Crest 2004

Crest 2004

Oak Park & River Forest High School 201 N. Scoville Ave. Oak Park IL 60302

kate gavriel editors rachel johnson lindsay kral christopher nied nadia ranney sarah schwartz abby van deusen emily white anne wootton richard zabransky advisor steve gevinson english division head

letter from the editors

A normal person doesn't understand The power of the Right kind of pen.

-David Fingerman

Sincerely, Crest 2004

table of contents

jessica lillie 7 eric zeller 8 dora ralph 8 max bjornson 9 lucy wilson l0 nadia ranney l0 david gilmer I I emily gilman l2 david fingerman 12 sierra kidd l3 kate gavriel l3 emily hanna l4 katherine parker l4 sharon flowers l6 jamie den hartog 19 emma billings l9 iulia meineke 20 20

irene walters 2l deresa yvette jones 2l aileen cheng 23 pablo philipps 24 25

christina parra 25 stella brown 27 tim sullivan 27 stella brown 28

an ode to the ocean bike monster grease and sweat needs trimming the sitting 5 hours is enough... open mic rooftops if I fall asleep tonight I usually erase... witnessing torpor she tikes to read fantasy I want to capsize yellow boxes... patience the band is coming violin flower where do you want to go? loved it is that stroke of light 735 jewels para mi tio solon in the silver forest cars applesauce saints

natalya carrico 28 fatal attraction stella brown 29 coats martha buehler 29 eggshells

liz dengel 30 hearing footsteps caitlin cass tim sullivan billy jackson grant buchowicz ken javor max taylor joe petrone . liz polk kristina adamczewski andrea healy nick butterfield una delic ariel herman elise putnam elena levenson michelle doman david gilmer emily white jo ellyn walker meg prossnitz ale x mufson katherine parker jesse randall meaghan garyey claude bonaparte fred henzel sarah schwartz kate merrick fulia taylor karina benloucif emily stephenson kate gavriel elena levenson peter boyer

sPeet-sPee john wilkes... dick cheney's open... flash flood the greater dakota the pomegranares... ginger tired eyes singing penguins baked scrod midnight painting footprints in the sand fish bowl (ow) like a hot knife... love arthur a call to equality bonny rig lustful horror unyielding supper cybornetica woman loveless stickler, mighty shoe... watch your step spare change hamburgers on grill games of chess... ball-gown dinner the crescent mold records I come not unlike... pull a jefferson your beautiful face

peter boyer regina matranga delna weil erin williams anthony runnels jamaal james dan granias nick butterfield liz harmon stefanie curry lucy wilson stefanie curry christina parra allison gegenheimer ihechi alilionwu shannon saliny joe petrone frisco kenyon diya rattan max taylor kristina adamczewski christa martens michae! seidman lukasz sikora peter kahn lindsay kral lukasz sikora james louderman mary clare masters karina benloucif kate merrick

64 untitled 00 65 her list 65 remembrance 66 struggles 66 struggles 66 struggles 69 pyroflies 70 writer's block... 73 this is the story 74 hummingbird 74 afteri again 75 I stepped on an ant... 76 child's play 78 stiletto dreams 78 where I am from 79 losing pride 80 shotgun 80 keo's plea 8l leaves 82 single flower 82 thanks for giving me... 83 I love how the rain falls 84 long and lean 85 daughter of earth 89 women 89 cloak 90 here I sit 90 elevated 9l children 92 fade to black 93 sun porch sestina 94 he must like... 95 decipher nightfall

AN ODETOTHE OCEAN

The world is written in whispers

ls working towards love-loathing ways

Where no one can hear you singing

Unless on moonlit bays.

Brightness sings its shore song ln our own symphonies

Nothing more rhan moonlit shores

Will bring me to my knees.

So on vanilla summer sunlit shores

He sang his song of lies

I bought into all of themOne could sympathize.

With an awfully ardent advantage

It can take hold of you

Love is lonely in its law-bound light

And soon, you'll wish it were through.

And they were the last highs

Holding me sound

- -<jessica

lillie

Sometimes lwondered

lf they'd come back around. Loneliness lives in love Age, it attacks without mercy Time is a terrible tumbling tundra Cold and constant and coursingln our moonlit menageries Let life live itself through.

BIKE MONSIER photogroph (eric zeller

GREASE-AND SW,EAT dora ralph

Stale sweat and the scent of onions entwine themselves around my arms. The very tips of your fingers, ice cold. They are always cold. I try, desperately, to wipe droplets from my brow and the crevice between my nose and lips, while maintaining my deliberate nonchalance.

Your collar bone defined, neck long, graceful.

I want to apologize as I cram greasy fries into my mouth, ketchup dribbling on rhe tabletop.

You look past me, never at me, while I count the freckles on your nose I imagine your feet tapping, under the table, agitated, just like mine.

With relief so great it mirrors pleasure, I watch as a bead of sweat catches on your upper lip, and you lick the treasy residue left on your index finger. NEEDSIRIMMING pen & ink

he was drunk and delicious smoky and sweating under the early spring heat resting our weary souls on cool cement

his cigarette clung to his two fingers and every now and then the wind would blow wisps of sweet tobacco my way we had watched the day follow us down the street and we were finally content to watch twilight pass us by he said nothing but finished off his cigarette and stubbed it into innocent cement, allowing the smoldering stub to topple over and roll down the imaginary steps we sat on i looked at him and whispered,"if this was a real house, i would go inside." he placed his hand over mine and said softly,"me too."

5 HOURS IS ENOUGH PRACTICEJROTHER

Master the mechanics, and march on metrically. Tap the whites of hope and the blacks of desire. Do not skip a beat of your lullaby to the heavens.

The moonlight sonata that will keep my dreams content forces you to trill obediently in the darkness. Flutter across your stage after I flip the switch goodnight.

Play until the moon is sedated by the star of the morning.

<nadia ranney

For the first time I

Swallow mics as quickly as an infant

Guzzling pixie sticks Spitting sugary dust through speakers It flies

Landing on fresh ears

Forms poetry

I stand

On a brightly lit stage

The microphone in front of me ls like a keyhole that opens my soul

I mumble words not loud enough to hear Strong enough to feel ! feel

Like gasoline inside an engine, My audience sparks plugs that ignite me Makes my throar spew fumes that fly

Through smoke filled rooms

lnto mind's note pad

Scribbling out my signature

I spit bullet syllables faster than Diablo guns

My clip empties

The piece over Applause pierces my ear like rumbling thunder I bow my head

When I look up !'m standing on a dimly lit porch Afraid to open the door

I turn around Look for the slightesr trace of a mic So once again my heart's door can be open

I only see the trail of car exhaust

I stand there alone

Praying for the applause to reach me

]EI FALLASLEEPIONIGHT

lf I fall asleep tonight It's not'cause I don't love you

MEMORIFS

I usually erase my bad memories but...

I thought my Mommy wasnt ever going to come back She left me Alone

With two younger sisters. A baby a 2-year-old I was too young to know about anything, only been potty trained for two years.

I could already sweep the floor and change poopy diapers All I had was Common sense She left me alone, cold from broken windows, large pupils from the dark

Torn clothing

Dirty feet Dry old oatmeal Loneliness, hopelessness and wishing sheU return to me

I can picture her face,lips, eyes but where is her heartl

WITNFSSING Tr)R POR kate gavrie!

her body is like a syringe. she wears disillusionment like some winter coat. from behind black eyeliner she tells me she has given up cigarettes. her yellow fingers hug a shot of wheat grass like some sweer salvation. compounding amounts of empty glasses sit on the bar. i sigh;we will never find our spring in such a concrete city.

CAPSITE

I want to capsize under the steel snow and stench of responsibility, pasted to the greased railing where my feet slumber and wits pale.

Caught between worlds aching for proper posture, clasping ticket with hands chapped from sweat, I struggle to disconnect from the clamoring seas, sagging faces (professional) yellow under the platform's humming lanterns. They attempt to return

photogroph

IWANTTc)

ily hanna {katherine parker

to home, bread, warmth while ltravel to retrieve scraps of sanctuary wedged between gothic-shaped square pegs of U of C and crumbling Hyde Park round holes, foreign and filling. Awkward revival in a cafeteria where a rusty piano and rustier player clang out a melody while we in time crudely shift soles

I am among 60-year-old Englishmen and a man who rides his bicycle in the snow This is my salvation. A crayoned image of my vying Past for a future with focus. Dim, but legible

Headlights glow.

I am in the safety of the family minivan much to my dismay.

The plastic heat suffocates roaring in the walls of a barred exit. I contort once again in hopes of overlooking my own steel stocks My head rests on the cool of the glass window. We mount the Eisenhower. The el runs polar, (in time) with our gallop.

The trains brush shoulders both running, both coursed.

She told him with a motion that he had never seen her use before.lt was a subtle shift in her eyes and the way she bit her lower lip just so. He knew something was up, but with Susan one could never know. Paul opened his mouth to say something, but the moment had past. She was back to tugging on her earlobe and staring off in the distance as she usually did when there was nothing to be said. He was about to let it go and return to eating his sandwich when she did it again.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

Susan popped her lips quietly, getting irritated. Lately with Paul something always had to be wrong.This time something was wrong, it was the dependent kind of wrong.The type she hated.lt had always caused her problems.

"lt's hormones, isnt it?" he uttered between bites.

Resting both of her palms flat on the table she exhaled slowly,letting out a throaty sigh.This motion he'd seen before and didn't like what would follow. He scooted back instinctively and squinted, hoping it would somehow soften the blow. He opened an eye slowly; she was still sitting there, though not quite the ravenous banshee she normally became after one of his "inane" comments.Yet she still posed a possible threat. Paul bit his lip."Sorry...?"

Susan sighed and shook her head,leaning back in her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest, a vain attempt to contain herself.

"l was thinking of David."

"For what?"

"lf it's a boy."

There was the motion again.This time he had an inkling of what was wrong, and it scared him. Paul knew he really didn't want to know but he had no choice.

"Well?"

He tilted his head, flipping a palm up as he searched for an unspoken answer. lt was probably nothing. Susan was staring at her hands, seeming to be interested in the iridescent speckles on the table. She didn't respond.lt wasnt like the table was new or anything, but she'd rather look at it than face him. She

took a deep breath and looked at him slowly. Paul could see the guilt and apprehension in her eyes.

Susan was relieved when the doorbell rang. She shifted in her chair and glanced in the direction of the door.

"l-."The doorbell rang again. "You?"

"l-l have to get the door."

With that, she hopped from her seat forging a smile before she walked gingerly to the door. Sighing, he shook his head and went back to eating. He swore her moods shifted like a good song-sometimes up, other times down.

