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THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
A Special Thanks To Our Magazine Staff
EDITOR/LAYOUT Raymond B. Cressler
COVER DESIGN Cece Serino (Serino Design)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
From The Editor
4
From Post Now PA
5
A Writer's Ink
6
A Poem By Justin Rowles
Vigil Wife
7
A Poem By Renee Lynn Kelly
Botched
RESEARCH Brooke A. Coover
8
A Short Story by Matthew Furman
Poems By Charlotte A. Jones.
11
You Deserved Better
14
A Poem By Brian Hammond
PROOF READING Danielle Halteman
Empty the Hand
15
A Poem By Daniel Schuchman
$ay, Its Only a Paper Moon
16
An Essay By Raymond B Cressler
Poems By Anne Burkley
17
Album Review: Dana Alexandra's "WashYour Mouth Out"
19
By Katie Dempsey
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
3
From The Editor: TABLE OF CONTENTS CONTINUED
The University Grille Presents: A Cultural Calendar
20
Concert Review: Man Man
23
By Katie Dempsey
Monochrome Crush
24
A Poem By Laura B. Hans
Restaurant Review: The University Grille
25
By Darin Robillard
Poetry By Margaret Evans
26
The Continuation of Botched
27
Poetry By Matthew Grove
30
Love like a Woman
32
An Essay by D. A. Nelson
Poetry By Jan Nawa
34
An Afternoon At Pennmar
35
Photos from Jeremy Wolfe
Db
38
A Poem by Devvin Earnest
Photography Credits
39
If you are reading the on-line version don't forget to click where the finger points to check out related websites
Late night about half a week ago, mired in the drgery and tedium of bulge-eyed concentration on magazine layout, I wondered to myself, "Why all the work for something so seemingly useless in terms of practicality." Not a Half Hour later, I came upon a post on Facebook from a friend who had just released an album for free online. Needing some good work music, I downloaded the album, The Teaching Machine, by An0va gave me 25 minutes of the kick I needed to keep plugging away. (find it on An0va's Facebook page) Not only was the music upbeat, but it dawned on me that in all the mixing and tweaking the album's content, its writer probably felt the impracticality weighing down on him plenty of times. Yet there I was, feeding off the completed product. Post Now PA's Artistic Director Aaron Treher once posited to me that it was the imagination of the artist, painting game on the walls of a cave, that reminded everyone to prepare for a seasonal migrating herd that they could not see, but would soon be present. It is the artist who works sometimes thanklessly and hopelessly to bring us the things that seem invisible and unimportant. With their infinite imaginations, they prepare us for life's infinite contingencies. The contributors packed into this third issue of The Earl are no different. My hope is that you enjoy their words, ideas and images, and maybe learn something. Happy Reading,
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THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Ray Cressler
From Post Now PA
Greetings, I am excited to announce the release of third issue of The Earl. I would like to thank our editor, Ray Cressler, and all the writers, poets, artists and photographers who have helped to make The Earl a success. Progress at The Thought Lot has slowed down as we wait for more donations to complete construction. To reiterate, all work thus far at The Thought Lot has been the result of volunteer work and donations. The community has been a huge asset in helping Post Now PA to bring Art and Music to Shippensburg, but we must call on you again to help us complete our sustainable arts project. We need to raise enough money to finish constructing the artist studios as soon as possible if we are to continue in our success. We have several more spaces available for artists to rent. If you are looking for a convenient and affordable studio or workshop, don’t hesitate. Contact studios@PostNowPA.com for more details. Enjoy The Earl!
Frank Cressler President & Business Manager Post Now PA
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
5
A Writer's Ink (3 Haiku Movement) By Justin Rowles
Ink put on a page Laying down a writer's soul Set for all to read
Words enter the mind Reader finds their own meaning Enlightening the brain
Deep feelings conveyed Audience becomes wiser From ink on a page
PHOTO BY HEATHER HICKS
Justin Rowles is a poet that is a board member of Post Now PA.
He is currently a Criminal Justice student at Shippensburg University and endeavors to promote the arts in the community.
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THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Vigil Wife By Renee Lynn Kelly Once, I was a vigil wife. Deceived the lookers, convinced the witness. I was attentive... Attentive...good...quietly attentive. Quietly. Attentively... Watched poison drip into my love. Felt the tug of my sins drag my rope across the ground. Cutting the fibers, fraying the secure hold. Secretly said "I stand, I wait, I bide my time for NO ONE!!". But, I was a vigil wife. Fooled the partisan follower, pleased the patrons. I was deliberate... Deliberate...firm...easily deliberate. Easily. Deliberately... Saw my perfectly perceived ribbon unravel. Looked through everything, nothing; cold-eyed. Held it's hand and touched it softly, never wiped it's tears. My shoulders suffered, my form grew weak. Said "I'm tired, I'm broken, I'm through!" I was a vigil wife, but Disappointed the distinguished, entertained the adversary. I was diligent... Diligent...intense...fully diligent. Fully. Diligently... Sat motionless, prayed "Poison, take your effect" Laid down my rope, hoped not feel the tug. Balled the satin, to wipe my eyes. Stared deep, wanting more. Squeezed the hand, begged "Please, tend me!" Softened my body, and accepted my consequence. Quietly, easily, fully.
PHOTO BY HEATHER HICKS
Renee Lynn Kelly- resides, raises, loves, provokes, invokes, bakes, plays, listens, seeks, writes, challenges, smiles, cries, creates, analyzes, admires, travels, hugs, pays the man, wakens, praises, and just plains lives.
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
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✰
✰ ✰
✰ Botched Prologue: The First Day of
Knows from years of
“Mr. Muller” in all capital
School, 1952, 6:05 a.m.
experience that the young,
letters on the pristine
Plainfield, Cumberland
those whose minds are
blackboard. He’s finished
County, Pennsylvania
weak not from laziness but
the second underline when
Plainfield High School,
a lack of living, cooperate
room 234, Mr. Muller’s 10th better when given an
incentive they actually want woman named Violet.
71 degrees Fahrenheit,
– chocolate, sour balls,
overcast
licorice.
She walks boldly up to Mr.
I had the knife on me but I
didn’t dare pull it. If I did I Muller and shakes his hand, would use it, and despite my He places a small bundle in and they exchange bleeding nose and swollen
always feels when expecting each desk’s ink well, pits
introductions. Violet sits
new faces, new minds and
long-dried and forever
down in the first row and
bodies.
stained. Mr. Muller doesn’t pulls out her copy of “Mrs.
Teaching, his way of
12:46 p.m.
Behind shop class, AKA his first student walks in, a “Smoking Area” slender, dark-haired young 81 degrees Fahrenheit, clear
grade biology class
He feels the excitement he
The 24th Day of School,
lip, I didn’t hate the kid enough to twist a buck knife in his stomach.
like the proximity of the
Dalloway,” and scrunches
sweets to the dark, dead
up the sleeping caterpillars After all, it was the lout’s that live above her blue sense of patriotism that had
teaching, is the marriage of ink, but cannot resist the
exerted will and the illusion symmetry, cannot resist the eyes. The air lacks the
caused the whole thing.
that the student has a say
symbolism.
feeling usually left when
in the outcome.
There is a pattern to the
two people interact. Violet’s I had just finished lunch, personal space is sovereign. and was smoking a Lucky
distribution: All the girls So Mr. Muller has always
get chocolate, all the boys
lived. And his pupils have
receive any candy that is
always eaten it up,
not chocolate.
whatever the end result.
His weakest, those who are to
He pulls out his pocket
be cherished
watch, a trinket on a gold
even as they are
chain worth a few years’
pitied, should
salary, and looks for all the get the world like a pudgy
confection most
commuter waiting for a
loved, the one
Others arrive and take in
....I didn’t hate the kid enough to twist a buck knife in his stomach.
Strike behind the mobile home we used for shop class. t Reuben wasn’t with me, and that’s probably what encouraged my three tormentors to escalate our weeks-long stare-down into the realm of butchery. The taunts had been said
days earlier; this time the carried by soldiers into war. heir new teacher: Early 40s, trio of seniors just walked the leather case on his desk jowly, posture so straight up to me and attacked. Even train to arrive. He opens
and removes the customary Mr. Muller wants his girls first-day treats.
to have it good for a time, because he knows there is
Most of the other teachers
nothing for their minds
looking at him makes your
as the first one swung his back hurt. Thick, dark hair. fist, I didn’t believe he’d The duller students file him actually do it, which made away instantly as yet
at the rural school will give after their proscribed years another authoritarian to out fruit, mildly bruised
of public education. He
suffer through. The more
windfalls from family
knows this and lets them
perceptive majority of the
orchards, prizes that often
play the game anyway. He
class is drawn to his smile,
evince a few bites and a
has always hoped they don’t that smile that reaches his
smirk before getting cast
hold it against him.
into the trash can or a field
eyes and voice. The look that makes them want to
no sense, because I’d started carrying the knife right after the first time they’d said “Christopher’s dad was a German-loving coward.” I know what you’re
thinking: Did kids actually raise their hands, cooperate, beat each other up for the piece of virgin chalk, so even before the first lecture things like that? Was our
on the way home from class. Almost time. He picks up Mr. Muller knows better.
