The Wayfarer 2004

Only as an aesthetic product can the world be justified to all eternity. ~ Nietzsche

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Dedicated to Mr. Joe Zaiman

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Allie Haen (9)

Frogs

for laughter

indescribable

red spread

over your face Teasing Madeline Island

to kick

beach sands

and shiver

in Lake Superior water Belize

to navigate

the leafy maze

and joke

with jungle creatures Hawaii

to climb

lava mountains

and gasp

at the crater St. Croix

to wade

in the electrified bog

and collect

mosquito bites Teaching God gifted

prairies and fire

to burn them

foster re-growth

a Son

for tangible faith

hope in Resurrection Believing Marilee and Armand

hold hands

against pain

drawing in

with hugs

drawing out

who we should be Loving Transformed

Spirit for peace

embrace and shout

a field trip

to heaven Living forever ~ Elise Meyers

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Staff

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Editor:

Elise Meyers

Assistant Editor:

Henry Duwe

Editorial Board:

Peter Gulbrandsen Paul Hoffman Christy Kau-Chapin Caitrin O’Shea Mariah Quinn Anna Sanders Hannah Walser

Layout Board:

Cedric Meyers Wyatt Ratliff Aileen Wall

Cover Artist:

Wesley Rikkers

Consultants:

Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

Advisors:

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Table of Contents

Writers 7

How to Eat a Peach: Mimi Longo

26

Landscape: Hannah Walser

8

Quest for the Holy Grater: Ethan Brown

27

The Bystander: Hannah Walser

9

A Play with Something to Say: Dark Humor Breeds Social Commentary: Henry Duwe

28

Light Years: Hannah Walser

30

Prime Mover: Hannah Walser

10

Tinted Death: Jessica Robertson

31

Picture Perfect Mom: Emma Chmielewski

11

The Translator: Elbek Daniyarov

32

Open-Air Theater: Eric Prendergast

12

Gray: Eric Prendergast

33

Stella: Elise Meyers

14

A Poet’s Hell: Elise Meyers

42

The Work of the Heavens: Mark Murphy

16

In Search of Normalcy: Philip Gorman

43

Opening Night: Greta van Lith

18

The Second One: Elise Meyers

44

Nature and I: Seth Kunin-Goldsmith

20

Leftovers: Milo McLinn

45

Juvenile Transcendentalism: Chris Marotta

22

Wishing Well: Emma Chmielewski

49

Mountain Afternoon: Alaina Ritter

24

My Girls: Mariah Quinn

50

Glass: Elise Meyers

52

Life’s Note: Meghan Ross

Graphic Artists Liam Dale: 25 Perynne Danis: 39 Tam Daychapratoomwan: 45 Allie Haen: 20 Austin Josephs: 46-7 Peter Kraus: 51 Alex McElhose: 26-7, 48-9 Diana McFarland: 24 Jessica Palermo: 11

Eric Prendergast: 36-7 Nicholas Richardson: 33 Wesley Rikkers: 16, 17, 30, 42-3 Amanda Roark: 41 Karrie Rocca: 18-9 Seung-Hyun Row: 6, 28 Anna Sanders: 31 Ian Thornberry: 14, 34

Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

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Seung-Hyun Row (10)

How to Eat a Peach With Apologies to Eve Merriam

Don’t be unsure.

Bite in.

Read it with your eyes and gather the ideas that may run through your mind.

It is composed and complete now, whenever you are.

You do not need a dictionary or Bible or book on mythology or highlighter or pencil or copy of Sound and Sense, For there is no allusion or imagery or connotation or metaphor or apostrophe or purpose to analyze.

~ Mimi Longo (12)

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Quest For The Holy Grater Ethan Brown (12) Scene 1: White Castle Galley: What kind of castle is this?

Marvin: Well, it said castle on the sign.

Galley: Sign?

Marvin: Anyway, I called you here because I found this!

Galley: A cheese grater?

Marvin: The Holy Grater. I found it befouled with American cheese at Pisa Hut. You must return it to the

Holy Land.

Galley: But what will I do without you?

Marvin: You don’t need me. I am not, never was and never will be. He disappears and Galley walks away stunned.

Scene 2: Mongrel Empire Galley watches as two men sword fight.

DartBoard: Heavy breathing. This asthma will be my undoing.

Sourdough: If you destroy me, I will become more annoying than you could ever imagine.

DartBoard: I know your mother.

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Sourdough: But my mother died in a chariot race 30 years ago.

DartBoard: Slices off Sourdough’s arm. Is that your nose or did you mug a parrot?

Sourdough: Thrash so! He carves an “S” in DartBoard and both men drop dead. A janitor sweeps them away.

Scene 3: Road from Cornish to Thieves As Galley watches, the Skink stops Gomer Nixon on the road.

Skink: What has 18 legs and catches flies?

Gomer: A baseball team? The Skink shakes his head and slaps Gomer with his tongue.

Gomer: D’oh! Gomer’s corpse is swept away by a janitor. Galley walks up to the Skink.

Skink: What has 18 legs and catches flies?

Galley: You do.

Skink: Quietly. Yes. Screams. ME! His head explodes. Galley walks away.

Scene 4: The Holy Land Galley sees two armies fighting.

Soldier 1A: We will never let you win, red terror!

Soldier 2A: Die, Great Satan!

Soldier 1B: Death to Afart!

Solder 2B: Death to Charade!

Both soldiers: Our religion is right and yours is wrong!

Galley: I guess I’ll wait until it ends. As he waits and waits, he grows a beard.

Jackie Zore (11)

A Play with Something to Say:

Dark Humor Breeds Social Commentary Henry Duwe (11) The modern world emanates complexity as boundaries between good and evil, morality and

present. Brown effectively recalls Middle Age conflicts in

immorality,

the Middle East to reflect on the modern conflict. The play,

comedy and tragedy blur. Years of poverty, uncertainty, and

as a whole, is reminiscent of the Crusades, which, through

violence have smudged those boundaries. Ethan Brown, in

unjustified bloodshed and corrupt motivation, fostered

his satiric play, The Quest for the Holy Grater, proves a mas-

much ill will in the world. The Holy Grater comes to sym-

ter “smudger,” adding further shades of imperceptible

bolize the peace contemplated during the conflicts of the

gray to the already faint boundaries. His archaic setting,

play. Thus the entire quest represents the quest for peace in

transferred from a confused world,

comments on the

the Middle East. The location references in the setting of

modern world and its confusion. Nothing makes sense in

the first scene refer to America’s bungling interference in

the play because nothing makes sense in our world. Brown

the Middle East. America “befouls” the Middle East with

also employs allusions to pop culture, subtle diction, and

its Western “white” hegemony. The strategic placement

unexpected symbols to achieve his twofold purpose of

of Pisa Hut, which closely resembles a large American

humor and social criticism.

company, further characterizes America’s interference by

In Brown’s own quest to cultivate in his audience

adding an element of commercial imperialism. In addition

desire for world change, he employs several allusions to the

to criticizing American involvement in the Middle East,

humor of contemporary culture. The title, “Holy Grater,”

Brown also comments on Soviet meddling when a soldier

itself refers to Monty Python’s “Holy Grail,” which sets an

yells a vicious threat at the “red terror.” Brown does not

abstract and humorous tone for the play. In the third scene

even remotely refer to the main subject of the play (the

Brown uses the recognizable utterance of Homer Simpson,

conflict in the Middle East) until the fourth scene. In this

“D’oh,” as Gomer is killed,

exemplifying the stu-

scene he effectively correlates all the random themes into

pidity of the moment. Brown not only borrows colloquial

a powerful conglomerate crying for peace. As Galley, the

expressions but also creates some neologisms of his own,

main character, meanders through the world of the play, a

which blur the boundaries

between Brown’s nonsensical

“mirror” world to our own, he witnesses fights and incidents

Palestinian leader Arafat becomes

that reflect our own world’s tumults. Human blood splatters

“Afart” while the Israeli leader Charon becomes “Charade.”

on this innocent intruder, Galley, reminding the reader of

The ironic humor of these unexpected, made-up words

the frailty of human life.

draws the reader’s

world and reality. The

attention and reinforces the social

The Quest for the Holy Grater by Ethan Brown ex-

commentary. The rude, crude, and immature nature of these

ists on one level primarily as a humorous play meant to

words shows just how ridiculous the ongoing situation is in

put smiles on the faces and in the hearts of its audience.

the Middle East. Brown also wields a pun when Sourdough,

Upon second read, however, it is a critique of several world

Brown’s version of the justice-seeking Zorro, is “sliced”

situations that plague the human race. Furthermore, Brown

by Dartboard. Dartboard stands as a target for the Middle

urges a peaceful resolution to the conflict in the Middle East.

Eastern conflict, the receptacle for collateral damage.

Just as a “Medievalesque” conflict foils Galley’s mission,

so too does the conflict in the Middle East foil world peace.

