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Blue Review 2009 Staff Editors-In-Chief.......................................Lorraine Simonis Laura Graham Managing Editor........................................Aimee Chase Layout Design........................................Anika Kempe Art Editors......................Lucia Rowe, Arcadia Hartung, Rachael Porter Writing Editors.............Emily Bays, David Roza, Trisha Bassi Armine Garcia-Barker Faculty Advisors...................Kristy Higby Jim Applebaum Cover Design.................................Arcadia Hartung
(inspired by Nat Guy ‘93 painting from permanent collection)
Inside Cover Photographs..............Riley Renner Blue Review is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association
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Artwork
page 34: Open Spaces, By Laura Graham
page 36: Hello World, By Whitney Clark
page 38: Canine, Series 1, By Maddy Stoken page 38: Teeth, Series 2, By Maddy Stoken page 39: Blush, Series 3, By Maddy Stoken page 39: Nostril, Series 4, By Maddy Stoken
page 41: Where’s My Hat?, By Rachael Porter
page 42: Self Portrait, By Wynn Holzwarth
page 44: Roadmap, By Arcadia Hartung
page 4: Rocking Chair One, By Lucia Rowe page 5: Rocking Chair Two, By Lucia Rowe
page 7: Falling Fish, By Maddy Stoken
page 8: The Blue Tool, By Maddy Stoken
page 11 : Voyager, By Mariah Blake
page 13: Coughing Leaf, By Rachael Porter
page 14: Virgin Fest, By Riley Renner page 14: All in a Row, By Laura Graham
page 20: Self Portrait, By David Marshall page 20: Self Portrait, By Nacho Maiz-Vilches
page 48: Exit Strategy, By Whitney Clark
page 23: Reach, By Anika Kempe
page 53: Virginia Spin, By Robert Shabb
page 25: Free Burgers, By Arcadia Hartung
page 55: Smokestacks, By Arcadia Hartung
page 26: Motion of the Ocean, By Lucia Rowe
page 56: Lady Tree, By Robert Shabb
page 29: You Should Probably Clean That Up, By Arcadia Hartung
page 32: Teapot, By Michael Lo page 32: Twisted Teapot, By Michael Lo page 33: Basket of Apples, By Min Seok page 33: Teapot Rocker, By Michael Lo
page 58: Come Play, By Lindsey Garlitz page 58: Martian, By Lindsey Garlitz page 59: Mad Science, By Lindsey Garlitz page 59: Spirals, By Lindsey Garlitz
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page 16: Self Portrait, By Ya Gao page 17: Self Portrait, By Foster Wattles
page 46: Ready Set Fall, By Anika Kempe page 47: 18Z32, By Rachael Porter
page 60: Patriot, By Riley Renner
Writing `
table of contents
page 4: All That Glitters, By Lorraine Simonis page 6: Magic, By Zach Olivos page 9: Stress 2.3v, By Jake Fries page 10: Lunar Contemplation, By Spencer Flohr page 12: The Stretch, By Zach Olivos page 15: A Fine Line, ByAnmargaret Warner page 18: How Are...Oh Nevermind, By Anmargaret Warner page 21: I Like Your Eyes, By Emmanuel John-Teye page 22: Mirage in Reality, By Trisha Bassi page 24: What If, By Garrett Withiam page 27: Tranquil Culmination, By Bruce McLaughlin page 28: What If You Loved, By Trisha Bassi page 30: Phillip Glass, By the Blue Review Staff page 35: Sunshine, By Arcadia Hartung page 37: Eyes Like Streetlamps, By Aimee Chase page 40: Forgetfulness, By Clare Shearer page 42: Babbel, By Zach Olivos page 45: Spot Me Goldilocks, By Trisha Bassi page 46: Through the Flaming Ring, By Zach Olivos page 49: Retreat, By Jacob Fries page 50: The Life I Chose, By Daniel Quinn page 52: Remains of a Lifetime, By Clare Shearer page 54: Bottomless, By Matt Bachtell page 57: The Prophet, By Lorraine Simonis
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All that glitters is not gold, Lies and falsehoods I’ve been sold, Pearls of wisdom, I was told, Left me crushed, confused and cold. Yet, how am I to find my way, When the fading light of day, Tints the world in shades of gray, Giving truth so small a say?
