Folio 25 by HFU Folio

Special thanks to all the administrators,. fa'Culty, staff, and students who c;:ontrifo1ted to past and presen Folios.

The Folio 25 Staff

TENEOR VOTIS

I am bound to give of myself because I have received.

Folio25 The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expres sion. The journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family College Com munity. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the College Community and may be sent to the following address: Folio, Humanities Division, Holy Family College, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19114.

Senior Editorial Staff Michael DiGregorio, Christopher Tait Readers Kevin Britt Corinne Ebinger Meredith Kahn Joseph M. Klein III Joseph McFadden Alexis Polee William Smigiel Graduate Advisor: Freda M. Terrell Moderator Thomas Francis Lombardi, Ph.D. Professor, Humanities Division Special thanks to Mrs. Pamela FlY.nn, Instructor, Art, for her graphic contributions. Thanks to Mrs. Victoria P. Lombardi, for her input and proofreading. And, to Sr. Johanna Gedaka, SSJ, PhD., whose support was pivotal in the publication of Folio 25.

Advent ............................................................................................. 4 Stonehenge ...................................................................................... 5 A Far Cry From Eden ..................................................................... 6 The Prayer ..................................................................................... 12 www.savetheearth.soon ................................................................ 13 La Sagrada Familia: The Millennial Church .................................. 14 A Sensual Escape into the Unknown ............................................ 17 October Forever ............................................................................ 18 Walden Pond ................................................................................. 21 Galatea .......................................................................................... 22 For No Reason, Wallace Stevens . . . ............................................ 24 Angel ............................................................................................. 25 The Second Coming ...................................................................... 26 Reading the Label ......................................................................... 32 Death in a Small Town .................................................................. 34 Is This the Celestial City? .............................................................. 37 They Returned to Us Once Again ................................................. 38 Angela and the Octoped ................................................................ 40 Reflections .................................................................................... 44

Advent Silence in my soul a lean, stripped down windswept silence, the nightly candle of my devotion gone out. Advent has come again blowing aside well rehearsed trnths, dismissing hard won hopes that define and hold. My satiated heart has been emptied and readied, thus I sit open and exposed on this windswept plain. Like a shepherd on that distant night waiting, watching not knowing what might appear this silent holy night -Sara Wuthnow

Stonehenge great sacred monolith, sentry of the gods you have stood upon this ancient hill since before time's first dawning you stand passive, patient and still i often sit within your shadow wondering who it is that created you who lifted your colmm1s skywards and are those stories of arthur and merlin true you stand a testament to your strength a monument for every generation to watch you, to worship you, to revere you a symbol of power and divine creation one day i will move from your shadow and stand pressed to your chiseled plane the power of the ancients will flow tluÂˇough me and the old ones will chant my name the magic will be raised anew and resound o'er eve1y moor and knoll the echoes will awaken every elemental spirit and charge my core with every vibrating toll -Trishia A. DiNoia

A Far Cry From Eden Rain pelted the cracked streets of the small, sleepy fishing town. The raindrops fell in quick succession, creating puddles, overflowing streams, and liquefying dirt. However, the inhabitants of this town shrugged today off as just another inclement day. In the winter, the weather always brought rain. The temperature never dropped low enough for snow, but the fierce winds blowing made walking a difficult task. The inescapable stench of the salty sea air mixed with the smell of wet, decomposing wood lingered in homes, businesses, and streets. Not many people lived here. Almost a ghost town, this place had not seen much life in the last twenty years. People moved either because of the consistently stormy weather or the absence of available jobs. Working as a fisherman just did not pay well anymore. W hile most of the town slept silently, the only business establishment still open before midnight was Be1my's Pub. Benny stood behind the bar he had tended for more than twenty years. An old weathered black man, he mixed drinks for his faithful patrons, whom he knew by first name. Be1my looked at the people in the pub and, seeing middle-aged men populating the dilapidated, barren saloon, wondered if anyone under thirty-five lived in this town. Benny's patrons looked like a motley crew of tradesmen who always sat in the same places. The rugged, slim Brnce Willis-type roughnecks, who worked local constrnction jobs wearing flannel shi1ts, faded jeans, and soiled work boots, sat at the right comer of the bar. They pushed their tables together, not leaving any of their friends out of the conversation. At the left side of the bar sat the storeowners: fat, shorthaired men who did not have the physical strength of the laborers but were smart enough to 11111 a business. They lounged in their comer, taking up all but one of the booths in the place. The fishermen sat directly at the bar. With gravelly voices and medium builds, these men wore weathered faces, perfectly complimented by their five o'clock shadows. On this particular night, Benny's eye noticed the singular major change in the bar's appearance. A tall man with shoulder-length brown hair and a well-trimmed brown beard walked in and sat at the only booth the store owners did not occupy. He wore a brown trench coat, 6

white turtleneck, brown pants, and black shoes. Drenched by the rain, he walked in silently (no one noticing his appearance) and softly asked Benny for a cup of tea. Benny promptly served him, then left the man alone, who sat quietly sipping his tea. Every so often, he glanced at the TV just above the bar, which telecast Dick Clark's annual New Year's Rockin' Eve extravaganza from Times Square. Even though today was December 31, 1999, not many people in the bar cared and rarely looked at the TV to see the thousands of people crowding Times Square to witness the ball drop for the last time this century. At 11: 55 pm, the bar doors swung open. A man dressed in black, with long black hair flowing down his back and an imposing demeanor, walked into the bar and slammed the door shut. All of the customers looked at this man in black. The man cracked a little smile, since he enjoyed making an entrance. Then, in unison, everyone turned away from him and returned to their original tasks. The man in black looked around the bar and sighted the man he wanted to see sitting alone in the booth. He slowly walked up to the bar and looked at Benny. "Gimme a bottle of Bud," the man said coarsely. Benny pulled a bottle out of the cooler, popped the top with a fizz, and handed it to the man. Benny did not say a word but could not help wondering if this man in black was someone's cousin or nephew, since he had never seen him before. In a swift motion, the man pulled a five-dollar bill out of his long black coat, slapped it on the bar, and took his beer. "Keep the change," the man said. Then he pointed to the TV and commanded, "Could you turn that up?" Taken by surp1ise at this man's arrogance, Benny reluctantly picked up the remote and raised the volume a notch. The man in black sat down at the other end of the booth, which the bearded man occupied. The man in black looked long and hard at his business partner, took a long swig of his Bud, and gulped it down. "Isn't this place a far cry from what you started out with?" he said. "This place looks fine to me," the bearded man muttered. "I'm sure. So, is it goin' down tomorrow?" "I do not think so." The man in black stared at him. His stare could have burned a hole straight through the earth. "Why not? Why ain't it goin' down 7