Brown conjures diverse and quirky symbols to

further his main point of peaceful resolution to conflicts, especially in the Middle East. The first step in this peaceful resolution involves blurring the divide between past and

The interconnectedness of the world cannot be denied.

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Tinted Death The rose stands out above a vase.

Perfectly formed, petals shining, Newly dripping with rainbow dew.

Colors swirl while blooming, Running down the grass green stem.

Beautiful—yet painful— Thorns drip with tears of silver, Crimson spinning round, down Running colors fading, waning, Collecting below, the rose left pallid.

As white petals fall and the stem dies, Colors drip and swiftly mix, Spinning ’round and ’round the vase Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet All mixing rapidly, weaving, swirling Together, braided and trapped.

The remnants of the rose faster spin, The sparkling shades of crimson, silver Shining, still visible, beautiful, Despite the violent, frantic whirlpool.

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~ Jessica Robertson (12)

The Translator I wonder in the dull avenues of thought, Balancing globes on my nose, Juggling elephants, tigers, and moose, My hands tied to my back.

Groping in the dark for the right door, Searching for viruses—the Pentium Four.

I rush through straw bridges, Connect wires on electric Poles.

Stroll on passionate coals, Barefoot, Carry the scars of one-way trains, Drowned in linguistic hails.

I dwell between heaven and hell, Devouring ice and imbibing fire, Entombed In the shrine—The trans-Atlantic well.

Epitaph: here lies a traductor, English, Russkiy, Français, Español.

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~ Elbek Daniyarov (12)

Jessica Palermo (12)

T

12

he color gray holds a certain mystical power over the

tion is foreign. Yet closer examination reveals the sublime.

spectrum. While specific chromatic shades can stun

Like a cubist painting or a temporally disjointed narrative,

the senses in their vibrancy or calm the mind with their

the deceitful medium reveals new truths.

Contrasts of

lackluster, none possess the versatility of gray. Stretching

gray lend shadows weight, faces poise, forms stature, and

the span between light and dark, gray encompasses the es-

surroundings grandeur greater than they might have had

sential elements of every color. Gray is the form, and gray

otherwise, awash in a sea of distracting colors. Grays focus

is the shadow, defining both while adhering to neither. Its

the mind on the contrasts, forcing one to pay attention to

power as a mere visual sensation is so great that it easily

the subtle shifts between light and dark. For example, in

extends beyond itself to the realm of abstract thought:

the short, modern German production Schwarzfahrer, Pepe

the subtle middle ground between dissonant ideas, the

Danquart introduces visual layers of meaning to a theme

complex interaction between good and evil, the ground-

of racial conflict between black and white Germans. He

ing force, the definer of

does so by shooting the

reality. Gray contradicts

film itself in black and

absolutes and challeng-

white. In an age where

es convictions. As one

the normality of color is

gains knowledge of real-

so omnipresent as to be

ity through learning and

unnoticeable, the choice

experience, things shed

was clearly deliberate.

their stark contrasts and

The focused colors high-

take on beautiful shades

light the separation be-

of gray. Yet all this drift

tween two

from pure lightness or

on public transportation:

pure darkness does not

a white, elderly woman

leave one lost in a static

who

world bereft of mean-

tire tram with her racist

ing. Rather, the realiza-

thoughts on the “for-

tion of gray frees one

eigner problem” and a

to

passengers

regales the en-

explore the infinite shades between shades, opening

long-suffering black man who sits beside her. In a palette of

a world of awing complexity where once there was only

grays, the stark juxtaposition of their skin colors—deathly

oppressive dualism. The power of gray, the source of its

pale and deep ebony—provides a visual representation of

myriad strengths, is the middle ground it occupies. A rela-

the cultural gap between them. The reversal of normal color

tive measure between two poles becomes the center about

conceptions, with viewer sympathy drawn strongly toward

which all things circle.

black instead of white, shows the importance of flexible

To the eye of a modern viewer, a film in black-and-

perspective. An aesthetic born of technological necessity

white appears drab and superannuated. Why bother with

becomes something greater. Grays are not an oppressive

so archaic a form, entirely lacking in visual distraction? For

limitation, but a welcome shelter from information over-

someone accustomed to having his mind assaulted with

load. With gray, a reduction in noise opens up a wealth of

impossibly fanciful images, a limiting of visual

signal.

sensa-

My freshman English teacher began the class with a

tion, if only because its consequences are catastrophic. The

memorable phrase: “I am going to make gray your favorite

most horrifying of human atrocities and the most noble of

color.” For a teacher of literature, nothing better suited the

human endeavors all blend together into the same meaning-

explication of his purpose. While the statement was cryptic

less soup. It is the nihilistic antithesis of life. Yet because it

then, time has revealed it to be an accurate prophecy. Gray is

appears to flow irreconcilably from the acceptance of gray,

my favorite color and the lens through which I best compre-

something must be made of this grotesque

hend literature. The central element of all works of prose is

sion. The nothingness must be transformed into potential.

the conflict, some hitch in the plans that makes the unfold-

Inherent in gray is the tool to do so. Gray is not a monolithic

ing story worth following. But to fully resolve the conflict

color, static and unchanging. It can represent an infinite

seldom does anything more than provide a shallow sense

array of areas between light and dark, each just as “gray”

of contentment. It makes no statement about the world

as the next, yet easily comparable. In this can one find

of human experience. It reveals no truth.

conclu-

salvation? Judgments cannot place anything

In reality there are seldom solutions,

definitively to either pole, but they can

much less easy solutions. One

place elements of gray nearer or

needs to step away from the

farther from light or dark. Ac-

poles of black and white into

tions such as murder, rape,

the realm of grays. Char-

or abuse of power may

acters without redeeming

and shall embody some

qualities become suddenly

positive aspects along the

sympathetic when shown

spectrum of gray, but

in a different light. Good

the overwhelming nega-

intentions lead to inconceiv-

tive aspects still allow one

ably disastrous conclusions.

to condemn them as very

Impersonal forces make deeply

dark grays. Bravery, charity, and

personal impacts. Good literature

humility may and shall be shaded

blurs boundaries, speaking to the mind

with their own tinges of ill intent, but

and spirit by showing the world as it is, not the

the good they still do allows one to laud them

transient appearances but the fundamental truths. The

as light grays. Making the judgment is certainly not easy. It

absolute is the unreal, the grotesque distortion of truth.

requires a careful consideration of all perspectives, an open

To deny the gray deals a deathblow to literature and to life

mind to counterintuitive ideas, a willingness to compromise,

itself.

and keen wits. Faith in absolutes does not demand the same

While it seems easy to cast polarities as fundamen-

constant, tiring vigilance as confidence in grays does. There

tally negative, no one would cling to them so tightly were it

is always, no matter how clear things seem, the possibility

really so. There is a danger in the middle way. To leave sure

of error. Full acceptance of gray allows one to judge and

ground risks losing it altogether. If anything can be seen

gives the better probability of judging wisely. The key to the

from a different perspective, cast as a different shade of

mystery of gray is fluidity. Gray is the gradual movement

gray, then what is the use of making judgments? It is all gray.

toward an unreachable but ever-perceivable center.

It is all relative. One cannot succumb to such a

tempta-

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14

A Poet’s Hell

Ian Thornberry (11)

No tongues of fire viciously caressing our ankles with their burning scarlet Fingers, intimately and mockingly clutching our legs until Pale delicate skin chars to ebony splinters, mere ashes of us No purely evil ruler carrying a grin that exposes yellowed Centuries old teeth behind waxen, sunlit-barren cheeks, Cunningly sliding orders, his hand clasped round A searing metal pole, used against the pure white paradise.

No, the eternal evil home of us, the manipulators Of wood sticks sweetly tipped in graphite, Is not the clichéd world described in verses Contained in the book, the law for all hypocritical religious We who possess a gift, the heart pulsing With intensity, passion, and love for words Are destined to a place more painful than Lucifer’s domain The inferno may turn us to ashes, but never will our hearts Succumb to its excruciating heat. They will not die.

We suffer instead imprisoned by Hard, claustrophobic walls alive with ideas, the powerful, Resilient flint to ignite a poet’s lyrical line Tree and flowers for the writers of nature’s beauty Political cartoons for those writing cynical satire Images of life, the events of joy and despair, Betrayal, depression, angst, hate, solitude, passion A castle complete with knight and princess for writers of the past Wonderful dreamlands, journeys among clouds atop a unicorn Give inspiration to writers of a world that doesn’t exist.

Forced to stare at these walls, our minds throb with ideas Words infiltrate every cell in our body, fingers tremble With want, the desire to see words darkening paper.

Unrequited, our minds become angry as first words Are forever forgotten, possibly the masterpiece of our death Lost. Mouths silent, forced not to produce sound.

Here, the evil ruler paces among rows, monotonously murmuring Words that stifle our creative minds, twirling his searing Red ballpoint stick, a threat to nonconformists.

Eyes behold the soothing clean white surface of a notebook Beckoning our hands and our minds to write So that our words will not be forgotten.

