Folio: SLCC’s Literary & Arts Magazine Fall 2009 Kaleidoscope

FOLIO A Literary Magazine

Salt Lake Community College

Volume 11 Number 1

Fall 2009

COVER TITLE

SUPPORT

Original work by Sarah Petersen titled Marmalade Tree.

Kaleidoscope. Inspired by Folio 's Literary Editor Ashley Sorensen .

Provided by the Department of English and Globe Student Media at Salt Lake Community College .

CONTACT

DISCLAIMER

4600 South Redwood Road, Salt Lake City, Utah 84123. In Writing Center, Room AD 218 at the Redwood Campus, (801) 957-4893, folio@slcc .edu. ,.

The Globe Student Media are open campus forums, and we encourage written expression of diverse points of view. Salt Lake Community College is not responsible for the opinions expressed in Folio, nor do the pieces represent an official position at Salt Lake Community College. Individual authors are solely .. responsible for the opinions expressed herein .

COPYRIGHT Each author retains copyright individually.

Ashley

The edition of Folio that you are enjoying was built on the idea that beauty is everchanging, vast, and individually defined. As a team we felt that there was no better way to embrace the diversity, creativity, and talents that exist in SLCC's student body than with our chosen theme: KALEIDOSCOPE.

We'd like to thank everyone involved in the creation of this issue: our advisor, Lisa Bickmore, for absorbing all the stress and headache that we brought her-we hope this final production was worth it; all of our contributors-Folio would not exist without your willingness to share your thoughts and inspirations; our staff, Barbara, Amber, and Austin, for the time and effort put forth this semester; and of course GLOBE Student Media, the English Department, and Salt Lake Community College who each help in their way to sponsor and nurture Folio.

Thank you all for making KALEIDOSCOPE a reality.

Asr1ley Sorensen & Jomes Kirk

Woman by the Water

Aus ti n Chappel l

The lake's edge is starting to freeze . It's cold enough now that you can't leave behind footprints as you walk. She stands alone gazing outward towards the water. Her reflection is waving in the ripples of the bank. Underneath the moonlight her breath is seen , thick and gloomy. She wears only a thin dress and no shoes. Her long hair and soft skin is resilient . She seems warm, as if the weather is only a page out of a story book. The wind whistles, upset that she is unharmed. Her wings blossom in the fast gusts. The first star is found as the clouds move west. You can see it sparkling in her eyes as she looks up. A loud 50 caliber machine gun eats away through a battalion of men. Their screams reach her, and she squints her eyes and ears. She walks slowly to the top of the hill overlooking the sea of blood and crippled , screaming men. She waits patiently for them to come to her . Their faces are pale and confused . Bullets tear through their bodies and they walk again. She approaches and says to them without words that everything is ok and the intricacy of their old world no longer exists. They thank her for her timely arrival. She grabs their hands and slowly ascends in the air. Behind them lies a silly war and fake indifferences between man and man . The clouds depart as they venture further into space . The soldiers now know they are going to heaven. She frowns because she knows she must return and help the others who will soon be waiting atop that hill. Her return home is short and sweet. She is happy for the moments of peace that she gets while there. She returns and smiles knowing that she will soon get to help other confused lost souls .

Bro o ke lin Jone s

will always be here one way or another. to see and be seen, to discover and be discovered . I'll dig so much deeper than others can. I' ll be your angel , and never let go of your hand . But I' m not sent from up there. I come from where people are unaware .. .of how freedom of choice has so many consequences. I gain my wisdom from those same stars and hea v ens, though. try as I may, I can never let you go. here I am at a crossroads again . but I can ' t turn back to you. and I really don ' t want to say goodbye. but it ' s looking like I' ll have to .. .

Stumble

Je re my Hill

Waiting for my second fleshexhausted by the humble. Longing for a zenith dreamso broken in my stumble.

Scrawling my own chapters in the gilded book of ages with a quill that leaves me mangled: cryptic smears upon the pages.

Burning blood inside my mouth induces revelation . Reverberating in my scream lies lucid elevation.