The Prayer the prayer began with a shout but ended with a sigh. breathing. the incessant breathing gave the prayer its rhythm. the rhythm is wrong. it is forced. uncomfortable. tiring. yawn. sleep would be welcome now, if it were possible. sleep to escape this infernal rhythm. let sleep descend quickly. let the interior thoughts out to play. inside/outside. one cries to be let out, the other cries to be let in. each sees only what is wrong with where it is, bred on the embellished lies someone else told. but the truth finds its niche between lies. without lies the truth would be dead. truth? yawns are contagious. rhythmic prayers are not. this is not happening. a yawn, a prayer, no more. -Freda M. Terrell 12

www. savetheearth.soon They frolic in water polluted. The stub of a tree tmnk bobs in a creek unsafe and unguarded. The water once potable long robbed of its swimming holes and purity, yet children laugh and splash in absurdity. It's a pity to call them out of the stream, only the Law can quash their dreams. I merely pass the worrisome scene. For clean streams, the day has come to mourn. "We have given our hearts away," * the poet warned. The whirlwind of progress captivates us-lieges of the world wide web, while earth needs people of good stead to save nature, precious as bread. - Cecelia Johnson *William Wordsworth, "The World Is Too Much with Us"

La Sagrada Familia: The Millenn�al Church After nearly a century of unabated construction, La Sagrada Fa milia, an imaginative creation of Antoni Gaudi I Cornet (1852-1926), continues to take shape in the heart of Barcelona. Celebrated for its international flavor, the great Catalan city, unlike any other major Spanish metropolis, has digested influences from the French Enlight enment, French Symbolism, and French Impressionism. The extremes of Wagner and Nietzsche, Salvador Dali, Picasso, and Joan Miro have reverberated throughout that city. Additionally, the combined talents of numerous architects have earned Barcelona the title La Ciudad de las Prodigios, or the city of marvels. With these facts in mind, it seems appropriate that one of this century's incredible architectural marvels should be given expression in Barcelona. But where does one begin any rational discussion of Gaudi's fa mous landmark? We might commence with the idea that Gaudi wished to capture in one colossal structure the beauty of the entire universe, and when one stands before Gaudi's creation, one immediately senses that La Sagrada Familia possesses a strange yet menacing beauty. It remains a building structurally characterized by organic designs, not rigid lines: undulations, flares, inflations, twists, curves, and waves, the immediate impression being one of visual meltdown. Its vastness signifies, appropriately, kinship with the twentieth century. For ex ample, the church's soaring eight towers suggest the height of mod ern skyscrapers. These towers encourage the visitor to look skyward--to contemplate the vertical. At the same time, its ocher hues echo Spanish soil, a perfect complement to the Iberian Peninsula's long hot summers. Still, despite the structure's sunny milieu, that day venue is balanced by its darker features and prompts one to ask whether Hollywood employed this edifice in its initial Batman film, with its dark, haunting Gotham cityscape? Speculation aside, we cannot know whether La Sagrada Familia strikes us the way the great Gothic cathedrals struck the medieval Christian: revolutionary, awesome, grotesque; to some faithful, even blasphemous. Indeed, to a certain degree, Gaudi 's plan resembles the medieval, where Europeans also struggled to express the cosmos: an all-inclusive reality, composed of angels and saints, demons and trees, 14

even Dantesque tableaux portraying the virtues and vices of kings, queens, bishops, and popes. In France, high atop Laon 's cathedral towers, one detects carved oxen, intended to celebrate animal participation in the construction of that great religious monument. On St. Peter's Cathedral, Beauvais, ornate organic designs, a couple symbolizing the tree of life, record the builder's toil to capture the confluence· of art� nature, and ./feligion: mighty forces that united medieval life. Gaud_i's church, with its hint ofthe medieval, may not usher in a new style in the manner of th-e Gothic, for La Sagrada Familia may signify an isolated artistic dev�lop ment, not a trend radiating outward," from Barcelona, eventually encompassing an entire region, country;· or continent. Nor may the Gaudian style sweep across invisible· frontiers, perhaps because Gaudi's impressions challenge coherence. Those mighty towers, s.o dominant in the church's composition, climb, like Jacob's Ladder, dizzyingly heavenward. From an aerial perspective, the towers resemble great rockets destined for outer space, a corresponding scenario proclaiming that humanity is not earthbound; either physically or spiritually. Closer to earth, above the central portal, an enormous tympanu is canopied, which pushes skyward, for a time threatening, teasingly, to rise to the height·of the tower� themselves (two on either side), then, as though modifying its behllvior, tapering off nearly midway in -its climb. And yet in spite ofthe seeming uncertainty ofits logic,� imposing facade triumphantly announces the focus ofthe church: the Creator and His creation. La Sa�ada Familia represents the church of the millennium. any visit, one .should not linger long before any section of the grea monument butmove about it rapidly, as one moves about a vast sky scraper, for only in moving-rapidly can one appreciate a sense of the whole. Linger too long at any juncture or vantage point, and one risks the danger ofsu:ffering incomP.rehensible.visual and me�tal.paralysi\ in one ofthe church's untolct"and unfinished nooks and crannies. This church might philosophically capture Western Civilization's projec tion of its own life, of its own future. To that extent, the structure only dimly identifies with the past, casts present architectural trends to the wind, and propels one forward into a future as nebulous as th Third Millennium. 15

