Blueprints 2006
2005 Awards All-North Carolina Publication North Carolina Scholastic Media Association Gold Medalist, Columbia Scholastic Press Association
Volume VII Athens Drive High School 1420 Athens Drive Raleigh, NC 27606 www.athensdrive.com www.geocities.com/bluepmag 2006
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Blueprintsprose 4
The Lake, Sam Lemley
10 12 O’Clock and Thirteen Seconds, Lauren Petersburg 19 Morning Whispers, Frances Ho 20 Playing with Dolls, Brittany Burchett 30 In the Shadows, Naadeyah Haseeb 38 On Heart, Naima Benkaci 46 Streets, Michael Ho
art
Over Art: Anne Fraser, “Six Strings,” Scratchboard 2
Anne Fraser, Front Cover, 4, Sam Lemley 7, 24 Ramon Mendoza-Rodriguez 9, 24 Renee Ferko 11, 22 Hannah Frederick 13 Shelley Collier, 15, 34 Caitlin Pardue 16, 31,40 Suzette Walker,16, 41 Shelby Wise, 16, 43 Kelsey Downs, 17, 37 Caitlin Brooks 18, 41 Casey Hardin 20 Lisa Simorelli 25 Mary Yarborough 29 Jose Uriostegui 32 Jason Schmitt IFC, 38 Noelle Rousseau 41,45 Drew McCkinney 47 blueprints
Contents
Brittany Burchett
poetry
8 9 9 9 12 12 12 12 13 13 13 14 23 26 26 26 26 27 27 27 28 28 28 28 29 29 35 35 35 36 36 36 37 42 42 42 43 44 44 44 45 45 45 45 46 46 46
2006
The Moods of the Waterfall, Lauren Petersburg Castilian Nights, Brittany Burchett Taiwan, Frances Ho The Autumn Dance, Hannah Jenkins Today is tomorrow, Abi Bray Viral, Chris Castr-Rappl War, Frances Ho The Beach, Melissa Bone Midnight Mirage, Alex Myers The Candle in Winter, Nick Brust The Spray Can, Michael Thomas When New Orleans sat like a zabuton, Alex Myers Undeserved Beauty, Hannah Jenkins At Last, Abi Bray Butterfly, Lauren Petersburg Lights Illuminate, Christina McIntyre Michael, Brittany Burchett Prima Ballerina, Jenny Lomelino Sand in my teeth, Alex Myers Night Minuet, Frances Ho Ocean,Bobby McKinnon Of December Nights, Haylea Hannah Sunrise Behind the Trees, Chris Castr-Rappl Blackberries, Frances Ho Rubber Footing, Chris Castr-Rappl Winter, Alex Christian To Be Back,Illya Hunt Rose in Winter, Nick Brust The Canvas, Claire Burling Dachau, Lauren Petersburg If Falling Knew Fear and Fear know Folly, Brandy Woodall Linger Here, Leah Townsend The Bittersweet Early Days, Naima Benkaci Hippie, Bobby McKinnon January, Jenny Lomelino The Spot, Jaclyn Gron Hallucination, Naima Benkaci Fall From your Pedestal, Brandy Woodall Guilt-fiddle, Alex Myers Conforming to Independence, Leah Townsend Dream of Mirrors, Chris Delis Lascivite, Jenny Lomelino The Stage Awaits, Lauren Petersburg You Wish, Julia Palko Angel in Tokyo, Michael Thomas Grow, Abi Bray Porcelain Beauties, Brandy Woodall
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Staff
EDITOR: Brittany Burchett MANAGING EDITOR: Maryam Al-Zoubi ASSISTANT EDITOR: Hannah Jenkins FICTION EDITOR: Naadeyah Haseeb FICTION BOARD: Christina McIntyre, Lauren Petersburg, ebekah Bray, Cristina Eck, Julia Palko, Naima Benkaci POETRY EDITOR: Jenny Lomelino POETRY BOARD: Allie Keys, Julie Dixon, Brandy Woodall, NONFICTION EDITOR: Anne Price NONFICTION BOARD: Emma Price, Caroline Merten ART EDITOR: Jaweria Jamal GRAPHICS EDITOR: Jason Potvin GRAPHICS TEAM: Gina Parker, Virginia Akins, Cait Hodge, Frances Ho, Alex Christian, Ramon Mendoz- Rodriguez PHOTOGRAPHER: Abi Bray ADVISER: Jeremy Parrish
BLUEPRINTS Policy Blueprints is a publication of the Creative Writing classes and the Literary Club of Athens Drive High School. Any student can submit original works of literature and art. Each entry is identified by a number and judged by a board made up of staff members, and ranked. The magazine prints those works with the highest rank. It is the policy of Blueprints to not print those works that are submitted anonymously. Feature articles are written by members of the Creative Writing Classes as a class assignment requiring extensive research. These features are also judged and ranked. The staff strives to maintain a standard of excellence and, at the same time, publish a variety of student work.
COLOPHON Blueprints, the literary magazine of Athens Drive High School, Raleigh, North Carolina is printed by Joseph C. Woodard Printing Company, Raleigh, North Carolina. Press Run : 200 copies of 48 pages. Headlines: Times New Roman, 200, 175, 150, 80, 88, 90, 40, 100,18, C/lc; Viner Hand ITC 24 C/lc; Bradley Hand ITC 40; Rage Italic 100 C/lc; Jokerman 72 C/lc Magneto 24 C/lcBy-lines: Times New Roman 12. Quote Outs: TImes New Roman 35 C/lc; Photo and Art Credits: Times New Roman 8 pt. C/lc. Blueprints has been recognized for outstanding achievement by the Columbia Scolastic Press Association, the North Carolina Scholastic Media Association, The National Council of the Teachers of English, the Southern Interscholastic Press Association, and the American Scholastic Press Association.
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The
L
ake by Sam Lemley
There is a lake. Me and
him, that is all. It’s called Woods Lake; I don’t know why. I hate when titles contain that possessive feeling. It’s as if someone named wood owns it. No one owns this lake. No one owns this moment. My brother Ezra stands a few feet away, his soft curls shift in the wind. 4
Anne Fraser, “Blue Ridge Mountains,” Acrylic Paint
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The
L
ake
It’s quiet. So peaceful, not even the loose leaves on the ground move, the only thing that moves are those curls. He is sitting
what part he will play in it? He is so small, a little human, someone’s friend, someone’s husband… someone’s father? What will he be like when he is grown? I follow his eyes watching something unseen by the rest of the world. He stands on his newly discovered legs and staggers across the rocky beach, saying nothing. I
continued to walk along the beach, kicking out of place rocks whenever he could gather the balance to do so. The sky was gray; the thick blanket of clouds only added to the seclusion of this place. It seemed like it was about to rain, but it didn’t, as if the clouds didn’t want to ruin this perfect scene. I watched Ezra walk
seemed ancient, as if it used to be a mountain and it had been slowly worn down to this perfect oval of black. I looked up at Ezra again, and I returned to my thoughts. This truly was a perfect day, it was almost surreal. Like a dream, all my senses seemed in a haze, I looked around and no one else was around. The rest of my family had gone elsewhere. I lay back and gazed up at the sky. The clouds were a rippling mass of gray; calming and nondescript. I heard something beside me, it was Ezra. Attempting to mimic my actions, he was lying beside me, gazing up at the sky and waiting for a reaction. In these few seconds, in Ezra’s actions, and in the tiny rock I had seen what I was looking for. Everything would be fine; Ezra would grow up, and become someone like wish I could bottle this across my field of vision; me, like all of us. There moment, and revisit it he bent down and picked was no point in worrying whenever I felt the need. a rock, barely staying or over thinking what was Why can’t this be the upright after the trying inevitable and what could world? Innocence process of moving his only occur by itself. There embodied, enclosed in this center of gravity. In his was no way to control it; tiny world with this lake, miniature hand, he carried there was no way to and those trees. My a tiny rock. His eyes control him, or this brother, myself, and the locked with mine as he moment. It would soon lake. Everything else carried it towards me; he pass, just like he would ceased to exist; violence, said something but I didn’t soon pass, it was sad in a hate, and anger became hear. He opened his hand way but also uplifting and painful memories in a past and I saw the rock, it was inspiring at the same time. world in which I didn’t dark, pure black actually, It was an emotional belong. My brother and smooth. This rock epiphany. I looked over at
This was life. I didn’t need the world. I just needed this lake, this moment, and this family. and looking straight ahead, over the water. This is different; he is usually running, or screaming. He does neither now. It’s as if the whole world was on pause with my thoughts continuing on, acting as an ambient commentary. He doesn’t notice me watching him; I don’t notice the world. I think about it though. What will it amount to in his lifetime, 6
