Folio 33

FOLIO 33

A Note From the Advisor Folio 33's cover, "God is my Pilot," manifests the presence of Ame1ican spi1ituality in a world darkened by religious and secular extremism. Long by American standards, the tragedy of 9/11, reinforced by the Fort Hood slaughter, continues to reverberate through the Ame1ican consciousness. Evidence of the preoccupation haunts the Shanksville, Pennsylvania crash site, where a 40-foot-long, 15-foot-high fence was constructed to stretch across a temporary memorial. The "Fence of Tears" over time transformed into a massive display of flowers, flags, art work, handwritten notes, photographs and religious memorabilia, such as crosses, rosaries, and angels. Unforgettably moving were photographs of the dead, including one of Thomas Burnett, Jr., an Ameiican Catholic, the hero of Flight #93. A permanent memorial is presently under construction.

Contents

Enco111iu111 to Fr: Tho111as Charles Fahy, OSB, Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D . ........ 2 The Best Feeling, Janet Jakubowicz ......................................................................6 Blue, Clu·istopher Tait ............................................................................................9 Tara, David Wisniewski ......................................................................................15 We'll Meet Agai11 So111e Sunny Day, Arthur A. Hill ............................................23 What Goes Dow11. Must Come Up, Nicole Schiavoni ........................................ 27 Just Another Day, Nicole Schiavoni .................................................................... 33 The Beast, Christina Klinke ................................................................................41 Insanity Leads to Rapture, Elizabeth Levy ..........................................................48 The Storm, Alicia Jackson .................................................................................... 57 The Invitation, Dennis Feltwell............................................................................64 Lessons Worth Re111e111bering, Mark Bartholomew .............................................. 68 The Wilde Irish Rose, Meredith Kahn .................................................................. 74 Daddy's Little Girl, Nicole Cannon .................................................................... 86 Too Late, Alicia Jackson ...................................................................................... 97

Poems

No Finish Li11e, Frank Nicoletti ........................................................................ I 00 New Year's Day, Freda M. Terrell-Tait .............................................................. 101 Train Tracks, Nicole Cannon ............................................................................102 Connie Mack, Daniel Picker ..............................................................................103 Ode to Charles M. Schulz, W.H. Smigiel ..........................................................104

Folio 33

The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. The Journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the com­ bined talent of the Holy Family University Community. Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University Community and must be for­ warded to the following address: Folio, School of Arts and Sciences, Holy Family University, Grant and Frankford Avenues, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 19114. © 2010 Holy Family University, Philadelphia, PA

Encomium to Father Thomas Fahy, OSB (Repri11ted from Liturgy of Remembra11ce, November 12, 2008)

The sudden and unexpected death stunned the Holy Family Community: Charles Thomas Fahy-priest, Benedictine, monk, uni­ versity professor, and friend to all who knew him. He rarely spoke about his life and past, though we somehow learned through the grapevine that he came from an illustrious family. His father had served in the FDR Administration, while he once tutored two of Robert Kennedy's children. He never mentioned any of this proud familial history to me or to anyone else, for that matter. However, I gathered that he cherished fond memories of other people and other places, such as Santa Fe, on more than one occasion reminding me the official name of the New Mexico city was "The Holy Faith of St. Francis." Such were precious peeks into, so to speak, his opaque yet apparently wonderful past.

Before his career began at Holy Family, I am told that he taught geometry in secondary school, and his enthusiasm for things American eventually led to his studies in American culture and liter­ ature at the University of Pennsylvania. His literary interests ranged well beyond American letters, especially when one considers his fas-

2

cination and interest in Gothic literature. His love and knowledge of literature made him, appropriately, moderator of the University's honorary society in English-Lambda Iota Tau. In short, I personal­ ly will be indebted to him for his loyal support to Folio-the University's literary journal, a publication that I have moderated for more than forty years. That said, the staff and I dedicate the forth­ coming Folio 33 to his memory.

Of course, Father Fahy represented the perfect gentleman: quiet, gentle, soft spoken, always supportive and positive. He was a faith­ ful religious and an outstanding professor. Shy and unassuming, whatever the proposition, he suggested rather than demanded another point of view. Never boisterous, but always forthright, he appeared a role-model in a time and an age when role-models have been few and far between.

When I was notified of his unforeseen death, I can only describe my reaction as one of unabashed disbelief. When I learned, initially, that the accident had occurred in Reading, I took some comfort that he had died in a place that had once given birth to perhaps America's finest poet: Wallace Stevens. And thus in a way his death connected him with a literary personality and a convert to the Faith even at the tip-end of his life: a topic we often talked about. And when I later learned that the tragedy had actually taken place in Lancaster County on Route #23, in or near the village of East Earl, I felt, mystically, an even greater affinity with Father's last moments, since I have often traveled that road, affectionately attached to what must be con­ sidered one of the loveliest places in America, cherishing fond mem­ ories of the beautiful excursions I have often taken out from Morgantown, to Churchtown, through Goodville, on to East Earl, then, as Father had done, immersing myself in nature's bounty and a treat to delicious food at Shady Maple. For Father Fahy, it was his last supper.

Without further ado, I offer my personal encomium to a col­ league and friend: "Once On A Country Road": Father Fahy's fate­ ful journey to and through his physical travels, leading-as they must for all of us-to a metaphysical countryside without end: 3

Once on a Country Road A winding, dipping country road, On either side a beauteous countryside Of neatly measured farms, with barns And farmers tilling fields with real horsepower, An occasional buggy clip-clopping Down that road to somewhere, anywhere It's reality's lovely dream of hillsides Poised for next year's crops and bounty.

Horn of Plenty: clean little villages: Churchtown, Goodville, East Earl, Shady Maple.

How could we ever know a friend Would die in violence there, Disturbing nature's special quiet all about, An echo of the noise that shattered Shanksville's peace several years ago...

His car, a truck, a moment's doubt, The swerve, the head-on crash, the dead Entombed within that vehicle of steel, An instant, face-to-face with Christ.

His body rests, four-square, within The Benedictine earth he so enchantingly loved, The cowl pulled down upon his face, The wooden house, his tomb, in God's good grace.

No fear ... he's really gone to glory Once on a country road, a journey all must take.

The farm sits waiting to be plowed, The seeds sown, the crops, the harvest, All for expectant guests, you and I, Secure-

--Thomas Francis Lonibardi, Ph.D. 4

5

The Best Feeling

Uncle Earl pulled up to our house in his shiny black sedan. Our street was small and the large car seemed to fill it. Neighbors would stop what they were doing to watch him maneuver the sedan into a place in front of our tiny row home. My friends would jump on the running boards and peek into the windows. Hardly anyone in our working class neighborhood had a car in 1932. My mother's younger brother Earl achieved true celebrity status on our block. He arrived at the door wearing his new black overcoat and felt hat. It kept him warm on this cold, dreary winter day. I didn't understand what it meant when my mother described her younger brother as dapper.

Today, he carried a small box. I hoped it was something exciting for my ninth birthday. I rushed to the door to be the first to greet my favorite uncle. He always tousled my hair and pulled my ear as he said hello, and I never minded at all.

The door to the vestibule opened. "Tie that shoe," my mother warned me as my uncle swept into the house. Uncle Earl entered with a flourish, and the house buzzed with excitement. I bent over to fix my shoelace as my mother instructed, and a warm, dizzy feeling washed over me. I thought it was just the thrill of Uncle Earl's visit on my birthday. He was a traveling salesman and was away from home a great deal.

"Take my coat, Mary. Where's the nine year old?" He always looked straight ahead and didn't notice my tiny frame under his nose. My uncle smiled as my mother ceremoniously hung up the heavy coat. I slowly stood up. Of course, he tousled my hair and pulled my ear.

"Look a little flushed there, Edward. Been running after the girls?"

My uncle laughed loudly along with my parents, and I could feel myself getting warmer. His laugh was part of his charm. My mother said that women flocked to my bachelor uncle, and she wondered why he never took a wife. I thought that I would never. be popular with girls like he was. When we settled down, the festivities began as we ate homemade cake, and I waited to open the box. Uncle Earl

6

ceremoniously handed me the box with shiny blue paper.

"Well, Eddie, open it up. Hope you like it." Uncle Earl smiled.

"Thanks, Uncle." My hands shook as I pulled back the top.

Inside was a gleaming, tiny replica of Uncle Earl's magnificent car.

"Gee whiz, I never saw anything like it. Wait until my friends see this. Oh, thanks!" I held it up proudly. The afternoon went on with the adults drifting off into their conversations. I sat on the floor play足 ing with my new car. My head was swirling. As I got up to say good足 bye to Uncle Earl, the dizziness overcame me.

When I opened my eyes, two strange looking men were wrap足 ping me up in a scratchy blanket. I could faintly hear my mother's voice.

"Please be careful. He's so sick." she pleaded.

"Don't worry, lady. They'll take care of him at the hospital."

I was too weak to ask questions. The men put me on the floor in the back of what I later found out was a city ambulance. I was lying next to other cocoons of children swathed in those scratchy blankets.

I fell asleep as soon as the doors closed. Later I awoke in a hospital bed with metal sides. The blurry faces of two women stared back at me.

"Another scarlet fever. Take off all those clothes; put him in this gown." She went away before I could speak, but the other woman stayed. She was a large woman with thick hands that grabbed my tiny frame moving me easily.

"You have scarlet fever, son. I'll be taking care of you for awhile."

"Where's my mother?" I pleaded. I wanted to cry but held my breath because only a sissy cried.

"No visitors here. You have a bad sickness. Everyone with scar足 let fever comes here. They'll come get you when you're better."

"How long is that?"

"Can't say." She left me in that bed. During the month-long stay in that dreary place, only the nurses and attendant who brought food spoke to me. A doctor came by to poke me with needles once in a while but never made conversation.

One miraculous day, the nurse came to my bed carrying my 7

black car from Uncle Earl.

"Eddie, your uncle brought this and said if you listen this after­ noon, he'll toot his car horn outside so you know he's thinking of you."

"Can't I see him?"

She walked away without answering, leaving me with the car.

The boy in the bed next to me admired it. Then suddenly I heard the car's loud horn. I was not going to stay in that bed and m.iss seeing my Uncle in his car. Climbing out of bed, I found that not having walked for almost a month made my legs weak. I couldn't stand and fell to the cold, hard linoleum floor.

"What are you doing? Get back in bed!" The nurse stomped over, then lifted me into the bed. "You do not get up until I say so!"

"But my uncle, he's outside." My begging didn't work.

"You'll see your uncle soon enough." She pointed her chubby finger in my face and marched away. Before she got to the door, she turned and glared at me. "No bawling!"

The tears streamed down my face as I pushed my cheeks hard into the pillow. She wouldn't give me a time when I would see him, and I just couldn't wait. Maybe no one remembered that I was there, and I would be in that horrible place forever.

One morning not too long after my uncle appeared in the street, two attendants came in and lifted me up out of bed. They helped me walk around the room and then put on my bathrobe and slippers over the hospital gown. I was taken down to a waiting area and sat on a chair by a smudged window. No one gave explanations to a nine­ year-old boy. Finally, what seemed like an eternity passed with the sound of that familiar horn.

"Ride's here, boy. I'll take you out." The attendant helped me up and walked me out to the street. There sat Uncle Earl in his shiny black car smiling from ear to ear. I did not feel the cold February winds blow as I got in the majestic black car.

"You're going home, Eddie." He tousled my hair and pulled my ear. It was the best feeling in the world.

-Janet Jakubowicz

8

Blue

Lloyd had an extra incentive for getting home from work as soon as possible that night. When the end of his shift arrived, he swiped his magnetic ID card through the slot on the side of the digital time clock and then exited the office building. He hastily charged through the parking lot up to his trusty Pontiac Grand Arn, a car he had inherited from his father almost ten years ago. He opened the door and tossed his black jacket onto the back seat. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue button-down shirt and loosened his red tie. Black pants and black Land's End shoes completed his work attire. He took his seat in front of the wheel, turned the ignition, and steered himself out of the lot, en route to the house he shared with his wife, Mira.

Every night, he looked forward to escaping the office and spend­ ing the remainder of his evening with the woman he loved.

However, this particular night marked their three-month wedding anniversary. They celebrated their one-month anniversary in a cozy bed-and-breakfast out in the country, reservations made and paid for

by Mira's godmother as a wedding gift. Their two-month anniver­ sary found them down the Jersey shore, dining in an Italian restau­ rant on-the boardwalk and taking a moonlight stroll on the beach afterward.

For their upcoming milestone, Mira hinted at planning a special candlelight dinner. Before leaving for work that day, Lloyd caught sight of the delectable array of food she had gathered for their feast: salad fixings, chicken, grated parmesan, angel hair pasta, tomato sauce, zucchini, a fresh loaf of bread, and Jell-0 pudding mix. The mere glimpse of this cornucopia of his favorite foods made Lloyd all the more anxious for a swift commute home that night. The drive from work usually lasted a half hour, an average and tolerable dura­ tion on any other evening, but on this particular night, the time peri­ od proved interminable.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lloyd finally parked his car in front of his house, bounded up the steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside his abode, eager to see the final result of Mira's preparations. However, a wave of crestfallen shock quickly doused

9

his excited senses, as the scene that greeted him was in sharp con­ trast to what he had fantasized about all day.

Mira sat on the couch, blankly and unhappily staring at the tele­ vision, dressed in a T-shirt and pajamas bottoms, her red hair pulled shabbily back into a ponytail. She remained silent, failing even to acknowledge Lloyd's arrival. A load of laundry sat in a crumpled heap in the middle of the living room floor. A cool, chilled air suffo­ cated the house, far from the warm, happy ambiance he had expect­ ed.

"Hello, dear," Lloyd greeted with cheer.

"Hello," Mira answered in monotone.

"What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much."

Mira added nothing more to the conversation, leaving Lloyd to ponder about her moody silence. He gently sat down next to her on the couch. She continued to register zero emotion on her face.

"How was your day?" Lloyd inquired.

"Not bad, I guess," Mira replied, once again using a deadened tone that killed any chance of furthering the conversation.

"Mira, is something wrong?" he asked after enduring another silence.

"Nope," she said unconvincingly.

"Yes, dear, something is wrong. I can tell. Come on, you can tell 111e."

After a deep sigh, Mira said, "Did you forget to do something last night, Lloyd?"

Quickly, Lloyd reviewed the previous night in his mind: Ate din­ ner with her, caught the network news, went back out to pick up some odds and ends at the grocery store, helped her do some clean­ ing around the house, checked his email, and ended the night by watching television in bed with her.

"No," he said, "I don't think I forgot anything."

"Well," Mira retorted with mild sarcasm, "take a look at the laun­ dry and then rethink your answer."

Lloyd stood up and walked over to the pile that consisted chiefly of his clothes: cargo pants, faded T-shirts, and jeans. At first, every-

10

thing appeared normal to him. Then, the anomaly became clear: all of the apparel on display had been speckled with splotches of blue ink.

"Now how did this happen?" Lloyd muttered to himself Without saying a word, Mira tossed something to the floor. The object rolled on the carpet and stopped next to Lloyd's left foot. He picked it up and exarnined it: a blue Bic pen, with clear plastic sheathing around the ink tube, a removable blue cap at the top, and a permanent cap at the bottom. The top cap was dented, chewed, and frayed. Lloyd removed the cap to find the tip of the pen drenched in a mixture of water and ink. An explosion of ink covered much of the sheath's inside, camouflaging part of the inner ink tube.

Suddenly, it all came back to him: Last night, when he went to the supermarket, he used the blue pen in question to cross off the items on his shopping list. When he finished, he put the pen back into his pocket. Unfortunately, he forgot all about it and neglected to remove it before putting his pants into the laundry basket.

"Oh, crap," Lloyd uttered.

"Oh, crap, indeed," Mira stoically said.

"Well, no big deal really. It looks like it's mostly my clothes in here, and I have enough to tide me over until I can get some replacements. It could've been worse."

"Dig deeper," she gravely instructed, and he obeyed.

Lloyd's heart rate rose, along with the lump in his throat, as he sifted through the pile. He came to a dead stop and inhaled deeply in shock when he saw that amid the wounded apparel lay an article of clothing highly favored by Mira: a pink button-down sweater.

The sweater held much sentimental value for Mira. Her grand­ mother had given it to her as a present on the last Christmas that she had lived to celebrate, and Mira had also worn it on the day that Lloyd proposed to her.

Lloyd's mouth dried up as he gaped, and his mind blanked out as he stared at the stained sweater, thoroughly puzzled over how a minor oversight like that could result in such a catastrophe.

"Oh, my God," he blurted out. "I am so sorry, Mira. I really am."

"I bet you are," Mira said in a voice that sounded as if she took 11

sardonic pride in Lloyd's sorrow.

"I...I can't believe I could've forgotten that. I thought I'd checked my pockets before I put tl:iem in the laundry basket. I always check them."

"Not this time, apparently."

"I am so sorry," he repeated, sounding deeply despaired.

"Well, 'Sorry' isn't going to fix my sweater, Lloyd," she sniped back. A beep sounded from the kitchen, signaling the end of the pre­ heating period for the oven.

"Dinner'll be ready in twenty minutes."

She stalked off to the kitchen, leaving Lloyd to sit and sulk amongst the besmirched clothing. He sifted through the collection again, finding even more clothes, this time that bore the hideous blue dots. Some belonged to Mira, though they were nowhere near as harmed as her beloved pink sweater. Lloyd cursed himself, knowing that regaining Mira's affection and getting back into her good graces after this mishap would not be easy.

Twenty minutes later, they sat down to dinner. However, instead of an amorous atmosphere thanks to candlelight and romantic music, Lloyd and Mira ate with a definite lack of cheer, the house lights turned on, and the network news in the background. Mira said noth­ ing, making quick work of her plateful of food in a manner that held nothing back regarding how little she desired to be around her hus­ band at the time. Lloyd barely touched his food, the lump in his throat having descended into his stomach and quashing his appetite in the process.

"You done with that?" she asked him curtly as she stood up with her plate in hand.

"Yeah, I guess so," he answered, handing her his plate.

Mira curiously looked at the abundance of food left unconsumed.

"You didn't like it?"

"It was good. I...I'm just not very hungry at the moment.

Mira stood in her place for a moment. Then, she turned on the balls of her feet and shuffled off into the kitchen in spiteful silence.

Great, Lloyd thought, not only is she mad at me for ruining her sweater, but now she's offended that I didn't eat all of the dinner she 12

specifically prepared for tonight. I' rn really batting a thousand here tonight.

Then, as he remained at the table and stared off into space, a plan formed in his head. He stood up and walked to the archway between the dining room and the kitchen, daring not to venture any farther.

'Tm gonna go out real quick," he announced. "I'll be right back."

"Okay, see you," she said as she washed the dishes.

This was yet another chillingly uncharacteristic reaction from her. Usually, whenever he went out, she always asked him where he was going. On this occasion, however, she didn't seem to care at all, and Lloyd offered no more information than he had originally put forth. He quietly walked out the front door and into the night. A few hours later, he returned home, tired and sullen, like a soldier after a long battle. He held a plastic bag in his hand and wore a hangdog expression on his face. He had no clue what type of atmosphere would greet him when he re-entered the house. He imagined Mira sitting on the couch again and angrily asking him where he had been.

Few times had he ever seen her so mad and spiteful, and as a result of those scattered occurrences, he made it a point to never evoke such emotions from her on purpose. Yet somehow, fate always had something up its sleeve, some new way for Lloyd's fumbling nature to turn every piece of gold he touched into lead. It never took her long to forgive him, though, which made this night most distressing of all. Never had her acrimony toward him lasted so long.

He took a deep breath before unlocking the front door and step­ ping into an empty living room. Lloyd listened for any sound that would localize Mira's whereabouts. He heard water running in the basement, so he walked to the stairs and slowly descended down­ ward.

He stepped into the waslu·oom, the tiny closed-off area that housed their washer and dryer. Mira stood in front of the utility sink in between the two appliances, her elbows delving deep into discol­ ored, sudsy water. Lloyd tread lightly as he approached.

"Hey," he greeted.

Mira turned her head to face him. "Hey," she said, with a 13

smidgen less recrimination in her voice than before. "Where'd you go?"

"Had to run an �rrand." He placed the plastic bag onto the wash: er. "That's for you."

Mira quizzically stared at the bag. She removed her hands from the water in the sink.and dried them off on a nearby towel. She took hold of the bag and peered inside. Her face lit up when she saw its contents: a replacement pink sweater.