8
like a cigarette, and writes
THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
has begun.
fathers’ status truly a factor
gone.”
in adolescent male
I waited for them to leave,
interaction, or is that just
fished in my flannel shirt
more of the same Normal
for another cigarette.
When he exhaled, his
what happened one night
Rockwell swill that’s been
Smoked and stared into
second-hand smoke caught
when I was 12. She wanted
crammed down our throat
space. I was past anger; this me. I couldn’t move, or
for the last 50 years?
is what happened to people
speak, but my brain got that it closed completely. I’m
like me. It wouldn’t always
feeling you get when
glad she did; he died a year
something’s on the tip of
later.
The answer is mostly “yes.” be so; I just had to wait it out.
He never talked the war with me. My mother told me
your tongue but you can’t place it.
This was not post-America
me to know his heart before
Today, I’ll say it to anyone’s
America. You could not
Someone cleared their
face: Dad got captured in a
graph the impact our
throat to let me know they
When I figured out what it
way that you or I would
fathers’ war had on them,
were near.
was, Mr. Muller was gone.
have got tagged. At the peak
***
and us, and our identity. It
of the Battle of the Bulge,
followed them, and to a
Mr. Muller, our biology
I grew up on filmed
with low supplies and all
large extent their families,
teacher, looking at my cuts
depictions of the war in
that “Berlin by Christmas”
for the rest of their lives.
and bruise with an
which my father and uncles piss-and-vinegar starting to
expression I couldn’t read.
slogged through, took cover sour more with each day,
So patriotism was involved
Today I think it was a mix
and tossed bombs.
in the bullying, but I also
of detached, clinical
believe my tormentors had
concern, and contempt.
found the perfect method to
my father was ordered to take a squad out and forage
Some of the movies were
for…whatever was out
good, very good, while the
there, Sergeant.
exercise their inherent
He knelt beside me and
ones that came out during
cruelty with a minimal
handed me a silk
the conflict itself were
One, two, three snowy fields
amount of adult
handkerchief, soft and
ostensibly propaganda,
later. A few sock-footed men
interference.
monogrammed.
albeit much-needed
bleeding out on the snow
propaganda. My personal
like General Washington’s
One of the three patriots
He stood up and said, “Why favorites were the espionage troops. Dad sees a barn at
used to be my friend, before did they do that?”
flicks. Disguise a German-
the end of the field and
the mostly-true stories
speaking Englishman, or
decides it would make a
about my father circulated,
The only thing I knew about better yet, woman. Have
good place to sack out for a
and that’s what screwed me him was that he was
them infiltrate The
few hours.
up that day outside the shop German. When Germans
Machine, blow up a few
A German squad had
classroom. At that time, I
appeared around us in those hydro electric stations, and
couldn’t physically hurt
days people my age
someone I hated, much less assumed they were someone I had shared a
figured the same thing
while everyone gets to go
about 15 minutes earlier.
home for now, the War
They had to have heard dad
refugees, and that was that. Continues.
and his men coming up on
laugh with. There was
the barn, and when the door
something soft in me; one
“They don’t think my father These spy flicks shared a
day I had sobbed for an
did enough in the war,” I
hour after shooting a blue
said finally. “They think he blown, usually by something power occurred. I still
jay with my BB gun. I had
was weak.”
key trait: Cover always gets peaceful transmission of as stupid as a foreign watch wonder why the two groups or bit of chocolate.
didn’t start shooting each
Mr. Muller tapped out a
But this story isn’t about
other the second the doors
cigarette of his own and
done it just to see if I could stomach it.
was opened, an amazingly
movies. It’s more about
opened, or why the Germans
So I didn’t put up much of a lighted it.
people like my father, who
didn’t pick them off like
fight that day. Another clip
found himself a Staff
ducks from 20 yards out.
Sergeant in Pennsylvania’s
Maybe both squads were
my knees, and my ex-friend weak,” he said softly in his
“Bloody Bucket” just as the
tired of being told to kill
simply tapped my head with clipped accent. “Sometimes
war was winding down to
each other that day.
to the nose brought me to
“It’s sometimes okay to be
his elbow and I landed in a
there are things we have to one final kick in the
stale pile of sawdust.
suffer for the moment. And then those moments are
scrotum.
Dad gets thrown on a train where questions in German
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
9
or English are met with a
the dust.”
Mauser crack to the skull. Days later he learns his
He started smoking that day,
And the funny thing is,
new job: Remains detail at and would forever smoke Juno movies I worshipped, my a small concentration camp Josettis, the foreign brand heart was in the right whose name he would
given him by the guard, the
never tell mother. I don’t
cigarette of choice for some
even know what country it members of the German was in. Until the camp
Army. I remember him
was abandoned ahead of
lighting up before reading his
the advancing Russians,
daily Bible devotional, hating
Dad spent his days
himself for his weakness but
burn pits, lime pits, and crematoria. Some were so
thing that matters, right?
I’m sure he would have
physically hurt him. “But not much more than anything else, really.
I could tell myself that.
People living, people dying. People blowing the world to
Mr. Muller was German,
not want him to That’s all it was. But I go through life wanted more. I wanted a
hell. That’s a bit ‘much’ too, isn’t it, Violet?” “I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” she said, but
I could tell by her eyes she forever smelling bad guy to vanquish, and a knew exactly what Reuben the charred way to redeem my place in was getting at. remains of His the pecking order, correct People.
The cigarette
my father’s legacy of
I knew Reuben would say
perceived timidity. So I
no more.
made Mr. Muller a Nazi-insmelled darker, hiding, and told myself I “Violet, I’ve studied him. richer, than the would kill him. I’ve followed him. I’ve made American cigarettes I was to sure,” I said. “His manner, pick up in my teens.
light he could have carried six under each arm, but
used words like they
place, and that’s the only
and smoked a certain carrying human remains to believing in his heart that our German cigarette. Savior would
...a conclusion I needed. Something to give me a little fire, a chance to kick at something.
“Yes, yes it is,” Reuben
according to the logic of the said, surprising me. He
Its smell was my childhood. ***
found the idea monstrous.
***
his precision. The way he
The 97th Day of School,
has to re-organize
3:42 p.m.
everything every five
Limner’s Coffee Shop,
minutes.”
Plainfield
Even with the tied-up rag
58 degrees Fahrenheit,
I could tell I was losing her.
wads in his nose, the
The rest of that day’s
human dust caked his
schooling was a wash for me.
sinuses for the duration of
Violet wrapped her hands house searches, some of My head buzzed, but not from around her coffee cup, them didn’t just tear your my wounds. unpainted nails tapping its house apart like the cops on
his stint. Mom told me once he often complained he was never able to fully
overcast “When the S. S. conducted
edge slightly, and gave us
television. These sorts
her concerned face.
would rifle through your
get the smell out of his
The scent of Mr. Muller’s
nose and head, even years
cigarette had floated in and
after the war ended.
bore into my brain like a skull “This is all a bit…much, splinter that won’t stop until don’t you think?” she said
Dad was a devout
you end up in a wheelchair.
finally.
Christian of the most
Looking at it from today’s
conservative type, and
perspective, from the vantage Reuben was sitting beside point of the modest and me in the coffee shop’s
before his captivity had always given away his
isolated life I’ve built for
cigarette ration. It was
myself, I see I was playing
after a particularly
games from the start. Self-
nauseating day on the burn convincing. Re-tooling pit that a German guard took pity on his wheezing
everything back just so. They’d straighten pictures on the wall. Muller has that in him, that exactness. He’s run with them; I know it.”
booth. He and I looked at each other. As usual, I saw Violet lit a cigarette, nothing in his eyes,
absolutely nothing, but he information into a conclusion I had been easy to convince. needed. Something to give me In fact, “convince” is the
and passed him a cigarette a little fire, a chance to kick at wrong word. “Recruit” fits to help, as mom put it, “cut something. much better.
10 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
belongings, and put
handing one to Reuben and I. “He’s precise. So are most of our teachers,” she said. “This is all you have?”
I told her about the
on their stomachs. One
With all that in mind, it had them.”
policeman was responsible
occurred to me on more
cigarettes, adding (probably for the group Reuben was in. than one occasion that Reuben might not care one incorrectly) that they were the official cigarette of the S. S.
Using his bayonet as a
way or the other whether
guide, the policeman placed Mr. Mueller was a member the tip of the knife against
“And no other German ever each Jew’s neck, and fired. smoked them before,” said By the time the policeman issued with serial numbers to the S. S., is that what you’re saying?”
the line, the overweight
“I’ll stand by you to a degree,” said Violet. “And so far, it’s the very tiniest
of the Nazi Party, or had so degree. You know me, and much as lifted a finger for
you know I will always
the Third Reich.
support a disruption, of any
got to Reuben at the end of
Violet dryly. “They were
She sighed.
kind.” Violet lit another cigarette,
German stopped. The killer but this time did not offer
Here she gave us a strange
knew Polish and told
smile.
us one.
Reuben to turn around. The
Reuben stubbed out his half- policeman was covered with “Why are you bringing me “But you better show us blood and brain matter, and into this,” she said. “Do you some things more smoked cigarette. Violet didn’t know his story. I was his crotch was soaked with urine. He smelled of pretty sure I was the only
expect me to help out in
substantial than this. He
some way?”
better talk, and say the
schnapps. The man’s face
Gentile who did. Reuben had grown up in a small
contained no sorrow, only
Police Battalion 101
was wet with the fluids of
things you want to hear.” I couldn’t tell her the reason
Polish village. When he was anger, anger that his duties was because I liked her. were so extreme, that he 6, members of Reserve rounded up every Jew in town, about 870, and drove them by trucks to the outlying woods to be shot. Groups of a dozen or so were taken out of sight of
I told her another truth.
people he didn’t know.
