Stray Shot 2012

Stray Shot 2012

STRAY SHOT 2012 Editors: Jay Bonti, Kate Eldridge, Thom Hart, Ricky Fan Jiang, Yea Weon Kim, Sarah Lombard, Veronica McStocker, Chris Olson, Mac Peeler, Graham Pough, Tyffany Richards, Sarah Shulman, Alex Sproviero, Elle Sutherland, Reneè Waller Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut

CONTENTS

Cover photo by Miriam Canut Segura

Kent by Kate Eldridge ............................................................................................................ 1 photo by Falon Moran ................................................................................................................... 2 Hibakusha by Charlie Davol ................................................................................................. 2 Forever by Jay Bonti ............................................................................................................... 9 photo by Miriam Canut Segura..................................................................................................... 10 Puertoriqueño by Tyffany Richards ................................................................................... 11 Say Cheese by Ian Riley...................................................................................................... 12 The City by Chris Olson ...................................................................................................... 13 photo by Miriam Canut Segura..................................................................................................... 14 Reality by Elle Sutherland.................................................................................................... 14 Solitude by Ricky Fan Jiang................................................................................................. 15 Four poems by Sarah Shulman.............................................................................................. 16 The Crack in the Sidewalk by Ian Riley.......................................................................... 17 Authentic Manipulation by Taylor Dube ......................................................................... 19 Lost Generation by Charlie Davol ..................................................................................... 20 The lively night by Thom Hart .......................................................................................... 21 May 4th by Thom Hart ........................................................................................................ 22 photo by Dasha Zaporozhets......................................................................................................... 23 Perspectives by Veronica McStocker.................................................................................. 23 The Ambiguity of Purity by Callie Carew-Miller............................................................ 24 Two poems by Deviates (Alessia De Vitis).............................................................................. 26 Fiction by Tyffany Richards................................................................................................... 27 Something You Can’t Have by Elle Sutherland ............................................................... 32 PORTFOLIO by Yea Weon Kim.......................................................................................... 33 photo by Miriam Canut Segura..................................................................................................... 38 photo by Thom Hart ................................................................................................................... 46 Poem by Miriam Canut Segura ............................................................................................. 47 page from NYC journal by Yea Weon Kim ...................................................................................... 50 A Long Way From Home by Sam Levin ........................................................................... 51 photo by Dasha Zaporozhets......................................................................................................... 53 Haiku Anthology by Mr. Martin’s Students ....................................................................... 54

photo by Falon Moran ................................................................................................................. 56 Essay by Kori Rimany............................................................................................................ 56 Three poems by Sagine Corrielus.......................................................................................... 58 photo by Miriam Canut Segura..................................................................................................... 62 Fiction by Reneè Waller......................................................................................................... 62 Haiku Anthology by Mr. Bailey’s Students......................................................................... 64 Six poems by Graham Pough ................................................................................................ 65 The End by Tyffany Richards .............................................................................................. 71 get going by Sarah Lombard ............................................................................................... 72 Untitled by Veronica McStocker.......................................................................................... 73

Thanks to the many faculty who have assisted us in this endeavor, and especially to Ms. Kjellson, Mrs. Bucklin, Ms. Kelly-Aguirre, Ms. Varga, Mr. Lillie, Mr. Richards, and Mr. Martin.

For back issues of Stray Shot and English Journal (the midyear literary journal) go to http://portal.gunnery.org/netcommunity/page.aspx?pid=260

Kent by Kate Eldridge I never believed it could happen. But that day did come. Sitting on the arm of our plaid chair in our basement, I was still too short so my feet couldn’t touch the cool concert floor. Alston leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. We knew something was happening; neither of us could identify if it was a good or bad change. We looked at each other; fear glazed over my eyes and muffled all noises. My mom spoke slowly to us. “I’ve decided to take a job at Salisbury Boys’ school. We’re moving into the house in Sharon when you guys get out of school.” My dad stood there looking for a reaction. My brother was speechless. I wasn’t old enough to contain any emotions or have any filter. “What? That can’t happen, this is my home. I don’t want to move. I hate you guys.” I may have been in 5th grade, but these words weren’t foreign to me. I started crying and walked up the stairs, out the front door, and onto every wonderful place I could think of. It was my Tarabithia. This was my home and my Wonderland, my Neverland, my everything.

Everything I knew and know was and is there. Every summer and every chance I get, I drive to Kent and relive it. I look for that little girl, shorter than all her friends. I always watch for her and her brown ringlets bouncing with every jump, every leap, every skip. Her laugh was always heard throughout the whole neighborhood. Katie, KayKate, Kate, Crazy Kate. I looked for her playing in the leaf piles. I walked slowly to the river. Brushing against all the seed pods that pop and seeds fly everywhere when they are touched, I picked any blackberry that I saw, I touched every branch, and smelled every flower. I looked for her striped bathing-suit in the river, her sitting there looking for the prettiest rocks, like slag and the white ones, looking for frogs. I looked for her hanging her head over the side of the bridge and watching the river flow beneath her. I hoped to see her dangling off the roots of The Big Tree, dragging jewel weed in the river watching it sparkle under the water’s surface. I hoped to find her walking on the stone wall, or crossing the river to Pricker Island, climbing on trees, jumping on bales of hay, running on the trails. Why can’t I find that happy kid? Where are those curls, that smile, those brown and green eyes. Then I dangle my head over the calm river and I see her. I point my hand down to her and say Hi. But she’s different.

There’s still her ringlets and brown and green eyes, but her hands are bigger, her legs longer, she’s just not little anymore.

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photo by Falon Moran

[HIBAKUSHA] (Lit. Meaning: Explosion-Affected Person) A screenplay by Charles Davol

EXT. MILITARY BASE, OUTSIDE NAGASAKI MORNING AUG. 9 1945 A flash of light, a reflection off the blade of a sword, cut off as it is sheathed and gleaming again as it is pulled out slightly. A young officer is repeating this action; he is in his late thirties, standing at attention at the farthest post of the base, a large fence behind him, a railing at the edge of a small cliff. He is still and rigid; only his

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eyes are moving, darting constantly across the horizon. The low RUMBLE of plane engines, slowly growing is in the background. He is dressed in typical military attire, clean and well kept. There is a SWORD at his belt with his hand on the hilt, a RIFLE at his side. This is HIRO. Beside him, leaning against the railing stands TSUBASA, a much younger soldier, dressed in the, same attire but with wrinkles in his uniform, and his shirt unbuttoned. He is relaxed and lazily twirling a knife in his hand.

HIRO’s eyes focus in on the horizon, PAN OUT to a cluster of bombers approaching the city HIRO (Not moving, but yelling to TSUBASA) They are approaching, ready yourself!

TSUBASA You’re a fool. It doesn’t matter whether we are ready, what they did to Hiroshima-shi will be repeated here and again and that will be the end of Japan. America has won.

HIRO (Scoffs) You are the fool. Emperor Hirohito knows the People of Japan are strong and honorable. Perseverance is strength! It matters not how many cities they destroy, there will always be Japan. Rising again and again just like the sun.

(Pause, Hiro looks down at the city, then back up to the sky) What is the old saying? After water, earth hardens.

TSUBASA If we had a bomber for every old saying you preach to me, then I would think we could win this war.

HIRO ignores him, still watching the sky, his hand griping sword.

CUT TO: INT. COMMAND BUNKER, MILITARY BASE

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now on the handle of his

3 OFFICERS are listening to a RADIO report coming in on an old and decrepit machine, inaudible. They are hunched close together, sweaty and tense. Only a single lamp in a corner, its light illuminating the faces of the OFFICERS and shining off their various medals and badges, lights the bunker.

OFFICER 1 (Low voice, barely a whisper) What is the report? Is it a similar plane?

OFFICER 2 (Overlapping) Quiet! We must hear!

There is a growing SHAKING of the bunker, dust and concrete falling all around them. A RUMBLE louder than the others and growing to a deafening roar cuts to‌ EXT. HILL OVERLOOKING NAGASAKI HIRO is observing the bombers pass less than a mile away from the base now; still none have dropped their load, the city intact below. Then he sees a single, fat looking object drop from a plane over the river, from his P.O.V. it looks like little more than a stone. As it drops he turns away and crouches, placing his rifle on the ground, and crunching into a ball his knuckles white on the SWORD. He closes his eyes and SIGHS, ready for the worst.

In an instant, the world is engulfed in light, an enormous RUMBLING shaking the earth and HIRO. The RUMBLING grows in volume as waves of wind and dust blast out from the base from the city. The NOISE is only audible for a moment before its cut out and only a RINGING remains. HIRO still on the ground, his hat having been blown off, his hair whipping around. His rifle is shaking violently on the ground and begins to move away from him. He grasps out for it but loses his balance and tumbles to the side.

HIRO (Mouthing, all noise having been cut out) TSUBASA! The wind is dying down but HIRO is covered now with dust and debris.

HIRO’s P.O.V.- HANDS OUT IN FRONT OF HIM, STILL CLUTCHING SWORD ON THE GROUND

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He can see just the dirt and his SWORD, all else is blocked out as he crunches into a ball and still the RINGING is his only knowledge of the world, it grows in volume until…

EXT. ROCKY AREA WIND WHIPPING DUST ALL AROUND, LITTLE VISIBLE BESIDES HIRO STILL CRUNCHED IN A BALL Hiro, hands shaking, attempts to steady himself and stand. He raises his head but begins to sway clutches his stomach, and vomits. He collapses onto the ground, breathing heavily. After some time he looks up, spits and wipes his mouth, now with fierce determination in his face, gritting his teeth. He clutches at the sword pulling it out of the sheath and stabs it into the earth, the dry dirt cracking under the force of the hardened steel. Using it to prop himself up, slowly but steadily, HIRO finally stands, now hunched over, dirty, sweaty, and shaking. The dust settles and the sound of crumbling earth, buildings, and air raid sirens slowly grows in intensity in the background and drown out all other noise, the groan slowly shifting towards the sound of a loud fan which brings us to…

CUT TO: INT. COURTOOM, JAPANESE WAR CRIMES TRIBUNAL, JUNE 30 1946 Along one wall of an immense, packed courtroom sit the gathered judges from the most prominent Allied Nations. They all are taking copious notes, with the exception of one man, the Chinese judge, MEI JU-AO. His chin resting atop his hands, he is staring intently without even the slightest shift in posture or expression, at the current defendant, a young Japanese soldier. The bright lights in the courtroom shine off JU-AU’s glasses and intensify his stare but the soldier, does not break under the scrutiny. His uniform is adorned with a singular medal, looking somewhat bare in contrast to the Generals and Admirals seated behind him. He is sweaty, shaking slightly hair unkempt, his arm amputated below the elbow.

MEI JU-AO The theatrics can certainly be lessened young man, you were asked to tell how you came across the village of…

(Looks at notes) Higashisono, what you saw in relation to the terrible actions of the soldiers there, and what you actions you took in response. I must ask you not to cushion the story with some manner of survivor’s tale.

Another man, Indian and dressed in more formal garb ends his note taking and looks up with a small smile, this is RADHA PAL, the judge from India.

RADHA PAL I’m sure that, what my fellow judge wishes to ask you is, to get to the telling of your bravery and loyalty in the face of great danger.

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Mei Ju-Ao, after a moments listening through his translator, snaps his head towards Radha Pal, and glares.

MEI JU-AO What I mean to say, is I, along with my colleagues, I would certainly hope, am looking for the reasoning behind your defense of your superior officer, the man directly responsible for not only your current condition (gestures to Hiro’s missing arm), but also the massacre at the village that you yourself ended.

