Mother Goose

Lucy Schoyer

Table of Contents Writer’s Statement

Poetry

Fiction

Non-Fiction

Dramatic Writing

Writer’s statement

This manuscript holds all of my work over the past four years. From poetry to fiction to nonfiction to dramatic writing, how I have grown as an artist is evident in these pages. I have tried to pick the pieces I am most proud of and felt were worth sharing with others. I thought that this would be more a challenge than it actually was. It turns out that over the years I have written some things that I truly admire.

In my poetry section I chose a great variety. I think that collectively they show the most of who I am as a writer. My Autobiographia Literaria explains how I began my writing journey. My Television poem and Pittsburgh poem show me experimenting with different movements of poetry such as beat poets and call and response poems. I also chose two poems I wrote in honor of MLK. I wrote one sophomore year and one senior year. They are both based on the same idea, yet are very different poems. I thought this was a great example of how even a basic idea can produce very different imagery depending on your thought process at the time.

In my Fiction section, I chose a short story that I wrote Freshman year, The Hamburgalar, because I thought the assignment in which it was given to me was so interesting. I had to choose some common advertisement that could come alive. I had never attempted to write anything frightening before, and I thought this experience really helped me with my descriptions, and use of all the senses. My other piece was an excerpt from a novella I wrote. I was especially proud of this novella because it was really the first time that I ever felt close to characters I had written about.

Once I understood them, writing about them and their dialogue became easy.

My non-fiction section includes memoirs and newspaper articles. While I enjoyed writing the memoirs more, looking back on the articles I had written was also satisfying. It was good to look back and see that not only can I write creatively, but also informatively. My final section was dramatic writing. This excerpt from a play I wrote was based on the children’s fairytale of Rumplestiltzkin. When I wrote it I thought I did an O.K. job, but when it was performed for me by a group of actors at my school, I learned to appreciate how in playwriting all aspects of theatre are important. The actors really made the play come to life and help me appreciate what I had written.

I hope this manuscript can give some insight as to who I am as a writer, because I know all of these works have helped me grow as a writer. My theme of Mother Goose, came from my nickname Goose, and my want to tell everyone who reads this manuscript a story.

POETRY

Potato Bug

She grabbed my hand “We’re friends, ok?”

I nodded

We walked to the concrete path and caught potato bugs in the driveway.

I gathered them in my hand and let them roll around in sheltered balls.

She cut them open,

“They’re all the same on the inside.”

We went on the swings.

Neither of us wore shoes, but her feet still looked different.

“Do you want to hear a story?”

I nodded “It’ll give you nightmares.”

Once upon a time,

people owned people.

Their bones were not their own, every muscle, vein, and heart beat taken and used till it was dry.

Worked till their palms were raw and brittle.

Till their sweat turned to vinegar, and their feet bled into the floors.

She put her shoes back on.

I went home and couldn’t sleep that night.

The next day in the driveway I took a potato bug and cut him open, and watched its heart beat.

Cowboy’s Villanelle

I couldn’t see the mountains through dirty Pittsburgh air.

My mother left the mountains, moved into city smog.

My grandpa put away his boot, and I watched him forget where.

In the summer we scratched lottery tickets with care, watched the silver shavings shed into piles and clog.

I couldn’t see the mountains through dirty Pittsburgh air.

Wooden ducks lined the walls, and blue-velvet faded on his chair.

Our names faded in his head and turned into fog.

My grandpa put away his boots, and I watched him forget where.

Every night he called and cried, wanting us to come back there to the place where my hands got dry and his ducks flocked.

I couldn’t see the mountains through dirty Pittsburgh air.

We used to go fishing and go home with rare species that were leather and squished water when they walked.

My grandpa put away his boots, and I watched him forget where.

He didn’t know who I was or why I brushed his hair.

He told me he knew a place where the ducks flocked.

I couldn’t see the mountains through dirty Pittsburgh air.

My grandpa put away his boots and I watched him forget where.

Extrapolate

I pulled apart your brain, neatly organized the polar ends on my nightstand. I trap the rest and fold them in a drawer. Sort out the pattern like a broken teapot and rub the extra glue between my fingers. The latter goes on top because like a real leper you fall to pieces. I relax with my arms folded, ready to peal.

I collect the stories and tell the tale and put it back together, hard and

Tourist’s Lucille

Let’s live on the farm. Have babies in the mud and wash off in the stream.

Let the cow’s milk flow over our hands like cream.

Baby we’ll turn chicken into eggs, get country legs.

Let’s go to the ocean. Bring a pale and bucket. Shove sand into our soda cans.

Like kings we’ll have castles and give our commands.

Pale will turn red, tides come in, we’ll mark the day out on blistered skin.

Let’s go to the city. We’ll stand on the sidewalk and cover our ear as the sirens go and our ketchup smears.

Stand by the bus stop and we’ll wait for hours. Give you pigeons, city flowers.

Let’s go to the moon. We’ll spring up and down in our new fat suits.

We’ll plant our flag and gather our loot.

Spring up here is no different from fall, you and I we’ve seen it all.

Two Muffins Two muffins are in the oven.

One muffin says to the other muffin, “Man it’s hot in here.”

The second muffin says, “Wow a talking muffin!”

The oven gets hotter and hotter, the two muffins fell their sides searing, their tops blistering.

They talk.

The first describes his childhood, his mother, his absent father, how he could never live up to his brother.

The second listens.

He listens and lies downs, pressing his ear to the flames below.

He hears the walls sizzle and little volcanoes erupt around him He hears footsteps outside.

He sits up amazed. How could he go his whole life not knowing he could talk?

He hears the radio. He sings along.

Pittsburgh A Pittsburgh Bridge is falling down Falling down falling down A Pittsburgh bridge is falling down My dear mayor $1.68 billion in debt A mayor who hasn’t turned 30 yet A football team with one for the thumb.

A football team that cannot get another one

Take a key and lock them up Lock them up Lock them up Take a key and lock them up My dear mayor 44,000 inmates in dahn-tahn only 38,000 beds for a man to lie down.

A city that needs a good red-up Pirates fans are always fed up

No respect form Sienna Miller I know one bus that would run over and kill her

A T that only runs south The taste of smog and the Mon in your mouth

A Pittsburgh bridge is falling down Falling down Falling down A Pittsburgh Bridge is falling down My dear mayor I’ll build it up with beams of steel beams of steel beams of steel Stone so strong will last so long last so long last so long I’ll build it up with beams of steel My dear Pittsburgh

Television Television you were there the night the pope died and even more when America came together to pick an idol that can sing even better than a golden calf.

Television you have added a new page to every coloring book red apple green grass amber terrorist.

Television what is the purple pill?

Television you taught me how to be in two places at once and how a meteor did not wipe out dinosaurs, but instead a new Maytag disposal.

Television I thought you’d miss me, kick and scream throw the mayonnaise on the floor, draw a line down the middle of the room and stop putting teeth under your pillow.

Television I may never know where in the world Carmen San Diego is but as long as Lucy and Dezi have two separate beds I know America will not mind.

Thank you John Logi Baird.

Television you always had at least six friends

to eat lunch with.

Television I know you’re awfully busy I get your itinerary weekly but I was wondering where you were when Maggie died and three days of journal entries could not bring back the bunny the size of a large cat Television you should have told me to try for five.

Television you thought it would be funny to play a Christmas Story for twenty-four hours thinking you could finally be alone.

Television I waited at the bus stop for three hours while you sat and thought about telling me the bus schedule changes on President’s day while you showed 740 commercials of Ned and Ted selling their mattresses the way Lincoln would and how Washington never could.

Television I knew this relationship was turning sour when you tried to tell me that shows from my childhood belonged on Nick @Nite.

Television I caught you last night listing your channels in your sleep.

Scooby Doo on channel two a big fat lady on channel eighty

Television I got a colonoscopy.

Heck I bet you did too.

Television I also know when no one is watching.

Autobiographia Literaria When I was five we were home schooled.

My mother didn’t believe in PE and lunches began with Shirley and Lavern and ended with leftover crust.

At six I went to school and while my coats smelled like cats and basement everyone else’s hinted at their mother’s Chanel.

During career day ten future vets raised their hands vowing to feed their next goldfish everyday and the sticky kids yelled out doctor

hoping that intestines would squish like peanut butter banana sandwiches.

My arm lifted when I heard ballerina and four other graceful hands rose knocking over their pencil holders.

Each hand went down with determination and focus.

My hand laid without purpose or washable marker nail polish.

I walked to my mother’s car after school avoiding cracks and lines.

Down the blocks to our house I told her about rainbow nails and doctors.

Phipps I. Entrance The hallway was longer when I was 6 and I danced in the stone circle underneath a tree limb that poked my side each time Ms. Audrey motioned for me too move forward.

