Open Up 2010 by Rhapsody Staff

2009-2010

rhapsodyOPEN UP

We all have limits. He lost his voice in the attack on his life. I’ve asked myself countless times. Learn to fly. Older now, I stare out the window without purpose. I feel my skin today as my skin. The evolution of a song. Walking barefoot in March. Exiting the room tears formed in his eyes. I talked to my parents, I’ll pick you up at 8. hope you like curry. Love always, J. The porch was small. Clearly jerez blinds as well as intoxicates. In here. Out there. Confinement for confinement, I live a captive life, in here I can admit to my perversion, which is more free? I looked over the man lying dead in his bright red car, with his half lidded eyes black and rotting, and his mouth hung open slightly with the force of gravity, and his sharp grey suit and blue tie clean pressed and solid. He died praying, as everyone knew he would. Fire blazing, dancing. Ten golden rules: Take your camera everywhere you go. Use it anytime—day and night. Lomography is not an interference in your life, but part of it. Shoot from the hip. Approach your photographic desires as close as possible. Don’t think. Be fast. You don’t have to know beforehand what you captured on film, and you don’t necessarily have to know afterwards either. Don’t worry about any rules. I looked long and hard across the verdant fields, red and gold flashing brilliantly from every tree. Hello life. The rain. It was no longer refreshing, no longer the symbolic cleanse of the daily sun, but a constant misery, a bloated flood that turned the world to sodden pulp. Mighty is the great willow tree. “I kept it just for you.” Michelle sat in the clean room, the soiled clothes in the hamper beside her. “Frohe Weinachten.” I’ve asked myself countless times. Among them, I was a bruise, I felt the weight of my own anachronism, like an anchor it took me into the canal, I could have used an anchor then. Hope was always a frail creature. I refused her limited vocabulary and attempted a human language; I touched a stack of wooden frames and beseeched her soundlessly that she may allow me further passage into the world of her creation. For a moment she faltered on my silent plea but found herself soon thinking in the way of the mute, we would tell ourselves with our bodies, that would be enough. Roads washed out by a spring storm. The porch was small. Shadows slide. The wooden boards absorbed the heat, and bare feet wore it like salmon the smell of cedar plank. Noel didn’t like to talk much. “Don’t look back,” Mark says, “You’ll crash.” It is a simple thing to feel alone. The light blinds me and I cannot see anyone, anything else. The mountain.

rhapsodyOPEN UP EDITOR’S NOTE

The quick turn of a pen, the touch of brush on canvas...these are the venues for our imaginations. Little pieces of our souls and hearts are scattered all around us, and we wonder what it is to create, to expose the world to our point of view, our dreams and inventions. When we put out the call to our student body to Open Up, we asked them to submit work that speaks to who they are, how their perspectives differ from others’, and why diversity matters. Open Up was not a theme to Rhapsody, it was a mantra. Inspired by the diverse emotional landscapes of the student body and community around us, we sought to bring together these matchless works of art by the commonality that they started when a painter, poet, musician, photographer, or student bored in the back of class ignored the ‘voice of reason’ and sat down to produce something raw and beautiful, telling and refreshing. Taking it one step further, we asked students to journal their most candid thoughts, in the form of Post Secrets, which appear at the bottom of almost every other page in the magazine, making them an essential element in showing what happened when we asked the talented minds of Brentsville District High School to open up.

Claire Morrison

EDITORIAL POLICY

Literary and art pieces considered for acceptance are e-mailed to Rhapsodystaff@yahoo. com on or before February 14th. Art was also gathered by the Art Editor from the various art classes. Rhapsody staff members review all pieces of literature and art anonymously. Any untitled literary pieces, if accepted, are given titles by the staff based on the content of the piece. Rhapsody reserves the right to edit pieces for grammar and style. All authors and artists, regardless of acceptance into the amagazine, are notified prior to the distribution of the magazine.

COLOPHON

Rhapsody is published annually and distributed with the Brentsville District High School yearbook, The Flash. All title fonts are Microsoft Sans Serif size 20 and all text is Garamond size 12. Bylines are Euclid size 14 and art credits are Euclid size 11. Rhapsody was created using Adobe InDesign CS3 and printed on Chorus Art Silk with an 80# cover and 70# body. The dimensions of the magazine are 8.5” x 11”. Rhapsody is printed by LakeLithograph.

COVER: Text appearing on the cover of this year’s Rhapsody comes from the first lines and pull quotes from poetry and prose found throughout the magazine.

Brentsville District High School

12109 Aden Road

Nokesville, VA 20181

ADVISORS

STAFF

Kathy Smaltz Elizabeth Blair

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Claire Morrison

CORE STAFF

Taylor Erney Social Coordinator Emily Goodrich Submissions Manager Ashley Groth Art Editor Kate Harrison Assistant Art Editor Linh Thi Nguyen Layout Editor Kiyoshi Shaw Buisness Manager

AWARDS

SUPPORT STAFF

Sarah House Kelly McConchie Aaron Persh Kimberly Sheriden

1997 1st place, VHSL Exellent rating, NCTE Bronze medalist, CSPA 1998 1st place, VHSL Excellent rating, NCTE 1999 1st place, VHSL Superior rating, NCTE 2006 1st place, VHSL Excellent rating, NCTE 2007 1st place, VHSL Above average, NCTE 2008 1st place, VHSL Superior rating, NCTE 2009 1st place, VHSL Superior rating, NCTE Gold medalist, CSPA

SPECIAL THANKS The staff of Rhapsody would like to take the time to thank the following people for their support of Rhapsody, Coffee House and the arts at Brentsville District High School: Kathy Smaltz for being our rock, our support, our mother... Elizabeth Blair for jumping in and being our “other mother”... Dr. Scott for being such an incredible principal and supporter of Coffee House... Jim Luibl for being so patient with our many questions and always being honest... The Art Department for their beautiful submissions to the magazine... The English Department for helping us to copy edit our spreads... Attendees of Coffee House for their unwavering support of the arts... The Erney family for their generous donations throughout the year...

THANK YOU!

TABLE OF LITERARY 4 . . . . Paper LotusProseTori Miles 9 . . . . MirrorPoetryCassie Hart 10 . . . The ArtistProseTaylor Erney 11 . . . UnchartedPoetryClaire Morrison 12 . . . Negro Y RojoProseTaylor Fox 14 . . . An Excerpt From LunaticScriptKimberly Sheridan 17 . . . AppointmentPoetryLinh Thi Nguyen 18 . . . Blue River BridgeProseAshley Baker 20 . . . Dashboard ConfessionalProseClaire Morrison 22 . . . The ViolinPoetryKiyoshi Shaw 24 . . . Dead Red CarProseAshley Groth 26 . . . The MantisProseAshley Baker 28 . . . The Definition of InsanityProseChristina Choi 30 . . . IgnisPoetryAriana Wright 31 . . . SewingProseAshley Baker 32 . . . The StageProseLynsey Fadul 34 . . . Ten Golden RulesProseAshley Groth 38 . . . GettysburgProseSean Redmiles 41 . . . BeachPoetryCassie Hart 42 . . . The FindersProseKimberly Sheridan 45 . . . Walking Barefoot in MarchPoetryAshley Groth 46 . . . You Call it HeavenPoetryKevin Brennan 47 . . . ChillProseCourtney Bryce 48 . . . AegisProseKiyoshi Shaw 50 . . . WormsPoetryAshley Baker 52 . . . The Christmas TruceProseAaron Persh 54 . . . SickPoetryCourtney Bryce 57 . . . Echo [an excerpt from Narcissus]ProseKimberly Sheridan 60 . . . To-DoPoetryAshley Groth

Open Up

CONTENTS ARTWORK 6 . . . . Learn to FlyPhotographyAnna Gearhart 8 . . . . Solar SystemPen&WatercolorShannon Brady 11 . . . AbandonnedPhotographyAnna Gearhart 12 . . . Flamenco DancerGraphiteJake Husted 16 . . . GraffitiPhotographyChandler McLaughlin 19 . . . Brooklyn BridgePhotographyAshley Groth 21 . . . NicotineMixed MediaAnna Gearhart 23 . . . Head PotInkChloe Young 25 . . . Needing YouPhotographyAshley Groth 27 . . . Allegory of the CaveWatercolorKelly Teboe 28 . . . NaturePaperJiHyun Lee 31 . . . Within My GraspOilTaylor Fox 32 . . . Lao New YearOilSompaseuth Chounlamany 35 . . . Moving CabPhotographyKiyoshi Shaw 36 . . . ScaffoldingPhotographyKiyoshi Shaw 38 . . . Sun BreakthroughPhotographyAmanda Pfost 40 . . . ResurrectionAcrylicKelly Teboe 43 . . . ReflectionPhotographyChandler McLaughlin 44 . . . Sunset BeachPhotographyPatrick Stole 46 . . . GracePrisma&Ink&WatercolorKelly Teboe 49 . . . TwiggyInk&WatercolorShannon Brady 51 . . . Break FreeWatercolorJade Brooks 52 . . . At WarPhotographyAshley Groth 54 . . . Duel PersonalityPenMeranda Lattanze 56 . . . VeneziaPhotographyClaire Morrison 59 . . . Metro ReaderPhotographyAshley Groth 61 . . . Coffee HouseMarkerAshley Groth