Rocking Chair One Lucia Rowe 8”x10” Acrylic Painting
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By Lorraine Simonis
ALL THAT GLITTERS
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Rocking Chair Two Lucia Rowe 8”x 10” Acrylic Paint-
I used to see the magic of words. It lay there, moving in its presence, a source of beauty in a world of madness, and then I learned its formulas. And slowly, Gradually, magic vanished Replaced by rhetoric and parallel structure and juxtaposition and onomatopoeic and a slew of Other meaningless Empty mechanical words They stood alone No flow No rhythm No beautiful silence Magic couldn’t stand Intellect, magic was replaced By rhetorical tools Rhythm by Beats Eloquence lost in Contrived empty words Trying to define
Magic Magic By Zach Olivos
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Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t they see? Does anyone see the invisible beauty? The beauty of magic? The dissection of 6eau7y 0nly 1eave5 behind a whale and a native + a crazy captain w/ one leg + a pile of rhetoric like p@ra11e1 structure Comma and ju><taposition Comma and onomatopoeic Comma Period Maybe some can stand To 1ose their magic, their innocence Maybe I alone remember the beauty that used to be In between those flimsy paperback greats I long for the ignorance That could be found in enjoying Such things But now, all I can ever see is 1\1 um 6 3r 5.
Falling Fish Maddy Stoken 36”x 48” Acrylic Painting
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10 10 The Blue Tool Maddy Stoken 36”x48” Acrylic Painting
Stress
2.3v
By Jake Fries
Where is my return address? I swear that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m lost, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t recognize anything We put return addresses on our mail all the time But where is mine? I swear that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m defective or something is missing Where is my reset button? I better be under warranty
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Lunar Contemplation by Spencer Flohr
When I am wakeful and night becomes late, Upon the tranquil orb I ruminate. Outshined by Helios thou mayest be, But greater art thou in pallid mystery. And as both hoplite’s shield and crescent sword, Thou guardst against the celestial horde. And toward thy countenance both scarred and proud, The mighty seas with gesticulation bow. For the sun’s bright beams thou dost rebuke, But thy subtler splendor the mild nights suit; Thus Behold! With Man’s mind the specter plays, Kindling musings as fire in bone-dry hay. When I am wakeful and night becomes late, Upon the frightful orb I ruminate. 12
Voyager Mariah Blake 8” x 10” Photograph
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The Str etc
The runners round the track They stretch, they call to it, Their posture screaming agony.
h
The crowd cheers. He doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see them in the rain. To him, their faces nothing more Than brush strokes
by h
ac
Z
On a gray canvas.
liv
O os
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Coughing Leaf
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Rachael Porter 32” x 24” Acrylic Painting
All in a Row Laura Graham 8” x 10” Photograph
16 Virgin Fest Riley Renner 8” x 10” Photograph
Blue ink waits patiently to dry on the page Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s still glossy in the light Small puddles within the indentations Waiting to be scattered But the bend of the hand passes it by And the curves and swerves are untouched They wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be smudged
a f ine line
By Anmargaret Warner
Not today, tomorrow, or the next day The opportunity has fled Blue ink stains the page forever Then a drop of water hits A tear forms a pond of aqua The color and the liquid Impermanence rains down
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e S lf
portraits
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Self Portrait Ya Gao 24” x 30” Charcoal Drawing
Self Portrait Foster Wattles 24”x 30” Graphite Drawing
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How are...Oh Nevermind 20
“Hello.”
