Zephyr 2009

Zephyr art & literary magazine

2009

Zephyr2009 ¶ Volume 49Rye High School1 Parsons StreetRye, NY 10580914-967-6100zephyrmag.com

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27 29 31 32 33 34 35 37 39 41 42 43 47 51 52 54 56 58 59

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poem by Sarah Nye

Frame

Dip, Slide, Wait, Drip, Slide

You can’t really tell if your eyes are open or closed.But yes – now you spot the orange light.You know they are open,And eventually they start to adjust.

You feel for the clock and switch the knob.Now you can see it,The negative image has appeared.


You are careful with your paper,As you skim it gently out of the thick black plastic.You place the paper underneath.Skating on emulsion.


Projector on.It is set for thirty seconds,Which.Feels.Like.A.Lifetime.


Finally the light goes off and you slither the paper out.Only touching the paper by the very edges,You dive it into the vinegar and let it bathe.The acidic, sour smell sticks to the roof of your mouth.

Dip, Slide, Stop, Wait, Drip, Slide, Fix, Slip, Drip, Wash, Dry.

The constant sound of the running sink water erases everything else from your mind.

Frame.

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2

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non-fiction by Monica Pfister

Smile

Twenty minutes (and one slice of iced lemon pound cake) after leaving my internship in Queens, I arrive on the elevated 36th Avenue subway platform and tuck my MetroCard back into my wallet. In my panoramic view of urban rush hour, I can see the fruit market on the corner, the car wash down the street, and the rusty, rickety tracks that wind north toward Astoria Boulevard. Seated on the platform’s bench are three other travelers squinting in the fading evening light; I join them, leaning back against sun-warmed con-crete to wait for the N Train. Plastered to the platform wall is a yellow poster bearing the ubiquitous post-9/11 message: “If you see something, say something.” Reflexively, I take a look at the three people seated next to me: aside from our identical MetroCards, we seem to have nothing in common. The man immediately to my right has a weathered, grandfatherly face set off by straight, white hair that falls past his shoulders. To my left is his antith-esis, a middle-aged businesswoman return-ing from work in navy blue heels. Finally, a twenty-something dressed in black, with his dark hair gelled into punk-y spikes, sits next to her. Bent intently over a sketch of a dragon, he frowns as he smudges the charcoal on the page. Although we are all squeezed onto the same bench, we ignore each other

4

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and avoid eye contact—it’s the unwritten rule of public transportation. The rhythmic background noise of approaching commuter footsteps is abruptly interrupted by a much less purposeful, ir-regular beat. A two-year-old girl is toddling across the platform, struggling to keep up with her mother’s patient strides. She lets out a satisfied little puff of breath with each step, her light-up sneakers scuffing on the concrete. When she notices her audience on the bench, she grins and waves her tiny hand—the four of us are suddenly alert. Although we are indifferent to passing trains, growing crowds, and each other, we count this toddler and her little bobbing pigtails as worthy of our atten-tion. All four of us wave back in succession, matching the toddler’s shameless grin. The boy furthest from me—the one drawing a dragon—even makes a funny face to coax a giggle from the plucky little girl. As the girl leaves, the four of us ex-change warm glances at our identical behav-ior; we are briefly linked by our violation of the unwritten rule of public transportation. We let our eyes meet just long enough to enjoy the unexpected camaraderie—in a mo-ment, the girl will pass, our smiles will fade, and we will become strangers again.We will still be anonymous, but we will no longer be oblivious to the universal quality of smiling eyes.

We’re running through smoke stacksto the sound of my boots, clack-clacktalking too loudly, as usualbetter quiet me downbetter quiet me down

We’re jumping off rooftopsto the sound of your heart, pump-pumpbeating too quickly as usualbetter slow you downbetter slow you down

We’re breaking breadto the sounds of the sun,whispering too softly again

poem by Katrina Gibbs

Stack of Sounds

better hold me closebetter hold me closeYou’re running to the sound of your own thoughts,which race over mountain topsacross the river bend and down the beaten pathheavily trotted with frightened feetbetter to leavebetter to leave

rub eyes so slowlywishing to keep the world awaywake upto the sound of solitude.

6

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by M

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Cōtīdiē forma nova venit,et nōn possum cēlāre motūs animī verberātōs.

Tū mūtās cōtīdiē formā et mente,et difficile est invenīre colōrem vērum.

Nōs nec sponsī ut Iuppiter et Juno,sed Io, Leda, et Europa adhūc animum fidērunt.

Nōn possum mutāre tē et vitia,Haud cessābō.

Nūllae commūtātiōnēs accident ut fābula est,ego et tū nec iugēmur nec simul senescēmus.

Parāta sum progredī et oblīvīscī temporis nostrī,contra licentiam et cupiditātem vivendī celeriter.

A new form comes with each sunrise,and battered emotions are not easy to hide.

You change each day, in both shape and mind,and your true identity becomes harder to find.

While not betrothed like Jupiter and Juno,Io, Leda and Europa still split my heart in two.

Without the power to change you and your vices,I refuse to sit back and play nice.

While no transformations will occur as the story is told, we will not be together and grow old.

I am ready to continue and forget the past,despite your promiscuity and desire to live fast.

foreign language by Casey Heil

A Present Day Jupiter

Flatpoem by Matt Moseman

What tribe of madness is this?That by which the trope of darknessWithin grows to encompass ever moreOf the expanse of self within its brittle emptiness?

I was puzzled, I was unsure,But now I see with pernicuity, forAll that filled me, all that was insideHas been abolished, has been banned;I am an empty glass.

I try to drum up a sense of lossBut my pleas only echo maddeninglyAgainst the glossy membrane that my skin makes.Conceptualized continuity should be a laughing matter,If I could be moved to laughter.

My nose knows;I am sliding down a slippery slopeInto the eye of the needle.

I try to imagine in theoryA happening big enough to move me:An anthropomorphic God in the night skyFlexing male musculature conspicuously for the first time;The implied death of a dump full of infant carcasses,The rot of their hasty grave visible on their facesIn swathes and swatches of emergent verdigris and gamboge;The chalky detritus of a brief rapeEver less apparent as exsanguinated skin cools,An ashen hue inhuman in its transgressionOf even the most milky pale caucasian color;Mausoleum of a million frozen soulsSubmerged beneath the waves and riptidesOf some unsung sea, unsuspectedBy Atlantean lore;Fat boy laid out on a carving boardStill breathing but unlikely to reviveIn time to interdict a twisted butcher;I could go on for I feel nothing,I fail in my endeavor to empathize.

8

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derCoca Cola culture rots my humanity

Overnight like a tooth,Spiking my sensitivity beforeThe experience of total nerve deathIs presumably excruciating, butPasses unnoticed.

