The Wayfarer 2008

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Edgewood High School 2219 Monroe Street Madison, WI 53711 www.edgewoodhs.org Volume XXIII Spring 2008

Wayfarer ‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. ~T.S. Eliot The Waste Land

Published by the students of Edgewood High School Volume XXIII Spring 2008

artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)

Staff Editors:

Louise Opel Sam McLaughlin

Technical Editor:

Rachel Underwood

Assistant Technical Editor:

Steve Underwood

Editorial and Layout Boards:

Sarah Allen Vivian Burnette Rebecca Cray Fiona Findlater Rebecca Gehrmann Ty Humphrey Alicia Kort Martha Mank Claire McLaughlin Neil Sekhon Nicholas Smith Brittany Staskal Bayley Waters Molly Winding

Cover Artist:

Martha Mank

Consultants:

Mr. Jim Ottney Mr. Mark Thering

Advisors:

Ms. Diane Mertens Ms. Teresa West-Lentz

Table of Contents Writers: 5

Pack Rat: Claire McLaughlin

27 Lady Lucerne: Sam McLaughlin

6

Sunshine Day: Maggie Wood

28 Boys and Girls: May Cho

10 Revenge: Michael Arthurs

29 Flights of Imagination: Sabena Khan

11 Owl: Max Andrews

32 Frankenstein: Portia Danis

12 Call Me a Safe Bet: Taylor Behnke

33 Life: Nicholas Smith

14 At Peace: Colin Urtes

34 The Other Son: Vivian Burnette

15 Red, White, and Blue: Doyle O’Brien

37 Upon a Misty Day: Maggie Bracey

16 A Breath of Fresh Air: Sam McLaughlin

38 Coming to America: Sabena Khan

18 Come Spring: Luke Peters

39 Drum: Chuckie Brown

19 Snow: Anneke van Lith

40 Glass in Starlight: Rachel Underwood

20 Catharsis: Sam McLaughlin

44 Last Voyage of the Amygdala: Alex Monday

21 The Forest: Mary Kate Wall 24 Letting Go: Becky Gehrmann

Artists:

Taylor Behnke (5)

Manya Hose (10)

Vivian Burnette (25, 28)

Ty Humphrey (39)

Ellen Cervantes (34, 38)

Lindsay Kloppenburg (6)

Portia Danis (31)

Caitie Kolberg (15)

Lindsay Davenport (1, 13, 14, 17, 20, 43)

Martha Mank (40)

Cosette DeChant (29)

Melissa Mutch (37)

Patrick Hansen (33)

Lauren Nebel (11)

Derek Hatley (44)

Page Schuh (22)

Laura Hiebing (27)

Elizabeth Wadium (19)

Kate Holmquist (18) Denotes Edgewood High School Writing Contest Winner

Pack Rat Claire McLaughlin (9) JUNK You may say These trivial knick-knacks of mine Rubber bands and bottle caps Paper dolls Postcards Mountains Born from desktop clutter Embedded With winking scraps of aluminum Peaks piled high With spools of colored thread JUNK You may say These charms of yesterday And yet my bones ache For such simplicity Such virtue And my greedy, sentimental fingers Will not surrender This innocence To the Devil that lies within the dustbin JUNK You may say But I am wiser I see riches In my so-called worthless trove I carry a heart Crafted from pop tabs and paper cranes And I possess a soul Filled with buttons, marbles, and velvet bows For in every fiber of my bone Lies buried Hidden treasure 5 artwork by Taylor Behnke (11)

Sunshine Day Maggie Wood (12)

artwork by Lindsay Kloppenburg (9)

I

think I’ll go for a walk outside now; the

After twenty minutes, the girls return to

summer sun’s calling my name; I hear ya

the cabin. As usual, we are running late and

now; I just can’t stay inside all day; I gotta get

still have to make the journey to the main

me some of those rays. My wake up alarm.

cabin. I figure it is time to wake up, so I open

Every day a different song, impairing my

my eyes to see the sun shining.

hearing for the first couple minutes of my

“The Brady kids were right!” I yell, racing

morning.

to catch up with the girls, forgetting that they

“7:00! Rise and shine, everyone!” Mekel

have been up for the past half hour and know

screams over the blaring sounds of “The Brady

the sun is out. Apparently, our seven minute

Bunch.” “I’m not leaving until all of you are

walk to the main cabin is a four minute jog this

out of bed!”

morning.

Impossible. I only had seven hours of

“Not one mosquito has landed on me

sleep, and my eyes will not open. My nose

yet; usually, I’ve killed ten by now.

and ears are ice cold from the nightly

Today’s going to be a good day!” Anneke

temperature drop; I am cozy in my sleeping

says energetically as we approach the main

bag and unwilling to get up. Everyone is

cabin. She is right.

moaning, slowly obeying orders and getting

The sweet smell of maple syrup and

out of bed. Instinctively, I pull my covers over

creamy buttered pancakes makes my

my head to hide so Mekel cannot find me.

mouth water as I open the door. By far,

“Up, up!” Mekel orders as she rips the

meals are the best part of the day; Dr. Bob

covers off of my sleeping bag. Instantly, goose

is a cooking expert. He somehow manages

bumps spread across my body, and my

to make food so delicious that everyone

comfortable, body-heated covers are out of

continues eating, even though their

reach—possibly the worst way to wake up.

stomachs can’t hold any more. Breakfast is

I scramble out of the top bunk, stubbing

also a time to wake up for the busy day

my toe because, of course, my eyes are still

ahead—our mornings are packed with

closed. In preparation for the exact rude

lectures, and afternoons are filled with

awakening I have just experienced, I placed

labs.

my outfit on top of my suitcase the night

The glorious day goes by quickly. In the

before. Now, all I have to do is find my clothes

afternoon, Kate and I finish collecting data for

and manage to put on three layers. In record

our project so we would have free time before

time I get dressed and jump back into bed for

dinner.

extra sleep while everyone else showers.

“Let’s go to the swimming hole,” Kate

Everbody’s smiling, sunshine day, everbody’s

suggests. Agreeing, we anxiously head out the

laughin’, sunshine day, everybody seems so happy

door.

today, it’s a sunshine day. The music fades as

The swimming hole is a five minute walk

Mekel walks from cabin to cabin for her

from the main cabin. The path twists and

morning wake up calls. “Hillary, make sure

turns through the tall, green trees. As we get

you wake me up when you come back!” I call

deeper and deeper into the woods, I take a

for a quick reminder.

deep breath of fresh air. We reach the 7

swimming hole and immediately climb the

a lightning bolt just struck in a white cloud, a

tall, white lifeguard stand that overlooks it.

white cloud! Not a gray cloud, a white one!

From the top of the two-person stand, the sun

One white cloud in the whole sky! It’s not like

glistens off the water. The horizon of vibrant

a huge storm is going to roll in anytime soon.”

trees and sun rays squeezing through the

Within seconds of heading toward the

clouds makes a perfect day. For a while, we

wooded path, we see the bright, clear day fade

continue our useless girl talk but then stop to

away. The wind whirls, getting stronger the

sit in silence, absorbing the beauty of the clear,

closer we get to the cabin. Soon my casual

blue sky overlooking a vast, green land. We

pace is a jog, as the trees sway back and forth

have not seen the sun in days, one week to be

in every direction. I hear the ring of the dinner

exact. Everything seems to be alive now,

bell from the main cabin—a noise only made

without the gray clouds and endless rain. The

when it is time to eat or in an emergency

birds chirp, and the crickets create music in the

situation. My heart is racing, and a bad feeling

forest that surrounds the swimming hole.

is stuck in the pit of my stomach.

The sky is now a greenish color with massive brown clouds rolling in from all directions.

