RedShift Volume 7 Issue 2

RedShift Magazine EditSV (Stephen Vargas's conflicted copy 2013-04-22).indd 1 4/23/2013 3:38:56 AM

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR.

All work printed in this magazine is copyright of the respective artist.The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those held by the Executive

Board, members of RedShift, or Stevens Institute of Technology.RedShift is named after a poem by Ted Berrigan, who spent part of his illustrious career

teaching at Stevens Institute of Technology.

Dear Readers,

As I wrote last year’s Letter from the Editor, we were in the midst of Hurricane Sandy. I remember clearly that as I sat typing, the lights that had been out in Hoboken for days finally flickered on. I nearly opened my last let-ter with that story to describe the symbolism for hope in that small moment, but I am satisfied that it was reflect-ed by the Hurricane Sandy Tribute section of the last magazine, as well as the back cover of the last magazine, a picture of a young girl and presumably a family member looking across the Hudson River post-Sandy. As I write this letter, I find myself comparing the changes that have come in both my own life and in RedShift’s since I last wrote one during Sandy. You’ll notice a couple new additions to this magazine. One is a spread dedicated to the winner of the Iron Artist competition, and the other is a spread dedicated to the winners of the College of Arts and Letters Cre-ative Writing Contest. The Iron Artist competition is a new event RedShift held for the first time this past semes-ter. During the Iron Chef-styled event, participating teams picked a chess piece and were challenged to make a work of art in one hour relating to the piece. The art created in the competition was impressive and each team put a lot of thought and hard work into their design. The winner is featured in the magazine, and this will hope-fully become a permanent fixture in the centerfold of the magazine. The other addition, the College of Arts and Letters Creative Writing Contest, is a poetry and prose contest that CAL asked RedShift to support by featuring the winners. RedShift is excited to present these additions to you and to recognize the work done by students at Stevens. RedShift would like to continue to bring you specific themes to submit to and flip through. This magazine’s theme is “Art in Science”. I ended the letter last semester wishing you to find beauty as you browse, and it seems our contributors went out and found beauty in the unbelievable sights of research and science. This section represents science, one of the largest subjects of advancement at Stevens, in a new light full of artistry, attraction and aesthetic value. Changes in my own life are touched on in my poem this semester, “Life Crossing” inspired by all effects of friendship. As the author of one of my favorite books The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran says of a friend, “…he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.” Once you are lucky enough to have found that peace, the same sense can be found inwardly if only you look. If in reading this you become one step to closer to finding beauty in life, and art in science, you will surely find peace within your-selves. I would like to thank Student Life and The College of Arts and Letters for their support of RedShift this past semester, especially the judges of Iron Artist, RedShift’s advisor Holly Nelson, Professor Brian Moriarty, and Professor Billy Middleton. I hope to work with each of them in the future to improve and build upon RedShift’s Iron Artist event. I hope you enjoy the art in this magazine, and find it in all you do. Sincerely,

Halie J. Holmes


LETTER FROM THE EDITOR.

All work printed in this magazine is copyright of the respective artist.The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those held by the Executive

Board, members of RedShift, or Stevens Institute of Technology.RedShift is named after a poem by Ted Berrigan, who spent part of his illustrious career

teaching at Stevens Institute of Technology.

STAFFexecutive board

minor board

editor in chief - halie holmesmanaging editor - stephen vargaspublisher - phil barresiarchivist - rob ranallitreasurer - joe brosnan

head of layout - stephen vargaschief artistic editor - uliana dorogokupetschief writing editor - joe brosnanwebmaster - olivia martindaledistribution - danny argueta

contact info:[email protected]


