Crest 2012

THE CREST 201L-2012

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

Carrie Peterson Tony Foley EDITORIAL BOARD Rucha Mehendale Rrap Kryeziu Celeste Erickson Elon Sloan Franka Del Santo FACULTY ADVISOR

Lauren Lee

EDITORS'LETTER

This is Crest. On a fundamental level, this is a magazine that - we hopereaches the core of Oak Park and River Forest High School. This is 96 pages of our school, manifested in poetry, short stories, and art of all types. As an editorial board, we truly believe that these pieces represent the varied and vibrant voices of the student body.

For this issue, which serves as a capsule of 20t1, and2012, we were floored by the nearly 500 written submissions and the 150 art pieces that flooded room 307A. Of these works, each of which demonstrated the care and creativity of the author or artist, we assembled this book of only 96 pages. To say that the editorial board would be lost and deeply confused without the incredibly creative student body is an understatement.

Crest would be simply an empty set of pages if not for the students who shuttle their work to our room, the continued support of the faculty throughout the building, the exceptional skill of our editorial board, and the guidance of our advisor, Ms. Lee.

For allowing us to do what we love - showcasing the voices of this schoolwe offer our heartfelt thanks.

Welcome to the issue, and enjoy.

-Carrie Peterson and Tony Foley Editors-in-Chief

6. Hannah Srajer 7. lrina Gavrilova B. Paula Stocco 9. Mikaela Gillman 10. Richie Wheelock 11. Lauren Frost L2. Dylan Stratton 13. Sienna lVlilner; 14. Rucha Mehendale 1-6. Scarlett Reynaud 77. Rebecca Kelley

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33. Luke Gerace; Erin Lynch 34. Courtney Fields; Patricia Witt; Rrap Kryeziu 35. Carli Granata; Ann ab ell e G ol din - IVI e r t d o gan 36. Keenan Benshop; Franka Del Santo 37. Caleb Allen; Rrap Kryeziu; Vicky Reese 38. Caleb Jordahl; Renee Pedigo; Emily Clark 39. Zach Anderson 40. Olivia McLean; Reema Ayoub 47. Emma Lister 42. Lauren Frost 43. Charlie Weissglass 44. Waker Cowles- Costigan 45. Lanie Nowak 46. Raphy Reynaud 47. Richie Wheelock 48. Rrap Kryeziu; RenataVoci 50. Claire Cekander 51-. Leah Jenks 52. Gina lyanda 53. Olivia O'Sullivan

71. n H rD cn

Dana Langhans

Mike Howe-Ebright

Annelise Ryan 75. Mya Novelle 76. Katte Lofgren

Camara Brown 78. KaliWyatt

Zoe Frankowicz 80. Jay Lind 82. Kyndall Jones

Matthew Ryan 84. Elon Sloan 85. Scott Daniel

WHAT MY LITTLE BROTHER, AGE 11, FOUND IN THE SEA

I.

Bound by some mysterious glue, the oyster barely flares out, half-parted like hesitant lips. Some call them angel wings, but this pair is war-memorial black. Glazed. Instead they might belong to Icarus, the boy who flew into the sun and fell, charred and inky as a raven, into the rhythmic purr of the ocean crashing and was swallowed whole around the fanged rocks, sinking inside the slippery jaws of the sea.

II.

It fits perfectly between his thumb and forefinger, the sea glass, smoothed by the sea's salt tongue. The color is unmistakable to any drunk or washed-up mother chasing her boy across the shore, the sharp emerald of Heineken, the dragon's eye, dulled and blinded now by sand.

III.

At 4:30 in the morning stuck inside an Altoid-can airport, my father drops the old cigar box filled with my brother's beach god damn it, haven't I told you not to collect this junk, his face slowly turning the color of the sunrise beyond the plexiglass, all reds, yellows, oranges, rushed with sudden heat. Surrounded by three stacks of suitcases stuffed with t-shirts and cherry liquor smuggled in Coke bottles, he gathers the shards of shell like a man scraping a well-killed spider off the wall: useless, he mumbles. Useless.

-Hannah Srajer

MY MOSCOW

My dear, my lovely Moscow, are you still the same as you were when I left?

Is there still hope that we won't be strangers if I decide to come back?

Do you still lack what you always have lacked?

Do you still shine with your luxurious beauty?

Are you still what I remember you as

A hard-working student, the top of the class

Longing for fame, recognition, success

Trying hard to escape from what he thinks is not a country But an enormous, corrupt, evil mess.

Are you still silently hoping that better times might actually come

Or is your hope finally completely gone?

All the same, to me you are full of surprises

Your temper is quite uncontrollable, you're full of vices

But kindness is what you're primarily made of Though often it's hidden behind your tense Tired, sleep-deprived, exhausted eyes

You always try hard to meet others' expectations

So at least their acceptance compensates your frustrations Terrified to fail, determined to win Always concentrated, never a smile on your face or a grin

In your mad races, you never stop Constantly moving forward, frantic to reach your goal

How long will your spirit last Before your burn out and fall?

-lrina Gavrilova

NONO CARLOS

Our gringo skin dyed brown with kicked-up dirt like Dry sunshine that shone its way into every pore.

If we worked hard we ate well, If we didn't we hadn't.

Birth, growth, death all pool within EIValle De [Jco, Hugged on three sides by the Andes, Maroon-brown walls that hold up a star studded roof over La Consulta

'66 I gave her the ring, '67 she gave him my name.

Acampesino knows each weathered plant by its Smell. Tells him what ills would be cured and what food would be spoiled. We bathe ourselves and our food, steep our tea and rub our children

With a mash of rock grass and rituals. Home brewed infusion of faith in land and in God

Number three is Twenty-six centimeters of iron forced into a 'U' Smelt, heat, stroke with water, Six symmetric holes to nail Four horseshoes to work the land on horseback

Watery, glassed-over eyes stud a pinched, black face

That stares plain and fixed into my own.

He knows how I sow my fields, raise my boys, kiss my wife, He knows what kind of man I am.

The long neck drops and breaks ovr gaze because Aguanaco does not care about me.

I who am less important than the summer soaked flowers

He grinds between square, alabaster teeth.

Like mate spilt on my mother's Italian table cloth, We pushed unto the campo to shred the bush and filled the tears With green vineyards and squat tomato fields, Tracing the shifting peak and crash of the mountain ridges, Was looking into a mirror and watching my own face age.

-Paula Stocco

-Mikaela Gillman

t) o l-{ qJ

MAINLAND

I looked out over the barren sea

And past the waves there seemed to be An unspeaking, sweeping cloud, A thieving, ancient force, Rushing toward on winged feet From the gilded gate of glory.

But I stepped back

On willful feet, Toe-heel, and I was out of reach.

And while the world, the good, and sky Were drowned, and purged, And prayed, and died, I the dirt, and I the sand, I was desiccated and I remained dry.

-RichieWheelock

THE DIVING BOARD

Cool sticky feet pitter-patter down a plastic plank that reaches farther than a giggled whisper can. The others lisp her name with mouths full of missing teeth, but she can't hear them as she pulls at her damp nylon two-piece and surveys the foggy water at the end of the plank. They point as she shivers, point as she sways, point as she lifts one hesitant leg before returning her toes to the reassuring cotton candy-colored plastic. They all know it's her first time, and they pray that she'll drown. They're seven years old and their hate is already growing in faster than the teeth that will soon fill their mouths with white porcelain and make their giggled whispers impossibilities. When that time comes, they'Il stand in gold-plated lifeguard chairs and whistle at those who have the audacity to play in the chlorine-spiked waves before they sink below the surface. But when they leave their chairs and march home in flip-flopped feet, they'll remember the shivering girl at the end of the cotton candy plank, completely oblivious to the cold animosity breathing down her nylon two-piece as she takes a deep breath and leaps. The exhilaration is fleeting, because halfway through the thick summer air she remembers that she has to fall.

-Lauren Frost

SHADOW SONGS

Your shadow sings of sorrow of the Passed, we watch-waiting for your pain to expire, Fire flickers, your shadow does not last.

Elders whisper while your words-Breath-fall fast struggling to keep-Breath-as you desire Your shadow sings of sorrow of the Passed.

Between tales of torment, your sobs are vast like false gossip of a teenage liar

Fire flickers, your shadow does not last.

--Breath-Breath-Are you okay?-Breath-you are asked

You are fine, but as you start to perspire

Your shadow sings of sorrow of the Passed.

We know your powerful pain will be cast Away-singing with another choir

Fire flickers, your shadow does not last.

Now calm, you thump gently against the brass thinking the beat will erase the prior.

Your shadow sings of sorrow of the Passed, Fire flickers, your shadow does not last.

-Dylan Stratton

IMAGES OF THE BEAUTIFUL

The moon was so bright, It cast a shadow at her feet. I remember these things for sure. I am tempted to say that she was beautiful in the moon light Images of blooming lips painted by an artist's pen, The crystal in her eyes, the purity of her soul, immortal. Intoxicated by her beauty men forget wine, Lost in their minds, stumbling to her forefront. She is resplendent, Faded, Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord. the perfume of her soul subtle and suffusing, potent to the admirable, vague to the unworthy. Captivated the imagination of a man, Bring us to unknown worlds of great distances, Unlike our very own, and to wondrous recognitions, Of false deprivation and fictitious desires.

-SiennaMilner

PERIPHERAL VISION

Although he strides onward, my eyes hesitate to leave the sight beside the bus stop. Their hair is caked with damp red mud, tinged blue at the ends from indigo dye. Their splayed limbs say, You know. He may be jaded, but you still see us. Feed us.

