English Department - Senior Portfolio 2013 by Ripon College

Senior Portfolio Fall 2012 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Spring 2013

CONTRIBUTORS

Margaret Agnew Kate Amell Amy Browender Elizabeth Brown Lacey Buchda Dawn Burnside Breana Butt Zack Flood Ashton Fries Max Hermann Troy Jarosinski Emily Kijek 1

Ben Kopczynski Mo McIlree Diakeishaye Murphy-Gunnels Charles Pegorsch Lisa Perkins Jack Rea Alex Reid Blair Reitzner Carla Schantz Matt Stanley Murray Stoffa Laila Sultan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contributors - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

1-2

Margaret Agnew “I Didn’t Agree to That” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

8-12

Kate Amell “Spirituality on the Floor” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

14-19

Amy Browender “Memory, of the Selected Variety” - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

20-22

Lizzie Brown “When Everything Else Disappears” - - - - - - - - - - - - -

24-27

Lacey Buchda “She’d Died, Once” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

29-33

Dawn Burnside “The Art of the Doodle” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

35-38

Breana Butt “A Disgusting Truth” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

39-42

Zack Flood “Invincible” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

43-52

“Innocence” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

52-53

Ashton Fries “Then There was Nothing” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

55-56

“Subdivision” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

57-60

“Finding Imagination in a Box” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

61-63

Max Hermann “Memoirs of the Commons” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

65-71

Troy Jarosinski “Brussels Sprouts” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

72-76

Emily Kijek “Romeo and Juliet in the High School Curriculum” - - - -

77-84

Ben Kopczynski “The Devil, the Angel, the Student, and their Critic” - - -

86-93

Mo McIlree “Forgive and Forget? Hello No!” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

95-98

Diakeishaye Murphy-Gunnels “To whom it may concern” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

100-103

Charles Pegorsch “Necessity” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

104-107

Lisa Perkins “Whiffs of Womanhood” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

108-110

Jack Rea “The Scisco” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 111-118 Alex Reid “The Un-Bear” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 119-126 Blair Reitzner “Nocturnal Nature” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 128-130 Carla Schantz “Project Code Name: Albatross-X” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 132-140

Matt Stanley “Day In, Day Out” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 142-145 Murray Stoffa “Missed Calls” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 146-150 Laila Sultan “Revised Personal Statement” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 152-157 Author Statements - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 158-167

Margaret Agnew

“I Didn’t Agree to That”

Just by the way she walked in he could tell she thought she was a superstar. Look at that flounce; look at those measured, calculated steps. Look at her short strawberry blonde hair shine like she was under the delusion that the members of this squad had time to take care of their hair. It curled in perfect ways, echoing the curve of the smile of those pink little lips. Her brown eyes glanced over him teasingly, locking on his face for a moment before she passed him in a rush of air and summery perfume. Adam Corvi scowled and looked back at the files on his computer. That was going to be his new partner? She looked like one of those model cops from a television show. How in the hell had their Lieutenant decided it was a good idea to hire her? Positive discrimination? Adam looked over at his fellow detectives - all of them greeting her warmly - and rolled his eyes. At least that meant they wouldn’t notice him ignoring her. They were crazy if they thought he’d welcome that diva as his partner with open arms. He sighed, typing nothing of significance on his keyboard. When had his life become some cop serial anyway? Here he was, with Alexander Voss, the poster child for pretty boy detectives, as his superior, a lecherous old man who could easily have been on NYPD Blue as Voss’s partner and 8

an underwear model about to be riding next to him in a squad car for the foreseeable future. If he was anyone else in the world, Adam realized, he would probably be pretty okay with all this. But, sadly for him some days, he wasn’t. He was Adam Corvi, serious Adam Corvi, who cared about nothing but the job. Maybe he was secretly from a cop show himself. A thin fingered hand clamped down on his shoulder. He flinched, guessing it was his new “leading lady”. He turned to face the smiling strawberry blonde. Melina met his eyes. “You’re Corvi, right?” “Right,” Adam said curtly. He lowered his gaze. “Detective Adam Corvi. I’m sure it will be a pleasure to work with you, Detective Frost.” “So formal.” She held out her hand. He took it, expecting to shake it, and got pulled to his feet. While he stood with his fingers splayed, trying to regain his bearings with Alexander and the rest of the team laughing their asses off, Melina kept right on talking: “We are going out for coffee so we can get to know each other a little. I already cleared it with the boss. Second, you call me Melina, Mel, or Frost. Only ‘Detective Frost’ if it’s absolutely necessary.” Adam raised his head, glaring. “Got that, partner?” “You two crazy kids have fun.” Jerry, the oldest member of their team, slapped Adam on the back. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“I would not dream of it.” Melina flashed a feline smile and started out of the office. She was gone before he could reply with “I didn’t agree to that!” but he said it anyway. Quite a few people started trying to talk to him at once, but he brushed them all off, charging after Melina. She didn’t so much as blink when he came up next to her, panting and incensed. She didn’t, in fact, say a word, apparently waiting for him. Adam finally gave in and repeated, his voice perfectly level, “I didn’t agree to that.” “And neither of us agreed to be partners, but that’s happening. So welcome to the ride.” She took the driver’s seat of the squad car (his squad car) and tugged him in. Adam would have protested but she was right - the junior partner traditionally drove and she was, he realized with a little smile of his own, the junior partner. “So, Adam, did you choose narcotics or did narcotics choose you?” She pulled out so recklessly into traffic that it took him a minute to catch his breath and answer her. Adam threw her another death glare that she missed thanks to her eyes being, surprisingly enough, on the road. “I chose narcotics.” “Drug addicted relative?”

“No. I just wanted to at least try to stop people from becoming victims. You can’t do that in homicide.” Adam looked out the window. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the world move so fast before. “It…stills wears on you, though, so be ready.” Melina smiled at him again - one she hadn’t shown before, one that seemed to real and full of life - and looked back out at the road confidently. “I was born ready.” Adam shook his head. “When you see some kid strung out, some kid you couldn’t save… some mother selling herself or her kids for just once more fix… someone too far gone for us to even help. You come to me then, Frost, and you tell me you were born ready.” Melina’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “It’s Melina, Adam. And no one is ever too far gone to save. Never say that to me again.” Oh yeah. They were in a cop show. They argued both points for the rest of the outing. In the end, though, she was right. She was born ready. Melina was the best partner Adam had ever had, could have ever dreamed of having. They fought almost constantly, had into shouting matches more than once on the job, but they meshed together like gears, kept each other sane and smiling, kept each other’s heart racing. Melina was like none of the other officers -

nothing got her down. None of the blackness of what they saw every day dimmed her light, nothing even seemed to faze her. Adam didn’t see her as a superstar. Not after he worked with her, anyway. She had her weaknesses- she refused to let anyone lean their elbows on her desk, her paperwork was almost always late, sometimes she came into work and her hair looked like a deflated soufflé and, above all, she always smelled strongly of perfume. When it came to the parts of the job that she saw as important, though, she put everything of herself into it. Didn’t slow down, didn’t look back, didn’t let anyone get in her head. Until her final mission, anyway. “Melina was killed in action today, Adam,” his boss said thinly. “I… I am so sorry….” His first reaction was to scream until his lungs gave out. Adam dropped his head into his hands and bit down hard onto his own tongue. For one delusion moment, he pretended that her character had been written off the show. That Melina herself was fine, that he would see her again. He thought of a thousand things to say- some the coping sort of humorous that make no one laugh, some horrible television one liners, some utterly broken phrases, the urge to just start crying. Instead, all Adam had said then - and maybe he didn’t even really say it, he never knew for sure – was, “I didn’t agree to that.” 12

Kate Amell Spirituality on the Floor I remember him sitting on the mustard yellow carpeting that covered the landing of the stairs of our house in Minneapolis with his head in one hand and the rejection letter in the other. He had been so sure… I don’t remember exactly how old I was when my dad was first rejected from the Diaconate Program, but I remember that my sisters and I were confused. We didn’t know what was going on or why my dad, a good-natured, rarely angry or saddened man, was so dejected. It didn’t last long though. He took the rejection of his application with grace and dignity. Little did I realize the fault lay with me and my sisters. The official stance of the Church was that we were too young. They didn’t want to submit a young family to the taxing regimen of the Diaconate Program. “Not now,” they said. “Try again in a few years once your family has grown up.” So that’s what he did. Although initially discouraged by his rejection, he prayed and meditated on it and decided to patiently wait until his three daughters were older. He was never once resentful. I don’t think we understood what our part in this was until we were older. But my dad understood in his gentle manner that God has a plan and purpose for what happens to all of us.

About six years later he reapplied, but this time it was in the Diocese of Superior because we had moved to the country in the middle of nowhere, far outside of the tiny town called Dresser, Wisconsin. This time, he was accepted. I remember the acceptance as well as I remember the rejection. It was a weekend morning, and my sisters and I had already woken up and were downstairs eating breakfast while my parents slept in. They called us to their bedroom. They slept on the first floor, close to the kitchen. My sisters and I went in and all crawled onto their bed in their dark blue-ish-gray bedroom. As we looked at them expectantly, my dad told us that he had been accepted into the Diaconate Program. Of course we said we were happy, but I don’t think, even then, we really understood the process or the faith it must have taken for my dad to make such a decision. I was proud of my dad, sure, but I didn’t ask many questions. Nor did I or my sisters get deeply involved. We just liked the one weekend a month when we got to travel around Wisconsin and stay in a hotel room for the day while my parents attended the classes. We’d jump on the beds, eat junk food, like chips and Oreos, and then go swimming. Every once in a while there would be a motel instead of a hotel that didn’t have a pool, and boy, did we hate those stays. Lame motels. Meanwhile, my dad was undergoing this faith and spiritual transformation. My sisters and I, on the other hand, remained rather unaware, too concerned with our own lives.

My dad had four years of training and preparing to do before he could be ordained as a deacon, a lay minister in the Catholic Church. Before a man is ordained into the permanent diaconate, he has to have solid knowledge about Sacred Scripture, Christology, The Church, Pastoral Sociology, and Psychology. I didn’t even know that some of those topics were real things. Christology? Yikes! But then the four years were up. My dad had completed all of his classes and training. By my calculations, he underwent over 400 hours of educational sessions over the course of four years. The other thing I have to keep reminding myself is that he still managed to work a full time job, host all his events for work, and still make time for us, his family. The sacrifice involved with this is immense, and sadly, I don’t think my sisters or I really realized just how hard our dad was working to keep our lives as uninterrupted as possible. However, he was at last ready to be ordained as a deacon in the Catholic Church. It kind of caught me by surprise how time had flown by. Now that I was a senior in high school and little bit less self-consumed, I started to realize the magnitude of my dad’s decision. The Catholic Church takes the view “once a deacon, always a deacon,” and that fact shook me a bit and made me wonder what I missed during my dad’s four years of schooling. The Diocese of Superior defines a permanent deacon as a “person ordained deacon to render a lifetime of service within this clerical 16

capacity.” A lifetime of service? That got my attention. Maybe it had something to do with being on the precipice of graduating from high school and being overwhelmed by decisions concerning my future, but the enormity of a lifetime commitment to anything was impressive to me. I can’t really tell you much about how my dad was feeling when the day of the ordination finally arrived because my memory of the event doesn’t focus on that aspect. Plus, I was too concerned with the random flu bug I had gotten the day before. Maybe it’s part of this self-absorption that makes the moment so much stronger, but there was one moment in my dad’s ordination that I will never forget. I won’t try to explain all the traditions, rituals, and proceedings that took place during the ordination except for one part, and it was this that moved me. During the Litany of the Saints, a prayer sung to all the saints asking them to pray for us, the deaconate candidates lie prostrate on the floor. The song is beautiful because it evokes this feeling that you get when you are asking for help or talking to someone and you know they are listening, really listening. It is repeated invocations for different saints and holy men and women to pray for us, our humble, insignificant selves. That is the overall emotion emitted from the song, but this was amplified for my family in particular because it was two of my dad’s closest co-workers and volunteers singing and our old family friend, Steve, playing his violin. But more than that, while this song is being sung, the candidates lie down. 17

It is this incredibly humbling sight of grown men lying flat on their stomachs on a cool, marble floor in this great cathedral. The position and general feeling was one of intense vulnerability. How many times have you willingly lain down on the floor for someone or something you believed in while a hundred or more people watched you? It was one of the most moving things that I had ever experienced. There was my father, who Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d known all my life, lying on the floor of a church, being ordained into a position in the Catholic Church due to his immense faith and unwavering belief in God. Some people might think it is silly, lying on the floor for God, and it might seem like some crazy Catholic tradition, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one that takes a great amount of humility and conscious faith to undergo. When I saw my dad up there I lost it. I had a hard time keeping my tears and quiet sniffles from turning into full-blown sobs. Upon glancing over to see if anyone was staring, I saw my Grandma and Grandpa Amell, not ones to openly show emotion, looking up, watching their son lie down for what he believed in, and the fierce pride that had taken up residence on their faces was equally poignant. My Grandma was crying too. I reached over and grabbed her hand, and we stood there watching a man that we both loved, take a huge leap for something he believed in so strongly that he refused to take a passive role. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be just another parishioner in the pews on Sunday mornings. He wanted to take an active 18

part in his faith. He wanted to be up there on the altar every weekend, serving the God he believes in. Recognizing that intense faith and the enormous decision that my dad had made was one time when I felt I experienced the spiritual. That image of my dad lying prostrate on the ground of the Cathedral of Christ the King remains with me still. And Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m fairly sure it always will because it was a moment that so profoundly moved me.

Amy Browender Memory, of the Selected Variety Perhaps, if I had known, I would have stayed on the phone longer. Just two more minutes, maybe three or four. But what more was there to say? When the phone first rang, I was aggravated. We were sitting in the kitchen, listening to the game. The first of the season: Pittsburgh Pirates, seventh inning, and Ben Sheets was still on the mound. I had probably just said something blindly optimistic like “This is the year. Playoffs!”(We ended the season 81-81.) She called because, for the first time in weeks, she felt good. Better. Maybe even the best she had been in months. If it had been anyone else I wouldn’t have picked up the phone, but I shared the score with her, told her I passed my last test in Chinese (barely) and that I had worn the latest sweater she made for me to school, just a few days prior. I can’t remember how long that conversation was, but I withheld that “I love you” just to prove a point. To whom, I’m not sure. I regretted it immediately, yelled it over Dad’s voice, and hoped she had heard. I don’t think she did. The next thing I remember was a voice saying “Norm found her,” and that it must have happened just after midnight. She always did stay up late, knitting. After that it’s all pretty hazy. I figured the older I got, the more I would recall, but I still only have pieces of that week. There was the Rabbi: I saw a Buick parked in front of the house. “Of course he drove that here,” I said under my breath disdainfully, as if all 20

this was the Rabbi’s fault, and as if my feelings towards his car would remedy the situation. I had met him before on a number of occasions, but I didn’t have much to say. We fed him, of course. Then he poked and prodded so he could write the eulogy. I thought about the Mourner’s Kaddish, and how I felt I had heard it too many times in the last few years. Fittingly, we sent him off with a jar of her pickles, which were suddenly limited in number and would be fought over by family in the near future. “I’ll be in contact with you soon,” he said, from the window of that shiny Buick. I smelled rain as he backed out of the driveway. And then, it was the carpet. Her condo needed to be cleaned out, after all, so we drove there to start the process. Overwhelmed by what were now thousands of vessels of memory, it wasn’t her place anymore; the smell was different. I wanted to see what was in her knitting basket and on her desk, but then I saw the Spot. It was a color I’ll never forget: grey, yellowish, putrid-looking, and unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I didn’t know she had fallen on the floor. I didn’t know what happened to the body after you leave it. There it sat, in the middle of the room. I stood there, hoping it could be from something, anything else. Someone found me and brought me back to the kitchen. They said, “We forgot to tell you… we thought they’d have been here by now to clean it up.” And so my grandma was now a carpet stain. A spot on the same kind of carpet that Muffin, that neighbor’s shih tzu, probably pissed on next door. Physicality reduced to fiber discoloration. Neighbors, friends, and community members brought old Mason jars to the funeral. Voices filled with grief and faces splashed with guilt, they’d say, “She had brought pickles over, and we’d forgotten to return the jar…We meant to give it back.” They may have well kept them, and they were just more things to find homes for. 21

Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s another thing: all that junk. She wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a hoarder, but she had some tendencies. We went through her kitchen, and Creamette pasta varieties must have been on sale at Piggly Wiggly, because there were nearly fifteen boxes above the oven. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d have been set for a while if there was ever a spaghetti shortage. Old magazines, those complimentary sticky postage labels old people always get in the mail, and unicorn figurines were among the many other things we sorted through while vacating her condo. Her pantry was the last stop, and I quickly found myself drowning in an ocean of plastic bags she had saved and intended to reuse. I stumbled in the small room, searching in dim light and a dingy smell. In a corner sat a dusty paper bag with its top folded over. I opened it, expecting to find more bags. Instead, small flowers with purple petals emerged from the darkness. A faint perfume followed. I tentatively opened the bag wider, and found their source: old, moldy potatoes that had long been forgotten in that dark, damp corner of the pantry.

