XXXVI

shape and color

N.C. Literary and Historical Association 1st PlaceColumbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalist All Columbian HonorsAmerican Scholastic Press Association 1st Place with Special MeritNorth Carolina Scholastic Media Association Award of DistinctionMyers Park High school 2400 Colony road Charlotte, nc 28209fax: 980-343-5800 Email: mphs.pegasus@cms.k12.nc.us

XXXVI

shape and color

editors note After many years of complex design, we decided - as many artists and writers at some point must - to return to the creative essentials. Movement, color, space, line, and shape accumulate to form our surroundings and thus influence our perceptions and experiences. We chose our theme Shape and Color to reflect the basics which have so profoundly inspired individuals for millennia. It is through keen observation of these very fundamentals that the writers and artists of Myers Park have crafted remarkable pieces; what follows this page is a compila-tion of these works. I am very thankful for the opportunities I have had over the past three years to explore and hone the wildly creative minds of Myers Park.

As I grew older, I realized that it was much better to insist on the genuine forms of nature, for simplicity is the greatest adornment of art. Albrecht Drer

A single brushstroke across a canvas, a perfectly effortless poem. Simplicity at its finest. Instead of over-complicating, over-designing, and over-emphasizing, we, the staff of the Pegasus, opted for a different ap-proach: to let the art and writing speak for itself. Our vision was to create a magazine that wholly reflected the creative talents of our student body. And what better way to do so then by using the building blocks of design: clean lines, bold text, bright colors, and basic shapes. These elements co-exist with the pieces, rather than over-powering them. Our magazine finds strength in the beauty of simplicity. It has been an honor and a privilege to represent the artistic talents of Myers Park High School over the last three years.

PEG ASUS

- Aoife Duna

- Shauna Rust

charles

PEG ASUS

staff

Editors-In-Chief

Aoife DunaShauna Rust

Senior Art Editor

Adrianne Gacevich

Senior Design Editor

Caroline Stewart

Senior Editors

Keely McKenzie

Charlotte Moore

Assistant Editor

Laurel Martin

StaffMary Charles Byers

Rozlyn Cobb

AdvisorSusan Shuping

rozlyn laurel keely

shauna caroline charlotte adrianne aoife

mary

donors

PEG ASUS

scribe

quill

scroll

Nancy and Ralph FallsKen and Anna GacevichNan and Jeff Robertson

Charlie and Ashley StewartBen and Kathy Martin

Jane GraysonElizabeth Marshall

Kim and Kevin MooreMike and Cecelia Ramsey

Mark and Janine RustAida and Gregory Saul

Craig and Sharon AddisonKitty Bacon

Kathleen BambrickKristin and John Bradberry

Jarod BrownGreg and Rebecca Browne

Claire and Craig BuieCelia Collias

Karen and Steve CranfordAnne and David Day

Kathy and Stephen DockeryDavid and Leigh Fischer

Kerry and Bill FlyeMadeline Frank

Beatriz FriedmannDonna Gilley

Jannica GreifeAndie and Todd

Carol HallCora Hardy

David and Kim HareWendy James

Charles Israel Jr. and Leslie McCray

Beth McLeodBarbara Merry

John and Jill MillerBeth and Robert MonaghanStephanie and Billy Owens

Diana PuenteCarol and Davis Sample

Jeanne SauderAnne and Steve Schmitt

Carol and Hal ShinnDivakar ShuklaKenneth Sun

Scott and Kathy SutherlandDon Dean

Mary and John TinkeyJustine and David Tobin

Tom and Kelly VassElizabeth VaughnHannah WaltersMegan Walters

Mike and Anna WilderGreg and Julie Williams

Chris and Sara Willis

donations of $100 or more

donations of $50 or more

donations of $25 or more

PEG ASUS

The staff would like to thank

Principal: Tom SpiveyArt Department Chair: Lynn Wu

Computer Specialist: Greg ClarkePhotography Teacher: Lisa Holder

The staff would also like to congratulate the winners of our 2012 writing and art contest. Sibel Turkdamars poem Imprisoned was chosen as the winner for its dramatic and moving imagery. Maddi Smiths meticulously crafted origami swans, titled Harmonious Duality, were selected as the years art winner. You can read Imprisoned on page

28; the swans are displayed on page 16.

The staff is comprised of carefully selected students who have excelled in their creative endeavors. Each candidate is interviewed and their portfolio reviewed prior to his or her acceptance. The staff edits writing, selects art, and pro-duces a number of magazine spreads for the magazine. The Editors-in-Chief select the highest quality spreads to be

included in the final publication.

Throughout the year, we hold several contests to encourage submissions from the Myers Park student body. A special thanks to those of you who participated in these contests!

The Pegasus Volume XXXVI was printed by CMS Graphic Production Center on 32 lb. bond paper. Blue Highway D Type was the font used for the magazine title. Tahoma was used for the contact information, editors notes, staff, Pegasus Society, thank you, and table of contents pages. Credit Valley was used for the page numbers. Fifteen fonts were used for titles. This years publication was designed using Adobe CS3 and Adobe Photoshop CS3 on HP Compaq LE1911

computers.

8table of contents

Why Thoughts Are ToughEmily Dehorityg: poetry

NothingEmily Dehorityg: poetry

TodayAoife Dunag: prose

With Bated BreathArianna Luttermang: poetry

Summer HazeHannah Bridgesg: poetry

A Modest ProposalCharlotte Mooreg: prose

writing

StutterMadelyn Johnsong: poetry

Glandula AggrataSibel Turkdamarg: poetry

10

12

14

17

24

26 42

44

The ChoosingHannah Bridgesg: prose

ImprisonedSibel Turkdamarg: poetry

28

29 PsychoanalysisKristen Heritageg: poetry

The ContraptionShauna Rustg: prose

46

49For The MelancholicHassan Durantg: poetry

The GiftMeghan Dorng: prose

20

22

Family MattersBen Fisherg: prose

To Be A DogAnonymousg: poetry

34

37

A Year Of SeasoningKeely McKenzieLaurel Marting: poetry

OrangeEmily Dehorityg: poetry

40

41

p. 12 p. 17 p. 37 p. 41

EscapeSusanna Boothg: poetry

50

The TriggerPhoebe Cookg: prose

52

9table of contentsartThrough the LensZoe Pruittm: pen

Trunk ShowKatelyn Morganm: watercolor, chalk

Harmonious DualityMaddi Smithm: origami

15

16

12

Mirror ImageStephanie Smithm: photography

17

InkedMarie Hastym: collage

23

In BloomBen Bridgesm: paper

24

Edge of TownRiley Marshallm: paper

28

p. 46

SkywardKristen Heritagem: oil pastel

18

Broad Street MinistriesCrosby Ignasherm: photography

18

Technicolor Roar John Ruckerm: marker

31

Crowded Mackie Raymondm: oil pastel

34

EnlightenmentBradley Schwarzm: watercolor, pen

Cheek to CheekKatelyn Morganm: watercolor, pencil

In the ShadowsZoe Pruittm: watercolor, pen

Firebird Charlotte Robertsonm: photography

36

37

40

41

Dog DaysAllison Carrm: pen

Crack of DawnAdrianne Gacevichm: photography

43

44

PinnaclesPaige Stover m: oil pastel

19

Internal WorkingsMaddy Capizzim: chalk

46

Red StudyAllison Carrm: oil pastel

Summer LegsCharlotte Robertsonm: photography

48

50

p. 48p. 44p. 19

10

The colors I see dont come in tubes at Mitchs Art Stuff.

