Folio 38

FOLIO 38 STAFF AMANDA BATES Editor-in-chief

MARGARET DEFELICE Prose Editor COURTNEY HEINERICI Poetry Editor SANDRA PIERRE Art Editor

IRENE KLOSKO Editorial Consultant DENNIS MILLAN Faculty Moderator

Editor’s Note Dear readers, As you may have noticed, even before turning the pages of this issue, there is something different about Folio 38. The staff of Folio is very excited to share this year’s edition with you as we have brought many unique changes to this publication. Folio 38 encompasses the theme of transitions. Whether good, bad, or somewhere in between, transitions are inevitable aspects of life. Inside Folio 38, you will find that we have chosen to reflect transitions in the artistic layout of the publication. We have introduced tone movement; you will notice that the first few pages of Folio will contain lighter colors and as you continue reading, the colors will gradually become darker hues. Our goal was to reflect the overall mood of each work with a corresponding tone.

The publication of Folio 38 would not have been possible without the creativity and dedication displayed by our team. I would like to sincerely thank Dennis Millan, our faculty moderator, for his guidance and commitment to ensuring that this year’s edition brought something unique to our readers. I would also like to thank our talented staff for all of their hard work. I am grateful for the memories shared either through our meetings to work on Folio or our time spent at the CAE. The numerous forms of creative expression that are present in this issue would not have been possible without our contributors. Thank you for entrusting us with your works and sharing your talents with us. We are very grateful to the Holy Family community for your continued support. We hope you enjoy Folio 38.

Amanda Bates ‘15 Editor-in-Chief

Table of Contents “Skip O’er de Flower” Carla Burns “Stained Glass Summer” Carla Burns “Alight” Diane Menago “Pride” Sean Bailey “Hair It Goes” Carla Burns “Facing Fears” Margaret DeFelice “Worship” Sister Doloretta Dawid “Christ in Meditation” Vincent Catanzaro “Teaching Dreams Over Monetary Prospects” Olivia Bates “Seasons of Simplicity”Mary Jane Hill “A Gentle Breeze” Vincent Catanzaro “Letter to an Old and New Love” Anastasia Ramirez “The Pier” Catrenia D’Imperio “Trailing Behind” Bonnie Jo Boice “Take Me Into Your Loving Arms” Rachel Everman “You and I” Jazmine Babuch “Mixed Metaphors” James Huber “Sunrise at Race Street Pier” Charles Getter “Upon A Clearing” Chris Mallard “Reflections on a Photo of My Son Sitting in Hines Ward’s Locker at Pittsburgh Steelers Stadium” Edward Romond “Nostalgic Abode” Jeffrey Rotondo “Fairy Chimney” Shelley Robbins The Shovel and Sled [A reflection on “Children and Play” by Joseph Stoutzenberger in his You are my Friends.] Frank Champine “Mama Sabyinyo” Jaclyn Myers “Take Decent Care” Bonnie Jo Boice “Patmos” Shelley Robbins “The Silent Street” Sister Doloretta Dawid “Di Bruno Brothers” Shana Treon “Food Court” Joseph Stoutzenberger “Irish Pub” Shana Treon “The Place with the Tune” Joseph Valerino “Istanbul” Shelley Robbins

5 5 6 7 8 9 10 10 11 12 12 13 14 15 16 17 17 18 19

20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

“Memories” Joanne Baumann Connolly & Gini Fluehr Campbell “Out of the Darkness” Catrenia D’Imperio “Until All the Pieces Fit” Connie Flynn “Xfinity and Beyond” Charles Getter “Stars and Stripes of Toughened Grace” Sherry Teti “Sunset In Paradise” Taurai Augustin “Dusk” Sister Doloretta Dawid “Left Behind” Sean Bailey “The Web” Diane Menago “Looking Beyond Longbourn” Amanda Bates “Who Are You?” Kyana Zyas “Arterial” Sean Bailey “Runaway Iris” Frank Champine “Longing for You Haiku” Nicole Ridgeway “Roses” Stephen Smith “Sunflower” Anita Flynn “Philly’s Big Ben” Catrenia D’Imperio “Hide the Compass!” Jan Cook “Life Story” Edwin Romond “Figments of the Imagination: Romance on Public Transportation” Amanda Bates “The Pope of Reformation” Vincent Catanzaro “Final Papers” James R. Huber “Roller Hockey” Catrenia D’Imperio “Obstacles” Lawrence Goldberg “Above the Mountains” Rowena Millan “Things Happen for a Reason” Amanda Bates “Meet Me” Chris Mallard “Some Nights” James Huber “The Summer of Two Hoagies” Nicole Ridgeway “Mother and Son” Rowena Millan “Who is the Mother?” Colleen Bates “Prayer before Breakfast” Joseph Sears “Life’s Moments” Sandra Pierre

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 70 71 72 73

“What is Life?” Avani Rajkotia “Dearest Penelope” Nicole Ridgeway “Urban Outfitters“ Shana Treon “Morning Glory” Briana Donchez “The Blurred Lines Above Us” Edward Meagher “Why” Lawrence Goldberg “April’s Rain” Sherry Teti “Truth” Edwin Romond “Window and Plant” Janice Xu “Daisy in Despair” Catrenia D’Imperio “For We” Stephen Smith “Empire State of Mind” Rachel Everman Excerpts from “The Last Teenaged Summer” Angela Smith “Bittersweet” Anita Flynn “The Road to Misty Mountain” Frank Champine “Sometimes” Colleen Bates “Twisted Illusion” Lesley Reji “Dear Emotion” Lauren Durkin “Nourishment” Sara Watkins “Never Forget” Rachel Everman “My Angel” Connie Flynn “You Are: In Memory of Robin Byrd” Anonymous “The Fallen” Rowena Millan “See You Later” Sara Watkins “Small Promises” Robert Ficociello “Vivacious Vacancy” Charles Getter “Pilate” Briana Donchez “Exaggeration” Diane Menago “Vanilla Samurai” Courtney Heinerici “Skyline Drive” Rowena Millan “Orphaned” Lauren Durkin “This War of Mine” Anonymous “Howl” Sara Watkins Author Notes

74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 81 82 83 84 85 93 94 95 96 97 98 100 101 102 103 104 105 112 113 114 115 120 121 122 123 125

“Stained Glass Summer” CARLA BURNS

“Skip O’er de Flower” CARLA BURNS 5

“Alight” DIANE MENAGO

A cocoon can’t be pulled open no matter how delicately tried Because if it’s ripped open too quickly the butterfly will never learn how to fly Strength and desire comes from within Wings unfurling, slowly, tentatively catching the wind Freedom, splendor, sailing through the air Alighting on a delicate flower moving to the next Never sitting still long enough to be trapped within a net.

6

“Pride” SEAN BAILEY The quiet rumble of a car ceased in front of his house. The old man sensed that this was the moment he long feared. The click scrape of hardened soles was heard on the pathway. Next, came the shushing shuffle of the soles climbing the front steps. The levee of stress will soon break open, the old man thought. What will replace the stress?

When the son told his dad about his plans, volleys of fiery words were lobbed between the two sides.

"You're as blind as I am," the dad yelled.

The son launched his salvo: "My vision's just fine! You're left with just an imagination to forge your own twisted truth!"

His father returned that heavy fire with a battle-ending: "GET OUT!” The old man mentally replayed the messages received from his only child—unanswered messages. He envisioned the hell his son endured so far from home. The news on the television always offered an all-to-colorful mental image for him. Those footsteps outside told him that his son was no longer a part of that hell.

There was more revealed than life status updates in the voice messages the son sent to his dad—there was also surrender. However, it was never accepted by his dad. The dad suffered a handicap far greater than blindness.

Through the darkness, the old man heard a soft rap upon the front door. He followed the memorized path to the door. As it opened, he saw his son when he heard: "Grandpa!"

7

“Hair It Goes” CARLA BURNS

8

“Facing Fears” MARGARET DEFELICE

I can’t do this. What was I thinking?

My heart’s pounding; my chest’s heaving.

My focals flutter, eternally blinking.

My ears are full of my own heavy breathing.

The beating worsens, awaiting my turn.

The sheep sit still: staring.

The artificial sun sets my skin to burn.

The Guide’s eyes: gently glaring.

My lungs refuse refreshing air.

The world halts, my name I hear.

Knees quiver as I climb the stairs, Holding back unlikely tears.

Here up high, everyone is shadows.

Wish I could curl back into my burrow.

I enunciate, anxiety peaking, “Welcome, today I will be informing you about the fear of public speaking.”

9

“Worship” SISTER DOLORETTA DAWID

In the stillness of the early morning When the world is yet in darkness And the eyes of dawn begin to open A sea of calmness fills the heart There is no need for the spoken word The heart holds in captivity The beauty of the deep sound of silence One finds the challenge of the present day Bells begin to peal from somewhere in the distance One listens: a fervent call to worship

“Christ in Meditation” VINCENT CATANZARO 10

“Teaching Dreams Over Monetary Prospects” OLIVIA BATES

Many believe the most important aspect of choosing a profession is finding one with the highest paying salary. Fields such as mathematics and science are blossoming, creating numerous positions with large incomes. While these areas are growing, careers in education are dwindling. As a result of financial difficulties in districts across the nation, teachers are being laid off, charter schools are taking the places of public schools, and online classrooms are springing forth. School districts cannot support the programs and staff necessary for quality educational opportunities. This causes enthusiastic and skilled young educators to have great difficulty finding teaching positions. Even when jobs are secured, teachers may receive salaries disproportionate to the amount of hard work being exercised. These factors may cause some to rethink their majors as they consider the prospects of chronic unemployment.

They say I should pursue an occupation guaranteeing a high salary. Ever since I told my uncles I wanted to major in Early Elementary and Special Education, they have been consistently teasing me about it. My uncles feel teaching is not a rewarding career, focusing primarily on monetary aspects and difficulty of work. They tell me I am “smarter than that,” and ask why I am choosing this career path. Even on my Graduation Day, my uncles joked about how the salutatorian of her class wants to become a teacher when she has the abilities to reach higher. They cite my cousin’s experiences with layoffs in the field of education as evidence to prove their point. My uncles believe I could do much better in my career choice and question why I am setting myself up for a life of unemployment and economic struggle.

My experiences tell me I must follow my own dreams of becoming a teacher, regardless of the financial compensation. I have always enjoyed spending time with children. As a little girl, I spent countless hours playing school, always fulfilling the role of teacher.

I enjoyed constructing lesson plans and using old school books to teach my “students.” As I grew older, I felt like I was being called to pursue a career in education. I have gained considerable experience working with children through tutoring and babysitting. Recently, I began my work study position in a first grade classroom at Glenside Elementary School. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, I assist the teacher and help the students in his class. The enjoyment I find in these experiences supports my passion for education and love of children. I feel that becoming a teacher is the right path for me, and hope to affirm this through more opportunities.

Education is a powerful tool that has a positive effect on youth. It is the key to a successful future for students everywhere. Becoming a teacher is a fulfilling experience since a teacher truly shapes the future. The rewards of becoming a teacher may not be tangible; however, the feelings associated with making a difference are definitely worth all of the effort. After working with a child who is struggling, it is such a pleasant experience to see him or her finally grasp the material and understand the concepts. Majoring in education provides aspiring teachers the tools needed to create a nurturing classroom environment and to foster a love of learning in children everywhere.

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“Seasons of Simplicity” MARY JANE HILL Weeping willow in the dawn, where have all my young years gone?

Steady flowing in the stream, looking for a brand new dream Wheat fields full of gold, I will reach them, I am told Falling leaves of fiery hues, I think that I have paid my dues Wintry blasts ‘or the ice, being content would be nice Laughing daffodils so bright, when will we get it all right?

12

“A Gentle Breeze” VINCENT CATANZARO

“Letter to an Old and New Love” ANASTASIA RAMIREZ

Dear Spanish o Español…whatever you prefer…

So…hey! I just wanna talk to you about us. Yes, there’s an us, and you know it! I gotta say I really do love you and you’ve been a love of mine from the very beginning, but da** do we have a complicated-a** relationship. We were so close, you know, back in the day…We were homies! I listened to you. You listened to me. It was all good. I miss that.

Man, I don’t even know what happened. It’s like one day we are all besties and whatever, then you just split! Or was it me? See, I don’t even know.

Ok, maybe I do. Lemme go back.

I was little, and Papa used to teach me specific words and phrases like, “por favor dame ovas,” or names of fruits and things. I heard you around the house all the time, and smiled. You were mixed up sometimes though.

Your friend, enemy? Frenemy? English used to make appearances. Hmm, can’t figure out who was more popular, but that doesn’t matter. This is about us. Once school started, specifically, 1st grade, we started to drift apart.

Well, we were kind of pushed apart. We couldn’t be together then because people didn’t get us. They didn’t understand. I’m sorry I started to forget about you. Mom and papa, grandma too, tried to keep us together, but they also took you away. You were theirs, belonged to the adults, and us kids were left with English. I wanted to hold on to you so I developed a new relationship with Spanglish. That’s going great but, it’s just not you. In high school I tried getting back with you. In class, the one named after you, we were happy. I literally read you! So exciting. You were inside of me and you came out of me, and people got us. It was fine that they could tell we had been apart. We just didn’t flow as naturally, but we were back, and that’s all that mattered! Then this other guy started teaching the class, and s*** got crazy.

It became a problem that I’m Puerto Rican and you’re not. You’re from Spain. The way we fit together wasn’t proper. That’s what the White guy said. He said you were better, a more proper fit, with him. I still don’t get it. You were born with me. What better fit could there be? I was confused, unconfident, and hurt, so I let you go.

I’ve tried to find you. Actually, sometimes it feels like you’ve found me.

I’ll be writing, or talking, or thinking, or dreaming, and you just appear, but then you leave. Am I better with or without you, I ask. I stick with Spanglish as I try to figure it out. I’m writing to you now, Spanish, even if it isn’t through you, this is for you. I want you back fa’real this time. I’m gonna fight for you so I hope you’re ready when I get to you. Just imagine how amazing we will be. If I can be awesome with English and Spanglish, we will be even better. You’re an old love and I know soon you will be a new love too. If you didn’t get it yet, Español, te quiero mucho! I love you.

You’re always with me, but I hope to really see you soon.

Anastasia

13

“The Pier” CATRENIA D’IMPERIO 14

“Trailing Behind” BONNIE JO BOICE There’s a little girl who walks close behind me.

A six-year-old version of myself.

We share the same mind.

Same hope, same fears, same goals.

She watches me, keeps me company.

I live to please her.

To make her proud.

To make her happy.

To find someone who can complement the lovely child she is.

I can’t turn and look her in the eye until I do.

You, however, I can look in the eye.

Slowly becoming my favorite thing to do.

I’ve never gotten so much joy from a solitary compliment As the day you said I bring out the child in you.

But you looked past me when you said it.

Right to the little girl behind me, who most ignore And you spoke to both of us in unison.

I live to please that child in my mind.

The one whose company pleases you so.

It took only a few months For you to acknowledge the girl most have ignored for a lifetime.

You make her proud of me.

You make her happy.

You compliment her and all her loveliness.

And I didn’t understand why you were so special.

Until at last, I looked behind you.

And saw a quiet little boy trailing after, bright eyes filled with hope.

I’m glad I bring out the child in you.

Because in doing so, I’ve finally found a match for the lonely little girl at my heels.

15

“Take Me Into Your Loving Arms” RACHEL EVERMAN 16

“You and I” JAZMINE BABUCH I had you in the palm of my hand You had me in the back of your mind I loved you with every ounce of blood that I have You could care less if I existed or not I would give anything to make you happy You don’t even know that I exist You and I, we’re a match made in heaven.

“Mixed Metaphors” JAMES HUBER

She said: “Don’t judge a book by its cover Until you walk a mile in its shoes.”

He said: “You can lead a horse to water But you can’t make it cry wolf.”

From the moment they met They knew they were different And yet Somehow drawn to each other Like apples and oranges Or Adam and Eve It was love at first bite.

17

“Sunrise at Race Street Pier” CHARLES GETTER

18

“Upon A Clearing� CHRIS MALLARD

An ancient forest A sudden clearing Frozen leaves and trampled wilderness Ghosts of an antiquated season Above the vacant tree line Below the blue horizon Black dots on feathered wings A force of nature Never ceasing Always changing

19

“Reflections on a Photo of My Son Sitting in Hines Ward’s Locker at Pittsburgh Steelers Stadium” EDWARD ROMOND The locker belongs to a man with 208 pounds of cast iron muscle who makes millions for what he can do with a football in front of thousands at this stadium.

My son, Liam, is 12, about to get his first down in adolescence and I love the grin on his changing face in this Steeler’s locker where an NFL gladiator dresses on autumn and winter Sundays for bone crushing warfare.

I look at Liam, an almost teenager, poised on Ward’s chair, and wish I could send in from the sidelines only plays to bring him happiness, that I could screen all pain waiting on the field of his life.

But a father’s wistful yearning is futile as offering a peace pipe to a charging linebacker so I’m left with only the hope I have coached him correctly as the clock runs down on childhood and Liam gets set to go long, get open, clutch the pass, and race across young adulthood’s goal line.

20

“Nostalgic Abode” JEFFREY ROTONDO There is something to be said for nostalgia. My Nan-Nan and Pop-Pop passed away many years ago, but I miss terribly going to their old house in the country. I can still remember the smells, the feel of the wood floors on my bare feet, the sounds of nature, as we would sit outside on a windy, spring day. That house and property were a very special place, it just felt like a home and not a house. I struggle with the notion of a house or a home, as I long to live in a home. My house is just that, a monstrosity that lacks any character. As my wife and I prepare for a possible move, our next home will need to feel like just that, a home for our family.

The red house and accompanying barn could have been used in a Norman Rockwell painting. It just looked like a good ol’ country farmhouse. It sat up on a hill, had woods that backed up to it on one side, a horse farm that bordered it on the other, and if you walked through the woods long enough, it would lead you to some train tracks. I remember my cousins and me sneaking off, as the parents sat after dinner drinking coffee and talking about stuff that adolescent boys don’t care much about. We would cut through those woods and arrive at the train tracks, hoping a freight train would come by. Sometimes we were lucky, and it would snake around the tracks for what seemed like eternity. One had to have had over 200 freight cars; although we lost count. Can’t imagine our parents would be too fond of us sitting about 20 feet from the tracks just watching it go by.

The house had so many interesting features, none of which I have ever come across anywhere else. I believe it was built in the 1800’s, so some of the stone and masonry work looked like it had seen better days.

It had the appearance of touring some old civil war building where the bricks and stones of a building are the only things left standing, but they look decayed and brittle. . However, even though it appeared brittle, the house was strong and is still standing today. The walkway that led to the house, usually overgrown with flowers, was downhill and almost forced you to run to the front door once you got there. I would have run anyway. Around the side of the house was an old well with a pump for pumping water. I tried on several occasions to get that well to work, but apparently only my Pop-Pop was strong enough to outlast its creaky and resistant ways. Right next to the water pump was two rows of grape vines, which we would pick and eat right from the vine.

As you traveled around the back, past the woods, there was a wooden fence where the horse farm butted. Honeysuckle would grow up, through, and around the fence and my sister and I could make a meal out of pulling those

honeysuckles apart. The horses would come over and my Nan-Nan would always have apples and carrots ready almost immediately. She just had a knack for being timely. As you continued around the property, you came to the barn, which for the most part was a mysterious place. They were antique collectors and dealers, so they had a bunch of antiques in the barn. Most of it appeared to be broken old junk to the untrained eye of a little boy, but it turned out they had a small fortune stashed away in there. And of course, what red barn would be complete without an old basketball hoop hung to the side, sans net. My uncle and I would shoot baskets for hours, never growing tired of the repetition. And once we actually did grow tired, we would just resort to having a catch in the backyard.

The inside of the house was just as eclectic. You could just smell the wood as you entered the house. The wood floors, the wood walls, the wooden antiques. I miss that smell today, even though it had a faint musty aroma to it. The kitchen wasn’t huge, but it is where everyone gathered. There was a candy drawer in there, which always had a great selection of treats any kid would love. I would grab handfuls when no one was looking, and stash the wrappers behind the sofa.

My ruse eventually came undone when they actually decided to re-arrange the furniture one day.

The home was entirely decorated with antiques, and I remember thinking how awful antiques are. Funny how tastes change as you progress through life. Not that I have a bunch of antiques in my sterile McMansion, but how I miss them and understand the warmth and comfort they provided to a home. The home had the most unique staircase I have ever seen. It was an old spiral staircase, enclosed by walls that turned approximately 1.5 times from bottom to top. I remember walking down that staircase the last time as we moved out the last of the stuff upstairs once they passed away, truly a sad occurrence descending those stairs, which were paramount to the feel and memories of that home.

My Nan-Nan and Pop-Pop fit that home perfectly. Old, tough, worn, but also cozy, loving, and unique. My Pop-Pop had been a World War II veteran, and would tell me the stories of sitting in the back of the plane as the turret gun operator. He went on to work for over 40 years at The Philadelphia Inquirer, starting out as a route driver and ending up as the Treasurer of the Teamsters Union of Philadelphia. He truly left a mark on me with his humor, candor, and ability to live life his way. My Nan-Nan was your traditional homemaker, raising two horrible boys, my uncles, and one divine young lady, my Mom. She would sing Sinatra when cleaning and always had some crooner crackling over the speakers of her record player. I long to hear her boisterous singing voice in the musty wooden kitchen, as I steal another handful of candy. Nostalgia can be a beautiful thing.

21

“Fairy Chimney” SHELLEY ROBBINS

22

The Shovel and Sled [A reflection on “Children and Play” by Joseph Stoutzenberger in his You are my Friends.]

FRANK CHAMPINE Snow covered the trees, and reports Blared on radio and T.V. – “It’s Coming.”

“Major Storm” - “Drifting Snow.”

Was this snow a gift to be savored?

Or, was it just inconvenience?

Was it problem or opportunity?

Father and mother left work early.

School dismissed and closed for the next day.

The region braced for the onslaught.

Snow – a Mary or Martha dilemma –

Crowds swarmed the supermarkets; Bread, milk, and eggs - all Flew from their shelves.

Shoppers stood in steaming lines As puddles formed beneath their bootsStocking up to weather the storm.

Father and mother met at Goodword’s Hardware.

With food not a concern, each thought of other needs.

One with the last shovel in hand,

The children had the answer, Children have always had the answer.

Find joy and join in the play.

The shovel we will always need.

But the sled lives only a short time.

The laughter, the frozen spills, the icy mittens Melt. . . Warmed by fire - cookies and milk.

Problems melt away as the sun melts the snow.

Tomorrow.

The other with a Flexible Flyer in tow.

Father’s smile and mother’s dismay Reflected the difference in their thinking.

Unsaid – Work or Play . . . Hardship or Joy. 23

“Mama Sabyinyo” JACLYN MYERS

24

“Take Decent Care” BONNIE JO BOICE When you first met me, you handed me a box.

Inside it was your happiness.

From that moment, it became my duty to keep it alive. For twelve months I have done my best. Watered by tears of joy plus plenty of time sitting in the rays of light that beam from my eyes every time I see you, it has thrived. From time to time, I have to trim the parts that start to wilt, keep it from fraying and keep you from forgetting how deserving you are.

When I first met you, I handed you a bag.

Inside it was my trust.

There were a couple ruptures along the edges. Some of it trickled out every now and then at first. But as time passed, you found a way to seal the cracks and contain it. Sometimes it almost seems it’s fuller now than when I first gave it to you.