Elizabeth Brown When Everything Else Disappears In case you were curious, as of today, there are 6,133 Elizabeth Browns in the United States white pages. If there is one way to slip into the abyss of humanity, it is to be named Elizabeth Brown. However, if I can imagine that I share something with all of those individuals by the sheer fact that we have the same name, then I am not only an English major from Ripon College’s class of 2013, but also a yoga specialist, composer, fine art photographer, the last woman to be hanged in public, and already have a few obituaries about me. If your name defines you, then yes, you are also the sum total of all of those who also have the same name as you. While I don’t think sharing the same name means you are essentially the same person, I do believe in the idea of overlapping souls. As an introduction, I am Elizabeth Brown, descendent of four individuals: an electrician, a naturalist, a very organized woman, and a printer—my grandparents. I am none of those things, but I am the aggregate of all those things. To say I am not a part of my past would be incomplete; to say that I am only a part of my past would be excessive. I’m an organization fanatic, coupon cutter, innovator, gardener, and the language of stories is integrated into my very thought process. Therefore, I am a composite of my descendents, but also the souls of those around me 24

every day. This transcendence of time and overlapping of souls are the factors that have changed and developed me as a person. It is this messiness, this inherent interconnection between souls that has developed the side of me that is committed to language and the language of stories. If I am a composite of stories, and I am influenced by the stories that have come before, then stories are eternal. At this point you may be saying to yourself, “Whoa! Major leap of logic.” Therefore, let us backtrack to the reader response part of stories; this requires a decision on your part. You may a) commit to the inherent importance of stories, b) commit to their uselessness, or c) determine the choice is irrelevant but suffer the consequences of living in an uncertain limbo-logic. If you are like me, you will have picked “a)”, and that is what I did upon entering college. It was either commit to the importance of stories, or commit myself to a confused, dispassionate, and ultimately pointless four years of my life. By commitment, I mean commitment to their significance, commitment to the meaning behind stories, commitment to ambiguity and open-ended everything. I had to decide that a perspective of meaning was something worth pursuing. I had to go into this with a clear understanding that there will never be a right or wrong answer, that there aren’t “yes or no” questions, and that meaning is messy. Meaning should be messy; if it were too clean, too determined, there

would be nothing left to interpret—and the meaning is in the interpretation. The interpretation of meaning doesn’t just apply to stories. It applies to everything. However, this commitment to meaning started with stories for me. There’s a quote from Margaret Atwood’s dystopian novel Oryx and Crake that sums up why this commitment is important, “When any civilization is dust and ashes . . . art is all that’s left over. Images, words, music. Imaginative structures. Meaning—human meaning, that is—is defined by them.” I believe this is true. Things, thoughts, words, buildings, don’t have meaning unless we attribute meaning to them. Nothing has meaning until we make it so. It’s okay to have completely meaningless spaces and thoughts, because while they may not be meaningful to us, they have meaning for someone else. However, if that meaning is lost completely, if we don’t allow it to be meaningful, then what is the point of all of this humanity? Are we just here for show? Because I doubt anyone would come. What are we doing here if not to make sense out of the fact that we are here? That is why I am an English major. Not because I have now, or ever will, have an answer to that question, but because I am invested in the analysis and interpretation process. It is not the meaning of stories that is eternal though. It is the stories that are eternal, and the meaning is what we are after. Stories are worth committing to because of this impermanent meaning; they have 26

something that transcends time. As descendents of time we are connected to that, regardless of our intentional belief in the matter.

Lacey M. Buchda

“She’d Died, Once”

As far as he was concerned, his sister was joining a cult. Kohaku knew the Kitsune’s Followers was an ancient and prestigious order. Its members were esteemed for their abilities, for being able to halt lightning, freeze flames, and disperse ghostly energies. Without them, there would no one to pacify the spirits of the dead; no one to stop the ghosts from gathering in a gale; no one to stop the specters from stealing the souls of the living. The Followers’ work was crucial, even in this modern age when the gods no longer whispered their wills to humankind. Yet even so, they were a backwards people – not to mention a shade insane. And today Hotaru would be joining them.

It was the winter solstice. They were shivering at the edge of a lake, somewhere in the depths of the Aokigahara Forest. Kohaku could sense a morbid miasma rising from the trees and the frost-covered ground; many people travelled to die here, to rest forever in the shadow of Mount Fuji. The wind off the holy mountain was bitter, and the lake, he knew, would burn like spirit fire when the ceremony began. The initiated members of the order – in this sect, women all - stood in a semi-circle. They wore white robes laced with azure threads and matching beads of lapis lazuli. Each of them also wore a bell.

When the sun set, the women began to chant in some long dead tongue. Sticks of incense were lit and rods with paper streamers were passed over the new recruits. Out of the entire Chūbu region, only three 29

were willing to join their ranks. But Kohaku didn’t pay any attention to the others. He had eyes only for Hotaru. Normally, outsiders weren’t allowed to witness this event, but she’d argued for him when they’d first arrived. “Kohaku is my twin. He has the other half of my soul. How can I commit to you without him here?” And they’d agreed after that, much to his relief. He’d wanted to stay.

“You can’t be serious.” That had been his response when she’d told him her decision six months ago, late at night when the rest of the family had been asleep. “Why would you want to join them?” Hotaru had stared out his window a long time before answering. “You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be fitting. I have the proper temperament for their work. Their lifestyle would suit me. And I’ve always been drawn to the spiritual side of this world - you know that.” She was right. She had made a habit of haunting graveyards, which he’d always thought of as a quirk of hers, but now…. “Besides,” she’d added in a softer voice, “of the paths before me, this will be the better one.” He didn’t understand. He said as much. And she’d smiled sadly and said she’d had a dream - a beautiful and terrible dream, painted in shades of blue and verity. Even while sleeping, she’d seen farther ahead than he ever could. “They would call her ‘Ophelia,’” she’d whispered. “Ophelia, the girl who sang and danced and laughed as she drowned Japan in fire. But to me…to us, she was just Haruko. My sweet and mad Haruko.” When she cried, tears burned in his eyes.

The Followers accepted her with open arms, but they made sure she knew the price she’d pay in joining them. “To pacify the dead, you 30

must first understand them. You must know their anger, their terror, and their pain at the moment of their deaths. Only then can you hope to help them rest.” With that lesson in mind, they’d given her books and chants to memorize. She’d dutifully learned both, and when she’d slept, he’d read until his eyes burned. It was only after the first snowfall that he’d learned about the rites of the solstice. Ice had settled into his stomach and had seeped through his veins. He’d begged her to reconsider. “They’re mad. You mustn’t do this!” Don’t make us lose you like this. But she’d already known the price she’d pay. She’d brushed his tears away, shushed him, and whispered, “It will be alright. I promise.”

Now the Followers led the three into the water. They passed under the torii gate, leaving the earthly realm behind in favor of the sacred. Kohaku thought he was going to be sick. As he watched, the spirits began to appear, floating out from the trees. Enshrouded in mist, the orbs of blue fire crossed over the lake, bobbed around the women, and cast them in an ethereal light. The Followers’ eyes were dark; their chant grew louder; the whispers of the dead joined them. For a second, Hotaru looked over the water at him. She smiled. The bells rang. And Hotaru and the others were plunged into the water.

Later, he would remember the water lighting up; remember the bodies thrashing as they drowned; remember the bells ringing. But those memories would be shattered and distorted from his horror. As he watched, he felt something in him wither and die, and it took him a moment to realize: Hotaru. His other half. No. No!

The Followers dragged the recruits out and resuscitated two of them. But Hotaru remained still, pale, quiet, so quiet, like she’d never been in all their lives. They’d come into the world together, once. He couldn’t stand to let her leave it like this! “Hotaru.”

He took over the resuscitation. He pressed down on her heart and poured breath into her lungs. He remembered their childhood, when they’d grown into their powers: they’d made butterflies of blue fire, he’d read their teachers’ minds, and she’d looked into their futures, finding ways to further their mischief. Those had been days of laughter; days before their paths had twisted; days before she’d chosen this fate. He remembered and urged her to open her eyes, and when all else failed, begged whatever god there was to give her life. Take mine, just wake her up! And a spark of power passed between them. Ignited. Flared. The mouth under his moved. But she was alive, and that was enough.

After she’d coughed out her death, he tried to squeeze the air out of her, too. They embraced, not caring that the others were waiting for her. Something had changed, he knew; her thoughts were muted to him now, and there was something off about her aura. But then, she’d passed through the Gates of Death and come back alive. That had to do something to a person’s spirit, didn’t it? Eventually, she broke the silence. She squeezed his hand and whispered, “I have to go, Kohaku.” He didn’t want to let her. But that wasn’t his decision to make. 32

She stood and walked away, her skin white and her hair dripping. Her gown clung to her and was already freezing in place, but she didn’t seem to mind the cold. The chant and bells fell silent then, and a blue light formed around her, otherworldly to his eyes. When she joined the others, they stripped her and dressed her in a fresh, dry set of robes, white and blue like spirit fire. She didn’t look back at him. She was a Kitsune’s Follower now. But in his mind, soft like her smile, he heard her think, Thank you, Kohaku.

A week later, he went home and told the family it went well. He kept the details to himself and got used to the quiet in his heart and mind. If his family noticed a change in him – that he had something of her peace, now – they never spoke of it. And in time, he found his own path to wander down – something all his own. But whenever he visited his sister, he brought her lazulite flowers. They were blue like ghost light – her light. He figured she’d died, once. And the flower of the dead suited her just fine.

Dawn Burnside The Art of the Doodle Everyone has done it. It’s the students’ main form of daydream. Some started in elementary school. Some held out ‘til high school. Either way, everyone has jumped on the wagon at least once. Everyone has doodled. It gets you when you least expect it to. Your mind wanders; it drifts. Then, suddenly, for no particular reason, you are brought back to the present. Back to the real world you return. Looking down to see where your notes left off, you notice your pen never stilled. It was as active and distant as your mind. It just expressed itself in a different language. The doodle is the pictorial form of the daydream. It can be interpreted and dissected. It can be categorized and analyzed. When you were a kid, in that one teen magazine, there was that nicely distinguished doodle explanation. If you draw boxes you're organized and boring, like Ben Stein, complete with the large, round glasses and monotonous voice. If you do loops and squiggles you're fun-loving and frivolous – think Selena Gomez or Hillary Duff in their Disney Channel days. If you doodle words, you missed the point of doodling. So says the article. But if one day you doodle hairstyles and the next you draw stars, don't worry. You're probably not schizophrenic. This is the natural course 35

of boredom and you are just along for the ride. Everyone doodles differently. You know how they say some people look like their dogs? Well, most people act like their doodles. The secret doodler just wants to doodle in peace. He hides it behind an outstretched arm, hankering down in his secret foxhole lest he be discovered by the other side. He is the silent doodler, the one you have to keep your eye on for fear he will be too far lost in daydream to make his way back. His doodles are just as much a mystery as he is, however. Even if he is discovered, everything would still be unexplained. That is the art of his doodling. The Lister is like the Ben Stein doodler, except he doodles ordered words instead of boxes and shapes. Listers don’t need to hide behind a wall for fear of discovery. They may doodle openly without being criticized. After all, they could just be listing themes and motifs of Jane Eyre or classifying types of fairytale stories. In actuality, however, they are lost in the organized depth of their mind – blissfully strategizing and categorizing. Some doodlers seem to have a handle on their doodling style. They have no marks of hesitation and everything looks done with intent. They are the ones that doodle so well it could be sold as a piece of artwork – like one of Leonardo's rough sketches. This is no covert doodler. This 36

character is outright and uninhibited. There is freedom to her movements. Her thoughts are directly connected to her pen and the flow is constant. Ideas stream onto the page and quickly fill it up. For this doodler, notes become illustrations only their mind can decipher. Doodling becomes their personal form of cuneiform. The language becomes the art. Other doodles seem indistinguishable from fantasy and make no sense in this reality. There are no walls in this person’s imagination, they too are uninhibited. However, this person doodles loops and shapes that mesh into something blurry and hazy. People may not understand, but don’t fret – Picasso was misunderstood at first too. Doodles don’t have to be a piece of artwork hung in a gallery for others to judge and enjoy. The meaning isn’t in the picture. The meaning is in the mind. It may be that some people are compelled to doodle. They just can't contain themselves, doodling off the page and into infinity. Then there's a more reserved lot. They are a whole group of people who desperately wish to doodle but are too self-conscious. They get penned down in the logistics. They can't escape the real world and transcend into doodling bliss. "I can't draw." "I don't know what to doodle." "I don't know how." They don't understand that doodling isn't in the active mind, it's in the subconscious. Doodling is universal. It is the expression of

freedom. The doodle is the outward expression of your soul in picture form. Doodling may be just an easy escape for the tired mind. Then again, it could be much more, too. There is no set form for doodling. There is no definitive meaning. That is the art of the doodle.

Breana Leigh Butt A Disgusting Truth She reached for the broom and pushed the end of the handle on the button to start the freezing shower. I instantly grimaced and hunched over in my green Speedo as the water pricked my back. I could never push the button hard enough to start the shower. I tried so hard every morning, using every ounce of my fifty-pound body. The only way for me to rinse off was for my mother to reach with the handle and turn it on for me; it worked rather perfectly as she avoided getting wet. Like our morning maneuver, my life in general was rather perfect. I really had nothing to complain about except the cold shower every morning before swimming lessons and the occasional serving of peas. However, there was one, giant, looming problem in my life; I was without a younger sibling and I was made to be a big sister. On this summer morning as I stood shaking and drenched, my mom placed a towel around me. As I squeaked and struggled to plant my feet in my flip-flops, I began my daily whine: Mom, if I could have anything in the world I’d choose a little brother or sister. Mom, you know dad and you have enough money plus we have two extra bedrooms. Mom, I promise I would help change diapers and stuff. Why won’t you? Why can’t you?

Does making babies have to do with eating special foods? It can’t be that hard since there are so many babies in the world. I never got a straightforward answer. Fifteen years later, I am still waiting. I’m still the youngest in my family. Any day now, Mom and Dad. If you had a child now the age difference is beginning to be a little big for us to really bond as siblings. In all seriousness, I suppose I did get an answer to my burning question. I had bothered my parents until their breaking point about whether or not Santa was real. I had finally gotten an answer I didn’t care for. This was a similar case. One day a few years later, I had bugged my mom the whole day asking how I was made. My mom left the room and came back with a floppy, 1980’s cartoon book and handed it to me. I loved books, and I was excited. It was titled “Where Did I Come From?” Creative, huh? She told me to go to my room, read it, and then come back to talk about it. My excitement was not warranted. Awful only begins to describe the horrors that were contained in that book. It began with drawings of a man and a woman and how they were “different.” Then, it described how when they love each other very much and get very close together, the best thing he can do is put his… well I’m sure you get the idea. It described that it felt very good to adults; it was “a bit like a sneeze, but much better.” One image sticks in my mind to this day: 40

Tell me, as an eight year old, how do you suppose you get this out of your head? Even today just reading the lines on the page makes my skin crawl and my stomach drop, but it is nothing compared to how I felt then. My world had changed forever, or so I thought. Perhaps it did. Perhaps I was wrapped in a world of innocence and the problem of not knowing why my parents couldn’t conceive a child actually wasn’t too much to bear. My first thoughts were of my parents: they had my older brother and me, which meant… And my best friend’s parents had her which meant…. And Mrs. Wilson had kids which meant… Suddenly every adult I had ever admired in my life who had a child became disgusting and someone that I couldn’t look up to. There were a few “pure” people left in my life, such as my aunt who never married or had children. I could move in with her and get away from this. After my 41

“debriefing” with my parents, I didn’t feel any better. They only had to say the awful things the book had to say. It went something like, “When a man and woman love each other very much…” The rest doesn’t need explaining. I can say that I currently do not look down upon anyone who has ever had a child or who might do the things described in that book. Considering that I’m surrounded by college students, I probably wouldn’t be here if that was the case. I’m not sure what made me get over that day in my life, but I’m sure that I will not be showing that book to any child I may have one day. According to Amazon, it has sold millions of copies worldwide. Good. I’m glad millions of children could have shared my experience. I’m glad some old British guy known for beautiful travel novels named Peter Mayle has enlightened children everywhere instead of their own parents. I’m also glad my parents thought it was in my best interest to read this book when it has been banned from countries such as Malaysia for being “detrimental to society’s morals and public interest.” I could have just accepted some stupid answer as to why I couldn’t get a brother or sister as long as it was convincing. Perhaps a woman became pregnant spontaneously after spending too much time with her significant other. Maybe certain foods could be a trigger. I’m sure I would have figured the other stuff out sooner or later by some kid on a bus ride home.

