Crest 2010

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Cr<xl

kll<x lrorn lut<,Edilor(s)

We're feelin'lucky. Not just because of our impending graduation or because the APs have ended; we're also feeling pretty lucky to have been a part of Cresrfor three full years. Who ever thought that editing a literary magazine would prove so fruitful? Who ever thought that it was so much work?

Seriously, why were we not warned about the work?

To continue: we have had the honor of being a part of this magazine for three years, and as we've grown from curious sophomores to college-bound seniors, the magazine has grown as well. The look, the staffl and soon the advisor will all have changed in our time here. The biggest change, however, the one we're most proud of, is thanks to you - our readers and supporters. Readers, be warned;the cheesy (and necessary) thanks-giving has begun.

Our sophomore year, the 2008 edition of Crest published a total of 60 pieces of student work, ranging from poetry, to stories, and photographs. Last year, we nearly doubled that figure, publishing 1 19 pieces. This not only reflects the increased volume or high quality of work that we've had the privilege to review but also the increased interest in the magazine itself. ln addition to the hundreds and hundreds of submissions we received, we also experienced a dramatic increase in students interested in collaborating on this magazine.The number of potential editors increased from four or five our sophomore year, to a whopping thirty this year (unfortunately, we only had three spots).

This magazine is compiled, edited, and published by a small group of editors, and we do our best to encourage students to submit their work. But we couldn't possibly produce the magazine year after year without your readership, contributions, and interest. So in addition to thanking the wonderful, hard working editors who put this all together, we want to thank you, our readers. To say that without you, Crest would n't be possible, is more than just painfully cliche:--it's true.

-Lilly and lsabel

Rrchsrd Zbrsnsi)

'fu1 rnolh<x k<x4s g<.lli"g errr^kl lor l<xling lh<,s1oirwJs."

C)

Faculty advisor since before any of us editors were born, Richard Zabransky, otherwise known asZ or Z-Bransk, published his first Crest in 1991. Connecting us to our publisher (Kristian), being our tech middleman and proofing our questionable proofs are no easy tasks, especially considering our general state of disorder, but Z keeps us on track with guitar savvy and mohawk jokes. A firm believer in the power of student voices, Z fights for the underdog, overdog, and every dog in between. A/elville and Hemingway ain't got nothin'onZ-Bransk. He will always be the heart and soul of Crest. With much love for our pogo-bouncing leader,

The Crest Editors of 1991-2010

Mr.Zis our mother hen.

Editors of 2006

Richard Zabransky is our buddy. He enjoys eating oatmeal in the Crest room, collecting cars, and being mysterious. He often fights for ugly things, but that is part of his charm. He has an alter-ego action figure that wears plastic jeans and can be found in various locations around room 307.

Editors of 2007

Richard Zabransky is our favorite stuffed animal. He makes the world go'round

\Ar.Z Editors of 2002

How do we love thee?

You sometimes look like a tree

This is your biography. How we hate to graduate And leave you with such a fate Of living without us every week

And the poetic works we perpetually speak. But really, though we hate to go You're always very go with the flow. Honestly, though, you're a wonderful friend, But sadly this bio must come to an end.

Editors of 2001

Richard Zabransky eats healthily to spite fate.

Richard Zabransky

is an enimga.

Editors of 2005

Richard Zabransky corrals us into mid-meeting jam sessions. He's a world-class reader, poet, and an appreciator of naps.

Editors of 2009

Z is old and distinguished. He's a spectacular storyteller and a ukulele jamster. Editors of 2004

Editors of 2008

What else is there to say?

We love Z. Thank you for your 1 9 years, especially the last one.

Editors of 2010

As a Favor

Ultra McCurry

The Lesson Clare Doty When We Run Too Far Asia Calcagno Time Oliver Killam Surname Benji Bloch

laots ol Conkxrls

Untitled Mahala It/iller

Nostalgia Eric Duwe Ah, Uvula Robert LaPore

17 18 19 20 21 22

Guilty Conscience

Damien Jones

The Night Laura Davis Chrismas Becky Marder Lena Harry McDonough

It's Been Real

23 24 27 28 29 30 41 22

Ellen Lesser LesTrois Etages Caitlin Fallahay

Conltxls

Paint Set

Alex Botts

My Lady Renata Voci

A Brief Scene From Tortilla Wars John Bergholz 62 Foundation Julie Klock 63 Pictures Lauren Steinke 64

Genius Advice My lt4other Has Given Me, Accidental and Non Maggie Schurr 65 Untitled Taja-Nia Horne

Umbrella Anna Carlson Untitled Kymiah Taylor

59 61 67

A Wingless Flight Mia Rocha 70

Waking Up Thursday A/orning Helen Beilinson 70 lnto Deaf Nebula Emma Lister Tears of Dew Zhaleh BassiriRad

71 72 73 66 77 68 77

Old Lady Ellen Tharp Untitled Hannah Vander Laan 74 AThought Harry McDonough 76

My Routine Ariella Chavarria Temperance Julie Klock

Stept Baby Steps

Kris Murray

The Late Bloomer Petre Vishneski Transplant Maggie Schurr Untitled Peyton Brennock

A New Realm Owen Brady Sister Ryan Brown

It4ore Like You Keith Searing Wonder Bread Delivery Man Eric Cybulski Whale Sam lt4rkvicka

78 79 BO 81 83 84 85 87 88

Untitled Sara I\4cCall Generation Gap Christian Robinson Untitled Keith Searing

Splish Splash, I Was Taking... ATripToThe Pool? Claire Helwig Untitled Alexis Mia Phillips Untitled Brittany Coleman Untitled Will Kemper Personification Frankie Pellegrini

89 90 92 96 97 9B 100 100

Conltxrls

Silence!The Land is Cringing Nico Curtin

The Mustard Twilight in the Killing Fields Paul Deziel

The Doctor Sherry Yuan Baruch Nicky Fish

Tonight's The Morning After Maryann Kwakwa

101 102 104 113 114

Papi Sofia Dorantes 116

The Lily and the Rose Lilly McGee Rebecca Becky Marder Untitled Sofia Dorantes You Know? Alysa Levi-DAncona

Nonno Alysa Levi-DAncona 1 18 Toothbrush Sarah Stumbras 119

My Lined Paper Cailynn Sturkey

ATypical Evening Becca Pearce

Marquize Hannah Vander Laan 129

The Epitaph of Estevan and Desiree Asia Calcagno 130

Cowboy Cadillac Emma Lister

121 122 124 127 128 120 132

You Know How I Do

Brittany Coleman

Untitled Michelle Williams

The Revelry of Rebelry John Bergholz Happy Birthday to lt/e Le Keja Dawson

Untitled Sherry Reuter

133 135 136 r38 140

ln the Realm of the Squirrel Owen Brady The Biking lnsomniac Petre Vishneski

Tundra

143 144 r"ffit'*t'*-,' Corey McCarey 142

Maggie Karlin 26

Natalia Lang 31

Victoria Loong 32 Ashley Kohlrus 33

Caroline Wood 34

lsabelia Herrera 35

Allison Macy 38 Alex Reynes 39

Allison Macy 40

Grace Jolicoeur 47

Amanda Hoyle 50

Maggie Karlin 55

Bridget Reinhard 60

Evan Twitchell 36

Jordan Gamble 37 Wesley Sapp 69

Maria ltlurray

Alex Moon

Kevin Sloan Grace Ryan

Sarah Graham

I\4aria Murray

Bridget Reinhard

75 82 94 95 105 106 107 108

Claire Dain 109

Jordan Gamble 110

Liz Beard 111

Vaughn Russell 112

Elena Buis 117

Tahji Dixon 123

Sherry Yuan 134

Joanne Ragalie Grace Jolicoeur 146

Jaymie Guerrera 2,12,18, BB, 100,137

GraceJolicoeur 6,22,45,49,68,70,72,76,87,118

Sherry Yuan 17

Caroline Wood 29,52,73,79,91

A/aggie Karlin 67,101 ,121 Victoria Loong 89,141

Shane B 58 Lawler Coe 119 *r<*

Cover Photo by Alex Reynes

k a,frrlor ultrn l[cfur,,1

ld like to borrow that book of yours My eye has been on it for a while because, while you read it, I saw a smile in your eye.

1T" bsson

Clnlrz DoE

They sing clouds of rain while I whistle to the tune of the wind groping for their wishes that I grew apart from long ago dishonesty curling through their fingers they had behind their backs I smile and laugh still hoping they'll learn to let go soon l've noticed - haven't you? the winds changing I am now South of where you stand and I haven't looked back

my suitcase is full, tired, heavy but I found help along the way this is a tired old postcard sent three years ago simply lening you know the journey is everlasting but I have felt its rewarding chill on my back relieving the sunburn left from trying so hard

WhuWe&r, 16 {ar AsaA@*

Once in DeKalb,l learned no matter how far, high beams are down the highway. They will be in the lightning bugs that peel against the windshield as we drive almost eighty down a gravel road. lVy sister says she speeds, only, because she hates driving at night. Because of abandoned farm houses, the wind groaning between corn stalks that grow like thick arms. She won't admit she is afraid It took me adulthood to figure this much. Ever since she sped off before sunrise. Hit highway with her last bags packed. Saying goodbye with bills left unpaid. Ever since I question how much of running starts from the pace of breathing. From the close of her mouth before actual fear lets go of its holding on to. She won't

exhale until I look away from her. I look out to the solid gray if field and cloud, jumping like the panic in all of us. At that moment, I became the last daughter under my parents'arms. Their limbs fused with cuss words and broken muscle have lost their wire hold. I notice my sister in the driver's seat, her beauty in letting go and having everyone chase after. Something I haven't seen since I was five--a summer night when my father pours a jar of a hundred lightning bugs empty outside of our window. The lime gold ball falling from the ledge two stories down towards the rose bush on the side of our house. The shake his hands gave from the jelly jar.The red of their backs becoming a free bulb to the darkness. I see the fear in wanting to take offwith one glide;how silence is in every turn we take when least ready and with wings hanging from hinges.

fi,e

I am the inescapable The irresistible The non-negotiable The unchallenged... lam time I scroll in measurements Controlthe elements, I hold the evidence Itellthe story... lam time I know no prejudice I bare no sentiments for wealth or settlement

I move forward lam time

A've: fittan

You can't recover me Conceal or smuggle me Retreat or run from me Crawl up or under me

You can't do much for me besides serve me well and have good dividends returned to you

Or... attempt to kill me off and have me murder you

ftlany have wasted me

But now they are faclng me Treated me unfaithfully

And now endure me painfully Plaintively, I wait to see what history will shape to be

Srrgi 3"ch

It comes from the ghettoes of Lithuania

It crawls through the dirty, winding roads, And up the stairs, And into the house, And snuggles up to Charles. Years later, it leaves with Charles To johannesburg,

Over a thousand sapphire leagues. There it meets Saul, And cozies with him and his I I brothers and sisters. It had good times with Saul, and traveled, Pilgrim style, to the U, S, and A. That's where it metTheodore, The man who everyone knew as "Tedl' It had great times with Ted,

Who turned it into an entire company. Google iU lt stillexists today. Only afterTed did it meet Robert, With whom it shared great times. When Robert tried to cast offanother one, It stayed there, an unbreakable pillar of marble After Robert, it met me. It's been there with every breath I took, Every shout in my direction, Every time I put that pen to that paper. No exaggeration. Then it slid down my arm over-easy, Hopped onto the paper, And came here to be with you. What willyou do with it?

Nostahio Ah, Uvula

ef.lrc Putde

l'lltake that moment

That one you were so fond of And you can have it

And you can go back to that place five years from now

Or maybe tomorrow And you'llfind me Hanging upside down from those sagging tree branches

l'll say,'Look no handsl"

And you'll stare astounded at my truncated arms

And that's when you'll realize that All along I was missing my face Those boots, you see, They were on backwards

And for allthis time, that moment, You were so fond of it.

P,rlluee.;L LaPoF€

Soft grape Trilling darkly When folk songs Or gospels Or Happy Birthday

Lets in the light!

O, eleventh toe Neglected only child

O, say can you see

By the dawn's early light?

Unti&d

She steps with jangles

Every movement of her long legs

Brings a chorus of bells from her slim silver anklets

The cool breeze that tells

Birds to fly south gives her wings

Her long honey hair flows up from her head

Lifts her feet from the ground

Her small lips always rest in a smile

Like an open door they coax Strangers towards the warmth Her voice projects forth

She is her finest canvas, so she covers Herself in the colors that she paints

Fuchsia tights and orange shirts

Bright brushstrokes on dull backdrop of high school halls

tAahak,ililler

Her palms swing openly at her sides Covered with calluses and roughness

Of her trade

They are the, which of these don't belong? ln the riddle of her presence

She creates her beauty with those hands Hands that place anklets on ankles

Slide chapstick over lips

Pull tights on legs and shirts overhead Translate images into 2-D illustrations

To her they belong, they are the source She always says the greatest beauty Comes from the brightest imperfection

E*lA Cootcunce

AYE! Bartenda can I please have another shot. At this point I was starting to sweat I don't know if it was from the four shots of vodka or this hot ass coat I had on, but either way, I wasn't about to stop drinking or take off my coat. When he gave me the shot I asked him can I have a napkin to wipe my face. He looked back and said sure one moment. Why ls it when you ask someone for something here they always say ONE IVOIvIENT, me saying that caught his attention he brought my napkin to me and slammed it down in front of me. I didnt complain because I can see by the look on his face that he had just reached his breaking point with me, plus he looked Iike he could properly knock me clean off my feet with a couple of hits. I wiped my face and took my fifth shot.

