Roars and Whispers Volume XV 2010 by Roars and Whispers Literary Magazine

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Table of Contents

poetry Ratiocination, Meagan Barger

Nyctohylophobia, Cameron Carswell

Bridges, Ethan Risinger

A Lonely Night, Katrina Gutierrez

Fevers, Brandon Rafalson

To the Stem, Ethan Risinger

btw, Michael Falero

Impetus, Sasha Freger

Transience, Lauren Burnham

"dear ms. plath," Gabriella Baer

Dream Catcher, Lindsay Johnson

Better Left Dead, Joey Schachner

Igniting Discovery, Tina Zheng 2

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fiction

nonfiction

Guitar Strings, Sarah Chaney

Ode to a Pudding Cup, Taylor Turnbull

A Thousand Words, Lauren Burnham

The Garbage Man, Claire Highsmith

Imaginarium, Emma Rainear

A Bleeding Disappointment, Michael Falero

All But Broken, Lindsey Rosenbaum

First Impressions, Tori Chester

Un Penchant pour AmĂŠlie's, Cameron Carswell

Reality, Brynn Claypoole

The Bard's Song, Jeremy Pickard

A Glorious Victory, Jeremy Pickard

Kindling, Madelyn Usher

The Urban Butterfly, Sarah Fewell

Yellow, Brynn Claypoole A Perspective on Detonation, Michael Falero

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art & photography Megan Vince

Melissa Murphy

Morgan McCloy

Charlotte Blackley

Katie Holcomb

Sara Grant

Charlotte Blackley

Lauren Burnham

Megan Vince

Morgan McCloy

Sarah Kinney

Morgan McCloy

Emma Rainear

Carolyn SzczesnyPumarada

Taylor Turnbull

Carolyn SzczesnyPumarada

Charlotte Blackley

Carly Taich

Sarah Kinney

Sara Grant

Charlotte Blackley

Morgan McCloy

Charlotte Blackley

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colophon Morgan McCloy

Morgan McCloy

Charlotte Blackley

Taylor Turnbull

Charlotte Blackley

Sydney Albion

2010 was printed by Jostens of Clarksville, Tennessee, on 100# matte paper. Body text is Helvetica 10. Titles are printed using one of the following fonts: Avalon, Celestia Antiqua, Chantilly, Cheltenham, Clarence, Earthquake, Ebony, Engravers Gothic, Eras Book, Folio Light, Franklin Gothic, Garamond Sm Caps, Helvetica, High Emotions, Kabel Book, Kurt, Letter Gothic, Luke, Maximo, Melville, Modern 216, News Gothic, Times, Unitus Light Cond, University Roman. Chicken Scratch and Inkburrow are used for the magazine title. All graphic editing was done using Adobe Photoshop CS3. The magazine was created through the use of Jostens' Yearbook Avenue and Adobe InDesign CS3 on Hewlett-Packard computers.

Sasha Freger

Michael Falero

policy is a publication created by the literary magazine students at Providence High School. Poetry, prose, artwork and photography are submitted by members of the student body. Each submission is assigned a number and is subsequently judged anonymously by every member of the staff. The magazine publishes those poetry and prose pieces that receive the highest scores, as well as the artwork and photography that is most relevant to the magazine. is an open forum for all studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; opinions; the ideas presented in the magazine do not reflect those of the Providence High School faculty. However, as a school publication, does reserve the right to deny publication to submissions that are deemed inappropriate for a high school audience. is the poetic and artistic voice of the students at Providence High School. Whether through the strength of our roars or the softness of our whispers, we will be heard. 5

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R IN I OC AT ATION

Rejection rates rose. She realized she’d rather run from Romeo’s restricting relationships. After repetition of redundant relationship after relationship, Rachael realized rhythms ending. Romances repulsed her. Even recollections of reckless nights, racing hearts, and resplendent evenings refused to repress her ratiocination. - Meagan Barger

Megan Vince Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 007 (231284877) 03/26/2010 8:44 AM

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Guitar

o this is who you were? Old photographs of the wedding and your first Christmas with Mom fade into the coffee-stained paper, crackling with each turn of the page. The memories seem to fade with the pictures, though I can still smell the reeking whiskey and cigars that linger in your deserted office. You spent days up here, feet propped up on this wooden desk, jangling the metal strings on that old blue guitar. You banged that guitar a savage blue, nailing your thoughts across the door–never letting anyone in. It’s hard to believe that the man in the photo was you, but I'll never forget your toothless smile. Not that I ever saw it. You were never happy; all you ever wanted was to get out. You spoke of how you would one day leave to join one of those rock bands, you know, the ones that ride across the country in beat-up vans and spend more time in bars than on stages. Mom always just shook her head when I told her of your dreams; she never could accept the truth. Besides, you were too scared–at least that’s what she said. Scared of what? I always wondered. I never doubted that you would leave. Funny, don’t you think, that

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at seven I was able to see you better than your own wife? My finger tingles as I trace over the print of you and me; I can almost feel your bristly chin. This must have been my fourth birthday, when I made a wish for a new bike and you gave me that ugly yellow turtleneck sweater. I thanked you, but we both knew that the sweater would just hang in the back of my closet, silent. Sort of like you. Mom enters the room, the new diamond ring on her finger reflecting shadows on the walls where your Jimi Hendrix posters used to hang. She hovers at the door, her strong perfume clogging my lungs. Let me tell you, I miss the smell of whiskey and cigars. Her brittle voice tells me to pack up the scrapbook; we have to go. I close the red velvet cover, trimmed in gleaming silken braid. When I shut the book, all images of your stubbly face disappear. Every word that came out of your sun-shriveled lips is forgotten–your past is confined within those crinkled pages. But as I leave the room, I pass by your dusty stereo and can hear the sound you made as your fingers strummed that old blue guitar. Your music is all that remains

Charlotte Blackley

Sarah Chaney

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I "As photographs, we exist only to inspire reminiscence; we fade and tear, dust collecting on our depthless faces."

Charlotte Blackley

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was always told I looked like my father. Yet no matter how hard I searched, I could never see the resemblance. We liked many of the same things: he was an avid reader and writer and passed on these loves to me, so we were similar in that respect. But when I looked at my face, I saw nothing of him—not the smallest trace of similarity. When he died, I dug up as many pictures of him as I could find, searching for some way to recover what I had lost. I did not want my family to know of my minor obsession, so I kept the photos a secret, trying to memorize their every aspect. I thought that if I closed my eyes, I could run them through my mind like a film, threading them together to once again see my father in motion, but it was in vain. A few months after the incident, after most of the trouble had blown over, I taped the pictures up on the back of the door to my bedroom—just a thoughtless collage of memories, boxed up within their small squares. Here was a Polaroid snapshot, taken as my father swung my brother, then an infant, in the park. The picture had grown reddish and faded with age in its thirty years of life, but it was not so much the beauty of the picture that had drawn me to it. Rather, it was the beauty trapped within it—that which bubbled to the surface, popping and steaming, making my eyes water. This was a moment of joy, merely flattened out, glossed over and silenced, boasting only a tombstone-like inscription at the bottom: January 17th, 1979. This photo froze them eternally, yet still appeared as though they might begin moving again any second. This infinite anticipation whathappsifiwriterandomstuffhere?

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ATHOUSAND WORDS Lauren Burnham

invigorated me. There was one part about the photo, however, which bothered me greatly. My father was not looking at the camera but straight down at my brother, obscuring his face from view. In this position, he looks as if he is in complete despair. A second later, he may have looked up, smiling maybe, rectifying the image and saving me my future worry. Instead, with the taking of this picture, my father was condemned to despair for the next thirty years. In another newer picture, my father still does not look at the camera. It is Christmas, and he instead concentrates on wrestling with the dog, who has stolen a gift from underneath the tree. His face is stern, almost frantic, though the rest of us are all smiles. The warm scene appears loud and boisterous, yet the wan-faced photo remains mute. If one could only return the sound and the warmth, then perhaps the memory would again become real, instead of this cold mix of deafening colors. The last photo I taped to my door is perhaps the most frightening of all. My father seems not to be looking at the camera, but through the camera and out of the picture, as if he could part the haze of the years and see me at this very moment. The photo was taken long before the others, decades before my birth, when my father was an English teacher. He cradles a book in his right hand in the awed and adoring way that Plato or Socrates might have. A dramatic left hand acts out the words he reads so reverently, his mouth slightly ajar, perhaps mid-word. In this silent snapshot, however, he appears merely shocked, perhaps at what he sees through the years and through the picture. Does he know, in the instant the bleach

bulb flashes and the photo is taken, the context in which this photograph will be viewed in the future? Can he truly see that this impromptu photograph will outlive him? Can he even fathom, at this young age, that he is indeed mortal? I hesitated to put up this photo, as it troubled me so. Yet there it was along with the other pictures, visible even as I looked in the mirror to dress myself in the mornings. The photo seemed to stare at me through my mirror, positioning itself right next to my face as I brushed my hair and put on my makeup. It mocked me with its open, awed mouth, appalled at my every fault. “Don’t you see the resemblance?” it asked with a cruel smirk, its glazed surface shining. “I think we’re just alike, don’t you?” I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the other less dangerous photos which floated harmlessly in the background. Yet somehow the image surged constantly to the forefront of my mind. I prodded and pored over my face, searching in vain for the striking similarities everyone but me seemed able to see. Still I saw nothing. I decided that I looked absolutely nothing like my father and resolved to make this fact clear. Angrily, I gave up writing altogether, unknowingly severing the last bonds between us, vowing that I would no longer cling to any piece of him that remained. I slammed the door to my room, and the photo floated to the floor like an autumn leaf, erasing itself from the mirror. I looked once more to my reflection but could not see my face. It was gone, swept away like the last leaf of fall, plodding on to a numb and white winter. I realized that all the while had I looked merely at the features of bleach