Musing on utopian strain through the deepening void of nightbody bruised and ego strangled: tarnish bathed in brilliant light.

Capturing Time

Marso Tahe ri

The greenness of the leaves

Coolness of the wind

Reflections in the sea

And songs of the birds, The softness of the sand

Warmth of the sun

The feel of the grass And the calls from the sky; None would be understood without you.

You bring me the signs of sorrow and love, You allow me to know the beauty in moonlight, You shelter my pains when they're impossible to bear, And familiarize me with pleasure and delight.

Through you, I can dance to songs of creation, Through you, I can watch the blaze of a sunset.

You give me the ability to paint beauty on a canvas, And the power to turn it into words.

Without you

I could not perceive, Nor could I feel the rush of joy. Without you I could not dance, Nor could I cry out my fears . I could not give thanks to you, Nor know what it feels like to make friends and to care.

You are the life that runs in my body

You are my body that contains this life; Like a heavenly tune sung by a simple creature, you empower me with life.

The rhythm of the thrashing waves during the birth of a new day, And the imitation of the songs heard from the simple creature;

The comprehension of the life of a cell, And the growth of bone; How gravity defines me, And how speed gives new meaning; The stubbornness of Earth orbiting the Sun,

The lovely music of a pounding heart, The lightning struck in a neuron, Then the joy of breathing, And capturing time;

I would be deprived of such wonders without you.

Yes, I come from you

Indeed , you are the life that runs in my body You are my body, that contains this life; Like blood through my veins, Like powerful beats of drums, eternity shines through what you teach me.

The Best Shrink

Da yn a Cl ark

Fighting w ith wo rds, expanding our brains. Taking back the ideas that matter to what is real. I w ill bark up the right treejust to see what you feel.

A passing glimpse into each other's minds. Their real minds.

A fresh perspective on what we all need to find . For ourselves .

The paper is w hite, a mix of it all, so kind to listen, so powerful to change. Poetry, the best shrink, the strongest shoulder; a way to express all those things you never told her.

No I don't think you listen , and maybe you should ' ve . We are everything you want, and now you miss out on what could've. Get it in writing, get it in pen, so it permanently exists then forget it. The paper will remember for you, bit for bit .

Now I am finding scribbles on old paper, like window panes to my old mind. But there's no glass; there are no locks to the past.

Because poetry is a passing glimpse into the human condition. The real one. The one no one ca n find .

Stark Ravin'Mad

Nicho las Jarvis

Oh woe-betide those nations founded upon writing desks

When called upon to see their starkest ravings made!

' Tis the termite who wants most to be the carpenter; It is the weakest who want most to be obeyed.

We slumber soundly from the safety of a burning bed.

As we enjoy our cake, we save room for it too.

To our slayers, we'll so joyously rush out to wed. Our death sentence ending thus, (for us) "I do."

AZUL

Tri sh Smith

Azul is the sky

Rojo is the sun

Red or blue either one

Both have ended and begun.

Violet is the sunset

Orange is the dawn

Today wi ll end

Tomorrow will go o n .

One or the other

Or even both

Exam ine as co lor

Examine as life

Li ve in time.

Keyhole in

Vir g ini a Po lyko

"It's all I've got left. I don't have anything else. I just want to rest."

My mom is talking manic, mid-nervous-breakdown, and I stop being mad at her for smoking again.

After all, she's known nicotine longer than she's known me.

I can only get in some of the time. Nicotine's got a clear vascular path to follow. For a minute I wish I was an addictive molecule. Or a rough-surfaced molecule. I zoom in on the sharp black bits wedging themselves between the pink clouds in her lungs.