I’d always thought this was the paramount greeting. While a simple “hello” is nothing special, it gets the job done. It is fast and easy. It does not require a response. It acknowledges the person you are welcoming in a friendly way. It does not discriminate against race, age, or gender. If my life seems to be crashing and burning, I can always count on a “hello” to remain steady throughout my day, right? No! Since when did “How are you?” become the way to greet someone? Let us analyze the format of the question. “How,” a simple adverb meaning “in what way, usually to gather more information,” “Are,” a standard verb. “You,” a pronoun acknowledging the person addressed. A simple query, right? No again! When are you supposed to use the question? What sparks the need to bring up the question? And most importantly, what is the protocol for answering the impersonal question? There are many obstacles “How are you?” presents. The inquirer most likely does not want a long response covering how you feel, what you ate that day, what you are
stressed out about, or how much homework you have. Therefore, the most common answer I have heard to “How are you?” is “Good.” Coincidentally, this is not even correct grammar! A more proper response would be “I am doing well,” or “I am fine. Thank you.” However, even after giving these responses, one must feel a little empty. What was the purpose of that greeting? It did not provide any more insight into that person’s life than the asker could have guessed. And after the encounter there is often that part of you thinking, “Well, that was awkward. I don’t even know that person’s name.” This brings up another important issue concerning the looming inquiry: To whom should this question be directed? Mild acquaintances? Old friends that you no longer talk to regularly? Teachers? Teammates that you are supposed to be friends with but you don’t actually like? Pick any of the options listed because, guess what? There is no boundary for the loathsome question. While you wouldn’t ask a random schoolmate “How are you?” The line between appropriate and inappropriate acquaintances to question is quite
fuzzy.
complete lie, regardless of who you are. No matter how boring your life may seem, something has to be going on with you, unless you’re dead. Another difficulty “What’s up?” presents is contradiction. “What’s up?” someone asks. “Oh, nothing. I’m doing math homework.” How does that remotely make sense? How can you be doing nothing while doing something at the same time?
This is beyond me.
By Anmargaret Warner
Another issue to consider is the situation of the “How are you?” encounter. If you are walking on the sidewalk and another person is walking towards you, there is probably not enough time for both you and the other person to ask the question, receive the answer, and keep on walking at the same pace. I, for one, have found myself many a time answering the dull question to no one, as the person who asked me the question is already well behind me. If only one person asks the question, a sense of purposelessness still looms overhead. Just imagine it. “How are you?” “Good.” Wow, that was great! I’m happy we spent the time to get to know each other better. What about a stationary “How are you,” like at the sandwich bar? A mission is already demanding your attention, but now you must multi-task between perfecting your sandwich and the small talk. And then what to do when the “Good” has been given? Ignore the person? Delve into deeper conversation? Walk away with a poorly constructed sandwich? Unfortunately, “How are you?” now has company. “What’s up?” is by far the worst greeting I have ever encountered, mostly because I cannot think of an answer to this question that is even slightly correct. “The ceiling,” or “The sky,” while clever, are obnoxious. “Nothing,” which is most commonly used as a response to “What’s up?” is a
A distant cousin of “How are you?” is “Are you okay?” and it has mysteriously been fitted for every situation. Most of the time, this question is directed to someone who is obviously not okay, as they are crying, bleeding profusely, hyperventilating, or unconscious. Why not skip that step completely, save time, and address the problem head on? Like, “Why are you bleeding profusely from your thigh?” Your friend’s grandmother just died. “Are you okay?” you ask. What do you expect them to say? All of these useless questions are impersonal, leave the person who was asked the question wondering what to say next, and create awkward moments. And would you even be qualified to handle a ridiculous answer such as, “No, I want to shove this fork in my eyeball.” You really do not care how that person is doing, do you? So don’t ask them. They will be fine with a simple “Hello.” Trust me.
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Self Portrait David Marshall 14” x 14” Digital Image
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Self Portrait Nacho Maiz-Vilches 14” x 16” Digital Image
I your eyes like
By Emmanuel John-Teye
Melting eyes of multi brown
within the depths I truly drown.
Changing shades by fanning splinters fade to black within the centers. Center pupil, deep and dark within them hides a passionate spark.
Such beauty is a gifted trait.
Straight through my soul they penetrate. A wink, a blink, a glance, a stare Such eyes go with a lady fair. I know these words may come as a surprise
But simply put, I like your eyes.
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Mirage in Reality It’s what you see it’s what you feel but is it real, contradiction after contradiction time and time again. Who am I and who are you? The me that was known to my head had never existed. Nothing more than a delusion that my mind seemed to create while I lay awake at night. There are a thousand different versions of myself, your insight and perception, only scratches on the surface. Too immersed in my own mind while the intricate webs of archives are bursting at the seams.