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Ezra again, the dry grass creating a halo of vegetation around his small head. I smiled, and he smiled back. I started to think about my past and how it had altered who I became. The hatred between my parents, the hatred I had for life. I remember not understanding, was I ever like him? And will I ever be like the other? I didn’t think it mattered any more, all of this was so irrelevant right now, in this meadow, beside that lake. It’s as if this place was a hole in time, and reality. I left that other life behind, my father, my childhood. I find it amusing when adults complain about their childhoods and blame their shortcomings on their parents. They don’t know. No one does. Ezra had it good, he had it right. Sam Lemley, River Rocks, Photography He wouldn’t have to go through all that, and I Ezra’s tottering app something and laughing at was glad. Ezra got back roach. There was my their discovery. This was up and walked back to stepsister, still young and life. I didn’t need the where we had parked the full of life, too young to world. I just needed this car. I stood up and began be in the darkness that lake, this moment, and this to follow. I came over comes with teenage family. the grass infested hill, and hormones and old I think back to that saw the rest of my family. enough to be wise, in a day; it’s still so clear to There was my mother, way only a child can be. me, and so apparently peaceful and happy sitting There is my stepbrother important. I don’t recount on a bench, smiling at and stepfather observing events in my life for 2006
entertainment; that’s not what my life is for. Life is depression with moments of happiness. That was one of those moments. I am lucky enough to still have everything in that memory. I wouldn’t give it up for the world, well…maybe one more day at that lake ! 7
The Moods of the Waterfall
The waterfall cascades Down the rocky cliff. People come to watch The water fly. They ‘oo’ and they ‘aah’ And they ask one another, ‘Isn’t that amazing?’ But no one asks the waterfall If it enjoys falling, Or if it enjoys being Stared at and commented on. Maybe it hurts when it Hits the rocks on the cliff side. Maybe it’s spraying water To get the people To leave, but instead They stay and comment All the more. Maybe it tries to be loud To hurt the people’s ears, But they cover them up And smile as they gaze. Maybe the waterfall Isn’t angry at all. Maybe the waterfall is sad. Maybe the water Falling down is The tears cascading From the eyes of the rocks. Maybe the noises Are its sobs as it Trying to muffle them With no prevail. Maybe it doesn’t care Whether people are there Or not as long as it Can cry its invisible heart out. But maybe the waterfall Is joyful and proud To be tumbling down, Jumping and flying From rock to rock.
Maybe the noise is its playful laugh As it comes splashing down To soak its visitors. Maybe it enjoys the People standing there Edging it on to Laugh all the more louder. But maybe after all, The waterfall’s moods change. Day by day, it feels different. One day it screams in anger, One day it sobs in pain, One day it laughs in joyous fun. Maybe it changes its mood To fit the person watching, To feel what he feels, To sympathize and heal, To laugh with and not at. But perhaps we have it wrong Perhaps the waterfall feels nothing. Perhaps it’s simply water Following the path of gravity, Down and down, Until it splashes little drops Onto the watchers below Because of the force of its fall. Perhaps the noise has A simple explanation That does not include Screaming, sobbing, or laughing. Perhaps the waterfall Is not alive And does not feel what You and I feel. But maybe, After all ponderings, It is you and I that are inanimate, With no feelings, And the waterfall lives, Alone Lauren Petersburg
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Taiwan The iron gate guards the door Scratches and dents its war wounds Behind it a weak orange glow Lights the hallway The kitchen just two steps away Cluttered, messy, and full of junk It still manages to crank out Delicious aromas and dishes Mouthwatering images that Dance on the tongue Opposite is the living room Smooth black leather seats Take up half the room Worn desk and chipped shelf The other The a/c vent rattles and Shudders as cold air breathes Through. Up the stairs, the bedroom lays Disorganized but comfortable Across is the shrine, dusty Hallway lit by the solitary Window in that room. The smell of ancient incense Lingers in the air Take a step and dust swirls up Dancing furiously in the Sunlight, interrupted by the Beeps of horns and traffic Outside.
Ramon Mendoza, Autumn Leaves, Photography
The Autumn Dance Frances Ho
Castilian Nights In the aromatic mist, She’s glowing Although there is no light. And they mambo in the mistThe shadowsDefying the music they cannot hear. For the mambo is their foreplay To the dreams in the mist Between the transcendental light Of the soul that she’s shining. As she arches her back to the music – And her partner twirls her – She’s lovely. And the glow carries them away With the mambo
Leaves skip across the street Parading their crisp colors. For a moment, only a sea Of reds, yellows, and oranges Gleaming in the sun. Little golden butterflies Letting the sharp autumn wind Guide them Fluttering on the waves Reaching towards the sky, Then falling back to the ground Where they lay patiently Awaiting the next cool breeze That will awaken their beauty And send them flying. Hannah Jenkins
Brittany Burchett
2006
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12O’Clock
and Thirteen Seconds by Lauren Petersburg
T
he clock is ticking. I hear its soft pulse from the other side of the room. I glance at it and take notice of the time; 11 o’clock, 56 minutes, 27, 28, 29 seconds. It is almost
not a sound save the ticking of the clock. The infernal clock! Always ticking, constantly counting to the final hour, that fatal hour; midnight. 11:58 and 37 seconds. It is almost time. Slowly my hand moves from my lap and opens the drawer of the table. It pulls the object from within, and, closing the drawer, conceals it in my skirt. 11:59 and 16 seconds. I count the ticking in my head; 18, 19, 20, 21. Always counting; always ticking. As I whisper 45, I hear a creak from beyond the
I see no surprise in the dying man’s face, only regret. I stare coldly back. time. I stare at the table in front of me, hands clasped tightly in my lap, and count the seconds. Exactly a minutes and a half passes and there is 10
door. But I do not move. I know what it is. The clock begins its chimes, shouting the time to the world. The door opens. I move nothing except my mouth. “Do what you have come to do, General,” I say between the second and third chimes of that blasted clock. Silently, the General moves across the room until there is only the table between him and me. He raises his arm. I raise mine. I refuse to meet his eyes and instead stare at the black object he holds in his hands. He is silent. I count the chimes. 4. 5. 6. “One of us must leave,” he whispers over the seventh chime. “And it sure as hell—” blueprints
“Don’t say it,” I hiss back after the eighth. “Because it will.” He begins to react but I am quicker. Pulling my finger back, I let the small ball of pure metal fly. I do not see where it hits through the dark but I hear the thud of the General’s body upon the ground. 10. Standing, I walk to the moaning General and look down at him. I put every ounce of hatred I have buried inside me into my eyes. They now show all. I see no surprise in the dying man’s face, only regret. I stare coldly back. The breathing stops as the final chime sounds. Not wanting to hear the repulsive counting of the clock, I raise my revolver once again. The bullet hits its target and all is silent. Calm once more, I replace the gun in the drawer. My eyes inadvertently glance to the clock, that infernal clock. I cannot help but notice the time; 12 o’clock and 13 seconds. It is over. It has gone exactly as planned. With the hints of a smile on my face, I walk past the body. I give it no second glance as my skirt gently brushes against its bloody face. 2006
It is then I hear the ticking again. I turn and look at the clock but it is still, forever locked at the dreaded time. The ticking becomes louder and I realize it is in my own head.
I shake my head slightly, but I know somehow that the ticking will never leave. It will stay and haunt me forever along with that fatal time; 12 o’clock and 13 seconds.
I turn and leave the room quickly, hoping to leave the ticking behind. But it follows me. And forever it will. Absentmindedly, I b egin to count the pulses. 11. 12. 13 !