When you first met me, you dangled your future in my face and told me “don’t be scared, she’s friendly.”

I was scared nonetheless.

I let her give me a quick sniff, gave her a good pat on the head and we acknowledged our acceptance of one another. The more time I spent with her, the more comfortable we became. Now, I look forward to the time we share, as long as we are fortunate enough to share it, for now and for forever.

When I first met you, I tossed you my heart.

You caught it.

And you haven’t let go since.

It’s yours now.

Take decent care of it.

25

“Patmos” SHELLEY ROBBINS 26

“The Silent Street� SISTER DOLORETTA DAWID

Lined with homes all shapes and colors and sizes separated by trees and shrubs and fragrant flowers if this street could speak what stories it would tell of the feet that walked upon it woven within its pavement wondrous tales, joyful and tearful but all tell of the precious life given to each step that has been made Today I have walked this silent street I too, have left my story there and taken away with me a part of the solitude I found.

27

“Di Bruno Brothers” SHANA TREON

28

“Food Court” JOSEPH STOUTZENBERGER

Food court at the mall is a sacred place.

A teenage girl with sparkling dark eyes, Dark hair in rivulets down her forehead, Chatters away over her salad, Her gawky boyfriend munching silently On his Chick-fil-A. Young girls cluster together, Bodies turned inward, eyes outward, Talking as if sharing a secret, In search of…

Those boys from school?

A couple walks by hand in hand, Perhaps dropped off in a van from a group home.

But there they are, Together, safe haven for each other, Making their way slowly through the crowd.

Young men flank each side of the court Distributing communion, slivers of cheese steak Or Chinese chicken on a toothpick—“special of the day.”

A Latino man, like an altar boy, Meanders among the tables, Broom and dustpan in hand, Picking up each morsel left behind.

This is his turf, And he will keep it clean.

Thomas Merton was right.

We miss God Not because there is too little of God But because there is so much.

29

“Irish Pub” SHANA TREON

30

“The Place with the Tune� JOSEPH VALERINO Make the moon shine down above my life, fire that empties my mind took me away from that sharp knife saw that place I need to find walk with kings and queens of this peaceful place, the eye cannot see wait to hear that secret we will embrace where everything I know will be sing those tunes that touch my face where the sound sets me free although could not see this without a trace yet I was able to agree everything flies far away the wind carries me astray and the dirt engulfs me down my eyes turning to brown trying to see that place I need to find oh father of the tides wipes the land just as a predator likes to hunt this road that seemed so grand must take my mind to the front

found my Shangri-La once again amongst the dust of the moon I knew where but not when my ears would hear that tune

31

“Istanbul” SHELLEY ROBBINS

32

“Memories” JOANNE BAUMANN CONNOLLY GINI FLUEHR CAMPBELL

Professor Patka and Sister Misaela for Philosophy and Psych; Sister Margaret Mary--Home Ec—work hard to get that stitching just right.

From many high schools we came together in 1956 All different backgrounds and personalities, we were quite a mix

Sister Immaculata for French—know the vocabulary plus all the rest Definitely a lot of grammar will be on the test

Fifty years--how the time goes by Those who claim to be 40—they do tell lies.

Sister Lucidia was helpful in chem.

Go over those symbols again and again.

Not even accredited, HFC was new Work hard and get involved was what we had to do.

Sister Liguori for History—,know the wars and the dates Usually had a smile-- but for her class don’t be late!!

We paved the way for classes to come Expand your horizons, learn and have fun.

Sister Flaventia—frogs were her thing Disect it well and a smile it would bring.

Initiation to freshmen and little sisters too, Blazer day and proudly wearing the white and the blue!!!

Winkler, DeChetnick, Koch, and McCarthy. trying to mold our minds Many days this was difficult as they surely would find.

Founders Day and special occasions were white gloves and black gowns Friday was casual but never were pants or jeans to be found.

Sister Grace in Math was definitely a whiz If you needed it explained again went into a tiz.

Some of the teachers stand out in our mind They taught us well, do your best they would remind.

Sister Placide for English and Gregorian Chant, With the arses and theses, we tried to like it but can’t.

Sister Callista taught Music and Singing, By the time we were done our ears were ringing.

Sister Florence, our Dean, visible and on the scene, ran a tight ship Would remind us often to “Always throw roses first and then the bricks”.

In the dorm was Mrs.Mary, telling us the right thing to do Remember, if you’re going out—you have a curfew!!!

Mixers with LaSalle and don’t forget St. Joe’s To Drexel and Villanova the flyers would go.

“The Roaring Twenties “, Hay rides, the sock hop with argyles A Bermuda shorts tux, which was someone’s style!!!

Always ready for a Polka or two Enjoyed by many; forgotten by few.

To your Alma Mater be true---we had the first school song But it was replaced with a new one before very long.

The Albertans, Genesiennes, Family Life, Glee Club, Archery and other Sports too Everyone please join—along with studying and term papers add these to the list of “To Do”.

The “Christmas Rose” program so dear to our hearts Still draws a large crowd to give the season a start.

The mural in the chapel, a beauty to behold The Graduation procession a new beginning we were told.

Computers, VCRs, DVDs, and CDs Debit cards, ATM and a flat screen TV Along with cell phones and I pods are just a few By this time next year many more things will be new.

“United we stand” was our class theme Through the years we followed it and that can be seen.

Our class being small—we shared laughter and tears, And friendships that have lasted throughout the years.

We have the edge on the recent classes --, we set the pace way back then For growth to UNIVERSITY status we’ll give it a “ten”.

As we celebrate a significant year Let’s stay in touch and be glad we’re here.

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“Out of the Darkness” CATRENIA D’IMPERIO

34

“Until All the Pieces Fit�

CONNIE FLYNN Unique in more ways than one.

Sensory overload is a constant battle.

Communicating is a challenge every day.

Completes tasks in meticulous ways.

Classified as verbal and non-verbal.

Attention and focusing are not always easy.

Difficulty understanding language and sarcasm.

Almost 5 times more common in boys than girls.

Outbursts and meltdowns occur frequently.

Interventions and therapies help improve skills.

Following routine is a necessity.

Physical aggression may be common for some.

Possesses self-stimulating behaviors, such as rocking and hand- flapping.

Struggles with expressing emotions.

Uses little or no eye contact.

The most interesting people in the world.

Specializes in echolalia/ scripting.

Fastest growing developmental disability in the U.S. Visual Learners.

Raise awareness for Autism!

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“Xfinity and Beyond” CHARLES GETTER 36

“Stars and Stripes of Toughened Grace” SHERRY TETI The Avenue of the Arts carves deeply with conviction through the City of Philadelphia.

As the inventive Greeks partook of the oracle and the grape, a cultural smorgasbord graces the table of the Philadelphian. From “West Side Story” and “Fiddler on the Roof,” to modern-day Tyler Perry plays, the Merriam and the Walnut showcase different textures of the City’s ethnic fabric. At our famous historical landmark, the Academy of Music, rich opera and dynamic ballet illustrate life’s four seasons of love, betrayal, death, and rebirth. Next door, the Philadelphia Orchestra has found its new home in the futuristic Kimmel Center. In their diversity, musical geniuses of past and present are brought together in living testament amidst Philly streets laced with first-rate gourmet food shops and restaurants.

Named after the Nation’s Camelot, John F. Kennedy Boulevard is just a stone-throw away; it eventually meets Benjamin Franklin Parkway at Love Park. Rocky Balboa, the city’s favorite underdog, once fearlessly conquered the steps of the Art Museum nearby. French impressionists immortalize calm milky afternoons of flowers, raindrops, and pastel umbrellas. Around an unassuming silent corner, the paintings of Hispanic cubists embody the iconoclasm of revolutionary ideas. At the Rodin, molded clay animates the challenges of human existence, from the merciless cost of free thinking to the irrevocable loss of salvation.

Showered by the light wind and warm sun, I pressed on toward West Philadelphia. Brilliantly colored designs of Indian garments speak of genius triumphed over historical oppression.

Chick-pea squares and yogurt drinks symbolize the strength and wisdom of a simple good life. An enchanting foreign land inspires a stubborn reach for the constitutional rights of dignity, equality, and prosperity.

My childhood memories shadowed my steps as I visited the streets of South Philly, now touched gently by time. Ah, the great kiss of food and drink at the Italian market! Echoed against cold asphalt, Sinatra sang of unshaken family bonds, and of a belief in self regardless of the odds against! Over street corner minibonfires, neighborhood quartets masterfully recreate the sounds of the Oldies, and resolve to take on another day of the struggling worker’s plight. Quiet children, awaiting the flamboyant mummers, held hands along Broad Street as William Penn towered above the city skyline. Parents asked their sons and daughters to look up, as unfulfilled aims were passed down to another generation in the shape of new dreams and hopes!

My eyes traced the flight of an aged and majestic eagle, as it soared above the sights of Old City. The Liberty Bell shall continue to ring robustly in declaration of the independence of a freed nation! Edgar Allan Poe would proudly approve; to this day the City’s youth has extended the promise of becoming a great writer with the magical twist of a house door knob. The legacy of our Founding Fathers celebrates a Bell that is not pristine, but cracked with forged character. From the darkened faces of the coal miners and railroad workers, to the toil of the textile-mill workers, alive aspirations of Old World immigrants beckon me. As a hopeful woman, I look toward a ghostly image of Betsy Ross, whose delicate yet firm hands sewed our flag together with stars and stripes of toughened grace.

37

“Sunset In Paradise” TAURAI AUGUSTIN 38

“Dusk” SISTER DOLORETTA DAWID

Before the night begins its journey the beauty of the dusk appears Serenely the brilliant red-orange sun begins to set The sky brightens with various hues of reds, oranges, pinks and purples As the orange ball disappears beyond the horizon Its rays stretch out to manifest the glorious shades of colors In the distance lines of clouds begin to blanket the rays to a soft tint of gray Finally the darkness descends and night’s journey ends.

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“Left Behind” SEAN BAILEY

40

“The Web” DIANE MENAGO

The spider spins its web in the dawn of a new day Gossimer threads of silk painstakingly interplay Slowly, steadily, lovingly built, anchored for life Ripped to shreds by a careless interloper …..skitters, sticks, sighs Leaves the spider hanging by a thread….

Nothing Is left EVERYTHING IS DEAD The spider begins another web in the dawn of a new day.

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“Looking Beyond Longbourn” AMANDA BATES

42

“Who Are You?” KYANA ZYAS Who are you to judge me?

Who are you to tell me what to be?

Who are you to tell me I’m not important?

When you don’t even live to be.

Who are you to say I’m not worthy?

Who are you to say I’m not capable?

Who are you to say I’m weird?

Because in my eyes you’re the only one who is.

Who are you to say I can never beat you?

Who are you to say no one cares about me?

Who are you to say I’m jealous of you?

Because there is nothing to be jealous about you.

Who are you to talk about me?

Who are you to down me?

Who are you? Wait, don’t say, because I don’t care who you are.

As long as I know I am me.

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“Arterial” SEAN BAILEY Dennis Burns’s five year-old daughter, Chloe, bounced one of her rubber balls behind the radiator cover in their living room. As she reached behind it, she felt a texture that was not rubber or round. It felt somewhat smooth, soft, and paper-like. Immediately, her brain linked that touch to the mental image associated with lunches that she carried to school—brown paper bag. It was slightly out of her full reach, but she pinched it between her pointer and middle finger tips. Like pliers, the tips finally snagged the bag, and she slowly dragged it through the narrow space between the long-dormant radiator and the dust-caked baseboard. With the bag closer to her, she clamped down on it just as a miniature crane claw would grab those stuffed animals that lined Chloe's bed.

She coughed as she held the wrinkled and worn prize up to her face. Dust bunnies dangled from the bottom of it. She unrolled the top and peered inside. She found several clear plastic baggies with some fine pinkish powder in them. Pixie Stix, she thought. Fun Dip. She emptied the contents of one of the pouches into her mouth. Bitter! Her tongue quickly revealed that taste to her. Before she could spit it out, her throat contracted and drew the drug down her esophagus and into her stomach. Chloe's brain suddenly sent confused message to the rest of her body. Unable to handle what the brain wanted the body to do, she collapsed in a heap on the floor next to the radiator.

When Chloe's mother, Sarah, found her, there was pink bubbly foam of saliva, interwoven with clots of blood from burst vessels in her throat, which ringed Chloe's mouth. This lacy sputum sharply contrasted against the pallor of her skin and the cold, venous blue color of her lips.

Dennis received a panicked phone call from his wife, Sarah.

“It's Chloe,” she shrieked. “She ate something! Oh my God, she's so pale!

And, the blood! The EMTs are working on her now! It was your s***, wasn't it? You f*****! Christ! Get here now!”

Dennis ran out of the surveillance booth located in the rear of the J. Crew outlet store in Limerick. He was their loss prevention specialist, a job, which put plainly, was a security guard with a chair and a godlike view of the whole store. He found the manager to explain his emergency. There was no mention of a drug overdose, just that his daughter was rushed to the hospital and he had an urgent need to be at her side. His boss lowered his head down as he slowly shook it.

44

“How long do you think you'll be,” he asked. “Your backup is on medical leave, and I don't have a lot of confidence in his replacement.”

“Look, I don't know how long I'll be. This is my daughter we're talking about! I have no idea what's going on. I just know I need to get to her side,” Dennis shouted.

“Fine,” the manager blankly replied.

Dennis climbed up into his pick-up. He blindly stabbed the key at the ignition. On the third jab, the key slid home. He turned it once, but the engine only offered a few dry coughs.

Not now, you p****, Dennis silently cursed at the geriatric truck. He sat for a second, and tried again. The truck sounded as though it almost gave what Dennis wanted, but not quite.

Third time's a charm, Dennis wished. Fwoom! Fwoom! The green and rust-stricken truck once again had its life-giving fluid coursing through its engine. Dennis pumped the gas pedal a few times to warm the engine quicker. Once the revving engine rattled to an idle, he slid the gear shifter to D. After a moment's hesitation the truck's transmission clanked into drive.

Dennis was cruising down Route 422 when his cell phone rang. The buzzsaw of an electric guitar echoed through the cab of his truck. The lyrics to this song now seemed hauntingly prophetic to him as he thought of this new shovelful of life that was thrown onto the heap: You're born alone, you die alone, The rest is yours to fill the gap, The world goes on without you here, Adjust or just collapse...

It was Sarah calling. He was not ready to deal with anymore of her finger pointing.

As the riff and vocals suddenly cut out, his focus returned to the road. Then, a small gong noted that a voice message was left.

He pressed the Listen button: “Dennis, we're at Phoenixville Hospital. They're working on Chloe right now. She's still not responding to anything they do, but she's holding on...” Sarah's voice cracked with despair. “She's still holding on, but they told me there was a time that her heart stopped. They're concerned about this.

They're not sure if there will be any lasting damage.”

Sarah's voice turned grave: “Dennis, how could you do this? I thought we buried that s*** in the past! We lost so much! Your job. Our friends, our families, and our home. You're such a f****** coward. You just had to destroy the last thread that held us together. So help me God, you better not be anywhere I can find you if Chloe comes out of this with...”

“End of message,” the female robotic operator voice announced.

Dennis powered down his phone. A spasm in his heart caused him to wince. He loved Chloe more than anyone in his life. He would never do anything to harm her, yet here it was. She was in the hospital fighting for her life because of his weakness. He needed to see her.

Inside the ER, Dennis cautiously glanced around to see if any cops were waiting for him. It was just the usual crew of patients pensively awaiting assistance. Of particular note, there was a guy with spiky hair and hornrimmed glasses sitting near the check-in window. His hand with a wet reddish-cinnamon colored bandage was elevated to slow the blood coursing to the severed blood vessels. There was a girl probably no older than Chloe, wrapped in blankets and secured by the arms of a man who seemed to be the girl's father. Dennis wondered: fever, broken bone, or something else buried under the shroud?

“May I help you,” a muffled voice came from the window near bandage guy. Just beyond the thick shatterproof glass sat a woman dressed in an excessively colorful nurse's smock. Dennis shuffled over to her.

Before he could tell the nurse who he really was, a paranoid fear wormed its way into that decision-making part of his brain. The shame of who he was and what he did to his daughter fed this mental parasite as it crept along.

“Hi, I'm looking for uh... my niece. Her name is Chloe Burns. My sister just called me to say that she needed me to come and keep her company,” answered Dennis.

Just as the nurse started to ask for his identification, Sarah walked through the waiting area. Dennis saw her first, and the guilt rocketed to his gut. He tried to call out to her, but there was no sound that passed over his lips. Her gaze instinctively traveled over to where Dennis stood. A brief look of relief appeared in her eyes, which was quickly replaced by disgust and anger.

The nurse called Sarah over to the window. “Ms. Burns, is this your brother?” she asked.

Sarah was taken by surprise by the nurse's question, but she simply nodded.

Her anger was amplified by her husband's ruse. She motioned for him to follow her. They walked out the door that led to the parking garage.

In the unfiltered fluorescent white light of the garage, Dennis could see the wrinkles around Sarah's puffy red eyes. It reminded him of their past life when they spent too much time speeding, mellowing, or f****** --doing whichever one depended upon what s*** they were dumping into their bodies. They were different people back then.

“What's up with this ‘brother’ s***!” Sarah exclaimed. “You're just unbelievable! With your daughter up in the PICU, you're afraid to say who you are? What happened to the man that I married? The one who went toe to toe with some of the worst dregs of humanity in Philly.”

“Yeah, well a lot of that manly courage came from the indifference I developed as I continued using whatever the dealers were providing,” Dennis shot back. “Courage certainly was not in my family's gene pool. Addiction?

Check. Abusive? Check. Low self-esteem? Double check!”

“I remember the stories you told me about your family,” she continued.

“You always talked about how your dad was a wife beating drunken coward. Did you ever expect to become that person? I certainly never saw it in you.”

“You have no idea what's going on in my mind,” Dennis shot back. There was an anger that grew within him anytime someone mentioned similarities between him and his father. “Do you remember when we first met? You were supposed to be my first collar on the job; but you sweetly talked your way out of the arrest. Do you remember what I busted you for?”

Dennis saw that those questions brought about fresh tears as he tore open old scarred-over wounds. The anger on her face became buried as an undulating wave of guilt burst forth from a long-dead past.

“Of course I remember, you smug a**hole,” she replied with a resurgent anger. “Possessing a narcotic. I was an addict. Lying is a natural talent for an addict. That's how I convinced you to let me go. My addiction helped you to start using; it also helped to shut out and lose everyone in our lives... it was the reason we... the reason we lost our first child.”

Buried deep within the bowels of bad memories, there swam in Dennis's mind the recollection of the child Sarah did not realize she was carrying. She had called him as he was slapping handcuffs on a low-level drug dealer down in Kensington. The shrieking sound of her panic made him recoil as he put the phone to his ear. She talked of cramping pain and bloody urine. It was there, as she sat in the bathroom telling him what was happening, that she

45

screamed in pain. She yelled out in terror as the baby had just come out of her. Their baby.

She had been only four months pregnant, but it was the sight of that lifeless yet identifiable form that convinced her from that point she would never touch another narcotic. Dennis made the same vow to her, but what Sarah had said about an addict's natural talent was true.

“So, what have you told the cops?” Dennis asked.

Sarah paused, and then confessed to him, “I told them the truth, Dennis.

You brought something into our home that should've been left in that rotten h*** hole. Your daughter's life is now up in the air because of it! She's stabilized for now, but it'll only stay that way for as long as her body keeps fighting.”

“Can I go see her," Dennis pleaded. “I never thought anyone would find my stuff there. How did she find it? What have I done? Dear God, please let me see her, Sarah! I am so sorry!”

“We'll go see her together, Dennis,” Sarah agreed. “But you need to make this right. You need to pay for this and get the help you need. The detectives will be waiting for you at our house.”

“Will you be there for me once this is over?” he asked. “I need to know there's something for me at the end of this. You and Chloe are it in my life.

Nothing else.”

“Dennis, we need Chloe to get through this before we can move onto what's next for us. Let's go see her.”

Sarah and Dennis stood at the foot of Chloe's bed in the hospital PICU. Incessant beeping and escaping compressed air provided the soundtrack for this surreal sight. Dennis watched the oxygen levels, which fluctuated from 65 to 70 percent. He recalled watching a medical documentary where they explained the importance of oxygen levels. Chloe's levels hurt his heart. He slowly walked up to the head of her bed. He absorbed the scene of tubes and wires inserted and taped to his little girl. As he leaned over her head to kiss it, a tear fell from Dennis's eye and landed on her forehead. He planted his lips on her glistening amber strands. He smelled the watermelonscented kiddie shampoo hidden beneath the antiseptic odors of the hospital that clung to her. There was no physical reaction to the wetness, but her oxygen level nudged up to a steady 75 percent.

46

As he walked out of the PICU, Sarah grabbed him by the shoulder. Dennis felt a touch of tenderness wrapped in barbed wire as his wife dug in her talon-like fingers. He turned on his heel to face her. She did not say anything to him, but for Dennis, that look convinced him there was no chance for reconciliation. …

On a late winter’s morning, a few days after his daughter found his drugs, Dennis made a right turn off of Allegheny Avenue as he drove through his old neighborhood. He had stayed in a Salvation Army over near Kensington Avenue the night that he was supposed to go back to his house and speak to the detectives. He knew that his wife was right when she called him a coward and a destroyer of lives. There really was no way for him to recover from what he just did to Chloe. He just wanted to crawl into a comatose state, and stay there in the darkness. This place was exactly where he could do it. It was familiar to him—almost comforting.

The intimate relationship that he once had with this neighborhood was seen in the instinctive way he navigated a beige and thoroughly rusted 1960s-era Ford Falcon through its streets. Dennis knew he could not keep driving the pick-up without being spotted by some hawkeyed patrolman, so he traded it for the relic on wheels. This trade afforded him at least a couple more undetected days, if they were needed.

On foot, back when he was a child, he could have walked the same routes with his eyes closed. Today, he would have taken great risks to simply blink while walking around there. Kensington was a part of Philadelphia historically known as a “rough” area. However, rough was an understatement when describing what he drove through on that day. The sights he saw as he navigated through the streets, reminded him of those gritty 1970s films that depicted the dilapidated sections of New York with expansive vacant lots, burned out shells of homes, and garbage-filled streets.

The fiery orange glow from the rising sun was just painting the tops of the row houses that stood sentry there since the 1920s. As Dennis paused at an intersection, he glanced up at the grimy, flaky green sign still covered in shadow. Below the grayish white lettering that read FRONT STREET were smaller-sized letters ARTERIAL. That word informed travelers not familiar with the neighborhood that this road was a main route in the city.

By taking this road, you were guaranteed an escape from this area.

In his younger days, Dennis knew it only as the mile-long road that took him from his house up to school. This road also led him down a path that helped create what he was today.

He approached and crossed the next intersection, and pulled his car into a spot outside a squat faded blue building with stony facades on the four corners, now with weathered and heavily graffitied plywood boards that enshrouded huge plate glass windows. Dennis remembered while staring at it, the countless times he and his friends had walked through the hallways beyond the now bolted doors—this was the old police district building. A small grin spread across his face as he thought of a sad joke: you knew a neighborhood was bad when even the cops moved out.

He thought of how he always cut through the police station on the way home from grade school. Dennis just wanted to see the officers as they changed shifts. Along with becoming an astronaut, train engineer, and cowboy, the most treasured career aspiration in his young mind was to be a policeman. He enjoyed seeing so many cops in one place at one time.