Hiro looks up, wipes the sweat from his brow, and stares directly back at the Judges panel, unfazed by the growing tension within the courtroom and numerous murmurings amongst the generals and officers seated behind him HIRO I thought it to be important to the story to show the effects of the American weaponry upon my physical and mental state. I believe that it is custom in a trial for all details to be shared is it not?

Jiao’s lips purse and his grip on his armrest tightens. He looks out to the panel of judges at a white man, dark black hair with edges of white, dressed in a business suit, resting his head in his hand, the other idly turning his pen around. This is JOHN HIGGINS, the judge from the United States. He raises his head after listening to the translation for a moment, and sighs.

Higgins (through translator) Mr. Matsuo we will not be had by your attempt at guilt or persecution of the United States for the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. This was war. And necessary for the ending of the war without having to resort to an invasion of the Japanese mainland, a plan, which would have resulted in many more millions of innocent lives lost. Now I am not attempting to disregard your struggle, I admire it, but I would also like to hear it. Can you please continue?

Hiro is focused on the large fan to his immediate right, which is turned towards the representatives from the Allied countries. He nods, and wipes the sweat from his forehead another time. A bright flash of light, a photographer capturing the panel of officers and general brings us back to…

CUT TO: EXT: MILITARY BASE,

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Dust is settling around the area and numerous soldiers either are on the ground, covering their eyes and/or ears after the blast, some stand staring at the tower of smoke, ash and fire that rises into the sky, an enormous billowing thing, far larger than any mountain or building. Hiro limps along towards the main barracks, avoiding his fellow soldiers and occasionally stumbling as he goes. One soldier, his ears bleeding and eyes wide runs up and grabs Hiro by his sleeve, bringing Hiro’s face close to his.

SOLDIER Where are the bombers? Are more coming? What has happened? I cannot hear! Are they invading?

Hiro pushes the soldier off him, grabs both of his shoulders and shakes him once to stop the silence him.

HIRO (Yelling) Do what you can to help these others, stay strong, stay vigilant and I will return with answers. You must not panic. Keep calm and we will be fine.

Hiro leaves the soldier, who stands with his mouth agape until he runs over to the soldiers staring at the mushroom cloud, and begins yelling at them for answers. Hiro continues on his way towards the barracks, reaching the door, only to have it forcibly pulled open from the inside as officers begin to spill out, some carrying rifles, others stacks of paper, others still random supplies, one slams into Hiro in his rush to leave the building and sends them both tumbling to the ground.

HIRO SIR! (Quickly stands at attention) My apologies, please what are your orders regarding the current situation?

Officer My orders? My orders do not matter! None of this matters! The war is lost, Japan is lost!

HIRO Sir surely you don’t mean that, we can persevere, we can continue on, and defeat the Americans, they have no loyalty, no honor to country and leaders no…

Officer They have BOMBS look behind you you fool! They can destroy a city every day and what can we do? Run out of

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bullets and men attempting to do even a small amount of damage. You are young, you are alive, therefore you are more fortunate than most of Japan. Here’s an order for you, leave, find your family, go home, it is over.

Hiro opens and closes his mouth a few times, but says nothing as the officer picks up the remainder of his items and starts off. After a time, Hiro turns in the direction the officer his headed, HIRO (yelling after the officer) What is the fastest route to Higashisono?

Officer Is that your home?

HIRO No, from there I will take a boat to reach General Umezo by some manner. He will have direct orders Officer There is no guarantee he is even still alive! You are chasing after this for little reason at all!

HIRO My reason is for Japan and for honor. I will not lie down and accept defeat. Sir, I request from you permission to go on an expedition to Higashisono, do you grant it?

Officer Go wherever you want, this battle is lost, as is the war, it cant be helped. The fastest route is a straight northwest line halfway along the highway, halfway through old roads until the lake.

HIRO Sir! Hiro raises his hand in a salute, the officer already has run off, along with the majority of the soldiers, now piling into trucks and jeeps, the ROAR of their engines growing, the camera pulls away into an overhead shot of the now abandoned base, showing the convoy, and then the outskirts of the city, continuing to rise into the sky, finally pulling up and away to show the entirety of the mushroom cloud.

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EPILOGUE EXT. Forest, somewhere in Japan, August 13 1945 Sun shining through tall trees creates a gleam off blade of a SWORD, covered in blood, sticking out from the heaving back of a man on his knees, wearing a torn undershirt, one arm in a bloody sling, the other clutching the handle of the blade.

This is HIRO. In front of him stands a young boy, crying and shaking, is holding onto the hilt, sunk deep into HIRO’s chest. This is SHOU. Hiro raises his head and looks up at Shou, one eye black, and his face a dirty sweaty mess.

HIRO, strained I’m so grateful, I am so grateful, it’s done.

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Forever by Jay Bonti Let’s go back to the beginning. Not just to the beginning but the beginning of the beginning and so on. So there was this big bang thing and then BOOM, the universe popped up out of nowhere and got in the way of everything. But if the big bang was the beginning of the beginning, is there an end? Or was the universe always there, waiting for us to fill it up? If there is a beginning to something then there has to be an end as well, right? Or can something just begin to exist and never end? Throw out the idea of the universe and look at relationships. Not intimate relationships just friendships. If we meet someone new and begin a new relationship does that mean that this relationship will come to an end at some point later in time? Like death? So all relationships we have right now will end at some point in time later on, in the future. So then what’s the point in even having any relationships at all if they're all going to end anyway and there is nothing we can do about it? But like all relationships there are smooth parts and rocky parts that you struggle to get through. Like computers. You could have a great computer, top notch, brand new, but if your internet sucks, then you can't do anything about it. You just gotta live with it. Forever. Don’t even get me started on Forever. How long is FOREVER?! Is there such thing as Forever? And if there is a Forever is there a beginning? Because we've already established that if there is a beginning then there has to be an end as well. So there is no such thing as Forever?! Or is there just no beginning and end? God I miss this.

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photo by Miriam Canut Segura

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Puertoriqueño by Tyffany Richards

Eres perfecto How can the world be confined to something as small as your eyes? ¡No sé!

The time we spent was ¡Ea' Diantre!

Why ever did it end?

Was I not good enough for you? ¿Era su guile?

No, it couldn’t be.

But what can be done When you know you’re not in love With someone in love with you…

Hijo de puta How could I be so stupid? ¡Para jodiendo la pita!

Going back and forth I’m done You’re done Se llevan a cabo…

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Say Cheese by Ian Riley When I was a little kid, I remember thinking that the older a type of cheese was, the better it was. I equated it in my mind with the fine wines of ages past, and assumed that snooty people liked old cheese just as much as they liked old wine. It was Stop and Shop, the grocery store, where my world came crashing down. While my mom was at the deli buying sandwich meat for the week, my brother and I wandered over to where a colorful stand was offering free samples. I don’t remember what type of cheese it was, I don’t remember what brand or manufacturer it was, I just know that it advertised it as “aged.” I thought I was in for a real treat. I offered some of the cheese to my brother, and said something along the lines of, “This is going to be really good!” I took a bite, and immediately wanted to puke. It was one of the most disgusting things I have ever tasted in my life. Thankfully I was able to spit it out into a napkin, along with the lesson: things aren’t always better just because they’re older. As I get older myself, I realize that I’m just as clueless as any five year old. Getting older hasn’t magically transformed me into a pot of wisdom, with an answer to every problem. If anything, I’ve found more problems than I could ever hope to find solutions.

Sometimes that scares me; sometimes it makes me laugh in wonder. I’m not that much different than a piece of cheese. It’s not with age that I’ll come to know the answers to my problems. I could be just as clueless as I am right now fifty years down the road, but I don’t want to be. A place to learn would be a great start.

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The City by Chris Olson A society, one with great poise Fills the earth with elegant noise.

Cutting through the air, leaving behind trails With the words in our minds leaving a vast amount of detail!

Capture the words before it’s too late, For the words will settle and desecrate.

Everyone one around young and old Will listen to noise and let them u n f o l d Through thick, thin, smooth, or rough The noise turns to words sure enough A once elegant noise has transformed Covering everything like a bee’s swarm Words to sentences the noise becomes As steady as a beat from a snare drum Sloshing around in our brains The words of wisdom will remain Society’s blindfold has been lifted away Power of noise will sustain This noise should ascertain Ensuring all the people refrain From always playing the same, old, damn game.

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photo by Miriam Canut Segura

Reality by Elle Sutherland Eliminating the past, Paranoid in the present, Taunted by the future.

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Solitude by Ricky Fan Jiang In between the trees is where solitude lives. He sometimes hangs under an extended branch; he may also lean against the aged bark of an oak. But he is absolutely undetectable. So I can only notice his existence once I am possessed by his bittersweet contradiction.

In between the trees is where solitude lives. Sometimes, I rudely intrude on his territory.

But he always gives me a warm welcome: casting a spell on me; sweeping out the businesses which occupy my mind; returning me a clear and tranquil horizon. In such a way Solitude makes me happy.

In between the trees is where solitude lives. He can be truly capricious sometimes. He tries to haunt me when I am enjoying my friends’ companionship. Solitude is overwhelming, and when he strikes me, I become a lonely island surrounded by the roaring waves. And I stand still right in the middle of the motion of the world. It is loneliness indeed.

In between the trees is where solitude lives. Loneliness doesn't really strike me when I am alone; he is most destructive when I am not.

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Four poems by Sarah Shulman Time’s Up Lungs constricted, I can’t breathe, Baby, you everything to me.

Heart is heavy, sad, and blue, Baby I would have done anything for you.

Hands are shaking, legs are weak.

Love is for anyone but the meek.

Eyes are crazed, and stomach won’t still.

This isn’t a love letter, But end of contract, and heartfelt bill.

A Beat The sound of a heartbeat is universal.

The “thump-thump” is defined.

From creature to creature Constantly is found.

Fast or slow, it doesn’t matter.

Connection is sound.

Self-Explanatory Passion is our master, Passion creates disaster.

Passion keeps us on our feet, Passion can be a feat.

Passion can make us crazy, When passionate, you are anything but lazy.

Passion can inspire, Passion can perspire.

If being passionate is being cursed, Then my curse must be the worst.

The End When people are reprehensive, They become defensive.

When skies start to fall, It leaves nothing at all.

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The Crack in the Sidewalk by Ian Riley The crack on the sidewalk was filled with dirt. It was the dirt of the centuries past, it was dirty dirt, the best kind. Dirt is made up of really small rocks. These rocks were really, really small, on account of how old they were. They were so small that a single grain of this dirt was barely visible to the human eye. They filled up the crack on the sidewalk with ease, though.

There was an ant in the crack on the sidewalk too. He liked the dirt because it was easy to move.

He called all his ant friends and told them about the crack on the sidewalk. They all came and started to build an ant hill. The landscape was changing. The ants built the dirt high into the sky, out of the crack of the sidewalk and into the open air. They built it high so they could go low. They burrowed into the century-old dirt and started a colony. The crack was soon filled to the brim with ants, and over the brim with dirt. The crack in the sidewalk wasn’t really a crack anymore. It was a crack in the armor of the sidewalk, but it was filled up with dirt and ants. The crack was plugged.

The bottom of the shoe was made of rubber. This rubber had come from a tree in the Amazon forest which was almost as old as the dirt in the crack on the sidewalk. There was a hunter in the forest who had shot a bird which landed on this tree, and the tree was covered in blood and guts.

