Crest 2005

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EDITORIAL BOARD

Sarah Abarbanel Elizabeth Polk Catherine Gawiel Lindsay Kral Claire Lombardo Christopher Neid Sarah Schwartz

FACULTYADVISOR Richard Zabranslcy

ENGLI SH DEPARTMENT CHAIRMAN Steve Gevinson

Oak Park & River Forest High School zoo5

David Stoffer

EVEN

ChrisThomas SHE

Dustin

Liz Polk

Robin

Alison Barthwell

Pablo Philipps OlMaWathns

Olivia Wathns

Vanessa Haddad

Sarah Page

Katie Prendergast

GabrielleWorley

Carl Brozek

Brian Libgober VILI-ANELLE

Tyler Schofield

Kate

Fred J. Henzel TYPEWRITERS ARE SEXY

81 82 83 85 88

Richard Zabransky 90 MaxRasche 92

Kate Gawiel 93

MYGRANDFATHERAND

Sam Kaplan 94 Lindsay Kral 95 96 97

I David Gilmer

ARMANDO FLORES AWALKTHROUGHCHICAGO

Didyou seethat?

It looked like antelopes frolicking through hot coals. Didyou hearthat?

It sounded like a snake's hiss because itwas tied in a knot

Didyou taste that|

It tasted like a ripe peach offa grape vine. Didyou smell that?

Itsmelled like springtime in thewinter.

Didyou feel that?

It felt like a soft hedgehog brushing against my cheek

SAWAGIRL

Sawagirl years ahead kinda looked like a birch tree silveryand gray peeling and rough.

She stood on a corner, simplycalled acab. So slighq the movemenq going home to drawers full offresh laundry after ahard day.

Snapshot ofconfident, youngwide openwoman see her and wonder whatittookher, howlong before she remembered to starch those ice white woven shirts.

Later, I may be in a cafeor store somewhere. Wouldwantto leave, go home, wanna know if a cab would come for me. .,

DENNIS HUME

TOAST

Two thin slices Relaxing parallel Waiting to be consumed

Embracing the ambiguity of beingwhite and brown and black Two thin slices

Gently humming the chorus accompani.d by a warming illumination Waiting to be consumed

Pronouncing their arrival with ametallicshout Two thin slices

Dressing themselves in gold and rubies Waiting to be consumed

Now lying next to each other Both models of perfection Two thin slices Waiting to be consumed

TITE IGUANA'S TEETIT ARE WAITING

With a stampcrossed dlmamiq6e. We dreamt aboutthe night thatstood up. That nightwe dinedwith our twilight, Dewslacked and backboned, That same night againstwhich eleven became one and one became two. We pause, resting our dust-trail joints, As the igaanasnuckpast, unbitten. Over the subtle unison of the sleeping animals, We thoughtwe had heard The soundtracked wind sprinkling a prayer through ourwhistles

But I plugged itwith mylips.

MAX RASCHE CARNALRAGE

PABLO PHILIPPS AND ITFALLS '.ry

IIAYNICARAGU,A" NICARAGUITA

KRIS REY-TALLEY ALLEY

SPMK

PATRICKLYNCH

CONTINENTALDIWDE

Opposites theywere, yet someho\M in common, they Grew closer. Atlantic and Pacific, thundering towards The center. East and West detached by more than Land. She was refined. Regal. He was untamed.

Full of oppornrnity Through storrn swept ranges And rickety hillside and blasted rock He tookthe crooked path.

The otherjourneywas less arduous, Gentle hills of delight and plains of expectations, Expectations of thewest and his potential. She took the straight path. The Eastwas superior after all. TheWestwould have to conform to her. Would they meet? Proclamation point. Setbackand overdue.

These projects rarely make schedule; it was hard. Each knew the difficulties, the time Itwould take for him to change And she could not return to wilderness. Theywere almostthere. By the time they drove the golden spike

Into the barren ground, A black T rolled offa line in Michigan

Marhng the day their railroad died, Marking the greatest fall of all time.

SARAHABARBANEL SHIPS

Small trip in a turtle toyota. Billy travels with wrinkles on skin that stream and part like rivers. Billy travels with wrinkles that always hold e4pectations and that promise minimarm in palms. Billy always travels with small holiday floral affangements and prepackaged pencils thatare atthe ready for preformulated phrases. Oh my! For then these liquid letters will roll in sno\M. Billy can almost taste them dribbling" and they are perfect and ready for the ride, itching for his use.

Justlike his flowers, justlike his rivers. Turnwoom stepgo.

A small trip in a turtle toyota. Watch the rearview mirror for reflection and see: Billywears perd.rme that creeps and neck ties that turn fold and fall. This is patience at the ready. This is expectation with a bow. Buthis rivers slowlyexpand to oceans

and his flowers are fading. Pull to the side of the road and breathe. No more e4pectation in a turtle sized toyota. Op"r, up the bottle. Billy, you can find ships, you know.

IIERIIAND IS LIKEALD4F

Her story can only be read in the contour of her mother's tree bark Forty-t'wo rings engraved in trunk Countyears she spentdigging roots into the ground. But nothing could prepare her for November. Tired hands. Clingingto herbranch. Iravesfall in November. Eventually. The leaf let go. After nvo days. Silently. It swirled gracefully. In thewind of its last breath. She sleeps in November. On a street carpeted gold. Greenwill never see. Red. Will neverwrinkle. To bror,vn.

CARL BROZEKAND BRIAN LIBGOBER IIAIKU

The teacher taught me to count I thought to myself This is abecedarian

RACHEL BRUNO

THE MARCH OF DNqTH TO MONA

When the sun rose, the crowd came to see her The shoutswere aplenty; she cried atlast Fists rose, and accusations spoke murder Noose around her neck- her timewas past Is it living? See her smile fade so sweet The feet stamped- itwas the death march Her arms were bloody, and her morale beat Lips cracked, and throat dry, her mind was parched Pounding heart- fate weighed down upon her breast The march of death to Mona- it's a clock It strikes the time of theirvictory quest The fingers pointed, and childrenwould mock She had the key to the fallen Queen's lock.

