Roars and Whispers Volume XVI 2011 by Roars and Whispers Literary Magazine

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

roars and whispers Providence Senior High School volume XVI $12.00 per issue 1800 Pineville Matthews Road Charlotte, NC 28270 Phone: 980-343-5390 Fax: 980-343-3956 Printer: Jostens 2010 Awards: CSPA - Gold Medalist and Columbia Crown Winner NSPA - All-American Rating NCSMA - All North Carolina and Tar Heel Award NCTE - Highest Award NSPA - 2007 Pacemaker Winner Cover Image: Jennifer Waldkirch

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 001 (314228514) 03/10/2011 12:44 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

table of contents Playing Pretend, Erin Gallagher The Skate, Lauren Burnham Of Ava, Emily Aspinwall Substitute, Madelyn Usher Frostbite, Lindsey Rosenbaum Six Word Storybook, Misc. Authors Wires, Brynn Claypoole We Are the Boring, Resistance is Futile, Brynn Claypoole Home on the Range, Blake Taylor From the Inside Out, Eunice Lee The Beginner's Guide to World Domination, Madelyn Usher

It was Tuesday, and we couldn't remember how we got there., Lauren Burnham Bete Noire, Tony Zanghi Mechanized, Henry Leavitt

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 002 (314907826) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

08 12 20 38 42 48 50 54 60 62 64

fiction

06 10 14

poetry Copyright ÂŠ Jostens Inc, 2011

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

18 26 28 32 40 52 58 68

nonfiction

16 24 30 34 46 56 70

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 003 (313508325) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

Embroidered Landscape, Sarah Fewell Love Handles, Lauren Burnham An Insubstantial Face, Chris Ragon On Youth and Ignorance, Wesley Jacobs Snow Night, Carol Abken Ascent, Erin Gallagher Beneath Cities, Sasha Freger Jaws, Sarah Kinney

The Conversation Starter, Lauren Burnham And Nothing but the Truth..., Kenzie Sauders A Message to Those Still Here, Sarah Chaney Tourist Trap, Stuart Schrader Tomorrow, Today, Brynn Claypoole All I Needed to Say, Sarah Chaney One Drop at a Time, Blake Taylor

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

table of contents Natalie Kelton Melissa Murphy Natalie Kelton Josh Richardson Sasha Freger Natalie Kelton Sarah Kinney Meagan Barger Thorys Stensrud Melissa Murphy Kenzie Saunders

06 09 12 14 28 28 30 34 38 40 42

2011 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: Antique Olive Light, Antique Olive Roman, Ashley, Avalon, Cursive Hand, Goudy Sans, Grotesk, Grotesk Sm Caps, Helvetica, Jackson, Kabel Light, Kaufmann Script,

Lauren Burnham Melissa Murphy Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney Rachel Voorhis Natalie Kelton Sarah Kinney Natalie Kelton Natalie Kelton Thorys Stensrud Natalie Kelton

46 49 49 50 51 52 56 58 62 69 70

Letter Gothic, Maximo, Memphis Light, Modern 216, News Gothic, Olive Oil, Rundschrift, Times, Typemaker. 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 Jostensâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Yearbook Avenue on Hewlett-Packard computers

photography

colophon

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 004 (314233082) 03/10/2011 12:44 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

( continued ) art 16

16 18 20 25 26 32

policy

Sarah Chaney Sarah Claypoole Agnes Kim Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney

36 36 36 37 48 60 64 64

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 are of the highest quality and receive the highest scores, as well as the artwork and photography that is most relevant to the magazine.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 005 (314233084) 03/10/2011 12:44 PM

Aryn Leach Janie Warstler Liz Wickham Halley Freger Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney Sarah Kinney Blake Taylor

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, reserves 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

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 006 (313744509) 03/10/2011 12:25 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

It was

Natalie Kelton Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 007 (313521116) 03/10/2011 12:25 PM

Tuesday, and we

couldn't remember

I once heard somewhere that Tuesday was named after some Norse god named Tew (or was it Ty?) but could not remember for the life of me where I had heard it. I remember I had imagined him forged in the womb of some sooty storm cloud, hurling bolts at innocent passersby just for sport. He would eat kids like us for breakfast, and for lunch, a mountain salted with snow. He would lick the bones of trees, sucking out the sappy-sweet marrow. I could not remember where I had heard of him, but I recall that I was sorry, perhaps that I had never heard of him before, or that this swallower of mountains was confined to some forgotten day. I can’t remember exactly what I thought next, or

where I had heard of him. (Perhaps an article? A teacher?) There is a spot on the rug that I know was inked in blood, though I can’t quite recall whether it was my own or if it came from someone else, and there is a blank scar on my knee that once reflected some stinging memory, dark clouds and devoured mountains, but now just conjures a faint feeling of loss. It is pale, foreign. - Lauren Burnham

how we got there.

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

speaker really wants to say. I drive, I watch, I notice, I linger. I come to terms. Of course, I’m just playing pretend. I don’t really drive. Wake up, I say to myself when the imagining’s done. Someone’s yelling. I’m at my house, in my room. Safe, but not safe from myself. I pause at the light, pulling my trembling thoughts on evening skies and car tires into line so that I can decide which way to turn. Something needs to happen to spur the decision, to make one of the two choices feel right. I don’t feel anything, but it’s too soon to tell. The car behind me voices its displeasure at my stillness, so I pull the car to the right without believing. If I go this way, I’ll get to the highway. Sure, I will go there. They’re yelling. I listen to hear what room they’re in. I’ve gotten good at that, sensing where people are, staying unseen but keeping tabs. Something crashes—I think I hear a small voice. I try to fight the feeling that I know will spread in my stomach, but it’s already here. Now I check the other things off the list: the shallow heartbeat speeding up, the

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 008 (313618071) 03/10/2011 12:27 PM

sinking feeling radiating from my abdomen to my arms and thighs, the cavern forming in my chest as it empties. My body tells me that I’m sad, but the sadness is so deep and has so many layers that I can’t see the label on my emotional state. I can’t identify the feeling; now this incident will only blur its name so that the next time I have to strain my eyes even more. A door slams. There’s a dead something in the road; I think it’s a rabbit. I shudder. None of the cars stop to mourn. I speed by as well, going too fast to extend my hand or offer some comfort. The cavern cracks, and the rest of my contents fall. Now my emotions, the ones I’ve been juggling so well up until now, spill over, and I’m left with what I really feel, a reflection of what I really feel, a shadow of what I really feel, until I feel nothing but nameless hurt. The rabbit is still back there. Someone’s crying. The worst lie I told you wasn’t that I was driving when I was really in my room—it was that line, the one about coming to terms Melissa Murphy

like to drive around and think. There’s something soothing about it: Getting away from that place, going anywhere— just you, the car, and the roads—putting more dangerous thoughts somewhere else. It’s funny, but leaving a place for a while sometimes helps soften edges. That absence makes me think about that phrase, “I’ve been there,” like these emotions are a tangible place, like I could find them on a map and drive by them. I sit back and regard the traffic, examine the sky as it turns a paler blue and the trees become dark silhouettes, just outlines of themselves. I watch the streetlights turn on, though the horizon’s not yet dark. I watch the wheels of the herd of cars speeding by me, tires spinning so much that they look like they’re not moving at all. While I observe, I let my thoughts ramble. I surrender myself to their patterns, designed to occupy my mind like the zig-zagging lines on a rug entertain complacent eyes. My thoughts ramble like conversations do, going from topic to topic, using links from phrases, stretching the previous idea to fit what the

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 009 (313745017) 03/10/2011 12:27 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Bête Noire I do not praise your existence, chorus room door handle. You make simple exits awkward and heated exits uncomfortable. Subtle entries are never successful. The multitude of head bumps I’ve received at your leisure, the various moments of entrapment, enrage my bête noire for you and your fickle functioning. Your shrewdness for others astounds me. You humiliate me, lower my self-esteem, make me feel incompetent. But know this: One day I will open you with great ease, and all the world will witness my success. It shall be epic, and my name shall be spoken of for eons thereafter. Mark my words, door handle, I will be availed! - Tony Zanghi

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 010 (313745267) 03/10/2011 12:28 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 011 (313506595) 03/10/2011 12:28 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

the skate

lauren burnham

Natalie Kelton

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 012 (316216862) 03/10/2011 12:28 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

ide-mouthed, the wriggling silver skate suffocated slowly on the countertop. He kept time with his soft and gasping breaths, his gray and eerily human skin drying quickly in the stifling heat of the shack. Knife to flesh was a strange sensation that I never could get used to, so strange to feel, to think about. He looked up at me with the first touch of the paring knife. I wanted to think his small eyes, like two drops of onyx beading up on his fishy face, held some profound intelligence, some semblance of understanding. I wanted him to look up at me pleadingly, to beg for his life or ask me what I would feel if I were flopping away on a countertop, but he did not. His eyes were distinctly flat, the brain behind them small and hollow as a walnut. Soon, they glazed over with a matte finish. The impatient and erratic rhythm of his wheezing simply ceased, leaving the room silent as I worked away. I split him down the spine, filleted him and smoothly sliced away the cartilage. This process simply removed the unpleasantness, all the rich viscera that gave him life; I cast it aside, washing the remaining scraps until they were sterile. I glanced at the clock—6 p.m. already. He would be home any minute. My hand began to shake, but I steadied it and hastily sliced the skate into pieces, marring the flesh which had once been so like my own. I coated the bits in breadcrumbs until they were no longer skate but something blander, more palatable. Just minutes ago, this had been a living, breathing thing. It had, at one point, roamed the ocean floor just off the coast of this shoddy New England city, until it was wrenched up from the bottom and thrown in water to keep it fresh. Now, it looked nothing like skate. It was mollified, less repulsive, less alive. It crackled in a hot skillet upon an iron stove, swimming in rancid butter.