Renee Ferko, “Grandpa Edgar,” Pencil
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Viral But the beating he took was of his Own savage heart Teeth clenched around that unyielding Marrow holding despair’s delight aloft, The subtle spark that serves only To set ablaze the swollen Self-righteousness Trapped in boot leather and belt buckles Tracing faint lines to seek a hidden arrhythmia Who none too gently sends your dreams packing Until, disconnected, The frozen cancer leaps from its Unassuming host, Triumphing toward the waiting basin. Only then would I see fit To call you yourself.
The Beach We walk together, across the wet beach. Smiles on our face and walking hand in hand. The science speaks all, so nothing to say. Shells on the beach, but none get in our path. Waves crash on the shore, and burry our feet, And the salt in the air sooths my stomach. The sun slides down, under the horizon. The day is ending, so say your good byes. This might be your last, so say it like you Mean it. Then just turn around and walk away.
Melissa Bone
Chris Castro-Rappl
Today is tomorrow… tomorrow is Today I think to day we’ve made history With respectable words and tipped hats Though we know each other’s secrets Our masks are impenetrable. And I confess, I miss the mystery, That’s why I say; we’ve made history to day. What gave me inspiration? Eliot? Adam and Eve? I shall not name names, That’s a dangerous game Almost as dangerous as you and I. So let me open your eyes. Because I’m not afraid of you And if dirty windshields are the only things That can break our chains of silence Then let it be, darling, hold back We can let that trial our existence. I wish there were another way to sequence these events Only God knows what’s to become of this. What’s to happen from here? And I’ll take the road not taken, But you do as you please. For if I were in your position, I’d want choice to be free - is it me? What do you want me to say? You’re only the most beautiful creature I’ve seen until to day And to day, I finally see You’re just a man. And I’ll stand here sick and alone and say, I’ll trust you, if I can.
War
Rustle of feathers White wings restless In the dawn Snow left untouched In the valley Dead trees The companion of white steeds And silence Hushed voices, melodious Longed for, desired Chased after But never caught, Until collisions Clash Of metal ring in the sunlight Hooves hitting the ground As two waves crash Through the snow Battles in blood Meaningless circle of war Then silence Dead trees companions Of death and the dead of snow, disturbed forever Alone and lonely Sadness For this faulted beauty. Frances Ho
Abi Bray
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blueprints
The Candle of Life The candle of life Hold the most beautiful flame. Light passed on by another, It becomes yours to tame. The flickering ember Begins as the smallest light. Quickly it expands, grows, And onto the wick it grasps - tight. Once aflame, standing tall, The column of wax slowly wanes. The flame will naturally die, If kept away from the winds and rains. Even protected, it’s still not safe. The wax of past can build up And drown the tiny fire When to the top it’s filled up. So let the flame live a little, Experience the outside forces And find it’s own way, Lay, for itself, desired courses.
The Spray Can With a black hoodie on and jeans to match he stand against a wall in a city, empty with night The wall, red and rugged compressed with bricks full of potential with the flick of his wrist, and the press of a button a neon green mist paints a picture to some it’s vandalism but to others it’s art where the wall makers finished the urban artist starts few people pass and less people care this art form to them is too common But he continues the sound of sirens and the cop cars scare him not with a black outline and a can of blue he is finished a masterpiece a low-class mural Michael Thomas
For a candle once spent, Is not able to grow again. Never living true to yourself Is condemnation. Nick Brust
Midnight Mirage many a man wonders why she sits lonely and no man to keep her hands warm but she has plenty of company, a pot of coffee and she hides under jacket under hat under glove in the back of the store near the night black window with looks so false leading and makeup that’s bleeding but obvious it’s just a cycle a girl in relations going through motions Alex Myers
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13 Hannah Frederick, Photography, State 1st Place Reflections Winner
When New Orleans Sat Like a Zabuton The full moon shone like a spotlight On an old crafted bench in New Orleans Where the light portrays a shadow native to this culture Deep into the urban jungle of a man Pouring his soul out of the mouth of a saxophone Note by note like a melodic storm As a crowd snaps their fingers To his lungs blowing like a hurricane And his fingers as precise as needles Working and harvesting notes under the stars Laboring like a machine for his wants of nestling the wild Louisiana streets.
Alex Myers
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Shelley Collier, “Self Portrait,” Oil Pastel
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2. 1. Caitlin Pardue, “Transformations,” Acrylic Paint 2. Suzette Walker, “Strings,” Mixed Media 3. Shelby Wise, “Whimsical,” Acrylic 4. Kelsey Downs, “Still Life,” Chalk Pastel 16
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18 Caitlin Brooks, “Daisy Dreams,” Scratchboard
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Morning Whispers by Frances Ho I watch as the pond reeds buzz with bugs of every nature, an overbearing chorus to the ears. Sunlight settles in pools of heat, glistening in the pond, casting light on the rocks. Small fishes flit from rocks to corners and back again, hiding in the cool shade. Suddenly, the light dims as the sun moves behind the clouds. In the immediate shade, frogs hop in and out of the lake close by, splashing each other with murky water. Some sit halfsubmerged and others rest on neighboring logs. Flowers grow nearby, already browning at the edges as autumn nears. A yellow butterfly lands on one of the orange poppies, steadily fanning its wings. Dragonflies flutter hastily back and forth, alighting for no more than a second before bouncing away. Gleams of rainbow scales draw the eye to the lake where large bass lurk in the depths. Water striders pass them by, skipping on the lake’s surface like professional acrobats. A breeze rustles the trees on the opposite bank, a rushing sound like paper rubbing together. Shimmers glance off the murmuring leaves as the sun comes slowly back into view. Sparkling heat returns in heavy cloaks, an uncomfortable weight that settles not only on the body, but on the mind as well. The morning is strangely silent of bird song, the little feathered creatures hiding from the strenuous glare of the sun. The yellow butterfly flutters from the orange poppy, seeking a breezier spot. Still, the sun defiantly stares on as if willing the water to boil with its invisible light. Swiftly, the focus of attention turns to finding a shady spot, but as the cool hands of shadows envelope me, the humidity stays. I give the pond a final glance before returning to the much cooler house ª
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Playing With
Kristen Sellers, “Gair-Bear,” Pena nd Ink Markers
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“Who is that guy?” That’s what I can feel them saying, the people who see me from a distance. “Who is he, and if he’s wearing a surfing wetsuit, then why is he standing alone on the rocks?” Up above, at one of Manly Beach’s 5,000 overlooks, there’s a tourist family, and I can tell they’re asking it right now. Especially the girl. Even from twenty yards below I can tell. She’s got those eyes that take pictures – probably because she’s a dumb tourist who used all her film taking pictures of damn kangaroos. She’s taking pictures of me with her eyes, asking “Who is he?” I wish I could tell her. “Be you not shamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.” Hamlet.
by Brittany Burchett
2006
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Renee Ferko, Mixed Media
But I am, that’s the problem. I’m nineteen years old and ashamed. The surfers are coming in, and I sit low on the rocks so they don’t see me. I know what they think of me. If I had been out there today, I could have destroyed those waves. It’s winter, it’s the best time for it, and Manly’s the best surfing beach you’ll find. And I’m the best surfer. Seriously. I could’ve practically flown on some of those waves today. It’s not just because of them. I would have been ashamed anyway, no matter what they thought. I didn’t mean to take her away from her husband. I’m not that kind of guy. I think she has kids, too,
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although she’s not admitting it. I met her husband once, when I was sixteen. The two of them came here to Australia on holiday. Kenneth was a really nice guy; I waited on them at dinner one night. It had been a hard day, I was new, but he was the nicest customer I’ve ever had. Even when I spilled cocktail sauce on him, he didn’t care. “It’s just a shirt, I can buy another one,” he said with a grin. It was easy to see why he was so famous, too – ripped muscles, sandy hair, electric white teeth. Of course, he got famous for his looks thirty years ago; I mean, he’s still handsome, but he seemed to have a lot less hair when
waited on him and I couldn’t promise that all those bulges were still muscle. Almost without noticing, I shift my foot on the rocks. It lands against a sharp edge I hadn’t seen on one of the rocks and begins to spurt blood. “Crap,” I respond, almost automatically. I don’t really care – I don’t mind blood. I used to want to be a director, and for drama, blood’s the way to go. Blood and roses. She came back just last year without Kenneth. I waited on her again. When she was done with her dinner I asked if she wanted anything else. She said, “Yes, a drink. With you.” She’s forty-some,
married, and absolutely intoxicating. I was eighteen – I didn’t stop it. I should have, but I didn’t think about that until I was leaving her hotel the next morning. The blood on my foot is still running, but it will stop. I don’t really feel like doing anything to it. I try to skip a rock off the water, but it’s too chipped. It fails miserably and I’m reminded on after the hotel clerk saw us together and told all of Manly. “Have you lost your mind, Blaine?” That was my best friend, James. He’d cornered me when I was leaving work with my severance check. “I guess so.” Why deny it? “She’s amazing.
