Lake Forest Academy Literary M

agazine 2011P a s t o r a l e

as she floated in lonesome radiance in my shimmering world of make-believeshe rent my heart in two.

and so do we end.

PastoraleJonathan Jin

Table of Contents

Hailey Arnold, “Transcience” 6Scott Suiter, “Age Four: Pond” 7Graham Harwood, “Serving our Future” 8Tom Gallagher, “Self-Portrait” 15Sophia Salsbery, “Indiana Love” 16Amelia Moses, “Smile World” 17Alexandria Moton, “Don’t Try This at Home” 18JJ Hah, “People” 27Hailey Arnold, “Dinah” 28Jonathan Jin, “Fields of Gold” 29David Lin, “Youth” 32Lamees Esmail, “Apple Trees” 36Ben Shaughnessy, “Apple Still Life” 37Sachi Patel, “AwkwarD!” 38Austin Pejovich, “(S)nowflake(s)” 52Hannah Kiesler, “Wildless” 53Devan Rottman, “Little Be the Ladybugs” 54Ellena Sea , “Metamorphosis” 62Nina Varilla, “Romance on My Shelf ” 63Jerome Sacherer, “Shit” 64Hannah Jung, “Paul” 68Hailey Arnold, “The Boy in the Hat and the Girl in the Dress” 70 Sophia Salsbery, “Untitled” 71Calin Cave, “Bluest Eyes” 72Kathleen Kennedy, “Death’s Note” 75Thomas Byrne, “Drum Migraine” 76Hannah Kiesler, “Color Me In” 77Rickey Larke, “Just Coffee” 78Roland Tan, “The Gatsby Collection by Roland Tan” 98

Amanda Shi, “You. [Me.]” 100Laura Davey, “In the Shadow of the Silver Giant” 102Hailey Arnold, “Maggie Pie” 104Amelia Moses, “Lapse in Time” 105Kat Delby, “Us” 112Takia Broomfield, “Mother” 113The students of Modern and Contemporary Poetry class, “Howl of A8” 114Hannah Jung, “Untitled” 116Lamees Esmail, “Illusion” 118Ellena Sea, “Untitled” 119Greta Nagel, “Her Universe” 120Ben Shaughnessy, “Foil Still Life” 125 Jonathan Jin, “Find X” 126Kamal Kariem, “The Cost” 130Calin Cave, “Heart” 131

Cover art by Hailey Arnold

TranscienceHailey Arnold

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Age Four: PondScott Suiter

Warmth and then wind,The Earth’s green on my soles.Down the slanted land to anItchy pond with warted mud that breathes. The neighborhood’s tiny festival:Catching tadpoles in the murky Shallow. Cross the path back up To the limestone nest to flaunt thisTemporary, slimy thing thatSlips out, noticed. We areHelpless as it finds its wayUnder porch steps; where still it stays.

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Serving our FutureGraham Harwood

Voice over said over bright pastel logo saying (National Conventions) dissolves to a fast food restaurant set during the voice over. Cashier stands behind register, man walks in, begins dialogue:

VO: Welcome to your National Conventions where we serve you with the political candidates for the future you’ve been looking for, served the way you like it.

(Young college age man walks to counter)

Cashier (Perky man dressed in fast food style uniform): Hello sir, how can I help you today?

Man (looking up at the menu): Mmmm, let me see. (Pause, pan up to menu)

Republican (reading panel with GOP logo): Tax cuts, lower government spending, fewer social programs, privatization sides of: Pro life, Anti Gay Marriage, Christian Values, Military Spending, Supremacist Rheto-ric……………………………..$2.95

Democrat (reading panel with DNC logo): Health Care, Equality, High taxes, Bureaucracy, Regulation, Demonizing the Wealthy Broad Prosper-ity, sides of: Allow Gay Marriage, Pro Choice, Separation of Church and State, Benevolent Foreign Policy………................................…$35.95

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M: Ahh yes I would like the Republican, hold the sides; actually, could I have them replaced with the sides from the Democrat?

C: I am sorry, we do not do substitutions.

M: What do you mean?

C: (Still perky) We offer these two options.

M: Haven’t you ever heard the customer is always right?

C: This is the National Convention, this is how we do it.

M: I thought I saw a foreclosure sign out front…

C: SSSSHHHHHHH

M (Shakes his head in disbelief ): Whatever, I guess I will just have the Democrat… WHOA holy crap! That’s expensive!

C: That’s the price you pay for health care.

M: But I have been fine going to the guy next door for health care for years and it costs way less there.

C: Yes, but then you pay the fat cats for it.

M (Increasingly exasperated): I will be paying you more for the same thing

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C (As though proving a complex but logical point): No, see, if you get it from us we will pay all of our works then buy it for you from the guy next door.

M: So why the hell would I pay you for it?

C: That way you get the Allow Gay Marriage, Pro Choice, Separa-tion of Church and State, and Benevolent Foreign Policy.

M: Aren’t there any other options?… Like the sides from the Allow Gay Marriage, Pro Choice, Separation of Church and State, and Benevolent Foreign Policy, and I don’t have to buy healthcare from you?

C: We found out those weren’t profitable years ago.

M: Well screw it, this is important to me. I will pay for both (Gets wallet out)

C (Shocked): Sir both?... Well if you buy both… both? If you buy both you will only be allowed to have a little bit of either so maybe a little healthcare here, some protected freedoms there, a few higher taxes, a bit less spending -

M: So if I buy both I don’t get much from either?

C (Pauses): Yeah.

M: You know what, I will take neither. Ha! Take that!

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C: Ah yes well that will fifty dollars have a nice day. (Walks out from behind the counter seizes man’s wallet)

M: Who what wha…(Struggles) what do you mean?

C: Well if you stay out of it then we will just take as much of your money as we want and keep it cause we don’t give a damn about you if you don’t care enough to come out and choose.

M: (Gesticulates and blurts indignantly and incoherently while struggling for the wallet).

C: (Struggles for the wallet) Eh bud, you don’t like it, you go find us some new options.

M: (lets go of wallet in dawning comprehension) Oh. (Turns around as door chimes)

(Man in suit walks in walks confidently to the counter, has air of smug-ness, referred to as D)

D: Hello yes I would like Democrat.

C: That will be $35.95.

D: Ah yes, a small price to pay for what is right.

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M: So you are sure that Democrats are right?

D: Of course.

M: That’s your car parked in the handicapped spot.

D: Yes, it’s a Lexus and a Hybrid. I had it specially made cause I am tired of all of these mindless simpletons who are destroying our environment and stranding poor polar bears.

M: You left it running.

D (Indignantly): I want to be sure it’s warm when I get back in.

M (Shakes head confusedly pauses then): Well you’re willing to pay that much for the democrats? I mean you pay now then there are the taxes.

D (Pompously): Well we all must pay our taxes. Oliver Wendell Holmes once said “Taxes are the price we pay for a civilized society” (His cell phone rings) Excuse me, I must take this. (Into phone) Hello yes, yes, yes, All in the Caymans. The private accounts yes, those bastards aren’t getting a penny of my money I worked for that, Capital Gains my ass the IRS can pry it from my cold dead hands. Good. (Hangs up) Sorry about that, urgent matters

M: Wait sorry I didn’t mean to overhear but… (Door Chime Rings)(Young woman wearing a shirt that says “God is the light unto the one true path” or something similar referred to as R)

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R (Spritely): Hello I would like the Republican.

C: Yes m’am, $2.95.

R: I do it gladly to return my country to the right Christian Values.

M: So you took the Republican?

D: Of course she did.

R (Indignant): What’s that supposed to mean?

D (Contemptuously): Oh nothing, it just means you hate poor people.

R: Nice suit.

D (Pompously): Oh thanks it’s Italian Silk.

R: Well I am just trying to prevent the murder of thousands of aborted infants and the corruption of our countries’ Christian values by the Gays, Jews, and Muslims. (Somewhat Self-righteously)

M (Dumbfounded): Wait the first amendment… the, the, the… Wait so what do any of those have to do with you? You’re not gay, it’s your choice whether you have an abortion, and it’s their souls on the line so why do you care?

R: How can you say that? I have a responsibility to clean my country of all that is… unclean.

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M: So you just think it’s right to impose your beliefs on someone else?

R, D (Emphatically): OF COURSE!

M: Oh, uh, well ok then. (Walks to the Counter)

C: What will you have?

End

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Self-PortraitTom Gallagher

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Indiana Love Sophia Salsbery

Acoustic sound waves burst like the orange sunset that covers golden fields.

Roads with no names thatat night won’t let you see the beat up trucks for sale,just the starry night, lookin’ out on the water. Like clock work before dawn, its fishing timewhile little girls pick berries.

It’s hard to imagine a slower paced life, but time slows on the rooftop where you realize— so much space and so much love.Songs on the radio tell it true,the crazy stories of life and hillbillies too.

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--For Chris Lee

I’ll keep my chin up, just like you.I won’t give up, ‘cause I’m not through.I’ll do my best to keep my dimples stretching from ear to ear.I’m happy where I am, let me make that clear.I won’t have fear of failure, because that is how one learns.But I’ll use my two-sense, so I won’t cause concern.I will have courage to stand up for better, in honor of you.Keep smiling up there; we’ll see you soon.

Amelia MosesSmile World

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Yeah that’s right firemen! You didn’t do anything but give us a warning and a sheet of paper telling us how to make a bonfire the legal way. So you can leave us alone as we high five and fist bump each other a good job. I don’t know how my mom and Step dad feel about this, but at least we’re not behind bars. The warning says we broke five fire laws. Can you believe that? Five freaking, fantastic, and fabulous fire laws! Each one was worth breaking. Each one gave the bonfire a very entertaining and thrilling look. The bonfire was freaking sexy. My brother, Kingsley, his friend, Jose, and I succeed at getting into trouble purposely. Especially when it comes to getting our neighbors to dial 9-1-1, and that was accom-plished today with a simple fire made from yours truly… and two other people. I love everything we did, but I must warn that this should not be done at home because it is extremely dangerous. We are professionals… in training, but that’s not the point. We, as in Kingsley and I, have made it a tradition to get the police called on us by doing something outrageously illegal. It all started when we had this homemade go-cart that was brought over by my brother’s other friend Adam that wore all black with huge spectacles on his skinny, pale face. It was gorgeous. The metal was matched perfectly to form a top notch go-cart. It was all black, and was big enough to sit my five foot eleven brother in it comfortably. The engine, though it was weak, made the go-cart fly as fast if not faster than a regular car. There were a lot of people at our house that day, and we all decided to take turns riding it. There were my friends Steven, Alana, and Shana. Then there was my brother’s friend Adam, Jose, and Jeremy that were the main ones excited about this. We were all just being kids. First, my brother went to ride it around our block the shape of a trapezoid with rounded corners. We have many hills around our block

Dont Try This At HomeAlexandria Moton

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so riding the go-cart was very exciting. But since there are many trees in our way, we can only see the last turn. When Kingsley came around the last turn his shoulder length dread locks were flying behind his head in the wind. After my brother, Jeremy, the skinny Japanese friend with a need for speed, went full speed on the go-cart. All of us were cheering him on too. When Jeremy got back, Steven, the buff guy with dark skin that wanted in on the action, hopped on it and went through the unlevel yard ripping the grass form the dirt. The go-cart started off jumping all over the place. Side-to-side and up-and-down until it got to the street where everyone else was riding the go-cart. Steven went way faster than Jeremy. The engine could be heard from any area on the route around our block. We were having fun, but when Steven came back from riding the go-cart the police turned the corner. Now, who the hell would call the police on us for riding around on a damn go-cart? We don’t know who exactly, but we do know that one of our neighbors is the ones to blame. That police officer got out the car yelling at us. He was telling us that what we were doing was illegal in the state of Wisconsin, and all that Wisconsin type shit. We all didn’t say anything, but when we looked around at each other we just laughed. I thought we were going to jail big time. Not just in the jail, but also under the jail. I don’t know about every-one else, but I could tell that the police officer’s face was turning rosy red. The more we laughed the angrier he became, but when my mom came out of the house and told him that we were new to Wisconsin he just wrote us a warning and sped off. This whole scenario happened so quickly I can barely remember every single detail, but I still hate that angry police officer. Mostly because I hate being yelled at after my fun has been ruined. It was very unnecessary for him to yell at us the way he did, and he didn’t even ask anything he just felt like being rude. Ever since then Kingsley and

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I wanted to come face to face with police officers and laugh in their faces as they try to tell us what is illegal or not. So this year, we will create a bonfire that breaks the five main fire laws of Wisconsin. The idea emerged right about… now. We were told to clean the garage which was filled to the roof with random garbage, and we found fire friendly objects, liquids, and remarkable, highly flammable material.

