Folio 34

Winds of Change . ., --.­

FOLIO 34

Folio 34

The Folio is a belles-lettres publication of contemporary artistic expression. The Journal, though student generated, encompasses in words and graphics the combined talent of the Holy Family University community.

Submissions, however, are welcome from contributors beyond the University community and must be e-mailed to the following address: folio@holyfamily.edu. © 2011, Holy Family University, 9801 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia, PA, 19114

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Contents Prose Introduction, Elizabeth Moore, MFA ..................................................... 2 Notes from the Editors .........................................................................3 To Him I Praise, Valery Cadet .............................................................. .4 I Am the Whip, Michelle Leonard.......................................................... 5 Kids Gotta Love Em', Kezia Singh ........................................................ 6 Determination, Motivation, and.. Fun, Brian McCrane........................... 9 How Do We Deal With This?, Veronica Altimari.................................. 11 Almost Tragedy, Michael Lapteff......................................................... 13 A Taste of Private Lessons, Janelle Flay.............................................14 Imprint, Matthew McTeague ...............................................................15 The Cape Cod Dune, Alexandra Moorhead........................................16 Thank You, Have a Good Day, Laura Suarez.....................................18 Do You Believe in Magic?, Kasey Barnes...........................................21 StoLat, Stephanie Dempsey................................................................28 The Sun and the Moon, Monica Zahaczewsky................................... 29 China Plate, Janice Jakubowitcz........................................................ 31

Artwork Cave Allegory, Joshua Mayo .............................................................. 51 Untitled, Joshua Mayo........................................................................26 Untitled, Joshua Mayo........................................................................ 26 Untitled, Stephanie Koszarek............................................................. 27 Untitled, Stephanie Koszarek ........................................................ cover

Poems Broken Bubble, Bridget Bowne ........................................................... 33 Dancing Faith, Amy Chu-Fong............................................................34 Lily Field Sunset, Frank Nicoletti.........................................................35 Let's Roll, Dr. Thomas Lombardi.........................................................36 Cracks, Brittany Persson.....................................................................38 Again, Jackie Brynan...........................................................................39 Autumn Storm, Sean Bailey.................................................................40 A Poem on a Poor Man, David Young................................................ 41 Tribute, Jennifer Nguyen..................................................................... 41 Dear Dad, Nick Weber........................................................................ 42 Awake at Last, Sister Angela Cresswell..............................................43 The Absent, Brittany Sullivan.............................................................. 43 Snowfall, Melissa Kairis...................................................................... 44 Death, Jessica Przepioski...................................................................45 We Are Who We Are, Chris McClain...................................................45 Write Me a Letter, Christina Mastroeni................................................46 My Weapon of Choice, David Young...................................................47 Carousel, Jenna Spadaccino...............................................................48 Death Lies on Her, Brittany Sullivan................................................... 49 The Wildwoods, Janice Jakubowitcz................................................... 50

Introduction It gives me great pleasure to introduce the thirty-fourth issue of Folio: the first issue overseen by student editors Jenna Spadaccino and Jennifer Gregory, and the first issue to be published following the retirement of longtime faculty adviser Dr. Thomas Lombardi, whose vision and dedication shaped the periodical into its current form.

I am delighted to have assumed responsibility for keeping Folio alive and well and part of Holy Family's tradition of thoughtful, spiritual education-to be its protector, so to speak. For in Folio I see an important reminder of the values that Holy Family University seeks to foster in all members of its community. As part of its mission, Holy Family "seeks to instill in its students a passion for truth and a commitment to seeking wisdom." In my mind, the writing and reading of literature-such as the fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry you will see on the pages that follow-and the creation and appreciation of visual art offer a singular path toward both truth and wisdom.

In the Creative Writing classes I teach, I often spend time on ("harp on," my students might say), the importance of observation, the importance of slowing down enough to notice what otherwise might slip by unremarked: the chime of a grandfather clock; the scent that sends one hurtling back to the playground, or to the kitchen of a favorite aunt's house; the passing phrase that echoes in the brain. The notice of these things, the ability they have to trigger in us emotions like nostalgia, sorrow, joy, is part of what makes us distinctly human. And the representation of these small moments in text or art is, in itself, an act of meditation: a way of reaffirming the holiness of daily life.

Folio encourages this habit of reflection in Holy Family's community.

It provides a venue for our creative impulses, an outlet for the very slowing -down I advocate. As a university, we are called to give students not only the skills to advance professionally, but the ability and the desire to live a thoughtful, meaningful, generous life. Folio isn't the only answer to this call, but it's an important one.

I look forward to the future of this magazine and to the future of the arts at Holy Family with great anticipation. I invite you all to participate in Folio's future however you see fit: as a contributor, a participant, or­ simply, importantly-a reader.

Elizabeth Moore, MFA Assistant Professor of English Coordinator, Arts & Communications Faculty Adviser, Folio

Notes From the Editors "Under new management."

That could have worked as the theme for this year's Folio, but, somehow, "Winds of change" seems much more artistic and less overpowering. Regardless of the words chosen, Folio is headed in a new direction this year and I am honored to be chosen to be a part of the process.

Starting off with some loose directions and a box full of last year's

Folio, I must say that I am impressed with what the Folio staff has created

this year. We've had empty meetings, failed events, and panic attacks when we experienced a submissions dry spell, but we've mad up for it with perseverance, diligence, never-ending chains of emails, and a crunch-time crackdown on meeting our goal to get this book into your hands on this very day.

I hope you enjoy the poetry, prose, and artwork of all our contributors to this year's Folio. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable, flip through the book and feel the winds of change coursing through the pages.

- Jennifer Gregory

Here it is; Folio 34. Jennifer and I have worked so hard on this edition of the publication. We are proud of all the hard work that was put into the process, by our adviser, by the staff and lastly, all of those that submitted. It is amazing to be able to direct Folio into its new future and to watch the process from submission entries to the publication that is in your hands today.

It has been a great experience to endure all the gratitude and satisfaction of making a publication to help the University come together as a family. "Winds of Change" seemed the most well-fit title for Folio 34.

It is an honor to be entitled to help motivate change and accept the change that the publication of Folio is undergoing.

Change is good. Holy Family University helps to enhance that ideology through our mission and we begin to expand and feel the different opportunities, or "winds" of that change and how it will affect everything in the near feature. With that said, I hope you enjoy Folio 34.

- Jenna Spadaccino 3

To Him I Praise

by: Valery Cadet

My God's love is eternal, his love is unconditional; Incomparable amongst all Gods, his glory is seen from the heavens above. Merciful to those who are lonely and weak, his constant love is my guide; my sins are his distress. His guidance leads me to goodness, my disobedience leads to my downfall. Without him I am nothing. With him I am everything. He hears my cries and comforts me in times of danger. The joy he gives me is more than the world could ever offer.

Because of his limitless love, I can come to him at all times, to praise him in his temple. He dwells in my praise, and I dwell in his presence.

His compassion extends my love, as deep as the soiling sea. His words feed my soul, as food furnishes the body. The love he gives me overflows, as a water fountain, continuously flowing, continuously flowing. I trust him to hold me close, so I won't let go. He instructs me with his eyes on the right path to his will. His will gives me understanding and wisdom. Our relationship is intimate. His special gift to me was grace, and unmerited favor. I humbly thank God for giving me salvation, through his son Jesus Christ, who died on the cross, so I could have access to his throne of grace. The love for the lord will always shimmer in every aspect of my life. I surrender all to him, to God alone I give all the praise.

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I Am the Whip

by: Michelle Leonard

As I hung on a hook waiting, I heard lots of commotion coming from the courtyard outside. The guards entered with a man, who they mocked as "King of the Jews." This king was Jesus, who everyone had gathered to condemn. The guards ordered Jesus to disrobe while one guard came and took me off the hook where I was resting. Just as it always happens, I was high in the air and just as fast I lashed the back of Jesus. This happened over and over again in fast succession. Each time Jesus cried out in pain, as I stuck to the cuts in his back that I had created. I wondered why people hated this man because he did not look like a normal prisoner, he did not fight or cry. I felt sorry for the pain I caused him.

After sometime, the guards ordered Jesus to dress again. They then placed a crown of thorns on his head. I was placed on the belt of a guard, right next to his sword. They gave Jesus a large wooden cross to carry and we processed out of the gate. He was being forced to carry this cross to Golgotha like so many men before him, to be crucified. But to me, this time felt different.

As we started to walk, the mob parted to either side of us. Many people were screaming and jeering and even spitting on Jesus. However, there were also many people crying. As we were walking, Jesus fell and I was pulled off the soldier's belt and used to lash him. I felt so sorry for what he was going through. After Jesus got up, we started to walk again. He sometimes stopped to talk to the crying women and one woman even wiped his face. After she wiped his face, the cloth she used had an imprint of his face on it. I saw this and was amazed. A man was pulled from the crowd to help Jesus carry his cross. I was relieved because Jesus looked so tired and still had a long way to go before we reached Golgotha. As we traveled, Jesus fell two more times and again I was used to punish him.

When we finally reached Golgotha, Jesus was stripped of his clothing.

The soldiers took his clothing and were auctioning it off. I felt angry as I watched them disrespect Jesus this way. They then laid Jesus on the cross and began to nail him to it. I winced every time a hammer struck a nail.

After they finished nailing him to the cross, they raised it up and continued to mock him. Time passed and Jesus yelled out "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" His head then fell to the side and he died. I felt so sad for Jesus and wondered what he could have done to deserve such a painful death. To make sure Jesus was dead; a soldier took a spear and cut the side of his torso. They finally took Jesus' body down from the cross and I saw a woman holding him and crying. I heard people say it was his mother. I thought how sad it was to watch one's son die in such a way.

Jesus' body was then carried away to be buried and the soldiers and I walked back to the city of Jerusalem.

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Kids Gotta Love 'Em

by: Kezia Singh

In this short story 18 year old Abigail narrates the experiences she had last year as a Sunday School teacher with her five 4 year old students.

I'll never forget the time I volunteered to be a Sunday School teacher. I was assigned to teach the pre- K class. "It is only five 4 year olds Abby," I told myself." No big deal." Little did I know the trouble that lay ahead of me.

Below is a list I made of my students, so that I would learn all of their names, and a little bit about their characters.

Pre- K Students: Andrew (bold special education student who is obsessed with cars) Sarah (shy special education student) Jocelyn (hyper child) Jewel (sweet, playful, talkative girl with a cherub -like face) Jerusha (talkative, sweet, and mature for her age) So maybe teaching would not be as easy as I had expected. After all, I had two special education students, a hyper girl, and two talkative girls, put that all together, and you have a recipe for disaster- or do you?