Needless to say, blunted affectIs a gross understatement.

Silent panoramas of nameless atrocitySlide through my psyche one after anotherFurther tempering my sensational bulwarks.

Every female form I seeAppears in archaic monochrome in my mind,Petrified in death, the acts in-betweenInstinctive and exhaustively rehearsed,Assumed and accepted by myself alone,Or so I hope, for if others see within me,Then I am f***ed thoroughly.

Contrary to popular belief, the peopleAround me do not become more beautiful in death,Optimizing as they are most alive, inThe midst of fierce resistance to thanatos.

All the items around me haveLeverage towards death, be itVia puncture wound or blunt trauma.

I do not try to mask my thoughtsKnowing that bystanders will detourneThe signs that I send outInto intensely personal sentiments.

However, not as intensely personalAs the intimate images of their deathsThat are thoughtlessly conjured before my mind’s eye.

10

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this

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ad:

ph

otog

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by C

at R

ayno

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poe

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I could hear music from your eyes.It was a faint, quiet piano,On and on with no repeat.

An old song I had heard in my dad’s black car.

It travelled right through my unaware ears,Down into the depths of my piles of memory,

And it settled,And stirred.

The smell of my dad’s minty car,And the windows wide open, blasting wind through my skin,

Leaving me translucent and wonderful,Leaving me in the waves of a song.

Maybe it was Billy Joel,Or Elton John,

Or maybe it was a song I had only dreamed once or twice.

But I haven’t heard it sinceI looked into your grey eyes

And felt the keys awaken me, one by one.

poem by Jenna Langbaum

An Old Song

Ididn’t see it coming. I didn’t see the car itself. But I saw the driver; my own blue eyes met his amber. It must have lasted for a split second, but my airborne suspension felt like an eternity. The same thought passed through our heads, a mutual acknowledgement of the situation:Oh, S***.And that was it. I was down. The car hit into my hip and an unseen force tossed me into the oncoming traffic from the other direction. Flesh met hard, grey pavement. I saw the wheels of the car speed away. The smell of burned rubber mixed with that iron smell that only blood can emit wafted up my nose.

My head. Oh, MY HEAD. It’s so…heavy….so…heavy.

Darkness. Pink and yellow spindles float across an obscure black landscape. “OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT?”Smells enter and mingle with the pink and yellow. Green, blue smells. Then the red smell. NOT THE RED SMELL. “Is he gonna be okay? What the hell was that guy thinking?” “Hold still, son. HOLD STILL. IT’S OKAY!”The darkness is thicker now. It latches on to my eyelids and pulls me up. Forward. Over. For-ward. Soft. Padding. Wheels. And… “OWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”The darkness evaporated. Burnt rubber tire smell, iron blood smell, and fresh rubbing alcohol smell. And light. And pain. Loud pain rushed into my right leg.“Glad to see you’re with us again…Alexander?” A man in EMS uniform fumbled through my wallet and found my student ID. I couldn’t say anything, I felt like I had swallowed a pint of Elmer’s Glue. I was still on the ground, but on a stretcher. Another EMS worker was at the stretcher’s head, ready to lift me into the ambulance. “Alex, we are taking you to the hospital. I’ll hang on to this.” The first EMS guy held up my wallet. I nodded.“Ok. Ready, Rob? One two three GENTLE NOW AND UP!”I held my breath as daggers shot up my leg. Orange glimmers hung in the outskirts of my

fiction by Viktoria Lange

Amber Eyes

12

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Med

ium

by A

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¶ P

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by A

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12

On

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by V

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vision. Five, four, three, two, one. With a gentle thump I was in the sparkling clean inside of the ambulance. Rob started disinfecting my face with a gauze pad and some tweezers (for the asphalt pebbles in my left cheek). This took an age, or so it seemed—I lay on the stretcher being tweezed and listening to a soundtrack of beeps and boops from the ambulance machines and communication systems. Suddenly a familiar screech sounded from the right side of the ambulance. I knew it before I saw it—it was the amber-eyed man. So, he had returned to look at the damage he inflicted. I heard the muffled voice of the first EMS worker. Then I heard the driver’s voice, quiet. Firm.I heard steps near the side of the ambulance. Then a faced peered around the back door. Blue met Amber. There was no pity in the eyes, no remorse. He said nothing. Looked away. Looked back. Blue met Amber.“OW. OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

They began work on my leg. Compound fracture. I heard the screech one last time; Amber-eyes disappeared.

I still have a limp sometimes—my right leg tires easily and seems to have a mind of its own when it comes to caus-ing me aches and pains. It will be like that forever. I know it. Just like the scars that criss-cross up my shin, giant Harry Potter scar style. These are my constant reminders of the day I narrowly escaped Death. And of Amber-eyes.I’m not the type to take re-venge; I am a peaceful person. But I do wish one thing. I hope Amber-eyes remembers Blue-eyes. And the pain he caused him.

14

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by N

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ra

Apuradas vienen todas las sensacionesMis pies sienten la loza fría; tiemblan mis huesosPor la ventana el sol derrama sus bendicionesPero del exterior mis ojos están presos.

De rama en rama a gota en gota el sol acariciaSu toque luminoso de mil colores a mil lugares llegaBuena fortuna el clima propiciaMás mi vida el sol no ilumina, sólo ciega.

Distorciones entran por la ventanaA través del vidrio roto nada es normalEl cielo se quiere romper, como la porcelanaUn paisaje irreal; sol, ¿por qué me eres desleal?

¿Luz, porque juegas con tus hijos?¿Por qué la fría perilla de la puerta no cede?Aquí dentro se acentúa la oscuridad; las horas son fijasPero en el jardín del sol, el tiempo retrocede.

Tú, sol, gran estrella luminosa,Tu poder no es tal para penetrar estas paredes,De las flores caprichosas estoy celosa,¿Por qué ellas pueden disfrutar de ti y no yo, tu hija ansiosa?

Mil veranos en un encierro perpetúoQuien la puerta cerró es un misterioMujer de afuera, tu jubilo no es mutuoMis iluciones enterradas están, en un frío cementerio.

foreign language by Viviana Pereyra

Prisión del Sol

Sun Prison

Hurried come all the sensationsMy feet feel the cold china; my bones shiver

Through the window the sun spills its blessingsBut from the exterior my eyes are prisoners.

From branch to branch, from drop to drop the sun caressesIts luminous touch of a thousand colors to a thousand places arrives

Good fortune the weather favorsBut my life the sun does not illuminate, only blinds.

Distortions enter through the windowThrough the broken glass nothing is normal

The sky wants to break, like porcelainAn unreal landscape; sun, why are you disloyal?

