English Journal #11

ENGLISH JOURNAL #11 (1.11) he Gunnery Th Washin ngton, Connectiicut

ENGLISH JOURNAL #11 (1.11) cover art by Danielle Tunkel Fight by Craig Wyszomirski……………………………………………………………………………………………….…1 Two Poems by Veronica McStocker……………………………………………………………………………………..2 The Fan by KT McVeigh………………………………………………………………………………..……………………4 Three by Kirsten Bouthiller …………………………………………………………………………………………………5 Jabberwocky pt. 2 by Cecilia Young…………………………………………………………………………….…………8 What is true cleanliness? by Graham Pough………………………………………………………………..………10 Journal entry by Lauren Castaldi…………………………………………………………………………………….……11

Illustration by Karen Layman………………………………………………………………………………………………12 Poems by Parrish Young…………………………………………………………………………….………………………13 Rust by Zack Bodnar……………………………………………………………………………….…………………………15 Poem by Corey Tesch…………………………………………………………………….………….………………………16 Four Poems by KT McVeigh………………………………………………………………………………………………17 Poems by Karen Layman……………………………………………………………………………………………………21 dialogic interlude/coffee break by Nellie Simmons……………………………………………………………..…22

Illustration by Nellie Simmons………………………………………………………………………………………….…23 Poem by Zack Bodnar……………………………………………………………………………………………………….24 Christmas by Kirsten Bouthiller……………………………………………………………………………………..……26 Journal entry by Kirsten Bouthiller………………………………………………………………………………………28 Lies by Whitney Thompson………………………………………………………………………………………….……30 What I’ve Done by Danielle Tunkel……………………………………………………………………………………31 Top of the News by Manolo Gonzalez…………………………………………………………………………………32 A Letter by Manolo Gonzalez……………………………………………………………………..………………………34

Photo by Falon Moran……………………………………………………………………….………………………………36 Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi…………………………………………………………………………………..……37 Elephant Drinking by Danielle Tunkel……………………………………………………………………………..…40 Green Elephants by Morgaine Wasserman…………………………………………………………………………..41 Houston I miss you by Leyla Mansur…………………………………………………………………………………..42 Exam Poem by Janine Prokscha…………………………………………………………………………….……………43

English Journal is The Gunnery’s midyear literary journal. Content may be shared with the school’s formal end-of-year literary publication, the Stray Shot. The Journal’s intranet site can be found in the Class Pages area of MOSS. The site is intended to allow students and faculty to share creative writing and literary critical work as it is being presented, revised, and completed. All back issues of the English Journal can be found at the Arts / Student Work area of gunnery.org. The editors for 2010-2011 are the Advanced Creative Writing class: Jennie Archer, Kirsten Bouthiller, Lauren Castaldi, Yuya Kawahara, Karen Layman, Taylor Liebersohn, Leyla Mansur, KT McVeigh, Mary Seaman, Nellie Simmons, Whitney Thompson, Danielle Tunkel, Morgaine Wasserman, Craig Wyszomirski, and Nick Benson. Our thanks for technical and material support go to Anna Kjellson, B.J. Daniels, Frank Perrella, and Maggie Bucklin.

Fight by Craig Wyszomirski Hands up Hit me Your first shot Hit me I counter Fist like rocks Breathe And move Breathe And move Watch me dance with my fists A violent groove Adrenaline My drug Feel pain no more one hit your eye you see no more Stronger I am Why did you start this I finish You're done Why am I heartless You lie there I watch Next thought: to run Myself I look What have I done

English Journal 11 (2011)

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Two Poems by Veronica McStocker Two Two gold scales Suspended symmetrically Equal and even, balanced A penny shifts to the opposite side One falls lower The hinge decamps The pennies spill Into one collection The yin and yang with clean black and white lines Absence of all vision at night, a black hole Blinding sunshine steals your vision in a white hot flash Amalgam of the two appears What is left? Gray.

Sunshine coruscating from the sun Rain cascading from the clouds A vision of color appears Challenge of balance Mingling of opposites Neutralized separates A new entity

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1850 Idealism is defined As unrealistic The foolish pursuit of the impossible But how is what is ideal, impossible?

Can you not learn through play?

Why must learning through play be a paradoxical concept?

Why is nature not a staple in everyone’s lives?

Why must we be So Far Removed From what feels Natural?

How does everyone not take graceful walks, Saunters Deep in the forests Use our own two feet to get to where we are going Learn through our emotions Our experiences Learn by looking at live trees Green in their glory Instead of flattened out Dead trees Bound together With a thin layer of gloss Produced miles away From where the tree was born And taken from its home Uprooted Is that idealistic?

Or is that The way things are meant To be?

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The Fan by KT McVeigh I used to turn it on to drown out your snoring Those random little screams and German exclamations you’d leak in your sleep Urgent moans you’d emit every time I closed my eyes I don’t think I got through one night without hearing you, Before I got that fan And then I couldn’t sleep without it Even after you stopped talking to yourself I convinced myself I needed it And became accustomed to the sound of it And turning it on meant it was finally time to pass through To my beautiful second life Where I was home and my mom was in the kitchen cooking something that wasn’t intended to feed 400 people and I would lie down in my room in complete darkness with the stars on my ceiling and consider that, cosmically, I may be completely worthless and that my life might begin and end without notice, but right where I was, I was happy.

Maybe this is all just a dream.

Do you ever think that what you think is happening isn’t even there?

What if the only things real are the things that you feel?

