Rio Americano High SchoolJune 2010

The LeveeLiterary Magazine

Rio Americano High School4540 American River Drive

Sacramento, CA 95864(916) 971-7495

Editors-in-chief: Seychelle Steiner and Lauren HotellCover Page: Avi Mehari and Eugene Kwon

Adviser: Michael Mahoney

Editor’s NoteAfter bothering seniors continuously and relentlessly to submit short stories, poetry, artworks, photo-graphs and other pieces of literature to the 2010 edition of The Levee, we were able to put together a

compilation of intriguing and exciting student work. We worked for hours in Mahoney’s back room, skip-ping many lunches in the process. We want to thank everyone who helped us and we are very proud of

the tremendous amount of hard work that went into this publication.

Great job Class of 2010!

From your editors,Seychelle Steiner and Lauren Hotell

Photo by Briana Ezray

Tabl

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onte

nts 2 “FunkyTown”

ShortstorybyVincentHirtzel

5 “Graduation”PoembyElenaTownsend

6 “CeruleanSkies”PoembyHilaryStewart

7 BookReviews GavinMolerandSamFriedman

8 RioGradAuthorInterviewMollyIngram

9 StudentPoetry LeahChenandMarissaRuxin

10 “Anerco”ShortstorybyJeeinShin

12 “TheLunchoftheBaskervilles”ShortstorybyJacobBlock

15 “TwoGrandpas”PoembyAustinKinn

16 “TheSpiritofDemocracy”EssaybyLauraAnderson

19 “TheBeast”ShortstorybyGraceChediak

20 “MakingChildren’sDreamsComeTrue”ShortstorybyIlisaWeinberg

23 “Summertime”PoembyAaronSoskin

24 “TheHorrorofNoise”ShortStorybyGovindRaghavan

27 “TanningSalonMeltdown“PoembyChristianOldham

28 “BurntSand“ShortStorybyRyanMcKone

30 “Hallelujah”ShortStorybyShelbyOstwald

32 “Seasons“SongbyDerekSup

33 “SmellsLikePup” MusicbyZachGiberson

1

I walked in the glass door of Cold Stone Creamery to start my shift earlier than I ever had before since I got the

job in early September. It was a weekend afternoon in the middle of a wet, cold No-vember. Not only was it my first afternoon shift, but it was also the first time I would be left alone in the store. I shouldn’t have even been working that afternoon shift, but as usual something came up, and my friend, Brendan, who played a large part in getting me the job, asked if I could cover the shift for him and he would work my evening shift. I felt obligated to agree to the switch even though I was nervous about being left to myself for a whole four hours.

As I crossed the infrared barrier, the familiar Pavlovian electric door chime went off; and sure enough in a few seconds, resembling a salivating capital-ist expecting profits, my manager, Ada, greeted me in the lobby with more than a hint of disappointment in her voice. The response my co-workers and I would have if a familiar face appeared after the door chime went off during our shift is very near the exact opposite. The source of the barrier being broken is so often a cause of frustration for us that the most obscure acquaintance becomes in that instant our new best friend.

I pushed open the weighted wooden door with the inaccurate sign reading “Ice Cream Makers Only,” set my backpack on the cart next to the computer desk, and put on my stylish apron and Cold Stone Creamery visor. I clocked in just in time as George Michael began to sing the chorus to “Freedom”. The 1980’s were the flavor of the day.

“Vincent,” Ada got my attention before she left for the day, “I need you do some-thing for me while you work.” I glanced briefly above Ada’s head into her office. Staring back at me as it has every day since I first started working there, was the little dancing Santa doll that doesn’t dance anymore. Although his features were familiar to the traditional inviting im-age of Santa Clause there was something

unsettling about him. His tongue stuck out a deep red, his sack was so small he held it easily with one hand over his right shoulder, and his eyes were large, pitch black and expecting, almost like a salivat-ing dog.

“Vincent, I need you to write a report of what happen each hour you work.” Ada’s broken English was just understand-able and it snapped me out of my staring contest with the Santa doll who I was sure would blink if I stared long enough. “I need to know what is most popular flavor of ice cream so say how many customers order what each hour.”

I answered in the affirmative as always, “At least I don’t have to close,” which I thought would be enough to keep me go-ing through any torture Ada could imagine

for me.Ada continued with her list of de-

mands: Don’t touch the ice cream ma-chine, fill up the sinks at 6, don’t use the computer, until she finally hit the nail in my coffin. “Some customer complain about the music we play in the store being not good so from now on don’t change the radio station.”

This was the end; boredom I could deal with, endless chores I could trudge through, but I was already planning on changing the radio station as soon as Ada left the building. Now it was just me, the ice cream, a report to fill out every hour,

and a loop of 80’s hits. Already the cheesy saxophone licks were grating on my frag-ile nerves.

Hour One Report: No customers. Just my friend Jacob stopped by and sampled all the ice cream twice. I’ve had little company but my own thoughts for a whole hour. I think I’m starting to lose it; as I was talking to Jacob I swear I saw the Santa doll move in the office. This terrible 80’s music is driving me crazy.

Hour Two Report: Still no customers. On this rainy November afternoon, who wants ice cream anyway? I went into the office to change the satellite radio sta-tion despite Ada’s instruction. How could she tell? Suddenly Santa, the god of Cold Stone as he called himself, spoke to me. He told me that the song playing was his

favorite song. Every time I try to change the station he tells me this. Who could possibly love that much 80’s music?

Hour Three Report: Vincent truly be-gins to lose it. He starts referring to him-self in the third person, scaring friends and strangers alike. It is a shame that another soul has been lost to Santa, the god of Cold Stone, and his sick 80’s synthesized beats! Vincent befriends the talking ice cream machine, but then he fears that the ice cream machine is trying to betray him to Santa, THE GOD OF COLDSTONE HIMSELF! So Vincent leaves the water hose on thus sucking the life out of the

“Histonguestuckoutadeepred,hissackwassosmallhehelditeas-

ilywithonehandoverhisrightshoulder,andhiseyeswerelarge,pitchblackandexpecting,almost

likeasalivatingdog.”

FunkyTownbyVincentHirtzel

2

ice cream machine reverse water boarding style. Brilliant! Even in insanity Vincent is truly a genius, a great man for his gen-eration! Next Vincent falls in love with a mix-in jar filled with M&M’s but he cannot resist eating them all. In the grief caused by eating his lover Vincent quickly marries a rag named “Big Momma”. Cus-tomers come and go; Vincent hides from them in the deepest reaches of the walk-in freezer, which goes much farther than was previously estimated by geologists, plumbers, electricians, the SPCA, the YMCA, the FDA, and the AARP. Living off of pre-made brownies and the heat generated by the core of the Earth Vincent loses track of time. “Big Momma” is very abusive and Vincent longs for the M&M mix-in jar. And above all the voice of Santa, The God of Coldstone himself, rings in Vincent’s ears

“No wait! This is my favorite song.”

The paradox of having more than one favorite song is pushed to the back of his mind as Vincent grapples with the idea of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” being anyone’s favorite song. Vin-cent has trouble imagining anyone enjoying that song when they hear it and he has violent flashbacks to line dancing in middle school P.E. As “Big Momma” is choking Vincent he has one of these flashbacks and re-members his middle school crush.

“How could I be so na-ive?” thinks Vincent.

In reality Vincent’s naïveté has not dis-appeared. This is the exact cause for such classic thoughts as: “a job at Cold Stone will be both fun and rewarding.”

The violent side of Vincent’s vio-lent flashbacks spells the end for “Big Momma” as Vincent, with great difficulty, wrestles the rag away from his neck and

throws it in to the hot molten core of the Earth insanely cackling as he does it. Having just committed homicide twice in the last hour Vincent resurfaces fearing an invasion of his underground lair from the popo, or the Mounties, or the Pope at any second. When Vincent returns to the loneliness of the back room of Cold Stone, a quick glance of the mirror tells him that

only thirty minutes has passed. A line of customers extends from the register, where one particularly angry mom demands frozen sugar milk for her little, hyper, glass touching children. Vincent enters the lobby screaming, “Everything in Cold Stone is on fire!”

Once again, brilliance is clearly on dis-

play. Vincent trods across the flooded back room toward the office shrine of Santa. Santa is displeased and demands that Vin-cent turns the volume up on the stereo. All against his better judgment, with Prince’s unnaturally high voice squeaking in the background at a frequency just barely discernible by humans, Vincent complies and turns the volume up. When he real-

izes what he has done, Vincent attempts to turn the sick 80’s beats back down but the volume increases instead.

“This squawk box is obvious-ly working for Santa!” Vincent barely hears himself think over the chorus of “Funky Town”. Vincent must diffuse this bomb of a sound system with only a spade and that bendy pipe cleaner with the bristles at the ends that Michael, Ada’s hus-band, bought to unclog the dip well. Never one for the classic board game Operation, Vincent fumbles clumsily with the store wide speaker system when his elbow accidentally brushes the off button.

Finally the era of Santa, the God of Cold Stone himself, is almost at an end. Without his 80’s hits he stands no chance against the cunning of Vincent, who we already know has no qualms about taking the life of an inanimate object. Vincent enters the office shrine for the last time.

“I’ve been expecting you Vincent,” Santa’s says from the darkness of the unlit room.

“You’re reign of terror has come to an end Santa,” says Vincent calmly as he shuts the office shrine door behind him.

