Elysium Literary and Arts Magazine 2007

Page 1


The Brain Dona Marie Altemus


2007 Volume VI


lu Vo VI Coral Reef High School 10101 S. W. 152nd St. Miami, Florida 33157 1 (305) 232-2044 Fax: 305-252-3454

Pangaea Elysium


Pangaea is a place of legend—a fragments of what was once one, mountain where twelve Titan gods each framed by rib cages, muscle faced twelve Olympians wreaking tissue, flesh. All was one, boundless havoc. Eons later, Alfred Wegener, and eternal. Earth from end to end. a



and But time pulled on its extremities

ridiculed for his ideas, named his and the tempestuous ocean filled its theory of continental drift after cracks and crevices. Walls and barriers this colossal mountain. He believed of language, color, and experience that, thousands of years ago, the now stood between beings. continents of Earth had all been one, and that they had, over time, Now, six billion fragments collide separated into their current positions. in search for cohesion, in search of that lost land and what it The shapes correspond like puzzle represents: the common humanity pieces spread out on a vast ocean.

of all beings. They try to find their way back to Pangaea, blending the

More than six billion people inhabit cacophony of disparate voices into these seven continents. Six billion

one transcendent chorus. Cecile McLorin - Salvant Elysium’s Editor-in-Chief

Elysium’s website: http://coralreef.dadeschools.net/elysium

Portrait of my Sister II Dona Marie Altemus (mixed media)


the Cover Artist

Dona Marie Altemus The majority of my work represents dark hidden secrets that I don’t like to tell people but that I can translate through a painting. Such thoughts are those that I go to sleep wishing were not there and then wake up in a cold sweat realizing that I have to face them. To release these internal fears I paint to get the thoughts out of my system. I show the unexplainable emotion through layers of color that read as time. I use the elements of art and simple compositions to make the utmost impact, while leaving some to the audience’s imagination. For example, uncontrollable lines represent the incomprehensible challenges while a cloud of color represents the mental hurtle I must face. I intentionally leave hints of previous layers in the form of cutouts so the audience can see back into the painting which makes things more interesting.

Elysium Staff Editorial Staff Editor-in-chief Layout Editor Literary Editors

Cecile McLorin-Salvant Katherine Holmes Yuna Park Martine Powers

Art Editors

Ashleigh Fata Katerina Gonzalez Carmen Guillen-Casal Esteban O’ Sullivan

Technology Editor

Ryan Williamson

Promotions Manager

Mohammed Uddin

Layout Staff

All Staff

Literary Staff Maheen Ahmad Jackie Antonell Nicolàs Forero Natalie Kaminsky

Sara Leslie Kristina Smith Marylin Winkle Iris Zhang

Art Staff

Technology Staff

Maria Duarte Peter Graber Robert Roman Kristina Smith

Peter Graber Ismail Ibnali Ernesto Prieto

Promotions Staff Mitra Hosseini Khalil Jolibois

Anya Kaplan


Amy Scott room 310

To view archived copies of Elysium, access drama, music, and film clips, or obtain a submission form visit us on our website: http://coralreef.dadeschools/elysium.net

