Letters, The Literary Magazine of Randolph-Macon Academy, 2013 edition by Randolph-Macon Academy

ETTERS The Literary Magazine of Randolph-Macon Academy

ETTERS

A literary publication of the students of Randolph-Macon Academy, 2012 - 2013 Published April 2013

Student Editor: Louisa Stanwich Faculty Editor: Robert Davies

Mind the Gaps by George Beals When six parallel worlds threaten to converge and tear apart the mind that supports them, many things fall through the cracks in space and time: Important things, unimportant things, things in between. The vacuum is impartial, and pulls all into the void. Not all things are lost forever; some may escape but only after their time has passed. Even if something never returns, it doesn’t matter. Life goes on as if it were never there. How strange this great void must be, Filled with everything a mind has lost: People, places, promises, perceptions. They don’t matter anymore, but they did once. And there they stay, for a mind could not possibly hold them all.

Thank you for your help and support: Jonathan Ezell, Cindy Rodney, Celeste Brooks, the English department, and the Parents’ Association of Randolph-Macon Academy. 2

To My Inner Writer by E. Missâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;e Odoom You are so full of promise each page white empty waiting for me to pour myself onto it I stare at your once-promising void and envy the writers who have gone on the road less traveled making all the difference My hand remain paralyzed over you your canvas taunts me with bareness and in the end the only thing I pour on is my see-through fear and you look the same as when you were tempting

Jingwen Gong

I could have painted you red with my fury I could have painted you pink with my desire I could have painted you orange with my delirium I could have painted you blue with my serenity But you are yellow with my cowardice Writers write.

Na Hyun Han 4

Speaker44 and the Sea of Stories by Shelby Sebring

Emma Bunker

David Gillespie 6

“OMG users, you really need to stop Gaming. Now,” the Head Leader, annie269, typed. “We have to have our Group Chat.” Replies in bright blue and green bubbles flashed across screens, ranging from “yeah right” to the ever-popular “YOLO.” ChocMoose94 texted, “Group Chat isn’t Now. Here and Now is all I care about.” Annie29 couldn’t argue with that. It was a Rule. Chats on the Here & Now Rule were boring, so I left my Device on the table and instead redirected my attention to the object in my lap. It was a small, crumpled piece of gray “paper.” On the front were some words I knew. I didn’t really know them, actually – nobody did – since you could only see them in Old Texts, which were hard to come by. The words were long, and came in long groups, often going four or five lines before the next bubble started. In Tech History we had learned that they were called “paragraphs,” not bubbles, but nobody ever used that word because it was in the Old Text and it wasn’t important anymore. Here and Now is all that is Important, of course. The back of the paper was quite different than the front. It was covered with a different kind of Text. It was swirly, all connected together, with wavy lines and little curlicues where they didn’t belong. Halfway through a line there was half of the Frowny Face, and later in the line was half of the Smiley Face, but there were no eyes. I wondered if the Old Users texted different Emoticons because they looked different, just like their Text did. “Bananasticker44, are u there?” I picked up my device from the table and looked at the blinking message sadly. Then I looked across the wide room at the other tables. There were thirty Users here, all sitting at the same white tables in the same white chairs, all staring down at their Devices. They were waiting for my Reply, I knew. They were completely dependent on my Reply. A Group Chat could not go on until a User had replied. If a Chat went on without a User’s Reply, it would turn into a Fake Convo. Fake Convos broke the Here & Now Rule because they were Fake, and anything that was Fake was not Important. The paper was beginning to sweat in my hands. It was dusty, and I liked the feeling of it being there. I liked it better than a Device, actually. I ran my fingers over it lightly, and even though my nerves were going dead from Texter Syndrome, I could still feel the little dents the Old User had made with a “pencil.” I wondered where I could find a pencil. I wanted