Vincent, who is not very co-ordinated in the light let alone in

the dark, accidentally turns on the stereo system which is set to the 70’s station. “I Will Survive” is blaring throughout Cold Stone and into Vincent’s skull as Santa whispers, “No wait. This is my favorite song.”

3

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4 Photo by Molly Ingram

GraduationThis was the day full of celebrationfor it was graduation, something so excitingthe day seniors would throw their caps in the air with such elationthis was an event so rewarding

Students would set off in separate wayssome to the east, some to the northwhere they would spend the rest of their daysbut this was the day that they would set forth

Finally you were the one walking across the stagehigh school is over, now the diploma is in your handfinally the time comes to turn the pagein the book of life, now it’s your turn to take a standnow is your chance to change your lifeto excel, to overcome adolescent strife

-Elena Townsend

5 Photo by Katelyn Peterson

Photo by Katelyn Peterson6

Cerulean Skies He said my eyes-Were as blue as the spring sky -That my gaze captured his every thought. He said my eyes-Were mysterious like the deep blue sea,That my smile made them sparkle.

He said my eyes-Are bright blue sapphiresThat he is lost in their stare.

He said my eyes-Dance like a dolphin on a blue waveThat he knows when my spirits are high

He said my eyes-Show a cold blueThat he knows when I am angry

He said my eyes-Show a soulful blueThat he knows when I am sad

-Hilary Stewart

7

Seldom can a novel make a reader contemplate the legitimacy of a dream.. And yet this is what Philip

Roth achieves in his novel America Pas-toral. Razing the image of perfection, Roth explores the battered psyche of a man who outwardly sits atop the world, yet is crushed by family tragedies within. Employing a clever means to narrate the story of one man through another man’s conjecture, Roth never clearly distinguish-es speculation from reality, all while at-tempting to paint the most accurate picture possible of a man who is both prone to secrecy as well as self-destruction.

The main character of Roth’s novel, Mr. Levov, commonly referred to as “The Swede”, is a man so bereft of all flaws that his existence seems purely farcical. The star of his high school football and basket-ball teams, he is well-loved by his family and friends and idolized by the denizens of

his small New Jersey town. As he moves through life, his good fortune continues, inheriting his father’s successful glove making factory and marrying the beautiful Miss New Jersey. However, his life, while characterized by a façade of perfection, hides secrets that slowly break down his well being, leaving him a man ridden with low morale and eventually cancer. When his daughter, suffering from a frustrating speech impediment throughout her child-hood, takes her anger out on society by blowing up a post office building, killing a doctor inside, he becomes a recluse, leav-ing his home only to work and search for answers to his fugitive daughter’s where-abouts. The ordeals he endures and the inane political activists he encounters in his search serve only to push him further into a state of shock and denial regarding his daughter’s crimes. With a brother who no longer approves of his reckless need to

search for his loved one and a wife who grows increasingly distant, the Swede realizes he stands alone in his quest for his little girl, alienated from society in a way that provides stark contrast to his former outstanding self. As his story progresses, flashbacks occur with greater frequency, a weak grasp at the “good old days”, which no longer hold root in reality.

Illustrated through a simple diction and eloquent style, American Pastoral is a piece that ought to be on every reading list across the nation. It lacks nothing that is required of a great novel, incorporating a page-turning plot with beautiful passages that draw forth emotions which paral-lel the sentiments held by each character within the novel. So real are the responses witnessed by the Swede and those around him that it is a wonder Roth was capable of writing so accurately without being plagued by these tragedies himself.

American Pastoral: A Reviewby Gavin Moler

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut tells the story of the events that lead up to a meeting

between Dwayne Hoover and Kilgore Trout, the meeting itself, and what events transpire after the meeting of the two men. Trout, an unsuccessful science fiction writer, immediately becomes a success-ful author and wins the Nobel Prize after the meeting; however, Hoover, who was a wealthy businessman before the meet-ing, is sent spiraling downhill after the meeting.

At the start of the novel, Trout receives an invitation to the Midland City Art Festival. While hitchhiking to Midland City, Trout is met by a few obstacles, most notably a group of nameless characters who beat him up. When he arrives in Midland City, he meets Dwayne Hoover in the cocktail lounge of the New Holiday Inn. After talking briefly, he begins to read Trout’s novel entitled Now It Can Be

Told. The premise of the novel is that the reader is the only person in the world with free will and that everyone else is a robot. Hoover, who has gone insane, interprets the novel as a message to him that he is the only man in the world who has free will. Hoover subsequently goes on an ex-tremely violent rampage, injuring many of the people around him and then eventually ends up in a mental institution.

The novel covers a variety of differ-ent themes. One of the main themes of the book is how the media and the arts often influence reality. In chapter 19 the narrator has a sudden epiphany about the plight of Americans. He says that Americans always do their best to live like people in books and stories. This revela-tion is clearly a glimpse into Vonnegut’s view of America’s problems. The narrator even talks about how this was the reason that Americans shot each other so often, because it was a convenient literary device

for ending a story. This theme is brought up throughout the entire novel.

The way Breakfast of Champions writ-ing is unique. Vonnegut pays a painstaking amount of detail to the minor characters of the story. This is because, as the narrator points out, in life everyone is as an impor-tant of a character as everyone else..

Vonnegut also uses a plethora of tiny phrase throughout his writing. In the book, he begins many of his paragraphs with the word “listen” and concludes many of his thematic rants with the words “and so on.” Overall, the book is entertaining, enlightening, and a fun read. But, the book doesn’t truly have a great deal of significance like other pieces of classi-cal literature. The themes in Breakfast of Champions are peculiar and didn’t really relate well to me personally, and I feel like the majority of readers wouldn’t relate to them either.

Insight into Breakfast of Championsby Sam Friedman

8

In many ways, Shanthi Sekaran is your typical Sacramento native.

Born at Sutter Memorial Hospital, Sekaran grew up in Arden Oaks, played soccer for Arden Park’s soccer team and graduated from Rio Americano in 1995.

Although she moved on first to Berke-ley and then to England, Sekaran returned to her suburban Sacramento roots for inspiration and setting of her well-received debut novel, “The Prayer Room” (Mac-Adam/Cage, $14, 375 pages). The book is the Sacramento Bee’s book club choice for November.

As the youngest in a large household, Sekaran said her older brothers influenced her in many ways.

“They were the first to take me to the old bookstore, Tower Books on Watt Ave,” Sekaran said. “I was allowed to get one book at a time.”

Perhaps it was her brothers’ influences or her passion for books that inspired Sekaran to become an author.

“I found that I wanted to tell a story, and I knew that I wanted to write,” Sek-aran said. “I think that when you know that you want to write, you just know it.”

Sekaran especially enjoyed Public Speaking and Radio/TV during her years at Rio.

“Those two classes offered me the chance to get away from the academic side of things and just be creative and learn to express myself,” Sekaran said. “High

school can be a little stifling, and those classes allowed me to explore and express myself with minimal embarrassment.”

Sekaran received a bachelor’s degree in English literature and French from UC Berkeley. She also obtained a master’s degree in South Asian studies, and was ac-cepted into the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars.

While Sekaran was in Baltimore for the creative writing seminars, she began to write a short story, which eventually evolved into “The Prayer Room.”

Inspired by her ancestral Indian back-ground and childhood memories of Sac-ramento, Sekaran’s novel blends Indian, British and American culture.

“I really wanted to write something set in the house I grew up in, I think because I’d just married and moved to England when my parents sold it,” Sekaran said. “That house was the setting, more or less, for the first phase of my life, and I wanted to preserve it somehow.”

“The Prayer Room” encompasses the feelings of isolation and sacrifice, espe-cially those of an immigrant such as the main character Viji, an Indian woman who marries an English man named George.

The two move to Sacramento after George is offered a job at Sacramento State in the art history department. Both George and Viji are aliens to land of suburban Sacramento, and have to make major adjustments in their lives to adapt to

America.Although many instances in “The

Prayer Room” seem similar to Sekaran’s life, she said the novel is “definitely fiction” and is not based upon her family members.

It’s “more fun to make up information and events in a book,” Sekaran said during her novel discussion at Borders Books on Fair Oaks Boulevard earlier this month.

Sekaran’s novel is an easy read; not because of simplistic language, or because of a lack of depth to the story, but because of the fact that it’s entirely relatable for anyone who’s ever felt like a minority, or different from those around them in any way. Also, the novel includes a vivid description of India’s beauty, and nostal-gic memoirs of summers in Sacramento, swimming in “kidney bean-shaped pools” and spending time at the Arden Fair Mall.

Although Sekaran currently divides her time between England and Berkeley with her husband Spencer and 21-month-old son Avinash while working on her Ph.D at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, she still enjoys visiting her home town.

“I spent my teenage years sort of plan-ning my escape from Sacramento, but coming back, there are neighborhoods I really love,” Sekaran said. “They’re leafy and beautiful, and it seems like a place to live that works.”

Rio graduate returns to roots for first novel

by Molly Ingram

The Sordid TruthA five letter word in which I’ve heardWhen mistaken is used to reassureOverused like ‘I love you.’ How absurd!Don’t need no word, actions are preferred

Words don’t mean anything, tongues uncouthThey say lies are easy but what’s hard is truthPlaying me like a game, when it’s me you loseClaiming you’re sorry when that’s old news

Words don’t mean anything to no one now-a-daysGrew up, automatic forgiving was just a phaseYou just can’t say, you gotta showAnd if you just can’t stay, you gotta goSo you said it onceBut it don’t phase meForgiving always was how they raised meBut how can I forgive, when no actions chase me?I just hear words that fail to shake me

Ever so quickly, time just fliesGiven days & months of what I realizeYou gotta prove it to me, not shed all your liesGotta show me you mean itThen I can finalize

Transform what’s spoken into what’s realTake what’s real then seal the deal& with that deal prove how you feeland from how you feel..

