Crest 2011

The Crest

LOTO-LOTT

Editor-in-Chief

Maranna Yoder Editorial Board Ellen Lesser Carrie Peterson Tony Foley

Rucha Mehendale Faculty

Advisor Paul Noble

CoverArt by Bridget Reinhard

Dear Reader,

A Letter From The Editor

I present to you Crest zou. Whether you are thumbing through the pages as your teacher passes it out, or you are finally perusing it after some time, here it is.

I cannot begin to express my admiration for the work that goes into this year's Crest. In each of the last three years, I've been stunned by the creativity and determination of Oak Park and River Forest students and I am once again honored to display your work. I thank you for being what drives this magazine to succeed and for giving this magazine its heart and its passion. I think that you are all very brave. You've put your heart on a page and submitted it for a bunch of strangers to read, hoping they'll put in a book for more strangers to read. I applaud your bravery.

As a college-bound senior, I've had to do a lot of reflecting on how I've changed in four years. Crest has changed in that time, too. Submissions,

both of art and of writing, have grown tremendously this year, and the magazine has a new faculty advisor. But, as they say the more things change, the more they stay the same. I feel the bite of that statement now more than ever. Through all the changes in Crest these last three years, the same theme runs through them all. The common thread in the long tapestry has been the ingenuity of the student population here at OPRFHS.

I'd like to thank my fellow editors and our faculty advisor, Mr. Noble, for all their hard and earnest work, but most of all, I'd like to thank you for allowing us to showcase your immeasurable talent. I hope you enjoy Crest zou! I wish you well in all your present and future travels and hope you find what you're looking for.

Maranna Yoder Ediror-in-Chief

u3 Rucha Mehendale

rr4 Amber Lara u5 Molly Bires n6 AbbiAlgozino u7 SarahAnderson u8 Erik Sharpe u9 Yuliya Semibratova rzo Laura Miller rzz SkrTwrenWebb rz3 Aaron Rowe rz4 Sherry Reuter rz6 AtlanArceo-Witzl n7 JazmineJones rz8 Madeleine deRegnier r3z Lauren Frost 93 MayaAdelman-Cabral

Release

ALack Of Permanence

What lt's Like Having Scars... Mirrors Not Re4 Nor White, Nor Blue Ginger Elegy My MotherWatches Her Baby Sisters Poking My Finger Citgo InThe Middle Of Tennessee Easter Chrysanthemums

Crusade by Hannah Srajer

The shoes I wore to my Bat Mitzvah sink into the carpet of my grandfather's church. The soles are burning into the red carpet, my body pointed towards his casket where eight other priests swirl to an unseen beat. Robes absorb candlelight, spewing waxy words that muffle my ears. I can hear my mother melting, dripping: a repenting candle with a curly flame. She hasn't been in her childhood church since she converted Icons painted Hanukah gelt-gold embrace the walls, their eyes stare more than his former congregation. Dressed in uniform misery we should not stand out, but we do: as plain as Passover, clashing more than a klezmer band. Whispers pass through the incense and bounce off the Jewish star my father wears around his neck.

Their words weave a fence of crude crosses around the coffin of the man who had married gypsies, gave kite string as birthday presents, loved me a bit more than my brothers.

Religion should not be division: heaven and hell, saints and sinners.

I know these barriers between us never truly existed.

When I was five years old, I spilled holy water and, horrified, I cried, turning the sacred puddle saltier than the Dead Sea.

My grandfather, the priest, stroked his beard and said:

It's iust water,

byJordan Bruce by Min-Cheng Lee

Lines

by Ellen Tharp

As Gus poured himself a second cup of coffee, he heard the channel switch to Family Guy. He opened the fridge and reached into the side door for the carton of milk. Stewie made a joke onscreen as Gus poured a drop of milk into his mug. It was the type of joke he usuallywould have bellowed at, but instead he stared at the swirl of cream that encircled his black coffee. Glancing up at the clock, Gus saw it was only half past two. His shift was far from over. He yawned and sipped his coffee.

Gus was tlpically the life of the party, so he received puzzled glances as he walked past the old poker table where a few men played cards. He ignored his pals chuckling at the television. Instead, he walked to the window and peered out at the night. He watched a couple of teenagers pass by on a bike, one of them riding the pegs and cursing loudly into the dark. This neighborhood was never dead at night. When the alarm sounded, Gus's eyelids flew

open and he registered that he must have dozed off for a couple of seconds. The noise blared and the lights flashed. Gus did not move from the window. It wasn't his turn. He heard the slip of skin on metal as people whooshed down the pole behind him. One, two, three, four. Five, six, seven, eight. Within the minute, he heard the sirens and watched as the truck sped offdown the street below him.

Gus turned from the window He walked over to his cubbywhere his heavy coat hung and his hat sat on a shelf for quick access. He made a charade of pulling his phone out of his bag and checking it. Really, he had just wanted to see if she was still there. Unfortunately, she was. She sat at a small table with another woman, one of the few in the department, and when she noticed Gus she excused herself and got up to walk over to him. Gus casually turned away from her.

"Gus," she said softly.

Gus decided it was soft enough that he could pretend not to hear her.

"Gus," she said again, with force.

"Oh, hey Riley. What's up?"

"You don't have to act like this, you know."

"Like what?" Gus fiddled with the buckle on his suspender.

"Like we're not friends ... like you don't see me."

Gus looked straight at her now. "l'm sorry. But I don't like knowing things. It's too much."

"We have to talk about it."

"l'd rather pretend I didn't see anything."

Riley breathed deeply and tucked away a loose hair from her ponytail. She grabbed Gus's hand and led him over to the empty couch. They sat on opposite ends until she scooted closer so they could talk quietly. She noticed Gus looked weary and old, older than sheU ever seen him look. Gus rubbed his eyes and looked down at his boots.

"There's some things you need to understand," Riley spoke in a lowvoice.

"Don't bother. It's pointless."

"You think that now, but you don't know." She was pleading with him.

Gus shook his head. "l already told you, I

don't want to know. I don't want to think about it. I want to erase it. Things would just be better off if I didn't know."

Riley touched his shoulder gently. "But you do know And I can see what it's doing to you. Pretending that it didn't happen won't take it away but if you d just let me tell you-"

Gus's face changed. "Tell me what, Riley? I dont really think you're in a position here to be telling me anything. I wanted to forget it, but if you want to talk about it, fine. Let's talk about it. If I were you, I'd be feeling pretty fucking low right now. I'd be hoping to never mention it out loud, and I sure as hell wouldn't show my face in this building."

"Can you lower your voice a little? Listen, I'm not defending what I did, I just want the chance to explain it to you."

"What's there to explain? If you're an artist, you paint pictures. If you're a teacher, you give out homework. If you're a musician? You play some pretty little songs on the goddamn piano." Gus eyed

Riley dead on and practically spat, "lf you're a firefighter. You. Save. Lives."

Riley shied from Gus's gaze and was silent for a moment. She had never even seen him irritated before. His thick Brooklyn accent echoed in her ears

and now she was the one to look down.

"lt's not always so simple."

"Oh really? 'Cause when I read the job description I don't recall that part being optional."

"You just dont get it. You're a simple guy, Gus. You hang with your buddies, and you drink your beer, you tell your stories, and they all laugh. You see little kids around the station, and you bend down and let them try on your hat, and you think, 'Hey, being a good guy isn't so hard."'

"Your point?"

"My point is your life is easy. You go about your business and you've never had to face a situation where the right thing to do didn't make sense."

"Right, so because you grew up in this shithole, you're the only one out there to face a moral dilemma? Maybe I'm simple, but I'm not stupid, and you can't tell me I've always had an easy answer."

"Fine. Do you want me to tell you about him?"

"No, I don't want to know a thing about the poor bastard."

"You don't want to know a thing because you don't want to be confused. You like thinking of him as good and me as bad so you can keep your simplistic view of right and wrong."

Gus stared at her defiantly. "Go ahead, tell me."

"Jimmy Porrello lived here mywhole life. Grew up with a crackhead for a mom, and ended up in a gang, as expected. What wasn't expected was how smart he was. He came out on top and turned this place into an even bigger mess than it already was. I've known seven-year-old kids he's recruited. And it's a well-known fact that he held control of the biggest drug ring in NewYork. He robbed, raped, and murdered like it was nothing."

Gus and Riley sat in silence. The chatter of their coworkers hummed in the background but neither one seemed to hear it.

Finally Gus spoke. "What about the courts? If he was guilty of all of those things, he d be in jail. On death row. You can't play God, Riley. All you know is rumors."

"Who do you think is going to testifii against the most powerful man in NewYork? Whowants to be a snitch, when telling will get them two bullets in the back of the head and their name on a list of gang-related murders? Don't be so naive, Gus. I know more than you think. I've lived in this city, this same city my whole life. I've known his victims. Now I dont know if what I did was right, but I dont know

that it waswrong."

Gus's face contorted. He spoke again, but this time he seemed to be convincing himself more than Riley. "l watched you. Heading down those stairs with a kid in my arms, I watched you close the door on a burning man. How are you any better than him?" Guswas talking to himself now so Riley stood. He looked up at her. "We're firefighters. We save lives."

She smiled. "Exactly. Just doing my job."

Gus looked down at the couch. He pulled at a loose piece of thread as he waited to hear her walk away.

Fist- Face- Down by Emily Cannon

Fist- face- down. He threw punches like a heartbeat, Natural, constant, pounding. Fist- gut- out. We fought hours, Wrestling through time, Breaking space, Straining and pulling 'til

Blood ran like water Mixed with sweat, Poured like tears. I was drained to empty, Wrung 'til every bone was dry But finally, I didn't mind. Having nothing left beat knowing best. The kicks and the blows blinded me, Painfully contracting And distracting me from seeing The mess become disaster.

Updo

by Laura Miller

Through the postage stamp of a window, the sun sets. The fluorescent orb's rays are white veins through Tender flakes of perfectly peachy salmon sashimi, showering the salty russet mountains beyond.

If God were the hairdresser of the sky, he'd paint glowing highlights and rosy petals into the undulating waves of his darkened vision. Minutes pass, bleaching Crayola clouds black-eyed susan, and macaroni, and cheese, I gaze at the horizon's complexion, inhale wafts of Garnier perfection, and sit silent, waiting for the second that Dusk passes his sooty hand over the sun making every shadow evaporate.

I am the Dusk, And as I let my breath escape, my nimble hands abort the sun flom her heavenly mother, and set her down in her cradle, somewhere high above Moscow.

I wish that airplanes were made of plexiglass, so I could be the lone eagle printed on the postage stamp, floating, silent, marveling at the late-night transformation of the city below.

I \tr/as Too Proud

by Madeleine deRegnier

I was too proud to be feeding tube girl. The hospital is a laxative. MagCit'll clean you out, burning your insides all the while. And there's sunken-eyed me, looking like death, eyes so deep in my sockets

I can hide under my brows. Silence and crackling Nutrigrain wrappers Cemented to the couches. Vitamins taste like disease, but I still hate them.

My crunchy brown hair falling onto my plate wafting cheddar. Not my plate. I'm letting the grease swallow my mouth; what more can you want from me?

And I knew I'd be sittin' here one breakfast, jeans strangling my legs,

just sitting here and I got this huge, glaring plate.

I see hers; it's got less, and my jealousy feasts. I just wanna starve, that way I don't hurt. Soothing knives of hunger in my unfed belly. 'Cause it's content that makes the mind go to hell. I d take this straw floating in my chocolate Ensure and gag up my organs onto this plate.

Give me some Xanax, I'm only fourteen.

Il me tue, de me voir cette graisse.

On my knobby knees begging to starve and now face down on my bed like a rock its egg-crate reeks yellow, like some sort of microbe. I'm not making a scene. I'm no less of a freak. And when I fake it to discharge papers, I swear, not a crumb'til there's bones, and no fat and no mind and a heart rate of none.

by Maggie I(arlin

by Franka Contreras

At The Intersection Of Two

I stand at the intersection of two Twisted, knotted, Racked, jagged threads. Three, ifyou count the one Buried like pirate treasure in r96o's Missouri adoption records. My people have crossed oceans

On English tall ships, Russian steamers Fled poverty, pogroms to bring Me here. So when Papa grumbles About howyou can't trust schvcrtses, Uses words like "colored," I think of colors.

I think that the blood

by ]ack Cramer

Lapped by leather-tongued hate on deep south plantations, Spilled by his brother on tiny pinhead pacific rocks, Mixed into funeral clouds over Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, Auschwitz, That dyed Amma's lips red as she kissed the gash in my frightened, Five-year-old, Hebrew-curled head

Was all the same color, All the same shade of human. And I think that my threads Are just the frayed edge Of a 4 r/z billion year long Rope.

Silence

by Emma Bell

I come from a family of silence

Because silence is silver and nothing is ever good enough to be golden.

I come from a family of closed doors, Closed doors and picked locks to catch a glimpse of each other's lives.

I come from a family where the stain of fallen tears, Burns more than the oven, heating up a meal for one

I come from a family of avoiders, Avoiding each other's blank faces and cold stares that chill water faster than blocks of ice ever could.

I come from a family of regrets, Regrets left on the kitchen counter in the form of wine corks and expensive glasses.

I come from a family of misfts, Covering their past with nice clothes and hair dye, but roots show through.

I come from a family of forced ideas, Where I fail when succeeding not to follow their skittish tracks.

I come from a family of ignored calls and disregarded notes, And eyes that roll faster than a track runner in a wheelchair.

