Table of Contents Writing Cold Stone by Magdalena R. I Am Too Old by Moira E. Black Bears by Cuchulainn Q. Hope by Quade V. Boxcar Dreams by Charles B. The Hobbit: A Poem by Moira E. Petrichor by Cecile Nielsen
Artwork I am the Grey by The Unknown Voice (cover) Em and Kaidan in the Grass by The Unknown Voice Lance and Adrien by The Unknown Voice
Cold Stone by Magdalena R.
Sometimes concrete can be better than a pillow, It’s cold but comfortable as you warm it with tears. Pooling beneath your head like a trickling stream, They burn you like amber flames. Like a fire no water can seize. Grabbing hold of me is this agony. Something could be done, Yet nobody can do anything. Nobody. No one. This cold stone holds you close. With nothing to judge and nothing to ask. Your heart breaks like an undersized vase, Shattering like diamonds on the ground. They mingle and try to dance. They sparkle and try to make you shine, But there’s still nothing but cold stone. Bitter lips kissing your skull, Shamelessly pulling you closer to the earth. I’m dissolving like salt in water. Undrinkable and spit out. You feel like paper, A brief moment of chance to become art, Music, a painting, But no… You become ash.
Lance and Adrien by The Unknown Voice
I Am Too Old by Moira E.
I hesitate between the two grand tiers of the lobby, surrounded by the throbbing red glow of the dim lights and the salt-stained carpet. I’m not really supposed to be here, but the ache in my heart is dragging me down the crimson stairs to the familiar door behind the stage. The swirl of hot air behind the greenroom doors carries too many familiar scents: the bittersweet sweat, the musty old costumes, the cake-and-dust makeup, the nervousness of eager actors…. Miss Melissa appears with a sagging cardboard box in her arms; she greets me with tired delight and I quickly ask for a job. I am directed to the cramped, stuffy, sweltering makeup room, where I spend thirty short minutes dusting ivory-pink powder onto friends and strangers alike, so that they don’t sweat their makeup off beneath the disparaging heat of the lights onstage. I return to the lobby when the kids trickle onstage for vocal warm-ups; the hollowness of the vast room is too easily comparable to the emptiness inside me. I am supposed to be out there, sweating in my costume, with the smooth-rippled black stage beneath my trembling fingers and my friends smiling around me. Why, then, am I waiting in the blood-red blush of the empty stairs? I manage to lessen my gnawing misery as I watch the show from the middle of row K, and it vanishes altogether for a too-short moment when Michael sings. His magical tenor voice fills me up from the inside out, but leaves me more deflated than before when the song is over. Last year we were on that stage together, our voices dancing a jazzy duet. The show ends with curtains the same pulsing red as the lobby, and I stumble down the theater stairs alone. I catch Dale first, diminutive little Dale who is now taller than I am. As I give him his cookies he greets me with a dimpled grin and a “You’re still short,” that tug a halfhearted laugh from my throbbing throat. It is lost in the roaring surf of voices. Henry is next; he is no taller than before, his brown bangs perhaps a little longer, dressed in the same too-big, ivory-colored suit he wore last year. I have to bend over to hug him, which is normal and comforting. Seeing no more of my friends beneath the glaring lights, I start out to the lobby, but pause in the sheltered doorway. Seeing the swirling ocean of people congratulating the beaming actors makes my throat ache and my eyes sting. In this instant I come to a realization. This crippling grief must be what Peter and Susan, and eventually Edmund and Lucy, experienced. The P.J. Jacobs play is my Narnia, and I am too old to go back. Iman appears at my elbow with her typical greeting: “I lost the game just for you!” I smile and bite back my tears, rummaging through my limp blue bag for her cookies. She is as short as Henry, and her hug just as familiar; she beams with
delight at the treats. Her parents arrive to congratulate her, and I sneak off to find Stana and Perry. Stana’s costume is bedecked with jangling beads and her makeup is exotic, but her smile is genuine. Perry’s ragtag attire is thoroughly dusted with sweet-smelling cocoa powder ‘dirt,’ and as he is surrounded by friends and family I only have time to hand him his cookies. I scan the bustle and finally catch a glimpse of Sam’s scarecrow form and cocked, brown cowboy hat disappearing into the theater. When I hand him the crinkled, plastic-wrapped, red-ribbon-tied package of cookies, his thin face is transformed by shock. “You made me cookies?” he asks. My face grows warm, and I nod. Shock gives way to delight that makes my eyes sting again, and he pulls me into a tight hug. He’s grown, too, and his flannel-clad shoulder presses against my quivering chin. Finally I find Michael, that dark-haired tenor who’s practically my brother. He’s carrying cheerfully arranged flowers for Miss Lori, so I put my arm around his skinny shoulders as we cross the dim stage. “Your song was awesome,” I tell him. “It wasn’t the same without you to sing with,” he replies. As I leave the quieting scarlet lobby and step out into January’s icy embrace, the scent of cold burns my nose and the tears freeze in my eyes. I didn’t feel this grief when I left my Narnia at the end of last year’s play. But then, you never know what you have until it’s gone.