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Reach Anika kempe 10” x 6.75” Digital Image
By Trisha Bassi
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what if By Garrett Withiam
What if this package contained my every need such as a few porno mags and a baggie of weed.
What if this package was filled with money I would steal it and not stop running like the energizer bunny. What if this package contained my mind which I have been looking for for days but cannot find.
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Free Burgers Arcadia Hartung 8” x 10” Acrylic Painting
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Motion of the Ocean Lucia Rowe 36”x48” Acrylic Painting
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u l r Tanquil C mination Ascending walls of ice,
By Bruce McLaughlin
gleaming in the sun.
The slow trickle of orange, working its way down, into the ground. Shutters snapping closed, like crocodile jaws, but no warmth for survival. Into the woods, then up a mountain. Snow, wind, rain, hell? No, more like heaven. The mountains cast a spell, pull you in unaware, but remember yourself. Leaving we will weep, over good times and bad.
What fun we had.
Sleep on a cloud, dream to the music. No worries, no joy. Neutral like gray, I migrate away, and then Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m back. 29
By Trisha Bassi
Ignorance Ignorance is simply bliss so donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell me when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re breaking my heart.
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You Should Probably Clean That Up Arcadia Hartung 10”x20” Acrylic Painting
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Glass on Creativity, Collaboration, and Taste (In April 2009, the composer Philip Glass did a residency at Mercersburg Academy. The following are highlights of discussions Glass had with students. They have been edited by Blue Review staff) About Creativity and Collaboration There are four elements in collaboration. There’s text/words, there’s movement, there’s image, and there’s music. Someone said to me once that the audience is a fifth element. Yes, that’s true, it is. But that comes at the moment of presentation; it doesn’t come with the creation of the work. And that is an important moment, and we could talk about that too. I call these the air, earth, fire and water - the four elements. The composer can enter into any of those. Not every collaboration involves all four. For example, a dance piece may be just movement and music. The one where you have all four working all the time is opera; the other one is film. In fact, I would say that most of my work has been in theatre and film and in opera. There are a lot of angles to this that are interesting. Where does the collaboration start? At what point does the music enter? Who chooses the collaborators? How does it happen? How do the pieces get made? Who finances them? All of these things I’ve spent my lifetime finding out about. It’s a great privilege to be able to share this world with artists…very inspiring to do work with that kind of energy…to inhabit that world with others. I actually only know how to do one thing. I can only write [music]. I can’t dance, I can’t draw, I can’t write poetry. I can’t do anything! Only this one thing. And so I am fortunate to find collaborators, these poets and singers and dancers... I have to find them… because I can’t do it! On the Creative Process When I’m writing a concert piece like a strong quartet or a symphony, there is no external stimulation. I don’t have somebody’s images; I don’t have somebody’s
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poetry, so the inspiration for music comes either from the language of music itself or from my own body of work. For some people that’s easy to do; for some people that’s hard. For me it’s easier to work with other people. In other words, I’m truly inspired by other people. When I’m left to myself to write a symphony the process is more difficult for me because I don’t have that external stimulation. In fact, I found that what I call encounters with other artists was the surest way to allow change to happen in the music. Fortunately, I am always writing a new piece so I never go back and rewrite because I would rather write a new piece anyway… because I am constantly playing all the pieces - I’m playing music from 1971 and 1969 today so I’m playing pieces that are forty years old. The ensemble I work with is responsible
for that, for the body of work, that work that goes from’ 69 to the present. I am constantly reviewing it but I am not doing it in order to see if I can make it better. I do it to see, first of all, how people like it, hear it, and I have to have things to play, but I’m trying to discover who the person was that wrote that music. I know he’s around here somewhere. I’d like to find him and have a talk with him about it and what he was thinking about. My experience has been that the activity of working with music is such an intense activity that there is little time left in the process for self reflection about the process itself so when the process is over its very hard to remember what you did. Because you weren’t paying attention to what you did you were doing it. That’s a complicated way of saying a very simple thing, which is I’m too busy writing to think about what I am doing and it takes every ounce of my intellectual stamina or whatever I might have in energy, and ability, just to get the basic things down. To actually reflect on it is well beyond me. So later on when I am playing I am thinking about it. I’m thinking about it in a different way than I ever did when I wrote it.