Desperately we try to maneuver the pen to the paper But our bodies resist movement, and distance betrays us.

We suffer as ideas, words of passion possess our mind, And in this hell we must remain forever with our ideas Agonizing as they go unexpressed, forgotten in eternity.

~ Elise Meyers (11)

15

In

of

Normalcy Philip Gorman (9) The wheels give small clacks as we move along. I had always found these gurneys to be too flimsy to

16

working, and the side effects worsened. I heard whispers

pro-

of surgery from the hall as somber, gray-haired doctors

vide any real comfort. When you’re sick, you feel frail and

talked to my parents. I really was not frightened, just tired.

helpless enough without being moved around on something

I was tired of doctors with their large words and pitying

that looks like it could be blown away by the slightest breeze.

faces. I was tired of my friends looking fearfully at me after

The lights on the ceiling approach slowly

a

seizure on the basketball court. I was

and then become a white fluorescent blur as

tired of the drugs and their side effects. I

I go by. There is always the smell, the power-

was tired of the epilepsy.

ful antiseptic smell that invades your mind

So when the doctor came in to

with a will all its own. The smell is what gets

discuss an opportunity for a cure, a chance

to me. I could turn off the lights or mute

for normalcy, I seized it. I knew there were

a

risks, but I had long ago decided that I

monitor, but there is always that smell,

always reminding me of where I am.

would do anything for a chance to end the

I had been here for weeks. The

disarray that was my disorder. The doctor

drugs I was on were slurring my speech

told me that they had determined the dam-

and leaving me weak with anemia, but

aged portion of my brain was located in

they still did nothing for the seizures. I was

one small region—strange how something

always taking pills, strange drugs like Car-

as chaotic as epilepsy could originate from

bamazepine and Divalproex, with lists of

such a neat little bundle. He told me they

side effects as lengthy as their names. Still,

could remove it, and then the symptoms

no matter what they gave me, the darkness

would stop—no hospital, no drugs, and

would always win. There would be an over-

above all, no seizures. It would be an end

whelming odor, something that smelled of

to my search and a chance for normalcy.

nothing and everything all at once. Soon shapes would begin

That is how I came to be in my current situation:

to run together, and an inky darkness would fall over my

moving down harshly lit halls on a flimsy gurney that clacks

eyes. I would slowly drift into consciousness to find myself

as it rolls. The anesthetics are already making me somewhat

exhausted somewhere else with people all around me.

giddy, and I become oddly fascinated with my

They brought me here after the drugs stopped

recently-

shaved head. I never realized how much hair I had until I

lost it all so abruptly. I keep running my fingers through

of valleys and peaks. I find it odd that everything, which

the nothingness where my hair should have been. I look

makes me human is within that landscape of pink and gray.

into their strangely curving mirrors, angling my head to see

I hold my nonexistent breath as the first incision is made

the flash as my newfound baldness reflects the light. The

into my brain itself. *

lights move more rapidly now and run together until I see nothing but a streak of white light, twisting and

spiraling

*

*

There is a high beep that continually repeats. Still

invitingly. I feel myself being drawn in and slowly settle into

lacking the will to open my eyes, I listen to this continuous

an untroubled, drug-induced sleep.

pinging for a few minutes before sheer annoyance forces

*

*

*

me to open my eyes. I see a dark-green screen with

fluc-

There is a team of surgeons surrounding my un-

tuating peaks of white streaming across it. “Well,” I think

conscious body. They work in silence with perfect preci-

to myself, “at least I know I’m alive.” I look up to see my

sion that requires no words. My skull is open, and through

parents and several doctors smiling down at me. For the

the perfectly round hole you can see my brain: the canyons

first time in quite a while, I smile back.

of consciousness, ruts of reasoning, bulges of being. It is rather plain, a mass of pinkish-gray folding into a network

17

Art on both pages: Wesley Rikkers (11)

The Second One Inspired by Beach at Beverly by John Frederick Kensett

The color of human flesh It holds dissolving footprints Of hungry animals, draws with seaweed A front line for the battle Between sand and water, Torn by the bow of a skiff.

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He leaps from the stern, Shirt, sand-colored, billowing Revealing half-moon stains of labor.

An ocean, the womb of a world untouched, Embraces his bare feet, frigid comfort, Pulling sand through his toes.

It wasn’t time.

It wasn’t time.

He gazes on a quivering horizon, Spiraling through memories.

The silence—no cry And the throb climbing his legs, Weakening his muscles...

Fist beating wood Beating waves rocking the cradle.

Her legs brace In the curvature of the bow, Submitting to the rhythm of labor.

Blood, a stream staining the skiff, Red carpet introducing new life.

It took life away once, two years past.

So much, so much blood Drowning hope and joy.

He fumbles with his shirt buttons, Throws it over the darkening stream.

Crimson splotches seep outward, Saturating the sand color.

He searches for more to dam The frightening stream, Tripping—a tangled tree limb Sucked hollow by the sun, Buried by the wind.

Cradling wood, so perfectly-formed, So lifeless, so smooth—her skin was, Pale and grey, tiny eyes and mouth Closed, peaceful Never to see this world.

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Dead wood gifted to his wife In tears remembering loss.

Hands catch, squeeze, push New life cries, a sigh As sun emerges, glancing Around a cloud—a smile, Laughter bouncing Down the beach. ~ Elise Meyers (11)

Karrie Rocca (12)

Allie Haen (9)

20

T

he place was dead. It was a landscape scorched

lungful of radioactive dust. After several

moments, there

and blasted beyond recognition, pockmarked

was another breath, slower this time but deeper. Over the

with craters and littered with debris that once

next few minutes, this sporadic breathing evened into regu-

might have been buildings. Or maybe they were just

lar intervals, those expected of a medium-sized human.

piles of rocks. Regardless, beneath one of these mounds of

No one saw or heard the bedraggled-looking young man

debris, something was stirring. A breath was heard, followed

who rose from beneath the pile of rubble. He was of aver-

by a long coughing fit as the entombed person inhaled a

age height with hair of an indeterminate color beneath the

utterly unhurt.

The young man turned away from the pool and started walking. He felt that he should be sad, but he did not see any point to it. Everyone was dead, and he couldn’t change that. He was alive. Somehow. He kept walking. As he got farther and farther from ground zero, things began to take definite shape. Here an old landmark. There a

familiar-

looking pile of rubble. After a while, he saw some street signs still standing.

Unfortunately, with the lessened destruction came human remains. Unpleasant thoughts became considerably harder to ignore, especially when the young man neared his old neighborhood. Despite being mildly shell-shocked, or perhaps because of it, the young man laughed. He knew it was probably the least appropriate thing he could do, but still he laughed.

He walked past his once favorite diner, a place

that had been famous for its pies. There at the bar, totally undamaged, was a half-eaten slice of chocolate mousse pie.

Chocolate mousse pie had always been his favorite, and here it was waiting for him. When the young man stopped laughing, he walked through the shattered picture window of the diner and approached the bar. On the ground behind the counter was a body, blood leaking from the eyes. The young man guessed radiation poisoning. He looked around until, among the ruins, he found an intact spork. He would have preferred a normal fork, but after surviving Armageddon, he could not afford to be choosey. He sat down at the bar stool and scooped up a piece of the pie. The last chocolate mousse pie. He took a bite. He held it in his mouth for dust. He was reasonably muscled, apparently nervous, and

several minutes, enjoying its flavor and texture. He closed

dressed in rags. He was also the only thing that moved within

his eyes and savored it until the last trace was gone. Then

a five-mile radius. The young man found a stagnant pool

he looked at the rest of the pie. The last chocolate mousse

of water and examined his reflection. He almost laughed.

pie. There was still almost a third of a slice left. He stuck

He did not look that much different than he had looked

the spork in his only intact pocket and left the pie.

before. The only noticeable change was the large amount of dust that now coated his body and his clothes. He was

21

22

Quilt design by geometry students

Wishing Well Reflection on Geometry Students’ Quilt A haze of colors confuse me as I attempt to fathom the depth of you, wishing well.

We all have confided in your mystery at some point in our lives. Some more than others.

They are the ones who see the bottom not as an incredibly dark and frostbitten space in time

but as a welcoming home for them to someday rest in peace.

For really the bottom is not the end for you, dear wishing well. You will go on forever

for there will always be troubled souls who need you.

Someone making an impossible wish:

For death

For life

For love

For revenge.

You alone know their secrets and try to hide them, but I see through the comforting blue to

the painful red of the past.

The elements, in one accord, congregate and swirl, attempting to unify anger and blood

among the calming blue.

They are one thriving mass of incredible discomfort for a brief moment but then snap back

into terrible contrast.

As I stare into your depths, I see the red as I never have seen it before. Now all at once it is not the quavering, fiendish soul with vacant eyes longing for me;

it is a beaten child filled with anger and wanting for mirth

and the simplicity of life that only children can have.

The moment I come to see this, I feel the blood drain from me, replaced by an icy blue.