The door swung open, letting in gusts of snow and wind. Two of the candles exhaled a stream of smoke. How fitting. I stabbed one of the pieces in the pan, flipping it over. My hands had begun to shake again. “Well, are you going to take my coat?” boomed a caustic voice. “Of course.” I hurried over, but he had already dumped the snow-covered woolen thing on the floor for me to hang up. “I see dinner’s not ready,” he muttered as he eased into a chair and kicked off his snow-caked boots, releasing odorous wafts into the tiny room. “I got back late from the laundry. It’s nearly done.” Returning to the stove, I saw that the skate had already blackened. When I set it before him on one of our chipped plates, he wrinkled his ugly nose, which sat perched upon a curly black moustache. “How’s a man supposed to eat in this God-forsaken house? Honestly, woman, I’m at work all day while you laze around at the laundry, and I come home to this?” I didn’t answer. It was this same thing night after night. I washed and dried my own cracked hands and sat down across from him, where he sat radiating stench and spitefulness. These hands of mine had once been the color of eggshell, and silky soft. I had imagined that they would forever be clothed in silk gloves, warm and smooth, not cold as fish and peeling with lye. But here they sat, mute and demure in my lap, across from the pair of hands that dropped coats on the floor, that ungratefully stuffed food into a complaining mouth, that hit when they touched alcohol. But what I could never get over was the smell. He did not wear it like clothing, but was entirely composed of it, as if it had worked its way between each cell of his wretched and porcine body, holding him together. Each drop of food that

spattered across his beard and clothing seemed to trickle into his skin, where it would sit, fermenting and decomposing, forming an aura of stench around him. His breath, however, was entirely different. Added to the reeking of his natural breath was the pungent and bitter fetor of alcohol which traveled through his putrid arms, forming his hands into fists. For a while, I fought back. But after nearly a decade, my hands ceased their incessant flopping—ceased their wild, desperate breathing. They were gutted of all their life, cut up, washed clean, and coated in grit and inhumanity until they were no longer hands at all. I stared at my plate, my pieces of blackened flesh, and watched him down his cheap wine gluttonously. “Here, dear, let me pour you some more.” My voice escaped before I wanted it to, and I rose from my seat, gracefully snatched away his cup, and sauntered over to the counter. The tiny white package was waiting within the folds of my sleeve, the package I had picked up with the fish at the market earlier that day. Innocently, I slipped the powder into his cup, pouring the nonchalant wine on top of it, swirling it before I brought it back to the table. He was blissfully unaware, gulping down his wine—wine that I myself had so lovingly poured. I concentrated on the skate, gracefully slicing it and popping feminine nibbles into my mouth. Soon, across the table from me, a cough escaped his fat lips—then another. I looked up calmly, daintily dabbing at my mouth with my napkin and smoothing it back into place on my lap. His coughing increased—he clutched his heart and gasped for air as his chair toppled beneath him, bringing his plate and glass crashing down. I took another sip of wine as he hit the floor. “Hello, little skate,” I said merrily, picking up my paring knife and striding toward the upturned chair

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 013 (316216863) 03/10/2011 12:28 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

MECHANIZ

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 014 (313745660) 03/10/2011 12:29 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

When all the free souls die, grinding gears replace the heart. Pistons pump out all our blood. When the women are cast aside and no children can be seen, steel ravens circle the sky and black ash tumbles like the weeds. Flowers never bloom, only fray. And to what do we pray? When the iron casts from which we are made are ordered to answer our prayer, more of us this world shall bear.

Josh Richardson

- Henry Leavitt

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 015 (313544249) 03/10/2011 12:29 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

r e t r a t S n o ham i n t r u a B s r n e e r v u n La o C The

ake a look at today’s newspaper. There are probably a hundred articles within its pages concerning Internet privacy, political decisions, or the latest sports victory. These articles and editorials are written to inform us of recent events, or to make us reflect on the material. But how often do we consider the writers behind it all, the “material” behind the material? Rarely do we think of the masses of talented people who venture out into the field and return to the office to beautifully craft an article that is ready for you to peruse alongside your morning coffee. Tommy Tomlinson is one of those people. For over two decades, or around 7,660 newspapers, Tomlinson has been a writer and a columnist with the Charlotte Observer. In this time, he has received numerous honors, including becoming a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in commentary and applying for and receiving the Niemann Journalism Fellowship at Harvard in 2008. Despite his many achievements, Tomlinson is modest and surprisingly quiet. From his sometimes-humorous writing and stock photo, one would expect Tomlinson to be a hearty, stout man with a vocabulary like Shakespeare and a booming voice perfect for cracking jokes over coffee. Instead, he is a tall,

looming man with a whispering voice who, despite his fame, prefers a quiet, nondescript desk in the corner. Even with his soft voice, Tomlinson’s words carry a profound wisdom, much of which he attributes to his past. Tommy Tomlinson was raised in Brunswick, Georgia, the son of Depression-era sharecroppers. His father dropped out of school in the sixth grade, his mother in the fourth, to pick cotton. However, both parents devoutly loved to read, uniting the family over the love of the newspaper. “It was a big event at our house, when the newspaper came,” recollects Tomlinson. “So by the time I was really little, I realized that the newspaper was really important.” He says it was how his parents found out what was going on in the world. It was this importance placed on learning and knowledge that spurred Tomlinson to be the second in his entire family to go to college. It was at the University of Georgia that Tomlinson got his start with journalism. “I was always training to be a journalist,” says Tomlinson, “but I didn’t know it at the time.” As a young man, Tomlinson held a variety of occupations, from departmentstore-floor cleaner to convenience-storecooler loader to drive-in-movie attendant. But in college Tomlinson found his place at the campus newspaper, and it stuck. “Just the idea of taking that natural

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 016 (313910094) 03/10/2011 12:30 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Chaney, Sarah Claypoole, Collage

curiosity and my love of writing things and putting those things together, that felt really natural to me,” reflects Tomlinson. “So that’s when I figured out that was what I wanted to do.” Following a job in Augusta, Tomlinson got a job with the Charlotte Observer, eventually becoming a music writer and general feature writer for the paper, during which time he covered events as diverse as concerts, the Super Bowl, and the National Spelling Bee. For the last thirteen years, however, he has been a columnist, writing about “anything you could think of.” His favorite topics currently are human-interest stories, which he defines as stories “about ordinary people who do something interesting or extraordinary.” He says he likes to think that people have more in common than they have differences and that his stories embody that common thread. Recently, he has begun printing articles in which he publishes the best reader responses to questions posed in previous columns. A recent article asked high school seniors to write to incoming first-graders about what to expect from school, which had an enormous response. “I’m looking for something that moves me personally,” says Tomlinson of choosing topics for his stories. The article written on his wedding day perhaps best exemplifies that idea, meriting

hundreds of phone calls and email responses from people who felt emotionally connected to his experience. Despite his mass of well-received articles, a few flop. In one particular article, Tomlinson mocked a teenager who caused a ruckus by wearing a Confederate flag T-shirt to school. The negative messages poured in. In the next column, Tomlinson wrote an apology to the girl, standing by his disagreement with her actions but apologizing for making fun of her. “I realized I’d made fun of somebody with less power than me, who didn’t have the voice that I had to reach people,” Tomlinson explains. However, he went on to say that such mistakes are all part of the job description. “In a given year, I might write ninety to a hundred thousand words… Somewhere in there, I’m going to screw up. So being wrong, from time to time, is just a part of what we do… My main job is not necessarily to make you agree with me or disagree with me, but just to get a conversation started.” For aspiring journalists or writers of any kind, Tomlinson has two simple pieces of advice. The first: “You have to love words; you have to read, you have to love to write.” He suggests reading anything, from books and magazines to blogs and bathroom graffiti, “even a cereal box.” The second requirement: “You have to

be curious about the world. You want to want to know… How does that happen? How does that work?” With these two characteristics, anything is possible. Reading voraciously, asking questions, “taking the long route home or even trying to get lost,” all aid creative thinking. “Because that all helps shape you,” he explains. Talking to Tomlinson, one cannot help but feel inspired. His enthusiasm and love for writing and words are contagious and come across in every word he says, even in his most modest comments. Someday, Tomlinson will retire from the paper altogether, though he plans to continue writing. He hopes to fish and read on the beach, returning to the Atlantic coast on which he grew up. He will leave behind him a legacy of articles and musings that expose us to the deepest human aspects of what may seem inhuman situations, or that take new perspectives on the rescue of the Chilean miners or on a woman whose car breaks down in the middle of the road. Someday, the space his column often fills will be replaced by someone else's musings, and his desk will bear the scratches of someone else's pen. In the meantime, he will continue to churn out articles that make us pause over our morning waffles, that get us thinking, that get a conversation started

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 017 (313910095) 03/10/2011 12:30 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

embroidered landscape Through the eye of a needle, a river of cobalt flows. He’s yanked, pulled, creating pools upon the blank cloth. Summertime-yellow meets the ocean while envious green whirs silently in the hills. Seductive rouge sings, her voice a deep crimson wave. Somewhere off in the distance, mysterious purple sits, licking the sugar from violet blackberry skins. These are the colors, blended and entwined, overlapping as the picture is born from the embroiderer’s hand. - Sarah Fewell

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 018 (313648811) 03/10/2011 12:30 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Agnes Kim digital painting

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 019 (313648812) 03/10/2011 12:30 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Of Ava Emily Aspinwall

Sarah Kinney watercolor

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 020 (314563529) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

New Jersey, August 12, 2003, 4:35 PM EST “Ava?” Ava? Who said that? I haven’t heard that name spoken in a long time. I opened my crusted eyelids. I moved my withered hand with its yellow, cracked nails to brush off my eyes. I had left Ava in Germany. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of her in years. My neck ached; I strained to turn my head on my pillow. The voice is so familiar—but no, it can’t be. * “Alfonse! Look, someone’s here!” cried Erik from atop the haystack. I was nine, staring up at my twin from the ground. He looked down at me. “Come up! You have to see!” He lowered his arm, and I grabbed his hand. I was scared. What if I fall? “Erik, please don’t let me go!” He smirked; he knew that he wouldn’t drop me and how much I idolized him for being so strong. Erik hoisted me up the haystack, and at the top I clenched the hay as hard as I could in my fists, knowing that, in the end, gravity would have its way. I looked out and saw the strangers walking toward a house. “C’mon, Alfonse. I‘ll race you there!” laughed Erik as he gracefully leapt to the ground. I looked at

the grass; it seemed so much farther away than it had before. I took a breath; I have to get down somehow. Sighing, I just let myself fall backward. The ground knocked the air out of me. “It has to be a fair race,” Erik said as he helped me to my feet. Even at such a young age I knew that, though we were twins, there were vast differences between us. Maybe the gap had formed because he had been born first, but I thought I was just born a coward. He had courage—courage and raw confidence. I had my literature and my curiosity. I abhorred his ability to do anything and take risks. I tried to be like him. Wherever Erik led I would follow—meekly, but follow nonetheless. We had the same dark blue eyes, the same auburn hair and the same array of freckles splattered on our identical noses. But Erik had a spark, a fire in his gaze that I could never obtain. You could tell how passionate Erik was about something by the way he stared at it. It was an intensity that I could never achieve. I did have one trait Erik never had, though—a birthmark. On my left arm, just above my elbow there was a dark brown mark. It resembled a lopsided L, but no matter how ugly it was, or how many times my mother told me that it was nothing to

be proud of, I loved it. It was the only thing in the world I had that my twin did not. “Who? Who are they?” I shouted over to Erik. “There were four of them, a woman and three children,” he replied as he took the lead. “Is there a man?” I was catching up; talking made Erik slower. “No. I didn’t see one, but don’t be stupid, Alfonse! Father says a lot of men died in the war and that we’re lucky he didn’t. Oh, look! They stopped at Frau Lichstien’s house. Alfonse, why did they stop there?” * “Grandpa? Are you awake?” asked the voice. What? Why is Erik calling me Grandpa? I stretched my neck and finally turned my head. The room was bleak. A second hospital bed was next to mine; the inhabitant was a permanent vegetable. A salmon-colored curtain hung between us, but it was partially open, exposing the lower half of the occupant’s bed. Did his foot just twitch? No, vegetables didn’t move, but I could have sworn I saw something. “Grandpa? I’m down here!” said the voice again.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 021 (314563532) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Of Ava I looked down. A small boy with blue eyes and blonde hair looked back up at me. My grandson, how could I forget? Oh God, what’s his name? Could I really be this old? Samuel? No. Scott? Sawyer. His name is Sawyer. “Hey there, Sawyer, what was it you were saying?” I croaked. It seemed time was taking a toll on my entire being and not just my body. “Grandpa, Mommy told me I had a Grandma once, and her name was Ava. That’s a weird name. Do you know how many weird names I know?” Sawyer prattled on about the kids in his class that had strange names. * We were racing toward Frau Lichstein’s place. Erik was still in the lead, but I was not far behind—charging through our farm, sprinting past the pond. Then I was falling forward, tripping over my own two feet that would someday save my life. My hands moved too slowly for me to catch myself, and I fell face-first in the dirt. For the rest of my life I would wonder if I hadn’t tripped, if I had won that race, if my nine-year-old self had just pushed a little harder—would my life have been everything I had hoped for? But I did fall; I did not win the foot race that day or any other for that matter. Erik had won, as usual, and I was laying facedown on the ground. Sighing and pushing myself up, I made direct eye contact. A pretty girl walked right up to me, rib-

