Polaroids 2009

Brentsvile District High School

Letter from the Editor

As I sit down to write this on a stormy Monday morning, I count myself lucky to be where I am now. At this very moment I revel in the beauty of something as simple as rain, something created from simple cycles, simple processes.

From nothing, came something. I see this magazine in the same awe; blank pages gave way to breathtaking art, empty voids became passionate words with such an absolute intensity that still surprises me. Our theme this year became more of a mantra that we used in our writing, art, and personal lives. That this moment, this second, as your eyes glide over this page, is precious. It may or may not determine so many different factors of who you are and what you will become. Our cover, all pictures taken by photographer and staff member Ashley Groth, represent what we believe Rhapsody represents this year. Pieces of time taken, preserved, and presented for the world to see.

I know that within mere weeks, I will be leaving this place I have called ‘home’ for several years. I will be starting a new piece of my life, and new facet in time to fill with memories and more polaroids of moments I never want to lose. I give only my best to the staff next year and hope that they too can find a theme for the magazine that can apply to every part of their life. Until then, friend.

Sara Brooks

One day in some far off place, I will recognize your face, I won’t say goodbye my friend, For you and I will meet again.

- Tom Petty

Policy

Literary and art pieces considered for acceptance are emailed 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 art and literature anonymously. Any untitled pieces, if accepted, are given titles by the staff based on the content and subject matter of the piece. Rhapsody reserves the right to edit pieces for grammar and style. All authors and artists, regardless of acceptance into the magazine, are notified prior to the distribution of the magazine.

Colophon

The fonts used in Rhapsody were approved by scholars at the academy of Harvard University and, uhh, they wear monocles. That is all. The magazine was created using Adobe InDesign CS2 and Photoshop CS4. All art in photography was photographed or scanned at 300 dpi. Titles are in varying sizes and styles, including: AHJ Aladdin, AHJ Algerian, AHJ Aloft, Arial, AHJ Bergamo Small Caps, AHJ Bruce, AHJ Cassidy, AHJ Chantilly, AHJ Cycle, AHJ Dale, AHJ Dispatch, AHJ Function LH, AHJ Toxica, Sylfaen, AHJ Micro Square SC, AHJ Schnittger, AHJ Teresita Script, AHJ Benjamin Gothic, Letter Gothic Std, AHJ Sharpie Print, Myriad Pro, AHJ Plaza, Franklin Gothic Pro, AHJ Old Typewriter II, AHJ Gillies Gothic, AHJ Antique Olive L. Text fonts include Sylfaen, AHJ Schnittger, AHJ Sans, AHJ Bergamo Small Caps, Adobe Garamond Pro, Letter Gothic Std, Myriad Pro, Trebuchet MS, AHJ Chantilly, AHJ Latino, AHJ Antique Olive L, Verdana, and Sylfaen in size 12. All bylines are in AHJ Schnittger in size 14. Art credits are in bold, italic, and regular AHJ Schnittger in size 12. The dimensions of the magazine are 8.25’’ by 9.75’’. Rhapsody is printed on 80# stock glossy paper, the cover is 100# stock matte paper.

Special Thanks

The staff of Rhapsody would like to take time to thank the following people for their support of Coffeehouse, Rhapsody, and the arts at Brentsville.

Artise Gill for your neverending support, jokes, and shoulder rubs whenever we’re stressed...

Jeff Reed for the Big Kahuna (32’’ plasma screen)...

The English Department for helping us to promote...

The Art Department for your beautiful submissions to the magazine...

Attendees of Coffeehouse for their unwaivering support of the arts...

Pat Ennis for his unfaltering patience and guidance...

Dr. Scott for being an amazing principal and reader at Coffeehouse....

The Smaltz family for allowing us to steal Mrs. Smaltz all the time.

1

Table of Contents

Poetry

4 Doors Linh Thi Nguyen 23 Lt. James Aldridge Sara Brooks 26 Onomatopoeia Gwen Corkill 29 Sestina for Us Heather Kaehler 30 Exposed Kelly Teboe 31 Accident Claire Morrison 32 Bliss Sara Brooks 33 Young and Alive Jen Blank

Prose

6 Breaks & Takes Kelsey Mussett 9 There’s Nothing... Aubrey Delimba 10 Ponies & Iguanas Molly Hilberg 12 Mother Kim Sheridan 13 Father Kim Sheridan 14 Happy Birthday... Aubrey Delimba 17 Diana Vignettes Ashley Groth 22 Eulogy Winter, 2009 Kim Sheridan 24 Dichotomy Claire Morrison 34 Snow Day Claire Morrison

2

36 These Words Alicia Chan 37 Hail Our Youth Heather Kaehler 44 Seress Sarah House 45 Je Pense Que... Kelly McConchie 51 Chalice Linh Thi Nguyen 53 I Am A Webster, Dave Ashley Baker 60 Character Sketch Gwen Corkill 61 Masquerade Amalhyn Shek

38 The Devil May Care Aubrey Delimba 39 The Suicide Kim Sheridan 40 South Maegan Winkelmann 46 Mirror Mirror Kiyoshi Shaw 48 Picture Picture Megan Phillips 52 A Thin Red Line Gwen Corkill 54 Spinning Sarah Ramsden 58 The Diagnosis... Kim Sheridan 59 The Prognosis... Kim Sheridan 60 Formicidae Kat McNeal

Script

21 “Unedited Psycho Ward” Megan Phillips

Art

5 Fists Caleb Fletcher 6 Children Kelsey Ekholm 8 Woods Claire Ainsworth 11 Love Shannon Fasing 13 Blind Taylor Fox 14 ! Michael Gehlsen 15 Hourglass Caleb Fletcher 16 Burgundy Erin Pierce 19 Deutschland Nicole Chakeris 20 Whirl Deanna Ulrich 22 Wounded Nicole Chakeris 25 Erdbeere Nicole Chakeris 27 Up Nicole Chakeris 28 Cliffs Nicole Chakeris 30 Bird Andrea Ekholm 31 Cross Heather Kaehler

32 35 37 39 43 45 47 49 50 52 55 56 58 59 61

Beach Claire Ainsworth John Looking Kelly Teboe Ross Claire Ainsworth Skeletal Andrea Ekholm Mask Nicole Chakeris Cafe Lindsey Cross Veinface Caleb Fletcher Self Heather Kaehler Alice Sarah Irvin Record Nicole Chakeris Abstract 16 Keri Wheelwright Shadowlined Sarah House Grandma’s Chair Claire Ainsworth Bicycle Claire Ainsworth Lines Nicole Chakeris

3

Doors.

She showed her through a small stained door And closed it tight behind, before A plea escaped her sunken cheeks – The same routine each weekly meet.

Linh Thi Nguyen

Floorquakes trailed in the dark-lit hall, A figurine feigned eight feet tall, First shadow-dressed, then phantomed fist, Her Father-Dear in dark tale twist.

She did not flee from freefall chase – Fresh bruises bloomed with ghostly grace.

Her frail-light hand reached through dusk’s night, The black stars dulled to dayshine’s sighs.

Reaching,

A curtained sky and fluttered eyes, A vacant white taste on her tongue, Remembering words – goodbye, goodbye – Paned glass echoed rays from the sun.

She saw the white vanilla door, Past petal cheeks with eyes aglow, Through written pages, bags of four, To sunshine times she’d come to know.

trembling,

She came upon their summer scene – Three members by a clear glass screen, A citric scent of tangerine, A door winking with sunshine gleam.

4

the door creaked open.

FistsWatercolorCaleb Fletcher

5

It should have been raining. It always rains in the movies where the girl gets her heart broken.

When that handsome young man shows up on her doorstep, uttering those evil little words she’ll remember forever.

Instead here I am; the blundering heroine of my own crazy film with a script that seems to have a few gaping holes where all the witty lines are supposed to be: in the hot, sticky passenger seat of a black Porsche 944, subconsciously slathering on my pink M.A.C. lip-gloss, listening to my boyfriend jumble a bunch of words that eventually lead up to “We’re over.”

He stops talking and takes a deep, shuddering breath, and I realize it’s my turn to talk. He’s waiting for me to say something along the lines of “Sure Mikey, I totally want this. I think it’s a wonderful idea to end our relationship I’ve put my being into for a whole year. I’m so happy you brought it up first. I hope we can still be friends.”

&

Breaks

I part my overly shiny lips to say something—anything but that, only to fade back to the moment I knew I was in love with Mikey. A crisp mid-summer wedding was where our romance began. At the tender age of five, I knew I had loved Mikey.

From the second I had laid my pretty patent leathered foot on the dance floor, I knew we had something special.

“Dance with me?” Were the sweetest words I could ever imagine. And as I took his hand, I felt the butterflies rise up inside me. The slow humming of a woman’s voice flooded the reception hall, and I couldn’t bear to let go of Mikey’s hand—or the weight of him crushing my tiny toes. Just as the song ended, as if on cue, little Mikey got down on one knee and whispered the most beautiful words a girl could ever dream of: “Marry me?”

As I looked down at the fifty-cent machine ring, a smile I will remember forever lit up my face.

ChildrenPhotographyKelsey Ekholm

6

&

Takes Kelsey Mussett

Fast forward about ten years later, on a canoe ride in Lake Edinboro. The water was warm, and each splash the paddle brought upon us persuaded me to jump in. Only the faint humming of motor boats around us made me think otherwise; thus we paddled on. For an hour Mikey and I glided, until we reached the small deserted island at the end of the lake. “I love you, Kelsey,” he whispered. As he slipped his hand into mine, I felt like I were the luckiest girl in the world. Followed by a passionate kiss, the moment we shared had been beautiful— “Ahem.”

I’m jolted back to reality, realizing Mikey has been clearing his throat for the past few minutes, trying to get my attention. “What?” I snap back, irritated at his lack of sentiment.

He continues with a “So…” And I really don’t mean to be rude, but I burst out with laughter—the kind one can only control by taking deep breaths.

Only, I can’t breathe. “You can’t take anything seriously, can you?” Mikey shouts, digging the Zippo out of his jeans.

Rewind to the canoe scene, take two. “I love you, Kelsey,” he had said. But as he slipped his hand into mine, I lunged forward, violently pushing my hands to his chest, sending him off the boat in a heap.

I continue laughing even harder this time. Mikey slams his hands down on the wheel, and pulls a cigarette from his frayed pocket, shaking as it tries to find its way to his mouth. “I don’t get you, Kelsey,” he mumbles, the unlit cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips. “You’re always—“ “Following other people’s scripts?” I cut him off, talking for the first time in minutes. “No, I’m writing my own.” I snag the burning tobacco from his lips, jamming it down into the hot leather seat.

He rolls to a stop, and I lean in towards him.

“How’s that for a hit movie?” I hop out of the car, letting my heels carry me away, the credits rolling in my head. R

7

WoodsPhotographyClaire Ainsworth

‘‘I wish I could be the road.‘‘

8

There’s Nothing That The Road Can’t Heal

Aubrey Delimba

They pulled him down with his courage.

Brute forced revealed the fragile part of man that he had been hiding from me for years. He cursed the ground for being so sturdy. I watched him cry into his own arms since he refused to cry into mine. He spoke of how he was now lifeless to a breathing world, and I told him to keep watching the road.

He’d fallen in love with a girl who had teeth of broken glass. The neighborhood boys threw rocks at her every time she smiled. She had been caught turning tricks in dark alleyways, selling more love then she had to offer. I watched her cake on her makeup each night before she returned home. It made him cough when she kissed him. She wasn’t impressing anyone but herself.

The drive home was always a blur to her, but it might’ve been the roads themselves. The skipping yellow lines taunted her, telling her that they’d never stop as long as she kept going. They promised that they’d make him love her, if she drove faster.

I watched as the meter skipped past sixty. I told her to stop believing the yellow devils and listen to her heart. It was too late. Bright lights came over a steep hill, meeting my eyes and crushing my face. I watched her less than gracefully fly into his car. She landed on his lap and he held her. They wasted their last breaths telling each other I love you, and I wasted mine saying, “I wish I could be the road.” R

9

Ponies&Iguanas Molly Hillberg

“I love you,” she says, like it is something you throw out into the open all the time.

