The Earl Volume 2, Issue 1, Winter 2012

THE EARL VOL. 2 - ISSUE 1- WINTER 2012

INSIDE: WHAT ARE WE? A Short Story by Matthew Furman in which two people confront their vague relationship A photo essay By Thomas G. Anderson that highlights the power of growth Poetry, Short Stories, Essays, and photography from the Central PA Region

From the President and Business Director of Post Now PA

Greetings,

March 6, 2012

Post Now PA is entering its third year and we have faced and overcome much adversity. From belligerent neighbors to overzealous public officials we at Post Now PA have proven that we will stand to any challenge and prevail. We are here to stay.

Everyone involved with Post Now PA, including our volunteers, our donors and our Board of Directors, sees the wisdom in encouraging economic development and community fellowship through the promotion of art and culture in our community.

With construction nearly finished and with tenants for over half our studios, we are well on our way to realizing our vision of having a sustainable Contemporary Art Center in our community. Many people thought that we would never make it this far, but we persevered and continue to work toward our goal.

I would like to personally ask anyone who is not currently helping us to make Shippensburg a better place to join in the task of improving our community. I truly believe that the Thought Lot can be the catalyst for Shippensburg to reflect its past greatness when King Street was lined with shops full of people from all over our valley and the next. We will achieve this by providing a reason for new people to visit, as well as sharing art and music with our community. The alternative is that we can just continue to be another small town on route 11 that people only travel through because there is no practical way not to. Our fate is up to the community at large. Post Now PA and its supporters have chosen to make our community great. What will you choose?

Ways to support us: •Attend our Events •Rent a Studio •Sponsor a show or event •Donate money or relevant supplies Sincerely,

Frank Cressler President & Business Director Post Now PA frank.cressler@postnowpa.com www.postnowpa.com

•Tell others about Post Now PA •Volunteer •Become a Pillar of Post Now PA •Attend our Meetings 1st ad 3rd Sunday of each month, 4:00 at the Thought Lot

CONTENTS

Poetry By Curt Moyer Special Effects 4 How Do You Think This Will All Turn Out 5 In an Instant, A Non-Fiction Peice by Conor Schneps 6 Three Poems By Jackie Bonitz 12 Ash, Short Fiction by Raychel Dutka 13 Three Shows in York And A New Black Keys Album, From Staff Reviewer, Katie Dempsey 14 Or Pleasure, A Poem By Robert Brenize 16 Untitled Poem, By Ernest Garcia WINNER of Ship News Now's BEST OF EARL 17 Form and Content, A Poem By Laura B. Hans 18 What Are We? A Short Story By Matthew Furman 19 Where to Start, A series of Poems By Ray Cressler 24 Life, Energy and Growth, A Photo Essay by Thomas G. Anderson 26 Ever After, In Sedona, A Short Story By Claire Holahan 29

COVER PHOTO BY ELEANOR BENNETT

Wherever you see the POINTING FINGER click to link to photographers' web pages

SPECIAL EFFECTS

By Curt Moyer A thick winter jacket keeps the heat in.

Wrote notes on feeling guilty, left the little things to be enjoyed.

I’m caught in the sketches of enough right now.

It is December 23rd. It is the middle of May. It’ll take weeks to repair the ethics of a past life.

I don’t think cell phones have time for those demands.

Everybody looks great when they wake up on TV. How I’ve never tried it but entertain the possibility, not enough though, right?

Any name and number lends itself to significance.

I spend a good portion of my late night applying gunfire to deafness; Use a phone application to predict my death.

People will believe anything.

I project my humanness on books and books don’t mind.

A screaming tea-kettle, red potatoes, pre-chopped vegetables.

I throw uncut six-pack rings away in order to aid the process of natural selection.

The motives that provoke change are omnipresent.

I’m sick of attempting to better the world through positive messages.

Only get behind the minute gestures when they’re absolutely necessary.

Let’s talk about cleaning chemicals, what it was like to swallow them, get lucky, and not get hit by traffic.

I check the craigslist missed connections frequently and come up with the sound of a fist hitting raw meat.

PHOTO BY HEATHER HICKS

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The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

HOW DO YOU THINK THIS WILL ALL TURN OUT? PHOTO BY ELEANOR BENNETT

By Curt Moyer

Honestly I’m not sure.

You can’t tell me you’re sure either.

Either way, I’d beat you up and not feel sorry.

Not even if your age has given you some early grey hairs you mask with coloring, trying to hide the fact that you aren’t so young anymore, your body’s a cotton gin with gears that operate on alcohol and pseudo-existential desperation.

Yes it is still a cold world, I agree, but you and I both know you made it this way, and now it’s too late to apologize you hackneyed hollow-eyed old thing tattered and cracked-out like an aging cokehead rock star that can’t quite hit the high notes but still gets the hairspray chicks. I want to kick your ass for everything you’ve done.

I want to chain whip you off your motorcycle and rip the ink right off your arm.

I want to go Easy Rider on your ass and bring Dennis Hopper back from the dead.

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IN AN INSTANT They say that time heals all wounds, but what if there is not enough time to fill a void in someone’s heart that has been empty for years upon years and will most likely stay empty for even longer? How can a wound that is so deep that was caused by someone’s arrogance ever be mended?

For six years, I have thought about these questions, but for three years I have tried pursuing the answers to them. I have not come up with any sort of explanation or an answer to these questions, nor will I probably be able to any time soon.

There are also more questions that I need to ask, but unfortunately for me, I know that there will never be an answer fro asking why someone would choose to do something so heinous, so despicable, and so wrong. Then I realized that the answer was deep within, but I needed to come to terms with my life and myself. My brother had been murdered because of the arrogance and ignorance of some people on this planet who only want to benefit themselves in any and all ways possible. The world as I knew it was suddenly becoming more like a real world instead of a fantasy land like most kids would believe it is at such a young age. Six years ago, my brother, Bryan Scott Schneps, was taken from this earth, from my family, and from me in an instant, and this is his story as well as how I have been coping.

Bryan was born August 16, 1983 in Madison, Connecticut. He had black hair, blue eyes, and a smile that lit up every dark corner of a room when he had entered it. There was not a moment, at least no moments that I

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By Connor Schneps can remember anyway, where I did not see him smile. In every situation, no matter how bleak the outlook was, he was always optimistic and had a positive attitude. Bryan had a vast amount of friends over the course of his life. When we were younger, our mother would always ask Bryan “what are your plans for tonight?” He would always have a response in which involved him hanging out with a friend or group of friends. She proceeded to ask whom he was going to be with, Bryan would then rattle off names as though the list went on forever and ever. There were all sorts of names: Danielle, Chip, Ryan )Bryan’s best friend), Joel, Tina, and etcetera. I was surprised he could keep track of all of these friends. Bryan’s charisma though was what trumped all of his other qualities. He was an extremely extroverted person, whether it was in a situation where he was meeting new people or trying to get a girl’s phone number, no matter what he did not show his shyness, if he had any that was. A lot of his friends had legitimately called him the Hollywood Kid, because not only did he look like a Hollywood star, but also he was great with the ladies. Obviously, this was a demonstration of how charismatic people had perceived him to be.

Another one of his endearing qualities was that Bryan was very familyoriented. He was one of three kids, the youngest, which is myself, and our middle brother, Alex. Alex and Bryan got along fairly well, just as myself and Bryan got along. As for Alex and myself, we did not get along entirely too well. We consistently got into fights with each other over the most menial of things, whether it was

The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

sitting in the front seat of the car or who was going to get to use the computer first. Bryan would hear us fight, and the first thing that he would do was break it up and calm us down.

From there, he would say something that was ideal of a family: “Brothers shouldn’t fight with each other over stupid crap. Now apologize and hug

"BROTHERS SHOULDN'T FIGHT EACH OTHER OVER STUPID CRAP. NOW APOLOGIZE AND HUG EACH OTHER," each other.” For a couple of kids who were as young as Alex and I were, it did not entirely make sense to us because that is how it had been for some time, but we complied because we knew it would make him happy. It warmed our parents’ hearts to see him make an effort to get Alex and I to get along because he was right all along… brothers should not fight over small things and embrace each other.

Bryan’s love for both Alex and myself was deeper than his love for his friends, which was just incredible. He was also quite the intellect. Bryan not only got into Temple University with a decent SAT score, but he would also have intellectual conversations with

our dad. They talked about all sorts of abstract concepts that, of course at the time because I was so young, I never quite got a grip on. I remember the conversations would last for nearly an hour at a time and I was amazed that such a conversation could even go on and on like that. Speaking of Bryan’s intellect, he was accepted to Temple University and originally majored in architectural design around the time I turned nine years old. After one semester, he decided to switch to a telecommunications major, which was more of his cup of tea. He did all sorts of video projects; in fact, there are pictures around the house of him fiddling around with his video camera in the studio at Temple. His focus while examining his cameras was undeniably inspiring for me to say the least. For the remainder of his time at Temple, he stuck with the telecommunications major and excelled at it. Friends, family, and professors were all impressed with his work.