Last D.parture

by Alex Schulze

Thus he arrived blocking out the sun

They fired upon him but no guns could harm him

Take off your helmet in dead space

I can still smell your breath for Christmas I'll get you toothpaste

This planet is such a wasted vacation

Blast of nuclear radiation

Sorrow of a violent nonverbal communication

Once able to touch like Stephen Hawking

Once juicy and delicious tastes sour as gum on the sidewalk

Until the door locks the key like Alice in Wonderland fantasy

Tear out my eyes so that I can see

I hear the water molecules rushing through the air

I've seen light blue skies and white clouds

Crystal mountains rolling hills and green valleys

The dark crooked twists and turns of Chicago alleys

Klaatu Barada Nikto

Michael Moore's documentary Sicko

Hypothermic dying of heat in the dead of winter

Can't afford shoes frozen feet isn't it neat

The world that we live in the land of the free the place I've been given

Like Will Smith in Hancock I'll fly to the moon and back

Stamp a heart on the moon old decrepit heartless

Beaten down by Care Bears lost expression and blank stares

Just like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the first Terminator I'm just another Human hater just like Axel as he fought vampires up in the castle

Like Castlevania Dracula just can't handle Ohaio Govaimasu turtles finish last night's pizzabt:l. Master Splinter

No buts we got a hint of where to find Shredder

He's kidnapped April O'Neal we better go get her Dr. Smith never trusts anyone especially me

Danger Will Robinson it's a catastrophe

Gort prepare the ship I'm leaving this earth no coming back

Like reincarnation no rebirth and I won't be the first

byAdriana Miranda

Redhead by Raven Hogue

Your thirsty fingers play hide and seek at the hem of her skirt

Baring her poison for everyone to see

The joints in your knees are boulders falling in an avalanche

Crackling as they bounce offyour drunken bones

Slurring, you say your wife is a red head who wears a brown dress

That shies away from the pinched slopes of her hips

Crackles underneath the air's knuckles

I think of your kids

You tickling Nicholas until his cheeks turn into frail apples

Or pressing your moustache into the skin over Steve's navel and blowing

Now you can't spend time with them without your wife's judgment cradling your breath

I watch you slumped over a cooler

What a selfish man

Lives every day under the influence

Never stops to think about the influence he has over his children

When your daughters look at you their conscience is the wet

Crawling over the doorstep of their eyelids

Staple them guilty

And on those holidays and birthdays

When a little child's laughter slapsyour eardrums

Slash yellow paint across their lips

Scratch CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS in the soft curves of their irises

You keep pulling at the rim of that redhead's lips

Licking at the years lost between you and your oldest son Lorenzo 34 of those years drip down her glass cheeks

She fathers your son Tells him to get a red head that can feed the bodywhen it is hungry

Quiet the pain when it hurts too loud

But she forgot to mention she is the reason your belly is swollen

And that your bad days are only harder because she doesn't listen

When you tell her howyou feel

Now I hear Lorenzo holds his redhead tight around the hips peels back her brown dress winces at her smart perfume and smiles at the word VODKA

Tattooed on her chest

Never One For Talking

by Peter Slattery

Lamarwas never one for talking.

I waited on the street corner, surrounded by empty lots and morning snow in the shadows of an outwardly unpopulated neighborhood. It was one of those deceptive winter days that is sunny but frigid, where the cold creeps down your back from your neck to your heart and makes you wish you had the money or self-confidence to buy a scarf.

But I was doing alright, my hands stuffed in a puffy blue coat, my belted blue jeans matching a fresh Cubs flat-bill. I supposed I was a little patch of blue sky in the gray cloud of a cold city morningexcept for the brown Timberlands laced over my feet, crunching softly on the broken glass and frost underfoot, moving up and down to staywarm. And it wasn't cloudy actually; the sun was out. Perhaps I was a cloud.

I had a bit of time for this frigid pondering as my associate had not arrived yet. It wasn't that Lamar

was late (Lamarwas never late), I was simply always early. After a few more minutes of wondering about nimbostratus and cumulus condensation, I saw Lamar roll up in his maroon Cadillac, brakes squeaking slightly as he eased into a stop. I paused for a moment as was custom, looked to my right and walked the few steps to his car. Ducking my head through the open window, I saw him staring forward, wearing that same 'do rag with that same red jacket with that same glint of gold underneath it all.

"Brakes need pads, I think," said Lamar, still looking forward, hands resting on the wheel.

"Maybe so," I said.

I looked right and left again and opened the side door. As it was only midday, my precautions probably weren't necessary but they were ingrained in my psyche, second nature. The exterior of the car felt iry, but inside was comfortable. No sound but the gentle hum of the engine and the muffled buzz

of the radiator. I felt as if l'd sat on this leather seat a thousand times before, even though I knew t d only worked with Lamar on a couple dozen jobs.

He shifted into drive and we were offdown the road. His Cadillac slid smoothly through the potholed streets of the south side. Lamar didn't seem to want to talk yet, so I turned on the radio and was greeted by a staccato beat and the wheezing voice of some hallucinogen-filled rapper.

"You ain't wenna be all out in the streets. Mouthfulla blood and a soulfulla heat ..."

A few verses later, Lamar spoke.

"Good one today," he said softly as he turned a corner with a relaxed hand-over-hand motion. "D wants us hitting a corner'round Fifth."

'Alright," I said.

"Should be a little muscle plus a coupla shorties. Get the fat man but don't off him. Grab the stash and dip, simple as that. Nine-milli in the glove compartment."

I nodded and found the pistol in the compartment in front of me. I felt the weight of the small black instrument in my hand;the cold impression of the metal on my palm was far from a fresh sensation, but it was poignant for a reason I couldn't quite find. After testing the trigger a few times I the felt the sat-

isfliing clack of the magazine entering into the pistol. "Let's do it," I said softly, looking down at the dark mechanism. "Headfulla holes andya blood on my sneeks..." Driving past a few more hushed streets, we turned a corner and saw the men I was tasked to shoot. Lamar eased offthe gas pedal and we rolled toward the cornerwhere a few dark figures huddled around an old liquor store. In the center of their cluster was the fat man, berating two teenagers with sagging pants and bad attitudes. Two strongmen stood like icy bronzes on the periphery of the downtrodden corner, probably feeling much as I had minutes before. I'm sure I could have dissected their relationships further, but now we neared the group and I cleared my thoughts.

"Get got on the spot, get shof in the lot ..." About halfi,vay down the block Lamar slammed on the gas and we sped toward the surprised group. The closer of the two strongmen drew his pistol, but my piece was already steadied on the rim of the car window and I blasted four shots into his chest as we passed the corner. I popped offat the farther man, my body out the window, but my shots went wide as Lamar slammed on the brakes. As the

Cadillac lurched sideways on the frozen pavement, I tumbled out the window, gun sliding away from my hand as I hit the icy asphalt. Shots from the second enforcer ricocheted off the pavement in front of me as I rolled for the dropped pistol, finally grabbing it from the gutter and discharging what was left of my round into the unfortunate man's leg.

I stood up at the side of the street to find Lamar pointing a gun at the fat man's fleshy head, cornering him next to the liquor store. He stood, feet planted square with his shoulders, one arm stiffly holding his weapon aimed at the man as if it were an extension of that hand. His red jacket was open, revealing a wife-beater and a small gold chain.

"Where's it at, fat man?" he asked calmly.

"Fuck you," said the fat man.

As soon as the expletive left the man's mouth the corpulent fellow screamed in pain, a shot from Lamar's pistol discharged straight into his foot. He fell on his side, clutching his injured appendage. Lamar leveled his gun back at his head.

"Where's it at?" he repeated.

"The ... boarded-up spot behind the trash can," grunted the fat man, wincing in pain.

I hustled over there and pushed the trash can away to see a piece of pl1'wood covering a hole in the

brick exterior of the liquor store. Three kicks with my Timberlands and the wood was shattered. Then I was on my knees grabbing the plastic packets of cocaine.

I ran back to Lamar.

"Got it, time to go," I said with nervous excitement.

Lamar paused, looked at me, then turned and walked back to the car.

"Fuckyou)'muttered the fat man.

I kept walking, but after a second I noticed Lamar had turned around. Whywas he walking back? We had to go! We had the stash! What was he doing?

"What did you say?" whispered Lamar to the man.

"You heard me," said the fat man.

Lamar leveled the pistol at the bleeding man's head again.

"What did you say?" said Lamar, louder.

"Lamar let's go!" I yelled, looking around.

"You ain't so different from me," said the fat man, coughing. He smiled at Lamar, whose face was now a mask of rage. "Matter-a-fact, you are me. And if you ain't, you will bel'

Lamar didn't hold the gun steady anymore. Shaking with anger, he gesticulated wildly with the

pistol.

"You think so, fat man? You think so? Why don't I pop you right now and see howyou do?"

"Do it," said the fat man, laughing. "You don't even understand."

That's when I heard the sirens. "Lamar!"

It was strange we hadn't heard them earlier, but the dialogue between the two seemed to be the only sounds anyone could hear. You always heard the police before you saw them, so we still had time to get in the car and leave. I ran over to Lamar and pulled on his arm.

"Lamar, let's go!"

He shoved me off and turned once again to the fat man.

"Say it again!" screamed Lamar, firing his gun in the air.

The fat man didnt respond this time, except for what could have been a groan of pain or a laugh at Lamar. Then I saw the sirens.

As I backed away from Lamar, three cop cars rolled down the block. Lamarwhirled around and looked at me.

"Get out," he said to me, eyes wide open.

I stared at him. He could have done anything in that moment. He could have run with me, he could have run away from me, he could have even stayed with the fat man and talked with the police. But Lamarwas never one for talking.

He turned to the oncoming cars and raised his pistol. I may have yelled something, but if I did, I can't remember what it was. Lamar fired at the cop cars, windshield glass exploding from the impact of his bullets. I turned and ran.

I dropped the cocaine in the street. My hat fell off, my jacket fell ofl it was iust me and the wind and the cold and the sirens. I heard two more shots of Lamar's pistol behind me, and then only gunfire from other firearms.

I turned around but I couldn't see Lamar. I couldn't see the fat man. I couldn't see the Cadillac. I couldn't see the bodies. I could only see the sky. And, like I said, it was one of those deceptively sunny winter days.

(Not Your) Tabula Rasa

by Caitlin Fallahay

disin te grati ng spontaneously, without any interference from you or from him or fiom any of those others you claim you want to save me from, afraid they'll taint your precious jewel that's already slowly falling apart. This r-carat diamond you want to keep forcing into the shining ring on the fourth finger ofyour left hand refuses. I will not be yours.

I am not yours to display, not the little gem you've been crafting for so long that you've failed to noticemy will is harder than yours. I matured and turned out to look like synthetic aquamarine, the color of a blue moon, the surface harder than a diamond, with a holey marshmallow center. Porous little holes getting bigger, destruction from the inside out, like the chemical enthalpy of a diamond breaking apart, like the fragments of Sylvia Plath's mind.

Rose

by Laura Brennan

rose1. noun. a breathtaking, renowned flower, / that is liked by everyone / and disliked by no one; / its petals layer themselves so softly / that they whisper. I z. adjective. the color in one's face / when emotions run high / or discomfort persists; / the color associated with / shame or anger or embarrassment; / the color flushed on one's face / as a sign for others. / 3. verb. the past tense form of the verb rise, or to rise; / the action taken when one / is given a challenge of some sort, / or one faces adversity; / one must rise to the challenge / in order to have any sense of / victory.

Haiku

by Paula Green

I have realized That summer's skin does not fit Winter's complexion.

4fdr'b H.affi'xb E b{Lrj:vt" 4' I

by Richie Wheelock

Burn by ConradWight

I'm just another fiend tryna stay clean

Just another pothead tryna hop off that green It's amazing what the world is like without that silver sheen It's amazing how quickly I lost sight of my dreams And it's mental, how it messed with my mind a mirror of white lines or a fat blunt of that fine It's mental, how I daily committed mind-crimes arbitrary treason, mindless acts without reason It's mental, how I can't enjoy the change of season without partaking of brain-cell mental depletion and I burn, oh how I burn foryou I burn for the friction I burn for the peace I burn for the closure I burn for the lease I burn for the quick diction, composure, and release the soft heat and fast feet the indescribable feeling of finally being complete

the jaws of that beautiful monster and her indiscriminate bite I burn for my propeller myengine my flight

I burn for that feeling to last me all night and into the next day I never really cared whether the sky was blue or gray I burn for my monster to take the pain away But today, I thought I just might say I'm sober now through the grace of God and the Fellowship of NA.

Nature's Pearl

by Kristen Nassar

Water rushing under the calluses of my fingertips, life, as if I were God, gushing out from me, the forest around from the roots that also sprout my curls, the critters from beneath my pale, bare toes and the water from my hands.

On a rock yonder sits the lady with the letter, her eyes bright and focused on that burning soul beside.

I take it in my arms and put violets in its hair, give it dainty wings like the bees on the white rose sitting with me, let it fly up to the clouds to be soothed.

I kiss the grass where I have sat and leap into the iniquitous branches of Hades' tree, leaves a sultry red as if in autumn, blushing in shame. They take me in and cradle me,

dress me, speak to me in whispers.

You belong with me. You, daughter ofthe roses, cen rule theforest with the trees, if you promise. Vague network of life, what promise? Stay. Terrified for my independence, I wrest myself free and springas my heels touch the quivering, crying mud, my eyes touch a familiar red letter, sewn to my earth.

photograph by Nathan Landay

by Bridget Reinhard

by Rebecca Robinsor-r

by Hanna Stolarsl<i

by Gus Feclelici

by Olivia McLean

by Akaylia Warren

by Claire Dain

by l).rrryl [,ondon

Her Laugh Bubbled

by Zu,ri \il/ashington

Her laugh bubbled like glitter and stars

Smiles perched up in heartstrings

She would call me Zuri

She didnt like nicknames

Acid blonde trickled as she chased me

I only ever slept twice

Once with friends, twice, her Basement barren, toys peppered life around Her alcove, giggles and sunlight fell Tickles pierced her skin

She had more every time She was sweet gloss, sticking like promises Shed swear

She had this awful way of telling me, though She shoved her brows, still hung on her face

A drama queen, she was an actress; she could play Rehearsed and delivered but I knew

The way she could choke words was scary Tripping consonants, feigning innocence

She betrayed her voice. Her cheeks aflame like Hell Lips, marshmallow treats too sticky to kiss Fingers, permanently stuck in glitter Glue and pipe cleaners Laced with paper, sweat and nerves

An actress, a saint in the making Devout, Whispered overhead Devout, she insisted And Devout she stayed.

