Illuminati JUDGES Anthony Brownlee Dan Frease Matt Grimes Katie Henry Steve Joyce Allie Kontnier Michelle Lawrence Dr. Eric Melbye Adam Pettit Chris Reeves Laura Richey Ms. Gail Tayko Meghan Woods Visit our website at www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/illuminati/
Contents Aaron Enyart
Canning Time
6
Sarah Huffner
Falling Snow
7
Katie Henry
Every Summer Autumn Air
8
Meghan Woods
Boys Ride Their Bikes Through
9
Jennifer Apking
Vegetation at Sunrise Ocean Tide
10
Sarah Huffner
The Farmer’s Wife
11
Michelle Lawrence
Across the Fence
12
Erin Ryan
Brushing
14
Lawrence Spezanno
Colorfree
15
Vanessa Shannon
Dance with Death
16
Meghan Woods
Mother
19
Neil Marks
Just a Day on the Sideline
20
Vanessa Shannon
Love Floats
22
Neil Marks
To a Model
23
Meghan Woods
15 Year Gap
24
DeAnna Pretty-Jones
Remember You Are Eve
25
Aaron Enyart
The Engineer
26
Neil Marks
Message to a Violinist
28
Lindsay Shockley
untitled
29
Curt Maggard
“Punks”
30
Curt Maggard
“Rocks”
31
Katie Henry
untitled
32
Michael Lockwood
untitled
33
Courtney Curtner
untitled
34
Lindsay Shockley
untitled
35
Courtney Curtner
untitled
36
Lindsay Shockley
untitled
37
Allison Singhoffer
untitled
38-39
Anthony Brownlee
untitled
40
Rom Wells
untitled
41-43
Jessica Back
untitled
44
Rebecca Cameron
untitled
45
Allison Singhoffer
untitled
46
Chris Reeves
untitled
47
Man Crushed by Falling Whale 48 The Danger of Cell Phones
50
Vanessa Shannon
Clue
57
Dan Frease
Cascade Failure
60
Allie Kontnier
October in Boston
64
Adam Pettit
Seamless Window
66
Michelle Lawrence
A Tiny Life
78
Jay Colliver
Multigenre
87
Allie Kontnier
A Matter of Timing
101
Chelle Creekbaum
The Daily Grind
103
Steve Joyce
Religion: How I Lost It
106
Selected Contributors
112
Submission Guidelines
116
Illuminati Editor-in-Chief Michelle Lawrence
Assistant Editor Meghan Woods
Editorial Assistants
Chris Reeves, Steve Joyce
Staff
Dan Frease, Anthony Brownlee, Laura Rickey, Erin Ryan, Matt Grimes, Jennifer Apking, Katie Henry
Faculty Advisor Dr. Eric Melbye
Cover Art
Chris Reeves
Cover Design
Dr. Eric Melbye, Michelle Lawrence
Web design
Dr. Eric Melbye, Michelle Lawrence
Print Layout and Design
Michelle Lawrence, Chris Reeves, Meghan Woods
Printing
The Print Center Oxford, Ohio
Interim Offices
Student Affairs 9 Johnston Hall, Miami University Middletown
Illuminati would like to thank the following for their unwavering support and enthusiasm towards our publication: Miami Middletown Student Government, The Communications Board, Dr. James Ewers, Jim Sliger, Carol Caudill, Brad Farr, Starla Evilsizor, the Middletown Poetry Circle, Gail Tayko and the Department of English, Kristin Kieffer of the Print Center, and all who submitted their work for publication.
From The Editor’s desk As if our staff was armed with cans of Miracle Grow, Illuminati continues to grow by leaps and bounds. With each issue, we double our submissions, our staff, our community involvement and our printings. Even so, we continue to be a publication that refuses to relinquish our independent spirit. We are a journal of the arts that is seeded and harvested by you, our readers and contributors. With your creativity, knowledge, and support, you shape who we are and how we represent our campus and community; you define us. As of this issue, our editors and staff tend Illuminati on a volunteer basis. It is truly a labor of love—the love of writing, of art, and of creativity. In an age where many feel that poetry or paint and canvas are outdated, we continue to show otherwise, and you, as our readers, support that ideal. For that, we heartily thank you. We hope you enjoy this issue, our largest and most diverse to date.
Drawing by Rom Wells
Aaron Enyart
Canning Time I keep the things that sustain me in mason jars, close in the pantry for when I need them. I use them to remember what life was like inside the glass with the march of years held back. The “POP!” of a dome lets visions return fresh. I sterilize the jars so nothing will spoil. That’s the first rule to get things to keep through years. When the jars are filled and the lids are on tight the pressure cooker seals out time. Despite the heat and pressure, sometimes bad memories remain to defeat the seal. When I’m sure the seals’ good and jars are labeled right I put them up, shelves upon shelves. Memories, for when I need them. As years roll on and the shelves fill labels wear, seals fail, jars empty or disappear. I keep canning.
Sarah Huffner
Falling Snow Snow is falling outside my window. The gentle drift of the white snow contrasts with the white noise of the traffic that I hear roaring past my home. I will not acknowledge the traffic for what it is; instead, I imagine the white noise is a rushing river where snowflakes softly glide onto the rushing surface. Melting into the river as it roars down through the rapids that have forged a cut in the mountain for a millennium. The snow is ancient. It is water recycled from the oceans evaporation being carried around the world above our heads. Then, at the appropriate moment in nature’s cycle, it falls toward the ground. As I try to watch a single flake travel toward the river, I see slight twisting, turning, falling - out of my vision. Each more beautiful than the next. The sixty foot spruce does not mind the snow. It stands tall, though its branches sag slightly under the weight of the accumulating flakes. I remember past times that I walked in falling snow, when flakes rested on trees, the air too cold to melt them. Blanket of glistening snow settled my thoughts. The sound of each flake chimed -cht cht cht- as each crystal delicately collided with the previously fallen morsel of frozen water.
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Katie Henry
Every Summer Sneaking on the frog His swamp grass back turned to me Lightening splash green pond
Autumn Air Open the windows Light sugared apple water Now rains through the house
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Meghan Woods
Boys Ride Their Bikes Through Our neighborhood is full of bubble-gum driveways. Girls play hopscotch over the cootie-filled wads, Mothers write honey-do lists, and Fathers with putty-knifes bake in the sun. But Boys ride their bikes through. Turning pink into gray. Our neighborhood is full of dead lawns. Girls skate down sidewalks, Mothers add to their honey do lists, and Fathers water seeds with sweat from laying down straw. But Boys ride their bikes through. Turning green into brown.
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Jennifer Apking
Vegetation at Sunrise Shade fed dew drops that Dance on plants for all to see Sizzle in the sun.
Ocean Tide The ocean swallows Sucking in the tide like air Then blows out a wave.
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Sarah Huffner
The Farmer’s Wife She mixes the flour with buttermilk; biscuits, bacon, eggs. Rooster crows, clock chimes six, sizzling pork, crackling wood. Her floral print, worn with time and labor fills her days. No diamonds except sparkling snow, no gold except the wheat field. She stretches her back, rolls her shoulders, then the pin. Kneads the dough and nothing more as dawn fills the room.
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Michelle Lawrence
Across the Fence My neighbors keep their lawns a perfect, lush green. They hire services to kill the weeds and leave small white signs along their property lines guarding against intrusion. They delight in pristine gardens, new white siding and fluttering American flags. They climb onto roofs to survey their kingdoms, with hands on hips and tools to blow away debris from their gutters. Shiny pickup trucks show their American pride alongside family cars the size of tanks on newly paved driveways; towhead boys play football and fair-haired girls cheer them on. It’s always been this way.
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And so it’s a surprise each time a new black family pops up smack in the middle of my street. The neighborhood watch meets and alongside the lawn care trucks appear alarm servicemen and police on patrol. I’ll spot the new family once from my shaded window and thrill at the newness but before I can say hello the For Sale signs announce the family’s exile. The neighborhood’s steely silence marks the place brighter and louder than a cross lights the night. They roll out the welcome mats, exhale a collective sigh of relief crouch down and run their hands over soft, weed-free turf.
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Erin Ryan
Brushing The heavy bristles Search my warm moist scalp Feeling for a sin The smell of soapy Bath supplies lingers Floats throughout the air The bristles still comb Never giving up Until the breeze from The fan above stales And the tiles give And then the heart’s flame Shall forever burn And I’ll taste that blaze Hot rage from within Disappointed eye Fragile state of mind Voices from within Telling me to find That dark dark demon Pull it out of me Then leave it behind The bristles still comb I still brush my hair I still look in the Mirror and he’s there I have only just Begun the fight to Untangle my mess
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Lawrence Spezanno
Colorfree It was an unsure pour by me With this can of turpentine That left me colorfree, But I made up my mind. Sure, that’s dark if not deep, But I can’t sleep Even when counting The black and white backs of sheep. I can’t sing the Copa And just won’t accept the coda That the grass is always greener, Since now the grass is brown or eaten. These days I’m colorfree: Free to stare at an empty canvas Free to contemplate gray horizons. Yes, prison is hopeless, But it’s hopeless still to be stripped of color. It was an unsure pour by me With this can of turpentine. It would be nice have some color, But I made up my mind. The sun shines down on my pale skin, It’s a sin this shape I’m in. A little noise speaks It says, “It’s not too late to choose, blond hair and baby blues.” Sure, but I made up my mind, To choose the can Of turpentine.
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Vanessa Shannon
Dance With Death The day that old lady Shook his hand was the day I knew he wouldn’t be back. Boy, we sure gave Bob Evan’s A view of what it was like To be young that day. We cackled at war And teased Death; Hell, we yanked so hard On his coattails as to throw him off balance. “Hey, Jake, if you ever become a P.O.W…. Well, I’m sure even War needs a Prison Bitch.” Invincible laughter exploded. “Just take it in the ass, Jakey Boy.” A middle aged pair of eyes Bulged and a matching mouth choked back food Just watching us dance with death. Jakey Boy smiled In that little way of his And he rubbed his blonde temple. “Jesus, guys. It’s likely I won’t make it back alive.” Still smiling we blurt Contrite words, but he joins in anyhow. “Knowing my luck I’ll say something kind In English, and it will translate as an insult In Arabic, then some guy will blow out my mind. It would figure if my death were my fault.” We agreed without analyzing it We were not overly concerned. We rose to leave, but suddenly The hands of death gripped Jake’s Muscle-bound forearm.
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They didn’t pilfer his last breath, though. At closer inspection They weren’t death’s fingers after all, But you can’t blame six vibrant youths For confusing very old, frail hands With the grasp of death. Jakey Boy straightened And when he stood in profile We noticed the little old woman, Owner of death’s hands, Who formerly hid behind Jake’s sturdy frame. She raised her imploring old eyes To his clear blue ones. “Young man,” said she, Further highlighting their age gap, “Thank you for serving my country. You will return safely, I can feel it. This is my husband. He went to World War II And came back. I have two sons, one served in Vietnam, He returned unharmed. The younger one, He served in the Persian Gulf. He, too, avoided injury.” Guilt and mortality Flooded Jake’s face, and for a moment He was old as the hand that still Gripped his forearm. “Thank you, Ma’am, And keep me in your thoughts. And thank you, sir, For fighting the battles you fought.” He took her hand, Bid her farewell and the six of us Filed out down-trodden.
The day that old lady shook his hand was the day I knew he wouldn’t be back. Illuminati / 17
Boy, I’ll bet he gave that battlefield A view of what it’s like To be young, With that little smile of his. Probably death yanked so hard At his coattails That it finally threw him off balance.
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Meghan Woods
Mother I remember . . . Picking pine cones in Winton Woods. Painting them in Christmas graffiti was as crafty as Mother got. Watching soap operas on her days off, sealing my lips with scotch tape – no talking as Mother filled up on drama. Putting in contact lenses, waiting for complements. Mother gave me back my glasses. Living alone, while she drank coffee in Boston. Letters in the mail was as close as Mother got.
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Neil Marks
Just a Day on the Sidelines He found her near the sideline, for her son The halfback hoping bones and ligaments After each play would be intact. The gain From pass or run was secondary, she A fan of lesser contact, basketball And squash and swimming more her style of sport. The man, without a product of his loins Involved, approached the game detached, though Nick Was cause for his appearance on this day. The thought of injury remained remote Despite substantial evidence that bones Do break and fibers tear in boys and girls In early puberty; unlike his friend, He could on execution concentrate. It was a perfect football day, with clouds Gunmetal gray, abutting, sealing out The sapphire dome through which does Phoebus blaze His way, and cold transported by a wind Belonging to another month. They paced While so enclosed by autumn’s cozy shell As if expectant parents, he with hope For play immaculate and many scores, And she for Nick to run untouched, to rise Without a bruise when driven to the ground Instead. Asserted she, “He could have been Our son if we had met in school.” The man Replied, “Surrounded by the upstate wilds While fall’s and winter’s fury stirs those Lakes Of awe, I think our passions might have meshed.” The woman said, “To me there is no doubt Of that. I’ve seen the zealousness with which You work and play.” The ashen puffs above With Nick and pals ahead by 14-8 At half sent forth a shower light but steady,
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Causing the man’s umbrella to appear O’erhead as shield for both in space confined To share. Its imperfection showed anon As Zephyr blew a stream of droplets chilled Beneath the nylon dome; instinctively, An arm extended drew her close, and warmth Attending, rushing through each vessel, pleased Though neurons charging suffered frozen fright. Withdrawal met resistance, fingers long And slender interrupting his retreat, Guiding his hand onto its resting place. Such intimate engagement could not last Within the public eye; the downpour ceased, Giving a reason to remove his hand But not before a gentle squeeze and tour Along the surface of her shoulder blade. Phoebus pressed forward in the southwest sky But not enough to spoil their surging mood. They moved in unison watching the foe Score eight and then the home team seize control As Nicky ran for sixty yards in fifteen tries, Arising quickly after every hit, to win By twelve. They parted with a silent kiss, Invisible yet still of substance made, Projecting words impatient to escape But knowing that restraint would better serve, And representing deep desires which less Should see the light of day. Held near each heart, However, they bestowed a potent glow Which stimulates its sweet, enriching flow, The nourishment for every living part.
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Vanessa Shannon
Love Floats I used to sit at the table eagerly and smell years of coffee brewed and hear the soda fizz when the lid was unscrewed and watch Grandma pour it in the glass. It's funny which memories last and which ones don't: did she first pour in the root beer or plop in the ice cream, and was the glass clear or plastic from Burger King? No matter. Chain of events wasn't the thing. It was the talks we had about the past, or our dreams that transformed this mere soda and ice cream into bona fide Love Floats. Now this root beer bubbles down my throat tinged with vanilla and familiarity and the sad, sudden sense of clarity that I truly miss her. I always wondered when this would occur and how I would react--would I cry when I thought of Grandma, so dear to me in life? Instead it makes me smile. It's been quite a while, and as for tears, I shed none. But now I realize that even after one life is done, in the other life, Love Floats.