CONTENTS

2 Old & New by Noelle Scanno

4 Hello Miss Bee is Teja Jonnalagadda

5 Empire Moon by Mellisa Wiegand

6 Kansas by Tushar Patel

7 Munich Residenz by Cecilia Osterman

Crane by Victor Lipnicki

La Jolla Gem by Linsday Crossan

8 City Scape by Uliana Dorogokupets

Life Crossing by Halie Holmes

9 Venice Beach Sunset Cruise by Lindsay Crossan

Stories by Anisha Chellani

10 Altruism by Robert Anderson

Turkey Hill by Victor Lipnicki

11 Multnomah Falls, Oregon by Frank Belardo

13 Iron Artist WInners

CONTENTS

14 Evergreen Sunset by Melissa Wiegand

16 There Was a Man by Steve Walter

Spring’s Messenger by Uliana Dorogokupets

17 The Hackensack by Tushar Patel

18 Multnomah Falls by Frank Belardo

19 Good Sleep, Bad Dreams by Robert May

20 Cross Step by Eric Danger Palmer

22 Alps by Cecilia Osterman

Kaos by Stanley Mikuta

24 Grand Sunrise by Jaclyn Knori

My Dearest Daughter by Joseph A. Brosnan

Cover - What ‘Chu Looking At? - by Eric Danger Palmer

Back Cover - Dark Hedges by Cecilia Osterman


25 drunken sea. by Samantha Adornati

The Inlet by Eric Danger Palmer

26 Snow Cap Mountain by Jaclyn Knori

Fire and Ice by Joseph A. Brosnan

27 Hebrew 13:8 by Samuel Thomas

28 Does Happiness equal following the ‘Planned’ Path by Anisha Chellani

Lion by John Spaventa

Damaged Perfection by Katelyn Masone

29 Psalms 1:3 by Samuel Thomas

Flower by Steve Tufaro

30 Writing Contest WInners

34 Art in Science Theme Section

35 Transmission by Weiguang Hu

36 Ezekiel 36:25 by Samuel Thomas

No Separation by Tushar Patel

37 The World’s Best Computer by Joseph A. Brosnan

Pipet by Tushar Patel

38 Excerpt: Santa’s Secret by Jesse Pirnat

Samuel Thomas

39 Food Chain by Tushar Patel

Samuel THomas


2

OLD

& N

EW


3

NO

ELLE SCA

NN

O


4 REDSHIFT

Hello Miss Bee, how are you today?

I need to ask you a series of questions. But, don’t worry because none of them are serious, except the ones in serial. Not like the cereal box in the fifth aisle on the right side, past the tomatoes, closer to the skilled butcher. Let’s start with number one. On my list of num-bers; number one is number two. And number two is my sixth. But, you come to the top of the list, about number one. If zero could be described, you still could not be. Because Miss Bee you are more than what meets the eye, or the meat on the deli counter. I wish you would never cry. Feel nothing dire, experience what it means for earth to die. To wilt, and perish. It must be taken care of with these soft hands, these calloused hands, ripe and frothing with experience. So what do I want, is that an answer for Kant.

Do I need a retort? Behind these solid walls, in front of this moat. Ten stories tall, yet holding 7.5 billion stories strong. This is the human condition, which is to say that we conditioned. Rendition to what end? Secrecy fits no democracy, where one doesn’t hear and instead asks for the humming that numbs the mind in the essence of a beer. Where are we going? You smelled like weeds and I liked it, if I had to select I could not recollect a better scent than the smell of stripped nectar and fresh cut weeds. How many of these are needs? How many times must a man bleed before these scars are seen? The gleam in your eyes, shared in your smile might be

Hello Miss Beeby Teja Jonnalagadda

worth the red in the blood. The blood that is red with all that could be read that is beautiful. This blood that makes us human.

What is human? I think you would take issue with word, where is the woman in hu, or in hum? The obvious point that it is a dead end is a dumb rheto-ric, it’s a false historic, histrionic, twist of the ironic. The equalizer of force, is the one felt with pressed chronic. The black, mystery that surrounds the bu-bonic. I say take some tonic and don’t panic. This is the disco, and it’s my party so please shut the door and take off your shoes when you enter the house. Don’t forget to enjoy yourself and make yourself at home. Never get to use what is between two ear lobes, its most amazing chrome that nature can pro-vide. Provide in providence. I say good riddance to that day. I say hello to today. Today will be the best, it will never happen again. I get to see you. My palm has industrial lubrication on it, the sweat is tearing the treads over the spine tinkling the follicles of my hair. Do you enjoy it when I share? Is it past, the past tipping point? Where do we go and where do we stop? I feel our worst fears, would be a cup, a cup overflowing with the pinpoint of a mind. None of two are ever a alike, never coined the same. A man and a dame. Both in similar demand. Doesn’t it feel bad to been canned, to be damned, and put up on the stand!!