Light why do you play with your children?Why does the cold doorknob not give up?

In here darkness accents itself; the hours are fixedBut in the garden of the sun, time rewinds.

You, sun, great luminous starYour power is not such as to penetrate these walls

Of the capricious flowers I am jealousWhy can they enjoy you and not me, your eager daughter?

A thousand summers in a perpetual dungeonWho closed the door is a mystery

Woman of the outside, your joy is not mutualMy illusions are shut away in a cold cemetery.

Awkward incondite imagesthat’s all that’s in my skullFrom my dearest friend Bon qui quiTo lead that turns to gold A worm crawling up your throatAnd crackling cracking bonesThe cascading droolsOf my dozed off comradesRemind me it’s time to nap.But as my eyelids approach their destined smash I am abruptly woken upBy my own mental paean?Nope, it’s just my phoneI slip back into brain wavesWhy are ants so small?And Crash they finally do collideAnd now my mind is liberated My Brobdingnagian imagination’s looseWhere I am allowed to singSo here‘s an ode to randomnessAn assortment of coloured smellsAnd from the hodgepodge of my headI bid you all farewell

poem by Oliver Callund

Gallimaufry

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d ¶

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icha

el Ju

lianTime is the canopy that won’t stop growing.

Higher than the crushed crimson leaves against the burnt sunrise,Faster than ink and paper colliding to form collapsed,

Fragments.

Slower than the needle scraping away at the spinning wheel,Forever moving, forever standing still.

Through creation or destruction,Time won’t escape.

poem by Miriam Ward

Clockwork

The ghost in the machine is deadAnd within, amongst the gears, it rots.From the body’s mouth spewsnot breath but noxious fumes,poisoning the air with Nihilism.

poem by Leon Husock

The Afterdeath

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The air outside the coffee shop was a mixture of roasted beans and ice in the early morning light. The shop’s door opened and closed to the beat of the pre-work rush, letting people in and heat out. The multitudes swarmed the cash register, money out and eyes yearning for the cure to their caffeine thirst. Greg drained the last of his no whip half-caf latte (the only thing no one ever ordered, and the only coffee he liked), and threw his cup out under the counter. Fat Obnoxious Woman Who Comes Every Day stood in front of him, tapping her foot impatiently because he hadn’t immediately acknowledged her presence. She seemed to pride herself on the fact that she always ordered an excessively complicated bever-age, but what she didn’t realize was that she ordered the same one every day and so the crew prepared it ahead of time. He listened to her ever-spirited tirade, took her money and handed her the reheated cup wordlessly, and she huffed out the door. Greg watched scores of people’s morning ritual in the same way as he’d watched Fat Obnoxious – practically cata-tonic, hardly aware of what they were saying or doing, and listening only for the key words that would clue him in to what he should prepare to make them go away. He turned to the next customer, barely aware of her pres-ence until she opened her mouth to order.

Happenstance

“I’ll have a no whip half-caf latte please,” said a quiet voice with a hint of a smile in it. Greg’s eyes suddenly snapped into focus for the first time all day – in front of him stood a pair of wide eyes fitted into a pale, heart-shaped face which was bordered by smooth tangles of waving chocolate brown hair. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he stuttered, caught completely off guard, “you ordered what?” She repeated her request, giving Greg a quizzical look. Shaking his head like a wet dog, Greg quickly took her money and went about busily making her drink of choice with utmost care. “She’s beautiful, and she drinks the same coffee as me?” he thought as he put the lid on her cup, “I can’t let her get away.” Feeling a little foolish despite the clarity of his inner monologue, he took the marker he used to designate orders out of his apron pocket and quickly jotted his number on the card-board sleeve he slid up the cup’s white walls. “Enjoy, Miss,” Greg said as he hand-ed the girl her order, hoping she didn’t notice his hand shaking. She smiled in return, tak-ing the cup gingerly. “Ouch!” She slid another cardboard sleeve over Greg’s number and walked out into the sunlight, letting in a gust of icy air.

fiction by Kira Hessekiel

She’s fatal in all the worst possible ways.She lures you in with her eight different legs,Her eight different faces, and her eight different names.

Behind her batting eyelashes, she silently whispers a secret to herself.Question marks swat at the fly-on-the-wall’s mind,Buzzing paper wings.She knows what she is doing.

The helpless victim is engulfed, surrounded by nothing but cobweb.She looks into the eyes of her prey with sick contentThe quivering fly gazes back in aching fearBut she never sheds a single tearStrictly business

You were never anything but a meal.She devours the insignificant bug, inside and out,Blood pours into her mouth.The small gnat was helpless all alongSewn into an icy spider web.

poem by Katrina Gibbs

Temptress

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The little fly wanted to cry out and it wanted to yell,But all it could do is lay there as its life slowly fellInto the fatal fangs of the temptressWho’s stamped with a crimson hourglassWhose teeth flash like daggers in the dead of night

So patiently she sits in the shadows.She knows what she is doing.

Her stomach is full with one night’s dinner,Yet her insides grow thinner and thinner,A sharp pain strikes profoundlyDeep within the confines of her mind

Distracting her aching head, she gently spins her sparkling white web.Everything is so intricately intertwined like delicate ivory vinesDew drops glisten with every beam of light that stretches its arms far enough to tickle through the thick glass window,And the web hanging from the bend.

Bright beams of light strike the spider’s ebony sidesFor a moment the temptress lets her mind slip awayFor a moment the frozen walls within her collapse under the overbearing weight of the sunFor a moment, glistening light tinkles in her eight different eyesBut only for a moment in staggering sunshine.

Estaba lloviendo.Recuerdo los ojos, la voz, la cara.Palabras dulces se cayeron como las gotas de lluvia. A menudo pensaba en el momento de tu regreso.Pero no regresaste.Yo siempre esperaba verte de nuevo.Para saber la verdad.¿Por qué te fuiste tan lejos de mí?La única respuesta fue el sonido de la lluvia.Las gotas de la lluvia.

foreign language by Catharine Greer

Las Gotas

The Drops

It was raining.I remember your eyes, your voice, you face.Sweet words fell like drops of rain.Often I thought about your return.But you didn’t return.I always hoped to see you again.To know the truth.Why did you go so far away?The only answer was the sound of the rain.Drops of rain.