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Neil Marks
To a Model Your being inspiration for my verse Is hardly equal to a witch’s curse. Consider how Rodin his models chose, Why Hopper had beloved Josie pose; With friends and lovers, strangers brought by fate, And spouses, beauty is the common trait In many forms by heart and pupil scanned, To be embellished by the artist’s hand. So please your anger or offense discard, Then revel in the light of high regard.
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Meghan Woods
15 Year Gap I remember me six, him twenty-one. Riding in the five-speed, rocking to each shift. The toy store with the train display, and the gleam that should have been in my eye, was in his as the liquid smoke
circled
Another Lego set – a Shell gas station for him to build and me to occupy with two inch men and makeshift traffic lights. The Burger King – too shy to order food. My brother ordered me a Kids Meal – Chicken Tenders and fries, with a Ghostbusters pencil eraser.
I took that eraser and tried to erase the skin on my finger. It burned as I rubbed. And still, fifteen years later – me twenty-one, him thirty-six – I don’t know why I wanted to disappear.
our heads.
Deanna Pretty-Jones
Remember You Are Eve Clay come to life in the palms of my hands intricate details from the slopes of her thighs to the hue in her skin delicate details limitless amount of moments I will spend creating a mountain below her back bend deep wells to feed nations upon her chest a dedicated heart I will bless she will smile and light the sky when she sleeps it will be night she is joy to my heart the sun will kiss her an assuring sign no one can miss her her tears will replenish the earth they shall be many a cross to bare her reward plenty she is the salt of the earth the sweetness of sap I believe she shall be called Eve remember that
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Aaron Enyart
The Engineer I remember shivering in the cold holding the flashlight in my small hands. I was barely able to aim the beam into the open mouth of the crippled Dodge you fought to resurrect. I heard you curse under your breath while you struggled under the hood knowing both the light of day and the car were dying. Frustration reflected in your eyes that made me shiver harder than the cold.
I wanted to be elsewhere, in some childish play. I glanced nervously west, the sun dipped to the horizon at the edge of my world. My small hands shivered and shook the beam, your frustration mounted you quietly swore then bellowed, “Hold the light still and keep it aimed here!� February breath to a child is like a dragon. I held the light still, for awhile longer. You ducked out from under the hood, still hunched for a moment from the press of the world on your shoulders, to try to crank the starter. The Dodge protested, but shook to life at least for awhile. Tomorrow another interview, your hope was unsinkable. You could fix anything and I loved you, regardless if we were poor or you were exhausted from labors to provide for family. I had no concept for those words at the time. I never knew
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I was your eyes to guide your hands for those you loved. My hands aren’t so small and I understand the things that were left unsaid in February. I wish I could hold that light now over the Dodge along with my understanding. Those days are gone now, forever, along with you. I have no light to guide me, only fragments of your remembered life as my lessons.
Illuminati / 27
Neil Marks
A Message to a Violinist Your bow across the strings itself asserts While fingers lightning swift do deftly dance; Such blend of pressure and caress converts Mere sound into artistic elegance. The keen observer finds you erudite, As readings broad and deep your converse shows. In jocularity you take delight, And for just cause a healthy passion flows. But placed behind a veil of arrogance, Such virtues oft are bathed in secrecy; Explosions o’er financial circumstance And life’s injustices cause friends to flee. So lack of spousal love this does explain, Which will until your vision clears remain.
Illuminati / 28
Lindsay Shockley
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“Punks” Curt Maggard
“Rocks” Curt Maggard
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Katie Henry
Michael Lockwood
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Courtney Curtner
Lindsay Shockley
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Courtney Curtner
Lindsay Shockley
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Allison Singhoffer
Allison Singhoffer
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Anthony Brownlee
Rom Wells
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Rom Wells
Rom Wells
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Jessica Back
Rebecca Cameron
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Allison Singhoffer
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Chris Reeves
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Chris Reeves
Man Crushed by Falling Whale - Associated Press A local man has been pronounced dead at Mercy Jesus hospital in one of the most bizarre accidents ever reported. The story began this morning as eccentric billionaire oil tycoon Albert Ali. Jr. sent his controversial “world’s largest plane” the Spruce Goose Deuce to West Beach. The plane was picking up a stranded whale with the intention of dropping if off at Ginsfield Aquarium for tests.
Illuminati / 48
Witnesses claim they spotted the whale break from its harness and fall directly above the intersection of 9th and Condeleeza Park, damaging several automobiles, injuring three, one of those injuries being fatal. This was the first public flight of the controversial Spruce Goose deuce, owner Ali Jr.’s attempts to one up eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes, who also claimed to have built the world’s largest airplane. Ali Jr.’s company has been receiving intense criticism these days, along with falling stocks for such controversial company actions as replacing qualified employees with the homeless. Most notably in casualties to do with a hunt for a company employee, suspected of setting fire to the company’s twin filing cabinets that contained years worth of information and records. The suspected employee, Fela Fema Nusrat Ali Khan was acquitted of all charges in court. When asked to comment on the falling whale Ali Jr. issued a press release stating that, “The harness holding the whale had a label reading “Proudly Made in America”. Now I ask you if we can’t trust in that label what can we trust in?” When asked if he was aware that a piece of the whale caused fatal injuries he responded with “Well if that don’t beat all.” The deceased’s name is being withheld until arrangements are made with his family for services and internment.
Illuminati / 49
Chris Reeves
The Danger of Cell Phones “Here ya go kid.” Kite Guy handed a little girl with a large pink bow in her hair a large kite in the shape of a butterfly in which she used her first communion money to purchase. “There’s no yarn attached to it. How does it fly ?” Kite guy shrugged. “Beats me. Close your eyes and wish for it?” The girl looked unhappily at her flightless kite “Can I please have some yarn or string?” “String or yarn is 10 dollars. You got 10 dollars?” Kite Guy lit up a smoke. “No.” “Well, then stop wasting my time.” Kite guy looked over across the park to see his rival kite salesman Mitch Wiggles doing a constant steady stream of business. Whereas the trees above Kite Guys’ ball capped skull looked like casualties of wintertime: leafless, pathetic, and cold, Mitch Wiggles’ trees stood around him tall and proud, budding and promising in the hopeful redemption of springtime. Kite Guy tossed his cigarette to the ground, stubbed it out with his shoe, and held up a middle finger towards this shining beacon of kites and capitalism. * Since Steven had quit smoking he could use his car cigarette lighter for other things, namely a cell phone charger. This notion had been discovered following a conversation last week: “Where were you last night man? We had a poker game! Willis got nude!” said Steven’s pal Craig McKlusky. “I wasn’t doing anything! Made sure all of my framed pictures on the wall were hung evenly. Did you call?” Steven asked. “Yeah I called the cell phone. Went straight to voice mail.” “Really? Shit. It’s been dead for weeks. I chewed through my cell phone charger cord.” “You should really get a new charger.” Illuminati / 50
“Yeah, definitely. Especially if I’m going to be missing Willis getting nude.” “Definitely.” “Wait…who is Willis?” So Steven tried one department store and was told, somewhat rudely, by a young clerk named Kiev: “We don’t carry ones that plug into the wall, only ones that plug into your car’s cigarette lighter. Try the mall.” Raffi, the thirtyish man from the “Cellz n’ Things”, told him the exact same thing, so Steven decided on buying the “cell phone charger that plugged into the cigarette lighter.” The only hitch in this idea was that you could only charge your phone while your car is on seeing as how the charger was powered by the car battery, a fact Steven learned as soon as he arrived and turned off his car. “It quit workin’ already! Defect!” Steven fished for his receipt and turned the ignition of his car prompting the charger to restart. Steven eyeballed it curiously. “Well that’s peculiar.” He turned the car off and watched it go dead again. He re-started the car and it came back on. “What the hell is the problem with this thing?!” Realizing that for some reason it kept working when the car was on he decided to drive around and see what happened. “2:57 P.M. Shan’t forget: cell phone charger plugged into cigarette lighter of car only works when car is running.” He passed a sign that read “Salt Lake Shakes This Way!” with a picture of a bright blue shake and an arrow pointing ahead to a little white building on the right hand side of the road. “Don’t mind if I do.” Steven got over into the right hand lane and began to turn when a large white Ford Bronco went whizzing toward him, clocking at least 55 mph. His 1981 Mercury Zephyr came to a screeching halt as Steven slammed on the brakes, just missing a collision into the speedy vehicle and paused to gain his composure. “Almost cost me a shake!” * Steven handed the grim, obese, struggling-tobreathe man at the drive through window a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. Being too lazy to lift his ass up an inch and Illuminati / 51
return the wallet to his back pocket he tossed the wallet on the passengers’ seat and eagerly awaited his milk shake and hamburger, ordered plain with the exception of mustard relish. And now…. A SHOCKING REMINDER! Steven waited patiently for about 15 minutes for his shake and hamburger until finally at 15 minutes and 34 seconds the window opened and he was handed a bag containing a burger and a Styrofoam cup filled with his Salt Lake Shake. “Didja hafta kill the cow?” Steven said to the man at the window. “As a matter of fact yes. Carl come here for a second.” Carl came up to the window apron spattered with blood holding a large gutting knife. “Hope it tastes fresh, sir,” Carl said emotionlessly, “because it is.” The sound of gunfire and a piercing “MOO!” were heard in the background of the drive-thru window. Steven stared, mouth agape, for several seconds and then put his car in drive and took off, thus ending the segment of the story entitled: A SHOCKING REMINDER! * Steven went upstairs to his apartment realized the shake wasn’t quite as good as he remembered, passed a kidney stone, turned on the TV, watched “Mama’s Family”, and fell asleep. He awoke the next day, suffering from a massive Salt Lake Shake headache, and went to check his cellular phone and saw that it was dead again. “Ergh.” Steven made a frustrated noise to some such effect and, the receipt being in his wallet and his wallet being in his back pocket, reached for it, but found nothing but an empty pocket. Contemplating this for a few moments he remembered that he left it on the passengers’ seat in the car. Upon examination of this however, the wallet was no longer there Illuminati / 52
and his passenger’s side door was unlocked. “Ergh.” Steven continued to sift through the piles of trash and various other things in his car finding not even anything that resembled his wallet. “Well that’s just the bees knees.” Steven muttered slamming the car door. He surveyed the surrounding area to see if maybe somebody had taken the money and ditched the rest of the wallet. * Steven, remembering the altercation he’d had weeks ago with a kite salesman on the issue of ten dollar yarn that had escalated from verbal insults to night stalking, drove to the park frequented by kite salesmen. Upon arrival he got out of his car and slammed the door, marching over to Mitch Wiggles’ kite stand. “You!” Steven snarled. “I thought we were square!” “I beg your pardon?” Mitch asked. “Who are you?” “Oh let’s not play any games! A missing wallet, this by the scene of the crime!” Steven pulled out a dirty spool of yarn. “I know your scheme Kite Guy so let’s settle this right now!” “I wish I had a clue what you’re talking about.” Mitch replied. “You sure you got the right kite salesman?” “There’s more than one?” Steven looked across the park to see a large black cloud over top of the real kite salesman he’d been looking for. “Oh my gosh, I apologize. Here, let me buy a kite.” Steven reached for his wallet and then remembered it wasn’t there. Steven nodded and inched slowly over towards the real kite guy. When he finally arrived he charged forward. “You!” Steven snarled. “I thought we were square!” “Oh well, well, well, well. WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL. Ohhhhh well…” Kite Guy continued. “Stop it!” Steven presented his spool of yarn again. “My wallet was stolen from my car, this was found barely 10 feet from the scene of the crime, and I know how you like to hang around my apartment!” “I was nowhere near your crummy apartment! I was at a poker game watching Willis get nude!” Kite Guy spat. “Dammit! Was everyone at this poker game?! Give me the wallet!” Illuminati / 53
“No! I’m not giving you my wallet.” Kite Guy stepped forward. “It’s gonna be like that, eh?” Steven grabbed a hoagie from a passerby’s arms and slapped Kite Guy across the face with it. “Then you my friend…have been challenged.” Kite Guy slapped Steven across the face. “Alright then. I challenge you! Let’s keep food outta this!” “Well, how you wanna do this?” Steven smiled. “You fancy on your FEET?!” “As a matter of fact, yes I am.” Kite Guy kicked off his slip-on shoes. “I’m sayin’ it’s a dance-off then.” Steven began to untie his shoes. “What?” Kite Guy asked. “A dance-off. Let’s see your moves.” “I thought we were gonna fight?” “If by fight you mean this:” Steven did a handstand followed by a roundhouse kick and landed back on his feet. “Alright, alright.” Kite Guy motioned for Mitch Wiggles to come over, and when Mitch arrived he agreed to call the event along with a perspective patron nicknamed Hanker who was an obese 7 year old boy. “Alright now, here’s the rules: No Jitterbugging, no Charleston, and no Moonwalk, got that?” Mitch looked at the two of them. “Why is that?” Steven asked. “I don’t know what those are,” Mitch admitted. He turned to Hanker and nodded. Hanker fired off a round from his b.b. gun, and thus the dance off began. Steven went first. Steven did a combination of jumping up and down and the popular robot dance move. “Incredible. A flawless “Robot Swing!” Steven did a combination of jumping up and down and the popular robot dance move. “Plooie! Kite Guy blasts back with a Big Daddy Bump!” The bicentennial edition of the dance move dictionary defines the Big Daddy Bump as this: Big Daddy Bump; verb This dance move involves the individual gyrating the buttocks and shaking his pelvis back and forth causing the stomIlluminati / 54
ach to jiggle a bit. “This really is amazing wouldn’t you agree Hanker?� Mitch turned to Hanker who sat stone-faced for a few moments.
No, even longer than this.
A little bit more.
Amazing how kids can clam up sometimes.
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Hanker replied with a simple “Yep.” “Here!” Mitch shouted, his large gums appearing every time he opened his mouth. “I couldn’t agree more!” Steven and Kite Guy stared intensely at one another. Steven’s shirt had ripped down the collar from an intense backflip/”Earth-Shake!” he’d done, while Kite Guy’s clothes remained in tact but he was certainly exhausted from his previous “Don’t Trust the Thrust.” “Something tells me we are reaching a climax here,” said Mitch. Steven began to step forward when, out of nowhere the remains of a whale that had dropped from out of the sky crushed him, ending the dance-off.