You know, the ones that thought environmentalism was 'in' angelic little sacs, curling up in the fetal position to sizzle, scorch, shrivel

Pushing them in secret, most of the summer long, towards a stillness I hate to imagine, and her great longing for the great stillness racing

She says this thing on top of all the others

I say that everything seems bigger when less happens

But I've confused her. Now she needs distraction, grocery store watch me choose yogurt, paw over deals brace in case, embrace

It's all better, I tell her. But she can't hear me, her voice how the world screwed me over, she stood on the porch and waited for me to grow up, alone

A Fading Dre am(stream of Consciousness)

A m ber Retzlaff

It was a party, something to do with a friend's nephew. The occasion didn't really seem to matter, the mind created a conversation in action. Not just talking , the conversation came alive, it was something more, something stranger. The sky rained with colors that were seemingly impossible, the rocks of canyons bolder, clearer, sharper shades of golden brown. The thoughts weren't passive, there was always a goal-but the goal ever unreachable, something to strive for. A single contact in the wind, nothing except a listener. The place looked to be in Monticello, Utah; desert landscape was definitely part of the plan. There was more, always more . The guy, the one with dark eyes and philosophy that no others had; a mind that hurt, but was always willing to give; anger a foreign word. But ever on the outside, simply watching, simply wanting, simply wishing that there was a chance for more.

The spectacle turned into colors, hot air balloons with striped rainbows , a wish for a camera to capture the moment. But it was nothing; just a fleeting dream, a single girl's wish for finding something more. But it was a dream, a dream that came along with wishes, wishes that went along with pain. Always hurting, always wanting, and also always watching.

Seeing Sarni Through My 10 Yr. Old Eyes

Ke lsey Green

Growing up in Utah my life was structured like most kids around me . I we nt to school Monday through Friday at the local public elementary, played with my friends who were the kids in my neighborhood, and on every Sunday went to church with the rest of the neighborhood, minus the one outcast house who weren't Mormon. Life flowed beautifully and smoothly like the morning rays of sun stretching its light through the meadow until it has warmed every leaf, petal , and blade of grass. I was naive in this state of nirvana; I couldn't see the devastating storm that was creeping in .

I will never forget the day that my mom came walking apprehensively towards me as I bounced a big rubber ball against the cement in my driveway. It was dusk. Cotton candy stretched over the sky like quilt batting, and the air was thick and sweet like melted butterscotch. I can still hear the last bit of heat come up from the cement into my feet after the sun had baked it all day, and taste the sound of the red rubber slapping the cement only to rise back up to fill the palms of my tiny hands. I could feel my mom 's nerves when she reached me so I stopped bouncing the ball and sat down on it instead . She nonchalantly asked about my day at school. I answered in short, was I in trouble? Why was she sending me all of this nervous energy? To help ease her nerves , I didn't look her in the face. Instead I focused on a roly-poly scurrying across the cement toward a wall of thick green mountainous grass that towered over it. "You know that Sa mi's my mom started but then stopped. My eyes darted from the roly-poly now trudging through the mountains of grass straight into my mom's worried eyes. A million thoughts ran through my head , and that brief pause felt like eternity. She started her sentence again. "You know that Sami 's gay, right?" All the tension released from my muscles and streamed out of my fingertips. I let out a big sigh of relief, smiled, got up, and resumed bouncing my ball. "No, but I don't care. She is still Sarni." I laughed. I didn't see what the big deal was . Why was my mom so nervous over who my sister is?

... continued on pg 28

At the age of ten, I had practiced little with society's stereotypes, and saw everything in a beautiful hue . Sarni, my sister, is eight years older than I, has a beautiful singing voice, plays the guitar, likes to see the humor in things, has a huge heart for everything from plants to people , experiences nightmares that make her scream uncontrollably in her sleep, and likes to pull pranks, especially on me. She is beautiful , and I love her. I didn't see her as a gay fag like the rest of the world, or at least it felt like the rest of the world.

Once the word had gotten out that my sister preferred women instead of men, people that were our friends started treating us like outcasts. It was as if we were back in the 1600's and society had deemed us witches. I was just waiting for the day to come that they would beat down our front door and drag us out to be hung. Sarni was excommunicated from the church, neighbors called us devil worshipers, people thought that since my sister was gay, I had to be too, and I was teased, and some of my friends were not allowed to play at my house. All of this uproar was too much for our family to handle. We stuck through it for a few years, but decided to move away from the never ending horror movie.