one, wanted to try “writing,” wanted to find Old Texts that explained the long words and the half-Emoticons, and see if they told Fake Convos like Tech History teachers said they did. I looked back up. All the other Users still looked down, waiting. What if I didn’t Reply? What would happen to me? I had never known a User in Network 1189 who hadn’t followed the Rules. Nobody knew how to do anything else. I stood up, leaving my beeping Device on the table. I walked to the middle of the circle of tables, the paper sticking to my clenched fist. Still no one looked at me. They watched their Devices desperately, their ears pricked for the sound of fingers on keys. What was I doing, standing here in the middle of the room, when I belonged at my table with my Device in my hands? Would I end up like luvpuppies81, whose Username had been changed to NoReply81 in a matter of seconds, and whose Username was forever highlighted Warning Red? Before I knew what I was doing, my mouth was open. Air was in my throat, my tongue was moving, and sounds were coming out. “Hello?” I squeaked. I had practiced the word for months, trying to make it sound like the Old User we had seen in a Video in Tech History. “Hello?” I tried again, this time a bit stronger and louder. Users looked up now. They pulled headphones out of their ears, they dropped Devices on tables. They gawked at me. A moment ago I had felt like some kind of champion, but now all I wanted to do was crawl under a table, put my Device on silent, and hide. What I was doing was not Normal, and anything that wasn’t Normal had to be Fake. And if it was Fake, it violated the Here & Now Rule, even if it was happening right here and right now. I sighed in relief when my Device beeped. Users’ heads dipped down again and I was able to retreat back to my seat quietly, silently swearing to myself that I would never Speak ever again. I was ready to forget the whole thing and never break any more Rules. But when I picked up my Device, I saw that annie269 had not forgotten. I had broken a Rule, and as Head Leader of Network 1189’s Group Chat, she had to punish me. My Username was now Speaker44, and it was highlighted Warning Red. The Message from annie269 read: “Leave Now, and get out of Here.” The sound of clicking keys filled the white room. The other Users were oblivious to what had just happened. I slowly picked up my Device and made my way to the door. As I left, I began to notice things I hadn’t before. Everything was white, for one thing. Absolutely everything was white – walls, desks, doors, everything. I also saw square outlines in some walls,

where there had once been a “window” from the Old Users. I wondered why everything was so plain, why there weren’t colors and pictures like in the Old “art,” but then it hit me: If Users only ever look at their Devices, they don’t care what rooms look like. The only Important things are on Devices, where things happen Here and Now. Outside was as gray as inside was white. The New Users built with concrete. The ground was concrete, the buildings were concrete, and the trains were plain gray steel. I looked up at the gray concrete ceiling. I wanted to go to the Old World, where there were “trees” and “flowers” growing in green “grass,” and where there was “sunshine” to warm me and “streams” I could swim in. I knew that if I found more Old Texts and learned how to “read” them, I could see all those Old things, see if they were Fake or if they could really be Here and Now. I walked past gray buildings and Users with their heads down and Devices in their hands. I walked all the way into the next Network, where my Device lost its signal and shut off. I put it in my pocket and instead looked around as I walked, which made my neck hurt. I wondered how the Old Users managed to keep their heads up all day. There was not much to see when I looked around, so anything subtly different caught my eye. A User with blue eyes. Another with brown skin. I gaped at them and wondered how they had gone unnoticed. Then I saw a door. I had walked into Network 2665, and I had noticed a wall behind some of the buildings. It rose all the way up until it joined with the ceiling. Back in Network 1189, there had been no walls. But here, there was – and it had a small, square door at the bottom of it. I was curious now that I was freed from Rules and Devices, freed from Here and Now, away from Normal and Important. Clutching the scrap of Old Text in my hand, I knelt on the concrete ground and shoved the door open. Then I crawled through. Silky blades of bright-green grass slipped through my fingers. When I stood up, dirt streaked my knees and a butterfly kissed my cheek. Somewhere a bird chirped, and I looked up. I gasped. All my life, I had been living next to an Old Town, and no one knew. But here, there was nothing Old about it. It was perfectly average, and everything about it was beautiful. Brick cottages and silver churches crested rolling hills, while log cabins in the distance nestled among leafy forest and a sparkling blue river nearby attracted all kinds of wildlife. It was quite some time before I could move. As I neared the small farms on the outskirts of town, I could see children playing. Their giggles 9