Lan l"No. Give them something once and they won't stop asking for rnore."

Ma always said that about the cat that prowls by our basement; Da said it whenever he saw the squirrel that nests perpetually by our window.

There's thunder above our heads. I stand four feet one inch to his city height, but we tower above our pitiful company. I dance from one sandal to the other, twirling my eyes around to watch them. They stare at my feet, and I still my legs, the better to gauge theirs. One has casual limbs, lines of dust tracing faint veins, taut skin over bone. The other's legs tilt inward at a sharp angle, so that she tumbles over every time she tries to get up. I turn my ankles outward, attempt to continue dancing and end up collapsing into a muddy heap. From my new vantage point, I can see the slight mirthful tremor of their stomachs.

"What are you doing? Get up so I can slap some sense into you!" The clouds rumble again, closer this time.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to-" My eyes slide over to the two girls on the comer.

"Don't look at them. You don't want give them any ideas, do you?" I shake my head, but my pupils have locked themselves into the comers of my eyes. Although I'm not actually able to see them, I remember their stomachs, the way their ribs moved under their skin as they laughed, the hollow under those ribs which my stomach lacks.

His pocket vibrates and he begins monologuing, gesticulating frantically with his free hand. A golden opportunity. I twist my left hand into a phone and shadow his gestures with my own. I don't have to see them to hear their laughter, but I turn to look anryay. So does he.

Rain mists through the street, carrying the taste of mud. I'm standing in front of him now, his eyes deep set under creased brow. His hand rests on my bare shoulder, and as I stare stonily ahead, a mosquito lands on the other. I imagine that its whine is a story. As it proceeds to suck blood from my shoulder, it asks, What if the world kept a jar full of philanthropists that it saved for a stormy day? Would silver coins pour in place of raindrops, wetting the tongues of thin children so they could sing?

The bus grunts to a stop in front of us, and he strides onward, relieved to escape the summer's flood. His hand and the mosquito have fled, so I finally turn. In that moment, through thick, slanting rain, I see a taxi swerve into a man and knock him into the mud. The two girls scamper over to him, the blue tips of their hair flapping and dissolving in the downpour. They pull him up by the bus stop, and the hobbling one flashes me a chipped smile. The other, her limbs purposeful and rain-slicked, neck bent over his figure, proceeds to

ransack his body. They don't hesitate before making offwith their treasure, and I hear them yelling in excitement behind soggy cardboard and straw.

He is behind me, having reahzedthat I have not followed him.

"Why are you standing out in the rain? Come on, or we'll be late!" He glances at the prone corpse by the bus stop, and pulls me up onto the bus by -y shoulder. There's a rising bump where the mosquito sustained itself. As we sit, he wipes wet hair from my face, and rain from my eyes.

He watdres my face. "What did you see?" I look out of the window of the bus.

"I didn't look at their eyes."

-RuchaMehendale

-Scarlett Reynaud

DANCE

Ankles swollen red and black, tears deep blue - for you. Torn tendons bloody toes and mind anew - for you.

Fear transversal, wrecking spirits, watch as feet devour spirits, flyin' across and through - for you.

Time eaten while days grow slim, eyes set, watching, waiting, torturing self pursue - for you.

Loss of time means loss of love, opportunity, experience and trouble, minutes must undo - for you.

Watch our eyes, hungry for first, despiteful for last, defeat stuck like glue - for you.

Steps become dreams and dreams become steps, notes roll day and night through - for you.

Leather feet for popping joints, popping joints for heavy collisions, pain in my whole soul brews - for you.

Commitment will rebel, an unthought - of thought, get back to work- Zoel I'm not here to watch - for you.

-Rebecca Kelley

ON THE AVENUE

Pushing past scarlet harlots with scratched porcelain masks

she chokes on cigarette smoke and thrift store dreams;

The air thick with the familiar stench of Stale innocence, coated in nicotine as Frozenteeth scrape her soft flesh as she crosses the avenue, December bite tasting the tears that streak her chipped china cheeks

The click of her boots against concrete echoing through her mind like The deep chorus of a grandfather clock with Heavy, measured, precision.

UHer decision in place, her sweet eyes rake across her hometown

The broken boulevard of her childhood berates her, staring back as it Unforgivably portrays the unforgettable misery of her family, Iike Corrupted cousins with the cold countenance of criminals and the Belied brothers barely breathing through the

Broken barrier of the Neurological blister that is hope.

On the Avenue she cries Soft tears to breathe life to the stone street, Feeding the cruel beast of concrete Hoping to grow love in the pits of their depravity.

A quickened pace putting the pitter-patter of footsteps past The pattern of precise pathways, She hurries through her hometown, homebound and Shaking from her declaration of separation from destiny.

Climbing up sinister stairs of condemned accommodations, she Sheds her street skin and sliding through the silent halls of her Forgotten dollhouse, Pulls the heavy metal from the restraint of her waistband and drifts to the sad bedroom, where sad thoughts sadly sink to Sad memories and sad memories seduce sadistic sins to surface.

Casting one look around her shelter, watering eyes rest upon her mirror and bears witness to her pitiful porcelain, chipped and dirtied, repulsed and insulted she

raises the pistol to her temple and tries to control her shaking trigger finger, her breathing berates her resolve, frantic thoughts struggle to coherency, she can't breathe, why can't I breathe? Why did I deserve this to happen to me?

No, it's not me, it's the street, the avenue is cursed and I am cursed with it. It cannot be.

Locking eyes with the distraught doll of the reflection, I Point the barrel of my lead to that soft spot on my head, My breathing slows, my heartbeat lets go its frantic rhythm, Reduces to a beat that resembles the chorus of a grandfather clock, Echoing through my mind with heavy, measured precision.

My decision is final. My breath is slow. My eyes close. My finger explodes in ecstasy, I feel so much nothing.

I was birthed, raised, deprived, I lived, laughed, cried, Defeated and died, Here, on the avenue.

-Aliana Barnette-Dear

v) a) ts{

CARNIVAL PRIZES

All the people swarm to cut through night with electrical lights and fried everything carnival prizes and delighted shrieks from grungy rides while old ladies with shawls cross themselves Iine up to kiss the shrine and mumble in Old Country tongues. We walk edgily, sideways through people sprawl and packed shoulders stale sweat and shuffle feet. We buy fried dough ice cream paper bowl plastic spoons and lean against dingy, temporary walls with cigarette embers like orange stars smoldering at our feet. Everyone screams above our heads and chatter at ticket booth lines orange stubs clutched in hands the smell of artificial sweet and light strings curling around my head like Tilt-a-Whirl dizziness a small something scurrying in shadows crushed, stomped, onion rings in dirt And I whirl on a foot to vomit spectacularly in an overflowing carnival trashcan.

-Claire Kowal

LABELS

Accept my peace offering. This purse isn't a hint to get you to change your imageyou taught me to be comfortable with creamed skin. To dance circles around the people who were uncomfortable with different sexualities. This is a reminder of who you aren't going to be. Your confidence is superior to your imagination; yo:u carry multiple catacombs of struggle on your shoulder. You hang on to gay jokes making your interior hollow like those gray diamond skulls on the handle,

Accept my peace offering The cruel words burn mouths. We search for opportunities to be noticed so that we can create borders around our values. Accept my peace offering, we accept you.

-RonYtem

HUSH

My fingers curled

Like the branches on the Arid trees that loomed above our heads Around the car door handle.

My escape

I was overwhelmed by the momentum of the situation I was all too suddenly forced into I'm pressed against the glass window aching for the days when I would place myself here to see the first snow or watch the lightning strikes illuminate the darkened skies but now my skies are going dark and I need your illumination. But not in the form of These lightning strikes Crippling my every last scrap of strength I conjured up For you. I'm fabricating excuses Twisted

Like the branches on the Arid trees that loom above our heads Explanations why it's okay Hush It's okay I love you too.

-Katie Lofgren

v) a) !

U

WHEN I DIE

Flowers will grow Beside my body as it settles softly onto the slats of a simple pine box

Nothing candy colored or Cadillac-like so unnatural

I will be wrapped in a sheet never dreamed under or loved on

I refuse to be folded into a hole in the ground

I want to be life Ieft to leak into the earth Iike some lucky animal

Some of the good in me will pass through the stems of a prairie flower

And rise from its leaves Iike mist

The morning I woke up first to make a fire and heat the coffee just outside of Mombassa will hang loosely on the end of a willow branch

My desire to make a difference in the inner-city

will float away on the cotton-like puff of a milkweed Only to latch on to the bark of a nearby cedar tree

My strong arm will dig a passageway for the roots of an EIm

Dana's wedding dress stained with good Chianti will bubble up in a fresh water spring And float through sun and shade on top of the clearest creek

Zeke's first breath will swim through the rings of a maple tree and fall like a tiny helicopter into the open hands of someone else's child

All of my memories will mix with those of my grandparents and be the air -Jay Lind

I,VE ALWAYS DREAMT

I've always dreamt that I d still

Wake up during the arrival flight Feet tranquil but teeth clenched Body rock but mind lava With lava colored skies That placate my dormant eyes

Wake up to nine dongs and a ding that echo

Through hills of high amplitude Home to people of the past With greetings and joyful tears That placate my dormant ears

Wake up to canine kisses covering my arm

One stroke, one wipe, one sniff Of unpolluted air and earth Smells of privilege, I suppose Placate my dormant nose

But now my dreams aren't interrupted so peacefully A mechanical screech

Creeps through bloodshot eyes, unkind And agitates my dormant mind -Isabella Miller

FRIDAY NIGHT ROYALTY

He does not stand out at first, but blends like a tile in this mosaic of holy men, their shirts white as the crescent of a clipped nail. In the makeshift synagogue they all cluster around my father like pedestrians around a street musician. How he has loved them all, these men of his childhood, the ones with thickets of black and brown harvested carefully on their chins, their lips. I watch from the women's side, my father's voice rising among them as if winged. He hasn't been home for fifteen years but my father has only grown closer to this place, the grey threading through his hair a mirror to the dust dripping from the ceiling, the handkerchief folded deep into his pocket a formality of a century that kept women and men separate, his old friends notice and approve. Th"y take us inside the real temple across the street, the colossal body starved without a congregation to fill its bowels, its stomach, starved like the 4,000 who never came back

but went on to bloat Auschwitz. The windows are sockets blinded by wood boards so the temple cannot see itself rot, the lungs are twin Torah scrolls punctured by age, and the cage of its chest is so large

I can only whisper, it is empty of the pulse but then I see my father climb to where the heart should be, up the platform to face the pews, lined and cracked like broken ribs, so he can lift his throbbing arms (palms out) and bless the spaces where he and the rest of the men used to sit as boys. But they are gone. When he opens his eyes to the empty and sees that he has only blessed me, I swear I hear the beat shudder still.