Law One: You Must Have a Closed Pit FireWell, we are making it an open pit fire in our backyard. We are cutting the grass where the flames will be so no grass will be in the way because we don’t want to cause a forest fire. Our yard has a lot of trees, but they have an opening that shows us the sky. Seems like a perfect spot. To make sure the flames are one hundred percent effective we are going to remove the wet mud. This is easily done by taking shovels and digging until we reach dry dirt where we will spread all around the future flame area. To make sure the flames don’t burst into the grass creating a potential forest fire, we are going to place bricks around the area. We are placing the bricks in a circular pattern like we have seen in movies just to show off our awesome architectural skills. Who needs a closed pit fire? It makes you waste money on a grill that you won’t even use that often, and it is not as dangerously sexy as an illegal, open pit fire.

Law Two: Cannot Start a Fire With Gasoline Or Other Danger-ous Liquids. Coal is Recommended Unless a Propane Grill is in UseWell, what do we have here? We have a whole row of gasoline. I smile de-viously at the gasoline before I pick it up and walk it to the pit. If we take sticks and drench them in gasoline, the flame should start and finish really strong. In five seconds the fire will officially start. Five, four, three, two,

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one, and my brother is dropping the matches, and now we have flames. Jose takes some gasoline and carefully hand pours it into the fire. All we hear is the loud whimper from the fire. Jose is alright. The gasoline burns quickly, but my brother’s friend has great reflexes. If he didn’t the fire would have caught the gasoline inside of the bottle and potentially burned his arm off. Exciting right? The party has just begun.

Law Three: Do Not Burn GarbageSo, we have a fire and nothing is in it. I think we should start to cook some things. Since we are cleaning out the garage, we should most definitely burn the garbage we find instead of walking all the way to the garbage that is in the front of the house on the end of our sixty meter driveway. We will start with the plywood. I don’t even know where it came from, but I hope it’s good at burning. It catches on fire instantly as the smell of glue reaches our noses. “You smell that?” Kingsley asks.

“Oh yes I do! That’s the smell of sweet plywood.” I reply.

“Let’s make the smell stronger!” Jose suggests.

The fire rises every time we toss in more plywood. Our stack of wood is about the height of me which is five feet and four inches. I am kind of bored right now though. We need to spice things up a bit. I wonder what else could be in the garage. After a few seconds of super fast searching, I find used bottles of perfume. It says, “Warning! Item is highly flammable. Keep away from underage children,” all in big red letters. This is perfect. I’ll just take off the warning sticker and put it somewhere else. The fire is going to love this. I’m unscrewing all the tops. It is going in, in

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five, and four, and three … I don’t need to count down I’m just going to throw it in now. There’s a loud whistle from the bottle before we hear a huge explosion. I was not expecting that kind of explosion, but it is awe-some! The fire has risen. I have an idea! We do not do foster care anymore so we should burn that hideous Mickey Mouse table! My brother grabs it from the corner of our rectangular, white kitchen which is the first room when people enter the house from the back. Kingsley tosses it into the hot fire. It burns black immediately except for the shock in Mickey Mouse’s face. I am smiling. “Well, I guess this really marks the end of our foster care career.” Kingsley says.

“You got that right bro!” I say back to him as Jose laughs.

Law Four: The Fire Should Not Be Over About Two FeetSince the Mickey Mouse table is such a success, we will start grabbing garbage, highly explosive liquids, and things with fire warning stickers on them. I have never felt so destructively happy in my life. I am almost satisfied. Kingsley has a big piece of plywood the height of Jose, which is six feet and two inches, with a huge, blue T-shirt drenched in gasoline tied on it. It is going in, in five, and four, and three, and two, and one. The fire has gone insane! It is almost at the trees right now. Our tree branches start out at the top of our two story house where all of our bedrooms are. That’s a little too high. The flames came so close to hitting it. That was actually kind of frightening. I live in this house. If we caught the house on fire we would never live this down, and we would probably go to jail for real for arson. Thank goodness it didn’t get too high. We are going to try to keep the fire a little lower and in control… just a little.

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Law Five: The Smoke from the Fire Should Not Have ColorsThe more garbage we throw in the more exciting the fire is. Perfume, gasoline, plywood, and a Mickey Mouse table really know how to be flam-mable. Jose is now cutting up an old, broken chair we found in the garage with a very sharp knife that I call a bone knife because it cuts through chicken and turkey bones easily. He is going to cut the seat first to get all the foam out. He starts cutting like a butcher with his muscular tanned arms. The foam goes in… now! The smoke turns black. My brother tosses in more plywood, and the smoke turns gray. Kingsley takes a running start with a short piece of plywood. His shoulder length dreads fly in the wind showing his thin dark face with a mischievous grin on it. His toned dark legs jump over the pit dropping the plywood and raising the flames. I am throwing bleach and perfume into the fire, and the smoke turns blue. It smells terrible too.

Jose is still cutting up the chair, and from the corner of my eyes I see that big, red fire truck. It is circling the house. It starts in front of our house then goes around the block in front of our neighbor’s house behind us. As it drives around in circles for a while, I run into my room to watch their next move. They open the door of the fire truck, and I am running to the bonfire. I yell that they’re on their way. My brother gets the water hose and starts putting out the fire. The smoke is turning Black, then blue, and now milk white. Jose continues to saw away at the chair as the firemen walk into our premises. I sit on our wooden deck like an innocent bystander with my small, toned and dark legs crossed at the ankles, and we are about to come face-to-face with authorities, again. The firemen ask us if we know that our bonfire is illegal, and our reply is simply, “well, now we do. We’re very sorry.”

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My brother is standing over the fire with the water hose at the fly of his pants trying to kill the fire but, it goes on regurgitating thick white smoke as me and Jose try not die of laughter. On a pad, the firemen write as they look around at the hard work we have done. Jose continues to fix up the chair for its date with the fire. His light face and blue eyes are focused on the task at hand. The dumb firemen finally realize this and say, “Stop cutting up that chair! Do you know how illegal that is?”

“Well, since it’s illegal I should probably stop now.” Jose replies.

“Alright, well put the knife down!”

“Yeah, I’m putting it down.”

“Hurry up! Get the chair away from the fire!”

Jose stands up and walks away from the chair. He left it right next to the fire we had not too long ago. The smoke is filling the sky with dark and light colors. The pit is filled with ashes, scorched wood, melted plastic, and Mickey Mouse’s melted face. Gasoline, and other fuels that didn’t get a chance to burn, is making its way into the hot dirt. The crack-ling from everything that is in the fire pit slows down and gets quieter. I cannot help but think about how bored we will be once the firemen leave. Once again our fun has been ruined. The firemen are still writing on the pad, but then he stops. “You all have shockingly broken five extreme fire laws today. The closed pit law, non-propane liquid start-up law, burning garbage law, the height, and harmful smoke law.

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“What were you all thinking?” one of the firemen asks.

“We just wanted to make a bonfire. We just wanted to have some fun, but we didn’t know it was illegal I swear to you.” I lie with a sincere-looking expression on my dark, sweaty face.

“Well, here is how you can have a safe and legal bonfire. This sheet tells you everything you need to know about legal bonfires in the state of Wisconsin. Since, you all lack the knowledge of our laws I will leave you today with just a warning. Don’t let this happen again, ever!”“Yeah, we won’t ever do this again. Thank you for understanding.” I assure them. They walk away without a “you’re welcome” or anything. Oh, the great role models we have in this world. They haven’t even learned how to be polite! Now the firemen are walking towards their big, red truck prob-ably talking about how crazy we are or something. They are slowly driving away so they can make sure we don’t start the fire back up. I just know they are, but that is what happens. Last year we got yelled at, and now we don’t even get a freaking “you’re welcome” and what not. Is there not one police officer that is not rude? Well, our police department filled with scallywags has something coming to them real soon. It’s called karma, and what goes around comes back around. If I didn’t like authorities before, I really don’t like them now! The bastards they are. Getting this warning means that we can’t do this again so next year we have to plan something as awesome as this, but maybe a little more illegal so we can let out some built in anger towards these police and firemen. Something with a little more boom and bang with a lot more color will really give a show. We can even get a little audience. Something that will scream the Fourth of July

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and possibly cause the state governor to make fireworks illegal in Wiscon-sin will really do the trick. Whatever we plan on doing next year, it will be better than what we did today. Especially since my dear brother, Kingsley, and his friend, Jose, are going to college, but remember… please don’t try this at home.

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Together, we

What do we earn

Alone, me

What do I need

You and me

What do we have

PeopleJJ Hah

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DinahHailey Arnold

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Fields of GoldJonathan Jin

the way her slender legs lay softly under the delicate ripples of her shim-mering dress the color of the ocean in the summertime as gentle waves of euphoric wonderment lapped at the shores of my mind as she sat hands folded in her lap at my side her wrist wreathed in soft lavender and pink roses her eyes transfixed on an admittedly (god i wish shed look at me in-stead and smile at me that sweet beautiful smile that could launch a thou-sand ships that i would launch a thousand ships to feel) sweet movie about an old man who loved a woman once upon a time (once upon a time once upon a time how do all stories begin with once upon a time why do all stories begin with once upon a time why do all happily ever afters begin with once upon a time and all once upon a times end in happily ever after oh how i long for a once upon a time a once upon a time of my own and a happily ever after to call my own) (are you my once upon a time you who sit beside me tonight in a lovely blue dress with your gorgeous slim legs that i just wish to slide my hands over and caress and kiss you and your smooth legs and beautiful shoulders and fragile neck (youre beautiful (I saw your face in a crowded place)) and shimmering black hair and bubbly (oh it starts in my toes and i crinkle my nose) smile and ringing laughter that i feel ringing through my every being through my head my shoul-ders knees and toes (heads shoulders knees and toes knees and toes) and everything in between are you my once upon a time sweet girl who said with hands brought to your mouth in beautiful and single-mindedly joy-ful shock yes yes of course i will i hope that you are and that i have found my once upon a time at long last (my parents oh how i envy them theyve known each other since they were children they went to the same middle school together and they fell in love in high school and stayed in love throughout and beyond college oh my fucking god how i envy them love like that cant be found anymore not in this world with dirt cheap plane

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tickets and people moving to and fro over this earth like madmen with jittery thumbs and businessmen in their fancy suits who fly all over the damn world and drag their families with them or lose them entirely (or so my mother says that certainly doesnt make me upset no not at all)) in you in all of your innocent and childlike beauty and innocence petite and sweet angel of music ((angel of music hide no longer secret and strange angel) i called her that once angel of music sweet and beautiful angel who turned on me and went with him in all of his tragedy and neurosis your mother doesnt even like him how could she hes japanese your mother is one of those people pathologically clinging to the past a past that isnt even truly theirs but is simply theirs by extension by long long extension and god damn it its not fair for you invade my mind when im with her trying to find my own happiness so go away youve found your happiness and it wasnt me so go away go away go the fuck away my sweet beautiful darling angel my angel of music) i want to be with you and dance with you (like really dance like dance dance viennese waltz dance not that stupid carnal-ity of meat and skin that the rest of our world seems to lust after) and hold you close and feel your breath against my neck your hands caught between your body and mine your beautiful petite breasts pressed to my chest as we flit to and fro back and forth do re mi in our own little fantasy world of make believe as the sun smiles gently and oh so jealously down upon us in our radiance from his envious sky (as we walk in fields of gold) as we waltz to music that we create for ourselves in our lovely fields of gold (as we walk in fields of gold)) but who lost her to some bastard sickness and now hes a dark and cynical beast who secretly within the layers of his psyche beneath his id his ego superego yearns and longs for the days that he felt the simple touch of her hand in his her small slender hand swal-lowed by his callous man hands like a lamb swallowed by a shepherds gen-

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tle cloak and she loves this movie i can tell it must strike a chord within her some beautiful (well i heard there was a secret chord that david played and it pleased the lord teach me that chord david angel of music my beau-tiful naïve adorable angel of music) and intimate and warm chord well if it does then let me be her hammer and let the love that we would share strike that chord within her and let it resonate within her every being let it evoke unbearable waves of ecstasy (oh how i long to see you engulfed in waves of fire and feel you shudder under my touch) and let me be master of those waves and let me rule over and preside over them for i want her i want her and i want to be with her i want to feel her smile warm on my lips with the assurance of all that i am to her and her to me and

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I bit into the deep crimson,As we sat idol on the sidewalk.Cal shot up like a sprout, With a ‘Eureka’ grin on his face.

