C1-C4 PerspectivesCovers:C1-C4 PerspectivesCoversintranet.cshgreenwich.org/pdf/literaryMagazine.pdf · CELINA FRELINGHUYSEN: DIGITAL PHOTO 2008 Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King

CELINA FRELINGHUYSEN: DIGITAL PHOTO

2008Convent of the Sacred Heart1177 King Street

Greenwich, Connecticut 06831

PE

RS

PE

CT

IVE

S2008

VO

LU

ME

50

BRITTANY WILLIAMS: DIGITAL PHOTO

PE

RSP

ECT

IVE

SP

ER

SP

ECT

IVE

S

NATALIE ANDRIANO: DIGITAL PHOTOAMY COLOMBO: DIGITAL PHOTO

2008 PERSPECTIVES ~ i

2008LI T E R A RY MAG A Z I N E

STAT E M E N T O F PH I L O S O P H Y

At Convent of the Sacred Heart, each young woman aspires

to live by the Goals and Criteria of the Network of the

Sacred Heart schools, one of which is personal growth

in an atmosphere of wise freedom. This growth is expressed

through art, photography, and writing. Perspectives, a channel

for such creativity, is run by a committee of students

who select pieces from their high school community.

These pieces are submitted either personally or through

encouragement by English, Art, and Photography teachers

at school. This magazine highlights student work in various

media under chapter headings inspired by cinematography.

An introspective “Close-Up,” a fond “Flashback,” a satiric

“Tilt,” a reflective “Panorama.” These are their Perspectives.

Cel ina Fre l inghuysen digital photo

PE

RSP

ECT

IVE

SP

ER

SP

ECT

IVE

S

0i-iv_Perspectives_ContentsR2:0i-iv_Perspectives_Contents 5/1/08 10:20 AM Page i

ii ~ PERSPECTIVES 2008

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Sylvia Khoury

ASSISTANT EDITOR

Liz Masi

ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS

Lindsey FestaAlex McCabe

STAFF

Lauren AlexanderGina AufieroAllison HaganGenevieve IrwinAshleigh JonesAlex JungIris LongoLauren ManningOanh-Nhi NguyenGillian RedmanLizzie RenckKirsty SievwrightMeg Taylor-D’AmbrosioAmy TraverJenny Traver Lizzy von Klemperer Emma WardBrittany Williams

FACULTY ADVISERS

Dr. William MottoleseMrs. Mimi Rafferty

WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO

Ms. Inez Andrucyk, artMs. Kev Filmore, photographyThe Technology DepartmentMs. Ginny HullHull Graphic Design LLCMr. Bill WagnerBill Wagner & Co. Inc., Printing

COVER PHOTO CREDITS

Front CoverCelina Frelinghuysen, digital photo

Inside Front CoverAmy Colombo, digital photo

Inside Back CoverNatalie Andriano, digital photo

Back CoverBrittany Williams, digital photo

1177 King StreetGreenwich, Connecticut 06831(203) 531-6500 Phone(203) 531-5206 Fax

Laura Si lvera pastel

PRODUCTION NOTES

Printing 4-Color Process:Ryobi 3404 Direct Imaging Press Toyo Waterless Ink

Paper:80 lb. Sterling Gloss Cover80 lb. Sterling Gloss Text

Page Makeup:MacIntosh OSXQuark XPress 6.5Adobe Photoshop CSAdobe Acrobat 6

0i-iv_Perspectives_ContentsR2:0i-iv_Perspectives_Contents 5/1/08 10:20 AM Page ii

Meredith Murphy, digital photo . . . . . . . . .1

ODE TO INTOXICATION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2Sylvia KhouryAlex Jung, acrylic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2Meredith Murphy, digital photo . . . . . . . . .3

FIND ME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4Lauren ManningAlex McCabe, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . .5Genevieve Irwin, charcoal . . . . . . . . . . . . . .5

CARVED IN TIME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6Antonia LibassiGenevieve Irwin, pen and marker . . . . . . . .7

RUST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8Lizzy Von KlempererLaura Silvera, craypas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9Amy Traver, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . .10

THE CUTE LITTLE PUPPY . . . . . . . . . . . .11Maria ZoulisAlex Jung, pencil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11Lizzie Renck, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . .12

ODE TO JEWELER’S ART . . . . . . . . . . . . .13Tina WiltsieAudrey Finnegan, collage . . . . . . . . . . . . .13Teddy Sulliman andTammy Quintano, collage . . . . . . . . . . . . .14

WAKES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16Susannah LawrenceMeredith Murphy, digital photo . . . . . . . .17Millicent Green, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .18Alex Jung, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21Danielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22Danielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25

BOLTED SHUT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27Mame MoranLaura Silvera, pastels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27Gillian Redman, acrylic . . . . . . . . . . . . . .28

UNEXPECTED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29Laura ManningKirsty Sievwright, digital photo . . . . . . . . .29Kaitlin Southwick, digital photo . . . . . . . .31

Laura Silvera, oil sticks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33

I HAVE LIVED A QUIET LIFE . . . . . . . . . .34Emily OehlsenAnnie Murdock, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .34

THE COLLEGE ESSAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36Cristina CeballosAlex Jung, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36

FROZEN TEARS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .37Katie RandolphLaura Silvera, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .38Danielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .39Danielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .40

NUMBERS OF TIME . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42Iris LongoLizzy Walsh, pencil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .42

GREENER PASTURES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43Susannah LawrenceKirsty Sievwright, digital photo . . . . . . . . .43Danielle Giorgio, acrylic . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44

SAYING GOODBYE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45Tori PorterTaylor Griffin, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . .46Millicent Green, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .49Millicent Green, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .50Laura Silvera, acrylic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51

BLACK ACTIONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52Tara CochranAlex Jung, pencil . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52

VICTORY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .53Elise MazurakTaylor Griffin, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . .53

2008 PERSPECTIVES ~ iii

TABLE OF CONTENTSTABLE OF CONTENTS

JENNY TRAVER: DIGITAL PHOTO

CL O S E-U PCL O S E-U P FL A S H B AC KFL A S H B AC K

0i-iv_Perspectives_ContentsR2:0i-iv_Perspectives_Contents 5/1/08 10:20 AM Page iii

iv ~ PERSPECTIVES 2008

Millicent Green, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .55

MISCHIEF DAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56Ashleigh JonesGillian Redman, acrylic . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57Brittany Williams, digital photo . . . . . . . . .58

I HAVE EVERYTHING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .59Emily PerlsteinChelsea Georgio, digital photo . . . . . . . . .59

PROCRASTINATION AGITATION . . . . . . . .61Grace HirshornBrittany Williams, digital photo . . . . . . . . .61Genevieve Irwin, pen and marker . . . . . . .63Danielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64

CLICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .66Meg LarsonJillian Georgio, traditional photo . . . . . . . .67Jillian Georgio, traditional photo . . . . . . . .68Alexie Poch, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . .71

ROLLER COASTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .73Ale FerraraCelina Frelinghuysen, pastel . . . . . . . . . . .73Laura Silvera, watercolor . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74

AN UNUSUAL CASE OF AMNESIA . . . . . . .75Takako HirokawaMeredith Murphy, mixed media . . . . . . . .76

SUNDAYS WITH SATAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77Katie EisenbergRachel Bornstein, collage . . . . . . . . . . . . .79Brittany Williams, digital photo . . . . . . . . .82

Carolyn Gates, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . .85

Liz Carr, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .86

LYRIC IN A CHILD’S RHYME . . . . . . . . . . .87Lindsey Festa

WHAT LIES AHEAD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .88Chelsea GeorgioAnastassia Lindo, tempera . . . . . . . . . . . .89Courtney Fischer, tempera . . . . . . . . . . . .89

THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .90Jenna NobsJenne Ingrassia, tempera . . . . . . . . . . . . . .90

SAM’S CHANCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .92Katie MurrayAlex Jung, colored pencil . . . . . . . . . . . . . .93Liz Carr, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .94Alex Jung, pencil and colored pencil . . . . . .97Brittany Williams, digital photo . . . . . . . . .98

BARREN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .100Allie HillAmy Traver, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . .100

A WILTED RED RIBBON . . . . . . . . . . . . .102Caroline Kitchener Elise Mazurak, digital photo . . . . . . . . . .103

BAALBEK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .106Alex RizkDanielle Giorgio, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .106

CHASING BLUE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .107Genevieve IrwinGrace Hedges, collage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .107Tammy Quintano, collage . . . . . . . . . . . .108Teddy Sulliman, collage . . . . . . . . . . . . . .111

A THOUSAND WORDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .114Alex JungGenevieve Irwin, pastel . . . . . . . . . . . . . .114

ANTICLEA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .116Kristen RocheAmy Traver, digital photo . . . . . . . . . . . .116

GILLIAN REDMAN: PASTEL

TABLE OF CONTENTSTABLE OF CONTENTS

TI LTTI LT PA N O R A M APA N O R A M A

0i-iv_Perspectives_ContentsR2:0i-iv_Perspectives_Contents 5/1/08 10:20 AM Page iv

Meredi th Murphydigital photo

CL

OSE

-UP

CL

OSE

-UP

01-32_Perspectives_CloseupR2:01-32_Perspectives_Closeup 5/1/08 10:22 AM Page 1

2 ~ PERSPECTIVES 2008

OD E TO IN TOX I C AT I O N

Sylv ia Khour y

These words are to say thank you to that girl I was when June began

for seizing the flask with trembling fingersand finally getting drunk off youth.

I stumbled, mumbled, down alleyways and high streets

past school children too young to be moved,rigid gargoyles of men too serious to be moved,

and wilted flowers of old women too tired to be moved.

I bumped into fellow drunkards with glazed eyes and blazing cheekswho reeked of naïveté

and who taught me it was much more funto share intoxication.

And so we were moved togetheras we passed the bottle around in a circle where

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

Alex Jung acrylic


CLOSE-UP

2008 PERSPECTIVES ~ 3

I was nothing more than two brown eyes, she was something like a Texas drawl,

he was something of a quiet smile, and you—you were nothing more than an Arab nose.

So we wandered in the town of towering spiresand the city of scraped skies;

a band of happy drunkswho ran their fingers down spines of Kafka and shivered with delight

who stayed up until 3 in the morning because there was nothing to talk aboutwho thought they might sprout pig’s tails if the rumors didn’t stop

who threw doorstops at walls because they were “that mad at Putin”who played baseball with cricket bats and didn’t mind being called irreverentwho had first dates in second hand bookstores and third dates in supermarkets

who learned to do laundry and have long since forgotten and finally,who parted ways having laughed in stone archways,

learned in musty classrooms,and loved in giant puddles.

Sad will be the day we’re sober.

CLOSE-UP

Meredi th Murphy digital photo



FI N D ME

Inspired by Picasso’s Girl Before a Mirror

Lauren Manning

They don’t know who I ampast that quiet cascade of golden hair.

Two eyes, a face, a nose.I am alive

but hardly defined as human.

Touch me. I have lost myself

somewhere in this world,as I fall

deeper and deeperunderneath those crashing waves

of despair.

I cannot breathe.I cannot find the surface

and oh, my hands reach out, grasping, waving, clinging

to anything I have left.

I am falling faster. I feel the quiet touch

of a rolling tearas it slips down my cheek.

Everything is blurred.How do you see clearly?

And you,can you find me?

The real meIn-between the pages of my story

and theirs?Reach out to me, hold me, find me.

My eyes can see through the eyes of this lonely mirror

but truly I am always searchingfor me.

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Alex McCabe traditional photo

Genevieve Irwin charcoal



CA RV E D I N TI M E

Antonia Libass i

The first rays of sunlight dance upon my face. I yawn—stretching my roots deep into the earth

and throwing my arms high into the clear morning sky. I feel their delicate fingers tickling my rough sides, as their small feet

dig into my bark.

Clad in armor they scale my arms. I am their castle. We will fight to the death.

I protect them from the hungry goblins waiting below.“All aboard!”

I am the sturdy mast of our wayward ship. Together we will face the raging seas.

I protect them from the violent waves crashing below.The warmth of the day disappears,

as the moon replaces the sun in the dark blue sky. They nestle close to me as I wrap them in my arms.

I am their safe haven, I will always protect them.

I bleed as they whittle their initials into my heart. All is forgiven as they lay on the ground below.

I am their friend as they sit beneath me enjoying the cool refuge from the hot summer day.

I will not leave them.

I feel their wrinkled hands pass over my skin. I am their time machine, as we travel back in their memories.

Remembering the times when we were soldiers against the monsters.

Remembering the times when we were sailors across the seas.

Remembering those lazy days we spent admiring the great landscape stretched out before us.

With every gust of wind, with every ray of sunshine I remember,I have not left them, and they will live forever in me.

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Genevieve Irwin pen and marker



RU S T

Lizzy von Klemperer

Her name was Samantha, and she was premeditating hysteria. The wallsof the kitchen were tinted with finger prints, particles of skin sitting in

a gallery with a plaster canvas. Their spirals like rings on a tree. A roombecame a vast space when she wasn’t looking for the details: the haze of fruitflies passing through her blind fingers, the mist from the cloth sticking to thewalls, the spattered metal surface of the refrigerator that now reflected aghostly face. She was suddenly startled, always, by her starkness, stripped ofall that mattered. It couldn’t be her. The handle to the oven was shrouded inorange cloth, hiding the portal to its crusted insides.

The mint cold linoleum floor tiles became a shuddering bridge withoutrailings, wheezing puffs of metal when a train hissed by. She never felt theircold shock through her fraying orthopedic shoes. “The ones that belong ina hospital,” Martha used to joke. Martha, her Martha, the girl who used tobe innocent.

Everything hung on the edge; the pots, the half rotten bananas, the dirtydish rags balancing on the stove handle, the time that had been kept diligent-ly by the grey clock in the corner. Everything was suspended in air, bloatedclouds waiting to be overwhelmed by rain. The kitchen appliances would fallinto the basements’ chasm, where the wooden- handle saw slept with itsmossy blanket, where the family of mice willed to reside in the cold metalvacancies. Nibbling on the crusts of what demise had produced.

The cast iron stove would heave and fall through the layers of delicatewood, through teddy bears and Barbie dolls all in different stages of decay,under the floor boards that smelled like moth balls. The ovens’ eyes wouldstill blink after the collapse. It would lay paralyzed on the concrete floor thatstill smelled of saw dust, and it would look up at the graying yellow light andthink, “This isn’t so different.” It was only a matter of time.

She craned her neck, listening for an explosion, but her steal and woodenconfinement only resonated with the buzz of appliances, and the hum of distantcries from the other side of the petrified glass windows. She could only guess.

Samantha was as fragile as the glass dolls near the frosted window. Theywere all dressed in silk and felt. A crack ran down a dolls’ for head, and shethought she saw grey sprouting from its porcelain head. Their unbendableknees were the color of grass that had been covered by a flower pot for toolong; a milky-white. In their peripheral vision they saw, would have seen, thesinged ruby curtains; an unfortunate accident involving a candle flame andfolds of loose, sagging cloth.

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP


Her uninhabited mind was able to interpret what was not there. The airthat was speckled like the blue flecks on robins’ eggs, the moss growing fromthe cracks in the wooden floor boards. She would fall. Decorated eyes andreplicated flushed cheeks craved to be clutched by sticky peanut butter andjelly sandwich fingers one more time. The dolls’ porcelain guises gave noth-ing away, but she saw the spiders crawling up their hollow spines, a sliverbelow the sea green eyes and toothless smiles. The world’s collapse was a fewfeet away. They never thought about taxes and death and age and war, buttheir own powerlessness burned holes through their synthetic hair.

Samantha couldn’t hear the clocks whimper, but she heard with painfulprecision the falling pine needle behind the glass window. The match-stickbirch trees threatened to snap.

The pewter finish on the rusted tea kettle shivered in the corner. She hadtaken out the Christmas décor already, shortening the confirmation of herown defining solitude. The red and green mugs and pot holders, down to thewooly dresses for the porcelain dolls had died quietly inside the box. Theygave off a moth ball smell of new beginnings. She wanted them to be eatenaway by moths, in their shame and pitiful disgrace, the very moment theywent out of use. Santa Clause never came anymore anyway.

She was getting old. Like the Christmas furnishings, she had given upon her own resurrection, a miracle rebirth. Like an unwelcome visitor des-tined to arrive, Samantha knew something unsettling was around the corner,but she expected it with an eerie tranquility.

The humdrum elements of her life convulsed together again after amomentary disarray. Like magic, the colors of routine scurried back to place;earthy brown, moistambers, charcoal blue.She wasn’t sure if thewalls had been theremoments ago during herdream. Where was theproof? Maybe it wasn’ther own distortion,maybe it was a trickplayed by whatever wasup in the sky; a god per-haps; an unfriendly god.

Samantha sat on thepeg legged chair. Themisting tea pot tried to

CLOSE-UP

Laura Si lvera craypas



scream but couldn’t open its mouth fast enough, puffs of invisible vaporpoured from its already drowned lips. She watched the seconds before thecrisis unfolds.

The grey clock threatened to break the balance. It gave and took awaylife, the center of the universe, the basis of life for the children who lived herecenturies ago. They had stood on this floor, here, on the mint linoleum. It hadto have been here, the jagged, protruding nail where the youngest, John, hadtripped. She had been able to remedy the ache, why couldn’t she now?Hadn’t it been here? It had to have been, she told herself, but there was noevidence. She couldn’t deny their existence.

Now, groggy and freshly out of a trance, like a patient recently wakingfrom anesthesia, she rotated towards the object that never changed.

Its hands were stiff. Like lifeless dolls, once active and useful, grasped byclammy hands.

The dead metal and plastic hands produced buds too quickly, decom-posing in front of her, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Its branchesreached for her chair, the scraped floor where her idle feet rested. Out of themusty past, moth balls became the seeds, and anguish spouted. Leafymouths began to close in, all in different stages of loss. ❂

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

Amy Traver digital photo


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

TH E CU T E LI T T L E PU P P Y

Mar ia Zoul is

My younger sister, Nicole, had wanted glasses ever since she was a tod-dler. She even used to punch out the lenses of my cheap, plastic sun-

glasses, the kind you get from overenthusiastic deejays at weddings or barmitzvahs, just to pretend that she required vision correction. Unfortunatelyfor Nicole, she had, and still has, 20/20 vision. I, on the other hand, hadalways hated eyeglasses. To this day, the school nurse at my old elementaryschool tells the story of how my ten-year-old self collapsed into hysterics inher office on the day she informed me that I needed to see an optometrist. Irefused to let my parents see the note the nurse sent home for about a weekuntil she actually called my house to find out why Mr. and Mrs. Zoulis hadnot contacted her regarding their daughter’s terrible, awful eyesight. I prom-ised my parents that I could see perfectly and that the nurse had made up allof those numbers on her chart, even though I could barely read the home-work on the chalkboard or recognize my friends on the playground. My par-

Alex Jung pencil



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

ents humored me for another week or two until something happened that lit-erally opened up my eyes.