bons in hand, and asked, “Who are you?” “Me?” I meekly stuttered. “Who on Earth else?” Erik stepped forward, “That’s my twin. His name is Alfonse. He can be a bit shy sometimes.” I asked her years later what her first impression of me had been. “Of you, Alfonse?” she had mocked. “I thought I was dreaming,” she laughed. I was confused. Had she meant I was the man of her dreams? “I really thought a trick was being played on me. I’d never seen a twin before, and you looked like a muddy version of Erik. It was a bit of a shock.” She turned away from my gaze with a smirk on her lips. I remember that moment so well. Because I’d always thought she saw me the way I saw her, as a magic being, someone too good for Earth. But I was just my brother—the dirty, other brother. I laughed it off at the time, but that night in bed I couldn’t sleep. Why couldn’t I have been my own person? Why was I trapped in the body of someone else? “A twin? I’ve never met one in real life; we didn’t have any in our town.” “Well, we’ve met some before, but they were just babies, and they didn’t look alike at all, not like us.” “Anyway, Alfonse, it’s ever so nice to meet you. Oh no, please don’t touch my hand; you are very dirty.” The girl gave a coy little smile and said, “It was so charming to meet you, but I’m afraid I have

to go now. Mama wants me to help her unpack.” And with that she winked at Erik, turned around and left. I hadn’t even said a word. * “Walter and Clementine. Did you know that’s a fruit, Grandpa? Her name is a fruit!” squealed Sawyer. “Humph. Those names were fine in my day,” I growled, peering at the ceiling. It was white, so plain. A nurse walked in, her curly brown hair in her face. “Mr.Herlich, Mr. Herlich,” she said as she shook my shoulder. “Yes, Christina?” “How are you feeling today? Is that abdominal pain still there?” She held up her clipboard, preparing to take notes. My eyes lolled to the back of my head. Of course it still hurt, it always hurt. “I’m feeling much better, Christina.” I didn’t feel like wasting her time or mine. Christina scrunched her nose at me and said, “If you say so, Mr. Herlich. By the way, was that your grandson I just saw running down the hall?” I shook my head and pointed over to where I thought Sawyer was, but of course was not. She smiled knowingly, “I’ll go get him; don’t want anyone getting lost!” She rushed out, closing the door behind her. I sat up in my bed. That boy sure is adventurous. * The school year had just resumed. Erik and I were walking to the schoolhouse

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 022 (314678319) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Why couldn’t I have been my own person, why was I trapped in the body of someone else? when I saw her for a second time. She was walking on the opposite side of the road. Erik spotted her first, “Look, Alfonse, there’s that girl again!” I turned, and yes, there she was. “Should we walk with her? Does she even know where she’s going?” Before I turned back to Erik, he was already galloping over to her. I followed him across the road. She looked at us and smiled her sweet, captivating smile. “Hello again, Erik One and Erik Two.” She giggled in spite of herself. “Very funny,” mocked Erik. “Are you going to the same school as us?” he questioned. “Obviously,” I answered for her. “He speaks! The second Erik speaks!” exclaimed the girl. I blushed deeply. Did she even remember my name? As if reading my mind, she continued walking and said, “Oh, dear. Alfonse, I know your name. I’m only teasing!” she winked. I was taken aback by the wink. How could this little girl squeeze my heart so? It was Erik who finally asked her what her name was. “You’ve never told us your name, you know.” “That’s because I don’t like it! Ava. My name is Ava.” Those were the first two times I saw her, and the memories have remained unchanged, untouched in my mind ever since. Age happened. As we got older, Ava and Erik became closer. I loved her, they

loved each other. It was always Erik; I never thought I’d stand a chance. * I watched from my bed as Christina struggled to bring Sawyer back into the room. “Where is your mother, child?” she asked sternly. He didn’t reply; instead he ran back over to my bed. “Grandpa, please! Where’d she go?” he asked, opening his eyes wide. I couldn’t answer; my memories of her flooded too quickly into my mind. * I was twenty-three in 1939, when the Second World War broke out. Erik ran off to join Hitler. I stayed to help Mama with the farm. Ava spoke of Erik all of the time. She was so proud of her brave soldier, protecting our sacred land. She would run to our house every day to see if we had received a letter from him. When we had, she’d braid her long, golden hair in worry. We never knew if news would be good or bad. It usually was good, until one day we stopped receiving letters. After two months with no word, she cried on my shoulder. Not long after that we learned he was dead. My dear, sweet Ava was never the same. I was too naïve to understand that she had lost herself the day I lost my brother. We were all heartbroken, but in my own way, I was glad. I was finally the individual I had always wanted to be.

A year later Ava finally began to pay attention to me. I was young; I convinced myself she loved me for the person I was, not because I was identical to the man she had loved before. When we married, she cried through the whole ceremony. I told everyone they must have been tears of joy. I began to see the truth. I tried to make her love me as Alfonse, as I loved her for being Ava. I thought maybe children would make her happy. We had three, and still she would have a slip of the tongue and call me Erik. That’s how I knew she still loved him. * “Wake up, Grandpa!” screeched Sawyer into my bad left ear. “You never told me where she went!” I felt my eyes well up with tears. It had been so long, but I still hated to think of how she left us. I had imagined the pain would go away with time, but it still remained welded to my heart. I cracked my back while attempting to sit upright. I clasped Sawyer’s small, strong hand in my old, fragile one. “She’s dead, my boy. She’s dead,” I whispered. His face formed a frown. “How?” I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. The memory was still painful. “She chose to die, Sawyer. Sometimes people do that.” I reclined back onto the rough pillow. Unblinking, I stared at the ceiling, lost in my memories. Ava, Ava, Ava, you had such a beautiful name

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 023 (314678320) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

& NOTHING but the truth I

tend to avoid movies based on real events; movies serve as an escape from reality, and one can’t escape reality in reality. But the temptation of CIA agents, government scandal and Sean Penn was too much. I gave in. And, to say the least, Fair Game was well worth the risk. The struggle for truth and justice evokes high feelings of outrage and disbelief in the audience as they watch the journey of Valerie Plame Wilson (Naomi Watts) and her husband Joseph Wilson (Sean Penn) unfold. Director Doug Liman only took necessary liberties to fill in gaps left by the need to maintain agency security. Plame, a covert CIA agent, is working a difficult case—she’s searching for evidence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. During her search, the CIA comes across documents leading them to believe Iraq may be retrieving yellow cake uranium from Niger, Africa. Of course, Plame’s fellow agents suggest Joe Wilson, former US ambassador and Valerie’s husband, for an intelligence mission in Africa because of his strong relationship with the prime minister of Niger and the Nigerian government. Upon

returning to the US, Wilson concludes that a deal between Iraq and Niger would be “highly unlikely,” so when the Bush administration releases information to the press saying otherwise and later justifies a call to war based on this information, Wilson knows something is wrong. He does what any concerned American might do in his place: He writes an article and submits it to the New York Times. But what Joe doesn’t expect is the government’s retaliation, printing his wife’s name in a newspaper article, exposing her as a covert CIA operative. The film highlights the relationship between Plame and Wilson who, amidst the government allegations, death threats, and public accusations, struggle to maintain their marriage. The tension is reinforced by the superb acting of Penn and Watts, who make their marriage, including their arguments, believable. Scenes of Plame and Wilson quarreling back and forth in the car stand in contrast to scenes that show Wilson’s concern for Plame as she travels to another unknown location for the CIA, but all are believable. With a true story, it’s important for the actors to nail their characters’ emotions for accuracy and potency—the love and

frustration is evident in each scene. Another success is the film’s fluid organization. As the movie progresses, the audience’s focus shifts from the CIA to the government and to the couple’s personal struggles. Fair Game opens in October of 2001, a month after 9/11. It chronicles Plame’s role in the CIA, as well as her resulting missions in Baghdad, Cairo, and Amman, as she searches for WMDs. Later, as the press releases more and more information concerning Iraq, attention moves from the CIA to the government. And after the horrific leaking of Plame’s name to the press, audiences learn how the Wilsons will fare under the trauma. The writers, Jez and John-Henry Butterworth, effectively maneuver the story line to follow the audience’s natural line of inquiry. Perhaps the smartest decision by director Liman was to include actual news clips of President George W. Bush and his administration. The viewer is reminded of Bush’s sixteen calamitous words, “The British government has learned that Saddam Hussein recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa,” as well as of the tough situation that America was in from 2001

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 024 (313699058) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Kenzie Saunders

to 2003. The clips also emphasize the reality and the emotions of the predicament. The videos range from Bush’s State of the Union speech to Condoleezza Rice reporting on the imminent war. Fair Game would have likely failed without the archives, which bring clarity to an otherwise hazy and touchy time for Americans. Unfortunately, Fair Game doesn’t escape without faults, and these faults inhibit the audience’s ability to fully comprehend the story. With all the information packed into the film, it’s nearly impossible to recall any particular character besides the leads. Other characters are forgettable and lost in the mill of facts and footage. In a movie with a complicated plot, characters are important. This flaw results in a major letdown for an audience struggling to understand the story. Despite the comprehensive hurdle, Fair Game is an excellent movie that aggressively tackles the ideas of truth and ethics in a society where the government has the last word, leaving the audience with a bitter taste of government scandal. Fair Game holds all the emotional power of a true story and all the cinematic elements of a five-star movie Sarah Kinney, pen and marker

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 025 (313699059) 03/10/2011 12:31 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Kinney, digital painting

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 026 (313533717) 03/10/2011 12:32 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Love Handles Bacon, apple of my eye and side dish of my breakfast, crackling and popping so temptingly in the pan, almost sensual with your warm, salty and sultry aroma— I want you— and your friends, too. You seduce me with your thin, wavy silhouette, though I know you are no good for me. When we get together, I know I will put on weight. I can never show you off to my Jewish grandparents, and when Hanukkah comes around, we’ll have to tell them you’re just chicken. Oh, bacon, sweet, sweet bacon, I think we should see other people. - Lauren Burnham

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 027 (313533718) 03/10/2011 12:32 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sasha Freger, Natalie Kelton

Face

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 028 (312718333) 03/10/2011 12:32 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Cast across the lawn under the blazing orange sun, the umbra silently pivots around your feet, growing and shrinking and fading away. Keeping pace behind you, it acknowledges your passing temperaments while embodying your darkest desires. Distorted by the rainwater in the gutter, it bends across the stone outcroppings of a cliff face burned into the walls by a nuclear sunrise. The unfaltering comparison of every stone, tree and animal is an insubstantial face forever hidden behind a darkened veilâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; your shadow. - Chris Ragon