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my face, like the mute and colorless faces in the photographs, which essentially revealed nothing. I did not look like my father because my face resembled his. I looked like him because I was like him, in ways one could never find in a photograph. We were united in our personalities, identical in our love of the written word. With this, I resolved never to give up writing, knowing that if I did, I would someday look in the mirror and see nothing but a photograph: silent, blank, and empty. When we die, our lives are reduced merely to pictures, which seem to be all our families have left of us after our bodies are gone. However, by cherishing these empty images, we do not know how they belittle our lives. As photographs, we exist only to inspire reminiscence; we fade and tear, dust collecting on our depthless faces. The scenes captured in photographs will never live again as loved ones want them to. They shall never jump back to life or regain the warmth and noise that were present in the instant they were captured. However, we live on in the people whose lives we have changed. In this way, our pictures become superfluous, merely hollow representations of the people that once existed. I know I shall never again forsake my father in this way, reducing his life to pictures when he left such a legacy in my hands. I now know that I must write not only to better my own life, but to save his, in ways that mere images never did and never will. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I always thought a life was more valuable than that 11

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BRIDGES

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Michael Falero

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The writers decide that Bella, an emotional vacuum to begin with, should revert to epileptic fits when she lapses into depression.

t should be a rule that, in the future, all romance movies must have humor. A romantic film is, coincidentally, about romance, and last I checked a healthy relationship wasn’t a series of painful stares and exasperated sighs. But painful stares and exasperated sighs are New Moon at its core, and the adaptation of Stephenie Meyer’s second book is far from enjoyable. New Moon both begins and ends in the damp woods of Washington state. We find Bella, the eternally cheerless protagonist, lamenting her eighteenth birthday due to a dream about becoming an octogenarian. In the midst of her senior year, well-liked by her peers and adored by her undead boyfriend, Bella has everything going her way. Nevertheless, she wears an almost permanent frown. (I can only guess it's the dreary weather.) After disregarding the gifts showered upon her, Bella attends a birthday party thrown by the Cullens. A harmless paper cut leads to near birthday cannibalism, and Edward decides to leave Forks for his girlfriend’s safety. Bella protests the decision, though eventually she finds herself without a man. She begins to seize in the night for her vampire lover. It is only when the strange Native American boy, Jacob, grabs her attention that she begins to recover. New Moon’s grandest and most obvious failure is its ability to induce lethargy. Director Chris Weitz and screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg make a huge mistake in keeping Meyer's empty, esoteric dialogue between the three main characters. The interactions

between Bella and Edward (and later Bella and Jacob) are vague and cliché. The three only know how to use extreme statements that insinuate life or death importance where there is none. Edward’s personal favorite is to jumble Bella’s words and pass them off as responses. Of all the dialogue, the only interesting line of the movie is one from Romeo and Juliet, which Weitz, Rosenberg, and Meyer decide to quote at length in lieu of original discourse. The plot, though it has action at times, is washed over by a constant feeling of dampness and angst. Nothing seems to move along, and the mood of the film is comparable to a persistent migraine. While the movie’s script is sluggish at best, the three main actors do not make any attempt to enliven the film. Kristen Stewart, Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner all have overt deficiencies in their facial expressions. To credit each with three expressions (frowning, angry and the extraordinarily rare smile) would be a stretch. Edward remains visibly pained throughout the film, although he states that being around Bella completes him. The writers decide that Bella, an emotional vacuum to begin with, should revert to epileptic fits when she lapses into a depression. Jacob seems to never wear a shirt, an obvious pandering to the audience demographic. While the three probably weren’t given much to work with in terms of the script, none gives a notable performance. Despite a stagnant plot and empty dialogue, New Moon features refreshing scenery from the Pacific Northwest. Breathtaking shots of damp woods, jagged cliffs and thrashing coastlines are

effectively utilized to provide something of interest to an otherwise fatigued audience. Several scenes take place in these natural settings, and while the characters’ actions there may be boring, cliché or downright nauseating, the surroundings are enjoyable enough. The aesthetic emphasis can be paralleled to Edward: pretty though otherwise unsubstantial. And it nearly goes without saying that nice vistas cannot redeem an otherwise lackluster experience. Unfortunately, New Moon uses its supernatural elements to smudge the boundaries of obsession and true love while passing itself off as the ideal teenage love story. The underlying tones of Bella's codependency are unsettling, and that the idea is still so attractive to the female population even more so. That Edward’s cannibalistic urges are put in a romantic light is outrageous. Were he any regular boy, he would be written off as hot-blooded and pathetic. And the movie's ending, when Edward stops the plot to propose marriage, seems a deus ex machina by the writers and Meyer, a jumpstart toward the third adaptation. A pretty film starving for substance, New Moon is yet another disappointing book adaptation. It wasn’t the first, won’t be the last, and may be another indication that books and cinema should remain two discrete mediums. New Moon is a two-hour-plus gloom fest that will leave audiences weary, tired and angry that they wasted their time. Unless constant sighing or shots of Taylor Lautner’s midsection interest you, skip this film. It is neither funny nor lighthearted. If you’re looking for something lighter, search elsewhere, like the local morgue 15

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he garbage man pulled up early that morning and walked toward the set of gray trashcans awaiting him at the curb. But before he could get a grasp on them we pounced, bombarding the confused man with hundreds of questions. “How old are you?” “Have you always been a garbage man?” “Did you want to be one when you were little?” Earlier that week, over freshlysqueezed orange juice, my dad had asked a simple question. “So, what do you kids want to be when you grow up?” “An explorer!” I declared. “A vet!” said my brother Ian. My dad smiled and said sarcastically, “Well, why not a garbage man?” We both burst out laughing. A garbage man? The idea was ridiculous. To us they

barely seemed like people, just mysterious and emotionless beings living for the sole purpose of taking away our filth. My mother grew upset and tried to talk to us about their importance, but we both tuned out, Ian blowing bubbles into his juice while I observed a spider on the windowsill. That night she thought of a better solution. The next day, lured into her car with the promise of ice cream, we drove out of town to the local landfill. She explained to us how the entire thing was made of garbage. She told us how long it took for normal things to decompose into dirt. This time we listened, amazed at the huge pile of garbage. After a quick stop at Dairy Queen, we headed home, our heads still filled with questions—and disappointment when she couldn’t answer them. In those days computers were big, blocky machines that seemed to take hours just to turn on, so our mom came up with a different plan

to get our questions answered. The next day, armed with notepads and thank-you notes scrawled in crayon, we waited outside for the garbage man. After a quick interview we learned his name was Hugh, he was thirty-eight, and he liked cats. He had also wanted to be a fireman when he was little, but he didn’t get good enough grades. He also had a two-year-old son. We presented him with our thank-you notes and watched as he moved on to the next house. Our mother greeted us as we walked back. "So, what did you kids learn?” We quoted facts, from how many pounds of garbage he collects a day to his favorite color. A few months later at Christmas, a relative asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. At the same time we both said, “I want to be a garbage man!”

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Emma Rainear

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In the middle of the night I’m free to think, to roam the general plane of life untangled, unbound, in spiritual freedom— freedom from the corporeal. I’m a spirit roaming the world of the living, playful and wise, but mostly playful. A spirit in mischievous ecstasy, an apparition learned in years of wandering. I walk on walls and dance on ceilings. I’m not of this world, but this ethereal power does not last forever, and as the night fades, so do I, like light and day. Come like a fire; set everything ablaze. In wonder-lust passion let’s burn down the canopy— fibers will go up, first in a flash, but all will follow, dancing and dancing in sparks of fire-life, the tent will burn. Flicker, flicker—fling-fire-flung-flame jump around the circle. Everything—everything will blaze. Your orange turns to my red turns to my yellow

Fevers

turns to my white turns to my blue turns to my everything blazing, just blazing, just razing, just blazing in a haze of wonder-lust fire, in a dance of flickering flame, in a drum of leaping higher, something something you.