"Lloyd..." She was lost for words. "Oh, my...Lloyd, you... you shouldn't have...you didn't need to..."

"Yes, I did," Lloyd declared. "I messed up and I needed to make amends."

She stared at him, glassy-eyed, a softness on her face that had been missing for the entire night.

"And it wasn't easy to find that, let me tell you," he continued. "I had to go to three different stores to find it."

"Really?"

He nodded. "I just barely made it to the third store before it closed. Thankfully, they had one left in your size."

She placed the bag on the washer again and then hugged and kissed him tightly.

"Thank you."

"Are you still mad at me?"

"I've cooled off. I talked to my morn, and she told me how to get the blue stains out of the clothes."

"That's good. What's in the water?" he asked, peering into the sink.

"It's a combination of Arm & Hammer and some other deter­ gents. So far, it's worked pretty well."

Lloyd grinned. "So am I off the hook now?"

Mira gave him a cocky half-smile. "Well, my mom told me not to kill you, and she's been known to give good advice in the past.

Plus," she said, pointing to the bag, "this definitely earns you more brownie points, so I guess I can forgive you."

"You guess?"

"I forgive you," she said as she kissed him again.

14

They remained in each other's arms for a while. Then, Mira went back and fished around in the sink. She pulled out her old pink sweater and held it up against the light as excess water dripped off of it. The blue spots were almost gone.

"A few more good soaks, and it'll be good as new."

"So I can return the new one and get my money back?" Lloyd asked.

She gave him a comically serious look. "Don't think you're get­ ting off so easily, buck-o," she said as she laid the old sweater out on a small rack next to the dryer. She quickly snatched the bag with the new sweater in it and held it protectively. "Besides, I always have room in my wardrobe for another pretty pink sweater."

"Fair enough," Lloyd conceded. "I guess it's the price I pay."

A small silence occurred, a time period that proved much easier for Lloyd's nerves to endure than the evening's previous silences.

Mira leered at him with sly, amorous eyes.

"Lloyd?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Tonight, we've had our first fight as a married couple."

"I guess we did."

"And you know what that means, right?"

"The honeymoon's officially over?"

Mira walked up to him and planted yet another kiss on his lips.

"Meet me upstairs in five minutes. We've fought and now it's time to make up." She sauntered out of sight.

It took a moment for Mira's message to fully register in Lloyd's brain. A smile creased his face and a pleasing wave of excitement crested tlu¡oughout his body. The night would not prove to be a total washout after all.

-Christopher Tait

Tara

The moment he saw the girl walking towards him, Ogie cringed.

She had that dreaded trying-to-be-friendly look. He turned his eyes 15

towards the blue-gray waters of the loch, but it did no good.

"Hi," she said, pushjng back pale blond hair. Ogie tensed, know­ ing what was coming next. "My name's Tara. What's yours?"

"People call me O.G.," he lied. It was worth a try. He wished peo­ ple would call him O.G. That didn't seem to work either. "Oh?" the girl said, sitting beside him on the pebbly beach. "So what do the initials stand for?"

"My last name is Gladwell," he said flatly.

"And the O?'' she inquired.

He sighed. But what did it matter? In a few minutes they'd be away from this tourist trap and this nosy local girl and head back to the hotel. "It's for Ogilvie. My mother's family name." Standing up, he grabbed a stone and threw it towards the loch. "It's a stupid first name, and the nickname, Ogie, is worst."

Laughing, the girl picked up a stone of her own and sLipped it lightly over the glassy water. "How can you stand here, in the ruins of Ogilvie Castle, and say that the name Ogilvie is stupid? The first time that I saw you, I thought you had the look of an Ogilvie about you. You should be proud of that name," "Well, my mother is, and that's why I'm stuck with it. That's 16

why we are on this stupid Scottish vacation. We've been at it for weeks, and I've seen all of the battlefields, churches, and fallen down castles I can stand! The only thing interesting about this place is that all of this tourist stuff says there's a monster in the loch. Now, that would be worth seeing," "Oh, so its monsters you're wanting, is it?" Her Scottish accent was light and playful. "Well, then, you're in luck," "Oh, right. I suppose some fake monster comes by every few hours to amuse the tourists," This time it was Tara who threw an angry stone into the loch.

"They haven't sunk quite that low yet. No, I mean that it's a full moon tonight. At Ogilvie Castle on a full moon, you're almost cer足 tain to see the monster."

Trying to sound cool, Ogie said, "You're kidding, right?"

"Wrong." Tara was playing with a necklace pendant that looked like a dried raisin inside of a silver claw. "You're staying up the Glen Inn, aren't you? Come back here tonight and see," she said.

"Is this place open all night?" he asked, trying not to look excit足 ed.

"No, but I know a few ways in and out of the castle," she said with a grin. "But you're probably afraid of monsters or that the cas足 tle is haunted."

"Of course, I'm not afraid!"

"Good. A real Ogilvie wouldn't be afraid. I'll meet you at the outer fence around midnight."

Before he could answer her, his mother called him from inside the ruined walls. "Ogie ! Time to go."

"See you at midnight," Tara said. "Unless you .... What is the American term? Unless you wimp out."

Angry and despite himself, a little excited, Ogie joined his par足 ents and headed toward the car. Is it true, he wondered, that Ogilvies aren't scared of stuff like monsters and ghosts? This was one way to see. It was also a way to see something special, like the monster. Of course, this could be a trick the locals played on tourists. But, maybe just maybe it would make this trip all worth it.

Sneaking out of the inn after everyone was asleep was easy. He 17

left the door unlocked so that he could get back in quietly. He was surprised that no one locked their doors around here. Once outside, the road was plain even without streetlights. A huge full moon had already risen and lit up the countryside and the road around the loch.

Somehow the idea of the place being haunted didn't seem as ridiculous now. It was old, a lot older than any buildings back home in America. As he walked up the road to the ruins of Ogilvie Castle, he could see the jagged outline of the ruins in the moonlight. He thought to himself, there could be a few ghosts in there; the thought slowed his pace. Ogilvie ghosts shouldn't bother him; he is family.

Anyway, it was monsters that he was after, not ghosts.

Tara was waiting for him at the fence, her long hair flowing in the breeze like moonlight. Silently she led him through the bushes to a gap where they could slide under the fence. By the time he was through, she was already down the path toward the castle.

It all looked different at night; everything looked like a checker­ board of shadow and moonlight. The only sound was the wind com­ ing through the woods and the waves lapping on the shoreline of the loch.

Soon they were both on the beach looking at the loch; its surface glimmered in the moonlight. Ogie stared, looking for the outline of the monster on the surface of the loch.

"So where is the monster?" he asked breaking the silence.

Tara turned towards him, the moonlight causing her green eyes to sparkle. "Maybe you will see it soon. But I really brought you here for another reason."

All of Ogie's alarms went off. What did she want? To mug him, steal his money, passport, or camera? He didn't have any of those things with him. Maybe she wanted to kill him. He would fight for his life, but maybe she had a gang waiting in the shadows? Maybe she was a drug dealer and wanted to sell him some drugs or some­ thing. He took a step back.

"Don't go. I just want you to steal something for me," Tara said.

That jolted him. "Steal something? Here? What's here besides rocks and tourist junk? Do your own stealing; I'm out of here," "No, wait!" She grabbed his jacket. "I can't. But you can. You're 18

an Ogilvie. I wasn't sure if I'd find one this time, not the way things are gone around here. None of the local Ogilvies will come near the old castle. Lucky for me that you came here at this time."

Not a robber or drug dealer, Ogie thought. Definitely, she is a crazy person. "Look, I'd better head back to the inn."

"No! What I want is here. It's just not now. But you are an Ogilvie, and this is the one night in the century when the past is open to you. You can slip back and get what I need."

Sure, Ogie thought. Just slip into the past and steal something.

She is totally whacko. I better humor her in case she has a weapon.

"Get what?" Ogie asked.

"A bead. Just a little green stone bead. There are so many, they will never notice you taking it. Bring it back to me, and everything will be fine."

"Oh, right. A green stone bead. So where do I find this bead?"

"Step through the door at the bottom of the tower and climb up one flight of stairs. There'll be a bunch of people in the courtyard and lots of confusion. They won't see you, so just go where the con­ fusion is, wait for the chance to grab one of the beads and bring it back to me."

The tower, Ogie thought. He had been there this afternoon. The little door at the bottom opened into the dungeon, and spiral stairs led to the courtyard. I could make a run for the fence and be out of here before the lunatic realized that he had gone back to the inn.

"Right." He smiled at her. "I'd better get on with it then."

"First take this," slipping off her necklace and placing it around his neck. The chain and little claw hanging from it were silver, but the black thing inside the claw still looked like a dried raisin.

"Now hurry," she said, pushing him toward the dark doorway.

"You must do this while the full moon is still high."

"What are you a witch or something?" Ogie asked with a puzzled look.

Tara looked shocked. "A witch? Me? Of course not! I'm a selkie."

Uneasy, he stepped through the archway; it was much darker and quieter in the dungeon than it was this afternoon. A hint of moonlight 19

filled the cracks of the old door causing a misty gray light in the dun­ geon. He heard a hushed shuffling-like mice scurrying. He hoped that it was mice.

Quickly Ogie made his way up the stairs. He climbed up the spi­ ral staircase until he almost fell through another door into the roof­ less courtyard. But now the courtyard had a roof, furniture and win­ dows. Thrnugh the windows came voices and bright morning sun­ light.

Dazed, Ogie walked across a woven rug to an open door and looked out. The sunlight lit up walls and towers, which earlier had been broken down, were now tall and complete. He also couldn't miss the people in an angry mob yelling at one another. He stood there staring at the mob. Maybe the girl slipped me some drugs.

Everything looked so clear, and the people were dressed in authen­ tic dress. What was going on? They were very upset over something.

Leaving the doorway, he walked slowly in their direction.

Nobody seemed to notice him, so he strolled with confidence towards a dark area along the wall near the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed other shadows along the outside wall but when he looked at them there was nothing. As Ogie approached the mob, he noticed what the commotion was focused on. A tall woman stood in the middle of the crowd and was gesturing towards another figure.

He gasped.

It was Tara and a boy. There could be no doubt. It was the same girl he'd just left on the beach. The long, pale blond hair, thin face and her beautiful green eyes, they were all the same. She was wear­ ing a green dress and a bead necklace instead of the T-shirt and jeans, but it was her.

"She's not as pretty and innocent as she seems!" the old woman yelled. "She's a demon come to steal our grandson!"

"Come now," the bearded man said, "how could..."

"She's a selkie, I tell you!" the old woman argued.

Ogie strained to hear their argument. "She's a water demon, come to steal our grandson and kill him. That's what they do. They change form to lure the young to the water and drown them," claimed the old woman.

20

"That's not true! I am not here to harm anyone; I want only to be friends with your grandson. I would never hurt him!"

"Liar!" yelled the woman making a menacing move towards Tara. "The only way to kill her is to burn her at the stake."

Frowning, the old man placed a hand on the old woman's shoul足 der. "My dear, surely if this sweet girl was truly the monster that you claim that she is, she could turn into that monster and kill everyone here."

"And what, husband, do you know about such things? I've stud足 ied them for years while you were off fighting wars. Selkies cannot change shape when they are out of water. To trap them, you must remove their talisman!" said the old woman.

With that, the woman lunged at Tara's necklace and grabbed it off of her neck. Tara squealed and grabbed for the necklace as it pulled away. A struggle caused the necklace to break, and the beads flew everywhere. Some bounced towards Ogie. He moved forward, grabbing one. As he did, he sensed other shadows doing the same, but he couldn't look at them.

Tara too was trying to grab the beads, but suddenly the woman plunged at her with a knife. Jumping to her feet, Tara pushed through the crowd and ran out the gate leading to the beach. Without stop足 ping, she sped over the beach into the water, deeper and deeper until her form began to change into that of a mermaid. Her long flowing hair floated behind her down to the silvery scales of a fish body. She was the monster of the loch! thought Ogie in moment of sheer tetTor. The screaming crowd pointed, but suddenly Ogie realized that the old woman was now pointing his way.

"There are others here! I can see them with my gift. Don't let them escape with any of the beads!" yelled the old woman.

Ogie began to run, searching for an exit; everything looked dif足 ferent when it wasn't in ruins. There-there is the staircase, he thought. He ran, feeling other shadows running with him. The crowd was blocking his exit. As he forced his way through, some of the people seemed to see him while others did not see him. He ran with a crowd of shadows towards the staircase with the old woman who was so close that he could feel her breath. As he reached the stair21

case, he felt himself go round and round-downward into the dark­ ness.

At the bottom, it was as if he had fallen into the bottom of a well.

The screamiiig mob and shadows were gone; only darkness and silence surrounded him. He stepped through the doorway onto the moonlit beach, trembling. Tara was waiting for him; a smile lit up her face; her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight. Silently, he dropped the green bead into her hand.

"I knew that I could count on an Ogilvie." Quickly she lifted the pendant from around his neck. She flicked the blackened lump from the pendant.

"Once broken from the chain, the bead only lasted for one hun­ dred years," she said, popping the new bead into the claw of the pen­ dant. If I couldn't get a new bead, then I would be stuck in this form forever.''

Remembering the beautiful creature he had just seen, Ogie stared at her. "Would that be so bad?"

"I am a selkie, a creature of land and water. I must be both to live.

Were I cut off from the joys of the loch, I'd shrivel in misery. Now and again, I need to talk and play with other children," Tara said.

"So that old woman was wrong. You weren't going to harm her grandson?" Ogie asked.

"Of course not! Sometimes we played on land, sometimes on the water, but he was my friend. Young Ogilvies have always been my friends, and almost every century one has been able to get me a new bead. It almost didn't happen this time, not with Ogilvies avoiding the place," she grinned playfully.

She stepped forward to kiss him on his cheek. Blushing, Ogie said, "I am glad to be of help.''

"So am I!" Tara said. She ran toward the water, then turned back to him and said, "I guess that you will be going home soon."

"Tomorrow," Ogie said.

"Then come on. Let's play tonight!" She dove into the water, her hair trailing behind her, flowing over her silvery fish body. She was transformed. For a moment Ogie stood wavering on the beach. Then he plunged in after her. It was only a few hours, but it seemed time-

22

less, clinging to her back, diving in a bubble of air to explore the depths of the loch.

As dawn began fading the stars, he left her, climbing from the loch to sneak back to his room and pack away his wet clothes. Lying in bed before slipping into sleep, he knew that he would never forget her, and he knew something else as well. He knew that Ogie was a name to be proud of.

-David Wisniewski

We'll Meet Again Some Sunny Day Jack noted the time on his watch, just three twenty-five. When he called, the manager informed him that the residents were served afternoon tea at three and that Paula was there daily. Pleasant Valley was a well-cared-for retirement community available only to wealthy retirees. The well-tri1mned lawn and flowers selected for their brilliant assortment of color reeked of money. Jack noted azal足 eas, impatiens and begonias, all mulched and in full bloom. The well-cushioned wooden chairs and benches were painted a soft white and were waiting to be used. A variety of trees were tri1mned and in full bloom. Jack felt that he couldn't have picked a nicer day for his reunion with Paula after being apart so many years.

Would she remember him? He pictured Paula when they were last together, with her short blonde hair, deftly applied make-up and a shapely figure. Paula was a very pretty lady. Heads turned as she passed by. How much had she changed and would he recognize her?

For the meeting Jack chose a navy blue blazer and well-pressed gray flannel slacks. His soft blue shirt displayed a red Windsor knot足 ted silk necktie. He wanted to look his best, and he felt thrilling rem足 iniscences of young love as he approached the door. His highly pol足 ished black shoes and gold "Rolex" gleamed in the sunlight as he reached to ring the bell.

He and Paula, deeply in love, planned to maITy when they were separated by the war, and a reserve officer Jack had no choice but to 23

go.

"Let's get married, Jack," Paula pleaded. "I know that you are going overseas, but I love you and want you forever."

"Paula, I' 111 going on a dangerous course and may not return. I love you and want to marry you, but I believe it will be wiser to wait until the war is over. I'll write to you every day; we'll marry when I return."

Paula tearfully agreed, but arranged for a night together, a night that Jack would remember. She reserved a room at The Plaza, the best hotel in New York, and a special "candle light dinner, with vio­ lin music." They spent the night locked in each other's arms. Paula said, "I want you to have a gift you will never forget, one that will bring you back to me." Jack, so many times, recalled every moment of that last night together as they slept in a lovers' embrace. He reported for duty two days later.

They wrote to each other often until the day when the mail stopped. Paula was later notified by telegram that Jack was missing in action. A fellow officer wrote that Jack's bomber had been hit by enemy fire and crashed on a daylight raid over France and that he was presumed dead. No word or notification from the Red Cross indicated that he survived, and that he probably died in the crash and left no remains as occurred in many wartime losses.

Paula was devastated at the news and waited to hear any bit of information about Jack, but none came. Months went by, and finally Paula accepted the fact that Jack was gone. She met Mark, a dis­ charged army veteran who had been wounded in action and released from the service as disabled. After a brief courtship, Mark and Paula married, bought a house and started a family.

Jack had no recollection of the explosion. Their bomber was on the final leg of a bomb run; the bombs were ready to go. As they started to drop, one bomb exploded prematurely, sending the entire plane into a ball of flame. Jack was blown clear of the plane and instinctively pulled the ripcord on his parachute. It was an uncon­ scious effort, the result of years of military training and discipline.

Jack was the only survivor; his fellow crewmen were either killed instantly or were unable to exit the plane. His landing, though he was 24

still unconscious, was on a rocky hillside on which he broke a leg and arm as he hit the ground. The daughter of a farmer saw his para­ chute, and she and her father ran to capture him. They would have shot him as an enemy, but the daughter, seeing that Jack was alive, though badly hurt, pleaded with her father to get him to a hospital.

The next thing Jack remembered was lying on a cot with a nurse leaning over him and speaking to him in a strange language. Later a doctor who spoke some English said, "You are lucky to be alive. I don't know how you survived." The nurse told him, "that he had been in a coma for a long time." He lost one leg below the knee, and part of his left arm, and serious burns covered his face.

Jack slowly recovered to the point where he could sit up. He knew that his physical condition was serious, and he decided not to write to Paula. He chose not to saddle her with an invalid. "If he recovered and returned to the States, he would contact Paula at that time," he reasoned.

With the end of the war, Jack was repatriated and placed in a vet­ eran's hospital for rehabilitation. He was given a prosthetic leg, a pinned up sleeve, an honorable discharge and several medals, includ­ ing the Purple Heart. His pre-war position as an accountant was waiting for him, and his friends greeted him warmly when he returned to work. He intended to call Paula but learned from friends that she had waited for him, but after a long period she met Mark and married. A reunion at this time would have been painful and fruit­ less, so he decided not to call her. With time and several visits to the local veterans' hospital, Jack learned to use arm and leg prostheses, and skin grafts removed the scars from his face. He accepted a part­ nership in his company and ultimately became owner as his partners retired. He married Claire, the sister of a partner and had two grown children when Claire developed cancer and died after thirty years together. Their children were married, and Jack lived alone in an empty house.

Through friends he learned that Mark had died, and thoughts of Paula slowly rekindled. He sought her through acquaintances and records over the years, and he now stood ready and anxious to see Paula again, his heart beating a rapid tattoo in his chest.

25

Jack entered the door and stepped to the receptionist's desk.

"May I help you," the receptionist inquired, noting his rugged, handsome appearance.

"I am here to visit Paula Grant," he announced.

"Our guests are just finishing afternoon tea," the receptionist replied. "Please, make yourself comfortable. She should be along momentarily."

Jack noted the luxury of the surroundings, the attractive pictures and furnishings, and several television sets and comfortable chairs.

He noted, too, that all the guests were nicely attired. The women wore dresses, with their hair freshly set, and they wore tasteful jew­ elry as if ready for a day on the town. The few gentlemen were dressed in slacks and jackets, and most wore neckties. Jack noticed, though, that they moved slowly, staring vacuously, as if lost and looking for somewhere to go. A few sat down to stare at the after­ noon soap operas showing on the many television screens.

A slim, well-dressed lady stepped from the tea room; her hair was silvery white, cut short and nicely set. Jack, after thirty years, instantly recognized Paula, still a strikingly beautiful woman. She wore a print silk. skirt, a cardigan sweater set and medium heeled shoes. Her face was thinner but age had not dimmed her beauty. How would he approach her?