and shrieks filled the warm summer air. In the garden-lined front yard of a quaint yellow house were several women drinking lemonade, chatting gaily. Behind the house were men stacking firewood, heartily laughing at a joke. I stared. It was all I could do to keep walking. The center of town was busy. People rushed and sauntered, ducked around banner-wrapped streetlights and sat on benches in parks, talking and reading magazines. Buildings were tall and short, and made of all kinds of bricks and blocks, with wide windows that glistened in the sunshine. Shops donned colorful signs and posters, and I searched for one that read “Old Texts,” but found none, so I resorted to wandering. I walked the entire length of the street and then back up again. Finally I gave up and collapsed on a bench, convinced that I would never find a “library” or a “bookstore.” Even if I did, how would I get a book? I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t write, and my Device was useless without a connection. I was completely lost and helpless. A man sat down next to me with a heavy sigh. He was quite old, with white hair and skin that wrinkled kindly at the corners of his eyes and smile. He looked at me with a knowing grin. “Another Runaway, I see,” he said. “Welcome to Redtown, home of Runaways. I’m John, or jk101. I was a Speaker, then I was a Runaway. I founded Redtown and the Academy.” He paused a moment, seeming to think a moment before going on. “Anyway, we have all kinds here – Speakers, Friendlesses, NoReplies, Artists, WholeWords, Loners …” His voice trailed off as he lost count on his fingers. “Anyway, we’ll check you into the Rehabilitation Academy in the morning. You’ll learn to speak, read, write, sing, draw, dance …” He stopped as he again lost count. He shrugged and handed me a brown paper bag. “Anyway, this is for you,” he said, smiling broadly. “I give one to all the new Runaways.” I reached into the bag. A tear fell on what I pulled out. It was a book, a beautiful red book, with bright orange birds and blue curlicues on its smooth cover, and page after page of ink-scented, word-dotted Text. In large letters on the cover was the title: Speaker7 and the Sea of Stories. “A real classic,” he said with a wink. “Speaker7 was one of the first Runaways. She wrote it after another book. You’ll like it, I think. Anyway, it’s Fake.” And with a smile on his face, he stood and walked away, leaving me sitting right Here, right Now, with a Text that was very Important.

Time by Johnny Wong Like the Holy Trinity, I have three forms You first see me as a shadow While I move around the dial, nation ends and corruption reigns As I walk by, diseases and pestilences are discovered I am the destroyer. You count me by the use of sand While I fall from my glass container, life flourishes and knowledge grows As I walk by, wounds close and broken hearts mend From chaos and war, I eventually bring order and peace I am the healer. I am the blind judge Who governs the cosmos fairly Whether they fight or flee, none have escaped my grasp All will meet their graves and soon will be forgotten When nothingness consumes the world I will still be ticking onwards.

Samantha Kelley

The Seasons by Rebel Hafner High above the clouds, Far above the reaches of our hopeless eyes, Sit gracefully four sisters Who make the seasons change. Spring, the youngest sister, The happy innocent child, Has eyes of blue and hair of gold, And giggles the cold away. Summer, the rebellious sister, With eyes of startling green, Sits relentlessly upon her throne, And laughs a gentle breeze. Autumn, the vibrant sister, Wears a dress of leaves, And her touch brings color to the earth That match her smiling eyes

The Beauty of Summer by Cozette Boakye As we throw up our hats into the clear blue sky, I look up to Her. She is almost here, Waiting anxiously to join our excitement. The geraniums begin to bloom with joy. She walks radiantly towards me, Bringing happiness and flashing her sweet smile To the children who are eager For her arrival. As I feel the warm grass between my toes, And the coals from the cookout assault my nose, Her presence is sheer bliss. They all cheer as she arrives. She is Beauty but is known As Summer.

Winter, the troubled sister, Whose tears rain down upon us, crystallized, Screams, and the creatures down below are buried In her unforgiving pain. Troubled eyes are only dried By innocence and golden hair, And soft giggles announce the welcome return Of Spring upon the throne.

Quang Hien Dang

To a Door by Paige Hollis A shield, You close me off From the world, From the outside, From light. A wall, How can you, So thin, so artificial, Be so isolating,

Dwarf Fortress by Johnny Wong When I look around, I see what seems an earthly volcano. The peak is still brewing with lava with fresh snow surrounding it, forming an almost perfect halo. Yet I know this is more than what meets the eye. Those with critical eyes will say that there is no fortress here. However, the trenches created from long-gone rivers are our walls. The sheepish mountain goats that dwell on our fortress are our scouts. Their noisy scrambling from humans warns us of intruders. The volcanoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood becomes our soldiers. No armor can protect a person from fear of its touch. The ashes and sulfur that are scattered everywhere are perfect for crops. The mouth of the volcano constantly sheds drinkable tears created from the melted snow. Because most expect stone walls and guard towers to be a fortress, our fortress is hidden from enquiring eyes. Our fortress is invisible to onlookers, just like a dwarf fortress.

So real? A portal, You grant access To something mysterious, To something familiar, To something desired.

A gateway, Close open Open close An object of security Yet at the same time, A door to a cage.