Little thoughts creep through our heads, their ambassadors unknown to us. It’s better that way, for if their words had mouths and their mouths had faces and their faces had names, it would be too much for us; we would sink down and die and burn and poof into smoke and disappear… and it would be too much for us A head spins, a heart spins. It is difficult to reconcile desire and obligation, where one rouses and the other begins, or is there not a distinction at all? Strange murmurings from within. - Brandon Rafalson 19

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Cameron Carswell L

aissez-les danser en musique!” (Let them dance to the music!), embellishes the walls of what was once a run-down storage space. Eclectic chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, and maps of France adorn the wall. Only seconds have gone by, yet one is instantly drawn into the inviting and cozy atmosphere of Amélie’s Bakery. The smell of coffee wafts through the café; Napoleon cakes and crème brulée bring a rumble to even the fullest stomach. Open twenty-four hours, this quaint bakery has become an oasis for a variety of customers, some fluent in the romantic language the café incorporates. Owner and manager Ms. Lynn St. Laurent is proud of the sanctuary she has created, especially since the shop has developed in the North Davidson side of Charlotte, commonly known as NoDa. Amélie’s is beautiful and inviting, an unexpected treasure inside an area once widely reputed to be criminal and derelict. When asked about her favorite element of the café, St. Laurent responds, “[The] amazing pastries you see when you first walk in the door.” Her answer reveals the culinary success of Amélie’s over the years. The menu includes everything from freshly baked cinnamon and raisin bread to a French holiday classic, la Bûche de Noël, or Christmas Log. Amélie’s is able to capture the features of French recipes in a way that appeals to an array of people. The superiority of the food and design brings people together, from “starving artists to Charlotte

socialites.” They all have one thing in common: an “appreciation for the quality of food… and the love we have for our customers.” Perhaps the flavors of the bakery enchant consumers. After all, my initial experience was adorned with the smells and tastes, such as the éclair, that encouraged a second visit. Equally enticing are brightly-colored ceramic cups so voluminous they might be mistaken for bowls. Even on a hot summer day, the warm mugs are soothing to hold, filled to the brim with continually fresh coffee. All of the scents and flavors of Amélie’s are enough to entertain any connoisseur of fine food, yet St. Laurent has ensured that Amélie’s also possesses a picturesque environment and commendable workers. Amélie’s creates an atmosphere that is reminiscent of a genuine French café, as well as a nostalgic retreat to one’s grandmother’s kitchen. Charming pieces, such as old-fashioned grandfather clocks and framed messages of embroidered sweet-nothings, create a sentimental ambiance. Incredibly enough, many of the furnishing come from the Habitat for Humanity Restore, where the baker’s interior designer, Brenda Ische, volunteers regularly. St. Laurent commented that Ische possesses a knack for “finding the gems that come in,” and gems they truly are, from the one-of-a-kind tables made of mosaic tile, to an ancient piano that invites musicians of all expertise. Observing the attention to the café’s appearance puts customers at ease; security comes with such a nurturing

environment. One must “see it to believe it,” Ms. St. Laurent emphasizes, for it is a sight like no other. St. Laurent’s passion is evident in every aspect of this humble bakery. Unfortunately, few people have discovered how memorable each visit to the café is. As a faithful customer, I can guarantee that one will not be disappointed with Amélie’s: the food, the friendly employees and the setting are spectacular. These qualities set it apart from chains, which St. Laurent notes are reliable for “duplicating the same products and experiences.” Recognizing that success, Ms. St. Laurent nonetheless challenges people to choose innovation over redundancy, for the individuality of Amélie’s is not embraced by uniform coffeehouses. Revisiting the café recently, I was calmed once again by the Europeanstyle sanctuary. I sat with my best friend at our favorite table overlooking the Charlotte skyline and slowly ate a pumpkin spice cake with coffee. (I found tranquility despite the bustling of the store.) Amélie’s has presented Charlotteans with a great opportunity to not only learn more about French décor and culinary masterpieces, but also to educate themselves of the world around them. One can never be happy with others until one is truly happy with oneself, and every day at Amélie’s, people are discovering that intrinsic happiness over an introspective cup of coffee

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Carolyn Szczesny-Pumarada

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I only have about a minute here before I’m gone and you don’t catch what I’ve needed to say. Behind every disdain and distaste and fraught sigh and frown you’ve ever seen, heard or felt between then and now has sat a yearning for life anew. And I suspect this want will go unfulfilled, that without some change in the season or mood, this fragment will fade. I mean to say that I’ve cornered myself out of fear. That I could and should embrace all that I can see with a loving and beating heart is now clear. I gamble recklessly for affection, for friendship and warmth without expectation or reciprocation. And when, seeing Disappointment’s lofty drop approaching, I laugh and run to you and the others and our future together, smiles and all, knowing whatever fate I’ve bought into is meager compared to us together. I tell you this knowing that such a life is wholly possible, that we can wrap it up and save it. And when overcast skies demand our vibrancy of reckless spirit, we’ll breathe it in and begin again. For now, with love for other days– - Michael Falero

Sarah Kinney digital painting

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but

oy cCl nM rga Mo Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 025 (233539416) 03/26/2010 9:05 AM

Lindsey Rosenbaum

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but

As I sat in the back of the car, listening to my parents' screams carrying across the black sky, I knew I'd never be able to name the culprit. Perhaps it was because I was too close to the situation, but I’d like to believe it was due to my poor detection skills. My father had never been a particularly romantic man, and when work called for an increased effort on his part, all amorous activities in my house ceased. I had never been granted any siblings, and this fact seemed to irk my mother. In the beginning, I remember many hushed arguments between my parents, seemingly concerning the reality of our three-person household, but soon enough, those stopped, too. It was not long after this that my mother began sneaking around our house, unaware that we were all watching for her. I have heard the word "affair" thrown around many times in my life, but I assure you, this was not a traditional case. My mother was, in fact, carrying on an affair —with herself. The signs were blazingly and embarrassingly obvious. We would go to the market, and she’d be overcome with the urge to buy vast bouquets of roses and large boxes of heart-shaped chocolates. I once foolishly questioned if the candies were for me, but my appeals were strictly denied. Only after persisting, in the way only a child can, was I begrudgingly permitted a piece of chocolate. New books found their way onto our shelves. Not the thick, dusty volumes my father so adamantly read, but shorter novels with scantily clad women and shirtless men with long, flowing hair on the covers. These actions did not go unnoticed by my father, and when his workload finally lightened, he began trying to woo my mother. But by then, it was too late. My mother was so immersed in her new life that his advances meant nothing to her. My mother had become her own perfect lover 26

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lover, and nothing could deter her. That’s when the fighting really began. At first, it was merely tiny arguing here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary. Soon, though, the arguments became more heated. Voices were raised to an alarming level, and things broke in angry hands. The escalation continued on its upward rise for months before finally ending that January night with me sitting in my mother’s car, speeding away from my father and the life I had known. It took only a few months for my mother to find a suitable house for us, and even though it was a mere twenty minutes from my father, we moved in quickly. My parents skipped the separation phase and headed right for divorce. There was no use fighting for it; neither loved the other, and there were too many problems to solve. This is how I became the son of a divorce. After living in our house for a year or so, my mother suddenly became aware of how terribly single and young she was to raise a child alone. The romance novels were dropped, and the dating began. The ritual started slowly, a date or so a month; then, like all things, it sped up. Dates frequented our house every Friday while my mom left me with a babysitter. When she came home and kissed me goodnight, her breath smelled heavily of alcohol and her jacket of cigarette smoke. I hated these nights and buried myself under the covers to avoid my mother's kiss. As babysitters became an increasingly expensive investment, my mother begrudgingly left me at my father's every Friday as she roamed about the town. At twelve, I packed up my belongings and declared I was going to live with my father. Secretly, I had no wish to continue watching my mother make a daily fool out of herself, but I simply told her my father’s house was much closer to school. The paperwork went through without a fuss. In all

all honesty, I don't think my mother was that unhappy to see me go. Oh, we would still see each other every other weekend, but I knew how hard it was for a single mother to date. I knew that, with my departure, my mother could pretend she never had a son; she could keep her little secret until things became too serious for that poor guy to leave. Call it manipulation if you will, but that was just how my mother operated, and I have never resented her for it. The atmosphere in my father’s home was totally different from that of my mother’s. Whereas she had found postdivorce solace in the exciting game of dating, my father had gone back to work, putting in almost every minute of his life. He had no wish to have another relationship fail on him and therefore refused to exert any effort to find one. By the time I arrived in his care, my father was going to work before the sun rose and arriving home long after it set. For the first couple of months, he attempted to alter this schedule, hoping to please me, but it obviously was not working for him. Rather than see him so disheartened, I proposed a better plan. My father returned to his former schedule, and I modified mine. I awoke when he did so that he no longer had to eat breakfast alone. Afternoons were used for study and much-needed sleep. I cooked my own dinners, making sure there was always enough left for him, which he ate gratefully as we watched Leno before heading to bed. As careful as I was, my relationship with both parents became strained through the years. I reminded both of them too much of the other, and a passing look of resentment always clouded their eyes when they saw me. I began to wonder if they believed I too would one day betray them and break their hearts. Sensing their fear of my betrayal, I spent my teenage years