What if death is the end of the dream And you wake up on the other side Surprise! The state of your hair was a joke And the clothes that you wore were a lie Then something as simple as my mom downstairs Is so wonderful it makes me want to cry.

And it was July At my grandmother’s house And my sister turned on the fan And suddenly, unexplainably, there were tears in my eyes And I was begging her to turn it off! Turn it off, please Because I was in my old room with her Eyes wide open in the dark Trying to imagine myself away Listening to its dull whir And now, tonight With so much left to do It has only seemed fitting since I arrived to have the fan on But the truth is, I am alone And I reach up and flip the switch without a second thought And it turns slowly and abruptly I am encompassed by this silence so loud I feel like I’m swimming through jello And since day one The fan was white noise.

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Three byy Kirsten Bou uthiller Rain

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Journal Entry

The three most important resources of life are love, journals, and nature.[1] It was four o’clock, and mid-October. As the doors to the bus gave way, I stepped into the dying world. Orange, red, brown, and faint green leaves littered the ground. Beginning my trek through the private way that cut a path in the thickly wooded forest, I felt a slight breeze that brought a chill up and down my spine. The smell of decaying Earth filled my nostrils. The nostalgia that followed occurred every time. A flashback of memories. Halloween when I was four, running down the crowded street as Princess Leah, being a bumble bee at the age of two, a ninja at the age of ten. Pumpkin-picking with the family and getting lost in the corn fields. Raking leaves from dawn to dusk because when you live in the forest those sorts of things happen. I continued walking down the isolated road. The sun shone down through the canopy above, bringing the dead leaves a whole new life. The sound of the calm lake, the water rolling up onto the shore and lapping against the rock walls found its way up into my ears. A calling – but I had other plans. As the road began to bend after a steep slope downwards, my eyes searched for it. The brush was thick but it was in there. Somewhere. I could hear the water running and see the dip in the road where it flooded the previous year. Dropping my backpack to the ground, I began to clear the brush with my hands and found myself beside a small brook. The water flowed quick and was perfectly clear. I always find myself standing here, standing on a stone wall that divides the brook, the forest, and the lake all at once. Sometimes I don’t think, while other times I cannot stop. Once, during the winter when I was fifteen, a blizzard raged on for a week but the argument with my parents drove me outside to find myself again. I lay in the snow looking up through the canopy, watching the white snow fall silently. The only sound was the wind through the trees and the echoing as bubbles burst below the ice with a loud, eerie noise. I stood there, looking at the brook, forest, and lake. I chased the frogs, caught big trout, and climbed every tree. And when my mom would call me home for dinner, I would linger for that extra five minutes because nothing feels more like home than the forest where you found yourself.

[1] A variation on John Burroughs’s statement, in “The Art of Seeing Things,” in which he names books, friends, and nature.

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Elegy (an interview of some sort) Where do you go when you want to be alone?

I crawl deep inside of myself hoping to never be found.

If you could be anything in the world, what would you be?

To be alive in this hopeless sea. And what about you?

What do you think? Do you think there is more to all of this?

I would like to say I do not know or have the faintest clue but you are onto something to say the least.

And is this life nothing more than lonesome thoughts, silent walks, and a hunger to become complete?

Do you know what I mean?

It is a tad absurd, and perhaps on the side of dark and dreary, but this is a life that I assure you must be worth living.

Would you sacrifice for a loved one?

A loved one would be nice, if only this stone heart could feel an emotion as filling and true as this that you have mentioned.

Do you find yourself questioning your existence, often?

Often, I do. And why do you think?

I think so I can know and believe the thoughts in my head.

You know that is not what I meant, but of course. Now, answer it truly, Why do you think you are so incredibly alone?

I can only blame myself, it is coming down to the sole fact that for so incredibly long, I have hounded down that in which I love the most and now I realize he is gone like a kite with the string cut on a windy day No, I cannot cry. I am much too old for child’s play.

Your only regret?

Not having the courage to tell him all that I had to say.

(after Gunnar Ekelöf)

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Jabberwocky pt. 2 by Cecilia Young Knowing not from whence it came And loathe to question the mad beast so Townsfolk in their homes ne’er felt safe But pained to keep their hearthfires aglow Not harm nor hurt was this beast’s cause Just to warm beside a fire He would not leave, nor even pause But nay, the townsfolk would conspire The crier hastened upon his mount But could not reach his liege in time The monster, as some would recount The perpetrator of the crime Horridly crumbling, their sire gone The peasants knew not whither Forlorn faces stretched and wan But soon a champion arose thither The beast, they said, it grows and grows!

Said others, yon monster was unseen Elusive creature none may know Of sharp reflexes and senses keen Their champion, said they, would conquer and slay The creature lacking slightest chance Lo, the champion fled one day The disheveled town left quite askance And now, sobbed they, no hope, just pain!

Must our leaders leave us so?

If only the monster had been slain ‘Fore the hero decided to go Most devoid of resolution Plagued townsfolk moped and moaned But a bright mind with a revelation Would save the burg; one mind alone I know no two who’ve “seen” this beast And described him the same way Not surprised in the least Rumor flies, so they say 8

This fabled beast born of one disturbed mind Was turning the town to shambles But there was no truth to find In the madman’s drunken rambles And so blind belief, fear and sorrow Disheartened those with and without power Courage, not something one could borrow And so the weaker were left to cower Month after month in the dark The bright mind struggled for words The environment getting increasingly stark Shepherds failing to tend their herds The mind would not stray from his task But try harder as days went on Wearing thin the monsters mask From dawn till dusk and dusk till dawn Until one day when it was said In hushed tones from ear to ear The frightening beast finally fled; That fear that festered year to year In the very end the truth revealed Left man and child alike aghast The fear of the beast, believed concealed Was far, so far, into the past The greedy men who came to power Observed the peoples’ weaknesses And hiding in their lofty towers Adding to the peasants’ stresses The physical beast had never existed Just a figment, fear or thought Though his form had been insisted Remember all heroes had fled, not fought

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What is true cleanliness? by Graham Pough What is true cleanliness?