Maybe, I’ll heal.

-Leah Chen

9

Honesty A child nervously wigglesAs her teacher questions whether sheStole the missing pencilThe girl timidly answers“I didn’t do it” The schoolgirlGoes homePlaysEats But sleep evades herMenacing thoughts remainShe had taken the pencilHad lied TomorrowShe would be honest Sleep came quickly

-Marissa Ruxin

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I have accepted the fact that I am no longer living, and am certainly dead.

My name was Napoleon Watt An-ecro III. I was rather young and extremely good-looking when I was alive because everyone in my family had only good traits to pass on. I was named after the French emperor and the man who invented the steam engine, two men I have great respect for. Many people addressed me as James, the first name of the steam engine man, although I liked to be called Nappo. I was the very rich, rich, rich heir of a grand company that poor people dream of being a part of, so it is appropriate to think that I was quite wealthy and was part of a sophisticated family.

They say the good die young, or something like that, which is clearly true, as I am an example. They also say that the good die mysteriously, which is also true, as I am a dead example. I don’t really know how I died, but my last memories on Earth consisted of my mother and father bidding me farewell as I left my property for the first time, on my own. I was only one-and-twenty years old. The world seemed so grand and peaceful for my first day of traveling. I was supposed to catch a cab and head to the airport, then fly to Paris but I didn’t know exactly how to catch a cab. Until then I had never had to catch anything, so I was slightly befuddled by the predicament I was presented with. I watched a woman down the street run up almost in the middle of traffic while wav-ing her arm in front of one of those yellow cars called taxis. It didn’t seem that hard,

only she was catching a common taxi, while I was looking for a cab.

I waited on a bench for a very long time looking for a cab. That was when a man who looked very raggedy started to club my luscious hair with some sort of stick. I feel like this is around the time I died. I said my death was mysterious,

which it was. I do not know if the old man hitting me had killed me or if the repulsive smell had suffocated me. It’s all very con-fusing in my mind. Either way, I woke up in the afterlife. I am precisely sure that this is the afterlife because when I awoke, my head was secreting red blood. The logic I

used was particularly crafty: I knew from television that poorer people had red blood while rich people, such as my family, had blue blood (our veins!). Thus I concluded that because we were now in the afterlife, the rules had switched and now poorer souls had blue blood and richer souls had red blood. It made perfect sense.

Yes, I had realized that I was dead. I wandered through the streets of the after-life aimlessly looking for an answer. To be honest, the afterlife was not what I had expected, but I was not utterly confused. It looked a lot like the streets I had lived on, but I somewhat expected this would happen. I have read some stories on the afterlife and sometimes they appear to be mirrors of what you’re used to, so this was why I was not too surprised. However, the afterlife was certainly more painful that I had thought. I always contemplated that the dead world to be more relaxing and carefree because everyone was dead, but I came to find that the dead seem very much alive.

The afterlife seemed much more pain-ful than my real life. I lived in a humble

home of sixteen rooms and nine bath-rooms. I had only six maids and six but-lers, two personal drivers, some gardeners, and hired friends who were quite charm-ing. I thought entertaining those folks was quite difficult, but being dead in the after-life was quite a level of difficulty higher! I saw many more men on the streets of the

afterlife, just sitting on the curbs holding cans and signs. I sort of wondered if they knew they were dead because they still had signs up that called for help and such. I guess perhaps because they were so poor in their living life that they were not edu-cated about the afterlife and thus do not

know they are in the afterlife. And so, to lend a helping hand, I decided to tell them that they were actually dead.

“Sir, hello.” I said rather cordially.“Meh.” He said in reply.“You have quite dapper shoes,” I said

hesitantly, “might they be from Prada?” The man looked at me in this very hateful way. I couldn’t imagine why, as I just clearly overestimated his shoes. They were much more of last season Gucci if anything. Yet I continued.

“Do you know, perchance, that you are in fact dead and no longer need that sign?” I smiled warmly so that he would know I was a friend and not some snobbish rich man although I was quite rich when I was alive. The man mumbled something.

I was beginning to lose patience so I decided maybe I should just show him that this was the afterlife by cutting his skin a bit and revealing the color of his blood. So with my nail I scratched him in a petite yet acute manner. The man mumbled louder and shuffled to the side away from me, but I sat right next to him so he couldn’t shuffle away anymore. I grabbed his wrist and held it close to his face.

“If you look here, your blood is blue…” I glanced down, but instead his blood was not blue. It was the truest red I had ever seen.

Suddenly everything honed in. I let go of the man’s wrist and stood up. I swal-lowed my saliva nervously, my eyes felt hot, which if you did not know, is not good for eyes. Every muscle of my body was quivering in realization. I was born poor.

“Yes,IhadrealizedIwasdead.”

“ItwasthetruestredIhadeverseen.”

Anecroby Jeein Shin

10

11Art by Teddi Triphon

The dim room was lit by a single bulb dangling from a rusty copper wire. In the middle of the room

at a desk cluttered with years and years of paperwork, newspaper clippings, and various assorted weapons, two men sat; a detective and his sidekick, facing each other in an odd sense of mutual concentra-tion. The green walls were covered with framed newspaper headlines, and pictures of various creatures of the Serengeti. The detective always likened himself to a cheetah: quick-witted, quick-footed, and abnormally hairy.

He sat back in his softly cushioned chair, contemplation oozing from his facial expression. He sat across from his assistant, thinking about his decision and how it could affect his entire case, his entire livelihood! He looked into his part-ner’s stare; he attempted to permeate the mind of his sidekick. He was quite good at reading people; it was a gift he received from his father, a fortune teller in days of yore. His assistant sat with an uncomfort-able air of confusion and doubt. He was holding a pad of paper and a pencil, sweat-ing profusely. The detective knew what to do. His choice had been made, and he had to stick with it.

“I’ll have pastrami,” he declared un-certainly, though he was satisfied with his choice.

This man, this detective, was the debo-nair extraordinaire Thaddeus J. Eccen-tricitous (motto: “The J is for Genius”). In reality, J was not his middle initial at all. He had no middle name, but invented one instead. His partner-in-crime, the incom-parable Tom Q. Wiggins (motto: “You can lead an idiot to the scene of the crime, but you’ll still have to solve it for him”) exited the room with the lunch order, grumbling under his breath.

Now that Eccentricitous had solved the

case of the unknown lunch, he laid back and closed his eyes for a minute. He began to question his place in the universe, to wonder how he got to where he was, and why he acted the way he did. It was just then that his door swung open with a bang, interrupting him mid-existential crisis.

“Ah, the sandwiches have arrived!” cried the sleuth with delight.

It wasn’t so. In rushed a distressed woman in her mid-thirties. Black hair, blue eyes, tall, thin, and mad as hell. He looked at her casually, his gaze meeting

hers with a cool, knowledgeable air that most wouldn’t understand.

“You! You better help me out! I’ve got a big problem!” exclaimed the distressed damsel.

“And what might this problem be, Miss…?”

“Haberdasher.”“Miss Horseradish.”“I’m a kindergarten teacher, and some-

one stole one of my students’ lunches. No one will come forward. I need your help.”

“Hey now, you crazy dame, this ain’t some sort of kids’ playhouse!” returned the detective angrily, taking on the charac-teristics of inspectors he’d seen on televi-sion, “This is a professional private eye business. We don’t help just anyone.”

“That’s not what your sign says.”He closed his eyes in exasperation. He

now regretted putting up that sign on his door that said, “We help just anyone!”

“Still, I’ll need the proper…compensa-tion, if you catch my drift…”

“Do it or I’ll smack you!” she de-manded.

“All right, fine. Let’s go to kindergar-ten,” he said in his most dramatic voice. He grabbed his pistol from his desk and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Wait,” he said, “that’s ridiculous.” He returned his gun to its place and picked up his cross-bow.

He was already out the door before Ms. Haberdasher could say anything; he was now wearing an overcoat and his deer-stalker cap, pipe in mouth. Like a chee-tah…he thought.

They entered the classroom. Eccen-tricitous surveyed his surroundings. There were children everywhere, wildly color-ing, cutting bright pieces of construction paper into unknown polygons, singing nursery rhymes, and putting their hands in all sorts of dirty, unimaginable places. The walls were encrusted with thousands of crayon drawings depicting houses and, if any sort of scale was involved, fourteen-foot-tall stick giants. He stayed calm, cool, and collected, despite his fear of abnor-mally large stick figures, known in certain doctoral circles as Rooseveltaphobia. Soapy bubbles emanated from his pipe.

“Elementary,” he said, as a rim shot echoed in the distance.

The Lunch of the Baskervilles

by Jacob Block

“Hebegantoquestionhisplaceintheuniverse,to

wonderhowhegottowherehewas,andwhyhe

actedthewayhedid.”