The strength in the slippery blue freezes my blood, and I feel myself fall into your sonorous depths.

As the life drains from me, I open my eyes. Instead of seeing my life flash before me, all I see is

the bottom of you, wishing well; and you are not dark

as I had always imagined you but a bright white

that reaches into my soul and accepts me.

~ Emma Chmielewski (10)

23

Diana McFarland (12)

My Girls Mariah Quinn (12)

S 24

tretching, I observe the shadow of eight pairs of

sole purpose of ensuring each is precisely the same length

beautifully shaped legs. Some are elegantly slim; oth-

and all the shawls fall in a similar manner. For years, I had

ers command attention through their athletic power. A

longed to participate on one of these perfectly configured

photograph would deftly capture the mid-afternoon light,

teams. Consequently, as I faced my teammates, I was rather

lazily illuminating the dance floor through small cracks in

startled. Not only was I presented with radical height dis-

the plastic panes. Such a photograph would imply a calm

crepancies but also dramatically varying dance styles. Such

atmosphere. My senses more accurately inform me of the

a hodge-podge of ingredients yielded serious doubts about

apprehension my fellow dancers experience. I can

our ability to pull off any semblance of unity. The message

practi-

cally hear the unrelenting beat of butterfly wings that swarm

was blatant: we were not designed to

about the room in the core of each girl’s longing.

Prodded back into reality by an abrupt “All right,

elbow propped on her knee as she feigned interest in the

ladies, let’s get started!” I methodically tighten my laces

scene before her. She always called me “honey.” That’s all

and tug my socks to the knee in a manner that can only be

I was to her, an anonymous dancer who coveted unrealistic

considered attractive by Irish Dancers. The teachers seem

dreams, diminished by an “endearment” acceptable for

blind to the emotional attachment each dancer, regardless

someone half my size.

of her capabilities, harbors toward this, her passion. Yet,

at this moment, it is clear that the teachers are fully aware

with an opportunity to blossom into a rather unusual, yet

of the power they possess: power to bestow joy or extreme

persistent entity. As we struggled to master the

disappointment by virtue of whom they select for each ceili

ography, other teams hardly required practice. Those teams,

team.

however, developed a sort of detached, careless, superior

succeed.

Ingrained in my memory is the head teacher,

Unwittingly, the head teachers had presented us chore-

A ceili team is meant to represent unity. Whether

attitude. After observing this regrettable occurrence, my

the desired effect is a graceful flow or an athletic precision,

team entered into an unspoken pact. Clearly, we were not

the ultimate goal is symmetry, balance, poise. On an ideal

expected to succeed in the sense that we would acquire

team, every member’s hair would be the same tint, aided by

medals, but we determined to champion an

the creation of curly wigs. Dresses are scrutinized for the

attitude. As Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “It is better to

aspiring

travel hopefully than to arrive.” Whenever we were given

in the top five!), fifth (Am I a bad person for rejoicing that

a break, we would select an area that was

particularly

another team is fifth?), fourth place. I glanced at a team-

weak and practice, critiquing one another in a manner that

mate and saw it in her eyes: it was too much to hope for;

fostered improvement as well as team spirit. We were con-

we hadn’t placed; we had to

stantly rebuked to “watch our lines.” I can still remember

we tried. And then… “In third place the Cashel Dennehy

the first time I actually grasped that directive. My partner

School of Irish Dance.” In one movement my entire team

and I aligned perfectly with another couple as we bounded

leapt up and scrambled onto the stage. I still wonder how

around an imaginary sphere. We finally understood.

be realistic; at least

many fingers we must have stepped on in the process. I

A successful teammate cannot focus on herself

could hear my aunt hailing me as we crammed onto

but must consider her position in relation to

the podium, urging me to come to the front so

everyone else. Toe height, turn out and

she could take a picture. I preferred to hang

crossing are undoubtedly important, but

back and revel in the accomplishments of

it is infinitely more vital that one sense

eight girls, one team. For us, third place

the motion of the entire team.

resulted in unprecedented elation. For

The regional competition was

us, Eleanor Roosevelt’s wisdom, “The

held in an upscale hotel in Chicago.

future belongs to those who believe in

After a whirlwind morning of attach-

the beauty of their dreams,” resonated

ing wigs and gluing socks in place,

magnificently.

we donned royal blue dresses with

multicolored threads intertwined

we were filled with a joy so effusive it

to replicate figures in the Book of

bubbled over. Our teacher saw us and

Kells. All too soon, we were march-

called out, “Congratulations girls, you

ing up the stairs two at a time: shoul-

qualified for nationals!” We had be-

ders back, chins up, smiles

plas-

come “her girls.” Somehow that used

tered on our faces. As we formed our

to seem so much more important. As

familiar square, those smiles exploded

the flash of a professional photographer

into all-out grins. Forget the possibility

temporarily blinded me, I was reminded

of wearing plastic medal at the awards

of the implicit dreams that bolstered our

ceremony. We had trained to dance. That

team, and I realized that the shared remi-

is what we did. Unerringly.

niscences of rehearsals were infinitely more

Four hours later, the anticipated

brilliant than the five minutes of

awards ceremony began. Anything less than first place would render

As our team burst out of the hall,

disenchantment for a veteran

external

recognition we received. Competition has only so much to do with trophies. It has everything to do

with

team. After an eternity, our age category was announced. I

the unity that stems from the pursuit of a collective ambi-

had visualized this moment for months, but suddenly felt

tion.

unprepared. Eighth

place (Wait, not yet.), seventh

(How will we reach the stage?), sixth (Oh my gosh, we’re Art above: Liam Dale (12)

25

Landscape Everything these days is stained with the inevitable, a polished apple falling out of a tree and into your hands. And why should it be that the wind blows down the grasses as a car comes driving by? Or that the flat gray sidewalk mimics the sky that’s slowly moving, smeared and worn through in spots, like an old newspaper.

Some kinds of weather can make fruit trees look like birds or banks look like the Parthenon.

The sun is ringing like a telephone.

If you lived out here, you would understand that nothing is too perfect to be true, that a thunderstorm really can make buildings fall and people fall with them at the same speed.

26

Alex McElhose (11)

~ Hannah Walser (10)

The Bystander But you insisted. You always insist.

The trees straightened up in anticipation of your next words, terribly overdressed and much too eager, waiting for a sign like minor characters in someone’s plan, clutching their suitcases in the airport.

Are you powerful? Forgetful? You make the ground bow under your weight. Autumn: hold.

~ Hannah Walser (10)

27

28

Seung-Hyun Row (10)

Light Years I looked up your phone number today.

Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to call you— I just wanted to know. The strange thing was I couldn’t find you in the phone book.

Now that I think of it, maybe that’s not so strange. After all, you’ve always been unattainable; why shouldn’t you be imaginary, too? But that’s not right.

You must be like one of those stars, long gone, burned up before we were born, but still visible to us down here, because we don’t know any better.

~ Hannah Walser (10)

29

Prime Mover

30

A spirograph of stars is shining down on diorama buildings—pyramids, milky columns embellished with silver flying gnats. Once I had a dream with all the planets in the sky at once, like marbles that sank into the predawn haze. I seem to remember a book about a sultan with a black marble pool lit from inside, the smell of coins, getting lost underwater.

The deeper down, the more your eyes and ears close up, the light becomes more green. Could you, if you dive down far enough, emerge on the other side, there to regain your senses— dripping and cold, the heavens now a room, a cave—and echoing across the orbits, the flashbulbs of all those who came before.

~ Hannah Walser (10)

Wesley Rikkers (11)

Anna Sanders (11)

Picture Perfect Emma Chmielewski (10)

W

hen you think of a perfect mom, you may think of a woman who has a million errands to run but

never shows the stress of it. She is strong and clever but not in a way that makes you look inferior or feel insecure. She is happy with herself and you and her life with you. She is a woman who loves you more than life itself. She always has time for you and will always be there for you. My mom is not like this. She is not a picture

perfect woman, for

so I pull them back.

she has memories that sometimes haunt her.

She turns her attention to herself, pulling down the

My abrupt return to consciousness, by means of a cruel

co-pilot mirror with her weather-beaten hands. She reaches

buzzing in my ear, triggers my hand to rise up quickly and

up and touches her forever-freckled and slightly-angular

come down sharply on the alarm clock. I groan and roll

cheekbones with her thin fingers. Her startling green eyes

over, thinking to myself, “Please, just five more

minutes

suddenly turn watery as they moisten with the memory

of sleep, please.” I continue on this futile train of thought

that bubbles up inside her today, threatening to make her

until I convince myself to get out of my warm, soft bed,

mascara run. She snaps shut the mirror as big drops of rain

telling myself, “Oh, be quiet. You know someone has been

hit the car. Slowly, her over-bright eyes turn skyward, and

up longer than you.” The first thing I hear is my mom watch-

she gazes through the sunroof at the stormy sky. Dark-gray,

ing her morning yoga tape that tells her to breathe in and

ominous clouds obscure the unseen sun that seems far away

out, in and out. At 6:45 she has already made breakfast for

today. It was raining that day, too, she reminds me. “He

my 12-year-old sister, who is perfectly capable of making

would have been a freshman now if….” Her shaky voice

it herself, and she has ironed my dad’s shirt so he will not

stops dead in her throat, and her eyes close once more.

make my sister iron it.