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22

A stranger to my scrutinyHe crossed the track in the first hour or so of darkness

Dressed for the weatherAnd he made his way to the end of the field

Where he stoppedIn front of the pole sheathed in redStanding still for a moment or two

Before lacing up glovesAnd bouncing on his toes

Coughing out hot, thick airInto the face he had createdThe one he couldn’t name

I wanted to know what he was doing,In the strange bitterness of an early December evening

Reveling in its disorienting incongruityI ached to see his emotion

Purposely left for someone to findBut I left first

Turning back to see the pallid yellow lightCreating a shadow of what was a man

Dancing under his feet

poem by Jessi Tremayne

Untitled

You have a brown suitcase and a flickering smile,You love your new suitcase,but I don’t fit. You hug me and my tiny tears escape like wishes. But I don’t want you to see, So I lock them away in the car. You are so happy its making me lonely. You gather your green coat and your rain boots, and the green blurs into liquidy lines of lime. You have left with your pretty freedom,Your room is still and weepy.So I climb into your bed and let the wishes escape.


Green Coat

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oung

Did you know thatEvery morning and every nightThe staff of the Lenin MausoleumHave to re-tighten the strapsThat hold old Lenin down?

Because, otherwise he would eventuallyBreak loose, and start to spin.

That’s right, if he weren’t tetheredHe’d be spinning in his coffin,And before you know it,He’d be spinning a mile a minute.

Spinning like a centrifugeTo cast out all the gunkThey pumped in him so he wouldn’t rot.

Spinning like the axle of aMonster truck named Red Guard,Spinning out of control,He could not be contained withinHis glass display case.

poem by Matt Moseman

Pent Up I have no doubt, given the chance,Lenin would break out.Imagine, suddenly he escapes;Rolling, like a log at ludicrous speed,Makin’ a roll for it down the streetOf the city they would callLeningrad again just for one day.

Imagine the mayhem and the hububHe could cause,Whirling down the avenues like a dervish,As startled Russians leap to get clearOf Lenin as he spun out of all of hisFrustration with the way communism worked out.

By the time Putin and MedvedevCaught up with him, he’dBe stark naked and halfwayTo Smolensk at least.

Or maybe not, in fact I would like to Think he would rollTo Peter Kropotkin’s estate,Where he could dig himself inAnd tell old PeteThat he knows how he must have felt.

140poem by Oliver Callund

Corrugated brown hardened paperConcealing my chattels

Linens: PackedPhotographs: StoredComforters: Sealed

My home: Shipped off

They obliterate everythingThe boxes hurled carelessly into the metal container

They drain it allLike insatiable stout kids downing their milkshakes

Leaving only some bubbles and residue for me to cling on

Through my room’s window I see my homeThe darkness it now swallows

The cobwebs already collectingAs we flip the sign hanging on the door from occupied to vacant.

140 still stands

Others will call her “home”Disregarding her past.

Recollections, slip-ups, tantrums and belly laughs

Veiled by the silence

Gone

My footsteps repeat in the derelict hallsI laze over my illusory bed

Making carpet angelsEnjoying the serenityMourning the quiet

A tacit goodbye

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When you held it in your handsIt was beautiful, I thoughtMaybe it wasn’t But all I knew wasIt held me to you

I let you slide it on my fingerWhile you told me it was a promiseI fell into those lies

When I took it off todayMy finger was stained in that samePretty little circleAn angry green

I held my hand under Scalding water with a bar of soapScrubbing at what was left of you

Before, I wanted to show everyoneEven thoughI knew it wasn’t much, and that I shouldn’tBe so fast to believe your promisesBut, you knew I wouldA thousand times over

And now what am I?Bitter nothingBut I still have A reminder of my faultsMy mistakes


Green

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Paradoxically Speaking

A thousand lines I wish to you, a thousand things I pretend…

Could I teach a fish to fly,Teach a crack to mend,Make honesty lie?

Could I ask windows to look,Teach a war to love,Make an anorexic cook,Should I cage the dove?

Teach two left feet graceMake the joker weepShould I let the rabbit win the race?Teach 8 am to sleep.

Make the shadow shineThe grass grow blueJust for you, pretend you’re mine…

poem by Emi Woodthorpe

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Stumbling, blue into broad daylightThe animal shyly renegotiated it’s sheen with the light,

Pulling at the adoring rays as it shimmered, onto the bulging, stocky, pavement.

I couldn’t return to focus,Couldn’t focus on returning as everything glowed softly

In the shadow of the animal.

My be-stockinged, realist, feet didn’t feel the brakesThey didn’t feel the gas either.

Instead they felt the infinity that a beautiful moment holds you inAs it embraces you woefully and passes into Time’s tomb.

I felt as if I could drive towards this moment foreverNever leave it behind as memory

Or as the ignorance that Time calls husband.

poem by Dale Neuringer

Hope Lying Under Hot Wheels

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Niss

¶ p

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ogra

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y Jas

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Tel

ferThe flowers were more beautiful when we

were together.The sun was brighter when we were in love.

My smile was bigger.Everything was better.

The animals used to sing.The colors used to change.The world used to smile.

But,When our love died, both my smile and the world froze.People screamed and life was a war. My world was cold and almost impossible.

But,That is life.A person sings while another cries.

Las flores eran más bonitas cuando tú y yo está-bamos juntos.

El sol era un poco más brillante cuando tú y yo estábamos enamorados.

La sonrisa era más grande.Todo era mejor.

Los animales cantaban.Los colores cambiaban.

El mundo sonreía.

Pero,Cuando el amor murió, la sonrisa y el mundo

congelaron.Las personas gritaron y la vida era una guerra.

Mi mundo era frío y casi imposible.

Pero, Así es la vida.

Una persona canta mientras otra llora.

foreign language by Sarah Niss

Love Poem

The cracked and barren lotFor just a night Was the place of exhilaration A carnival was in townFerris wheel reached high aboveThe clowns with their demented gigglesYoung children laughing into clouds of cotton candyFear was forgottenFor just a nightTickets were exchangedFor moments spinning circles in the air, orA drenching on the log flumeEveryone lined up for the old wooden coasterTired cars creaked at every turnBut the sound was swallowed With the riders’ joyAt ten o’clock


Carnival

Fireworks exploded into the skyThe loud bangs frightened many, Unfurling fists of shining lightA thousand stained glass windows shattered,Stealing the veil of the eveningCome tomorrowThe carnival would be long goneAn airplane would land about a mile awayReleasing young men into reaching armsWhile others waitedAnd returned home, clutching photographsKnowing there would be no moreBut who could sayWho would return, soFor just a nightTomorrow was left behindAnd the night was alive

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y Rac

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arise

r ¶

poe

m b

y Jen

na L

angb

aum

After I have listened to too much Sufjan Stevens,and the words numb my core to a rotten apple,

I slip behind the gray masks of shadows,Lay on the coolest and smoothest of floors,

Let my body reside in thick, warm breathing,until the air around me is only the breath from within,

Cry the weary tears I often forgot about,Seal my eyes tight,

Switch it all off,

And think of you.