When I first began teaching, they would be rowdy one Sunday and quiet or shy the following Sunday. I was worried for them. True this class was done in church and these children needed to reverence the house of God, but this did not mean they should not have fun. How was I supposed to teach a Bible lesson and get them involved at the same time? I began devising wacky plans to get these kids involved in the lessons, and not just be bored, idle listeners. I would bring dress up clothes, and have them act out their lessons. Unfortunately since they were little, the plays ended rather quickly, leaving me scrambling for "on the spot" games. Another time I brought bubbles because it related to the lesson, and had them do action songs.

After doing activities such as these, the kids began warming up to me, but I was never quite sure how much they learned, because they would do more talking than I would. Below I have created a before and after scenario.

Abigail: "Hi Class." Does anybody remember what we learned about last Sunday?" Silence. Okay, well, we learned about David and Goliath remember? All the children begin talking at once about various topics.

Andrew: My daddy got me two cars. Our car crashed, so my daddy, he bought another one."

Abigail: Wow, Andrew. Your daddy bought a new car, and got you two toy cars. That's great, but I need to tell the story now.

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Andrew: My daddy got me a red car and a blue car.

Abigail: Andrew, (she calmly, but firmly states) you can tell about the cars after class, right now I need to tell the story.

Andrew: I have cars. My daddy .....

At this point Jerusha raises her hand Abigail: Yes, Jerusha?

Jerusha: My mommy got these socks for me. She happily pointed to her socks.

Abigail: Those are beautiful socks Jerusha.

Jerusha: My shoes have a scratch on them.

Abigail: Don't worry about it Jerusha, they are still very pretty.

Jerusha: Look at my dress, it's my favorite color. My mommy got it an Indian store.

Jerusha wants to continue talking, but Jewel chooses this moment to raise her hand.

Abigail: Your dress is lovely Jerusha. Hold on Jewel wants to say something.

Jewel: My mommy got me this dress too. I like it very much.....

Abigail: It's beautiful. Okay class, so today we are going to learn about Queen Esther. Once there was a king whoAndrew and Sarah please pay attention to the story. Stop poking each other.

Andrew decides not to listen and continues to poke Sarah. Abigail sighs and continues the story.

Sarah, who rarely speaks, points at the very active Jocelyn, who was trying to "escape from class. She was slowly turning the knob.

Abigail: Thanks, Sarah. Jocelyn come back here. I drag Jocelyn away from the door, and sit her down on my lap.

Jocelyn: I want my mommy (she whines).

Abigail: Jocelyn, you need to stay her and listen to the story.

Jocelyn: I wanna go with my brudder (again in a whining tone).

Abigail: So anyways, King Ahasuerus, vanished Vasthi, and asked for another queen.

Andrew: Daddy, daddy, daddy. I want my daddy. I want my cars.

He begins to cry.

Abigail kneels in front of Andrew and tried to console him, so I could continue the story.

Abigail: Andrew, what's wrong? Aren't you having fun?

Andrew: "No. Dadeeeeeee!

At this point, it is time for the kids to move on the next room to have a snack.

I quickly wrapped up the lesson, and had them gather their stuff. This was another big chore.

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Sarah: Folder, folder. Translation- "I can't find my folder."

After finding Sarah's folder, zipping Jocelyn's jacket, and having all the kids line up, another dilemma erupted. Who would get to lead the line?

Abigail: Okay, Andrew, you get to lead the line.

Jerusha: Last Sunday, you said I could lead the line.

Sarah begins pointing at this point; she wants to lead the line too.

Abigail: Okay, Jerusha and Andrew can lead the line.

All of my students then lined up and headed towards the room with the snacks. They passed other classes and people along the way. On their way toward the room, Andrew, who was leading the line with Jerusha, begins running towards the room. Soon my whole class was running the short distance toward the snack room. All of them that is- except for Jerusha and Sarah, who instead slowly walk with me toward the room, to have their snack,play with the other kids, and wait for the parents or siblings to take them tothe meeting hall. Another day of teaching was done.

Here is another side to the story. This is when the kids were relatively good.

Abigail: Okay class, does anybody remember what we learned about?

Silence. Well, we learned about Joshua and the Battle of Jericho.

I have story book here with the story.

Andrew: Who' s that?

Abigail: That's Joshua. He has a sword.

Andrew: A sword? What's that?

Abigail: Well, ummm ... it's something used to hurt people. Anways, Joshua was a great leader.

Jerusha: In my school we had a play with swords. It was scary. Why are there swords? Can swords be used for good things?

Jewel: My brother had a toy sword. It's really cool.

Sarah begins crying, she doesn't like all the talk about swords.

Abigail: What's wrong? Are you scared because we are talking about swords?

Sarah nods her head. Jocelyn pretends to play with a sword, and is making sound effects. Andrew begins whining.

Jocelyn: Stop crying Andrew and Sarah. You have fun here. She then ran up to me and gave me a hug. Something she later did more frequently, everytimeshe would see me.

Abigail: Is this my active Jocelyn telling my students she has fun here?

Maybe she is getting something out of this class after all.

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Abigail: Come sit here with me Sarah. Can you help me point out the pictures? Good job! So Joshua marched around the wall and the priests blew the trumpets. Can all of you march with me and blow the trumpets?

You all did a great job marching. The moral of this story is to have faith.

Okay let's line up. Finally I get a lesson in.

After calming my students down I then finished the lesson and took them to the snack room. I feel that I accomplished something last year. Although I did periodical reviews with my students, they were never able to remember all 20 lessons It was not a total loss, however, because I was able to form friendships with them, and plant concepts of the stories in their minds.

This made teaching worth it. These students were a handful, but certainly not a recipe for disaster.

Determination, Motivation, and...Fun by: Brian McCrane

This is an excerpt from a larger piece, "Determination, Motivation, and ... Fun" "Gentlemen, take your mark." My mind went blank. The starting Official's voice was all that I can focus on. Again I stared down at the white sandpaper-like starting block with the number "6" painted in the center, but all I could picture was the blue rectangle starting box that flashes and beeps to begin the race. I held my starting position for what felt like an hour.

I couldn't hear anything but my very slow breathing that sounded like it was being echoed through a microphone...

Flash, "BEEP." I pulled my body back and sprang off the diving block without any hesitation. As I was in the air at mid-dive, my arms pulled in to my knees and then sprung out into a straight line. I enter the pool in a pencil-like angle, fingers and toes pointed, and head affixed between my arms in a streamlined position. The race began with two laps of butterfly, my least favorite stroke. I dolphin kicked in a streamlined position to the black mid-pool line and recovered at the surface with a full-fledged butterfly stroke. I tried breathing every three strokes, but by the time I reach the wall to push off, I was already out of breath. I felt my arms pulling harder than ever and abs contracting; the burning sensation in my arms and stomach made it difficult to breathe. The swimmer next to me, in lane five, had half of a body length ahead of me- but not for long. I touched the starting wall with both hands and quickly pushed-off on my back. I always hated that part. I never fully mastered my breathing transitions for backstroke.

However, it was one of my better strokes, so I always had the advantage to get myself back in the race. For me, backstroke was all arm strength, my feet just made my stroke even stronger than it was. I could feel my muscles starting to burn throughout my body, but I push through it.

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Luckily for backstroke I had more time to catch my breath. I never slowed down, yet my breathing evened out. By the end of my backstroke set, I was now a half-body length lead over the lane-five swimmer. As I turned, I saw my teammates at the wall cheering and yelling "Let's go Bri, pick it up!" I took a big breath and immediately pushed off into another streamline ...

It was time to kick ass in the breaststroke length now - my best stroke.

I recovered to the surface and took off. After each breath I took, I shot into a streamline position and kicked as hard as I could. The bubbles from blowing out of my nose blocked my view as I approached the wall at the opposite end of the pool. This was the only time throughout the race I could tell how well I was doing. I touched with two hands and pushed off the wall.

At that point, I was two body lengths ahead of lane five but behind lane four (my teammate, Jim). I was starting to really feel it now. Every time I came up for a breath, I saw Teamer and the underclassmen to my left through my peripheral vision. I knew what they're doing, screaming our names and telling us to "pick it up" as we closed-in on the race, but I kept my focus to the end of the pool.

Two laps to go. I had this, didn't I? That is the part that killed me. The first two and last two laps were the worst. I tried to focus on controlling my breathing - the hardest aspect of the sport for me. By the time I hit the wall for the last two laps, my lungs felt like they were about to collapse. Every breath I took feels like it was my last. After I pushed off the wall, it's the last time I would feel my legs throughout the race. The harder I kicked, the slower I felt; however, I was really moving down the pool. The final turn of my race approaches. I took my last breath and pulled and glided past the infamous 'T'. I curled my body and my feet slapped the water as I turned. As fast as I touched the wall, I pushed off and headed towards the other even quicker. I saw the opposing swimmer next to me gaining speed.

I refused to let him catch up. The guys surrounded the home team's starting blocks in lanes two, four, and six. The cheers filled the entire natatorium, but I heard nothing. My goal was the wall. The last fifteen yards I gave my all. One last breath before I reach the five-yard flags. By this time, my blue­ tinted goggles were completely fogged-over and my head was pounding from the pressure of the goggles. I couldn't see straight, feel my body, or come up for air. Would I reach the wall in time to beat that guy? I needed to breathe but I couldn't do it. ..

My arms reached out as far and fast as they possibly could. I drove myself into the wall and came up to take in as much air as possible. I looked over to my right. 3'd place. I couldn't believe it. As close as I thought the guy in lane five was to me, I was wrong. I turned to my teammate, Jim, in lane four, with a smile and my index finger pointed at him. He responded to me the same way. I finally became aware of my deep breaths. I held on to the gutter and dunked my head under the water, ripping my cap and goggles off my head. As I recovered to the surface, the swimmer in lane five reached the wall. We exchanged handshakes. Out of good sportsmanship 10

and respect for the other competitors, our team stayed in the pool until the last swimmer touched the wall, no matter whose time the last place swimmer was on. The guys jumped up and down in front of lanes two, four, and six, slamming on the blocks because we took two of the top three places in the race. The cheering was deafening as the last swimmer finishes the race. With the little energy that still existed in my body, my heart was pounding out of my chest and I tried to focus on my breathing.

I pulled myself out of the pool and reached the bench to catch my breath, scanning the natatorium at the screaming and jumping fans, in a blur, as I thought to myself ...we did it.

How Do We Deal With This? by: Veronica Altimari

A personal narrative.

One week before Christmas my Mom told me the diagnosis.