At this point I started to get that feeling that you get when you're about to pass out. I tried to look as sober as possible but that didn't work

Dar, rzo r -fonel \)

because when you try that you only end up looking drunker than before.The bartenda came back and asked me am I ok. I said yes and he told me to slow down on the vodka.

For some reason I felt this rush of word vomit

I had to talk to someone and he was the only one near. Bartenda, can ltellyou something?The Bartenda looked back with this blank look on his face and said sure like he was dying to hear some good news. But what I was about to say wasn't good at all it was the exact opposite of good. See have you ever had something that you just couldn't get out of your head, something that just kept replaying over and over in your mind no matter how many times you cried for it to stop. At this point

The Bartenda kinda looked lost like I was speaking another language but he grabbed a seat and said, what exactly happened.

Well a friend of mine had this feeling that his wife was cheating on him and me being a man who's been divorced twice I know about those types of feelings. So . we decided to go out to a club, so he can take his mind off the broad and cut loose. We went to the club on a Thursday night; we had lots of drinks lots of women and lots of fun. Sounds like a great night said the bartenda. Yea, I guess you can say that. But naw not really. Why not if I was at a club with free drinks, loose women, and all my friends it would be a hell of a night. Are you gone sit here and ask 21 questions or are you gone let me finish talking. Anyway, where was l? You were talking about the cluuub. Ooook??? So while we were at the club we saw the worse thing that a guy could see. We saw my friend's girl grinding up on another man. lwas so heated how could she do this to me, I mean how could she do this to him. We left the club before she saw us because we didn't want to confront her in the club, she's the type to get all in your grilltalking about how could you do this to me.

For a moment I kinda stopped talking and thought to myself, what would have happened if we didn't see her

dancing in there, and if maybe it was just something that I made up in my head. When I look at the bartenda he was staring at me like he was waiting for me to pay him some money or something. He said, Are you gone talk or are you gone sit here and look at that empty glass and look stupid cause l'm offthe clock, I ain't gotta sit here and listen to a drunk talk about nothing. Sorry, I said. Well me and my friends stayed at our friend Terry's house for the night, mainly because all of us was too drunk to go home and because of what we just saw. Well when I woke up in the morning I had this feeling like I done something wrong. Something terrible. Also I haven't talked to my wife in three days. Wait I thought you said you were divorced, said the man bartenda. At this point I felt that word vomit again; ljust keep talking like a crazy man who was high as hell. I haven't seen her in three days and plus, plus... I got this blood on my shirt. I opened my coat, to show the bartenda my shirt. I have blood on my shirt, you see!The bartenda quickly grabbed his things and headed for the door without saying a word. I sat there knowing that I told lt all and worried about what will happen next.

te Niflt LRuren Dnvs

I say a prayer to the night

I wait for Kinich Ahau to drive the sun away, Itly grandmother the Nocturnal Physician

The moonshine leisurely winks at me

I say goodbye to the daylight

And say a prayer to the night

I see lx Chel driving her lunar chariot across the sky

Her face a milky white opalescent shine

lVly grandmother the Nocturnal Physician

She, Goddess ofthe N/oon, Welcomes me to her starry skies, l, gratefully, say a prayer to the night

Old woman with the jaguar claw

Disliked the daylight and went away into the night

I say a prayer to the night

Old woman with the jaguar claw Dlsliked the daylight and went away into the night

I say a prayer to the night

Lady Rainbow nourished my source

Creating Akbal l\4uluc, the unconventional It/y grandmother the Nocturnal Physician

And when midnight comes, l'll let go my fears of the daylight Lay within the cover of the moonlight Azly grandmother the Nocturnal Physcian

He was cheating with the Mrs. My wife

Who smells like eggnog and peppermint

Even when it's spring And radiates warmth in our frosted snow globe I caught them in my own bed

Itly candy cane heart swirled into unraveling chaos

The red and white stripes poured out of my Body as shock and curdling blood

A/ind could not possess body

What was happening?

This animal was nibbling on my wife's ear

As if it was lichen

First blame on the victim

Because blinded love is easier to defend

Than my own putrid body

Rolls of fat gagging on double chins

kq ruahl,&

Never around for the holidays

The stress of 1000 identity thefts every year It changes a person.

But soon enough my mind was on better things, Like destroying him lvly hard knuckles clashed against his wet nose

Like a diver colliding with ice water Allthe while screaming to the Mrs."Hol Hol Ho!"

Suddenly it was all over

His nose was a glowing light bulb

The look on his face was better than Christmas

Xr-zro

"Why do we smile at her?

Why do we joke about that?"

"Because then we can move on.'

A/ove on from the two pictures of her, where she is a crushed ant, squirming for fading life, on the white pavement of a hospital bed.

Haru,1

She was the Christmas present that came too early, and left before we even got to play.

She was our guardian angel, before I knew God, and after my faith died in the mind of a questioning fifth grader.

And so, lsit, clutching her glass slipper, hands moving across the soft surface, bringing back memories like bare feet in morning dew.

Thinklng of the five pounds and thirteen ounces that still sits in complete darkness, almost non-existent in my mind.

tt,s been Kea[

l'm not lost because l'm offthe path it's not

A feeling of emptiness it's not

The fast-for-forgiveness of repentance l've got

Rebellion in my stomach

Alay leaf, mustard seed, and a couple bitter fruits

We're not lost, we've just found a new path

We su rvived u nconventionality

Lessons learned by the Jungle Book overturn common sense Offthe path, and old sunfish deck

TheThree Rivers certification worn off, mysteries

Tighten their breath, but we were

Too in love

With outside to notice

e[en LesseF

We find a new path, and talk about

The same things we always talk about, about how l'm amazed by you and how You're a hippie but you don't smoke and how Your little brother gets all the girls and how IVly older brother makes his own rules

Like we do and how Flavorlces taste best out of lt/ary Ann's spite

What we feel is more than the comfort of home because Home is just a physical place or maybe a dream For most people, but we know that We are home.

Photo by Natalia Lang

I\\ tt >T-l at J-t

Victoria Loong

Ashley Kohlrus

Caroline Wood

Allison A/acy

Alex Reynes

LesTors LInrys

la premidre partie--la lettre lwanted to tellyou that I love you. Ithat alright? Am I allowed to love you? Am I allowed to love? I want to love you. I want to protect you and hold you and keep you safe and callyou mine and kiss you gently in the falling rain or snow. But lh not entitled to that luxury, because you love him. And lam not him.

la deuxidme partie--le d6sir Won't you part your honeyed lips for me?

Kiss my tortured mouth, parched from your absence. Hold me and sing me to sleep, and maskthe everpresent scent of death on my slowing breaths with your little signs of affection.

dnitlin fnllnhn,l

Crack open the disdainful glass doors and find me waiting for you, here, forever.

Oh, how I long to be with you again, pressing our bodies closer jusqu'a ce que la mort nous sApare.

la partie finale-le rdve

Give me your hand and we will face eternity together. ln our white dresses we laugh at the irony of the innocence and purity that has been stolen from us so long ago. Kiss my reddened lips and exult in our freedom. Smile and show me the dancing lights in your eyes. and be mine.

Whu G[or Lands OnlT* Mw^

There are no rnvisible stars, only black holes, and gravity pulls dark babies out of its stomach. lwatched an episode ofTheTyra Show one woman said that she would spit up craters of earth, to not be so dark.

5o, she lightens her skin with creams. Doesn't want to be the only African American in her family, that doesn't look like a white swan Says she's the ugly duck-in an oil spill. Scrubbing her pores with Dawn, to un-flock her grip with DNA. She prays to be light skinned

Krlly Rsnlr

like her brother; find her way to the moon. Connect an umbilical cord to its core and feed her children the whiteness. Teach them to take the matrimony of bleach. Let it kiss their entire body,'till each little black toe and round cheek, sucks lips with Clorox.

Her daughters are new moons. Atage 4and2, they're broken street lamps.

Wishing on shooting stars to be lit, or to be like their newborn sister, who is a yellow street light,

sitting in between the color of envy and their blood.

It4other bleaches their skin

Her son at 7 is a half moon. White cream burned on skin tuz he was born with the face of gray smoke.

He'd rather be at the tip of a cigarette, because at least when it dies out the ash might look white.

lwonder, if he becomes a full moon, will his tongue ever burn the sun out of heat and confront their mother?

lf they will regret the galaxies of prejudice

she orbited around her hips.

lf people will ask them, "WhereU your skin color go7" Will someone ever bring them back to earth?

Tellthe mother, that even a white moon doesn't shine during the day, because its shimmer comes from the beauty of blackness.

ln the days of yore, when William ruled the land, An ugly hag would oft thrust out her hand And beg for gifts and treats and sweets and such, For nothing she was offered was too much.

Short of stature, gray of hair she was Desplsed by the multitudes because Her very voice caused one and all to wince;

A fouler visage ne'er has been seen since And yet the village sent its very own Dear children to be taught by this old crone She took away their toys with spiteful glee

A meaner mistress never did one see 'Twas one thing only that she'd count as pay: That every child should bring a gift each day

She favored many things but most of all Sweet edible delights would her enthrall

So loathdd was she by the village young They oft would dream of cutting out her tongue But these were merely dreams until the day Young Festus strode right up to her to say,

Darc,y {hr3d"N

'We shall not submit further to your greed, It falls to me to carry out this deedl"

He smote her smack across her smarmy smirk

Upon this blow the hag did go berserk

She wrapped her bony fingers'round his throat

And as she squeezed she then began to gloat, "How dare you, Festus, question my demands? l've half a mind to use my own bare hands

To strangle you in front of all your friends

Unless you pledge rlght now to make amendsl Upon these words the children rose as one And towards her stash of goodies they did run Each grabbed a pudding, pie, or treacle tart And flung them at her, aiming for the heart ln shock, the hag screamed out in agony, "How dare you wretches throw my food at me?"

And yet they did not cease to stone their foe, 'Twas fruitcake that did deal the final blowl

And as with joy did toll the final bell They watched the hag descending into hell.

ks^A^YYI

falling, falling, falling, words planted in the darkness slowly grew strong with the nurturing care of wandering eyes and reassuring hands blossomed into an unknown flower petals were pampered by sweet tones leaves awash in moonlight contentment watered the delicate bloom the sun began its journey the hour much too early piercing rays of light tore holes through the leaves the petals began to change turning dark and brittle falling, falling, falling

?"ona'/ 3€ InildeAhatt

9 floors above A/ichigan Avenue

Chicago's fringe vlsible in its entirety.

Bragging pictures on the wall, Neutral in the way that old photos are

Twin instruments, one familiar but one a mystery

A desk both in and out of place. Where I learn to let myself out.

It seems like a routine even though I may have only been ten times.

It is a door to another world, which, though I have no desire to enter, fascinates me.

0poet

A skeleton walks in.

No, not a skeleton. A wolfman. Fearsome teeth and an even more fearsome wish For that sultry some-ringed terror. How I love it so.

Oh, Clarisse. lf you could see me now lf I could see me nowl I fear l've lost sight of how sad I am Distracted by the damned buzzing

Of how happy I am. But you can't! But you can't but you can't. For when your red ran faster than I thought

Over your pale white, I knew You'd never see me again. Your looking glasses, so perfect blue Rolled back;They wanted for repose Repose is all I have within this sorry room.

Alexfrns

How the smoke rings bloom! How the colors Dance under speckled-crimson moon. I\4oon, no, that is your face! A face I covered forever In indigo disgrace. Itly piped life runs out. I search for more, wheezing, desperately A rounded man comes on with a pout. 'You stupid poetlYou owe me morel"

I stumble, flailing Right out of his cursed black door. No more,l scream, no more! That sorry plea l've heard before.

From you, oh lovely Clarisse? Or was it from me, Wrapped warm in opiate fleece? No more.

Grace Jolicouer

Sussors ed Smg and,T6. (^^avuorat[

(

She picked up the scissors, making them dance in line with her hips.

Cutting out a head, she freed the prisoner, only to tie him up in string

His body laughs at the string while his mind searches for the scissors. The fagade of the willing prisoner built up like the most intricate dance that starts in your head, but never can be untangled by your hips

The head on TV screams'lt's hip to be square|while the string gets so ensnared that shet no longer ahead; And her legs like her scissors are confined to one slicing dance Turning futilely around, the prisoner laughs at her like the prisoner she now is. Without even a hip

Not /tl*^y)

Saruh Stut

check to her name, her slow turning dance jerks, starts, and ends in string; And they come a bit late, the scrssors, as he throws his rug-burned-red hands to his head And, yes, the world is now turning on its head; But, no, the prisoner knows he's not destroyed his dread. The scissors hide from him in shame, refusing to extend its hips to his biddings, and the string joins in on the mutiny, moving him in their dance.

But he still has in hlm a dance of his own. He starts to head in the direction of the string, who does not flinch as the fury of the prisoner strangles his stringy strep throaq its hips now as limp as paper beats scissors.

Freed from the string, the prisoner dances a dance in ecstasy, only to head the thrusting of his hips toward the blade of the scissors

tu Kuy

BqBarra

How many penguins

Will be at the dolphin show? Will Mrs. Creed be there?

My music teacher

Who taught me recorder Until graduation.

Did Curious George learn? Or is he only a cartoon? A woman in uniform

Putting together the puzzle

With her eleven toes. How does she do this all with arthritis?

C*1d,2" ?^/e*/%

Catch! Brig htly colored butterfl ies and shooting stars float up to your tongue in the pouring rain.

Plip, plop-drizzle leads to a wwhhhiiiiiiisssshhhh, a torrent of sideways rain which doesn't help to wash your hair because it just doesn't work as well as Granny using a spigot and Dawn dishwashing detergent.

