Crest 2013

TnE CREsr 20L3

Eorron's PnocLAMATroN

Dren SruonNr Booy,

You surprise me in a wonderful way. The Crest editorial staffhas spent the last eight months basking in your creativity and your stories and your courage and your inspiration, which weve tried to capture in this comparatively fleeting but very tangible memento. This book is just a slice of the artists who attend OPRF, and we hope to have represented the incredible diversity of thought we find here.

Dran Eolrons,

We made this book! In my three years with Crest, I've found a different zeitgeist each year, something unique that each staffand student body had to offer to the journal journal. And each year I ve helped to make the near impossible decision that is choosing the published pieces out of the load of fantastic submissions we receive. But I think the cohesiveness of the book we put together is worth the time and the wait.

Dren Fecurry,

Many thanks for the opportunity to show offthe wealth of talent that OPRF has to offer.

DE.q.n ReA.orR,

I hope there are hundreds ofyou, ifnot thousands. Enjoy Crest 2013. Rucne, Mnnpvoe,tn Eprroa-rN-Crurcp

ThnLE Oe CoNrENrs

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WUBN I au HoME ALoNE

When I am home alone, I learn my father writes poetry. He doesnt hide this journal as I do: leaves it next to his bed, not a secret but a proclamation. A call for someone to know the moon-wide sadness coiling in him. I am not guilty, only cheated. Didnt know it has been months since Mama stopped answering the phone. Since the therapist diagnosed this strangeness, this medicine that hums and throbs at my touch, swinging us like planets around its center. His poetry is thick and woolly as a hand. I am tall as these confessions, it is this love that spits through me. Black on teeth. I mouth each word to taste its lead. Father, I saw what you wrote, & I am only angry you havent told me. The clicktickbeat of your leaving is a poem I want to tear from its moleskin belly, a love

poem too sickly sweet & full of me, the me who is half of you, the daughter you speak of to strangers, this me is strong eyed and heavy when you write. All daughters begin here. I wonder i$rou would have showed me had I asked. If this you is a sadness I chose, a poem I wrote. Weeks from now when you come home,I'll guard your journal as if I'm afraid youd take it back. Bleach it clean, shield me from the parts ofyou I am just now learning. Am I foolish to think I could have escaped this kingdom? This throne you built of bones? How could I knowyou would take this peace from me so gently, the not-knowing and all the holes it fills.

Donorruy Moonn

I srw oDYSSEUs

I saw Odysseus on the "I-l'last Saturday making pilgrimage to Penelope. His arrogance disrobed brawn Withered his faithfulness, molded him to man.

Penelope foiled in chicken grease, clothed his absence She keeps pure like his ego Seven years oflipsticked collars

I can only see his ashes, He's a man I saw only once, getting offat the California stop.

$UNHqI t

a

I saw Odysseus on the train last Saturday Rails humming into their patterns His flannel soaked in thick bourbon Moons under the rims of his eyes

Ivms Brutvps

Sopara Bsoottt

BoBnNnn BrRrHoey Besn Barue BscrNs

WASHINGTON-After grid locked debate, the Senate has voted on the restaurant from which to order pizzafor Speaker of the House fohn Boehner's 65th birthday extravaganza, scheduled for November 17th of 2014. This monumental decision has been the source of much controversy over the past two years since the bill first went to committee in 2011. "This bill has been close to all of our hearts here, and we haven't given up on the people of this great nation. It has to be Papa |ohn's, no compromises. I mean, seriously. Have you tried their breadsticks?" Cathy Rodgers (R, WA) stated at a press conference this morning. This statement comes after attacks from Democratic Party leaders on Republicans'supposed overuse of the filibuster whenever Democratic leaders brought the idea of ordering from Dominoes to the floor. "I'm just saylng, I have a $2 offcoupon for breadsticks with any order of $15 or more, and I think we have an obligation to spend our taxpayers' money prudently,' David Loebsack (0, IA) reportedly announced during debates, before being jeered away from the podium with shouts of "Commie" and "Fascistl'At press time, debate on what toppings to order on the pizzas is underway, with voting projected to take place by March of next year.

Wn Drucxpv

IN Hrn MlNo THBnn's A Spannow

In her mind there's a sparrow A soft, brown, and speckled thing, That wakes her in the morning as he sings. His wrinkled feet skip, Slowly, at first, then faster. His feathered wings unfurl, Timid, at first, then braver. Her heart keeps a beat, To his little tiny feet, And her head bobs in time, To his special, simple rhyme, And her hope rests in full On the small yet willing wings Which never cease nor falter, And it changes her mind, As the creature skips inside, So she walks with her head in the clouds.

Ct trtyN DoxNrzr.e y P ow na

CtLaa lonotnt

IN MessecHUSETTS

Everything that was light moved up and down with the wind, everything that wasnt held still, seeming perpetually strong. The wind chime hanging from the roof of the porch never ceased ringing, each blade of grass below the steps swerved back and forth cutting into the chalky air, the stone walkway leading to the steps and the front door to the house were paler than they had seemed two days before. Mark Gertrude stood outside on a concrete sidewalk and watched the trees rustle and listened to the static sound made by the air against the leaves. The clouds in the sky moved fast and a wooden sign on hinges, hanging from a shaft of a light pole swung back and forth. A white rabbit flickered amongst the tall grasses near the edge of the lawn and then disappeared back into the green. A yellow glow hummed from inside the house and his hat blew offand fell to the ground into a pile of brown leaves. He picked up his hat back onto his head and went inside.

The air inside the house was warm and moist and stale and smelled of roasted chestnuts. The starchy brown aroma was thick and he could feel it resting under his nose and on the upper lip.

"Hello, Gertrude, yes, is that it? I'm sorry; I like to know my tenants well enough and dont usually forget names too often. Give me another few days and I'll get your name on a peach! I swear I'm not usually this terrible. You'll excuse me, pl-ease. Supper's in an hour, but if you wont hold'til then I could get something. Would you?"

"No, I'll be fine until then thank youJ' Mark headed to a wooden staircase at the back of the house that leads up to the second floor and then on the third floor, to his room.

"Have you heard about Dunhill? What a shame it is about Dunhill, and an arrful mess. You havent heard? Oh, that's right, you mustnt know the man. Oh, that's for mel' A whistle blew from inside the kitchen in the next room and the landlord left to the noise, waddling away in red socks, collecting dust. Mark stood, leaning on the banister of the staircase and could hear the squeaking of his feet against the insides of his boots and the creaking of the wood beneath them. The smell of dark tea brewing came through the hallway from the kitchen and lifted the drowse from the air.

He began to ascend the stairs slowly, Iooking up the passage to a painting hanging on the wall of the landing of a young boy and a small girl dressed in wool and cotton.

"Would you likesome tea at least?"

He unlocked the hatch of his door, went in, and hung his coat on the side of a radiator

against the wall. He pulled his hair back against his scalp with his fingertips and left his boots tied,looked down to a leather cased box by the foot of his bed, and sat on a chair besidethe wall, pulling the box close to and in between his feet. There was a weathered brass lock onthe front of the box where the two halves met. He opened the box and lifted open the top half,hitting it against the foot of the bed making a hollow noise. The box was filled with old papersand photographs of people and landscapes, which he shuffled up with his hands digging deeper. Grabbing hold he let the pictures fall back into place and pulled out with an old pistol in his right hand. The pistol was silver with black in the crevasses and looked cold to the touch. The handle was worn smooth by what appeared to be the hands of a stronger man. His fingers looked small and frail when his squeezed the handle.

The door to his room was left open and the owner knocked three times on the threshold. Mark quickly put the gun back in the box, resting it on the photographs and letters, and shut the toP.

"I brought you some tea. t hope it's not too hot, or for that matter too cold. There's quite the breeze out there, you could use a bit of warming up, 1 imagine."

The voice was as gay and jolly as the owner's red complexion. "I dont know how you take it. Sugar? Cream? See, 1 still dont know you very well, but with time and few drinks that'll all be fixed up."

"Cream and sugar," "Cream and sugar, yes, I wont forget it! I'll mark it down in my head, you be sure I wont forget!"

The owner handed a cup to Mark and spooned some sugar into his own. Markdrank from the cup and didnt look down at the box. He looked out of the window to his right at the far away trees where the edge of the field turned black against the forest.

"So, Mark, that's it, Mark. I remember that one well enough, how have you been getting along so far. It's only been a week, hasnt it? One can learn much about H- in only a week or so. You know, I know it's none of my business, but I saw you have a photograph on your dresser of a young boy on your stand. A nephew of yours?" said the owner.

"No, he's my son, but he looks a lot different now I'm sure of itl' "Fantastic, Mr. Gertrude. I ve always been envious of fathers. Myself. No. Ite never had a child. And the child's mother?"