“For the Widows in Paradise”

A lan was spread out, lying in the center of the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. He was past the point of frustration; he had pretty much given up and accepted his fate. It had been days and just…nothing. He could feel the walls laughing at him, taunting him, making his skin crawl. But what more could he do? There wasn’t exactly a whole lot he could do, so he just laid there. Alan had been ecstatic to finally get his own place and couldn’t wait to start the next chapter in his life: a new place, a new job, and a new life. But the move had turned out to be a terrible decision. He woke up every day and went to work at job that paid a meager salary and bored him to tears - literally. Every night, he returned to his tiny (but still his) apartment, which he had hardly had time to furnish, and watched TV, read a book, or just contem-plated his sad life. All his hopes, dreams, and expectations for this new chapter couldn’t have been farther from what he actually had. Finally, he had had enough. He got up and left. With no destination in mind, Alan drove

foreign language by Alex Giroux

around, using up his gas, until he stopped at a paint store. Before he realized what he was doing, he parked the car and went inside. He walked out of the store ten minutes later pushing a cart full of paint cans. He loaded up his car, drove back home, and brought the cans into his room. He pulled the top off of the red, dipped a brush in, closed his eyes, stuck his arm out and ran around in a circle, flinging his arm towards the wall the whole way. He picked up another brush and flung paint at the walls, then another, and another. He could feel the pent-up pressures and anxieties flying away with each splatter of paint. He kept going until he had used all the colors: blues, reds, greens, yellows, oranges, purples, pinks, black. He kept spraying and splashing paint onto the walls until there was none left. Paint covered everything: the walls, the floor, the windows, the bed, the closet, and Alan. He finally collapsed in his bed and looked around at his masterpiece. His eyes slowly closed with the silly grin still on his face.

Splatter

Alan estaba tirado en el centro del cuarto con un una mirada vacía. Él estaba más que frustrado. Ahora solo quería abandonar todo. Había pasado días y…nada. Las paredes blancas se rieron de él. Él había hecho todo lo imaginable. Entonces allí en el piso, no se podía creer en nada. Él había es-tado emocionado cuando se mudara a su nuevo apartamento, emocionado por su vida nueva: un lu-gar nuevo, trabajo nuevo y vida nueva. Pero después del cambio, esta “nueva vida” simplemente fue horrible. Alan se despertaba cada día y trabajaba en un trabajo que era muy aburrido y lo odiaba. Regresaba a su pequeña casa y a veces miraba la televisión o leía un libro o se sentaba en el piso, sin hacer nada. Lo que había querido por su nueva vida era muy diferente de lo que tenía. Finalmente, hasta que él simplemente no podía más, se levantó. Salió de la casa aunque no tenía ni idea adónde iba. Él conducía en círculos, hasta que finalmente paró en frente de la ferretearía. Antes de darse cuenta de lo que estaba que haciendo, salió de la tienda con pintura y un pincel. Condujo a casa y puso la pintura en su cuarto. Puso el pincel en la roja, cerró los ojos, y dio la vuelta. Pintura voló por todas partes del cuarto. Después, lanzó el amarillo, y entonces el azul, y el verde, la naranja, la morada, y el negro. Siguió hasta que se acabó toda la pintura. Había pintura en todo en el cuarto: las paredes, el piso, las ventanas, la cama, el armario, y si mismo. Él se cayó en la cama y finalmente hizo lo que siempre quería; se durmió como lirón.

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Walls adorned withworks of art whicharen’t quite serious.

Pleasing and intriguingbut not so much soas to make people feeluncomfortable around them.

Because everyone except the newcomers knowsthat this is no place for delicacy,and anybody being careful not tomess anything up is a newbieand a fool.

It is the only live music venue I knowwith a carpeted dance floor.

And you’ll be thankful for itthe first time you fall and ever after;finally in that moment of humiliating agonyyou will see the sublime utilityof the otherwise tacky thing.

Fresh fish too proud to believe it,but everybody falls,and it usually doesn’t take long.

Because this is a house ofexperimental-Post-Punk-Rock-Metal-Indy-Grunge,and it’s all the rage among kids my agein and around White Plains.

Here all the tension and frustrationthat builds up in our blue bloodas we grind our teeth and actlike good boys and girls is manumittedin a bodily typhoon to the irregular rhythmsthat our sweaty shirtless friends on stage produce;capturing the feelings of knowingly petty angstthat these edgy heirs and heiresses harbordue to their not popular decision to existon the fringe of acceptabilityto our overwhelmingly Republican parents.

poem by Matt Moseman

Wespac

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Instruments of a bizarre characterare brought in and incorporatedat a steady pace as we burn through the year,one or two weekends at a time.

All their trial is whether we can make them outover the amplified electric hardwarearound which everything revolves—and as we mosh, thrashing and throwingour weight in any vector we can at any timeuntil we are not dancers but sacrificesto an instrumentality which forges usinto a brackish amoeba from whichnot a one of us wishes to escapeuntil the bands we came to see are offand we get a whiff of the smellthat we hadn’t noticed until thenby some not-so-small miracle.

Then we hope that no onehas kicked our coats out fromwhere we stashed them forsemi-safe keeping,because the wind and the night aircuts with an awful salty coldwhen you are soused in sweatfrom head to toe.

After waiting for what seems like a few decadeseveryone walks a few blocks awayso that we won’t see each others’parents picking us up in their minivans.

When we finally do get homewe realize how tired we arewhen we consider not taking a showerbefore we fall in bed knowingthat we will be sore tomorrow.

‘Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro’ the light Of the brighter, cold moon, ‘Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold— too cold for me— There pass’d, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.

Es war mitten im Sommer,Und mitten in der Nacht;

Und die Sterne, in ihren Bahnen,Schienen blass, durch das Licht

Vom helleren, kalten Mond,Macht die Planeten zu Sklaven,

Sich selbst im Himmel,Die Strahlen auf den Wellen.

Ich starrte eine WeileAuf das kalte Lächeln;

Zu kalt— zu kalt für mich—Da zog vorbei, einem Leichentuch gleich,

Eine wollige Wolke,Und ich drehe mich hin zu dir,

Stolzer Abendstern,In deinem weit entfernten Ruhm,

Und lieblicher soll dein Strahl sein;Als Freude in meinem Herzen

Ist der Stolz teilhaftigDu Strahlendster im Himmel bei Nacht,

Und mehr noch bewundere ichDein weitentferntes Feuer,Als dein kaltes, totes Licht.

translation by Julia Fialaoriginal poem by Edgar Allen Poe

Evening Star

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Cocoon and Grave

Silkworm goesinto the cocoon,into that crampedcocoon.

But the silkwormmust be happy.It can flyas a butterfly.

Human goesinto the grave,into that dark and lonelygrave.