Table of Contents Pangaea: Cultural Reflections 08. Master Cylinder ...................................Esteban O’Sullivan Motor ............................................ ...Lauren Corona 09. History of History ................................Mariohn Michel Elliptical Balance ...............................Michael Carey 11. Pi.........................................................Ashleigh Fata Geometria..........................................Ashleigh Fata 13. (Not) A Thought ...................................Sara Leslie Paint Pouring Study 1........................Jessica Packer 15. Terracotta............................................Yuna Park Matryoshka.......................................Robert Roman 17. Trampoline...........................................Natalie Kaminsky Diced Pizza........................................Dona Marie Altemus 18. My Face is a Pepper...............................Diana Perez Jungle...............................................Dona Marie Altemus 19. Tadpoles ..............................................Iris Zhang Big Whoop.........................................Leland Rubin 21. The Patron Saint of Madrid Street.........Andrez Saenz Touchdown Jesus...............................Jackie Antonell 23. Cocorico, cocorico.................................Samantha DeGroen Inside Out.........................................Elizabeth Vila Rays..................................................Elizabeth Vila 25. Happiness in Hell..................................Stephie Castera Water Lullaby......................................Christine Peters 26. Paraiso.................................................Michelle Suarez Private Retreat..................................Christine Peters 27. Wall......................................................Patricia Alejandro Forcefield...........................................Michelle Degregorio 29. Cuando las palomas sueñan...................Katerina Gonzalez Doves in Flight..................................Katerina Gonzalez 31. Kladhy, MO...........................................Carmen Guillen-Casal Greta Series 2....................................Max Reed 33. Getting There.......................................Yuna Park Obsessive Compulsive Distortia........Carmen Guillen-Casal Self Portrait......................................Nelson Santovenia 35. This Is..................................................Mariohn Michel Bird’s View........................................Marilou Gantier 36. Solace...................................................Katerina Gonzalez Hope.................................................Katerina Gonzalez 37. The Road to Hell . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Daniella Carucci Clockwork Universe..........................Robert Roman 39. The Fire that Consumes.........................Andres Saenz Ascension..........................................Julia Luu

41. A Face to Launch a Thousand Ships........Martine Powers Hacking into the Mainframe..........Alina Balaguero 43. Of Weals and Woes.................................Jorge Pazos Missing You, Beautiful...................Nelson Santovenia 45. Ghostfaced............................................Ryan Williamson Vandal...........................................Max Reed 46. More than You Think.............................Khalil Jolibois Young Black Man...........................Amy Scott 47. Mixed...................................................Martine Powers Brain Contusion.............................Johanna Villamizar

Laurasia: Social Portrats 49. Emmanuel Xavier..................................Martine Powers 50. Soundspeak...........................................Sara Leslie Photos by.......................................Cecile McLorin-Salvant 51. Fashion Spread.....................................Mitra Hosseini Fashions by....................................Nelson Santovenia 53.The Truth..............................................Martine Powers Rat Studies 2 & 3............................Kourtney Gillet Girl Portrait....................................Kourtney Gillet 57. Janos Starker and Yo-Yo Ma..................Marylin Winkle Colored Cello in Dark.....................Esteban O’Sullivan 59. Major David Rozelle..............................Alina Balaguero Major David Rozelle......................Alina Balaguero

Gondwanaland : Personal Fragmentation 61. Election Day.........................................Nicolás Forero Bloody Hand Scan..........................Esteban O’Sullivan 63. West Nickel Mines.................................Alina Balaguero Amish School Shooting..................Alina Balaguero 65. The Search for a More Perfect Union......Joanna Perdomo Declaring Independence.................Nelson Santovenia 67. 3 Cigarettes..........................................Cecile McLorin-Salvant Ashes.............................................Cecile McLorin-Salvant 69. The Dark Side of the Moon.....................Megan Chakko Contrast........................................Esteban O’Sullivan 71. Your Lost Importance............................Andres Saenz 72. RainCloud.............................................Jorge Pazos Greta Series...................................Max Reed 73. The Lightness of Age.............................Nicolás Forero Old Age..........................................Carmen Guillen-Casal 75. Innocence.............................................Marilou Gantier Seaside Striations..........................Christine Peters 77. The Lake...............................................Iris Zhang Curiosity..........................................Christine Peters 79. The Wise Old Man..................................Patricia Alejandro Theta, Iota, Ro................................Ashleigh Fata 81. This is a Disjointed Spy Story.................Alina Balaguero 83. Colophon..............................................Katherine Holmes 85. 2006 - 2007.......... Magazine, Literature, and Art Awards

Motor Lauren Corona (India ink)


Master Cylinder Esteban O’Sullivan The heat and the air and the brains unaware and the apples on the ground and the catastrophe’s been found and the cold and the smooth and the rough in the groove and the waves how they pound and the dull talking sound and the head in the hole and the bell it’ll toll and the ghost in the eyes and to fall and to rise and to sleep and to wake and the brains how they’ll take and the words they won’t fit but the chemicals acquit and the doors they will close and the fire how it grows as its branches reign their rule once the master cylinder cools.