Casually opening the door, she did not expect to be greeted by a huge, pale-yellow box.

"Congrats!" a cheerleader-perky voice exclaimed from behind it. Susan scoffed.A blonde head popped from behind the box,with an obnoxious grin to suit the voice.lt was Paul's sister, Kandie, still talking a jumble of sound. Kandie never knew when to shut up.

"l was shopping, and I saw this. I know I'm totally early, but it's so cute. I knew you'd love it, so I had to get it. So anyway, have you thought of any names yet? I personally love..."

Susan had completely disassociated herself with her surroundings after closing the door. She plucked the box from Kandie's arms, placed it on the coffee table, and sat down on the couch.The conversation faded in and out around Susan, who added a couple of uh-huh's so as not to seem rude.There was the gesture again, but Kandie was too involved in basking in the sound of her own voice to notice.

Susan rubbed her index finger behind her ear and stared at the box. lt was big-so big that it took up the entire coffee table, and she wondered how the bite-sized Kandie could lift it. She liked the paper-it was cute, maybe a bit quaint. !t had baby ducks in rain gear on it and was wrapped in a big, white satin ribbon.lt was department store perfect.

It was strange how something so cheery and pristine could cause her such distress. She figured that she had brought it upon herself, in a way. She should have just told Paul a week ago when she found out.

Kandie kept talking, and Susan continued to sway in and out of the conversation. Paul was still in the kitchen; she could see

him from down the hall. He had that look he always had when his sister showed up. He couldn't stand Kandie. She figured it was a wonder he survived living in a house with her. She watched him, disinterested in Kandie.

He had finished his sandwich and was watching the kids play across the street. Reaching for a dry towel, he heard the phone ring. He began drying the plate and watched it ring, waiting to see if Susan would pick it up. He hated answering the phone-Susan knew that-but she was far too polite to interrupt Kandie in order to pick it up. Placing the plate down, he toweled off his hands and picked up the phone.lt was Susan's doctor on the other end. She told him that she was sorry for their loss and that Susan's test results had come in. The only response Paul could manage was"huh..." before dropping the phone. lt was as if he had forgotten how to function. He leaned against the counter and his knees threatened to buckle. He breathed slowly, until his knees were no longer a threat. Paul eventually managed to stand up. He picked up he phone with an unsteady hand and hung it up.

After drawing the kitchen curtains closed, he turned towards the living room. Susan watched as he walked through the kitchen to the living room. She glanced up at Kandie a couple times to be polite, then shifted her gaze towards the box. He reached the doorway of the living room and leaned against the doorjamb, hands clasped in front of him, not uttering a word. Just steady, slow breaths. Kandie was still talking, deeply involved in the ongoing story she was telling Susan. Susan moved her focus from the box and through Kandie to him. He told her with a motion that she had never seen him use before.The meaning was as clear as the innocence in the eyes of a newborn. She knew he knew.

PATIENCE nFotosropil jamie den hartog

G-O?

Where do you want to go?

Driving along he turns to me: Where do you wanr to go?Without answer, he accelerates. Music blasting like thunderi we speed down the empty highway. Me, a captive of his insanity. He rolls down the windows, crank up the air, and pumps up the volume. Anxiety soars as we speed,lost in a world of semis and compact cars on the road to nowhere.The land of lost souls drifting aimlessly in a sea of orange-red darkness. I stare into an encompassing blood-red horizon, wishing-praying for an answeG a sign. He slows as I turn my head and ask where do you want to go? He sighs in scarlet silence, but the sky replies,to hell,to hellso we drive on.

IOVFD

t.

It's 1988 Lisa doesn't want me He couldnt raise me all alone So I went to my aunt's Then Lisa took me back And learned to love me

--{deresa yvette jones

8 years go by She comes into my room saying she's pregnant "By who?"

Was my first response "Nevermind," Was hers

"Why,"

Was my next question.Then...

"l thought I was the only one you loved" She made me happy When she said, "l'll still love you"

7 more years pass Lisa no longer loves me My sister Demerra ls her pride and joy What happened to the love? I guess it walked out with Demerra's father

I ask her Do you love me? She replies, "You were a mistake" I try to cut her And miss But leave a mark of effort on her face

il. ln the beginning I would run to him

For protection

My father used To make me happy He used To come to my rescue He made me happy When he used To be my superman

My father used To make me happy When he defended me in arguments with Lisa My father used To make me happy When he called me "Daddy's little girl"

Then my father scared me

When he started to become my mother

My father made me scared Because I never thought superman did bad things

My father made me scared When he rose his hand to pull one of Lisa's moves

By then I knew he wos My mother Christopher Reeves became paralyzed

My father hurt me When he said I no longer existed to him My father hurt me When he said he d found a new daughter to replace me I hate Patrice She needs to find her own father She's not even a Jones Shet a Bragg 6 months have passed since then

My father no longer loves me What's "Daddy's Little Girl" Without Daddyl What's Daddy's Little Girl When he's cut The cordl

lT ISTHAT STROKE OF LTGHT

Giteen cheng

It is that stroke of light. The cinnamon tingle of his skin early in the morning. The breath of coffee colored lips that are his own, and yet, just for me.

I can wrap myself in him and forget the world exists if I want to. He is my Pancake-and-hash-brown-breakfast-on-Saturday-morning.

The bubble wrap during my school day. The hot shower at 8 A.M.

The oatmeal lotion encasing my skin.

The last thought before I go to sleep at night.

He isn't quite like the others.

He frees me instead of confining me.

And when we are tangled under the covers in my mind or in reality, I can inhale love, exhale life, and grow pure wings of my own.

Calling and calling you...

Flowers' hypnotic colors draw you to a poisonous touch

And the thing that swallows lost souls Opens his mouth wide And lets them escape Just to catch them all again A cruel tease

When it grows dark the white owl will light your way Towards the windy path of a lonely willow Where the wind plays its lonely flute

Through the cascade of leaves inside the willow You will see the winding letters on its skin That seem to make no sense but look familiar As you feel a tear stumble out of your eye and lnto a root of the willow

You see that it wasnt clear but a shadowy red You close your eyes and lie on the damp dirt You open your eyes to see the dark sky And feel the soft grass You hear an enchanting sound and Stand to follow How strange, because in its complete silence You hear it Till it stops abruptly... You feel the bright blue snake Slide by your feet Relief washes over your face Then the sound comes again And you follow it to a hill lnto a collapsing ancient well Moss filled And smelling of rot You reach in Listening to the darkness Of your own heart

EALS photogroph

APPTESAUCE

I am ready to move in together now. ln our apartment we will have applesauce.

(stella brown (tim sullivan

lla brown

FATALATTRACTION

<natalyacarrico

You're there, and you open yourself (up) to me like ripe fruit as you tarnish yourself, poisont knife cutting into your flesh. Your scent is a sweet musk, quite alluring and entrancing when mixed with smoke. My teeth meet your skin and pull.

EGGSHELLS

The fragile shells keep turning Still whirling through the air Try to stop my head from spinning The eggs fly everywhere

I have to keep them dancing So the floor they'll never meet Have to keep their yolks from breaking Hands protecting shells so weak

My fingers slip

The white orbs fall I turn and dip To catch them all

One by one, the eggs drop and shatter I watch the eggshells split and die I gather shards on a silver-plated platter I think,l sit,l cry

(stella brown martha buehler

My great-great-grandmother must have flogged the floor with her feet, because my grandfather learned it somewhere. Learned the fingerprint that was his footfall: heel heel pound pound, hearing the weight shift, because if you knock hard enough on the ground someday it might answer back. I used to know the delicate steps of my mother from the commanding steps of my father from the solid steps of my brothers from My own callused gait. But the strides became lessons and we answered in kind, a great family melting pot. I had my own footsteps once, but so did they.

-(liz dengel

SPEET.SPEE rn cass

There are blackbirds on the gutter outside the window, five of them, all in a line, their beaks locked around large acorns as they struggle to break them for the goodness inside. Their feathers fall smoothly down the backs of their heads to their wings, and they flash colors. You're looking into an oil spill. You're sure they must have spawned from that rainbow-swirled puddle in the White Hen parking lot, the children of countries of industrial revolution, trying to crack their nuts for the goodie inside. Every so often, for no reason at all, one abruptly flies upward and all the rest follow out of habit. But they return to their acorns. One finally cracks his open and the shell rolls down the side of the roof, leaving its contents behind. He hops for it, before the other blackbirds can; runs for it and eats it all in a flash,

and itt gone. He stands, discontented, on the roof and soon he flies up, everyone following behind. ln a moment they return. You're not sure if they're the same birds, but it really doesnt make a difference.They gnaw hopelessly at their nuts, condemning Darwin, while subconsciously enacting his thesis.

Now they're on your neighbor's lawn, swarms of them, their little heads moving robotically in spurts of energy, all looking for fresh acorns in the green grass. They Pick one up Drop it Move on Pick one up Drop it Move on All the while chirping "speet spee speet speeeeeee," whispering to one another, or to themselves. Your cheek is against the glass now and you're cold. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. The wind blows in an odd direction and all the oiled birds fly away in unison. You wdk down the stairs to turn up the heat.

IOHN WILKES... photogroph

Making revolutions without seeing change

Roasted breeze blows through, my Breath is black frostbite

My ears warmed and nurtured by studio flames O, how I behold this pyrite wonder I smooth out sidewalk cracks Light-footed despite

All that the calendar wants me to know Afraid that l'l! choke on rain clouds Anonymous water drops I Gene Kelly through puddles

Splashing and crashing,l stomp out reflections Flooding the soles of my shoes, adding extra Weight ! let go. The current is bliss.

THE GREATER DAKOTA ken javor

There are bars and outlaws six feet down There's Calamity Jane,Wild Bill, George and Teddy, the solid HarryTatonkas, and pop cans being blasted from the big iron wheel projected from the bb gun in my little sister's hands.

I learned that doing nothing can be the greatest thing of all, and where the heck isWall Drug?

I saw mountains contorted into figures of Crazy Horse,Teddy, George,Abe, and Tom. The mountains on which the figures rest look like play dough being contorted by a little girl. I saw the Badlands, with its painted sky of magnificent colors, the great herds of buffalo running along the car, as if in a movie. This is South Dakota.

SWEETER...