Then wings growon a good boy,

and he can flyhe is an angel.

Un ver vadans un cocon,dans ce cocon

étroit.

Mais le verdoit être heureux.

Il peut volerdevient un papillon.

Les humains vontdans les tombes,dans ces tombesnoirs et seules.

Puis des ailes poussentau garçon sageet il peut voler

devient un ange.

translation by Maki Nakajima original poem by Misuzu Kaneko

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ajim

a ¶

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for

eign

lan

g. b

y Misa

ko O

no ¶

ph

otog

raph

by M

isako

Ono

Silkworm goesinto the cocoon,into that crampedcocoon.

But the silkwormmust be happy.It can flyas a butterfly.

Human goesinto the grave,into that dark and lonelygrave.

Then wings growon a good boy,

and he can flyhe is an angel.

Spring is best at dawn, whengradually the hilltops lightenand the light grows brighteruntil there are purple-tingedclouds trailing through the sky.

english translation by Misako Onooriginal poem by Sei Shonagon

42

“It’s just the lonerrrrrr”Strains of Neil Young came from behind my mom’s door. She had been blasting that s*** since five, when we had that argument over college. She is insisting on sending me to some liberal arts bulls*** college, when all I want to do is go to Brown, where I have already gotten in. My mom has this annoying habit of loudly playing jam bands when she gets angry with me. Neil Young is a new one, seeing as he is a solo artist and all. I have a secret suspicion that she keeps a bong in her closet for such times, but I cannot definitively prove it. It’s just a theory. The fact that I can even harbor such thoughts about my parent

fiction by Dale Neuringer

and consider them valid is beyond embarrass-ing. After all, who wants to have a mom who is more of a secret bad-ass then you are? Not I, that’s for sure. I want to go back to doing that Econ homework that I have but I’m too worked up. I’ll try counting forwards and backwards to 100, usually does the trick. My mom has always been like this. Even when she was still married to my dad. He married her thinking that this whole free-spirited thing was just a ploy to lure in attrac-tive men like himself. He thought it was sexy. Knowing my mom , it probably was, though it pains me to say that. She had long hair and wore ratty vests, and somehow was never

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looking into the camera in every picture taken of her, although you just know it wasn’t intentional. She went to protests and concerts and doubtless f***ed countless musicians silly just for her own amusement. Needless to say, my straight laced dad realized the huge mis-take in judgment he had made and booked it, but it was too late, he had already left a little present to the world chilling in a manger (yes a manger), and that was me. Left to my own limited devices, I began to make a way in this world, and that way was as far from my mom as possible. I can remember her taking me to a séance once, and communing with other smelly long haired skirt wearers, men and women alike. They spoke to the dead, and she claimed to have made contact with Jimi Hendrix, who apparently told her to offer her child the Joint of Wisdom. I was nine. The smell of weed smoke was my perfume until I was old enough to perfect the naked sprint to the porch, where I kept all my clothes, so as to appear as if my family actually had it’s s*** together. The worst part was, she didn’t even mind this blatant strip show for all the voy-eurs who dared approach our humble abode. She spoke of being one with nature, and the hindrance of clothes and earthly objects to the natural state. I simply threw on my polo and riding boots and left her nodding dream-ily at the door. She was the mom who tried to hold my hand in public until I was sixteen, simply because she felt that in that manner our souls could communicate purely. I loved her and avoided her, a task that I grew adept at. Teacher conferences were my worst night-

mare, and parent nights in high school got to the point that I would hoard the school mail, and burn it. She only noticed that “my aura was noticeably smokier.” S***, I can hear the gentle padding of eco friendly animal friendly hypo- everything moccasins dancing in my direction. Specifi-cally, in the direction of my door. The Door of Doom. My door is the only one in the house that wears any sort of recognition for excellence. My mother believes that to rank one human over another is cruelty and too reminiscent of the Dark Ages. My mother stands in my doorway, flanked by two of her cronies, who are often middle aged men who might have at some point been attractive had they not decided to emulate Father Time in terms of hair style, and Lady Godiva in terms of adornment. These two are no different. As per usual, I stare pointedly at my feet as the angry flock of patchouli scented ones descends. The men sit on my bed, and I make a mental note to wash this comforter, so as to wash away the Eau de Balls that will no doubt waft from that area of the bed. “So…. you are really considering this Brown place? Despite the fact that it is a blatant breeding ground of despots and sexism ? You want to be caged with a bunch of pastel wearing conservatives?” She says this last word as if given the chance, she would chew it pieces and then bury it in the gar-den outside, because it was not even worthy enough to leave for the birds and outside creatures. One of her cronies nods obediently, then goes back to lovingly staring at her ass.

I now glance to my closet, which is open and awash with colors ranging from a light peach to a soft yellow. She looks over too and puts her face in her hands, for only a moment.“Oh…. Well if you won’t be the death of my eternal soul” she cries, cultivating a few new tears to fall onto her hemp kurta. “I tried, I really did, but if you insist on killing any creativity my genes have bestowed upon you, then it is only up to you! My last wish is that you at least consider the California Center for Healing and Meditation! It counts as an edu-cation, because as you very well know, educa-

tion of the soul is infinitely more important than any education of the brain!” with a last anguished cry, she flounces from the room, and I sense a palpable scent of sandalwood and disappointment. I sigh and turn back to my desk, alone at last, and free of the Crazy Crusade, only to find a brown pamphlet for the honorable Healing Center of critical ac-claim in this household. From behind me I hear a rustling, and I jump, because although I was brought up to welcome the wild life and all creatures of nature, I can’t help my more human aspects.

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Sitting on the bed is the other crony. I contemplate yelling for help, I’m about to be raped, but then it occurs to me that I run naked across the house each morning, and if he were really intent on that…. This wouldn’t be the ideal time. However, he looks at me kindly, and despite the slightly flabby naked-ness, I get the distinct impression of a profes-sorial air.“Brown?... That’s a pretty good school.” He says, stroking his beard lovingly, and glancing from the packet to my face. I nod dumbly, unsure where this interaction is going, and

unsure whether or not I want to find out.“ I went there you know” he says, getting up and weaving his way towards the door steadily, and I stare like a person who’s eyelids have been miraculously removed. At the door, he turns and offers me a kind smile over a slightly saggy buttocks.“You know, the correct path will eventually find you , no matter where you are kiddo. Just keep that in mind, when you make your choice.”