It doesn’t matter that she has never said it before. Non sequitur is her thing, so it isn’t even a bleep on her radar of bizarreness. She doesn’t seem to realize that words like that can’t simply be pulled back from existence, that the breath of carbon dioxide to say them can’t be oxygen again. Now those eight little letters would thicken the layer of greenhouse gases trapping heat in our atmosphere, only one of the many consequences of her words.

“Why?” I reply, and suddenly the room becomes stuffier, making me wonder if my own carbon emissions are enough to make this happen.

Her hand skates across the old couch and loosely clasps mine, “Do I have to have a reason?”

I can’t reply, because in the back of my mind I’m revolted. My chest is seizing up like some high-security vault breached by the cleverest of thieves. Just the sight of her hand holding mine is causing the foundations of sanity to crumble, and speech is as foreign to me as color to the blind.

But, this isn’t wrong, is it? I thought I was okay with homosexuality. I was cool with the idea of the abstract, stereotypical gay couple living a life separate from mine. But now, it has infiltrated my inner circle and made the one person closest to me into one of them.

10

doing such a cruel thing. I’m lost in the midst of a paradigm shift. But I must have hit my head somewhere in the process, it all seems too surreal. In the throes of chaos, I use the only defense mechanism I have, weak humor.

“Aren’t you supposed to come out first?” I choke out, “you missed a step.”

“I don’t think the order really matters,” she says in a tone much more light hearted than mine, “it’s the feeling that counts.”

Does it? I dwell on what she said to escape here and now, because anything is better than this ironic shock of reality. When my dog Wendy died, was I sad because she had perished, or because I didn’t have something to cuddle up with me at night? Am I angry at my brother because he called me an idiot, or because he really meant it?

In that period of philosophical meditation, I hadn’t noticed she had gotten closer. It isn’t until she leans in and kisses me that I realize she is still in the room. The first thing I notice is she’s wearing the root beer lip balm I got her for her birthday, and it doesn’t really taste like root beer. Lucky for me it was a chaste kiss, just a brush of her plump, warm lips against my thin, pale ones.

“I’m not gay,” I tell her, “I’ve had a crush on Pierce Legark for years.”

“Yeah. But, Pierce has been dating Lizzy forever, and you only like him because you know he’ll never return your feelings. So it’s safe.”

“Amy?” she asks hesitantly, rubbing my paralyzed hand between her own, “did I scare you?”

“I like guys,” I continue, ignoring her blatant attack on my psyche, “I like them tall, with long hair, and a tight butt.”

I want to snap at her to stop touching me, and then am disgusted with myself for thinking of

“Amy,” she whispers, leaning in close again, “I’m tall, have guy-length hair, and have an

extremely tight butt. You can check if you want.”

her reputation, and she’ll only be remembered for the fact she liked girls.

“But, you have boobs,” I argue breathlessly, “and I’ve already told you they’re a total turn-off when we checked out guys at the mall.”

After we spend half an hour on opposite sides of the sofa, just staring up at the ceiling, she finally says, “Hey Amy, do you ever think...”

“I think I can change your mind,” and she’s resumed kissing me. I realize that she’s stole my first kiss, and now my second one. The ones I had saved for romantic moments under summer skies or umbrellas. I always imagined feeling excited or consumed with happiness, not silently praying that my dad didn’t come in and find me in this dubious position. She finally pulls back, and I can see the disappointment in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” I say, which seems like the only response to this awkward situation. But it is sincere, I really am sorry. Sorry that I’m about to lose the closest friend I ever had. Sorry that I’m repulsed by her sexual preferences. Sorry that she’s opening a can of worms that will eat away at

“That you’ll get that pony for Christmas?” I fill in, hating the tension, “I think if you’re persistent you’ll get it one day. Hell, I’ll buy you one if it makes you happy.”

Her head rolls to the side to look at me, giving me that goofy smile of hers, “I’m more of an iguana girl, carnivorous beasts are my style.”

“Never were one to follow the pony pack,” I joke, then realize my blunder.

“No,” she says sadly, “never was.”

R

LoveClay/PaintShannon Fasing

11

Cities don’t live for tomorrow. Brittle billboard barnacles grow, parasitic on the backbone buildings. Asphalt skin moans with the footsteps of strangers. The city yawns through carved tunnels slick with rush hour road rage. Energy trapped in swirling dust and the occasional nonchalant plastic bag, venturing to evoke a lone artist’s vision, blurred with overcompensation. Lights collide in a tempered polygon where roads introduce each other like friends of an awkward romance and neon sides, advertisements crashing, set themselves on fire and collide with the minds of the innocent and impressionable. This is the city’s sex. Digging into the windowsill my fingernails dangle over the crooked edge. You can look down at the behemoth metropolis, inching through a labyrinthine colossus unforgivingly labeled: World. This view is a magic carpet ride contained in a vertical rectangle. The top window is broken, bullet busted in the most beautiful way. I’d often find words in the spider web glass, always cracking, too stubborn to fall to pieces in front of me. The apartment was stripped, not even granted luxury of tape to hide its insecurities. It was like the women in the twelfth avenue club who come off of work and buy me lunch because I have a cute face, pinching my cheeks like an aunt, crashing through a jungle of overgrown memories. They talk with their mouths full, about how they used to be like me and they remind me of my mother.

R

Mother Kim Sheridan

12

Father

I don’t think the man believed me when I pointed to the sewer gate, chuckling like a hippopotamus he encircled himself and clamped an alligator hand on my shoulder. Things that are too dense to float trudge and must hide their shameful mud crusted feet in shiny black shoes.

His shoes reflected the sewer gate and the teeth.

My father was a zookeeper who was too obsessed with alligators to keep a quiet home. My siblings were reptiles that thrashed in jealousy, lost in an Electra Complex that left serrated scars on sensitive ribs. The girl who lives across the hall takes off my shirt and connects the dots of old wounds with a thick presumptive marker. My father now lives in the sewer despite what the hippopotamus may believe, he lives inside the alligator that he fell in love with and who chewed him into suspected euphoria. A literal becoming of one, like a culmination of adoration expressed vividly through ingestion. I hope he enjoys his small tumor space besides the pulsing tangle of guts that he loved so much.

People are different on the inside.

BlindGraphiteTaylor Fox

Like the hippopotamus man who offers his hand to take me to wherever lost me and only a cold front fender considers his palm. The city is alive again having halted for my memories and the hippo man is laying in the street. Surprised, I crouch on the splattered side-walk and observe slowly the emptiness storming over his eyes, the lines that diagonally devour the cross walk look like a alligators angled teeth. This city is an alligator and we all sit like a malignance amid tissue and muscle, whole through the process of ingestion. R

13

Happy Birthday, Tanya Bleach Aubrey Delimba

Tanya sat with her head in her hands, pressed against her knees left uncovered from the tears in her jeans. The only furniture in the room was a couch and a coffee table. Both were occupied. The couch held her delicate figure and the table two misshapen objects in the dark.

Inhale. Exhale.

She lifted her head and as her eyes adjusted to the room’s dim lighting the misshapen objects took form. She knew they were there, she had put them there. Fear stuck in her mind as the figures reflected back in her eyes. Her body became cold, dizzy as she took her hand and ran it along the black sleekness of the .45 caliber handgun. Was it loaded? Tanya didn’t know, and that excited her more as her fingers began tracing the curve of the trigger.

She picked up the handgun and allowed its heaviness to weigh her hands back down to her knees. Using what strength she had, she pointed the gun in various directions of the empty room, letting her finger lightly tap the trigger each time she cocked her eye and held a steady arm. She didn’t dare press hard enough to shoot. If there’s a bullet in there, she was saving it.

Distracted for a moment, she returned her mind to the room. The other object on the table was a slender shot glass filled to the brim with contents equally as sleek in color as the handgun.

Its sour sweet aroma filled her nostrils as she drew closer to the thought of drinking it. Her fascination wasn’t as intrigued by this as it had been by the handgun which she placed next to the shot glass after examining it some more.

Tanya sat back onto the couch. Her watch beeped “12:00AM” and across its digital blue screen blinked the words “Happy Birthday!”

“As if I needed a reminder,” Tanya said to an empty room.

The date was now February 2nd, 2009, Tanya’s 21st birthday. She had waited a long time for this day, 7,665 days to be exact. You want more exact? 183,960 hours. 11,037,600 minutes.

662,256,000 seconds to get to this day, this hour, this moment.

Her anticipation wasn’t out of excitement though.

It was out of loathing. Tanya hated that she got older each day and whenever nostalgia kicked in she would turn to a hidden chest of old baby pictures of herself that she kept locked away in her closet. It was the only thing her parents had left her and she was destroying it.

When Tanya felt guilty for growing old, she would unlock the chest and remove a single picture. She would sit for hours and let its image burn to the inside of her brain before she tore it into as may pieces as she could. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry....Tanya,” she would whimper.

The baby pictures ran out today and Tanya sat in front of shot of whiskey and a handgun on her 21st birthday.

“Take a shot,” Tanya said, unsure of what she meant.

“Take the damn shot.”

Tanya trembled as her hands moved towards the handgun but quickly darted back and retreated to the single shot of whiskey. Without questioning

the outcome, she swallowed the shot whole and held back the refl ex to gag and cough until her insides came out. Although she was alone and talking to herself, Tanya knew how to take a shot and keep her composure.

She slammed the shot glass back on the table hard and fast, within inches of the trigger she wished would take her life.

“There’s something wrong here. I’m not loaded.”

Tanya reached underneath the couch and pulled out a bottle of what the shot glass had been formerly full of. She refi lled it back to the brim and carefully placed the bottle onto the table.

“Take the shot,” she repeated to herself.

Tanya allowed her hand to hover over the gun this time. She stared it straight in the eye and said, “I want to feel your warmth.” The cold barrel begged to be warm for Tanya. Her hand steadied itself over the gun until it grabbed the freshly poured shot.

Swallow. Breathe. Keep your composure.

Yet again, Tanya poured another shot. And another. And another. And another. Each time she let her hand get a little closer to the gun, like the whiskey was giving her the courage to do what she always wanted to do, helping her feel what she always wanted to feel.

Good and drunk now, Tanya stood up from the couch, shot glass and handgun in hand.

She stumbled a few times before fi nding her balance and standing up straight in the middle of the room.

“Take a shot. C’mon, little Tanya. Remember what your daddy always told you? He told

HourglassPrismaCalebFletcher

you to always take a shot, little Tanya. His little Tanya. What about that soccer coach of yours?

The one that used to always invite you over to his house when no one else was there. ‘Go Tanya! Go to the goal! Take a shot!’ And your mother, your sweet young mother. She would dress you up in those pretty dresses every day for school. She wanted you to meet a nice boy and be happy. She told you to take your chances, take a shot. But you can’t, can you? You’re not that little girl anymore. You’re all grown up little Tanya, the big twenty-one. You’ve got nothing to show for it either, so go on. Go to your goal.

Meet a nice boy. Just take the damn shot.”

For the last time, Tanya pressed the sleek coloring to her lips. She went hard, she went fast.

Tanya knew how to take a shot and keep her composure. R

BurgundyPhotographyErin Pierce

16

Diana Vignettes one Ashley Groth

“Stand still for me, won’t you, Dear? Hold it, hold it…” click click click The shutter fi red in rapid succession, a faint ‘Kodak’, but just for show. Sturdy hands held solid plastic, resting on elbows planted fi rmly on the grey concrete fl oor. It was cold. I stood, Nikon D90 glued to my eye.

“Tilt your head, Dear, just a little, too much, too much, up Dear, up…” click click click Different angles yield different results. Smiling, “That’ll be all, Dear, thank you so much.”

I turned my back to the bright white of my studio, a wave of my hand and the lights were shut off and the model, gone; my shadow left with them. I rubbed my hands together and winced, they were raw. I cradled my camera with them, though, and gently they pressed a tiny button, and more gently they twisted off the large 17mm wide-angle lens. Immediately following, a dry cloth was pressed to the fl awless curved glass, and then it was capped, wrapped in a larger, velvet cloth, and placed into a perfectly cast case molded specifi cally for its $1000 body. The camera, fl ash, fi lters and gels were all cared for in much the same manner, delicate and precise and each placed into cases of their own, all inevitably ending in one larger case; hard plastic wrapped in harder fabric with a soft wool lining the internal cavity. The movements were so automatic, I didn’t even have to look.