IWC

I am waiting to go to New York

Waiting to fly into the dark side of LaGuardia Waitingto lose myself

In the racked qmyon hungwith human hands

Tormented metal in place of crumbling rock sinhng myteeth into the city Juices running wildly down my chin

And NewYork City is a quaking entity

Abreathingsymbol of Man's accomplishments

His shortcomings

His nearsighted vision wrestling in the mud with proSress

His final attempt to conquer nature And hold victory over earth

The last time I was there itwas springtime And when we crossed the bridge to Manhattan

The sun was lichng the citywith its brilliant rongue And all the people were saying there hadn t been light like thatin days

SARAH SCHWARTZ

TIIANKSGIWNG

That house is straight out of the fifties, they always said. Brown shag rug, a buffet with orange festive candles, and an out-of-place marble statue. And they were almost the ffies family. Hugs and hsses, shrimp cocktails, and purple party dresses. With the way time passed from one November to the next, the ne\Mest in the family, Rebecca, was suddenly three. She bounded up to the new arrivals with a hand-traced turkey, grinning. Her parents had taught her to say, "Pardon me" and the fine art of compromise. No sweets before dinner became no sweets before bed, which in turn became no fl?oresweets before bed.

Of course, who knew whether there really was any correlation between a childs behavior and parenting? There were always the anomalies, showing up with mohawks and dreary eyes. Yes, theywere almost the ffies family. Seth sat in the corner, strumming his guitar. His hair had grornn out and it was dyed blue. He had tears in hisjeans. Everyone took turns glancing at him from behind Pimm's cups and ShirleyTemples. In any decade, Thanksgiving dinner is always polite. He gave nothing away. No suicidal tendencies, no anger, no bitterness. He cerrainly did not reveal the boy who stole his mother's car. But his mannerisms gave

them no reason to doubt that such a boy existed.

They had heard the stories. He was a troubled boy. Few remembered the exact details. Something with a gun. Or a knife, perhaps. Anlway, itwas simply au,firl. His poor mother, they thought. His poor, poor mother. How could a boy be so ungrateful to his own mother?

They listened to his band's hit song on rheir homemade CD, played on the stereo sysrem in the lMng room. At first, Grandma nodded her approval, aching hips swaying with the mellow guitar pluchng. A split-second break. The calm before the storm. And then eardrum shattering screeches and a guitar riff. Seths mother bent over to speak into grandma's ear. You're not supposed to understand it."

Which is to say, she hoped no one understood it. She hoped no one decoded the melodrama and heard what she feared the musicwas saying: she had failed as a mother. Good-bye, baby, Good-byelThe pardon-meparents subconsciously sheltered Rebecca's head, as if the music's vibrations were giving her all sorts of ideas about piercings and anarchy.

When the song ended, Grandma applauded politely, and everyone followed her cue. As long as the music was off, it was fine to humor what could only be seen as a black abyss ofdesperation.

Grandpa looked around anxiously.'Well," he said, clapping his hands together. "I think dinner's just about ready. How about\Me go to the dining room?"

They lined up for food like children in a school cafeteria. Everyones dinner plate was judged. Aunt Phyllis noticed thatAunt Rita had abandoned her low-

carb diet. Rachel's plate had a small pile of salad and a glob of mashed potatoes. Everyone saw her run to the bathroom after her platewas cleared. The pardonme-parents battled with sideways glances and discreet hand gestures over who should be allowed another poftion, and who should be thinking about what the doctor had said.

Seth watched Aunt Rita mash cranberries into the candied sweet potatoes his mother had baked. 'Stop," he said, with concern in his voice. He glanced over at his mother. Tou're tainting my mothers s\Meet potatoes. That's her special recipe. I watched her make them."Aunt Rita obeyed, surprised at his concern, and at the tone of his voice. He hadnt spoken all evening, and she didnt remember it being so deep.

ELENAMULLINS CIIARADE

I crossthemaple aroundtheman atthe Ebonyand Ivory Keeping my'Sternum-Up' andTeeth on display Breathedeep and turn to mypartnerin crime hegives asilentnod and I begintheCharade.

I find thatspecified Spoton thewall And step into Her shoes I gle Hershoes and smile Hersmiles With mindless gestures of a choreographed Dane I manufactureanimage The image that they asked for.

But Im leftwith the question Whereis the Music Supposed to fitin?

CHRISTOPHERNEID TWOCATSANDATABLE

The table s\Mays as an Abyssinian Catwith eyes like emeralds Andfurlikewheat Jumps upon it.

He falls on his side as a tuft Of his coatseparates from him and Drifts silentlythrough the air Before finding its spot on the carpet below.

Then, his foe, The chocolate Somali springsupon The mahogany wine<abinet Which stands nextto the Table.

They sit and wait, neither Wanting to make the first move and remaining Cool until, simultaneously, they Irap from their dwelling places and stare Ateachother, On thefloor, In cold silence.

Each pair of eyes, nowwide, glimmer and aa

Glisten from the lightof a chandelier Hangingabove The table.

Theirglarq harden, Slowly, as ifwaterto lce, Theirwhiskers, Twodozen rapiers, dangle from Theirupperlips.

They charge! Hissing forth feline battle-cries With ivory fungr e4posed. Claws, pulled from their car-skin scabbards Tap and scratch the hardwood floor.

Pouncing they hit each other headon And erupt in a flurry offury and fur.

Th"y fight fiercely until, Exhausted, both pafties, in agreemeng Slinkaway Andvanish.

And all that'sleftis A cloud of chocolate and wheat Floating under the table.