Setting Up Camp

by Richie'Wheelock

The sun was shining like spring rain, torrential tides of blistering heat. A long day lay before the lonely group, a day filled, no doubt, with danger. There was always danger on the savannah: the lions that roamed in prides, the hostile rhinoceroses, and the thirst that preyed on them. At two otlock in the afternoon, their water jugs were already near empty.

"We'll set up camp soon?" one of the men asked.

"No, I wouldn't think that wise," the leader said. He turned back to face the small party of tired travelers, his face gleaming with sweat, his brow furrowed.

"Why not wise?" one man asked.

"Well, the lions," the leader replied.

The men scoffed. Lions? There was no danger of setting up camp with lions afoot, in fact, a warm fire would scare offany lions.

"You laugh. Why?" the leader asked.

"Well, sir, the lions do not pay attention to the tents. They fear the fire we cook on. There is no danger in setting camp," one man responded.

"Well sure there is! The tent will only attract the lions, won't it?" the leader scoffed. These men were foolish. If only they knew how to evade danger. Not by setting up camp and lighting a fire to alert every enemy in sight like a beacon. No. Stealth must be used, espionage. The men didn't understand. In the army, he crouched in the mud and stench to avoid confrontation, not set himself up as a bullseye. One must think as the enemy does.

The men watched their leader with a sort of amused ambivalence. Attract lions, he said. Why, if he intended them to crouch in the dirt and the tall grasses, then they would be eaten before the moon reached her starry throne. Theywould set up camp, they agreed with their eyes. If this leader man disapproved, then he could see how long he lasted the

night in the tall grass.

As sunset arrived, the blood orange sun lowered himself into slumber, and the trees were outlined on the sky like black stencils. In the distance, a lonely giraffe swayed, charcoal against the horizon.

"Why do you set up camp?" the leader asked.

The men paused in their preparation. "Why sir, night approaches, and we think it best the tent is set up before then."

The leader grew red in the face, his jaw clenched. "l told you we'll be sleeping under the stars tonight. The lions-"

"You may sleep under the stars tonight, sir," one man interrupted. "We will set up camp." The leader shot a fiery glare at his men, and then turned in a great huff. When he disappeared over a hill, the men just sighed and continued to set up camp.

Cold night began to shine and the savannah grew dim. A fire was lit, and around it, the men mused on how their leader was faring. Only one lion was seen; she disappeared over a hill, her pale fur gleaming under the moon like a pearl.

Night passed quickly enough, silent and uneventful for the men in the tent. As they set out to journey once more in the morning, they happened upon the lion-ravaged carcass of their fearless leader.

The men only paused a moment to mourn the loss, and then continued on their way. The day looked to be a hot one, and they couldnt afford to waste time,

by Hannah Kessy

The Flash Behind His Camera

by Natalie Richardson

His curious fingers trail through muddy stars like wide-eyed lips tasting kiss for the first time.

I watch him as he smudges himself into black and white memories that aren't his fingertips muddling pixelated faces until her cheekbones are imprinted with dirt-stained wishes. His hands brush the hair of a mother he never knew but with every flash of photo paper I see his mind develop. Fountains of chemicals

spritzing his brain seeping acid into his inner conscience and stringing constellations around her name

He raises an oily palm to midnight's revelations in hopes of smudging fingerprints upon the milky lips of the mother he yearns to meet so they could forever be connected.

Like dippers, they would scoop earthfuls of first greetings. He would tell her that his favorite food is pasta and he hates Honors Chemistry but he shoves his heart into everything he does because if he didn't, he believes that there would be no one below him to catch it, to cradle it

as it plummets like a comet onto burnt images in a scrapbook locked inside a forlorn box filled with dull plasma rusted lilies and eulogies packed beneath dirt the color of childbirth.

He wonders if she looked better in person, but I wonder if he'll ever raise his nose from false hopes long enough to realize that I'm ready to be the flash behind his camera.

Mushroom

by Owen Brady

Decompose to compose Green fromyellow Yellow fiom brown Brown to green. We work for evanescent eternity Identify and eat me with temerity. Shun the fast pace, Embrace the new face

Of the delicate parasol mushroom

by Hanna Stolarski

My mother fixed herself when I was in znd grade. At1;g, she hadn't inherited the technology of a woman's body.

As she drove me to school that day I fondled the neck of a bible. Cradled it like the pulled pin of a grenade praying the next time I saw her she would not be in scattered pieces of her former self.

I knew that permanent marker would trail thick like Japanese calligraphy along the limp curvature of my mother's torso.

My Mother

by Sherry Reuter

They were the arrows of a compass navigating surgeons north to the waist of her ribcage where they dug a rabbit hole through the resiliency of her child-stretched skin.

Alter school, Aunt Gwen single-filed us along the wall of mom's room. Inside, she whispered to us to not touch her, it would hurt too badly.

My mother lay on her altar holding her new body together like a scarecrow in a hailstorm.

Her big brown breasts bounced brilliantly without the elasticity ofpush-up bras or duct tape. Now frontlines of stitches stretched like fields of poisonous gas, binding together the tissue she wished her skin was made of.

I will recall that image when my mother tells my sister and me how beautiful we are. And I find it ironic that even Prince Charming based his love on the size of Cinderella's feet. Since then women have been trying to draw dotted lines along the grooves oftheir toes, so that their husbands can see in them what awoman is supposed to look like.

What if all women aged backr,vards?

What if at birth theywere kissed

by God's brass knuckles, and its indent marks folded into their skin?

If they slowly unraveled with time into smooth silhouettes of womanhood?

Would they feel beautiful then?

Ambiance Animaha

by Kurt Grahnke

In the magical forest

The trees were a mosaic masterpiece Interwoven by creators galore. They made their own world, Their placement perfect, Separated completely from time. Their energies flowed only inward Towards the center, culminating In present tense vibrations Fluxing with the seasons, but Maintaining steady rhythms Of highness and singulariry.

It seemed they communicated with Each other. Not through glances, Coordinated color changes, Or any other fantasist way of communication They spoke. Real language Filled with witty banter, badinage,

Discussing simply the whole earth

There were no ideas or theories

No questions, and no dualistic Interpretations. Only simple Light-colored talking.

Louis sat in the middle of their dialect Eating the earth and listening. His eyes grew green and turned his will to still. Now he could understand their tongue. He sat with the forest all morning Till late in the afternoon. And night came And life came out of the woods, Into the everyday.

Louis understood the earth, but the World didn't accept his humor.

by

Madelaine Norman

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In And Outside Of Me

by Zach Ewell

Dyslexia, hard, confusing, complicated, & most of all, at the end, difficult. Long, hard & strenuous nights. Short & fast pass mornings. Doing work with the thoughts & questions of the past & future in your mind's reach. Long, aggravating days of school, but not all bad. Satisfaction & fireworks in my head. Learning & reaching your hand out to opportunities & better days. Waiting out the black storm only for the next day to see the same forecast. Being thankful for what you've got, but still challenging yourself to the top of the ladder. Risk taking day & nights. Equalizing credit throughout the land. Watching & hearing words for granted. Giving a chance for a flower to spread its petals. Comparing yourself for differences & similarities. Still in doubt, but never giving up on a deep dream. This is what drives people to succeed in life: not the future but a long life of satisfaction.

White Wall

by laymie Guerrera

This white wall is a canvas for my thoughts.

'vVhite wall. White wall. Shower tiles. White wall. I see a black night. Packed car. I faintly hear the sound of traffic tiptoeing by. The only sound is the blare of music. I can taste it pouring out ofthe speakers. I can feel the bumps in the road.

Each one makes me fall. Speeding on the highway. I can smell our tires burning. Gun doesn't like it. "Tires is bullshit."

Laughter begins to white out music, no traffic noise, no recognition of headlights. Sound ofa car horn cuts through, slashes through

the window, shattering our smiles and laughter.

The tires screech to a stop. The car, a paraplegic. We're jerked forward, seatbelts caress our chests. We cough, the scratchy air from our lungs lunges forward. And we stay still. Czuje krew. Blinding headlights beam by. When my hands start fizzing, my thoughts blend together.

I can taste with my hands. Sirens cloud my head. The street is running upside down. The chaos clears myvision. The blurrier things become, the easier Jaymie will

see.

White lights. White noise. The fresh sheet of imagination White canvas.

Established In '95 by Raygiene larrett

i come from a thick line of love and a thin line of hate a tribe of wild survivors, warriors, and scavengers ones that are aware of what they want, get it don't brag, but will admit it

i was created on a sturdy wheel of life with a clump full of brown sugar clay, molded by powerful, fearless, yet cautious hands i come from a thick line of strong blackwomen not afraid to say how they feel with backs turned and heads held high srylish shoes click clacking as they walk by trusting no one but each other and god i come from a thick brave family line curious for what's next in life yet not afraid to live and not afraid to die.

The Transition

by Caitlin Fallahay

The lily has festered. Its full, lovely, pearly petals have withered into the sanguine hue of a doomed morning, fallen from their sacred place. They scattered at her feet. The wind picked up and whirled them away before saltwater could stain them, before she could go out and try to gather them back, but after she regretted. It was illogical to think that if she let something go, shewould be madewhole. Determination was devastation love was a murderer. The promises did the trick. It was everything he said and more; she couldnt breathe for all the love he gave and the soul he took as payment.

God washed out the sun, pulled grey out from the surrounding blue to hide something, or maybe to mourn. It was at that point he lost her, after all. Ironic that one loses God when one loses her pride. She can almost feel his bloody hands pulling away flom her, her dirty deeds unsuitable for his touch. White as a dove's feather once described her heart, if not her tongue, her faith, if not her actions, but it no longer matters.

Womanhood calls not for these sorts of things.

by Sarah Brewer

Ode To The Spanish Language

by Christian Robinson

At a taco joint on the corner of Harlem and Roosevelt, Dex asks me to order food for the group in Spanish, jokes that I'm related to the waitress. I chew on hesitation, just before bouncing your conjugates off my tongue like jumping beans. Mom says seven years of Spanish should be enough to make me sound full Latino, so why not embrace the double "L" as I ask for two flour tortillas. I'm careful not to swallow your stale rice vowels because the wrong accents rupture blood vessels in our heritage's timeline

Rolled R's are too-hot peppers clogging my throat with each dry syllable. The waitress shoots a border patrol glance, and my friends fall to the floor in laughter.

Despite my mother's memories of tamale-making Christmases, I still consider myself a cold glass of African American; I'm too parched of Mexican tradition to pour pride.

I'm brought back to Grandma Lupe's house when Dad's lap was the onlywelcome mat because he and I were coated with chocolate mole.

We would reminisce of his brother's BBQ rib tips as we ate chorizo tacos, and looked forward to returning to the skin tones of his family, where your accents didn't drum major the march of conversation.

I'm on the border of two identities, but if I choose black, I can blend with the wide-nosed, dark-eyed people I resemble, without your crooked eyebrows questioning. Holiday dinners with Mom's side of the family won't come with complimentary sides of Is he really one of us?

Like when my father walked through the door for the first time, clinging to my mother's hand, her palm licking the sweat from his wrist: the taste of first impressions.

Yes, soul food erases the aroma of my Hispanic background. But I still catch myself gripping

my mother's hand like a child separated from deported parents. 'Cause I feel like I'm committing suicide every time I decline to order Mexican food at some taco joint.

As for you, Spanish Language: I haven't managed to collect the intimacy it takes to offer you my insecurities on a fork But when I do, we can eat them together.

If:l Lu tn cl tj] r: mfir E

by Nick Politis

Better Days

by Courtney Fields

The liquid blue sky beamed down on my tanned face, and I could feel the cool water running between my sandy fingers. Seagulls cried above me as I tried my hardest to take a picture of this place. It was the last week before school started up again-the hardest week of summer, when everyone tried to do everything before having to hit the books once more.

"Liwy, your father's bringing the car around," my mom said, sunscreen smeared on her nose like vanilla ice cream. "Try to get that sand offyour arms so you don't get it on his seats."

I sighed, breathing in the crisp, fresh air that whistled at me. I took a step into the cool blue water. It lapped at my skin, sending shivers up my body, but washing offthe sand.

"Livvy, Dad's back with the carl" My mom yelled. The freshwater wind greedily snatched up her hat, though she put forth little effort to catch it. It was old and worn-a present from my father, after

they had gotten married. She frequently reminded herself to replace it with a newer version.

"Coming!" I yelled back over the din of the laughing waves. I turned back one last time, just to engrave the image in my head, and then ran back to pack my things away.

Dad regarded me with arched eyebrows as I slipped into the backseat of his pickup truck. He hated when I dragged stuff like sand into the car.

Mom squirmed in the passenger seat as we scooted over a hill. "Honey, please slow down-these hills are so dangerous..."

Dad looked in the rearview mirror. "Look, we'll be fine." After sneaking a quick glance at my mother, he playfully stomped on the gas, being careful to stay on his side of the road.

'All right, all right," I could hear Dad roll his eyes jokingly after seeing the panicked look on Mom's face. He eased off the pedal as we peaked the

hill. The sun swam on the horizon, its rays dancing over the water next to the highway. "We d have been fine anyhow," he grumbled under his breath, looking back at me.