A group of ten girls in pink tights gathered in the flowers to point our toes and bend our knees.

II. Cacti When I was five cactuses lined my grandmother’s window sill Now I know that it is cacti that border the edge of the stone path.

Some one told me not to touch it but this one it did not look like the shapeless green men with out their sunhats

that stand quenched in the desert.

No, this one was like my mother’s pincushion and I want to sew so badly.

When I finally reached it I cried and my grandmother did not move the cactuses from the windowsill but read to me about how the giraffe’s long neck came to be.

III. Caterpillars One butterfly becomes three and I wonder how many four would make?

Do they long for the ground?

For the days when children did not try to catch them in their nets?

When instead they ran to tell their mothers’ about the monster they saw with 10,000 legs each covered by green fuzz.

Do they curse the cocoon and the markings their little feelers drew on its walls of the wings

they dreamt about?

1V. Medusa The water is still as it floats tall grass from each side.

A head with stone snakes sits in the water trying to spit far enough to reach each plant ready to let a drop roll from their petals to their roots.

I remember when I was younger I wanted to hop that fence and jump into the water.

You said I couldn’t.

You said I would get wet.

V. Exit The path back hits me right above the arch of my brow

with curly roots hanging from the ceiling.

It brushes your kneecap as you step over the puddle.

It wilts sadly as you walk past.

The fir tree wishes you a merry Christmas while the sun flower keeps moving its head to get a better view.

It smells like earth.

It smells like everything.

Newton In science class I told you that gravity would always make the apple drop and you would always stay on your side of the table.

You tried to tell me the table was a circle.

There were no sides.

I explained that the girl in the second house up on the right, the house that had been struck by lightning twice, told us about the old days when her great-great-grandparents were slaves.

Probably owned by your great-great-grandparents she said.

I told her that my great-great-grandparents never met hers.

They lived in France.

I made my great-great grandparents stay across the sea, in a small cottage with a bar across the door afraid that if they went outside to let in some air and dry their wash they would find a field with with her great-great-grandparents sweating breathless and exhausted beneath a tree

watching apples drop.

The girl, second house up on the right, dug her foot into the dirt and scraped her toes against some pebbles until she saw red instead of black.

FICTION

Excerpt from Alfred 1.

Alfred Mooney woke up Tuesday morning with a pain in his hip. This was not unusual and caused him to roll over on his side and grab his upper thigh, so tightly he would concentrate on something else. Years ago, Alfred had worked in a coal mine. Well, above one at least, his job was more administrative, and he was only threatened by paper cuts and mounds of toppling files. One day, however, he needed a signature on some receipts so he rolled up the legs of his navy blue suit, put on a hard hat, and went in. He covered his mouth and nose with his lapel and coughed into his polyester. His hand dug into his pocket trying to find a pen. When he finally grabbed it, he looked up to see a large rock rolling towards him. Not being a very athletic man, Alfred did not get out of the way in time, and consequently the injury bothered him far into his retirement.

Alfred sat up. He unbuttoned his nightshirt and pulled his red flannel over his head. He tucked them into his jeans, laced his withering sneakers, got up and walked slowly to the kitchen.

Out the window he could see that the driveway was empty. The kitchen was dark and even when he turned the light on it was still hard to make out the red roosters etched into the counter tiles.

“Can’t even do a goddamn dish,” he grumbled so softly it could barely be heard over the running faucet.

This was how Alfred began every morning. After his daughter and two grandchildren left for the day, he started his routine. “Son of a… stale bread,” he said to the two hard pieces of white bread he pushed into the toaster. Next, he swept off the counter, sponged the refrigerator, dusted the table, and ran the sweeper. Alfred enjoyed his alone time. His daughter and her two children had moved in a year ago. After Alfred’s wife died, he stopped leaving his house. His daughter, Sheila, had lived in an apartment a few blocks away with her kids. When her father stopped going outside and her rent got harder to pay, she decided it was best for everyone that they move in with him.

He scrubbed at bits of egg caked on the plate. His hands and forearms disappeared in the bubbles of the sink. His skin felt raw, used to the heat of the running dishwater. He scraped at the yellow remains with his stubby fingernails. As his fingers wrinkled submerged in the water, he thought about how loud his meals had become since his family moved in.

Last night he had made them pork chops. His grandson had made some sort of team, but he couldn’t concentrate.

“Jimmy, go on tell grandpa,” Sheila said. Jimmy shrugged his shoulders.

“It was nothing,” Jimmy said. Sheila continued to go on and on about the time Jimmy was little and could hold his breath under water longer than all the other 4-years-old in his class.

Alfred put down his knife, too disgusted with the small pool of water forming under everyone’s coasterless glasses.

“Wasn’t that the class he passed out in, and I had to drive to the hospital in the middle of the night to pick you up.” Alfred said, now ready to pay-attention to the conversation.

“Well, he was full of ambition. That’s why he’d the captain now, right honey?” Sheila looked at her son, still smiling and petting the top his head.

“Ambition?” Alfred said choking on his water. “Stupidity. What child drowns himself in the shallow end of the pool?” His grandson’s face fell and Sheila took her hand of his head. “I think I had pay for the hospital visit too. Four-hundred dollars to pump water out of the next Mark Spitz.” Sheila wiped her mouth and slowly ate the dark meat, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes with every sigh and yawn. His granddaughter came in slamming a newspaper on the table.

“Have you read this?” she said. Her thick hair tied falling out of its loose bun.

“Yes, I have, and I happen to agree with every word.” Alfred said.

“Are you crazy. This is the most blatant piece of propaganda trash, I’ve ever…” her speech became inaudible as she sat down and began shoveling food into her beautiful symmetrical face. Alfred continued to stare as Sheila started collecting the dishes. Jimmy seemed to be dripping in crumbs, and Tracey’s shrill voice echoed inside every part of his head.

It was times like these he wished he had dementia. A few of his old poker buddies were starting to need bibs and mistake their wives for their cats. It was sad of course, but Alfred couldn’t help but be jealous. At that moment he’d have given anything to have no idea who his grandchildren were. He would prefer to think they were just friendly people passing by, not ones he would have to spend time with night after night. These were his twilight years, and they were being put in shadow by crumb piles and whiny teenage feminists.

Before they moved in, Alfred could enjoy a quiet meal, free from disgusting residue left on the table that only he would clean. Free from loud children, tired daughters.

Nine months after Alfred and Pamela got married Sheila arrived. She had her mother’s brown eyes and tiny nose. Her dark roots hardly hid underneath her yellow-blonde hair dye and the premature shadows under her eyes disappointed Alfred. Sheila was a nurse, and a person could decide on flip-flops or scarves depending on her scrubs. The smocks were always seasonal, a cartoon pumpkin in late October, pastel flowers in spring. Her sneakers were always clean, that kind of white that makes you rub your eyes. Her fingernails always had color, oranges and blues, chipping onto her pant leg. Sheila had never been married. She went to nursing school right after she graduated high school moved out and met Bert. Bert eventually left her with a new baby and a one-year-old, but this never fazed Sheila. To be perfectly honest when she woke up in an empty bed one morning she was happy. Not because she hadn’t loved him, because she had, but because she didn’t think she could share her children. She was happy that they were hers, and not anyone else’s. It was this attitude that Alfred could not understand.

He told Sheila was stupid. “How in the hell are you gonna raise these kids,” Alfred asked her the day after Bert had moved out. “Real good,” she replied. Alfred didn’t think that was funny, he didn’t think a lot of the things she had done were. Alfred knew raising two kids alone would age her. Would change her from the sweet red-cheeked girl he used to make doll houses for, read stories to, into something else, into the woman that lived with him now, throaty voiced and wrinkled hands. She was still the happy optimistic person she’d always been, but when Alfred saw creases in her forehead or her gray hairs starting to grow he’d grumble that a person should always listen to their father.

Alfred sat down on a stool near the counter and began to make his eggs. He fried them and the yolk ran around the bottom of the pan. “Those damn kids always leave their crap, could break my goddamn neck.”

Alfred loved his grandchildren. It had been different since they’d moved in, though. He was used to seeing them pretty often. They’d ride the five blocks on their bikes or take the bus their after school. Even when they both started high school Jimmy would stop by after practice and Tracey would always make sure to read the news paper with her grandpa on Sundays. Now they lived with him. He no longer looked forward to their visits and started to find them a little bit on the annoying side. He had forgotten how many problems teenagers had. When he was a teenager his only worry was communists. “Kids now a days… God knows,” he’d tell his grandkids.

Jimmy looked like his father. Alfred liked to point this out.

“He’s a great baseball player, but that damn nose, looks like a rat.” In truth Jimmy’s nose was fine and he was actually a very handsome young man, just like his father, which was probably why Sheila had two children in the span of twenty months. He was tall with thick dark hair, full lips, and big eyes. It was true that Jimmy was a great baseball player; he was also a great football player, basketball player, track runner, and swimmer. He was an average student and was gentle like his mother.