History of History Mariohn Michel

And on the ďŹ rst day God said Let there be light And deserts were made And History began Buddha was born And Tut came to life Moses walked on the Dead Sea sometimes The Taj Mahal was sculpted The Battle of Troy was choreographed All was brushed to life He then made two of everything And he called upon Jesus to put them in the Titanic And by a great light, he burnt Sodom and Gomorrah And only a pillar of salt was left: Abraham. And, little by little, they were all forgotten And the rain came and washed away their sins And Zeus was put on a cross With Hephaestus and Diane and Discord and Hades And Satan laughed as they got tired of bleeding And he singed Eden to dust They, too, were forgotten Buried under mountains And the desert became quiet Not a sight to be heard Not a sound to be seen The gritty gray sand cemented its way through time And the Apostles came to life and were taught by Caesar And Rome became great under the direction of Suleyman And Babylon was destroyed, and the Egyptians became its slaves While the Israelites drank milk and honey in Tenochtitlan

9 Elliptical Balance Detail Michael Carey (Sculpture)

Caleb stopped the sun in Canaan And Confucius taught Stalin And Gandhi and the Pope During which time Mohammed dined with Adolf And Roosevelt and Benito and Churchill God sneezed, and the dust rose And they, too, were forgotten But the sun stayed still, and the days kept changing And the desert remained the same And God was not pleased So the wind blew and man became imperfect And Eden was lost in the horizon Under the mountains of gray, gritty sand Achoo! said man as he knelt down To brush aside the dirt of time And Picasso sang and Shakespeare painted While Adam brushed away Eden He grew tired and Eve was made From his womb And she sculpted Dickenson and wrote Rembrandt And made toys of Napoleon and Darth Vader While dancing with Frida and praying with Manson And God stood back And saw what he did was good And he then proceeded to turn down the light

Gerome Michael Carey (Sculpture)



Ashleigh Fata


Fie!—a sign, a digit genuflect to genius, Which god earns Graecian offerings? Numbers beguiling can be wit!

Charming, life simple to obtain— with not one repeater… Can it sustain, completed? Never—O! In bounding devilish will A worrisome setting—a lazing, festering Pus; wholesome appetizer for sophism. 3.1415926 535 89 79323 846 264338 3279 502884 197169 39937


edia) h Fata (Mixed M ig le sh A a ri et m Geo


(Not) A

s t u J


Sara Leslie


t h o u g h t

That isn’t a thought! Not until you’ve screamed it aloud, let it ricochet off the ceiling and walls, then stepped back and weighed the offense it’s done. That’s not a thought, not before it’s said and heard and words have formed their sticky seal around it many a Tuesday night over it spent and money spent and effort spent and laughed and cried and done about it.




Splish Splash Jessica Packer (Acrylic)

That’s not a thought, sliding around in the basin of your mind, just narrowly escaping drainage and so stopped up with dismissals and criticisms That it can barely breathe, Struggling for a little air – where? a little light I wouldn’t dare To claim that thought as mine That dirty, stinking thing you’ve trampled on so many times it’s etched upon your shoe That, a thought??!! Yes, it yet no one knew (quite possibly) might have made


a good poem. once.




Matryoshka Robert Roman (Digital Photography) 15

erracota Yuna Park When she is born, they are not sure what to think of her: Her skin is rough and cracked and orange, faintly browned in the joints of her elbows each finger and toe hard and sun-dried. She has dark, wine-stained gums and a crease around her eye as if from a frown. And as her mother heaves and sighs and wipes her brow The little clay baby hardens in the August heat. Her name is Puebla. Straw protrudes from her scalp, Her eyes take on the color of silt. The first tooth that grows is yellowed, A corner of newsprint dark behind ginger lips. Father looks at her, his dry and worn terracotta doll, and his eyebrow dips low, In question: To which she sputters and chokes on her spittle. Water makes her mouth bleed and Her hollow body won’t align to the curve of her mother’s back She is beyond broken – Though her words sound like the neck of an earthen vase singing. She should be strong, they say Her skin is made of the blood of the earth, Molded smooth by laboring hands. Terracotta built the great cities – She whistles: but why is it then That only a kernel of ash from those cities remains? 16


Natalie Kaminsky

Hundreds of synthetic ďŹ bers sewn together To create a Launching Pad like no other With a strong foundation of bars And springs And screws. The view from on top Looks like a big, beautiful pizza pie. Legs bend, muscles push Sending the body catapulting Around itself. Tasting, on the ight upwards, Freedom. On the way down Something comes up: Lunch.