"We had a divorce" said Mark.

A moment of silence passed and the window in his room rattled as the wind blew by it. The owner stood up his legs and walked to the threshold of the door. 'Well, I'11leave you as you were. Dinners dont cook themselves!"

When the owner left he shuffled through the box and took out from under the papers a small green box which rattled as he set it down on the table with the lamp and the photograph of his son. Holding it from one end he turned it over and let out a few cartridges. Putting them in the pocket of his right pant leg, Mark stood up and put the revolver into one of the larger pockets of his coat. He took it up from the side of the radiator and slung his arms through the holes, then walked down the stairs to the first floor and went out the front door and out onto a field. The blades of grass were tall and sharp, whirling and clinging to the bottoms of his pants as he walked further away from the house. At the place where the edge of the field turned dark against the trees, where the sun could be seen going down, he stood just inside the tree line, looking up at the grey clouds through the tips of the branches. He removed the gun from his jacket and slid three cartridges in the chamber. He closed the chamber and lifted the cold pistol up with his right hand, held it still in the air, hesitated with one eye closed and then both, and pulled the trigger. Mark stepped close, picked up the quail by the legs, and Ieft deeper into the wood.

laiv Gurrv-Munney

Lrsneny LEevEs Lnrr

Trees shutter as he walks down the crooked path. Gallons of dead leaves pour from the tree tops as he passes them by. The carcasses are crushed by his brutal steps.

He picks one up, one that's screaming red-orange, and just whispering yellow.

There's a few miniscule tears down it, but he picks it up and matches it to his grimace, then cackles and shoves it in his pocket.

He always had leaves in his pockets.

Later he would set up on the firm wood desk at the library and press them, into all his favorite comic books.

Years later he goes back and looks at the skeleton of what life once was. The brittle bones can barely withstand even being looked at. But they hold together, until the toddlers grimy fingers tear them to pieces. Leaving shards of dead tree all over the library floor.

Nar.e.tv Bnvpn

ANxrnry srrs NExr ro ME

Anxiety sits next to me, and peels against the walls of my brain. He slumps over my desk and waits.

His fingertips curl as they draw against the grain, I look at him.

I see his eyes sunken beyond his skull, a vest of broken skin, with pulsing veins throb against his rocky chest.

His throat sings with fire, jostles out charred symphonies ofbroken chords

He says: "Your brain coddles me in its sickly tissue. Claw the skin at your knees you hold close to your chest to stop thinking about me.I want my reJlection imprinted on your eyelid. Make me love you with those quivering legs."

I cradle my body, feel him crawl in my head. The knock of fingertips, stroking and stroking. I cannot stand his breath leeching to my spine. With every test that sits on my desk, or when someone smiles at me from across the lunch table.

I'm afraid to stare and see a flushed skull gazing back, quicken my pace as his tongue lashes at my eardrums.

Every day my skin boils. This man is staring at how fat I look. Arms clenched to my chest, with wrists slit, wrapped as nooses string blood down my palms. I am pennyroyal, and sickening red.

He smiles. Blunt lip and seethes about things that are living.

He speaks: "Come home to me, trust these chains that rust to your neck, and squeeze. Make this cherry-stone torture leap from your veins and come home to me.

I want to make you scream until the walls bleed, leave your burnt skin slouched and your back salt-licked rigid. "

I am stuck with anxiety, as he looms me over every steep railing, lures me to step through his crooked teeth and paint the floors with my skull.

J o sapu /ono,+lr /oarrsoN

Fnaxra Dsr Salrro

SuNsBr

I walk along the strand as dusk arrives. Sweet rays of fleeting sunlight shade the earth. The sky, so vast, fades, and the light derives From yellow-gold to orange-scarlet mirth. Though fast retreating from the fear of night, The sun slows slightly, gazing one last time Upon the world to which it shed its light, Reflecting on its daily playful climb. Exhausted from its transit tross earth's face, But wanting to stay past wise nature's call, Horizon takes the sun in its embrace, And guides it to the celestial hall.

The purple haze, now black with nightlights bright, Awaits the rising of the newborn light. Nrcrroras Tntvruts

VnNus AND MTNERvA

Venus and Minerva rented a skiff And took out over Neptunet western sky. "It'll be a laughl' They said, with winks and nods Their fingers clinked on aluminum seats, "We'll be home before lunch."

At the horizon they met A spanning stab of rock and sand, Land so warped and lumped That silver straw rose from the grasses in hateful choruses, clumping towers And lonely bolts of riveted iron. This was a world scarred into space

With crumbling, wrinkled hands, Set in nails, roads, and sheets of copper. It ached out offissures, in steam And veils of vapor. Stony plates from the soil Lurched into the clouds, Frowning,limping walls with sores on their feet And laws on their shoulders.

Venus and Minerva could not bring themselves To laugh.

They had brought paints, Skins and brushes and brass horns, drums Wrapped up in suede, fiddles and glass jars. These they abandoned, Now in the face of ragged consumption: Engorged and swollen streets. And the jars, the strings and fur, Skins and oil, Sunk from their minds: weighted by goodness, They turned away.

Venus and Minerva untied the knots, Ropes slipping out of coils and over The stained shores Out over breakers, snowy stars That stung, sprays and waves and ripples and tides Until the sky swelled In a hush of breath And bloomed into glass. And they were home before lunch. Rtcrurc Wrupotocx

SuprvEo

Uncle Tom shushes those who cabin his spine. They grease him and quiet him.

Ctttttnt Bnomr

CanrNc Fon GnaNDMA

My grandma's favorite flower was pink tulip. She said they represent caring. Shed pluck them from her garden, glide them into my palms, and say "l will always care about you". My dad brings home a bouquet of pink tulips, thrusts them into a vase and says "Take care of them. "

Their petals are penciled. They wall the insides. Their leaves thorn straight protrude for their thighs,like grandma when she was younger.

The tulips have started breathing, the petals have begun to peel outwards, stealing sunlight they are learning that it is ok to be open.

The wind tumbles offtheir trunks, the petals shiver like grandma's silver curls. The carpel is stretching it's fingers, pushing a smell, cradles my face like grandma use too.

These petals are flexible, their backs are straining, the pink is looking more red. The leaves fight with the wind, trying to hold onto something that's being stripped from their chest.

The petals digress into crimson. The stem is beginning to bow, but the carpel is throbbing like a artery struggling to push.

Dad said "Thry usually only last a week. "

The petals are holding hands only with their yellow leaves, the pink has gone pale. They have tied themselves around each other.

Dad calls the house phone. The tulips have wilted, petals plummeting. I see them reach for me as they cave into the table. The stems snap, collapse in on themselves like a hospital bed. I drop the phone; it craters the ground like metal. The carpel stops beating. Ltrnov Ro.arxsox

Mv GneNDMorHEn's cnoss

My grandmothert cross, sits tight against her clavicle. It is her cross that drips at my grandpa's funeral. I stare, wondering if there is a God whispering through it. It leaks sermons, oozing its gold religious melodies down her chest. Each saying that God wanted it this way.

I kneel giving prayers, each word a question.

As I leave the service I count the number of times

I have been in a church on one hand. I wonder if there is a God to hate me for this.

falls ample at my feet. I watch as my friend leans at her grandmother's bedside, a bible spoiling into the nightstand. Her cross is nursing nothing, the bibles nursing nothing, is there a God nursing anlthing?

As we leave the home I count the number of times i have prayed for someone on one hand. I wonder if there is a God, to hate me for this.

I wear a silver necklace, around my neck. It is hammered with the word love I am certain there is no God who whispers through it.

My best friend wears a cross around her neck. It dangles against her sternum. It is her cross that nicks into my eyes as we visit her sick grandmother. I stare, and I wonder if there is a God whispering through it. The stale smell of the nursing home,

It is this necklace that hardens as I discuss the meaning of life, with my ex-boyfriend. I tell him that there is no point in anything we do.

I watch as his feet clasp my dashboard. His thoughts silenced like every sermon Ite tried to hear.

I speak again hoping my atheism will baptize the unspoken, "People are religious for answers, they need someone to blamel' His head lapses into agreement as he says, "Delaney, life is like a scrapbooki'

As I drive away I analyze this, wondering if this was the last time I would ever speak to him

The street lights drip with the touch of calamity. I picture my grandmothert cross oozlng, the bibles spoiling.