Jimmy did not like much in school, but he did like history. Not all history just American history from 1961 to 1963. He was obsessed with John F Kennedy. He was Richard Nixon for Halloween for four years because it was the scariest thing he could think of. Sometimes, when he was lucky his sister would pretend to be Jackie and they would run around their room creating

Peace Corps and solving missile crises. His mother started to worry when one afternoon she found Jimmy in front of television crying, pretending he had just found out that JFK had been assassinated. Kennedy had been the father he’d always wanted, the father he could count on.

Tracey was eleven months older than Jimmy. She was a senior and looked so much like her mother that Alfred often yelled at Sheila for leaving her calculus book on the kitchen table.

Tracey was going to nursing after high school like her mother. Unlike her mother, she was the only one in the family who would yell back at Alfred. The day she moved into the house they gave away her dog, because Alfred wouldn’t have animals. “Vile creatures, rolling around in their own feces.” Tracey responded by leaving a bag of dog poo outside his door. Tracey wasn’t an angry person; she just didn’t tolerate a lot of things.

Alfred didn’t tolerate a lot of things either, and on the rare occasion they didn’t tolerate the same thing, like Jimmy leaving out dirty socks, or Sheila’s refusal to ask for a raise, they got along.

On this particular morning Alfred was more excited than usual for his time alone. As soon his eggs were done he forked them onto his plate and walked into the living room. It was Tuesday so he turned on the television. He changed it to channel eleven and waited.

2.

It was Tuesday morning and that meant Charna Gilbert would do the special report.

Alfred loved Charna Gilbert. Her news was light and she was beautiful. As she talked about the fireworks at the Olympics he stared intently into her light blue eyes, dreamed of patting her stiff blonde hair. Her pantsuits drove him wild, oh how he wished he was a microphone attached to

that blouse. His crush had grown significantly since his wife had died. He fantasized about her a lot, but even more he would dream about her. Not sexual dreams, just odd things, like he was the heaviest man in the world, and she interviewed him about how he liked his eggs.

“Goddamn Howards,” Alfred said to the screen hated Ed Howards. He was the weatherman and everything from his slicked back hair to big white teeth made Alfred furious.

“Thinks he’s such a big man, doesn’t he. I can tell when it’s goddamn raining, cause I’ll be goddamn wet.”

When Alfred stopped leaving his house little things like TV anchors and dusty shelves became a lot more important to him.

When his wife was still alive, Alfred did lots of things, nothing extraordinary, but he was the best lawn bowler on his team, played a decent game of bridge, and every Wednesday night he and Pamela walked to the park. He would hold her jacket because she always got too hot, and she would grip his arm breathing deeply through her nose. Alfred missed these things, most of all his wife.

“Breaking news,” the TV announced. Alfred sat up in his barka lounger, angry as they cut from Charna ooing and awing at lights in the sky to a three-car pile up on the parkway.

“It seems that there was an accident here on Samson Parkway,” said Gary Lightfoot.

Alfred didn’t mind Gary. He had prominent chest hair coming out the top of his button that dripped with the rain he was standing in. His voice often broke like a teenage boy. He was large though, and made up for his voice with a massive stature. Alfred often thought Gary would be

happier as a wrestler or a bouncer, then he would imagine him pummeling Ed Howards into his weather green screen.

“It seems that the first car lost control due to the storm and was followed by two other vehicles,” said Gary.

Alfred looked outside and saw that the rain was letting up a little.

“Two people have been rushed to the hospital, and are in critical condition.”

Alfred began to pick up his plate from the TV tray.

“Sadly three victims of this accident did not survive.”

He folded the tray and placed it against he wall with the others.

“I’ve just been informed that the two people in the hospital are John Hardy, a local science teacher, and Shirley Gledige. The three people he did not survive were Sheila, Tracey, and Jimmy Mooney. The mother and children seemed to be on their way to school…”

Alfred he closed his eyes and fell to the floor.

3.

It was three hours later before he let himself open them again. He rolled onto his side like he had that morning, but squeezing his upper thigh did nothing this time. He still felt it. His stomach sank with every breath. He was crying. Heaving. He hadn’t cried since Pamela died and even then there were only a few manly tears because he had loved her. Now, he was scared.

His nose dripped onto the carpet and he sobbed into the light orange shag, grabbed the bits string and dug his toes so hard into the sole of his sneakers he felt warm blood filling the shoe.

He continued this for two more hours. He crawled on hands and knees and ripped the phone cord from the wall and ceased the non-stop ringing. He didn’t have the strength to pull himself, and he didn’t know what he would if he could. So he stayed there on the floor.

He fell asleep. The sobbing had stopped but tears still found their way down his face, as he lied curled in a sort of fetal position on the floor. That night in his dreams Charna Gilbert shot his wife. He woke up forgetting the events of the day before, but when he realized that he wasn’t on his unwrinkled sheets, he remembered and started to sob again. It didn’t last very long, for the simple reason that he couldn’t physically cry anymore. He had nothing left.

The day they had first moved in it was raining. Tracey was crying because they had to give away Lyndon B. (their dog). Sheila was busy trying to console her, while Jimmy carried in the bags. Alfred had noticed then how old they really were. He’d seen them not too long ago, but before they still seemed like children. Even when she was crying on her mother’s shoulder Tracey’s hips, the way she parted her hair, showed how different she was from when Pamela used to put ribbons in her hair. Jimmy looked about three feet taller and his quiet voice was so deep that it was almost inaudible.

Sheila hugged her father, and assured him that this move was the best for everyone. She looked down at her feet and mouthed it again to herself, like she was afraid she’d ruined her line.

He showed them all to their rooms and served them the rest of the soup he had made for himself earlier that day.

“So, how’s school?” he asked Jimmy as he scooped the cold soup into his mouth.

“Good, grandpa, I just made captain,” Jimmy answered as he pushed his bowl away.

“Football?”

“No, soccer” “I played football in high school. Wasn’t too bad either.”

“Mom, used to say he was the best water boy around,” Sheila said snorting with laughter.

“What would you know,” Alfred said. He crossed his arms, “have you ever even seen a football game, probably to busy trying to get with the team captain.” He laughed to himself gruffly, while everyone else stared at the bits of green and white floating around their bowls.

The rest of the week wasn’t much better. The kids went to school, came back went to their rooms, and waited for their mother to come. Then they had dinner, watched a little TV and went to bed.

Alfred thought the next thing to do was get up. His legs were stiff from the night before and he wasn't sure how he would hoist himself up. His cane was lying on the other side of the floor, and it took him a few minutes to crawl over and get it. When he had he scooted himself back over to the barka lounger. He faced it, got on his knees, grabbed the barka lounger with one hand, held the top of his cane with the other and with what seemed like everything he had left pulled himself up.

He sat and rested in the large blue recliner. The living room seemed darker than it had the day before, the cream walls looked gray, and the plastic lining on the couches sent a shiver down his spine.

Alfred looked at the clock over the TV. Noon, he wasn't hungry. Normally at this time he would make himself a sandwich and call Sheila at work.

"Sheila?"

"Yes, dad?"

"Have you heard about this thing on the news?"

"Which thing on the news?"

"There's this study they did about the amount of nitrogen oxide you ingesting in to how well you can drive."

"Yes…" "Well, I thought you should know."

"Why?" "Well didn’t you drive to work today?"

"Yes." "Well there you go." Sheila was used to conversations like this. She stopped trying to reason with him, wouldn't even tell him that you'd probably die from ingesting nitrogen oxide, and probably would be a bad driver.

Everyone at Sheila's work knew Alfred. No one had ever seen him of course, but all of Sheila's co-workers had answered the phone at the desk with the familiar, "Hello, this Alfred Mooney, it's very important that I speak to Sheila Mooney." It was never very important, but still each time Sheila would race down the hallways of St. Margaret's hospital, grab the receiver, and pant a loud "Yes, dad?".

Alfred thought about this as the message light flashed over and over on the floor. What could they tell him that he didn't already know? He thought about this for a while when there was a sudden knock at the door.

"Alfred, Alfred Mooney? Are you in there?" Alfred didn't move. "Alfred this is the police, I'm afraid there's been an accident. Alfred are you in there?" He didn't breath. He knew what had happened. What would change if he answered the door?

Eventually they left. Alfred was glad they hadn't tried to look through the window. He assumed that they would have given him their belongings, or what was left of them. He didn't want them. What he do with his granddaughter's half- destroyed biology book? His daughter's extra pair of scrubs? What scrubs had she worn yesterday? The ones with pumpkins he thought, he remembered their cartoony smiles plastered all over her top. No, he decided, the less clutter the better.