Parkinson's Disease. I cannot remember her exact words; I cannot remember my exact words. All I remember from that day was that I was confused and frustrated and I know I cried and my Mom comforted me. She was the one with the disease yet she was comforting me.

My Mom? My best friend? Is slowly dying? How the hell am I supposed to deal with this? At seventeen that's all I could think about, how am I going to deal with this? I didn't realize until a good year later how damn selfish I was.

There are a few things you need to know about my Mom first to understand just how amazing she is. Every one of my friends that has met her loves her. She treats my best friend Chrissy like another daughter.

Chrissy and her Mother do not get along well so every year on Chrissy's birthday, my Mom goes out and buys her a butter cake because she knows it's her favorite. Our home was like a halfway house for my brother's friends.

She loves old TV shows: Laverne and Shirley, The A-Team, Miami Vice.

And she's the biggest dork sometimes. She recently used the phrase, "That's the way I roll" and I couldn't even tell her how lame of a phrase that was because she looked so proud that she had used it. She's completely non-confrontational but if her children get pushed around there's going to be hell to pay.

And when I told her I wanted to be writer. I want to write stories for a living. She didn't laugh, she didn't tell me that's not a real job, she didn't tell me I couldn't do it. She said, "Well then be one and when you sell your first million books, get me a maid, will ya? I'm so sick of laundry." That is my mom.

Doctors and Neurologists became what our lives consisted of for a very long time. I was the one that would ditch my freshman college classes to go to the doctor's appointments with her. "No Mom, my teacher cancelled.

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It's okay, I can go." That was a lie that slipped off my tongue more times than I can count.

My Mom never complained. Not once, she would limp down the stairs, her hand would shake constantly, and she couldn't focus on something for more than hour or so. But did she ever complain? No. So I assumed, in my dumb eighteen year old mind, that she was okay with all of it.

I was so wrapped up in how everything was making me feel that I wasn't paying attention to my Mom. Don't get me wrong, I love my Mother more than any single person in my life and I would do anything for her. But I was seventeen and eighteen and I was upset and angry. Angry at myself, angry at my Mom for being sick, and angry at "God" for trying to take the only other person I loved away from me. It wasn't until a horrible, horrible night that I realized what this was doing to my Mom. She came home from work and immediately laid down on the couch.

She never did this, not once. She would always make herself dinner first or start the wash or play with the dogs. She never just laid down after work.

The shaking had gone from just her hand, to her arm, to all the way up to her neck (this only happens when she's had an extremely stressful or upsetting day). I was worried but she wanted to be alone and I had homework to do so I went upstairs to my room. Then I heard her crying as she was talking to my Dad. I moved silently to my door to try and listen in on the conversation. Then I heard her say, "I just want to die, Dave. I just want to die."

Forty eight, my Mother was forty eight when she said she wanted to die. I was hysterical and had to climb into my closet and cry into a pillow so that she wouldn't hear me. Because if I started crying and she heard me, she would immediately stop and come upstairs to comfort me because that's what she does.

It's been four years since my Mom was diagnosed. We haven't seen a doctor in years. She refuses and I don't blame her. She's still my Mom, she's still my best friend, and I still tell her that the Gilmore Girls have nothing on us.

I used to think, how am I going to deal with this? But now I think, how are we going to deal with this? It's only to get worse as the years go by; it's a slow decline but a decline none the less. So the answer I have to that question is ... we just do. We just live with it. We go through each day and deal with what is handed to us. I still sometimes revert back to that angry, bitter, thirteen year old that's mad at the world for messing with her life but then I look at my Mom. And she has been through so much more than I have. I may have a lost of Grandpop but she lost a Dad. And I may have a mother with a disease that no one can name but she is the woman with the disease that no one can name. How can I possibly complain when she never does?

As I was writing this, my Mom came home from work and glanced at my computer, just long enough to see that I was in a Word document.

Which isn't surprising to her since I usually am in Word. She gave me her 12

smile and said, 'That's right honey, you work on your novel because I really need that maid". That is my Mom.

Almost Tragedy A personal narrative.

by: Michael Lapteff

Every summer my parents took my entire family of seven on vacation to a state park called Rickets Glenn. The trips consisted of pitching a tent, fishing, roasting marshmallows by the camp fire, playing cards, having a catch, swimming in the lake, reading a book, hiking and the usual fights between me and my brothers. There was never a dull moment during these trips. If things felt like they were getting boring I always found a way to entertain myself and others. My parents loved to see everyone having fun.

So much that they would sometimes set up events during the vacation such as going to a race track to ride go-carts and having balloon fights.

There was one vacation in particular when my parents rented a cabin instead of a campground. We arrived at the site completely worn out due to sitting in traffic for what seemed like forever. Once we finally relaxed we needed some amusement. Although we were exhausted and agitated from the ride we were looking for any excuse to have fun. Tom, my older brother and I decided to initiate the balloon fight by luring Jason, my younger brother out of the cabin and ambushing him with all the water balloons we had. Needless to say, Jason was not too happy.

Jason was left completely defenseless. Tom and I threw the water balloons so hard that Jason even had some welts on his skin. After seeing what we did I felt pretty awful and apologized. At that point all the water balloons had been used but little did I know there was still one left and it fell in Jason's hands. The next day I went out for a morning walk. When I came back Jason was hiding around the corner and when I got close enough he threw the water balloon right at my nose.

I became infuriated and ran inside looking for something, anything to throw. Grabbing a plastic cup, I filled it with hot water and poured half a bottle of liquid soap into it. Jason had no idea what he was in for.

Once I splashed the soapy water in his face all hell broke loose. The soap got in Jason's eyes and he instantly began crying. He kept saying "I can't see, I can't see". My mom acted fast and threw him in the shower and rinsed his eyes out with cold water. Jason had no vision for about an hour and during that time I just prayed and prayed nonstop. I was punished for two months once the vacation was over.

Now, looking back, I can not believe how immature I was. My actions were completely juvenile and Jason could have been seriously injured. If I had hurt my brother I don't know what I would have done. To this day my brothers and I still fight but it has never escalated to a situation quite like the soap incident. We are all older, wiser and more mature.

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A Taste of Private Lessons

by: Janelle Flay

A personal narrative.

The First Night

There is that first moment in every basic training Soldier's mind when they scream in their heads, "Fuck this! Why am I doing this? I am an idiot!"

The lofty feelings of doing good things for the nation and the honor of becoming a Soldier were quickly dissipated as our group of pre-basic training Soldiers were sent out in the rain, at one in the morning. Basically, we stood in formation outside for absolutely no reason at all, other than emotional torture. We had been given permission to take showers in a very public ten person stall, only ten minutes beforehand and we all waited as heavy raindrops were soaking our thin sweat suits and darkening the light gray cloth into a soggy weight on our shivering bodies. It was a pathetic looking group of Soldiers with missing socks, wet heads, and broken spirits.

We stood silently for one hour, until released by the Sergeants in charge of us. We now viewed them as the enforcers of pain, mistakenly thinking that they were the worst people on earth. As we gratefully removed our waterlogged clothes and climbed onto the cots someone groaned, "Oh my god we have to be up in two hours, welcome to hell."

3 Hours after that The Discovery Channel has an event called Shark Week, and during this time they show beautiful imagery of sharks attacking their prey either solitarily or in a pack. The prey never sees it coming and is completely defenseless. A Drill Sergeant in the Army looks at a basic training Soldier the same way a shark views its kill, and the first time we met them it was done in a disturbingly similar attack mode. All of the training Soldiers were shoved into a large hall weighted down with duffle bags on our backs, the thick straps cutting into flesh. We once again waited. Then all the lights went out and we were pitched into complete darkness. The girl next to me whimpered in fear and all around us I could hear other Soldiers shuffling and making anxious noises in the dark. Suddenly the lights flashed on and they were everywhere.All the terrified trainees were completely surrounded

by Drill Sergeants. They were wearing their infamous brown rounds on top of their heads, yelling and screaming at us. "What the hell are you looking at private? Don't look at me, look down!" Along with, "I am gonna give you ten seconds to pick up those bags, 3 ...2 ... 1." Suddenly there was a petite female Drill Sergeant standing in front of me and staring me down with a look that made me wish my heart would stop beating, just so I would not have to exist. She sneered, "Well aren't you pretty...," with a voice completely filled with sarcastic contempt and then finished, "...I hope you 14

know I am going to make this that much harder for you, because of it." For me, her quiet, ominous threat was much worse than yells or verbal insults, because she was preemptively punishing me for something that was completely out of my control. Within five minutes, the Drills split us up into our platoons and my heart sank when I realized that the tiny female Drill was in charge of my group. Although Drill Sergeant Ibanez was diminutive in size, she was fearless and had no issues making a six-foot tall training Soldier get on his knees to talk to her. This was merely because she did not want him looking down at her when she spoke to him. She had the reputation of being one of the meanest Drills, and the quickest to punish the Soldiers. Drills do this by forcing Soldiers to do by many sets of physical repetition like push-ups, a practice called, "getting smoked." My overwhelming dread at her constant supervision of me was immediately re-enforced because she took one look at the group, pointed at me and said, "Drop." She had ordered me down into push-up position for having a scuff on my boot, reprimanding me in front of the entire platoon. While I pushed my body up and down she said to them, 'This is an example of the type of sloppy Soldier you do not want to be. Don't let me catch you looking all jacked up like Private Flay." The humiliation resulted in me being completely obsessed about my uniform and boots. This carried on throughout my entire military career, a trait that ultimately had positive results, including frequent comments on Private Flay being "squared away."

Initially, though, it only created resentment and stress over the appearance of my uniform. The paranoia of my appearance was only a small taste of the other tortures I was subjected to throughout basic training and it was continuously inflicted by a tiny Drill Sergeant in a brown hat.

Imprint

by: Matthew McTeague This is an excerpt from a larger non-fiction piece, Imprint.

Gripping the flaps of the box, I pull open the top and hunch over the opening. My eyes immediately focus on a shiny gold sheet peeking out from beneath a beat up copy of Green Eggs and Ham. Burying my hand under the sea of objects.I lift the plaque out and hold it in my hands. I run my thumb over the engraving, letting my skin bob up and down with the peaks and valleys of each line. "PARTICIPATION" it reads. Yeah, that accurately describes my athletic history ... I was certainly there for it. Next to the engraving is a picture of a soccer ball. Looking at it, I can imagine the smell of freshly cut grass and can hear the cries of overly enthusiastic parents in a rage-induced hysteria, begging their children to play better. I don't understand the emotional attachment to the success of a sports team and certainly didn't when I was a child: 15

Most of the soccer games I ever played in, we were losing to begin with ... or at least that's what I think. After each game, I used to ask my coach if we won. Not that it affected me; I've never been very competitive in that way. But I don't ever remember the game hinging upon my performance, which as a consequence, leads me to believe that we were losing whenever I played. My lack of enthusiasm tipped my coach off that he wasn't going to inspire any specially hidden drive behind my blase exterior. That's not to say I didn't ever try.