Diced Pizza Dona Marie Altemus (Enamel Paint) 17

Jungle Dona Marie Altemus (Enamel Paint)

My Face is a Pepper

Diana Perez

My creative juices have all stopped flowing. This makes me think of you. Indian Summer: the leaves don’t crackle. There’s red paint splattered on your hands . . . And a mannequin bleeding to death on the floor. You. 18

Tadpoles Iris Zhang

Five-year-old wrath is no Small matter. One, two, seven, nine Was that thirteen? (Can’t move, counting too fast) A wriggling black river Hiding the pretty blue pebbles. “Fishes, wow!” they clawed, Shoved, jostled, heaved, and yet Still my fingers clutched cool plastic. A foreign odor— Something wrong and wet Green glued my lips. How can fish be Black and fat and slimy? Confined to the bottom of a tank, They were a sad army of worms.

General dead No eyes no senses It was so easy Or so the teacher said. “On a piece of paper provided, draw what you see in the tank.” Scribble, scribble, scrawl. Doodle, doodle, draw. My paper was white like an unused eraser. One by one, held up for the world: Pretty blue circles. Seaweed (it was fake). Sleek lines like perfect brushstrokes. Semi-circles heads within Parallelograms (or trapezoids). Then big black blobs Burst out, tore the paper, Eating everything with ugly imperfection.

“These tadpoles Are . . . Well, different.” The teacher’s smile reflected The rough crayon marks. I wanted to disappear Down the drain. 19

Big Whoop Leland Rubin (Acrylic)

“ These tadpoles are . . . Well, different.” 20

Touchdown Jesus Jackie Antonell (Photograph) 21

The Patron Saint of Madrid Street by Andres Saenz


very day after school, I would visit the patron saint of Madrid street. For a child of five, it was a long walk from the bus stop to the house on the edge of the block, but I knew the path well because She had taught me to count the steps and follow the shadows. And so I would walk fifteen steps in the direction of the Rose lady’s house, make a right by where the Dutch colonialists lived, hurry past in forty accelerated paces by the haunted mansion where my father saw his first ghost, until I had reached the patron saint’s house.

steps and follow the church bells,” she would say. Still, I suspected that the halo was not owed to anyone but herself, and even if She felt that it was still a borrowed item, the truth is that I cannot think of anyone who deserved it more.

Before we crossed the street, her wrinkled hand would clutch mine tightly, waiting for an absolute silence to purify the air. Despite the routine aspect of this daily ritual, her breathing would grow short and brief whenever she faced the crosswalk, her steps landing faster than she could count Upon my arrival, I was greeted with the them out. Once on the other side of the respect reserved purely for the visit of a street, her normal pace was resumed, and my king, or perhaps the Pope. My golden throne reddened hand was allowed to fall into proper awaited me, positioned in such a manner circulation. The patron saint had performed that I could watch my jester-in-a-box for her daily miracle. hours on end, all the while spoiled with sugar cookies and vanilla wafers, illegal substances It was the hour of God, but more importantly, in my own kingdom. These were the delights the daily meeting of the patron street saints. She saved for me, and only me. My regal She never forgot to bring my rabbit-patterned predecessors had once been graced with such blanket and matching pillow to ease the pain gifts, but they had outgrown the tradition. of church. Patron saints with their respective kings and queens scattered around the room The church bells rang, the door was locked, did the same. Stretched out on the pews, and She and I were counting steps and the words of Matthew, Luke, Mark and John following the shadows cast by the trees on became my lullabies. And as the sermon was the heated asphalt. She did not need to “see,” preached, the patron street saints prayed, but simply believe. Whatever her holiness and their grandchildren slept, protected in lacked in sight, She had gained through the the house of God, by the innocence of youth blessing of an unselfish and ever giving soul. and the love of family. There were no real On rainy days, her halo was large enough to pains or stresses, and the complications of shelter us both from the rain, “as long as we old age, even blindness, were irrelevant. continue our commitment to count the


CoCoRico, CoCoRico Samantha DeGroen

It’s the sound of an early morning rooster at the top of the mountain. The busy Haitian streets start to liven up; cars honk trying to avoid all the holes in the streets. The “marchandes” start to sell their vegetables on the side of the road.