I lifted the heavy black case up and over until it rested, unsettles on my shoulder, cutting into the fl esh and anxious against my hip until both were red raw like my hands. This was common, and my long jacket followed, it swept past the case and ghosted the backs of my thighs.

I approached the front door of my studio, and a small dusty girl, with a silly thing slung about her neck was pressed against the side glass. I swung the door open, curious.

“What are you doing here?”

“I want a job.”

I eyed the silly thing and recognized it as a camera, but it was hardly a camera.

“With that thing?”

“Her name is Diana.”

“And what’s your name?”

“My name is Diana,” and she smiled.

two

Diana visited my studio often, often enough that I looked forward to her visits, and missed her when she was absent. Always she stood, back pressed against the cool glass by the front door, and always at six ‘o clock. I had no way of knowing when she arrived of course, but she was always standing and waiting just at six; just for me.

Heaven forbid I be late.

She’d walk with me, past the heavy store fronts and the shining metallic cars, past the curbside grocery and the bookstore and the bank, and she’d leave at the corner of ‘Shortbread’ and ‘Hemlock’. She never told me where she went, but then again I never asked.

She said she needed a job and I told her no, and when she asked why, I never gave a reason, not a real reason.

I couldn’t tell her why and thusly I told her, “You can’t work with the equipment. You don’t know how.”

“What if I could?”

I turned to her, and asked, “Would you if you could?”

And then she smiled, and said, and then we stopped talking.

“Of course not, I’d use Diana.”

This same conversation continued for quite some time, and eventually she stopped asking, and I was grateful.

After a long while of silence, she asked again for a job. I asked back why she wanted it so badly, and she asked back why I cared. I thought then why I did care.

I considered giving her the job for a long time, her softness was much needed in a place where everything and everyone is crisp and clean with no room for error, and any error was quickly deleted with pursed lips, a stone face and cold eyes.

I thought of the staff, the lights men and the arts director and all the men who worked the computers, and the nice woman at the front desk, with her hair always worn in a tight bun with millions of pins sticking in and out of her blonde hair and the clean up crews with their mops and brooms and buckets of murky water.

I thought of what they would say of me, and what they would say of her had I brought her in to work. I thought of their harsh words both on and off set, and how if they started, I would start, too.

I thought of how the clients would react to such a small dusty girl, and her teal camera; I’d imagine their laughs and high noses, and that’s when I decided that she could never work with me.

I don’t think she’d have taken that job had I offered, anyway.

three

We were sitting on a train, Diana and I. A train out of the city, she bought the tickets didn’t say where to; I was nervous. I had several appointments back at the studio and I was not one to be late, especially to my own arrangements. She said we’d be back however, and I believed her.

We sat side by side on the cool benches, I wore a skirt and the faux leather stuck to my skin; it was autumn and brisk, and though the sun shone bright and warm thought the large windows, my legs were riddled with goose bumps.

The train rattled, and the people rattled with it.

She handed me her camera. It was small and light, so light that I nearly dropped it. Compared with the hard and heavy plastic of my Nikons and Canons and Fujis and Olympus’, it felt like a toy. Of course, that’s what it was.

She told me to look through the eye hole, and to see what it saw, and what she saw. I laughed silently, because her eyes and words were so serious and taking the sea foam plastic to my eye, the lightness of the foam was unfamiliar and unnerving, I could not possibly imagine what could be so serious about something so juvenile. She smiled, but her eyes did not waver; I’d never felt something so powerful.

“Go on, take a picture.”

I scoffed, but looked through all the same. Gently, she instructed me how-to, and so clumsily, I took my fi rst Diana photograph.

Looking at the photo now, I realize how utterly sub-par it really is; a man reading his newspapers whilst simultaneously speaking business on his cell phone, his black business briefcase separating him from a tanned woman listening soundlessly to her iPod. The stark contrast between the yelling man and the stone woman, with the tops of their heads cut off, and slightly out of focus, and the light leak in the corner, and the darkness around the edges was to any other a worthless image that was to be deleted at the tap of a button.

But this analog world doesn’t save room for digital deletions.

I missed all my appointments that day; she took me to a small town and allowed me to see through her plastic toy, to see how they both saw the world. I fi lled hundreds of frames with photo after photo and each of them was timeless. That fi rst shot was special, though. She had it framed for me, Diana. I went out and bought a Dreamer the very next day.

four

It took me a long time to learn my way around the Diana.

Its light plastic frame left me dumbfounded, and the fi rst time I attempted to load fi lm, seven rolls were wasted. I’d never worked with fi lm before, and as I later learned, 120 format isn’t too kind.

I attempted to do this with a degree of independence, though when Diana saw my work, she laughed.

“You wound it upside down.”

“There’s a difference?” Eight rolls. I felt ashamed, but all she did was smile. She pulled a fresh roll from her pocket, she was never without fresh rolls, and she instructed me to pull open the back. I obeyed, “Is this right?”

“No, you’ll break it.”

“This?”

“Much better, now here…”

Her voice was always soft as she encouraged me, gentle, even while scolding.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I thought I fi nally got it!”

“No, see, it’s not lined up.”

I never would have thought such a toy could be so complex, so delicate it would snap right there. One wrong step, one misalignment would shatter the whole thing; I thought my equipment was delicate.

It was thirty minutes later when I fi nished. I smiled wide, and Diana looked at me.

“Are you ready to use her?”

“I think so.”

I was still unsure, but once we left, the uncertainly quickly disappeared. click click click She took me everywhere, down to the bank and the bookstore, past the curbside grocery and the shining metallic cars, past the heavy store fronts and even past my studio. She took me to all these places and told me to shoot, and I did. She took me to the corner of ‘Shortbread’ and ‘Hemlock’ and I almost expected her to turn. She did, but took me with her. I’d never been down this street, and it was then I remembered why; the buildings were run down, dirty and mangled. She led me to a broken door and invited me inside.

fi ve

The far edges of autumn were quickly approaching, and for the fi rst time I was cold. Wrapped in two coats and a blanket, I sat curled and alone on the large couch in my living room. It’s a large room, but empty and I was only there for the fi re. I loved my fi replace, authentic grey stone with real, burning wood; I used to chop logs with my father.

Curled on that couch, I read the book Diana had come with for the first time. So anxious for that sea foam camera, it had been carelessly tossed aside, but spotting it on the lamp table I picked it up, and read. The spine cracked as each page turned and the smell of each page turned brought back kindergarden memories.

Each photograph, each story, each interview drew me farther and farther away from everything I thought had been perfect, and closer to the plastic thing I was growing to adore.

I still went to my studio from nine to six every Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday and Sunday. Every day, from nine to six.

My Nikon felt heavy now, heavier than before. The clumsy body felt awkward in my hands rather than the comfort the smooth exterior once brought to them. My colleagues noticed.

“Is something wrong, Jeune?”

“Are you sick, Jeune?”

“Will you be okay, Jeune?”

“Better step it up, important clients tomorrow, Jeune.”

I wanted to take my Nikon and smash it into the concrete ground. I wanted to spit in their faces and tell them all ‘you’re fired, you’re fired’ and never see their faces again. I wanted to take Diana and leave and never come back.

The Camera.

The Girl?

Adoration and obsession are two very different things.

DeutschlandPhotographyNicole Chakeris

19

WhirlPhotographyDeanna Ulrich

six

I loved her, Diana; I couldn’t tell if I was thinking the camera, or the girl, or perhaps them both. I held the teal plastic frame gently, she was fragile. I brought her to my eye, and my fi nger found the shutter, release. click click click Classic. Ancient in design, but just recently molded, cast from those same molds as all the others before her; she couldn’t have been more different. Light leaks, slight bumps and tears, a worn shutter or melted plastic adorned her body. Most see these as a fl aw, but I see them as perfections.

One needs a photographer’s eye, that of an artist who sees the world in a grainy black and white, with grid lines dividing each scene into perfect thirds. The eyes are the camera, the brain the fi lm and the moment, Polaroid.

I wound the fi lm carefully, intently watching the small red square laying against the back panel. No matter how often you wind that fi lm, you must always check; winding is different every time. The clicking was loud, as if every plastic piece inside her were snapping simultaneously with every twist, and had I ever brought her to the studio, she would certainly be laughed at. I would continue of course, whispering to her until the fl ipped number fi ve, six or seven or eight came into view, and then the laughing would stop, because I stopped, and she stopped. People only care when they think someone has been humiliated.

R

20

“Unedited Psycho Ward.”

Megan Phillips

A Monolouge

Setting: a juvenile detention facility building

Amber is a vain, self-righteous girl who suffers from an eating disorder and in this monologue is explaining her feelings to the main character, who is making a documentary in order to ‘graduate’ the detention center.

AMBER You have to be vain. If you don’t think you’re beautiful, who else is? Honestly, all of humanities problems would be solved if we all thought that we were pretty. Not me thinking that you are pretty, even if you are. I think I’m pretty and everyone else is not. It would work so well, because everyone would be thought of as pretty by at least one person, themselves. Mass narcissism would make us a much happier species.

And we could all stop lying to ourselves. You know that you think your eyes are more beautiful than anyone else’s, I don’t care what you say. And as much as you bitch about your hair, you wouldn’t want anyone else’s when it really comes down to it. (sighs) It would be so much easier if we were all open about our narcissism. (she smiles) I’m the cutest person I know. And the most honest. Who doesn’t look at themselves in a mirror and think ‘wow, look at those what ever-s” That’s why we dance in front of mirrors, we like ourselves, love ourselves.

It’s what makes marriage so hard. Everyone has to find someone else who is worthy of their gorgeous genes. I cannot think of one person who assumes their children will be ugly. Everyone assumes that if they find someone equally beautiful as them they will have children who are beautiful squared. That’s why we hide old people, retarded people, people not worthy to be looked on by our beautiful eyes. That’s why we sell face creams, wear braces. In the strive to further beatify ourselves, to fall into deeper love with…us. It’s why people have post-traumatic stress disorder when they come mangled out of a car accident, they cannot find the person they were in love with.

21

e Winter, 2009 u l o g y

Dedicated to Alyssa Beach and Michele Fensic.

Kim Sheridan

Let me reassure you, time heals all wounds.

The oozing gashes scab over and turn to dusky patches of us.

Time tears new lacerations, fresh flesh is exposed to air and with each tick skin is divided from muscle. The faded bayonet wounds of history leave room for only the ringed bullet holes of present injury.

Time marches on to a percussive drone, muskets raised, battle ready. We, insurgents of this universal condition, kneel in wait in the flanking forests, we quiver, it smells of wood and Earth here, the homecoming musk of a grave.

Over them floats a specter of gunpowder, in the air a foreboding ambience of alloy incense.

This is, as of yet, our most grisly campaign.

WoundedPhotographyNicole Chakeris

We will return home in bandages, asking the time that razored us to make us clean. We will be traumatized and damaged; we will be forced into recuperation and rehabilitation, into the mending of our hurt.

22

There will be a scar, potent and fresh. As it fades I beg not one of you forget the wound that caused it, nor the victim of time for whom it is worn.

One day, when we are drafted back to that place of battle, a place where the bulk of us will revisit to be wounded again, we will do so with knowledge that all scars are healed when we depart this place.

That all scars are healed and time will march past. R

Lieutenant James Aldridge Sara Brooks Fähnrich Roderick Foerster peers through his scope.

The water is filled with schools, fish scrambling to reach shore where they flop to the ground and gasp for breath.

“Heilige Maria.” Thou shalt not kill.

His rosary tightens around his neck.

“Heilige Maria.” Thou shalt not kill.

The silver burns his chest.

“Heilige Maria.” Thou shalt not kill.

He enters another circle of Hell.

First Lieutenant James Aldridge crawls up the beach as the ground quivers.

Smoke stabs his eyes and batters its way down his lungs; he can taste blood in his mouth and it is metallic, like iron.

The sand is wet and he hides behind a body, still warm, eyes closed, nineteen or twenty.

He takes a deep breath, runs up the beach and hopes that when he dies, his father will mourn.