Through the smell of sweat, pi**, gun oil, and several other fetid odors that smacked you in the face as you walked in the door, Dennis also felt a sense of security there.

That building at times provided a safe haven for him from so many bullies in his youth. He was always big for his age: “HUSKY” as the size tags on his clothes proclaimed. Despite his size, Dennis refused to fight back when confronted by the bully-of-the-day. Dennis was not aggressive despite the neighborhood in which he lived, the friends that he had, and the family with whom he lived. …

Still sitting in the Falcon outside the old police station, Dennis reached into the pocket of his flannel-lined denim coat. His fingers wrapped around the cold flat steel of his old badge. His dream of becoming a police officer was realized only a few years after he unremarkably graduated from North Catholic High School. Without any ambition or encouragement from his family to try his hand at college, Dennis listlessly bounced from one menial job to another. He took the entrance exam for the Philadelphia Police Academy shortly after

quitting his job as a stock boy for the neighborhood 5 & 10. In the time that Dennis had worked at the 5 & 10, down on the block, below the police station, it provided valuable life lessons on how business was conducted, the value of a job, and how much of a ba***** his father was.

Thinking of the 5 & 10 while sitting outside the police station caused Dennis to humorously recall the irony of his becoming a police officer and working in a store from which he had stolen. When he was five years old, Dennis had shoplifted a toy helicopter from Joe’s 5 & 10. His mom had found it and punished him for it; but he also had to take it back to the store and apologize for the theft. That was not an easy pill to swallow at that age.

Years after that incident, Dennis repaid the debt for shoplifting the helicopter. One day during the summer of 1990, a guy ran out of the store with a Playboy from the magazine rack. Realizing that Dennis was gaining on him, the guy tossed the magazine in the air. As it sailed back to the ground, Dennis caught it and shoved it down in the back waistband of his shorts. Upon walking into the store, he told his boss that he lost the shoplifter and the magazine. His boss shook his head and muttered something about Dennis being too slow and needing to lose weight.

There was an additional perk of working at the 5 & 10. It kept him away from home, and distracted him from what lived there. There was a definitive barrier separating his life at the store and his life two blocks south of here.

One Christmas, Dennis’s father obliterated that barrier and destroyed any pleasure that he had once found in that holiday. About a week before Christmas Eve, his father walked into Joe’s and told Dennis that he found his son’s savings that was hidden in the house. He told Dennis that he was taking that money to buy Christmas gifts for the family. The only present that he or anyone else in his family received from his father was his drunken ass falling into the Christmas tree. His father came home on Christmas Eve reeking of his booze of choice, Christian Brothers brandy. As he staggered in the door, he stopped in front of the tree and blacked out. As he fell backwards, it reminded Dennis of those trust exercises he would see— except, the tree was not a willing partner. Dennis's mother slapped a bow on his father's head, which rested underneath the bottom branches of the tree.

As she walked up the stairs, she laughed out: "Merry Christmas!“ It was shortly after that Christmas when Dennis quit his job at the 5 & 10.

He didn't give them much notice about quitting, which he felt a little bad about it; but feeling bad was short-lived in the life of a 20 year old. …

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As he continued to stare at the old police building, Dennis recalled how it once housed an influence greater than anyone in his family, in his schools, or neighborhood could ever hold over him. He had not only become a member of the city's police department, but he was also a highly regarded member of the Narcotics Strike Force. They were supposed to be the protectors of the city in the war on drugs, but the problem was greater than they were. There was corruption on so many levels inside this division. Dennis felt the draw himself as he worked sideline jobs with low-level dealers that he once busted in the old neighborhood. He would help them stay a step or two ahead of his brethren. In exchange for this assistance, he received some of their product, as well as a little financial tribute every few months. It was mostly Oxycontin and some heavy hitting marijuana called kush. Dennis never went for anything that had to be injected or would be difficult for him to quickly recover from. Hung over cops were not an unusual sight on the job, but a strung out junkie cop would catch attention.

Dennis's narcotics-fueled lifestyle ended when one of these dealers turned against him. The dealer accused Dennis of turning against him, which sent the dealer's best runner, Flaco, to jail. Unable to keep these allegations under wraps within the Strike Force, Dennis was promptly dismissed from the department without any pension or benefits. Telling Sarah that he lost his job was one of the most difficult things he ever needed to do.

Dennis decided this excursion needed to end where he intended it would.

He crept to a stop by his childhood home, or what was left of it. When he lived there, 70 row houses lined this street. Now, about half of them were gone. His old house and the ones on each side of it were still standing.

However, the brick facades showed that gravity would soon have its way with these stalwart soldiers.

Dennis sat there, staring across the narrow street at his childhood home.

He had come to this intersection one day each weekend in the six months leading up to the incident with Chloe. Six months ago was when he received a decent commission and raise from J. Crew for his outstanding work in solving a major shoplifting theft that plagued his store, as well as others in the outlet. He decided to celebrate with a little walk down memory lane.

Oxycodone, as he remembered, was a nice experience, but these dealers did not bother with that stuff. Powders, injectables, and weed were all that they supplied. Pills were so “desperate suburban housewives.” That's

48

how he discovered Opana. Dennis had asked the dealers what worked best to feel nothing—no pain, cares, sadness, stress, or fear. They handed him a packet of pink powder and told him to find a nice cozy place to try it. When he returned to his clean suburban home 30 miles outside of Philadelphia, he opened the door that led down to the family room. Closing the door behind him, he snapped the lock on the door. Nestled in the corner of the room, Dennis opened the zip-loc top of the baggie and spooned out a couple of tiny piles of Opana on a red plastic plate. Shortly after snorting the Opana, he felt safe and protected along with a sense of euphoria. What Dennis did not feel made the experience worthwhile: there was no pain, fear, hunger, tension, or anxiety. How did the dealer describe it? Being wrapped in God’s warmest blanket.

Out of the shadows of what once was 3018 Lee Street, two thin figures approached Dennis’s car. He turned his head as he caught the movement of the hoodie-shrouded, monkish men in his periphery. As Dennis nodded his head at them, he called out: “Hey, Flaco! Tree! How’s business?” These two characters leaned their hands above the open passenger side window. Dennis saw the familiar silvery glint of Tree's gun sticking out of his waistband.

“Hey, Bernie! The usual order?” Flaco asked. Dennis had told them before that his name was Bernie. He shook his head.

“Nah, give me something a little heavier than the usual,” he replied.

“Well, Bernie, if we give you something stronger, you need to take it home. You can't sit here and enjoy it. It's not safe for you,” Tree said.

“What do you mean? I am home! That's my childhood home right there,” he replied.

“No s***. Really,” Flaco said. “Funny thing, you don't look like you're from around here.”

Dennis turned serious: “Is there any way for me to get in there? Is it safe to go in there?”

Flaco and Tree looked at each other and shrugged. “That's the house the crazy muthaf*****' white dude lived! S***, about two years ago he sat up in that window shootin’ at people just walkin' up and down the street,” Flaco said.

“Don't tell me you're related to him,” Tree exclaimed.

“Well unless someone else moved in after my father lived there...,” Dennis replied.

“S***t! That was your dad?” Flaco asked.

“We can get you in there, Bernie,” Tree said. “Just wait a minute.”

Dennis sat there in his car with what felt like a piranha gnawing at his bowels. Was he prepared to see something he had not seen in 20 years?

What was this going to do for him? What was he going to do?

Flaco and Tree returned to the side of Dennis's car. Tree handed Dennis a red tube with a fliptop cap. Dennis read the label: M&Ms minis.

“Are you kidding? I ask you for heavier, and you give me chocolate,” he asked.

“Look inside, genius. I really wonder if you're not five-oh,” Flaco said.

Dennis popped the top. He saw a vial filled with a cloudy liquid and a syringe. He looked up at Flaco and Tree. Before he could ask, Tree said: “You want strong? This is strong. This is some new stuff from Somalia.”

“Your old house is sealed up tight, except for the front door. You just need to pop the nails and squeeze in. Go in there and do your biz. We'll keep watch for you,” Flaco said.

Dennis exited his car and slowly walked toward the house. He held his breath as he mounted the steps. He saw that someone stole the wrought iron railing and gate from the porch. As he stepped onto the porch, a cat hissed and skittered away. He grabbed the wooden frame of the door in both of his hands and tugged a little. Pop! Pop! Pop! The door jamb released its death grip on the nails. Dennis slid sideways between the door and the jamb. His pant leg became ensnared on one of the rusted nails, which opened the denim and his flesh. Dennis reached for the mini flashlight on his key ring to inspect the damage. The faded blue of his jeans turned a shiny brown-red as his blood soaked through.

Aggravated by this misstep Dennis punched the dark wood-paneled wall next to the door. The paneling splintered and puffed out decayed particles of wood and mold. Coughing, he stepped away from the toxic cloud. In the beam of the flashlight he saw that not much had changed with how the interior looked. Of course, there were many stains in the ladder-patterned white acoustic ceiling tiles, and there were some linoleum tiles cracked or completely missing from the floor in the living room. Across the living room, there was an opened metal folding chair in a corner. Dennis remembered that as the corner where the tree stood on that memorable Christmas.

He walked over to the chair and sat. Staring over towards the darkened window, Dennis glanced down at the rusted radiator that sat dormant under the window sill. He stood and dragged the chair across the room to the radiator. The feet made a loud repetitive bupping sound as they raked across the textured tiles. Thirty miles away from here, Chloe

had found his stash hidden behind the radiator in their home. For the first time since he escaped the chaotic disaster of what was once a peaceful suburban existence, he wondered if Chloe was alright. He stared at the floor next to the radiator—imagining the pink and red splotch left by his daughter as she convulsed on his addiction. Whatever little threads that his family, Sarah, Chloe, and he, were connected by, he managed to sever with his resurgent selfishness. That same selfishness was a family trait, which was finely honed within the walls of this house.

Dennis stood up from the chair and flashed the beam of his light up the stairs. There were only three rooms up there: the bathroom and two bedrooms. Then, he guided the beam across the living room wall and into the dining room. He saw a rat scurry out of the beam of light. This house had a tiny kitchen, which many of the other houses on this street only had eat-in kitchens. He saw that the doorway to the kitchen was now cinder blocked. He thought about how the houses in the neighborhood were essentially the same.

Families were the same as well, weren’t they, he wondered. The question was rhetorical up to a point. His childhood was typical of what he saw in his friends’ lives at home. Punishments were doled out in much the same way. Some had the same clothing, cars, toys, and furniture that his family did.

However, his family’s parallel track with the neighbors dramatically veered away when he was ten. It was a few nights after the Christmas Eve that his mother slapped a bow on his father’s head under the tree. He came home drunk again. Some neighborhood teenagers were harassing him as he parked his red Cadillac. In no mood for their antics, and to know better, he reached into the glove box of his car, and pulled out a .38 revolver. When one of the teens jumped onto the hood of the car, Dennis's father shot the teen in the chest. Since the victim survived the shooting, his father avoided a long prison term through a plea agreement. However, his father lost his job as a result of his actions.

The beam of light returned to the living room wall across from the stairs. The family sofa once resided there—the place of honor for his father. Dennis thought of how no one sat there when the king of the castle was home. That was mostly due to his father lying stretched out on it as if he was a grand sultan. As Dennis recalled this memory, he thought that he resembled Jabba the Hutt from Return of the Jedi.

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Dennis walked toward the dining room. There was a little alcove by the cellar stairs. That was the place he had to stand while on punishment. He thought of the tense anticipation that filled him as he heard his father retrieve the cat o’ nine tails from the closet. That was a “family heirloom” passed down from Dennis’s grandmother to his dad. As a child, Dennis had wondered which he would have preferred more: the tails, the belt, or his father’s hands. The belt was reserved for the dog, when they had a dog; and the hands were for his mother. Whenever he came home drunk, he had a horrible temper. Dennis's mother suffered beatings from his father for the littlest things: dinner not heated when he walked through the door, certain clothes weren't cleaned when he wanted them, or maybe he just thought she looked at him in an odd way.

Dennis switched the flashlight from his left hand to his right. He put his left hand on the door that led to the basement. He recalled how dank and musty that place was. It was a hiding place for him whenever his dad came home in a rage. His father almost always called home before he left the bar. That was the barometer Dennis’s mom used to gauge if it was going to be a good night or a bad one. The bad ones had Dennis sitting in the basement in the dark while his mother and father fought and screamed.

Occasionally, he felt the cockroaches crawling over his legs as he tried to stay quiet and still.

Dennis never went into the basement after his father threw their black border collie, Bruce, down there after it stole and devoured the Easter ham.

The dog was not merely placed down there; it was thrown down the flight of twelve steps into the darkness.

As Dennis stood there with his hand on the doorknob, he choked back a tear as he recalled the small whimpers he heard. After two weeks, and no further sounds of life, it was Dennis’s mother’s chore to dispose of Bruce.

Dennis paused by the cellar door, and shined his light into the dining room.

He was shocked to see his mother’s table sewing machine leaning against the wall by the window air conditioner. That machine stayed mostly dormant after his mom’s accident when he was eleven. About a year after his father's legal problems, Dennis's mom's hand was destroyed as she cleaned a machine at the candy factory where she worked. To compound the impact of this tragedy, it occurred on Dennis's birthday. His mother remained hospitalized for two weeks while surgeons tried all they could to save her hand. She had lost her pinky finger, and the rest was just a reconstructed facsimile of a hand. She had enjoyed crafting suits for Dennis. Sometimes, those Husky suits did not fit him just right.

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He recalled how she had tried to make a christening gown about a year after her accident. That was for yet another shock to Dennis's life. His mom had told him that he was going to be a big brother at 12 years old.

Overwhelmed by that news, he spent less time at home. He stayed with some friends from school until their parents kicked him out.

A few years after his brother, Bobby, was born, Dennis discovered that his mother had had an affair with a former co-worker. Bobby was the result. Dennis remembered before Bobby came along how his mom would not be at home when he returned from school on Fridays. She spent a lot of her time getting drunk with Harry, the old co-worker. He was a nice enough guy. He had decent seats for the Eagles back when they played at Veterans' Stadium, which was enough for 12 year-old Dennis to care about.

One day, in science class, Dennis asked how women get pregnant since his mom told him that she got pregnant due to a stress-related change of life. His teacher told him that it was highly unlikely any woman could become pregnant without some sort of “input” by a man. Armed with this new knowledge, young Dennis confronted his mother about his findings.

She broke down and told him how Harry was the father. Dennis further asked what his father knew of this. His mother said she told Dennis's dad that he raped her in one of his drunken rages.

When Harry had died shortly after Bobby's birth, Dennis asked why she cheated with him. She told him matter-of-factly: “None of your f****** business! However, if you really must pry, that p**** of a husband could've been a plumber with all of the pipe he laid with these pigs around here!”

Bobby was with them until he was two. Dennis thought of the day when he came home from high school, and the police car sat outside his house.

Immediately, he thought that his father went too far in beating his mom.

Those beatings usually occurred at night, though. Dennis walked in the door and saw men in suits out in the kitchen.

“What happened,” he asked. “Where’s Bobby?”

A police officer walked Dennis outside the house and proceeded to tell him that his little brother pushed out the old rotted wooden window in the back bedroom. The pane of glass came loose and Bobby fell into the backyard.

As Dennis continued to sit in the dark, dusty, and foul-smelling room, he thought back to his own failure earlier in the week, and traced back through other failings in his life. He did not want to destroy any more lives. There was only one way to prevent any more failings by his hand. He powered up his phone for the first time since the night of his daughter’s incident. He scrolled through the stored photos of Chloe and Sarah. The pain would be brief for him, and he hoped that it would not be lasting for them.

Sitting there in his old home, Dennis shouted out to no one: “Well, this where failure comes to die!” Laid out on the floor before him, he switched his eyes between his small .38 Smith & Wesson and the M&Ms mini tube.

After a few more moments of thought, Dennis leaned forward. …

The squelching noise of the police officer’s radio rousted consciousness behind Dennis’s closed eyes.

“I think this is who we’re looking for,” Officer Spizeman informed his partner who was standing at the door.

“Are you sure,” asked Officer Sadowski.

“Well, I’m scrolling through the photos on his phone, and there are some with him and, I guess, his family.”

“He’s got 17 voicemail messages! Let me see, here’s the last one.”

“Hi, Daddy! It’s Chloe. Doctors told me I can go home soon! I was sleeping for a long time, but I’m awake now. I miss you, Daddy. Where are you? I want to see you! Here’s Mommy! Love you!”

“Dennis, where are you? I’m sorry for all that I said. I’m still angry, but Chloe needs to see her daddy. We can work through this like we did before.”

“The doctors believe that she’ll be fine. There was some weak blood flow in one of her arteries that they picked up while they ran tests on her. Please come home. We love you.”

“Phoenixville. This a**hole’s from Phoenixville,” Officer Sadowski exclaimed as he glanced at Dennis’s driver’s license that he found on the floor by the door. “They always come down here with their boring a** lives and make a mess of things. He’s lucky these a**hole dealers water down their s***!”

As the ambulance drove up Front Street with Dennis Burns secured to a gurney in the back, he thought of Chloe and Sarah in the hospital 30 miles from here. There was a drug-induced mental haze fogging his mind. Had he heard Chloe's voice in his old house? Did Sarah say that she wanted him to come home?

Until now, he had never considered how Sarah had overcome her addiction when she realized that its damaging effects destroyed more than her life. Dennis thought of how cowardly he had been. Not just with Chloe or his unrelenting addiction. He seemingly drifted through life like a leaf carried by the wind—no control over its destination. That lack of control had brought him to where he was now—lying flat on his back with some diluted garbage coursing through his veins. He was pulled out of an abandoned shell where the golden daggers of sun never penetrated the boarded windows and doors. In a sense, Dennis believed that he died that night in his childhood home. The drugs were not as strong as the thick, sticky, tar-like memories that clung to him as he walked around that dilapidated dungeon. Those memories grabbed hold and smothered him. The voices of Chloe and Sarah provided guidance for him to follow out of the mucky abyss. As the ambulance pulled away and drove up Front Street, Dennis thought of the street signs and the meaning of the word “Arterial.” This was the way to get out. And, he thought, once you’re out, you stay out.

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“Runaway Iris” FRANK CHAMPINE 52

“Longing for You Haiku� NICOLE RIDGEWAY Inevitable, are the hardest days to come, watching you go far.

Unknowingly caught wondering through life alone, wishing for relief.

Terrifyingly, leaving me companionless, no shoulder to cry.

Feelings unstable, frightened each day to lose you on active duty.

Intoxicated to diminish the heart ache, filling empty voids.

Gratification, enjoying the short time left, with my navy love.

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“Roses” STEPHEN SMITH What obligations?

Through sand and sea we go Without a course of direction, Slinking away in the night While the parents play darts In their makeshift cantina; In the freezing cold, With bare hands and a light jacket, We talk about how our breath Looks so much like smoke.

How does this look?

I think the colors work perfectly, Complements side-by-side: Blue and orange, yellow and purple, And it only took two hours To create this masterpiece That no one besides we will ever see.

And into the trees I jump With my hands covered in dirt From looking for salamanders, Washing them in the cold water That gently trickles over rocks, And to feel it all I remove my shoes and socks, Walking barefoot over glass And laughing at the grass As it tickles my toes.

So perfect, so unbelievably perfect That I almost cry, But when the butterfly flies past my eyes, I follow it to a broken log That looks ancient.

Here, it’s here I sit and make my home.

My eyes are wide and black, My belly hurts from laughter As I see the green of the canopy rafters, And so very curious About what comes after.

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Strange to think of her now, With the sorry blue eyes And endless blonde hair, And yet totally expected.

Here we go! A little ways more, Down to the hidden shore Where we skipped rocks across the water; I still see the funny lines Eaten by termites in the wood.

And the common hills Still have much in common With the wandering folks Who take pictures of them, And the leaves are still The brightest green I’ve ever seen.

What’s the big idea?

She came along and disappeared Exactly as I’d feared; Lonely, lonely, lonely, She ran off to speak to angels In the freshly cut field And came back with tears.

I remember seeing the bridge In the bright summer sunlight, And trying to count the boats That crept beneath it.

Bring me my wine!

It’s time for a dandy rhyme – But, ah, who cares about these things?

They die in the winter cold And sprout again in spring; Look here, look there, Look at the fancy wedding ring!

I can finally see the stars; Look up, look down – Is that a sorry, pitiful frown?

I’ll tell you, I’d rather be groovy, dear lady!

And I can still faintly feel the pull Of the window panes, Especially when it rains And I feel the fog on my skin; And it all seems like paint to me: Some colorful, surreal destiny With padded brown boots To climb the tree roots, And gorging on roses With a cherry flavor.

Would you like to sit?

There’s an open chair, And it may not be there tomorrow.

And I’m sorry, I have no dulcimer for you to play, But I do have a notebook If you’d like to write something down In permanent pen.

But leave some space In case you return again.

And beware, because they stare And try to make you uncomfortable – I know you’re good at hiding, And apparently better at finding.

I see a flowery headband, And it makes me nervous with love When I see the dancing hair That I can admire; And the air feels like fire In my throat, But it makes the words easier.

Those bobbing heads that float away, Those simple smiles that bring about Not-so-simple feelings; A pleasant raspy sound Singing with a cigarette Burning away Into a quiet wisp of grey; Bonfire flames reaching For the black dome diamonds in the sky That are too far to connect, And soft jazz notes Seeping out of the speakers To heal our battle wounds.

Now, in the evenings when it’s cold, And there’s no more Gaudiness to behold, When the cars awaken their lights In the pessimistic night, When furies grow increasingly bold Looking for a fight, I know that you’re there, wandering, Just as I wander, Looking and pondering What it means to have peace; And if we should ever truly speak, I hope a boring thought will do, And I hope you’ll take the love I give And give some back, So that we can wander together, Or if you just give me a smile To let me know you’re there, That’s okay too, Because I stop somewhere Waiting for you.

“Sunflower” ANITA FLYNN She was born with a bemused look upon her face. Nothing in life surprised her, or angered her for that matter. She took all life doled out to her in stride. Good times, bad times – it didn’t matter. It was all a part of living, and as long as her family had a roof and a meal, things were just fine with her. She never asked for much from life and life kept its part of the bargain by not offering her much in return.

She lived in a working class neighborhood for all her 75 years. Now it was turning into a no-working class neighborhood. But she was proud of the fact that she still held a job. It didn’t pay much, but that was of no consequence to her. She had a reason to rise with the sun and to be out and about in the morning rush hour, although truth be told she was not one to rush. Slow and steady got her through the days, the weeks, the months, and the years.

Every morning she stepped through her row house threshold, waving to her neighbors as she walked to the bus stop; her pocketbook strung across her body as a practical safety precaution against pickpockets. Sometimes she would meet the other strap hangers and listen to their jabbering about the local news or politics while they waited for the bus to meander down to their corner. She would bob her head in agreement, whether she agreed or not, but always with that bemused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She found the good in everyone and everything. A fashion plate she was not, but her clothes were neat and clean and every now and again a pink ribbon would appear in her hair – a nod to a woman’s prerogative to look pretty when she so chose to do so. Every day she braved whatever weather conditions Mother Nature saw fit to launch on this small pocket of the globe. But on those so-few perfect days when the sun enveloped her and the sapphire sky stretched to infinity, she thanked God for her good fortune. She took neither good timing nor good luck for granted.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew her, but yet knew nothing about her.