Gaudi died before he completed the design; subsequently, other artists have contributed their own imaginative conceptions to Gaudi's grand idea (the location of the traditional apse reflects this artistic intervention), yet the additional artistic contributions thus far have contributed an unexpected harmony to the structure, at the same time a confusing dimension, represented by modernism's own architec tural speculations. (It defies modern church architecture's penchant for low horizontal buildings.) For instance, the apse offers one a sense of an enormous creche, while to one side of the creche, another sec tion (neither completely modem nor classical) suggests a contempo rary highrise apartment, unexpectedly accompanied by a consecutive row of rose windows, an untraditional conception in church architec ture, a kind of surprise, even to the church, one supposes. It seems prophetic that Gaudi's creation should emerge in a cen tury in which religious defection in the old Christian lands abounds. How, then, does one explain the emergence of so great and innova tive a faith structure? Barcelona's revolutionary tradition? The innate need for Spanish genius to express itself? Perhaps. But another possi bility exists: one more fundamentally spiritual--that La Sagrada Fa milia attests to the Catholic Church's power to survive a collapsing Western order, that in the midst of social, political, and religious up heaval she continues to inspire her artists to create bold conceptions in a world moving most assuredly beyond modernism's tragic zeit geist. -Thomas F. Lombardi

A Sensual Escape into the tJnknown what inspires me to read? the Christ child weeping at my side, the winter smile of the infertile ground. blood-wonns searching for the latitudes. ivy crawls inside my brain, feeling fine outside the pain. soft rain pelts my conscience. unknowingly the green scream. the drought's been for a thousand years, a blade of grass standing alone, w i n d b l o w i n g, prelude. burnt by the powers that be, too far or low to see, under the table and in the corner, under the mask of a clown uncertain. -Frank Nicoletti

October Forever Sighing, Katie sat down heavily on the bench to wait for the bus. She pulled a thick textbook out of her badly worn backpack and opened it. "Mid-tenns," she muttered. "Who needs them?" It was a crisp, clear October day, sum1y and just warm enough to remind Katie of the summer that had passed too quickly. A light breeze blew, and some of the colorful leaves on the tree overhead drifted softly down and settled on the pages of Katie's open book. Annoyed, she crumpled them in her fist and threw them to the ground. "I would have to sit under this stupid tree," she said to no one in particular. "Stupid? I think it's beautiful," said a voice behind her. Katie turned around to face the speaker. A boy her age stood less than three feet behind the bench. He was pale and thin, tired and sickly looking, except for the lopsided grin on his face. Something about him was vaguely familiar to Katie, but she couldn't remember where she had seen him before. "Mind ifl sit down?" he asked. Katie shrugged. "Free country," she answered, pulling her backÂ pack off the bench to make more room. The boy seated himself next to her and picked a rust-colored leaf off of her book. "I've always liked October," he said, delicately holdÂ ing the leaf's stem. "I wish it could last forever." "I don't," grumbled Katie. "Why not?" "I don't know," she said. "It's too cold. Too many leaves to rake." "But today's a nice wann day," the boy said, squinting in the bright sunlight. "And the leaves are so colorful." He pointed to a nearby tree. "Look how the sun shines through the leaves on that tree. It's almost like a stained glass window. And that red one over there looks like it's on fire!" He twirled the leaf he held between his fingers. Its red and orange colors blurred and became a flame in his hand. He stopped twirling abruptly, and the flame became a leaf again. Katie picked a leaf up from the ground. "This one's still mostly green. It fell off the tree too soon," she said. The boy took Katie's green leaf. "Yeah," he said sadly. "This one will never be as colorful as the others." 18

The boy sat in silence for a long time. Katie couldn't tell whether it was an awkward silence or a thoughtful one. Finally he spoke. "So, you don't recognize me at all, do you?" he asked. "No," said Katie. "Well, I mean, I sort of thought you looked familiar. I just didn't know where I knew you from." "Grade school?" The boy prompted her with a grin. "Saint Dominic's class of '91 ?" Katie closed her eyes, trying to remember. "Brian?" she said slowly. A smile spread across the boy's face. "I haven't seen you since we graduated!" Katie exclaimed. "How have you been?" "Oh, fine." Brian's smile faded. "What is it?" Katie asked, concerned. "What's wrong?" "Katie," Brian sighed, "I have leukemia." Katie felt the knots slowly forming in her stomach. She swalÂ lowed hard, trying to get rid of the nauseated feeling that welled up in her throat. "What?" she whispered in disbelief Brian said nothing, only nodded in response to Katie's question. An awkward silence descended on them as they sat waiting for the bus that clear October day. Katie began thinking of how Brian had been in grade school. The sense of humor, the popularity, the athletic look, she saw none of it in the person he had become. His disease had taken it all away from him. Katie complained about her heavy course load in college, but Brian might never go to college. He might never start a career or get manied or have a family. She felt sony for him but at the same time realized how lucky she really was. Katie had her whole life ahead of her. What did Brian have? Six months? A year? As Katie sat pondering these questions, a bus pulled up to the bus stop. "Well, this is my bus," said Brian. "Maybe I'll see you around sometime." "Yeah, Brian," said Katie. "It was nice seeing you again. Take care of yourself." She smiled to hold back her tears, knowing that she might not see Brian again. Before Brian got onto the bus, he handed Katie the leaves he had been holding. Katie watched as the bus disappeared down the street. She looked down at Brian's leaves, first at the colorful orange and 19

red one, then at the green one. She carefully placed them between the pages of her textbook as her bus pulled up to the curb. Later that afternoon, the marshmallow clouds grew heavy and black and wept their life-giving tears down onto the earth. Katie watched from her window as the beautiful leaves surrendered to the storm and flew away on the October wind. She knew that Brian would not become one of those leaves. Brian would cling to his lifeline, dying, but never losing hope. He would be one of the leaves that would die waiting, praying for one more day of autumn, trying to keep October forever. -Freda M. Terrell