“Did you just see that?” I ask Kate after

“Come on, Kate!” I yell, but the rustling of

lightning strikes in a perfectly white cloud.

the trees and the screeching wind make my

“Lightning! I think we should go back.”

words sound like a whisper. I run faster and

“Maggie, are you kidding me?” Kate

faster. Soon Kate and I are in a full sprint

quickly responds, not believing what she has

through the woods, wishing for the open cabin

just heard. “You seriously think we should go

area to appear. The wind pushes against my

back; there’s not one dark cloud in the sky!”

body, making my sprint seem like I am

“Remember the rules. If you see lightning,

walking in slow motion. Finally, we reach the

you’re supposed to head back to the main

main cabin. The sky is now a greenish color

cabin immediately.”

with massive brown clouds rolling in from all

“I think we are okay,” Kate chuckles,

directions. Many of my classmates are

mocking me for wanting to obey the rules.

scrambling to the main cabin from the second-

“Well, I’m getting hungry. Dinner must be

year cabin, running through the open field.

soon, so let’s just go back anyway,” I lie. For

“Maggie! My coat is in the second-year

some reason I have a bad feeling about the

cabin! I have to get it! Come with me!” Kate

lightning bolt, especially because we are

yells, as I stand in awe of the intense weather

incredibly close to the water.

change.

“Fiiiiine,” Kate replies with a sigh, still in

“Are you kidding me? Kate...Tornado! All

shock at my reasoning. “But come on, Maggie,

you can think about is getting your coat?” I 8

reply in disbelief. Apparently, I have no

to tell them. But this is it; I’ll never speak to them

choice because instantly, she grabs me by the

again. My thoughts explode as tears flow

hand, yanking me across the open field to the

down my cheeks. “I love you!” I shout.

second-year cabin. “Hurry up!” I shriek over

“I love you too!” a voice shouts back; it is

my screaming classmates and howling wind.

Megan, running down the stairs to join me in the cellar. I cannot see her eyes because of

She enters the cabin, but I stay outside

shadows, but I can tell she has been crying

the door, looking up at the sky.

from the sniffles between each word she

“Oh...My...God,” I say out loud to myself as I take a step backward to get a

speaks. She rushes over to me, linking her arm

better view. The only white cloud left in

in mine with a grasp so tight that instantly my

the sky is getting sucked into a massive

right arm goes numb.

“Hey, you got a letter, too,” we say in

grey funnel cloud. The speed of the funnel cloud increases rapidly, and the center

unison. I scurry to open my letter and read

comes closer and closer to the ground.

it aloud to her, tears rushing out of my

Terrified, I am convinced that at any

eyes as I continue. Megan does the same,

second, the funnel cloud will land on the

sniffling so much I can hardly tell what she

main cabin. “Oh my God!!!” I scream at the

is reading. After we read our cards, we

top of my lungs. Completely forgetting

start to pray for all the people we think we

about Kate, I rush into a full sprint, moving

are leaving. Suddenly, everything stops.

faster than before into the main cabin.

Megan and I look at each other and, without saying anything, stand to

Entering the cabin, I quickly look around in panic to see everyone staring out the screen

investigate the abrupt silence. Everybody’s

windows. “We all need to get to the cellar!

smiling, sunshine day, everybody’s laughin’,

Hurry before it touches!” I see that the mail

sunshine day, everybody seems so happy today,

came—a letter from my mom and dad. My last

it’s a sunshine day. The familiar song

connection to my parents before I get swooped up

becomes louder as I climb the squeaky

by this tornado, I think to myself as I snatch the

cellar stairs.

With one shove of the heavy door,

letter and head down to the cellar. No one follows, but a concerned counselor sees my

Megan and I enter the main cabin with red

fearful look and hands me a big, black

eyes. Everyone is in a circle. “We thought

flashlight.

we would play this song to make the storm go away,” Mekel calmly greets us. “I think

Quickly, I rush to the floor of the cellar, with my heavy-duty flashlight and the letter

it worked.” It is still outside—nothing is

from my parents. I sit in the dead center of the

moving, and the eerie presence affirms the

cold cellar floor and wrap my arms around my

storm has passed. Still shaking from the

knees, rocking back and forth in panic. I hear a

scariest moment of my life, I sigh with

boom from the floor above; the commotion

relief and think to myself, Not the sunshine

upstairs increases my nervousness. What am I

day I thought it would be.

going to do? I want to tell them I love them; I need 9

artwork by Manya Hose (10)

Hiding in shadows, Death’s long finger

REVENGE Michael Arthurs (12)

Singles out a lone deer.

Lurking in shadows,

Lungs cease.

A bear lingers.

One dead leaf falls…

Pointing no finger,

Bone rattling roar, A lion released, Splitting the air, Sinking its teeth, Ripping through nape.

Two dead leaves fall…

10

Death watches death, Baring teeth like ruthless razors.

One death will die.

With him, No leaf shall fall.

artwork by Lauren Nebel (9)

Owl

Max Andrews (12) Dark green grass sways in silence Night’s soft breeze billows feathered sails Peering through the veil of darkness Hunting silent on thermal tails Midnight chorus takes its place Begin their pitch-black ballad They sing to the hunter’s chase Beneath the moon so pallid Nimbus titans glide aside Casting pools of black From hungry eyes, prey can’t hide Then sails react On waves of wind, death descends As quarry flees from Luna’s light With single swoop, chase now ends The hunter eats tonight

Call Me a Safe Bet

T

Taylor Behnke (11)

he bowls clinked slightly in gentle

really know how they work? Next on Channel

argument as they shifted for position,

8 News at 9.”

Two dead. Two dead. Now there was a

then lay in a neat stack, white and

gleaming. She awkwardly pushed back her

commercial on for some great deal on some

sleeve as her sudsy, wet hands went to work

great car. Some event of the year that was too

on another dish. She scrubbed softly at traces

good to miss. Two dead. He switched off the

of salad dressing and mashed potatoes, the

TV. He heard a soft Kah-Lack! from across the

dishwater absorbing every speck with its lemon-fresh scent of shame. Sometimes as she washed the dishes, she would gaze out the window to admire her daffodils blooming, a welcome breeze stirring the oaks in the yard, the neighbor’s collie in pursuit of a squirrel or a falling leaf. It was too dark to see much of anything now, save for the occasional flash of headlights on a passing car. She turned her attention back to the glasses and spoons. It was a simple task to get them shined up again and put them carefully back where they belong.

hall, where his son, lying on the bedroom floor, had just hurled a pencil at

Sighing, he the ceiling. Kah-Lack! He threw it again. Kah-Lack! This time, it rolled onto his bounced off his forehead on the way down before landing just a stomach, few feet left of his ear. He move. His bedroom floor groping for that didn’t was a collection of lost objects: a pencil, some loose change— forgotten he stared at the angry pencil, for a smattering of pencil marks him—some abandoned notebook still above math problems, a well loved lying empty. copy of Hot Water Music—they looked like tiny shooting

Upstairs, her husband was watching the

stars—a house key, a half eaten pop tart. He

local news. He never missed the local news.

arranged constellations from the artificial night

There had been an electrical fire in some

sky. He could pick out Ursa Minor,

apartments on the other side of town.

Delphinius. Sighing, he rolled onto his

“Nobody hurt,” he mumbled.

stomach, groping for that forgotten pencil, for

“Two dead.”

a notebook still lying empty. He stared down

Hrmmmh, he cleared his throat. There had

at the blank page for a few seconds, minutes.

No words came. If you— he erased, leaving a

been an electrical fire in his vocal cords.

“After the break, we go inside hybrid

clean, aching absence on the page. A few

cars—you’ve heard all about them, but do you

minutes, an hour. No words came. Defeated, 12

artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12) he collapsed onto his back, pencil in hand. Kah-

You are the smell before rain; you are the blood in

Lack!

my veins. She smirked, knowingly, and killed the engine.