Rhapsody

Paper Lotus

Tori Miles

4 Open Up

I’m not sure when I first saw him. I can distinctly remember a time when he wasn’t there and times since he has come, but I can’t remember the first time we ever crossed paths. The first time we actually acknowledged each other was early last winter. We were in class, about to take a test. My finger hit the pencil, sending it rolling up the desk, only to have it roll back down again. The teacher was refusing to lend someone a pencil, going on about how his students were always stealing his. I flicked at my pencil again, trying to let the little rumbling noise block out the teacher’s voice, but I had no luck. Frustrated with the teacher’s monologue, I dug around and found an extra pencil in my bag. “Hey, here,” I said, reaching over my friend’s desk to hand it to him, “just give it back after class.” “Thanks,” he said, blowing out a relieved sigh. His eyes held mine for an instant before he turned back to his desk. There was nothing romantic about the gesture, none that I allowed myself to notice at the time, but it was the beginning of us. I was intrigued by him. So much so that I had failed that test, unable to think of anything else. Since that time I always had an extra pencil, eager to lend it when he needed one. I think he realized my plan because he began to leave his pencils behind more and more often. Our exchanges became less limited to writing utensils and more open to conversations. We got to the point where we met in the hallways, his friends knew me by name and vise versa. He even invited me to come along to watch him play soccer after school. It wasn’t long before we became more than friends. I walked out onto the soccer field, grinning as he bounced the monochromatic ball off of his chest and on his legs. We met up halfway, he bounced the ball into his arms and grinned back at me. “So…um, hey, do you wanna come to my house? We can chill…” I said, looking down at my feet, feeling awkward. “Sure,” he said simply. He wrapped his fingers between mine, a light smile on his lips as he led me to his car. Soon it was our routine that after soccer he would come to my house. We’d sit on my couch with the TV on, having long conversations over popcorn and Hot Pockets. He laughed at my lack of effort in food preparation, teased about how I’d starve if my microwave ever broke. “Oh yeah, I’m sure you just cook up a storm at home,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure I cook more than you do,” he said, smirk-

ing a little. “Okay, Mr. Chef, prove it,” I said, expecting him to back down. He simply looked me in the eye and shrugged, the smirk never leaving his lips. It turned out he could cook. Well. We stopped by the store after soccer practice one afternoon, he picked up an assortment of spices and foods, half of which I‘d never paid any attention to. When we got home he soon filled my kitchen with heavenly smells of chili powder, cinnamon, and other spices I’d yet to be acquainted with. I lurked behind him, watching in amazement as he blended a masterpiece. Every so often he’d glance back and smile at my expression; I could tell he was enjoyed proving me wrong. I didn’t mind either. My stomach growled, anticipating the new tastes. After a while he placed a plate in front of me, a collage of reds and browns. After one bite I drained my glass of water, the spices burning my mouth and leaving behind tastes that were foreign to my tongue. Yet I loved it, and spent the rest of my meal refilling my water and wondering why I had never tried food like this before. One day, he showed me how to make origami lotus blossoms. I can’t say that I actually learned, or even really paid attention to the steps. I watched in wonder as he folded the paper a million different ways and somehow a little paper flower appeared. It was so small, about the size of a quarter, but when I carried it up to my room I treated it with the utmost care. It became our thing, the tiny flowers. Every so often I would open my locker to find a tiny blossom sitting on top of my books. Sometimes, if I had been having a bad day, I’d find three. They always made me smile. My friends would giggle and say how lucky I was. Yet, not everyone approved of our relationship. As I was walking in the halls with one of my friends, I got my first taste of ignorance. “So, I think that Jay is taking me to see-” “Who?” she cut me off mid-sentence. “Jay? My boyfriend,” I said, and then, after seeing her blank expression, added “Jay Sharma?” “Ew, that Indian kid?” she asked. “Well, yeah,” I said, for some reason unable to say anything else. “You’re so weird, Amy.” My second dose came when I asked to come over to Jay’s house. He had already met and become comfortable with my family, but I had never even seen I’m a confused little person…

Learn to FlyPhotographyAnna Gearhart

Open Up

his.

“Go Jayin!” the man shouted just as Jay was darting up the field. My heart started beating faster, my hands became sweaty. I was terrified to be so close, terrified that by standing so close they would find out about me, about me being with their son. I took a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. “Oh, look at that!” the woman said, disgust leaking from her voice. I looked over to where she was pointing. Anand, Jay’s friend, was talking to a girl. A white girl. “His parents must be ashamed, their son associating with whites,” the Indian man said, shaking his head. Jay called me that evening, asking why I left the game early. “No, no, I just didn’t…feel well. Allergies,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Are you sure? Can I do anyth- Well, I’ll just have to look at your notes tomorrow…okay…” “Yeah, love you too, bye.” That night I was particularly frustrated with our usual goodbye, the result of his parents walking into the room. God forbid he talk to a girl on the phone. Especially a white one. I grabbed my pillow and threw it across the room as hard as I could. To my dismay it landed softly against the carpet as I dissolved into tears. The days that followed slowly wedged a gap between us. Silences overpowered the conversations I’d loved until we only saw each other from school desks or across hallways. One morning I decided it was enough. I couldn’t keep pretending that everything would work out when we couldn’t even hold a conversation anymore. My eyes darted all over, I sped through people and down stairways, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Finally, I gave up and sulked back to my locker. As I was pulling out my books something caught my eye. A small red and gold flower was sitting on a folded sheet of notebook paper at the top of my locker. I snatched up the paper, cradling the small flower safely in my cupped hand. The message, I stood up excitedly, cheering along with the scrawled in familiar handwriting, read: crowd around me. My eyes following the jersey marked I talked to my parents. I’ll pick you up at 8. with a blue 23, I bounced happily on the balls of my feet, hugging my jacket around me to keep warm. It Hope you like curry. wasn’t until the second quarter that I noticed the older Love always, Indian couple in front of me. J “Look, Rashad, look!” the woman called. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said, looking at the ground. Just a few minutes before he was calm and laid back, but his posture became tense at this new change of subject. “Why not, they can’t be that bad! You’ve been around my family long enough to know how crazy we are-” “It’s not a problem of sanity; it’s just that…my family is very traditional. I just don’t know how they would take to you being…not being Indian.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Were they really so old-fashioned that they couldn’t accept their son dating a white girl? I mean, they had moved to the US, surely they had thought about the millions of diverse people around, how it would create a high possibility that their son might not fall for an Indian girl. He went home early that night, and the next morning I found a handful of paper lotus flowers in my locker. As much as I wanted to let it go, I couldn’t. I couldn’t comprehend that someone could dislike me without even knowing me, just because of my skin color. “Jay…” I asked hesitantly one afternoon, “What would happen if you parents did meet me? Like, what’s the worst case scenario?” He looked up at me with an expression that clearly said he was uncomfortable. “Well… They could kick us both out, you out of the house and me out of the family…” “They wouldn’t kick you out of the family,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, seriously,” he said bluntly, his expression cold. The week went on, and we pretended that the conversation never happened, but the issue was still there. I couldn’t contemplate parents kicking out their son just for being with someone of another race. That just didn’t happen; parents have instincts to love their kids. They must’ve just been trying to scare him or something.

Solar SystemPen and WatercolorShannon Brady

8 Open Up

Mirror

Cassie Hart I feel my skin today as my skin, Tight against my bones but light to carry, Soft and smooth with some rough edges. Every inch only stretched from its original mold. Seemly the same as when it had been innocent. I see my face today as my face. The same thin bone structure of my mother’s. Deep, longing eyes of brown and green. Lips of soft pink holding a smile found in love. Presented in quiet confidence.

The Artist Taylor Erney

The porch was small, more of

a stoop really. It looked as if someone had stuck it there as an afterthought and made it hastily out of cement.. The paint on the house was peeling, leaving sickly graybrown spots all over its exterior. It was as if the house was slowly dying, sagging toward the weeds around it; or maybe being consumed by them. Ivy was trailing its verdant fingers up the siding, its grip pulling the little colonial down. The house was not a complete architectural failure however, its best feature being the heavy oak door at the top of the small stoop with its ornate scrollwork which wound and wove around the door’s ivory base. Above it an awning was propped, seemingly suspended over heavy scrolls. A lone man was sitting on the second step of the stoop. His grubby long sleeved button down, that one could assume had been white at one time, clung to his pale, pasty skin. He had rolled up the frayed sleeves, arms protruding like bony wings from them; one frail hand extended out into space– dark brown grass slipping through his thin fingers like congealed blood. Small drops of morning dew pooled in his hands, making little bits of clinging grass stick to his fingers. He looked up from the grass, staring off into the inky fog of the early morning. His eyes, soft and unfocused, as if remembering a fond memory. The man was not alone however, and his tight lipped, rigid expression showed discomfort. A very unattractive, very unhappy woman was leaning against one of the columns on the small porch, just behind the frail man, but it was almost as if she was worlds apart from him. She was just this side of large, plump in places where you knew she was supposed to be thinner. Her weight was not helped by what she was wearing. The velvet ivy green dress did not complement her shape, bunching unattractively around her waist and hips. It would have probably looked better on someone with a more petite frame. She had her arms crossed angrily across her chest, emphasizing it in a most unflattering way. Her face was pulled into a heavy scowl, eyes and lips pursed in her irritation. She was homely, but

Open Up

just like the house standing behind her, all was not lost. Perhaps her greatest feature was her eyes, which were delicately shaped and slightly upturned in the corners, but what was most intriguing about them was their color: a deep violet, rich like flower petals and surrounded by a wealth of thick, feathered lashes. But though her eyes were beautiful, they, like the rest of her, reflected her irritation. She glared at the man, but, if he felt her scathing stare, he ignored it. He was looking between his feet, head on one arm, which was resting on his drawn up knees. His other arm was trailing the ground, index finger absently moving through the dirt. “Are you done playing your little reminiscing game, because I would really love to go home now,” the woman huffed from the shadows of the porch. She looked around with disdain. “This place looks terrible.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Aggie, be patient, this place isn’t as bad as it looks. You just have to let it grow on you,” he replied, voice soft and lilting as if he were addressing a child. “I’m not letting anything grow on me Andrew, lest I look like this condemned hole,” she said bitterly, sighing theatrically and turning on her heel. Andrew cringed when the screen door slammed, echoes cracking like gunfire against the still of the morning. He didn’t know how to tell her that they were home. He shuddered at the thought of her reaction, but it was too late now; what was done was done. He had sold the house in Chicago to buy back his families old farm in upstate New York. He had needed to escape Chicago- a city full of harsh lines, streaks of impatient color and general chaos. He got up slowly, wincing as his joints popped with audible clicks. He stood for a moment, leaning against the column on the stoop and looking out across the misty acreage. He breathed in, wrapping the solitude of the place around him -- he was home.

AbandonedPhotographyAnna Gearhart

Uncharted

Claire Morrison

Roads washed out by a spring storm, Invite the warm embrace of a calloused toe, Vanishing with the next summer spell, Exits sharp to the left and right, Roundabouts curving into uncharted lands, Begging for a visitor or Adventurer ready to set sail, Never asking a promise of safe passage, Knowing not what comes around the bend.

You stole my DVD. The secret? This is why I will never forgive you.