STEPFIANIE LEE

ISOI-LTBD

Isolated in the fertile west Alittle town sprouts

From the rolling wheat fields A grrl sits, not alone In heryoung shaken hands She holds her head, hear,ywith thoughts

When did it happen

This une4pected switch from girl to woman She remembered her innocentbody curiously I-oohngfor some defining mark She now had, but did notwant

An immature lump imprisoned Inside her immature shn, both wounded By the inescapable mistakes She made and the choices she had

This mother Sacrificed her oum youth for The startof another

LIFE

I,ife is a I-,oosened shoestring unfolded into a muddy puddle I amsofarremovedfromit Thatto bend down and retie it Would be to reach out to fasten Orion's Belt around thesun. Someone has picked offthe plastic shield Around theends so I cantevenlace itbackup Wittroutttre aid ofa roll oftape And fingerswith a mother's deadty arcrtrasy. And it doesnt matter because Theends areso overed inmud thatl wouldnt Wantto touch them anyway.

SARAFI LMISON

YOURWORDS

your words rockd against my ear like the tide lazilyrolling over the beach

I satcross-legged absent-mindedty playtng with the tinkerbell-esque reflection created by mywatch and the rusted sun

trying desperately to comprehend the meaning lockedtightlyin a@ge behind the bars ofyourlettere andwords each syllable having less significance than the one before you paused, and I nodded, slightly, mmforted by the moment of silence which filled the furniture-less room with vibrant portraits of your imagination

I nwer could make sense oflanguage's melodramatic rollercoaster so I began to block it out, z6

discerning only the less embellishd phrases and honeste4pressions rawwithmeaning Iike the lookinyour eyes which pierd my indifference to your babhling with an understandingso scaring thatnow, webothsitin silence watching the dot of light dance across the white washedwalls distmctd only by the peeling €iling

MY GRANDMOTITER IS A FLOWBR

My Grandmother is a flower and I m the only one who notices as herpinkcurlers hangfrom stems of grey like the peals of bleeding hearts. Pollen powder tints her hands and farcyellow (she tells people its from cigarettes, but I know the truth). Thewrinkles of her skin crinHe like carnations and when I sneak into her room at night I see herpastel sidewallcchalh blue tulip petal blanket encasing her true identity.

ERIKMIKELSONS SNAKEEYES

CECILIAWELCH PENAND INK

I-AURAOSTERLUND ORANGE.TREE

There

In that jungle-hot madhouse

The tree stood

Its stubborn, thin, crooked limbs

Crowded against the neighboring foliage

Crucified against The greenhousewalls

Loohngliketeeth

Exposed in an infinite Cheshire grin

Gripping bright orange Planets, suns, breasts

Acluster of golden spider eggs

Pulsingwith life

Atree-top graveyard Filledwith

F'leshy orange gravestones

B ittersweet-engraved with Scars and bruises

Like holyepitaphs

Relicmonuments

Tasted and savored

By my orvn palatal peanut gallery

A chance discovery

Preordained

Bythe gods ofcitrus

I muld notresist Reachingup

Greedily

Seeking out a glowing fiery planet

To own

To have alltomyself

To gatherstrength and A microscopic share of divinity from A subtropical companion Togush

And run down mythroat

Serving as an inner fire To beatbackthe oueideworlds cold.

CHRISTHOMAS

SONNET

I clutched a brash blood lady in palms. Spastic, She cursed pleasure, the first measure. Next, ahalftouch of Hades in mysongs. Reluctant to flee, claimed it hurc better I let her go, being not common ofwill to taste the masochism she indulged. And if bumblebee, un-hostile ofwill, Presents no sting, She needs to seize control of Soul, of Skull, ofthe Needle and Stitch. God's hands rock her God Complex back to sleep. Shell siphon your life the more you care, which Actually magnifies her apathy. First, subtract the blood, Then measure thevein... Myonly tme lovewas pleasured by Pain.

ROBIN BERMAN

THETOOTH FAIRY

Marooned in myroom, hands quietwith the question ever growingdo I ash ordo I lookaround? I am reassuring myself that what I dread couldntbe true. With as much cerrainry as I can grasp in my meager hands, I begin my tiresome search. I find myselffetching the unsturdy stool with the ptzilepnnt of myname so that my hand can reach the boxes inwhich mommyand daddy have made sure small fingers cannot meddle. At the peakof the bookcase is the box. It's still there today and it still has the same contentsthe proofofthe denial ofher existence. So I put my face in my minuscule hands

and slowly dealtr,vith the fact that her pillow timevisits had been parental mischief at itsverybcst

SARAHABARBANEL TOESCURLIN

Toescurlin paldown thelayers and sip theinside like slow$ sipped safety smoothies tickblinksmile time toforget with seconds ttrat dribble drabble euphoria andfailoffofmy offofmypillow into a two toned invasion equation Moving On Now. saygood bye to pumpkin skies and desertlies eftBer erase her

CAITI,IN CASS FOILWRAPPING

T.yrng not to look into the flames, Jane studied the names carved into the side table. She pulled at her wet curls and stmggled to focus on Larry's unabridged lips. He paused to take a sip of his black coffee. To people like Larry, coffee was caffeinated holy water. Jane didnt go to college, had no interest in politics and couldnt sleep at night. To people like Jane, coffee was a non-drowsy sedative. Apathetic people should drink hot cocoa-which Jane would have done had the shop not mn out. She was grateful that Larry had been so nice to her, but sitting by the fire she suddenly realized what a different person hed become. She couldnt blink without worryng how he would interpret it. Maybe it was just the fire lapping up the little energy she had left.

She thought of the first thing shed lost in this manner. Hed left in a flurry of green and red tissue paper-before even her youngest brother had opened his eyes. When she woke, she didnt have to realiz.ehe was gone, because she had never been quite sure hed existed anfray. She remembered how they pulled the melted chocolates from their stochngs that morning, fascinated by how they molded in their hands. Nothing seemed different. After all, shed never heard his bells

ring, even on the quietest December nights.

Now Jane realized that it had all just been preparation. An illusion wrought to setve as youths first letdown; it was a magic-marker warning that this would not be the only rruth to disappear up the chimney.

Jane wa^s six when her half-brother Larry adopted the furry monstrosity. She was terrified of squirrels. She discovered this particular squirrel by accident when she was loohng under the bed for her Fisher Price tape recorder. Nexr door, Jane's scream stirred Mrs. Krump from an afghan-coated slumber. The police arrived shortly after.