For the Creative Student On thing about painters, or poets, cooks or designers or whatever you do… the thing that everybody worries about , especially at your age - I did the same thing, we all do - you worry about finding a voice of your own. I can promise you that, by the time you’re 30 you’ll find it, because everybody does. It’s kind of an organic process that happens anyway. If the desire is there, the voice will come. But that actually isn’t the problem. The problem is not how to find the voice but how to get rid of it. Once you have it, you’re stuck with it, and you begin repeating what you’ve done. You are making the same soup, designing the same clothes, writing the same book. How do I move on? How do I move my own personal language, which is what it is fundamentally. Creativity is whatever
you do. If you put a bottle on a table you change the table. Creativity is not just something that happens in conservatories and painting schools. It happens all the time. What is the engine of change? I found that the engine of change was other artists because they would do things that I couldn’t do. I can’t paint, I can’t dance, I can’t draw, but I found that if a dancer had an idea, because it was something I didn’t know, I had to change my language to fit their language. So that finding that meeting place became the engine of change - when you work with other people the distance that you traverse to reach that person. To find the common language-that distance is the change. That distance is the place where the change in your work happens. On Expanding One’s Tastes Someone said to me once, ‘You know, I really want to like your music, and when I listened to it I can’t, so what should I do? I just say, ‘Oh, go listen to something else. You don’t have to like my music. There’s a lot of music out there and how can we really like all of it.’
Actually, I get interested in music. I may not like it all but I can be interested in what anyone’s doing because I understand that technology. I understand the language of music in a very thorough way. I’ve done it all my life and I’ve studied and I’ve been in Africa, I’ve been in Asia, I’ve studied with people and I’ve learned to know their music. What we say is people don’t know what they like, they like what they know. That’s the real truth. I discovered that myself when some early music of mine began to be covered and licensed and people began to use it and I thought to myself, that piece I played today, that piece has been covered and licensed all over the place and I always kept thinking, ‘well, after a while I won’t get anymore concerts; well, that’s not true. The more it gets licensed, the more other people want its license because the more familiar it becomes. So we human beings, one of the things we do is we like what’s familiar. To listen to things that are unfamiliar, you have to have kind of a taste for it. My father was like that. He liked things he didn’t know, and I picked it up from him. He had a little record store in Baltimore. He didn’t know music very well, he was actually a car mechanic, and they started putting radios into cars and then they began fixing the radios.. and then he got rid of the cars and just had radios and record players and then he started selling records.. and it took him 10 years but he became a record store owner. He didn’t know anything about music but he liked to listen... he would find the oddest things and bring them home and say, ‘Hey kid, listen to this.’ Like in the 1940’s when I was around 10 years old, he had me listening to Shostakovich which, in 1947 was very new music. He liked new music and then he would try to convert people – he would say, no, take this home, and if you don’t like it, bring it back. And most of the time they kept it. Or maybe they were just afraid of disappointing him. What is the key? The key is familiarity. But there’s another aspect of it too. There’s a certain kind of personality that’s interested in things that are different. and not everybody has that. Its a special gene; probably it’s a mutant gene…and if you’ve got the mutant gene then you will spend your life listening to interesting music .. and if you don’t got the gene then it will just sound like junk to you.
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Teapot Michael Lo Ceramics
Twisted Teapot Michael Lo Ceramics
Ceramic 34
Basket of Apples Min Seok Kim Ceramics
Teapot Rocker Michael Lo Ceramics
Sculptures 35
36 Open Spaces Laura Graham 7”x 10” Photograph
When I was sad she would tell me “Look deep inside your soul, and you will find your sunshine.” I cry to her and say,
Sunshine “But mother, the sun is up in the sky.”