Black Bears by Cuchulainn Q.
Once upon a time, there were three bears: Mama Bear, Papa Bear, and Baby Bear. They all lived happily in a big forest for many years. Until one day when Papa Bear’s cocaine addiction was exposed by the police. Papa Bear was sentenced to 25 years in Louisiana State Penitentiary for possession and intent to distribute. As the barred door clanged shut behind him Papa Bear knew he was walking straight into hell. He was assigned a cell to share with some crazed wolf that had killed a little girl and her grandma or something, and when he went through the lunch line they didn’t even have berries for his already too cold porridge. To top it all off, a gang of pirates led by an old guy with only one hand started calling him out whenever he went by. After about a month of the maddening routine that he was forced into, a plan started to form in his mind: he would break out and soon. Several problems arose right from the beginning: one was that even though he was a seven foot tall colossus of furry muscle he could barely even scratch the hard concrete cell walls and another was that he was always under the eye of his cellmate who he had taken to calling the big bad wolf. He kept trying new ways to dig through but every time he was sadly defeated by the cold stone imprisonment. Then, right as he was at his wits end several things happened that happened purely by luck. The hot sun beat down on the chain gang Papa was assigned to. A pair of
guards passed by him and he couldn’t help overhearing their conversation “Hard time at home lately?” “Yeah” “I heard something about a lawsuit, what’s up with that?” “Some witch tried to eat my kids a few weeks ago; luckily they killed her before she was able to. Now her family is pressing murder charges and we can’t fight back due to lack of evidence.” Papa Bear saw his chance and spoke up: “If you press Assault with an Oven charges, they’ll be forced to prevent extra evidence, and if what you say is true your children should be acquitted.” The guard looked up, “You really think that would work?” as Papa Bear stood up he replied, “I’m sure of it.” What resulted was a longstanding friendship and respect with the guards at L.S.P. To repay the sage advice of Papa they took care of the pirates, beating them and sending them off to different prisons. With them gone Papa Bear was able to relax once again. The second provident event happened quite quickly after that; the Big Bad Wolf had started a riot to try and cover the murder of another inmate. He was moved to solitary confinement and Papa Bear got the solitude that he craved. This left Papa Bear with only one problem: he couldn’t get through the hard concrete walls. For months he kept trying different methods to break through, then the months turned into years and he felt a change come into him. He didn’t even want to break out anymore, his wife had probably moved on, his son grown up, and even if he did somehow escape he wouldn’t have a home to return too. Then
he realized something: this was his home, he had come to feel comfortable with the concrete walls and barred doors, with the pirates gone and having the respect of the guards he had a pretty decent life. Then one day as the guards were doing their rounds, they discovered him dead in his cell, and they realized, a bear’s lifespan is only about twenty years.
Hope By Quade V.
On the outskirts of happiness, nearly an eternal land Bore deeper into sadness; the executioner of life Forbearance from the end; continuation—your drive—fleeting Is there a divine? Is benediction possible? Undeviating I plea To cross this barren land alone, without a hand to hold Distressing with every step has all but sorrow ceased? Thereupon a light began to show; hoarding the skyline Shimmering, serene, simple Ardently you ponder The executioner puts his axe to rest
Boxcar Dreams by Charles B.