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years walking on eggshells. I treaded quietly and carefully, thinking cautiously about my words before I spoke, hoping not to disturb the fragile peace I maintained in both households. My social life began to deteriorate, as I had no heart to deny either parent a late night movie or a family dinner. In other words, I became a ghost of the child I should’ve been. These are the crimes committed against the three parties. The first party was denied love and now cannot name its form. The second party was betrayed by his own endeavor, or lack thereof, and now must bear the consequences of fearing love and commitments in all forms. The third party grew up in the shattered remains of two unstable households and lives as a shadow of his former self. These are the victims. These are their fates. Who is the culprit in this crime, the criminal who deserves the same fate as the victims? I’ve gone through years of therapy trying to understand, and I have uncovered no answers. How can I possibly single out one parent as the villain who ruined my childhood, when both of their lives were destroyed in the process? What I have stumbled upon, however, is a devastating truth: we live in a fix-it-quick society. If it doesn’t work, return it. If it breaks, replace it. If it doesn’t work out, divorce. Couples don't try to fix their problems anymore. And the ones who do try rarely ever come to the solution. The time and effort is too much work for our world to handle. This is the only truth I know; this one I must learn to live with. Yet, to this day, I am still haunted by this truth and the question arises: if my parents had tried to fix their problems, really tried to work it out, would I still be the pitiful shadow of a man that I am today? Or would I have grown up in a single household, free from restraint, with two loving parents who could fully and truly love me? I guess I will never know

I began to wonder if they believed I too would one day betray them and break their hearts.

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Transience Beneath the skin we are all just skeletons, impure and perfect, with skin of tar and dust-dirty movement. Condemned to this pitiful cage, we thrive beneath the heathen sun, dancing as bare-bones spirits before a match flame. We gently hold our hopes, wiping the tears from their tiny faces; they find no comfort in a life reserved for the dead. I never really did believe in heaven, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve seen a passing train hold a long, triumphant chord, dawdling for passengers who exist in smoke, and only in smoke. We watch as they disappear into the open maw of the night. You have become but one of them, a transient shadow. I delve into your fading words and pluck them from the page like feathers from a helpless bird, searching for the expanse of vulnerable skin beneath, but finding only hollow bone. - Lauren Burnham

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Reality Brynn Claypoole

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Katie Holcomb

s he stared at me with his massive brown eyes, I couldn’t help but look away. Beep. Beep. The room had four dull, tan walls and a creaky cream-colored door adjoining the kitchen. A mahogany table with four dilapidated mahogany chairs was in the center. I sat at one end of the table, and he was seated at the other. Beep. Beep. I was certain that an alarm clock was going off in the room. Beep. Beep. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his deep voice barely above a whisper. He seemed like he was attempting to approach a wounded animal without scaring it away. The beeping halted while he spoke but resumed with the ensuing awkward silence. Beep. Beep. I had no response to his question. Beep. Beep. I noticed a digital watch on his left arm. Beep. Beep. “Could you make your watch stop beeping?” I begged. He glanced down at the contraption on his arm. Beep. Be“It’s not beeping. Do you really think it’s beeping?” he recited. He was regurgitating exactly what the doctor had told him: prove that it’s only in my mind, then ask if I thought it was real. Beep. Beep.

I stared at his eyes. They carried no ill intentions–they were inquisitive and friendly, as they always had been–but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to trust him yet. Beep. Beep. “No.” He smiled, displaying his white teeth. This was the positive reinforcement he’d been told to give me when I answered the question correctly. I was so distracted by his deep eyes and perfect smile that I didn’t notice the silence. “That’s good.” No, it wasn’t good. It was pathetic. I was certain that the sound wasn’t real, but I continued to search for the source. Beep. Beep. I could sense so many complex emotions inside of him–guilt, disappointment, fear, and concern–yet he exposed none of them to me. He only spat out what he had been told to say by the doctor. He kept all of his feelings inside, like he always did. Beep. Beep. Perhaps that was why I felt like I shouldn’t trust him. He always seemed to be hiding something–just as I had hid my darkest secret from him. His sad eyes begged me to tell him everything, yet pushed me away at the same time. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It didn’t matter anymore. We had run out of time

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Lauren Burnham

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K indling Madelyn Usher

o this is what it’s like to be crazy,” I whispered to myself, pressing my forehead into the plush carpeting. I exhaled slowly, digging my fingers deep into the wooly fibers, thick enough to sleep on. At the next rush of air into my lungs, I pushed myself up onto my hands and feet, my favorite yoga pose, Downward-Facing Dog. I counted my breaths slowly, pushing my body to keep my back arched and feet planted, emptying everything out of my mind other than my singular, driven focus. Once my arms began to quiver, I tucked my chin and somersaulted forward, landing splayed on my back. For a few breaths I took in the exposed-beam ceiling of roughly hewn pine, complimented by large picture windows offering a panoramic vista of the surrounding Blue

Ridge Mountains. Everything about the cabin was geared toward relaxation: large bookcases, overstuffed couches that could swallow a man whole, a perfectly-stocked kitchen nook and the requisite crackling fireplace. Yet I was not secluded in some deep corner of my mind, meditating and nearing a state of Nirvana. This idyllic surrounding still could not force me to tranquility or help me find some inner peace. I let out the breath I had been holding inadvertently and focused on the crinkled newspaper clipping lying a few feet to the left of my outstretched arm. “Go away! Go away! Go away!” I yelled, my voice unnaturally high. It did not belong here, anchoring me in the very real, very ugly world of reality. I drew a deep breath and crawled over to it, the offensive off-

white square blighting the carpet. I snatched it in one hand and carried it at arm’s length, like a dead mouse, over to the fireplace. I hesitated for a second, wrenched open the heavy grate, and threw in the paper. The fire caught quickly, starting at the top right corner and spreading down in a graceful arc. As the paper shriveled in on itself, it shifted ever so slightly so that a single line scrawled across the bottom was clearly visible. My eyes, disregarding a frantic plea from my brain, read the small type one last time before it was devoured. I sucked in a deep, smoky breath. A sob, previously hidden somewhere deep within me, burst forth with a sudden violence. Beloved husband and father, you will be missed

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think this just might be my masterpiece,” says Lieutenant Aldo Raine, standing up from the quivering form of a Nazi officer, a bloody swastika carved into his forehead. Lt. Raine’s words could have mimicked writer/director Quentin Tarantino’s as he saw his long-in-coming war epic Inglourious Basterds in theaters late August 2009. Tarantino, known for his gritty stories of crime and punishment in mid-western America, has shifted the scene to “Once Upon a Time in Nazioccupied France.” Here we follow an eclectic cast of heroes and villains, from a company of American commandos parachuting into France to the charismatic and possibly insane, yet definitely enjoyable, Colonel Landa of the SS. The characters in Inglourious Basterds range, as in most Tarantino films, from unique and entertaining to incredible and memorable. The main protagonists are the eponymous Basterds, a company of Jewish-American soldiers sent behind enemy lines in preparation for the D-Day invasion with a single objective: to spread terror. As Lt. Raine (Brad Pitt) says to a captured German officer, “We in the killing-Nazi business. And cousin, business is boomin’.” Supporting the Basterds come a handful of other Allies —a British film-critic-turned-soldier and the fictional German film-star-turned-spy Bridget Von Hammersmark (Diane Kruger), both of whom join the Basterds in their coup-de-grace operation to end the war: Operation Kino. While the protagonists are all exceptionally well-portrayed, it is the antagonist

who truly shines. Colonel Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) is an eccentric, charismatic and manipulative German SS officer called the Jew Hunter, who, through oft-sprouted philosophy and superb instinct, has become one of the most feared Nazis in all of occupied France. Waltz delivers an energetic and menacing performance throughout the film, creating one of the most memorable antagonists since Hannibal Lecter. Inglourious Basterds is a war epic in every sense. Coming in at 152 minutes, the movie is extremely long, yet never drags. Unlike many directors who choose to increase the pace to fit ninety minutes, Tarantino sacrifices brevity for precise pacing in every scene. In one instance, a group of disguised Basterds attempt to meet with their German contact for Operation Kino, Bridget Von Hammersmark, in a basement tavern. The scene crawls with minute detail, and Tarantino even characterizes the handful of patrons at the bar playing a game of Guess Who. An SS officer eventually interrupts the game when he becomes suspicious of one of the Basterds' accents. And the gig is up when one of the group signals to the barman how many beers to bring in the American way, without the thumb to show numbers. Astounding levels of detail are written into every scene of film. Inglourious Basterds is Tarantino’s self-described masterpiece. A witty, masterfully-written war epic, Inglourious Basterds is the finest film Tarantino has ever penned, and one of the greatest films to be released in years. Five glorious stars