Soft music was playing in the background. He moved toward Paula, smiled, leaned forward slightly, and asked, "Paula, would you care to dance?"

"I'd be delighted," she replied as she looked at him.

As she rose, Jack gently took her left hand and slipped his right hand about her waist, and they slowly rocked to the music. Their cheeks brushed. "It is so wonderful to see you again, Paula. You look so lovely," Jack exclaimed as he felt the closeness and warmth of her.

"And it is so good to see you, too," Paula replied as her face broke into a broad smile. "Now, please tell me. What is your name?"

-Arthur A. Hill

26

What Goes Down, Must Come Up She sat at the desk staring off into space. In front of her lay a notebook full of sentences. An open book lay next to the notebook, and she held a pen in her right hand. She had straight blonde hair, which fell to her shoulders in waves. Her blue eyes weren't focused and appeared to be off in another world. She sat in English class at her local suburban high school. As she stared into space, a man stood at the front of the room lecturing to a class of students who paid lit­ tle attention. Boys flicked spitballs at one another, and girls did their make-up. No one seemed to be paying attention to the man in the front of the room.

Ring! Ring! The bell rang signaling the end of the period.

The blonde girl's eyes blinked, and she quickly gathered her books and stood up. She walked out of the classroom and into a sea of students. The hallways were so crowded, she could barely move without bumping into someone. Lost in her own world of thoughts, she glided along towards her next class.

"Gaby! Gaby'. " a boy shouted across the hall. He was 5'8", just two inches taller than she was. He had olive skin and dark hair, which would have been an Afro had he not kept it shaved so close to his scalp. His father was Egyptian, and you could see the heritage in the boy.

She slowed down and wound through a maze of students to where the boy was shouting. "Hey, Brian. What's up?" the girl asked.

"Not much. Just on my way to trig."

"Yeah. I'm on my way to Algebra. Ugh. I hate having math at the end of the day," she whined rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

"Definitely. It sucks! Hey, are we still going out after school?"

"I guess so. We chillin' at your place, or are we going out?"

"I don't know. I guess-" Ring! Ring! The bell interrupted him.

Giving him a quick hug, Gaby shouted, "We'll figure it out later.

I'll meet you at your car." She quickly ran across the hall and ducked into a classroom as he ran off in the opposite direction.

27

***** She walked across the school's parking lot and down the street.

She went down behind the shopping center to the parking lot behind the stores. Throwing her book bag onto the trunk of Brian's car, she hopped up onto the trunk and sat down to wait for him. Tucking her legs up to her chest, her mind began to wander off to what she had been thinking about all day. It was what she thought about everyday.

I'm never going to be thin enough. I can't believe I ate so much for lunch, and I'm hungry again. Ugh. I don't know how anyone can stand to look at nie. I need to work out extra hard at practice tonight.

I hope coach assigns us hundreds of crunches. Wait, that's crazy.

W hy would I want to do hundreds of crunches? Oh, yea, cause I'm a fat cow. Duh! I better not eat anything else today. Ugh! I hate the way I look.

Meanwhile, as Gaby was slowly sinking into her usual depressed state, Brian walked across the parking lot staring at her. His mind wandered as well-only it was on her./ wish we were more than just friends. How am I going to get her to understand that I like her? She knows, but I don't think she really gets it. I would do anything for he,: We've been best friends forever, but I wish we were more. He looked at her sitting on his car. She wore blue jeans and her favorite tight purple t-shirt. Her blonde hair was blowing in the wind, but she paid no attention. He could see that her knees were drawn up to her chest, and she was lost in thought. Her gaze was fixed on something far in the distance, which he knew only she could see. She's so beau­ tiful, he thought to himself. I wish she thought so. He knew that his friend had issues with her appearance and her weight, and he always tried to convince her she was perfect. However, like most teenage girls, she argued with him and insisted she was fat.

He knew her problems went deeper than the average female, because she was always so unhappy. He wanted to help her feel bet­ ter about herself, but he didn't know how. The two of them were like two peas in a pod. They were so close that if one was in pain then so was the other. Sometimes they joked that they were soul mates or two halves of a whole. He wished she wasn't kidding around when they talked about it, but he didn't know that she did truly feel that

28

way. She just had so much going on she didn't want to risk losing him on top of it. He was her everything.

"Hey, Gaby. Whatcha doing?" Brian asked as he hopped up onto the back of the car with her.

"Just thinking, Bri. You know me. I think too much."

"So, where are we going?" he asked.

"Whatever. Why don't we just go back to your place till we decide?"

"Ok. Let's get out of this place," he said, jumping off the car and offering her a hand down.

She took his hand and hopped off the car. Grabbing her bag and opening the car door, she threw her backpack onto the back seat. She sank into the passenger seat and looked over at her best friend. "Bri­ bri," she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him, "can we pppllleeease put the top down."

He rolled his eyes, "A'ight, but if you whine about your hair get­ ting messed up, I so do not want to hear it."

"Thank you, love. I just feel like having the wind on my face today," she said reaching up to unhook the clasp on her side of the car.

The roof was fastened to the car by a metal clasp on both sides.

Once both of them had unhooked each side of the roof, Brian pressed a button, and the roof slid off and into the trunk. He had a silver Chrysler Lebaron with a convertible top and black leather seats. It was ten years old, a 1990, but that just gave it character.

Gaby leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. "It's been such a long day. I can't wait to just relax."

Brian shifted the car in gear and sped out of the parking lot and down the street. "Yea, I know I thought today was never gonna end."

"Hey, Gaby, I'm starving. You want to go grab something to eat?" he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, as he asked.

"Sure, why not," she responded in a normal voice, but her mind filled with dread, and she kept her eyes closed trying not to think of what lay ahead.

"Let's go to Wendy's," Brian said. They were right across the street from one, so he slowed down and turned into the parking lot.

29

He shut the engine off and opened his door.

"I don't feel like putting the top up, so just grab your bag, k-ay?"

"Bri, I don't feel like carrying my books. I just lugged them around all day," she whined.

"Fine," he rolled his eyes, "as usual I'll do it for you." He went to reach for her bag, as they got out of the car.

"No, whatever, I'll do it," she grabbed her bag.

They walked across the black top towards Wendy's. As they reached the door, he held it open for her, saying, "After you, sweet足 heart," in a fake gentleman's tone.

She laughed, "Why, thank you, kind sir." She rolled her eyes at him and walked into the store.

They walked up to the line and leaned against the metal railings, while deciding what to have.

"Can I help you?" a young man asked, from behind the cash reg足 ister.

"Yeah, I'll have a junior bacon cheeseburger meal, with a large cherry coke," Brian said. "What do you want, Gaby?" he turned to look at her.

"Umm, I guess I'll just get my usual," she told Brian.

Then she turned to the young boy at the register and said, "I'll have a small diet coke with no ice and a taco salad." When she reached for her wallet, she was stopped by Brian's voice.

"Don't woITy about it, Gaby, like I ever let you pay, anyway," he rolled his eyes at her and handed the boy a twenty.

"I'll take our bags to a booth. You grab the food. Ok?" Gaby sig足 naled to Brian.

"A'ight, grab napkins and straws on your way," Brian said, hand足 ing her his school bag.

She wandered over to a booth and dumped their things on the seats. Then she walked over to the condiments bar and grabbed ketchup, napkins, and straws. She walked back to the booth and sat down to wait for Brian.

He appeared a minute later and put the tray of food down in front of her. "Dig in!"

She smiled and reached for her soda and salad. She placed her 30

salad, chips, chili, and soda in front of herself, and then pushed the tray back over towards him.

Ok, she thought to herself, it's just food. It's not even that fatten­ ing. I can do this. I should eat soniething. It's only food. She had a pattern for how she ate, like a little game she played with herself, whenever she ate. The soda went in the top right corner. She placed the salad in the middle with the lid taken off and slightly to the right.

She opened the chili and dumped it into the lid of the salad, and she started picking all the beans out of the chili and putting them in a napkin.

Brian rolled his eyes at her, "Gaby, you are so crazy. The beans are the best part of chili."

"Well, I think they're gross," she responded without taking her eyes from the task she was completing.

When it came to food, everything had to be perfect. She finished picking out all of the beans and carefully poured the chili back into its cup. Then she got up and took the salad lid and the napkin of beans to the trash. Sitting back down, she opened the bag of tortilla chips and put it to the left of the salad bowl, and the chili went to the right of the salad bowl.

By this time Brian had finished half his burger, but he knew she was obsessed when it came to how she ate. "I love you even though you're nuts," he said, smiling.

"I'm not nuts, Bri. I'm OCD. Duh, there's a difference."

"Yea, whatever, I still say you're nuts."

She rolled her eyes and finally started to eat.

They both finished eating, but still had no plans on what to do later. "Want me to get us some chocolate milkshakes," Gaby asked.

"Dude," he said smiling.

She rolled her eyes, knowing that meant yes and got up to go buy them. She felt guilty about it, but knew it would be easier if she had ice cream.

After buying them she went back to the table and started drink­ ing. Ok, it's not terrible. I just ate too much. I can't not do it. Thank God for the ice cream. At least, it won't hurt as much this time, she thought to herself.

31

"Earth to Gaby, come in Gaby," Brian waved his hand in her face. "You're like lost in another world. Whatcha' thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing, jpst about how much work we have to do at prac­ tice tonight to get ready for nationals. I can't believe they're only three weeks away." She felt guilty about lying to him, but technical­ ly she was worried about nationals, that just wasn't what she was currently thinking about.

"Gaby, you guys are awesome. You'll kick ass in Texas. I'm still taking you tonight right?" he asked her.

"Yea, if you can. Are you going to stay and watch?"

"If you want me to, then, of course. I'm always up for watching girls in tight shorts do flips and splits," he laughed.

She was an all-star cheerleader, and her squad was gomg to nationals in Dallas, Texas, that year.

"Hey, Bri, I'll be right back. I'm just gonna run to the bathroom before we go." She opened her backpack and grabbed her black purse as she stood up. She felt guilty as she walked to the bathroom but couldn't stop herself. It was as if she felt compelled by some force that would not let her stop. What goes down, must come up. she thought to herself. At least it will be easier because of the ice cream.

She walked clown the little hallway that led to the bathroom, opened the door and began what had become a frighteningly famil­ iar process. She closed the large gray door and locked it. She threw her purse onto the floor next to the door. She flipped her head upside down and taking the black hair band off her wrist she put her hair into a quick messy bun on top of her head. She always had the hair band for when she needed it. Using the toe of her left shoe, she kicked up the toilet seat. Leaning over the bowl she stuck her point­ er and middle finger of her right hand clown her throat. What goes down, must come up, she thought to herself again.

*****

She was finished. She used her foot to the· flush the toilet and kick the seat clown. Calmly she walked over to the mirror and turn­ ing on the faucet she rinsed off her hands and then splashed cold water on her face. She glanced at her hand, Next time I'm, going to have to nvitch fingers, or I'm going to get a mark on my knuckles 32

from the acid. She was meticulous about making sure nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The steps she went through to clean up were second nature to her now.

She gargled with cold water twice and then took a paper towel to dry off her face. She reached over to her purse and picked it up from the floor. She took out eye drops, a hairbrush, a pack of gum, and lip gloss, and laid them out on the sink. First, she popped a piece of gum into her mouth. Then she took the hair tie out and brushed her hair out, so it was shiny and flowing down to her shoulders again. Then she picked up the eye drops and leaned her head back, putting one drop in each eye. She blinked, and her eyes were clear again.

Unruffled from what she had just done, she glossed her lips and smiled at the mirror, but the sm.ile didn't quite reach her eyes. Just like new, he'll never notice. Picking up her purse from the counter she put everything back in and opened the bathroom door.

As she was walking back to Brian, she thought, Ok it's just this once. I won't do it again. I'll eat healthier and just work out extra f hard. I can do this. I could stop i I wanted to. She slapped a smile into place, and saw Brian see her, as a smile lit up his face. A little voice in the back of her head said, Yea, right, you won't do it again, until next time.

-Nicole Schiavoni

Just Another Day The house was immaculate. Everything had its own little place.

You could not find a stray crumb on the floor or on any of the coun­ ters. All the toys were in labeled boxes, the clothes had been put away, and the tiny shoes and jackets were lined up by the door. Then suddenly it happened.

"Mommy! I need you!" A small voice came out from a little room at the end of the hall.

"I'm coming sweetie," yelled a tired looking woman, pushing the hair out of her eyes, as she dragged herself down the hall. "What's

33

the matter, munchkin?" she asked, as she went through the door.

"Mommy, lay with me," the boy responded.

"Joey, it's five in the morning. It's time to go back to sleep."

"Mommy, lay with me, pppllleeasee," the boy asked again, dragging out the syllables.

"Ok, but just for a couple of minutes," she said, getting into bed with him. She closed her eyes for a minute.

"Mommy, what you doing?" the boy asked.

"Trying to sleep, you silly goose. You should join me."

"Mommy, you're silly."

"No, you're silly. I'm sleepy," she said as she snuggled him clos­ er. They lay together for a few more minutes, and the boy finally went back to sleep. Slowly the woman untangled her arms from him.

Inching away from the tangled mass of arms and blankets that was her son, she carefully put one foot on the floor and then the next, and silently walked backwards out of the room. "Time to start another clay," she whispered to herself.

An hour and a half later, after a long shower, Anne was dressed.

While making breakfast she started to hear voices in the other room.

"Daddy, it's wake up time! Daddy, wake up, wake up, wake up."

"Hey, goose. I was sleeping and you woke me up, silly head," the man said as he sat up in bed. "Where is your mommy at?"

"She's making breakfast," Joey responded. "Come on, Daddy.

I'm hungry," the little boy said, tugging on the man's hand. "Let's go!"

"Boys, it's pancake time," Anne yelled.

"I want pancakes, and syrup, and butter, and syrup, and pan­ cakes, and bacon!" the boy exclaimed excitedly.

"Well, someone is hungry," Anne said. To her husband she said, "Good Morning, Lee. Sleeping in a bit late, aren't you?"

"Come on, honey," he said, kissing her cheek. "It's Saturday, and besides it's only 8am!"

"Well, I've been up for two hours," she replied.

"Yes, but you're crazy," he said with a smile.

"Joey, let Mommy cut your pancakes up."

"I want too much syrup, Mommy," Joey said. "No, no, Mommy, 34

that's not enough. I want too much," he said again as Anne poured syrup on his plate.

"Wow, buddy, that's way too much syrup," Lee exclaimed, wink­ ing at his wife "Yes, it is!" Joey declared, with a smirking little smile. Then he dug into his breakfast.

"We need to go to Home Depot today," Lee said.

"Oh, joy, yet another exciting hour spent pointing out the same stuff I already told you I like the last fifty times we went there," Anne sighed. She hated going to Home Depot to pick out things for their house. Every time they went, Lee asked her to look at the same cab­ inets, the same carpeting, and the same tiles, she thought to herself.

"We need to decide on what tile you want for the bathroom, and we don't look at the same stuff every time we go," he said, reading her thoughts.

"Yes, we do," she said.

"No, we don't. If I picked out all this stuff, I would install it, and you would get mad saying that you hated everything, and I am not dealing with that, so we are going."

"Fine, but this is the last time!" she exclaimed. She said that every time they went.

Meanwhile, Joey had finished his breakfast and decided it was time to play. This, of course, meant that he got down from his chair and went over to the neatly labeled toy boxes and geared up to destroy the clean order of the house.

In the kitchen there was another form of chaos brewing. Anne was rinsing the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. She had an order for the way everything was done. With the dishes, it was rinse under scalding hot water and scrub with the scrubbing brush for at least thirty seconds. Followed by rinse again, and placed into the dishwasher. Plates went on the right side, ranging from large to small, then bowls on the left in the same order. Knives, forks, and spoons all had their own compartments in the silverware rack as well. Anne was particular about the way things were put away. She had a slight case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

As she was methodically washing and rinsing, Lee rambled on 35

about what they would need at Home Depot.

"We need to look at cabinets for the kitchen and for the bath­ room. I still want to put tile on the floor in the bathroom and then up the wall around the tub. Maybe brown tiles with streaks in them for the color. And then-" Anne interrupted him, "No, Lee, we talked about this. No more brown. You know I hate brown. It just looks like mud."

"Honey, it does not look like mud, and I like browns and earth tones."

"Yes, but I don't. Plus, since I'm the one who will be cleaning it, I get the final say."

"They don't call it the throne, because it's a girly room," Lee exclaimed. "Besides, we talked about this. It is the one room in the house that is mine. You can pick whatever colors you want. I don't even care if our bedroom is purple, but the bathroom is mine!" he said, in an exasperated tone, as they had been having this fight for days.

"Sweetie, I love you, but Joey and I will be using the bathroom as well, so it should be something we can all live with."

"Oh, like Joey really cares what the bathroom looks like."

"Well, maybe not, but I do. Come on! Can't we compromise?

How about a dark gray with streaks or a marble pattern?"

Lee looked thoughtful for a minute, "All right, maybe gray, we'JJ see what they have."

"Crash!" they both looked at each other.

"Joey!" Anne yelled, running into the other room. "What are you doing?"

"Mommy, I'm just booming my castle," he said in a patronizing tone of voice, as if she should have known.

"Buddy, you can't just crash everything," Lee told him. "You scared Mommy and me." Then he looked over at his wife. She looked dazed, "What's wrong, Anne?"

She looked around the room at the toy cars strewn across the car­ pet, and the train tracks half pulled out of their box. She glanced over at the huge pile of blocks surrounding her son. Then looking at her husband, she said sarcastically, "Gee, honey, I don't know. Maybe

36

it's the huge mess in the living room!" She ran into the other room with tears streaming down her face.

"Daddy, why Mommy crying?" Joey asked, in a little voice.

"I'm not sure, but you start picking up your cars, and I'll go find out. I'm sure she's fine."

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Anne sat on the bed with a bunch of tissues, whispering to herself, "Stupid, stupid, uuuggghh, I've got to stop these crying jags, or he's going to find out." She wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath just as Lee walked into the room.

"Hun, what's the matter? It's just a bunch of toys. Joey is out there right now picking them up," Lee said.

"It's nothing. I'm fine," Anne replied. "I just hate when things get messy, and I'm tired. I've just been working too much lately."

Suddenly inspired, she said, "Can you and Joey go to Home Depot and the playground? I really need to go grocery shopping, and we can go look at cabinets and tiles tomorrow. You can just pick up the dry wall and two-by-fours you needed today."

"I guess we could do that, but are you sure you're all right?" he asked her.

"I'm fine. I just want to get some food in the house for dinner and be alone for a little while."

"Ok, we'll go to the playground or something first, then to Home Depot. I guess we'll be back around 4:30 or five o'clock," he told her looking a little worried still, but he knew she would be fine.

Walking back out to the living room, Anne said, "Joey, do you want to go to the playground and then go to Daddy's store?"

"We going to the playground now!" Joey exclaimed, dropping his toys and running for the door.

"Hang on, buddy, you need your hat and your coat on first," Anne said, as she grabbed him up into a hug and placed his hat on his head.

"I love you, monkey."

"I love you, too, Mommy."

"What about me, no love for me?" Lee asked, jokingly.

"I love you, too, Daddy," Anne said, rolling her eyes and giving him a kiss goodbye.

The boys walked out the door, and Anne fell back on the couch,

37

"Phew, peace," she told herself quietly. "Now I just have to get this place cleaned up, go grocery shopping, and get ready for the sur­ prise."

*

****

Six hours later Anne was almost ready for the boys to come home. Dinner was cooking in the oven, and Anne was walking around making sure everything was perfect. She went through a mental checklist as she walked. In the living room, "Ok, I vacuumed.

Toys are in their boxes. Books are on the bookshelf." Walking into the dining room, she looked at the table. "Plates, silverware, cups, and napkins are set out," she said to herself. The table had a light blue tablecloth with tiny yellow flowers stitched around the edges.

The silverware gleamed on the white napkins she had folded into perfect triangles. Joey's highchair had been scrubbed free of all crumbs and was in its place at the right corner of the table.

Moving into the bedroom, Anne quietly spoke to herself, "Alright, the bed is made, laundry is put away, and I just vacuumed.

So all that's left is to lay out Joey's shirt and get dressed."