But it was only Larys squirrel: Sir Archer Alder- Larryjust called him Aldi.

It was only little Atdi (knighted for supreme gallantry and loss of tail in the Blender War of rg%). And Jane learned that maybe squirrels werent so bad. Until one day in September, he left; vanished up the chimney during a rousing bout of acorn fetch. Jane and Larry never saw him again (though, in years to come, Lurry would swear that hed seen those marble eyes staring up at him from every small cat or large rodent he encountered).

Bythe time shewas fifteen Jane had developed an aversion to chimneys. When Lurry suggested they sit near the fire she was uneasy. She sat down without protest because her clothes were wet and all of the other seats were taken. Larry went on about the state of the world. He had a lot to say about the war and the 'white trash we have living in this counrry." Benveen the Redneck Republicans and Conservative Liberals,

'the Star Spangled Banner may as well be the YaIe fightsong."

'Oh, Yale, Eli Yale! Oh Yale, Eli Yale."And he went on like this.

Jane remembered theold Larry;thehigh school Larry. Football Lutry.The Larry even her mother had called by last name only. She remembered how confusing it was at family parties. Larry would be in the other room and shed yell for him:'Garson!" Everyone in the house would turn around. She remembered his injury, halfway through junior year. She remembered how he would pace around the living room rubbing his shoulderwhile shewas trylng to read. He seemed like the same person. He seemed like the same Larrywho had watched Sir Arthur Alder disappear into a cloud of soot.

But Aldis Larry didnt play football, Aldi's Larry didnt suffer from a shoulder injury and Aldis Larry certainly didn t care about Republicans.

Sitting by the coffee shop fire, Lurry melted into his leather armchair like a stocking chocolate into its foil wrapping. He went on about how we should never compromise: 'A vote for Nader is not a vote for Bush. That's all just smutty, Liberal propaganda. A vote for Nader is avote for change..."

Over black coffee Jane watched Larry drift slowlyup the chimney.

"...A vote for Nader is a vote for the citizens of the United States," and then seconds later, in afterthought: 'Nader didnt go to Yale." And it was true: Harvard wasnt YaIe. 42

STRAWBERRIES

Juicy, delicious, and sweet Bloody, yummyrreat!

COMPREHBNSION

'I dont understand, said the boyto the man, 'What makes trainsworh what makes cars go. I wantto know." The man said nothing.

You knownothing, you dontunderstand, you cannotkno\M,' said the priestto the man, "what makes life go, whatmakes Godwork."

'I dontwanttoworh" the supervisor said nothing. He just pointed and said, -Go." He did notunderstand. He had liked that man. He could not know.

"I do notknow howyou do Godsworh" to the priest said the man. The priest said nothing.

'When you dont understand whatmakes God go.'

The priestpointed and said, "Go." The man could not kno\M that the priest himself did not understand how God worked, that he also knew nothing, justlike the man.

'I would tell you,'to the child said the man, 'what makes cars go, but of these affairs I know nothing. I do notknow howthingsworh but I wantto understand."

Although I can only hope to understand what makes cflrs go, what makes trains worlq I do know: It's nothing of God's worlg but that of man.

UNTITLED *j

I am fading like the silent roar of night fades at dawn Yet I do notpurple around the dges. I do not surge from the horizon in a spectrum of passion And melt the landscape around me. I go quietly, slipping Through wooden doors with faces split by age. And I am speaking Like the parched limbs offallen leaves scrape The yellowing pavement in autumnLicking mylips likeyour mother said girls never should, Carrying my story on my shoulders like acardigan. Each actionscreaming, Thatthis momentis, Like the last momentwas, All that matters.

RACHEL FREEMAN ]IIATRILOCALINK

I saton Mommys lap

Smells of pear and wool s:weaters

Makewarm melodies

I watched her eyelashes flick

Trachng pen footprints

Ear-whisperings of bunny shapes She didnt know the lines Would extend into mvfuture

Great-grandma s round table Holds paper not patrimony

Passed from woman to next Down to Mommy Grooved channels tracing

Find pens making mind trails Circular tree tmnk grains count the years

Sunny memories nourish brain plants

The roots stretch and scribble Channels ofblackink

And here itpours out Of myfingers, each digit Spouting raven water

I wait and I will wait I know the lines stretch into her future

KATE GA\IRIEL

TIIEBOOI<WORM

His fingers should meditate On breasts and necks and collarbones Before spines.

His pursed lips shouldyield notonly To silently trace the text. Howcan I persuade him? There is nowarmth betweenleaves

Like there is beween legs. There is no substitute For awoman inwords.

I would shed mysleeve, More easily than the book in his hand, If hewould onlylookpast it.

TAYLORRUPRECHT BANANABR&4D

Burnd desires churned outof Confectionarydreams.

SecretRecipe

Hidden in mymind like a cheatsheet Erched on myforearm Before the eighth hourenam.

Reasons to believe that Ontysugar can cure.

Wantstoerase

My succulent desires.

Oh what a lovety cake To share with the lovers of my dreams.

GIRL

MARASTERN WATERFALL

MARASTERN

FALLBNLIMBS

THEFRENCH REVOLWION

Ascension of the Bourgeoisie intensifi es Class Divisions. Enlightenment and French Generate guillotineHappyrwolutionaries In Paris. Jury systems b"gtn. K""p pushingfor new Lrgislation, e4panding Manhood suftage from P to U. Nobles who lost their heads Over Parliaments and power, no\M Quittheir nectrcs for Real. Someflee thecountry. (T raitors!) But they re wise. Unschooled in government, rwolution piles Victim onvictim, civil War, until Bonie steps in. e)ftrausting, isnt it? But arent You gladyou knowthat? 7-ocisempty-they had to eat the animals.

Pinkscratched itswayup my legs and pulled itself over a seven-year-old's first trimester belly. Above myears, awar raged: a purple scrunchy versus therebelfizzthe fire red halo its ovm irony.