In fact, one night, it was my turn to kick a penalty shot and it sparked a little bit of excitement to try my best. Everyone was watching me and it was the perfect chance to show that maybe I could get into this soccer thing.

The referee placed the ball a few feet in front of me and blew his whistle.

I scurried up and threw my leg out into the air as hard as I could.

To my surprise, the momentum of my leg spun me in a pretty fantastic mid-air summersault having me land face up on the field. Looking up at the empty night sky, I imagined the ball in the net. I had to have made it. I kicked as hard as I could. I pushed my torso up into an upright position and stared across toward the net and saw nothing inside of it. I then looked around me and saw everyone in a fit of laughter. WHERE DID THIS BALL GO? I then turned my body around, looking behind me and saw the ball sitting right where the referee had placed it. In a true Charlie Brown fashion, I had missed the ball. But there was no Lucy who had taken away the target mid-kick: that was my doing.

The Cape Cod Dune

by: Alexandra Moorhead

An excerpt from a short story.

On a sand covered sliver of land, reminiscent of a European peninsula, a young woman sits on the top of a dune, looking down at the beach scattered with people. The orange dunes are high and steep, beautiful walls of sand that hide the beach from the rest of the world. They remind her of her more familiar environment, the endless skyscrapers of New York City. This beach is not completely foreign to her though. As she gazes across the sleepless, reflective water, her eyes begin to gloss over. She appears deep within thought. Her brow is lowered and she bites her lip.

Her body is tense, sitting heavily in the sand. Her long, wavy brown hair is disheveled. She has so many memories on this beach, but they can never exist again. The thought transforms her happy memories into painful ones.

She looks around at the magnificent scenery and wishes she had appreciated it more when she was younger.

16

The sun was beating down and there was n where to escape it on the flat open surface of the high dune. A family descended down the steep, narrow path to the beach, carrying surfboards, boogie boards, bags, umbrellas, chairs and towels. Lagging behind was an unhappy looking young girl with long hair sticking to her sweaty neck. She was carrying a big load for her small size. She had a boogie board, a backpack, a bucket, a shovel, and a towel under her arm. She whined and moaned and hurried to catch up with her family. "It's too hot," she said. "Ugh, wait up," she called out. After they reached the flat beach below the family kept journeying until they found the perfect spot, unaware of the multitude of complaints that came from behind. The family stayed at the beach all day, until the sun hid behind the massive dune. "Can we go home now," the agitated girl asked for the final time. The family ventured home. The trip back up the seemingly endless dune was always the toughest. The tired, sun-kissed girl had no complaints though, as she rode her father's tanned, salty back up the dune, her arms tight around his sweaty neck.

The young woman descends down the familiar path on the dune, to get a closer perspective on the families joyfully swimming in the water. She tries to slow her fast moving feet down the steep incline, each foot sinks into the soft sand. She realizes the path feels smaller and less intimidating, also less frustrating without all the heavy beach supplies. She walks closer to the families and embraces the guffaws of the joyous beach goers. She sits in the hard, cold sand by the water to watch the swimming children and parents. A wall of cold, clear, blue water rises and the smiling swimmers have no choice but to fill their lungs with air and dive under the crashing wave. After it passes them and sizzles across the sand, the swimmers jump up, breathing in the salty air, excitedly awaiting the next wave. The young woman sitting in the sand observes how much control the ocean has over the swimmers. The ocean decides when the swimmers will dive under and how long the boogie boarders will have to wait to catch the perfect wave.

She begins to remember her last family vacation to this beach town.

A small beach shack sat ostensibly deep in the woods, although cars could still be heard zipping by on the highway, one after another. Pine needles and pine cones covered the ground of the path that led to the entrance of the shack. The ground was a mixture of dirt and sand, beach and woods. It was night. There were no city street lights, only the blue, silvery light of the moon. The carpets inside the house were almost as sandy as the ground outside. The little house was rickety. A young boy slept innocently on an old, tattered sofa. Through the door to the right of the sofa there was a small bedroom at the corner of the house, surrounded by windows. The moon shone through the windows, onto an empty bed covered with a white textured blanket, reflecting the silvery light. Covering the floor of the small bedroom was a bumpy, green air mattress. Lying supine on it was a long legged teenage girl. She lay awake, staring at the low cracked ceiling, thinking, waiting. The dark, placid, night was 17

abruptly interrupted by a flash of bright car headlights that shone through the bedroom window for a few seconds, then shut off along with the sound of the car engine. One car door slammed shut, then the other. Footsteps came closer to the house, and two familiar voices were distinguishable.

The tone of the voices was angry and getting louder. Her parents were fighting again. Not moving from her position on the air mattress she became engrossed in their argument, trying to decipher the words that were still unclear. They got louder, the tone became enraged. She no longer wanted to understand what they were fighting about. She just wanted them to stop. How could so much hate and love exist at the same time? The innocent little boy erratically walked through the sandy living room, sleepily confused. Then he found the bedroom door. He entered scared, looking for his sister. He climbed onto the mattress, causing the air filling the bumpy, green block to move up and down. She held him, as curse words and yells went back and forth between the two people outside who were supposed to love each other, the two people who were the reason for the existence of the scared siblings. Then there was a loud crash at the window above the empty bed. A sound that was so shocking on the dark, quiet night it made them both jump from the mattress. Her brother cried. He was scared.

A square, jagged brick lay on the empty white bed, surrounded by the glass from the shattered window. A car door slammed, the engine started, the headlights shone through the broken window and someone drove away.

The squeaky screen door opened. Her mother came in and held her young brother. The teenage girl asked her mother nothing, she felt angry, but didn't know why. Her mother directed the two siblings to the living room to sleep together on the tattered sofa. Her long legs hung off the edge of the sofa as she lay awake again staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady breathing of her sleeping brother.

Thank You, Have a Great Day

by: Laura Suarez

An excerpt from a short story.

Hi, I'm Jessica, and welcome to ShopZone Š I work as a cashier here at ShopZone, where sales are booming, and employees go above and beyond to help their customers!....Well at least that is what it says in the handbook. I took this job at the start of the summer to save up to buy a car. My parents made me a deal that they would go in half with me if I could prove to be a responsible young adult. Piece of cake right? Well that is before I realized how little patience I actually had. The patience I thought I possessed was tested each and everyday with the people I had the pleasure of interacting with, and those I observed while stationed behind cash register #7. Anyone who has worked in costumer service I am sure can attest to many of these scenarios I will present, and I am sure will be able to laugh and agree to how true each of these 18

descriptions are. Sure, they are all funny, however we must remember this is reality, and how there are people actually like this out there.

There are the people who take the "twelve items or less" line for granted. Now, I do understand that okay maybe fifteen items is okay, however if you are that person with the entire shopping cart full of groceries and are trying to convince people that because they are the "same brand" items, that they don't actually count... Well then there is a problem. You are being rude. You are making that poor little girl, who was just trying to buy shampoo, extremely unhappy, and you are causing extreme discomfort for those waiting in line behind you. I hope a riot doesn't start against you.

Unfortunately I rarely get placed in the first three lines where there is an item restriction. Instead I have the pleasure of working in a lane where the entire store is available for purchase if one so chooses. More often than not I witness the little old lady who is buying enough groceries to last an entire year, just in case she happened to be trapped in her home by some blizzard. It is days like these I constantly remind myself of the precious car I am working so hard to save for. This car means freedom from the repetition of scanning items and calling for price checks.

Then, there are the people who count out exact change. Now, I am not one to have any type of gripe towards coins, yes it is a form of acceptable cash. If the change is a reasonably low number, hey, more power to you. I'll take your coins, but please have them ready and accessible. Do not be that person rooting around in their purse or pockets searching for those pennies and nickels. It is time consuming, and slightly irritating. The people in line behind you will probably associate you with the devil. Or if the change is above eighty cents, please, just take the quarter or so change back and be done with it. Trust me it isn't that bad. I can't tell you how often this occurs. Luckily I have perfected my forced smile as I stand there and wait patiently. I have now made a mental note to always keep some change handy in my new car for situations like this that could occur.

While on the topic of paying, I would also like to mention those people who put their money on the counter. Hi, I am here, holding my hand out for your cash, and instead you place it down on the counter next to me. I am stuck staring at my empty hand, and then forced to pick up your dollars, and struggle with the coins you placed down on my counter. Awesome.

Not only do I look stupid for holding my hand out, but I am now thoroughly annoyed and judging you for why you couldn't just hand it to me. I smile to myself as I have now made a mental note to run each of you over with my brand new car.

Then there are the infamous cell phone talkers. I see you. You're standing in my line, waiting your turn to pay. You are given a few minutes while you wait. Enough time for a conversation. You make your way closer to me, and begin to place your items on the counter. You never once break from your conversation. You ignore my greeting, and look annoyed as I tell 19

you your total. Sorry for the interruption my friend, didn't mean to inconvenience you. This reminds me of the promise I had to make to my dad to never text and drive. So while cruising in my new car, I will be sure never to be that person who tends to be slightly distracted due to a telephone call or message.

I would also like to throw in a mention of those who dress ridiculously for an outing where there are other people... who have eyes. I have seen my fair share of inappropriately dressed mothers, girls in too short or too tight clothing, men with longer hair than any girl I've ever seen, older woman with heavily caked on make up, and children dressed like superheroes. I don't think anything compares to those you witness after midnight though. The freaks do come out at night. I admit, I have laughed, I have pointed, but I also have turned my head to avoid such a scene. It is so strange to imagine all the types of attire individuals consider "people­ friendly" or appropriate in nature. However, this is my job, and I am here to help you. Although I will avoid direct eye contact, I will gladly assist you in finding what you came to shop for. My boss tells me I am a "people person." Well, if that is what it takes to get this car, so be it.

I would also like to just give a mention to those who come with children we all witness. Yes I know kids are difficult, and parents do what they can. However, there are many instances where I find the presence of children in my store to be completely irritating. There are the kids who scream and cry their heads off because they want something that their parents are refusing to buy for them, and they think a tantrum is the way to get it. But, there are also situations where the parent is who is to blame.