Now that we have uprooted ourselves from the house and neighborhood that's crayola memories turned into different shades of charcoal, the storm has become a distant, burning memory. The sun is rising again and starting to bring new light to the meadow. Those whose fear of the unfamiliar sent them running, and are still running, are missing out, because Sarni, is still Sarni, and will always be Sarni .

With Her Weight Upon My Lungs

Ash ley Sore n sen

Pillar of Loveliness, my queen appears, still alone. All sound withers to silence as she nears , still alone.

Churning onyx eyes adorn a face of golden sand, a mirage of oasis, parched of tears , still alone.

She: a garden of coppery body and limb pressed in memory against my chest for years, still alone .

Twin ribbons of frozen sea, her hands wander my spine; icy whispers drip from rose lips , coy jeers, still alone.

Sheets give no comfort; they are warm with imprints of lust yet cannot calm the keening of my fears: still alone .

Alight on plane of dusk , the Raven serenades me; in his aria it's her song I hear, still alone.

Sole light of my darkness, banished daughter of the moon , come to me some evening-I shall be here , still alone.

Tangled in dreams I seek her out, reaching with pale and skinless arms, always my sorrow adhered: still alone.

Uinta

Ash ley Sorensen

The swollen summer sky weighs down on our daytime, the air heavy with stillness and heat. The cool green grass of the springtime is gone and we rest instead in the shadow of the aspens that shake and whisper above us . Roots grow woven and endless in the dirt, bearing the mass of the mountains and sending life to the trembling infant leaves. Sunlight, underground , is a thing of fantasy-an el Dorado, unreachable gold-and we struggle upward only to be pushed down, by nature, need, greed and gravity, living a life of blindness for the beauty up above. My spine presses back and down , into the trunk of the tree behind me, and with my left hand I trace tendrils of white as they dip down into the earth and disappear.

I can hear you breathe beside me though your chest hardly moves. Your eyes are closed and your hands rest, open, on the deep blue denim of your thighs.

Sink with me .

Let the leaves shrive l up, let them crumb le and dust the air; let the ground shrink from our tree like lips from teeth when the wolf snar ls and then strikes at his prey; let the hot white valleys swell from thirst, distended bellies growing taut and barren as drums; let the rivers run to an empty ocean where fish gasp and thrash and die. And we will go down into dirt and darkness, be hidden from the sun and the singing of the breeze. We will forget the smel l of summer with her arms upon our bodies; we will cool until our blood stops in our veins.

The Cleaners (excerpt)

Pierc e Pa t el iff

The air is chill and bites the skin making it tense up, ca using muscles to ache. Leaves scattered across the ground shine golden in the moonlit night. Edwin Merce r wa lks with head hung along a sidewalk cluttered with this golden light. His nose drips in the cold air and he wipes it away with his sleeve as his dog Fredrick trots alongside him.

He needed to relax. This wasn't the first fight he and his girlfriend had had before. Actually this was probably fight number two hundred and fift y-sixth. It also wasn't the first time he had wanted to leave and not just for a walk, but for good. Finally get away from all the arguments. There was their flat to think about, the couch, car, and Fredrick as well, but the constant bickering was too much. Life wasn't fun anymore .

As Edwin walked, he muttered. He always did on these walks; not knowing or expecting anyone to listen. Besides his muttering , all that could be heard was his feet as they thumped on the pavement and the click of Frederick's claws. He looked up to watch his dog trot along a bit further and sniff at a bush nearby. There were stars then , millions of little flecks of light, but not the stars you should see in a clear night sky, but the fuzzy ones that appear on your T.V. screen when there is no picture to be seen. He felt himself falling forward and the golden leaves seemed to turn into a glowing molten pool. A piece of paper fell in front of him. It was all slow motion then and he could read the words scrawled on it, "It's taken care of." The stars came back again as he heard Fredri c k yelp. There was darkness then and Edwin Mercer lay enveloped in its embrace.