It’s a shame, we have these animal instincts. What separates us from those that we have ascended, are we higher up in the clouds, or did the floor just

“...did the floor just shrink to get away from what we can-not see?”


5

shrink to get away from what we cannot see? You can’t see me, Me?? It’s something that must be pushed; conviction must be bought, and brought to the scene of the crime. It doesn’t cost more than a dime. It costs insignificant amounts of time to make this , your, impression on the world. Dropping pillows instead of bombs. Dropping pillows, instead of dropping bodies hitting the ground. This is the worst fate, that claims us all. And in the intermission we find one another in this goop of soup, this universe. So complex and so unique. We find ourselves here on this stage, all believing that we could be a sage with a hint of garlic.

Bob Marley, I merely want to be something else. Something greater. Something powerful, something weak. At my most, I want to attain my least. Where the horizon is seen, I need to recheck my bearing; the scale needs a retearing. We started at zero, and venture outward to find infinity. We look so far, but with the use of a microscope God lies in our hands. So Miss Bee, I stared on a line of questions, and ended in a parabola. Taken full circle. I tie the ends, and enclose us lost souls should I could focus on the two foci, and the beautiful little nose that holds up your checks. The smile that lights up my world.

Spoken word. Whose word, and who is speaking it? Speak which words? Which words belong and which words should be pronounced longer? In reality all I want to see is the whale, that separates a girl. A girl, is no pearl. A pearl is not even a pearl. What is a pearl compared to a single curl of a beautiful girl. That girl that captures your attention, like the still that is still on the window sill. Some would like to kill. Some also like to take a pill. Others enjoy passing bills. There is nothing objective about this real-ity. When will it ever become clear to me? To me it’s a script, it’s the unscripted that gives us joy. The fated, faults. The flawed focus that falls away in the whirling tornado about us. Putting the us in the U.S.. This is our country, I believe. Or some believe; can belief ever be believed with another such belief. Be-lief is the ultimate relief. Relief from the pain, relief from the suffering, brief relief from the wearies of life.

“Spoken word. Whose word, and who is speaking it? Speak which words? Which words belong...?”

Empire Moon Melissa Wiegand


6

KANSAS TUSHAR PATELby


7

Munich Residenz Cecilia OstermanCrane Victor Lipnicki

La Jolla Gem Lindsay Crossan


8

City Scape Uliana Dorogokupets

Actively waiting, we long for an internal messageTo shine through from the pieces of the soul most nourishedBy friendship and internal light.

Where we played and let off invisible steamThere was visible happiness accompanied by invisible tension.Steam releases in many forms.

It is my turn to see flight,To hear laughter in a memory I wish I believed to be present.You released my heart.

I play and stir the memory of peaceBut it fails to serve a new tension in my soul, even when life crossesWe create the world we live in.

- Hallie Holmes

Life CrossingVenice Beach Sunset Cruise Lindsay Crossan


9

As today the time fliesAnd I can’t think and reason

It’s just so difficult to summarizeAll those past seasons.

Time just slips awayAnd now as I stand here

I can still feel the essenceAnd I am still absorbed in presence

Of that which is now the pastAnd all those wonderful memories

Will one day be told to othersIn some beautiful stories.

- Anisha Chellani

Stories

Venice Beach Sunset Cruise Lindsay Crossan


10

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” Prabodh looked up from his journal towards the bow of the Beholder, where a growing spot of green could be seen on the horizon. After many months of anticipation and a short yet terribly long voyage, he felt the need to look back at some old inspiration to calm his nerves. Gandhi, of course, came to mind immediately. Despite all of his qualifications and extensive preparation, he still felt very uneasy, like a young man driving a car for the first time. He was, of course, heading straight into the unknown. Prabodh had always been the philanthropist among his peers, becoming an engineer at a small firm in South Cal-cutta where he helped provide housing and water to people in the local slum communities. Eventually he branched out into other areas, providing Bengali homes with everything from water bottles to television sets. He believed that he truly was making a difference. Naturally, when the opportunity arose to visit North Sentinel Island, he seized it immediately.