“He will,” I said. In fact, I hadn’t studied Muller beyond casual
The policeman pointed to
“You’re smarter than most
observation, nor done any
the woods and Reuben ran.
of the others,” I said. “You
research on him. Everything
His immediate family was
can help keep things under
tied into the smell of that
shot that day and thrown
control. And when we start
cigarette smoke, and what
into a six-foot crater of mud getting the answers we
the others, and forced to lie and blood.
had been started couldn’t be
want, you can help convince stopped.
Poems by Charlotte A. Jones Satellites
CATCH THE EXCITING CONCLUSION OF BOTCHED ON PG. 23!
✰ ✰
✰
I remember the day I almost kissed Amir. Day that encompasses night, night that nearly persuades the scarlet-veined leaves that it might fold into their peaceful subtleties. They shivered as I shivered, draped in the afterthoughts of a cigarette and secondhand addictions I compared to his. With legs swinging blithesome over the edge of a picnic table, I entertained quiet fascination. Four inches between his face and mine, a different distance between us and the stars, and then they became the same; numbers evaporating into the greater fact and persistence of space. I remember the day I almost kissed Amir, and it was the day I realized that never will I look at the stars and not see a satellite. And it was not one, but one in relation to the other that so resonates in my own cognition.
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
11
I Judged the Pompeii of Your Anguish
I judged the Pompeii of your anguish by the radius of nicotine debris circling you on that picnic tablenot the bench, fire-sun-shine with a dark-cloud and a red-umbrella
PHOTO BY KATE FRY
12 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Ann and Cancer
Called you today, Ann without the -e Born coincidentally the same day as Charlotte and me then I am Charlotte Ann without the -e, would have called sooner if not for qualms concerning calling a person for fear that they will die, then I was afraid you were dead and I called yousmooth southern hello on the phone, told me "Good news! It's not in my bones" My chest, yes, my heart no and it's not in my bones the tests have said so not yet, still no but oh, it's good to hear your voice and it was good to hear yours as well, Ann, and you told me, smooth-southern told me about radiation, not because it is the slow snake that will race the cancer growing fabric in your body -not bonesfor your life but because in order to laser-point your disease they had to give you a tattoo-
and that's when I knew you were dying because old southern women are more calloused than their husbands' hands but dying southern women just want to love their granddaughters. And I wondered if you were always kind, I wondered a lot of things, It's a waste to not know someone especially when she's your father's mother and especially when she's your name, Ann, I carry you despite the cups of tea we planned on but left in the cupboard Ann, and I love you like a father's mother, so that I will not say "my dying grandmother" but instead Ann, without the -e, and I will call you next week.
you laughed, said we should get pictures together with our tattoos
Charlotte A. Jones is a second-year student at Dickinson College, focusing on Latin American Studies and Art. CHECK OUT HER BLOG: http://towhereandwhytheywander.blogspot.com/
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
13
You Deserved Better By Brian Hammond You deserved better from a boy who couldn't look you in the eye For fear of seeing his shadow reflected Who fought to keep you from seeing his beauty And could kiss you but never see yours So I could create secret languages to hide my feelings from you Or teach you how to read my secret scripts And write poetry on your bedroom ceiling only you and I can read Our secret from your mother and father But you deserved better And I deserve better than to be that boy Who wrote poems about the sex of souls But an ocean of flesh is swallowing him whole And flesh is impersonal and convenient There is nothing convenient about your body And nothing impersonal about setting foot inside The secret chapels of your eyes Resting hands upon your sacrum A sacred inner sanctum And I am an awkward pilgrim Spilling holy water on the temple steps And I am awkward And I am blind to your wonder And I am illiterate to your secret languages And you deserved better from this boy Who couldn't look you in the eye Because your shadow looked too much like him.
PHOTO BY THOMAS ANDERSON Originally from Chambersburg, Brian Hammond left for 12 years, during which time he worked as a teacher and in the finance industry in New York and New Jersey. He recently returned to the area to pursue a master's degree in psychological science at Shippensburg University.
14 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Empty the Hand By Daniel Schuchman If the hand is full the hand needs more but if the hand is empty it has no knowledge of space understand, that to utilize one's hand it must be devoted to the task if it is distracted with material it cannot embrace the intangible empty the hand
PHOTO BY KATE FRY
Dan Schuchman is local musician --former member
of The Shackeltons and current member of blackblackbeast -- his poetry is an attempt to examine life, modernity using a philosopher's lense as he writes in a sad romantic tone.
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
15
$ay, It's only a Paper Moon
An Essay By Raymond B. Cressler
The ceiling fan rattles and I, work weary, sit on my bed about to put my hard earned cash in the nightstand and my head on the pillow. I slip the wad of folded bills out an envelope from my pocket and fan them outwards. I look at the numbers all in a row, indicating the value of each almost identical piece of thick, light-green paper. In my hand is twelve hours of running my ass off with composure and a smile, as people whose faces eventually all blur together ask for ketchup, ask for mayonnaise ask for Coca-cola and frown when its Pepsi, or demand more lemons, or sauce or no sauce. Each of them leave a little bit of paper on the table when they leave. Twelve hours fit easily into an envelope to be put into a drawer. What is my time worth, my mind, my efforts? In return for walking from one place to another to retrieve a thing that somebody wants as quickly as possible, while also considering the needs of all other customers, I am rewarded with these numbered bills. It is easy to get a bill with a one on it. Often I can scour enough coins off of my
bedroom floor and dresser top to trade in for one of these bills. I can get a one for putting a drink on a tray, carrying it to a table, and setting the drink on the table with a nod. A five is tougher to get, but even at minimum wage, and considering taxes you would not have to work more than an hour to get one of these bills. The fifties and hundreds take a lot more work, but as I stare at a piece of paper with a one-hundred written on it, I think about how I could trade it for over two weeks of food. Or four cases of beer, or fifty gallons of gas, or four harmonicas. I think that Monday I will take these bills and the others in the envelope to the bank where my twelve hours of work will cease to be paper and start being numbers on my computer screen when I check my balance on line. Some of it will eventually go towards maintaining my comfortable shelter. Some will buy me electricity with which to run all of my appliances and electronics and lightbulbs and ceiling fan. Some of the smaller bills will be traded for cigarettes. The guy who sells me the cigarettes at the store will be slowly accumulating his own paper as he points
16 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
to the pack at its place on the rack and says “these ones?” and I say, “No right above that,” and he moves up and says “These ones?” and I say, “yes,” and he asks me for I.D. and I give him an unfriendly look for giving in to the stupid demands of mother government (and realize in that moment that while they have denied him the right to treat me as a free human that wants to trade something for something else, they have in the process hurt my ability to see him as a human rather than a tool of their law) and then he rings the cigarettes up and says “Have a nice day.” An hour of doing that could get you a five, two ones and some change before taxes. If I were to take up two minutes of a convenience store clerk's time they could trade that in for a gumball, or a hand full of m&ms, or fish food at a public pond. Some people get a lot of bills in an hour. Or maybe one bill an hour with the number fifty on it. For someone like this, an hour and a half of their time, maybe spent reclining in an office chair and thinking about how to save the company a one hundred dollar bill per day, will get them a fancy date with cocktails and dessert, all brought to the
table by me, so that they can graciously leave me two bills one that says ten and the other five (which is roughly two hours of work for the guy who washes his dishes). People say we are like ants, but this is not true. We are like ants with currency. This brings to light an interesting thing that humans do. In order to compensate for not having ant-like super strength and therefore not being able to stand the weight of the things we “need,” we have little, lightweight pieces paper to carry around in their place. Then, possibly in an attempt to make ourselves forget our original shortcomings, we pat ourselves on the back for creating currency. It is not impossible to imagine ants that keep different numbers and colors of mold spores attached to their front leg. In different combinations they could be traded for entire sugar cubes. After all, ants have been known to farm, to enslave, to construct, to go to war over sugar cubes. From a human standpoint sugar cubes are so worthless, that the person giving them out may even ask, “One lump, or two?” To an ant, half a sugar cube is worth the loss of hundreds of valiant patriots.
PHOTO BY KATE FRY
How many pieces of paper is a human worth? Its a strange question because these papers equal hours of my living time. In a war of economic gain, someone gains paper from the loss of one person's life, and gives it to another person in return for some of their living time. Instead of paper for dying, or giving our time, maybe we should get paper just for being. I
guess that would destroy the point, because so much paper would flood the pockets of everyone, that no one would give anyone anything for something so dull and numerous. All the work I just did today would have been rewarded with some paper that I could, at best, possibly write something interesting on, but which would otherwise be useless. Or maybe
I would just get a huge pallet, stacked with the mostly worthless little pieces of paper that I couldn't transport without ant-like super strength. Maybe I could trade it for something smaller, more valuable, and easier to move around. More likely, opposed to pointless burdens, I'd just leave it for anyone that cares enough to take it. And while there are plenty of people
who are willing to lie, to cheat, to fight, to trick, or toil in wretched conditions for paper no matter how worthless it is, there are others that just play along, because that is how you get your food and shelter in this colony. But I'm no economist or social theorist, and my shoulders are stiff. My best bet is to lay back and close my eyes, because it was a long day getting that paper,
Raymond B. Cressler fancies himself a writer, philosopher, editor, musician and friend. He resides in Shippensburg, Pa.
