Crest 2003

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Crest 2003: perpetrated by Oak Park and River Forest High School for 110 years.

Editors: Jon Ealey

Erin Graves

Lisa Locascio Katlerine Parker

Meg Prossnitz

Sarah Schwartz Nigel Shields Abby Van Deusen EmilyIflhite Anne S7ootton

Advisor: Rich Zabransky

Sduoz's ,Ceuet

"Imagine what happened to my Tatiana? She up and re.iected Onegin...I never expected it of her!"

-Russian poet Alexander Pushkin on the surprising actions the heroine of his epic Eageny Onegin

Artists create worlds in all sizes, driven to show everyone the things only they see. To be an artist is to be burdened: with dreams, with vision, and with responsibility. Vhat is an artist but a creator, after all, and what greater duty is there than invention? This year, the genesis of Crest results directly from the stubborn will of each artist. Its existence is justified by the fine efforts of its contributors.

Oak Park and River Forest High School is blessed with an abundance of unjaded students driven to create despite their hectic lives. They express transcendent thoughts in the presence of the mundane. Crest exists to present the best of their efforts, to hold up these accomplished creators to their peers, and say, "Look and be amazed." In making a world, one often finds that inhabitants come truly to life and make choices the have never expected of their tricate detail of an insect, the actions that wife, the tender rushing of only in a final project know what the end .t'

end, a resolution, and

Va6te "6 Aontents

Poetry

Justin Perez. 'S7hen the Company's Gone. 8. Lisa Locascio. Once. 9.

Anonymous. Out of Traning Bras. 11. Jesse Randal. Gothic Bird Man. 14. Fred Henzel. The Narcissist. 15.

Kevin Breen. Bobbery Rank. 16. Emma Rubin. I am offended. 17 Katie Spira. Ode to Potter. 19.

Max Bjornson. Treefe e. 20. Max Bjornson. Forest Spirit. 21. Dan Kleinman. My Gentle Crescent Moon.22

Lisa Locascio. Further, \fle Returned. 23. Amelia Greene. Immortal. 25. Adrian LeCesne. Mermaid. 25.

Adrian LeCesne. Negotiatio ns. 27 Meg Pross nitz. Erno. 28. Charles Fox. Onions. 30.

Marshall Lao. Exposure of the Paternal Gospel of Disbelief. 31. Lucy \flilson. Two Men. 33. Karina Benloucif. Vhere Are They Going?. 34.

Karina Benloucif. Untitled. 35

Jon Ealey. Knights of the Real. 36.

Jon Ealey. Marshmallow Soul. 32.

38. Katherine Parker. There were trenches. 39. Lisa Locascio. Hymn. 40. Michael Seidman. Don't Cry. 41. Justin Perez. Footprints. 42. Penelope Hudak. 50s Sitcoms. 43. Kate Merrick. Comic Book Love Story. 46. Max Bjornson. Jacob. 47' EmrlY'uflhite' JellYfish' 48. Ashley Adler. I am Light and Caffeine. 4g.ZekeZverow. The rain comes. 51,. Lucy'W'ilson. Napkins and Forks. 52. John Clark. Da Field. Prose 54. Justin Perez:'Walter. 56. Adam Schleimer. I can't really define ugly. 58. Stephanie Jetter. Snap Back to Conciousness. e+' v'nnrosfirr,* J;tsr"';:m: Neyfakh.'Wild Roger. Huskie Pride 74. Christina J Tooth Vizard. 75. Christina 76- Adrrenne'W the Innocent 79. Stefanie Curry

Querencia. 1fi. Dancing Bodies.

The Falling of Leaves

lVilliam Butler Yeats

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, And over the mice in the barley sheaves; Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us; And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us, And weary and worn are our sad souls now; Let us part, ere the season ofpassion forget us, \X/ith a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

\When the Company's Gone

Justin Perez

Child, when the company's left, and you've piled the cocktail dishes into the soapy sink, with the salad forks wearing the shine you spent all morning giving them ('til you could see your face), you can rest the pinky. Floney, the little finger was created for the teacups, the china painted with jasmine, wafting those scents of Earl Grey and floating on a plate of bright, white porcelain, as pale as your face when you know you've forgotten your marlners, or the butter for the scones, again. The fifth finger was meant to be held high, proud, 'cause you're a gentleman's woman and you know et-i-quette, woman, and you know what to say when the door is held or the chair is pushed out just for you. But child, that finger is reserved strictly for your mother's friends, the Ladies' Society from uptown, with dogs thar yap perched on their laps and strings of grey permed horse's hair sliding down their cheek bones like straws of. hay, limp and overworked. And it doesn't exist for more that that. Child, when the company's left, don't bother holding the pinky high above the silverware and the laundry line, vrhen you can hold up your head instead.

Once

Lisa Locascio

If I repeat the initials of boys whose sullen, quick ways shaped the chinese fingertrap of my adolescence It is a gap-toothed alphabet. An old song on a harmonica the variations my own.

The song my hips sung was unheard, I thought. running only wild in my veins. But these boys, they tuned in listening precious close. They let the tongues of sound wash over and under them like their mothers once had.

Your names pour over me like grey newsprint. And while my friends have been able to report from the front to remind me that I was not precise in my angles (becoming curves, beaches, oceans, planet). Soon my body became the world imprisoned within it and unable without it.

So I am semiliterate in memories having only conversational parlance in the language of

\X/hat is vouth? J

Because each word, each letter, syllables flawlessastonishment.

And I marveled over the small miracles of your jawbones, corneas, cuticles.

I wanted badly the thing that was you, smelling of wine and deodorant, your clothes treasured by she who would always overshadow me my skin gasping for your presence my eyes stretching for my body for signs of your affection. But it was the strange nature of this passion that seized me and I felt I was unfair to you.

This was all due to the indisputable truth: summer nights when I caught scent of his absence. Slammed screen-doors to remind me that there was a time of darkness and the moisture of love when my body did not matter and my lips were wet with knowing.

out of training bras

Anonymous

there's this girl who bites her nails and always has the messy pony-tail and the ripped black b^ggy pants who won't wear her retainer and refuses to hoP when she does a lay-up there's this girl who hides behind her glasses and doesn't talk much takes a while to warm up to people but when the girl oPens uP she's like some indescribable faerie whose voice is like something from a bob dylan song there's this girl who laughs at all the

seemingly wrong times and whose body curves just right and whose bra strap is always a slightly diny shade of white there's this girl, she runs from class to class like she's afraid to be in one place for too long except when you're there she stays and she walks backwards and you know she's the girl from all those books you once read and this girl isn't a dream anymore because you're holding her hand and she's there you can feel her your two halves of what seem to be just about

the same person make one there's this girl and she's right next to you as you shed the skin of former lonely beings and grow out of your training bras.

\

Gothic Bird Man

Jesse Randal Pen tr lnh

The Narcissist Fred Henzel Cbarcoal

Bobbery Rank

Kevin

Breen

Tickety Tock Tick Tickety Tock

Goeth the Clock in the \flickety \flatch. Left, right, left, right, zoooom, Goeth the camera in this fidgety room. Click, clat, clat, click, cleek, Goeth the feet of the bobbers. "Now up hands your put! Bobbery rank is this!" Thumpidy, thud, thuddity, thump, On the floor now lay your rump. "Flere in cash putl"

Beeeeep, Beeeeep, Beeeeep

Silent alarm does not sleep. Screeeech come the police, leaving marks on the street. Bang Bang Bang went the fire stick, 7 8 .9 .. times he's hit. Confusion plagues the bank, Questions asked like, "\flhat's a'Bobbery Rank'?"