Lieutenant General John Kelly cries for his mama as he bleeds from his stomach and wonders if he’s going to die.

He clamps his lids together, tight, tighter until he’s back home in the old country.

Aden waits at the doorstep for him, he was always so beautiful, and caresses his cheek as he comes close.

His eyes shoot open, he holds his stomach and tries to stop the pain.

He cannot tell if a Medic or a German approaches, but he cries for his home, his love, and takes one more ragged breath.

Time marches on to a percussive drone, muskets raised, battle ready.

23

Dichotomy Claire Morrison

In my 16 years of experience, life is typically filled with tons of questions that offer one of two alternatives, neither of which are appealing in the slightest way: Smoking or non smoking, low-fat or regular, decaf or espresso, aisle or window seat. I sat contemplating these annoying conundrums while the flight attendants strutted up and down the already jam packed aisle twenty minutes after we were supposed to take off. Each one had an identical overdone bob hair cut and kept opening and shutting the overhead compartment doors as the last of the passengers found their seats. Typically, I prefer to take the odd hour flights—you know, the 2 o’clock in the morning red eyes-- and avoid the hordes of soccer moms dragging the entire family and Uncle Joe to Disney World, but as the fates would have it, today was one of those days United Airlines chose to combine flights and place me in between a rather stocky business woman and a German man who was pouring over the bright yellow safety guide stashed in front of his seat.

I kept looking over my shoulder and around the tiny cabin for any sign that we would be leaving soon but only received glares from one of the flight attendants (apparently I was disrupting their preparations with my failure to face forward with my safety belt securely fastened but the continuous stream of late passengers was causing no problem at all). Eventually, the last of three year olds were settled down and I could feel the deep rumble of the engines as the plane slowly turned and began to pick up speed. Now, I typically don’t have a problem with flying, I enjoy it actually, but if, as the plane begins to gain altitude, the passenger next to me is murmuring profanities in German while the other is clenching on to the arm rest which included my forearm, I lose hope in surviving the next few hours.

After the longest three minutes of my life, the plane reaches a steady altitude and the rough voice of the pilot comes on overhead and informs us we are exactly x amount of feet above sea level, the temperature is x, and other miscellaneous information about our

flight. Soon, the woman besides me retracts her nails from my numb arm and murmurs a slight apology, but then reaches forward to remove the complementary barf bag from the seat pocket. For the first time ever, I have been seated next to a barfer.

Typically, I could ignore this predicament, but this flight was far from the relaxing ones I was on since I was ten. The Barfer started to take in hesitant breaths and was hardly able to answer the flight attendants that pushed the beverage cart next to our row. I tried to be polite when she nearly spilt her coke on my blouse but I ended up taking it from her shaking fingers and placing it on her tray table.

She smiled again but reached for the barf bag as I asked for my soda.

Eventually The Barfer passes out, her head resting on my right shoulder. Before I too could try and relax—at least as much as I could in this environment—another flight attendant appeared with a tray of sandwiches.

“Ham and cheese or chicken salad,” she asked brightly, flashing a smile.

“There’s another one,” I muttered to myself, thinking back to my previous list as I reached under my seat to grab my purse.

“Excuse me,” the woman asked, her smile losing some of its glow.

“I said, ‘That one’,” I recovered pointing to the last sandwich in on of the stacks.

“Oh,” she chirped, her smile growing large again.

“How much?” I asked, trying to mimic her unnatural perkiness.

“Six dollars.”

I handed her a neat stack of ones and stared at the excuse for a sandwich she placed in my hands.

Thank God The Barfer had passed out; I think she

would have regurgitated whatever food she picked up in the airport food court if she caught sight of this monstrosity.

As I picked away at the crust of the grainy bread, I noticed the familiar sound of a pencil gliding across the surface of notebook paper. Could it be? In this sea of insanity, I found hope. Was there a writer nearby?

Someone who might be able to salvage this otherwise horrific flight? I nonchalantly peeked at the row next to mine. All three passengers were staring, awestruck, at whatever video the crew had chosen for the inflight movie, so I moved on. As I turned around to check the seats behind me I caught slight of a beautiful, yellow notepad and a pair of hands, one holding a classic number two pencil, resting on the tray table of the seat behind The Barfer.

I squinted, trying to make out the tiny handwriting as best I could. Suddenly, the owner of the yellow pad began muttering, his eyes closed. Then, his eyes flew open and he frantically started writing again. After watching him close his eyes, mutter, than open them and write again, I realized I hadn’t found a writer, at least not the sort I imagined. I had found a list maker. You know the type; they constantly write things down in some convoluted order that only they, or their fellow list makers, can understand. I pushed away the remains of my sandwich, losing my willingness to go on.

It was official: there was nothing else I could do but enjoy the company of The Barfer or my German friend. When I readjusted myself so that I was facing forward again, I glanced out of the corner of my eye and saw that he was still reading the airline safety card. Except this time, there was half eaten piece of strudel in his left hand. I smiled when Mr. Strudel finally slipped the card back into its place after another five minutes of reading and caught sight of me watching.

“Hello,” his voice sounded nicer when he wasn’t cursing.

I nodded in response, resisting the urge to ask him if the flight guide was a good read.

“You know,” he mused, “I almost chose to drive but American roads are not like the Autobahn.”

I nodded again. But this time, instead of asking ‘Why did you pick my plane moron!’ I realized it wasn’t his fault that my flight was canceled, the airplane food sucks, or I got seated next to The Barfer.

Judging by the way he was reading the safety guide, he probably hated this flight as much as I did—if that’s possible.

“It’s a tough choice isn’t it?” I laughed.

Mr. Strudel smiled, “Yes, it is. I also do not like your American coffee places. When I asked for strudel they gave me this. In my country, this is not strudel.

And all of the scones! I think there were too many!

Why not have just one?”

“I don’t know,” I cocked my head to the side, “Maybe, people just like choices?”

R

ErdbeerePhotographyNicole Chakeris

Onomatopoeia

Gwen Corkill

Flakes of colored chemicals Fall off the doorjam The rotten wood exposed beneath Its melting make-up Ink imposes itself upon the painted doorway In lines And gashes And streaks And floods the once crisp sea of white From four feet to six And four inches to five The growing lines are growing greater And growing higher With time Years go by Some lines in blue And marks grow fewer And some in green As knees stop stretching Some in black And spines stop reaching And some unseen Shins stay put And necks stop craning Each mark is made With steady hand Hundreds of marks Ensuring truthful and honest report From one child to another When called upon the next time The colored chemical make-up Someone feels their knees stretching Has been torn to shreds, And it is time to reapply Cover-up the wrinkles and lines With a fresh new sea of white As it engulfs the many marks of age I find it is hard to tell Which lines were so important.

26

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27

Sestina for Us Heather Kaehler

It collided with the world A ashing burst in the sky That illuminated the night And the tears like shards of glass That slowly traced the lines Of loneliness down my face.

Those hands I once touched, shaping your face Tender in motion and aligning our place in the world.

Once together drawing the lines Of fate, intertwined as we embraced under the sky And peered through the looking glass Which turned our day into night.

It consumed our life, that single night, Making blurs of our moments face to face Then solidifying insecurities and shattering the glass Of our once perfect world.

Separated under the forgotten Aquarian sky There was no choice but to follow the lines Back home. Follow the lines Away from us dispersing into the fog of the night.

Drips of a liquefying heart beneath the distant sky Drown in swirls of essence and memories to face The ever changing kaleidoscope of worlds Without you, my bloodied ďŹ ngertips tracing the shredded glass.

CliffsPhotographyNicole Chakeris

29

BirdInkAndrea Ekholm

Exposed

30

Kelly Teboe Zoned out.

The brush Swooshing away Back and forth.

A place in my mind Now a partial reality As the brush strokes Pour on the paint Forming shapes Figures An image.

Part of my inner soul Placed upon a canvas For all the world To see.

What will they make of me?

What will they make of me?

accident Claire Morrison

I lost my hold on your memories, like my footing on the front step and the ending to childhood fairy tales.

I left your things in the drawers, letting the closet stay cluttered though I trip on your shoes by the door.

I made the cookies you liked, but there was no one watching the timer, so they burned before I noticed.

I bowed my head on Sunday, fighting the urge to open my eyes and see the aisle I walked down last May. I lay awake at night, refusing to feel the emptiness of the place you had held me so tight.

I painted the dining room the bright yellow you wanted to choose.

It looks better than I assumed.

I drove to the corner, my heart stopping with the wheels.

I saw the cross, trying not to remember.

CrossPenHeather Kaehler

31

Henry Place staggers down the sidewalk under the neon lights and oversized television screens in Times Square.

An airbrushed model beckons three hundred feet up and he thinks about jumping really wants to but settles on Jägermeister instead.

Gabriella Vanzetti saunters down the runway seeing white spots appear each time she opens her eyes.

She can feel her stomach eating itself but ignores it as she shows off that three thousand dollar Armani dress that in reality she would never wear.

BeachPhotographyClaire Ainsworth

Bliss Sara Brooks

Betty Pullman is teaching the children how to live as she prays for her faith in humanity to return.

But it doesn’t, so she’ll keep reading Dr. Suess and Eric Carle while she pops ‘mommy’s medicine’, sometime three a day sometimes three an hour as she keeps the ferris wheel in her children’s minds turning.

young and alive Jen Blank

Young and Alive, Given nuts and bolts, Sent down the assembly line To retrieve the data, Filled with useless information, And some that is necessary, Then shipped off to College, Able to go, But unable to breathe.

Snow Day Claire Morrison

“Wake up Mama, wake up!”

I pushed away the small, familiar hands, turning onto my opposite side. “Go back to bed, Minna. It’s not time to wake up yet.”

“Just like Frosty,” I laughed, “And it will be there when you are supposed to wake up, so back to bed!”

The numbers on my bedside clock glowed a dull blue in the darkness.

“No!” she protested, “I want to go outside!”

Placing my hands on her tiny shoulders, I leaned down until I was at eye level. Her deep brown eyes were perfect mirrors of mine; dark around the edges, fading to a lighter brown near the pupil. But the message behind hers was different from the one I expected; instead of anger at my refusal, she looked heartbroken.

6:13am.

“But Mama!” she pleaded, pouncing onto my legs, sliding on sleek comforter. “The ground is gone!”

I slowly turned, adjusting Minna so she straddled my stomach.

“What did you say?” I asked groggily.

“Come look, Mama!” she insisted, tugging on my limp right hand.

I let her pull me so I was sitting up in the bed, smiling as she jumped to the floor, landing with a dull thump.

She led me to the only window in my tiny bedroom.

Pulling back the thin curtain with her eager fingers, Minna pressed a small palm against the frosted glass, covering where my car would be on the street below.

“Look Mama! It’s all gone!” Her olive-toned cheeks turned pink as she continued to plague me with questions. “Where did the grass go Mama?”

“It’s there, sweetie; you just can’t see it.” I knelt down beside her, attempting to pick her up. Minna wiggled out of my arms, a thin frown creasing her forehead.

“But why Mama?” Her questions quickly became demands.

I had to fight a familiar smile that threatened to show every time Minna chose to throw a fit over something she couldn’t understand. “Because of the snow.”

“Snow.” She repeated the word, exaggerating the ‘o’.

I nodded, watching as her frown was replaced with a smile.

34

“Like Frosty!” Minna declared happily.

“What’s wrong, Minna? We can go out later, I promise.”

“But—but,” her tiny bottom lip quivered as I swept her up in my arms.

When we reached her room, I set her down on the rumpled, hot pink sheets. Minna scrambled across the bed to the window it rested under. She pressed her cheek against the glass, gazing at the winter wonderland on the other side.

“Please Mama!” Her breath fogged the glass when she didn’t turn around to plead.

“Alright,” I sighed. “But only for a little while.”

After a moment, I could see Minna’s petite fingers release their hold on the windowsill before she turned and smiled up at me.