“Do the give-and-go!” hollered my dad at the top of his lungs, “Getdown the court!” Dad, Nicole, and I were at the park, practicing our free-throws and chest-passes on the basketball court at the park. Basketball sea-son was rapidly approaching, and Nicole and I had to be in tip-top shape.After what seemed like my seven-hundred fifty-eighth foul shot, Dad finallycalled the practice to a halt. We had begun to walk back towards the park gateas Dad meticulously dissected each of our very serious basketball errors,when all of a sudden, I stopped.

“Oh, look you guys! What a cute, little puppy!” I squealed with delight.My sister and father turned their heads in the direction I was pointing.

“What puppy?” “What do you mean, ‘what puppy’? The little, fluffy white one over

there!” I responded, gesticulating wildly. “I still don’t see a puppy,” declared my father while giving me a quizzi-

cal glance, “Where are you looking?” “It’s over by the baseball diamond, running around that man’s legs! Do

you see it now?” My father’s gaze turned toward the baseball diamond, whereI had been pointing all along, and then shifted to me. Nicole just looked atme with this weirdly inscrutable expression, almost as if she didn’t knowwhether to laugh or cry, or cry from laughter.

“Maria…” Dad began, and then proceeded to inform me that the cute,little puppy that had been running around the man’s feet was, in fact, a white,round soccer ball that the man had been kicking around. My mother mademe an appointment for the optometrist that afternoon. ❂

Lizzie Renck digital photo


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

OD E TO A JE W E L E R’S ART

Tina Wil ts ie

As some women love jewels,I love the tools behind their creation.

They revel in the final product, but what about the craftsman?

The clean reflective shine of polished metal,that perfect finish,

can only appear after hours of work.The simple twist forged in a bracelet

may seem subtle and elegant,but it took a heavy hand to wield the hammer,and the clang on the anvil was far from gentle.

Audrey Finnegan collage



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

I am content to work behind the scenes. Happy to be the person no one sees.

Like the dresser backstage,responsible for seeing ahead—

anticipating the needs of the actor, the wearer.Observant enough to notice

that the lead actress is missing her bracelet – conscious enough to find it among dozens.

I am a listener.An observer.

Seldom one to make the first move.Willing to sit back and let life take its course.

Able to interpret specific mannerisms,to understand desires

without knowing the language spoken.Able to follow conversations and classes.

Wanting to speak up, but having nothing to say.

Teddy Sul l iman and Tammy Quintano collage


CLOSE-UP


But in the studio that is not so.I have many things to say,though no one to speak to.

I can saw, carve,shape and refine to my heart’s content.

I control the medium, and I control my work.

I revel in the knowledge that someday this piecemay be treasured by its owner.

Someday some person may hold this objectas if it were their lifeline—

the only thing they had left.It may tempt those who are greedy,

but it will live in the heartsof those who chose it.

This work is created by my hands,but once it leaves my workbench,

I control it no longer.It may be used to seduce a woman,

an anonymous gift left for a secret love.It could be met with suspicion

or delight.It could unite a family

or destroy it.It could bring jealousy.

It could bring love.It could bring death, power, prestige,

But I control it not.

I have found my art.It has chosen me and I have chosen it.

I pour my soul into my work,and no power can remove me from it.

As some women love jewels,I create them.

CLOSE-UP



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

WA K E S

Susannah Lawrence

A funeral parlor, with a closed casket on one side of the room, surrounded by flow-ers and with a picture of an elderly lady sitting on top of it. The Carmichael fam-ily is inside the room, along with LINDA, the thirty-something funeral directorwho is overseeing the last few minutes of the wake. The family includes:

AARON CARMICHAEL, husband of the deceased (ABIGAIL CARMICHAEL). Heis in his late 70s/early 80s, but does not appear so. Is a ‘young eighty’, and is veryon top of things. He has gray hair, fair skin, and is short in stature, but is stillquick.

TRISTAN CARMICHAEL, eldest child and first son of AARON and ABIGAIL. Heis the clichéd ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ type and is very much like his father. Heis in his late forties/early fifties, and is obviously the force behind many of thefuneral arrangements.

LILLI WILLIAMS, sister to ABIGAIL CARMICHAEL. She is a typical little oldlady, a little slow of step, a bit of a fuzzy memory and has a warm outwardappearance. She appears to be in her late 80s/early 90s, and relies either on awalker or someone’s assistance while walking.

JACOB PULLMAN, brother of LILLI and ABIGAIL. He is in his late sixties/earlyseventies, and, like his brother-in-law AARON, he is a ‘young seventy’. He is fullof stories to tell to whoever is willing to listen and has a very charismatic appealto him. He is medium height, with a slightly heavy build, and wears large glasses.

AVA CARMICHAEL, sister of TRISTAN and DWAYNE, and her husband, RYAN.AVA is the youngest. She is in her late thirties and newly married, the one who doesnot look like the rest of the family, and is also the closest to the deceased, her moth-er. She has slightly darker skin and much lighter hair than any of them, and mighteven come across as being incredibly emotional, a bit unstable, and slightly mate-rialistic.

DWAYNE and MARIE CARMICHAEL: DWAYNE is a younger brother of TRIS-

TAN, and looks the same: medium height, dark hair, dark eyes, fair complexion,and around forty-five. MARIE is his wife.

ABIGAIL ‘ABBEY’ CARMICHAEL, daughter of DWAYNE and MARIE, grand-daughter of ABIGAIL and AARON CARMICHAEL. She is not from the smalltown: she is a city girl, twenty-five years old, and is short, dark haired, and darkeyed. She is quick to lose her temper, easily annoyed, and likes when things movethemselves along. She is close to TRISTAN, her uncle.


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

JESSICA BRIER is a young teenager. She is not close to the rest of the family, butis clearly related by her dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin.

ELIZABETH FISCHER, sister to LILLI, JACOB, and ABIGAIL, is an ‘old eighty’,and appears to be well into her nineties. She is still very mobile and quick, and doesnot need any assistance, but she looks older beyond her years. She is snappy, seem-ingly perpetually scowling, and is generally upset with her life and her family atthe moment.

Linda: (aside) Sometimes I absolutely love my job. Other days I can’t standit. Being a funeral director in a town that’s the size of a pin head comes withits ups and downs. Everybody always knows everyone else’s business. Whensomeone dies, it’s big news, and the death of Mrs. Carmichael was one of thebiggest news items we’ve had in a while.

(holds up paper and reads) “Mrs. Abigail Beatrice Carmichael, belovedwife of Aaron Philip Carmichael, adored mother of Ava, Dwayne andTristan, and cherished grandmother of Abigail. Born May 24th, 1922, died

Meredi th Murphy digital photo



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

June 15th, 2006. Born and raised in Arietta, New York – ‘along with the restof us who read this Godforsaken newspaper’ – where she worked at the townhall for over 62 years. Services will be held at Pabo’s – ‘that’s me’ – funeralhome on Friday from 2-4 and 6-9, with funeral services to follow at 11AM

Saturday, June 17th.”Obituaries can tell you so many things about people sometime. What

they don’t tell you, of course, is what kind of person the deceased was. Shouldyou like them, for example, is a key question. Of course, whoever came upwith the obituary idea decided to leave that decision up to each individual,and rightly so – it makes things more interesting, I think.

What did I think of her? Well…I’ll keep that to myself.

(LILLI enters, accompanied by TRISTAN.)

Lilli: Now, we’re at a wake, aren’t we?

Tristan:Yes, Aunt Lilli, we are.

Lilli: Who are we waking?

Tristan: Abigail Carmichael, your sister.

Lilli: She died?

Mil l icent Green digital photo


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Tristan:Yes, she did.

Lilli: How old was she?

Tristan: Eighty-four.

Lilli: She was young! I think I’m one hundred.

Tristan: Not yet, but you’re getting pretty close.

Lilli: What did she die from?

Tristan: Natural causes.

(They pause in front of the casket. Focus on TRISTAN, who steps aside.)

Tristan: My mother doesn’t deserve all the attention she’s getting. She neverdeserved any of it. Well, I suppose you could say she could, because she tech-nically ‘worked’ to achieve that attention, but it wasn’t honestly received. I’mthe oldest, and I could tell. It wasn’t hard – Dad hardly got in a word to anyconversation. Mom always dominated, but in a bad way. I think Dad got thatI knew what was going on, though, because we had sort of this silent, mutu-al understanding thing going on between the two of us.

I remember this one time when Grandma Carmen died, and Mom real-ly didn’t want to go to the funeral and have to talk to Dad’s family. That wasanother thing about her – if it required her to be civil, she would either findsome way to get out of it, or would just completely ignore rules of politeness.In any case, she kept telling Dad and telling Dad that if he was going to go,she’d leave him and take us with her. That’s just how illogical and irrationalshe was. Finally, though, Dad had a conflict come up with work, so he could-n’t have gone anyway. At least, that’s the story I know of.

I think she just didn’t care about me after I turned a certain age. Therewas this point where I realized just how miserable Dad was, and it was allbecause he had been forced into being Mom’s puppet for over 30 years andhe couldn’t do anything about it. Dwayne and Ava never really ‘got’ it, I don’tthink. How Ava didn’t get it, God only knows; many a time I’d come homeand she’d be crying because Mom had told her she was too fat or too ugly tobe her daughter. But then Mom’d just ‘fix it’, in that way that she did, and allwas forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one in this entire familywho actually remembers how horrible she was to people. Even Dad, it seems,always found room to forgive her, no matter how bad she was.

You know that feeling you get when you cry, where your throat closes upand you can’t see straight and you get a bit dizzy? You get that feeling atwakes and funerals when you really loved someone and know you’re going



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

to miss them. I haven’t gotten that feeling once since I heard the news. Mymom’s dead, so what? At least my dad’s a free man.

(AARON comes over to LILLI and TRISTAN, who step away from the casket.)

Tristan: Dad. (they embrace) How’re you holding up?

Aaron: It’s hard. I feel crappy. Ava wanted the casket to be closed, and Iguess that’s best. Apparently, Abigail wanted it that way.

Tristan: And what Mom wants, Mom gets, no matter what the cost. Well, atleast you’re a free man now, right?

Aaron: (aside) I never had a business trip to go on. My boss knew just howcontrolling Abigail could be and invented one for me so I could go and burymy mother. My own mother, for God’s sake. My boss even called Abigail upand had her be the one to tell me that I needed to go out of town. If it wasn’tfor him, I don’t know what I would’ve done. I would have been more thanhappy to let her go and take over the life of some other schmuck, but I could-n’t bear to be separated from the kids. They deserved better than that. I don’tthink anyone ever found out that I really didn’t go to barter sale prices, whichwas probably best. Had Abigail found out, then I don’t know what shewould’ve done. Probably accuse me of going behind her back and then pro-ceed to shame me into doing whatever she wanted.

That’s how it went with her. She accused and accused until you felt(yourself to be) guilty, even though you were innocent to the umpteenthdegree. Divorce just wasn’t done in the days when we got married, and Ithink she counted on my family’s traditional values to ensure that she would-n’t be without me, or without her cash flow.

I think I loved her, once. I hardly remember what she was like back then,when we first met. I don’t think she ever loved me. I mean, really, truly lovedme for me, and not just because I had a wallet and would do what she askedme to.

This is just an act for all of us. I don’t think that there is anyone in thisroom who really thinks she was a decent human being. Sure, we might all sayhow much we’ll miss her, and I’m sure we will, a little bit, but—

What am I saying? There’s nothing to be missed, and everyone knows it.This is just paying our respects, this is.

(He turns and looks at AVA, who is dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.)

Honey. (he hugs her) How are you?

Ava: How do you think I am, Dad?


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Tristan: Sis, cool it. It’s not like Dad’s having an easy time, either.

Ava: Well the two of you certainly aren’t acting like it! Would it kill you toshow a little respect and to mourn a little? Your mom’s dead, Tristan, forGod’s—

Tristan: (has obviously had it with AVA) Shut up, Ava, just shut up, won’t you?!

(There is an uneasy silence as every looks at TRISTAN, who stalks away to calmhimself down. Focus to AVA.)

Ava: I really don’t understand why people say that they don’t like my moth-er. True, she was a bit controlling, but who isn’t, for goodness’ sake? Thatdoesn’t mean that she was any less of a person. I remember how she alwayswas there for me when I was younger, and even up to just before she died. Iwould have given my life up for her if she wanted me to. What kind of per-son wouldn’t give up what they have for their mother?

I was the one who spent most of the last few months with her. Daddywasn’t around as much as he should have been. Tristan thinks that there’snothing wrong with it, but of course not: he’s the oldest boy, and he’s alwaystaken Daddy’s side for everything. After all, Daddy didn’t punish him whenhe told me I was adopted. Mom was just kidding, of course, when she told

Alex Jung digital photo



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

me I couldn’t be her daughter. Tristan thought she was being serious. Healways was so serious about everything, and I don’t understand it.

The one time he refuses to be serious, though, is at his own mother’sfuneral. He doesn’t even look like he’s sad. I think I saw him mourn over thedeath of our dog more than he’s mourning now. How dare he. Doesn’t herealize that his mother’s funeral is one of the most important events of hislife? Well, I suppose I should feel grateful that he at least decided to show up.Anyone who doesn’t go to their mother’s funeral, no matter the reason, is nota person.

Mommy went to grandma Leah’s funeral. Grandma Carmen diedbefore I was born, but Tristan never talks about her funeral.

Sometimes, I’m ashamed to call that man my brother.

(Focus to JACOB, who is talking to TRISTAN.)

Danie l le Giorg io pastel


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Tristan: Mom told me about all the things you did when you were little, butI forget that one story about you burning down the barn. Care to tell it again?

Jacob: I never burned down a barn.

Tristan: ot according to Mom and Aunt Lilli.

Jacob: Well, what did they tell you, then?

Tristan:That you were playing with gunpowder and burned down the barn.

Lilli: Oh, no, that was when he tried to blow up the dog.

(The room stares at JACOB.)

Jacob: Now wait a minute, I did not try to blow up the dog. The dog triedto blow me up!

Tristan: Excuse me?

Jacob: And it’s all your mother’s fault.

Tristan: I’m not surprised, but that still doesn’t explain the story.

Jacob:You all always come and ask me about these stories, but you’ve madehalf of them up!

Aaron: What about the time you robbed the bank when you were four?

Jacob: That I did.

Tristan: And you convinced the woman down the street that Aunt Elizabethwas sent to reformatory school?

Jacob: (proudly) That I did. She was very surprised to find my sister still liv-ing at home.

Lilli: What about the time you stole Dad’s car and crashed it?

Jacob: Now I did not steal that car.

Lilli: Then what would you call it?

Jacob: I took it out for a test drive without exactly asking for permission. Iborrowed it.

Lilli:You call that ‘borrowing’?

Tristan: And you totaled it?

Jacob: No, I did not. The fender got all bent out of shape, but that’s all.



CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

Tristan: But what about the dog and the gunpowder?

(ABIGAIL [ABBEY] arrives late and in a rush. JESSICA follows soon after her.)

Abbey: Uncle Tristan!

Tristan: Hey, Abbey. Did you get a prayer card from outside?

Abbey: (discombobulated; still trying to get herself together) Uhh, yeah. SorryI’m late – the traffic up here was absolutely terrible.

Tristan: It’s fine, they haven’t opened the casket yet. You’ve still got time.

Abbey: Now that I actually have a chance, let me see this card…(aside) Youknow what one of the most unsettling feelings in the world is? That feelingyou get when you’re reading your morning paper and all of a sudden youwonder if you’re dead or not. That’s what happened to me when I read myown obituary yesterday. It was the creepiest thing I have ever felt in my life.And coming in here was no piece of cake, either. It clearly says ‘Abigail B.Carmichael’ on the sign outside, and I had to take a moment to pinch myselfto make sure I could still feel something.

It’s a cute idea, I guess, to name a kid after their grandparent. Personally,I hate it. If grandma had had a nicer name, like, I don’t know, Louise orsomething, then I’d be fine with that. But of course, she has to be named‘Abigail Beatrice’, and I have to be named after her. ‘Abigail BeatriceCarmichael’. Yes, I get that it’s cute that my initials are ABC, but that was oldin kindergarten. I mean, really. It’s like my parents were trying to come upwith ways to make my life even more miserable than it was already.

I guess Grandma liked it, too, to have a kid named after her. If Aunt Avahad a daughter, I’m sure that she’d be named Abigail, except Dad wanted meto have that claim to fame, I suppose. But, you know, they really should con-sider the feelings of the child when they do something like that. What didthey think was going to happen to me when Grandma died? Didn’t theythink that that might be at least a little weird for me to experience?

I really hate how the name on this prayer card is the exact same name asthe one on my driver’s license. At least I’m not the one in the casket.

(Focus back to TRISTAN and ABBEY.)

Abbey: Hey, Uncle Tristan, who’s that? (looking to JESSICA)

Tristan: That’s your cousin, Jessica.

Abbey: Oh my God, no way.


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

Tristan: I know. She’s gotten big, hasn’t she? Jess, c’mere.

Abbey: (to JESSICA) Hey. I doubt you remember me, because the last timeI saw you, you, like, couldn’t walk. I’m your cousin Abbey.

Jessica: Oh…hey, nice to meet you. Sorry it had to be under these circum-stances, I mean.

Abbey:Yeah, well, what can you do?

Jessica: (aside) All of a sudden, I’m finding out that I’ve got cousins who Ididn’t even know existed. I’ve been stuck with Mom’s family for all thesegatherings, and I’ve hardly even met Dad’s side. But it’s kind of good, Iguess, to get out of the pill-popping family and to actually realize that theremight be some people related to me who aren’t insane (in the bad way). Andthis side of the family doesn’t hate me for some nonspecific reason thatnobody can really figure out. They’re not two-timing, backstabbing, sneakypeople: the Carmichaels just say things and get on with it. If they offend you,




CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

then so be it. It’s not their problem. I wish I saw them more often…

(The clock chimes 9PM LINDA addresses the group.)

Linda: I’d like us all to take a seat, so we may open the casket and share ina joint prayer before some of us say goodbye…

(ELIZABETH pauses on her way to her seat and addresses the audience.)

Elizabeth: This is what I’ve been waiting for. Whoever decided that havinga closed casket would be a better idea deserves to be shot.

Abigail was a lying, cheating, stealing scoundrel of a woman who didn’tdeserve half the things she got. She completely ignored our mother’s wishesand just decided to take the ring that was meant for me and keep it for her-self. It was Mom’s engagement ring, and in her will, it specifically said that itwas to go to Elizabeth, the eldest girl. That’s me. But what does Abigail do?She pulls one of her “oh, no, Mom said she changed her mind and wantedme to have it instead” routines and actually got it.