The rubber on the bottom of the shoe was making its way along the sidewalk and saw the centuryold dirt rising out of the crack on the sidewalk. The century old dirt was scattered out of the crack on the sidewalk, onto the top surface, and the ants ran away, and the crack was plugged no longer.

The blood and guts of the ants that didn’t get away were scattered on the rubber bottom of the shoe.

The shoe was connected to a nine year old leg, and the leg was connected to a nine year old boy.

The dirt from the crack on the sidewalk was carried in the blood and guts of the ants on the rubber bottom of the shoe to the bus stop by the nine year old leg connected to the nine year old boy.

The nine year old leg connected to the nine year old boy carried the nine year old boy onto a yellow school bus that was nine years old.

The yellow school bus was driven by a man whose name no one knew or cared to know. It had been driven the on same route by the same man for the last five years. He wore the same wrinkled gray shirt, and the same cracked green sunglasses every day. When he was done with his shift, he would take the same route home, and stop at the same coffee shop for the same pastry and the same coffee. His car smelled like fresh pine needles.

The fresh pine needles that the man’s car smelled like smelled like the pine tree in the man whose name no one knew or cared to know’s back yard. The pine tree was located next to the man’s garden, which he tended to each day at the same time when he got home from work. He pulled the flowers out and let the weeds grow. He liked the weeds because they weren’t like him. They grew together to beat out the flowers that would only pop up here and there, always by themselves.

It was the same drill over and over.

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The man whose name no one knew or cared to know checked his garden that day the same way he always did. He walked towards his house and he smelled the same smell of fresh pine needles from his car. His house smelled like pine needles too.

[Ian wrote this under the influence of Sherwood Anderson.]

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Authentic Manipulation by Taylor Dube You think she’s got the power? In a position of authority?

No, it’s me who’s got all the power—don’t you see?

I shouldn’t though, right? That’s what you’d think.

That’s the crazy part, I don’t. Nudge nudge, wink wink.

I think I do, I think I’m in control…

That’s what she tricks me to believe, She’s a magician, a trickster, with cards up her sleeve.

Makes me think I’ve got the power, Got a funny taste in my mouth, it’s sour.

She’s just an innocent bystander, she would say But she controls the game that she makes me play.

Manipulated to think I’m manipulating her.

Oh how clever, The Master Manipulator.

It makes me sick, I’m done with the tricks, Done with the lies I think I might capsize From rage. Cause how could I have been so blind, To think that I was in control all this time?

But that’s what they do, that’s how they work.

Infect your mind, muddle your psyche and lurk.

Convince you that you’re the perpetrator, The Master Manipulator.

But I see the truth; I see what you’ve done.

It’s not me. It’s you. The games up I’ve won.

Cause you underestimated me, you thought I was weak.

You should walk away now and accept your defeat.

Clearly I’m angry. You’ve made me mad.

Quite frankly I could care less if you’re sad.

Now it’s time to grow up Peter Pan, You’re an adult, time to leave Never Land.

I’m at a loss for words now, not much more to say.

Except, you are cordially invited to shove off, starting today.

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Lost Generation by Charlie Davol I’m told we have no patience, that there is a severe and somehow surprising surplus of something solid, substantial and/or not limited to what the batteries may include, But I think outside of the box I bear nothing in mind and caution no wind because you can't fire a hurricane, there’s an app for that but the reviews are terrible I’m me, something apart from the norm indie, introverted, indecisive, impossible to identify hardly hipster, the box, call it Pandora’s For it holds a wholesome and hearty, not hefty, headstone That reads: Here lies five minutes ago, so last year Again with the rebellion, I’ve got a question, this time with little alliteration, but a bit of aggression, because if it’s just a recession why is there depression? here If the breakfast club couldn’t break the fast Then can we occupy the street?

If the Clerks sold out and Will Hunting had no will, but instead…

If Bueller got a day job, with a sick day here and there, If Ridgemont High shut down for renovations If the Rebel lost his cause, because he was dating one of the Mean Girls, have we lost the point?

If instead of Dazed and Confused, we all sobered up, got straightened out and just did the required reading If Malcolm wasn’t in the Middle, but at the head of the pack If Double Dare was rigged the whole time And if we weren’t Afraid of the Dark And if everyone from A to Zoey 101 ended up in rehab Then what chance do we have?

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The lively night or Conversations concerning Dimethyltryptamine by Thom Hart Fill your dipper with the milky celestial brew Touch your lips to the skies, and then lower your gaze To the fireflies who mirror the stars, while two Baritone bullfrogs narrate the scene, A rich chorus of their fellows follow suit The warmth of the day has not yet left The ground remembers a kind sun And the blanket of night is laid upon the land The bed of the gods is made for rest An owl calls out for friends in his forest And the trees are wide-awake dancing To the vibrations, the beat, the music The season celebrates itself with much song But I can only long to taste the first drops Of a milky celestial brew dipped out of the Wondrous deep black basin that is the heavens.

Congratulations to Thom on having this poem selected by ASAP for their Celebration of Young Writers, held 5.12.12 at the Washington Town Hall, and for his invitation to the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival on 6.2.12

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May 4th by Thom Hart The fresh green bubbles up like a spring and leaves lap at the mist quivering with unrestrained joy and the sun breaks through, blades of grass arch their backs rock sponges up the warmth shadows offer themselves, sweet shade May is spring here, a bubbling of life, and green, and heat.

I stretch, my frozen bones creak and groan, soon I will be young and agile once more, as the land breathes in the first days of summer.

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photo by Dasha Zaporozhets

Perspectives by Veronica McStocker To you, I am a you And to you, You are a me.

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The Ambiguity of Purity by Callie Carew-Miller History has proven that many of the greatest works of art and literature have suffered the most criticism at the time of their publication. The commonality between most of these great works is the element of controversy each brings to the table. Thomas Hardy’s novel Tess of the D’Urbervilles would hardly be considered to be scandalous in the present day and age, but in 1891, even the title page was cause for hullabaloo. Claiming that Tess Durbeyfield was a ‘pure woman’ after all the events that transpired throughout her life caused uproar in the literary community. Throughout the novel, she had crimes committed upon her, she remained silent and neutral in the face of crime, and she committed a crime of her own. But despite all the adversity in her life, her description never changes. What does it take to be a ‘pure woman,’ and does Tess truly deserve this portrayal?

Throughout the novel, Tess Durbeyfield plays many different roles, nearly all of them submissive.

Early on, she makes it clear that other people are in control of her destiny, but no role exemplifies this so well as that of the victim. Nearly all her problems later in life come from one event: being raped by Alec D’Urberville; from that point on, “an immeasurable chasm was to divide our hero’s personality,” (Hardy 74). In 1891 when Hardy was writing, Tess would immediately be declared un-pure, whether she solicited Alec’s crime or not, but Hardy wants to make a point. Can she still be a ‘pure woman’ if her body has been violated? When she has her baby, the “purity” of Tess’s body is further destroyed, but the Hardy still has faith in her. The baby is ill and there is no chance for the pastor to baptize him before he dies, but Tess has an inspired moment: “the ecstasy of faith almost apotheosized her ; it set upon her face a glowing irradiation, and brought a red spot into the middle of each cheek,” (Hardy 95). She baptizes her own dying baby in the middle of the night, with only her young siblings to witness. It seems that Tess is a young woman whose luck is controlled by an evil committed upon her, not by her; from the moment she meets Alec, her life goes downhill. Though Tess herself does not change a great deal after being raped, society’s view on her has shifted drastically, and for this reason her life will never be the same.

Tess Durbeyfield seems to have the worst luck in the world after her initial meeting with Alec D’Urberville. Nearly everything about her life becomes difficult from that point on, though Tess has the power to escape her situation. The deciding factor in Tess’s misery is her own silence.

When she reveals her secret past to Angel, he reacts as if she herself had sinned, not as if she had been sinned against; his response tortures her, but she refuses to speak out as she becomes the victim of cruelty once more. “If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically […] he probably would not have withstood her,” (Hardy 253) but instead she chooses to obey and to suffer, never thinking of her own happiness. She tries to resist Alec when her husband has left her and her family is struggling, but even in this she is passive. When he asks why her family is being thrown out, she explains that they might have been able to stay, except that, “[she is] not a -- proper woman,” (355). Her passivity is infuriating; while she refuses to defend herself, she perpetuates her status as a victim. But her passivity keeps her from ever committing a crime, sinning, or even being disobedient. She is still pure at heart, though the story of her life is far from virtuous and simple.

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Passivity seems to be an inescapable habit for Tess until the very end of the novel. She has stood by and let others control her life until the moment that Angel shows up to get her back. It is as if something inside Tess has burst; she recognizes Alec’s true deceit once and for all, and she reacts with all the rage she refused to show throughout her life. “The wound was small, but the point of the blade had touched the heart of the victim, who lay on his back, pale, fixed, dead,” (Hardy 383).

Hardy’s description of Alec’s corpse represents the tables turning, if only for a moment: Tess is no longer a victim, and she has finally committed a crime. But her one moment of bold action costs her dearly; though the murder of Alec D’Urberville was out of character, Tess’s response returned her to the epitome of purity. The single instance that Tess was in control of her life was when she killed Alec, but she submitted without a struggle to the law as a sign that she renounced control once more. Angel lives through the end with Liza Lu and the pair watch the black flag rise up when, “’Justice’ was done, and the President of the Immortals […] had ended his sport with Tess,” (Hardy 397). Her only moment of crime lead to her only moment of freedom, and in Hardy’s eyes, her only lapse from purity.

English society, some kind of omnipotent being, and Alec D’Urberville all seem determined to use the life of Tess Durbeyfield as a plaything, and Tess allows them to take control without so much as a fight. A lifetime of servitude, obedience, and placidity make up for her one courageous moment of crime, and she proves herself to be a ‘pure woman’ after all when she goes willingly to her own death. The violations imposed upon her body, to Hardy, are meaningless when compared to her docile and kind disposition. Her moment of independence was punished, and her life was an example, as it ‘should’ have been. Tess proves herself to be, without a doubt, a ‘pure woman,’ but is that really such a desirable thing after all?

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Two poems by Deviates (Alessia De Vitis) PuoliyÜ In una sera Di luna piena vedo Un’ombra nera.

Flowering Crocus As the stormy winter awakens All the doves fly unbroken By the silent jaded eyes Of the stillness of the night.

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Fiction by Tyffany Richards Junior High School 6th grade - Lonely. Think solitude beyond imagination. Knowing almost everyone in your presence and yet knowing no one. How can anyone survive in a situation like that only goodness knows. Attempts to make friends were misinterpreted, rumors were spread. The life of a pre-teen was difficult. Hilarious things happened as well, like the attempt to make the unexperienced, uninterested seventh grader into a boyfriend. It’s awesome the idea of week-long relationships…or was it a day? Those were the days of innocence and loneliness. The days everyone wishes to go back to.

7th grade - Who knew that in the turnover of summer friends would be there. People who were reliable and trustworthy. If those are any words to describe thirteen year olds. Everything all silky smooth. The highest point of a teenager’s life, turning thirteen. Then everything crashes down. NO friends, no one to talk to. Relying on children far younger than you to be friends and having them become more important and more trustworthy than those you were once friends with. Nothing is ever simple when you’re young.

8th grade - Loneliness. Think solitude... but with three friends. Knowing everyone in your presence and yet knowing no one. No attempts to make friends. The three that are there are fine enough. They stayed for all three years. Doesn’t matter what everyone asks, what anyone else thinks. And forget about relationships. Those are too difficult, being a teenager just screws with everything. No one knows what they want, everything is complicated. When graduation comes around a new start is the best idea.