Sabrina Caballero

Falling through Cyberspace by Ben Gillis

Once upon the year 2012, a teenager, Neb, was trying frantically to write an English paper for his wonderful teacher Mrs. Revonoohcs. (Now I think we all know this means he was surfing a giant high speed unseen wave also known as the Internet.) He was cruising along through social media sites, games sites, and endless other completely unproductive and time wasting sites. Time slowly ticked by as he perused the never ending stream of his friends’ posts on his news feed. The more he read and surfed, the deeper into a mindless stupor he fell. Finally he felt as if he was tumbling through an abyss into nothing, but he was falling into such a drunken limpness there was nothing he could do. After a passing of an unknown amount of time, Neb snapped awake to find himself in a massive black space with no clear boundaries in any direction. Directly in front of him was a microphone with a blue hue radiating from it, so he could see it. “Where am I?” asked Neb. “Why does everybody always ask that at first?” said a voice from within. “Who are you?” Neb said with fright. “Oh, no need to be alarmed. You just fell into one of the biggest, virtual abysses ever created by man. Would you, an astute young gent of perhaps sixteen years of age, care to guess where you are?” probed the voice. “NO! Get me out of here! Help! HELP ME! HELP ME PLEASE SOMEONE ANYONE!! (A vicious string of 2013ian teenage slang ensued something along the lines of: $^%*#* $&$#& $^&#&@$^ #&*@#&*^$.) The voice in the background mumbled to itself about the kids always doing this, that it really must fix the entrance into such a great establishment, and maybe it should be less of a roller coaster ride because not everyone likes those. Finally Neb settled down and realized this was not a dream and that he had to find a way out. He began a heated debate with the voice. The voice often simply restated his questions as other questions, never really giving actual helpful answers. The voice seemed to be telling Neb to explore and try to figure some things out, so he did. His first step just to the right of the microphone never hit the floor. He began another long tumble down into oblivion. This time he landed on a hard platform square on his face. He heard a distant voice say, “Oops, Sorry.” As he rose to his feet, he looked around the room and took in what

he saw. The overall hue in this room was a deep blue which faded into black with distance. This space too had no definite boundaries. This time Neb kept his weight on one foot as he probed around with his other foot to see if there was a floor beneath him or not. This time indeed there was so he stepped slowly into the space beyond him. Ahead he saw a glint of something bright but it was only a small speck. He approached it carefully and slowly, but it was some distance away. (Distance, being a relative amount, is tough to judge in endless space.) He soon realized it was a lot further away than he had initially imagined; none the less, he pressed on towards this slowly growing glint of light. He finally arrived, and it turned out to be a door slightly ajar. He thought this was a very interesting sight because it was a door in the middle of an infinite space. This phenomenon did not hold him back, as he slowly opened the door and peered inside. Past the threshold of the door was another infinite space and this one held a bright light near the center. Whizzing around this light was many small rectangular objects going at varying speeds and orbits. Neb looked back behind him into the space he had just walked through, then into this new one. Without a thought, he timed it and jumped onto the closest block as it slowly meandered by. He continued this process until he got very close to the center. As he approached the center, the blocks whizzed much faster, but Neb could also take a closer look at the center light which seemed to be a portal. Finally, he was at the last block, which was going very fast, but it was only one more step into the portal from there. He stepped. THE END To be continued 

Civil War, 1863 by Jacob Dodson O Robert E. Lee! What has become of our country today? The United States seems to be two opposing sides, Which are on a crash course with each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s partisanship. What have we done wrong over the last 150 years? Have we forgotten our rich history of bloodshed? Or are we just ignorant of the purpose of past wars? The future of the United States appears very bleak, Unless we act now to forget our own personal interests. Once again there are extreme differences in the opposing parties, Politicians are begging for blind allegiance from biased supporters. Political parties must act to unify in order to save our Union Or blood may be shed for personal lifestyles and individual rights. North and South, East and West, the country could not be more divided. O Robert! I wish you were here to remind us of our past! Somewhere in the Hills by Thomas Powars

James Christoph

Somewhere in the hills, Surrounded by snow and silence, A tired, young buffalo With a great fur coat Patched with scars from arrows of the fight, Grazes on twigs, Cultivated from painful remembrance. Plagued by wistful thoughts of some untouched valley, It wanders ponderously through the glades, Wearily, stubbornly, willingly, Looking without knowing, To the innumerable stars.

By this act it pauses for an instant, As if finally knowing how to solve the labyrinth. With staggering legs going, And with the wind blowing, It gives one long bellow west Signaling those who know.