My mother was such a quiet, caring person. I don’t really know how onearth she wound up with Abigail in her family, or how Abigail was related toher at all. Maybe we really did adopt her. Regardless, she was only my “sis-ter” in the very basic sense of the word; we have the same parents, and thatis all. She has been dead to me for the past sixty years, and yet I still had toput up with her antics while I tried to get my ring back. It’s my ring, and I’mentitled to it. I know for a fact that she’ll be wearing it when I get up there.It’s just the sort of smug, cheeky thing she’d do.

(They all sit, facing the casket, which has just been opened by LINDA. AVA is stillemotional, and is continually dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. The rest ofthe family is seemingly unmoved.)

Linda: I think it is only appropriate that we all join in a prayer together toreflect on the kind of person Mrs. Abigail Carmichael was and how she hasdeeply impacted each of our lives.

(All members of THE FAMILY exchange slow, deliberate, purposeful glances witheach other before bowing their heads.)

Linda: (leading the prayer) Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thyname. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Giveus this day our daily bread…

(BLACKOUT.) ❂


CLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP

BO LT E D SH U T

Mame Moran

It is a flimsy façade, flaking off when the gentlest of fingers opens the lock, which

squeaking as it opens, laughs in my facemocking and staring with its red eyes

shabby, no better than me, yet has the upper hand.

Keeping me miles away from the other end of that three inch thick doora key, that sacred symbol of belonging

would cost next to nothing, yet nothing could not get me in.

The neon in my cheeks lights up the room, illuminating to anyone who might come,

the metal orb, passageway to my dreamsspills of white, all else gone from the hands that have clasped it.

Giving not a thought to it, because it opens for themAll but I.




CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP

Gil l ian Redman acrylic


CLOSE-UP


UN E X P E C T E D

Lauren Manning

Larissa awoke. Her eyes pierced the darkness like silent blue bullets.Although her mind was still cloudy from a sleepy stupor, she began to senseeverything around her. After feeling the initial shock, she slowly relaxed. Asthe hazy outlines of the furniture came into view, Larissa blinked a few times,attempting to acclimate herself with her surroundings.

The room was large and she could only slightly make out the detailsaround her from the thin beam of the waning moonlight shining in from thenearby window. She toyed with the idea of getting up to close the open cur-tain, but she figured the lacy fabric could wait. The solid mahogany furnish-ings, enriched with heavily detailed engravings, loomed over her, making herfeel small and insignificant as she lay under the draping white canopy sus-pended over the huge bed.

She allowed herself to relax, collect her thoughts and determine whatcaused her to wake in the first place. Slowly lifting her hand to her forehead,the girl wiped away the small beads of perspiration that had gathered alongher hairline. She had not noticed them before.

Trying to close her eyes again, they would not stay shut. She had toomany questions, too much to think about. Shadows crept in from all direc-

CLOSE-UP

Kir sty Sievwr ight digital photo



tions as she lay in bed, thoughts swirling in her mind. The old grandfatherclock stood watching over her while firmly planted in its post in the cornerof the room. When Larissa tried to make out the time, the darkness inhibit-ed her sight. As the clock continued to tick, the bony fingers of a tree branchscratched against the nearby window. Along with her rapid breathing, thethree objects created an eerie symphony. For some reason, she felt as if thewise old clock and the persistent tree branch were judging her.

Larissa let her eyes sweep back and forth across the room. Burrowingdown under the thick covers, her shape was barely distinguishable from underthe pile of blankets. Her striking blue eyes were all that was visible, just bare-ly peeking over the edge of the bed spread. Although the heavy blankets gaveher a greater sense of security, she still left her senses intact and her mind onhigh alert. Five years ago, in such a situation, she would have been out of theroom in a flash. Five years ago, she would have pattered down the long hall-way, probably wearing an oversized Cinderella t-shirt and a too-short pair ofplaid flannel pants. Her small feet would make little noise, barely touchingthe floor, as she flew quickly down the darkened hallway to her father’s room,crawled into the warm bed, and buried her shaken self in his strong arms.

But now, Larissa was older. The Cinderella t-shirt was retired long be fore,and so was her relationship with her father. She had often seen family membersgrow apart, but she had never expected it to happen to her. Now, she reallythought she hated him. Larissa’s father did what he could to appease her, butshe would not accept it. In her mind, there was nothing that could repairtheir relationship. She could not even remember when the problems started,or even what they were about. But, she could remember the tears that shecould not hold back and how, as the torrents of sadness slipped down hersoft cheeks, the salty tears were the bitterest thing she had ever tasted.

Consumed in deep thought, Larissa returned to her senses and she feltthe house shudder around her. She felt her heart begin to race as it pound-ed against her ribcage. Her huge eyes grew wider and her breathing rapidlyincreasing. Someone had to be in the house. Why else would she have wokenup before? But, she specifically remembered securing the double lock on theheavy front door and how she had checked the locks on every window. At thetime, she had felt it was obsessive and unneeded, but had done so anyways.Maybe her father had returned, she wondered. But no, he had gone to visita friend and was not due back until late afternoon of the next day. There wasno reason for his return and, regarding her father’s timing, Larissa knewthere was no way he would be back on time. Plus, he was never one to refusean overnight invitation, probably to stay away from her she supposed.

A smile crept slowly across Larissa’s face. Her previous fears drifted

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP


CLOSE-UP


away as she pictured the sweet solitude of a day alone. She let herself sinkdown into the pillows and allowed the sly smile to stay painted across herface as she closed her eyes again. Her fears, from just moments before, wereerased entirely. Turning over onto her side, she slowly cracked her eyes openagain. She had already determined that sleep would not return, but was will-ing to take advantage of her time alone and stay in bed for much of themorning. From this position she had full view of the window. Rememberinghow she had not closed the gap in the curtains earlier, she decided to.Swiveling her legs over the side of the bed, she hopped down off the tall mat-tress. Initially jumping back, she had not expected the dark wooden floor tobe so cold. Larissa tiptoed over to the window, planning to quickly slide thecurtains shut and then rush back to the warm comfort of her bed. But shewas overwhelmed with the view. Never having been awake at such an hourbefore, she had never seen the deep purples and pinks that overtook the widesky as the new day slowly began. She could not help sighing knowing thatsuch natural beauty could never be touched and feeling the limiting con-straints of her humanity.

Thoughts still swirled in her head, but this time she feared very little.Larissa began to imagine, even to hope about, what her life would be like ifher father did not return from his visit. She could wake at this early time eachmorning, soak in her perfect sky, and then return to bed. Waking much later,she could spend her days as she pleased, never worrying that she would have

CLOSE-UP

Kait l in Southwick digital photo



to encounter another awkward exchanging of words with her father. But, itwas impossible, she figured, that he would leave her. Even though there waslittle love remaining between them, he was responsible for her as a guardianand while she had given up on him long before, she knew that he was notthat distorted a figure to completely abandon her. She remembered how hehad called the night before to remind her to leave the gate unlatched so thathe could drive right up to the house on his way home.

Larissa suddenly realized how cold she was under her thin nightgownand noticed that she had been standing at the window for quite some time.Her sky had transformed into a lighter purple with ribbons of classic bluereplacing the pink stripes from before. She grabbed a sweatshirt from a near-by chair and pulled the soft material tightly around her. Early morning lighthad been seeping into the room, bathing everything with a soft glow andtransforming the dark face of the grandfather clock to a comforting ivory.The heavy furniture looked far from as menacing as it had earlier and sheliked the room much better this way. The disturbing night before now meantlittle, today would be a good day she thought. Taking a final glace out of thewindow, her open sky cemented this belief.

Pulling her sweatshirt tighter, Larissa silently walked over to the bed-room door. She wrapped her thin fingers around the doorknob, turned it,and yanked it with a little too much force. The door came swinging backabruptly and she laughed softly at herself. Padding down the hall, she let herfeet enjoy the thick carpeting of the hallway. She always loved this carpetwith the way that it swallowed her feet as she sunk into it with each step. Onher way down the hall, she took time to appreciate her father’s unique tastein art. This collection of artwork was one of the few things she liked abouthim and her appreciation was one of the few characteristics that she sharedwith him. She continued to walk down the spiraling staircase, enjoying thesloping curve as she went.

Larissa was happy in this house for what she believed was the first time.She found herself enjoy the soft smack her feet made as she stepped acrossthe tiled floor in the foyer. She smiled at herself in the decorative mirrorabove the bathroom sink, taking no notice of the slightly open door. Walkinginto the kitchen, singing softly to herself, Larissa looked up abruptly. Herfather sat at the head of the antique table, a slight grin on his face and a bou-quet of wilting flowers held loosely in his hands. She smiled and offered ahello, but was taken aback when she saw his stony glare. Approaching wari-ly, she slowly walked closer, afraid of how he was looking at her so intentlyand what he was going to say. When she reached out for his hand, expectingwarm strength within hers, it was limp and frozen in her soft palm. ❂

CLOSE-UPCLOSE-UP


Laura Si lveraoil sticks

FL

ASH

BA

CK

FL

ASH

BA

CK

33-54_Perspectives_FlashbackR1:33-54_Perspectives_Flashback 5/1/08 10:29 AM Page 33


FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

Annie Murdock digital photo


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

I HAVE LIVED A QUIET LIFE…Inspired by Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s Autobiography

Emily Oehlsen

I have lived a quiet life of contradictions.I have kept my chin up and fingers crossed

but wasted time, in the Jardin du Luxembourg,relying on confidence and luck

to fruitless ends.I have raised my eyebrows,

and lowered my expectations,letting the idealist in me be replaced by a pragmatist;

lamenting my transformation on the slopes of Whistler.

I have bent over backwards and broken my heart.

I have had half a mind for those half a world away,but come full circle;

fasted for my sisters of Sudan,and their right to eat at my table.

I have met my match and someone halfway.A lesson in humility and my own humanity.

I have lived a quiet life.



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

Alex Jung digital photo

TH E CO L L E G E ES S AY

Cr ist ina Cebal los

There lies the page, that vast and white expanse;

A hill whose snow no human foot hath trod.

‘Til all my words, a blizzard of fresh thoughts,

Swarm on the page, and white is lost in black.

I write and write, ‘til my mind’s fountain stills;

A sputtering end – one drop – and then no more.

Above the snow now loom long spiky trees

With leaves of ink, and sap that runs and bleeds.

Gone is the hill, now forest I must face,

A treacherous maze, of sentence, word, and space.

Through pines I wander, brushing at their leaves;

I prune, and pick, and write, and start again.

My single soul, distilled onto one page;

Five hundred words or less is all they gauge.


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

FRO Z E N TE A R S

Katie Randolph

The slam of the front door against the old fashioned steel doorframe, theshrieking of voices in rough, German accents, the clanking of military

boots against the stained mahogany flooring, and the ear-shattering sound offalling glass coming to an abrupt end against a hard surface: ColonelRembrandt remembered yesterday’s events with impeccable clarity. Thesounds more than anything continually rang in his ears like a new pop songwith an incredibly irritable beat. But that had been then. This was now.

The heavy door of the gargantuan stone edifice, which ColonelRembrandt liked to call his summer home, was left open. However, the mas-sive steel lock was still intact: an insult to the invasion it was unable to pre-vent. The house still smelled of the braised lamb and herbed potatoes servedthe night before, and the smell wafted through the house, floating on an ethe-real breeze. The open double hung windows welcomed this breeze, catchingit as it swept off the lake’s glass-like surface. The smell was so intense that itpermeated the heavy draperies, which adorned the large windows and addedto the grandeur of the foyer. These draperies were parted to the sides andsecured with large creamy white ties with bell tassels hanging off the ends.They gave way to a sheerer, more transparent layer of curtain, which seemedto challenge viewers to look beyond it. Currently, the curtains were continu-ing their constant battle with the wind. As the curtains were tossed about,they revealed glimpses of the lake, only to cover them again in secrecy.

Lake Otto had never been heavily inhabited this time of year. That wasone of the reasons Colonel Rembrandt enjoyed vacationing here in earlySeptember. All of the usual summer families had returned home to crowdedcities or their stressful lives in suburbia, leaving a world of relaxation at thelake for the Colonel and his wife to enjoy. However, after the events of lastnight, no one remained to enjoy the soft ripples of the lake as they met thebreeze or the leaves with their candy apple maroon, brown, and green tints,which drifted off the trees and sailed peacefully onto the lake’s surface.

The dead silence enveloped the surroundings, smothering any smallsound that arose. The only apparent sound in the house was the “tick-tock”of the antique grandfather clock, which was carefully situated to the right ofthe front door. The clock’s skinny rectangular base with the glass-plated frontsupported its larger-than-life oval head. Because of its seemingly lifelikequalities and shape, the clock looked like a sentry watching over the home.The scrupulous details of this antique piece had always been appreciated bythe Colonel. Although simple, the floral design was so carefully thought out



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

and expertly carved that it took a true art entrepreneur a good five minutesto examine every detail of it. Every curl of the sinuous vines that adorned thefront of the clock, hugging the glass plate situated in the middle of the rec-tangular piece, must have taken hours to master. Every leaf with its uniqueshape and lifelines made the Colonel feel like a fortuneteller every time hepaused to look at it. However, the flowers were the most magnificent. Eventhough they lacked the presence of color, they possessed details and texturesthat not even Vermeer could master with the stroke of his brush. ColonelRembrandt could swear that they carried the sweet aroma of fresh cut daf-fodils: the incense for the artistic shrine it seemed to be. As a boy, he hadloved to run his finger down the façade of the clock, watching as his tiny fin-ger pads explored every crevice and every nook. His father shared in his pro-found appreciation for the artistic talent portrayed in the piece, as well as itspracticality and reliability. Nothing was ever that reliable nowadays.

Suddenly, the clock began to give its usual six o’clock address. The clear“cuckoo” sounded like notes coming from the Pied Piper himself. The vibra-tion was so strong that it made the stained wooden floor beneath it tremble.Sometimes the sound waves would even travel across the large foyer reach-



FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

ing the two twin staircases situated directly across from the front door, onlyto be thwarted upon contact with the hyacinth blue carpeting that snaked tothe second floor. However, this time something else vibrated. A wine glass,no doubt from the party, had been knocked to the ground. The shatteredglass lay among a pool of red wine right in the middle of the foyer. The pres-ence of the wine almost seemed like an extra coat of wood stain and dark-ened the floor awkwardly in one spot. It was almost as if this was a danger-ous omen of the events that would follow. Colonel Rembrandt had alwaysfeared they would come for him. “Damn Jews,” he murmured as he was cart-ed away by two Israeli officers. They had discovered the secret of his past;his life was now in their hands.

The house almost seemed naked now compared to last night when hun-dreds of guests had spotted the spacious ballroom, with its fine draperies andcreamy yellow molding. The entrance to the bathroom, a large wall cut-out,was located to the left of the large front door, and sported similar molding.The only thing remotely human that remained in the house was her: thepainting. Colonel Rembrandt’s favorite painting, in fact, which was hungbetween the entrance to the ballroom and the front door on the left side of




FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

the foyer. The Colonel had been so proud of himself for planning his housethis way. He loved having his two favorite pieces of art separated: the clockon the right and the painting to the left of the main entrance. He thought thatthey held some sort of protecting force, like guardian angels watching over



FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

the home. The girl in the painting was perched next to a large open windowin a room fashioned with classic, ivory and charcoal checkered flooring. Shewas clearly engaged in deep thought, despite the fact that she had work todo: a sewing project as it appeared. However, she seemed to be ignoring itand the assortment of domestic symbols that surrounded her. Instead shelost herself in a world of rumination, far from silly daydreams. She was awoman who knew what her purpose was. The blue, hyacinth blue, of herfrock fit so nicely with the house, matching the carpeting of the twin stair-cases. The confidence she exuded practically seethed through the tiny poresin her porcelain-like skin. It was this characteristic that made the girl differdrastically from any of the other paintings spread out across the foyer. Withhis unique eye for beauty, the Colonel had snagged her from an art auctionyears ago and had not let her out of his sight since. In fact, he had neverbothered to purchase any other portraits to furnish his home because hefeared they would insult the splendor of this girl. She was needed among theother landscapes of the collection; she completed it.

Below the painting of the girl, on a small end table, sat a pair of old fash-ioned spectacles adorned with a miniscule floral design. A novel lay next toit, no doubt one of the early 19th century classics. As the breeze came inthrough the open window, the pages of the book spread out like a fan as if itsreader was unsure of what page to turn to. A tan colored kerchief lay on thefloor beneath the end table, almost going unnoticed due to its extreme close-ness in color to the wooden floor. It was adorned with the initials “CMT” intiny blue script. Its owner had added an extra personal flair by scenting itwith a perfume of some gloriously luscious floral collection, which it hadretained until now. The kerchief had been used, most likely the night before.Its moistness slowly evaporated into the thin air like rain water after a storm.

The antique clock chimed again, signaling the beginning of the sunset.Blinding rays of light streamed in through the open window, reflecting off ofthe huge crystal chandelier of the foyer. Aside from the painting, the massivecrystal chandelier, which was hung from the dramatically elevated ceilingbetween the staircases, had always been a staple of the summer home. As thelight reflected off of the clear crystal prisms hanging from the ceiling, sap-phire blues, sunflower yellows, sea foam greens, and watermelon pinks dot-ted the room in a rainbow. One ray reached the pale cheek of the girl in thepainting, further illuminating the sparkle in her eye and the glistening of herhigh cheek bones. Ironically, it looked like a tear frozen in transit down herdoll-like face. The tear was the ultimate omen of unfavorable news. This wasthe labor of the young girl’s thoughts. The tear would tell; she knew theevents that would ensue. ❂



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

NU M B E R S O F TI M E

Ir i s Longo

My hands reach out to her,easily seen when thin time stretches wide.

Every second, a minute.Every minute, an hour.

While white noise buzzes over decimals and fractions,she sits and stares,

incessantly, without patience, into my window,silently willing my tick marks to pass.

She glances at me,bright bliss smiling in her eyes.

The hour is perfection,each second owns its moments time.

Little Jack and rambunctious Jill scramble up her legs,a jungle gym of family.

She seems to have all the time in the world,neatly compacted into the span of her life.

With white hair and feeble hands, she grapples for her glasses.When placed on the bridge of her nose,

still, she must squint.My hands of black, without fingers, fly.

Like birds, no longer will they wait for her to match their pace.

The oxygen tank quietly hisses,her life contained in a bottle,

as she sees me through the lenses faintly,a perfect portrait painted of time turned fragile.

Lizzy Walsh pencil


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

GR E E N E R PA S T U R E S

Susannah Lawrence

That green afternoon is imprinted in my mind. The elephants climbing castles,

hiding behind the trees, and thinking we won’t find the place

where they make brunch.

Marc’s store on that street with too many letters.

Abandoning hope of buying those boots andrealizing they were not necessary anyway,

because with you it’s always sunshine.

Those mystery books with the extra ffs. “There,” I said. “That’s where he was.”

I waited for hours to hear him speakand yet for you I couldn’t sleep, but

I had all the energy I needed. Forty blocks times two is nothing when you’re next to me.