Minna touched snow for the first time that day. As she ran, her hand-me-down boots left misshapen holes in the snowfall as she struggled to fill the extra two sizes. After casting off the coarse wool mittens I had spent twenty minutes struggling to slide onto her unwilling hands, she shoved a fist into the closest bank of snow, giggling as she removed it. Opening her fingers, she offered

John Looking Through WindowPenKelly Tobo

“Mama, Mama,” Minna whined, picking up more snow, “The snow is dying, Mama.” me a tiny ball of white ice. The space between her eyebrows narrowed as the flakes lost their pale sheen, turning clear. Again, she gathered up a fist of snow and watched it melt into a puddle on her palm, and frowned again.

“Mama, Mama,” Minna whined, picking up more snow, “The snow is dying, Mama.”

I knelt down beside her, made my own ball, and held it out to her. Her eyes watched carefully, waiting for the snow to melt away. Before taking the snowball from my gloved hands, she trudged back to where she had thrown away her mittens and wiggled her fingers into the rough cloth. With a small smile, I handed her the ball. She wrapped her hands around it, shaving off a thin layer of flakes, giggling when she

clasped it too firmly and it fell to pieces.

“Do you want another one?” I asked when she peered up at me again.

Locks of her sleek hair fell out from under her knit hat as she nodded eagerly until I handed her another ball. And again she squeezed the mass until it became clumps at her feet. The next time, she waited patiently, taking in every twist of my wrists. Before I could hand her the ball, Minna reached down and tried to mimic my movements, creating a lumpy mass, a perfect mold of the inside of her fist. She offered it up to me, cradling it in her open palms. As I bent to accept it, she gave it a kiss and shrieked with delight as the flakes stuck to her pink lips.

R

35

These Words

Alicia Chan

I want you to feel these words.

Feel the smooth contours of an ‘ O’, As you rub it between your forefingers.

Feel the voluptuous curves of an ‘ S’, Like a full figured woman.

I want you to hear these words.

Hear the deep rustle that resonates in your voice.

Hear these words whistle across your lips Like the wind whistling across tall grass.

Hear the purring of an ‘ r’, The hiss of an ‘ s’, Or the deep bellied sound of a word that ripples across your throat.

I want you to smell these words.

Smell the black ink hot off the press, Or the moth ball scent in between the pages of a classic.

Know the scent of these words Like you know your favorite perfume.

Let them bring back memories Of fresh cut grass, Of the leather from that bad boy’s jacket you liked in the ninth grade.

I want you to taste these words.

Roll them around in your mouth like a wine connoisseur.

Suck on them like your last piece of chocolate.

Taste the sweet, sour, or richly dark flavors they bring.

So that your taste buds become Alive.

And I want you to do it all Illiterately, So that you can truly read These words.

36

Hail Our Youth Heather Kaehler

Glowing cheeks flushed With the serum of youth Blossom under the bright sun, Inviting children to play under its Warmth.

Schoolyard hymns follow The steady raps of a jump rope Almost silenced by the shrieks And giggles of innocence Rising.

Jellied pink shoes race Towards the entrance of a garden,

Finally drifting to a stop As they reached the smooth Cobblestones.

Butterflies grace the wind in arcs, Circulating through the air with freedom As the girl gazed beyond into her world Where wreaths of flowers became crowns, Magically.

Head adorned with natural blessings She was compelled to leave her castle By the sudden toll of a bell and lay Down her crown to return back to Earth.

RossPhotographyClaire Ainsworth

37

The DEVIL May CARE

Aubrey Delimba

I slept with the devil last night.

Yellow porcelain formed a crooked smile between chapped lips. He pulled his teeth out of his mouth and molded them into a halo. He placed it upon his head; the only flaw was that it didn’t hover. His perfection in crafting his lies reflected in the way he crafted me. Razor sharp charm that left scars on my body.

It was different this time. My eyes told him that this was sex and nothing more. His read opposite.

Iridescent beads of sweat formed across his brow. I anticipated their fall to my bare chest, hoping their honesty wouldn’t burn through my skin. I could absorb his lies, but never his honesty.

I went home and cried to the man I compared the devil to. He was never really there. His fingers bound to technology in a way that not even the tug at clothing could break. I followed his words, the only ties we had left to each other. I wept harder each time they made sentences, dancing across a lit screen that shuts itself of when I don’t want to hear anymore. I was never one to turn it back on.

I followed a little boy, leaving behind an empty computer. We sat on the swing sets, daring each other to jump. We climbed the monkey bars, each bar breaking under my grasp. We spent the next four years of our lives trying to piece our playground back together. Finding comfort in smoke filled lungs and deteriorating livers, something children shouldn’t invest in. We realized we were crazy, but deserved this.

He blamed me for the devil, speaking with so much tongue in cheek, I never understood a word he said.

The little boy ran away from me the day I told him I needed to grow up. I never found him.

I tried to return to the man who kept me weeping at blank screens. He claimed he despised me, that I had lost his only son. In shame, I retreated to the devil. He cradled me with whispers. “Don’t worry, sweetie, you don’t need them.” I shuddered each time he attempted to kiss me for comfort. Pushing him away emotionally, I held him physically. Placing his hand against my check, he smiled, “I missed you.”

I replied the same. Before he undressed me, I whispered, “the sex, at least.” R

“Don’t worry sweetie, you don’t need them.”

The SUICIDE of BLAKE Garrison Kim Sheridan

They killed Blake yesterday. Little red demons with clocks for faces, skin smoldering, made him tie a noose in his closet and jump. I never knew the damages of jumping, the seizing of muscles propelling the body into the air, rebelling against a gravity that becomes vengeful in its frustration.

Blake was only sixteen.

I watched his eyes, scared like a morning sky looking for the day, looking at Holdan and begging, pleading, scratching, screaming, saying, “Love me enough to stop him.� But Holdan didn’t, he held my hand that wanted to become a traitor and let the demons do it.

They found Blake in his room and almost saved him, too little too late, the doctor spoke like a parrot, the same thing over and over filled with guilt when all he should have done was pronounce the death a bit clearer.

SkeletalWatercolorAndrea Ekholm

The demons had beaten him the day before, I watched. A tall red man with a pipe hit him until he pissed himself.

Blake had been a beautiful boy, all smooth and soft, pink skin and muscle spread sparse. He flipped his wrists and kissed boys behind the school; the demons would throw money at him and scream like apes in tethered twisted tones. They pulled him by the hair across a textured earth, abrasive voices and abrasive pavement tearing at him, leaving bits of him behind, they dragged him through his urine and he was screaming. The faces that were clocks asked the names of the boys he loved. I remember that Holdan clutched my hand as if it would run and tell on him, that he would be pulled into the ring of his perversion.

Sanity is frightening in a world where everyone is diagnosed.

Holdan sat in the chair beside him, leaning back as if watching a television show on his eyelids, to me he was sleeping to the rhythm of the line on the screen, it made a peak and fell back down, each second becoming and only meeting with the disappointment of another drumbeat, another second he spent with his eyes unopened.

R

39

South Maegan Winkelmann

Laura shuddered, her knuckles rapping against the steering wheel. It was a good thing the roads were so empty; she wasn’t sure she could avoid any collisions right now. Normally, she’d say she was a good driver, but her mind was feverish and heavy and, despite the twitching of her fingers, her reactions were slow. It reminded her of those medications that warned not to operate machinery for 24 hours. But she hadn’t taken any drugs. She certainly wished she knew some that would make this easier.

“Laura,” called her brother from the back seat, “are we there yet?”

She didn’t hear him at first, struggling to make an awkward turn around the corner of the deserted neighborhood. When she had set herself back on track, tentatively speaking, she took a moment to glance at him, “Mmmm?”

“Are we there yet?” he repeated his seven year old face drawn and weary.

“Not yet, Noah,” she told him as she barely managed a shaky smile.

He slumped back in his seat with a sigh. Her tongue stuck heavily to the bottom of her mouth.

She knew it was hard for him, but it was hard for everyone right now. If you were alive that is. The dead had it much easier.

“Just a little farther and we’ll stop,” she assured him. The road blurred in her vision and she felt the car swerve a little. She pulled over at the next stop sign and as she parked she bumped over the curve by accident. Too worn out to correct it she put on the emergency break, shut off the car with a click, and heard it groan into silence.

“Alright buddy,” she murmured with false cheer,

40

her voice breathless, “Let’s try to get some sleep.” She slipped off her seatbelt and climbed into the back. Noah had already freed himself and was digging out the blankets. She pushed the seat so that it lay flat, leaving a cramped place for both of them to rest. Methodically, she lay down and he followed until they were curled up together, silent.

“Laura…can you tell me a story?” he asked quietly.

She had to admit, she didn’t feel like telling a story tonight. They were almost at the border to Mexico, if her estimates were correct, and she wanted to finish the stretch tomorrow.

Who knew when they’d close the border? A story would keep them up longer, but his fear stricken eyes burned her in the dark and she couldn’t push back the urge to soothe him, if only for a while.

“Well, how about…The Duckling Flies South?” she suggested, trying to remember the stories she used to read while babysitting. He had outgrown them, of course, but she didn’t think she could muster anything overly complicated tonight, not from memory anyway.

“Ok,” he squeaked.

“So…a duckling lived very happily with his mother and father,” she began, “And they had a lot of fun swimming in the spring and summer. But one day the leaves began to turn and the water began to grow cold, so the father duck said it was time to go south for the winter.

“The next morning they all took off together.

At first the duckling had a lot of fun. They were flying very high and very far. They could see a lot of people and trees and buildings and from the sky they all looked so small. “‘Don’t fly too far,’ warned his mother. The duckling didn’t listen. He flew far ahead with excitement and when the storm came he was lost in the dark clouds. He weathered the wind

and the rain and when the sun finally came out he could no longer see his parents.”

they all lived happily together in the south until the spring came again.”

She stopped, feeling a tickling sensation in her throat. Shifting quickly she covered her mouth with one hand, shielding the cough and muffling the sound. Her fingers came away sticky and she was grateful for the darkness. She quickly slipped her hand in her pocket, despite the awkward way she had to lean to do so.

Laura stopped and listened to see if she’d have to offer “the end”. But the heavy breathing next to her indicated Noah had fallen asleep. That was fine. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the story before. She slipped up from out of the blankets to clean her hand and then finally settled herself in to sleep.

“So,” she continued, her voice a little bit raw, “the duckling was lost. He tried to remember what his father had told him about flying South. ‘I’ll just keep going in that direction,’ he said. So he flew and the longer he did the less interesting the people and the trees and the buildings were.

The drive the next day was shorter than she expected, not because of the distance, but because of the traffic. Where before the roads had seemed abandoned now they were blocked in every possible way with cars. In this desert region people were even driving off the roads in order to get to their destination faster. This was the route she chose to take before even that option was gone; people flooded the area, masses and masses of

“‘I just want to see my parents!’ he cried. But

‘you can’t separate family, no matter what happens.’ he kept flying, only resting when it was dark.

Finally he was flying through a place that was very warm. There were a lot of palm trees and shrubs and sand. This just had to be the south!

And sitting near a small pond he could see two familiar faces.

‘Mom, dad!’ he called and flew down to them.

They were very happy to see him and they formed a group hug. “‘You made it!’ praised his father, ‘and all by yourself!’ “‘I can’t believe it either,’ chimed the duckling. “‘Well, you know what they say,’ offered his mother, ‘you can’t separate family, no matter what happens.’ “‘No matter what,’ agreed the duckling. And

people all bustling south. She was forced to park the car and abandon it.

“Come on, Noah,” she grunted, heaving the door open and gathering what few things would be worth carrying. She pushed the last sandwich in his direction after slinging two small bags over her shoulder. He stared at it bleakly without moving to touch it.

“Noah, take it, come on,” she ordered, trying to keep the tension from her voice.

“Aren’t you going to have any…?” he peered at her drearily.

“I’m fine, go on,” she sighed, pressing it firmly into his hands. He needed it more than she did and besides…she wouldn’t be able to keep it down. Not with the regular intervals she’d found herself retching the last couple of days.

41

ered close to her brother like a mother hen. The last thing she wanted was for them to be separated. But in-between worried glances she was able to take in the people surrounding her. She had been far luckier than she had realized. Families here were torn, fighting and weeping and trudging along lifelessly like the dead. Many were pale, some even collapsed upon the ground. But worst were the children covered in burns or dry heaving along the sidelines crying for mommy to make it stop.