The mail came. He hobbled over to the door and threw it in the trash, two magazines and an advertisement for male enhancement. He decided to go back to bed. When he woke up this time he hadn't forgotten. He knew it was 9:00 am but he didn't know of what day. He felt like he had slept for a week, and he wasn't sure he hadn't. What he did know was that he was starving. He hoped there were still eggs in the kitchen, and he couldn't remember if he had eaten

the last of the bread yesterday. He got up and put his robe on over his jeans, he had been too exhausted the day before to change into something to sleep in.

After he tied his long flannel robe he got his slippers from out of the closet. Pamela's dresses still hung in the back. He felt one with the back of his hand. It was velvet, and was starting to get that musty scent that tends to accumulate tenfold after someone has died. There was lace around the collar and hem. The sleeves stopped at her elbows the thick fabric made her cheeks red. He ran his hand down the zipper. He had helped her pull it up so many times before.

Now all he could do was drag it up and down. His whole body was practically in the closet at this point when he heard the mail come through the slot. He slammed the closet door and went to the pile of bills and penny savers. He gathered them all in his arms and when he stood up again he saw a head bobbing on the other side of the front door.

Alfred ducked underneath the glass top of the door. "Excuse me? Mr. Mooney? Are you ok in there? I heard what happened. Shit man, that's…Well I'm sorry." Alfred waited till he left the porch and watched him walk the street. He was tall and skinny. He walked so easily on his long legs that when he stopped at a mailbox it seemed unnatural, like a bird suddenly flying into a giant billboard. While he was examining the mailman he was interrupted by a beeping noise that seeped into the living room. It got louder and the piercing beeps got closer and closer together. He was pretty sure he'd never put batteries in the smoke alarm. In fact he wasn't sure if he had a smoke alarm. He must have though because the beeping wouldn't stop. He followed the noise and realized it was coming from Jimmy's room.

"Jesus Christ, it’s that goddamned alarm clock."

Jimmy got the alarm from Alfred for his birthday. At the time it seemed like a good idea.

"You like waking up don't ya?" he asked Jimmy when he opened it.

"Yeah, I guess so. Thanks grandpa."

Alfred went to Jimmy's door. He pushed it open slowly and tried to silence his cane on the rug.

The walls were covered in pictures, framed photos of JFK and Jackie O, a family portrait with the kids, some postcards of Ted, Robbie, and John above his bed. His newspaper articles hung above the desk. A little American flag stuck in the cover of the roll top. Kennedy smiled at Alfred, his perfect teeth next to his perfect wife. Their faces seemed to glisten through the fame, like at any moment they would be standing beside him, telling him everything was going to be ok. He sat down at Jimmy's desk almost forgetting the blaring of the alarm clock.

He grabbed a many medal from off of his shelf. It was old and you could barely make out the little man swimming on it. He put it back down and realized there were at least twenty more in his dresser drawer. The others were filled with perfectly balled socks and some gym shorts. The closet was stuffed with bats, swim caps, hockey sticks, tennis balls, birdies, and cups. Alfred took two of the cups and covered his ears. He tried looking in the desk, but all her could find were some letters from one of his teammates.

He was a little worn out, so he slumped down on the bed. He heard the noise getting louder so stuck his cane underneath the bed to try and rake out what was under it. All that came out was another letter so Alfred got up to check under the mattress. He grabbed the top edge near the pillow and lifted it about half a foot. Something glossy caught his eye and pulled out some magazines. Boys'll be boys, he thought to himself and remembered hiding his own girlie magazines in a shoebox in his closet. Being an appreciator of the human form Alfred decided to

take a look. He lifted it closer collapsed back on the bed when he saw cover. Two naked men were doing things that Alfred thought only happened when football players accidently tripped in the shower after the game. He closed one eye and flipped through the rest. Maybe it's just this page. As he flipped through the rest, sinewy muscles and hard penises, flashed before him, like some homoerotic flip book.

The rest of the magazines were the same. Jocks, Playgirl, and Latin Inches lined the edges of the bed. Alfred went back to the desk and opened the letters he had found earlier. They were not the team plays that Alfred had imagined. And as he kept digging through the desk he found more and more. It seemed that Jimmy was involved with the short stop, Henry and had been for some time. Alfred had like Henry. He came over to the house a few times, they did a lot of biology projects together if he recalled correctly. While going through the letters, there were at least a hundred, Alfred remembered a special report that Charna Gilbert had done. It turned out that gay men had smaller cells than straight ones. At the time he thought nothing of it, he had told Sheila over the phone in case she knew any gays, but he hadn't really thought about it since then. If hadn't even, known the size of his own grandson's cells, what else had he missed.

He kept reading and he couldn't help but notice the letters really were quite beautiful. He remembered the first time Henry had come to the house.

“Jimmy, your friend is here.” Alfred yelled down the hall. He opened the door and let Henry inside. He had thick broad shoulders and wore tight lycra bike pants. Always training, Alfred had thought to himself. “Jimmy, get down here” Alfred yelled a second a time. “It takes that boy about three hours to get ready, you’d think he was going on a date or something.”

Henry laughed politely and sat down on the couch, the plastic covering squeaking loudly under his sweaty legs. “Been working out, I see?”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry shaking his leg up and down.

“Big game coming up?”

“Yes, sir, the homecoming game.”

“Oh, got a date for the big dance?”

“No sir,” Henry said looking at the floor.

“Well, here he is,” Alfred said as his grandson entered the room. “Took you long enough. Henry and I were just talking about homecoming. The team going stag this year?” The boys nodded in synch. “You know I was on the football team in high school.”

“Maybe you could come to the game this year, grandpa.” Jimmy had heard all about Alfred’s famous victory at state, and every time he brought Alfred home a team sweatshirt or cap he hoped to see him in the stands one day.

“You got football from me. Not that jackass father of yours,” Alfred said. Henry stood awkwardly with his hand the doorknob.

“I know grandpa,” Jimmy said into the carpet. He remembered practicing tackles with him when he was little. Alfred would throw him the ball and blame his rat fink of a father every time he didn’t catch it. Eventually, Jimmy lost interest in this and when his grandfather asked him to play he politely decline and bury his nose in Jackie O. biographies.

“Well, we gotta go grandpa,” Jimmy said finally. Henry gently put his hand in his should and the two went out the door.

Henry had obviously cared for Jimmy. In fact, the letters reminded him of the ones used to write to Pamela. He wondered if she had kept them in her desk in high school, if she read them every night before she went to bed. He put the letters aside and closed the desk. His grandson was a fag, he thought, but at least he had someone athletic. The alarm clock finally stopped and he put the magazines back where he had found them.

The Hamburglar

The Golden arches rose above me as I turned off the ignition. I walked through the parking lot while a woman wearing an all yellow jump suit with a visor explaining combo deals was smoking by the side door. She took a drag, opened the door for me and said, “That stuff’ll kill ya.” I nodded as she coughed through the haze in front of her and went in. At the cash register the man smirked as I said “one happy meal”. They often did. They knew I did not have nephew or a son or even a close neighbor boy. They knew the small compact meal all assembled with the chance of cookies and milk was for me.

After the man had rung up my order, I went back to the car and drove home smelling the crisp air around my chicken nuggets. When I arrived I brought the sack to the table and unraveled it piece by piece, nuggets first, fries second, yogurt third. I reached in the paper bag

searching for a napkin to wipe the cookie crumbs from my top lip when my hand hit something plastic and warm like my recently re-heated chicken molds. I pulled it out. “The toy,” I thought forgetting the basis on which every Happy Meal is formed.

It was a stout cartoonish young man, a thick plastic band around the area surrounding his eye sockets. His shirt and pants were matching black and white striped and his tie looked like his father’s as it hung down to the ankles, practically dragging the hamburger designs on the ground. He wore a wide brimmed black hat with an encircling white band, which partially covered his bright burnt orange side part. His cape hit the start of his legs and did not reach his red tennis shoes. His hands were covered in red gloves and he smiled revealing two large dimples and one large tooth. “The Hamburglar,” I thought as I threw out the bag and wrappers. I turned off the kitchen lights and headed up the stairs to fall asleep on a full stomach.

The next morning I awoke to see a stain on my pillow sham. The fringed edge dripped with grease and I almost tripped on my dog as he licked up the puddle below. I crept behind the stream of fatty oil to the bottom of the stairs and paused before I entered the kitchen. The trail continued to side of the refrigerator where he stood, the Hamburgular, the size of a seven year old boy. I reached my hand out to touch his bulging cheek. His once plastic skin had become soft and greasy. His hair was held together in oily chunks that stayed like straw under his hat.

His large tooth had become a yellow color against his now visible gums. I held a mirror under his nose to see if he was breathing and when no fog appeared on the glass I went to the sink and ran my hand under the faucet.