The flat was on the bottom floor of a three tier house and it was dark and unnerving. Edwin 's shuffled steps moved quietly forward through the front hallway. Everything is dark and quiet. Blood seeps down the side of his head from the attack. The note crumpled up in his fist. For a moment Edwin thinks his vision is going blurry, but realizes it is the glow of a light up ahead.

The house is so quiet ...

... continued on pg 36

Edwin stumbles forward to the door that the light is coming out from under. He knocks a picture off the wall and hears it crash to the floor. Turning the knob, he pushes the door forward and tries to steady himself.

Anna? He thinks.

Hoping to see his girlfriend, he is confronted by something entirely different. A figure streaks across the room in a blur from a group of others. The figure's head expands taking up the whole room. A devilish white face with sharp teeth smiles at him; as the face moves forward it appears to hit Edwin with all its force. He stumbles backward and trips, falling as if he were submerged and sinking in water. He feels his body touch the floor and his eyes catch something there. It's the picture he knocked down, he and his girlfriend at the park with Frederick. He blacks out.

"Misssserrrrrr Merrrr .. .. ."

Light washes in , all blurry, but light. Edwin squints and can see dark splotches breaking up the light.

"Misser Merrr ....... Mister Merrrrrrce ....... Mister Mercer."

He starts to come to a bit more. The dark shapes start to take shape around the edges of his vision. He reaches up and touches his head. It is dry and he can't feel a wound at all. Shocked, he sits up making his head swoon. It takes a few moments, but he is able to regain himself. His vision clears more and he is able to make out his hands and legs. He is on the floor in the middle of a room. The figures start to take shape as well.

There are seven that Edwin can see. They all appear to look similar as if they were fraternal septuplets. They were tall, well built, and each had silvery white hair, but not worn in the same fashion. They all wore the same outfit, each with a white shirt and black slacks; both of which looked incredibly expensive and cut to fit. The white shirt was strange in that it was the purest white Edwin had ever seen and the right arm was longer than it should be. It went down past the hand of each man and had a strange white light that glowed from within the sleeve. The left sleeve was ripped at the elbow exposing the lower part of each arm. There was something strange that Edwin didn't notice at first, but once he got past the fact they all looked and dressed the same it was quite obvious. One single tattered black wing protruded out of the back of the shirt on the right side of each of their backs.

Edwin sat in amazement, not knowing what to believe. There had to be an explanation. It must have been the knock to the head. The blood loss must have

... continued on pg 38

killed him or the intruder at his flat. He must be dead or hallucinating.

It ' s all so strange, he thought to himself.

"Strange?" The sound of the voice made Edwin jump, "What is strange, Mr. Mercer?"

"How do you know my name? Wait!" Edwin blurted without thinking. Not realizing until then that he had never spoken.

"And no, you're not dead," the man said.

He was the man sitting in the middle of all seven and was facing Edwin staring directly into his eyes. The man's own eyes looked as if the irises had fire burning in them. They changed from yellow to red to orange, flickering constantly.

"Do you not recognize the place? This is not the afterlife," the man said.

He grinned then. He had long hair that cut across most of his face making the grin look crooked and menacing. Edwin looked around. He had been too confused to take it all in .

"This is your home, or was your home. These are the things you know, the things that made you, you. These things will be no more, for tonight your wants will be answered . Your dreams will be fulfilled ."

"What do you mean?" Edwin said.

"You asked for this. You wished for a new start .. We have given you one. Do you not think your mumblings were overheard? Your ranting about needing a fresh start? They were, Mr. Mercer. They were heard with the clearest of voice."

The man smiled. The crooked looking grin ran chills down Edwin's spine .

"What does this all mean? Where is my girlfriend? My dog?"

"Your dog is in a better place. Your girlfriend is safe."

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO THEM?!"

" I have answered that question . She is safe and no physical harm will come to them."

Edwin lunges forward and tries to swing at the man. Missing horribly, he finally collapses in tears.

"What are you?! Who are you?!"

The man looks at Edwin and smiles one last time. All seven then flash brightly and seem to meld with the light . Edwin covers his eyes for a moment and they are gone . As the light fades a black feather flutters down and settles on another note in scrawled are the words, "The Cleaners." ... Continued.