Poems By Anne Burkley
Monday I feel myself growing old here in this chair, amid gray walls and a perpetual chill. It's not just cold, but office cold. Monday cold. The kind that sinks into the skin like a parasite, and takes over a body like a convulsion. Outside my window, a heavy August sky falls over the day with authority. A steeple pokes a neat hole in the sky. I sigh, wounded.
PHOTO BY MEG DUNLEVY
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
17
Riding Shotgun I think of you. In a car, snuggled in the anonymity of radio and group conversation. Your profile. Your body, driven between billboards and stars. I absently caress the upholstery. With a mind of their own my fingers remember you. Soft and supple chest and back. Strong shoulders, the slow easy curve of your lips. I smile to trees and mailboxes. Try to recall your voice…. Unexpectedly my eyes lock on to eyes. My own reflection. Startled, I touch the cold pane of glass, trace a droplet that runs from eye to nose to chin. I wonder where you are, and if you too notice the rain.
Collecting Shells I remember collecting locusts with my brother. With the dexterity of surgeons we untangled delicate shells from the bricks of our house and the bark of our trees. We studied them with the aplomb of scientists, seeing how fast they’d fall, and how far they’d fly. Wore them like the latest fashion, attached to our hair and clothes. And we delighted in their destruction too. When crushed, their sound held the crisp whisper of autumn leaves underfoot. We spent our summers like this, doing stuff like that. The sidewalk, backyard, and park was our world, our turf.
Anne Burkley is a freelance writer from Harrisburg, PA. She is a marketing writer by day, and poet by night. VISIT HER ONLINE at www.burkleycreative.com/writing.
And this is the way we walked: on pogo-slicks, stilts, and old tin cans. We jumped rope, hopped scotch, and leaped frog. Our feet were not yet planted in this earth and we tumbled like weeds, slow and easy, through the honey sweet days of childhood. We are opposite the locust. Crawling out of ourselves, we lose wings and grow roots.
18 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Album Review: Dana Alexandra Wash Your Mouth Out Trying to identify and keep track of all these new But lo and behold, this week I found genres lately has been an answer to my rock-is-dead giving me a headache. I like problem, and I didn’t even have to music (who doesn’t?), but kids today make liking music exhausting. I’ve had far too many hipster friends say to me something like, “Oh, you’ve never listened to [instert trendy new indie band]? Yeah, they’re very electro-pop, post-rock new wave.” What does that even mean?
By Katie Dempsey
really enjoy hanging out with people. If this album were a person, I’d totally want to hang out with it. You think I’d want to hang out with Vampire Weekend’s Contra? No, that album would probably be a pretentious jerk. I could see myself hanging out at the bar and having a few beers with Dana Alexandra’s
look very far! York-PA-based songstress Dana Alexandra’s new album Wash Your Mouth Out is a new burst of twenty-first century rock’n’roll. Alexandra’s musical stylings are fresh and contemporary but still with that straightforward goal Yeah I’ve rocked out to noise-pop of rock--to make Brooklyn- based duo Sleigh Bells, music and have some and downloaded and listened to the goddamn fun while intellectual Afro-pop poly-rhythms doing it. of Vampire Weekend. And sure, maybe I could name drop a bunch of If I had to compare it other hipster bands to try to sound to anything, I’d say cool. But I won’t bother, because I maybe it sounds a will never be able to keep up with little like Spoon’s these new complex genres, and do 2010 album you want to know why, the dark Transference, but the great thing secret reason why I will never be a about Wash Your Mouth Out is you Wash Your Mouth Out--laughing, having a good time, and generally cool indie kid? The reason is this-- don’t need a lot of complicated what I really like is rock’n’roll. Pandora-radio- algorithm-generated just enjoying life. This is a summer album, music to comparisons. This is a 2011 listen to as you drive to the beach Remember rock’n’roll, you guys? rock’n’roll album by a rock’n’roll Does anyone remember it? Sure, I’m singer. It’s fun, it’s catchy, and the with your family, or lounge by the pool and grill burgers in your only 24 years old, but I grew up music makes you feel good. And backyard. I highly recommend with my dad blasting Bruce Dana Alexander’s singing is just Springsteen and Dire Straits on the wonderful--bluesy, crooning, full of Wash Your Mouth Out to anyone looking for the rock’n’roll cure to stereo. I’ve spent a lot of my music- just the right amount of attitude, anyone who is getting sick of trying appreciator career re-listening to and really letting her personality to remember what the hell dusty, outdated rock records-shine through. constitutes shoegaze post-punk or classics, but music that wasn’t really written for me--music of This music has charisma --listening ambient noise-pop. Or to anyone just looking for some good music in another era. To be honest, I’m to it is like hanging out with that general. getting sick of listening to old stuff. one friend who seems to actually To hear some of Dana's music and find out about tour dates or how to get your own copy of Wash Your Mouth Out, check out http://www.danaalexandra.com/.
Katie Dempsey graduated from the University of Pittsburgh in 2009 with a degree in Nonfiction Writing and concentrations in Studio Art, Classics, Psychology, and Advanced Public Transit Studies. When last seen, she was attempting to navigate the perilous world of entry-level professional jobs and graduate schools, while simultaneously harboring a secret dream to become Pennsylvania’s First PostApocalyptic Road Warrior.
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
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Presents...
A Cultural Calendar Your source for the South Central Pennsylvania Region's most interesting, mind expanding, and generally fun cultural events.
If you are viewing the online version, click any event to link to more information. 20 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
AUGUST August 24th-28th: "Kimberly August 26th- Donny Richards returns to Totem Pole as 'Sister' in Late Nite Catechism
III: 'Til Death Do Us Part'
August 27th: Post Now Pa
Osmond enchants the stage of the hosts "Wood Works" an exhibition Luhrs Center. Show begins at 8:00p.m. for times and tickets visit www.luhrscenter.com
dedicated wood-working. 10:00 a.m.10:00 p.m. Refreshments and entertainment start at 6:00pm. For more information check out POST NOW PA on Facebook!
SEPTEMBER September 2nd-30th:
SHAPE Gallery celebrates their Grand Opening with their 9th Annual Abstract & Non-Objective Exhibition called "Question Reality". Opening reception: September 2nd from 6:00p.m.9:00p.m. For more information visit www.shapeart.org
September 9th- 25th: Post
Now Pa presents "The Magic of Frank James" an original play written and directed by Ernest M. Garcia. Come share the poetic realities of love and loss. For tickets and times visit www.postnowpa.com
September 4th: The
September 9th-
the stage with highly-acclaimed flutist, Eugenia Zukerman. Show begins at 7:30p.m. Tickets available. Visit www.gettysburgmajestic.org for more details.
up the stage of the Luhrs Center! Show begins at 8:00p.m. For tickets visit www.luhrscenter.com
Horn Band,
"Manhattan Piano Trio" shares "Blood, Sweat & Tears" pumps
September 11th: Post Now Pa September 13th: "Creative begins a film series focused on independent and thought- provoking films with a highly- acclaimed documentary called Armadillo. Screening starts at 6:00p.m. For more information visit POST NOW PA on Facebook.
Kids at The Capitol" Theatre
classes for children between the ages 4-12 begin. For more information check out www.thecapitoltheatre.org
September 22nd: Billy Ray
September 15th: Americana
pop artist, George Standford, September 15th: Spend an performs at the Thought Lot. evening with Loretta Lynn! Show 8:00p.m.- 11:00p.m. For more begins at 8:00p.m. For tickets visit information check out www.luhrscenter.com http://tinyurl.com/GeorgeStanfor dSHIP
September 23rd: Post Now
Cyrus charms the stage of the Luhrs Center. Show starts at 8:00p.m. Tickets available at www.luhrscenter.com
September 29th: The Capitol
Theatre presents "1964" The Tribute Beatle Tribute. Show begins Boy, The Flying Eyes and, Big at 8:00p.m. For tickets visit Marge! Show scheduled from www.thecapitoltheatre.org 6:00p.m- 11:30p.m.. For more information check out http://tinyurl.com/RockNBlues Pa revs up for a night of ROCK 'N' BLUES! Music by Only Living
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
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OCTOBER October 1st: Canadian musician, Gordon Lightfoot, visits the Luhrs Center stage for a night of spectacular international melodies. Show begins at 8:00p.m. Tickets available!