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 029 (312718334) 03/10/2011 12:32 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

message

t was Halloween night, and I was certain that I would leave the movie theatre haunted by visions of disaster, loss and death. However, I did not expect Hereafter to approach mankind’s ongoing debate about the afterlife in such an unusual fashion. Clint Eastwood’s latest film is not dominated by destructive forces or ghostlike beings. The quiet, ponderous scenes, at the same time strange and beautiful, are what give Hereafter its eerie quality. What happens after death? I still may not know the answer, but watching Hereafter was a transcendent experience that left me mystified by the inquiry. Eastwood chooses to develop three independent narratives of people who are troubled by mortality in different ways. George Lonegan (Matt Damon) is an American clairvoyant who views his gift as more of a curse. His psychic abilities once earned him a decent living but,

Sarah Kinney

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 030 (314222225) 03/10/2011 12:33 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

those

still

here

sarah chaney determined to have a normal life, George turned to manual labor. Across the ocean in Paris, French journalist Marie Lelay (Cecile de France) survives the 2004 tsunami only to be emotionally shaken by her near-death experience. And in London a young schoolboy named Marcus (Frankie McLaren) suffers the loss of his twin brother and seems to have no choice but to search for answers. When their paths eventually intersect, they each have new perspectives on what they believe could exist in the hereafter. The most gripping of the three accounts features Matt Damon. Damon established his name in the action-packed Bourne movies, jumping from European-style rooftops and embarking on explosionfilled chases. He surprises his viewers with his ability to play such an emotionally complex character. Damon’s range is most evident in an adult cooking class,

where he meets the bright and peppy Melanie (Bryce Dallas Howard). The couple feed one another appetizers while blindfolded, and you’d never guess that Lonegan normally spends his nights at home, listening to Charles Dickens audio tapes. It is certainly impressive that Damon can pull off such a vulnerable and human character, given his previous movie appearances. Throughout the film, a prevailing sense of darkness is created by the cinematographer, Tom Stern. Hazy shadows and intensely saturated shades of blue characterize our glimpses into the afterlife. This effect is notable not for a glum depiction of the characters’ lives but for the portrayal of a rich gorgeousness of existence. It might surprise viewers that while Eastwood creates such a realistic and mind-blowing-computer-generated tsunami, he chooses not to detail more

vivid versions of the afterlife. The blurry images and lack of human faces create a sort of mysticism that cannot clearly be defined, only felt. Such simplicity contributes to Eastwood’s purpose: He leaves the audience pondering the afterlife, instead of distracting viewers with aweinspiring 3-D effects. Hereafter is yet another reminder of Eastwood’s skill for directing his characters to high emotional intensities. His understanding that movies can be the best means for exposing certain subject matter is evident; the ideas and images in this movie are more geared towards the teenage and adult audiences. Those who are skeptical, strong believers, or unsure of death and the afterlife will all find a connection to Hereafter because it leaves the viewers wondering, or at least contemplating. The here and now is all we have to be certain of

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 031 (314222226) 03/10/2011 12:33 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Kinney, pen

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 032 (313749242) 03/10/2011 12:33 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

OnYouth and Ignorance I once believed Republicans were the cause of ozone gapes, and I used to think guerillas were rather hardcore apes. Now the shroud of ignorance has been removed, and my first belief has stayed— but on the matter of guerillas, I know they’re renegades. I once believed that Pluto was a planet far away, but Neil Degrasse Tyson has shown this “fact” is gray. I thought that Saddam was a dictator with nukes, but now I think the war is just a Bush-Cheney fluke. Well, I don’t know what insight the coming days will bring, but the things I think I know right now my children will find sickening. - Wesley Jacobs 33

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 033 (313509208) 03/10/2011 12:33 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

p a r T t s i r u o T tuart Schrader S

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 034 (314449365) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Meagan Barger

hen you hear the names Angelina Jolie, Johnny Depp and Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, you may think that there’s a Best Picture nomination in the works. However, despite 2010 being such a cinematically-uninspiring year, The Tourist is a stretch even for the Kid’s Choice Awards. The Tourist is, at its core, an aesthetically-pleasing guilty pleasure. The film focuses on two characters, Elise (Jolie), a British secret agent motivated by love, and Frank (Depp), a seemingly run-ofthe-mill American tourist caught up in an extraordinarily unfortunate series of events. The Tourist opens with a rather dull chase scene filled with breathtaking visuals but lacking any narrative core. This scene sets the tone for the rest of the film—it’s a motion picture as beautiful as it is shallow. The audience discovers that Elise’s lover, Alexander Pearce, has instructed her to find a man that resembles him, then to convince the federal agencies following her that this man is, in fact, Pearce. Elise blindly follows these orders and selects none other than Frank to be the look-a-like required for the part. Elise accompanies Frank on a night of romance that feels forced and unnatural from the very beginning. The next morning, Frank is ambushed by an intimidating group of men and barely manages to escape. At this point, the audience learns that Frank has been framed for Pearce’s crimes, which range from cheating a powerful gangster to tax evasion. The rest of this severely convoluted story revolves around Frank and Elise’s attempt to escape the very mess they’ve created and the romance that, rather unfortunately, builds around this chaos. The Tourist’s most glaring and inexcusable flaw is the lack of chemistry between its two leads. Since the entire plot is more or less built upon this crucial relationship, the two actors filling these roles need to complement each other. However, Jolie and Depp behave like a two-headed chef trapped in an unfeasibly small kitchen. Each actor has a powerful and commanding presence that

seems better fit for a film with only one protagonist. When both the actors share the screen, their competing performances leave the audience polarized instead of collectively swooning as intended. In fact, both performers seem to behave in a way that comes across as either extremely cliché or rigid and insipid. Instead of appearing cunning and witty, Elise seems superficial and Barbie-like. Rather than utilizing Jolie’s captivating personality and gorgeous looks, director von Dommersmark resorted to portraying Jolie as a witless supermodel who’s keen to bat an eyelash every now and again instead of delivering a satisfying line of dialogue. Johnny Depp’s role is uncharacteristically devoid of eye-shadow and disappointingly pedantic. He was the third choice for the character, behind both Sam Worthington and Tom Cruise, and it’s safe to say that this “third-string” complex clearly carries through to the big screen. While these two A-list actors may have starred in a number of boxoffice hits, this miss is one that they’ll soon want to forget. The Tourist does a handful of things right; most of these things would be more appropriate in a travel brochure. The setting and scenery are undeniably gorgeous but do little to complement the muddled narrative. The wide shots of Italian cities and interconnecting canals will assuredly make any viewer want to go visit Italy, but the story itself will, at any rate, have any movie-goer headed for the door. Aside from the visuals, this movie feels like a regurgitated cliché being driven into the ground for what will hopefully be the final time. A tired and lifeless film, The Tourist is a box-office flop that you’ll certainly want to steer clear of. The acting is second-rate, and the story is better fitted for a daytime soap opera or a Lifetime movie-special. While the visuals may be inspired, the fact that they are the movie’s one highlight is truly disappointing. Despite having an A-list cast and a critically acclaimed director, The Tourist is a film that will be lucky to receive that ever-soprestigious Kid’s Choice nomination 35

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 035 (314449367) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

e bb

a nd

Collages, left to right: Aryn Leach, Janie Warstler, Liz Wickham, Janie Warstler, Halley Freger

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 036 (313496513) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

f l o w...

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 037 (313496514) 03/10/2011 12:34 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Substitute

Madelyn Usher

" "

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 038 (313705148) 03/10/2011 12:35 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Thorys Stensrud

e comes in the night, a giant lumbering monster who’s turned as stealth-like as a cat. He comes in the dark, through the gaps between the trees, buildings, windowpanes. He comes like a ghost, visible for a brief moment, then nothing more than a shadow of a doubt. He comes for the child. * “Make sure you tuck in the blanket tight. The cold will wake him.” With two kisses on the forehead, the proud artists of a slumbering masterpiece beam down at their accomplishment. “Should we open the window? It’s a beautiful night.” “Why not? It’s a safe area. Let the starlight in; it’ll bring him sweet dreams.”

* The week’s routine is carried out to perfection—no awakened inhabitants, no disturbed strays, no overturned cans of garbage. Such precision is unexpected from such a large animal. Huge, silent, he moves to the window. Tonight not only the drapes but the tiny glass doors with their dainty filigree latches are open. He looks in at the slumbering boy and remembers his own cub, nestled close to his mother after a long day of playing in the forest, learning to fish. That was before they took him, before they took them both. It would only be fair, child for cub. He may have no fur or claws or sharp teeth, but he could learn anyway. He would still be someone to look after, to care about, to share memories with. He would still be a son.

The window is open. Temptation overwhelms. It would be so easy to reach out and take him, to cuddle him in those burly arms, warmer than any blanket. With time he would adjust. With time he would forget. But he could never forget. Just as he could never forget the morning they had come, the men with their guns and their cages. “What perfect specimen for the show,” they had said. But their tranquilizers weren’t enough to bring down the mightiest of the forest, filled with paternal rage. The men barely escaped with their lives, but they took his family. What emptiness—what utter, terrible desperation. He drew back his paw. He could never do that to someone. He could never sink that low

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 039 (313705149) 03/10/2011 12:35 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Melissa Murphy

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 040 (313503184) 03/10/2011 12:35 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

snow night Remember the shard of moonlight gazing through your window as we looked out at the midnight snow— silver and shining and otherworldly. I wore your pajamas and grabbed my car keys as an afterthought. We dashed out with no shoes, skidding like puppies and yelping with the cold. The hapless old gray Volvo throbbed with the heavy beat. What could be better than coffee when the snow falls? Amélie’s is open all night, serving heavy chocolate mousse enclosed in a miniature pie crust, dark and heavy as mud but much more delicious. We treasured them out on the veranda as our noses froze and turned delicately pink— feeling love as tangible as skin. - Carol Abken

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 041 (313503185) 03/10/2011 12:35 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

frostbite

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 042 (314229216) 03/10/2011 12:36 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

(lindsey rosenbaum)

olitude had always been a fitting color for him. Even in the days of marriage and fatherhood, he could

never quite escape the feeling that heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d be much better off if his family left. There was nothing lonely about isolation. It was peaceful. Only now did he wish for company. The snow had piled around his house, and there was no escape. The heater had broken sometime in the night, and he was running low on logs for the fire. He paced slowly around the frozen floor, gripping a cooling coffee mug in his hands. Someone would come get him soon. It was just a matter of waiting.

Kenzie Saunders

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 043 (314229217) 03/10/2011 12:36 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

frostbite From the door came a faint tapping. It was soft, almost like the wind, and he wasn’t sure that he had heard it at all. Then it came again, louder. And again. He set down his now lukewarm coffee, wrapped the wool blanket tighter around his shoulders, and hurried to the bolt. Beyond the door stood a solid wall of condensed snow. A powdery plain was just visible against the grey sky, and the wind blew loose flakes into a torrent. Between this immense wall of white and the door stood a young girl, dressed in nothing but a white shift. He wasn’t even taken aback by the sight of her. “Come in,” he said. The girl smiled politely and stepped inside. Her skin radiated the chill. “I knew you were coming,” the man said, closing the door. “Did you really?” the girl asked softly. Her voice was surprisingly low and warm, soothing in a way. She wandered over to his bookshelf and ran her fingers over the spines. Her skin dampened and rotted the pages instantaneously.