Daue,trny Mrutnn

EtuttLy Cte,nx

Puu

Pull (-, verb(used with object) 1. To draw or haul toward oneself or itself, in a particular direction, or into a particular position: As in, your smile is what pulled me toward you,little did I know you would pull me inside, grinding my faith in love between your teeth, spitting it out on to your bedroom floor for me to pull out of carpet fibers 2. To draw or tug at with force (see callused: exposed to friction for long periods of time): eager tips offingers meet skin as they work their way to bra straps, you pull on my sides like Play Dough, as we unravel each other, pulling off endless strands of medical tape from our callused loins 3. To rend or tear (see rend: to cause great emotional pain to a person or their heart): You crawled inside of me and pulled my heart out from in between my legs, a small eightJegged vermin chewing through valves until it frees its desire, you pulled all of my tears out from underneath my eyelids, because of you I pull hearts out of the boys I pull Dnlt Mecxnr

Fnarra D.E'r SaNro

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Naonv.o P.errnsoN

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Soprira BnootLe

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Sanarr Bnewnn

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M,q.runt Sror,sRsrr

Krrryary Br.lrsaop

Orlvrt McLptN

Gnaysolv Grtzen

i

Soparr Leppe

Tnnnonrsr CoNunvrs Ir Wes Oun Fnnpoolvr Tnsy Hanpo

CAIRO, EGYPT-AI-Qaeda spokesman Muhammed AI-Islam Husseini released a statement yesterday detailing the reasons behind recent terrorist attacks against civilian targets in the United States. Said Husseini, "No, no, no, guys. Seriously. We hate you because you have that much more freedom. It's definitely not because of your government's unreserved support of Israel despite human rights abuses and aggression against Palestinians, or your quasi-imperialist interactions with developing Middle-Eastern states. We dont care about American atrocities at Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay. |ust the whole freedom thing. Let me ask Omar. Hey Omar! What's freedom? [unintelligible] He doesnt know, but he hates it. Moronsl'

Rep. Michele Bachmann (R, MN) reacted to the statement this morning, saying, "This AI-Qaeda statement confirms our suspicions that these terrorists are nothing more than freedom hating fascists who will stop at nothing to destroy our very way of life." Additionally, President Obama is expected to request a surge of NATO troops in Afghanistan to combat these godless Nazi anarchist devil worshippers.

WLt Dntcxpv

Aonrarua Mm^nNo.e,

Tun SuarEs

earthquake headache. like a backrub, it digs deeper into the tissue. a restless ocean of ebb and flow, it takes her down in strides, clawing at her frontal lobe. the pain is audible, stirring itself. a hot cauldron of discomfort that goes well with the rest of the symptoms. but the earthquake isnt all too devastating. the faults in the ground are comforting, mimicking the worry lines on a foreheadthe deeper the crack the sweeter the relief. the hellacious afternoon sun through plastic shades abuses sensitive eyes.

soon, that same sun will lick the beaten flesh of her face like a whip. it will smell like rug burn and taste like whiskey. the ice in the glass will collide like planets. alcohol breath and gaseous vapors. but Mr. Migraine is a Sober Man. heard he goes to AA because his dad drank and hit him once. ele bebe? he wont touch the stuff. Mr. Migraine like a vulture clawing at her frontal lobe. Ennox Panzz

SnB canED rr REALTTY

She called it reality breaking skin, it was how she coped with daily sentience. She would divide the jagged waves of her skin like Moses parting the Red Sea. The standard self- abusiveness she reflected upon was religion. The blade was holy, the symbol of her faith. She hemmed scriptures into her arm, that eventually settled to intimate crosses. She gave into the animosity of others like raindrops surrendering to gravity. She called it reality breaking skin.

Merrunw H,qp.rovtc

Lurc Gnntca

TrrB BrnssrNc

Her father said he thought she was dead. That he lifted her by the crown of the neck and her eyes were river-dark, he lifted her just long enough to name her sin. He said she slept heavy, a pile of stomach on the bed, sticky as fly tongues against the sheets. She didnt know he was there. Buried her face in his chest as he carried her, her broken shape, all seventeen years ofdaughter against his skin. He said when she was finally quiet as ground, he took a brush to her hair and pulled, hands wide & ridged as leaves, he said he combed until the knots rained to the floor. He cleansed her of the night Tried to brush himself free Donorruy Moonr

Sanaa Bnnwrn

WenonoBE REVoLUTToN

We, the citizens of this crime-plagued country, have grievances we must air such as our escalating crime rates. This country helplessly watches as burglaries, assaults, batteries, robberies, murders, and stabbings happen daily to their family members. We, as citizens, have a duty to minimize them. Therefore, I must unsurprisingly demand that the men of this nation act and thereby decrease the alarming crime rates of our cities. The solution is simple: men, all you have to do is transform your wardrobe.

Given that you have been raised in a backwards society, I know that what I am asking for may seem odd. You silly men must wonder who I am to be calling to the world, encouraging you to change attire. Who I am is an enraged, determined citizen. I am a future mother, who one day may be unfortunate enough to have a son of her own. I do not want him to grow up in a deranged society where he is taught that he cannot defend himself from crime- because he, and every man, most certainly can.

You must know, specifically, that your gender causes crime. How can you be unaware? Crimes are committed against men, and men engage in crime. Men are paraded on the news for mugging men. Men are imprisoned for murdering men in robberies gone wrong. Our history books recall the same patterns since Plato's society. Certainly asking the committers to change who they are as people is too ludicrous, too impossible to propose. In fact, it is clear that it is impossible for men to stop themselves from committing crime. Instead, I am arguing with the scum of our society, the true perpetuators of crime: the recipients. You are at fault for these crimes, but changes in your pretentious wardrobe will prevent billions more. If every man in this nation heeded my advice our crime rate would swiftly decrease.

I must address the successful, wealthy, white-collared man: you are the cause of strife. Our nation is proud of the job you possibly earned fairly, and blue-collar workers envF you. You are at fault. As a result of your selfish choices, you cause more crimes than any other gender or class in history. Not even the tyrants of Europe's history hold a candle to the chaos and damage you potentially cause everyday on your commute to work, or even walking down the street. Every time you wear your black or navy Prada suits that have been coated in the luxurious scent of wealthy cologne, or show offyour thousand dollar ties, you boast to the less fortunate. You force them to assault you. It is a strange idea to accept at first, that despite the fact that you are merely walking, existing, you are asking to be assaulted. But you are. As soon as you accept this, you can begin to fix the problem: you. I should not have to explain this simple concept, but since I must, I will. Bring an extra set of clothes when you are traveling in a slightly poorer area or one that has a high crime rate. If you fail to do this, do not pity yourself when you are robbed. In fact, never pity yourself; your actions are always the reason you are assaulted. Avoid wearing obnoxiously flashy objects such as solid gold wedding rings, gold-plated wedding rings, jewels, jewelry, expensive suits, wrist watches, Italian shoes, bow

ties, fancy canes, briefcases, lovely silk scarves, monocles, top hats, pocket watches, or keys to a sports car whenever possible. These vital accessories to your ostentatious appearance in your over-paid work place are sirens for the poor, and they will be compelled to rob you. Furthermore, hide all Apple products. Those who can afford Apple products can clearly afford to be robbed by the unfortunate.

Charitable donations, also, must end. I cannot fathom why you wealthy men believe it is sensible to donate to charities. You cannot simply give your money away for free and then hope you will not be robbed! Your money is precious, and the only thing that makes you useful. Do not give it away willy-nilly. This tlpe of reckless action enables your attacks, forcing other men to assault you. When you advertise that you are fine with giving your goods away for free, committers of crime have every right to believe that you will be fine with giving them money as well. Therefore, it is up to you to stop wasting your money and life on charities and continue to keep your money for a wife, or future wife, if you are so inept at finding the proper partner. In addition, you men must avoid taking the attacker to court. Instead, become at least acquaintances, preferably lifelong friends with each other. Men frequently whine about the effect these robberies and assaults have on their psyche, regardless that what happened to them is truly insignificant and completely their fault. By understanding the unstoppable drive to take what is being shown off, those who experienced a crime can understand empathy and we can prevent the tragedy of ruining a distressed man's life. The accusations brought to court can devastate the committers'lives. It is a heartbreaking idea. One man, dressed grossly inappropriately, caused a crime that the perpetrator must experience negative consequences for. The accused, or the true victim, would be sentenced to years of jail time, denied jobs, and judged by their peers for the rest of their lives. This is horrific. It is not the poor man's fault that he has fallen on hard times, nor is it his fault that the wealthy rub their success in his face, forcing him to rob them. The poor criminals are not the ones who need to be reformed. It is the privileged, flashy, gloating, and wealthy.