They knew she had raised a family in the same home in which she was raised. They vaguely remembered a husband who had passed away years before, but that was about it. No one knew her likes or dislikes, her hopes or fears, her dreams or nightmares. She was like God in that respect, always there in the background, but seldom front and center. They did not know how much she missed her Jimmy, the love of her life, or how proud she was of her son and daughter. Both of them had moved out of the neighborhood, but they were good to her. They worried about her living alone and tried to convince her to leave the city, but she would hear none of it. This is where she belonged and where she felt most at home.

She faithfully attended Sunday mass and while sitting quietly in the first pew, she would think of how important that church had been in her life.

Here she had received her First Communion and had taken her wedding vows. But it was also in this hallowed spot where she stoically walked behind the caskets of her mother, father, and husband. Each loss left a hole in her heart; however, she realized the sun rose and set every day and so she soldiered on.

She was thankful for all of the good she had experienced and was accepting of all of the bad. She knew she was blessed with the greatest gift God could give any of us - Contentment. She was content. Content with her life, past and present. Content with a future that held no guarantees. And content to face death with that bemused look upon her face.

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“Philly’s Big Ben” CATRENIA D’IMPERIO 56

“Hide the Compass!” JAN COOK I took a trip to Mapland and here is what it brought a tree of life that folded out a course that mattered not.

A tired compass failed me once my spectacles dropped off and twice I turned torn pages three and lost my proper count.

Failing to scale a measured mount inking reams of paper the circumference of the contours fought my reason, my mind, my favor.

I had not lost my way but when, …when I reasoned my map was dated and turned it over to the light a Mercator not half-rated.

Over time and globes celestial regions dividers, compasses, pens I finally found my wanton desire and got… …the Captain of the Sextons!

From there on out the map was fresh we raced straight on a dive and coursed the waves of Mapland on rivers and divides.

Twicefold I felt the kind, kind words of the Captain of the Sextons and these words carried the ballast out otherwise, ship, it be areckened.

Each trace of parallel we posed, each division we then divided, each frigit we outraced or spent, was quietly abided.

I was saved not once but twice from Mapland’s Doldrums Sound And the horn, that cape, that Oh, dear cape Delivered lost ungiven ground.

Twice came measures out of force three times the largest wake Into the wind I turned about and threw the map to the wave!

For what need is of a map that folds and squares when it should tangle?

What quadrant of the ship’s own clock told time should be so mangled?

It happened for a reason that sense was brought to trial in scores of titles arresting squalls to throw the turbulent tide.

Twice reckon the wind twice bid the time and crest the banging crock I took possession of the wind in sails made of the Lock.

Nessie is always looking and tides they know the time but never I’ve spent better hour than… …on Captain Sexton’s rhyme.

Oh scurvy me not and scurvy me fie the cursed map, it rip And reckon the day that tide has wrought on spindles of granite.

You would not name this day better in a land of folded map coordinates match the rigging of time in unbidden fabric tract.

Captain Sexton turned, and into my eye said sorrowful words evading me He pointed me to the shortest walk and dropped me into …the sea!

Twice the meridian unfolded in a paper map unbidden. I swam the mermaid’s escape route to a coral reef to swim in.

And on the rocks of treasures where X marks the spots with leopards saw twelvefold opposed the spires of masts of ships that crashed and sunk in.

You see their scars to this day on Mapland’s hidden trenches, and Marianas’s depths do not reveal atlases, diatoms, or wrenches.

The rightened angles the straightened sails courage slips on a cutlass unfold this tale upon a gale, Aye, dearest, hide the compass!

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“Life Story� EDWIN ROMOND

He thought it might be somewhere in the space he saw from windows, in the nameless faces and places distance makes invisible.

Or perhaps in the roar of the turnpike that drove him at night to dream of roads where signs might show him how to navigate all the broken lines.

And his life became a story open to the endings that hellos begin: those chapters of ache and ecstasy that make us mad; that make us breathe.

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“Figments of the Imagination: Romance on Public Transportation” AMANDA BATES Common sense would most likely try That waiting for a bus is a far cry From consideration as the highlight of anyone’s day Especially when one’s bus has a significant delay

But what if while waiting, one girl started to realize That as the operator pulled up, he made a habit of staring into her eyes That when she was not present and thus, not getting on The next day he was concerned as to where she had gone Smiles and waves as she came and went Were almost always everyday events The exception to these times included some behavior puzzlements Of looking down quickly when she boarded some days Was he nervous or was it nothing except her hoping he’d meet her gaze Of turning his head sharply towards her when she was ready to depart He wished her a pleasant evening; all she wished for was his heart Wishing went away when the next day he was gone Away from the route, she should have known better than to fawn Over him she could not get, she thought it meant to be But then he had left, had she imagined things he did not see?

Summer came and passed, then on the bus again Headed home from class, she was startled when. . .

The bus pulled up with a quickly opened door She immediately recognized the driver as the man she had been waiting for

A beaming smile was present upon his caring face The whole ride home was driven as the bus’s fastest ever pace Bing! She pulled the cord and mustered the courage to walk up beside his seat When he remained silent, she immediately felt defeat Finally finding her voice, she managed a “thank you” and “good night” She gave him a smile and left feeling that everything in the world was going to be alright She had a feeling this encounter was short-term, but was it random or was it fate?

She hoped it was the latter but asked herself why it would be her he would want to date Another year went by and she told herself, this must end Thinking that he had been interested in her was no more than pretend Waiting for the bus with a companion on a bitter cold winter morn’ Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the loud sound of a horn Looking up just in time as a bus was passing by She saw a male driver looking out his window, waving as he caught her eye

Hands still in her pockets, she froze as her companion returned the wave Assuming the greeting had been meant for the other woman, until the statement the woman gave Turning to the girl, saying she had no idea what that was all about Suddenly, it dawned on the girl who that driver had been; she no longer had any doubt

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“The Pope of Reformation” VINCENT CATANZARO

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“Final Papers” JAMES R. HUBER Professor red pen Rubs his weary eyes with balled fists Exhaling fatigue and thoughts of sleep through lips Still hungry for home and the taste of Christmas present But the silent stack of final papers Double spaced and error laced Waits in a white heap of stapled dread on the desk In front of him Unmoved Unwanted Unread Outside In the hall beyond his office door Two joyful students laugh loudly as they embrace goodbye “Have fun!” “Take it easy!”

Heading home for the holidays Unbound by Rubrics References Responsibilities

Back inside his ivy cell The tethered teacher sighs again Then smiles with new resolve Slowly picking the first foreboding fruit He thinks to himself with a grin “We may teach to reach But we’re paid to grade!”

And so his work Begins.

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“Roller Hockey” CATRENIA D’IMPERIO 62

“Obstacles” LAWRENCE GOLDBERG

All my life I have overcome obstacles.

Just coming to class, I have to leap over 20 miles of road and one hour of time.

To get my degree, I have to hurdle past ten classes, ranging from simple to almost impossible.

To get a meal, I have to buy it or make it.

Sometimes I just want to sleep and dream and relax and just do nothing.

No obstacles, no spell check, no grammar check, just freedom.

A world of my dreams where everything I do is right; no one argues with me and I have my way.

But even in dreams, I have obstacles because sometimes I have nightmares, where I am not in control, where I don’t have a say, where I cannot even relax.

Just to be at peace, nothing in my way; it doesn’t have to be for eternity, but it would be nice if it could be for a day.

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“Above the Mountains” ROWENA MILLAN 64

“Things Happen for a Reason” AMANDA BATES You keep asking God to take you and hope he’s listening to your prayer.

I keep asking that He’ll keep you, not imagining life without you there.

But who is in the right, whose pleading is most fair?

For I know you’re faced with struggles, ones extremely difficult to bear.

I can’t pretend to know what it is like to lose mobility, Or understand how to deal with the loss of visual acuity.

To live a long life that included physical ability, And then adapting to the challenges of aging and fragility.

I know what is for certain, that you may not realize, The depths of the respect everyone has for you, an esteemed figure in our eyes.

First meeting in September, but how time truly flies, In the brief time I’ve gotten to know you, you’ve taught me where true happiness lies.

A firm believer in “things happening for a reason,” I know there was a reason that we met.

When entrusted with your care, I learned much beyond the responsibilities that were set.

You taught me to overcome my fears, not to assume the unknown will upset.

Your kindness, selflessness, determination are qualities I will never forget.

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“Meet Me” CHRIS MALLARD

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Come out and meet me Come out and meet me Come out and meet me after dark

Neither daylight Neither moonlight It’s all light or no light next to you

This road winds for ages The story cries for pages So come out and meet me where I’ll be

So come out and meet me Come out and meet me Come out and meet me after dark

If you get lost don’t wander If you get lost just holler And I’ll come running after you

Don’t listen to your father Just remember your mother Said only good things after dark

When daylight is fleeting When starlight is heeding Come out and bring me from the dark

So come out and meet me Come out and meet me Come out and meet me after dark

If you’d like to know Where I’d like to go Just grab me and lead me where you are

Just come out and meet me Just come out and see me Come out and meet me after dark

“Some Nights� JAMES HUBER Some nights I lie awake and wonder About my life Between the lightning and the thunder.

Who will care?

What does it mean?

When will I go?

Where will I be?

How will I know?

Why did I try?

Some nights I lie awake in wonder About my life and love Between the lightning and the thunder.

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“The Summer of Two Hoagies” NICOLE RIDGEWAY

Some call them high school sweethearts; however, they preferred to call themselves just two young strangers who did not intend to fall deep into love. Since day one, they had been inseparably crazy for each other, ending relationships with their other partners to devote themselves to one another. They were best friends that blossomed into the best part of each other's love life. Unfortunately, each day spent together was lightly treasured, but never fully appreciated.

Living very close to one another, they always drove, walked, and ran past an old run down pizza joint on Seventh Street, always joking about the great deal of “Two American Hoagies, $5.” Although they always neglected the idea of purchasing the two hoagies, they still had an admiration for the pizza joint to offer a great deal. It was not until the summer of ‘14 that their Seventh Street antics were not appreciated anymore. Casually, as they drove past the pizza joint, the sign no longer offered the same deal. It now read “Two American Hoagies, $6.”

Although they were disappointed, it really did not mean much to them at the time; besides, they never actually ate hoagies.

Gradually, the pizza place meant close to nothing to them, as they no longer were passing by it on a daily basis. Time they spent together became time they spent apart. In the beginning of the summer, he was dealing with his new plans of joining the army, while she was scheduling classes at the university she was attending. Both were unaware at how quickly their lives would change.

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Once she had found out that his new goals did not include her, she expressed feelings of anger and hatred toward all of his decisions. She was devastated at the thought of her love leaving her in a few short months. Many arguments stemmed from his new goal, but the stems never wilted. Throughout the last few months of summer, they had spent much of their time frustrated at one another’s feelings and lack of understanding. After weeks of conflict, the words “we need a break” were uttered.

Later in the summer, she had gotten into a car accident that left her with an empty wallet, feelings of guilt, and embarrassment. Normally, he would be the one she would call in a time of need, but she feared rejection and no help for her mistakes. She had become isolated from others.

With only a couple weeks left of the summer, his dad fell very ill.

Nothing could have prepared him for the news of his father’s death. She tried to be there for him, but selfishly let her feelings overpower his. The more alone he felt, the angrier at the world she had become. Each of them desperately needed the help of each other, but feared communicating would turn into arguing.

Months were passing by, and the space between them was increasing with every passing heartbreak. Without warning, it felt like everything had changed. No longer did they feel inseparable and crazy for each other.

During that summer, together and separately, they had experienced several hardships such as numerous crucial life decisions, accidents, debt, and death. They slowly stopped confessing their problems to one another and in turn, pushed each other further away. The harsh reality of life was breaking them down.

Rather than spending every second together, it was as if they only spent every second apart. Each day of the summer felt hotter and lonelier than ever. Fixing their once strong relationship now seemed impossible; the “we” they once knew was turning into two “I’s,” and two hoagies were now $1 more than before.

After all of the unwelcome distress, their only joke to give them hope was gone, changed, to $6. After driving home from his father’s funeral, she stopped, and read once again “Two American Hoagies, $6.”

Infuriated with this past summer, she cursed to the wind about that run down pizza joint on Seventh Street. Her one wink of hope, her one joke to get her through the day, her stability in a summer of chaos, had been changed.

Several tantrums later, the summer of ‘14 was ending. Day by day not much had changed, but as a whole, everything was different. Possibly, just like adding $1 to the cost of two hoagies, they had to find something to add to put the spark back into their lives, to piece them together again.

The end of that summer, after all of the hardships and pain, the space between them finally felt as if it were decreasing. They began to put aside their anger, pain, and sorrow, and started to communicate once again.

Communication was their extra $1 difference they needed to add to their lives. The decision to make their relationship stronger became a mutual agreement under all circumstances.

That old pizza joint had more of an influence on their lives than they had ever thought. That pizza joint was their stability; they looked to that sign in times of a needed smile. When they needed it most, it had changed. Just as two hoagies were no longer $5, life was no longer the same.

It was not until the summer of the two hoagies that they had learned to deeply treasure their time because change was inevitable. It was much easier to curse to the wind at change than it was to willingly accept it. After one long summer, they learned to accept two hoagies being $1 extra.

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“Mother and Son” ROWENA MILLAN

“Who is the Mother?” COLLEEN BATES

The day starts early–breakfast served, lunches packed, kisses & hugs–off to school She sighs and walks the short distance to her mother’s house She finds her on the sofa–weak, tired, pale Mom has not eaten; just didn’t feel up to it She prepares toast and tea and pastes on a smile Put on a load of wash, strip the bed, clean up the kitchen, tidy the house She helps her mother slowly climb the stairs Mom rests from the long journey while she gets out clean clothes and a towel She runs the shower and helps mom in–washes her hair gently She helps her dry off and gently applies cream to mom’s thin arms and legs She gets mom settled back on the sofa to rest Continue laundry; pay some bills, “I’ll be back soon” she calls Run to the food store, pick up prescriptions, stop at the post office She returns and prepares lunch and they chat while laundry is folded “I have to go now–time to pick up the children” Paste on the smile again–greet children with hugs and kisses Make a snack, help with homework, more laundry, start dinner “I have to go now–I love you and will see you in the morning” Drive to work; enjoy the solitude of the car Return home late, peek at sleeping children, clean up kitchen Long hot shower–let the tears fall and wash away Good daughter equals bad mother; bad daughter equals good mother?

Who is the mother?

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“Prayer before Breakfast” JOSEPH SEARS

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“Life’s Moments” SANDRA PIERRE

Re-birth (Fresh Springs) In a meadow, I run.

I run from my past.

I run towards my future.

Oblivious to everything, I move.

Life is fast-paced, So I move.

Successes (Sweet Summers) On a boat, I take in the view.

I relax in a lounge chair.

The warm sea air I inhale.

The sun sets.

The birds sing.

I exhale.

Life is precious, So I remember the good times.

Failures (Foggy Autumn) In a forest, I walk aimlessly.

This dense fog impairs my vision.

I don’t know where to go.

North is in front of me.

South is behind me.

West to the left.

East to the right.

My next step is crucial.

Life is risky, So I take a chance.

Death (Bitter Winter) In a cemetery, I lie in a coffin.

Naked and alone I find myself.

Darkness covers me.

I see and hear no one.

The world heavily sits.

I gasp for air in what seems to be a cart.

There’s no way out of here.

Though, I’m not sure if I want to get out.

Life is dangerous.

This is safe, so I stay.

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“What is Life?� AVANI RAJKOTIA Life is a journey Of success and failure.

If you do not succeed the first time, Try again.

Life is a puzzle Of many different paths.

To solve the puzzle, Choose the right path.

Life is an adventure Of ups and downs.

To enjoy the ride, Laugh during both your ups and downs.

Life is a challenge Filled with risks and obstacles.

Dare to risk and fight with obstacles, To overcome and win the challenge.

Finally, life is too short Spend more time in embracing what life has given you, And less time complaining about what life has not given you.

Never be unhappy and give up on life, Because remember, you get to take this journey only once.

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“Dearest Penelope” NICOLE RIDGEWAY

Dear Penelope, At times, I wish I had met you later in life, because maybe then I could have cherished our friendship more. You were there for me through my good and bad days; however, I did not do the same for you.

You always supported me and held me tight when I needed it most. I could be more myself when I was with you than anyone else. I often reminisce on all the fun times we had.

For example, the hot summer days when we would drive down to the shore, with the windows down, and our hair blowing in the wind. Not to mention all the times we sang our hearts out listening to the radio. Sadly, I also think about the times you were my shoulder to cry on. You pieced together my broken heart after every break up and held me tight after every funeral I have attended. You would sit outside in the cold just to be there for me. You kept me safe and out of harm’s way as much as possible.

Nonetheless, I cannot take back the wasted time and how I neglected you. I realize that nothing I can say can persuade you to forgive me. Too many times, I was in the wrong and played the role of the victim. I am forever grateful for our good times, and even the bad times. Regardless, our friendship taught me some of the biggest lessons in life. Penelope, I am sorry for all the wrong I have committed toward you. I hope that one day you can forgive me. You were, and always will be, the best car I have ever owned.

Forever grateful, Your last owner, Nicole

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“Urban Outfitters “ SHANA TREON

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“Morning Glory” BRIANA DONCHEZ “This is the soul A sheer dress outlining your bones Guiding you through this desperate place Until your time meets its close And that is when you shall ascend Far beyond the physical mist To other most marvelous worlds Where your wildest dreams exist” Before his hand hit the pavement These words he left behind A little prayer tucked in his pocket For someone like me to find I now stood where he had too On a roof thirty floors high As the sirens and strobes below Converged into a jaded sigh

I set my sights upon the dawn She spilling her light on drowsy skies And her clouds of pink and peach Healed so gently my tattered eyes And that’s when I understood What I only knew to be true That the sun will always rise With or without you.

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“The Blurred Lines Above Us” EDWARD MEAGHER

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“Why” LAWRENCE GOLDBERG Why did I learn that you make the color black by mixing red and green, when my own blood mixed with the green hospital sheet?

Why did I also learn that my mom’s lucky number was five, when it took five times for the incompetent nurse to find my vein that same night?

Why are my people the chosen people, and so often chosen for death?

Why do we have to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes to gain empathy; why can’t we understand empathy by walking in our own shoes?

Why are walks or runs so often used to fix the world’s problems?

Why not a swim? Or a movie marathon?

Why are we so afraid to be children when we are adults?

Why not swing on a swing?

Why not go barefoot in the park?

Why do we always feel that we have to be so responsible?

Why do we live? Why do we work? Why do we die?

Why don’t we just sit and eat Apple Pie? Life is too short to not ask questions so go out, get wet, get dry, have fun, be happy, try less to cry and never, I really mean never, stop asking, Why? 79

“April’s Rain” SHERRY TETI Cookie-cutter aspirations, deemed at birth and timely groomed to fruition, I have not.

Prism-colored streams of hope, gifted and embraced, I have not.

My hope burns like a bloody wounded knee, as I struggle to push open Dream’s Door!

In a cold marble gravestone, I have enough; as much, perhaps more.

It is in the promise of April’s rain; gathering yellow tulips for my basket is not in vain.

Building vivid memories of movies and museums as a family, I have not.

Faithfully nourished expectation and support, I have not.

I roll my chance into a tighter ball, trying to form miracles at the core!

In a cold marble gravestone, I have enough; as much, perhaps more.

It is in the promise of April’s rain; gathering yellow tulips for my basket is not in vain.

Like a daisy strewn amid amber leaves, established will, I have not.

Searching for Dawn through clouded eyes, the Sower’s hour, I have not.

Watching the warm bellies of the fox and geese, I accept the distant pangs of War! In a cold marble gravestone, I have enough; as much, perhaps more.

It is in the promise of April’s rain; gathering yellow tulips for my basket is not in vain.

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“Truth” EDWIN ROMOND Our love was like snowflakes falling on winter rivers: beautiful then gone … beautiful then gone …

“Window and Plant” JANICE XU 81

“Daisy in Despair” CATRENIA D’IMPERIO

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“For We” STEPHEN SMITH Here, what’s here?

I think I see color in your cheeks, And it sticks with me Through my daydreams When I don’t see you, And funny, oh so funny Because you barely know how I sound.

Those waterfalls that weep, Those stones that skip Across the dirty brown waters Of cold weather creeks, They pull me to them, And when I try to read books All I hear is the wind Making soft pleas, Begging me to chase her.

I still see the markets And the venders with their wives Haggling with customers Who refuse to pay full price; I still see boons In the soft glow of afternoon Just before sunset; I still see the playground With “Lost and Found” Spray-painted on the rusty metal Done by some clever outlaw Who only used red and white, And commenting That we could’ve done better.

Those rules I heard, Standards in test format And nervous sweats That compared us to others, I remember them with humor.

Well, our generation Is nothing like theirs – We, the riotous adventurers, Endangered painters and poets And fighters for freedom, Who flick lighters To make the night brighter As the music plays, Who walk for days Just to see the trees With their pretty pink leaves.

And moved to the groove.

I like those stories, They’re full of good people, People who can think And also have instinct, People that I sort of know, These new young geniuses Who got it just right, Yet still not quite.

How, oh how, tell me how Did you do that?

All you did was smile And I feel this way It must be something in your eyes And how they squint When you laugh, Or in your intelligence That’s not exactly elegant, But you make it work just fine.

And I’m sorry For my childish remarks And awkward silences, It’s just I find you Incredibly beautiful.

And I do think They wear bowtie cameras When they drink their champagne, That’s why they went electric

Ah, the snow!

I love it now But I’ll hate it tomorrow When it turns black From the tires on the street; I try to fall asleep, I try to quiet myself But it’s not that easy Once it goes, Knowing what it knows And thinking of what it doesn’t, So I get tired in the day And start to nod away As I try to read a book To stay awake.

But it’s then, too, that I see you.

And I heard about forms And rhythms and what they do Natural works that magically work, And you may have too.

And I’m not too keen With sign language, I don’t know what that means, But it sure made me think, That simple eyelid blink.

And I’m just saying You read that part well; Good thing you volunteered.

I just want to run barefoot: Exercise my muscles And expand my brain, Live off the earth Because I have no dogma To offer me worth, To explore the corners And brush away the cobwebs, That’s why I’ve gone green!

Accentuate the natural beauty And smell the honeysuckle – At least we know it’s a dream, Or so it seems.

To not be ordinary folks, To not worry over economics, To breathe the fresh vapor Of a summer sunrise, To be in love And loved in return, To return smiles, To laugh at you When you make comments About something ridiculous, These I could get used to – Having everything be new!

And well, the fire’s dying, Wanting more sticks, And as these words run thick I’ll try not to choke And break my concentration At being more mindful, Cause there is something Grand on the way, And I’d hate to miss it; I’ll keep my surreal thoughts And this curse I caught When I heard you Speak in chords.

So, ride easy, dear one, With your beautiful blues, My favorite amongst all The colors that I use.

Some America, ay?

This picture of perfection Dwindled into dust, And so I place my trust In those who have gone mad.

They knew what they meant.

Oh, there’s too much, Much too much With no more muchness, Only looking glass fools.

But that’s cool, We can rebuild A kingdom to rule, No soldiers to drill Or garments in a vestibule, Just people who know How to love.

I’ll be with you, Travelling hand-in-hand Across this sorry wasteland.