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Vanessa Shannon
Clue Everyone knows it was Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with a lead pipe, but no one will say it. He’s the only one with blood on his hands. His mustache is curled upwards in a quirky grin and his belly protrudes with satisfaction, stretching the chain of his pocket watch taut. Instead, everyone wants to blame Miss Scarlet. She’s the little harlot, her red dress snug over her vampish curves, her lips the color of blood and wine. Even the men are jealous of her. She’s the easiest one to blame; you can just picture her reclining in the lounge, revolver cocked. Besides, she wouldn’t deny guilt. Then there’s Mrs. White, and if you blamed her she would expire. Some say that’s her way of getting around things. They say that that’s the magic of Mrs. White; she’ll faint at an accusation, but never at the sight of blood. She keeps dirty little tricks under that white, frilly hat of hers. She also keeps a rope in the kitchen, they say. Professor Plum couldn’t have done it, because he’s secretly in a relationship with Colonel Mustard, and the two of them were eating truffles at the time. Of course we know that isn’t true, because Colonel Mustard did it. Why, then, would he lie and make everyone believe he was a gay man? Perhaps he is party to the murder and wishes to protect Colonel Mustard, or perhaps that knife he keeps in the desk of the study has been used after all. Mrs. Peacock is aloof. She spends time alone, pruning in the glimmer of days past, memories of the love affair with the now deceased. She uses a wash in her hair that, instead of keeping it one consistent shade of gray, often tints it a forlorn hue of blue. She reads a lot in her loft, but can sometimes be found in the conservatory fingering a candlestick and eyeing the secret passageway.
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Mr. Green blamed himself immediately, never suspecting that anyone else had a motive. Jealousy makes you have a one track mind like that, sometimes. He couldn’t specifically remember murdering Mr. Boddy but he had contemplated it countless times, fantasizing about different ways the man could fall in each miserable dream. Moreover, he woke up the morning after the death gripping a wrench. He spent hours afterwards in the ballroom, lusting the albedo of the shining floor that could have been his—had he been born another man. Mr. Green was the fabulously rich Mr. Boddy’s gardener. For the millionaire he grew fabulously lush plants; in return he received fabulously scarce pay. Arnold Green wanted nothing more than to live as Max Boddy lived and was keenly aware that, as the old man had no relatives, he could be part of the will. Mr. Boddy hardly noticed him. Green went to his humble home every night in a jaded vexation, and there he fantasized. Everyone knew, even Mrs. Peacock, the below average gold-digger who won Max’s sex but not his prenup. The professor agreed, but was distracted by philosophy, and Mrs. White, across the room, dusted more vigorously. Miss Scarlet, Mr. Boddy’s favorite orphan-turned-courtesan, noted slyly that she, too, had noticed. The Colonel looked angry yet thoughtful. Everyone knew. Everyone knew how guilty Arnold Green felt. Mr. Green was found dead this morning. Someone finally put him out of his misery and removed the chance that the poor fool might turn himself in for Mr. Boddy’s murder. The five look in on him, sprawled out on the ballroom floor in a five-point star like the Vitruvian Man. Each know that a mansion and an incredible wealth splits five ways better than six. Everyone knows it was Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with a lead pipe, but no one will say it. Any and all of them would take the blame, even Mrs. White, whom they bated with the promise of wealth. They let him die thinking that he killed Mr. Boddy, even though in reality, Max Boddy didn’t die a violent death. He inexplicably didn’t wake up that morning, and it was no fault of Mr. Green’s. Colonel Mustard killed Arnold, who bore the unnatural guilt of Boddy’s natural death, and now no one feels guilty for Arnold’s. Sometimes in the transfer of Illuminati / 58
guilt someone misses his or her cue, then no one has a Clue who to blame, and life seems just a game.
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Dan Frease
Cascade Failure “Sins of the System are things where the penalty is so severe that it defies all logic.” —Temple Grandin Understanding people with autism: Developing a career makes life satisfying The journalists are forming tragic belts around the hundreds of bogus stories burning through the sedges of November’s newest military campaign. The news rings around herring after herring. Khan is in with every station, sends them a wire or two from the Hotel, off they go, scattering around the world in search of facts that never were. They all know it. So do I. So does everyone, I would think. Chris and Paddy were off to the training grounds at Mt. Camulus. Dad and I wished them well as best we could. “Del,” he told me, “we’ve finally realized the death of aesthetics.” I only nodded, kept quiet. I didn’t understand. I still don’t. Got a message from Haif saying he’d blasted some old Nigs over on the corner of Eric and Webster. Talked about how they kept apologizing before he snuffed them. Said he needed some release, was gonna gunpoint a Spic kid for some head. For as much as he likes to work alone, Haif always has to tell someone what he’s been up to. Usually me. I don’t know why—I’m not interested anymore. Hall and I went up to Chiquita Foothills to hock some kitsch for a couple bucks. Khan was squawking from the intercom stations, reminding all citizens to keep a lookout for “anyone acting in violation, directly or otherwise, of the comprehensive ban on the production, ownership, and/or circulation of all objects defined as belonging to the category of Arts & Leisure by the Wink-Sanderson Act.” We picked up the pace. Midway to the dealer shack, Haif ran up to us from a ridgeline up ahead. He looked a mess, his blazer was muddy, his tie loosened, shirt smeared brown and red, pants Illuminati / 60
wet from cuff to thigh. He had a smug, toothy grin, held up a smoking .45. “I just shot up a family of Islams,” he said, panting for breath. “There were four or five of ‘em praying down in a storm drain. Today marks the four year anniversary of the Enlargement of the Burden. Nothing worthwhile left to burn, but there will still be the call to kill a Fag at quarter till noon. Any which way you choose. Tradition in the making. Outside the window, I can see an SIC crew huddled around some urchins that are trying to dig a meal out of the trash. They’ve got a guy on video, one snapping pics, and another with a microphone trying to get a word or two from the kids, who continue to sift through knee-deep filth. This coverage will look good in tomorrow’s feature.
Joon, Dunblane, and Anne-Marie were all dead, killed by the Netanya Miners in Málaga last February. By the time I got a flight home from Westminster, they’d been gone for almost three months. I miss them. Everyone is leaving. Hall’s decided to go deeper in the kitsch trade. He’s got a deal set up in Beslan, and he’ll be jetting out by next January. Haif’s gone freak on doing pro bono mercenary work for Humanite™; he isn’t much for company nowadays. Of course, there’s always dad, but he’s been in a bad way since Chris and Paddy told him that they’d both signed up for the School. That was the same day that WinkSanderson passed—it was too much for him. Later that night, he got drunk and fell down the stairs, slipped a disk, popped his shoulder. I had to carry him to bed; he cried all the way up the stairs, asking for his boys. After I tucked him in, he told me that we could get 20 or 30 for his clarinet if we took it to Husin Towers tomorrow morning. A letter from Hall came today, but I couldn’t read what it said. Every line had been covered with black tape. Also in the envelope was the standard Crescent™ 3 x 5, alerting me that an official from the Department of Strictures would be by within 24 hours to audit my relationship, including all forms of correspondence, with the accused. I didn’t know whether to tell dad. Illuminati / 61
Anne-Marie was my first. Chris, Paddy, Joon, Dunblane, Hall: they all dared me; Paddy gave me a box of rubbers, Joon and Dunblane even chipped in for a bottle of Malbec. It was nice; we both enjoyed ourselves. I kept joking with her about how her left nipple was bigger than the right one. She traced the freckles on my back with her fingers and had me guess what she was writing. I had never felt anything deep for Anne-Marie. We were friends, had known each other a few years. I was just sick of being the only person left who hadn’t done it. She understood and was willing to help; she didn’t have any sentimental hang-ups about anything at all. I remember looking around her room when we were done. The light of the Towers came in blue through the window, flickered against the empty wine bottle, cast her profile the color of tungsten powder. I lay my head back down on the pillow, realized something: Anne-Marie must have had a hundred pictures of Marilyn Monroe taped up on the ceiling. Each of them winked smiled down at me from indigo heights.
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Illuminati wishes to congratulate the winners of the 2006 Malcolm Sedam Writing contest: Meghan Woods, poetry Chris Reeves, prose Michelle Lawrence, creative-nonfiction As well as the following staff members and contributors who have been awarded scholarships in 2006: Jessica Back, Anthony Brownlee, Katie Henry, Sarah Huffner, Michelle Lawrence, Chris Reeves, Laura Richey and Lindsay Shockley
Allie Kontnier
October in Boston October is always beautiful in Boston. I’m sure October is gorgeous everywhere, but there’s something about autumn in Boston that sets it aside from every other city. Maybe it’s the way the blushing leaves spin around the feet of bustling business men, or maybe it’s the unusually crisp breeze that blows in off of the Atlantic as ships dock at their rightful ports. Then again, maybe I’ve been sitting in this bar staring at the color changing leaves for far too long. It’s early October and the leaves have just begun to change from a uniform green to an array of sporadic yellows, reds, and oranges. I’m seated in a mediocre bar nursing what’s left of my fourth soda and flipping through an out dated copy of Artist Weekly. For the last two hours, this image of me has become something of a paintless portrait. Part of me thinks I should gather my things and what sense I have left and head back to my dorm, but most of me is pleading, begging me to stay just for a while longer in case he miraculously appears. The truth is Phillip was scheduled to meet me at this hole-in-the-wall tavern hours ago. If things had gone as planned, I’d have woken up at ten, dressed myself in something uncommonly cute, attended my Art History class at eleven, and arrived at this bar by twelve thirty. That would have given me a respectable thirty minutes to calm my nerves, have a soda, and rehearse my greeting before Phillip came walking through the door. Unfortunately, he’s late, as he typically is. Leaning over the table and staring past the tables to my left, I stare at the door once more, mistaking a young girl with a boyish haircut as Phillip. Sighing, I lean back against the cushioned seat and close my eyes. It had been six months to the day since Phillip had left me and the comfort of his New England home to accept a scholarship in California. Surprisingly enough, I hadn’t been too terribly distraught when he left. Of course there were tears shed, but I wasn’t a blubbering mess like most girls are when their high school sweet hearts go away for college. For the most part, I thought I was going to be too busy too miss Phillip. I myself was in enrolled at a local liberal arts college, Illuminati / 64
and was also working part time to pay a portion of rent on an apartment I’d recently moved into. Regrettably, college and work were not enough to keep my mind from Phillip. I ached for him day in and day out, and when he’d called me a few weeks back to announce that he was coming home for a weekend, I was elated. We set up plans to meet at the local bar, and for the next two weeks I was enraptured at the thought of seeing him. A waiter’s inquiry rips me from my nostalgic memories. As I thank him for refilling my soda, (number five) I check the door: still no sign of my heart’s desire. I find myself wishing he had never left, or that I had at least gone with him. California is a faraway land to Bostonians; its glitz and glamour are rumored to suck the life out of any and every traveler to cross its’ borders. Crossing my fingers and biting my lower lip, I pray that California hasn’t chewed up my literate and unique Phillip and spit him back out as a tacky, glamour-gorged proto-type. Pressing an index finger against the condensation forming on my glass, I prop an elbow onto the artificial wood table and cup my chin in my palm. Glancing hopelessly to the door, I allow myself another self-pitying sigh. Suddenly, the sigh catches in my throat. A young man has walked through the bar room door. Though is hair is rather shaggy, and his clothes are a bit snazzier, it’s got to be Phillip. In a panicked rush, I run a hand through my tousled hair and try to arrange the few items on the table in some sort of order. I look up as the young man makes his way to my table. ~
California has indeed changed the Phillip that left me six months ago, but not so much for the worse. His hair is sun streaked and long, covering his ears. His skin is taut and tan as if he’s been doing the majority of his studying on the beach. The bronzing of his skin has made every feature about him seem more defined; his eyes seem bluer, his teeth seem whiter, and his face seems smoother. His clothes are nonchalant, but they don't scream, “I’m from the Golden State.” In fact, he’s wearing a dark, long sleeved button-up shirt in response to the chill that’s recently taken hold of Boston, and his jeans show no holes or signs of excessive wear. Truly, other than his bleached hair and tanned skin, the Illuminati / 65
only thing about him that speaks of sun and sand are the flipflops on his feet. As he slides into the booth next to me, I feel my heart stop and my breathing inadvertently pause. In one moment I am on the edge of my seat, a thousand questions racing through my head: Will he have an accent? Will he be caught up with trends, fads, movie stars and film festivals? Am I too “East Coast” for him? Has he met someone new? Is he going to tell me that after today, he’ll never be home again? Do I look all right? Does he remember our hopes, our dreams, and our goals? Does he still love me? Still holding my breath, I watch him as he leans into me before kissing me briskly on the neck. Casually, he whispers an apology for being so late. At once, I realize that all those questions whizzing through my brain only seconds ago were completely irrational. With casualty and a kiss, he assures me that he's the same person he’s always been. Grinning ear to ear, I watch him lean away from my ear and I feel my heart begin to beat regularly. I allow my shoulders to relax, and I fall into conversation with my high school sweetheart for the first time in six months. He may be Californian cool now, but I can still see a little bit of Boston’s October in those sun-streaked highlights.