The Gate “The Gate” It was a regular house gate, the same style as all the house gates it was connected to. It was painted black like every other gate. A hundred years of layered black paint on a red metal gate. All the houses had been built Tudor-style, each with its own unique pattern, mini-garden and alternated square and rounded doors. For a hundred years these houses stood, never changing, as buildings nearby were built up and broken down. The outsides of the houses stayed the same.

But this gate, at the bottom the paint was peeled off, when open it hung at an odd angle. Years of children hanging onto this gate and swinging had bent it downwards to a point where it dragged against the ground under their weight and peeled off paint as they swung. This gate was always swung open to where it hit the gate border to the next house and slammed back to close. This gate had seen many hands travel by it. It knew no hand better though, than the hand of Rose.

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“Rose” Rose had lived in the house since the summer she turned four. She was the child who swung on the gate weighing it down and peeling away its layers of paint until her parents would yell to her to stop bending the gate. Rose was always gentle with the gate as she grew older. She would open the gate as quickly and as quietly as she came and went. But now Rose was never by the gate as she once had. Rose had grown older as all children do and gotten married and moved away. She no longer fiddled with the gate to get it to open or close quietly. She was never there.

She had moved on to a new gate that required less trouble. This gate was wooden and had no latch. It was just pushed to open and pulled to leave. Rose’s husband Sean wanted to live in a more extravagant but simple life away from the bright lights and noises of the city that the two had grown up in. Rose was no stranger to this country life, she had attended a rural college, but she missed the city. Every chance she got she returned to the city, her old home and the gate she used to swing on.

“David” David sat in his house in Long Island planning his next trip to the city. He knew that his trip would have to be for business. It almost always was now that he had grown older. There was never any pleasurable moment in the city when she was not there. He would go check on his businesses and then return to Long Island because there was really no need to afterwards. His bed would stay as cold as the winter frost that would soon cover his windows when the seasons changed.

He looked around his living room at the black and grey couches, the scarce paintings on his walls.

This was a man’s house, not his home. There was no womanly touch to it, there were no soft pillows or cushy blankets or anything a woman would have spiced her home with.

He couldn’t figure out why he still lived in the suburbs of Long Island. It had been years since he graduated from college and started his successful business. Then he remembered that there was nothing left in the city for him anymore. She used to be the reason why he was in the city every day, the reason why he had started his company. He had waited for her for so long, always tried to be the guy she wanted. He knew that she loved him, but whenever he asked to be her boyfriend, something more than a fling, she always replied she was with someone. Even the time she did say she wasn’t with anyone, she still said no.

He headed over to the kitchen and microwaved a quick meal before he settled in his car to drive to his old home.

“Rose” In her mind she wondered why she was back here again. She was swinging on the gate she had so loved as a child. She checked her watch and realized it was getting late. She would have to travel home soon. The gate could barely hold her weight now and it screeched across the pavement as she swung. She was taking a last swing before she was to head inside and tell her family she was leaving.

Before leaving she headed up to her old room. It was the same as she had left it. The queen-sized bed still tucked between two shelves, her old clothes neatly hung in the closet, her stuffed animals on the bookshelf. Nothing in there had changed except for the feel of the room.

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It felt lonely and in a way strange to her. This was a room which she had many memories. The room from which she would stare out the window at her neighbors playing basketball or to spy on who was coming in. She got lost in her thoughts of old memories when her husband called. He told her to hurry and go to let the babysitter out.

Rosie had forgotten all about her daughter, Dahlia. She loved her daughter but she didn’t want to leave her old home.

“David” If there was anything David hated more in the world it was out of state business calls. He would have to travel 5 hours to Delaware to meet a prospective client by the name of Sean Anthony. He had no idea why he even agreed to start out of state business calls. They only annoyed him and led him to late nights.

He planned to sleep over in a hotel that night and return to Long Island in the afternoon. He pondered about Sean Anthony while he was driving. From what he had heard Sean grew up in New York City and after marrying his long-time girlfriend he had moved to Delaware. Why anyone from New York City ever wanted to leave the city was beyond David. Sean sounded like a good customer however, David would be able to get some work done at least, knowing Sean wouldn’t cheat him.

Outside the car windows the road changed from highway dividers and retainers to one lane roads full of tall trees. David was really disliking the scenery. Tall trees loomed out over the horizon, some threatening to break and fall on his car. His GPS system told him he was heading in the right direction and about two hours off from the highway he reached his destination. Ahead of him was a large wooden gate. The fence on either side of it seemed to lead into the forest. It was quite a bit intimidating. David walked up to the gate and pushed it. It slowly opened but he could not see the house. There was a path leading into the forest, but that is all it seemed to lead to, the forest. David decided to try his luck and he followed the path to find a country manor tucked away.

At the door David was greeted by a man of average height, light-skinned with long neat braids. He was smiling and extended his hand out to David. David had no idea that he and this man would become enemies. The man introduced himself as Sean and motioned for David to enter his house.

On the inside it was actually a modest country house. All of the furniture seemed high-end or customized. A further walk past the front hall showed the fire place. It was a beautiful fireplace and around it were pictures. They spanned from the roof down to the mantelpiece of the fireplace.

David decided to inspect the pictures further. His eyes lighted on what seemed to be Sean’s wedding pictures. There she was, the woman of his dreams, dressed in a beautiful wedding dress in the arms of Sean. The next picture over was a picture of Sean and his wife holding a beautiful little girl who looked nothing like Sean but more like David.

“Rose” Rose was awakened by her phone ringing urgently. She had taken a nap in the doctor’s office while her daughter was getting a checkup. Rose checked the phone to see that her husband Sean had called five times already and was calling again. Rose picked up and all she heard was Sean say “Get home now.”

She wondered what in the world had happened to Sean to make him sound so upset. She found out as soon as she pulled up in front of the gate. Standing in front of her car was David and Sean.

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Rose realized this would probably be the last time she would ever see Sean. All of her secrets and white lies over the past five years had all unraveled in her home possibly hours before.

Prologue ••••••••••••••••••••••••••• It was a shot that rang through my eardrums a million times. The sudden rush of air into my lungs.

In one way, out the other, the air rushed through the hole in my body. I fell, gasping for air, I was scared. A second shot, closer, louder than the last, hit me. This time the bullet lodged itself in my abdomen, easing its way through layers of skin and muscle into my stomach, releasing the deadly acids inside. All silence around me, except for my struggling breaths. The pain was unbearable.

With each breath I sucked in the smell of my own death. I tried to move but found myself too weak. I grew dizzy at the salty rust smell of my own blood. As I found the strength to pull myself up and lean against a wall, tears fell from my eyes mixing with the blood bubbling from the side of my mouth. I sucked in one last gasp of air before closing my eyes and succumbing to the darkness.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••• The club was jumping. Three floors of the hottest music from reggae, hip-hop and reggaeton. I don’t even know how my friends had gotten me to come here. Chris, Keith and Jr. had somehow tricked me into coming an hour from my house to this club. I was the designated driver, so there wasn’t even the thought of me drinking. Chris and Keith had disappeared up to the other levels of the club. I was left to watch Jr. mack with a girl in the corner. I ended up bumping to the music thinking how far the four of us where from our hood.

Pretty soon this redbone came over to me dancing suggestively. She was finer than any girl I had seen in my hood. Her hair was up in a side bun showing off the jaguar tattoo on the back of her neck. I’ve never been turned on by a girl with tattoos but that jaguar with its claw marks on her neck to her left shoulder just looked so good. She was dancing seductively, gripping her hands tightly against mine as though she was trying to get off by grinding with me. After dancing with me for three songs in a row she up and disappeared on me. She left me there feeling foolish in the middle of the dance floor, so I decided to head to the bar for some water to rehydrate. She had left me sweaty and breathing hard.

I was busy searching through the crowd for Jr., when she reappeared by my side. She slid a wellmanicured finger down my shoulder to my wrist which she grabbed and half dragged me back to the dance floor. We danced for three more songs with me holding onto her waist for dear life while she clasped her hands over mine on her stomach. The DJ was transitioning to another song when she whispered in my ear, “Come with me.”

She pulled me towards where the bathrooms were. The lighting there was better so when she turned to face me I saw how beautiful she really was from the front. Her light brown eyes were almost hidden by her long bangs. She had a cute button nose and her perfect small pouted lips were tinted with a reddish-brown lip gloss. She was wearing a black zip up vest that barely covered her leopard print bra. The vest was so tight her boobs were practically falling out. She had on a pair of skin tight black jeans and six inch black heels. No wonder she was almost eye to eye with

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me. Her eyes roved over my face and body before she leaned upwards and kissed me. Her lips touched mine for a few seconds before she parted her lips and licked mine. Somehow we had stumbled into the bathroom and my back was against the door. The only thing going through my mind was damn she’s a really good kisser. We kissed for a few minutes more before she stepped back from me and asked, “Do you want me?”

Her voice was light and breathy, and I wanted her. The world around me was spinning I wanted to take her right there in the bathroom, something I normally wouldn’t do but she had me feeling a certain type of way. I was about to start kissing her again when she reached at my waist to where my phone was. Before I figured what was going on she handed my phone back to me and said, “My number. Call me when you’re leaving here.”

Then she unlocked the bathroom door and left, leaving me to readjust myself. I’ve met women in clubs before but none of them excited me like she did. I looked through my phone for her name and there it was ‘Mystiq’. Her name made me think of a stripper or an escort but I didn’t think she was one of those. After that exchange with Mystiq I decided to visit the other levels of the club. On the hip-hop level I caught three more dances before I decided to head up to the reggaeton level. I caught a dance there before bumping into an ex of mine. We danced for the last hour before the club closed. I finally found Jr., when I was leaving and thought about calling Mystiq but decided against it. I drove the guys back to their respective homes and told them I’d call them when the morning came around. Then I called Mystiq.

She answered on the first ring.

“Hey, who is this?”

She sounded better than she did in the club earlier. Remembering I never told her my name I replied, “It’s the guy from the club, I was wondering if you still wanted to see me.”

There was a pause. When she replied her voice had gained a seductive tone.

“Sure. I’ll be waiting for you outside of the club.”

Before I could say another word, she hung up the phone.

I wondered what she was doing around the club after closing time when I realized that she probably lived in the area. Half an hour later I got back to the club but she was nowhere to be found. I decided to walk around for a bit thinking that she would be there in the few minutes it took me to buy gum and come back. When I returned she was still not there. I figured she had blown me off so I walked back to my car when I heard footsteps behind me. They were not the sounds of heels hitting the sidewalk but the sound of sneakers hitting pavement. From behind me I heard her voice.

“Toss your car keys backwards to me. Don’t look back and don’t do anything stupid.”

I couldn’t believe that I was so stupid. I could have just driven my ex back to my house instead of coming here for Mystiq. I guess it was true that you can’t trust anyone who isn’t from your hood. I had just gotten my new Jaguar; I had saved up since I graduated high school to buy it. That car was my life and I was not going to give it up just like that. The street lights around us were off so I slowly took my car keys out of my pocket, tossed them backwards and took off running. Mystiq yelled “shit!” before she took off running after me. About a block or so down I made out a light to what seemed like another street. I turned the corner and realized it was an alley. I had nowhere else to run and Mystiq had caught up with me. Behind her I could barely make out four other people. She had a gun in her hand pointed directly at me. During the chase her hood had fallen off and he hair had spread itself across her shoulders. She was hauntingly beautiful.

“I told you don’t do anything stupid.”

Then she pulled the trigger.