In an attempt to disinfect our world We fail to see that we are the true virus.

Slowly yet steadily we are making our planet more and more sick.

We already see symptoms of the disease that we are causing.

Yet we persist in acting the way that we do.

We used to be just another one of the creatures that served that land, But we have become monsters that force the land to serve us.

What is truly Natural?

Nothing is natural anymore.

Many people take pride in the trees being planted around campuses and parks.

I find it more disgusting than a highway or a city block.

At least concrete perversions of the planet accept themselves to be so.

But many places attempt to cover their ugly face.

They do this by planting grass.

They do this by planting trees.

They do this by laying out hedges.

But this grass is always cut to look like a clean carpet.

These trees are always arranged so as not interfere with anything “important” such as roads or buildings.

These hedges are not allowed to grow, but instead shaped.

What is true beauty?

In the eyes of the universe, people are not beautiful.

Humanity is not beautiful.

There is no comparison between Jennifer Aniston and a lush forest.

Yet society cuts one to the ground, And promotes the other.

Why? Why? Why? I cannot provide an answer to this question.

For there isn’t one.

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Journal entry by Lauren Castaldi My youth was spent marveling at and living in nature.

Walking up my driveway and seeing for the first time that fall, the mysterious mushrooms sprouting through the cracks of my driveway. My brother and I would anxiously anticipate the appearance of these unusually large and oddly placed plants, which for all the years of our youth walking to the bus stop, never failed to sprout. A ritual learned from our mother, we would wait until they grew to their full potential and then make a show of dancing and stomping on them, watching green fumes cloud around the pile of broken mushrooms. Puffy mushrooms we used to call them, because of the strange puff of green haze that exploded when they were crushed.

Weaving through the secret world of the woods in my backyard with my neighbor, looking for the perfect spot for a fort. Every fall a new one was built, in a new location with a new purpose.

Gathering braches and twigs, and moving old furniture to be exposed to the elements of weather.

We made secret undercover entrances, slowly built up these forts and eventually were completely enclosed in our private second world. Living in a home of nature, returning to civilization when we were pried back into our homes.

Catching dragonflies by day and fireflies by night. Mark and I would run through our field letting dragonflies crawl over our hands, comparing color and length and beauty of each. Naming them and giving them homes in our backyard, thinking those we saw the next day of the same color were the same dragonflies. By night, scanning the tree line for the flicker of light that exposed our prey. Running to the spot the light once was and standing still and silent until its next time to light up. Slowly we caught them and kept them for a few hours, releasing them when it was time to go inside.

Pretending to be lions when it snowed. Crawling on our hands and knees, protected by bulging snow gear through the mountains of our backyard. Naming rocks on the hillside and sneaking through paths we forced through the trees. Turning treacherous slopes into safe slides in the blanket of snow. Making lion homes in the hills and snow banks, living out lives of these animals until we were frozen, shaking, and so wet we were forced inside.

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Kiliara Celegria is the Goddess of Death in the world of Areitta.

She is often o surprisingly funny f and her hobb bies include smirkking evilly and savinng mortals she likes.

Materials M used: penccil and paper and P Photoshop CS.

Kiliara Celegria and StarC Chaser (C) Karen L Layman "Tei Raven en"

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Poems by Parrish Young Let it pour and flow Or else it will only grow Freedom in fury Volatile regret will not allow me to let go of your white skin Smile with burning cheeks As we slowly fade to gray Color stays the same Theology This Benediction Swallows my venomous tongue My final outlet Heavenly father Your words have been ill of late Do not forsake me Rosary in hand I pray for your forgiveness My faith cannot wane Rational thought looms Derailing divinity Finally I wake

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Ascent Ambiguity and dread do not decree That I will die before I wake So as I delve into mediocrity There are several vows which I must take With swollen hands I sweat and grope Crawling to climb the musty stair As fatigue looms I boldly hope For a rational summit devoid of prayer My sweat is cold as fear decays Dotting my brow and dripping down Lucidity destroys the feeble haze Cut with a blade, not making a sound

What shall bemoan these transient years?

A poignant fallacy falls on deaf ears.

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Rust by Zack Bodnar He sits there, the rusty old man Leaning over the long oaken table Working on the eternal puzzle, the same one he's done for all his life The box says one thousand pieces He has only seven hundred and thirty two Even so, he continues to work on it Long into the night The obsessions of those who are approaching death.

What in truth is reality, Is it the truth of our lives, or is it simply the lies of our dreams Are we ever really able to tell the difference Will we ever find the pieces to finish this puzzle Questions, like the ocean Erode away at our lives, at our defenses Until we fall to the desperation of time And become rusty ourselves.

Many nights gone: alone Trying so hard to not let go of the ropes Under so much stress, life becomes a bonding agent And the force to live become a commodity Always giving to others: friendship Never feeling a return on the investment: broke Isn't there someone who knows the economy of relationships Is there no one who will give that one gift freely.