They are not on shelves or contained by the HTML hexadecimal system yet.

They are not named, either.

I apologize, haphazard pile of shoes.

Youre as unpaired as the loneliest electron.

All smile but the ultimate gummi bear.

I ate all of his friends. Hes the only one who knows.

Only the last one knows. Theyre all colorful and sweet and

all but the last one smile.

And I eat them.

The tree groaned not from

the wind but from its roots.

I tell Danny that whole is indeed spelled with a W,

because when he draws a tree

he begins above the crayon grass

and so too do I wish

to believe.

I.Medium

II.Legibility and Connection

III.Emotion

IV.Work

Why thoughts are toughEmily DeHority

Kate

lyn

Mor

gan

12

What have I left to do

she cried softly to her

empty living

room.

N o t h

13

i n g .Nothing, The answer

was nothing,

so she bought herself

a television. Zo

e Pr

uitt

14

odayAoife DunaT

Today the earring was red.

A most arresting color - the exact flushed shade as her sultry, unforgiving mouth. At the moment (in this present: a present), she clutched a sturdy foun-tain pen between two of her delicate fingers. A pad of paper lay before her, supine and servile (even the inanimates joined me in fawning). It endured the furious scribbling, scratching, frustrated tearing and crumpling, tossing - for the extraordinary mo-ments when the minute grooves of her fragile digits stroked the sheet in unparalleled admiration.

So much do we endure for the ones we adore.

On this most ordinary of unusual afternoons (for a toucan in a bedroom in its habitual flight pattern is still a most unusual occurrence), her quiet jawline

or An Excerpt From An

Obsession

15

was violently interrupted by a cherry comma. Lobe punctured, hers. Thin dark hair and her position obscures its twin from view.

What follows my fixation is a succession of daydreams that unfurl like sails against salty wind. Her jewelry reflected in the bathroom mirror, carelessly removed (because we are too tangled in conversation). A glass that echoes the curve of her lips. She moves as a ghost through the curtains, a deadly amorous dream demon. My desire billows and whirls in tandem with her breath.

There is no such thing as truth. My mind has painted so elegant a portrait as to distort her real image. Ive constructed a hazard-ous mosaic and pasted it over her malleable figure, exaggerating her sunburned knees and blue lashes to magnificent and catastrophic

proportions. One shudder of her mild hands esca-lates to the eruption of birds across the horizon. Dissected, her casual smile becomes darling, devi-ous, and tragic, tragic.

My wild, celestial, impossible goddess, you are a trick of the light. A shadow caught between reflective prisms and bent to a madmans folly. I know the brutality with which I warp her pres-ence. I am hammer and nails and soldering iron; I cauterize one wisp of hair and florid cheek, and, in manic delusion, immolate them. The carcass I leave behind is an afterthought.

In a way I feel sorry for the poor girl (un-harmed, but so horrifically marred). But I made a limpid glance - a painted toe - what it could never have been on its own. My dream is a drug, and I am too far gone to stop. There is no salvation forungovernable passion.

16

harmonious duality

17

S T U T T E R S T U T T E Rmadel y n j o h n s o n

W i t h a r a p i d a n d b l o o d - b o r n j u b i l e e

T h e s w a l l o w d i p p e d i n t o t h e s o u n d .

W h a t g r e a t c u r r e n t d i v i d e s !

W i t h t h i c k - p a p e r e d t h o u g h t , t o r n s o s u d d e n l y ,

I t b r e d t h e s k y b a c k a r o u n d .

W h a t t r a n s v e r s e s o u l , a r r i v e d !

W i t h a b u t t e r k n i f e , s p r e a d s e a t o s e a ,

T h e s w a l l o w b i r d d r e w w h a t f o u n d .

W h a t s i m p l e m a n s u f f i c e d !

Step

hani

e Sm

ith

18A l t a r

1. Skyward

2. Broad Street Ministries

3. Pinnacles

19E g o

1. Kristen Heritage

2. Crosby Ignasher

3. Paige Stover

20

for

t h em e l a n c h o l i c

Hassan Durant

21

What do you want?what do you want, what do you want, what do you want.Your voice is a mumble and I can hardly tell anymore.

Maybe you want an artistA baker, a candlestick maker?a candlestick maker.

I was one by trade.Ill fashion a wick so inviting, the flame will scarcely want to leave.That way youll knowthere is no such thing as darkness.

What say you of a glassblower?They say I could craft a mirror so flawlessYoull never forget who you are.

Is a poet what you desire?Why, then Im just the one you should hire.Ill rhyme my verse (for better or for worse)and wax lyric in front of a fire.

Want a watchmaker? I can do that real well.Ill make you a clock set four hours aheadSo youll be at home, laughing at nine at nightInstead of here, alone, alone at five.

You want Oleander? Hemlock? A bare bodkin?I cant give you those; I wont.Besides,Theyve got a nasty habit of killing my friends.

22

On estimate, the Penguin Dictionary of Jokes holds about six thousand quips, wisecracks, and quotes. Conveniently alphabetized by subject matter, the work is an amateur comedians crash-course in humor. On my thirteenth Christmas morning, I was lucky enough to rip off Rudolphs face to find this one-of-a-kind treasure lying beneath. Ive always been fascinated by humor - how a simple phrase with proper timing and content could cause people to burst into laughter.

This book featured the brilliant words of Groucho Marx, Mark Twain, and Tina Fey. They taught me that comedy is more than just slapstick pratfalls and inappro-priate references; its about being brave

thegift

Meghan Dorn

The story of a Christmas present that brought laughter into my life.

enough to make a statement about the world at-large.