Between two houses was our plot-With the tall palm on the left. He asked if I’d help, So I burrowed into the unfertile earth.I watched the seed fall in its place,And like a humble ant, built a mound.

Three weeks- scorching heatOur patience grew numbNever again did we plant those youth,But instead made on like nomads-To the Blueberry Clubhouse.

Apple TreesLamees Esmail

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Ben ShaughnessyApple Still Life

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AwkwarD!Sachi Patel

Characters:JULIA: Very emotional, isn’t scared to make new friends, tries everything. Speaks her heart, always tells the truth. Like to wear fancy rings.

HARRY: Shy- ish, but really opens up to be a fun and exciting person. Should be really attractive.

AARON: Harry’s roommate, should be really attractive too.

PILOT and FLIGHT ATTENDANT: fillers.

AT RISE: for the set up of the stage look at drawing. Harry and Julia are in the first row. Harry should be in the ‘window seat’ and Julia in the ‘aisle’ seat. and seat belts should be attached to each seat. In the background a noise from the inside of a plane should be constantly playing to make sure that the audience understands that they are in a plane. There should be random people scattered in the other seats, they pretend to talk, but don’t at all. There should be a constant spotlight on Julia and Harry.

PILOT:(Off stage should be projected for everyone to hear) Excuse me folks, we seem to be going through some turbulence, so if you could please fasten your seat belts.

JULIA:(Leans over to Harry) Oh man, planes scare me so much! It’s like the dentist office… (Shivers)

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HARRY:I guess. Yeah one of my friend’s dad went to the dentist and they like chipped his tooth.

JULIA:Uhhh… Planes, dentists, and ghosts are the scariest things.

HARRY:I mean, sure. I don’t like Acapella groups. I don’t like how they can make music with their throats, beat boxing, so weird.

JULIA:I see what you mean… I have seen some performances, they have some sort of a music thing that they use before and I guess it helps them.Ummm.. what’s it called? Ummmm… (Snaps as she tries to think about it)

HARRY:(Excited, talks with hands) Yeah that box thing. The pitch thing?

JULIA:Yeah, yeah that thing (plane starts shaking a little bit more holds on to the nearest thing, Harry’s hand). Oh god, oh god, oh god. (Harry looks a bit disturbed, and Julia realizes that she is holding his hand.) Oh sorry! (Flight attendant walks by, Julia catches her attention, Ad lib.)

Hi, sorry to bother you but uhh, do you happen to have some of that air sickness medication… Oh boy (hiccups) excuse me…

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FLIGHT ATTENDANT:Yes ma’am one moment.

HARRY:If you need to throw up, throw up in that general direction. (Points towards the aisle)

JULIA:(Sarcastically) ha ha haaa… (Plane begins to shake a lot; Harry and Julia have to be shaking to show the planes shaking during this. Grabs onto Harry’s hand again. Harry shakes her hand off his. Julia doesn’t realize. Trying to lighten the mood) So where are you from (moves hands as if she is asking for a name)?

HARRY:Harry. Hahaha New Jersey. In a town an hour away from Trenton. Where are you from (Does the same hand moving action in a mocking tone)?

JULIA:Julia. Hahaha I was born in Canada. But lived in Michigan for a long time. What’s your town called?

HARRY:Middlesex, New Jersey. (Cheesily) So you’re from Canada Eh?

JULIA:Middlesex? What? (Laughs, but then stops abruptly, Harry gives her a weird look) I, uhh actually have this swimsuit that says Eh? On the butt!

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HARRY:Huh that’s pretty cool.(Over the speakers again)

PILOT:(Calmly) So there seems to be an unusual amount of turbulence, our plane is descending by itself. It may be a matter of minutes before we crash. BLACK OUT!

JULIA:(Freaks out)AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHH….. WE’RE GONNA DIE!!!!!!!

HARRY:(Calmly) No we’re not. And when someone is meant to die, they have to go.

JULIA:NO. I. Can’t. Die.

HARRY:Is this where I ask why? And you tell me the long version of the truth, because I am a random person?

JULIA:Yes.

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HARRY:Why? Why can’t you die?

JULIA:Because… Because… I’m not married.

HARRY:What?

JULIA:(Zones off, says this as though she has said it a million times, like a memo-rized monologue) I know. It seems strange, but I have been planning my wedding since I was in high school. I want it on Mackinac Island. My guests will stay at bed and breakfasts around the island, and my husband and I will be at the Grand Hotel which is in the middle. My dress has to be mermaid cut, white obviously. And the color scheme is lavender, because that would look perfect on all of my friends. The wedding is going to be at a tiny chapel right by the water, and I get brought there by a horse and carriage, just like Cinderella. My bouquet will have a lot of Lilies, BUT my bridesmaids will only have one Lily, I know, I know so original. Then after we will all have dinner in the Grand Hotel ballroom.

HARRY:(Shocked but impressed) That’s a very elaborate wedding! You planned that in high school? Man you were a bored kid.

JULIA:I was not bored. I just love weddings. I’m like Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses.

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HARRY:Except that was a movie…

JULIA:Except that it’s my life. That movie is like in the hall of fame.

HARRY:(Excited) Amen to that. I love chick flicks. I think that they are so cute!

JULIA:Not many men would admit that they like chick flicks.

HARRY:I’m not most men. (Winks)

JULIA:(Flirty laugh and begins to twirl hair) So, if we make it down safely. Where are you going?

HARRY:(Awkwardly) I am actually visiting a friend, so I hope I get to see him!

JULIA:Oh that’s nice, so how do you know him?

HARRY:We, uhmm… were roommates in college…

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JULIA:Aww… you keep in touch with your college roommate? So do I! Her name was Henrietta, she was kind of weird but I didn’t judge her! Right now she’s the mayor for her town! I am so proud! I always knew that she could do it! I actually know a lot of famous people.

HARRY:Yeah I do, he’s my best friend. Henrietta the mayor, that sounds awesome! She was one lucky roommate!

JULIA:(Giggles again) What’s your roommate’s name?

HARRY:(Softly) Aaron.

JULIA:Oh, he was a lucky guy.

HARRY:(Confused) What? What’s that supposed to mean?

JULIA:(Quickly and firmly) Oh, nothing! Nothing at all!

(Show the plane descending)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

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HARRY:I think you just blew out my ear drum.

JULIA:We’re gonna die… We’re gonna die… We’re gonna die…

HARRY:(Meditative closed eyes) You’re ruining my Zen. Please be quiet.

JULIA:WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!!? WE’RE DYING!!!

HARRY:(Sits crossed legged in the seat and is meditating closes eyes) Ooooohh-hhmmmmm…….

JULIA:Really? We are dying and you’re meditating!

HARRY:You have to keep your Zen, otherwise there is no meaning to life.

JULIA:(Confused/sassy) What the fuck?

HARRY:(Opens eyes and sassily) I don’t need your negative attitude.

JULIA:(Sassily) Whatever punk.

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HARRY:(Confused) Did you just call me a punk?

JULIA:(In a bring it on tone) Yeah! Are you going to correct me because I did?

HARRY:No, but you know no one says that.

JULIA:I say it!

HARRY:Okay. (Plane descends again)

JULIA:AHHHHHHHHHHH. I need to get married. (Stands up shouts) WILL ANYONE MARRY ME?

HARRY:You are making a scene. Please sit.

JULIA:(Stubbornly) No I need to be married.

HARRY:(Factual) Being single is the best time of your life!

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JULIA:(Excited) I KNOW! You can marry me! Then when we die, we can be a happily dead couple! Aww... isn’t that cute!

HARRY:(Disgusted) No, it’s not cute.

JULIA:(Sad) aww… why? Do you think I am ugly? Is that what you are saying?!

HARRY:No I’m not saying that, it’s just, I don’t want to be married to you.

PRIEST:Excuse me, are you two getting married?

JULIA: HARRY: YES! NO!

PRIEST:So you are having marital problems.

HARRY:Father, we’re not married.

JULIA:Why won’t you marry me? When we die we will be happy!

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HARRY:When you are dead you are dead.

PRIEST:Son, please stop fighting your urges and marry this young woman.

HARRY:I don’t want to marry her.

JULIA:Why won’t you fulfill my dying wishes...?

HARRY:Ughhh… fine I’ll marry you!

PRIEST:By the power invested in me I now pronounced you husband and wife, you may now kiss the bride.

JULIA:I have been waiting for this day forever! (Closes eyes and leans in for the kiss… Harry dodges her mouth and pecks her on the cheek)

HARRY:Oh… (awkwardly laughs) So excuse me, Father, are we actually married?

PRIEST:Yes, you are actually married, and since it is our time to go home you will have a companion.

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HARRY:(Seriously) Do you do divorces?

JULIA:Sweetie, that’s not nice to ask!

HARRY:It’s a plausible question…

JULIA:(Seriously) Well I didn’t like it when you asked him that, so please don’t do it again.

HARRY:You are not the boss of me!

JULIA:We are married, so yes; I am the boss of you.

HARRY:Ughh…

JULIA:(Sassily) And fix your shirt, it’s all crooked.

HARRY: (Fixes shirt) There happy?

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JULIA:Yes thank you. (Puts her head on his shoulder)

PILOT:So, the plane seems to be functioning again, and uhh we are landing in to the airport in 5 minutes, so uh yeah…

JULIA:Oh my!!! We are safe! Oh I can introduce my husband to my friends now!

HARRY:(Sarcastically) Uh- huh.

PILOT:Hello again folks, we have safely arrived, have a great day and next time you fly choose Potential Airlines.

JULIA:(Giddy) hahaha yay! We’re here alive, and I’m married; now we can go get re- married at Mackinac!

HARRY:Yeah….(Passengers leave the airplane to the side where Aaron should be waiting.)

JULIA:Let’s hold hands as we walk out!

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HARRY:(Quickly) I’m not at that point yet, maybe next time!

(Aaron comes up to Harry and Julia)

AARON:Hey! How was your flight?

HARRY:Hey Aaron!

JULIA:That’s your roommate? Hello Aaron. (Shakes his hand)

AARON:(Awkward) Hello, you are?

JULIA:(Enthusiastic) Hi I’m Julia, his wiii…….

HARRY:(Quickly) We met on the plane… Julia this is Aaron my fiancé.

BLACK OUT!

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(S)nowflake(s)Austin Pejovich

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Strips of rock hurled into the airA valley belong beneathClear maelstrom hiddenRosy checks lay, crackled with sweatTears of lost seasonsMissingPass spinning with each crawlTranquil Work,Drip of a dropDrip of a dropMower covers Bloodied hands Mountains fell crashing TimberFalling—Failing—Zipper down the crevice Hold grasp—slipsBrute stone sliceNever a thumpBottomless pitMuskWhere?Creaks of creatures trappedAloneAlerthowling opa.

WildlessHannah Kiesler

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Willis is by dictionary definition the following: a slimy scumball. When you come in sight with Willis, it’s hard to miss the murky grease trickling down his emaciated, coal-colored hair. Even his own hair stretches back from his face to avoid the atrociousness. It’s one thing when someone says it’s rude to stare and another when staring is an obligation. However gross he is, his vile personality is easily masked by his acidic, lemon smile. Be forewarned if left alone for more than five minutes; drool will probably overflood his mouth and gush through his teeth. Mommy’s got a boyfriend!

“Hey Dev,” Willis breathes. His eyes remain glued to his Blackberry. I hold my eager tongue from spitting malevolence. When Willis gets my Mom’s attention, Willis wins. It’s this game I’ve created. Grabbing my Mom’s waist, he drags her to the family room, which is just a small brown couch and a television, no table. Do not be mistaken by the refrigerator, bathtub, and bed; this is no home. However, I believe the lazy white carpet complements the dreary grey walls. Originality is one of his strong suits. How his neighbors bear to be within one hundred meters of Willis for such elongated periods is beyond myself.