The rusty man stands up at last Reminiscing about a past that was never his The reality fades and his wrinkles return to smooth skin The rust is gone, and he is transported back to himself The dream of falsity, a reality of life Living through both in hopes of finding an answer Desperate to remove this debt from my life I leave the rusty man where he belongs...

In the lie.

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Poem by Corey Tesch Sharp intimidating spears of hair curl freely on the upper lip of the rugged soldier fighting for the empire against hunger summarized with a golden M A specialist in obliterating the enemy Hunger with weapons including a salt-covered shovel and coded intel like the feared Number 7 His forehead glistens with rolling beads of french fry oil And he dodges the pressures of success Returning home shell-shocked, crippled Only to give more service And all the while, seeping into his pores the greasy embryos Of future social embarrassment

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Four Poems by KT McVeigh Cornfield I navigated around the first few trenches and began to run Blood pounding through my ears Mud splattering the backs of my legs I stopped and lifted my face to the sky And screamed as loud as I possibly could Fists clenched My whole body shook with the effort My throat ached as my voice grew hoarse But it didn’t even echo.

No birds flew out of the trees And I realized with a chill that I was closer to the woods than the road And I sprinted back to the car My dad didn’t say anything, we just drove away I made him pull over to a cornfield that day But it wasn’t profound I sat in the backseat Panting Adrenaline pumping through my veins Feeling as empty as before.

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Ghost I think Maybe A little bit of pain is a motivator Like rolling out of bed feeling stiff And you walk around with your welded hips It’s a catalyst Well the ghost came to me again last night I was sitting in my bed Which was pushed out so there was nothing protecting my head In the middle of the room Stationary floater in the nebulous womb I sat above the sheets Knees flat against the mattress And I felt the cold touch of death press against my flesh Instantly in my mind I recoiled in terror And fled for the sheets But that would have disheartened him So I stayed and I let the cold fingers move up my leg And I stared at the spot where I knew he was Because I knew he was staring at me Reaching out to me Subtly I’m intrigued But I’ve had enough And it ends.

But when the sun goes down so do human sounds The only thing that keeps me safe When they’re gone, it’s him and me And then it begins He cracks inside the walls He writhes a thin board away from my head A layer of plaster ‘Twixt me and the dead I ask myself Why me?

I’m not that interesting Is it because I’m receptive?

I’m allowing you to unravel some spectral truth That I’ve always suspected but never could prove You’re leading me to your mystery I’m afraid you’re decaying somewhere nearby But I’m not the one Please, not me 18

The Sea I’m sitting on the beach With my legs out in front of me, bent at the knees And my hands propping me up on the damp sand And the red sun will never set It’s stamped into the sky The waves beat against each other They are capped with white Their friction is a furious motion But they just fall into each other They just sink and become one They are the way things are They are the way it is They are not beautiful They are charming They have an abysmal charm Like a long finger bending into itself I watch you, waves The shore is round and black The sea goes on forever Forever is the sea I am a dot on the edge of the sea *

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I am in our room With the thin velvet blanket Which was a sort of pea green And there were seagull decals on the sliding glass door And there were shells we collected in the ashtray on the porch And the floors were smooth, flat, white rock tiles bigger than my head at the time And the porch was a box on the side of the building And if you pressed your nose against the screen it went out of focus and you could see the ocean But the camera could only do that once or twice And those are the pictures I’ve misplaced that are burned into my memory Of the blinding white sun with the orange and pink and purple and navy And the black silhouette of the osprey in the nest at the top of the palm tree The sun sliding down into the sea How it looked like a runny egg To me But now that I’ve written this down I’m going to forget it Because I’ve somehow subconsciously given myself that permission Up until now I’ve had to regularly summon back that memory Those sensory details And picture myself there English Journal 11 (2011)

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So I wouldn’t forget So it would stay etched in my mind forever That scene Of sitting on that bed And feeling those cool tiles beneath my little feet And pushing back the curtains and….

That smell When I push back the curtains, my nostrils flare and I deeply inhale the something that should be there In my memory I can expect it The sweet aroma of somewhere I haven’t been in years But there’s nothing That’s the saddest thing The saddest thing of all is that I can’t remember the smell Only when I smell it Which I did recently And I fell back against the wall and I felt like I couldn’t breathe Because I don’t know what causes the smell It’s unidentifiable with anything but that apartment And when I smell it, there I am I am in our room with the orange juice carton and the low chandelier above the round kitchen table And the counter and the stove and the closet full of beach supplies The umbrellas and the plastic molds of crabs and sandcastle molds and buckets and shovels and the boogie boards and the blow-up raft And the blueberry muffins Dad used to bring home for breakfast And the fridge and the bathroom with the light above the mirror and the TV in the middle of the room where we’d watch the Disney channel And Mommy and Daddy’s room that was always dark and like a cave And the carpet and the closet and the must and the shades And the sound of our steps echoing down the hallways as we ran And the smell of outside with the palm trees And Uncle Bob’s And the ice cream And the red trolley And the pointy #1 necklace Daddy hid under the rock for me And the pirates and the other kids and the grass and the sun and the birds and the fishing poles and the smiles and the waves and the laughing, always laughing And the thin velvet blanket on my bed Which was a sort of pea green But softer, sweeter And comforting And my bright runny egg, sliding down into the sea And the smell of the curtains Which is gone.

And if fate doesn’t happen to direct me to where it lingers I might never know that smell again 20

Poems by Karen Layman

Upon Reading Haiku/Commandments/Adamant Admonishments--Haiku I apologize For how terribly I just Failed at speaking

Presentations--Waka You look quite confused.