12

He carefully approached a young girl who appeared incredibly scared. He knelt down so they were face to face.“Young lady,” he inquired, “what is your name? Was it your lunch that was stolen?”“Yes, sir,” the girl began in a tone not unlike that of Barry White. “My name is Shadynasty. I think the class bully, Count Devil-

pants, stole it.”Eccentricitous reached inside his coat and retrieved one of his very own inventions: a magnifying glass, onto which was glued a

second magnifying glass (he recalled one day long ago when he showed his new discovery to Wiggins, declaring, “I heard you like to magnify, so I put a magnifying glass in your magnifying glass so you can magnify while you magnify!”). He studied the girl for clues, placing the magnifying glass next to her head and peering through with one eye wide open.

“Approximately five years old,” observed the detective, “seems to be in good condition. I really should dust for fingerprints…eh, maybe later.”

“Hey,” she said. “Stop it!”“Ah, you desire a bout of fisticuffs, do you?! Well I’m not above fighting a five year old girl if she’s up for the challenge. I must

warn you, though, I used to be a boxer at Oxford Community College!”He began to prance back and forth, fists raised and turned inward in a manner eerily reminiscent of Notre Dame’s famous Fighting

Irishman. She swiftly kicked him in his nether region and made her escape.“Ouch! My Watsons!” he exclaimed as he crumpled to his side. He slowly regained his composure and surveyed the room once

more. He saw a boy in the corner eating a lunch labeled ‘Shadynasty’. The lad wore a cape, as if he were attempting to emulate a vam-pire. The detective sheepishly advanced toward the boy.

“Hey you! Hey! Young man! With the cape!” yelled Eccentricitous, despite the fact that he was standing approximately 3 feet from the boy. “Did you take your classmate’s lunch?”

“Only the good will suffer the wrath of…Count Devilpants!” proclaimed the boy in his most menacing tone.“That lunch is labeled with the name of your classmate. It is obviously evidence in my case.”

Photo by Devika Nair

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“You are mistaken, you thoughtless detective…there was a misunderstanding at the Devilpants’ household ere this morn. I was mistakenly given my sister’s midday

feast. Her name is Shady Nasty, rather than the singular Shadynasty. An honest blunder…foolish mortal! OOOOOOOO!”

Damn! He has flawless logic, thought the sleuth, as the Count oooed off into the distance.

“Devilpants…” wondered the detec-

tive aloud. He tried to make some sort of connection. “Devil Rays…Florida…oranges…branches…ranches…barn…yarn…cat…hat…hair…wig…no! It can’t

be! It was-”Wiggins burst through the doorway,

paper bag in hand. He was breathing hard, as he had run around town looking for a suitable sandwich.

“Thaddeus, I have your lunch,” he wheezed.

“Hey!” cried Shadynasty, “That’s my lunch!”

“Wiggins! Return that girl’s lunch! Ms. Hosiery and I have been searching all over the place for that!” exclaimed the investi-gator.

“But, but Thaddeus…I got this for you!”

“Did you?” asked the detective, taking the bag from his assistant, “Well, I am rather famished. I’ll let this one go, but one more time and you’ll lose some vaca-tion days!”

“Can I have my lunch back now?” asked the girl.

“Sure…just let me - WHAT’S THAT?!” he exclaimed, pointing out the window.

As the class was distracted, he and Wiggins made their escape, sprinting away from the classroom and toward the local pub, too fast for the children and their teacher. Like a cheetah…thought Eccen-tricitous, as he and his partner ran toward their next adventure.

“Therewerechildreneverywhere,wildlycoloring,cuttingbrightpiecesofconstructionpaperintounknown

polygons,singingnurseryrhymes,andputtingtheirhandsinallsortsofdirty,

unimaginableplaces.”

14

Pho

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TwoGrandpasNot being able to see your face light up like the sun,When you set eyes upon me.Or having a cheerful conversation whileYou had a smoke in the starlit night. How I wish you could come back for just one day, To stand on the sideline of one of my soccer games. I know you would be proud that IReceived your love for such a beautiful sport. Watching your sky blue van to appear on the horizon,And offer me a ride home from school.The whole way home smelling black licoriceThat you are eating next to me. I know that you will always be watching over me, And helping to guide me down the right path.Hopefully you are enjoying yourself,And I never give up hope that maybeOne day I will see you again.

-AustinKinn

15Photo by Katelyn Peterson

I remember my third grade teacher asking me to give my opinion before the class. I was a shy child who sat the

jitters just by uttering a syllable in front of an audience larger than my two best friends. Yet somehow as I approached the podium, which was adorned in smiley faces and water color paintings, the words I wished to speak suddenly flew into my mind. My strong opinion soared off the tip of my tongue, leaving the butterflies in my stomach to dance alone. To this day I often reflect on the moment when I was given the valuable gift of words and expression. Even as a child it did not take long for me to establish myself as an opinionated individual with passions and dreams. Our forefathers ensured that these personal reflections, which make us who we are, would be free from all restraints which hindered those in the Old World. It is this gift, found in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, which has made America honorable and unyielding as a nation. Students are the next genera-tion, the life-blood of American democ-racy flowing through the veins of Uncle Sam. Freedom of speech and expression within schools is imperative to uphold-ing the success and trust of the people. Without these rights, children and students alike would be powerless in a world of hypocrisy. Not only would their morale be shattered but also their independence and sense of self. Our forefathers fought to the death for freedom. Now it is our turn to uphold it.

My school newspaper has always been a very influential media among students. To put it plainly, the paper can publish pretty much anything under the sun. This is a way students are able to express themselves as well as learn about others. Without this freedom, they would lose their independence and faith; by edit-ing their every word, the administration would essentially be telling them who they should and should not be. It would be as if an imperialistic Big Brother were standing over their head, invading their privacy and thoughts. Not only would students begin

to doubt their own insight, but also distrust the edited words of their peers. It is the re-sponsibility of students to learn and grow, become rational, mature and outspoken citizens. The case of Layshock v. Hermit-age School District demonstrated a boy’s effort to essentially grow up. I agree that the Myspace profile, which he created as a joke against his principal, was immature. But all the same, by upholding his free-dom to create such a page, America is tell-ing its children that it is okay to be a child, to grow up. If he had made it in school, the only problem would be the waste of valuable time that could be spent learn-

ing about the world. Otherwise, student’s rights should be no different at school than at home. In the real world adults grasp a freedom of thought and expres-sion, so why would it be any different for students? Isn’t childhood an essential time to discover one’s own potential as a leader and citizen? People who believe that our Constitutional Rights should not be upheld within the classroom are hypocrites. Since elementary school we have been taught to speak up for what we believe in, let our voice be heard among the crowd, “sois toi-meme”. If they wish to deny us of free speech rights now, the future of the nation is resting on the shoulders of the silenced.

Our first memories occur when we are two years old, our first insights when we are around seven. As humans we are constantly changing into the person we will be for the rest of our lives. With these

new revelations also comes determination and passion, which should be encouraged instead of bound. In the Supreme Court case of Tinker v. Des Moines, a few stu-dents were determined to fight for peace. This is a prime example of how individu-als can influence the masses, similarly to how America grabbed the reins away from imperialistic Britain during the Revo-lutionary War. We have always been a country of dissenters, radicals, people who take charge and make change. Mary Beth decided in December 1965 to take a stand against the pressures and horrors of war. Her motives were not to create chaos but to do exactly what the people who came before her did in the hopes of a better world. The school system is an institution that strives to educate. What better educa-tion is there than learning to make change? There should be no limits on freedom of speech at school. By taking away any rights of individuals, the good-natured institution transforms into an authoritar-ian regime which smashes the will and confidence of the nation’s future leaders. By remaining strong in will and determi-nation, we insure the future of democracy.

I was only a small child when I first learned how it felt to speak up. Ironically, I was taught by the same institution that wishes to silence me. It is only fair for the individual and the nation for students to be given the right to freedom of speech and expression. We move forward by raising our heads, taking in our surroundings, and placing one foot forward. The future of our country and faith rests upon the shoul-ders of students. In the words of Thomas Jefferson, one of the men who fought for the freedom we share today, “The spirit of resistance to government is so valuable on certain occasions, that I wish it to be al-ways kept alive. It will often be exercised when wrong, but better so than not to be exercised at all. I like a little rebellion now and then.” There is no better time than now to take a stand for what we believe in.

“ThewordsIwishedto

speaksuddenlyflewintomymind.”

The Spirit of Democracyby Laura Anderson

16

17

Photo by Brandon Liu

Photo by Carly Ashen

18

Sunlight. Brightness. I feel it bak-ing my cracked splintered skin, burning my limp brittle body,

lying prostrate in the sand.As my eyelids peel back, the biting heat

sucks through each open eyeball. It seizes all senses, seizes my entire soul.

When the colored amoebas that trail the flash of light finish dancing across my line of vision, I realize that I don’t know where I am. My mind is a white blankness, just like the waves of light descending upon me.

That’s when I look around and see the crash, see the scattered, charred fragments of the plane littering the sand and shore-line. In a flash, I feel the energy of my sprinting heart as the plane rapidly slipped down the sun’s rays to melt into the earth. Now, I am just boiling in a kettle of rubble and remains. I am boiling in a kettle of emotionless fear.

I stare wide-eyed at the vast desert island in front of me. Yet, can I really see? I am suddenly aware of the dead weight of my fingers curled in the hot sand, sud-denly aware of the slickness of my hair as it clings to the sides of my cheeks like drying and cracked papier-mâché .

Any sense of past I may have had quickly surrenders to a paralyzing sense of present, an untraceable sense of purpose. I bow my head to the sky and raise my baked, piñata limbs out of the sand. My elbows and knees crack the hard casing to emerge like flailing rays of the sun shoot-ing out to pierce the never-ending horizon.

