray the way the slaves pray. You are the son of today, paving the way and craving the grave, on the tracks of the train that never came. Sane is never the same for a change because that color left a famed stain on your faces with traces of both love and hate. And believe me, God only brings good to great of this bitter taste on the hot plate called the American race. Culture you can relate and trace until you contemplate that the traits of your past greats can be found in your face. Grow up and fasten your laces, tighten them braces so you can shape the shapeless creation broken by temptation. Little one, fear no color and know each and every other as your brother.

Beauty spreads fast when you see past the past and crash into ash of the outer shell that once burned in the flaming taming pit of hell. Get on the train and skip the incarceration station that is laced in-famous places and imagine life through your imagination, and do be patient. Little one please don’t be afraid, the sun is warm, there’s no need for shade. For the sake of goodness sake, please awake.”

10

Max Beauboeuf

Who Me? “Me? I’m a confused soul on Earth with a mission that is written out for me, but sometimes I am illiterate. I am a spirit seeking more than a comfortable living in a suburb neighbor-hood. I am the son of Malcolm Luther King and the apprentice of Jesus of Mt. Olympus. I am an American pie divided by the knife of racism, put on the plate of unity. I scream “Black Power!” but only see the brown that’s pasted on my face. I am a writer, trapped in a dark dungeon of psychiatric therapy that hopes to shrink my mind. I am a lover who fights with a hand crushed by stiletto heels. I am an observer that covets the blind princess gazing at her reflection in the sky. I am I, but who am I? I am a radical on a sabbatical from the fantasy to discover the real. I seek colors that Creole can’t imagine. I know Beauboeuf can be confusing and, pardon my French but, I think Beef is always Beautiful.

See me as I see through you, be your own miracle while I find my spirit without being too spiritual.”

11

John Hulede

Old Memories We haven’t talked in days or months or maybe even in years I’ve lost count In the beginning it seemed impossible to forget all those old memories we shared.

And then one day In the blink of an eye Impossible seemed possible; Forgetting seemed easy.

DING…DING It’s a new text message… from that same person you tried to forget in days or months or maybe even in years All those old memories that you spent so much time trying to forget speed directly towards you like a bunch of 120 mph NASCAR drivers heading towards the finish line Ha…and you actually thought it was possible to forget all those old memories …Think again…

12

Matt Buckley

Street Artist Confident pastels attack virgin asphalt.

A hopeful jar waits near the canvas, expecting pocket change, but rarely gaining satisfaction.

Intrigued children tug parents’ coattails, attempting to elicit interest for their newfound amusement.

Never finished, the now colorful patch of pavement bleeds with the passion of its artist.

13

Miguel Rivera-Lanas

Lethe I The hum of the motor fades into silence and the headlights are abrupt as they submit themselves to night.

It is a place where clocks become mute, swinging their arms in great and furious circles but we pay no heed, for we follow death not through ancient numerals on metallic faces, but through memories of flesh and mind and feeling.

We rest our heads, gently, on reclined seatbacks and stare at one another from across the dark separation that becomes miles, then inches then impossible expanses and unbelievable proximities in uncountable intervals of immeasurable moments.

I say nothing and you respond so silently in turn we hold our breath as if listening, hopefully, to hear the ring of that heavenly tuning fork that rings with the whisper of some illusive and forgotten truth.

Our mouths make no sound our eyes are beautiful in the darkness and in our own way, it is Goodnight.

14

Jack Caudle

Who Do You Live For? Who do you live for?

Is it for your parents, who’ve fed you, raised you, done their best to prepare you?

Who do you live for?

Is it for your the friends you love, the adventures you have, the people you see, and the places you’ll go?

Who do you live for?

Is it for Lust, the subtle hand, who guides you, to depravity you despise?

Who do you live for?

Is it for Fear, chasing you, a nightmare that haunts you, even when morning has come?

Who do you live for?

Is it the Machine, that helps you to escape from the trials and tribulations of your everyday life?

Who do you live for?

Is it for some God, who promises you eternal paradise, if you kneel for an hour, in a pew, every week?

Who do you live for?

If you don’t live for you, why do you live?

15

John Hulede

The Car to the Person They told me that I deserved better that you would use me until I was empty They said that I deserved to be taken care of that you would turn me into a trash can They said you would drive me on muddy days that you would never introduce me to your friends They said that you would never wash the places that I couldn’t reach that you were ashamed of how I dressed and the way I talked But I know about “you people” I know how you take advantage of “my kind” and how selfish you are Trust me I’m not perfect either My engine fails even though you take me to Jiffy Lube every week I avoid you in public because I’m ashamed of the way you dress and talk I never washed the places that you couldn’t reach I never introduced you to my friends or took care of you But worst of all… I stuck around Even though I knew you deserved better

16

Inigo Villoria

My Freshman Year There was the excitement of possibility before receiving my acceptance letter to Gonzaga.

There was the feeling of helpless defeat when my parents told me that I was going to Gonzaga.

There was desperate, burning anger that filled me as I yelled at my parents, struggling to escape my fate.

There was the constant undertone of loneliness when surrounded by other Gonzaga boys.

There was the feeling of complete exhaustion before drifting to sleep with a pen in my hands.

There was the terrified feeling of waking up to see a blank page on my lap.

There was the dilatory bliss in giving up on my studies.

There was the painful yearning to be in a place where I could be truly, comfortably myself.

There was the shocking, regretful relief when my parents were not angry at seeing my first report card.

There was the tantalizing feeling of joy during the little time that I spend with my friends from last year.

There was the humbling contrition that filled me when I left the freshman retreat.

There was the delightful rue in not thanking my parents for sending me to Gonzaga earlier.

There was the promise of a brighter future when I began applying myself for the first time at Gonzaga.

There was the liberating triumph in realizing my love for Gonzaga.

17

John Hulede

God’s Best Kept Secret Observing things that we normally don’t see Trust me it’s not that easy This is the greatest pastime Open your mind Write down what you see Some call it rhyming To me it’s just a good story told Plunge into a whole new world Where fear doesn’t exist A place where words are given justice The world of poetry It’s God’s Best Kept Secret

18

Joseph Sweet

Building Blocks Scaffolding criss-crosses the structure supporting the brick with a network of metal, like a steel forged net.

Scampering nimbly along the edge of those iron bars, men haul clumps of chiseled stone to replace scarred tissue.

The wall is dotted by rascal slabs who withstood decay.

Betrayed by weather stained kin they share an evil fate.

Inch by inch the mortar is chipped off and the foundation crumples, felled by it's own weight.

The solid bricks tumble.

They are gathered in a heap of waste their faces fractured.

The once proud and pious stone now reduced to rubble.

19

Max Beauboeuf

If Love Made Sense So Should This...

“Oh baby, huh, you think you’re so tuff? Oh baby, you’re wrong baby, you’re a diamond among diamonds and will never be in the ruff. Oh yeah, does that frighten you? Like a striking bolt of lightning do? Oh I’m sorry, did I just enlighten you? You, who speaks all the falsest truths, ooooohhhhh!

Is that guilt biting you? Don’t growl at me with fangs cus no matter what you change there ain’t a dang thang, I can do.

Trifling?! Who!? Me, I’m just doing what you thought I could not do. Well, who’s the fool now, twisting and turning, curing then burning like Helga with that long old unibrow. If you didn’t before I bet you know now. I can’t be knocked down because I am one with the ground. Remember? You left me in that pit, right at the bottom where the rocks sit. It’s not funny hunny bunny cus I can’t forget. But, Oh baby please know that this is not hostile. Sometimes you can’t hear music until you listen for a while. Let me stop rhym-in so you can chimein on what I’m trying say. You and me, are at war. I’m talking something fierce because love ain’t a joke. It’s the rarest drug one can find. Like tryin’ to get crack from a salt mine.

Man this flow is too tuff, right here is a diamond in the ruff.