Na Hyun Han 19

Sean Huo

Hatty Wang

His Noodley Appendages by Ixel Ochoa

Jingwen Gong

Have you ever found Happiness? Have you ever wondered what to do next in your life? Have you ever wondered what happens to you when you die? Just ask yourself this question: What would a pirate do? I too was once lost in a pitiful life, without any happiness or truly pleasurable sustenance. Then by His tasty grace, I was touched by his noodley appendage and found the truth. That was the day I converted my life and diet to Pastafarianism. For all those ignorant non-grog drinkers, Pastafarianism has been around since the earth was made by the Flying Spaghetti Monster in 0.062831853 seconds but was re-found by Bobby Henderson in 2005 (Monster 1). The Flying Spaghetti Monster, FSM for short, made mountains, trees, and a midget the first day, then placed photons, fossils, and other items in our lives to make the world seem a lot older (Hederson 51). The purpose of placing these was also to confuse fools such as scientists and other nosy people. The life of a Pastafarian is a wonderful and simple life because we do not overcomplicate anything and we gladly accept contradictions. As FSM’s chosen people, we pirates fill our life with the pleasure of vegetables and carbs without any thought of sadness. We all go to heaven, to our paradise of grog volcanoes and “wench” factories, unless you do not convert to Pastafarianism. Consequently you will be sent to hell where all the grog is stale and the “wenches” have STDs (Monster 1). Over time many other religions have based their stories and tales after those from Pastafarianism, such as the Christian story of Noah. They’ve obviously got it all wrong. Everyone who is educated in Piracy knows that Noah started a conflict with pirates by shooting animals at them. The type of animal is unknown although it is believed to have been a porcupine. Anyway, any pirate wouldn’t be fazed by this and Noah became scared of the pirates. He tried to give them turtles as an apology but they didn’t need them so Noah created the famous “flood” by wetting himself out of intimidation (Hederson 54). Apparently the pirates said something to him but only FSM knows what. Another story that was based off a Pastafarian legend was the story of Moses. The legend begins with a young man named Mosey. Mosey was hired by Phil and was tired of working from nine to five as a cook which caused his urge to become a pirate. FSM told him to go back and lead all the cooks at Phil’s restaurant away to become pirates too. Phil wouldn’t let them go so FSM sent three plagues: rain of spaghetti

sauce, hail of linguini, and playing Kid Abyssinia’s song, “I ‘m the Makkeda Daddy” over and over again in his ears so Phil alone could hear it (Monster 1). The last was by far the worst in a pirate’s opinion. The cooks had to celebrate annually “Pastover” by cooking a sauce from the tenth to fourteenth of that month, then putting the sauce over their doors. They then had to eat the leftovers to become pirates. Once the cooks got their paychecks, they left to follow Mosey. Phil chased after them but was stopped by a puddle of pasta sauce from the first plague his Noodley Grace sent. Mosey then earned the title, “Pirate Mosey” (Hederson 76). Mosey and his followers had one problem: they didn’t know how to be pirates. They went up on Mount Salsa to find a boat but to their luck, there was no boat (Monster 1). FSM then told them to leave the mountain, find a boat and go out on the open sea. All the pirates did, however, Mosey stayed up on the mountain because he was scared. When FSM gave him the ten commandments of Pastafarianism, Mosey came down but he dropped two of them so there were only eight, which is one of the reasons for the unspecific guidelines of this religion. The pirates actually got the name wrong and called them “condiments” so FSM told them to call them the “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts” (Hederson 77). They are simply put as the following: I’d really rather you didn’t act sanctimonious when describing my noodley goodness; I’d really rather you didn’t use my existence as a way to be mean; I’d really rather you didn’t judge people; I’d really rather you didn’t involve yourself in offensive conduct; I’d really rather you didn’t test someone’s ideas when you’re hungry, eat first; I’d really rather you didn’t make buildings in my honor but instead put them to better use; I’d really rather you didn’t go around telling people I talk to you so get over yourself; and I’d really rather you didn’t do unto others as you would have them do unto you if you are strange. RAmen. For those who think Pastafarianism is a comical religion, you have never been more wrong. The Church of the Flying Spaghetti monster is undeniably legitimate. Other religions are simply insecure and wish to undermine the reputation of pirates. Protect our piratical pride! Pirates are a peaceful people and always have been. Most falsehoods of piracy were created by a situation with the Hari Krishnas where many pirates were slashed to death by metal paddles for handing out candy (Hederson 55). The effects of this incident was also the holiday, Halloween. Halloween among other holidays such as International Talk like a Pirate Day, Fridays, Holiday season, and Ramendan are official Pastafarian holidays. All of our holidays include the drinking of grog, eating candy and pasta, and finding wenches. Being Pastafarian is one of the best decisions for your happiness.

It has been for mine and all I had to do was slurp one of those delicious noodles. Join our simple religion, you don’t even have to take it seriously, and you will like everything, enjoy everything, and love everything of your religious life. Eat more Pasta. Works Cited Hederson, Bobby. The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. New York: Villard Books Trade, 2006. “The Flying Spaghetti Monster.” Funtrivia. 5 Mar. 2013 http://www. funtrivia.com/en/subtopics/The-Flying-Spaghetti-Monster-266455.html.