When his tragic death occurred, he was working on one of these projects with a few friends at his apartment on West Diamond Street in Philadelphia.

As they were working, a knock was heard at the door. Bryan went over and asked whom it was, but there was not an answer. He then peered through the lens of the door, and saw two men standing outside. Bryan opened the door and the two men broke down the door to the apartment and had loaded firearms. They demanded money from him, and Bryan responded: “I don’t know what money you’re talking about!” When the men were distracted, Bryan tackled one of the armed men to try and defend his friends. As Bryan and the armed man hit the ground, the trigger was pulled and Bryan was shot in the left side of his face. After the men had run off, his friends immediately called 911. An ambulance was there and rushed Bryan to a

hospital.

I remember the chain of events as though it happened not even thirty seconds ago. All of this occurred over the course of three days. On Friday June 10, 2005, I was (around twelve and a half) in elementary school and I had a pretty normal day. Everything was going as it should have, and then I got called through the intercom to go down to the office. I did not really have a clue as to why, but I grabbed my belongings from my rack and walked down to the office. When I was told to go down to the office, I had the thought of my mom coming to pick me up early from school, as was tradition if this was to occur. Surprisingly enough, I saw my neighbor, Lois Fedele, waiting for me in the office. I immediately asked, “Where is my mom? How come you’re here, Mrs. Fedele?” She told me that my mom and dad had gone down to Philadelphia to go see Bryan at Temple. I figured, ‘Ok. Maybe this is nothing. I can just roll along with this for now.’ She drove me to her home with her youngest son, Stephen, and we did what all younger boys do: play videogames. We sat there and played Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, which is just a fun game in general. Stephen and I played that for a good couple of hours and after we were done, Mrs. Fedele came downstairs to where we were and told me that she had received a call from my mom and that I was to spend the night there. I was, of course, excited to be hanging out with a friend for a while and even though the circumstances had put my parents in Philadelphia with Bryan, I did not question it. I have to admit, it was a lot of fun. In the basement, I slept peacefully with my good friend with not a care in the world. The next morning, Saturday June 11, 2005, close to six in the morning, Mrs. Fedele rushed downstairs and told me she was going to drive me back to my

house. Curious as to why, I did what anyone else would do in this situation; ask why she was doing this. She told me that Bryan had been in an accident and I needed to be home immediately.

When Mrs. Fedele told me that Bryan had been in an accident, I thought that he had probably just broken his leg again. I was not consumed by worry and fear, so I shrugged it off and assumed that he was all right. As we pulled up to the house in my neighbor’s car, an eerie feeling was starting to creep up on me.

It was not the type of eerie feeling that is normally indicative of something weird or scary coming up, but rather a feeling of something bad happening. I walked through the front door to be greeted by tears from mom, dad, and Alex. Another unexpected surprise happened when I also saw a family friend, Dr. Michelle Stram, in the foyer consoling my parents. I asked my family, “Why is everyone crying?” As the tears started to stream down my mom’s, dad’s, and brother’s faces, Dr. Stram took me by the arm into the room adjacent to the foyer. We sat down on the couch, and I asked the same question that I had just asked my family moments before. After I did, Dr. Stram developed a solemn look on her face, and said with a grief-heavy tone: “Connor, your brother, Bryan, was shot in his apartment yesterday and has been hospitalized.” Even as I write this, I feel the agony I felt all those years ago when I was first told this.

“What? No, that didn’t happen! You’re wrong,” a typical response for anyone in that situation, is exactly what I said to her. She proceeded to say that she was sorry and the tears burst out of my eyes faster than a car could get from zero to sixty miles per hour. I remember I could not stop for a long time, and then before we got into the car to go visit Bryan at the Temple University Hospital, I became numb.

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The hour-long car ride to the hospital was unbearable. Dr. Stram drove down in the car with us, and even she could cut the tension with a dull knife. None of us talked, none of us looked at each other, we just looked in separate directions. I looked in my lap, Alex stared out the window, our mom was trying to keep herself at least somewhat stable, and my dad was staring out the windshield and concentrated on his driving as best as he could. All of us arrived at the hospital around ten in the morning and proceeded to the ICU (also known as the Intensive Care Unit), where Bryan was. Fear, panic, sadness, anger, all sorts of emotions swelled into me like a cascade of waterfalls, yet, I remained calm but numb simultaneously. Before we entered his room, Bryan’s doctor had told my family, Dr. Stram, and myself that he had suffered neurological deficits and that he had been in a coma since he was shot the night before. I was the first person out of all of us to walk into his room and sit by his bedside. It was one of the scariest scenes of my entire young life. The left side of his face, where Bryan had been shot, was swollen, black and blue, his nose clogged with some blood. He was hooked up to a respirator, a heart and blood pressure gauge, and other sorts of medical technology. Every gadget in that room made a sound. All the beeps and bops from the heart monitor, the sound from the respirator every time Bryan took a breath, it seemed that every noise, for some odd reason, had much more significance as I heard them more. With my hand in Bryan’s I remember staring at that monitor like a newborn baby stares at his mother for the first time; I could not look away from it. My eyes were fixed on Bryan and the heart monitor. His heartbeat stayed between 130 and 175 beats per minute. Every time I put my hand on

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his, I would take a look at the heart monitor and see that his heart rate had decreased significantly. In all honesty, I was not sure why such a phenomena would occur, but my best guess would be that maybe Bryan knew that there was a familiar entity near him and he had some reason to calm down a bit.

Sometimes, when I lifted my hand, his heart rate would either skyrocket or stay stagnant, so I held his hand with all my might. After a while, I got up and walked around Bryan’s bed and stared through the windows and looked directly at the walls and Alex entered after about an hour and a half. Alex began to cry hysterically, as did I when I saw the look on his face. I could not help but to join him. Throughout the day, my parents would try to take me out of his room and try to calm me down, but I stayed. After my parents asking me time and time again if I wanted to take a break and get something to eat with Dr. Stram, I said yes even though all I wanted to do was stay in that room with my big brother.

She took me down to the cafeteria, bought me a pretzel, and every time she tried to talk to me, either I would grunt or just keep such a straight face and numb attitude that she would get the hint and not bother to try again for a while. I saw people come and go, including more of my family and a lot of Bryan’s friends, including Bryan’s best friend, Ryan Strickler. Ryan was just as distraught as the rest of us to see his friend dying slowly before his eyes. After about thirty or so minutes, he told my parents and Bryan that he was going to head home and offered Alex and I a ride home. Alex graciously accepted, and even though our parents urged me to accept Ryan’s offer, I wanted to stay by Bryan for as long as I could. After about three or four more hours, another family friend, Nick Culpepper, showed up at the hospital.

Mr. Culpepper is one of our dad’s

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closest friends, so he was staying there and consoling him and my mom as best as he could. Later on during his visit, he came into the room, urging me to go, saying that it would be better if I went home and relaxed for a while. With much regret and grief weighing down on my heart, I accepted. I stood up from my chair, where I had been sitting for nearly six hours straight, and went up to Bryan. Slowly, I leaned towards his ear and in a soft voice I whispered, “Good bye Bryan. I love you.” From there I took my leave with Mr. Culpepper. After I had left, my parents started talking with the doctor about donating his organs to the Gift of Life Foundation because in his state, Bryan did not have a chance of living.

They followed through with that plan, and the next day, Bryan Scott Schneps had passed away.

The day that Bryan passed away, June 12, 2005, I actually had a birthday party to go to. A friend of mine from my Boy Scout troop, Andy, was having his thirteenth or fourteenth birthday party. I was not entirely sure if I wanted to go, but my mom and dad urged me to go, said it would be good for me to enjoy a friend’s special day. So I went, and the same expression was on my face since the day beforehand. The same feelings were still there, and I did not think they had any intention of leaving me any time soon. I could not keep a smile for more than thirty seconds and my friends could not come up and even playfully punch me in the arm. Once they did, I would tell them what happened to Bryan and that I would prefer not to be punched by them; surely enough, they understood my wishes and cheered me up to the best of their abilities. Aside from the fact that Bryan had died on this day, there is another why I consider this tragic day significant. During the party, I started to tear up a bit and my friend’s

neighbor, unfortunately I cannot recall her name, took me inside and sat me down. She was soft-spoken and extremely kind-hearted. Andy’s neighbor looked at me and asked why I was looking so blue. I told her that “my brother died earlier today,” leaving out the explicit details that I had known at the time. She frowned a little and asked me what his name is. I told her his name, and she responded by telling me that she would get an entire church, her church, to pray for Bryan to be at peace. Despite the fact that we are a Jewish family, I think this did a lot of justice for Bryan and myself on a somewhat spiritual level because either way, it was an extremely kind gesture on her part. I did not know what to say to her; I was floored with the amount of kindness she showed me, even though she had only known me for a very short period of time. I still thank her involuntarily to this day for doing what she did for Bryan and our family.