Negro y Rojo

Taylor Fox

I’d been searching for hours. This tiny little good-for-nothing caseta wasn’t doing my search any justice. I heard an uproar as the flamenco dancers in the next door tent entertained drunken men, and I shook my head. No one would notice me; they were all too busy drowning themselves in jerez. I got on my hands and knees, frantically searching through the dust and forgotten bits of food. My brother planned on proposing to Niña today, and the drunken bastard lost the ring! He misplaced it during

Flamenco DancerGraphiteJake Husted

12 Open Up

the migration from this caseta to the one next door, and seta, apparently under the impression my father had left. I had to find it. However, I only found a few neglected Clearly jerez blinds as well as intoxicates. Euros buried in the dirt, and gleefully stuck them in I crawled out from under the round, covered table my pocket. I would need a new pair of tights after this and walked to the crumpled form of my father. His eyes anyway. were closed and his brow furrowed. He had a bottle of My own dress was modeled after the traditional sherry in his right hand. flamenco style: an ugly red and black tulle nightmare. I “Papá,” I said softly, taking the bottle from him. He wore it only as a favor to my brother, as kids are banned mumbled a little and his eyelids fluttered. I leaned down to from entering the perimeter of the casetas. The adults hoist him up and caught a blast of alcohol-induced breath; spend the festival in the typical Spanish manner, drink- it was worse than the last time. He stumbled a bit to his feet, ing their body mass in sherry and dancing until they and I placed his arm around my shoulder. We awkwardly sweat it back out. According to mi tía, children dur- maneuvered through the maze of tables and chairs, down a ing the time of festival are “cockroaches, little annoy- few streets, and to mi casa. I was thankful to live so close to ing cucarachitas.” Translation: we get under their feet. town. My dress was meant for me to look less conspicuous, My father clambered through the doorway, upsetmerely another dancer, as I scavenged for the ring. ting a lamp and picture frame. He was attracted to mess like While the adults have wild, alcoholic fiestas, a magnet, and all I could ever do was clean it up later. I folevery other kid during Feria de Abril travels to amuse- lowed him through our one story flat, pausing in the kitchen. ment parks and willfully pukes out their insides. Unfor- We had painted it a rustic orange three summers ago, and tunately, I was missing out this year because looking for it had since begun chipping and was marked with stains. I the missing ring instead. I quickly discovered ring-hunt- pulled out a glass from our old, windowed cabinet and filled ing was hard work. My back began to ache and sharp it with cold water. When the water reached halfway, I left the rocks pressed into my hands and knees. I took a break kitchen and joined my father in his room. It was bare, like and settled under a table the bottles in Clearly jerez blinds as well as intoxicates. with my back to one of our trash, its legs. The table cloth provided a cool shade from the whose contents so routinely cloud his mind. He was laying unnaturally warm day, and I closed my eyes. It felt good face down on his rumpled bed, feet dangling off the edge to rest my pounding head. Just as I grew comfortable, a little. He had thrown off his shoes, and I carefully placed I heard a noise and was instantly alert. Two men had them side by side at the foot of his bed. I hadn’t even bothentered the caseta. ered to remove my own. “¡No, Ariano! ¡Este jerez es más mejor que tuyo! “Papá,” I whispered, “Necesito tu camisa.” Debes tratarlo…” He rolled over. “Mi camiseta!” he cried and clawed “¡No puede ser tan bueno, compro solo el me- at the red stain. jor!” “Si, Papá, tu camiseta.” I unbuttoned it and peeled I knew from their slurred Spanish that they the sticky cloth from his chest. He looked concerned and were drunk. The focus of their conversation revolved scared, and I assuaged him that I would take good care of around expertise in jerez tasting, a fitting conversation his nice camiseta. I gave him the water and turned to walk for intoxicated men. I lifted the tablecloth to take a peek, away, knowing most of it would end up on the mattress and my heart sank. One of the men was my father and instead of in his mouth. Walking to the kitchen, I took his the other his barber, Miguel. I watched with horror as shirt and threw it in the trash. There was no use in saving it he tried to force his drink into my father’s mouth, and now. sloshed most of the red liquid down the front of his Before I left, I straightened the lamp he upset and white shirt. I inwardly groaned; laundry is my chore. replaced the frame. My mother’s smiling face stared blankly My father jumped back in anger and crashed at me, a mere memory of what she used to be. She wore her into the array of empty tables and chairs. I cringed as wedding ring in the portrait, the same one my brother was I heard an explosion of dead, drunken weight against giving to Niña. I fingered the Euros I found earlier in my the plastic. It was as if I could see it, even with my eyes pocket. Without turning around, I grasped the front door’s closed tight. He moaned, but I didn’t think he was seri- handle and silently opened it. Quickly, I left mi casa and ously injured. I’ve seen him enough to know that being stole down the street to buy my father a new shirt and find drunk takes away more than just physical pain. my mother’s ring. Miguel the barber slowly tottered out of the caI want to punch slow-walking people in the head. 13

An exceprt from LUNATIC

Kimberly Sheridan

[The stage lights up on GIFFORD and REAGAN. There are people dressed in the same prison outfits, mulling around, talking to each other; there may be prison bars or some kind of containment. They all get quiet as REAGAN is inserted among them. She is somehow separate from them, and for a second they are silent before GRAPE separates from the crowd.] GRAPE: Look! Newmeat! Y: [yells from the crowd] Veal! BLISS: [standing beside Reagan] How tender! GRAPE: Welcome to the ranch! REAGAN: The ranch? [All of the prisoners moo, after a few seconds the noise dies down.] GRAPE: Cattle! Population! The public! I’m Grape. [they shake hands and everyone begins introducing themselves] BLISS: Bliss! Y: Y! TOM-O: Tom-O! GRINT: Grint! [Other names are yelled until the noise dies down again] REAGAN: Reagan. Y: Like the president? BLISS: We had another president. GRINT: Jilly! Jill Kennedy. TOM-O: But Kennedy left the herd! GRAPE: So we’ve got a new president, but still no election!

Open Up

REAGAN: Left the herd? BLISS: Her sentence was decided and she was off to the ice tray. TOM-O: The cells, we miss her! GRINT: Got put away for love she did, that was all! Y: So why are you here Mr. President? REAGAN: Terrorism. BLISS: And why are you full of holes Mr. President? REAGAN: Someone tried to kill me. GRAPE: So the presidents’ a terrorist. Figures! It’s a shame you aren’t dead. REAGAN: What? GRAPE: I just mean, in here you’re gonna die for nothin’! [As the spotlight comes up on JILL KENNEDY, the section of the stage with the cattle darkens. She sits or lays on the lip of the stage whistling, OFFICER GIFFORD enters and approaches her] GIFFORD: Kennedy. KENNEDY: Captain. [she doesn’t bother to look at him] GIFFORD: I’m sending you a cellmate. KENNEDY: So soon? GIFFORD: She’s top priority, a terrorist. KENNEDY: That means nothing. GIFFORD: She thinks so too, but she’s got information about Kelham. KENNEDY: How fortunate for you. GIFFORD: I need you to open her up.

KENNEDY: [sarcastically] I’m not a surgeon anymore, captain. GIFFORD: Shut up; get her to tell the truth. KENNEDY: So that’s the rush. How long until this information becomes of little consequence? Too soon I’d bet, too soon for you before this coyote gnaws off its leg. GIFFORD: I’ll move her in; I can reduce your sentence to definite. KENNEDY: I don’t trust liars, or those in the employ of liars. GIFFORD: You live a putrid lifestyle; you’ll never find another way out. KENNEDY: If my lifestyle is putrid, Gifford, then my crime is to live, and I will be returned here seconds after escape. GIFFORD: Get me this and I can find you protection, I can get you out. KENNEDY: In here. Out there. Confinement for confinement, I live a captive life. In here I can admit to my perversion, which is more free? [Lights go off. End scene] GraffitiPhotographyChandler McLaughlin

OpenUp Up ## Open

Appointment Linh Thi Nguyen Shadows slide Into my ears And slither Down my throat Like the tonic, I had to swallow fright To don my blackened coat I wilt beneath street kerosenes, With shudders in my breath I swear I’ve heard soft snickerings – And chuckles ‘round my neck My wayward walk gives wake to signs That I am not alone For as I step behind street lines I stop and hear sad groans And if the thought that drugged up fears Had long ago deceased Deceived my mind and drenched my ears In misplaced sense of ease Then how hell plays its gentle games – My street line friends the pawns And I the board demurely tamed With my mind nearly gone

I am nice to people I don’t like. Looks can be deceiving. 17

Blue River Bridge Ashley Baker

The wooden boards absorbed the heat, and bare feet wore it as salmon wear the smell of cedar plank. Hot steel was magnetic to careless hands. It must have compelled them. There was no lack of heat. The waves of quivering air sacrificed two girls to the steel, and they walked towards it. “Let’s go home.” “Come on, we’re almost there.” “Yeah, right. Let’s go. This isn’t a good idea anyway.” “I’ll be fine. Come on.” They wore flowers of pastel. The pedals blew from the draft of the river as their hardened heels pulled splinters from the boards. “We’re here.” “Now what?” “What d’ya mean, now what?” “Well, you said we’re here.” “And we are.” “And?” “I dunno. Give me a second.” “You said you had it all planned. I don’t want to stand around until a car comes by or something. I’m only helping cause you asked me, and I don’t want to get in trouble or something.” “Okay, jeez. Let’s climb up on the side.” From the railing, they could see the painted red of the earth’s arched sole. Its sunburned hands pressed against mirages; its sunburned back bent in defeat in every other place. The river was blue. “It’s hot.” “Well, yeah. What did you expect? Here,” “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Open Up

“Tie a knot.” “You’re kidding.” “Do I look like I’m kidding?” “No.” “Sorry.” “What for?” “I’m being a jerk.” “What?” “Nothing. It’s just stupid.” “Hey, come on. I wouldn’t be helping you with this if I wasn’t your friend, and I wouldn’t be your friend if you were a jerk. That makes sense, right?” “Yeah.” “You look sad.” “It’s nothing.” “Maybe this is a bad idea, I mean, if it makes you sad. I want what’s best for you, you know? I want you to be happy.” “I’m perfectly happy, okay? I want you to be happy, so just know that this makes me happy. I’m fine. Did you tie a knot?” “It should be good.” “Good.” “Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.” “I’m fine.” “You look nervous, though.” “I said, I’m fine.” The translucent sweat rising from the earth’s back was dizzying, and mist from the water obscured the girl’s view. She climbed down, and blossomed on the breeze. The other flower wilted, and grew red in the sun.