-Hannah Srajer

-Luke Gerace

LIES

Curled up next to you

Let swollen fingers obsess in your skin as your hair twists a lie around my eyes

Tie me in unbreakable bonds and drown me with your silent words

Speak poems of infertility blessing offspring with notions of success but flick away with nails of unconcentrated thought

Barf up overused metaphorical idioms

And sitting, motionless weep so that my tears must, must hold double, Your sorrow plus mine

Leave me... please, leave me. Forget it.

-Jake Johnson

SHE IS THE FIELD

She is the field that compels your rise without words

Only from the look of that placid face

The final glint of that smile and the over ripened pulse of those tannic lips

We once stood as a shadow beneath her blooming step, but now Gleaming rival, please, do not rise just yet.

Her skin is still my wheaten terraces

Glistening of grained ardor

Her body lays scarred and worn with the harvests

I wake to her: she must wake to you, Bearing those infertile almond seeds to your piercing glimmer:

The finer dawn that you raise for her

Is a call of closer terrestrial dusk, Louder calls for her perfect loam

To lose its last redolent moisture to your desert. Leave her to dry some other teeming woman.

Without a field, a farmer descends to solitary life

Unab1e to know his joy of the soil's loose passion, Finding no solace in loving labor, but living in the dwindling starlight Of desolate cropland and rusted tools with splintered handles. Pain of loneliness in a vast wasteland of once rich soil.

Do not raise us from our sunless slumber

I need the agrarian blood I rest with.

She is resplendent again in your somber absence. And if this final passing of your fiery envy she endures, No other shall she know.

-Tony Foley

THOUGHTS ON A BEACH

Running feet like bells on sand-stained shades of cayenne pepper by echoes of what will soon be yesterday.

Twirls of salted hair click like wind chimes, wind-children whispering maybe, ifyou run fast enough, the mundane hands of life will stop clutching; maybe your fairy tales will come true.

My fairy tales are mine alone, but they're full of you.

Who are you, anyway, that my heart is a picture frame for yours?

Stand still as a prison wall and let the world wash around your feet.

I feel the breeze, chilly on the side where you ought to be.

The starlight draped across the waves reminds me of a poem I once wrote as the sun kisses the waves with sanguine fingertips.

A small hand closes in front of the sun as the light goes out.

-Grace Niewijk

-Scarlett Reynaud

-Erin Lynch

-Luke Gerace

-Courtney Fields

-PatriciaWitt

-Rrap Kryeziu

-Carli Granata

-Carli Granata

-Annab elle G oldin -Ir/lertdo gan

ffi @ @ o e

-Franka Del Santo

-Keenan Benshop

-Caleb Allen

-Rrap Kryeziu

-Vicky Reese

-Caleb Jordahl

-Emily Clark

-Renee Pedigo

Zach Anderson

ilr ilt

-Olivia I\,LcLean

-ReemaAyoub

-Emma Lister

THE PHOTOGRAPH

The sky was dappled gray and muddled silver, a pool of smooth mercury as pale as the belly of a dolphin. Clouds gathered in clusters of thick, even brushstrokes. The sun was still visible near the hills to the west, but the fog had nearly covered it. To him the sun looked like a dim, glowing orb, and the sensation it produced kept him transfixed. The first mosquitoes emerged from the dewy grass and bit at his ankles, but he was too enthralled with the sky to notice. Finally, the fog overpowered the sun's eerie aura, and the orb disappeared before it could dip below the hilly horizon.

The mosquitoes were forming packs now, and he decided that it was no longer wise to brave the swarms. He began slowly ambling toward his family's car. His sister was waiting for him, crossing her arms and pouting. A single lock of pure blonde hair hung over her brow and tickled her nose in the wind. He stopped in front of her, and she scrutinized his blank expression.

"No sunset," she said curtly, raising her eyebrows ever so slowly. Her pause was expectant, as if she wanted these two words to have a negative physical effect on him. However, his emotions were somewhat calloused from recent events, so he simply smirked and bowed his head as he stepped inside the dirty white station wagon. He heard a sigh behind him, and soon his sister's light footsteps were following his own.

Inside the car, the air was thick with stale hatred. Sandwiched between his sister and a suitcase in the back seat, he couldn't help but notice his father's irritated eyes in the rearview mirror. The thin, cloudy eyes numbed his psyche. Subconsciously, he felt for the swollen bruise on his ribcage and tapped it lightly with his index finger. The shock of pain it produced awakened his senses, filling him with a thousand grim images of fear. Pink ribbons of terror constricted his nerves and made coherent thought impossible. All he could remember was the palm of his father's merciless hand, bulleting toward him like a mercury dolphin and producing the same grey color on his skin that the fog had deemed appropriate for the sky. As if his father could sense his son's alarm, his eyes narrowed and creased at the edges, spelling out insults with each wrinkle.

To ease his mind, the boy looked out the window. For one hopeful moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of the orb as it cascaded down a knoll. He yanked his clunky black camera from around his neck and aimed it at the glossy hills with trembling fingertips. Right before he clicked, his sister peered over his shoulder and reached eagerly for the camera. Her fingers wrapped around the lens of the camera and pulled with surprising force. The camera cord, still caught around his wrist, bent his hand backward. The last thing he did before yelping and hitting his head on his sister's bony shoulder was accidentally take a picture. Click.

Hours later, he would examine the photograph, the last Polaroid taken before his sister seized the Iens on his beloved camera and crushed it in her grasp. The sky, muted charcoal with flecks of soft cream, glimmered in the open car window. And in front of it, a hand. His hand. Reaching out for the fluorescent orb that had long retreated into the abyss.

_Lauren Frost

-Charlie Weissglass

A BLIND GLANCE

A blind glance from my window scathes catoptric thoughts

The frigid glass on my face baffles the grind of the day to day.

Striking hours please my blistered body, like jars of milk washing black thoughts. Light finds its way to my decrepit spine, oblivious to yesterday's wandering

A simple path is not without its mazes, but blessed by silence used to peel disillusion from the fire.

Stunning roads steal my hours, a purple face of the past

A clear glance of the finish engulfs my find, Engorged on days twisting under flying gods.

I know this blindness as home.

-Walter Cowle s - C o stigan

A LONG LINE

I come from a long line of worriers.

My grandparents worry like they know the future's Foretellings - or they're just always intoxicated. Intoxicated - not by love or worry - but by the negative fuel that many do not realize is slowly killing their souls. I used to feel love, but now I fear because of this one substance that one night made me and my family have to escape. And hide. From these two strangers - who used to be my grandparents.

I come from a long line of alcoholics.

-Lanie Nowak

ODE TO SKINNY LOVE

Going back to nothing, I can't speak, Let me hold your heart til I feel weak.

Oh my, my. My, my, my, my. Lonely lets you know that you're alive.

My love taken, I see you like attention, take off my blanket while you let me freeze.

Oh my, my. My, my, my, my. Like a drunkard, faced pressed against his knees

The morning comes in handfuls and the evening stays for weeks I told you to remember have you forgotten me? My knuckles hold the burden I sit on your porch. Colorless eyes we have not been here before.

Going back to nothing, I can't speak, Sewing all my patches so I don't leak. Oh my, my. My, my, my, my. Shouting a woodnote through empty trees.

The morning comes in handfuls the evening stays for weeks. I told you to remember have you forgotten me? A woodpecker stabs the oak my lover sings a hymn. I have no time for dying,

we restart with the leaves

Who willlove you? Who will fight? Who will fallfar behind?

-Raphy Reynaud

PERFECTION

Garden bright And picturesque blue falls, Trees of green

Like the fi.rst colors. Imagine, when He created colors. Garden whole, And soothing pink clouds above Sway the boughs, Lullaby of earth and old, Old wings stroke harps, lullaby. She, with fingers Like the feathers of the first bird, Them to touch and feel the Cursed fruit under silk and dark light And like that, In carnal, Sinful appetite, Paradise was flashed to ash.

He and she, They of wounded worries, lost, And grey, now, Dirt and sand kissed their lips. For no one else would have them. She and he, they of golden banded Trust and statue still. They were promised to the heat, The sleep and lack and greed, And journeys through What steel cities, cold chilled cities, Promised would be their Heaven. Golden wishes, feather fingers,

Sand kissed lips, Children born into that exile Melancholie menagerie.