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Adam Pettit
Seamless Window (or) The Condensation and Evaporation of an Individual From the Pen Cap Industry I remember a reflection. I remember a shimmering glow. I remember a transparent pane of glass in my windowsill giving sight not only to the pleasantly picturesque yard outside, but also to the ghostly apparition of a cold face. My face. My sad, sad, lonely face. Features of somebody old and wrinkled. Hair the color of soured milk. Dry lips cracked and peeled like a failed fading fresco. The glaze of senile eyes. The glaze of eyes that were accustomed to being alone. My eyes. Raindrops thundered heavily into the window, softly distorting a view of my well-kept quaint little garden. Upon doing so, each split into hundreds of tiny droplets and each of those tiny droplets went flying their own separate way. I remember laughing a little to myself. What a disturbing ending to a journey this was. A quest begun in the sea, continued in the air, suspended in the clouds while soaring, flying, and skydiving, until finally, “crash.� Their collective beings become separated again, possibly never to be reunited, and each raindrop is once again transfigured into an individual speck. They seep away into the grass. They slide around, down and down, until they find another droplet to merge with. One day they will be with their fellow body again. They each know this, but for now they are alone. They can do nothing but move by fluctuations in the mud and wind until they meet up with other little lost water droplets. Then once all the little water droplets have found each other, a puddle is formed. Give them enough time, and they could probably create an ocean. Just imagine, however, what would happen if one of those poor little water droplets never found another one to merge with. Imagine the isolation, the melancholy, the loneliness. Imagine having known the warmth and presence of another, but being lost and alone forever after. Just imagine. I wonder if the sea misses itself, being always broken up. I wonder if it will ever be whole again. I wonder if it wants to be. I wonder why condensation is seen as a negaIlluminati / 67
tive term. I wonder why I wonder. A moment like this in an old man’s life probably seems deathly insignificant to you, but for me, it’s more important than anything else I can remember. This was the moment where it all began. This is the moment where my life disappeared before my very eyes. Peering out my window on a rainy day in March, I, Frederick C. Goodman III, then with sixty-three years and ninety-two days of life, forty-five employed at the same factory, zero of them married, three of them in this house, and four of them with Lyle, my exotic Venezuelan house plant, experienced a miracle. It happened so long ago, but I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember it, but it happened well over a hundred and seventy-one years ago. I was sitting at my window and I began to feel a draft. My first thought was that the window wasn’t shut all the way or that there was a seep in the lining. I looked at the sides to investigate. I could feel the draft pick up and blow my hair. I didn’t think of it as anything odd at first, but when I touched the corner to feel for any leaks, the entire window jumped out at me. Spiraling, it left behind several neon colored outlines of itself all in a twisting row until the entirety of the tumbling pane had dissolved into nothing but a glowing burn of its former shape. Stare at a bright light and close your eyes. Watch as it fades away, a dying ember. This is what my window did. The draft quickly turned into a sudden maelstrom and continued to grow as I spun to look around the room. All of my things were doing the same thing as my window had done, and they were all doing it simultaneously. Pictures, tables, couches, Lyle, and assorted other objects laying around were all spinning out of control until they transformed into brightly colored outlines and disappeared into thin air. Behind them, I could only see a dark void. In hardly any time at all, I was surrounded by thousands of spiraling colors in a tornado of light and fury. The wind was blowing me steadily backward, then hastily forward, then steadily backwards again. I felt like I was going to be sick. My joints and muscles ached. My bones felt like they were going to snap. My skin began to radiate green, red, and purple. I felt as if my body were twisting like a corkscrew. The air was so violent it felt like knives to the skin. I closed my eyes and screamed in fear. The vertigo was still Illuminati / 68
present, and I realized that I could now hear a slight buzzing. My fingertips shook. My tongue dug into the roof of my mouth. My lungs began to implode. Then suddenly, it stopped. I stood still for a second and tried to relax. My thoughts were racing, trying to comprehend what had just happened to me. I slowly opened my eyes, but nothing that I saw changed. There was only darkness. The world had burnt out like a light bulb. Now, I don’t remember how afraid I was at the time, or what I had been doing moments before. All I knew was that I had been hungry before the change, and after the change, I wasn’t. I didn’t notice it at first, but after what felt like several days floating around (or standing still) in the nothingness, I still wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t thirsty, either. In fact, I wasn’t anything. I felt nothing cold, I felt nothing warm, I just felt nothing. My first impulse was that I had died. My world was gone, and in front of me was a world of black. There was nothing else in this dimension. There was no air, but I didn’t need to breathe. There was no light, but there was nothing to see. I had a broken wrist, but the pain was no longer present. There was nothing. I moved my left arm in front of my face. I could see it as if there was a spotlight directly and cleanly focused on it. In fact, it even glowed a little. (Tenebrism). I moved my right arm in front of my face. That was the one with the broken wrist. The cast was no longer there, same deal with the light. (Paradox). Using my left arm, I pinched my right. I could feel it just as normally as I would on a normal day. (Reception). I looked down. Past my body was eternal darkness. It was like I was standing on air. I was completely naked. My clothes had dissolved as well as every other Earthly object. My body looked somewhat younger. I looked up. It was the same darkness as looking down and forward. My whole body tightened. Cells continued to divide. I decided after several hours (or days, or months, or years), that I would try to take a step. It worked, only not as well as I’d hoped. It was like walking in place. I felt no friction from the ground on my feet, nor any slight breeze experienced while normally walking. It was like my body was Illuminati / 69
moving at a regular pace, only under water. It was like my body was simply going through the motions. I was on the specter of a treadmill. Before the fear really started to settle in, I decided that the best bet I had was to never stop this walking movement. Even if I didn’t feel like I was moving, maybe I was. Still, the only thing I could feel in this place was myself. I couldn’t feel anything while walking, but I could feel it when my left arm pinched my right. I used to think that I was the loneliest guy in the universe, but now I truly was (well, if I still was in the universe, that is). I was so lonely, that not even air was with me. Not even friction was present. There was no apparent gravity. The fear finally settled in, and I found myself weeping. My legs continued to move, but movement still seemed nonexistent. In fact, the only things existent to me now were body, mind, and fear. My fear. I don’t even know if I need to describe what I felt, nor if it is even possible to put into human words. But, I guess the best attempt to do so would be to say that I would rather be tortured slowly to death over a fire with thousands of poisonous spikes lodged through random parts of my body. I would rather be filleted into a million pieces and eaten by hungry goldfish. I would rather go through life without any limbs or eyes. As long as I could feel or hear something, as long as I knew that there was still something out there besides me, then I would no longer fear. But not having this knowledge made my body convulse. I thought I was going to go into shock several times. I felt like I was going to split apart. My body did not go into shock. I did not split down the middle. I yelled for help, I shouted, I cried; none of it did any good. I did this continuously for several years. Probably thirteen. Finally, I accepted my circumstances with interest, and focused on survival. I needed no food, I needed no water. All I needed was my mind. It’s amazing what the brain can come up with after several decades of undisturbed thought. I slowly began to see my situation as a blessing. I was away from the distractions of the former busy world. I was away from any sort of duty or responsibility. I was totally and fully of myself. I decided that I was probably not dead. 1. There was no known reason why I had died. The Illuminati / 70
world had simply just burned away. 2. I still had feeling. 3. I still had conscious thought. 4. If this was an afterlife, then what would the purpose of Earthly life be. Sure this could be hell, but if that was so, it had failed. After about thirteen years, I was no longer suffering. I started to run a clock through my head and spent several days training myself to keep it going. Eventually, I got it down so well that it would continuously run even while I was focusing on something completely different. My brain became a stop watch, and I recorded every second. Time became a precious way to kill itself. Speaking of suicide, I tried it several times, but found that it was impossible to suffocate yourself when you don’t need to breathe. I tried biting and clawing at my wrists. Unfortunately for me, the pain was temporarily there, but I couldn’t bleed. The only motion in this place was inside my body, and once my skin was broken and vessels had popped, all I could see was neatly organized blood traveling in its old set route. It would not leave my body. It always seemed to do what it was supposed to do. I healed with the speed of a cheetah. I waited with the patience of an iguana. It seems kind of funny to look back on myself now; an ever walking stop-watch in a world with no movement or time, alone to travel the darkness forever. Sometimes I would cry for no reason (or for many), and other times I’d shout or laugh. I never stopped walking. I never stopped counting. I made up imaginary friends, and claimed the twohundred and sixty-seventh rotation as my birthday, being as October seventh is (or was) the two-hundredth and sixtyseventh day of the year. On this rotation, I’d sing “Happy Birthday,” to myself over and over, until the day was officially completed, then I’d stop and see if I could time the endings to land on the exact same moment. Milliseconds counted, and I’d wait all year for this day. I did it perfectly only twice. I often thought about the raindrops that pitter-putted on my windowsill before the great change. I thought of a bottle of those raindrops on a front porch. The night is humid. The air is thick. The water begins to condensate. I wonder if I am a lone form of human condensation. I wonder if I Illuminati / 71
am just a barely noticeable droplet on the flipside of the old universe. How long will it be until I evaporate? Usually, the term “condensation” is negative. Ex. “My demotion was the beginning of my condensation to a lower social class.” See, the term is negative. Had you asked me one-hundred and forty-two years and fifteen days ago, I may have agreed with you. But for me, now, condensation is a liberating feeling. I finally feel alive. I finally have a purpose. In my life before, I was nothing. I was stuck in a terrible job with terrible people and I had a terrible boss. We made pen caps. I never was promoted. I never got married. After high-school, I never had time to ask out another girl ever again. I worked almost twentyfour/seven for my keep, just in order to be out of the cold, and with food in my belly. I made no progress to the future of the human species, or any progress in the future of my hopes and dreams. My goals to be an astronaut, a famous baseball player, a circus performer, a botanist… All were impossible. Now, anything was possible. I was finally special. In my old life, there were billions of people, all who claimed to be unique and different. Each one claimed to have original ideas and influences for their culture to enjoy. All of them believed that they were important. All of them were kidding themselves. If they really wanted to believe that they were special, they should have looked at the numbers. They should have known that there were simply too many people to stand out. Now, here in my world, I was the only one. I was the most special thing in all existence. Everything my mind conjured up was unique. Anything I believed was the truth. There was nobody to shoot me down. There was nobody to pretend they were better. I was me, and I was alone. Nothing was better! I was the greatest thing in all of existence! Except for the greatness of the dark…. I crept around the void like a bug. My mind smelled of joy and ego. This was my high horse; this was finally the thing I needed. This was my paradise. I was utterly alone, but at least I was the best. There was no more fear of dieing; I hadn’t aged a day. There was no more fear of unacceptance; I was the only one to accept. Maybe I had died. Maybe I had died and this was heaven. Maybe an eternity of this is exactly Illuminati / 72
what I needed. I decided to stop walking. Although I’d been walking for over a hundred years, I had just as much energy as a young athlete. I’d never been in this great of shape in my life. I laid down on the air, still not feeling any sort of ground up against my back, and I closed my eyes. I put myself in a totally relaxed state, and tried to focus on the complexities of the new universe around me. I wondered why I still called it the “new universe” when I’d been here longer and knew it better than the old one. I decided to rename it “perfection.” It was almost the anniversary of the change. The clock still continued to run. 171: 3: 18: 23: 59: 56 171: 3: 18: 23: 59: 57 171: 3: 18: 23: 59: 58 171: 3: 18: 23: 59: 59 171: 3: 18: 23: 60: 00 I opened my eyes at the precise moment of the day change and saw above me, still surrounded by the friendly forever darkness, was a light bulb. I was shocked at first, but then I became a little curious. I stood up to investigate. I marveled at the complexity of every fine little detail, and then I reached out to touch it. I stopped myself. Did I really want to do this? How could I know that if I touched this light bulb, I wouldn’t return to my old world? How could I know for sure, that this wasn’t a symbol of some-sort? How did I know that it wasn’t a portal to my old reality? I turned and looked at the welcoming darkness. It seemed so comforting to me. It had become my home. It had become my friend. I looked at the light bulb. It hung on a string which disappeared into nothing. It had a chain dangling beneath it, which urged me to pull it. It urged me to leave my paradise. It urged to give up my happy lonesomeness. It wanted me to return to the world of individual unimportance. It wanted me to return to a place which considered my life to be less than one of another man’s. It wanted me to give up my superiority. My face cringed shut with frustration, and I spat at Illuminati / 73
the light bulb. For the first time in a hundred and seventy-one years, I yelled at something that wasn’t myself. “Damn you!” I shouted. “Damn the place you come from! Damn the one that sent you!” I turned and fled with lightning anger. I sprinted faster than a racehorse, and didn’t turn around for several minutes. I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, but I was used to it. I knew I was going someplace. I was going away from my past. When I finally did turn around, I saw that the light bulb was out of sight. It had completely vanished in the darkness. I laughed a quick and hearty laugh of victory. It was all over. It was all behind me now. My smile didn’t fade, and my triumphant laugh continued. Soon, I was laughing so hysterically, that had I been able to breathe, I would have literally died laughing. I dropped to my knees, I laughed so hard. I put my head between my legs and shut my eyes. My laughing would not cease. At this rate, I could probably have laughed for years to come. The joy overtook me. My side began to hurt. Unfortunately, I finally decided to stop. I regained composure and slowly stood up. Still giggling a little, I reopened my eyes. The light bulb had appeared before me once again. My smile drooped to a frown, and I felt hot tears whisk into my sockets. “No!” I yelled sobbing. “No, you can’t take me from here! You can’t do this to me!” I collapsed to the ground, and there I wept. I wept for hours and hours on end. Sometimes I wept for the thought of leaving. Sometimes I wept for the thought of returning. Sometimes I wept for allowing myself to be alone for so long. I cried knowing that while other people were out living their lives, I was trapped. I had spent my entire life alone, and although I wanted to remain here (a king, an emperor, a god!) I knew that I could not. I knew that this light bulb may have been the only chance to return. It may have been the only way I could go back and fix things. I no longer was afraid of death. I stood up, wiping the fiery tears, and accepted my fate. I slowly reached forward and pulled the metallic chain. My clock stopped, the light turned on. At first, I thought that nothing had changed at all. Illuminati / 74
Then, I noticed my skin. Running all around my arms, legs, and torso, running all along everywhere, were words. Thoughts. My thoughts. They came in all different colors. They came in colors of which the particular thought in question reminded me. Ex. “Grapes,” would remind me of green, because green grapes were my favorite compared to purple. A random creation on my pectoralis major, “the isolation of an Australian garden gnome in Paris, with no friend in sight is a sad, sad, gnome,” reminded me of red, because the hat on the particular gnome in mind was wearing a pointy red hat. My thoughts crept all along my body just as I had for so long crept through the darkness. When I closed my eyes, I could see them flash across my eyelids. The light bulb grew brighter, but not in a fluorescent light. It seemed more natural, like the sun. (This thought was seen sliding across my forearm.) As it grew brighter, I could see the shadows of thousands of people hurriedly walking as if in the downtown of a thriving metropolis. In a multitude of colors, their thoughts wiggled through the air on their shadowed skin. Each one was unique from the rest. Every person had their own beliefs and agendas. Each person had strange thoughts, sick thoughts, happy thoughts, bad thoughts, and innocent thoughts. Nobody was restrained to be alike on the inside. In this state, a state where everybody’s innermost beliefs could be read like a book, nobody had a reason to be anything but themselves. Upon seeing this, I smiled. Everybody was unique after all. Everybody was their own individual. Everybody had their own thoughts, and ways of looking at the world. Everybody was different. In the same light, though, everybody was similar. Each one had similar likes and dislikes. (Ex. Most like candy, most hate vomit.) Each one agreed (mostly) on what was generally right and wrong. Each one agreed that they belonged to one large body. They believed that even though they were themselves, they could not function without the others. Isolation would eventually drown their souls. I took a look at my soul and I understood. I needed to return. Sure, it was great to be the ultimatum, but at the same time, my glorious paradise was missing something. Illuminati / 75
I needed to return. The light bulb grew brighter, and the written thoughts slowly faded away. Soon, all I could see were the faces of average day to day business people, dressed for work and ready to get through another afternoon. The darkness dissolved into towers and sky, and I steadily began to feel the ground. A gentle wind blew past my face. I suddenly felt lighter and was picked up. Like a balloon, I fell slave to a sharp March wind. The feeling was wonderful. I was light as a feather and soaring like a morning lark. It wouldn’t be long until I’d land in my quaint little backyard feeling refreshed and ready to move on. It wouldn’t be long until I’d find another job, one that I liked, somewhere out in the country.