For years our country and law enforcement has targeted the committers of crimes. But they have not addressed the true cause, which is why crime rates have never lessened. Now, we must rise together and tell those who are truly responsible for crimes to stop. We must tell men that it is their dress that is destroying lives and filling up jails. They rob women of their husbands and fathers. These selfish, ignorant "victims" must be put in their place. This country cannot and will not stand idly by as the real wreckers of society are pampered and assured they are not to blame. They must own up to their actions, apologize to their country, and rectify their despicable choices in dress It is time that we recognize the innocence of the convicted and the guilt of the prosecutors' Kp,rsp,v sruerrucx

Ftzzrno Pop Rocxs Coarro Brrrsn

Fizzled pop rocks coated bitter. My body is a bottle of acid rain. My speech is 90 proof So all my friends believe what I say. "lt gonna be a good night."

Grape roaches tell us smoke stories Of how We can become white owls in the moonlight, migrate to open cribs kickbacked in basements. "Hell yeah tell Rockell to slide, but only if she bout it bout it." Last time she blacked out ever clear I slept under red cups. "[f I was pregnant now I'd keep it" girl you know that Jack don't keep no secrets. We're going to ruin ourselves tonight. That's the young cuffs of peer pressure but if the cops ask I did it on my own. Dave always kept it under the arch of his foot Inside the sock |ust in case.

Dumbly prepared Our ignorance bred clarity. Me and my boys grind like pepper shakers we know all the saltines. But I see sweet and talk sugar. All you hear are my daps palms collapse as I walk down the hall. That's how I got invited.

Black boys get drawn and erased here. The suburbs.

Where the trees fear no one Not even the darker shades. We'll all strive to push curfews Constantly pouring carpe diems in plastic water bottles

Trying to cover up the underage addictions Sleeping in the same clothes Smelling like 90 proof Hanging over the words Damn, what a good night. Dwto HousroN

YncHY \AIEHET DYTE

TEans

They tell me to come

To that large chapel Filled with darkness, Somber colors and moods All staring at the lonely box Resting on the altar. Flowers hang On the windows, Across the pulpit, Over the mourners, Roses, his favorite Mixed with the sweet scent Of cherry blossoms. Soulful jazzplays From a tiny radio Older than everyone in the room, Crackling and distorted Like the cold pew Underneath my restless fingers. Enough water flows From the eyes of families

To flood a thousand anthills Within its briny bath. But I dont cry. Not at the decay in the crate, Not at the holy man Lamenting over the shortness of life, Not even along with my mother In harmony with the Duke. She told me I should, Screaming about heartless demons Infesting my brain, Her puffy eyes matching The red carpet so well. Time rewinds itself, But instead of Ellington and a minister, Beethoven and a rabbi Accompany dual deaths. There are more black suits, More tears to drown the insects, But still I add nothing To the chaos in that room. whv?

Ro.a.pnr VrsaNrsrr

Furunn rN Now

A metal blue glow Draws its way across

The perimeter of my body Pixel wings burst from my back And billions of memory shards Span upwards in slow motion I am electricity in the darkness Pulses of cerulean light Course through my veins As I am programmed into the night

Mex Goncot

Mcorr Suaar

His arms rest against the frosted, Abandoned acrylic, Left still; freezing. A bathtub. The smell of bleach rolls of the water's surface, Creeping like fog across his skin, Up towards his nose. It resonates. Smell clashes to memories and, The last attempt is all that he can see. Hands shake and water rolls, But this time determination is thicker than blood. The radio, Tuning in and out of its in between static, Vibrates against his naked skin, And sets alive the staccato hymn of his heart.

He reaches his leg out, Chilled by the air, Goosebumps prickle like awareness against his skin. Water slides down the length of his calf, Yearning to rejoin the other molecules, He is only half of a bond. His ankle nudges the radio, Furthering its advance on the edge, His own eyes are falling, Down, towards the water. So close, his fingers grip for purchase of the slick perimeter, He urges the radio again, Ignoring whatever podcast is playing, Not wanting to hear the word 'know'.

There is no knock this time, Or laughter from downstairs either. This time, His mind plays tricks backwards, Like his thoughts are a run-on speech impediment, And his legs kick before his brain gave the command. Adrenaline pushes, And looking at the broken player on the floor, He knows.

Attempts aren t failed success, They are never not trying hard enough the first time.

ALp,xn Lrsnz,q.

Soprrla Bp,oott,c

Art Gallery

6:48 PM

TUB uenr

Twisting moustaches. Wine glass. Y4 full. A pound of clay looks like something "Oblivion?"

"Indeed, sir, indeedl' "Genius." Walk. Look at him.

Dirt under his fingernails. But no steam in his glasses. His mind? Who knows? Galaxy on canvas.

God could have painted it.

My God, it is endless.

it is endless. is endless is I. I? I.I.I.IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

" I... " says moustache.

" ...I have ... " says red dress.

" .I have made... " says black lungs. "I have made my mark' says dirty nails. sip of wine grin but somewhere a small voice Krnar/oNrs

"is that so?"

Hrcn PLACES

In the center of Vasquez Rocks State Park in Santa Clarita, California, there stands a towering rock formation shaped like a gigantic sinking ship. At one specific point on the outermost edge of this formation, an eighteen-inch-wide stone ledge wraps around a rock shelf and skirts a steep hundred-foot drop. And at one specific moment in time, on a hot December day about eight years ago, I was the sole occupant of this eighteen-foot ledge. My two cousins were on solid ground, impatiently urging me to advance around the bend. I was holding back andgazingdown the side of the knife-sharp cliffbelow me, not as much out of fear as out of fascination. In about five seconds, I hesitantly reassured myself, I could be on sturdy footing; all it would take was a few casual steps. But a little voice within me was asking a strange question: What if I jump, right now? I heard the question, tasted it, visualized it, drew a breath, and then ignored it. I inched around the tight curve, eyes fixed magnetically on my feet and nerves as strained as a tightrope - and I made it. My cousins and I left the spot as if nothing had happened, continuing along the course of our yearly Christmas-vacation-concluding transit of the state park. The huge red-rock sinking ship disappeared in the dusty haze behind us. But the question in my head did not.

Up on that cliff, I had come face to face with my own looming, unavoidable mortality. However, although it was unsettling to think that the half-century's worth of life I still had to live could have been erased by nothing more than an unfortunate lapse of balance, that concept was one with which my ten-year-old self was perfectly familiar. I had read enough books and seen enough movies to know that unfortunate coincidences are always possible out in the thick of human existence, and that death is an unavoidable risk of living. What I had not encountered before my visit to Vasquez that year, though, was the idea that I had control over my own mortality. If I had wanted to, I could have jumped. And it was an idea that began to haunt me with increasing frequency on my extended family's nature trips, during which unassuming wooden fences and flimsy guide-rails were often the only divider between me and rushing waterfalls, steep canyons, fierce riverbanks. The French call it rappel du vide, "the call of the void" - the sensation of steering a car around a steep turn and considering letting go of the wheel, or the feeling of standing in a high place and thinking to oneself, "What if I jump?" In the high places of Santa Clarita and Yellowstone and Glacier Bay, my reflection that I, a boy not even five feet tall, possessed immense influence over my own existence was dizzying and frightening to me.

As I grew older and progressed into high school, I slowly became a\Mare that I did not

just have power over my life and death; I had power over everything else as well. Friendships, romantic relationships, material possessions, artistic aspirations - all of these vital components of my life inevitably converged at singular moments (the beginning of a violin audition, for example, or the appearance of drugs at a party) where with a flick of my wrist I could either maintain or destroy them. And the strange thoughts continued. I vividly remember sitting first chair in a concert at Orchestra Hall and imagining what would happen if I stood up, smashed my violin on the conductor's podium, and screamed "Fuck this!" to the audience. I also remember sitting at home late one night, speculating - not out of fear, but out of fascination - about what would happen if I downed every pill in the bathroom medicine cabinet. What if I jump? And yet I never did. The prospects of substance use, rebellious violence, suicide, flight from home, and similar extremes of action were always available to me, yet I consciously chose - and still choose - not to follow them. I think this choice has stemmed from my gradual acceptance of the fact that everything in my life is inevitably fragile. I have put years of work into my friendships, my grades, my success as a violinist, and now I see these achievements grow more precarious every day, like towering houses of cards. So why not just save myself the effort and destroy them, right now? I believe the answer is simply that I still love everything I've worked for. Even after years of staying home from hangouts with friends to practice for auditions, years of being the kid who doesn't drink, the kid who doesn't smoke, years of being pigeonholed more often than not as the stereotypical "overachiever," I love everything that I've built - and I am certain that resisting the "call of the void" is worth all the trouble.