October 8th: Freedom Valley Chorus performs
"Hijinx on the High C's" at the Capitol Theatre in Chambersburg. Show begins at 7:00p.m. For tickets visit www.thecapitoltheatre.org
October 20th: RAIN
transforms the Luhrs Center stage with a note-for-note tribute to the Beatles! Don't miss this exciting event! Show begins at 8:00p.m. Tickets available at www.luhrscenter.com
October 5th- 29th:
Beautifully written musical I DO! I DO! hits the stage of the Allenberry Playhouse. For times and tickets visit www.allenberry.com
October 7th-28th:
October 7thNovember 5th: Erma
SHAPE Gallery gathers around "Our Town" a special exhibition of local scenes by local artists of Shippensburg. Opening reception: October 7th from 6:00p.m. - 9:00p.m. For more information visit www.shapeart.org
Yost exhibits her exquisitely detailed "quilt art" at the
Carlisle Arts Learning Center. Opening reception October 7th from 6:30p.m. - 8:00p.m. For more about the artist visit www.ermamartinyost.com
October 9th: Second in October 13th: The
October 15th: The
Post Now Pa's Film Series is a Beach Boys make waves at HORROR DOUBLE the Luhrs Center! Enjoy the FEATURE! Enjoy a night of "Good Vibrations" and the the skin- crawling spooks "Fun Fun Fun" this Grammy with the films Altered and nominated band has to offer! The Tunnel. Screening Show begins at 8:00p.m. begins at 6:00p.m. Tickets available.
October 21st- 30th:
The Chambersburg Community Theatre performs The Mousetrap for tickets and times visit www.thecapitoltheatre.org
Majestic Theater presents the NEW Met Live production of Anna Bolena. Screening begins at 1:00p.m. For tickets or more information about this event visit www.gettysburgmajestic.org
October 29th: Post Now October 29th: The Pa presents ThinkHaute, an exciting exhibition that will bring local fashions to the runway as well as a masquerade party. Begins at 6:30 p.m. For more information check out www.postnowpa.com
Symphony Orchestra & Wind Symphony visit the
Majestic Theater for a night of musical elegance. Show begins at 8:00p.m. Tickets available.
NOVEMBER November 2nd December 23rd:
November 3rd:
November 6th: The
November 12th13th: If you’re searching
Emmy- award winning, Celebrate the Christmas Dana Carvey, soaks up the season with Allenberry's very Luhrs Center spotlight with own Mistletoe Magic! For his one-of-a-kind comedy. times and tickets visit Show begins at 8:00p.m. www.allenberry.com Tickets available.
Rivalry comes to the
November 4thDecember 16th:
November 5th: A NEW
November 13th:The
November 15th:
Met Live production Siegfried hits the screen of SHAPE hosts an exhibition in the Majestic Theater. Tickets which art is the perfect gift available. Screening begins at give. Opening reception 12:00p.m. scheduled from 6:00p.m.9:00p.m. on the 4th! For more information check out SHAPE Gallery on Facebook!
"Give the Gift of Art."
third installation of Post Now Yamato - The Drummers of Majestic Theater; based on for an exciting and Pa's Film Series, Mugabe Japan pulsate the stage of the Norman Corwin’s riveting memorable event that’s fun and the White African Luhrs Center once again! drama of the Lincoln-Douglas for the entire family, then get premieres at the Thought lot. Don't miss out on the chance debates, an epic clash of ideas ready to be amazed by Screening begins at 6:00p.m. to see this breath-taking and oratory that forged Masters of Illusion Live! For more information check performance! Show begins at America’s view of race, For times and tickets visit out www.postnowpa.com 8:00p.m. www.yamato.jp freedom and state’s rights." www.luhrscenter.com Show starts at 7:00p.m.
22 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
Man Man Live at the Trocedero Theater in Philadelphia A Review By Katie Dempsey
I’ll admit it-sometimes I worry that I’ve stopped caring about music.
Songs is, well… unhealthy.
Pow Pow, T. Moth, Chang
with the intensity of it, but if
So when a friend invited me
Weng, and Jefferson, and I
anything it was a kinetic,
to go see a show for a band
feel like these stage
audial conversation.
he’s been touting for a long
personalities are their
Watching the two stare at
time, I decided that it was
shamanistic spirit animals,
each other, never breaking
time for me to re-enter the
the Raw, Mystical Power
their concentration (although
In my defense, there are a
real world of music. He’s had Forms that they transform
Pow Pow often broke into
me listen to this band before, into as they step on stage so
adorable smiles from time to
myriad of external forces I can blame for my problem. Music-listening isn’t what it
and although I didn’t hate it, they can feed off the energy of time), I couldn’t help thinking I was somewhat
the crowd. In fact, if I had to
of the famous mirror scene in
describe Man Man’s
that old Marx brothers movie,
performance in one word it
where Chico dresses up as
“They sound a little like Tom would be tribal-- the pooled
Groucho and stands in the
used to be. We’ve entered the underwhelmed. “Yeah, they’re cool, I guess” I said. age of iTunes downloads, Youtube, Pandora, Spotify and the still-vibrant art of
Waits. I don’t hate it.” Then I mystical energy of an ancient frame of what used to be a was right back to playlist-
war-based tribe dancing
mirror, mimicing his
collecting. But the fanatical
around a giant bonfire
movements exactly so
musically-ADHD.
way he and my other friends
wearing animal skulls and
Groucho thought the mirror
My ‘currently listening to’
talked about them, I figured I wind, the trees, the thunder
online music piracy. The internet had made me
resembles the contents of a homeless man’s grocery cart, full of shiny trinkets and other possible valuables
who have seen this band live calling upon the spirits of the was still there. should give them a chance.
god, the gods of fire and rain
I’m not the type of person who
and ice and snow.
could ever get up on a stage
The band is called Man Man,
but I took one acting class in
an experimental rock quintet Lead vocals and keyboard
collected from various
from Philadelphia,
single songs of various
or Captain Beefheart, or
whole album of a single
Primus. It’s the loopy, pirate
college where the professor,
Honus Honus (Ryan Kattner), every day, pounded into our
a small-boned, dark-skinned, heads the what he said sources. On my iPod, I rarely Pennsylvania. Yes, they do sound a little like Tom Waits-- black-haired man with an always always ALWAYS stray from my playlist of impressive mustache, is the
makes a good performer.
power center of the band, the “Two words,” he said, every artists. Who the hell has the maybe Gogol Bordello or maybe a looser, more-organic white light energy core single class. “Focus and attention span to listen to a artist? Not me. Not anymore. gypsy music of going to an early 20th century carnival The internet-based music experience is erratic, restless, and maybe wandering into the sideshow freaks tent hand always hovering over the ‘next’ button, never stopping to just relax and
vibrating with the intensity of Concentration. Focus. And. a nuclear bomb that could go Concentration.” off at any second. He sits at his keyboard perpendicular to The members of Man Man the edge of the stage, facing
while on hallucinogenic drugs the drummer, Pow Pow (in the night-time--this is in
listen. Addicted to that brain no way “daytime” music). spark of experiencing
something new, I’ve given up But it’s Man Man’s on the archaic idea of “liking performance up on the stage
displayed the most impressive example of disciplined focus
(Christoper Powell), and they and concentration I’ve ever stare each other down as they seen. Although a first glance play their music, not with
of their performance might
each other, but at each other. make a person think they are To be honest, I barely noticed “jokesters”, up there “goofing
a new band.“
that sets them apart from
the other band members,
off” (Honus Honus often gets
just another pirate gypsy
because of all the energy
up to prance around stage,
But lately I’ve been sensing
band. The members all have
radiating from those two. It
donning capes and
stage names--Honus Honus,
almost seemed like a duel,
trenchcoats, throwing
that my addiction to Catchy
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
23
feathers and confetti at the
To be able to do this and still fans. Collecting songs from
chance to see Man Man live,
audience as he sings), a
maintain such a loose,
I’ll say this--don’t pass it up.
closer examination reveals
organic, tribal feel—it is here nothing can top the energy of The internet will still be there
that these men are true
that Man Man displays a gift a great live performance. By
performers—completely
for performance that only few the end of the show my face
Youtube is one thing, but
when you get back.
focused on the music and the people possess, and one which actually hurt because I show.
made me finally understand
couldn’t stop grinning the
the fanatical devotion of their whole time. If you ever get a
Monochrome Crush By Laura B. Hans Hope floats Past my brain's blue note My body exists As a mere anecdote This all began As a lump in the throat Practice piano until emotions are remote You strike the first key you see Hammers collide with the strings most intelligently They vibrate their marked frequency That melody’s far too pretty for me What’s with this flow of energy? You play your songs so beautifully Thoughts exist not to set me free But displace my actions beyond certainty
24 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
IMAGE BY MEG DUNLEVY
Restaurant Review: The University Grille
By Darin Robillard
After a long stressful day, whether it was spent in an office, out in a field, or bustling around town, we sometimes just want to find a place we can unwind and enjoy the rest of our evenings.