Brooklyn BridgePhotographyAshley Groth

Sometimes, I envision myself as someone else. 19

Dashboard Confessional Claire Morrison

Noel didn’t like to talk much. Conversations with her usually included a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of beer, and complete silence. Meeting her in the parking lot that night wasn’t something I expected. She tilted her head in the direction of her car when I stepped out of work, saying nothing until I slid in on the passenger side. “How was work?” she asked, staring out the grimy windshield. The sun was setting but I could see the bags under her eyes and the beginnings of several bruises. When I didn’t answer, she turned so her whole body was facing me. “Is that Rick guy still giving you crap for missing work last week? ‘Cause I’ll so beat his sorry little--” “Work was fine,” I murmured, finally dropping my gaze to the floor mats. “How was your day?” “Same old, same old,” Noel shrugged, returning to her original position. “Why are you here?” I couldn’t help but look at the marks again, confused. Whenever Noel got into fights, she wasn’t the one who went home bleeding. “I thought you might want a ride.” Her shoulders stiffened as she reached into the front pocket of her jeans, removing a crumpled box of Marlboros. In one swift movement, she flipped the lid, plucked a single cigarette from its nest, and flipped the lid closed again. I snatched her lighter from the cup holder, enclosing it in my fist. “I’ve walked home before.” “Yeah, well,” Noel sighed, her eyes locked on my hand, “I’m a nice person so I figured you’d rather I drove you home instead of walking back in the freezing cold, but hey, if you wanna go, go.” “Maybe I will,” I said, lifting my chin up ever so slightly. “Very funny,” she sighed, holding out her hand, palm up. “Now give me my lighter, squirt.” She balanced her cigarette between her cracked lips and lit it with a quick flick of the lighter. Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the seat. “Can I have one?” Her eyes opened, narrowing as she straightened up and let out a single, rough laugh. “Since when do you smoke?” I answered her glare with my own. “Since when do you come to pick me up looking like you spent the

20 Open Up

night on the streets?” She winced, taking another breath from her cigarette. “It wasn’t the whole night.” “What?” My voice jumped two octaves. I frantically searched the interior of the car for any sign Noel was hiding something worse then the bruises. There wasn’t any blood on the back seats and aside from the trash that littered the floor, it didn’t look like she had stashed a change of clothes or, God forbid, a weapon. There were, however, two duffle bags stuffed behind the passenger seat. “Calm down!” She reached over, placing one cold hand over my mouth while she tapped her cigarette ashes into an empty McDonald’s cup with the other. “What’s going on?” I asked, pushing her hand away. “Nothing.” “Yeah right,” I pointed to the bags. “Where are you going?” “I need to get out of here for a couple days.” Noel brought her cigarette to her lips, but didn’t take a drag. “Are you planning on coming back this time?” “Eventually,” she shrugged, throwing the remains of her cigarette out the window. I stared at her profile, rememorizing the slightly crooked line of her noise, the streaks of red that wove in and out of her black ponytail, and last her eyes, the right one slightly swollen. “Promise?” She frowned, keeping her eyes on the steering wheel. I knew she understood why I was asking. “We’ve been friends since when? Kindergarten?” “First grade,” I corrected with the smallest of smiles. “Have I ever lied to you? Ever? I shook my head. “Not that I know of.” “I’ll always come back.” The side of her mouth turned up slightly, “Besides, somebody has to look out for you.” “Good,” I sighed, relaxing against the seat. “Having to find a new best friend at eighteen would really suck.” “I’m your best friend?” Noel asked in mock surprise. “Aren’t I yours?” “Cradle to grave, baby.” She laughed, “Cradle to grave.”

NicotineMixed MediaAnna Gearhart

Sometimes I think I may be too independent. That, or I just repel dependence.

The Violin Kiyoshi Shaw

He lost his voice in the attack on his life out of his throat with a stainless steel knife that was pulled off in time. He would survive this ode to crime But the nerves in his voice box were rife It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t deserve to be a mime. Yet this is the age past the carbon rebirth And with the clear atmosphere come dreams and hope. The doctor gave him a ringlet A chain, to wear round his neck That shined with tiny blue lights And played music, symphony made. It would help with the scarring Healing first aid But the gift in the box was a bracket of string Crafted of metal It was made to help sing With some sewing and rubbing it went into his skin. It spun in his voice box Like twine but so thin A fine metal sling His own voice it would bring, But for now, would have to do, the chagrin.

The skies had been honed with mechanical prowess Over a decade ago Now computers kept clouds spread out Bled out With a program, an application A drone. On these sunny days he could sing bright and clear Each computer word sincere, The twists and the turns The holds and the falls And what he didn’t have before Was now there for the world to hear

Pitch

His voice was so shallow, a mechanical swallow. It echoed and wasn’t quite his. The doctor explained And as follows tried to construe: The voice was all his, But echoed because the throat is so hollow

The chain around his neck strung out gossamer tunes That his mind had made up just before Each note was coated with aluminum gilding A lining of titanium carrying it along

There was a fence, or, a sensor That registered his chords’ every move, And with a mechanical twist Soft titanium hiss It would computerize,

Poetic perfection Processed precision Pitch perfect No defect Like a violin

Vocalize.

He’d go out alone, for hours alone And then he’d return rather bleak. No one could know The joy that he had With his new voice alone on the beach

Open Up

Sound reconnect .

Head PotInkChloe Young Dear Habibi, I gave you a little bit of me. I want it back. 23

Dead Red Car Ashley Groth

“He’s just sitting there.” “What?” “Yeah, just sitting and staring.” “That’s weird.” “Yeah.” “But I think he’s dead.” “Oh.” We stood there, our faces stretched lengthwise as our jaws hung. There was nothing left to say, yet a clinging heaviness hung between us. Us, and the car. “Well, what do you want to…?” “Do?” My fingers urged to tear my cell phone out from my coat pocket, but the action was seemingly inhibited, muscles twitched and it appeared that no coherent signal had been properly conveyed. What would I do anyway? Call the doctor, the hospital? The police? Instead, I looked to my friend next to me; her face contorted into a deep deliberation of the circumstance. I touched her shoulder. She flinched. “We have to do something.” “Suggestions would be nice.” What about this, what about that? I offered up many things, both grim and creative. Admittedly I was proud for some of it, but my friend did not praise or join in my efforts. “We should just leave him. Leave him there and some other poor bastard will find him eventually. We should leave him. Come on.” Caution permeated her words and though she turned quickly towards the dark exit of the parking garage through which we’d entered, I couldn’t bring myself to follow. Clouds of breath obscured my vision and I looked over the man lying dead in his bright red car, with his half lidded eyes black and rotting, and his mouth hung open slightly with the force of gravity, and his sharp grey suit and blue tie clean-pressed and solid. I thought about what he must have been like, dressed so sharp he could have been a businessman, or a lawyer, or some professional desk job subordinate making fifty thousand dollars less than his co-workers just because his boss didn’t like him. Surely he was on his way to work when his deadbeat wife who he’d knocked up in high school jumped in front of his car because he wasn’t doing

Open Up

all he could to support her and their four kids, and as he reasoned with her that she was out of her mind, because he works fifteen hour shifts, even on holidays, just to support her, she really must have snapped. But that was impossible, because there were no bruises on his face. I folded my arms and my head tilted to the left, gloved fingers softly drumming against my coat sleeve in the pit of my biceps and forearm. Maybe he was on his way to a wedding, his sister’s wedding. And truthfully he felt just a little awkward because he hadn’t talked to his sister in years, not since their parent’s divorce when he was twenty two and she was still a teenaged girl. But he’d received the thick, white invite in the mail just a few weeks ago and sucking up his pride and courage, dressed in his very best suit and tie to try and impress the sibling whom with he’d fallen so deeply out of touch. Of course though, as luck would have it, his hypertension prescription had run empty just the night before, and even though he shrugged it off, because he was young and otherwise healthy, the moment he slid into that bright red car and his heart raged with anxiety, he just stopped. And because he lived alone and he had, after all, been out of touch with his sister, nobody thought his absence from the wedding strange or even unexpected. So all that time he sat in his car, rotting and dead. Straightening my neck, my eyes glazed over the vehicle’s sleek front and squat, yet sexy back. My breathing slowed; the membranes in my nose and throat stale and dry from the frigid air in the garage. Really though, that idea was ridiculous. It must have been because— The silence cracked. “Hey. I told you to come on.” My head turned like a robot, the hinges in my neck un-oiled and squeaking. I blinked and turned my body; my face looked back on the man in his car for only a moment before joining the rest of me in facing my friend still standing shadowed, defiant and cold at the exit. Her hand waved at me, a weak indication of her thinned patience and my apparent disobedience. I hunched into myself, bringing my body together into a conglomeration of being. “Yeah, coming.”

I looked over the man lying dead in his bright red car, with his half lidded eyes black and rotting, and his mouth hung open slightly with the force of gravity, and his sharp grey suit and blue tie clean pressed and solid.

Needing YouPhotographyAshley Groth

It’s scary and sad, but I’m sort of glad to be going alone. 25

The Mantis Ashley Baker

He died praying, as everyone knew he would. After his hasty divorce

in the summer, such a downward spiral could only be expected to come in fall. An utterly unfulfilled life. Everyone thought he’d died of a broken heart. But the true irony of his life- and death- was not that he had died from a broken heart instead of a missing head, but that his head wasn’t screwed on quite right and just wouldn’t come off. As he died- stuck in a cobweb, as it were- his brief yet painfully drawn-out life flashed before his eyes. And it began with flowers. It wasn’t a typical place to be born, but the mantis liked it anyways. In fact, he stayed very near the plant the entire 5 months of his life. (Not including when he was an egg, of course. It doesn’t count if you can’t remember it.) All the eggs housing his brothers and sisters had been eaten. Yet the mantis never felt very lucky. He was always alone. Sometimes a bird would come and talk to him, but he never really liked birds. They always acted like they wanted something from him, but would never get to asking. Sometimes a little kid with a magnifying glass would come and shine the sun in his big yellow eyes. Sometimes the mantis just wanted to stay there, in the warm, concentrated summer sun. One day he started smoking. The mantis decided he didn’t want any part of that any longer. At night the mantis dozed on and off, listening to the hypnotizing sounds of echolocation. It would have been so easy just to walk into the field and wait…. That just wasn’t him though. He was waiting for something else; he just knew it as much as a mantis can know something. The mantis knew it more surely than he knew his eyes were completely disproportionate to his head. And he thought of this as he dozed, and his body swayed more peacefully than ever in the breeze. That night, it mattered that he looked especially like a leaf. The most wonderful thing happened three days later. Millions and millions of

