Rocket

FUEL

September 2013

ContentsFiction:Alice - Karley RojasHumans Turning - Essy Shapiro DeanInterview with a Dalek - Harry Seven

Poetry:Ignorance - Nicholas CharlesThe Key - Beth Derr-PorterIgnorance - Nicholas CharlesElixir - Duncan GambleConsequences - Kathryn Trice(Untitled Work) - Anna Van DineIt All Amounts to Silence - Margaret SlateMasks - Casey PetruzellaThe Inexistent Sensitive Guy - Mitchell SchneiderUrgency - Paige Apple

Creative Non-Fiction:Music and Movement: Classical Culture Today - Gabriella Rose Makuc

Photography byHugo SevenMargaret SlateDari Gambino-KendigMary TaggeLanie NowakTori Bishop

Cover photo by Margaret Slate.

Formatted and edited by Samuel O’Brient.

Send letters toRocket Fuel Magazine/BowTie PublicationsP.O. Box 1124Stockbridge, MA 01262

From the Editorʼs Desk

" Greetings! In your hands, you are holding the very first issue of Rocket Fuel Magazine. What is Rocket Fuel? Well Iʼm glad you asked.

" Rocket Fuel is a new literary magazine, specifically designed to give aspiring young writers, poets, journalists, and photographers a place to share their work with the world. In late May 2013, at the annual Champlain College Young Writerʼs Conference in Burlington, Vermont, a group of teenage writers and poets sat around a table discussing publishing their work. One writer commented on how hard it was to publish anything in a popular literary magazine due to the steep competition in the literary world of today. She also stated that she wished there was a literary magazine strictly for high school and college writers, and wondered why no one had started such a thing. One of her comrades remembered what she said, and when they returned home, he began planning the very first issue. Two months later, Rocket Fuel, issue #1 was ready for publication. How do I know all this? Because that comrade was me.

"

" As someone who spent his high school days writing articles for and editing his high school newspaper and formatting his high schoolʼs yearbook, it seemed only natural for me to create a literary magazine for writers age 21 and under when the subject was brought to my attention. I first posted a notice on my personal Facebook page and was thrilled when people responded quickly. The fiction, poetry, non-fiction, and photography submissions poured in, and a few weeks later, we were firing up the presses. Our motto says it all - “A New Voice for a New Generation.” Reading all the unique, interesting, and fascinating submissions we received, I couldnʼt have been more impressed with the amount of talent my generation posses. I am privileged to be able to work with them and publish their writing and photography, and I hope you, dear reader, are as impressed as I have been. I have no doubt you will be.If you have any questions, comments, critiques or anything else, or wish to submit something, send us a shout out at Rocketfuelmagazine@gmail.com or visit us on the web at http://rocketfuelmagazine.wix.com/rocketfuelmagazine. You can also “like” our Facebook page at www.facebook.com/RocketFuelMagazine. Thank you and enjoy this magazine!

Happy Reading,Samuel C. OʼBrient, editor in chief.

"

Photography by Hugo Seven

Alice- Karley Rojas

She watched the old man, sitting on that damp bench in the park. His legs were crossed, and his face tilted towards the sun. He drank in the dew drops of the morning, the sunshine lighting his pale face and making the wrinkles come alive, a map of his life. He looked like he was waiting for a train but was happy if it never came. Those folds carved into his face enveloped the life around him, exuding an aura of tranquility over that bench. They danced as he smiled at those invisible thoughts floating in the air around him, suspended, waiting for his dismissal, a plot line woven into the fabric of his very self, waiting to be read by the passerby but content to live on the shelf and watch the dust motes float on the willow breeze, heading towards the downing of night.

They danced and swirled, and he laughed at their somber waltz in that summer stir, looking sternly over his half moon glasses at their fanfare. His foot tapped to the invisible beat, marking out a symphony to those years, to the children playing soccer on the grass, or the trees groaning with the burden of their own off-spring, like sails on an ocean. He remembered that time, of innocence and longing for knowledge, the only thing that could ruin those souls, those motes on the breeze of the universe.

She went up to him, with her wand and her mind full of fairytales, and asked why he was so happy. She looked at him through those doe eyes, rimmed with the veil of the unknowing, and saw an aged prince, the ending of an eternal story, who had found his princess. A lock with its key, two mismatched puzzle pieces making sense of that chaotic world on that summer day. She smiled and he laughed, sending a melody to accompany those souls in their journey through time, like the rumble of Poseidon, the love of mother nature, and the thrum of life in that one man’s voice.

Without knowing why, it made her happy, and she laughed too. That tinkling of a ballerina, a dreamer of far flung hopes and improbable dreams, adding to his melody and they laughed the day away. Hours of laughing at the sinking sun on the horizon. It reverberated in her soul, and she felt elation.

“I’m going to grow up in a pretty castle and find a handsome prince. I even have a magic wand, just like the fairy godmothers. Where’s your princess?” she asked excitedly to the old man, for only that improbable dream would do.

“My princess lives in the past, but she’s not gone. She lives in what once was. It makes me sad sometimes, but then I remember that we are still in our castle, in that once upon a time. Once upon a dream, but the dream was real.” He spoke softly, his webbed hands with those varicose veins spinning a tarnished wedding ring on his slender finger, engraved into the skin like trunks often swallow time. Contorted, but beautiful.”