You can advise and advertise the story of a bright pink balloon in its plight to make a hen tell the truth while making some spinach soup with brown eggs and tears. Well. A/aybe not the tears. You can fake those

Somehow, though, you can't fake an egg.

Can you fake spaghetti? I can cut spaghetti with an ax now, and l'll eat it, too; and you can carry foxes in a quart berry basketl Oh, and you forgot to add ice bullets to my pasta in stead of meat sauce

IVaking ice bullets and molesting screws with your purple plastic screwdriver of doom come as naturalto you as breathing milk, fire, and peas.

Once the size of a pea, I can let you go back to sleep. Don't worry. l'll tuck your tail into your pocket just the way you like it. Do you feel it?

Catch!

A, ft/r* Lrf, thl-;tlrt

€lle" Tltatp

We wear life.We Shun strife. We're Seldom satiated. We're Ever elated. We Fly free. We Gloat glee. We Rarely regret. We Never forget.

Lor^ren SteaLe

His tongue is like A bull who has buffaloed His way into a china store But the china store was clearly labeled Rubber

His glances are like a child wielding hurtful words towards his mother

Never having looked at a dictionary

He is like a train conductor The whistle blows and a white ribbon of smoke appears It chokes me It was standing too close It's not his fault But l'm drowning And his hands are on the faucet

thlttlrot

The sun had turned into a bloody smear across the sky

Behind the garages of my neighbors

The long shadows made hiding easier 5o we started our game of Ghost in the graveyard

We played for hours Untilthe best hiding places had become clichd And our bare dirty feet felt like those of refugees Raw and overused

The only light came now from the yellow streetlamps And the moonlight that lay around us in pools, splashing over roots and dry leaves

A the responsible parents took their children inside,

It was finally time that we begin our game

Of cops and robbers

Except if you got caught, you could fight your way

Out of custody And run

L"tA (.,ulz

A/y entire gang of miscreants had been jailed

As our tipsy parents haphazardly called to us

To be careful, watch you're going.

There were two authority figures double teaming me

Coming from different sides of the darkened block

They held my wrists and ankles in death grips

As I thrashed and kicked for freedom We were half a block away from base

I\4y cousins' spl i ntery wooden sta irs

I had a minute to get away.

I threw my weight to one of my captors

Toppling him to the crumbling street

The holds on my limbs reiaxed

As we hit the ground like a tombola tower. I was up first, racing to the stairs Ready to orchestrate a jailbreak.

rhe lrenrl Io Synte Avv1lloru

She's probably a bursting sun

And she wears sunscreen because she's too hot for every season lvlaybe her shimmering hair smells a bit like cinnamon flakes

And I bet he loves that smell because it reminds him of the whir of the eggbeaters

That his mom used to make cookies when he was linle And the nostalgic hint of cookies may make him feel happier When he finds that her scent is still Lingering on that dark blue Bloc PartyT-shirt

And she can taste his language just like The late Philip Blum in a crowded Orchestra Hall

She's got some chilly icy blue eyes

That probably warm his heart like no other can I don't know her but I bet her smile is ubersuB lf more people smiled like her, there would be less

unhappy homeless people

And she can clear the rain, knock on wood

The golden guitar of destiny Grumbles and whines because her voice is probably too gorgeous

She can grow wings and hearts to spare

She's closer to him than Abby in every sense of the word And they are only going to get better together

Even the angry angels root for them

And she has the upper hand, because she knows all the right words

They both think that'lch liebe dich"is prettier than I love you

So the violins sing of their own accord And I bet she's beautiful too.

iVaggie Karlin

fuW Xut.

l'd like to believe in reincarnation, and would...except for the fact that Princess Drana died when I was five, so that doesn't really work out. lt's quite inconvenient.

lf circumstances allowed me to be a reincarnation of anyone, it would be her. I sincerely wish so, and everyone knows that if you wish for something hard enough, it becomes real pretty soon. That goes for everything, even world peace. . but it just so happens that we don't wish hard enough.

Anyways, the funny thing is (well no, death is not that funny) that the first time that I heard her name was when my grandmother told me that she died. I remember it clearly,lwas outside during dusk and playing with a ball. I must have ran her name over my tongue a thousand times that night, that clearly must have meant something.

Wait a minute...and it all makes sensel When she died, her spirit rose from that mottled

lvlercedes and flew halfl,vay across the world into my body. lt was kinda like, BAltI! One moment was kicking around this rubber ball and the next moment, I was the reincarnation of Princess Diana.

Nah. Who am I kidding? How could someone like me, who still instinctively does the'[ hand trlck when confronting the dilemma of left versus right be the reincarnation of Princess Diana? lt's probably one of those lucky girls who go to schools with fancy names like Groton or whatever. You know, the ones that have auburn bricks and ivy and little dorms that you can look out of to see the glistening Connecticut snow.Those girls might even wear the quintessential argyle sweater vests of perfection!

Or a.k.a. "my euphemism for an article of clothing which I could never pull off'lthink Princess Diana knew that I wouldn't look good in an argyle sweater vest; she wanted to at least look good when she was reincarnated,

Those girls are born lucky, quite literally if one of

them was the reincarnation of Princess Diana.They're probably born with like a neon halo around their heads, or a big sign that says, "This is a SOI\4EBODY.'As opposed to a nobody. That would hurt for the mother of the somebody though. I don't think neon is a chemical natural to the body. But despite some technical misfortunes, I don't think I could believe in reincarnation anyways because believe that I was born a somebody else. Not a somebody eels, or a somebody lees. A somebody ELSE. And even if believed in that stuff, I certalnly wouldn't be the reincarnation of Princess Diana. ld probably be of a hot cross buns vendor or whatever.They didn't wear argyle sweater vests.

lrt fta,trtz, ut

What's my name?

lMy name is happiness. That irrational happiness that took me over, Flowing through me like a dam just broken. The first kisses under a cast gray-wrought sky. But I am so far away from that, So in this moment, ln that knowing that we both existed. And in that moment, feeling like the only thing Real in this world Was me and her, ln this embrace

The rest of it in black and white

Like when theTV goesfuzzy; All you hear is a gentle'thhhhhh. And in departure, This joy becomes me, Propels me to race home. And allwho see me, Know, lam happiness.

,/o* fna\ilU

You could be the best if youd just try

You laughed and winked behind your one-way eye

You'll go nowhere if you can never cry

Ltl,! /r{rQg

I danced on peaks precarious and still

Your words could warm the blanket of the chill

You could be the best if you d just try

To flood at will would leave me dead and fraught

But on your stage this wisdom I forgot

You'll go nowhere if you can never cry

One day I dried, for puppets cannot feel

Until their masters'throats in anger squeal

You could be the best if you'd just try

You made the river flow, and with my rage

I overcame and drowned your lonely stage

You could be the best if youd just try

You'll go nowhere if you can never cry

3lee1y Ithtt f,.ll ,ilo"tttr

lnsomniacs by nature

flrc il'ilr,

We sat still Loving less and less The translucency of time. Our eyes became the cameras And we captured collections of images: Scattered leaves, red lipstick, rubber band. Beautiful bits of both imagination and reality, Everything tinted with the hope of someone else.

As the world unfurled before us With a gasp of escaping dust, Dusk called and we sighed Sleepy with full mouths

Of tongues and thoughts-Thoughts and tongues-We wakefully dreamed of each other.

Duot \et

4lrr Dottt

He'll have a little paint set.

They tell her he's talented with color.

What is talented? Doesn't matter. How much he'll love it!

How much will he love it?

Doesn't matter. One nice thing to do. lf he can palette his palette

She'll be colorful again.

Bridget Reinhard

t(ltAy

She sits there, frozen in time, A virtuous and faithful wife, A silent beauty, a mime Conveying her full yet simple life.

Secrets whispered by brush strokes, As they manifest the mystery

Of a smile, slight, but evokes A spark of interest, curiosity.

The chocolate enigma of her eyes, The sadness unexplained, Reflect the dreary, sorrowful skies Of which our lady has been framed

qem(a V"ei

The light that shines upon her face llluminates her pale, kind hands, While shadows contrast her color with grace, But the softness of her features withstand.

Romance language, pleasant to the ear Recounts her depictionl antiquity,

While the artist, deceased, remains quite dear, His talent, her face, ubiquity.

ln the City of Lights she resides, a queen, A priceless icon of rebirth, The oils speak of love unseen, A woman, frozen, in all her worth.

A bqet Scene fFom Topli[a hlaFs, lbpti[a P[ant StF*tces bacv lhe EmptF€

John bee1lhoLL

The blue corn tortillas were crisping on the hot stone. IVlaria and Esperanza were keeping watch, assuring that the tortillas would stay crunchy for their master Vad-Oscurad. The sand crunched under the feet of a young Luchario Chieloanda. As Luchario passed, the stones lifted slightly from their resting positions in the dirt. Suddenly, VadOscurad appeared.

"La Fuerza is strong with you, Lucharro. I see you have a built your own lrgeriosabell' Luchario stood still, his poncho waving in the warm breeze.

followed shortly by a red one. Weapons drawn, the two began to circle, eyeing every movement.

"lv1y teacher, you kllled himi'quavered Luchario. 'lt4y friend, Solitario, was put into carbon."

"lt/y father, Anikando, you killed himl'

'All that is left is you, Vadl'

"l see many things, Luchario, I have sensed your comingl'

A small green flash filled the immedrate vicinity

"Hermana, Oluando has taught you well, Luchario, but you must learn to control los sentimientoi' gasped Vad. "Yes, feel the enoja well up inside you, release itl" Luchario Ieapt forward screaming, "nunca!'and the battle commenced.The two lrgeriosabelen clashed, sparking the floor.

A tired Vad screams, "Now, suelte su ira!"

Luchario is held down byVad, the ligeriosabelen causing him to sweat at the throat.

"Kill me then, Vad, toss me into the canyon below us, this bridge willend my life for lwill never join El Lado Oscuro!"

"Luchario, together we could rule lvlexico, as you see me tortilla plant workers have already begun the operation, soon you and all your friends will be destruyo and the Empire tortillas will reign supreme!"

'Nunca!You killed my Padrel' "Didnt O'Juando ever tell you, Luchario? Soy su padre!"

foundatton Julte ilxv

This house stands on cracked concrete. When they planned the build, eyes darted and intentions faded, anything would be too tall for this foundation. For splintering pillars and rusty bolts surely can't wear a roof.

Ticlvres Lnuren Jieinre

I prayed today

It's been a while

Since the days of Wiping drool of the corners of my mouth

Dragging my fingers into the crook of my father's elbow

Attempting to almost tear the fabric from his wrist

With baseballfingers that should be going calloused

From gripping a bat and watching the ball fly at some kid

Not softly turning pages in a book

That had too many big words And too many gross pictures

For me to comprehend

Today

I put my forehead in between my hands

Pressed it to the ground rn front of what I imagined to be

A great symbol

The ground was coarse beneath my fingertips

And I shut my eyes to picture what I knelt before

But all I could see for a moment

Was the circumference of a light bulb

That had just gone out behind microscope with the large side pointed towards me

I felt like an ant towered over by a small child

The magnifying glass pointed at my eyes

A shudder wracked my body tVy head flew up and down as my muscles convulsed and my forehead Cracked lnto the unrefined floor of the church (No one helped. I hadn't expected them to)

It made a noise

But to me it sounded hollow A reverberating respite of a displaced disciple

To me it sounded like years of my own li(f )e

But when it was over and I pressed my fingers to the wound

The floor gifted my forehead

And I felt the wetness on my fingers

The red of it Almost seemed as real as the onyx ink lMy own gross pictures had been blotted out with

1trlnivs ndvice mqmother hns qt'ltan fig, nLLidentnl frndnon

lrlnqqe -fchrrt

live alone in the city. you can't live there forever; my god, no. but everyone should at least once. don't go looking to marry rich. but if you were to, golfing is an awful usefulskillto have. golf courses are where business happens; don't get left behind. it's hard to be five, i know. go outside. read a book. read another book.

you will never find a boyfriend like that. why don't you have one? is he your boyfriend? are you sure? are you lying? it's ok if he! your boyfriend. you're too beautiful for him anyway. although if you were to want a boyfriend, hes cute. i'm going to leave you all behind and travel the world when i'm sixty. when iwas little, i wanted to be a nun. just think of what's waiting.

1

ilntitd

You comfort me with promrses of happiness, kept frozen like a balloon, solid like our friendship floating away from everything else, trying to keep its perfect shape. Arms tight around body like the ring on my finger. Your being is what stretched my lips to form a smile before I kiss you.

Out of all the prizes for being perfect, my favorite was the black bracelet with my name engraved in PurPle.

2

You're controlling. I do as you say.

Water drips in bathroom as you sleep and you want me to stop it before you're unable to prevent back of hand and side of face from embracing. I can't stop it quick enough.

T$rNn Horue

Silent screams pierce ears fist and wall become one. lnstead of nose-bleeding blood eyes bleed sadness. Next day, l'm not home on time-consequence is isolation Years have passed. N4y mother's voice I don't recognize best friend's face appears only in old photo albums.

3

I come home late for the second time and forgot to call.

As I walk through the door I smell your rage your fist hits my lip. l'm sorry's lost meaning when clock tic toc struck one two blows in each eye.

Arms no longer wrap around waist, but finger around neck cutting off air like too small ring cuts off circulation. Black eye covered by hand with purple wrist

bracelet is on floor.

With each step you take your scent lingers more. I inhale you don't love me, You beat me like I hate you.