And oh baby it’s so hard to trust, cus love could just be lust.

And as for us; I can never say you’re history, because I love you, and whatever’s above you, is a mystery. Babe, you’ve made my heart ache, break, and shake like an earthquake.

But, I won’t ever say never ever, before it’s too late.”

20

Joe Anastasi

Donna She never thought her life may end, that rainy afternoon In the broad daylight, it happened all too fast She didn’t know it would have been her last breath You never know, if it will be your last breath She was only 17 too young to die Now I am 17 this could be my last breath this could be the last word I write We never know if tomorrow will come Today, this day, could be our last

21

Patrick McNamara

Leaves Orange, red, yellow withered dead by the cold wind soon to be lush green

22

Hunter Watson

Dreams Sometimes unnoticed Do we ever stop dreaming Does dreaming stop us

23

Matt Buckley

The Cherries of DC Brown trees stand, loaded springs, anxiously anticipating one moment of climatic perfection: hidden pink unveiled in a flare of petals.

24

Miguel Rivera-Lanas

Lethe II You leave quietly and become dual, red phantoms that disappear around the bend last night's hazy dream of which you remember only innate and blurred feelings that caress and warm you with unknown certainty against that bitter wind My skin is beyond numbness, supersensitivity I take with me what you've given sincerely And it is enough, always enough, never wanting Always beautiful, sometimes happy, sometimes we laugh, Sometimes we just lay for a while in Each others arms, your face so gently nestled against me while I hold you, hoping my words, my unadulterated thoughts, my body might be enough.

I take that familiar step, and plunge again into the darkness, the hard black waters of Lethe that flow beneath my feet Black always under the loving Moon, They have forgotten how to give and can only take I can swim far, but there are no islands, nor passing driftwood and my arms are tired, and the water is sweet in my mouth.

There is a dancing, glowing, white light before me but it is distorted by waning, floating streams of bubbles it might be calling me, I see its light, but I can't see my own hands anymore and the sound of my name has become strange and foreign.

25

Hunter Watson

Silence Silently I think Unbroken silence so loud Yet I hear nothing

26

John O’Neill

Exams Exams? They aren't fun.

Let's just not do them this year.

Instead, eat ice cream.

27

Joe Dahut

Martin Seated behind an old wooden desk his mighty hand inscribes the New Testament for this troubled American society.

His iris is cloaked with forgiveness, love, and friendship.

These eyes will not shut if injustice is around, they look, find the problem, and end it.

You were ripped from us too soon, the tune, "We Shall Overcome" sung loud enough so those whose heads' were hung by the gallows themselves can hear it.

He takes your hand and says, "Brother, we have overcome.

And we will continue to do so."

28

Joe Dahut

Abort What if, This baby mocks my courage?

What if, This dependent runt, ruined my world.

Now she won’t answer her phone When I think of her name I want to cry, Shockingly desperate for her to evacuate my head.

It is cold outside my head, and I’m shutting the door on her.

But what of this child?

What will he become?

Will he come to realize his daddy despised him?

I’m not ready.

I’m too broke.

I never took into account How I would be forbidden to stroke His hair when fright haunts him too Toss my fingers through those glittering strands Look into his eyes, green like his mother’s And cry too.

29

Kevin Gorman

Boredom Man, I am so bored.

As I sit in my desk, half-asleep, While my thoughts become ever so deep.

I know! Maybe I’ll just doodle!

What to draw? A dog? Perhaps a poodle?

Man, I am sooo bored.

Just chilling here twiddling my thumbs, Thinking about cotton candy, sugared plums…

The lectures and problems are unbearably bleak, My boredom, finally, has reached its peak.

Man I am sooooo bored.

I’m so bored, it leaves me with but one choice I’ve decided to actually listen to the teacher’s voice.

Yes, that’s right, I’m going to pay attention, In hopes to end this mental suspension.

Man I am soooooooo… interested!

These pearls of wisdom my teacher has to say, All of these cool facts we learned today.

Who knew learning could be so entertaining?

Absorbing knowledge far exceeds complaining!

30

John Hulede

Physics Class Sitting in physics class with my notebook out and a pen in my hand Trying to translate this foreign language that my physics teacher is speaking Figuring out what’s important or not That is the hardest part about science “Force equals mass times acceleration” my teacher says That seems important so I write that down “Find what the force of a paper clip is if its mass is 2 kg and the acceleration is 5.6 m/s squared” That’s easy, “Force equals mass times acceleration” This test will be a piece of cake Then the test comes and it says “The mass of the car is 2,000 kg and The acceleration is 1,000 m/s squared…Find the velocity” My pen laughs at me and whispers “No, THIS is the hardest part about science”

31

Max Beauboeuf

Pie in the Sky The shoe laces were tied tight around the power line The all white Jordans swayed back and forth like an empty swingThat was just in use.

Like a swing that lost its child that once gave it a reason to move, a reason to have a seat,— A reason to attach it to chains that kept it from falling to the ground These shoes held on for dear life as they swung and tried to never look down--As we could never stop looking up.

They were our stars when the riot’s smoke fogged the night sky, When the moon’s diamonds decided to only shine in the neighborhoods who could afford them.

I called it, “the pie in the Sky”.

Its smell followed our noses like it just came out the oven when the thick smoke seems to find its way to each nostril.

Like they had a mind of their own, baiting us to reach for it To try to taste the smell To attempt the temptation To try to reach for the only star we could afford The Jumpman told us to just jump, to reach, But how could you grab with a basketball in your hand, How could you taste with blood in your mouth, How could you jump, when you’re too busy running?

Those all white spectacular Jordan retros were in retrospect never respectable, With taste that seemed so delectable, Was never really worth that spectacle.

But whenever I pass by that Pie in the sky Hanging on the power line just below the stop sign, I always sigh, “How did Jordan ever Jump that high?”

32

Max Beaubouef

The Ring That gold circle, with a diamond in the middle.

Condemning us to be one in the halo of heaven Yet resembles a flaming pit like a circle in the inferno We went, round and round, Like a rollercoaster spinning in a wormhole But you’re so…….beautiful.

From your soft hands to your cuticles Your beauty flows like a river But is blocked by a dam of insecurities Sure are these that would have provided a security of purity Just like God unblocked Mary’s dam too But damn girl I thought I could have married you.

A life I planned to share with you but of course, The lost trust divorced us before that gold circle could condemn us To death do us part, But I must have, just have missed the part where you thought that Death…..was a flexible term Kind of like you, a dancer whose limber structure Slipped through any other When you said, “oh, he’s like a brother.”

Or that part When you tore out my heart That you were supposed to re start…..when it stopped.

Oh that gold circle with the diamond in the middle, Alone it seemed so simple But it can turn a grown man little Like when a pimple meets a wart Or when the third meets the fourth Or when a midget meets a dwarf.

And it’s so crazy But maybe The ring that turned me into a baby Only cries When stuck on the wrong lady.

33

Joseph Sweet

Orange Rose There she is.

Gliding gracefully up the stairs, her soft red locks bouncing with each step the sun catching it in mid air making it glimmer like a blazing fire I stand in a circular garden surrounded by flowers of all sizes.

I asked her to meet me here today so that I could tell her how I feel about her But as she walks towards me with a full, white smile my courage begins to fail.

How could she like someone like me?

A boy, afraid of his own feelings.

She smiles and hugs me hello I somehow manage to stammer out a greeting we begin to have a conversation, but I can hardly hear what I say over the thoughts rushing in my head I say I need to admit something to her.

I tell her that when I lose faith in myself, her smile gives me something to believe in, that when she looks at me, I am overcome with sheer rapture.

I show her the very essence of my being.

She stares.

Just stares.

The silence like a knife cutting into my soul.

I begin to think “what have I done”?

“I was a fool for saying those things, I wouldn't blame her for walking away”.

34

My head is screaming idiot, moron!

Why in God's name did you put yourself in this position?!

Just go.