I left him there the next night and the next night and woke up each morning ready to mop up his midnight capers. The third night I was in bed when I felt a wet glove on my arm. It wasn’t

until the fourth night I heard him speak. He came to my bedside and leaned over me letting drop after drop fall on my forehead until I sat up. He bowed his head down and began to cough.

“Robble Robble, Robble Robble.”

I reached my arm out to pat him hard on the back but he scurried behind the bedside table then out the door. “Robble Robble, Robble Robble,” he cried as his shoes squeaked down the hallway. The next night I did not get in bed and when he arrived I shut the door behind him. I could hear him mumble under his breath but he did not argue he merely took three wet steps to the bed and sat down. He opened his mouth and each word cracked leaving each sentence, each syllable a different octave than the previous one. He stuttered uncontrollably and when he did his hand shook and his foot tapped the ground splashing the puddle beneath him over and over.

He told me about Ronald and how every large rubbery footstep made him shudder. He told me he began to steal very young and that at the Ronald McDonald house you had to work for your food. Grimace could rollerblade and Birdie could fly. He had stopped growing at the age of seven and was forced for years to sneak burgers from the dining room table. He ate them alone locked in the storage closet. He cried when he finished and left the rest of my pillow stained. He fell asleep on top of my covers and I placed his hat on the nightstand.

The next few days I began to notice him walking around in the daytime. I saw him watching TV on the sofa and playing solitaire on the kitchen table. I stopped mopping and washing my face. No scrub could get rid of my oily skin. I noticed also that my dog began to smell like pickles and condiments. A week later I caught the Hamburglar trying to cook him on the stove.

He slept in my bed every night and I began to sleep on the couch. When I would try to leave the house he made an elaborate system to tie the door shut with his tie. While I would try and undo it, he would stand behind me and ask me to play a game with him. He lost every dice to every board game and made the cards too sticky to play anything, but 52 pickup. When he lost, he would storm off and lock me in a room. When he would finally let me go, most of the furniture had been knocked over and soaked.

One night after he had gone to bed I placed a chair in front of is door hitched under his doorknob so that he could not get out. I crept back down the stairs planning to leave the house for good. I got to the front door when I heard something behind me. “Robble, Robble. Robble, Robble.” I reached my hand forward to push him back but his flesh had become caked in thick liquid. I managed to rip part of his shirt and saw underneath not skin at all but a crisp fried flesh.

The sweat coming out of each of his pores began to burn my skin and I could see the tips of my fingers begin to bubble. I ran behind the table but I slipped on a scolding puddle while I felt the rest of my body burn and scorch. My mouth opened and grease poured from it. I tried to scream but as the oil filled the insides of my cheeks and lungs I could only protest “Robble, Robble!”

NONFICTION

Day At Landslide Memoir I trekked up the hill with my black garbage bag slung over my shoulder. I wandered the cracked pavement with my eyes to the ground, inspecting every rock and blade of grass for recyclables. I felt like I had when I was nine, and on Earth Day my best friend and I would pick trash up along our private streets. By the end of the day we'd have about three wrappers and an occasional bottle cap. I felt I had made a difference in my two- block world. I'd smile and show my mom what I had collected and reveled in my good deeds. I looked down the hill, wondering if everyone else felt the same. Did every Styrofoam peanut give them that smug sense of self that I got.

When I put my finished bag on the porch, Claire introduced me to two of her neighbors who lived up the street.

"This is Diane," she said. I nodded. "And this is her daughter, Linda. I think you guys are both juniors." I nodded again and held out my hand.

"This is like the 8th tire we found," she pointed to the ditch behind her filled with at least ten more. Small, large, tractor, Michelin, Goodyear, Bridgestone. I followed her to the rubber graveyard and we worked together pushing them out of the ditch.

"It's about time the city helped out," Dianne said pointing to the dumpster. "There's just so much," she said pointing to half of a child's plastic toy duck.

"Where does all this crap come from?" Linda added putting another tire into the growing pile.

"Well, at least it's a nice day," Dianne said.

"Yeah, a lot of people came out," Claire said throwing some bricks into the wheelbarrow.

It was true, every few feet was another person, crouched over their garbage bag carefully inspecting the grass. As the day went on, the finds became stranger and stranger. In my personal pile I had collected a bowling shoe and half of a carpet. "There used to be houses all down here," the woman next to me said. "The landslide wiped them all out." I had heard about the landslide before, but no library book or google search seemed to think it existed.

Claire had told me that it had been a coalmine at the top of the hill and one day during a storm it became a sort of avalanche. I pulled out the carpet from the earth and pretty soon I had a tangle of red and blue electrical wires at my feet. I tried to picture the house in my head, red brick, yellow carpeting.

"I can't believe there were houses here, at least five on this side," she continued. The buildings grew up around me and I could picture the porch swings, the window boxes, and the rooftops.

"Do you have a pile for glass?" she asked and all the houses were wiped away again. I started lugging a small log down the hill when a man staggered up the hill. He looked like he

was in his late-thirties. His straight-legged blue jeans stopped at the ankle of his scuffed boots. He walked passed us swinging a tin lunch box by his side and headed up the street to someone's house.

"I think Keith's sick," my sister said as the man stumbled around the front door. His green coat matched the groups of people walking down Fifth Avenue to the Saint Patrick's Day parade.

"You know, you know I used to live here," he said pointing to house behind him. His blue eyes got bigger.

"Oh, well I'm pretty sure he's sick," Claire continued. "Yeah, I saw him earlier and he said he wasn't feeling to well."

"I know that guy," he said. "We didn't really get along." The few of us standing around grew more and more aware of his slurred speech and drunken stumbling.

"Yep, I was born right over there." His eyes got wider and wider.

"You see over there?

My grandma used to live right there. When it was cold, she'd wrap me up in newspaper." He stumbled again. "And the Wilson's were across the street, and the Jackson's were right next to us." He stopped for a minute. We stared at him not sure if he was finished. "The toilet used to be outside," he continued. "Sorry, I'm a little sloshed. St. Patrick's Day, you know."

We all nodded.

"I used to bike to Pitt everyday from up here. God, it's been so long. You know I don't think I've been up here for fifteen years. Fifteen years," he looked around, "Good God look at this place."

"It must be a lot different," Claire continued.

"Yeah…"

"Yeah," I repeated.

"So what are you guys doing up here?" he asked, leaving his grandma and neighbors behind.

"A clean-up…"

"Oh" "Yeah, those lots, we're making them into a community farm."

"A farm?"

"Yeah, we bought it from the city. We're hoping to start planting next spring."

"Who'd a thought, my grandma's house, a farm. Well, hey, that sounds great. I'm glad something's happening down here."

"You should come back next spring and see it."

"Maybe I will…" He started down the hill swinging his lunch pail, and I had a feeling he wouldn't be back for fifteen more years.

Then it hit me. All these people, wasting their Saturdays, they weren't there to make themselves feel like better people. They were there because it was there community. They live there, raise their children there, celebrate St. Patrick's Day there. They did it because it was there community and they wanted to make it better. They know that the city isn't always fair, and they're not always going to get the advantages that other communities might, like the necessity of a grocery store close by.

They know that after the landslide that destroyed many homes no one came to help. They know that when they call the city to fix their water pipes, they won't. They know all of this

and want to change things themselves. They want a community. Hopefully, Landslide Community Farm will help with this goal.

Pittsburgh students come together in efforts to end genocide

On Saturday April 8 in the activities area of the Jewish Community Center in Squirrel Hill was a mass of green shirts. More than a hundred teenagers came to the concert cleverly named One Night STAND (Students Taking Action Now Darfur) to raise money to end genocide in Darfur.

The concert hosted many local high school bands including The Fingers and The Elderly, which brought many teenagers in to see their classmates and friends play. It began at 8:00 pm with a line all the way down the hall. The $7 admission fee and a stamp was needed to enter. The $7 went to help raise funds for humanitarian aid. Organizers also sold beverages, food, and t-shirts to raise money for the cause. Once inside tables were full of reading material regarding the

heinous genocides and everyone there was asked to sign a postcard to President Bush stating that genocide would not happen on our watch. The show ended at 11pm with much money raised.

Wire Taps Article The people speak out on Bush’s wiretaps.

In mid-December of 2005 it was revealed that President George W. Bush had been ordering the NSA (National Security Agency) to wiretap the phones of people suspected to be involved in terrorist acts. Months after the discovery people are still conflicted about the legality of the act. “He didn’t even have a warrant. I think that it’s time for impeachment,” says David Schoyer a lawyer from Point Breeze. President Bush could face impeachment charges because he did not receive a warrant from FISA (Foreign Intelligence Security Court) to wiretap the phones. Bush however skirted around this warrant, which according to Teddy McKenna a ninth grade theatre major at CAPA high school, “is completely illegal. Bush should be censured by

the House. It completely goes against our civil liberties.” Many people however think that the wiretappings were completely justified. “I think that it’s ok. I mean if it was to try and protect our country I think we should do it. The government knows everything about us anyway. They can know almost everything about you from your credit card why does it matter if they listen to your calls to?” says Garrett Sandridge a ninth grade Visual Artist from CAPA. Although some people are willing to give up their privacy to catch possible terrorist threats some still don’t agree, like ninth grade CAPA Literary Artist Jessica Packer, “It’s bad. It’s a violation of privacy. It’s like we’re in a Ray Bradbury book where all the walls are bugged.”