Dear Diary: I still cannot believe my father is being so unreasonable. So what if I made most of the princes of the neighbor-ing palaces cry? It’s their bloody faults for being such sissies. Fine, so maybe breaking Prince Phillip’s wrist after he tried to feel me up might have been a bit over the top. In my defense, I did give him his fair warning. Men can be such brutes sometimes! All they seem to be interested is in sex. Sure sex is impor-tant, but it’s not the only thing I need from

the man I love. Is it really that hard to find a decent man now-a-days? Still, no matter what I did, I do not think I deserve this kind of treatment. Being locked up in this tower will do me absolutely no good. If anything it’s making me all the angrier. I wish my father understood that not all princesses are built the same. I am definitely not the typical princess; I guess I’m going to need a not-so-typical prince to come rescue me from this mess, All I can do is wait. I hate being a princess. ~ Princess Serena

fiction by Oliver Callund

A Smashed Fairytale

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There were a couple of loud clicking footsteps outside the keep’s door that made Serena wake up. With hopeful eyes, Serena stared at the old oak door hoping to see the man of her dreams. There was a loud yelp outside. Finally the door was flung open and in fell Prince Lafayette with his shiny leather boots. A silver locket hung around his neck along with a colorful wool scarf. “What the hell!?” he cursed under his breath as he checked himself. “My dad never mentioned anything about having to run away from a dragon. I nearly go killed out there. Damn it, my favorite scarf got all dirty now. This sucks.” “Excuse me? Are you here to…“She stopped at the thought of making herself look as if she needed his help and finally said “…you know, rescue me? Because I already

figured out how to get out of here. I am in no need of your assistance.” “Fine. Then good luck with the 20 foot dragon that’s waiting for you outside this door.”“You mean to tell me that you did not slay the dragon, and that it’s still out there?” “What did you want me to do, kill it or something? With what? “With your sword. You know, the long sharp object that’s strapped to your waist you bumbling baboon!” “Oh, that’s what that is! It’s not like I know how to use one of those things any-way.” Serena put her hand to her forehead and laughed incredulously. What kind of knight in shining armor was he? He didn’t even know how to use a sword! Even Serena knew

how to use one, and had actually become quite the swordswoman back in Imaim.“Well, anyway, my name is Prince Lafayette. What is your name?” Serena felt stupid for having thought for one moment that waiting for her ideal prince could have ever worked. She rolled her eyes and decided to at least be civil. “Well, I am Princess Serena from the Palace of Imaim. Where are you fr–“ She was rudely interrupted. “This place is so filthy! What the hell? How can you even stand to live in this place? Look at all these cobwebs. The bed isn’t even made. Looks like someone isn’t going to be much of a housewife.” “Shut your mouth! I am perfectly capable of … You know what? I wouldn’t be talking Mr. I can’t even slay a measly dragon.” “It’s not like you could do any bet-ter.” “Watch me” she said with a defiant tone. As she exited the room that had been her prison she finally felt free. She grabbed Lafayette’s sword and walked away with a determined strut. It was a good ten seconds before she was back in the room as she slammed the door behind her. “Fine, so maybe I cannot slay a dragon. I am not expected to. What do you have to say in your defense? You are a prince after all are you not?” “I dunno where you’re from, but where I come from Dragon Slaying 101 is not a requirement to graduate out of royal train-ing. Plus it’s not like I even wanted to come

here in the first place.” “For your information, neither did I. I can take care of myself and I most certainly don’t need help from a stupid prince. I’ll get out of this mess without your help. And if you didn’t want to come rescue a princess, then why did you even bother to show up?” “Do you really wanna know why I came here?” She nodded so he continued. “Well, my father forced me to come. He says it’s what every prince must do.” Serena was surprised to find some-thing they both had in common. She began to explain how her father had forced her into this keep to teach her how to be a Real Prin-cess. Lafayette paid close attention to what Serena was saying. He could definitely relate. As Serena continued to spill her intimate feelings with a complete stranger she real-ized what she was doing and stopped herself from sharing any more particulars about her personal life. Still, she couldn’t help but feel comfortable around Lafayette. He was differ-ent. He actually listened to her, unlike any of the other brutes that had come to Imaim. She felt she might actually like him. “Well, how are we even gonna get out of this mess?” “I really do not know. This is your job you know Lafayette?” She let out a soft giggle. “Well, why don’t we try to sneak past the dragon like you did to come in.” “We could try, but I kinda think its waiting for us to come out.” “We’ll take our chances. That is un-less you want to stay here forever.”As they reached for the door they found

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themselves with a dilemma. The door was locked once again. When Serena slammed the door shut she had locked both Lafayette and Serena in the keep. “Oh this is great!” protested Lafay-ette. “Now we’ll never get out of here.” He reached for his silver locket, kissed it once, muttered under his breath, and sat on the bed. Serena knew that there was no way out of this prison unless someone opened the door from outside. They truly were trapped. Still, this didn’t seem like such a tragedy now. She was trapped in a bedroom with a man she actually liked. “Well, someone else will come and

try to rescue me soon enough.” “Yeah, but what do we do till then?” Serena acted on impulse. “I can think of a couple of things.” She pranced. She jumped on Lafayette and gave him a pas-sionate kiss. As she reached down Lafayette’s forceful hand stopped her in her tracks. “Wow, wow, honey. The only reason I’m here is to make my father happy and to prove that I could rescue a princess if I want-ed to. I am sorry but I already love someone. He reached to his locket and opened it to re-veal a picture of a blonde blue eyed man. “I’m sorry, but my heart only beats for Ricardo’s size thirteens.”

Oh, poor youYou have so much silver, that

It took you all day just to polish it

Oh, poor youYour child slashes paint on paper just for you, and

You can’t hang it next to your Van Gogh’s

Oh, poor youThe mail came, and

That party invitation seems to be missing

Oh, poor youYou get so many flowers, thatIt’s just not special anymore

Oh, poor youYour son didn’t get into college, andYou’re the talk of the neighborhood

Oh, poor meYou’re my wife, and

I wake up to you every morning

poem by Eleanor Smith

Disappointingly Priveleged

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Desert

Persistently, she waitsAt an abandoned bus stopThe sun sets quietly against the rusty, jagged cliffs of MojaveNight creeps into the fading, tangerine sky and chuckles to itselfAs it settles in, reclining back with popcorn in hand,The shadowed sky gazes intently at the capricious girl with furrowed browsWhose weary shoes never quite left footprints in the sandAnd instead rest lightly above the dusty groundNot because she holds her chin too highBut because her bones chatter with fearOf the bus that never comesAnd the snakes of her pastClouds of dust and sand swarm in the distanceDown the small hill strewn with lizards who can’t quite relaxThe sound of rolling wheels grinding against rough grains of sand and beaten rockEnters her earsShe picks up her head with the attentiveness of a skittish deerThe twisting crimson truck screeches to a stopThe shady baseball cap slides down, tilts itself forward, and whispers,“Get in, Mary.”

poem by Katherine Gibbs

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A girl, a boyThe first thing that to my brain arrivesSay something you want to sayNow, or it is going to be too late!