The idea was simple, visit the indigenous peoples and pro-vide them with whatever he and his team had to offer. Water fil-tration systems, air conditioning, and Apple Products were all far too common in his world to keep from anyone, no matter how distant they may be. By going there, his generosity would truly be unbounded. However, there was a catch; the people of North Sentinel Island remain virtually untouched by humanity. No one has ever intentionally tried to contact them. Captains of beached ships have seen “little black men” in the distance before being promptly rescued from the island by nearby vessels. They all not-ed that the men seemed hostile, which of course was a cause for concern to the group of scrawny scientists and engineers that made up the Beholder. Nonetheless, Prabodh strongly believed that good things happen to good people. Others brought weap-ons of their own, for they were less superstitious.

Altruism by Robert Anderson

“ a speck...had be-come a monstrous

dark jungle. ”Tu

rkey Hill V

icto

r Lipn

icki


11

So, armed with an assortment of gadgets and gizmos (and maybe a knife or two), a dozen men in-cluding Prabodh prepared to step down into the small raft which would take them to shore. North Sentinel Island seemed much more menacing up close than the satellite images shown to them previously. A small green speck in the Bay of Bengal had become a mon-strous dark jungle, where even the harsh equatorial sun could not penetrate. Coral reefs surrounded the island, so they had to deploy the raft earlier than usual, making Prabodh feel very vulnerable until they arrived on shore. He was not scared by any means; he was just apprehensive. He wanted to help them. Stepping onto the sand, he noticed something fairly different about the trees. Living in India, he was no stranger to the jungle, but there was something magical about land completely undisturbed by the touch of civilization. He became affixed on the tree line, which stretched as far as his vision carried.

“Look!” The youngest of the party, a biologist in his mid-twenties named Namasyu, pointed to-wards the trees. A small boy had emerged from the tree line, his skin darker than Prabodh had ever seen before. In his best attempt at jubilance, he waved at the child, gesturing for him to approach. Hesitantly, the child slowly stepped forwards. Aside from the ocean’s whispers, it was dead silent. As planned, Prabodh carefully reached into his pack and pulled out his iPhone and turned it towards the child. Star-tled, the boy ran back into the forest. Thud. Prabodh looked down, and there was a spear lodged deep into his chest. He fell to his knees, spilling the contents of his pack onto the sand. Muffled screams became increasingly silent as his vision went blurry. His jour-nal fell open right in front of his eyes, and it read, “It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.” ~Albert Einstein. Then, everything went black.

Multnomah Falls, Oregon Frank Belardo


12

Art is the manifestation of the human being’s desire to create.

Chess is the manifestation of the human being’s desire to destroy adversaries.

We bore witness to this hauntingly beautiful juxtaposition in our newest event, Iron Artist, where we pit teams of artists against each other. The task was simple: craft the most magnificent piece of chess-inspired art imaginable within a single hour. Brilliant young minds breathed life into magnificent creations under the

inspiration of this game of war and destruction.


13

The Forgotten Soldier Andreas Eisenmann Charlie CannonDan Carbone


14


15

MELISSAWIEGAND

EVERGREEN SUNSETby


16

There was a manwho still with youthful motivationsought the most beautiful flower.He traversed gardens,admired the Gentian and the Lily.He trekked deep woods,marveled the Lilac,and was charmed by the Rhodura. Re-turning home one evening, after reck-oning many a Rose,

Spring’s Messenger Uliana Dorogokupets

- Steve Walter

There Was a Man

became struck with fervorby the gentle Columbine.“This is the finest,” he thought,but upon reaching to claim it, was hesitant,“There must be one fairer,”Hence, he continued his search,and remains searchingfor this most beautiful flower.


17

THE HACKENSACK

TUSHAR PATELby


18Multnomah Falls Frank Belardo


19

Some nights I lie awake next to you and let my mind runI run to the hills and I set with the sunYou’ll never know that I don’t think of youI think of a you that does things you wouldn’t do

But as I fall asleep and I start to dreamYour arms around me and I know you meanWell for me dear, and it’s true I sleep wellBut my dreams drift away and sink down into hell

Each morning you wake and you pull me in tightThat’s when I wake and you free me from frightBut I never tell of the things that I’ve seenI say I slept well, but that’s half what I mean

And again I fall asleep and I start to dreamUnder warm cover and I know you meanWell for my sanity and I’m physically wellBut I’d rather sleep rough and dream of heaven instead of hell