So soon perfection tends to dry, The pink white skin slit open. Under, Rushing, red, Steaming and flowing blood, Bubbles, burns bone and vein. So, perfection tends to slice. Golden banded hands hold tight, And minds mouth words Create the strongest flows

The storms of red, Burns bone.

The hands hold tight, Golden banded hands hold tight. And the children scream Melancholie menagerie, And she and he

Until the world seems to have its Lips stretched taut, And out of them wordless shrieking, Soundless beating. But the world is four walls And the sound is not soundless.

-RichieWheelock

KOSOVVAR

I was born in 1992 in Prishtina, Kosovo, one of the geographic flashpoints of the Yugoslav Wars during the 1990s. As a child, I was not aware of why the war was happening, but I dreaded the atmosphere. I remember the war sirens frequently interrupting outdoor games and having to run inside quickly. Inside, the adults huddled around the television for news. None of the children dared to talk, for fear of being scolded by our adult relatives. Everyone was stressed. Preschool was cancelled, and I didn't see my classmates anymore. Soon friends from the neighborhood began to vanish without warning or explanation, and soon thereafter, we too abandoned our home. I began to understand cause and effect. The sirens had caused all of this.

My tightly-packed family hid in our neighbor's basement - with no electricity and a loud silence. I did not know why we were hiding. I do now. We were hiding because Serbian paramilitary troops were hunting for my grandfather, who had formerly been a political prisoner because he had written a historical dramatic play about Albanian independence. He was being hunted not to be captured, but to be killed. In any case, I knew then that, for whatever reason, I had to be totally still and quiet. Something was very wrong and my family was very scared. I couldn't sleep because of the continuous gunfire. Three or four days after we started hiding, NATO began its air bombing.

The day after the aerial bombing began, Serbian soldiers came into the house in which we were hiding and told the owners that they had five minutes to evacuate the house and leave for good. It was time for us to flee as well. Serbian paramilitary troops were all over the street. Their faces were covered with masks. Some of the masks were made of black cotton; others were made of silver steel. I still remember the eyes beneath their masks. The eyes were scarlet colored, filled with either rage or drugs. I saw hundreds of neighbors in the street, and the masked soldiers were pulling young men from the long line of families. Slaughterhouse. Even as child of only six, I somehow knew that these neighbors were being chosen to be killed. Step after step, afraid to lift my eyes from the cracks of Prishtina's roads, we were led by the soldiers to the crowded train station. I remember that all of the adults were smoking, that a woman had accidentally dropped her baby and that people were yelling to find their relatives. The station was very crowded and the train doors were blocked with people. My family climbed through a small window to get into the train. My great-grandmother had so much trouble climbing into the train because the window was too small and she was too large. At the time, the scene of my great-grandmother being squeezed through a small window was horrifying. Now, I chuckle at the memory, but, of course, it is still horrifying.

We got on the train without the slightest idea of where we were going. When I was a child, train rides were always an adventure, but not that time. Our cabin, meant to carry only eight people, was loaded with thirty people. We little ones had to sit on the luggage racks, high above the seats. During the train ride, I was introduced to World War II Nazi history, by overhearing the adults' anxious conversations. When the train

slowed down as it passed various train stations, Serb soldiers taunted us with their butterfly knives thrust through the windows. My mother often covered my eyes during the ride, but she forgot to cover my nose. People say that when one sense is taken away, the others become stronger. I will never forget the smell of that day. It was the smell of burning human flesh. Kosovo was on fire. The ethnic cleansing had begun.

-Rrap Kryeziu

-Claire Cekander

Red

Burning, passion Anger always peeking

Through flames dancing in

The darkness, consuming everything in Sight, nothing remains but ashes, drifting

Through the wind, blanketing the snow, white Turned to grey, the rage drained out, muted

Until a lone spark hits a dead branch, and Everything ignites once again, burning in the dark, allowing no Mercy as the twisted embers float to the ground

Their light slowly dying as the sparks fade Out in to the nothingness as the World lays burning without a care No one to hear the Desperation in the night

As it all Fades to Red

-Leah Jenks

THE 48-HOUR DAY

Night.

My eyelids were wrinkled stone seduced by the heavy door. Then those nightmares pinched me wake 'til sunrise I dreamed staring. Day.

That delicate shock of smelling heat. A careful butterfly sat upon the screen, rays bled onto its back, velvety wings glistening beneath the light. I could feel molasses sweat. And from ice and stone, I melted with a butterfly on the floor.

-Ginalyanda

I AM MY MOTHER'S TENNIS SHOES

I am my mother's tennis shoes, worn like day-old pumpkin bread. In myyouthful days when the skywould stain rose pink my mother would keep us inside. Concealed to living room dance parties with MadonnaWe were light-footed and content.

Now, my mother's eyes are dull thrift store rings, cracking every time she hears contorted new music, swaying from mylips. I tell her I want to shave my head which dances into,I like...Emma.

I can see her ears quiver every time I whisper new lyrics into our family, Make y our life simple, Olivia. Stop straining your vocal chords.

I've realized I'm the one leaving scuff marks all over the floor. -Olivia O'Sullivan

I AM THE GARDEN

An untrimmed garden, soul soiled by hanging leaves, dead petals and twisted gray grass Weeds biting into my flaws to keep the scars on my soul, and trap me in shadow.

The call of crows nesting in thorned brambles, nettles of despair hooked into their aching wings. Such creatures oft lay silent; terror tying their tiny maws shut, and neglect begging their strife to fester.

An untrimmed garden, the storm cackling high above - growing louder, a shriek refusing to pass. Oozing, black sludge - pained rain feeding the unwelcome, spreading ireful ivy and malicious mallow.

Seeds have long been planted, specks of beauty lost to the depths with a hopeless longing to rise like kings. Like a smiling torch, you've begun to burn the hanging leaves, bringing to those kernels a taste of ardor.

The filthy muck dripping from the raging tempest turned glimmering pure, cleansing the morass. And despite uneven ground, your golden rays. pierce the stubborn surface and force my heart to glow.

A passion to rip out weeds and filI wounds, bask in your love and turn dying crows into grinning starlings. Paper-thin roots sliding from the seeds, cool stems of lush verdure spilling leaves of lilac luster.

An untrimmed garden, soil soon swimming with the sweet fragrance of nectar and sprightly green grass, Mind afire with color and dancing blossoms - filled with timid tulip, wriggling rose and alluring aster.

And to silently lay with you, staring at the now - clear sky without a whisper of doubt, is the wondrous dream I can't do without.

-Nick Mains

THE WORLD COLLAPSED

I shivered under the covers and held the receiver to my ear. "Do you really have to go so soon?"

She said something about possibly being fired and something about traf6c, but I only thought about what it would be like to see her walk through my door again. She said she d be there in ten minutes.

I hung up and walked to the window. Outside, I saw a dozen mothers in a dozen minivans, all waiting for their raincoat clad nine-year-olds to get in and soak the leather seats. When I looked for the horizon, I couldn't find it. The sky blended in with the black top, now spotted with puddles.

The downpour couldn't drown out the thunder, and the thunder couldn't distract my mind from trying to make the hands on my wall move faster. Only eight more circles of the red one and she'd be here, wiping her feet on my welcome mat.

Distraction. I sunk into my lazyboy chair and put my hand on the wall next to me. The eggshell finish wasn't enough to convey an implication other than 'padded cell.' I picked up a book. I put it back down. I went to the fridge. I wasn't hungry. Six more. Had my quest for companionship lead to a question of sanity? The furniture in my humble kitchen told me to calm down, to act more like they did. Peaceful. Comfortable. I considered walking outside and knocking on my own door; it would placate my nerves. I didn't have anything to serve. No time to run out. Time? Five more. Come on, Stanley, you don't want her to think you're desperate. I stood next to the window and leaned my forehead on the cold glass once more.

Minivans drove off and through the sky's drippings I saw her in her carriage, being pulled towards my home. Her steeds stopped out front and she tied them up. Gallop this way, you angel,you. She was early. I was up on my feet, struggling to handle the break between seeing her outside and seeing her at my door. The pain would be worth it in a few seconds.

She tried knocking, but I opened before the knock was finished. She smiled at me and I took off three of my layers. She walked in, brushed her wavy hair out of her face and hugged me. I withdrew, briefly, to turn the air conditioning on. When I returned, she was sitting on her throne in the foyer, looking down at me. "You have three hours," she said.

Half an hour gone by. Her clothes found their way to my floor. She found her way to my sofa and held me in her arms. I sat their immobile and gave a look to my kitchen furniture. I wasn't going anywhere.

She brushed a hand through my hair and for a moment I looked away, quizzically distracted by a noise I heard from across the room. I saw myself, standing there, looking at me. I stood there, holding a bucket, laughing at me. As I lay in her arms, I walked to the wall, reached into the bucket with a paintbrush, and began splatter painting the walls with every color in the spectrum. I turned around and looked at me, laughing even harder.

She leaned in and kissed me as I watched myself be an artist. I accepted it but soon looked back and saw that not only the one spot was painted. The entire wall was. The colors ran back and forth, up and down, and across the room. Some of it landed on my sleeve. I wiped it on her arm and it spread lethargically across her entire body. She became those colors and I leaned into kiss her again, blinded by the reflection of the light from my ceiling fan off of her body's saturated canvas. Pollock on my love.

When I looked back, I saw myself again, sitting across the mom drinking wine with my father. They kicked over my coffee table and my father scoffed, "Here, sport, come sleep with us tonight. It wasn't reaI."