Peace Links: Pittsburgh Women for Peace It all began in Washington D.C. in 1982 during the Cold War. Betty Bumper, among other congressional wives, started Peace Links in an effort to prevent nuclear war. The Pennsylvania Peace Links was started in 1983 when Betty Bumper and Teresa Heinz got together in Pittsburgh to discuss the need for women to get involved in peace efforts. Mary Paradise and other Pittsburgh women began the Pittsburgh Peace Links. Anne Kuhn is the current president of the Pittsburgh Peace Links and she is joined by a faithful board of 15 staff members and directors all working toward a common goal of peace. Peace Links has long since kept up its efforts to end nuclear war. In the Peace Links philosophy everything begins with education. This education can start at a very young age. To teach children a positive outlook on the world around them and how to make good decisions when their outlook isn’t very positive. Peace Links and member of

the Peace Links board have put out books on such topics. Starting Young is a book for parents and guardians filled with activities from birth to three-years-old to help infants begin life with a good emotional and social development. Making Choices by Cheryl Duray and Linda Schoyer is a curriculum for middle school students.

This curriculum teaches the children many lessons on how to live peacefully through examples of famous figures like Roberto Clemente and Rosa Parks. This curriculum has been taught throughout the city by Duray and Schoyer to help children start making good decisions young. Peace Links has also been producing “The Tree House,” a puppet show showing children conflict resolution skills, since 1995 at the Children’s Museum. The work of Peace Links does not stop at childhood, however. Peace Links is constantly having benefits and meetings. The most recent was a small meeting at St. Bede School for a viewing of the 1959 film On the Beach followed by a discussion of the book. Peace Links holds meetings and presentations throughout the year on topics of peace from local, national, to international levels, like the recent discussion of Nuclear Terrorism: The Ultimate Preventable Catastrophe by Graham Allison. Peace Links also holds adult workshops for caregivers, parents, childhood professionals, and teachers to approach conflict management and development. Peace Links is now working together with the All China Women’s Federation to develop a cross-cultural conflict management for children.

Peace Links is also involved in many anti-war protests and is closely linked to code pink, “a women’s initiated grass roots peace and social justice movement” and other local Pittsburgh peace groups like the Raging Grannies. These Grannies are a group of older women whose goal is to raise peace and justice through song and humor.

Peace Links had been growing and going for over two decades trying to impart more and

more of its knowledge to more and generations. “It’s a great institution that has really passed on its message of peace,” says member Linda Schoyer. This remarkable group of women is found at 305 Wood Street. They can be reached at peacelink@aol.com.

Los Angeles is host to one of the largest immigrant rights’ protest across the country Demonstrations in Los Angeles on Monday were the largest among the immigrant rights’ protests held around the nation, including gatherings in Chicago, New York and Houston.

Feeling power in their numbers, hundreds of thousands of people marched peacefully, even joyously, through the streets of Los Angeles as part of a nationwide demonstration of economic and political clout by immigrants – legal an illegal.

Thousands of businesses shuttered on the ‘Day without immigrants” as workers and their families, most of them from Mexico, participated in a boycott of work and commerce, rallying to demonstrate their importance to the U.S. economy and to demand changes in immigration law that would give illegal migrants a path to citizenship. “It’s interesting that the rest of us didn’t get a day off from paying for services,” said Ira Mehlman, a spokesman for the Federation for

American Immigration Reform, which supports much tougher enforcement of immigration laws.

The boycott was felt in patches throughout Southern California. In some areas with large Latino populations, nearly every business was closed for the day; in other spots, especially those served primarily by large national chains, most if not all were open.

However, the boycott was not felt by everyone in the city. “Are we supposed to see what it’s like without immigrants?” asked Kim Kelly of Porter Ranch. “Because nothing seems different today for me.” The city picked up her trash on schedule in the morning, she said. “But,” she added. “I’m wondering if the gardeners will come.” The boycott apparently received substantial support- nearly stopping commerce at the nation’s largest port complex. Elsewhere in the region, at least 15,000 people marched in Santa Barbara, 10,000 in Santa Ana, 8,000 in Huntington Park and a few thousand in the Inland Empire, according to official estimates. With that bill’s prospects apparently dimmed, Monday’ protesters appeared emboldened and ready to amplify their political voice. “If you want something, you have to fight for it,” said Jaime Torres, 19, an illegal immigrant from Jalisco, Mexico, and a student at Los Angeles City College. “”We have to be respectful, but we have to raise our voices. The demonstrations followed a massive March 25 rally in downtown Los Angeles that drew half a million people, primarily to protest an immigration bill passed by the U.S. House of Representatives that would have made illegal immigration a felony. “I want to come out of the shadows,” said Josefina Cordoba, 46, of El Sereno, an undocumented immigrant from Mexico who joined six family members on the City Hall march. A cleaning woman who earns $70 a day, she said it was worth losing a day’s wages to make her case. She clutched a small poster that summed up the sentiments of many: “We Just Want A Taste of the American Dream.”

Election Editorial Think Bob Casey on May 16 As the May 16 election for our Pennsylvania Senator is coming upon us very soon, it is time to think. Rick Santorum currently holds the office of Senator. Ithink as loyal Democrats ready for change, Bob Casey is the man for the job. As liberal Democrats I know the vote is especially hard. With Adam Sandals and Chuck Pennachio running against Bob Casey, I was almost swayed to endorse them for their more liberal ideals that I believe in, but the fact remains Casey is a better-known candidate. Although I long to see the day when a vote for a man like Chuck Pennachio does not feel like a waste, I recognize that it will take a while. A vote for Casey is at least step in the right direction.

Although Casey’s moderate views are looked down on by people who believe the office

needs to a have a complete turn around, I know that that turn around cannot happen if Democrats are not united on one candidate. If our votes are spread too thin then no one we want will ever be in office. Over the years our system of voting has become more and more of a compromise.

It has become more of a strategy to just get rid of the man you don’t want and put one in you don’t mind as much instead of voting for who you really think can fill the position. And although I think this is a problem in our society, I know it cannot be stopped by just one election. It will take time. I believe before this big change can happen Bob Casey is our best bet for a Democrat as Senator. So in conclusion, if you would like to start this turn around in office vote, for Bob Casey.

Excerpt from Paw Paw Memoir Paw Paw, West Virginia is known for Paw Paw trees and the Paw Paw tunnel. In 1992 a professor from Purdue reported that the Paw Paw plant could be used as a natural treatment for cancer. In 1993 my mother walked through the pitch black Paw Paw Tunnel and watched as a dog in front of her fell into the canal and drowned.

A little further into town you will find a very long dirt road that will lead you to a very big field. Next to this field is a very shallow river and across the river is a very steep hill. On top of the hill is a very old house next to a farm. This house belonged to my great-grandfather who gave it to my grandmother. I have spent every Memorial, Labor, and Columbus Day there since I was born. Running on a generator I hid from cousins in dim closets, slept on dusty beds, cooked breakfast on 75-year-old stoves. My sister and I melted old crayons on the fire and made

candles for our mother. She would smile at our wax covered hands and continue to read her book by the fireplace.

Outside the house was the real adventure. Accidentally throwing balls down the side of the rocky tree covered hill led to a new more dangerous game. Trying to scale the side of the hill, the one with the most scrapes smiling like their bloody leg was a gold medal. The model T we used to get our luggage across the river turned us all into 1920s cab drivers. "Where ya headed?", we'd ask clutching the wheel imagining our hair blowing in the breeze and the sound of the engine rumbling below our feet. When our fathers actually drove it we stood on the side panels outside of the car and held on to the roof for our lives.

Swimming in the river usually ended up in the capturing of twenty tadpoles, all named with individual personalities and style. "I think Ted likes his new home," we'd say staring at the glass jar filled with water and a few pebbles. We agreed and all felt a piece of us was missing when we buried them two days later. The vast woods mountains surrounding us led to the break-up of a few of my brother's girlfriends. My cousin Sol would drag Willy and his giggling girlfriend on an afternoon walk. When they arrived eight hours later covered in bug bites and eyeliner dripping on her rash covered cheek, we knew we wouldn't see her again.

At the bottom of the hill the farm began.

DRAMATIC WRITING

Excerpt from the play Rumplestiltzkin SCENE 1 (MABEL’s small cottage living room containing only a chair and a small table.)