Free. But who said this freedom was liberating? I begin to stride forward through the perils of the foreign and barren land before me. I have that sink-ing feeling, that feeling as if the ground beneath me is about to turn to quicksand if I wait for the sun to rotate my shadow even a single degree around my feet. I didn’t come this far just to crash and burn in the spotlight.

Thump. Thump. Thump. It must be my footsteps, my heartbeat, or a combina-tion of the two. Right? Thump. Thump. Thump.

Think again. I’m not alone. I see a shadowy figure of some native creature lurking behind me. I slowly crane my neck to turn around and glimpse the enemy but the sunlight shields the beast in a white cloak of blinding light. I shiver in the heat when I think of all the chilling creatures that could emerge out of this foreign and fiery furnace of an island. What is this beast? Who is my opponent? Does it have the roaring and radiating mane of a lion or the razor-sharp pincers of a panther sali-vating at dinner time? I lock my eyes shut.

Maybe my mind is deceiving me? No. I can’t dismiss the burning feeling that it’s waiting for me behind the rows of dried shrubbery lining the hardened earth. I run

forward, faster now because I know it’s no longer an expedition but an escape. In the gaps of silence my gasping breaths leave behind, I feel the hot discharge of the beast’s nostrils melting the pads of my feet as they kick up the sand and slap the sunlight.

I turn around. No use. The reflecting light that bounces off the white grainy sand blinds me once again. I can’t see it, but I feel its presence and know its there, watching, hiding. Thump. Thump. Thump. I run even faster now, sprint as I sink into the sand pit of the island. That’s when I re-alize that the beast is no longer behind me, casting its shadow beyond my feet, but

flying above me, shooting down a shadow that’s slowly aligning with every move my sunburned, dripping body makes. Until… there’s no use in turning around. The beast’s boiling, bloody breath is blowing down now on the crooked line of my scalp and creeping its way down my backbone.

Teeth sink into the arid canyon between my shoulder blades as its jaw locks shut. The chase is over now. As my knees buck-le and my head jerks back from the bite, I gaze up at the twinkling rays of sunlight that dance across the peripheral glaze and illuminate the skyline. Ruby paste glides down my sunken abs, reflecting glittering light down my pulsing, powerless limbs. I feel no pain. I feel nothing but hot breath-ing now on the back of my drying skull.

Finally, every last hair on the back of my neck melts away and slides down my spine into the thirsty sand. After only a sliver of time it forms a tiny puddle under-neath the crevices between my toes that leaks to engulf my entire body in one glis-tening pool. I must finally be seeing be-cause I’m staring down at the reflection of the skyline in the liquid’s glossy surface. I gaze deeper and follow the skyline until my eyes reach the reflection of myself. I stare at the shimmering image I see. There I am, biting my own flesh with my own jagged fangs as I helplessly watch myself melt away. There I am, the beastly figure who is drowning in an oasis of blood and sweat simmering in the sunlight.

I wasn’t the light in the darkness, but the darkness in the light all along…But on a slightly lighter note, it was only after I crouched down to confront the darkness that my eyes stopped burning and I didn’t have to squint.

“Whatisthisbeast?...Doesithavetheroaringandradi-atingmaneofalion

ortherazor-sharppincersofapanthersalivatingatdinner

time?”

The Beastby Grace Chediak

19

She stared at the screen of her computer. All of the fields were completely filled, and she knew that once she pressed the “Match Me” button her life would change.

Olivia had just turned twelve. She had olive green eyes that sparkled when she talked about her future as a veterinarian. And she almost always wore her wavy auburn hair in a ponytail pulled low and tight at the back of her head.

She looked towards the door to make sure her mom or dad wasn’t standing there, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then clicked the mouse. When Olivia opened her eyes she saw what she thought to be the most beautiful picture. Smiling back at her were a young man and woman in their mid twenties.

The man wore his hair short and slightly spiked, unlike Olivia’s dad, who wore his combed tightly to the left side to try and cover his balding head. The man also wore a striped T-shirt that had a small logo of a horse in the top left-hand corner. The woman standing next to him had a perfect smile with gleaming white teeth. They reminded Olivia of the white sand she once saw on a vacation to the beach. The woman had straight red hair that fell just below her shoulders, as well as ocean blue eyes.

Under the picture Olivia saw written Andrew and Emma. Her eyes opened wide. This is it, she thought to herself. No more chores. No more yucky vegetables. No more rules. She stared at the picture for a while longer and then turned off the computer.

At lunch the following day, Olivia was talking with her friend. “You won’t believe what I did yesterday!” she excitedly blurted out.“What did you do?” Bethany asked curiously. “I went on to that website Jack told us about, and they matched me with my new parents. They look SUPER cool!” “No way! You’re so lucky that you’re twelve. I still have a couple of months till I can be matched with new parents.” Bethany

sounded disappointed, but she still wanted to know everything about what Olivia had to do to be matched with Andrew and Emma.

Making Children’s Dreams

Come Trueby Ilisa Weinberg

Photo by Seychelle Steiner

20

“I put that I wanted both a mom and a dad, but I said that I didn’t want old people like our parents because they’re never fun. I also put that I wanted to live near the ocean and that I wanted a dog. They had a spot to enter all of the foods that I like and also the ones that I don’t like. It was really neat!” Olivia spoke so fast that Bethany could barely keep up.

Bethany and Olivia’s friends were now starting to head in different directions due to the wonders of technology and this new parent-matching service. Children finally had the opportunity to choose their own parents.

Four months had passed. Olivia had settled in well to her new home near the ocean, and to her new parents. They were, at least at first, just as great in person as they seemed to be in the picture. But now she was beginning to have some doubts.

“Drew!” Olivia called from her room. She thought it would be cool if she called him by a nickname.

“I’m watching the football game, Olivia. You can come here if you need something,” Andrew answered back.

Lately, Olivia noticed that Emma and Andrew were not paying as much attention to her as they had when she first moved in.

“I want to play a game with you,” Olivia said.

“Olivia, I told you, I’m watching the game. And after that, Emma and I are

going to a party. We won’t be able to play a game until tomorrow.” Parties seemed to be the new great thing for Emma and Andrew. They were constantly out. When they weren’t at work they were either watching TV or at a party, and when they weren’t doing that they were out running errands.

Olivia realized that she was always by herself. She hadn’t had time to make friends yet, and Emma and Andrew didn’t take her out like her old parents did.

While Emma and Andrew partied late into the night, Olivia cried softly in her bed. She longed for the attention and love

she received from her old parents. What a stupid idea she thought to herself. I can’t believe I wanted parents like Emma and Drew.

A few months later on the playground Olivia was outraged. “Bethany! I can’t believe you went on that website after everything I told you.”

“I went on, but immediately logged off,” Bethany explained. “I don’t want to sleep on a different bed. Mine’s too com-

fortable,” she laughed. Olivia laughed as well, her green

eyes sparkling in the sun. She constantly thought of Andrew and Emma. But she would gladly give them up in order to be back with her friends, and would happily exchange them for her old chores, to be able to live with the most perfect parents, who Olivia was surprised to discover were actually her old parents.

While Emma and Andrew partied late into the night, Olivia cried softly in her bed. She longed for the attention and love she received from her old parents. What a stupid idea she thought to herself. I can’t believe I wanted parents like Emma and Drew.

A few months later on the playground Olivia was outraged. “Bethany! I can’t believe you went on that website after everything I told you.”

“I went on, but immediately logged off,” Bethany explained. “I don’t want to sleep in a different bed. Mine’s too com-fortable,” she laughed.

Olivia laughed as well, her green eyes sparkling in the sun. She constantly thought of Andrew and Emma. But she would gladly give them up in order to be back with her friends, and would happily exchange them for her old chores, to be able to live with the most perfect parents, who Olivia was surprised to discover were actually her old parents.

“Sheknewthatonceshepressedthe

‘MatchMe’buttonherlifewouldchange.”

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Mar

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Photo by Brandon Liu

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Photo by Molly Ingram

23

SummertimeThe sun on my back

surrounded by my best friendsgazing at the sky

-Aaron Soskin

Sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in front of him, Lester Willis stared

out the window onto the street.A car passed by.“One,” Lester stated aloud.Ten minutes later, another.“Two.”And for the thirty minutes he had be-

fore leaving for work, he simply sat there and counted the number of cars that drove by, thinking of nothing else.

This penchant continued whenever he was at home and drove his wife, Sarah, and his ten-year-old son, Chuck, crazy. They could hardly sit with him while he obsessed over how many vehicles went by their large, brick stone house everyday.

Often, he would openly complain, “I thought this was supposed to be a quiet neighborhood. I paid a lot of money to move here from our old house expecting

peace. Instead, what do I get? Three cars have passed by in the past half hour. The noise is horrific.”

Sarah and Chuck did their best to ignore his constant complaining but could not understand why the car noise bothered Lester so much. Neither of them noticed the automobiles, but Lester could de-tect them no matter where he was in the house, including his bedroom, the farthest room from the street. He immediately woke up whenever a car passed.

Lester hated the noise so much that he had convinced his family to move from their previous houses just to try and get away from it. After arriving in Sacra-

mento from San Francisco, where he had completed his schooling, Lester and Sarah found the perfect starter house in a com-fortable middle class neighborhood. The single story abode was light brown with a beautiful backyard garden and a small rectangular swimming pool. The only drawback was that the yard backed onto a fairly busy street. At the time, Lester’s noise problems were not bad, as he was too busy with his education and intern-ships in the city to notice anything else, so he thought the positives outweighed the negatives and purchased the home.