Run, hide, retreat, flee, why would you say that?! WhShe kisses me.

I cannot think.

All I am able to do is hold her while we stand there.

My muscles relax and the anxiety melts away Her hair, so much sweeter than any of the flowers around us.

She pulls away, telling me she'd been waiting for me to utter those words.

I submerge myself in the beauty of her angelic hazel eyes.

She is a rose.

My orange rose.

35

Max Beauboeuf

You Miss, I Take, We are a Mistake I see you and I see me We are together, but not really I watch you walk and laugh Your innocence is blinding You make our fling seem binding I don’t deserve you You deserve someone great This relationship must be a mistake Fake as fake, it should be clear as day Foolish to think that what we have won’t fade away I am Danny and you are Sandy That was an excerpt from Grease; sometimes it comes in handy But anyways back to this “us” stuff To put it simply: I’m not good enough I could be weak and do nothing but I must be tough Im gunna call it like it is which is a mistake Hopefully when it’s over you can meet someone great

36

Hunter Watson

Past, Present, and Future What if it happened What if it could have been Again and again I think back Back to the times when it should have went that way, Instead of this.

It is a constant reminder Yet it does not concretely exist It contradicts itself While slowly but surely eating away at you, Replays reruns relapses What can one do?

The inevitable end, which many cannot escape The bittersweet force Answering to the name of fate.

It strives to define one’s maximum One’s limit.

But I, I thought it.

I wanted it.

I achieved it.

I passed it.

I did it.

I lived it.

I was it.

I loved it.

Now I am here With my success and my confidence I am here.

All my goals have not been accomplished yet.

So I will keep going.

37

Patrick Lynn

Average The Sun Rises The People wake up The day begins The people work The work hours are almost through The hours are done The dinner is served The sun has set The people sleep The people arise The people are hungry The people eat The people go to work The people depart from work The people go home The people eat The people sleep The people repeat

38

Will Lane

Untitled I walk around the sticky dance floor.

Music floods the room.

I feel the pressure on my ears, like being eight feet deep at the bottom of the pool.

As I walk to the lounge, I resurface and a cool breeze accompanies a soft ringing sound.

As I walk to the door for some fresh air, I remember back to my first dance in seventh grade.

I waited in line, shifting back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping the beat in the background My lip was red and sore from biting it, and my legs were almost numb No one looked at each other, let alone danced.

Inside shy pre-teens stood in tight circles texting one another.

They looked like luminecent organisms in the deep sea, and I, a lone shark, lurked from light to light, with no prey within my reach.

But now, tonight, years later, as I submerge back into the sea of people, my legs are still numb, but not from nerves, and I stand tall with a grin, still sore and red, but not from biting.

I got my fish.

39

Will Lane

Untitled I went to DC for the blossoms, except they were all playing opossum.

Now I’m in a bad mood, so I got me some food.

Well, at least the pretzels were awesome.

40

Joe Anastasi

The Vanishing Point There’s this vanishing pointwhere the sky meets the sea They touch so ever gently, forming a line across the horizon As the sun falls from the sky, it slowly fades behind the water The ocean cooling the ball of fire to a glowing amber Then suddenly it’s gone, and darkness sets in The sky and sea meld into one and the vanishing point has vanished

41

Nicko Corriveau

Untitled One foot ago I was starting sixth grade Eager, excited, desperate to grow My sister was taller than me, my friends taller as well I wanted to be old, be cool, and be in the eighth grade Six inches ago I was starting seventh grade, the growth spurt had finally happened And I was hoping it was just the start I was now one of the tall ones, sports got easier, life got better Four inches ago I was starting eighth grade I was now here, top of the school looking down on everyone else I was faster, taller, stronger, and pitied all of the kids who hadn’t grown yet I expected myself to keep growing, keep accelerating, keep ahead of the rest Two inches ago I was starting ninth grade I was no longer on top in a school where I realized how very small I seemed I was still one of the taller boys in the grade, but I was no longer the fastest or the strongest I was demoted back to the bottom of the food chain, standing tall, looking up Seven months ago I was a senior, back on top of the school again But it seemed like I had lost a couple inches The boys I used to pity decided to pity me as they watched me shrink I have grown into my rightful place, and it is a place I will stay for the rest of my life.

42

Ryan Nash

Fading Memories (Elegy) You were the answer key to all my questions There was not a thing you did not know.

The weekend crosswords were like a Thanksgiving feast quickly conquered Your warming words and wisdom taught me how to grow up and taught me about my family’s past.

I learned that nothing is safe in this world, not even your wisdom, my answer key.

Your memory has gone now but my memories of you will never go.

My memories of Grammy will always be safe

43

Jamie Bash

Blueprint Start with a foundation, make sure it’s solid.

Draw up plans, find the right materials: the right school the right friends build, build, build Put up walls, barriers, bulwarks, fences, fortifications, and facades too Comfort, welcome Yale, Harvard, Princeton… all are options, all are choices build, build, build Furnish, rebuild, finish.

What a spectacle, it’s perfect, it’s beautiful It’s the same as every structure on the block.

Yet, Each house is different inside and out These foundations limit and restrict, but never confine.

44

Nicholas Natelli

Savior While fishing on a boat I saw what you wrote Cold and savage, sitting on the note The words screamed at me Telling me to go, chase you, But I didn’t listen. I turned away From love that felt like new.

Soon remorse set in. I couldn’t sit Any longer, my head was running after you.

Then it happened, There was an angelic fish It seemed greater than love And if it weren’t for that fish I would have been trapped in your arms.

45

Nicko Corriveau

Untitled She was murdered?

How? We’re only 18 A month before graduation.

This isn’t supposed to happen to people I know Not me.

Not her.

Not anyone.

This is supposed to be the best time of her life She was trying to help I can’t imagine the fear that must have gripped her when she realized Trusting humanity always seems to be a pointless war Every time I take a step forward, I am pushed two steps back.

46

Nicholas Natelli

Baby Bird There was once a baby bird Waiting to fly, he was third.

He stood by the side.

And jumped with pride, But a splat is all that was heard.

47

Joe Dahut

Northwest Trees Skeletal Arms reach, they sky Towards me.

I cannot believe You, A hand forever open Into the cool morning air.

A tree?

Or more than that?

An arm, a soul, a lifeline.

A lifetime, of Thick skin Disintegrated by people’s past “A+M” teenage mischief your eyes saw, felt.

I walk, I crunch along Humming the hymn Of last summer, This lover’s song.

Mumbled curse will leave my lips My jawline tight, clenched For everyone.

Except for these trees.

These limbs, Are my friends.

I might take a seat on the bank Of this creek.

Thank you.

I know you by your trickled talk 48

Quiet, but you tickle me.

Come, Lets walk Tell me only what you want let yourself run I let you type your truest font Around me Do not be scared, I know your depths are dark This dialogue, the color of mud However; my open heart, an opiate Only for my greatest friends To trot through A gate Way Towards an imaginary answer.

An answer for a trialed love A girl or boy who did you wrong A tree, who had too much to see.

Just one step, with me You believe, in me?

Before I leave I bid farewell to these trees I hope, you will miss me.

49

John Hulede

A Bad Relationship I always found her plugged in the bunker stuck in a big oak tree lying next to an alligator in a water hazard or camping in an old divot even when there was 300 yards of fairway She was always mad at me for cheating on her with Callaway and Taylormade for not giving her vacation time even on Christmas and Thanksgiving for never saying Thank You even when she was trying her best I blamed my bogeys on her She couldn’t perform well under pressure ...Well she performed well for 71 holes but when the last hole came I always found her plugged in a bunker stuck in a big oak tree lying next to an alligator in a water hazard or camping in an old divot even when there was 300 yards of fairway

50

John Hulede

One Nation I’ve been struggling with finding a reason to write a poem I’ve even paid more attention to things around me so I could write one things like the way someone chews when they’re hungry the way someone runs when they’re late to class the way someone reacts after they fail a test I just couldn’t find a reason And then BOOM I had just found my reason It was terrorizing innocent people in Boston as a child was eagerly watching a nervous adult preparing for his first marathon Then a second explosion went off and the child and adult disappear in the dust storm Citizens scream and shout as the person recording says “We’ve had an attack” Police sirens fill up the air Some citizens try to save others from a collapsed barricade that glues them to the ground they once walked on But my reason for writing this poem wasn’t to make anyone depressed My reason for writing this poem was to tell America that today there are no Democrats or Republicans Today we must unite in concern for our fellow people despite our differences

51

Matt Buckley

Sixteen 16 bombs in parked cars.