The next few days of school were a bit rough for me. Bryan’s death and his funeral that was scheduled for Wednesday June 15, 2005 were the only things that were clouding my thoughts for that short period of time.

On Tuesday, my classmates and my teacher in my sixth grade class sat down with me and gave me a few things: a necklace with a dove and thin gold chain, and a bunch of cards expressing their condolences. They pitched in who-knows how much money to pay for it, but the dove was beautiful. It was to symbolize peace and to acknowledge that Bryan was now at peace in a better place. The cards… there were just so many of them. I still have them in my closet at home, but unfortunately I cannot remember what all of them said.

Encompassing all the cards, what more could a twelve-year-old boy or girl say other than ‘I’m sorry for your loss’? The

days before the funeral had passed slowly by, but the day our family and Bryan’s friends were all dreading had arrived. The funeral service was held in the morning at one of the funeral homes local to where I live. It was a traditional service and everyone had his or her piece. Our cousin, Melanie, gave a speech about Bryan. They were very close, and one of the quotes that still sticks out in my mind is that “Bryan is now the gigolo on Cloud Nine.” It made everybody, including myself, laugh because we all knew how good Bryan was with the girls. While this was a good diversion from the sadness and the grief, the happiness and laughter did not last for too long.

Our brother, Alex, then went up and played the song “Here Comes the Sun”

by The Beatles. At the time, I was not sure why this song made sense to play, but as I grew older and listened to it more and more, I realized that it was the perfect fit for the situation because it is a cheerful and peaceful sounding song. Our dad stepped up to the podium after Alex, and made the eulogy. During the eulogy, he read a poem that is engraved into my heart for the rest of eternity. The poem that our father read is known as “When I Die” by Merritt Malloy: When I die Give what’s left of me away To children And old men that wait to die.

And if you need to cry, Cry for your brother Walking the street beside you.

And when you need me Put your arms Around anyone And Give them What you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something, Something better than words or sounds

Look for me In the people I've known or loved, And if you cannot give me away, At least let me live on in your eyes And not on your mind.

You can love me most by letting Hands touch hands, Bodies touch bodies, And by letting go Of children That need to be free.

Love doesn't die, People do.

So, when all that's left of me Is love, Give me away.

This poem still runs through my mind today, and means just as much to me today as it did back then. Essentially what this poem means is that the deceased does not want anyone to think about what happened, but rather look for the qualities of him or her in others and embrace them as one would embrace the deceased person. I thought it was incredibly accurate as to what Bryan would want, plus, this almost seems like something that Bryan would say to me if I saw him again before he passed on. The last thing that was shown before the nearly two hundred of us headed to the burial site was a tribute video to Bryan. There were pictures of him having fun with his friends and him working, as well as video clips of being the goofball that everyone knew he was. The precession to the burial site came next. More prayers were said and the brothers from his fraternity at Temple University, Delta Sigma Phi, made their speech. Shortly after the speeches and prayers, Bryan’s casket was lowered into the ground. As is tradition in the Jewish religion, each family member takes a shovelful of dirt and puts it into the ground with the casket. While the process was going on, a friend of Bryan’s, I do not remember whom it was, threw an unopened envelope into his grave.

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anniversary of death. Shiva is the first seven days of morning, schloshim is the first thirty days of mourning, and yahrzeit is the observing of the passing of a loved one (spouse, child, sibling, etcetera) by lighting a memorial candle and saying the Mourner’s Kaddish (prayer for peace in the afterlife) the night before the day of passing. Our neighbors were very kind to us, brought us food, and helped us out in any way that they could. Although it was obviously a hard period of time for us, it warmed our hearts to see that everyone coming to us in a time of need.

Unfortunately, this short period of the family at least beginning to cope did not last very long. Our mom’s father, our grandfather Irving, was diagnosed with pneumonia. Not only was he battling this, but he was also battling scleroderma (auto-immune condition in which the skin tightens up) for the past thirty years.

On Veteran’s Day of 2005, it seemed that both of these diseases had bested him.

Our mom had called us from the hospital in Connecticut and told Alex and I that Grandpa Irving PHOTO BY HEATHER HICKS had passed away. I was floored; I could not believe my ears, my what felt like an eternity and instantaneously fell to my knees. Tears mind was scrambled… my granddad were rolling down my face. The feeling had passed away almost exactly six of grief, sadness, and sheer denial of all months after Bryan had passed away.

It was utterly unbelievable. With tears of this ever happening was just too streaming down my face, I told mom to overwhelming for me, especially at bring me up to the funeral. A few such a young age. Death felt like it months after his passing, things would be such a sweet release and I wanted to be dead, to be with Bryan, to seemed to be looking up. No one was dying; everyone was healthy as could be free of all the pain and suffering.

From there, my dad and uncle helped be. In early February of 2007 mom had told Alex and I that our Great Uncle me off of the ground and helped me walk to the limousine, where we drove Bob had fallen down in the bathroom at home for a little social gathering with his home and cracked a few ribs. She said that he was going to be fine, but all of the people that attended the little did we know, Uncle Bob was funeral.

After the funeral, the next few slowly decaying. He had developed Parkinson’s disease, a weeks were quite hard. In Judaism, when someone dies, the family observes neurodegenerative condition that leads to motor problems and tremors. Mom three different periods of mourning: shiva, schloshim, and yahrzeit. These had gone up to go visit Uncle Bob in the hospital with our grandma, her mother. periods of mourning represent an I assumed it was a letter and Bryan’s friend was hoping it would reach him in the afterlife so that he could open it and read it. To this day, I still wish I knew what the letter had said, but I will know in due time. After the burial ceremony, our family was walking to the limousines and I turned around towards the grave. I stared at it for

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They were there for three days, and after that time period, Alex and I got the phone call that we had been dreading: Uncle Bob had passed away.

After I heard those words being uttered from our mom, I had gone almost completely numb. One after another after another, I could not take all the death, all the grieving, all of the sorrow anymore. Life had moved on though.

My sophomore year of high school was the year that I really started to understand why I was so unsatisfied with life, as well as how I did not understand my brother’s, grandpa’s, and great uncle’s deaths and had not come to terms with them. A friend of mine, John, had told me that as a joke he was going to make pins that say “I hate Schneps,” as well as a t-shirt for himself. He came to me and asked if I

I TOOK THE PIN FROM HIM WITH MY HEAD HELD HIGH, PRETENDING LIKE I HAD NO EMOTION TOWARD IT. cared and if he could do what he was planning on doing. I told him that I did not, and he proceeded with his plan. I did not actually think that he was going to follow through with such an idiotic thing, but lo and behold, he did. John came up to me wearing the shirt, and also gave me a pin. I took the pin from him with my head held high, pretending like I had no emotion toward it. Eventually, it got to me. I was sitting in my academic biology class and I started to gaze into the pin.

I began to have a crystallizing moment where my life started to pass me before my eyes. Everything that happened

when I was a child, all the grieving that I had experienced, everything that I had known had shown up in my head. I began to evaluate everything, what was good, what was bad, and what I had yet to come to terms with and understand. Then, I had formed a conclusion after a few minutes and came to the realization that I was unsatisfied with how my life had been going and that I had still not come to terms with every death that had happened. I started to tear up; I got up during the middle of class, nearly flipped out on everyone that tried to help me, and slammed the door behind me as I exited the room. My teacher, Ms. Scott, came outside and asked me what was wrong. I told her almost all the explicit details, and from there I asked her if I could call my mom and she let me go. I was sitting in the guidance office before my mom showed up. The counselors were trying to cheer me up, but absolutely nothing was woriking. I had no faith in my life anymore, and I just wanted to be immersed in the ignorant bliss that was being free of this life. My mom picked me up, and from there, she called a therapist that my specific guidance counselor had recommended.