I began to see that humor is an ir-replaceable skill in life. A joke can lighten the mood in the room, act as the perfect icebreaker, cheer up someones day, and even relieve stress. I was also able to use comedy to find friends across social bar-riers; we all laugh in the same language. Recently, I was kindly nominated by my senior class as Most Likely to Make You Laugh - and thats a reputation I will always work to keep. I hope that some-day my own one-liners can accompany the work of my role models in that great collection of humor I received on my thirteenth Christmas.

23

inked

marie hasty

24

Yesterday, I observed as a five-year old child insisted on getting a spray tan and wearing her hair in a grotesque bump on top of her head. Naturally, her mother wouldnt allow it. Upon hearing her response, the child exploded with shocking screams and violent profanity.

What has the youth of our society become? Indeed, innocent children have become little monsters, controlled by mass media. The cordial, obedient little children of yester-day can no longer exist in todays world. Young boys and girls no longer praise the doctors, firefighters, and soldiers as they did in the past. Nowadays, children dream of living in the limelight of reality show fame. The new television role models have taken over and brainwashed this gen-eration. The truth is; television stars, such as the cast of Jersey Shore, have successfully poisoned millions of juvenile minds. The Kardashians alone have proven that fighting,

spending, cursing, and partying will earn instant fame. Now children have finally picked up on reality TVs foul habits. This should be a concern for everyone, as the youngsters of today hold our future in their grimy little hands.

If only we could bring back the benign, polite children of the past. We could bring back the instinctive drive to do good and better society. Role models would be restored as artists, scientists, and writers, like in the past. These good role models would promote brains and success over hair bumps and spray tans. Bring on the wave of valedictorians and make way to another age of enlightenment, a promising future secured for all. You can bet on early retirement and carefree living for the rest of your life. And as for the childrens par-ents: no more fussing over the television remote or inappro-priate language. These are soon to be problems of the past. I simply have one modest proposal.

ProposalModest

A

Charlotte Moore

25

It is clear that the simplest way to end the brain-washing and promote brain-building is to completely eradicate bad role models from being viewed by the public eye. Therefore, we start with the reality TV show stars. The Kardashians, Bridezillas, Real Housewives, and Snooki will be the first to go. We will relocate them to an ostracized colony in Middle of Nowhere, Kansas. The colony will be camera-free and totally cut off from any form of communication with the outside world. No more inappropriate, celebrity role models means no inappropriate shows, and no more inappropriate child behavior. Once again, children will look for their enter-tainment in books and nature, and there they will find replacement role models.

Simply blocking notorious channels from child view-ing just isnt enough anymore. Pesky celebrities always manage to find their way into casual conversation and newspaper headlines. Whether they watch the show or not, your children will manage to stay updated on the life of Khloe and Kim. Try to remove your household television set and I guarantee any thirteen-year old girl will be googling celebrity gossip and reality show trash in minutes. We just have to start from the roots of the problem, remove the infamous characters all together. This way, no one will know what kind of mischief the guidos and guidettes are up to. Eventually, they will be completely forgotten.

I for one have no personal problems with realty show stars, and would minimally benefit from their removal. I am a childless, sixty-three year old woman. My life has already slowed its pace and my retirement is secure. My goal, and the reason for this proposal, is simply to help the future generation of my country to achieve the same.

Ben

Brid

ges

H a z eH a z e

S u m m e r

S u m m e rH a z e

H a z e

S u m m e rS u m m e r

Hannah Bridges

27S u m m e r

S u m m e r

S u m m e rS u m m e r

Hannah Bridges

During a hazy stroll on a summers dayone cant help but trace

the outline of two pink-dressed girls,hand in hand and face to face.

Her feathered curls wear springtime sunand roses cling to her cheeks

while the other, the hue of a night owls wingopens her chestnut eyes and speaks:

Look into my eyes, gaze deepinto their chocolate depth

see the hollow of the shipswhere my ancestors slept

feel the lashes of one hundred yearsas lightning splits my back,

the answer to My dignity, Sir?:a cry and telltale crack.

My bloodshot eyes are sea foam green, and smooth as ocean sandthese eyes hold the salty tidesthat pull ships to this land.My ancestors were atop the ship, I was stamping on the beamsto numb my ears to a mothers cryweaving through her infants screams.I was the one who held the whip,left my spirit on the shelf,for when ceasing my brutality,I would have to see myself.

Though my chestnut eyes hold hardshipand your sea foam eyes hold shamethere is but a shred of hope to prevent this cruel refrain.We must hold our pasts like treasures though tarnished they may be,and pass them to our childrenso that they too may see.

With that, the girls both dropped their handsand went their separate waysand left was I, poised midstepamidst the summer haze.

I am in thoughtless mechanism of loves ruthless claw

held captive by the power of gesture and motion; the beauty and elegance of

an almost - a not quite.

You reside in a world jailed by free will - complacent in your ignorance of me

Sibel Turkdamar

Rile

y M

arsh

all

I stare at the lines of your sensual mouth

taut with precision and held with fragility.

Your scent digs into my fleshmissing nothing; scraping and tearing until I am

rubbed completely raw.

I lay, a child, naked.

I hear your cacophonic laughter, reverberating in my mind

still

the clock continues ticking

for time is of the essence, or so they say.

But those who never met, can never fall in love.

The forest of my lungs are being devoured

by ravenous and unforgiving fire.

And in your devilishly attractive face I see azure.

Pensive. A blue ignited.

A demonic vision.

PRISON

29

I lay stone still as the bristles of the fine brush softly fanned over the smooth planes of my skin. The ancient, withered man traced designs of leaf patterns and jagged teeth along the veins of my feet and arms, then dragged the lines up to my thighs and neck. I closed my eyes as he delicately grasped each one of my fingers and dipped them into the tiny jars of black henna ink. The ink was a velvety mixture of different dusts and dyes, and was etched on every bride-to-be prior to the ceremony only to be peeled away during their last wash prior to marriage.

When I was thoroughly decorated with intricate markings, I donned the traditional black robe that I had ached for so long to wear. The dark linen was airy and soft, as if woven from a thundercloud.

The soles of my feet were perpetually stained a burnt red from the thick mountain clay. The henna artist hobbled to a slot in the clay wall and scooped up a chuchara, a coarse brush used to clean the hooves of goats. He readied himself to scrub the filth from my feet, but froze and glanced toward the square hole in the huts wall. Sunset was approaching. Sighing, he re-turned the brush to the clay slot, realizing that time was running short. He gazed at me with his crinkled eyes and said, Achimde lumada. Best of luck. He plucked a knobby cane from a corner of the room and hobbled out of the hut.