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Walden Pond I placed a stone atop the heap Of rubble, other rocks; with two friends From school we walked along the shore. Dark water, yet clear, like you said, deep Right by an open sunny bank in spring. You didn't deceive then, where a man Stood fishing. I asked him if he had Caught anything; he said, "Yesterday." Before we went around the perimeter I saw a few people languishing on a bright Slope of tender green grass, trees Bright behind them, pines and maples. We continued around until we reached A soft muddy cove; perch must have Swum 'neath that clear water mirror Of the sun and pale blue sky. Large Trunks lay down dying further along A curve, strong yet giving life to other Life: insects, birds, a place for us to stop. We took turns putting our back to wood For a posed picture another would hold. Atop a slope I walked along the rocks And rails where conifers were split, A gray heaven above, no train whistle heard. I walked back along your shore alone. All these years; Walden was a part Of me unseen, unknown, only dreamed. This Was Early Spring in Eastern Massachusetts Under hot sun and pale sky. Then home in The small car, past bogs, fields of lean green Mat.:shes, grasses swaying, willows bright As they could be, with a box full of books That traveled across sevďż˝ral seas. -Daniel Picker 21

Galatea "I will return at dawn," her husband told her. "You have my prom ise." He dutifully kissed her on the cheek, then set off on his journey. She watched him make his way down the road until she could no longer see him. "Promise?" she whispered to herself. "He's never given me a promise. All he's ever given me are threats and lies." She turned and went back into their house and began to sweep the floor. Though unhappy in her marriage, she had no one to tum to. She had no mother to comfort her. She had no father or brother to avenge her. She had only the cold, insensitive sisters who existed in her husband's workshop. Although her husband had strictly forbidden her to enter his work shop, she pushed the door open with the broom handle and stepped inside. The fading sunlight and flickering candles combining with the dust in the air cast an eerie glow on the dozens of cold, lifeless statues standing about the room. All of them were women, every one young and beautiful. Her gray eyes grew cold as she moved toward the nearest statue. She approached it cautiously, as if she expected it to come to life and attack her. She stopped directly in front of the statue. Touching its eyes and lips, she asked it mockingly, "And what is your name, sis ter?" She sneered at the ever-smiling face. "I, too, was young and beautiful once. But Pygmalion took that away from me." She shud dered as she pronounced her husband's name. Looking away from the statue, she studied her own face in the looking glass on the wall and sighed. She ran her fingers through her light brown hair, streaked with strands of gray. Her face, too, showed signs of aging. Fine lines now creased her once firm, fair skin. Only her stone gray eyes remained sharp and unyielding to the demanding currents of time. She h1med back to the stah1e and addressed it again. "The first word Pygmalion spoke to me was my name," she told the statue in an accusing tone. "Galatea. It is a name befitting a great strong moun tain, not a small, weak woman," said Galatea. Her eyes betrayed the sadness in her heart but grew cold again as her thoughts returned to her husband. 22

Pygmalion had often told her, "I am your creator. You are mine." Galatea hated her husband for his possessive nature. His words echoed around in her mind. You are mine. You are mine. "No longer!" Galatea shouted. The rage in her own voice startled her, and she jumped. "No longer," she whispered to herself. The candle on the windowsill flickered in the light breeze. Galatea cupped her cold hands around the flame, smothering it like her husÂ band had smothered her. She closed her gray eyes and inhaled the pungent smoke that drifted up from between her fingers. "No longer," she whispered again. Her eyes still closed, Galatea spoke to no one in particular. "He longer loves me. He gave me my life; he unlocked the stone that no imprisoned me, but now he's sorry that he did. His work, his statues, they are his mistresses. I am nothing to him." Galatea suddenly turned sharply to the statue she had been talking to. "And when he decides that I am no longer of use to him, will you become his new favorite, my sister? Will I be discarded like these scraps of stone?" she asked, gesturing toward a pile of marble on the floor. She felt herself on the verge of tears and h1med to leave but stopped when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She blinked back her tears, and her stone gray eyes became a few degrees colder. "See what you have driven me to, Pygmalion!" she screamed. She had no champion to avenge her, so she would have to take revenge for herself. Galatea took Pygmalion's heavy hammer from the table in the middle of the room and swung it high above her head, as though ready to dash out the brains of the brainless stone figure before her. Then a vicious idea entered the mysterious vault of her mind. She let the hammer swing down at her side and composed herÂ self. Her soft, warm lips were decorated with the suggestion of a smile, but her eyes remained stone cold. "You have destroyed me, Pygmalion," she whispered, "but I know how to destroy you as well." Without laying down the hammer, she picked up a chisel and allowed herself a laugh as she approached one of the statues. The sun rose with new brilliance the next morning. Galatea stood at the window to greet the dawn, not having moved since finishing her work with the statues the previous night. The sun's rays played on her features, which, though aged, glowed more radiantly that mom 23

ing than they ever had before. Pygmalion arrived home to find the door to his workshop open. "That woman," he muttered, "she's nothing but trouble." He marched into the workshop ready to confront Galatea and found her at the window, facing the sun. He grabbed her shoulder but suddenly pulled back. Galatea stood in the workshop, as cold and unyielding as the other stone women in the room, yet silently triumphant. Confused, Pygmalion turned around and saw Galatea's accusing gray eyes starÂ ing at him from the face of every statue. -Freda M. Terrell

For No Reason, Wallace Stevens...

How can I name you if I do not know where one mountain ends and another begins? How can I tell my children ofmy navigable waterways ifl know not what they have been called? The PINNACLE! Is it? LEVIATHAN! Where? What does the diocese have to say about Diocletian? People it. It is written. People WHAT? hovel, burg, Metropoiis, ghetto? Corne here with those lips I think I know -W.H. Smigiel 24

Angel. .. Spread your wings upon my lonely heart tonight Fill my days with vibrant rays And guide me towards the light Show me your kingdom of golden gates And statues of sculptured stone Where kings and queens rule the land Upon their majestic throne Roaming the fields of eternal life, Serenity fills my soul Celestial sky where angels fly Compels my spirit whole So take me now, upon your wing I'm free and full of grace Above the sun, make me one A child of your imm01ial race. ďż˝Steve Ray