By Arcadia Hartung
She laughs, her laugh is beautiful
“Oh sweetie, don’t you understand?” As I wipe away my tears I shake my head, confused,
“You are MY sunshine” She whispers in my ear.
And I smile, letting the bright warmth of my sun shine through. 37
Hello World Whitney Clark 14” x 16” Digital Image
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By Aimee Chase Eyes like street lamps Faces marking the places We’re not quite there yet Fences and fingers keep us out—hold us back Take an eyelash make a wish You’re not getting any younger, do it quick Your eyes are like streetlights Guiding me downwards Shine the light and I follow I’ll step slowly and surely, marking each place with a song A song matching the many faces
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Teeth, Series 2 Maddy Stoken 20”x20” Acrylic Painting
Canine, Series 1 Maddy Stoken 24”x24” Acrylic Painting
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Sharp Tooth A Series
Blush, Series 3 Maddy Stoken 20”x20” Acrylic Painting
Nostril, Series 4 Maddy Stoken 12”x16” Acrylic Painting
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At first, it was a sock, some papers, a pen, and lyrics to a song, all lost in the folds of life. Then a pair of earrings, the ones you gave me, a few wrinkled bills, but, still, life went on. And then a phone, or six, but I only needed to reach you. Next headphones, my iPod, yet life kept its rhythm, its beat. Disregard the school sweatshirt, some buttons from my coat, my coat itself, a book and a hat taken by the wind. Those are common, accidental, inconsequential, compared to losing what makes life move, compared to losing you.
Forgetfulness 42
Where’s My Hat? Rachael Porter 24” x 30” Charcoal Drawing
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Self Portait Wynn Holzwarth 14” x 16” Digital Image
By Zach Olivos 4444
Bobbling heads Nodding on the dashboard Sunlight bouncing With the frame of A Volvo 240 Just running Nose in a book Just Audible A Grunting distaste “No learning” “Babbling smart-nothings” Sitting with The Round Table silent Of Higher Learning Astride the Tower of Knowledge I disagree. silently No, I Concur At that Table silent Was I taught, I have learned But one Through process I have learned More than my imagination More than imagined Clutch paper Key to happiness Key to success Lined Paper Medicinal Vacuum Draining pointless art From the head From the mind Encaged here Forever.
Forever. Encaged here From the mind From the head Draining pointless poems Medicinal Vacuum Lined Paper Key to success Key to happiness Clutch Paper More than imagined More than my imagination I have learned Through process But one I have learned Was I taught silent At that table No, I Concur silently I disagree Astride the Tower of Knowledge Of Higher Learning silent The Round Table Sitting with “Babbling smart-nothings” “No learning” A Grunting distaste Just Audible Nose in a book Just running With the frame of A Volvo 240 Sunlight bouncing Nodding on the dashboard Bobbling heads
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46 46 Roadmap
Arcadia Hartung
18”x22” Mixed Media
By Trisha Bassi
Spot Me Goldilocks Dancing fairies touch upon the light within the thick walls of my mind Falling away into the mist of April days to come and ones that will follow Cut, cut, chop me up distribute me evenly amongst yourselves, use me up Walking around this edge with uncertainty, it speaks alluringly calling my name Menacing grins exchanged on the midnight dock as time flies by stealthily Dare not cross it, hesitant to touch it, cautiously walk toward it; You draw the line Toxicity is running stationed nearby the moral contract signed in blood Released; freed from the mainstream, deterioration, relapse, replay
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Through The Flaming Ring
Many a long night I have been Considering Leaping through The Flaming
My father did it And so shall I But should I fail, Fall Or somehow die Know that it always was My dream to fly To soar Through the Flaming Ring. Ready Set Fall Anika Kempe 14” x 14” Digital Image