I sat in the clay room surrounded by flame-topped candles and jars filled with incense and ink. I inhaled the crisp smell of

choosingthe

the Andes Mountains and released the air from my chest slowly. Tonight, I would join my tribe in celebration. Tonight, a man would choose me to be his bride.

The sky was splattered with an array of rosy reds and blush-ing pinks, a promise that my time was near. For half an hour, I had been sitting, mulling over the ceremony to come. I was lying on the henna table with closed eyes when I heard a soft whim-per from outside. Propping myself on to my elbows, I strained to hear. Another quivering sob, followed by a choked cough. I swung my feet on to the ground and proceeded to the door, but remembrance of the tribal ritual gave me pause: The future bride must not leave the henna hut until summoned. I began to drag myself back toward the table, but another whimper and shaky breath sent me out into the evening with curiosity as my guide. I slunk around the edge of the hut, following the sobs and mak-ing sure that none of the other tribe members spotted me. My tough feet felt no pain as I stepped over jagged rocks through a shadowed alley.

At the alleys far edge I found a girl around the age of twenty, four years my senior. She was huddled on a pile of rocks, with thick hair hiding half of her face, and a nose peering out like a half moon. On the rocks she wept. Her sashes were light, pat-terned strips of the finest quality. I stood over her and tentatively held out my hand. I reached for her shoulder, and the instant my hand made contact, her head snapped up. Dark eyes whipped toward me as she scrambled backwards, her limbs jerking wildly

30

like a crabs. Her face twisted in terror, and her palms were plastered to the clay wall of the henna hut. The womans legs straddled the pile of rocks. Her teeth were bared, her eyes glossy with terror. I realized that I had instinctively jolted backward, and held my hands up in defense.

The rapid breaths slowed as she saw me, and soon she was stuttering, I- I- my apologies you startled me. She covered her face in embarrassment as she returned to her seat on the rocks. It was then that I noticed the blue and purple splotches that speckled her arms and neck like lines of stones. She followed my eyes before quickly stretching her sleeve to conceal her skin. She appraised me as I stood in the black robe, marked for the Baladah, the Choosing. She fixed her stony eyes on mine. Do not be married, she warned, intensity ripping through her words. Ranada. Run.

I stumbled backward, suddenly afraid. Her eyes smoldered, her muscles were tight. She looked as if a ferocious beast had taken claim of her body. I felt my way along the wall, then whipped around and scurried back into the henna hut with her eyes pounding into the back of my head like arrows.

With her warning echoing in the corners of my mind, I ex-amined my finger tips, recalling how I brushed my hands against the outside wall. Pieces of the henna had been peeled off of them.

When my name was called from outside, I stepped into the sunset and beheld the crowds gathered there. The fire pit in the center of the village market square was filled by a semicircle of people, all watching as girls of sixteen years dressed in flowing black robes emerged from various huts around the square. We processed ceremoniously to the Benados, the Fingers. Multiple four-foot-tall logs, the width of lily pads, were driven into the earth to form a straight line. There were nine girls this year, and we all stepped up to the Fingers and perched there daintily, facing the crowd and fire.

The pocada de tala, Mouth of the Tribe, stepped forward. Aya! People! he cried. At sunset, with the sky as fresh and beautiful as a young bride, we will honor our ancestors in the ceremony of Baladah! Baladah. The Choosing. The name had been on my lips for years. It was the sound of youthful laughter and hon-orable mothers and wives. Baladah. The name chased me through the forest, giggled in the shadows. It tackled me in the fields and tickled me until I rolled through the grasses. The joyful day that would fulfill my destiny was finally upon me.

Baladah! Baladah! the tribe whooped. We stood on our spokes, poised like cranes. I glanced to my right to see Gelima, Round One. This had become her name when she slowly grew stockier, her arms expanding, her gut gradually absorbing the air around it. Many of us were thick, with strong legs to haul us up mountainsides. Gelima, however, was enormous and smooth, like the full moon.

It was clear that she had been dreading this day for years. Dainty figures and shining eyes were always chosen first. It was the chief who received first choice, but only during years when he saw it was fit to do so. On the years when the chief made no selection, it was the handsome, young men who chose first, followed by men of middle age, and finishing with tribal elders, a life guaranteed to be filled with misery and boredom. On occasion, there would be a girl who was not chosen. The girls who are not chosen lose every hope of a voice, of children, of an escape from intense scorn and sorrow. In the past, most either plunged off of cliffs into the rocky abyss or slipped away to foreign hillsides. The ones who did not faced a life of hardship and shame. Whispers had been sweeping for the past month that Gelima, with a body like bread dough and a face that was as painfully plain, may not be chosen.

As was custom, the chief of the tribe was summoned by the pocada de tala. He was a man in his early fifties, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face. His hair was still thick and black, his eyes still shining and dark. However, the chief had seven wives in their twenties, and had not chosen in four years. It was assumed that he felt his Choosing days were done, and would wave the right of first pick. This year, however, he stood. The crowd was silent as he strode to the front, facing us. He approached the first girl in line. Dance, he commanded. She shakily twisted and twirled on her log as he appraised her like a man buying cattle. He then stepped to the next girl and gave the same command. I was seventh in line. When he came to Gelima, she twisted, quaked, and then fell. Her face plastered into the dirt at the feet of the chief. Laughter erupted from the crowd as, stone-faced, he stepped over her. I saw that her eyes were blank. She did not get up.

He stopped at my post, glancing up at me. I moved my feet, sweeping my arms in grand gestures. My soles were tough, and I spun on the balls of my foot in a smooth circle before resum-ing my perching position. The chief turned around, but waved the back of his hand toward me as he went and reclaimed his seat.

A wife for the chief has been chosen! exclaimed the crier. Theyll be married at sunset tomorrow!

The tribe hooted and hollered. I smiled broadly. Stern he may be, but the wife of a chief was the highest of honors. I was led to a seat beside him, but he did not so much as glance my way. I looked at his other wives- all were stunningly beautiful, with thick eye lashes and full lips. Yet their eyes never left the ground, and their shoulders were slumped. I counted only six - should there not be one more? I searched the area until I saw her - the girl from the alley. She was kneeling directly on the other side of the chief, obstructed by his chair. She was staring at me with a dropped jaw and terrified eyes.

I watched as other girls were chosen one by one, until Gelima was the only one left, standing atop her post with her chin

John

Ruc

ker

32

tucked in to her chest and her hands clasped in front of her wide gut.