My beginnings were magma

(max taytor

Spinning at the center of the earth for years ln a flash of an instant the magma rises Hopeful for the surface, to erupt into a new volcano

I was not destined for volcanoes

The magma slows before a final stop Miles below the surface the magma despairs It slowly cools into crystals

The perfect, pure quartz is tinted with gray I become smokey quartz miles below the breeze

Without a second's notice I can see the sky Blowing lazily through the trees Heading south along the shore of a riven bored with my current state

I pass through the leaves of a weeping willow Sad at first but strong and finally happy I become the weeping willow dancing in the wind

A lone spider monkey lives in my branches, eating pomegranates it finds nearby

Peaceful and content

I sleep in the branches of a weeping willow eating pomegranates I find nearby

The monkey travels the land gazing at the clouds Not with jealousy but curiosity, until I become the clouds Thin but complete, hiding the sky in a veil of gray

At night I am a brilliant shade of purple

The green world no longer holds any interest

My thoughts and dreams are filled with the shining bright beauty of the night sky

For years I pray to become a star but nothing

Until one moment, as though I am falling asleep and waking at the same time

I rise to the stars and shine brilliantly beautiful A gem in the deep purple, amongst millions of other gems Still I remain myself Hidden from al! eyes by a thin layer of gray clouds

Feeble paws ExposeOsouL

She was dust

w %, l2 r/_oa

lats

Merely there Always hushil Never brusheg[ \I And into I nltL JAshes she l$eturned But no one Cared No one Yearned Exceot for me I miss 'r'"i^"rn)/ruw And I Still do

I know It was Ahe Not a She

The sickly sweet Smell of bubblegum And the acrid stench Of cigarettes Lingering on leather

My father Standing in the doorway With a bottle in one hand And my heart in the other Whispers in my ear Like the ghost that he's become "Who are you?"

Tired eyes Lined with age His pain and laughter Etched across his face Who are you,Tired Eyes? Am I just like you?

kristina adamczewski

When an old friend looks my way and smiles, When I can run outside on a sunny day without worries, When my favorite song comes on the radio, I could be singing. And ld sing to the top floor, make people dance.

Me,l'd be floating on a natural high, a wave of laughter, Lightheartedness and sunshine. When the sun goes down And the flowers die And you go away forever,

I'll still be singing As loud as before, the same note

p

- (andrea healy

{ nick butterfield

The fish was happy enough. All he had to do all day was swim, eat, and sleep in that weird way that fish do. His life was bliss. Carefree, happy, the water was warm enough, and he had made some fish babies in his day.lt was good. This is why it was such a shock to him when the big black thing came. lt was about 30' by 30', made of thick threads of nylon, with a criss-cross pattern. lt was packed with live, wriggling scrod.The fish had no idea what this, the strangest looking school of scrod he had ever seen, was doing.They seemed to be-oh hell, they were coming right at him. He started panicking. For those of you who have never seen a fish in panic,

make a point of seeing it before you die, as it's quite a thing to see. lt is my experience that, when in a state of panic, a fish will typically scream "Blorp! Bloooorp! Blorp!" as best as his fishy lungs will allow wiggling about ridiculously all the while. So this fish wiggles about for just long enough for the net to be inescapably close. He comes to his senses iust in time to turn and attempt in vain to swim away. About two and a half seconds later, he is part of this school of scrod.

The net, for that is what this was, kept going for another minute or so, whereupon it was lifted out of the water.The ends met, and the fish were trapped in what was essentially a bag of fish. Heh heh. Stupid fish.The bag was brought on the deck, and emptied onto the slick wood. A couple hundred scrod, wiggled, gasped, and, wel l, panicked.The sai lors on board began picking the lesser un-scrod from this disorderly mob of water creatures. But all the fish, big,tasty-looking scrod or not, were gasping helplessly for breath. Our fish, the fish whom this story has heretofore been about, was no different. He had never been out of the water before; he didn't quite know how to deal with it.The only solution he could come up with was to wiggle helplessly and go,"Blorp! Bloooorp! Blorp!" But, what with his not being underwater, all he did was go, "Pha! Phaaa! Phaaa!" in a really annoying raspy little fish voice. He was grabbed and put in the ship's hold, where his life ended, surrounded by countless other fish on his way to some fish and chowder place in Southern Maine. Which brings us to the man.This character, I think should have a name.We shall call him what his parents called him,Jeb. Now Jeb grew up in the Midwest. He was not used to Maine or its odd, almost Canadian ways. He was used to men being men and cows being ridiculously numerous. He was not used to relatively cheap and fresh lobster or crabs thundering across the plains. He didn't even know why he was in Maine. Which is to say, I haven't thought of a reason yet. Give me a minute.

He was in Maine on business.What business? Give me another minute.Alright. He sells beef. Beef from cows fromWisconsin. He'd been in a plane for far too long with a suitcase full of meat.A plane full of small children, not one of whom wasn't

screaming like a banshee, crying, throwing up, or making a little ass of himself in one way or another.To put it bluntly,Jeb needed a drink.Jeb needed a couple of drinks. Hell,Jeb needed a bar to call his own for a few hours.And he needed it soon, before he killed someone.

So he wandered about downtown Augusta, searching for a bar, or at least some drunken hobo whose cheap red wine could be stolen with little effort.After about fifteen minutes of searching, he found a seedy hole which apparently served alcohol. Almost ironically, sitting outside of this somewhat disreputable establishment, was exactly the type of homeless alcoholic for whom he was searching. But, given the bar upon whose stoop this destitute fellow was sitting, the need for robbery had passed.

Jeb pushed open the door.There was someone passed out on the other side, so there was some resistance. He pushed harder, and squeezed through.The bartender was reaching for his gun.When he saw Jeb, he put it down.While Jeb felt like killing someone, he didnt look it. He just looked tired, which was genuine. He felt numb.You know that feeling, when you haven't slept enough, or have slept too much, and you feel like, were someone to slap you, you probably wouldn't notice.You feel ill, but you aren't.

"Hey,gimme a-"The barkeep cut him off.

"l know what you need.lt'll just be a second."The somewhat rotund bartender took out a bucket. He bent down under the counter and came back up with three raw eggs, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels, two Coronas and a bottle of gin. He cracked the eggs into the bucket, and then poured in the Jack and the beers. He took a swig of the gin and then dumped the rest of it into the bucket. He mixed it up with a really big spoon.

"Here ya go." The bartender grunted a little as he moved the bucket onto the counter."Drink up."

Jeb just stared."You're kiddin', right?"The bartender didnt say anythinS, just shook his head and started cleaning glasses in that way that only a very stereotypical bartender character can.

"Alright, fine, I'll drink it, but damned if I'm payin' for it." He reached for the bucket.The bartender reached for his gun.

"Like hell you aren't." The sawed-off shotgun rose from

under the counter like a cobra from the tall grass, ready to strike."l dont care if you drink it or not;you should, I mean, it'll do ya some good, but you owe me $37.50, and I'm gettin' it if I have to take it off your corpse!"

"Huh." Jeb was lost for words. He was pretry sure he was being robbed, but he was too tired, surprised, and jet-lagged to know for sure."Hgh." He said it again. He blinked hard, as if to kickstart his feeble mind.lt didn't work. He did it againThis time, \ his brain began functioningagain.He reached for his backpocket.

"Didn't I say don't move?" The gun, which had since gone a little slack snapped back up.Jeb could almost hear it hissing at him. He heard a click but he didn't realize that it was a hammer cocking until a couple of seconds after the fact, whereupon he began to object.

"WhoalWhoa!Calm downYou nevertold me notto move."

"Well,I am now!"

"l'm goin' for my wallet, man. How else am I slllosed to pay you?"

"Alright,but do itslowl'Jeb reached again for his wallet,shifted his weight off of his right side, took it out, and opened it up. "Here we go." He started leafing through the bills.Jeb was thanking whatever god he worshiped that he had stopped off at an ATM at the airport. He didn't know what this guy would do if all he had with him was the $3.76 he had left with him when he leftWisconsin. He took out two twenties, muttered, "Keep the change," grabbed his meat, and hurried out the door.

"Thanks, buddy!" the bartender shouted after him. He put the shotgun back, grabbed his filthy rag and the glass, filthier still, and went back to his "cleaning."

Jeb felt his stomach growl. He was a little more awake now. He started wishing that he had taken a little of that drink. It might have settled his stomach a little. He knew what he needed. He found himself a taxi, opened the back door, took a seat and said,"l need some fish."

The driver nodded."l know a good place."

He turned on the meter and drove the twenty-five miles southeast to the city of West Bath. He stopped at the corner of-wait a minute;Jeb looked out the window for a street sign-at the corner of Commercial and Arch. There was a

little fish and chowder place, and a hand-painted sign declared ownership of "The Best Scrod in Southern Maine."

The cab driver turned in his seat."That'll be $83.761'

Jeb's day had been, to this point, far too long to do any math, so he handed the guy five twenties. "Keep what's |eft." "Wow Thanks, man." Jeb started to get out. The cabbie stopped him."Ask for the baked scrod."

MIDNIGHT PAINTING -

A prickly rainbow

Crowns the piercing eyes Scribbles radiate in the darkness

Like waves children draw Modest and full of pity

For the unsaved He wanted to save 4t'rc paint disperses reproach

While the dolls agree They stand, subdued Averting their plastic eyes And pink bags From his Grace Stripped of the sunlight His undefined jaw tightens the abstract portrait ng of the halo

He stops forgiving lares instead

At innocent faces in their sleep ndemning their dreams ing them within his frame

Every scribble speaks a threat

Sugar-coated in thorns r vibrant colors er his veil of approachability ble ln the darkness

-{una detic

A constant reminder their helplessness: equacy

They prayed before sleep

Forced on young knees She prayed to the ceiling Not to his scrambled image

Holding the beads in her hand A tear dropped For the hungry Are they more lonely Than shel

el herman

The footprints appear hollow in the sand They lie parallel to the fence Yet they seem to dislike it "Keep your distance from that white picket" They sneer and whisper to each other I guide my fingertips over the rough wood Where does it lead?