Anger melts, pops, empties balloon

As I lay there deflated, we're back at

You comfort me with promises of happiness kept frozen like a balloon

One day after fingers release neck I won't inhale your scent and we won't return to l. l'll lay there deflated like our balloon on the floor next to my bracelet. The ring won't be what cut off my circulation.

ilvubrrlk

Anna Carko^

With a pop, Rain slicks away. Bad luck ln the dark streets of London. Lightning flashes over my shoulder

Like salt, and flouts out Like lMary Poppins. ln the dangerous storm Boat after boat, Flying their passengers Through the black sea To dry land.

tht;tluot U*ZJLTElor

She would rather wear them baggy than fitted. The way she puts it, nobody needs to know how her body curves into the perfect sculpture.

.Just let them wonder. Just let them wonder if her style is just a style or a way of llfe or a way of living. lgnorant thoughts come alive through megaphone mouths, "She's gay and her'best friend'is her girlfriend'' l'm the best friend. The best friend who gets sharp eyes from people thinking "How could she be such a lesbian?"

F.Y.l. l'm not, but who cares to listen. People believe what they want because the truth just isn't interesting enough.

She pushes her long hair out of her eye and puts the nails that coordinate with every fabric of her skin into my hand.

We give each other the look of "who cares what people think'and walk out of the darkness of judgment and slurs and into the lightness of love and frlendship.

And of course I walk this walk with my head held high because lam the best girlfriend'ever.

Wesley Sapp

A hlingless flgnt

.Mta pscha

A wingless flight

Like a sinking sky; solidifiiing A crystallizing haze

Hold on to those lungs Filled with empty air Wisping past lost loose lips Ivlaking this heart a quivering fish Knocked the water out of my gills

You watched me flop around Splattering splashes as I squirmed Your face now lt4ade out of crumbling brick

As you try to be stoic I see no guilt in your vacant glimmer

The one I used to trust And I became the dust of your old veins

tAlartng up lhuPsdoJ ,rloFntng

$e[en betltnson

She wakes up with the sharpied X on her face, Not remembering which club it was from.

She looks down on her bright pink nails, And chokes on the wrinkles.

lnto oeat Neuula

Six otlock the mind lapses back into deaf nebula a rip current in the cornea a galaxy unto itself held in a pocket of nonexistence by a substanded matter where the restive moon tickles the chins of hapless panderers and the toes ofyoung renegades pulling at their consciousness until they are coaxed from under tight- tucked COVCTS brought out under the tell-tale sky the hairs on the backs of their necks prickling with arresting tanginess of a pampero wind

Emrra Ltstep

while the sedulous smoke of factory chimneys chokes them with grime, but turns their heads to dance a jog on the rin-tin rooftops underneath which the elderly and pious folk cuddle in fear of the seismic impulses which the namesake's spawn has brought to being and the witch reads bound accounts of spagyrlc sorcery and the seamstress pricks a finger on the eternally spinning wheel the panderers seduce pleasure and the angsty hipsters riot against misery as the moon spins madly around deaf nebula

Trul juorut ,t ilutr &a,rfn zufu/-

tt/aybe they knew

The grass awakens

After a night of nature's weeping

The remnants of each blade's tears

Gathered randomly along each slender Green slice ZhalehI\ly parents knew its meaning: It/orning dew

A name of the tears nature produces

A name that would reflect future behaviors

A name my eyes would live up to Allowing my face to sustain Its own morning dew

And every time I awaken lfeel the droplets gather

From the tips of black eyelashes

To the edge of a sharp jaw line

It4aybe they knew ld be like each blade of grass Beginning every day With my own A/orning dew

9U X"/-,f trur" J/*p

No longer a person A/ore of a pet The dripping condescension ln your voice

The twisting aroma of cookies in the oven

The pattering of bridge cards Do not satiate me The way you think they do

You know nothing of the frustration That accompanies the sound Of cane scraping floor

Nor the humiliation

Of consta nt patronization From those with half your years.

You look to me for some wise truth That l've found as I near the end

But I long for the days Of innocence and endless possibility

Where age was a gift And the story had just begun Now placed in this constringent world Of who l'm supposed to be The role of sweet old granny With no escape ahead.

thftilrl,

They think l'm running with eyes squished shut And cold frngers shoved into my ears

Embracing a concept l've simply read of

It is not a picture

Of stained glass windows Square shouldered men hiding reality Women coveting their virtue Shoving sin away like the collectron of dust under the pew cushion

It's not a day of the week

Set aside for simple self assurance That He won't give up my spot Because my God is not Employed in a glimmering hotel lobby

Pen scribbling as he assigns room numbers

I cry out in confusion Because I don't feel Him near

IVly tears blur my own writing

tl^ao"oi l/ondzr Lorn

The brush of an artist dipped tn too much water Sometimes I try to speed up the process Pushing the button

Waiting impatiently for the comfort of the white walk sign

Red Red Red is all I see The orange pulsating hand antagonizing

Yesterday I pleaded to hear His voice And this morning lam still lwill again tonight But lam not naive I can't explain Him in human terms Because words leave me chewing pen caps

Until my lips are white and rough and l've memorrzed its flavor And it tastes good because I do know The unconditional loving powerful Hold my God has on me is Unshakable

Arhouflt

You know you've hit an all-time low when it feels like someone struck a match in your nose, and let it burn itself out.

Trembling with terrified thoughts on the floor of a room as cold as a forgotten picture frame.

Grasping the gaunt hands as a meek seventh grader, listening to white noise that rivals summer cicadas

Distracting myself by pinching pale skin until it bruised red, like lrish sunburns.

Hnrr,,l McDonough

lvly dad said I knew every bathroom in every restaurant we had ever been. And even though I was up almost every night, I only lost my stomach as often as I lost my anxiety.

M1 (outrne

Arielln (hnvnrrin

A quick snap of the trigger Click, Release He's down Now lying in warm shallow pool of his blood I finish the job and quickly turn away

Routine, Routine, Routine

It shouldn't matter Just focus on walking Click, click, click Each footstep a reminder of my death

It doesn't matter Right? They had it coming Just another task Click Click Click

Terfir,e;finLtc

JU ie ldock

This bottle ls fuel for your night. The rusty liquid Burns. lt4etals so worn, It shines. And it never seems to Run dry.

kS l[\,,,rray

lf I were to write a poem about the woman who married my father, I would leave out the part that says I hate you.

I wouldn't add the line that says stepmom steps in, stepson left out.

I wouldn't include how I disliked going to my dad's house or when my father strains his vorce and says, "you don't have to be here'i

I would hide the eyebrows that flipped the bird and replace them with cheery smiles on past holidays.

I would even throw in a lie saying I never went over her flaws with a magnifuing glass on a sunny day.

I would take back the days I burned her feelings by not eating the same overcooked dinner we had every night

I wouldn't bother to put in the fights with my dad caused by her and solved by space. I would take the easy route and write about the two half brothers I showed whole love to.

But in the end, I would never look at the poem from her perspective.

I could never think about marrying someone who has a child, and trying to make them feel comfortable while still uncomfortable myself.

I could never try to think about being a new parent to a ten year old who already hates me and has no reason to stop.

I never would think about writing the hardships she would go through.

Raising two babies and a stepson, while going to work, and then running low on ideas and food so deciding to make the same dinner that we had last night.

Now I have stepped away from hate, balancing on like, careful not to lean on love.

{re l;r!e Soqner IUre Vr5llv4i

Trickle trickle dribble drop. splish, splosh, splash, plopl

A frozen heart thaws under the rush of spring's dawn, Rainl Rain's refreshing rush showers over this garden, This glorified garden sleeping so long under its ice blanket, And awakens it with the season's rising.

In a flourrsh, flowers spring up to greet this spring, And soon the rain ceases, plip-plopping a last drop on An unsprung bud.

The Sun's shining rays rergn over this garden, This glorified garden with all but one blossom, But the bud won't greet the spring sun.

The child smiles and lifts the bud to the sun, Showing it the bright rays, the shining sky, and its springy sun.

"lt should bloom soon, soni'says lt4ommy, and they leave.

Soon comes soon, as the rain returns To reign over sun's parade. Trickle, trickle, dribble, drop. Splish, splosh, splash, plopl

The flowers romp for the rain in this garden, This glorified garden where one ray of sun shows through the mist,

Dew crawls down its petals, Drip-dropping into the mud where her face lingers. "Why won't this flower wake up, mommy?"

A child wonders, prodding the unblossomed bud.

"lt just needs a little time and love, babe,'says lMommy

Over the drooping mud bud, blossoming it into a smile, A smile that spreads to the child, a special smile that COMES With a rainbow.

Maggtz Sclnrr

Breakup lengths have a direct relationship to the strength of the bond that they're breaking. Based on that equation, I have years to go with you, but you've already asked for your stuff back and it's hardly been a week.

You meet me on top of a parking garage, the sun is barely rising and it would all be romantic if you didn't hate me so much right now. We used to come here and watch the sunset, just sit around and wait for the end of something just so we could show off,like"Look, we are still here, that huge mass of fire and stardust bores into the ground at the end of each day but here we are, just sitting on the hood of our ca('lronically, we are now boring our way through pavement and clay and the sun is smiling as it climbs out of the horizon. lt mocks us.

You give me a toothbrush, a book, a mug

'Keep this, I made rt for you, I gave it to you. lt's yoursl'

You don't accept iU I don't expect you to.

The box in your backseat is small; I didn't have a very big impact on your stuff. I take out your box; it is large. In it, there is most of you.

Clothes are neatly folded and washed, I want to try and show you that l'm going to make this as easy as possible for you. That even though I didn't before, can take care of you now.

We get past the sweatshirts and pictures, and I'm down to one last thing, just a jar, see through and air tight, emptied and washed.This is the jar is where kept your heart.

You wouldn't be able to tell what it is now. It fills its

container, one bloody pulpy mass, purples and reds and blue tissue. lt used to be solid and whole and strong, not like the cartoon hearts I used to draw around your name but slimy and scientific, dissectible and disgusting. lts swollen chambers alternated beats and it smelled like formaldehyde. But now it is about the consistency of syrup, thick honey with chunks and pieces of vena cava and aorta floating and pressing up against the glass like some kind of gumbo.

I hand you your heart, bottled and broken, punctured and smashed to pieces under my feet like grapes rnto wine. Heart into soup. I made this for you, I did this to you. Here, take it, it's yours. A formality, you joke with me.

"Keep this, I gave it to youl' I cry like it's my slushy heart in the jar in my hands as you drive away, wronged and vindicated, alone and heartless.

Untitzd"

4ry^ Brunock

It s like if I could give to you What my mind gives to me lVy cape is a curtain lnsanity is a sea And if I could show to you What my mind shows to me

I doubt you would ever find yourself this deep

A sound that's familiar

To some of those who drowned I got deeper and deeper

Until ljust sat down Now if I could say to you What my mind says to me

I let it out in little bubbles Ivletaphors in which I speak

I asked my mind for that, lnstead rt gave me this It/y soul opened the door That's when my mind fell in

A/r* R oln

lenterthe realm of decay Where it is the ultimate rule

Where life cycles naturally About the mist. l'm home in this place like sleep is home for a bed I see the rings of growth and the rings of death. But I fly to my own place Where empty space rules Among the cathedral of ancients The emptiness of mind fades

It soon becomes clear Where we are and where we should be Among the silent stones Not the rumbling rocks.

Onr*Dr@

Let's stop the shift

From living to dead From freedom to bondage

From choice to coercion

A continent is drowned by the ocean

A mountaintop removed

A tree shrivels

The life sucked out The cosmos watch For we know little But they know much Let the Earth provide the context

StsteF Kyan bFot,ln

As I sit here, safe from the havoc l'm hearing outside

The loneliness of the moon pierces the clouds. They pout, and their punctures pour pellucid tears, Drowning the rooftops and tracing the tiles, Being led down a track of misery to the ground. Neither the drops fallen nor those about to dye the earth

Amount to the tears I left growing grass near her 9rave, Or trickled on the carpet, or mounted on my bed.

As I sit here, a plug in my arm blocking the harrowing emotions of my heart, I long for a language not yet invented, That can serenade an audience with the audacity of death.

So unhesitant and undoubtedly despotic with its decisions, That it would wrench my sister from me.

The twelve pages of her life inked with the most intricate writing.

The margins barely managing the stories within, Which are present in many other contemporary novels. Her minute heart was a house of God. And boy, was He cozy in His caring cavern. Baseball games, theme parks, boat rides, and bashing parties,

All inscribed beneath her bindings, along with chapters of charity and moments of misbehavior.

Everyday ld read the next word, Sometimes with hugs and others with shoves, always wanting to perform as the protagonist. Until I reached the last word

When the book's return date was due, to the Librarian above us.

,dop€ Lttce You f4tth SeaFing

I wish I was more like you. You stand with confidence, receiving affection It would be so easy if / were cool.

But I wouldn't know what to do. So I stand slumped, accepting rejection, Wishing I were more like you

Like you, who's deceptive dialect makes them drool. I know you're not happy with your false connections, But still, I wish lwere more like you.

It's probably just me, the stoned fool

Staggering through life with dampered perception

A/uch too anxious to try something new

I seek out sadness, l'm happy with depression

But it would be easier if I were cool.

But I know, it would be easy if I were cool.

But I wonder, do you wish you were someone else too I think we all deal with rejection. But I wish I were more like you It would be so easy if I were cool.

[)tz/<r> bhtal ilfu*W Wonb,- a/uhkl

What is wonder bread anyway?