(continued) “I really did,” the man said. “I knew when the phone lines went out. I figured it was only a matter of time.” “Were you able to reach anyone before then?” “No, the lines were busy.” She looked at him, her eyes—what dark eyes she had for skin so white—held nothing but pity. “I’m sorry.” “What’s there to be sorry about?” the man asked gruffly. “They all know I’m here. They’ll come for me.” She was silent. The pity in her eyes was both hurtful and maddening. He pretended he didn’t see them at all. “I won’t lie. I’m not thrilled to see you. But you’re here, so what can I do?” He took a sip of coffee and made a face. “Cold.” “Here,” the girl reached for the cup. The cold grew stronger as she approached. She was careful not to touch his hands as she grasped the cup. The moment the man let go, the mug slipped though the girl’s fingers and shattered on the floor. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“That’s all right,” the man said quickly. “It was undrinkable anyways.” The girl nodded. She walked around the room slowly, her two braids swinging softly against her back. It struck the man how young she was. “Is this your family?” the girl asked. She held a framed photo in her hand. The glass had frosted over and cracked. “My daughters,” the man said. “When did you last see them?” Tired, the man rubbed his face. “Years ago.” “Your wife?” “Left me before the girls did.” “Oh.” The wind howled over the roof, shaking the shingles. The window panes shuddered in their frames. The fire withered in its grate as tiny flakes of snow fell, dusting the hearth. “Do you think your family will be worried?” the girl asked. The man shook his head, tightening the wool blanket around his narrow shoulders. How delightfully warm it was under there. “They probably think I left

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 044 (314236559) 03/10/2011 12:36 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

before the storm hit.” “Are you worried?” “Should I be?” The wind shrieked under the door frame. The foundation of the small cottage creaked and groaned. He stared at the girl. Her hair, which he had initially taken to be light blonde, was silvery grey and wispy. Maybe she was older than he’d originally thought. “I’m really not,” the man said with difficulty. His jaw had begun to ache. “I should be worried, what with you being here, but I just can’t be. Someone will come. They know I’m here. They wouldn’t forget.” “I’m sorry, I really am,” the girl murmured. “You know I wouldn’t be here if they knew.” Her face was smooth as ice, but her eyes burned with something else —tears maybe—or maybe he just imagined them there. Something broke inside of him. A panicked cry escaped his lips, something base and animalistic. His legs shook. He slipped, grasping at the frozen counter for support. The girl stood still, undis-

turbed by the scene before her. “Please,” the man begged. “I don’t want—I can’t—please—please—” “Sit down,” the girl said, ignoring his pleas. She took his arm and helped him. She led him slowly to the chair by the dwindling fire. Her skin was frozen, and it burned to touch. But he couldn’t resist her urgings. His neck unexpectedly stiffened, and his limbs went loose as jelly. “You’re tired,” the girl said as she helped the man ease into the chair. “I am tired,” the man said. It was true. His eyelids felt heavy and hot. The girl covered him with another blanket. The fibers froze under her fingers. “Sleep,” she murmured. He could barely keep his eyes open— how warm he now felt. “Did my daughters send you? They must’ve,” he mumbled. “Yes, they must’ve—they wouldn’t forget about me—I’m their father after all. Did they? Send you?” He stared pleadingly into the girl’s eyes. She looked back, bemused. The fire flickered.

“Who do you think I am?” The fire flickered again. “I—I—” Another flicker. Reality went with it. The visage of the girl trembled. He blinked. She was gone. He blinked again. The fire was out, molded logs strewn about the floor. His coffee mug was shattered and frozen to the carpet. His books were covered with frost, lying under the remnants of his broken shelf. Ice and snow carpeted the floorboards. With difficulty, he raised his head. Breath swirled around his face in a thick cloud. His arm was black with frostbite, his legs numb. Strength escaped him, and his head fell against the chair. His eyelids fluttered shut. And, even after the breath froze in his lungs and his blood congealed in his veins, the snow continued to fall and the wind continued to howl. And somewhere in the frozen world, a pale girl in white danced without leaving a footprint, glorying in the cold and smiling her chilly smile, her warm eyes sparkling all the while

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 045 (314236560) 03/10/2011 12:36 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

here is a single light in the room, the glare from a screen. A lone man dwells in his dark cave, spending his days pecking away at the keys on an ergonomic keyboard. The myth is that every brighteyed student seeking to learn about computers will end up like this man, writing programs in a small, enclosed space for many long hours. However, computing is a dynamic field. Today it includes a wide range of disciplines and affects nearly every aspect of our lives. In the modern world, technology is literally everywhere—in our classrooms and homes, kitchens and bedrooms, our pockets and even our bodies. Though many of us don’t remember life before all of these gadgets, there was a frightening time when none of them existed. Advances in technology during the past few decades have caused an evolution from simplistic computers the size of an entire room to sleek iPads with hundreds of

applications. Thirty to forty years ago, computing was about programming, or writing the directions that make a computer work through distinct languages that computers can understand. Now programming is “by no means the whole part, not even the majority of the part” of the field, says Dr. Yi Deng, the Dean of the College of Computing and Informatics at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte (UNCC). He stresses that programmers who sit in dark rooms all day are being replaced by worldly people who understand technology and work in the field to improve it. As the role of technology has changed over the past few decades, so has UNCC’s approach to teaching it. UNCC, located just north-east of uptown Charlotte, is “one of a small group of research universities which has a stand-alone College of Computing and Informatics,” explains Dr. Deng. The college was founded nearly ten

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 046 (314224518) 03/10/2011 12:37 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

years ago. At the time, the insightful intellects in charge of UNCC looked into the future and saw a world run by machines. They established the computing college to get ahead of other universities, long before most other universities had considered the future of technology. Now UNCC has one of the most well-developed and largest computing programs in the nation, an attraction that draws students from around the world. At the College of Computing and Informatics, learning is based on the needs of society. The College is divided into five major sections. Analytics is the study of how to process large quantities of data like the “fifteen petabytes [or one with fifteen zeroes] of data” produced every day. Security includes the methods for keeping such massive amounts of data safe. The gaming section trains students to make games like Call of Duty: Black Ops and

Super Mario Brothers more realistic and to adapt such games for practical purposes, like training soldiers who practice escaping from giant, fire-breathing turtles. Another section is devoted to interface, or improving the interaction between humans and computers to make technology more useful and accessible. Finally there is bioinformatics, the intersection between computers and biological fields like genetics, the study of DNA. These fields represent the practical applications of computing and thus make up the majority of the departments of the college. The UNCC approach to teaching computing and informatics is just as dynamic as the field itself, changing dayby-day to accommodate the needs and problems of the global community. For example, there is an internship program for students at UNCC to work at local banks. The students organize electronic files, improve the security of the banking

Lauren Burnham

today Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 047 (314224519) 03/10/2011 12:37 PM

system, and get experience making bank computers process massive amounts of information faster. The banks get fresh minds with creative solutions to old problems and potential future employees. Computing is no longer about making computers smaller or more efficient. The challenge now is to figure out how to best use technology to solve problems—to use bioinformatics to cure diseases, to use gaming to teach children in more fun and effective ways, and to improve interface so computers can be used by every person, even those with severe disabilities. As Dr. Deng said, the new role of computer-enthusiasts is “not sitting in the back rooms doing programming but interacting with people” to solve their unique issues. Technology and technology education don’t rely on the blunt objects already in humankind’s vision. The goal of both is to foresee where technology can be best applied tomorrow

Brynn Claypoole

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Six Word Storybook 24

Friends

Inbox

Notifications

What's on your mind? News Feed

Emily Blevins Messages

Expired crackers, moldy cheese. Stale mates. Comment

. Like

3 Events

Madelyn Usher

Photos

Free candy in van, any takers? Comment

. Like

Stuart Schrader Curtains closing. Can I make memories? Comment

. Like

Will Styka Chat Roulette. It cannot be unseen.

Graphics by Sarah Kinney Photos by Sarah Kinney and Melissa Murphy

Comment

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 048 (314224050) 03/10/2011 12:37 PM

. Like

Lauren Burnham In Soviet Russia, story writes you. Comment

. Like

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Home

Profile

Account

Six word stories invite dull clichés. - Sarah Chaney

Madison Madrazo Cannibalism—grab your forks and friends. Comment

. Like

Sarah Claypoole Meet, fall, argue, end. Try again. Comment

. Like

Murphy's Candy on sale. ORDER NOW!

Marc Estridge Edible boxers, bad dog, manhood lost. Comment

. Like

GROUP DINING DISCOUNT at Kinney's Diner.

Kara DeFilippis I was told there’d be cake. Comment

. Like

Madelyn Usher Teenagers plan rebellion, take nap instead. Comment

. Like

Chat (86)

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 049 (314224051) 03/10/2011 12:37 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

ever before have I laid eyes on such magical telephone wires. I’ve sat in this particular spot hundreds of times and stared out the window to my left, exactly as I am now. I noted the overgrown bushes leaning over the top of the brick wall, adding a little adventure to their otherwise dull lives. I stared at my neighbors’ angular house with the roof that juts out over the edge of the sunroom like the brim of a top hat. I studied the lanky green-furred creatures that block the horizon. Somehow I never even glimpsed the thin black lines that run horizontally, right through the center of my vision. These telephone wires are my sudden fascination. I ask aloud, “Am I the only one who hasn’t noticed the telephone wires before?” My younger sister Ana is resting comfortably on the couch three feet away with her overused laptop dutifully at her side. She slowly rips her eyes away from the computer screen to see what I’m making such a ruckus about. Her ex-

pression is blank for a second before recognition hits her. “Oh, my God! When did those appear?” she exclaims. “I know! Right? Isn’t it strange?” “Have those always been there?” she questions as her head turns back to its natural position. “I guess,” I reply. Silence is a dense gas forced under intense pressure, dispersing throughout the air. Ana can’t sense the lack of sound. She hears her friends’ gossip through her Facebook chat window. I hear nothing but her sighing and giggling. She is glowing—both in a metaphorical and a literal sense. The sun gleams off her light skin. Her fair complexion is highlighted by her violet nails and the mascara that coats her eyelashes in a mysterious darkness. I once heard that pale skin was considered beautiful in China. The women used whitening procedures and creams, expensive and very risky treatments, but my sister groaned over her light com-

plexion—all of this done in the name of beauty. Lately people tell Ana and me that we look alike. I cannot imagine a more pleasant compliment to receive, being physically compared to a beautiful person. I wonder if she feels the opposite, like every comparison to me is a whack on the skull with the infamous ugly stick. Perhaps I’m not the most gorgeous girl in the world, but I am foolishly confident that I can find love some day. A certain boy suddenly waltzes into my mind, uninvited, and engulfs my thoughts. He doesn’t have particularly pale or tan skin, but he is still beautiful. I snort, my eyes flashing up to check that Ana didn’t notice. Me, with a boy—it’s foreign, like a scar that I can’t remember acquiring. It doesn’t matter how many compliments or kisses I received in the past. Each time the idea is novel. Suddenly all of the glimpses I gathered of him throughout the day surface in my mind. I recall a conversation—it was short

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 050 (314227740) 03/10/2011 12:38 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Kinney, Rachel Voorhis

and awkward, something about a teacher or a class or the weather—but it made me oddly chipper for the duration of day. I was so easily controlled by such insignificant dialogue. It gnaws at me, this feeling. It doesn’t have sharp teeth—it could feast on me for all of eternity in this manner, never making progress but never ceasing to bother me. When its flawless white choppers did grow, I would be defenseless. “Ana, do you think I’ll ever fall in love?” Fall in love, I say—not live blissfully with a partner that I deeply care for always by my side. Fall. She looks up, assesses the situation, deems me harmless, and speaks. “There are three things in this world that I don’t believe in: God, love, and Wyoming.” Her eyes return to the screen. I blink. “Wyoming?” “I’ve only seen it in pictures. I have no real proof of its existence.” A chuckle forces itself from between

my lips. Ana sits before me young, gorgeous, amicable, and admits that she doesn’t believe in love. She’s a parent, giving the final goodbye at her child’s funeral. I am overwhelmed with grief. I sit before her, older, average-looking, awkward, and know that I do believe in love. I just called a classmate by the wrong name. I want to apologize profusely for my ignorance. Regrettably, I did experience true love before. I exchanged words with Him every day for five years. I never grew tired of Him. We argued, but I always felt like I randomly had the winning numbers printed on a scrap of paper in my pocket. One day I looked down as I was passing by and found His numbers in a trash can, patiently awaiting His return. I dug them out and placed them in my own pocket—more for me. I didn’t know where He went, but I knew He wouldn’t be returning to look for them. Now the prospect of new love crackles before me like a campfire—warm and dangerous.