Zack Flood

Invincible PART I

"Busha's dead."

Those words still ring in my memory with a blunt thud Like a hammer to a dead wood board Vibrating and puncturing the surface of my chest, Breath ripped from my lungs, Stealing every last bit of air, As if I were the one who died that day, not her.

Struggling to gather...process...function

My thoughts flashing ... 43

In and out-

-My grandma's face

Out then back in-

-The sound of her voice

The images smacking up against my consciousness Like waves lapping at the shoreline Erasing defined marks made in the sand, And transforming its softness Into a darker, harder surface.

I can remember the sweat beading my brow, I had caught a virus And my brain could not recognize the foreign germ 44

That had intruded so abruptly and unexpected. And me, Wanting to vomit and rid my body From this poison.

My mother's eyes were red with more than just tears, Trickling and trailing down her cheeks, Dripping off her chin and fading with the rest, Like the memories of loved ones do When you try and fathom their whole life Within seconds after their death.

I sat...No tears could escape me, as I just sat. Sat staring with disbelieving eyes Like a child who for the first time Sees their parents placing a gift From Santa under the tree On Christmas Eve. 45

INTERMISSION

Shock. I think that's what they call it. For meThree days of normalcy. Everything routine, minus the nursing home.

PART II

The wake.

Everybody was busy busy busy Arranging the flowers and pictures, Preparing the most Tragic attempt at a celebration I have ever witnessed. 46

I sat...No tears could escape me, as I just sat, With the company of empty chairs And the coffin holding my grandmother.

I remember being entranced by her body, Staring and waiting for her to pop up, Her head to turn and start laughing, Like a fully wound jack-in-the-box. Waiting for her to take me back to the nursing home And finish the game of checkers Still perfectly in place and Resting in peace on her table.

Timidly approaching her body, Sure to see her eye twitch, Her nostril flare, Some clue that would reveal her scheme. 47

I poked her hoping she would move.

She looked like a mannequin, Stone faced and unreal, Set up on display In the storefront of the funeral home.

Her skin felt cold and hard, And her make-up... The same colors and shades as always But still, somehow different.

I felt like I was watching a movie Based on a true story, Where the main character Was nothing more than Some talented lookalike for the real person, Done up with costume and make-up, 48

Fooling no one, But accepted because it must be.

My hope that she was kidding, The only thing that got me through That awkward intermission, When I could believe what I had not yet seen Could not survive the death that was now in front of me.

Slinking back to my chair, I sat...Nothing but tears could escape me, as I just sat. Crying with the intensity of a new born That experiences the world for the first timeCold, naked, exposed, But most of all Confused.

Truth colder and harder than her resting corpse came to life: 49

In the end, Death conquers all.

PART III

(Ten years later...)

Stop. Green. Go. Red. Squeal. Swerve. Swear. Glance. Honk. Pass.

An angry soccer mom, Giving me a look that says, "You're grounded mister," And a bearded guy on a motorcycle Saying 'good morning' with his Middle finger. 50

Think. Plot. Plan. Get through this maze, Hang a left on Kimberly, And then a right on Hudson Ave. If I can make the light, Work on time just might Become a Reality.

Heart racing 10 mph faster than it should be In a residential neighborhood, At 9 a.m. on a Tuesday,

I slow down. An old lady on a wooden swing Surrounded by a well-kept, 51

Competitive bed roses, Reading a book to her two grandkids On a sunny Tuesday morning. I smile, remember, and happily accept tardiness.

Innocence Children at five Know nothing but to try And grasp anything that may Make them smile. Satisfied by arts and crafts, Finger painting and tasting glue, Action figures and doll houses, Or coloring and cartoons. If it is in front of them, It will be enjoyed. Like their twenty-five cent bouncy balls that Will soon be lost twenty-five minutes after purchase, They are small but Can reach great heights. Excitement possesses them 52

Like the first hour of a long road tripThat feeling of, "I can go anywhere," Despite limited gas moneyAn issue awakened in Just a matter of time. And in shallow waters They test with toes Discovering the reflected face of a childNo, a pirate sailing a swing set on the high seas, An astronaut zooming through space in a cardboard box, Or a doctor whose only medical instrument Is a red stained popsicle stick with a joke on it for its patients, Acquired after eating grilled cheese With the crusts cut off for lunch. And the faces of their parents Tickled by their living reincarnations Dwelling in their childish utopias. Innocence fills them, Innocence, Like the Christmas present from the year before, The Barbie doll or the GI Joe that now Has been replaced by a newer make And lays broken and forgotten in its Cluttered playpen grave.

Ashton Fries Then There was Nothing My father ran out the door in a storm of heartbeats and tears streaming down his face. Only his little girl with the strawberry blond hair saw him wiping them away with the back of his hand as quickly as they had come. The rumble of his engine caused my chest to vibrate and my stomach to turn. Knowing nothing else, I waved my little hand. But he didn’t wave back, he didn’t say he loved me, he didn’t pick me up and spin me around, he didn’t sit me down on his lap and just explain why, he just put the car in reverse, in a rush to run away and leave only black, unending treads on the driveway. A small indication of what he left behind. My eyes welled up in a way that I am sure only a child who has experienced this, true loss, can cry, chin quivering, nose running, tears collecting in a small pool of salt water under my chin, 55

ready to fall when I hurried, when, back into the house, I ran. And I snuggled into my mother’s arms on the floor of our two bedroom house, and asked where daddy had gone. Why he left without even giving me a kiss like he never forgot to do. But my mother couldn’t answer, no words came out, so, placing my head on her chest, I listened for the comfort of that heartbeat, the one that had put me to sleep so many times before. Pressed against it so hard, I waited, waited for the comfort of the light pounding inside. “Mommy, where’s your heartbeat?”

Subdivision Right turn into the neighborhood, fiery trees surround the street, a gold, crimson, and orange gate. Perfect lawns with barely a fallen flame to mar their pristine facade. Driving up to the gate, I take the circle to left, make my way to the house I tried to forget, make my way to a door, I finally need to close. The edge of the neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lawn is where I park. Grass beneath my tires protesting with every pound of the car. My eyes trail from the steering wheel to the driveway where black, 57

unending treads have been washed away. There is another family here. It's not the place I used to play in, pretend my dollies lived a carefree life inside my box, away from the world. This house with 2 bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms, 1 haunting memory. But we were happy, perfect. When my mother told me I was special while brushing my strawberry blonde hair. When my father's engine told me he was home, not running away. When I thought I could be anything because my dad would spin me around, sit me down on his lap, call me his princess. Now it's another, unknown, child's house. Wooden floorboards beneath her feet. 58

Not a squeak to be heard. No Imperfection. Grilled cheese and tomato soup, warming on the new electric stove, ready for her mom to set up the plate and mug because it's their special way to make it. No Imperfection. Window open, warm, fall breeze flowing in. A family watching Winnie the Pooh, the girl with her head on her mother's chest. Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heartbeat steady inside. No Imperfection. I pull my mind back to my car, back to my world where I never played pretend again. My imagination in a box lost when I ran, ran across the perfect floor, 59

ran to my own mother, without a heartbeat. Knuckles white, I turn the wheel and pull off the grass. Kinks in each blade the only indications of me, this faded memory, returning. Charcoal gravel crunches beneath my tires as I travel back around the circle to the right. Past the houses with No Imperfections. Turn left out of the subdivision, out toward my life. Only Imperfection.

Finding Imagination in a Box “What is that over there?” I asked the little girl. And she answered me without a hint of hesitation. “A house for my dollies to live and grow and eat and sleep and play with me. Or maybe it’s a spaceship!” Her face lit up in wonder. “Up, up, and away we’ll go and fly. A tent to sleep in when I’m in the jungle, so the lions and bugs don’t eat me. A submarine to swim with the fish and dive with the dolphins so pretty and sleek. To stay underwater forever, but watch out for the scary sharks. A beautiful castle on a hill, where I am a princess soon to be queen. Do you want to come and play with me, fly through the sky 61

and dive to the deep?” She grinned wide and held out her hand, and I looked at it, small, innocent. I shook my strawberry blonde head. “No, I cannot because I can’t see a house or a spaceship or a sub or a castle. I see a box, a big, old box and that is all I see. I’m sorry little girl, but I’m afraid I just can’t.” With a small pout and a shoulder shrug her hand lowered and she turned to her box. “Maybe it’s just a box, but why can’t it be the rest? Because I’m a princess in my castle, by myself I can be anything, I can be special.” I stepped up to her and reached down, small fingers intertwined with the ones that forgot what fun was over the years of beatless hearts, 62

being lead into her castle. “You’ll be the princess and I’ll be the court jester, okay?” She looked up, dimpled her cheeks, and we stepped forward together.

Max Herrmann Memoirs of the Commons

“Would you like double swipe?” the girl working the register yawned as she asked.

“What’s available tonight?” I responded inquisitively.

“Ahhhh chicken tenders, umm mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers…” She yawned, obviously bored stiff.

I was clueless, and being the end of the week, a Friday evening dinner is no time for rash decisions. Did I want chicken tenders? Or was I in the mood for mozzarella sticks? I weighed my options; chicken tenders or mozzarella sticks, and began to panic. I had my majors figured out; my future lined up. I could’ve told the girl swiping my I.D. at the register how to use deconstructive criticism, conjugate Spanish verbs in the imperfect tense, and differentiate lesson plans for talented and lower level 65

students, and yet I could not decide between chicken tenders and mozzarella sticks. I looked back in terror at the quickly accumulating line behind me, a line full of starving students who knew what they want.

“What the hell,” I interrupted frustratingly. “Jalapeño poppers” I decided as I shook my head in defeat and trotted into the food line.

In all the chaos of the most difficult decision of the day, I had forgotten to take a look at the menu that outlined the rest of the food being served in the buffet style mess hall. Too ashamed to back track at this point, I decided I would rely on a rather underrated sense: smell. The place smelled like a whole lot of deep fried food. Must be hush puppies, I thought to myself, picturing the fried dough balls. I also noted a scent of soggy grass and realized green beans were in the cards for this evening. One smell, however, confused me. I could not, for the life of me, attribute this aroma to any cuisine I had ever experienced. I continued to follow this interesting odor. As it grew stronger, I walked quicker, and with less visual attentiveness to my surroundings. All of a sudden, with a crash, I walked straight into the smell, and tipped the garbage can over. Humiliated, and with a plate containing only a few small jalapeño

poppers, a quesadilla, some greenish beans, and a cookie, I sat down at a table with a few of my friends.

Of the other three sitting at the table, only two were fortunate enough to have witnessed my inattentiveness. However, this was two too many for my ego to take at the time and I was greeted as I sat with jeers in stereo.

“Smooth.” “Watch your step…” “Hey, there was a garbage can there.” “You shoulda just stayed in the trash can!”

I accepted this banter as punishment for my lack of focus. As I picked my head up from its humiliated state, I noticed my third friend remained silent, fixated on his plate. I recognized his food as being from the action station, a made to order part of the commons that is always a sure bet. Clearly, he was too busy eating to waste his time laughing at me. Good for him, I thought, his experience is the definite winner tonight. Although 67

looking up at the line at the action station, he had to wait long and hard for the quality of food on his plate. I figured I would leave him in peace until he finished.

“Hey, wanna pass me the salt shaker?” I asked one of my friends.

“Sure thing man, right here,” He responded handing me the glass container.

I took the salt shaker and began to pour salt on my food, or so I thought. No salt was coming out. I shook harder and harder and whacked my hand on the back of the shaker. Still though, nothing came out. Of course, my compassionate friends found this hilarious. I shook my head, realizing they had sabotaged the salt, unscrewing the lid, placing a napkin inside the shaker, screwing the lid back on over the napkin, and tearing away the excess paper so as to leave no trace of the blockage. It was a trick I too have pulled more times than I am willing to admit. I gave up on the salt and began to eat my green beans.

Realizing how proud my mother would have been with me did not help the green beans go down. Between not being a huge vegetable fan, and the quality of the beans, my strategy was just to shovel as many as possible into my mouth with the hope of digesting them. I successfully managed to chase them with Sierra Mist before the taste even hit me.

Looking across the table, my friend was still going to town on his stir fry. Slurping and munching away on his delicious dish. I regretted not getting in line.

Any hunger I had was certainly gone at this point. The rest of the time spent at dinner was full of talking and laughing, joking and putting each other down in a way only friends as close are we are should be able to do.

While there have been many trips to the commons and a few more trips within the commons, the memories all blend together, not unlike some of the food. The cuisine has been enticingly delicious, and I have filled up on cookies. I have dined with two and demolished dinner with twenty. I have left hungry and full, but rarely have I left unsatisfied.

“O Commons! My Commons!

O Commons! My Commons! Our dining here is done; Yet sitting ‘round the table here the fun has just begun; Staring down half eaten plates, food not recognized by us, Eat the best, leave the rest, and set aside all our dishes. But O cart! Cart! Cart! O dessert cart, such a riot. Cookies, brownies, ice cream sundaes, I think I’ll give up my diet.

O Commons! My Commons! We gather here for supper; Screw napkins in the salt shakers; turn upside down the pepper; Stack our cups eleven high, and lay them on the dishes’ belt, And laugh when crashing to the floor, the cups’ beverages are spilt.

Action Station! Action Station! Action Station is a riot, Pasta (almost) as I like itI think I’ll give up my diet.

The Commons are not open; the cold steel gate has been drawn down, We’ve had more fun in here tonight, than one spent on the town. Until I need a study break, a late night snack for sure, I think about the food I ate, I can’t make room for more. Exult, O Terrace! I start to grimace, My stomach’s in a riot. Too much food for me to eat, I think I’ll start my diet.

Troy Jarosinski Brussels Sprouts Jimmy shuffled into the lunch line and slowly inched forward as the people ahead of him took their food. He was not eager to have to take hot lunch. If he had his way, he would eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day, but his mom was sick today and he woke up far too late to make his own lunch. So, here he was, waiting for something that he didn’t want but couldn’t go without. After about five minutes, Jimmy made it up to the two-tiered metal cart that held the lunch trays and silverware. He grabbed a thin plastic tray and a fork. Both were gray with crusty brown spots on them. He cringed, and proceeded to choose his food. The main course was a slab of hamburger with mashed potatoes. It came on a flimsy Styrofoam plate and was slathered in clumpy, gelatinous gravy. He picked up a plate, set it on his tray, and moved on. The next stop in line was the vegetables. Here, he had two choices: Brussels sprouts or creamed corn. Jimmy had never had a problem with Brussels sprouts; creamed corn, on the other hand, gave him unbearable nausea. When he was five, he had eaten a whole can of creamed corn and vomited half an hour later. Ever since, the sight of it caused him pain, and the smell made him gag. He quickly shoveled some Brussels sprouts onto his plate and scuttled over to the dessert tray. The sign next to the tray said “Rice Krispies Treats,” but Jimmy clearly saw that the person in front of him had taken two pieces of chocolate cake. As it turned out, those were the last two pieces. All that was left was a few brown crumbs and a fork caked with frosting. Sighing, he grabbed a napkin and shuffled out of line. The cafeteria was about as inspiring as the lunch menu. The walls looked like cinderblocks shoddily brushed over with white paint. The 72

floor was a pallid gray with black speckles, and the tables were the same color with hard, black plastic stools connected to them by metal pipes in such a way that there was almost no leg room. Jimmy scanned the cafeteria to make sure that his usual table still had an open seat. Sure enough, there was one more open space. As he got closer, he saw that the open spot was right next to Jared. Jared was one of his favorite people. He lived right down the road from Jimmy and rode the same bus as him. He also played basketball, which was Jimmy’s favorite sport. He was tall, sparsely freckled, and had short blond hair. He was the most vocal person at the table, and he always initiated conversations with Jimmy. With a little bit of a bounce in his step, Jimmy walked to the middle of the cafeteria and sat down. “Hey, look guys, it’s Jimmy,” Jared said. He jammed his fork into Jimmy’s mashed potatoes, scooped up a heaping portion of them, and crammed them into his mouth. He turned his head toward Jimmy, and with white flecks flying out of his mouth asked, “Whatcha got there Jimmy? Is that Salisbury steak?” “I’m not sure, I haven’t had hot lunch since the fifth grade and there wasn’t a sign saying what this is,” said Jimmy. “Yeah, where’s your lunchbox?” asked another guy. Jimmy wasn’t exactly sure what his name was, but he was a little bit shorter than Jared, and he had shaggy brown hair that came down to his eyebrows. “My mom couldn’t make my lunch for me today because she was sick so I had to eat the hot lunch today,” Jimmy said. The guys at the table laughed raucously at this, and Jimmy reflexively laughed along with them. “Oh, man,” Jared gasped, “that’s too great.” 73

“I know,” said the brown-haired guy, “that was so good that I almost started crying.” Jimmy smiled eagerly at this statement and scanned around the table to see if everybody else was as pleased as these two were. Upon seeing that they were, he sat up a little bit straighter and smiled even wider. He didn’t quite know why everyone was laughing, but he was happy nonetheless. It felt good to make the guys laugh. In fact, it was what Jimmy enjoyed most about eating lunch with Jared and his friends; he loved to make people happy. As the laughter died down, one of the guys who rarely talked said, “wait, did you really get the Brussels sprouts instead of the creamed corn? Those things are disgusting.” “Well, when I was five years old, I …” “Yeah, Brussels sprouts are bogus,” interrupted Jared. “You couldn’t pay me to eat those things.” “You should just throw those out,” said the brown-haired guy. “Better yet, you should throw them at somebody. That would be awesome,” said Jared. “But my mom says that I shouldn’t play with my food,” Jimmy said. “Hell yeah, Jared,” said another guy. “Imagine some kid getting pegged right in the eye with a Brussels sprout. That would be epic!” “Yeah, man, that would be pretty impressive,” said Jared.