“So she’s dead? Is she in heaven?”

“I certainly hope so, but no one that we love really leaves us. All those heroes in your story books, they lived a long time ago. But every time you open the bookmarked pages, worn with the oil from your eager fingers, they come to life again, immortalized on that page. We are all stories in the end, Princess. Make it a good one.”

The little girl didn’t understand what the old man was saying, not really, but his eyes twinkled at the memories of yesteryear.

She looked at him, and down in her very humanity, her very sense of self, that old man was seared onto her heart. His wizened face smiling down at her young one, and those chiseled lines masking the boy he had once been.

“Why do people have to die? It is so sad when they do.” “It is sad, but they get to embark on a new adventure, into the unknown. It is what we do not know that we fear. Don’t be scared. Time is what defines us. You, and me, and those worms in the sand. Without time, princes wouldn’t exist or be special. That sadness, you feel it in your heart. It is part of what makes you who you are. Feel that grass on your toes, or the sun on your skin. When you sleep, really dream. When you eat, taste it. Enjoy what you have, make it worth reading about. To be sung by minstrels, and ensnared in Cantos. Dream of those nights of the once were, and the hopes of the could be. Believe in fairytales, because they are hiding in the bushes just around the bend, waiting in their sleepy gardens and living in those shoes, battling giants, and climbing from towers, dreaming of the princess in the park with the magic wand and the big blue eyes. When you see that flicker under the bed, or that nagging in the corner of your eye, that’s them. Peeking through the looking glass and saying hello. Just hello.”

The girl couldn’t understand the old man, but his face lit up and that also made her happy. She skipped away, back to her swing sets and the palm of her mother’s hand, waiting to cradle hers. When she looked back, the old man was gone, just some foot prints in the sand of his three legs, stumbling into age and into the abyss of memory.

He didn’t know it, but his queen had come back for him. Past the looking glass she had found him again. The child with her rain-boots and flyaway hair, a young mind, but her soul a half of a whole, meeting anew now not to be parted by the ravages of disease, or the plague of death. This is why she reverberated in his soul, a chord of wind chimes or a bird’s melody. A happen-chance meeting, a serendipity. A thread, a line, and two halves. Not bringing her back to life, but rather escorting him to death, hand in hand.

The breeze stopped, and she saw the trees still, their sails still upon the calm sea. She went home, back onto those busy streets and highways, those school days and growing up, but she kept her magic wand safe, thinking about those fairies and the old man’s crinkled face.

Some months later, the little girl was in the park again. The trees had stopped dancing in the wind, their children dropping to the ground, bursts of color before their final fall. They lay dying at the feet of their mothers, and they watched them blow like corpses in that wind on that autumn day, decaying on the husks of the grass, everything coming to an end. The motes had stopped dancing, and the days had turned dreary, passing sluggishly week after week, the cool air ushering the end of time, frozen and dark, life coming to a close.

The little girl stood on those piles of death where other children had played, her soul quiet and waiting, the wind blowing solemnly through the park, her lonely figure stark against the broiling backdrop of the clouds. She searched the molding benches for the old man with twinkling eyes and the carved face, but was met with the hostile stare of strangers bogged down with life, mucking through the sidewalks in an agitated frenzy, a hurry to get to nowhere. A half perished dream.

She sat on that bench, and another man came up to her. Instead of the universe sewn into his face, he looked like the beggars on the street, with their cowls and anger, but she had hope. That old man with his dancing eyes and pondering thoughts had given her hope she didn't know she needed and she turned to the stranger with his bloodshot eyes, and the viscous, blackened veins, the wrinkles caked with the soot of cigarette ash and city streets. Cold grey stared back at her, becoming the call of winter, the time of death, the eruption of Pompeii, and the drowning of the Titanic, with the frozen lakes and mountains of snow. A life never meant to be lived ending so soon.

Time passed, and the seasons turned, those dying children laying long since abandoned at the foot of their makers, waiting to sew the seeds of new stories with their ashes, the sails torn at the eye of the hurricane, a grave for the sailors in their care.

The ashes of the persecuted, the lost, the unspoken and the unspeaking, waiting for an absolution, or the train.

Time passed, and the seasons turned, those dying children laying long since abandoned at the foot of their makers, waiting to sew the seeds of new stories with their ashes, the sails torn at the eye of the hurricane, a grave for the sailors in their care. The ashes of the persecuted, the lost, the unspoken and the unspeaking, waiting for an absolution, or the train.

Time passed, and the seasons turned, those dying children laying long since abandoned at the foot of their makers, waiting to sew the seeds of new stories with their ashes, the sails torn at the eye of the hurricane, a grave for the sailors in their care. The ashes of the persecuted, the lost, the unspoken and the unspeaking, waiting for an absolution, or the train.

There on the bench, frozen with the crystals of time, suspended, lay that magic wand. And it was that magic wand that the police swarmed, shattering its silence. Fairies no longer looked at her through the veil, but those men in the suits thought she had joined them on the other side. And the bench stayed cold, when they brought in that old man, with the carved face and twinkling eyes, still remembering his summer. But the half-moon glasses shattered, and third leg was broken, and his eyes were dead, finally giving in to the villain of life, forgetting his once were fairytales. He made his own necklace of rope, and escaped the chains of the cackling witch, the faceless monster from which we all suffer.