Sometimes parents give their children too much of an option. If your child is under the age of, let's say, four, I think it is fair to say you can make a decision for them without any life altering phenomenon taking place. Do not stand there and let them choose which color ball they want out of a basket of twenty colors. I have come up with a simple solution: Girls get red/pink, boys get blue. Easier said than done. The kid should be happy with getting a new toy, and you just saved both yourself and me time of waiting on the answer and decision of a toddler. There was one instance in particular where I somehow got into a screaming match with a three year old while stocking the shelves in the toy department, I almost lost my job, and saw my dreams of owning a car fade into the dark. Thankfully my boss only decided to write me up instead of fire me. I decided to never again challenge a three year old, or at least wait until I am off the clock.

I do not mean any of this to come off the wrong way. I am a good employee. I show up on time, wear a smile, and am here to help. However, my job is not as easy as it looks. Not many people realize the patience needed to work in customer service. I am forced to stand around on my feet all day, wear a ridiculous uniform- name tag included, and deal with customer after customer. You do get those who are pleasant and prepared.

They come in and know what they want, they have their money in hand, 20

and are just as eager to get out the door as you are because they too hate the crowded, crazy scene of a shopping store. They thank you and leave.

However, it is almost inevitable that throughout your shift you will encounter one, or even many of the scenes described above. It is hard not to show your annoyance. Trust me, I am seventeen, and at this age dirty looks are a piece of cake. I have to remind myself that there is a higher power here, and that is the God of Transportation.

***********

For seven long months I was an employee at ShopZone.

During those months I learned so much about myself and others. Of course there were good days and bad days, as well as those days that consisted of my interactions with one or more of the people I described above. I would go to work after attending school all day, I would ditch plans with my friends because I was scheduled to work, my patience was tested, and I would never think my pay checks were enough. In the endit was all worth it. I never was more proud than the day I realized I saved up enough and was able to drive home in my cute little car that seemed to be made just for me.

Of course now, it is time for me to go job hunting to be able to afford this insurance every month. Will it ever end? Whelp, hi my name is Jessica, how may I help you?

Do You Believe in Magic? by: Kasey Barnes

A personal narrative.

Dear Santa, MY tnotn said I was very good girl this year. I reallY need a Barbie airplane and SKYdancrs. If I had to piCK one to reallY want I would picK a tool set to fix toys so I can be a elf when I grow up. I saw you in the tnall and you said you can try. I leave food for your rendeere on the grass and cooKies for you.

Merry ChriSttnas.

Love Kasey As embarrassing as it is, yes, this is an exact copy of my letter to Santa when I was seven years old. Although the original copy's appearance is quite different, written with peppermint-scented letters and difficult to read grade school penmanship, this version gives a general idea. My mom is the type of person to throw away everything that crosses her path including birthday cards, important receipts, and even the weekly To Mommy and Daddy hand paintings I would proudly deliver to her in pre school. For some reason, although I was never quite sure why, she has kept this letter in a "safe place" for over 13 years now. Each year my mother and I decorate the house for Christmas on Thanksgiving and sure 21

enough, on the glass coffee table in a tree shaped frame sits my13 year old wrinkled letter to Santa.

After reading my letter, it is quite obvious that I took the whole "Santa Claus" myth to a whole new level. Even though I was young, I still wonder why my mother never stopped me when I told everyone "I want to be one of Santa's elves when I grow up." I truly believed that there was a reindeer named Rudolf whose red nose glowed and the brass key my mom left on the table was a magical device that would unlock the back door to welcome Santa on Christmas Eve. It's times like these, which make me thankful for my parent's mistake that revealed it all.

*

*

*

I was seven years old, an age where my mind was racing with excitement and pure imagination. December was a time to put aside my coloring books and devote endless hours to perfecting my Christmas List to Santa and doing "good little girl deeds," like my grandmother would always say. As I lay on my stomach on top of the beige carpet that covered my bedroom floor, I rubbed my pinky over the patches of glitter glue that always seemed to leak from the squeeze tube when I forgot to put it away.

Even though I lost the cap, I never understood how the glitter could escape the tube when I wasn't there to squeeze it; it's a mystery I would always try to solve. Next to the pink sparkled band aid that I refused to remove from my elbow, sat my Christmas Countdown Calendar filled with only one more chocolate.

It was December 23''\ 1997. After picking at the dried glitter that glued itself to my carpet, it was time to write my "most perfect letter" to Santa. I looked at the sticky sparkles on my palm and smeared them against the Tweety Bird that covered the front of my pink shirt. I ran to the foot of my bed and lifted the lace bed skirt that my mom had specially sewn to match the pastel patches of the comforter. The area beneath my bed was the ultimate hiding spot where I would place my most secret treasures, which is why I always got scared when my mom helped clean my room. What if she looks under the bed? How will I explain the dead caterpillar I took home from Field Day last year or the rocks I took from the garden to paint? Ignoring the thoughts in my head, I reached beyond my bouncy ball collection and grabbed the silver tin lunch box that held my 24 pack of crayons and few pens that actually had ink. It was the day before Christmas Eve, crunch time for Santa and the elves, especially for postmen who had only one night to deliver last minute letters to the North Pole.

Sitting in the living room were my parents and the newest addition to our family, Skittles the cat. As I skipped by the couch with my hand tightly gripped around the tin's handle, I took a seat on the red plastic chair facing my lego table. This was the place where I did most of my thinking, especially around Christmas time. Given to me by Santa not even a year before, the lego table was my favorite toy. Not only did it come with 120 22

multicolored legos and a yellow construction hat, it was also a spot that was so small only I could fit. It was the perfect place to build like the elves and write my letter!

I opened the tin and grabbed my peppermint scented candy cane pen.

"This will show Santa how much I love Christmas!" I said as I eagerly pinched the grip of the pen with my fingertips. My parents smiled and would always say, "Let us know if you need help." I knew I didn't need help.

There was no one who believed in the big guy more than me, so whatever I wrote would be just right. The words flowed faster than the thoughts could run through my mind. My parents always told me to be thankful for what I have and never ask for a lot. I had thought about my choices for weeks and narrowed them down to three special gifts that I knew would not join my untouched blow up Barney chair in the basement. As my eyes squinted with concentration, my sweaty palms longed for a moments rest. Merry ChriSttnas, Love Kasey. Sheww! All done! Now I can outline the letters in my red and green crayon, put it in an envelope, and it's off to the North Pole.

I remember staring at it after I was finished. I reread the words carefully using the light from the new bulbs on the Christmas tree so I could see. My mom walked up to the tree and knelt on the floor next to me. "Let me see your letter." She said. Snapping the letter back with all my might, I pressed the paper against my chest and said, ''There's not enough time, please don't read it." My mother's soft hands gently handed me a white envelope and I placed the letter inside of it. "I'll seal this and stamp it for you," she said. And I had every bit of trust in her to do just that! Only one more day until Santa comes. How will I ever get through tomorrow?

Merry Christtnas To: Santa Claus Send to: North Pole There I was, standing in my kitchen on Christmas Eve trying to solve my biggest puzzle of the day, better yet the year. Should I make Santa a vanilla ice cream sundae with milk or leave him cheese doodles with a bottle of soda? Along with my preschool creations and irreplaceable papers, my mother would always throw out every recipe as well. These recipes could have been our family's rescue from endless years of Boston Market take out for Thanksgiving dinner and especially from taking Santa off of his cookies and milk diet every Christmas Eve. I thought this year was going to be different, but it turned out to be just like the rest. I knew my mom didn't want to bake when making cookies for Santa wasn't mentioned.

What should I do? I wrote that I had cookies in my letter and now it's ruined.

Like always, I was on my own to find the perfect Santa snack within the shelves of our pantry. No wonder Santa never leaves gifts for grown-ups.

Sitting on top of the counter, sat a carton of Turkey Hill vanilla ice 23

cream, a Hershey's chocolate syrup bottle, a container of rainbow sprinkles, and a family size bag of Wise brand cheese doodles. I promised Santa cookies in my letter, so I have to make up for it. I know that Santa will love if I make a sundae for him and I know just what I'll do! I'll put the ice cream in a bowl, squeeze as much chocolate syrup without spilling, and decorate the scoops with red and green sprinkles. It's going to take forever to pick out only red and green from the rainbow sprinkles container, but it has to be done. What's a sundae without sprinkles?

With my freezing fingers clenching the carton, I gripped the metal spoon and stabbed the top of the frozen ice cream. My arms felt even weaker when I noticed that my strength was not making a dent in the vanilla cement that sat before me. The silence, which floated across the kitchen, must have been my mother's cue to see what I was up to. "I'll make you a sundae, Kasey! Just ask me next time." My mother said. "No, I'm making this for Santa so he has something to eat when he gets here." I said. "You can't leave him ice cream, it will melt by the time he gets here.

I have another idea." She said. Wow, my mom's going to come up with something great to give Santa, something he'll never forget. Oh this is goin{l. to be good.

'Here, use these." My mother said in a "don't dare disagree with me" voice, which I heard each time I tried on an outfit at Limited Too. I should have known. The best thing my mom came up with was the lousy last resort cheese doodle bag, which would haunt me with embarrassment.

Completely disappointed, I grabbed my soon-to-be recess snack from my mother's hands, opened the seal, and stuck my nose in the bag. The smell of cheese stormed through my nostrils, causing me to whip my face in the opposite direction. My mother placed a miniature glass plate in front of me and waited for me to pour out the snack. With every tilt and shake of the bag, my anger towards my mother got stronger and stronger. How could she ever think it's okay to leave Santa a Ziploc bag snack? I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even eat a doodle, I wouldn't blame him one bit.

My mother and I placed the glass plate filled with cheese doodles next to the glass bottle of Coca- Cola on the coffee table. She got her way with no sundae, so I got to leave Santa soda instead of milk. I would never want him to hurt his stomach mixing milk with junk food! After a long evening of preparing for Santa, it was time for me to go to bed. My mother led me to my room and helped me into bed. "You better sleep tonight or he's not going to come!" My mother said. "Okay, Okay." I said, hoping she would just leave so I can think about the next morning. "Goodnight, Kasey." She said, as she closed my door over leaving the slightest opening of light from the hallway. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, so I could go to sleep. The sound of Santa's sleigh bells ringing through my window and his reindeer landing on my roof woke me up quite a few times, but I made sure to keep my eyes closed no matter what. Like mom said, if I was awake "he's not going to come."

It was Christmas morning and my parents were anticipating my grand 24

arrival at the bottom of the steps. They sat together on the couch and patiently waited to see the happiness on my face when I'd finally see that Santa had come! I ran down the steps and could not believe my eyes.