FATHER I’m so sorry, my dear.

MABEL I just don’t understand why you thought telling the king that I could spin straw into gold could ever possibly work out to our advantage?

FATHER Well I thought it sounded pretty cool, myself.

MABEL It’s because I’m a woman isn’t it? You think just because I’m a female I can spin anything into

anything.

FATHER Really Mabel, it’s not that. I know you can’t spin anything… or cook… and you’re not the best at tidying up.

MABEL This is not the time to try to label me into a bad housewife or house daughter stereotype. You realize if I can’t do this he’ll kill me. Then who will cater to your every whim?

FATHER I know I know I’ve made a huge mistake. sorry.

I really am

MABEL I know and you’ll be even sorrier at my funeral. I guess I should go pack. They expect me at the castle at noon.

FATHER Can I help?

MABEL No, I can do it myself you’ve done enough.

(MABEL storms away leaving her FATHER standing alone in the room.)

FATHER Mabel SCENE 2 (Reception area in castle. Small desk with SERVANT standing behind it.)

MABEL Hello? Anyone here?

SERVANT Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m coming!

I’m sorry.

Don’t have a spaz.

MABEL I’m supposed to meet the king here today.

SERVANT Well, everyone is here to see the king. That’s why people come to the castle. The moat sure isn’t attracting a crowd.

MABEL It’s not my fault I have to be here. I don’t actually want to meet the king.

SERVANT Really? I greatly doubt that you are not be the least bit excited to greet the ruler of the world.

MABEL He’s not the ruler of the whole world only our country first of all and second of all you would not be excited to see him if you knew that the fate of your life depended on spinning straw into gold for him.

SERVANT Oh so you must be the infamous Mabel I’ve heard so much about.

MABEL Well I don’t know any others.

SERVANT The whole castle is very excited to meet you my dear Mabel MABEL I guess word travels fast, huh.

SERVANT It should, the way your father described you. Heck, We were expecting God to walk through the door.

MABEL Dad sure does like to talk.

You’re very lucky.

SERVANT He seems like a great father.

MABEL Yeah he’s super.

SERVANT If you really are who you say you are, dear Mabel, then I think it would be best if followed me upstairs.

(MABEL and SERVANT go into small room filled only with straw, a stool, and spindle.)

MABEL Where are we?

SERVANT This, my dear Mabel, is where you stay while you do your work.

(SERVANT exits) MABEL Wait come back.

(MABEL sits on stool. Picks up straw and attempts to weave. She tries with different pieces then gets frustrated and stands up.)

This is ridiculous and impossible.

KING What?

(King knocks on door lightly while slowly entering.)

MABEL Oh nothing.

KING Oh I’m terribly sorry to intrude. I’ll leave you to your privacy. I just thought I heard someone out there, and I wanted to make sure you were ok.

MABEL Oh yes. I’m fine just fine. I’m working away just making this ol’ straw into gold. Yes sir straw into gold just by using this spindle. Only this spindle.

KING Oh good you’ve started. Well I was hoping to have all this straw done by morning or else well you know.

MABEL Oh I know.

KING It sounds very cruel doesn’t it? It’s just being so young and the king people just don’t take you seriously. And I knew from what your father and you have told me you are completely capable. I would never want to really kill you I hope you know that.

MABEL I appreciate that.

KING What would be truly awful, however, is if you and your father lied.

MABEL Why? KING Well as you know we have just passed the “No lying to royalty” law, which is punishable by death.

MABEL Oh yes that would be truly horrible

KING Well I’ll leave you to your work then, Mabel. What a pretty name Mabel.

(KING exits while talking then shuts door behind him leaving MABEL alone sitting on her stool at her spindle.)

MABEL Goodbye.

(There is a small tapping at the door) Yes? King is that you? Did you leave something?

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN enters slowly) RUMPELSTILTZKIN No it’s not the king.

MABEL Then who are you?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN No one no one.

MABEL Well why are you in my room?

(Pause) I’m going to call security.

No no don’t.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN I just need to stay here till the heat dies down.

MABEL What did you do?

RUMPELSTILTSKIN Oh… a … don’t worry about it. Just got into a little trouble that’s all. Enough about me why are you here?

With so much straw?

MABEL

I’m supposed to weave it into gold.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Oh. MABEL Wanna hear something funny.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Sure, kid.

MABEL I don’t know how. And when the king finds that out tomorrow morning I’ll be dead.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN You’re in luck.

MABEL What do you mean?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN I can weave straw into gold.

MABEL But… it’s impossible.

How?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Let’s just say I’ve had to get out of a few “situations” over the years.

MABEL Will you help then?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN For a small price.

I have no money.

MABEL But… wait I have this necklace. was my mother’s.

It

RUMPELSTILTZKIN It’s nice.

MABEL Is it a deal then?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN The necklace and I get to duck out here if I get into any more trouble.

MABEL Deal.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Deal.

MABEL Well should I leave or do you need something?

(Yawns) RUMPELSTILTZKIN Naw, you can sleep over there. In the morning it’ll be done.

MABEL Well I’ll just shut my eyes for a minute but I’ll be up… so don’t take anything.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Whatever you want.

MABEL Ok… (MABEL falls asleep in the corner.)

RUMPELSTILTZKIN G’night Mabel.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN turns his back to the audience so no one can see what he is doing.)

SCENE 3 (The KING’s bedroom) SERVANT King did I tell you Mabel came and should now be working away.

(SERVANT is walking around room cleaning and putting clothes away.)

KING Please, call me Theo.

SERVANT So, sorry… Theo.

KING You didn’t tell me, but I saw her and we talked.

SERVANT Bit too domineering for me.

Yes she was.

KING And she was quite awkward and sort of gawky you know?

SERVANT Yeah.

KING I liked her.

(Pause.)

A lot.

(SERVANT finishes putting clothes away in KING’s drawer.)

Lovely sir.

SERVANT That’s just lovely.

KING You hate her.

That’s not true.

SERVANT She was just a bit much too handle that’s all.

KING Who asked you anyway?

SERVANT No one Theo, no one.

KING It’s sir to you.

Of course, sir.

SERVANT Goodnight sir.

KING Goodnight. But she was pretty wasn’t she?

(Calling to him as he is opening the door to leave.)

SERVANT Very pretty sir. Very pretty.

(SERVANT exits.)

SCENE 4 MABEL’s room.

MABEL Hello? Are you still here?

(MABEL wakes up and walks around her room that is now filled with gold.)

He did it. He really did it.

(SERVANT enters room with breakfast tray while MABEL is still talking to herself.)

SERVANT Who? Who did what?

MABEL Oh good morning.

SERVANT Well aren’t you chipper?

(He puts the tray down.)

I heard you met the King last night.

MABEL Oh yes he was quite, quite lovely.

SERVANT I knew it.

MABEL Knew what?

SERVANT I knew you’d get like every other girl who meets the King.

I am not.

MABEL I am a strong independent lady who can and will think for herself.

SERVANT Even if I told you he talked about you last night?

MABEL He did?

SERVANT I thought you didn’t care?

MABEL Oh hush and tell me what happened.

SERVANT Well let’s just say I think you have a pretty good chance.

(SERVANT puts tray down and exits.)

MABEL Thank you.

(MABEL picks up tray and begins to eat when someone knocks at the door.)

Are you going to tell me more about the King?

(KING enters.)

KING Good Morning Mabel. Did I hear you say something about me?

MABEL Oh, no King.

KING Call me Theo.

MABEL Sure thing.

KING I see you did a truly great job last night.

MABEL Thanks. It was like I did it in my sleep.

KING So I hope you won’t mind finishing this next load by tonight.

MABEL No not at all.

KING Thank you dear Mabel.

(King exits.)

MABEL No problem.

(Yells after him then gets quiet. Then RUMPELSTILTZKIN rambles in.)

Well aren’t you just the man I need to see.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Hey. (Out of breath.)

MABEL Where were you this time?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Nowhere near Humpty Dumpty if anyone asks you.

MABEL Fine by me. I found an old ring of mine in my pocket that I can give you if you do this load for me.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN All right.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN sits down by the spindle to get started while a restless MABEL paces around him.)

MABEL Where do you live?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Do you want this done or not?

MABEL I was just curious.

(Pause.)

Do you have a family or roommates?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN If you must know I live by myself. I like it that way.

MABEL Oh. I don’t think I’d like that. No one to come home to, no one to put down as your emergency contact, don’t get me wrong I’m a very independent woman that can do for herself.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN

Like how your weaving this for yourself.

MABEL Just because I’m a woman does not mean I can use a spindle. You are just like every man, only littler I suppose.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN I don’t appreciate that.

MABEL Sorry I’m just homesick I guess.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN That’s the plus of having no one at home.

(MABEL nods.)