“Are you sure that’s okay?” Jimmy asked. As he looked around the table, he saw everybody looking at Jared and nodding in agreement. Though he was reluctant to disobey the rules, he knew he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to impress Jared and the other guys, and if they approved of throwing food at people, that was all the affirmation that he needed. He picked up a handful of Brussels sprouts, turned to his left, and, without further hesitation, started hurling them at the kids at the next table. All he could see were blurred outlines of people at the neighboring table; he wasn’t even sure if he was hitting anybody. When he ran out, he turned back to the table to pick up another handful, but the brown-haired guy grabbed him by the wrist. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled. “That’s the special ed table!” “What?” Jimmy asked. “Those kids are mentally retarded,” said Jared. “What the hell is your problem?” “But I, I, I didn’t …” Jimmy stammered. “I don’t care,” said Jared, “you don’t mess with the retards. They’re off limits. Get the hell out of here before I beat you up!” “But…” “You heard me. Leave!” Jimmy turned away slowly and shuffled away from the table. Before he had gone very far, though, the brown-haired guy shouted, “Hey, Jimmy!”

“What?” asked Jimmy as he turned around to see what the guys had to say to him. All he saw was a large, white circle with a pile of yellow, chunky stuff on it being pushed toward his face. He suddenly realized what it was, and as it enveloped his face, he wished that he just could’ve had peanut butter and jelly today.

Emily Kijek Romeo and Juliet in the High School Curriculum

William Shakespeare was an English playwright and poet, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s superlative dramatist. One of his most famous plays, Romeo and Juliet, is a tragedy written early in his career about two young star-crossed lovers whose deaths ultimately unite their feuding families. Being that this play is among Shakespeare's most popular during his lifetime and is one of his most frequently performed plays, Romeo and Juliet is also prominently taught in the high school curriculum. However, the questions are: Why is Romeo and Juliet commonly taught in the high school curriculum and how can teachers effectively teach Shakespeare in the classroom? Romeo and Juliet is commonly taught in the high school curriculum because the content of the play is relatable to students and because teachers can easily cover the common core English standards that 9th grade students need to learn. There are many ways that teachers can effectively teach Romeo and Juliet in high school classrooms. Some prefer using performance-based learning strategies, lecture, class discussions, relating material to the real world, and even watching different performances.

One of the many reasons Romeo and Juliet is taught in the high school curriculum, particularly to incoming freshmen, is because it is relatable to students. Most students coming into a freshman English class already have a preconceived notion of what Romeo and Juliet is going to be about, even if they have never read it. It piques studentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interest and appeals to their taste, which ultimately will keep them interested in the topic and willing to learn. Romeo and Juliet contains themes of love, fate and death, and by introducing these themes to students, it will open their eyes to literature in a whole new way, help them develop their critical thinking skills, and really allow them dive into the story. Romeo and Juliet is a core reading in high school that is rooted in tradition. In schools across the entire county, traditionally canonical texts like Romeo and Juliet form the basis of most core reading lists. Romeo and Juliet easily covers the common core English standards that 9th grade students need to learn. It is received positively by school boards and prepares students for standardized tests. According to Mary Gallager who wrote A High School Teacher Considers Canon and Curriculum: or, Wherefore Art Thou Still Teaching Romeo and Juliet, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The reasons for this relatively stagnant canon are many and complex. Teachers have limited time and resources for developing new lessons plans. Parents exert subtle and sometimes not so subtle pressures to teach the canon. And teachers now confront new demands for "accountability" as measured by 78

standardized testsâ&#x20AC;? (3). High school teachers are under so much pressure to perform to a certain standard and make sure that their students are performing at a certain level that they do not have the time or the resources to change the core reading list or the English curriculum. Teachers are becoming increasingly concerned with maintaining student standardized test scores so that they can keep their jobs instead of trying to promote lifelong learning and making school an enjoyable experience for students. This may not necessarily be right, but unfortunately, all of this effort to get students to pass a standardized test or meet the common core English standards certainly does not leave much room for innovation and experimentation in the English classroom. Overall, Romeo and Juliet is commonly taught in the high school curriculum because the content of the play is relatable to students and because teachers can easily cover the common core English standards that 9th grade students need to learn. Many critics have varying opinions on how to effectively teach Romeo and Juliet in the high school classroom. Lecture and discussion are still prevalent in the classroom and are very effective if done in the right way. According to Holmer, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The value of the lecture method depends, however, on the quality of the lecturer and nature and purpose of the information conveyed. Some types of information, such as historical facts and other theories, might even be best conveyed through lecture, while on the other hand, some lectures are far more provocative than definitive in 79

their thrust” (190). The same reasoning goes into the idea about having class discussions. Class discussions should be guided by teachers, making sure students do not go off track, they should also be asking open ended questions in order for students to dig deeper into the text. Overall, the use of class discussions and lectures are effective when teaching Shakespeare in high schools, as long as they are done at the appropriate time. Another method that is being used more commonly in the high school classroom when teaching Shakespeare is relating the plays back to students’ lives or the modern world that we live in. As society in general changes, so will students. Teachers need to cater to students’ ever growing and changing perspectives of society and relate it back to what they are learning in the classroom. This method encourages active student participation in classes and keeps them interested in the topic because it can relate back to their real lives. If students are to “experience” these plays and not just have them “explained” it seems reasonable to recognize the students need for some personal meaning. By giving Shakespeare plays personal meaning, it will create a better understanding for students and show how society has changed over time. Sheri Maeda states, Shakespeare represents a significant strand in the American cultural fabric. His works present us with layer after layer of interesting, engaging questions, issues, dilemmas, conflicts. His characters are both individual and archetypal, as human being we 80

can identify aspects of ourselves while appreciating them for themselves. Shakespeareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s use of English language shows us that words are more utilitarian. His works reflect a place and time quite different from and, then again not very different from our own. Shakespeare has influenced, or at least, affected writers and artists around the world (155-156).

Since Shakespeare has been so influential across the map, it makes sense that students can relate their personal lives to his plays. They can interact with the text, relate to it, and see how it connects back to society. One issue that is widely debated by critics and seen in our society is the issue of teen suicide in Romeo and Juliet. Many critics think that teaching Romeo and Juliet in the high school curriculum is not appropriate because it deals with issues of teen suicide. However, however if teachers can relate this issue back to students real lives and show them how to prevent it, it should not be a concern in the classroom. Teachers can talk about the issue of teen suicide and discuss ways to prevent it, which will help students relate the play to their lives and society. Holmer gives a specific example of this, she states, I raised the problem of how to teach the suicides of the lovers, but I was checked by another teacher who protested that such concern had little to do with teaching a great love story. In 1986, eight 81

years after that exchange and its subsequent debate, I attended Michael Kahn’s exciting production of Romeo and Juliet at the Shakespeare Theatre at the Folger. The program notes, entitled Romeo and Juliet: A Dramatic Approach to Prevention of Youth Suicide, explained the innovative artistic and educational collaboration between the Youth Suicide National Center and the Shakespeare Theatre at Folger…to create a program that will enable teenagers to experience high drama of Shakespeare’s classic and, at the same time, to understand its relevance to their lives. With its special discussions and performances for students, teachers and the general public, this joint project was grounded in the view that this “timeless, yet timely” tragedy addresses a tragic crisis facing our nation- teen suicide- and offers us the opportunity, not just to weep for these fictional young lovers, but to learn from their plight (Pg. 192-194).

If teachers can relate sensitive issues in literature to students’ real lives and show how students can learn from these fictional characters, they are really creating a higher level learning environment for students, which will benefit them significantly. Students will not only be able to discuss the major themes, conflicts, character motivations, language, and performance-ship in Romeo and Juliet, but they will also see how this dramatic play relates to society and how they can help prevent a prevalent issue in society. It shows students the deeper meaning of the play and gets them engaged in the material on a whole new level. 82

There are many ways that teachers can effectively teach Romeo and Juliet in high school classrooms. Some prefer lecture or class discussions, relating material to the real world, or even watching different performances. Whatever method, â&#x20AC;&#x153;We should encourage teachers to adopt a style of teaching most comfortable for them, to use whatever methods-be they old- fashioned or new-fangled- that work well in their particular teaching situationsâ&#x20AC;? (Homer, 193). Teachers need to assess their class and the students and pick a method they are most comfortable with. If the teacher is comfortable with what they are teaching, they will engage students more and be more excited about the topic. If a teacher is excited to teach a subject and show students why it is important, students will be more interested in the subject and be more engaged in the learning process. Overall, Romeo and Juliet is a prominent play that is taught in the high school curriculum. Romeo and Juliet is commonly taught in the high school curriculum because the content of the play is relatable to students and because teachers can easily cover the common core English standards that 9th grade students need to learn. There are many ways that teachers can successfully teach Romeo and Juliet in high school classrooms. Some prefer using performance-based learning strategies, lecture, class discussions, relating material to the real world, and even watching different performance clips. Whatever method that teachers prefer to use, 83

they should be comfortable with it because it will make their lessons more effective.

Sources Holmer, Joan. ""O, What Learning Is!" : Some Pedagogical Practices for Romeo and Juliet." Shakespeare Quarterly 41.2 (1990): 18794. JSTOR. Web. 13 Nov. 2012.

McDonald, Russ. "Shakespeare Goes to High School: Some Current Practices in the American Classroom." Shakespeare Quarterly 46.2 (1995): 145-56. JSTOR. Web. 31 Oct. 2012.

Smith, Winifred. "Teaching Shakespeare in School." The English Journal 11.6 (1922): 361-64. JSTOR. Web. 26 Nov. 2012.

Ben Kopczynski The Devil, the Angel, the Student, and their Critic Ryan Roperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first short story, â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Devil in the Mirror,â&#x20AC;? has been a personal favorite of mine for as long as I can remember. My task today is to determine whether I am justified in my loyalty to the text or if nostalgia has blinded me to its flaws. The story begins by setting the scene: an early morning dawns on a college dormitory with a single bed and a shabby desk. The bed is occupied by a sleeping, nude male, and the desk by his girlfriend, our protagonist. She is a graduate student in the pursuit of a purpose in life. Having exhausted all traditional religious and philosophical approaches to the question and left wanting, she summons the Devil to answer all her questions. The story clearly borrows much from the traditional Faustian tale in its setup, but veers away as neither the unnamed student nor Satan make any attempt to broker any sort of deal. Satan appears, stepping out of the closet, appearing every inch the muscular red-skinned imp of fable, unspeakably ugly, and yet positively dripping in sex appeal, hermaphroditic, and visibly aroused. He takes no 86

action, save to motion the young protagonist to wait. After a few moments notably free of terror or desire, an angel enters through the window. Beautiful, but frightening in her righteousness, with three wings, she allows the conversation to progress. I find it interesting that Satan is not permitted to tempt the girl without the angelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s consent. The story of Job of course makes the idea canonically relevant, but the idea that every time thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a devil sitting on my left shoulder whispering in my ear, an angel is sitting on my right, waiting to be heard, is both comforting and a little sad if you think about it too hard, which makes this scene an excellent forebear of things to come. The Angel greets the student by name, before turning to Satan with a great sadness in her eyes. Their small talk was short lived, Satan seething in what was quite clearly restrained rage. When she finds her voice, the student asks why they had come at her request; surely people must ask all the time. Satan said that they answer all questions asked, no matter who does the asking, but in this instance they would stay with her only till dawn broke; did she really want to spend her time on such a paltry question? The student accepts this answer, which has always bothered me. The forces of hell and heaven have determined that she is special enough to answer for some reason, and yet she isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t curious why? Neither is she 87

interested as to why dawn should dispel them both? Light conquering the Prince of Darkness makes sense enough, but the Angel as well? That raises all sorts of questions, none of which the student asks. I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d instantly be suspecting that the angel is a demon in disguise, and they were playing some sort of celestial good cop, bad cop. Now of course Roper is trying to keep the focus on the conversation to follow, and made the student as unnoticeable as possible to advance this goal, but it nevertheless bothers me. The student says that living a moral life is unreasonably difficult, and without any real knowledge of an afterlife, there seems little reason to act piously when selfishness and greed far more frequently beget pleasure. So she asked what are heaven and hell like, that news of reward and punishment might inspire a more moral life. Satanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reaction of glee comes with the claim that the Angel had wasted her time, as the girl was already his, concerned only with her own pleasure. His cruel mirth troubles the girl greatly. The Angel explains that they have no knowledge of the afterlife. While they could occupy a heaven and a hell, no human soul has yet entered either. Indeed, God the Father had left heaven with the Son shortly after His time on earth, going on to prepare the next life. The Holy Ghost filled Heaven, and possessed the soul of every man, angel, and beast, but it was the absence of the Spirit which gave Hell its teeth. There, there is no instinctive morality, no one love save those 88

equally damned, and therefore unworthy of such an emotion, no kindness, no hope. Come judgment day, the Angel and all the other divineâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and demonicâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;figures would find their place in the new order of things. She anticipates this day with great longing. The idea that angels and demons are as ignorant of the afterlife as humanity has always fascinated me, and is probably the reason why this story stays with me even today. Going forward you cannot hope to find any more answers until the bells of judgment toll. All that can be found is an inescapable mire of questions and the momentary flashes of intelligence promising a perfect destination if the road can be found. But God is not there. It is in looking back, in reflection, that we can find our answers in the words of the ancients: that warm, steady glow of wisdom which shows we have long found enlightenment. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mistake this sentiment as being anti-progress or blindly nostalgic. Rather, ideas and ideals, both as old as time, are always to be our guiding light. The student grows bold once more, and speaks to the angel, accusing her and her ilk of having the knowledge, experience, and power. She refers to which power explicitly, citing scriptures which suggest that the demonic hordes were once a part of the heavenly host, so if demonic possession truly existed, as scripture suggests, then angelic possession should similarly be possible, which I found interesting to right all the

wrongs of this world. There was precedence for God revoking free will when it was convenient, so that could be no excuse. She enumerated the troubles of this world—everything from ancient, meaningless wars to her friend that was raped last summer—laying responsibility for them all upon the Angel. The Angel rebuked her arrogance, and declared that she would remember none of what had occurred when she awoke. With a small prod of the finger to the student’s forehead, she fell into sleep beside her blissfully unaware lover. Even knowing Roper’s magnificent reason for the Angel to dodge this question, I still regret it, because this problem plagues me yet. If God exists and is omnipotent as he claims, must he not be cruel to allow evil to flourish so? The last lines are succinct enough that I feel no need to abridge them:

As the student fell into slumber, the Angel turned to Satan. “I’m sorry for that. I had not expected it.” Satan’s demonic flesh seemed to melt from him, leaving only a child with snow white hair, a tear-stained face, and a single, broken, featherless wing. “I deserve it 90

only too well. The sin I’ve poured into this world far outweighs any pain its guilt could grant me.” The Angel wrapped Satan in her arms. “Three hundred years it has been since the last of your army embraced The Spirit once more, Lucifer. He loves you still, and he always forgives. Why continue to live in such agony? Please…accept His love. Come back with me.” Satan gently pushed her away. “Three hundred years without temptation has not been enough for His children to purge themselves of my evil. So until they do, I will suffer this pain, for it is their pain which I inflicted upon them. And if He could suffer all their sins when He had done no wrong, how could I, their corrupter, do less? I will stay until His children can suffer without bitterness and love without greed, or until Judgment dawns. And then I will suffer until Hell is empty and every soul has found the strength to deny their nature, which I corrupted so long ago. Only then will I take my name back. Guardian Angel.”