"He came!" I said. Although I did not appreciate it then, the red wrapping paper that sparkled with white snowflakes was absolutely beautiful. I unwrapped my presents like a high school student opening an awaited letter of acceptance to their number one college choice. My parents watched me in amazement as the excitement took over my body. I noticed one present that had been wrapped in Frosty the Snowman themed paper, different from the rest of the gifts. I picked up the box and began to tear the paper as fast as I could. There it was, a tool time set that was exactly what I needed to practice fixing toys! The case was filled with hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, and nails. All of them were plastic of course but I knew Santa made them just for me because I was an elf in training. This is the best Christmas ever!

Later that night, I sat under the illuminated tree and organized my new tools in their case. While sitting on the floor, I noticed a white piece of paper buried beneath the pine needles under the tree. I reached for the paper and couldn't believe my eyes. It was my letter to Santa, unstamped and not even cold from its long night at the North Pole. Why is this here?

It must not have made it to Santa Claus. But how did he know what I wanted? He ate the cheese doodles and the milk is gone, I don't get it.

The confusion and wonder that filled my mind sparked the droplets of tears flowing down my plump cheeks. My mom heard me crying and rushed in to the room. She found me sitting on the floor with tearful eyes, an unfrozen letter, and a broken dream.

My mother knelt down on the floor next to me and placed her arm around my back. "What's wrong?" My mother asked. Taking a couple seconds to catch my breath, I answered. "Why is my letter under the tree?

The envelope doesn't have a stamp on it and it's not even cold?" "Okay Sweetie." My mother said as she looked into my swollen eyes, filled with tears and disappointment. "I don't want to lie to you because I know how much this means to you. Santa Claus is not real; he's in our imagination.

What's an imagination? Does this mean he is real? "What do you mean?"

I asked with wonder. My mother answered much quicker now and seemed to look at the floor more than she looked at me. "Santa Claus is just for fun.

Daddy and I get you your presents each year, Santa is like a fairytale for kids to believe in." I got it now. I could never believe anyone ever again.

How could they do this to me? The big guy with the red hat is just like the dumb tooth fairy.

*

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*

Finding out that Santa Claus is not real was one of the most traumatizing experiences of my life. For years I always said that I would never tell my children the Santa myth and vowed to always tell them the truth. A few years ago, I took the time to take the letter out of its frame. On the back, in my mother's handwriting wrote: 25

92:

!,t

27

e

(cont.)

1997 KASEY'S LAST LETTER TO SANTA. Who would have known that the back of the letter read something just as important as the words on the front? That is why my mother kept this note for so many years! It is the last memory she has of me holding the spirit of Christmas.

After reading the back of my letter, a part of me grew up even more.

I realized that all children deserve to believe in something, whether it's believing in good luck after finding a penny heads up or the excitement of Santa Claus crunching the last cheese doodle left on the plate. I will always thank my parents for bringing the magic of Christmas into my life.

Although my hopes of becoming one of Santa's elves were shattered, my dream of becoming a pizza maker replaced them soon after. To this day I do not know which one's worse. I must say that I am happy my strong imagination adopted a bit of reality along the way.

Now that I am older and understand why my parents told me the Story of Santa, I cannot wait to share the magic with my children someday. Each time I walk past my 13-year-old framed letter to Santa, I smile. A piece of me is brought back to that little girl who was convinced she heard the bells from Santa's sleigh ringing through the air on Christmas Eve night.

StoLat: To The Next Hundred Years of Tradition by: Stephanie Dempsey

Commentary Having grown up in a family in which both sides are predominately Polish, I was exposed to the language and customs since birth. I listened to my grandparents, who I called Babci and Dzadzi, speak Polish to one another. I spent my days as a youngster at home with my mother who used polish words and phrases in everyday life. Until I was older did not even distinguish the language differences in certain words. At birthday parties we not only sung "Happy Birthday," but "StoLat." "StoLaf' is sung at every party regardless of whether it is a birthday or not. It means wishing health and happiness for the next hundred years. It is literally translated into "100 years," but in the Polish tradition it encompasses a combined meaning of happy birthday, happy anniversary, best wishes, or he's a jolly­ good-fellow. At a recent party after a "StoLaf' broke out (which they do from time to time depending on what we're celebrating and how much wine is flowing) I looked around and thought of all the traditions that have been passed onto me. I felt lucky to have had this close upbringing. It was not uncommon for me to have friends who were not close with their families, and had no real understanding of where they came from. I do not speak Polish and I was raised as American as they come, but that sense of my 28

roots and tradition is something that seems so lost these days. I could recall a time when I was in first grade and I referred to my grandmother as Babci, and another student told me it was weird. It is this fear or being different and need to be accepted that keeps traditions from being passed on. On long car rides, my family would spend time talking with one another.

We listened to one another, we did not sit idly with headphones in and an lpod on. It was not until later in life that I could truly appreciate just how fun my families differences are.

In the kitchen at family parties I watched my grandmothers, mother, and aunts prepare kielbasa, meat wrapped in cabbage and sauce, and chrischikis which are powdered tortilla-like cookies. On Christmas Eve we share oplatek. This is a large communion host that has not been blessed.

It is passed around and everyone breaks a piece off and makes a wish.

At Easter on a Polish table one can always find a baranek, it is a lamb made out of butter that represents the risen Christ. I must admit that I had once taken for granted the culture that was part of my life. It was not until I was older that I could actually appreciate the customs. I listen to my parents and aunts and uncles talk about how they were sent to take Polish lessons when they were younger so they could not only speak, but read and write the language. I see pictures and hear stories about what Poland was like when my grandparents lived there, I hear more Polish jokes than you can imagine. (How do you sink a Polish battleship?- Put it in water.)

Maybe it is not so much the traditions but the togetherness that comes from the them. These traditions are staples in my life that when boiled down, mean family to me. They have been passed down to my brothers, cousins, and me. This feeling and these memories will without a doubt be carried down to the next generation. To that, all I can say is StoLat.

The Sun and the Moon A personal narrative.

by: Monica Zahaczewsky

"Monica, Monica! Come on, wake up! Did you hear me?

Grandmom's gone!" The last two words that came out of my father's mouth were all it took for my heart to shrivel up and skip a beat. I suddenly became an empty shell; my body froze and fear paralyzed every bone in my body. She was my best friend, my other half, and out of all of the grandchildren she had, I was the one always found sitting on her lap. My grandmother and I were like the sun and the moon, for the moon only shines with the help of the sun. Regardless of the fact that I was only seven years old, my grandmother and I had an intangible bond. My grandmother never spoke English that well, however, we managed to understand each other and show our affection in various ways. Her vibrant 29

smile had the power to light up an entire room and fill everyone with joy.

She was my protector and my shield, whenever my father corrected me, she yelled at him in Ukrainian and/or pushed him away with force. I thought that was swell as a child, and to this day I can't help but laugh.

I often sit in reverie and reminisce of our past together, wishing she were here to watch me grow into a woman. I was once told that life is a journey and that friends and family were the co-passengers. On December 21, 1997, not only did I lose one of my co-passengers, but one of the closest people in my life.

I remember that morning as if it were yesterday, and it still continues to stay with me as a young adult embarking on a whole new journey in my life. My room was dark, for it was early in the morning and the sun was still hiding behind the clouds waiting for its queue to shine. While I was still frolicking about in Dreamland, my door flew open and I woke up to reality- a reality that I didn't want to face. My father ran into my room crying hysterically and trying to gasp for air, while I had my head in my hands praying for my grandmother to come back. Our tears were flowing down our cheeks in endless rivers, and my father took me into his arms and held me. For being a girl of seven, I never thought I could feel so much anguish build up inside of me; that was when I learned that my life can change with every breath I take.

The morning of the viewing was dreadful in its entirety, but I managed to force myself out of bed. My mom helped me pick out a presentable outfit, an incandescent white dress with vintage-esque flowers one would wear during the spring season, not to a funeral. I remember thinking to myself that this dress was too "happy" and that frankly I was feeling quite the opposite- somber and miserable. It was like a tug-of-war game trying to get me into the car, my parents were pulling me towards them while I was hauling in the opposite direction. After 15 minutes of bickering, I found myself driving in the backseat of my car to the funeral home. Opening the car door was an arduous task, for I was fearful of what was about to take place. This was my first time attending a funeral, and because I was so young I didn't know what to expect.

As I entered the funeral home, I saw the bleak faces of my family members as they mourned the loss of my grandmother. A plethora of flowers crowded the room, all colorful and unique in their own way. With much bravery and hesitation, I walked up to the casket and saw my grandmother's body and within a split second I shrieked and ran out of the room. My cousins quickly came to console me and tell me that our grandmother has passed on to be an angel who would always watch over me. I thought of her warm smile and tender touch and believed it to be true. After the realization that my grandmother would be with me always, I walked back to my grandmother's casket. I kneeled down in front of her and talked to her, and I noticed how lucid and delicate my grandmother's skin was. After saying a personal prayer, I kissed her frigid, cold forehead 30

and walked back to my family knowing God gave me courage and strength. My Aunt Stef took me into her arms with tears in her eyes and said, "I miss her."

When the viewing ended, we trudged out of the funeral home in complete silence. To my surprise, we all drove to the Austrian Village for a luncheon in my grandmother's honor. I found myself to be bitter and resentful towards my family for laughing and having a good time. The feeling inside of me was one of confusion and agitation. As I was walking towards my father, the wooden floor beneath my feet creaked with each step. I asked him, "Why is everyone smiling and laughing? My grandmom is gone. What's there to laugh about?" My dad half-smiled and said, "Monica, we are not celebrating her death. We are celebrating her life."

Even though my grandmother is gone, I sometimes feel her presence, like a cool breeze seeping through my skin. I know in my heart she will always be my guardian angel, my best friend, my grandmother. She greets me with the morning sun, and says goodnight to me as the sky becomes black and the moon shines its scintillating light. My grandmother lets me know that she guides me everyday, for like I said, the moon only shines with the help of the sun.

China Plate

A short story.

by: Janice Jackubowitcz

Caren set the table with her favorite china. Dinner was baking in the oven. Mark would be home from the airport soon and she would be ready.

Caren sniffed in the aroma of the baked chicken feeling comforted by the warmth in the kitchen. He called from the airport to make sure she would be there. She was always there with dinner waiting. This dinner had to be different.

Caren studied the table to make sure everything was in its place.

Her eyes caught a chip on one of the china dinner plates at Mark's chair.

The beautiful china dishes which belonged to her grandmother never had a crack or chip in them since they were married ten years ago. She handled the dishes as carefully as she handled Mark. Caren opened the cupboard to bring out a replacement. The silence in the room began to make Caren feel uneasy. She walked over to the stereo. Mozart, the soothing strings of the violin.

Caren went back into the kitchen to check on the roast when she heard the sound of Mark's car pulling into the driveway. The business trip took longer than expected but it didn't matter now that he was back.