We climbed over a second hill, this one taller than the first. Just as we crested the hill, I could make out the top of something-a four-wheel-drive, perhaps? I squinted. Something was wrong. The left lane was empty and instead, the cumbersome SUV came clambering over the hill on our side of the road.

My dad saw it too, but not in time.

The seconds that followed fluttered by like drawings in a poorly made flipbook-the images before me barely fit together, the seconds flying by like sketched frames in a gruesome cartoon. Glass flew at me, thousands of knives puncturing my skin before I had time to think. The earth spun, and for a moment, I could have sworn I saw my father's frantic face search for me in the back seat. We slammed against something hard and the world crumpled on top of me.

Something like fire consumed me from head to toe as a pair of hands dragged me from the pile of metal that had been my father's car. Sirens screamed in my ears, and I could feel something warm and sticky mat my hair into clumps. The man-l think it

was a man-who pulled me out yelled something to someone else. I looked down and winced-legs weren't supposed to bend that way. Blood dripped onto the scorched grass. I put my hand to my forehead and ran my fingers down from my temple to my shoulder. I could feel something-a cut, maybe?-snaking like the Mississippi River down my neck. Where was Dad? Mom?

"Olivia!" Mom called out. She sounded a mile away. "Olivia..." Her arms wrapped around me. I could smell blood on her, too.

"Where's Dad?" I murmured incoherently. "l-he..." She cradled her disheveled hand in her head, dissolving into a fit of unintelligible whispers.

Dread wrapped its fingers around my neck and throttled me as I looked to the ambulance. The stretcher, the paramedics...it was all there, the characters of a television drama thrown clumsily into real life, the last thing I had ever expected to see.

"Dad?" I croaked, my hands quaking.

It was a year after the day at the beach-a year of my mother attempting in vain to get me to talk, to

get me to spill. But I wouldn't, I thought bitterly.

It was almost first period when I arrived at school. I didn't fret too much-homeroom didn't matter in the big scheme of things, I decided. Unfortunately, the counseling sessions that my mother requested for me were still fourth period. If only I could have missed that, I thought wearily.

Fourth period. The counselors'office smelled like lavender. I hated lavender. I flicked my eyes around the room. What surprised me wasnt the overwhelming smell of flowers, or the irritating Bach blaring from the secretary's speaker-it was the boy sitting in a chair at the far right corner of the waiting room. I was usually the only person with a counseling session this period. His noncommittal slouch reminded me of myself, but at the same time I had never seen him before-had I?

"Olivia?" Dr. Curtis welcomed me into her office with that stupid grin she always had-some kind of Barbie psychologist, minus the cheap plastic shoes. "How've you been so far today?"

"Fine," I mumbled. I left my psyche in the chair in the waiting room while my body trudged toward Dr. Curtis's office. "Just fine."

"So, I see you've been doing pretty well in school," she said through that plaster grin of hers,

closing the office door behind her. I desperately wished that someone would rip the smile right off her face. "Yes, junior year is one of the most imperative, I'm afraid. But you've been doing just fine in your classes. All honors and a few AP classes as well, yes?"

I tuned the doctor out and nonchalantly looked out the window. It was cloudy, not unusual for November, and frost was starting to climb slowly up the window panes. My gaze then wandered to the window into the waiting room. The boy sat like stone in his chair in the same position I'd seen him in before. He was probably my age, judging from his size. His slender legs sprawled out before him, almost freakish in length.

Dr. Curtis sighed. "You never talk, Olivia. The purpose for these meetings is for you to communicate your feelings." She watched me steadily. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

"Well, the thing is, I don't really like talking about my feelings." I looked everywhere but at her.

She sighed and took a look at her watch. "Well, unfortunately, our session has to be cut a little bit short today. I have another student to work with until we find him his own counselor." she escorted me out of her office, dismay scribbled across her thin

face.

Once again seated in the waiting room I could see the new kid through the office window. He didn't say much to the doctor, just like me. I watched him nod absently as she spoke, but then he did something peculiar. His head turned to face the window. He was looking at me. I fidgeted in my chair. His brows furrowed, as if calculating something.

The bell rang and I quickly threw my things into my bag-something was strange about that new kid and I wasn't about to find out iust what it was. My dirty shoes scuffed the floor as I pounced down the stairs to lunch.

It was cold out on the quad but it beat the inescapable ruckus of the lunchroom. I watched my breath chug out of my mouth like smoke. I was just about the only person outside, save for a few guys skateboarding down a set of stairs.

"Hi."

I ignored the voice. No one talked to me, so there was really no point in wasting energy to find out who was speaking.

"Um. Excuse me?"

I turned gingerly. The guy from Dr. Curtis's office towered over me, his storklike figure blocking out the few rays of sunshine that squeezed them-

selves from the gray clouds above us. I managed a small wave and turned my back to him again, shoving my sandwich into my mouth with the sole purpose of repelling him.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

I nodded. He didn't budge, watching me as if I had not yet responded. I sighed and motioned to the dead patch of grass beside me.

"Thanks. You're from the counselor's office, right?" He picked nervously at a scar that wove its way from his right temple down to his jawbone.

Although it was obvious against his pale complexion, tendrils of burnt chestnut-colored hair curled around his ear to keep it from showing. Was that intentional? "Yeah."

"What're you there for?"

"Counseling," I said mildly, making a duh face at him. I instantly regretted my sassy tone. "It's 'cause my mom thinks I need'help'." I put air quotations around the last word and stared holes into the ground in front of me.

'Ah," he said, watching me from the side. "Don't wanna talk about it?"

"No."

'All right," he said simply, taking out his

lunch. "l get it. Plus, you just met me, so I guess it's kind of...weird to ask something like that." He paused. "l'm Michael, by the way." He waited for me to give my name. And waited.

I sighed. "l'm Olivia...Liwy."

"Nice to meetyou...Liwy." Something heavy seemed to weigh down his smile as he turned away from me and continued to eat his lunch.

walk home with you?" He shifted the bulging knapsack on his back, looking more than a bit pained under its weight.

"Sure," I said, giving up. I thrust my entire body against the locker to close.

"Think you've got enough stuff in there?" His lopsided grin mocked me. I glared at him and kicked my locker, as if it, instead of Michael, was the one who threw the comment at me.

The contents of my locker spilled out at my feet-again. Papers I hadn't seen since last October swam around my feet. If there was a prize for the least organized person at school, I won it hands down. I scraped my things together into a pile and shoved them back in, telling myself I d organize later even though I knew I wouldn't.

"Hey, Liwy." Michael appeared next to me.

I sighed and kept my head in my locker, pretending to look for something. "Livtry?"

"Huh?" I said loudly, making random noise in my locker to further convince him of my preoccupation. No such luck. He continued to stand next to my locker, oblivious to my ploy to get him to leave.

"l thought maybe you'd want someone to

"You do know that my house is like two miles away?" Since we lived in such a small town, everything was sprawled out across at least fifteen square miles in every direction. "lt'll take us at least thirty minutes to get there walking."

"l'm up for it." He grinned. "l don't have too much homework. Besides, I like walking. It's kind of refreshing."

ln November? I shrugged. 'All right, then." The minute we stepped out the door wind tore at our bodies and whipped around us like waves at the beach. "You know, you really don't have to do this. I walk home alone every day."

"Then it should be a nice change for someone to walk with you," he said. I snorted indignantly.

Another day at the counselor's office. The walls closed in around me, suffocating me. But I still wouldn't talk, I thought. I could feel Michael's eyes burning into my head, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him. I hated him, I thought. I hated everyone.

"Oh, dear," Dr. Curtis said when she saw me. Obviously, I must've looked as bad as I felt. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I muttered. She closed the door behind us silently.

"You know I'm here to help you," she said gently, tapping the deskwith her manicured fingernails. "lt's not my job to chastise you, or to judge you. Do you trust me on that?"

I pulled my legs up to my chest on the chair. I said nothing. I watched the Newton's cradle on the desk, turning a deaf ear to her.

She sucked in a deep breath and looked at the ceiling as if it could, by some means, answer all of her questions. 'All right. I want you to write down how you feel. Not what happened, but how yo:ufeel. Nothing more, nothing less." She handed me a blank sheet ofpaper. I stared at it, then picked out a pen from the mug on her desk.

Five minutes passed, and she took the paper from me. Her face grew red, but then she swallowed

and contained herself. She showed me the picture-a stick figure atop a lackadaisically drawn boat. "This... Olivia, it's obvious that today, you're not making the most out of this session. So right now, while I take Michael, I want you to sit out in the waiting room and think about your feelings and how you can resolve your problems. You may see yourself out." She pursed her lips, disgruntled, and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her nose.

As I walked out of the office, I met eyes with Michael. He was shaking his head, hands clasped in front of his face in a position of prayer. I wondered if he saw the picture.

"Listen, you need to talk to someone," Michael caught up with me as I stepped outside after fourth period. "lt isn't healthy to just keep your feelings in like this."

"Sure thing, Mom," I said gruffly, turning the corner. "If I wanted a lecture on feelings I would've tuned in to Oprah, thankyou very much. I don't see whyyou care so much!"

"Fine-you see rhis?" He jabbed a finger at the scar on his face. "l got this a year ago. I killed your dad, Olivia."

Blood rushed to my head and blue spots appeared in myvision. "1..." I whispered. "How...?" This had to be a dream. I looked at him for a moment. It felt like forever until I turned swiftly on my heels and left the campus.

My breath came out in quick puffs as I crossed the quad. I could feel my blood boil and my heart race. I kicked up dust with my scuffed-up white I(eds and grunted. At this point, my teacher would have realized I wasn't in class. Oh well,l thought. I passed the point ofcaring ages ago.

I realized Mom wasn't home as I sank onto the couch. My father looked up at me accusingly from his spot on the coffee table, as if reprimanding me for skipping school.

"l know, I know," I sighed, then flipped on the television. "lt's for a good cause, I'll have you know."

Someone knocked at the door and I jumped. I flipped off the television and peered through the peephole. Michael stood outside, occasionally glancing at his watch. I let out a low growl of annoyance.

"Go away'' "l'm not leaving."

He lingered. I ripped open the door. "What do you wonf from me?"

"I want you to hear me out. Please?"

"What kind of sick joke are you trying to pull? Who do you think you are, walking around and telling people you killed their fathers?" I kicked the door to clarifl. my point. "lf you don't leave in thirty seconds, I'm calling the police!"

"Whatever-l'm staying right here."

"Fine." I checked through the peephole again, then found the phone. "l've got the phone. You've got twenty seconds."

"Listen, okay? Just...let me talk...if what I say matches up with what you remember, then..."

I scrunched up my face and thought to myself for a moment. "Fine."

"Can I...can you at least let me in, Livvy?"

"What do you think?" I snapped angrily. Silence. 'All right, then," he began. "I'd just gotten my permit a month or so before. And you know, I was all hyped up and ready to get on a highway. My mom was okay with it because it was the last week of summerand all, and wewere coming back from the beach anyway..." He inhaled. "She thought I was a great driver, I guess. You know how moms are. So we were coming up the hill, and my mom was so tired. She went to sleep right in the passenger seat, so she wasn't watching while I was driving. So I went up the hill and I started moving over to the other

lane. I mean, I noticed and all, but it didn't seem like such a big deal. But it was..." He shook his head at the ground. "My mom and I, we got outwith some bruises and broken bones. I mean, we went to the hospital and all, but...every day I wake up and think: 'l could be dead. But instead someone else is. And it's all my faultl I can't even livewith myself knowing what I did to you. I've been reliving that day, seeing your face, for the past year now. And sure, yeah, I got this stupid scar that probably won't ever go away, but you knowwhat? The people in the other car-youpaid the ultimate price for my negligence." He stood there, exposed for the first time. He folded his arms against the cold. 'And when I moved here and saw you again...l thought maybe I could've done right by you and settled the score."

"Well, you thought wrong," I said bitterly. My tone could have given him frostbite, but I didnt care. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here." I slid down to the floor, my back against the door. On the other side, it was quiet except for his breathing. My conscience got the best of me and I opened the door. "Get in here."

"Thanks," he mumbled. "Listen..." I scratched the back of my neck. "So...you really did do it?"

"l wouldn't make all that up for nothing. After the legal stuffwas finished, my mom though itd be best to move out of the town we were living in...people were giving us such a hard time. But...l guess she had no idea that I d meet up with you again here."

I folded my arms. "Well, it's been a year. And I guess it's been pretty bad on you, right? I mean, this is on your permanent record, and you've got to live with knowing that you killed someone for the rest of your life..." I sighed and rubbed my arm awkwardly. 'And I guess it's unfair for me to hold this against you-it's not making either of our lives easier."

He shrugged, his eyes sketching circles in the hardwood floor. "Yeah, I guess."

"So," I exhaled, letting every bad feeling that had built up inside me flow out. "I forgive you."

He stood there for a moment, shock running over him like cool water. "What? You do?"

"Yeah...l guess I don't know what I would do if I were in your shoes. You're already paying for what you did in a billion other ways, why should I make you feel even worse about yourself?"

"l-thank you..l' Michael whispered, his voice a blend of sorrow and inexplicable happiness. Suddenly, the scar that wound down the side of his face didn't seem so big anymore.

I grabbed my backpack from the corner of the room. "So, I guess we should get to school before we miss the rest of the day, huh?"

"Yeah." He followed me on the way out, and I closed and locked the door behind us.

by Cody Stocker

by Hanna Grannis

Sifted Dough Like Countertops

by |asmine Hosley

Sifted dough like countertops shaped it

Like yeast rising, despair grows in the heart of the kitchen, Sunken, and the only thing stuffed is his corpse.