The pocada de tala taunted her. Oh, no one for Gelima? She is a beautiful girl, no? Snickers from the crowd. Shell bear many children! People struggling to hold in giggles. And not to forget the most important part. With Gelima in the kitchen, she will be sure you are never short on food! The whole tribe erupted. Gelima quaked slightly, as if his words had physically jammed into her.

With the Choosing was concluded, the pocada de tala approached Gelima and smiled at her, holding out his hand in a ges-ture to help her down. Yet just as her eyes slid from their focus on the ground, he casually shoved her with one hand, turning back to the crowd as he did so. Once again, Gelima crashed to the ground. She crawled in the direction of the nearest hut, the crowds laughter whipping her as she scurried away.

The festivities continued with dancing and the telling of legends. I was the centerpiece, adorned with flowers and carried on shoulders. I drank the sweetest wines until the earth was swirling, and then basked in my own giddiness. Tonight, I was a goddess.

After the ceremony died out long into the night, I made my way back to the house of my parents, swerving proudly as tribe members whispered my name. As I danced between the flocks of people, I felt someone tug my wrist. I turned, expecting to thank an admirer or accept congratulations and praise, but I saw the girl from the alley. She pulled me into another dusky corner between huts. Her eyes darted feverishly as she spoke in a whisper. You must run, she rasped. Dont marry the chief- you will die. Im already past death, already among the ashes of Hell, her words bursted forth like sputtering embers, Run to the hills. Run through the valleys. Run off the cliffs!

Hendara! a voice bellowed. The air caught in the womans throat, and her eyes went wide. She clawed at my face, peeling off more henna and grabbing my cheeks in her hands. May we never meet again, she whispered, and was gone.

I was left breathless, slumped against a wall. The wine was already beginning to take ieffect; my head throbbing, blood crashing against the walls of my veins. I inhaled deeply in the effort to clear my mind. As the last of the drunk villagers plodded into their huts, guided by the notes of their own tuneless songs, I heard the sounds of close, steady steps, not staggers or leaps. I peered out into the square, where I saw Gelima disappear into the shad-ows, looking left and right as she was engulfed by the darkness.

My head was pounding and my senses were clouded; my instincts pulled me to my feet. I swerved after her, aiming for the gap into which she had disappeared. Upon reaching the other side,

I saw a grand hut dressed in moonlight, the Chiefs Hut. Light was coming from inside. I crawled to a window and carefully peered in.

The woman from the alley - Henalda? Hordara?- was standing at the oven while other women cooked and cleaned in another room She was feeding the flames with kindling when the chief strode in. For a brief moment, her muscles froze, but then she methodically resumed her task. The chief traced a finger around her waist and pulled her close to him, holding her body flush against his. She cringed, but complied. He spoke so softly that I had to strain to hear.

My princess, he cooed. I am very hungry, and have been for the whole evening. He whipped the woman from side to side and slapped her across the face. I covered my mouth to keep from yelping. He tossed her to the floor and kicked her, banish-ing the air from her lungs and causing a sharp grunt of pain. She sobbed. The sound was familiar.

I couldnt prepare food... the festival... she stammered, clutching her ribs.

The chief slid to her side on the floor and kneeled beside her, placing her head in his lap like a comforting mother.

Shh, shhh, he whispered. There, there. Oh, how I hate it when this happens to you, he sighed in pity. My jaw dropped.

If only you could learn to be just a bit more caring, he said softly, stroking her hair. But, until then, teaching is the only way to make you learn. He lifted her robe to reveal her right calf, marked with scars of different kinds, and walked to the stove fire. He plucked a smoldering twig from the pile and held it up to his face, examining it. Oh, how I hate it when you force me into this, Hendara, he cooed regretfully.

Hendara remained motionless on the floor, her cheek rest-ing in the dirt, her eyes blank.

But tonight is a night of celebration! the chief exclaimed, tossing the stick off to the side. I will have another wife tomorrow! Is this not great news, Princess?

Hendara remained motionless.

Answer me! The chief bent down and delivered another swift slap to her face. Then, just as abruptly as before, something changed. He paused, then bent down and gingerly kissed Hendaras lips. And Im still hungry, he whispered.

I could watch no more. Feeling sick, I pulled away from the window, but collided with an immense mound of flesh. I gasped and whirled around to see Gelima. She simply stared at me. The

33

chiefs wife and the outcast, both victims of the Choosing.

You shouldnt be here, she said flatly.

Still startled, I sputtered, Me? And what of your being here? She tugged me by the arm into the brush near the hut. I am running, she said. This life holds nothing for me. Ill grow old. Ill be mocked. When I am nothing more than a pile of candle wax, I will wish that I had done what I am doing now. She stared at me warily to see if I understood.

I can not go alone - the wolves will have me within two weeks. I am not fast or strong, and any thieves on the road will not think twice before finishing me off. Someone beautiful, however... Her voice trailed off, but she need not finish her thought. Although beauty could often present itself as a target, it had often been used as a tool of persuasion in the past. When beautiful women met criminals, it ended in terror, but also eventual freedom. When unat-tractive women met criminals, it ended in death.

If Gelima were to escape from the village, she would need someone who was physically capable of living off of the land; of climbing trees and pitching tents, of fighting off coyotes and per-suading crooks to let her survive.

Gelima gestured toward the hut. I have watched the chief for years; I have seen the way he regards his wives in public. A cold public life means a cruel private life. I figured that one of them would surely come with me.

The moonlight rolled across her face, and I realized that her eyes were not the plain brown I had pictured, but the deep-est of greens. Gelima and I had grown up together, skipping rocks and scurrying up hillsides with other children. She had always been reserved, but possessed something of a bold undertone; an air of dark secrets or unexpected traits.

Upon growing older, the children of the village traded merchant stands for open fields. Gelima, however, could be found in the trees, as if she flourished only in darkness. A deep thinker and constant observer, her sharp eyes did not miss much.

I have seen these women, she told me. They lead the lives of caged birds, the life that you will lead tomorrow. I only stared into the treetops, searching for the answers that Gelima had clearly found there.

We leave tonight, she stated. I stared at her, dumb-founded. We had not exchanged more than greetings in the past sixteen years, and here she was, beckoning me to join her on a trek into the wilderness.

I have enough food for the both of us, she said. You and I will leave, and we will go now. Her green eyes pierced mine quizzically, analyzing my every move. The wine still had me in something of a stupor, and my feet were unsteady.

I felt the bristles of the henna brush on my legs, the flowers landing gracefully around my neck. I watched as Gelima crashed to the ground, and felt the black robe sweep around my body. I heard the Chief command me to dance, watched him beat Hendara... and saw him kiss her. I saw him kiss her.