Mark entered the kitchen. He looked tired and older as if the trip aged him in two weeks.

"Caren" he spoke softly. Caren wanted to run to the doorway and 31

clutch him, but somehow she couldn't.

"You're just in time, dinner's ready."

"I'll wash up, it was a rough flight." Mark turned to leave the room without looking at Caren.

Caren kept stirring the gravy in the saucepan feeling her hand tighten around the wooden spoon. She set the food on the table and waited for him. She seemed to always be waiting for him lately.

Mark came into the dining room sitting down in a slow, deliberate manner. He began to put food on his plate. The music played softly in the background.

"I found a chipped plate. I hope the pattern isn't discontinued." Caren slowly cut her food trying to look into Mark's eyes.

"Maybe you should just get new dishes, pass the pepper please."He asked.

"Is it too bland? I guess it needs more seasoning." She searched his face for some kind of response. "Those dishes were an inheritance from Grandma."

"I like my food spicy. The spicier the better." He gnawed away at the meat, eyes drifting towards the window. "This music is going to put me to sleep."

"I know you're tired, would you like something livelier?" Caren got up to change the stereo. Caren was becoming more uneasy with his manner.

Mark continued seasoning the food, but it didn't seem to satisfy him.

"You've ruined your palate." Caren said struggling for words, any words.

"I need more, Caren." He looked at her. He paused and looked into her eyes for the first time.

"What Mark?" Caren gripped her fingers on the edge of the dining room table and tried to catch her breath. Dinner continued in silence.

Mark folded his napkin in his lap and placed the silverware carefully in the center of the plate. Caren stood to clear the dishes. She needed to do something because she couldn't bear the silence anymore. Caren left the room and returned with coffee. Mark was staring out the window.

"Coffee?" Caren poured herself a cup and put the pot on the table.

"Caren," Mark stood and moved a chair closer to her.

"Coffee?" Caren asked again.

"No, put that down and listen to me. We both know that it hasn't been good between us for quite sometime. I'm sure you realize that my trips are more prolonged. There is no other way to say this but I am in love with someone else."

Caren clutched the empty china cup. The cup fell from her hands, shattering into pieces on the hardwood floor. Mark stared down at the shattered china. She wanted him to pick it up. Pick it up, fix it, put everything back together.

"It can't be fixed." He commanded.

32

Caren looked down at the broken pieces of china. Before the tears could escape from her eyes, she fled into the kitchen. The chipped dinner plate was on the counter by the sink. Caren picked it up slowly and ran her fingers along the rough edge.

"Mark's right, I should get a new set." she whispered. "Maybe I won't find the same pattern." Care took one last look at the china plate with the chip. She opened the trash can lid and dropped the plate into the can listening to the dish break into pieces. It can never be fixed just like her marriage and she would have to let it go.

Broken Bubble by: Bridget Bowne

The countryside you say...

Oh how lovely that would be.

You and I together in perfect harmony.

Alas my good sir, may I say...

That you and I could never stay.

Happiness with a cuddle...

Indeed I will break your bubble.

You and I will never be...

The farmers that you dream.

You are lazy and twice as crazy as I. My dream is to be huge as I age, Not stuck on a farm or tending animals in a cage.

The last reason we will never be, Is because I am allergic to pollen, bugs, and bees.

The trees will fall and flowers will rot, Like the dead animals all over your crop.

I am not your maiden to take to bed.

I would rather chop off your head, Alas good sir, you and I will never be.

Together forever in perfect harmony.

No need to cuddle, Good sir, indeed I have broken your bubble.

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Dancing Faith by: Amy Chu-Fong

I walk in the lonely darkness.

Goosebumps spread all over my body.

Heart rate beats faster at every step I take.

A spotlight has found its first target, me.

I can only see the hardwood floor I am standing on and nothing more.

Heart rate pounds more rapidly than ever.

"Why am I still in this studio?" I ask myself. "Obviously, I need to get out of here."

I hear a door shut.

Apparently, I am not alone anymore.

I start to walk faster while the spotlight continues to follow my path.

The room is getting hotter while I begin to sweat.

Suddenly, a mysterious voice calls out my name.

I turn around and see nothing.

I smell strong cologne, which lingers in the studio.

"Please," the voice cries, "do not leave."

I hear its breath approaching to my direction.

I begin to run without turning back.

Where am I running?

Where is the exit?

Where is the door I heard moments ago?

Out of the dark, arms embrace me.

I try to wrestle myself out of the firm grip and stop.

"We have met before," kindly says the mysterious voice. "You can trust me."

I slowly realize the grip was not a grip.

It was a hug.

Tears flow down my face.

I feel something soft, Gliding underneath my eye that wipes away one of my streams.

My lips unexpectedly smile.

I feel warm and safe.

I may know this person, but...

Am I cuddled with a stranger or someone I know?

The arms release me, and another spotlight catches its next victim.

Music begins playing in the background.

A mysterious man sways his body smoothly and points to me.

The only thing I cannot see is his face.

I am curious to see who the mysterious man is ...

Yet, I know some strangers can be mentally insane.

Vibrations start to flow through my body as I begin to dance.

The unknown man sways toward me while his spotlight progresses to collide with mine.

As the dancing man comes closer, he reaches out his hand and waits for mine.

"Shall we dance?" he asks gently.

"Who are you?" I ask him.

"Please, take my hand. You may remember who I am."

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LILY FIELD SUNSET by: Frank Nicoletti

(bruce's nebraska on the radio) snow falling on black paved streets phone call on the answering machine the boss says, "enjoy the day home with the kids" drawing the blinds back revealing icicle sunshine roofs neighbors shoveling old folks cower in front of stocked fridges and tv dinners (a day's isolation) no buses running yet working up an appetite while digging out cars turkey chili and bread little kids in sleds happy smiles nostalgia seems like a growing shadow in the wake of lily field sunset blizzard

35

Let's Roll

by: Dr. Thomas Lombardi (Dedicated to Thomas E. Burnett, Jr.) I read that Eliot, asleep in native Somerset, In poetry declared the world would end Not with a bang but with a whimper.

Not here, though, in America's sweet Somerset.

It ended not with a whimper but with a bang.

What a bang! What an exit from this life!

Still bleeding through history's faded script.

Note, the soil here has served to save the nation twice.

First, where mythmaker Carl Sandburg asked, "What place is this? Where are we now?"

A visit to the place where grass still grows, Still covers all. At Gettysburg, my friend, East of Somerset and the setting sun.

Recall, from Newark, the unimaginable miles To this place, a countryside, sanctified

By American blood, where lungs inhale The perfumed air, despite the stench of Yesteryear, the obscene deed, the almost end, at Z. Read thusly, a seeming plot from Graham Greene: Titanic jihad under heaven's deep blue shield.

Hell reborn, concealed inside the Boeing fuselage, (Yet Guido-like*, a flame to visitors from Earth, Requesting that his message be delivered home) The turmoil, the battle, the shouts, the screams, The civilizational clash of worlds, of history, One voice-"Let's ro/1"-identified at home Below: demonic foe is foiled by one take charge Hero, radiant with God's grace, charging, Not leading travelers toward California's coast, But (Say it!) crusaders down to victorious death36

Made glorious by that ghastly threat, the bull's eye Target: Washington.

As it once was at Gettysburg. In either case, Thumbs down. For metaphysical reasons.

And that is why we mourn and honor Those too valiant dead, these farms, These fields, these hills, the ever growing grass, Their final resting place, the only music The wind's symphonic gust; a fence of tears (Photographs, names, letters, rosaries, flapping flags) Their prayers flapping heavenward for those Who never dreamed in Jersey's morning light That everything would end abruptly hereThe grand bucolic view shut down.

Flight #93, like no other flight to date, Scheduled-unscheduled, transfiguredAs on Mount Tabor where all seemed to those ...

The flight we all must take one day, That flight we'll all be on, regardless, And in that passage from the innocent start Responsibility will be ours and ours aloneThe victory-the opposite unthinkable-known, As one undoubting Thomas knew that golden day, To God alone. *The flame that speaks in Dante's Divine Comedy

37

Cracks

by: Brittany Persson Shredding my heart was so easy.

You tore it apart like a missile Shooting through my heart.

Raise your gun.

Launch your assault now.

It should be so easy.

Destroying all we've built With the silence of your weapon.

Drop your bombs now And watch it burn.

You signed away our love With one stroke of The pen.

The cracks begin to show As you rip away my life, Only to fuel your ego.

How does it feel?

Massacre my heart now As I lay in a flood of misery.

I exhale your pain, While you inhale my ecstasy.

Annihilate my love, And watch it all fall down.

Beaten down and broken I wait for you.

Raise your weapon.

38

Again

by: Jackie Brynan Beginning so high, with so much to lose The journey to earth is about to begin.

Swirls of scarlet, orange, and amber hues Dance together through the wind in an effortless spin.

As she looks to the sky, the tears start to descend; She sees a world of what could have been.

Recalling her line, "It's for the best, in the end," Surfaces emotions too long held within.

Examining the canvas with a white-knuckled grip Her blade swiftly slices the skin.

As the face starts to form, the pulp start to drip, A new identity is formed, yet hers is thin.

With fire inside, the face blazes bright, Reminding her of the sparkle from when His eyes vowed "I love you" without exception, each night.

Wrongly taken for granted, she now craves those again.

Penetrating the blemish on the rough metal screen Frigid breezes encompass her form.

Replacing her lacy tank for her aquamarine Sweatshirt that never fails to keep her warm, She decides her regrets serve no purpose inside Of this body that's so far from her norm.

His hand clings to hers as their differences collide Into a life imperfect, but worth the reform.

Turning the hands back, just for a bit Is rare but permitted for one single day.

With this time she presumes that it's best to admit What her heart has been longing to say.

No more holding back; the minutes tick by As she devotedly attempts to mend her betray.

Laughter, protection, and compassion make her question why She ever gave in to her former na"ivete.

39

Autumn Storm (A Sestina)

by Sean Bailey

Hills in the country blasted orange and red.

Rattling from deep in the wood, doors of an unseen house, Its dwellers forced to leave.

The sky lowered from above, ahead of the storm.

In the dwellers' haste, the windows were left unclosed.

Soaked floorboards and drapes won't meet them, they hoped.

Crashing thunder and eye-searing lightning, raged the storm.

Trees fell throughout the wood, but not on the house.

A child's tricycle lay under some timber fallen, twisted and bloody red.

Miles away, a small boy in a car dreamt of that trike behind eyes closed.

While in the front seat his mom and dad fretted that there was no hope.

They had no choice, but to leave.