She had to wait suddenly as the small group walking in front of them came to a halt. Two of the three had collapsed, one out of sickness, another of grief. She sickened as she saw the boy with peeling, charred skin and blood dribbling out of his mouth.

The way his eyes were rolled back into his head spoke of death, if not now, soon enough that there was no hope for him.

His mother shrieked as if she were dying herself, her screams the echo of many that broke out in this massive movement. It burned at Laura’s ears even so, rattling the bones in her chest. The father soon grew impatient with his wife’s agony and yanked her up by the arm. He tried to push her forward to make her keep going, but the strength of a wounded mother was not to be ignored.

“No! We can’t leave him, we can’t!” she screamed.

“He’s gone, Mary! We have to keep going!” he hissed, his own voice cracking. She caved, her whole body slumping in hopeless acceptance racked with sobs.

She drew closer to Noah. Thank God he had been on a field trip to some caverns that day. From what she could see he wasn’t getting sick. She only hoped that meant he had avoided the radiation of the missile. Their parents had died in the city, he would have as well.

It took them hours to reach the border. There were too many people, all heading in the same direction, all with the same goal. Eventually they could see the fences, or at least what was left of them. With the masses all pouring through like rainwater they had fallen down and been torn apart. Now, in their stead were armed Mexican soldiers and roadblock stands.

“No más!” yelled one soldier at the crowd, “La frontera está cerrada!”

42

The crowd immediately erupted. Laura was deafened and as the crowd surged forward she was pushed to the front, slammed into one of the wooden dividers, leaving her breathless and dizzy as angry bodies swarmed around her. Before she could regain her senses she felt Noah fasten himself tightly to her waist with a cry, refusing to be separated.

Catching her breath Laura realized that she couldn’t let this happen. All the anger, all the energy around her was infectious. Desperate, she cried out, reaching for anyone who would listen, “No please! I have to get my brother across this border! Please! Please!” Just as she felt her voice would die from the screaming she had someone grab her arm.

“I’ll take him,” the woman said so quietly Laura could barely make it out. The woman was reaching across the divider, her eyes cold with determination though her face was still stained from her hot tears. It gave Laura a moment of silent shock, but then she snatched Noah up and lifted him over into the woman’s waiting arms.

“No!” Noah screamed, louder than she had ever heard him in her life, “Laura, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

She grabbed his face from the other side of the fence, covering his mouth with her hand, “Listen to me, Noah. You have to listen.” What was there to say? He had to go. He couldn’t stay here. And she couldn’t follow.

“Do you remember the story with the duckling?” she asked quickly, not even waiting for his nod. “We’re like that. We’ll be separated for a bit, but I’ll follow. Nothing can separate family.”

“Promise?” he asked.

She didn’t get the chance to respond as she was pushed forcefully by one of the soldiers who had made his way down the line. She stumbled, barely able to catch herself before a cough ripped through her throat. She threw herself forward and bent over the ground, blood splattering on her hand and shoes. Staring feverishly at her sticky palms she was shoved into the waves of people. Laura searched and failed to find his face as she was pushed back by the tide, lost in the sea of bodies. R

Ma

is

le Chaker

phyNico skPhotogra

43

Notes floating in the midnight air Played tragically from a dismal soul In his sleepless night On a Gloomy Sunday.

He sings silently.

The joy he felt lasting only a moment, A moment before he realized…

Life lasts only an hour; An hour taken slowly When the day breaks and you see the closing stages prior.

When the curtains fail to open themselves And shatter dawn with melodious lament.

And yes…

It is life that ends Like the sleep of two blue eyes That see him there slain over the piano.

Weeping; at the awakening of his imaginary world.

Everything becomes quiet: The wind blows across his face.

When he notices the flame flicker, He hangs from the window And continues his song…

‘16ths running up the page, Spectators falling off the rests, Agonies from the flats in minor; Endearing hand; resting on the piano And one respite towards the pen.’

Leaning forward out the window, ….over the white painted sill..

The stage is empty; Candles smoldered out.

A brighter star no longer shines But rapture dwelling creates the same wonders: A marvel of pending gates.

44

seress

…One leg over;

Sarah House

Follow the other….

If all music was a tale of happy ending, One man’s narrative would never become another’s burden; The true vice of imagination.

But beloved Seress, This world was never a song of bliss.

The keys that melt are ceaselessly missed.

But the ones who had the delicate harmonies, Linger on to be much more than memories.

Seress…

Why? Why must you lift your fingers as gracefully As you did on the keys?

For it was then and then on That you kissed the window goodbye To greet grounds meet.

Dedicated to Rezso Seress November 1889 – January 1968

Je pense que je t’aime.

Je Pense Que Je T’aime

Kelly McConchie

Sais-tu ce que je ressens?

Voir un sourire sur ton visage, Les oreilles et les joues en feu, Impossible de ne pas admirer, Un si joli visage.

Je pense que je t’aime…

Je pense que je t’aime.

Voulant te serrer dans mes bras Aucune envie de partir, Savourant chaque minute, Tout est si parfait D’avoir ce petit corps Tout contre toi.

Je pense que je t’aime.

Te regardant et sachant que Tu crées ces papillions La raison de ce béguément Quand près de toi, je suis La raison pour laquelle je ne Peux penser à rien d’autre Tu me rends tout simplement Heureux

L’idée de t’ avoir, rien Ni personne ne peut me blesser Parce que tu es bon pour moi Et moi pour toi Rendant chancun joyeux Sais-tu ce que je ressens?

Je pense que je t’aime.

CafeWatercolorAndPenLindsey Cross

M Mirr o r Kiyoshi Shaw r r o r

There is a confusing, yet entrancing picture in my shrink’s office. I pondered this photograph as I sat on the couch directly across from it, alone. That is not to say that I was alone in the room, just alone on the couch. Adults and children filled the small space, except for the sofa where I sat, staring at the picture like a goldfish out of its tank.

I felt like a goldfish. Maybe I’d be more interesting if I made fish faces. Perhaps it was a good thing I was in a shrink’s office.

All of the other pictures that adorned the walls were of people. But these weren’t just any people. No, they were skiers. Sometime in the 80’s, some fascist intent on damaging people who had to go to see their psychiatrist had invited these people on a ski trip in Europe. Now all of the walls were adorned with skiers dressed in flamboyantly colored ski suits and other ridiculous apparel, skiing down a mountain. When I was little, I thought that my eyes were like printers, and that if I saw too much color they’d run out of ink. Every time I walk into the waiting room, I keep my eyes fixed on the paisley gray floor in fear that if I look up, I’ll never see the beautiful green grass or blue sky again.

But back to the picture I was staring at. This particular image was not of blinding psychiatric skiing cornea killers, but rather an odd and misplaced landscape. The frame held within its glass, a beach. Now, I know most of you are used to seeing bright beaches with picnics, or solitary beaches with lovers holding hands. No.

This beach was stormy. The clouds were gray and menacing. The water was churning up, as if it were about to eat the shore. Yes, there were other parts of the picture, which were so uninteresting I will not bore you by listing them, but the main subject of the picture was a beach house.

I’m only using the word beach house to deceive you. If anything, it was more of a shack, and not a fishing shack either. This pathetic piece of plywood was falling apart. When I say that,

46

I don’t actually mean pieces were falling off; somehow the shoddy piece of driftwood was holding itself together. It was sagging slowly backwards, its black boards sliding as if they were on hinges. The roof was patched up and the patches had little holes. It sat on the beach, looking a lot like a tilted view of a crow that had just slammed into a wall. For some reason, I couldn’t pull my gaze away from this rather depressing scene. I wasn’t only considering the landscape trapped in its ink, but also, why was it here? A picture that depressed the viewer was hardly something that should be displayed in a shrink’s office. What if a depressed, overly symbolic person saw it? “Is that, is that shack me? Oooh!” They’d kill themselves. That hardly seems like something a shrink would want to do. He’d lose business.

The desk lady called me in, and I spoke to the psychiatrist with the murderous intentions. He asked me how school was. I said it was enjoyable. He asked, “Really?” I said “What? Oh, do you think that could be my problem?”

He looked at me intensely. “No, I think this evasiveness could be your problem.” I left, glancing at the picture as I went to my car.

When I returned two days later for my next appointment, the waiting room was empty. It was sunny outside. Those were always bad days for shrinks. I decided as long as I was going to waste more of my time waiting to be psychoanalyzed by a man with less marbles in his head than fingers on his hand, I should waste it doing something pointless. So, I observed the picture, much like a child observes a sloth. You can see the interest in their eyes, and you feel that sensation, that if you look away, you’ll miss something. Yet, after all that, you look at what is under scrutiny and scoff. A sloth is boring.

It is paridoxal and boring. It also doesn’t move and is ugly. This picture was a sloth.

When my psycho called me in, he wanted to do a trading places exercise. He wanted me to pretend I was him, and he was going to pretend he was me. Once we had established this, we were going to share things about our personalities. This was his roundabout way of asking me what I thought of him and had the bonus of him being able to tell me what he thought about my broken and damaged persona. Fun. “So, Jeff,” he said. He insisted on calling us by each other’s names. My new name was Jeff. If I were a man, I think I would have a more attractive name.

“Tell me about yourself.”

I gave him a hard glare.

“Well, I’m insecure, gay, and I enjoy tortur- “I see storms all over the horizon, and the water level ing my patients with pictures of iris inflaming is rising up to my neck…” skiers. I need to get laid.”

I stood up and walked out of the office, slamming the He stared at me for a moment, and then door behind me. As I left, I could hear a click, and the blinked. voice of my torturer.

“Okay, now let me tell you about myself…”

I groaned.

“Miss Adams, please stop billing Miss Philips for today. Thank you.”

“I’m a,” pause, “Good kid, who has a little trouble with telling others how I’m feeling.” I returned for the next several sessions but couldn’t manage to acknowledge “Jeff” after his get-to-knowPause. He looked at me like he was expecting you session. He seemed prepared to wait. Good. He me to respond. I blinked my wide eyes. was more fun when he kept his mouth shut. About a week later I came back and sat on the sofa. It was “I’m a young girl who’s a little run down, and only now that I again noticed the picture. It hadn’t a little beat up, but I’ve been through a lot. moved, but somehow seemed more prominent in the The problem is that I don’t think I can go room. through any more storms. I don’t think I can weather them any more.”

The little shack seemed even more flimsy than before. The storm on the horizon seemed darker. The entire picture was gloomier. I tried to make myself feel better by staring into the bright sun that was a woman wearing a bright orange jumpsuit in the Swiss Alps. She was either pregnant or she had to lay off the Swiss chocolates. I looked out of the corner of my eye, and the picture re-ensnared me. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Only now, it didn’t perplex me. It pissed me off. It was a stupid picture. Why on earth would anyone take a snapshot of such a thing. Some shitty little shack next to the sea. The damn thing was probably gonna’ get swept away anyway.

I thought of all of this, and it only made me angrier.

I stood up and walked over to the frame. I glared at the picture as if I could intimidate it into submission, but all I did was summon my own reflection from the frame’s glass. I grabbed the wooden panel and pulled it off the wall. I heard the ping as a nail hit the floor and heard an uproar of murmuring behind me.

Whatever. I was in a shrink’s waiting room, wasn’t I? I had an excuse. I marched out of the room, glaring at my reflection the entire time. Miss Adams didn’t say a word. Perhaps this was not the first time that someone had kidnapped a picture maliciously from her waiting room.

VeinfaceWatercolorCaleb Fletcher

I flung the picture into the back of my car like a body and jumped in the driver’s seat. I shoved my keys in the ignition and heard the huge truck roar to a start.

I revved the engine and sped off. I barreled down the highway zooming past cars. If my mother knew that I was doing this in her Ford, she would have killed me.

In the distance I could hear a thunderstorm behind me. I looked at the rearview mirror, and all I saw was a reflection of my eyes.

R

47

P P ic t u r e Megan Phillips c t u r e

For some reason every month, I am required to see my psychiatrist for ‘medication management’. This is really just consists of the doctor asking me how the medicine is working and I tell him ‘good’, like I have for the last year.

Then I think he feels guilty for charging me twenty dollars to ask one question that he already knows the answer to. So he asks about other things, which I give one word answers to because I want to walk out the door and continue my life.