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By Zach Olivos
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18Z32
Rachael Porter
10”x20” Mixed Media
Exit Strategy Whitney Clark 11” X 17” Digital Image
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RETR E
AT Hello Mista Carrot, Hows da Misses? Noes times toos talks I gots toos runs, I gots toos go This worlds aint nuffen Aint nuffen buts a cuttenbored Off wees goes, intu da ground I seens enuff of the world
By
Ja
b Fr ies
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By Daniel Quinn
THE LIFE I CHOSE I was in one hell of a situation. No, we’re not talking about some sort of any day kind of trouble, I was royally screwed. The sweat on my palms prevented me from keeping my MP5 submachine gun steady as I quaked with fear. I wasn’t supposed to be here. This isn’t what I signed up for. It felt like only yesterday that I was back home, picking crabs out back, sipping a brew with her at my side. What could I do? There’s no emergency button in war. No reset button. No “get me the hell out of here now” button. Ha, that’s what they should call it, ‘cause that’s all I kept thinking about. Getting the hell out of there. But I couldn’t. The ambush on the mountain had separated me from my squad. And I was alone. Not completely though. I pulled out her picture. Her dark blue eyes were there to comfort me, and I knew that somewhere far away she was safe. Her blue eyes pierced my heart as she raised her head slowly to look at me from across the table. The pain in my chest had become too familiar the last three weeks as the look she often gave me made me reevaluate the life I chose. She wasn’t just some good looking broad I picked up at the bar by flashing my fancy uniform. She was real, a genuine human being who had my heart. Her eyes weren’t just any generic blue. Everyone can say they have “blue” eyes, but these were different. They were a dark blue, they way blue should be. Her black eyelashes made them shine in the light that hung above us at the dinner table. Her hair was light brown with specks of gold. It fell over her shoulders, magnifying the strapless black dress that she wore whenever I took her out to dinner. All these aspects of beauty however, were diminished by the fact that she knew what was coming. She knew I had to leave again. It was her eyes that told me.
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She didn’t say a word when I packed my bags. In fact, she wasn’t even there. She sat in the living room, legs crossed, hair pulled back tight, a look of eminent loneliness shown in her eyes. How did I know this? Cause it was just like the first two times I got deployed. The first time I was with her there on the couch my arm around her as a tear drop fell on the diamond ring I had slid on her finger only two weeks earlier. The second time, she sat in the same place, staring at the ultrasound photograph of our unborn child, knowing that I wouldn’t be there to hold her hand in the delivery room, knowing that I wouldn’t be there to drive her home from the hospital, knowing that I’d be gone for everything. The third time, there was nothing. No emotion. No tears. She had gotten over the pain of our stillborn child months ago. She was alone. The gunfire died as the sun set over the mountains in the Peshawar Valley. I was alone, just like her. I scratched my sandy beard and took a sip from my canteen. The arid mountains are fast to dry you out, and my beard had merely been grown to blend in with the rest of the hajjis running around the mountains. The moon was full and it illuminated the valley below me. It’s hard for someone to imagine the beauty of the night in the Middle East unless you’ve been there. I must have seen twenty shooting stars that night, no thirty. Nevertheless, I wished on every one of those stars that I’d make it home to her. The cold night air chilled my core and I pressed my MP5 against my chest. I dozed off to the sound of nothingness, cause that’s what the Sandbox is, nothing, absolutely nothing.