Carefully she pulled a light blue t-shirt out of the back of the closet. "He probably won't even notice," she mumbled, looking at the letters she had embroidered on her sewing machine the day before. She put the shirt on the bed, then got changed. She put on a summer dress. It was yellow with a long flowing skirt and thin straps going over her shoulders. She had bought the dress on her honey­ moon and always felt special when she wore it. She didn't bother with shoes, as she never wore any when they were in the house.

Walking out to the kitchen to check on dinner, she suddenly heard footsteps and a little voice coming to the door.

"Daddy, Daddy, I beat you! I won! I got to the door first!" Joey exclaimed.

"You beat me again," Lee said in a playfully sad tone. Then grabbing the boy up in his arms, "I'm going to get you next time. In fact I bet you I can run and give Mommy a hug faster then you can."

He put Joey down and reached for his keys. "Is that a deal?" he asked Joey.

"That's a deal," the boy responded.

38

Lee opened the door, and they both ran through it, straight at Anne. Lee was pretending to run fast, while Joey ran across the liv­ ing room into his mother's waiting arms.

"I got you, Momrny."

"No, silly, I've got you," she said twirling him around.

"I've got you both," said Lee hugging them both in big bear hug.

"I won again, Daddy!"

"You did? You're so much faster than me," Lee said, smiling down at him.

Anne took Joey's jacket off and said, "Joe, your shirt is all dirty.

We better go put a new one on and wash your hands before dinner."

Then to her husband, "You go unload whatever you bought at the store and then go wash up as well."

He rolled his eyes, saying, "I don't need to be reminded to wash my hands." Then he walked outside to unload the truck.

Anne and Joey went back to the bedroom, and she put his new shirt on him. Then they went into the bathroom, and he said, "No, no, Mommy. I can do it myself." He pulled his little stool over to the sink, stepped up on to it, and turned on the faucet. Then he pushed down on the soap bottle, and his little hands filled with foamy soap.

"You're right, Joey. I guess you're a big boy now, huh?"

"Yup, I'm a big boy," Joey responded, turning off the faucet and jumping down from the stool.

They went out into the living room, and Anne said, "Ok, you play with your toys while Mommy finishes dinner, but don't make a big mess. Just play with one thing, like your cars."

"Ok, Mommy," Joey said, wandering over to his box of cars that he called his car garage.

Anne went in the kitchen and started putting their dinner on to serving dishes. She put the corn into one bowl, followed by the sweet potatoes into another. Then she placed the ribs onto a large oval shaped platter. She went into the fridge and grabbed the bottle of barbeque sauce, and dumped it into a little bowl. She microwaved it for thirty seconds and then put a pastry brush in the bowl.

"Time for dinner, guys," Anne shouted, carrying the dishes out to the table. "It's all your favorites."

39

"Mmmrn, smells good," Lee said.

"Yummy ribs," Joey exclaimed, climbing up into his chair.

"Yup, we're having baby back ribs, baby sweet corn, and mashed sweet potatoes," Anne announced. "Plus I have baby crescent rolls in the oven."

"You sure went all out for dinner, Anne," Lee said. "Are we cele­ brating something special and I forgot?"

Anne rolled her eyes, "It's just a special night, Lee." Ugh, he can be so dense sometinies, she thought to herself, as she walked into the kitchen to see if the rolls were done.

Bringing the rolls back out to the table in a lined basket, Anne sat down saying, "Time to say grace."

"Goel is good. God is great. God, we thank thee for this food. By his hands we are feel. Thank you, Lord, for our daily bread. Amen."

"Ok. Let's eat," Lee said, rubbing his hands together.

***** "Ok, who wants to help Mommy clear the dishes?" Anne asked, picking up her plate and two serving bowls on her way to the kitchen.

"I help you, Mommy," Joey said, climbing clown from his chair and carefully picking up his plate.

They went into the kitchen, and Anne set her dishes on the count­ er. Joey put clown his plate and then ran into the living room to play.

Lee waked into the kitchen carrying his plate.

"Hun, that was delicious, but you didn't have to go through so much trouble. It isn't like we're celebrating or anything."

"You're right, Lee. Of course, we're not celebrating anything.

Why on earth would we do that!" she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation and going back out to the dining room for the remain­ ing dishes.

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing. You didn't say anything. Or notice anything. Just like always."

"I don't know what I did, honey."

"Just go play with Joey. Maybe then you'll figure it out."

40

Lee walked into the living room and sat down on the floor with Joey and the cars. "Sometimes I think Mommy is just being silly," he told Joey.

"Yea. Mommy's silly."

Lee looked at Joey, "Hey, buddy, what does your shirt say?"

"I don't know," Joey responded. "What does it say?"

Lee pulled Joey up to his feet and read the shirt, just as Anne walked into the room. He looked at the shirt, and then he looked at Anne with wonder in his eyes and asked, "Does this mean what I think it does?"

She nodded, too choked up to speak.

He got up and started to cross the room to her. "You mean we're going to ... ? I'm going to have another ... ?"

"Yes," she responded quietly.

He hugged her to him and spun her around the room, whooping and hollering.

"What? What's so exciting about my shirt?" Joey asked, looking down at it trying to figure out what could be so interesting about some words. /'1n the big brother.

-Nicole Schiavoni

The Beast

"Your Majesty! The beast, he's loose!" screamed one of King Stephen's many knights. The knight must have been in his early Christian mood, for he was clearly ready to throw himself to the lions - the wrath of King Stephen was known far and wide through­ out all of Denmark, and no one dared disrupt his peace. Outside, townsfolk could be seen from the brick window, scurrying to under­ ground hiding holes. Chaos echoed throughout the land.

"What?" roared the king as he strode closer to the brick window of the castle's hall. "Who awoke him? Who will lull him back to sleep?" King Stephen demanded without pausing for breath. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, darkness licked away at the roofs 41

of the village's huts. Fog swelled from the ocean and was drifting inward.

"Perhaps this time we should kill him, Sire. Over five hundred villagers died last time he attacked the village. The repairs from that catastrophe just finished last week ... " "Fine. Go slay him." King Stephen turned away from the win足 dow and began walking to the door, indicating the conversation was over.

"What?" the knight squeaked as he fo11owed the king toward the exit. "Your Majesty, I was merely suggesting we slay him, not off足 offering my body up for his la-lunch," the knight stuttered as the king turned to face him. The knight's face had changed to a unique hue of green. "The last knight who tried to slay him... he, he was found with his innards seeping through his chain mail. Please, Sire, I am only ten and six. I'm still in training on the battlefields for war...

I cannot fight a beast!"

"Fine. I will find a braver knight, then," snarled the king. "Find the man responsible for his current rampage, damn it!" His patience was wearing thin, and the vein over his left temple began to pulsate.

With this, King Stephen left the mead hall and proceeded to his din足 ing hall to find his advisor. The king was a handsome man but not in the usual sense of the word. He was handsome in the way a storm is, the beauty of the storm rather than the beauty of a flower. He was tall and heavily built; the only hints of delicacy about him were his dense, faintly curving dark eyelashes and the curving line of his lips.

He had many scars; however, they served to enhance rather than diminish his aura of male power.

His boots slammed against the cracked stone floor, sounding as if the beast himself had entered the castle. When King Stephen final足 ly reached the dining hall, he saw that only one candle was lit. The light flickered across the shiny bald head of a man held captive by his sleep. King Stephen cleared his throat in an attempt to subtly wake his sleeping friend; however, his effort was futile. His anger rising, he clapped his advisor, Sir Henry, on the back of the head and snapped him from his dream world.

Sitting upright abruptly, his advisor inquired, "What's hap42

pened? You look as though you are preparing for war. Should I grab my battle-axe? Is that, is that screams I hear?"

"The beast is loose." All of the advisor's questions were answered in those four words.

"Who woke him?" demanded Sir Henry as he stood so quickly his chair toppled to the ground. Marching over to the window, he peered out and gasped at the ruined huts. Through the window he would see an innocent village surrounded by rolling hills, thick dark forest, and ruinous fire.

"We need to kill him."

"Who would willingly forfeit his life?"

"I will."

"But, Sire, you cannot. Our ties with the neighboring villages would fail without you, and you have no heir. Who would rule?" The advisor began pacing the gravel floor; clouds of dust kicked into the air with each step. "I cannot allow you to battle him alone."

"You will help me?" King Stephen asked with a raised eyebrow.

His advisor was advanced in age and suffered from severe arthri­ tis. "Yes, I will help you. With my strategic skills and your power, we might stand a chance," the advisor explained confidently.

"We will depart for battle at dawn, then." Ending the conversa­ tion, King Stephen left the dining hall in search of his wife.

He searched the bedchamber and her sitting room, to no avail.

After speaking to a servant, he learned that she was last seen in the castle garden near the fountain. Opening the gate leading to the gar­ den, he called, "Christina!"

"Need you yell? I am right here," Christina playfully yelled back.

She watched her husband as he turned and discovered her a few feet away reading under an old Rowan tree.

"Yes, I must. The beast is loose again, and I do not want you leaving the castle for any reason."

"So, since the beast is loose, I am to become a prisoner in my own abode?" Placing her leather-bound book aside, Christina stood up and brushed the clinging grass from her skirts. "No beast is going to turn me into a coward. If I desire a new loom, I will walk to the carpenter's hut, and if I desire--" 43

"Quiet! Arguing with you is like wrestling shadows, futile and useless. I have allowed you many freedoms--some say too many for the carrier of my heir, but no more. The beast is dangerous and cause for extra protection. I ao 1Yot want you stepping outside the castle for any reason. If you desire a new loom, send someone else. If I find you disobeying me, I will not hesitate to lock you in our bed cham­ ber."

"You will-" "You will do as I am asking."

"Oh, I didn't realize it was a request. It sounded more like a demand."

Finding patience, he sighed, "Christina, you are carrying my heir, and I do not want harm to come to either of you." He lifted her head to his cheek and rubbed his thumb along her jaw line. Tilting her face upward, he looked into her clear sapphire eyes and said, "Please, listen to me. I could not bear losing you." Letting his other hand drift toward her slightly protruding stomach, he continued, "Or you. Sir Henry and I are leaving at dawn to slay the beast."

"Do you have to fight? Can't someone else go instead?"

Christina fretted. Gloom filled the air making it impossible to breathe.

"We allowed that last time. This time I must do the job myself."

Releasing an uneasy breath, she replied, "I understand. I will pray for a fast and victorious return. May the gods protect you."

Although she was worried about her husband's safety, she knew he was a vicious fighter- some of the villagers even called him "King Stephen the Undefeated." She gave her husband a quick kiss before linking her arm in his. Together, they walked through the garden gates and approached the castle. They attended the night Mass in the chapel and then retired to their bedchamber.

Awakening at the early hours of the day, King Stephen left his sleeping Queen and proceeded to the castle armory. The walls of the armory were cluttered with long bows, battle axes, swords, shields, sabers, battle hammers, and numerous other deadly weapons. The great warrior strolled across the vast, dimly lit room toward the full body armor suit hanging in the left comer of the room. W hen he

44

reached his armor, he began to dress. He donned his bulky chain mail first. His chest plate followed the chain mail. Dressed in everything except for his helmet, which he held under his arm, and ambling towards the weaponry walls, King Stephen freed his grandfather's sword and shield from the rusty hooks. He clasped the sword to his side and remembered the day his grandfather had given it to him.

Kneeling in front of his childhood hero, Stephen felt the hefty weight on the sword upon one shoulder and then the other as his grandfather knighted him. After he was knighted, Stephen stood tall and his grandfather handed him his gold encrusted sword. Stephen stared at rubies that glittered and looked up in amazement when his grandfather said, "Some day you will rule this land, as your father has done, I have done, my father has done before me. This sword has brought many past victories for this village, and I hope it will con­ tinue."

Looking up from his sword, King Stephen continued gazing at the wall in search of another weapon. Finally, he reached out and pulled his flail from the loaded wall. He held the stick in his right hand and let the heavy spiked ball fall from his left hand, testing the length and durability of the chain. Satisfied, he left the hall in search of Sir Henry. It was time to defend the village.

King Stephen found Sir Henry in the mead hall. He, too, was dressed for battle. Wearing his battered armor and carrying his shield, he was a formidable being. The two men left the castle at dawn and headed for the stable. The stable boy produced two mas­ sive steeds armed in chain mail. Ready for their destiny, the men mounted and headed towards the Devil's Woods.

Their horses' hooves clattered against the courtyard stones and over the drawbridge. They rode past the villagers' huts and crossed a stone bridge. They traveled through a small meadow where the grass had just begun to turn golden on the tips and the fireflies danced wildly in the fog. Finally, they reached the entrance of the woods; they paused only a moment before continuing down the third path.

Local folklore claimed that the third path led to the Devil himself, but nothing could sway these men from their mission.

As they traveled deeper into the woods, the wind whipped 45

through the trees tossing up fallen leaves in its path. King Stephen and Sir Henry slowed the steeds to a trot and eventually a stop.

Dismounting a few feet away from the murky cave, they tethered their mounts to a nearby tree where the steeds could graze and rest.

Darkness licked at the edges of the cave, beckoning the men to their fate.

Before entering the cave, the warriors unsheathed their swords.

The jewels on the sword's hilt bit into Sir Henry's palm as he gripped it. Gargling echoed from within the cave, but neither man cowered.

With raised chins and heightened senses, they stepped into the cave. Sir Henry almost lost his footing in the muddy earth, but found his balance just in time. They ambled through fallen branches and rock rubble, and a pungent smell of dung assaulted their olfactory senses. From a distance they found the source of the odor. In the belly of the cave lay a scaly beast chomping on his dinner, an inno­ cent deer. The hideous monster was facing the west side of the cage, which gave view to a few decaying corpses. Blood oozed from its mouth as it tore a limb from the deer. Its razor-like teeth sliced through the meat with ease. The beast had a long, deadly snout designed to snap the neck of even the largest creatures. From their position the beast did not look so big; however, as they approached, they saw it was twice the size of an ordinary man.

With a glance at his companion, King Stephen nodded toward the east side of the cave. Sir Henry slid along one wall of the cave, while King Stephen glided along the other. When Sir Henry saw that the king was in fighting range of the beast, he threw a large rock at the beast's head. The rock lodged itself in the beast's eye. With a roar of outrage, the beast dropped his meat, and an angered eye searched the cave wall for that which caused the disruption. Pushing itself onto all fours, the monster began to stalk Sir Henry.

While the beast's attention was directed toward Sir Henry, King Stephen dashed forward, and with his sword held high, he slashed at the beast's hind legs. Growling in pain, it turned and moved toward the king. Sir Henry ran forward to strike the beast, but slipping and nearly falling on a dung pile, he gave the beast ample time to turn

46

around. It angrily thrashed its claw through the air at Sir Henry, who flew across the cave; his sword slipped from his hand as he hit the cave wall. The beast closed in on the fallen man and raised its pow­ erful claws again; however, King Stephen had chosen that time to strike the beast's other leg. The creature turned toward King Stephen and slashed its claw. King Stephen, expecting the blow, dodged the bloody claw and raised his sword high into the belly of the beasts.

Slime oozed from the wound and pooled at King Stephen's feet.

Sir Henry rushed up from behind the beast to wound it again; however, it turned at that moment and swung its muscular front leg at him, and Sir Henry hit a jagged stone of the cave wall. He landed with a thud near the forgotten deer meat; red liquid streamed from his temple and ran downward towards his shoulder. His eyes closed in an unconscious stupor.

The creature quickly pivoted back to King Stephen, the beast's claw already raised, meant to attack the King. The warrior had bare­ ly brought his shield up in time to deflect the glearning claw, which dripped with his friend's blood. The claw crashed onto the metal shield with a force that echoed through the cave. A weaker man would have been flattened by the sudden attack. As it was, the force of the blow sent King Stephen reeling; he went to one knee before he caught himself. Again the beast's claws descended with hellish speed. King Stephen raised his shield without a second to spare, but this time he braced for the attack. Even as he absorbed the force, he raised his sword and sliced through the beast's claw. The claw fell and lay languid against the dusty cave floor. While the monster was in shock, the warrior clutched his flail and began swinging it in a powerful sweeping motion. The flail began to hum and whistle a tune of death. It caught the beast under its jaw and jerked the mon­ strous head backward. Scales and flesh splattered on King Stephen and the walls. After the beast had fallen, King Stephen climbed upon the great monster; with his sword, he beheaded it.

King Stephen moved breathlessly toward his friend. "Henry!

Henry, wake up! 'Tis done! We have slain the beast!" No movement occurred, though. He knelt beside his embattled companion, and removing his friend's helmet, King Stephen placed his hand upon Sir 47

Henry's neck. Upon feeling a slow, steady pulse, he breathed again.

He then hoisted Sir Henry up and onto his shoulder and staggered out of the beast's cave. Once he had reached their mounts, he posi­ tioned Sir Henry against an oak tree. King Stephen then hielt and wiped the blood from Sir Henry's face.

Feeling the cool, fresh rush of air caress his cheek, Sir Henry regained consciousness. When he saw King Stephen's smile, he cheered, "You've done it!"

"Not without your help, old man. Are you able to ride?"

"Of course, I am. Couldn't let you throw me over your steed so you can take all the credit!" Sir Henry said laughingly.

Victorious, King Stephen and Sir Henry rode confidently through the woods towards the village. Once they reached the vil­ lage, the townspeople began to run behind them cheering, for they knew the beast had been slain.

They trotted back over the drawbridge and neared the castle. At the front doors, both men dismounted. King Stephen rushed over to his wife, who had heard the joyful shouts and ran to the castle entrance to welcome her husband home. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms when he reached her and kissed her in front of the whole village. Christina, overcome, heard the townspeople whistling and the banging of the shields on the castle's walls; with scarlet cheeks, she pulled away and whispered to her husband, "Good to see you home." When they turned toward their unwanted audience, they noticed the fog had begun to retreat back toward the sea. Sunlight spilled through the clouds, and like gold fingers, it touched the small village.

- Christina Klinke

Insanity Leads to Rapture The cold winter rain beat hard on the broad front window of the local bar. A tall muscular male in his late twenties entered the bar and loosened the tie around his neck. A deep growl escaped his lips

48

as he requested a beer and slumped onto a stool at the far end of the room. As he took a sip of the frothy cool beverage, a small man in his eighties entered. He removed his well-worn grey jeff cap, shook off his huge navy blue golf umbrella, and slid into the stool next to the young man.

"You look down, son," the old man observed, reaching his wrinkly right hand to accept a bourbon from the bartender. The young man raised his eyes and grunted, "Miserable week."

In spite of his own misery, he smirked at the funny old man enjoying his drink next to him. "You seem rather pleasant," he added.

The old man grinned and replied, 'Tm slowly slipping into senil­ ity." He took a slow sip from the glass and added, "I used to be very sharp in my day. But, insanity leads to rapture, my boy, rapture." The young man furrowed his eyebrows. The elderly man noticed the con­ fused look, "Ah, it is only when you slip completely into the abyss that you realize how anything reality has to offer, how it all, pales in comparison. You will see one day, my boy, when you reach my state."

"Reach your state?" the young man questioned.

"What is your name?" the old man asked.

"Tony ... Antonio Potalivo," the young man replied, accepting the old man's hand to shake.

"John McIntyre," the aged man said. The rain continued to ham­ mer on the glass, as a giant black bird flew onto the ledge outside, peering its 2 beady black eyes at the interior's occupants.

"What do you mean, 'Reach your state'?" Tony inquired, again.

"You've already begun, my boy, I can tell," John replied.

"You're starting to creep me out," Tony laughed.

"All in due time you'll understand, all in due time," John said.

"Lemme guess, I'm too young," Tony sighed, "Anyway, the beer is starting to work its way through me. I'll be right back," Tony excused himself to the bathroom. As he wandered back to the bar, he realized his companion had left, leaving behind money for the drinks and his newspaper, carelessly left open to the obituaries. For lack of anything better to do, Tony browsed the depressing section. His jaw

49

dropped, as he did a double take of the headline: LOCAL WEALTHY FORTUNE 500 CEO, JOHN MCINTYRE, PASSED AWAY AFTER YEARS OF BEING ON LIFE SUPPORT DUE TO MENTAL ILLNESS AND COMA. Tony quickly flipped to the front of the paper to check the date. It was last week's paper.

"No way," Tony mumbled, "I think I've had enough to drink tonight." He got up from his seat and walked outside. The rain had subsided as he stumbled his way home down the wet streets.