There were two therapists that I went to. The firs therapist’s name was Mary Schull, a nice, middle-aged Jewish woman. Although I was not looking forward to expressing my feelings about all of these issues, she knew that the main issue that I needed to deal with was coming to terms with Bryan’s death. At first, it seemed to me that things were going decently well, until part way through the first session she called me by my dead brother’s name. I told her that my name was Connor, and she apologized. Yet, after doing that, she called me by Bryan’s name again and again and again. For three full sessions, I dealt with this. I had enough after a while. It was almost insulting that Schull would call me Bryan, not because it was insulting to me, but because it was insulting to him in my opinion. I figured it was insulting to Bryan because he was such an amazing person; so charismatic, so caring, so awesome in a lot of conceivable ways, it was an eerie thought to think that I was filling his shoes as she was calling me Bryan.

Truth is, I cannot fill his shoes, nor will I ever be able to. It was an insult to his memory to even conceive any sort of implication. I took my leave from there and moved on to another therapist that my guidance counselor recommended. His name was Dr. Eric Weinstein. Dr. Weinstein was just a truly awesome psychologist. It was the first time I ever had a conversation with someone who was able to

LIFE IS A FRAGILE ENTITY AND IT IS EXTREMELY SHORT understand my thinking about certain things, understand the way I go about dealing with these sorts of items, and just overall feeling more relaxed and comfortable than I would with talking to my parents. It was strange that I became so comfortable and so accustomed to Dr. Weinstein so quickly because I myself was expecting to be a lot more distant and for him to be more like a stereotypical psychologist. It was the exact opposite of what I thought it would be. Dr. Weinstein engaged me, told me his opinion, let me go on and on for as long as I needed to. This was exactly what I needed. Even though my sessions with Dr. Weinstein were helping me progress, I felt that there was still a void, something was still missing. Since the beginning of the sessions with Dr. Weinstein, I figured that getting a tattoo in Bryan’s honor would be a good tribute to him. I thought it would be another good sort of therapy.

The tattoo took me about two years to think of. What would be good?

How simple or complex should it be?

Where on my body should I get this tattoo? It finally hit me what the tattoo should be. I wanted to get his full name, Bryan Scott Schneps, the symbol of a necklace that he used to wear (one that I now wear every day), and the date of his birth on the bottom.

This significant tattoo was to be placed on my right shoulder for various reasons. The star that I wear was tattooed in the center of my shoulder because it represents Bryan as an

entity and his birthday underneath represents a more metaphysical concept. By metaphysical, I mean that without the date of his death underneath, there is an implication that even though he is gone physically, he will live on forever spiritually. Also, the tattoo being placed on my right arm has its own significance. That significance being that my right arm is my dominant arm. If someone were to connect the dots, the significance of my tattoo being on my dominant arm is that Bryan is the reason why I do what I do today. He is the one who always told me to live my life to the fullest and that is the philosophy I envision whenever I look at the tattoo.

All in all, there are a lot of lessons that have not only been learned from all of these experiences, but also engrained deep into my mind. One lesson that I learned was from Bryan.

It is what I said previously: live life to the fullest. Living life without regrets and living it up to its true potential is what life should be about and Bryan lived by that principle, that ideal, for all twenty-one years of his life. The second lesson that I have learned is that the world is a scary place. With all the drugs, the violence, the everything, the world is a place where everyone needs to be careful and make smart decisions or screw up life trying.

Another thing that I have learned over the course of this existence is that there are many things that people should not get upset about. For instance, if Sally and Johnny broke up for the seventh time, then so be it. Life throws a lot of curveballs at people, and something like that is insignificant and should not be something that is top priority. The last ting that I have learned over the past six years is that life is a fragile entity and it is extremely short. This plays back into the advice that Bryan gave me all those years ago when I was only a kid.

Looking back on everything, I have realized that Bryan, my parents, my granddad, everyone was right. I need to live life to the fullest each and every day because it can all be taken away in an instant.

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THREE POEMS

By Jackie Bonitz

After it all I never shall love Another man With passion Like I burned for you I feel forsaken Even in your absence Induced by my own hands The mere thought Of a shift in you Incites me to believe I could love you again Always

Finally, I turn my back to the wind Cradle myself in my own arms Suckle that which was squandered More than one too many times Warmed by a furnace Fueled by the blood Blazing wild In my own blue veins

12 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

PHOTO BY THOMAS G. ANDERSON

Toes lacquered crimson Dangle on the edge of feet Which stand Waiting for you

ASH

By Raychel Dutka

PHOTO BY ELEANOR BENNETT

She was so beautiful it hurt behind his eyes to think of her.

It started at the tip of his brain and it crept down towards his throat, always threatening to suffocate him if he didn’t gasp for air. It had been seven hours since he’d first caught sight of her fragile form, sitting on the bench beneath the willow. It had been eight hours since her wooden house had burned to the ground. He knew this because the tip of his cigarette had lit a leaf and a curl of wind had lit more leaves and more leaves had lit the left window lattice and that was why the most beautiful girl was sitting on a bench beneath the willow tree, watching. He had counted the hours, floating past and past in the vapor of the air.

An apology seemed ridiculous.

What he wanted, more than to apologize, was to start his fingertips’ slide at the side of her neck, and circle round and round her pale, chalky skin. He wanted to feel her heat. He wanted her to crumble at his touch. He walked forward, and a flutter of wind knocked off the sleeve of her dress; he trembled as it darted away into nonexistence. The rest of her stayed perfectly still, facing the hissing remains of the house.

The birds were already beginning to rise.

in the tiny particles of the beautiful girl. She did not move.

He lifted one hand, and there was the sound of wings flapping desperately. Let me out, they crinkled against confinement.

When his fingers slid down her neck, they left a trail of disintegrated ash behind them, in two smooth tracks, for only a brief, unreachable moment.

Then the girl shifted and slumped into a hill of very light gray, which then slipped through the grates of the bench.

There was a sound of bird’s wings from the wooden house, catching the air at last.

She had been so soft, it was like touching nothing at all.

He placed his hands gripping the bench on either side of her pill dust shoulders and breathed www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com

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THREE SHOWS IN YORK AND A NEW BLACK KEYS ALBUM

From Staff Reviewer, Katie Dempsey

I tend to hibernate in the winter. From the first temperature drop in November to the first thaw in April, my natural inclination is to spend all my free time curled up on my couch with fifty blankets, watching Netflix until my legs cramp up from lack of use.

The move from five years of living in Pittsburgh back to Central Pennsylvania has only made it worse.

Pittsburgh is filled with a lot of tall buildings protecting its residents from wind chill. Not so much around here.

It’s even worse that I work in an uninsulated trailer outside a factory on the top of a giant hill and have to walk 200 yards and up a loading ramp to get into the building every time I have to use the bathroom.

But despite all these hardships, I did manage to make it out to see three shows in York during this winter season. The first, at the end of December, was at a bar called Maewyn’s, located right on North George Street on the edge of downtown York City. Maewyn’s is a traditional Irish bar with high ceilings, beautiful

wood paneling and a generally warm, cozy atmosphere. It’s kind of a classy bar, the kind where you can go there dressed up and not feel overdressed but still go in ripped jeans and not feel like a total slob.

and stomping their feet and clapping their hands and singing along. The band’s sound was great and the songs infectiously happy, the kind of songs you will find yourself humming the next day (or week). This was a fun show, and it definitely made me forget As a venue, Maewyn’s is not ideal—the my winter blues for a night. bands were kind of stuffed into a small side room so about 75% of the bar Then after a month of solid hibernation patrons couldn’t even see them. If you (made considerably more dreamlike by wanted to physically be able to see the watching, in succession, all of the musicians, you had to crowd into a fourth season of Venture Bros, the very small area right between the side second two seasons of The Mighty room and the bar.

Boosh and the first season of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks), I broke out of my But crowd we did, because the winter coccoon on the first weekend in headlining act was phenomenal.

February to see two bands at two Garrahan’s Ghost is a Pogues-esque different bars in York. traditional-Irish new-folk seven-piece band comprised of two guitars, drums, The Depot is a bar/venue not far from a fiddle, a mandolin, a harmonica and York College, and it’s kind of the an accordian player (the accordian complete opposite of Maewyn’s. player was, unfortunately, not present that evening, and I learned he is You could affectionately call it a “dive”, currently deployed in Afganistan).

I guess--it’s got that rubbed-raw from overuse, rock’n’roll, smoke-filled Garrahan’s Ghost put on a great show. broken-down griminess that those of us The bar was packed, and the crowd with punk-rock inclinations feel a sort loved it—surrounding the band, people of pride for, like showing off that bruise nodded along with the music, smiling you got from being caught up in a bar-

14 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

GRAPHIC BY KATIE DEMPSEY

scuffle that actually had nothing to do with you. Needless to say, I felt right at home at the Depot, and it was definitely well suited to be a music venue, with a big room extending back from the bar area so everyone could see the band, even patrons sitting at the bar.