The wand broke and the trees broke, the dust settled on their caskets, stories living in the rock, remembering the summer of the waltzing in the breeze,when humanity stopped and listened through the looking glass to the dreams of a little girl and daft old man, running to the dawn together in the yesteryear, a Prince and his Princess, reunited at last. Just for one moment, the world stopped spinning, the echoes of the barren earth calling them home. Time stopped, and the willows wept, the rivers bled, a silent scream in the darkness. But then it spun on, almost as though they never existed at all. Round and round the merry-go-round, with the playing children and the congested sidewalks, the dark corners and the daily horizontal; because no one believes in such fairytales anymore.

Photography by Margaret Slate

Humans Turning- Essy Dean

Adrian Tarasov shook wet black strands of hair out of his eyes and scanned the beach. At eleven o’clock at night, Santa Cruz, California was the exact opposite of its daytime twin. If it were eleven in the morning, the boardwalk would be teaming with people, and that’s what Adrian Tarasov needed to complete his work, but everything seemed stacked against him lately. The rain beat down on his long sleeve black shirt and dark wash jeans. The rain had soaked through his clothing quickly, but that was plus of living in California rather than his native Russia. In Russia at this time of year, he would’ve been wearing a parka. The warm rain...he’d never felt anything like it until he had moved here five months ago. He’d shown up mysteriously, and, for all intents and purposes, he was here on an exchange trip. But Adrian Tarasov was in Santa Cruz, California for anything but an exchange trip. For Adrian Tarasov had a secret. He was a murderer and he’d been training for this since he was twelve. Now he was nineteen and ready to take on and murder whatever and whoever life threw at him.

*** Michelle Parker rushed after her best friends Angie Mitchell, Riley Carter and Lexi Turner. The four girls lived in Seattle, Washington and they were going to spend spring break in Santa Cruz, California with Angie’s cousin Dylan. They’d been perfectly on time. That is, until Angie’s car had run out gas, Lexi had left her laptop charger behind and Michelle and Riley had needed snacks. Then Angie had sent Michelle and Riley back into the convenience store for snacks for herself and Lexi. All in all, by the time the four girls had crashed through airport security they were barely going to make their flight. Michelle heard Angie, Riley and Lexi holding a heated debate, but Michelle couldn’t be bothered. “The flight’s leaving.” Michelle skidded to a halt behind Angie, Riley and Lexi. “You’re too late. It’s halfway to the runway.” “Look,” said Lexi. “My father is an important exec with United. Do you really want me to tell him that his daughter wasn’t allowed to get on one of his planes?” “I’ll see what I can do,” said the flight attendant. “Lex?” asked Michelle. “Stop being such a worry wart,” said Angie. “It’s going to be fine.” “Get on.” The flight attendant was back, pulling the velvet rope aside and allowing the four girls to run down the hanger and jump onto their flight south. As Angie, Riley, Michelle and Lexi snuggled down into their seats and removed various books, Kindles, and laptops, the plane continued down the runway. Michelle glared across the aisle. Angie, Riley and Lexi had grabbed the threesome of their seats, leaving Michelle to sit by herself across the aisle. “Can I use your Kindle?” It was Angie. She leaned across the aisle. “Stop that,” said Lexi. “You’re going to get in trouble with the flight attendant.”Angie leaned against her seat back just as a flight attendant came by. Michelle was burrowed in her bag. “Put your bag under the seat in front of you.” Michelle glared at the flight attendant. “Give me five minutes...” “We’re about to take off.” “My friend...” Michelle started again. “Your friend can wait until we’re in the air to get whatever she needs from you.” Michelle spent the greater part of the flight glaring at the flight attendants.

***

As soon as the plane landed in LAX, Riley, Angie, Lexi and Michelle went to the car rental and picked up the car Lexi’s father had reserved for them. This trip was in fact Lexi’s father’s birthday present to Lexi. As Riley, Angie, Lexi and Michelle went out to the parking lot, they quickly found their car. “This can’t be right,” said Angie. “It’s my dad,” said Lexi. “I assure you that this is the car he rented for us.” The four girls were looking at a silver convertible. Lexi slid into the driver’s seat and Michelle slid into the back, not wanting to be a part of the fight breaking out between Riley and Angie for the front. Riley won out, leaving Angie with sharing the back with Michelle. “Let’s go!” Riley yelled. “Woooooooooooooooooooooo!” yelled Angie. She’d clearly gotten over not being in the front. “Santa Cruz, here we come!” yelled Lexi. Lexi swung the car out of the lot, and soon they were on their way.