"Insanity, he was insane. What an odd old man. Insane? I'm not insane. Insanity is rapture. What does that even mean?"

He fumbled with the small silver key at his apartment's door.

Crashing through the door, he began to peel off his clothes, to take a shower. He turned on the water and stepped into the shower.

"Insanity, rapture, insanity. How can insanity lead to rapture. How..."

As the hot water beat his back, he began to relax, the stress of the week melted away. His muscles loosened, and his anxiety lessened.

"Rapture. Insanity." He felt tired, as he gave into the calming effect of the hot shower. He slowly sat in the shower, closing his eyes, repeating, "Insanity, rapture, rapture. Insanity."

He opened his eyes a moment later to find he wasn't in his show足 er at all. He was sitting in rain in the woods. "Where am I?" he won足 dered, looking around. "I haven't been here in years." The woods had been a place of his childhood, which he hadn't revisited since his parents' divorce. He gathered what little strength he had and strug足 gled to stand up. As he turned around he found himself face-to-face with John F. Kennedy. Tony stared incredulously at him. "Wha, what are you doing here?" he stammered, amazed.

"The best road to progress is freedom's road," President Kennedy began, "and insanity is the epitome of freedom."

"What are you talking about? You 're dead! You shouldn't be here," Tony exclaimed, confused.

"You need me here. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. You have the control here," President Kennedy responded. "Remember, like our great president Franklin D. Roosevelt said," his face morph足 ing to resemble FDR's, "'There is nothing to fear, but fear itself'."

***** 50

T he front door to the apartment opened, and Tony's roommate, Orlando, walked in. "Tony!" Orlando shouted. "Yo, man! I'm home."

He walked down the hall to the bathroom and heard the water running. "Yo, man, I gotta use the john! You almost done?" He knocked several times. "Oh, well! I warned you!" He opened the door and jumped in surprise to find his best friend collapsed in the shower. He sprinted to the phone to call 911. Within twenty minutes the paramedics arrived.

"What happened, sir?" the tall slender female paramedic asked Orlando.

"I. ..I just came home. He was there. Just there ... bleeding ... just there ... " Orlando stumbled. ''I'm sorry," her partner said, approaching them. "He isn't gain­ ing consciousness. We will have to take him in, but I'm not sure he will ever come out of this catatonic state." Orlando's mouth fell open in shock.

"We will be taking him into St. Francis' Psychiatric Hospital," the medic continued. With that the duo took the injured Tony to the hospital. ***** Tony explored the woods. As he walked he became tired. He found a dry spot under a great oak tree. He sat and closed his eyes.

"Just for a minute," he mumbled to himself, "I'll just rest for a minute."

He opened his eyes and found himself right smack in the middle of Time's Square, about to be rammed by a brown Hyundai Santa Fe. He leapt out of the way, just in time to avoid the Santa Fe, but not the yellow taxi that sped around the corner. The impact sent him fly­ ing through the air, his shoes flying off. He landed on the sidewalk and found himself looking up at a large brunette Caucasian man. He was dressed in scrubs and had an angry scow. He swiftly smacked Tony in the face. Tony's groan was met by another harsh smack, and he fell into darkness.

He reopened his eyes to find himself lying on a bench in Guiyang Park, in China. He sat up dazed. Who was that? he wondered. Did 51

he, did he hit me? He stood up and began to walk down one of the paths. People meandered down the paths of the park and Tony over­ heard bits of conversations, understanding the foreign language per­ fectly.

"A catatonic state, poor boy."

"We can up the meds, but, there is no guarantee."

"I wonder where that bruise came from ... " "I heard the poor man slipped in the shower. What a pity."

Who are these people talking about? Tony wondered. His stomach tightened and heart sank. They are talking about me, he realized.

I'm, I'm in a hospital? He sat on a bench, highly confused. He pieced together everything he knew, everything he remembered. The scrubs, he thought, he must work at the hospital. As he thought, he neglect­ ed to notice the stray baseball flying at his head. The ball's impact to his head created a sharp pain in his temple. He looked at the person who had such horrible aim. He found himself staring right at the same man in scrubs, whom he had just seen in New York, only a blink ago. He stormed up to Tony and punched him in the face, snatching his ball out of Tony's hands. The punch made Tony dizzy, and for a moment he snapped out of his catatonic state. He found himself staring face to face with his attacker, in a clean white hospi­ tal room; then, closed his eyes as the attack continued. He willed himself back to the park. He was alone.

It all makes sense now. He thought, I, I don't know, but, it is starting to make sense. All I need is a plan of attack. I need to pro­ tect myself. He closed his eyes to think. Upon opening his eyes he found himself in a relatively empty room sitting at a large metal desk. He looked down in front of him to find a paper with the names of some of the most noted people in history: Hitler, Stalin, Churchill.

The phone to his left rang. Once. Twice. Tony picked it up. "Are you ready for your first appointment, sir?" a sweet voice asked on the other end of the line.

"Uhh, ye, yes," he stammered, confused. 'Tm, uh, ready." The door opened and revealed a short man with a very unattractive mus­ tache. He was followed closely by a small yellow dog.

A faint whisper escaped Tony's lips, "Hitler?"

52

"Guten Morgen," he began, "I understand you need an extermi­ nator."

Tony spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Not so much an exterminator, as a defense."

"Strength lies not in defense, but in attack," he replied decisive­ ly.

"Well, I want to come up with a fool proof plan. I want to use reason and thought," Tony said.

"I use emotion for the many, and reserve reason for the few," Hitler countered. Then addressing his dog, he said, "Isn't that right, Blondie? We use emotion."

"Uh, ok, well, thank you, Mr., uh, Hitler," Tony said.

Hitler mumbled something to Blondie and left the room, slam­ ming the door behind him.

Seconds later the phone rang again. "Sir," the voice came, sound­ ing confused, "a man is here to see you. He calls himself, 'the Decider."'

Before Tony could say anything to the receptionist, a man wear­ ing a cape burst through the door.

"I am the Decider, heh heh," the man exclaimed.

"Next!" Tony shouted as he realized George W. Bush was stand­ ing in front of him. As President Bush turned to leave, the largest man Tony had ever seen rose to come in. He brusquely walked through the door, effortlessly carrying a large bulky bow and quiver full of arrows. He stood in front of the desk and dropped his massive bow on the ground, then took a seat and crossed his legs. The most curiously feminine voice escaped his lips.

"So what are we gonna do about this problem?" Genghis Khan asked.

"That's why I called on you," Tony replied, holding back his laughter.

"Well," Khan started, "Unless you just wanna kill 'im, I don't know what else to tell ya."

"Um, thank you, Mr. Khan," Tony said.

"Suit yourself!" Khan got up to leave, shrugging his shoulders.

He picked up his bow and left. The phone rang.

53

"Mr. Chmchill for you, sir," the receptionist said.

"Let him in," Tony replied.

"Mr. Churchill," Tony began, feeling much more comfortable talking to men that should be dead, "I hope you will be more help than the last few men who came to see me. I'm having such a hard time! I don't know what to do, and I'm getting very frustrated."

"Ah, I see, I understand. Well, like I always say, attitude is a lit­ tle thing that makes a big difference. You need to gain some confi­ dence, boy! What truly matters is confidence and attitude."

"What do you mean, I don't know how!" Tony exclaimed.

"Meditation always works for me. You need to learn to find peace and focus," Churchill said. "But I must be going. I have a meeting I must attend." He rose from the chair. "I will see you around, my boy," he said as he left the room, holding the door for President Washington.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Washington inquired.

"I need strategy. I have an enemy I need to defeat," Tony replied.

"Hmm, I see," Washington thought. "Well, first thing is first," he said, taking a piece of paper to draw up some plans. "Now," he con­ tinued, "you need to have a clear mind. You need enlightenment."

"Enlightenment? What?" Tony asked confused.

"What do you think I did? Cross my fingers and hope for the best? You need to meditate and think!" Washington cried out. "Now, I must go and speak to a woman about a flag." He got up, bowed, and swiftly left the room.

Tony sat, looking over the plans that President Washington had drawn up for him, when there was a timid knock on the door. "Come in," Tony shouted.

T he door opened to reveal a very small, slender man, whose bones could easily be seen though his skin. "Namaste," he said.

"Nama-what?" Tony asked, "W hat does that mean?"

"May the light inside of me guide the light inside of you," Gandhi said. "It is how we say hello. I understand you need training in the fine arts of meditation and yoga."

"Yes," Tony answered, "How do we begin?"

54

***** Tony wandered the streets of London. He watched the different people going about their different ways. The sky was overcast.

Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in the side of his head. It's time, he thought to himself. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the crowd­ ed sidewalk and closed his eyes. He slowly cleared his mind the way Gandhi had showed him. Noises were suddenly inaudible, people began to vanish off the sidewalk, and the stores faded away. He was alone in a large empty space. As the attack worsened, he concentrat­ ed harder. The punches wouldn't subside. Tony began to hum the mantra he was taught. It got louder as the attack became more vio­ lent.

Tony opened his eyes. He was looking right at the man who was inflicting so much pain. Tony grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him closer. The man, stunned, was unable to move. Tony whispered to the man, "Namaste, may the light inside of me guide the light inside of you. Goodbye." He sighed. Closing his eyes again, he slipped back to his new reality.

Tony decided that he would like to sleep in a field looking at the stars. He drifted to sleep quickly, slept peacefully, and was awakened by the rising sun. What shall I have for breakfast? he thought to him­ self. He closed his eyes and upon opening them, found himself in the streets of Madrid. He walked into a small bakery and purchased a churro. As he sat at a small metal table outside the store he overheard the girls at the tables next to him chatting.

"Did you hear what happened to Peter?" a beautiful brunette asked her friend. "I heard he was attacked by a patient."

"Yeah, he got transferred. Do you suppose he was the one abus­ ing the patients?" her friend replied.

"We'll find out soon enough! Hopefully no more patients will be injured."

Tony sm.iled to himself and continued to eat his breakfast.

The months passed and Tony was able to conjure up whatever he wanted. He was able to travel wherever he desired. One night, he sat at the top of Big Ben. He looked out across the city. As he sat, he thought about his girlfriend. She had always wanted to visit 55

England.

*****

There was a hard knock on the door Monday morning. Tony answered it. Two 111·e11 clressed in the unifonn of Pennsylvania police officers stood in front of him.

"Antonio Potalivo?" the first officer asked.

"Yes," Tony replied uneasily.

"Your fiance was in an accident," the second officer stated.

Tony's eyes widened in fear and shock. "We need you to come iden­ tify the body."

Tony felt his heart race. He felt nauseous. "Wha' What? Identify the body? Wha'-what happened?"

"There was a car accident on the freeway at 7:30 this morning.

T here was severe damage to her cranium and upper body."

Tony was shaking so badly he could barely contain himself, "Take me to her."

They arrived at the hospital morgue within ten minutes. A white blanket covered the woman Tony was prepared to pledge his life to.

Her delicate hand had slipped off the table, revealing the stunning engagement ring residing on her finger. As the man prepared to remove the blanket, Tony stopped him.

"I, I can't. I gave her that ring. I know it's her. I can't see her dis­ figured." Tony began crying.

Several days later the funeral took place. Tony was devastated with grief. He left the funeral feeling as though part of himself had died and would never recover. He walked down the block in the rain.

He thought of the beautiful woman, the love of his life, who had been stolen away from him. He stopped in front of a bar and entered.

A deep growl escaped his lips as he requested a beer and slumped onto a stool at the far end of the room. As he took a sip of the frothy cool beverage, he noticed John McIntyre enter. John walked over to Tony and sat.

"So, my boy, have you reached rapture yet?" John asked.

"No," Tony answered miserably, "but, I think I know what I need to do."

***

56

**

Tony found himself sitting on a lounge chair on a clean, beauti­ ful beach. There was an empty lounge chair next to him. He looked out to the ocean and said, "Can you hand me a drink?"

A dainty hand with a sfuni1ing engagement ring reached over, handing him a drink. Tony looked at her.

"We will never be separated again. I love you," she said, smiling.

"I love you, too," Tony replied. As the couple looked out to the ocean, a faint noise could be heard, like that of a heart monitor flatlining.

-Elizabeth Levy

The Storm The storm preyed upon the town with unmatched ferocity. The trees bent nearly sideways, but the rustling of their leaves was scarcely audible over the pounding thunder. The lights across the town had been extinguished for hours, and only the intermittent crash of lightning offered a small illumination. A brief flash revealed a figure sprinting frantically down Main Street. Another flash and she tripped over her white nightgown, flying face first into a puddle.

Her cries were audible now, as if even the storm paused to listen.

She pushed herself up, her feet sliding in panic, but continued to run. Her feet ached from pounding the concrete, and her knees buck­ led unceasingly because of fear and exhaustion.

The storm continued its battle over the town as the girl frantical­ ly searched for somewhere to hide. Her lungs burned, her body beg­ ging her to stop, just for a second, but instead she increased her speed. Lightning viciously ripped into a tree to her left, and she screamed as half of it fell over onto the road. Her heart pounded in her ears, deafening compared to the thunder. The storm had frozen the air, but her body did not feel the cold. Her skin could only feel the rain and her own sweat.

She doubted that she could go on much longer. She had compet­ ed in several marathons, but that all seemed so long ago. She knew that her body could not take much more of a beating.

57

She knew she had to leave the open road. She knew, without slowing her pace, that another pair of feet pounded the road behind her. Her instinct told her to hide in the woods, but her fear of the dark kept her in the open. Her eyes darted to the left, seeing nothing but trees and darkness. She had not ventured into the woods since her attack six years ago. She reluctantly veered to the left, knowing that the woods were her only hope of survival.

She thought she heard her name as she ducked under a tree, but she did not stop. She kept up her pace as best she could, tripping over branches and rocks, but still running. When she reached the spot­ that horrible spot that had plagued her thoughts and dreams for the last six years-she stopped to catch her breath and to listen. The only audible sounds were the chirping of crickets and the rumble of retreating thunder, but she stood as still as possible and strained to hear anything that signaled that she was being followed.

Saiisfied that she had thwarted her pursuer, she sat down on a log and sank her head into her lap. Her lungs still begged for air, and she breathed heavily while finally letting her tears out. She did not want to run anymore. She wanted to stop, to start over, to forget every­ thing. She sobbed as she squashed her own hopes, knowing that she would always be running.

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on breathing. Suddenly, the air chilled. She opened her eyes and saw her breath coming out in a thick fog. She realized that she was no longer in her nightgown, but in jeans and a sweater, and she held a cigarette. Instinctively, she squashed it against the log. She had not touched a cigarette in six years, and her mind raced as she tried to remember where the ciga­ rette had come from. Before she could even think, a hand clamped across her mouth, dragging her to her feet.

Her eyes bulged and she tried to scream, but the glove on her mouth muffled her cries. She tried to kick, but realized that her feet were not even touching the ground. She flailed her arms right and left, but her attacker stood back, and she could not reach him. She clawed at the hand at her mouth, but it held fast. She felt the cold leather glove touch her stomach, and she screamed as loud as she could as she realized that the hand headed for the button of her jeans.

58

She screamed as loud as she could, biting into the glove, until she felt a hard jab into her temple. She glanced up, saw a glimmer of steel, and realized with a frightening clarity that there was a gun pointed at her head. She relaxed her muscles, even as her :attacker barked gruffly, "Don't move. Don't scream."

He waited a moment to ensure that she was calm, and he took his hand from her mouth. She pursed her lips together as she forced her足 self to stay silent. Again she felt the cold glove on her stomach, but she focused all her attention on the gun, still pressing into her tem足 ple. She waited carefully, her heart pounding in fear and anticipation.

The moment he bent his knees to tug her jeans down, she ducked. He fired the gun, the bullet just barely missing her head. She grabbed his hand with both of hers, fighting to point the gun at his chest, but the second bullet lodged in her thigh. She screamed in agony as over足 whelming pain shot through her leg.

Despite her wound, she still struggled with the gun. She felt his finger move to pull the trigger again, and she pushed with all of her might into his hand, and against his other arm which held her back.

She smiled through her gritted teeth as the bullet hit his foot. When he winced in pain, she wiggled her finger toward the trigger, still fighting to point it at his chest. She pulled the trigger, and he lunged forward in pain, knocking her onto the cold, hard ground. He held his stomach as blood poured out onto his glove, and she took advan足 tage of his weakened state. She hurried to stand up, and she kicked his arm with all of her strength, sending the gun flying into the brush. She scrambled after it, and with lightning speed she turned, pulled the trigger, and sent a bullet straight into his skull.

She gasped for breath and her eyes darted right, left, up, down, trying desperately to assess her surroundings. She was in the woods on a log in her nightgown, and her face was soaked with tears. She laughed nervously as she realized she must have fallen asleep and that she was not reliving her attack. Her smile vanished from her face as she heard a branch snap in the distance, and her knees shook as she fearfully pushed herself up from the log and began to run.

She ran deeper into the woods. Everything became thicker as she plunged forward. The fog became a blanket, and she strained her 59

eyes to see. Twice she clenched her teeth in pain as her shoulder hit a tree that she had not been able to see. Still, she pressed on. She tripped, flying forward and hitting her head on a wood post. Before scrambling up, she realized that the post was actually a mailbox. Her brows knit in confusion as she realized that she had stumbled upon a house.

The house, aged and dark, seemed ominous and forbidding. She bit her lip as she pondered how it was possible that there was a house in the middle of the woods that she did not know about. She had lived her entire life in the same town, and the woods had been her safe haven from the time she was in eighth grade until she was twen足 ty-one.

Apprehensively, she stepped onto the porch of the dark mansion.

It seemed uninhabited, but she still crept up to the door and slowly turned the handle. Her eyes lit up in shock as she felt the handle turn. She pushed the door open slightly and darted inside, closing the door swiftly behind her. It was completely dark in the house, but the moonlight offered a dim view. The house was completely empty. The rooms to her right and left presented no tables, chairs, couches-no sign of life. She slowly walked into the room to her right, imagining the room to be a dining room, with its high ceilings and French doors leading out onto the wraparound patio.

She walked further, opening a door in the far corner of the room and finding the kitchen. She crept across the cold tile to the refriger足 ator, struggling a little to open the door. The refrigerator obviously had not been used in years, as it was presently a home for a mouse, which darted through a hole in the back when it saw her. She muf足 fled a scream and slammed the door shut.

Spotting a door to her left, she opened it and found stairs leading down. She quickly decided that the best place for her to hide was in the basement, and she slowly felt the wall for a light switch. Finding a cord, she tugged on it and adjusted her eyes as light flooded the stairwell. She stealthily descended the stairs, relieved that the base足 ment looked like an ordinary basement. An old, dusty pink couch sat in the far right corner next to a side table. A washer and dryer stood to her left, and directly to her right was another room that appeared

60

to be for the water heater. She took a moment to breathe in and out slowly, calming herself down. She hoped that he would not find the house and that she would be able to stay for a little while. It was the perfect place for her to stay, despite the bugs and the creepy vacan­ cy. She crossed the room to the couch, but before she could sit down she noticed a small door to the right of the couch. Curiously, she stepped inside the room and felt for a cord or a light switch. The stench caused her to gag as it stuck in her throat. She covered her mouth and tried not to breathe. She had never seen, or smelled, any­ thing so horrifying. Bodies lay on the ground in a haphazard collec­ tion, as if someone had thrown them on top of each other in a pile and left them to rot. Painted on the walls of the room were popular children's characters-Elmo, Barney, Big Bird-but none of them had eyes. On the four walls was scrawled in what she could only guess was blood, Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, UNTIL I STABBED MARY'S LAMB AND LET ITS BLOOD FLOW. Gasping for breath, she turned and tried to force her legs to move. So this was it, she told herself. This was where all the ,nissing girls had gone. Mixed among those bodies, she was sure, lay Tonya, her younger sister. She wept, paralyzed with fear and anguish. She crawled toward the stairs, desperate to get away but unable to walk.

She reached the bottom step and pulled herself onto her feet. She vomited and her legs slid out from underneath of her, but she tried again to pull herself up.

She stood up, her legs stronger now, and ran up the stairs. She pulled the door open and came face-to-face with the man who had attacked her in the woods six years ago.

"Y ... you're dead!" she sputtered.

He took a step toward her, and she screamed while stepping back, losing her balance on the stairs and falling backward. She tried to grab on to something, anything, but it was futile. She fell quickly and everything became black.