We caught the second-to-last band playing at this show before calling it a night (working first shift and getting up at 6am makes me pretty sapped of energy by as early as midnight on Friday nights). Now, I’m not generally a fan of metal (excepting the kind in Brendan Small’s Metalocalypse and..Primus, I guess? If you could call them metal?) but Sour Mash Survival had me at their mic check, where they previewed their impressive vocal talents by banshee-screaming the word “CHECK CHECK” into their microphones for what seemed like twenty minutes.

have a bar, just on the corner of a dark residential street. But upon entering, you’re transported into a very rusticfeeling, civil-war-era looking room with low, wood-beam-exposed ceilings and an old, solid feel to the walls. It’s very small and cozy, and to my shock, we walked in right in front of the band that was playing, a sort of jazz-funk rock’n’roll jam-band called Redeye.

Redeye played great background bar music. Their sound was tight and disciplined with a great funk swing (the trumpet player, who kept his instrument politely muted, was especially exceptional, and the skill of the bass player also very noteworthy).

It was the kind of music that makes you drift out of your conversations to just tilt your head back and relax and listen, which I did pretty much the whole time.

Finally, the other thing keeping the winter blues away is the fact that I But I can appreciate any genre of finally shelled out the cash and music live if its performed well, and I’d downloaded The Black Keys latest say that Sour Mash Survival, a album El Camino. What can I say Baltimore-based band, performed very about El Camino expect WOW. I love well. Despite the call-and-answer the Black Keys, especially their 2010 guttural screaming and roaring of album Brothers, and I was very their songs they were very polite and pleased to hear that El Camino was a cheerful, joking around with each other natural continuation from the sounds and the audience and just generally and themes they took on in Brothers. having a good time. I can definitely appreciate and respect performers who The Black Keys are the sort of band seem to genuinely enjoy performing, that can attract a wide variety of fans. and this was definitely the case with When I lifeguarded at an indoor college SMS. It also doesn’t seem to be the pool last summer, our patrons ranged case with many of the other local metal from teenagers attending a camp to bands I’ve ever seen (who definitely take college-level classes, to college didn’t have the talent to warrant any athletes, to retired faculty members, to kind of surly, anti-social attitude). a day-camp of kids aged 4-10. We were in charge of the music to be played to The Saturday after the Depot I went to the pool, I struggled to decide on what, the First Capital Dispensing Company, out of all the strange and eclectic or First Cap, which is right on the edge music on my iPod, could possibly be of York City proper, next to the river. background music to appeal to (and It’s a pretty random looking place to not offend) all the different types of

people at our pool.

The Black Keys were the perfect solution. I lost track of the amount of pool patrons who would walk up to me and ask what was this awesome music playing over the speakers.

The Black Keys have a great sound, and have over the years refined and changed it while still maintaining the core personality of their music. They’re bluesy, Hendrix-y rock’n’roll with an early 70s rock’n’roll feel to it while still sounding fresh, modern, and innovative. The production quality is awesome, and they play with sounds in a way that is evocative of the tinny sounds of old, damaged blues records combined with the new multi-layered “good fuzz” distortion of new production technology. Black Keys sound like if a bunch of sentient robots from the year 3,000 traveled through time while listening to French alternative band Phoenix, and crashed onto the stage of a Jimi Hendrix concert and fused with the music without missing a beat.

El Camino burns the whole way through like a good fire, crackling and sparking with energy. Heavy bassthumps from the drum, group choruses, sweet bass-lines, raging guitars, the album has all the elements of good rock’n’roll without ever being too showy or over-the-top. You can listen to it and sing along and bob your head, or you can play it in the background while you concentrate on something else. You ever watch one of those concert cellists or violists play their instruments like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like they’re just kind of shrugging this music out?

That’s what this album feels like. And it feels damn good.*

Garrahan’s Ghost can be found at http://www.reverbnation.com/garrahansghost Sour Mash Survival can be found at http://www.reverbnation.com/sourmashsurvival Redeye can be found at http://www.myspace.com/gustavoaguirrejr El Camino is available on iTunes. www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com

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Or Pleasure

By Robert Brenize

Show me a body built with truth Not one made of propaganda That spewed by the silver screen sleuths and the digital demons Show me legs freckled and smooth Not by uniformity By choice Show me a beauty tattered with paints and inks Telling a story Every freckle a tale Every scar a ballad Every cut a dirge Every tattoo an epic Every act and breath a song One flowing in the air around her Filling the ears of those surrounding Glueing the cracks in the wall shut Opening closed hearts Show me a nation of liars and theives And I will paint you a picture A painting full of glorious warfare and backstabbing accounting Show me a city of the anonymous and blind I will build you a monument A tall building to suppress the inadeguacies of moral ineptitude An edifice that matches the brothers on all sides For uniformity is best Show me a world full of insanity A realm of chaos For it is in chaos that nature finds order Nature acts on unredeemable laws Man commonly perverts them Replacing them with smiles and rainbows Pollution and smoke Paradoxical rules and hypocritical laws Show me a land of freedom Not one of power brokers A world of paradoxes A world where beauty is real Not made-up A world where the clothes match the maturity Match the soul within Burning like a fire Not glowing like a dim ember Let that soul glow bright Bright and hot How else will the dead in Heaven see it Will they blush and cry to call us brethren Or leap with joy Do you have the answer?

I don’t.

16 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

PHOTO BY LISA RHINEHART

Chosen as BEST OF EARL by the editorial staff at Ship News Now, Shippensburg's online local news source.

Untitled

By Ernest Garcia Washed upon the shores Of the fringes of your heart I can hear the guns As you wage your war I say nothing as you cry out-loud Calling all the demons that you wished you had Better believe You’re this close to becoming What you wish Or What you fear Are they really that different Amazing, ordinary Check your pockets Your purse your wallet That time you were saving For true love Has vanished Right thru that keyhole Like a skeleton key Like opiate smoke Like skined palms skined knees Bruised your ego Self-inflected Resent me baby I’m your blues

PHOTO BY JARRAD ARNOLD

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FORM AND CONTENT

By Laura B. Hans

Differentiate The Text’s Specific Relation To The Ideology It Produces

?

What are your politics?

What’s ur function?

My profile is not the real me.

It’s a representation Or a simulacrum Or something.

We’re not friends.

Our images are friends.

That is, until we do lunch.

Then we’re friends.

So for now, Just our images know each other I’m okay with that Because you only know the good side of me.

You only know the good music I hear And the good places I’ve seen.

But it’s all static: My representative body And your representative body And our network.

We’ve written ourselves into being And we tweak our social identities everyday.

My digital body And your digital body meet.

We chat.

I’m coy And you’re interesting.

18 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

PHOTO BY SYDNEY COSTA Let’s seek integration.

No, not like that, But where we plan stuff Then do it And aren’t so attached To our digital bodies Cause we just made those up.

Silly old postmodern Internet identities; They can’t walk in the woods It’s like I’m in the cave.

You know?

When I react to the tribulations of your day I’m sitting in that damn cave looking at stupid old shadows.

I don’t know the différance.

???????????????????????????????????

WHAT ARE WE

????????????????????????????????????????????????

By Matthew Furman ?

????????????????????????????????????????????????

“Why are we doing this?”

It had taken Veronica nearly 17 years to ask Bryan that question flat-out, the question that had the power to turn whatever it was they shared into something drastically different than what they’d grown up with, and what they assumed about each other.

Nearly two decades of awkward hugs and feeling guilty for something she could never quite put her finger on.

Bryan sipped his second cup of corporate coffee (large, house), and pretended he hadn’t heard the question the first time, could she please repeat it? She’d known him long enough to understand this was his way of buying time to think of something meaningful to say.

“Why do we do this?” said Veronica, with an edge in her voice that had nothing to do with the unhealthy amount of caffeine she’d gulped that spring morning. The two sat at a franchise location just off Route I-81 in South-central Pennsylvania.

Veronica’s right arm swept over their small table to include the store and its consumers, even though they had nothing to do with the air molecules between her and Bryan.

Bryan felt put out. He had to be back at the Army base soon, and didn’t particularly feel like getting into this territory. A part of him had always hoped she’d never set these wheels of thought in motion.

Leave it to Veronica to bring something like this up at the tail end of one of their bi-annual visits.

“Do you mean, as a culture, why do we sit around, drink this stuff, pretend to be deep?” said Bryan, wrapping and unwrapping a plastic stirrer around his index finger for something to do.

“You’re asking the wrong guy. You know I hate these places. I guess this is what you do now that you’re in California.”

The attempt to paint her as someone who recently got made-over

by California Cool was lame – Veronica had lived in the desert with her now-husband since 1999.