Kir s ty Sievwr ight digital photo



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

The way I gave you a heart attack by crossing the streettouched me,

because you betrayed your true nature. “Don’t do that again,” you told me.

“I don’t want you to die.”

Death was the farthest from my mind as we searched, poking spines and ignoring the words

because we were allowed to judge things by their cover.

And when you took my handand I pulled you off the ground,

neither wanted to part.

And yet that metal monster awaited me – that long line to transport me away.

You bought me a newspapertaught me the absurdity of skinny jeans,

kissed my cheek when I had to leave and said to me, “I miss you.”

Danie l le Giorg io acrylic


SAY I N G GO O D B Y E

Tor i Por ter

Cancer is something my family is familiar with. We’ve seen countlessloved ones battle it and lose and seen the effect it has on people who

are not physically afflicted with it. Cancer has been prevalent throughout myentire life. Though my grandmother died of it thirty-one years before mybirth, her absence in my mother’s life has left a lasting impression on ourown mother-daughter relationship. When my grandfather, her father, wasdiagnosed with cancer in 2004 it came as no surprise. He was a man whohad no respect for his own health, despite being a doctor for most of his life-time. He abused his body mercilessly, and it was only a matter of time beforesome terminal illness caught up with him. In short, it was expected. He wasnot healthy enough to battle the disease, and it ran rampant throughout hisbody. I never got the chance to say goodbye to him. Someone once said, “Agoodbye isn’t painful unless you’re never going to say hello again.” As aresult of my experiences with my grandfather, I always make sure peopleknow I love them and that though I may be mad, I want them to be sure thatit is something that will pass and I will forgive them.

I called him Nonno, the endearing Italian name for grandfather. As mymother was growing up, he distanced himself from her, and consequentlyher family. Because of the distance between us, I use the term ‘endearing’lightly. He and I never had a solid relationship. In fact, our relationship boileddown to him buying me Christmas presents and me signing my name on hisbirthday cards. He was the polar opposite of my dad’s father, who was thewarmest, fuzziest man the world had ever seen. It was not as if one of themhad experienced things that the other had not. My paternal grandfather wasstationed on a Pacific Island during World War Two. Not only was he sta-tioned on it, he was on it during the various testing stages of the atomicbomb. He and his fellow soldiers were told to turn around, facing away fromthe explosion so they would not be exposed to the radiation. Ultimately, hisdoctors said the radiation was what killed him. If anything, my other grand-father had been through more. Nonno was not exposed to that kind of dam-age. His kind of damage was mental.

My family does not talk about him much. We think he is better off leftalone. Bring him up, and my mom’s face clouds over a little bit, my dad lookslike he is getting violent, my brother starts to get angry, and I tear up. He wasthat sort of person. During his lifetime, he managed to alienate most of thepeople who came in contact with him, so much so that it was almost solelyfamily at his funeral. He was abrasive, rough natured, and hard to be around.

FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

Taylor Gr i f f in digital photo


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

To spend time with him was to see what a man turns into when the personhe loves most in the world is ripped away from him without his having theability to stop it.

He went to medical school in Italy after World War II, and met my grand-mother, with whom he fell madly in love. They were married in Rome andimmigrated to the United States, where he had been born. He was the towndoctor in a small town in southern New Jersey for his entire career. Fouryears after my own mother was born, my grandmother died of cancer.Nonno tried to do everything he could to save her, but he was merely a fam-ily doctor and the cancer spread too far too quickly. He wrote to people inItaly, asking them for advice. His most cherished cousin, also a doctor, didnot reply, knowing that there was nothing that could be done for my grand-mother and not wishing to put my grandfather’s worst fear into words. Afterhis beloved wife died, Dr. Volpe went into a downward spiral. He continuedto practice medicine and was respected as the town doctor for years. Athome, however, he fell into addictions and raised my mother by putting herthrough the hell of having three different step-mothers, one of whom madeher sweep dead ants out of their basement on her eighteenth birthday.

People use drugs and alcohol as escape methods. When they have suchhorrendous lives that they need artificial happiness or ways to forget the painthat they have experienced or caused, some people turn to substance abuse.They also push away the people who are the source of pain, or who remindthem of it. My grandfather did exactly this. He bent to the will of his wives,allowing them to make my mother into Cinderella. Her life was so miserablethat she graduated high school a year early in order to escape her home. Inabandoning her so completely, he burned his bridge to her and never both-ered to rebuild it, leaving her basically fatherless for the rest of her life. Heshould have seen, however, that my mother was not the source of his pain;in fact, she could have been a way to remember and cherish the wife who heconstantly pined for, whose death was the reason he was hurting so badly.But he ostracized her and never stood up for her. My dad and I are of theopinion that he could not bear to look at her because she reminded him somuch of her mother, who was the only wife he had who he really ever loved.The fact that he pushed away when he really should have embraced hershows the kind of backwards person he was.

When I found out Nonno was sick, it was not a surprise, given the factthat alcohol and drug addictions usually terminate in illness. I remember mymom telling me about the cancer one morning in the spring of 2004 as I waseating my breakfast, rushing to catch my school bus. She did not cry, it wasmore like she was stating the facts, that she was resigned to it. When she told



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

me, I burst into tears. I’m not sure for what or whom I was crying, but thegravity of death always hits me pretty hard. It is when I find out that some-one is dying that I take a step back and reevaluate the relationship I have hadwith that person.

Nursing homes have never been my favorite places. I find them bleakand depressing, as if all hope is sucked out of a person the moment theystumble through the revolving doors. As his cancer worsened, Nonno wasput into one such facility, where we went to visit him about twice a month.He was constantly ensconced in his bed, looking reminiscent of an imagefrom Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias (lines 4-5), “Half sunk ashattered visage lies, whose frown, / And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold com-mand…” Nonno’s physical presence had always been large, but after thebouts of chemotherapy, he lay listless and weak, barely able to answer ques-tions or eat. When his prospects dimmed even more, he was moved toThomas Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia. The terms oncologist and radi-ologist were added to my vocabulary. I learned my way around the cancerpatient’s unit. The area with the chairs under the window that were probablymeant to create some semblance of stability and comfort became the place Iwas told to go when the doctors came in to give us news that weakened thesmiles my parents had plastered on their faces. My dad and I discovered aballet store across the street from the hospital, where I spent time browsingthings as mundane as leotards and tights and bought new slippers, trying toimmerse myself in the store’s calming vibe. I grasped for things that felt nor-mal to me, such as ballet and its soothing light pink world because theprocess of watching someone die was not something I wanted to face.

The last time I saw him alive, it was Christmas time. Slush covered thestreets as we made the hazardous drive into Philly. We met Nonno and hisfourth wife in the visitor’s room on the cancer floor. We were presented withgifts, and we thanked them, smiling. Then, with great care, my grandfatherlifted a large rectangular framed photograph onto the table. I immediatelyrecognized my grandmother, his first wife. My mom’s eyes filled with tearsas she asked him if he was sure he could part with this picture. My dad andbrother misted up too, so I figured that there had to be some sort of symbol-ism to this gift. Later, my mother explained to me that it was his favoritephotograph of her mother, that he had cherished it and loved it with hiswhole heart, seeing it as his gateway to her, even as he married numerousother women. Parting with it was his ultimate sacrifice. It was his acknowl-edgement of my mother, one of the first he had ever made. Giving her theportrait was his acceptance of his own death.

I don’t remember the rest of the details of that visit. The importance of


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

his handing over the photograph overshadows everything else. Though Ihave no specific recollection of my last words to my grandfather, I know theywere probably simple, overused words like “feel better!”, or “I’ll see yousoon, okay?” I also know that they included the three most overused wordsin the English language: “I love you.” All of these are comforting words,words that, if necessary, would suffice as last words. But I did not intendthem to be. I had just learned about all of the things he was responsible for,and my head was whirling with the pieces of the puzzle that were comingtogether. At that point, “I love you” seemed the safest thing to say. It wastrue, it was reassuring, and it was the easiest way out. If I could return to thatmoment, I would also include three other words, “I forgive you.” During adrive home from ballet class about a month after the visit, my mom informedme that Nonno was getting worse by the hour and that there was a chancethat he would not survive much longer. In a halting voice, I requested that Ibe allowed to go down and say goodbye to him. I wanted to make it final, toput everyone’s suffering to an end, finally. The response to my appeal wasshort and sweet. The answer was no, and I could tell from the tone of voiceit was said in that there would be no changing it. I tried anyway. I beggedwith tears streaming down my cheeks, for a chance to bid farewell to my lastgrandparent. I cried that I had not been able to say goodbye to my paternal

Mi l l icent Green digital photo



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

grandfather, and that I owed it to him, the man with whom I had an actualrelationship to end it officially with the man who had deserted my family. Mywish was not granted. My mom said that she did not want me missing schooland that she did not want me to see him in the state he was in. I cried theentire drive home. I cried for myself, that I was going to be left withoutgrandparents to cherish and that I had never been able to tell any of themhow much they meant to me. I cried for my mom, who had been so affect-ed by this one man’s life and choices. I also cried for Nonno, that he wasdying without his family at his bedside, and seeing the fact that it was his ownfault, I cried harder. The sadness of the entire situation hit me like I was walk-ing into a wall, not knowing where to turn or who to feel pain for.

Charles Volpe died the next day. My parents sat me down when they gothome from work to tell me. When I heard, I was overwhelmed with emotion.There were so many things that I wanted to tell him, that I wanted to put outin the air instead of having them welling inside of me. I wanted to tell himthat really, I did love him. Somehow, I still loved him, even after havinglearned the details of the awful things he had done during his lifetime. Mostof all, I wanted to tell him that I had forgiven him. During the monthbetween our last visit and his death, he was always on my mind. I had not

Mi l l icent Green digital photo


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

had any idea about how to act around my mother. I wanted to offer her mycondolences, but the way she had been living made it seem like her fatherhad died at the same time as his wife.

Given the chance to go back to that last visit, I would snatch it up. Iwould add those three other words of forgiveness to my wishes of health andlove. In my opinion, those are the most important words I could have said,and I never did, at least not to his face. Nonno was not aware that I had for-given him; I doubt he even knew that I was upset or that there was a possi-bility that I would not forgive. He did not ever think about the consequencesof his actions. If I am in a fight with someone, they either get the silenttreatment, or I yell at them. In both cases, they know I am mad at them. Butbefore I leave them or go to bed, I tell them I love them. That way, if eitherof us dies before we see each other again, or before we reconcile, our lastmemories of each other will not involve a fight, or negative feelings. On occa-sions when I have been in fights with my mom, I have told her things like“I’m not happy with you, but in case I die I want you to know that I loveyou.” I do this because God forbid I die without her there, my mom willknow that though I am not feeling malevolent towards her, I do in fact loveher. Because I did not get an opportunity to say these things to my grandfa-ther or any of my other grandparents, I want to be positive that I make upfor it at every opportunity. ❂

Laura Si lvera acrylic



FLASHBACKFLASHBACK

BLACK ACTIONS

Tara Cochran

I cannot taint myself with fear.

One unthinkable deed breaks the ocean of morality’s surface,

an icy awakening to my once innocent mind,

the initial shock of seeing that bloody hand buried

beneath a thousand grains of brown sand.

An image so vivid against the foggy scene.

What have I done?

My father’s voice of wisdom rings throughout my head,

piercing my mind like the clanging of swords.

Violence should have been the final resort.

A black shadow encompasses the water before me.

I recognize the gleaming pointed tip;

the sparkling reflection of a sword cannot be mistaken.

I cannot taint myself with fear.

My hands comfortably grasp the metal handle.

Fiery instincts have made the fatal decision for me:

I charge my blade into the soldier’s open chest

risking the future like a wooden sailboat in a storm

crashing into dark, titanic waves.

Pushing aside caution to feel a satisfactory rush;

why fear death, when I’ve already chosen hell?

A final cry muffled by a tremendous thud,

my lips inch upward to form a beaming crescent.

Like the blue-eyed girl continuously blowing her bubble

unaware of the time it shall no longer stretch,

my murderous actions will catch up to me

and drag my black withered soul to the grave.

Alex Jung pencil


FLASHBACK


FLASHBACK

VI C TO RY

El ise Mazurak

They drag themselves off the field,battered and bruised,

with their spirits crushed to a pulp.All their blood, sweat, and tears were for nothing;

everything stripped from them except the sweat-drenched, and tear-soaked jerseys on their backs,

and the mud-encrusted sticks in their hands.

Taylor Gr i f f in digital photo



Their heads hang in defeat and despair;they know they will never be in this spot again.

For one last time the warriors are sad, scored,but excited for what lay ahead.

They put aside all the hurt and painFrom the game which slipped through their fingertips,

and remembered why they were there.

They were playing a game,not to be recruited,

not because it would look good on a college application.But for the love of the game,

and the time they spent together as a team.

FLASHBACKFLASHBACK


Mil l icent Greendigital photo

TIL

TT

ILT

55-84_Perspectives_TiltR1:55-84_Perspectives_Tilt 5/1/08 10:32 AM Page 55


MI S C H I E F DAY

Ashle igh Jones

on the smooth grey concrete of my cell/ I heard the enormous roar of the surf/andsaw in my mind’s eye/the great wall of spray rising/ like a sheet of shattering glass

—Dennis Brutus, At Night

Little whisper-spirit of the past,adorned in party clothes.

You bear the faint murmur of yesteryearwhen pure joy and wonder

reigned, above all.

Run, sprite!Run as fast as you can!But you’ll never escape.

You’re trapped within this storybook castle,within this tower,

high above the world below.You are forgotten.

It’s a long way down.Watch out,don’t fall.

Your world is shattered.Only the looking glass reflects life as you knew it.

Pick up the pieces,the debris strewn all about the floor.

They will serve as your only reminders.

Explore your secret gardenand pass through the portal.

Now open your eyes, discover thatit’s all an illusion.Don’t let fantasy devour your soul.

This wild, untamed, chimerical visionwill be your ruin.

Hidden beasts lurk among the vibrant flowers.

TILTTILT


TILT


Time is your enemy.Beware—

time tempts you with a taste of delight

only to take it back, stealthily.

Destruction surrounds you;you’re all grown up now.

Isn’t that what you always wanted?Innocence is cruel.

Play your darling games,make-believe,

pretend it’s all real.

Darting mischiefattracts you—is magic real?

You are captivated, fascinatedby this delicate wisp of possibility.

Wish with a leaping heart,

TILT

Gil l ian Redman acrylic



but tread gently.Hope is in league with time.

A moment of euphoriais not worth

an eternity of disappointment.

Time will erase you.You’re only a shadow.

As afternoon fades into dusk,you too will disappear.

The approaching night steals you awayto go perform your sad, enchanting dance

with the ghost-fairies in your mystical Eden,

in your seemingly perfect Elysium.

TILTTILT

Br i t tany Wil l iams digital photo


TILT


TILT

I HAV E EV E RY T H I N G

Emily Per ls te in

I have everything.The Upper-East side fears me,

Tribeca envies me,Soho wants to be me.

New York City is my Christmas snow-globe.I can shake it up whenever my heart desires.

One touch,one glance,one smile,

everything changes. I am the words that leave

the luminous Laura Mercier glossed lips of gossip queens.Monarchy is not dead in my life;

it merely switched zip codes. The oak-etched antique French doors of my Fifth Avenue penthouse

lead to the Palace where I reside.The Harry Winston yellow-canary diamond on my bony ring finger

flashes to all as a reminder of who I am.

The well dressed, charming, wealthy, private school boy is my PrinceWilliam.

I have the essence of Princess Diana: I appear graceful in the tabloids

I am the eloquent poised young lady beloved by my subjects.

Chelsea Georg io digital photo



TILTTILT

I have nothing.Looking in the mirror, I hate the sinister face that beholds me.

My perfect complexion is a perfect lie.The make-up comes off: I am human.

I see what no human eye can possibly comprehend. Flaw,

jealousy,insecurity,

imperfection.I am the talk of the town, yet I hate what they say.

I appear poised to those around me, yet I trip and fumble when I self-reflect.

I am loved by everyone, yet I hate myself. I am invincible; if only they knew how broken I was inside.

Tears fall,mascara-smudged insecurities stream down my face,

Sobs of loneliness dampen the silk pillow.The plush velvet curtains are drawn,

the gold painted door is locked,darkness floods the royal chamber,

and here, and only hereI will break free of this reputation that I cannot escape.

I will beat against the platinum bars of this cage.I will turn myself in for being a fraud,

for robbing myself of the girl that is embedded so deep inside of my heart,that I can barely hear her desperate cries any longer.

I will stop kidding myself that I have everything that I have ever wanted.I will stop putting others down

To elevate myself on the throne of deceit where I so gracefully sit.

No,I will stay in this room

until I am readyto cover my actual emotions with tasteful makeup,

to conceal my individuality with chic clothes,to get into character,

and make myentrance.


TILT


TILT

PRO C R A S T I N AT I O N AG I TAT I O N

Grace Hir shorn

Ipush small sections of cauliflower around my plate, lift a section halfheart-edly to my lips, but lose the resolve to actually eat it and lower the cursed

vegetable back to my nearly empty plate. My mouth is dry, my face cracksunder the strain of maintaining my customary expression of polite interest,general happiness, competency, and radiating normalcy to my dear familyseated at table. My mother trills with laughter at a particularly amusing bas-ketball-related anecdote from my sister, and a second too late I join in.Pressure builds around my temples, and I bite my lips to distract my eyes,which are busy trying to overflow without my explicit consent. My eyes flickto my wristwatch, and as I note the time, a shock thrills through my body.7:03 pm. My mind clicks through calculations rapidly, examining any and allpossibilities, but whatever way I construe the facts, I still have a scant fourhour period in which I may create a five page English essay. My nervousstomach kicks into gear, churning half-digested cauliflower, pasta, andturkey into crazed and lurching palpitations, and I wish desperately that Ihad begun the assignment earlier. Procrastination isn’t worth the pain.




TILTTILT

I thank my mother warmly for a delicious meal, clear my plate, andpolitely excuse myself from general conversation. I stumble out the kitchendoor, pound up the stairs, and halfway up the landing, the buzzing in myears intensifies as the thudding pulse at my temple accelerates in time withmy churning stomach. As I toss myself onto my comforter-clad twin bed, thetears finally overflow, oozing out like bile from a lacerated wound. My entirebody is in enraged protest of the impossible task I had set up for my brain.

I finally succumb to the raging tide of energy pounding through myveins, allow my perspective to shift, my entire consciousness to be funneledand distorted into acute awareness of what I had desperately attempted toblock out. I…am a procrastinator! I realize with acute shock. I franticallycheck my wristwatch again, though I already know the time—now 7:06 pm.Now only 3 hours, 54 minutes left in which I must complete a thorough andpersonal exploration of a specific ordeal I have experienced during my shortfifteen years of life. I bawl with renewed vigor. Oh woe is me. Oh hateful ismy existence, for through my own fault, through my own negligence, I havesquandered every opportunity to create an intriguing, delightful, wonderfulessay, a task I am fully capable of performing. I now understand even morefully the sentiments expressed by Victor on page 57 of Mary Shelley’s novelFrankenstein: “Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of myheart,” and like Frankenstein, my anguish and despair is of my own design.