(continued on pg 38) 31

Something You Can’t Have by Elle Sutherland Do you ever get the feeling that you want something you can’t have?

I do.

I talk, think, write, and dream all about this one thing I want in my life And suddenly when I have it, I seem to be uninterested and bored Why is that?

Is it because this thing is a person, and this person is someone I have wanted for so long?

Is it because we were friends first and know everything about each other?

Or is it because there is someone else that will always be there in the back of your mind?

Someone you have been waiting for.

Waiting for someone you can’t have is different than waiting for someone you once had.

I once had someone.

This person was special.

Perfect for me in every way.

I was too young to notice.

And too bored to care.

I wanted more to life than this same person every day.

But now that I look back to those years, I now realize what I had is something I can never get back.

Now I am back in the vicious cycle Wanting, Getting, Throwing away.

When will I realize that what I have is something worth keeping?

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PORTFOLIO BY YEA WEON KIM 김예원

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photo by Miriam Canut Segura

Fiction by Tyffany Richards (continued from pg 31)

Chapter 1 12 hours later…

“Who is it?” Tanya asked me.

I looked at her like if she was crazy. If she didn’t know who he was then neither would I. It wasn’t uncommon to walk through our crazy neighborhood and happen upon a dead body.

Usually it was someone we knew, a friend, cousin, nephew or sibling. But this guy, he wasn’t from our hood. He didn’t seem to have any relation to anyone I knew either. He was just a dead guy; propped up against our alley wall like if he had just been sitting there, waiting for us to come along.

“Who is it?” Tanya asked me again, more urgently than the last time.

I was starting to get as antsy as Tanya was. I had never spent so much time in the presence of a dead body.

“No one we know, T.” I replied to her.

“Should we call for help?”

I swear she had lost her mind. Calling for the police in this part of our hood would be asking for trouble. I was not going to risk calling the police for fear of getting locked up. It happened sometimes that when the police had no leads they would start to blame it on a witness.

Next thing you know you’re on trial pleading guilty to a crime you never committed. It had happened to my older brother Quentin and now he was serving 10 years for grand larceny even though he was a good kid.

I wished silently in my head that we hadn’t happened on this guy’s body. I wouldn’t be able to get his face out of my mind and the smell he was giving off because of the heat was making me sick. I started to walk away thinking that I could just pretend I had never seen him but I turned back around realizing Tanya had not walked away with me. Tanya had kneeled down next to him and was staring at him. I had no idea what had gotten into her. We didn’t know the guy, had no need to be standing around him acting as though he would miraculously get up and talk to us. It was crazy how obsessed Tanya was becoming with this guy. I just wanted to leave but I couldn’t just leave her sitting there.

“T! Come on, let’s go! Someone is going to catch us here and we might end up in the precinct for the night!” I yelled at her.

Tanya turned to me and got up. The look in her eyes scared me so much. She knew him, not personally but she knew him. I decided it would be best for me not to say a word about it. We returned to my car and I dropped Tanya home. We stayed at her house for a few hours in silence.

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The only sounds were that of our inhalations and exhalations of smoke. After what seemed like forever I decided to leave because it didn’t seem as though Tanya would say a word to me.

When I got home I plopped down on my couch and turned on the TV. The news showed up and I realized my mother had changed my channels again. I was about to change the channel when I saw the face I dreaded to see since that morning.

“Tyler Nichols, black male, age 25 was reported missing since 6 am this morning. He was last seen in his black Jaguar in Edgewood County. Tyler was recently promoted as the youngest partner in the law firm Gadson and Wells. If anyone has any information on Tyler Nichols and his whereabouts please either call the police or his law firm,” the television reporter said.

So his name was Tyler, and he was a partner at some famous law firm. Just perfect. I still wasn’t going to call the police. I hoped that Tanya hadn’t seen the news. Knowing her state, she would definitely call the police. I wondered what a partner at a prestigious law firm would be doing in Fairwood County and what he had done to get himself killed. It wasn’t my problem though; at least I wouldn’t have to attend another funeral. Over the last few months it had gotten quite crazy, funeral after funeral.

Only last week I had attended the funeral of my fiancé. We had been childhood friends and his loss was a blow to my heart. He was supposed to be my first and last in everything and now he was gone. Killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It made me upset thinking about it. I wondered if that lawyer Tyler had left someone who loved him behind. I don’t know why Tyler plagued my mind so much. Maybe it was because I felt guilty for not calling the police about his death. Maybe it was because of the betrayed look on his face, or probably the fact that he reminded me a lot of the way they found my fiancé. I tried not to think about it and soon fell asleep on my couch. I was awakened by my mother a few hours later.

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Story 3 “Maria, I’m home!”

The man walked to back of the house into a bedroom. On the door were two big heavy padlocks.

From his pocket he pulled out two equally big keys. Click when the first lock. Clack went the second. The door creaked as the man pushed it open. There were two terribly dirty steps full of cobwebs and dead insects. There were imprints of the man’s shoes stuck in the cobwebs. He walked up the steps smiling and whistling to himself. The room he ended up in was medium sized and dark. The one window it contained was dark and smudged with dirt and dust. There was a bed in the middle of the room. In the bed was a bunch of old, dirty sheets. There also was a pale, pale girl with her stringy black hair splayed on a dirty pillow. She is Maria. Her eyes are closed and she seems to glow. The man stops smiling as she opens her eyes. They are a golden yellow color that scares him. Maria opens her mouth as if to speak and then the man screams.

Story 4 Tears fell from my eyes as I told my boyfriend my secret. I knew he would not take it well for he had a very short temper and he could snap at the smallest thing. I don’t even know why I kept this secret from him for so long. I’m sure it was mainly instinctively. I had learned only too many times what could happen if I told him anything he did not like.

My boyfriend was one of those not so good Five Percenters. Now there were some good ones who stood by their words and treated their women like royalty. For the first two years of our relationship, I thought my boyfriend was like that. Then there are others who, like Rakim, lied, cheated and everything else. I knew I could never trust him, no matter what. Unlike when we first met, I was no longer devoted to Rakim. He was not a “god” as he called himself, he was much less than a man after the things he had done to me.

I took a few steps away from Rakim knowing that if I was too close I would probably be the end of me. Neither was I in the mood to get hit, I just wanted to get my shit and go. I was truly and finally tired of Rakim. I already knew that the days he would tell me he was visiting his parents, he was actually cheating on me. The women he was with had already told me what I was already sure of.

I had in one point in my life been waiting for Rakim to propose to me. Five years of waiting for a man who really didn’t care one bit about me. I knew we would never get married anyway because he wanted me to have children for him first. I was adamant on the subject because I did not want children with a man who cheated on and beat me. I also did not want to be with someone who already had three children outside of our relationship.

Tears started to pour out of my eyes as I told him I had already gotten two abortions. Those tears were not only for my lost children but for the last seven years of my life that I had given to him. I had given Rakim all of my teenage years and at twenty-two I was tired and wanted out.

The words had barely left my lips before I realized that Rakim and quickly covered the distance between us.

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“Who the f*** do you think you are?” he said, before he slapped me so hard he busted my mouth. It was not the first time he had hit me like that, but in my mind I swore it would be the last.

I stood there with tears in my eyes and replied, “I’m tired of it Rakim.”

I looked him straight in the eyes. All I could see was hurt and anger in them. Part of me wanted to stay behind and tell Rakim that I was sorry, but instead I turned and ran as fast as I could down the stairs.

Rakim and I lived in a two floor house with enough space to move around and do as we liked. His children, when they were over, would play all over the house because we had the space. I loved Rakim’s children and I spoiled them to no end. Sadly that almost proved to be my downfall. At the bottom of the stairs were toy cars scattered about. I was a track runner in high school, so I sprinted down the stairs, but I never expected to trip over the toy cars at the bottom. I fell. Hard. Luckily enough it was not hard enough to seriously hurt myself. I got up slowly, slightly dazed, to look halfway up the stairs at a .45 pointing straight at me. I panicked, thinking that Rakim would kill me right then and there.

“I’m giving you three seconds to get your shit and leave Shay,” he said.

His count was slow, almost deliberate, as though he was either afraid to shoot me or he had no bullets. Either way I was scared to find out.

1.

I reached for my bags all the while watching Rakim with the gun in his hands.

2.

I reached for the door to open it and took one last glimpse of Rakim’s face. A tear had silently rolled down his check and was threatening to fall off his chin.

3.

I was outside, the door was closed. There was a deafening silence. I sprinted to the next block just in case Rakim decided to open the door and shoot. It was so shocking. After seven years, I was finally getting away from Rakim.

Then it hit me. With all of the planning and packing I had done, I realized that I did not have a place to stay. My parents lived on the other side of town and I knew they would not like it if I appeared on their steps at midnight. I had no siblings to stay with and because of Rakim I had no friends. I could not believe how stupid I was. There I was standing, celebrating my freedom without realizing that, for the night at least, I was homeless.

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Story 5 Kae-C It isn’t that easy to find someone who truly cares for you. For me I’d say it took me forever. At the age of fifteen I thought I had found the one. He was older than me by two years. I thought that I was in love, that I had just landed in some fairytale world. Everyone thought we were perfect together. Everything seemed all too real. He seemed so aware of what he was doing to me. But I guess things were meant to change.

I met him one day when I was sitting in the park with my friends. We had just left school and we wanted to hang out before going home to our overbearing, overprotective parents. It was pretty easy to do that after school. We always had really good excuses and our parents always believed us.

There were six of us, which made it easy to defend ourselves when we really needed to. I was the youngest and probably and probably the smallest out of our group so I was the one being defended most times.

Mila was the oldest at nineteen. She was repeating the eleventh grade for the second time. Mila wasn’t dumb or slow; she just loved high school and didn’t want to leave. I am sure the teachers were fed up with her but she helped them a lot with the troubled kids so there weren’t many complaints.

Mila didn’t look forward to college and we all knew she would eventually just drop out of school.

Mila was a pretty girl. She had light brown eyes, caramel skin and shoulder length, thick black hair.

She got guys all the time around our area. They just loved her, but she had eyes for just one guy, our math teacher Mr. Dayze. Mila was like a big sister to me. She was always there when I needed her. I normally would go to her anytime I needed help with just about anything. She meant a lot to me which was why we were such good friends.

Angel was the second oldest. She was sixteen and in the twelfth grade. Angel was well loved by our teachers in school. She was destined to be great. Angel was so good in school; she got good grades in all her classes. She was taking college courses while she was in junior high and she hoped she could graduate high school and college early. It was just a dream of hers. Angel was Brazilian and her model-like features showed it. She was tall and thin with tan skin, long hair and a nice shape.

Guys of all ages and races adored her. It was amazing how easily she turned heads when she walked around us. At some points we were just in awe of her beauty. The good thing was she had a good head on her shoulders so she was able to ignore guys. It shocked us but we knew the ones she turned down would go for the next best things, one of us. We had only to wait for them to get over her and walk over to us.

Cré was my best friend out of the group. She was sixteen but she had it going on. Her family was from down South and they were really rich, but that didn’t stop her from being who she was. The money never got to head. It was interesting because since Cré was mixed, mainly white but people would swear she was 100% black from the sound of her voice. Cré was extremely light-skinned; if it

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were back in the day she would have passed the paper bag test with flying colors. She had grey eyes and ultra-dirty blond hair. The one thing that proved she was black was the junk in her trunk.

Olani was my girl straight form the Gambia in Africa. She was fifteen but could easily pass for at least twenty. It was all in her looks. She was almost black as midnight, some guys called her “Darky” to be mean but they never got away with it. Olani could put up a good fight. She was not to be messed with.