Duane Doku

10 Things You Never Want to Hear in the Military A McSweeney’s list by George D. Beals 1. A brand-new private saying, “What’s this do?” 2. A brand-new lieutenant saying “Based on my previous experience …” 3. A seasoned sergeant saying, “Let’s ask the Lieutenant.” 4. A transport pilot saying, “Don’t worry, we totally have enough fuel.” 5. A bomber pilots saying, “Um, let’s try that one again.” 6. A mechanic saying, “It’s never done that before …” 7. An EOD specialist saying, “This could take a while …” 8. An artillery gunner saying, “Whoops …” 9. A general saying, “Didn’t see that one coming …” 10. The President saying, “Let’s take a look at the budget ...”

Snow on the Battlefield by Johnny Wong The knight was doomed, With half a lance sprouting from his chest Ruby-red elixir flowing from his wound And battle cries still fresh in his ears. Stumbling over the sea of still horses and men, He rested with his back to a dead tree. Knowing his fate, The knight looked up into pure sky. It was snowing and the flakes were floating Like biblical angels. In each flake, Friends, comrades, and family could be seen, As tears were shed from inside his iron mask The snow surrounded his view and gracefully blinded him. He saw the snow of tranquility. 26

Oowhoma by Uzo Njoku Gun shots in the night No electricity Just overbearing heat Crouched under my bed We wait. They die down. The sun creeps up The rooster crows Mami awakens me “Early to bed, early to rise,” she sings. Everything is good. No more fruits We walk to the rowdy open market Women walk with babies on their backs Strong women carrying woven heavy baskets. An old man in rags pleads to me, “I have no kobo.” Mami hurries me along I am walking through a rainbow Yellow mangoes, orange papayas, brown coconuts Cooked meat fills my nostrils. My mouth waters. Mother buys four for us She buys fruits also We head home I spot the old man again “Here,” I say. He cups the meat in his hand His missing four teeth smile at me, “Oowhoma.” Oowhoma is Igbo for thank you. It originates from Nigeria. 27

Encounter with the Lion by David Lee To us young children, fierce animals are often subjects of fascination. I was no exception. I loved tigers, lions, and other large predators, especially the lion. When National Geographic portrays the fierceness and silent deadliness as the lion descends upon its helpless victims, the scenes filled me with vivid imaginations of life in the African jungle. As a child I was in love with the lion, the king of the jungle. Even the way the male lion walked was beautiful, so effortless in its movement about the grass plain of the sub-Sahara. The alpha’s blond, soft mane flattered in the air as it stood on the edge of a kopje, the sublime pose suitable for a king. To my great dismay, I had never seen the mythical hero of my childhood until one very special day when my mother surprised me with a visit to the Washington National Zoo. I was overjoyed, imagining lions sprinting across the Serengeti in pursuit of the huge herd of water buffalos. It was quite a task navigating through the city’s traffic, but I was determined to see the lions and traffic was no deterrence. After all, this was my first time to a zoo. After one and half hour we arrived at the zoo’s gates. Flanking the entrance were two bronze lion statues of colossal proportions, welcoming children like me. My heart suddenly started to speed up as I hurried my mother to get out of the car, as when other children arrive at Toys R Us. I guided my mother forward, pulling on her hand. The Washington National Zoo is unusual in the sense that it was designed to replicate a jungle. I wished that the whole zoo would be an exhibit of lions. I wanted to skip all the other animals as they were in my mind inferior to the king of the jungle, but my mother insisted I get my ration of this trip’s informational value. Our first exhibit was the peacock. A regal bird indeed, but its legs were small and feeble, its wings functionless, its head is a meagerly fist sized bump, and its costume chichi and tasteless. It in no way could be compared to the king of the jungle; it is merely a jester. The next animal that made an impression on me was the orangutan; when it walked, it reminded me of my autistic neighbor. Lame in its stance and its awkwardly placed thumb, it is just a human copycat, but there is a sense of adorableness to its awkwardness. It too, is not even close to being as radiant as the lion. Next, we came upon the hippopotamus; the most ungainly creature that God has ever created. Why have legs if they are 28