I am offended Emma Rwbin

I am offended. Really. I tried hard to be a good poem And you go around saying that you hate me And you wish you never wrote me. Sure. You say you're tired and fed up. That you have to turn something in tomorrow. I've heard it all before. I won't do) I'm not good enough? How do you think that makes me feel? \flhat if I went around complaining about you? Your handwriting is awful. Your spelling's worse. The paper you wrote me on isn't fit for a second grade book report. Not so high and mighty now, are you) You'll turn me in. I'm all you've got. And they'll all read it. Maybe they'll tell you you're not good enough. How do you like that?

Maybe Mr. Z will turn in the packet to Crest And maybe they'll choose me after all. Then the whole school vrill throw down their Crests in disgust And grind their feet over my page. Someone will walk down the hallway and carelessly spit on me.

A ianitor will sweep me up. I'll catch his eye and he'Il look down. Coincidentally, he is also an editor of the New Yorker. He loves me. He'll publish me.

But the spit (remember the spit)) blurred your name You'll read this poem and think how great it is. You'll wish you wrote me.

Ha!

Ode

to Potter Katie Spira

For fifteen days

I have lain in bed \flith a nasty bruise upon my head I know I should follow The doctor's orders And stop looking for platform nine-and-three-quarters I've tried, I have And I've really come far But I can't help but look For that lightening bolt scar

For Ron's red hair and Hedwig's 'White wings Flermione, Dobby And other wizarding things Oh Potter you rotter You think you're so smart \7ith your wand and your broom stick You've bewitched my heart And now all day You fly through my brain My friends and my family All think I'm insane! But... Something Tells me That Hogwarts won't fail My letter will come It's just lost ln the mail.

r J

Forest Spirit Max Bjornson Pencil

My Gentle Crescent Moon

Dan

Kleinrnan

Oh my gentle welkin sprite, 'W.ho comes to me with stars shining in her eyes, 'Who floats softly to me and brings with her The tranquility of the night.

My gentle celestial angel, 'Who can show me where sleep is hidden underneath a shadow, \flho I can talk to, who can understand, \flho is the calming sense that I desire.

Oh my gentle dove, 'Who can fly to me and sing a song of sorro'w, Yet'cake me on a flight through the heavens, And sail on through the stars.

Oh thee, My one true love, \What words of mine can render the sanctuary thou provide? 'What words of mine can illustrate the guilt I feel, Know that you put a shine into my eyes, That I could never return unto you?

Oh my gentle crescent moon, \7ho brings beauty to the dark and is a treasure

In my heart, 'Sflhose kisses fall softly on my cheek, 'Whose gentle lips of warming light, Allows me to sleep, And dream another night.

Further, S7e Returned

Lisa Locascio

Remember vrhen we traipsed, old monster?

I wore that coat I was sure was made of sealskin with the red dress over a spare body. (I shucked that body, and that dress always smells funny, now)

You thought yourself into a Byronic f.renzy; you painted your tears on with black paint. 'We were clowns, neither classic nor pleasant. lWhat strikes me now is the streets as they were, then.

There were no coffee-pubs and it was bootblack winter Streetlamps didn't seem to work.

The place we were going w'as a basement without a phone.

You sent me out to call for a cab But I got lost and ended up at the currency exchange. A beggar helped me to a phone, and I had nothing for him. He shook my hand regardless.

The light in the place was yellow. Signs told me not to stay. A woman without age muttered to herself in the corner She had decades of eyeliner regret crusted over her face and wore a tunic decorated with stars. She looked at me, past, and spat on the floor, as an afterrhought. I didn't make the call.

Vhen I came back you'd put on a tie, A pleated skirt, mysteriously

You absurd mockery of formality.

Your fingers closed around my wrist.

"I didn't get to touch you enough today."

The words hit my ear, bounced, landed in that woman's saliva.

You pulled me to you. "That's what's wrong with me."

Of course it wasn't, but it w.as a cold night. I smiled uncertainly. Received your embrace. The moon had long since risen, and apartThe naked alleys, the quiet deposits of water '\tr7as the city.

I saw a man dipping his fingers into a Magnum and sucking. Gently.

Your arms were around my waist, reaching for my breasts. A streetlamp flickered off. There v/as a nameless tail building. I had missed your reading. You were suddenly enraged. "I can't believe you." Apart was the city.

The cab we got didn't have a number or company. 'S(e sat in the dark, conspiratorially talking, angrily touching each other.

The sudden, absurd burst hit us once more. 'ttr7e had crossed Austin, and the $agnant warer was crystal, The homeless people were charming. Apart was the city.

\Ve exhaled.

Immortal

Amelia Greene

Autumn, It must be autumn. The oranges and yellow of this moment Cannot be meant for any other season.

'Warm enough to be impulsive, But cold enough to seek comfort in another Autumn is the season of these lovers.

They are immort ahzed at a time of rest. A time when nothing is more important Than love And how you give it away. The are completely given to this moment.

Wrapped in each other, And in the season that enfolds them, Their kiss is pure And true And nothing will pollute it.

Erno Meg Prossnitz

He always read at breakfast Although he disliked reading at the dinner table. Every morning he brought my grandmother a cup of tea, And she remembers him for this. He called her Mullie, Her white horse Mulatchka.

I remember him like stone, imposing and grand Cool faced marble, Smooth, silent.

I ache to understand his childhood, His secrets of Bratislava, Vhat it was like watching black bunting Draped over streer lamps.

My mother whines, Saying he blocked our his dead brother A pang he hid his whole life. I say he concealed it well Vith African dreams Sleeping in tents Vatching tigers under a silver lit moon Being showered with flowers. Africa dulled the pain for him Of racing from Czechoslovakia to England Vithout morher or father.

Eighty-seven pained years hiding beneath A wrinkle-free face Now gone,

No lesson learned

Only in black and white, a photograph Of a man, Necklaced in flowers Beside a dead tiger.

Onions

Charles Fox

Onions rest in baskets suspended from the ceiling

Grandchildren run through the underground secrion Daughters set the table and help with food preparation

A roast sizzles in the oven

The sweet scent of mear permeates the air of the house Red brick shields the inhabitants from the cold and snow Newspapers crinkle as their information is digested by interested readers

Tools sit in the garage, gathering dust until the summe r yard season

Old political signs lean against walls among the tools These are memories of a house

They are vivid like a candle in the darkness, but they will never happen again

Exposure of the Paternal Gospel of Disbelief Marshall Lao

I. Call

'!Vhy is it

That you might F{ave come to any tlnpossessed moral instinct Yet here At the summit Of your sordid existence You Vriting animalistic ideals Into your love Of piggish faith Have succeeded in Regurgitating creation To thirsty Starving Congregations

II. Response

His eyes to my outburst Unyield their blinks, Read my dry, obscenity stained lips Breathless and seeking For seed found upon open stony soil Iam

Sprung up and scorched Among budding overbearing thorns Half petuantly I was One mere seed of three

Born baptized and risen on the East Coast within a hundred miles of my father

He never heard of first steps Until missionary trips Ceded their home Built on industry's rocky earth Pittsburgh Is unforgiving He muttered as we embarked on his pilgrimage And planting

In a city that Thrived on its meat market twelve years later ten more pounds to his belly He lost the ability To garden religion And I learned how to walk without his 'Weather and Brethren Beaten Arm

As my sister and brother Learned before me

III. Rebuttal

Unscathed My heathen children \flill blossom Into fruitless generations Sown on eastern seas

Two Men Lrq Wilson

Yellow lights marred the features of the men Their faces bore signs of bodies Scarred by corporate lighting And solemn shadows hung upon their heels As if to lag a step or two behind

Their clothes were of the most uncomfortable sort Particularly the belt \7hich was fastened with Purposeful precision

Articulate attachments adorned their breasts Signifying to the public That which they could only understand

Shoes so shiny I wished not to look at them Yet all the same I was completely engaged

Smooth handsTired eyes-shaped by force and consequence

I was suddenly overcome by the pure rush of feeling I hugged my age And kissed my years to come

Knights of the Real Jon Ealqt

Pragmatic knights slay my delusions I pray for the salvation of the monsters under my bed

A call to arms "Protect the fon!"