The boy’s flaws are leaves to me. They blow around my nice little flame, invisible at night, but I can always hear them. The leaves can’t alter my warmth. Sometimes they fall into the fire, glowing magnificently as they combust. I am a caveman, content to watch fire and leaves. I imagine the other people in the world chasing true love as millionaires, with all of the happiness in the universe at their fingertips. Ana is a college graduate, her Ph.D. in love proudly hanging above her dusty fireplace. She can disprove love with a multivariable calculus equation or a reference to a poem from sixteenthcentury England. I am backward, stupid, fascinated with my miniscule flame. I don’t feel like a millionaire, even with the two winning lottery tickets in my pocket. My sister knows one thing, people in love know one thing, but I think of a thousand uncertain things. Perhaps the truth is sitting right in front of me, large and obvious and invisible, like the telephone wires

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 051 (314227741) 03/10/2011 12:38 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 052 (313656570) 03/10/2011 12:38 PM

Natalie Kelton

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Blue— The sky and the sea merged; I stepped forward and dived in. Peace soaked my skin, and I felt the other me weaken. I sensed her shallow heartbeats, frail pulses like soft reminders. I closed my eyes and tasted salt. I was swimming through clouds and waves, pulling myself higher through the stratosphere. Yellow— I was scaling the sun, a steep celestial cliff. I heard the other me draw a hoarse breath. The sound was faint, the connection strained over the distance. I closed my eyes and tasted citrus. Just let go, stay here forever— but this wasn’t the right time. Violet— I jumped from star to star, connecting the bright dots. I touched each planet as I went along, sat down on one of Saturn’s rings and felt the other me fade. There was my permission. It was here that I stopped, here that I let go. I lay on my stomach and watched the sky and the ocean and the old me rest. - Erin Gallagher

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 053 (313656571) 03/10/2011 12:38 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

We Are The

Resistance Brynn Claypoole he shale disintegrated under the lean figure’s feet. Even so, he continued to take micro-steps back toward the rock’s edge. He was likely to meet his end no matter which way he fled. Behind him the seemingly bottomless canyon waited; before his eyes the most dangerous foe approached. At a distance he could tell that the creature was foaming at the mouth—white froth oozed from the corners of the beast’s cracked lips. The louder the monster snarled and growled, the less hesitant the man was to step back. Nearly two meters from the edge, he froze. He recalled a weapon, a last line of defense, stashed in his back pocket. “With this I shall defeat you, scum! Resistance is futile!” he frantically yelled. He took a bold step forward, whipping out the object. The pencil he grasped in his thin fingers was sharp, far pointier than the average pencil, but hardly the size of his hand. The fiend looked upon the object with its coal-black eyes. For a full minute, it glared intently. The man dared not move farther. Soon the being scoffed, lifting his head and balancing on his two feeble legs. He wiped the foam from his lips. “Such an object has no true power. Behold! I will give you a taste of a real weapon!” The half-man-half-beast drew a cylin-

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 054 (314228782) 03/10/2011 12:39 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

drical black object from his pocket. At the push of a button, a beam of light shot forth. This creature was no ordinary monster. It was a Jedi who seemed to suffer from a most frightening case of rabies. The Jedi sprang forward. In an instant, his opponent dropped the measly piece of wood-encased graphite and leapt onto the ground to avoid a direct hit. “Pathetic!” screeched the Jedi, his fierce eyes honing in on the cowering man. “Are you not the one named Bheathcliff, the man who controls and manipulates words with his cunning and vast intelligence?” “Aye, that is I,” whispered Bheathcliff, “though it’s generally pronounced as ‘Heathcliff’ because the ‘B’ is sile—” “Enough! Your words may have destroyed my reputation, but they have no power over me!” “Actually, you seem to be reacting rather violently to my words—” The Jedi angrily thrust his light saber downward. Bheathcliff rolled out of the weapon’s path but began to plummet when the crumbling rock beneath him gave way. “Nooooo!” shouted Bheathcliff ever-sodramatically as he fell. He stupidly reached out his hand, his fingers grasping at the air. Following an über-conspicuous “Poof!” a tiny, winged woman appeared beside him, somehow matching his downward

velocity. “Hello, Bheathcliff. I am the sleep fairy, the spirit of your dreams.” “Yes, yes, hello. I believe we were acquainted last night when I was falling in this very same manner.” “Ah, so you do remember! With a memory so sharp, did you still forget to do as I instructed?” “Well,” began Bheathcliff, “that fiend did come at me again. I took out the object that you so kindly bestowed upon me, but I could not put it to use.” “Why so?” “I could not remember your exact words. I was to write out the formula in the air with the pencil—that much I know. You told me to write out a reaction with copper sulfate, correct? Yet when you specifically explained the resulting solution, sulfate was not mentioned once.” “Sulfate is a spectator ion in this case, so it is unnecessary to actually write out in your equation. I wanted you to know that it was there, but you didn’t need to explicitly state it on either side of the equation. Your solubility rules have to be memor—” At that instant, clocks shot down like meteors in the space surrounding Bheathcliff, buzzing at a cacophonous frequency. “I apologize,” stated the fairy, curtseying, “but I really must leave you now. Your

assignment for tomorrow—you really should be writing this down—” “Wait, wait!” exclaimed Bheathcliff, digging through his many large pockets. “I can’t find my pencil!” “—is to write a thousand-word essay on the significance of this dream. What does the pencil represent? Is the pen really mightier than the sword? What can be said about the phrase time flies?” “Huh?” “This is an analysis paper, so it must be your own original thoughts. If any sentence even vaguely resembles that of another student’s—” “What other students?” “—then you will be suspended— suspended forever in this state of freefall. Also, you must calculate your current velocity and the time it will take you to hit the bottom before you ‘leave’ using the basic kinematics equations.” “But, I—” A blond head shot up. The desk around the barely-conscious boy was covered with various sheets of paper. The alarm on the other end of the room erupted every second, but the exhausted teenager couldn’t move that far. While slowly pilling together the crumpled worksheets and half-completed essays, he couldn’t help but miss the Jedi with rabies and the bothersome fairy that annoyed him as he plummeted in that bottomless pit

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 055 (314228783) 03/10/2011 12:39 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Chaney

Rachel Voorhis

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 056 (314236818) 03/10/2011 12:39 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

he blue button snapped and bounded across the carpet floor, finally free. I threw off my jeans and dropped to the ground as they slammed against the door. I knew that this wasn’t just some form of physical catharsis; I was out of control. My pants no longer fit, and it was clear that all of the afternoons of binge eating had caught up with me. At this point I didn’t even consider the fact that maybe my fifteen-pound weight gain was not the real issue here, but I liked to think that if a few pounds were shed, all might return to normal. A personality, though, could not be as easily fixed. Moments passed, and then Mom entered the room. Her purple-flowered pajamas and bare feet are the only things that I remember, maybe because I refused to even glance at her face. After all, looking at her face would mean letting her see mine, and I was too proud for that. She knelt down to where I was balled up at the foot of my bed and placed her hand on my knee. I pulled away. My eyes were swelling with hatred—hatred not directed at her but at everything I had brought upon myself. The constant eating, the obsessive weight training, the refusal to even greet my siblings were all my own faults. For minutes my mother tried to console me, but I wouldn’t listen. My toenails dug into the floor as my shoulders curled over my heart, and my mind blurred with phantasmal images of a lamentable past. Every time she mentioned what a hardworking person I was or how my loving personality was all that really mattered, I never felt the slightest urge to utter, “Thank you.” I sat wishing I could tell her she was wrong and hoping that every crude emotion, every mortal sin, every regret would melt away. But I didn’t speak. I just bit my lip so hard that it turned a hypothermic blue.

Still, a part of me wanted to explain it all —the late-night thrashings upstairs, the periods of silence; they weren’t part of some teenage stage. They were little parts that had always sculpted my personality and were just now being chipped away. I was depressed. I just couldn’t admit this fact to her; I couldn’t put her in that position. No, not now when she was working sixty-hour weeks and devoting every spare moment to us, her kids. It seemed selfish to ask her for help. I was young and immature then, unable to realize that help could be the only way out. She left after I pretended to be okay. I moved to the center of the floor where I sunk into the coarse fibers of an old rug. A few minutes passed before I decided that I would resort to meditation as a way to soothe my unbalanced emotions. The only position I remembered from the yoga video we’d watched at school was the Half Lotus, so I paid careful attention to keeping my spine straight as I placed one foot on top of the opposite thigh. I closed my eyes, trying to relax, yet I was unable to reach any sort of nirvana or to even “cleanse my mind.” All I could see was the blue button taunting me from across the room. After an hour of successive breathing exercises, I thought of how I would rather be somewhere else, with someone else. I often had this desire, but this time I decided to act upon it. I ended up in my sister’s shockingly bright bedroom. The yellow walls, adorned with knickknacks from her travels and self-made artwork, were the last things I wanted to look at. They seemed to close in on me and shout, “Hey, don’t you wish your life was like this?” I did. I tried so hard to ignore this jealousy, searching instead for some way that I resembled her. I looked at her face, round and naturally smooth, strands of silky blond hair tucked behind her ears. My brown hair felt stringy and dead.