Good sleep, bad dreams

I drift off to sleep, and I start to dreamLong since you left me and I know you didn’t meanTo curse me to tossing and turning for lifeBut you saved me from dreams of you as my wife

Good sleep, bad dreams

Good Sleep, Bad Dreams

- Robert May


20


21

Eric Danger Palmer

CROSS STEPby


22

Order always turns to un-orderEventually the universe will cease to existAnd all energy and matter will be reduced to nothingAbsolute chaos

For chaos is the true nature of thingsTo deny chaos is to deny natureOrder mocks natureWe mock nature to show some false superiority

Humanity is a wicked thorn of orderBut nature takes its time

Kaos


23

For all things turn to chaosAll things reach their unordered state

There isn’t enough energy in the universe to deny the inevitableWe try so hard to bring order to our livesBut it is all futileWe all die and return to the nature that allowed our creation

We are born of the Earth and we will die of the EarthEven in future generations, if we reach to the stars

- Stanley Mikuta

Alps Cecilia Osterman

We still rise and fall in this universal pyreDestined on our path to the ultimate unordered

Chaos Reigns.


24

My dearest daughter, if you are only able to learn one thing from me, learn this:Your home is the earth. Your front lawn is the Great Plains. Your backyard is the Russian Taiga. The oceans of the world are your own private pools; the mountains, your playgrounds. Every human on the earth is either your brother or your sister, and all the many animals of the world are your companions. The sky is your blanket; the clouds are your pillows. The stars are your neighbors; space is the road to reach them.The universe itself is one, and you are a part of it.Never forget this: Everything is linked up, together, as one.

- Joe Brosnan

My Dearest Daughter

Grand Sunrise Jaclyn Knori


25

Grand Sunrise Jaclyn Knori

I was crossing a blue river. Flowing faster than could count. Bluer than the ocean seemed and deeper than the sea. I could lose myself in it. Like a man in the desert, to flee. Scared yet intrigued. It felt so full I couldn’t help but jump in. Jump in and swim. Swim on to learn. To find the shining gold I yearned—what was found be-neath its sacredness. They never knew what I had found. All from faithfulness. But it was mine and mine to keep. Sacred and so unique. And they continued with their ignorance. Never felt the way I felt. Never swam the way I could swim, across a chord and through a beat. Never found themselves a seat. This train they could not

afford. Not a portal, nor a door. Such fools were they.

- Samantha E. Adornati

drunken sea.

The Inlet Eric Danger Palmer


26

I walked a lonely, desolate path across a frozen wasteland of deadened beings and lost souls. The breath of Father Winter bore heavily on my face. My attire was ill fitting: loose and light, prepared for a tropical climate that was never to come. I trudged onwards, with neither purpose nor motive. Willpower alone kept me going. Gradually, my movement slowed, my thoughts dulled, my soul began to fade. Ice crept across my back and face, freezing me to the core: but, another of winter’s victims.I closed my eyes and let them freeze over, too tired to regret or cry. My body stilled and languished as I began to die.Then your hand grabbed mine, and all was fine.The ice melted. My vigor restored.My heart raced, pulsing with warmth.We touched once more and sang out against winter.Like a kitten from hell, you began burning my soul.Our smiles were as bright as suns.Our sins grew deeper than the Earth itself.We perished as blissful ash.

Snow Cap Mountain Jaclyn Knori

- Joe Brosnan

Fire and Ice


27

Snow Cap Mountain Jaclyn Knori

Hebrews 13:8 Samuel Thomas


What is the feeling of happiness? What makes people happy? Is Happiness a formula, a secret ingredient or just a state of mind that few of us claim to exist in, while others just long for it?

So many of us equate the feeling of being secure with the feeling of being happy. Being se-cure in a job, in a relationship, etc. is all associated with the feeling of being happy. Most of us create a 10 or 20-year plan in our minds. We have to finish school, get a job, maybe another degree, get a wife or husband, children, become CEO etc. In short, the most of our life ahead is already thought out or “Planned”. And that’s what most people do, work towards those plans from the minute we think of them in our head. We think and we act. Well there are those people too that think but do not act and also those who act without thinking, but just leave them aside here. Lets focus on these people who

plan their entire lives and then try to live it exactly as they had thought about it. So getting back to security in life, is be-ing more secure actually making us happier? This feeling of security actually comes from following the planned path. Nobody feels se-cure if they don’t have the perfect relation-ship that they had dreamt of, or if they are stuck in a job that was not their first choice. But if everything goes according to plan, we feel secure and in turn happy. But a number of times things don’t go accord-ing to plan. So we start feeling unhappy and