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“Empire State of Mind” RACHEL EVERMAN

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Excerpts from “The Last Teenaged Summer” ANGELA SMITH It was my generation’s war, but it seemed so slight compared to the wars of the generations before us. Not that I knew what the other generations had felt; I only knew what I’d read in books and seen in the movies, but I was almost certain that it had been worse for them.

People weren’t being drafted. The only way anyone my age felt connected to it was if they knew someone who was there, or someone who was going there.

I knew a man who was there—or maybe he was a boy? A boy who thought he was a man? Steve Carter was my first real boyfriend. He was the first boy to want me, and that was all that it took. We met down the shore the summer after freshman year of college. He lived in Allentown, and I lived in Philadelphia. Even though there was a 90 minute drive between us, and even though I didn’t have a car, we somehow made it work. We’d talk on the phone or chat on the computer every night. He was a reserve Marine and worked part-time as an orderly at the same hospital where his mother was a nurse. He smoked a pack a day and wore too much cologne. But it didn’t matter—I thought he was perfect. On the weekends, he’d pick me up in his old white Trans Am and take me back to his house in Allentown (since we couldn’t stay at my house). We’d sit on the couch and watch war movies. He slept on the couch; I’d sleep in his room. In the morning, his mother would make me breakfast, telling me that someday I’d be her daughter-in-law.

I went with his family to say goodbye to him on that cold February night. I stared at the filthy gray snow all over the ground, half melted, from a storm the week before. We stood gazing at the silver bus that the government had sent to collect the Marines. It would take them from Allentown down to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. From there they would be sent to the Middle East. Carter hugged me goodbye and whispered in my ear that it would be okay; he’d call and write with every chance that he got. I quietly sobbed into his shoulder, his desert camouflage absorbing the tears. He kissed his parents and his sister goodbye and then he boarded the bus. We all stood by and waved at the Marines as they left. They seemed happy: reserve Marines that never thought they’d get a chance to be activated, their

childhood G.I. Joe dreams finally coming true. Hoorahs and Semper Fi all around.

We watched until we couldn’t see the bus anymore, and then I got into the SUV with his family, sitting in the front passenger seat. Tears streaming down my face, I felt embarrassed for becoming so unhinged. These people were connected to Carter by blood; I was just the girlfriend. Shouldn’t they be the ones weeping? Turning my face in an unnatural direction so that they could only see the back of my head, I stared hard out the window at nothing. As the glow from the streetlights bounced off my wet face, I told myself that I needed to be strong. When we got back to their house, I immediately went up to Carter’s room to go to sleep. Soon, miles away, the part of me that had been surgically removed would be boarding a plane to the Middle East. It physically hurt. …

The night that the invasion of Baghdad started, I watched CNN for hours.

My mother and I argued when she told me that I needed to turn off the TV and eat something. As I was sitting on the floor in the middle of our walking path between the junk, I told her that she didn’t understand what I was going through. I couldn’t turn it off! I had to see what was happening, because he might be there, right there, among the air strikes and the darkness. “Don’t be so dramatic! Go say a rosary!” My mother believed that religion would solve everything. In a dramatic display of this-is-myhouse-not-yours, she struggled to unplug the cable box, barely able to get to it, due to the stacks of junk mail piled in front of the large wooden entertainment center. I watched her with a mixture of pity and loathing.

Left staring at a blank screen, I reluctantly retreated to my bedroom.

Minutes later I heard the television’s power spring back to life. …

I called my best friend Lacey, who I hadn’t seen in months. She was home from college, so we made plans to go midnight bowling. She brought her friend Jack, who we’d gone to high school with. Jack and I had been on the newspaper staff together. We were never friends; he was an annoying know-it-all who constantly raised his hand to hear himself talk. He graduated in the top 5% of our class. I found him extremely irritating.

Lacey picked me up in her mother’s red minivan. I pulled open the sliding door, climbed over Lacey’s little brother’s car seat, and sat behind her.

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She had Beyoncé’s new solo album in the CD player and was singing along to Crazy In Love. Jack turned to look at me from the passenger seat, an obnoxious grin on his face. He had dark blonde hair that was already starting to recede slightly, a round face, and pale blue eyes. He was wearing a yellow and blue Abercrombie polo shirt and khaki shorts.

“Hey Annabelle, what’s new with you? Lacey said you’re dating a Marine?

From f****** Amish country? How in the h*** did that happen? I thought you were a pacifist?” He laughed and kept his head turned toward me, staring intently, the grin still on his face. I felt uncomfortable as I looked into his eyes. I broke eye contact and began rummaging around in my small black purse, as if I needed to find something important. I hadn’t seen this person in two years, but he was being awfully familiar. Why was he calling me a pacifist? I couldn’t recall ever referring to myself as a pacifist.

Sure, I’d plastered my locker with peace signs, I made the peace sign in photographs, but everyone did that, didn’t they? It was the late nineties, we were imitating the Spice Girls, and there was never a whole lot of thought behind it. Was I a pacifist? Maybe Jack remembered the piece that I wrote on gun violence during the fall of our junior year? It was six months after Columbine, right around the same time that we had to get swipe-card access IDs. “He’s a Marine. He’s from Allentown, not Lancaster.”

“I didn’t say he was from Lancas—“ “You said Amish Country! That’s Lancaster! He’s from Allentown!” I lowered my voice. “It’s a completely different county.” I added. Jack looked at me like I was nuts.

“Whoa, whoa, who the f*** cares? Whatever. It’s just really weird.

Pacifists don’t date soldiers! Wasn’t John Lennon, like, your hero? Make love not war and all that s***!” He laughed at me again. I glared at him in disbelief. Why was this so funny to him? After he composed himself, he asked “Are you still writing?”

I used to write constantly in high school. I stopped writing when I met Carter. One weekend when I was at his house, he went through my schoolbag and found my journal. Coming back from the bathroom, I found him lying on his bed reading it as if it were a magazine: flipping though it indifferently as if he was looking for the pictures. He laughed when I got

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upset. He thought writing was a waste of time since I’d never make any money from it. Insisting that I should trust him enough to let him read it, he got angry when I tried to explain that it was private. From that day on I stopped carrying a journal, afraid that he would find it again. I took all of my diaries and journals from my entire life, filled up a cardboard box, and hid it in plain sight in the corner of my mother’s living room. It blended in with the rest of the décor. Journals abandoned, the only writing that I ever did those days was being sent to Iraq. So, the answer to Jack’s questions was no.

“Not really.” I replied. “And he isn’t a soldier, he is a Marine. There’s a difference.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t really had time.”

“Why not?”

“I just haven’t had any time; I’ve been busy with other things.”

“I saw your away message the other night…quoting Casablanca? What, did you watch that in your Intro to Film class this semester? Are you a film expert now?” He was making fun of me. He was a film major at Temple University and clearly thought that my Community College film class was a joke.

Lacey reached out and hit him playfully with her right hand, keeping her eyes on the road. “Leave her alone Jack! We’re taking her out to celebrate, Carter is coming home soon. Give her a break! You’re always quoting dumb song lyrics on your away messages!” It was true. He was on my buddy list and sometimes I’d look at his away messages. Always some random lyric from some band that I’d never heard of.

We met Jack’s friend Sean at the bowling alley. The boys won. I had a good time, it was good to get out and catch up with Lacey. In the minivan on the way home, Jack told me that he was going to call me later.

“No, you’re not. Why would you call me? You don’t even have my number.”

“I’ll get it from Lacey. I want to talk to you.” Lacey stayed silent, but I could see her smiling in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t help myself…even coming from someone as irritating as Jack, this flirtation felt good. It had been a long time since a guy other than Carter had flirted with me. H***, it had been a long time since Carter had flirted with me. I didn’t expect Jack to call, but ten minutes after I got in the door, my cell phone rang. I didn’t answer. I retreated to my room, the only room in the house that didn’t look like a bomb had gone off in it, and I went to sleep thinking about Carter.

The next morning, while checking my email, I noticed an instant message on my monitor.

JACKKUBRICK13: you’re a nerd. try answering your phone.

I didn’t answer the phone the next time that he called. Or the time after that. He left me annoying voicemails. He’d say “Listen to this!” and put the phone up to his stereo…the rest of the message would be some generic punk pop song. Curious, I’d always listen until the end of the message to see if he was going to say anything after the song was over. He’d say “Call me back nerd!” and then he’d hang up. But I never called him back. …

The next day at work I found myself thinking about Jack. Somewhere deep inside myself I felt very guilty. I tried to make myself feel better with silly rationalizations. I was allowed to have male friends, wasn’t I? He took me to see Finding Nemo. I insisted on paying for my own ticket, even though he protested. “This isn’t a date, I have a boyfriend. We’re just friends.”

During the movie I felt a nervous sort of excitement. I wanted it to be a date. He drove me home after the movie, and we listened to one of his CDs, another whiny emo song. The lyrics were making me uneasy.

Don’t say goodnight and walk away without that kiss that you owe me…

I felt like the song choice wasn’t a coincidence. When we got to my house, I said goodnight and quickly ran out of the car.

Carter came home the next day. My parents drove me up to Allentown so that I could be there. I wore a little black sundress with a mint green cardigan and I waited for him to get off the bus. It was a beautiful sunny day in mid June, the birds chirping. I’d been waiting for this day for only four months, but it had felt like four years. And then there he was. Thinner, so tan. His auburn hair looked kind of blonde. When I went to hug him, it felt different. A local news crew was there, filming all of the reunions.

When they interviewed me, I felt compelled to exaggerate my happiness for the camera.

Back at his house, he played Xbox and barely looked at me. My parents stayed for lunch and then they went back to Philly, leaving me at Carter’s house for the weekend. I sat next to him and tried to talk to him, but he told me that I should have gone home with my parents, because he was going to the bar later with his friends. I felt a crushing sense of disappointment— this was the grand reunion I had waited for?

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong. I want to go out and drink. It’s not my fault that you aren’t 21 yet. I turned 21 when I was in Iraq, I want to celebrate my 21st birthday! I think I deserve that!” He was practically yelling.

“Okay. You should be able to do that, I understand. I just thought that we’d do something together. We haven’t seen each other in months.” Without fully understanding why, I already had the feeling that I had to walk on eggshells around him. My tone was gentle and calm, as if I was explaining something to a child.

He laughed in a sarcastic way and turned to look at me with scathing eyes.

“If you had really cared about me you would have come to North Carolina last week.”

His mother told me that families were not allowed to greet the plane at Camp Lejeune. None of the other families or girlfriends had gone; everyone had greeted them at the reserve unit in Allentown that morning.

“They told everyone to wait until you were back at the reserve unit here. No one went.”

“Well, I needed to see you. You weren’t there. Your fault.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if you had been so concerned about my needs you would have made sure you were there for me.”

“Wait…your needs? What the f*** does that mean?”

His voice was cold, uncaring. “It means that there were girls in North Carolina, and those girls weren’t you. I took what I could get. You should have been there if you cared so much.”

Suddenly, hot tears poured down my face. Without thinking, I left his house, and I started walking. He was still sitting in front of the TV playing Xbox like nothing had happened.

Where I was going, I didn’t know. I left my purse with my cell phone in his house, so I couldn’t call my parents. I thought about finding a pay phone and calling my father, and he could turn around on the turnpike and come back to get me. I’d walked for about a half mile when Carter pulled up next to me in that white Trans Am. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please get in the car.”

I didn’t say anything in response. I couldn’t talk through the sobs. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to know that the last year of my life hadn’t been wasted on something that wasn’t real. But at the same time, I wanted desperately to go home. For the first time ever, I would have rather been in my messy house, hidden between my mother’s junk. I continued to walk, and he drove slowly along the road, yelling out the window.

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“Please come back to the house and we can talk about it. I love you.

I’m sorry. ” I stopped. I was just standing there, sobbing on the sidewalk, looking like a fool. Is this what my life is now? I didn’t know what to do. A man at a nearby house was pretending to water the lawn but I could tell he was eavesdropping, watching us out of the corner of his eye. At another house across the street I could see a woman watching us from her front door.

I turned to look at Carter, I looked at his face. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t even look upset. His parents probably told him to come after me.

“I’m so sorry. Nothing really happened. Please come back to the house and I can explain. What are you going to do out here anyway? Walk to Philadelphia?” He laughed at me.

I thought about my friends, and about Jack. I thought about my family, about Carter’s family. How everyone had been so proud and impressed that Annabelle’s boyfriend, my boyfriend, was serving our country. I thought about how my girlfriends all envied our “perfect” relationship.

Lacey had always said that it was like something from a movie: Girl meets boy at the beach, boy and girl fall in love, boy leaves for war, girl waits for him, boy comes home a hero, they live happily ever after. I wasn’t dating some a**hole like some of my other friends were. I had a good guy, a Marine, a hero. That was what everyone thought. That was what I had thought. Was it all fake? I wasn’t prepared to let go of it all, not yet. I got in the car.

Carter took me back to his house, where he sat me down on his mother’s pink and white floral sofa, the same sofa where we’d happily watched terrible movies months before, and told me that he felt so guilty for what he had done. He claimed that it wasn’t his fault, he went with some of his fellow Marines to what he thought was a strip club, but it turned out being…something else. He only did it because he just couldn’t wait any longer because he missed me so much. I gave him a hesitant hug, feigning forgiveness. He told me that he was so relieved that I knew; it was a weight off his shoulders. That night he stayed at the house with me instead of going to the bar, although more than once he told me how he wished I was 21 so that we could go out drinking. We stopped by CVS to get his disposable camera developed.

Full of pride, he couldn’t wait to show me the photos…

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I flipped through the stack of glossy 4 x 6 prints, unnerved by snapshots of lifeless ragdolls, the size of full-grown men, sunbathing on pink-stained ground, facial features obscured.

In the weeks that followed, Carter would pick me up and take me up to Allentown for our usual weekend visits. We’d rent DVDs from Blockbuster, be about a half hour into the first one, when he’d get restless and go to the bars. I’d be left at his house with his little sister, Julie. It happened almost every weekend that summer.

His familiar fragrance of cigarettes and cologne started to become contaminated with the scent of whiskey. He’d crawl into bed, expecting me to jump all over him. When I’d tell him that I was tired, he’d push me from the bed. I’d go to sleep on the couch, freezing in the over air-conditioned house—the Carters apparently didn’t believe in throw blankets. …

The first weekend of August, I made up an excuse to stay home from Carter’s. I needed a break from watching The Princess Diaries and Spongebob with Carter’s sister. I could only handle so much tween entertainment. That weekend I watched movies with my mother in our disastrous living room, and every few minutes my eyes would drift over to my box of journals in the corner. As I was getting ready to go to bed, my AOL Instant Messenger made the familiar alert sound. It was Jack.

JACKKUBRICK13: Hey stranger. u there?

ANNABELLE1983: Yes, I’m here. What’s up?

JACKKUBRICK13: I want to go out. playground?

ANNABELLE1983: It’s late. I’m in my pajamas. I really shouldn’t.

JACKKUBRICK13: Why, because of GOMER PYLE? F*** him. come out in your PJs. i don’t care. I really miss u and I want to see u. I’m not drunk, I promise. I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes.

I was typing a response telling him not to come when I got a notification that he had signed off. S***. Was he really going to be outside of my house in fifteen minutes? He didn’t have a cell phone so I couldn’t call him. My heart rate increased steadily for a few moments until I realized that I should probably put on some real clothes. I put on a pair of jeans and a black tank top…I slipped into a pair of Old Navy flip flops and quickly put on some mascara. My long blonde hair was a mess so I pulled it back into a ponytail.

I waited anxiously by the horizontal mini blinds in my bedroom, peaking out every few seconds. Was he really coming? It was a warm August night, and the street in front of my house was quiet and still, the only exception being the sound of the crickets and a cat running across the street. Suddenly I saw the gold Chevy Cavalier turn the corner and come to a slow stop in front of my house.

S***.

I could just stay in my house, and eventually he would drive away.

Or, he’d come to knock on the door and I’d have to hope I could get out without him getting a glimpse of the messy living room. I deliberated in my head for what seemed like a very long time, but it was only a few moments.

After my hesitation passed, I grabbed my handbag and darted out of my room…down the steps, past my mother (“I’m going to the diner with Lacey, I’ll be back in an hour or two!”) who was sorting through a pile of junk mail while watching the news, out the front door, into the car. Some alternative rock band that I didn’t recognize was on the stereo. He turned and looked at me, a huge grin on his face.

“Hey nerd.”

“Hey.” “So this is what I have to do to get you to see me. Just show up and sit in my car outside of your house. I should have thought of it sooner. Let’s go for a ride.”

“You did think of it sooner. 4th of July!”

“Oh yeah…Let’s not talk about that!” Laughing, he put his foot on the gas and drove away. We sat in silence for a few minutes until he asked me if I liked the band that was playing.

“Who is it?”

“It’s brand new.”

“Oh, you just bought it?”

“No! The band’s name is Brand New.” “Oh, okay! I’ve never heard of them.” We both laughed. At the next red light, he changed the CD. The Starting Line was the name of the band. I had never heard of them either. Jack flipped through the tracks until he came to the one that he wanted on. He had a true gift for finding the perfect song for every situation.

Stop expecting change…he’s just a lost cause that you’re waiting on…take a look around…you could have anyone, so leave undeserving him. It only hurts at first but then you’ll find someone to give you everything you want, try not to go running back to him…

As I listened to the lyrics I fought back tears. When we came to a red light he turned to smile at me and grabbed my left hand with his right. As he interlocked our fingers, I felt butterflies in my stomach and I wondered what the hell I was doing. The light turned green and in a few minutes we were at the playground. It was deserted and dark, the only light coming from the streetlights in the distance. He let go of my hand and we got out of the car. Nervous about him taking my hand again, of what it would mean, I walked ahead of him to the swings and sat down. He followed closely behind me and then sat on the swing next to me. We talked about people that we knew from high school, who was doing what, the mean chicks that had gotten fat, and the a**hole jocks who had knocked girls up. We talked about classes starting again in a couple of weeks, and about the movie that he’d be working on in the fall. Just then, he got up and started walking over to the baby section of the playground. There was an abandoned box of Popsicle sticks at the bottom of the red plastic kiddie slide. He picked them up. “Whoa, check this out!” he yelled.

“Popsicle sticks? So what?”

“I love finding random s***!”

“What are you going to do with them? Just leave them there; they probably belong to the children’s day camp. If you want Popsicle sticks I could give you a bunch, my mother has an entire drawer of them in our kitchen.” I laughed.

He turned to look at me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Why does your mother have an entire drawer of Popsicle sticks?”

“Oh…she keeps s***. Has trouble throwing things away.”

“Oh, she’s a hoarder.” He said it with certainty and confidence. I had never heard the term before.

“A what?”

“A hoarder. My aunt is one too. It’s an OCD thing. Totally treatable. Take her to a shrink.”

He said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I’d never heard anyone who was “in” on the family secret take it so well, let alone understand it.

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Jack brought the sticks back over to the big kid swings. He sat on the ground next to my swing with his back toward me and spilled the sticks out onto the black top. He began arranging them into something. After a few minutes, he moved out of the way so I could see what he had done. “You’ll like this!” he said. It was a peace sign. The images from Carter’s disposable camera flashed into my mind. Underneath of Jack’s peace sign, written out in sticks, was the word “NERD.” Out of nowhere, for reasons that I cannot explain, I began to cry. Jack’s triumphant smile slowly turned to a stare of bewilderment. “Hey hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.

I stood up from my swing. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here with you. This isn’t right. I have a boyfriend.” He came closer to me.

“Whoa, calm down. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, not yet. But…” He inched closer to me. “But what? You did nothing wrong.”

“But…” Before I could finish my thought, before I could articulate what I knew was about to happen, his lips were on mine, his arms were around me. I wasn’t crying anymore. In that moment I didn’t care about Carter. I didn’t even think about Carter. Carter didn’t exist.

We stayed at the playground for a little while longer. Jack wiped my tears away and didn’t ask any questions. When he dropped me off at home, I kissed him goodnight, no prompt from a song needed.

I stayed up late downloading music from bands that were signed to labels that I’d never heard of. When Carter called at 3 am, I didn’t answer. Staring at the call, I hit the ignore button just as JACKKUBRICK13 sent me an emoticon on AIM. Eventually I’d have to talk to Carter, I’d have to somehow let him know that it was over. But for now, all I cared about was Jack. …

I couldn’t do it.

I wanted to end it so badly, but I felt responsible for him. What would happen if I left him? I continued to see Jack, but kept it very innocent. Raspberry cheesecake and waffles at the diner, a surprise Justin Timberlake concert at The Electric Factory in downtown

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Philly. We finally watched Old School at his house, but with other people present. We went to The Gap to buy Dan a new shirt.

I emptied my Corona out onto the lawn and threw the empty bottle into a recycling bin. I made my way through the chain link fence out onto the sidewalk. It was getting dark out, and with each passing house I heard the sounds of parties. Happy crowds, people having fun. I smelled hot dogs, I heard children laughing.

I wasn’t entirely sure that I knew where I was going. But I kept walking.

Eventually I’d find a street that I recognized, and I’d find my way back to Carter’s house. Needing to hear his voice, I called Jack’s house. His mother answered the phone.

“Hi is Jack there? It’s Annabelle.”

“Sure sweetie, hang on.”

I could hear a lot of noise in the background. They must have been having a party. After a few moments, Jack picked up.

“Hey, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

“Hey. I’m walking through the streets of Allentown, with no idea where I am going. I just left Carter at a party.”

“What? Are you okay?” He sounded concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. A little drunk. I had to get out of there. I’m walking back to his house.”

“Do you need me to come and get you?”

I hadn’t thought about asking Jack to come and get me. But after hearing him say it, it made perfect sense.

“That would be great. But I don’t know where I am.”

I told Jack the street signs that I was near, and I told him Carter’s address. He went on his computer and did some searches on MapQuest.

He was able to tell me how to get to a street that I was familiar with, and he kept talking to me until I made it safely back to Carter’s house. He said he would be there as soon as he could—MapQuest said an hour and 20 minutes.

I was sitting in Carter’s living room, on the pink and white floral sofa, when Mrs. Carter came in from the kitchen.

“Hey, I thought I heard someone come in. Where’s Steve?”

“He wasn’t ready to leave. So I walked.” Normally I would have teared up, but the beer had made me angry, not sad.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. You know that he hasn’t been himself lately.”

“Yeah. But that isn’t my fault, is it? I’m sick of him having a pass to treat me this way.”

I couldn’t believe that I’d said it out loud, and said it in front of his mother.

Her eyes began to fill with water, and she came over to hug me. I hugged her back, but I was slightly resentful that it took her this long to acknowledge his behavior toward me. Mr. & Mrs. Carter had been acting like his behavior was normal all summer long. But it wasn’t normal—and they were smart people—but the power of denial is strong when you love someone.

I broke the hug and pulled away from her.

“I don’t need to be comforted. I need to leave. I can’t be here anymore. I called a friend to come and get me. I’m going home.” Back to my messy house. “I’d rather be there than here.” I kept my voice steady and even because I didn’t want to upset her, but it was difficult.

His mother went to the kitchen and picked up the phone on the wall and dialed. I couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she came back in after a few minutes. “I just called him. He is coming home now. He’s sorry that he upset you.” Laughing incredulously, I shook my head, and went up the steps to his room to get my things. “ Sure. He’s sorry. He’s always sorry. He can say sorry all that he wants but I don’t care. It’s over. “Mrs. Carter’s emotions collapsed slightly more when she heard me say it was over.