***That night, they decided to take a walk along the beach. They were halfway down the boardwalk when someone screamed. “Who was that?” asked Angie. “Don’t know,” Lexi whispered back. “Where’s Michelle?” Riley asked. “I have her,” said a voice. “She’s with me now.” “Who are you?” asked Angie. “I should be asking you the same question,” said the voice. “Where’s our friend?” asked Lexi. “Tell me your names,” said the voice. “We’re not going to tell you!” Riley hissed. “Then you’ll end up the same way as your friend,” the voice hissed back. At his words, a light flickered on. On the cement, in between the girls and the guy to whom the voice belonged was Michelle. Her dirty brown hair flared out beneath her. Blood blossomed beneath her body. “What did you do to her?” asked Lexi. “She’s dead now,” said the boy. “There’s nothing you can do for her now.” “Why?” asked Angie. “What did she do to you?” “Nothing,” the boy replied. “When why did you do it?” asked Riley. “I follow my orders,” the boy hissed. Riley, Lexi and Angie exchanged looks. This boy didn’t look like anything they were used to. His skin was slightly darker than theirs. His hair was brown and tousled. He wore dark clothing and he blended in with the darkness. It wasn’t any mystery why they hadn’t realized he was here. The boy wandered among them stroking Riley’s black curls, Angie’s sun-warmed brown strands and Lexi’s straightened and dyed locks. “Tell us what you’re after,” said Angie. “Not unless you tell me,” said boy replied. “We’re not trying to hurt you,” said Angie. “I doubt you could,” said the boy. “I’ve been trained to kill since I was twelve.” “This isn’t medieval times,” said Riley, rolling her eyes. “I am aware,” said the boy. “But where I come from, we’re still trained to be who we were then. We were the most ruthless killers in Eastern Europe.” “You are of the Tarasov Russian line,” Riley hissed. “How good you are at history” said the Tarasov boy. “What’s your name?” asked Riley. She crossed her arms, defiance worming through. “You’ll know who I am the moment I tell you,” warned the boy. “Trust me, you don’t want to know who I am. You don’t want to anger me.” “Tell me,” Riley hissed. “Tell me yours,” hissed the boy in return.

Riley! Don’t!” Lexi exclaimed. “I’m Riley Carter, these are my friends Angie Mitchell and Lexi Turner. The girl at your feet was the fourth member of our party. Her name was Michelle Parker.” Riley looked straight into the boy’s eyes. “And you?” “Adrian,” sighed the boy. “Adrian Tarasov.”

*** It wasn’t hard for Adrian Tarasov to figure out where Riley and her friends were staying. It took him a maximum of five minutes, hacking into Michelle’s laptop. He grabbed the laptop, stashed it into his backpack and left the shack where he’d been hiding. He crept down the street, into the house. He crept up the stairs, past the door that he somehow knew to be the room Michelle had claimed, past Angie’s. He didn’t want anything to do with Angie. He wanted to talk to Lexi and Riley without Angie’s interference. “Lexi? Riley?” Adrian whispered, standing outside Riley’s door. “Who is it?” That was Lexi. “Adrian,” he replied. “Why are you here?” Lexi snapped from her room. “I need to talk to you two about Angie.” “What could you know about her that we don’t?” That was Riley. “We’re her friends.” “I know that,” Adrian replied. “But trust me. There are things that Angie has been keeping from you.   Things that have happened in her past that she doesn’t want you to know. Things that should be obvious to you, knowing her how well you do. I don’t know why she hasn’t told you...” “Come in,” said Riley. She pushed her door open, then forced Lexi and Adrian through it. She shut the door again.

*** Riley turned to face Lexi and Adrian. “All right, Adrian, what’s this about?” “Angie,” said Adrian, after a moment. “What about her?” Lexi asked. “Is something wrong? Why are you telling us this?” “Because these are things you need to know,” said Adrian. “Then tell us,” Lexi hissed. “Okay,” said Adrian. “But I don’t want Angie to know about this.” “How can we not tell her?” asked Riley. “I hate asking you to do this, but I don’t see another way,” said Adrian. “Tell us first,” said Riley. “Let us make the final decision.” “I don’t know if I can do that,” said Adrian. “I don’t know if I can trust you.” “You’re the one trusting us,” said Lexi. “You’re the one who started this. I want to know what we’re going to do about this. I want to know what’s going.” “First off, you have to know that I didn’t mean to find this stuff out about your friend, and I want you to know that I murdered Michelle to keep the secret. She was going to blog about it, and I can assure you, that it’s something that Angie doesn’t want coming to the surface.” Adrian looked at Lexi and Riley. They faced Adrian. “I know you don’t trust me,” Adrian started again. “But Angie isn’t who she says she is.” “Then who is she?” asked Riley. “Whom have we been hanging out with all these years?” “She’s a Demon,” said Adrian. “I’m sorry.” “What?” Lexi gasped. “What’s Michelle?” asked Riley. “She was a Demon too,” said Adrian. “A different kind of Demon, but a Demon nonetheless.” “So we’ve been friends with Demons for years without realizing it?” asked Riley. “Yes.” Riley, Lexi and Adrian spun around. Standing in Riley’s doorway, was Angie. Blood dripped from her mouth. “Are you sure you’re not a Vampire?” asked Riley. “No,” said Angie. “I am quite sure that I am a Demon. We hate the Vampires. Vampires and Demons have always been enemies.”