His sister…somewhere, was waiting for…

Soon curtains were closing, lights were

something, her feet up on the dashboard of a parked car, trying to light a cigarette. She kept

shutting off, people had put their dishes away

the engine running, so the music still played.

and gotten the facts on hybrid cars. They had

You are calm and reposed, let your beauty unfold,

called their dogs and children inside; they had

pale white like the skin stretched over your bones.

packed tomorrow’s ham sandwiches. The

She cracked the windows, rolled them all the

familiar sounds came: The switching off of

way down. The air was the most wonderful

television sets; the cl-chnk of locking doors; the

kind of cold. Spring keeps you ever close; you are

fwshh-ing of fervently brushed teeth; a car door

second hand smoke. She flicked the cigarette out

closing; a front door opening; the soft pah’s of

the window. It lay smoldering on the damp

tiny heads hitting tiny pillows; a Kah-Lack!; and

ground. You are so fragile and thin, standing trial

then settling. Quiet. Now that nothing was

for your sins. She leaned forward, folding onto

audible, everything was. Tiny constellations…

herself to peer out the windshield. The night

Two dead, Two dead…you are the blood in my

was anything but clear. Holding onto yourself the

veins…then humming, humming, then

best you can. The moon’s intensity was muffled

nothing.

by the misty charcoal sky. It shone anyway.

13

*lyrics from “The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot” by Brand New

At Peace Colin Urtes (12) 7:00 AM, a light mist

Peacefulness retained

Dew still grasping to blades luscious green

A “Ping� echoes

Morning birds call

Metal meeting a sphere

Spikes impale soft dirt

Perfection

A serene walk to my destination

It lands

Building

Rolls and rolls

Preparing

Until it stops

A single spike, impales dirt

Resting in the dew-covered blades

Mentally prepared

At peace

Visualizing, predicting the future Aligned now A complexity of mechanics and precision Sphere flies Relaxed Feeling of love In love

14 artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)

Red, White, and Blue

are hidden behind a contemplative smirk. His straight hair with a dusting of gray blows in the light breeze. As he considers the route of the flyover, he wrinkles his brow, which shows in its

Doyle O’Brien (10)

E

texture the stress of having four wonderful but

very year, thousands of Madisonians come

active children. My dad’s piercing, deep blue eyes

out to watch the spectacular fireworks

look with responsibility into the eyes of the other

show of Rhythm and Booms at Warner

pilots. Even a simple mission such as this

Park. Rhythm and Booms is a night filled with

demands adherence to each and every flight

energetic music and hundreds of different colors,

protocol, and my father gives this mission as

shapes, and sizes of fireworks booming right above

much thought as the next. What I love most about

your head. The evening begins with a fly-over from

my father is that he puts as much thought into the

four F-16 fighter jets from the 176 Fighter

simple tasks of life as he puts into the challenging

Squadron. But little do they know that the fighter

ones.

His newly polished, gray helmet gleams in

pilot leading the charge is my dad, Colonel Timothy O’Brien. His qualities as a fighter pilot,

the moonlight as he holds it tightly in his right

including his deliberate nature, thoughtful

hand. The faded green, full body uniform shows

intentions, and strong organizational skills, are

many signs of wear, affected by the numerous

some of the reasons why he is also a great dad.

years of intense training and practice. On his

As he leaves the hanger, heading towards his F

flight suit, many badges reflect his

-16, my dad’s stride looks just like that of Tom

accomplishments as a fighter pilot. One badge

Cruise approaching his first Top Gun mission. Each

stands out from the rest. The United States Air

step is in perfect tempo with his teammates as they

Medal is light blue with yellow stripes, including

approach the crew chief, and the clock comes even

a sun-shaped medallion with pointed edges and a

closer to take-off. With each deliberate stride to the

picture of an eagle looking down fiercely while

plane, my father still contemplates his mission

standing on a lightening bolt. The squeak of each

ahead. The rhythm of his swagger evidences his

step caused by the black, calf-high flight boots

confidence and his understanding of the dangers of

echoes over the concrete flight deck. His laces are

flying a fighter jet. As the team arrives at the chief,

woven tightly to secure the boots, which is just

my dad stands at attention, offering a flawless

one more sign of the intense preparation and

salute to his superior officer. Even as he relaxes, his

organization required for flying an F-16 fighter

muscles stay tense, his pose perfectly straight, his

jet. The mere sight of my father in full uniform

arms hanging directly at his side, and his feet

reflects his attention to detail in all aspects of his

shoulder length apart. Whether on the flight deck

life.

As my family awaits the fly-over at Maple

or at home, my father can be counted on to act

Bluff Golf Course, hole number 8, I can only smile

deliberately when the need arises.

While listening to his crew chief, his white teeth 15

and look up, feeling so proud of my father. artwork by Caitie Kolberg (12)

A Breath of Fresh Air Sam McLaughlin (11)

W

histling quietly, Jim shuffled

Jim ran a hand through his thinning salt-and-

across the dusty bottom of the

pepper hair, hat drifting languidly through the

canyon, bent nearly double under

air for a moment before settling like an ugly

the weight of the bag that bore down on his

goose on the surface of the pool. Filling his

back and flowed up and over his shoulders.

cupped hands and drinking, Jim watched his

Jim flexed his shoulders and momentarily

hat out of the corner of his eye as it slowly

relieved the strain on his back, ceasing to

sank through the crystalline depths of the

whistle in the process. Tune interrupted, he

pond and blocked out small bands of colored

glanced around the canyon furtively, skittering

stone and waving plants on the bottom of the

quickly from one stand of dead

pool. Jim watched the hat’s

bushes to another. Stopping at

descent lazily as he drank,

each stand of scorched brush, Jim would carefully spot his path to the next collection of withered shrubs before proceeding. Nearly an hour had passed when Jim finally reached his destination, a cerulean teardrop of a pool near the northern end of the canyon and a good mile and a half from

The hottest part of the day was ahead of him, but the train was still an hour behind.

the winding llama path Jim had

gauging its progress before finally plucking it out of the water just as it reached an arm’s length below the surface.

As he settled the sopping piece of tattered leather that masqueraded as a proper hat onto his head, Jim started whistling again, wiping a few drops of water from the stubble that blossomed across

followed down into the canyon from the

his chin and cheeks. Coarse, calloused hands

nearby town.

probed through his pocket, eventually settling

Approaching the edge of the pond, Jim let

on his watch, which Jim withdrew. Eleven

his bag slam onto the concrete hardness of the

o’clock. The hottest part of the day was ahead

packed earth at the edge of the pool and fell

of him, but the train was still an hour behind

heavily to his knees in what would have been

Jim. Whistling slightly more loudly, he

a position of greatest contrition in a chapel. But

shouldered his bag and continued on to the

here it was only the pose of a thirsty, tired man

bridge that was a few hundred yards up the

grateful for a small reprieve from his labors.

canyon.

16

A young officer, fresh from another bout of training and wooing young city girls, stood on the dusty outskirts of a nearby nameless town

brown by excessive exposure to the sand and sun, and his creased, careworn face.

“Hello there, son. Don’t be holding an old

in a patched and faded uniform and wondered

man from his home, now.” He started to pass

if he really was damned to guard this

the officer but was stopped by a weak grip on

godforsaken bit of nowhere for the rest of his

his shoulder. “Well?”

life or military career (the difference was

The officer stared at him nervously for a

marginal in terms of years and even less from

moment and then waved him into the town.

a social perspective).