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“That’s disgusting. She could be your mother.” I shook my head. “My mother’s not this hot.” He just stared at me. “You know why she wants you, right? He’s getting older. She doesn’t want to be tied to some mid-life has-been. She wants you as a boy toy. She’ll keep you on a leash until she’s gotten what she wants and then she’ll cut you off. Blaine, nearly all of Manly knows. Your parents are about to throw you out, you’ve lost your job already. She’ll leave you with nothing. Don’t do this, Blaine. Get out.” I had no idea if this was true. Maybe. “I have to go, James.” He locked eyes with me like he was daring me to say it. “Where?” I don’t have the guts; I broke eye contact. “I have a date.” He shook his head and walked off. “Call me when you find your sanity.” She stayed two weeks and we spent them together. In bed, she swore she was getting a divorce. I was head over heels, or maybe just in over my head. Whatever. When she left she swore she had to return to the states to finalize her divorce. She said to watch for her ferry arriving from Sydney, to wait for her on the beach, to “wear that sexy surfer outfit.” I am. It’s getting dark, but I have nowhere to go. Now that everyone’s gone I slip into the water. I
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wonder if she’ll come back like she promised. I see them – the ferry lights. I’m out of the water and running for the dock, where I stop to wait. No one looks like her. “Hey!” It is her. She’s running down the dock. Her blonde hair flies behind her and those fine thighs beat the sand and she stops, barely panting, in front of me. “Hey…Blake!” No. No, no. I’m out. I’m done. I’m quitting this right now. Stepping back from her, I say frostily, “My name is Blaine.” Instead of saying a word she kisses me, and I wonder who’s going to save me. I don’t think anyone can. I’m her boy toy, I know it now – if I were anything else she’d know my name. She’ll leave me ruined, heartbroken, and probably broke when she’s gotten what she wants, but she has red lips and big boobs, she’s thin and curvy like a doll, and so I’ll take the fall because I literally cannot resist her. .... Her hands are rubbing my neck and working downward as I whisper her name. “Barbie…” (On February 12, 2004, it was announced that Barbie and Ken were breaking up. That June, it was released that Barbie’s new boyfriend is a young Australian surfer named Blaine, whom BusinessWeek referred to as a “boogie-board boytoy.”.) !
Undeserved Beauty In God’s hands it hovers Bathing the earth in its pale light. Thin clouds drift across it And dust the sky in a powdery glow. The night is uncovered. Every bit of beauty, Hidden in the darkness, Unseen in the light, Is revealed When the milky beams, Shining so bright, Touch the earth. Its presence demands silence. All is still. Only crickets dare to stir, Singing a soft melody to the sky. They seem to be The only ones that know That when the morning dawns All beauty will disappear. Only quiet observers of the night Will know of its glory. Only they will know the The true beauty Of the world. God’s sweet breath whispers, Like a warm breeze, “All is in my hands.” And the night sky sparkles. So the crickets sing their thanks For this beauty that’s always been, For this beauty unobserved, For this beauty undeserved. Hannah Jenkins
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PHOTO GALLER GALLERY (Clockwise from left to right)
1. Ramon Mendoza-Rodriguez 2. Lisa Simorelli 3. Lisa Simorelli 4. Sam Lemley 24
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At Last The scripts and lines grow wings, Tonight our stage phantom arises. Only a love story could interpret these things, When the acting appeal demises. She’s planted backstage, Nails fixed between her teeth. A character of rage? How can she have rage? And she’s rehearsed and practiced since the coming of age From the catwalk and rafters beneath. Time’s deadly needle Pulls thread through thimbled fingers and lines. And oh, those lines, those lines of time! For her Shakespearean fauxness of rhythms and rhymes. And that time that brings the moment she dreads, It’s the petting of a beetle. What ho? The time has come! Which sends a beetle to its death. From what her ears stand erect, They need their Lady Macbeth. And oh, how she’s frightened to death! How she wishes she were in Rome, Alone… For Shakespeare has haunted The Lady Macbeth And she’ll never return to home. The character dead, she arises with haste, With tears in her eyes and a dress of distaste. Her hair flails loose while her feet run wild, Away from the stage, like a long lost child. And the night’s cold kiss caresses her face, While the audience shudders and watches the waste. Oh, the wasted nights and the slumbered days, Of quoteth he’s, thy’s, thous, and hayes. For the stage’s breathing catches tonight, The actor and audience hath regreteth. Mournful in the hour, which they have found, They hath lost their Lady Macbeth.
Lights Illuminate Lights illuminate The fire that burns within Crackling firewood Stirring. Again. Peelings of gloves Flaky remains of a Celestial above Blazes of fumes Surround Eager bodies seeking Warmth Christina McIntyre
Butterfly Born Eat Survive Die The Simple Life Cycle Of A Butterfly. Oh, To Not Care Like That Butterfly. Born Eat Survive Die Lauren Petersburg
Abi Bray
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Prima Ballerina
Michael
Manufactured grace A childhood angel framed in ecstasy Porcelain cherub, music box: My lovely, nameless dancer.
For the world is ruled by dangerous eyes By screaming faces, suspicious minds. And the beltran truth that lingers Draws shadows on the floor. For the dainty gazelle leaping Over Makrolon faces bleeding Is the work that never happened To the shadows on the floor.
Jenny Lomelino
Sand in my Teeth On the edge of the ocean the waters flow As under the clouds the winds whistled Into the ears of the sleeping It comforts and cares for these ears like a mother’s voice And the spray of the waves, bitter like blackberry The beach sand and the ocean water were Needled together like a grandmother’s quilt Just as the sand on the beach is soft enough to lounge in And stare off into the midnight sky
So the blazing fires frozen Stunned all the magic chosen By the dazzling, dangerous eyes that placed The shadows on the floor. Brittany Burchett
Alex Myers
2006
Brent Lewis, Oil Pastel
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Of December Nights A winter’s night unfolds like a forgotten book; A lover’s glance, One tainted look. The cold snow lay, With a hidden warmth That is too much to say Yet it speaks to me, This over-looked season. With a voice stripped of glee. It says all the things I’ve longed to hear Like stay with me And find me there And as I breathe in the Wry, thin air; I find a bit of comfort there.