Sweet potato pies left untouched, His cake couldn't sock it to her anymore

Now Granny stands smothered in this capacity

Wheelchairwheeled away weakened strength for support

Matico plant left swinging in bliss

Whisping the air, sweeter than an amaretto kiss

Audibly mute, forbidding the truth

Mordant, grim, inglorious they say define black

But his inner glory redefined the bleakness at matter

His colored skin now palored blue

His aged knuckles now coldly shot

Glacial countertops are what they're destined to be "Kitchen closed, the chef went home."

by l(ioto Aoki

Escape Plan

Deep breathing, Sweatypalms, Heartbeat racing, Fear. He's coming, He'll find her, He always does, Hide. Find the darkness, She covered herself, Shaking in shadows, Seek.

Where is hiswoman? Consequence is the key; he must find her

by Alia na Barnette-Dear

Anger. Found the darkness, Uncovered his woman, Beat offshadows, Repercussions. Aftermath, Tears, Bruises, Cry. He sleeps, She bleeds, an idea, Dream. Her plan unfolds, Work day begins, His footsteps fade,

Run. The door is unlocked, Her feet are unsure, Freedom is so close, Unknown. Door opens, Dark slcy, Bus stop, Away. One ticket, One bag, Ten dollars, Fear, I Don't

What's next. Know,

by Conrad Wight

When all our tasks are done/ what will we do but/ fade to dust as/ torn down housing projects have their/ foundations ripped up and/ dependent families are so displaced/ What can they do but/ pitch tarp tents in the/ resulting vacant lots/ trampling the tall grass/ What can we do but/ IMAGINE/ how it will be when we are/ sixty four and old and grayl wasting away doing the laundry and gardening/ Lest we carry on as/ nomads roam/ when we stop we will not know what to do.

byJohn Davis

Spring Cleanirg

by Richie 'Wheelock

"Oh dear," said mother frog, "here's where Madge left her sugar tongs. Remind me to run them over to her later, will you? (And she must stop being so forgetful, I swear, I'll throw out those damn tongs if she insists on leaving them once more.) Whoops, I've dropped the framel Hand it to me, will you please? Thank you dear. Oh, it's fhis picture! You know, I remember when this was taken. Back at that garden party, whose was it again?

Ah yes, Daisy's. Shame she died, she had lovely lilies. And look atLizzie! Barely three, she was, if my memory's right. And look! Her little feet are just coming in. (and of course Jerry's in the back, hobbling about.) Lizzie looks darling in this picture. You know, I worked hard enough to get that bow on her, but it paid off, didn't it? Oh, now you arent even lool<ing. What's that? Dear god, is that Cheryl's? Throw it out. Now. Wait! No it's Lizzie's! Ohl remember when we bought thisl We were out shoppingl

(Of course, Jerry refused to come along.) Yes, at Martin's. You know, that old toad. Yes, his shop. Oh don't be silly, of course you remember. I remember. You know I think sometimes I'll never forget. Which is fine by me, in any case. I miss them so... But do you remember when they learned to crawl? (lt was the day the crows flew in fiom south, in that great noisy swarm, and my petunias were ruined.) That was a thrilling day, yes. Well, they've left us, dear, just two old frogs waiting to die... Oh now I've gone and knocked over the vase. Look, it broke. No worries. It was that ugly one Cheryl gave us. You know with the dreadful birds on them. Hmm... Harry, you know I think I've forgotten one thing. Well, I'm sure it will come to me later. Now, don't forget to pick up that soccer ball on your way down. Whose was that anyways? Jerry never played soccer. (He was too lazy.) Never mind, I've got to hurry. Lizzie said shed phone and it's been monrhs since ... It could ring any second!"

i f,' ,! by

the author

by Michelangelo DeBattisti

\tr/hen I First Saw You On The 'L by Raphy Reynaud

When I first sawyou on the'L, I was scared. You stared at us with eyes sharper than syringes. Do you still ride the night train through the ghetto? Snorting cocaine, head tucked underneath a heavywinter coat? Because I knowyou still play jazz. I sawyou months later, Sitting on a plastic bucket in Grant Park, commanding the attention of pedestrians with a gold saxophone. But this isnt the orthodox jazz of Gold Coast cafes. This is the jazz that separates Chicago from NewYork, the filthy sound that separates us from Philly, San Fran, and Boston. The jazz that would jump kids for dollars on an empty green line train. The same soul music that is cold steel shoved down colder throats, that turns white snow red as throwback Bulls jerseys.

I know why you make that music. I have seen you force your instrument to scream bloody murder through the west side. The blues that paint the ciry's soul with a ringing sound that dances sideways off of steel-framed glass giants and then trickles into the suburbs.

I want to listen to the song of the projects, and ofpoverfy, and ofhunger.

Culture me with the rhythm of Jamaican slum roots that I can listen to because I will never see it in person I just want to hear you serenade with your saxophone and I'll throw you another bill to feed your addiction. Give you money for what keeps you playing jazz-

Slave's Perspective

by Isabel Mon aghan

You can say a man's freedom is earned

Through the sweat of his brow. But mine has been given, From blood that Courses through your conscience Like wine through a set of hell-bound bones.

From your mindless pencil scrapings Stolen straight from a blindfolded God's Honest outstretched hand. Your eraser marks digging the grave of my servitude.

From your belief in your own ten commandments, As they trace the history of a series of intolerabilities, Numbering offapologies to mankind

Until the numbers are so small they stop counting.

Only to conclude that I am in desperate need of you.

From your destruction of my skin, my bones, my blood. Whipped until its thinness seeps through The holes my mother, father, and sister left in me. Now I can be in your image, white lord. I have been rid of my soul.

Prayer For A Repalrman

by Peter Vishneski

"Warning: High Maintenance." Fix me?

No, Sir, close your mindless lips. Those words that mean to quiet My constant grumblings Only fuel this unrelenting hunger. Words, just a tune-up for this broken nuisance I wish not to be.

No, Sir, do not stick that wrench in me. I have tasted this lusty metal before, And it is cold, fleeting, fickle as the solace I so long to breathe... Fix me?

In my solitude I curse to myself

As I tire of this cycle, breaking down And fruitlessly fondled by tramps.

O, woeful, spiteful pains of silence That turn men on their heels And short-circuit mywires without effort

O demon who haunts such wasteful dreams, Begone! Leave me to be exorcised forever Free me of your torturous embrace!

O please, Sir, fix me!

No, do not tighten those screws. They're wound as tight as that revolting clock Whose tick and tock grows

As my expiration date draws nigh. No, Sir, I do not ask foryour hand.

I do not ask for shallow words or nether wrench.

I simply ask to be fixed-for good.

To no longer be burdened by this hunger, To no longer be high maintenance.

What, Sir? What do I wish? I wish to speak likeyou "Welcome. Satisfaction Guaranteed."

Fix me? Yes, Sir, do what you will.

Starstruck

by Lauren Frost

January z8th, ry86

ChristaMcAulffi

Such annihilation

Theywatched me die

At 48,ooo feet and T+73.162 seconds

Such acceleration

Like when I learned to crawl Mommyand Daddywere 48,ooo feet high and held me for T+73.162 seconds

Such exhilaration

Like when I learned to kiss Our lips were 48,ooo feet wide and it lasted forT+73:162 seconds

Such exasperation

Likewhen I learned to teach Children's minds were 48,ooo feet away and they listened forT+73.162 seconds

Like when I learned to doubt But today my fears were 48,ooo feet deep and I dreamtforT+73.t62 seconds

Theywatched me die

At 48,ooo feet and T+73.162 seconds

Yetwe lived on No one heard our silent tears smack into a slate of diamond ocean at two hundred and seven miles per hour

Yet we lived on I still do At 48,ooo feet and T+73.162 seconds

Scaffolding

by Raven Hogue

My twelve-year-old brother Brandon is a graffiti artist writing with the end of a broken rib. He maces white garage doors, waving spray cans to fend offthe sirens chasing his right hand's rugged strokes. Careless in his crime, he doesn't clock-out when flashing lights discover him punching in between the moon and sun's shift. Faded against a squad car's spotlight, he bows his head into a cave of black seats. A police officer pats plum shadows into his eye sockets as he swallows spray can spritzes. I wash holding cell and yellow paint from my brother's clothes. Another fine for our parents to fight over. Brandon's fingers are wrecking balls. My father plows my mother's earth cheeks. He tries to convince my brother and me

our mother looks proper with handprints crouching in her skin. That her lips look handsome with mahogany soil weeping from them. Her blood pebbles on the bottom of my shoes. When we hug, I feel our father's breath nodding at my neck. His fist bruises my ribs as he knuckles into hers.

Brandon turns up the volume on the TV and looks past it. We share eardrums.

Our parents voices, nothing but hisses and sparks. Brandon wades in static while I feel the shock.

On stage, I am the nervous sway of prairie grass determined to find my roots. Building poetry on a mic is dangerous construction. Shyness is a poor replacement for scaffolds and parents were never there to properly secure rafters Sandpaper scrubs vocal chords when I breathe. The ankles of my words tremble.

My parents miss another show.

I am parked in their side thoughts while my brother's felonies blur past me in a breeze of red and blue graffiti. Our parents are empty can shells and busted pen fossils. They leave bouquets of unclapped hands on empty auditorium seats. Another tour of a holding cell. Gaze at my brother's canyon arms slipping ridges into iron cuffs. I wish my parents could see my words like they were spray painted out of my mouth or that my fingers were wrecking balls, and I could tear down this cell they've been holding me in.

by Maggie I(arlin

Recess

by Lila Bowen

Tears. scraped knees and elbows and burning blisters to brag about soldiers: rz hundred hours. given the chance to do anything you couldn't even dream of Cherry bombs fallen, screams erupt from the blacktop. Soldiers crouch, see mirages from the distance grow, as robber runs from cop, claiming foul play in the mud of the diamond dipped in rain, fallen over the playground while grenades fly from brick walls, caught by soldiers hoist their fellow's toes out of the simmering lava with rope makes whirlwinds as humans d"fyGravity pulls the monkeybars down to a fingertip reach shrinks the circumference of the slide

cracks and wavers her swings, her cockpit steals the luster of the dripping diamond and takes her childhood hostage.

She was a soldier. a unit in the minefield a unit where grenades fly a unit in the swamps

She was a soldier. She had pride. a uniform: stained medals of honor: scars boots: nonexistent Now she sees eye-to-eye with the monkey bars and tube slides aren't for sliding, but for hiding and diamonds are for ears and fingers

She is not a soldier. but the swings are still her cockpit

Tick

by Kristen Nassar

Black hands rotate in jolts around my left atrium, Caressing the flesh with unyielding plastic, Manmade and harsh, Stimulated to movement by gears within my skull, Clicking to connect, and then to disconnectSweet, abstract moments, and then The connection to Reality. To Time. The ticking of my heart's hands The sense of being swallowed up by summer's winds And then my imminent deliverance into an unlovingAutumn Now sends my blood into a nervous frenzyInvading my shoulders and back, my elbows, my fingertips And finally the gears speed up their clicking, Which, in turn, speeds up the ticking And time flurries past in myriad sounds artificial.

Mind! Are you there? Or are you just fiction? (God! Are you there? Or are you just fiction?)

Take over these gears; stop the incessant clicking! ForTime is hollow, manmade, unrealProgrammed by humanity, not by Truth!

AsamL

I am as manmade as the plastic hands of my heart Mind will not respond, for I am but gears. Her existence-only an invention artificial as I. (His existence-only an invention artificial as I.)

I lay prostrate in front of Time's glinting, copper throne. I will oxidize in the summer winds And submit to the unloving autumn. My left atrium will chafe more and more with each tick, Will wear away until I am just a broken watch.

The fate of Man is but clockwork.

Mornirg Iog

by Paula Stocco

Sobbing with angelic abandon, The sky heaved his somber load, Celestial release would be my companion, Oyster clouds shaking pearls onto the road

Sacrificial envoys explode against the asphalt sea, Sowing motley threads through the streets, They shatter my silky shadow, Then marble herwith silver and gold. My usual winged choir quiet remained, Silenced under the rampant deluge, Only the slap of rubber on sleek pavement played, Constant melody to my ritual refuge.

by Franka Contreras

il

Spoon River

by Mic ah Layman

The shovel split the damp earth, hardly making a sound. The airwas cold that night, and the moon full. Mrs. Sibley stopped to take a breath and, glancing to her left, saw the hilltop that guarded her from the prying eyes of Spoon River. Nobody will find me here, she thought, these trees are thick and there is no moonlight by which to see. The scent wafting up into her nostrils could be described as nothing short of repulsive, but she craved the feeling it gave her. Slowly oozingout of the potato sack at her feet, cleansing every pore, his odor was more holy than all of his books and prayers. She bent down and opened the potato sack. Those beautiful black beads, devoid now ofall that he held dear and all that she despised, looked towards the heavens. How ironic, she thought. And she laughed. A high, mirthless laugh piercing the empty silence of the forest, surrounding her, and frightening a flock of crows from a nearby perch.

"No longer shall you outdo me, Amos. No longer shall your knowledge and wisdom make a mockery of me. God has chosen me, Amos, to be the reaper. I shall pluck from you every feather by which you attempted to flyaway from me. Nowyou will respect me," she proclaimed as she stuck a cross inside the potato sack. Checking that no strand of hair was sticking out from the top, she tightened the strings and heaved the sack into the hole.

"Satan is waiting," she whispered, and began filling the grave.

"So you see, Adam, I am at a loss forwhat to do! I cannot divorce her, for I love God and all that He and the church stand for, but the anger welling up inside of myvery soul is unbearable! What advice do you have for me, old friend?"

Amos Sibley took a sip of his tea, staring with

helpless eyes as Adam thought about what he had just said.