Goodbye, my

I almost feel guilty analyzing that, it being such a personal testament to my childhood and my na誰ve philosophies. I once felt that this conclusion was, if a bit bittersweet, then at least ultimately positive. If Satan and all his hordes are still found worthy of redemption, then how much more is every person capable of putting their pasts behind them? As time went on, though, I found a far less appealing message being sent here: Satan is not tempting us to sin, as my pastors always told me. Our sin is our own. It may have been the devil which gave us original sin, but we are the ones who refuse to relinquish its embrace. Humans are now the tempters, and if half of what the news tells us is true, then we have taken to the role with aplomb. My personal attachment aside, is The Devil in the Mirror a good short story? As in any sort of criticism, I say both yes and no. It is painfully short, so many questions go unanswered, and as I said before, I am rather disappointed that Roper did not find it fitting to try to answer any of the real big questions, or really dive deep into moral philosophy. He does not make any real statement on how to be a good person, nor what evils should be avoided (besides rape and war, big shockers both). The student has always irked me, pretentious and self-centered as she is. On the other hand, it is compelling enough that I have remembered it all these years, and the hints about the afterlife and the interplay between

angels, demons, damnation, and redemption has always given me food for thought. Is that enough to make it worthy of a read? I certainly think so, and so it remains as one of my obscure little guilty pleasures.

Mo McIlree Forgive and Forget? Hell No! You’ve always thought that emotional abuse left deeper scars than physical abuse unless, of course, they were combined. Daddy was never very kind to you, but at least he kept his hands to himself. He always yelled at you, calling you worthless and telling you, “If you mess up one more time you’ll have to live in the snow for the rest of your life.” It was like he never understood you, ever since you were born. It hurt the worst, though, when he told you that you’ll end up in jail. Yeah, you’ve been in a psych ward once or twice (or four times but who’s counting?), but mental hospitals aren’t jail. They aren’t full of delinquents (though you see the occasional one), just drug addicts and kids with ADHD, depression, and bipolar disorder trying to get their medication dosages right. You only have good memories from childhood with him. You’ve repressed all the bad ones, it seems; something that’ll kill you eventually (so said a psych major). The one you most fondly remember happened when you were five or six. You were at a Brewer’s game, just you and him. He got up and told you he’d be right back with a surprise for you. You couldn’t contain your excitement when he came back with a red liquorice rope. Your mother and your sister remember the bad times, however. Your sister especially remembers the time he dragged you up the stairs to your room by your arms. You have absolutely no recollection of 95

this, but you trust your sister way more than you trust that scumbag you are so privileged to call your father. You remember the last time you were in the psych ward, he came to visit you. The time before, he had been out of town and you had a phone conference with him, where he yelled at you the entire time, making you cry. This time, he seemed to be more loving, but that was just a front for telling you that he thought nothing was wrong with you and to stop pretending that you were depressed. That was the last straw for you. You took his lecture like a good daughter should, but inside you just wanted to scream at him. He was wrong, so very, very wrong about you, but you were too scared to say anything to his face. A month later, you were talking to him online and that was when you decided enough was enough. It was when he started talking shit about your therapist that you knew your relationship with him had reached a stopping point. “Fuck you,” you typed, hitting enter and blocking him. After that, you got the email about how you’d end up in jail because “girls like you always do.” He will probably never admit to saying that, but whatever, you don’t need him to. It feels to you like Daddy never loved you, no matter how much you loved him. But you don’t love him anymore; in fact, you hate his guts. You hate the fact that he’s ruined your trust in older men, that fatherly figures intimidate you. You hate his need for control, which he’s passed 96

onto you with your incessant need for perfection from everyone but yourself, and his manipulating ways. Thank god you can see past his ridiculous whining about how you should talk to him, his guilt trips about what a horrible daughter you are for not speaking with him. Finding a loophole to get around any contact with him (except for insurance purposes through email) is really easy for you. “Daddy, you’re smart, but I’m smarter,” is just the beginning of your triumphant thoughts when he tries to get you to call him “because the insurance situation is easier to talk about over the phone than through email.” Ha! You won’t ever call him, not in a million years! Your mother (who absolutely hates his guts and doesn’t want anything to do with him ever again) tells you again and again that you’ll regret having not sustained a relationship with him after he dies. She speaks somewhat from experience, though you still don’t buy it. You have a fantastic relationship with your mother, why do you need your father? She’s been there for you through thick and thin, including after the divorce, when you became a problem child. If anything, you owe your success to her. She took you to doctor’s appointments, forced you to go to school when you were terrified to face reality, and convinced you that taking your medication was, in all honesty, a really, really good thing. Mom never gave up on you and probably never will. But Daddy? Daddy

gave up on you long before your sixteenth birthday. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not just one to forgive and forget. Fuck that. So what if he dies? Good riddance!

Diakeishaye Murphy-Gunnels

To whom it may concern, While the education that I have received from Ripon College is great, I must say that I sometimes contemplate whether or not it was worth it. Before I came to Ripon I was told, â&#x20AC;&#x153;People are different there. In Wisconsin. You will see.â&#x20AC;? But being the young, open-minded person that I was, and still am I ignored what people told me and instead gave the school a fair shot. I fell in love with the school and all that it represented, however; I could not help but to notice that everything is not like it seemed. Being from the South and being black, I have encountered racism and prejudices in not only my social life but in my educational life as well. I graduated in the top of my class from my cities best and most accredited high school. But because of the location of my school, my classmates and I often received a lot of backlash. Our school was often first in the news when something negative happened, while other schools in our district were first for everything positive. There was clear bias within my district, but above all, my classmates and I prevailed and my alma mater continues to fight no matter what. I grew from the experiences that I faced in my general education career. Throughout my life I have been stereotyped by not only where I was educated, but because of what I look like, and who I hung out with. I have been conditioned to deal with being different. At home, I have been 100

stopped by police officers for “walking on the wrong side of the street” and because my guy friend “fit the description of someone who just robbed a store,” when in reality we were only walking to school for evening band practice that happens every Monday. I have been talked down to because I have a name that is “too ghetto.” I have been marginalized and defined before I have been given a chance on a number of occasions and to my surprise, college has been no different. My first year at Ripon I was told that “[I] was pretty for a black girl” and that my speech was very proper for a southern black girl; I responded with a puzzled look and a thank you. Throughout my four years I have replayed that comment over and over in my head and thought about what I should have said or how I should have reacted. I wonder if that comment would have been made if there were more students of color on campus, or if the course guide exhibited a multicultural curriculum where people would learn and be exposed to more than what is on television. When I say multicultural, I am talking about more classes that explore the many cultures represented on our “diverse campus.” I am talking about more than one or two classes offered on a rotation basis. Why not make all of the First Year Seminars cultural exploration classes to generate awareness and understanding of bias in the beginning of each student’s collegiate career here at Ripon? I have found in my time at Ripon that students here do not feel the need to learn about who I am, and are able to opt out when they feel uncomfortable in various situations. I love Ripon and it has given me many opportunities that I will take advantage of. Since being here I have been equipped with leadership skills and encouraged to speak up when things are not right. So I must say things are not right! Progression comes

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slowly, that I am aware of, but as we seek progress we must make sure we are looking at it from every aspect, both in and outside of the classroom. I took a history class during my time at Ripon that explored the typical African American activist. But it was the most uncomfortable class that I had ever been in. Everyone wanted to feel guilty for slavery but no one wanted to look at the contributions of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, and Fredrick Douglass. I often found myself wanting to yell “slavery still affects us today; it is and is still a problem! But what are we going to do about it?” If I could go back I would make cross cultural references to immigrants coming into our country and all the work they had to do to be accepted. Maybe then people would understand that the purpose of that class was not make anyone feel bad, but recognize there is a problem and discuss ways we can grow and learn from those problems. I have had these same feelings in various English classes when people complain about Native American Literature and Black Literature being too dark or too harsh, as if no one in America ever felt pain. I have felt constricted in many classes in hopes that people would ignore my skin color and talk about the issues. My exclusion did not stop in the classroom. It happened when I walked on the sidewalks and people refused to make eye contact, as if I am beneath them. It happened when professors asked students to choose their own groups and everyone in the class had a group except me, which happened on many occasions. It happened when I reached out to a professor for help and was told that I was too far gone to do well in the class. It happened when fraternities had Thugs and Hoes parties and Gangster parties, and then dressed up like “black people.” But when will it stop happening?

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As I reflect on my college career I think of times when I felt included. I think of my Brothers and Sisters in the Black Student Union. I am saddened when people do not seek to understand why the Black Student Union is the Black Student Union, and why they will not change their name. It bothers me to hear people think the BSU is only for â&#x20AC;&#x153;black people.â&#x20AC;? BSU has been my family. My brothers and sisters have helped me through my hardest times. As former President, I must say they are a reason I stayed at Ripon. I will do anything to make it better for my family. I wish people would understand that we do not all sit together in the commons because we are black but because we are family. I love this school and everything it has given me, but I think it is time Ripon really holds true to being More. Together. I came out of a place where I had to fight every day for the respect that I deserved. When do I get to stop fighting? When will Ripon College start fighting for me? All students, no matter what they look like, where the come from, whom they worship, who they choose to marry, deserve to be respected. Who will stand up for us? Ripon has the opportunity to make a difference right here, right now. The question is will Ripon College opt out because they feel uncomfortable? Or will this school really strive to be More. Together.?

DIAKEISHAYE MURPHY-GUNNELS

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Charles Pegorsch

Necessity Six months they had been tracking this cell. Why did it only seem real now, thought Ambrose, as he took his position in Arterial Corridor 73. Why did it only seem real when the cell was so close to completing its plans? He guessed that it was because neither he nor his fellow officers thought that this particular terrorist threat had ever had the capacity to succeed. The Parliament of Confederates was just one of many terrorist cells on the Office of Interplanetary Security’s watch list, and a laughably badly organized one at that, or so they had thought. Regardless of his own feelings and assumptions, however, they were here now, on Overlook Station, in orbit around Juanveshalla, and it was their job to stop them. So OIS Minder Ambrose Cole readied himself, pretending to browse a magazine rack in a cubby-shop along the infiltrators’ known route. The glossy pages shone in the oversaturated light, and the glow of the smart paper magazines caught his eyes as they shifted and changed from one story preview to the next. That was when he got the signal, two pips on his earpiece. They’re coming. One pip. Ready. Thorn saw them out of the corner of his eye as they rounded the corner, dressed in maintenance fatigues and carrying toolboxes bedecked in chipping red paint. The snub-muzzled Kroener-Huxley automatic under 104

his coat seemed to stir nervously, as if it sensed danger, and the rapidly upcoming necessity of its use. Then they were gone, down a maintenance corridor further down the concourse. Cole waited five seconds, pipped his comm once for ready, and followed them. He strode down the concourse and approached the service corridor. Peering cautiously around the corner he started down it, the empty hallway seeming endless in the pre-confrontation jitters. He knew he was walking into danger, one of the terrorists would certainly be providing rear security as his partner cut the power to Backup Center 3, one of the six backup nerve centers of the massive space colony, poised for use in case of the incapacitation of this vital hub of station systems. Take out all of them, and the Parliament of Confederates held the city by the neck, quite literally. Thorne drew his weapon, the biometric print readers in the grip deactivating the internal safeties at his touch, he clicked off the manual safety and raised the weapon, checking every corner carefully as he went. He rounded the last corner and saw them, the technician already having removed the armored power conduit cover, fooling the print reader with a bribery-acquired print, Cole knew. Cole wasted no time on confronting the men. Dropping the rear-guard with two well-aimed shots. He leveled his weapon at the technician. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Office of Interplanetary Security. Step away from the conduit, drop to your knees, and interlock your hands behind your head. Do it now!â&#x20AC;? The man smiled, a creepy, unnatural thing, humorless and full of malice. 105

“I said do it now! Get on your knees!” The man dropped to his knees…and kept dropping, falling through the floor grating and scampering away up the corridor toward the concourse like a rat in a tunnel. Cole let out a curse and chased after him, following the clattering noises back to the concourse. He rounded the corner just in time to see the spry man darting out of an open grate and dashing around a corner toward the shops. Ambrose raised his weapon, but had no shot. “Lock down Arterial Corridor 73,” Ambrose barked into his comm unit. “Suspect is fleeing, I’m in pursuit.” Hollow, metallic clunks reverberated through the space as every hatch and bulkhead clamped down. Cole could hear the shouts of irate shoppers, trapped in the concourse, but ignored them. This was going to end here. Rounding the corner, Cole could just catch a glimpse of the man ducking into a small restaurant, a flash of blue canvas against the white of the eatery’s décor. Ambrose rounded the corner and saw the man, cornered against a locked door. He raised his weapon. “You’ve got nowhere to go. Get on the ground and place your hands behind your head. I will give you one chance.” The man sighed, seemingly in defeat, and turned around slowly.

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The situation changed faster than Cole could react. The man lunged at him, launching himself off of the doorway, previously hidden knife in hand. Three shots rang out, deafening in the confined space A thundering crash as the terrorist’s corpse slammed into the decking, and all was quiet. Breathing heavily, Ambrose lowered his weapon. He keyed his comm, “Threat down, situation contained. How are we doing with the others?” A chorus of success confirmations rang out. Mission accomplished, at least for now. The last visages of ringing from the gunshots left Ambrose’s ears. Heavy clangs as the bulkheads unsealed, and then it was over.

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Lisa Perkins Whiffs of Womanhood The early-summer sun was in full bloom and so was I. The air was warm and moist, inviting the flora, the fauna, and me to venture out and enjoy. I slipped on my shoes and went out for a walk around the quarry. The fresh Wisconsin summer air was teeming with smells and so I let my eyes and feet carry me safely along and devoted my awareness to my nose. The wind seemed to be coming from neither the direction of the farms nor the cookie factory, so I was able to catch whiffs of both. They were both sweet scents, though in different ways; one typically an aroma and the other a stench. I loved them both. They smelled like home to me. For the greater part of my life, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lived between two places; Ripon, Wisconsin and Kodaikanal, India. Both places smelled, for their own reasons, of desserts and dung. In Wisconsin it was the farms and the factory. In India it was the cows that roamed through town and the two small bakeries. I deeply inhaled the diffused essence of agriculture and wilderness as I walked past the fallow and freshly planted fields. This scent was sweet, too. It was green and brown, encased in beads of sugar. Sugarcane, however, is putrid. The factories, at least. In India, at least. I

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always knew, without a doubt, when we were driving past a sugarcane factory; it smelled like a strong syrup of dead things. As the wind glided past me from behind, I was bathed in the scent of myself. Faint whiffs of hairspray, lychee, lily, and rosewood tickled my nostrils. It was a far cry from the tangy burn of the peach and raspberry perfumes I was so fond of in my younger days, and an even farther cry from the gentle, moist aroma of infancy. As I vainly breathed myself in, enjoying the fragrances I’d chosen for the day and turning over in my mind the other ways in which I’d changed, I sensed a new scent. It was a scent that I could find no way to describe other than ‘woman’. It was the natural perfume that pulsed in unpretentious plumes around beautiful, powerful, professional women. I’d never before truly considered myself a woman because I didn’t smell like one, but now… now I did. Not wanting to overreact, I assumed it could be the flowers from the graveyard I was passing; perhaps bouquets and women smell alike and I was confused. I walked past the graveyard and past the fields and the whiffs of womanhood followed me. I was overjoyed; the depths of my physical being were finally announcing that I was entering adulthood! Lightheaded with excitement and too much scent-gulping, I turned my attention away from the smells around me and mulled over what had brought me to this transition. 109

I thought about what I was preparing for; marriage and a move to Germany. I wondered what northern Germany would smell like, the land where my beloved lived, a country in which I’d never been but where I’d soon be living. Would it smell like Wisconsin? Would it smell like India? Would it smell like home? How many years would it be until the aromas of infancy once again saturate the air around me? As my mind slowly spun this bundle of confusion and overwhelming consciousness of life into strands of graceful accountability, the spinning-wheel produced a pungent perfume that permeated my being and seeped out of my skin, pluming, in momentary whiffs, around me and then I arrived home, made myself a cup of tea, and lowered my head over the steam that warmed not only my nose but my heart as well because it smelled of everywhere I’d ever been all at once.