Within two minutes she has fallen asleep again.

A few minutes after I start the car, I see her bright-

When we reach school, she is still asleep. She only

red, slightly-flyaway hair and seem to wake up more. By

wakes up as I quietly turn the car off. I would like to stay

the time we reach Lake Mills at 7:00 a.m., her fiery, curly-

here, but I know I must go inside. As I unbuckle my seatbelt,

haired head is already burrowed in the headrest, and her

she opens her bleary eyes and gives me a bright, peaceful

puffy eyelids under her too thin eyebrows are hiding her

smile. I smile shyly back. “I love you Emma,” she says, her

sparkling green eyes.

eyes tearing again.

She deserves the sleep she is getting now, for only in

“I love you too, Mom.” As I walk into the school, I

sleep is she truly relaxed; however, as though she has heard

realize what she dreamt about and smile weakly to myself.

me thinking about her, she awakens to resume her perfect posture. She shoots me a look that speaks for itself and says, “Emma!” She has noticed that my shoulders are hunched,

31

Open-Air Theater

By Fall’s invitation the clouds come to meet him.

Their ears aren’t what they used to be, so they’ll gather close with all the wisdom that gray eyes, gray beards, and gray sighs convey.

They don’t care much about speeding citations, rip-off dealers in the park.

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” her smile as she closed the door.

32

But they’ll watch with respect.

Private audience to a show too chaotic to follow most times.

And they don’t mind a bit-part’s stage fright or bother too much if he mumbles his lines.

They’ll rustle applause all the same and often shower the stage with fire bouquets.

Spring’s clouds prefer a balcony seat.

They splatter the players with spittle.

Their laughter twitters and chirps mistimed, offbeat, regardless of script.

Open-air theater takes getting used to.

There is no exit stage left. ~ Eric Prendergast (12)

Nicholas Richardson (11)

Stella Elise Meyers (11)

“It’s a perfect living room,” I think, collapsing into the downy embrace of an oversized leather chair. It is the kind of living room I envied in House Beautiful magazines as a young adult sitting amidst hodge-podge hand-me-downs.

I pull off the handkerchief on my head, letting my tangled hair tumble over the back of the chair. My husband and I had spent numerous nights deliberating the colors for the chair. “Olive green would blend with the forest behind our house.” “But cranberry would hide wine stains.” It was the

33

practical confronting the aesthetic. Within a few nights he had convinced me of cranberry’s benefits. Now I look at the feather duster in my hand, imagining half-empty glasses of Merlot held precariously in hands

shaking with

attack the pictures on the mantle like chickens pecking at

laughter, and a warm sensation of love for my husband

corn seeds scattered on the ground. I tolerate their peck-

squeezes my heart.

ing, their uttering callous words and chuckles, but inside I

Energized from a minute of closed eyes, I put

hate. I hate their large amethyst necklaces falling into the

the duster to use cleaning the mantle. When I do the

crack between their enhanced breasts. An intense need to

weekly house cleaning, the mantle always comes last. My

clutch the picture of my daughter against the rise and fall

grandfather made it for me, a simple shelf of oak, with

of my chest overcomes me, and I hastily lead them into the

the instructions, “Display your love here.” I didn’t disobey

kitchen, offering them wine which they criticize as well.

him. There are only two pictures on the mantle in plain

oak frames. Many neighbors, especially the extravagant

Thomas, murmurs, hugging my waist from behind. “And

old women who spend their weekends at estate sales, have

why are you holding the picture of Stella?”

criticized its stark simplicity. I always accept their comments

with a smile that conceals the tears rushing into position

wood frame. “I was thinking, I guess.” The moment when

behind my eyelids. Encouraged by my smile, they fall into

I grasped the picture is unclear in my mind. I faintly hear

chatter about the “new styles” and their artlessness. On

my husband chuckle at my reply, but Stella’s face has me

days when my smile gives them especial confidence, they

engrossed. A kiss falls onto my cheek but flies away with

“Darling, don’t look so hateful,” my husband,

“Oh!” I exclaim looking down at the top of the

34

the sounding of a buzzer. My oversized shirt rustles against

And then, in order to feel useful, he adds, “Well,

my back with the wind of someone passing behind me. The

I’ll go fold the napkins for the table.” I don’t protest as he

picture shows her the healthiest she has ever looked in her

leaves the room, though he folded the napkins last night.

three years of life. Her cheeks are plump and brushed with

I grab a glass of cold water from the refrigerator

rose petals. The rolls of fat on her legs squish out against the

and drink while looking out the window at my garden. For

blanket my mother sewed for her first Christmas. Her arms,

five years those flowers were my babies. The joy that used to

thin but flushed, protrude from puffed, green velvet sleeves

spread through my body when they would open their faces

and clutch our calico cat. The laugh she emitted when the

and talk to the sunlight was the same joy that spread through

cat tickled her with her whiskers still plays in my ears. She

my body when Stella gave her first cry. My watering can was

laughs now, but it’s a laugh that makes her breathless. The

the spoon piled with mushed carrots and avocado that I fed

why’s start plaguing my mind. Why does joy take her breath

to Stella. The flowers flourished, bloomed and conquered

away? But I force them to stop,

their beds, but Stella....“Did I do something wrong?” I ask

fervently dusting the

rest of the mantle and the

myself for the millionth

crucifix hanging above. As

time. The tears creep into

I brush the dust from the

position behind my eyelids,

arms of the cross, the why’s

but I swallow them back

begin again. Contempt at

into my depths. I sigh and

that innocent, naked man

look around the kitchen for

with his head hung over in

something to clean. The

anguish flows through my

granite countertop gleams,

body. “Why do you give me

spotless, and all the stray

a child after years of being

appliances are stored in

barren and then make her

their assigned cabinets. The

suffer?” I whisper to the

silver tea set lies ready and

crucifix. “Why did you only

polished near the swinging

half-grant my prayers? Where are your miracles now?”

door into the dining room. I inhale deeply the aromas of

I reach up and lift Jesus off the wall when my

sun-dried tomato quiches, tea steeping, kiwi tarts, and white

husband shouts, “Sophia! How much more time should

chocolate scones, arousing my hunger. My blue jeans rustle

I put on the scones?” Thomas’ balding head looks into

as I walk toward the dining room to check the table, and

the living room. Replacing the crucifix, I start toward the

suddenly I realize I have not dressed yet.

kitchen. “No, no, I can do it, Sophia. You should take a

rest. You’ve been cleaning all day.” His protests follow me

worse,” I think, looking through my closet. I used to enjoy

as I enter the kitchen, check the scones, and add more

opening my closet and admiring the shimmering rainbow.

time to the oven, ensuring that none of the food for the

Carelessly I grab a rust-colored, bias-cut skirt and the match-

reunion gets ruined.

ing peasant top, almost forgetting to put on

“Clothes matter so little now since Stella got

deodorant.

“I’ll manage,” I reply, firmly gazing into his brown

As I curl my hair and apply makeup to cover up any tear

eyes. He quivers under that gaze and utters, “Okay, but

lines, Stella skips through the open door and presses my

take it easy.”

bare leg to her pale cheek.

Art above: Ian Thornberry (11)

“Momma’s beautiful,” she says, raising her arms for a hug. I squat in front of her, one cheek with blush, one

to make children feel special. Stella pushes herself out of my lap and grabs her favorite rag doll, Pinky.

without and tickle her exposed, flat stomach.

“Can Momma have a kiss?” Her arms press my

She combs the doll’s yarn hair with her fingers and questions, “Momma, why can’t I go to day care?”

curls to my neck, and with wet lips she kisses my unblushed

“Well, because you need a lot of special care that

cheek.

only mommy and daddy can give you.” As I say the last few “I’m going to swing,” she remarks, an expres-

words, I think of Thomas’ excuses to avoid Stella and of

sion of determination spreading over her face. “Daddy

his extravagant spending. Special care is something he does

pushes me high.” Her eyes look at me but see something

not give; he gives a façade, a façade that our life is normal

I

and his daughter—perfect.

cannot see.

“Do you want me to help you get dressed?” I ques-

“It’s my heart’s fault, right?” she says poking at the

tion her. As an answer she grabs my hand and leads me to

heart embroidered on her doll’s chest.

her room. The hallway displays sequential photos of Stella’s

“firsts”: one shows her mouth smeared with gooey cracker,

creeping from its hiding place. Stella entered the world with-

a spoon held firmly in her hand; another shows her arms

out a cry, and though I was exhausted, I found the energy

balancing her first barefoot steps. When friends look at the

to be terrified. The doctors took her from my sight to suck

pictures, they often question her age. “She’s too young to

the fluid from her nose and beat her lungs into working.

have done that and certainly too small.”