Did you not expect comments?

That was really good, And someone should tell you so.

(Anything to talk to you...)

Sonnet Perhaps I am crazy—I see things, I hear things.

I remember my dreams with startling clarity, Wonderful, chaotic tangles of people and various other strings But the real and mundane? I only bother with them rarely But I’m not the only one—I can’t be There must be someone, somewhere Who is “weirder” than me.

Or do all of us “weirdoes” live in our own castles in the air?

Maybe we’re all insane— “We’re all mad here” Every one of us, running around and raising Cain Each in our own right a chevalier And a hoper, and a schemer— Or perhaps I’m merely a chronic daydreamer.

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dialogic interlude/coffee break by Nellie Simmons So who are you?

I'm not really sure. I go by a few names. Char, Charlie, Nells, Baja...and for a time, Ryann.

What would you like us to call you?

I suppose Nellie is good. That's how many know me. So yeah, Nellie.

Okay, Nellie it is. So what do you want us to know? well...I'm drinking Pirate Death Coffee...I don't know if anyone really cares, but I am.

Pirate Death Coffee? What is it?

Well, I'm not sure. It's....deathly.

It sounds strong.

It is...It's strong enough to let you fight off a pirate attack...or, join one. At least, that's what I've been told.

But it's like...1:45 in the afternoon....you realize that, right?

Oh yes. Yes, I am fully aware of the time. Are you aware of what time it REALLY is?

Um...excuse me?

The real time. Are you aware?

Um...yes, of course. Anyway, let's continue, shall we?

Of course not. We have to drink our Pirate Death Coffee first.

But...can't you drink it and talk at the same time?

Oh yes, I'm sure I can. The question is, can you?

Can I what? Drink and talk?

No, of course you can't. They allow you to drink on the job? What kind of people are your employers?

Uhm...no, I mean...wait...what? Who's conducting this interview anyway? You or me?

You or me? Or you or I? Which shall we be? I am, of course. Here, drink this, it will help.

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What is it? i I told you u, Pirate Deaath Coffee. Real pirates don't d cry. Coome on now, get it togeth her.

viper byy Nellie Simmoons

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Poem by Zack Bodnar Reach out: Break out!

The doom of a heart Single Alone Bring me the peace offered by time Split it into fifths So that a bygone era can be sought Such is a promise made: to seek Let the ears be told to listen Let the spoken words hear my thought I am not what I am thought Lord knows I know not a thing But this shell The tortoise my friendly sacrifice Bring an end, paint this world in sepia For that is the only shade that the world can possibly ever perceive in a society that knows not the shame of a thousand lost droplets.

Goat, upon your golden altar Why destroy what is thought of as beauty When we willingly submit to a broken head Don't fret the shit Broken terminal A flight to fantasy Dragons aren't what you think Monsters eat only the good stuff Think After you act And Shakespeare will sing you a song worth reading Lost, lost in a mind not being The presence of people breaks the mood They cannot read the song of life and I am not what I am thought And the dreams of those hundreds knowing the same as I will lead this world to a reckoning upon which only the smiles of sheep can quell the thirst.

A trilogy, almost done Let these words ring sounds to the sea of guilt Let those whose pain is brought by pleasure Understand the sympathy at hand When a cliff Fall Drop down like the elevator Fifth floor: pillows This is my stop and the sea looks so promising 24Â Â

The hydra and the mermaid await my promising return I am not what I am thought And I beckon those to follow to the end Or is it the other way The act is over Peace And as the falling leaves from trees never seen in forests beyond the imagination speak to us of our reality, let the weak know that the strong shall perish in their __

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Christmas by Kirsten Bouthiller Sometimes the wind blows fast though lately, it seems to only be slow The haunting chill of winter’s downfall Freezing all around us But open your eyes, Can you believe what you see?

It is a miracle, perhaps Our life wrapped up in a box Sitting quietly below the tree And do you believe that we only, truly live once?

What if it were twice?

Thrice if we were lucky Would you feel that, that bond, that feelingThat whatever we call this...

Family.

Would you remember if it were gone?

If it were to disappear like a snap And all those familiar faces Faded into the darkness creeping and crawling in the black shadows of your mind.

Would you remember if you saw my face after not knowing me at all?

Would you feel the heaviness as the white blanket falls?

But do you believe what you see, the pure white snow The Angel’s halo that glows The twinkle in my, your child’s shining eye 26

As I say, “What do you say, Dad? Shall we take one more step, One more leap into the unknown?

I’ll only jump if I know I’m not alone.”

You will stand, take hold my hand Face the darkness and say, “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.”

Light will prevail and fall swiftly upon us.

We will see what once frightened us and face it courageously Because never would I want to face the unknown If I had to do it alone.