Sarah Kinney Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 057 (314236819) 03/10/2011 12:39 PM

I wanted to leave, but I knew that I couldn’t keep repeating this cycle, so at that moment I decided to tell her. I told my sister that I wished I were more like her —I wished I could stop worrying every second about what was going to happen to me and stop devouring food every time I had those worries. I told her I was striving so hard for perfection that every time I made a mistake, no matter how small, I was demoralized and tormented for days. Then I told her that all I wanted was to be done with these emotions and desires and move on. When I finished, the anxiety that had clung to me for so long seemed to drop away like a cast-off cloak. Rachel remained silent for a moment, and I wasn’t sure why. Did she not know how to respond? Was she so shocked that I would come to her for this emotion release? Or was I acting just plain crazy? Soon enough she started talking though —to release me from this moment of ambiguity—and I learned that she understood me more than I had thought. Rachel asked me how I could feel so negative toward life when “everything was going my way.” For once I was able to respond, my silent whispers finally heard. Later when I returned to my room, I curled up under my warm plaid quilt and stared out the window into an empty backyard for many minutes. I didn’t think about the depression or my mother or the hurt. My mind was numbed to such thoughts. Instead, I saw myself as a child, running in the plush grass and soaring off the wooden swing into the air, completely carefree. Only when I noticed the jeans crumpled up near the door did I feel the desire to get up. I walked over to those jeans and folded them, careful to get rid of every last wrinkle, and laid them in the closet. I knew that those blue jeans would remain there for awhile, but slowly, I started to ease back into them

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 058 (313540146) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM

BENEATH CITIES

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Bodies, all elbows and knees in a mobile sardine can, are forced to breathe each other’s sweat and detergent. The human aroma that clings to clothes merges with the toxic dust motes of aerosol cans. Swirls and patterns dress sandpaper-brick in Krylon attire. Quiescent on pillows of concrete, the lonely lie is buried under yesterday’s news. Cement is scoured to a shine by strangers’ feet and mottled by acid runoff, worn to pockmarks and potholes. Electricity flows through the third foot of this subterranean metal monster, raging through Earth’s core as fast as an insult from a pedestrian’s mouth. It’s a molten Hell, heavy with foreign exhalation and damp perspiration. The air is thick with sulfur, rust and danger. The ground shakes with preternatural tremors. A crescendo of thunder reverberates, causing the Richter scale platform to tremble in harmonious discord. Silence. The Doppler effect finished, darkness swallows the creature in a fleeting hush that makes the tunnel a tomb. - Sasha Freger

Natalie Kelton

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 059 (313540149) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Sarah Kinney, digital painting

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 060 (314631068) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

ill you please shut up and hurry this along, Mr. Reporter Man? I’d like to resume giving my llama a tick bath if you don’t mind. It’s tick season, you know.” “Yes, Mr. Cotton, I completely understand. Just a few quick snapshots of you and Mrs. Cotton and I’ll be on my way. It won’t take but a minute.” “Ha! As if I believe that. That’s what you said before you interviewed us. I could have repainted the governor’s mansion in the time it took you to ask your endless questions.” “Well, this time I promise to make it quick.” “You’d better! If Lammybaa gets ticks, I’ll sue.” “George! Be polite.” “Don’t you tell me what to do, Candace.” “Not to worry, sir. If you’ll just stand with Mrs. Cotton right in front of your house, I can take your picture and leave.” “The house? I thought this story of yours was about the field.” “Well, it is, but the house will make for a more appropriate background for the portrait.” “So you have me yap for an hour about how successful the field has been and don’t even photograph the darn thing. Yeah, this’ll make a great story.” “George, please, he’s only doin’ his job.” “Shut it, Candace. Hey, Mr. Reporter, why does she have to be in the picture,

anyway? It’s my field. All she does is stay inside and pretend to be Lucille Ball.” “George! Hush your trap! You promised you’d never tell.” “Well here I am a-tellin’! Did you get that, Mr. Reporter? Her favorite episode to act out is ‘Vitameatavegamin.’” “George!” “Settle down now, everything’s okay. Not to worry, ma’am, that information won’t be published. Now if you would both stand side-by-side—a little to your left, Mrs. Cotton—wonderful. Uh, Mr. Cotton, you can put down your pitchfork. It won’t be needed for the photograph.” “She stays.” “But it doesn’t really—” “Petunia stays.” “Sir, it’s not very—” “You will address Petunia by name!” “Well, all right, Petunia can remain in the picture. Okay, here we go. Time for the action! Smile!” “No.” “Just a little one.” “No.” “Let’s see those pearly whites!” “No.” “Mr. Cotton, don’t you care that this is going on the front page of the newspaper?” “Who do I look like, Alan Arkin? Of course I don’t care. ‘Sides, the newspaper is for squares. Romance novels are where it’s at.”

“Um, yes, well, I suppose a more serious shot will suffice. Mrs. Cotton, if you could, just look into the camera. Mrs. Cotton? Hello? Mrs. Cotton? Is she all right?” “She’s fine. She’s just giving her stare of death to that cow over there. She thinks that if she keeps it up long enough, the cow will move off of the crops.” “But the cow’s not going anywhere.” “Nope. I’d give her at least ‘til sunrise.” “You mean sunset?” “No, sunrise. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after that.” “She stays like that for days at a time?” “Last time I had to bring the meals out here and spoon-feed them to her.” “But can’t you try to get her to—” “Are you going to keep blabbering, or are you going to take our picture already?” “But sir—” “I can go ahead and get that call to my llama lawyer out of the way right now if you’d like.” “No, no, that isn’t necessary. If you’re sure you don’t want to smile?” “I think I’ve already addressed that, thank you.” “And you’re positive that Mrs. Cotton isn’t going to move?” “Nope, she’s stuck.” “Very well, then—” Snap. Inspired by American Gothic by Grant Wood 61

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 061 (314631071) 03/10/2011 12:40 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

From the Inside Eunice Lee

Out sit, swinging my legs and thumping my heels on the dark oak footboard of my parents’ king-sized bed. I watch Mom leaning over her marble dressing table, carefully coating her face with layers of foundation and powder. For some odd reason, I always become entranced watching her turn her face into an unblemished mask of beauty. I wonder what she’s trying to hide behind that cover. Without turning she says, “Stop making that noise and go get dressed. And tell Addison to come here.” I sigh and slide off her bed. How could I have forgotten about dinner with the Hamiltons at the luxurious Chez Jacqueline restaurant? The idea of eating an appetizer worth more than Mom’s new heels and with the most obnoxious snob I know, Blair Hamilton, of all people, makes me nauseous. I find Addie, my little sister, sitting in my room, staring wide-eyed at a glittery silver dress with matching shiny pumps hanging from my door. I grunt with disgust and glance at

the attached price tags. The only thing worse than having Mom buy clothes for me is wasting hundreds of dollars on yet another pointless outfit. Addie asks me something, but I ignore her. I kick off my flats and bounce onto my bed, pushing piles of dirty jeans and shirts onto the floor. I let my long, wavy hair tumble across my back, and I close my eyes while I smooth out the tangles. I love my hair. It’s the only thing I inherited from my mom that I actually like. When I was younger, Mom would let me braid her hair and weave the silky strands into a smooth, plaited mane. We would sit on the couch munching on cheap stale cookies, giggling for no reason. Maybe the mere fact that we were together, basking in love and happiness, made it so cheerful. Tucking me into bed, she would stroke my hair until I fell asleep. The feeling of her gentle soft fingers caressing my head was so peaceful and sacred. I wanted to hold on to her touch, her hand, her heart, forever. I thought that she was my best friend and nothing

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 062 (314663002) 03/10/2011 12:41 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Natalie Kelton

could separate us. That was before Dad got the promotion and everything changed. We moved into a huge estate on the upper east side of New York and bought expensive cars and even more expensive accessories. I had felt like I was stepping into a different world, a world full of elite parties, prestigious schools and pricey clothes. There was no more trying to fit in with the in-crowd; my family became the definition of the exclusive social class. While Mom adored, craved and clung to it, I hated it. Of course, strutting down Manhattan’s finest streets with fifty shopping bags in tow was somewhat exciting, but I quickly noticed the fading happiness. One day Mom came home with a short highlighted bob. She had cut off her beautiful hair and replaced it with the latest hairstyle in Vogue magazine. Although she looked even more elegant and gorgeous, I couldn’t give her a compliment. That night I cried myself to sleep. Addie pokes my cheeks. I open one eye and squint to see that her face is two

centimeters from mine. “Why aren’t you answering me, sissy? I asked if I can wear your pretty shoes today.” I yawn, stretching out my arms, then burst out laughing when I notice Addie clunking around in my new shiny pumps. “I’m a pretty, pretty princess, and you’re gonna be my prince. ‘Kay?” I giggle and pick her up in my arms and give her a twirl. “Why, I would be so honored to be your prince today, Miss Addie,” I say, hugging her. She laughs gleefully and wraps her arms tightly around my neck. I give her another spin but stop abruptly. Mom stands in my doorway with her hands on her hip and an exasperated look on her face. Her hair is fluffed, her makeup is flawless, and her perfectly slim figure is wrapped in a silky black dress. “Clara, I told you to get dressed fifteen minutes ago. Why are you still not ready?” She steps into my room, eyes widening when she sees my heap of laundry. She

yelps when she sees Addie sprawled across my floor, playing with the shoes. She sighs and sternly says, “Addison Woodsen, stop playing with the shoes and go find your own.” Addie shrugs then skips out of my room with Mom following her. “Please hurry and get dressed. Oh, and can you put your hair up today? It’s getting awfully messy and long. Maybe we should get a haircut soon, sweetie.” I stare at her, wanting to tell her my hair is fine the way it is and that I’m never cutting it, but she’s already down the hall, scolding Addie for getting her shoes dirty. I grumble and close my door. Pulling the dress off the hanger, I wonder if Mom remembers our shared moments of braiding hair. I wonder if she knows how much I loved spending time with her, eating stale cookies. I wonder if she knows how much I want life to go back the way it used to be. I slip on the heels and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I wonder if she knows that, if I cut my hair, I would look exactly like her 63

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 063 (314663003) 03/10/2011 12:41 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

e d i u G s ' r e n n i g o e t B e h T

d l r o n Winatio

m o D

r e h s U n y l e Mad Earl as ile a h c m Fo

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 064 (314793616) 03/10/2011 12:41 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

elcome to The Beginner’s Guide to World Domination! The fact that you have decided to purchase this tome of priceless information is proof enough

that you are already on the fast track to ruling the world. With some expert advice and guidance from me, you will soon find yourself in control of the entire

human race.

Section 1: Appearance In the business of domination, appearance is everything. I’ve found several key components of a forceful look that have worked wonders for me and will guarantee success for you, too. 1. Hair: A simple, yet chic, look will serve you best here. Start by combing your hair into a deep side-part (Donald Trump style). This hair-do nicely accentuates thin, straight hair while showing off comb skills.* However, wind and particularly strong air conditioning units can be a danger to this pristine style. In order to preserve its original splendor, you must apply liberal amounts of hair gel from root to tip. *Don’t Forget! A single hair out of place can make all the difference between changing Canada to Spockanada (my one true aspiration) and being stuck with Canada as it is—full of Canadians.