A large plume of black smoke.

Several stores destroyed.

One of Jasem’s customers, slashed to death by shattered glass.

*A found poem from The Washington Post article “Bombs Jolt Iraq on Anniversary of 2003 Invasion”

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Literature “Without literature, life is hell�

-Charles Bukowski

53

Max Beauboeuf

...a Million Miles Away Before I make my way down the steps there is only one thing on my mind, but that would have to wait. As I walk into the dark basement as heat hits my body, and as sweat automatically falls down my face, I begin to hear laughter and commotion and music. As I turn the corner I start to see familiar faces, and I see many eyes turn my way. I soon get greetings and hugs from my friends and acquaintances while hearing funny conversations and reminiscing of old embarrassing stories of our younger days. But not even all of this warmth and love from my peers could distract me from what was on my mind. I was wondering when I might run into her. If she would acknowledge me or greet me like everything is ok and nothing has happened between us. Would we hug? Would we reconnect? Would we talk about things? Or would I just sit and watch her gracefully glide past my line of vision the whole night while I sit and think of the old days when she was called “mine�. The music was loud, and good vibes were all around me. The bass dropped again and again as her hips moved in perfect harmony with it. I remember when we used to move in perfect harmony. It used to be like we were one person taking on the world together. But, now that is all over as we sit in this joyful place only thinking and worrying about each other. We stood at opposite ends of the stereo as a slow love song was played. Our eyes locked and it seemed as if life had paused for everyone except me and her. We took steps closer and closer to each other wondering who would break this unbearable silence. We both stood in front of the stereo and it felt like my heart and the bass were both beating on overtime. I had to say something, but what words would I use? Will she say anything back? As I began to open my mouth to form the words I saw the most horrifying thing. Her eyes and mine were no longer locked together as she looked down and slowly made her way out of the situation I had been dreaming of since our last meeting. It was over. The party resumed and nobody had a clue what had just happened.

The bass stopped and the stereo broke as we sat on the couch waiting for nothing.

54

Luke Malanchuk

Diversity Four years after waltzing through the doors on my first day of high school, the much anticipated college crunch time has arrived. Over the past several months, I have been on numerous campus tours. Not unexpectedly, there are many similarities, but there are also differences.

These experiences got me thinking about how I contribute to campus diversity. I am a likely environmental science/ biology major, and I have been thinking in an environmental context. While I may have a particular academic focus, I am hardly just that. I am not, for example, just a cornfield.

A cornfield lacks diversity and is inherently unstable, thriving only if propped up with fertilizers and pesticides. This is an important point. A system lacking diversity is inherently unstable. I may be corn but, as part of a more diverse ecosystem with many dissimilar parts, the interconnectedness between and among the parts confers diversity and stability.

If there’s only one road from point “A” to point “B” everything is great until there is a traffic jam. However, if there are several roads leading from A to B, I have some options.

Having greater diversity makes life better in many ways, or more stable. On campus, if I’m one component of many, it is by my interconnections (sports, band, Spanish, the environment, volunteering) that I demonstrate my uniqueness and make my contribution to campus diversity since it is the interactions among parts that provide the richness sought conferring stability to all. That’s where the dictionary definition of diversity leaves me searching for something more. A university may bring together dissimilar parts, but without nurturing the interconnections, the true goal of providing that diversity goes unrealized. The individual pieces of an orchestra may not sound like much by themselves, but when put together they are so much more than the sum of their parts. That’s what I’m talking about!

In an ecosystem, we might be speaking of the flow of matter or energy between parts. If a component or a flow is stressed or disrupted, then an alternate component or path55

way can take its place to achieve the system’s goals. Foxes must eat more than rabbits to have a stable diet. In the university ecosystem, it is the flow of information and how these flows influence the other components that matters. The more flows, however small they may be, the more substantial and the more pathways for currents of information. Similarly, when stressed, the university community has multiple pathways to achieve its goal of enlightenment and understanding.

I hope this doesn’t sound too corny. It’s all a big maize to me.

56

Aidan Madison

Driven Mad With any destination reachable and so many ways to get there, I considered myself limitless when I first got my license. As time passed, however, reality and its restrictions crept up on me as I began to realize having a license did not render me this unique snowflake free to drift anywhere.

Having a license has only introduced me to new restrictions, new frustrations, and new costs. I never used to follow GPS; I would veer off the main road and blaze my own path.

Now, more focused on the destination than the journey, I have found myself living in the fast lane.

But even in the fast lane, getting to my destination has rendered itself a chore with all the irksome nitwits clogging the streets: those aimlessly switching lanes (not going anywhere on the road or in life); the characters with their turn signals still on just to let you know where they have been; the “mobile libraries” plastered with such treasures as, “Baby on Board”; or, my personal favorite: “I feel the need to validate myself through my child’s minor academic achievements”; the quiet, subtle hybrids with loud, boasting owners who have successfully managed to replace their environmental smog emissions with smug emissions; and, finally, the motorcycle “biker” who either falls into the category of middleaged guy in a speedo riding his high end tricycle or the “bad boy” biker dentist riding his Harley. Unfortunately, avoiding these irksome people littering the road to one’s destination is a futile effort. Maybe I am no better, as I am also part of the molten mass of light that cascades down the hillside during the rush hour.

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Miguel Rivera-Lanas

Aftermath There was one girl left in the house. She sat, still and transparent, on a stool in the middle of the kitchen, her head resting tiredly on her arms, which were strewn comfortably on the countertop littered with the remnants of the evening.

She languidly inhaled from the last cigarette of a crumpled pack as she looked down, barely, from the corners of her eyes at him. Her eyes, eyes you might miss were she to walk by too quickly, eyes whose green color you could never recall, eyes who meet your own and at once dissipated your cultivated illusions like mounds of sand beneath the surf. Those eyes that felt and touched with supernatural kindness and sincerity as unknown and mysterious as the specs of brown and grey that melted into amorphous shapes on the glistening, concave surface of the Iris. Those eyes that, although only ten feet away, could never quite reach him at that moment, could never quite pierce through the thick and hazy and nicotine air that brooded over and around him like a halo of recurring nightmares that flowed, malevolently, out of his mouth only to return again and soak so deeply into the pores of his skin and the molecules that surrounded him.

58

Ryan Bliss

Balloons A war torn city left to age and dry like the riverbed that once flowed beside it. Trees shriveled, walls fell, and foundations crumbled, but there remained a man in this decrepit ruin. He was unable to desert the town in which he grew up.

He sat by the riverbed, a place that gave his small village life and hope, yearning for a passerby to give him a couple of scraps to eat.

Once receiving an ample food supply from the caravans traversing the trade routes passing through his town, he now went days without food, hoping an unknowing traveler might pass through his useless and decaying village. During his most recent stretch, a week without a passerby, he realized that he was no longer just a villager among ruins. No. He was becoming a part of the ruins, a part of their washed up history. With the passing of every sundried hour, the man’s hope for survival blew away like the million kernels of sand displaced by the desert breeze. Giving up on life, the man curled up into a ball, his dirt-encrusted rags transforming him into another of the many rocks dotting the terrain.

With the angel of death clinging to his cloak, the man heard footsteps and decided to make one final effort at survival. Unable to lift his head, he croaked, “Can you help me?”