Sarah Kinney

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Left to Right: Carolyn Szczesny-Pumarada Charlotte Blackley Sara Grant Charlotte Blackley Morgan McCloy

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growth& decay

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DREAM CA CH ER Let all your dreams come to me: the shattered, the stolen, the sweet, the serene, the frivolous and rational, the contained and free, for these are the dreams on which lives lean. Collect dust on a shelf they must not, nor completely consume lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s spontaneous flow. Let them live and breathe and withstand all odds. In my hands they are nourished to grow. Underrated and abandoned in the face of defeat, dreams are glorious gifts to behold, from the seemingly trivial wants in life, to the hope for a shelter from the inclement cold. If you only do one thing today, aside from the various tasks of the mind, do not forget the desires of the heart, for you will regret leaving them behind. Let all your dreams come to me: the bizarre, the mundane, the fragmented, the whole, the gilded and lucid, the hopeful and sincere, for these are the dreams that inhabit the soul. - Lindsay Johnson

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Sara Grant

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to a

Pudding Cup Taylor Turnbull

Megan Vince

hirty minutes until dinner. Thirty long, painful minutes until I can satisfy my belly. “No food,” my mom commands, shutting out any hope of destroying the rumblings. The clock ticks, I drum my fingers. Twenty-nine minutes. Then I spot it: Heaven, ecstasy, my umbrella in a downpour of rain. It sits there, contained in a small plastic cup, the velvety chocolate shining through the translucent skin, the flimsy top only a minor blockade on the road of deliciousness. Oh, how I wish to taste the rich comfort, to feel the smooth concoction slide into my mouth. It’s all I can think about. You know you want me, it taunts. I glare. Dear pudding cup, I cannot have you. My fingers inch toward it, slowly, as if they are afraid of getting caught. One touch, yes, that will be enough. I won’t need to open it. My fingers collide with its glossy frame, skimming over the red top, down the sides of the plastic. I want, I want, I want. Twenty-five minutes. No one is around, it whispers. “Yes,” I agree, glancing into the living room, the hallway. I am completely alone–“just you and me, pudding cup.” I

stick my nail underneath the corner flap, pulling it slightly upward. One tug and I’m there. One tug and I’m free. I’m just going to smell it. I only need the delicious scent and I’ll be fine. No! I slam the cup back down on the counter. I will not, I cannot eat you, pudding cup. The clock ticks in my ear, once again. Twenty minutes. Hunger ravishes me. All I can focus on is the growl of my stomach, the smell of food wafting from the stove, that tiny little pudding cup that is perched in front of me. Eat me. No. But I’m delicious. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. Eighteen minutes. Eighteen long, long minutes. They would be much more bearable with just a nibble. My stomach roars, and I can’t take it any more. I could do it–and it would be so satisfying, so delicious. I crunch the cup together, squeezing the pudding into my mouth, hastily shoving every drop I can possibly get. Globs slide down my chin, but I don’t care–I’m consumed by the taste, the scent, the perfection. I’m all yours. Oh, yes you are 41

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Morgan McCloy

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Igniting Discovery A shuffling of papers and supplies—a hand uncovers the reference book— it loiters, reluctant, admiring the singular images, the techniques, the expert shadings, the reflection, finding the right pages all too soon, memorized from countless studying, sifting, scrutinizing. Procrastination resides intrinsically in the hand; the fingers shift the placement of objects on the desk once more as an excuse to draw out time. Silence. As the paper waits, ever-patient, the other hand, exasperated by stagnation, reaches over, pulls the pen cap: a click echoes through the hushed air. The languid hand, astonished by the other’s impertinence, holds up the slender pen and examines the delicate micron point, tipped at the top with smooth black ink, ready to serve at a moment’s notice. Unable to hold back its curiosity, imagination, experimental nature, the hand tells the other to hold the paper firmly down. Obedience is immediate. An imperceptible scratch of nib on paper: an encouraging start. The pen works perfectly, stippling in clouds, sand, ocean spray, responding gently to the pressure of the frenzied hand. The ink flows, by and by, pausing here— and there— while the hands converse on the progress. Following line after line, curve after curve, freely-done scribble after scribble, a scene emerges.

Mountains form from simple outlines, a lake becomes glassy-surfaced, trees take root, a bird takes flight. The pen learns as it goes along; it is an amateur as much as the hand, and they discover mutually how to blend and diverge darkness and shadow, lights and highlights. The reference book guides them, coaching pen, ink, and hand on technique, style, patience. Mark by mark, the work of art develops, the hand cramping, the pen feeling the thirst of perseverance, yet they persevere. Through the morning sun they hatch and crosshatch; through the tranquil evening they make everlasting marks that will remain on the paper for a century and a year. Of course, the hands eventually stop: they cannot go on forever and a day. They are not robots. The pen, breathless, gazes at the work, beaming at its handiwork and the smoothness of ink on paper. The hands, outwardly self-critical as ever, pick out errors, mistakes, wrong textures and compositions in the piece. They show disappointment on the outside but deep down, on the inside, they rejoice, for another successful work of art is finished. A click echoes through the hushed air. - Tina Zheng

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Nyctohylophobia

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(fear of dark woods) Dusk glows through the spaces in the gaping canopy. Don’t breathe. Night settles around me, and hide-and-seek is no longer a children’s game. Surrounded by companions, the woods were not daunting. A once-welcoming shelter now looms around me. We laughed. (Fear was inconspicuous.) But with darkness comes that which was concealed. Silence. “Joey!” Silence. “I give up, come out!” (The) shriek of an owl brings tears to my eyes. Sorry, Mom, I heard your warning; I tried to stay close…but they hid better, they ran faster. This forest encompasses my treehouses and adventures in the jungle, eats them up and leaves me with vulnerability. “Help.” Silence. I am silenced.

Taylor Turnbull Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 045 (232401561) 03/26/2010 9:11 AM

- Cameron Carswell

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IMAGINARI

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Carly Taich acrylic

hat ungrateful thoughts burn through my mind as I sit buried in mathematics. All I see are bountiful story ideas glittering like diamonds, spewing from an unused ballpoint pen. My pencil lays helpless upon a blank sheet of grid paper—write on me, help me, it cries. I stare mercilessly into its white vacancy: should I please its last request? Somewhere a voice drifts back and forth with a monotone sound, uninteresting and dull. A mess of problems scroll the red-andblue-inked whiteboard, scrawled together like swirls of colored mud before my eyes. Thoughts of voracious stories spin across a wheel of blue, green, and red that launches guilded train tracks. I could jump on one of those trains, ride an idea until the sun sets with a tangerine glow into the west beyond the suffocating walls that enclose my caged spirit. What journeys lie beyond the chains of this classroom? Yellow brick roads stretch over emerald hills, enticing curiosity, dripping venom from the branches of the mind. I’ve finished with reality—finished with the perils of worthless textbooks and the sorrows of words on decaying pages of faded print. My escape is near; the high ledge calls. The door has opened to a fantasy of dreams and ideas. My pen points forward, north, like a compass needle; the blinking screen of a calculator and the weight of a crumbling textbook disappear. I am free

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Brynn Claypoole

All

I could see was yellow. I saw short strands of blond blah hair resting on top of your head. The room surrounding us was blah pale lemon—or, at least, that’s the way I recall it. My memory blah isn’t perfect, but I always remember your face at that moment blah surrounded by pastel yellow. The object you held out to me in blah your cupped hands was dull gold, but its beauty seemed to blahblah shine. It was a wire star you crafted at a Boy Scout meeting. blah You left a small loop at the top and tied red and green ribbons blah to it, which gave me the impression that the star was meant to blah be a Christmas tree ornament. I don’t find it odd that you handed blah a Christmas gift to a little Jewish girl. I find it odd that I never blah questioned why you gave me the strange present. I merely blahblah thanked you for it, took it from your hands, stashed it in my blahblah backpack and placed it on a shelf in my room when I got home. blah The words “appreciative” and “flattered” don’t come to mind blablah when I think back on the incident. “Confused” and "embarblahblahblahblah rassed” seem more accurate. Love wasn’t a concept I really brelah understood in third grade. Charlotte Blackley Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 049 (233568188) 03/26/2010 9:15 AM