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Journal entry by Kirsten Bouthiller I roll out of bed and stumble onto the hard, roughly carpeted floor. Cold and tired, my head is already throbbing. It is too early for this. Just found out that Andrew took the car last night so I can’t drive up to see Sean. Awesome. Oh, and now I’m in a screaming fight with my mom over her letting Andrew take the car. Lovely. My eye feels like it’s going to pop out of my head. Called Sean and he can’t drive down because he has to “paint the deck” like he’s had to all summer. If I want to see him I’ve got to drive myself up there. No, Mom and Dad won’t drive me. I’ll call Andrew, see when he’s getting home. He’s not up yet? You have got to be kidding me. A slight twinge crosses through my stomach and I begin to feel nauseous. Two hours later, after being in a terrible mood and wanting to both cry and kill someone, Andrew pulls into the driveway. He informs me that he’s going back to town anyway but I tell him that I’m driving because I need to get there NOW. He tosses me the keys while I mutter angrily under my breath. Head still about to explode, I weave through traffic at speeds that shouldn’t be discussed. When I finally make it to his house, I see that he hasn’t even pulled out the stain for the deck. I walk into the house and am relieved to see him. My body instantly relaxes. We play rock band for a bit until he has to tune drums for his dad. While he tunes drums, I play computer games. My headache only worsens from staring at the computer screen until it reaches a breaking point. I leave my computer on the coffee table and join Sean sitting on the floor. Trying to keep my cool, I smile. Do you need a hand? He’s angry. The drum he has to fix up is missing an important part, though I have no idea what he’s talking about.

As he keeps ranting, tears stream down my face because the stomach has flipped and my head is pounding. He picks me up and puts me on the couch. Take a nap. What I thought would only be an hour at the most of a nap turned into four. I wake up at seven p.m. on his couch to the sound of a movie he's watching and the smell of lasagna in the oven. Feel better? A little, I guess. Not really though. Join me, I’m watching a movie. What movie? Not sure, but it’s really good. Okay, when’s dinner? Mom, Dad! When’s dinner? In ten minutes. In ten minutes. Great, I’m so hungry.

Get over here and watch this movie with me. As I watch, my eyes feel heavy and I lose my appetite. His parents call us in to the kitchen for dinner. We sit down and his parents dish out our food, I try to manage it down. Excuse me for just a moment. I bolt to the bathroom. Reach for the sink knob and the toilet at once. All the water I drank down found its way back up. You’re okay.

You are okay. I walk back into the kitchen and act like nothing happened. Don’t be rude, you’ve got to eat. I barely eat half my plate. After dinner, Sean and I walk outside briefly. We sit in the driveway looking at the stars. I think I’m sick. Why’s that? This is kind of really embarrassing... I feel like I’m going to puke. Are you alright? Well... during dinner... Oh no, you were sick weren’t you? I mean, sort of? How do you feel now? Awful. How about we go inside and you lie down a bit more. Okay. We begin to walk to his back door. One step. Two steps. Don’t puke, please don’t puke. Steady your head, clear your mind. You’re fine. YOU ARE FINE. Um, I’ll see you inside. I run up the stairs and into the bathroom. It literally feels like my stomach is flipping itself inside out. A demon roars from the depths of my chest. Hot tears flow down my cheeks.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, Sean is standing in the middle of his kitchen staring at me. Uh, are you alright? Not really. Do you feel any better? I never want to eat lasagna again. You’ve got quite the demon in your stomach. He laughs. I crack a half smile. Don’t make that demon mad at you.

Okay, pukey. Stop, you’re so mean. You’re the one who threatened to puke on me. Your point?

So, do you want to finish that movie? Can we just hang out and not listen to loud noises? Yeah, sure. We lie on the couch. My phone rings. It's my parents. Hello? I don’t think I can drive myself home, Mom. No, I’m sick. No, no, my head hurts so bad. Yes, Mom. I have to go. I’ll call you 28

back. Hey Sean, can you call my mom back? Uh sure, and say what? Explain to them that I’m sick. Are you alright? Yeah, I’ll... I’ll be back. ...

I called your mom, Andrew is going to come pick you up. He’s going to meet up with your dad at Ruby road, and he’ll take you home. How do you feel? Better. My cheeks are hot and flushed.

Tears running quickly. I’m sorry. For what? For this being our last time hanging out before you leave. Hey, don’t worry about it. I love you. I love you too. I am so tired. Then sleep. And so, I slept. Waking up alone at home.

English Journal 11 (2011)

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Lies by Whitney Thompson You walk into the room with an empty look on your face I bet you’re wondering if I’m going to tell mom You look at me, and stare, trying to figure out what my next move is I slowly get up from my chair My face is moist from the tears You try to say something to me but nothing comes out Mom gives us both a weird look I feel so nauseous I just walk out of the room without even saying goodbye As I get into my car, you hold the door open In a gentle tone you beg me to not say anything I tell you to fuck off, and that you are dead to me You get on your knees and start to cry In the pit of my stomach I can feel a burning I know you’re sorry, I know you’re hurting But what about mom?

Can you truly keep this a secret from her for the rest of your life?

Are you going to make me do that for you too?

I look at you coldly, and then shut the door As I drive away I can see your face in my rear view mirror Pure sadness and disappointment surrounds your eyes

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What I’vve Done by Danielle D Tun nkel

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Top of the News by Manolo Gonzalez Valentino De La Mancha, 18, was killed yesterday in a series of the most unfortunate events. At approximately 2am he was driving his black Mercedes-Benz down Santa Monica Boulevard, with passengers Kleo Viterelli and Neguisa Bostani, when they struck a speeding, red SmartCar as they made a left turn on the intersection of Santa Monica and Beverly Glen. No one in the Mercedes or the Smartcar was injured but the SmartCar was completely destroyed. The driver of the red SmartCar escaped with cuts and bruises, and literally, we mean ‘escape.’ It turns out the driver of the SmartCar, an unidentified red-headed man, had stolen the car from the parking lot of Kisses– n-Hugs Children’s restaurant, located on Wilshire Boulevard and Barrington. With the police already chasing him, he made a run for it after the collision, and was finally apprehended hours later hiding behind an empty Blockbuster, a place where ‘no one would go and find him’.