I guiltily eye the large stack of delightful Maeve Binchy novels on mybedside table, thinking fondly back to the many hours I had spent just a fewdays ago during Thanksgiving break. A faint smile quirks my lips at the glo-rious memory of reading from seven at night until the wee hours of themorning, of being completely immersed in the lives of Irish folk, in intellec-tual pursuits, in family struggles, and in family joys. What am I crying about?I rebuke myself sternly. I’m not Clare Power, a character from MaeveBinchy’s novel Echoes, shut out of the academic world because of my genderand social status. Nor am I dear old Judy from The Lilac Bus, a drug dealerwith serious financial concerns. No, all I have to worry about is a piddling,inconsequential English essay, a creative assignment for my favorite class atschool…which I have not even really started. I curl into a miserable ball asmy brain clicks through further calculations—if it takes me about five hoursto read a five-hundred page novel, and I’d read five five-hundred page nov-els this weekend, then I spent at least twenty-five hours reading this pastThanksgiving weekend! Twenty-five hours spent happily, but not wisely,hours of fun that I must now pay for in hours of toil.

I’m not usually a procrastinator. Nothing gives me greater joy than care-fully constructing a well-thought out paragraph, chock full of irony and


TILT


TILT

impressive vocabulary words, or finding exactly the right adjective to createexactly the right mood for a poem. This sort of careful editing takes time,and I’m not this type of person for whom the writing process magicallyoccurs within a short time frame, nor is pressure a helpful element that spursme to greater writing heights. No, the amount of work I must complete dur-ing a limited amount of time varies inversely with my mental capacity to per-form good quality work. The closer I push my working schedule to the duedate of the assignment, the more I must contemplate meeting only the min-imum requirements of an assignment. Therefore, the assignment ceases to bea scintillating academic experience, but a frightening opportunity not toachieve acceptable grades.

My stomach constricts, and a wave of nausea rolls over me. I know fullwell that grades reflect how much a student has learned and are meaninglessin the scheme of things, as long as a student does her best to complete theassignment, but what is so infernally unbearable is that English assignmentsare usually such fun to write. I think glumly back to our first English paper,a descriptive essay if I recall correctly, and I remember the hours I spentcarefully drafting, revising and editing my paper, which enabled me to handa finished copy to Dr. Mottolese right on time and with pride. What hadchanged? What circumstances had pushed me so ridiculously close to mypaper’s due date?

Genevieve Irwin pen and marker



TILTTILT

But wait, I think, brightening, I have written a draft, three full pages ofwork in which I recount a delightful tale about the surgical procedure myyounger brother, Daniel, endured as an infant. But my brow furrows, and Isigh in regret. I have already attempted to edit that particular draft withoutany success, for all of my expansion and elaboration felt false and artificial.I really don’t recall any tearful scenes between my parents, or desperatehours of waiting impatiently for my brother to return home, alive and well.All I remember about this “traumatic” family event is my mother patientlyexplaining how Danny-boy had a blockage in his liver that prevented his liverfrom draining bile correctly, and that Daniel would be treated by the bestsurgeon in the world. Daniel would have a scar across his belly, but would bebetter soon. I did not question her explanation, Daniel returned home aspromised, still dark-eyed and fuzzy-headed in the delightful way of babies,and trauma was avoided.

Like all people, I have experienced trials and tribulations during my life-time, such as the death of my great-grandparents, the horrific incident dur-ing my terrible two’s in which my father lost my favorite teddy bear, and myhernia operation at age four. However, I have no unpleasant memories ofthese experiences because of the constant, caring support of my parents. Toexplain the passing of G.G. Betty, my mother gently told me that it was timefor G.G. Betty to pass on that I should be proud that she lived such a won-derful life. To ease the pain of separation from dear Teddy, my father pur-chased an even better teddy bear, a true improvement upon its predecessor.To comfort me as I was anesthetized, my mother rubbed my arm encourag-ingly, told me she loved me with all of her heart, and promised chocolatecake and cool balloons upon my return home. I smile dopily and happily to

myself as I had smiled dopily andhappily then. I reflect with immensegratitude upon my many blessings,thanking God for my full and com-plete childhood and the manyopportunities that stretch ahead ofme, for parents that recognize theimportance of transforming chal-lenges into opportunities for indi-vidual and family growth.

How could I write an honestessay about ordeals that I don’t evenrecall as ordeals? The yawningempty span of five pages stillDanie l le Giorg io pastel


TILT


TILT

stretches long and interminable in my mind’s eye, waiting to be filled withthousands of words, quality writing, stunning vocabulary, incredible insights,endless thoughts and formulated ideas that I simply know I do not possess.Childhood ordeal? The moment of clarity passes, and I am suddenly swept uponce more into the swirling vortex of frantic worry concentrated in my fore-head. I stare blankly, assessing my absolutely non-traumatic childhood. Noevent in my childhood justifies an entire paper, nor do I possess a single topicclear enough in my memory to truly be remembered and documented overthe span of five whole pages. My mind is as blank as the pages I need to fill.The tide of energy is too much for my brain to handle, so my system crash-es and my entire consciousness rises and spirals with the earth’s orbit.

And then the excuses I had listed in my head start to echo in time withmy palpitating body parts, in a senseless chant of “Drafted Danny, thoughtof Granny, essay didn’t work. Drafted Danny, thought of Granny, essay did-n’t work.” I spend precious moments willing my brain to abandon the annoy-ing repetition of such unimportant phrases, beg my brain to start contem-plating thesis statements and Frankenstein quotations, but it latches evenmore stubbornly onto this strange repetition and coolly ignores me.

This cannot do. In order to have any chance at success, I must have thecomplete cooperation of my brain. I take a deep breath, curling my limbsfrom their spread-eagled position into the child’s pose, a yoga positiondesigned to enhance relaxation and concentration. Though many of us ado-lescents claim adulthood far before our time, I still cling to my childhood;channel the total acceptance and innocent perseverance of my childhoodmemories. I still my thoughts, willing away distractions and excuses, slowingthe unnatural tempo of my heartbeat to its natural faint, steady tattoo. Mynose is runny, and from experience I know my eyes to be bloodshot andglassy. But I stopped crying. I am out of tears. No longer can I justify thewaste of precious time and energy simply bemoaning the impossibility of thetask ahead, only weakening my energy and determination to complete thesaid task. Now is the time for action.

I crawl out of bed, determinedly ignoring my disheveled reflection fromthe mirror hung across from my bed, and limp over to my laptop and desk.I create a new word file, a clean slate, a fresh start, abandoning all prior drafts,all prior reservations. I must face the consequences of my earlier choices, thefoolish choices of a procrastinator, and by beginning anew with bravery andan optimistic attitude, salvage the opportunity to make writing the “childhoodordeal” paper a positive and rewarding experience. Sudden, overwhelmingclarity floods my consciousness, and a mischievous smile plays across mylips. “Here goes,” I mutter, and my fingers fly across the keyboard. ❂



TILTTILT

CL I C K

Meg Lar son

Click. It was so anticlimactic. Really, I thought, was that it? My entire lifepackaged in a neat little computer document. I spent an eternity, or at

least what felt like one, worrying about this moment. All of it, with a click,was gone. For the first time in several months, all felt right in the universe,as if the stars had aligned and I had the cosmos on my side, or at least as ifI could get a decent night’s sleep. The beginning of it all felt so long ago.

* * * * * * *It was a picture perfect day at University Z. With the sky blue and not a

hint of a cloud in the sky, I emerged from the car for my first college visit. Ihad drilled myself the entire four-hour ride about the specifics: the averagescores on standardized tests (to see if I stacked up favorably), notable alums(to see if anyone I actually cared about had attended or if it was the boringusual suspects), approximately how much it costs to eat on campus everyday (to see if I would be able to eat reasonably for nine months out of theyear), or how many freshman they took on their lacrosse team (to see if…well, I don’t even play sports so I guess knowing this was rather pointless).

Arriving 20 minutes early, I rehearsed in my head the speech I plannedin the case that I meet an all-important admissions counselor. I walked to thefront desk and spoke the words that had played on my repeat in my head forthe duration of our trip.

“Hello Sir, I’m Jane Doe. I just wanted to take this time to tell you whata splendid time I’ve had strolling your picturesque campus. Did I mentionmy name was Jane Doe. It really is magnificent, as are the intangible quali-ties of your university. I am incredibly impressed by your dedication to aca-demics and excited about the philanthropic work you do here. I’m Jane Doe,by the way.” Adding my name several times to the speech was a technique Icreated myself. Name recognition – the more times I said it, the more timeshis brain would imprint it in his memory, the better off I would be in theadmissions pool.

“Actually I’m just a student intern,” the guy behind the counteranswered. Upon closer look, he looked nowhere near old enough to be some-one important. “But the Dean of Admissions should be out soon and I’msure he’d love to hear what you have to say.” He was strangely perky, espe-cially given his mundane secretarial position.

I repeated my speech several minutes later to the Dean upon his arrival.He gave me an appreciative glance before I launched into my next question.

“And how do you compare your university to Harvard?” I asked. While


TILT


TILT

others might consider it tacky to mention other schools specifically, I had noqualms about it. Never mind that I wasn’t even applying to Harvard, it onlymattered that I brought it into the conversation so that he knows the caliberof the student with whom he is talking. Again, a technique I came up with allby myself. If I mention it, he clearly knows I’m a good candidate and he’llremember my name ever more.

“Uh…” He’s clearly taken aback by my question and unsure what the“correct” answer is. “We are an academically competitive institution.” Heanswered in a tone that sounded more like a question.

We left a short while after that. His inability to answer my question, Ithought, was probably a sign of University Z’s failure to completely educatetheir students. They clearly did not meet my standards.

* * * * * * *Was it 2 in the morning or 3 in the morning? I couldn’t tell. Tired from

working six hours straight on the countless forms that need to be completedonline, my eyes blurred together the dashes that composed each number onmy digital clock. I felt bags forming under my eyes as I frequently recalcu-lated the amount of time I would actually sleep that night. Three hours. Twohours and 45 minutes. Two and a half hours. Half of me wanted to just sleepwhile the other half desper-ately wanted to finish fillingout the applications. Afterall, there were only a couplethings left to do, I lied tomyself.

Two hours later, I satnext to the printer as Iwatched each consecutivesheet print out. I’m sureseveral trees unknowinglysacrificed themselves forthe sake of my collegeacceptance, but it was moreimportant that the collegeguidance counselors re -ceiv ed my application ontheir deadline so that itcould be properly re view -ed. December 1, their im -posed deadline, they had J i l l ian Giorg io traditional photo



TILTTILT

warned us would creep up quickly. “Why, oh, why did I leave this to the last minute?” I whined to myself.

“You do this to yourself, you know. All those times you procrastinated youcould have prevented this.” Internally scolding myself for my procrastina-tion, which I now could do nothing about, had become a habit of mine, as ifit would prevent me from letting something similar happen the next time(which it never did).

* * * * * * *“Be prepared,” my mother reminded me as I anxiously waited, brood-

ing over potential questions. Where did your parents go to school? What isyour favorite extracurricular activity? Who are your role models? But as thequestions continued to pop in my head, I began to debate myself, internallyof course, about the importance of my answers to these trivial questions. Asif the year my mother graduated actually made me a more appealing candi-date; come on, College Y, I know your admission statistics are meant to makeme feel inadequate but even I understand how useless that information is.Really, University X, you want to know how old my brother is? You want toknow whether my 8th cousin thrice removed spent time in your hallowedhalls? You want to know how many hours of how many weeks per year Iwaste, I mean spend, on the insect appreciation club? Questions like theserattled my brain as my anger swelled over the hour, no months really, that Ihad wasted on filling out applications.

“This is ridiculous,” I complained silently to myself. “These thingsshouldn’t matter to you anyway. What kind of message does this send to yourpotential applicants about what you care about as an institution of higher

learning? What type of…”“It’s nice to meet you

Mr. College Representa -tive,” I found myself say-ing, convincingly I mightadd, as he emerged fromhis office to greet me andlead the way into hismahogany-paneled office.Despite my best efforts tosound polite and collected,my rush of anger had donenothing to help quell theimmense nerves that hadnested in my stomach sinceJ i l l ian Giorg io traditional photo


TILT


TILT

I had woken up. “Well I really love working on the yearbook,” I blurt, only realizing

halfway through that he hadn’t even asked me a question.“That’s great,” he said, half pleased in the fact I have an interest in

something and half taken aback at my eagerness to talk about myself, even atrisk of sounding conversationally inept.

“So tell me about your high school.”“I really find Soccer to be such a great release for me after the school

day is over,” I began to say, realizing when I finish that this was in no way aplausible answer to his question. I quickly attempted a recovery.

“One of my personal heroes is Nelson Mandela,” I spit out, hoping itmight be the answer he wants to hear. It’s not. I felt myself running out ofthe comments I had practiced all morning.

“I’ve really found meaning in my life through working with the childrenat the hospital after school. And I have learned so much from the wisdom ofthe senior citizens I visit every weekend.” Everyone had told me this was thekind of stuff they love to hear, but somehow I got the sense this wasn’t theanswer to the question he had asked me, either, a question which, to be hon-est, I didn’t really remember. Could I ask him to repeat it? No, that wouldjust be humiliating after those nonsensical responses. So, I decided on thecourse of action I thought best: providing an answer so generic that it couldanswer most probably any of the questions he could potentially have asked.

“I think today’s world is a difficult one to live in and I think we as stu-dents need to adapt for the future so that we may live healthy and prosper-ous lives in a competitive world. I think I am ready for this future because Ihave been taught well and I adapt well and I like to learn. In the end it is allabout preparing the children, the students, and the next generation for anuncertain future here in America.” What had maybe sounded eloquent in myhead, and that’s being generous, sounded completely ridiculous out loud. Iknew it and he knew it, but both of us maintained our forced smiles, as if wewere competing in a competition of who can fake a smile the longest..

“What attracted you to University X,” he asked semi-genuinely, as if theanswer I gave was going to be different than those of the 200 kids I’m surehe had already interviewed. Eager to erase the mess I just made, I waited aninordinately long time to answer. It could have been 30 seconds of silence, itcould have been 5 minutes, but I didn’t care. I had heard this question cor-rectly and I was not going to screw it up with some speech I had prepared tosay already.

But wait, I needed a reason to want to go to University X? No one evertold me I needed a reason to want to go there. I had practiced every single



TILTTILT

answer imaginable except for this one. My nerves began to take hold again.I couldn’t worry about why I liked University X, I had to worry about get-ting in to University X. Liking a school wouldn’t get me anywhere if I didn’tget in. Mr. College Representative must not have understood the collegeprocess. Maybe I should ask him to elaborate on what he meant..

“I don’t get it,” I think out loud. “Is that a trick question?” Mr. College Representative didn’t answer me. He made a few notes,

raised his head to look at me, his face looking a mixture of disappointed andconfused. I gave a smile, an effort he attempted to reciprocate and yet some-how didn’t manage to get quite right.

His question scared me, and remained on my mind throughout the ridehome. The silence that pervaded the car prompted my mom to try to assuagemy fears about how it had gone.

“I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad,” assured my mom, eager forher over-stressed daughter to have one less thing weighing on her mind.“This is just your usual self-doubt after anything major. Remember yourfirst SATs? You thought your scores were horrible and they turned out fine.”

She didn’t get it. It wasn’t just that I bombed the interview; it was thathis final question had shaken everything I knew, or thought I knew, about thecollege process. Maybe it wasn’t all about where I could get in, or whichschool had the best reputation or what university would impress friends ofmy parents the most. Maybe it was actually about what I wanted. It made meask myself, what would happen to me when I was suddenly confronted witha decision? Upon being accepted, would I find that none of the schools Iapplied to, the ones that supposedly had been my ideal schools, were any-where near what I actually wanted? What would I do when I finally had tomake a decision, only to discover that I wanted something else completely? Ihad uncorked a new bottle of worries, worries that somehow seemed muchmore important than the ones that had plagued my brain prior to the inter-view. I had spent all my time wondering about the quantifiable parts of theprocess: my grades – were they good enough? My SAT scores – were theyhigh enough? My activities – were there enough of them? Those questionsall seemed easy enough compared to those I was asking now: What do I wantto do with my life? Where do I want to spend the next four years, or, poten-tially, four decades of my life?

“This is my decision.” The thought echoed in my brain, the “my” gain-ing emphasis each time. My parents weren’t the ones who would have to livewith the decision for four years, neither would my college guidance coun-selor, nor my nosy relatives, nor anyone besides myself. “This is my decisionand you’re not going to tell me where I should apply.”


TILT


TILT

“What,” my mom questioned.Oh. I hadn’t realized I had said it out loud. “I was just thinking – college

is my decision. I decide where I apply or don’t apply and I decide where Igo,” I said indignantly.

Alexie Poch digital photo



TILTTILT

“Uh huh…” my mother said trying to understand the source of my out-burst. “That’s what your dad and I have always told you,” she said in a tonethat seemed to indicate I had stated the obvious.

“You mean you don’t care where I go?” I was the confused one now. “Allthis work and you don’t care? This is my future and you don’t care?”

My mom took a long pause, as if she was taking extra precautionspreparing what she would say to me next. I could see her trying to processmy behavior. Though I have always been a bit neurotic, admittedly, I hadnever been as temperamental as I had been for the past four months.

“We care. We care a lot. That’s why your father and I work so hard tomake sure we can afford whatever opportunities you make for yourself,including college. That being said, it’s your decision and we know that. Asidefrom all the fuss over schools – the prestige, the sports, the kind of peoplewho attend – we care the most that you’re happy. And if it is anyone elsemaking this decision for you then no one will be happy. It’s up to you.” Intypical motherly fashion, she managed to assuage all my worries, ones thathad nested in my brain for months disappeared in mere minutes.

* * * * * * *The moment I had long-anticipated had finally arrived. I must have

spent three hours checking over an already complete application and afourth hour simply staring at the submit button, staring ominously at mefrom my computer screen.

“Does it have to be tonight?” I asked my parents. My mom gave me alook. That meant yes. Although my realization had somewhat calmed medown, the impending deadline had created inevitable stress.

“Do you really think sending this tomorrow night is going to make youfeel any better about it?” she asked. “Because if it will, then we will send ittomorrow, but if you are just going to continue this for a week because ofyour nerves then, no, we’re sending it out tonight.”

She was right, per usual. I stared at the screen for ten more seconds.“It’s all going to be alright,” I told myself. “You’ll get in somewhere and

you will be happy wherever you go.” As I repeated this to myself, I began tobelieve it. Maybe this whole crazy college application thing wasn’t as bad asI thought it had been.