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Jack Rea The Scisco1 A knock sounded at the door. I froze dead in my thoughts and in my actions, eyes wide, and I felt my heart sink to the floor. I eyed my watch in my pocket. It was midnight. Who would knock on my door at this God forsaken hour? I found some solace in imagining that the beast would not knock on my door, and a monster wouldn’t resort to such civilities. Then again, is not the devil known for trickery? The knock sounded again. I stared at the door. I would have to open it—I had to know who, or what, was knocking at my door. If the legend of the Scisco was true, then what ghastly thing lay behind the threshold of the door? If it was going to kill me and was here now, I thought it unlikely that my door would effectively stop it. Thus I went forth and, turning the brass knob, slowly opened the door, bracing myself, my heart pounding—this was it! I felt certain that I would die in the next instant.

Derived roughly from the Latin “to seek to know,” or “to search” (same root as science)

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Instead I found a slim young man who looked to be in his mid-20s, with ragged brown hair and wild green eyes encircled by faint purple crescents. He wore a loose, torn shirt that looked like it was white at some point but was now a yellowish color. His trousers were torn at the knees, and his clogs had holes in them. Yet in spite of the young man’s ragged appearance, he looked rather enthusiastic to see me, and did not seem at all to be unhealthy, although he was, for the minute or so we stood staring at each other, completely listless. “May I help you, young man?” I said, breaking the silence. “Yes—are you Dr. Harding?” My name and practice was clearly posted outside of my home, which was also my office: DR. ALFRED T. HARDING, MYTHOLOGIST. “Did you not see the sign? That is my name. May I ask who you are and why on heavens you are at my home at this hour?” “It is the devil’s hour. This is the only chance I have to help you, doctor. We must be quick” “What do you mean?” “Let me in and I will tell you everything.”

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I looked at the young man. He looked back at me with a puckish grin but with a faint coldness. His gaze had a chilling effect—who was this young man? Off-putting as he was (and the idea of letting a stranger into my home at midnight), this mystery had advanced to a point where I could no longer go back. I needed to know what this man had to say. “Very well,” I said, “come in.”

“I am Jeremy Patte, Dr. Harding. Perhaps you have read of me.” Jeremy Patte! My jaw dropped when he said it: I had been reading Jeremy Patte’s journal for the past few days, one of few primary sources on the legendary beast known as the Scisco. “Impossible,” I said. “Patte went missing in 1665, after researching—” “The Scisco,” he said, that same puckish grin adorning his face as he said it. My stomach plummeted as if weighed down by a stone. I felt that I couldn’t say anything for more than just a moment. I just sat there, snifter still in hand, half full of scotch, mouth and eyes wide open. “By Jove,” I said, almost whispering. “You truly are Patte?” Silence. I asked the inevitable: “Is the Scisco real?”

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Patte took a deep breath, the most movement I had seen in the young man since we had sat down in the politely furnished parlor moments earlier. “It depends on what you mean by real, doctor.” Perhaps if he had been sitting in my parlor for an hour I would have told him not to be coy with me, but after only 10 minutes it seemed inappropriate. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so I said, “I need a stiff drink. Care for one yourself?” Patte politely declined and I stood and walked over to the desk bar in the corner and poured myself a glass of brandy. When I finished pouring I sat back down opposite him and said, “Now then, you were saying that it depends on what I mean by real.” “Yes. The Scisco is not real in any strict sense of the word. It does not exist as a physical being or beast of any sort.” “But it is something else?” “Yes, it is something else.” We sat in silence for a moment. Seeing that he was not going to elaborate, I said, “You mentioned the alchemist Blair Couteau in your journal.” Patte’s face cringed a bit when I said Couteau’s name. “Yes, yes,” he said, looking slightly uncomfortable. The ragged young man looked at the ground as he spoke. “He was looking for the elixir of life in the late 16th century when he went missing.” 114

“As he was searching for the Scisco,” I said. “Yes.” “So did the Scisco take him? Kill him? Or what?” “The Scisco does not have the power to do any such things. The Scisco’s only power is influence.” I thought on that for a moment. “I’m not sure I follow,” I said. “You will see what I mean,” Patte said, looking me in the eye. “Couteau was searching for the elixir of life. He thought that the Scisco had the power to bestow eternal life.” “Does it have that power?” Patte was silent. He looked away from me, out the window, and then back. “You could say that it does.” “One moment, though—you yourself went missing about a century later, when you were looking for the Scisco. What were you looking for?” “The Garden of Eden.” I stared at him and he stared back. He had said it in all seriousness, and the faint coldness I felt earlier returned, but this time more pronounced. There was something unhuman about Patte—a strange 115

mixture of world-weariness and supernatural mysticism that I detected permeating his entire demeanor. “You mean the Garden of Eden?” Patte simply nodded. “Why were you looking for the Scisco then?” “Because the Scisco is the key to the Garden of Eden. Or, more accurately, it is the key to that which we lost in the Garden of Eden.” “Eternal life?” “Very good. The fruit of eternal life, denied to humans by God and his heavenly host.” “So the Scisco gets you eternal life—then what is it?” “Part of it is the essence of the fruit of eternal life,” Patte said. “After Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden, the serpent was able to pick a fruit from the tree of knowledge and the tree of life. Combining the two, the serpent created the Scisco.” “The Scisco is a demon, then?” “No. You could say it is a demonic essence.” “A demonic essence.” An anxious chill rose from my stomach to my chest. “What does that even mean?” 116

“You will see.” Silence again. He said it so matter-of-factly, eyes piercing straight into the windows of my soul. I thought that I could almost hear my heart beat faster and faster in the hushed silence. Patte stood, looking down at me. “It is time to leave,” he said. “Ah! So soon?” I said, standing as well. “Please, stay a while longer. We have so much more to discuss— ” “My life is finally over,” he said, closing his eyes. “The curse is now yours.” With that, his head whipped back so forcefully that his neck audibly snapped. His mouth and eyes gaped open and a strange green light emanated from within. The light grew brighter and brighter until I could no longer see. Patte collapsed to the floor. In the next moment the Scisco came into me, was one with me, and I saw all: Patte had been one in a long chain going back to Adam. The serpent gave him the combined fruit of knowledge and life, allowing him to live for hundreds of years. It came with a curse, however: those with the essence of the fruit inside of them, known as the Scisco, could never die, but they could never come into contact with anyone but those who actively searched for the Scisco, wandering the Earth in solitude until the day came when they felt that voracious appetite for forbidden knowledge emanating from a distant land, and they made haste to it, finally giving 117

them a chance to end their solitary and miserable lives. So it is that my soul came to be cursed by the wicked essence of that serpentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fruit the Scisco, and I, like those who fell before me, am doomed to torment and misery until that day when I may finally relieve myself of this damned and cursed existence.

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Alex Reid The Un-Bear Setting: A nonspecific bedroom. The WOMAN shouldn’t ever leave the stage. The GIRL can not see her, but that does not mean she is not real. (The WOMAN stands in a corner, looking at a teddy bear sitting on the bed.) WOMAN: The bear wasn’t really a bear. Held together with string and bits of fluff, this bear-that-was-not-a-bear sat on his bed for years, a reminder of something and someone that the man would have sometimes rather forgotten. An old toy, made for him, a character from his favorite movie. The hero’s sidekick, ready to follow him to the end of the universe and beyond- to save the empire, to save the princess, to save a friend. Not quite a bear, made with promises stitched into the seams, with the bright gleam of young love shining in its button eyes. (Picks up the bear from the bed) Someone to share your adventures, she’d said, your dreams, because you are my hero. A reminder of me. Of a love found and lost, and found again, lost; of the years that passed, of the absence that he was always aware of. And still the un-bear sat, on whichever bed the man slept in that night. There it sat, to remind him that love is love and when you love someone the way they had loved it never really goes away. It just lingers, sitting on the corner of the bed, reminding you that someone somewhere once knew you better than you knew yourself, and loved you for it. (The WOMAN puts the bear back on the bed, hiding it under the blankets. She returns to her original corner. The MAN and GIRL enter, laughing) MAN: So, this is it. GIRL: Wow! This is great! 119

MAN: Yeah, it’s a pretty nice hotel. GIRL: Pretty nice?! This place is huge! We’re so high up! MAN: Can I get you anything? A drink? GIRL: No, thanks, I think I may have had one too many already. (laughs and flops on the bed) Whew, what a night. So funny, seeing you at that restaurant. I couldn’t believe it was you! Who’d have thought we’d both be in the same place? In such a big city, and with you just visiting-its crazy. MAN: It was definitely a surprise. GIRL: I know! What a night. (sits up) You know, maybe I will take that drink. Maybe I’ll have two! MAN: (laughs) Let’s not get carried away. GIRL: No, I want to get carried away. I just can’t believe I had so much fun. With you! MAN: Oh, right, because I’m such a terrible person. GIRL: No, no, that’s not what I mean. I just mean...well, you know. We didn’t know each other that well. MAN: True. GIRL: That was a long time ago, though. And maybe now we can get to know one another.

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MAN: UhGIRL: (leaning back, feeling the bear) What is this? MAN: ThatGIRL: (Pulls it out) Is this supposed to be-what is it? MAN: (quiet) A bear. Girl: A bear? Wow. What the hell is a bear doing in your hotel room? MAN: WellGIRL: You think some kid left it here? MAN: It’sGIRL: Kid’s probably throwing a fit in the back of some car somewhere. Making the parents miserable. Look at it, this thing looks ancient, it’s all patchy. Not very attractive, is it? Maybe you should call the desk...? Or just throw it away, it’s falling apart anyway. Christ, look at it. Looks like this thing’s been barely hanging on for years. MAN: ...It’s mine. GIRL: That? MAN: Yeah. GIRL: ...Oh... MAN: Can I have it, please? 121

GIRL: (hands it over quickly) I’m sorryMAN: Maybe... (looks at the door) GIRL: Right. It was...nice to see you. (exits) (The MAN carefully puts the bear back on the bed, walks to a suitcase, pulls out a bottle, pours himself a drink, finishes, pours another. There is silence. The WOMAN steps out of her corner.) WOMAN: It’s nice to see you. (The MAN does not respond) WOMAN: (walks to the bed, touches the bear gently) You know, I never thought you’d hold on to it this long. MAN: You didn’t? WOMAN: No, of course not. It’s been ten years. MAN: More. WOMAN: Exactly. MAN: Didn’t you keep anything? WOMAN: Of course, but...well, you know me, I’ve always been sentimental. MAN: And I’m not.

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WOMAN: You weren’t. MAN: Well, like you said. It’s been a long time, and it can be hard to let go of something you’ve held on to that long. WOMAN: I know what you mean. MAN: Sure. (Pours another drink, she sits) WOMAN: I’m sorry if...do things like that happen a lot? MAN: What? WOMAN: That girl. Saw the bear. MAN: Oh. Yeah. WOMAN: Does it happen a lot? MAN: Pretty much every time. WOMAN: I’m sorry. MAN: Not your fault. Well. You know what I mean. WOMAN: Instead of an elephant in the room, we end up with a bear. MAN: Yup. (Sits on the bed beside her, but distant) WOMAN: Why do you keep it? MAN: I...It reminds me. You know. Of you. 123

WOMAN: ButMAN: I was happy. I want to remember being that happy. WOMAN: Oh, don’t be dramatic. MAN: I’m not! WOMAN: (Laughs) You’re always such a girl about things. MAN: (joking melodramatic sadness) I’m trying to be serious here, I’m trying to be serious and you’re insulting me to my face. I can’t believe this. WOMAN: (laughter, gives him a friendly punch) Oh grow up. (He laughs, and they smile at one another) MAN: See? WOMAN: What? MAN: See what I mean? Happy. WOMAN: I see. MAN: Don’t worry, I’m not, like, depressed. I’m not unhappy. Just nothing’s ever quite lived up to that. You know? WOMAN: I know. MAN: The sun’s not as bright, and all that shit. 124

WOMAN: You really are melodramatic. MAN: I can’t help it! WOMAN: I think someone has read one too many romance novels. MAN: I do not-! WOMAN: Mhmm. MAN: I have a poet’s soul. WOMAN: Sure. MAN: (pause) You know, one time it actually helped me out. WOMAN: What? MAN: The bear. Definitely helped instead of hindered. (laughs) Jesus, I had a bear for a wingman. WOMAN: (laughs) Some girl other than me actually liked this thing? MAN: Oh yeah. Thought it was “the cutest thing in the entire galaxy.” Direct quote. WOMAN: Wow. MAN: She was kinda crazy. WOMAN: Not surprising.

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MAN: (pause) So... WOMAN: I’m sorry it didn’t...You know that, right? You don’t hate me? MAN: (picks up the bear) No. WOMAN: I worry, sometimes. MAN: No need. WOMAN: You know me. I worry. MAN: I know. But really. There’s no need. (gestures with the bear) Remember, I’ve got a cute roommate. And I have a good memory. That’s enough for now.

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Blair Reitzner Nocturnal Nature “Rib-it, Rib-it.” You can hear the echo of the frog in the middle of the night on the shoreline. You are overlooking the water, which is shining like a piece of glass that shouldn’t be disturbed. You are trying to spot one, but never can because it’s so dark. The croaking every fifteen seconds drives you nuts until you can’t take it anymore. You can imagine its tongue stretching out trying to catch insects passing by. You try and spot it jumping from one lily-pad to another. Then all of a sudden, SPLASH! You hear a fish that has just jumped out of the water with its mouth wide open catching a late night snack in midair, breaking the surface tension of the water on the way down creating a big splash. You decide to head back to the campfire to warm up from the cold, sitting down and listening to the nature around you sitting on a homemade wooden chair. You get a little hungry and decide to roast some marshmallows over the small campfire. You look directly into the fire, focusing on the orange and yellow flames as the marshmallow begins to turn a caramel color. All of a sudden, POP! Sparks from the fire are abundant and the orange pebbles drift higher and higher into the night sky. As you watch the sparks rise into the sky, you try and spot Orion’s belt, the Little and Big Dipper on the clear and beautiful night. Then you see a

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once in a life time event. The Northern Lights moving all around the night sky as if they were jelly fish moving rapidly in the ocean. You are in awe of what you are witnessing because many others would love to be in your position. Then you hear another sound, something different. High pitched squeaks are ringing in your eardrums. You still do not know what they are; finally the light bulb goes off in your head that they are crickets. The crickets annoy you every twenty or so seconds, but you forget about them after a while as you hear their cry from deep in the sticks. Then you hear something closer. You swat at it and miss; it’s the buzzing of a mosquito. There it is again, you try and hit it again, wondering what it wants from you besides your blood. You feel the pinching feeling on your skin and hit your arm where you are feeling the pain, “Got it!” As you walk out on the dock you see birds flying around, but you cannot depict what they are. The squeaking gives them away once you notice it. The fluttering of their wings get closer and closer to you as you can feel the wind that they create. The bats inch closer and closer to your face as you can almost catch one. You finally decide to call it a night because it is getting late and head back up the hill to the cabin. When you reach the door walking into the cabin you notice all of the moths fluttering by the outside light. The moths are so silent, but the abundance of them makes you notice them as 129

they fly around the bright light. Once you are inside in the cabin you turn the light off and lay in bed. Lying on your back with the window open, you can still hear the sounds of the night, wondering when everything is going to be quiet. You hear WHOOO! WHOOO! An owl is perched on a branch outside the window searching for some food. The owlâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wingspan is so powerful that when it takes off you can hear the wind generated by the wings. You finally close your eyes and drift off into a deep sleep until the morning.