Cherry blossoms dipped in the moonlight The boughs of the trees swinging in the slight wind The crickets’ song dancing across the moon As shimmers twisted from the pond to the left. Flat rocks surround the effervescent water Lights illuminating the liquid with a golden glow The fountain gurgled playfully, singing her own song Joining in with the chorus of the dark. Frances Ho
Ocean Sand rocks Docks
I find the warmth I’ve been Waiting for, Here –in this overlooked season. Haylea Hannah
Sunrise Behind the Trees Trace the ripples in a pond Around and around the finger of a boy A small boy a stone’s song away Whose hair hangs in front of his eyes (When it’s not pushed away by the arrogant breeze) He tastes the day, a gourmet Of all that is sunny and fair and ends Before it quite hits the back of your throat, Disappearing with a meaty thud. How long was that stone’s song? He might wonder quietly, Depending on how much he is himself And how much his freckles dance in the Ballrooms of the evening, rejoicing that the Boy outlasts the day. But who are we to say that he must, that He can’t glide on those selfsame ripples And squeeze the mud like paste between his toes? His shoes lay on the bank, sock neatly Folded And waiting with the rest. Chris Castro-Rappl
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Night Minuet
Coral Reef, Shark Teeth, Waves crashing on the beach, Tropical Island Desert Island Gulf Coast Monsoons, typhoons, tsunamis, and hurricanes Pirate Ships, Green foam, Deep blue sea, Pelicans, Seagulls, Salt crocodiles, “The Perfect Storm,” Summer cruise, Ice bergs Scuba Divers, Whirlpools, Tidal waves Sand castles, Dark depths, Discovery, Sailboats, Float, Sea Turtles, Shark attack, Vast, Tranquil, Violent Wet. Bobby McKinnon
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Winter
Blackberries The blackberry flowed off the cliff Smothered in a cloud of silver water Swallowed by the spray that glistened like needles Spurred onward by the force of the waterfall Mother’s voice a backdrop sorely made trivial By the water’s bass rumbles in the distance A train whistle sounds from faraway The noise coming across as small and hardly noticed I continued to lounge in the grasp of nature, throwing blackberries into the water. Frances Ho
Rubber Footing
Winter Golden sun Peeking through The snow white clouds. The frosty trees prepare for battle; Frozen hands gather, Wood: chopped For fire. Sleds packed up tight, For the crisp smell of snow Encircles the air. Puffy gloves, Thick jackets, Tight hats, Pile upon the floor. Door shut tight, waiting for the flight Of the snowflakes Alex Christian
We’ve been standing on this bridge before Even if the memory forsakes me Dashing off with heavy footsteps Looking down, the nervous cars busy past Windshields unshattered by toe-flicked rocks Casually flicked from above like The diesel locomotive, blackening the Blue night in its beserker hurry Though for now the sun unblinded Mirrors off the too-slick concrete And illuminates these halcyon days From below, these Blood-spattered days working through Tear ducts in their desperate charge What child is this? Who teeters endlessly on the edge Over the sixty-five mile per hour pure hell beneath As he whistles into the wind that Throw it back at his face Who tousles his own hair Because I refuse to do it for him Can you see it in the dregs What raped this crooked paradise Deep-fried it and slathered it with sauce And fell to with a drooling lust? Chris Castro-Rappl
2006
Mary Yarborough, “Enigma,” Marker
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In the Shadows by Naadeyah Haseeb
I
’ve recently become aware of the fact that I no longer hate the number nine. That is sort of weird to think about, because I can’t really remember having a problem with any number until I discovered that you did. Odd numbers. You hated all odd numbers, nine especially. You wouldn’t even call me at nine, which is when I get home from work almost every night. It would’ve been nice to come home from dealing with angry hungry people who didn’t like their chicken strips to a phone call from you. Not that I hate you for it or anything. Your friend Chris calls me at nine every night. The consistency is nice. And he’s so easy to talk to. It’s like the complete opposite of phone conversations with you (the random
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moments you decided to call me, never at nine). You were so weird on the phone. A completely different level of weird than you were in person. All those poems you used to read to me. Your sentences would break like it hurt you to read them, which, if it did, I can see why, because your poetry was really terrible. I can’t really remember, but there were like eight things you hated about Mrs. O’Brien, our guidance counselor. Eight things that make her an annoying and useless individual, or probably more. I can’t remember them all, but sitting here in front of her I have a suspicion the way she’s always licking her lips is one of them. That would probably drive me crazy too, if I spent as
much time with her as you did. “How are you coping?” she asks, truly concerned I’m sure. Just like everyone else who has already asked me like, four billion times. Four billion and nine, just out of spite for you, because I completely blame you for this. “I’m, you know…coping,” I say, because really it’s not her business. Counselors are here to fix your schedule, and little else. “I cannot help you,” she says, “unless you help me to help you. Things will be easier if you open up and talk to someone.” And that would be easier if I knew what to say. What to feel. I always have the hardest time in English class responding to questions like, “How did
this passage make you feel?” There are hundreds of thousands of pages and pages of words in the English language and I cannot even think of one to help capture my feelings. That sounds like something you would say. “I’m like, you know, sad or whatever,” I tell her. I watch the clock tick eight seconds. “And I guess this doesn’t matter or anything, but what kind of boyfriend doesn’t mention his girlfriend in his suicide note anyway?” I mean, I deserved at least that much. For our school staff, according to a handy little flipbook of procedures I happened to view, there are seven steps to follow in case of a student death. I personally find it admirable they can just wrap up
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something so horrid into a concise seven step process. A short thirty minute staff meeting where everything that will be whispered about among teachers is told to be kept from the students. But the students all already know and can probably speak volumes more on the subject than any teacher. In my case, I could probably even say what song was playing at the exact second of death. Your death. “You all know this by now, I’m sure,” Ms. Davis said The Day After, standing in front of our Chemistry class. “But here is what the administration has allowed me to tell you.” She picked up a bright orange piece of paper (in keeping with the somber tone of the message, obviously) from her desk and read. It was a general statement about your death. They didn’t mention your name. They didn’t mention your suicide. They didn’t talk about how you put a bullet in your own head. About how it took maybe a second for you to die.
feet away from me, and instead observed the people around me. Your mother and your twin sister were in front of me. Your mother’s eyes were closed
deal though, Amy always looks like that. I watched them for awhile, but eventually had to stop because Amy’s resemblance to you was
state of being…not there.) So I, like your mom, closed my eyes. There were considerably less things to observe then, smells and
But it’s okay, because I already knew. Your funeral marks the sixth one I’ve ever been to. It was, by far, the most unpleasant. The other funerals were for distant relatives that I’d met maybe three times when I was, like, two. So it’s pretty safe to say I had the most emotional attachment to you. I tried not to focus on the fact that your dead body was in a stupid box a few
2006
Caitlin Pardue, “Solitude,” Chalk Pastel
and she was sort of leaning on your sister, who looked really bored. That isn’t a big
reminding me of the thing I was trying to ignore (Which was you. And your
sounds only. Listening to someone old crunch something in their mouth is
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In the Shadows After the funeral there was the obligatory w h a t e v e r - i t ’s - c a l l e d gathering, with all the food and laughter even though someone just got put into the ground to stay forever. Your sister and I were sitting together away from the others, but we weren’t speaking. She was scribbling something on some napkins and I was listening to your family and everyone else who has ever known you talk about how shocked they were. Everyone was saying how happy you’d been, and what a nice boy you were, and how they couldn’t believe you would take your own life. Which I find a little funny, and also extremely depressing, because I could totally see it coming. It wasn’t like you were constantly threatening suicide or anything, but it was apparent you felt like you had no business being alive anymore. It was almost like you were offended by your own existence and determined to do something
about it. It was never other people who upset you, always yourself. And I couldn’t have been the only person to notice this, unless it was my fault you were that way or something. Was it? It’s completely unfair you had to go and kill yourself, without even giving me a clue as to my involvement in your mental state. You probably did that on purpose, so it could drive me insane forever and ever.
even your sullen angry teenager pout manages to look better than my uneasy camera shy smile. In all of the pictures my hair is in evil mode, parted oddly, or frizzy, or whatever else it can do to just ruin everything for me. My hair thinks it controls me or something. Like I am some human tumor sprouting from beneath it. We fight a lot, my hair and I, and the hair usually wins. That doesn’t really give me a positive outlook on my future, because,
were doing. You were at your front door, struggling to unlock it as I walked to the mailbox. “Why do you always have to pee right before you get in the house?” You asked. Not that I was going to answer or anything, but before I could you finally triumphed over the lock and ran inside the house. It was the first of many very philosophical questions you would ask me. It was four months before you died that you decided you were a kleptomaniac. You highlighted passages in some old psychology book you’d found, eagerly showing them to me. “That’s great and all,” I said, “but have you ever even s t o l e n anything.” You had, you said. A pack of gum when you were eight and your mom wouldn’t buy it for you. You pointed out specific traits of a kleptomaniac you felt were within you, but hadn’t been fully realized yet. I remember you were mad when I laughed. You decided to prove it to me by driving down to a drugstore to have a fit of kleptomania I guess. You drummed your fingers on the steering wheel and ignored me as I messed
There are only five pictures in existence of us together. They are probably the only pictures you’ve ever voluntarily taken, yearbook and baby pictures included.