The family drove from red light to red.

Sporadic light flashes-in the rearview-of the storm.

The edge of the chaos lurched behind them as it closed.

Sprinkly drops of rain spat upon houses.

In the front seat, the mom wondered if these dwellers would also lose hope.

Will they know when to leave?

Many hours and miles passed since the wood and the house.

A faint crease of light in the sky warmed to red.

This was the family's sign there was still hope.

The dad in the front seat knew the dark was coming to a close.

Out from under the doomful clouds, the family escaped the storm.

Their feeling of fear took leave.

Along the highway, a motel's Vacancy sign glowed hot in neon red.

Confident in knowing he has outrun the storm, The dad pulled in to find a room; sleep would come once the door was closed.

The boy, full of anticipation stood at the grimy window ready to leave, Anxious to see his cherry red three-wheeler parked askew outside his house.

His daddy's eyes blinked wearily to life, so it was on to home the little tike hoped.

After hours of driving, the devastation told the dwellers they were close.

Shredded roofs lying at eye level as they drove by told the story of the storm.

40

Families sifted through wreckage, their faces bore no sign of hope.

As they slowly rolled through town, the family prayed nature spared their house.

A familiar lane appeared where a lone maple stood waiting-naked of its leaves.

A battle for vibrancy, the maple's fallen clothes or a car roof flashing blue and red.

The little boy stormed crying from the car and rushed to an oddly familiar flash of red.

The wood's detritus of trunks, branches, and autumn-tinged leaves ensconced the house.

With tearful eyes closed and hearts full of hope, the dwellers embraced one another.

A POEM ON A POOR MAN by: David Young

There was a man who was very poor.

Everything he owned was stolen from a store.

He gathered it all into a box.

It ranged from food to socks.

One day someone came and stole everything he had.

He found out he had been robbed; he was sad and began to sob.

He decided, though, that he would go back to the store ...

This time- he decided to ask for a job!

Tribute

by: Jennifer Nguyen It's the middle of the summer and I'm not leaving.

You try to find me but I'm still searching; and sunlight's blinding in the middle of the night.

I'll be at the corner of Broad and Pine, leaving prints on the windowpanes.

The red banners are flapping, but I can't see-sunlight's blinding.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Do I seem right?

It's the middle of the night but I'm not sleeping.

If you never find me, tell the papers: Sunlight's still blinding.

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Dear Dad by: Nick Weber

I Love You Dad And So Does Mom And Little Brother Too I Wish You Were Here To Wipe Away my Tears So Many Times I Needed You Three Years Passed And The Pain Still Dwells Three Years Too Long Crying And Crying , My Eyes Are Swelled Not Having Dad Here Feels So Wrong It Hurt To Lose You But Something Hurts More I Can't Bring Back The Man I adore Gone Are the Days Of Yesterday And I Sure Do Miss You So Every Night, For You, I Pray I'll Never Let Your Memory Go To Bring You Back, I Tried And Tried But To No Avail, I Cried And Cried So Now I'll Rest, And Dream a Dream That You're Still Here, Or At Least It Seems I Love You Dad And So Does Mom And Little Brother Too Even Though You're Gone My Mind, You're Always On Dad, I Love You

42

AWAKE AT LAST by: Sister Angela Cresswell

They told me that the mighty "I" was all there was to me.

Yet every time I stilled my soul I met Divinity.

An iceberg tips the water just as "I", for all to see, But those with "eyes" know something of what lies beneath the sea.

Too often have I lived as if the treasure deep below Was not worth the discovery by me and those I know.

Too often has the gold mine of my person been kept secret.

My soul, my spirit bound like creatures caught within a fish net.

The call to authenticity came oh, so many times to be myself, reveal myself, heedless of the rhyme that I and others often failed to solve or understand.

A lifetime is too short to grasp the fullness of His Plan.

While life is mine and I still find there's time to be aware, I'll spend what's left, release what's kept in ways that show I care.

The Absent by: Brittany Sullivan

The days I spent missing you Have exhausted me.

You fill my thoughts constantly and linger in my dreams.

I reach my arms out to you but I only grab emptiness.

And it holds on to me.

Tightly.

43

Snowfall

by: Melissa Kairis We set our watches to January.

Winter wind whips, whirs all around.

It envelops us in an embrace, Cold and comforting.

Breaths linger in the air like evaporating smoke.

White skies promise snowfall.

It happens every year.

From flurries to a dusting to Honest-to-God sticking to the sidewalk, And children hope and pray for a snow day.

Public, parochial, private, please.

It arrives, and brings with it excitement, joy, magic, Childhood.

They venture out, bundled so tight that they waddle like penguins.

Innocence and laughter mingle with the snowflakes.

Snowmen, snow angels, snowballs.

Front lawns are new frontiers, igloos their fortresses.

An unchartered territory, blanketed in white.

And they rule it all.

Hours later, wet mittens and gloves slough off, forgotten.

Rose-colored cheeks and fingers like icicles, numb with cold: A small price to pay for conquering the snowy world outside.

Hot chocolate comes next, With marshmallows bobbing like corks, Consumed quickly, before the film comes to the surface.

Savor the magic, we want to say. Hold it tight.

It will disappear.

Snow days from school are fleeting, though, Replaced with expletive-filled commutes to work.

Snowmen swapped for squeegees and shovels.

Unwelcomed, annoying, inevitable.

Adulthood.

We hope not for snow days, but no snow at all.

Flurries will suffice, thank you.

The magic blows away with the blustery, blizzard winds, Gone before we can appreciate it.

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Savor the magic, we want to say. Hold it tight.

It all disappears.

White skies promise snowfall.

It happens every year.

Death

by: Jessica Przepioski Losing a parent, heart-breaking.

Losing both parents, a tragedy.

I do not know how they dealt with it.

Losing their father, by a sudden heart-attack-no warning ....

Losing their mother, to cancer- just five years earlier.

Four kids, the oldest being only twenty-two.

HAD to grow up so fast to take care of his family- to be strong.

Death is such a scary thing, a dreadful thing.

We tried to be there for her, to be her support, her family.

I NEVER met a stronger person in my life.

I do not think I ever saw her cry.

How could she hold that in, how could she not just SCREAM? But, how does a person really deal with death?

Does anyone have the ANSWER?

We Are Who We Are by: Chris McClain

What if I dared to be me And if I wasn't what you wanted Would you still accept me For just being who I am?

What if, I were different Would we still be friends Would we still be family You know, all I want is for you to love me .

What if I wasn't like you?

Could you, by any chance stand by me?

Your approval and acceptance of me Are all I need.

Understand i'm perfect by just being me 45

Don't look in disgust Don't speak to me with hate Just know i'm just like you Trying to live this life With people who wont accept me for being me.

So before you reject me Get to know me And you will see who I am Don't judge me on my preference Judge me as the person I am.

Write Me a Letter by: Christina Mastroeni

Write me a letter spare me the time whatever the weather whatever the rhyme.

Write me a letter make it 5 pages long talk all about our favorite songs write it in your worst handwriting it will be all that much more run to read talk about the honest truth and how much to you I mean.

Write me a letter write it in purple ink because you know it's my favorite color now tell me, darling, what you think. what are your thoughts about us?

And the way we live our lives?

What were you thinking before our last date, moments before you arrived?

Also in this letter, explain why you feel the way you do I really love this story Almost as much as I love you.

And tell me over and over again how you feel the same Just please, oh please, whatever you do 46

don't use those cute pet names.

When you're done with this letter get an envelope open and ready to stuff and on the very last line sign it with all your love.

My Weapon of Choice... by: David Young

My weapon of choice is my pen.

It is my protection and my friend.

It translates my thoughts to ink, Providing a form to what I think.

It's where knowledge and feeling intersect, Coveying emotion and intellect.

This weapon serves to protect.

I have ideas to defend and Messages to send Which causes an effect.

The effect affects those who receive The message with the choice to­ Agree or Disagree And to believe or disbelieve.

How will my message be perceived?

The power to convey is a weapon.

It can be a danger.

I choose my words carefully With my pen who is no stranger.

I must trust myself with what I produce.

My thoughts are never confined When the pen and paper are in use.

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Carousel

by: Jenna Spadaccino My feelings aren't changing in time.

I'm still wishing you were mine.

It's like a winding carousel... starting slow then going fast.

Not knowing how long all of this is going to last.

You left so soon.

But it was my mistake, it's mine to give and yours to take.

It's like a winding carousel... starting slow then going fast.

Don't want to be a memory, lets count the stars up in the sky.

The stars align for you and I tonight.

I'll take that as a sign.

Don't hold back what you feel, relinquish yourself to all that is real... slowly winding.....

The carousel stops and slows down.

Just like the saddest rainfall, tears slip down her face....

It's another setback of young teen love.

I want to be with you.. and I want you to experience the same, as the carousel starts spinning...

Love is like a winding carousel.

Slowly winding...it's done.

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Death Lies on Her by: Brittany Sullivan

(Dedicated to Donna Chieffo R.I.P.) Here I sit... waiting impatiently for your last breath.

I know it's wrong of me to think this way... but I can't help it.

And I have no excuse.

(I promise I will think of one.)

We sit around you praying for miracles And when your hand twitches, we cancel the casket.

But the bitter truth bites at our heels (if only we could live in the lies we tell) No matter how badly we wish to pretend, reality always has to kill our false hopes...

I wish your eyes would flutter open, just for one more day.

(Death is unkind and I am too uncomfortable to say goodbye) I don't like strangers seeing me cry.

I will lay carnations on your sheets but only in secrecy.

Don't think I am ashamed ...

I'm just not ready to open your door and let death come strolling in ...

He'll leave rings on your coffee table.

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The Wildwoods by: Janice Jakubowitcz

White foam fingers dance to the shore Tourists moving slowly on boardwalk planks Sand floats in the summer breeze.

Seashells nestle in sand from an ocean journey Watch the tram car, watch the tram car.

Children pile their castles high Under clouds of animals floating above.

Seagulls swooping towards bits of lunch Poke and pick through treasures Sticky Popsicle wrappers from little fingers.

Watch the tram car, watch the tram car.

Playing free without restriction Sleepy in the warm breeze Waves rolling over the playful tourists Moving in and moving out.

Watch the tram car, watch the tram car.

Lifetime memories folded in the sandy chairs.

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Folio 34 Staff Co-Editors

Jennifer Gregory Jenna Spadaccino Faculty Adviser

Elizabeth Moore, MFA Photography

Stephanie Koszarek Joshua Mayo Other Staff

Bridget Bowne Brooke Edwards Erin O'Neil Anthony Rivera Corinne Yamada

W Holy Family •

UNIVERSITY