They brought her back, crying, but with cold, blue fingers

My husband and I just smile with pride. “Yes she’s

“Yes, it’s your heart’s fault,” I reply, despite the guilt

and toes. I was supervised as I nursed her and then she was

quite advanced for her age.”

gone. They tested her. Every wail of pain she uttered I felt

in my womb.

“Momma, it has buttons.” Stella brings me the shirt

my husband had laid out on her bed. I pull the buttons

The doctor came back, his face stoic. He began

apart, and she wriggles into my lap, her arms above her

his dooming report: “Failure to thrive...often breathless....

head waiting for the shirt. As I carefully slip the shirt over

She’ll need lots of attention and specialized care....You’ll be

her head, my hands rest on her chest, her ribs like a corset

wonderful parents.” And he left, shaking our hands. Thomas

against my fingers. “Momma, your hands are cold,” she

sat stone-faced during the report, his knuckles turning white

says pushing my hands away and turning to face me. Her

as he clenched the arms of the chair. Even I couldn’t find

face is hauntingly pale and her lips—blue. She smiles, but

the energy to cry. That came later in deep rumbles. After

it is labored like the breaths heaving from her lungs. I dare

the handshake, Thomas picked up the remote and escaped

not ask her if she feels well, fearing the answer may bring

into a golf tournament. We sat in

more doctors’ visits and more pain. Instead, I embrace her

minds asking the same question, “Why?” Our life was a

and swallow my tears. She lays her head on my breast, and

perfect banana split, and this baby girl was to be the cherry

I watch it rise and fall with my breath. “Momma, your heart

on top, but she was only half a cherry buried deep within

sounds so pretty.” She pounds a perfect clump, clump on

the ice cream. She was our wish upon a star, but instead of

the floor. “My heart sounds like Aunt Ruth’s sneezes. Shoo,

receiving our wish, we received the star. And so, her birth

shoo!” I chuckle at her joke but sense her serious tone and

certificate reads: Cherry Estella Barnfeld.

stop.

“You’re heart’s unique,” I utter the phrase patented

silence, both our

“Momma, momma, momma!” Stella shakes my

knees, sending her into a fit of coughing. I quickly reach for her inhaler and together we breathe deep long breaths,

35

in and out. I hear Thomas shuffling around our bedroom

“I don’t think we should have the reunion,” I re-

but know he will not come. Once the cheerful chatter of

mark, laying Stella on her bed. She stirs awake with a little

Stella playing with her dolls starts again, he will come, ready

coo but finds Pinky and drifts away.

to take her to the park.

Downstairs the doorbell rings. I hear him plod

“What?!” Thomas exclaims following me out of the room.

down the staircase, eager for another way to escape the

sound of her labored breathing. Brushing her blond wisps

in front of me.

of hair off her sweaty forehead, I kiss her. “Momma?” she

implores.

it off! What would your friends think?” Thomas stands in

front of me, the white around his brown eyes exposed in

“Shhh,” I whisper rocking her. The cheerful,

everything’s-okay grumble of Thomas’ voice climbs the

“The reunion was your idea, Sophia. You can’t call

fear.

stairs. “I’ll be back in a moment, Carrie. Do make yourself

36

“Close the door please,” I remind him as he pushes

“My friends would think that something

un-

comfortable.”

expected came up, and they would leave without

com-

plaints,” I reply in as calm and soothing a voice as I can

Stella’s eyelids close, and her mind leaves for a

coughless world. I hum a variation of Brahms’ Lullaby

muster, close to tears.

and lean back against the wall. “Sophia! Carrie’s here. Go

down and see her or else she’ll think something’s wrong,”

have the party. We’re a normal family. Nothing’s wrong!”

Thomas urges, walking briskly into Stella’s room. I glare up

Thomas plunges toward Stella’s room, shaking. I press my

at him with the be-quiet, you-go-entertain look. He starts to mumble a retort as I struggle to rise with Stella in my arms.

“No, no! Your friends won’t think that.

You’ll

body tightly against the doorframe.

“Stop it! You’re

crazy, Thomas!” I shout, hearing echoes from Thomas’

I grasp her hand, and we walk down to the living room,

episodes in the past.

Stella bouncing on every stair.

“Please, please, Sophia. Don’t shout! Carrie will

“Yes, Sophia works at home, writing voraciously

hear us.” He puts his hand firmly over my mouth. I remain

and being a wonderful mother. Speaking of Sophia, here

silent, slowing my breathing and allowing him to calm. Then

she is.” Thomas and Carrie stand as I enter the room.

I clutch his wrist, gently pulling it off my mouth, along the

“My gosh, Carrie, you look gorgeous!” I exclaim,

contours of my body, and letting it rest on my waist. His

embracing her. Her hair has faded early to a pale gray and is

eyes move rapidly around the hall, never looking directly

pulled tightly into a bun at her nape. She stands with perfect

at me. I feel his breath, hot and smelling of Altoids.

posture, her long, slender legs giving the illusion of height.

Her eyes explore the room, smiling when they see Stella.

With the grace of a gymnast on a balance beam,

I turn and open the door to Stella’s room. She sits on her

“Your house is as cozy and colorful as I imagined,

bed, Pinky pressed against her chest, quivering. Thomas

Sophia. And, of course, it’s in shades of green,” Carrie

tries to push his way into the room. “Thomas,” I whisper,

says, gesturing around the room. “And who is that darling?

“Go entertain Carrie. Oh, and make sure you have Stella’s

Is that Stella?”

sunscreen and coat.”

“Why must she wear that?” Thomas protests.

combination of age and thoughts I think. This is Stella.” We

“People give me the oddest looks when they see I’m hold-

chuckle, remembering the days when we could memorize

ing the hand of a kid in a winter coat when it’s hot.”

massive amounts of facts.

“Do it.” I go over to Stella and smooth her hair as

Thomas leaves the room.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I entirely forgot to introduce you. A

Stella comes up and hugs my leg, kissing my bare skin. “Goodbye Momma.”

“Have fun swinging.” I pick her up. Her cheek

“Momma, can I go swing now?” Stella asks, her

blushes under the warm touch of my lips. Doubt and fear

concern concealed. I suck back a sob, re-

rustle in my soul as I look at her. She seems so sick, should

membering the times I have

I let her go? Should I have this party? Thomas has already

denied her.

made the decision for me.

He urges, “Stella, come on.”

“Don’t forg et her coat and sun-

Eric Prendergast (12)

37

screen,” I yell after them. My husband turns and fixes me

give them away. I sigh as pangs of fear clutch my heart.

in a look of disgust and nervous fear. I walk to him and

“You shouldn’t have let her go. She wasn’t doing well,” my

smack a large kiss on his lips, making it look passionate and

conscience repeats. I turn my head toward the sliver of

“normal” as he would say. Despite the kiss, his face returns

sky gazing through the window over the sink. “Dear God,

to the look of disgust. “Good-bye Thomas, darling,” I add,

please protect my Stella,” I pray and wait, looking at the sky.

forced and fake.

A cloud blows in front of the sun and for a moment the

My friend, Emily, steps into the foyer as Thomas

world darkens. I’m alone, and the thought causes tears to

returns the forced good-bye. “Wow, my dear, everything

slide down my cheeks. Emily’s laugh rolls into the kitchen,

looks so marvelous. Oh and you’re thin, too thin, Sophia.”

and I grab a tissue, escaping into the safety of memory.

Emily embraces me, her bangle bracelets scratching my arms and her hoop earrings hitting my cheek.

38

“My, that food looks absolutely delectable!” Emily exclaims, and Carrie gives an approving look. The conversa-

“And how is the drama queen? Still quite good at

tion dwindles to a few sporadic jokes as we eat. “What to

grand entrances I see,” I joke, and we sway in our embrace

do with that last scone?” Emily questions when we finish

as delightful memories overpower the present struggles.

eating. “Now at parties in New York, we’d give the scone to

“Do you remember when we did Arsenic and Old

the person with the worst life.” Carrie and I nod our heads

Lace junior year? You were so beautiful as Elaine. And the

in agreement. “I’ll go first,” Emily volunteers. “Well, just a

flirting. Remember the flirting? You were vicious,” Emily

week ago, I came home early from rehearsal, unlocked the

says, spitting out the last word and laughing.

door to my apartment, quietly in case the kids were sleep-

“At least, I didn’t kill people for fun like you did

ing, and saw two heads peeking over the back of the sofa.