It does get lonely sometimes though.

(MABEL turns around to find the room is full gold instead of straw.)

MABEL Oh you’re done. That was quick.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Yeah well I should really get going.

Humpty Dumpty…

Oh and remember

MABEL Humpty who?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Exactly.

MABEL Goodbye.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN exits.)

KING Mabel?

MABEL

Yes, come on in.

I’m sorry.

KING I should stop bothering you.

Oh no I’m done.

MABEL You’re not bothering anyone.

KING I shouldn’t have come back. I’m being too pushy.

It’s just I really enjoyed talking to you.

MABEL I enjoyed talking to you too.

(KING walks over to piles of gold.)

KING You finished really quickly today.

MABEL Yes, I was really on today.

KING I have a question Mabel.

MABEL Ask away.

KING If you could make straw into gold why do you live in such a small place and so humbly with your father?

MABEL Well that’s because umm…

(Pause.)

Well I try to live simplistically. I don’t uh believe in materialistic things.

KING You never cease to amaze me Mabel. I’ve never met someone so honest and humble and sweet.

MABEL Oh you’re too much.

KING No, Mabel you are. I can’t stop thinking about you and this castle is so big and I have no one to share it with.

MABEL You have plenty of servants to keep you company.

KING What I’m trying to say Mabel is that I want to share it with you.

(MABEL sits on her stool in shock.)

So I have a proposition for you. If you go through the rest of this straw and finish it all I will set our wedding date.

MABEL (MABEL stands up.)

I’d love to.

(KING exits.)

Me marry a king.

(Pause) A king who will only marry me if a do forced labor for him to slightly increase his already ridiculous fortune.

(MABEL begins to pace.)

I can’t believe he thought I was just like all the other women of the kingdom who would drown trying to walk on water to see him. We’re not even married and he’s already making me into a common slave in his house.

(Pause) There’s still something about him.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN enters.)

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Hello Mabel.

MABEL Thank God you’re here. I really need you to do this last job for me. If you do I can marry the king. If you don’t well you know.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Well congratulations. What will you be paying me with time around?

MABEL Well I have nothing left.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Just ask your rich husband.

MABEL I can’t. He’d know I’ve been lying to him.

RUMPELSTILITZKIN I need payment Mabel.

MABEL I have nothing of value.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN That might not be true. I’ve been thinking about what we were talking about yesterday. You know being alone and family and all that jazz and I was thinking how great it would be to have a kid. You know, someone to pass all my knowledge on to, someone to carry on the family name.

MABEL Which is?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN That’s beside the point. Any way there is a form of payment I think you should consider.

Anything!

MABEL What is it?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN When you and the King get married I want your first-born child.

MABEL You want my what?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN I don’t want to live alone anymore Mabel.

MABEL Then get a dog.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN That’s my final offer.

MABEL So basically if I don’t give you my child I lose the opportunity to ever have one with the King?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN That’s how it looks over here.

MABEL I don’t have a choice.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN So… (MABEL sits.)

MABEL So (Pause) You win. If I don’t then I won’t even get to marry him let alone have his child. You can have my first-born.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN It’s a pleasure doing business with you Mabel.

(MABEL moves from the stool and stands silently in the doorway as RUMPELSTILTZKIN begins with his back towards the audience.)

SCENE 5 (The KING’s bedroom) KING Send a message to my mother.

(SERVANT picks up pen and begins to write.)

Tell her that she must come home from visiting aunt Susan and to get grandma’s ring because when she returns there will be… a wedding.

SERVANT A wedding?

KING Yes, I asked Mabel to marry me.

SERVANT You did what?

KING I know it sounds a bit rash.

SERVANT A bit rash? A bit rash? A bit rash would be to switch phone plans this is more than a bit rash. You realize you’ve only talked to her twice, sir.

KING I know. I know.

SERVANT Sir, you don’t you think you’re rushing into this? mean this is not a fairytale.

Some would argue that.

I

KING Send that letter immediately

to my mother. as possible.

I want this wedding to happen as soon While you’re at it send a message to Mabel’s father too.

SERVANT I will.

SCENE 6 (MABEL’s room filled with gold.)

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Well I’m all done. I guess I’ll be leaving now.

MABEL Goodbye.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Oh I’ll be back soon enough Mabel. Just wait.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN exits.)

MABEL What have I done?

KING (Calling form outside the door.)

Is anyone in there?

Come on in.

MABEL I’m all done.

KING (KING enters.)

Oh great you finished! Does this mean I can send out wedding invitations?

MABEL Yes. (Blackout) SCENE 7 (A year later, the KING’s bedroom with a basinet)

SERVANT He’s beautiful.

MABEL I know.

KING What should we name him?

FATHER How about Arthur?

KING No, how about Trevor?

FATHER I am not having a grandson named Trevor.

KING What about…

(KING is interrupted by knocking at the door) Come on in.

RUPELSTILTZKIN Hello Mabel, and Mabel’s lovely family.

MABEL Oh no.

KING Mabel, who is this?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Yeah Mabel, introduce me to your husband.

MABEL Oh God.

God.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN What an interesting name.

KING Excuse her, I’m King Theo maybe you’ve heard of me?

Anyway who are you?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Oh I’m the person who is presently taking your baby.

KING What?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Oh didn’t Mabel tell you? I’m the one who spun all the straw into gold and in return your dear Mabel promised your firstborn child.

Mabel?

KING Mabel is that true?

MABEL You don’t understand.

KING Then explain it to me Mabel because I don’t understand how you could give up our child to this, this man.

FATHER How could you Mabel? How could you give up my only grandchild?

MABEL (Yelling) How could I? How could I? First of all I would never have had to lie in the first place if it weren’t for you dad.

KING What are you talking about?

MABEL Oh he never told you. He only lied about me being able to weave straw into gold to impress you. He risked my life to impress a king.

KING (To FATHER) You lied?

FATHER Well…

MABEL Don’t make him out to be the bad guy. You’re the one who forced me to spin straw into gold out of your own greed on penalty of death when I wasn’t the one who lied in the first place. Then you blame me when you ask me to marry you and the only way for it to be possible to have a child with you is to give it up.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Well I didn’t mean to cause all this hubbub. just be leaving then.

Wait.

I’ll

MABEL You can’t.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN We made a deal, Mabel. Besides you guys might be a bit too dysfunctional to raise a child.

KING We can raise a child just fine thank you.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Oh really.

KING Yes, really. We may fight but there is no family in the world who would love little Trevor more than us.

FATHER Ahem.

KING

Or whatever we choose to call him.

MABEL There must be something, anything.

Ok.

Fine.

RUMPELSTILTZKIN If you can guess my name in the next three days you can keep him.

MABEL Thank you.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN EXITS)

SCENE 8 (MABEL is pacing frantically around KING and MABEL’s room in robe with hair a mess. There is a dresser covered in books and papers in the corner where the KING is sitting frantically searching through them.)

How about Henry?

MABEL Did we guess Henry?

KING (KING glances down a long scroll with a list of names and checks.)

Already guessed it.

What are we gonna do?

MABEL It’s day three and I’m out of names.

KING (Gets up to comfort MABEL.) We’ll guess it don’t worry.

MABEL This all my fault.

KING Don’t say that. If I hadn’t wanted you to selfishly make all that gold we wouldn’t be in this mess.

MABEL But if you hadn’t made me do that then we would have never met.

KING That’s true so if there was a silver lining to that cloud there will be one here too.

(Knocking at the door.)

Come in.

SERVANT Is there anything I can do?

Yes there is.

KING Go into town and collect all the names you can.

SERVANT Sir, we’ve already got every name there is in these books.

(Goes over and holds up a book.)

KING It’s our only hope.

SERVANT Yes sir.

(SERVANT exits.)

SCENE 9 (SERVANT is on horseback until he stops when he comes upon a small hut. He sees RUMPELSTILTZKIN in the hut trying to assemble a bassinet.)

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Stupid IKEA furniture, ah well at least I’ll have some company soon.

(RUMPELSTILTZKIN puts down the poles and begins to pace around the room.)

No more nights alone for me. I can teach him

everything I know and he can grow up to be just like me. Hey I could name him after me too. Yes, Rumpelstiltzkin Jr. SERVANT I guess I have some news for our dear Mabel.

SCENE 10 (KING and MABEL’s room with FATHER, KING. MABEL, and the baby are present. There is a knocking at the door.)

KING Come in.

(SERVANT comes in with RUMPELSTILTZKIN.) RUMPELSTILTZKIN Do you really want to guess or can we just skip that and let me take the baby now.

MABEL Well we have a few guesses.

(MABEL reaches for long scroll.)

Sebastien?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN No. MABEL Jared?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN Nope.

MABEL Umm… Rumpelstiltzkin?

RUMPELSTILTZKIN How, how did you know?