“I love you,” is all she said when I dropped my bag by the door. Would those be the last words I’d ever hear her say? She held my hand and stared into my eyes. She wanted me to be safe. She wanted me to come back alive. Her eyes told me so. She drove me to the base, one hand on the wheel, one hand folded with mine. I cried that night at the base, the night before we shipped out. I cried because this was the end. I knew that what I was about to do was a suicide mission. Engage enemy forces in the Peshawar Valley, clear a path for insertion of more troops. Clear a path! Ha, like I had done that so far. My squad was screwed, I was curled up behind a goddamn rock, and I was surrounded by a bunch of lousy goat lovers with guns. I woke up after sunrise, afraid that I had already been spotted by enemy forces. She had always woken up at sunrise. It used to drive me out of my mind. “I like to get the day started early, so much to do!” is what she’d cheerfully say…I shifted my position and moved towards the ridge of the mountains. My throat was coarse and my eyelashes were crusty from a well deserved rest, in the sand. As I moved diagonally up the mountain, I spotted three men patrolling the mouth of a well- hid cave. They were substantially armed, and I presumed whatever lurked behind them was well armed also. My orders were to call in an airstrike when I spotted a location such as this, so I did. I pulled out my radio and relayed the coordinates. But that was the beginning of my problems. The men began to move hastily around the cave. They must have intercepted my message and were preparing for battle. I
heard gunfire echo across the mountain. Some of my squad must have survived and encountered a similar problem. I advanced on the cave, pulled out a fresh magazine and slammed it into the MP5. I was about to unleash hell. She had given me the picture when we first started dating. We lived far away from each other and it was something for me to hold onto when I was lonely during training missions. On the back she had written a note, a note that I had read thousands of times, “Whenever the wind is whispering, or you feel a breeze upon your face, I am there with you always.” I was below the mouth of the cave. Men were scrambling above, dropping boxes, yelling what I believed to be Farsi at each other. I stood up and stepped onto the lip of the cave to face the enemy. A well placed bullet between the eyes of one man, four rounds to the chest of another, but the third man got me. I dropped to the ground as he fired three rounds into my chest and right thigh. My thigh burned and I gasped for air. I pushed myself to my knees to see that the lip of the cave had turned into a hysteric mess of bearded men who surrounded me. As I reached in my pocket, a light breeze funneled through the mountains. I remembered the last line of her note, “…I am there with you always.” I ran my fingers over the grenade in my pocket, found the pin, and pulled it out. I smiled at the men surrounding me and closed my eyes. This was the end to the life I chose. Blackness.
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a m i ea f L i fe t An intricately woven tapestry shows no sort of mastery when its all a drawn out accident, with every stitch reminiscent of success, failure, triumph, mistake, a toppling, towering layer cake where lost memories lay embellished forever in vibrant color, each forgotten endeavor, where pathways cross, split, spiral down, newness eclipsing a worn background while layers build and far corners fray, dust settles in, a masterpiece in decay.
ime
By ByClare ClareShearer Shearer
And this artful mishap, past its prime, finished, hangs behind others in line, a remarkable illustration of no avail, and this is life, chronicled.
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Virginia Spin Robert Shabb 11” X 17” Photograph
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Bottomless By Matt Bachtell
At 6 AM, the pier is cold and empty. Mist hides the sun, but the whiteness of the background provides all the best contrast. His friend, bundled in a warm coat and scarf, stands facing him, his back to the vast, dark lake. It is a fitting backdrop. “She didn’t say a word, Sam.” Sam’s gaze should be on his friend, but he can’t take in anything but the lake. It’s still surface, glassy and cold, affords no relief. “You never told me she had such pretty eyes.” He makes a non-committal noise and continues to lose himself in the black, abysmal lake. It isn’t relief, per-say; it’s a void, permitting no thought, no anguish, nothing. It is bottomless, and Sam thinks he could drown in it forever. Finally, though, he has to tear his gaze away. He has just seen the rope, wrapped around the railing of the pier that his friend is gently holding. “I am certain she would’ve appreciated the view. She always did enjoy taking those long walks around this lake.”
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Smokestacks Arcadia Hartung 36”x48” Acrylic Painting
“She couldn’t ever finish, though,” Sam’s tone is pleading. His friend reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cold thing, this one metal: new, never used. He holds it out to Sam. “You know what I am going to say.” Sam glances at the gun, then at his friend, and then finally to the rope. He imagines the rope trailing into the depths, suspended in the stillness, lit maybe by a stray sunbeam filtering through the foam and dock boards. Its fibers swollen, tangled in weeds and a few locks of red hair, the color of strawberries. He closes his eyes to block the image. “She wouldn’t want that.” “But you do.”
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Lady Tree Robert Shabb 12” X 12” Drawing
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The Prophet By Lorraine Simonis A turtle named Death Lies abandoned in a puddle Cassandra reborn
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Martian Lindsey Garlitz 11”x17” Ink Drawing
A Series Inspired By Tim Burton
Come Play Lindsey Garlitz 11”x17” Ink Drawing
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Mad Science Lindsey Garlitz 11”x17” Ink Drawing
Spirals Lindsey Garlitz 11”x17” Ink Drawing
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Patriot Riley Renner 8”x 10” Photograph
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