"Kate!" he exclaimed as he descended the stairs to her body sprawled out on the concrete. He immediately felt for her pulse, and in its absence the tears sprang from his eyes. "Kate, don't do this.

61

Don't die on me." He held her in his arms, his beautiful, fragile Kate, and wept, knowing that she was already dead.

*****

"I don't understandt Abigai1, Kate's mother, said for the hun­ dredth time. "She was doing so well."

Dr. Larkin sighed. "I know she was. She was coming to therapy regularly. She no longer brought up suicide. She hadn't mentioned a bad dream or an episode in a year."

Dr. Larkin stared sympathetically at Shane, who stared at the ground in a daze. Shane had done everything for Kate. He was there for Kate after her attack, helping her overcome her agoraphobia.

Shane had waited to romance Kate, as he knew she was terrified of a man touching her. After two years, he finally took her out on a real date. It took another year for her to even kiss him. Finally, he pro­ posed to her.

After the proposal, Kate's condition continued to improve immensely. Since her attack, she suffered bad dreams, flashbacks, and she often tried to kill herself. But with Shane at her side, she was ready to take her life back. Dr. Larkin had been so proud of her progress.

"Shane?" Dr. Larkin said, bringing Shane back to reality. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"I just don't get it." Shane's voice was hoarse and choked. "I came to bed, and she was sound asleep. I lay down next to her and started to stroke her arm, then her face, then her stomach. I had done this a hundred times before, and she always smiled in her sleep and cuddled up next to me. But instead of that she sat up and started screaming, telling me to get away from her. I tried to talk to her, but it was as if she had gone completely mad. She grabbed the lamp and broke it over my head. I blacked out for a second, and when I came to, I ran outside and saw her running down the road. I didn't even think to get the car; I just started running after her. But, you know how good a runner she is. I just couldn't catch up." He shifted in his seat and sniffled. "When I opened the door and saw her at the top of the stairs, she looked at me with horror in her eyes, like I was him, like I was the guy who attacked her."

62

Dr. Larkin nodded. "That's who she thought you were. She couldn't have known. She was having an episode, one that probably started while she was asleep. It's not your fault."

Abigail grabbed Shane's hand as tears streamed down his face.

"I loved her," Shane said quietly. "I wanted to marry her, build a fam­ ily with her, and be with her forever."

The thunder rumbled outside. It had not stopped raining. Shane sank his head in his hands.

"It's all my fault," he whispered quietly. "All my fault."

*****

Shane descended the stairs slowly, his stomach twisting in knots and his heart aching. He did not want to think about her death. It had been purely an accident. He stopped for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, and closed his eyes in pain as he envisioned her small, bro­ ken body on the ground. It had been an accident.

She had been lucky to escape six years ago in the woods. Shane had been horrified to hear she killed her attacker, the man who had been his best friend for his entire life. It was not supposed to happen that way, but Shane considered it a blessing. He lost a best friend, but with her life spared, he gained a beautiful fiancee.

After meeting Kate, he resolved to stop what he and Rich, his best friend, had started. It had all started with just one girl, who was foolish enough to be alone in the woods. Killing her had merely been an accident, and hiding her body in the house had been a decision of desperation and panic. Once Shane and Rich realized that no one inhabited the house, their horrible habit of raping and killing turned into an addiction. Shane knew that with Kate in his life, it was time to stop and to start fresh.

Shane stood at the doorway, the stench still strong enough to make him gag. The police had cleared out the room, but the message still brazenly shouted from the walls. He ached in agony with the thought of Kate witnessing such an atrocity. At least she never had to find out that this was my doing, he thought gratefully.

Shane turned and ascended the stairs, knowing that he had to leave town. He did not know where he would go, all he knew was that he would never be happy again without Kate.

63

He closed the basement door behind him and rounded the corner to leave. There stood the Chief of Police and two other officers.

"Shane," Chief Coyle began. Shane held up !�is hand in inter­ jection.

"I know," Shane said quietly and held out his hands. "Let's go."

-Alicia Jackson

The Invitation The light of mid-morning streamed through the window of their breakfast nook that day, a Sunday. Peter was finishing his second cup of coffee. Mary Ellen placed the last of the pans into the dishwash­ er, as the water for her tea heated on the electric stove.

"I've been thinking, Emmy," said Peter. He never lost joy in shortening her name to her initials - M.E .. "Let's invite everyone over for dinner this week." He smiled over his coffee mug, awaiting her reply.

The baking pan slipped from Mary Ellen's hands, crashing onto the floor. No! she screamed in her head.

Not again. Not Mom....

It was about twelve years ago when she finally took notice of it, though it had happened repeatedly throughout the eighteen years of their manied life. It had become a ritual.

Once every few years, over an ordinary breakfast, Peter would nonchalantly repeat those words: "I've been thinking, Emmy. Let's invite everyone over for dinner this week." He never called it a pre­ monition and certainly never spoke of it as a warning. In fact, he never really spoke of it at all. He just sat there, always smiling over his #1 Husband mug, ridiculously juxtaposed against a picture of Homer Simpson standing next to the text, awaiting her reply.

It happened the first time just after their second wedding anniversary. He mentioned it in the same manner as he did that morning. At the time, she thought he must be crazy. "I don't have time to make dinner for all those people!" she objected, even despite

64

Peter's offer to help with the preparations. For someone that didn't have any living relatives, Peter sure loved family get-togethers.

Within two weeks, her older sister died in a car accident.

Though she never told anyone, she never really forgave herself for not following Peter's suggestion that morning years ago.

Ironically, all of her closest relatives lived in the same area code; she could never talk about "inconveniencing" people by inviting them to travel a long distance without a special occasion. Unfortunately, even during those "special" times-Christmas, Thanksgiving, birth­ days, and the like-the whole family never could find the time to get together.

Once every two or three years since that Sunday, Peter made the same suggestion in his same leisurely way over breakfast. Of course, M.E. was often far too busy to consider the implications of what he was asking. She had to get a cake in the oven for the bake sale at St. Edward's after the noontime Mass. She had to get to rehearsal for choir practice. She had to go into work on a Sunday-she seemed to be at work most Sundays, these days. The weekdays blun-ed into one another and Peter's suggestion simply forgotten.

But the result was always the same, whether she accepted or refused Peter's invitation. Someone would die, always unexpectedly, 65

usually within two weeks, and the family would finally gather for the funeral. Once she noticed this bizarre coincidence, though, she never failed to respond when he suggested the invitation. She now knew what it meant. Someone was going to die, and it would be nice to have one last meal together.

Over the past decade, the times between the 1itual 's performanc­ es became shorter. The year before, there were three dinners and three funerals. The seats around the table had become empty over the years as grandparents, aunts, uncles, a few close cousins, and even Mary Ellen's father joined her sister in the Hereafter. Lately, meal preparations were quite easy. There were no children in the family anymore. Only Peter, Mary Ellen, and her Mom remained.

The meal had always been the same, and its simplicity had always lent to the meal's success. Though they rarely saw one anoth­ er, hardly anyone refused the invitation. Mary Ellen made a tasty slow-cooked roast with all the vegetables prepared in the same tray, allowing her to spend as much time with her family as possible. The aroma of a fresh loaf just pulled from the automatic breadmaker greeted guests as they arrived. Peter showed off his baking skills with an assortment of pies accompanied by a dessert wine.The clean-up waited until the following morning.

This culinary simplicity allowed the meal's real purpose to shine through. The table rang with sounds of boisterous laughter and knowing sighs, as past stories were told anew. Each member of the family shared precious memories of those who were no longer there with them at the table. The deceased somehow remained alive in the remembrance of them by the living. Their spirits seemed to sit silent­ ly among those still physically present. Those gathered even took to finishing Uncle Joe's painful punch-line long after he had passed: "While I was in England, I saw Charles Darwin's house. He wasn't home!"

Sometimes, the occasion required that ce1tain guests bury the hatchet before coming to the dinner table. Apologies and hugs were sometimes shared among the reconciled parties; other times were just a time-out from war. Reconciliation was the norm, though. After sharing laughter and a little wine, relatives would realize how much

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more difficult it was to hold anger in one's heart rather than to sim足 ply forgive one another. And no one wanted to refuse the invitation for the sake of a squabble with one relative. It was better to come to the table angry rather than to remain hungry and11.lone. If a feuding relative happened to be the one that passed, the surviving adversary had no excuse - there was always an opportunity to reconcile when the invitation was offered.

These nights ended late; they always did. Some would depart only after fighting against a fast-approaching sleep tide. But as they left, everybody embraced a little tighter, a little longer than when they greeted one another. Promises were made (and frequently bro足 ken) not to let too much time pass before the next gathering. And ini足 tially, there were more frequent phone calls, occasional e-mails, and an instant message or two exchanged among busy family members.

But usually, they found themselves once again too busy until Peter casually made the invitation. Then, Mary Ellen knew--the hour was late once more.

Now in the streaming light of the present Sunday morning, Mary Ellen's senses seemed to have sharpened. She became keenly aware of the ticking of the clock on the wall, the drip from the faucet, the beep from the answering machine on the counter, letting her know she had a message. Though her back was turned to him, she could actually hear the coffee swirling in Peter's cup. She could feel his gentle smile on her.

The whistle of the teakettle pulled her from her daze. She lifted it to a cool burner and turned to Peter.

"Please not now," she pleaded, "Mom is all the family I've got left!" She just wasn't ready to let go of Mom yet.

Peter peered down at his coffee mug and then smiled up at her again. He awaited her response. Tears streamed down Mary Ellen's face as she reached for the phone.

The funeral was small. M.E. was right; it really was only her Mom who was left. No other family came to the Mass. A few of Mary Ellen's co-workers came to pay their respects. Strangers out足 side the office, they didn't really know what to say or do at a time like this. Even though she hadn't sang for several years, the choir

67

I became the top student in Fr. Murphy's Latin class. I helped other students with the grammatical rules and their translations, and for most of my classmates, I served as their Latin dictionary. I received the highest grade ever achieved on the National Latin Exam by a stu­ dent from Holy Cross High School. I could not wait to show grand­ pa my certificate for this achievement. Latin wasn't the only activi­ ty we shared during the summer months. After a few years, a great deal of anger, and many sore wrists, I learned how to fly-fish, and it became more soothing than bothersome. I loved spending all of the time I could with grandpa and wished that I was with him when he was not near. My father and grandfather had rarely spoken to each other, not out of animosity, but rather ignorance-each was ignorant of the other's wants and likes. My father was always more mechan­ ically inclined while my grandfather was academically rooted. The two would get into arguments about my father's grades and his lack of interest in pursuing a college education, so the two grew apart.

But the summer of my senior year of high school changed all of our relationships forever. Grandpa had always been forgetful, but the condition grew worse. He finally broke down and saw his doctor after months of pleading, who diagnosed him with an advanced case of Alzheimer's. This news stabbed me like a knife, cutting straight through to my heart. My grandpa would forget his language, and he would forget me.

"Grandpa, do you want to talk about-" I began.

"No, I don't," grandpa said sharply; so I dropped the subject.

That summer was different. The sun did not seem as bright and the morning air not as crisp. The conversation was mundane, and we both were absolutely mjserable. I could tell grandpa wanted to talk about his condition, but he could not bring himself to start the con­ versation, and whenever I did, he merely changed the subject or completely ignored what I had to say.

"Grandpa, no matter how much you ignore it, it won't go away," I said forcefully.

"Nonsense. The more I ignore it, the easier it is to forget," grand­ pa said, jobngly.

"Grandpa, this isn't funny. You do realize the severity of what 70

you're going through and the fact that the effects are irreversible?" I questioned angrily. "I do not want to lose you," I said with tears streaming down my face.

We just stared at each other, neither willing to give an inch. I couldn't come to terms with the fact that grandpa would eventually forget me and ultimately die of this disease. I researched and studied everything I could find about Alzheimer's. I had high hopes that I would find something in the writings that scientists and researchers had overlooked: I was searching for a miracle that could not occur.

One night, with my face buried in a medical journal, grandpa entered my room, obviously troubled. "Mark, we need to talk," he began.

"What's wrong?" I said, slipping into Latin.

"Mark, I'm afraid that all of that studying you're doing is in vain," he said, pointing at the medical articles and journals spread all over the room. "You 're chasing windmills."

"No, there has to be-" I began, but grandpa quickly stopped me.

"Mark, where are you going to school in September?" he asked, with a biting undertone.

"That is not important," I quickly retorted.

"The hell it isn't!" grandpa screamed, his face growing red and his breathing heavy. "I lost this fight with your father many years ago, and I refuse to lose it again."

"Grandpa, school can wait. I want to spend as much time with you as possible. You're only getting worse as time goes on," I answered, feeling righteous in niy cause.

"Mark, you are wasting time on an old man who is slowly for­ getting everything," grandpa responded, with a hint of despair in his speech.

Grandpa had brought up the subject he so desperately tried to ignore. It seemed he had finally come to terms with his condition, but I could not. If anyone could beat this disease, grandpa could. He was the smartest man I had ever met and his mind the greatest. Sure, he might forget some things, but he would come out of this tri­ umphant. I needed to be there to remind him of things when he for­ got them.

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June turned to July and July to August and finally September.

The summer had passed like a tornado, leaving behind debris and chaos. Grandpa had forgotten things, such as where he was going, his phone number, and his address. I could easily handle these things by telling and retelling him the forgotten information, trying to make it stick in hjs mind. But it appeared that his mind had been recently coated with Teflon so that nothing stuck to it.

"Grandpa, do you know what today is?" I asked, in what had now become routine.

"Saturday, May 08, 1947," he answered.

"No, it's Monday, August 22, 2008," I told him, smiling.

"Tempus fugit," he responded. "Tempus .fitgit."

With September quickly approaching, and my fall semester beginning in days, I needed help getting grandpa situated and looked after. There were no colleges nearby, so I had to go to Montana Southern University, 200 miles away. I only had one person to turn to-my father. My father requested a leave from work and came out the following morning upon my pleading. He was also unable to 72

come to terms with grandpa's condition.

"Give him this pill three times a day," I began to tell my father, writing down all of grandpa's medications and the scheduled times for their dosage.

"Is this what you have been doing all summer?" my father ques­ tioned me.

"Someone had to," I replied, angrily, staring through him. "Why did it have to come to this for you to come see him?"

"I don't know, your grandfather and I don't get along very well," he replied, staring at the floor.

"He's slowly forgetting everyone and everything, and dying. I think that warrants a visit," I snapped, looking for a fight.

"Mark, this is between me and your grandfather, and we will try to make things right," my father replied with the softest voice I had ever heard him speak.

After giving the care-taking directions, I finished my packing and loaded the car. The last thing I wanted to do was leave grandpa, but I had to. That night, I rested in bed, staring at the ceiling, remi­ niscing happier times at grandpa's ranch. I finally slipped into a deep sleep, and was suddenly awakened by a familiar voice.

"Mark, the sun will be up soon, get dressed, and let's get going," grandpa said.

"I'll be ready in five minutes, grandpa," I replied, still in surprise.

I quickly dressed and grabbed my rod. Standing on the front porch, with his bucket hat adorned with lures of all shapes and colors was my father.

"Hurry up, Mark, we need to get going. You'll need to hit the road by nine," my father said, smiling.

We went out and I had the best time I had had in a few months.

My father and grandfather were smiling, joking, and interacting as I had never seen before. After a few hours of fishing, I had to leave.

The moment was bitter-sweet. I was leaving my grandfather, whom I might never see again, but also heading on to begin my future, with all of the knowledge he had given me.

"Goodbye, grandpa," I said sadly.

"Bonus, Jae fortia et patere," grandpa replied, smiling as he

73

offered his hand.

"Bonus fortuna filius," my father said, as I stared, my jaw near足 ly on the floor.

"Yes, I do know how to say a few things. Don't be so surprised."

We said our goodbyes, and I began my trip. I called daily and spoke to grandpa and dad. Grandpa grew increasingly scatter足 brained, not remembering the day, year, and who was talking to him.

My worst fears became reality just before Christmas break. My phone rang at exactly 2 a.m., and I knew the news before I even picked up the receiver. It was my father, and he said, "He's gone." I was happy that grandpa's mind was finally at ease, but sad that I would never see him again, never speak to him in our shared tongue.

To this day, whenever I feel overwhelmed or lose patience, I can hear him saying, "Patientia, Mark, patientia," and I am comforted, wait足 ing for the day we will be reunited.

-Mark Bartholomew

Excerpt from:

The Wilde Irish Rose "Afternoon, sir," I say. "Is Mr. Wilde still in his suite?"

"Why, yes he is, miss," the valet says. "He's working on his lec足 ture for this evening." He smiles at me.

I explain to him that I need to clean the room. "Do you know when he will be leavin' for the day?"

The valet scratches his head and tells me that Mr. Wilde intends to rest for the day. "If you want to service the room, you may have to do it with him in there," he says. "I'm so1Ty, miss."

I tell him that, that I can't do that. "It's against the rules of the hotel," I say, shakin' me head.

The valet tells me to wait one moment, and he slips into Mr. Wilde's room. I stand in the hallway, lookin' around. I could stay up here forever.

"Why are you just standing around?" an annoyed female voice asks. "Don't you have work to do?" I turn around to see Katie brood-

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in' behind me. The sun shines through the hallway windows, reflectin' off her golden hair, and nearly blinds me. She stands there, sneerin' at me with her arms crossed. "Haven't you cleaned Mr. Wilde's suite, yet? If he were my charge, his room would be done twice by now."

"Well, he isn't your charge, Katie," I say. "Mr. Taylor put me in charge of Oscar Wilde's suite." I'm tired of her pushin' me around.

Katie raises her hand to slap me, when the door opens.

The valet comes out of the suite and ushers me in. "Mr. Wilde told me to let you in," he says. "Oscar has never been one to stand in the way of progress." Before I know it, I'm in the doorway of the suite. The look on Katie's face is priceless as the valet steps into the hall and closes the door behind him. I just know Mr. Taylor is goin' to hear about this.

I sense someone loungin' on the sofa by the fire, so I decide to begin with the bedroom. I swing me hair in front of me face and try to sneak past.

"It is only very ugly or very beautiful women who hide their faces," a melodious voice says. "Which are you, my dear?"

I turn to look, brushin' me hair away from me face. Sprawled out on the red velvet sofa lays Oscar Wilde, sippin' hot chocolate and smokin' a cigarette. It's an odd, sweet smell, the combination of the chocolate, his cigarette, and the fire. The smoke leaves his mouth and nose and spirals toward the ceilin'. He's dressed in a dark-brown velvet smokin' jacket with red quilted silk lapels, a long dark neck tie, dark-brown pants striped with red along the seam, and lightly­ colored patent leather shoes. His brown hair is parted down the cen­ ter, fallin' over his broad shoulders. He looks like he's posin' for a paintin', he does. He has full lips and a sharp nose. His large dark eyes stare a hole right through me.

"Mr. Wilde, I'm not permitted to idle with the guests," I tell him gently. "It's against the rules." I try to continue into the bedroom.

"I am one of those who are made for exceptions," he says srnilin', "not for rules." He waves the hand holdin' the cigarette in such a way that it reminds me of a woman, it does. "Cultivated idle­ ness," he smirks, "seems to me to be the proper occupation for man.

75

Or woman, as the case may be. I simply wanted to see you. Come closer."

I walk ever so slowly across the sittin' room. Me heart is poundin'. I just know Katie has told Mr. Taylor by now. I look down at me feet. I was so excited a week ago, hopin' to meet Oscar Wilde, and here I stand, afraid to breathe, let alone speak.

He tells me to look up at him. "Style largely depends," he sighs, "on the way the chin is worn."

I look up at him and smile.

"Ah, you are a true beauty, my dear," he tells me, "like the great Lillie Langtry. In fact, you, like Lillie, have a face for the stage." He stirs his hot chocolate ever so delicately. "You should become an actress." He taps his spoon on the side of his mug.

"Oh, but Mr. Wilde," I say shakin' me 'ead, "I don't know how to act."

"Ah, I detect a brogue," he says. "I should have known you were a fellow countryman! You must have loved Ireland so much that you saw fit to leave, like me."

"I don't know why you left," I say. "I came to America out of duty to me family."

"It seems as if you have forgotten the highest of all duties, my dear, the duty that you owe to yourself." As he speaks, he moves his hand with the rhythm of his voice. There's a grace about him. Why wouldn't John allow him to buy him a drink? If he did say yes, they would have to meet at the Aldine's lounge. There's no way Mr. Wilde could waltz into McGillin's. That would be a sight!