Jim grinned and whistled to himself as he

It’s not like I abandoned my post, he thought

strolled down the main street, his jaunty little

bitterly to himself. I was just keeping myself

tune poorly accompanied by the simultaneous

busy…I could see the roadblock from her window.

roar of a large explosion and the screech of a

The officer blinked as a crusty old man

train tumbling through a hole in a bridge.

approached from the desert, nearly passing

Smiling, Jim wriggled his shoulders

him before he stammered, “Hold there, sir, if

luxuriously; the walk back from the canyon

you please. I mean…” He eyed the old man,

was much more pleasant without sixty pounds

taking in the clothes, stained permanently

of dynamite slung across his back.

artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)

Come Spring Luke Peters (12)

Leaves turn colors and fall Autumn blossoms brown No life in shades of fall Appearing dead Always with life Green once more Come spring And the tree will bloom Fill with songbirds Echoing life

artwork by Kate Holmquist (12)

Snow Anneke van Lith (12)

Whirlwind of insignificance Immaculate Momentous for me Perfect midnight snack Dance past the streetlight Outside my window Plastered to the pane Only briefly Came in early November Time to bundle Prepare the blaze For snowy dreams 19 artwork by Elizabeth Wadium (9)

artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12)

Catharsis Sam McLaughlin (11) An empty space to fill the void Or burn the tapestry of reality In wisdom’s candle while The wax clots and boils, Flesh sloughs off into yesterday, Carrying the lives away into Nothing Or something Meanwhile we sit in oblivion and talk About books and…

Stuff

The Forest Mary Kate Wall (11) Arthur Miller, a renowned American playwright, wrote The Crucible, which tells the story of the witch trials in Salem, Massachusetts. The catastrophe began when a few teenage girls defied Puritan conventions by recklessly wandering off into the woods, dancing wildly, and attempting to contact the dead. When caught, the girls blame “witches,” and eventually the whole town is in an uproar. In the following scene, which does not appear in the actual play, the author imagines what happens when an oppressive Puritan society drives ordinary girls to extraordinary madness.

ABIGAIL WILLIAMS,

and SUSANNA

age seventeen, and

WALCOTT, age sixteen,

BETTY PARRIS, age

head toward the clearing.

ten, enter a small

Twigs crunch loudly as the

clearing in the woods at

two girls creep nearer.

night. The sky is pitch

MERCY: Could you be

black, and a cool spring

any louder, Suzy? All of

breeze caresses their

Salem will hear you if

faces. BETTY huddles

this keeps up.

close to ABIGAIL,

SUSANNA: I’m not

clearly agitated. They

trying –

are followed closely by TITUBA, a slave of the

ABIGAIL, cutting her off: Nonsense, no one

Parris household, who is holding a candle and

will hear us. We’re too deep in the forest.

craning her neck about worriedly.

Alright, now that everyone’s here, we can

TITUBA: If this be where you said to meet,

begin.

where be the other girls?

SUSANNA: Just what exactly will we be

ABIGAIL: Ruth Putnam said she’d be here

doing?

after her mother went to bed, and Mercy and

Just then, a soft thump and a muffled cry are heard

Susanna told me they’d come around the same

behind a bush nearby. The girls look around hastily

time.

as MARY WARREN, age seventeen, is seen flat on

Enter RUTH PUTNAM, age twelve. She seems out

her face. As she picks herself up, she glances

of breath and has several twigs in her hair.

nervously at the others, hoping they will not be

RUTH: Sorry Abigail, but my mother made me

angry with her.

wait until everything was perfectly quiet

ABIGAIL: Why, Mary, we didn’t expect you

before I could leave, and I got a little lost on

to come tonight. What changed your mind?

the way in here.

MARY: I only thought to come and watch. I

ABIGAIL: That’s fine. We’re still waiting for

couldn’t bring myself to sleep, knowing you

Mercy and – wait, this could be them.

were out here conjuring spirits in the dark.

The girls listen as MERCY LEWIS, age eighteen,

ABIGAIL: Did you tell anyone else about this, 21

artwork by Page Schuh (11)

Mary?

ABIGAIL: Surely you have some Barbados

MARY: Upon my life, I would never.

songs you can sing?

ABIGAIL: Good. Now we can begin. Tituba,

TITUBA: I suppose I do. Alright, Ruth, you be

start collecting wood and make a fire for us.

sure to keep your mind on those sisters of

TITUBA: Aye, miss. She gathers a few nearby

yours.

pieces of kindling and arranges them. The girls

RUTH nods solemnly as the rest of the girls scoot

watch with keen interest. Using the candle she

closer. TITUBA grabs a pinch of dirt and flings it

brought along, she lights the fire and waits a few

on the fire. She begins to sing with a disturbing,

seconds for it to fully ignite. She turns expectantly

chant-like quality that makes the hair on the backs

to ABIGAIL, not knowing in what direction this

of the girls’ necks stand up. She extends her hands

will go.

over the flames and sways to the rhythm of her

ABIGAIL: Ruth, you come and tell Tituba

song. The girls look on wildly. BETTY starts

what you want her to conjure.

fidgeting uncomfortably. TITUBA becomes very

RUTH, tentatively, coming closer to the fire:

involved in her conjuring, losing her previous

Tituba, can you conjure the spirits of my baby

doubts and encouraged by the girls’ trust in her.

sisters? They were murdered, and Mother

TITUBA, eyes wide, gesturing at the girls: Dance,

wants to know by whom.

girlies, for the spirits respond only to

TITUBA: Oh, Abigail, you know I can’t really

movement!

ABIGAIL seizes the opportunity and begins leaping

conjure no spirits –

energetically around the fire. The other girls follow

ABIGAIL: Of course you can. What were you

her lead, spinning in circles and screeching,

doing the other day at our fireplace?

releasing their suppressed fears. MARY watches

TITUBA: Well, I was only prayin’ and –

from farther back in stunned silence. They continue

ABIGAIL: You were waving your arms and

dancing for a while as TITUBA chants gibberish.

chanting some wild language that I couldn’t

BETTY stops shaking and joins them; a haunting

understand. What else do you call conjuring

smile creeps onto her face. After a few minutes,

spirits than the likes of that?

MERCY steps outside the circle for a moment,

MERCY: Abigail, you promised us she could

tugging at her shoes.

conjure. We didn’t come all the way out here

MERCY: I can’t dance in this dress and shoes.

for nothing. Tituba, you must hurry, or we’ll

They’re much too cumbersome. She slips off her

not be able to finish before sunrise.

shoes and begins removing her dress, to the 22

astonishment of the others. SUSANNA and

SUSANNA, who hands it to RUTH, who gives it

MARY gasp. MARY covers her face and turns

to BETTY. Each girl contributes to the ritual.

away. ABIGAIL walks over to MERCY and helps

RUTH: Bring back my sisters! Kill the

her undo her dress.

murderer!

MARY, glancing over her shoulder: Mercy, you

SUSANNA: Strike down this hateful town! Let

mustn’t –

us run free!

ABIGAIL: Who will see her? You are too

BETTY: Bring back my mama! I want my

much of a prude, Mary. What have we to fear?

mama! She sobs but keeps dancing violently.

MERCY: Besides, none of you will mind, that I

ABIGAIL, with hatred in her eyes: Give me John

know.

Proctor! Make Goody Proctor suffer for her

The girls continue dancing. RUTH has a feverish

repulsive ways! Kill her! Kill her! She takes the

look in her eyes as TITUBA screeches ever louder.

rest of the blood from BETTY and hands the flask

BETTY is panting, and her eyes grow wider and

back to TITUBA.

wider. MERCY runs wildly, free of her clothes.

MARY watches, stupefied. Fear pervades her

Only MARY refuses to take part in the spectacle,

features. The other girls run madly around the fire

instead choosing to sit and hide her face. As the

as TITUBA wails louder and more forcefully. As

girls become captivated by the songs and dancing,

the chanting reaches its climax, none of them hear a

TITUBA begins shouting various grievances at the

rustle in the bushes. REVEREND SAMUEL

fire. The rest of the girls join in.

PARRIS, father to BETTY and uncle to ABIGAIL,

TITUBA: Spirits! Souls of the Putnam sisters!

pokes his head through the bush. His bewildered

Speak to us! Who murdered you? Who in this

face spies BETTY.

village tortured you and laid you to eternal

PARRIS, leaping out from behind the bushes:

rest? At these words, RUTH slows her dancing and

Betty! Betty!

stares into the fire.