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It wouldn’t be long until I’d find a nice girl, and attempt to fulfill my dreams. I had some money saved, I had the desire. I understood what it meant to be alone, and I understood that it was the time to no longer be it. I had finally rejoined the body. Evaporation was a happy ending. Evaporation was a sweet new start.
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Michelle Lawrence
A Tiny Life
(excerpt from novel-in-progress) NPR was asking for donations as Morgan pressed the button to turn the alarm clock off. She lay in bed, taking up the entire mattress with legs akimbo. If only she could sleep in. It felt like years since she had allowed herself a full night’s rest. Her bed felt so perfectly warm, and the thought of padding into the kitchen for tea and oatmeal was a tough one to reconcile. She stretched her long limbs, letting the blankets stay over the bottom half of her face so she could breathe in the lavender scent of her fabric softener. She had almost drifted off to sleep again when the phone rang. Letting the machine pick up in the living room of her little apartment, she groaned when she heard her boss’s voice over the speaker. “Morgan, we need you to come in early to cover Lisa’s work. She’s home sick. Please get here no later than eight, okay?” “Noooo,” Morgan whimpered and threw the covers off of her warm body. Pulling a sweatshirt over her head, she stumbled to the kitchen and turned the knob on the stove, lighting the fire under the teapot. As she waited for it to heat, she shuffled through the large stack of papers from work that she had brought home with her the night before, and put the now-empty bowl of cereal into the sink. Her stomach growled at the sight of the bowl, and she realized that a single bowl of granola hadn’t exactly been a filling dinner. Too impatient to let the water boil, she poured lukewarm water over her herbal tea bag and one spoonful of sugar. Pressing the bag with the spoon to make it steep faster, she heard the phone ringing, and again a voice from work pleading that she arrive no later than eight o’clock. Looking at the clock on the stove, she realized that her growling stomach would just have to wait until lunch. “Duty calls,” she said to no one in particular and dumped her tea down the sink. ~ Illuminati / 78
By the time she arrived to work she had lived through two near-car accidents. First a man in a pick-up truck with eight wheels instead of four had almost run her little Civic off the highway, then she had skidded on a patch of black ice, thankfully only fishtailing as opposed to full-on figure eights. Gingerly picking her way through slush and icy patches in the parking lot, she spotted a dark-haired student on his way to the library and smiled, hoping he’d remember her from her last visit. Apparently he didn’t, since he lowered his eyes to the ground as he passed, as if she were invisible. Since she’d started working on the tiny campus that past August, she had felt nearly transparent. Not a faculty member, not a student, she was routinely looked through or looked past, unless someone needed her to fix their schedule or file their federal financial aid paperwork. Then they saw her. As she hefted her bag more securely onto her shoulder, the weight of the papers and folders inside made her feel anchored. She was moored here in this small industrial town, with its small campus and the small minds of its people. The only thing big was its super-sized fiberglass Jesus statue along the main highway. Catching sight of a “V” of geese headed south, she watched their reflection in the glass doors of Walker Hall, and wished she could follow. As she opened the door and stepped through, one lone goose caught up to its group with a “honk,” and beat its wings faster to take its place at the back. ~
Morgan looked at her watch again, and saw that it was now fifteen minutes after one o’clock. Her meeting had been scheduled at one. She had been sitting in the metal and fabric chair for at least twice that long, thinking she should come to see Brian Smith early. On her lap lay the file full of papers for him to sign. She opened it, looked at the paper on top again, and flipped it shut. She rolled her head in a circle, feeling the little pops in her neck as she attempted to release her bunched up muscles. With a sigh, she looked to the secretary for what had to be the tenth time. “No, dear, he isn’t done with his other appointment yet.” Illuminati / 79
With that the door opened, and out floated a pretty young coed, her face a bit flushed. She hurried out with a giggle, leaving Morgan behind to breathe a thick cloud of sweet, floral perfume and hair spray. “Morgan, I‘m ready for you; sorry to keep you waiting,” Brian said, holding the door to his office open for her. She got up, clutching the file to her chest, and allowed him to usher her in. Brian shut the door quietly behind him once he saw that she was sitting comfortably in the extra chair behind his. He sat down, and spun himself around to face her. “Well, what have we here?” He asked, his blue eyes holding a glint. “Um, I just needed your signatures on these papers,” she answered, feeling her face turn a bit pink as he stared at her like her words were poetry. “Of course,” he said, and allowed his fingers to brush her knees as he took the file from its place on her lap. A slight frown creased his corners of his mouth as he opened the file. He clicked his pen and scrawled his signature on the first sheet shown. “Morgan,” he said, his voice raising in question. “Uh-huh?” she replied. “What is your degree in?” “Art History,” she answered. “I especially like Prehistoric. I had thought that I could work in a museum, or maybe teach, but it didn’t work out for me, at least not yet….” She trailed off, realizing that he hadn’t asked her to tell him all of that. “Prehistoric?” he asked. “You mean you think that those cave drawings are art?” His eyes twinkled; he was clearly trying to goad her. She smiled, and said, “Yes, I do. It’s a lot better than what people call art now! They think building some websites with dancing fonts is artistic!” It was then that she remembered why she was getting the papers signed in the first place. He had designed the website pages for her department. Thankfully, Brian had laughed off her case of footin-mouth disease, telling her how much he liked her honesty. It pleased her when he said it, whether he was being truthful or not. He had asked her, as she rose to leave, what she thought of his work. Illuminati / 80
“Well…” she said, trying to buy time to think up something a little less obnoxious, “I’m sure it’s just as good as the pictographs at Mesa Verde.” He looked quizzically at her, and then took the next young, hairsprayed blonde into his office. She muttered as she climbed the steps to her tiny office. “My God, Morgan, you’re an ass.” She could feel the muscles in her neck bunching again, and rolled her shoulders down to stretch them. Thank God it was Friday; that gave her at least sixty three hours away from work. Plenty of time to finish up Lisa’s work and then ignore the calendar. ~ Morgan’s feet hit the dirt and gravel trail with a satisfactory crunch. While taking a hike was at least number seven on her list of things to accomplish today, she moved it up shortly after lunch. She had needed this hike from the moment she opened her eyes and had remembered what day it was. Zipping her jacket a little higher, Morgan sped up, her disdain of the very day itself spurring her to work a little harder than usual at today’s walk. The trees along the trail looked grey and bare, though here and there an oak had kept its shaggy coat of brown, crumpled leaves, clutching them to its branches as if it would never let go. Her breath fogged into a cloud above her head; the air was cool, as it should be on the shortest day of the year. She breathed the heady scent of snow and wood smoke from neighboring subdivisions and horse farms. Watching her feet and the path directly in front of her, she skirted some mud puddles and the occasional pile of dog-doo. It irked her that people ignored the many signs posted at the entrance of the reserve to always clean up after one’s dog. She liked order, and the random chaos of poo and disregard of rules was enough to give her a full ten minutes of annoyance. Morgan pushed herself up a particularly steep hill, thigh muscles screaming in protest. She paused ever so slightly at the top to catch her breath; hearing the rush of the creek before she saw it. The water was hurtling itself into the forest, through an area down the other side of the hill that had been marked with a sign that said, “Area closed. Trail Illuminati / 81
resting.� She had never been there, and while her mind reminded that she needed to follow the same trail as always, lest she fall and need the help of a fellow hiker, something told her that she needed to roam before the sun began to set. As she worked her way down the hill, the trail became much lighter, and she wondered vaguely how long it had been closed. Underneath a huge oak, she saw what looked like logs placed into a circle around the remains of a small campfire. She knew the young kids liked to wander the woods until they came to a good place to get high, away from hikers, dogs and rangers. They were pretty dedicated to come all this way. Picking her way through brambles, sticks and deer scat, Morgan continued, all the while thinking about the past months. Moving an hour from her parents had been the last straw. After studying Art History instead of Business, not finding herself gainfully employed right out of school, leaving the “perfect� man, and then finally taking the low-paying position at the campus, her mother and father were fed up. They cut her off financially, her father telling her that she would have to find her own way. The best she could get from her mother was a series of sighs, showing her extreme disappointment. The rest of the family was scattered across the country, living perfect lives of children and homes, promotions and green, lush lawns. Morgan herself had a tiny apartment, a tiny job, a tiny life.
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After an hour the frozen ground under her feet sought to seep into her very bones. Morgan couldn’t feel her toes anymore, and the frigid air bit right through her jeans, stinging her thighs. They throbbed with cold, so she rubbed them with gloved hands as she walked, which made them sting all the more. She had only been out for an hour or two, but the light was growing dim, making it feel like evening. She scanned the sky, knowing that the sun shouldn’t be lower than the treetops yet. When she found the sun, she stopped dead in her tracks, backing up until her behind and shoulders nudged an oak, its solid bulk holding her up. The sun was slowly being covered in darkness, like a shade being pulled across a window. An eclipse, surely. How could I miss that on the news, an eclipse on the winter solstice, and on my birthday to boot? Morgan wondered, chiding herself for being so busy with making good impressions at work that she failed to notice something so…cosmic. Morgan wrapped her left hand around the trunk of the oak for support, stuffed her right into her pocket. She felt dizzy, perhaps from the long hike in the icy air. She longed to sit, but knew the ground would cover her butt in dirt and snow, freezing her cheeks even more than they were already. So she leaned, and squinted out of the corner of her eye as the moon passed over the sun, bringing with it a sense of calm, deathly silence. No birds sang, no squirrels foraged in the undergrowth. Even the creek, wide and only partly frozen, seemed to stopped gurgling, waiting for the sun to peek out again from behind its shield. As it became all but pitch black around her, a sharp sound of air whizzed past her head. Morgan jerked, smacking her head back against the tree hard enough to see stars. As she lifted her left hand to rub at her skull she found that she could not. As the forest brightened just enough to see, she turned her head to look at her hand, trapped on the side of the trunk. A stick, or what she thought was a stick, stood quivering beside her, its tip right through the cuff of her glove, pinning her. She blinked, but her eyes didn’t want to focus. She lightly shook her head, closing her eyes tight and then opening them again. There were feathers on the end of the stick. Perplexed, she grabbed at it with her right hand and yanked. It resisted, and she had to muscle it loose. She squinted as the Illuminati / 83
sky brightened a bit more, only a moment passing since the whizz of air startling her, only a moment of darkness and then light, just enough to see that she held an arrow in her hand. She looked up, through the trees, seeking the archer who had loosed an arrow. Do I look like a fucking deer? She thought, becoming angry that hunters would be out in this part of the reserve. A sound found her ear and she squinted again, searching. Movement caught her eye and she focused all of her senses to her distant left. A man, tall, hard, heavy. Her eyes took in his bulk, his black hair, his brown skin, his furs covering every inch but his head, face, and hands, which were cocking another arrow, an arrow that was pointed right at her. She felt her face pale; the air suddenly voiding her lungs. She dropped the arrow to the leaf-littered floor and ran to her right, crashing through blackberry brambles, paw paws and rotted logs. Tripping on an upturned stone, she caught herself with her hands, scraping the palms through her gloves, the left fully torn open, exposing the soft heel of her hand. Scratching at the ground with her fingertips, she propelled herself forward again, running like a deer, but far from silent. She dared peek behind her, but couldn’t find the man, so she stopped to catch her breath. Panting, her lungs searing with the effort and the biting December air, she rested her stinging palms on her knees, bent over at the waist. She swallowed hard, hoping to quiet herself, and heard a noise directly in front of her. Behind a tree she caught a glimpse of brown furs and black hair—he was after her. But why? No time to find out, she thought, and took off again, not knowing which direction she headed. The path was far behind her now, as was the creek. The landscape was changing, rising, becoming rockier. The stones beneath her feet had been left after the Ice Age, and were now packed down into the dirt, mostly small enough to walk on, but many larger, like bones popping up out of the earth to remind those living in the present that the past wasn’t that far behind them. Morgan picked her way uphill, dodging behind rocky outcrops and trees. Another arrow whizzed past—he was gaining. She dared look behind her, but couldn’t spot him, so she kept her body moving forward. She knew he Illuminati / 84
was there by the sound of cracking sticks and twigs, his heavy body pulverizing them, slowing him down only enough to give her the slightest lead. Suddenly her ankle twisted, sending her sprawling. Expecting to hit the ground, she splayed her fingers to catch her fall, but instead she was sliding, bumping downwards, scrambling for a handhold and finding nothing but roots and dirt that wouldn’t allow her fingers to dig in. Something had her around the hips; she kicked out, one foot finding nothing but air, the other jabbing sharply into flesh and bone. She heard an “Oof!” and whatever had her pulled her in, topping them both. ~ Morgan hadn’t realized that she had been squeezing her eyes shut until she opened them. She was upright, on her knees. She was beginning to ache all over, she realized with a groan. “Shhhhh!” a voice in her ear said, and she felt a hand cover her mouth. She struggled, realizing that she was straddling the thing that had pulled her into what must be a cave. She peered around the hand, contemplating biting, rolling her eyes until she could see the opening of the small cave. She must have fallen off of a small ridge up above; she hadn’t noticed the sharp drop because she had been looking behind her for the archer. Behind the hand she gurgled, “Who the hel….” But was stopped short by a smack right on her behind, the sharpness of it magnified by her frozen flesh. She let out a yip and jerked her head back to look at her assailant, and his hands gripped both her left buttcheek and her mouth hard, pulling her close to him. Her ears picked out footsteps above, heavy yet quiet. The archer was at the top of the ridge, searching. Morgan held her breath, her eyes wide, looking back and forth between the opening and the man who held her captive. From her position on his lap, all she could see was his cheek and nose, which was straight and smooth, unlike her own. Hers looked as though it had been broken at least twice, though it had never been. His nostrils were flaring and a muscle in his cheek was working as he grit his teeth. Minutes passed; all she could hear was the sound of their shared breathing and the beat of two fast hearts, galloping Illuminati / 85
with adrenaline. A pop! sounded just outside the cave, and they both jumped, expecting the worst, expecting to face the bear of a man, hands ready to snap their necks and grind their bones to make his bread. A squirrel passed by, a walnut in his mouth. Both Morgan and her jailer visibly relaxed, and he removed his hand from her mouth, his grip from her backside. She slipped slightly back, her knees still on either side of his thighs. She looked at him, took in his curled red-gold hair, his green eyes, his wool jacket and silver hoop earring. He was studying her as well, his eyebrow cocked and mouth set in a firm line. She licked her lips. “Who are you?” they asked at the same time, and stopped short. Morgan instantly felt annoyed that she had not been permitted to speak first as he continued, “He’s gone. You really can’t go skipping through these woods like Little Red Riding Hood, you know,” he declared, his voice dripping with derision. “Don’t you know you’re bound to get eaten?”