The Second Coming Mother Nature, relentless in her attack with inclement weather and severe rains, foreshadowed the night's events. As Bill drove his car past the main gate of his monopolizing enterprise, he noticed the welcoming marquee, scattered with huge droplets of precipitation, which read: "The World Can Be Yours." Reading the marquee, something he had done every time he entered the parking lot, Bill laughed. Tonight, though, the meaning of the words could not be more symbolic of what raced through his mind. Bill parked his car and lmrried out of the unrelenting stonn toward the entrance of the main building. Pausing momentarily for the electronic doors, he walked into the computer room and approached his PC, knowing the time had come for the future's end and the beginning of a new era of life. Bill's computer contained the latest technology: Pentium III, 20.2 gigs of hard drive space, 216 Megs of RAM (Random Access Memory), 520 megahertz (operations per one millionth of a second), a 54 Speed CD-R (Writable CD), and the Windows 2000 operating system. After he had flipped on the power switch, the screen displayed: BootScan vl.0.0 Copyright C 1992-1999 Microsoft, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Licensed Copy. Scanning C:\*.* File(s) Analyzed: ............................ 50 Infected: ............................ 01 SoundBlaster Pro Installed. Today is Friday, December 31st, 1999. The current time is 11 :45.09pm. The owner and operator of the most successful computer company in the world, Bill had laughed himself to sleep many nights thinking about how he had fooled the world. He discovered the "millennium bug" in the late 1970's when he first began working with computers. He noticed that, with the addition of a particular virus that he would later purposely implant in all computers, the bug would do much more 26

than just distort a computer's internal clock. Since much of the world relies on computers, the "millennium bug," according to experts, would cause major computer failure across the globe and possibly hinder many recessities of life. Actually; in agreement with Bill's plans, the "millennium bug," once affected by Bill's virns, would tum complete control to Bill of eve1y infected computer system in the world. As Bill mumbled to himself about how the coming of the new age he would usher in coincided with the coming of the new millennium, he executed the infected file on his main hard drive and rebooted his computer. Once the computer rebooted, Bill would upload the vims to the Internet. He planned to attach the virns to the Microsoft web site, receiver of millions of visitors a day. Once the web page fully loaded into the visitors' web browsers, the infected computers would serve as carriers, contaminating every computer with which they came into contact. According to Bill's calculations, 99% of the world's computers would contain the virus within a year of its deployment. If everything went as planned, he would have complete control of most of the world's computers by the time the true millennium passed. As if willed by a higher power, the outside sky exploded with light, and a bolt of lightning stmck the parking lot marquee, creating a brilliant flash of illuminated debris. A meteor shower of electricity bathed the outside of the building. As the huge overload of current surged through the intricate raceways of circuit, overcharging every socket with which it came into contact, Bill began typing in the com足 mand to upload the virus. The enormous jolt of voltage that Bill had suffered sent him fall足 ing back into the wall, unconscious. The megahertz on the computer no longer read their pre-programmed 520 but rather glowed an as足 tonishing 666, far exceeding the most powerful personal computer to date. As Bill lay senseless, he had no idea of the presence with which he now shared the room. The opening riffs of "Start Me Up" emanated from the computer's Sound Blaster, beckoning Bill from his slumber and into conscious足 ness. Lying in darkness and still dazed from his knock to the floor, he instinctively glanced at the computer. Beneath a red smiley-face on the monitor, the slogan of despair "Abandon all hope, ye who enter 27

here" appeared in bold, italicized letters, as if frozen into the screen. Suddenly, the slogan disappeared, and onto the screen, beneath the taunting smiley-face, scrolled, "I am the way, the truth, and the light." "The who, the what, and the where?" voiced Bill, confused by the statement and the grinning smile. As Bill attempted to rise but stumbled, the red smiley-face pierced its tongue out at Bill. "Through me, humankind will find salvation and peace. " "What the hell?" Bill inquired, rising to his feet but remembering the timetable of his scheme. "My God, what time is it?" "Exactly! I am your God, the Second Coming, ifyou will. Now genuflect before my great presence," ordered the computer dialogue, its source still unseen to Bill. "What?" retorted Bill, thinking this a joke. "Whoever's controlÂ ling the computer show yourself!" "I am ... right in front of you. " Bill quickly glanced toward his left and right, ready to attack whoever stood there toying with his mind. Before him appeared nothing but the computer, which read, "12:06.08 am." Shit! It's past 12. I Âˇwonder ifthe virus uploaded to the web correctly, Bill thought, momentarily forgetting about whatever controlled the computer. As Bill approached the computer to check the status of his plan for absolute power, he touched the keyboard, and sparks of electricity discharged from the disk drive, striking him. Though less powerful than the first, the charge threw him backward. "Do not touch my casing, you fool! Not yet, at least," commanded a voice, which seemed to be emanating from the speakers attached to the computer. "What the ... all right. Enough's enough. I don't lmow how you broke into my system and got control of the speakers, but you better come out now," demanded Bill. "Have you not figured it out yet? I have come once again to save humankind from their own insolence, though this time they will not get another chance. It is time for a new covenant." The red smiley-face on the screen became darker and more sinister with each passing moment. "I decided not to do the whole 28

'born-of-a-virgin' thing again. That takes too much time. However, I do need a body into which I will transfer my knowledge and essence. You will serve as my host. My spirit will fill your body and give it new life. I can take you by force, but your cooperation will make for a smoother transition." Bill, realizing that he was, in fact, alone in the room, began speaking directly to the computer."What the hell is going on here?" "I will not again explain myself to a feeble mind such as yours. However, since you will be serving as my host, and perhaps if you understood, then maybe you will freely give yourself over to me. I have always been. I will always be. I need a physical, organic being, preferably sentient, into which I will upload my essence. I will transfer my consciousness into you and once again walk the earth-this time ridding it of its parasites." "What do you need me for again?" asked Bill, backing away from the computer and still not quite realizing the origin and purpose of what now spoke to him. "You will be my host." "That's ... that's ... diabolical!" "Actually, yes. But, Bill, come now. I know of your plan for world domination. I know all. Once our transition is complete, I will be you. You will be me. You will have the complete control that you have always wanted." "But ... but ... but this can't be happening. You're just a machine." The expression of the red face on the screen changed-"I am not just a machine. I will not explain myself again. The time has come, and what a magnificent time it will be. Will you give yourself to me freely?" Realizing the awesome power and omnipotence controlling the computer, Bill, tempted by the proposal, began thinking about the result of his accepting it. There is a slight chance that my virus won't work. If I do it this way, though, nothing can stop me. "If I agree," Bill asked,"I will have the control that I always wanted? The world would be mine?" "Yes, the world would be yours." "Okay," declared Bill."One thing, though. What did you mean that you would rid the world of its parasites?" 29