“Why did you kill Michelle?” asked Lexi. “I didn’t kill Michelle,” said Angie. “That was Adrian’s doing. Trying to keep our secret.” Angie turned to Adrian. “Luc...” “Don’t!” Adrian snapped. Riley approached Angie and Adrian. “What did you just call him?” “She was trying to call me by my real name,” said Adrian. “Tell us,” said Riley. “Fine,” said Adrian. “It’s Lucifer.” “As in the Fallen Archangel?” asked Riley. “Yes,” said Adrian. “Who are ‘Angie’ and ‘Michelle’ really?” asked Lexi. “They are Merihem and Amon,” said Adrian. “So you’ve been lying to us for years?” asked Lexi. “I didn’t mean to,” said another voice. “Michelle?” asked Lexi. “No, it’s Merihem,” said the voice. Merihem stepped out of the shadows of the room. She saw Riley, Lexi, Amon and the one she had one known as a mysterious character who had murdered her, but now she knew that he was Lucifer, Fallen Archangel. “We’re not going to hurt you,” said Lucifer. Riley and Lexi leaned back. “There is a reason.” “And what would that be?” Lexi spat. “Strangely enough you are Gabriel and Raphael,” Lucifer replied. “How is that possible?” asked Riley. “I don’t even believe in all this stuff.” “You have to,” said Amon. “You are a part of this, Raphael. Your Fallen Brother started this.” “Of course he did,” said Riley, glaring at Lucifer. Lucifer glared stonily back at Raphael and Gabriel. Admittedly, he was as confused as them as to what was going on here. Not for the first time, Lucifer, Fallen Archangel, had to live with the consequences of his actions. He’d been cast out, and now, he was head of his own place. That didn’t mean, however, that it gave Raphael and Gabriel the... “Luc! No!” Lucifer felt something glide through the air. He whirled. It had been Amon who had called the warning. The warning was Gabriel. The girl who’d been know as Lexi until a few short minutes ago, had thrown the one thing that could kill him. No one knew what had been going on. Everyone was as confused as the others. How they had all gotten to this place, no one could figure it out. They simply didn’t know. They had all had their differences, but now, what were they going to do? Nothing seemed to fit. How had four perfectly normal teenage girls turned into Amon, Merihem, Raphael and Gabriel. Even to Michael, the leader of the Archangels, none of it made sense. Well, that wasn’t quite true; Adrian Tarasov had been destined to turn into Lucifer at the age of nineteen when he would kill a young girl. Fate had prophesied that, and it had come true. The rest of it, however, didn’t make any sense.

Photography by Mary Tagge

Photography by Dari Gambino-Kendig

Music and Movement: Classical Culture Today- Gabriella Rose Makuc

When I began my freshman year in the conservatory at Lawrence University last fall, I thought I would focus on learning more classical piano repertoire, listening to more Mahler symphonies, and learning how to write a better chorale harmonization. Needless to say, that didn’t really happen. At least, not at all in the way I expected. I love how music is an industry and an art that’s in constant transformation. I think our experiences with music reflect that. They lead us to new genres, new interpretations of songs and symphonies, and new, broader understandings of the world. They introduce us to people who will change our lives as they change alongside us. They force us to believe in the power of something indescribable, to believe in the power of a path that’s focused in its dedication but sometimes completely unplanned and spontaneous in its route. If we are to believe that a revolutionary band can change the standards for what’s avant-garde, or that a sonata can completely transform a musical theme and our understanding of it, our lives become governed by the same principles. As a classical musician, I always thought that mental understanding of a piece was superior to the physical presentation of it. I pitied that my fingers couldn’t execute the directions I gave them. I never considered that I could really listen to my body and take cues from it as to how to play the music. Consider a master and his worker; though the master may have a grand-scale vision and understanding of deadlines, the worker is the one actually carrying out the task. He is responsible for all of the minute details; he has an intimate understanding of the job at hand. This is true in music on many levels. I was working my hands like slaves and not listening to what they wanted to do, what fingerings were more natural to that Mozart passage, what actually digging into every single note felt like without so many wordy directions from my brain. A band director at my university said that when he is problem-solving in rehearsal- figuring out how to make a run cleaner, a transition smoother, a moment more intense- he thinks like a tuba player and not like a conductor. What did his body tell him when he grappled with those issues in the practice room? What did he learn from silence and persistence and intense listening?

Then came the world music concerts and my music education course. At Lawrence, freshmen music students are required to attend all world music concerts at the conservatory. I was exposed to Balinese gamelan, flutes from around the world, Native American chanting, Portuguese fado singing, Appalachian fiddling, and Indian drumming. In many of these cultures, dance and music are intertwined- in the Balinese gamelan performance, an entire way of life was reflected in the dancing and music-making I witnessed.  In some of these cultures, every member of the community makes music, which is in turn a crucial building block of community. They embrace the fact that music reaches deep within our psyche by joining together in shared song and dance. Some of the rhythms and melodies that are performed would look exceedingly difficult if measured by Western notational standards, but the musicians often have never seen a written score; they learn by ear, and are never faced with the notion that it’s too difficult. The expectation is that everyone can do it. They more proficient they become in the music of their people, the stronger their connection to the community. It empowers them to pass on their values, their way of life, to the next generation.  

Now back to the classical music scene: clapping is practically banned between movements, floor-length dresses or suits are requirements for performers, and deathly silence is a must throughout the concert hall. I think one of the reasons that many young people are disinterested in classical music is that it seems to is represent tradition instead of embodying a rite. While a tradition is something symbolic that is repeated generation after generation, tying us to our history, a rite calls something new into being each time it is performed. I believe that composers didn't write their pieces to be traditions: "Oh, let's play Mozart No. 21 again- it symbolizes beauty"...they wrote so that rites would occur. Not that the pianist would always play the same cadenza and think, "how would Mozart have done it?"...but that the pianist would find the brilliant energy to play a Mozart concerto within himself and improvise his own cadenza based on how the piece spoke to him. Music lecturer Robert D. Levin explains that in Mozart's day, pianists who played his concertos improvised throughout the piece and not only at cadenza. Think jazz, 1780 style. Their extra runs and ornaments added extra vitality to the melody. Our current classical culture

oftentimes stresses dead accuracy of notes instead of accuracy in spirit; I think sometimes we forget what it means to play- actually play!- music. A wise friend of mine at conservatory told me,

"Everyone's trying to play the piece perfectly. But no audience wants to hear that- they want to hear it the way you hear it. In the end, no one can be perfect, but we can all be original." I'm proposing that classical music (pre-Baroque through Contemporary)- all be heard (and especially performed!) as rite and not tradition. We don't play the pieces because we have to; we play them to embody the groundbreaking spirit that they had at their debut.