The footsteps came from Umed, a young boy who traveled from village to village selling balloons in order to feed his family. He answered, “I’m sorry, but I have nothing. The only possessions I carry are these balloons.”

“Don’t worry. Any food I eat now will be wasted. I’m dying and nothing can change this fact.”

Moved with pity Umed answered the man, “I cannot save you, but I can give you one last wish. Write your final desire on a piece of paper.” Once the man finished, Umed attached the note to a yellow balloon and let go. “Only God will know if your wish comes true.”

A week later, Umed returned to the spot where the man sat, but he found nothing. Umed returned to the village every year to pay the man homage. On his third visit, a 59

construction crew greeted him at his place of mourning. Disgruntled by the inconvenience and desecration, Umed sought out the leader of the crew and asked, “Why must you build here! Couldn’t you move to the other side of the riverbed?”

“I must build here. I have orders.”

“But I have a friend who died at exactly this spot, and you are desecrating it. The only evidence of his existence left on earth is this spot where I met him and his final wish attached to a yellow balloon.”

The construction worker’s face lit up, “I’m making that man’s final wish come true. I found the balloon and its note.

Do you know anything about him? We are making a statue in honor of him, but it is hard because we never knew him.”

“I gave him the balloon to write his wish. I met him once.

He asked me for food. I had none, so I gave him what I had, a balloon, paper, and hope. I do not know much about him. I don’t know his name. In fact, I did not even read his note.

Do you have it? I would like to see it.” Umed was handed the note and it read as follows: Dear Neighbor, I grew up in a small village (22.3000° N, 73.1900° E). I was never able to leave its small confines and I died among its ruins. My final wish is that I will be remembered. I do not want to share the same fate as my destroyed, forgotten town. If you are able to accomplish this task, I will be ever thankful.

Sincerely, There the note ended. The rest of the note ripped apart by the wind during its journey. With help from Umed, the crew finished the statue. Its plaque read, “Man will always be remembered.”

60

Luke Malanchuk

Turn for the Best Moments of happiness and joy were hard to come by for Richard Johnson. Pain and hardship plagued his life from the moment he was brought into this world. Dying was the best thing that had ever happened to him. "Dick," as his peers called him, lived ninety-two years on this cruel world until his final and favorite day passed last week. Clear blue skies and a smooth road awaited Dick now that his time on this ragged, dark road had finally drawn to an end. The storm was over and Dick was on his way to paradise.

Ninety-two years ago, on the day of Dick’s birth, he lost his mother during childbirth due to lack of medical assistance, while his father was fighting in a war overseas. Tragedy after tragedy, Dick’s father died in battle, and Dick spent the first eighteen years of his life in an orphanage. One would think growing up in an orphanage in Los Angeles sounds better than anywhere else because there are a ton of orphans in L.A. As true as this statement is, Dick did not fit in with the other boys and girls he lived with. Dick fought through life with a severe speech impediment, making his already difficult life even harder. His only friends were the manager of home, Mr. White, and the abundant mice in his rickety room on the fourth floor of the deteriorating children's home. Dick spent countless lonely nights in that big room in his eighteen years of childhood. Life on his own, however, was no better than life as an orphan.

The fact that Dick could not speak at a normal rate and was difficult to understand made working a normal job impossible. Dick could not be a teacher, lawyer, doctor, or in any line of work that requiring presentations, debates, or even speaking in general. There was a side to him, however, that not many people knew about. Dick could write. Dick's writing ability surpassed many newspaper and magazine authors, but he only thoroughly expressed his talents through journal entries and diaries. Never published, his work was an unknown treasure. It was truly incredible how Dick struggled so greatly to speak his words, but excelled magnificently 61

when writing them.

Dick worked a job as a mail sorter his entire life, making just enough money to cover the rent on his one-room apartment and keep food in his stomach. His job required no contact with people, just their mail, flowing in and out of the post office box by box. Dick did not like his job, but it kept him healthy and in a home so he stuck with it.

On his walk home from work one evening, Dick was struck by a car while crossing the street in a crosswalk.

Before medical assistance was available, Dick’s brutal, dull life ended. With nothing but his journals to be found with his body in the road, that was the end of Richard Johnson and the start of the best time of his life. Dying was the best thing that had ever happened to Dick because he knew that his life after death would be pain-free and fun, unlike his life on earth. No one would care what he looked like or what he sounded like when he spoke. He knew everyone would treat him as an equal for the first time.

62

Ryan Matney

A Curse of Health Francis lazily perused the contents of a rack of clothes, attempting to hide his disgust from the patrons around him.

Francis hated Goodwill, but he hadn’t bought a gift for his mother and he knew his brother would bring a fancy watch or necklace to her hospital and make Francis look like a real jerk. Francis was a jerk, but he refused to look like one.

He hated to look poor, too, which created problems because he didn’t want to look rich in Goodwill, either. He parked four blocks away from Goodwill so that no one would recognize his car in front of its windows, and so that the people working there wouldn’t see his expensive foreign automobile. Before he went in, he removed his new jacket and rings so that he wouldn’t stand out too much.

Goodwill smelt of freshly washed clothes and recently washed floors, but the air that Francis brought in with him made him think that the store was disgusting and reeked of poverty. Customers nonchalantly strolled the aisles but Francis could not stop hearing their cruel comments about his clothes, his job, his life.

Francis cursed the store for its low quality. He had to buy his mother something nice, but he hadn’t the time or money to waste on it, and the store only had worn and tattered trinkets. He stopped in an empty aisle to check his iPhone, keeping his eyes peeled for the judgments of dirty Goodwill customers. A text from his mother demanded to know just where the hell he was. Francis, for fear of disappointing his mother, did not respond but instead continued looking.

Finally, somewhere towards the bottom of a bucket of used trash, he found it. It was perfect- four dollars, decent quality, and he could lie and say he found it in one of the expensive stores his mother used to shop at. He laughed darkly at the irony of her gift- a Christmas ornament when he knew she wouldn’t survive another Christmas. All of the doctors told him so. The ornament resembled a somber angel- the content face of an angel with nothing to do but await his master’s orders. Francis laughed at this irony, too- he 63

thought it reminded him of the angel of death.

At the register, which Francis noted as being far too open, because everyone on the sidewalk outside could see him easily, he caused trouble when he decided to pay in coins he had gathered from the floor and the sidewalk during his walk to Goodwill. The Indian woman behind the counter, who had been working at Goodwill for several years too many, had seen customers like Francis often enough that she had begun using an old trick of her grandmothers’ to deal with them and keep her at ease. The Indian woman cursed the ornament and wrote something underneath it before handing it back to Francis, telling him that it was of no charge.

Francis, first distracted by the eyes of a disgusting stray dog which glanced into the store and seemed to be judging him and later distracted by the news that the ornament was of no cost, paid no heed to her curse or the inscription and instead left the store in the familiar state of bliss which usually followed after he annoyed a cashier into cancelling the order and letting him go without paying anything.

At the hospital, Francis found his mother’s room from memory. She had been here for five weeks now and Dr. Smith said she was on borrowed time. Francis’ mother looked like it, too- her hair was wiry, and her gaunt skin clung to her bones in a ghastly promise of imminent doom. On the table next to her sat, as expected, a new watch from Francis’ brother.

His brother used to have a lot of money- he lived off the same inheritance from their father that Francis did. But after their father’s death two years ago, their mother moved in with Francis’ brother. Things had been different since then.

Francis suspected that his brother could not afford gifts like the watch he had bought, but there it lay anyway.

With the minimum effort that he could muster, Francis removed the cheap ornament from his expensive-looking leather bag and, before he could even drop it onto his moth64

er’s bed, he was already overcome with more positive feedback than he was attempting to elicit.

“Oh MY Francis, my gift is simply BEAUtiful! Come now, give it to your mother.”