Fatima was the goody-two-shoe of our group at age fifteen. She was Muslim and she would never go against her religion. She was so intense with the whole thing. Underneath her religious garments, Fatima was beautiful. She had intense dark brown eyes, long curly brown hair and a thin heart shaped face. If she only showed any interest in boys I’m sure they would have flocked to her.

Finally there was me, Kae-C. Born to a black father and a Mongolian mother, I was the odd one of the group. I stood at about five feet tall on a good day. My hair on a good day was a mess of long black curls. Guys thought I was cute because of my slanted almond shaped caramel eyes, button nose and small curvy parted lips. There wasn’t a color brown to describe my skin tone. My short stature and looks had guys thinking I was at least eighteen, sometimes even twenty.

So this guy I met, his name was Kevin but everyone called him K-Smooth because that was his street name. K-Smooth had known me for a year but he had never tried to make moves at me or my firnes before. It was normal for him to come up to us and talk about the day or what happened in the streets, but that day he started singling me out with the questions. He asked if I had a boyfriend before, was there anyone in the park I had a crush on and other questions like that. At first I was confused, why would k-smooth ask me those things. It wasn’t until Mila pulled me aside and stated the obvious that I realized he like me. It took him another week to actually ask me out but I was happy he took so long. I had to figure out if I liked him because he wasn’t really my type and I wasn’t much into older boys. He was good looking by all means, he had a baby face and dimples and big brown puppy dog eyes. I gave in eventually and went out with him.

For the next few months I was a typical hoodlum’s girl. I stuck with k-Smooth all the time when I was in the park. He brought me jewelry, clothes and sneakers to match him with the money he got from selling drugs. I was his trophy girl and he loved to show me off. I felt as though I was living the high life, the way he pampered me. K-smooth just seemed to adore me and his kisses always left me breathless. When I turned sixteen everything changed for me. The day I turned sixteen I was hanging with my girls in the park. Mila was talking about Mr. Dayze and he had stared at her the whole entire time she helped out with his class that day. The rest of us just listened intently as we all knew Mr. Dayze was going to ask Mila out soon, we just weren’t sure then. K-Smooth came over, greeted my friends and then pulled me aside to go on a walk. He wished me a happy birthday and then asked if I could stay the night at his older brother’s with him. I was happy my mom and dad had let up on me over the past year. I knew if I asked them to let me stay with Cré or Mila, they’d let me go no questions asked.

That night I went to meet K-Smooth in the park so he could drive me to his brother’s house.

Something in my stomach felt a little weird but I didn’t think too much about it. I was too excited that the night would turn out well. The car ride was quiet, we didn’t really talk, we just listened to rap and r&b. when we got to the house K-Smooth told me there would be no one but us. The feeling in my stomach got a little worse but I didn’t care, I just took it as hunger. I was just happy to be with K-Smooth.

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Inside his brother’s house was cute. For a house where guys lived it was pretty clean and decorative. The front hallways contained pictures of K-Smooth, his brother (who I had never met) and their mom who died when K-Smooth was sick. She was a pretty woman, K-Smooth and his brother seemed to have gotten their good looks from her. K-Smooth led me into the dining room.

He had Chinese food set up and two glasses of what looked like wine. I thought it was so cute. We ate “dinner” while laughing at our days. The wine was actually cranberry juice and vodka but it was still good. I felt myself getting a little tipsy but K-Smooth kept refilling my glass. After we finished we sat down to watch a movie. I can’t remember the name of the movie because we spent the whole time cuddling before we fell asleep in his bed in each other’s arms.

I woke up when I felt something heavy on me. At first I thought that during the couple of hours we’d been sleeping K-Smooth had rolled on me. It wasn’t until the “something” moved that in the dim light I realized it wasn’t K-Smooth. I recognized from the pictures in the hallway it was his older brother. I started to get scared then. I started to cry because I had been a virgin up until some point that night. I had not planned on losing it so early. I wanted to be a virgin until I was married; K- Smooth knew that because he wanted to be my first. I felt terrible not even knowing what happened. I guess I had been too drunk. The splitting headache I had only proved my theory to be right. I wondered where K-Smooth was because I knew I was not in the same room as before.

My crying had woken up K-Smooth’s brother who covered my mouth quickly and tried to silence me. He told me not to say anything before lifting me up and carrying me to K-Smooth’s room. KSmooth was out cold, he too had probably drunk too much. I quickly gathered my day clothes into my bag. I left a note for K-Smooth to meet me later. Then I jumped out the window, thank god KSmooth’s room was on the ground floor. I ran as fast as I could to a payphone and called Mila.

She was the only one I knew I could trust with my story.

Mila My cell phone rang interrupting the nap I had been about to take. Had no idea whose number showed up but I answered anyway. I was so glad I had picked up the phone because on the other line was a tearful Kae-C. She was literally screaming in my ear to pick her up from a corner a few blocks away from where the park was. She sounded scared so I threw on some sweats before running out the house. It was late so I knew my mom would be asleep and wouldn’t even know I was gone. I ran all the way to the place where Kae-C called me from. I found her sitting on the ground next to a payphone booth shaking and crying. She looked a mess. Her clothes were rumpled, torn and bloody and her hair was wild. I knew something was wrong so I carried her back to my house. When we got in we went straight to my room. I asked if K-Smooth had done anything to her but she shook her head know and cried harder. I told her to lie down in my bed and I lay with her stroking her hair until she fell asleep. I knew in the morning she would have answers for me. I was happy Kae-C’s loud tears had not woken my mother. Thank God my mother was a hard sleeper. At the age of seventy she could barely care for herself. I was the last of her four children. My older sisters and brother had left years before to go on with their lives. My mom may have been able to take care of herself but she had a hell of a temper when she was mad.

For the rest of the night Kae-C mumbled in her sleep words like “no”, “stop”, “please” and one distinct phrase “Smooth help....your brother raped me.” That phrase crept to my stomach like

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cold ice. Poor Kae-C had been raped by K-Smooth’s brother. I’d never seen K-Smooth’s brother before. I knew of him though. His street name was Lure and he was known to try to talk to younger girls, but to actually rape one was shocking. Lure was at least twenty-two years old. He took care of K-Smooth and himself since he was twelve and their mother died. They lived in a group home for four years until a cousin of theirs decided to take custody of them. They lived in their old house and their cousin paid the bills, but the two of them were on their own. I couldn’t believe Lure would do that though.

All I could think of was poor Kae-C. She told me she was going to stay over at K-Smooth’s for the night and then she would come to mine in the morning but I never had any second thoughts about it. I just thought it would be a sleepover date for the two of them. I couldn’t go back to sleep that night. At about six in the morning my mother called me into her room. I was so happy when it turned out to be the usual circumstances, basically what I needed to do before I was allowed to go out for the day. When I returned to my room at about eight, Kae-C was in the stages of waking up.

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photo by Thom Hart

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Poem by Miriam Canut Segura They ask me to write Slam and I say wake up.

Sometimes I wish I was born in the early sixties among the counter culture.

When at least a revolution was something real made by people; that was REAL. I don’t like how I feel.

I look around and I see copies of copies of copies.

They ask me to write Slam and I say “You, wake up!”

People working in jobs that they hate to be able to buy $%! that they don’t need.

Always with the strong belief that they are free.

FREE FREE! I say free, but free FALLING. Plastic Soldiers; Clock-Hearted, Toilet-Headed.

Get away from me They ask me to write Slam And I say; “Yo, wake up, right now!”

Take off your mask.

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“Why? There is more plastic underneath.”

As in everyone.

Industrial PLASTIC; your biggest-biggest ADDICTION. Something needs to be done They ask me to write some slam and I would like to ask you to stand up.

So why do you watch?

Why do you watch and don’t look?

To look means to realize.

To realize means pain, and pain, is not among the last trend.

They ask me to write slam And I say “Holy s*!, please, read some books.”

Wasted minds; FEAR and CONFORMISM As the Holy Spirit.

Meanwhile The capitalist leviathan Eating your brains; Day, after day, after day.

Brain, after brain, after brain.

But you are ok; singing the songs that you love to sing, wearing the clothes that you love to wear I would probably love you more

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If you would have the niceness of Please, PLEASE stop hiding yourself underneath this fake berk, underneath those three tons of makeup.

Make up your mind. go search and find.

TRUTH. Truth beyond the line in this real path of mine.

“Real eyes realize real lies.”1 They’ve asked me to write slam and I said: wake up. _____________________________ 1. Title of a song by the band Machine head

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page from NYC journal by Yea Weon Kim

CINDY SHERMAN: Scenic, captures movement, no typical portrait photos, untitled film stills Fashion –“a daily form of masquerade that communicates culture, gender and class,” Iceland, Chanel, must understand the level, she mocks… what a risk, all untitled?, Hollywood, rape, private moment unfolding seductive, fairy tales as an inspiration, ironic, clowns, artificial, intense erotic work, stopped talking in public, Untitled #85, #95, No empathy? Photographer removed self from the poster, Piano belt in a piece (loved it)

ETC: I love how many Newyorkers are interested in art, including males… I need to eat lunch.

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A Long Way From Home by Sam Levin Ursula stepped up to the inspector. This “Ellis Island” was a strange place. Hundreds of immigrants, like herself, were being checked for signs of disease, disability, or any other imperfection that would make them ineligible for entry into the United States of America.

America, the land of opportunity, her husband had always called it. His brother lived in the Midwest of this country, in a small town called Vinton, Iowa, where they too were to settle.

The inspector turned towards her, the features of his pallid face accentuated by the sunlight that shown through the windows, glaring in his face, causing him to squint. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“Donauworth, Germany, a small town in Bavaria,” Ursula answered. She thought of her past, but it all seemed to be such a blur. She concentrated, and remembered her first day at The Prussian’s estate…

Ursula stepped out of the carriage. The place was beautiful, even if it was a constant reminder of the decadence of the Prussian nobility. Fresh out of her training as a governess, her first job was to care for the heir to this estate, a headstrong boy of eight years, who probably had little respect for a Bavarian like herself. A tall, stern man who seemed to have seen about forty years greeted her. His golden hair matched the gilded helmet he wore and the tassels on his officer’s uniform, while his cold blue eyes seemed to pierce her skull. The Prussian introduced himself, his wife, and his son, Wilhelm, whom Ursula was to take care of. They all seemed like good people, a little proud, Ursula thought, but so were all the families here. She arrived at her room, unpacked her few possessions, and collapsed on the cot, yearning for blessed sleep.

Six months had passed, and Ursula was settled into her new home. However, controlling the young boy was difficult. This very morning, when asked to clean his room, the lad had let fly his spittle directly into her face! It had been an hour since she had reported this to the boy’s father, yet she could still hear The Prussian angrily berating his son, then the lash of a whip, followed by the boy’s screams. Ursula was shocked; the boy screamed not for his mother, but for her, his nanny!

“Ursula, helfen Sie mir! Ursula, help me!”

Ursula rushed down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where the boy was being viciously flogged, blood streaming from the many lacerations on his back and legs. She lunged for the boy, wishing for nothing else than to remove him from his torment. She grabbed him and ducked, but too late, as the tongue of the whip, intended for the boy, lit instead upon her face, carving a wound from nose to ear. All present gasped and stared in horror, knowing not what to say…

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Time flashed again, and Ursula was at her wedding in Munich. Her marriage was to a kind, caring man whom she had met while working in a clothing factory. He had a brother in America, and the letters they received spoke of endless plains, much land to farm, and of a gracious, hardworking community that functioned like clockwork, owing all they had to the “American Dream”. They both hated the decadence of Old German society, the pompous manner of the nobility, and the Kaiser, whose arbitrary decisions were leading his country towards war and destruction. They promised each other that they would one day save enough money to take a ship to America and join his family there. Nothing could crush their dream…

Ursula’s flashback ended there, and she found herself boarding a train, her husband by her side. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Vinton, dear, to live with my brother. We have a long ride ahead; it is a beautiful time to rest.”