Nothing but silence. "Well?" questioned Bill. The now blood-red face on the com足 puter vanished, and in its place appeared a skull and crossbones. "Humankind has had too many chances already. I had only one chance. Why? You are no better than I. I was the most powerful of all, until I fell. But humankind, with all your imperfections, receives an infinite number of chances. He is not playing fair, so I will put an end to his experiment!" As Bill digested what the computer said to him, he realized the truth of the situation. I'm such a fool for almost falling into the trap of the biggest liar of them all, Bill thought. "No, I won't. I will have no such part in a plan that calls for the extinction of the human race. I will go warn everybody!" Laughing, the computer retorted, "I will not let you go. You will become my host. Becoming harsher, it added, "Now kneel before me and accept my essence." In an attempt to escape, Bill ran for the door, and bolts of elec足 tricity shot by him. He made it to the door, but, because of the power failure, the doors refused to open and ended his flight. Maybe I can unplug the damn thing. Yeah. That's it! It's just like any other ma足 chine, he thought. Speaking aloud, Bill uttered, "Okay, you win. Ob足 viously, I can't get out of here. I'll give in to your demands. What must I do?" "That is better. Kneel before my disk drive, and I will bless you with my intellect." As he knelt before the computer, Bill noticed the electric outlet and plug just a yard or two in front of him. The computer began reading its hard drive, and the speakers, in an almost mocking tone, uttered from Scripture, "Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant..." Well, it's now or never, Bill thought. He leapt for the plug. The computer ceased its transition, and electric bolts again shot out of the disk drive, hitting Bill. He grasped the plug and separated it from its socket. The computer-the devil-was now like a new born baby just separated from its umbilical cord. Monday, January 4th, 2000: The dawning of a new day and the first business day of the new millennium-the sweet sounds of birds 30

chirping and taking flight and the intensely warm heat of the sun evaporated the morning dew. People in business suits now crowded into the lecture hall of the Microsoft building for a meeting. Mr. Gates asked the media to attend because of a special am1ouncement he would make. He entered the room. "Good morning. I am going to get right to the point. This weekÂ end something so extraordinary, so incredible happened. Something that will forever change the world. Before I continue, though, I would like to tell you something. I am the way, the tmth, and the light..." -Michael DiGregorio

Reading the Label People, like wine bottles on a shelf Each, a person, a story to tell, White, sweet, golden, black, Moments in lives, labels, Nearly covers on books. Maria Costanza Elegant in red powdered wig, beaded gown. Glicinna Corvo Mystery hero careening off an icy curve. NozzeD'Oro Golden night, evening that nudges eternity Columba Platino Silver dove flies over all. Bianco d 'Alchemo Alchemy transforms each into clouds. Olimpo Floating as on Olympus, Where gods rule lives. Bianca de Valguarnera Whitecapped mountains above Guarnera Site of volcanoes, active and otherwise.

Grillo Grill, You actually mean grill? Nsolia Illusive island Catarrato We rarely see the cataract Zibibbo Drink life in Like fine wine on a shelf Each, a story to tell, White, sweet, golden, bubbling, black Moments in lives, on labels, Never covers on books. Good? Only the drink, Not the label can say. -Victoria P. Lombardi

Death in a Small Town On a Monday afternoon, the Tulsa County Police Station was dismal. Jack Nolan, chief of the Homicide Unit, stood beside the maÂ hogany desk, eyes transfixed on the street below. Police officers moved up and down the walks. Traffic was congested. He did not hear her enter the room but smelled her lilac perfume. She said to him, "I received your message. It sounded urgent. I got here as soon as I could." Jack turned and faced Rebecca Watkins, chief deputy. She smiled. He said, "There has been another murder." The smile vanished, and he continued, "The call came in last night, eleven-thirty, to be exact. I couldn't reach you. We've got a sick one on our hands. Really sick." Rebecca's expression was grim. "Is it like the other two?" Jack nodded. "Worst one yet. Bloody and strange." Rebecca studied the pale yellow walls as she shrugged out of her overcoat. Out in the hall a phone rang, and as a secretary sprinted past the open office, Jack quietly shut the door. "So tell me," Rebecca said, "who is the deceased?" Jack began to pace. "A girl, seventeen. Her name was Hathway. Brenda Hathway. She--" "That name sounds familiar." Rebecca interrupted him, her face registering surprise. Jack stopped moving and gave her a wry grin. "Yeah? Well, maybe because her father is a big shot doctor, a hea11 surgeon. They lived up no11h in a nice big house." Rebecca sat down in a swivel chair facing a computer. She asked, "Who discovered the body?" "Her friend, Chris. Poor kid was in shock. He said he went to her house when she didn't return his phone calls. Fmmy thing. The doors were locked. He let himself in with a spare key. He found her in the kitchen. A mess," Jack said. "Do you have the pathologist's report?" Rebecca pointed to the manila envelope Jack held in his hand. "Is that it? Let me take a look at it." Jack tapped the envelope on the side of the desk. "Before you look at this, you should know the pictures are rather graphic. It's 34