Sandcastle absurdities fight off the onslaught

Falling on my knees I address the troops \flhich rest limply on my pillow

Marshmallow Soul Jon Ealqt

So oblivious

If they saw what I see...in the marshmallow soul

The perfect amalgamation

Of campfire intensity and patience Softening the dense core

\flhite the crowd of burning black bitter marshmallows H*g enviously

Impaled upon their wooden perches

There were trenches Katberine Parker

There were trenches

Deeper than my tunnel vision life

Below your elbows that day

Syringe skids splashed your middle arm In fluorescent shades

Of teenage tragedy I was only able to Watch you fade

As they continued to Melt and curdle Into makeshift skin injected with bottled concrete and Unsound high school musings Surging through your Sallow staineu frame

Hymn

Lisa Locascio

Black shirt creased for your arms incision between your ribs

I preserved your heart in brine and bile and forgot how to count.

The word seemed familiar, the movement simple from a high place.

Flours contained me, a limb for a time Your viscous drive, that yellow lampshade, blurry at the edges. I toweled you off. There's blood on your skin.

50s Sitcoms

Penelope Hudak

his wife, a scratched LP he's the child, too lazy to get up and bump the needle to the next flawless groove.

Comic Book Love Story

Kate Merrick,

I always wanted To write this story

Enter: untouchable beauty

Her hair is just the right shade Of red roses, Skin glowing of perfection, Lips he obsesses over until they become a puddle of drool under her feet Barbie doll legs magnifying her sex appeal.

She screams of everything People want and nobody can touch.

Skip to the boy in the background. Bottle glasses and plaid Over shirts cover up the all but masculine chest but pure heart. Nose stuffed into a book, 4 times intellect involved with each word.

As geek boy is looking up for smart aleck waitress slash best friend with her almost tom-boy

arritude, His eyes meet barbie beauty and love has filled the room.

Ve find out later that barbie beauty grew up across the street from geek boy and are buddies from days gone by. She confides in her all too unsatisfying relationship with macho-joe.

Geek boy plays his role, as faithful friend and provides a constanr awaiting shoulder.

As dusk appears geek boy must deparr within the drift of the night, secrets come undone and an alternate identity for geek boy makes him unrecognizable.

For the glasses have disappeared and with them the plainness and insignificant-ness of geek-boy.

For now his unnatural characteristics are freakishly cool, his lightning speed suPer strengrh laser vision Etc. etc. etc. All transform him ro somerhing super.

Down the unlit streets, a cry carL be found belonging

to no one other than barbie beautY

Soon super boy is on his way, and thus begins the fight scene.

Villains are to be masked and draped in skin tight black. Their skills fairly good leaving some impact on super boY, But not enough to stop his defeat. Exit villains that can, scared out of their pants and quite confused.

Now our couple is ready, gratitude is to be given failr,lY large amounts leading barbie beauty to find the love she's waited for.

\(ill super boy ever let barbie beauty know his true identity?

I always wanted To write this story But I can't because Barbie beauty doesn't even look at geek boy who will never see waitress slash best friend truly loves him And he will never become super boy, no matter how many comic books he reads.

Max Bjornson Jacob Ball Point Pen

I

am Light and Caffeine Asblq Adler

I am light and caffeine, a winged crearure fluttering over flower petals drinking necrar like champagne from their palms. I soar over citrus-flavored waterfalls and alight on the grass near your sleeping form. I touch your lips with my sugar frosted kiss. You awake but lie still and pretend to sleep as I nibble my way from your shoulder up your neck to your ear. Just as I nuzzle your hair, you make your move, throwing me tumbling unro my back and pouncing on me like a chocolate-mint striped tiger. You pin me to the ground, slightly crumbling gauzy spun sugar gossamer beneath me. Your mint eyes look into me, chocolate melting into ice. As we melt into each other our sweat and desire blend into an elixir soaked with energy and iust. Afterwards we lie in the grass, chlorophyll colored stains on our knees and backs. \We drift off into candyland dreams of spun sugar eyelashes gathering chocolate raindrops. \flhen I awake, you are gone.

The raln comes Zeke Zaerow

The rain comes, the rain comes, the rain comes, The world's ritual bathing A divine cleansing as old as time.

Heralded by the stillness of the wind And the misty vapor that the surrounding life exciudes While the skies: dim, mute, and empty, rest The impartial clouds spiral above As if begging you to direct them.

It stans with the staccato explosions of liquid on the leaves, roof, and glass And you sit silent and still in your darkened room Comforted by knowing once again that all is right and good

\Xiith the windows open the pleasant chill gusts swirl around you Steadily entering and exiting your little world As the vrorld itself breathes comfort and release

Now flows the deluge, erasing the evidence of today Rinsing blood from the streets, smell from the ground Tears from the eyes grime from the face dirt from the hands and sweat from the body Guilt from the soul Demons from the mind Troubles from the earth

Turning a lover's hair into perfect ringlets And a child's art into a blank slate

To be filled again romorrow

In the surreal haze bodies and cars flow past like waves Rolling in, cresting and receding forrh

The torrent lasts forever, turning reality into one ecstatic instant of sound and sensation

Lose yourself in the maelstrom

Until consciousness slowly, sweetly returns

Leaving you alone with the final drips . . . drops, a breath of wind, and a lingering scent in the air

Like that of an absent friend And you wait

Until the next quiet day

\Vilson

Napkins and Forks Lrq

And Jimmy was beautiful Jimmy was like soul-on-soul on my morning toast

Grooving my eyes into steady repetition Hypnotized -y anticipation of movemenr I swear to you I could not avoid him FIe was like sunny-side-up love infiltrating my sysrems like a planned attack upon my senses Systematically seducing them One by one And I swear to you I could not resist him

And yet Jimmy sar rhere like Plain-Jane-Jim unaware of my perverse breakfast fantasies

Constantly alluding to rhe hot coffee on the table that remained yet untouched and cooling by the minure and beautiful manifestations of orange juice drenched in eyes only for you

Walter

Jwstin Perez

Sitting on his side of the bed, (on tbe rigbt,IVaher, aluays on tbe rigbt, yow can't sit on the left or else you'll .), he sits upright, back against the wooden headboard, watching the bedroom door. FIe can feel the cool wood through his white t-shirt, although it is more appropriate to say off-white t-shirc, given the number of stains down the front and around the armpits, and he begins to wonder how much longer it would take her to waddle up the stairs, and get-no, slide, or grouse, anything but simply ger-into bed beside him. The rifle was threaded through his right upraised knee, resting on the thigh of his outstretched left leg, concealed beneath the white satin sheets she had insisted they buy in Miami. He had taken careful measure of the bed on those oh-so-rare but oh-so-crucial days when she was not home, calculating not once, not twice, but three times just where he needed to be so that the discharge of the rifle wouldn't harm him. In the precious few moments he had had to recover the gun from its hiding place and get into position beneath the sheets, he had consulted the diagrams he had so meticulously laid out in his brain. The plan, of course, was not to kill her at first, no oh no,'Walter could never conceive of a thing like that, he silently reassured himself. She would slip-no, slide-in next to him, and in that whispery voice of hers she would run down an agenda of all the errands he needed to run the next day. 'Walter is reminiscent of nights when he loved listening to her talk, but all he can picture now is the glare of the table side lamp off of the oil on her skin, the way the dandruff in her eyebrows fluttered onto her long, pointed nose. He had decided that it was at the end of her nightly chore list