When the police arrived on the scene, merely seconds after the crash and after the unidentified man escaped, they discovered that De La Mancha, as well as his passengers, were all completely naked inside the vehicle.

“They said they were Canadian,” explained Officer Guadalajara, who was at the scene. “There ain’t no law against driving while on the naked in Cali, so we just lettem go, esay.”

Left a little but shaken and confused, De La Mancha and passengers continued on their way, where according to reports, they stopped at a 76 Gas Station, Ralph’s Supermarket, and at Chi Chi LaRue’s on Little Santa Monica Boulevard before continuing their trip, heading towards Malibu.

“Our plan was just to have a picnic outside of Cher’s house,” said Bostani, 18, who survived the ordeal, along with Viterelli.

“We tried to figure out an outfit that would be something akin to what Cher would wear, but when we couldn’t come up with anything fabulous enough we just decided to go there nude,” finished Viterelli.

Once at Cher’s house, located in the northern stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, about 20 second from Pepperdine University, tragedy struck the group.

“At Ralph’s Supermarket we bought those fancy little Ferrero Rocher chocolates, because they’re delicious and we thought that they would be something Cher would eat, because they’re delicious,” said Bostani, “but then Valentino tried to eat two at once and he began to choke. Everyone knows that the correct way to eat a Ferrero Rocher is to eat one layer by layer.”

De La Mancha continued choking on the two chocolate balls in his mouth, with his two friends unable to, or unwilling to, help.

“He eats like that all the time,” said Viterelli, “we thought he was used to having two balls in mouth by now.”

Without the help of his two friends, De La Mancha continued choking, making very loud whopping noises bent over the car. In fact, his choking noises became so loud that at 32

approximately 4am, Cher herself came out from her house to see what was happening outside.

“Those two huge, fabulously gothic yet, a tad Venetian gates opened up, and we knew that it was Cher, we just knew. When we saw it was her, we were awestruck. Actually, you could say we were Moonstruck. But Valentino, he was still choking and didn’t hear her walk out because of all the noise he was making,” said Bostani. “But once he did see her, still choking, and naked, he got completely surprised. Too surprised, I would say.”

After the appearance of Cher, De La Mancha was so surprised that even with two chocolate balls in his throat, he swallowed, and thus, ceased to be choking.

“That was all good, but then in his shock and amazement, he didn’t see where he was stepping and he got run over by a speeding black Prius. It was dark, and the car makes no noise; it was impossible to know it was there.”

The driver of the Black Prius, while still at large, has been described as a tall, red haired man, seen by a witness around a Blockbuster parking lot earlier that night. There are currently no leads on the hit and run driver.

“It really sucks, but at least we got out picture with Cher,” said Bostani.

“She’s fabulous,” said Viterelli.

Valentino De La Mancha died at Cedars Sinai Medical Center earlier this morning from the injuries related to the accident at 6am.

“A large shard of glass sliced his leg open in one clean cut. This would have been easily prevented if he were wearing jeans,” said Dr. Rhuman, treating surgeon at Cedars Sinai.

De La Mancha is survived by two illegitimate children, Amadeus, 2, and Rigoberta, 1, birthed by two different mothers. He was a beloved student and classmate, known for his big heart in supplying alcohol to the teachers and sharing with the class. He will be best known for his generosity in supplying illicit substances to his friends and colleagues.

“His motto always was Chering is Caring,” said his 11th grade teacher, Ms. Cox, with tears in her eyes.

He will surely be missed.

Memorial services are scheduled for this Monday at 8pm, unless a new episode of Gossip Girl is on, in which case it would be postponed until Thursday.

English Journal 11 (2011)

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A Letter by Manolo Gonzalez My Beloved Editor, Ms. Wintour: As we both know, my glorious 300-page novel is due in about eleven hours. Well, there is just one tiny problem with making that deadline. Now, now, before you fret and gird your loins, let me assure you that the novel, aptly titled Untitled (very avant-garde, don’t you think?) is completely and one-hundred percent finished, and written in its entirety, from beginning to end. It has been proof read, water proofed, edited, illustrated and even indexed by yours truly, and I do most certainly believed that you will find it most adequate for publication. In fact, it was even dedicated to you by yours-truly: “To a never ending Wintour.”

At first I thought it was too kitsch, but a little sparkle goes a long way, don’t you think?

Anyways, as you most certainly are aware I spent the last year in seclusion, writing this opus of mine in an extremely secluded location, Cancun, Mexico. There I would write day and night ferociously, with absolutely no human contact or distractions. At all. Ever. But of course, when decided on by pure necessity, I had to venture outside and chat with the locals while I gathered up my living essentials. The natives of Cancun, of course, speak Spanish. I, myself, being from Colombia and having Spanish as my mother tongue, I only spoke and thought in Spanish without even thinking twice about it.

In here lies the problem; because I was speaking in Spanish, listening to Spanish, thinking and living in Spanish, I was writing in Spanish. Unbeknownst to me, I wrote the entire novel in Spanish. Everything is completely in Spanish, thus being completely useless to your current needs.

Unfortunately, I will require another full year to properly and coherently translate my book, Untitled, into standard American English. This is a most regrettable set back, but I can guarantee you that I am doing everything in my power to make sure that the novel is translated in as little time as possible. To guarantee that it is done quickly and as efficiently as possible, and in English this time, I have secluded myself in the quietest American city imaginable, New Orleans, Louisiana. As I write I am currently locked up in my flat above the quaint Bourbon Street, in the incredibly charming French Quarter. In fact, it has proven to be such a perfect place to write, that I have already translated one full page of the novel. This page is, of course, available at your disposal at any time you so desire. And now, I must return to my translations.