One, deux, shalosh, cuatrowe counted our muscles clenching in ten tongues. Beside me, two heads bobbed againstthewood floor, stmckwith the hilarity of undies. I contemplated which slipper needed a neon sticker, a trick for avoiding Your other left, Sarah!"

The piano filled the space between legs in second position with tinkles and pounds. Teacher clapped her hands and yelled, and the old Russian pianist

turnd red before returning to borscht and babushkas.

I put a pole thr*gh my body, as teacher said, but I chose purtyinstead of steel. I flopped. Teacher applied pressure on my belly, behind my back Bottom tuckd under, she said. In the mirror, I saw mpelf holdingbreath, trying to get the lump protruding from behind to disappear.

DAVID STOFFER

HOMEI,{TEAGAIN

Homelateagain Unending work isnt letting go

An uninviting door opens To a darkand bare kitchen

Greeted by a hollow hiding hello I lookforasignoflove

But silence echoes ttrrough the room Andloverunsout

The clank of plates vanishes Into the dishwasher

The hum of chatterwalfts Toitsroom

Im leftout Like Christmas lights injuly

The table has been cleared Butthe smell of mother made meal lingers

The smell brightens my senses The room becomes bright

I now can see the love I-eftovers sitting on the counter +

EWNASIREFUTEYOU

Even as I refuteyou, andyour defective conscious that vo\lrs hedonism, That justifies forbidden apple digestion, I simply craveyou to be mine. Even knowing that sin isn't a science and you havent a moral molecular structure, I rip open your aMomen in quest ofyour guilt glands that circulate selFshame hormones, And I see nothing But Myex-rib You claim asyour own.

DUSTIN KERMIN SITE SITS

The backofthe chair is fastened parallel towards the floor. I stand tall on the soft, carpeted floor, looking up to her. It's hard to make out her face. Her hair falls in front of it, dovrmward, with the natural pull of the earth. It blinds her in blonde, or itwould if the blonde wasnt so dirty, tangled, matted, crusty with vomit. It chokes herwhen she breathes, gets pulled into the back of her throat and sticks there. She would pull it out, reaching her fingers into her throat, gagglng on those too, until she dislodged it. Maybe she wouldnt, but she cant, her hands are cuffed to rhe chair. Steel cuffs. And she smells like dry spit, and rotten mushrooms, and piss.

I watch her stmggle. She kicks atthe chairwith her hecls. Maybe she could break it, but she cant, her ankles are cuffed ro the chair. Steel cuffs. So she hcks at the chair with the back of her heels, through the few inches of space benveen them. She pulls at the cuffs with her wrists, downward towards me, grunting and forcing her breath benveen her teeth as her shn pulls, tears, and breaks open at the wrists. Her blood would fall on me, drenching me in her pain, but it didnt, I stepped to the side. She coughs and dry heaves, and I can hear the hair in her throat resonate with the emptiness of it. And I listen, and I watch her. She

gives way suddenly, hunches over, stops kicking, stops fighting, the hair falls out of her face as her head hangs, dovmward, with the natural pull of the eafth. And for the first time she sees me. Her eyes are wide open, and blue, and exploding in red spider lines. I catch her eyes, and dont let go, even as she tries to pry them away, but she cant, she has to look. I whisper through the silence, directly to her ears, which she would have covered, but she cant, her hands are cuffed to the chair.

I whisper so loud that the tone resonates through the room for many seconds after, telling her to look down, at the steel cuffon her right hand. She looks dolrm. I ask her if she sees the key, stichng out of the minute hole at the base of the steel cuff. She nods, awlovardly, slowly, her head is being pulled, dou.rtward, by the natural pull of the earth. I ask her if she will turn the key, unlock the cuff. She shakes her head violently, so hard that she hits her nose on the back ofthe chair. It bleeds. I ask her again, and she looks back down at the key in the minute hole at the base of the cuff. The chain links of her cuffs are just long enough for her to reach it with the other hand. She places her thumb on the one side of the key, her index finger on the other. She would have turned it, but the key was rusted to the steel cuff, wetwithyears of tears and sweat and spit. She looks at me, her eyes crunch together in hopeless misery. I smile at her, with every ounce of sincerity I can pull from my depth. I whisper again, just as boldly as before, and tell her that she has to try. Her eyes open wide again, and she looks backat the key. She pushes with the tops of her thumb and index finger on either side of the key. She pushes, and her arm begins to shake, sending a

tremor throughout her entire body. The tips of her thumb and index finger turn red, then white. She looks too tired. She looks at me, and I smile again. With one last effort, she lurches her entire body behind her mro straining digits. The key turns with almost impossible speed, and with a wrenching screech, her cuffs fall to the soft, carpeted floor, hardly making a sound.

So does she. I lift her to her feet. Her knees wobble like a newborn deer. I brush her hair out, and it is so blonde it's almost clear. I wash offher face with a soft, damp, cool towel, and she smiles. I pull her into me, supporting her newfound strength. But she pushes me away, and turns. She loolcs up at the ceiling, and walks beneath him. I follow her, standing by her side, and we both lookup. He sits, hunched over, in a chair on the ceiling. We grab for each other's hands, and patientlywatch as he stmggles against his steel cuffs.

LIZPOLK BONECHINA

I told her once (in a state of inebriation) That her collarbone resembles Awineglass

She grngertytouches the rim (making it sing) and I wonder Can an emptyglass sound itsvoice?

The chorus sits silently in the cabinet (where the bone chinasleep) awaiting their gritty fate

Glass grindingtheir Smooth throats on which my fingers perch (pinkies out,ladies)

HOWELL BABY

The flaking iron chains whisper frantically Under the friction of movement, Aswe, grggling, place plump little Baby in the baby swing.

She's Dayle's baby, with shining ant black eyes and Qrayng fur, thag onlyweeks ago under themagic fluorescence of Joys 'R Us was as shimmering white as her eyes. We know that there is no other stuffed animal Iike her, Ifyou can call her stufled- purpose lies under those eyes.