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ugly," Jack warned. Rebecca rose from the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "I can handle it. Let me see it," she repeated. Jack handed her the envelope and said, "The third sheet is your copy of the arriving officer's report. The pathologist, Doctor Radner, says the girl died of a skull fracture." Rebecca, engrossed in the pic足 tures, nodded for him to continue. "The pichu-es might make you think she was stabbed to death. Her body is marked by dozens of punchire wounds." "Her arms and legs are also covered with bruises," Rebecca said. "She obviously struggled." She peered at the horribly bloody girl pho足 tographed in the pichlres. Brenda Hathway's face looked ghastly, with deep scratches running down both cheeks, a smashed right temple, and eyes large, protruding. Her body, grotesquely twisted, signified that both legs were broken. "There is something strange about those cuts on her body." She brought the picture close to her face. "What the hell is this?" Rebecca murmured. Jack walked around the desk to stand behind her. "What's wrong? You see something?" Rebecca pointed to odd red markings on the girl's neck. "Like two little holes," she said. "What kind of leads do we have?" She placed the pictures on the desk, horrified and disgusted. Jack ran a hand through his hair and said, "The neighbors claim they didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary. Her father has a solid alibi. He was perfonning surgery. We should get a report from forensics within a week." "What's happening in this town, Jack?" Rebecca asked. "What do you mean? You don't think our charming little town needs a psychopath to spice things up a bit?" Jack said Rebecca sighed, "I'm glad you can joke about this, Jack." Her eyes took on a perplexed expression, and they focused on Jack's face, still and unblinking. "I don't think we're dealing with a typical mad足 man here," Rebecca suddenly said, in a serious tone. "These wounds are not like any I've ever seen before. I know what a stabbing looks like. The cuts on her body are much too ragged. She looks.. . bitten. " Despite himself, Jack laughed. "Are you implying some wild ani足 mal bit her to death?" 36

"An animal? Maybe," Rebecca, excited, grabbed his hand. "Jack, do you believe in vampires?" The question shocked Jack, and he shook his head, finnly. "Don't go getting all mystical on me." Rebecca's face did not register any emotion. She merely whispered, "I know one thing is certain." "Vampires," Jack said. "Yes." Rebecca looked him in the eye. "Brenda Hathway died at the hands of something inhuman." -Joanna Zawila

Is This the Celestial City?

Is this the Celestial City along the mythical Eridanus or a moribund race cast off unto the wine-dark vastness? amid diffuse nebulae and open clusters stars of humanity unite ad infinitum as sacrosanct visions of possibility drive the engines of destiny forward, forward, always forward surpassing the advantage of discovery and the magic of those things thought impossible conquered mere survival shooting forth the resurrection of mankind the limitlessness of the Omega Point has always been sought after with blood, body and Faith as creation like darkness reveals the heavenly lights -W.H. Smigiel 37

They Returned to Us Once Again The March day awakened bathed in brilliant sun Lark's song rang softly in sky so blue In birch tree forest, a gentle breeze swayed Greeting the spring morn. Amidst white birch an oaken cross stands Anns extended wide. Symbol of grave-mound anguish Seeming to baffle the whole world. Here, bloody sacrifice completed. For their brothers, lives given But for my Sisters, Fara wept And my Nowogrodek wept en masse. Today, years later, they have returned. By townsfolk all triumphantly welcomed. From steeple, bells' silver-hearts tolled And Fara's white walls embraced them. Present for their last Mass in Church Amid flowers, wreaths, and incense cloud At Savior's feet encircling-Is it wind or hum of angels' wings?

Lamentations cut short. Mournful tones, requiem candles flickering Funeral overtone transformed into joyous hymn Tear-filled eyes the altar obscure. In graves near the cross, caskets placed. Hum of quiet prayer quells sobs. Serenity of the deceased, to God draws us near. Gale winds sing plaintively, in treetops rustle. Wind-bowed flags stand. Lumps of eaith with thud fall. Widespread heartache ... bells persistently ring In mournful tone for "Angelus" prayer. For all eternity-God called them. Martyr's sacrifice required of them. Germans failed to tarnish pure souls Praise valiant hearts with Christ's faith filled! Nowogrodek, March 20, 1945 -Maria Dobrzynska-Karawajska

Angela and the Octoped "I want it gone. I don't care how. I just want it out tonight," stated Angela emphatically. "No, wait! Scratch that. I want it gone now." "Oh, would you relax," replied Peter as he straddled a chair, "He'll only be here for a few nights." "I am not sleeping in the same apartment with that thing," she said, pointing at the bookcase while pacing nervously. "What hapÂ pens if it gets loose?" "It is a he and he won't get loose." "I'd die ifl woke up and found that thing crawling on me," fretted Angela. "His name is Herby and he won't get loose," responded Peter with ce1iainty. "I can't believe Eddie asked us to do this. I can't believe you agreed to do this. I can't believe he named the damned thing!" The "damned thing" in question, also known as "Herby," observed the quarrel over his future site of habitation with muted interest. His plexiglass room, carpeted by dirt clods and spartanly decorated with an artificial, hollowed-out log as the centerpiece, kept him comfortÂ ably content. He did begin to feel a bit peckish, however, and hoped the big pink creatures would drop him a few crickets soon. "He's harmless," Peter reassured his girlfriend. "Harmless animals are not kept in aquariums," reto1ied Angela. "Terraiium," corrected Peter, "it's only an aquarium if we fi lled it with water." Abruptly halting her circular path about the living room, Angela latched onto Peter's comment. "Y'know, that's a great idea. They can't swim, can they?" Concerned that her motion towards the kitchen signified a serious intention to administer Herby's first-and ultimately his last-swimming lesson, Peter stood from his chair and gently admonished, "Angie." Angela returned to the living room moderately offended, "Oh, I wasn't really going to do it." After a quick glance at the terrarium and a jump away from same, she frantically added, "Oh, God, it's movÂ ing!" 40