only a minute fraction of your body. The hippo moved at a rate of inches per hour. How can such a lame creature even be put in the same zoo as the lion? After a long trek through the zoo, I finally located the creature of my dreams. The lions were hard to locate behind the foliage, and not many people were there to see their majesty. Finally after a long search, I found a male lion lying on a wet rock adjacent to its own excrement. I was dumbfounded. Surely there is more to the king of the jungle than that! It looked just as lame, just as dirty, just as disappointing as the other animals. I was heart-struck. How can my childhood hero lionized in documentaries be in such a begrimed shape and pose? No longer does the king standing on the kopje seemed real. I was very disappointed for the rest of the trip. After a long silent walk to the food shed, my mother asked me why I was so upset. After all, I got to see so many exotic creatures. I told her that I was so saddened by the difference between the real lion and the lion in the documentary that I wanted to sue National Geographic for lying to me. My mother let out a loud laugh and told me that it was just TV.

Ryan Pile 29

Ode to a Telegraph by Shelby Sebring You sat on a bench in a workshop the only one, pristine and perfect finally done after so much work not knowing what you were what you did or what you would do. You were just a toy. We said you wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t catch on. You sat on a desk in an office one of scores, novel and new eager to see the other coast you were here, and working only you could talk where nothing was spoken, hear where nothing was said. You were the connection. We knew you were essential.

You sat on a table in a hall one of hundreds, identical lined up in neat rows ready to help, to do your job only you could code, go where letters could not go, and say what must be said silently. You were an underestimated spy. We swore we would never forget. You hung on a periscope alone again, yet never fatigued proud of what you had done and excited to do it again more sophisticated now, but still simple enough, modest enough to outwit others who had abandoned you. You were always with us. We would never be without you.

You were overworked, overlooked, underestimated, underappreciated. You never complained. But you were replaced. Now things are different if you are lucky, you are displayed in a cabinet, in a museum but most have no such honor. They are in a closet or in a cardboard box long ago in a landfill idle, useless, shattered knowing what you did for us and knowing that you will never do anything again. This is how we thank you.

Na Hyun Han

Los Beneficios of Learning una Language Segunda by Paige Hollis

Hola, mis compañeros. Hoy en día hay mucho significado en el aprendizaje de ser multilingüe. In this modern day and age, the world is constantly at our fingertips – so easy to access. In a moment, we can connect ourselves to anyone on the face of the earth. This open correspondence, or opportunity for such, has amplified the necessity for improved communication. So where does learning another language fit in? Learning a foreign language is a powerful tool in the growing international community because it helps one to appreciate other cultures, helps to understand one’s own language better, helps increase one’s value as a potential worker, and should thus be a priority of students today. Primero, when one learns a language – and I mean truly learns it – there is a necessity to immerse onself in the language and the culture. En esta manera one is exposed to the different customs and traditions of foreign peoples. Often times the same language is spoken differently in many regions, having been influenced or changed by the geography and community. In learning these nuances, these unique twists, these fascinating aspects, one will enable oneself to interact better with a wider variety of people. Pues, when one can interact and understand others better, one is more capable of appreciating and understanding other cultures. Igualmente a second language can help in the lenguas maternas, especially so when both languages have common ancestry. Good examples of this are Italian and Spanish, Spanish and English, and English and German. Common roots occur frequently, as in the Spanish word facilidad, meaning “easiness,” and the English word “facilitate,” meaning “to make easier or less difficult.” Studies have shown that students que son bilingüe are better students and score higher on tests on their own languages. In regards to the current job market, I can only ask: are not most students – both high school and college – concerned about finding a job? As mentioned, modern technology has made the world quite a smaller place. Employers are looking for workers that will benefit their business, workers that will contribute to the value of the business and provide flexibility. A worker that can cater to other customer bases, a worker that can cross borders, a worker who has the potential to make international deals – now what could be more valuable than a worker such as that? Es por esto that learning another language may be the most important thing students can do! Now, many of you are already taking a

language – which is a good thing indeed. Sin embargo, I urge you all to involve yourselves fully and invest your energies in this endeavor. I am fearful that few from our future workforce fully realize the full benefits of furthering foreign education. Engage yourselves! Listen to foreign music – I promise you will eventually figure out what they are saying. Watch beloved films in different languages – Disney movies are great for this because the lines are usually predictable, making translations easier. En conclusión foreign languages are a priceless educational investment due to their innumerous benefits incluso heightened cultural awareness, improved performance in students’ native languages, and higher chances of employment. Students should strive towards learning a second language or more if the desire is there, and work to refine this skill throughout their lives. Gracias for your time, and have a nice day!

Duane Doku 33

Memories by Paige Hollis These pages brittle lie Face open on my desk. The words have faded grey From one page to the next. The paper›s soft and thin, The binding is well worn, The name of some old kin Scribbled on pages torn. This book for every chapter Keeps note of those lives old; Their happy-ever-afters Lie in these pages told.