I pleaded with her, "Please don't leave me here by myself."

An hour and a half gone by. At this point, I could no longer recognize the residence I had occupied before her arrival. Outside of my window I could no longer see the usual maple that greeted me every morning. It just stood there, starting at me with its beady eyes. Around it, nothing was stationary. Either the wind blew stronger than anything I had ever seen or the world was spinning off its axis. It made the exterior view from my place into a blur of bluebirds, back packs, and bondage kits.

Next to the beauty that lay before me, I saw the colors from the walls collecting on the floor. On top of that, the fridge in the kitchen opened its doors and began pouring out what looked like a cross between milk, vanilla extract, and blueberry jarn. The liquid combined with the colors from the walls and formed a mass pool of hyper-colorful swirls. My closet doors then burst open and from inside, five little kids from my second grade class swam across my living room in inner tubes, splashing each other in bliss

She looked at me and wanted to know what I kept looking at. I didn't bother beginning to explain. I closed her mouth with mine and heard the belittling comments coming from the chairs at my dinner table. Two of the kids were now sitting there. I thought they were talking about me but it turned out that they were fighting with each other. They got up and started wrestling each other to the ground. Eventually, the second one drowned in the pool on the floor. The first one ran around my place, high-fiving the other little kids and now the walls, which had morphed in large faces with arms. Everything was laughing.

I looked at my love and pleaded, "Please don't leave me here by myself."'

Two hours gone by. Had I reached the void yet? Cabinets in my kitchen were flying open, spewing out sprays of a red liquid that, when coming into contact with itself, burst into a cloud of contemporarily unbashful music.

She stopped our activities for a moment and I could almost see the original color - or lack thereof - of my walls. She looked at me and smiled. She told me that she loved me. The front door burst open and an immense wind tumbled through my apartment. Everything fell off the walls, the kitchen turned into

mayhem, and we were almost knocked off of the sofa. Eight more versions of me rand in through the door, waving guns in the air, protecting each other from the storm that was brewing. The tried to sit down and play cards, but on top of the wind and turbulence that shook my place into oblivion, they were now being curse at by Just Smitheson, my third grade crush. She told them they never really meant it. I tried to ignore her and pay attention to the first woman in the room.

I looked at my love and pleaded, "Please don't leave me here by myself."

Two and a half hours gone by. My place was filled with people. Th"y all sat in a circled around my love and me, smoking tobacco products, blowing smoke in our direction until the cloud grew so thick that it solidified and blanketed us. A man sitting near the sofa pulled out a saxophone and started plalnng as quick as the devil would allow him. He didn't make a sound, however. The noise from the horn travelled out of the bell and into a series of cups surrounding the sofa. When the cups were filled, everyone in the room grabbed one and took a sip. When they did, the sound of the saxophone multiplied until it was the sound of twelve saxophones, all soloing to whole-tone scales in every key. The sound was beautiful. The people fell to the ground, cryingbecause it hit them so hard. Their cries built into screams and I pulled the blanket of smoke over the two of us. We were sake inside.

I looked at my love and pleaded, "Please don't leave me here by myself."

Three hours gone by.

The world collapsed around me. Lying in her arms, I looked up and drifted away as all of the Impressionist works that had been created on the walls melted downward into a large, culturally-eclectic puddle on the floor. The ceiling fan spun until it was no longer clearly visible; it detached and flew out of the window, which was now morphing into crystalized shapes that refracted the scarce sunlight into every visible color. The colors were cast across the room. The walls became less concrete and my previously familiar room became a kaleidoscope. The colors cast on her face made me want to reach out, grab some, and taste the abstract result of our chemistry. I decided, instead, to cut the middle-hand and imply taste the rainbow of my companion's smiling face.

The clock fell from the wall and sprayed the room with its shattered glass.

The sofa opened its cushions and spoke to me. "Stanley, you know what time it is. You knew this was coming. Get off of me, fluff me, and open the front door. She doesn't want you. She never wanted you. She never wanted you in the least bit. Give up. Why do you think she's leaving? AII you are to her is a schizoid. Give up, Stanley. Open the front door. Give up, Stanley. Open the front door!"

I screamed. I screamed for minutes. I put my hands to my ears and blocked out every sound of it talking, but its voice echoed in my head. The screaming wouldn't make it go away.

I looked at my love and I saw that she too was lying there laughing at me. I stumbled to the front door while still trying to block out all of the noise in the room. It was pandemonium.

When I opened the front door, I saw my father standing there, Iooking at me. He pushed me out of the way, hurried to the sofa, and grabbed my love. He dragged her across the floor, out my place. Before he left with her, however, he looked at me and said, "Go back to sleep. Stay home from school tomorrow. No, you can't have friends over when you're staying home from school. Play in your room. Just go play in your room."

With that, he slammed the door closed. I turned around and tried to ignore the ringing in my ears. My place was how I remembered it. Grey walls. Nothing in the fridge. Water on the window.

When I crossed to the window and looked out, I saw one minivan waiting outside. It waited in the rain for one last child to come out. He came out, afraid of the water falling from the sky. When he opened the door of the car, I saw that it was me. I kissed my mother, and she drove off. Homeward.

-Max DeGenova

HALCYON

As I sit I stare into the infinite azure

I have been accepted and labeled, Rejected and set free, And set on a path

With an end I cannot escape But I can still feel the taste Of a time when I did this before.

I am so pleased to know That the sky is the same color With the same ambitious depth

As when I was a child.

-Elon Sloan

DUCT-TAPE GENERATION

Flowers weave in this dining room, hunching over and weeping on our walls. My mother and I shower them with water. Trace our fingertips over the vines realize why the petals in our house are lowered in prayer, we are depleting. There is a chandelier drooping in that room.

It's coiled with glass, glittering, grunting. It stems out, eyes our family from the canopy on our ceiling. I believed it was the trophy of our house. When you walk in, you can see it is shattering light. I used to think it was made of gold. Now its limbs are writhing snakes, the lights flickering like tongues. It dangles

on a strand of a Home Depot rope, plasticchalked. My mom and Dad both lost their jobs in 2009. When I askwhy our chandelier is hanging from rope, my father says, "Because without it, it would fa11." Clear as his stare. We are balancing on stigmas of flowers and empty checkbooks, wet checkbooks. My mother and I look into the vines woven on our ceiling. There is something dripping on her checkbook. Blunt as writing. We're learning to drain swamps hold our lights up with ropes. Fix this drooping house. We are grown to be mended, maybe with duct-tape or a balance.

-CamaraBrown

IN DEBT, IN TRUST

Still tired from our sore walks down our favorite avenue in Biloxi curving in and out of pathways dripping in bloody blues.

Preachers prescribe new and old remedies stuck in the toothpicks used to pick out lies of his loosely strung teeth maybe tomorrow will be easier maybe it won't.

I hope this letter gets to you soon to remind you of the hand slowly breathing right here right next to you in the morning if this hits your mailbox know that I'11be back home soon.

If I get lost yet again, itd be swell if you could give me directions a suggestion or two and if you need to carry me back it probably won't happen, but your arm may be some nice support that I could've used long ago a drop or four may fall in between our legs I hope that's okay slowly I may scramble out of my grumbles and pick up my stick and my rope tying together my straightforward thoughts I might just be on my way again. Either way I can look forward to you and I

and our eyes

Still tired from our sore walks down our favorite avenue in Biloxi curving in and out of pathways dripping in bloody blues.

-Claire Doty

JUST SOMETIMES

Sometimeslwishlcould

Blend my skin and no longer have the evidence Of tainted ink.

Sometimes I wish my sinful eyes could be beautiful My polluted lips be desirable My dirtied skin be cleansed.

Sometimes I imagine myself without stain

My life has no limitations because of bigotry I don't feel embarrassment for an unholy minority

Sometimes I want to change the image of my existence, Reform myself to match the rest of the puzzle Twist and rotate myself to fit the bigger picture.

Sometimes it feels that being African supersedes being half American; Pale faces don't understand how my life can be They think of me as a mystery - a question to be solved and forgotten.

Sometimes I'm angry with my Father. He made us defective, burned us with sin; Created us of ignorance and others of arrogance

Sometimes I cry at night, before my mother comes to bed, Before she holds me and lets me know it doesn't matter to everyone, Just the people who want to feel strength through weakness.

Sometimes I see the almond shape of my eyes

And the pouted slope of my lips

And I feel love.

Sometimes I listen to the whisper in my voice

And watch the curve of my cheek

And I taste beauty build on the back of my tongue like Sweet bile, a delicious illness.

I am an African American teenager, Born of toasted mystery, secrets of innocence and Love hidden in the depths of my caramel complexion so

Sometimeslwishlcould

Share our secret and revel in supposed unity With those who can't understand my complexity.

But that's just sometimes -Aliana Barnette-Dear I -i ,i

-Gabe Matesanz

(A a) !

LIKE YOU

Like you, the sun far east may rise from me, the soil, you grow my love. You may reach your limbs towards the sky, but do not forget I hold your roots, my love.

On earth you live, you give, you thrive. You connect, protect, purify me with the world. How men cannot see how you keep them alive keeps me estranged from their industrial whirl. How fortunate for me, that I remain below what fear I have, their intimidation of how you grow. Stand tall, my love, dance the wind, your foe. Take in the sun, I will absorb the rain, together we'll flourish

Like you, the sun far west may set Come live with the earth, give men no let.