In a final wave of confidence I took the mouse and prepared for theimportant left-click of the ‘Submit’ button that would leave my future in thehands of several admissions deans sitting around a table. Click. With a singlepress of the mouse, I let out a huge sigh of relief. My life, as I had known itfor the past four months, was over. And that was a good thing, a very goodthing. ❂


TILT


TILT

RO L L E R COA S T E R

Ale Fer rara

I am a worthless treasure, I have traveled the world on a roller coaster of worth.

I am a forgotten piece of copper on the garbage-covered city sidewalk, I am a miniscule amount of hope in the thankful hands of a hungry man,

I am a naïve wish thrown into a shimmering water fountain.

I am dropped into a cold leather hand, not worthy of its touch.Without a mere glance in my direction,

I am shoved in a cashmere lined coat pocket.This dark new home provides me with an artificial warmth,

safety desperately attempts to fill the hidden emptiness.

Cel ina Fre l inghuysen pastel



No joy, no light, no connections. Just cashmere.

He holds me up close to his scruffy, unshaven face. In God we trust, he mutters.

His eyes begin to swell with a twinkle of painful determination.He has been trusting in God for a long, long time,

but still he continues to trust. No darkness, no emptiness, no cold.

Just faith.

I am entrapped in a youthful grasp of innocence.Without hesitation, I am launched into the air.

Fueled by a juvenile wish, I am headed for the stars, blessed with a blindfold of ignorance.

With a delicate splash, I sink into the water.No disappointment, no concerns, no second-guessing.

Just wishes.

I can be as cold as a leather glove.I can be as hopeful as a seemingly fruitless phrase.

I can be as valuable as an adolescent desire. I have traveled the world on a roller coaster of worth.

TILTTILT

Laura Si lvera watercolor


TILT


TILT

AN UN U S UA L CA S E O F AM N E S I A

Takako Hirokawa

28…28… What was the next number? I couldn’t believe it. This wasthe fourth year I had had this lock, and never once did I forget …

until now. I could feel my amnesia coming on as I approached my lockerafter second period. I could see my locker when I realized that I didn’t knowmy locker combination. But I didn’t believe it and paid no attention to it untilI arrived at my locker and realized that I absolutely didn’t know what the sec-ond number of the combination was. I searched my mind for any outstand-ing number between 0 and 39, but nothing came. Not even �. I was drawinga complete and utter blank, like some alien had come down with a giant vac-uum, squeezed it in my ear, and sucked that piece of very important knowl-edge at that moment.

I didn’t need any books for the test in my next class, nor did I need anybooks for college guidance, so I simply left. I figured that because openingmy locker had become so mechanical, the numbers would simply return tome. I came back about five minutes later, after having convinced myself thatI had not been dwelling over the fact that I couldn’t open my locker. Thistime, it was different. The combination I had used in all four years of middleschool was all I could remember. Not an inkling of my current combinationsurfaced in my mind. Was I having an unusual case of amnesia? I’ve heardthat the brain blocks out painful memories in order to avoid the stress. Wasit because on this particular day, I just happened to hate school more than anyother day? That couldn’t be since it was the first day of a new term. I was(almost) positive that nothing was due today. I could hear a bald doctor witha white handlebar mustache and a monocle jammed in his face as thoughsomeone tried to squish his eye say in a voice that resembled a cow’s say,“I’ve never had a case like this. Hmmm. Curious, veeerryyy curious. I’msorry I can’t help you.” I knew it was hopeless as I simply stared at the pieceof metal in my hands, so I left.

I returned again at the beginning of lunch to see if I could open the lock.I was determined to get it open myself and knew I could. I hate to rely onothers for help on such trivial matters. The cool numbers on the black metalsurface simply turned and turned in some sort of mocking dance. The locklooked totally foreign to me, as though I had never seen such a thing before.The metal was cold in the palm of my hand and I tried to recreate everyother instance other than today in which I could open my locker, but alas, allI could do was remember my utter stupefaction at my inability to remembermy combination.



TILTTILT

I returned after lunch and again, the piece of metal that barred my waybetween me and my books seemed to hold onto the locker with a vice-likegrip. I starred it down in some sort of epic showdown of wits as it starredback with the blankest poker face I had ever seen. The bell rang. I would dowhatever I needed to break the will of this ornery lock. I had considered itmy friend, something to keep unwanted hands from nicking my things, butnever had it turned on me, to forbid me to get my things. I quickly ran to theoffice and asked for my combination. The woman sitting at the desk stared.

“How long have you had this lock?”I blushed, and sheepishly made some statement about my frazzled state

of mind.“38-17-4. Sound familiar?”It all came rushing back to me. I would conquer my lock and make it my

friend again! I thanked her and rushed back. With this re-newly acquiredknowledge, the lock looked more subdued and submitted to my forceful jerk,as I let out a whoop of victory. ❂

Meredi th Murphy mixed media


TILT


TILT

SU N DAYS W I T H SATA N

Katie Eisenberg

When I opened the pantry door only to behold a wealth of colorful, starchy goodsorganized by hue, size, shape, number of corners, and tendency towards goodand/or evil, it struck me that Satan’s obsessive compulsiveness bordered on insan-ity. This makes it nearly impossible to find what you actually want, unless, ofcourse, you are the big guy himself, in which case you can practically summon theobjects in question by telepathy. Of course, for us plebeians, all it takes is a bit oftime, effort, and elbow grease to locate some gluten-free (Satan has celiac) grahamcrackers, bittersweet chocolate, and oversized marshmallows. Today is Sunday, ands’mores are customary.

Part I: Why Are We Here?According to Satan, the first mistake that we make when transported to thedepths of Hell is that we let our minds convince our hearts that we must bepurely evil. We rack our brains, wondering if we killed someone and simplydid not see the blood on our guilty hands, pondering our own mathematicalabilities to embezzle funds from the local parish, losing sleep over the possi-bility that we may have coveted our neighbor’s lawn mower one too manytimes. Why else would we have ended up in the Underworld? We are thechaff, the low, the self-righteous, the –

“I apologize for interrupting, yet please refrain from internal mono-logues when I am speaking, Eugene.” A slow baritone drawl has crept intothe scene.

I look up. Best not to argue with Satan, despite his incredibly calm per-sona. Knowing what I know now, it is quite foolish to compromise that sortof ego. I’ll let Satan take it from here.

“Yes, yes, you believe that you are the unwanted chaff, the low, the self-righteous, the – by the way, I would classify it as more of a moderate, notslow, baritone drawl, Eugene, but thank you nonetheless – unworthy, yet youare only partially portrayed in those unsavory bits of existence. Complain ifyou like, but no one person is truly worse than the next. Catch my drift,Louise?”

The gawky nun seated on the plump purple pillow immediately shiftsthe death glare that she had been shooting at Ronald, a rotund and apathet-ic tax collector, to Satan. She dares to speak in a voice that conjures imagesof a pickle jar being opened by a seventy-two year-old man with severerheumatoid arthritis.

“Excuse me, Satan, sir, but if our malevolence tanks are still only par-



TILTTILT

tially full, then why are we stuck here with the ingrates – ““Louise…” Satan cautions her. “Fine, the peasants, instead of eating grapes and being fanned by

archangels while seated at the glowing feet of God, the Father?”A drop of spittle exits her lips at approximately twenty-three miles per

hour when she emphatically pronounces “Father.” Satan pauses. He taps his finger against his face, his foot against the

floor. The color begins to rise in his cheeks, and we immediately can detectthat something is afoot. The Truth is about to bubble to the surface, andeveryone from Chloé, the college admissions officer with a penchant forexotic pets, to Grover, a neurosurgeon who collects vintage Star Trek fig-urines, is awash in the eerie glow of silence.

“It was a clerical error.”

Part II: No, Seriously, Why Are We Here?“It was a clerical error,” Satan repeats, as though none of us heard it the firsttime. Perhaps he merely did this to confirm, in his own mind, that it was thetruth, and, as evidenced by the lack of good-natured chortling in the room,it is.

Satan clears his throat with an almighty hacking cough, and begins oncemore.

“Life, Death; Heaven, Hell; Good, Evil; Pistachio, Guava. Don’t youunderstand? Humans have a fascination with naming, identifying, defining. Allof these names, this practice of deeming things ‘identifiable,’ – each one isarbitrary. We never accounted for your obsessions. Had you first called whatyou now think you know as ‘Heaven,’ Hell, can you imagine what would havehappened? Medieval clergymen would have been selling indulgences for theinferno, free passes for the furnace, ultimate prizes for the underworld.Arbitrary. That’s it.”

I feel like a pregnant woman who is about to undergo root canal, only todiscover that Novocain will not be allowed.

Satan continues.“There was never supposed to be a separation. Life and Death, what do

they truly mean? You were never supposed to ‘stop’ –Satan contorts his fingers into the telltale “finger quotes.”“ – living, you were never supposed to ‘start’ –He does it again.“ – dying, you were never supposed to end up in Heaven or Hell because

you simply would have been living, existing, or, if you prefer,dying…forever. This whole notion of time was pure folly. The idea that one


TILT


dogmatic religion is better than the next, mere fallacy. The simple hope thatgood deeds would get you on the good side of the Numinous, nonsensical.Don’t you understand? Everything is a matter of perception. What you havecreated for yourselves is a world where these divisions become reality, andhow were we supposed to know that you would be capable of such…”

TILT

Rachel Bornste in collage



TILTTILT

He pauses, mid-sentence. It does not take us an extraordinarily longamount of time to discover why.

The tasteless kittens woven on Louise’s cardigan appear to be growingchubbier by the minute. Her heavily lidded eyes bulge, and she grips the tas-sels of the pillow on which her bony posterior resides with a sense of urgencythat one only finds in queue for a particularly crowded ladies’ room.

She explodes.Satan peers at the scorch marks on the pillow. “That seems to happen a lot.”

Part III: Where Are We?The tone of this weekly meeting has grown sinister, what with the sponta-neous combustion of one of our fellow residents and all. The funny thingabout this place, wherever it is, is that we all just…are. There was no velvetcurtain from one world to the next, no welcoming party with balloons andcocktails, no division between the “old-timers” and the “newbies.” It was asthough we all coexisted beforehand, in the present – forever.

Sundays had been dubbed “discussion days” with Satan. A meet andgreet for the willing, a veritable Pandora’s Box for the curious. S’mores andTruth were provided to ease the pain that comes with accepting one’s placein Hell.

No one is sure how long he or she has been here. Satan has gone to pro-cure a dustpan to sweep up the remnants of Louise, and, as such, I see thisas a golden opportunity to fraternize with my inmates. I turn to Marcie, amiddle-aged transsexual who enjoys hacking into government computers inher spare time, and ask the question that has been burning my chapped lipsfor at least five seconds, months, years.

“Where are we?”Marcie turns to me with a look of sheer disdain, her Galactic Mauve-

tinted lips puckered into a haughty little smile.“Isn’t it obvious?” she coos. I shake my head, imagining the manifestation of an imaginary dunce

cap. Marcie lets out an intentionally weary sigh, as though educating a com-

moner such as myself is not worth her time.“We’re in Central Park. Duh. ”My head is spinning, my eyes are attempting to drink in the peculiar set-

ting from every possible angle. I do not see Central Park. I see a conferenceroom on the twenty-third floor of a generic office building, complete with aplethora of artificial plants and fluorescent lights. I think that I am high.


TILT


TILT

I check my watch, which I suddenly realize I am wearing. I cannot seethe numbers. I forget how to count. I reach for my half-eaten s’more, andchew thoughtfully.

Sejan, a young man who works at an accounting outsourcing firm inBangalore, hurries by. I grab him by the cufflink and try my luck with a fullmouth.

“Bar war me?” A renegade crumb of my chewed marshmallow hits him in the eye. He silently plucks it out. I swallow the remaining bits of graham cracker lodged against my soft

palate. “Where are we?”He answers diplomatically, with a light Indian accent. “We are in the Louvre, and you are about to sit down on a 19th Century

varnished oak sculpture. I’d watch out, if I were you.” He turns and walks away, his polished loafers clicking against the

tiled…marble…grass floor. What is this madness? Perhaps Satan is right. Maybe it is a matter of

perception. Curse our petty race, curse our need for appearances and directanswers and instant gratification. Why, oh why can’t –

“Eugene, I have already addressed the matter of your verbose internalconversations once today, and I pray that you have learned by now?”

Satan has returned.“We don’t have dustpans in the San Diego Zoo, so I suppose that a

broom will have to do.”Two points are made quite clear:According to Satan, we are currently in the San Diego Zoo.Lucifer can speak in rhyme. Who knew?

Part IV: What Do We Do Now?Satan finishes collecting Louise. Tidbits of kitten sweater remain attached tothe bristles of the broom.

He sits.“According to the heading, it seems as though you would all like to know

where you go from here.” Chloé, the admissions officer, pipes up.“Actually, given that this is told in Eugene’s point of view, I believe that

the heading refers to his question. What if the rest of us don’t care where wego from here?”

Satan scratches his chin.



TILTTILT



TILT


TILT

“Alright, then, would you like to propose a method for choosing a dis-cussion topic?” Satan inquires, with the sort of genial tact that seems incon-gruous for the Lord of the Underworld.

Chloé’s makeup-laden facial features brighten.“We’ll all write our chosen topics on slips of paper. Then, we’ll give them

to you. You’ll put them on that librarian’s bureau –I see no librarian’s bureau.“ – over there, and throw them in the air. Whichever ones land back on

the desk, we discuss.”Chloé looks pleased.Satan looks thoughtful.“How did you come by such a method?”Chloé’s lips part into a smile.

“How do you think we choose our future students?”Perhaps some people have rightfully earned their places here. Satan has the final word.“We’ll stick with Eugene’s question for now, though I do thank you for

the input, Chloé. So, what do you do now? Why not make it easy for your-selves, and continue to live as you always have? You only just noticed whereyou were now – why let it influence you?”

I now know what I wish to say.“But, why?”Satan grins. It is a familiar smile, though I cannot yet place it. “Yes, Eugene?”“Why? Why should we resist change? Everything is a matter of percep-

tion, is it not? What if we don’t feel content being mediocre. What if we wantto be supremely good, or, considering the arbitrary nature of said word,supremely evil?”

My confidence grows by the second.“Look, Satan, I don’t know where I am, what I am, why I am here, or

what I have done to deserve this. But this doesn’t seem particularly hellish tome, and you don’t seem to be any more horrible than the rest of us. What ifI want to question, what if I want to understand, what if I don’t believe?”

Satan gazes at me with twinkling eyes.“I have been waiting for just that.”

Part V: Who Are You? Who Am I?“Your friend Eugene makes a good point. Look at the world you have creat-ed. Although you are obsessed with defining, you succumb to reason whenyou finally become comfortable.”



TILTTILT

Eyes whiz about the room in utter bewilderment. “A clerical error. True. You were never supposed to turn out the way that

you have, but look what you have done with yourselves as a result? You havemore opportunity than we thought possible, yet you haven’t even begun toexplore it.”

A wave of understanding hits me like a ton of gluten-free graham crackers.“We never accounted for your free thought, yet once you developed

such terms, we expected more from you. It is not enough to have freedomand not question, it is not enough to have power and not wonder why. It isnever enough.”

How did I not see it before?“Who am I to you?”An angry buzzing noise fills the air, as I suspect that each and every one

of us has begun to postulate who Satan is.“You look like the Pakistani missionary at my church!”“No, my dead great uncle, Charlie!”“My orthodontist!”“An old woman with a carpetbag and a moustache!”“Martha Stewart!”Each and every one of us has a different vision, one that, before now, we

had never questioned.I raise my hand.“Yes, Eugene?”I clear my throat.“You look like me.”Silence.Satan clutches his hands together.“Well done, Eugene, well done. The question has become the answer.”Confusion.“Allow me, once more, to explain. Once you begin to move forward, you

realize that I am in each of you. Who told you that you were in Hell? Howdid you come to assume so much, and know so little? Can you not see? Noone person is better, more evil, more intelligent, more gifted than the next.You are all one in the same.”

Silence.“Don’t you understand?”They don’t, yet somehow, I do.“I am God. Welcome home, kids.” ❂


Carolyn Gatesdigital photo

PA

NO

RA

MA

PA

NO

RA

MA

85-116_Perspectives_PanoramaR1:85-116_Perspectives_Panorama 5/1/08 10:37 AM Page 85


Liz Car r digital photo

PANORAMAPANORAMA


PANORAMA


LY R I C I N A CH I L D’S RH Y M E

Lindsey Festa

Peace is just a word in a child’s rhymethat is what is said every time.

the thought is thought of, even saidbut look— the world is filled with dead

ideas and notionsno more emotionsthat stir the insides.

Out go the crooners, the whisperers, the floatersin come the plastics, the reckless, the ownersof weapons who destruct the masses and pass

down stories of legends and fighterswho resemble the reason why the days have grown quieter,

but shots can be heard through the night sky,and stars no longer come out, only hide

from the anger that one possesses,no longer wishes, only distresses

of why the world cannot halt to a stop,bucking off those who continue to pop

pills of depression, violence, and suppressionleave those behind who only bring troubles

and leaving the world in one big bubblethat is waiting to burst out in to the open,shedding the hope that one only desires,washing away all the sinners and liars,

and one can pray that this could happen,for the children know how peace truly can happen

speaking in riddles and rhymes with no reasonsoccurs every month, every year, every season,

but within each childthere lies a smile

filled with those ideas and notions,cries and emotions

that have been lost for some timeyet have lived in a child’s young, feeble mind,

and one just has to take that timeto repeat that line:

Peace is just a lyric in a child’s rhyme.

PANORAMA



WH AT LI E S AH E A D

Chelsea Georg io

A tall building crouches over a young girl.It inches its way over her shoulder,

coming down on her like a crashing wave.

A narrow pathway creeps forth in the background;a snake slithering its way into open grounds

to push children.

Within the field stands a girl.She is illuminated;

a halo of light sprinkles her face,but the rest of the world is dark.

Dark, black beams outline an imaginary door into the building;one with no entrance,

no exit.

Her eyes have a blank expression; robotic in a way.Looking out into nothing,

into a world unknown.Where is she?

Where is she going?

A thorn bush juts out ahead of her;its piercing tips like that of fifty daggers.

A breeze blows and the girl’s hair flies;twists of auburn whirled together

into one roaring flame.One.

She stands poised and erect,clutching a basket tightly like a baby to its mother.

She keeps on walking;right foot forward.

PANORAMAPANORAMA


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

Anastass ia Lindo tempera

Cour tney Fischer tempera



PANORAMAPANORAMA

THE SEA

Jenna Nobs

The sea,which once reflected the glory of Troy,

now swallows the sun and spews it in our faces, rubs salt in our eyes with stinging fingers.

These waters once stretched before me in exhilarating swells,like horses to be tamed by the steady hand of a swift black ship.

By moonlight, I would plan and calculateto the reassuring slicing of oars through rugged ocean.

This sound now pains me, just as the sea blinds and scorns me.

I was once the great Odysseus. Tonight,I am a broken man at the mercy of the gods,

who see fit to torment me with brief glimpses of home,illusions that slip through my fingers

like wisps of smoke.