Chapter I Clawing at my window, I don’t know what it is. Lying in my bed, a feverish tingle is crawling down my feet to the very tips of my toes. Where that sound is manifesting from, I haven’t the faintest idea. All I know is if Frankenstein or the Creature from the Black Lagoon walk into my room, I’ll flip this bed over. … I’m 32 years-old and I am still scared of monsters. There I said it, happy? This may sound odd, but I have a very good reason. No, it’s not that I am regressing back to my childhood or I was never breastfed, all that psychology mumbo jumbo, it’s just that…I never forget things, I guess. My mind is chockfull of these ridiculous stories chumps and hobos have been preaching to me over a pot of bitter coffee in a train boxcar, and they stay in there, like caged monkeys, rattling to get out. I’ve been on the road all my pubescent life, my father died of botulism when I was two years-old and my mother was an absent floozy who stopped at every roadhouse she could lay her eyes on. I was usually left in the car while she flirted and sat on the corduroy laps of every drunken trucker in the building. No matter though, I had my companion, Gobbler, my stuffed pet dragon who was best known as the lead character on the popular children’s cartoon, Gobbler’s Fantastical Fairyland. An avid fan of the show, I watched every sugared-coated episode, which was canceled after four seasons due to the discovery of the convicted sex offender in Gobbler’s costume. Ah, those were the days right? The time I ran away from my mother was one of the most liberating moments of my life. At the age of ten, my mother and I pulled our station wagon up to a desolate filling station in the middle of the New Mexico desert. Mom filled up the tank, the smell of gasoline always made me ditzy, and on the rare occasion she brought me in with her to pay the bill. The station attendant was a husky, liver spotted old man who right away gave my mother “the look”. “The look” is a look that my mother received a lot from desperate old men who haven’t seen a woman in fifteen years. I do have to say, my mother was quite the looker. She was slim but slightly muscular, she had long raven hair which you could imagine Pocahontas or Sacagawea having. Right in her prime of twenty-seven, she married my father at sixteen and had me at seventeen. Her aura was exactly that of Jesus
Christ after he appeared from the tomb after the Resurrection. She might have thought she was Christ-like; her vanity matched her beauty. Mary Magdalene was used to “the look”. She inattentively paid the grease ball and stuffed the change in her crocodile-skin purse. The attendant beckoned his mouth to her ear and whispered, almost a hiss, and to this her eyes widened and her lips chewed. Her head snapped towards me. “You, wait in the car,” she snapped, “it’s gonna be awhile.” The same old routine, just like the roadhouses. As I slumbered to the door, I peered out of the corner of my eye to see the floozy and the grease ball sneak into the back room. I hope this one pays her well, he better, look at him, someone like that should give her a continental breakfast in addition to the check. There I was, waiting, waiting and waiting. This appointment is taking extra long for some reason. With Gobbler at my side I gazed out into the distance at the barren, orange canvas. Oh, how I wanted to paint that canvas for my own, travel its landscape. This thought suddenly began to urge my body closer and closer to the car door. As soon as I know it my face is flattened against the window, like a squished mushroom top. I opened the door slowly, just a crack, and my foot found the earth and then the other foot. My body entered the blazing sun rays and this time, without my mother at my side, I trudged the ground, walking farther and farther away from the rundown filling station. I carried Gobbler by his stubby yellowish-green arm. Step-by-step, my legs went marching on, completely separated from the rest of my body. … At age fifteen, I was riding the rails. The memories of my mother and her prosperous “career” were long gone and I’ve been on my own for five years. The boxcars aren’t so bad when you get used to them. Yes of course for the first few months I ached when I slept on the wooden base without a pillow or mattress and in the morning I woke up with slivers on my back, arms and legs. But after those few months, I was like a brick wall to all those pains and aches. After five years of riding the “Trans-American Western Railroad”, I gained a fine amount of friends. Lazy Dan was the first railroader that I met during the first months of my nomad lifestyle. Lazy Dan was given his title first as a joke among people who have met him, he was a quadriplegic. A fellow rider once joked that Dan was too lazy to stand up or lift a pile of hay. Long story short,
Terrance cut out the joker’s tongue and pushed him out of the cart. Terrance was the testiest and angry man I’ve ever known. We had a lot in common, we both ran away from abusive parents, we both were seeking a better life, and we both love Gobbler’s Fantastical Fairyland. The only difference is that Terrance committed a felony in bliss. The reason he was riding the rails was that he returned to his home to murder his mother and father for revenge of several years of physical and mental abuse. Carrying a blood stained knife and in utter shock, he returned to his remote cottage in the woods, packed up his belongings and here he was telling me his life’s story. More colorful characters met my handshake over the years. Paul Stick who weighed only ninety-nine pounds, Clark who carried his wife’s ashes in a pickle jar, Cross-eyed Joe who was cross-eyed, and Olivia: the only woman, who always smelt of a rainy day. But out of my entire