The girls whip around in fright. BETTY sees her

RUTH, pointing into the flames: I see a shape! It

father, screams, and faints on the spot. ABIGAIL

moves!

rushes over to her and tries to revive her. MERCY

TITUBA: We hail thee, oh spirits! Tell us your

snatches her dress and shoes and dashes off into the

secrets! Give us power! She takes a flask from

forest. MARY and SUSANNA quickly make their

inside her dress. It is full to the brim with chicken

own escapes. TITUBA douses the fire and hides her

blood. She grasps the flask with both hands and sips

flask. She and PARRIS rush over to BETTY and

from it. Then she passes it to ABIGAIL, who is

lift her into PARRIS’ arms. They carry her back to

nearest. To the girls: Drink the chicken blood! It

the house. ABIGAIL meekly follows. In BETTY’S

will turn your mind to the spirit world! It will

room, PARRIS puts her down carefully on the bed.

give us their knowledge!

PARRIS, to ABIGAIL: Get thee to bed this

ABIGAIL, after drinking the blood: Hail! Hail!

instant! To TITUBA: Leave this room!

Rid us of our troubles! Teach us your ways!

They exit, leaving PARRIS to care for BETTY. He

MERCY, catching on and taking the flask: Curse

kneels down to pray.

End scene.

those who torture us, our so-called masters and guardians! Purge the village of their villainous ways! She passes the flask to 23

Letting Go T

Rebecca Gehrmann (10) he mist of the early morning still

forgotten to take theirs out.

hadn’t cleared when the roar of the

Blake watched from his perch on the metal

engine cut through the alleys of the

truck. A middle-aged woman behind the truck

quaint, peaceful neighborhood, waking up all

came rushing out to the driveway, still clad in

of its inhabitants. Within moments of waking,

a peppermint pink bathrobe and dragging the

some would grumble, some would fall right

plastic, cylindrical containers down the

back to sleep. Some would slowly, in a half-

gradually sloping pavement. She was

awake manner, come to the realization that

screaming at them in a groggy voice, her hair

Thursday was garbage day, and they had

still matted down with bedhead, but he couldn’t hear her over the loud engine’s groans.

“Keep going,” Blake commanded to the driver gruffly, who seemed hesitant as he noticed the woman out of the rearview mirror.

“That’s a little harsh!” the new driver, Blake’s co-worker Gerard, protested, craning his neck like an owl to see the woman still running toward them and shouting profanity. “She just forgot! And she’s just a little late!”

Blake shook his head, irritated, as if he were a dog shaking its wet coat. “ ‘Citizens are supposed to have all garbage out at the end of their driveways by the time the proper

sanitary disposal vehicle arrives parallel to each curb.’ It’s all in the handbook, Gerard, all in the handbook—perhaps you should be reading it a bit closer.”

They stopped at the next few houses, the vehicle slowly inching forward as Blake jumped out, expertly handling the gray canisters and pouring all the garbage down into the metal jaws of the truck. He was a robot when he acted like this, his movements the same for every plastic bag, every blue recycling bin.

hands was a moving box, filled to the top and

Blake was silent as he worked, never one to

almost overflowing with what looked like an

make conversation. It was only reserved for

assortment of clothes, pictures, and useless,

lunch break, when he would drone on about

tacky knick-knacks. Blake grumbled under his

the same topics of rumored new uniforms and

breath, motioned to Gerard to stop the truck,

pay increases day after day. Blake remembered

and jumped out, confronting the sobbing

when Gerard once asked about football as he

woman.

slowly drove the truck around a corner,

“Pam, I don’t have all day!” he shouted

delaying time. Blake had responded with a

over the roar of the truck, clearly frustrated,

dull, “Drive faster.”

having gone through this scenario many times

They blindly plowed through the mist to

before. “Put the damn box in the truck, and

the next row of identical apartment buildings.

we’ll all get on with our lives!”

Blake suddenly inched forward to the edge of

Her bloodshot eyes flickered up to him,

his seat, concentration on his face.

then to the truck, and panic spread on her face.

It was a woman, already dressed and

Suddenly her fingers clutched the box more

moving her garbage cans neatly to the edge of

furiously, as if it were a child she was reluctant

the road. She was wide awake, unlike the rest

to let go of. “N—no! Not yet! Just…just…”

of the residents of the subdivision, sounding

The engine of the truck suddenly cut off,

like a duck as she screeched out cries and

making the neighborhood of apartment

patted a tissue to her red-rimmed eyes. In her

complexes, at five in the morning, seem devoid

artwork by Vivian Burnette (11)

25

of all life. Gerard hopped out, raising his

Blake put his arm on her shoulder. He

eyebrows at the scene.

carefully took the box from her. “It will be

“Gerard,” Blake said weakly, “this is Pam.

okay, Pam. Let’s get this over with.”

Pam has some problems… letting go.”

Pam hesitated, but only for a moment. She

Pam sniffed, her voice no longer watery

took back the box.

but twice its normal speed. She was clearly

“You know the drill, Pam. Just toss it in!”

paranoid. “I do not! You don’t understand. If I

said Blake. Pam closed her eyes fiercely and

put the box under my bed, I’ll just take it out

waited, as if making a wish before blowing out

and cry some more. If I shove it in the closet,

birthday candles. Then she chucked the box

I’ll get up in the middle of the night and never

into the truck. Blake could see the loose limb of

be able to sleep. If I put it in the trash, it’s not

a stuffed animal poke out, pieces of crumpled

enough—I have to send it off myself, or it’ll

paper, maybe the shiny surface of a

drive me mad thinking it’s somewhere at the dump, rotting away…”

“What’s she talking about?” Gerard hissed.

Rolling his eyes, Blake explained in a monotone drone, “It’s her ‘boyfriend box’, or something like that. After a guy dumps her, Pam puts all of the

“This is Pam. Pam has some problems… letting go.”

things that remind her of

photograph.

Gerard started up the engine. In due time the metal jaws began to move again, slowly at first and then chopping up and down like a vegetable grinder, getting faster and faster and compressing all of the garbage already in the truck into a small,

him inside this box and dumps it in the back of

equal mound of filth.

my truck.” He gestured to the metal mouth of

Pam seemed relieved, a heavy weight

the machine, suspended momentarily from its

removed from her. “There,” she said

constant chewing. Then he turned back to

forcefully. “It’s done. It’s over. It’s time to

Pam. “Who was it this time?”

move on.”

Blake smiled. Move on, he thought. That’s

“It was Kyle,” she said with another small

right. What I was supposed to do.

sniff, her face red as she looked down sadly

He still had the box from Sheila in the far

into the depths of the box once more.

right corner of his closet…

“Kyle? That guy? I thought you really liked him.”

“I did! But we weren’t getting along, and we got into a really big fight, and, well…now he has himself a box.”

Gerard squinted his eyes, his face showing many signs of confusion.

26

_twç _âvxÜÇx Sam McLaughlin (11)

Inspired by Albert Bierstadt’s “Lake Lucerne” Lady Lucerne speaks to me And in dappled clouds is draped.

Girt in brilliant skirts of green, Over tranquil blues she waits And beckons with soothing words, Pledges of warm summer rest.

“Will you wander through vales of shade Laced with solar lances?”

She queries soft and low, “Or amble along silent shores, Azure pools and sunlit plains, Viridian crowned in gold?”

Lady Lucerne speaks to me, And I am numb to reply, But follow close and swiftly Led softly by the hand.

artwork by Laura Hiebing (12)

UÉçá tÇw Z|ÜÄá Words from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros

The boys and girls live in separate worlds.

The boys in their universe… and we in ours.

Thick hands and thick shoes, Who comb hair with water, Sitting on bikes in front of the house, pitching pennies…

Little lemon shoes, Red red lips, Eyes like Egypt and nylons the color of smoke…

What’s your name, pretty girl?

Come closer…please…

Still, we take what we can get and make the best of it.