Open Up

tiny drops of water fell from the above world that the mantis just never understood. And he didn’t care. He cared about what came under the leaves of his plant to hide from the droplets. He cared about how long and slender it was. How it, too, swayed like a leaf as if it could actually fool a predator. And- oh! How green it was. The mantis decided that he must have this thing, and spontaneously broke into dance. For some reason, the new most incredible thing that was not food or predator, liked how the mantis got down to the beating of his heart. She moved closer, and leaned in to“Aaaaagh!” cried the mantis from inside its mouth. He didn’t really mean that he wanted to “be a part” of her. It’s just one of those things you say. His wings fluttered like cheap blinds crashing to the ground. He’d thought he had found his purpose. Now he was just confused. It let go of his head and looked deeply, hungrily into his shocked eyes. Mostly just hungrily. Most everyone is sure it ate one of his antennae. It flew away and never came back. While he vowed to wait for her return, she mated with as many as a dozen deliciously manly mantises whose heads were screwed on right. It was the quickest marriage and separation of two beings that ever took place in the Garden. But the mantis still felt that he was a part of her. But he wasn’t. Except maybe his antenna. Most of the neighboring creatures were deeply saddened by the frequent appearance of the distraught yet ever hopeful mantis, his front legs forever folded in some absolutely pointless prayer. And this is how he wandered into the cobweb. Enraptured by a woebegone prayer for a lover that was never actually a love’s return. Before any spider could reach him, he made a final effort to loosen his head. Perhaps that would bring her back. Instead, he broke his stick-like neck, and died completely alone. Allegory Of The CaveWatercolorKelly Teboe

The Definition of Insanity Christina Choi

“Don’t look back,” Mark says. “You’ll crash. You’ll lose control of the car and flip. The wheels will pick up of the road. The gas tank will be jolted open, and the friction from skidding will make the car ignite. The things chasing you will catch up

to you,” He’s saying from the back seat; I can feel his hand on my shoulder and his breath on my neck. The tickles of bugs start, an annoying itch that won’t go away. “Shut up,” I scream. I look back; I swerve hitting the

NaturePaperJiHyun Lee

28 Open Up

side rail and swing back. There isn’t anything there, no cars, no lights, nothing. (Thank god the road is straight.) “You can do better than that, can’t you Steve?” Mark says. I try to calm down; I can feel the wheels starting to swivel. I need to calm down before I crash. “Don’t crash,” He says, “Don’t crash.” I can hear his incessant laughter. “They’re gaining on you!” He says again, the leather seats squeals as he leans back, resting his feet on my shoulders. “Why are you even here? You’re always here when I don’t want you to be, just go away!” I yell. He sits up, “Oh, such a pity, you need me Steve.” “Shut up!” I yell again. Whatever is chasing me is picking up speed. I hear its voice whirring behind me. Its white eyes are reflecting in my rear view mirror. I don’t know where I am, I just drive. I need to get somewhere safe; I need to get home. “You can’t do that Steve, they’re waiting for you.” The bugs are eating me alive. I’m shaking; but they won’t go away. “Don’t scratch.” I lift my arm to wipe them off, but there isn’t anything there. I can feel them, it burns, but I can’t see them. I keep swiping and scratching. I scratch and scratch, but they won’t go away. “Please, make them stop,” I plead, but he’s gone; the car is shaking beneath me. The steering wheel is starting to turn and I have to use all my strength to turn it the right way, cutting the corner too short and knocking into a tree branch. I turn the steering wheel right, but the wheels are caught in dirt. I stomp down on the accelerator, the

car jerks but it doesn’t go forward. “Hurry, they’re coming.” He sounds tired. “I’m sorry, just make it stop.” I stutter; they are coming. I stomp on the pedal again, this time it comes loose from the dirt and screeches forward. It’s swerving, I can’t control it. “You’re going to die.” Mark is around my neck again. “You’re going to die, die, die...” He sings. I hold the wheel, trying to get control. I push the break as hard as I can and the car skids; I can see the smoke in the wind shield. Finally it stops.

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can, you never get away, you’re only a man,” he sings into my ears. I straighten myself out and keep going. “Cable Road,” a sign reads. (There’s a gas station two miles from here.) The bugs are digging into my skin; I can feel them in my skull. The road ahead is dark. I try to concentrate. The gas station lights blind my eyes. I run into the brightly lit 7-11, hitting the hard, gritty floor as soon as I’m in. They are here too, they are smothering me. I can’t breathe. “Wake up,” a girl’s voice streams into my consciousness, “wake up.” She’s wearing white, and has a white cup in one hand, her other hand closed. “Where am I?” “You’re safe.”

I need no reminders to think about you every single day.

Ignis

Ariana Wright Fire blazing, dancing Leading minds astray Hell, the inferno raging Left crimson embers behind Haunted by the flames Ignite your burning veil Pyres intensely glowing Scorch her scarlet earth Withered there her forest Broiled flowers blossom From your veil, you are watching Gaze, as your desire blooms Broken, her trees Incinerated silence Your veil, now it moves Brings hope to new life Her paradise, her lullaby Sung in ashes of rain Your soothing flow of tears Extinguishes my velvet flame Open now your shroud Closed again it will be Singing, I hear her earth Scorched again, you will see

Open Up

Sewing

Ashley Baker It is a simple thing to feel alone. Diversity, it seems, is something to be alienated by, even though it is supposed to strengthen us. As Albert Einstein put it, “It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely.” Cultures, ethnicities, languages, class, sexualities, religions. How many ways can we isolate ourselves? How hostile will we become towards each other for the differences that we, ourselves, have imposed? Hostile enough for war after war, throughout history. The crusades of the Middle Ages. The Holocaust. Darfur. All of these struggles to prove one group’s right to exist over another. To prove that their members were not alone. Martin Luther King regarded this phenomenon from a more rational perspective. He spoke of a “network of mutuality,” and how we are all tied into it. How, even in our greatest struggles, pains, and conflicts, we are all part of a brotherhood, bound together by the fibers of humanity, by what we are. We are all human. No matter how strange or foreign or weird we may seem to each other, there is always that common ground. We are all human. But this common ground does not have to be a connection by our strife. It is also by our endeavors, hopes, dreams. Like Martin Luther King, we all have dreams. These visions cannot be reached if the strain of hostility tears at the threads which tie us together. Prejudice cuts and frays the threads, makes it impossible to reach out and connect. It leaves us stranded and alone, even when we are surrounded. All of the fragmented fibers and fraying threads can be, will be, overcome. And then, it will be clear who stands beside you. It will be clear who you are connected to, but never saw before. And they will see you, too. It is a simple thing to feel alone. It is a powerful thing to belong.

Within My GraspOilsTaylor Fox

I am terrified of reading/speaking in front of people EXCEPT in Creative Writing. 31

The Stage Lynsey Fadul

Open Up

The light blinds me and I cannot see anyone, anything else. A semi-hush falls over the crowd as I take a deep breath to prepare for the release I’m about to experience. The light begins to dim and is now pinpointed on me and the microphone stand. Although quiet, there are still voices, whispers I can’t decipher. The atmosphere, my beloved atmosphere begins to wrap its way around my body. And I nestle there. I become completely comfortable with where I am. And then the guitar starts to moan a twelve bar that’s smooth as butter. A light drum makes his way to duet with the guitar. I close my eyes to let it fill my chest, its reverberations making my whole body sway. It’s the ninth measure in the twelve bar, the turn around is making its stand, coming from the guitar to take a solo. I count down to that twelfth measure and take another deep breath.

Lao New YearOilSompaseuth Chounlamany

My mouth opens and I invite the world into my heart ache with my words of sorrow, Etta James pouring though my soul as I croon a note to the audience. I get lost in the way my own voice bounces off the walls and comes back to me, hitting me with the sultry alto I never knew I could give. Verse after verse, chord after chord, I can imagine the people getting lost in what I say, the story that I tell them. Guitar starts to make his way to the last bar, and I find myself ending the song reluctantly with one last final, long standing note. My legs are shaking the slightest bit from the performance, my heart beat unsteady from the sadness of the song. But the crowd rises up in one body to present me a gift for giving them me: their gratitude. Whistles and claps. I smile and bow. This moment is what I live for. I despise being alone. 33

Ten Golden Rules Ashley Groth

Rule #1: Take your camera everywhere you go Dammit

What? Missed it again Missed…? The moment Moment? Now it’s ruined I don’t see what you’re trying to— Yeah see, that’s the point; if I had my camera I could have captured it

Rule #2: Use it0 any time—day and night Cold, huh? I guess That’s what you get when the sun sets y’know? I suppose so Hey Yeah…? Take my picture But the sun’s down, there’s not enough So what’s it matter? You’ve got a flash But it’s not the same I dare you What…? I dare you Just take the picture Okay, but I’m telling you… One, two Three

Open Up

Rule #3: Lomography is not an interference in your life, but part of it You always have that thing with you, huh? Yeah, that’s because it’s Is it— Yes But doesn’t it get in the way? No It must get heavy So it does Then why do you…? Because this camera is a part of me You mean like an arm or a foot? No, I mean like my soul

Rule # 4: Shoot from the hip Why don’t any of these pictures have heads? Trying something new Headless isn’t new, it’s sick Not everything is headless All the people are headless Sure but the dogs aren’t And the babies It’s still weird You know what’s really weird? Babies with no bodies Dogs that are just tails

Rule #5 Approach your photographic desires as close as possible Hey, help me down here Down where? Down there…? Yeah I see American beauty down here You’re crazy, that’s a sewer A beautiful sewer It smells, see there’s even a rat Rats aren’t beautiful? Not that one What are you…? Let’s get out of there I can’t Don’t be stupid, come on… Hey what are you-- ! You wouldn’t help me so So you jumped in! I told you, there’s beauty down there.

Rule #6 Don’t think click

click click click Will you stop that? click Stop what? You’re wasting film Wasting...? What are you even taking pictures of ? click click click I don’t know click How can you takes pictures of nothing? click It’s not nothing Trust me

Moving CabPhotographyKiyoshi Shaw

I know that all of my friends are going to be more successful than me... 35

Rule # 7: Be fast Why can’t I just— Do what? I’m not fast enough What’s so fast you need to You don’t see it? See… what—? There it is again What—that? What is it? I don’t know yet It’s too fast for my camera

Rule # 8: You don’t have to know beforehand what you captured on film Can you help me up? Up where…? I want to see what’s over this fence Even if you stand on my shoulders you couldn’t see over that fence I have arms don’t I? Yeah, but— I can reach up and snap it You mean take a picture? Yes How can you take a picture, do you even know what’s— No, that’s why I need to take the picture Will you help me or not?