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Maybe, if you had stuck around long enough, they would’ve found the cure to whatever was wrong with you. Maybe it already exists, and is hidden in those cheddar and sour cream chips you always made fun of me for eating. There are only five pictures in existence of us together. They are probably the only pictures you’ve ever voluntarily taken, yearbook and baby pictures not included. You’re only smiling in two of them, me in four, but
like, how can I ever amount to anything if I can’t even tame some stupid strands of hair? Your hair, in contrast, was absolutely perfect. Always. You had beautiful soft dark brown hair that curled at the ends. I was a little obsessed with your hair, but you didn’t mind me playing with it (except that time I put a bow in it and you wouldn’t let me touch it for like a week). That was what I first noticed about you when we met, besides the little “I have to pee” dance you
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with the radio and told you how stupid you were being. You snorted and pointed to the car in front of us. “Look at the license plate.” It read “Jenneric.” Why, you wanted to know, would someone call themselves generic? “We’re all special, after all,” you said, in a tone that obviously meant you didn’t agree with the statement. I suggested that her name was Jenn Eric, or something. You were disgusted by the proposition. In the drugstore you paced around the aisles for what felt like four years. “This is an art,” you said, when I begged you to hurry up. I was missing this thing on TV I had been looking forward too. I demanded then, that you at least take something that I would find useful, to make up for wasting my time. You argued that went against your compulsive nature. Fifteen minutes and countless excuses later, I ended up just shoving something off the nearest shelf into your Jose Uriostegui, “Trapped in Glass,” Oil Pastel pocket. It was purple nail lot more TV lately, what with host is “TV’s George polish. We both had purple you not being around to Lopez.” Like, he really says nails every day until the make fun of me and rant this. “I’m TV’s George about how media controls us Lopez.” The use of the polish ran out. I think, the next time I and the country’s obsession possessive makes me break the law, I’m really with celebrity and blah blah. wonder if the TV owns I can hear you in my head him. If it’s taken control of going to make it count. I feel like I haven’t now, and I turn up the TV his life and soul, and forced him to help VH1 moved from this couch in to block you out. Take that. countdown the 232 worst three days, but in reality it’s I’m watching some inane dance songs of 1985 or more like three hours. I’ve found myself watching a countdown on VH1, and the something. I’m reminded
2006
of you again and I have to wonder if insanity is contagious. If so, I guess it’s good you’re dead because you’d probably only resent me for it. You hated being similar to other people, especially your twin sister. It was like you were identical aside from the whole XY/XX chromosome thing. “I hate feeling
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like my personality has been stolen by someone who wears it better,” you said. This stream of thought is not what I had in mind when I plopped down in front of the TV, so I change the channel to once again immerse myself in someone else’s fictional reality. The Princess Bride is on and I’m completely prepared to ignore my thoughts again
when
Prince
Humperdinck says to Buttercup,
“Please
consider me an alternative to suicide.” I cut the television off. It has let me down. Two days ago I was in your room. It was the first time since you died. I stood at the door, uncomfortable, while Amy sat on your bed sorting through your CDs. “He’s got two copies of this one,” she said, holding one up for me to see. I had bought that CD for your birthday. You didn’t say you already owned a copy, and seemed genuinely happy to receive it. “What are you over there for?” She asked, motioning for me to sit on the bed. I walk over to the bed and my shoes slap loudly
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Shelley Collier, “Laid by Lines,” Mixed Media
against the wooden floor. They stripped the carpet because of you. “I never wanted to be a twin,” she said. “And I mean, I still don’t. But I don’t want him dead either.” If Amy were anyone else she would have probably been crying as she said this. “And now I have to deal with counselors talking to me about not having any male influence with my dad and my brother being dead
and all, and treating me like or not. The I’m going to shoot myself just envelope is still sealed, because he did.” sitting on my desk. This “Yeah,” I offered. I reached must be the suicide note, out to take the two CDs. I version two. It could couldn’t tell which one I gave answer every question I you so I slipped both into my want to and can’t ask purse. you, or it could just be “Doesn’t it suck though?” something stupid and Amy asked. “Knowing we typical of you. Like a weren’t enough for him to poem. I think knowing stay alive?” would make it worse, but “One more thing,” Amy I can’t bring myself to said when I left that day. She destroy it. handed me an envelope with Maybe I’ll read it one my name on it. “I didn’t day, when I’ve almost know whether to give it to you forgotten about you. !
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The Canvas A Rose in Winter The dry and wintry air Hopped an old white-washed fence And stumbled through a naked bush To find a feeble flower Standing with its bud closed. It seemed to be a Rose.
Take me and create something more than I am. Use me. I want color. Splashes of green. Flecks of blue and pink. Be bold, add some red. Don’t be scared, you can’t ruin me.
Confused, the wind froze And looked back at the fence And at the leafless bush. The winter season hadn’t closed; Still chilly was the air. But why then was this flower, Dusted like bakers’ hands with flour, Fighting to breathe the frigid air? Out of frosted soil it rose Unlike the sensible bush Or the weathered fence, Whose growth long since has closed: For a small house was enclosed, Along a couple of rows Of dogwoods without a flower, By the ancient white fence; Through bare branches whistled the air For unadvancing was the bush. But this! a surprise, an ambush! How could a delicate flower Defy Nature with such a closed Silence. Here it stood and still rose. Away fled the frightened air Over the creaking fence. But to this plant’s defense, It was a wonderful flower, And against the elements rose, Not dormant like the bush. But unable to see, eyes closed, Blind to the beauty was the air. Why question a flower, a rose, Or a bush when there’s no offense? Keep your mind not closed; feel the air.
All you can do is breathe into me Life. You were blank once. Life has given you color. I want that, too. I need a story. I am bare pages You write on. Write me a story. Give your story to me. So, use me. Take me and create something more than you are. Claire Burling
To Be Back It feels so great to be back Reunited with my tribe I have been gone for so long And now I am back. I have such pride in my people As we sit around the circle full of The dancers and the smiling faces. This is where I belong, with my people. The sound of the drums fill the air And I begin to tap my foot To the beat of the drum. My heart begins to race and I feel a Sense of drive and passion This is where I belong, With my people The Lumbee Tribe.
Nick Brust Illya Hunt
2006
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Untitled
Dachau
If falling knew fear and fear knew folly, then maybe mankind would fear the leaf blossom, as it hangs onto its little twisted stem, always defiant. Then again, a word alone is nothing but a crutch for those who cannot feel and mirrors reflect only what our eyes want us to see. A rose’s beauty lies to the vanity within us all, as thorns hide on waiting anticipation. And a lonely road may echo your anguish but to understand, a scream may be heard to reverberate the pain. Yet, if falling knew not fear and fear knewq not folly, then maybe mankind would understand the simple pleasure in dying among each other.
Brandy Woodall
Untitled Linger here, oh daddy dear Do you still remember me? Your memory, Covered with snow, Sits shelved so cold, so quietly. Remain here, oh daddy dea Please stay and sit with me? Your voice, Once clear, once so very near Now lost unto a deaf turned ear. Your daughter bears Your thoughtless cares Unto a frozen world. They slip and sigh, Stroll thoughtlessly by Your baby daughter’s longing cry. Daddy come, remember me Drift upon my memory Your baby’s love wasn’t enough To save you from eternity.
The silence presses in. There is nothing left but wooden outlines Showing where the buildings once stood. All is quiet. But walking down the road, Closing my eyes, The buildings are slowly rebuilt. The people are alive again; I hear their screams, I see their tears. The cries surround me, Envelope me. I hear their suffering, Feel their pain. I open my eyes and am surprised To see no one, Only the long wooden rectangles Outlining the buildings. I walk in the gas chambers, See the innocent shower heads Almost smiling down at me. But I close my eyes And the people are alive again, If barely. I hear their screams, I see their tears. The gas billows from the shower heads, Enclosing the people in colored air. Their cries pierce the gas, Spreading terror. Their eyes show that they now Understand; Death will come. But my eyelids flutter open And the people are gone, Dead. Everything is quiet. The silence presses in. The silence surrounds me, But I hear the screams, I see the tears. And the people are alive, Before dying again, As I open my eyes.