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Carla Schantz

Private Journal of Scientist John K. Byrd and of Subject Clara M. Wyght, Retrieved From Their Private Computers and Reconstructed to Detail The Events That Led up to The Incident. Project Code Name: Albatross-X. John K. Byrd, 1/27/2030 They finally decided to fund my project! Not only that, but I have permission to use human subjects. I knew that taking a militaristic spin would get me the funding. After all they are always looking for new and more creative weapons that have new and creative ways of destroying human life. Thanks to me they will have their long desired super soldiers. But more importantly, I will have my dream. I will create the next stage in evolution. Using modern technology I will be able to warp the human body into my own ideal. I will not go into the details of what exactly this experiment will entail, for I do not want any electronic record of my serums out there for computer viruses to corrupt or hackers to stealâ&#x20AC;ŚBut if it works, and it will, I will revolutionize humanity...But I am getting ahead of myself. First I must procure a subject, for only a human subject

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will prove to have results of any value. But I do not worry about a lack of volunteers. After all, who does not dream of flying? John K. Byrd, 2/17/2030 I found the perfect subject for my tests, one Clara M. Wyght. I needed a subject who is submissive, obedient, and, most important, frail. I took note of all her vitals before, and tomorrow we will begin her transformation. She is a weak thing, a rather pathetic specimen if all things are to be considered. She is an asthmatic, hypoglycemic, has frail bone tissue, and seems to always have a temperature or a sickness of some kind, all of this plus a few other internal issues have left her with only a year left of life. So why choose her? What makes this weak dying individual so perfect for my experiments? Because she is weak, because she is dying, she will not be able to resist the treatments. Her immune system will not fight off the compounds and the serums. She will be forced to go through the stages. The first treatment will start tomorrow, I worry...perhaps she is too weak, and the process will tear her apart...but if that is the case I will have to get a stronger subject...We shall see. We shall see... Clara M. Wyght, 2/17/2030 Today I was approached by Dr. Byrd, he wants to use me for an experiment of some kind. One that would benefit mankind, and give America the upper hand once againâ&#x20AC;Ś I am not a big fan of weapons, 133

although my father was in the Marines and so was his father, and so on. Unlike my brothers, I am too weak and sick to follow in father's footstepsâ&#x20AC;Ś Instead I will do this. I will allow Dr. Byrd to perform his experiments, and I will serve my country and at least make my life worth somethingâ&#x20AC;Śeven if only for the benefit of science. I am nervous about the treatment tomorrow, and once it starts I cannot go back. He said that my very anatomy would be changed by the treatment, but anything is better than this weak and constantly sick body I currently have. The Doctor says that if I stop the experiment midway through, or even after just the first stage, I will die. But I will not stop; my father said that he was proud of me. This is the first time I have been able to make him proud.... John K. Byrd, 2/28/2030 My God, if such a deity truly exists in this world, truly he has looked upon me with exceptional blessings. The first treatment was a success. The Subject's shoulder blades elongated and protruded from the back, cracking skin. Over the course of the next thirteen hours the muscle and skin tissue grew and coated the protruding bone, which by this time had frayed into three long finger-like protrusions, longer than the Subject's arms. She has wings! The Subject has wings! No ability to fly as of yet, but by God I am so very close. The treatment shocked her system...and she cannot do much more than lie on her bed and allow my attendants to take

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care of her. She has a fever again as well…perhaps we will give her a day to rest before the second. Only three more treatments remain. If this works...if it works I will perform one more test, on a healthier specimen. Clara M. Wyght, 2/28/2030 I did not expect to start so soon…or what happened. No one could have, well no one except Dr. Byrd perhaps. I have grown wings, but they are nothing like I could ever imagine. Skin stretched out on bone, quite horrendous…they are going to start teaching me to fly, but I do not feel well. My stomach feels constantly nauseous and my bones feel wrong. I have a pounding head ache that will not diminish, and I cannot stop this wretched trembling. There is a lab technician who holds my hand and takes care of me, Sara is her name. She treats me like a person still, even though the transformation has begun…I cannot write more today, I am so very tired… John K. Byrd, 3/19/2030 I could not wait a day longer! The second treatment went without event, once the Subject was secured in place. Overnight the Subject's wings had gotten larger, and a little tip like a finger bone grew on the edges of the wings, like claws. The Subject was sick during the procedure, but we sent the second serum in intravenously so it was of no consequence. Her fingers grew longer, as did her toes, and a sixth toe grew 135

out the back of her heels; this was an unforeseen side effect. I think that the Subject can feel my anxiety to complete the experiment. It must be afraid as to what is happening to its’ body… but there is nothing to be done, I cannot waist time coddling the Subject. Now that we have started we cannot stop, nor can we undo what we have done...what I have done. What I have accomplished! Clara M. Wyght, 3/19/2030 Pain is all I feel, all day and all night. Dr. Byrd will not slow down the experiments, he keeps pushing me. He seems to regard me as less of a person and more of a project every day. He no longer talks to me directly; he just refers to me as "The Subject". I cannot blame him too much; I have lost what physically defined me as human. I have claws, wings, and a tail. He is turning me into a monster…I do not see any good that can come of creating what I am becoming. I see only destruction. There is no "serving the country" behind my actions, I am helping him in creating a weapon for the country…Another WMD. And I see their glances; I hear them through the walls, my senses heightened by their own hands. The Doctor wants to dissect me; they are all waiting for me to die…even Sara wishes me dead... She is the kindest, wishing me dead simply so this can end. Simply so I can be free from all the pain. I will see this experiment through, however, because I promised my family I would.

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Oh, I miss them terribly. They were not allowed to see me anymore. They would compromise the secrecy of this experiment. But they are with me in my heart. I use the manners and the lessons my Mother had taught me to continue to stay on the lab technicians’ good side, and to not upset Dr. Byrd. Then I utilize the training my father put my brother through, as I watched. I know the lab is underground, there are no windows anywhere. I have been making a map in my head of the lab, wondering when I am allowed, and keeping track of who goes into what doors when. It is important to keep track of everyone’s locations so that you do not leave anyone behind…I know what I have to do, I just have to gain the courage to do it…I am just waiting for that final push. I will see them again, but I know I cannot allow them to see me, they will not recognize me in this monstrous form…Oh I do not want to think on this now. John K. Byrd, 2/25/2030 The Subject had not been feeling well, becoming ill and more withdrawn from the lab technicians and myself. Perhaps I forced the treatments too quickly? Or did not provide sufficient information as to what the experiment entailed…But regardless she was given time to rest before the third procedure, much to my reluctance. I did, however, manage to attain permission from the Subject to take a few X-rays of her entire

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body. The new bones are completely fused with the body's original skeletal structure. Ah, her bones! Her bones have become thicker, denser. I wish for a sample but do not want to risk impeding the progress anymore by putting any more stress on the Subjectâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s frail body. Given the condition of the Subject it will be necessary to rush through the last two procedures. As such we will be completing the final stage at five in the morning. A vestigial structure sprouted from the Subject's spine, and seems to have developed some ability to move since last observed, according to my lab assistants, but I will see for myself this evening. I hardly ever leave the lab now. This is my life, my dream, my ideal. Once the trial run is complete I can finally have my wings. I will be able to live my dreams! And all will fear and respect me and my man-made-evolutionary perfection! Clara M. Wyght, 3/25/2030 I was given a week to rest, with the exception of having some Xrays taken. I am so very tired, and I feel growing pains in all my joints. I am a bit taller now I thinkâ&#x20AC;ŚI know that the next procedure is the last, and I want to ask what each tube, each pill, each serum is. I need to be sure that they do not kill me on the table. I am healthy! I have never been so healthy in all my twenty four years of life! More than that, I am strong. I tried to pick up my bed the other day to test my strength, and I could lift it

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with one arm. This enacted quite a few more tests and experiments, but it taught me that I am powerful. While now I may be a monster, no longer fully human, I have the strength to defend and protect myself and those important to me. Why should I lay back and let them kill me? I never agreed to let them kill me, I agreed to the risk of dying during the procedure. I do not think that the doctor knows yet exactly how my mind has changed. How I have grown in my confidence, in my knowledge. I pretend to sleep, but I am listening, always listening. I hear all of their plans through the steel walls of my cell. Because it is a cell, meant to keep me here forever, even in death. I will not go quietly to my grave. I will stop them, or at the very least fight them. John K. Byrd, 4/24/2030 I've done it. I've taken the imperfection of humanity and created perfection! I have created the ultimate solider, no, the ultimate being! The final infusion did more than I expected. The Subject's skin became hard as diamonds, and its eyes became reptilian. She has yet to wake up, but her vitals are strong. The Subject's vitals are STRONG! Her entire body was changed. She can fly. A few more exercises and she will be perfect. The physical changes are amazing, but more than that are the mental ramifications. Imagine the effects on a healthy specimen! On myself! I will be a God! But the Subject must be terminated. There is no other 139

option. She has become uncooperative and rather abrasive to the lab technicians. It will be quick. And painless. I am looking forward, however, to seeing exactly how her internal organs were affected by the transformation in the dissection phase. Which will take place tomorrow night at the latClara M. Wyght, 4/24/2030 I am complete. I am complete and I will be free, even if I have to burn this lab to the ground. Even if that means I have to kill everyone who knows about me and destroy the formulas that created my monstrous form. I have too much power; the world is not ready for what the doctor wants. He has no right to introduce such fear and suffering into the world. So he will not. I will be sure of that. I am the first Dragon. I am the LAST Dragonâ&#x20AC;Ś Lab was destroyed, 2/30/2030 at Approximately Ten PM. Status of Project Head, Scientist John K. Byrd: Deceased. Status of Subject, Clara M. Wyght: Missing, Dangerous. Status of Project Albatross-X: Success.

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Matthew Stanley Day In, Day Out Day in. It floods the room. It bounces off the walls, floor, and ceiling (always conveniently painted white to facilitate the process). It screams into your eyes to wake up, no matter how hard you shut them to silence it. Resistance is futile. Day will win. And despite your best efforts, it does. You yield to its call, get ready, and go. Where do you go? That depends. When you're a kid, you are inevitably going to end up doing chores. You might not mean it; perhaps after breakfast you wanted to go play outside, watch a movie, or read a book. So you play instead of work, promising that you'll do â&#x20AC;&#x153;itâ&#x20AC;? later. But no matter what you do, your parents will find you, see that you are not being productive, and remedy the situation as they see fit. Perhaps it's the dishes you didn't put into the washer. Perhaps it's the clothes you left on your floor in your room. Perhaps you forgot to feed the fish. Regardless of what it actually is, your parents name it and you do it. When you're a teen, you inevitably end up going to class. You might not want it; perhaps you had a late night playing video games, 142

watching TV, or chatting with friends online. So you doze off rather than rise up, for “just five more minutes.” But no matter what you think, your alarm clock will watch you, see that you are dreaming instead of learning, and remedy the situation as it sees fit. Perhaps it's the day your book report for Island of the Blue Dolphins is due. Perhaps today you have that frog dissection for Biology. Perhaps you need to present your thesis. Regardless of what it actually is, your clock reminds you and you do it. When you're an adult, you inevitably go to your job. You might not like it; perhaps you wanted to play professional sports, be an actor, or write bestselling novels. So you keep dreaming, telling yourself “someday” in order to keep the dream alive. But no matter what you say, your actual job will always be there, standing in the way of your dreams until you remedy the situation as you see fit. Perhaps you cook at a fastfood place. Perhaps you're a cashier at the supermarket. Perhaps you work the assembly line at a factory. Regardless of what it is, your boss expects you to show up for work so you do it. Responsibility is as unavoidable as the day itself. There may even come a time where it seems like responsibility is all there is to your life. You might not foresee it; maybe you don't think you'll ever get married, have kids, settle down. With your dreams still fresh in your mind now, “someday” doesn't seem so far away, and nothing is going to stop you

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from getting there. But no one sees it coming when they meet “the one,” and life gets rerouted as it sees fit. Before you know it, “someday” gets put off until after your marriage, after you have a kid, after you move into a better home. Perhaps the day may come when you find your dreams are put on hold indefinitely, your life defined by routine responsibility to your family and to your job. Just remember there is always one consolation, no matter how many times one might forget it: days come and days go. Before you know it your chores are done, class is dismissed, and your shift is complete. No matter how hard things may seem, no matter how much we may despise the day for bringing work with it, night will always follow. Day out. Time to relax with family over supper in the kitchen you cleaned with dishes you washed. Time to unwind with friends, your homework and studying over and done with for now. Time to punch out, go home, and rest. Maybe later you and your parents will watch a movie or play a game. Maybe later you and your friends will try out that new club downtown or hang out in someone's dorm. Maybe later you'll try writing some more or go to night school. The night is young, after all. Fresh, inviting, free.

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And perhaps, just maybe, when day returns in the morning, things will be different. Chores you did today might not need to be done tomorrow. Classes are only scheduled during weekdays. Perhaps tomorrow is your day off from work. Perhaps you will get to do what you want to do and be who you want to be. If you can make it through today, tomorrow will always greet you.

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Murray Stoffa Missed Calls I awoke to a frantic call from Dad early in the morning. He told me, with a very shaky voice, to sit down. I didn’t. He told me Mom died. “Ok.” I don’t know why I said “ok,” it was stupid. I drove home not fully realizing the permanence of the situation. The body didn’t really look like her. They took her away to donate her organs. When they brought her back to the funeral home, I noticed that were no bumps under the blanket where her feet had been. My mom died just after midnight on May 11th, 2012. I prefer to say that she died on May 10th, though, because that’s the day she was experiencing when it happened. Dad and I went to get flowers. He told the florist we wanted a bouquet of daisies in a vase. She asked what size of daisy, what color of daisy, what kind of vase, do you want a bow? Dad started crying. This was the first of many times that I had to take the wheel: “Oh my God, lady, we just want some goddamn flowers,” but it came out as “big, uh...yellow, glass, sure.”

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My mom died on May 10th, 2012. Actually, it was a heart attack that killed her. She didn’t just die. She was 53 years old. I didn’t react like everyone else—crying, sharing, hugging. They would say, “It hasn’t sunk in yet, has it?” Mom could always tell when I was upset or excited even when no one else could. Ironically, she was the only one who could’ve seen how upset I was at her funeral. My mom was killed by a heart attack on May 10th, 2012. It went something like this: Mom was out with her friends at a bar—she doesn’t drink—and she started complaining of chest pains. Somehow a friend ended up driving her to the hospital in our car. She passed out or something on the way. They called my Dad, who was out of town, and told him that she was unresponsive and dying. He had them put the phone up to her ear so he could talk to her. Several days after the funeral Mom’s friend returned the clothes they had taken off her at the hospital. They had to be cleaned, because apparently she had coughed up a lot of blood. I was a pallbearer. The casket wasn’t heavy at all. We slid her into the hearse, the floor of which was covered with rollers like you sometimes see at the post office. They closed the door and drove away. She was gone. For the next several days we were surrounded by friends, family, cheese platters, deli trays and condolence cards, but soon it was just Dad and I in an empty house. 147

My mom was killed by a heart attack on May 10th, 2012. I was the first one to go inside our house after her death. She had been there alone for a few days. A half empty coke was in the fridge, dishes were in the sink, and her clothes were laid out for the next day. I knew this would be too much for Dad to see when he came in, so I drank the coke and cleaned the dishes. I left her clothes laid out. So did he. There was angelic music playing, echoing and harmonizing throughout the thickly wooded space—the only distinct detail was the water and the idyllically clouded sky. I followed her down the culvert, over the drainage pipe until we came to a concrete ledge on which stood a dumpster. We were going to go fishing in the lake. I looked into the dumpster and saw several colorful fish swimming inside. I said “we could catch those fish,” to which she said something endearing and hugged me. I gasped as I awoke in the empty library. I don’t believe you can communicate with the dead, but the power of their memory—the seemingly flawless projection of their character into dreams—makes me wonder. My mom was killed by a heart attack on May 10th, 2012. We had her cremated, with plans to someday bury her in the family cemetery in Iowa. She came home in a round, red, wooden ossuary with blue, pink and white flowers painted on the side. We keep it in the big clock in the living room next to her unopened Mother’s Day cards.

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Inbox, May 9th, 2012: Mur, I came across this sentence today and thought of you .....being an English major and all.... "We have floated through this cloud of words and not bumped into one bit of substance." Sorry I missed your phone call last night. I was probably downstairs doing laundry. That was my goal yesterday, small as it may seem, to get all the laundry done. Success! Today my goal is to get the car washed and straighten up the house. Tough days here in River Falls- Tomorrow is the last day of clinical and then graduation tomorrow night. I am happy to be done. The semesters always last too long....just a couple weeks shorter and I would be happier. Went to water aerobics (YMCA) again this morning. I LOVE it. It is the perfect exercise for me. Let me list the reasons: 1) I love the smell of chlorine. 2) I love the water. 3) The class is "drop in" so I can go or not go without penalty or judgment. 4) No one can really tell if I am doing the exercises correctly. 5) Looking at all the old people in the class is inspiring 6) I am the youngest, cutest person in the class. 7) It prompted me to get my hair cut short so that it can be cared for easier. 8) I can swim a few laps when I am done 149

9) The water cushions my bad knee And finally #10) If you want to be done early, you just wave and swim away (had my lab appt this moring). WONDERFUL! I have 4 passes to share with you when you come home. I am already imagining you in the class with me. Love you, Mom

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Laila Sultan

Revised Personal Statement

I am frequently asked about my race. It appears, more often than not, that I puzzle people. So, people regularly ask me about my race. I answer in saying that my father is from Saudi Arabia and my mother is Caucasian: making me an Arab-American. As an Arab-American, being in the United States in the post-9/11 world has been difficult for me. Watching and reading mainstream media talking about Arabs and Muslims has not made me feel good about my identity. I have often felt that the media grossly indicted all Arabs and Muslims for the crime of a few. Though I was not directly subjected to any particular discrimination or violence, I have read about and seen accounts of such violence against Arab-Americans. My father has told me of incidents of racial slurs and epithets shouted against him while walking in the street. September 11th and the “War on Terror” have taught me how easily “we” can become prejudiced against those who we do not know.