U-Kjerstin Anderson

SONNET SANDWICH

There is a sandwich shop way up on North Where hous d my fav'rite food on the earth

When I walk in the bread and meat set forth Whose first taste is second only my birth

You may or might think this sonnet in jest Alas I am in all earnestness, I say That Alpine subs are all around the best I try to make it there ev'ry Thursday

I ask myself why not Alpine forthwith

The thing about the divine shop is that The place is far enough to be in myth It's this that keeps me far, not fear of fat.

Its distance always leaves me craving more The only thing to do to move next door.

-AbigailNevins

THE IMAGINED, SPREAD THIN

"Let me out," mumbled Morley from the rustling pocket.

"Shut up," Neil replied stiffly, out of the corner of his mouth.

'Just let me out already."

"Shut. Up."

"Please Neil, I don't want to be in here anymore," said Morley. "Shut up! You can't come out," Neil said as forcefully and strongly as he could, while still whispering inconspicuously and from the side of his mouth.

"But it is damp in here, you must have peed in this pocket because it smells like urine. And my feet are getting cold from the moist conditions, and I can barely breathe because the pee smell is overwhelming both my nostrils, and ... " "-f[a1's ridiculous. I did not pee in my pocket, how could I even physically do that?"

"I'm cold and damp and it smells awful in here, let me out," said Morley sorely. "No."

"Come on."

"You know I can't. I shouldn't even be talking to you right now. People are beginning to look at me oddly." replied Neil uneasily as he continued walking. It was true, he was getting concerning looks from multiple people across the street including the Italian fruit vendor who smiled at everybody.

"Is this material cotton? It's itchy," Morely complained.

"If I take you out then you won't exist anymore, you stupid creature!" spat Neil, but subtly, so he wouldn't unnerve the pretty girl at the corner. Morley was silent. Then he said quietly, "maybe it's time?"

"If you climb out they will see you and know there is nothing to see. Then they'll really think I'm nuts, talking to nothing!" said Neil, more to himself this time than to his companion.

"I know."

"I know," said Morely with resignation. "I know. I want to get out, but if I leave I'm gone forever." "You're only real to me." said Neil defensively.

"I know."

"You exist only if I am the only one who knows you exist!" continued Neil, his eyes beginning to get pink and his voice beginning to settle into a type of riled growl.

"I know, I know."

"There is no other option Morley, if you leave so will I. There is no other option so shut up," reasoned Neil, and with a sad, uneasy, defiant sort of frown glanced down at his rustling pocket.

"Yes. I'[ stay in this debris-infested confinement, Neil. I always do. I just need to complain once in

a while-these are not the nicest living conditions you know. You won't let me out and I won't go. I know, Neil," said Morely.

"Good," replied Neil quickly and strongly to his pocket, as a passing family glanced over, noticed him apprehensively and turned to walk on the opposite side of the sidewalk.

"Let him out," muttered Neil as he walked on, laughing to himself in derisive amazement. 'And pee on myself? How could I even do thatl Ha, Morely. Stupid, silly pocket monkey. Morely, come on. What did you think I'd say? That I d let you leave me forever?" Neil wondered.

People on the street watched furtively as Neil talked louder and more passionately. They saw him talking to nothing, to no one. Talking at an empty pocket that was not rustling in the least.

-Rachel Dranoff

-Jasmine Skamser

LEMON SOUR AND CIRCLE VICIOUS

Lemon sour and circle vicious. The polar bear falls through the thin ice rcalizingthere are more fish in the sea than she had ever imagined. The sea filled to the brim as she plunged into nearly cold-as-ice water. But only nearly, for if the water was cold as ice, it would be.

And she would freeze into the water black as an abyssal night until bright the eternal day. Her beauty beheld in the celestial, twinkling eyes above her. They admire her stuck in mid-stride like time continued to be nonexistent. No one ever noticed her in the white, white snow.

-Raphy Reynaud

BETWEEN TWO STICKY FINGERS

Between two sticky fingers she could feel the fly's heartbeat. The furious twitching of its wings tickled her chubby skin. What a stupid little fly, she thought, debating whether to release the creature or end its life. Instead, her fascination with the fly caused her to reach for the empty Mason jar that rested on the floor by her feet. She placed the jar upside down on the table with the fly inside. It flew up to the corner and busied itself with the remnants of strawb erry jam. The little girl flicked the jar. The fly remained still. What a stupid little fly, she thought.

"Clarity, come on! We're going to Jeff's!" Clarity forced herself out of the purple chair, trudged over to her fraytngChucks that swallowed her tiny feet, and ran out to the red pickup. She did not want to go to Jeff's.

"Annabelle, will you tie my shoes?" she asked, waving two chubby legs in Annabelle's face. "Not now, I'm trying to drive. And can't you see I'm smoking? I'11 tie them when we get there." Clarity sighed, and shifted back into the passenger seat.

'According to this, I'm not supposed to sit up front until I'm twelve," she exclaimed, pointing to the sticker on the broken visor. Annabelle glared at her, releasing a puff of smoke.

"Look, I know you don't like going to Jeff's, but you don't have to be such a brat. We won't be there long." Clarity propped her head on her hand and looked out the dirty passenger window of the pickup. She could already feel Jeff's calloused hands smothering her rosy cheeks. Her shoes were never tied.

Jeff's trailer exuded bourbon. Of course, Clarity didn't know what bourbon was, but she knew she didn't like the smell. Jeff's feet hung over the edge of his tattered brown couch. He was focused on the boxy TV that rested atop a milk crate in a dark corner. Between the static, Clarity could make out two men boxing. Annabelle hurried over to the TV and turned it off.

"Where's the money I asked for, Jeff?" she asked.

"Well, hello to you too, dear. You know, I was watchin' that." He sat up, scratching his scraggly beard.

"I don't care what the hell you were watching, Jeff, I need the money. She doesn't exactly pay for her keep," Annabelle replied, motioning to Clarity.

"Well, hello there, Clarity. Come over here." Clarity knew not to refuse. She walked over to the couch with her head low. Like always, Jeff slid his enormous right hand over her jawbone and forced her face upward until their eyes met, taking a swig from the bottle in his left.

"Why, you just keep gettin' more beautiful every day. You've got your Momma's eyes." Clarity squeezed them shut.

"There's no need to be afraid of me. You know me," he seemed to command. Annabelle snorted. "Yeah, she knows all about you, especially how you never pay me. Come on Jeff, do you have the money or not?" Jefflimped over to Annabelle and slid his hands around her waist.

"Come on now, darlin', give a man a break. I'll have it soon." He looked desperately into her eyes. "Soon's not good enough, Jeff. They're laying people off at the plant, and I could be let go any day."

Jeff kissed her neck.

"You've got like three jobs, Annabelle. I think you have enough to support yourselves." Annabelle's hand cut across his face like a burst of wind. "You're such an ass, Jeff," she spit, storming towards the door. Clarity hopped off the couch and ran to Annabelle. But Jeff's hand caught Annabelle's, sucking her back in Iike a carnivorous vine.

"Don't you talk to me like that in my house!" he bellowed, forcing her against the wall. A tear trickled down her cheek as he planted his lips on hers.

"Stop it, Jeff! Let her go!" Clarity cried, tugging at the denim around his ankles. He shook her off. "I want her outta my house, Annabelle." She looked down at Clarity, pleadingly.

"Go wait outside, Clarity."

"But, Momma!"

"Now, Clarity!" Clarity stormed out of the trailer. She slammed the door behind her, collapsed on the faded brown grass, and watered it with her tears. The slam of the trailer door brought Clarity back to consciousness. She looked up and saw Annabelle emerge from the dark trailer, wiping blood-coated hands on her denim skirt. Clarity quivered. "Momma wha what's what's going on?" Annabelle wiped furiously as she headed toward the pickup.

"Say goodbye to this place, Clarity. We won't be coming back."

The man at the liquor store had looked up from his lottery scratch-off and was staring at Annabelle's hands. They had faded to an unnatural shade of pink, with most of the remnants of blood on her skirt and the steering wheel. She completely ignored the man and instead grabbed a new pack of cigarettes and a box of Jujubes. She pulled some money out of the wallet from her back pocket and slapped it on the counter. The man's eyes stuck to her hands like the blood that wouldn't wash away.

"I was cutting meat," she growled. "Not that it's any of your business." The man rang up the cigarettes and candy without even glancing at the register.

"I thought you were vegetarian. Last week you came in here and told me that the burger I was eating would give me a heart attack. And I told you that smoking kills. And candy rots your teeth." Annabelle snatched her purchases from the counter.

"It was for a friend...Who can't cook. Come on, Clarity." Clarity grabbed her mother's pink hand. "Her name is Clarity?" the man spat, shifting his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Annabelle turned around and glared at the man.

"She's the only thing that makes sense in this world."

Clarity had forgotten all about the fly. It lay on the table with its legs dangling in the air, having given up all attempts to escape. Clarity lifted up the jar.

"Go! You're free!" she whispered, but the surrendered creature remained still. She tapped it with her index finger. It twitched. The wail of an approaching siren seeped through the trailer window, and tires brushed over the lifeless grass. Clarity picked up the fly. She felt its heart pulsate.

"What a stupid little fly," she whispered. She pressed her thumb and index finger together until they were stained red.

- Dana Langhans

ruzL

-Mike Howe-Ebright

NURTURE

It's a kingdom found within a plastic, pink kitchen.

It's my friends becoming my offspring and family. It's building a house of worn out cushions and blankets. It's creating a home out of people and your imagination on1y.

While watching a mother who raised me, I became inspired.