Quest for the Crown by Johnny Wong Since the king slept his last, After his corpse was cremated, While lords argued relentlessly, Once the eternal sun rises, The quest for the crown begins. While wines ferment into poison, Where blades are sheathed into necks, When laws slowly disintegrate, After honor and dignity die, The rightful heir will regain his crown. Marcus Williams 34

Of Mountains and Molehills by George Beals Today begins like every other day. My tired old eyes open to regard the same tired old sight; Nothing. There is no light in my subterranean home. No light, and no sight. I see only what I can feel, and what I feel in this tunnel never changes. Dirt. More dirt. Clod after clod, chunk after chunk. Never done, never complete. Always another tunnel, always one more dark dank hole in the Earth to be dug. Why must they be dug? They simply have to be dug. This is all I know how to do, and what should I do if I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do what I know? Everything I know comes back to the hole in the ground. The worms I eat tunnel through the dirt, just like me. The nuts I eat were born in the dirt and matured in the dirt, just like me. Today begins like every other day. Another tunnel dug, another chunk of dirt displaced. Another molehill made. Maybe someday Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll make a mountain. Robin Penn

Charlotte Moore

The Quest for Imagination (or not) by William Wong The year is 2016, and zombies have taken over the world. Nothing can stop them from decimating the world population.

After thinking about his introduction to his zombie survival story, Bob scowled, deleted his file, and began thinking about a new topic to write about. Despite Bob’s strenuous attempts to come up with a new topic for his novel, he was ultimately unsuccessful, and eventually began to work on his original topic, which was basically a direct rip-off of The Walking Dead. About five minutes later, he was out of ideas… again. Deciding he had writer’s block, Bob decided to quit writing his novel for the day. Little did he know that he had just created a new deadly disease that began to creep through the world’s population, which would be coined by scientists thirty years later as “Procrastinator Disease.” Over the next few years, Bob continued to write his novel (and delete it). While Bob was busy failing at writing novels, the world was spiraling into a crisis of procrastination. There were no more innovative inventions, no more epic novels, and no more production of new goods. Eventually, the world recognized May 1st as National Lazy Day, in which all people celebrated the human ability to procrastinate by sitting on their couches and watching TV. One national day of laziness soon turned into one national week of laziness. This National Lazy Week soon turned into National Lazy Month, which soon turned into National Lazy Year. Soon after National Lazy Year was established, all production, learning, and creativity were halted. Everything became stagnant; it got so ridiculous that it eventually took about seven months to deliver an apple pie to a neighbor down the block. Meanwhile, Bob worked on his novel, impervious to the laziness that had overtaken the world. Some years after National Lazy Year was established, Bob realized that his pepperoni pizza was supposed to have arrived six years, eleven months, and thirty days ago. He called the pizza parlor, but the phone lines were down. He called them about an hour later, but the phone lines were still down. Annoyed, Bob put on his fancy Italian pinstripe suit and top hat, got his walking stick from his closet, and went outside. What he saw were dead trees, dilapidated houses… and lights, shining from every window. Shaking his head, he drove his Ferrari to the city. He saw the same thing that he had saw in his neighborhood; dead trees, broken water fountains, and lights shining from window to window. Bob realized what had happened; horrified, he walked to the Channel 624 headquarters and

demanded that they remove their programming forever. “Remove your reality shows and stuff from TV, you fiends! You made the world lazy; now, fix the problem!” Bob said. “But our programming is entirely reliant on ratings, good sir, and we have had a 100% approval rating from our billions of viewers!” replied the director (which was a robot). “So what?” Bob said. “So… if we shut down Channel 624, there will be angry mobs that will burn us down and remove our electricity!” “Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” “You see now? We can’t possibly shut down this channel!” “Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.” Bob then promptly ordered a cable TV and a bag of popcorn from Channel 624 and plopped down in his couch. He then joined the billions of mindless zombies watching TV… and thus, imagination was completely extinguished from the world. Moral: Anyone who thought Bob would eliminate the power source that was supplying Channel 624 with electricity and save the world by bringing imagination back was wrong.

Technologus Rottus by Rebel Hafner Symptoms: At first, those infected Can become angry, dejected When separated from their electronics. Then, victims become reclusive, And really seem to lose it, When separated from their electronics. Sometimes, the machine attaches To the hands, and then it trashes The brain of those infected with electronics. Then, eventually, they’ll rot, And all that will be left is the spot, And the glowing screens of their electronics. 39