Instead of following Willis, I run my fingers through my knotted brown hair. My mom’s hair runs down the sides of her gaunt head like a fountain. The bangs are like sprinklers spraying gold over her eyes. The best part of her image is the dot on her left cheek right below her eye; we both have one. In old England, women would use brown eyeliner to pencil in such an elegant feature. She wastes this with Willis, who she doesn’t even like. I know she doesn’t.

Little be the LadybugsDevan Rottman

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I can hear her laughter like a squawking bird from the living room. In other words, it’s my cue to escape to Jake’s room. I crack open his door only to find him gawking at the stupid silver Macintosh. Jake is staring at Facebook. Sometimes he will just stare at his home page. Other times he’ll waste a good hour taking photos with peace signs to use as his profile picture.

Jake’s room is a diverse range of Green Bay Packer posters and Cubs autographed photos plastered over his white walls. The room is no more then a bunch of phony medals and awards, most likely bought on eBay. The only fascinating thing in Jake’s room is Jake. Well, also the candy stash. Deep in Jake’s clothing closet, buried behind baseball mitts and baby photos, is my love: candy. When the last ray of fabricated light is banished from the house, I’ll crack open the candy stash. I am a chocoholic at twelve.

Jake’s eyes take a minute before scraping themselves off the computer screen to recognize me.

“They’re in the family room…and it’s disgusting,” I say sharply.“That’s only because your mom’s disgusting,” he smirks.“Well your dad’s a fascist!” I slam. I saw this musical with my

Dad on Broadway where the lead said his parents were fascists. Everyone laughed. I don’t even really know what it means. Jake’s face shifts.

“I know, doesn’t it suck for me?” He smartly replies. He doesn’t know what it means either. I punch him in an attempt to flatten his beefy arm. I’m so weak. He grabs my waist and tickles me. Jake and I form some sick bond off the revulsion we share towards his father. Not Jake’s dad, his father. A dad is someone who would do absolutely anything for you, someone you love. A father is just someone who’s there, no need to love a father.

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Willis has Jake and Katherine. Katherine is eight, but easily forgotten about, as she camouflages into clusters of people. Her brown hair and chestnut eyes exile her to a life of normality. Most of the days, one can find Katherine hiding away in her room conducting tea parties with ratty, eyeless bunnies. Occasionally, she’ll mix up her daily routine and whine to Jake about her latest crush.

“He is going to strangle me when he sees my grades.” Jake’s blue eyes fix on the windowpane staring at something I couldn’t make out.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I whisper.“Devan, Katherine, Jake!” My mom suddenly projects. The space

is so small, CIA spies can whisper death-threatening messages through the walls. Jake barely moves. My eyes retreat from Jake and continue eyeing the windowpane. Three rosy ladybugs crawl across the window pane. Ladybugs infest Willis’ house. In comparison to the building a block away, they look like monstrously huge, giants, I bet it’s nice to feel so big. The ladybugs fly up behind the drapes hiding from my intrigued grey eyes.

“Guys?” Willis yells. We sprint to the family room. His face expresses the obvious victory he is feeling. Willis wins. Power struggle is what he lives for, mostly because he always thinks he wins. That’s two points for Willis and zero for Devan.

“We’re going to Lovell’s tonight for dinner.” My mom gaily says. Yay? Now she can publically display her relationship status. No way on earth I’m going to smile because that is exactly what she wants. She wants to feel like she is doing something nice. It is my job to make sure she knows she’s not.

We arrive at Lovell’s with a meek entrance. The wooden brown walls and pearly white table clothes distribute elegance everywhere. The smell of fillet mignon paints the air and soothes the mind. There are

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counterfeit smiles and women in dresses that cost more than my life. While the off-tune violin jams against my ears, my mom hums sweetly, oblivious to every error. I feel like my mom is on a different planet than me sometimes. She’s on a happier planet, one with tons of butterflies and ladybugs. A world without me, but I make sure to yank her down to reality every so often.

The waiter arrives with what I think he means to be a smile, but looks more like painful sneer, and his personality is as real as Chinese knockoffs.

“And what can I get for you, sweetie?” He spits out the words in slow motion. I might be small, but I’m definitely not Chinese. I speak English! Willis answers for me. He begins throwing out a mixture of French words and Italian sounds.

“Gracias,” I snap, staring at the waiter. He brings greasy mashed potatoes over-saturated in butter. Basically, it is butter with a side of mashed potatoes. With this he brings minced pink salmon ground together with other stuff I really didn’t want to know about. I smudge the goop into a D.

“Devan, you’re not eating.” My mom insists I begin choking down Willis’ food.

“I’m not feeling too good.” I win. My mom shoots me a death glare. That’s one for Devan, yet two for Willis.

The dinner consists of nauseating giggles and profuse entrées. We start to walk out when my mom seizes my brand new pink Limited Too coat and tows me to the black Mercedes Sedan. She is going to rip my new jacket. The only sound is my fingers thumbing uneasily on the right leg of my True Religion jeans.

“You are twelve, not five, but nice performance tonight, Devan.

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I really hope you enjoyed yourself,” she says softly. Instead of breaking the sound barrier with spiteful words she just says it softly. My heart fills my body with a thick liquid. It weighs on my arms and chest, like a poison. I remain still until we get to Willis’ apartment, where I slowly walk to Jake’s room. As I yawn, Jake’s face becomes embodied by an idea.

“Sleepover!” we supplicate. My mom is a softy. The key is to get the brittle parent and have them use their connections with the malleable boss. It’s called networking, and I have perfected it! Jake gives his endearing blue puppy eyes, which I can’t even measure up to. Finally we see her admit defeat and our Friday nights are saved. Willis can be alright, I guess. I skip into Jake’s room, commemorating victory, and my mom watches. Jake leaves the room and makes his way towards Willis. Our eyes lock as he disappears to Willis’ office/kitchen.

My mom sits on Jake’s bed and waits for me to log into Facebook. My mother’s adoration for Facebook is strong and could only be broken through the last beat of her heart. I’d say every hour, on the hour, she changes her status, but it’s more of every minute on the minute. Her online account receives more smiley faces and the occasional winky face than mine does. I show her the pictures she’s been pleading to see when suddenly Willis starts screaming at the top of his lungs. I ignore it, out of habit, like it is white noise. I have been trained to tune out blaspheme and screeching males from Sunday night grade checks. No one can please my own Dad because it’s always what each one of us can do more. Yelling is just another daily routine-like nuisance.

The air is becoming more compressed throughout the rest of the day. Silence finally fills the space. My mom casually walks outside and Jake comes rushing through the door. He pushes the shiny golden stick in, locking the door, and sits on the bed. Jake’s golden hair cages his eyes,

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protecting them like jewels. His big grayish blue eyes lift to see if I notice. I smile my crooked smile and sit next to him.

“I hate him,” he whispers in defeat. Willis hates him too. I remember seeing Jake’s dad crush his spirit by smacking his cheekbone. That’s the day whatever hope Jake contained in his bulky, empty body flew away. His dad hit him again. Questions are building and rebuilding as his words pour through my ears as to what happened, but I say nothing, just stare at him. Staring at his big grey eyes, till they lock close and I press my palm against his angel bone.

I unbolt my eyes from the screws of stiff sleep. I smile as I fix my eyes at Jake. It’s not fair that his mom is too depressed to care. At least that’s what he says. I climb down to the carpet and drag a shaggy brown blanket we appropriately named Javan, which is a mixture of Devan and Jake. I snuggle against the wall, waiting for the sounds of bird’s feet breaking branches.

Willis’ tiny apartment is soon greeted by the sun and sodden in rays, like our own gargantuan flashlight lighting up the miniscule house. The day passes and the sun buries itself behind the white sky and climbs to the other side mingling through the clouds, but I barely notice. The day is full of shifting positions and glasses of slightly warm milk. Nothing changes except Jake, who is being forced to complete each and every missing assignment, which is around nineteen. As he finishes off the last of the assignments, Willis comes into the room.

“Ok,” Willis dismisses. If I could strangle him, I would.“Devan! Katherine wants you to make her cookies,” my mom

shouts. I saunter to the kitchen and crack open the cookie dough. Usually I wouldn’t have gotten up just to make someone cookies, but I am so

bored. I must have a cold, because I’ve sneezed on these recently mucus-filled cookies a dozen times. After shoving the heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies into the oven, I walk over to the family room and start to watch Willis’ favorite movie, Great Santini.

After 45 minutes of Great Santini and being caged in the family room, the smoke starts to slither through the kitchen and through the family room where it stings my lips and eyes. I rush to the kitchen and grab the silver tray, which leaves heat lingering on my fingertips. Before Willis realizes that the cookies are mildly burnt to a crisp, I escape, once again, to Jake’s room. Jake is participating in his everyday Facebook stare-down. Today I refuse to watch him watch the computer; I yank Javan to grasp his attention. He tickles me and my laugh echo reigns victory, but I react by swinging back and walloping my head. I suddenly notice my head is drumming. Beating and becoming quicker by the second, my brain starts reeling. I hit my head too hard this time. Can someone die from hitting their head too hard? Will I die? I reach my hand back and ruby blood is dripping down my fingertips. Skin is intertwined in my hair.

“Mom!” I gasp. I use the dull grey walls to hold up my weight, but the ground heaves my feet. The blood drizzles down the walls, now stained by my fingertips. Willis’ eyes rage anger. Couldn’t I have waited after his stupid movie to crack open my head? My mom soon comes and drills questions at me. Blood starts drizzling down my scarlet lips. If I weren’t losing blood by the second, I would lecture her, saying that you shouldn’t ask someone drowsing in and out of consciousness serious questions. She grabs me and pulled me towards the door.

“Willis?” she insists. Willis makes a slight gesture, shaking his cranium to imply his inability to come due to his movie having twenty more minutes.“She’s fine. Just slap a butterfly bandage on!” Willis says.

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I can still hear you! I move my lips but sound doesn’t follow. My mom gazes, hurt and powerless, at Willis, who retains his pride. The earth must be standing still for this small moment. She drags my body to the white Escalade and drives rapidly till we reach the hospital.

The doctor looks like a middle-aged man with no friends. I wonder if he has cats. He purifies my head, leaving water dripping off my shirt. Then the man with cats injects a sharp staple. I strangle my mom’s hand until she jumps.

Willis is at home watching the rest of his pathetic movie, probably multi-tasking by screaming at Jake, watching his movie, and constructing lies for my Mom. My dad would have been here, because he is completely eleemosynary. Willis is completely not.

Staple #2 is inserted through my skin. This time I jump. My mom’s distracted. I know my Dad divorced her thirteen years ago, but I don’t like the idea of Willis. This time the doctor warns me, “five, four, three, two, one” and he instills silver Staple #3 on my head. Are these staples rusty? I barely feel anything but I can hear the staple gun. I can tell by the look on her face it’s game over. I think my fourth staple is being injected without pain as the room starts fading and becoming mush.

On the ceiling I see a little orange ladybug fluttering flawlessly through the air. The ladybug is magnetized towards the lamp on the ceiling. The bug buzzes, her legs fried by the heat. The diminutive bug uses what strength she has left to take to the air. Her orange armor covers her fragile body, ready to go to war. She is charging into battle against the most beautiful light. As she gets too close to the light, she starts to be yanked helplessly, and I clench my fists. The room twirls and I pinch my eyes and brace myself as the staple gun rips through my mind for the last time.

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Ellena SeaMetamorphosis

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Nina VarillaRomance on My Shelf

There’s always a littleRomance on my shelf. Or in crystal glasses that glint,Refraction, The ticking of a clock, hands chasing each other,Like us in the dark looking for the small door.Small fingers around the doorknob— Finally, palms touchingTwisting key in lock, The lightless key-hole lockThe lipless, ticking clock, hands chasing each otheraround. Around, Like you in the dark Alone in the dark Looking forme, for that small door. Where are you?…the door? I ran. And we are lost. It is lost. The door is locked. The key is… Gone.

Now I

Look at the clouds. Is time gone too?