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Jay Colliver
Multigenre They had to be stopped. They had dominated the way that students were required to write for decades. They had sucked the life out of writing for students of all ages. Everyone cringed at the mention of their names: Research Paper, Book Report, Thesis, summary. These and other villains had brought pain and misery to all who had a writing assignment to complete. Clutching pens or tapping keyboards, the people looked up from their desks and cried for a hero. Their calls were answered in the form of a new style of writing: Multigenre. The villains had a simple mission. They were to make writing as unenjoyable as possible for everyone involved. For the students who had to write the papers. For the teachers who had to read and grade the papers. Turn students off of writing and make them think that it is drudgery. Lead them to believe that the only reason to write something is to satisfy a requirement or to receive a grade. Multigenre came along and put a dent in their evil plan. With his cape flapping in the breeze, he flew among the academic world to spread the word about his new style of writing. Writers of all ages would gather round to hear him speak. They would tell him that writing is dull and tedious. Others would point out that writing is only done in a rigorous format mandated by the teacher. Teachers would retort by saying that the only writing that they get is laden with information but has no passion or feeling. Soon, the whole room would be filled with the sounds of shouting and arguing. Holding up a gloved hand, Multigenre would motion for the crowd to get quiet. He would often unroll a long scroll and pretend to read it over. The crowd would be told after a short pause that nowhere in the rules does it say that writing has to be any of those things. Writing, he would say, is what you want to make it. Sensing that the people did not understand, Multigenre would show examples of what he was about. They would be passed among to crowd for examination. The people would see such things as: poems, obituaries, posters, pictures, interviews, recipes, word searches and other components of a Multigenre paper. Before long, many were absorbed in what they were reading and did not realize that Illuminati / 87
they were learning something along the way. Understanding began to set in. Writing could be interesting for the reader and the writer. Slowly the people would retreat back to their rooms and try this new style of writing. Multigenre would smile inwardly and then move on to the next group. The villains would recoil in horror at what they saw. Students were no longer procrastinating before starting a paper. The libraries and computer labs that had once sat empty were now filled with students acquiring information about various subjects. Students were now taking a creative approach to writing. People were discovering that Multigenre also meant multitask, multiintellinges, multiskill, mult`ifun.
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Remember Us We were young and idealistic, Yet our spirit made us eternal, Made us brave, melded us as one With our countries hopes pinned to our shoulders We soared onto the International stage, The embodiment of the Olympic spirit, Nothing could touch our souls Yet evil had other plans, Plans to steal our joy, to take our place on the stage To shatter our families and end our time together In an instant we were gone, our aspirations dashed Searing the heart of our country, which was bleeding with each beat Yet our spirit lives on in those who compete Our memory is kept alive with their accomplishments We ask that you remember us not only for what we were, But for what we represented, the determination to prevail To honor us is to continue on, to never let evil triumph We hope that others have learned from that tragic night, That life is sacred, and families only get one chance in life together, When you see our loved ones, embrace them and wipe their tears, And remember us.
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Beginning The crowd that was moving about the city of Rome consisted of workers, policemen, couples, tourists and terrorists. Most of the people in the crowd were recognizable for whom they were; the terrorists were not. It was a beautiful summer day, the kind of day that a postcard would envy. As bright as the sun was shining, it could not penetrate the darkness that was in the hearts of two men who were making their way through the crowd. The men, Abu Daoud and Abu Iyad, were members of the Palestinian terrorist group known as Black September. They were on their way to the Piazza della Rotunda to meet a third member of the group, Abu Mohammed. Both men squinted against the bright orange ball that hung in the sky as they searched for the name of the prearranged meeting place. As they scanned the signs of the various restaurants, their eyes fell on the name that they were looking for: Café Roma. Each gave a quick glance around the café before entering. Members of Black September were trained to be on the lookout for agents of Mossad, secret police of the hated enemy Israel. Seeing nothing suspicious, they entered the establishment. They spotted Abu Mohammed seated a table alone, sipping coffee from a white porcelain cup and leafing through an Arabic newspaper. Wasting no time, they quickly joined him at the table. A tall waiter with a practiced smile appeared momentarily with menus. Coffee was ordered and the waiter melted into the crowd. Since all three men had the same first name, they referred to each other by their last names. “Greetings in the name of Allah”, said Mohammed. “Greetings,” they responded. The men kept their voices low. Their routine was to talk in their native language since most people did not speak Palestinian. This was to minimize the chance that bystanders would inadvertently overhear their conversation. Also, since enemy agents could have them under surveillance, they tried not to talk in specific details about missions. All three men were veterans of campaigns against Israel and their names appeared on a terrorist watch list composed by the Mossad. Traveling in public was not done often. The Palestinian charter called for the total destruction of Israel and refused to recognize the Israeli government. These men were dedicated Illuminati / 90
to carrying out the conditions of the charter. There has been resentment on the part of the Palestinians since 1948, when Israel was given a country of its own by the United Nations. The feeling is that the Palestinian’s land was ripped from their grasp and handed to the infidels. In just a few weeks, their feelings would be made known to the world. “It says here that our youth federation still has not received word from the Olympic Committee concerning their request to send a team to the games,” said Mohammed. Daoud responded, “First they take our land, then they take our spot in the Olympics. What will be taken next?” “If the infidel Israelis are allowed to send a team, why not the Palestinians?” added Iyad. The waiter returned with their coffee. Setting their cups down with a clatter, he asked if they were ready to order. The trio placed their order and the waiter hurried off. Mohammed took note of the room. The sounds of conversations in various languages mixed with the clinking of silverware. There was an appetizing aroma of Italian cuisine in the air. No one noticed their conversation. If there were Mossad agents in the room, he could not detect them. Mohammed felt safe to make the proposal that he had been contemplating before his companions had entered the café. “If they refuse to let us participate, why don’t we penetrate the games in our own way?” Both men nodded their heads in agreement. Mohammed continued. “We must pick a team that is not too large but is large enough to carry out the mission. Most of the team should be shabob (young men) who are eager to serve the cause and are physically fit. They must be good at military tactics and can handle weapons. Above all, they must be trustworthy and willing to die for the cause.” “There are several camps in Libya that contain refugees from Lebanon. Surely we can find six to eight shabob that will volunteer for the mission,” added Iyad. “Yes, I am sure that we can find enough,” said Daoud, “But we must find a place where they can train in secret.” Mohammed said, “We can train them in Libya. Our brother Khaddafi has pledged his support in any action against the Zion occupiers. I will send word to him personalIlluminati / 91
ly about this matter. We also will need funding for weapons, training, supplies and travel. I will speak to Arafat about securing the needed funds. One of you should go to the Olympic venue ahead of time for scouting purposes. We will need a layout of the compound, avenues of entry, strength of the German security and a hiding place for the team.” “I will volunteer,” said Daoud. “You will leave in two days,” said Mohammed. “Remember to use a fake passport and do nothing to arouse suspicion. If you are captured by the authorities, say nothing of the mission. Also, those who are chosen for the mission must not be told of the details until the last possible moment. We cannot risk a security leak.” The mission was given the code name Biraam and Tikrit, which were two villages that Arab residents had been evicted from by Israel in 1948. All three men were in agreement as to the details of the plan. The waiter returned with their food and talk about the plan ceased. The meal would satisfy their physical appetite, and the attack on the Israeli athletes would satisfy their appetite for the destruction of the Zion occupiers.
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Anatomy of an Infiltration 1. At 4:00 A.M. on September 5, 1972, eight members of
the Palestinian group Black September arrive at the Olympic Village in Munich, Germany. 2. The terrorists, dressed in track suits, arrive at Gate 25A, which was locked but unguarded. 3. American athletes, who were sneaking back into the village after curfew, mistake the terrorists for Olympic athletes and help them over the fence. 4. The terrorists arrive at the corner of the Israeli building and change from their track suits to the clothes that they would wear in the attack. 5. The group enters the main entrance to Apartment1. 6. Entering the foyer, the terrorists open the door to the stairs that lead to the Israeli quarters. Issa, leader of the group, gives each one their assignments 7. Jamal Al-Gashay is left behind to guard the entrance. The remaining terrorists go through the unlocked door and up the stairs to their main objective. 8. Everyone assembles outside the door of Apartment 1. Inside are: Amitzur Shapira, track coach, Kehatt Shorr, marksman coach, Andre Spitzer, fencing coach, Tuvia Sokolovsky, weightlifting trainer, Jacov Springer, weightlifting judge, Moshe Weinberg, wrestling coach, and Yossef Gutfreund, wrestling referee. 9. The terrorists attempt to open the door to Apartment 1 with a key that had been obtained earlier. Yossef Gutfreund hears the noise and goes to the door. Opening the door slightly, he sees the terrorists and yells out a warning to the others in the room while holding the door closed. 10. There is a struggle as Gutfreund attempts to hold the door closed while the terrorists push their way in. Gutfreund holds the door for ten seconds.
11. Tuvia Sokolovsky hears the commotion and at-
tempts to escape by breaking open a window. He is unsuccessful at first but is finally able to pry the window open.
12. The terrorists use their weapons like crowbars and dislodge Gutfreund from the door.
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13. Seeing Sokolovsky escape, one of the terrorists runs to
the open window and begins firing at the fleeing Israeli athlete. He is able to dodge the bullets and escape. 14. Gutfreund is pulled off the floor and is rounded up along with Shapira and Shorr. 15. Issa bursts into the adjoining bedroom and comes into contact with Moshe Weinberg. 16. Weinberg grabs a knife from the bedside table and slashes at Issa. Issa sidesteps the knife and a second terrorist standing behind Issa fires at round that tears through the side of Weinberg’s mouth. 17. Weinberg is ushered upstairs with the other three Israeli hostages, who are in the bedroom that contain Andre Spitzer and Jacov Springer. The athletes are tied at the hands and wrists. 18. Issa and two other terrorists guard the prisoners while the rest take Weinberg outside to Connollystrasse Street, ordering him to direct them the quarters of the rest of the athletes. 19. Weinberg passes up Apartment 2, which housed lightly built fencers and walkers. 20. Weinberg takes the terrorists to Apartment 3. Inside are: David Berger, weightlifter, Zeev Friedman, weightlifter, Eliezer Halfin, wrestler, Yossef Romano, weightlifter, Gad Tsabari, wrestler, and Mark Slavin, wrestler. 21. Tsabari was awakened by the shots and opens the door to Apartment 3. He is immediately taken hostage. 22. David Berger follows Tsabari out the door and is also taken hostage. 23. The two new captives are forced at gunpoint down the stairs to join the rest of the hostages. 24. Terrorists begin searching the apartment for any Israelis who may be hiding. 25. Tony bounds down the stairs and asks the hostages where the others are. There is no reply. 26. Berger, speaking in Hebrew, urges the captured Israelis to escape. The terrorists sense what they are talking about and point their weapons at the Israelis. The hostages are ordered to walk down Connollystrasse Street towards Apartment 1. Illuminati / 94
27. Tsabari bolts from the group and dashes for freedom. He
runs down the stairs that lead to an underground parking lot. 28. A terrorist chases after Tsabari and begins firing at him. Tsabari is able to pinball between the concrete pillars and make it to safety. 29. During the shooting Weinberg tackles terrorists Mohammed Safady and punches him in the face. The blow knocks out several teeth and fractures Safady’s jaw. 30. The terrorist that had been firing at the escaping Tsabari turns and fires a burst into Weinberg’s chest, killing him instantly. 31. The remaining hostages are forced at gunpoint to the upstairs room of Apartment 1. 32. Romano, who had suffered a leg injury, throws down his crutches and lunges at a terrorist. He is able to wrestle free a machine gun but is gunned down seconds later. 33. Berger, Friedman, Halfin and Slavin are taken into the upstairs bedroom to join the rest of the hostages. 34. Athletes from the other buildings begin awaking to the sounds of the shots. They begin to exit the compound. 35. The Olympic Security Office begins receiving calls reporting shots in the Olympic Village. An unarmed security officer is dispatched to the scene. 36. The security officer arrives at the compound and finds a masked gunman standing in the doorway of the Israeli building. The officer gives a challenge but gets no response. 37. The control room receives a call from the security officer about the masked gunman. Two additional unarmed officers arrive minutes later. 38. The Munich police are called and officers begin arriving in the compound. The terrorists give the police a list of their demands. Nine Israelis are now held hostage and two have been murdered.
Anatomy of a Shootout 1. Both helicopters land at Furstenfeldbruck airport, which
included four flight crew, eight terrorists and nine hostages. 2. The first helicopter lands, with hostages Gutfreund, Shorr, Slavin, Spitzer, and Shapira, along with terrorists Issa, Illuminati / 95
Jamal Al-Gashay, Adnan Al-Gashay and one other. The four terrorists climb out of the helicopter, their weapons raised. 3. The second helicopter lands, holding hostages Friedman, Halfin, Berger, and Springer, along with terrorists Tony and three others. Tony and one other terrorist step out of the helicopter. 4. Issa and Tony walk 160 yards to the Boeing 727 that was supposed to take the entire group to Cairo, Egypt. 5. The four flight crew members of the two helicopters begin to walk away. The terrorists, who had earlier promised that no harm would come to the flight crew, raise their weapons and order them to stop. 6. Issa and Tony climb the stairs to the jet and look inside. They find no flight crew on board. The Germans had had a plan to replace the regular flight crew with police officers in disguise. The officers on board had decided that they did not have enough training or room to carry out a rescue attempt. They voted unanimously to abort the mission and their leader, Reinhold Reich, releases them. He informs Deputy Commander of the Munich Police Department George Wolf of the officer’s decision minutes before the helicopters are to land at the airfield. 7. Issa and Tony suspect a trap and begin jogging back to the helicopters, shouting as they jog. Wolf gives the order to fire. Two of the terrorists guarding the helicopter-Ahmed Chic Thaa and Afif Ahmed Hamidare hit. One dies outright. 8. The four members of the helicopter flight crew scramble for safety.