Open Up

Rule # 9: And you don’t necessarily have to know afterwards either What are these? Pictures Where were you? They don’t tell you? It’s all blurs! Where are there blurs? I wonder… Skating rink? Bicycle path? Cars? Roller coaster? I think I can make something out I don’t see anything It’s—it’s there, see it? Oh yeah, I see it The fourth dimension

Rule # 10: Don’t worry about any rules

ScaffoldingPhotographyKiyoshi Shaw

Can you hand me the scissors? Sure, what are you— Shit, what are you doing? I’m experimenting You’re cutting it apart! Experimenting… You’ve torn the lens apart! And the back! I want to see what happens if If you what, destroy your camera? Your soul? Well see, there’s this bit I can put on here, and I’ll tape the back together eventually Could you hand me the— What if it doesn’t work? I’ll have to get a new camera, I guess You’re okay with that? We’ve been through a lot together But now we want to break the rules. ...and I’ll just have to pretend to be happy. 37

Gettysburg

Sean Redmiles

I looked long and hard across the verdant fields, red and gold flashing brilliantly from every tree. In the distance blue mountains dotted the horizon and from where I sat it seemed that I could walk forever and never reach them. Peace pervaded from every granite boulder, a peace that felt stronger than any other I had ever experienced and was over 140 years old. A great and terrible battle took place on those fertile plains and from then onward the site was entombed in tranquility, as if to honor the men who met their end there so long ago. I loved Gettysburg, for every moment I spent there rejuvenated me down to my very soul. I smiled, remembering when I was young and first came to the battlefield, at about age 7. I wore a grey army cap, grey pants and a grey shirt, these coupled with my plastic sword and toy rifle made me a prime target for every union-dressed boy in the vicinity. Tumbling amongst the massive boulders of Devil’s Den (so named because of the bitter fighting that occurred within the shadow of the huge rocks) I was suddenly ambushed by two boys in

blue with smoke-popping guns. They rose up from a giant stone ahead of me and let loose a volley, sending my frightened form scurrying behind the nearest chunk of granite available. From my hiding spot I peered towards them and observed them reloading with a thin smoke cloud above their heads. I sent a pretend shot in their direction and ducked as they fired again. From where I crouched I could hear one boy urging the other to capture me while he kept my head down. There was no choice but to rush to another shelter, but the second I leapt up and moved into the open my adversaries both emerged. They fired point blank at me and I was faced with a dilemma. To continue running would be to forsake the laws of the game, for I had most assuredly been shot in this pretend world. Yet to remain wounded meant capture by two strange boys whom I’d never met and for all I knew could have a policy of beating their prisoners. I chose to fall to the ground clutching my arm, convulsing in pretend agony. My attackers gave a yelp of delight and dashed to the spot, evidently exuberant that

Sun BreakthroughPhotographyAmanda Pfost

Open Up

they had downed a rebel. “Stay put ya stinking Reb,” spat the obvious leader, a boy two inches taller than me with a significantly larger build. “My buddy here’s gonna find you a good jail, then we’ll deal with you.” This last statement put me in an anxious state of mind and I began to wonder if I had not made a bad decision. However, if I abandoned the game I would be labeled as a sore loser and to the fragile ego of a ten year old this was intolerable. Besides, the size of my captor made escape not only unsporting but extremely unlikely, so I quietly waited for the other boy to return. Presently he did, and pointing to a large pile of four boulders piled together, as if a giant had stacked pebbles for throwing. When we reached it I was told to sit inside while the two of them stood over me blocking my escape. They seemed confused over what to do with me next because no one spoke for several minutes. Finally the leader pointed toward my sword and demanded that I hand it over. You must know that I loved my sword and having made it myself from a fallen tree branch, I felt a kinship with it, much like man to dog. But obviously my situation did not afford me the luxury of denying them anything, so I determined to talk myself out of it. “Well boys,” I started, layering my voice in as thick a southern accent as I could muster. “A man’s pride is everything to him, and you sharp fellas done gone and stole whatever dignity and pride I had left, leaving me with only this sword. I ask you that you not deny me this one solace.” (I read a lot even at that age, explaining my vocabulary.) My plea seemed to puzzle the duo as if they sympathized with me but were torn between their empathy and a new toy. I knew which way this struggle would ultimately end and suddenly I hatched a plan. “Well what do you boys say we get down to the real business of this here capture? Like I said, you boys are mighty sharp to have captured the only confederate on this battlefield who knows where the rebel gold is stashed.” This sent looks of shock and wonder across their pudgy faces, but they quickly hid them instead nodding solemnly and saying, “That’s right Reb. Now you’re going to lead us to it.” The two exchanged a glance and

started to say something to each other but I anticipated them by raising my hand quickly, stating that I would not runoff and leave my rifle in their possession, which they had taken from me before coming to the “cave.” This satisfied their anxiety and we set off with I leading and the two blue dressed soldiers right behind me, weary of escape. It should be noted that at this point I was shooting from the hip and although to some of you my plight may not seem extraordinary, to a ten year old this was an adventure of epic status and I felt quite a bit of fear. But I doggedly pressed on, climbing rocks up one and down another, searching carefully for the best spot to escape. At last I found it and gestured towards my captors. Whispering in a circle, I said, “Well boys this is it. Right in front of you is the treasure trove. There is one problem with trying to get in there but it should be no trouble.” I stopped to let the two boys think what sort of issue there could be around simply snatching gold to look at the “trove”. Much like the “cave” it was a hole formed by three boulders; however this particular crevice was centered on the ground rather than on top of another rock. Here I made the last flourish to complete what I thought was a brilliant escape. Pointing to the “trove” I told them that a fox lived in there but that this should be no trouble if two kind gentlemen would simply poke their rifles in and scare the fox out by firing loudly into the hole. They rushed to their task so vigorously and so enthusiastically that they made two dire mistakes. One boy left my rifle laying on the ground so he could use his own smoke-capped rifle while both of them left me completely unguarded. Needless to say this is what I had expected and without so much as a backward glance I grabbed my rifle and ran for it. I could hear their cries of rage and grinned in delight. When I decided they were off my trail, I stopped and leaned over panting. Never before had I felt so alive, and to this day I cherish the memory. When I walked to where my dad was sitting on a bench fifty yards from the mass of boulders, I was a new person. Boldly standing in front of him, I proclaimed my desire to eat at McDonald’s. He nodded, eyes filled with amusement and answered, “Whatever you say son.” To this day I suspected he knew exactly what had happened.

My greatest fear is that I will never do anything great. 39

ResurrectionAcrylicsKelly Teboe

Open Up

Beach Cassie Hart Hello Life. Beautiful, inconsistent life Which moved every inch of my soul. I breathed you in for air and peace. I took you on like the wave takes to the rocks, Swiftly and painlessly under its current that is Rushing, rushing ever faster in a frantic, wild, explosion of color Creating a storm of sound crashing against my shore. Along which I would run, Running far past all others to become complete. And I ran to where I truly met myself. Wrapped up in a dress worn by my mother, My daughter, my loved one, but first me. I am now found with wings. In a sun lit world, longing for love, I lived. Even in the storms on the beach I lived my best I know this because now I am loved. Dedicated to Alyssa Beach (May 27, 1992- January 11, 2009)

I wish I could tell you I love you…

The Finders Kimberly Sheridan

The rain. It was no longer refreshing, no longer the symbolic cleanse of daily sin but a constant misery, a bloated flood that turned the world to sodden pulp. The pearl-sized splashes tumbled, leaving a clanging ring as they clipped the hood of her car. With a delicate distaste Elle raised her head to reassure herself of R’s shadow, still solid dark in the unsure collapse of the gray afternoon; she honked the horn again, listening to the strangled snivel that croaked it way out from under the hood. R remained, stone-still, drowning, waiting for some unknown signal and only willing to relinquish her position of barricade when the car’s defiant growl was extinguished. The world spilled over into the open window and her with it, hair stuck and strung, eyes swimming in their sockets. “Yeah?” “Move.” “Nope.” “I’ll hit you.” “You won’t.” “I will, I’ll break your stupid legs so you’ll stop doing this.” “I’ll hold onto the windshield, at least until I pass out, we should make it to Seattle before you scrape me off.” “Stop, I was kidding.” “Of course.”

Open Up

She leaned her head against the steering wheel, exhausted. “Just stop, this isn’t okay anymore, it isn’t funny.” “I’m not joking.” The rain made R look younger, washing away the sticky car exhaust and disgusted looks, the lack of food and sleep, the carelessness. Underneath was a peter pan, a lost boy, she placed stormy hands on the windowsill and got close, she smelled like smoke, nothing like a conscience, nothing like help. “Come on.” “What?” “Get out of the car.” “Why?” “I’m gonna show you something.” “Yeah? Something that will keep me here?” “Yep.” Forward motion moved her, the car was a single moment now and it would take her nowhere, R took her hand and led her. The rain trickling down into their shoes and feet, into their blood as they walked the water-logged streets of a place they could hardly recognize. The water grew deeper; it bubbled and poured trying to wash them away, to steal their color. R walked first, she was used to this weather. She paused for a moment at a parking structure, the deep mouth of the entrance filled with the melody of rushing water, a cave. R pulled her into it, down and down and further until she shed her coat and swam forward. Underneath them the skeleton cars had grown barnacles and shadowed creatures

shifted in the gloom. Beside her a turtle slid lazily into the water. Where had they gone? R tread above the darkness on the garages’ far side, looking at her, “Stay close.” The breath she took filled her belly and down she went into that subterranean twilight, down together and further until Elle’s breath burned in her throat. Sound and color seemed to swim in pools around her, brought down from that upper world, that gray world. R led her up, bursting from a lagoon of settled blackness and there in the chamber she saw it. With quiet careful moments R lifted herself from the dark water to sit on the pools’ sharp lip, while behind her something glowed and pulsed. Elle was tugged up and she rolled into her solidity, hacking and coughing and shaking with the effort of it, she stared in awe of the pulsing thing, her eyes looking from their corners and their tops, all of the unknown angles in an attempt to see it within itself. “What is that?” R would not look at it, the glow fell on her shoulders as she smiled and kicked her feet in the obsidian basin. “Love.” “Love?” “Yep, that’s it.” “Where are we?” “Who knows, a parking garage maybe?” “You found love in a parking garage?” “Where would you have looked?” “Good point.” “Want some?”