Leah Townsend Lauren Petersburg
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Kelsey Downs, “Venice,� Chalk Pastel
The Bittersweet Early Days Once I catch sight of Picture perfect instances of love The recollection of ideal memories Inundate my stricken concentration As I playfully parade through the best moments In my bittersweet childhood I smell roasting meat And dewy leaves I can hear tiny birds chirping And exultant neighborhood kids gleefully scream I see my parents observe me with pride And my grandmother always standing by my side This and much more was my unblemished life The forlorn present is conflicting with my grave desire To return to simplicity 2006
Naima Benkaci 37
On Heart by Naima Benkaci
It’s more than a pump carrying blood and nourishment. More than a mere organ with valves and chambers. For within each chamber is a thought. Deep inside every valve dwells a feeling. In every pound lies the reflection of being. No single heartbeat is ever the same. Every beat is unique, like a fingerprint. But, once in a while, our hearts become stained with the remains of love and absence. Yes. Even with all its life-giving powers it still, too, is vulnerable, and when something or someone injures that innermost part, it is overwhelming. It feels like knives, piercing delicate skin. But, fear not. The heart is strong, capable of impossible miracles. Somehow, the tattered tissue reconnects and becomes whole again. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of life. It’s more than words. It’s deeper than an abyss. It’s heart. And that in itself is fathomless !
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Jason Schmitt, Photography
2006
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1. 2. 3. 4.
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Caitlin Pardue, Snorkeling,” Oil Pastel Suzette Walker, “The Pool Hall,” Acrylic Paint Caitlin Brooks, “The Key of Blue,” Marker Noelle Rousseau, “Little Raven”
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2006
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Hippie Hallucination I like the way candles look in the dark. A dark room with a traffic light in it. Lights on the bed, lava lamp Reflects Off a Jimi Hendrix poster. The hum of the black light. Grateful dead in the background. Right on man. Right on, keep it up. Don’t let the establishment tell you what’s up. You tell them what’s down then tell them Yea, tell them! Make them see through eyes fantastic. That their world is caustic, cold, and dying. Grumbling, and crumbling like a wall. Burn baby burn. Let it fall Down to the sky And then back again.
I saunter all through a bare room I view no more than Flying glass Witches disguised in fine-looking masks Umbrellas suspended on bunnies’ ears in white Perched on top of strangled bullies drunk off wine A diminutive airplane askew sliding off a grassy hill I hear no more than The melodious chime of church bells The wailing siren of a toddler’s weeps The splish-splash of cool water thrown against hard ground And the unremitting pleading sound Of my whimpering voice Seeking to hinder infinite insanity and noise Naima Benkaci
Bobby McKInnon
January The Spot Gravel roads and dirt highways Dust flying around behind our ’82 pickup Drivin’ for miles to our favorite spot Blaring country music on the radio dial We stop when arriving at the destination An old rustic barn weathered and torn The grass so tall it covers a small child With dandelions glistening in the sun Sit and ponder beneath the old pine tree Releasing stress, letting the wind carry it away Thoughts of love fill my mind As fresh air flows through my lungs Wasting the days away
She only ever longed for some of those beautiful useless things Like paper dolls and champagne and sultry cigarette smoke Tainted by lust and big-city smog pollution: The only things in life that truly made any sense. And all she wanted was to breathe those shades of watery blue, To fill the vacant pages with (jaded) black-and-white words Akin to those sepia toned dripping-pearls photographs That fell into a quiet ingenuine heaven Her dreams as d I s t a n t as they ever were And the only real life in her head; It took an expert to pick out the stinging sadness in her eyes.
Jenny Lomelino
Jaclyn Gron
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Guilt-fiddle twenty-one frets and one-hundred-twenty-six notes all played once before shiny black and silver pickups gather the humming vibrations plucked by a round thin piece of plastic these vibrations rattle the curled ends of this long and wooden neck the silver saddle are being ridden by the coiled bound strings my baby plays, with echoing sustain Alex Myers
Fall from your pedestal, Fall from your pedestal, my precious, for you have been far away too long. Cut the strings that have been placed about your arms and spread wings that have been bound. Take that leap, as fearful as you may be, my precious, take that leap and fly. Maybe the fall will be your rise, maybe a smile will light that face and a song will sing in a heart too cold for one so young. My precious, fall from your pedestal
Conforming to Independence A sea of black dripped faces, All from the same makeup jar. Chains and piercings in obvious places, Generically painful in the original way. All new, all unique, all independent Independent enough to fit in. Leah Townsend
Brandy Woodall,
for you have been far away too long.
Shelby Wise, “Time,� Plaster
2006
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You Wish…
The Stage Awaits
You wish to be a diva Singin’ your tunes up on stage Making millions by the song name But I want to stay the same
The stage awaits Those who dare, Those in pink dresses Primping their hair. The stage awaits Those who cannot speak, But give warm smiles, Or a peck on the cheek. The stage awaits Those who shiver and shake, Expecting the worst. “It’s slippery, that ‘flake.” The stage awaits Those young ballet dancers Who entertain those Who pay the directors. The stage awaits Those smiles, that shine. For I am a ballerina, That stage is mine.
You wish to be a sports player Shootin’ hoops and makin’ home runs Always playin’ some sort of game But I want to stay the same You wish to be a super star Makin’ movies and TV shows Extending your 15 minutes of fame But I want to stay the same You wish to be them They wish to be you So if the chance came… Would you want to stay the same? Julia Palko
Lauren Petersburg
Dream of Mirrors
Lascivité He’s left a bit of August behind, Head banging to her air-guitar rendition of Broadway (It’s dark tonight); He swallows down their laughter like dollar store liquor & My angel, he says, my pretty little thing. She’s becoming another one of his ugly clichéd things: Plaid skirts, c.h.i.p.p.e.d. nail polish, Yesterday’s mascara and the same old t e e r s Their love (lust) was cherry cola sweet. God, it burned when you gulped it down. And they only wanted something classier Than singing blues songs with no real melody; Can you hear the sound of a breaking heart? My darling, he said. He loved the way it made her cry. Jenny Lomelino
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Silence and serenity The mirror It lays in front of me Stretching onward evermore The silence I abhor Dreams of stars and fantasy All the things I wish to see Forms now faded grow through the mist Their faces in a sadistic twist Upon the mirror I strolled back but sank The Darkness came to my disdain Angelic voices echoed aloud I saw a glimpse of them alas But now the light and dark must clash Hide my fear behind a mask Silence and serenity The mirror It lays in front of me Stretching onward forever more The silence I No More Abhor Chris Delis
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Grow Porcelain Beauties Porcelain beauties and blue-eyed blondes Faerie dancers in ruffled skirts twirl with dark eyed men in suits and ties; little girls dressed all in black and little boys who move too fast. Swinging feet in the water, sun bleak against the day morning sky. I want a hug she says, tight arms and her heart goes fast faster. Water swirls quicker, catching the light and it’s a burst of rainbow colors. Touch her pale face, grey eyes and butterfly eyelashes, little porcelain features. Dance away, twirl, twirl, spin, pretty pink angels Brandy Woodall
-ing up is coffee mugs sitting across the table from loneliness. Ben Folds On the old, skipping walkman. Awaking, Watching the alarm clock sound off. Opening the cabinets For an endless supply of Ramen soup. Greasy term papers tainted From the head that slept on them Overnight. Rickety table with a broken leg Supported by folded-up telephone bills Jeans with bleach stains And an annual oil leak Narrates the life Of a college student. Abi Bray
Angel in Tokyo Dirty brown feathers and plaid skirt knee high socks and black knickers sprawled across a satin covered bed. short red hair with streaks of gold lockets since forever white halo with gold lining tears painted on by the finest white make-up for flushed out skin she’s a porcelain doll only barely breathing the party’s over plastic Dixie cups haphazardly placed around the room dirty clothes maybe they’re clean hung lazily in the opened closet an Angel in Tokyo lifestyle Michael Thomas
2006
Noelle Rousseau, “Self-Portrait,” Oil Pastel
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S T R EE TS
I
by Michael Ho
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guess in normal places, there are people on the streets. Although it’s been so long since I first came here, that maybe I made that up. I don’t remember many things now. Perhaps drams of returning to better places are really just dreams. There are no better places anymore. All I know is the here and now. Here in a foreign country; now, sometime in the new millennium. Here, where people cringe in fear from the prospect of standing in the streets. When civilians need to go somewhere, they take the back routes or crawl. Hell, even the troops avoid the streets at all cost. They’re all the same. They all hide, the cowards. Ether inside a building or in the perpetual dust clouding the air, there is always somewhere for them to hide. A shell is fired and the familiar sound lurks in the air, even after it explodes. A building crumbles, collapsing on the poor souls stationed there. I knew those men. I take another drag of my cigarette, they’ll pay for that one. A vehicle with wind torn canvas rolls by, crushing the already dead yellow ground. It moves cautiously, like an animal caught between fear and curiosity. Nearby a rusted can is tossed sloppily from a dust-ridden window. An arid wind cuts by, and I smirk. The can tumbles violently in mid-air and is thrown off-target. Ama-