!t holds in nothing, for no boundaries reflect its opposites No purpose for an old fence

Disrespectfully placed in the sand

The footprints know this As they steer straight but far They keep in line with its white posts But make sure it's known who's in charge

Would an old fence take charge

Against disappearing footprints ? No, it knows the wind is in control But doesnt share the secrer The footprints are erased in time The fence knew the emptiness And that is why it is left to guard their tale

FISHBOWL

education makes it hard to swall the dread advance of school tomorr [all it's taught me is (ow)]

(michelle doman

Poreless perfection honey

Shimmer, glimmeri glamour Wand and brush, powder crush

Blue and rouge and shades of black Sequins and night life

Diamonds and heartbreak

Pearl shackles

Peals of laughter falling at your feet Lacy fans and leather seats

A shade just right;salon care skin And in her own She sparkles and fizzles

Firecracker jam,glam

Bubbling over with excitement

And all around is the clanky-clank of skeleton reeth Always vibrating back at her Looking through glass eyes

Cackling, crackling in business suits one size too big But they're easy to ignore once you learn to burn right through'em

I c)VF ldavid gilmer

My love for you Soars Across the Mississippi Through the St. Louis arch Over the Rocky Mountains Lands in San Francisco Your backyard

We love each other Even though you're in California l'm in Chicago Still Our love is as strong as Links of chain that support

Midnight moon

My love song ls a phone ring That tones constantly in the back of my head

I hear each number Knowing the next sound Will be your voice

I 650 654 600r Your number is the pass code to my heart Love

Plays straight through your mouth lnto the phone Back out through the speaker Filling lungs With blissful mist

Listen Dream

I feel my eyes Srow heavy Picture myself

Perched on the edge of a Purplish swing ln the midnight black sky

Stars glisten like your lip-gloss Whose taste lingers as long as Green mint toothpaste

I hear you whisper "l love you"

A whisper so strong that it is Carried on rays

Of an October moon Across the nation Where it lands Sits patiently on my lips Waiting to be returned back to you

I whisper goodnight Drift away Fall asleep to the tone of your heart

ACALLTO EQUALITY

Hughes, how did you shine so bright in a night so dark? A single star in the sky guiding the rest of us; an inspiration.

mily white jo ellyn walker

How did you endure it all? Resisting your temptations with pride as they pushed you through the back door and refused you in the front.

How did you shine so bright in a night so dark? A poker game in which you had no chips.

They refused you in their homes; too dirty and uncivilized to touch their white lilies. Yet they'd travel down the valleys wild to listen to you and your family;

to learn your dance and your culture, your jazz;weary of their waltz.

I know of the day you hoped for, when the sun would rise, for all His children. But that day has not yet come.

And so I wonder, Hughes, when will it come? How much longer must we endure?

It would break your heart to see it, so many of them think equality has been accomplished, but we know because we live on the card face down everyday.

I only hope dear Langston, that we can rise up together strong and mighty, flinging aside our menial variables and learn to shine bright in this night so dark... as you did before us.

RONNY RI(: {meg prossnitz

Lake Michigan framed your dashboard lit face Pavement and streetlights our tapestry, we were Weaving through that night.

I imagined I was you, tiny red car A one-sail Sunfish in the middle of Lake Michigan, framed.Your dashboard lit face

Laughing, your smile transforming me To you l-94 two hundred miles an hour Weaving through.That night.

The champagne fizz forced My tears back, your eyes my blue Lake Michigan. Framed, your dashboard lit face

Narrated the million midnight stories That your music kept Weaving.Through that night.

You drifted inside my head, Clutching breath, my spinnaker luffing in Lake Michigan. Framed.Your dashboard lit face Weaving through that night.

I I ISTFI I HORRC)R

{alex mufson

Life should be concretely personal, fearless consumption of wonderment while demonstrating nothing but articulate preparation A lustful horror of hate, so pleasing to the eye. Mirthless containment of anarchy, escaping oneself, while staying true ro thy neighbor, function of confusion, lit clear in the looking glass. Yet how fast another's perception

can form the keys to my freedom, removing glass from broken windows while creating never-ending walls of lilacs. Mere destruction of my perfection sends seeds of split desire to the street. Binoculars blurred by faulty oracle, screaming sighs of relief while purging themselves of progressive backtracking. My malfunction is no longer my own, yet the grip of the hive is everlasting. The failure of others burns colder than the hatred of myself.

UNYIELDING SUPPER

{katherine parker

Night pending, stomachs growling, Family broke bread on prickled knees Stagnant wine on lips, staler terms on breath

Hushed by pious, scathing words, Wide-eyed, children squirmed in jaded rebellion Dusk pending, bellies weeping

Lips pursed, noses in scowls Sister giggled when brother crooned the hymns Stagnant wine on lips, staler terms on breath

Then dry brains shifted to death pristine Mother bore tears in the shape of question marks Static night falling, stomachs growting

The last rejoice (for exit) came with shushing Comfort in mute, commune in nothing Heavy wine on licking lips, staining terms on wicked breath

Departure in squeaky shoes, muffled scolding We in terror of damnation from feet Stepping on believers' toes, wading through convictions Night fell, stomachs shrieked.

WOMAN meaghan garvey pencil

My grandfather told me that afternoon that the ocean was a monster, and I glanced at his lips, drained of youthful red, waiting for a grin. I stood on the porch of his fifteenth floor beachside condominium,watching a satellite through the clouds on a dampened Floridian night when the screen door opened.

"Look at id' he said. "lU hate to be in those waters right now."A long pause."Just a while ago it was so beautiful... now it's an ever-churning beast."

I just sort of smiled.l couldn't tell whether or not he would say this to anyone with a straight face whom he wouldn't have to patronize. HeU say something like that to my father or even his wife-especially his wife-but probably not to a business partner. His eyes gleamed in a straight face and a dead stare.

I watched the waves peak and land, one after another, gusts of wind flopping my hair into my face. Like most things my grandfather said, words were pitched with equal parts oldman outdated rhetoric-old wives' tales from a veteran-and an ounce of truth. I hoped he meant what he said, sighing in a sort of monotonous despair. But the ocean couldn't be romanticized to me,l reasoned, any time I was straight.

And not two hours later; I was sipping a beer, watching intently as the rest of my cousins followed suit.There we were, the five of us, huddled around aTiki hut-like contraption on a placid beach, each grabbing drinks off the center of the table. Our oldest cousin Ben had bought them for us using his nifty fake lD. ld seen one of them before and wasn't as impressed as he thought I d be.

Ben was a college kid, a real-life NewYork freshman with a big smile and an incapability of harboring any sort of maliciousness. He began every story that year by bobbing his head in knowing satisfaction that he was about to utter the six coolest words in the world-So I wos reolly drunk, right-and announced during our tennis games that he was going to notch his game up to Level Four;this constituted the removal of his shirt. Ben would ask me if my girlfriend had gone down on me and respond with "okay, player pimp," his standard-is-

sue response to anything amusing or arousint-but clearly these two were not mutually exclusive.

It was a beautiful night-the full moon bore down on us as we gazed, slack-jawed and drunk, up into the sky.We watched the moonlight meet on the horizon and widen into a forever changing sliver at water's edge.lt split the clouds and stopped at our feet, a symbolic Red Sea appropriate enough for these God-spurning Semitic pubescents.

We weren't really allowed to do this-what began as parental-consented night walks on the beach just two years ago had quickly turned into downing Coronas in the light of beachside condominiums-and we were well aware of the fact that when we allowed our drunken eyes to wander to our left, we could see our hotel in plain view. Hell, we were crouched underneath an umbrella in front of our grandparents' building, spitting distance from the back door. So every so often, one of us would get a pang of fear-Sh ut up! or Dudes, serious, the vol.tme's ot nine,we need it to get to two; rypically, I would not be reciting the latter-and scurry three feet out to chuck our bottles into the ocean.

"That stuff's so good, isn't it?" Ben asked me. I looked at m), empty bottle-my seventh; Ben was just so proud-and sort of chuckled. Our other three cousins were rolling in the sand, whispering to each other and immediately blowing up in laughter.

"Well, of course it is. Stuff's... hella tasq/." I threw it high into the air.lt was too late to find a clear bottle in the sky, but not the splash in the water. lt landed sort of far, I guess. I didn't watch for the landing, so I assumed as much."Beat that."

I thought of my grandfather on his porch, standing on tiles far above the melee down below. He'd probably yell at us and berate us for being disruptive and lying, and heU probably warn us of being drunk, on the beach, at night.Would we even srop ourselves from-anything? We were young. We're going to live forever. I thought of telling my cousin Sarah to stay back a bit, of taking the fatherly role. I was on the water's edge, but I was exempt because it was my duty to pass on what hed told me, to convey the fear he surely has. Theyd laugh-whot?-and

I would too. As if this wisdom would be of any use.

"Okay, player pimpl' Likewise, Ben threw his beer in and forgot as much immediately, so he picked up two more beers from his side. He placed one in my hand and winked at me. Top, bottom, pound, and we were off. lt hurt-my eyes started to water and I just pretended it was milk in the bottle. My mind wandered and I briefly mulled over the possibility of being jealous of his impossibly high SAT score.

We finished at the same time; an improbable feat, as I'd have guessed. lt was nearly 2 am here-the moon was at the predetermined 'late night' position that we'd chosen in some different drunken stupor-and I felt great. Waves crashed and rendered what was surely a congratulations from Ben completely inaudible. I pretended I heard him and laughed. "This is great," and the water edged over our feet.

I took a step back. "Come on. Let's move a bit." And so the five of us did, settling just a few more feet down at a group of chairs. We stopped here. Ben, Sarah, and Hannah went for a walk, leaving Rachel and me for a bit.

Rachel is small. She stands about six inches under me, and, despite the mere three months between us, had just crossed the triple digit weight barrier this summer, as she relayed to me. But she's got a keen wit and, like her brother Ben, is highly intelligent without the faintest hint of effort. Slowly we slipped out of our long-spread chairs, sliding until we laid next to each other, back to the earth, eyes to the sky.The wind blew harder and Rachel zipped up her jacket.

"1... have... to pee," she said, making the task seem like life's largest nuisance. ln her drunken state, it probably was. After a moment's pause,I realized it was expected of me to say something.

"Do it, then."

Another pause. "No." Rachel's head nodded side to side, the'no' recognizable only by the sound of sand crunching underneath. She slapped me on my stomach and rolled over, face buried in sand.

I realized I was still clutching my beer. I reclined against the tanning chair and took a sip. Ten hours ago, plump Polish grandmothers had been there, assuming Rachel's posi-

tion of ass-in-air, face-in-chair; but waiting for their tans to arrive-we're in Florida, we want our money's worth-and not tomorrow morning-l'm just so tired-though both in a silent stupor. Pop magazines were picked up and bodies were shifted as the sun set in a wash of pink.They lumbered back to their beachside resorts and drank with their husbands and watched the stars come out and wondered why they weren't happy anymore.Theyd watch television when they got bored of standing outside without a sweater on, and fall asleep next to their Solitaire-playing husbands.The remotes would drop from their clutches and their heads would nestle in the couch and we'd come out and drink.We'd run onto the beach; a curious role reversal though just for a while. Gray clouds were piecemealed together from both sides, cobbled around the most positively iridescent moon, but we couldnt give a care that it was the most beautiful thing weU ever seen.