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Last night I found the star, still resting on the same shelf. I admired the elegance of your handiwork—I thought of you as a nine-year-old with your large glasses, intently focused on a malleable hunk of wire, working to shape it until you produced something you and I considered lovely. I slipped a chain through the loop and transformed the star into a necklace. I decided to wear it all day today. Currently the small golden object radiates around my neck. The line finally moves up. The people behind me push me forward. As I become cognizant of my surroundings, I gather the energy to lift my leg and drop it a few inches in front of me. I just drag my other leg forward, lacking the power required to actually raise it. The line seems to stretch out infinitely before me—it snakes around the room and moves rather slowly. I suddenly turn around to face Gabby. She pushes her thick-rimmed glasses up her nose and looks me in the eye. “Okay?” I whisper, smiling. “Yes,” she replies softly. I nod briefly and turn again, only to find the queue is now shifting forward. I take another labored step. I can now see a man standing near the front of the line, waving his arms frantically to urge the people forward. I begin to get nervous. What if I don’t have the time to do what I need to do? What if I can’t stop smiling? I internally abuse myself for the expression resting peacefully on my face. Why can’t I behave like any normal person would: cry, stare at the ground, shake my head and murmur, “Why?” to an omnipotent force? Instead I question myself—why

am I practically excited to attend a seventeen-year-old’s funeral? Why does my smile grow with each step as I approach the grieving family? I realize that I am eager to see your family again. More than just seeing their faces, I am eager to see if they remember me. My face hasn’t changed drastically in the last eight years. Will they see the massive bags under my eyes, the face of just another sleep-deprived junior that knew you from school, or will they instantly recognize the blue-gray eyes of that shy little girl? I believe I met your family for the first time in fourth grade. They invited my family in when I was being dropped off at your house that fall night. Our parents talked for a while, as parents always do, and you gave me an awkward “hello” before guiding me around your house. You showed me your big brother, your dog, your television, and anything else you deemed important. When my parents left, your family and I packed into the car and headed out. As we approached the high school, I stared out the window, curious to see precisely where we were going. All I knew was that we were going to a high school football game. I didn’t know which high school we were going to, how far away it would be, or even what a high school looked like. It was unlike me to not know the details of plans, but I was too nervous to ask for specifics. As we pulled into the parking lot, I was stunned—there was a real football stadium, just like the one downtown, hiding behind a school. The complex seemed unnecessary to me. I didn’t understand why the kids couldn’t just play in a big field like they did at our I'msorry...

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school. You weren’t confused or in awe as I was. You explained that you had been there before with your family. The next thing I remember is sitting in the stands with your parents, staring at the massive yellow lights surrounding the field that seemed to stretch up to heaven. As I examined every object in the stadium before me, uninterested by the little people standing on the field, you told me about a dream you had. Apparently I had invited you to my house for the first time, and you discovered that I had a jungle gym in my living room. It was even bigger than the one at McDonald’s, you explained. The golden arches had nothing on the playground in my house. The line is moving rapidly. People merely shake hands with your parents and your brother and hurry to their seats. I figure I can approach your family after the service if I don’t have time for a proper introduction now. As I move forward, I recognize many of the seated people I pass—I see faces of friends, classmates and former teachers. While I approach the front of the line, Gabby whispers, “It’s an open casket. I’ve never seen one before.” “Me neither,” I reply. I’m unfazed by the thought. I imagine you lying in a box asleep and assume this will be the same. The line continues to move. When I am close enough to see just the blond hair at the top of the casket, Gabby whispers, “It doesn’t look like him.” I nod, unsure of what to say. I take a step forward and peer into the coffin. In it I see an extremely swollen face with wispy blond hair. I feel relieved for some reason—for the moment, the sight doesn’t upset me at all. I look back at Gabby.

“That wasn’t so bad.” Your father stands right next to the casket. He looks exactly as I remember him. It is suddenly my turn to shake his hand. I tell him my name and show him the star around my neck, stating that his son made it for me. “Of course,” he says, nodding, and thanks me for coming. I approach your mother next. I instantly recognize her from my childhood

Why can’t I behave like any normal person would: cry, stare at the ground, shake my head and murmur, 'Why?' to an omnipotent force? memories. Yet again, I tell her my name and show her the star. Her reaction is markedly different. She gasps and exclaims, “It’s you! I can’t believe it!” She says my name a few more times and your father and brother look over. Recognition hits them instantly, and they all begin talking at once. “It’s been so long…” “The name just didn’t register when you said it to me…”

“You! I remember you! I can’t believe it…” “All those years ago…” “Oh, dear,” says your mother, “he loved you.” “A lot.” “He really did…” “…just adored you…” “…love, love, love…” I feel a lump rising in my throat. My eyes begin to burn and I inhale deeply. “I know,” is all I can muster. “Thank you so much for coming. It means a lot…” says your mother. I nod dumbly. I am unable to comprehend her comment. I just think about how excited I was to see your family again and wonder why I need to be thanked for doing something I really wanted to do. Your brother gives me a hug and thanks me again. My brain still hasn’t caught up with my body, and I suddenly find myself walking to the back of the room with Gabby. I look down at the star around my neck and try to understand what happened. I never knew how much you had liked me—it took me a while just to understand that you had had a crush. I realize how hard it is for me to hear your family talk about how much you liked me. It hurts immensely to know that I will never be able to speak with you again. I take in a deep, calming breath. All I can see is yellow. I see blond hair on most of your family members. The stained glass window has amber panes representing the stars—rich with mythological stories and guidance for travelers in the night. Yellow radiates from my own star—rich with stories and guidance from you. In memory of Scotty Yandle (October 30, 1992-October 30, 2009) 51

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The dark streets are deserted; all blaring cars have vanished, and shops once bustling with customers now stand vacant and abandoned. I walk, lost in an ocean of isolation, amongst towering ghosts of buildings. My steps resound through the alleys and shatter the ominous silence. The wind whispers swift songs and brushes my skin with its icy touch, so I wrap my coat around me tighter to endure the piercing, frigid air. Here, in this desolate and dismal night, I wonder where everyone has gone. - Katrina Gutierrez

Charlotte Blackley

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Morgan McCloy

For years I had the habit of sitting in front of your picture, tracing over the line your dark hair made against the blue sky and wondering what parts of you were visible in me.

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ou look nothing like the picture. That’s all I can think about, sitting across from you in the booth and swirling my tea with a finger, my eyes never leaving your face. In the picture, you’re young, smiling, excluding vitality. Here you look different, smaller somehow. I should have expected that. Mom always said you were photogenic, that you never took a bad photo. Even at your worst, she said, you looked better than about half of the world’s population. I don’t care much for good looks. I know that sounds cliché and stupid, but it’s true. I’d rather be behind a camera, capturing images instead of starring in them. But then you don’t know that about me, not yet. I can’t look away from your face. That’s weird, stop, I keep saying to myself. Maybe, but isn’t it natural that I should look? For years I had the habit of sitting in front of your picture, tracing over the line your dark hair made against the blue sky and wondering what parts of you were visible in me. It isn’t the nose—that I got from Mom, along with the athleticism and poor spelling. And even though you and I both have brown eyes and freckles, that’s just genetics. You can’t avoid that sort of thing. No, what I want is something poetic, something romantic, like if I had your lips or your cheekbones or your red hair. Something so that when people see us together, they automatically know who we are. I see the waitress eyeing us, nail file in

hand, and I want to ask her what she thinks of us. Do we look like a father and his daughter getting breakfast on a Saturday morning? Or does she think we are strangers, people thrust together because we have to be? She probably doesn’t care, I decide as she goes back to filing. In fact, I bet that she’s making up an excuse as to why the cooks haven’t finished preparing our food yet. It’s unfortunate that they haven’t because then, at least, we’d have something to talk about. Now, without a safety net like the taste of the biscuits or the runny quality of the eggs, we sit in silence and stare at each other. You take a sip of your coffee. “Black, no cream or sugar,” you told the waitress. Yuck. Given the choice, I’d rather drink ground tree bark. On second thought, I’d rather die of thirst than drink anything you would like. It isn’t fair to think like that. It’s not like being introduced this way is your fault. I know you wanted to meet me. I know you couldn’t come before now because you weren’t even aware of me at all. I know it’s been hard, I know. I’ve heard about it one hundred-and-three times, how Mom tried to find you for years— fifteen, to be exact—and couldn’t. I know how, when she finally spotted you online, you were just oh-so-surprised and excited. Happy, for lack of a better word. And I am so happy to finally meet you. My father. I have a father. I wish I could say all of this, but the words

are sticking to the roof of my mouth. I gulp my tea, trying to think of somewhere to begin. I want to know everything. About your job. About Lucy, your wife, my stepmother. And the boys you mentioned on the phone, Cody and Mark. Little brothers? I could hardly comprehend what that would mean when you told me about them. Unconsciously, I lean forward as you finally speak. “Katherine,” you begin, as if trying the name out, and you smile at me. “I go by Kate,” I say automatically, a reflex usually reserved for doctors and new teachers. And now you’re nodding, confused and a little embarrassed, as if you don’t really know how to respond to that. After all, there aren’t too many nicknames for Mark. I slide the mug across the table, both hands gripping the warm ceramic. I see you glance over at my napkin. Your eyes are drawn instantly to the childish half-doodles I scribbled with crayon in the minutes before you showed up. You grin, genuinely, and in that moment your entire face is transformed, almost glowing with the rush of elation. “You draw?” you ask, and I nod cautiously. You reach out and take one of the crayons from its ugly plastic container, bending over your own napkin. “So do I,” you say. I pull in a deep breath and watch intently as you begin to draw, line after line after line. You look nothing like the picture. The picture looks nothing like me 55