The one person at the center of my life

That my entire family was dependent on, I pretended to care for my fake children, And cook dinners of fictionally appetizing food

In my Easy Bake Oven. It's why I held that Bitty Baby in my tender arms

As if she were my own.

I wanted to torture it with tacky, velvet jumpsuits And cockatoo-styled ponytails jutting from the crown

Of its inexperienced, innocent, untouched locks of brown hair.

I wanted others to be dependent on me, I wanted to carry that burden of responsibility.

I wanted to be justifiably bossy, Telling my pretend kids which clothes to fold And what room to clean. It gave me authority in the most compassionate way.

I wanted to care and love someone as much as she loves me.

-Annelise Ryan

NEXT TO YOU

Next to you,

I am a shadow in your burning glow. I patiently follow your shining path.

By your side, I am a sapling to your Redwood beauty, My Polly Pocket figure is no match for your Blonde Barbie brilliance.

As we stride the streets, All eyes cling to you, No matter my effort, Not for my lack to try. All the while,

The gold goes to your smile I sport my silver With a genuine grin. You are known by few, Wanted by all, But I am patient in your shade, Because my love outweighs all envy,

-MyaNovelle

ASHEN EYES

Ashen eyes

Why was I cursed with his eyes?

Grey

As if the angels that were in charge of putting the elegant colors into the eyes of the unborn knew that he didn't deserve them in his ashen eyes, colder than the stone in his stoned eye. I just want to sit and enjoy this joyride We call life ups and downs Rollercoaster Wait! Here's a coaster for your glass, shattered against the wall tears of glass stream down the wall the shards drip onto the wood hard wood floors cold against my cheek they become crystal clear crystal sharp like a splinter under my skin invisible to your ashen eyes.

-Katie Lofgren

Debbie's face wrinkles with the desperation of questioning children. She sways in her chair like dust, clenches her arms closer. Confine them in a quivering grasp. Cross necklace dangles. She mumbles your dog peed in the kitchen, squirrels are eating it. Our sky lights Dim, and show her sweat glistening whimpering slide in piles down the tiles of skin. The squirrels are eating it. She is stuck jellied in the midst of Schizophrenia, hung in the middle. The squirrels rule our house, she says, feasting on us. She can hear them chew. They resemble doctors gnawing at their toes and veins. She says the doctors have empty graves in their waiting rooms. It's too gray to be heaven. Pills, sleep, urine is befogging her. I empty the room. Let the kitchen become metaphysical. You can't drag her from her thoughts. I let her trust squirrels and mules.

-CamaraBrown

-Kali Wyatt

SUMMER NIGHTS

Open the doors to

My long lost light

And let in gaping fire

Licking open fresh wounds.

My long lost light

Dances naked over ocean's spray, Licking open fresh wounds. Where'd you go?

Dancing naked over ocean's spray; Stop to stare, unaware, Where'd you go?

Confusion stalks memories.

Stop. To stare unaware Is to bring a killer loose. Confusion stalks memories

Ripping apart neurons until senility sets.

-Zoe Frankowicz

A SMALL PRICE TO PAY

I bet Knute was the last one at the party too Mryb" we can trace that disease to his blood Like cholesterol and triglycerides

Dad, you thought you would be dead by now Long ago, a white flag pushing through the skin Just above your sternum. The thought of it brought beads of sweat to your neck When mom first knew you

30 years later, she made you see a doctor

You had a flawed heart A valve that fluttered Like your dad's, I'm guessing The one connected to the heart you picked up When he left you in that hotel room

So far from your mother

You carried it with you Like the two half-dollars You found in his wallet

You never talk about it, About him

He was flawed too. A big-hearted, bad-hearted, wanderer, Often left grandma wondering

It's a wonder

That the secrets she stored for him Never clotted and clogged her throat

But his influence extends beyond the shape of your heart His absence left you to your mom And your grandmother

And them to you

And next to his still-fluttering heart

He left Jodi and Rick Their weight has tested the fortitude Of your faulty valve For all these years Like exercise You became the patriarch at 18

And at 70, Your crown, Made of bovine heart tissue, Cured Italian meats, And the branches of a sturdy family tree, Shines like the chrome On the cars in your dad's lot

And your heart continues to pump the best blood Through all of us

It leaks from the soles of my feet

Wherever I travel And it drips from my mouth When I teach

It pours into the jury box at all of Chris's trials

In fact, he uses your blood in every meal he cooks He painted this house with the blood from your heart.

Brindi, born with the blood of another father, Uses yours as the fuel for her empathy A transfusion in adolescence saved her life

Unfortunately, her new supply Also carries the relentless antibodies Of Knute's last-at-the-party disease

We all got it.

A small price to pay

-Jay Lind

My Mother tells me she used to believe in abortion. Said her body wasn't ready to cradle stretch marks that tuck into her. She is addicted to alignment. Thinks the arcs of her stomach should run parallel with her hip bone.

She was so afraid her thighs would spread wider than wire hangers, she made her body spit up its insides. Her blood settling in puddles on our bathroom floor. She tells me "these are how angels look." She can't tell when a body is wounded from starving. My mother has

always fit into size 3. Finds religion through anorexia. Now, I watch as her stomach pushes past her chest like plastic hangers bent from wet clothes. Hates the way her skin laps over itself. No longer fitting into my father's desires. Tells me she doesn't know how it feels for him to tread his fingertips down spreading stretch marks. She's sick of elastic waistbands. Wishes the mirror captured the woman who blended in the creases of bed sheets. The insides of her thighs are bruised. Jeans swing in her closet because they hang uneven. She doesn't know how it feels for them to not brush past each other. "Kyndall go to the gym with me, I'[ pay you." Like I wouldn't do it if she just asked. Her

body holds yield signs. Vulnerability etches itself over her skin. I'm scared to ask if this outfit

makes me too big. My sister taunts me at dinner. Says the youngest always ends up being the biggest. Jaggingher fingers into my side, howling "You're the fattest, just stop eating."

I want to believe that beauty doesn't always have to fit into asize3. Yesterday, I stretched a wire hanger so far it broke, like my mother did the day she filled trash bags with clothes too tight for her thick wooled body. I want to believe that God made me with motive. Not wanting me heavy with Girl Scout Do-Si-Dos or skin sucked

bone. We all turn our body sideways in mirrors sometimes but eventually, we have to face ourselves. Wire hangers are not meant to bend and my mother was never meant to break.

-Kyndall Jones

Sandra cooked the dinner and Lola went to bed. Standing in the middle of her checkerboard linoleum kitchen, Sandra would always smile. Her lips were smoothed over with a bright shade of pink. The red was too whorish, but bare skin could never be enough. Sandra could control every muscle in the face. She calculated warm smiles that took, even to the eyes. Her precise polished two inch tan pumps would click across the glossy floor, knowing each step before they hit it. Sandra moved in an endless ballet, never forgetting any part of the body. She took her position in front of the stove: Sftift weight. Lift heel. Slide left foot back. Pot lid down. Right hand up. And it floats to your waist. Lift head. Warm eyes. Now smile at the kids. And don't forget to stir the sauce! Sandra would snap up one cloth napkin between two gentle fingers and polish all four pristine dishes. She would hold two plates at equal heights like a balance. The amount of food on every plate was proportional, their positions were aligned. The pale porcelain on the plates and the petal pink enamel on her nails caught the same light as she carried each dish from kitchen to dining room in even steps. The family would sit squarely at their lovely round table until Sandra's time was over.

Lola's lips could only be one color. She spent most of her time in front of the mirror despite the fact that she seldom wore clothes. She painted the nails the color of blood and Valentine roses. She marked and lined the eyelashes with black and chose a different shade for the lids every night. Lola had long earrings and seven q4)es of underwear. She owned glittering pantyhose, and six-inch stilettos, and corsets that were lined with diamonds. It all defined her, made her real to herself. She only stood in the mirror to make sure she was done. She stared at her shoes to make sure the impossible line of their arches captured beauty as it turned at the ball of her foot and soared to the heel. She looked at the waist to make sure it was both a point and a curve. It had to have all of the glissando-inggrace of a bird that dove into the sea and slid, just as easily, back into the sky, while remaining the perfect circle between opposing triangles. Matching her beauty with fragility. She inspected the face to make sure that it was more even, more smooth, and more ornately colored than that of any lesser being. She would find a different place to perch every time. Choosing one page out of the catalog of ways she could present the work she had perfected. He would arrive and make the decision she existed for, and every time he chose her it would be different and exactly the same. And as he turned over and faded out into sleep, Lola and her stagnation would fill past their brim.

And Stephania would rise up gasping despite having consented to drown. Shaking in Lola's nakedness and reeling from Sandra's obsession she would cry about all things she had been told she was doing right. She would lie in bed and think Was she shattered or feigning competence. She's never known what else to do. For her entire life she'd been pulled more than two ways; she'd never been taught the difference between a person and a wall. But she had learned long ago to ignore the grand things by worryingover the small ones. She feared the mundane things obsessively: the wrinkles in her dress, the pores in her face, the hairs

that fell differently on different days. She told herself that these were things that a person would see if they looked closely, instead of seeing that her triumvirate was hollow. Instead of knowing that she was trapped. She was winning a race that she couldn't remember entering, but lived in fear that she would be despised. While living in a world where having success meant admitting defeat she had aimed to excel. Now she would be cast out as a traitor because her opponents would rather watch her die. It was nature, it was what they had been taught, it was nature.

Eventually she would lose in all ways. She would be a pleasant hollow shell sitting in a sunbeam, left to gather dust on a shelf. The doll she has been asked to be.