Waiting for a car to stop, A star to fall, Someone to change life.

All wanted to love and to love And to love And to love And no one could call that crazy.

He said I love you, I love you…

I like the boys and the boys like me.

artwork by Vivian Burnette (11)

May Cho (10)

Flights of Imagination

D

Sabena Khan (12) inner was cold. It had been sitting

she was able to speak without lips.

on the table for fifty-six minutes, as

“This is stupid. I’m hungry, you’re hungry,

well as the mismatched plates and

and Jamie’s hungry.” He pointed at me. “Look

silverware, surrounded by my family. My

at him. Every time he looks at the biscuits, his

mother’s already thin lips had been

eyes become huge! He looks like a

becoming a thinner and thinner line

starving African child.”

as the time passed. I guessed

My mother told him to shut up.

that in two more minutes, they

Andrew sighed, mumbled

would become non-existent.

something I could not hear,

Her face was becoming

and sank into his chair

more rigid as if it were

with his arms crossed.

made of wood. She

My father calls this

had not moved in over

being “stereotypically

twenty minutes. She

angsty.”

looked like a puppet.

A few minutes

I imagined a

later, I heard the

puppeteer controlling

garage door open

her with strings,

and then close. He

swinging her arms,

was finally home. He

making her do a little

walked in looking

jig on top of the table.

exhausted.

I giggled to myself. My

His hair was messy;

mother darted her eyes

his shirt was untucked;

at me, and they cut my

there was a yellow stain

skin. I apologized meekly

near his shirt pocket—

as I touched my bleeding cheeks.

artwork by Cosette DeChant (10)

“We’ve been waiting for an

maybe it was mustard from his turkey sandwich from lunch. He let out a sigh as

hour. Can we please eat? Who cares

he sat down at the table.

if he’s late? Why do we have to wait for him?”

“Hello family,” he said heavily.

Andrew asked.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got into a fight with my

My mother’s eyes slashed Andrew’s face.

boss.” He looked at my mother. My mother

“Because he is your father, and it is rude to

stared at him. I could see more than twenty

begin eating without him.” I wondered how

29

tiny cuts scattered across his face.

“You should have called. We’ve been

monarchs. Their delicate wings tickled my

waiting for you for an hour.” Her voice was a

face.

straight line. Her face was not moving.

Our dining room was filled with these

“I’m sorry,” my father said quietly as he

creatures. They were the most beautiful things

loosened his already loose tie. “He said I made

that had ever come out of my parents’ mouths.

some error in the financial reports, and I could

As I was walking to my room, I heard

have lost the company thousands of dollars if

Andrew laughing in his own. I knocked on his

no one had caught it. And if it wasn’t caught, I

door.

would have been fired.”

“Come in,” he said lazily with a low

My mother stopped talking, but her

chuckle.

expressionless face never changed. She just ate

His room smelled strange, and it was a little hazy. His TV was playing The Office.

her mashed potatoes. We all did the same without talking.

“Hey Little Man. Are they still fighting?”

My mother spoke again. “We got another notice from the bank…”

And then I spaced. Whenever I hear “bank”, “money”, “bills”, I know it’s time for me to stop listening. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. I would randomly hear, “mortgage”… “repossess”… “irresponsible” … “fired” … “divorce”…

“I guess. I spaced out. I saw birds and

I saw hundreds of tiny blue birds fly out. A river of them, flying smoothly and gently. They were wrapping themselves around my dad’s and Andrew’s heads.

And then I opened my eyes

butterflies come out of their mouths.”

“Awesome.”

I sat down on his bed and stared at the TV. We both watched Steve Carell talk into the camera for a few minutes. Andrew would laugh occasionally, but I didn’t understand why.

again. I looked at my mother. Her lips had

Finally, I asked him the questions that were on

come back, and she was putting them to good

my mind: “Why do Mom and Dad fight all the

use. Her mouth was wide enough to fit a

time? And what are they fighting about?”

couple tennis balls into it; I saw hundreds of

Andrew stared at me for a few seconds.

tiny blue birds fly out. A river of them, flying

“They fight all the time, and you don’t know

smoothly and gently. They were wrapping

what they’re fighting about? They have

themselves around my dad’s and Andrew’s

different versions of the same fight every day.

heads. One of them was even eating off

It’s the only thing they ever talk about. If it

Andrew’s fork, but he didn’t notice. I laughed

weren’t for these fights, they would have a

at how clueless he was.

mute relationship.”

Now it was Dad’s turn. His mouth was even

“But what are they fighting about? Well, I

bigger than Mom’s, and his hands were trying

know it has to do with money, but I don’t

to de-weed his head. As he yelled, butterflies

understand why.”

drifted out. They flew to me and landed on my

Andrew paused for a few seconds, as if

arms and hands. I was in a rainstorm of

trying to put into words what was wrong.

30

Finally he said, “It’s a lot of stuff. You’re too young to understand.”

“Everyone says money isn’t important.

Aunt Kathy always says money can’t buy you happiness.”

Andrew stared deeper into the TV and said flatly, “That is the problem.”

Andrew was right. I didn’t understand, so I left his room.

I went back downstairs to see if they were bringing more birds and butterflies into the

I sat on the stairs watching them. I wasn’t surprised to see them like this. When they were home, they did this or fought. How boring.

I remembered Andrew saying happiness was the problem. How could either of them be happy when they were so boring? Why don’t they just dream?

That’s what I do whenever I’m bored or am forced to do something I don’t want to. It makes everything so much more exciting and fun. Maybe no one ever told them they could imagine anything they wanted and be happy.

house. They weren’t. All of the flying creatures were gone. My parents were in their usual spots. My dad was in his favorite recliner watching ESPN. His eyes were so attached to the screen that I wasn’t sure if he was deeply interested or if now he was spacing out. My mother was on the couch, with her legs tucked underneath her, knitting a scarf. We have boxes full of scarves and hats and socks that she’s knitted, because that is all she does at night. Neither one of them spoke. Both of them were so deeply entranced by their activities.

artwork by Portia Danis (12) 31

FrankensteIn

Portia Danis (12)

Stand close a while.

Have you come here for me?

With your broken limbs And rubber breast.

I see your lips, Blistered and torn.

I'll give you mine.

The vibration of complexity.

Look at your hand.

Is it empty?

Here is a hand, To fill it and fit it.

You can stay, To fill your pockets With the smooth pebbles Shaken loose from my bones.

And bring it stars and paper birds That hang from strings, While you gaze at bandaged wrists And remember you are real.

Is this why you have come?

To be the screw Twisting into the grooves Of my wooden soul, The carpentry of angels?

I can help you remember.

You stand naked, Exposing your stitches And empty jars.

So I sew you a blanket Of seashells and promises To shield you From the whipping sands Of the storm.

Will you dance with me?

To see what it is like?

And hear the murmur of spirals Tangled in your hair.

Tell me Can my touch weld The jagged metal scraps That replaced your ribs And pierced your heart?

32

Life

Nicholas Smith (10)

A single green leaf Whithers in the freezing snow Yet it does not die

artwork by Patrick Hansen (12)

The Other Son Vivian Burnette (11)

T

he house has changed. The paint is no longer chipping, and the driveway has been repaved. The twin elms that used

to block the front window have been cut down. Paul Harper stands before the place that he used to call home and wonders if he has come to the right address. He hesitates, his finger poised at the doorbell, debating whether to ring or retreat. Perhaps it was always this way, he thinks; perhaps I have only forgotten.

A woman he does not know answers the door, and he realizes that he has come to the wrong address after all. He smiles uncertainly and apologizes for his mistake, tipping his hat and quickly backing away.

“Paul,” the woman says. He stops and stares, confused. There are tears in her eyes, which he does not understand. “Paul,” she says again, “you don’t even remember your own mother?”

He shakes his head as if in agreement, and she lets out a dry sob. He does not know this woman. She has short, red hair and crimson nails. Her face is lined, and she is frowning.