"You say she is unfaithful, Amos, and you know this for sure?" asked Adam.

"Yes, I have witnessed the treachery with mine own eyes. It was October last, and I was working late at the church. She knew this, and told me she would keep my dinner warm on the stove until I was finished. When I finally arrived at my home, around eleven o'clock in the evening, I heard a loud, rhythmic thumping coming from upstairs. I was on guard as I slowly crept up the steps and opened my bedroom door, and there she was! With a man I'd never seen before! I regret to say I was not strong enough to interrupt them then and there. I crept back downstairs and out into the cold night to have a walk," said Amos.

Adam thought for a moment. "Well, my dear friend, I am so very sorry to hear of this. Of course I would not recommend divorce, for God would look upon this with such disdain." He thought for a moment more. "I apologize, Amos, I just cannot think of a solution to thisl Pray for her. She needs guidance. That is all that comes to mind."

Amos looked across the table at Adam with a

solemn expression. "This conversation cannot leave this roomi' he said. "You do know this?"

"Of course. Not even mywife shall hear of it. You have myword."

And with thatAmos stood up and opened the door. He slammed it on his way out, frightening a crow from its perch. From that day forward Amos resolved that he would focus his anger into learning. He would lecture, run for office, and canvass for books, all the while putting his adulterous wife out of his mind. In a few months time, Amos was elected mayor of Spoon River, and in two years was voted the most influential man west of the Mississippi. He hated his new life, but knew it was the only way. Through all his successes, his wife continued her clandestine infi delity.

It happened on a drafty evening in early September. The leaves had vacated the trees, and lay trampled or in heaps on the side of the road, giving the woods offto the east an ominous, jagged silhouette. Amos was hurrying home, hoping for a hot dinner on the table but dreading another night of scripted conversation. As he walked in the door, his eyes fell upon his wife. Something was strange. She wasn't sitting in her usual spot knitting by the fireplace; she was at the kitchen table, staring towards

the door with red eyes, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief, "Sit down, Amos," she said. Amos thought he detected a hint of malicious humor in her raspy whisper, but he didn't dwell. He sat.

"Amos," she said staring at him, "l'm pregnant."

Mrs. Sibleywas a small woman, but made up for her size with an uncanny ability to command respect. All her life she had been the perfect specimen: straight As, graduated top of her class, beautiful, flowing brown hair, a soft face, and eyes the color of ripe blueberries. Boys pined over her and girls were jealous. All that changed when she married Amos. She began losing her hair and gained weight by the day, it seemed. She also began seeing wrinkles tarnish her stunning good looks. Even her eyes seemed to lose their luster. Although she still retained her intelligence, it was overshadowed by Amos's remarkable virtuosity. Mrs. Sibley had known her looks would fade with time, but she had hoped she would always have herwits for people to look up to. Oh, how wrong I was, she thought as she stared into Amos's beautiful amber eyes. She despised him for his cleverness, and although she would never

let on, was infinitely jealous of every aspect of his being. She longed to be the successful one. That was the way it should be. She should be mayor! She should be influential! She should be loved! That was why she cheated. Mrs. Sibley couldn't get enough of hersel(, but it seemed as though Amos didnt see her for the perfection she truly was. At least, not in the way she wanted. One night stands were a way for her to regain her tarnished self-image, which had been shattered like a crystal chandelier through years of helpless marriage.

A crow on the ledge outside the open window let loose a caw that froze her soul. She walked over to close the window, giving the coward a few more moments for the sting of her words to sink in. Now he knows the truth, she thought. We haven't slept together in years. I can't wait to see his face. But when she sat back down and looked at her husband, she was dumbfounded. Why isn't he angry? Why does he stare at me with those eyes, those amber daggers which pierce every fiber of my being, and convey nothing but remorse!

"l know. I've always known," he said, almost apathetically. Years of bottling up his rage had made him something of an expert.

"How?" she screamed, no longer caring about

anything except revenge.

Amos didn't answer. He simply sat, hands grasped together as ifin prayer, and stared at her. After a few moments of heavy silence, she turned on her heel and sped out ofthe house, up over the hill to the east, far into the dead woods until she felt alone. There she wept. She wept for her broken life, for her husband's treacherous perfection. She wept for herself. She wept until all that remained inside of herwas a small ember of hope, one last far-flung possibility for happiness. Resolved, she stood up, dusted herself off, and began a purposeful walk home.

Mrs. Sibley spent the next week procuring the tools she would need for her task. She went to the store to buy the largest sack ofpotatoes they had. A small bag won't do, she thought, he's quite tall. She traveled across the river to see Mrs. |ohnson about a shovel. It was said she had a particularly fine set of gardening tools. Nothing but the best, she thought. MyAmos deserves nothing but the best. Mrs. Sibley was quite pleased with herself. She needed only one more tool. However, she was finding it difficult to locate one that was just right for the job.

One foggy evening, after a long day of searching which yielded nothing but irritation, Mrs. Sibley noticed something strange. Across the street from

where she stood, at the Spoon River Elementary School, there was a large flock of crows circling the swing set. It's much too late for children to be playing, she thought, I wonder what it is. As she set up across the street, a loud clap of thunder shook the sky, and a light drizzle began to fall. The fog was becoming thicker, and Mrs. Sibley began to feel the soft tickle of the hairs on her neck standing on end. Something is wrong, she thought. As she approached the swing set, the flock of crows scattered to show what they had been feasting on.

The corpse of a small girl, no more than eight, was lying in a puddle of blood and filth, a pitchfork protruding from her neck. Her eyes, open wide, were a beautiful dark blue, the color of ripe blueberries. Her lifeless hands were clutched in what seemed to be little fists. Upon closer look, Mrs. Sibley noticed she was holding something. She cautiously pried open the girl's cold fingers and retrieved the slip of paper she had been clinging to so tightly. It was stained with blood and dirt, but Mrs. Sibley could decipher the three words hastily scrawled upon it: "GOD SAVE MEI'She dropped to her knees in terror. She felt the fog closing in around her like smoke from a chimney, and heard another deafening clap of thunder from above. The school's clock tower chimed

eleven, and the rabid crows which had been circling the little girl's body shrieked with panic. Amos, she thought. She ripped the pitchfork from the child's neck, and in a blind rage raced towards her house, praying to God that her husband was asleep. Arriving at her front gate, she slowed her pace to a walk. I must be cautious, she thought, if I wake him everything will be ruined. Carefully she eased the door to the house open and tiptoed upstairs, taking care not to make too much noise. The door to their bedroom creaked open, but the splattering of rain on the window disguised the sound. Her eyes fell upon him, sleeping peacefully in bed, and all at once she was overcome with an unfathomable anguish, one which tore at her heart and threatened to rip her chest open. She lunged at him, pitchfork in hand, and landed with a thud on his chiseled chest. His eyes shot open with a start, and upon seeing his wife, they filled with an immeasurable dread. He began to thrash against her, but she restrained him. His physical strength was no match for the deep surge of hatred she was channeling through every muscle. With a cry she lifted the pitchfork above her, and in one fluid motion brought it down into his head, the prongs cutting through his eyes and spurting a fountain of blood. In seconds his motions were reduced

to slight twitches, which finally subsided. Mrs. Sibley threw the pitchfork onto the floor and dragged her husband's lifeless body down the steps and out the back door into the yard. There she opened the shed and seized the shovel and empty potato sack she'd been saving. Hoisting the objects over her shoulder, she grabbed Amos by the hair and began trudging eastward towards the forest, the rain pouring down and washing away any trace of evidence.

One hour later she arrived at her destination. The rain had subsided, and it was very late. She gazed up through the trees at the full moon and sighed. It's all oveq she thought, happiness is mine. She could hardly contain herself. With shovel in hand, she split the damp earth, and it hardly made a sound.

\tr/hen I Was Little

by Natalie Richardson

When I was little I adopted stars, and named them to match my stuffed animals.

I believed everywish I conjured would come true-l knew those stars personally. As I watched them totter across the sky I imagined they were crawling onward to carry out mywishes. If my eyes stayed transfixed long enough I could see them skinny-dip on the horizon.

I wished on stars that my Dad could light up my mother again, like sun bathing the moon. But there's something deceiving about airplanes at night. How pinpricks of childhood fantasies sewn into midnight's blanket are only public transportation. Headlights ignite my ignorance in night skies-burning like the candle

wax that splattered my bedroom floor. When I was alone, there was nothing more captivating than watching flames latch onto jet streams of parent arguments. Fire lurching for a snake of air, my ear pressed against floorboards that shook with every stinging battle from below. I've developed a habit of counting quarrels and giving them destinations.

"Where's the TV remote?"

A commuter jet to Ft. Wayne, IN. "What do you even do on those business trips?"

A streamline jet to Queens, NY. "Maybe we should take a break."

A747 to Florence, Italy.

As my parents become sun and stars, never seen together, I invent places far enough away to forget words that slice through plaster like meat cleavers. Now, I wish on airplanes not stars because stars have begun to rust, shackled into night's blanket, trapped, like me. Stars can't take me away from the swallowing silence that is my lullaby after bedtime brawls, or the smoked-out feeling in my chest every time I realize that sometimes, families don't mold. Recently, I've taken to dreaming about the bounce of turbulence, the discomfort of shared air, and the ping of freedom when the seatbelt light turns on.

by Madelaine Norman

Frozen Hope

by Mary Skapek

The earth that frosted fingers slyly stroke, Beneath the weight of lacquered shell does hide.

A chilly silence does the planet cloak, It seems the voice of sounding life has lied.

Ice coats the fractured labyrinth of ground, And hangs barbed, dagger-like from boundless blue.

Rays of sun glint offthe glaring crystals, Light that blinds, but with heat cannot imbue.

Night shadows creep and shroud the frozen realm,

As flakes of falling snow are lost in stars.

Gales breathe frost to obscure the mighty helm, Though Frosty grins straight through the white that mars.

But deep below the choking cold does grow, A seed that through the brutal hush will glow.

by Mikaela Gillman

by Rebekah Dempsey

by Melissa W.rclden

by Bridget Reinhard

photograph by Liz Beard

by Nathan Landay

by Nikolai Ewert

by Rebecca Robinson

It Hung From His Lips

by Emily Cannon

It hung from his lips like venom.

Shattered glass bottles Scattered like undesignated drivers across asphalt. Shards shook with every Fist pounded in glass 'Til his blood mixed withvenom, One part whiskey, one part whine.

He slumped sideways. Spit tunneled like a train of tears

From stained teeth. He gulped it like an antidote, To fill eyes drier than the Bottoms of his broken glass bottles.

He slumped sideways, and Everything dripped out his ears. Thirsty to erase words, blurring Lines, dividing repaired from impaired, Bottoms of bottles slammed

Like brakes against concrete.

He slumped sideways, So it hung from his lips Likevenom.

Disclaimer To The Bourgeois

by Max DeGenova

I wish I could pass Rorschach in seven different tongues

With one hand on my paycheck and one on my gun. A thousand voices tiring me, at least I can't lie to me, I'm sick of throwing snowballs in the sun.

Got doctors saying that I'm sick, but I can't afford it

And I could sell my soul to Satan and get rewarded.

It's war kid: blood on the streets up and rising like yeast, Politics ain't relief for this primitive beast, To make bread is just your primary concern, Flip up the blue collar and wait your turn.

lust wait in line for your thyme, You spice your salad but not your mind, Crying all the time, dying for the dime at the dine-in, Dice your rhyme in, boil your ramen while you're Blinded by the time and the lightning.

Can I sing foryou brother?

Can I dance foryou brother?

Can I shineyour shoes and Pretend we got the same mother?

Between each other, I'm a rebel in the wrong age, Avillain on the wrong page, Fighting in the east for oil with no press. The bank called, should they send your check

To the same address?

Old tracks go back to black while, fact is,

I got knack for stabbing myself in the back.

The backpack don't got the books, I do.

The top two don't pay the bills, we do.

The grand ol'partyain't so damn hot

When your parents are there, we're out by ten o'clock

I gotta get the shackles off my back with whack tactics

The fact is, I'm a slave to the free market

It's mass targeting of the lower class, so your ass is grass

When you bring up the crass blame game.

Spread the wealth, lower the price of health

Bounce the color red offyour damn shelf

It's F-I-S CAL genocide

And I'm working up the wrath on my outside.

Melvin The Dragon

by Peter Vishneski

Light flooded into Melvin's cave, casting a warm glow upon the rocks where he slumbered. The birds'twittering signified that the sun had arrived for springtime, a time for creatures like Melvin to come out of their hibernation and greet others with their colorful scales and wide-spread wings. It was a time of mating and feasting and no more snow-Melvin's favorite time of the year. He lazily opened a yellow eye and took in his surroundings.

His cave was just the way it had been when he had gone to sleep for the winter: full of rocks and skeletons of old snacks that he never found the drive to dispose of. With a satisfoing stretch, he rubbed his other eye open and stood on his hind claws, stepping into the bright warmth of morning so he could take in the sights and smells of his kingdom. A rush of fresh wind lapped at his face as he stretched out his wingsa fully-fledged, fifteen-foot-tall dragon with scales as green as spring grass.

He licked his fangs as he surveyed the kingdom of men below him. They ran from their houses to their churches, their shops, their castle, carrying doodads and knickknacks, stopping to speak to one another, buzzingabout their towns busily as though what they did was important. Melvin let out a hearty guffaw to the heavens and flapped his wings, heading into the springtime skies.

Melvin roared a mighty mating call and soared through the clouds, keeping his eyes open for a lovely miss dragon to copulate with. He bellowed his call over the dense forests, the tall mountains, the vast beaches, and even the lonely plains. Not one dragon answered his call. Not only that, but not one dragon seemed to be flying through the skies at all. Theyear before, Melvin would encounter four or five dragons at the same time, and they would pause to chase each others'tails and even unleash their flames as one. The barren skies of this spring made tears

water up in Melvin's eyes, and he soon returned to his mountain to wallow in his frustration.