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Stem Two blinks and a rotating stick split my eyes. At ease when the choice comes about, you’ve got all the safety you need in your blankets. But remember, simply, that is all you've got. Wait too long and it all will bleed through and muck up your pages with your thoughts on the back. The string near your ears will cut out the noise, but the white sort will continue to stay. Caught on a train divided, all you can do is stay calmly still. We’re kept long enough to be hooked. Those misunderstandings will break me alone, but the reflections from broken glasses will keep you from keeping up. So fragile, like a flower and its connection to the stem, caught in a question you would not answer. The spaces in-between seem too small to pass through. Not even a worm could reach the decision at the end. All you have is your mouth and your mind, both so destructive when put to the test. Last resorts, though, seem always as such. These blinks must be heeded, or these worms will never escape. Without them they’ll be lost to an empty pasture and kept to the side, only to break away with their answers answered and placed in our simple histories. Morgan McCloy Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 057 (232404138) 03/26/2010 9:16 AM

- Ethan Risinger

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Stroke of genius! A kiss from Calliope’s parched lips, parting for a taste of sweet fiction, craving the injection of new thought. She smiles with glazed eyes and asks what innovations this blank canvas may hold. She has taunted Socrates and been pampered by Sophocles. She was Euripides’ kin, Homer’s paramour, and Aesop’s legacy. But now her raw skin itches for the new delirium that leaks from the writer’s pen. An impetus of fair-weather promises, coercing the writer to bleak endeavors tainted with promises of acclimation. Her dilated pupils watch ink mar the pale skeletons of felled trees. Constricted blue veins pulse with the infinite want for fresh prose. Words are her opiate, and she is the writer’s amphetamine. - Sasha Freger Charlotte Blackley

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Bard's Song The

Jeremy Pickard

map of the world hung above the fireplace, old and weathered. Its yellowed form blah was bathed in shadows by the tiny fire that sat dying beneath it. The map was at least a hundred years old, but still as accurate as ever, right down to the boundaries of the nations. The entirety of the world’s landmass was dyed red—symbolizing the domain of the kingdom of Gailegrown. It had been so for centuries, and would continue to be so forever. Gone were the days of magic and heroes and valiant horseback charges against evil empires and hordes of monsters; gone were the days of elves and the old gods; gone were the days of the high adventure and chivalry of which the old tales spoke. Come were the days of man and the kingdom of Gailegrown, massive and omnipotent and immovable by even the greatest of rebellions. Come were the days of darkness and tyranny. “Walther!” The prince of Gailegrown looked up with a start and shrank under the staring eyes of the sixteen lords, the advisors to the king. All eyes were on him, searing him with their intensity. The prince slid the book, which he had been holding as far beneath the table as he could manage, out of his father’s sight. The king of Gailegrown sat at the head of the table, with a bushy eyebrow cocked at his son, golden eyes searching him intently. Walther could feel his bones ache slightly as a weak wave of magic from his father passed over him—King Gailegrown was somewhat talented in the arcane arts, the last of the magicians since the outlawing of magic a hundred years prior. He saw no issue in breaking his own law, nor using his art on his own son. “What is that you have in your lap, boy?”

Taylor Turnbull

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Bard's Song The

continued

the king asked, his voice resonating powerfully through the stone chamber, from his gold-plated throne at the head to Walther's sad stool at the foot. “Nothing, nothing at all,” Walther said, desperately trying to put the book out of mind. The king narrowed his golden eyes at the prince, and Walther felt shivers run up his spine. The old man's magic intensified, bristling through his mind. Walther could feel his mind being combed, his memories being accessed by the arcane invasion. “There's nothing there, I swear to you,” he pleaded hopelessly. “Do you think your word means something to me, boy? General!” The general stepped out of the shadows behind the king's high-backed chair. He was a massive man and, as always, wore his black steel armor, obscuring the whole of his body. Even his eyes were invisible underneath his steel helm. He was the only person ever allowed to carry a weapon in the king's presence, and he brandished his as he began to cross the room toward the prince. The bayonet on his flintlock rifle scraped along the brick floor like fingernails on a chalkboard. Walther broke before the general was even halfway across the room. The black-armored man had no qualms about assaulting the king’s son—he had done so more than once before—the horrors he could inflict with just the glistening bayonet were astounding. Walther needed no more convincing. “Fine. Here, have it. See if I care,” Walther said, resigned, and put the book up on the table. The king made a gesture and it flew into his waiting hands. He read the title aloud. “Of Sword and Sorcery and Other Adventures. More of this filth?” the king scoffed, and tossed the book aside. It fell into the fire and combusted. The room filled with the

stench of burning paper. “It’s as if you enjoy betraying me. Go, out of my presence, before I hang you!” “Tyrant!” the prince yelled, pointing a threatening finger at his father before storming out of the hall. The king only laughed at his departure. Enraged and hurt, Walther dashed through the halls like a man ablaze, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts. This was but the latest time the king had forced him to resign a book to be burned, a relic to be smashed, or another precious thing to be destroyed. Yet despite the frequency at which this sick ritual of betrayal and deprivation occurred, it still burned the prince’s heart. His father thought it a joke to destroy everything precious left in the world—every book, every painting, everything that could remind the people of times past, when the kingdom was not the sole sovereign power—but it was the utmost act of barbarism a man could commit in the prince’s eyes. In a world so twisted and ruined by the intervention of man, such relics of the olden times ought to be protected and treasured, not hunted with the fervor of a dragonslayer on the trail of a drake. The prince stalked out of the castle barely half an hour after the destruction of his book, already plotting his next acquisition. This time, though, not a book or anything else the king could destroy. Today, he would find the one thing the King couldn’t take from him: his memories. II It was execution day in the capital city of Gwher. The people were energetic, almost rowdy, and they filled the streets until it was almost impossible to get past them. It was worse at the gallows, where

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instrument practically hummed in his hands, "Thebristling with energy, waiting to be played. " people pushed and shoved and punched at each other to get the best view. The executioners were starting the month off with a bang, too—three rebel leaders from the fallen city of Hanzrau, one practitioner of illicit magics, and an elf who had murdered a city constable. (An elf killing a man was “murder” according to Gailegrown law, never mind the right for self defense against a drunken official's rampage.) It had been almost a month since anything exciting happened in Gwher, and the masses thirsted for blood. They’d get it at high noon. A man blew into the only tavern open on execution day—The Red Dusk Pub. He was tall and lean and had an archaiclooking lute slung over one shoulder. His single green eye surveyed the pub, examining faces in the main room before he took another step inside. If you weren’t on the streets on Execution Day, chances are you had a damn good reason not to be. And that was, nine times out of ten, a hatred of the bloodthirsty practice—or of the kingdom itself. By the way the handful of salty old-timers and hardened young men looked out at the crowd through the dusty windows, they all fit the bill. The bard grinned a little bit to himself and approached the barman. “You wanted me to play,” the bard said. “Yeah, before the sheep out there get back,” the barman said, nodding to a stool on a raised platform across from the bar. “Go ahead.” He did so. The bard went up to the stage and unslung his lute. The instrument practically hummed in his hands, bristling with energy, waiting to be played. He sat, adjusted the black patch over where his left eye ought to have been, and took one last look over his audience. There was someone he hadn’t noticed before. Sitting at the far table, obscured in shadow, was a hooded figure who sat

with his feet up on the table and arms crossed as if he were master of all. From underneath the hood, two shining golden eyes locked onto the bard, waiting. Whether this fellow was a town guard or just a conceited lad who thought he was better than everyone, the bard couldn’t tell. But judging by the tiny rise of the man’s hip where the butt of his pistol showed, he wasn’t an ordinary citizen. But it didn’t matter to the bard. He was here to play, and play he would. From his meager list of tunes, the bard chose his favorite—one that suited him and the audience, those disgusted with the kingdom and their fellow men. It was the “Song of Alfir,” the most hated, most despised, and most illegal work in all of Gailegrown, the epic of the one man who could have stopped the first King Gailegrown many centuries ago. Everyone in The Red Dusk, from the bartender to the hooded man, knew the words by heart and sang along. Outside, as the rebels were hanged one by one, they, too, sung the “Song of Alfir.” III “A word please, sir.” The bard stopped where he stood and cast a glance over his shoulder, back into the pub. The hooded figure was standing barely a pace behind him, fists clenched, staring intently. The bard nodded and took a seat across from the man. He pulled down his hood, revealing the face of a youth, a blond-haired young man no older than twenty. There was a fire in his eyes, like that of an eager apprentice. “Where did you suffer that wound?” he asked, pointing to his own left eye. “You’re very blunt.” “Please.” “The Battle of Blood Creek.”