‘Martha.’ I was always jealous of you. You played that role

I recognized one head as my husband and the other as his

so well,” I compliment Emily, noticing how little she has

co-star in the film he was making. They were tangled in

changed.

each other’s arms and watching a soap opera. I waited until

“Now, isn’t Carrie supposed to be here?” Emily

that night to confront him about the affair. He denied it at

says, looking around the foyer. “Oh, there you are. Still as

first, but I had too much evidence against him. Next week

quiet and angelic as ever, I see.” Emily pulls the reluctant

the divorce papers will be

Carrie into an embrace. “But you are married my dear,”

on I’ll be the only provider for three kids.” She finishes to

Emily comments when she senses Carrie pulling away.

an empathetic silence. Carrie shakes her head, and I reach

“Why don’t we go into the dining room?” I

sug-

across to touch Emily’s

complete, and from then

shoulder. “Well this is not sup-

gest, motioning toward the archway into the dining room.

posed to make people feel sorry for each other. All right,

“Oh it’s breathtaking. And those smells. I forgot

Carrie, your turn,” Emily exclaims, her forced happiness

how hungry I really was. Long car rides will do that to you,”

piercing the silence.

Emily exclaims, fingering the lace tablecloth and crystal

“My life doesn’t have that kind of struggle in it.

chandelier. Carrie follows, chuckling quietly at Emily’s

In fact, it’s quite monotonous. I worked doing research for

vivacity. “So, how is life, Carrie?” Emily questions, sitting

over twelve years after graduate school. Nothing ever came

in the closest chair. I leave for the kitchen as the two delve

of it, except a few nationally recognized papers restating

into their private lives.

what others had proved before. And the rest of my life was

The smile dissolves from my face. Her booster seat

almost too perfect. My son was a genius at mathe- matics,

lies in a corner because Thomas refuses to let her use it.

and my husband loved me entirely. Yet I hated my job,

Baby utensils hide inside the colander so Thomas will not

and I failed to recognize the social awkwardness of my

son. While I was in the process of looking for a new job, I came home one day, called out for my son and no answer. I found him wedged between the

received toilet and

the sink, blood covering the floor. Now work is all I can do, the dull repetition of filling test tubes, turning them and watching for nothing to happen…” Carrie fades off, tears starting to flow. Both Emily and I take Carrie’s hands and comfort her.

“Why don’t you just eat the scone Emily?” I suggest becoming quite depressed with Emily’s “game.”

“No, no, Sophia. You tell about your life and then

I’ll eat it,” Emily insists.

I sit up in my chair, smoothing the napkin on my lap and turning my wedding ring around my finger. “I felt the same way you did Carrie. I knew, after my husband and I purchased this house, that everything was perfect. I planted a garden the first spring we were here and nursed it. My husband deferred to anything I would say. The only problem was that I couldn’t have children. The doctor said

39

it would take multiple surgeries to make children possible.

We started looking at adoption centers then, but that would always bring me to tears. At last, my period skipped a few months. The news was joyous. I was to have a little girl right around Christmas. You both saw Stella. Well, she’s not healthy, not at all. She has a congenital heart defect and suffers from congestive heart failure. Already, she’s been through two surgeries and multiple tests. My husband denies that anything is wrong and refuses to make our lives look anything but normal. Today, I have this feeling that Stella is going to die soon. I’ve lost all faith in anything and anyone.” I utter the last line and look up into Emily’s tearful eyes. We embrace and sob.

“Oh my dear, you get the scone, I think,” Emily says, wiping her nose and pushing the silver platter

to-

ward me. I’m just about to put the scone on my plate when the doorbell sounds. My heart spasms, and for a moment I can’t move. I know something bad has

happened to

Stella. Emily grabs my hand, and together we go to answer the door. A police officer stands framed by the brilliant,

Perynne Danis (10)

life-giving, spring sun, holding Stella in his arms.

“Ma’am, may I come in?” he says in a gruff but

sofa echoes in my mind, and I feel her gaze penetrating me

consoling manner. I gesture that he may. Stella reaches out

but looking beyond. The sun falls

for me, but I can’t hold her. “I think it might be best if we

sucking the color from the world, and I stop to watch

sit, ma’am,” the officer continues as Stella begins to whine in

its last

his arms. He sets Stella on the sofa next to him and Carrie

disappears so also will my love for Thomas disappear. Yet

joins us. “Ma’am, we found your daughter strapped into a

the love holds on as if waiting for something. The love has

swing at the park. She was perfectly silent so it’s a miracle

hope, my last

anyone found her. When we asked her why she was at the park alone, she pointed toward the cornfield behind the park

40

vibrating over hills. The thud of Stella’s shoes against the behind the horizon,

moments of grandeur. I vow that when the sun

hope.

The corn snaps

behind me, becoming progres-

sively louder until a hand presses on my shoulder. I watch

and said that her daddy had

the sun, praying it will sink

gone there. We have a search

with my love, before I must

team out right now, looking

face him. “Sophia, you should

for your

husband.”

go home,” he says in a tone

Tears refused to

that suggests I just wandered

come; God refused to come.

from home and he found me.

I sat there empty, Emily strok-

I remain silent, sensing he

ing my hand and Carrie cry-

wants to say more. He tries

ing. Stella looked at me with

to grasp my hand, but I pull

her distant expression, her

away. “Sophia, I’m sorry. It’s

feet kicking the sofa. A con-

just…it was too much. I had

stant thud, thud, thud like his

to.” The tears, forgotten for

footfalls running from me,

so long, rush from my eyes.

running from her. How dare

He hands me a tissue, but I

he? I stood, left the room, left

just let them fall, hoping they

the house, and ran after him.

will dilute my anger.

Turning to him, I say sarcastically, “It was too much for you. You did nothing! Who quit work so she could care night and day for her daughter? Who takes her daughter to appointments and visits her after surgeries?

The corn encircles my waist, catching on the pleats in my skirt. At first I had run, smashing through the rows at a diagonal and screaming, “Thomas!” until I could taste blood * in my throat. Now I walk, the fresh * * stalks of corn snapping under my feet. Every few minutes I shout for him but am hopeless. The playground is merely a colorful haze behind me. Before me stretch rows of corn like waves

Who tries to make her daughter’s life a little better so she might live a few more days? Who?” I cut off, the sobs shaking my body. He just watches, shucking undeveloped ears of corn and tearing them into a pile at his feet.

Then he pushes the pile over and says, “I know.

But, darling, you must understand.” His eyes stare at me. “You must understand that I tried. I tried to step in

Amanda Roark (11)

41

when you needed me.” I begin to mumble a retort, but

his right cheek where I had kissed him for the first time.

he

“Goodnight my love,” I whisper into his ear and crunch

the first

quiets me. “You see, you never needed me. From moment we saw Stella, you took her. You de-

voted your entire heart to her, and you didn’t leave a place for me. Stella was always your daughter and never mine.”

He chokes on the last words. I watch him in disbelief as he cries, the sobs making his powerful shoulders tremble, and for the first time I see the guilt, the love, the anguish spill from him as he begs for my forgiveness. I reach for his hand and pull him up, embracing him. We stand there for a moment, our embrace becoming tighter. Then I kiss

back through the darkness.

The Work of the Heavens Inspired by A Twilight in the Wilderness by Frederick Edwin Church

When aged dew lies crystallizing on wintry grass, And darkness reigns, She awakes from her slumber.

She creeps from beneath her infinite bed sheet To rid the world of its gelid state.

The most intrepid shadows persist, But she toils on, climbing, Forcing the darkness to retreat until its expiration.

She bestows life on the beasts and foliage, And they rejoice beneath her warmth and splendor.

Then weary from her employment, She begins her resplendent descent And retires beyond sight or reach As the shadows reclaim the earth Until her jubilant resurrection on the morrow.

42

~ Mark Murphy (11)

Opening Night Welcome to the magician’s hat behind the Magic, beyond the illusions, past the colored lights, misty fog, the razzle-dazzle, underneath the fast, callous, buzz of crowds.

Here, in this sea of black curtains, blue light, and hushed anticipation reality drowns in fantasy, and the surreal reigns supreme, silent, painted ghosts with childlike eyes flicker.

We are the make-believe shaped, cast, fashioned into Stars that glow as the shadowy mantle falls twilight now—the wide-eyed figments of imagination stir night closes in from the depths of the blue, black sea—beating with a child’s heart—we float forward.

The dream is Dawning, the magic— a deep Life breath— plunge into blinding white light and Begin.

43

~ Greta van Lith (12)

Wesley Rikkers (11)

Nature and I I surrender to the opulence, the vibrant red and violet, yellow and green bursting forth from the flower-laden field painting sheer majesty across my eye.

44

I inhabit a tranquil place beneath the valley crest.

Inconsequential, I nestle safely in between mountains of massive height, unwavering structure and jagged depth, home to wolf, bear and panther, a myriad of creatures and species existing in perfect order and harmony.

I feel the sun’s transient, fleeting rays as it weightlessly floats across the incandescent sky.

I labor aimlessly against the unbridled torrents that hurl me onto the great blue expanse.

I subsist on the apple tree’s favor under which I sleep by night and by day I peacefully make my sanctuary.

I heed the owl’s warning and dance to a hummingbird’s jovial song.

I frolic alongside the fawn, slightly prancing on the grass, before she races away with the wind’s grace.