Unspoken rhyme

Amb e r Retz lo ff

She sits in the c leari n g,

Letting time pass her by

She noticed th e crea t u re leering.

She sc ram b led, look ing fo r a weapon nearby,

But he was quick and ha rsh, and he came ever nearing.

A rock was in her hand, she stood wa it ing, p repar ing to di e ,

He laughed- - dea t h laughed beside him wi t h a g rin practically c h ee ring .

If she fough t she wou ld not w in, if she ran she'd never get to the o th er sid e

He st a lked closer and closer intent on being t he kill er, but he r eyes sharpened, peering.

A ll a t once h e r statu re changed, this one was not scared and she ra n a t him almost in a gl ide .

Con fid ence was on h is side, the c learing was on hers, as wel l as the darkness that was ever appearing

Th e fight lasted o nl y minu t es befo re he ran, ran t o escape the fe rocity of the g irl and her persona li ty's o th e rside.

Virgin of Guadalupe Tree Shrine

V irg in ia Po lyko

The place is not new for me. My parents lived in a small, cheap apartment when I was born that happened to be about a block away from this park. I used to play in this park with my mother. I went to Head Start at the Central City Center, also on this block. When my sister was born we moved about a mile away to a larger home. This neighborhood, Central City, is different now. It began to become a better neighborhood when Koko Kitchen (a Japanese restaurant) came in across from the park. Koko Kitchen succeeded, bringing foot traffic and commerce into an otherwise highcrime area.

I still live nearby. For three years I worked at an office building downtown. It was about two miles away. I would walk to work every day and would always take 700 south. It was an important ritual for me to pass the Shrine Tree and the Senior Center every day. Every day I could linger at the tree if I left home a little early, and I'd always speak to a senior for whom the pleasantries seemed meaningful. There are usually worshipers at the Shrine Candles or the Altar. Some or all of the candles are lit, if the wind will allow it. I love the little prayers and wishes sometimes sticking out of the tree bark or beneath a candle; sometimes a word may be sticking out far enough to be read without disturbing the privacy of the folded prayer. There is a table covered with candles in glass containers. Each glass container has a vivid spiritual image on it. On the stairs up to the tree there are safety walls. Sometimes there are laminated photos of loved ones, dead or endangered, stuck carefully to the safety walls. Sometimes there are only pictures of saints or flowers. Real flowers are given to the tree, as well as fake ones because they last longer.

I was on my way to the shrine when my mom called. She was coming home early for lunch. She can always sense when I'm about to do something. I go to her house everyday when she is on her lunch so we can talk and enjoy eachother's company. I changed my plans and went to her house instead. I told her about the project - to

visit the shrine and document reaction - and we talked about it her entire lunch. How we used to go to that park all the time when I was little, and how the Koko Kitchen and the discovery of the Virgin Image changed things. She reminded me that I'd started preschool at the Central City Center, which was the Headstart at the time. (I 'd forgotten.)

I told her about the best thing I'd ever seen at the shrine , which made both of our eyes tear up. She said she'd never heard that story before. I explained that it was very private for me, so I hadn't told anyone. We look at her garden. The fullybloomed roses swayed in the wind. She wanted to pick roses for the shrine, she said, but she had to go back to work. I offered to go after she got off work, and she said 'only if you want to'. Very typical of my mom. I waited for her, of course .

My mom came over to my house with a beautiful assortment of roses handpicked from her garden. She looks like a timeless Indio, from any era, all sadness and cheekbones rewrapped in a tye-dyed shirt and jeans. I was playing a video game when she arrived. She waited patiently, bouquet in hand. She sat on the adjacent piece of furniture, her father's chair, while I occupied the couch alone. I notice the subconscious formality, the instinctual politeness that generationally ends with her.

There wasn't much at the shrine on this day. It made me wonder who maintains it and removes old objects. My mom walked up the stairs to the tree, where the other bouquets were. She settled on placing her flowers off the shrine, on one of the candle tables. It was windy, so she packed candles around the roses to hold them up. I had visions of the roses catching fire and setting the whole place ablaze, fulfilling the Maldonado namesake.