We like to swing and tug her by her pretty little bear ears, But today, we just want to swing her like a realbaby. So we place her in the rubbery seat that we suspectis made out of Old grave diggers rain boots, and push and push and push and...

Plop, She flies into the sand, her fur now flecked with brown and Her funny nubby pink nose dented on rhe bright blue

steel of the swings. We rushto herand.

Chomp.

Her fur is inside out; the knotted sinews of nylon that held her outside together Iswhere the fur should be. We are crying,while mydogbounces away, Lichngsoftwhite stuffingflurries from his teeth, which have ripped Poor Baby.

ROBIN GOLDBERG NUTMEG

Kniming needles click Impatiently. The sound drifrc from the living room Into the htchen and mixeswith the smell of Nutmeg.

I knowthe sound is directed atme, But I am too solbborn to be bothered by it.

Youd thinkthe heatfrom the oven Would have gotten to me by now, But no. When it comes to baking, I simplywontbe rushed.

The flour on the counter has found its way Onto my hands and cheeks.

The spice cabinet has been turned inside out. IVe lost track of horv late it is. All I know is that there are Fourteen minutes kftonthetimer.

I cantwaitfor them to taste it. It's so much more than just a blend of Brornn sugar and butter.

IVe poured mywhole day into this mixing bowlWill they be able to tell|

I poke me head out to call them into the htchen, But the lMng room is dark.

The knitting needles arent clicking an)rmore. The only sound I hear is the eleventh Chime

Of the grandfather clock

I-,eave it to them to turn in early.

Whatam I to do?

As I slide it out of the oven

I follow the path of the rising steam with my tired eyes.

I breathe in the warm and comforting smell.

I am the only one here who can savor this moment.

I guess Illjust have to Take the first taste.

LUSTIS...

Lustis like thehairclip sheleftin thecar. he pictures Her/ glorious vanity reaching out of ttre pa,ssenger's window. helikes Herhairwhen itblowslike ttrag in her faae and (messy; She is so feminine and elegantly terrible.

yes, Terrible is likeyourhair clip, she hears Him say. He doesnt say though he throws it out the window like Her fare and her hair. (woosh) Ha Bang bang. the clip, alone on the pavemeng it cries there in the old. cold dip crying still, stop crying, stop!

ALISON BARTHWELL

THREE BLOCKS OF OOWNTOWN NOW

I m from a house built on Motown, Built on records by a cool black man Assembled byfactories of the Motor City. Diamond needles held the place of the groove. Shaking like a dashboard hula dancer. Aretha Franklin flowed likewinewe never drank Orangejuice instead with dinner my mother cooked in our avocado kitchen. Tree branches like spoons stirring green spices into yellowbroth.

In the corner, licking the spoon, Grinning into the oven's sweet grimace. Hot mother opens a box; let's pretend its from scratch. After our wine is pulled from milk crates, Alphabetized so I can find my childhood ballad. My father seated in pinstripe becomes the Motor City, Stewing in the soul that pours out of ribbed vinyl buttons, As mymother scrubs the avocado, Singrng, biting her lip, I dance to the rhythms thatwind back To my pinstriped father's Motor City ofyears gone by.

PABLO PHILIPPS SELFPORTRAIT

ii'#-,t

OLN,'IAWATKINS FERRISWIIEEL

OLN'IAWATKINS

FOURWNDOWS

HAYLEY BROOKS

SNOUT

ARTIFICIALCITICKEN

i went shopping at the supermarket wondering what i could purchase when "artificial chicken" popped in my head and fllled itupwith purpose.

i shuffied through the frozenfoods looking for this delight and then i spied it on the shelf in its freezedried, packaged might!

The label, neat; the chicken, whole, but howf i wondered, how? howdoes one make achicken? i had to know, right now!

what is this? fake? it cannot be! artificial chicken looks real to me! a league devoted to deception validated my inspection.

what'swrong these dayswith packaged meatsl "too much" my friend replied i thought aboutwhat he had said while my lust for packaged foods just died.

so here i lay in the supermarket shivering in the worst of moods scared ofdeception and tales offfeason in the frozenfoods.

KATIE PRENDERGAST REDCARPETCIIAOS

Thewheels seem to jerkto a halt. Last chance to run ^t\ray, Push aside the hair-sprayed tendrils. Mystomach crampswith sharp pain, My mouth dry Not aword said thewhole drive, Everything whirls around me, Through nry tinted perspective. Faceless wening gowns pass, Images of crimson d6jnru One deep breath, a smile sustains itself. The door slyly opens, Yards offabric overflowto the curb. Click! Ive finally hit the ground. One step reality sets in. My cement smile remains. I fegn myjoy, all I am is nerves. Snap! TheyVe got me.

MANIA'S TIAZELEYES

Wokewithworld leaning

Awayfrom Mama's hazel eyes Slipping silently into America When I was five Teta hssed me goodbye Watched Mamas counfiy Through plane's round window

As it became a crumb Floating on ocean's plate. Firstlanguage began to fade Into foreign memory

In mind's tongue

The beat of belly dancingdrums No longer swayed hips When I walked Years painted red, white, and blue Over the story of mylife.

Ten years passed

I thought just breathing That airwould make me

Five years old again Didnt realize How much of myself I d forgotten

Until I tried to remember Fingers followed cracks In aparrmentwall Prayrng theywould lead me back Towords selfishAmerica had stolen All I wanted was for lips To form the words "I love you" SoTetawould know That despite country borderline In her arms I was athome.

CARL BROZEK AND BRI,AN LIBGOBER TITEUNNOTICED

The unnoticed tiger Calls to his stripes: Lionize me.