These are the thoughts that were going through my mind on Tuesday, August 9th. I was hungry, but lacked the energy to cook a meal. It was at this time that my parents called me and invited me to join them at the University Grille; I was ecstatic. Their timing could not have been better. Upon arrival, we were immediately greeted with a genuine smile and a warm hello. When it comes to restaurants, I look for good, authentic, customer service. It’s not hard to tell when the employee is really happy to see you or just being friendly because it is required; the latter, sadly, seen much more often than not. That being said, my evening experience was off to an excellent start. The atmosphere was wonderful - very relaxed and friendly. We were able to enjoy the nice weather outside on their patio. The patio is aligned with many tables, yet they are far enough apart that you don't feel uncomfortable. It is decorated with an array of plants with tiki torches to help complete the mood as the evening comes to a close. Within 60 seconds of sitting down, our waitress was upon us and ready to get us started with some beverages. They offer a variety of draft beers, wines, cocktails, and have the biggest and best whiskey selection in town. I
asked for a Shock Top, (a BelgianStyle Wheat Ale) and started perusing the food menu. My mom, who rarely ventures outside of wine, tried their Mint Mojito. The glass came out garnished with a sprig of mint and a lime wedge and contained muddled mint, sugar, Bacardi rum and club soda. The Mint Mojito was perfectly mixed with just the right combination of strength and flavor. The University Grille has a very diverse and eclectic menu. They have food selections ranging from Greek to French to Asian style foods, featuring pastas, salads, pizzas, spring rolls, fish n chips, and of course American foods such as burgers and steaks. For those who don’t eat meat, there are several vegetarian dishes as well. When the waitress returned, she informed us that tonight was Taco Tuesday. As much as we enjoy their unique sandwiches, my father and I could not turn down two tacos for $1. My girlfriend ordered their Chicken Parmesan while my mom decided to try their Angus Burger. The Spring Rolls, our appetizer, arrived not long after we ordered them. They were served warm with sweet and sour sauce to supplement the taste. We had enough time to converse and enjoy each other’s company without being rushed by the rest of our meal coming too soon, The plating was simple, yet aesthetically pleasing and everything was cooked to just the right temperature. Their Tuesday night taco special consists of seasoned ground beef with shredded cheddar cheese and juicy green leaf lettuce. The pasta was filling, but
not heavy, with enough sauce to cover the noodles, without drowning them. My mother’s burger was succulent; the meat was cooked to medium-rare with melted American Cheese and topped off with buns that were toasted, but not rock hard. Throughout the course of our meal, my family and I were greeted by just about every worker that saw us, with each greeting as sincere as the first. Our server was very good at checking on us at just the right moments and was very prompt with drink refills. If I had to sum up my University grille experience as a whole, I would say it was a pleasurable, high-scale, experience without the high-scale cost. My family and I are frequent customers and The University Grille more than exceeds our expectations with each and every visit. They host many events to keep diners entertained - from live music on the patio on Saturday evenings to Jazz Nights to supplement events at the Rick B. Luhrs Performing Arts Center. With these and various other events, Shippensburg’s University Grille promises to turn anyone’s average evening into a momentous occasion.
Darin Robillard is a Shippensburg University student studying Communication Journalism: Public Relations. He has lived in Shippensburg for 8 years and serves on Post Now PA’s board of directors as Volunteer Coordinator.
www.TheEarlofShippensburg.com
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Poetry by Margaret Evans
Vermilion Sky The last time I saw you we were surrounded by a sky of brilliant vermilion. We both stopped to gaze in awe. The wonder of that spectacle suggesting the depth and grace of life itself. Perhaps this was one of the few things upon which we agreed. Our relationship was never easy, separated by the span of a generation. But we were never so very different, you and I. We loved the same things: music, art, and photographs, family history and the struggle of women for voice, independence, love, and the vote. We shared the same first name. You left suddenly one day while we remained still in our uneasy embrace. Now you walk in the garden shrouded by vermilion sky.
Bald Spot Wisps of hair trained to the side. How’s my hair look? he asks in whimsical tone, blue eyes smiling. Which one? I ask appealing to his tone of self-mockery. A bald spot he calls it, as if a small, fleshy circle has grown and spread from back through top, of his head, leaving only random wisps of hair trained to the side. He’s let the fringe at the sides grow as long as mine. A tribute, a remembrance,
Margaret Evans is a photographer and professor at Shippensburg University. She also writes magazine articles and poetry on occasion. Her personal work has appeared in a variety of publications and exhibitions. Some of her photography work can be seen at http://www.mpevans.smugmug.com.
PHOTO AT TOP BY THOMAS ANDERSON 26 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
✰
Matthew Furman's "Botched" continued from page 6 The 87th Day of School, 11:11 a.m. Plainfield High School, room 234 29 degrees Fahrenheit, snowy
no one knew anything about expect her mother died in a mid-air airplane explosion. Ricky was also an athlete, who almost always sided with Michael on matters of importance. “I need you to listen to me.” Sam was the son of a farm much more wealthy than I stood at the front of the Jordan’s, and never said a classroom, one hand word to anyone his entire curled around the small school career, including pistol in my wool pants the hours that were to pocket. I was addressing unfold on that snowy day. them all, but kept my eyes on Violet for some reason. The hand outside my Her head was cocked pocket was shaking, and I toward the window. took a deep breath. By now Mr. Muller and all the There were nine of us that students had looked up day, forced to attend from their make-up tests. school on a Saturday to “What I’m going to tell you make up an exam we’d is crazy,” I said. “It’s not missed due to a going to make the slightest mysterious bronchial bit of sense, and it’s going ailment, an affliction to be coming from someone uneasily similar to the who, I admit, has been a tuberculosis that hit some liar when it suited him. of our fathers in the War. Reuben and I had decided “But I am sure of this, as on this day to make our sure as anything I’ve ever stand. known.” Reuben, my only friend Reuben by now had made and the class’ only Jew, his way silently to the sharp Violet with her classroom’s single door never-ending reading, and locked it with a Randall, the hood who “snick” that made a few of needed everyone to believe my fellow students jump. he hated everyone, Jordan, Just like we’d planned. the son of a farmer whose presence was a bit of a “There’s no easy way to get mystery; everyone knew into this, so I’m just going he’d just take over the to give you the basics and farm the day after he work up from there,” I graduated, if he graduated. continued, my voice calmer, eyes now trained Michael, the athlete, and on Mr. Muller, who might Mabel, a bespectacled girl well have known what was
happening, but as we were to find out, Mr. Muller doesn’t give you what you expect.
and become just another of the tall tales and weirdness I’d sparked in school.
“Our biology teacher is not who he says he is,” I said. “He is an evil man who fought for an evil country, a country that made meat out of our dads and brothers.
“When I told you I had proof,” I finally spoke up. “It’s the kind you can hold in your hand. It lets you stare at it and see the role it played. Now, there are other things that nearly connect, but don’t, things that need you to make a bridge for them.
“He’s going to die. The only question is how.” *** I looked at my classmates’ facial expressions. They ranged from annoyance to indifference. Reuben cracked his gum and gave me an I-told-youso look My friend was right. Convincing these people of anything other than what a current authority figure had driven into their heads was going to be an uphill battle.
“And once you make that bridge, all of you, you’ll see.” The sound of wet gloves and boots drying on the radiator, making low steam like dry ice. “Christopher,” and even in the micro-second it took to recognize the voice I knew it could be no other than Michael.
Michael, the football player who read Camus and Arthur Conan Doyle. The student who liked to shock his deeply devout Oddly, although not so odd grandparents by telling for him, Mr. Muller had them he no longer believed not even attempted to in God. bring order to the class. The expression on his face Michael, who could open hovered somewhere his silver tongue and say between mild amusement that a situation was just and expectation. But not so, even when it wasn’t. fear. Not an ounce of it. We had the guns, but it Silence built and I knew I was Michael when his had to move on, because if brick wall of smug, I lost momentum, this massaged logic we would incident, as crazy as it have to overcome that cold, seemed, would settle down cold afternoon in
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Classroom 234. “Christopher,” he said again, this time stretching out every syllable. “This is not happening. This little charade, no, I can’t even call it a charade. You have crossed the line today in more ways than I can count at the moment. You are, and lets not mince words here, holding the class at gunpoint because you believe our biology teacher is a Nazi. “You’re a meatball Christopher, but I think I get you. You want us to help you kill our teacher because he has a German name. Because your father is dead. Because Reuben’s family was killed.”
restroom off the PA Turnpike. Reuben and I got along because we saw the world as it really is, understood pain, and still got up every day because that’s what you did. I slipped a cigarette out of Reuben’s pack and lit it with a wooden match, looking at Michael through the flame. “I’m not keeping you here at gunpoint, Michael,” I said. “You, anyone can leave anytime they wish. I hope that you don’t, though, because this is a chance to do something great. To expose
fashion. You’ve managed to surprise me, and for that, I almost thank you, Christopher.” “Well, what do you have to He was looking at me now. say about all this,” said Violet, her chestnut hair “Your fellow students want failing down her back in evidence,” Mr. Muller said. waves I used to dream “I merely want to know about falling asleep on. what this is about, what “Give us what you’ve got.” makes you so certain. I don’t think you realize, *** Christopher, how grave an accusation you’ve made. I stubbed out my cigarette. Even if you were I knew the end result of correct.”He was looking at that cold, miserable day me with that mixture of would depend on theatrics concern and con tempt I and will. The kind of will last saw when bloodied in politicians wield, the ones the shop class saw dust. who ram something down your throat so quickly and “So tell us,” Mr. Muller sweetly you never know barked. what hit you. I gave him my back, and But looking at Michael, again pulled out my Lucky and his sure, easy smile, I Strikes. I fished out a knew I was no politician. brass lighter and lit the With an adversary like cigarette’s end, looking at him the day could end up the class through the with me putting my pistol smoke. to my head, I knew. He was that kind of solid. “I have…done a little spying on our biology I knew the initiative was teacher,” I said. “I’ve snuck lost before I opened my into his house, ran my mouth, but like Violet, I fingers over his things. I’ve wanted to see where it seen the old uniforms, the would go. Where I was framed photos of The capable of going. Fuhrer – and I’ve brought you back this.” But before I could open my mouth, Mr. Muller spoke. I help up the brass lighter He looked neither so the engraved swastika surprised nor afraid. was clearly visible. something. To be good Several classmates looked Americans. “I always figured this sort askance – they had seen “I’m going to give you of thing would happen, that symbol in their own what I have, what’ve I’ve you know,” he said mildly. homes, engraved on come up with on our “I mean, I was always pilfered Hitler Youth beloved teacher. If you prepared to be called a knives and bloody flags. believe it, good. If you National Socialist in my don’t, new home, but certainly What no one knew, not that’s…disappointing. But never in such a dramatic even Reuben and Violet,
But before I could open my mouth, Mr. Muller spoke. I glanced at He looked neither Reuben to make sure he was still surprised nor onboard. He sat on a desk and afraid. “I always smoked a cigarette like it figured this sort was the finest vice on Earth, of thing would but he had that easy smile that happen, you told me his always-there know,” he said rage had bumped up another level. mildly. I can take words. My father at least died in his sleep. Reuben carried with him the kind of pain and anger that keeps you up nights making lists. I knew it wouldn’t take long before Michael ended up on that list, shot dead 20 years later coming out of a
he will be dealt with. By all of us, or just Reuben and I.”