But he still hadn’t got her back for her mock surprise that morning that he wasn’t driving a Prius these days. She had always likened Bryan to Niles from “Frasier,” a little prissy, a little Type A. Not exactly traits you associate with someone who works for the Department of Defense, but whatever.

Then, silence. But comfortable, the kind that comes when two people have known each other since they were 15.

Veronica had flown back to Pennsylvania for a week with her two young sons, 3 years-old and 9 months.

Her parents were monopolizing the visit as usual, and Bryan thought it amusing how Veronica had practically had to lie to them to get out and visit with him yet again.

The morning had started off well enough. Small talk about each others’ spouses – a topic that always

came up first when they met, almost as a way to fly high the flag of marital bliss so nothing untoward might be construed.

Veronica and Bryan felt no authentic romantic feelings for each other, but were terrified that one of them might suspect the other of them.

At 31, she was married to a police officer in his late 30s, a quiet half-Italian named Vic who drove his police cruiser through hundreds of miles of desert nothingness, and occasionally saw things out there so strange he was inclined not to share them with anyone.

Veronica worked at a veterinarian’s office and was studying to become a full-fledged vet.

A child from another marriage had come with Vic, and Veronica had found herself stepmother to a boy, now age 12.

Bryan had never mentioned this to Veronica, who still looked about 18 herself, but he had a feeling that particular tween was one of the most envied kids at his school.

Life is not fair, Bryan often thought to himself. That kind of stuff never happened to me.

As for Bryan’s “situation,” as it was so trendily referred to today, he had married his college sweetheart, a pragmatic, ethnic Greek from Philadelphia who had given him twin daughters, age 3. They rented the second floor of a big brick farmhouse situated ideally next to I-81 and several incongruous strip malls.

Even though one of his high

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19

school classmates had written “Most likely to move to New York…or Portland,” in his year book, Bryan worked on the same Army base his father had retired from after 32 years.

He tried not to think too hard about what this might mean.

If asked if they were “happy,” both Veronica and Bryan would have bobbed their heads in agreement. Well, Bryan would probably have added a qualifier like “As happy as one can be in this insane, brutish and stupid world.”

Both knew the odds of marriage failure, as well as the horrors of random biology that can grant a beautiful child an agonizing, undignified, and early death.

They felt blessed.

about at these sit-downs, and they liked how their thought patterns, rarely understood by others, always clicked together almost audibly.

They were given that rare moment in life when you sit across from someone else who knows where you’ve been and where you’re coming from.

So why was Veronica threatening to upset the order of things on this fine spring morning?

Everything was pleasant, warm enough to drink their caffeine on the outdoor patio, but Bryan had the feeling he got when his mother used to drag him into a long, gut-wrenching argument.

Veronica leaned forward.

“One day I woke up, today probably, and realized that I’ve known you for half of my life, and yet I still have no idea how to quantify or categorize you,” she said. “We’ve never slept together, never kissed, and I still deny your claim that we held hands.

You’re not even what I’d like out of a brother. Someone else fills the brother role very nicely, actually.”

Derek, Veronica’s friend from early childhood and puberty, a moist and embarrassing period Bryan was glad he’d shared no part of with Veronica.

She wasn’t finished.

“We text each other nearly every day. We’re on facebook at least once a week. We talk about sex much more than we should, yet I feel virtually no sexual attraction to you.

Please don’t tell me your take on that To observers, both sides subject. appeared stable.

“According to the statistics and So why did they do the same the pop psychologists, somewhere thing year after year, a habit so vilified along the line you should have called by the talking head sexperts as to me up drunk and asked me to run become boilerplate, a habit their away with you. I know you don’t drink friends constantly warned them about? anymore, but still. Notice I said you They met every other year, would have done that. How many always in public, and talked around times does the female do that? the fact that they didn’t exactly know Virtually never. I keep waiting for you what they meant to each other. to do that so we get it out of the way, They never touched, outside of have an awkward period, and then a good-bye hug, yet both felt a resume civility. But you’ve never profound sense of sadness and loss opened up that can of worms. And I when they saw the other leave, and want to know why. thought about the encounter for days “And I want to know what the afterward. heck we are.”

All they were sure of was that Bryan, full of coffee and they never ran out of things to talk bladder fit to burst, rose from their

A HABIT SO

VILIFIED BY THE TALKINGHEAD

SEXPERTS AS TO BECOME

BOILERPLATE...

20 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

table, held an index finger up to indicate “one minute,” and said: “Hold that thought.”

Veronica sighed, and just for something to do, followed Bryan inside the store to order a scone.

Unlike most people, she didn’t mind waiting in line. It gave her brain a chance to wander. It floated and rested on a teenage boy sitting at one of those too-small tables, tapping away on a laptop.

All Veronica could see was his hunched over back, and a shaggy haircut that looked like it was done with a pair of safety scissors.

She smirked, but it was her kind smirk. *** The first time I saw Bryan I was staring at the back of his head as we bounced along in this crowded van.

We were 15, headed to one of the biggest Christian music festivals in the country, and I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into. I didn’t mix as well as I do now, and for the first 30 minutes of the ride I stared at this weird kid’s rather square-shaped haircut. It looked like his mom still cut his hair, and I found that possibility oddly cute.

Despite the event’s Christian underpinnings, Bryan was listening to Nirvana on a Walkman, and talking staccato-style about music with his friend Skippy. Despite the horrible nickname, Skippy fronts a mid-chart listing rock outfit today.

It wasn’t as if I was flying solo to this Christian Woodstock. Two decent friends, Taryn and Missy, had come along. Derek, my friend since we were in diapers, was supposed to have come along, but was prevented by a lastminute case of what appeared to be the mumps.

Taryn and Missy were fine company, but I had always preferred to be around guys. Still do.

Eventually Bryan and Skippy turned around and started talking to us, flirting in that passive-aggressive way some men never outgrow, and which I find tedious but still a bit endearing.

Bryan had a nice face, a few zits, and wire-rim glasses that seemed a bit too large for his face. His nicest features were his blue eyes, which could

go from devious to kind in a second, and his thick brown hair. Even today, Bryan still says a prayer of thanks now and then that he still has all that thick hair.

The only rule in the young teenager’s flirting playbook is easy to remember: Keep them laughing.

And those two could, playing off each other like only guys can.

Most boys screw this up, though, making jokes at the girls’ expense as if the old classroom adage “If he picks on you, he must like you” is true.

Not Bryan. Although he tells me he was terrified the first time we met, I never got that from him. He seemed calm, confident, happy to make jokes at his own expense but still giving out a vibe of dignity.

By the time we got our two vans through the insanely long registration line, I was getting the feeling Bryan was trying to impress Taryn.

But oh, how quickly interpersonal dynamics can change when you’re that age. The air gets so thick with hormones I swear you can smell it, and decisions are made with the split-second brilliance of medalwinning battle tactics.

Within the first day of the festival, Bryan had all but abandoned Skippy, and had paired up with Michael, a slicker operator. If what Bryan told me years later is true, and that week represented the first time females had ever paid him any attention, then Bryan taking up with Michael was probably his best move to keep that good feeling going.

Taryn didn’t seem to be taken with Bryan, and he turned his attention on me.

He made me laugh more than anyone I’d ever met. His brain just didn’t seem to work the way a normal person’s did. What he found funny, no one else but me seemed to get, and more pedestrian humor just wasn’t his thing.

I had been right; he was weird, but a good weird.

We soon found ourselves a foursome: Bryan and I, Michael and a girl from another church named Ria, a red-head from Ohio with mysterious burn marks on her arm in the shape of a curling iron.

Daytime was concerts and

speakers, nighttime was campfires amid the smells of roasting hotdogs and Port-O-Potties. Bryan and I found ourselves sitting off alone a lot. I’d tell him stories about when I lived in Germany as an Army brat, watching my best friend get machine-gunned at the Berlin Wall. This one didn’t raise his eyebrows, and to this day he has never asked me if it’s true or not.

I told him about my Polish grandmother, who fell in love with the

FROM ANYONE ELSE, AT ANY OTHER TIME, LAME. THAT NIGHT,

This went on for months, and Bryan, true to his nature, got impatient.

He seemed to think that becoming boyfriend and girlfriend was a natural progression from the compressed unreality of the festival.

After all, we had sat together a lot, made proclamations of a kind.

Time to ramp things up, at least in his mind.

But I was stuck in the same inertia I wasn’t able to shake until I met Vic. Things were good as friends; no reason to mess them up. I was at that stage in my life where if I didn’t have to do anything, I didn’t.

Bryan got the message, and amazingly enough we continued our intensive communication for about a year.