Tonight, I said, letting the valor in my voice rise forth.

Gelima stepped toward the opposing mountain, initiating our journey. I picked up the edges of my robe and waded though the brush, scraping off the bulk of the remaining henna ink. Wait. My muscles went rigid. I stepped back. Not yet.

Green eyes stared at me in disbelief. They followed as I ran at full speed to the hut. They watched as I peered into the window.

Hendara. I whispered her name, but drew no response from the woman huddled on the floor. Her eyes continued to stare blankly ahead. I spoke the advice she had given me. Ranada. Run. I saw her fingers twitch. Do not be married. Ranada, I said, and she lifted her head and gazed at me as Gelima came and stood at my side, framed by the kitchen window. I gave her a piece of hope. Tonight we run.

She pulled herself up from the puddle of a woman, and gave me one curt nod. She strode to a kitchen shelf and plucked up a jar of cooking oil. Her mouth was set in a straight line, her eyes very matter-of-fact. She began to pour the oil in patterns along the floor, and I feared that she had gone mad. I continued to watch as she poured. She dripped the fluid in shapes of leaf patterns and jagged teeth. I gasped. Henna markings.

When the jar had been emptied, she made her way to the corner and carefully picked up the smoldering twig that the chief had left there. Fanning the flame to life, she stepped to the window where I stood. She held the twig to her face and examined it, just as the chief had. Then, she tossed it over her shoulder and hoisted herself through the window. The kitchen went up in flames.

The three of us wordlessly turned and hurdled ourselves toward the hills, the cackle of flames roaring behind us. It was when the waves of its heat failed to reach me that I stopped, lifted my sleeve, and scraped away the last of my henna.

34

to be a dogto be a dogan

onym

ous

Mac

kie

Ray

mon

d

35

If I could be a dog

Why not?

Do the same thingday in and day out.

Id have it made.

Nothingto aspire to andno pressure tosucceed

Never to question:Who do I want to be?

Im a dog.

36

Brad

ley S

chw

arz enlightenment

37

Many immigrants and world-travelers who arrive in the United States of America frequently carry with them not only fanny packs and digital cameras, but also preconceived notions about the coun-try itself. Oftentimes, these international guests believe they have a well-versed understanding of the nation. This is because the outside world enjoys characterizing the United States as a homogenous commonwealth; while many outsiders seem able to grasp the obvi-ous regional discrepancies, thery often overlook the underlying roles that these regions play within the whole.

Family Matters Ben Fisher

Kate

lyn

Mor

gan

I have long considered myself a well-cultured psychologist of regions. As a seasoned reader of newspapers from all over and a veteran tourist who has digested truck-loads of locale peculiars, I have accumulated a laudable understanding of the distinct U.S. regions. This includes the personalities and habits that make them variant. While many traits regarding physicality, dialect, and local economy provide well-known connotations for the areas, I have chosen to craft my analysis differently: I have always associated the regions of the U.S. with members of a family. Like any family, the U.S. regions sup-port each other, compete, and rival. Its time to expose the regions for the familial roles they play:

38

The Second Born Following chronologically, next would likely be the Midwest, the softer spoken, humble child who doesnt dare question the eldests command and slowly makes headway of its own. As much as the Midwest would have liked to mimic the success of its pre-decessor, it doesnt fall short so much as it falls into its own niche. Even though the Midwest had managed to construct some cities of marvel (for example Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Milwaukee), it eventually discovered another road and found its calling in the corn

The Eldest Child Assuming that Great Britain started the United States of America clan sometime during the 18th century, the logical choice for eldest child would be the Northeast. This, of course, is not merely because it was the first colonized region of the United States; the Northeast is also the fast-paced, mature kid who aspires to teach the ways of the world to his younger siblings. The northeast is riddled with large cities and metropolises that make up key business hubs and immense population concentrations. As the junior-parent, the North-east has always seemed to do everything right - possibly because it didnt know another way. The Northeast jumps at the chance to be an example of a job done well, and carries himself with impos-ing cockiness (easily understood after a visit to the Big Apple). The success of the region spans from its nationally syndicated newspa-pers (e.g. The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Post), to its professional sports teams (e.g. The New England Patriots, The Boston Red Sox, The New York Yankees, The Boston Celtics), to its business standing (e.g. NYSE, U.S. Media Capital) and virtually everything else in between. The Northeast is fondly remem-bered by teachers and parents alike, who years later are more than pleased to receive students of the same bloodline.

fields. Inhabitants of the Midwest do not find themselves fleeing the region and its most unique characteristic is its improbable and quiet enchantment. While Mom and Pop love to highlight the Northeasts career to other parents at neighborhood parties, they dont shy away from mentioning the individuality of the other older child who has succeeded in establishing a solid career in either farming or manufacturing.

The Third Born The third born would have to be the South. For as much as the South loves to highlight its distinction and boast of its self-identification, it frequently comes across as the forgotten child who longs for the attention expended upon his siblings. In a family of four children, the third born child is one who, for a select amount of time, does receive said attention - until the fourth child is born. The South was once a powerful region: it was prosperous and crucial to the American economy as the supplier of cash crops. Unfortunately, after suffering defeat in the Civil War, the South lost untold amounts of dignity and more importantly, cheap labor. Occurring shortly after the Civil War was the birth of a new region. With that, the South became the third out of four. From that day on, it would be the child who was constantly mistakenly called siblings names by parents and teachers.

In the third position, the South would develop a tendency to flaunt its relevance, much like a child who tells made-up stories about their school day in order to gain more attention from their parents. As a developing country, the United States nearly forced the South into an extinct state. After losing a war against its own government and losing a legislative war on civil rights against its own constituents, the South became a region that relies on bumper

39

stickers stating things like Forget Tibet, Free Dixie just to uphold its dwindling reputation as the sugar and spice of the U.S.

With regionalization far from rampant and nationalization being felt in all corners of the Great 48, sustaining a now loosely defined Southern culture seems far from plausible. However, that is what the South continues to try to do. Back in the glory days of Dixie, there was a tangible atmosphere of uniformity. Bibles were memorized while banjos played; everything was agreeable so long as the land was fertile and producing. With heavy urbanization that has oc-curred over the last century and the death of a few major agricultur-al capacities, the South has been hit with an identity crisis - a major blow to its dynamic and advertised self-entitlement. In describing family members, the third-born South is estranged and also the most likely to become an alcoholic.