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was that I’d had an ordinary brass lighter engraved myself. Told a craftsman in Carlisle I’d lost my dad’s war treasure and desperately needed another. Mr. Muller took this all in, asked if he could see “his lighter.” Reuben shook his head. Violet looked troubled. Michael spoke up. “Christopher, you’re saying you broke into this man’s house, and you’re asking us to believe that this “Nazi” would leave all sorts of incriminating evidence for anyone to see?” said Michael. “One single robbery, and he knows he’s on a one-way flight to Germany, or worse for him, Israel. I don’t buy it, and neither does anyone here with a brain.”
while. I can speak of this, I cut through my skullcap to think.” relieve the swelling on my “Oh yes, it is,” Michael brain. We’ve never kept in said. “You can tell because His hand still on my touch. He still teaches at the lighter is old and shoulder, Mr. Muller used Plainfield, as far as I know. unpolished, that blackish look that brass gets. The his left hand to unbutton I should clarify that Violet engraving, however, was his shirt sleeve. Pulled the is my only visitor. We’re cloth up to the elbow. not lovers, couldn’t be even done very recently.” if we wanted to, what with Reuben looked at me in a Revealed the faded blue numbers carved on his my supervision and all. way I didn’t like. I get the feeling she has Violet wouldn’t look at me inner arm. great sadness for me, sees at all, and I cocked and deReuben’s pistol cracked in me as “tragic figure.” At cocked my pistol for the silent classroom. least it’s not pity. something to do. The shot grazed my “You’re a freak, Christopher, a freak and a temple and I hit the floor. liar,” Michael said, but Mr. Muller cut him off Epilogue: The 6,572nd day with a raised hand. of my commitment, 1970, 2:12 p.m. Incredibly, Mr. Muller’s Harrisburg State Hospital eyes were wet. day room, Pennsylvania 84 degrees Fahrenheit, “Christopher, why, why, why have you done this?” sunny and warm he said.
Violet came to visit me I couldn’t swallow. I tried today, right on time. She brings me the usual: to get the words out. “It’s not about what you “Because they pushed him Books, pens, notepads. buy, it’s about what you into the dirt, into the dust No cigarettes. I haven’t smoked those in a couple see,” I said. that had been people,” I said. “Made him do things years. It’s hard to quit in a loony bin, I can tell you. “So let me see th e lighter,” that no human being We never talk about said Michael.I hesitated, should be made to do. tossed it to him. Made him ashamed before school, like about how Reuben is doing. God. Us. Made him die I know he was hailed as a Michael handled it like it young.” hero who stopped a was blood-stained crime The gun hung loosely at evidence. After several my side. Mr. Muller stood “bizarre hostage minutes, he cocked his directly in front of me, his situation,” despite head and smiled. right hand on my shoulder. evidence that pointed to his collusion. Married and “This is a fake,” he said. “Your father did what he moved to Philadelphia. “No, it’s not,” I replied had to do to come home to Mr. Muller was said to have sat by my bed as they lamely. you, if only for a little
We play a lot of chess, and checkers, and sometimes she comes to the board with a black eye, a broken nose. “Battle scars” from her Vietnam protesting and love-ins, she says, gifts from thugs with badges who think it’s okay to beat a woman because she’s kissing a black man. I catch her today with two black eyes and ask her why she bothers. “No more lies, Chrissie,” is all she says. I think of tendrils, reaching out through time, grabbing and pulling and destroying people years after the events that created them ha ve passed.I think of sorrow that ripples like water pelted by rain. No more lies, Chrissie.
Matthew L. Furman lives in Chambersburg with his wife, Nancy, and sons, Sebastian and Colin. He is the author of "Post-Euphoria," a literary short fiction collection centered in Pennsylvania. He is currently in the early stages of a novel. Furman can be reached at matt_furman@yahoo.com.
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Poetry By Matthew Grove
Rain and the Jazz Landscape Rain and the jazz landscape, for now, cymbolic of the putrefaction and reincarnation of flat ivory tusks and black sharp fingernails, flattened by percussive hammergotterdamerung Beclipsing lunarly, sublime-ally quasiphonic and haphazard-likely Does lightning echo shadow? Is thunder reflections of grumbling? Are rain-doses the urine of celestials? Am I getting pissed on? Will I need a bath after tonight? Why am I still hungry? Is someone performing surgery? Current condition: Thunder in the vacinity Monolithism; liturgy in stone, prayers in pebbles, boulders, gravel, groveling in the rock, dropped prostrate causing an earthquake, rattling bones, shaking down homes, consuming the earth in brimstone. Monolithism, neo-tectonic shiftivism, residential captivism, law!
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Ictis-cerebri (for Anna-Catherine) Infancy comes full circle, Retrograde slices in Cross-sections, rotationFrenzy, around about cut, her conclusion ostensibly Proven circuitous. This equivalent assumes Its own premise; hers. Veins organize their arrangement like a troupe Of dancers pawing at The window in a fauvist-like Ravished manner, citing Their demeanor, wild And savage styled virility; She'd be obsessed with Life without the chance Of death and dying or A celebration of the breath, By contrast, exciting the wealth Of us mammals and The passage of the Soul onto the next womb. She wouldn't be saddened, But rather peaceful, Under her shroud, beatific, Whimsical in reciting the Poetic dirge I left on Her nightstand.
The Gape of Polyhymnia Once, the serpent wrest his sovereign skin, he dreamt the night’s entombedthe willing Lotus chants the divine into his room. He understood the Moon, in her vigil and lullabies went courting with the Earth in her shadeseceding to her thighs. They laughed at the rucksack poltergeist; happy with their genital wealth and styletremors rift the blithe and hungry Earth. She, just like believing that their world goes ‘round, is something greater than he; everybody else assumes full response to their moment’s affair. Coming generations of view see and feel the marble smooth curl of an arching, or an ebbing curve in her back; her eye hissing to the South.
Matthew Grove is a mammal living on Earth one day at a time. Read more of his poetry at http://exoticswamp.blogspot.com/
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Love like A Woman D.A. Nelson I learned the most important lesson about women, about myself, and about love, from a man. A man had been new to me. The feeling of vulnerability I had felt with him was something foreign, something I had never felt with a woman. With a woman I would have wiped my stuff down with the closest rag I could find,
that matter. A fat bottom lip
real. Finally, I had convinced for Mexican food on our first
resting firmly beneath a shy
myself if he didn’t like the
date, and I watched as his
upper one. I had always
way I wrote I was out of his
teeth pierced the soft white
stared at people’s lips as they league. But I had only been
tortilla, and the gentle push
spoke or ate. Thin, sunken
fooling myself, quelling the
of his lips as he pulled the
lips make me feel
bitch of my anticipation as
medley of rice and beans into
uncomfortable and tense in
she barked, nipped at my
his mouth. His lips landed
the shoulders. I’d watch as
neck, and dug her nails into
softly against one another as
someone chewed or spoke,
my Achilles tendon.
he chewed, the tip of his
and wondered if they had
I shuffled
remains. And as a drop of
It had driven me even crazier again and again just staring
cream slid out the side of his
to watch lipless people kiss
at his lips, the straight edge
mouth I pressed my finger
one another, imagining the
of his teeth, his boney wrist
against his lips and wiped
pulled my pants up, and been sound of their teeth clinking propping up the camera, the together as they mashed their way he tilted the cap on his on my way as quickly as I could. But with Jason I felt compelled to stay right where I was, in his arms. I listened
mouths.
head and cocked his head
It had been his lips that convinced me to
passing through his nostrils, and the subtle movement of his chest as the wind poured
him clean. Our first kiss had been on the high escalator of the Gallery Place train
back. Before I had known him station. No one was there. I imagined his bite. His shiny Just us, and his lips against
to him, listened to the silence send him a message. A single teeth gorging into the raw picture of him as he found his peace in it, the steady sound of air
tongue subtly catching the
bitten their lips off as a child. slowly through his pictures
mine. I hardly had time to close my eyes and feel it the
biting his lip in
way I’d imagined it. I thought
the bathroom
of that night as I watched him
mirror had all but
sleeping, his gentle snore
kept me grounded,
hissed like the escalators. I
in and spilled back out of it. I and I wrote him a long message hadn’t actually been in his
wanted to reach my neck up and kiss his lips without
using my best
waking him, without being
words, still trying
that crazy bitch that watches
to seem authentic,
people as they sleep. I kept
spasm of his orgasm that
and genuine.
still, kept watching him.
lazily across my pillow. And
words, long words,
boney like a plucked duck in
fluffy words,
the window of an oriental
words you have to
store. He had a subtle
look up when you
presence about him fully
arms, nor had he opened them to me. But as he came, and fell into the drunken
shook his body and tossed his Showing off was all it was. I love limbs, he threw his arm me, just wanting to be close to him, wanting to kiss his stubble and ask him how I
was, laid my head against the hear them. I love the way they long muscle of his skinny arm, and stared at him
sound, how they’re
I loved his body. He was plain, loose and
clothed, I always kept him
PHOTO BY THOMAS ANDERSON naked.