“That's impossible.” “Is it, now?” the bard said with a laugh. “You humans really have forgotten the old ways, haven’t you?” Almost casually, the bard brushed aside his hair, revealing the knife-like ears of an elf. The young man gaped, and the bard kept on laughing until it turned into a cough. “I stood with King Alfir three hundred years ago, fought and bled beside him. Now I just sing his song.” “So you’re a rebel, then.” “Through and through…as are you, I see.” The young man realized with a start that a book was peeping out of his cloak. He quickly hid the illicit object again and looked around nervously to see if anyone had seen it save the bard. It wouldn’t matter if they had—everyone in The Red Dusk was as much a rebel as he, though one couldn’t much tell by looking. They all had the “Song of Alfir” in their heads, and that was treason enough. “So, who are you, boy? What’s your story?” The young man took another nervous look around and, with a shaking hand, pulled from around his neck an emblem of a sword running through a pentagram —the sigil of the Gailegrown Family. That was explanation enough. The bard’s grim smile faded into somberness. Before him was Prince Walther Gailegrown himself, an admitted rebel living in the king’s house. “You say you’re a rebel, boy? One that would see the return of the old ways?” “I long for nothing more than the days of old—of heroes and learning and justice and…and books!” “Good enough. Tell me, then, what would you be willing to do to see this change?” “Whatever I can.” “I think, my prince, you can do quite a bit” 63

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I feel so far gone; help isn’t helping. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors can barely raise the bell jar— is it all in my head? (Better off dead?) The answers are my choices, and for that all I have is regret. - Gabriella Baer

Charlotte Blackley Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 065 (232961195) 03/26/2010 9:18 AM

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TheUrban Butterfl y H Sydney Albion tempera

er pink bubble broke with a loud pop, disappearing into her red-stained mouth. The overhead lights flickered and buzzed. Sweat beaded down her face, creating zebra stripes in her foundation. From where I sat, drowning the world in AC/DC, I could see the run in her hose and smell the stench of sweat mixed with too much perfume. The train rattled on, our car swaying and jerking on the old metal tracks. After her failed attempt to fan herself with the latest version of People, she lit a cigarette and sipped her Venti Starbucks coffee, taking off her heels and rubbing the inflamed line where the shoe bit into her skin. Wisps of smoke slowly drifted to the roof of the car, mixing with the dirt and grime of the city. She rested her head on the greasy window and silently looked out at the flashing lights. An ad on the side wall depicted a smiling college grad who had grown a sharpie mustache and was missing a front tooth. She smirked, turned back to the window and continued to watch the dim yellow lights. With a loud screech the train pulled Freidrich the Dinosaur

Sarah Fewell up to the platform. A computerized voice identified the stop as Wall Street Station. Putting her shoes back on with a sigh, the woman dropped her cigarette onto the cracked and peeling linoleum, stubbing out the glowing embers with the toe of her black leather shoes. When she got up, her skirt stuck to the cracking vinyl seat, slightly damp from her perspiration. As she bent down to pick up her briefcase, I could see a glimmer of color in her hard gray attire. On her lower back was a monarch butterfly beautifully tattooed in bright oranges and yellows. Its body and wings, outlined intimately in midnightblack ink, and the delicately-drawn antennae stood in stark contrast against her ivory skin. Standing up, the woman tucked in her blouse, grabbed her steel gray jacket and walked off the train into the mass of bodies. Looking out through the smeared window from my own brittle seat, I saw her give a beggar a smoke and the rest of her coffee as she moved through the throng to the exit. Off she flew, the urban butterfly trying to conform to the world of moths 67

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As I started down that day, the humble avenue there, I was accosted by bitterness of hair and clothing fair. Her eyes did flare and flash at mine, that temptress of malady, and to her soapbox she did climb with hate to instill in me. And oh! This hate of her heart I felt for thirty beats of mine, it caressed me, possessed me, obsessed me, yes, in satisfaction so fine. But with a sliding glissando was I brought back to sanity, my thoughts collected in my head in perfect solidarity. The thought did come into my mind, no sooner thought than said, “Forgiveness is better kept alive and bitterness left dead.” - Joey Schachner

Sasha Freger

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self-expression...

“any sort of that’s the art.”

Left: Leaving All that Was Geometric Above: Westward Expansion before Tragedy Photography by Michael Falero

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Perspective A on

woman in motion, a shining vase, a tree’s silhouette. Rectangles of smooth blue, fiery red, dusty orange. Among the five towering canvases stands Clark Hawgood, his paint knife aimed and at the ready. I stand behind him, watching as he engages with his work, feeling the flow of the newspaper clippings and paint strokes. He glances over at the assembly of his summer’s work, a smile plastered on his face, permanent and evergleaming. Clark Hawgood wanted nothing to do with art before the age of fifteen. As a teenager living in a small town in Delaware, his main focus was athletics— that was until he experienced a selfdescribed “euphoric” moment of unusual self-awareness in his sophomore year. “I was sitting on my floor…and I just started to draw. After two or three hours, I sat back from my drawing and just felt extremely euphoric.” He realized that he had a passion for drawing and decided to devote his high school career to art. “It was neat,” he says, “at that point in my life to have one thing that seemed very stable and a part of my life.” By the age of eighteen he had a nearly unhealthy obsession with all things art: galleries, visiting artists, new media. He graduated high school and went on to East Carolina University for his BFA. There he recalls having professors that had to “make me teachable” and more open as an artist. He beams as he discusses his college

Michael Falero years, describing them as “an amazing experience, but [one] that I only realized was amazing as I was leaving it and seeing all these great people around me.” After moving to Charlotte in the late 90s, Hawgood applied for a teaching position at Braitman studio on Monroe Road, where he continues to work today. Hawgood maintains an all-inclusive view of art and how to approach it. He describes it as “any sort of self-expression, you’re creating this world, that’s the art.” By the way he discusses art, it’s easy to forget that this is his job. Looking over the bits of magazine clippings and brushstrokes in his piece, he describes his attitude when approaching his own art as excited, understanding that he doesn’t know the finish. That isn’t to say that he has some supernatural enlightened relationship with art—he voices his continued struggle with ceramics—but Hawgood makes every effort always to view art as a labor of love that defines him, not a burden that constricts him. His advice for those pursuing or wishing to pursue art is to ignore feelings of selfdoubt. “Don’t take it like you’re detonating a bomb,” he jokes. “Enjoy risk-taking, and keep reminding yourself that you’re creating something original and unique.” When his students become frustrated, critical or self-defeating, Hawgood launches into an art parable full of arm motions, upbeat grins and fantastical imagery, one of many analogies that he concocts to aid his students, or at least to

entertain them. Teaching at both Braitman Studio and Charlotte Latin School, Hawgood foremost considers himself a lifetime student of art who is constantly learning by working alongside his mentor, Andy Braitman, and his own students. He advocates relearning how to “play” with one’s environment, utilizing a child-like imagination and disowning any feeling that the product must be “amazing” at every attempt. Hawgood’s view of his own craft might appear banal and overused, but just a few minutes in his company can convince anyone just how refreshingly genuine he is in his approach. A sandal-wearing, bright-eyed Vikings devotee who considers a coffee cup an extension of his own body, Hawgood applies his ideals of acceptance, perseverance and enthusiasm to everything that he does, artrelated or otherwise. He’s a man who can carry on an intensely personal conversation with a new acquaintance; he can pounce on any passing topic with an overwhelming vivacity. After an hour with Hawgood, one can feel his overactive cheer seeping into the concrete floor of his surroundings and those around him. Being in the presence of someone like him is remarkable, fascinating. His glowing personality and knack for fostering inspiration in his students are moving. This energy is raw, powerful and must be detonated; it erupts in fits in the works of Hawgood and his students 71

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Patrons The Balanced Body Center Randall L. Carswell Charlottetowne Insurance Group Susan and Mike Daisley Ethel Seiberling Fox Richard L. Gies Ann Kinney Lorinna Lowrance Dave and Patty Moses Bob and JoAnn Rainear Jim and Missy Rainear Andy and Vanessa Turnbull Lee Ellen Turnbull Benefactors Diane Burnham Larry Seitlin Blake Taylor Contributors Andy Hines DDS Chris and Marianne Chaney The Claypoole Family Willard Chester Min A Choi Linda Disser The Falero Family Tad and Jayne Fox Isabel Leavitt Melissa Lockley Alicia McConnell

Michael P. Hair and Assoc., Inc. In Memory of Polly Middlekauff A Rainbow of Color Painting/ Terry and Nancy Kute Starr Orthodontics John and Pat Taylor Mary Frances Taylor Gary and Kathy Usher Lawson B. Watson Womble, Carlyle, Sandridge and Rice Leo W. Uicker, D.D.S. Friends Arboretum Pediatrics Ann M. Beezup Robert L. Burnham David S. Catherman Tom and Marian Chester In Memory of Virginia Chester Ann Claypoole Jack and Opal Clontz Mr. and Mrs. Robert E. Cook Karen H. Cummings The Fewell Family Greg Gaertner Crystal Gies Carol Lewis Judie McBride Deborah Price Dr. Jeanine R. Russman Paul Russman

Former Staff Member

In compliance with federal law, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools administers all educational programs, employment activites and admissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age, or disability.

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