The Youngest Arriving late to every reunion and always loved by others is the West. The fourth born child is extroverted, adventurous, and pos-sibly gay. After seeing the three test trials before him on a com-mon path, the fourth born takes the road less traveled, oftentimes working as a ski instructor in Boulder, Colorado or selling modern art in New Mexico. The West is the wild child that everyone wishes they could be... for a week. Its creed is based upon radical thinking and liberal ideas. Home to divergent terrains (mountains, canyons, forests, desert) and progressive cities, the West combines the best elements of the East with the stunning Western landscape. Success stories such as Silicon Valley, Boise, and Seattle are all technological hearths that hold great implications for the future and could only be found in the West. The U.S. population center has been steadilly moving West since the countrys founding, and it can be assumed

that one day, the family will be in the hands of the youngest, most protean and unpredictable of the litter.

The Family Pet With most of the forty-eight continental states falling into one of the four regions playing the role of siblings, that leaves only Alaska and Hawaii on the outside looking in - or so it would seem. In fact, the two outliers have a joint role of their own. Still part of the family, Alaska and Hawaii fill the role of the family pet. They are misunderstood, enigmatic, and seem to be no more than a lovable mascot. This should not be surprising. People often won-der: Do people even live in Alaska? and Can you buy a house in Hawaii, or is it just hotels and volcanoes? In reality, people do indeed reside in both states, but not many. Just as families should never send out Christmas cards displaying only images of their dogs, Alaska and Hawaii should never be exhibited as the sole representatives of the U.S. Clearly, it can be argued for any region to be defined by any family role, but I believe it is no coincidence that each region falls into place nearly in the exact order of which it was conceived. While numbers and statistics are significant, I believe that our perceptions of the regions will influence their possible futures and the patterns they may follow.

40

OrangeEmily DeHority

This evenings sky refrained from blazing.I forgot to pack lunch the sweatered boy holds to me an orangeit does not catch my hair on firebut smells waxy wet and like the grocery storebreeze in this desert craigWhen I pop the slice pods with my molars,the fruit is neon sweet to the sands beige.The tiger is a jungle flowerand a traffic signaland dripping paint on a black rug.

Zoe

Prui

tt

41

Each snowflake - a frozen bit of sky,drifting downward to caress the earth

or the rosy cheek of a child,face upturned as winter tumbles down

A warm breeze flows idly byflowers sway, a lulled dance

petals blossomreaching infinitely toward the sky.

a year of Keely McKenzieLaurel Martin

The suns warming rays dig into the soil,beckoning the fragrant flowers to the surface.

Roots, stems, leavesemerge from their winter-long toil.

Joyous leaves dance at an outdoor ball.Elegant minuets - the whirling and twirling

of a brown, yellow, red leafdoing one last waltz as they fall.

Char

lott

e Ro

bert

son

42

With BatedBreath

She hadnt surfaced for a full ten minutes

With bated breath, I waited

curiosity besting me, I rapped on the door

A giggle from within -

Wait a little longer!

How could I?

My foot vibrated with impatience

on the worn, gray carpet that disappeared

into the tile beneath the threshold

Muffled scraping, a drawer pushed shut

and then the handle

hesitantly turning

My wooden barricade inching open,

her fingers crawled around the door frameAriana Lutterman

43

You can come in now, she whispered

Her voice quivering with laughter

Hustling inside, door barely closed -

She whirled to face me

My laughter erupted

A dozen make-up jars, bottles, tubes, vials

Littered the counter

In various states of emptiness and mess, contents

Now arranged in splotches of colour

All over my sisters face

Tears streaming down my cheeks, she grinned

Multicoloured whiskers, stripes ran down her chin

Our laughs bubbling like frothing waves, till

We heard footsteps creak the stairs

We rummaged round the room

finally found a wipe and

Smeared colors across her smile

Footsteps approaching, my heart beats fast

Her face, clean enough; just a streak of red

What are you girls doing?

Getting ready for bed.

44

S i b e l T u r k d a m a r

Adria

nne

Gac

evic

h

45

I a m e n t r a p p e d w i t h i n a w e b ,

i t s y o u w h o h a s m e c a u g h t .

I d i d n t k n o w h o w t r a p p e d I w a s

I n e v e r s c r e a m e d , n o r f o u g h t .

Yo u v e s p u n m e i n a d e a d l y b i n d

t h e c r e v i c e o f y o u r g a z e .

Yo u t h o u g h t y o u h a d t h e m o n s t e r s t a m e d ,

W h a t s l e f t o f l o v e ; a b l a z e .

B u t w h e n t h e f l a m e b e g a n t o s m o l d e r

a n d y o u r p a l m s b e g a n t o s w e a t ,

Yo u p u s h e d a t m e , t h e f o r c e o f m e n

a l l w i t h o u t r e g r e t .

N o w I a m l e f t h a n g i n g

b y t h u m b a n d f i n g e r t i p ,

c h a s i n g e c h o e s o f y o u r v o i c e

w i t h w h i s p e r s o n m y l i p s .

N e v e r h a s m y h e a r t b e h e l d a n

I m p r i n t e t c h e d s o d e e p .

I c o u l d l o s e a l l e a r t h l y t h i n g s ,

b u t i t s y o u t h a t I m u s t k e e p .

R e l e a s e m e

n o w f r o m t h i s w e b ,

a f a t a l m e s s .

b u t p a r t w i t h m e ,

y o u r s u l t r y l i p s , i n s a n c t i m o n i o u s c a r e s s .

46

PS

YH

AN

LY

SS

Kr

ist

en

He

rit

ag

e

47

Through the desert of my thoughtsyou rode in with cycling ScotsThe landscape called to mind Dalia twisted surrealityI watched this from my dragons backBut my train of thought ran off track.

Then I somehow called it backa searchlight shone through Union Jack.The bus I boarded flew awayDurban or bus! Departs today. and there was more, but I forget. I promise that Ill make sense of this yet.

Some will say that Freud is right, that repressed thoughts return by nightWhen my subconscious mind runs free, it only aims to perplex me.

I saw Lucy in the skyAs a red Fender drifted by(then faded like the Cheshire Cat)I saw who I was looking at.But J.K. Rowling never spokeFor in that moment I awoke.

In a sable S.U.V.The Prince of Darkness pursued meAnd through the cemeterys snowI tracked down Edgar Allen PoeI havent found him yet, but hark!This chaos surely bears his telltale mark.

Jung might have a quip to make about the route that my dreams take.When my subconscious mind runs free what else is it not telling me?

Alone amid the desert sand,A golden key was in my hand.Strange enough, my key fit bestinside a foreign zombies chest,unlocking sapphire that I needI ran from Stonehenge at full speed.

Melting clocks foretold the strokeof midnight, when the raven spokeThe walrus is alike to I;there is no message to descry.Wonderland is but a lie,No atlas to map your life by.