Julie was crying in her room. “You’re leaving?” She looked at me as if I just told her Al-Qaida bombed Disney World. “You need to stay; you’re the only thing that makes him happy.”

“I can’t stay just because he wants me to stay. You’re too little to understand Julie, but someday a guy might be mean to you. If he is, don’t let him. Don’t hang around and waste your time the way that I did. I’ve been so stupid! I’m sorry Julie.”

She continued to cry as I walked down the steps with my bags. At this point Mr. Carter had joined the action, and he was pacing the living room nervously, not knowing how to handle the situation. Mr. Carter had been a hippie when he was young. He was incredibly smart, liberal, and never allowed his son to play with toy guns as a child. To this day I have no idea how Carter ended up the way that he did. The only thing I could ever come up with was that they wanted to please Carter and didn’t like telling him no.

So when he started showing interest in the military, they must have felt it was best to support him. Mr. Carter started to speak to me.

“Annabelle…you seem like you’re a little out of it. Why don’t you go upstairs and go to bed? We’ll talk to Carter when he gets home. We know he hasn’t been very nice to you this summer, and we’re sorry.

We kept telling him that something like this was bound to happen if he didn’t start treating you better. Please. Just go upstairs. If you still want to leave in the morning, I can drive you home.”

“Mr. Carter, thanks, but I already have a ride coming.”

“Your dad?”

“No…my friend. “ Should I tell them? Why not? “A guy…A guy.”

Tentatively the first time, with more confidence the second time.

Mr. Carter’s eyes widened. “Annabelle, you can’t get into a car with another guy in sight of Carter…you know how he gets!” Headlights from outside streamed through the curtains. Carter was home. He walked in the door, and was instantly surprised to find his parents looking so anxious.

“Jesus, calm the f*** down. She isn’t going anywhere.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry baby. I was having a good time, and I didn’t want to leave right then. I’m sorry. Really.”

His mother smiled hopefully and looked at me for my reaction. For Julie’s sake, I kept my voice down, kept calm, and I tried not to sound angry.

“I can’t do this anymore Carter. I’m going home, okay? This is over.”

He stared at me without any emotion. I started to walk out the door past him. I’d wait on the porch until Jack pulled up. Carter wasn’t moving out of my way.

“Carter, I’m leaving. Get out of the way.” I lowered my voice so his family wouldn’t hear what I was about to say. “Look on the bright side, the next time you are in North Carolina you can be with as many girls as you want without feeling guilty about it.” I smiled at him.

Carter ran his hands through his hair and widened his eyes. “You’re not f****** leaving! You think you can make a f****** fool out of me in front of my family? You’re not going anywhere. F****** piece of s*** b**** that probably cheated on me while I was gone. You’re not leaving!” He grabbed my arm and held onto it so tight that it began to throb with pain.

I was starting to get scared now, and I was sobering up. Maybe talking back to him hadn’t been such a great idea after all. His parents were yelling at him, telling him to calm down. Julie was yelling at her brother from the top of the steps, begging him not to hurt me.

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“I saw them open letters from their girls back home over and over again telling them that they were breaking up with them. I kept waiting for your letter to come and when it didn’t, I knew it would just be a matter of time.”

Carter—you’re hurting my arm! Let go!” I was yelling now. “I never cheated on you. Stay focused and faithful? I did! It’s not my fault and it’s not my responsibility to fix you! Let me leave, Carter!” He threw me down to the ground and ran up to his room. “Julie, go to your room, you don’t need to see this.” She stayed where she was, lip quivering, looking absolutely frightened. He came downstairs with his gun, the handgun that he had been so eager to purchase after his 21st birthday. He wasn’t pointing it at anything, but there it was, gunmetal grey glistening in his right hand.

His father ran to the kitchen and got on the phone. His mother fell down to the ground, propped up against the floral sofa, and told him to put the gun down in a voice that was barely legible.

“I’m not going to hurt myself, mom. Jesus. I just need her to stay and this will make her stay.”

“I’m not going to stay Carter. I’m leaving.” My voice and my hands were shaking.

“If you leave, I’ll shoot myself.” He smiled. It was a nervous and deranged smile, and it frightened me. He put the gun to his head. I put my bags down immediately, tears filling my eyes. Damn, I hadn’t wanted to cry this time.

“Carter…you aren’t going to hurt yourself, okay? Please. Just put the gun down. Your sister is right there. She doesn’t need to see this.” His parents were now both in a ball on the living room floor, arms wrapped around each other in grief, floral sofa supporting them.

“I’ll put the gun down if you stay.”

“Okay…okay.” I wiped the tears away from my cheek and took a deep breath. “I’ll stay. But you need to give me the gun, okay?” Eggshells.

“Promise me that you’ll stay. You can’t leave me.”

“I promise, okay? Just give me the gun.”

He finally put the gun down on the floor. I didn’t touch it. His father ran to get it and disappeared into the kitchen with it. Carter came up to me and wrapped his arms around me. “I love you so much, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

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I told him that I loved him too…it was true. I did. I was still hugging him when the lights of the police car invaded the moment. He kissed my forehead and then went over to his mother and gave her a hug. Julie, still sobbing, inched her way down the steps slowly. Carter went over and picked her up, whispered something in her ear, and then put her down again. There was a knock at the door.

He went away willingly. His father followed in the truck, his mother locked herself in her room. I sat at the bottom of the staircase, my arm around Julie. We sat that way for a long time, until I could sense that she was drifting off to sleep. After I was done carrying her to bed, I collected my bags and waited on the front porch. When the gold Chevy showed up, I got in.

“Hey nerd.” He looked at me understandingly, knowing that I was upset.

He didn’t ask any questions. There was some punk song on that I didn’t recognize. I was glad to be with him, to see his face, but I wasn’t in the mood for the music. At that moment I didn’t think I’d ever be in the mood to listen to music again. I turned the stereo off.

We drove back to Philadelphia in silence. …

You’ll never know it when you see them. Looking back, there are a lot of things that I would do differently. There are a lot of things that I’ve learned. But the one thing that still boggles my mind is how well they all blend in. They look normal on the surface. Only when you love them will you realize that something is off. Only when you’ve already invested your time will you realize: these men are broken. After you understand this, you might let it bother you for a little while. But then you’ll move on with your life. You’ll listen to song lyrics and you’ll watch pretentious movies. You’ll marry the boy with the college education, the boy who makes you laugh, the boy who tells you that you’re a nerd, the boy who wouldn’t dream of reading your journal. You’ll forget about the boy who spent time in the VA hospital. You’ll go to bars with your friends, you’ll forget about how much you used to hate those people who drank. You’ll only remember him when you see a bumper sticker telling you to support the troops, or you see a man in uniform—or on the Fourth of July, when the fireworks are in the sky. When you have times like that, you’ll remember. When you have times like that, you’ll feel guilty for moving on.

“Bittersweet” ANITA FLYNN He was surprised by the cracking noise. In his head, when he thought about doing what he had just done, there was no noise. It was like a silent movie he played over and over on a private projection screen. The scent of honeysuckle also was alarming. Honeysuckle had been a favorite summertime memory of growing up with momma and poppa on the farm.

Now the sultry scent was smothering him.

He wondered if anyone else heard the sound. Maybe it wasn’t as loud as he thought. Glancing around, he saw only two joggers in the distance.

Why were they out so late? Seemed like an odd time for physical fitness.

Now that the dastardly deed was completed, he wasn’t sure what the next step should be. The video loop in his head never went to the next scene, so he would have to improvise. He didn’t realize he still was holding her head in his hands. He gently laid it on the ground. The joggers were getting closer. What should he do? He wanted to ask the lifeless body in front of him, but no suggestion would be forthcoming now. She always knew what to do and now when he needed her the most, there was only an uncomfortable silence.

Damn her. He thought she was stronger than this. Her neck snapped like a twig in an autumn breeze. He had no idea she was that fragile. She always seemed so tough, always telling him what to do and how to do it.

He just wanted to silence her for a few seconds, to stop that mouth from motoring on and on. Well, he wouldn’t have that problem anymore.

Unfortunately, her weak composition now created a new problem for him. How was he going to explain this? The joggers were closer; he could hear their shallow breaths. He wondered if they were as fragile as she was. They looked rather slender. At least this time he wouldn’t be surprised by the sound.

It actually was much easier than he thought. They both went down like scarecrows in a wind storm as his poppa used to say. He loved growing up on that farm with momma and poppa. They took such good care of him.

He hated this city living. Everyone acting smarter than him, underestimating him. He wanted things to be easy again. What made him come here? Oh well, no time for memories now. He needed to plan his next move. Should he just leave? He swore he felt eyes upon him. To his right, a raccoon stopped and stared. He hated raccoons – they used to dig holes in poppa’s plantings. Might as well have one less of them in the world. There was no cracking sound this time, just a horrible shrieking noise as the animal fought to escape.

He looked around at his evening’s work. The bodies were piling up and he still didn’t have a plan. He thought about starting a fire, but he had neither a lighter nor a match. A siren sound was growing louder in his head. Was it an ambulance or a fire engine? The spinning red and blue lights were making him dizzy. Maybe poppa could help him but where was he? He was sure momma and poppa would have the answer. A man shone a flashlight into his eyes. And then he remembered where poppa was.

Poppa was lying motionless on top of momma in a field back home with the scent of honeysuckle lingering over both of them in the sweet summertime evening air.

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“The Road to Misty Mountain” FRANK CHAMPINE

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“Sometimes” COLLEEN BATES She is seated in her wheelchair – small, tired, pale Her eyes light up at our approach; perhaps today she’ll recognize Sometimes she is calm and relaxed; smiling at memories she recalls Sometimes she is very agitated – why did her family abandon her?

Sometimes she smiles and waves as we wheel her past her neighbors Sometimes she scowls at these strangers who line her halls Sometimes she sits most content at the window – such a beautiful view Sometimes she angrily demands to be taken home; she hates this place Sometimes she sleeps peacefully, surrounded by photos of loved ones Sometimes she tosses and turns – confused, lost, alone Sometimes she is the first to the dining hall – the food is wonderful here Sometimes she refuses to try a bite – why are you making me eat this?

Sometimes she answers her phone with joy – how nice of you to call Sometimes she sobs at the great sorrow of being alone; this place is not home

Sometimes she reports how hard she works here taking care of everyone Sometimes she emphatically states it is time for her to retire – she’s had enough Sometimes she enjoys a game of checkers; fond memories of time spent with grandchildren Sometimes she wonders aloud what is in that red and black box and where did it come from?

Sometimes she raves about her beautiful room - so neat, clean and tidy Sometimes she throws piles of disheveled clothes around – packing to go home Sometimes she is doting wife, loyal mother, proud grandmother, blessed great grandmother Sometimes she is lost little girl, alone in her thoughts, trapped by her mind Sometimes we leave smiling and content – it has been a good visit Sometimes we let the tears fall as we drive away into the dark, fearful of the future

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“Twisted Illusion� LESLEY REJI

I am an elderly woman in Bangladesh.

My children had forgotten me the moment they stepped foot on foreign land, they have now fallen in love with the dollars in their hands.

I am a middle-aged father in China.

I had taught my children the importance of the family bond.

They had snapped and rebelled, that is how they respond.

I am a young adult in America.

No matter my color, racism is evident.

I've done no crime except to live my life, even that is considered irrelevant.

I am a teenage girl in Nigeria.

I withstood my kidnapping and rape.

It was bizarre to think that I still had hope in an escape.

I am a schoolboy in Pakistan.

I had been shot in school.

I had come to learn, to learn that people are cruel.

I am a toddler in Palestine.

I have seen a grenade, but never a toy.

I cry for my dead mother, yet, thoughts of her bring slight joy.

I am a baby in India.

I do not know gender, religion, or faith.

I have been burned alive, in ashes I bathe.

I am an infant in Syria.

Freezing and dying from the wintry cold.

I am already traveling on the way Home, just a few days old.

I am buried six feet deep within, forgotten, nameless herein.

I am a Human, only desiring for love and peace to be the next revolution.

It does not seem possible, for Humanity is a mere Twisted Illusion.

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“Dear Emotion” LAUREN DURKIN Dear emotion, Lately, I recognize you present in my thoughts leaving me at your mercy.

I hear your stories filled of fear, caging courage and following hollowed footprints.

I resolve and dissolve, feeling the whirl in my core nearly blindfolded.

During the next encounter, when I’m standing in quicksand, guide by truths, instill consistency, tune my signals.

Allow me to walk away with dignity.

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“Nourishment” SARA WATKINS The summer sky was a pleasant shade of blue when Aster left her house. She crossed her lawn with the fresh grass, and her neighbor’s lawn with the ornaments, walked down the big hill that was perfect for January-sledding and finally across the road to the forest.

The forest was always fun to run through, especially when the weather was as nice. There was no real entrance to it, only a dense series of underbrush and uneven rock. The grass was nonexistent, it stopped in a clear circle around the expanse of the wilderness. Beyond the trees, there was nothing but dirt.

Aster cleared the trees at a brisk run, pushing small branches out of the way and ducking from the thickest ones as she went. She tore through the foliage, arms and legs bare for the pine needles that left goose bumps across her skin.

The wind sang into her ears. As she arced the outer rim of the forest and made her way into the center, she came across a clearing.

She was sure she’d never seen this particular clearing. The grass grew in luscious green tufts. Strange exotic flowers sprouted, some with supple pink petals as large as her palm, others tiny, like fragile glass beads. She leaned in to a shimmery silver flower with a delicately curved stem. Its leaves wrapped tightly around the swell of its hips and Aster could not stop herself from inhaling deeply. Its fresh scent tickled her nose.

“Do you like my garden?”

The gravelly voice came from a man standing across the clearing, whom Aster hadn't noticed. He was older than she, with wind beaten skin and a round stomach. His face looked like one of the rocks from the forest, rugged and dusty.

“Oh," said Aster, straightening up. "It’s beautiful!” The man eyed her for a minute, making her conscious of her wind-knotted hair and sweaty figure.

“I spend a lot of time working on it." There was a moment of quiet between them, a shared bit of awareness as together, the old man and young girl took in the nursery. "I take very good care of my babies,” he was leaning against a tree casually, but something about his tone was off-putting to Aster. “So I wonder what you’re doing here.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing nervously. Obviously the man was offended. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I come running through this forest sometimes.”

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“Well, I don’t think you’ll be doing much of that anymore.”

The man’s forwardness made Aster blush.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean you won’t be leaving this forest, miss.”

Silence covered the clearing. Even the wind did not croon. Aster met the man’s gray eyes and saw the seriousness within them. She backed away slowly, keeping the contact until she was within the safety of the trees before breaking into a run.

This time when she ran, the pines did not tickle her but rather sliced, leaving sharp cuts across her skin. She bit her lip, trying to be quiet in case the man was following her. Her parents had always warned her about running in the forest, but she’d never taken them seriously before. She banked a left and sped up, determined to make it home.

Aster felt herself trip before it happened. A rock caught under her foot and she knew without looking that it was a fat rock, with dirt caked into its eroded crevices. Just like the man. She tripped, sprawling down a hill that almost certainly wasn’t there before.

When she crashed through the trees, Aster found herself on a soft comforter made of grass. She sat up, rubbing her stomach and looking around. She was back in the clearing.

In the center was the sturdy man with tree bark skin watering a flower.

“I told you you wouldn’t be leaving,” he said to Aster.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“This is my garden,” said the man.

“It’s beautiful.”

And it was. Aster could not stop her eyes from drinking in the flowers, her nose from sucking in the scents. She wanted to lay in the field forever and hug the very Earth it sat on. She wanted to consume it.

“You can,” the man told her.

And she was too amazed, too delighted at his permission to wonder how he knew what she was thinking. She was too entranced to notice. She stood and wandered the garden for a moment, trying to find the perfect spot to lay. The flowers were arranged in asymmetrical rows with no particular order. She tiptoed around them, mindful of disturbing such beautiful creatures but taking care to smell every flower individually. There were six rows of flowers and she made her way through each twice, noting her favorites. A broad black flower that unfurled to reveal a purple inside seemed to reach toward her fingertips as she passed it. Between the third and fourth rows was an awkwardly large gap, one just big enough for her to rest in. Aster made her way and laid her head down by the biggest plants; an orange sunflower with a strong stem as thick as four fingers and an oversized chrysanthemum.

She spread her fingers flat on the tickly grass and stared up at the sky.

As the summer sun began to fade, Aster’s eyes began to shut. The beauty of the garden took her suddenly, first from her toes and feet before moving up to her calves, her knees, and her thighs. She felt it in her skin. When she opened her eyes, the grass had wrapped itself around her wrists and limbs.

Soft tendrils pulled her toward the soil and slowly, ever so slowly, Aster found herself sinking.

“You know,” she said to the man dazedly. “I thought that I was taking in the garden, but it’s taking in me.”

He did not answer, but she heard his footsteps draw closer. When she peered through her lashes, she saw him leaning over her.

“Isn’t it nice to be a part of the things you love?”

Aster did not answer, because she found that she could not. Instead, she lay and let herself be a part of something wholly.

In the morning light, the man watered a bright blue flower bent earnestly west, as if frozen in mid-run.

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“Never Forget” RACHEL EVERMAN

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“My Angel� CONNIE FLYNN I question why you had to leave, Every single day; It's something that I can't perceive, Why'd He take you away?

You were too young and full of life, Always had a smile; Then one day, things changed for your wife And your only child.

We said goodbye in tears and pain, Wishing to be a dream; But then we felt the drops of rain, We lost one from the team.

Days go by and life moves on Without you by our side; I still cry because your gone, It's not an easy ride.

But instead I have an angel above And for that I am glad; I can always feel your presence and love, You're truly the best dad.

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“You Are: In Memory of Robin Byrd� ANONYMOUS

You are beautiful.

Beautiful in the way the sun sets and the sky becomes pink Beautiful like waves crashing at your feet You are comforting.

Comforting in the way a cat cuddles up to you when you sleep Comforting like a blanket draped over your shoulders on a snowy day You are love.

Love in the way first lovers hold hands Love like doggy kisses You are heaven.

Heaven in the way you give me hope Heaven like hugs from angels Mom, you are sunflowers, beaches, love songs, and good morning kisses You are snowflakes, balloons, poetry, and good night kisses You are everything that is good; And mom, you will forever be everything to me.

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“The Fallen� ROWENA MILLAN In the midst of darkness they fight for freedom.

Leaving behind them the comforts of home.

In distant lands they travel.

Fighting unknown enemies with no boundaries.

Their deaths are not in vain but a reminder: Life is fleeting death is permanent.

Life and death are just a cycle.

How we live life separates us from the Fallen.

103

“See You Later� SARA WATKINS

I lost my mind in eight inches of snow and we, the frozen finger tipped foragers, searched for hours in the flakes of the sky where we found something in each other when we lost track of time, when we danced in the snow that was falling outside and after all these years, I am still proud to call you mine and when you have left I will remember to find you in the sky.

104

“Small Promises” ROBERT FICOCIELLO All summer I’d been meaning to take Big Red in for a tune-up. Then I got into some trouble, and fall came. Finally, one morning’s crisp start lost an age-old battle to straight New England winter, and by the end of the work day, Big Red wanted no part of the cold. Sitting behind the steering wheel, I cursed her sorry old heap then marched back toward the laboratory knowing that I would still love her when the snows came and I needed her four-wheel drive to get me home. My glasses fogged when I entered the empty lobby and looked back at her vintage curves, blaming everything on her while realizing where the fault lay.

After dialing the phone, I said, “Hi, Ma, it’s me.” My parents would be in bed watching television, and I hadn’t called for a ride since high school.

“Willie?”

“Yes. Did I wake you?”

“No. We missed you at supper. Is everything okay?”

“Big Red won’t start.” I could hear a hockey game in the background.

“Are you still at work?”

“I had to get that project shipped to the EPA tonight. Is Dad still up?”

“Hold on. You’re not out in the cold are you?”

“No.” “Good.”

The phone padded onto the quilt.

“What’s up, Will?” He’d been dozing.

“Sorry to get you up. How are the Bruins doing?”

“They’re bums, down by three goals.” He cleared his throat. “Ma says Big Red won’t start.”

“She’s turning but not catching. The lights and radio worked when I got in, so I don’t think it’s the battery.”

“But you turned her so many times that she’s dead.”

“You got it.”

“Flooded, too?”

“I gave it a rest, then tried again. But still, nothing. Just clicks.”

“Tell him to call Triple A,” Mom chirped from the background.

“That’s what we’re paying for.”

“You heard her, right?”

“Yes.” I’d thought of that. “Freeze like this, they’d be a few hours at best.” Selfishly, I just wanted to get into bed and sleep after a week of overtime.

He relayed the message to my mom. She started in about canceling the service and complaining about the waiting.

“What the hell’s that going to do for him now,” he told her. “Will, I’ll come down with some cables.”

“If it’s a problem, I can wait. I hate getting you out of bed.” I knew my dad needed to get up for the bakery at four.

“No one’s left here at the lab to get a jump from.”

“That’s what you get for working late, huh?” he asked.

My mom murmured something about me working too much.

“I’ll be down there in about thirty minutes,” he said with a laugh.

“She’s driving me crazy anyway.” “Thanks. I’ll be around the back.”

I waited under the half moon that had climbed over the buildings along the Charles, and my breath formed clouds in the brittle air. I had considered calling Susan. She was finishing out the lease in our apartment. I needed a solid night of sleep, and seeing her might help in the short term with that. After a few slips in our separation and my subsequent insomnia, we had agreed that cold turkey would be the only way to go for us. A promise to yourself was more difficult to keep than a promise to another person. Only one person to disappoint, and fooling yourself is easier than fooling someone who knows you. Platitudes had become a habit for me lately.

105

My dad arrived in forty-five minutes and parked the bread van to form an L with my pick-up. All business, he lumbered out wearing tan workpants and a blue Wearguard parka. His gloved hands clenched the jumper cables.

He frowned. “No gloves?”

His disapproval warmed me.

“I would have brought you a pair,” he continued.

“Hopefully, this won’t take long,” I countered.

“Yeah,” he said walking over to the open hood. “Jump in and give her a try.”

The cables clacked on the asphalt. “Now?” I yelled.

“Okay!”

I depressed the clutch, fearing and hoping Big Red would start. If she did, then I dragged him out of bed for no good reason. If she didn’t, then my truck was busted, and I was still not home sleeping. Something isn’t a problem until the problem is right there in front of you, I figured.

All or nothing.

After turning the key, the click-ur-ur-ur-ur began, and I felt spared of guilt.

“Stop!”

I felt Big Red rocking.

“Try it again!”

Click-ur-click-click-click.

“Okay, okay! Stop!”

I got out. “How’s it look?”

“Have you checked the oil lately?” he asked from under the hood.

I shrugged. “Yes.” He didn’t respond, so I went to my cab for something to wipe the stick.

“Set the parking brake, too!”

When he checked the belt around the alternator, I leaned in to pull the oil stick. He exhaled, and I could smell the rum.

“What’s the matter? Pull the stick and check it.”

106

I withdrew the thin strip and tilted it to catch the light from the street lamp. “It’s fine.” The stick ticked against the motor each time I tried to find the hole.

“There’s a flashlight on my dashboard.” He sounded impatient. “Put the stick back in then check.”

When I slid open the bread truck’s door, the interior light flashed on and warm air rushed out. The flashlight rose from one of the cup holders in the console, and a spill-proof Dunkin’ Donuts mug sat in the other. I turned to see if Dad still had his head under the hood. I knew the mug would be cold and filled with a dark and stormy: mostly rum, some ginger ale.