band, my favorite was Tom Whethers who was nineteen years-old. He was the one I most related to. We were closer in age, all the others were in their early fifties, and he was born an orphan who ran away from his foster home at the age of ten. Tom always told me stories of heroes fighting villains, men fighting monsters and animals fighting animals. These are the stories that stuck in my head, the monsters from those stories return to me even now. We were like brothers, Tom and I, the other riders regarded us as inseparable. But riding the rails can be a tedious and lacking life. One time, apparently there was a herd of bison that wouldn’t budge off the tracks. We heard the conductor talking to the engineer, muffling turned into shouting. The conductor was explaining how bison are protected by the government or something and the engineer just wanted to run them over. Another long story short, it was five hours of shouting and pleading to the bison before we all felt a jolt and then a crawl as the train started to move. If only there could have been some land pirates or salvagers who forced the stalling of the train in order to raid its cargo and steal its women. That would have been a more exciting taste of the hobo life. Yes, life was satisfactory, compared to that garbage hole I called a life that preceded the former. I would not have imagined anything interfering with my joy and relaxation… Well, until Matthew and his beast came aboard. … It was a Sunday morning, the night before we hopped on a train headed for Libby, Montana, and the air was crisp and clean, like 7-Up, except it probably had
caffeine. Olivia, the rainy day lady, had one of those carry-with-you radios and we were all listening to a Sunday service. After the hour long service, the radio was shut off and I crawled to the back corner by the haystacks to take a nap while the others played American Canasta. I was always a dreamer, nightmares, fantasies, stuff that little boys dream about. The dream I dreamt of that night was a fantasy, a fantasy I was dreaming all my life. I found myself lying on a maroon silk couch while I opened my eyes to see a respectable living room. Quaint, homey, and simply beautiful, the sitting room was what I could call a part of my long lost home. I never called an actual home a home though if you can call a station wagon and thirty different cheap motels home. The rest of the furniture was floral designed and set in the middle of the square of furniture was a cherry oak coffee table. I stood up, dizzily glided over to the table and looked down. Placed on the table was a stack of Healthy Living and Good Housekeeping magazines that were recently dated. Next to it was one single copy of Consumer Reports. I picked up a copy of the “how to make a swell livingspace” magazines and looked at whom the magazine subscription was for. My eyes could have rolled to the back of my head and my legs flail out from under me. There, in pure black and white, was my mother’s name. Where am I? Even before I could analyze the shock my head was filled with, I heard a scuttling sound behind the swinging door next to the T.V. I was so confused; I couldn’t even guess what it might be. Footsteps erupted from behind the door and they were crawling closer and closer. The door swung open and the figure that stood there was lean, yet somewhat muscular, with dark, raven hair. It was my mother. Though how could it be? It looked like my mother but this woman was wearing a lovely, silver evening gown; my mother wore short skirts, fishnet stockings and low-cut blouses. This woman’s hair was wavy and flowing; my mother’s hair was knotty and straight. My mother looked like a clown when she wore makeup; this woman looked like an angel. Despite the differences, this was my mother; I just knew it deep inside this was my mother. I didn’t know what to do at first because the situation was awkward and unbelievable. This woman made my childhood so miserable and stationary and to see her here in my dream looking like Princess Di was truly miraculous.
Astonishingly, my mother’s arms began to rise up. Higher and higher, inch by inch, they raised like draw bridges letting a ship pass through across her abdomen. They soon found the exact place to stop which was just parallel to my body structure. With mommy’s arms out like that and her angelic, comforting smile placed on her face, she actually beckoned me to dive in for a hug. By this I was astonished. In the real world the only time my mother wanted to hold me was to feel if I had her packet of smokes somewhere on me. But, since this is a dream…I guess it will be alright. I took slow and small steps toward this bright entity and as I walked closer she leaned further towards me as if in anticipation. Was this a trap? Was this actually a nightmare and was this woman actually a hideous creature wearing a mask? I came within inches of her and the arms that were raised wrapped around me and she pulled me in gently, motherly. I could feel the warmth flowing off her body. Hugging her was like dipping into a warm bath made of clouds. She smelt of lilacs and cherry blossoms and I could feel her heart beat and I could also feel mine. I never felt my heart and another’s heart beating together so close before. I could feel wet drops running down my cheeks to my chin. I was in total bliss; I finally had a home and a loving mother. “I love you sweetie,” my mommy said in a soft, smooth voice. When I heard this I started to sob with joy and thankfulness. I thought I never would have heard those words coming out of her mouth. Suddenly the whole scene around me started to fade and then total blackness. My eyes rusted open and I found myself inside the dark, wooden boxcar. I unfortunately remembered it was just a lost dream.