When he arrived, however, he spotted something odd atop his mountain. A man, no taller than his shin, stood at the base of his cave clad in full armor. Peering through the clouds, he watched as the man drew a sword from his belt and entered Melvin's home. Seething with fury, Melvin dove into the mouth of his cave and snatched the man up in his claw, his belly rumbling with anticipation.

"Who dares disturb my abode?" Melvin growled with all the venom he could muster in manspeak. The little man stared up at him with large eyes, his white teeth, like his silver armor, chattering in his terror. The twitching of his mustache made Melvin grin. He loved human faces. 'Answer me, worm!"

"l- I- I am Sir M-Muris, and I have come toto..."

"To what, metal man?" Melvin drooled onto Sir Muris's face for dramatic effect, and then shook him until he stopped blabbering nonsense.

"l have come to slayyou..J' he whimpered, his voice nothing but a soft man-squeak by the end of it. Melvin cocked his head to the side in baffled amusement. Was that why all of the dragons were missing?

This metal man had slain them all?

"Little metal 1ntr1-"

"l am a knight!" he demanded weakly. "Little knight," Melvin spat, covering the man in more dragon drool. "Haveyou come across any other dragons with that dagger of yours?" Melvin took great delight in intimidating humans-especially ones who dropped their weapons upon being snatched up.

"lt's a sword!" he peeped adamantly, 'And yes, I have! Why do you care?"

"Because if you do not answer my questions, stout knight, you will return to your village about a quarter of the size you already are!" Sir Muris gulped and twitched his mustache again. "Where are the dragons?"

"They're deadlWe killed them all!"

"Dead? What do you mean, 'dead?'And who is'We?'" Melvin's nostrils flared and his belly grumbled more forcefully than before. He could feel a tingle of fire coming up his snout.

"Dead! IGng Xavier ordered his entire army of knights to climb up the mountains before the vernal equinox to rid this land of you terrible beasts! You were our last target!" The diminutive Muris attempted to spit into Melvin's face, but he ended up

only slobbering into his helmet. Melvin smirked and tongued the man's mustache, taunting and tasting him.

"Sir Muris, can you tell me one last thing, and then I will let you go?"

His eyebrows raised in excitement. "Yes!Anything!"

"Why are you the only knight I have come across this lovely spring morning?"

"Because King Xavier said that if I killed you mysel{, he would marry me to his daughter, Princess Olei." His mustache twitched again.

'A man with your facial hair and short stature does not have a wife of his own?" Melvin was simply playing with his food now.

"You ate my wife last year, you filthy beast! Now let me go!You said you would!"

"l suppose you're righti' Melvin chuckled. He raised the knight over his head and held his mouth open like a baby bird. Before Sir Muris could let out another squeak, Melvin dropped him straight down his dragon throat. The metal did not taste so wonderfuI. "This barely satiates my hunger," Melvin muttered to himself. "I must devour more!" With a swift leap, he headed straight towards the castle town. Mid-flight, it dawned upon him that he was the only

dragon left in the kingdom. His hunger for human blood raged.

Men and women shrieked, dashing from their shops and conversations into flimsywood houses and churches. Melvin grabbed handfuls and stomped upon them, tossed them in all directions, gobbling up butchers and bakers and brides. One man in a heavy shawl stepped out of a church and waved a cross in Melvin's direction, sputtering man-speak Melvin could not decipher. The little cross reflected the sun in such a way that it burned Melvin's eyes. With his anger building even firrther, he took the man and ripped the cross from his hands. He chucked it aside as he stuffed the church man into his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the pristine taste. He loved every crunch of the man's bones as he chewed them, then he spit them upon the dirty earth.

Soon after the town had emptied and Melvin's belly grumbled no longer, he set his sights on one last morsel: King Xavier, the man who was responsible for the dragons' downfall. Melvin spread his wings and swooped through the castle garden, around the locked wooden doors, and to the top of a tall spire; he was sure to find the king in the highest point of the castle. Flapping his wings furiously, he clung to the

window ledge and peered into a brightly lit room.

It was not the king he saw but a female man: a woman. Her eyes were locked on a reflection of herself within a mirror as she pulled an ornate brush through her long tangles of fiery red hair. She was humming a pleasant melody to herself and it caused Melvin to stop and stare perhaps longer than he should have.

The girl must have been Princess Olei, for she let offa fragrance of dew and perfume. It was the smell of royal blood that parched the tongue and tickled the nose so. Melvin now understood why the stout Sir Muris came by himself to slay the dragon; she was a beauty to behold. In the mirror, he could see dazzling blue eyes staring back at him-staring back at him!

"MONSTER!" she shrieked, whipping her brush at his snout. When it bounced offof his left nostril, her dazzling eyes turned to terrified mush. "Wait, dear Olei!" Melvin hissed, holding his claws up like men did when they gave up their attempts to escape him. "I mean you no harm." Olei was gripping a glass bottle of sweet-smelling orange liquid in her right hand, apparently still deciding whether or not to throw it at him. "l mean you no harm," he repeated, his claws still up in surrender.

Olei placed the bottle back down beside her mirror and slowly approached the dragon. "Dear large, scaly monster," she began in her thick manspeak accent, "ls it you who has been causing all the commotion outside my window?" Only a slight trembling was noticeable in her pale fingers. Melvin dropped his claws, though the beautiful princess was only feet away from his large snout. She made him feel strangely comfortable, as no female-man had done before. "Yes. It was I, fair Olei." He cringed, sure she was going to attack him again, but for some reason she did not. In fact, she softened and grinned, a gleam of the devil dancing within her dazzling eyes. "Does that mean that the stubby Sir Muris is gone from this world, too?" She flung a thick, scarlet lock from her face that made her even more dazzling. "Yes," Melvin uttered simply, unable to find other words. His insides were still raging from mating season's arrival. He could feel it in the wag of his tail. The grin on her face widened and she stepped closer to the dragon, placing a gentle finger upon the tip of his snout that made fire rise eagerly in his throat.

"Dragon, do you have a name?"

"Melvin," he replied.

"Melvin." Her eyes dazzled his. "You know

that my father, the king, has sworn to wipe out your entire race, do you not?"

"l do."

That devilish gleam flickered again. "Then that means you have come to get revenge, have you not?"

"l have!" Melvin could sense they were on the same wavelength. His tail wagged harder.

"Well then, would you mind making a deal with a lowlywoman?" Melvin showed hewas listening. "Kill my father, and I, the new queen, will personally take care of you to make up for my father's actions. You would live in the palace and eat whatever you want, wheneveryou want." She traced her finger down to his teeth, causing a jolt to flow through his entire dragon body. "Does that interest yort?"

Melvin licked his fangs in thought, catching her finger upon the tip of his tongue. Another jolt shot through his body. "l have a better deal," he stated. "Your father has left me with no mate, as all of the dragons are dead. I need a mate more than food. You would still get to be queen of the men, but I would be king of the skies."

"You have a deal, my dear dragon. But first, you must kill my father." She held out her hand to shake, in the way men did when they made things

official. Melvin offered up a scaly digit into her dainty grip, and they shook. Then Olei pointed him the way to the back gates of her castle, and soon he was hunched over a trembling King Xavier, smoke puffing out of his flared nostrils.

"Please, dragon, have mercy!" he cried, almost as pathetically as Sir Muris.

Melvin sneered with dragon hunger. "Did you have mercy on the dragons?" he bellowed, flames crawling up his throat. Before Xavier could cry out again, Melvin directed a vicious blast of fire at his throne, and when he was through, the man was too well done for even a dragon to eat. Melvin laughed maliciously at his triumph and the puny guards approaching him with their spears. He sent them sprawling with a flick of his tail, and gave a mighty mating call to signal his princess.

Olei burst through the front doors and ordered the guards to stop! Melvin was to be their new king, and she, their new queen. A feast would be held to celebrate their betrothal and coronation, and any man who opposed the new king would attend the feast on a platter, not a chair.

That night, Melvin and Olei took dessert to the bed, and the dragon was at peace.

Stare Into The Multiverse

by Kurt Grahnke

The frequencies hum so low

Watching life in the forest grow.

Begotten and not made, Fogginess hangs over tomorrow's day, Paused in time like madness. The kings and their isles still pass away, Their children can't retain sameness.

I surfed along the universe's seams

And saw its makeup resembled our dreams, With everything in it already.

Sure, the sky-stars make light, Maybe too dark for our eyes to watch, But they luminesce in their own right; You can feel them, you can see them. I listened to their breathing at the bottom

Of choruses like deep percussion

In a symphony of nighttime.

Perambulate across your thinking-place

Find colors, visions, and countless

Schemes; everything works within their seams Functioning, vibrating euphorically at their best But dreams are so hollow and alone And when they are outside their sleep, Begging to be known, they meet the implacable Brooding structure of qualia. Now faced with a decision: Return to solitary, or stare into the multiverse.

I looked outside myself deliberately And welcomed the impending danger of Thoughts that were not my own.

My universe was bouncing into yours, Escaping its plane, or simply ignoring it. Staring into the sky, deeper than the stars, O, how dark it was. Sounds ghastly but amazing All new dimensions of beauty, colors, world flows Working for something larger, More profound than aesthetic.

The multiverse sang, and immediately Words and memories ceased to exist.

Release

by Amber Lara

She told me high school is just a phase: no one remembers you and nothing ever lasts.

I don't know if I should believe her because she spent her Saturday nights in her boyfriend's bed and Sunday afternoons at God's altar. I remember when she told me about the aftermath a stiff body and soreness isn't in any line of poetry she created for them. And every time she pulls up her shirt she remembers what used to be there. She'll never forget the sounds of suction, vacuuming fluids that kissed to make an image, the smell of salt baths or the blood stains in the underwear she had to throw away.

He'll never know her depression or feel the loss she carried. He stays posted on walls caked with girls

She's learned to avoid men's eyes and tells me, "l'm not worth it."

I don't know if she'll ever let a man's hand trace the wounds she hides or if her lips will ever brush flesh

I watch her attempts to forget, watch him hold girls the way he used to hold her. Last time we talked, she told me that maybe having a baby wouldn't have been as bad as This.

A Lack Of Permanence

by Molly Bires

A lack of permanence, lack of direction

Every direction is north, but every compass points south

Six feet under, ten thousand feet over

Like canaries on black dahlias, out of place

Her heart was still

The life kept dancing inside, a zydeco beat refusing to subside Fluttering Flashing Flying

In and out ofconsciousness

The same canaries trapped in a cage with the air closing in

If you get out, you live, but nobody gets out alive

To die is the easiest way to simplifiz

Thoreau was gleaming with pride, when you sat down and simplified

"Mama, Mama," I cried, "when's she coming back?"

Mama just smiled and said, "sometimes baby, birds fly away."

What It's Like Having Scars On Your Arm, For Those Of You Who Don't

by Sarah Anderson

It's being in the present, But being reminded of the past Daily.

It's crossed arms and long sleeve shirts Despite the heat.

It's failed attempts at layers of coverup, As the dark lines of regret Show through.

It's knowing what they're staring at And holding my breath, Hoping they'll hold their tongue. It's the gray eyes of my father, Soft with concern.

Back straight, elbows tight, Wrists turned inward, Evading the smudge of gray, Left by the slightest glance.

Silence so loud,

Yet broken

By the faintest Whisper. The beats in my chest quicken, Thudding. Blood flowing straight to my inflated Scars, Deepening their hue.

Red when warm, Purple when cold, Never fully healed, Scar tissue Remains raised, Like my mother's eyebrows, Leaving creases of apprehension On her forehead.

It's hurting those who love you, And leavingyourself open to

Judgment.

It's being labeled by those who Don't understand And won't try. It's attempting to realize that Theywill think What they think, and You Don't owe them

An explanation.

It's doubtful acceptance, After judgment has passed, But scars still remain. It's self-infl icted hopelessness, That no longer describes me. It's recreating Self-Love. It's a sign of Healing. It's a New Beginning.

Mirrors

by Erik Sharpe

It's unnerving how sometimes when you wake in the night, in the middle of sleep, to someone's throw: a knock at your door. Yet in the wind of half-memory people-kings, spinning-things, the knock clangs street to street.

Who is this visitor? I don't know this face. Who does he seek? Is he a thief? Is it a reflection of myself from that mirror I left a bit too abruptly last week?

He's back from that translucent abyss, asking to be let back in.

But he finds the lock has been changed, the key no longer turns, In the bitter door of bodies. What does he then become? Where does hewander? Will he suffer? Is this the creation of ghosts?

The origin of dreams? The birth of regrets? Go away. Never knock again at my door. There's no room in my heart for the obsolete images of myself. Perhaps you recognize me, but I will never know how you can gather the strength to recognize yourself.

Not Red, Nor \tr/hite, Nor Blue

by Yuliya Semibratova

Not red, nor white, nor blue, Our freedom came in a soft silk shade of orange

Atop a plain bagel. Salmon cream cheese, Hideous, but smeared over Half-open lips, stained Like a bold fashion statement. Too young for makeup, My fingers struggled, The prize too big, The mouth too small

To accept the fruits of The unconditionally-more-than-nine-to-five First job of a transplanted Fear-ridden immigrant Foreign to everything but iron curtains And poorly translated English textbooks From which she learned The only phrase that mattered

"l'll never give up." So, I'll never forget The success of My mother's first paycheck Not cheddar cheese, nor blueberry nor plain But everything...

A slice of independence, "Toasted, please."

Ginger.

Ginger

by Laura Miller

I hear the word, and breathe a sigh of relief, My fears have disintegrated.