Inside Out Elizabeth Vila (photograph) 23

Ray Elizabeth Vila (photograph) As I make my way to school in my dad’s Jeep,

he replies, “It’s because they have no food,”

we have to avoid the cars that break down in the

and he swerves to avoid another hole in the

middle of the road. We pass by a recent accident

street. Finally we start making our way up the

between a car that lost control and someone just

mountain and onto “la mauvaise route” (the bad

passing by. To my right I see nothing but people

road). This is always the scariest part of getting

wearing no shoes, their cothes filled with holes,

to school. Some cars never make it up the hill,

carrying baskets on top of their head. They walk

especially if it has rained the night before and

around shouting “pratik!” and you can see all the

the sand is still wet. So we wait in the Jeep for

holes in their mouth where teeth were supposed

our turn to go up. I watch the cars before us

to be. Little children run around naked, carrying

reach the halfway point only to slide back down.

the biggest belly I have ever seen. So I ask my

Stop and go. Stop and go. Such is life in Haiti.

father why their

stomachs are so big, and


Happiness in Hell

Stephie Castera

The games were getting more intense. I could see it in their eyes. For them, my two male servants, this was not just amusement. Thirty years of age and they had experienced the most unthinkable disasters, the most cruel poverty. And there I was, a nine- year- old girl living in a mansion, never feeling a scrap of suffering. I thought I had the answers to every problem; they thought no answers could ever be reached.

If there were answers, why had their parents died of AIDS and not old age? Why was it that their children were dying of famine? Why was it that they were now the servants of a foolish nine- yearold girl? As I looked at the two men pondering their strategies, their skin, the color of coal, was, for the first time, almost intimidating. Their eyes were red as if they were born crying, and, since then, had never stopped. A century of hard work could be seen in the deep creases that mapped their hands. Suddenly, I realized the strength of these men. In all their misfortunes, they were still happier than I. O how beautiful they were! The once too thick lips now uttered forth volumned knowledge. Their laboring bodies became statues of David. I became their servant, lost in admiration.

Water Lullaby Christine Peters (Acrylic)


A buzzing sound by my ear brought me back to earth. It was one of those flies again! The ones that haunted my life and spread pestilence on my gourmet food! And then I realized it was my turn. Without hesitating, I took a domino out of my hand and placed it on the tiny table. Minutes later, I lost. He won. I gathered the dominoes and descended the stairs towards the maid’s room where my next round of dominoes would start. I guess you could say those are my “childhood memories”, getting defeated by those few who found happiness in hell.

P a r a i s o Michelle Suarez Este pais me recuerda al mio Arena fina, espuma salada Hasta la leche de coco me sabe igual de dulce Al despertar salgo corriendo hacia el agua,

“ I give myself to the sea”

Dejando que el calor del sol pentre mi cuerpo Despues me entrego al mar Siento que el agua recorre mi cuerpo Floto, como me enseno mi mama El mar me lleva a paraisos lejanos, A mi paraiso cercano.

Paradise This country reminds me of mine Fine sand, salty froth Even the coconut milk tastes as sweet Upon waking I run towards the water,

Letting the sun’s heat penetrate my body Then I give myself to the sea I feel the water caressing my body

I float, the way my mother taught me The sea takes me from far away paradises, To my paradise nearby.

Private Escape Christine Peters (Mixed Media)


by Patricia Alejandro

I will warn you the same side of the wall. Y on a wall of eternal childhood. M itself again. And again. Through lived underground too long.