“What?” “Want some?” “Can you do that?” “Finders keepers, there’s just one catch.” “What?” “You won’t leave.” Elle laughed. “Yeah, okay.”

ReflectionPhotographyChandler McLaughlin

I am a compulsive liar. I feel that if I don’t I’m literally nobody. 43

Sunset BeachPhotogrophyPatrick Stolte

Open Up

Walking barefoot in March: Cool blades feel wet against my skin, Pebbles and glass stab at my soles— Heel, slap, Heel, slap Heel Earth sticks between my toes; Connected by dirt and skin, I pulse with the Earth I pulse with the Sun I am bare The bottoms of my feet are Calloused and bruised Carefully, Carefully I wash away the pigments, The mud that stains my flesh.

Walking Barefoot in March Ashley Groth

I’m addicted to helping people who don’t want my help. 45

GracePrisma Ink WatercolorKelly Teboe

You Call it Heaven Kevin Brennan

Open Up

Mighty is the great willow tree Long its hair falls wispy to the ground Sweeping winds send its tousled branches free And cloaks all it falls round. Softly birds navigate a heart set path Through the tangled limbs. Heroic is their escape from the clash. Prey to those on great willows rims’. Quiet is the sound for those who hear, Resting on the willows’ base. And nothing is all to fear Rest in comfort in this place. All you know is never true, Grow from here and become anew.

Chill

Courtney Bryce

“I kept it just for you,” he whispered, drifting his fingertips along the stone. The chill drew a sigh from him, “It’s not the same without you. And this- this block, it doesn’t fit you. It’s so cold and unfeeling, it’s not you.” He dropped to his knees and brushed his lips to the marble. “That’s why I kept the garden, I’m sorry but I couldn’t handle anything more. Your memory still hangs in the air. There’s a taste of you in every room. I haven’t been able to clean anything, how could I?” He sighed again, “I know you wouldn’t like that, you were always particular in how you kept things.” His fingers found the curve of her name and traced the indentions. “But I need you still. I can’t change what you left. I can’t- I can’t change me.” Brows furrowed in thought, he grimaced, “I know you told me that I would need to move on, change, but- Jesus- I can’t do that! You made me who I am! You made me a man; a better person, a son worthy of adoration, a brother worthy of his sister’s trust. That was something I never knew I could be!” He yanked a hand through his hair, expelling breath from his lips in silver clouds. Sliding around, he leaned against the stone and closed his eyes. “I miss you.” And although the words were whispered they echoed through the gentle tension of the empty graveyard with booming force. “I love you, James.” The breeze tickled against his ear, as his eyes flew open. “Kristi! Kristi!” Wild eyed, he gathered himself to his feet and searched the yard with a fervent hope, only to be met with chilling emptiness. Tears pooled in disappointed eyes, “I love you too.” He turned once again and slumped against the stone, content in the coldness, content in the chill, and perfected by her memory.

Little bro, you’ll always be my hero.

Aegis

Kiyoshi Shaw

Michelle sat in the clean room, the soiled clothes in the hamper beside her. Another successful stitch up. The phone on the wall rang, and rang, and rang. “Hello?” “This is Stacy, checking to see if the surgery is over.” “It’s over.” “Michelle?” “Yes.” “Hey, David is out here waiting for you.” Michelle paused. “I’ll be out after I clean up.” She put the phone back on the hook. Surgery had lasted twelve hours. It was relatively fast considering how serious the man’s torso had been shredded. Michelle had slid into her suit and wrestled with death for half of a day, and then shed it once again, leaving the filthy, contaminated mess in the hamper. Now she stood here, in this absolutely silent, cool, clean environment. Before every surgery she prepared herself here. After every surgery she escaped here. She likened the feeling to when a person takes a bite of a food, or a swig of a drink, that they find truly revolting, and they have to madly dash to a trash can or bathroom to spit it out, before their body convulses and they expel the foreign substance. With closed eyes, and deep breaths, she thought of David. She would walk over to him, and the first thing they’d do was hug. Then, he’d pull away and look into her eyes. She had seen the same look so many times the cones in her retinas could replay it perfectly. Then, they’d kiss. She ran her hands over her hair. It was heavy, pulled back in a ponytail. Hair was so resilient. Like silk, it was easy to break or cut, but it wouldn’t decay, or be damaged by water or the elements. Like the mouth. The mouth was constantly recoated in saliva, constantly working to repair itself. But the thing that impressed her the most was the skin. In thirty five days, the skin could for all intents and purposes completely replace itself. Skin cells are lost every second of every day, but others quickly grow in. In just over a month, your skin will be completely new, and one part of the epidermis is the lips, which replace themselves even faster. Michelle washed her hands one last time, scrubbing away hundreds of thousands of cells, and exited down the hall. In a minute she saw David. She walked towards him and he stood up, flowers in hand. Thirty five days and every cell would be new. She met him and they hugged. He slid his hand over her hair and pulled out the hair-tie, letting the brown strands fall around her head delicately. Without moving away he kissed her. Michelle stood frigid. A mouth can replace itself quickly. All of the moist parts of the body can. Slowly, he pulled away, looked at her, and smiled. The eyes you have at birth are the eyes you’ll die with, but, fortunately, the lips will peel off and fall away in thirty five days.

TwiggyInk and WatercolorShannon Brady Mom, I’m not a virgin. 49

Worms

Ashley Backer

The mountain, Maimed and maddened, Saw its once majesticSaddened, Mirrored upon a blueBleeding, blackened, Brown-body Shiv’ring in the breeze. The breeze before Was never bore Across so pure A reservoir Troubled now By wayward winds, The water wished The waves would wilt, The fish wished They would cease, What’s only worse, The fish would say, Is growing Feet and knees To queasiness a few Befell, mindless Of the slurry slew, Their sea became A sickly stew Seasoned just With miner’s dust A tasteless toxic dew. The mountain wailed, Picked and pocked, Probed, undignified. His coat of trees, Green grassy form Was shorn before He wore disguise, Ugly, ugly, Picked and pocked, Ripped away like Skin flash-flayed,

Open Up

No trees by which To hide, passive Pines accept a fate Of chop chip chip Chop chip. The mountain- bareCan hardly care, Ashamed of his disease. Full flowers once Are always stripped By busy, bumbling bees. The worms emerge, Urged by the rain, Which burns a bored And steady pain, They climb-crawl On the concrete Yet they say it’s Not insaneThe dirt beneath Now shifts and seeps, Floods fast to far away. They know not where It flows or if They do they Dare not say. The sun still shines And shows its face, A smile seeming So misplaced, The mountain screaming, Breaking down, Into a sea of Sinking ground, Or sadly floating Flippered rounds. Uprooted pacifists Pine for peace, But they are lost, They are deceased,

And the worms writhe, Want not to die, Oh ironic light Might cut the line, I see them, 5 feet under My god-like eyes, Feeling, frightened, Fingerling-things, A boat of bark Or mulch might Manage to bring One to the grass, But there’s always Always A million more A million dying For each million born, Beneath the Blue of bandaged Hills, hand holding A twig, The bitterness is Only this that I can’t save them all, I cannot save them all.

Break FreeWatercolorJade Brooks I am a person, a human, a girl, a lover, a fighter. I am terrified, but most of all I’m a mystery. 51

At WarPhotographyAshley Groth

The Christmas Truce Aaron Persh

Hope was always a frail creature; a paralyzed harbinger of peace, the mute messiah, a lost messenger. Growing tired and breathless, it gasped for air as its men buried themselves deep within the trenches; coughing for life. Hope began to depart on its final breath as the Great War began. Mile-long graves as one could see them, farreaching pits made to kill or be killed in; they were the stations, the bases which ran across the front line and harbored those who were willing to die for their country as it was the only reason they’d ever leave at all. Beside them fought a brigadier named Death, the manifestation that both shot alongside the men, and shot at them as well. With each kill, a stony grin rose on his bony cheeks as he rallied the fierce and rattled the weak, simply tossing out the pawns of war. He

Open Up

could not be stopped. The veiled stalker took rounds through the narrow paths, inspecting his unit. With boots saturated with mud and disease, he kicked the rats that ran over his covered toes, the slimy vermin rotting with pestilence, spreading filth by fang. However, his march halted as he witnessed a trooper stopped to pray, curled in a corner as he clutched a golden likeliness of holy referee of battle. The soldier shivered within his hefty uniform, a frail body shaking under a coat too large to notice his twitch. The polished .303 across his shoulder completed the divine comedy; a veteran blade wrapped upon an inept apprentice. Bile rose under Death’s gullet at such a misuse of ability as his cold talons rustled underneath the leather gloves; yet he remained unmoved. He couldn’t do anything about it now, but in time, the private’s own inexperience would satisfy such a crass gesture on the board of play. Before the brigadier could have a word, “Cover!” was shouted, and the private vanished. Sol-

diers dashed away from the area as they removed masks from their suits and slid them on, fumbling for another chance. Down like hail they were sent. The gas shells ruptured like shrapnel-covered lungs; exhausting monochrome vapors from their innards. The clouds grew and absorbed the slow men falling to their knees in chemical asphyxiation. The trench however was not defeated as it was filled once again by faceless gunners, resuming their stations and resuming fire, but one still resisted. Pushing past the mobilizing force, he felt his nerves broil. The brigadier pulled down a solider from a firing rut; the selected unit falling backwards from a moist, red hole in the center of his brow, a spot opened just for the martyr. “Assume your station, soldier…” he rumbled in a low breathless tone. The private scrambled, hesitant but not, as he ran for the firing rut where he would take aim and murder. One by one the enemy fell surprisingly, and it was all in deadly efficiency. The private murmured laments as he released rounds on the opposing front. Where other troops may have been an inch too high and dead, or too low and blindly shooting, he had tempered himself between those two inches and made off with such accuracy that his skill superseded his rank. The boy wasn’t a marksman or a frontline gunner, instead the brigadier had wound up with a sniper in his trench. A special class solider who took his time finding a place to nest and shot what he would through an eagle’s eye. What he chose in his prey was his own aim; any head untouched was a sign of a rusty shot, or rebellious mercy. The clouds picked up as rain pelted the soldiers, drenching them only further. On and off, they slipped off the masks; the rain had soaked up the gas clouds and lightened the smog, but not the burden that still remained. Others rallied as the window of opportunity cracked; in the confusion let there be siege. Men ran from their sanctuary across the No-Man’s land, new graves would soon have to be dug. However, the shots came unexpectedly few. Silence. The trench within ears-reach could be heard in a murmur; artillery ceased fire, rifles became mute; nothing came more clamorous than a whisper. As the brigadier began to call for his troops, the fog began to form into shapes, silhouettes of soldiers returning from the opposing front. However, they were not all friends. One or two shots were fired as the men ap-