The Hobbit by Moira E. He didn’t want to leave his home, He didn’t know why he even should, He had no obligation to The sky-blue, tasseled hood
But as the nighttime hastens in It’s frying pan to blazing fire Oh! Fifteen birds in five fir trees Cannot fly any higher
But somehow now he found himself A-rounding crooked paths and bends, Embarking on a journey with These strangers who are friends
Yet somehow now he found himself Aloft in eagle’s saving grip But now the forest lies ahead: A grim, unpleasant trip
At first it seemed, oh, not so bad, Just pony-rides in May-time sun, But rain and trolls began to make him Wish the journey would be done
From Carrock to a friendly home Before they dare to again embark— A journey now without the Grey In forest deep and dark
‘Cause somehow now he found himself A-rounding crooked paths and bends Embarking on a journey with His irritated friends
So now our hero finds himself A-hiking trails with sinister bends Across a river swift and black Alas! A sleeping friend
They made it to the Homely House, He could have stayed much longer there, But Durin’s Day approached and they Must travel while the days were fair
A-chasing after merry elves Our hungry hero’s misery, ‘Mid spiders, Sting has gained a name, Unprecedented victory
And once again he found himself A-climbing paths and crooked bends, Continuing a journey with his Suddenly-hopeful friends
He’s starting now to find himself, Although he knows not to what ends, He’s earning a place in the weary hearts Of his very grateful friends
The goblins came as quite a shock Oh! Scampering through tunnels black, He’s wishing that he wasn’t there Oh! Why can’t he go back?
Oh, it’s the belly of the whale! These prisoners of the Elvenking, They’d lost some hope, would’ve lost it all If not for a burglar’s ring
Oh! Horrors dark, he found himself A-stumbling through the endless black, A riddle, a ring, some buttons lost Yes! Oh friends, he’s back
Thirteen dwarves, our hero finds, Can fit in barrels bound for the lake, Their only chance to get away: A chance our hero dares to take
And now poor fellow, he finds himself A-riding the river down, down, down To Esgaroth, where stout men dwell, To Esgaroth, the Lake-Men’s town
Our hero wasn’t there the night The fiery terror finally died, Though fraught with loss the Lake-Men were “King Bard! King Bard!” they cried
They’re greeted, oh! Most joyously, The stories told this day would come, The King’s Return! Oh rivers now With shining gold shall run!
Now Elvenking and human lord Bring tidings to the Oakenshield, But dragon-sickness takes its hold— Thorin will not yield
And now our hero finds himself A-traipsing over wastelands grim, No door, as Durin’s Day draws near, Their hopes are growing dim
Oh dear, our hero finds himself A-sneaking off in dead of night, He brings a gift: the Mountain’s Heart, He doesn’t want a fight
An old thrush knocks on a hard, grey stone, The very last light of a dying sun— Five feet high, three walk abreast; NOW the adventure’s begun!
Mithrandir at last returns! His burglar’s done exceptionally well, Though how the Mountain King responds Nobody yet can tell
So our poor burglar finds himself A-creeping through a tunnel cold, To meet and speak with, though unseen, A fiery evil old
Our daring hero finds himself A-scrambling downward at wit’s end, Poor fellow only tried to help— But lost a dangerous friend
“From under hill and over hill, “The stinging fly unseen, “I’m Barrel-Rider, the Winner of Rings, “No bag went over me!”
When Dain arrives the tensions rise, Will blood be shed o’er dragon’s prize? But answers come in terrible form Of Warg and goblin battle cries!
Oh! Barrel-Rider finds himself A-scampering up that tunnel hot! Never laugh at living dragons, Humor they have not!
The unseen burglar finds himself On hilltop high above the fray, Elves and goblins, dwarves, men, wolves: Too many lives are lost that day
The dragon flies to Esgaroth From whence the burglar came, he knew, Unbeknownst to him his mail was rent, The Bard’s black arrow flew!
Reconciled with Mountain King, Who fell with both his sister-sons, No wish for treasure, just for home— When will this journey be done?
And now our hero finds himself A-journeying west with Pilgrim and Bear, The friendly house beside the woods: A happy Yuletide passes there O’er mountains ‘neath the springtime moon, To Rivendell, to Elrond’s home, Then on to meadows fair and green, To trees and hills he long had known Our hero, Bilbo, found himself, On crooked path in place unknown, A friend of elves, consort of Kings, But still—there’s no place quite like Home.
Petrichor 1 by Cecile Neilsen
She's a one night stand, ready to be kissed She's a fast paced adventur'r, marks one's soul Vehemently impudent, won't be missed suddenly gone, her mark's left, oh so bold She's the reluctant voice no one'll notice Her breath is to clean our dirty soil her fragile hands are touched by the lotus Her placid sense brings peace, she won't recoil One will sense her presence, She'll hold one dear Says no less than needed, no words she wastes sees through the pretence, beg for her sweet tear Because of her rainfall, her kiss one tastes Elegant Ladies, arbitrary rain only their free will their freedom will bane
Em and Kaidan in the Grass by The Unknown Voice
1
Petrichor: “Smell of rain