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ShitJerome Sacherer

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PaulHannah Jung

I wondered if he was ever tired of waiting for someone to talk to him first. Because he always waited. In the hallway walking toward him he would not smile nor wave nor say hi unless you did first. I remember in class he never asked questions and never answered them. When I met him after college, he was reading the book I was looking for. It was called Jane Eyre, which went out of print and there remained only a handful of copies left. It was a rare luxury to have such a book in your possession. He told me about his dreams every night after we married. They were all strange and ethereal to me. I became jealous of him whenever in those few words he told me how real everything appeared inside his eyes. As if nothing was real inside this world. Listening to him always made me want to go to bed, to see if something happened inside my own eyes. But I am a dreamless insomniac and in those sleepless nights I wrote him letters. Letters about what I would like to dream about and whether he is still waiting. Dear Paul, It is raining outside and I can hear the raindrops quietly drumming the ceiling. They make me think of your dreams, how the rain came through and you stood in this room, holding my umbrella. How all the books on our shelves dripped of black liquid because the rain was washing away the ink. Except Jane Eyre, you said. I wish I could dream about you, to understand the parts of you that I fail to understand now and before. To find out why you often sing and only sometimes talk. And at the end of every letter I would write, Until when will you wait? Then I would quietly place it on the piano next to his dense sheets of music. We never talked about the letters, but I knew he read them and kept them somewhere.

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Behind or beneath, he avoids to tell me something. I know he has a remarkably good memory that sometimes scares me. He remembers every meticulous detail--the scar under your lip, the flat F#. I imagine it must be immensely difficult to live a life like that. To carry with you the memories and dreams and times you hardly speak of. What are you wait-ing for. I loved reading Jane Eyre with him, loved him because he did not mind the silences when we chewed our food. He loved to be hugged and was always hungry. And in that way, he was still a child. He used rare words like “beautiful” and “quaint” when he spoke. No one talked like that anymore. I loved searching the house for the places he kept my let-ters, playing hide-and-seek by myself. I loved that he whisper-sung in my ear when I couldn’t fall asleep. I loved him because I did not want him to wait. To love him was to keep him from waiting. To love him was to keep him.

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The Boy in the Hat and the Girl in the Dress Hailey Arnold

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UntitledSophia Salsbery

Kisses. Divinely. Grow

Spring breezes. Blow sweet smells. Love anything means. Crush. Blades of grass itch. Wandering gardens through. Fireworks. On (yellow boats) July 4th. Waiting. The End. (eventually). i. you. us. is wrong. Flies land on a watch. They fly (as do you) Away. Sigh.

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Bluest EyesCalin Cave

Verse:Blue eyesPale skinNo one cares if it comes from withinStraight hairNice clothesI see how they think life should go

Pre-Chorus:I see, in their handsThe ropes held tight that change all my plansI see, in their eyesThe cold blue that turns laughter to cries

Chorus:The bluest eyesThe darkest skiesA baby’s criesBefore it dies

Verse 2:Don’t lookDon’t stareI’m just like you, so please don’t still careDon’t judgeNo painYou make it feel like I’m stuck in the rain

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Verse:Blue eyesPale skinNo one cares if it comes from withinStraight hairNice clothesI see how they think life should go

Pre-Chorus:I see, in their handsThe ropes held tight that change all my plansI see, in their eyesThe cold blue that turns laughter to cries

Chorus:The bluest eyesThe darkest skiesA baby’s criesBefore it dies

Verse 2:Don’t lookDon’t stareI’m just like you, so please don’t still careDon’t judgeNo painYou make it feel like I’m stuck in the rain

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Pre-Chorus:I see, in their mindsThoughts that come along with hating “my kind”I feel, in their staresThe sharp daggers that stab and tear…My heart

Chorus:The bluest eyesThe darkest skiesA baby’s criesBefore it dies

Verse 3:Blue eyesPale skinNo one cares if it comes from withinBlue eyesPale skinNo one cares if it comes from within

END

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Death’s NoteKathleen Kennedy

It all depends uponNothing.

Choosing the one that willdepart from life’s journey,a chilled spine with everyone I take.

The sick old man or mother to be,It has to be someone.Yes, one-day You.

I look with a wandering eyeat the earth below.The lively beingsTheir naivety grows.

I say sorry for the accidents, The sick, and the miserable.Apologetic to the hungry,The soldiers, the victims.But…

The whiteBright light of heavenAsked me for an angel.

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Drum MigraineThomas Byrne

Who does this guy think he is,leaving me to sit around on this empty stage,polished and shining under the spotlightwaiting for my five minutes of fame,then pain. For what, a trophy, a girl, or just for his kicks? I am beaten to death,only a punching bag to him.Hit harder and harder with every punch,only to be noticed as the noisemaker. I can’t get this throbbing pain out of my brain.I try, I take breaks, I sleeponly to be awoken by a thud and a crash,the nightmare of pain come back. Many nights I suffer,but then my voice resounds throughout the room.People notice my bright high-hat and snare,The beat of my bass in the glare of bright lights.I blind the crowd with the curtain drop:Screw my headache, I’m here to rock.

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Color Me InHannah Kiesler

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Just CoffeeRickey Larke

Cast

Myra- A young working woman in the city, she is very smart and very am-bitious but has the weight of her family’s hopes and dreams on her back. She is a hard worker but her career gets in the way of her personal life. A pretty girl, but not beautiful, men have a hard time seeing her personality rather than her looks, which is why she is guarded.

Timothy- Also young but older than Myra, in his late twenties. Used high school and college as a time to party and is now very frustrated financially. He is Myra’s ex-boyfriend. Extremely sensitive yet aggressive and is in love with Myra. Also, he’s pretty dumb.

Mike and James- Pot heads, burn outs, losers, are all adjectives to describe these two teenagers. Think Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

Katharine- 68 years old, married to George, and very Betty White like.

George- 70 years old married to Katharine, a crotchety old man. Katha-rine and George are similar to George Castanza’s parents from Seinfeld.

Steve Newton- 32 years old, graduated from Cornell. A “goodie two shoes” and he longs to be a hero and someone people look up to. He is a nerd who wears a bowtie, sweater vests, and colorful J. Crew pants.

Vanessa- 17 year old High school girl. Kind of a spoiled brat and is daddy’s little girl. She is an extremely anxious girl.

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Eugene- The fat guy (every story needs a fat guy). He is also very nerdy. Similar to Kevin from The Office.

Setting

This Play takes place on a bus in Berkeley, California. The Set will be assembled in a fashion that the bus benches are aligned in a row facing the audience and others will be perpendicular to the audience. Also at every blackout the actors change seats to signify a change in time. All black outs should be fade to black.

Scene 1

(At Rise: A bus stop bell is rung and Myra walks on to stage from the audience, she then finds a seat directly facing the audience and sits down. Myra then eases her left shoe off and begins to rub her own foot while looking around. Mike and James (two boys) sit in seats next to each other and giggle while they play their PSP’s. George and Katharine are sitting side by side. George is reading the paper while Katharine is trying to read over his shoulder. Eugene runs onto the bus just in time to make it with a candy bar in his hand and sits next to Vanessa who is obviously grossed out by his presence. Steve Newton, who was sitting next to the two boys then gets up, puts his newspaper away and sits right next to Myra.)

Steve Newton: Hard day in the office?

Myra: (Smiles to be polite but is annoyed) um yeah, sure.

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Steve Newton: I figured, so… are you new to this area? I usually don’t see you on this bus.

Myra: (very annoyed now but still polite) I missed my bus earlier. (Smiles again then looks away).

Steve Newton: Well you should definitely start taking this one (Flashes a cheesy smile)

Myra: …um I don’t think so,(Yells up to the front of the bus) How many more stops until 26th street?

Vanessa: Two Stops!...we’ll be there in no time.

Myra: Thank-You(As she says thank you, a man (Timothy) wearing all black and a ski mask runs on board)

Timothy: (Out of breath) OKAY, everybody, get on the ground right now…. I SAID NOW!(Timothy then pulls out a handgun and flashes it in the air. Panic screams are heard from everybody on the bus and all passengers drop down to the ground and put their heads under the seats while Timothy begins pacing back and forth with his gun in his left hand and in his right hand he is holding a crumbled piece of paper.)

Timothy: (Reading from the piece of paper and trying to disguise his voice) OKAY, THIS IS A HOLD UP. (Beat.) I AM ARMED WITH

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THIS GUN… RIGHT HERE (Stops to show gun to everyone) AND I AM VERY DANGEROUS. (Beat.) (To Driver) DRIVER, GO TO THE EMPTY LOT ON 42ND STREET AND PARK THERE. (To Crowd) I DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT WANT TO HURT ANYONE I JUST…. (Brings paper closer to his face so that he can read it better) I JUST WANT CASH… (Beat.) Shit. (Timothy then walks over to Eugene and points to paper)

Timothy: Excuse me sir, can you tell me what that says? I can’t seem to tell if that says put or pat.

Eugene: (Scared and confused) Umm Put… I think its put sir.

Timothy: (To Eugene) Thanks, I appreciate it bro.

Eugene: Umm…No Problem.

Timothy: OKAY PUTTTT (Smiles to Eugene acknowledging his help) ALL OF YOUR WALLETS, PURSES, JEWERY, IPODS, AND ANY OTHER VALUEBLES IN THIS BAG. (Holds a green pillow case over his head)(Timothy then folds paper back up into his pocket and begins to walk around the bus collecting the items.)

Timothy: Thank-you, thank-you, thankkk-you, oh thank you.(When Timothy gets to Myra he stops and pauses then lifts up his ski mask)

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Timothy: Myra? Myra is that you?(Myra then lifts her head from under her seat and looks up)

Myra: (In a confused voice) Tim? (Beat.) (In disbelief but getting angry) You gotta be shitting me. (Beat.) (Myra Stands Up) TIM, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!?!?

Timothy: Oh, um, I can explain (Beat.) (Extremely embarrassed) Gosh… I didn’t expect you to see me like this. (Nervously laughs)

Steve Newton: Wait. (Beat.) You know this guy?

Myra: (While crossing her arms and staring at Tim) Unfortunately, He is my ex-boyfriend.

Timothy: EX-FIANCE!

Myra: EX-Boy-friend!

Timothy: Whatever! Listen babe, I’m glad I ran into you… (Beat.) I know this isn’t the best of circumstances but (Beat.) I wanted to tell you I’ve changed, I’m ready now.

Myra: (Rubbing her head and her voice is rising) Are you kidding? Tim! When I told you to “GROW UP” and “GET A JOB” (Beat.) ….I DIDN’T MEAN START ROBBING PEOPLE!!!!!(All the passengers then start to get off the ground and sit back in their seats.)

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Timothy: Baby, I’m doing this for you! (Beat.) I’ve been searching for a job for weeks, WEEKS! But until then, I had to make some cash somehow… But I’ve changed; I even started making people call me Timothy instead of Tim….That counts for something right?

Myra: (Shaking her head and looking at timothy in shock) No Tim, No it doesn’t Tim, because now not only are you immature, YOU’RE ROB-BING ME!

Timothy: No, I NEEEDDD You in my life Myra, I need someone just like you. And nobody is getting off this bus until we figure this out. (Tim-othy then takes a step back from Myra and holds the gun up to the air).

George: Says Who?

Katharine: (immediately after) Shut-up George!

George: (Whispering to Katharine) Not now Katharine, (Beat.) If we don’t do anything were going to miss Murder She Wrote, you want to miss Murder She Wrote? (To Timothy) Says who, young man?

Timothy: SAYS THE GUY WITH THE GUN.George: Ohh yeah (Beat.) (Playfully) I forgot (Beat.), my apologies, pro-ceed.

Katharine: (Whispering to George) I Told You, this guy is nuts. (Smiles to Timothy like she hasn’t said anything.)

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Timothy: (Holds gun in the air) EVERYBODY SHUT-UP!BLACKOUT

Scene 2

(At rise: the bus seems to be completely bored in the empty lot on 42nd street, Vanessa is filing her fingernails, Eugene is playing Mike’s PSP, and Newton is discussing politics with George while Katharine tries to talk to an obviously distracted Myra. Timothy sits across from Myra and is slightly irritated. Mike and James are whispering in the back of the bus when Timothy notices they are doing something.)

Timothy: Hey! What are you two idiots doing back there?(Everyone’s eyes go to the back of the bus on mike and James while the two boys turn around confused.)

Mike: Umm…. Us?

Timothy: Yeah YOU! What do you think you’re doing?(Mike and James look at each other wondering if they should say but then James finally steps forward.)

James: OK… Don’t be mad or anything BUTTTT, Me and Mike were thinking,

Mike: Yeah we were thinking.

James: Yeah we were thinking, MAYBE we could help you? Like with you two figuring out your relationship and all.