Blinkin', I ask, "And what duty do I owe meself?"

"My duty to myself," he says chucklin', "is to amuse myself ter­ rifically."

I tell him I don't have time to amuse meself. "If I want to eat and to have a roof over me head," I say, "me duty is to work."

"Someone like you should not have to work. In truth, my dear, man is not made for work, especially not hard labor. We have been made for something better than disturbing dirt," he says. "All work of that kind should be done by a machine."

I think to meself how often I feel like a machine. The way he

76

speaks to me is so different from anyone I've ever known. It's as if he sees a person, not a maid, or a foreigner, or just a pretty face even.

He sees a human bein'.

It's odd. He's from Ireland, but he doesn't have a b-i-ogue. I can't resist. I have ta ask. "Ireland isn't the only thing you left behind," I say boldly. "Where is your brogue?"

He nods his 'ead and his curls move gently across his shoulders.

"French by sympathy, I am Irish by race, and the English have con­ demned me to speak the language of Shakespeare," he laughs.

"Aside from learning Plato, Aristotle, and the art of idleness," he admits, "I also learned the Queen's English while at Oxford. Your speech got me off track, as did your eyes." He shifts his weight as he continues. "That you don't know how to act doesn't matter." He dis­ misses me comment, wavin' his hand. "There are plenty of actors who cannot act. London and New York are filled with them. In fact, you are in the perfect place to learn how to act. We Irish always say what we mean; Americans never do. Take a few lessons from them.

That's all they do is act!"

"Part of me thinks actin' is all you do," I smile. "The newspapers say-" He waves his hand, ready to dismiss whatever comes out of me mouth about what I saw in the newspaper. "You mustn't believe everything you read, dear," he assures me. "In the old days men had the rack. Now they have the Press." He takes another long puff on his cigarette, lookin" very pleased with himself.

I assure him it wasn't as bad as that. "It was just a cartoon about your disappointment with the Atlantic," I tell him, "and it mentioned you declarin' your genius at customs."

He smiles and nods his head. "I need only to look at the news­ paper to see what city I'm in," he laughs heartily, "and what I've done. You know, I've forgotten myself. What is your name, my dear?"

I tell him me name. "Ellen McDermott," I say.

He takes me hand, shakin' it ever so gently, givin' it a slight squeeze. "Pleasure to meet you, Ellen," he says. "Please call me Oscar. You know, Ellen, you are not at all how I expected someone

77

like you to be. I'm quite impressed."

I tell him I feel the same way. "Neither are you." Chills run up me spine, hearin' him say me name. I can't bring meself to speak his name. It isn't proper.

"It seems we have both been found out!" he laughs to himself.

"So is it all an act?" I ask boldly. "The dress, the comments-" "I can sum it up in a line or two, my dear," he says. "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that's not being talked about. The truth about the life of a man is not what he does," he clears his throat and continues, "but the legend which he creates around himself."

"The only things worth doing," he says smjling, "are the things the world is surprised at. I can see the last thing you want in the world is attention." He thinks he has me all figured out, he does.

I tell 'im it's not true. "It depends on who the attention comes from," I smile suggestively.

He sits up very interested. "Do you have a particular person in mind, Ellen? I find most women do. Usually it's me, but there have been times when I've been unpleasantly surprised," he sighs.

I claren't say another word. I shake me head no, and he slides back into the couch. There's an awkward silence. I'm unsure whether I am free to begin cleanin' the room, or whether he still wants to chat. I fetch the broom out of the closet to sweep the mar­ ble floor before I begin to scrub it.

His face lights up like he has just had a brilliant idea. "Why don't you ask me how I am?" he smiles. "I like people to ask me how I am; it shows a widespread interest in my health."

I humor 'im and put clown me broom. He's a strange one. "How are you, Mr. Wilde?"

He corrects me for not usin' his first name before he begins his story about last night. "I think I enjoyed the champagne a bit too much. That's why I'm drinbng hot chocolate."

"Wouldn't water be a better choice?" I ask. "That's what me Da used to drink on the days after he drank too much."

He shakes his head and tells me he never touches water. "It goes to my head at once." He flashes a srnile at me as he takes another sip 78

of his hot chocolate to spite me. "Although, it's not drunkenness but disappointment that's plaguing me."

I don't understand. "What happened?" I ask..

"It's not what happened," he corrects me, "it's what didn't hap­ pen. More like who didn't make an appearance at the reception last night." He explains how Walt Whitman declined the invitation. "I did so hope to meet him," be sighs.

I've heard stories about Walt Whitman. He was a wild one in his younger days. Now he lives with his brother and sister-in-law in Camden. I can just imagine Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman chattin' back and forth.

"We don't get everytbin' we want in life," I sigh, tbinkin' of John.

His ears perk up. "I know that sigh," he says. "That, my dear, is the sigh of a woman who cannot fulfill her heart's desire." He leans in a bit. "Let me tell you a secret," he whispers. "The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming."

He lays back, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

The blood rushes to me face. How ridiculous is that! He can't be serious. "No one is able to control their feelings like that," I say. "It's impossible!"

"Improbable, maybe," he shakes his head, "but nothing is impossible."

I ask him what would happen ifl didn't want to hide me feelings.

"What if I decided to tell this person how I feel?"

He begins to rise, ready to embrace me. "Why, Miss McDermott," he sighs romantically, "I never knew you had such feelings for me."

Immediately I shake me 'ead. I know he must be teasin' me.

"No-not you!" I blurt out abruptly, movin' meself away from him.

Not knowin' what else to do to stop his embrace, I begin to tell 'im about John. "But I daren't do anything," I say shaking me head. "Mr. Taylor would be furious."

With a forced frown on his face, Oscar Wilde slides back onto the couch, slouchin'. "I'd be lying," he sighs, "if I told you I'm not disappointed, my dear." He smiles at me pleasantly as he pushes his hair behind his ears. He begins to think aloud. "I wonder if there is 79

something I can do to help the situation?" he mumbles. I can see the wheels turnin' in his head. Suddenly it hits 'im. "Ellen, would you like to go to a lecture this evening?"

Me face begins to-buni. I assume he means his own. I don't know what to say. "I don't have the money," I stammer, "for a ticket. I would love to, but I can't."

Oscar rises gracefully from the sofa and goes through the desk drawer facin' the window. I can hear his fingers rustlin' against the bottom of the wooden drawer. It takes him quite a while to find what he is lookin' for. "Ellen, my manager allows me a few complimen足 tary tickets for each of my lectures to give to friends or dignitaries as I see fit." He holds two tickets for this evening's lecture in his hand. "I would be honored if you would attend my lecture this evening." He extends the tickets to me with a smile. "You don't have to work, do you?"

I shake me head 'no.' I take the tickets from him, puttin' them in me apron, thankin' him over and over. "I can't believe it." He smiles at me warmly. "Mr. Wilde, please don't tell anyone about our con足 versation. I'm sure I'm in trouble as it is, but this must be kept a secret."

"Secrecy seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvelous to us," he says smilin'. "The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it. Of course, I'll keep it a secret, my dear."

I thank him again for his confidence. I tell 'im I must get back to work. "This room won't clean itself, even though the guests are sup足 posed to believe that," I say shakin' me head, "and some of 'em do."

Oscar laughs and shakes his head, pickin' up a book from the end table. I give him a curious look. He tells me it's his diary. "I never travel without my diary," he smiles at me. "One should always have something sensational to read in the train."

I smile at him knowingly, cleanin' his room as quickly as possi足 ble. I can't let on that I've spent so much time talkin' to Oscar Wilde.

I wonder how long Katie was standin' in the hallway and if she heard anythin '. I can't worry about that now. I need to talk to John, privately. I rush into the bedroom to strip the bed, but there are 80

clothes lyin' on it. I call into the sitting room to ask him where he would like me to put these interestin' articles of clothing. "Would you like them hung in the closet," I ask, "or put in your trunk?"

"The coat you may hang in the closet," he calls back to me, "the breeches and stockings can go in the trunk on the right." I pick up his flowin' green coat, the same coat he wore yesterday enterin' the lobby, and hang it in the closet, standin' on me tip toes ever so slight­ ly so I can reach. I pick up the velvet knee breeches and hold them in front of me. They're quite odd, at least for a man of his size and age. I fold them gently on the bed and then the stockings-they feel like pure silk, they do, so soft. I cross the bedroom to his two large trunks open on the floor filled to the brim with velvet, satin, and silk.

I stare at the open trunk in front of me, dyin' to snoop through it, but I don't have the nerve. I place the clothes inside the trunk and hur­ riedly strip the bed. I quickly put on clean sheets and gather the dirty bed linens and bath linens. I replace them with freshly laundered towels. Just before I leave, I finish sweepin' the floor. I clonna' have time to properly scrub the floor, as I'd like. After I finish, I thank him again. "Good luck tonight, Mr. Wilde!" I smile at him warmly.

He looks up from his book and thanks me. "I'll see you and your friend tonight, I hope!" I knock on the door to let the valet know I'm comin' out. He steps out of the way as I open the door.

"All finished, miss?" he asks. "Wasn't as horrible as you thought?" he laughs.

I shake me head. "Not at all," I smile. I ask him about Katie.

"How long did she stay in the hallway?"

"Oh, that blond-haired girl?" He thinks for a second. "She stared at me and the door for a second or two, and then disappeared down the hall. Friend of yours?" We both chuckle.

I thank 'im for his help and wish 'im good luck, too. "Have a good night!" I smile.

I start clown the hall when Katie comes out of a nearby room. The look on her face frightens me. "Did you enjoy yourself, Ellen?" Her nostrils flare. I've never seen her face so red. "I hope you did because that is the last bit of enjoyment you'll see for a while," she grumbles, "if I have anything to do with it."

81

I explain to her that the room had to be cleaned. "Mr. Wilde had no intentions of leaving for the day-" "So he was in there when you were cleaning!" she shouts, mak­ ing the-valet look at us. Me face begins to burn.

"It was the only way, Katie," I plead with her.

"Too late for explanations, Ellen," she smiles. "Mr. Taylor knows all about it. He'll take care of you in due time. Oh, I forgot to tell you the other day. Mrs. Thornton wants me to go with her to Oscar Wilde's lecture tonight. She's even bought me a dress for the occasion. I know you'd appreciate that since you know all about him." Katie walks away, laughin'. She disappears behind a door, and I can hear the O'Brien twins laughin' inside with her.

*

****

I tug Mary's arm to get her to move faster. "We've gotta go, Mary," I stammer.

She stops talkin' to John and looks at me like I'm crazy. "What's gotten into you, Ellie?"

Mary asks. "You're awful pale, you are, or paler than usual, any­ way. Are you feelin' okay?"

I tell' er I'm fine. "I just remembered there was somethin' I needed to do," I say. "Can we leave, please?" I can't say too ,nuch right now.

Mary agrees. "Well, John, it seems we gotta git goin' ." Mary says this glarin' at me. "We'll see ya tomorrow."

"Would you ladies mind ifl saw you home?" John asks, lookin' from Mary to me with his arms behind his back. He rocks forward on his toes and smiles.

I jump in right away. "Of course not, John," I smile. I tell him that we always love his company.

Mary shakes her head at me enthusiasm and agrees. "You sure it's not out of your way?"

He shakes his head. "Not at all, love," John says. "Just a couple of blocks in the other direction." He smiles an' pushes back his cap to scratch his head.

The three of us walk down the hall. Mary an' I grab our coats; John grabs a scarf. Me and Mary look at him. Mary asks him where

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his coat is. "It's chilly today."

John brushes the question off. "Ah, I was runnin' late for work this momin'," he says, "and I ran out the door without it." We look at each other. "I'll be fine."

We sneak out the service entrance without a bit o' trouble. A weight has been lifted off me shoulders. At least I won't have to deal with Mr. Taylor today. Katie is another story. I'll do me best to avoid her at the lecture tonight.

The wind wrups me hair about as we walk along Chestnut Street.

When we are a far enough away from the Aldine, Mary asks me why I was in such a hurry to leave the hotel. "Ya' nearly left without your coat, you did." John looks at me with his intense blue eyes, and I freeze. I've gotta tell 'em what's gain' on, and I wanna ask John to the lecture, but how? "Ellie," Mary says, "you're scarin' me."

I tell 'em I'm fine. "I just may need to find another job," I say.

Mary's eyes bulge from their sockets. "Why would ya' need to find another job?" she asks. "What wrong with the one you have now?"

I take a deep breath and tell them what happened today with Katie outside of Wilde's suite. "She knows I was in Oscar's rooms while he was in there and probably has told Mr. Taylor by now."

"Oscar?" she asks. "Ellie, since when are you on a first-name basis with one of the guests?" Mary shakes 'er head. "You really were in his rooms while he was there, and you talked to 'em, didn't you?"

John just looks from Mary to me. He doesn't say a word. I can't stand it. I look down at me feet and shake me 'ead. "It was the only way his suite would get cleaned. He wasn't goin' out 'til tonight for his lecture," I stammer. "His valet pushed me in the room. I had no choice."

"Ellie, I don't know what to say." Mary shakes her head.

"There's no tellin' what Taylor is gonna do."

Chills run up me spine. I can't think about that right now. These two tickets are burnin' a hole in me pocket, they are. We walk home in silence. Poor John doesn't know what to do. Every once in a while he gets a look on his face like he wants to say somethin', but he

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decides not to.

We turn onto Broad Street. The lamplighter has begun lightin' the lampposts. I turn to look at the half-built city hall over me shoul­ der. The men have left for the day. They've been workin' on it since before I arrived. I wonder how tall it will be. It's already a giant, it is, taking up all of what used to be Penn Square, but it's beautiful.

Broad Street will be busy tonight with the lecture at Horticultural Hall and the opera at the Academy of Music. The street is busy with people goin' to dinner before their evenin' out. I wish I was one of 'em. A young woman dressed in an elegant gown is bein' helped out of a carriage by a handsome young man. They cross in front of us and go into the Bellevue Hotel. I just know they are goin' to the opera later. I have a chance to go to Oscar's lecture, and I'm gonna take it.

We arrive at the boarding house and stop just outside. "Well, thank you for the company, John," Mary says, "it was a pleasure.

C'mon, Ellie, we've gotta figure out what to do about Taylor." She takes me by the arm and begins to guide me up the steps.

I pull away. "Mary, I'll meet you inside. I'd like to talk to John, please," I say. John and Mary stare at me with their mouths wide open. "Alone."

Mary does a double-take and makes 'er way up the steps. "We're gonna figure something out, Ellie. It'll be fine." She goes up the steps, looking over her shoulder every so often. "Good night, John."

She finally disappears inside.

Having John's complete attention, I take a deep breath and tell him all about what happened in Oscar's suite. "He suggested I go into theatre," I tell him, "and he gave me two tickets to his lecture tonight!" I take the tickets out of me pocket and show them to him.

"You know, Ellie," John shakes his 'ead, lookin' at the tickets, "I thought you was losin' your mind with your talkin' about havin' to find a new job. But now, it makes perfect sense. You really are some­ thin' ."

"Well?" I say, waitin' for an answer.

He looks at me confused. "Well, what?" He chuckles.

"Are you gonna come with me to Oscar Wilde's lecture tonight,"

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I ask, "or not?" I flash him a smile.

He returns me smile with a larger grin. There's a twinkle in his eye, that I canna' resist. "Well, I don't know, Ellie," he says. ''I'm kinda tired after replacin' the bed in Room 555." He makes a face and holds his back, teasin' me. He starts to laugh, but his laugh turns into a coughin' spell.

I wait until he stops coughin'. Neither one of us says anythin' about it. "You know that fire wasna' me fault, John," I grumble at 'im. "So what d'ya say? Otherwise, I'm gonna have to take Mary."

"I'm not so sure Mary'd want you goin' ," he laughs, "let alone goin' 'erself. I'd love to go with you tonight, Ellie." John takes me hands and rubs his thumbs on the back of 'em gently. "How you gonna get around Mary?" ''I'll figure somethin' out," I smile at him. "I always do. Plus, she's not me Ma." John asks when and where the lecture is. "What time you want me to pick you up?"

"Seven-thirty should work. I'll meet you right here." I tell him it's right up the street. "At Horticultural Hall."

"Seven-thirty it is, then." He squeezes me hands and smiles. "I'll see you later, Ellie."

"G'bye, John," I say. "See you tonight."

He starts walkin' up Broad Street, and I walk up the steps of me boardin' house. I stop to watch 'im walk away, and he turns around and waves. I smile and wave back. He turns and moves at a steady clip up Broad Street, dodgin' people.

I run up the steps of the boardin' house. The door opens, and Mrs. Mclnerny comes out. She's a sweet old lady that lives just down the hall from me. I smile at her, and she smiles back. I hold the door open as she passes, and go inside me self. I rush up the stairs to me room on the third floor. Mary stands outside me door with 'er arms folded.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Ellie." Mary says throwing her hands in the air, "What do you think you're doin'? You're probably gonna need to find a new job, and what do you do? Do ya' go out lookin' for one? Of course not. You decide and chat it up with John

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Reynolds!"

I stare at 'er for a second. "Mary, I don't have time for this right now. I need to get ready."

She glares -at-me. "Get ready for what exactly?"

I take a deep breath and tell her, "Oscar Wilde gave me two tick足 ets for his lecture, and John and I are goin' ." I wait for Mary to explode, but she doesn't. She simply looks at me and shakes 'er head. She walks down the hall mumblin' to 'erself 'til she disappears into her room.

I take out me key and slip into me room. I need to find somethin' to wear tonight that looks somewhat presentable. I hang me coat on the hook and head straight for me closet. Reachin' in the far back of the closet I find a simple beige blouse with blue forget-me-nots on the collar and cuffs. It'll do. I take out a clean work skirt and lay 'em both on me bed.

-Meredith Kahn Class of 2002

Daddy's Little Girl She looks up at him. He had to be at least twelve feet tall as he looked down at her and sniiled. She dances around him in a pink T足 shirt with denim overalls over it; on her feet are little white sneakers with pink shoelaces. She stops and giggles as he acts dizzy and then bends to tickle her tummy. She lifts her arms and he leans down and picks her up. She flies high above the ground and comes to rest soft足 ly on his shoulders, his hands gripping her legs as he runs back and forth. She bounces up and down and clutches at his hai1'. She laughs and then he stops and slowly lowers her to the ground. She looks up at him as the school busses pass. He could lift that school bus; he could probably lift two school busses or maybe even three. Yes, he could l(ft three!

"Again, Daddy! Again!" She giggles as she lifts her arms to him.

He leans down and lifts her high into the air once again. She's fly足 ing above all the trees and almost above the highest buildings. He runs with her on his shoulders up the steps to the train.

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"Daddy can lift the train!" she yells as they disappear.

Daddy lifting a bus? That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Daddy lifting a train is even more ludicrous.

"Maybe it's time I get a new car," he says. He fiddles with the radio button trying to find a station. I sit silently as I had for the last twenty minutes.

"This one is costing me way too much money. If I can save a few hundred, I can buy a cheap one and get rid of this piece of crap," he says. "A part of me doesn't want to, though, because it still runs.Ya know?"

I nod. " Aww.. .this is a great song. You know who sings this?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"I can't think of it, but they were a big group back in the 70's," he says."Your Morn nught know." He leans down and turns the song up and then begins to try to sing along.

"Maybe they'll tell us who it is," he says.

"Maybe," I say.

The song ends and goes right into another one.

"I hate when they do that," he complains. He turns the radio back down and stops at a red light. "So, what are you doing today?" he asks.

"Probably boring stuff, it's..."

"Well, classes can be boring. I used to do a lot of drugs when I was in school and ..."

He must be six feet tall as he sits next to ha She watches him looking out the window and notices how big his nose is and how dark his eyes are.

"Daddy, what is that?" she asks, pointing to the giant building in the distance.

"That's a skyscrape,;" he tells her.

"Why?" she asks.

"Well, because it's so big it scrapes the sky," he says.

"Doesn't that hurt?" she asks.

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"No, it tickles," he says.

"Can I be a skyscrape,; Daddy?" she asks.

"Sure, you can." he says.

A skyscraper? C'mon, nobody can be a skyscraper.

"I think it was a mixture of things my Mom had really screwed me up, and that's why your Mom and I fell apart. I was always so scared of love, and, oh, I don't know, but we're trying to work things out. So, what are you studying?" he asks.