Does Happiness equal fol-

lowing the ‘Planned’

Path?by Anisha

ChellaniLion John Spaventa

Da

ma

ge

d P

erfe

ctio

n K

ate

lyn

Ma

son

e


2929

insecure, maybe even a mixture of emotions that we cannot put a label on. We become unsure of what the future holds in store and feel frustrated and angry too. We blame everything and everyone around us. Not once do we stop to think that there might be some-thing better in store. We focus our happiness on “External” factors, things beyond our control. So if happiness in our own state of mind, why do it give it in the hands of some-thing or someone else? The happiness that we feel from things going according to plan is not a long-term one. It does not provide satisfaction. Instead it leaves a longing for more. The true feeling of happiness does not do that. Instead it fills you with contentment for all times, then and after. Some of us do have the knowledge to accept the fact that certain things are beyond our control and if we look closely, it is these people are that are hap-pier (or more at peace) than others. But for the rest of us, it’s just about trusting that the best is yet to come and to go ahead and take that leap of faith!

Psa

lms

1:3

Sa

mu

el T

ho

ma

s

Flower Steve Tufaro


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CAL WRITING CONTEST WINNER(s)

i searched for Myself one morning, where upon a rock i was sitting

looking curiously upon a blue jay. i moved closer, and at my advance the bird let out a menacing yawp,

inciting the woods around me into a clamor of screeches.

i decided it to best return another day.

IV

- Stephen Walter

POETRY

Prose:Excerpt

From (Dis)Affiliate:

A Memoirby Tamar

Boodaghians


31

It’s Okay to Call Me a Plethora of Syllabic Combinations that Begin with the Letter “T” and Other Untruths

“Tay-mar Booda-hagins? Is Tay-mar Booda-hagins here?

“I’m here,” I mumbled.

Attendance was the worst. I rarely corrected teachers when they mispro-nounced my name because they looked stupid enough when they couldn’t sound out a string ofletters. And I didn’t care what they called me anyway. Sure. “Taymar is here.”

Sometimes my classmates would correct the teacher for me. “It’s Tuh-mar, not Tay-mar.” Everyone giggled. But not the laughing kind. It was the kind that was muffled, that you knew everyone was trying to hide. “I’m sorry, TUH-mar,” said my teacher, placing an unnecessary and unnatural emphasis on the first syllable ofmy name, as if this pronunciation would prevent him from fucking it up the next morning (which it didn’t). “Next time you should say something.”

I didn’t have a voice in elementary school, and even now, I struggle to find one. Why should I allow protected thoughts to become tangible words that linger in space-that can be judged by the giggling others? My thoughts are safe because I am the owner, but when I tum these thoughts into words, when what’s mine becomes yours and everybody’s, I panic. Words don’t belong only to me. Everyone has them. And just like matter can’t be created or destroyed, neither can words. They exist, and we have to assemble them. And once thoughts become words, they’re forever. This permanence is unsettling, so often times, I choose to use as few words as possible. I’m a word rationer. I assemble them with caution. In elementary school, telling my teacher “It’s TUH-MAR” was un-necessary. A waste. I had better words to assemble.

As if having the name Tamar wasn’t stressful enough in a room full ofSaras, Mikes, and Ashleys, I was often confused with a boy who spent four fifths ofhis elementary school career in the principal’s office. One classmate went so far as to ask me, “Hey Tamar, are you related to Jamar?”

I could hear my teacher’s voice on loop playback in my head -Say something. Say something. Say something.

Prose:Excerpt

From (Dis)Affiliate:

A Memoirby Tamar

Boodaghians

“A waste. I had better words to as-

semble.”


32

On the surface, Jamar was my elementary school antithesis. I did my homework. Jamar did not. I hid behind a basketball pole during recess and pretended I was invisible. Jamar did not. I fantasized about being a new member of the Spice Girls-Ethnic Spice. Perhaps Curry, Cardamom, or Coriander. I wanted to believe they were missing a flavor and I could fill that void. Jamar did not. I am white. Jamar is not. And if this inquisitive moron knew anything about genetic material, he would know that Jamar and I were more distantly related than Bach’s twenty children were from one another.