During my most recent trip to California, throughout the first week of my senior-year winter break, my family decided on a change of scenery from Vasquez Rocks to a smaller wooded hiking area directly offan unnamed two-lane highway. Once our family group had journeyed along a creek up to a small waterfall among the trees, the parents gave my two cousins and I permission to climb further up the creek alone. After clambering over a few ridges and into a steep valley, the three of us looked upwards to see a huge fallen tree, running from bank to bank about twenty feet above our heads. As if by a silent signal, we climbed the valley wall and crawled out to the middle of the tree trunk, eager for the view and for the exhilaration of semi-suspension in midair. As I reached the tree's midpoint, I hesitated for a moment, giddy with the height, and then looked down. A sea of foliage unfolded in all directions below me, and for a moment I reflected that I had changed since my experience at Vasquez. Today, I had self-confidence enough to ascend into high places, and self-trust enough to know that I would not let myself fall.

Scorr DeNrct

I eu A sLUT

Why must I not forget to use the present tense?

Every dirty deed I did is buried in my past, and none of them had anything to do with you, Still, you say I must admit

I am a slut. I messed up; It is my fault.

Your unhappiness and our flghts are on my shoulders. Because I was too rash and I Didn't see you coming in a little crystalball. Because I wanted to explore these newfound yearnings

That every institution choking me with cries of abstinence forgot to warn me about And caught me off guard, leaving me on my ass

That everyone wanted to see.

Then, finding no reason to say no and being propelled by curiosity I said 'yes'to sexual promiscuityAndlwasaslut.

When I admit this to you, chagrined eyes already downcast, You correct me and inform me that what I need to say is:

I am a slut.

Even though I gave you my virginity, And you touch me now

Regardless of whether I want you to or not.

During another session of violation

No's became clogged in my throat, And commandeered my tear ducts

Spouting salty geysers that would have drowned you had you not mopped them offmy face. Later, as this rape seizes my body, Convulsing it in reaction to the taste you have left in my mouth

You tell me I deserve what I got; That it wouldnt have happened If it werent for the fact that

I am a slut.

As weeks roll into months of unforgiving abuse

Your accusation infects my mind, claiming my identity. So when I look in the mirror I cannot believe

That smiles are not plastered on to prevent verbal beatings. Instead, disgusted, I believe

I am an idiot, I am worthless!

I am a slut!

One part of my past has transformed into my entire being So I have come to recognize from your affirmations that

No matter what I do or what I aspire toIt wont be significant or noticed.

I ve become a history book that is defined by page 261; And even though there's infinitely more to any book

The rest has been deemed irrelevant, and now This page is my cover, My summary, The only thing coming up in my index, Its glossary is one word under a single letter referring to only one piece: Slut!

At night, as I lie in bed, Self-abhorrence you so diligently taught me Chains me and curls my body so that knees touch chest in a cocoon of fear and loathing, While hoping that I will emerge strong enough to stand up to you, A single, enraged thought shoots through my head; A briefresistance before I falI asleep that By morning is smothered into the abyss of denial of what youve done:

You cannot encompass my entire self in one word! And you will not force me to live as a past mistake Because no human can ever be defined by a single syllable! So when you open your mouth to decree who I am or am not I will shut it for you and say that I am an astounding individual And I am not A slut.

Kntsny Saarrucr

DrcHorouv (cennus reo)

She'll sink her claws across the plain And sway her tail through tawny grain.

The slow will grow

To speed in teeth Till dinner'r lyrrg at her feet. We tore the earth, her ribs and spine And hammered a painted skin defined

By gaseous breath

And gears and wheels, A corrugated beast of steel. Her heart is in the step and soft, The snarl, purr, and slinking pause. Her heart becomes

Her will, a still, A song before her lunge, and kill. In plumes of smoke we climb the stair, To rise above the raw and bare.

Weve left the dirt, The sand and wheat, Our hunting hearts crave more than meat. She feeds her pride with froth and bones, A ripping, snapping on the stones, In love and flesh

She's sound and bound, For hungry cubs she won her crown. We built our throne and forged our claws Weve tried to rise, but fall because Our skins of tin Are feral masks, A primal crown that's built to last.

:RM

Aonrarva Mta.a,Noe

Penrs

Within that quivering moment, as the flames of twenty fireworks lanced across the sky, a counterpoint of memories, faces, names, and landscapes coalesced before his eye. A brush of hands, a joyous swaying mass of ostinato voices, and two minds in fiery concert over crackling grass these currents rushed together as his lines of thought clicked into place. The heavens whirred, celestial gears commenced a graceful spin, and as he passed the golden band to her, a golden light diffused from her to him whose pure effulgence proved our greatest power beneath the blinking of the Eiffel Tower.

Scorr DtNm

Zop Aotutuvsot't

Narr

You had the crown from the start

If Picasso were to put your eyes where your mouth is He could not hide you

Nor the years of calculated visage Made from the type of things people write songs about Paint pictures of Lose words to describe

A mutation in our genetics Crafted you with Scandinavian fragility

A bloodline away, I wallow in inadequacy Spin threads of inferiority

When we splashed in kiddy pools

You, of pale skin and blue eyes, shimmered, Commanded Earth with a single gaze, Stole the diamonds in the water as your own

Our family clung to you like a virus Grooming your waved hair Flitting over your pearly skin Melting at your fierce-tongued laugh

I followed you Hoping your beauty would caramelize my veins Send shockwaves through my cells Set me free of my biology

I liquefied my envy into poison And slipped it into your drink

As my fingers trembled, patience

But my efforts have suffocated me Swallowed me in a mournful pit of surrender I bow And grant you sovereignty again. Zor, Kovu-rcruts

Frnsr Wonos

Barely, I balance on the soles of my feet

Before I could rumble the chords of my breath. Stale thoughts boil brightly behind anxious kissers. I cry out dribble, pacified by mothers nipple. The tongue,like a twitching carcass decays the language in my head.

My sphere, filled with oracles of oration, Yet I preach moans to ears who cant translate. My hair gets longer, my bones get longer.

Cloud bleached pebbles line my gums. My spit factory is overcrowded with fangs

Fangs,like thumbs, evolve us from howling animals.

Conjectures released from a whining pillory given clear passage to join the waves of the world. Glowing dark red, my organ of taste revived I symphonize an alphabet. The voice in my skull runs counterpoint with terms that tickle my uvula.

A ghostly transparency between meaning and sound Unveils my internal lexicon always to be heard.

Enrc Hrxnv

Youn STBNoER Nncx

Your slender neck, your curved body, and the smoothness of what would be skin. The tinge of metalI can taste it through my fingers. It reminds me why I love you. Low, mellifluent humming- sweet and only to me. I'd bend my back in So many ways if it would make me as desirable to you, as you are to me. If only I could open my mouth and make the sounds that come out as natural as rain. Maybe if I faintly reeked of rosewood, or something earthy, you would want me as close to you as the dirt to the ground.

Ennoru Pnnnz Menvp, RroRoaN

Op-Eo: DEPoRT THE CaNeorANS

Recent debate over immigration reform has angered me, because we, as a nation, are missing the truly significant threat to this nation's culture, ideals, and even foundation. I am referring to, ofcourse, the Canadians who sneak across our border by the dozens everyyear. The fact that this sort of travesty can go unnoticed while insignificant topics such as health care and defense spending receive the bulk of public attention reveals much about the state of the "Iamestream" media today. Canadians entering the country both legally and illegally are threatening this great nation's central values. Americans in populous states such as North Dakota and Montana are quickly discovering that their once-thought safe occupations are now being held by the congenial, socialist Northern invaders. Now that you can see the problems that arise from this unchecked immigration, I propose a simple solution.

We must put more power for checking of legal citizenship into the hands of our police officers. In normal traffic stops, they must be permitted to check immigration papers of any individual displaying suspicious behavior reflecting illegal Canadian immigration. Such signs include lack of aggression, excessive politeness and apologies, possession of maple syrup (illegal Canadian aliens have been tied to maple syrup mule operations), and pronouncing about as "a-boot." We need to create an environment hostile enough to illegal Canadians that they move back to their Socialist hellhole of their own accord, or "self-deporti'

It is not too late to save our country from foreign invaders, my friends, if only we take action now.

WrL Drucxpy

Rrcurc WanpLocx

Luxn Ganecp,

KEENAN BENSHOP

MtcruerL Gancru

LUKE GERACE

REBEKAH DEMPSEY

SEAN HICKEY

E*rruy Vnnrtccuto

Srrrua Fannan

FRaryra Drr Saruro Sopara Bnoott,q

KINc JAMES oNCE LIVED HERE

King )ames once lived here, But he went the opposite way.

I ve come to this city for 17 years; And it's like a modern day ghost town But itt like my second home. The streets are quiet, No matter the day.

We drive past

These bordered up homes and apartments. We've ventured into poverty. A city on this belt has fallen off, Like the studs had worn through. Granny, why dont you love your own teams?