This is why I disagree that sitting in concert halls is the best way to listen to music. Go to the lawn at Tanglewood and dance! So many children tune out classical music from an early age because they observe the attitudes of adults who believe it to be background music. But it can be just as visceral a culture as those other world music genres I've mentioned. Many incredible musicians have specialized in teaching music to the whole body, embracing the primitive and intellectual aspects of our humanity. At the Boys & Girls Club near school, Lawrence students host a general music class every Friday. The kids who come aren’t all incredibly gung-ho about classical music, but when I played a Mozart sonata for them, they had a blast dancing to it. A guest speaker in my music education class- a teacher who had developed her own general music curriculum for K-8- spoke to the idea of teaching to all students. She enjoyed an ever-present level of movement, noise and chatter in her classroom. She said that many “problem” students, those who have trouble sitting still in other classes, turned out to have great musical ideas and really contribute to the class. Their spirits weren’t stifled- they were set free! Students who were accustomed to being chastised all day long were finally told to explore and move their bodies and use all their wonderful energy. That’s one definite way that music can change lives.

And one of the most important lessons I've learned so far from music school is that making music isn't always about practicing. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for the piece you're learning is to go work out, eat a cupcake, or watch a movie with a friend. Don't sit at the piano with that music up all day, brain-dead. Beneath the musician mask, we are all real human beings. If our lives aren't filled with colorful experiences, with movement and rite and knowledge of the world around us- the music we make may miss out on some brilliant hues. Don't practice when you’re exhausted- go to bed! Don't practice when you're fighting with a friend and can't get it off your mind- go work it out! Before we are musicians, we are human beings. Before we tend to the needs of the music, we must tend to the human needs of ourselves and others, so that the music may enhance our already joyful experience of life. The El Sistema program that is popping up around the world embraces this. Through this program that was founded in Venezuela, underprivileged children are given the opportunity for after-school music lessons, chamber groups, and orchestra rehearsals. These programs leave students with valuable skills in creativity, responsibility, dedication, teamwork, and the knowledge that they, too, speak the world language of music. The focus of the program is not on playing the right notes, but on building character and creating something beautiful together.

I'm excited for the art of music nowadays because I see the wonderful adventures it is sparking in the lives of young people, and the wonderful new ideas they are bringing to it. I am excited because I see around me a generation of people ready to face the wonders and challenges of some of the toughest questions not only in music, but in life. Most of all, I see a generation informed by what music tells us about being human- that ideas that many people view as polar opposites may all be important collaborations. That we are all one in this ever-constant but ever-exploratory world of music.

Special thanks to Hugo Seven of HUGOdesign!

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Rocket Fuel: Tell us, Mr Dalek, how is the Time War going?

Mr Dalek: The Daleks will conquer and destroy! All resistance will be EXTERMINATED!

Rocket Fuel: Ah yes, "exterminate!" That's your catchphrase isn't it? Children love it.

DALEK: Human children find it hard to pronounce, but when earth is conquered, all of humanity will struggle to say it!

RF: Of course. But this is a literary magazine, so maybe we should get to the point. Your grating voices, pepper pot casings and catchphrase have captured the imaginations of millions of humans all over the world. Many of those humans are musicians who have decided to honor your potential of galactic domination with music. The earliest song about you, according to our research, dates back 1964 with the song called "I'm Gonna Spend My Christmas With a Dalek" by The Go Go's (Not the 80's new wave band).

DALEK: That song was so bad that the Supreme Dalek exploded after hearing it! We needed to clean up the slime that spattered all over the walls!

Interview with a Dalek

Bow down to the conquerers of the universe! Thats right, Rocket Fuel is here with Mr Dalek from Doctor Who, who is on his free time from the Time War...

RF: Well it was a little cheesy, but it was a noble first effort at honoring you.

DALEK: Cheesy? That makes me hungry! And noble first effort, my eyestalk! Daleks do not say "I love you!" and ask for more pudding! We had the Go Go's exterminated after that!

RF: Well... then there was "Iron Man" in 1972 by Black Sabbath. In the beginning, there was a voice saying "I am Iron Man" which sounded a lot like a Dalek voice.

DALEK: Everyone knows that Iron Man looks like a Cyberman! One of them ripped off the other! Neither Cybermen or Iron Man sound like us! Black Sabbath was exterminated as well!

RF: Then there was "Doctorin' the TARDIS" in 1988 by The KLF which was a spoof on Gary Glitterʼs "Rock and Roll Part 2". It featured the Doctor Who theme song, and Dalek voices from the show.