“No,” I said, after a tremendously awkward pause.

Uninterested by my succinct response and mysterious demeanor, as most of my eight year old peers were, the boy ran over to the soccer field to tell all ofhis equally moronic friends that Jamar and I, in fact, are not related.

But then, while everyone else was playing sports and chasing each other and getting woodchips in their shoes (something I was always petrified of, being

the neurotic child that I was, as if getting a woodchip in my shoe would be some irreversible event) I chose to spend my recess doing the unthinkable-thinking. So maybe Jamar and I weren’t genetically related, but we had more in common than I originally thought. We were both misunderstood. We were culturally and racially confused in an environment that supported nothing but homogeny. And we had certain things expected ofus. Obviously, I should be good at math because my name is near unpronounceable. Obviously, Jamar deserves less attention than the students who are actively try-ing to listen and learn. I understand these are crude judgments. I also understand the reality ofthese crude judgments. Jamar and I had no idea where the fuck we belonged so ofcourse we believed it. We viewed our peers as molds for us to become, which is a hor-rible feeling. When you grow up expecting to become something that’s impossible for you to become, you know what failure feels like, and you know it doesn’t feel good. Until you realize much later that this isn’t fail-

“Jamar became Tamar, which was hilarious be-

cause everyone thought......”


33

ure at all. It’s a victory. It’s a victory to take what’s expected ofyou, shoot it to hell, and emerge unaffected. Jamar and I were different, and we were reminded of it every day. I chose to internalize this reality. Jamar did the opposite.

When students misbehaved on the playground, the principal, Mr. Enderly, would announce through a mega-phone exactly who was misbehaving and according to the level ofunruliness, what the consequence would be. “JAMAAAAAAAR STOP KNOCKING PEOPLE DOWN ON THE BASKETBALL COURT! JAMAAAAAR RE-PORT TO THE PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE IMMEDIATEL Y.” Like those awful games oftelephone that girls played at birthday parties where a phrase never ended up the same from beginning to end, somewhere in between Mr. Enderly and the megaphone, the megaphone and the playground aids, the playground aids and the main office, the main office and the loudspeaker message, Jamar became Tamar, which was hilarious because everyone thought that the girl who read library books on the bus, returned them on time, and didn’t speak knocked her friends down on the basketball court to score two-point layups. The truth is, if I had had the physi-cal ability to do so, I would have. I was angry too. But I coped by reading books and principals didn’t do much

disciplining for that. The phone rang, summoning me to my least favorite place in the entire school-worse than the playground.

“Will Tamar please report to Mrs. Dougherty’s office?”

That’s right. I had to see the school guidance coun-selor-not for believing I was invisible behind a basket-ball pole, not for pretending to be a sexy member of a British pop band, not for speaking an average offour words per week-but for “an inability to constructively cope with anger on the playground.”

“I’m Tamar,” I said to Mrs. Dougherty, who always wore too much perfume. “Not Jamar.”

FIN


34

“The most beauti-ful thing we can

experience is the mysterious. It is

the source of all true art and sci-

ence”

- Albert Einstein


35

Transmission Weiguang Hu


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Ezekie

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The World’s Best

Computerby Joe

Brosnan

No

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We’ve finally done it: the world’s most powerful computer!Its processing speed is through the roof…tran-sistors at a molecular level. In one instant, it can scan an object and associate it with properties of other objects that it has previously encountered. These properties can be assumed by thousands of other variables, such as the objects sheen in correlation to its color, and can be stored in a da-tabank with unfathomable memory space!This super-computer can tackle multiple pro-cesses at once: boasting the ability to convert text to verbal speech and verbal speech into text while recording and deciphering the meanings of both. It backlogs such information indefinitely, it is able to reference occurrences that happened weeks or moments, months or years ago.It can function independently. It analyzes variables in every circumstance, and, by using previously logged scenarios that it has encountered, along with preexisting templates when no such experi-ence is logged, can determine its own course of action.It moves; it is mobile; it is versatile. Due to a rep-lication variable inside its core processor, cer-