This woman cannot be his mother. His mother had soft brown hair that fell to her waist; she used to kiss him on his forehead at night, and her hair would fall into his face, tickling his cheeks and his eyelids. His mother never painted her nails; she said that the smell gave her a headache. Her skin was smooth, and she was always smiling.

He wants to tell the woman, “You cannot be my mother,” but he knows better than to

artwork by Ellen Cervantes (9)

34

say this. Again he thinks, perhaps I have only

“Here he is,” she breathes and

forgotten. And so he says to the woman, “I’m

ushers him into the room. There

sorry. It has been a long time.” He hopes that

are several others in the parlor,

his words will stop her tears from falling, for

dressed in a hundred different

no man likes to see a woman cry, whether she

shades of black. They shuffle and

is his mother or not.

whisper amongst themselves, the

“Too long, Paul, too long,” the woman

noise never rising above a dull

cries. She reaches out to embrace him, and he

murmur. It never feels quite right

steps reluctantly into her arms. She holds him

to shout at a funeral. Paul looks

too tight, too close. He wants to tell her,

around uncomfortably until he

“Please let me go,” but he knows that this will

spots the casket. He walks over to

only upset her, and so he says nothing at all.

it slowly, forcing his legs to carry

The woman pulls back and peers into his

him across the room.

face. “You’ve changed, Paul,” she says softly.

The casket is open, and there

He nods his head, anxious for her to release

is his father, eyes shut, lying

him.

solemn and serene. Paul surprises

“Where is my father?” he asks suddenly.

himself as he blinks back a few

For this is why he has come.

tears; he never thought that

“In the parlor,” she whispers, and tears fill

seeing the old man like this

her eyes once more.

would evoke such emotion.

“I would like to see him.” He says this

He jumps as he feels a hand

slowly, because he is afraid. He is afraid that

come down on his shoulder and

the woman will start to cry again, and he will

swings around blindly, half

be forced to comfort a stranger. He is afraid

expecting to see his father behind

that she will not understand him and will turn

him. But it is not his father; it is

him away.

only the woman who claims to be

To his great relief, the woman does not cry,

his mother. She is smiling up at

nor does she turn him away. “I will take you to

him, and beside her, with his

him,” she says, clearing her throat.

hand still resting on Paul’s

Paul steps into his old home and finds that

shoulder, is another person he

the interior has changed, as well. The walls

does not know.

have been repainted, the floors refinished. He

“It’s been a while, Paul,” the

shivers in spite of himself, a chill crawling up

man remarks. Paul stares at him

his spine, and wonders if he ever lived here at

in silence; the woman knows this

all. Discomfited, he removes his hat and

stare, and her smile fades away.

continues to follow the woman down the hall.

“Don’t you recognize your

When they reach their destination, the woman

brother?” she cries.

slows to a stop and turns to face him.

“Hush, Mother,” the man says, trying to quiet her, for it is 35

not right to shout at a funeral. The man looks

because of my father. His father is dead, but he

at Paul and laughs uncomfortably.

cannot forget. He has tried, but he cannot

“Sure, it’s been some time, Paul, but I can’t

forget; he was able to leave everything behind

believe you don’t remember me.” Paul looks at

but this. He closes his eyes, and his father

the man who is supposed to be his brother.

stands before him, red and seething, fists ready

Again, he has the acute sense that he is

to greet flesh. His father is dead, gone away

speaking to an utter stranger. He knows better

forever, but he cannot forgive.

than to voice this feeling, though.

He opens his eyes and sees the man who

“Sorry,” he says instead. “It’s been a long

was once his brother. He looks at Paul the way

time.”

a man does when he realizes that something

“I was beginning to think you really didn’t

has been broken and will never be mended

know me,” the man replies, chuckling softly. “We’ve all changed, but surely not to that extent!”

The doorbell rings, and the woman goes to answer it.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says, gliding out of the room.

The two men stand in silence for a moment, neither quite knowing what to say.

“Why did you leave, Paul?” the man finally asks.

again. Paul knows this look,

Beneath the new layers of paint and the gleaming floorboards is a tangle of lies, dangerous obsessions, and brooding chaos.

“I don’t really know.” But he does know,

and there is nothing left to say.

“Do you want me to take your coat, Paul?” It is the woman again, the woman who thinks that she is his mother. He shakes his head.

“I am leaving this place,” he says. He glances back at the casket with a grimace. “I only wanted to see him one last time.”

He pushes past the

woman and the man, weaves through the

and suddenly he remembers everything.

hushed crowd of people dressed in black. He

Why did you leave, Paul? He looks around

hears the clack of shoes rushing to stop him,

frantically, trying to escape. I left, he thinks,

but he does not turn around. He walks down

because of this place. This place, which has

the hall, puts on his hat, and steps out the

changed so much, yet stayed the same. The

door. Once outside, he heaves a long sigh full

repainted walls and the refinished floors only

of sorrow and frustration.

serve as a quaint mask for what lies beneath

“It is done,” he says. “It is done.”

the surface. Beneath the new layers of paint and the gleaming floorboards is a tangle of lies, dangerous obsessions, and brooding chaos. There is a hostility that threatens to take hold of your throat, to throttle your dreams and your thoughts.

Why did you leave, Paul? I left, he thinks, 36

hÑÉÇ t `|áàç Wtç Maggie Bracey (11)

Upon a misty day I tread Over yonder fields of dead Marching between the aisles, I look For shelter in some secluded nook Whereupon there is a cold, flat stone Engraved with letters richly enthroned By weed and thistle overgrown Fingers I outstretch to carve again the rivulet But receded in shocked regret.

The one beneath the stone, though dead Hath some strange power through me thread A shivering spine, a sudden chill And methinks I see, on neighboring hill A pallid visage, walking slow Its eyes alight, with violent glow And yet again I march, at faster pace To make gone in dreadful haste And ne’er will I return again To yonder field.

artwork by Melissa Mutch (9)

Coming to America Sabena Khan (12) Blazing cheeks, Wheat skin, Eyes searching for the unknown, Only abysmal chances in view.

You dove into the unknown, Made an Odyssean journey across the Atlantic To the unfamiliar land With gold plated roads.

But still A sea separated you From the warm, spicy smell of your mother’s cooking.

Continents kept you From the sturdy, reassuring clap of your father’s hands on your shoulders.

Twenty-eight years away from your heart.

Has a new one grown in its place?

artwork by Ellen Cervantes (9)

Drum Like a conductor Waving his baton I create a story No words Just hands clenching a stick A foot stomping a pedal A mind transfixed by a sound Then with a strike Mind is free Sound drowns out pressure Flow relaxes a worn out body And when I am finished Anxiety will creep all over Hoping you heard my story With no words

Chuckie Brown (12)

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artwork by Ty Humphrey (11)

Glass in Starlight

Rachel Underwood (11)

T

artwork by Martha Mank (11)

his is me. Ensconced in a nook by the

almost narrate the world as it never happened

side of the road, formed by the gap

with all the clarity of truth. Hyperlogia, again.

between the bar's bright facade and

Stop me if I get too fast.

the doorway. Green eyes focused on the

I'm brooding again, unhealthily — not

ground in front of me, asphalt and pebbles and

teenaged angst, for all that I'm still nineteen.

cigarette butts mixing in the gutter. Limbs

There's a distinction in my mind; angst only

arranged in the classic pose of submission, of

means that you hate life, whereas brooding has

someone with nowhere else to go — you

a definite object. In my case... Well, the object’s

know, you've seen it. I don't need to explain;

not really important now. That’s a different

there are enough homeless people around for

story, if—

you to know the look. Broken-hearted, like all I

Don't... Don't come any closer. I mean,

ever loved in the world has been shattered and

unless you like screaming fits, but I don't cater

lost. It's not exactly my finest moment.

to sadistic bastards. I tell the story, make it

And yet I can still talk, for some reason. I'm

come out pretty. If you like it, you give me a

a freak like that. Hyperlogia, or something. I've

couple coins, and I buy coffee. It's damned

made discourse in daydreams for so long, I can

cold around here at night. Yes, I'm babbling.