"Rachel?" She was asleep and I was elevatingthe same beach we'd been to every winter for the past ten years to dizzying levels of self-aggrandizing ennui. My grandfather was asleep,too, both of them eased away by that constant of crashing waves.

The ocean refused to be romanticized, even when I was drunk. lt held no significance to me other than another church of me; just as Ben was a conduit for exploitation, self-adulation via pit), for both of us.

I turned Rachel over. Eyes closed, head limp, I held her up and projected my face onto hers. I asked her where she d be tomorrow. She smiled and offered me a sip of her drink. I accepted her offer.

qOLS

STICKLER. MIGHTY SHOE OiTHE

(fred henzel Pen

schwartz

GAMES OF CHESS DURING WINTER SOLSTICE

"lt's your next move," slithering Words that crept up through me in that abrupt Moment of inertia.

(kate merrick

You stare at me with baby blue tinted Expectant lenses (a pair only used when reading opaque words printed absentmindedly ln abandoned Texts), not with impatient overtones, Just suspended clicks.

A glance towards the chessboard placed delicately before The distance, possibilities run as the frantic Chase for survival along the slick sea floor,which December winds

Threaten heavy breathing... Each square paints

A contrasting outcome, as though the set were Discombobulating Picasso at best.

It is the intense black of my pawn that leaves me paralyzed. The promise of invasion upon Pearls. Ravens sweeping into your iris, Staining the freshly pressed Handkerchief with each flap. That And the spread of want along your palms

For my own pulse. Possibility that upholds seas Deeper then my scaled wings have dived, where Reflection bides in foamy Longing. Necks lowered to ease

Weight and bend along the crevice

Of this square. These are what pin my vice to sparrow sonts and clasp

Hands tightly to their own empty silhouettes. Freeze

My knight to D5 in midain hovering just above Movement.And what locks your patienr Awaiting eyes to mine.

Her skin was as white as the top of the flame

Where the color has disappeared.

Her hands were small and round.

The only color was in her pale pink nails. Fingers made for the piano. She sat silently in the small wooden boat. A table set in the middle A table set for company. Oars lay at her side. Warm waters splashed at her feet. She picked up a match in the tips of her fingers

Bringing the flame close to the candle on the table

The candle lit, glowing with intensity. Her callused fingertips extinguished the matchl beam. She picked out another match from the pack And scraped it on the edge of the boat, with grace, with care.

Another flame lit, another day passed' "What time is dinner?" I asked in a whisper.

I was her company, Her date to her ball-gown dinner. Her white hair glowed in the reflection of the light. She sat unchanged, Always the same port. "The band hasn't started yet," she whispered back. She tossed the matchbook into the water. A gust of wind tossed through her hair And blew out the candles.

THE CRESCENT MOLD

A sliver of fresh squeezed hope drops like the milk that falls from your lipsinto the crescent mold, fills it iust half full...

--<karina benloucif

They all shine brightly. Personified as the gleaming epitome of what you are and were and always meant to be...

And just as always it becomes the stars and usa mist of supple night and us the confidence of a new beginning.And us.

They say eternity is hinted at in the elation of the stars, my world, your world, Our UniverseHeld between two mountains of raspberry lust shining in the ripples of laughter that drip down your chin, tumbling into a pool of ripe religion.

A universe of fresh squeezed hope falls so beautifully from your lips. It drips, it drips.

And it falls into a crescent lull; as always, fills the mold half full.

RECORDS photogroph

(emily stephenson

kate gavriel

while you slept, i crept quietly, not remotely like a mouse (ust to overtly avoid the clich6). i sat beside you and peered at your face; i was surprised that when i poked my fingers nearer your face than usually comfortable, you didn't wake. i had wanted to wake you in terror so that you could find refuge in my arms. in all the haste of trying to leave your dreams, i assumed that my pointy finger would be lost in the haze at the dawn of consciousness. this, however, was not the case;you continued to breathe heavily. the direction of my peering shifted downwards, towards your chest. its rhythmic rise and fall was much more interesting than the pillow imprints that only barely snuck their way out of a small crevasse your still head created for them. i crept again. this time more like a mouse, because your continued slumber worried me (and in times of worry we tend to revert to our animalistic instincts). now i sat at the end of the bed by your toes. each seemed a ripe bulb of flesh; i took the smallest into my little mouse mouth. with a bite you merely grunted. since mice are startled by such noise, i jumped back. my spig however, was left on your toe and a small dark circle had formed on the sheets. my worry turned into annoyance;you seemed to wake at nothing. my antics were being lost on our bedding and wallpaper. in my frustration, i stood and walked towards the door. my eating breakfast in solitude would obviously school you in the repercussions of not waking to my peers and pokes and

sPittle. a soft chuckle filled the room. when i turned i saw that you had moved to the end of the bed, and sat with your hands over your mouth. and so, my desire to peer and poke returned. (well, my desire to spittle as well, but in such a context the word is no longer appropriate). more like a rabbit than a mouse, i bounded back to our bed. ena levenson

pull a jefferson, she said, and make me a lap desk. yes ma'am, said he and went immediately to work.

i heard my right eye fall by the wayside it glistened while i searched, a vainglorious pearl glittering green and honey but when i popped it back in place it flashed dull

they said she had tiger eyes. now they're just tired eyes. if the moon were made of green cheese i would sleep in moonstuff, sinking into cheese id figure that the cow didn't quite make it over the moon, just landed it adjusted it's 'low. ?dded-drn and turned a beautiful bovine eye to the man in the moon who milked her everyday and turned her loose to graze on moondust.

Peter boyer

Peter boyer

Her "list" was an aftempt to order chaos She revised it constantly, torn forever between love and duty

It was by no means a true tauge of her feelings Because we're first cousins and I have to Anyway I don't love you But you will, when you come to know me Unsure of the politics of this

"We be of one blood,Thou and l"

She was theirAmmu and their Baba-and she had loved them Double lnspector S. lnsect and Ambassador E. Pelvis

lf you're happy in a dream, does that count? The simple unswerving wisdom of children

Do you know what happens when you hurt people? They make people love you a little less.

Are they clean white children? Do they blow spit bubbles? Do they shiver their legs like clerks? ltl out of the question. I cannot love them. I cannot be their Baba. Oh No.

And once again they broke the Love Laws that lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.

Click And click.

REMEMBRANCE

Dimly-lit hallHe can still hear the rhythmic Tapping of her silver stilettos Against the cold marbled linoleum Though the years are long past He can still remember how

delna weil

His heart danced

Upon her movements like a cork upon a tide Every step, swing of the hips, and toss of the hair

Looking around

He thinks he sees the reflection of her face Smiling gently down on him Like the sun on a cool autumn afternoon How could she leave? Had she forgotten? The times they had shared Since they were school children Running Laughing Playing hide-and-seek after dark And the kiss Under the majestic oak Leaves rustling, crickets chirping, moon shining Even the stars could not compare With the glow of her cheek

Who could have guessed

It was not to be?

erin williams anthony runnels jamaal james

New air I breathe while others smoke out. I understand that I was an imitation of what I Shouldn't have wanted to become. I must've forgotten where I came from. An eclipse had blocked my eyes from the inside of me. I knew it was not my fault, it was not my fault, it was not my Fault

Although blaming myself Seemed to be the right solution.

"Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child.

Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child..

Sometimes I feel like a fatherless child..

And I should be gone..."

I've moved on (step up), Grew up to tackle more than before. Questions fill my head with laughteri Because regret no longer fazes me

And because I am only one person... What I go through is my own fault. Since the first moment,lighr burned the coronary part of my eyes, Oxygen filled my lungs to their capaciry. Death becomes the primary objet to live for.

By means of living, I squeezed my way through the tunnel of existence. My first sight I noticed my morher, Born to a family of indefinite color. Thatt when my struggles began. The first crime I ever committed, imprisoning me to my mental Precinct, Was being born of African decent. Black and alive, A heart beat in my chest And increased melanin combines

To move the weight of the scale designed To measure the strengths of lifet test. I hold my own and move off the Richter. They dont hear me so I hope the roll of my tongue paints the right picture.

Cars, money, and women, and quick cash become my life, future, and past.

As I grow older I see the future unravel like a bullet travels, Ripping through the element of rime, Stalemating the human existence's grand design, My greatest fear to die to live eternally in Hell's grasp.

I see visions of me burning like an inferno;it broadened my Perspective when the next man turned to me And told me life is what you make it.

Ain't nothing given to me, the object is to take it. I heard Dead Prez plan to rob the Dominoes man, Pizza for everyone tonight, Everyonet gotta start somewhere. Like lifestyles, I watch my story roll back, roll back, roll back. The weight on my shoulder is too much for the hands of . time to hold, Too much for the hands of time to hold. For 400 years we've been putting our brothers under covers like Eddie Griffin, Struggling cuz we'd rather kill to make our wrists glisten Than give each other a pot to piss in.

Being born black is like a handicap and there's no wheelchair to aid us. Left vulnerable like an infant with its eyes closed, So we don't see the obstacles in our path, Standing in the middle of a three-sided box yet we still remain trapped.

We're liberated slaves still waiting to be freed, Cuz the door is wide open, we iust need someone to follow their lead.

See we had wings from day one, But can't fly cuz our ignorance has caused us to gain a few pounds;

We're crabs in a bucket pulling each other down, But waiting to be fished out, Stopping each other's progress, but claiming that "we want to be free, now."

See, black people are a strong voice that makes little sound, It's like we're mimes screaming"l'm black and I'm proud." But our cries fall on deaf ears that only hear what they want. Society only listens to the negative, So as black people we have to stand up for ourselves cuz we got something to Prove. But don't go out and do nothing foolish, Cuz we got a lot to gain, But even more to lose.

PYROFLIES photogroph dan granias

Farnsworth Farnsworth MacGullicudy lll, easily the most unfortunately named man in his town, was hunched over his computer, simultaneously hating his parents and trying to think of a topic for his damned writing class. Not being a particularly exemplary multi-tasker, he soon found himself to have a splitting headache. He couldn't shake it. On the one hand, this story had to be done by tomorrow or he might as well wish those points, and a passing grade in his writing class, a tearful goodbye and be on his way. On the other hand, his parents had named him Farnsworth Farnsworth MacGullicudy lll.That's not a typo. He wished to God that it was, but his middle name had always been the same as his first. For three tenerations on his father's side this had been the case. Farny, as his parents called him and call him still, took a deep breath. It didn't help. He took another,with much the same results. He whimpered slightly and collapsed in his chair. His head fell on the keyboard, striking some keys as it landed. He looked up, eyeing the monitor nervously.