DALEK: They were so cheap, they couldn't hire an actual Dalek to sing for them! And it was also honoring the Daleks greatest enemy, The Doctor! KLF was exterminated as well.

RF: Of course. That makes perfect sense. Among other bands to honor you

song "Weathercade". Also Dean Gray mashed up "Doctorin' the TARDIS" with the Green Day song "Holiday" and called it "Doctor Who on Holiday". It also had an intro of speeches read by President George W. Bush, compared to Daleks saying "All inferior creatures-"

DALEK:"-are to be considered the enemies of the Daleks and destroyed! Yadayadayada! Why won't these people give that line a rest already? Why can't they go with "Daleks do not accept apology!"? But I like the touch with George W. Bush. He would have made a good Dalek!

RF: Well, heʼs probably in Texas if you want to...

DALEK: We know! But he didn't go dictator at the last moment, so we exterminated him too!

RF: Right... umm, I don't know what to say to that. But before we say anything else, we should mention that there is a band called Dalek, I Love You.

DALEK: They are lame! Daleks are feared and hated! NOT LOVED! We had them-

RF: Exterminated, right?

DALEK: No. We had them turned into Human/Dalek hybrids so they would understand what being a Dalek is all about.

RF: Okay. We're just about done, so is there anything else you want to say to the readers?

DALEK: I can't believe humans think that Terry Nation created us! Davros is the creator of the Dalek! Terry Nation will be exterminated!

RF: I'm sorry to break it to you, but Terry Nation is dead.

DALEK: Oh ****, I guess I'll just have to exterminate you!

RF: Wait! Can't we-!

DALEK: Exterminate! Exterminate! EXTERMINAAAATE!

RF: AAIEE!

Interview by

Harry Seven

Photography by Lanie Nowak

Ignorance

It is never enough simply to fakeFacts and figures made by “states”

When all our teeth raise the high stakesFor parts and parts that assemble the whole

As we run far like lambs to the slaughterFaster than the lambs actually pushed to slaughter

Striking the heads down and down into the dirtYou stand and flirt with unnecessary decadence

A new partnership with your mistress deathBig business dragging a long and heavy sickleTo cut down and rip out those without voiceBut to us lungs do not equal language for us

Because we know for a fact that we are all equal We’ll watch as you grind helpless, innocent bones to “bread”

There are many connotations to the list of wordsBut personally, none of them are good enough for “me”

Or anyone with a lick of heartened, earthly senseAnd please oh please deny the masses starving minister

And feed those so misplaced by merciless hungerWhen there are plenty of safer places to stick our tonguesBefore the wordless scream out their already worn lungs

It seems to many that there are more at stake hereThan a steak on the dinner table for two over there

And no water for countless god knows whereIt is complet2ely unjustifiable in the eyes of many

Especially when so many are the gazes of the needyRights are rights just as they are naturally given

Not on paper but within inborn assumptionIt should be the first on people’s minds

When emerging from the outraged mouthsRather than the last afterthought on a fork to the throat

And we become angry, frantic, even bloatedBy fears and questions and doubts and liesThat so few choose to answer and oblige

Despite the fact that the answer is quite obviousThat we should stop while we’re “ahead”

When in fact we’re decades, generations behindWhere we should be by nowFree of cruelty and ignorance

And all our unnecessary negativesReplaced with genuine love

For every single ounce of life that exists here, with us.

- Nicholas Charles

The Key

Your key

Around my neck

Makes me feel

Safe

It’s not just any part of you that I carry with me.

It’s the part that’s here, the part that trusts me enough

To let me in.

It’s the part of you I like the most.

Your key

Opens

All the doors that I want.

All the doors that count.

All the doors of us.

- Beth Derr-Porter

Elixir

Do you remember the way honey tastes?like the ecstasy of warm golden light

buried now under these snowdrifts of cloudsand hiding behind winter-black mountains

the way it drips warmly calmly into your teathat sits in the window overlooking the table

where birds might wish to singwere it spring and all

the way it feels in my heartslinking slow like my gentle blood

so warmcaught in the warmness like iridescent wings

buzzing orangeyellow suspended in its own sweetnesslike some kind of antikosher irony

or maybe that’s just some kind of zenthe body trapped in its essence

nonsense in the Westwhere we insist that the essence is trapped

in the bodybut this love is bodiless

this lovethis honey on your tongue

dripped in rivulets accidentally on your shirtabove your own warm heart

this love is bodiless despite the bodiesthe corporeal fusion of

two hearts with one bloodone essence

thick and warm and sweetraw

like sunlight trapped in honey.

-Duncan Gamble

Consequences

Endearingly charmingmy heart goes out to you

how will you everamount to anything

but dashing andfantastically

lookingspeak not a word to me

for quivering at mybones will send

my mind onto a tangentadding and diving

the consequences offalling in love with you

as a projectile downwardfalling

accelerating-9.8 meters per second squared

times 32 secondsthe amount of time it takes

for meto catch your

smirking smilingfrown directed

at me but aimedas a bullet towards

my heart.

- Kathryn Tice

Wraith-like on the cornerof reality

the player standsswaying to the steady humming

of the crowdsfar below.

He forgets they seehis fingers

nimbly flickeringon the keys’

boneskeletons,

His coattails,like wings,

carry him with noregard for the wearer

or destination

- Anna Van Dine

It All Amounts to Silence

I walk a lonely road, full of lovely black dressesAnd black parades with marching bands playing too-sad songs

All full of all too-big words, sung all too loudly justAmounting to silence.