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Mike: Yeah, your relationship.

James: Yeah soooo, we made a pros and cons list(As James says this Mike then lifts up his shirt to show two columns writ-ten on his chest and stomach in sharpie marker. One column has three pros in it and the other has two cons.)

Myra: You What?

Timothy: You got to be kidding me,

Myra: Put your shirt down!(Mike then puts his shirt down)

Vanessa: Wait! I wanna like read it you know? Like I’m like bored over here, Like we’re just sitting here in this empty lot….and like…at least it’s something to do.

George: Yeah, It is something to do.

Katharine: (With her voice getting higher at the end) Shut up George.

George: (Throws his hands in the air) UNBELIEVEABLE! Not Now Katharine, we already missed murder she WROTE. DO you WANT to miss Gilligan!?!(Katharine smiles a fake smile at Timothy ignoring George.)

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Timothy: Alright fine! Let’s see it, lift up your shirt.

Myra: Tim!(Timothy motions for the shirt to rise with the gun. Mike begins to smile like he is proud of his list and lifts his shirt. James begins to point with the marker.)

James: OK, Sooo, First pro, He really loves you. (Beat.) But a con is you can’t stand Him. OK, (Beat.) Second pro, He’s got some money from rob-bing all of us. (Smiles, beat) Second con he’s probably going to jail after this. (Laughs, Beat.) OK, last pro, he will do anything for you (Beat.) Like robbing teens, (Points to Himself and Mike in a way like he is showcasing the two of them to the public)And old folks. (Smiles and does the same for Katharine and George).(James and Mike stand there smiling)

Mike: What do you think? (Smiling and very optimistic) (Silence)

Timothy: You two have to got to be the two dumbest people I’ve ever met, honestly. Now go sit back down and stop drawing on each other.

James: Ok

Mike: Ok

BLACKOUT

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Scene 3

(At rise: All the actors have changed seats again and now Timothy sits right next to Myra. They have been talking but it has stopped for the moment. Timothy sits with his head down while Myra sits with her arms crossed looking out the window. Steve Newton sits across from them both. Next to Eugene)

Newton: (Whispers to Eugene) This needs to end now, something has to be done about this guy.

Eugene: (Whispering also but in awe) Like What?(Newton then points looks down to show he has texted someone to alert the police that they are in a hold up Eugene he had texted 911.)(On the wall, a slide should flash showing a text saying:TO: ThomasPlease alert the police I am in a hold up in a BUS, on 42nd street and California)

Newton: (Still whispering) This bus needs a hero. (Then points to himself and slowly gets up and fixes his sport jacket. He then nods to Eugene. Eugene nods back)(Just as Newton prepares to do something he is stopped by Timothy jumping up and turning towards Myra.)

Timothy: Do you know why I love you?

Myra: (Suspicious) Excuse Me?

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Timothy: Why I’m in love with you, do you know why?

Myra: I don’t know, maybe cause you have some type of-

Timothy: I Love you, I love you because when I look at you…when I look at you I see everything I’m not. I see everything I try to be but I’m not, I-

Myra: Tim, That’s sweet but-

Timothy: Let Me finish…I see everything I strive to be and everything I want to be in you. You’re smart, people like you, you’re sensitive, caring, understanding, you’re, (beat.) You’re all I need…You’re my sunshine…On a cloudy day, When it’s cold outside…you’re like the month of May.

George: Hey! (Stands up) That’s lyrics from My Girl by the Temptations!

Katharine: (Pulls him back to his chair) Shut-UP George

Timothy: (Timothy then turns around to George and begins to whisper) Yeah Pipe it old man!

Myra: Tim, I don’t think-

Timothy: (In a pleading voice) Myra you’re my other half… No, Myra you’re my better half, you’re the Yang to my Yang. (Beat.)

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Myra: Tim I think you mean Ying to my Yang Tim.

Timothy: Oh yeah (Laughs nervously) Ying to my Yang…Myra, when you meet someone who is nothing like you, (Beat.) I mean completely differ-ent from you and you still love everything about them, when you find that person, it’s like you’re finally complete. You complete me. I love things that you do even when they annoy me because I-love-you. And (Beat.) when you get there, you get to place you never thought existed and you can’t go back. I can’t go back to not having my other half. I’m not complete. (Beat.) My world is nothing without you (Beat.) and I know our lives are taking us on different paths- but (Beat.) I’d rather live in your world then go without you in mine. I’m not saying I deserve another chance, because I don’t. I acted like an ass.

Vanessa: A jack-ass

Timothy: Yeah, a jack-ass, but (Beat.) I’m asking for a chance. I’m asking for Coffee, me and you, when we get out of here and, and this is all over, just coffee. (Timothy Stares at Myra for a while with no emotion)

Myra: Coffee?

Eugene: Coffee.

Katharine: Yeah! Just Coffee

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(Myra Stands up and is now face to face with Timothy staring in his eyes)

Timothy: Just Coffee.(Silence, then Myra looks around a second)

Myra: …. (Trying to serious but with a hint of happiness) Fine! But just coffee, nothing else ok?

Timothy: (Smiling) Just Coffee.(Then Bus then begins to clap and whistle and “Don’t forget about me” from “The Breakfast Club” begins to play softly in the background in honor of the future date. Just as Timothy goes to hug Myra, Newton Springs up and jumps on Timothy’s back and the music instantly turns off. Then Timothy totally drops Steve on his back and turns to face Steve who is lying on his back.)

Timothy: What the Hell do you think you’re doing?

Newton: I-I-I was-

Timothy: You-You-You were what?!?

Newton: Umm…This- this

Timothy: This Wha-

Newton: THIS Bus needs a hero…and I am th-

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Timothy: The what? The-

Katharine: Oh shut-UP Steve! You know, no-one likes you. (Shoots him a dirty look)

George: Yes, young man, nobody likes you.

Vanessa: Yeah, Totally. (Crosses her arms)

Mike: Yeah.

James: Yeah dude

Newton: Wait…Wait, Wait, Wait, This CLOWN is robbing you guys and you’re mad at...ME?

Vanessa: Well, It’s like different

Newton: Different?

Vanessa: Yessss, like his is for like love and all. And he’s dumb and all….but like really really sweet.

Newton: What??? (Looks to everyone trying to gain credit with his argu-ment) Whatever, you guys don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. (Points to Myra) And YOU, you miss, don’t know what you want… But it doesn’t matter anymore, I’ve contacted the police and they are on their way.

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James: (Kind of in the back round) Ummm I don’t mean to interrupt but….I really, really, really have to go pee.

Timothy: They’re what?

Newton: That’s right Mr. Burglar, they are on their way to arrest you and end this fiasco… It’s too late, your plan has failed and you’re going to jail for long time (Stands ups very proud of himself ).

(The rest of the people on the bus stand stunned and all hope has left the people on the bus once again. Timothy then begins to walk toward an empty bench and sits by himself ).

James: (Raises his hand trying to be heard) Umm…Oh god, Umm…oh god, I REALLY have to go Tim….

Mike: TIMOTHY! He really has to go dude.

Timothy: (Pulls his gun out and points to them both) HOLD IT!

James: Ok.

Mike: Ok.(James and Mike are scared out of their minds and James gets a really uncomfortable look on his face).

Vanessa: OH MY GODD, I think he pissed himself, OH MY GOD…..EWWWWWWW

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(The Whole bus then erupts in disgust to this and begins to get loud and everyone begins to yell and talk)BLACKOUT

Scene 4

(At rise: the whole bus is calmer and James has Katharine’s sweater wrapped around his pants. Since they all think Timothy is going to Jail it has a somber feeling to it and everyone sits with their heads down or look-ing out the window while Timothy sits by himself on one end of a bench sulking)

Timothy: Why? Why? It almost worked out, I almost got you back Myra but now…. (Begins to cry)

(Myra walks over to him and begins to rub his back and try and comfort him and the whole bus becomes even more somber. Then Mike and James walk over and move her away and begin to rub his back instead.)

Mike: Hey dude, don’t worry about it, man….

James: Hey dude…If you want….you can smoke our last joint with us?(Katharine then looks at the boys and makes eye contact with James and begins to shake her head signifying this is not a good time.)

James: Not cool? (Looks around like he’s asking everyone)...Not cool? Okay, my bad, not cool.

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Myra: Go, go sit down boys, (Points to the corner) Yeah, right over there, go sit down. (To Tim) It will be okay, don’t worry, we will figure some-thing out. (Beat.)

(Silence)

George: Wait!... I have an idea.

Katharine: (Whispers) Shut-up George.BLACKOUT (A little bit longer blackout)

Scene 5

(At Rise: Men wearing police uniforms are waiting in the audience in what is supposed to be outside of the bus. Sirens are playing in the background signifying that police are there. Timothy is now wearing the clothes of George and George is wearing Timothy’s clothing. Katharine, Myra, Timothy, and George are all standing but everyone else is sitting. George is explaining something to Timothy and Newton sits on the side with his arms crossed.)

George: OK, so the last step is when you get off the bus you two (pointing to Myra and Tim) both have to get lost, and when I mean get lost, I mean just go. Me and Katharine will stay on the bus and when we let you all off, everyone scatter and get out of here.

Timothy: But what are you two gonna do?

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George: We’ll figure it out when we have to son.

Katharine: Yeah! You two go get coffee. (Smiles)

Timothy: Thank you.

Myra: Thank you.

George: Don’t mention it.

Katharine: Don’t mention it.

Timothy: What are we gonna do bout him (Pointing to Newton)?(Eugene then stands up)

Eugene: Don’t worry about him; I’ll take care of him…(Both Eugene and Newton give each other weird looks, Eugene’s is more devilish but Newton’s is creeped out)

George: Ok guys I think it’s about time…Everyone remember their roles?....Okay, Showtime.

Katharine: Ohh George, the way you took charge was so sexy! (Begins rubbing his arm)

George: Not now Katharine, it’s not over!

(All the characters on the bus begin to line up next to the door of the bus,

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Newton is next to Mike and James and they are making fun of him, saying “This bus needs a hero” in a really girlie voice. The actors walk off stage like they are leaving the bus. As they get off stage they all begin to scatter into the crowd while Timothy and Myra sneak off with one another to the side. And the police men then storm the bus, screaming “put your hands in the air”. As the police come on to the bus they realize it’s George and Katharine sitting there and not Timothy, and they are stunned.)

George: (Whispering to Katharine) I sure hope those kids get away but if I miss The Twilight Zone I’m going to be furious, you hear me? Furious!

Katharine: (Whispering to George) George, Shut-Up.BLACKOUT

Scene 6

(At Rise: Timothy and Myra are walking to a car and both get in. (The car is shown by two chairs on stage.) They both get in and Myra throws her heels out the window and Timothy throws his the bag full of the goods in the back. (Behind the chairs)

Myra: That one was easier than usual.

Timothy: Yeah, they really gave up everything they had.

Myra: Yeah….I feel bad about that old couple though…. That was so sweet.

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Timothy: Wasn’t it… Well… I know you feel bad, so why don’t we buy you some new shoes so you can feel better, babe.

Myra: Ha-ha Ok (Then they kiss and she pretends to start a car) *But after coffee. (Winks) BLACKOUT

THE END

* While an audio of starting a car is played over the audio

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The Gatsby Collection by Roland TanRoland Tan

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You. I love you.(I know you do.)No really... I love you.(I know... You do.)(You have to.)Because no one else will.(Because no one else has the chance to.)... I Love You.(... I Know.)

She is my best friend. My counterpart, the other half to my heart. Her name is Rosette. Already, her introduction is so much more beautiful than mine. My name is ugly. I cannot seem to erase that.I have limp, brown-black hair that frizzes in all the wrong places. She has bold, pure blond hair that seems to curl in all the right places. If I were to compare our bodies, I am a stick while she is a beautiful hourglass.If I were to compare our personalities, I am a dusty guitar case, while she is a polished guitar.I am weed; she is a rose. (I am Rosette, after all.)She loves to smile; I hate my smile. Her smile is so lovely- that must be the reason she smiles so often.I do, so, love her smile.She only smiles for me, too. No one else sees her smile, her wonderful smile, the smile that only I can see.She makes very good conversation. I do, so, love to talk to her. When she talks to me, I feel like she spent a whole day just thinking of what to discuss with me. Well, I did too. When she is talking about something [or someone] that she loves, her beautiful blue eyes sparkle like stars and

You. [Me.]Amanda Shi

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soften like the moon all at the same time.In comparison, my matte brown eyes do not sparkle; they hardly ever smile along to my voice, either.