teurs. It explodes away from the vehicle, but shrapnel still penetrates the already worn canvas. I can hear the screams form here. Men wearing yellow and white erupt from the vehicle and fire their heavy black guns at nothing in particular. Ratatatatatatatat. A mishandled weapon sounds terrible. I have grown used to the sounds of guns, of bullets...and there are always bullets. There is nothing here but bullets. Perpetually whizzing around from dusk to dawn, aching to feel flesh. Today they have. A soldier is shot. His blood pours from his upper thigh, splattering against the greedy floor. The ground absorbs it like water, and the blood is instantly dried. Another device explodes, silencing the soldier’s screams. The ground lingers in the air after being blasted, and I make out nothing but a brown haze and gunshots for a few minutes. I can tell that the Marines Are getting angry though. The click of a grenade pin, and a house becomes rubble. No more cans will be thrown through that window. The noises die out. It’s over. I look down the open street I stand in, and find it ruined. A dead man lies at my feet. I killed him. I told them they would pay. Dropping the remnants of my cigarette in its blood, I casually walk back to my unit. “Where have you
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been”? a scrawny man in glasses, Ted, reprimands. Gray haze sways from my lips, fogging the man’s glasses. Out for a smoke.” Ted tries to begin again, but is caught by a violent cough and backs away. I grin and take a breath, letting the fresh air invade my senses again. It’s nauseating. It was heavy, and left a taste lingering in my mouth. The air was toxic I began smoking after less than a week here is Iraq. Smoke is more tolerable than the air. I retreat to inside a canvas truck, I find the rest of my squad waiting, stern looks in their eyes. “You almost missed the briefing.” “Almost, but didn’t,” I responded smartly. Another man clambers in, and silence falls. Those who were sprawled on the floor relaxing immediately went upright and rigid along with everyone else. The man speaks, his voice stern and fit to command, “At ease troops. We have a mission of the utmost importance today. We have received in formation that suggests a gathering will occur in 0800 hours. This is pour luck break. Saddam’s lieutenant himself will be there, along with his personal advisors. Get some rest- we move out in two hours.” The men make themselves as comfortable as possible inside the truck. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t stood for hours, nor did it matter that the caravan was crowded and reeked. They didn’t even take into account that minutes ago two IED’s decimated a caravan in front of
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their eyes. The situations in the truck were far more preferable, and in their eyes, safer than exposing themselves to the outside. Ted is already outside, waiting. Ted, or Tech as everyone calls him, is a logical man. He did the calculations long ago, and found that it was safer outside the truck. Tech never acts without firm backing, and he always thinks too much. He is the only other person
nothing in this war will kill me.” Tech laughs. He has a sophisticated one, perhaps even snobby. It makes me wonder about his past: who he was and what he did. I never ask. We never talk about that kind of thing, or anything at all. It was mainly just him admonishing me. Silence comes.
sounds. Two blissfully quiet hours pass, and I find myself crammed back in the truck, rolling down a beaten path. I look around identifying the facial expressions. A stunned look; terror. An empty one; awaiting death. Most of them have expressions desperately trying to portray calmness,
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who willingly goes outside. I never would have talked to him otherwise. “You know smoking will probably kill you.” “That’s a relief.” I inhale deeply. “Why?” I ease the smoke out taking my time. “That means
Precious silence. It was scarcity here, like a gem. Some find it uneasy, but I revel in it. Only in silence was this place ever pleasant. The only noises here are from the war. Explosions, screams, death. There are no pleasant
though almost any noise makes them jump. A can tossed in the wind, the clink of a glass bottle, the flapping of an open box-anything. It could all potentially kill them. We come to a stop. The commanding
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voice again, “Alright men, move out!” Tech and I are out quickly, The rest of the men are in no haste and slowly ready their equipment before exiting the truck. At last everyone is out, and the voice speaks again, softly this time. “From now on, no more vocals. If you must, engage swiftly and covertly. Silencers on. Don’t. Get. Caught.” The last three words are a threat, not a warning. We walk, Our boots stamp out the dry earth with each step, and I wonder to myself why so many men were sent on a stealth mission. It was more of a special forces mission, Navy Seal stuff, not grunt work. The more I think about it the less sense it makes. I stop thinking. Tech does enough of that . The commander raises his head and we stop. We are at the meeting point: A narrow strip of yellow-crusted road with buildings littering each side. At the end of the road is an eerily white building. It is no bigger than the others, but it is obviously more important. It is cared for, unlike the others. The signal to walk comes and we do. I take a few steps, but Tech thrusts out his arms to stop me. “It is not smart to walk openly down the middle of such a convenient road.” I shrug, but don’t move. I have learned to trust Tech’s judgement. Our unit moves down the road without incident, and I give Tech a knowing look. He looks scared, and backs
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away form the road even further. I do the same-when Tech is scared, there is most likely good reason to be scared. The troops ahead keep moving, their steps in unison, like they’re back at training. Tech grimaces. He always cares too much. I know what’s bothering him though-- the soldiers might as well start shouting the chant. Tech points towards something, but I already see it. Movement. Blurs in the scenery from where we are, but dangerously close to the troop. Tech shifts around uneasily, “We should do something.” It’s too late. An explosion spews ground and bodies into the air, the two mingling and flailing like unwanted rag dolls. They rain back down along with the barrage of bullets. Even from here, the noise is deafening, and it seems like silence won’t come again. I try to make out the individual sounds, as they could give an estimate as to what my troop is up against. It’s no use, The noises mix together, creating and unpleasant, but bearable, backdrop of battle. Ruin. The roofs of buildings are caved in; the street is crumbled, and my troop is dead. The white building at the end is spotless. There is nothing left now but a wicked silence. It ends in minutes, the noise seems to last for days. Tech turns away, bowing his head. I light a
cigarette. It tastes warm, and the smoke soothes my throat. I inhale again, relaxing. Tech speaks again. His voice soft, shocked. “What do we do now?” “Let’s go home.” He would nod and we would hurry back to the truck in silence. It would be deserted, so I would have to drive and he could be in the passenger’s seat. He would talk and for the first time I would listen. He would say that the whole mission was conducted poorly, and we’d share a laugh at the incompetence of the military. He would then come up with an absurd theory about wanting our troop to die, and I’d chuckle at his suspicions and personality. Also, for the first time, I would talk to him. I would talk to him. I would ask what he did and about his past. I’d be his friend. “What do we do now?” “ don’t know--” Cut off by a bullet. A bullet that cuts through my friend. I am faced with the indescribable sound of a bullet ripping through flesh. A “clean shot” couldn’t possibly exist. The bullet forces its way in with a terrifying messy noise, exiting with a tearing one. I watch him fall, the impact of what happened not sinking in. A flurry of bullets patter the ground, and instincts take over. The need to survive takes all priority. More ground erupts near me, blinding me. My heart races, throbbing in my ears. Are those yells? Footsteps?
They won’t take me alive. I shoulder my M4 and point in the direction I’m being shot from. I fire, blind. Ratatatatat. I can barely hear the sound of my rifle. My own breathing engulfs the noise of what’s happening, accompanied by the panicking beat of my heart. The footsteps. Were they closer? They had to be. I shoot again. My vision is coming back in blurs now, and a dying figure lies beside me. That one was a quick little bastard to get this close, wasn’t he? But I got him. I got him. It’s Tech. He mouths my name. Reality. I shake violently, weapon falling from my hands, Bullets pepper the ground, and it leaps into the air next to me. Tech, his eyes closed, whispers to run. I do. I take the back routs, avoiding the streets. I crawl through the unavoidable open areas. The noise of war still rings through my head. It’s unbearable. I thought I was brave, a veteran. No one is. I find myself in the front of a canvas truck, panting. I’m not sure how I got there and don’t care. My hands are shaking as I reach for my pockets. Somehow I manage to light a cigarette, and take a drag. It tastes cold and the smoke is harsh on my throat. I cough and toss the cigarette away. It hits the ground and flickers out. There are no better places anymore !
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