Fornsworth M. Writing Mrs. Felliny t0-2t-03

George wos b6tygh

He considered keeping the "b6tygh," but ultimately decided against it. What was George doing? The answer fell just out of reach. He thought aloud, as he felt that it would help him, somehow. "Maybe he's lookinS-" he paused, his finger left hanging in the air, as though it had something ter' ribly important to say. lt, shortly thereafter, realized that it did not, and let itself drop. "God, I just hate them so much!"

Had he realized that his mother was standing behind him, wondering what, exactly, "b6tygh" meant, and being almost certain that it pertained to the marijuana, he probably would have just thought that last part.

"Who do you hate, dear?"

He gibbered. Failing thar, he switched over ro being hugely flustered and uttered a few non-words before spitting out, "Bob and Steve!" A wave of relief passed over him in that special way that only a wave of an entirely inanimate thought can. He then realized that he didnt actually know anyone named Bob, and the Steve he knew was a perfectly nice guy. A wave of imagined nausea passed over him in much the same manner as the previous wave. He felt damp. His mind raced. Unfortunately, that made it three things that it was doing, what with its continued efforts to find a topic for his story and hate his parents. His headache got exponentially worse.

"l thought you liked Fred, Honey. And who's this'Bob'?"

"Not that Fred, Mother. Bob's just a guy.l don't like them." His mind was in fifth gear, but a propensity of white, billowy, sugaD/ smoke started to pour out. He was blowing a head gasket. And making puns.

"Ok.Alright." His family's matriarch sensed that there was something wrong, but she didn't like this kid all that much, so she didn't press the issue. But something was still bothering her. "Are you doing drugs?"

His mind went,"Whaaaa?." in an ear-splitting falsetto. Not having anything particularly better to do, his mouth followed suit. He regained his composure for what had to be the fourth time that evening. He was getting pretty good at it."Uuh, no."

"Well, you would tell me if you were, right?" There was a little bit of disappointment in her voice. She didn't know why.

"Uuh, sure." A part of him wanted to angrily demand of her why in the hell she had asked him that. But before it could, a much larger part told the first part rhat if it didnt shut itt stupid face, and soon, it would be, in all likelihood, rendered largely useless by the savage beating it would receive."G'nighg mom."

"Yeah, good night, Farny." Although she was, in part, mollified, she had this lingering image of her son doing his assorted drugs, which infuriated her beyond measure. Despite her immeasurable, unquenchable fury, she was still rather disturbed by the next image that went through her mind, which was one of her, standing triumphantly over Farny's bruised and battered body. She was disturbed further when she noticed how much that image had soothed her.Thoroughly disturbed,

soothed, and mollified, she retired to bed, where, emotionally spent, she completely failed to sleep.

Farny somehow, perhaps through a profound lack of interest, didn't notice his mother's profound emotional trauma. He turned back to the computer and whimpered once more. Part of his mind was still,as it always was, mulling over his name, his parents, and the hatred thereof.A different and arguably angrier part was searching desperately for a topic.The part that had been racing furiously had pulled its now-dead car over (a'96 lmpala SS, by the way), shot it for no good reason, and called a cab.While it was waiting it decided to think about sex. "Breast! Breast, I say!" lt shouted accusingly at anyone who would listen, which of course was no one. Usually most of Farny's genital region would tune in when his mind did things like this, but it was asleep. Farny tried whimpering again, but none of the pathetic breathy noises or guttural sounds that he was making helped him at all. He slammed his head down on the keyboard again, but this time, he missed and jarred his skull against a particularly sharp corner of the desk. lt was then, at this painful moment that he had his revelation.

He sat up, shocked.The part of his consciousness that was heretofore busying itself despising his folks took notice, raised an eyebrow and uttered only,"Ehl"

"l dont hate my parents." Saying it freed him. "l hate my great-grandparents! Yes! lt was they who began the Name! It's their fault!" He did a little dance around the room.The aforementioned part of his brain was a little disappointed. But it knew what had to be done.lt put out the fire that had been so merrily consuming the effigy of Farny's dad. lt changed the doll's face to better represent Farny's great-grandfather, then it realized that it didn't know what Farny's great-grandfather looked like.lt swore quietly and made something up.

Farny, meanwhile, had found his topic.

Fornsworth M. Writing

Mrs. Felliny t0-2t-03

George hotes his greot-grondporents. He just hotes them so much.

So very much.God domn it,he hotes them.

OK, so Farny isn't the greatest writer. He was just born that way. He can't help it.The part of his brain that had been trying to find a topic, its work done, joined the formerly racing part in thinking about sex. lt said what it needed to quietly, and then smiled smugly to itself.

"Clitoris."

iz harmon

This is the story of a book and a boy. "lf she loved him, he couldn't leave." The Dream Weaver spins her dream thread.

Breath is to life as emptiness is to loss, What happens when breath is to emptiness as life is to !oss? This is the story of a book and a boy.

Stepping through the darkness, calling out his name, Only breath and emptiness await. The Dream Weaver spins her dream thread.

Waiting, wanti ng, thinking, hopi ng. Reach out to touch the room that smells of darkness. This is the story of a book and a boy.

Turn the corner to tD/ again. Only to find the coldness of another vacant hallway, The Dream Weaver spins her dream thread

Chasing after a warmth that is emitted from an unknown, There is nothing but rooms that smell of darkness. This is the story of a book and a boy. The Dream Weaver spins her dream thread.

HUMMJNGBIRD photogroph

(stefanie curry

(lucy wilson just because my fingertips do not speak to your palms does not mean your palms have ceased to hear a person's ever loving flow

AFTER,AGAIN

sweetheart, I beg ofyou let your ears down for a while for though horizontal will never be the same again, I promise your elbows and knees will kiss you for it

And lastly, do not give your face the satisfaction of causing your chin to quiver allow instead for legs, your previously overextended limb, to bask in the remaining summer sun and the joys of being without me

Through the rumble And the torn up, hanging by a splinter door, I would always find him Swinging his slingshot. Not caring if the fleas infested my knee highs, I sat and watched. Suddenly he stopped with wide eyes And took my hand, Rushing down towards the river. Vines and thorns pulling at my legs and skirt, But his grip was stronger. Under a ceiling of vines Were two big rocks. We sit and relax our shoulders. He would always stare into my eyes And just for a second My soul found freedom. ln the space between The lilies, the birds, and the river, I skip my rocks. Time meant nothing to the river And its surroundings. The rocks seem to skip foreveri Almost walking patiently across the river, "Christina! Come to eat!" The rocks sank... "lt's your G randmother." Worry creases Draw on his brow. Thinking demons might pop out, I run up Past the rotting building And to the tree with the swing He built for me. As soon as I got on he was there to push it. Closing my eyes... Swinging so high, Feeling...

Bliss. "Christina!!!"

Jumping off, lwalked

Towards the tree. The giant looked down at me As I contemplated climbing it. Unable to climb it I just stared. He stared at me, Then the giant, And started climbing it. Brought down his shirt, Filled with berries, Now permanentb/ stained. The taste of berries colored my mouth A purplish red. "Tristi, your Grandmother is calling you. You should Leave." I stared at Him As if he was speaking another language. Watching him as he ate; He smiles at me. Then his expression died His mouth fell open And a berry tumbled out, Just like my laugh. Staring and pointing, I laugh So hard tears fall out my cheeks. A pull on my ear Stood me up. "Caramba Muchacha," l'm being dragged Across the dirt With a strong grip on my ear. I wave good-bye to him, Still laughing At the expression on his face.

STILETTO DREAMS

I watch tents cruise by Their flaps free in the air

No more joint laces Pounding on my windshield Heavens spit

This is no longer vacation play The clouds watch As my automobile dances Holding the wheel ! stare straight ahead My eyes kick Memories of shot glasses hollering I shift my focus And let my finger drive

The side of the road flies by Like paintings The paintings breathe My eyes dance around them I open the door to exit My automobile still in motion

The belt twists my leg !t's too late I'm pulled into stiletto dreams

-(allison

WHERE IAM FROM {ihechi alitionwu

Where I'm from you could hardly hear a pin drop

Where I'm from the sun could make you three shades darker

Where I'm from cars drive so close to each other that you run cra4l from worry Where I'm from is a beautiful place

It's peaceful and very open, but when you pass the streets they are crowded with kids

You could look into people's open houses

Where I'm from you can't tell the difference between us and the night

I'm from a place where you see the sunset and fall

Freedom to run around in your neighborl house Waking up in the morning to the smell of mama's rice and stew knocks you out ofyour bed

Everyone greeting each other as they pass No homework after school, just fun No drugs, murderers, kidnappers to worry about Kids playing out on the streets shouting and running around naked and dirty Where l'm from is a place of everlasting fun

He took gentle steps on a long road, Daughters watched from the warm home, No man should lose his pride.

Lightning rods stabbed his back, Bones popped and tendons snapped, He took gentle steps on a long road.

The mattress stung and the ground he feared, Gravity played the innocent villain, No man should lose his pride.

Dreams were the only harmony, The only escape from pins-and-needles syndrome, He took gentle steps on a long road.

The pain was persistent and grew angry, Flaring, flaming like a boy-scout fire, No man should lose his pride.

And the women watched and thought sad thoughts, And the pain laughed and enjoyed its poweri He took gentle steps on a long road. No man should lose his pride.

Rushing out All confused Getting ready To abuse My best friend Until no end Over one Shared dream: To sit And see The world With glee While you ln the Back kick Me frustratedly But I'll Pay the Fee because I got It first. That's victory.

KEO'S PLEA

frisco kenyon

"My love, my love Where did ye dare go That earned ye these gashes all cover'd in snow?"

"Dont worry, my love 'Tis not yer concern Jus' provin' my love is one I did earn."

"My love, my love What did ye dare do That earned ye my love,'nd these dark wounds too?"

"Don't worry, my love 'Twas jus'a small fight

To add to the many that happen'd t'night."

"My love, my love Why did ye contend To a battle with them that has no jus' end?"

"Don't worry, my love The trouble's fer me

Fer I am compelled when they talk wrong of thee."

"My loye, my love Don't give'em more fear Fer our love, which they find disgraceful and queer."

"Don't worD/, my love I'll lis'en t'you

To prove that our love might be sin, but still true."