, ney Kin h a r Sa phics gra

lor, Tay e k Bla

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 065 (314793617) 03/10/2011 12:41 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Beginner's Guide to

World

Domination ) d e u n i t n o c (

2. Complexion: Can you ever take Snooki seriously? How about a vampire? Vampires are always more intimidating. Why? Skin tone! Snooki is tan; vampires are not. Vampires win. You must learn to highlight your natural albino tones in order to succeed. Sunscreen and shadows are your new—and probably only— best friends. Paleness of skin denotes hard, indoor, non-athletic, smart-peopletype work. And non-athletic work is the only work worth mentioning. (If you are an athlete, I apologize, but you have wasted your money. You will never dominate the world. Go pump some iron or whatever.) 3. Attire: Stick to the classically elegant: a checkered shirt paired with a bow tie, suspenders and very short khaki shorts. Always keep your shirt tucked in as tightly as you can manage, and top off the whole look with knee-high argyle socks and bowling shoes. Not only will this look practically secure your place at the very top of the world-ruler food chain, but you will have girls chasing you down the streets, begging you for a date. I speak from personal experience, of course. 4. Braces: The more metal you have on your body, the more physically intimidating you are. That’s a simple fact of life. *Bonus tip! Headgear makes you look like you can bend metal with your mind, like Magneto from X-Men. You will have no opposition. 5. Accessories: Rolling a large, overstuffed book bag around with you at all times is one hundred percent necessary. It should be big enough to easily accommodate thirteen textbooks, four comic books, your collector’s edition Lord of the Rings lunchbox and four changes of

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 066 (315134854) 03/10/2011 12:42 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

clothes. However, reserve a large math textbook and calculator to carry in your hands, as well as three to four pens that you can nestle safely inside the required pocket protector. Also, attach several large mysterious Tupperwarelike containers on the outside of your book bag. This statement is both practical and fashionable. (No one will know one of them is your pet tarantula’s vacation home!) 6. PEPS: Portable Electric Pencil Sharpener. Carry one with you always. Always. The one day I didn’t have mine was the worst day of my entire life.

elf, dragon or sword fight. 2. Condescension: By definition, being condescending is treating people as if they are beneath you. If you treat everyone in such a manner, everyone will be beneath you. It’s simple logic but flawless nonetheless. 3. Cool: You are cool. Everyone already knows that you are. However, now you have to push it to new levels, be cooler than you’ve ever been before—be Yoda cool. Speaking in inverse and carrying around a light saber will elevate you to new levels of coolness so quickly that no one will even dare to speak to you.

Section 2: Attitude Now that you look like a take-noprisoners world ruler, you need the attitude to match. Attitude comes from having the right motivation, and finding the right motivation is the easiest thing since calculus. Remember how you felt when you first saw Battlestar Galactica? Let that exhilaration and excitement fill you up until you’re ready to go out and start conquering. All that’s left to do is learn the “Three C’s of Domination,” and you’re ready for the takeover. 1. Confidence: If you walk out of your house and mount your bike with the confidence that you will return home as the dominator of the world (and that your training wheels won’t fail while you’re pedaling down the highway), you will return as the king of the world! *Extra Practice! Watch the scene in Titanic where Leonardo DiCaprio yells, “I’m the king of the world!” Rehearse this line. Don’t waste your time on the rest of the movie, though; there’s not a single

Section 3: Aggression Aggression is the level-ninety-seven power boost to the World of Warcraft tournament that is the path to your world domination—with it, anything is possible. You must channel the aggression you feel whenever you’re about to checkmate someone in chess. Picture the way your king will trap your opponent in a square of death, the way his glasses will fog up when he cries, and then crush him. This method is the same one you must use to take over the world—visualize, then actualize. In order to be successful, though, you must practice. Aggression Exercises: 1. Try to physically abuse siblings or inanimate objects such as doors as much as possible. 2. While walking down the street, choose an innocent bystander and verbally lash out at him or her before retreating without explanation. 3. Think of the nicest, most cheerful person you know. Say something mean

to that individual whenever possible. 4.Spend hours upon hours alone on the Internet; the lack of social interaction will make you a ticking time bomb for violence. The Next Step Congratulations! Now you’re no longer just a beginner in the game of world domination; you’re an intermediate. That is one-fourth of the way to total world control! The time has come for you to take the next step. Drive down to your local bookstore and pick up a copy of The Intermediate’s Guide to World Domination by Earl Fomchaile. This book has almost everything you need to know to become an expert in world domination. Soon, you won’t know what to do with all your power. You’re halfway to being halfway finished! Keep up the good work! -EarlFomchaile

P.S. C othe heck ou t all r gr eat boo my ks! - Th e Worl Intermed d i - Th Dominat ate’s Gui de to e Ex i o n p Worl d Do ert’s Guid mina e to - Th tio e Worl Master’s n d G - Th Dominat uide to e Ch ion il Worl d Do dren’s Gu mina tion ide to Com ing N The Seni ext Sum or Worl m d Do Citizen’s er! mina G uide tion to

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 067 (315134855) 03/10/2011 12:42 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Jagged and dripping jaws protect me in this world Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve known for so long. Storms rage, masking the roar and ache in my mind. With the canopy of night comes the dreamless sleep and the questions with no answers that last until the morning fog. A tunnel of sky opens, revealing a wall of storm clouds stretching up for miles. Birds chirp and flutter about, content, if only for a few minutes. By mid-morning rain ricochets off the granite and dirt, rapidly swelling streams and rivers. Thunder and lightning pry open the sky, sending shocks down my spine. The jagged and dripping jaws run with water, while the torrent flows away from me. The menacing and dark jaws keep me dry.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 068 (313527518) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

Thorys Stensrud

- Sarah Kinney

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 069 (313527520) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

one

drop at a

time

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 070 (314223813) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

b l a k e t ay l or

t’s never a good idea to be late, especially when you’re interviewing the head of an international charity organization. I have an appointment with Kevin Simons, the founder of Droplets, an ambitious initiative that provides clean water to underprivileged Kenyans. Simons arrives before me and waits in his car. Ordinarily I would fumble my words and become nearly schizophrenic from the anxiety of keeping a professional charity executive waiting. However, Simons is an understanding person, and thankfully not at all upset that I arrived after our scheduled meeting time. That’s part of what makes him the perfect leader for Droplets; he’s innately kind and continually puts others before himself. He’s also my classmate in high school. While Simons still maintains a focus on improving his SAT scores and searching for the right college like his fellow highschool juniors, he does not let the classroom encapsulate him in a neverending workload bubble. Instead, he has a global perspective on making an impact on others’ lives, an outlook that most people don’t attain until a much later age, if ever. Simons was inspired to start Droplets in the summer of 2009 during a youth conference. There he learned about the unfortunate lack of clean drinking water in Kenya and the lengths that Kenyans must go to in order to get the water they need. A mere sixty-one percent of Kenyans have clean water available to them; the rest have no choice but to make a daily five-mile trek (each way) to seek the nearest water source. Simons says that the most potent emotion he experienced while watching video footage of these harsh conditions was despair. “We, as Americans, go about our daily lives doing nothing about the water crisis when there are people in Africa dying every day of

water-related diseases,” Simons explains. “I couldn’t sit back and not do anything about it when I knew I could.” Not wanting to let the cause become just a noble idea that never materialized into anything, Simons took action. Simons investigated the situation further and got the gears turning for Droplets with help from committed friends and mentors. He decided to raise funds for the construction of a well that will give a Kenyan community local access to healthy water. Simons then launched a fund-raising webpage through The 410 Bridge fundraising network. The page has since expanded into ProjectDroplets.org. The initiative’s ultimate goal is to raise the $30,000 needed to dig a clean-water well in Kenya: $20,000 for the borehole and an additional $10,000 for plumbing and maintenance necessities. Simons is collecting online and in-person contributions while selling cause bracelets to promote awareness and inspire donations. Once the $30,000 goal is completely met, construction will progress at a rapid pace to complete the well. To some this goal might seem daunting and unattainable, but Simons embraces the challenge. Although there is still a long way to go, Simons’s enthusiasm for Droplets is evident. “When we dig the well, we’ll be giving clean water to a whole community for a lifetime,” he says with a smile. Without having to travel daily to retrieve water, women will be able to instead spend more time caring for their children and their village, while children will be able to attend school. “They’ll see that they’re not a forgotten culture, that people actually care about them.” Simons says his life as a student is one of the biggest hindrances to getting Droplets off the ground. “As a sixteenyear-old kid trying to raise $30,000, you always run into people saying I’m only

Natalie Kelton Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 071 (314223814) 03/10/2011 12:43 PM

raising the money for myself or I won’t be able to [reach my goal],” he remarks. “I don’t really care if people don’t like what I’m doing because I’m not looking for people’s approval.” He views his position as Droplets’ leader as an opportunity to provide for those who are truly in need of help, not as a vehicle for his ego. The support of friends and family helps Simons move forward with confidence and passion. “Knowing that my friends and family are there to support me is a driving force to keep me going.” He also stresses that a vital component of keeping Droplets’ wheels turning is having a fund completion deadline for the first well, which is currently slated as December 31, 2011. “If you don’t have a deadline, you procrastinate. If you have a deadline, it creates a sense of urgency,” he says. “This [project] needs to have a sense of urgency attached to it because every day Kenyans are dying due to water-related diseases.” Droplets is well on its way to making a life-changing impact on the less fortunate who, without Droplets’ assistance, would not have easily-accessible sources of clean drinking water. For Simons, overseeing the project is a fulfilling and gratifying role that he’s joyful to take on. “It’s made me more passionate about everything I believe in,” he discloses. “If I know something needs to be done, I’ll put everything I have in doing it.” Being led by a student, the organization’s very existence defies what normally qualifies as a globally-impacting charity. Its progress serves as an encouraging example of today’s generation leading the way in initiative, even when obstacles seem endless and impossible to overcome. In essence Droplets is an inkling of hope, an expression of goodwill, proof that the only thing needed to make a difference is one person willing to take the first step

Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

our sincerest thanks Patrons Bank of America* Burrow and Case Orthodontics Charlottetowne Insurance Group Karen Cummings Donna and Nathan Kelton Lorinna Lowrance 1 Stop Mail Shop The Schrader Family Sunset Slush of Matthews SunTrust Bank Womble, Carlyle, Sandridge and Rice Benefactors Andy Hines, D.D.S. Contributors Patricia Brett Diane Burnham Chris and Marianne Chaney Ann Claypoole Fire Creek Dental Ann Kinney

Rosemary Schrader Starr Orthodontics John and Pat Taylor David and Miriam Wilson Roxanne Wilson Friends Ann M. Beezup Lorenzo Bellard Mary Bellard Ashley Boles Lisa Boles Peter Boles Brooks Family Brian Burnham Craig Burnham Robert and Nada Burnham Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Cefalu and Family Dr. and Mrs. Sal Cefalu Rachel Chaney The Claypoole Family Theodore and Amy Claypoole

Opal B. Clontz Dakota and Lady, Puppies Linda Disser The Falero Family Michael Falero Gene Fitzpatrick Franklin American Mortgage Simira Freeman Burl and Lyn Grigsby Julie Hill Eun Ah “Agnes” Kim Carol Lewis Juana F. Lugo MacDonald Family Laura Maddox Ron Makee Rose Mun Nolen Family Mrs. Deborah Price Emma Rainear Alicia M. Saunders Taylor Turnbull Gary and Kathy Usher *Matching Grant Program indicates former staff member

the Aurora Bellard, Staff Ashley Boles, Staff Lauren Burnham, Design Editor Sarah Chaney, Art Editor Brynn Claypoole, Copy Editor

Sarah Claypoole, Staff Chris Disser, Staff Sarah Fewell, Financial Editor Natalie Kelton, Staff Sarah Kinney, Publicity Editor

Helen Mun, Staff Kenzie Saunders, Staff Stuart Schrader, Staff Blake Taylor, Feature Editor Madelyn Usher, Design Editor Ms. Marva Hutchinson, Advisor

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

Job 19319 Year 2011 Page 072 (313639444) 03/10/2011 12:45 PM