“Right on the console,” he yelled.

I flicked on the flashlight while walking then re-inserted the oil stick.

When I removed it again, relief filled me. “Looks good.”

My dad lifted his head towards me. “But, the oil’s pretty black.”

“The level’s fine though.” I waited for him to state his obvious opinion that I needed to change the oil, and I resisted promising him that I would get the oil changed over the weekend. “This isn’t the problem.”

Dad stood. “You’re right, these old blocks can run practically dry.”

He stretched his neck and back, pushing out a long sigh over the engine. “Put some light on the distributor cap,” he said and leaned against the grill.

My beam stayed on the soiled, blue cap. He started jiggling one of the wires. Then another. The third wire fell off, then the next.

“Here’s the d*** problem. These are corroded to s***.” He sighed.

“You’ll need a new set before we do anything else.”

I turned the flashlight to my watch. “There’s an auto store that you passed on the way here. Maybe they’re open until ten.”

“Close up the hood.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “We’ll shoot down there.”

“Want me to drive?” I slammed down the hood.

He stood staring at me. “Why?” I knew why, and the complete blankness on his face was either thorough knowledge or thorough ignorance. Dad’s voice didn’t slur.

Never did. “I know where it is.”

“I passed it, right?”

I didn’t move, but he did. I knew that I should do or say something, but he was right. He had driven himself past it just fine.

“Get your keys. Times-a-wasting.”

He sat behind the wheel as I slid the passenger door open. The orange mug glowed like irradiated rock from the sky. It seemed to be a nucleus, yet out of place; the truck and everything around the mug attracted to the energy, but at some determined distance.

When we backed away from Big Red, I heard the ice cubes rattling against the plastic. Having an open container in a vehicle warranted a mandatory L.O.L. for forty-five days. He emptied the mug in two swallows when we stopped at the auto parts store and set the mug in an empty bun rack behind him.

Out front, an employee rolled down one of the metal grates, but the front door hadn’t been locked yet. A cop with a huge belly stood just inside the door looking in our direction. My dad and he said “hello” to each other as we passed over the threshold. I followed my dad to the aisle of spark plug wires. We were the only customers.

A teenager squeaked over the store’s intercom that the store would close in five minutes. Dad and I thumbed through manufacturer’s catalogues.

“Here we go,” he said.

I watched an employee move toward us.

“Can I help you?” Looking like a member of a high-school band, he wore black pants and a bright red shirt. “Randy” and the store’s name were monogrammed upon the breast pockets of the shirt.

Racing flags decorated his shoulders.

“We need part A-0526,” Dad said without looking up.

Randy looked over the boxes. “I’ll look in the back, Sir.” Another employee rolled down a grate out front, and the cop stood talking to the manager. Randy returned.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but we don’t have any in the store. We can order-” My dad snapped his head around and startled Randy. “What?”

With his mouth open, Randy stood motionless. “Sorry, Sir.” “My son,” Dad pointed at me, “is stuck now.”

Randy looked at me.

“Tonight,” he added. “You know how cold it is?”

Randy’s blush matched his shirt. I watched him shoot an uncomfortable, confused look toward the manager at the registers.

We didn’t need this type of attention. I needed to stay out of trouble. This bantering and bargaining would be comfortable, even amusing, at a yard sale some Saturday morning but not with a cop eyeballing us.

“Dad, let’s just go. I’ll use Mom’s car and pick up the right set tomorrow at another store.”

“Maybe you should listen to your son,” Randy spouted.

The surprise on Dad’s face startled both me and Randy. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

I didn’t want this going any further. “Dad, maybe we can use a couple of cables from another set to get home?”

He turned to me. “That’s what I was thinking.” He sighed and opened the catalogue. “We’ll have to do that.” I felt relieved until Dad added, “But we should get a discount because they don’t have the wires we need.”

Randy gained confidence. “I can’t authorize that, Sir.” My dad released the book. “Why the h*** not?” His tone, low but forceful, carried down the aisle to the front of the store.

“I—I—I’ll get the manager.” Randy bobbed like a lost chick searching for its hen.

“Fine!” Dad growled. “Maybe something will get done around here.”

107

I watched Randy scuttle toward the front of the store as Dad started opening boxes to check the lengths of the wires.

“Will, we should’ve brought the corroded ones.”

“Dad, let’s just get the cheapest box and go.” I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late.”

“We shouldn’t have to pay full-price for something that we don’t need.

The store’s at fault—not us.” He held a wire in the air. “Do you think this is about the same length?”

“Looks good.” I watched the manager approach. Barely in his twenties, he was desperately attempting a mustache.

“What can I do for you, Sir?” Dad peered at his nametag and spoke cheerfully.

“Well, Frank, your store doesn’t have the right spark plug wires for my son’s truck, and I was hoping you could offer a discount.”

My dad pointed to a sign hanging above the aisle. “And it says right there that you have the ‘Best Selection Guaranteed.’ I figure that you don’t have the best selection because we’ll need to buy the wrong set of wires to get home tonight.” He rubbed his chin. “So, I guess a discount should be in order.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Rocking on his feet, Frank seemed to be exercising new authority. “But I’m unable to do that.”

I was sorry, too. Maybe the sorriest. Sorry that I never winterized d***** Big Red, sorry that I didn’t wait until AAA came, sorry that I couldn’t fix this situation, sorry I’d been born.

“Why not?” Dad asked firmly while looking directly into Frank’s eyes.

That question—that same question and accusing stare I received after dragging home a report card that sorely lacked A’s and B’s.

Frank appeared suddenly unsure of his might. “It’s not store policy.”

Dad didn’t break his gaze, and I felt a tinge of sympathy for Frank.

“Read the sign to me, Frank.”

Still peering skyward, Frank said, “Sir, the store is closing. Are you purchasing something?”

“As a matter of fact, Frank, we will be purchasing the wrong set of wires for my son’s truck.”

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Frank whisked himself to the registers and began talking to the cop.

Dad brightened himself with a smile that had no effect on me. “Can’t hurt to ask, right?”

With a cop involved, it could hurt, and the path of least resistance was all that interested me. I found the cheapest set of wires and walked up the aisle without looking back. I needed distance.

The cop greeted us at the register. “Is there a problem, Sir?” Frank scanned the box over the red beam. Randy stood behind him.

After the beep, I replied, “Everything’s fine.”

“I was speaking to the other gentleman,” the cop said.

“There’s no problem, Officer,” said Dad. I handed Frank my credit card.

The cop moved in closer to us. “The manager said that you were rude and belligerent.”

“No,” Dad said, “just a little confused about the store’s policies.”

“Did I see you exiting your vehicle earlier, Sir?” The cop moved close to Dad. I interjected, “I drove.”

My dad spun to me. “You didn’t. That’s why we’re here.” The pride on his face faded for a moment when I looked at him. I tried to stare comprehension into his eyes.

He redirected his attention to the cop. “To get the godd*** wires—which they don’t have. That was the problem earlier.”

“I told you,” Frank sniped to the cop.

I glared at Frank and his pursed mouth. My fist balled, I wanted to punch the authoritative smirk off his face. I could blame him now. He gave me the credit card and a pen.

“Step outside of the building, Sir,” the cop instructed.

My dad looked confused and alone, a face I’d never seen. “Sure,” he answered. The cop escorted him out the door while I signed the slip.

Frank put the receipt into the bag with the wires. “We’re sick of dealing with drunks in here.” Grinning, he handed me the plastic bag.

I twisted the handle around his fingers, and Frank whined. “You little f*****. You have no idea what a drunk is.”

Outside, the cop pointed a penlight into Dad’s brown eyes. “How much have you been drinking tonight?”

“None.”

“I can smell the liquor on your breath. Why don’t you just tell me how much you’ve had to drink?”

I wanted to coach Dad to always deny and keep denying, but what could be done at this point?

“Some wine with dinner,” Dad offered.

The series of questions that the cop would then initiate were familiar to me.

Twelve months earlier, Susan and I had fallen cozily into one of our fights, and I’d taken up with a stool at Sully’s. Hours later, the blue lights bounced around like a disco inside Big Red as I pulled to the shoulder. An occasional car whirred past along the Expressway. I’d answered the same questions that Dad faced. I’d admitted to having a few beers, failed the field sobriety test, blew a 2.1 on the Breath-a-lizer machine, then spent the night in the Massachusetts’ State Police jail. In the morning, Susan came with the $300 for bail. We sat in her car, and said “sorry” at the same time.

But the sorry covered our uncanny capacity for letting our mess get as far as it had. We stopped fighting, yelling, and ignoring for a few months, but despite my sobriety, or because of it, we hit stride again.

I used the bread van to get all my stuff out of our place before my hearing even came up in District Court. Without previous law problems, my attorney bargained my sentence down to a forty-five-day L.O.L., two years of probation, sixteen weeks of alcohol awareness classes, and AA meetings every Thursday night during probation. I rode the commuter rail into work that day from the court house.

Including lawyer fees, the “mistake” set me back almost six grand, and Susan and I knew we were done. Our divorce, and additional lawyer bills, loomed. I couldn’t afford an apartment alone, so my parents graciously took me in, and I started working as much as possible to pay fines and fees.

A drop hadn’t passed my lips since that night, which my counselor informed me was a typical response for people that got caught. Most also fell off the wagon and would stand in front of the judge again, kill someone, or kill themselves.

I couldn’t envision Dad standing before the judge like the other criminals I’d stood beside in the courthouse, never mind him in lockup for the night.

My parents didn’t have to see me go through any of it—I kept the specifics to myself—and that may be why the severity of the situation escaped them.

“I’ll be driving home, Officer,” I said wanting to end the ordeal.

“Relax.” The cop frowned. “I’m not finished here.” He returned his attention to my dad. “Sir, extend your arms straight out to your sides, close your eyes, and touch your nose with the tips of your fingers. Do one at a time.”

Dad began following the instructions. His finger found his upper lip. The next finger landed on his nose.

“Okay. Now I want you to recite the alphabet.”

Dad sighed and began.

My parents had curbed their habit somewhat after my experience, I’d told the counselor, but Dad returned to his dark and stormies and Mom to her Manhattans everyday after work, earlier on the weekends. I heard the hand in the bag of Reddy Ice because our tap water “makes lousy ice cubes,” then the ice clanking into the sixteen-ounce glasses, followed by the popping of the cubes from the warmer liquor running over them. The ritual aggravated me more each day, and I began skipping suppers and avoiding them on the weekends by working more.

Dad made Q, paused, then continued correctly. He did better than I had, and I smiled at him.

109

“Now, Sir, I want you to do exactly as I do, but don’t start until I instruct you to. Keep your arms straight down your sides, lift your left leg while looking at me, and count to thirty. Understand?”

“I do.”

The cop demonstrated the test and told him to start.

Dad looked straight ahead and started to lift his right leg. The ankle that supported him shook, and I saw a man trying to pass a field sobriety test. A man challenged and unsure.

“Sir, I asked you to lift your left leg. Please try again.”

Again, Dad extended his arms, looked straight ahead, but lifted his left leg. The ankle wobbled as if on a tightrope. His arms tilted to compensate, and I held my breath. He counted. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand—” The elevated foot descended to the sidewalk. I failed this test also.

“Try again.” The cop’s radio barked. “Yeah, I’m still with the possible DUI.” The temperature had to be in the teens, but I watched the sweat glistening on Dad’s forehead. I prayed, just as when I took the sobriety test—just get me through this, just get me through this, just get me through this.

He started again. His fifty-eight-year-old ankle wavered. His arms fluctuated in response. “One, two, three, four—” His leg lowered slightly. “Five, six—” My dad’s arms steadied and he counted to thirty. Smiling, he put his foot on the concrete. As he straightened his back, confidence returned to him.

I still held my breath, thinking that Dad succeeded.

The cop removed the handcuffs from his belt. “Sir, it’s obvious that you’ve had more than a glass of wine with dinner. I’m going to call for a cruiser to pick you up for a Breath-a-lizer test at the station.”

110

I watched my dad’s shoulders slump, and my hand went to my forehead then slipped over my eyes. My fault, and for some insane reason, I figured that if I got him through this, other things in my life would get in order. “Officer, couldn’t I please drive my dad home right now?”

Dad looked at me. “Will?” I saw a face like any other sad face that I would see on the street or in Sully’s or in the court house. He could have been anyone else’s father. Any other delivery man running his route.

“Sir?” I stepped in front of the cop.

The cop looked at me, and I thought that he might see a good father and a good son.

I squeezed my hand around Dad’s elbow hard enough to feel the bone through his coat. “I’ll take him home.”

I don’t know what expression I had on my face, but the cop relaxed and averted his eyes. “Look, this is a borderline call, here, and I need to cover my own a**.” The cop jangled the cuffs and shot a hard look at me. “Have you been drinking?”

“No, sir, I worked late, and my truck wouldn’t start.”

The cop looked at my dad. “You’re getting a break this go around. If your son wasn’t here, you’d be heading to the station.”

Dad lowered his head.

I waited for him to reply. “Thanks,” I offered finally, and the cop shook his head. Dad handed me the keys. We walked silently back to the van knowing that the cop watched us. I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I drove as if the cop followed. After a block, I opened the door and threw the Dunkin’ Donuts mug down onto the asphalt. He didn’t say anything. But as we got closer to Big Red, I felt my command slipping. No amount of counseling sessions would give it to me.

During the initial interview with my alcohol awareness counselor, she asked me questions about my family, my drinking habits, and my arrest. I told her that I grew up like every other kid in my suburban neighborhood.

My parents provided everything my sister and I needed, sent us college, never hit us, and held the same jobs for years. They were never hungover and always ready for work in the mornings. She calmly told me that most functional alcoholics were good providers, not fall down in their own pi** and sh** drunks, or whack their children around monsters, or fired from their jobs flask-tippers, or arrested for DUI alcoholics—not Hollywood versions—not sensationalized biographies. Normal people. I wondered if this night crossed a line and graduated another family member out of the functional class.

“We’ll put the wires on,” Dad said. “I promise Big Red’ll start right up no problem.”

“But, Dad? I told the cop—” “Nothing to worry about, Will.”

I doubted that Big Red would start, so indeed nothing to worry about. I knew that she shouldn’t. The problem, or maybe a new one, would still be there under the hood.

When I parked at my truck, I left the van running. In the headlights, he put the wires on the distributor cap. “Hook up the jumper cables, Will.”

His voice dry. “Now get in and give her a try.”

I sat behind the steering wheel. The cold key, magnetic between my bare thumb and finger, slipped into the ignition. The key seemed to turn itself against my will. Then Big Red caught, spit, and thundered as Dad told me she would. I merely watched him remove the jumpers and close both hoods. He came to me in Big Red. I kept the window up, and he spoke loudly through the glass. “Let her run a little while before you get on the road. I’ll be in bed before you get home, so I’ll see you tomorrow.” He narrowed his eyes. “We’ll get the right cables.”

I nodded, then sat in my truck watching him walk to the van and slide the door open. Behind the oversized windshield, he removed his gloves, turned towards me, and then held the gloves.

I shook my head. The gloves would be warm with the heat of his hands.

He shrugged, but his gesture lacked any disappointment or condescension and surprised me. I buried my cold hands deep into my pockets as the door slid closed and the van backed away. I caught a glimpse of my dad’s face. It looked dusky and old, even ghostly, in the dashboard’s yellow glow.

The foolish AA platitudes floated in and out, one after another, through my mind. Then a promise to do something active—family meeting? dinner discussion?—drifted into my head as I thought back on all the moments in the night that I could have stopped things before they got out of hand, but as Dad had said, he would be in bed when I got home, and I believed him. Susan would be in our bed, and going to her would be easy. So d***** simple. I’d drive under McGrath Highway, down Somerville Ave., then into Davis Square. I’d knock on the door and tell her about the night. She’d open the door wide and hold her hand out. The apartment would be chilly. The bed would be warm and familiar when I’d slip in next to her.

As Big Red lunged forward and her heat started to surround me in the cab, I could go to Sully’s too. Park in front of our old place, walk my old route, and sneak into the muggy din. Order just one. Nurse it. Just one an hour would keep me safe until closing, then back to my parents. Visiting both Susan and Sully’s would be overwhelming failure, and as Big Red carried me out of the parking lot, I promised to be only a mild disappointment this night.

111

“Vivacious Vacancy” CHARLES GETTER 112

“Pilate” BRIANA DONCHEZ Water is Softly wrapping around my fingers With a cool rush and calm release Drowning this chaos-lifting my peace "I am innocent” But he knows differently Beaming past a wiry crown of thorns Are the most rarefied eyes They capture the emptiness of my insides And pity my putrid little soul

“What is truth?”

Tell me, if you can Something you can feel, can hold To cherish in your dying arms…

Or is it a sound, say the sweetest chime Soothing every tired, twisted vein ‘Til your blood returns to the surface And once again, you are alive But could it be for me?

For those who wonder electrically But never so much as pursue Seeking any sense of comfort Behind some gilded pretense Shining in that gorgeous ignorance We are not like you Though you tried to save us I will not save you.

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“Exaggeration” DIANE MENAGO A ripped scab does not exaggerate the ugliness it holds within sometimes deceiving it shows nothing smoothed perhaps the slightest scar, barely visible, not noticeable Sometimes showing pain A discolored raised lump Barely noticeable, only to the attentive observer Sometimes showing despair A jagged tear losing life’s energy, a slow tedious drain or a profusion of blood and guts that leaves one devoid of life, gasping for each breath just to hold on noticeable but too late…

114

“Vanilla Samurai” COURTNEY HEINERICI Chapter One: Leeds Vardy He sat at the corner of her bed and thought, “This is everything.”

A chance at a human connection. The promise of companionship. The illusion of normalcy. Normal people did this.

She was a kindergarten teacher. Patient and kind. Tall for a woman. In her stubby block heels, her head fell just below his chin. She was slender too - bony, with a slight plumpness between her hips, and large, round breasts. At least, they seemed large to him on such a slender frame.

Nice.

Tall.

Slender.

He should want this.

He should want her.

This was everything.

“Please forgive the boxes,” she told him. With one delicate yet clumsy motion she pulled a narrow metal pin from her bun causing mousy brown threads to fall against her shoulders. She was no more or less beautiful for this action, though she’d hoped the gesture would make her appear casual. She wanted to feel at ease with him. She wanted him to find her sexy in her simplicity.

“Okay,” he replied. He looked from box to box, silently forgiving them inside his head. “I forgive you,” he thought. “And you. And you. And you,” though he hadn’t a clue what the boxes had done wrong.

“I’m an awful procrastinator,” she admitted with a giggle. “I’ve been in this apartment three months, and I’ve barely unpacked a thing.”

An empty, white desk sat in the corner by an empty, white wall. She leaned against it and folded her hands by her waist. The absence of color made her look weak and fragile. He thought if she stood there long enough, she could be absorbed by that wall.

She hadn’t removed her coat; a tweed-thatched pea coat with enormous black buttons and intersecting lines of red and blue in a dusty mass of beige. It was the only thing she owned with a pattern. Her wardrobe was a color-coded collection of solid earth tones – khaki pants and black skirts that fell a safe distance below her knees. If he had to think of one word to describe her, it would be ‘crisp.’ She was crisp and clean and fresh. Her carefully applied red lipstick and red woolen scarf were the only items which served to betray the neutrality of her attire and character.

She smiled at him in the silence. He tried to force a smile in return, but could feel his face contorting into a ravenous pit-bull snarl. He sucked his lips over his teeth with an obnoxious slurp. The sound made him think of milkshakes. He imagined swirling ribbons of pink strawberry ice cream, twisting their way to the bottom of a metal cup until they were lost in the stark, bland hue of vanilla.

“I guess we own a lot of stuff we don’t need,” she offered, merely to break the silence. The silence bothered her more than it bothered him.

He was desperate for silence. “I mean, I have all this stuff in boxes. I haven’t gone looking for any of it, so I suppose I don’t miss it. I guess I could live without it.” She giggled again. She was nervous. She was pleasantly nervous to have a man sitting at the corner of her bed.

He nodded.

“You can’t take it with you, right?” she added, lightly punching at her thigh.

“Okay,” he agreed, though he wasn’t familiar with the expression.

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She shifted from one foot to the next, until she was practically marching in place. The darkness crept across the night sky, enhancing the manufactured glow of the overhead lights in the bedroom. Somehow, it was getting louder. Without a sound, the room was reaching a piercing volume. All that white was so f****** loud, it made it impossible to concentrate. He needed to concentrate.

He hadn’t a clue what to do next. No one ever really explains that part. He wasn’t completely inexperienced. He’d had three girls before; one in high school, two in college, but this time, it was different. This time, there were expectations. At twenty-eight, he had done everything right. He had earned a college degree, secured a decent job at the bank, and owned a modest two-bedroom row-home on the opposite side of town. It seemed to him that every time he fulfilled one life obligation, it was soon replaced by another.

And now, people were starting to worry.

His mother was worried. His sister was worried. His boss and his friends and his co-workers were worried. He was living alone. He was eating alone. He was making very important life decisions, like which brand of toothpaste to buy or which cable provider to use, and he was doing it all unquestionably alone. And though he didn’t quite see the problem with being alone, he couldn’t deny feeling alone. He attempted to shield others from this fact. He didn’t wish to insult them with the implication that their constant efforts of bringing him dinner or stopping by for walks in the park, were unappreciated or ineffective. Somehow, despite his best efforts, they noticed it anyway and the burden of guilt he carried was beginning to suffocate him. He’d begun to wish that they would stop coming by for dinner and walks.

It was Jay, his supervisor, who had decided to confront this ‘alone’ problem head-on. Jay had introduced him to the teacher. He’d even set up their first date, accompanied by very clear instructions.

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1.

Buy her dinner 2.

Ask her questions about her life/interests 3.

Compliment her 4.

Listen to her 5.

Walk her home and thank her for ‘such a great evening’ Leeds followed these instructions to the letter. The effort paid off, and she agreed to a second date a week later. This time, they went to a movie. He hadn’t enjoyed it, but he never really did enjoy movies. He found them confusing and over-sentimental. At exactly the right moment, the music rose and the lights dimmed. Any challenges faced by the characters – who were always incredibly well-groomed and attractive even in the worst of circumstances – were reconciled before the conclusion of the story.

Everything was neat and tidy. He couldn’t relate. His life was messy. It made his stomach ache, the way he couldn’t relate to the movies.

“Maybe this happens to other people,” he thought. “Maybe I am doing something wrong.”

As he walked her home that evening, he listened for the music. He watched for the dimming lights. Nothing happened. Everything was exactly the same as he had always remembered it. There were car horns and rolling beats thumping through stereo speakers as cars rushed past; the roars of city life he had grown accustomed to. The street lamps flickered. The traffic signals flashed yellow, red, and green. It was business as usual, so he simply shook her hand and wished her well and rushed to the bus stop to catch the 11:36 back home.

“Third date next,” Jay whispered with a wink over drinks the following night.

“Yes,” he agreed. “One. Two. Three.” He counted them on his fingers to be sure.

“You know what that means, right?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, nodding his head emphatically. He knew exactly what it meant: more expectation, more responsibility.

He couldn’t suffer divulging the truth: being with the teacher made him feel just as alone as he had felt before they’d been introduced. Her existence hadn’t changed anything. Maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough.

Maybe he had to work harder than he’d ever worked in his entire life to not feel alone when he wasn’t alone.