"English, we're reading this story by Andre Dubus and..."

"I never heard of him," he says. "Oh, it's Dave Matthews! Listen to that jam." "ls that a skyscraper?" she asks. She points up at the building they are standing in front of "No, but it's pretty high," he says.

"What is it?"

"The library," he tells ha "With books!"

"Yes, it's a building full of books," he says. He reaches down, takes her by both of her hands, and bounces her up each step until they reach the top.

"Wow!" she gushes when they go into the library.

"You have to be quiet in the library," he whispers. He presses his finger to his lips and makes a shush sound. She smiles and does the same thing. He takes her hand and leads her into a room full of books.

"You know," he says. "The first concert I went to was Aerosmith."

I don't say anything because he knows I know this or at least I think he knows, but then he starts talking about it again.

"I went with this girl I was dating in college, and, of course, we were getting high and drinking," he says. "It was great, really loud, though." He looks over at me."You talk too much, you know that?" he says. I shrug and look out the window at the stores as they dis­ appear behind us.

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"Daddy!" she yells. "Daddy!" She runs through the front door and into the living room.

"In here," he calls.

She runs into the kitchen and .finds him. sitting in his chair at the table.

"Daddy! Guess what?" she asks.

"What?"

"My teache,; she asked nie what I wanted to be," she says.

"Yeah?"

"And so I said I wanted to be a skyscrape,:" "Yeah?"

"She said I couldn't be a skyscrape,:" She pouts, and tears form in her eyes.

"Oh, sweetie, you can be whatever you want to be," he tells her.

"But, she said-" her lower lip begins to quive,: He leans down and takes her hand. "You know ¡why she said that?"

She shakes her head back and forth "Because she always wanted to be a skyscrape,; and she's afraid you might beat her to it," he says.

"Really?"

"Yep," he tells her. "/ knevv I could be a skyscraper," she says.

Don't believe him, you fool. He was lying. No one can be a skyscraper.

"Any tests?" he asks.

"Not yet," I say.

"Well, aren't you lucky?" he asks.

"We have a lot of papers to write, though," I say.

"I guess so. You know people used to pay me to write their papers for them," he says.

"I have to write a paper on that story by Andre Dubus," I say.

"Never heard of him," he says.

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"Dad!" she yells as she comes through the doo,: "Yeah!" he yells back.

She finds him in the basement by his work tools.

"Dad, Mandy said that her Dad is making more money then you," she says.

"Yeah?"

"She said that he is stronger than you , too," she says.

"Oh." He runimages through one of his toolboxes.

"She said that her dad could beat you up."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"What did you say?" he asks.

"I told her she was wrong," she says.

"Well, actually, she's right," he says.

"What? Aren't you upset then?" she asks.

"Nope," he says.

"Why?" she asks.

"Because my daughter thinks she's wrong," he says.

She was so gullible. I decide to just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the ride. A ride, which I appreciate, but it's really, all my Mom's doing. If Morn wouldn't ask, he wouldn't take me. I always feel obligated to him when he takes me to class, like I owe him something for taking me to school. He's still talking. He hasn't changed. He never will. The same thing happened all through high school, too. I sat in silence and he talked. Why aren't I used to it by now?

"Well, here you go," he says. He stops the car in front of my school and leans over and kisses the side of my head.

"Thanks," I say. I open the door and pull myself and my book bag out of the car.

"You got everything?" he asks.

I nod and shut the door. I wave before heading away from the car toward the large building in front of me.

"Dad!" she yells as she runs down the stairs.

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f

He is in the dining room getting his stuf together for work.

"Hm,n?"

"I wanted to show you my test. I got an A-," she says.

He takes the paper from her and then puts it on the table. "Why clicln't you get an A +?" he asks.

"Well, I only got a few wrong," She picks up her test and looks at the big reel A- at the top.

"Well, maybe next time," he says. He picks up his bag and leaves for work.

Yeah, maybe next time. Of course, he wouldn't be pleased with an A-. God forbid if it were a B. "Where you been?" Evelin asks me as I take my seat.

"In the car with my Dad," I say.

"Oh," she says. "Well, did you bring your story?"

"Of course, and I'm so excited to read it," I say while rolling my eyes.

"You'll be fine," Evelin says.

"I need to get a couple of six packs before Thanksgiving," he says.

"W hy?" she asks. "'Cause I want to," he says. He looks over at the television.

"Why do you have to ruin every holiday?"

"I don't ruin every holiday, " he says.

"Yes, you do. You've ruined every holiday for 1ne. You even ruined my birthday, so why can't you just go without it?"

"Because I'm the Dael, and if I want to drink, I will," he says. He continues to stare at the television, and she gets up and goes upstairs to her room.

Too much to ask. You stupid, stupid girl! You should've known better!

"So, what is your story about?" she asks.

"My father."

"Oh, no," she shakes her head and sighs.

"It's not that bad," I say. "It's okay, you'll see."

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"I hate this!" he yells. "I can't do this anymore!"

She comes in th_e roonJ-tO firl:� _him. slamniing his head into the stuc­ co wall. "Dad! Stop!"

"I can't live like this anymore," he slurs. He runs at the wall head­ first again.

"Dad, please!" She grabs his hand and pulls him backwards. He falls back and lands on the couch. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy.

He smells of alcohol and sweat. She runs and gets him an ice pack for his head.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. His eyes fill up with tears.

She holds the bag on his head and nods. "It's okay," she says. "It's okay."

It wasn't okay, though.Why did you lie?Why did you care?

He wanted to hurt himself. You should have let him.You should have.

"Would you like to go next?" Miss Ambers asks.

"Huh ... oh, sure," I say.I get up and head to the front of the room with my paper.I stand behind the podium and begin.

"When I was given this assignment, I knew I'd write about my father.I don't get along with him.In fact, sometimes I dislike him so much that I feel like a bad person." I take a deep breath. "My father always tells me I used to be the apple of his eye, that I was once 'Daddy's Little Girl', but I don't like to remember those times."

The class is silent.Evelin smiles at me, and I continue.

"I do remember them, though.They creep into my mind now and then." I smile. "I remember and then all the bad memories hit me.

The times he criticized me until I'd cry, the times he ignored me, and all the times something else was more important. Something is always more important." I feel my voice crack and pause for a moment before continuing.

"I don't like to have any good memories of my father, because it hurts too much. However, there is one memory that seems to out­ shine the rest.It always has f o r some reason, and I'd like to share it with you now."

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I look at the teacher who smiles and nods.

"When I was twelve, I had this favorite doll; she had really long hair; it went all the way down to her ankles, and I loved her to death.

As time went by, she became old and broke. I was devastated and went to my father because he was the only one who could drive."

"Dad, can we go to the toy store?" I asked him.

"Why?" he asked me.

"My doll broke and I have to find her again," I said.

He sighed heavily and then nodded his head. My father, brother, and I piled into the car and went to the toy store. I flew to the Barbie isle and searched the shelves, but she wasn't there, so my father went with me to the customer service desk and asked, "Where can we find Mermaid Teresa?"

The lady typed the name in her computer. ''I'm sorry, but that doll was discontinued," she said.

"It's not sold anymore?" he asked.

"Only what's left on the shelves," she said.

I was immediately defeated, but my dad wasn't. He took me to another toy store, where they said the same thing. When we got home we sat at the dining room table, and he called every toy store in our area, but none of them had my doll. I sat with her body in one hand and her head in the other, knowing she would never be the same.

"Let me see it," he said.

I handed him the pieces of my doll and watched him study them.

"This is easy to fix," he said. "I'll just put some hot glue right here and here." He pointed to the places he would put the glue.

"But, I won't be able to move her head," I said.

"I could put a screw in there," he said.

"It's all right. Don't worry about it," I told him.

"C'mon, let's go," he said.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

He didn't answer me. We all just piled back into the car, and my Dad drove us to the toy store, and I followed him to the Barbie aisle.

"Find a new one," he said. "How about her?" he asked. He held

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out a doll that came with her very own dog, and he picked up anoth­ er one, but once again I said no.

"Well, _you pick one. Your brother and I are going to _go over there," he said. He pointed toward the isles of action figures. That day my father took me to two different toy stores until I found a new doll. She wasn't the same doll, but in a way she was even better." I stopped to catch my breath and look up at the class.

"I don't know why my Dad did that. I don't know what came over him that day or if he even remembers it. I felt important to my Dad that day, and I don't know if I'll ever feel like that again."

The room was quiet as I closed the story and put it on my teacher's desk. I returned to my desk and Evelin smiled at me.

"Shut up," I mouthed.

I opened the car door to his standard greeting, "So, did you have a good day?"

I sit next to him with my school bag on my lap, staring straight ahead.

"It was all right," I say.

"Any tests?" he asks.

"No, but I have one next week," I say.

"I am not looking forward to going to work tonight," he says.

"I think you'd really like that story by Andre Dubus," I say.

"Never heard of him," he says. "Are you buckled in?"

I pull the buckle down across my shoulder and snap it in place.

"There's a lot of things wrong with this car. It only takes one accident, and you'd go flying out the windshield," he says. "I need to get rid of this piece of crap, but it still runs. Ya know?"

"I read a story about you," I say.

"About?" he asks.

"You remember that doll you replaced?" I ask.

"No, but I have a bad memory. I did a lot of drugs in school. My friends and me used to get together and smoke, and snort. I did everything but shoot up," he says.

"Mine broke and you got me a new one," I say.

"Oh... No, I don't remember that. Drugs and alcohol never get 94

into that stuff; it'll really screw you up. I could've got a much better job if..."

The little girl stood looking about him,. He was at least twelve feet tall. He sniiled at her as he handed her the pink Barbie box. She smiled and hugged it to her chest.

"Thank you," she says.

"Not a problem," he tells her.

"I'll take real good care of her," she says. ''I'm sure you will," he says. He holds out his hand and she takes it.

Fool! You silly little girl!

"You'd really like this story by Andre Dubus," I say.

"Never heard of him," he says. He turns the radio up to try to sing along.

"She's pretty, Daddy!" she says. She is looking down at the doll in her lap.

"Yes, she is," he says.

"She has really nice clothes, too," she says.

"Yes, she does," he says.

"I really love her, Daddy," she says.

"Well, I really love you," he says.

When I get home my Mom hugs me and tells me to go inside, so she can talk to my Dad. I know she'll probably tell him that he hurt my feelings again. She always does. He apologizes and life goes on.

I go wait in my room. I sit on my bed and look at the doll my Dad had given me years ago. Her makeup has faded, limbs have fallen off and been glued back on. She's been broken. I can hear him coming up the steps. He calls my name, and a few minutes later he taps on my door.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Your mother told me that I upset you," he says. He comes into my room and sits on the end of my bed.

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I shrug.

"I don't mean to do that," he says. "I just have trouble keeping my mind on one thing."

"It's okay," I say.

"Your Mother says you wanted me to read some story," he says.

"Yeah," I say.

"Alright, well, I have some time before work," he says.

"Alright, I'll be down," I say.

He pulls himself up off my bed and leaves. I hear him go down­ stairs. I sigh and get up.

"What should I name her?" she asks hini.

"Whatever you want," he says.

"It has to be a pretty name."

"I'm sure it will be," he says.

"Yeah, " she says. She puts her head dovvn and sighs.

"What's wrong?" he asks. f "Well, what i she breaks?"

"I'll fix it," he says.

"You will?"

"Of course," he says. "Your Dad can .fix anything."

"Yeah, Daddy can fix anything!"

Daddy can fix anything? Don't make me laugh.Ha! Ha! Hall pick up the doll and glide my hand over her hair before sitting her back where she was.I'll always know her as the beautiful doll she was the day I got her. Some things just don't change ...I go downstairs, and he's sitting at the dining room table with the light on. He has cleared a space on the table, and my Mom is on the couch, no doubt making sure he doesn't disappear.I get the story out and hand it to him. He takes it from me and looks down at it.

"Let's see here," he says. "A Father's Story, by Andre Dubus?" he repeats. "Andre Dubus?" He rubs his temple.I look at him for a moment waiting, and then he shrugs and puts the story on the table.

"Never heard of him," he says.He begins to read, and I go over and sit next to my Mom on the couch. She puts her arm around me and

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kisses the top of my head.

"Yeah. Daddy can.fix anything," she says again. She hugs the doll close to her chest.

-Nicole Cannon

Too Late

"I love this place," she murmured, drawing her legs close to her chest to stop from shivering. Despite her layers of clothing, the night air still chilled her bones.

He remained silent. He stared straight ahead at nothing in partic­ ular, his face blank.

She drew her eyes away from the view below them, the city that seemed so far away from the mountain-top where they sat. Staring at him for a moment, she tried to determine what he thought about, but her attempts proved useless. She had never been able to understand what was inside of him.

"If it wasn't for this place, I'd be gone already," he finally spoke, but his eyes remained lost in thought.

She looked down at the cold ground beneath her. "There must be more than that keeping you here."

He finally looked at her. His dark eyes glistened in the moon­ light, but his expression remained vacant. 'Tm going soon."

She slowly let the air out of her lungs. "Oh," she said quietly.

"Florida?"

He shook his head. "Colorado."

Silence permeated the air, but she could almost hear the turmoil exploding inside her.

Her words were slow and deliberate. "Do you have to?"

He nodded. "I have to get on with my life. If I stay here, I'll never live."

She moved closer to him, but he made no, effort to touch her.

"You 're living now."

He scoffed. "Is that what you call this? Being miserable all day,

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then coming up to the top of a mountain just to think about how I wish my life would start-that's not living."

She no longer felt cold, but her body shook. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again and drew away fronYhim, star­ ing once again at the scene below.

"I asked her to marry me," he said, as casually as if he were talk­ ing about the weather.

She could not look at him. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she could not look. She would not allow him to see the pain in her eyes.

She clasped her hands together to remain steady.

"So, you're both moving to Colorado," she murmured as calmly as possible.

"Yes. We're moving in two weeks."

"But ... " she trailed off, trying hard to choose her words. "I thought you didn't love her."

She felt him shrug. "I don't love her. But she'll be a good wife."

Her words rushed out before she could stop them. "You deserve better than that!You deserve to be in love!"

He rolled his eyes skeptically. "You read too many romance nov­ els. I'm marrying her because she'll be faithful to me. I'm not wor­ ried about whether or not I love her."

"But you haven't been faithful to her," she spat out.

He scoffed. "That was nothing! You and I are best friends, and we made a couple of stupid mistakes. I'm not going to let that ruin my relationship with her."

"But you hate your relationship with her! You've told me that a million times!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes glistening with tears.

"You constantly make excuses to get away from her, because you can't stand her. And let's not forget that you two have absolutely nothing in common, and you never do anything fun together."

"Everyone makes sacrifices." His words came out almost dis­ tractedly. "I've been with her for five years now. Marriage is what comes next." He laughed softly. "And besides, who else would marry a guy like me? I don't have a lot of money. I don't have a good job ... " he trailed off. "I'm lucky that she can look past all that."

She made an effort to breathe, but the air had vanished from her

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lungs. She could not hold back her frustration any longer. "All those days and nights that we've spent together, all those times we spent planning our lives around each other, all those moments you told me you love me-was that all just nothing?"

He smiled. "I do love you. You're the best friend I've ever had.

You've always been there for me, which is why I know you'll visit us in Colorado, and that nothing between me and you will change."

The tears stung her cheeks, and she fought to keep her voice steady. "But I thought you wanted to move to Florida. I thought you wanted to buy a house at the beach."

He took a deep breath. "I did. But she wants to move to Colorado." He shrugged. "It's a small sacrifice to make."

"Oh." He finally looked at her. "Why are you crying?" he asked sharply, grabbing her arm.

She shook her head vehemently. "It's nothing."

His grip tightened. "Tell me."

She looked into his eyes, which were now dark and demanding.

"We'll never see each other again."

He smiled, letting go of his grip on her arm. "Of course, we will.

I will still come back here to see my family, and-" "No," she spat out. "I won't be here."

His head turned slightly in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she snapped, her volume increasing, "that I will not be here. In three weeks, I will be in Florida, on the beach in Daytona, in a house that I bought next to your favorite bar."

His expression became grim, and he gazed coldly at her. "Why did you do that?"

She could not hold the tears back. They rushed out like a deluge and she sobbed, the sadness consuming her. "I thought that I could make you leave this place you hate and start your life in the place you love, the place we have always talked about moving to togeth­ er."

"But, I-" "Are you still confused?" she shouted. "I want you to be happy!

I want you to love your life! I want you to be happy with 1ne."

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His lips parted in shock.

"Don't you get it?" she asked angrily. "I love you. I always have.

But I knew you would never even think about being with me. So, I figured I'd bt1y a house, and you'd come down with me. You're always happy when you 're with me. I never hold you back from doing anything you want. I support your decisions, not make them for you. I knew that if you just left her and came to Florida with me, I could give you a happy life."

She stood up abruptly and marched toward the car. "And now I'll never have the chance, so just take me home."

He remained seated, his back stiff, his eyes fixated on the ground. "I never knew you felt that way about me. You should have just told me."

He looked up at her, thinking that she had never been more beau­ tiful than at that moment, as she stared down at him, angrily. "I... " he just did not know how to say it, how to tell her that he never thought he had a remote chance of being with a woman as perfect as she. "I never thought you could love me," he said slowly.

She sighed dejectedly. "It's too late. Just get in the car."

-Alicia Jackson

No Finish Line what do you do with an old matador, when his skin is old and his flesh bums with an aquatic brilliance? dancing fish of coral crayons, blue of a deep sky, blood of some elder statesman's demise. a child's sketch of a pointed sun, in the corner of a picture; standard repetition gave some kind of talent. reflection on phases of the moon-like transformations, metamorphosis, butterfli es mandela into cataclysmic shapes.

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limited time in narrative form, when you lay it on the table the forks protrude up in aggression. a little salt on your wounds, a little space to regard existence. down to the basics, to simple forms; to dry bone dock repair, salvage some ship for the pasture. an old beaten up skeleton lying naked in the fields, where cows look mystified in angst. freedom to make new systems glide. progression of an artist like seasons. let it take the weary traveler to any foreign port required. even if it leads to empty liaisons with no finish line.

- Frank Nicoletti

New Year's Day The ball dropped in front of millions ...

Where were you?

Parked in front of the TV Breaking last year's resolution for the mjllionth time, No doubt Time resolves itself to a more sensible line of reason ...

But alas, to no avail.

It continues on the same path­ Lopsided, slightly off-center­ Forced to follow the path we travel.

The TV falls asleep in front of us Rather than the other way around­ For a change.

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Mother Earth and Father Time resolve to keep us around for another year, Just to see if they can change us.

If not, they can sit back and watch the carnage, Which always makes for good drama.

Let the television sleep Unplug the life-supportA long overdue, but merciful execution.

Complain about the bad news if you must, But only if you're willing to try to change it Wake up!

Go outside!

It's a new day, new month ...

Happy new year?

- Freda M. Terrell-Tait

Train Tracks My first father He was the tree branch that rocked me His branches were bare No leaves to shield me from the rain My second Dad He was the gentle wind that shook me His whisper was loud Unable to speak I let him fade in with the dust Today I stand on my own Waiting for a train that is always late From the station I see angry branches I see discarded leaves upon the ground The wind does not find me I see it breathing through the hair of those around me I look down the track The train is coming - Nicole Cannon

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Connie Mack Back on that late Spring afternoon sitting together in a row at Connie Mack we were still seven and intact, my whole family, not halved, or half what it was and the lush green grass opened up before us bright white: M.A.B. Paints, Ballantine Beer, Lucky Stike cigarettes: "L.S.M.F.T." Morn's brand.

All there: clad, mom, Robin, Meg, Jeff, Dan, and Ned, and Uncle Frank, and the Phillies in white with simple red numbers and lean, elegant, curving P on their clean red caps, their flannels as sharp as Uncle's light blue eyes, as they warmed up tossing that white cowhide ball, with red stitches, or loping across that field of green grass, or dug in the umber earth by white lime lines, not black and white, not the RCA TV at home, no here in wooden, slatted, enameled seats we all sat and smiled, rubbed elbows, yelled, cheered the Phillies: Johnny Callison, Cookie Rojas, Chris Short or Richie Allen there back then under the balcony on the third base side in heaven all seven.

- Daniel Picker

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HOLY FAMILY UNIVERSITY