40

Squeaking, even. My voice stopped cracking a

her beau. Rather incongruous in a place like

while ago. There's a reason when I make flat

this; there was already a pickpocket walking

demands; I'm a pretty easy-going guy, in

up to them as the crowd pushed them past me.

general. Yeah, you're right. I'm not. But who

No, of course not. I don't envy legals. You can

cares? I make a business in lies; you wouldn't

have your cars and skyscrapers and white

be here wasting your time if you didn't see

picket fences, but it all breaks down once you

some... purpose in that.

get here.

Anyway, I'm... brooding again. Trying to

They walked by and wandered into the

remember something, if you really want to

sunset, even though you can't see it with the

know. Of course you do

buildings around here.

— you wouldn't be

I'm told the smog makes it

standing here if you didn't want a story. It gets hard to find reality here. To distinguish between the stuff you can only feel and the stuff that's really there. Weird stuff happens out here at night, even besides all the nasty and petty crimes.

We get by.

Last night, while I was sitting here at the corner of Burck Street and First,

It's so much easier beautiful from the to pass us by without looking, keep on in that haze that most people prefer.

rooftops. And that was that. But, you know, the sense that I was missing something persisted, almost gleefully.

The problem was that she looked at me. Eye contact; it's not something most people try for with us, especially not lady debutantes. It's so much easier to pass us by without looking, keep on

I saw a monster. Not the

in that haze that most

usual run of half-rotting

people prefer. You're all

corpses and unsettled ghosts, not even La

infatuated with the world and deathly afraid

Llorona in her robes all of white, floating along

of looking for any flaws in it.

as she sometimes does. Nothing so terrible and

One flash of pale brown eyes, almost amber,

twisted; only a young woman and a man,

in my direction, curved in a fox’s smile before

walking along in their haze of love. We don’t

she shook the dust of our streets off her two-

see a lot of them down here, but it’s close

hundred dollar heels. Her long, black hair

enough to the business district that a man in a

reflecting the cheap neon lights as it flowed

business suit didn’t stand out at all. Not a big

down to the small of her back and the shimmer

deal. The lady was another story: designer

of the red dress that covered it. She was trying

dress with no arms or back and precious little

for the Goth look, I think, but she was the sort

front, polished nails, and the face to pull all of

of girl who’d look her best under expensive

it off. A little pampered debutante, out with

chandeliers. Mademoiselle Debutante.

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And then her beau was dark and quick, a

And now you're

bit more non-descript in an expensive midnight-blue suit, but all the more

looking too; what

incongruous for all that. He was tall, the wolf to her fox, with sharp features melting into the

ever happened

rough lines of his suit, the pristine leather of his loafers, and the wallet peering out of his fashionably-useless pocket.

to you last night,

Mm-hm. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

And now you're looking too; what ever

I wonder?

happened to you last night, I wonder? You don't even remember passing by me, and now you've come seeking lies. A bit odd for the technocrats that rule the world, who always

or great wisdom.

claim to seek the betterment of humankind

Mademoiselle knew that she didn't have

and unadulterated truth. Unless, of course, it

the wit or inspiration for great deeds, or the

involves how they were out with the

will to seek great wisdom, and she feared that

competition's daughter a few nights ago, or

she would never find the great love of legends,

how their salaries got just a little extra bonus...

of Romeo and Juliet, Paris and Helen, or Don

Shall we find a lie? I'll even give you a fairy

Juan. She feared the great road out of town,

tale ending to suit your sensibilities.

black as cremation ashes and shrouded in grey

Mademoiselle Debutante was a lovely

storm clouds that never blew away. So she

lady, the daughter of the corporation's ruler,

wished and prayed that someone would come

who lived in a palace a thousand stories tall

and take her away from her awful fate.

made out of steel that gleamed like the sun

She wished for one day, and then the next,

and twenty thousand windows that reflected

and then the next, and then after the third day

the sky like a vertical lake, so all the songbirds

had passed, she gave up hope and wrapped

and falcons found their way to its eaves and

herself in her blankets to while away the days

filled the sky with their feathers and song.

until her birthday and her journey would

But Mademoiselle was afraid, for the time

begin.

was coming on her nineteenth birthday when

But two weeks later, a young man came to

she would have to go out into the world and

her door, with the sharp gaze of a wolf and the

find her own way. It was the tradition of those

strong features of someone who had made his

people that when their children came of age,

way in the world. He was so brave and so

they had to take the long, black road wherever

handsome, though older than her by far, that

it might lead them on a quest for love and

she ignored the ash-black shade of his hair and

glory, and they could only come back to their

the deep brown-red shade of his immaculate

fathers' arms on the day when they had found

suit. He promised her that if she came with

their fortune through great deeds or great love

him, he'd give her the world.

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And Mademoiselle accepted. In her fear of

down to look at the town again, took one step

the unknown and of her own failure, and in

along the road, and wrinkled her nose at how

the cocoon of her blankets, he told her a secret:

it stained her shoes before turning away to her

no one ever really left on their journey,

towers and lights.

because there was nothing below the

After a few years, she had a child named

crystalline towers and lights of the town. This

for Monsieur Wolf, with her features and his

was everything in the world: the balls, and the

hair, who grew up much too quickly for her

masques, and the glittering lights of the

liking, but she loved him all the same. And he

chandeliers, and all the smoke and peasants

went down to the town, took three steps along

below were nothing but a fairy tale. Everyone

the black road, and told a pretty young girl a

swore that they'd left and listed their

secret.

accomplishments without a trace of shame and

And they all lived happily ever after.

then came back to their loving mothers and fathers without ever doing a thing. And they were happy all the rest of their lives.

So Monsieur, with the wolf-sharp features and the ash-black hair, took Mademoiselle Debutante out on the town on her nineteenth birthday with a ring on her finger and tousled hair, and they were happy. And they came back home after a few days with a wedding plan and a new smile,

Now, Monsieur, have I sung sweetly? Or

and Mother and Father accepted their plans

does the ending taste too bitter in your mouth?

and were happy that they'd made their way in

Not to worry; one cup of coffee won’t kill me,

the world, just as they had.

nor the lack thereof. There are always plenty of

Mademoiselle looked back, just once, at the

sorry customers, looking to drown their

world below and the road and the ghosts, and

sorrows...

her eyes were laced in fear despite her coquette's smile. But she put it out of her mind, as Monsieur had long ago, and let it linger there, just as he had, worrying holes out of her mind. And, just once, just as he had, she came

artwork by Lindsay Davenport (12) 43

Last Voyage of the Amygdala Alex Monday (12) From christening this ship was doomed, To find at depth her lonesome tomb.

I, captain, shall weather her throes, And with Amygdala I shall go.

From christening this ship was doomed, To find at depth her lonesome tomb.

I, captain, shall weather her throes, And with Amygdala I shall go.

She cannot fight another storm, She’s long faced the ocean’s wrath, But as these waves destroy her form, I see that we are trapped.

The skies are grey and dark as night, Waters, black as Hell, Slashed by a jagged whip of light, That shakes the watchman’s bell.

Like the damned, we are pulled under, By tentacles of sea.

We are the ocean’s plunder, Amygdala and me.

Cold waters numb my bones, Amygdala is lost.

Amidst her final, haunting groans, I re’lize passion’s cost.

She’s tossed from heights to far below, And writhes as dying do.

I see no coast, nor distant glow, Amygdala is through.

Like many captains before me, I join myself and mast, With rope of sail and weed of sea, The ship I futilely grasp.

In sea that tastes of kelp and blood, Swallowed up are we, Chewed apart like cattle’s cud, I’ve found insanity.

artwork by Derek Hatley (12)