Do You Often Walk By Mirrors in the Dark?

A m ber Retz laff

Upon the hour of three I did wake, strangely to the chime of a clock I did not have. Slowly, I sat up as the clock continued to chime and chime; beckoning, beckoning me to investigate. Without a thought I slipped out of bed and walked down the hall as if in a trance. As I walked a mirror I passed, for out of the corner of my eye a strange movement arose and I jumped back into the balcony railing as it advanced. A shadow of a bird pecked and pecked against the glass. The sight I turned to escape to see a window straight across. Back to the mirror I turned to find that the bird had gone. With a small sigh I muttered something about a reflection and started back for bed.

But it came again; the chimes of the clock I did not have, only this time they were louder, harsher. Back down the hallway I stepped and ignored the mirror as I passed, thinking only of my goal of reaching the discordant sound. Closer I got, the brighter the room became until it seemed I had stepped into the sun. The sound called from below, steadier than before, almost pleadingly. Cautiously, I glanced over the railing and gasped in alarm. The floor was no longer a floor, it was a mirrored clock face that reflected the light of the full moon through the glass roof that should not be. The longer I stared the more apparent it became, the shadowy birds appeared on the surface, but as I glanced up to find the source no trace of birds could be found. It was then that I noticed the constant chiming had suddenly come to a stop. And that was when I heard footsteps closing in behind me.

It happened too fast; my turning around, the push from behind, and the railing breaking under my minuscule weight. I fell face first and before I could see the impact the light from the moon blinded my eyes. The bloody thoughts of my body hitting the clock never came reality. And as my eyesight cleared I found myself in a room of mirrored gears and parts; I couldn't even remember hitting the floor. The constant ticking in the background could only mean I was now inside the clock. I looked up thinking I'd see a break in the mirror, but the mirror was gone and instead I found see through glass in its place with no apparent indentation. What I did see

Dawn to Dusk

Elizabeth Jordo n Slade

In the vast and empty landscape

Dwells kaleidoscope of sky

With bleeding inks and purples

Of nature's bruising eye;

Saturated colors stain

Where light approaches dim

And foggy grays, swirl and haze

The earth with heavy scrim;

Soon night approaches as a steed

With coat both black and cold

Only to reveal on sight

A hide well flecked with gold;

So fathers bolt and brace their doors

And little children cry

Just one more story, one more!

And in their sleep the y die.

Innocence

Jacob Rea tegu i

Foot flopping,

Asphalt dropping,

Down and around rhythm ,

Up then twirl,

Then gallop up and become a horse.

West Europe Cleft

Virgin ia Pa lyka

He's got the West Europe Cleft.

I don't really know what it's called, the stiff divide between two coarse sides of the face . He's hunched over i r loved him again, he'd reveal it all. Surrender my location for a moment of interest in her eyes.

My name won't ever change. Carry a different family brand, no longer In Orbit or a field or a straight line but sometimes it tempts me as a price I'd pay

To quit running escape

Just another Great Depression apartment complex, columns and granite stairs chipped Wanton Timeless song like smoke from paned windows. Dimly natural lit, matches in flight on a nightrest, drawer gaping with jammed stolen goods. House a war of Classical and Trash scorn and glamour

So here's the scene: He'd tell her, silence hanging on to the chance she'd care but she wouldn't she wouldn't

You'd give me away to the reaction of Smirk, Lip Twitch, Cigarette, Shrug; smoldering eyes, dead words for a minion. Dominion Mine. Heatsink needed for heartsink deeper