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As a minority, my time at Ripon College has not been what you might call typical. Though I have not been personally singled out for being a minority, I have been a witness to instances of ignorance and racism. But these experiences have motivated me to let others know about the ignorance and racism going on on campus. I was lucky enough to have an opportunity to do so when I met with Dr. VaNatta Ford Ph.D., ACM Mellon Postdoctoral Fellow of African American Rhetorical Studies, Department of Communication at Ripon College, last April to discuss my personal experiences as an Arab-American on the College campus. Last spring, Dr. Ford met with a number of minority students on campus to interview them about their experiences as â&#x20AC;&#x153;students of colorâ&#x20AC;? while attending Ripon. Dr. Ford also asked those of us who were interviewed to write up a personal statement discussing our experiences as minorities so she could submit them to President Zach Messitte, Dean Gerald Seaman, Dean Christopher Ogle, Dr. Jody Roy, and Dr. Russell Blake. My experience has been that most of my fellow students have little knowledge of the Middle East. Often, I have been asked where Saudi 153

Arabia is located, what language is spoken there, if I am wealthy (considering that Saudi Arabia is a wealthy country) and if my family has investments in oil. The questions posed have been offensive but more than anything, they have genuinely surprised me. It is hard to believe that students do not know basic information about Saudi Arabia, and that anyone would have the audacity to ask me questions regarding my familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s status of wealth. While my fellow students have asked me basic questions about Saudi Arabia, they have also asked me if I ever visited or even lived there for a time. I have visited Saudi Arabia before but never lived there. However, I used to live in another country in the Middle East. I lived in the United Arab Emirates, in Al Ain, near Dubai for four years of my life from the time I was five until I was nine years old. Though I have yet to receive a negative response from these statements, I have frequently been asked if I lived in the desert or in a tent during my time in the Emirates. In a way, these questions are insulting considering such information is literally at our fingertips â&#x20AC;&#x201C; online, and that the United Arab Emirates is a 154

fairly wealthy, industrious and economically developed country; it is considered one of the corridors of globalization. As a student and a Politics and Government minor, countries like the United Arab Emirates, or more specifically, the Arab World, have come up often in lectures and discussions in my politics classes. When the politics professors generate discussion of the Middle East, Arab people are often referred to, on the whole, as terrorists. This, above all, infuriates me. How can anyone label a group of people for the actions of a few? And, if this is so, why aren’t white Americans referred to as terrorists for the actions of the KKK? Why aren’t the Japanese considered terrorists for their actions in Pearl Harbor? Why aren’t the Germans referred to as terrorists for the actions of Hitler and the Nazis? In the past, I challenged prejudice comments about all Arabs being terrorists but I soon learned that it was no use. Sometimes, you simply cannot change other peoples’ minds, no matter what. It also might be helpful to put this in context: most politics classes are dominated by conservative-leaning white males. However, this should not be a barrier given that we attend a liberal arts college. Still, it is 155

hard for me to believe that students can be so ignorant and prejudice. Especially because, as students of the liberal arts, we are, in theory, meant to be well-educated and well-rounded in all areas. Aside from my personal experiences as an Arab-American at the College, it might be useful to know some brief background history about Arabs immigrating to the United States. Let me start by saying that my cultural heritage does not neatly fall into one of the four minority categories: Native American, African-American, Asian or Hispanic. This is because, in the past, the Arabs who have come to this country have been of sound economic status. They often came from Northern Arabia, places such as Lebanon and Syria, and therefore had fairer skin; they resembled those of Italian and Greek descent. They had been well-educated, and were financially stable. So, at the time, labeling Arab people as a minority did not make sense. Due to all these reasons, Arabs have never been officially considered a minority, but it is critical these days because now there are larger numbers of Arabs coming from different countries in the Middle East. Therefore, Arabs should be considered as minorities because of the 156

systematic cultural and political prejudices against Arabs due to the current political climate. At Ripon College, I have witnessed racist views of Arab people. Through my personal experience and what I have observed, I can see that prejudice, stigmatized views and a general lack of knowledge of the Arab World are issues that need to be dealt with further. Before the College can deal with these issues of prejudice and stigmatized views of Arab people, the problem of ignorance and racism needs to be addressed; only then, can a solution come about because, in theory, there is a solution to any problem. My speaking with Dr. Ford was an effort on my part to bring these issues to light. In doing so, I hope that the College will make efforts to provide more opportunities for its students to learn about the Arab World to counter the general lack of knowledge and hopefully, the prejudice. Perhaps the College could make efforts to recruit more minority students, specifically Arab students, to generate a larger multicultural community on campus.

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AUTHOR STATEMENTS Margaret Agnew: I wrote this piece intending to flesh out a cast of characters as well as I could in a short space. Though it is based on side characters from an intended larger work, I worked to make sure that it could stand on its own merit and that no context of the larger story was actually required. The process getting it to where it is now was certainly helpful and rewarding, and I hope this piece can help me write my longer work in the future. Kate Amell: Originally this piece was written for a nonfiction creative writing course, and I was prompted to write about an encounter with the spiritual. This stumped me. Given the fact that I’ve grown up in a practicing Catholic family and can count on one hand the number of times I missed a Sunday Mass as a child, it seemed like I should have been able to come up with something easily. Unfortunately, as a kid, I took on others’ beliefs and made them my own without taking the time to figure out what I truly believed in or what moved me spiritually. The class forced me to think about this for myself, and the conclusion I came to was the moment that is described within this piece, “Spirituality on the Floor.” The moment still has a profound effect on me. When I came across this piece during my search through all my old work, I cried again as though I were still sitting in the cathedral watching my dad. I decided that this would be an excellent time and place to honor not only my dad and his incredible commitment but also my realization that I am in charge of my beliefs and from now on I intend to make sure they are my beliefs and no one else’s.

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Amy Browender: I can’t help but find it ironic and a bit humorous that my first foray into creative writing (ever) is being featured in a publication that’s meant to show off our best work. The material for this piece, the story of my grandmother’s death and the events, emotions, and memories that stemmed from it, are things that I’ve kept mostly to myself for almost eight years now. Of course, rationalizing and coming to terms with her death took some time, but it’s since become a point of personal growth and reflection. Better yet, I’ve come to recognize it as a source of dark humor, and as an episode that epitomizes the awkwardness, cynicism, and ironies of adolescence.

Elizabeth Brown: “When Everything Else Disappears” is inspired by my time studying abroad. While in Europe I developed a better understanding of how I fit into a larger concept of time. The architecture in Europe is an interesting blend of new and old, and there are new people living in old buildings that maintain their heritage and history. The feeling that time transcends those that live today is what inspires the ontology of this piece and the belief that our commitment to the importance of stories is what makes them meaningful.

Lacey M. Buchda: My ideas for “She’d Died, Once” formed over the summer, when the characters of Kohaku and Hotaru – who feature briefly in a novel I’m writing - demanded more page-time than I’d been planning to give them. I decided to oblige them by telling their “coming of age” story in a series of moments. Their story was also a chance to invoke my 159

interests in Japanese culture and animistic religions, particularly in Shintoism. Being a fantasy tale, “She’d Died, Once” does not accurately reflect Shinto traditions (the group and initiation rites featured here are, notably, of my own invention), but it does draw on those traditions as a source of inspiration. At its core, however, this story is about letting go and making your own path in life, even if that path is one your loved ones aren’t sure about. It’s also about how - at least in Kohaku’s and Hotaru’s case – growing up may mean growing apart, but that distance might actually be a healthy thing. Dawn Burnside: This piece was not planned. It just happened. It’s much like a doodle that way. Have you ever glanced about your classroom and noticed that people are doodling? Ever wonder why they decided to doodle fruit instead of pastries? Well I have and that is why I wrote this piece. It is meant to be fun. And if it makes you uncover something about your doodling personality as well, so much the better.

Breana Butt: I was encouraged to write about something “uncomfortable” I had experienced in my life. Due to the fact that I am actually quite uncomfortable in many situations, it was difficult to choose exactly what experience to write on. Thinking back on my childhood, I decided to explore the way in which I learned about the facts of life. I had forgotten the details of how utterly disgusted I was until I took the time to write about it. My piece explores this moment in my life and offers my opinions on the method my parents chose to enlighten me with.

Zack Flood: “Invincible” is something that is very personal to me. It tells the death of my grandmother and the process for me, as a ten year old 160

child, of dealing with it and trying to understand it. The poem was first scribbled down in the Spring semester of 2012. Because of the impact this event had on my life, along with the revision that this poem desperately needed and had not yet received, I thought it would be a great addition to the senior portfolio. “Innocence” was another poem that I first wrote in Spring semester 2012. I chose this piece for the portfolio simply because I really like this poem. I was curious to see what I could do in terms of revision after an entire year of not attempting to rework or even think about the poem.

Ashton Fries: Third grade is when I wrote my first poetry cycle, and I've been exploring them ever since, especially during college. The inspiration for this particular cycle of three poems was not anything profound that happened to me or even anyone close to me. They are simply poems that I developed from conversations I couldn’t help but overhearing in restaurants and shopping plazas. I had developed the base for this piece, the first and third poems, years before. However, something was missing, where and how she grew up. These three poems are ones that show loss, love, and a childhood being able to be found again after years of it being misplaced.

Max Herrmann: I initially wrote “O Commons! My Commons!” as a satirical piece about the dining experience on campus. I took the form, rhyme scheme, and general tone from the ode to President Lincoln in Walt Whitman’s “O Captain! My Captain!” In addition, I composed a piece in prose to compliment the poem. “Memoirs of the Commons” tells a similar story to the poem, but with a narrative style. Though the works are meant 161

to be funny and satirical, the works are driven by the memories I have experienced with my friends.

Troy Jarosinski: The initial inspiration for my story came from the process of creating a character with a strange personality quirk. The most creative thing I could think of was someone who liked Brussels sprouts, or at least didn’t dislike them. I chose the familiar setting of a cafeteria and the rest just fell into place. The story doesn’t necessarily have a moral, nor does it necessarily attempt to address any social issues; for me, it simply shows that the world can sometimes be a cruel place. If nothing else, my story can put things into perspective for the reader, as it does for me. I may tell myself that I’m having a bad day, but, more often than not, I’m in a much better situation than my story’s protagonist.

Ben Kopczynski: During the writing of this project, I was doing a simultaneous bit of work which involved me examining all of the writing I've done for the English department during my years here at Ripon college. In this process, I noticed that virtually none of the writing was creative, but rather analytic. So I decided that a proper representation of these college years must also be an analytic work. As for why I chose "The Devil in the Mirror," it is simply as I say in the work itself; it is one of my favorite little bits of fiction which I think is better than its miniscule audience might suggest. A bit of research on my part since completing the review suggests that the publishing house which originally published Roper's took the rights for the story with it to its grave, so it is incredibly difficult to get your hands on a hard copy. Best of luck tracking one down for yourself if you're interested. --Ben 2.0 162

Emily Kijek: Romeo and Juliet is one of the most frequently taught pieces of Western Literature. The fact that this work has such a strong presence in American classrooms compelled me to consider why this is. I was influenced by my background in education to explore this topic and show why Romeo and Juliet is so influential in the high school curriculum and explain how teachers can effectively teach it. Education and literacy are extremely important to me and this piece epitomizes that. Education really does have the power to change the world, so letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s have teachers engage their students in effective and positive ways. Mo McIlree: Anger, pain, suffering. That is what this piece is about and will always be about. I had always wanted to write creative nonfiction specifically about my father, and although this was not actually written in Life Writing, I had hoped to succeed at getting my awful emotions out onto the page and I did. I wanted to get my words onto paper to get over the grieving process of losing a father.

Diakeishaye Murphy: I wrote this work to shine light on the things that have been happening and hopefully trigger in the minds of others the need for change. This work was originally written as part of a collection of research that was presented to various faculty and staff on campus. Since being presented it has been altered and edited for this publication. The purpose and message in this letter, however, is the same. My intention is to provide insight only of my journey and struggles, not to bash Ripon College or to say all things are being ignored. But it must be said, that if 163

we are truly going to be More. Together. we must all come together and be the change we speak of.

Charles Pegorsch: “Necessity” was a piece of fiction that I had submitted to Parallax and was my first attempt to write a short, self contained piece of "flash fiction" or something close to it. Previously, my stories had either been longer, and subsequently more developed backstory-wise, or required at least a passing knowledge of the universe, as side stories to the longer ones. I enjoyed the challenge of creating and fleshing out a scenario in such a short space, and while it ended rather abruptly, that was intentional, to showcase both how quickly things can spiral out of control and how quickly they can end in these types of situations. Anyone who knows active-duty soldiers or police officers can attest to this fact. I am very proud of this story and immensely enjoyed writing it.

Lisa Perkins: I thought that a coming-of-age piece was incredibly appropriate for a senior portfolio – the transition between being a student and a true adult. I felt my own coming-of-age most fully through, as my piece suggests, scent. Though I have all my senses, I approach the world nose first; it’s quite autobiographical. It’s also slightly fictionalized, packing a couple months of smelling and musing into one short stroll. I did this not only for the sake of concision, but because I’m more comfortable writing fiction than creative non-fiction. I feel, in the end, it was a beautiful compromise. Jack Rea: When I wrote The Scisco last semester, I was convinced that the narrative structure was fine. In spite of Writer’s Workshop feedback 164

in class, I felt that it would cheapen the theme of the story to emphasize the drama and characters more. By trying a different narrative structure, however, such as starting the story in media res, I found that developing the characters and the dramatic tension only heightened the thematic content of the story. Instead of being a description of mere events, I made the story about the people involved, making the characters—arguably the most important part of any work of fiction, especially short stories— evolve into a much livelier aspect of the story. Overall, this has been an intellectually stimulating yet challenging endeavor, and I have learned quite a bit about the revision process and have honed my skills in writing and analyzing narrative prose in general through revising The Scisco.

Blair Reitzner: This piece originally started out as a one-hundred word essay about frogs, but I got the inspiration to extend the piece and make it about the entire outdoors. But not just about the outdoors, about the night life. There were a lot of ideas that were going through my head since our family owns a nice little cabin up north in Land O’ Lakes, WI. All these ideas and memories that I have had growing up have played a big part in this piece. What I tried to do is to interact with the reader and make them want to experience what I experienced growing up. When writing this, I tried to be descriptive as much as I could to really put an image in the back of the reader’s mind.

Carla Schantz: I wrote "The Private Journals" to combine all of my favorite aspects of literature and my writing styles: scientific and science fiction. I chose to incorporate dragons because they have been the main subject of the majority of my recreational creative writings. As such it 165

only seemed fitting that my portfolio piece also had them present. I wanted to explore the idea of dragons in the modern era, and how to make a modern myth of sorts, a story of how dragons could exist in a world where we know that they do not. It is up to us to dream up new ways for the myths to become real, which is what I tried to do.

Matthew Stanley: My goal for the publication was to write something simultaneously personal and universal. The message in my piece, essentially that all goals can be reached eventually, seemed allencompassing enough. However, I would be lying if I said I did not have future seniors especially in mind when I wrote it. Life can be stressful as it is but many people find college years particularly so. If I only had a thousand words to leave behind for them, it seemed appropriate to leave a reminder that their goals can be reached sooner or later. Murray Stoffa: This piece is about when my mom died. In it I invite readers to share in the confusion and disconnect that I

felt at the time. More than anything this is my attempt at processing what happened. This is by no means a comprehensive history of the occasion; it is merely what I remember most distinctly and powerfully. I would be remiss not to mention the incredible support of our family and friends throughout this affairâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;your selfless actions continually remind me of the impact that even a single kind gesture can have. Laila Sultan: I originally wrote this statement for Professor VaNatta Ford Ph.D., Postdoctoral Fellow of African American rhetoric and 166

communication last spring in 2012. Last spring, Dr. Ford met with a variety of minority students who were willing to discuss their experiences as minorities while attending Ripon College. I decided to revise my original statement and publish this because it is so personal, being an identity piece and all. I thought it would be a unique piece of writing to include in the Senior Portfolio. In my opinion, it speaks for itself.

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