And Now you begin to see. See t

You dislike change, hence you di me at your disposal – hung on th you see – you only see a mirror, is less trouble for you. My happi

The image is too painful – the co the two sides can coexist. Your r our heart. Conquering land for o best.

Break the mirror Now. And beckons, the wind implo to follow.

Who is the selfish one the one that want t mise.

Forcefield Michelle Degregorio (Acrylic) 27

Sit and listen an stronger?

“I will warn you only once . . . “

by: Patricia Alejandro

– perspective is just that. You and

The image is too painful – the

I do not see the same side of the

corridor of escape too far off. There

wall. Your side floats as a mirage

is a paradox to this, and the two

of strong bricks with pictures on

sides can coexist. Your reason, your

a wall of eternal childhood. My

logic, your power – held forth in

side of the wall simultaneously

battle against our heart.

crumbles and sustains itself again.

Conquering land for our benefit –

And again. Through my wall I can

bringing civilization to the savage.

seeand you, butnot your u only once – perspective is just that. You I do seebricks are too old Your side floats as a mirage of strong bricks with pictures and have lived underground too My side of the wall simultaneously crumbles and sustains my wall I can see you, but your bricks long. are too old and have

It is what is best.

Break the mirror Now. And your

And Now you begin to see. See that hat it is the same wall, regardless. Now listen. it is the same wall, regardless.

wall will as well crumble alongside

islike us. Yet you crave change you can control. And you see he wall with a thin, smiling young face. Yet that is not what Now listen. that of your mind designing my happiness. The best for me ness at your control. One happy family. You dislike change, hence you

wind implores, and my feet move

orridor of escape too far off. There is a paradox to this, andcrave change you dislike us. Yet you reason, your logic, your power – held forth in battle against can control. you our benefit – bringing civilization to the savage. It isAnd what is see me at your

mine. The corridor beckons, the

towards it – liberty. Yet I want you to follow. Who is the selfish one here? The one who wants to keep his land

disposal – hung on the wall with a

your wall will as well crumble alongside mine. The corridor thin, smiling young face. Yet that ores, and my feet move towards it – liberty. Yet I want you is not what you see – you only see a

against you or the one who wants to acquire it for our benefit? The culprit?

mirror, that of your mind designing e here? The one that wants to keep his land against you or to acquire it for our benefit? The culprit? of compro myLack happiness.

Lack of compromise. Sit and listen and change just enough.

The best for me is less trouble d change just enough. Would you want the wall to grow for you. My happiness at your control.

Would you want the wall to grow One happy family.



cuando las palomas sueñan katerina gonzalez Todos tenemos deseos de flotar sobre el cielo, pero la indecisión nos mantiene cerca de la tierra que tanto nos rechaza. Las alas de palomas blancas queridas nos guían entre el mar y el cielo. En esa distancia perfecta. En la distancia amanece un niño que sueña del mar y de sus tesoros. El nacimiento de Venus intoxicó a las burbujas. Ahora ya no pueden resistir el desafío forzado sobre ellos por las olas que solamente quieren protegerlos de las profundidades oscuras del océano. Esas profundidades tienen los tesoros más delicados que la tierra tienen que ofrecer. El mar había escondido esos tesoros porque tenía miedo que, aunque quería compartirlos, las personas no los apreciaran bajo de los brillantes besos del sol. Pero mas que ese miedo tenía la preocupación de que nadie lo entendería. El niño tocó el mar con sus pies en su sueño y empezó a correr. Corriendo por arriba del agua, llegó al punto más central del mar entero y le dijo: “Gracias por dejarme correr por encima de ti, ya sabes que te vine a decir un secreto. Quiero que en cambio por él me dejes volar solamente una vez.” El mar se puso bravísimo. Había una furia por dentro porque un chico trataba de vencerlo y era un fastidio para su honor. Pero, los miles de años que han sufrido los tesoros por nunca poder mostrarse al sol hizo al mar un poco desesperado. Quería compartirse con todos. El niño se agachó hasta casi tocar el mar con su boca, y salió de sus labios un susurro. El niño le dijo al mar que aunque había estado tan lejos por de él por tanto tiempo, lo conocía por debajo, por detrás, desde adelante, completamente, y que ya no tenía que mostrarle los tesoros porque ya conocía lo que tenía por dentro. El mar, quien se quedó muy emocionado por las palabras dulces, le dio al niño su sueño de volar. El niño nunca había sentido la misma alegría. Pensaba siempre en poder flotar de una nube hacia la otra, pero el tiempo llegó en que el niño supo que tenía que regresar a la tierra; ya no podía volar con las palomas desde un punto hacia otro. Cuando despertó de su sueño sabía que el destino de él coincidía con el mar. La paloma pensó sobre su sueño de ser un niño antes de tomar un último vistazo hacia la ciudad donde él nació y después empezó el vuelo hacia el mar. 29