37

The World’s Best

Computerby Joe

Brosnan

We’ve finally done it: the world’s most powerful computer!Its processing speed is through the roof…tran-sistors at a molecular level. In one instant, it can scan an object and associate it with properties of other objects that it has previously encountered. These properties can be assumed by thousands of other variables, such as the objects sheen in correlation to its color, and can be stored in a da-tabank with unfathomable memory space!This super-computer can tackle multiple pro-cesses at once: boasting the ability to convert text to verbal speech and verbal speech into text while recording and deciphering the meanings of both. It backlogs such information indefinitely, it is able to reference occurrences that happened weeks or moments, months or years ago.It can function independently. It analyzes variables in every circumstance, and, by using previously logged scenarios that it has encountered, along with preexisting templates when no such experi-ence is logged, can determine its own course of action.It moves; it is mobile; it is versatile. Due to a rep-lication variable inside its core processor, cer-

“We’ve finally done it: the

world’s most powerful com-

puter!”

tain actions that are repeated are analyzed and streamlined, making them more efficient the more times they are used.This compute is never truly idle, and is left in-active for long durations of time with which it will recall old data and reanalyze it, speeding up certain processes, shifting its own files around to make room for more, intuitively knowing that more will be experienced later.With its template, it can determine outcomes preemptively, able to plan for preferable results while preparing for undesired ones.It can justify its actions while taking them.With its master internal power source and unbe-lievably strong operating system, this machine may not have limits.But then, what is a human?

Pipet Tushar Patel


38

The girl seemed perplexed. “Does that mean I won’t be getting a pony for Christmas?” Santa sighed. He smiled at the girl. “I’ll see what I can do.”Her eyes lit up. “Thank you Santa!” And with that, she ran back off to her parents, waiting in the crowd around him. Santa caught a glimpse of the father’s eyes. They scowled at him, but only for an instant—only until they noticed their gaze was being returned. The meaning behind the action was clear to both participants, much to the dismay of the father. It would have been akin to a revelatory conversation being forcefully concluded by the revelator with the sentence, “I’ve said too much.” But in this case, it was that the little girl’s father had seen too much, and what he had seen betrayed his intentions en-tirely. In that split second of shared staring, enough information was exchanged to last a lifetime for any ordinary person. But these were not ordinary people, and now both of them knew it. These were two cybernetic humanoids from the middle ages, purposed with studying and advancing mankind over the course of their 1,195-year commission.

Excerpt:Santa’s Secretby Jesse Pirnat

“Why, you seem a bit troubled, sir,” Santa shouted to the father. “Is there some-thing on your mind?” It was standard pro-tocol for unexpected cyborg encounters, nothing more. The two had already wire-lessly communicated entire novels worth of discussions when they caught each other’s gazes. That was also standard protocol for cyborg encounters: when their eyes met, they were to have a battle of the minds, so to speak—ruthlessly comparing notes and analyses from their various missions. It was a piece of programming the Origi-nal Sorcerers assumed would keep their creations active throughout the onset of their free will. “Competition breeds produc-tivity” was a notorious adage in the era of cybernetics and sorcerers, and despite its

“They scowled at him, but only for an

instant.”

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disappearance for the better part of the last millennium, it had recently resurged as capitalism took over among the global populace. This also made Santa’s job ex-cruciatingly more difficult, because these days everybody wanted in on the materi-alist showdown. “Me? Oh, no, it’s nothing,” the fa-therbot replied. “I was just a little con-fused by what you were saying before.” It was a deceptively honest answer—de-ceptive because it kept his identity hid-den from the rest of Santa’s audience; and honest because it was true.“Well,” Santa said, “I assume you’ve al-ready discerned that it involves a certain significant function of mine.” The father nodded. “Unfortunately, it would be rath-er useless for me to tell you my time travel capabilities are malfunctioning. I’ve tried telling you outright countless times before, and you’ve never remembered. Neither of us has been able to escape the loop yet.” He sighed. “I could tell you what’s going on, yeah. Or I could be vague and mysterious, give you a wink here and there, and force you to figure it out for yourself. Which you wouldn’t be able to do, of course, until you were much, much older.”The girl sitting on his leg seemed perplexed. “Does that mean I won’t be getting a pony for Christ-mas?”

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Samuel Thomas


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Documents

RedShift Volume 7 Issue 2