Some interesting concoction made to Take the form and taste ofactual bread? Who knows? l'll never know, ljust deliver it, You see, People think my job is boring but it is truly not, Do you even know the true dangers of delivering Wonder Bread? You don't, do you? The awkward conversations and blank stares, The feeling that I am being stared at every moment of the day, IMy tight white shorts and my wrinkled collared shirt which Unfortunately bears my name as well as the creative Wonder Bread logo. It's not easy delivering Wonder Bread, Sometimes l'll have a bad day, Not deliver enough of those white unsightly packages, And I sit in bed and just think about what I could've done better,

What lcould've improved on,

It's a serious business. One time my friend who was a formerWonder Bread delivery pu blic servant, Forgot to close the back of his truck! Can you believe that? I know you can't just wrap your mind around it, The second he hit 20 mph the bread went flying out the truck, Onto the wet road.

I get a shiver up my spine whenever I think about it, But thankfully my boss fired him immediately and he Was exiled from the Wonder Bread facility and training center, Never allowed to come back, He didn't even get to keep the tight white shorts. On the other hand, I sometimes think to myself, What would I be if I never found that passion of delivering the savior to breakfast?

Dinner and yes, lunch as well,

Heck Iwouldn't mind working in a cubicle, ljust want my paycheck ljust want some time to relax, It's almost like your social life is ruined when you deliverWonder Bread, Whenever I even mention my profession to the slightest degree, The person can't help but let out a little smirk, A slight little laugh It's very bothersome no doubt, But you know, when I come to think of it, It/aybe this is actually my true calling, Because Wonder Bread is always on my mind, So next time you see that big white truck with the colorful circles on it, Just take some time to think about me and me only, Oh yeah, and the Wonder Bread too, my bad.

"1.

tnlnaLe

Sometimes lwish I was a whale bigger than the fish that hate, mighty and large and never frail lf you don't like me, kiss my tail because l'd be so wise and great. Sometimes lwish I was a whale

Pessimists will always fail, losing hope will be their fate. It4ighty and large and never frail

Sam ,ulFfvUpa

But me, l'm locked down like a jail l'm just a human trying to stay straight Sometimes I wish lwas a whale

But if I was a whale, l'd break all scales It/ess with me,l'llgo irate It/ighty and large and never frail

I don't think l'll ever be a whale Unfortunately that is my fate Sometimes lwish lwas a whale It/ighty and large and never frail

Unti&cl

Sarvlh tAcCaLL

8920 Pinewood Drive toes in shoes rub against coarse sand soft blue water sloshing against my boat the dogs are exhausted from heat burning red fire sweet marshmallows attempting to stick to the stick one family circled on the beach fairing goodnight to the sun giant pine tasting the stars are home to a place of peace a place of belittled importance calm beastly night resting from its battle with the sun silence. waiting for the sound of morning heat

Poetry to me is like my generation's future to the Past; it's all a lost cause. I only say thattause Dad says, 'Keep your art work as a hobby, find something betterl'We're in the car driving opposite of my way, overcast weather

ln my right ear musical dreams are playing in the left ear is my dad; in the middle is my conscience, but my head is tilted his way.

That's my generation in a nutshell: lnfluenced and tilted in Past's favor

But my music plays so loud I can't hear its ego's flavor. So let me hold the beat, how'bout you think for a second, have a little courage, grow up for a session. Understand me before you judge my progression.

See I listen to Kanye but you critics of past time listened to James Brown. I guess hearing Stevie Wonder really blinds you with his sound, tause you can't seem to see the things we go through. Why we blast Weezy and wake up to press Snooze.

Find it funny that we're lazy but you complain with no action. No shield and no sword but the first to verbally attack and criticize; minimize; devocalize the words that we say; put'em in a pan, make'em flip eight ways, then blame Us for your future mistakes.

We don't rep your future, we represent now. So blame it on yourself for ballin'too far out of bounds.

I understand if I don't have a vision, Past will put a label on me. So please excuse me dad

I think poetry has to be more than a hobby

'Cause I have no room for any type of price tag; matter of fact ljust took one off my shirt two hours past.

We are a materialistic generation. But what's the difference between that and an afro you spent on your whole youth making? .Just to cut it ten years later saying we don't have what it takes to be it. You've got pride in past tense that's so big I need what you call bifocals to see it.

You say my generation

will be the death of this America.

But the only weapon I bring is this poetic pistol; loaded with metaphors and alltypes of complications; so please clear the station of Your generation

I will only ask one more time before I start shootin'poems that can rhyme, and start droppin' metaphoric bombs like Peyton A/anning on a Sunday.

I can't buy your advice in this recession. So I will stick with IVe, Ir/yself, and iPod in this concession.

But lwill hold the beat, so you can think for a second; have a little courage, grow up for a session.

UNt[ted {e$!*qs

6:57 am.lt4r. Kabali comes in late to open. His boots track snow that is piled high outside. Two people follow walking straight to the counter, cigarettes, and coffee. one of them gets a newspaper. wrapping themselves for the cold outside, they exit with the "BeeBoo"sound of the door and screaming winds from outside.

It/r. Kabali sits down on a stool hidden in a corner out of sight from the customers. He stares blankly at his small convenient store. ln it he is surrounded by a partially walled off area around the counter that connects into a separate room tn the back, where he goes occasionally to sleep on a hardwood chair while his younger brother works. His hours are from five am to midnrght, a 2O-hour day.

On most days he organtzes and re-organrzes merchandise, while patiently waitlng for a customer. But today he sits staring blankly at the narrowing shelves, barely noticing the "beeboo" of a man in a black woolen overcoat and Wall Street looking suit and vest walk in, followed by a middle aged woman

with a large puffu multicolored jacket, a picture of suburbia.

The man seems to be uninterested in the store, and paces around the shelves while the woman steps up to the counter. "umm, excuse me umm, sir, have you got the new issue of Better Homes and Gardens in there?" she asks, getting on her toes to try and peek over the counter, as if her magazine would be sitting there just beyond her view.

Itlr. Kabali is not only uninterested but seems to know nothing at all about the publication, "Better Homes and Gardensl'

He says, "Go look over there, the magazine rack, if it's not there, come back next week, OK, thank youl'

As the woman walks away, behind her waits the suit. He has a mantla folder in his hand, which he did not have when he walked in, or perhaps it was concealed untilthis moment. He pulls out a piece of paper which is handed over to l'/r. Kabali. After

reading it over he says, letting his accent show from the anger, "no, no, you go talk to the landlord, my loans are good. You cannot come in here with your papers and expect me to pay you any money, next month I pay you!

"Sorry siri says the suit, "l'm from the bank and just have to give this to you, that's alll'

The suit leaves and A/r. Kabali is left to manage his money crisis. The papers said that the bank is discontinuing his loans, due to his lack of payments and the depreciation of value on the property, leaving him with a debt of 55000.

Itlr. Kabali retreats into his back room where he makes three successive phone calls, his voice getting louder and more anxious with each one. After hearing another customer enter the store he hangs up the phone and rubs away the signs of the stress that are present in his face.

The customer keeps his back turned to lt/r. Kabali, pacing the shelves trying to find the courage to do what he came in to do. Finally, after appearing to look closely at a shelf of candy directly across from the register, he pulls a handgun from his coat and turns toward A/r. Kabali.

Pointing the gun he says, "You know the deal, empty the register into a bag and don't say a word.

Hands where I can see them!Gimme a few of those scratch-off lottos, tool'

Not being the first time he was robbed, A/r. Kabali opens the register and begins taking the money out, all without looking at the robber, and with a sigh puts it into a bag that has"ThankYou"written all over it, and hands it over.

But the man was distracted, looking for anything he might want in addition to the money and lotto tickets. Being the amateur robber he is, the man drops the bag and quickly reaches to pick it up. But not quick enough, because the veteran A/r. Kabali makes a quick reach for the shotgun and points before the man stands back upright. lt might have been the anger from his bank notice, or the pent-up hatred for the annoying customers, ignorant shoplifters, and desperate muggers that he's come across over the years, but lt4r. Kabali shot, and sprayed the robber's brains all over the narrowing shelves.

And me, well I saw it all. l've seen it all since the first day when lt/r. Kabali was a young man who barely knew English, but now lthink it's the last day, as A/r. Kabali is hardened by murder and apathetic to humanity.

Now my tape is going to be the evidence technician, and then to the evening news.

S/"h SfM, (Wasrug A 1;? 7uF 0

The guard shack begins to open as the old wood ls raised revealing the names of past Guards etched into the brown painted wood

Guards crawl out of the office to sit in the Creaking, faded blue chairs on their white Stands

The smell of chlorine, sunscreen, aloe and sweat Provide a perfume that can never be forgotten, It lingers, lasting like the scent of a bonfire It's an old blanket.

The pool is a beautiful disaster

A leaking, algae ridden, under-chlorinated Place of infinite joy, especially when it Rains.

Ctnrre Hd^41

The never ending laundering of white towels, Folded in the Zoller method provided The ancient washer and dryer continue to Lumber on, like a pair of old washerwomen overworked and u nderpaid.

Adult swim, as reliable as old faithful Brings an exodus of children and an impromptu Cannonball contest.The spring of the diving board CAUSCS

The high chair guard to cringe before the lnevitable wave of water washes over her.

Always there, always faithful Waiting for me to return. The poolcontinues providing all with a predictable Chaos, for me it's wayward child.

il^Atzt

Ab*ts MITW

ln front room he attached to me like a leech. Clawed my neck like metal chokers, I was on his leash. Thought if he was ripped from flesh pain would digress but instead when brother was pulled away childhood was kidnapped, agony progressed because daddy didnt think his baby girl came anywhere near his corrupted son.

It was obvious I cut family ties he tried to keep knotted, back beaten, blue bruised tissue, ripped away like father-daughter relationships. Such a horrible story couldn't be true.

Still dont understand how father missed the warning signs because brother's hugs were tight like staples for his rap sheet. Forced his unwanted gifts into my young Christmas stocking. Then reality painted the color of pain. lnfected eyes, like when blue oxygen hits blood. RED.

Never released tears because I know God rocks my child to sleep every night. Then daddy's puzzle pieces fit together when his son of shining armor's DNA was found on his daughter's body.

Still can't fathom how brother had such a developed plan for his u ndeveloped ittle sister.

tht;tluot

Dr,:ttaltt Coletron U

Dontchu hate how obnoxious yo cell phone be soundin ina middle uhda night? And even thought it's on vibrate you think everybody in the house heard it. And without lookin you already know who it is. He jus gon keep callin til you pick up. Then you try not tuh sound like a boy going through puberty when you say hello. And he be like, watchu doin boo? Then you Iie and say, jus layin down, watchu doin? He says, crap, just got in da crib.

And by now you got enough energy tuh lift yourself offthe bed and look at the little alarm clock on the yellow night stand and see that it says 12:34.Then do the mental-math tuh calculate how much sleep you gon have before you gotta get up fuh schoo.

He says, so watchu do today? You think of a way tuh spice it up, but then you remember that tt's damn near one in da morning and you really shouldn't give a damn if you sound like a lame. So you say, nuttn much, jus did some laundry, clint ma room up, and work'd on ma college stuff.

You notice the green light on the back of the computer blinking. And it annoys the hell outta you. So you switch positions. And make yoself mo comftable. And close yo eyes (with every intention of feeding him the necessary uh-huhs and yea-yea-yeahs as needed.)

But all the while he's waitin. He's waitin fuh you to ask him about what he did. Butchu never do cuzyou kin pretty much guess. After a brief awkwardness, he goes ahead and tells you anyway. Afta school, he went to da crib, dropped off his bookbag, kick d it wit some friends, then got back in da crib and called you. You don't

gotta ask wut'kicking it" consists of , cuz you already know. But for a split second, you kinda wanna ask him if he eva gits tired of it all. Pretendin that a Tuesday night is actually a Friday night and wut not. Butchu don't. Cuz maybe you're roo sleepy and can't find da words. Or maybe you're fed up with being the sensible one. And you wanna fit the stereotype for a change, and think like a teenager. So you don't reply.

Like clockwork he asks, why you so quiet? And your ambiguous response is, jus thinkin. But this answer is good enough fuh him, cuz even though he wanna ask, he low-key like bein able tuh fill in the blanks.

By and by, the two of you keep up an unimportant convo filled with insignificant little details until he gets to the inevitable: watchu doin tomar? The obvious reply is, kickin it witchu. Butchu say, I dunno. This ain't the answer he want and he says sumthin that makes you giggle despite your lack of sleep. And not that wholesome giggle you git from a family-approved G-rated movie either-but the kinda gigglin you do in secret, perhaps thinkin about a dirty limerick or sumthin.

Sooner or later he remembers that you not the only one who gotta go tuh schoo in a morning, so he says, good night boo. The cell phone light goes out. You plug in the charger cuz now it's 1:37 and you know da battery shot. While you puttin the phone back underneath the polka dot pillow, you notice how suffocatin the silence kin be. Now you're stuck alone ina quietly dark suburban bedroom thinkin bout the likelihood of one of the adults walkin past in the middleofda night for a glass of water and overhearing your convo. Dontchu just hate that?

ildc fleTLp

The only one Of its kind A burnt Potato chip Crispy with Brown spots Amongst the Golden backround

?rr?,kt, P&qr,,rl

While walking down the produce isle you'll see many things. Angry apples arguing, fighting for the crunchiest Peaches throwin'parties and flirting with the plums. Bananas bumpin' music, bustin' their bad-ass moves And cutesy cuddly clementines cryin'for their mamas, Even pungent pineapples pimpin'allthe pears. The produce isle comes to life, but only when you're on a high.

J/" X^*,1 UK

Silencelthe land ls cringing

The first great inhale men detest, The final exhale, Earth is burning.

The eyes are crylng, Covered by dry film, the hit immodest, Silencelthe land is cringing.

The lungs are suffocating, Coughing under toxic fumes, thick as pneumonia congest, The final exhale, Earth is burning.

nii Ctlrrtq,

The body is choking, Swallowed by a grey cloud, without rest, Silencelthe land is cringing.