Ninety Words Per Minute, crashing without rhythm against muterock

I'm sorry, Druid, I'm keeping my gypsy secrets

Precious Little 11

Ra ina Br ig ht

Precious little , it all seems now

I thought there would be more

Time, somehow

As the crusted parchment falls away

From the once-dead bulb

Springing forth each May

Like the bear in sleep as thick as death

Who wakes at once

On winter's last gasping breath

You would be as an ember

Drifting toward oblivion

Then at last touching cloth

To ignite and burn on

Or not unlike

The captured fly-

Enshrined in ice

But still doesn't die

For you though, love ,

There will be no spring

No rebirth

Like some perennial thing

Your sleep shall be final

As a well that's run dry

No more can I change this

Than I can move stars in the sky

So, powerless, I concede

Death has won this bout

His blows a reminder

To love fiercely who I'll soon be without

Masterpiece

The resa deO li ve ira

No matter how many things have changed I can't stop harshly painting with wild heavy van Gogh strokes and I still want to unfocus everything and let the bright world melt into a Monet dream but now I think I can also understand and sing Dali 's bewitched song dance with the chaotic intimacy of an in co mplete Rodin and honestly express things in bizarre Cezanne tones and now I know life is the meaningful intensity of Picasso 's blues and even he profoundly appreciated roses in the same way I can appreciate ho w every moment has the potential to be a masterpiece

The Dash or Light into Darkness

Gary H. Howard

If all of life is a getting ready

For the opening of doors

And your smile

Lofting there

At the ends of streets

In buildings

In starry mists

In the music of wind

I advanced down an infinite corridor

Remembering the murmurs of whispers

Of sighs of sacred silent moments

There your wings

Held me fast

Between two doors

One open and one just blinking

As if along a runway

Doors speeding faster

Your voice elongated

Like a kite threaded along an echo

A neverending ascent to existence

I sought an arm your eye

Any syllable of certainty

Between the arc of Doors swinging shut

And the penetrability Of light through a crack

Continuing onward

Always the tantalizing question, Will there be darkness Before I can see it?

Remembrance (excerpt)

M iche lle Fow ler

Characters:

Woman- Anywhere from the range of 20-50

Friend- Male or Female around the same age as Woman

Friend: I thought you said nothing was better.

Woman: That 's right. Nothing is better than emptiness; so I will hold onto it.

Friend: What do you want?

Woman: To be left alone with my emptiness. (Friend stands and begins to walk away) Don't leave me!

Friend: You said ...

Woman: I want to be left alone with my emptiness. (Friend freezes in shadow) Don't you understand? You are my emptiness! You can never leave.

Friend: But you'll feel better...

Woman : No! (Friend tries to speak) I said no! Emptiness cannot speak; it has no voice.

(Lighting shifts to reveal a cafe table)

Friend: (Friend speaks in a ne w tone, happy cheerful as though previous conversation had not occurred) Why doesn't this look lovely! Come, take a seat; he ' ll be along shortly no doubt.

Woman : (seats herself, friend remains standing) I'd like some water while I wait.

(pause)

Thank you.

Friend: How refreshing. And the flowers are so bright today.

Woman: They always were.

Friend: He will come today. I'm certain of it.

Woman: But look at the clock. I've been wa iting for t wo hours now and he's not come.

Friend: Wait a little longer.

Woman: There is a note now.

Friend: Yes, a boy brought it to you. What does it say?

Woman: He could not stay; he had to leave now.

Friend: No more?

Woman : No, no real explanation. I' ll never see him again. (looks at Friend angrily and stands) Then you came ! You burrowed your hole into my heart!

Friend: I came because you stopped.

Woman: Stopped what?

Friend: Living.

(Lighting shifts casting the table in darkness. Woman takes her first position on the floor)

Woman : (sighs) I loved him, more than any woman has ever loved before, I'd say.

Friend: Look out the window.

Woman: What?

Friend: Look out the window. It's about time you do.

Woman: I don ' t want to; he ' s not there.

Friend: How can you be sure if you don't look?

Woman: He left me.

Friend: Maybe he came back.

Woman: (stands and slowly peers out the window) I told you he wasn ' t there! Why? Why did you make me look? It hurts too much to look!

Friend: What did you see?

Woman: Not him.

Friend: But you did see something .

Woman: I don't want to see.

Friend: (sighs) I suppose you're not ready. How long will you wait?

Woman: Forever.

QJ +-'

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