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

Jenne Ingrass ia tempera

The white sails of this ship once billowed out in the windwith the boldness of our crew’s ready hearts

and sharpened swords.Now those sails are ragged and yellow,

weathered and weary. They flutter half-heartedly in the duskas I gaze out onto the endless gray water.

None of it seems real.The thrill of the fight is gone from me,

as the winds of Aeolus are gone from their tightly bound pouchat the hands of foolhardy men.

At any moment,Poseidon may rouse these waters

and swallow us whole.I hardly care, and am quite certain that I would hardly notice.

As far as I am concerned, we are underwater already.



SA M’S CH A N C E

Katie Murray

Asharp, cold wind descends over New York City as the chill of fall settles.A woman walks down a crowded street clasping the fabric of her trench

coat, pulling it closely around her waist. Her cheeks are flushed and the coldlashes at her face as she walks hastily. A more in depth look at her unblem-ished face would reveal a hidden beauty. The kind of beauty that may befound when one breaks open a seemingly ordinary rock to find an extraor-dinary gem or crystal on the inside. Behind her tortoiseshell glasses there isa glimpse of the pure blue eyes that many envy. Her figure, although coveredby her clothes, is not muscular but gentle and lengthy. Her clothes, thoughordinary, work with her look, or the lack thereof. Altogether she looks harm-less enough, but, as with all people who tend to keep themselves withdrawn andhidden, there is a more adventurous side lingering just beneath the surface.

She is on her way home from work and longs for the warmth of her smallapartment. Her eyes cloud over with the thoughts of home and she does not seethe man standing in her path a few feet in front. Walking fast, she reaches theman at a surprising rate and an accident is inevitable. Two steps away and…

“Oh!” she exclaims as she snaps out of her daze, “I’m really sorry about that.”“It’s alright.” The man says, politely smiling, “You should watch where

you’re going next time.” He is still smiling and this last remark is said in ahalf joking, half serious tone of voice.

She smiles back returning his kindness, “Yes I probably should.” Sheresponds, suddenly captured by his dark, endless eyes.

She moves away from the scene of the encounter, still a little startled. Itseems that this meeting is over and this man will become just another forgot-ten acquaintance.

The man stands still for a moment staring down at the small paper bagclenched in his hands; it is white with a blue pharmacy logo. His eyes flickeras he makes a quick decision. He pushes the paper bag into the depths of hiscoat pocket and starts down the street after the woman.

“Excuse me miss, excuse me.” He yells, trying to get her attention.She slows the pace of her walking and stands still for a second preparing

herself for what will come next. She slowly turns around and sees the man thatshe had almost run over in her embarrassing haste to get home. She waits, fro -zen in place, not knowing what to expect from this almost complete stranger.

“Hello again,” He says awkwardly, not knowing how to start this conversation.“I know this may sound strange...” he says, “...but there’s just something

about you. You’re beautiful.” He manages to get the words out, although it is

PANORAMAPANORAMA


PANORAMA


clear that he has never said anything of this nature to any woman, strange orotherwise, before.

She stares at him, obviously taken aback. No one, no man, had ever toldher that she was beautiful, at least not in this outward, precise way that thisunusual man just had.

“Umm…Thank you?” She says questioningly, not completely con-vinced that she had heard him correctly.

“I also wanted to give you this.” He hands her a business card with hisname, address, and phone number on it. She looks at the card taking in allthe information. His name, Timothy Mason (“Most likely called Tim by hisfriends and family,” she thought), his address on the Upper West Side, West76th and Amsterdam (a lot nicer than her place in Midtown West, preciselyat 56th and Broadway), and his phone number, a bunch of informationmeaning nothing to her at the moment.

“I know this may feel like a lot at one time, but believe me, if you can,this is something that I never do.” He says smiling warmly again.

PANORAMA

Alex Jung colored pencil



Strangely enough, she does not feel threatened by him. Instead she feelstouched, in a way, by his kindness and the outward nature of his character.She smiles at him, unable to say anything at the moment. They stare at eachother for a minute and then the moment is gone, and he shifts from foot tofoot, uncomfortably.

“Well, umm… I actually wanted to ask you out on a date.” He says sud-denly. “I mean, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, it was just a sug-gestion, and…” He rambles on a bit and she interrupts him.

“No, I would actually like that very much.” She smiles again realizingthat there is something about this man that she is strangely attracted to. Sheno longer feels that he is some crazy man going after her on the street, but agenuine person interested in having a real chance to get to know another.Again she is drawn to his eyes; they seem to tell his whole story. Looking intothem she realizes, in more depth than before, that he is not this outgoing innormal circumstances.

PANORAMAPANORAMA

Liz Car r digital photo


PANORAMA


He smiles again and this time it is a smile of acceptance and anticipation. “Great!” He says enthusiastically. “Well, okay, you can meet me outside

my apartment, the address on the card, at say… 6:00 tomorrow night?” Helooks at her questioningly, a bit apprehensive, afraid that she will take backher acceptance of his invitation at any moment.

“6:00, that sounds good.” She says, surprised that a date is in her near future.“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He says, happy at this unexpect-

ed experience. They stand there for a second, shifting a bit on their feet again not

knowing what to say or do. “See you tomorrow night then.” She says as a final validation of the date.

She smiles and he returns the gesture, and they go their separate ways.She walks down the street, hands in pockets, pace fast, a smile spread-

ing across her face. He watches her for a moment but then turns to headhome, a smile spreading on his face as well.

The next evening it is cold, but not unbearable. It is just turning dark as awoman walks along a nearly deserted street; her destination, West 76th andAmsterdam. It’s almost 6:00 pm and she’s in a bit of a hurry. She slows downas she comes to the last block that she has to walk. Thoughts and questionsflow through her mind. What if he isn’t there? What if this isn’t the rightaddress? On and on she thinks until all her worries are quelled when she seeshis face a little ways down the street outside his apartment building. She seeshim smiling and can’t help but to smile in return.

The last few steps are effortless as her dreams of this date started tocome true.

“Hello.” She says greeting him happily.“Hello.” He says in return. “Oh, I realized that I never asked you your

name, or officially introduced myself.” He looks at her anticipating herresponse and the name that will fill the empty space in the air between them.

“Oh, umm…it’s Sam, well actually Samantha. Samantha Gold.” Shesays smiling and holding out her hand for the formal and official meeting.

He smiles and says, “Timothy Mason, but you can call me Tim.” Heextends his hand and they shake; his strong hand surrounding hers.

He looks at her with adoring eyes and she looks back not willing to letherself fall for this man completely, at least not yet.

“Okay, well I’ve made some reservations at this nice restaurant just a fewblocks from here, are you ready to go.” He looks at her, waiting for aresponse and notices her clear, blue eyes for the first time. Behind her glass-es they are hard to see but he no matter the barrier he is drawn to them.

PANORAMA



She notices him staring and blushes a bit. “Yes, I’m starving.”“Good.” He says, pleased.They both turn and head down the street, hands in pockets, not daring

any more physical contact after their initial handshake. They make small talkabout the weather, the stars that have surprisingly shown their faces in thenight sky, and then personal questions are asked and answered. Tim findshimself falling deeper into the life of Sam and it seems that he is falling inlove. Sam, on the other hand, has built a thin wall between herself and Tim,not wanting to get too close as things like dates and relationships are strangeand uncommon to her.

Soon they are at the restaurant and seated; it is a quaint, little Italianplace lit by the light of candles. There they eat a wonderful meal and contin-ue to talk about their personal lives; seemingly more interesting than theyhad ever been before tonight.

Dinner is over in a flash and all the magic of the night is coming to an end.This date was everything Sam could have asked for and it ends outside ofTim’s apartment; exactly where it had started.

Standing at the door Tim plays in his mind a film of a goodnight kissand a sweet goodbye; a promise of something more than a one night relation-ship. Sam’s wall is still there, crumbling slightly, as she thinks of a deeperrelationship; she isn’t quite ready at the moment but in time she would suc-cumb to the idea.

“I had a really good time and I was wondering if you would want to goout again. We could go to our little restaurant tomorrow night?” He suggests,more than hinting with the reference to something that is “ours” that theywill be more than “Just Friends”.

She smiles, but it is a smile of disappointment, “Oh, I would love to goon another date, but I can’t do tomorrow night. You know what, I’ll call you,okay?” She looks at him waiting for the reply.

“Sure, okay, call me.” He says; he is let down but attempts a smile anyway.As if by chance they both decide that a hug would be the best departing

gesture; not too intimate yet still warm and soft. The hug is quick but no lesssweet and he heads inside and she down the sidewalk.

On the walk home her mind is rattled with thoughts. She thinks abouthow much she likes Tim and how even though she had been put into this sit-uation by uncommon means it feels right and good to have a man notice herin that way. However, the self-demeaning aspects of her unstable characterand her lack of experience with men make her think that this date might havebeen something more spiteful than the harmless interaction between a man

PANORAMAPANORAMA


PANORAMA


and a woman. What made this man notice her? Why had he asked her on a date?

Maybe he had only done this for something to do; a much more confidentand beautiful girl was his prize and not her. He could have been dared; menare sometimes foolish and act like children. In the most haunting thought ofthe night she thinks “What if he’s engaged, or worse, married?!!” Self-doubt-ing thoughts flood her mind and somehow she convinces herself that thisman had not asked her out on this date because he had liked her.

She quickens her pace and walks the last few blocks to her apartment.She throws open the door, tears emerging from a hidden place deep inside.She takes Tim’s business card from her pocket and throws it on her deskwhere it flutters to a resting place somewhere in the dark. She falls on the bedand cries herself to sleep thinking about this awful man and his “horrible”attempt to trick her.

It has been three weeks since Sam had met Tim. She has forgotten him in theway that one forgets a dream that seems completely out of reach. Sitting at

PANORAMA

Alex Jung pencil and colored pencil



her desk she scrambles the papers looking for a pen and a blank piece ofnotepaper. Lifting a stack of envelopes she uncovers a small piece of paper.She picks it up, not sure of what it is, and turns it over. All of a sudden sheis taken over by sadness as she realizes that it is Tim’s business card.

For the past few weeks she has been trying to forget him and his unusu-al ways with women. However, the sadness passes quickly and she enters astate of reflection. She remembers vividly the night of their first and onlydate and how she had convinced herself that he was nothing but another guytrying to trick her. Now she thinks about how she might have been wrong. Itwas only one date and she didn’t even know him that well. Maybe she justdidn’t give him enough of a chance, or maybe she didn’t give herself the ben-efit of the doubt.

She gets up from the desk, grabs her coat and her bag and heads out thedoor. After thinking about what she should do she has decided that a person-al visit will do more to right the situation than an impersonal phone callwhich will most likely get her nowhere.

Walking down the street she thinks she must be crazy but will not stopuntil she has made thingsright. She was supposed tocall and didn’t, so he mustalready be mad and whatmakes her think that he willaccept her apology? Itdoesn’t matter what willhappen, she is consumedwith the desire to try toresolve this whole dilemma.

She reaches Tim’sapartment building, findshis name on the plaqueoutside and heads in. Sheclimbs the stairs, notpatient enough for the ele-vator.

Here it is apartment3C. She stands there, out-side the door and thinks fora few minutes. She standstall, takes a breath, andknocks on the door.

PANORAMAPANORAMA



PANORAMA


No answer.“Where is he?” she thinks. She knocks again and no answer. She stands outside of the door and

waits for a while. After a few minutes she hears the elevator door open and happily

expects to see Tim’s face come off to greet her.Tim is not there, instead an old women walks out pushing her groceries

ahead of her. “Hello!” says the old woman, smiling.“Hi.” greets Sam in a short, almost curt, way. She looks behind the wo -

m an expecting Tim to be down the hall or maybe just getting off the elevator.The old woman looks at Sam a little shocked that this otherwise pleas-

ant young woman would be behaving so rudely and abruptly. “Are you waiting for someone?” the old woman asks politely, hoping her

politeness will rub off on Sam.“Actually, yes.” She says. “Do you know the man that lives in 3C,

Timothy Mason?” Sam uses his first name as if still not being able to admitto herself that their relationship, albeit short, as anything more than casual.

The woman looks at Sam with a sad smile. “You mean used to live in3C.” She shakes her head seemingly sad and reflective.

“What?” Says Sam surprised and confused at what this woman has just said.“Oh, yes, Tim. He was a good man.” The old woman says as she gets out

her keys to open her own apartment. “He died about a week ago. It was can-cer that got him. He knew he was dying but tried to live every moment to thefullest, I give him credit for it, that poor man.”

The old woman seems almost unaffected by this horrible event.Sam steps back until she hits the wall. Her face has turned white and she

looks as if she has just seen a ghost.“Dead?” she says as she slides down the wall, tears spilling over and

glasses fogging to the point that everything is hazy and blurry in her eyes. The old woman is gone by now disappearing into her warm apartment.Sam thinks about this tragedy and her assumptions of rejection that

stopped her from living every moment of life completely. She also thinksabout Tim and his incredible bravery in the face of his own impending death.Finally, she thinks about his love. “Tim loved me.” She thinks, however insanethe thought may sound. She thinks about this last point and manages a weaksmile through the tears as she realizes that the feeling deep down in herstomach was that of her love for Tim, fully and finally realized.

His eyes come into her mind, his endless brown eyes. How could sheever forget them? ❂

PANORAMA



PANORAMAPANORAMA


BA R R E N

All ie Hi l l

The sun; a white hot orb scorching the red land.The earth; jagged, sharp, flat, bare,

wavering in the raw heat,heat that is a part of this land,

this land of deep ravines,of contrasts,

and bitter creosote.


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

Miles of red stretch so far;marred by jagged spikes of rock,piercing the sky like great flames.

Sparse plants; their naked branches like claws,twisted towards the bright, blue, cloudless sky,

begging for relief.

For cool, sweet water.

But there is no mercy in the harsh beauty, untamable wild, bold grace, hot cruelty, sharp lines, of Arizona.



PANORAMAPANORAMA

A WI LT E D RE D RI B B O N

Carol ine Kitchener

Food is my lifelong enemy and five-minute best friend. Looking down atthe mound of congealed blubber which has so kindly chosen my thighs

as its ideal place of residence, I thoroughly despise every morsel of BettyCrocker’s microwavable fudge brownies. But then, the scent wafts in fromthe kitchen—the decadent, oozing smell of melting chocolate. And she’sback. Her perky blonde hair is tied with a dotted red ribbon. She holds thebrownies out to me and smiles like one of those big-eyed kitten pictures Iused to stick on my school notebooks. I have my own personal demon: foodis my explanation and only excuse. As a little girl, I devoured my mother’shot, crisp curly fries, only to grow up into a giant blob of clumpy mashedpotatoes the colour of churned milk six months past its prime. The othergirls at school—the ones with tubes of cherry lip balm and sliced wonder-bread sandwiches—used to call me “lumpy.”

Sitting here, in the personal library of Mr. Richard Mountebank, I real-ly have no reason to be thinking of food. My lunch was yet another dietattempt gone wrong. I started out determinedly gnawing on my nutra-grainbar, but was thrown drastically off-course by a plate of steaming mozzarellasticks, of which I consumed one too many. This room is cold. And not justbecause of Mr. Mountebank’s disdain for the modern phenomenon of a cen-tral heating system. There is no life in this library. At first glance, it’s luxuri-ous: the epitome of what every Tudor library should look like. Then I sitdown and I’m trapped between the pages of one of Mr. Mountebank’s dor-mant volumes. Air hangs in this library. It droops like a seven-year-old girlsuspended from her playground hang-bars, drained of every ounce of pos-ture and poise. Suddenly, the heavy cherry paneling transforms itself into aplaster of concrete paste. This is a jail cell and the books lining the walls arenot books at all, but rotting corpses—mere shells of what once was literature.

The spines are dusty. As I scan my index finger across the leveled edges,fuzzy dust sticks to my sweaty fingertips. Drawing out the sixth volume ofThe Rise and Fall of Ancient Rome, I cautiously lift open the cover. Thespine cracks. The book opens to reveal white pages that make me tremble asI caress the first chapter, trying to warm it up— to infuse it with my bodyheat. I let my finger roam across the small black font. I shiver. My nailscrapes the page like it’s clawing a chalkboard made of polished white ice.

The unnerving attribute of this book, along with all the other books inMr. Mountebank’s library, is found under the front flap. It’s the publishingdate: 1788. By this point in time, the pages should be yellowed, a few ripped,


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

El ise Mazurak digital photo



maybe, and the margins littered with notes. But not these books— not theones that have been passed down from Mountebank to Mountebank. Thesebooks have never been opened.

The library looks out at the world through the two most beautiful win-dows I have ever seen. Stretching from ceiling to floor, these latched Frenchpanes of glass are intricately embroidered with rosebuds and tiny clusters ofhyacinths. Light doesn’t just reflect off these windows. The rich manila glowof the lattice actually processes incoming daylight; churning it back out intothe world, golden and perfect. These windows transform the library into aroom of life and light or at least they would, were they not stifled and hiddenbeneath heavy drapes. A thick, king-sized quilt of fabric isolates the libraryfrom the rest of the world. The pulsing, floral pattern of the drapes vibrateswildly in my mind like the crazed ticking of a metronome raised up from therabid fires of an inferno. Flowers dance and my eyes shudder away from themoving mounds of haughty pink, fluffy and jeering marigold. The drapes aremoving, twisting, laughing. And I can’t tear my eyes away. The flowers arepulling me into their head-throbbing frolic.

It must seem strange that I seek out this particular room as my refuge. Icome into this room only because this is where my mother hangs. Mr.Mountebank says that the artist wanted to portray her as a country girl: rosy-cheeked and untroubled like a farm pig two weeks before Christmas.Needless to say, he failed dismally. My mother’s eyes reveal her fragrantthoughts and impassioned dreams for the future. Far from the naïve, bonnieyoung lass that the artist envisioned, my mother knew exactly who she wasand what she wanted. This was something the artist couldn’t hide under abonnet and a red calico apron.

I am not like that. Mirrors and shiny shop windows are things I attemptto avoid. My physical appearance is hard to describe. I have hair. I’m notbald. It’s difficult to determine much else about the mop of dead cells layingclaim to my scalp. Somewhere in the mysterious region between brown andblonde my hair, like my personality, is vague and hard to define. The shape-less waves stick flat to my head, probably because of the mayonnaise. I’mallergic to conditioner. If I don’t want a head of frizz in the morning, I settlefor greasy hair and the unpleasant smell that comes along with wearing acondiment.

I wish I could be the “before” picture. My dream as a little girl was formy best friend to come over with makeup and a flat iron. I always wanted tolook into the mirror, close my eyes, turn around in a swivel chair, and notrecognize my reflection. It never worked. All those years of homecomingsand proms…I came out of the bathroom looking like a ring-eyed bat on eye-

PANORAMAPANORAMA


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

liner overload, wearing a sparkly aqua, skin-tight dress that failed to concealmy rolls. Awkward, bordering on pathetic. I am twenty years old and stillforcing myself to relive the humiliation of high school. Pathetic—I hate thatword. You have to spit to say it right.