The instant the ornament touched her fingers, some of the color long missing from her skin returned. Unfortunately for Francis, he was too busy staring out at the watchful eyes of a senile old couple crossing the courtyard to notice his mother’s sudden sign of small recovery. Here in this room he felt that everyone, everyone’s eyes, everyone he’d ever met was staring at him.

“Francis, child, I have been meaning to ask you- or your brother, well- in light of… recent events, you… won’t you let your mother move in with you? When this is all over and I’m as I once was? Won’t you?”

Francis grinned. This, of course, wasn’t according to plan at all- but it was perfect. He had finally beaten his brother.

Their mother chose Francis. Francis happily agreed, knowing in his heart that she wouldn’t survive to leave the hospital, or begin her extravagant spending trips like she used to, the kind that she taught her sons to enjoy. Francis was so overcome with the feeling of his mother’s acceptance that, at that moment, he felt willing to do anything to hold her attention.

Francis, content with how smoothly this day had been, left the hospital with a bounce in his step, passing Dr. Smith by the door. When Dr. Smith performed the daily tests on Francis’ mother, he was surprised to find that her body was healthier now than it had been her entire life. That was June.

In December, Francis returned from work one day to find his mother surrounded yet again in the extravagant products of a day spent shopping at stores they could not afford on his salary from Goodwill. Over the past few months, his mother had spent all of the money in his bank account, his checking account, sold his car, sold his house, and moved them into a small apartment like his brother’s.

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She was as uncontrollable as ever, and there was nothing Francis could do about it. If he complained or said no, his brother would win, of course. Francis couldn’t let his brother win, not now, after he had finally won. There were some things that made him angry, though. Like how she got him kicked from his country club because she used his discount on so many items in a single day. Or like how he had to sell his expensive phone to try and repay all of the debts his mother had brought on the pair.

Occasionally his mother went back to the hospital so that Dr. Smith could assess her recovery. Dr. Smith always called Francis on those days to let him know that he has nothing to worry about- his mother would live in great health for a long, long time. Francis cursed at Dr. Smith when he hung up and at his mother when she shopped.

Now Francis works at Goodwill. The pay is manageable, but he constantly feels judged by the customers at his register, and his Indian boss. She makes him scrub the floors every morning before working at the cash register, where he is subjected to serving shoppers who pay for items he can no longer dream of affording. He is happy when they pay with cash- some customers, the strange ones who don’t belong- try to pay with weird coins that Francis doesn’t recognize. He mumbles curses under his breath and tells them to leave, that their item is of no charge.

On the small tree that his mother bought hangs a Christmas ornament with a few scratches. Etched into the bottom is an inscription: “May you and your family experience great health this holiday season and for years to come!”

66

Thomas Fitzgerald

A Different Approach to Animals 3:45 a.m. Sleeping sunken into a soft pillow with four warm blankets could make it difficult to get out of bed. But not for me, and even more so if I’m going hunting. As soon as my alarm clock rings, I jump out of bed, slap my brother out of his dream, and make my way downstairs. There, my father cooks greasy sausages and pancakes on the hot stove, warming the first floor. After we eat like hogs, my brother and I go into the basement to change into our hunting attire while my dad cleans the dishes. I grab and put on as many layers of clothing as I can because staying still for three hours in fifteen degree weather is unbearable and uncomfortable. Grabbing the guns and shells, we head to the truck to make our hour and a half journey towards Frederick County.

Meanwhile, the three of us talk about who gets what gun or what tree stand to sit in while listening to eighty-nine point seven, the country radio station. The temperature decreases ten degrees in Frederick, so when I get out of the car, I know I will get something beautiful. I know if I suffer and put in the effort, I will get what I want.

Climbing up the cold hard metal tree stand, I turn my head looking out into the virgin grass field’s horizon seeing nothing but darkness. Behind me, a heavy forest supports many animals. After loading my weapon, I sit motionless.

Carved into the tree, anthrophobic squirrels approach my circumference talking to each other in different signs and gestures. The birds land on branches three feet away, hovering over me, singing in many pitches and rhythms. Two foxes tug on the last intestine from a fallen animal right in my sights, and it seems as if I’m watching Discovery’s “Africa.” I feel like a ghost, a sniper in the mountains. I am the needle in the hay stack. The noises fade away slowly as animals run in different directions. An unusual and heavy crunch from the leaves behind me startles my senses. One after another, the crunches got closer and closer to my stand. I feel compelled to turn around. Hearing more and more steps, I vaguely see through thorn bushes and trees a head with white sharp 67

sticks nodding back and forth. The massive deer backs up and lowers his head. Suddenly, a loud clash breaks the stillness as another deer rams his antlers against the outsider to defend his doe. With immense force, these males fight for five minutes until the outsider wins. The male defending the doe runs off discouraged with a broken antler. No longer distracted by the pure beauty of the clash, I realize my mouth is wide open and an inch of frozen slobber is hanging from my lower lip. They were fifteen yards away and I could have easily shot one of them. But by the time I lifted my gun out of my lap, both deer had dispersed, running in different directions over eight foot bushes and into the protective forest.

I am cold. The sun hasn’t shown itself yet and I have just been awed by a deer twice my size. Accepting defeat, I sit back into my cold chair. To my immediate left, a beam of light blazing through the clouds travels into my pupils.

The light wakes the dark forest and sweeps the dew off the plants. In minutes, I am warm, and taken back to the thought of sleeping under four blankets. My eyes close and I fall asleep in a cold hard metal chair fifteen feet off the ground. Asleep with no idea what’s in my view.

8:12a.m I awake with a weird shape in front of me. I open my eyes more and see a deer one hundred and fifty yards away. I sink into my large coat so to not be seen as this deer slowly heads my direction. In minutes the deer stands twenty yards away and other animals become quiet. I lift up my gun, push the safety button off, and wait. This is my time.

The deer turns broad-sided and I have a chance to shoot. I aim my shotgun with my finger on the trigger. Taking deep breaths, like exhaust from a car on a cold day, I fog the scope.

I brace for impact. Pulling the trigger tighter and tighter I hear a click. Nothing happens. The shell’s a dud. The sound from the pin hitting the dud raises the deer’s attention.

Starring towards my direction, it raises its head and sniffs.

Snorting through his nose, he moves his back upwards and 68

violently slams his legs to the ground. He is nervous. Loading another shell, I aim. I shoot. Without any sorrow or pain, the deer falls right where he stood.

The shot echoes a deep thud sound through the valley, into underground animal habitats, and throughout the land telling the other hunters I shot something. My pocket vibrates from my cell phone asking “did you kill something” from my dad’s phone. Telling him “yes” he walks toward my stand thinking I shot a red nosed rain deer. Dropping his gun from pure astonishment, he jogs to the deer. His head turns shouting “ten point!” Shivers fly throughout my back and body as I climb down the stand. Today is a good day.

Turning the ‘Mighty One” on his death bed, my dad and I begin to field dress the animal. Slicing the epidermis with a knife starting from the bottom of the rib cage till the end of the stomach I take the deer’s guts out, placing them aside for other animals to devour. If not gutted after the kill, the guts will rot and destroy the precious meat. Gutting the deer in my mind is beautiful. Not tearing the deer for amusement, but a precise action, like the Indians. At home, we hang the deer by the achilles from both back feet from a tree and start stripping the skin leaving only meat and bone. By now, we have taken the meat from the arms and legs, and my brother removes it from the body. We strip every muscle leaving only the bones. Using the heart and liver for a great stew, we never abuse a deer’s beautiful body.

69

Marcus Jackson

Car Ride Why am I here? Honestly, I cannot answer that. I guess I should just go along with everything. I turn my head and catch Declan’s eye in his review mirror. “You have been awfully quiet back there today, Emily, everything alright?” he asked in his pseudo-sincere voice.

“Yea, I’m fine,” I spit out nonchalantly, “I was thinking about seeing the Rocky Mountains from the ground. I only flew over them.”