What else can I say about her? Everything she does, she is lovely. Every-thing about her is wonderful. I do so wish I could be her. Of course, I cannot, so I make do with being friends with her. She doesn’t seem to mind, as she loves being friends with me. She has to be friends with me. She doesn’t have any other friends, becauseshe only exists in my head.

(I love you.)Thank you.(I’ll always be here for you.)I know Rosette...You have to be.

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Gleaming in the sun of the early morning timeRises the silver giant. Towering over theThing that is us. Reminding us of its power.

Through the trees, one can see its shine.Beyond the trees the bears enter proudly.On the grass that is our the frogs work hour after hour.

Every day the frogs gaze at the giantAnd its might.Hoping to someday put up enough of a fight To return triumphant.

Two different species seeking a return to gloryThe bears victorious one score and fiveYears before.

The frogs seeking to prove their worth, a storyOf underdogs successful. Keeping a dream alive.Echoing in a proud roar.

Every day the frogs seeThe silver giant and are reminded of what they could be. Hoping to someday put up enough of a fightTo return triumphant.The frogs leave the side. Line up against theEnemy.

In the Shadow of the Silver GiantLaura Davey

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The leader commands his men to fight.They face fear that night.

Mouths shut.The eleven.And then.Hut, HutHike!

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Maggie PieHailey Arnold

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I listened sympathetically as the clock ticked an ominous countdown: he wasn’t going to be a millionaire.

“I hate Regis,” Grandma exclaimed for the eleventh time that day, rubbing an aching temple, aggrieved by the game’s loss of tempo.

It was the first time in three years I had been back to Pennsylvania, the Keystone State, where the heart of my family originated. My grandma’s house laid on the edge of Philadelphia and the Delaware River, only 30 feet from its murky and polluted banks near an industrial center of grimy factories. But, I lived for days like these, which held the fading remem-brance of another life. I loved the gray and gusty Philly weather, winds brushing up crackled leaves that had fallen off frayed willow trees, the sky one solid, smoky color, and the grass starting to recede along the shadowy river like my grandma’s memory. It was a somber and poignant painting I could stare at for hours. It was very different from what I saw on a daily basis at home. There, the seasons were manicured to perfection, with ex-pansive emerald lawns or pristinely-plowed pearl mounds of snow dressing the elegant and timeless brick ladies of upscale suburban Chicago, meant to grab attention.

The only thing I had a deep hatred for was the show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? It was all I watched when I visited. Age and grinding head-aches had eased Grandma into the comfort of a monotonous routine now. Every time I returned to Pennsylvania, I had déjà vu that there was a com-pelling sense of repetition in everything we did. Lounging on her eyesore of a pink embroidered couch, Grandma would stroke my hair, my head in her lap while I fiddled with the design of her worn green flannel night-

Lapse In TimeAmelia Moses

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gown. She wrapped that old nightie around her like a security blanket to relieve her discomfort and uncertainty about the future. Our cuddling was a familiar routine that she had always done with my mom when she was younger too; at least, that is what Mom confided in me. Disinterested in our ritual, my older sister, Olivia, would play games on my dad’s flip phone on the sofa opposite us. Amidst the tinkling of china cups, muffled arguments and soothing laughter could be heard in the kitchen as all my uncles and my mom congregated around a shared pot of strong Irish tea. In our personal little world, Grandma would quietly mumble answers to the game show’s increasingly difficult questions, a Herculean effort with her forgetfulness. I just sat there and enjoyed her gentle, soft company with warm satisfaction.

* * *

“Donna, could you get me some water?” Grandma asked.

“Grandma, it’s me, Amelia.”

“Who’s Amelia?”

Such conversations were normal, and I got used to them when I was very young. Dealing with my grandma’s condition was a difficult chal-lenge. Not long after my grandpa died, my grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. We were always suspicious that Grandpa’s death triggered the downfall in her health. After fifty-five years together, like two peas in a pod, she was set adrift, alone, without her mate. I didn’t quite understand what Alzheimer’s was, but my older sister explained that it was as if Grandma lived in the past for a short time everyday with a lapse in her ability to recall who we were. Time and chance were indiscriminate in a world as unpredictable as a game show.

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“Don’t worry, Mimi, Grandma will be back in a few minutes,” Olivia said as she exited the room.

I was used to hearing Grandma talk about things she had done when she was younger. Usually the conversation was along the lines of the struggle to attend medical school or how Grandpa and she were regional jitterbug champions at the Atlantic City Steel Pier in New Jersey back in the 1950s. At first it seemed cool, but after awhile it became boring and repetitive. When she spoke, it was almost as if I was talking to a stranger rooted in her swinging youth. I grew used to it, though. Conversations like this hap-pened all the time.

* * *

“You have a really good mom,” Grandma blankly stated.

I didn’t respond. I honestly had no idea what to think. Where had that come from? She never spoke about my mom. My forehead creased like my un-ironed plaid skirt. My eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. My eyes drizzled salty tears, though they were undetected by anyone around me, gliding discretely along the apples of my cheeks. My pinched lips yearned to clamor for an explanation. My trembling hands betrayed their shock and humbly prayed for a quick revelation. In the here and now, my alert grandma read my facial expressions and explained:

“Your mom was so hard-working even when she was a young girl. Some-times she wanted to skip recess to work, so the nuns would make her eat orange peels instead to kill time. Then she did her math homework.”

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“Really? Why would she do that? That’s disgusting.”

“Your uncles always pulled appalling tricks on her, too. They would blow up her dolls and set them on fire.”

“They were her brothers…”

“Yes, but it still wasn’t fair to Donna. She never had a wise female figure to talk to like you do, Mimi. I wasn’t comfortable talking about anything private, even when my daughter needed my assurance and my help. My generation didn’t speak about most personal things. You are so lucky to have a mom who supports anything you do.”

She told me that my mom wasn’t permitted much freedom as a kid. She wasn’t allowed to mix with the rougher local kids to make friends, to go to social events, to have fun on the weekends or to enjoy the teenage experi-ences most people have. Grandma listed the restrictions that fenced her in, too: she was also denied a childhood because of her family’s homeless-ness in the Great Depression; she never argued back to her husband; the conservative values of a good girl’s conduct that she was brought up with limited their experiences in life, she and my mother. She felt guilty that my uncles were indulged because they were sons, that she never worked at a personal relationship with her daughter, and that she never even thought to ask what my mom wanted to do with her life. Raised as the daughter of immigrants, she learned never to question authority, but it sounded as if she regretted that instruction, especially in her mothering a daughter.

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It made more sense now why it was hard for me to relate to my mom, a woman with no time to play. I tried my best to connect with her as much as possible because I cared and loved my mom, but some of the expecta-tions and limitations of her life seemed almost surreal to me. Grandma had clarified bits and pieces. Even though she didn’t realize it, Mom’s decisions in the

past to be more open with me made my future easier. I contemplated ask-ing Grandma if she felt like she failed my mom. I didn’t relish being her Regis and breaking the bad news to her. If it had been true, it would have killed me. Besides, it was past and over now. Coming from the grime of blue-collar Philadelphia, my mom ably proved herself on New York’s Wall Street, raised a family in Chicago, and in my eyes, conquered the world.

I zoned out trying to process this all. We didn’t talk, but the confessions my grandma had just made crescendoed in my head. I had never heard silence quite this loud.

“You’re right, Gram; Donna Moses is a piece of work.”

I finally felt like I wasn’t talking to a stranger. I was talking to Gloria Schipsi Carroll, Grandma.

We went back to Regis as he told yet another unlucky person that he wasn’t fated to be a millionaire. I studied Grandma’s wrinkles as they creased quizzically. She was puzzled by a question on the game show. I chuckled and went back to my nesting position on her lap. Though her instruction may have been subtle and at times learned through blind

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single-mindedness, giving up over anything, big or small, wasn’t an option for the women in this family. Nothing occurred by chance; now and then, it did by neglect.

* * *

“Donna, could you get me some water?” Grandma asked.

I lay there in discomfort and disbelief. I was so mad and unsurprised all at the same time. My fists clenched into boulders that bore the weight of all my frustrations. I was a patient person, but my grandma’s disease had finally taken a toll on me. I wanted to roll on the ground and have a child-ish tantrum. Squeezing my eyes shut, my cheeks grew rosy as I held my breath. Inhaling

slowly, I took a long mouthful of air, in and out of my lungs for ten sec-onds. My face returned to its normal porcelain complexion. I shut my eyes from the world to bring myself to a state of composure. What happened to the conversation we had a few minutes ago? I took another breath and spoke again:

“I’m your granddaughter, Grandma. I’m Amelia.”

“Oh, silly me! Amelia, could you get me some water?”

“Sure, Gram.” I sighed deeply.

Returning from the kitchen with her glass of water, I found my grandma and my mom lying in the familiar and equal position that I occupied a

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few minutes earlier. Grandma softly stroked Mom’s hair while her head was in Gram’s lap. I slid in next to them on that ugly couch with a big, satisfied smile on my face. So much had changed and yet remained the same. Perhaps mothers and daughters shared their own special and silent language apart from the world, united despite age and custom and the pains of life.

“I hate Regis,” Grandma repeated for the twelfth time that day.

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UsKat Delby

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You have made me French toast in the mornings and put brownies on the counter at night.You walk with the most popular of hearts beats, with hips like a pendulum and lips that can kiss or sting like a bubble bee. You’re gorgeous to me. No make-up, no hair extensions, just you.You make the Grand Canyon look like merely a hole to me, and Niagara Falls looks like a leaky faucet. They have nothing on the beauty you hold,And sometimes, I know you lose yourself, in the day to day engine, and ringtones, and monotonous loop of trying to make an audience clap for youBut if there’s ever a time you feel you can’t retrieve yourselfReach inside of me, and pull out whatever you can grasp, because I guar-antee Part of it contains a piece of you.So cut me open if you need to, magnify what you see and pick whatever organ you’d like.The heart, loves just like yours. The brain thinks just like you. The eyes have seen just as much pain. The ears have ringed to the same frequencies. Or look outside of him, his eyes carry the same star that yours do. His lips kiss with the same affection. His skin holds the night like yours. Two children, one plus one, equals one, youSo if there’s ever a time you can’t find faith in yourself,Find in it us, for we are all that is you.

MotherTakia Broomfield

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I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness… -Allen Ginsberg

We saw the best minds of our generation destroyed

…by egos, hunting, lurking, heart in hand and fear in chest, tip toe-ing through darkness, hiding inside themselves, waiting to shoot each other down.…by the Internet, staying up late and spending countless hours glued to the screen, staying inside on a nice day to sit on a computer and waste life as it passes by.

…by the heroes, police, busting parties, giving M.I.P’s, spending time on probation, but the fire burning inside them for the thrill erupts and the destruction sends them to jail.…by, facebook, twitter, stars putting anything and everything on their twitter and tweeting about what they’ve done, but nobody really cares, just goes against them in the end, stars being followed on facebook, blow-ing up their heads to see them just go in the trash the next year.…by the flashing addiction of the media, the crashing thunder of war that circles around a deadly pool of oil and blood, the avalanche of peer pressure.…by the constant brainwashing of young adults, comprehending ad-vertisements around the world, made by big-time corporations trying to sell their products which are really hurting the youth’s brain stimulation, distracting them with the commercial and material from the things that really matter in life.…by technology, simple minded music that focuses on the size of rims

the students of Ms. Asher’s Modern and Contemporary Poetry classHowl of A8

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rather than the problems developing in America, driving around with friends all looking for the next party.

…by pressure, grueling stressful tears, sunrise test time, lead pressed on paper dark circles form, eyes- fire red, sleep deprived. Cry. … by themselves--we fail to realize our true potential due to lack of focus, living in a society where mediocrity is acceptable and people embrace failure.…by the slow death of their youth, craving for a flashback, reliving the same eternity day after day, who used carelessness to mask their itch for something more, only to watch their boredom waste away, crumbling into cigarette ashes, who imagine an alternate identity, a desire to blossom.…by the future, frightened and jittery or careless and obliviously motion-ing towards it, or even with restless legs gritting their teeth in anticipation.