Mad

dy C

apiz

zi

48

allis

on c

arr

49

a s a kid, I loved playing outdoors, running around with my brother, and hula-hooping in my front yard. However, when my parents suggested that we take the training wheels off of my bicycle, I was alarmed. Learn how to ride a bicycle? I wasnt sure I was up to the challenge. As I was only seven years old, bicycles seemed to defy the basic principles of physics. It seemed impossible to me that one could simply ride around on this con-traption with only two wheels

spinning vigorously beneath the seat. It was a death sentence. But if all of my friends could learn to ride this two-wheeled mechanism, why couldnt I? So, my parents and I headed off to the Carmel Middle School track to begin my lessons in riding a bike. Learning to ride a bike proved to be one of my tough-est challenges, a test of both confidence and skill. Even with the assurance that my dad was running right along side my unsteady, shaking bike, I was filled with anxiety. I clenched up. I stopped pedaling. I hit the asphalt. My parents encouraged me to keep getting back up on the bicycle; however, my patience was wearing thin. I doubted myself. And most of all, after

countless falls onto the ground, I felt that learning to ride a bicycle was a hopeless endeavor. My experience with learning to ride a bicycle was traumatic, and I gave up. I had failed at acquiring a skill that seemed intuitive to most children.

After years of having no desire to go anywhere near a bicycle, I realized that I was missing out on many life experi-ences because of my inability to cycle. Friends would call to invite me to go bike-riding and I was obligated to come up with clever excuses as to why I couldnt join them. Furthermore, middle school was a terribly intimidating place, and being teased for not being able to ride a bike would have been tormenting. So, five years after my initial attempt, I decided to head straight into treacherous waters and finally learn how to ride a bicycle.

The

As a seventh-grader, my mom and I headed back over to the track to get to work. With some perseverance and several falls, I finally managed to stay balanced atop the wobbly wheels of my bicycle. I knew the pinnacle of success had been achieved when I pedaled effortlessly across the track, my mothers figure shrink-ing into the distance. With my newfound confidence, I no longer relied on my moms comfort-ing presence beside me. Far outside of my comfort zone, I overcame my paralyzing fear of cycling and learned that I could be independent and face any obstacle. Although I did not learn how to ride a bicycle until I was in middle school, this failure was one of my greatest learn-ing experiences and taught me to trust myself. I learned that with steadfast determination and resolve to push through setbacks, you can surprise yourself and do what you previously thought was impossible. By believing in myself, I was unstoppable.

Contraption

50

Degas would have sneered at us.We dont exactly float--we lumber.and we dont have extensive Russian last names.

Swastikas!

What a horribly politically incorrect way to refer to a variation on a split.Ron is no Hitler,yet this is eerily like Auschwitz.point, flex, point, flexOver and over and over.bracing and grimacing, wincing.

Beyond the sweaty rubber floor, beyond the cloudsmy feet are winged, clothed in black jazz shoesand Dr. Scholls removable insoles.Taking flight--

but then it stops.And its back to reality.

Curtsy.Pli.

Susanna Booth

51

Char

lott

e Ro

bert

son

scape

e

52

TTTH E

T R IG G E R

53

The tune wasnt right. Aaron could see the melodic notes in vivid color floating before his eyes. They danced like fireflies in the air during creation; they lined up side by side like soldiers when the song had finally become the masterpiece it was meant to be.

The long neck of the guitar rested comfortably over his thigh as his arm fell over its front and fiddled with the six chords. With eyes of hazel, he focused intently on the mahogany fingerboard and silver tuning pegs. Bundles of dreads were pulled back on his head with a thick blue rubber band. His pale chest was skeltal and bare. He sat silently on his plaid-green bed cover, creating wrinkles throughout the sheets that lay at the base of the mat-tress. The walls of the bedroom were covered in pastel paintings of wildlife and graffiti. The low-watt bulb and the late hour made the room dim. Shadows stood tall against the wall like sky scrapers. Clothes and energy drink cans layered the gray carpet.

Aaron sat in silence upon his bed as he twisted the silver tuning peg to the right, pulling and tightening the string. Placing his left hand back on the finger board, he allowed his opposite hand to brush over the chords of the acoustic guitar.

There it was - the sound he had been looking for. His cheeks grew rosy with the joy of success. Finally, the notes aligned themselves, warriors ready for battle. He had never seen the notes appear in such perfection.

He played the song again, but at a much slower tempo. It touched his soul and echoed off the walls. He played

it over and over again as chills trickled down his spine. His heart raced with great liveliness as he continued to strum. His eyes were star struck by the alignment of the musical characters that hung in the air, like transluscent raindrops, delicate and pure.

Moments later he heard the familiar sounds of the front door lock rattling. He could hear the twist and turns of the doorknob. Jingling keys gave away the identity of the person at the front door; it was Eli, Aarons older brother.

Eli eventually unlocked the front door. The cold rain drizzling outside left damp stains on his shirt. He stepped inside the grand and spacious foyer. Basal wood lined the floors and two coats hung lifelessly from the coat rack. A few baby pictures lined the left wall: two of Aar-on, one of Eli.

Eli moved deeper in to the house and began to climb the stairs. He placed force into each step, mak-ing them heavy against the rising staircase. His stom-ach was queasy; he felt hot and feverish. His eyes were bloodshot-red, but he continued the slow and measured march upstairs.

Reaching the top of the staircase, Eli heard the cus-tomary sounds of Aarons guitar float through the hall-way. It was no surprise that he would be awake past three a.m. Eli paused at the top of the staircase. He began to breathe heavily and - slowly - pulled a small black weapon from his pocket.

The gun couldnt have been bigger than both of Elis hands. He held it tightly, to the point of discomfort, be-tween his fingers. His mind was no longer logical; he felt as if he were controlled by an inner demon. With a deep inhale, he cocked the pistol and placed his hand on the trigger.

He moved down the upstairs hallway and halted at his parents open bedroom door. The loud, obnoxious snores of his father pushed him foward. He proceeded down the hallway to the last door: Aarons room.

54

Phoebe Cook

The door was closed, but the soft guitar could still be heard quite clearly. Eli reached for the door knob and hesitated, mere centimeters from opening it.

Youll never be good enough.

The thought resonated within him and he was unable to shake it. He inhaled sharply and with a loud cry he grabbed the door knob.

The door swung open, creating a gust of wind that left Aaron startled. Eli now held the gun with both hands as it was suddenly burdensome. Trembling, with tears run-ning down his cheeks, he made eye contact with his little brother

and released the trigger.

55

fin