that he would let her have it. But not to kill her, mind you. The bullet would pierce her upper thigh and merely handicap her for oh who cares how long? Long enough for'Walter to make absolutely clear that he was the man in this marriage, rhar she couldn't boss him around anymore, that she couldn't embarrass him in front of her friends, or HIS friends, for that marter. He shivered slightly, almost hearing her laugh, and also realizing he only had a paLr of boxers on. He had laid the plastic underneath the fitter sheet the night before, being careful to fold the edges under like his morher taught him (precision is tbe kqt, W'alter, precision, medsure tr.uice, cnt once, or eke you'll. .). H. glanced under the sheet at the weapon cocooned there when (creak). She's coming, he thought. He could feel his head starr to lighten, the butterflies (motbs) in his stomach started getting rowdy, and a second after the first creah of the staircase under his wife's weight, there is silence. And in that one moment of silence, as his wife starts inching her way up ro her new future,'Walter realizes one detail that he missed. Overlooked, in all the hours of dreaming, plotting, scheming (precision), he had forgotten one aspecr of his wife's nightly ritual that could ruin his oh so imporrant plan. The bathroom. FIe jumped out of bed, knocking over the glass of now-cool warm milk he always prepared himself before going to sleep. Tonight, however, the milk was untouched, and a lukewarm spray of white was now engulfing the sides of the nightstand, the lamp, and the Oriental rug that had been in his wife's family f.or (generations and generation) quite a while. The lamp, in addition to being splattered with curdling milk, has also been jolted by'S7'alter's sudden explosion out of bed, during which he bumped the nightstand. In perfect silence, it starts it's short decent to rhe carpeted and milky floor. The light bulb shatrers as she reaches the top of the stairs.

f can't really de{ine ugly. But. There is this movie theatre I went to once. Only by of accident though. It ended up we got to the movie too late so we decided to leave. This is how we stumbled across this one. '!fle pulled up to an almost vacant parking lot, except for about twelve or thirteen cars. I could tell from the beginning that it hadn't been kept maintained from the green grass poking through the once black tar. Now only a shade of. gray was left. As we approached the entrance, there were kids hanging out in front. Their ages varied probably from fourteen to seventeen. They made me a little apprehensive, not so much my welfare being in danger, just that they were hanging out there.

I was dragged into seeing the movie arrryay. It turned out that we were a little early for the next movie, so we had some time to kill. The lobby was littered with old ticket stubs, and deserred except for some other kids hanging out there and us. It kind of came to my mind what those other kids' life vras like.

Coming to hang out in a movie theatre. Playing old arcade games. Looking at outdated movie posters. It made me feel almost as if I was stuck in some sort of movie. Or an eerie dream that I couldn't escape. The odd thing is, this was their life. I vras only in it for a brief tvro hours if that. By the time I had finished daydreaming, the movie was about to begin.

I can't really define ugly Adarn Schleimer

After it was over, we went ourside to see the same kids all hanging out, smoking cigarettes, some riding around on bikes, and most dressing a lot older then they should have been. So many questions and yet no answers. Then, as we were leaving, I wondered if these kids would be forever stuck in a movie theatre wasteland.

Snap Back to Consciousness

Stepbanie Jeter

After an icy pile-up on Forest road, Cedar's Point Hospi tal is in no condition to prepare its staff for the reparation of this torn town. Amid the sad faces of loved ones and the worried glances of the hospital staff three strangers find each other in their own realm. This is a realm of story telling. And a realm of suprises...

Kevin

"The circumstances could not have been worse, and even in that slight possibility that they could, my imagination would never go the distance to discover it. And I have a great imagination. The Midwest is notorious for the horrid winters and slow recoveries. It has become a p^rt of all of us here, so natural-like the v/ater that drains from our eyes, and yet so unpredictable at times that the world around us falls silent, speechless, helpless, and cold. The moment was so unreal, yet all too real, like a lucid dream that you're dying to wake up from, but at the same time you are aware that it is within your control to snap back to consciousness, and live.

The winter this year is quite precocious, I can't believe it actually began a week before Thanksgiving. Today the mystical frozerpowder floated down to earth and I actually wanted to celebrate, I woke my wife, Elizabeth, up early this morning, and she was delightfully cranky. Delightful, yes, because she knew that I'd wake her up bright and early, and I knew that she didn't care, yet she was cranky because that was to be expected of any 'woman who needed her beauty sleep. I had her clothes

ironed, folded and ready, I'd been up an hour already. Had the engine of the truck warmed. I was eager to get out and go to the lakefront to see the sun rise bright (as the forecaster had predicted) over the horizon, on the first day of snow. Elizabeth wrapped a wool blanket around her body ai we made our way out to the truck. I had a picnic basket of bagels, hot coffee and the morning paper. Elizabeth was quiet in the car, reading the paper, as we made out way to the lakefront.

I never heard her commerfi^ry on the latest news. The last thing I heard was screaming, as we drove over the black ice..." He pauses because he's too hurt to continue, but also because the air has gotten suddenly chilly. He looks around at the door to see if anyone had just came in, bringing the draft with them. But there is no such person. He zips his coat up and puts his hands in his pocket. He looks over at Elaine.

Elaine

"'We were right behind you, James and I. To be honest, James was complaining about your truck. 'Damn those sport utilities!' He swore. 'You can never see around them, Elaine. And everyone's buyin' them. Soon we're gonna have to buy a semi to look down the road, with all these damn SUVs riding around!'He said. I couldn't help but to think how bitter he was getting in his old age. Yet at the same time I think it's amusing." Elaine pauses, and puts her coat on. "It's getting quite chilly in here. \Where was I) Ah, yes. I think I must have been giggling the whole time he was rambling on, because he stopped talking and gave me that curious, yet very hurt look that I've become immune to over the past thirty years." Elaine stops to chuckle to herself, for a second, and then her expression shifts to that of a look of sadness, and being lost. "I'd love so much to see that face right now. To go in that room and tell him that everFthing is just fine and

that I love him. That we'll never part again." She pauses, and she wants to force atear from her eye, but she's too overwhelmed with sorrow to do so. So she says: "I hope he won't be stuck in that room forever..." And she pulls her coat in closer to her body.

Andrew

"I wish I had something that touching to say, but the fact of the matter is, I hated her guts. And not in a temporary, I'm just going through'male PMS' kinda thing. Huh. Male PMS. I think she made that up. Very clever! Yeah, I actually hated the ground that she walked on."

Andrew stops as he hears Elaine gasp. He looks over ar Kevin, who is giving him a look of disgust. Yet neither one of them utters a word of disinteresr, so he continues. "She always had somethin' to say about what I was doin' yrrong, or how I coulda done somethin' better. f mean, day in and day out. And I do not exaggerare. Enough is enough! Even as we were pulling off the raffip, she was throwin' a conniption fit. 'Slow down Andrew! Don'r smash into that car Andrew! God Andrew, where did you learn to drive!) Pull over, give me the wheel!" He pauses to chuckle. He had changed his voice into a high pitched, shrill sound. Apparently he thought it was hilarious, and his chuckle breaks into laughter. Elaine and Kevin watch in absolute disgust. FIe calms himself after he has seen Elaine's expression turn from that of a mild mannered old woman, to a surprisingly indignantly detested expression. "YOU know," he adds matter-off.actly, "she always called me Andrew. Nobody calls me Andrew, but her. Everyone else calls me'Andy'or 'Drew' even, not even my parents call me Andrew. Yeah. Andrew. That's the last thing she screamed as we crashed into that car. I hated her screaming. And she did love to scream." He pauses. "'W'air did I say did? That was careless of me. I shouldn't let my wistful thinking worry the two

of you

"\(hat is your problem, pal)" Kevin bursts out suddenly. "Don't you have any respect? I mean your wife, or girlfriend-whatever she is, could be dying in there, and the only emotion you can express is hate!?"