By senior year, however, our friendship was pretty much a thing of the past. It can happen that quickly.

One school year seems like an era in and of itself. You can have a phone conversation sometimes, and hang up with the dead certainty that you probably won’t hear from that person again.

But not always.

I had been working at Pizza Hut in high school, and when graduation came, they offered me a gig as assistant manager. Bryan and his skuzzy punk rock friends would drop by from time to time to cadge free food and beer, and sometimes I let them.

I think he just did it to play the Big Man, showing off an old female friend and a beer connection at the same time. I eventually kicked them all out.

A year or two passed, and I decided to give college a try, enrolling at a small liberal arts State School one town over from Ainsworth.

I was sitting on a couch in the hallway of the History Department when in walked Bryan, wearing cut-off shorts, a horror movie T-shirt, and reeking of cigarette smoke.

He wasn’t looking much like the kid who used to attend church youth group, but as he tells it, his faith came and went in the years he calls his “alcoholic fugue.”

Today he goes to church twice a week, and his only vice is caffeine. I’d like to think his religion is more than a way to stay sober, but who can tell?

IT WAS SWEET young man who lived in her walls in 1943.

Bryan noticed cigarette burns on the sweater I wore on the coolest night of the trip.

“My sister’s,” I said quietly, and then told him about the time Toni nearly killed me when we were children. Standing on the raft in the lake, kicking me away, hoping I’d get tired and float down to the bottom.

By week’s end Bryan had summoned up the courage to say the only thing he could think of to express his feelings: “I think you’re a pretty awesome person.”

From anyone else, at any other time, lame.

That night, it was sweet.

“I think you’re pretty awesome, too,” I said.

And of course we exchanged numbers and addresses.

Bryan went to a snooty private school in Ainsworth, the county seat, and I attended public school in the same town.

We both started to attend the church youth group that had brought us to the music festival, and wrote each other a letter at least once a week. We were on the phone for hours a night.

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21

As for me, and what stuck with Sure makes things boring, me from my teenage world, I guess I’m doesn’t it? Even more boring than an “X-Files” Christian. I sure want to usual. believe.

Splash of water on his face to Somehow, even before I told cool down. Bryan had been overheated him I was dropping out after a week’s his entire life, devolving into classes, I knew he’d disapprove. Last clamminess 15 minutes after he got we’d talked he’d just read “The out of the shower.

Fountainhead,” and become nearly Stared in the mirror, and saw insufferably positive. a Bryan heavier and more tired“I don’t want you to do this,” he looking than the Bryan he often said. “Stay here. I don’t know anyone thought about. else here and this is what you need. *** You absolutely cannot give up on My connection to Ronnie stems something as serious as college after from the fact that she was the first girl only one week. Let’s do this together.” to view me as a viable and cunning I tried to explain to him that I’d member of the male species, but that’s had a professor who’d harassed me to only a small piece of the pie we’ve made tears, that college wasn’t for everyone, for ourselves. that he wasn’t exactly a key figure in Our story isn’t one of those pathetic my life anymore.

“Love in the Time of Cholera” rip-offs Bryan shrugged, walked to his you see in women’s magazines. The classroom door, turned around: “You ones where adults pine for decades are capable of great things.” about the first person they were And that was the last I saw of intimate with on a golf course at night. him for several years.

There is some of that, sure, but We’d bump into each other off Ronnie’s more symbolic to me than a and on at places like the mall, kill a subject of specific connection. few hours over coffee, and go back to Our story makes the most sense our lives. in light of where I was emotionally in The Internet Age ascended, and the year or so prior to meeting her. To we found ourselves talking online at say I was an outsider is putting it least once a week. We probably send mildly. I excelled at nothing except my each other a handful of text messages a schoolwork, and sitting around in day. study hall obsessively reading or So here we are: Odd, charged, writing stories in notebooks, stories I and ill-advised sit-downs every other usually never finished. year.

Get-togethers with my precious Vic knows, and while he says few friends consisted of sitting around men and women cannot be friends, on a lazy Saturday with a stack of new doesn’t seem to mind. Bryan swears his comic books and a 1-pound bag of wife knows and doesn’t care. peanut M & Ms. Nintendo “parties” Us getting together is like this were also frequent. habit you form without even realizing it.

When Skippy asked me to go to I just wish I understood it more. that music festival, my first inclination *** was to run in the other direction. A Bryan stood at the vacuum bunch of kids my age I didn’t know, urinal and got rid of some coffee. females? Forget it.

Stuff made him hit the bathroom But I eventually gave in for the quicker than beer, not that he drank same reason I still do stuff today: I had that anymore. nothing better to do.

Nope, not even alcohol’s leastOne of the first things you’ll harsh mistress. Among other horrors of notice about Ronnie is her ability to consumption, Bryan carried with him take you in. She has a way of looking the recent memory of last at you that’s almost like she’s Thanksgiving’s relapse. One beer had analyzing you, but not in a way that started a chain reaction that resulted makes you feel uncomfortable. She just in a blackout at his in-laws. wants to take stock of you and see if He enjoyed his hard-won you’re worth her time. sobriety, but…

Because believe it or not, she

22 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

has a way of locking you out if you don’t meet her personality, I.Q., and yes, moral requirements.

The reason for the scrutiny?

Ronnie has been hurt, and she’s going to do her best to never be hurt like that again.

I’d like to think I pass her standards. We’re still talking today, after all.

At 15, Ronnie treated me as an equal, and maybe even someone she could grow to be interested in down the line.

No guy will admit this, but sometimes we remember with more fondness the first girl who acts like we might have a chance with her than the ones who let us get away with a lot more.

We “went out” for a week, but broke up because Ronnie said she wasn’t “ready” for it.

Ronnie stood first in the line of women who have passed through my life, for better or worse. I’m glad our relationship has always been chaste.

The first one through the door should be clean.

On to the more broad implications.

I may have had a falling-out with Skippy, but I really bonded that week with most others in the youth group.

They treated me with more respect and kindness than I was getting at school, that’s for sure.

Fifteen is the strangest age.

Impending college fills you with this sense of adulthood, but deep down you know you’ve got plenty of time to do what you want, and despite school, very, very few responsibilities. It’s like the kind of arrested development you actually want, where, as truly awful as this sounds, you feel like you’re going to be skinny, energetic, and hopeful forever.

And that there’s going to be an interesting crop of people to pick from and talk to every day, for the rest of your life.

I talk to Ronnie now and I see myself again in those days: Newlyfound confidence, always somewhere to go, something to do. Youth.

In some ways, I become that person again, and this sterile, monochromatic McLife is sweeter for it.

***

Bryan wasn’t even seated before Veronica was razzing him yet again about the frequency of his bathroom trips.

“I need to know something,” she said, all traces of the intensity of their earlier discussion gone. “Why on Earth do you pee so much? That was the third time. How does your boss handle that?”

“My boss operates out of New York; It works out nicely, actually,” said Bryan. “Is there even an answer to this? I have a small bladder. I process stuff quicker. Who cares? You just point it out because it’s obvious.”

“You’re obvious,” said Veronica with a distracted grin as she glanced at the clock on her mobile phone.

This divergence was typical Veronica. She’d started out haranguing him about the nature of their friendship, asking intent questions, and five minutes later, reverted to humor scraping the bathroom variety.

Is this how our brains work anymore? Is this the extent of the human interface, limping through it until we can get to a keypad and screen?

“Hey, back to what we were talking about,” said Bryan, voice lowered to indicate he had really thought about the subject in the interim.

Veronica took a bite of scone and wondered why she’d brought up the topic at all.

“Remember that one time I asked you about the happiest you had ever been? Well, let’s pretend you just asked me the same question,” said Bryan.

“I did, you said –“ “Never mind that,” said Bryan.

“I changed that. I’m giving you the real answer this time.”

Veronica’s face took on a look of mixed indulgence and curiosity.

“The happiest I’ve ever been,” said Bryan, “was the day we all came back from the music festival.

“It was a Sunday, and we all met back at the church before we went home. My parents picked me up, took me to McDonald’s, asked me all sorts of questions, trying to ascertain if I’d stayed out of trouble.

the moment, probably by karmic design.

“We get home around 2 or 3, Bryan and Veronica threw I’m too beat to unpack, I just lie in my their trash away and went to their bed, my eyes floating off the Stephen King book I’m reading, and I’m just so vehicles, did their ritual hug.

He stabbed his key into his quietly happy.

“Someone like you had talked Nissan and looked up at Veronica.

“See you in a couple years?” to me, and I had met people who didn’t She said nothing, only gave judge me or treat me like the freak I him a smile and walked away, and probably was, and I knew there were Bryan felt foolish for asking. going to be some great days in my future. Being around people. Having a network of friends. Having something to do. Having a thing.”