Did he ever regret that decision. Initially, Lester had no remorse. The house was close to work and spacious, and Lester was seemingly always busy cleaning and organizing the house, buy-ing new furniture, and in seventh heaven with his fantastic job, his new residence, and his loving wife. However, as his life

slowed down and he spent more and more time idling in his house with nothing to do after work, Lester began to notice the cars. He first heard them sporadically and thought they were no big deal. Then the noise seemingly got louder and more frequent, and Lester still tried to ignore it and even used earplugs when sleeping. He occasionally complained to Sarah but nothing too drastic. However, over time, Lester grew obsessed with and perpetu-ally seemed depressed because of the per-ceived noise problem. He was not a very social person, so he was home most days, giving him ample time to think about the cars passing by in the street behind him.

The noise prevented him from getting anything accomplished and was always on his mind.

He would mutter, “Why don’t the people driving use a different street or stay home or something? The noise is terrible.”

Sometimes he would even say, “How anyone can have peace in this place and live without pain is beyond me.”

And on other occasions, he exclaimed, “Isn’t a person who has worked hard for success entitled to some peace and quiet?!”

But Sarah loved the house, the neigh-bors, and the proximity to nearby shop-ping malls and enjoyed her life without worrying about the noise. She could not understand how something she barely heard put Lester in such misery. Lester put up with the torture for his wife’s sake for a few years, but after a while could bear the suffering no longer.

“We need to find a new house. The noise here is unbearable. I can’t eat, read, talk, or even sleep in peace,” he told Sarah, and after much cajoling, he finally got her to agree.

For weeks he scanned the real estate market until he found the perfect home, one that Sarah also approved of. The brick stone house had four bedrooms, a large family room, an upgraded kitchen, maple wood floors, and a lush green backyard. But all of this was of little importance to Lester compared to the fact that the residence was in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in the area, backed onto another house and not a street, and was located on a very quiet road with minimal automobile traffic.

As they moved in, Lester let out a sigh of relief, exclaiming, “This place is what I have always wanted. You won’t hear me complaining anymore.”

“I better not,” Sarah responded with both a serious and joking tone.

Lester was content. He was success-ful at work, enjoyed spending time with his wife, and relaxed at home with good

TheHorrorofNoisebyGovindRaghavan

“Lesterwasseeminglyalwaysbusycleaningandorganizingthehouse,

buyingnewfurniture,andinseventhheavenwithhisfantasticjob,hisnew

residence,andhislovingwife.”

24

books. By now he had a growing son, Chuck, who occupied much of Lester’s time after work and left him exhausted.

Life was good and just what Lester had always dreamed of, until his old nemesis slowly crept back. As Chuck grew more independent and Lester began to have less going on, Lester started to hear the cars again. There were not very many, but they were there. He tried avoiding the former torture, but to no avail, and noise began to take over his mind. Once again he could not sleep peacefully at night or concen-trate on anything at home, and it was in this house where he sat at the kitchen table counting cars. It seemed as though every time he looked outside, a car passed by, when in reality there were little more than twenty during the whole day! He endured until he could last no longer.

“We need to find a new house. The noise here is unbearable. I can’t eat, read, talk, or even sleep in peace,” he told Sar-ah, and again after much cajoling, just like the last time, he finally got her to agree.

After a long and arduous search, Lester

thought he had really found his perfect house. The place had modern architecture and a spacious lot and looked onto the

river and wildlife, but best of all, it was at the end of a long street where no cars would drive by. Luckily, Sarah and Chuck were enamored with the river view and the house and were excited as well.

They bought the home and moved in, and they were all eager to start a new chapter in their lives, especially Lester.

After a refreshing night’s rest, Lester arose to the sunlight beaming into his bed-room, and he strolled into the backyard,

gazing at the flowing river and the birds flying around. His bliss was interrupted by the roar of a plane flying close overheard,

but after a moment, his smile returned and he relaxed. Ten minutes later though, the dreadful sound returned, and Lester’s scowl turned to sorrow as within the hour, four planes flew overhead.

The drone of an airplane engine bel-lowed through the sky as Lester slowly walked into the house, his head hanging low.

“Weneedtofindanewhouse.Thenoisehereis

unbearable.Ican’teat,read,talk,orevensleepinpeace.”

25 Art by Christian Oldham

26

Clever satires, like Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, ridicule the aristocracy and expose

them to be superficial and effete. Wilde’s comedy, however, allows these unproduc-tive people to land on their feet: they are rewarded in the end and each gets what he wants. This happens because they realize the transformative power of true, earnest love. Wilde’s satire is clever because he both ridicules the aristocracy and also for-gives them. Evelyn Waugh’s social satire, Brideshead Revisited, which Time maga-zine chose in 2005 as one of the hundred best English-language novels from 1923 to the present, treats the upper class simi-larly; although he writes a realistic novel rather than a farcical drama. Although Waugh satirizes the English aristocratic Marchmain family at their Brideshead estate, he still finds a saving quality: their ability to change their effete lives through their Catholic religion, and experience a change of heart. He not only forgives them for their weaknesses, as does Wilde, he goes further. He shows that, ironically, this class of vain, idle people preserves religion, when almost everything else in the world is gone.

However, the novel, published at the end of World War II in 1945, does not open with the Marchmains. Instead the story is framed by a prologue and epilogue. The narrator, Charles Ryder, a first-person observer, is an army captain, turning to alcohol to relieve his symptoms of weariness from World War II. He is stationed in England’s countryside near a place he once knew, the Brideshead man-sion. Upon seeing it, he thinks back to happier times when the social order was stable with the aristocracy at the top, and draws the reader into his past as a young man before the war. Although the pre-war world was stable and orderly, the ruling aristocracy was not productive. The oldest Marhcmain son, Bridey, is named after Brideshead, the family estate. He embod-ies the essence of effete existence because his only purpose in life is to inherit Brides-head; his human existence is otherwise meaningless. Waugh satirizes what the aristocracy represents. The youngest son,

Sebastian, is a nineteen-year-old alcoholic who is still in love with his teddy bear and calls his mother “Mummy.” He isn’t going to inherit, so in the noble world of wealth, he has no purpose at all. He is in-fantile. Waugh clearly mocks the wealthy, young, unproductive men of the aristoc-racy. Not only is futility encouraged, as it is for Sebastian, but it is expected, as it is for Bridey.

Catholicism, the religion of the upper class, is a reflection of the unproductive aristocracy and is as meaningless as it is. One cause of the family’s hollowness is the lack of nurture, stemming from Lady Marchmain. Although she is the epitome of Catholicism personified, since she is beautiful “with no artifice […] and [be-cause] her voice is like a prayer, as quiet and powerful,” she poisons those closest to her because she “sucks their blood.” Although Lady Marchmain symbolizes the most attractive qualities of Catholicism, she serves no beneficial purpose. Further-more, she is dependent upon others for her own strength, like Catholicism. In fact, her own son, Sebastian, is utterly repelled by her and is driven even more to drink at the local pub. Sebastian is not attracted at all to Catholicism and becomes deeply troubled. But it is not just in Lady March-main that Catholicism is shown to be insubstantial. As Lord Marchmain is on his deathbed, the family is anxious about calling the priest at the right moment so that the Last Rights can be given, just before Lord Marchmain dies. The priest describes what the process will be like: “I just want to ask him if he is sorry for his sins, [. . .] make some little sign of assent, [. . .] give him God’s pardon, [ . .] [and] anoint him [with] [. . .] some oil.” This process is highly ceremonious and futile to carry out for a man on the verge of death. Just as long as Lord Marchmain says that he is sorry for his sins, he can die and rest in peace. It is only the saying of the words that is necessary, not the showing of repentance. The aristocracy’s addiction to Catholicism only adds to the lack of productivity and the futility of their lives.

Although Catholicism does no good by itself, Sebastian and Julia unexpectedly

find personal meaning in it and change their lives. When Charles goes to Mo-rocco to speak to Sebastian, he expects to find him completely wasted and decadent. Ironically, Charles sees a completely changed Sebastian. Sebastian finds a Ger-man beggar and takes him in, devoting his life to the beggar’s care. Sebastian reveals his religious epiphany to Charles: “[I]t is a pleasant change to look after someone else, when you’ve been looked after all your life.” He progresses from a child-hood dependency to an advanced spiritual philosophy: to love and serve others. It is Catholicism that brings about this trans-formation. Like Sebastian, Julia at first re-jects Lady Marchmain’s Catholicism. But after a life of a failed marriage, divorce, and numerous affairs, she purifies herself by making a sacrifice: she forfeits her love for Charles and lives a life without companionship to develop her relationship with God. Julia’s commitment to purify her life shows the regenerative power of Catholicism. Both Sebastian and Julia change their lives for the better through a personal connection with Catholicism.

Although Brideshead Revisited is dif-ficult for most teenage audiences to relate to, it is one of Waugh’s best novels and is worth reading at some point. Its mes-sage is still a traditional social satire of the effete aristocracy and shows that it is meticulous in preserving the status quo. Waugh’s novel is a story framed with war, but ends with the preservation of Catholi-cism by the aristocracy. They salvage their lives and the epilogue ends with a resolution that no one is lost forever. Waugh, like Wilde, shows that the aris-tocracy should not be completely rejected because they have the potential to change and they preserve religion. In a modern world torn apart by devastating war, faith survives.