Kindly, I. C. Buttz 34

P.S. Since in essence I am actually writing two separate novels, one in Spanish, and one in English, I am going to require double payment. Cash is preferable, due to the scarcity of banks in isolated New Orleans. Cheers.

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Photto by Falon Mooran

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Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi Footsteps So slight the sound Of the crunch beneath your feet Over and over and over Is enough to fill this silent, snow-covered world With echoes of your boots.

The wind bites where our skin is exposed And as you stare at me with that look of longing Your look of needing, I know my face is burning red But debate if it is from the cold.

You take my hand and we trudge forth And I follow in your footsteps, The only way I know.

With the lonely noise of snow responding To our slow and steady march.

And too soon I realize We’ve reached our destination A place I never wanted to arrive.

You brush your lips against mine, Too soft for a goodbye.

But then you pull me closer And I know that look too well.

The snow falls thick and wonderfully Leaving wet marks on your nose.

You kiss me deep and long Never wanting to let go Because this world is unwelcoming Too cold to face alone.

And the walk is long and bitter Without your steady hand But you still left me your footsteps To guide me safely home.

English Journal 11 (2011)

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Insomnia.

I am THE fattest I’ve ever been this year.

I hope this isn’t an upward trend.

Why can people tell me I’m pretty or sexy hidden behind an anonymous website But not to my face?

I would like you better if you told me to my face.

Why can people tell me I’m a slut, and that I’m ugly through an anonymous website, if they can’t say it to my face?

I’d respect you more if you told me to my face.

Is it possible for a white girl from Connecticut to get into college nowadays?

I think I’m just going to click the Indian box on the common app. I can pass for Indian, cant I? Maybe Jewish.

White must be becoming a minority in some college by now. I should find that college.

I have no time for pleasure this year.

And I honestly wonder how long I can push through the stress and work, I must have a limit, shouldn’t I? Maybe I’ll experiment.

I’ve found myself getting upset over our situation lately.

It’s sad that I had to convince myself to be repulsed by you to stop thinking about you.

At least it worked.

But we looked so handsome together.

I worry that once it starts raining, it will never stop.

Escalators make me nervous. Especially when a suitcase is added to the equation.

I surprise myself by how much I can handle, but I worry about finding out how much I can’t.

My bed is becoming increasingly more comfortable.

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Christmas Eve Family gathered outside To watch the peace of the night We sit watching the ocean for a sign When my dog springs from his drowsy state To play with the evening moth fluttering low to the ground He rears on his hind legs Spins around and around He’s out to kill, but it looks like a dance The waltz of the daring white puppy and the tiny brown moth Prancing and jumping and circling.

They could be old friends catching up Or lovers caught in the moonlight.

And finally the wings are stomped flat against the ground And the triumphant animal trots away in victory The ocean waves are white noise in the background And he sits a contrast against the sky Matching the silver silhouette of a cloud blacker than night.

And while the children lay in bed for an early rise We sit and watch the black looming sky The moon spills down into the ocean, A shimmering path cuts through black waves.

But it’s getting late And we creep into our beds; avert our eyes from the tree Because while we are all grown up And some have children of their own We know in our hearts It’d be nice to believe.

English Journal 11 (2011)

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Elephant Drinking by Danielle Tunkel A great masterpiece of a creature dark wise eyes holding the secrets of the safari telling his life story through each wrinkle massive rustic tusks screaming war with anything who dares Skins sinking down the muscles onto the legs ears hot as fire from the scorching sun creating a vast wave of wind as they flap through they still heat endless trunk dipping into the water shelf of the water’s edge trembles with his colossal weight his large feet and toes creating a frame of dirt everywhere he steps he has a rip in his right ear but his pride drowns the pain his majestic sway seems to carry him away with the rare breeze the dust that follows him away from the water's edge fades with him over the horizon

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Green Elephants by Morgaine Wasserman I danced my purple ass off I had a sadistic asthma attack I flew crashing on a plane I fell miserably in love I happily hated someone I laughed silently I sarcastically fought with you I screamed alone I hesitantly worked out I extremely fell... twice I did rough yoga I did my clean laundry I ate neon candy I went out to imaginary dinner I said sleepless goodbye I said shrieky hello I willingly failed I napped energetically I made magical chocolate milk I met someone ugly

English Journal 11 (2011)

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Houston I miss you by Leyla Mansur Houston I miss your nights Streets lighted up by skyscrapers And permanent year-round Christmas lights Houston I miss your traffic People driving their cars in unison Always reassuring me That I am not alone Houston I miss your food Mexican fusion, spicy Indian Iranian with flair, Cajun with an attitude Never the same experience Houston I miss your languages The vibrant sounds Comforting the quiet

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Exam Poem by Janine Prokscha As the days grow shorter I wish so much To be To be where Where the grass is The grass and the trees The tress with no leaves The leaves on the ground The ground where the snow will fall Fall down and cover Cover it with a white blanket If only Only if we could Could take the exams outside Outside where our Our creative juices would flow Flow from around us to the paper Papers with 8’s Nature where we yearn To be Where loafing is encouraged And thoughts are free No wall to contain them No teachers to yell at them Out side Free to live Free to live deliberately Free to indulge Free to think

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