TYLERSCHOFIELD WLIANELLE

They all referred to her as a/i[anelleFor her unethical, outlandish deeds Her fatewas to be burned alone in hell

Never comforted as the Southern belle Refused to take her mother's pompous lead They all referred to her as l/illanelle"

Sixteen, she broke away from familys shell unknown,'till now, justwhere itwas she fleed Her fatewas to be burned alone in hell

Stumbled over sociery, and fell Wanting things her body should never need They all referred to her as I/illanelle"

Her needs outweighed justwhat she had to sell So she became avessel for their seeds Herfatewas to be sealed alone in hell

No longerjust a simple Southern belle Empty, still lonely, a site fordisease They all referred to her as l/illanelle" Her fatewas to be burned alone in hell

KATE GAVRIEL SCAVENGE

We stand near the cement steps of The Field Museum. The lake is Anxious and Overwhelming, sowe turn to The concrete escaliers. Their Height is not as intimidating as the

Restive blue of the Water and the random silver of Floating fish bellies. There Is A family at the steps, too. Fathet mother, and

Childrenwho scream and Imitate the Seagulls. Acoo too Deranged to evoke memories of Any calmer species. He is No longer listening to their

Juvenile, jarring chorus. There Is a glint in his eye and I realize he is Countingthe

Fish. His mind ignorant of Two

I-oud children. I continue to Sitthere, Atthe top of The giant stairs. He is standing and Walking to the edge of the Concrete block that is

Ourstadium. Heis Dangling his feet over, and I go to Sitbyhim. The Fish have been disturbed from their Calm ride and The children have lost the contest. The sharp cries of

Seagulls signify the start of the feast that is Their dinner. Andwe stayto Watch their stomach filIfrom the

Scavenge.

FREDJ. HENZEL

STATEMENTOFPURPOSE

Beficre I was born, there was darkness. A void impossibly black and magnificently huge was packed into a tiny, quivering marble. And wh6n that marble cracked open, stars flowed. Th.y became mere pinpoints in a blue sky, each a greatdistance from the other, except over still countrysides, but always quiet so that it didnt matter anyway.

I grew up with those stars. As I gazredat them, I imagined they were looking back at me. I also wondered if the momenr they were waiting for so patiently was that same catastrophe that I dreamed about. For me, a powerfirl force would rip my world apaft and in the process remove the limitations of my earthly body. No being could escape its full wrath, and thus would-be on the same level as even the mighty titan. Size, place, and time would not matter either, and so in this place all I could seewas avision ofpure, beautiful color.

That world, I have leamed, does not exist. I know the limitations of my body, and I do my best to live with them, but the pressure of living witir that is painful. I can feel it inside my head, growing and getting hotter. I want it to explode and cre{te an awesome light that never dies, something like a star but with a distinct signature. The sight of this objectwould

make the beholder weep openly and want to hold it close and feel its warmth. The beholder would do so and be consumed.

The beholder would love me for my gift, but those tears are not happy ones. Temporary safety will only remind a human being of the inevitability of destmction, and so my dream of the awesome catastrophe will germinate and live on through the beholder. The stars will shine on each person who feels the glowing object, and that person will in turn understand a human's place in the universe.

In reality, this knowledge will never reach all of mankind. Most people will continue to believe that man's achievements have become more majestic than natLlre itself. Every tower is built closer to the sun, whilejet airplanes cut the sky and prove that clouds are notsolid, but man's inventions onlycreate the illusion of control over Nature. His interactions with Nature are impersonal at best and often cruel. It is man who mutes the stars with his midnight lights, making the beautiful sight of the empty void beyond his own terrain even more distant.

Man is still infi nitely small, sitting somewhere in the constantly expanding void. Total annihilation may be too grand a concept for the human brain, but the important mrth of man's r,ulnerability is forgotten just as often. Modern man is not one to pray for dovmpour, just so he can have a good enough harvest to survive the winter. He would not want to get dust on his knees.

However, when the ground falls out from undemeath him, he reaJtznshow small he is. The decay of time is too gradual for the eyes to register, but a

cal"mity with enough fore to put exrery being on the same level opens up the sky for ollective scrutiny.

Here, for the time being, there is a litde boy, just born but old enough to put words to images, wtro is no-ticing tlre stam for the first time. He blinks, and they 4! disappear. He opens his eyes, and ttrey reapp€ar. He reaches his hand out, and squelches one of-them.

One day, this boywill scream, and the ground will split open.

TWEWRITERSARBSFXY

I do notwantjust speech. I want words, lettem, type. Forwhen I usewords,I am more Tasteful, dreamy Confections flow from me as I write to you Butwhen I rp"rh I suffocate in sounds IVe had enough ofspeech. I hear and speaktoo often. When I speak, I cante4press how my Heartspinswhenyou nod to me I can't e4press my hankering for a smile, one ofyours, I cantexpress how I would like to makeyou smile.

In the words, letters, type that gush from my fingers, I long to cradle your mind with overwrought, expensive words. Coarse, rickety speech does nothing for me but in tantahnng extruYa3ant type, I can enjoyus.

FULLLIPS

Full lips over pearly teeth

Gnawon theplain nails ofthe slenderfingers. Smooth skin reveals the bonywrists And protrudingveins

Almostas appealing as thejagged oollarbone, And anemic looking shoulders That embody a familiar sense of grace.

RICFIARD ZABRANSKY RUSIIHOUR

On acurbside bench She entertains her daughters With awhite plastic paffot The size of a small gourd.

Incapacitated cars Surround the amphitheater Of imaginary Squawkand chatter.

Gigglyvines knit a canopy Through which ringtails peer While ttre white preacher Sp"aks in tongues

The children of Eve squeal Whenlimbs castfruit And berries fall from above. Mist rises and wipers act.

Seeds drop And the softearth Cradles a stalled intent. Baclovard facing in safetyseats,

Insurgents stare and squirm

As homs wail And blood boils

A gridlocked cMlization.

MAX RASCHE

THEFANGZORTESUS

KATE GA\IRIEL THEWOLINIST

IIAIKU

The bear in thewoods. Not Russian an)rmore. Now Wearingaturban.

BEFORETHERAIN

Thegrass had been draped and settld, imperfectly thich across the table ofthe eafth.

Pushing through the folds ofgreenvelveg I entend myfingertips to each and weryoorner as clouds ofcondiments and swarms of sauces lurkoverhead.