The sky, boiling blood red, is speaking, Cream of mushroom cloud pours infectious debris to rest, The final exhale, Earth is burning.

A unique gift, life, is dying, An aftermath cruel and painful at best, The final exhale, Earth is burning. Silence! the land rs cringing.

the Mustnrd rtuiliflt in the [,lliry f,ells

The earth lres torn and disturbed, revealrng its coarse naked underside.The blackened ground resembles the grey sky. lt is upon the yellow twilight do they burn, vomit and die.

lVlrst approaches. The thick blanket glides across the barren center.Those who hide pry outside of their holes to see its beauty.lts pure color takes them out of the carnage for the briefest of seconds.Theywitness its purity.Then its itching. Then its burning. The gas burns their eyes. It/en fall over, screeching in pain. Charge. Suicidal marches break through the teary mist, steaming through with their alien apparati snug to their cold faces. Fodder and explosions meet them midway through their charge, annihilating the braves and idiots.The men in the trenches release their cartridges, smashing the charging nemeses'gas masks.Then, all comes quiet to these killing fields.The murderers pull themselves and their fallen brothers back in to

Pnul Deriel

their miles of crevasses, leaving the other casualties to their cynical fate in No-lt/an's-Land.

A gasp for air. A terror erupts from this hoarse cry of life. A young boy lies wounded in a ditch somewhere in the wasteland. Gory fluids erupt from his mouth as he vomits. He hacks uncontrollably. Broken. ln front of him lies the corpse of his last hope of survival: his gas mask. lf he were to somehow survive, heh need to get a replacement mask, before the enemy was to close his show with the yellow curtain. With the motrvation to live, the grimy-haired boy drags himself to the edge of the ditch.The terror had already been unleashed. A thick cloud of mustard gas ls slowly approaching. Frantically, he scurries back down into the ditch.

One of his brothers lies face down in the dirt, the back of his cloth uniform frayed from bullet wounds. The boy turns face up so that he may remove the r^nask. A lurid gash protrudes through

the glass goggles of the mask, cleaving the eye socket of the dead soldier. Useless. He crawls to the next divot, over a mound of loose earth.

Three bodies. Two have their faces stuck with shrapnel. The third is sitting up against a dirt clod.The boy stumbles to him The soldier is dying, but not yet dead. The boy removes the soldier's gas mask. He's an officer. He gags and coughs, spewing blood onto his blue uniform. The officer tries to speak but only releases ghastly hacks. Prize in hand, the boy turns to go. In their once romanticized tongue, the officer asks,'What are you doing?"

The boy continues to crawl away, grappling his was up the mound of dirt. The gas cloud is meters from the boy.'Are you some kind of deserter?'The officer sees the cloud. With quick, thoughtless motions, he

pulls out his pistol and bursts two missiles into the thief. The boy falls into the ditch below.

The gas mask tumbles from his hands. Out of reach. His face hits the dirt as if it were a pillow.The softness cradles him from his last minutes. Thud, thudl lMore gas canisters are fired off. One plummets down into the ground next to the boy. Click, tssss.The sulfuric sadism pours out. Nigh immediately the boy's breaths become more violent. His rasps suck down the grisly vapor. Seeping down into him, its gruesomeness razors his throat, grating it like cheese. Such a highconcentrated dose; it tears through him, burning and mutilating his flesh.

Lying in a ditch amongst his brothers in the killing fields, the boy dies. His casualty, unnoticed. His life, forgotten. Only to become a part of the statistic.

{,e !*f Van

Confusing the dead to heal the sick,

Hands stitch together inch by inch, Preserving the sound of a transient tick.

Lame or suffering, with sweat to wick He squeezes lifeless limbs with a pinch, Confusing the dead to heal the sick.

With fingers nimble, fast and frantic Latex fumbles flesh in a clinch, Preserving the sound of a transient tick.

A needle through skin he must pick, tVlending wounds in just a cinch, Confusing the dead to heal the sick.

His masked face gives the flashlight a click, Props open an eye not fit to flinch, Preserving the sound of a transient tick.

Paddles pressing down in panic, The patient convulses in a cringe, Confusing the dead to heal the sick, Preserving the sound of a transient tick.

Photo by Sarah Graham

Both images by Joanne Ragalle

Claire Dain

Liz BearrJ

&n,eh

I make my wishes

Upon the pearls

You gave me.

l've walked The tiled floors That you once paced I say your prayer

At the table Set for three. I pride myself

On the fears With you lfaced

Ncr i$

lflash a grin

With the smile They say l've taken I fight For things Youd know I should I let myself Know when l've Been shaken I share Love with those You wish you could.

I pray

You hear the ocean

As l'd want you to. I accepted The tears you Forced from my eye I embraced Your arms in The wind that blew I set my sights

On the stars Where you now lie

\f,^ghls the Morut^g $to Mry*^ Kwakwa

She noticed, at first, when he started to sway, right to left, right to left. "lt/aybe he's dancing...' she whispers, with a sigh-soft as baby's breath-but tonight everyone knows that Buck Anderson's not dancing-no: that's a man, gin ln his guts, howling so loud that God heard the sound

Echoed like a legend, that miserable sound, like sinners on judgment day, with a roar that made the trees sway.

She told him stop-'Aww, BucklCome on!"-but no; he persisted, so they left.

Buck droops on her dlmples and she wishes that tonight he would have just stayed home, and then, she could have really gone dancing

"l love dancingl

She remembered the stomp to every beat and the beat to every sound. lf she had got the chance tonight, you would have seen that Donna twist and sway like a breeze on the tip of a kiss; but they had left. She didn't hate him usually-no-

she just wished that one day he'd grow up. No one understood that Buck was like a severed wing dancing on the shoulder of a broken bird;crushed.The first time he left she said Amen but when he returned, he made a sound that mellowed her heart.Then, two months later, again with his sway and it started all over, the nights, like tonight. So that's when she snapped. "Just wanted to let loose tonight Buck!'Squeezing his neck, he screamed,'Jesus help me!'l but no angel in heaven dared disturb the fury that painted her grin. The sway of her legs as her feet made dents and her arms dancing to the rhythm of her palpitating veins until he made no sound, and all she could hear was the bell in the chapel as it swung from right to left,

right to left. That's when she realizes that tonight is her morning after. No more lndian summers and cocktail dresses;no more dancing wind chimes and leaves that tumble, and roll, and sway.

She wished she'd left when freedom had called;when no lock was without a key, when the only sound was of children dancing, when the sway of passion had entranced her. she wished she'd run tonight, tonight.

0"1,(/

Although his name is meant to roll smoothly With its "r" and accented "u" His name collected on my mother's tongue ln drops of sour milk, Each time more spoiled Regardless, I stayed true

l've been the border, The mortar between tiles And so as I grow they become entirely different nations Our visits meant an absence of rules, Freedoms my mother spat on Always an enticing subject

Black and White movies of lust, death and war He never believed in protecting the youth from reality Why should he?

As a child he'd have to retrieve H is incapacitated, intoxicated Jefe From cobblestone streets

\of* Dorontet

Our visits were 99 cent bags of sour gummies, Wheels of lt/arzipan with a red rose on the wrapper

The lingering sting of cilantro, Crushed garlic cloves And tortilla strips drying on a cutting board by the window lwould garden his walls with glossy cut outs From National Geographic's And acrylic paintings of my own.

He told me he measured our relationshrp By the floors of the apartments he lived in Right off the red line Grandville stop

When he lived on the second floor It was suitable for one man And the overnight stays of a six year old However, out the window there was nothing But pigeons'hoots, grey feather bits, Wire pentagons and red brick He felt lh grown into the need to see more life

art by Elena Buis

',i\

When he lived on the seventh floor

I could see the lake spread out An even blue line above blurred cars And stacks ofgrays and tans

I could watch the sunrays stab through in the morning But the Iiving space was but a mere single room Not for the stays of an eleven year old

And so the fourth floor it was Just the right size for both of us, But that's when I stopped showing

He still pulls up in his stick shift car Every once in a while His black mustache rising when he sees me He forces philosophers with peeling covers into my hands like Krishnamurti And CD s of Lola Beltran's cries And he speaks to me of the ego planets we create

1 200?-2010

ftsz,zt AW* Xovril'Qzrtza

lVy stomach tightens when I look at his distant, chalky blue eyes.

From our short, but long-awatted lunch conversation, he's withdrawn, And l'm not quite sure why l'm overwhelmed so with this stark surprtse

lnstead of the usualjokes and the well-intended advice, He impulsively complains of being treated as a pawn. Nly stomach tightens when I look at hls distant, chalky blue eyes.

His questions for me are not as they should be, of school and cute guys,

But if my love is stronger for him than Nonna. And then it dawns, And l'm not quite sure why l'm overwhelmed so with this stark surprise.

I can't stand when l'm there. He spends his time trying to tncise Opinions into my head, when in a matter of days, l'm gone.

It/y stomach tightens when I look at hls distant, chalky blue eyes.

tti{, f U r\ tD \Avq. Slrt' of a,T I vt o bdrc{ "

I remember his giggles and card games; I used to think him wise. Now it's "She hates me" or "They all steal from me" his spirit is drawn And l'm not quite sure why l'm overwhelmed so with this stark su rPrise.

I couldn't bear to break down his terrorized heart, instead I feed lies, And avoid this feeble-minded man's sorry: he's all undergone. For I know he loves me and has a kind heart, despite his disguise. So I take his moth-ball perfumed Euros: our abstracted goodbyes.

Jot/L,uur/. -!oro/ -!tw"Lo"rr

The crest of waves Forms fresh coves Of white The plaque Covers foam mess While eroding dirt

\\\\\

My Luetfryu

ln class the other day, having a first person conversation with my pen and paper scattered across my desk. How dare she have the audacity We're going at it. to tell me what's important.

Cai[y^^ Sfi/{tey

,CAILYNN STURKEY DO YOU HEAR IVIE!?,

Until my algebra teacher abruptly distracts us. Wrapping and twistrng her crooked fingers, smacking my lined paper Black eyeing my thoughts Punching my poems. She yells,'TH15 lS NOT IIVPORTANTI' I want to ask her,

She doesn't know the slightest bit about me. That l'm born from a mother

Who let her drug addiction Choke her up in local bathroom stalls. From a father who leaves me hanging, like Reading a book with the last page ripped out. And her unwillingness has me sitting u neasy as she's creasing my lined paper ripping my thoughts, spitting on my poemS.

And as she comes near, it becomes clear that my name never rolled off her tongue gracefully

It kind of slithered through gritted teeth so instead of causing a scene I hold onto my words, dry swallow verbs, shoving them back down my broken throat.

Until 1 1:03 when the bells ring I collect my lined paper Hold them close lrke the number 11 And I would like to thank my algebra teacher for giving me the equation to this poem.

7T" Uy and. the Rose

Little Lily Lady

Leaning on the vase

Petals perched in preparation Pecking for a place

Little Lily Lady

Looking as of lace

The liquid level lowers but It's covering her face

Little Lily Lady

Laughing in her case

And her stem, it slowly breaks Cracking at the base

Little Lily Lady

Learning ofthe chase

To retain those long lost loves Goodness, gowns and grace

The Rose stands alone The Grass looks on The Rose sees the Grass Sweating in the sun

llly M,6u

The Grass feels the crush

Of running, rosy feet

The lovers go to pluck the rose

In the morning heat

The lt/an receives his punishment His finger bleeds and thrills

The Queen has been uprooted And on descends the chill

Kebeccn freci1Mnrder

It is what it can never be A mass of unchangeable force, Like stoic ripples tearing away

At a lily pondThe majesty of destruction The conquest of starvation And of course, the acrid hatred of manipulation lvlanipulation of my mother To take a definite body So wholly together With the blood thumping, thumping And the smile crying, crying

For a life, for a purpose But all purposes must be names So this mom spits holy water into my eyes like A black widow whispers venom to its prey Shoving the ancient breath of the Bible down my throbbing throat before my lungs could expand and appreciate air Stated to be Rebecca lsaac's wife Because she was a beautifulwoman of the Lord-It is what it never can be.

Tahji Dixon

Jofto ilut-a*te.,t

I felt like an adult in clicking heels and with my hands wrapped around a thermos coffee cup. smelled doughnuts on the steps to the platform and it reminded me that my stomach was whining and eating itself. But then I thought about actually eating and I had to suppress a wave of nausea. lt was one of those Sunday mornings when you wake up, open your eyes and cringe. I woke up with my cheek on the edge of the mattress, my face tilted towards a trash can reeking of throw up. But it didn't stop me from getting up on time and walking to the el stop. Getting too drunk is never an excuse.

I waited on the platform letting out clouds of breath that caught the light just right. The train heading in the undesired direction roared behind me and I felt the speed through my hair. ln a foggy state I sat down at a bench next to a woman, twentysomethrng and slightly overweight. She sighed, this is a beautiful day, she said it more to the rooftops than to me but I responded, yea. Small talk stressed me out so I pushed my

headphones in, hoping it wasn't too rude. lt would make the wait less tedious. I always picked a song to fit the setting. lt made me feel like I was in the artsy scene of a movie, especially on a morning like this one.I liked to pretend lwas that kid in a movie with the tragic background, discovering an identity. Not that I wanted a tragic background, but it would sure make things more interesting. Way more interesting than going to a school where the attentron-cravrng boys take up drug dealing more for the image than the money. But most of those privileged douche bags probably do it to feel like a kid in a movie scene, so maybe l'm no better than them. Finally the green line arrived on our side. Out of habit I moved in the direction of the potential stopping place of the first car. I was taught that the first car is the safest. Then, following basic train manners, I let the people off before entering. I felt eyes on my steps to the first available window seat. looked past my vague reflection to the passing views. We passed the Garfield Park Conservatory where

a group of kids struggled with a hula hoop in the parking lot. lt made me smile. Anyone watching me would probably think it was weird that lwas smiling to myself. We were now gliding through an area filled with abandoned factories and empty lots with weeds and glass bleeding through cracks in the concrete. There were abandoned two-flat buildings, some with singed windows. lt was the west-side, off-limit zone where I would never think of entering. But with all these images sliding past, I realized it was a pretty sight.These rusted cars and boarded up door frames looked like an adventure and they were, I guess you could say, romantic.You would only understand if you saw rt.