The sky is violet, and yellow and blueIt’s already late!But why can he not open the door?The moment passes rapidly; nothing can stop it.

Do not let the perfect instant passIt is a crimeIt is your only opportunityWhere is the power of love now?The boyHis first feeling: shynessThe girlHer’s: courage

Like a magnet love is possibleLike a magnet with its opposite polesLike chemicals true love produces itselfWhen the reactions are completely different.

Boy, don’t panic!The girl becomes courageous When you start to shiverDoes not love cause bizarre things?

Une fille, un garçon La première chose qu’à mon cerveau arrive

Dit ce que tu veux direMaintenant, ou il va être trop tard !

Le ciel est violet, et jaune, et bleuC’est tard déjà

Mais, pourquoi il ne peut pas ouvrir la porte ?Le moment passe rapidement ; rien ne peut l’arrêter.

Ne laisse passer l’instant parfait !C’est un délit

C’est ton opportunité uniqueC’est le peur de l’amour.

Le garçon.Son premier sentiment : la crainte

La fille.A elle : la valeur.

Comme un aimant l’amour c’est possibleComme un aimant, avec ses pôles opposés

Comme un aimant, l’amour se produitQuand les réactions sont totalement différentes.

Garçon, ne t’inquiète pas !La fille devient courageuse

Quand tu te mets à tremblerL ‘amour cause des choses bizarres.

poem by Viviana Pereyra

A peculiar meeting

Un rencontre singulier

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Your shrill tone will ruin everythingAs it rings off of past mistakes in the midst of repetitionIt will blow our cover and declare us in this misty world

We will never again delight in the anonymity of the young.Or be able to come home dirty without retribution.

If you keep screaming for helpIt will come

With all of its heavy implications and responsibilities.The medics determined to cure you of your age will be well prepared,

With a makeup bag and a remedial day job to plant you in.

They will grab you by the hair and tease it backThey will pinch your lips until they turn thin and hard

They will take your feet and bend the joy right out of themThey will pluck at your skin until it sags defeated on the weeping bones of your body.

Medications have been created to treat naivetyDiagnoses have been formulated to prove that difference is a disease.

You might think that they can’t grab youBut they already have.

Because you’re still screaming for help from a monster that isn’t there.

poem by Dale Neuringer

More than One Catcher in the Rye

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Eruption

A drabble of fear,words somewhere keep thumping – calling for a pen tobreak the bonds of fortitude.Yet the heart’s desirefar outstripsthe mind’s ability.Linguistics spew forth,in peasant-like simplicity,excess words disassociateinto monotonous night.A cave painting remains,scratched alone on the wall –for meager tools worked here.

poem by Brogan Matthews

Iam awake writing this while my girlfriend, Winifred, is asleep next to me. My buddy Cole left already to catch his ride at 6:45 in the morning. The two freshmen are sleeping on our floor. My girlfriend’s brother Leon is sleeping in the room next door. It is now 7:42 on Sunday morning.

Winifred is a quiet sleeper. Although, she does twitch a little when she sleeps, I don’t mind.

Mike, one of the freshmen sleeping on our floor, snores while he sleeps. And Jessica, the other freshmen, sleeps like a log.

Cole loves to laugh. Last night, he almost ruined one of our prank phone calls because he couldn’t keep the laughing in. So he left the room.

The four of us are still in Winifred’s room. Winifred, Mike, Jessica, and Leon are still asleep. It’s 7:56.

The Mac computer is still open on the bedroom floor. I can’t believe five people could sleep together in such a small space.

My girlfriend is the most wonderful person in the world. I’m planning on asking her to marry

fiction by Alexandra Khoder

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me. Once we finish our junior and senior years of course. Only a year and a half to go.

Although, I don’t think we are going to the same college. The areas that we want to go into are too different. I’m going to miss her.

Last night, all we did was make prank phone calls. We called CVS, Wal-Mart, and Wendy’s. Funniest s*** ever. We videotaped them with the Mac Book so you can watch them on Face-book.

8:14 and Mike is still snoring.

My grandmother hates me. I never call her.

My father hates me because I never visit. No one wants to visit my father. But I do miss him.

I miss my family. It’s a weird thing to say since I never really had a family. Don’t get me wrong, I do have a family. It’s huge. But I never fit in. I’m the outcast. That’s why I can’t wait to join Winifred’s family. That is unless she says no to my proposal.

I want a family.

Three freshmen, three juniors, and a Mac computer.

I wonder what would happen if I lost my right hand? Probably nothing. I would have to learn how to write with my left hand. That’s probably all.

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Holy S***! What if I lost my nose!?

I wouldn’t have a nose on my face. I’d be known as the noseless face person ha ha ha me with no nose

No nose

8:28

I wonder how many Barbie dolls there are in the world. I had twenty-two when I was little. And I never owned a Ken doll.

What if we stacked all the Barbie dolls in the world from head to toe? I wonder if they could reach the moon.

Instead of using that space elevator we could just connect Barbie dolls to each other and climb our way to the moon.

I think it would be a lot cheaper.

Or we could make a salt elevator. There is enough salt in sea water to cover the Earth 500 ft deep. We would just have to glue the salt together.

That would be cheaper as well.

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8:38

Say purple pens 5 times fast.

8:39

Tomatoes are round and so gooky. They are really slimy on the inside too. I don’t know why people eat them. They look like sun burnt boobs.

8:42

What if stuffed animals ruled the world?Would we all be happier?No, I don’t think so.I think we would all be enslaved and forced to mine salt.

All the police officers would be purple unicorns with whips.

Kinky….

8:46

You ever notice how round spheres are? They’re like so smooth!Unless they are made out of sand paper. But then it wouldn’t really be a sphere. Or clay. You

can’t make a sphere out of clay because you can never make it perfect. Or can you? I guess you can put it in a machine to make it round. And if you do that, how do you get it out of the ma-chine without denting it? I like spheres more than cubes.

9:02

If animals could talk human, I don’t think anyone would have pets.

9:06

What is the point of having a middle name again?

9:08

What if your farts were your butts way of speaking? Your mouth speaks by talking; your hand speaks through writing. So, what if your butt speaks through farting?

Then do your eyes speak to other eyes by blinking or crying? I bet the blinking is Morse Code.

Casey GollanAndra Khoder

Greg LangerJasmin Telfer

Megan CindrichRyan Cavataro

Monica PfisterDale Neuringer

Casey Heil & Miriam WardMiriam Ward

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Alex Giroux

Catherine TelferGeorge KrajcaAndrew PeaseKim Mooney

Editors-in-Chief

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