Bryan sipped coffee and looked her in the eye.

“That spirit of sleepy anticipation, that was the happiest I’ve ever been. Not a lot has come close.

Marriage, kids, that’s about it. You’re probably shocked this story isn’t about my first kid’s head crowning in the maternity ward.”

“No,” said Veronica after a pause. “You have to be happy before anything else can fall into place, before you can love.”

Minutes slipped by without a word, another silence with no repercussions.

When she finally spoke, Veronica’s voice was hoarse like she was sad, but her face looked nothing of the sort.

“What you just brought up, that era, that was always my favorite time, too,” she said quietly.

They looked at each other. Years of confusion unspooled in a moment. Complexity was unraveled by a sentimental anecdote knocked off after a bathroom trip.

But these kinds of connections, these fumblings at being known, work.

PHOTO BY ERIC HARBAUGH Because they’re all we have le ft.

An obnoxious ringtone broke

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WHERE TO START

By Ray Cressler

I. where to start is always the hardest part to figure out so starting where you are is the best option from there is the window, the wind, the snow and the sky so cloudy smoke and cotton gray from there is the universe which is huge and probably infinite

II. today I gave up and all reality poured forth like a cup of Niagara falls early in the morning sloppy metaphors like used condoms deteriorating in a downtown parking lot little abandoned non-children little abandoned trysts and the breaking of trust the making of crust, how it coats this rock, a would-be dead planet

24 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

PHOTO BY ELEANOR BENNETT

III this gourd rattles I hold onto music while all else is an ember flying off of a wild bonfire and disappearing into stars we poets will never stop howling we the griots will tell you it has always been the same and you must choose between good and evil you must choose between good and evil and you must feast when feasting is in order and you must kill the beast and you must storm the fortress

PHOTO BY BROOKE ALYSE COOVER

there is only that and love and death

IV we are fleshbeings we are mind we should try to have a good time I am human and you are too formed from random organic brew

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A PHOTO ESSAY BY THOMAS G. ANDERSON

26 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

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PHOTOS BY THOMAS G. ANDERSON

28 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

EVER AFTER, IN SEDONA

By Claire Holahan

Mary Louette, the widow, entered the plane, anxious and amused. Rumors of a mad woman had already begun to circulate, and she loved to listen to people quake in their polyester. People used to quake in fur, but damnit if the extremists hadn’t gotten to them.

Sitting down, she rolled her head back and took a deep breath of stale, processed air. Air that she would share with one hundred other men, women, and children for five hours, until she reached Sedona, Arizona. She rolled the name of the city and state on her tongue, under her breath, when she was sure no one could hear her.

Words always sounded beautiful on a Thursday evening, and beauty was never relative, in Sedona. Her husband had thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, those days.

Those days, in Sedona, and ever after.

Glancing at her ticket, once more, Mary Louette waited for the person who would inevitably sit next to her. She hoped, to all of the Northern Deities, he or she wasn’t fat.

Nobody came.

All at once, the plane quieted.

Every passenger was on board, except for Mary Louette’s mystery seating partner. What an unusual circumstance, this was. What were the chances? She mused.

“What did you say?” The woman in front of her turned in her seat. “Did you say something?”

“No. Nothing.” Said Mary Louette. But she was very perturbed, indeed.

Lights began to blink, and a few men in suits began to bustle. They bustled around their women. They bustled around Mary Louette, shoving

dark bags into hidden compartments.

The widow blinked and glanced around, discretely. Some people were staring at her. She knew. How could they not be? She did not have a partner. She did not have a shield.

“Will no one protect me from these Unusuals?” She murmured.

“Hm?” The woman in front of her turned around, again. “I’m sorry.

Did you say something?”

“No, dear.” Mary Louette said, patiently. “I don’t even know you.”

A woman walked around, wearing an oxygen mask, and Mary Louette clutched her seat. Perhaps some fresh air would do her good. She reached for the button that would eject her saving grace. This could save her life.

Something rough and cold and ugly gripped her wrist. Copper nails bit into her skin, which was just beginning to thin and wrinkle. It reminded her of age. Of oxygen. She fought the hand, which restrained her.

“Ma’am, this is only an example.” A loud voice made her eyes flutter with discomfort. “We don’t actually want to you to release the oxygen mask.”

Mary Louette relaxed her arm.

People were staring. Some had begun to whisper of a woman and a nervous breakdown.

A madwoman and a nervous breakdown? This was quite the unusual plane. She stared at all of the passengers with milky eyes, penetrating each traveler, individually.

Some of them looked away. Some men’s eyes had no life to give, so they went on staring, until the plane took off. These were all quite unusual people. She had to be careful, on a plane like this.

She fidgeted, uncertainty filling her chest.

The men in their suits were seated. They sat, unblinking.

Unmoving. They were the machine men. Mary Louette grimaced. Men of copper, with no hearts.

“Oh my.” She whispered. “Oh my. Oh my. What soulless beings wander this aircraft?”

“I beg your pardon, but it really sounds like you’re talking to me.” The woman in front of her, Mary Louette realized, had not even bothered to turn back around, since they had last spoke.

“Oh, I understand.” Mary Louette smiled and lowered her voice.

“You’re sitting next to an Unusual, aren’t you?” She asked. “You may sit here,” She pat the empty seat, next to her. “If you’d like.”

The woman stared at Mary Louette’s wrinkled hand. Every time it moved, veins seemed to wander its bones.

“No, thank you.” The woman said.

“Suit yourself.” Mary Louette said. “But be careful, dear.” She gazed at the man, next to the woman. “He looks like a big one.”

“Are you calling me fat?” The man asked.

Mary Louette shrugged. “We all have our insecurities.” She said, sympathetically.

The Unusual began to howl.

“Is there a problem?” A loud, panicky voice, coated with syrup and arsenic, approached. The same stewardess who had blocked Mary Louette from her precious oxygen was now staring at her with concern.

“She called me fat!” The fat man said.

Mary Louette shook her head and muttered. “They can be so sensitive.”

“Ma’am-”

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Mary Louette stood, abruptly.

She had never put on her seatbelt.

“I think that I have been put on the wrong plane.” She stated.

“Where are you traveling to?”

The attendant asked.

“I want to fly to Sedona, Arizona!” Mary Louette cried, determined. She would not be defeated. “The only place I can be young, and unashamed!”

“And so we’ll take you there, as soon as you sit down.” The attendant said, her voice at a pitch most dogs would not be able to tolerate.

“That cannot be.” Mary Louette’s voice shook with uncertainty and shame. “I…” She felt the swells of panic, in her breast. “I’m not on the right plane. This can’t be right.”

Pushing past the woman in the tight khaki shorts, she stumbled to the bathroom, and threw up salami and rye, and an assortment of Swiss chocolates that she should have just thrown away.

“I must get out of here.”

She sputtered greens. “I must.”

“Are you alright in there, Ma’am?” Someone pounded on the door. They kept on pounding and pounding until Mary Louette thought she might die.

She would have answered, but vomit can be such an inconvenience.

“Ma’am?”

Mary Louette searched the cramped space. There must be a place to hide. Her eyes rolled and rolled until they rested on some toilet paper.

There wasn’t enough to cover her, completely. She would never be an airplane mummy.

She wondered where they kept all the extra toilet paper. A lot of people relieved themselves on a lot of planes. They must hide the paper, somewhere.

“Ma’am. There are people waiting, out here.”

The Unusuals were all in such a hurry. Mary Louette pressed a fragile hand to her

temple. Why couldn’t they just wait, like normal people? She had always been patient. Even as a child.

An infant began to wail, and she snapped her fingers.

What an unusual child. She thought. Just like the rest of them.

“I’m coming out.” She said, wiping her mouth, on her sleeve.

“Please, don’t shoot.”

A lot of hands reached out to her, at once. Tugging and prodding, gripping and shaking, they touched every inch of her. They were under her arms, beneath her breasts, and in her mouth, curious and unrelenting. Mary Louette stiffened, then collapsed,

30 The Earl Vol. 2- Issue 1- Winter 2012

unresponsive.

She had always known that it would come to this. The Unusuals would want more than she could give, and so they took.

“Goodnight, fiends, born of men.” She whispered.

They were shouting with vicious regret, but it was too late.

Mary Louette, widow and cautious adventurer, faded without excessive elegance.

The End

PHOTO BY LISA RHINEHART

Earl Staff

Editor- Ray Cressler Photo Editor- Matthew McLean Staff Reviewer - Katie Dempsey

Thanks For Reading!

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The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.

F. Scott Fitzgerald