“Neither have I!” Summer chimed. “How long will it be until we can see them?”

“Probably an hour or so,” Declan estimated.

With that I put my headphones on and the sound of “pickup truck” by kings of Leon filled the silence. I looked at the back of Declan’s long, brown hair and began to think. Declan does not know what to do with a girl. He just flirts with her.

If you asked Summer how she felt about him she would talk for days about how much see likes him but she wishes he would make a move already. I just do not get it. How could you be that clueless? Just because she is a girl does not make her any different. I mean, we are all just people. After spending two days on the road there were a couple times I wanted to pull him aside and tell him to just ask her, but I don’t want to be in the middle if everything falls apart. He just turned eighteen, he will come to his senses soon enough.

Maybe if I help he will notice me. The song came to an end, in the silence I heard voices on the radio so I took the headphones off and began to listen. The talk show hosts began to talk about their personal experience with friends who talk behind their back. Declan and Summer were talking about their friend Gabe who lived off spreading gossip. I just sat there. Eventually, the conversation quieted down and Declan pulled over. “It is too beautiful to keep driving like this. We should put the top down and enjoy the beauty,” he beamed.

He began taking apart the roof when Summer turned to talk to me. “Gorgeous out here, isn’t it?” She questioned as the cloth roof swooshed off.

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“Not as gorgeous as she is!” Declan exclaimed from behind. At that comment Summer blushed and giggled.

“Actually, I agree. With the top down, driving through the mountains will be even more fun.” I added trying to not get caught in the middle of a flirt-a-thon.

Declan slammed the trunk shut and jumped over the door of the car into the driver seat. Summer looked so impressed.

I didn’t get it. What does he see in her? She’s not as pretty, smart or fun as me. Let’s face it she’s just plain weird. She watches vampire movies, especially when romance is involved. She obsesses over British science fiction. Worst of all, she never dated a boy in her life. Yet he still wants her over me. It makes no sense. He’s not her type at all. He works on cars, plays sports, loves to watch movies, especially the ones without vampires and falling in love. He needs to find someone else. But I can’t just take him, that would be impossible now. I just need to pull him aside and tell him enough is enough. No, that’s stupid. I should make him jealous with some guy I find in Tahoe. That will get him to notice me and, more importantly, to lose interest in her. Now all I have to do is wait. *** Some people say that you only get one chance at the love of your life. I on the other hand, feel in love with the boy who cannot say I love you. At least he’s nice. The trip to Tahoe has been going well so far. After two days of driving we are about to hit the mountains and I can only hope that Declan will finally ask me. I have been trying so hard for him to notice me over that stupid bitch Emily. I do not understand his need to bring her along. Maybe he likes her too. Am I the third wheel here? Oh no, that must be it. He is moving on from me to her. That’s why he bought this Impala, to show off to girls like her how cool he is and that he fixed it all by himself. Calm down, calm down, you are making a bigger deal of this than you need to. Of course he likes you, how could he not? Just as I was beginning to collect myself the situation 71

got worse. Declan looked back at Emily. “You have been awfully quiet back there today, Emily, everything alright?” he asked her sweetly with concern.

“Yea, I’m fine. I was thinking about seeing the Rocky Mountains from the ground. I only flew over them,” she replied.

I began to worry again. I did not come all this way to be forgotten. “Neither have I! How long will it be until we can see them?” I buzzed in trying to make myself noticed.

“Probably an hour or so,” Declan guessed.

I could not believe it. Declan seemed more interested in her than in me. It makes no sense. All the late night phone calls and the hours we spend on Skype. On this trip alone he has not noticed my hair, clothes, let alone my comments. It makes no sense. I am the one sitting in the passenger seat while Emily hides away in the back. He should be caring about those closer to him. I am accessible. Emily has a seat between them yet it is like there is a wall between us. Why does it seem all guys want is some pretty girl with no substance? Suddenly, I was interrupted as Declan turned on the radio. We caught the talk show in the midst of talking about third wheels and I began to wonder who the third wheel here was. I hoped it wasn’t me. Then the talk show cast switched to stories about friends who end up stabbing you in the back.

In an attempt to catch Declan’s attention I blurted out, “sounds like Gabe Bauer doesn’t it?”

Declan laughed, “It does. I cannot stand that kid. I am so glad we never have to see him again.”

“I know. But I do hope to see you again,” I quickly replied.

Looking back now that was so stupid seeing as we are going to the same college.

“Definitely,” he smiled, “I mean we are going to be together a lot next year.”

Suddenly, I smiled. I finally hit it off and we talked for a while until suddenly Declan rushed the car to the side of the road without warning. “It is too beautiful to keep driving like 72

this. We should put the top down and enjoy the beauty,” he said as he scampered to out of the car.

While waiting for Declan, I tried not to talk to Emily who looked neglected and testy. “Gorgeous out here, isn’t it?” I asked warmly.

“Not as gorgeous as she is!” Declan belted as he put the sun shield away.

Finally, he really cared. Just as I was going to say more I was beat to the punch by a now bitter Emily. “Actually, I agree. With the top down, driving through the mountains will be even more fun,” she interrupted and then shot an angry glare at me.

Declan hopped back in the car and sped off. I wanted to punch Emily. She needs to understand her limit. She’s no one to Declan now. I will not be able to handle a week with her griping and complaining. I do not care what it will take; Declan and I will have as much fun as far from her as possible.

Too bad we cannot kick her out of the lodge though. *** If I learned anything over the past two days in the car, it’s that you never bring two girls along for a trip, even if they are best friends. I cannot place my finger on it but there is something wrong between Emily and Summer. They rarely speak to each other and when they do it is not for long. I hope a few days in the mountains will bring us all closer together, especially, Emily and I. I’m tired of trying so hard to get Summer’s attention. She never seems that interested in anything I have to say. Also, Emily looks so much better than Summer, there is no contest. I look through my rear view at her when suddenly she looks back up at me. I didn’t want to seem stupid so I said, “You have been awfully quiet back there today, Emily, everything alright?”

“Yea, I’m fine. I was thinking about seeing the Rocky Mountains from the ground. I only flew over them,” she retorted coldly.

“Neither have I! How long will it be until we can see 73

them?” Summer questioned.

“Probably an hour or so,” I blurted out, not actually knowing.

I began to worry. Could Emily be even more disinterested than Summer? I began to wonder if I would ever find the right girl. I just want one thing in my life to go the right direction and stop waiting for someone to care, let alone notice me. Is that too much to ask? I want someone to love me but even if they do not they could at least care. I looked into the review mirror again and saw a bored Emily simmering, not caring what was going on. Then I looked to Summer.

She sat there staring at the rolling hills and I realized she cared. I needed to get her attention. I needed her to notice me. But with what? My eyes jumped to the radio which I turned on and was greeted by the voice of a man and woman talking about relationships and third wheeling. Quickly, they changed over to going behind the backs of your friends I finally got some interest from Summer. “Sounds like Gabe Bauer doesn’t it?” she joked.

I had no idea who that was so laughed it off, “It does. I cannot stand that kid. I am so glad we never have to see him again.”

“I know. But I do hope to see you again,” she replied “Definitely, I mean we are going to be together a lot next year,” I told her smiling due to the obviousness of her statement.

Deep down, I was ecstatic. She finally cared for me. She might even like me. I need to tell her. No, I cannot do it now.

It will be more romantic at the top of the mountain overlooking the sapphire blue lake. How could she say no to me up there? I turned to look at Summer once again and it hit me.

She is a full package. She may not be the most beautiful but what good is beauty without substance, something Emily never had. Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by the sight ahead: clear blue skies and rolling hills. We were getting close to the mountains and I wanted to make the drive 74

perfect. At that instant I flung the car to the side of the road and hopped out. I began taking off the sun shield when I heard Summer say, “Gorgeous out here, isn’t it?”