Sandra cooked the dinner, Lola went to bed, and Stephania tried to sleep.

&ru

-Elon Sloan

-Scott Daniel

"THE UrvO'ul,il' oF 6Si/rE &.,tr0,tt{fr"

-Nathan Smerage

ONE HUNDRED, AT LEAST

In fourth grade, the boys concuss the glass of our class' crawfish tank. Thistle the wet shells against palms until they go limp. Say they found them this way, ribbed and sweaty out of water. It is always an accident.

Our class goes through dozens of shipments that year. Soggy boxes stacked by the window, nothing left when June came.

On the last day of school, I slosh into the kitchen. A ribless and sagging box in my hands. Its insides molding, a single crawfish curled to the side like a fist. I tell my mom I want to nurse it whole, I believe I can save it.

It stays in my room that year, under damp sod and fish marbles, I keep it in a shoebox hospital until it rots.

My junior year in high school, my grandma coils to the white-metal railing of her hospital bed. I have tried this before: I know how to cradle shells in palms, what bodies look like as they sink. She pushes my hand from her cheek, confuses me with her dead husband. When she gets like this, the doctors say we aren't supposed to stop her,

she is too sick to heal but I want to coax her strong. I visit her every afternoon for the rest of the year, never leave her water glass empty, but I cannot keep her alive.

On the way to the funeral home, my mother's fingers are damp on her lap, still fisting the lilies from my grandmother's nightstand. I have seen this beforethe rot on the back porch, my hands scrubbed raw with burial dirt; we are all trying to save something.

I am sixteen and trying to hoist a body from bed sheets, still too small to stand without drowning, to squeeze between mourners and tissues and eulogies to cup my grandmother before she sinks into the ground.

Nothing to do but wait for the room to spill over like too heavy tanks, for the concuss of glass as the mourners leave.

-Dorothy Moore

AN ATTEMPT AT SECOND PERSON

I compare it to the resounding echo of a songin a cave, you explain. Your wording is not quite right, you cannot precisely pin down your feeling, but you have to try because he so badly wants to understand, and so you try again. It feels like stomaching a mousse after fighting through a feast. Or the welcome sore in your legs once you stretch and run.

You get a blank look. Blank faces are not like picture books, and you reaTize that you can't draw whatever you want on someone else's.

This one seems an uphill battle, but you don't give up. /t's like dancinglike a naked idiot on a muddy bench in an abandoned park at one in the morning, wearing everything on chilled and sleeveless, flailing arms for no one, no one watching.

That hit him.

It's that bad, huh? he says.

He sounds like he knows. But he doesn't understand. You do. You try again.

It's worse than bad! lt's worse than the baddest. It's falling down after dropping a quarter.

What?

It feels like wadinginto hot water that burns you and scalds you as it soothes you. It feels like relief and it feels like torture because it feels like relief, you say, and it is so close to right. You look into his eyes and you will him to see it too.

It is listening to beautiful music, so true and beautiful that it makes you cry. It is taking the bad things off your mind, speaking them to the world what you can't say to anyone else. You are alone, but you are with yourself. You say all that because you have to, and you know you've said it right.

His face begins to color, a crayon in the hands of a child. Vaccinesarevirusesthatbringrelief,too,hesays. Andanyonewouldrotherhavethevaccinethanthereal deal.

Itwillfixyou, he says. He knows.

-Rachel Dranoff

INFANT EYES

Infant eyes, peering through roseflesh lids, roam, Exploring the cradle of childhood home: Resplendent dreams that can never be known.

-Tony Foley

LEAF ROBBERS

From the world's life preservers and parasols for the poor, outstretch rough, grasping arms, reaching towards the eternal light.

Out burst an army of bright green newborn hands, suppliers of energy and pieces of art.

Just as the humans who observe them, touch them, depend on them, no two are exactly alike.

They are the teenage girl at the community pool, basking in Mother Nature's warmth.

Tears of joy stream down the Earth's cheeks, feeding the green hands, now adults in their mortal existence.

The tears stop, and the cotton balls of the sky begin to part.

From the life preserver, now a glorious statue in the sky, comes a relaxed sigh.

The statue's hands begin to dance.

But in the dangers of the night, when the protective eyes of the Sun are shut, an invisible enemy attacks the statue, with unwelcomed hands and breath of ice.

The statue, now alive, a furious man, desperately fights to stay alive.

But he is no match for the silent attacker, who amputates his hands with a whistling saw.

The once magnificent hands of the man, the colors of a crayoa box and providers of life, now resemble the skin of a decrepit creature submerged in a bathtub for hours.

They plummet to the ground, skydivers without parachutes, people without hope.

And as invisible blood seeps down to the ground, the attacker pulls out a white blanket and suffocates the man.

-Dana Langhans

ABUELO SEVERIO

Summer of 1997. Star watching from the expanse of your lap. Scoping the skies with half-moon eyes because your fingers draw through my hair, and I love that. A warm mountain breeze apologizes for the heat rash that had subsumed our afternoon. But soon I, rocked by your laughter, drift to sleep.

Winter of 2007 , Time has rounded off your rigid shoulders. Drilled holes into you, so your voice flakes and your hands shake. Age nibbled at the lines that connected you to this world, and now the light behind your eyes seems to flicker on, flicker off. Little pieces of you drift in the silence; settle at our feet, on our laps, in our hair. I grip your hand and assure you that it's ok. We don't have to want to talk.

Spring of 2011,. She's neglected to turn on the kitchen fluorescents. Shadows bleed into her hair, and pool under her eyes, and stain her lips from cherry to black. I wonder if death has sucked your colors in this same way. Cast in monotone and still as a painted funeral we grieve, together yet alone, between the pepper shaker and the sugar jar.

Winter of 201L. A silent chair looks lonesome without the burden of your presence. It waits. Metal arms speckled with chipped paint may have grown as cold as you must be, yet the burnt-orange leather still seems to hold your indent. A lingering memory of your musky soap smacks me in the chest. I'm as reluctant to accept your absence as the worn lawn furniture. We wait.

-Paula Stocco

QURBANI

And it's the glare of the path passing Ttrrough other, clear bodies reaching For absolute relief, that's holding Us in place so our body's failing To continue advancing

We encroach slowly on each day. Mounds of tentative dreams when I Purge myself from your life, Ereeze in flickering screens anything we don't share

Your laughter heaped in my mouth, Seeping from the cracks in our smile Salt coats our tongue, as a sea ofwords Dives into the fishbowl we clutch tightly to our skin

Where did you go?

I've been dancing on swings, Puppeted through the glare, Thawing time capsules that explode And sear flavor into my flesh, Just waiting, anticipating your condensation Onto the glassy people that separate us

-RuchaMehendale

MY GRANDPA TOLD THE STORY

My grandpa told the story like raindrops hitting wind chimes

As frustration and anticipation made my hands quake

Under the weight of burnt dish towels and uncooked pasta For me, it is possible to burn water To disrupt a long line of culinary geniuses

He told me about the man who grew figs on a half-dead tree He said they would be the sweetest figs of all, the ones grown to defy obstacles Mixing Italian with English Lilting with every uncertain consonant that dove from his cheeks Dropping vowels until they splashed at my ankles

Like the fig tree, his old knobby hands, stunted from arthritis Formed protective cages around my spider-web fingers

As our complexions matched and our blood ran parallel Me, a small girl of logic and he, a man of faith Don't worry, he said, the figs will fall

But at the funeral, my aunt tried to replicate it

As her hands sketched in the air Betraying his inflection that we all knew perfectly well But could not replicate

Now the story is told like sick eulogies dripping from cracks in the ceiling With sweet fakeness that grinds against my ears

On his birthday, at family dinners or when my mother starts to cry But it's there every time my brother looks at me with slideshow eyes and says Zoe,what do you remember?

I fichi sempre cadono

The figs will always fall.

-Zoe Kovatchis

EDITOR BIOS

Tony Eoley, better known as $36-TFolly, is a pinkle. He beat that aah with his sporcle skills, but the same can't be said for his "KOBE!" shots. The administration is after the key to his code, but even he doesn't know it.

Carrie Peterson, the calming, sober, realistic, eloquent, charming, magnet of Crest, still puts up with us, especially Tony. After 3 years of good impersonations and wit she's the reason we show up every Wednesday. She speaks slowly without being patronizing.

Rucha Mehendale, not to be confused with Tony, is our favorite Crest child. Don't let her size deceive you; she will eat any and all food in the vicinity. Give her crayons and she will be content, and hopefully one day her doodles will turn into skyscrapers. Next year, she'll build Crest even higher.

Franka Del Santo scares us. When she's not watching Twin Peaks or listening to obscure bands, she's frightening us with her plans for future fetus tattoos and pictures of doll masks. She breathes art, and has had as many jobs at Crest as she has hair colors.

Rrap Kryeziu's soul is vegetarian (technically). You may know him around the halls as the Mr. OPRF of Kosovo and no picture can do him justice like his modest self-portrait. We'll remember him by his catchphrase: "No."

Celeste Erickson burps. A lot. Without her no one would laugh at our bad jokes, and we wouldn't have a moral compass. She is the sunshine of our group, and we're sad she couldn't be with us for longer. We know where she lives.

Elon Sloan is the serious side of Crest. Between her vegetarian club meetings and her feminist agendas, she still has time to leave her damn tissues everywhere. Crest is just the beginning of her budding literary career.

Ms. Lee is our fierce defender and caring mother. Although she's always rushing out the door, she rushes right back to us. She's always willing to provide us with the things we really need... like food.

Stay Tuned for More.