Brideshead Revisited: A Hopeful Messageby Abbie Jennings

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Tanning Salon MeltdownWalking inside theTanning salonI saw a fakePalm tree

The wallpaperWas aTropical sunset

The UV lightsRadiatedI feltSkin cancer coming

TanningBooth

-Christian Oldham

Photo by Scott MacDonald

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Burnt Sandby Ryan McKone

Schiller cracked his knuckles and rang out his fingers. He knew whatever cool air still left in the air

conditioning system would be the last he felt for a while. He grabbed the rusted chrome door handle from the inside of the car, and got out into the searing heat.

“God help us,” Wallisch muttered under his breath, bending forward to lean his head against the steering wheel. “Four hundred miles and we’re struck down here.”

The extent of the boys’ knowledge was that they were now positioned somewhere in the Nevada desert. Somewhere on Highway 50, affectionately dubbed “The Loneliest Road in America” (They made sure to take photographic proof of the sign). No level of planning or Mapquest-ing or praying could have prevented a situation such as the one that had unfolded itself before the duo.

Schiller and Wallisch had been plan-ning their getaway for months. Fourteen years of schooling would finally end, only to usher the boys into the harsh new world. Their plan was to take Wallisch’s deteriorating turquoise 1986 Thunderbird, and head east. They had received their high school diplomas mere hours before, and no matter how much pleading and blackmail their parents had insisted, they felt it was a decision of their own. Having fought the man for fourteen consecutive years, it was finally time to take the of-fensive and find manhood. All they knew was that it lay somewhere on the other side of the Sierra Nevada mountains. The planning beforehand had focused more on snack items than actual directions. They hadn’t even decided on a destination.

“I’ve heard good things about Idaho, actually,” Schiller would say.

“I have family in Boise. That drive will kill us before we get there, though.” Wal-lisch would remind him, leaving little trust in his vehicle.

The final decision was only on not deciding. They would go where the wind would take them. Worst comes to worst

they would hit the Atlantic Ocean and be forced to turn back. Hopefully somewhere along the way they would find something. Whatever that was.

They had food for two weeks between them. Not that Ramen noodles and Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese is in any way expensive. Yet that is where the planned budget ended. They figured they would either find free campsites, or sleep in the car when necessary. Should a problem with their vehicle arise, they would cross that bridge when they arrived.

Schiller couldn’t believe the way the hot air wrapped him like a down blan-

ket. The sun was directly overhead, and he stepped around to the front of the car. Steam squealed out of the grill on the car’s front end. Schiller yelled for Wallisch to open the hood, and he lifted it above his head. The steam that poured forth from the dying engine was blistering; hot enough to make Schiller lose his grip, leaving the hood to come crashing back into position.

Wallisch hit his head against the steer-ing wheel a few more times, coming to the realization that they weren’t making any more progress on their adventure any time soon. Well aware that his car knowledge was no better than his peer, he elected to remain seated in the driver’s seat, enjoy-ing what was left of their air conditioning. Schiller came back around to the passen-ger side and got in the car.

“Sounds like our search is over for the time being,” Schiller uttered with a long, drawn out sigh.

“We’ll just wait until someone drives by, flag them down, and have them take us to the nearest gas station,” Wallisch replied with a jumpstart of optimism. “At the very least, we still have your stereo,

and foodstuffs,” he said, reaching into the back to grab two bags of Cheetos, and their gallon jug of water. They turned on the music, reclined the seats, and set forth on their new goal of waiting for a passerby to recognize their trouble.

Schiller shot up with a start. Realizing he and his friend had dozed off in the car, he turned his attention to how appallingly hard it was to breathe in the car. Wallisch lay fast asleep at the wheel, the morning sunlight coming through the window and spreading across his chest.

“Wallisch, wake up,” Schiller grunted, pushing him on the shoulder. Wallisch

came to from his nap, asking if Schiller had seen a car drive by.

“How long were we asleep?” Wallisch asked.

“I don’t know, my phone is dead.”The boys had put in a good effort wait-

ing for a passerby. They sat in the car lis-tening to music and snacking for the better part of five hours, until the sun set behind the distant mountains. Not once did they see any hope of rescue. Now a few hours past dawn, they realized their predicament was much bigger than they had bargained for. With their water supply dwindling, and plethora of dead electronics, the boys had remained in their motionless car for a full day. They only exited for nature’s calling and the occasional stretch. Near-ing noon, the temperature had already climbed to well over 100 degrees. Inside the car, the air was stale, insulating, and thick.

“What did you expect to find out here, anyways.” Wallisch said, rubbing his eyes.

“What did I expect? You mean to say, we were looking for the answer.” Schiller replied.

“The steam that poured forth from the dying engine was blistering; hot enough to make

Schiller lose his grip.”

29

“ The answer to what? God dammit, I can’t believe you dragged me out here. All of your bullshit about finding man-hood, and making a transformation, and look what that has gotten us into,” Wal-

lisch snapped in reply. “You’re unbelievable! Don’t tell me

for a second you weren’t by my side every step of the way! Of course now that we’re up a creek, you shift the blame to me! You’re the one with the car trouble, not me.”

“Well sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re both stuck now, my friend.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Schiller reached for the rusted door latch, and stepped into the scorching sunshine. He set off down the road carrying what was left of their gallon jug of water (only a few gulps), and a box of Chewy bars. As soon as he was out of earshot, Wallisch smashed his fist into the dashboard, curs-ing at full volume. Frustration pumping through his veins, he threw his seat back and pulled at his hair. Over the course of the next hour, Wallisch would peer over the steering wheel and watch as his friend distanced himself from the car. Eventually he was far enough away to melt into the pool that appeared between the road and the horizon; completely out of sight.

Stricken with inaction, Wallisch gazed in disbelief at the wavering highway in front of him. The road stretched straight as a ruler as far as the eye could see, in both directions. Once he could no longer bear the desolate seconds ticking away before him, Wallisch grabbed the door handle, yanked it open, and set off into the heat. What began as a walk turned into a jog, which quickly evolved into a sprint. He knew he wouldn’t get far with no wa-

ter. At least he wouldn’t be able to match the distance Schiller would cover. Despite this stinging fact, he trudged headfirst into the blaze, committed to return to his friend’s side.

Wallisch walked for minutes, for hours, until he could no longer remember what time he had left the car, or how far he had gone in the first place. Turning around, he could no longer see the car. Nor could he spot Schiller ahead of him. Even the mountains and scrub brush seemed exactly the same as when he was still in the safety of his Thunderbird. But how was the car any more safe than this inferno he had been unwittingly thrust into? Unwittingly, because of course it was Schiller’s fault that he was in this mess. But that’s the type of thinking that only has made the situation worse.

With the sun still directly overhead, un-wavering in its streak across the sky, time had reached a standstill. No matter how long he walked, the landscape remained unaffected. Then as if by apparition, Schiller was in sight. Not only was he in sight, but he was close. He was reachable. Wallisch broke into a sprint again, and soon found himself beside his buddy.

Schiller was in worse condition than Wallisch. Schiller had removed his shirt, and fashioned it into a headdress to keep off the sun. His water jug no longer carried water, but was filled with a small amount of urine. He lay face down in the burning sand, mumbling to himself as the sun reddened his sweaty back.

“Schiller! Schiller sit up!” Wallisch yelled, getting on his knees. Schiller gath-ered himself and looked up into the sun to see Wallisch’s figure staring down at him. He pulled himself to all fours, and finally stood on his feet, while Wallisch remain

kneeling in his prior position.“You can’t honestly tell me you’re

still going. You’re going to die out here Schiller! We’re going to die,” Wallisch pleaded. He knew his words were ineffec-tual. Giving up his plea Wallisch resulted to walking behind Schiller. He was con-tent with the fact that Schiller’s quest had never stopped; he was not going to let the car keep him from the answers before him. Somewhere in the hills ahead of him, he whole heartedly believed he would find the answers to becoming a man.

After another few hours, Schiller walk-ing at a snail’s pace with Wallisch in tow, his feet gave way again. Schiller hit the pavement on his knees, and collapsed with his head in his hands. Wallisch jogged over to his friend to check the damage, and found Schiller with tears streaking down his dusty face. Schiller ripped off the torn shirt and punched the burning asphalt beneath him. He repeatedly hit the pavement, as his knuckles began to grow bloody. Wallisch grabbed his upper arms, trying to restrain him.

“Schiller, give up!” he said repeatedly. Schiller’s struggling slowly dimished, until he lay limp in Wallisch’s arms. Wal-lisch let go, and Schiller slumped forward onto the road. Wallisch sat alongside Schiller and looked down at his dust cov-ered clothing.

“I can’t do it. I can’t get there,” Schil-ler said softly, tears flowing from his eyes and sizzling on the asphalt. “We will never make it, and I’ll never find it,” he said, utterly defeated.

A crunch broke the silence, followed by another and another. Footsteps in the coarse sand drew the boy’s gaze towards the road’s end. A heavyset man with a white mustache looked down at them from under the brim of his cowboy hat.

“You boys need some help?” the man asked. The boys gathered their vision and saw behind the man, only a hundred feet away, a small gas station and mechanic.

Wallisch lay back down into the sand.

“Eventuallyhewasfarenoughawaytomeltintothepoolthatappeared

betweentheroadandthehorizon;completelyoutofsight.”