“Not as gorgeous as she is!” I shouted while I stuffed away the sun shield. I did not see her reaction but I hoped she liked it. They continued to talk as I hopped back in the car and drove away. Then I noticed it. Something was wrong.

Summer and Emily had moved as far away from one another as they could get with their faces staring in opposite directions. I began to worry how this would work for the rest of the week. I did not have an idea on how to make things better either.

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Aidan Madison

Pet Shop My biggest pet peeves are the excessively sarcastic keyboard warrior and having to write papers last-minute … Actually, I have a whole pet shop full of pet peeves, but rather than list them, I will attempt to sketch them out in a (highly) fictionalized but (highly) illustrative narrative [with all the pet peeves noted in brackets]: Waiting in line for an eternity to buy a cheeseburger at a nameless burger joint, a disorganized herd of people engulfs me. An obese “gentleman” leads the line; he orders the entire menu but thinks it imperative to top it off with a diet soda [dietary-intellectual disconnect]. A contingent of spraytanned teens of the carrot race follow next in line; these giggling Oompa Loompas (with copious amounts of makeup and hair dye) pepper their order with snarky asides about some others girls’ “sorry” appearance [gossip ironies]. Close behind them stands the self-proclaimed creative hipster blabbering on about how he bought his originality with his new iDonotcare [in this we have the “hypstercrite”]. Then we have Mr. Self-Important Businessman who makes sure to convey his preeminence through a series of wild hand gestures and by screaming into his Blackberry [“I’m the only one-in-theuniverse-who-matters”].

Finally, in front of me, as we snail our way to the counter, a young lady with her baseball cap on backwards uses her hand as a visor, as she gawks at the brightly lit menu [sartorial-functional disconnect]. After a lengthy delay, she settles on an order of fries – which she then pays for with assorted pennies and nickels from different pockets located in awkward, hard-to-reach places [oblivious to others waiting… and waiting].

So after I finally receive my cheeseburger - an unidentifiable slab of meat floating in grease soup [predictable dining disappointments] - I proceed to sit at a wobbly table [restaurants that cannot bother to give you a level dining experience].

I am surrounded by loudly chewing bovine creatures feeding on their hunks of cow [mindless and open-mouthed eating].

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Walking to the train station, I overhear a [rather pretentious] couple cooing over their newborn son, appointed with a name like Rodney Archibald Witherbottom III. Kitted out in designer baby clothes, this child sprawls in a Ferrari of a stroller [designer babies]. The man says to his wife, “Do you think our little darling more closely resembles me or you?” In fact, little baby R.A.W. III looks more like a potato to me...

At the station, my train pulls away as I futilely try pushing past the idle herds of people who just stand on the right and LEFT side of the escalator [common courtesy and common sense?]. Frustrated, I pull out my tangled ear buds and try to appease my inner ire with a relaxing song; however, a “talker” trundles up and thwarts my efforts. Somehow he verbally meanders on about War Hammer or whatever, whilst repeating the phrase “long story short” - which of course only succeeds in prolonging his inane dribble [pointless/boring/one-sided conversations].

Finally, after catching a train and arriving at my end station, I avoid the “suburban gangstas” loitering around the entrance, most likely waiting for their upper-middleclass parents to pick them up [middle-class teens trying to “slum it’]. At long last, I arrive home and log into Facebook where an instant barrage of pop-ups, moronic comments, and pictures of someone’s coffee flood my screen - not to mention receiving an invite to join an anti-capitalist/anti-corporation Facebook group [campaigns to join any “ism” – especially anti-capitalist themed ones on a blatantly capitalist-website like Facebook].

These mangy mutts of pet peevedom may snap at me throughout the day, but in a strange way, I actually find them endearing: Corralled and looked at from a different angle, all these daily pet peeves morph into a rather entertaining and comical circus.

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Matt Borda

Letters from the Conscience September 13, 2001 Dear Grandpa, I finally understand why you decided to enter World War II after the attack on Pearl Harbor. I cannot stop watching the recurring images of the planes hitting the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. It seems to be all that they play these days on the news. I can feel the patriotic fervor boiling up inside me. I am not sure that Ma is thrilled, but I have decided to enlist. I need to help my nation and to ensure the safety of my fellow Americans just like you did in the Pacific. I hope my journey fills me with as many heroic memories just like the ones you always tell at the dinner table at Thanksgiving on the farm. I already am excited to land in Afghanistan.

Well, I am heading to boot camp in Ft. Benning, so I won’t be too far from Ma and the boys. I cannot wait to receive all of my equipment and join the troops overseas. Boot camp will not be easy, but I know it will all be worth it when I get my shot at the terrorists. I hope to keep in touch with you throughout my journey.

Love, Sam November 17, 2001 Dear Grandpa, Boot camp is tough, but I am still enjoying my time in Ft. Benning. I can already feel myself getting much stronger and in much better shape. The guys in my company are great, and I am getting along with them very well. A few of them are fellow Georgians, but they come from all over the country, and most of them joined right after 9/11 just like me. It is easy to support such a great cause I guess. I want to make sure this tragedy never happens again. One guy in my unit, Mark, is from Boston, and his brother was killed in the plane that hit the first tower. I am going to make sure I have his back just like you had your company’s back on Iwo Jima. It is easy to root for guys like Mark, and I know that he and I will exact 78

some revenge on those terrorists. I cannot wait to show them how big of a mistake they made of messing with the Americans. Well, I ship out on January 5th, and I could not be more excited. I hope I will see you when I return.

Wish me luck, Sam January 12, 2002 Dear Grandpa, I have been in the Middle East now for a week, and the war is all that I hoped for and more. It is exhilarating out in the field, and I love going out on the missions. I have not killed any enemies yet, but it is just a matter of time. The captain says that I have the most promise in the unit. I am sure I got this military expertise from you. It is too bad that Pop isn’t alive to see this; he would be so proud. The terrorists will be shaking in fear in a few weeks when the ruthless Sam Stokes is coming for them. They better hide in those caves out here, or they will be inside a body bag quickly. I can’t wait to get revenge for that infamous September day.

I am going to prove to you that I can be a great soldier like you, and I hope to one day become a general just like you. I will report back to you soon about my conquests.

Proud to be American, Sam February 24, 2002 Dear Grandpa, I took my first casualty today, and I do not have the same feeling that I expected. I thought that I would be happy about finally getting revenge and getting that first kill, but it isn’t there. I had never seen a man die like that before. I shot my Middle Eastern foe, but he died a slow, agonizing death.

I am starting to have a feeling of regret creep in for firing my weapon. I do not know where the old, blood-thirsty Sam is. I was looking forward to killing a man, but it is way different 79

than I expected. War and killing all of a sudden became a lot more serious today. I am starting to rethink my decision of enlisting. This has been a rough day. Maybe I just need time to get over it. I am not sure what to do with myself right now.

I am sure it will get better though. Don’t worry I will overcome this and make my country proud.

Love, Sam April 16, 2002 Dear Grandpa, It has been over a month since my lone kill. I have been too afraid to pull the trigger since. My life has changed in the past few weeks. My patriotic fervor for revenge is gone, and one little boy has changed my views on war. I met a twelve year old Afghani named Jamal a week ago. Daily, he brings balloons to young children whose parents were killed in the crossfire. Jamal’s parents were killed after passing through a riot. No one was there for him, so he wants to be there for other lonely, heartbroken children. I want to be more like Jamal. I want to give up my killing. I want to bring happiness and peace. After days of prayer, I have decided to begin the process to become a conscientious objector. I have realized through this inspirational young boy that war has no place in this world. I want to begin a new life and to spread the message of peace. I am sorry if I bring dishonor to our family name, but I know this is the right decision for me. I know it will be a long road to receive conscientious objector status, but this is the only battle that I am willing to fight.

Peace Be With You, Sam

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Art “The purpose of art is

washing the dust of daily life off our souls.”

-Pablo Picasso

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