"H"y pal, don't go talkin' about stuff you don't know about! Okay) Because, first off she's my stepsister, and second; you don't know the hell she put me through! You don't know what it's like being married ro a..." "Married)!" I thought you said that she was your stepsister!"

"Yeah, and)" He says indignantly. Kevin stops in his tracks.

"Yeah and you're right,I don't know anything about you. I obviously over-estimated your character..." Sensing that that would send Kevin into a fit again, Elaine interruPts.

"Come on, gentlemen. You're being quite loud. You're gonna cause a scene, I'm sure people are already wonderirg . . ." She looks around to see if there's anyone watching them. There isn't. Amazingly, everyone is self-involved in the curiously calm and quiet room. She pulls her coat tighter in. "Boy, is it freezing..." she says.

"Yes, it is Elaine. It's like someone left the door open or something ." Kevin says, looking over at the Emergency Room entrance. "I can't seem to get away from the cold either."

"It's hot in here." Andrew says. Both Elaine and Kevin look over at him, and they notice for the first time that his coat is off, and his sleeves are rolled up. "k's burning up if fact." Kevin goes to Elaine's side and puts his arm over her shoulder, sharing his coat with her.

"Thanks dear." She looks over at Andrew. "I don't understand how you can be so warm, when it's so cold..."

At that moment the double doors leading to the ORs open, and with it there is a strong breeze, and as Elaine,

Kevin and Andrew face in the direction of the double doors, the breeze blankets their faces. All at once they fill their lungs with the air, which is neither distinctly cold nor warm, but it is just tranquilizing. And out of the doors come the familiar faces of love and hate, of comfort and uneasiness.

And before anything else, Andrew notices her face. The face of his wife, his stepsister. He stands and he walks, unwillingly toward her. The breeze is strong, still, but it amazingly eases his stride. As he inches closer, he notices her face is incredibly sad. Tears leak from her eyes and he suddenly feels his own eyes burn. She opens her arms, and he falls into them. She leads him through the doors. And then he sees it. And he screams.

And at that moment Kevin sees her, his love, Elizabeth, and her expression is soft. And there's a man standing next to her. An older man, and he smiles. Not at him. But at Elaine, standing behind him, and he understood. The man is James. Elaine walks up next to Kevin. "They're waiting for us, Kevin, let's go." She says. And they walk together hand in hand. But the breeze is strong, and they are struggling to get to their love. And with every inch it is harder. And it never gets easier. And James and Elizabeth slowly turn away, sad in the face and in their body language, and walk away. Elaine and Kevin can never get closer to them, and they now know why. Elaine stumbles, but Kevin has a tight grasp on her. "ft's okay Elaine, I'm here with you, )$7e have to go now." "Do we)"

"Yes'qre do." He says gently. "Let's go..."

Channel 5 News at Ten O'Clock

"Let's go to Barbara who is at Cedar's Point Hospital," the anchor looks straight into the carnera, "Barbara,

what's the latest on the horrible event that took place today on Forest Road...)" Outside the hospital the reporter stands in the cold, fashionably dressed for the weather.

"\Well Suzanne, the word is that most people are in critical condition, some having been upgraded to fair condition about an hour ago. There has been word of three deaths. 'We have just received their names. One victim, 40 year old Kevin Hamilton a resident of Cedar's Point was reportedly in the driver's seat of his truck, his wife in the passenger seat, as he drove over some black ice right into the, already forming, pile-up. He died about an hour ago. His wife has just been upgraded to fair condition. A couple was killed in the accident, 25 year old Andrew Haskins and his wife 23 year old Lucy Haskins were reportedly one of the first cars that started the pileup. But that has not been confirmed. Lucy died two hours ago. Her husband, like Hamilton, died an hour ago. Another death took place just an hour ago, that being 75 year old Elaine Johnson, a resident of Cedar's Point, her husband was driving and reportedly hit the Hamilton's car, right after they hit the black ice. Her husband has been upgraded to fair condition.

Flowever unfortunate these deaths are, marty are considering this a rather lucky turnout of a thirty-six car pile up. Back to you, Suzanne."

"Such tragedies like this remind us to be careful of how we drive during the winters. Thank you, Barbara." "l]h huh. . ."

"\We'11 keep you updated on this tragic event. And in other news, the Cedar's Point Hawkeyes are expected to come out victorious this season..."

Zoe Heidorn Dragonfly

Pmci.l

Wild Roger

Leon Nqfakb

\7e were camp counselors living together, the lot of us, thirty strong. No one had known each other before, and we had to work and sleep close. Our job was ro pretend to be French people, teaching the language to young kids and putting them in a make pretend world that we had to uphold eyery day. '$7e had a big room where we spent our nights and the rest of the time we worked outside, in the woods of 'Wisconsin. I spent five weeks there, and I was the happiest ever with the gang I got to know.

They knew me as Robert, and having just come back I hardly even answer to my real name anymore. Get up at eight and sound the big bell, move on through the day seeing everybody around, working their duties . . ear the three meals of the day and then go on up to the house after ten o'clock. \fle sat there on the couch gerting our kicks and resting, gerring up only when we really had to, to get popsicles out of thefreezer.

This was summer, the real joyful essence of it . . . my friend Yao walks in and there's six of us around. Sandrine and Aureliano on the floor, Sandrine knitting and Aureliano playing his guitar like a mystic who could see feelings... looking around and matching the gang, playing right to our hearrs because somehow he knows how to do it. My other good friend Philippe'was on the floor giving his girl Vero a backrub, and the people around who knew their sad story could see it was meaning the world to him to be doing thar.

I was on the couch head to toe with Roger, the son of the

guy who owned the place, not our boss but the proprietor of the backwoods. He got Roger a job washing dishes in the kitchen when the last guy roo off, and whenever he wasn't doing that, helping Ted the head cook and David the baker, he was up in our house, being with us and asking questions. "So what'd you guys do around here antsway?" he'd say, and people would roll their eyes and answer him real short. Some thought they were too busy to answer him, so when he forced them to talk they didn't like him, and the couple of kids who knew Spanish made fun of him a little even when he was right in the room with us. They weren't bad people for it, they just thought there were lines between us and the kitchen help. Roger was always there with us, though, and we got on real well. And anyway, with a guy like Roger, a g:y who could keep up his head, it didn't really make much of a difference what people said. I usually sat there and kept him company and pretended even to myself sometimes that I was wondering the very same things he was.

The first time I met him, I was sitting in a cabin talking to one of the kids I lived with when I heard a knocking outside. I came out and there was Roger with his little sister doing something to the doorknob. I said "H"y there" and Roger looked up and gave me a big old smile and said that they were just changing the screws. "The old ones are all rusty. It's to make it an efficient operation, you know man) Don't want the doors here to crack up." \flhat a guy! He was kind of heavy on the waist and his eyes were big and wide open. He had an air of duty around him like he know he had to do his job and he had to do it well. Concerned and busy, only fifteen years old. Yes! I dug him right then but I vrent back inside... a few minutes later I came out again and asked him if they were going to be able to fix the door that day. "Oh yeah," he said, and huffed. "Right away."