However, I suppose the real story isn’t me, or the doctor, it’s a picture. A picture that sits in the waiting room on the yellow wall (yellow is said to be an energizing color and seeing that most of his patients are children with supposed ADHD, adding more energy to the room seems rather unnecessary to me). Anyhow there is a picture, a photograph actually sitting in a green frame (which clashes terribly with the yellow wall).

It’s a picture of a beach. The background is gray with clouds and the water is a dark blue. Nothing is on the shore except for a house. A house with peeling white paint and green shutters that are two breezes from falling off. Ugly ornamental grass had sprouted up in front of the small house and peeking out of it is a tacky rainbow thermometer reading seventy degrees.

I want this picture. I really want this picture, which says something because as far as most art is concerned, I am un-phased.

This picture, in my opinion should be in an art museum. This is the kind of picture that I would pay to see (which in a way I do, because it is the only thing I feel that I really get out of going to the doctor’s and paying twenty dollars in the first place). This is the kind of picture that should have security guards around it so people treated with anti-psychotics like me don’t take it. In every art museum I have been to, I have been happy to leave the pictures in the wall.

But not this one. I’ve day dreamed many times of simply freeing the photo from it’s ugly wall and walking out. I’m already considered crazy, which is why I go there in the first place, what’s wrong with being a thief too?

So, I am the main character. The conflict, internal medicated voice versus the impulsive one. But there is no moral, really. Because the only reason I even go to his office anymore is to sit in front of the picture only to leave it again until my prescription runs out. There is no climax, until the main character decides to make one. But if the main character is restrained from their impulsiveness, that leaves nothing.

One day maybe I’ll skip a dose, just so that I can then go snatch the picture. But until then there is nothing except a picture and a girl who wants it.

R

48

SelfPastelHeather Kaehler

## FrangipaniOil PaintingSompaseuth Chounlamany

hi

hT Li n

50

en

uy Ng

ice al Ch

AlicePhotographySarah Irvin

Chalice Linh Thi Nguyen

The night before, there had been roses.

Cherry red and lacy white, They had glowed in that twilight garden.

A voice, large and regal, stout and loud, had bellowed, shrieked, “Off with her head! OFF WITH HER HEAD!” And as usual, in that never-ending inky blue there floated a smile.

That shimmering, flashing, mysterious white grin.

It was always there, always present, and refused to cease existing.

It was like a sign, a symbol, a warning to raise up a white flag. surrender surrender surrender it whispered now, this night, this moment, the scene was all shadows and there were no roses, no tea, and no time there were no rabbits to tell her “we’re late, oh we’re late!” no shrinking growth mushrooms to find but that came again - an inky blue wraith purple stripes, pointy ears, pale pearl eyes and all it retched that wreath of mischief which made goosebumps scale unabridged in a crawl lazily hatched and malicious with grace my dear nice to see you

Alice, again…

51

RecordPhotographyNicole Chakeris

a thin red line

The early morning laid a soft whisper on my tongue as I sat on the roof, watching the colors on the tree line shift. The tin had a warm twang as it recoiled under Gwen Corkill the weight of my feet shifting to their own beat. An early morning summer smell came in swells in my nose, swirling around the sinuses and finding their way out, making room for fresh scents. While soft mists rose and fell in the leaves the air spilt secrets, inaudible to him and me for the beats of our hearts echoed in our ears. As I watched the soothing colors shift, I felt the soft mist roll over my face, and relished in the silence that surrounded me. The quiet before the storm of lawnmowers, cars, calls, cacophonic birds, yelling dogs, and squirming squirrels. Beneath the pink and orange that dominated the sky, a sliver of red, a powerful, overbearing red, ran along the skyline. The color traveled quickly through the trees, through the mist, through the nothingness of sound, and struck my eyes. I was entranced by the color, a color I had not seen before. It was ominous, a blood red omen of impending loss. The air released its secrets, and the storm began to fill the earth, birds and squirrels unleashed themselves on the ground. Shifting toward him, sleeping softly on the hard tin roof, I felt the warm tin twang under my hips. A cool kiss and a soft touch started the day, and the thin red line blew away into the sky and shaded itself blue. R

52

I AM A webster, DAVE Less and less You look at me.

More and more Briefly each time.

It’s always been With sudden whim Yet now you’ve pushed me Behind: Aristotle and Plato Beneath: Shakespearean plays!

Leather bound to the shelf It’s really getting old I’m simply dog-eared tired Of these creases and these folds.

I am covered in dust My gold trimming rusts My ink is fading away.

The knowledge I store Is going to waste I fear yellowed pages That smell of decay.

I feel aged, but I’m young, (Though my publisher’s Long past away).

It’s a pity, I think, To be replaced By blinking screens That have no taste.

Within my covers I have such class With fancy gold That’s bound with brass.

My definitions are succinct Meaning to the point (Latin I think)

Ashley Baker Though American Heritage I am not The meanings stay true For most of part From conversation To the next (Save for sets of Scrabble Shuddering Away As I denounce The double “A”, But it’s really not a word: Don’t condemn me for My righteous ways) Is the effort too much To pick me up?

I’m abridged for Pete’s sake (Anything lighter must be a fake) My appendix is missing But so is your mother’s, You didn’t bury her, did you David?

You’re nervous, You’re fretful, You’re passive and shy.

Search through me Find the words that you need To ask her to become your bride.

I’m willing to help But you do not see I scream, but your eyes Are glued to TV. I am a Webster, The best that there be, But perhaps I’m undone By that brand called PC.

53

Spinning

Sarah Ramsden

James could see only her silhouette sitting in the hotel room window.

“Did she give up and leave yet?” the little shadow asked.

“Yeah,” James answered, flicking on the light.

One leg at a time, she eased herself off the windowsill. “Then I should be heading back.”

“Production has stopped for the day.”

She was bent over, trying to tug on her shoes without untying the laces. She froze. “…Oh.” Then straightened back up.

“What did you expect?” James closed the door and leaned back against it. “The writer and assistant director disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear,” she argued, “You knew where I was.”

“I figured you didn’t want to be found.”

She looked at her toes.

He wanted to go to her, wanted to take her face in his hands and force her to look at him, wanted to crush his mouth against hers and promise her everything would be okay. But married, twenty-eightyear-old men simply don’t do that kind of thing to seventeen-year-old girls, so he stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and sufficed himself by asking, “What happened?”

She leaned back against the window’s ledge and crossed her feet at the ankles. Her eyebrows quirked up in response to his question. “You heard what happened. My dad got arrested for driving drunk. Mom has to go home to take care of my sister and my little brother.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re upset.”

“I’m fine.” She huffed and made as if to shove her hands into the front pocket of her sweatshirt before she remembered it was still draped over the back of her director’s chair. She pretended like the slip hadn’t occurred, and hooked her thumbs into her front two belt loops instead.

Even though he was watching the shower curtain flutter in the drafts from the air conditioning vent, James knew she wasn’t looking at him anymore. He could hear her nervous shifting at the window and the click of her fingernails drumming against her studded belt. Her eyes were trained anywhere in the room but on him.

Finally, she moved. James heard the steady padding of her feet on the plush carpet, but he didn’t look at her until he felt an arm curl around his hip and a hand reach into his back pocket.

“You don’t have any caffeine,” she explained, withdrawing her hand as well as his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. She took a step back from him before thumbing open the box and delicately removing a single cigarette with two fingers.

She couldn’t possibly have looked more awkward trying to balance the cigarette in her mouth and both the lighter and pack in her small hands. James stretched out his arm, and she dropped the box into his offered palm.

She held the cigarette between the first and second fingers of her left hand and flicked the lighter with the thumb of her right, doubtlessly as she had seen done in movies. One flick, two flicks, three, four, five in rapid, frustrated succession, before she flung the hand with the lighter in it toward him.

James knew he shouldn’t.

He could hear her nervous shifting at the window and the click of her fingernails drumming against her studded belt.

He took the lighter, and with one practiced sweep of his thumb lit it so that he could light her cigarette.

He never thought he’d regret not keeping a case of Mountain Dew in his hotel room.

She closed her eyes before she inhaled, taking a drag much too long for someone who had never touched a cigarette. Her eyes watered before she tipped forward, bracing her hands on her knees as she coughed and sputtered.

James rested a hand on her back and flexed just his fingertips. He closed his eyes. It was the only contact he would He cut himself off, and her nose wrinkled with disallow himself. taste.

She wiped her mouth with the hand not holding the cig- “So let me get this straight,” she held the bottle around arette. Even though she’d stopped hacking, she remained the neck and turned it in the light. “My dad’s an alcobent over. A clump of ash dripped off the cigarette’s holic. He’s spending the night in jail because he was end. driving drunk. And you’re giving me,” she paused to recheck the label, “vodka.” It was always best to “I thought you said you’d never smoke,” James stated pretend he’d never mentioned Joanie. conversationally.

James shrugged and sat on the corner of the bed an “Desperate times… desperate measures,” she rasped. arms length away. “Beats the hell out of drowning your sorrows in caffeine, I’d think.”

James sighed, nodded, then took her cigarette and snuffed it out in the ash tray on the night table. She stood upright He received only an owlish stare in response. to watch him, but didn’t protest.

“Well, if you don’t want it…” He shouldn’t have given it to her anyway.

He leaned toward her. She held the bottle just out of his reach. “No, no. I’ll try it.” She closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and took a swallow. No gagging or spluttering followed. Her eyebrows knitted together, and she ran her tongue along her bottom lip. “It doesn’t taste like alcohol.”

“Yeah, I know,” James grumbled, resting his elbows on his knees and catching his forehead in his palms.

She took a longer, more confidant drink from the bottle. “Kinda tastes like a melted blue slurpee.”

James just nodded.

A few moments later, an empty glass bottle knocked against his arm and the mattress shifted.

“There’s more in the fridge, right?”

“I don’t think…”

Abstract 16Oil Pastel & InkKeri Wheelwright He knew that wasn’t a good idea.

“Sit.” He patted the bed on his way to the room’s mini She was already three quarters the way to the mini fridge. He heard the shift of the mattress and the thunk fridge anyway. thunk of her toeing off her shoes. She was sitting crosslegged and holding her ankles when he turned back to “Yeah, there’s more in the fridge.” face her.

“Here.” He twisted off the bottle’s cap and handed it to She hopped onto the bed beside him, close enough that their thighs touched. Her feet didn’t reach the her. floor, and swung lazily half a foot above. She set the new bottle in his lap. “I can’t get it open,” she She first read the label, then sniffed the neon blue contold him, leaning her head on his shoulder and peertents. ing up at him.

“I think you’ll find it less offensive than the cigarettes. It’s He shouldn’t… the wife’s preference – ”

He twisted the cap off and tossed it over his shoulder in the general direction of the trashcan. “Here you go, kid.”

James rushed to her side. She was already picking herself up. He gently pulled away the hand that was holding her forehead.

“Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

He should have given her something less fruity. She might have drunk it slower. She might not have drunk it at all.

She nodded, but didn’t open her squinted eyes.

He shouldn’t have given her anything at all.

She stuffed the second empty bottle between his knees.

“Fridge right?” She gestured away from the bed. He supposed she was aiming for the refrigerator.

“Yeah. They’re in the fridge.” Why stop her now?

He couldn’t watch her stumble. Instead, he leaned back to put the second empty bottle beside the first on the bedside table.

“Are you sure?” He didn’t release his hold on her arm..

She nodded again. “The world ‘s spinning ‘sizzall.”

He breathed out a relieved sigh. “Come on, kid.”

Using the arm he already had and a tentative grip on her opposite hip, he hoisted her to her feet. She flung herself into his chest, fisting her hands in his shirt.

Clank! She knocked her third drink against the refrigerator door taking it out.

James shook his head at her when she handed it to him to be opened. “Nuh uh, I’m not opening this one. It’ll explode.”

Her eyes got big at this idea. “It’ll esplode?” she slurred.

She pushed the bottle back toward him when he tried to give it back.

He forced her fingers to wrap around the bottle’s neck.

“I’m not opening it,” he repeated, firmer this time.

She pouted.

He shouldn’t have cared.