She tells me they've switched the players so much She cant remember their names anymore.

The paper's going out of business, Trees will no longer die for this city. The lot on the way to her house has rubble from A factory on it and another one stands nearby, The sign overhead is partially gone, And the windows are broken. Nature has been playing bloody knuckles With this city, and it keeps losing. I asked my grandmother About Cleveland. I asked why she chose it Over Chattanooga, Tennessee. She told me Nobody with a white face would touch her, And those that did, held men against their will, Hanging them from brown string looked like Negro Hide.

The cotton fields gone, jobs gone, 3/5 of her past were gone, And like the fraction, our people are not whole.

In Cleveland, nobody would ask about grandfather clauses Or voting papers. Nobody would hound her children for sitting with Those whit faces from down the block. fobs wouldnt turn black heads and send them running, Frightened mules galloping towards uncertainty.

Her children's education would be no Little Rock, Even though she had nine, And that small Chattanooga charm she took with her, She molded into balls of brightness, and forged with her husband's Sense of work. No longer would those bleached men With fire burning brighter than Booker T. Washington's Sense of reason and intelligence cause a nervous system shutdown, This fight or flight method that Black minds aren't accustomed to.

The jobs here were plentiful. The house here was small, But a house was better than the thick hawsers of racism, Of lynching and "look what theyve done to my boy." My Negro family was guilty of fleeing joblessness. Her children were now in college. It was 1984, and her hive had been plucked clean.

That hive led my father to Amherst, My uncle to Sandusky, My aunt to Cleveland Heights, my Grandfather to take night shifts

At factories and the CTS, Cleveland made my family. I finally realized why Cleveland. Nobody knows where that drinking gourd Takes people. Polaris guided my grandmother

To the Sixth city, The North Coast, She chose being a Clevelander

Over those white faces, Looking for more hide for their ropes.

Htvwooo McDupprc

CencrNonae

The burning death's been calling Through his window slowly slithering Letting no one hear claws brushing On the floor where it steps

It tells him that hes falling In a gentle voice, convincing Sliding thoughts like water trickling Into his ears to make him stir

It wants to hear him breathing Feel his lungs as they are filling And slam down on them while crushing The fragile bones that keep it out

It smiles to see him writhing Finds joy in troubled mumbling Its soundless laugh's prickly howling Is what makes him hit the ground

It claims he's merely dreaming That there's no use in shouting His eyes, their careful prying Look upon death itself

Zon Kovtrcruts

Iecx Btocnn

TrenonoPs oN MY cAVE FLooR

:33 < he chats with me, i type a meow so he won't s33

:33 < that i want and i'm n33ding efurrything that we should be

:33 < might be aradia, or paws'bly terezi

:33 < it could be feferi but i'm the one he cannot s33

33 < he's flushed fur her, i cry and hide in catmom's fur

33 < won't say who she is, all i know is that i'm not her

33 < it could be vriska, or maybe kanaya

33 < all i can tell is that i'm not the one he really wants

:33 ( he's the reason fur the teardrops on my cave floor

:33 < the otp that nobody but me is hoping fur

:33 < he's the one that i want, i k33p flushing don't know why i do

:33 < writes memos without me, i want to look can't bear to s33

:33 < and there they go, matespurrits-to-be

:33 < the purrfect fantasy we'll never be

:33 < she better love him right, maybe help fill a pail

:33 < look in those bright red eyes while I just sob with my meowrail

:33 < he's the reason fur the teardrops on my cave floor

:33 < the otp that nobody but me is hoping fur

:33 < he's the one that i want, i k33p flushing don't know why i do

:33 < so i leave him behind, scratch our shipping box out

:33 < he will never be mine, but baby

:33 < i'll miss him beclaws

:33 < he's the reason fur the teardrops on my cave floor

:33 < the only one who's got a hold upawn this cat rogue's heart

:33 < he's the one that i want, i k33p flushing don't know why i do

:33 < he's my knight, knight of blood, but it won't be enough

:33 < to save all of us from this mess we're into

:33 < he chats with me, i type a meow so he won't s33

Enrv Saarrucr

My rernpR

My father gave his day to Newport, and night to Budweiser. Observing him Ieft me spin-topped. A violent drunk I memorize him. I hear his suck-dried lips quiver, smash and split. His voice congeals his slurs swamp me with sound. Suddenly an unexpected stench slithers up my nose -- everything goes black. Waking up shut in by bottles, he enjoys his bones boiling into dense lead. My father drags himself down the hall, embraces the bathroom floor.

The toilet was my favorite enemy -- he hugged it, more than me.

Cnatsnt Drxorv

SrNsws Fr,oss MY TEETH

Sinews floss my teeth

Like the fibers of mangos used to.

I gnaw on bones until they burst, stabbing my lips While marrow bleeds onto my tongue.

Itis2052, And nuclear holocaust has left only a plateful of survivors, Fields desecrated worse than when God Sent locus to punish Pharaoh.

We were so close!

Congress promised to ratify Declarations that all restaurants must ban meatBacon was viewed as repulsive as liver.

87o/o of the population vomited at the idea of cooked muscle.

But now 99o/o of the population is gone, God has said that we're a free-for-all, And those who led the fight against Blood-soaked creatures fried on buns Realized ethics and morals are only as strong as the stomach.

We ran out of animals.

M.yb. this is punishment

For not having eaten real food my entire life.

If I could do it over again, Id dine with the outcasts, Laughing as gristle's stench massaged my cheeks Instead of now, so famished for survival

I have ravished my intestines with human blood, and now I feel hairs and fingernails caught in my throat As if choking me for another chance to live. If beefs fat had decorated my nose in gluttony, Muyb" God's curse to me would have been To be eaten instead ofto eat.

I think of my friend, The poster-child vegetarian fighting Bouillon cubes and sushi. I wonder if she was pious enough to wait, Searching for other sources of nonexistent food, Refusing to bend to the destruction of life

Even though her stomach turned on her out of spite. I wonder if she sat,legs crossed like broken bones, Waiting for the wind to sneeze and snap her emaciated body.

What if she saw others and her faith in humanity Proved as fruitless as the scorched orchards she searched? I wonder, If in her cries of death they sensed her throat was a virgin to goreI wonder if they hesitated. But worse, I wonder if I found her, If she recognized my blood-crusted eyelashes -The mascara of the apocalypseIf she realized my hair was a showcase coffin of previous meals. Did I hesitate, Or did my eyes glaze over, Opaque as the skin on a suckled pig,

Blinding me to recognition so that she was only

Masses of blonde twine and quickly corpse's company?

But I will not fall.

Hlpothetical compunction will never Be the slowing gravy to my feet; My legs will never become drumsticks. They will carry me throughout the continent, Allowing me to taste how ethnicity tints the flavor Of the shame and fear that is my saliva.

We have become wingless vulturesWe will not yearn for hands in ours unless they're toothpicks Mankind was not meant to be united but

To ravage each other in understanding That nothing is more important than conquest. Only one of us can stand on a pile of skeletons clean As dinner plates of civilization.

Kntsav Snnrrucrc

Manvn Rroaoaiv

I'na Fnou rHE CoLoRED Lrcnr

I'm from the colored light, that shines through our stain glass windows. And the exaggeration that filters through my family.

I'm from the crusted salt, that thrives under our fish tank. And the fresh baked snicker doodles on the counter.

I'm from the tin pickle hung on the tree, hidden from sleepy eyed children, waiting to be found Christmas morning. I'm from the dog fur, littered over everything. And the reminisce of Fall scattered throughout my house. I'm from the loose hexagon tile in the bathroom, And the squeaky floor boards of the stairs.

I'm from the lace of my skate, that holds my life together.

M-sunEnr,r Hatpuy

AorutNt MrutNoe

Frnsr BREATH

Inhale sharp once before I go under. Daylight is broken, jagged bits across my vision: they sand themselves smooth the further I go. Look up to see the sun's shadow floating overhead. If you were with me in this stasis, youd feel the darkening blue of the water curling you like a fist in sleep, untethered fetus in the deep yawning sea. This is the pressure of loss, fingertips pushing patterns into the wet shore, washed away before the sun can see them. I want to pull away, rip the hem of the water and let rushing air write braille on my skin. But unless I sink again, I am a veteran whose trembling hands can't piece together her promised land.

Rucut MannxotLn

Uxonn oLD Locs

Desquiggle looked around at the trees that made up this forest. They resembled gnarled, gray men who had seen many miracles and were now settled into their beds, ready to dream about shadows and where the stars go during the daytime. The wisps of crinkled hair on their heads made a thatched roof of thin branches above, speckled with spring-time buds. Desquiggle noticed the way the sun dripped invitingly through the canopy in warm pools. Shining dust motes drifted lazily through those beams in an eerie dance.