He got the kitchen job a few days later, and that's when he started spending time in the house... i talked to him a lot and he always told me interesting things without even meaning to. "This couch is too comforcable," he said one time, and I answered "Yeah, no kidding" and suddenly he got started on a story about the best rest he ever gor in his life which was inside a bus going south from Superior, \Wisconsin to a little rown near Tijuana. "I was trying to get to sleep and I couldn't because it was so hot, and finally I just said to hell with it and crawled under one of the compartments next to the air vent, and crumbled up, you know man?" He was on the bus with thiny other people and they were going down to do mission work, building a big orphanage in Mexico. I kept asking him about his ride down, about all the things he mush have seen outside... all the characters he must have met.

"\fle sang worship songs all the way down... we had a guy played the guitar and another guy played the bongo drums . ." He had this habit of looking a:way and ar rhe floor and shaking his head as if he couldn't believe rhe stuff he remembered... he did that now and told me that there was a full church choir on board roo. "They sang just the prettiest songs," he said and smacked his teeth with his tongue. "Never heard anything like it before or since, you know man)"

This was just one afrernoon. 'We'd be setting up rhe meeting hall later on rhar night, and I needed ro move ts/enty boxes of soft crackers, some heads of purple grapes and five gallons of juice half a mile down the hill. 'We were supposed to make finger sandwiches and toy wine for the kids, parr of an art gallery thing we were doing. I went into the kitchen ro get what I needed, and Roger r /as there, in the middle of a mess. Still, he helped me find all the food and drink and, when he saw me trying to clutch all the stuff he offered to take me down

the hill on his dad's three-wheeler motorcycle. I had seen the thing around the site before, all caked over with mud and rust, hooked with a trailer on the back. "'We can take it down as long as my pops doesn't see us using it. Put your feet on the connector there, otherwise the back might fall off." I did what he said but I did it wrong. "You gotta sit right on the bar, there, you know man) Can't let the trailer come off, you watch it while we're going and yell out if it starts shaking out, right?" I put my hat on) a round brim brown hat made of straw, and I held on as Roger gunned it down the dirt road around the backwoods. "I take this thing out sometimes by myself, just don't tell my pops, right? Hahaha!" He gunned the pedal again and I let out a yell and threw my hat big had up in the air. \We were rolling down the hill now, so it came back down behind me in the grass.'We cut down across the hill, engine going and the trailer sticking. "Oh man," we kept saying.

I got to the sta{f house at around one that night, and Roger was there asleep on the couch. I sat down next to him and shuffled my hands around his feet just enough so he would wake up. I nodded to him and he nodded back. "'We gotta do that thing every day, man," I said, and he laughed a little and told me he was leaving the next morning. I asked him why and he said it was because he hated the job and that he'd been planning on hightailing it for a week now. His dad was disappointed, he said, and I liked that ethic, his father's, his idea that you gotta finish what you start. Roger's just a kid though, and he's a damn good worker already. He couldn't be bothered pretending to be French or high minded like us, worrying about our nonsense and missing the point by a mile.

I went up right away the ner day after work was finished and the kids were asleep. Roger had just left, but later I thought that was fine. I would have just told him to take

care of himself, and he knew it already.

Roger was replaced in the kitchen with a kid they found on a corner in Madison, blonde and skinny with a pony tail tied in the back and a visor covering half of his face. He never came to the house, but his stories probably wouldn't have been a match for Roger's anyqray. Roger's on the right track. Only fifteen and he's more of a man than most... strong and interested in everphing wofthy a real live wild specimen, Roger.

Huskie Pride

Dan Kane

"Attention...will all freshmen boys reporr to wrestling with Mr. Nudera," one of the gym teachers announced over the loud speaker. A huge sigh fell over the field house. \We all slowly gor up and grudgingly inched over to the wrestling line. Infuriated, my friend George looked around and ran over ro the step aerobics line. John and I were so mad that we got this class. 'We sat down in the boys wrestling line as the teacher passed out sign-up cards. \Xze filled out the cards and then handed them in. Then the teacher introduced himself.

"Mr. Jim Nudera," he said, and then he began describing the course. He talked for about fifteen minutes, and then the bell rang. "Everybody, we meer in the wresrling room, tomorrow!" he yelled.

"'What's a wrestling room)" some kid whispered. I looked at him in awe. I didn't respond and I pointed up to the ceiling. There was a staircase leading up ro a room on the fourth floor. It was dimly lit and painted with a tropical forest and filled with a pack of huskies, our school mascot. It looked a little creepy all the way up there. I looked away and started walking to rhe lunchroom; I was really disappointed over this semester's gym class.

The first week of gym class wasn't too bad. \We just learned a ton of questionable maneuvers and odd positions. At the end of the first week, Mr. Nudera had us sit down in a line against the wall. FIe wenr down the row and talked to each of us individually, telling how each of us are great athletes and blah, blah, that crap. He then

got to me, "Kane) You have a lot of talent and I think you should join the wrestling team." I looked up to him and said, "IJhm...weIl I can always try it out, I guess." 'Wow, was I full of itt I had no interest at all in joining. So I just said that to be nice. He smiled and then gave me all the information I needed regarding practice. I told him that I would see him after school.

I went and the practice wasn't that bad. 'When I got there I had to wrestle in socks, because I didn't have any wrestling shoes. A kid there, Cameron, picked me for his partner, mainly because I was a newcomer and he had a couple months experience on me. So we drilled, I beat him senseless. Mainly because I weighed 160 pounds and he weighed 140, I think that may have a little to do with it. After the practice, the coach approached me and asked how I liked it. "\(/ell," I said, panting for breath, "it was very different, and I guess I can give it atry." Coach Nudera's face lit up, as he extended his huge hand, I shook it. "'Welcome aboard Kane, this'll be the greatest investment of your life." I tried to keep smiling and not show him how very pwzzled I really was. 'Wait a minute, I thought. That sucked! \Vhy did I just tell him that?

One week later, I wrestled my first match against St. Patrick's High School. Since I only had a week of training, I started at the JV 2 level (second string freshmen wrestlers). The only problem was that I didn't have any shoes yet! I wear a size fourteen, and there aren't that many wrestlers who have that size. Luckily, Nudera wore L4's when he used to wrestle, so I got to borrow his "Coach....These shoes are red!" as I stated the obvious. "'SflellKane, when you're on the mat and are in trouble, click your heels together and repeat, there's no place like home!" he replied, chuckling. I looked down at the shoes and laughed.

Out on the mat, as we were doing stretches and drills,

Coach Nudera came up behind me and pulled me aside and said, "Ya know, Kane, you can always tell a great wrestler by how much the toe of their shoe is worn down." I glanced down at the shoes and to my surprise, I saw a large hole in the toe of the right shoe. "'Well coach, I guess you weren't as bad as I thought!" He said, "Oh, that? I snagged that shoe on some branch!" \7e both had a good laugh as he patted me on the back. I was, well, I guess, proud of myself getting along so well with this diehard high school coach. That night I won my match against St. Pat's. I was now officially 1-0!

Portrait of the Innocent as a Young Rebel Adrienne \Yilley

It was 7:45 on a Tuesday morning and I was riding in the back seat of my car as usual. I stared out of the window, thinking intently about the plan my friend Claire and I had devised. Today was the day our preschool revolution would begin. As we pulled into the parking lot at school, my mom turned and asked if I was feeling okay. Ordinarily I yelled loudly throughout the whole trip, complaining about the injustices of sending a four-year old to school. But today I was silent, lost in my plans. I smiled, told her I was fine, and kissed her goodbye as I hopped out of the car.

\7hen I walked into the classroom, Claire was already there, sitting in out usual spot by the blocks. I greeted my teachers with a smile, even though I knew they were evil, and hung my coat on the hook. As I walked towards Claire, I glanced around at the other kids, so innocently playing with their toys on the carpet. On the first day of school I had deemed these other children to be babies, Claire being the only other four-year old worthy of my friendship. Claire and I talked in hushed voices about our plan.