Ursula could not sleep. She could only gaze in wonder as the American countryside flew by them, a blur of various hues of blue, green, brown, yellow. For hours she gazed out the window at the wonderland that unfurled itself before her eyes. Darkness crept on, lithe and sneakily, covering the sun and the land, like the assassin who makes his way to the house of his enemy, snuffing out the candles in the hall, stealing from room to room like a shadow, soon to forever blot out the light from his unlucky victim’s eyes, driving his soul from his body. After a few hours, she finally let sleep take her. She knew they would soon arrive.

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photo by Dasha Zaporozhets

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Haiku Anthology by Mr. Martin’s Students drip, drop, drip, drop, drip; big, wet, drops of water fall like from a faucet Lindsay Theobald Flowers in the field, Once green and blue and yellow, Now lost in winter’s haze.

Emily Herrup Spring All the birds came back home.

When the rain drops fell from sky, Spring started its dance.

Andrey Yuzvik Down goes the boxer Hit left and right, he falls short Boom Thump he is out.

Laythe Jadallah Ceremony It waits for its chance To become useful at last.

It bleats in horror.

Nick Weinstein Bugs are hypocrites, Hiding away from humans Eating their own kind.

Amanda Payne Awkward with five toes, Frank the female kitty.

Kori Rimany

One does not simply write a good, complete haiku without a lesson.

Dominic Battaglia Rain pours on the roof.

Water is everywhere now.

The sun is coming.

Luke Perda Fall Blowing in the breeze, Then settling on the ground, Colored autumn leaves.

Sam Levin Red, yellow, green, brown These colors fall from the trees And decorate Her Jake Mandl Staring into space full of wonderful thoughts of what lies beyond us Matty Corbelle Worm A porous apple!

Hungry, he bites, splits a worm, And chews with fervour.

Matthew Siemon Alone In The Night Trying To Find Its Way Home The Lonely Critter Scurries

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Jake Plante

The kitty bit me... not a very nice kitty, for it was rabid.

Olivia Judd The black cat lies still, Sleeping, he rolls, leaving fur On the bed cover.

Henry Palmer Can’t focus on work...

Youtube brings a lot of fun...

My homework can wait.

Andrew Hamilton Dear Spring Allergies, You make my eyes swell and red.

It isn't funny.

Alexis Dominicus The sea waves hello to the familiar shore; Forever parting.

Ariana Dominicus

The flowers blossom In perfect time for the spring Beautiful and tall.

Lauren Nolan Procrastination Makes homework take forever.

How will I finish?

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Matt Minicucci Suddenly snapping The tree branch makes its descent, Landing gracefully.

Skyler Clark The mysterious wind Whispers secrets in my ears Telling unknown tales Megan Salerno When the first snow falls The people in the north know that Winter is Coming Sam Hemmingstad Buoyed by the wind She walks, no hesitation, Into the unknown.

Erin Bond

photo by Falon Moran

Essay by Kori Rimany Macbeth’s Natural Evolution: An Evaluation of Animal Metaphors in Shakespeare’s Macbeth Throughout his tragedy, Macbeth, Shakespeare establishes a connection between his characters and nature through his use of animal motifs. Snakes and birds and their predatory role in nature provide a parallel to Macbeth’s fight for power; furthermore, the snakes and birds Shakespeare uses as motifs illustrate the change that occurs in Macbeth’s persona from the beginning of the play to the end.

In Act 1, Macbeth is portrayed as an eagle, a metaphor which highlights the courageous and honorable characteristics that he possessed in the early stages of the play. After recalling the victory of Macbeth and Banquo in battle to King Duncan, the bleeding captain relates their battle “as sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion” (1.2.39). By using these analogies, he means that there was really no struggle or competition between Macbeth and Banquo and their opponents.

Macbeth is here depicted as a bird known for its strength, bravery, and perseverance; all of these qualities were possessed by Macbeth at the time of battle. He is also referred to as “brave Macbeth” (1.2.18) and “worthiest cousin” (1.4.17) by the bleeding captain and King Duncan, who can be seen as representatives of the people of Scotland. From the words spoken by these representatives, as well as the eagle metaphors, it can be inferred that at that time (during Act 1) the people of Scotland held Macbeth in high regards with the upmost respect.

This respect held by the people of Scotland begins to diminish; however, as Lady Macbeth encourages Macbeth to act like a cunning and sly snake. In the Bible, the snake is considered to represent the fall of innocence and the harbinger of all things evil, as it is he who convinces Eve to

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eat the forbidden apple. Macbeth acts as this snake of Eden when he begins to plot Duncan’s murder. It is the first step into a series of sinful actions taken by Macbeth as the plot develops.

Furthermore, Macbeth embodies a snake because snakes are considered to be reptiles which slither and shed their skins regularly. Macbeth sheds the skin of the noble warrior he once was as he becomes this deceitful character Lady Macbeth is training him to be. For example, when Lady Macbeth speaks to Macbeth about their plan to kill King Duncan, she explains that Macbeth should “Look like thy innocent flower, / But be the serpent under ‘t” (1.6.76-77). She wants him to take on the characteristics of a snake and commit that first sinful act by making Duncan his prey.

At first, in the eyes of Macbeth, he views Duncan as a predator or a snake, but over time he begins to see himself as the snake. In the beginning of the play, Macbeth sees himself as falling prey to the people who stand in his way to power. For example, prior to his crowning, Macbeth explains his fears about the future in regards to their previous act of eliminating King Duncan. He explains that “We have scorched the snake, not killed it” (3.2.15). This interpretation is driven by the forever developing anxiety that exists due to the idea that the position of his predator will always be filled. For example, after finding out that Banquo’s son, Fleance, has escaped from the murderers that he has hired to kill the father and son, Macbeth explains to Lady Macbeth that “The worm that’s fled / Hath nature that in time will venom breed” (3.4.32-33). As the plot progresses however, Macbeth’s anxiety begins to lessen after the witches conjure up an apparition of a bloody child and assure Macbeth that, “for none of woman born / Shall harm Macbeth” (4.1.91-92). This newfound confidence allows Macbeth to begin to morph into the snake. For instance, when Lennox informs Macbeth that the English forces will be attacking and are led by Malcolm, he proclaims, “The mind I sway by and the heart I bear / Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear” (5.3.10-11). He no longer feels like the prey, and thus is able to become the predator that Lady Macbeth has been encouraging him to be.

Similar to a snake, an owl is a predator in the animal kingdom, just as Macbeth is a predator in the kingdom of Scotland. Macbeth is still considered to be a bird of power, just as he was in Act 1, but the intentions of this bird are different. When Lady Macbeth waits while Macbeth is murdering Duncan, she explains that, “It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman / Which gives the stern’st good-night” (2.2.5-6). She refers to the bellman as the owl because according to superstition, the screech of an owl signifies death. Macbeth is the owl in the eyes of Lady Macbeth, so she is glad to hear the screech because it means that Macbeth is carrying out the murder of Duncan. She wants him to be the fierce, heartless bird that is an owl. Macbeth is again referred to as this bird later in Act 5. After Macduff has fled to England, Lady Macduff explains her worries to Ross about being unprotected from Macbeth when she says, “for the poor wren / (The most diminutive of birds) will fight, / Her young ones in her nest, against the owl” (4.2.11-13).

Lady Macduff views herself as a small, short-winged song bird that is up against an untamable bird which is commonly associated with death. Macbeth’s transformation from an eagle to an owl highlights the fact that he has become the ultimate predator of the Kingdom of Scotland.

The pattern of animal motifs Shakespeare utilizes throughout the tragedy helps illustrate the transformation that Macbeth undergoes from Act 1 to Act 5. The snake represents the sly, cunning, and fearless characteristics that Macbeth takes on as the plot progresses. The birds, like the snake, exemplify Macbeth’s transformation from an honorable warrior to a raging tyrant.

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Three poems by Sagine Corrielus To Stop the Sun Take into account the vastness of the sky Or the way the sun shines just bright enough to make a day.

Or perhaps listen to the way The birds sing.

Breathe the stillness of cool December air.

Just observe.

Wait.

Watch.

Listen.

How simple?

But when your lips curve around the sound of my name, The world stops.

Birds are hushed, the wind bristles, and the sun is lost‌ in your voice.

As am I. Beautiful and elegant, you whisper it, you shout it.

I am at your command.

No time to listen to animals, Not time to praise the sun Deep breaths are gone, Attentiveness shattered.

I follow you to the end and back, Even with you out of sight, I still linger, hearing the airy sound of your voice, Fitting around the vowels, Singing against the wind.

I listen to the intricate calls intertwined in a heartbeat not completely my own,

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But you are gone, Vanished.

Leaving me to trail behind the voice that had once said my name The voice that at one time, Could stop the sun Wishful Thinking Her It’s cause I liked you - Like a lot I mean I really really really liked you.

As much as any nerdy girl could like a gallant boy.

That’s why I couldn’t stop staring Every day during English.

It’s why I always had a smile to give you On long bus rides home.

Smiles left ungiven.

Smiles you never even saw.

But how could you?

Surrounded by laughing, Equally gorgeous friends.

Friends who could even compare to you.

Can you believe I thought I loved you?

The way your hair curled behind your ear.

Your eyes, - Oh, those gorgeous big pretty eyes! Surrounded by elegant angles And precious masculine cheekbones.

You dazed me.

I wanted to daze you.

I wanted to show you that the awkward girl they saw was just a ruse!

I wanted you to see me blossom And incarnate into something so beautiful and lovely, That you would have to care about me.

But I knew it could never be.

I was too shy and too afraid to speak to you, Let alone call your name through the vastness that is love.

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----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Him I could have sworn I saw you looking my way, Through literary textbooks, And the frayed edges of Great Expectations.

I want to smile, Tell you it’s okay, Talk to me, I’m nice.

I won’t hurt you.

I’m not the guy everyone think’s I am.

But you turn away Too quickly.

But I want to know what it’s like To talk to you.

To Someone Who’s not always joking, not laughing at my every word.

Or hanging on to my arm with uncalled for amounts of cleavage.

I want to take a chance.

Would you believe me if I said I love you?

Or at least, I want to. I want to try to.

I wish I could.

I wish I could transcend the mountains of social hierarchy that separate us.

And say hi to you.

Kiss you.

Maybe – if you felt the same.

But why would you?

I wish I could move to the back row during bus rides going home, and sit with you.

Not with Ryan or Bryan or John or Tom or Ashley and Ally and Britney and Bridget.

I don’t care!

About them or any of it.

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But they care.

They always care.

About what I say, What I do.

I’m the Golden boy.

The boy who they always expect me to be.

The golden boy that shouldn’t like you.

Or at least try to.

The Mind Train Loud and exuberant Anxious for a spotlight.

Down player of all good qualities.

Just for reassurance.

Fronting because you loves animosity Pretending to pray for endurance.

Begging for someone to notice Wanting someone to focus On your body, not your mind.

Because who’s got time.

You do, but it’s better spent in a mirror.

You act like you care, Like you’re not really selfish.

But I see through That façade you put on.