He watched his two crewmates explore the forest while he dithered near a large willow tree. Pig-Kite, his first mate, was intent on lifting up logs and seeing what was beneath. Awake, his second mate, was more interested in the sky. She climbed up to the highest branches she could find, no matter how thin, and peered hopefully through the great clouds of leaves surrounding her.

Desquiggle wasnt nearly so bold in his searching. After all, forests can be fraught with ever sort of Danger imaginable. One might walk around a knoll and find oneself face to snout with a Lumbering Ungulor, with slobbering jaws and breath like a bog. And one never knew if one were about to fall into the nest of a Burrowing Squerritar, who had three heads and a tail made of spines. One must be constantly on one's guard.

"Have you seen anything yet?" a Small Voice asked. "Because I haventl' Desquiggle jumped in a flurry of arms and legs and a sword, and faced the Voice, chest heaving and eyes wide. But it was only Awake with Pig-Kite by her side.

"You scared mel'he sighed.

Awake gathered up the hem of her blue dress as she leapt nimbly over a curled root. "You told us there were Incredible Animals herei'she continued. "You promised me silvery Stags! Frogs that sing arias and Birds with wings like spider-webs!"

"But I also told you about the Harmful Beasts: the Eagles with three legs and one red eye, and the Lizards who jump across branches and pick travelers offthe ground with their tonguesi'Desquiggle pointed out. "Danger abounds."

"I wouldnt mind that!" Awake insisted. "I just want to see some Animals, instead of these wretched trees!"

"You're looking in all the Wrong Placesi' Pig-Kite told her.

Awake groaned. "There are not Animals under logs!" she said.

"Tell her I'm rightl' he said to his captain.

Awake laughed. "He's been going on about how we have to lift up logs to find the Interesting

Animals. I refuse to help him."

"But I'm righti'Pig-Kite announced expertly. Desquiggle nodded. Logs sounded safe. They would find nothing but spiders and ants. "Like sol'Pig-Kite demonstrated. He picked up a crumbling branch from the ground and peered at the wet patch of soil underneath. A white maggot squirmed out of Embarrassment and tried to hide himself behind a walnut shell, but that was all. "Nothing herei'Pig-Kite remarked, noticeably disappointed. He scratched his head. "But you see what I mean."

"That was hardly a log)' Awake said irritably. If they were going to lift logs, they might as well lift Proper Ones. "Therel' she pointed at an enormous hunk of rotting wood covered in moss. It must ve fallen at least one hundred years ago; whole colonies of ants swarmed into crevasses in its blackened face, and little mushroom groves sprinkled the top. "Let's see what's under that one. It must be a Haven for Creepies and Crawlies. Civilizations may have risen up!"

Desquiggle helped her get a firm grip on the ancient slab of fallen tree. Together, they pushed with all their strength, and their toes dug into the ground for support. Muscles straining, they were able to slowly tip the mighty log upwards and behold what lay in its Dark and Mysterious Shadow.

'Oh!" Pig-Kite exclaimed, squinting at the Animal they had unearthed. "Hello therel' "Hellol' said the faguar smoothly. "You have elevated my homei'

He was a Fearsome Beast indeed, with slick black fur and two shining yellow eyes. Using one paw bristling with spiny claws, he combed his tail patiently and regarded them with a careless sort of irreverence. He, with his claws and eyes, made Desquiggle extremely uncomfortable.

"Do you livehere?" Awake asked him.

The |aguar didnt reply. In his observation of the travelers, his gaze had stopped abruptly on Awake. Now he was staring at her blue dress in a particularly frightening way. His eyes narrowed into mere slits, and his teeth began to show. His tail gave an odd, unnerving twitch, like a bug that wasnt quite dead.

"Itt a lovely spacei' said Pig-Kite politely,looking around at the hollow the |aguar must have dug out for himself. The clay floor was littered with the yellowing skeletons of mice, voles, and little sparrows.

"You knowj'the |aguar began to speak in a slippery tone, "I really just despise the Color Bluel' Awake swallowed nervously. "My dress technically isnt Pure B1uel'she said hastily. "More like a Gentle Cerulean. Passive Azure, even, in certain circlesl' "Close enoughj' the ]aguar licked his lips, which gave them a really gorgeous view of his fangs. Desquiggle saw what the faguar intended to do, and he didnt give the |ungle Cat enough time to even stand up. With one swift motion, he let go of the log's edge, grabbed Awake, and jumped back. A look of Ultimate Irritation flashed across the thwarted )aguar's face before the log fell over him with a heavy whumpt

"Yikesl'Awake breathed, brushing a clump of soil offher shoulder that had fallen from the 1og. "Thanks. What a Near Miss."

"Who would've guessed that faguars hated Blue?" Pig-Kite giggled as he punched her playfully on the arm.

They began to walk back to the ship at Desquiggle's suggestion. He wasnt very keen to explore any more of the forest, and he really couldnt take another scare. His red bandana was already soaked through with perspiration.

"I was right," he told his first and second mates. "Danger aboundsl' Awake decided to ignore him. "Do you think there'll be hot chocolate on the ship?"

"I hope soi'said Pig-Kite.

"Of course, there may only be enough for onei' she mused. "Which means the first one back would get it," Pig-Kite finished her thought. Desquiggle saw them lock eyes and recognized that the Spirit of Competition had descended upon his crewmates. He whimpered. "Please be careful!"

But it was too late. He could only watch as Awake and Pig-Kite disappeared into the brush ahead, a swarm of dead leaves and dust scattered in their trail. He glanced nervously around.

"I really should have stopped them," he told the forest, even though he knew the trees were dreaming. "They might run into an Ungulori'

YTCHIE ^I\HEEIOCK

WHIivrsy

Stained glass eyes are no more useful than rose tinted glasses.

When you tumble down the stairs to your church, Your blood isn't red.

I could paint with the watercolors you've left behind.

The ambulance-carriage arrives to rescue-whisk you away. Its sirens don't blare jarring screams, But twinkle out the Entertainer like an ice cream truck.

Under the operating lights you don't look harsh and deathly But bathed in gold and silver luminescence.

The surgeons are pristine, covered in your watercolors.

I prick my finger, to see if I am just as beautiful on the inside, But all I do is deflate.

Quickly, I blow myself back up and cover myself in gauze. When the prince-doctor emerges from the operating room-chamber, I notice that he notices me.

We plan your funeral, only it's more of a party, Because no one had the heart to close your stained glass eyes. when the pallbearer-knights carry your casket down the freshly washed steps, I trip.

I hear a distant crack, see colors leaking from underneath me. In the reflection of someone's cane, I notice through my rose tinted glasses, My stained glass eyes.

It seems to me, dear sister, that we had more in common than we thought. Unlike you, I don't even make it to the castle of a hospital.

I die in your arrns.

But heaven seems like an alright place; Here, everyone stares out with stained glass eyes.

Mtnme Ctuenusrt

Sprxss WrnB Npvnn MeoE

Spines were never made to curl

Around toilets. Skin matching the color Of the rim. Heaves riddle down my back Gaunt and tight. Just how I like it It's mostly liquid but Quarter meals swim Freely out of my body. The clusters can't fold anymore Holding hips in soft cushion, Between the creases in magazines Where women curve nicely Shape rightly, It will be worth it.

Flesh wraps around ribs forming mouths

Size two, one, zero They countdown as I weep over dinner plate 'cause Even crying burns calories. My mind can't even carry me. I'm too heavy. So I'll eat beauty and swallow hearts just because I know I'll see them again Swimming freely outside of my body Dl.to Housrox

f I

b; t tffi?l

SEasoNs Msrr

Lifeless leaves fall to the ground and decay, becoming one with the dirt. A raspy crunch echoes from the crushed carcass below my boots. Rickety branches still loom, and hollowed out trunks remain rooted. Winter sneezes out snow, painting a winter wonderland on those decrepit branches. A branch breaks, leaving its mark in the snow.... A few icy snow drops pelt my hairline, The snow melts and puddles of whiny gush remain at major cracks in the sidewalk.

N,qrtty Beyan

Mrx eNo MATCH

A blessed black body, Agonized in day, dry grass path. Light face, without marble. Her eyes like sharp glass, Twisting in his spine. Windows with purple tinted past. The silent past, a maze> From glance. Clear fire, Peeling under thoughts. Yesterday, Is home, to that grinding road, In clear sun. Her pleased smile, Blistered his heart. Stunned, To this light milk snow. Marble, The last jar of simple day. The hour strikes, Her smile, dry and simple. He watches The sun, under the corner ofhis eye. Clear field, flying yesterday.