Although I felt guilty for this, I couldn't help but notrce that I was the only white person in the train car at this point. And then I questioned if I was in fact feeling guilty, or if I only told myself I felt guilty becauselknewlshould.

With my headphones in, the conversations around me were meaningless. A man in a white sox hat and bears.jersey had a half-missing smile and used gestures with every word. A woman was cackllng into

her phone, loud enough to seep through my music.

Then a pair of eyes made contact with mine and I automatically turned towards the window.

The bulging eyes belonged to an older woman who was alone, but her lips never stopped moving. You could tell that she wasn't quite here, that something was off. ltried to catch glimpses of her without her eyes catching mine, but she seemed to want to make eye contact. I froze up. This wasn't the first time I had shared a train car with the typical crazy old women babbling nonsense and obscenities to no one in particular.

But they always intrigued me. I wanted to be genuine and not judge her to the point of being scared. I should be able to look her in the face and smile. ltold myself, she probably needs a smile. But I was taught to stay away from her and that's what I did. I already knew I wasn't genuine. lf I were a genuine person I wouldn't have taken into consideratron that face that I was the only white person. At least I was aware...right?

I turned my music all the way off, but I didnt take my headphones out to avoid drawing attention to myself. With my music off, all the conversations throughout the filled car braided together. I tried to focus on the words of the crazy woman. lt was almost impossible because all the words were slurred and melted together.

I kept my face towards the window but I left my ears open, trying to pinpoint the distinguishable words in the flow of babbling. The train came to a stop and I saw the reflection of the woman stand and move towards the door. For some reason I didn't expect her to walk like a normal person. Before the "doors closing' announcement she glided into the frame of my window in her ankle-length dress. Without an ominous pause or tentative step she moved steadily onto the railing. Before I could register her movements she had disappeared over the side.The howling and gasps were muffled, under water.

I didnt want to pay attention to the reactions, it would be dishonoring. I closed my eyes and tried to imprint the memory of her face on my eyelids. lt didnt want to remember her by a form rising and falling over the railing. I didn't want to know the condition of her body below the train tracks.

tVy body started shaking and I scrambled to find my phone to call someone, anyone. Like everyone, I needed to make this about myself. I was no better than the crowd gawking over the railing. Wasn't this what I wanted? Sick as it sounds...Everyone wants an occurrence to break the routrne. Everyone wants a reason to point to an article in the Chicago Tribune and say,'l was therel' lassumed the world would freeze just now. How could things continue when everything seemed so backwards? But the train doors closed and everything rumbled to a start. lt was as though nothing had happened. lt made me realize how fast it all had happened.

The metal poles, seats, signs and windows began to spin and my mouth began to water. leaned over the seat with a gag.

%" &\c,b,

All I hear is your skipping record: You know? You know? You know? No.ldon't know.

I don't know why l'm your amphetamine dump, Your drag-down chump, your compliment pump, Your manifest slump, your last-chance jump, and why you're the lump in my throat when lt/om asks what the money she gave me last week has been spent on.

I feel like I can't escape this pseudo abyss You've dug me into. All I can see are the solar constellations. The realities of my life are there, But you won't let me see them. Your patheticness begs to stargaze And pull bait into this hole. It's the only way you can manage to feed it.

Love is a surreal measurement, Yet, you chant it as often as I blink.

NlgWiQ'&Npna

I can',t get over your waxy smile, Your wanton guile, your complaint pile, Your childish bile, your slipp'ry tile, And yet all the while I read into it like a gullible guard to my self-esteem.

I don't know you use me.

I don't know why I let you use me

I remember Lying on my black bed spread at night, The one inviting me to sleep, It4y eyelids are heavy as elephants And my mind as scattered as a mosaic, Scratching my dark-toned puff-ball of a cat, And listening to your record scratch repeatedly

And now I hold this damaged disc in my hands, 5o fragile, really. One nudge and it could. Well, you know?

A Typtcal Eventng

(\cene opens to night time in an upper class English household. HEATHER sits sipping tea in her chair.The doorbell rings,)

HEATHER: Dear, I do believe that they are back.

(I\/IICHAEL comes down the stairs)

IVICHAEL:Oh no, not again.

HEATHER: I thought you had gotten rid of them yesterday.

N4ICHAEL: I believed I had...

HEATHER:Well, you obviously haven't done a good job if they have returned again.

N/ICHAEL: Darling, l'm doing the best lcan.

HEATHER: I know my dear, but you should do a better job. It rsnt safe you know, with those people knocking on our door at all hours of night. I mean, have you even heard what happened to the Stevensons?

IVIICHAEL: No, I hadn't.

HEATHER: Well those people had gotten at them. They turned over, you know.

IVICHAEL:Quite a shame, really.

HEATHER: Don't I know. Christine threw such lovely parties and had the most delightful taste in dresses.

I\4ICHAEL: Ralph was a solid chap too.

becca Pea(te

HEATHER: Such a lovely couple. (Both sit in silence for a moment)

I\4ICHAEL:Oh well, not much we can do about it now, can we?

HEATHER: No, nothing at all. What is this, the fourth house this week?

IVICHAEL:The Gillians, the Yerks, the Regins, and now the Stevensons.

HEATHER: Such lovely people. Wonder who is next? (Banging is heard)

HEATHER: Darling...

A/ICHAEL: I know,l know.

(He grabs a rifle from the wall and cocks it. He goes to the window and looks out.)

HEATHER: (with a weary sigh)Who is it tonight?

l\4ICHAEL: Christine and Ralph Stevenson.

HEATHER: Be gentle dear, I rather Iiked the two of them.

IVICHAEL: l'll try my best. (Shots are heard then silence as I\'IICHAEL enters)

IVICHAEL: (cheeilly)fhat's done with. Shame they had to go zombie on us.

HEATHER: (absently turning a page of her magazine) Such a lovely couple.

,loc1luae

Soft dark skin presses into my hand

And his one following eye watches

Amusement etched into his partially open lips

Realizing that grasping two hands can make an entire dinner table stop to pray

The pitter patter of too tight Air Jordans

A small voice calling through the monitor

Quietly sucking water from a washcloth in the bathtub

Shaking wet sand form broken purple buckets

Finding amusement in the way my eyebrows crease in a concerned arch

tlannah VandeF Laan

But there are too many goodbye hugs

Small arms encircling my shoulders

Too many beginnings and too many endings

I cant keep track of the little head popping through a bundle of soft green towels

So learn not to fall

And how to love a ladybug

Even one with no home

The €p;lqlt of €tteran aaoL Detuee

Lelter

lo

on C{oboro

ln the end, we'll all sprout the shade of a dingy silk curtain; we call the color guilt. We rise from ash pulling silver blades from our lips because it hurts to speak truth when it is either backhanded or bad words spilling like an accordion. From the beginning, we don't expect to be forgotten; to play music folded in threes, like baby clothes pushed to the back of a dresser.

h,z- Colcaoo

Burdens have stagnant eyes in the dark. But child, you'll never know this:

There were no mistakes wlth you. Your parents ran backwards by the hold of adulthood's chains. Let you go at fourteen. Let you become an eighth grade memory swept to the back of classrooms next to suspensions and lost essays. Swore you were not either of their faults. But if you were to be anything like your mother, you'd have her hands. Cradling her face one feather finger at a time. Still breaking her cheeks like stones of girl gossip. You'll never know this

No one ate lunch the week we heard about your parents; an afterschool secret ruining honor roll kids-the inevitable we said. Just as bad. l'll tell you, the cotton mouthed silence was the worst thing. Something selfish, like your father: a curly-haired Puerto Rican sliding his number to the next pretty girl after your abortion. He wasn't one second proud, walking away, head pulled down into the parachute crown of her belly. lt wasn't long before he closed his eyes.

He didn't come to your makeshift funeral. I used to think the second your life ended, remorse would pile high and sturdy as a sand dune inside of them. But your mother, Desiree, smelled of eucalyptus bath water to soak herself clean of your traces. Estevan, your father, labeled himself an athlete and a man, probably for the quickness of his back turning. Swearing, on their lives, your abortion never happened with any sigh of regret. Never wanting to admit they've been dropped to the surface of guilt's burning star, too early, and they still turn on hesitance to feel sorry for you. I knoweach of their hands could turn dust back to stone.They knowyour beginning would have hurt less than this.

Guubry Cadilla,

the Wind Cries lMary

on the radio: work blows but squeaking tables spotless moshing mop till floor cries uncle works up an easy sweat wiped off on reek of rag left over lasagna and Pam on spatula sallow wilting lettuce so as I am already spinning on an axis when I hang-up grungy apron promises of back tomorrow floating easy on tongue flip sign in fraudulent apology "Sorry,We're Closed" sorry indeed cry chinks of little doorbells thrusting sooty me to pit empty parking lot

crawl and creep harbinger where shadows were running like rats after the four pipers bending to pick a navy toking in adversely bold vanity the game is not rank No

It is too dreary dream of a night Turning on a axis

I am standing on the ground or at least I hung like that a moment ago

I am spinning

Peach pit deep in intestine tick jerk in calf at even intervals a muttering chirp of ear crickets a tickle in the groin

evuvua llgt{

all toying plea for skin dives

billiard balls and crass dim lights go-around and drive byes raspberry tongues blueberry eyes

raw leather skin creases drawn tight and rib and angle of collarbone tremor of cheek mine to whet my appetite cowboy Cadillac leave lr/ary behind

/at K^o,u How ( Do BuLW Gl*na"

So I step up in da spot, right?

Got the dim lights. Party music. Speakers high Top, Jeans low. You know.

Li'l skull belt - | had to do it. Few people I know anxious Tryna see what imma do. 5o I do the whole nod thing Like,"What up doe?"

Attention back to da dance flo. Now dat's when I see shorty.

Shorty. Be. Straight. JoCKlNi fi4et

Ok, ok - so I slides ova to da table, right?

Cuz I want one of those red cups.

You know, the kind with a li'l sum'n, sum'n inside. I knew it wasn't nothin'but a matter of time -

Yeah shorty, they call me Tech 9. Naw, I see you though. Got the li'l dress, leggings. What?l

You might have a boyfriend, but what he gotta do wlt me? And so on, so forth. That's all there is to it really. Hit'er with the woomty-woomp-woomp - you know how I do. And after that - it's all Gucci.

Sherry Yuan

U,nilrn

Mrch€llL trfillnyus

1.

The girl took her Polnte shoe ribbons that were plnk and sewed them with the thread. The instructor warned her that her blisters were bad and to be careful so that blood wouldnt seep through her tights. But she was too excited to worry about it because she was going to be wearing her new tutu and leotard center stage with her clean fingernails because she was taught with discipline to do so in French.

16e"r*"1ry .{\ebJry

A brief discussion on the effect of an understatement on generalizations and generals and Gerald Ford and white elastic and cotton for the use of covering ones more secretive anatomy. A nalVe class of many mandibally enhanced mammalia closely related to those known as Homo sapiens.

Known by most as the dysfunctionally sundry group of insiders and outsiders between the ages of 13 and responsibility.

Flining between the bored reclination of early afternoon and the excrtement of their hampered and diminished nocturnal livelihoods.

They come quietly but with a wallop, wham, whump, whomp, rap, thud and a sock;with a pyretic zest of hot air and the cool of an arctic icebox.

They are the cream of wheat and the creamed corn of the harvested cuisine,

.-bl\ 3€r3hdz-

And yet they are the most wanted and most feared and among those the most upheld by the common authorities of blue-poloed postcol legiate footba I players. Aboveboard on the boardwalk above the influence of only the bitter boredom but bored nonetheless.

Feelings assocrated with the natural nature of this contraption of truth, lies and other philosophical elements.

All leading to an accident, similar to that of a puff-chested robin who observably has a burning passion for the taste of lower oceanic regions compressed into a clear hindrance of flight

Previously they gazed as their tlme and life slithered onward and the hands of a quartz-synched ring of numerical figures began accelerating beyond the average one-onethousand pace ofthe norm

They are left roadside to become what is

expected, to become senescent in body, mind and outlook.

Yet for those who so wish, the members of the fore-mentioned faction, to partake in the daydreams so often savored mid-metaphor in a mathematic standoff, And hope that what willfollow the gloriousness of our callow years will be similar to current trends.

All is more rebellious and radical as once pondered in a grade-school desk in years past.

The foundation of the fountain of flowing freedom of thought and the immaturity of even the most mature, Lies apart from the retromingent feline in a headdress and the many-named fuzz-ball tended to by lVlary and digested by you with mint jelly.

This wellguarded and regarded secret is the essence of every essentially every outlet of angst enjoyed by that so-called plague of the

parkway and pestilence of a quiet classroom.

It is the chaos and commotion and locomotion of the ocean or the sea.

The wave nearing its doom on the glassy isles of a cold upper peninsula has a notion that its final motion will be seen across sands.

And as it falls to demise and creation it revels in its final act of rebelry.

l+appy btF[hdoJ Ib tAe

Hoppy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday to Le Kejl is that Auntie screaming?