I am left a heart and mind encased in rough, buttery skin, A flavor bomb concealed underneath a mere peasant's jacket.

My father, my mentor, my God, used to tell me, #A5 /.,ll, E*l*)',4.a2f4 zTf" &>/t t:Dffi*t.? tLb # D, 1fr.b r\ &* /L*.b 6 "

Masaharu, ginger is the spice of ltfeFeed it to your customers and they will be reborn.

Father, when I win this challenge, I shall be a God, Just like you.

Thinking quickly I speak to my extremities, My sous. fLkb o +tE L L* a wE t tfr-',ffif 6 "

We accentuate the life and excitement of ginger.

Light ingredients, so they float on the tongue, celestial

They scatter.

They gather sweet melon for caprese: refreshing.

Lamb for carpaccio: depth.

Grouper for poaching: customary.

Duck for soup: tranquilizing.

Congee and wagyu for porridge: blazing.

Coconuts for something sweet: an unexpected sixth.

We shall blow them out of the water.

Americans say such strange things.

One hour later, only ten seconds remain.

Plating commences as we drizzle sesame oil and pluck parched ginger from steaming baths. I am floating.

Judges criticize but I barely hear them. All I know, all I feel, is victory.

'And thewinner is: Chef Morimoto!"

fI0JLl. L-:>arJ.s/t#@.0>zt,- F.l:, AhHqbfrbfrilffi L(3 * Ll:o1tiJ.

+f,liJ. fift & , blttz L-lt#lt- (f.

Father, now I am one with you, one with God,

For I have conquered life itself, in a single spicy brown root.

by Skywren Webb

Elegy

by Aaron Rowe

5. Well, this sucks. No air, No oxygen, No breath. Sinking, sinking, sinking deeper, deeper. Where am I? I guess there is no light, I have no regrets. Well, this sucks.

4. I feel so funny, what is this feeling People, people everywhere, yeah, that's right Ice skating on the frozen lake of emotions and lies. It's cold but we are having fun, so who cares?

3. "hey what you doin' don't chip at that" "aww it's cool what's gonna happen" "it'll break dummy that's what" "don't be such a loser"

"if you fall I won't save you" "yeah I'll keep that in mind"

2 The ice loosens, softens, cracks, screams

1. The ice surrounding you cracks in a ridged image of sun and I push you like a breath of life, a second chance for you. I take your frozen place.

o. Everything's gone.

My Mother'Watches Her Baby Sisters

by Sherry

My mother watches her baby sisters speed through stop lights and fishtail onto early death.

Aunt Monica squeezed a child out of her pubescent uterus, knitted him in heroin needle blankets, leaving trails of cocaine baby powder on her son's skin.

Aunt Juanita drenched herself in marijuana, suffocated in showers ofvodka and bourbon She died 8 years before her own mother.

My family ages backwards falls into the temptations of parentless nights and strange arms

Reuter

that beckon when we're lonely.

The first time a man wanted my mother, she let her clothes fall like pulled pins ofgrenades.

At r7, she got her own apartment to be in private as her stomach inflated with the poison gas offetal breaths seeping from ovaries.

I never understood how my family sunk into cracked pavement, but now I'm falling into the same patterns of absent parents and empty houses.

At a dance, my friends swirl in synch, their heads resting on mens' breast bones, their lips play tag,

tongues hide and seek.

They are caught by uptempo music, swallowing them whole.

Pelvic bones collide with beat of California Girls, skirts shorten like blunted breaths.

I wanted to be them, falling parallel to bone of boys I don't know so, for a downbeat, I can at least make it look like someone wants to be with me

After the dance, I sit in the passenger seat of my father's car, alone. I feel like my aunts did when they first began to break into fragments.

I wonder: if I follow baby bottles and crack pipes, Who will write poems about me?

by Nathan Avis

byAtlan Arceo-Witzl

Poking My Finger by

lazmine |ones

I poke my finger at my Mom'svoluptuous Rocking hips that seemed To be appealing to the Tallest man in high school. Those genetics swarmed, Threw me like fist did At MalcolmJohns, Because of his comment. I poke My finger at that ed hardy Character who introduced The idea ofunnecessary

Flooding. I poke my finger

At you, Mrs. Jackson, with your out-of-date Fingernails, length of hair to match your Height, and safari-like

Nose hairs that only I saw, And you knowwhat? I

Poke my finger at you, Physically challenged Seeds that came from Women who birth boys that Had mouths larger than their height.

Citgo In The Middle Of Tennessee

by Madeleine deRegnier

Tasha tapped the steering wheel of Old Bluie as she wailed along with Kevin's Mudhoney album blasting on the Honda's stereo. The highwaywas empty, allowing her more freedom to jam. Kevin stared into the unchanging, lifeless cornfields, his thoughts drifting out the open window and transforming the endless evergreens to nostalgic scenes as Old Bluie zoomed by. She stopped Mudhoney and snapped her head to face Kevin.

'Are we out of cigarettes?"

He raised his head and glanced at her, nodding.

"Ah-right." Tasha turned the stereo back on and twisted her beloved, rusty, teal Civic toward the exit. "You wanna pay for this pack?" she strained over thefuzz.

"Sure, uhh..." I(evin sat up all the way and reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He felt the bill and pulled it out. "Yeah, I got it."

'7wh-some..." She gave an exaggerated nod as she maneuvered into the gas station. She turned the volume dial and looked at I(evin. "l'm gonna go grab us coffee across the street. I'll pick you up right here."

Her eyes were wide and her words seemed almost instructional, condescending. He nodded. She flashed him a quick smile and immediately turned the music on again. He watched her jerk Old Bluie around as he swiped his forehead, pushing his dirty bangs back. He ran his fingers through thick, greasy, espressobrown curls as he opened the door to the run-down convenience store.

Looking up, he met eyes with the cashier girl, who raised her eyebrows in surprise and dropped her puzzle book and pen. He wasn't sure if his eyes had given him away, but he tried to look at her face before realizing that gazing into her green eyes displayed no less apathy. Her hair, dirty blonde and long, with bangs that drew a straight line over her eyebrows,

framing her cute little face so perfectly. He'd spent too long on the hair. Maybe full on checking her out was the least embarrassing option.

"Hi..." she said, giggling.

"Hey..." Kevin looked at her and then moved his stare up to the cigarettes, half because he was about to buy some and half because it gave him somewhere to look. "Can I get a pack of Camel?"

"Yup..." She reached for his cigarettes, exposing the stem of the rose tattoo that graced the slight curve of her left side. "Five sixty-eight," she said as she placed the pack on the counter. She didn't bother to pull her gas station polo back over her exposed stomach.

He wanted to say something suggestive, but he held back. She was too young and he was too willing to ignore it. Instead, "Has it been this empty all day?" poured out his mouth.

"Yes," she huffed. "No one ever comes here. I just started this crossword book today and I'm already almost done." Giggling, she grasped the book with her right hand like she was going to show him, but when she looked up her eyes stopped at his. Immediately she looked down again to notice she was still clutching the book of crosswords, which she tried to let go ofdiscretely.

As he handed her his tattered ten, he Iaughed. She was cute. "Yeah, that must suck."

"Yeah," she let out an exasperated sigh as she opened the register. "Money is money though, and at least I can sit outside and smoke when I get bored of puzzles." She laughed at herself. "Pathetic, honestly..."

"Nah, you're young. You're not supposed to have a real job yet," he said, shaking his head. "Besides, I'm old and I'd still like to have your job."

She snickered. "l guess."

They both paused for a moment, and she realized she still had his change in her palm.

"Four thirty-two," she said, smiling, extending the money toward him.

He grabbed his cigarettes with one hand and reached the other out to collect the change, meeting her soft, young hand and perhaps leaving his against it a little too long.

She stroked his hand as she pulled hers back. "You should really use some lotion on that rough skin," she said, smiling. "We sell some really good cocoa butter stuff. It's what I use."

He could see where this was going, but right now his better judgment stepped aside. "Oh, do you? I guess I should try that. Hey, do you need any com-

pany while you smoke tonight?"

Her little girlish smile was unbearably cute. "Yeah, I wouldn't mind having some."

"I'm with my friend. I'm gonna talk to her real quick, but then I'll meet you out there, okay?"

She nodded, her face overtaken by a smile that told him she didn't get much-sex, of course, but more than that-a total lack of spontaneous anything. He didn't want to see her smile; the less he kneq the better.

He stretched his arm up and pushed back his greasy hair as he opened the gas station door. Tasha and Old Bluie were waiting for him out there. He could see the coffee she'd bought for them and he felt bad. Tasha was smiling and singing, and Old Bluie wanted to go too, its lights on and exhaust fuming and music streaming. And theywere waiting for him.

"Tash, can you turn the music down for a sec?" Kevin spat out.

She nodded and turned the volume dial. "What's up? You need money or something?"

He looked at her, and then the dirty blonde gas station lolita, and then himself. It was guilt; he was guilt and selfishness and lies. "No, no. I got the cigs." He ran his hands through his coarse hair and averted her eyes momentarily. "Tash, I just don't

know if I'm up for going back to Asheville right now."

A massive lie. He looked up and bit his lip.

"Not up for it? Damn, Kevin, all you ralk about is wanting to go back."

There was nothing to say to that. "Tash, you know how hard it is."

"Know how hard it is? God, you, you always bail for no reason. But whatever, make me drive all the way to Tennessee just to go home."

"J3gf1-"

"You know, I don't care. I knowyou're not perfect and this is hard, but I'm just not your motherl'

"l never askedyou to take care of me. I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't. You can't. And I told myself that I'd be there foryou after rehab-" "Stop guilting me, Tasha. God, I hate itwhen you say stuff like that. The way I live has absolutely nothing to do with you. You turn my well being into some product of your effort. I'm so glad you're trying, Tash; why don't we all just fry and every problem will solve itself. Don't make it your responsibility to make me happy. It's not your job, and you know what, Tasha? If it was, you'd be doing a horrible job." He breathed and looked at her, not really knowing what

to say. "Sorry."

"Don't you dare apologize to me, Kevin. You never mean it." She pulled Old Bluie out from the parking spot and turned offthe music. "Hope you have money for a hotel and I hope to godyouwon't try to get in that lfffle girl's pants." She hit the stereo on again and started driving, but rolled her head and stopped again. "l saw you flirting with her, you manipulative piece of selfish cock," she screamed over the noise. Old Bluie squealed off.

Kevin didn't knowwhat to do and he didn't want to think about it. He looked into the gas station and saw her little eyes. Too innocent. He didn't want to screw her, but he had nowhere to go. She was biting her nails and running her hands down her shiny long hair. When she glanced out the window, she saw him looking at her and she smiled. He smiled back, a wholly unnatural smile. He didnt want to disappoint her, so he motioned for her to come outside. She did. "Hey..." she said, and he could tell she felt somewhat awlavard.

"Hey you. Why don't you sit down, hon?"

She giggled. 'Alright, but I usually smoke out back."

"Oh ... well, whateveryou want." He pulled out a cigarette.

"No, this is fine. I mean, I don't care." She stood, piecing through her hair and biting her inner lip.

He flashed her a smile. "Out back is great." She giggled. "ffitrnft-" He shoved one of his cigarettes into her lips and held his lighter up to it as he put one in his own mouth. "There," he mumbled.

She laughed, inhaled, and drew the cigarette from her mouth with slender fingers, exhaling a perfect stream of smoke through her lips, which were open, sticky pink, and shiny under the gas station light. She laughed again, blushing, and looked up at him. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," he said, looking straight into her eyes before turning away to light his cigarette.

She sat down on the curb and sighed. "You're rather good lookingJ'

He sat, too. "Oh, well, thank you. Not like you, though." He set his cigarette aside and reached his hand under her shirt to her waist. He scratched her soft skin lightly with his nails, and grasped her thigh with his other hand.

She giggled. He felt guilty, but she giggled, and it was irresistible.

Easter Chrysanthemums

by Lauren Frost

and in this house, metaphorical shoplifting is never prosecuted. I hide in my room with the cat and read rgth century literature. The protagonists are married on Easter Sunday. Remember those Easter chrysanthemums? I shut the book. lzoo4) I want a green sticker, you want a green sticker. I want strawberry ice cream, you want strawberry ice cream. You don't even like strawberries, but if icy Pepto Bismol with chunks of red is good enough for me, you'll eat it up. I tell everyone that I taught you to say "flower," even though you probably learned it from your mother. And every time you say "flower," one blooms in me.

by MayaAdelman-Cabral

Editors

Carrie Peterson is no mean Mr. Mustard--except when she scoffs at Tony. With boots (and a bag to match), you may see her in a few years starting a Revolution. In the meantime, she'll be busy making Crest Come Together.

Ellen Lesser loves Louie far more than us, but her endless food supply and flawless impersonations make up for it. We hope she makes Connecticut as interesting as she is. But then we have to think: Where does she get her cool sweaters? And will she always doodle question marks?

Rucha Mehendale could draw a better apple. She can spot a logical inconsistency from ten liters away and she has a secret code that could baffle John Nash. She she, she got lost in the flood.

MarannaYoder's organization is the superglue that keeps us grounded. We love her despite not bringing back a trophy from her church badminton tournament. Her optimism can make lemons sweet. We bid her farewell as she travels to the far distant land of Chicago.

Tony Foley hails fiom Hawaii (where there are dragons). He plays ukulele as well as a dragon could. When he's not hunting dragons (for friends, not food), he is probably rapping the entirety of the Scarlet Letter.

Mr. Noble deserves all the props we can give him and then some, especially for giving us Peanut Butter Patties, tilling the ground, and reading poems in the most mysterious manner possible. Someday we'll all try one of his infamous toothpicks. He's our Nobes.