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My trusted mentor rose to her feet, announcing “You have been a good student, but I have taught you all I can.” With that, she departed, leaving me uncertain if I was prepared for the mission before me. She could have said this Saturday morning, over our blueberry pancakes at Egg Harbor. She could have left me in her classroom, where I would feel less dejected, surrounded by the safety of the chalkboard. Instead we were in the library whispering about Ayn Rand’s The Fountain-head, how she gave up halfway, that she only started reading it to please the guy she had a crush on in high school. She reminded me of Henry Cameron as he tells Howard Roark, “So don’t argue with me and go. Get out while you can.” But I didn’t go. I told you: she left me. The mission was easy enough. It was to remember through writ-ing. I loved the mission. It justified her departure; it gave me purpose in my hectic, forgetful life. But the challenge lied underneath the superficial simplicity: “You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget,” like what the man in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road imparts to his son. So I began to write. I wrote letters to my parents who lived half a world away and while I wrote their address I realized that as I was growing up, they were getting old, so I remembered to write I love you on the envelope. In the margin of Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek I wrote C55H72O5N4Mg to remember the chemical structure of chlorophyll as she says, “At the ring’s center is a single atom of magnesium. Now: If you remove the atom of magnesium and in its exact place put an atom of iron, you get a molecule of hemoglobin.” (Next to the molecular formula of chlorophyll I wrote, Why haven’t AP biology or AP chemistry taught me this?) In my journal I wrote down my dreams to remember them, how in one dream I could read the word “delusive” in Times New Roman 12-point font, and I remembered reading that it’s a neurologically

Hannah JungUntitled

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lucky thing to be literate in your dream, and as an insomniac I felt im-mensely fortunate. And as I wrote, I began to remember even the things I had long thought I had forgotten. Like the fact that Franz Kafka wrote let-ters to his father in his sleepless nights (he was an insomniac), and in those sleepless nights was when he mostly completed his work. I remembered how much I loved reading “A Hunger Artist,” and I remembered that his mission was to fast, and that he could willingly complete it because he couldn’t find the food that he liked. I would write these spontaneous memories in my journal or on the back of whatever book I was reading, on post-it notes, receipts, napkins, in carefully typed Word documents. The day after Chris died in the train accident I wrote how I fell asleep star-ing at the ceiling and when I woke up under the same ceiling, I remem-bered that Chris was still dead and I was still alive. “Write as if you are dying,” Dillard had said. So I kept writing and I kept remembering. I re-membered Nick from Ernest Hemingway’s “Indian Camp” and the ques-tion he asks: “Is dying hard, daddy?” There was nothing to remember for me to answer this question (save that my trusted mentor had first taught me Hemingway and Dillard), so I carried on with my mission. I even wrote to Paul, the character whom I created: I remember you in my own reality, how you came into my life and inside my head, and he reminded me of what John Steinbeck had said about Of Mice and Men: “Lennie was a real person.” On the unremarkable Wednesday the phone rang I wrote about the voice on the other end who never spoke, how it was her, I knew it was her, so I just said, Have you finished The Fountainhead yet?

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IllusionLamees Esmail

It mesmerizes you suddenly- a dreamLike a hot air balloon

It floats close enough, like a cloud of smokeOnly to disappear beyond recreation

I held one, clenched in fistsBut it fluttered away like a coral monarch

It bangs against your ear drums-A never ending drummer

It lingers above you, A rain cloud-Will it bring a rainbow?

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UntitledEllena Sea

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She hears only the tinny rattle of her shopping cart and the faint single toned buzz of her hearing aid while she shops. Head down, brow furrowed, she patrols the aisles of the supermarket, searching for something. She is oblivious to the young boy tugging at his mother’s pants, demanding her attention, or the apparently newlywed couple holding hands in the noodle aisle. Years of mothering have hardened her, for amidst the frantic colourful world surrounding her, she exists in her own universe, her clear plastic universe, in which only her relevant surroundings matter.

Her mind is driven by tasks. She performs as if she were a human factory, churning out one product after another. She notices her favourite pair of stockings ripped, she fixes it. She receives a request for her famous apple pie, she bakes it. Today, she is at the grocery store because she ran out of milk the night before.

She rarely has houseguests anymore. Children have long since moved out, and have been replaced by sewing machines, empty pie tins and handmade birthday cards from grandchildren. Tasks have become her children; to do lists her pets. She recreates the making breakfast and driving children to school, which were her every day “mom” requirements through detailed lists of things to do which she keeps with her at all times. She plans her whole day around these simple jobs. They inhabit her home as bees inhabit a hive, buzzing around her thoughts too often, and stinging at any strategically placed moment available to them. She is trapped in this world which is all her own. At night, the pillow beside her is cold and empty, as she listens to her mind churn with I must clean the bathroom tomorrow and Don’t forget to buy more plant food!

Today she moves purposefully, one arthritic knee at a time, through grocery store aisles. Her eyes frequent the flimsy white list in her

Her UniverseGreta Nagel

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worn hand and then dart up to browse the shelves. She places each item in the cart as if they were made of porcelain. A solitary box of pasta and jar of sauce, which is to be her dinner that night, and a carton of milk populate the bottom of the cart. Her steps are direct as she proceeds through to the checkout.

It comes as a surprise to her when the elderly gentleman behind her in line speaks.

“Er... excuse me ma’am, do you have the time?”The formality of the question is not what startles her. It is not

even the unexpected syrupy southern drawl in which he speaks. She knows she does not have space in her universe for interactions with other people, and she expects others to respect her reasoning. She is shocked that someone would dare to speak to her, not realizing that there is no way that anyone would ever know the tight schedule she was on. She is not in the mood for rationalizing today.

Nervously, she checks her watch. “Nine fifteen” she mumbles reluctantly.

The old man thanks her, and she pays the cashier.There is no place for others in her universe, no spot for dinners

for two or romantic walks around the block. She eats dinners alone because she is thinking of what to do next, always planning ahead. Her life is a movie in perpetual fast –forward, moving too fast, and only focusing on what might happen if someone hits the play button.

This is why she was caught off guard when instead, someone presses pause.

Later that week, she encounters him again, at the dry cleaners. They exchange another awkward conversation, this time about the baseball

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game scheduled for later that night. She answers his questions absent-mindedly; her brain is focused on retrieving her dry cleaning, and getting home to bake that cake her neighbour asked her for.

She continues to have moments with this older gentleman, and he slowly makes his way into part of her universe. His presence forces her to slow down the “energizer bunny” attitude, and soon their frequent encounters at the grocery store are as normal as the lists taped on the inside of every closet and cupboard door in her quaint cottage house.

A month passes, and they plan to meet for coffee on a Thursday. She marks this in her list of things to do and instantly he is part of her universe. Uncharacteristically she sets her alarm half an hour early, and spends extra time in the morning deciding what to wear. She can’t help notice a fuzzy sensation in the pit of her stomach as she removes from her closet her favourite dress, a simple piece in yellow lace, which reminds her of when she was younger. When she leaves her house at the regular time that morning, she feels as though her neighbours are all noticing her for the first time.

Outside, her universe is clogged with unfamiliar sensations, unrelated to any task she has written on today’s list of things to do. She notices the deep red of the tulips in her neighbour’s front yard, and smells the stench of mulch coming from across the street. It’s as if she has unintentionally unlocked the door to her universe, and hundreds of desperate smells and colours are forcing themselves through the threshold.

Upon arriving at the Cafe, she feels tired and weak. Sighing as she sits down, she doesn’t order an iced tea from the counter. Eyelids flutter from exhaustion and overstimulation, and she lazily drifts asleep sitting by the window in the cafe.

A rough, soothing hand brushes her shoulder, and she wakes up.

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The gentleman is there, in front of her, and she notices for the first time the shimmer of his silver hair, and the crow’s feet wrinkles around his eyes from years of smiling.

“Tired?” he asks. Any other day this would feel foreign and wrong. Any other

day, she would be franticly running through her grocery list in her head, or counting the loads of laundry she still has to do once she gets home, willing this abnormal conversation to come to a close. Today, she leaves that list folded neatly in her pocket, and answers him.

“I’m feeling a lot better, thank you.”“Would you like anything to drink?” So many inquiring

questions, but this time there’s no hesitation in her voice when she answers.

“A water would be lovely” she replies. They speak for the next hour about nothing in particular. They

show pictures of their children and grandchildren, and reminisce about the terrible two’s and the angsty teenager years. They discuss the difficulties of raising children without having a helpful significant other. By the end of the day, they walk back together to her house, his gruff right hand intertwined in her wrinkled left one, caressing the place where a wedding ring used to be.

They walk up the smooth brick pathway to her humble home, and she pours him a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade while he sits on the couch. They spend all night talking, his arm wrapped protectively around hers, their universes flowing into one another as streams converge to form a river. They talk as if they are old friends, chatting about politics or favourite vacations spots or if they are cat people or dog people. Time flutters past; she finds a new comfort in the warmth of his body, which she

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used to only find in the lists she used to stay up late writing for herself.He decides to spend the night, and she gives him the pillow from

the other side of her bed, and a spare sheet from the linen closet. He sleeps on the couch.

While he sleeps soundlessly below her, she undresses. As she pulls the frail yellow dress over her worn out body, her forgotten to-do list falls from the pocket, and flutters to the floor.

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Foil Still LifeBen Shaughnessy

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I have spent my whole lifeIn search of X – The key toThe door toTrue,Final,UltimateHappiness.

To have x is to have all desiresSatisfied –To be at the peak of yourPotential – To be that which you wereMeant to be.To have found x is to beEmpowered,Strengthened,And utterly, truly, completelyDefined.

I searched for itIn musicWith my mother’s guidanceAs she waved a ruler toThe flowing beat of Time.But Time went on and left me far behind.

Find “X”Jonathan Jin

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I looked for itIn numbersWith my father’s tutelageAs he slid a pencil throughThe solid realm of Space.But Space is really the weariest path to take.

Seventeen years on,I finally realize thatThe answer is e) all of the above.

Maybe x is like pi;Maybe it simply isn’t possible to findWhat x truly equals.But is it truly necessary?Like with pi,I can get pretty damn close – Close enough to make a difference.

Meaning lies not in finding x,But in the journey to find it – inNever giving up,Never backing down…inNever turning back.

So I won’t ever stop looking forThe girl that I will love,

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The man that I will be –The life that will be mine,A love that will break time.

So I willNever give upAnd I willNever back down.And I willNever turn backAnd I willNever regret,For every Step that I takeAnd everyBone that I breakAnd everyChoice that I makeAnd everyDay my heart achesWill bring me closer to theAnswer.

I have spent my whole lifeIn search of X – The key to The door toTrue,

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Final,UltimateHappiness.

Finally, I think I might have found it.

X = XQ.E.D.

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The CostKamal Kuriem

The azure lips drownIn the flames, as Crimson seraphs cameAmongst the chalk white clouds. An austere awe, they maintained. Ethereal entities on the groundConverged on same.T’ween heaven and hell this forest remained. This forest of crystallized bodies reflecting the swelling hues of the the rainbow;Their faces were rigidly frozen as a display of the horror of Damned souls crying for salvation. Lo,The entities claimed The azure lipped body. “We are Legion for we are many”, the proclaimed.The evanescent angels did the same. The agonizing howls of pain came only from the consumption of the not quite dead shell in the forest.While only sweet song came from the seraphs as they sang in chorus.Those Earth bound spirits ascended;And the seraphs descended. In their collision only light and fire existed.The battle had finally begun and Michal and Lucifer were enlisted.Two suicides; one of self-sacrifice and the other of self pity.The end beginning because you or me were too blind to seeHow precious one life was or would have been if filled with glee.

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HeartCalin Cave

IT’S IT’S

PULSING PULSING

PULSEPULSEPULSEPULSE

ECHOINGECHOECHOINGECHO

BEATBEAT BEAT BEATBEAT

ECHO ECHOOO ECHO

EMPTY EMPTY

GONE

ME

EditorsSenior Editors:

Hannah JungRickey LarkeArwah Yaqub

Junior Editor: Austin Pejovich

Faculty AdvisorEmily Asher

AcknowledgementsSpecial thanks to:

Mr. Smith, for assisting the staff with artwork and Indesign, and for his patience with our use of his classroom.

Ms. Campbell, for her Indesign expertise, encouraging words, and ap-preciation of all things poetic.

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