"OK, during plaltime, we'11 go around and tell all the other children not to move when Mrs. Pickle and Mrs. Steve tell us its circle time," I told Claire. Our routine was exactly the same eyery day: an hour or so of "structured" playtime, a half hour of boring "circle learning" time, a half hour of arts and crafts, a snack, and after which we were finally rescued by our parents. Since all of my efforts to avoid school completely had failed, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

The only part of the school day that I truly enjoyed was playcime. I absolutely hated circle time, which I believed had no real value. 'We were only taught useless things like how to make a "people paper chain" and we were actually expected to sit still and listen. Most four-year olds can't sit still for more than three minutes, let alone a half an hour! So Claire and I had decided, well, I had decided that we would put an end to circle time forever. Our plan was to just ignore the teachers when they told us to clean up our toys and form a circle. If we all banded together, there was nothing our teachers could do to stop us. During playtime, Claire and I passed the word along to the other kids. They agreed that having more playtime and less learning time would make school much more fun and said they would ignore the teachers too.

Playtime passed quickly as usual and Mrs. Pickle informed us that it was time to learn by singing one of the most annoying songs ever written: "Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere, clean up, clean up, every body do your share." 'When that was finished, no one moved. She sang it again and again was ignored. This continued for a few minutes until she started to get impatient. She yelled a little bit and the little wimps I was forced to associate with actually abandoned the cause and started cleaning up their toys! I was outraged, but I would not submit! I was a fighter, a rebel, and I vrould never abandon my cause! Pretty soon, Claire and I were the only ones who hadn't moved. Mrs. Steve came up to us and threatened to take away our snack if we continued our disobedience. Ha, I thought, she doesn't scare me! So I continued to ignore her. But then she started to scold me, to which I yelled:

"I don't care if you punish me, I hate school and I hate circle time and I'm never doing it again!!"

\X/ell, she soon figured out that the reluctance of the other children to participate in circletime was my doing. My mother was called and informed that I had intimi

dated the other students into revolting against the system. I did not intimidate anyone, if they were scared of me, it was their own fault for being such push-overs. Claire didn't get in trouble either because they just assumed I forced her to help me! Mom was told that if my behavior did not improve, I would not be permitted to come back to school. Personally, I thought this sounded great, but for some reason, my mom did not agree.I was yelled at the whole way home and forced to apologize to both of my teachers the next day. Preschool is so unfair.

Stefanie Curry Mother and Cbild Photograpb

He Was Slumped

Bree Fahqt

He was slumped in his dingy maroon armchair by the fireplace. The wall in front of his'was a grimy white and the light from the flames danced across splotches of spackle and filth. The flickering held the poorly postured figure in a trance, so much so that he hadn't taken a drink from his open can of Schlitz in an hour or so. The beer was warm now from his massive grip. At first he hadn't heard the knocking on his door but after the third set of rapid knocks, he was just ignoring it. The noise persisted and finally he lifted his arms to his face and rubbed his chin through his bushy salt and pepper beard, more salr than pepper. As he stood up, he groaned.

"I'm comin'. Hold yer damn horses," he mumbled gruffly. He sluggishly sifted through the beer cans and old McDonald's wrappers all over the floor with his foot to find his left sandal. After slipping ir on, he drawled for the door and wiped the beer and saliva from his mourh onto his ancient toga. On the other side of the door was a sharply dressed businessman in a full black suir, a black bowler, black tie, black vest, black shoes, black briefcase and dark sunglasses. The two stared at each orher motionless for a while until the businessman cracked a smile and broke the silence.

"FIow are you doing, Godl"

God turned around leaving the door hanging open and dropped his beer into the trash. He shuffled over to his makeshift bar, which consisted of several cheap liquor bottles on a card table, and poured a drink. The businessman stepped in and quietly closed the door behind him. He made his way to rhe vanity table being careful nor to

scuff his shoes on the clutter. He laid his briefcase on the table and put his hat on top of it. Crouching, he looked in the mirror, smoothing his black hair around the two short horns that stuck out from either side of his head.

"You know I hate it when you call me that," grumbled the drunken, old man. "How would you like it if I called you the devil? Hello, the devil. How are you, the devil? Hey, the devil, how is business by the way?"

"Okay, I get the point," the biack-clad man calmly replied. "And business is fine."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You want a drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine. Besides, I've got meetings and things to attend to. I'm only just stopping by to say hello. i hardly see you around anymore." God went back to his chair, holding a novelty Chicago Bears cup brimming with whiskey. The devil pulled up a folding chair next to him.

"tVhy don't you get a nicer place, G? Why do you insist on living in this diny little hole in the wall?"

"'What are you, my mother now, Lu? Gimme a break," said God. As he stood, he scratched a manly itch and sauntered toward the bathroom, which was just three walls and a toilet. In fact, as he stood and did his business, he leaned back just an inch or two and surveyed his apartment in its entirety. Over the years he had gotten tired of colossal surroundings, everFthing bigger and better and full of space. He liked his cramped dwelling.

"At least you could spruce this place up a little. Get some furniture. Get some nice things." Lucifer said.

"Yeah, okay, I'll just go to Ikea and pick up some stuff, right? I'm sure I could get a discount, too. I'll just say, 'And I saith unto thee that thou shalt be cast into the depths of FIELL lest this lime green reclining love seat be marked down half price!"'

Lucifer laughed a polite laugh. "But seriously, you should-" "\(hat good would it do me)" God snapped. He walked over to the window and lit a Marlboro Red as he

stared outside. The vast blackness speckled with twinkling white dots was visible from every angle and so were the tattered orange drapes that framed the window. Lucifer watched him and felt helpless. He could see that something was wrong. God hadn't always been like this and he though that with a little nudging, he would be back to normal in no time. But how much encouragement was it going to take) Lucifer became uneasy when he thought about how long God had been in this funk.

"I do have to be going soon because of business. FIey, maybe you could come down with me, G. You know, to catch up with things."

God put out his cigarette and went back to his armchair. 'There's no point." He finished his whiskey and gazed at this toes.

"Look, G, people still believe in you. Still look to you as their guide. I know you think that your era has ended, that they don't want you anymore, but it is simply not true. They need you."

"Need me? Need me) Half of them don't believe in me and the other half either use my name for their gain or think if they go to church every once in a while, I will grant them three wishes and lay them golden eggs. Shit, Lu, wake up. Each one of them is so wrapped up in themselves I doubt they'd flinch if I came down in my true form and delivered the Ten Commandments again, personally."

These words struck Lucifer at his core and his mind raced. 'S(as it possible that God didn't see there was a balancel He didn't see that in his absence good and even had begun to melt together and without those two separate ideas canceling each other out, human kind would destroy itselfl And then what?

"But G -"

"I know what you're thinking. ''What about the balance?' Even if it were true that I could save man from self-destruction, what would it mean? They'd just screw up again and I'd have to help them out, and then they'd

screw up in yet another way, and I'd have to come uP with some scheme to save them again. And all for what, I ask you?'What comes at the end? Is there an end) I mean, Christ on a crutch, Lucifer, people at least get the certainty of death, but we don't get anything..."

"Maybe there is a purpose. Maybe something does come at the end. Maybe there is a bigger plan we can't see. Did you ever think of thatl"

"Think of it? I wrote that line. Don't patronize me, devil."

The two sat in silence for a while. God stewed in his thoughts. He had lost faith in himself, and he knew it. In many drunken stupors he had even written out the sentence "I have lost faith in God" and laughed until he cried. He was lost, and had given up trying to find himself. Existence was empty for him now. No matter what he did he wouldn't make any Progress and he couldn't go back to his old life, knowing what he knew, so he just stayed where he was. In a puddle of filth and alcohol. Lucifer didn't understand. He was too wraPPed up in his own importance to see that nothing mattered. God ..r.rrt.d him for being so naiVe. Couldn't he see it was all a bunch of horse shit? The Devil reflected on what God had said. He had also thought about a gre ter PurPose from time to time, but always concluded that he was in charge, he made the purpose and that was good enough for him. To figure out and manipulate people to teach them lessons on how to live was enough without having to worry about what was coming for him.'S(hy couldn't God see it that way?