I implore you to grasp your celestial roots, and in the boundless wild, cosmic and inexorable yet simple and perfect to live deliberately.

~ Seth Kunin-Goldsmith (11)

Juvenile Transcendentalism Chris Marotta (11)

“What is life?” Richard wondered. He suddenly

“Yes.”

realized that to ask that question was completely cliché and

“Well, Dad, what are we going to do about that? If

beyond acceptable thought-patterns for the youth of

to-

we continue to ignore the starving population of the world

day. Richard Bennet, however, could not help but

let

while we selfishly wash and rewash our fancy, capitalist, ce-

himself slip back into a realm of the pointless metaphysical.

ramic plates, we’ll never get anywhere. I trust in you, as the

“Isn’t life, then, one whole cliché if we can’t talk about it?

head of the family, to make a difference in our world.”

What is my future? What is the point?”

Kornheiser’s secretary tomorrow. I’m going to take every

“You’ll go to school for fifteen more years to be

“Son, I completely agree. You start working as Dr.

a doctor, and then you’ll work until you die. Now get off

penny you earn and send it to Guatemala.”

your butt and clean the dishes.” Richard’s father had always

had high hopes for his son. He had given him doctor toys,

And no pay? And still washing dishes? Richard prayed fer-

doctor clothes, doctor books, signed pictures of doctors and

vently that his heart would leap out of his stomach, up his

had taken him to the hospital every Saturday since Richard

throat, and mercifully kill him. The mere thought of work-

was five.

ing for Kornheiser almost brought him to tears. Lying in his

As Richard lay on his bed, though, he lacked

bed at two in the afternoon on a beautiful day with Saturday

motivation. He had always been a lazy kid. Richard never

cartoons waiting for him downstairs, it was too much to

enjoyed playing baseball or soccer when he was younger.

take in. Unfortunately, Mr. Bennet pulled him off the bed

His sport of choice was sleeping. Even eating breakfast on

onto the floor,

Richard felt his heart jump into his stomach. Work?

the weekends took too much energy. Now it was summer, Richard’s “golden time.” Who the heck did Mr. Bennet think he was barging in on it?

“Dad, I’ve decided that dishes

are no longer important. We waste gallons of water washing them and drying them and washing them. I’ve

decided the only

way to save our planet is to eat off paper plates.”

“But won’t that kill

trees, son?”

“Dad, did you know

that there are starving people in Guatemala?”

Tam Daychapratoomwan (11)

45

interrupting Richard’s inner pine of despair.

“Ow! What are you trying to do Dad? Fracture my

46

by this point, one of the greatest and bravest explorers of mid-afternoon, Richard strutted out into the main hall and

spine and stunt my growth permanently? You want to make

promptly fell down the stairs.

me into a walking freak with no summer just working for

a crackpot doctor. Man, this is crazy! How can I be stressed

Bennet with a sweeping smile. “I see Mister Sleepy-Head

out on the first week of summer?”

decided to get up to do the dishes.”

“It’s the third week of summer, son. Now get

“Well, good morning honeybunch!” swooned Mrs.

“Holy crap mom, there’s like a week’s worth of

downstairs before I get you a night job at Taco Bell.”

dishes in the sink.”

Finally, Mr. Bennet went downstairs, leaving

“Don’t swear!” Mrs. Bennet railed back, suddenly

Richard to his own devices. Richard briefly considered that

losing her air of tender motherhood and whacking

Rich-

his father was bluffing about Taco Bell, but nonetheless he

ard over the head. Mrs. Bennet was a completely different

hoisted himself off the ground. He then went straight for

creature than Richard’s father. If Mr. Bennet was

the light but quickly turned it off and jumped back into

gerous, Mrs. Bennet was deadly. The alpha dog of the family,

bed. Richard slapped himself, imagined crafting a Taco

Mrs. Bennet was a ticking time bomb with a short fuse. It all

Bell burrito, and jumped back out. Considering himself,

depended on what mood you caught her in, and how lucky

dan-

you were feeling. While Richard could handle his father in

look cool. Uncle Deke never had kids of his own, so he

verbal jousting, his mother floored all attempts at civilized

adopted all the families on the block. He was starting to

conversation. Mrs. Bennet got things done but was far more

show his age, unable to party like he used to. Only vaguely

ruthless than Mr. Bennet. She could call Richard’s bluffs and

annoying, he misplaced pop culture phrases in everyday

threaten punishment without blinking or taking a breath. A

conversation. Uncle Deke also smoked a lot of the

formidable opponent for Richard, he often was the victim

bidden grass” of the earth to enhance his “cool” outlook

of the awesome power that the small and seemingly-quaint

on life, though he did not particularly like it. He bought it

woman wielded. But sometimes, just sometimes, if Richard

from a 14-year-old down the street, but the 35-year-old still

struck hard and fast, he could wrangle victory from the jaws

has not found out that it is actually real grass.

of the beast. Richard, however, always told people with a

strained smile that he loved his mother no matter what.

in the kitchen. Despite everything, Richard liked Uncle

Today that love was a little iffy, though.

Deke, if only for the reason that he offset his own parents.

As Richard tirelessly toiled at the sink, Uncle Deke

“Howzit hangin’ dawgs. I was just in the neighborhood,

walked into the kitchen. “‘Sup dudes!” Uncle Deke did not

wonderin’ if R-mac wanted to take an old man on in some

live there. He was not even Richard’s real uncle, just a burnt-

chillin’ b-ball old school.”

out old surfer and a neighbor that hung around trying to

“for-

That particular day Uncle Deke was not expected

“I’m sorry, Uncle Deke, but Richard just started

47

Austin Josephs (11)

the dishes, and…”

“Dishes are wack. B-ball shizzles the nizzle out of

dishes any day. They’ll be there when Richard drops a line later.” That meant that Uncle Deke thought he was high and wanted to stumble around in the park while Richard listened to him make up stories about the “good ole days.”

It beat dishes, though his psycho mother, who disapproved of Uncle Deke’s Bohemian ways, was still a problem.

“Like heck, Deke. Richard needs to learn some

responsibility. All he’s done this summer is loaf around and do nothing. He’s avoided chores all week, and I’ll be damned if he slimes out of…”

“Jeezy creezy, Martha! That neighbor kid’s dawg is

all over your lawn!”

“What? Where? I’ll strangle that little rat if he

touches my South American begonias.”

That was my cue to run out with Uncle Deke while

Mom got out the pepper spray. We barely made it out the

48

front door, when Mom yelled at me to come back in. I tried to look like something more urgent than dishes

came

up.

“Man, Rich, I don’t mean to sound whacked out,

but your madre needs to start transcending fo’ real. Ya feel me?”

“Yeah, I feel ya, Uncle Deke,” replied Richard mo-

rosely. Walking down the sidewalk with a man going through a mid-life crisis before reaching middle age, Richard realized something. He was fifteen; why the heck did he have to worry about the meaning of his life? Rich came to the conclusion that he is happy right where he is, revelation or no glorious revelation.

glorious

Mountain Afternoon A Reflection on The Notch of the White Mountains by Thomas Cole

Piercing through an azure sky Shafts of golden light spread their rays, Smiling upon the jagged, lined face Of the sculpted mountainside and Illuminating the russet valley below, like hope Shining into the windows of the soul.

From the serenity and splendor of the lofty peak Cascades the gentle mist, Settling like a quilt of beaded glass Upon the glistening, tranquil pond, Enshrouding all life in mystery and peace.

Above the twisted remnants of ancient trees, Brooding clouds steal silently across the crystalline heavens, Shifting heavily with their suppressed pearls Of thirst-quenching moisture, Cloaking the imposing granite cliffs with their darkness.

The earth waits, with a subdued yet expectant spirit, For life to spring from the black shadows Like miracles born as rainbows When the sun wipes away the leftover tears That hang in the sky.

~ Alaina Ritter (11)

Alex McElhose (11)

49

Glass Her tiny toes tickle the water, glass Like shards of mirror softly pleasant Around her ankles, shallow where she casts Her legs. It’s not depth that frightens this infant.

At five years she makes the water’s pores expand With oxygen in ovals meandering Toward release. The taste, like liquid sand, A salty, greenish toxin sauntering 50

From mouth to stomach. Her cough sprays her relief.

Now sixteen, she grasps resistance in hand, Struggling, pulling her body forward in grief.

The clock mocks her, deliberate and planned.

Another last-place finish to sympathy cheers She ruptures the water like glass with her despairing tears.

~ Elise Meyers (11)

51

Peter Kraus (12)

Life’s Note With Apologies to Langston Hughes’ “Suicide’s Note”

The unknown Unexpected surprises of the future Beg me to stay They say, “Hold on Stretch your fingers to the heavens Discover hope in the faces of Friendship, Lean on the sturdy shoulder of a stranger But don’t let go Remember the warm golden rays of sunshine Laugh.

Remember the barren trees of winter Cry. 52

But don’t let go.” ~ Meghan Ross (12)

Ian Thornberry (11)