“If you bring me a different one, I’ll open it.”

That answer was satisfactory enough, and she started back toward the fridge, but didn’t make it. She stumbled, three times to her right, twice to her left, before dropping onto her knees then collapsing onto her side.

Her arms reached out in front of her. The bottle of vodka blue rolled from her hand to the nearest baseboard.

It had taken enough abuse for the evening, and white foam spewed out from under the cap.

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ShadowlinedPhotographySarah House

“James? Why doest the world s-spin?”

James didn’t know what to do.

head, but because she was still holding her knees, her entire curled form rocked from side to side. “It spinszz when I’m nnot drrunk.” She sighed. “Always spinszz.

Always outt of control. Alwayszz.” She sighed again. “I juzst wish it would sstop.”

He realized he hadn’t helped her at all.

James stood. Three hesitant steps put him at the edge of the bed. He laid a hand on her head, stroked her hair back from her face.

“Please, make it s… stop.”

He wrapped one arm around her knees, the other around her shoulders, hoisting her up effortlessly so he could sit on the bed with her in his lap. She tangled her hands in his shirt and nestled her head under his chin.

“Make it stop, James, please, make it ss stop,” she whimpered. It was almost incomprehensible, “Shh,” he ran his hand up and down her back. “You’re gonna be okay. I gotcha.” muffled by his shirt and slurred by alcohol.

He rested the tips of his fingers on her shoulder He felt the death grip on his collar loosen, though not blades. “You just need to lie down. Then it’ll stop.” release entirely.

He eased her toward the bed.

After a few moments, he asked, “Feeling better?”

She squealed, shook her head, and clung to him She nodded, didn’t open her eyes, but nodded. “Just… tighter. “Nnno t’it won’t!” could you please… just… keep talking to me?”

“Shh, yeah, it will. Come on.” He backed her, one step at a time, toward the bed, until her knees He didn’t know what to say. touched the mattress, and, unable to hold herself upright, she tipped back onto it. She brought her But he could deny her nothing. knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around “What do you want me to talk to you about?” them, and hid her face.

Her movement was something between shrugging and “Itzz still spinning,” she whined. snuggling closer. “I dunno… I just… like your accent…

“Go to sleep. It’ll stop.” He reached a hand out to ‘sizz soft, ‘sizz warm…” rub her shoulder, but checked the gesture.

No one had ever described his Scottish brogue as warm before, and for the first time since he’d found her in She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. his room, James smiled. He read her newspaper articles James lowered himself into the recliner in the cor- until she fell asleep, then tucked her under the covers. ner.

He slept in the recliner next to the window.

“James? Why doest the world spin?”

When he woke up, he could hear the hiss of running shower water. R Unable to come up with a better answer, he told her, “Because you’re drunk.”

He had a feeling she only meant to shake her

57

The Diagnosis in the Case of Dalton Hughes.

Kim Sheridan

Alix’s leg was broken; the cap had swollen, puckered into a massive red bulb of sarcous heat that she cupped like a child’s face and kissed over and over, frenzied. I watched the red skin turn sallow where her lips touched, as if all it could do too heal was starve itself of colour. My arm was over her shoulder and she shook into me, it made my eyes feel hot, the grey matter behind them gurgled and bubbled out from my tear ducts. Alix had always broken her legs, broken her arms, her soul and body overlapped like unaligned circles, one always trying to escape the restrictions of the other. It could only produce discord and the pressure her soul exerted crushed her chalk-pipe bones.

We were at the playground because she’d wanted the monkey bars.

Holdan and Alix and I sitting in the wood chips like versions of ourselves wishing we could be back again because we were getting old and getting young and getting scared.

Originally we had both said no, tucked into the chairs by her hospital bed, praying too her as if she were a stone deity lying there. It was another coma. They came with the seizures and the twitches, the conniptions, her body racked with tremors that make her eyes stare into her skull, exploring that foreign landscape of “inside”.

Just a little at a time, there can’t be any more than that, her lids down slanted as if they were open, the light catching them stopped me from breathing, if I inhaled that meant time was going on and that moment where I had believed she was awake was going on with it. A march of constants would immediately proceed in calvacade formation, she would wake up. That was always the first and most important as without a zero nothing exists, she would yawn and scratch her head, awakening from a reckless sleep into which she had tossed herself. Somewhere around here my heart explodes but lets talk about Alix.

Next she’ll kiss her palms as if they had dragged her out from such a slumber and I wish that I was the smoothly creased canyons of the future in her hands. Then comes the monkey bars.

Alix does not regard the monkey bars with any particular excitement, she does not ask to go play upon them, though that is immediately understood, instead she looks from Holdan too me, stringing Christmas lights between us with her eyes, and asks, “How about the Monkey Bars?”

As if we had asked a question, just bored kids asking where too go, and why not the monkey bars? At first we’d say no but that was only at first. Never had we been able to find a reason not to sneak her from her hospital room where, in the eyes of the world and not us, she is still the soon-dead and tell her she was not allowed to drive.

Grandma’s ChairPhotographyClaire Ainsworth

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Pouting she seperates the back-side door wildly from the frame and then crawls into the seat, clawing across the massive expanse of upholstery, even fleeting motion reduces her too a toddler, burbling little daydreams as she exhaled hot breath into my thigh.

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A stilted staccato in her heart’s opus echoed through the hospital bed’s poor acoustics. The red paint sprinkled my face, creating an adhesive second skin that caused my fingers to attach then divide with a tugging of skin and multiple sticky pops. I could feel her heart through the cold metal bar where I propped my feet, knees folded, sitting widthwise on a lengthwise bed.

BicyclePhotographyClaire Ainsworth

Alix hugged her kneecaps like they might run away, the scar shone like a supernova from where the bone had burst from the skin months before, escaping it’s prison. If Alix left with me would there be a scar? Her traced my red hands, wary of them, the sheets stuck to my fingerprints, trying to alleviate my guilt, steal all of my red from me but the paint wouldn’t rub off, only stick.

Alix unhooked her knees and grabbed my wrists, they looked dirty as things often do in bright light. The nexus of our arms conducted the music from her, she rang in my ears, strings and brass and wind all in a chaos of preparation.

The weakness of her limbs created a negative strength and while her fingers did the gripping I felt that I might be holding her up. When she inhaled, she sucked in all the rooms oxygen and I suffocated on a symphony.

“Dalton, you shouldn’t have done that, Holdan shouldn’t have let you, if you do bad things they won’t let you come here anymore.” I felt fear fill me, my face twisted in pained disbelief and my hands twitched on her forearms. The room hit a crescendo and spun melodramatically, all I could do was hold myself steady on her.

Alix clung to me, whimpering as she had the night her leg had broken, lying in my lap, drunk on pain.

Safety. Safety like a hospital bed that is a prison, like a friend that is a gun, blood that is spray pain. Safety that is unsafe. A system of safety is akin to an orchestra, it is flawed, always one offnote from one off musician drowned in the pure massiveness of participation. A contaminate in the safety.

Me in her bed.

I picked her up and we left the hospital, an alarm went off when I opened the door, the one that had been propped open before, they were trying to catch us. The alarms wailing was disgusting. I might have made that same sound had the hospitals teeth tried to carry her away. When she got in my car, eyes open to observe, I could have sworn she was cured. The engine applauded our exit, a muted sonata into unknown freedom.

Pressing her shoulders into the sheets, so far we could fall through, kissing her until her chest convulsed, begging oxygen, each supernova scar became a black hole, sucking me in. A lost astronaut in a violent universe.

All the while the paint on my hands growing redder and redder each time the colour tries to stick to her.

The music stops abruptly, she’d bitten my fingertips open, trying to dye me red forever, this kind of guilt stains the sheets.

The Prognosis in the Case of Dalton Hughes.

R

Kim Sheridan

59

Character Sketch Her creaky bones And archaic smile Shine through Her translucent skin

Gwen Corkill

She pops her nicotine gum between her teeth And smacks it against The folds of her Dry tongue While she sparks another cigarette.

Marlboro red 100’s and sips from her bottomless glass of tonic and gin.

She swings her hips Between each step And wears a compelling grin

I see her and can only wonder Where she is going And where she has been?

But I imagine she can be going nowhere Because she had nowhere To begin Her false eyelashes will never falter Because she fears That if they do She risks her plaster eyes Showing through Her heart pumps dust And her blood carries smoke She swallows vicodin for breakfast And her soul Seeps out of her toes.

Formicidae Kat McNeal

There were no visible factions, no obvious party lines, alliances made and broken in the invisible telegraph of scent. Upon closer examination, the chittenous gleam of the tiny combatants was blushed red or black, angry volcanic jewel-tones, and the warring, twitching limbs and mandibles belonged not to soldiers, but to workers. Menial laborers. It was absolute war, with no stops, no safes to quell the brutality.

Woman-ant fought beside man-ant of every caste, for the sake of larval ant-posterity. There was no honor, no concept of such. Only the deep and primordial knowledge of disorder and the evolutionary urge to protect the precious cross of chromatids inside the exoskeleton shells.

The ants fought, died, and persevered.

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60

ek

de Am alh y

n Sh

uer a M asq am i the insecurity hidden behind the insurmountable vanity? or the pretentious, arrogant diva? am i that pitiable creature whose problems get her into only calamity? or the resilient, perseverant Phoenix? am i the confused whimsical ingénue that has yet to reach maturity? or the wise soul trapped in a child’s body?

You’ll never know how you appear through other people’s eyes. it’s almost a proven fact, love: everybody lies.

S t a f f

Social Coordinator

P a g e

Editor-In-Chief

Submissions Manager

Core Staff Publicity Manager

Layout Editor

Art Editor

Business Manager

Assistant Art Editor

Auxiliary Staff

i nde x Ainsworth, Claire................................................................................................8,32,37,58,59 Baker, Ashley.........................................................................................................................53 Blank, Jen..............................................................................................................................33 Brooks, Sara.....................................................................................................................23,32 Chakeris, Nicole.................................................................................19,22,25,27,28,43,52,61 Chan, Alicia...........................................................................................................................36 Corkill, Gwen..............................................................................................................26,52,60 Cross, Lindsey.......................................................................................................................45 Delimba, Aubrey ..........................................................................................................9,14,38 Ekholm, Andrea...............................................................................................................30,39 Ekholm, Kelsey.......................................................................................................................6 Fasing, Shannon....................................................................................................................11 Fletcher, Caleb...............................................................................................................5,15,47 Fox, Taylor............................................................................................................................13 Gehlsen, Micheal...................................................................................................................14 Groth, Ashley .......................................................................................................................17 Hillberg, Molly......................................................................................................................10 House, Sarah....................................................................................................................44,56 Irvin, Sarah............................................................................................................................50 Kaehler, Heather....................................................................................................29,31,37,49 McChonchie, Kelly...............................................................................................................45 McNeal, Kat..........................................................................................................................60 Morrison, Claire..........................................................................................................24,31,34 Mussett, Kelsey.......................................................................................................................6 Nguyen, Linh Thi...............................................................................................................4,51 Phillips, Megan.................................................................................................................21,48 Pierce, Erin.............................................................................................................................16 Ramsden, Sarah.....................................................................................................................54 Shaw, Kiyoshi.......................................................................................................................46 Shek, Amalyn........................................................................................................................61 Sheridan, Kim...............................................................................................12,13,22,39,58,59 Teboe. Kelly.....................................................................................................................30,35 Ulrich, Deanna......................................................................................................................20 Wheelwright, Keri.................................................................................................................55 Winkleman, Maegan.............................................................................................................40

Coffeehouse brings together brilliant writers, musical showstoppers, gifted artists, and even the dramatically inclined for a night of fun and appreciation of the arts several times during the school year.

Coffeehouse offers students a chance to share their favorite stories, poems, or scripts while aspiring comedians have us rolling in the aisle and local bands to rock it out. Even displaying the latest pieces from the art department, Coffeehouses became highly anticipated events that showcase the unique personalities and talents that make Brentsville District High School and Rhapsody, Brentsville’s annual Literary Magazine, so unique. The funds generated by Coffeehouse wholly provide the budget for Rhapsody.

Coffee HouseMarkerAshley Groth

2008-2009

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