“Not much to me but
a dick and balls” he said over
through the darkness. I
said, tone of voice, the same
peach of my shoulder, saliva
the phone before we met,
watched him closely as he fell sentence with a million and one different meanings. I asleep. The street lights
trudging down my back, his
trying to arouse me with his
outside my window crashed
read the message again after just as it began to hurt, his
all you need.” I responded, a
I’d sent it, hoping I hadn’t
jaws closing in, and sucking
subtle hint at the whore I was
been too formal, and not
at me. He never did that
willing to be for him, the
ghetto enough to be what I
though, and the acne on my
whore I had always wanted to
considered real, what I
back always stopped me from be for a man. He snickered.
thought he would think was
asking him. I had taken him
with the venetians, and I could see his lips in the light that shone through the cracks. I loved a good set of lips on a man, on anyone for
32 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
soft lips pushing into my skin crude sexual humor. “ That’s
There really wasn’t much to
him but dick and balls, and
see him through 8 eyes
me, most of it hurting like
don’t think she ever got what
everything he didn’t have I
resting there in my bed,
hell. I still hadn’t come. And
she wanted. I take it she too
made up for. Everything he
trusting me to keep still, to
to think I am left with a
knew that emptiness in the
couldn’t touch on himself, he
let him be. “That’s a goddamn single boney arm, straining
touched on me. I hated my
shame. He’d fucked her six
body. The rolls, and the
ways from Sunday. Gave it to head balanced on it, and a
peanut butter sandwiches. I
handles to me had always
her good, and she turns
cold space in my own bed. I
just prayed to never find a
made me nervous. Fully
around and bites his damn
thought about everything in
man to leave me seeking
clothed I always felt naked in head. Goddamn spiders.” I
a moment’s time. And he
comfort in food and drugs, the
a crowd, parts of me hanging
remember my friend Jeffrey
wasn’t thinking about much.
man my father and step-
out, always hoping no one
saying after a documentary in The heat rose off of him as
would notice them. A tiny
the sixth grade science class. his body cooled, and his eyes had been for women.
monster was crawling in me,
We hadn’t understood then
pinching my seams, shoving
that empty feeling a man
pit of her stomach. She filled
my neck as I try and keep my hers with books, weed, and
rolled beneath his lids. I always
father had been, the man I Eventually, I stopped praying and started writing.
fingers into my joints, making makes in the pit of your
think of the serious look on
me jump, and cringe at the
stomach, he never would. It
my Ma’s face when we talked gotten much more than that
sight of myself. The monster
makes you crazy, makes you
about sex. “What are you
I hadn’t from Jason, but what I did get
had died the first time we’d
g were the most important
made love, and I felt his
o parts of myself, and the most
hands caress the fat on my
i important parts of the women
sides. He cupped my handles
in my life. Loving him I
as naturally you would a door
learned to love like a woman:
knob and rested there, not
hard, painfully, and with
moving a finger, just pulling
more sacrifice than he’s
me closer, rubbing his lips
worth. Women can eat, eat
along my cheek bone and
until they’re full, fat ,and lost
around my eye, smelling the
in it, but they never stop
sweet sweat pushing upward
being hungry, never stop
and the natural musk of sex
letting him in, trying to fill
and bare skin. I held him to
that space growling hungrily
my belly.
in the pit of her belly as she There was
watches him sleeping. Every
nothing to say when we were done. Nothing I wanted to hear more than his breathing,
woman I’ve ever known has
PHOTO BY KATE FRY
been hungry, my Ma, my ng to do after it’s done?” she
grandmothers, my aunts, and
the buzzing of a silent room,
want to hold him, suck him at asked, looking as though her
cousins. They were all hungry
the release of water as the
the neck, press your nails into success as a mother was
and eating, hungry and
shower pin fell, and the
his skin trying to pull him
resting on my answer. I
eating nothing, hungry and
didn’t know what to say. I
hurt, hungry and angry. More
hollow suck of it all as it went into yourself; and if all else down the drain. And it had
fails, devour him completely. don’t think she knew what to than anything I remember my
been in that moment,
I lied awake feeling the cold
tell me, or what came after
watching him in that dingy
air waver about in the
sex besides children. But she mother and aunt, “It’s a
light coming through the
distance between us. The
knew what she wanted, knew damn shame to love like a
grandmother saying to my
shades, I knew I loved him. I empty space was shaking me what all women wanted after woman. We lose all our wanted more, more than sex
on the inside, growing wider, making love. But like most
strength waiting to be happy.
and soft lipped kisses, more
making me angry. I thought
women, like me, she was too
Then he goes limp, and we
than a boney arm beneath my of everything I’d done,
stubborn to admit it. As long
don’t give a shit anymore.
head. In the dark I began to
as her marriages lasted I
Let’s eat.” Greatest truth I’ve
everything I’d let him do to
D. A. Nelson is just a big city boy from Washington D.C learning more about himself in this small town than he ever could back home. He says of his writing, "I write trash. Write the rawest fowlest parts of myself. The parts that tried to kill me. The parts that taught me to survive."
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Poetry By Jan Nawa
What do I fear? What do I fear? Do I fear becoming my father? Do I fear becoming my mother? Do I fear being an individual? Do I fear isolation? Do I fear a crowded room? Do I fear being alone? Do I fear being one? Do I fear being everything? Do I fear being nothing? Do I fear knowledge? Do I fear ignorance? What should I fear? Should I fear all of this? Should I fear none of this? Should I be afraid? What do I fear?
Nothing I am: one I feel: nothing I think: constantly I see: destruction I hope: for the worst I anticipate: nothing I love: to love I hate: love I am: alone I feel: isolated I think: for myself I see: no one I condemn: nothing I forgive: everyone I want: everything I deserve: nothing Iam:Jan
34 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
PHOTO BY THOMAS ANDERSON
An Afternoon At Penn Mar
Photography From Jeremy Wolfe
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36 THE EARL VOL. 1 - ISSUE 3 - SUMMER 2011
We stumbled onto this event by accident on top of the mountain in Waynesboro. It was beautiful! We danced, laughed, ate ice-cream, pushed a merry-go-round too fast for some children and shot a few pictures. - Jeremy Wolfe
Jeremy Wolfe is a writer, photographer, and general creative mind that lives in Chambersburg, PA.
View his
website at www.jeremywolfephotography.com
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Db by Devvin Earnest
I hear my own voice for the first time through the crackle and static of white noise. My words are unclear, but undeniably mine. They are hollow and unimpressive with a twang that begins too far down the throat. The sound makes me cringe. It is not what I imagined vibrating in jagged syllables through the tarnished ivory of my skull. To my own deaf ears my pronunciation was full. My voice? The slow strum of a double bass. It resonated deep and seductively, lingering dark and sweet like warm chocolate on the tongue. I recall the words of a once-great idol. His soot black teeth and pursed lips lay bare the nakedness of the truth: “it is what it is� So today, I'll let my pen do the talking.
Devvin Earnest is a Susquehanna River rat born somewhere between the hills and railroads of Central PA. He is constantly awed--and often humbled--by the ordinary words of everyday people.
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PHOTO BY THOMAS ANDERSON
Photography Credits Cover Photo - Cece Serino Cece Serino lives in Shippensburg and is the owner/operator of Serino Design Studio. Find Serino Design on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/SerinoDesignStudio Pages 3, 14, 26, 32, 34, 38 - Thomas Anderson Thomas G Anderson Photography is located in Mercersburg, PA. Thomas G Anderson specializes in capturing our imaginations, along with portraying every angle of the world around us. Find Thomas Anderson Photography on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/thomasgandersonphotography Pages 6, 7 - Heather Hicks Heather Hicks started to enjoy taking pictures in 2004 when she started a stock gallery on deviantart.com, and from there her interest for photographs has grown. Find Heather online at: http://www.facebook.com/TakunPhotographyAndEditing http://takuminanashi.deviantart.com http://www.modelmayhem.com/takunphotography Pages 12, 15, 16, 33 - Kate Fry Page 23 - Ben Mosley Pages 17, 24 - Meg Dunlevy Meg Dunlevy fell in love with photography early in highschool and it has been a passion of hers ever since. Once she is finished with school she plans to become a freelance photographer. Find Meg online at: http://www.megdunlevyphotography.com/
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