LEAVES photogroph diya rattan

rattan

IMF (max taylor

The scent of laughter was long replaced by the choking sound of uncomfortable small talk Now that the smell of spilled red wine and Bacardi Superior are in the air

Drunk alcoholics consume more coke than can be conceived

Cold turkey is nothing but a tryptophane dream, Random reactions to the game

Counting down the days till Christmas

Holding on to the last leg for dear life

It all seemed so fun and innocent but now blood is spilled on the itchy white carpet, The years of perfection have turned into random masses Hiding inside the bloated stomachs of the winners

It felt good to see the family again

But now we're out of aluminum foil and there is a mountain of dishes,

Last year you could smel! the pre-fallen snow and Ma had to tell the kids to sit down

They were so giddy, The children, and too terrified to move from the places they've been put They can still hear the sounds of hand mashed potatoes coming from the next room

We all can Pa and his brother stained the carpet three shades of red this year We won This is now one nation instead of several We won I LovE HowrHE RAIN

FALLS

(kristina adamczewski

I love how the rain falls and makes leaves not so crunchy anymore, rui ns Hal loween Trick-or-Treati ng, and sacks an autumn street parade.

I love how the rain falls and makes a cold November day even colden makes you wonder if it's a thunderstorm or snowstorm, and looks like icicles dropping from the sky.

I love how the rain falls And lets you believe it really is spring,

foreshadows blooming plants, and reflects the sun to make the day even brighter:

I love how the rain falls and makes loved ones squish together under a single umbrella, washes away the gun powder and ashes from a night's fireworks, and makes summer nights colder, foretelling another rainy, not-so-crunchy autumn.

LONG AND LEAN <christa martens

Long and lean just like his faceHis fingers wrapped around the royalty That was placed in his palm that was one day too old He was too old He lived forever sitting there Dealing one round, two round, three round, four But today he was alone With his kings and queens who never aged As he grew too old And lived forever Laughing through the streets of Spain Surrounded by his kings and queens He loved them for their ageless strength I walked up to him, The man who lived too long And softly asked if he had crowned his favorite He stopped Allowing his kings and queens to sit They didn't mind though, They never aged "Norma met me here a day ago, But she never grew too old" Then his kings and queens stood up Straight spined in his palm As his fingers coiled around them To begin round five one day too late

seidman

He held her hand genrly. She clung to his for dear life. She writhed. The dirt floor burned her exposed skin. Her husband was beside her.The doctor was before her. She felt the muscles in her stomach swell, catching fire. Sweat dripped down from her forehead like slimy pain, slithering out of her head and across her face. She saw the man beside her become more and more distant. He said something but she did not know or care what it was. She felt the tight expression that she wore hardening into wrinkles, forever on her dark, silky face. Finally, she caught a glimpse of the head. Her baby's body still within her; Adelina knew she was a mother. Bifth occured everyday and was to be expected, but this perfection was a miracle only for two parents and half a child.

Everything in the new home was the same earthy-brown tone.The interior became a sepia photograph. lt was frozen in motion around the struggle at its heart;the war between creation and destruction. lnsects paused on the muddy walls as if they understood the throbbing storm within. Birds kept still in the branches, staying perched and watching over the home as if they held some stake in guarding it. From the southernmost waterfalls to the hills of the north; from the children playing ro the ancient, tribal wars; the country was proud of its sister.The Earth was proud of its daughter.That night before sleeping Adelina admired every freckle on the newborn girl's perfect skin. lt was the last time she saw her daughter.

Across the world,a woman in Chicago was clicking through an adoption website which was too perfecc low-cost, fast service, privacy, the guaranteed health of children.The website was obviously not made by an organization or even an experienced programmer, but neveftheless, her hopeful eyes widened and glimmered in an echo of the artificial perfection in the computer screen. Her stomach became filled with wonderful, vivid butterflies, whose breeze reached even Catherine's lonely womb. Her home froze too in this perfect moment. The cluttered apartment, lit only by pale, monitor candlelight, was a black and white photograph. The earwigs in the bathroom forgot Catherine's struggle in want of their

own reproduction. Through the long, vertical shades like prison bars and the flawless glass window, businessmen and pigeons could not afford a moment of empathy in their full schedules of foraging.

On the cracked, white wall-space of a corner in the threeroom apartment, hung two documents. One said honestly, "Give this man a job." lt was her husband's BA in psychology, and her only competition for his passion.

Catherine giggled childishly to herself as she thought that he was the only student in medical school who actually enjoyed the thirty-hour shifts of residency.The BA's approaching companion, an MD would solve many of the problems that plagued Catherine.

Nextto the degree hungthe second pape6which spokewith the innocence and naivety of a child,"Mark and Catherine love each other very much." lt was the certificate of their marriage.

She glanced back at the website and sighed slowly.A thousand dollars for the entire process was simply too good. lt had to be a scam or illegal. She closed the browse4 revealing a baby picture as the desktop wallpaper.A stranger wandering into the apartment might have thought that Catherine had ten or more children based on the many baby pictures that she collected from friends and family. The innocent, framed eyes only mocked her inadequate soul, but she could not resist her passion for the idea that these images conjured: her own, delicate creature, a piece of herself to teach, learn from and love for its whole life. Forever. Her body's craving for reproduction had sprung with the force of every human generation before her, and it had no outlet. lt grew within her like a boa constrictor: wrapping its terminal implications around her and squeezing out all the life.

Catherine got up out of the computer chair and walked across the apartment into the bedroom.When Mark finished residency and started practicing ar rhe hospital, they would be able to take out a loan and put a down payment on a house in a suburb.They could support a child and be a family like she dreamed every night. She didn't care about genetics. She just wanted a baby. She wanted to be a mother, a Daughter of Earth, something to be proud of. Catherine would never realize that she already was.

She opened a crooked drawer in the dresser and pulled a folded nightgown from it. She tossed the nightgown onto the flannel covers of the bed and undressed. As she pulled her head through the nightgown, she looked at the clock on the wooden bed stand. lt was 12:00 AM and Mark was supposed to be home from the hospital an hour and a half ago. She went out of the bedroom to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk for herself. She drank it all at once, sat down at the small, round table in the kitchen, and slowly slumped further and further. She felt herself drifting off to sleep. She felt the innocent eyes scorn her... and Mark's hands on her shoulders.

Catherine first saw the time on his wrist, only inches from her cheek.lt was 2:00AM.Then she sat up and looked drowsily at his face: it seemed traumatized. He had big bags under his eyes and a five o'clock shadow. He looked as if his body were melting off of his soul.

"...Why're you so late?" she managed to ask in a coarse, sleepy voice."l thought you were coming home at !0:30."

Mark just looked at her remorsefully, eventually unwrapped his arms from around her,pu I led a chai r close to her and sat down.

Having lost Mark's added warmth,and with no heater in the last weeks of the brisk autumn,a shiver ran through Catherine's torso. She knew by his appearance that something was wrong. "What happened?" she asked.

"A patient filed a lawsuit against me for malpractice.She lust wants some money. She won't win," began Mark,too calmly for the nature of the news, in Catherine's opinion."Cathy, even after residency, along with my student loans and this lawsuit, we aren'tgoingto be in the house orfamily marketfora little longer."

Catherine slumped down lower than she had been when she was asleep, and not at all so peacefully. She crossed her arms to stay warm, holding nothing within them and wishing sadly.

"l know you want a baby, Catherine, but even if we could have one naturally and we didn't have to start looking for a lawyer, now wouldn't be the time," tried Mark.

"Mark, you promised that-" "l know I did, honey, but we just can't afford everything. Bringing a child's life into ours at this point would be cruel." "l know we can make it work,l know we can! Please, I need

this. 1... I've seen ads for Guatemalan adoptions that are cheap..." she paused,"and fast."

Mark got up and brought Catherine's empry glass to the kitchen sink. "l don't know, Cathy. Let's look through all our options together in the morning and get some sleep. I think I'm starting to hallucinate, it seems like all those baby eyes are following me around." He laughed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Before bed that night, Catherine spent two more hours filling out forms on the seductive website. She walked over to the table by the door and removed the wallet from her purse, carried it back to the computer and sat down. She unfolded the wallet and removed a Visa card. Catherine entered the numbers one by one into the final lines of the form and again at a travel website for two e-tickets to Guatemala in four months. Each keystroke felt like a month of pregnancy.

Her conception complete, Catherine shut down the computer and fell asleep happily, for the first time in months, in her husband's arms.

The following morning and over the next weeks, Catherine and Mark fought over what she had done that night, but it didn't take long for him to give in. Catherine knew he wanted the baby as much as she did. ln the end they were both happy with the plans. Mark took a week off of his residency starting the day of their trip and the next time they entered that photographic apartment, they had a daughter all their own to teach,learn from and love forever.

That night Catherine admired every freckle on her new daughter's perfect skin. She thought of what a wonderful gift she had been blessed with and, for a moment, about the girl's birth mother. Who was she and what was her life like? Catherine closed her eyes sadly and hugged her baby girl.

Across the world, a forsaken Daughter of Earth kept crying.

CLOAK

ukasz sikora photogroph lukasz sikora

Here I sit plump and firm on this wooden desk wearing a skin-tight scarlet jacket

my umbilical cord, a stiff salute to my canopied multi-armed mother she let me drop to furry green ground some Eve picked me uP carried me to this foreign place to reunite me with my felled kin on whom I sit

ELEVATED (lindsay kral

Song, beautiful Like a stiletto heel All the accoutrements accompanying outfits and tunes And lsway

Like a stiletto heel This song catapults me into the clouds And lsway Up there among beat poets and Sinatras

This song catapults me into the clouds I'm curling my toes around notes Up there among beat poets and Sinatras And the pianos and flutes dance just for me

I'm curling my toes around notes

Twisting strands of hair and harmony around my finger

And the pianos and flutes dance just for me

My dancing shoes strike notes on the clouds

Twisting strands of hair and harmony around my finger

Dangling pearls jangle out iazz on my neck

My dancing shoes strike notes on the clouds And they tap out the tune

Dangling pearls jangle outiazz on my neck

I'm elated

And they tap out the tune

I'm elevated sikora

The buildings of Dreamworld faded in from darkness

I could see eveD'thing and then nothing

"Do you have any extra?"

The voice touched me tenderlY "Did you get the bloody names Yet?"

Words and sentences swirled around me They were distant yet so close All images faded to black

And my frown of unease shifted into relaxation I let the darkness hold me tight

The taste of everyone talking made me want to spit "But I can't hear you*"

I thought it whispering

Again I allowed myself to fade to black And dug closer

My skin smelled cold And my hair remained soft "Laudie?You there?"