I see through everything, When you wear see thru tops it makes it easy.

When you wear make up when you’re sad, it makes it easy.

To see how much you want them all to notice.

Who cares about me, or her, or him? … well maybe him – as long as he cares about you.

But not what you say, what your chest says.

What your hips, butt and thighs think.

Not your mind.

Never your mind.

Because who’s got the time.

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photo by Miriam Canut Segura

Fiction by Reneè Waller John He wants me to preserve my beauty. John. John wants me to preserve my beauty. John wants me to do everything I can, to preserve my beauty. As a result I cut my wrist, and purposely deform myself. I also burn the skin on my face and my stomach. John strongly dislikes this and takes me to the doctor so I can be fixed here and there and buys me a ton of cover up. Reading and writing is not my forte because John says women should not be amazing at reading and writing, just enough for the basics. John. John wants me to preserve my beauty. Which means not being in the sun for too long, not doing any house work or anything to hard that will make veins pop up or cause a wrinkle. John said he'll take care of everything I need and want my only job is to be beautiful. It's the worst job in the world. John. I hate John. He told me to stop eating so much because I won't be able to fit into a size zero. I used to be a size six. So I sneak little bites here and there and I eat the bread with the most calories so maybe I can be a size two or three without him noticing. Oh John, the pain you have caused me. My skin looks sickly, my hair beyond damaged, and my eyes look like death. Death my ultimate savior. Good-bye John.

Let Go Just let go now! Okay, one...two...three...just let go. Come join me in the world of relaxation and prosperity. Doesn't that sound nice? To have no worries and to just be happy. How is this possible? Because it is, it is because I want it to be so I made it this way. Come on now just let go!

Like a leaf blowing in the wind you too can be care free. Let life guide you effortlessly on its path, there's no need to hold onto the handle bars. Skip, dance, eat, drink, be merry, why would you want to be anything else? Join me in the dance of happiness all you have to do is let go. Let your mind wander like a lost hiker on a never ending hill. It's okay to be lost, confused, dazed, frazzled,

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and all that "bad" stuff. Maybe it'll help if you breathe slowly, deep breaths that is, and don’t really think about it just...let…go. C'mon, your using so many muscles to grip those handle bars, let them relax it's not like you’re going to fall into something terrible. Please just let go, can't you hear the music? They’re all waiting for you, wanting you to join them.

Hm… I flirt with confusion and tease defeat. I reject comfort and bully charisma. I can always find a dancing partner in my unconscious, a good one too. We glide across the room like we've been doing it our whole lives, I don't think anyone can compare. My husband is failure but he's never faithful so neither am I. I cheat on him with success and I might marry him one day. Because now I hardly see failure, I know he's out with contempt. I hate contempt, she's so boring and makes restless lean towards unstable. Death takes long walks with me occasionally so we talk about the universe. But death is so unpredictable, sometimes on time, sometimes not, and sometimes doesn't show up at all. Life is death's partner and she won't leave any of us alone until she wants to, then she never comes back. I like death but I love life while confusion surrounds us all.

The Elements I am tomorrow's history, yesterday's mystery, and today's misery. It's kind of nice to be all of this but none of them are exactly nice to me. Tomorrow cares less about me while yesterday is cautious of me. Very cautious, to the point where he avoids the subject all together. Today can't wait to get rid of me because I burden her with my troubles. Father time took me under his wing and showed me how to ignore those three effortlessly. I often picked fights with destiny and constantly spit in her face boldly. Father time tried to separate us with endless sand but it didn't work. Evidently, he favors destiny over me, and dropped me off with the future. The future was distant towards me and curious on how I found myself at her door frame. Eventually she grew fond of me and showed me ways to forget father time all together. I stared at her amused and bewildered, no one has ever forgotten father time. I asked her if he knew about this, she became so mad at me she handed me off to mother earth. She took me in lovingly and showed me to her twin the past. He is comforting and a bit worn out but that's okay. He showed me his place which I took a liking to, it's charming.

So here I live with the past, weary of tomorrow, yesterday, and today. Cautious of father time and the future. Detesting destiny while loving mother earth.

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Haiku Anthology by Mr. Bailey’s Students Lighting hits the floor Photo electron jumps out Wee, I’m flying hard Ria Han

Is it a wave? or a particle? neither it is truly quantum Zach Larson

Photons, Quanta, Work Quantum Mechanics is great Light flies with Einstein John George

Energy Equals Planck’s constant times speed of light Divide by wavelength Matt Williams

Quantum Mechanics The world revolves around this ‘E’ equals ‘h’ ‘f’ Joel Beck

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Six poems by Graham Pough Response to Nothing pleases me It seems to me That as well Nothing pleases me Numbness gets inside Infiltrates and seizes me Monotonous and thoughtless At what stage was I taught this?

At what age had I caught this?

I’m a leopard gone spotless Lost my purpose Like a clown without a circus The feelings truly wordless Melted shut are my burnt lips I fear they’ll close forever Kind of like an airline In eternal stormy weather Thoughts recede like a hairline I’m useless Sitting with my thoughts but I’m clueless Searching for true bliss Wishing I didn’t give two s*&!s

Roses Are Dead Roses are red And violets are blue Don’t bother guessing Who this poem is to Roses are red But lately I’m blue I feel like I’m dead Cause I can't be with you My face turning red And violets are blue These thoughts in my head Just don’t know what to do Roses are red And violets are blue But the only flower I ever cared about is you

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Roses are red My skin’s turning blue Words left unsaid Suffocate me they do Many poems I read And violets are blue Maybe it was the meds But you seemed to like me too Roses are red And violets are blue My heart it is shred And my tears have no hue Roses are red And sometimes they’re thorny When I am with you I get super horny My love is above And hallmark card corny I get that life ain’t all rainbows Like a package of skittles But I know where the pain goes There’s a crack in the middle But hi….

I like like you For you high I.Q. You’re sweeter than Haichu I thought I’d write you a haiku “Guess What, I love you All I want is ‘W’ Divided by two” REJECTION I choose not to respect The hallmark effect Because something artificial Makes emotions superficial But my love is my pitfall My heart has been tossed More than a pinball My mind has been lost Like the leaves in mid fall And I pay the cost Protect myself with a brick wall Building brick by brick Ever since I was a kid Days spent home from school Cause I was lovesick Stuck in bed with a heartache

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Feeling all of my parts shake No cure like the common cold And it spreads like a cancer Through life I was always told The rehearsed answers There’s other wish in the sea But the only fish I’m swimming with He looks just like me Alone in the ocean Stuck going through the motions The product of division You can call me the quotient Cause I'm the result Of compliments divided by insult And I’m always less than one The personification Of this messed up love equation Let’s rise up as a nation And say no to the sensation Of being in preschool And losing the girl you liked Cause some tool Had a flashier trike Of guys going on a date Expecting to get laid Because of how nice their suit was Or how much they paid Of kids sitting alone In their basements depressed Cause the girl on the phone Simply isn’t impressed This poem is for the kids Who instead of getting flirty During the dirty thirty Stayed in the dorm Cause they were thought of as nerdy The kids who wanted more inside Than their right hands could provide For the kids you hear about in songs The ones who only went to prom With their friends or their moms Who know as much about opposite sex As they do about ancient Egyptian texts Nothing.

They sit around wishing they were loving Wishing that their heart strings would play something

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Nevermore Write a poem, I have no inkling I just don’t care anymore Silently my mind is ringing My eyes sag to the floor Scared of what the world is bringing What it has in store To my childhood I’m clinging Why I’m not quite sure Scared of what the world is bringing What it has in store Like the fabled raven singing My youth is nevermore

Media Media limits our perspective It’s like a mental contraceptive So we don’t question who’s elected But think we are protected Mind control once was voodoo But now it’s a simple process Of YouTube, Fox, and Hulu They see right through you Because they decide The revolution won’t be televised What stories need to be revised Whose minds they must desensitize Whose brains should be circumcised One nation under god Just sit and watch your TV But when it’s watching you back Don’t come crying to me This system is flawed But it’s hard to see Cause when freedoms outlawed Only outlaws are free So, Ladies and Gentlemen Wake up we’re living in A scary new millennium Where kids are snorting Ritalin Cause the colleges they’re getting in

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Decides who are the better men Divides us based on melanin And draws a crowd like Wimbledon But no one’s proud of simpletons Ignore the wise and wrinkling They’re telling lies and sprinkling Sweet fallacies like cinnamon The magazines are written in What clothes you should be fitting in This boat that we are sitting in Slowly it is sinking in Cold facts we’ll soon be drinking in Minds pumping with adrenaline Times are harder than cement but Currency laments You shove dollars down your throat Til your s%*# makes cents I am a rat I am a rat Because I’m worthless Small, with no purpose Dirty on the surface Rough hands to work with I got a life made of trash While I live off the scraps Try and chase the cheese Has got me stuck in the mouse traps Get too close, the bar snaps I preach against cats You may say my mind is backwards Cause I reach for the rats I am a rat But fat cats grow lazy And send pigs to chase me Hold me down and mace me Beat me up and taze me Yet I’m the one who’s crazy INSANE Someone better strap me to my bed frame Doctors playing head games Finding thoughts the meds drain Leave me with a dead brain But a soul like a red flame

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As time flies by My tale grows longer Ever expanding The more things I conquer I drag it behind me, as I grow stronger I’m a rat Cause all I want is that cheese Since I was a kid Stuck chasing a dream That’s fake like cheese whiz Like balls off a bat We’re all over the place I feel like I’m more in the rat Than the human race I choose my fate But feel myself losing grace When I can’t wait To get to the food on my plate Who I am I’m the sad son of a capitalist Who’s searching for my happiness In a society written By politicians and Catholics Who create their own editions Of how we formulate opinions We carry them to the grave and pass them on to our children I live in a society Where politicians lie to me The hierarchy’s depriving me of honesty And honestly I want to see What’s calling me But it dawns on me like Ptolemy The universe will never do exactly what it promised me.

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The End by Tyffany Richards All I can think of is the beach, the parties Lounging in a house with nothing to do but everywhere to go Being in the place where you know you are wanted The comforting sound of a train passing The honks and loud horns of cars and buses and cabs The doorbell ringing as yet another friend is visiting Peeking out of my window to watch hot guys play basketball It’s all there Only two weeks away Only two hours of driving Yet it is oh so very far I cannot wait to celebrate As I yawn and yearn for Brooklyn

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get going by Sarah Lombard The days become shorter Time is running out Everything I want to do Has to happen so fast Racing around Forgetting to observe Doing things hastily Trying not to waste it Hoping to enjoy What’s left?

Opening my curtains Letting the world in Looking outside For one last time Gathering around As time happens no Living as fast as I can Did I leave something out?

No time to wonder No time to waste There is an expiration date I can’t be late

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Untitled by Veronica McStocker Between the sun and the moon, The stars in the inky night sky, I float away with you A golden cloud Soft and pillowy We float away High above the sky Gone gracefully, But in a flash.

We are gone.

Challenge those to follow us, Challenge those to find us, Those disbelievers Who do not believe in flight

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Mr. Bailey’s Students Jay Bonti Callie Carew-Miller Sagine Corrielus Charlie Davol Alessia De Vitis Taylor Dube Kate Eldridge Thom Hart Yea Weon Kim Ricky Fan Jiang Sam Levin Sarah Lombard Mr. Martin’s Students Veronica McStocker Falon Moran Graham Pough Tyffany Richards Ian Riley Kori Rimany Miriam Canut Segura Sarah Shulman Elle Sutherland Reneè Waller Dasha Zaporozhets