30

A polished cross dangles on a dainty chain that delicately drapes around my neck. As I sit in church, where

you can find me every Sunday, I sing aloud one of my favorite songs: “And it’s not a cry that you hear at night. It’s not somebody who’s seen the light. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.” It wasn’t un-til January 12, 2010 that I truly understood the meaning of these words.

My name is Ayida. It means the spirit of love. I love my country; I love God. I question, however, why on that January day, was my nation, Haiti, punished?

That day began like any other, but it ends quite differently. I left my house in the morning, with my book bag dangling over my shoulder, not realizing that I may never see my parents again. On the way to school, I joked around with my little sister, Sashi. We took our seats in class as my teacher began her lesson. Without warning, the earth shook so violently I was tossed like a loose pebble right out of my chair. As my eyes darted across the room in search of my sister, I screamed in horror, “Sashi!” Books were flying, people were screaming, and the earth was trembling. Wrapping my arms around my head for protection, I felt the upper levels of the school building falling on top of my body, in the process of burying me alive. Why was this happening?

I awoke in awe, wondering if this was all a nightmare. Looking around, I see limbs all around me, covered in debris and engulfed in ashy dust. No, definitely not a dream. I wipe my face, ridding a layer of dirt. Surrounding me, I hear people crying for help, choking for air, whimpering for food; all doing what we can to stay alive.

Sashi, amongst the others, cries out my name. “Ayida!” she yells, waiting in anticipation for a response.

I work up the energy to respond. I try for three small words, to express to my younger sister that I am alive. “Sashi, I’m here.” I choke out.

Although we can not see each other, I know that we are together, trembling with fear beneath a layer of filth. The minutes

turn into hours, and the hours turn into days. I try to remain hopeful, but I fear life is shorter than I expected.

“Flower,” I mumble to Sashi weakly. Starting up again the dumb word game we began to pass time.

“Power,” she replies.“God,” I say the first word that comes

to my mind.“Help...” she says after she takes a few

seconds to think.“Amen,” I say in unison with surround-

ing sufferers.“Hallelujah, hallelujah...” my sister

sings as I close my eyes to rest. Just for a

few minutes. My pain subsides as I drift away.

I wake up to the sound of safety. But you can never be sure. I hope for the best and focus on listening. Is that English? The noise gets louder. I begin to moan, trying to direct their attention towards me.

“Over here, over here! I found some-one!” A man with a goatee says. His skin is white, his hands are soft. He probably has never had to work a day in his whole life. “An American…” I think to myself. Our eyes meet; I smile and know that Sashi is smiling too. Hallelujah.

After hours of trying to get boulders

out from atop my body, four men lift me up from a pile of debris that was my home for the past five days. Each grabbing a limb, careful to not move me in case I am badly injured. My body aches, but I can’t help but smile and sing. How was I so lucky? How I was chosen out of the many yet to be discovered? I grab onto one of the four white men who graciously picked me up from the mess of my school build-ing and repeatedly scream “Hallelujah!” I will never forget this moment.

The man hands me over to a woman nearby. He whispers in my ear that everything will be all right. Although he is a complete stranger, I trust him. She smiles as she carefully cleans my face. Meanwhile, the four men that saved my life work on getting Sashi out of the chaos. They say it will be harder to get her, she is deep under the debris. I know they won’t give up.

I wake, what seems like years later, to find Sashi’s head resting on my chest. She smiles. I try to look around at my sur-roundings, but my eyes can’t focus. It’s too overwhelming to believe, but I am thankful to be alive. I smile at Sashi.

I think all the time. I think about how lucky I am. I think about the mysteries of the world. I think about life. Words float through my mind like clouds drifting through a blue sky. I believe in miracles, I believe in life. Hallelujah.

A few days later, as we are waiting in line for our food and water, I see a mirage. I scream for Sashi, “Is that mother and father?”

We dash out of line, sacrificing our small meal for the day and race to these people, we believe to be our parents. “Yes, my parents are alive!” I exclaim, as a weight is lifted off my shoulder.

The four of us dance in a field full of hope and prayer. As if it was planned, the four of us turn to each other embrace and sing, “and it’s not a cry that you hear at night. It’s not somebody who’s seen the light. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelu-jah.”

Hallelujahby Shelby Ostwald

“Iknowthatwearetogether,

tremblingwithfearbeneathalayeroffilth.Theminutesturnintohours,

andthehoursturnintodays.Itrytoremainhopeful.”

31

Photo by Brandon Liu

32Art by Eugene Kwon

Seasons by Derek Sup

In this place we liveI’ve got no cares nowBut come a time we’ll give this up just toStart a new oneA life we may not carry home to you

The skies are blue today so let’s go playWe’re getting old, our faces need a shaveThe flowers are a-bloomingBirds are up and movingSpring

The freedom now is carried to us in boughsBut we’ve no place to hide it all awayNow we stand now we stand now we stand now we standWith pockets empty, minds clear, nothing at all, nothing at all.

The time and life are now oursWe’re living in our lawn chairs and our carsWe’ve got no cares nowUntil our gas runs outSummer

As we wait we realize we wait for nothingIt’s all pent spent up timeWe check the map to make sure that we have not lost ourselvesAnd heed to the near approaching frost.

They’ve given us a place to hide awayAnd now we don’t know if we’re gonna stayIt’s raining on the outsideStill hot on the insideFall

The trees release their leaves unto the groundWe give up all the places we have foundFor now it’s cold and wetThe warmth that we lament

In Winter And again we wait on spring.

33

Smells Like Pupby Zach Giberson

34

Son, now I want you to be the best and I know you’re capable of be-ing the best. Don’t you ever forget

that,” Mr. Reynolds says to his son every morning on his way out.

Mr. Reynolds had it all. Plain and simple, he was the man. He had the Fer-rari 599 GTB Fiorano, the million dollar home, and the Harvard degree. He had an important job relatively high up in a Fortune 500 company, a job that he credits completely to his Harvard degree. Despite all he had accomplished since gradua-tion, the Harvard Degree was his most important achievement. Nothing pleased him more than announcing to anyone who would listen that he went to Harvard. Jonathan kept up to date with everything going on at Harvard and always attended class reunions. Despite having all this, Jonathan was not content. Being an ex-tremely competitive person, Jonathan was not happy with himself because he was not the “best” at anything.

“Yes dad. I’m going to be the best. I am the best.”

Every day before Jonathan went to work and James, his son, went to school this interaction took place. James, al-though quite intelligent, was, like his father, not brilliant. Despite this, his father wanted him to be the best student in the school.

James signed up for everything aca-demically: newspaper, Science Olympiad, and debate. James excelled at everything to do with school. Freshmen year, he re-ceived four teacher awards and worked his way to the top of the class. Being a very competitive person, James was ecstatic with himself over his achievements, but this was just the beginning…

“Son, now I want you to be the best and I know you’re capable of being the best. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Sophomore year came and school began to get tougher. Despite the increase in the amount of work, James excelled like before. Midnight was the earliest he was able to go to bed because of his rigorous

schedule. “James, come get dinner!”“No dad! I’m busy,” yelled James

moodily.The substantial amount of stress made

James get moody and less sociable. James developed the habit of drinking coffee.

“Son, now I want you to be the best and I know you’re capable of being the best. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Every night ended at one o’ clock for James as his classes became much harder his junior year. The extra-curricular activi-ties continued as well. For the first time,

James began to wonder if he was focusing too much on academics. James’ original group of friends drifted away from him. His decision to catch up on studying or try and catch up on his sleep instead of hanging out with his friends started to push them away. Each time his friends hung out, James had something to do, and eventually his friends stopped calling him to hang out. Although friendly at school, James’ friends became simply “school” friends and not people that he spent time with outside of school. As James life became more secluded and he became sad, he attempted to focus even more on school. He dove into his studies harder than ever. “Son, now I want you to be the best and I know you’re capable of being

the best. Don’t you ever forget that.”Senior year came and James vowed

to focus slightly less on school. Jonathan was pleased with him for the time being, but was not letting up his pressure. James started calling his old friends and attempt-ed to hang out with them on weekends. This was to no avail because they had already formed bonds with other people and had their tight nit group of friends. James began to become extremely sad once again, but thought positively about his life after he got into Harvard.

One day in December, James came home and saw his dad’s car parked in the drive way. He wondered why his dad would be home from work so early. James tip toed lightly into the house, pondering over why his father could possibly home on a Wednesday afternoon. James was ex-cited because he had good news to tell his father. He had checked his email and saw he had gotten into State, the top choice of many of his old group of friends. James walked into the house happily.

“James, get in here. NOW!” His father bellowed angrily.

His heart skipped a beat. Panic over-took him. What had he done wrong? He tried desperately to think of any reason his dad would not approve of him. James then walked into see his dad sitting in the kitchen, with a letter torn to pieces, on top of which had the crimson H. James had never seen his father this angry. Next to his father, sat the unopened State accep-tance letter.

“Son… You’re not the best. You didn’t get in.”

James, to the dismay of his father, turned and walked out of the house with a bit of a skip in his step.

“Where are you going? You better get back in here!” his father bellowed.

A smile appeared as James got into his car, pulled out his phone to dial an old friend, and drove off.

Choosing Your Own Pathby Harris Levin

“

“Panicovertookhim.Whathadhedonewrong?Hetrieddesperately

tothinkofanyrea-sonhisdadwould

notapproveofhim.”

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Photo by Molly Ingram