Ang"l hair roots spill from the pasta bowl and lead to crusty, barkd dinner rolls as thewarm butter dreams melt and dripto stain thewoven blades below.

CIAIREMOLEK AUTUMN

everyoneleaves. jake leaves and tim and gillie and matt and mat left and it is all leave andwalhng away. leaves blowing away and yes baby now it is time to step forward. becauseyou have had those leaves and now they have fallen, fell, falling, but you remember the colors, dontyou? and now every winter branch makes you more beautiful, having had the time to say howpretty the leaves are.

i like the time before the fall

MYGRANDFATITERAND I

My grandfather and I have Awalhng relationship

Thatis how I will always remember him Awalkingman

Wewould go out Hear the birds yawn Walktwice around the block Moming dew glistening offhis Silver stubble

Our mouths never opening Silently talking

He taught me the importance Ofsilence

Irt me hear thewind

Through tulips, tumips, and dandelions

He treated me like his garden Watered mewith bursts

Of age old intellect Watched from hiswindow

His neck slowly straining higher and higher ro see me

Sunflowers

Seemed so tall atthree

Theiryellowfaces

Like lighuring bugs Always just outside of toddler fingers

He used to push me on the swing Drinklemonade Pickdandelions

Ouroumversion Of sunflowers The swing creaking Like arthritis in his knuckles He never grimaced Justsmiled Andlookedup atme Like I was his ou,n sunflower

Swingswaying Likewalkingfeet Silently Justcontent With swinging

When I learned to ride abike I said Granddad, Granddad comewatch me Tookoffdowntheblock

Wind blowing through my ear Hewasbehind me

Stillwalking

Sayrng

Goodjob keep going I faded around the corner

Hekeptfollowing

Goodjob keep going Goodjob keep going 98

As he tookanottrerstep

IVe said I loveyou To mygrandfather On$once

Broke our silene

I cant remember how old I was OrwhyI saidit ButI do remember Cryrng

Listen granddad Ite finally stopped @aling I can hearyou now, Far behind butstill there On thewind I loveyou granddad

IVewanted to saythat again foryears But have been distracted byflowers That novr seem much smaller Andinouth

Can nwer grow Tallerthan the man Whoplantedthem

BIOGRAPHIES

EPIGRAM

Sir,I admit to your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet. -- Samuel

Taylor Coleridge

AUTHORS

Derek Baron likes film, literature, and rgth century Russian furniture. "Iguanas" is his first poem.

Alison Barthwell, "I knew her good."

Robin Berman knows how to say, "Where are my pants?" in nine different languages.

Carl Brozekcomments that,'there is onlyone me, and I m stuckwith him." Quite clever, no?

Rachel Bruno always has interesting lunches. Roast beefsalad, anyone?

Dara Carroll plans to go to college and get ajob. We are excited for her.

Caitlin Cass used to really like a band called Llama, but that was freshman year. IOO

Ashlen Courtney rotally metAngelina Jolie.

Armando Flores says tharwith a strong Latino push, hes bringing Holllwood backto Chicago.

Rachel Freeman is artistically inclined.

David Gilmer, invoking B. Franklin, demands,lMhy do you ask for a biography? I know who I am.'

Robin Goldbergwants to travel theworld. She enjoys the hot, chocolate July.

Fred J. Henzel inherited the corner. Corner, sweet @rner.

Ivy Howell loves her record player and mint-chocolate chip ice cream. She lives dangerously.

Dennis Hume is fueled by a3,6oocalorie diet.

Sam Kaplan has a red Jew-fro, wears emoglasses, and agirls purple ziyup hoddie.

Dustin Kerman wishes you all the best.

Stephanie Lee likes biting her nails and snapping when shes happy.

Sarah Irtison has a sore throat and likes to go barefoot.

Elena Levinson was benevolently kicked in the sromach by Crest. She sends her love to her family.

Brian Libgober is a curly-haired youth.

Patrick Lynch is a proud schnapadap senior and memberoffith and lake.

Claire Molek is going to live in Spain.

Elena Mullins does notlike poerry.

Laura Osterlund enjoys stealing oranges from the Garfield Consenratory and is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sarah Pagewill giveyou afree smell. IOI

Gretchen Platt-Koch likes to dance a lot and eat strawberries.

Katie Prendergast loves Tiffany. Taylor Ruprecht says that if she lived up to her expectations, she would be the next member of Destiny's child.

Tyler Schofield is a senior who is loohng forward to college so his parents cant make him do his homework.

Dave Stoffer trashed E-Money in pong. Whoa. Chris Thomas is awordsmith.

Emma Vandervest wishes that Jean Costeau could be the father of her children. Oh my.

FrankWebb is 16 and enjoys hugs.

Lucy Wilson pulls it off.

Gabrielle Worley is a lass of many talents.

ARTISTS

Hayley Brooks thinks that pig snouts are asthetically pleasing.

Stefanie Currywould nwer pee on Ewan McGregor. Vanessa Haddad won the'winner" gumball at Tasty Dog.

George Kupczak is a pirate/ninja. Sean Logan has a god complex. He is also very humble.

Erik Mikelsons hadabrief career as a cartoonist. Maddie Nickels rocks the moose.

Pablo Philipps was momentarily hcked out of the IBSL. Its oh though; hewears tightpants. ro2

Max Rasche eats bugs. They make his hair shiny.

Chris Rey-Talley wears cowboy boots.

Mara Stern, notrelated to Howard.

Iessie Wainer went to Beatrice Glasser Preschool. Olivia Watkins monopolizes the stylings of H&M ffeah, she does.)

Cecelia Welch is breaking my heart.

EricZ-eller likes plants and likes the sky.

EDITORS

Sarah Abarbanel is allegro.

Kate Gavriel is Sabrina with a successful souffle. Linni Kral reminds us of a carbonation bubble.

Claire Lombardo brightens us with organic giggles.

Chris Nied is an Irish-singing, cake-bringing, change purse-swinging man.

Liz Polk tries to keep her ends tidy.

Sarah Schwartz crescendos. Mt. Z is our mother hen.