My mother doesn’t belong in this room. I shouldn’t be looking at her. Ishouldn’t be imagining the nuzzle of her soft white cheek against mine: a silkribbon of swirled butter rubbing up against splotchy skin coated with acneand clotted oil. She doesn’t fit in with me. Picking up the Rise and Fall, Iremove the picture from behind the back flap, my fingers stroking the nowdull edges of the photo. A woman stands smiling in between her husbandand her little girl. They are standing in front of a castle, wearing red andgreen Disney Christmas sweaters. The man is wearing little black ears andan expression that says: “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” but he’snot mad. Not really. Because behind the slightly sarcastic eyebrows, I can tellhe really wants this picture taken. He’s proud of the two women standingbeside him— he wants the world to know that these are his girls. The womanstanding beside him glows like the angel on top of a Christmas tree. Happywrinkles outline her nose and mouth; rekindling the energy of every pastsmile and laugh. But to me, the little girl is the most beautiful—the mostthreatening. She smiles like the world is perfect, her red-ribbon ponytailfrozen in mid-bounce.

I stare at the people in the picture and imagine their lives by peering intotheir kitchen—the circular wooden table decorated with red crayon (evi-dence of those times when the little girl’s imagination proved too vast for awhite sheet of paper), the gray-speckled linoleum floor softened by a cherryand ginger braided rug that smells like last week’s spilled gravy, the openbackpack flung across the ceramic countertop leaving behind a trail of gluesticks, pen caps and a chewed-on Polly Pocket, and the smell of cheesylasagna steaming hot in the oven.

Everyday I stick that picture back into that book—everyday I hope thelifeless pages will numb all feeling out of the photo. Maybe after a lifetimeliving among the dead, the people in the photo won’t have reason to behappy anymore. The husband will throw the Mickey-Mouse ears to theground in retaliation and the girl’s perky red ribbon will wilt. They’ll stopsmiling. Maybe then, she’ll come back. ❂



PANORAMAPANORAMA

BA A L B E K

Alex Rizk

Blessed am I to walk the ancient streetsof the city of gods and temples.

As I walk on through the ancient Roman ruins,a gentle breeze strokes my check, awakening me

like the soothing hand of a mother.I marvel at the unusual shade of lavender roses,

abundant and fragrant,that manage to thrive despite dry, dusty soil.

I leave Baalbek that starry evening in June,but Baalbek never leaves me.



PANORAMA


PANORAMA

CH A S I N G BL U E

Genevieve Irwin

Propped up with pillows in a room with white-washed walls, May’s moth-er spent the days with her eyes closed. She asked the nurse to keep the

blinds open, welcoming the gentle rays of sunlight that bathed her face. Shecould almost imagine herself in some bright open space, drifting painlesslythrough light, warm air. May strode into the hospital every afternoon, onehand clasping her grandmother’s and the other gripping some creation ofhers, often a painting created with energetic, bold strokes. Sometimes shewould place treasures on the wooden windowsill; a smooth pebble found inthe park, or a tiny paper umbrella of pink and lavender. The sick womansmiled weakly at her daughter’s determination to bring her world into thatquiet chamber. How stark and hollow the room seemed when the animatedeight-year-old had left it.

One afternoon, as May was leaving her mother’s room, her grandmoth-er saw the face of a familiar nurse in the hallway and launched into a vibrantconversation. May’s grandmother loved to talk. She fed on scraps of infor-mation, digesting them with relish, and recycling them as chunks of zestygossip. Familiar with this routine, May drifted over to a window and gazedten stories down at the busy little figures weaving patterns on the pavement.She stood at the very tip of her toes and drew back the long, dark hair fromher face in order to gain a full picture of the world below her. Pulling up thesleeves of her oversized salmon sweatshirt, she maintained a steady grip onthe windowsill.

May felt like a god, looking down from her heavenly kingdom at her tinycreations. She idly imagined how she would intervene if she discovered anytransgressions or heard anypleas for help from the peoplebelow. Her heart-shaped faceradiated with pleasure as sheenvisioned herself swoop ingdown with the grace andpower of an eagle to plucksomeone off a stolen bicycleand return it to its owner.

Suddenly, somethingcaught her attention in thescene beneath. She had spot-ted a beautiful splash of azure Grace Hedges collage



PANORAMAPANORAMA

blue: a vibrant balloon bouncing above the head of a young child. It was thecolor of her mother’s favorite necklace, which her mother had lost last sum-mer while diving into waves. May could imagine the blue stone all alone onthe ocean floor, sifting amidst unfamiliar pebbles of brown and black. Itseemed to her that this cherished color was exactly what her mother neededto bring light to her face once more. Without a second thought, she dashedtowards the nearest stairway with one image fixed in her mind: a wobblingblue orb heading towards Central Park. Her grandmother, rapt in conversa-tion, did not notice the gust of wind that swept her skirt as the little girl has-tened past, reaching the nearest staircase unobserved.

Fall is an unfriendly time in New York City. The brisk air pushes peopleto go about their daily tasks with increased proficiency. This urgency evi-dences itself in furrowed brows and solemn sets of the jaws. May could feelthis coldness as she navigated her way, ghostlike, through hoards of distract-ed adults. It was a relief to see the large gateway to Central Park, inviting herinto a world that welcomed children to play beneath the trees and clamberup smooth statues.

The crowd that greeted her in the park was much more lively anddiverse. A yoga practitioner meditated in a fixed pose while an exuberantwhite Maltese pelted like a fracturing snowball across the corner of his mat,pulling a harried owner in its wake. An assured artist vigorously squirtedblobs of ochre and cadmium red onto a wooden pallet under the shade of anoak. May’s eyes swept over the multicolored scene, searching hopefully for aspot of blue. To her great relief, the balloon was stationed by a pretzel stand,bobbing merrily above the stroller to which it was attached. It appeared to be

the property of a small boywith wild curls, who watchedthe pretzel man with intensityas he slipped the salt encrust-ed creation into a fold of waxpaper and handed it to him.

Hurrying towards them,she saw to her dismay that theballoon and the boy, pretzel inhand, were being whiskedaway down the park path. Thestring of the balloon bouncederratically against the babysit-ter’s shoulder as she propelledthe stroller forward. It seemedTammy Quintano collage


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

to May that the balloon was restless and longed to soar up into the open sky.She felt a pulse of sympathy for the captured spirit, pulled to the grounddespite a powerful force within, calling it to ascend.

May wasted no time in continuing her chase. She was tired by this timeand in her anxiety to keep the procession in sight, she nearly plowed into acluster of pigeons. They were gathered by the feet of an elderly woman, pick-ing with great gusto at the scraps of bread she had tossed for them. They flewup with a tremendous thumping of wings at her approach; a giant mass offeathers and beaks. One particularly tame creature settled itself comfortablyon the woman’s wizened shoulder. May glanced up apologetically: “I’msorry I scared your birds. I was in such a hurry to catch up to someone.” Theold woman’s crinkly face broke into a gentle smile. Her wrinkled brow lookedlike folds of desert sand, and her hair was as white as a swan’s plumage. Theample folds of her woolen grey skirt flowed gracefully onto the ground,obscuring her feet.

“They’ll be back,” she said kindly, in an unexpectedly musical voice.“I’m always here and they know where to find me,” she added. As May hur-ried away, she had the impression that the woman’s eyes were following heruntil the shady path took a turn and she disappeared from view.

By now, May had lost sight of the boy and his precious possession, butshe wasn’t discouraged. All little boys loved to head to the boat pond, espe-cially in windy weather, when the sails of the miniature boats would catch thewind and tilt dramatically back and forth, nearly capsizing at the mercy ofthe wind. Before she became sick, her mother had taken May sailing in realboats. She had been a skilled sailor and some had whispered that she seemedto harness the wind with uncanny ease. May, too, loved the thrill of being onthe water, taking joy at the dance of the wind and the sail. When her motherused to rock her gently in her arms at night, May imagined herself to be alittle boat and her mother to be the kindly sea.

The boat pond is a world in itself; a crowded city of diverse inhabitantsthat weave paths around each other and occasionally collide. The tall, elegantsailboats careen powerfully across the water, flaunting their billowing sails.More modest crafts lurch tentatively in their wake. Some children circle thepond on bicycles, while others crouch on the edge, suspending morsels ofhot-dog in an attempt to lure crawfish. When May finally spotted the curly-haired boy, he was not taking part in any of these festivities; he was staringat the ground and the balloon was no longer in sight.

May’s heart skipped a beat. Squinting against the sun, she peeredupwards, searching the sky for any sign of drifting blue. A few pigeons drift-ed across her field of vision, but other than that, there was nothing but vast



PANORAMAPANORAMA

emptiness. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a child crying.Drawing her eyes back towards earth, she soon discovered that it was the bal-loon-less boy, mourning his loss. At his feet lay a sprinkling of distinctly bluerubber fragments. She almost forgot her own disappointment as she gazedat his tear-stained face. “Poor thing,” she thought, “it was a beautiful treas-ure to lose.”

Imbued with a motherly disposition, May felt an urge to comfort theunhappy child. The visual drama of the situation was magnified by hisunkempt appearance; only half of his striped shirt was tucked in and onegreen sock was raised higher than the other. Stepping closer to him, she bentdown and picked up the scraps at his feet. “Look,” she said encouragingly,“Now you have five toys instead of one!”

“Those won’t go up,” he mourned, “I want one that goes way up.” Heillustrated his wish with an upward sweep of his pudgy arms. His perspiringbabysitter, who was texting gloomily on her cell phone, responded to thecomplaint in a singsong voice.

“We’re not going all the way back to buy a new one. You have to learn totake better care of what you get.” May scrutinized this unpleasant character;narrowing her eyes with disapproval. Unaware that she was under observa-tion, the woman continued to punch vigorously at her phone’s keys, herpink-nailed thumbs flashing in the sun. Her blonde highlights, dulled by thebrilliant light, spread against the back of her clingy flamingo pink shirt. Hermouth was turned down at the corners and her eyes were masked by a pairof large sunglasses, reminding May of a large, angry bug.

As May turned her attention back to the boy, a sparrow edged timidlytowards the balloon scrap furthest from the two of them and whisked it awayin one swift movement. May let out a cry of delight and pointed eagerly to -wards the rising shape. “Look, look!” she called to the child, “It is going up.”Slowly, his swollen face broke into a half formed smile as the piece of bluerose higher and higher into the air. May bent down and peered with kindlyenergy into the upturned face. “Do you know where he’s taking it?” sheinquired. He shook his head and watched her curiously, waiting for ananswer. “He’s going to bring it up to his private treasure chest in one of thosegreat big trees. He goes all around the city, picking up beautiful things andbringing them to his home.”

“Show me!” he demanded eagerly. She smiled at him wistfully and, notgetting an immediate response, he lost interest and charged away, arms flap-ping in imitation of a bird. His babysitter sighed and hauled herself up fromher perch on the side of the pond. In a few moments, they had melted intothe crowd.


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

May gathered the remaining scraps of blue and dropped them carefullyinto one of her shirt pockets. The sudden happiness that had filled her atbeing able to help the boy began to fade as bothersome rationality crept backinto her thoughts. Her grandmother and mother were probably worryingabout her by now. The blue rubber suddenly faded in importance as its acridodor drifted up towards her nostrils. How could she have thought that a sim-ple color would have held meaning for her mother? The breeze had becomeharsher as the afternoon had worn on and the sky’s blue was slowing beingswallowed up by invading clouds. Even the park was losing its friendliness.

* * * * * * *May’s grandmother was putting on quite a performance at the hospital’s

entrance. Her silvery hair was dancing about as she waggled her finger at thebuilding’s attendant. “Only eight!” she shrieked, “and you let her walk rightby you.” The man shifted uneasily under the glare of the formidable lady halfhis size. May hurried to present herself and the old lady’s face softened asshe swept the child into her arms. There were no angry words as May wasenveloped in a strong embrace, her nose buried in the itchy nest of wool. Hergrandmother’s gold cross pressed coolly against her cheek. “Poor girl,” shecrooned, “poor, poor girl.” She released May from her grasp and took herfirmly by the hand. “We have to go upstairs now,” she said in a determinedmanner. “Your mother is real-ly not doing well.”

The hospital hallways werea blur of squeaking carts andshuffling feet as May and hergrandmother plowed their wayto the mother’s room. May’shead spun with the shiftingimages and discordant sounds.“How busy the world is every-where!” she reflected in dis-gruntled frustration.

“I think it is best you hadsome time with her alone, May,”her grandmother said softlywhen they reached her moth-er’s door. “And don’t tell her Icouldn’t find you!” she ad dedurgently. “We wouldn’t wantto worry her now, would we?” Teddy Sul l iman collage



PANORAMAPANORAMA

“It’s just between you and me, Granny,” May whispered in reply. Shecracked the door open cautiously and then closed it swiftly behind her toshield her mother from the bustle of the hospital corridors.

“My little one!” came a voice from the bed at the window. May wasalarmed by how feeble it sounded.

“Mummy?” she replied, half hoping she had somehow opened thewrong door and that the tired voice had come from someone else, but therewas the beloved face with its gentle hazel eyes and one hand turned in a wel-coming gesture.

“Come to my side, May, I want to show you something,” she said in hersoft voice. May tread gently across the grey linoleum and laid her hand onher mother’s cool wrist. “Do you see those wonderful clouds, May? There’sabout to be an exciting storm.” The child nodded and gazed with awe at thedark purple clouds, which were nearly black where they were heaviest. For afew moments, mother and child watched in appreciative silence the growingdrama of the tempestuous clouds.

When May’s mother had gathered up the energy to speak again, the girlnoticed a faraway look in her eyes. “Before you were born,” she began, “yourfather and I took a sailboat off of Montauk Point. We were quite far out tosea when a big storm gathered above us. The waves began to toss us all overthe place and the wind was so strong that I was almost worried it would blowme off the boat. I should have feared for our safety, yet I could not bringmyself to feel anything but a strange exhilaration. The sea and the sky wereso beautiful that a part of me wanted to join them - to surrender myself tothe forces of nature.” She paused for a minute and then added, “Would youopen the window for me, May?

“But it’s so cold and windy, Mummy,” she protested. “Just for a moment then- I so long to feel the wind.” Mustering all of her strength, May heaved the lever up and pushed the

window out as far as it would go. Through the two-inch crack, the windrushed in eagerly, sending a napkin fluttering to the floor and rustling thepapers that hung by the mother’s bed. The woman closed her eyes and tooka deep breath, savoring the wind that played across her face. May’s expres-sion softened as she marveled at the peace that emanated from her mother’sworn face.

* * * * * * *By the time the storm had passed, it was morning and May’s mother had

fallen into the eternal sleep that comes upon us when nature reclaims its cre-ations. May was running on the streets once more, but this time, she didn’tknow where she was headed. She ran with no sense of where she was going,


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

only avoiding collisions out of a vague instinct to steer clear of obstacles inher path. There was a fresh scent of damp leaves in the air in the aftermathof the storm and the sidewalk was lined with puddles that reflected May’sbright red trousers each time she passed over them. Her hair danced exuber-antly as she wove an erratic pattern across sidewalks and over squishy patch-es of dirt and grass.

It was not until she almost ran into a flock of pigeons that May stoppedand took in her surroundings. All at once, she realized that she had made herway once more into Central Park and was staring at the bent form of theblue-eyed woman she had met the day before. “Who are you chasing thistime?” she questioned, her crinkled face breaking into a companionablesmile. The voice seemed to have come from far away, and there was a longpause before the question penetrated May’s consciousness.

“I’m not chasing anything,” May responded slowly. “It’s more like run-ning away, I think.” Her face was blank with sorrow and her eyes were unfo-cused as she gazed at the pigeons feeding on the ground. There was some-thing soothing in the ceaseless bobbing of their grey, white, and mouse-brown heads, as they cooed with satisfaction and assiduously cleared theground of crumbs.

“But my child,” the lady countered in her mellifluous voice, “we arealways chasing something, even if we don’t realize it. Every single day wechase our dreams.”

“Then I’m trying to find my mother, I guess...But it won’t do any good,because she’s gone and there’s no getting her back,” replied May in a voicedrained of emotion. She sat herself dejectedly beside the old woman andstared at her own small sneakers covered in mud. The pigeons, less comfort-able with her presence, protested at her arrival with irritable squawks andgave her a wide berth.

“Oh, I think you’ll find her,” the woman retorted in a knowing voice,“All you have to do is search for the things she loved. You will find her there.”She reached a shaking hand into the bag at her feet and tossed a handful ofbread crumbs to her pigeons. They hurriedly reformed in a closely bunchedhuddle around the feast, clucking with satisfaction.

At that moment, a gust of wind swept across May’s face. Closing hereyes, she felt the vague sensation that her mother’s hand had just brushed hercheek. Instinctively, she reached up as if to capture that hand before it movedaway. Turning with a sudden burst of grateful understanding toward the wisewoman, May noticed for the first time the piercing ovals of azure that peekedforth from underneath her creased eyelids. The wind and this familiar colorof blue brought a curious solace to her heart. ❂



PANORAMAPANORAMA

A THOUSAND WORDS

Alex Jung

I see poems in my artwork,because,

what I draw, what I paint,

what I photograph, is all a story.

My pictures are worth a thousand words. Like the poet, my medium is the pencil.

But my medium is also the purple sunset, the pink flower tossed to the side,

the red and white parasols hanging from the ceiling, the majestic mountains,

the orange glow of the streetlight, the grey tree bark, the rainbow graffiti,

the crystal white snow, and even the busy city skyline. I am a poet of another kind.


PANORAMA


PANORAMA

Genevieve Irwin pastel



PANORAMAPANORAMA

AN T I C L E A

Kr isten Roche

The lonely deadWhispering about

Forms without bodies

A star in the darkHis body full of life

My son.

The life fills in me.I am as young as before

But it will wear offIt’s not for much more.

He hears my heartfelt tearsOf the feeling I felt

The rush of the waterThe urge to go up

And the love to go down.

I will see him againBut not for a whileI will see him again

The star in the dark.



NATALIE ANDRIANO: DIGITAL PHOTOAMY COLOMBO: DIGITAL PHOTO

CELINA FRELINGHUYSEN: DIGITAL PHOTO

2008Convent of the Sacred Heart1177 King Street

Greenwich, Connecticut 06831

PE

RS

PE

CT

IVE

S2008

VO

LU

ME

50

BRITTANY WILLIAMS: DIGITAL PHOTO

PE

RSP

ECT

IVE

SP

ER

SP

ECT

IVE

S

Documents

C1-C4 PerspectivesCovers:C1-C4 PerspectivesCoversintranet.cshgreenwich.org/pdf/literaryMagazine.pdf · CELINA FRELINGHUYSEN: DIGITAL PHOTO 2008 Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King