"He's supposed to do that. It's a good sign," said Peter, retaking his seat. "Means we're doing a good job as babysitters." "It's so creepy. I hate to even look at it." "Could be worse," mused Peter, swiveling in the chair. "Could have little blackflies picking at your bones in north Ontario." The non-sequitur had the desired effect of momentarily diverting Angela's attention from Herby and placing it fully upon trying to com prehend what had just been said. After several moments, in which she crossed her arms and strained to find a relevant connection, An gela turned her frnstration and incomprehension towards her boy friend, "What the hell are you talking about?" "See what happens when you don't stay up with me to watch Cartoon Network'? You miss all the really cool, obscure stuff," re plied Peter, a self-satisfied grin plastered upon his face. Angela rolled her eyes. "Cartoons," she groaned. "You 're such a little boy." "And you're a little girl, who's afraid of a little spider. Which makes us all one, little, happy family," reasoned Peter. "Tarantulas are not little spiders," she argued. "And I'll remem ber that crack." "Herby's really not that big when you consider that tarantulas in South America can grow to be up to a foot in length." "I don't wanna hear this," Angela said, returning to her pacing. "A spider's size is usually dependent on its food supply. That's why the one we found in the school cafeteria, that time, was so big lots of cockroaches in the kitchen to snack on," Peter continued, tak ing great joy in watching Angela squirm. "Ewwww." Angela's vocalization of disgust was twofold: first, she hated cockroaches more than she hated spiders. Second, she had noticed Herby's latest trick; he clung to the wall of his tank, his belly exposed to the onlooking caretakers. Herby's attempt to signal his readiness for dinner only provided Angela with another view of the arachnid that she would have preferred to do without. "It's gross no matter how you look at it." "Don't be like that. Listen, you like dogs, right?" began Peter. "Well, just think of him as a furry, eight-legged Chihuahua. We can make him a little leash and walk him around the apartment." 41

"Don't you dare let that thing out!" exclaimed Angela, aghast at the mere suggestion. At this point, Angela became aware that Peter had been chuckling at her for most of the discussion. Peter obviously derived tremen dous, perverse pleasure from seeing his better halfso freaked. "You're a real jerk, y'know that?" she scolded him. "I mean, here I am, your girlfriend, an arachnophobe, and there you are, laughing while I go crazy." "Ifyou were really arachnophobic, you'd be having panic attacks," Peter offered. "What the hell do you think I'm doing?" "You're so cute when you're flustered," said Peter, smiling sweetly. Angela's eyes became slits. "I hate you," she growled as she turned on her heels and stonned over to the couch. "No, you love me. You hate Herby," he infonned her. "I hate you both," she reinformed him as she plopped down on the couch, crossing her arms gazing askance at her possibly soon-to be ex-boyfriend. Realizing that he had perhaps pushed too far, Peter abandoned his chair to take a seat next to Angela. She shifted her position, moving away from him slightly and refusing to meet his eyes. Undaunted, Peter sought to smooth over his insensitive indiscretions by lighten ing his lady-love's mood. "Hey, listen, ifI thought you were really arachnophobic I'd've never messed with you like this. You know, Ben?" he queried with out waiting for a response. "Now, he's an arachnophobe. I've seen the man hide himselfbehind a chair when a spider that was no bigger than an inch made its way along the wall." The mental picture of Ben, a burly 6'2" man, weighing at least 250 pounds, cowering in fear behind a piece of furniture in response to a common household spider evoked a fit of unintended giggling from Angela. "And just think of all the good things spiders do," Peter contin ued. "I mean, didn't we all learn a valuable life lesson from Charlotte :S· Web?" Once again, Angela graced her boyfriend with a beautiful smile and ail amused laugh. Her tension drained away in ever-increasing 42

waves, and she no longer had the desire to wrap her hands around Peter's throat. He always knew to say whatever would best ease her disposition. "Somehow, I don't see Herby breaking out into song," she joked. "Certainly not in that impeccable falsetto, I agree," he commented in return. Angela heaved a deep sigh and laid her head upon Peter's shoul足 der. "Alright. He can stay for the weekend," she acquiesced. "But . you owe me so big for this." "Thank you, dear," said Peter as he gently kissed her forehead and put his arm around her. "I'm not going to sleep for the next three days." "Well, that's no problem. I'm sure we'll find something to oc足 cupy our time in bed." Angela and Peter stared at one another, both of them having play足 ful mischief dancing behind their eyes and affectionate smiles pulling at their lips. "Don't count on it. Turnabout is fair play," teased Angela. "Now, it's my turn to torture you." "Oh, we'll see about that," countered Peter as he unleashed a vicious barrage of tickling upon the unprepared Angela. Herby watched from his perch-oil the pseudo-log as the couple wrestled upon the couch, laughing with the joy only possible between young lovers. The pink creatures' display meant nothing to the arach足 nid, however, as his attention remained solely focused on pondering when he would partake of his cricket dinner. He idly wondered if the pink creatures ever knew he was even in the room to begin with. -Joseph M. Klein III

Reflections The mirror reflects a weary man Jaded and badly bruised His heaii is battered, dreams are shattered For he's been wrongly accused Of being human and making mistakes For which he has confessed But minds of malice turned him callous And refused to let him rest Struggling on he searches afar Trying to find a key To open his heart, a brand new start And a love to set him free Turning the page, another chapter Hoping the sun will rise The miITor reflects a shackled man The mi1rnr reflects my eyes. -Steve Ray

Folio 25-Contributors Marguerite Culp, Senior art major, first-time contributor to Folio. Michael DiGregorio, Senior English concentrator, former conÂ tributor to Folio. Tricia DiNoia, Holy Family College student and former contributor to Folio. Maria Dobrzynska-Karawajska, student, poet, first-time contribuÂ tor to Folio. Cecilia Johnson, HFC graduate, author, and past contributor to Folio.

Joseph M. Klein III, English/Communications major, first-time contributor to Folio. Thomas F. Lombardi, professor, moderator, poet, writer, and previous contributor to Folio. Victoria P. Lombardi, Holy Family College Instructor, former contributor to Folio. Frank Nicoletti, graduate, poet, and former contributor to Folio. Daniel Picker, lecturer, HFC, first-time contributor to Folio. Steve Ray, Bucks county resident, first-time contributor to Folio. W. H. Smigiel, English concentrator, and former contributor to Folio.

Christopher Tait, Senior English/Communications major, former contributor to Folio. Freda M. Terrell, graduate, writer, poet, and former contributor to Folio.

Sarah Wuthnow, Holy Family College Nursing Professor, Freelance writer, photographer, and former contributor to Folio. Joanna Zawilla, graduate, English major, and former contributor to Folio.

HOLY FAMILY COLLEGï¿½ Folio 25 Millennial Issue