1. Issa and Tony begin running back towards the helicopters. One shot hits close to Issa. Tony is hit in the leg and falls to the tarmac.
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9. Issa and Tony begin running back towards the helicop-
ters. One shot hits close to Issa. Tony is hit in the leg and falls to the tarmac. 10. The remaining terrorists duck beneath the two helicopters and begin firing on the airfield, shooting at the main building, the lights, the 727 and the fleeing chopper crews. 11. Bullets hit the main building and penetrate the room where officials Wegner, Genscher, Zamir and Cohen are overseeing the rescue. Some dive for cover. 12. Anton Fligerbauer, a German policeman stationed at the base of the control tower, begins firing on Issa and Tony with his submachine gun. A bullet from one of the terrorists tears through the window, hitting Fligerbauer in the head. He dies instantly. 13. Helicopter pilot Ganner Ebel races to the wall where sniper #2 is hiding. He is not fired on because he is wearing a white flight helmet. 14. Terrorist Jamal Al-Gashay is hit in the hand by a German sniper and his weapon falls to the ground. 15. An unidentified terrorist is shot in the chest. 16. Israeli officials Victor Cohen and Ziv Zamir go the roof of the control tower. They shout in Arabic at the terrorists to stop firing. The terrorists respond by firing at them. 17. Two of the German flight crew desperately try to find safety while a third crewmember plays dead. The fourth crew member is behind the wall with sniper #2. 18. German sharpshooters and the terrorists take occasional shots at each other for about an hour. 19. Approximately one hour after the shooting had started a heavily armed German special assault group lands by helicopter on the western side of the airfield, about a mile from the battle zone. By the time they arrive on the scene there is little that they can do and are told to protect the senior officials in the buildings. 20. Twenty minutes after that four armored cars arrive at the airfield and move into position. 21. One of the terrorists begins firing on one of the helicopters, killing Springer, Halfin and Friedman. Berger is shot in the leg. The terrorist then leaps out of the chopper and tosses a grenade inside the helicopter. The fuel tank is ignited and the helicopter becomes an inferno. Illuminati / 97
22. Issa emerges form under the other helicopter and begins
firing on the airfield buildings. Snipers return fire and kill Issa and another terrorist. 23. An enormous explosion erupts from the first helicopter. The hostages inside are fossilized by the heat. 24. Adnan Al-Gashay climbs out from beneath the second helicopter and climbs inside. He empties the clip of his machine gun on Gutfreund, Shorr, Slavin, Spitzer and Shapira. 25. Khalid Jawad, who had been hiding under the second helicopter, sprints away from the battle. He heads toward a low wall from where sniper 2 is hiding. Sniper 2 fires his weapon several times into the terrorist from a distance of five yards. Jawad dies minutes later. 26. One of the armored cars begins moving toward the helicopters. A crewman sees sniper 2 fire at Khalid Jawad and mistakes him for a terrorist. The armored car begins firing on sniper 2’s position. Helicopter pilot Ganner Ebel, who had been hiding behind the wall with sniper 2, is shot in the lung. Sniper 2 is slightly wounded. 27. A fire crew that had been stationed on the scene rushes out to save the hostages in the burning helicopter. They begin spraying the inferno with foam, but four terrorists hiding under the remaining chopper begin firing on the fire crew and drive them back. 28. As the terrorists begin firing on the firemen, German snipers fire on the terrorists. One terrorist is killed in the exchange. 29. The firing finally stops. Police rush to the scene, looking for survivors. They discover that three of the terrorists are missing. Two terrorists are found hiding in the foam covering the charred helicopter. A third terrorist flees the scene and is quickly arrested. Adnan Al-Gashay, Jamal Al-Gashay and Mohammed Safady are the three surviving terrorists. 30. Nine Israelis, five terrorists and one German police officer die in the battle. One helicopter pilot, one of the terrorists and several German policemen are wounded. The four flight crew and three of the terrorists survive. 31. Over 450 policemen, fire crew and other personnel converge on the scene.
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(Munich, Associated Press)- Competition, pride, drama, ath-
letic achievement and unity have all been a part of the Olympics. Now tragedy and death can be added to the list. In an unprecedented event, terrorists stormed the Olympic village early this morning and invaded the sanctuary provided the athletes. Two members of the Israeli delegation were murdered and nine others have been taken hostage. The terrorists have identified themselves as members of a Palestinian terrorist group known as Black September. They are seeking the release of 234 Palestinian prisoners that are being held in Israeli prisons. If their demands are not met they are threatening to begin executing the hostages at the rate of one per hour until their fellow countrymen are released. German officials are in contact with the terrorists and are trying to negotiate a peaceful ending to an already tragic occurrence. Officials are trying to piece together what has transpired to this point. At approximately 4:47 A.M. the Olympic Security Office received a phone call reporting the sound of gunfire in the Olympic Village. A security officer was sent to investigate and found a masked gunman standing in the doorway of the building that houses the Israeli athletes. Police officers were called to the scene to find a dead body in the street next to the compound. The body has been identified as that of wrestling coach Moshe Weinberg, age 33. A few minutes later a communiqué was dropped from the balcony where the hostages are being held that outlined the terrorist’s demands. The village has been cordoned off and police have been evacuating athletes from surrounding buildings. Two of the Israeli athletes managed to escape during the opening minutes of the attack. They have been identified as weightlifting coach Tuvia Sokolovsky and wrestler Gad Tsabari. Both men identified the second athlete that was killed as wrestler Yossef Romano, age 32. The location of the second body is unknown. Police are questioning the two athletes to find out as much detail as possible about the terrorists. Each has been moved to a safe location. Several police have been brought onto the scene as reinforcements. Officials are not commenting on Israel’s response to the terrorist’s demands. It is unknown how many terrorists are in the building. Many are questioning how the terrorists were able Illuminati / 99
to penetrate the village. The Germans have been trying to conduct a friendly Olympics to erase the horrible images that come to mind when their country is mentioned. There has much less security than in past Olympics and most of the guards are not armed. The very thing that the Germans were trying to prevent came to pass: violence and bloodshed during the Olympic Games. The state of the rest of the Olympic Games is now in question. Olympic officials are meeting to decide if the rest of the scheduled events will take place. Some athletes are already saying that they want to leave the games and fear for their safety. Olympic officials have never had to deal with this type of problem. German officials now have to save the lives of athletes from another country who have come to their land to compete. The delicate relationship of the countries involved hangs in the balance. Relatives of the athletes being held hostage are being contacted.
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Allie Kontnier
A Matter of Timing Each time we see each other the battle gets a bit bloodier. Broken hearts and severed limbs line the halls of a battleground that was once called a home. The irony is overwhelming. The bedroom that was once our own personal fortress against the warriors of the outer world is now a safe house to shield ourselves from one another. Whoever claims sanctuary within the bedroom walls before the sun sets takes the other captive when they choose to step foot into the fortress of linen sheet and sleepless nights. The living room where we once sat and spoke civilly, even lovingly, is now littered with the broken bones endured by countless nights of fights fought through words. The coffee table, decorated by spots of coffee and archaic magazines, separates us and stands as a blockade between two beating hearts that are both racing to see which will burst first. The kitchen that (in recent months) was a breeding ground of good morning kisses and 'just because' cookies is now nothing more than a fall out shelter to the morning sneers served with our coffee. Oh, the days we once had. Days spent bundled beneath an individual blanket. Days spent dancing through the kitchen, laughter loud and cares aside. Days spent spooning beneath a roof that shielded us from the animosity of the "real world". Anymore all the roof does is separate us from clear skies and happier times. We stew and stir between these walls, calculating our each and every move in futile attempt to put an end to the bitter stalemate we've managed to lock ourselves in. Rather than come home from our daily lives beyond these brick walls and revel in the comfort of one another’s embrace, we come home to separate rooms with separate books to think separate thoughts. No longer do we talk over tea and kiss between the sheets, no longer do we cry on shoulders and offer helping hands. We sit together and remain utterly alone, sequestering ourselves from each other. By not shoutIlluminati / 101
ing, by not crying, by not kissing we prevent the inevitable....and for what? For what reason? For the stability. I know you're there, just beyond the bedroom door, wishing I would crawl into your arms with tears in my eyes. I know you're burying your head in the pillows, hoping I'll soon smother you in kisses to make everything better. At the same time, you know I'm here, sitting on the couch with a cold cup of coffee and a stale cigarette waiting for you to timidly sit next to me and ask for a back rub. We're both well aware that this will all come to an end as soon as one of us decides that we can't live with the other and continue to live without them. We're still interested. It's just a matter of timing.
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Chelle Creekbaum
The Daily Grind 5:30 am The alarm clock screeches in its futile attempt to rouse me from my much-needed slumber, but I’m not ready yet. A floppy-armed whack and we’ll both snooze for another ten minutes . . . whack . . . or twenty. Its final word is an ascending wail, louder, and shriller. I hear you, I hear you. I’m up, ok? Rumple and gripe into my robe. Now where the hell is my other slipper? Yes, yes, let the dumb dogs out so they’ll stop jumping around like that. Brrr, it’s cold out there. Might as well just stand here ‘cause they’ll want right back in. Probably need food in their dish, too, and . . . mmmm, smell that? My saving grace in a little glass pot. That’s what I need. A giant mug of steaming hot sanity with lots of creamer and a caffeine sidecar. Freshly-brewed serenity before the real world butts in. Sit, relax, enjoy. I’ve got a little time before it’s 6:00 am and he’s up, and he’s up, too, and it’s off to the showers and makeup and hair and oh-my-God I’ll never get my butt in these and honey does this look ok and got your lunch money and don’t forget it’s trash day and where’s my go-mug and love ya both and out the door by 7:30 am with that second cup of aaah cradled in its little nest by the shifter. Bob and Tom and me and my coffee, racing the clock and daring the cops, ‘cause I gotta get there. Not that they’ll say anything, but I hate being late, and I really need to drive faster than this old goat in front of me wants to, but I can’t get around him and he probably doesn’t have anywhere he has to be in a hurry and he’s just pokin’ around in my way but I can get around him right up here and I
should still be able to make it by
8:00 am and they don’t call it work for nothin’. Back ‘n forth, twice at once, three if you’re good, and I am, but they want four-for-one and I’ll give ‘em my best for half of the boss’s salary ‘cause that’s my job and it pays the bills. Kinda. But they have coffee here, and I need another cup, pronto, before I can give ‘em any more. I hope someIlluminati / 103
body made some because I won’t get another break until Noon Maybe I’ll grab something, maybe not. Don’t have time to decide right now. Gotta get this done before he has to leave for his 1:00 meeting. Why didn’t he tell me about this yesterday? Two minutes to pour out the cold one I didn’t have time to finish this morning and grab another cup and get right back at it ‘til 3:00 pm. The coffee break, they call it, and I’ll take mine literally, with lots of cream, please. Maybe I’ll even sneak a little of that fancy, flavored stuff that somebody brought in and marked, “Mine – Don’t Touch”, even though everyone knows it’s got more fat in it than the whole cow it didn’t come from, so why do they call it creamer, anyway? I get a kick out of people who say they want creamer but not sugar because if you look at the label the first thing on it is hydrogenated corn syrup and if that ain’t sugar and it’s not cream either so they oughtta just call it whitener or lightener or even litener if it’s low fat but I’d better get back to my desk before somebody comes in here and smells the creamer and figures out it was me. I’ve got a lot to get done before 5:00 pm Whew! Time to go. Well, almost. Just five, no, ten more minutes to finish this and I’m outta here. OH MY GOD it’s twenty after! I’ll never have time to stop at the coffee shop! Gotta pick him up at 5:37 pm and run through the drive-thru and get to class. Whose bright idea was it to take a class in Hamilton? If I push it, we might make it in time to hit the machine for a java or espresso or whatever that stuff is that comes out in those drop-in-place, wait-for-the-light-to-go-out, damn-that’s -hot cups. It seems to believe its coffee, and we’re running late again, so I have no choice but to play along. Check the time on the radio and, hey, we made it by 5:58 pm but this smells like French vanilla, and that’s really not my thing, but it’s hot and caffeinated and it sorta looks like coffee and it’ll have to do for now because it’s time for class and I need it bad to stay awake through anything that Illuminati / 104
even remotely sounds like science because that’s really not my thing either but I need a science for THE PLAN and why oh why didn’t I finish this when I was young and childless and full of energy and Mom and Dad were paying for it? 8:30 pm This class sucks. Should’ve dropped it when I had the chance but I guess I’m stuck now. Sure could use another cup, but I’ll never sleep tonight if I do. At least it’s over. 9:30 pm He’s bathed and brushed and smells like, well, he still smells like a boy, but at least he smells like a clean boy. Kisses and hugs and no bedbugs. Sweet dreams, lights out, and one more glass of water pleeeeease? Now go to sleep! 9:50 pm My time again. Reminds me of morning. Just as quiet and just as dark and just me and my glass of wine, just to take the edge off, the edge that drives me home at night, the edge that gets sharper and harder to crease the older I get and the closer it is to exams, or deadlines, or holidays . . . or bedtime. 9:58 pm Oops, almost forgot. Gotta make the coffee. Four big scoops and water to the rim, then set the timer so it’ll be ready in the morning when that damn alarm clock goes off in my ear and drags me out of bed again. 10:00 pm
Tomorrow begins.