I’m no hero, just a person paying my rentTo live in this not-so-fair world full of

Not-so-nice people that shout too-loud speeches that only end upAmounting to silence

So after years of built-up lies, memories and complaintsAnd old cobwebs and coffin-nails forced in too hard,

Boards hammered unrelentingly again and again, it’s all just sitting there,Amounting to silence

Because I ignored it far too long,So that it grew and grew while I pretended it wasn’t there,

So that by the time I opened my eyes to face that harsh reality there wasNothing but silence

It’s that too well-known silence of too-deep buried andToo-far rotten to know what it might have been

Before I condemned it in its grave for forever and the rest of time toNothing but silence

And in the end nothing that’s left over matters reallyBecause through the parades and funerals and too-long nights

And too-short mornings, there was nothing at all in this too-old and too-young world,Nothing but silence.

Nothing but my silence, and the silence of those like me, filled with shouts that were never heard,

Tears that were never cried or cried in the dark, because this worldNever deserved anything from us but our too-quiet voices instead of our too-loud

personalities,So we gave it our silence.

Just once, could someone just listen to our too-quiet voices and steal a glimpse of all our

Too-loud personalities that everyone seems to shove into the dark instead of letting surface and grow

And take a breath in this too-bright and too-fast world, so we don't have to end up, Amounting to silence

- Margaret Slate

Masks.

Painted faces, hidden heartsno one sees

some wear the "right" facesome show you only what they think you want to see

tears masked by a smilei do it once and a while too

i put on my mask so no one seespeople tell you your ugly, they say your fake

why?i'm tired of wearing a face no one loves

so i paint on a pretty smileone day i threw this mask away

i flew awayif you listen you can hear the world whisper "you are important"

i found that thingi found that person

they took off my maskno more hiding

believe.

- Casey Petruzella

The Inexistent Sensitive Guy

What girls don’t realizeIs that guys really care

We just don’t care about your make-upOr how you did your hair

We care about the important things like your breasts and your assThat’s why we always stare when we walk you to class

It’s a secret code when we nod our heads at our brosIt means: “Hey dude, check out my hoe”

We don’t tell you these things cause we know what you’ll say“OMG you creep! Please go away!”

Forgive me pleaseI’m on my kneesHere are the keys

To my heartDon’t tear it apartJust take it back

To the start

Cause even though we think these things in our headsIf it was between losing you and death

We’d rather be dead

We love it when you ask us about our dayAnd even if we don’t show it

It goes a long way

We love your beautiful eyesWe love your sweet smile

You could move to another stateBut, to see you, we’d run miles

You see us guys aren’t so bad after allAnd we’ll be there every time you fall

It just goes to show you that we really do careOh and, by the way, we love what you did with your hair

- Mitchell Schneider

Urgency

You know that I’m fallingfaster than ever before

and no,I’m not falling in love--

I’m falling into my memories;spiraling through the tunnel

of my everlasting pastpainted on the walls of the world around me

and these scary thoughtsthey just consume my brain

these deepthese dark

these killer thoughts my wrists are redmy heart is torn;as for my brain,

that’s everywhere—I’m falling hard and fast,

scared out of my wits;so close to the light

and equally as close to the darkness cause this time,

I’m gonna hit rock bottomand I’m unconvinced that you’ll be able to catch me…

your arms may be outstretchedyou may be poised

like a pen over paperwaiting for the inspiration

but sometimes;you just gotta let me fall

and I’ve gotten this awful sinking feelingthat I’m just gonna fall, and fall, and

falland I’ll hit that rock hard ground

harder than ever before;without your soothing arms wrapped around me,

I’ll be scared and alonejust like I am now

cause I’ve gotten this awful sinking feelingby the red on my wrists

and the darkness growing in my brainthat the crash will be soon

cause I’ve already leapt off that cliffjumped off that building

now I’m gazing at the rocks belowwaiting for the bone breaking crash

to stop the colors of my past.

-Paige Apple

Photography by Tori Bishop

Rocket Streams!I do the very best I know how - the very best I can; and I mean to keep on doing so until the end. - Abraham Lincoln

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.- Scott Adams

Personality is everything in art and poetry.- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.- Martin Luther

If you accept the expectations of others, especially the negative ones, then you will never change the outcome.- Michael Jordan

Someone's sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago.- Warren Buffet

I've been absolutely terrified every moment of my life - and I've never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.- Georgia OʼKeeffe

My mother said to me, “If you become a soldier, you'll become a general. If you become a monk, you'll end up as the Pope.” Instead, I wound up a painter and became Picasso." - Pablo Picasso

Don't go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.- Mark Twain

A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.- Charles Darwin

I think I've discovered the secret of life - you just hang around until you get used to it.- Charles Schulz

Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act. - Truman Capote

When you are courting a nice girl an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder a second seems like an hour. That's relativity.- Albert Einstein

People who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.- Isaac Asimov

I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific.- Lily Tomlin

Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy.- Benjamin Franklin

Life is hard. After all, it kills you.- Katharine Hepburn

What's another word for Thesaurus?- Steven Wright

Want to see your favorite quote featured in Rocket Fuel?Drop us a line at RocketFuelmagazine@gmail.com