Le tc14 gaurlson

Auntie on my fourteenth birthday do you remember how swole your lips were? you could barely spoon cake past your thickened bottom lip that hung as low as your head when uncle Dana was around you said I was old enough to know now that he hits you

Right hookl Right Hookl

He likes to make your face into Picasso's artwork beats the birthmark from under your cheek

I forgot what you looked like without raccoon and eyes and mascara to make the bruise gorgeous when the sun's up he turns romantic runs ice baths so skin don't well and brown ain't purple

He says don't cry!

Right hook! Stand up!

Right hooklWho you lookin'at like that girl?

Kickl

2. After blood and water on her skin she says his hands described the anger of a man whose mother never taught him to hold his temper and cherish a woman's skin he pours alcohol on the open cut to make sure she squirms and begs when he leaves I sit and watch her rub ice on the hills made to her face looks like his knuckles played soccer on my cheeks she says I remember his fist the one with a diamond on the ring finger every time a carat contacted my jaw I gargled glitter in my blood I remember how he first loved me

Right hook! Right hook! Casket!

3. Auntie on my 17'h birthday I laid a rose on your casket your face plastered with peace and you didn't fight to remain beautiful. you just were Happy birthday to me, hoppy birthday to me happy birthday to Le Keja, Auntie you're finolly free

il^ttta funryksn{

ln 3rd grade I learn to call 91 1.

Heard a scream from my parents bedroom, Followed by cries to my father, How could you do this to me? How could you do this to the children?

A window shattered like childhood of a little girlwho was forced to listen because pillow barricades couldn't keep a mother's scream from battering her daughter's heart.

And their screams echo so I have to open my windows

Just to let their sound out.

I was a 7 year old forced to realize, that 91 I was an invisible lifeline, Suckling my mother's veins. Stopping her from shattering Like the glass she was pushed into.

That night, my parents taught me to mime. Showed me that it was okay to pull invisible strings, and build boxes around me. Because unlike them those walls won't let me down. Those strings will tie me together, When their insecurities beat too closely to my box.

I lost my relationship with my father that night. Built walls around myself, 5o he could never get too close. I didn't want 9'l 1 to do their job.

I realize my parents have fought over me since I was conceived. It/other prayed for a little girl to manifest her ideas of perfection. Said I was supposed to be named Love.

But that's not what he thought I was made of Gave me a name bearing the word SCAR.

Sherry. Casey. Ann. Reuter. That's all I am to him. Because 7 year olds don't understand therr parents'fight, And that doesn't mean they want to kill each other It doesn't mean you betray your father.

So I built walls around me, Pulled on invisible strings to tie myself together, And put up walls no one could see. Because when screams echo inside my head, They have to have something to bounce offof

TundrR

It was a Thursday night in late June, temperatures hadn't quite reached their peak yet, but it had still been a scorching day and became a chill evening. The two of them sat on a log with a low crackling emanating from the ground in front of them. Dark red embers glowed below a low flame which cast shallow shadows along the ridges of their faces.Their eyes glossed over from fatigue and the entrancing dance of the warmth in front of them.They only had one blanket, and were thus sitting very close huddled underneath.

"l've been thinking-" ,'yeah?"

'And was wondering how we got herel' "Where?"

"l dunno.' 'Well why were you wondering?"

'l started wondering about here, what it is. Then I wondered how we arrived to this destinationl' "Don't thlnk so muchl' "Yeahl'

They draw in closer, one leaning more heavily on the other, and both begin to watch the low crackling that casts their faces dark and reddish with an unsettling comfort. One looks up and for once, sees the sky. "Lookl' "what?' "lt's not orange anymore. No more red, or yellow. lust black and whitel

"H-uh, I hadn't looked up since we leftl "lt's... Beautiful"

The glow now only catches the very lower regions of their faces and necks, their eyes now glittered with millions of white hot infernos. "What do you think is up there?' "Fue! "ls that all?" "Coldl'

"lt's endless, that can't be alll' "Creatron and destruction. Anything and everything is out therel' "You think we'll ever be out there?"

"We sure as hell can tryJ'

They gaze upwards seeing eternity and nothing. Vast emptiness and everything they could ever dream of. They see light, but every dot is surrounded by a black void. Their necks no longer have shadows frolicking along them, the flames have withdrawn to shelter beneath and within the wood. The logs whisper a slow inconsistent rhythm.

"We should sleepl 'l want to think some morel' 'l want to live some more, sleep will allow thatl' "l guess I can lay down with youl'

'Okay, l'm gonna get a bit closer to the embers. lt's too damned coldl'

Slowly they move from their sitting positions and lay down on the red soil next to the dying flames. One looks into the inferno, the other looks straight up into the millions of them above. With a deep sigh, they fall asleep with shallow shadows dancing across their faces.

/n the Kenlm otthe 0tuen frrnd1 Iquirrel

The bright scent of acorns lingers

Beacons in a sea of leaves

The D;t;E fuoonhr

I start peddling down the asphalt... tktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktktk

Delre VAttuett;

The bike keeps making that ticking noise want some q u ietktktktktktktktktktktktktktkt Da m m itktktktktktktktktktktktktktkt

i just t kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt a I I t h e way passed the school. the library. the theatre. And lntoThe Park. The park where it will all happen. The park where i have to make that decisionnnnNNNNNNNNNRRRRrrrrrr.

Stupid car, driving around at 2 AA/. i tktkt all the way to a tree, and there's a mass just lying there.

It's a Coatktktktktkt. Amanina coatktktkt. A man trying to sleep in the cold in a coatkt. iwoke him up with that last loud tkt. and he asks me for change, so he can eat breakfast when the sun rises. i have none, and i'm not lying. And he starts crying. And i start crying. And i cry away, tkting all the way to her house, justktkt to see if she's still there. tktktktkt kt ktkt ktktkt

Notktktkt one lightktkt on in the housssSssHlRKl

As the bike stoops momving, ijust stand there. It's getting cold and my fingers are starting to go

numb. i t kt ba c k to Th e Pa rkt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt kt ktkt kt kt kr kt

And then home... but i have to visit his house too. Pstktktktktkt the theatre, butktkt notktkt pastktkt the library, i think to myself as the cold wind rushes pastkt my face. And there it issssSSSHlRKl Only one light is on. His light.

and he's just sitting on his bed, reading. i stand in the cold and admire until i can't feel my hands.

And i startkt biking home again.

The nightktkt was beautiful now, The lr4oon waning against a purple sky Cirrus clouds surrounding it to resemble an Eye His Eye...

And he was there for me, and she wasn't,

And all i could think about was them both, i had her and didn't have him, i wanted him and didn't want her, I knew how lwould decide tomorrow tktktktktktktktkktktktktktktktkktktktktktktktktktktkrktktktktkt

It was cold. lgot home and allwas numb except for the warm tear sliding down my c h ee ktktktktktktktkt.... rktktktktktkt... tktktkr... tkt... tk

Grace Jolicoeur

Owen Brady is a common cupid with an eco-criminalfaqade

Damien Jones might be the new Jersey Shore exchange student at OPRF Emma Lister is immaculate

Hannah Vander Laan is a bandersnatch

Amanda Hoyle has legs long enough to reach the ground

Vaughn Russell designs buildings shaped like rubber duckles

Conlribc,lor Sios

Natalia Lang prefers Cinesticks to pet mice

Becky Barron spits more game than GB

Helen Beilinson's hero is a caterpillar

Eric Duwe can be found hiding out in his camp's wagon somewhere in Europe, scanvenging for food

Grace Ryan is the most beautiful woman l've ever seen

Frankie Pelligrini is doin'fine watching shadows on the wall

Jordan Gamble is sleek like a Snidget

Becca Pearce is not going to let her badminton inadequecies get in the way of her becoming a fashion model

A/aggie Schurr is the Lil'Wayne to your Gucci A/lane

Sofia Dorantes can't shake the mental image of badly organized knapsacks

Ariella Chavarria wades through piles of abominable sandwiches

Nico Curtin won't let you see into the windows of his soul

Wesley Sapp is the be-all, end-all

Kymiah Taylor has a peach tart heart

Ashley Kohlrus is the walrus

Elena Buis wishes it were socially acceptable to carry lace parasols and wear corsets in this day and age

Taja-Nia Horne is flabbergasted by random spatu las

It/aryAnn Kwakwa dreams about Chipotle and strawberry ice cream at least twice a week

Anna Carlson is a jammer from beyond

lsabelia Herrera is so cool they named a dinosaur after her

Jingyi Liu is my mom Sara lt/cCall has been sent to the hall

Le Keja Dawson isn't a crime...yet

Ellen Tharp's lipgloss is poppin'

Sarah Streit's greatest ambition is to become immortal. And then die. Also, she knows sunglasses are always cool It/aria ltlurray has a stalker (shhh...don't tell)

Alysa Levi-DAncona predicts an incremental rrse in pi neapple construction

Alex Reynes states the obvious

llse A/iller dreams lace dreams

Benji Bloch is a rambunctious rascalfrom the ghettoes of Lithuania

Christian Robinson has answers for the MASSES

Tahji Dixon has learned the meaning of zeugma

Evan Twichell is an old woman who lives in a shoe (a manly IVIAN shoe)

Caitlin Fallahay just realized that she has never written anything from a male point of vlew

Darcy Hargadon is reaching down into the spectrum of her own identity...whatever the hell that means.

Cailynn Sturkey ain't no turkey

Lauren Davis is all the rage and then some

Victoria Loong is rockin'that Asian Persuasion... ninja style

Alexis It/ia Phillips Daniel Day Lewis

Allison Arlacy won,t stop the realism

Abby Lyons once sang Love Story to a homeless man named Romeo

Samantha A/ohammod boxes better than Ali

Bridet Reinhard will hunt down cushions in her spare time

Ben l\4ildenhall attempted a Liszt of classical composers but had to go Bach because he couldn't get a Handel on it

Alec lVartin sits near the destroyer of worlds

Ryan Brown is a bamf

It/ahala lt4iller is good at Almonds

Kelly Reuter has zingers up her sleeves like dollar bills

Sherry Yuan would totally survive a zombie apocolypse because #'l : she'll eat absolutely anything and #2: she can sew that pair of pants into a canvas tent with some oral-B

Kevin Sloane dreamt he was an architect

John Bergholz spends his time acquiring the necessary wherewithal for the nefarious enterprises associated with his profession. Viragos, however, is rud mentary.

A/ia Rocha is a ray of sunshine

Harry lt/cDonough...duh nuh...duh nuh...duh nuh duh nuh duh nuh DUH NUH NUHI

Jaymie Guerrera is the infamous black sports bra

Corey lvlcCarey is a blatent pen thief

Will Kemper's snozzberries taste like snozzberries

Renata Voci is a reckless goddess

Lawler Coe has wall to wall feelings

Alex Botts is lVary, Queen ofThoughts

Grace Jolicoeur is a supernatural woman who spies surprise

Peyton Brennock gives no excuses after sundown

Ultra lt/cCurry don't need no regrets

Kris lVlurray is made of Day-Glo sunrays

Shane B is a mystery man

Joanne Ragalie is a massacre of clues

IMaggie Karlin is ringin'that bell for the time that flies

Zhaleh BassiriRad has got the world dizzy again

Keith Searing swims after squids on Saturday evenings

Katie Kurtz is your chch-ch-ch-cherry bomb

OIiver Killam juggles invisible zombie zebras

Julie Klock can butter toast with the finesse ofa thousand suns

Brittany Coleman has adrenaline running through her fingertips

Liz Beard is Kim Possible in disguise

Sam l\/rkvicka isfahdhlkneacka

Eric Cybulski doesn't understand, his poetry kills

Asia Calcagno may or may not have a continent named after her

Claire Dain is a singular shop girl

Becky A/arder is more of a Betty, if you ask me

Paul Deziel walks like Schwarzenegger and cuddles like your teddy bear

Claire Helwig is an albatross in the pony field

Robert LaPore is more than good... he's great

Claire Doty regurgitates flowers

Sarah Graham cracker

Lauren Steinke has that leg...you know

Alex A/oon knows that he knows what he doesn't know

Sherry Reuter's cookies are better than candlelit dinner with Hank

Edilor Sios

Caroline Wood may be Liz Lemon in disguise. She is a gleeful musician-ma rsh ma I low with fa ntastical footwea r. lf we cou ld button her up in our pockets, we so Wood. Blunt Bang Buddies!

Nicky Fish is All that )azz and a Bucket Of soup.

It's easy to See why this figure-Skatin'Fish is such a catch, With those Azlad scannin'skills and her mad Passion for love poems. She Also likes people saying "hi" in The halls.

Ellen Lesser is jammin'with the people on Saturn. She's an outright t-shirt thiei and when she isn't blasting Jurassic Park in herVolvo, she's enjoying long walks in the woods while avoiding deer. We wish she was our best friend.

Petre Vishneski is a hippobeast with a fondness for the Cheshire Cat. He has had more babies killed than Ruth Putnam, and has enough testosterone to balance our excess estrogen.

A/aranna Yoder is wise beyond her years (and ears) and is the future of literary magnificence. She knows you don't need peanuts or milk to birth ingenious verse, as she is the smart half of the lr/aranna/Petre twrndom. Carrie Peterson surprised us all. She walks like an origami flower, but those petals blossom into a sassy, janky-lovin' sophomore sensation. Super sweet super Swede with the mannerisms of a tudor rose, she can choose our books any day.

lsabel Firpo is a California cutie from her super soakers to her ubiquitous flip flops. We are dazzled by her photo prowess and her perfectly curly hair.

Lilly IVlcGee asks the whyhow questions in life and can persuade an lT person with the caress of her sensual syntax. Her love for the Romantrc matches her Shakespearean wit. She is wondering where her biscuits are.