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Steve Joyce
Religion: How I Lost It (But Found Something Better) One night I prayed to know the truth. The next morning I discovered I was an atheist. That is what I lightheartedly tell folks when they ask about my religious beliefs. Of course it was neither as simple nor as sudden as that. My release from religion was a gradual and mostly unintentional process spanning a period of several years. But it shouldn't take quite that long to read this, so if you'll bear with me I'll tell you of my journey. First, however, I should clarify my motives. Most religious people seem to assume that believers who become atheists do so in an act of rage or revolt against religion, or perhaps in rejection of conventional morality. I cannot speak for all atheists, but in my own instance that was not the case. As a youth I was unusually conservative and respectful of authority. Any questioning I did was with the expectation of having my faith reaffirmed and enhanced by the answers. While it is true that it was anger and revulsion which initially motivated me to examine my beliefs more critically, I nevertheless clung to my religion for years, attempting to rationalize and justify it, before finally finding myself forced to abandon it as hopelessly incompatible with reality. It was not until I had been rid of religion for a time that I realized I was much better off without it. I should also note that some details might be inaccurate or out of sequence due to the imperfections of memory, but those shortcomings should not interfere with the substance and general veracity of the story. I was born in Cincinnati during World War II, and was reared in a "respectable" mainstream Protestant Christian household. I had the standard indoctrination of Sunday School and Bible stories as part of my early upbringing, and I accepted it unquestioningly, if somewhat uncomprehendingly. At the age of four (following my family's move to another city) I had a terrifying experience in a nasty little concrete-block fire-and-brimstone church — lots of jumping and shouting and screaming, activity I was not at all accusIlluminati / 106
tomed to in grown-ups — thoroughly alarming and upsetting to a sensitive little tyke who had been raised on "Jesus Loves Me." I was sobbing uncontrollably when Mom finally "rescued" me and took me home. Fortunately she decided that we should look for a different church. Although this episode in no way affected my young belief in God and Jesus, it was my first decidedly negative experience with religion. In the main, my religious upbringing was pretty laid back. Once Mom had found us a suitably "civilized" church, we settled into a routine of Sunday School for an hour each week. But other than that our life was quite secular, except for one or two exciting and uplifting (to me) school Christmas performances of excerpts from Handel's "Messiah." Belief in God was expected as normal and proper, but we didn't make a great fuss over it as some are inclined to do. I was never baptized. We didn't attend Christmas or Easter church services, but treated these holidays mainly as family reunion, feasting, gift-giving, and fun-forkiddies occasions (which was just fine with me). I don't remember learning much in Sunday School, except that there were people, such as Jews and atheists, who did not share a "proper" Christian belief, and hence were immoral and evil. And probably traitorous, too, for those were the "McCarthy - HUAC" days. It therefore came as quite a surprise to me later when, while I was in my mid teens, Mom finally revealed to me the reason that Dad never went to church with the rest of the family: He didn't believe in God! Though my own religious faith was unshaken by this revelation, it was nevertheless a real eye-opener. It awakened me to the fact that people who did not believe in God and Jesus are not necessarily evil, for Dad was one of the most conscientiously (though quietly) principled and ethical people I have ever known. It was in elementary school that I learned about dinosaurs, prehistory, and the concept of humans as an animal species. In junior high school I learned that the earth was billions of years older than the human species. And in high school I was introduced to biological evolution. I was even cast in a minor role in a school production of "Inherit the Wind," which introduced me to the term "agnostic" in the form of the real-life character Clarence Darrow, and brought me face to face with some of the glaring dichotomies beIlluminati / 107
tween science and fundamentalist belief. It didn't shake my mainstream faith, but it convinced me that some religious beliefs were antiquated and stupid in light of modern knowledge. After high school, I was still religious in my mainstream Christian way. I had shed the biblical creation timetable in much the same fashion as I had shed Santa Claus and the Easter bunny years earlier. But I still held to the belief that God was the creator of the universe and life. Then came college. There I learned of recent scientific experiments, which had shown that complex organic molecules spontaneously form under conditions believed to have existed shortly after the formation of our planet. Suddenly, there was no need in my universe for a supernatural creator; evidently, nature could handle such tasks entirely on its own. Still, there were other reasons for belief in God, and I reshaped my thinking to allow that a Higher Power had used natural processes—including evolution—as tools over billions of years, rather than a series of miraculous "let there be" commands spanning a mere week. Though some of the biblical stories were goofy, I saw, God and his works were far grander than I had ever supposed. Then one Wednesday evening, my best friend invited me to attend church with him and his parents. Having nothing better to do (I thought), I agreed to go. Flashback to age four: "Fire and brimstone!" "Evil is everywhere!" "We're gonna fry if we don't get saved!" This time, however, the experience didn't traumatize me, for I had caught snatches of this horrid crap spewing from radios for years, and was by this time fairly inured to it. But it did set me thinking. My friend's belief in "fire and brimstone" Christianity and my own belief in "love and peace" Christianity were equally intense, yet fundamentally incompatible. They could not both be the word of the same God; they could not both be right. And if one was wrong, I mused, perhaps both were. To resolve the difficulty, I tried to imagine what might happen if I were a visitor from Mars to Earth, having no religious experience. I wondered what unmistakable sign would guide me, as a stranger to earthly religion, to the One True Faith (whatever it might be) and away from all others? The more I studied the matter, the more it seemed that there was no such sign. Despite the Christian bias of my own youth, I Illuminati / 108
had to admit that there was nothing compelling about Christianity which did not have some equivalent in Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, or for that matter in the old Norse, Egyptian, or Greco-Roman religions. During the next year or two I drifted into a kind of Christian deism (for want of a better term), in which I viewed scriptural assertions with increasing skepticism, and Jesus as a great teacher but otherwise a quite ordinary and mortal human being. Yet even if it wasn't the deity of a recognized religion, God was still necessary, I felt, as the ultimate arbiter of good and evil, the author of morality. In the spring of 1965, I enlisted in the intelligence branch of the Army. Following training I was sent to Europe, where I found myself, along with a number of other non-fundy Christians, in the unaccustomed day-to-day company of Jews, agnostics, and even a Buddhist or two—on the whole a pretty decent and fun bunch of people, I discovered. Even the amiable, cigar-chomping post chaplain was an okay guy. Considerate fellow that he was, he made it a point not to preach to our religiously diverse group at the compulsory monthly training sessions, but rather dismissed us for that hour. But a few months after I had arrived, his tour of duty was over, and the chaplain who replaced him was something else. The new chaplain, a fundamentalist Episcopalian (a most curious bird) from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, who came to us by way of some unspeakable hole in Vietnam, was perhaps the strongest single influence on my adult religious life. It was from his hard-nosed preaching, especially to the many non-Christians in our unit who were (according to him) eternally and horribly damned, that I got a good look at the side of religion which I had only briefly glimpsed before. Our good chaplain unrelentingly slashed through the love-and-peace trappings of Christianity and revealed the grotesque hatred, ignorance, fear, and superstition which lurked at its core. I can truly thank that man and his fervent belief for giving me the final, hard shove I needed to confront the ghastly, bloody, insane and deformed horror of the Christian religion, and ultimately to discard it altogether. Furthermore, I earnestly wish him whatever eternal reward he deserves for that kindness! On the whole, though, the disintegration of my religion was a surprisingly positive experience. But there linIlluminati / 109
gered one troubling question: Without divine authority, what support is there for morality? Pondering this, I saw that morality in some form is essential to the structure and prosperity of human society. And if morality has a secular purpose, I reasoned, there must also be a secular basis for it. In the years following my departure from the military, therefore, I pieced together a set of ethical values based on the demonstrably beneficial or harmful effects of various actions and attitudes. I was especially delighted that the product appeared far more self-consistent and pertinent to the modern world than the petrified Decalogue of biblical taboo to which I had earlier subscribed. I had, it turned out, reinvented a centuries-old idea which others called "humanism." It was now rapidly becoming clear to me that the universe behaves very much as might be expected if God didn't exist, or at least didn't care. Eventually it dawned upon me that in the grand scheme of things there is, in fact, no grand scheme—merely the indifferent and impersonal consistency of nature. Even as an explanation for things as yet unknown, a deity is superfluous, for experience has shown that religion never truly explains anything; it merely serves as a fig-leaf cover for the shame of human ignorance. God performs no observable function and has no valid purpose. The question entered my mind, "What is a god without purpose and for which there is no evidence?" "Non-existent," came the obvious answer. The blinders of dogma and the yoke of dread were finally off. For me the universe now shone in a wholesome new light, the comforting glow of reality no longer distorted, either by the garish artificial "glory" of myth and miracle, or by the ghastly glare of hellfire. I was—I am—free! Author’s Note: Negative feelings expressed in the article do not represent the author’s overall views of religion or religious believers in general, but rather his reactions to specific persons and situations, and his reflections upon certain incongruities.
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Selected Contributors Sarah Huffner “Falling Snow� was inspired on a snowy afternoon. I was staring out the window contemplating how to start a journal assignment that was due the next day. As I watched the falling snow, I began to daydream that I was in the mountains. My daydream was interrupted by an especially loud car traveling in front of my home. I live on a very busy street, and once that car passed I was acutely aware of the continuing noise of the traffic. After failing to block out the sounds of the cars, which certainly do not complement a mountain scene, I chose to imaging the cars were a rushing river, and my journal entry developed from there. I later arranged the prose into a Japanese form called haibun, which is a combination of prose and haiku.
Aaron Enyart Life is what inspires me to write. Anything from the grandiose to the mundane can spark an idea that leads me to craft poetry or prose on a page. "Canning Time" grew from a visual writing exercise. I was intrigued with the fact of using the fading domestic art of canning as a metaphor for memory. I feel that memory sustains us, as a reference point or for nostalgia purposes. "The Engineer" is a scene from my childhood. I wanted to understand my father and what it meant to be his son, looking back from my adulthood to a incident that I would never have understood as a 7 or 8 year old boy. I think after writing this I find that my dad is still teaching me lessons about life nearly 20 years after his death. I think this is true for anyone that has lost a parent, especially at a young age.
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Neil Marks
Inspiration comes from many sources, best found by maintaining silence to the extent possible so that I can listen well, concentrate on passing images, and let my imagination flourish. The three poems herein show aspects of my fascination with relationships between the sexes. “Just a Day on the Sideline” explores the intense feelings held by a pair who must be content with the present unsatisfying state of affairs. Message to a Violinist” is a sonnet motivated by observation of an attractive woman frustrated by lack of enduring love. “To a Model” reflects vexation with a woman who inspired one of my romantic narratives but rebelled with silence when offered inspection of it.
Lawrence Spezzano
Music and motion, love and the hopelessness of the moment, fear and attraction...these things move me to write. I enjoy piecing words together to frame almost literal riffs of music that describe a particular feeling or emotion. Some poems are best presented on paper, but mine should be read aloud, bounced off walls and both the words AND sounds interpreted. The process is very simple. I make sure to carry a pen and paper EVERYWHERE. Notebooks in my pocket and glove compartment, paper in my bag and all over my apartment. I want to be ready to go whenever ideas arrive, whether it’s on a napkin or the palm of my hand. The shame isn't a stain on your shirt, but a lost moment.
Adam Pettit I get most of my ideas when I look outside my window and see the endless stretch of the red horizon reaching out before me in an infinite and significant layer covering billions of souls and cultures who all believe that they are as infinite and significant as their particular stretch of sky.
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Mike Lockwood As far as what inspires me, I like to see the spectacular in nature and capture it the best I can for my own enjoyment. I also like to juxtapose man made masterpieces with nature. I guess you could say I'm always thinking about that next shot, and I have planned sometimes for a long time for the right conditions; light, weather, seasons, etc. Some things are just good fortune and being in the right place at the right time and being willing to go to unfamiliar places to get the right angle. I think what I like about the bridge shot is the fog, sunlight and a stunning engineering masterpiece all in this beautiful frozen landscape. It all seems so calm and peaceful, but I was just finding out that morning that tens of thousands of people had lost their lives in the tsunami that morning. Odd feeling of the beautiful side of nature on one side of the earth and the destructive side on the other.
Curt Maggard I began doing photography when I was I was a child. I have always had the eye for capturing the beauty of anything. Photography to me is more than just a hobby, it's a passion. I feel that photography isn't just a way of recording life, but capturing the artistic beauty of anything and everything that surrounds our lives. If I were to choose to do one thing for the rest of my life, this would be it. The rest of my collection can be viewed at http://curtmaggard.tripod.com/
Rommel Wells is a thin-skinned but ultimately uncon-
querable force whose creative and intellectual animus was forged in the smithy of a small steelmill town in southwestern Ohio. He currently lives in a one-room apartment with his purebred Akita, Cerberus, in Oxford, Ohio. He draws his main inspiration from French Baroque music, the frightening and beautiful visions of Matthew Barney, contemporary analytic philosophy, long, meditative walks, and wok-seared vegetables. He is presently hard at work on a four-book poem in heroic couplets about the ozone and its aftermath. “Bad Peace is even worse than War.”—Tacitus
Lindsay Shockley
Ms. Shockley chose the following quote to sum up her artistic vision and process: “No amount Illuminati / 114
of skillful invention can replace the essential element of imagination”. -Edward Hopper
Vanessa Shannon “Love Floats” is a poem I wrote after I went to Steak ‘n Shake recently and ordered a root beer float, something I haven’t had since my grandma used to make them for me before she died five years ago. A real encounter similar to the one I depict in the poem “Dance with Death” occurred at Bob Evan’s recently. I guess I get my inspiration from real life events that occur in restaurants. Clue, however, has nothing to do with the real world. It was something I retrieved from the deep recesses of my mind. I usually write late at night, when there is no one around to distract me, and my writing process is slow and tedious most of the time. I strive to find just the right word with the perfect connotation, sound, etc., but my strong ideas carry my work to completion.
Meghan Woods is a sophomore at Miami University
Middletown, majoring in Creative Writing. Most of her poetry starts off as small pieces of prose, scribbled on the back of grocery receipts or whatever else she can find stuffed in her nightstand drawer. She is known for her “plain” style of writing, in-your-face subject matter, and other elements of craft that welcome diverse communities of readers.
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Submission Guidelines You may submit a total of five individual pieces in any of the following categories: fiction (no more than one story, 10 page maximum length), creative nonfiction (no more than one essay, 10 page maximum length), poetry (up to three poems), artwork (up to three pieces). Due to the nature of creative work, please proofread your submissions for spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors before submitting. We reserve the right to reformat. Under no circumstances will we accept original copies of written work or art. We only accept submissions via email attachment (see address below). Artwork may be submitted as JPG, GIF, OR PNG files. Written work may be submitted as DOC, RTF, OR TXT files. Cover page must be attached. Include the following on your cover page: Attention: Illuminati Your name Your email address Your phone number Please do not include your name on the body of your work to assist us in judging anonymously. You will be notified of your submission status by email form letter approximately two weeks after the judging session. Final selections are made by a judging panel that may consist of students, faculty or staff of Miami University Middletown. By submitting to Illuminati, you attest that your submission is your own, original work. We acquire the right to publish your work, to archive your work online permanently, and to republish your work in a print or web-based anthology. All other rights revert to the author (after we publish it, your work belongs to you--do whatever you want with it). If you republish your work elsewhere, we require that you cite Illuminati as the original publisher. Illuminati / 116
If you have any questions or would like to work on our staff, please contact us at: illuminati@muohio.edu
Submit your poetry, be it sonnet, haiku, limerick or any other, to Illuminati And you may see your work in print while you’re still around to show it off! SUBMISSION DEADLINE FOR THE Fall ‘06 issue is October 1 Email your submissions to the itor at illuminati@muohio.edu
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We also accept artwork, photography, short fiction and creative nonfiction. Www.mid.muohio.edu/orgs/ illuminati/
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