“Frohe Weihnachten.” proached, slow with arms raised: a surrender? As they approached, they became more distinct, holding not guns or grenades, but bottles of wine and branches of holly. Behind us we heard our brigadier roar in spite of the deviant gesture. “Fire! Attack! They’re the enemy and right in front of you. Let them be the stupid, frail soldiers they are, and shoot them all. They gassed you like pests, shot you like dogs, their only motivation for doing so was feeding their own lust for blood. These sick bastards are right here; do not let your country down just because of this scare tactic. Fire troops! Get back here and kill! Slay! Conquer!” The private heard only the thunder clap of the mighty storm as he trembled before the enemy soldier, who offered presents of peace on the front downpour of the tempest. “Frohe Weihnachten,” he called. The brigadier was done. Approaching the private, he screamed against the storm. “Fire your weapon or I will for you, and I can guarantee that your service on my front will be at its end if you don’t.” The private considered in his short pause, which was still too long. The brigadier lunged forward to rip the gun from the private as they began wrestling the weapon back and forth. “You dare defy me, your commanding order, and your very nation? The enemy stands before you powerless. Now eliminate him. Give me the gun so I may finish this demon and then show you the exact cost of your weakness.” The private’s grip did not diminish, but strengthened suddenly as the rifle twisted against the brigadier, the butt smashing across the man’s temple, as he fell back with a heavy splash in the trench’s murky shallows. “I am not weak; a certain brigadier was just deafening my ear for the last time,” he recited in final prayer. As the private turned once more and regarded the outstretched hand, he smiled tenderly as the demand to kill faded away. For however brief a time it was, it felt just a bit like hope was alive and well, standing right next to them all. A manifestation that laughed, prayed, and carried on even when death rode on his shoulders.

I still can’t decide if it’s selfish to pray for world peace just so you won’t have to fight this war. 53

Sick

Courtney Bryce I’ve asked myself countless times Why the grass cannot be green Why it prefers to crinkle and break Beneath dancing toes, serene. Do you think perhaps The Earth is sick? That it no longer feeds Our whim? Perhaps it’s cried so many tears That it, itself could swim. My heart aches For that broken grass

Yes, I believe the Earth is sick That its soil is on our hands. The hands of humans Careless and cruel Who’ve devoured giving lands. And let the snow-drops kiss my nose, I wish to bow down To emerald grass That forever grows and grows. Burned in shadow still How long since it gleamed Emerald simply just by will? I wish to lay amongst the lilies, Dual PersonalityPenMeranda Lattanze

VeneziaPhotographyClaire Morrison

Open Up

E c h o [an excerpt from Narcissus] Kimberly Sheridan

It was Venice in summer, with the

boats on the water, and the whole city sinking around us. I wasn’t used to such beautiful places, I had grown up in the filth and folly of a cityscape with a name meaning endless want, Echo, they called me, the repetition of others, the woman who loved so intensely she became nothing but a voice. My mother named me this because she would have wanted me to be her, her sister cell and perfect repetition, unspoiled by a father’s genes, her one and only reciprocation from a world of unreturned favors. She was a feminist, disagreeable with her inability to singularly procreate, and I am a stolen child. Venice in summer is hot as the water looks like a thousand different worlds, the reflection changes and you are no longer beside me, the surface looks cool and solid and our sweat drips from our noses, joining the endless water, the flow of past to future. You can navigate these rivers backwards in time, with your paddle in the water; you row Venetian style into the past. Boatmen do not pole the river; it is too deep. Time is too deep.

lined with conspiracy. They were who they had always been. Among them I was a bruise, I felt the weight of my own anachronism, like an anchor it took me into the canal, I could have used an anchor then. I spoke to none; my words were indiscernible from noise to them, and the only voices I understood were those of tourists cackling in rapid cockney. Behind them was a glimmering pane, the face of a clear lake, and within, a picture. A painting which I had never seen of a woman wrapped in cloth, which parts of her were real I could not say but looking at it I felt the most exquisite understanding of connectivity. I touched my fingers to the glass and was surprised at the chill it conveyed, eerily it seemed frozen, mythically so and I pulled my hands back, fearing I would be transformed. When nothing in me stirred I touched it again, pressing my palms flat, my cheek and lips, I wanted to permeate and become, diffuse into this place I could not touch.

Among them I was a bruise, I felt the weight of my own anachronism, like an anchor it took me into the canal, I could have used an anchor then. Sun divides the afternoon into light and shadow, cool and hot, suspect and natural, the faces of buildings are made to slants, they buckle and take on water. This whole place is sinking and us with it; I’ve sunken into you. I was with a woman named Lilian, Lilian the saint, Lilian the martyr. I had known her for years and she spoke to me as if I were a child, in the hotel she banned me from the mini-fridge and bade me go entertain myself, she was having guests, “Important people,” she said, shooing me, “People with a chance at this life.” I dare not wander the city, I was no puzzlemaster, no navigator, I spoke no Italian and owned no boat, instead I took what paths I trusted and found myself in the sun. Small crowds warmed themselves against the ancient stone, a familiar sight to the all seeing things, and I thought they might have been the renaissance men, the women in their silk dresses and the aristocrats, pockets

“Avete bisogno di qualcosa?” “Would you like something?” It was a woman with her hair tied back and sleeves pulled up, the skin of her hands looked accustomed to creation, stained with the pigment they had been drenched in time and time again, she placed a sign on the street and I realized then that I could understand her. “Your...is this your work? Eh, vostra pittura?” “Si, le mie pitture, sorry, my english is not too good.” I struggled with my pockets, scrambling desperately for something that was valuable, money or soul; I found some pound notes from dinner the night before and offered them to her. “Could I buy..um..affare?” “Si,” She smiled and I was lost in her, “Come in.” I still think about a girl I never talked to.... 57

She hovered through, settling now and then behind the counter or by a large arrangement of canvases as she tidied things, I knew that this was not a place of business but a place of work. There was no presentation only the raw scent of oils and the feel of nearly-liquid color that hung, suspended between the forge and the forged. “A Landscape? A portrait.” I refused her limited vocabulary and attempted a human language; I touched a stack of wooden frames and beseeched her soundlessly that she may allow me further passage into the world of her creation. For a moment she faltered on my silent plea but found herself soon thinking in the way of the mute, we would tell ourselves with our bodies, that would be enough. She nodded and I began. What is it you’re looking for? A face you know captured in color or a face you’ve forgotten and long to recall, what is it your soul wants? What is your impulse? Overwhelmed I searched; it seemed her horizons were limitless, fantastic but not indulgent, not selfish or self-aware. Vulnerable paintings, revealing themselves as if half-clothed, modest and telling of something far deeper than themselves. I scanned the shop; she interrupted now and then with a quiet tap, inquiring as to my position. Had I any favorites? Any preferences? She wanted desperately to help and I could not apologize when I gave her nothing, in my state the Italian apology had been forgotten, all language had been forgotten or refused, I had absconded from communication, from rational thought. I found a picture of a goddess. Hera, I knew her on sight, her brow furrowed in frustration, in annoyance, and beneath her a meager wasted body. They were locked together in embrace, unknown to me whether it was one of sensuality or loathing. I saw in it rancor and swelter. I paused, staring into it for long moments, envying it and coveting it, she touched my shoulder and I nearly struck her out of fear, I had forgotten her in that moment. “Il mito .”

Open Up

I could not understand, she tried again. “Il storia.” “The story?” “Si. Greco, hera punisce eco.” Her fingers slid over the unfed flesh of the painted girl. I felt them on my back. “Hera punishes Echo.” I knew this story; it was my story. “Colloqui troppo.” She smiled, her hand flapping in the charade of speech. “She talks too much.” I bought the canvas for all the money in my pocket and vowed to return for a suitable frame; in the hotel room Lilian questioned me on my purpose. “You’ve never liked the arts. Why now such a patron? Why now such a collector?” I couldn’t see the reason for her outburst, it was a single painting. “Was it a woman?” “A goddess.” She looked crossly at me. “Only because you make her one, it’s a trick, it’s all a trick.” “Then I’m tricked.” “You’re the type to squander your pay on a woman with a brush.” I was the type to fall in love. “I’d rather buy art.” I fell asleep as she drank brandy, my arms clasping the canvas in fear that she would strip me of it in my sleep. I dreamt of women weaving, fingers deep in looms of dawn slowly threading and rethreading each silver strand, eyes watering with focus. All of them undressed as if their labors afforded them nothing. I approached the nearest woman and inquired to her state. “Why should we wear anything?” She answered, her voice born from the loom, each phenom overlapping into sound, “We were given skin.” When I awoke Lilian had left, sparing me nothing but my canvas.

I refused her limited vocabulary and attempted a human language; I touched a stack of wooden frames and beseeched her soundlessly that she may allow me further passage into the world of her creation. For a moment she faltered on my silent plea but found herself soon thinking in the way of the mute, we would tell ourselves with our bodies, that would be enough.

Metro ReaderPhotographyAshley Groth

...who moved onto college and I will possibly never see again. 59

To-Do

Ashley Groth

To do: • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Open Up

learn to fly. keep a job. maintain sanity. find stability. find hope. give hope. love. love. Love. create a cure. for what? anything. everything. help everyone. not everyone. just you just you and you. and Myself.

COFFEE HOUSE Coffee House brings together brilliant writers, musical show-

stoppers, gifted artists, and even the dramatically inclined for a night of fun and appreciation of the arts several times during the school year. Coffee House offers students a chance to share their favorite stories, poems, or scripts while aspiring comedians have us rolling in the aisle and local bands rock it out. We also display the latest pieces from the art department. Coffee Houses has become a highly anticipated event that showcases the unique personalities and talents that make Brentsville District High School and Rhapsody, Brentsville’s annual literary magazine, so unique. The funds generated by Coffee House go toward Rhapsody’s publication, which is also paid for by bundling sales with The Flash.

Coffee HouseMarkerAshley Groth