"Vell, I must get going. Are you sure you won't come with?"

"Yes, I'm sure." God said in an almost mocking tone. "I'11 be seeing you then. Maybe I'11 stop by later," Lucifer said.

"Yeah, yeah,yeah," God said as he slumped funher into his chair with a groaning sigh and listened as the door closed. He was alone agun.

Querencia Alex Viana

The keys aren't white or even off-white. They're yellow, a sickly beautiful yellow. The wood is varnished very dark, the color of chocolate, and shiny. The seat has been reupholstered bright red on wood the same color as the piano. Before you close it, you cover the keys with a strip of green felt. The old tarnished key that locks it is stashed away rn my father's drawers. I have seen my piano's heart. It's a big brass plate a dull gold color that is attached to the entire inside back of the piano. Everphing is attached to this. The string, ,r. ,t*rrg through hol.r lr, it. Near the top of the brass, foreign words declare my piano's German heritage.

The piano is right next to a large window that lets in a lot of light, especially in the winter, which really makes the wood gleam. However, I have never looked out that window while at the piano. It would be analogous to looking at the wall behind the television.'What" the point when you're got TV, or the piano, if you will.

I have slightly altered my grandmother's piano. In the middle of the front there is a woodcut insert. There are cracks in its corners from the long boat ride it took to get it here. The wood around the keys is coming off in small chips from misplaced smacks by straying fingers and snags from passing clothes. The bass notes ring out of tune because I am not as gentle with my grandmother's memory as I should be.

Every time I play it hard I knock it a little out of tune. Every time we tune it we rub away a little wood that

cannot be noticed or replaced. The piano is alive. I know because it is dying. I stare at it. I know that it is old. I know that it is dying slowly.

Vo lerece died the summer before my sixth grade year. \When she had come to visit us, I was younger. I remember her trying to teach me the basics of music. I remember her criticizing my numbers, my ones, saying that they were "just lines," not real ones with the base and the point at the top, like this-1.

I was about the same age, I can't remember if I was older or younger, when my family went to BrazTlto visit her. I remember her piano. It was dark and proud in her fourteenth floor apartment where she had taught for so many years. It fit nicely with her other furniture, all of dark wood, holding a record player, color brander snifters and gemstones. The house smelled like my grandparents.

Sometimes I think of those days when we were together when I find myself at my piano. Usually that's how it works. I realize that I'm supposed to be doing homework or getting something from another room but instead I find I'm just sitting in front of my, her, piano. It finds me sitting there in front of it. We find each other.

Sometimes I go digging through my parenrs' boxes of pictures under their bed when they're nor home, to find pictures of grandma. There are not many; they keep the ones from before we moved here somewhere else. \flhen I find her I stare at her, making sure I never forget her, tryingto remember her.

Sometimes I think of this when I find myself just sitting in front of my piano and I try to play somerhing parricularly beautiful, to make her proud. If I'm alone and I play very well I pretend she can see me somehow. \ffhen I'm

done I look around. I expect to see a benevolent ghost smiling at me. But those kinds of things never happen to me.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm making too much of my grandmother's piano and her faded memory. Sometimes I think I'm not making enough of her piano. I think of how it was her prtzedpossession and how she would feel that it is now my prized possession.

Sometimes I don't have to think, I just play. Those are the best. That's where my nourishment comes from. My fingers fly over the yellow keys. I ignore any chips of wood. I ignore the damaged bass notes. Faster and faster my fingers blur. All the hours and hours that the piano has been played, there's so much energy in it, iust so much silent energy. It excites me to think of tapping it all. My frustration and excitement add to the energ'y of the piano.

Sometimes it's too hard to keep playing and I just sit and stare at the dark wood. It's cold.

My grandmother had soft brown skin too I never heard her play piano.

If Emily Vhite was the king of the world, she says that she'd make sweet love to you, whether you wanted her to or not. Katie Spira was inspired by Rupert Grint (X.on 'Weasley) to write her ode to magic. Ashley Adler thinks that maybe her body is ed by a deranged spirit with unfinished business. She I colors and martini glasses. at OPRF needs no further Justin Perez's stunnlng comment. Like Katie S he awaits his long-overdue acceptance letter from H \Witchcraft and Wizardr:r. Michael J showers with that he

everyrhing, likes bad green is crazy. He says that ing a cocaine habit. Amelia whole year is Earth Day. She loves Dar but we all know that Ben Taylor is way cuter. Zoe Heidorn really likes Ho-Hos. She wears cowboy boots. Fred Henzel's label says: "Caution: do not immerse in water. Household use only." Leon Neyfakh treats his story like 7-Up. Never has, never will. Vinny Sharma is going to be a doctor in eleven years. He is well on his way to becoming a famous

Bollywood afior. Zeke Zverow has got some bad alliteration going on in his name. Adam Schleimer appeared on Nickelodeon's "'W'hat VouldYou Do)" Emma Rubin likes spending her leisure time in backyards. jesse Randal gets all crazy with the lines. Anonymous- "I was inspired by Ani DiFranco. I en,oy and have been doing so for , Muppet-loving redtime writing. Adrian Paris. Dan Kleinman's blue j in a tiny leather-

a long time." Kate Merrick is head who likes to spend her Lecesne wants eans bound Kane*It's

ten years she'llbe re writing on an old bed at midnight. Marhsall Lao- " " Lisa Locascio is the reincarnation married couple, Oksana and Arkadiy Mullberry, who loved each other so much that they were reborn as one person. Penelope Hudak often canoes down Bubbly River in the after noon whilst sipping tea. Katherine Parker- "Once Kafrin thru a COI7 when she was upset. Haw!" Jon Ealey is a knight in shining armor. He has dreadlocks and a goatee.

Nigel Shields is teetering on the brink of destruction/discussion, and is totally expendable. \When she gets old, Anne'S/ootton will own a yarn shop on the ocean and the salt spray will make her eyes sring.

The elusive Emily Vhite has been crestalicious for two years. x-popcorn!" The only cure is sunshine, love, and Penicillin.

Jon Ealey, striving to make meaningful art, turned to Crest for inspiration... but instead developed an addiction ro Lisa's cooking.

Mr. Zabransky was a beat poet in San Francisco. '$(hen we finished this book he said rhar v/e did a berry good job. Dig.

Abby Van Deusen is from various towns in the South, but yet she sounds Canadian. She enjoys midnight picnics in July, black coffee, and Jim Jarmusch films. Erin Graves keeps Crest sane. She has to wear three-piece ensembles to work. Sweater, skirt, shirt. The end. i. #

Meg Prossnitz bathes in orange juice and sleepsin a bed of ice and trout. * # *

Katherine Parker spends h* time avoiding her sister, #.-ptfllg tosing opera, and occasionally batting at the?ies that circle her half-eatenfoead (thanks to Crest).

Sarah Schwartz plays lacrosse and she has red hair and vou should l*e her. t * ",#

Lisa Locascio lusts for Sophie Dahl.

Green Pepper

Ricbard Zabransky

Perhaps because each is a nude curled upon itself, a seamless exhibition whose arms and legs attract the crude attention of epicureans intent on flavoring sauces with emotions found in French movies, we too are bent on savoring a taste, like any, we can't quite explain, excePt to say it reminds us of driving top-down in a convertible through spring rain.