A new feeling from the black struck I squinted, tight And my eyes shot open Pain, instant from nowhere and everywhere As I felt it spread I knew it would never stoP "The end" Echoes swayed through me It grew and I could feel the source My center, my pump of life

I saw the real world

The room was boxy and bright white And the staring, sullen eyes were dark with shadows I fell back and didnt want to 8o

Again I saw the buildings of Dreamworld

The streets raced away from me and this time I truly faded to black

ary clare masters

Sun streaks through screens highlighting dancing dust. On the rough hewn bench carved by hand Worn deep and smooth,like a perfected poem A mass of dark, dark hair escapes down a small back, unkempt, untamed Curling in July sweat around a bronzed button nose and strong sunburned cheekbones Belonging to his brown, brown lndian highness crafting Himalayan dreams.

He sits in the hot heavy haze, a jungle, perhaps, a dream The whirr of the revolving fan rippling the molasses ai[ a suspension of dust, Scooping a cascading ponytail from the damp famitiar neck, her great-grandmother's cheekbones.

She dozes, eyes not quite shut, watching her hand Trace the exploring potted vine beside her, still untamed ln its captivity, a vibrant still-life, a laconic savage-goddess of an epic poem.

And the carpenter within him crafts that poem, As he gathers lumber and plans his dreams Sawing away at that untamed Wood and sweeping its dust Across his workroom floor, his hand Steady on the lathe, tracing that well-known curve on a table leg, a velvet wooden cheekbone.

She reminds him of the one with the Cherokee cheekbones, Who danced through life to the rhythm of a poem A ceaseless beat, tapped out in the melody of her piano-playing hand

Speeding, racing toward an unknown dream. An Okie choking on the panhandle dust Rushing to some new destination, her mane flowing free behind, untamed.

This woman he once loved for her untamed

Beauty, the wilds in her eyes, the smile's spirit supported by those protruding cheekbones

She breathed in the dust

And exhaled winter,like some nymph in a poem A blur, a flash, an instant in a dream Unable to be grasped in a hand.

And he rouses his lndian princess with his war-storied hand, She, sepia and sleeping, yet untamed Lost in inherited dreams.

On the chair in his studio she recognizes her passed-down cheekbones, And like her grandmother in her Poem She blows from the workroom floor that waltzing cloud of dust.

And she breathes in the untamed winter, having escaped the dust. Tracing that well-known Cherokee cheekbone, coniuring up that ancient murky dream

As her hands begin to tap out the meter of a familiar Poem.

HE MUST LIKETO HEARTHE SOUND OF HIS OWNVOICE <karina benloucif

He must like to hear the sound of his own voice. Resonating throughout the room, No one listening but maybe a lost sParrow at the window. He drones on and on, relentlessly, Mumbli ng high praises, reprimanding unsuspecti n8 passersby. Maybe he likes to hear the sound of his own voice. His audience was not always an impenetrable wall, We used to pay great heed to the words he uttered. But now no one is listening, excePt, perhaps, a sParrow at the window. We grew accustomed to his tricks and gags. His insecurities played out by over-embellished feats, grown greater with each telling. Yet he has continued to talk. He must like the sound of his own voice.

Tonight he is bellowing-

Of the importance of government interference. The sparrow at rhe window listens intently. Tomorrow he will change his tune, and sing out the opposite of what he says tonight. It makes no difference. No one is listening, the sparrow has flown away He must like to hear the sound of his own voice.

I have become fascinated with the astronomy of you. Climbing out of my window, to sit at the base ofthe rooftop, I watch the clouds Part and your veil cascades to the sea floor. Hours I study Constellations connecting the dots of your joints, those that bend and curve into the twisting paths of your thoughts. Veins flow with intricate webbing, create the mythology of your heart. Many glance up requesting the magic of you to enlighten their blackened lives as you long for one wish of your own. Allwhile I sit and wait to grow wings that will dive me into you.

kate merrick

Christina Adamczewski likes the color blue and her favorite d^y is Monday. 36, 83 lhechi Alilionwu moved here from Nigeria two years ago. She speaks lgbo. 78

Karina Benloucif will float into the raspberry sunset as the golden sun warms her face. 60, 94

Peter Boyer is an overachiever by day and wears a retainer by night. 64

Stella Brown loves clothes more than you love your mother. 77-79

Grant Buchowicz was once known as G-rant, and very well still may be to this day. 32

index

animal crackers and writing that is dreamlike. 30

Aileen Cheng is an active member of the D.A. who loves landscape photography and tattoos. 23

Emma Billings once performed at the Susquehanna County Fair. No, no she didn't. l9

Max Bjornson will endlessly rotate around you.9

Claude Bonaparte was conceived through immaculate conception in a dream. 57

Martha Buehler is a Taurus who enjoys pie and tall people. Before you ask she is not related to Ferris. 29

Stefanie Curry's serious obsession with dead bugs is probably fueled by her love of entymology. 74,75

Nick Butterfield is a good guy.37,70

Natalya Carrico is fascinated with zombies, not unlike the editors of Crest. 28

Caitlin Cass is crazy about frosted

Una Delic spends time in her office, admiring Pam Hess and pondering the purpose in her life. 4l

Liz Dengel will knock your socks right off. 30

Michelle Doman sings to fruits and vegetables. 44

David Fingerman

thinks people should quore themselves on paper and submit it to Crest more often. 12

Sharon Flowers would like to thank Sue Bridge for all of her motivation. l6

Meaghan Garvey enjoys sailing in the blue salt water of your tears. 5 I Kate Gavriel enjoys the occasional tapdance and the freguent potluck. I 3, 62

Allison Gegenheimer enjoys breeding bougainvillea and tending her parsnip patch. 78

Emily Gilman Ubi est Geta? 14

David Gilmer is an active participant in Spoken Word Club. I l, 44

Dan Granias has eaten Wheaties every morning since the third grade.59

photography because it's fun and really easy when Justine is in the picture. l4

Liz Harmon really likes her pillow, but loves her pillowcase more! 73

Jamie Den Hartog cannot get enough cheesecake. 19

Andrea Healy is an aspiring photographer. 37

Fred Henzel pokes ants with sticks.56

]f Ariel Herman were a kitchen utensil, she would be measuring spoons. 47

Jamaal James "So, Jamaal, what do you do?" "l help p eo p le." "With what?" "l dunno... stuff." 66

Billy Jackon is very h"ppy to be part of Crest once again. He is an accomplished artist and is involved in OPRF's theatre program. 32

Ken Javor has trveled across the Mississippi River 4,698 rimes. 33

DeresaYvette Jones ls a Pisces. Shakes her groove thing, shakes her groove thing,yeah,yeah! 2 I

Peter Kahn has been educating youth in Chicago and abroad since 1990. His srudenrs inspired him to write and Malika's Poetry Kitchen in London made him a poer 90

Frisco Kenyon has seen all in the word of sci-fi. 82

Sierra Kidd Writes to convey her opinions and emotion. She hopes that her writing can inspire and teach others. I 3

Linni Kral drinks milk out of martini glasses on Mondays. 90

Elena Levenson is not, contraD/ to popular belief, a circus freak nor Emily Hanna likes

Russian spy. 43, 53

Jessica Lillie says "Crest ain't no McSweeney's, but it'll do." 7

David Louderman wants to Srow a long beard more than anything. 92

Christa Martens is an upbeat lass. 84

Mary Clare Masters talks to herself in a high-pitched voice sometimes, but she does so politely.93

Gina Matranga is a giggly fool. 55

Julia Meineke's last, name means "my corner" in German. 70

Kate Merrick is a dedicated thespian. 69, 95

Alex MuGon was almost a cowgirl but now is just a crazy dressage rider. 48

Katherine Parker doesn't go to high school anymore. ha. suckers. Chris is the only member of Crest that

will still to talk to her. This bio is written on a sPa advertisement. I don't go to the spa. ha. suckers. 14,49

Christina Parra is into Aztec dancing and drawing.75,7B

.Joe Petrone plays piano and likes to wear ieans. He has a retro basement. 35, B0

Pablo Phillipps is seventeen and likes to wear tight pants. 74,25

Liz Polk is a freshman and her room is blue because it makes her feel like she's underwater. 36

Meg Prossnitz is about, to take Vassar by storm wearing Lacoste and Chanel. 48

Elise Putnam makes fun of the wrong people. 43

Dora Ralph Has the most, gorgeous black hair and loves to parade her ponies. B

Jesse Randall may not really care for Tom Clancy. 50

Nadia Ranney likes apple products but not apples and has a strange obsession with kilts on other people, but not on herself. l0

Diya Rattan ln lndia Diya is a little clay lamp that can fit in the palm ofyour hand.8 l ,82

Anthony Runnels enjoys the finer things in life. He's an Aquarius. He chews on his hands when he's on the phone, rendering him incomprehensible. 66

Shannon Saliny loves chocolate, and she'd die if couldn't have it. 79

Sarah Schwartz is one of the many who hates to title her work. 57, 58

Michael Seidman can develop female characters unusually well for a teenage boy. 85

Lukasz Sikora enioys banana split sundaes from Oberweis, photography, pizza, long hours at the pool, and his family and friends... in that order.89,9l

Emily Stephenson wanted her dad to get out and see the world, so she sent her garden gnome on a journey with a flight attendanr. 6l

Timothy Sullivan is your favorite pair of shoes: worth millions to you, but 92.50 on eBay. 27, 3l

Julia Taylor likes plays. She also likes apples. 62

Max Taylor likes to write but is no writer. Hooray! He's been doing it since the winter his gloomy poet stuff first broke loose through his spine like a butterfly. 34, Bz

Jo Ellyn Walker has done many musicals in the pasg and perhaps

many more in the future. 44

lrene Walters is a bouncing jumping bean. She loves primates. 2l

Delna Weil often plays the piano in her living room. 65

Emily White plans on hunting three times a week under the big open skies of Montana next year. 46

Erin Williams ownz. 64

Lucy Wilson's lucky number is 17. Her room is pink pink pink. 10, 74

Eric Zeller once duct taped a fan to a television, no joke. 8

meet the editorial board!

kate gavriel likes pottuck dinners, as you may have guessed. Always with the potlucks. Jeez. rachel johnson said, in response to the suggestion that we put a vegetable on the cover:,,Oh, come on! We dont want to appeal to vegons."

lindsay kral clicks her sparkry high heers together and takes us to Kansas... every Wednesday.

christopher nied was once a knight who lost a fight to the death. He remains gallant to this day.

nadia ranney is a lady that's no trouble-if you have a problem, she'll be there on the double!

sarah schwartz didn't lose her glasses but, somebody did. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. (Sarah is pretty).

abby van deusen has a mop on her head that talks to people while they sleep, which is okay because it's not an annoying voice anyway.

emily white makes us talk cleverly and sit up straighter and chew each bite at least ten times.

anne wootton enjoys the good things in life such as palm trees, Honest Abe, and high school, which totally rocks. richard zabransky eats healthily to spite fate.