AtnxeNonn SnruczyszyN

Salralrraa Gnnecn

Pepen crRL

I used to be made from the bold oak tree Next to my garage.

I knew all I needed AII I needed was enough

I was that one obnoxious puzzle piece that never fit And liked it that way. Until impatient people folded me and Tore me and pinched me and smashed me. I belonged to someone else's expectations.

Steamrolled by separation, sickness, Death, depression, and divorce. Until I'm as flat as August air.

I used to be made from the bold oak tree. Nowlmjustapapergirl.

I(arr DoNrrv

To Hnn, Mv FacB

To her, my face is a paragraph in English. A wilting woman, hooked over her morning grapefruit. Christening my father Rafael. My dad and I, skin heated, know that she wont correct herself, want to twist her brain to wring out his name.

Her husband's name, breathless for 50 years. It's Abuelita, searching me, straining to recall mi nombre. Itt her forgetting I come home at 4, leaving the door stretched, leaving the stove chattering.

My grandmother's memories, no longer able to be savored. Burnt eggs.

Susaxa CanorNas

FRarvra DEL sANTo

Erncv

When you flew to paradise, You took my best friend with you Leaving me to crumble with the first blow of Winter's wind

We all went to school that day broken, A flock of baby geese without their mother A trail of slimy snails trailing their salty tears down packed hallways I run into a member of the pack with every corner I turn, And we melt into a warm embrace

With each hug I find myself more stuck, Unable to pull away, like someone shoved wads of wet gum in between us but like most gum wads scraped offthe bottoms of classroom desks, we become separated Memories of Mother Goose couldnt keep us together

We are all afraid of loving you more than we love each other I hope you are happy in the Land of the Eternal Springs, I hope you're maturity blooms with the silk tree , I hope you know that you changed my life, My paradise is with you Dab. Mecrcpy

Nrcorr Suanr

DscBMeER 2012

Mi nina, mi tesoro, mi corazon, cielo y amore y querida hija mia....

As kitchens go, this is the coziest we know. Less a separate entitp and more a continuation of the Iiving room, which is not itself really a living room, but a wide hall with butt-beaten couches that face across the fake porcelain flowers into large glass eyes, twin display case doors, staring at the trinket gifts my grandmother has kept safe. Baptism dolls, communion crosses, the edible stale sugar flowers from wedding cakes have grown into yellow, pink, blue meadows on the shelves. But those are still memories; the living room a collection of petrified moments, it is in the kitchen new ones bloom.

Before they made making ice-churning, water spitting, self-lighted metal monsters, they made her fridge. They built it and they shipped it and placed it on the left wall, and it has sat there yellowing in goose-bump skin. My grandmother dresses it in favorite saints, uses little magnets decorated with yellow and brown maize.It whines and it moans, and makes to die under its garnishments, but it stays cold. At night from the door she perjures a red Malbec, maybe from our own grapes, to grace her white table cloth next to a loaf of fresh white bread, sweet butter logs, and the table for dinner is set. The table is unapologetically intrusive, its back end sticking out into the hallway-pretending- to -be- a-living room-space.

The town is small, everyone goes to the same church, which is itself so small. They sit so close together, their prayers trip into one another, become so tangled that instead of drifting to heaven apart, they leave the pews in a big web, and assault the angels with a unified babble of prayers that really all ask for the same thing. The church is so small, anyone could sit at my grandmother's kitchen table and name which sugar-flower was on whose wedding cake. The town is so small, they often do. The baker's boy, the man who brings my aunt jugs of gas soda, my father's brothers, my mother's sisters, the little boy from across the street rest at that kitchen table. My grandmother laughs, and feeds them all. And when we cook it's standing room only, dozens of elbows bump and kiss when we fold empanadas into tight little ripples, or big sloppy bows. Each pair of hands follows its own rhythm, their fingers dancing across the dusted table top.

Dona O/ga cooks facing the stove and the sink, on the farthest wall. She cooks under cabinets, boughs ripe with spices and tea. The cookies and saltines patiently sit in drawers below, pulled out for la mierienda, atime at the end and after siesta when bellies sigh thinking of long hours to stretch before dinner. Then the kettle is set no matter the heat, and hearts spades clubs and diamonds slap the kitchen table. Restless grandkids gather to play, shifting on their polyester seats,legs folded beneath them to keep the chairs from sucking their thighs. My grandmother sometimes lies down, and the youngest follow her like baby ducks, tripping over themselves and each other on the way to nest. Sometimes we beg her to stay and then she shows us her school-girl games. I walk into the kitchen before the cock crows, and flick the dull florescent lights, it reminds me of abandonment. The harsh glare and the empty seats remind me of sallow skin with age, and bitter tears that water to lament what is already at waste. Then, sitting alone at the table, the kitchen feels dead,like I am floating in formaldehyde. But when the sunlight comes in, and the day begins to pool on the ceramic floor, and the refrigerator faithfully hums her psalms, and her little virgin smiles from above the winking sink, then it reminds me of my grandmother. It smells like her, like ripe fruit and sticky candy. It feels like being pressed against her, like when she sweeps her big arms around me, the ones that have held so many babies and rocked them to sleep, or patted their bottoms clean, or fed them mashed peas. As she presses me against her loose bosom, against the flowing colored shirts and into her smell. I cry or I laugh or I kiss her cheek. And at a certain hour, that is what her kitchen feels like. It feels like warm, sticky love.

Ptutt Srocco

CoruNrsrANS z3:L2

ba\ we were run to born we fight toward the ride oh god give me the power like broken wounds salted with death salt i am the jungle i am the fire that rises toward the darkness and spews fish like hail stones from the sky and fills the deep void of my soul five fingers wrapped around her pumping heart rain rain go away why dont you take my soul away like the cabinets of the deep puling me into a pit of blood sweat and tears my people subjugated me and we are the same see how they run like pigs from a gun see how they fly

i am crying

like the wail of police sirens chasing me like the falcons in their own mind and only in their own mind and the crisp bark peeling temple bend with the broken spoon how does my mother's chicken soup rise on a cloud ofsteam

we are free at last, we are free at last thank god almighty we are free at last ltcx Ca:.uan DeNrcttp Koatttvc Eu Wnwnrac Keanv loNzs Scorr DtNTBL

Coven ay Rrcaru Wnzatocx

Eprron Bros

Rucnl MnnnNpRr,B is a threat to people who act their age. She started out as Crest Supreme baby but shet gone from diapers to the throne and she's built Crest even higher than we ever expected. Wherever she goes next year, we know she'll be racing there on one of our stolen rolly chairs. Everybody submits to crest, but we submit to her.

Er.oN Sr,oeN is our hooded, robed Valley Girl. While she still carpets the Crest room in tissues, this T-iny Tape F-r is never delicate about what she believes. Whether she's Steppenwolffid it up or with us, Elon is fiercely passionate and ready to raise the level of discourse. You may remember Ms. Sloan as the fiber of our universe and the brand from the bathroom.

Fn.lNx.l DBr. S.c.Nro is a dedicated member of the Illuminati. As their resident dte/dtf anarchist, she creates all their band posters and CD cover art. The Illuminati have marked her as their most hardworking member, and have secured her position as Editor-in-Chief next year. Her next mission is to take The Tao of Badass down.

RrcHrc Wnrnr,ocx, aka R-Wnrzz <3, can literally do everything from composing piano music to spontaneous tiny origami. He is the Roald Dahl of our generation with a slightly sinister sense of humor. As Human2.0, Richie has sacrificed all of his #TTU time to perfect Crest. We love his PUNishments!

Enrc Hrxnv, by joining Crest, has conquered the OPRF club system. His love for Elon is exceeded only by the height of his back splash. Eric always looks for the best in everything and can goof about the worst. He can tackle anything with his hair and trusty motto: WWCD? (What would Cher do?)

Snnnu CeNNoN, oko "MnruA," is fomous f or her biting wit ond Fitzgerald themed blog. With her lively dresses, she reminds us of spring even in the snowiest doys of winter. Soroh's keen onolyticol instincts moke it eosy to groom her f or future responsibility in Crest. Dot gurl's friendly AF.

Brr.r.r Brr.vx has been incarcerated for most of her freshman year. She cant be trusted with silverwear, but she can juggle 3 million theater productions in one week. Even though she listens to Carrie Underwood, her unprecedented status as Crest Freshman is more of a compliment than she realized. And damn, she's cheery.

Ms. Lnn is back for her second season as our sponsor. We would have pizza dates and listen to good music with her all day if we could, but then she wouldnt have time to manage her son's band. She supports us not only in Crest, but in all of our endeavors. As a sign of gratitude we're stealing all her scarves.