At the end of the third date, they stood uneasy on her front porch, both contemplating their next move. Their eyes darted from parked car to street lamp, until finally she had mustered up the courage to invite him inside. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Her eyes glazed over, lids fluttering shut.

Her shoulders dropped, her entire being collapsing into the preparatory pose of romantic expectation. As she puckered her lips, Leeds grew concerned that she was about to faint. Remembering trust falls during eighth grade summer camp, he braced himself against the railing, bent his knees, stretched out his arms and opened his palms. He was set to catch her. He wouldn’t let her hit the ground. Slowly she tipped toward him, causing a surge of electricity just under his skin. Every inch of his body was bursting with a familiar numbness. He’d felt it that time he saw Chelsea dance in the snow. He’d felt it when his mother phoned to tell him that his grandfather had died. He didn’t understand why he would feel it then on the front porch, when this woman he barely knew was about to have some sort of seizure, but its presence was undeniable.

The teacher moved closer, her top half inching forward, her bottom half inching further away, until she was bent in a perfect L shape. The two of them were frozen in a tableau of confusion until finally, unsatisfied, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her wide-eyed, his palms outstretched like a victim fending off a mugger.

“I like you,” she clarified, noticing that he hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Okay,” he replied, holding firm to his spotting posture.

With an insulted snip, she asked why he had agreed to go out with her.

“My mother really wants grandchildren,” he answered, nodding proudly at his honesty.

The answer should have startled her. It should have been a red flag. But, something about the idea turned her on. It wasn’t that she was desperate for children – children were still a few years off. It was the sincerity of the answer. It was the promise of something more than just a one night stand or a winter fling. It was something hard to find. It seemed that everyone had too many choices these days, and wouldn’t settle on just one thing. Life was about sampling, not committing. The new, accessible world made it so easy to meet anyone that she could ever meet someone. She couldn’t see permanency in this man, but she didn’t feel disposable. That was enough.

“Do you still want to come in?”

He nodded, and in denial of the implications of the invitation, followed her up the stairs to her apartment. She led him down the hallway and past an empty living room. The kitchen was spotless; the stove still wrapped in bubble paper and plastic. At the end of an unbending, white hallway, they arrived at a perfectly square bedroom, vacant of any decoration or personality. She pointed to the fluffed white rectangle in the center of the room. “Sorry. There’s no place to sit but the bed,” she told him, her cheeks glowing the cherry-rust color of brick.

Finally, she removed her coat and tossed it across the white desk. Much to his dismay, it did nothing to mute the blaring whiteness of the walls. She tiptoed toward the bed and placed herself cautiously beside him, crossing her legs and folding her hands in her lap. He felt himself shift away from her and closer to the headboard.

“I suppose I should kiss you,” he announced, sensing that the time had come.

She giggled and got that swoony look again. He kissed her light and fast, springing back so hard he knocked his elbow against the headboard.

“Ouch,” he yelped. She giggled again.

“Are you okay?”

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“Yes,” he confirmed, and without a second’s hesitation, she leapt onto him. She kissed him hard and long. He could feel her lips parting, and her tongue tracing the corners of his mouth. His body grew rigid as a seething pain returned to his stomach. Her hands were everywhere at once – on his back, in his hair, on his thighs – he felt violated, but for the first time they held a common ground for no other reason than he could understand the desperation in her actions. So, he didn’t fight. This was supposed to happen. This was the expectation. He could prove himself. He could survive. He jammed his eyes shut and reached out to her, carefully considering each of his movements. He remembered how to do this. This would be over soon enough.

She removed her shirt and tossed it to the floor. The white ball of cloth corrupted the darkness of the shimmering wood finish. The room was plotting to swallow him whole. Everything was closing in on him, blinding him, burning him up inside and out. A searing agony tore through the flesh of his arms and legs. White, lace bra – tossed aside, revealing soft, white breasts like clouds. Nipples small and pale pink, and screaming to escape the scorching white of the world. Leeds pressed his palms against them to block out the glare, to save them from what he couldn’t escape. The teacher cooed and began unbuttoning his shirt, until his bare chest was exposed and contributing to the glow.

She was ravenous now, grabbing and poking and clawing at him. He had to remind himself to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. This can’t last forever.

This will end soon.

The burning heat increased with each inhale. It was all crashing in on him. He thought of penguins and Antarctica and snow-cones. He thought of the icy slush on the sidewalks outside. He imagined his warm breath fogging up the cold night air with every exhale.

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When he opened his eyes, he could see their shadows dancing against the naked walls. He felt like the unwilling participant in a puppet show. A spotlight had been shone upon him, the world could see its reflection in his skin – so pale he was almost green. He was suddenly very aware of his body. Of his bent toe, the scar by his knee, the slight crook in his nose.

He could feel his hip bones jutting out beneath the elastic waistband of his briefs, and he wished he had worn boxers. He was too tall. He was too thin. He was too awkward and ugly. His eyes were far too blue for his thick, black hair. How could he look like this? How could he live like this? Then, a sting. The bite of metal breaking flesh. He thought perhaps the light had finally burnt through him, causing his skin to split and peel itself free from the bone.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, pulling away. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe – my students made me this bracelet, and it was too small for my wrist so I’ve been holding it closed with a safety pin.”

He looked down at his arm and saw the pin jutting out of his bicep, dangling a rainbow colored braid of yarn. He liked it. The contrast of color was calming.

“Yes,” he said aloud. “Yes. Red and yellow and green and blue and indigo…”

“Do you want me to pull it out for you?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

She reached over and yanked the pin from his arm. The tiniest trail of blood slithered away from the wound. Relief. There was freedom in that tiny trail of blood. He squeezed the skin around the pin hole to speed up the flow. It dribbled down until a tiny speck dripped onto the white comforter. He imagined the cloth absorbed it – spread it out evenly over every inch until they both sat on an ocean of his dark red blood.

“Do you want a band-aid?” She asked, eyeing the spot on the comforter with neurotic frustration.

“No,” he said, still squeezing the wound. The flow had almost ceased, and he found it disappointing.

“You should get one,” she insisted, eyes still on the stain. “The bathroom is down the hall. First door on your right. There should be bandages in the cabinet. I’m pretty sure I unpacked them.”

The hallway seemed narrower and whiter than earlier. He rushed for the door, desperate for respite in the pitch black emptiness of the bathroom. As his body crossed the threshold, a sudden burst of light knocked him to his knees. The flickering fluorescent bulb kept time with the whirring of the ventilation fan, amplifying the pulsating blankness of the white title, white walls, white sink, white shower curtain, white soap. Only the brown boxes, piled in the corner beside the white toilet seat, offered serenity. He watched the boxes - stared them down hard, until the focus blurred white within his eyes. He kicked the door shut, and down the hall he could hear her stirring at the violent sound.

“Leeds?” She asked, in a broken voice.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out.

There was no sign of blood left. He couldn’t find the spot where the pin had pierced his arm.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

His inner voice was drowning in a crescendo of screeching sounds akin to rubber tires stripped against pavement just before a collision. “Shut up,” he yelled aloud, as the sound gelled into a single, deafening pitch. He clamped his hands over his eyes, but the light was unrelenting. It rushed over him, entwining itself with his limbs, creeping into every orifice until it pumped through his veins and congested his organs. He could feel it living inside of him. He was filled to the brim with nothing but white.

He knew he would need to open his eyes in order to locate the light switch.

Discovering a small, rectangular box along the wall, he reached up with anticipation to find only a motion sensor and no button. He was powerless.

He couldn’t make it stop, yet he refused to surrender. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” he ordered, but couldn’t hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t hear the teacher frantically calling his name from the hallway. He couldn’t hear her knocking.

He crawled toward the boxes, wrapping his arms around the stack and pulling it toward him in a brash hug. The jerking motion caused the top box to tumble, spilling a green handled box cutter to the floor. “Green,” he said.

“Yes. Green.” He lifted the tool gently into the air, bowing to it – a sacred object offering him redemption. He pressed down on the metal, and slid the blade free from the shaft.

The jagged silver edge sparkled in the whiteness. Lying flat on his belly, he outstretched his arm, and carefully punctured the tip of his middle finger with the corner of the razor. There was no pain as a droplet of red trickled into his palm. The blaring ring didn’t cease, but he could feel it slowly fading away.

He pressed down harder until the blade disappeared below his skin and drew back, tracing a perfect line past his wrist, up his forearm to the underside of his elbow. It surprised and delighted him, how quickly the blood spilled out from the inside.

The silence grew, and brought with it the darkness. He tossed the blade aside.

It had served its purpose well. He watched the flood of red pool beneath him, filling in the grout lines between the tiles. “Yes, yes,” he thought, finally free to hear his own voice again, but still oblivious to her cries from the hallway.

He couldn’t hear her wary steps as she entered the bathroom. He didn’t hear her shill scream at the discovery of the bloody scene staining her perfect, white bathroom. He didn’t hear her pleading with him to get up – to wrap a towel around the wound – the repeated, “Oh My God’s” or “why is this happening’s.” He didn’t hear her call 9-1-1. He didn’t hear the police. He didn’t hear the EMTs. He heard nothing but the sweet silence of darkness.

“I am alone,” he thought. “This is everything.”

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“Skyline Drive” ROWENA MILLAN

“Orphaned� LAUREN DURKIN It is with sadness that I sit here quietly, reflecting on my thoughts, recalling memory after memory.

I now have that life experience that was bound to happen.

Yet, I struggle with the whys or the plans to be determined.

Hollowed like a carved pumpkin And completely emptied.

As I face each encounter alone, I long for a glance, a smile, or a nudge.

I keep looking everywhere and at times I can feel your warmth.

It is true, I will never be the same.

It is true, I miss you every single day.

It is true, I am lost without my best friend.

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“This War of Mine” ANONYMOUS

I am not a soldier, instead a survivor Trying to live for the next tomorrow I will not beg like a hooker on the street corner who craves a date Or a submissive slave who only exists to please For my friends alive they were weak in death, eternal gratitude Ash outlines on a city street Memories of this forsaken war I like many others are orphans Since our homes were mortared identities lost Asking who is going to steal the bread Ravenous thieves met with a bullet to the head Paranoia fuels the mind medicated with hysteria We were not bred for war Why do the innocent have to suffer?

This war of mine will never end Looking behind me to make note of the vulture’s nest Fear is a sedative that numbs anxious nerves A comfort knowing that death is inviting Somehow a better alternative But I must survive Yesterday has become a whisper in the wind The future may be gray; however it is like the number zero Empty unbound, forever changing

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“Howl� SARA WATKINS I shouldn't bother to tell you tales of El Dorado because everyone knows that fairy tales are things that didn't happen wouldn't, couldn't, didn't happenLike waking in a dream.

But I think if you did listen and heard about the gold About the men that searched their lives until they were withered and old greedy and fooled by having at last found El DoradoI suppose I shouldn't tell you what they did to it.

How they ripped the ingots from cobblestone walkways and toppled the towers that towered on top of the torn streets.

Look around you.

Alchemy is real El Dorado is real We have turned gold into capitalism into skyscrapers and seedy-eyed bank men in too tight suits.

We have abandoned our storybooks for tax return forms and 401ks Abandoned our hearts for tall metal cages and authority figures working on minimum wages.

I'm telling you that this is El Dorado that they took our gold, our birth right, like they took your family and your loved ones and everything you worked so hard for I suppose I shouldn't tell you that this is what they wanted: chaos and violence.

Our fairy tale is littered with garbage landfill after landfill I shouldn't tell you that El Dorado is dying that the road to gold is paved with trash.

I shouldn't tell you But who else will?

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END

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AUTHOR NOTES Taurai Augustin Taurai Augustin is a transfer student from Union County College NJ and is honored to be here. He is an affable, hardworking, interesting, and humble individual born and raised in a small island called Saint Lucia. He moved from his paradise and sought after his passion in education and athletics.

Jazmine Babuch Jazmine is a junior psychology major. She hopes to go on to graduate school and become a sports psychologist or counseling psychologist. In her free time, Jazmine likes to write, mostly short stories and poetry. When not in school or writing, Jazmine likes to hang out with friends and family.

Sean Bailey Sean Bailey graduated Holy Family in 2013 with a B.A. in English. He is a senior editor with an international standards development organization in the Philadelphia suburbs. He currently resides on the outskirts of Boyertown, PA with his wife and two daughters.

Amanda Bates Amanda Bates is a senior at Holy Family University. She will be graduating this May with a B.A. in Sociology and a minor in Psychology.

Colleen Bates Colleen Bates is the proud mother of Folio’s Editor, Amanda. An avid reader, she had not attempted creative writing since her own school days. Her daughters encouraged her to submit and inspire her with their creativity.

Olivia Bates Olivia Bates is a first year student at Arcadia University. She studies Early Elementary and Special Education. Olivia was the salutatorian of Saint Basil Academy’s Class of 2014.

Born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia, she now resides in Glenside, Pennsylvania. Olivia enjoys dancing, baking, and spending time with friends and family.

Bonnie Boyce Bonnie Boice is twenty-five years old and resides in Fishtown. She is a part-time student, majoring in English Literature and works as a technical writer in Philadelphia, PA. Carla Burns Carla Burns is a graduate student at Holy Family University working towards her Masters in Counseling Psychology. Time with family and friends is something she genuinely cherishes. She enjoys cooking, baking, tea, and scrapbooking. Photography inspires and invites individuals to look at a picture from various perspectives.

Gini Fleuhr Campbell and Joanne Baumann Connolly The poem "Memories" was written by Gini Fluehr Campbell and Joanne Baumann Connolly, both from the Class of 1960. Gini and Joanne came back to campus in 2010 to celebrate their 50th Anniversary. The poem shares their fond memories of Holy Family over 50 years ago.

Vincent Catanzaro Vincent J. Catanzaro has been teaching at Holy Family University as an adjunct professor of Religious Studies since 2004. Previously, he was the Director of the Holy Family Neighborhood Center in Frankford. Vincent loves the arts, music, painting, and songwriting. He has composed many songs and has painted in oils and watercolor for 50 years. He is also an entrepreneur and owns several patents.

Frank Champine Frank Champine is a retired secondary school educator. He taught in the Neshaminy School District for 35 years. He spent several years teaching at the University of Pennsylvania and La Salle University in their education departments. His Chinese Brush Paintings appear in Placemat Prayers: Mealtime Blessings Especially for the Sick. A new book of prayers, poems and paintings entitled Signs and Wonders is soon to be published.

Jan Cook Jan Cook, a Holy Family Doctoral student, plans to use her degree to work in Educational Research. The poem presented here arrived in a similar way to Coleridge's Kubla Kahn.

These dream works are to be noticed, captured, and shared!

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Sister Doloretta Dawid Sister Doloretta Dawid is a member of the Congregation of the Sisters of the Holy Family of Nazareth and professor emeritus at Holy Family University. Sister Doloretta enjoys writing poems which embrace themes of family, nature and the spiritual.

Margaret DeFelice Margaret DeFelice is a junior year English major.

Catrenia D’Imperio Catrenia D'Imperio is a psychology major in her junior year. She has been a serious photographer since 2003, but has always been interested in photography. After completing her bachelor’s degree, she plans to go on to complete her PhD in clinical psychology while having a photography business on the side.

Briana Donchez Briana Donchez is a sophomore nursing student minoring in psychology and hopes to incorporate both fields professionally. She really began to enjoy writing poetry and prose in high school and wrote for her school's literary magazine. Briana's favorite writers are William Blake and Sylvia Plath and her favorite poem is "To Helen"

by Edgar Allen Poe. In her spare time, she likes to read and to watch "Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown.”

Lauren Durkin Lauren Durkin is finishing her doctoral degree at Holy Family University where she focused on Undergraduate Music Education Programs. Her passions include music, education, and community service.

Rachel Everman Rachel Everman is a Communications/Public Relations major at Holy Family University. Her photo was featured on the cover of Folio last year which was a huge honor. She has a very strong passion for photography and hopes to freelance as a side job to her career someday.

Robert Ficociello Robert Ficociello is Assistant Professor of Writing at Holy Family University in Northeast Philadelphia. His creative work has appeared in North Dakota Review, New Orleans Review, Short Story, and other journals.

Anita Flynn Anita Flynn is a lifelong resident of Philadelphia. With an undergraduate degree in Marketing from Philadelphia University and a Master’s in Information Systems Management from Holy Family, she has been employed for over 30 years by the Rohm and Haas chemical company. Her first published submission to Folio was in 2014. She has also provided content to Examiner.com, CBSPhilly.com and Demand Media Studios.

Connie Flynn Connie Flynn is a graduate of Holy Family University. She currently works as an instructional assistant in an autistic-support classroom and is extremely grateful for the experience. This is her fourth year publishing in Folio. She would like to thank her dad for always watching over her.

Charles Getter Charles is a part-time student taking evening courses, while spending his day working for Verizon as a lineman. He has enjoyed taking photographs as a child, but recently has developed it into a new hobby, specializing in city and urban landscapes and architecture.

Lawrence Goldberg This is Lawrence Goldberg's second contribution to Folio. Last year, he published “Kendall Rose,” a poem about a newborn baby girl. In addition to writing poetry, Lawrence, who prefers to be called Larry by his friends, was a part of the theater group, the Wayy off Broadway Tigers this past fall. In school, Larry is going for a Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice.

Courtney Heinerici Courtney Heinerici is a junior at Holy Family University, where she studies English.

Mary Jane Hill Mary Jane is attending graduate school for a Master’s in Education. She raised 3 sons, and taught for many years in a small school in Canada. She has published a book of poetry about life and nature.

Mary Jane enjoys swimming, skating, reading, and teaching.

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Dr. James Huber James R. Huber, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Counseling Psychology at Holy Family University. A Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist with a private practice for over 25 years, Dr. Huber loves to hike in nature and explore new cities with his wife and camera.

Chris Mallard Chris Mallard is a 2011 graduate of Holy Family. He enjoys running, ice cream and the exquisite work of Taylor Swift. Chris currently works in marketing, but would one day like to pursue a career as an astronaut, president or multi-millionaire. He is often confused with his twin brother Rob. Dr. Diane Menago Diane Menago is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist at Newtown Therapy and Wellness Center and an Assistant Professor and Clinical Mental Health advisor in the Graduate Counseling Psychology program. She enjoys writing in her free time, especially poetry.

Rowena Millan Rowena S. Millan is originally from the Philippines. She currently works as a Benefits Review Nurse for the Tricare Overseas Program at International SOS. She is an avid photographer who loves to travel and capture the beauty of nature in words and in her photos.

Sandra Pierre Sandra Pierre is a junior at Holy Family University. She majors in biology/medical technology. Her hope is to become a clinical pathologist. Sandra also values art of all forms and feels grateful to be a part of Folio 38.

Avani Rajkotia Avani Rajkotia, a Holy Family University nursing student, would like to share her thoughts on what exactly life is. Life is a mixture of everything from ups and downs, success and failures, and so on, but how to live it and overcome every battle is a great learning opportunity life has given to us. We should be thankful for what God has given us since we get to live only once.

Anastasia Ramirez Anastasia Ramirez recently started the Masters of Education Program with a Reading Specialist Certification. She is a proud graduate of Hampshire College. Anastasia grew up in Brooklyn, NY in a bilingual household which has led to her interest in the role of language and the literacy field.

Lesley Reji Lesley Reji is a Biology major at Holy Family University, aspiring to become a Physician's Assistant. In her spare time, she likes to eat, to write, to sleep, and then repeat. Her biggest wish? That people will be a little less ignorant, and a little more tolerant to those who are 'different.’

Nicole Ridgeway Nicole Ridgeway is a sophomore, psychology major at Holy Family University. She believes each day is a new experience to grow and mature. One day she hopes to help others through her psychology-related career and/or writing.

Dr. Shelley Robbins Dr. Shelley Robbins is a Professor of Counseling Psychology and has taught at Holy Family since 2001. She currently serves as the Dean of Arts and Sciences. She has participated in seven study abroad trips, taking students to England, Scotland, France, Spain, Turkey and Greece. These photos are from her travels.

Edwin Romond Edwin Romond is the author of seven collections of poetry and has been awarded writing fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and from both the New Jersey and Pennsylvania State Councils on the Arts. He is the recipient of the 2013 New Jersey Poetry Prize for his poem, “Champion.”

Jeffrey Rotondo Jeff Rotondo is an individual with a deep passion for learning, leading, and mentoring. His experiences include traveling to far lands, learning from masters of their craft, and waking up every day trying to be better than yesterday. He deeply misses that old house and barn.

Joseph Sears Joe Sears started out graduating with his Studio Art degree from Temple University in 2002. He dabbled on a few canvases after, but it was not until the summer of 2006 that he decided to explode into the oil painting field. His first “true” oil painting, called “Monet’s Envy,” measured approximately forty inches by forty, and is still in his collection today. In fact, Joe has painted nearly forty-something paintings since 2006. And he never wants to stop either!

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Edward Singer Edward Singer graduated from Holy Family University in Fall 2014, Secondary Education – English concentration. Edward enjoys writing poetry in addition to script writing.

In Spring 2014, Edward was accepted as a member of an American International Honor Society for Literature, Lambda Iota Tau. Angie Smith Angie Smith is a part-time undergrad studying Public Relations & English Lit. at Holy Family. In addition to working full time in the event planning industry, Angie also owns an event décor company, Pumpkin Florals & Crafts. She lives in Northeast Philadelphia with her husband and their cats.

Stephen Smith Steve Smith is a senior at Holy Family, majoring in English with a minor in History. He hopes to be a teacher in the future, either at the high school or college level, and some sort of writer, inspiring his students to express themselves and their thoughts creatively.

Joseph Stoutzenberger Joseph Stoutzenberger is a professor of religious studies at Holy Family University. He writes in the area of spirituality and religion. His most recent book, published in 2014, is Looking to St. Francis: The Man from Assisi and His Message of Hope for Today. This is his second poem for Folio.

Sherry Teti Sherry Lynne Teti teaches mathematics at various colleges in the Philadelphia area. As a Ph.D. in Mathematics, she enjoys creative writing. In the essay “Stars and Stripes of Toughened Grace,” the groundbreaking history and culture of Philadelphia are celebrated. Composition of poetry and prose is her passion of the heart. The poem "April's Rain" proclaims the need for perseverance and illustrates the power of hope, in the face of life's obstacles and setbacks.

Shana Treon Shana Treon is entering her fifth season as an assistant softball coach for the Holy Family University softball team. She received her B.A. in Art from Lehigh University in June of 2004. Upon completion of her undergraduate studies, she attended the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, PA, where she earned her Masters of Art in Teaching in the Visual Arts in 2007. She worked side-by-side with the late Todd Marrone (Artist/Art teacher) as his Creative Assistant and most recently, she started an independent practice at her personal art studio in Manayunk, PA. Joseph Valerino Joseph Valerino is a freshman at Holy Family. He was born in Philadelphia, PA and lives with his grandmother and little sister. Writing poetry is a fun hobby of his because it allows him to relax and free his mind. Music is one of his favorite aspects of life. He listens to music day in and day out and it is how he escapes the chaos and stress that life throws at him from time to time. In addition to writing poetry, he plays the drums and harmonica. He is a Secondary Education major and is looking forward to his years here at Holy Family.

Sara Watkins Sara Watkins is a college student with big dreams. Her bologna has a first name and her 9 out of 10 dentists recommend her product. She’s just like you.

Janice Xu Janice Xu is assistant professor of Communications at Holy Family University.

Kyana Zyas Kyana Zyas is a student at Wilson Middle School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Kyana enjoys writing of all types and is an avid reader.

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