We all wish to one day be able to float upwards toward the sky, but gravity keeps us grounded to an Earth that rejects us. The wings of white doves guide us between the sea and the sky. In that perfect distance. In the distance a boy awakes that dreams of the sea and of its treasures. The birth of Venus intoxicated the white foam of the beach. Now, it cannot resist rebelling against the waves who solely want to protect them from the dark depths of the ocean. These depths have the most delicate treasure that the Earth has to offer. The sea had hidden them because it had a fear, that although it wanted to share them, people would not appreciate them under the brilliant kisses of the sun. The boy touched the sea with his feet in his dream and began to run. Running over the water, he stopped at the most central part of the entire ocean and said to it: “Thank you for letting me run on top of your waters, you already know that I came to tell you a secret. In exchange for it, I want for you to let me fly only one time.” The sea was infuriated. It was bitter because the boy tried to rise higher than it by negotiating, and it was a strike to its pride. Yet, the millions of years that the treasures had suffered because of not being able to show themselves to the sun keep nagging in the thoughts of the sea. It really wanted to share itself with everyone. The boy bent over and, almost touching the sea with its mouth, whispered softly to it. He told the sea that although it had been so far for so long, he knew it from beneath, from behind, from the front, completely and that it no longer had to show off its treasures for him, because he already understood what it contained inside. The sea, which was very touched by these sweet words, granted the boy his wish of flight. The boy had never felt the same joy. He thought of always being able to fly from cloud to cloud, but the time came when the boy knew he had to return to Earth; the plight of doves katerina gonzalez (gelatin silver print) he could no longer fly with the doves. When he awoke from his dream, he knew that his destiny coincided with the sea. The dove thought about his dream of being a boy before taking a last glance at the city he had been born and lived in. He then took flight and began his journey to the sea.

when doves dream (translation from spanish)


Carmen Ca C arrm men en Guillen-Casal Gui uill llen n--C Cas asal al al


The heat of the midday sun hung limply around us. The combined heat of the drought and the blazing glare mixed a foul syrup under our arms and at the creases behind our knees. We endured. The hope of hearing the ever familiar bells, the twinkling of the beat down ice cream truck fumbling down our reddened dirt road fascinated us. The soccer game had come to a stand still and Joanne stood triumphantly before us, her foot pivoting on the dusty run-down ball. Our silence was broken by Bonnie, who had picked up a scrap of paper off the road. Her grubby fingers idly swished the glossed remnant of a dirty magazine in an attempt to stir up a breeze. Eloise was standing close enough to me that I felt the rub of her sweat slicked arm against my own. Close enough that my nose was tickled by the straggly mess of strawlike curls which had broken free of her scrunchie, now twisted around blades of yellowing grass. Somewhere, we heard the muffled yelling from the swinging door of a trailer home. Sometimes, it was the choked yelps of a hound having spotted some earthen critter running to the shade. Without fail, every Saturday was always the same: we would wake together, dotted across the faded mobile homes. I would rise quietly so as not to wake little Billy from her sleep, and push out of the creaking door. Dad would’ve gone to work early, inspecting bottles of pop as they sped down an assembly line, and Mom would have be around back, heaving the weight of sheets against the laundry line. It was always the same, tired smile as she saw me walk off. None of us had ever heard of Coppertone, our skin had been cooked under the heat of the sun and our lips were flaky and pale. Most of our time was spent kicking up dirt and scraping knees. The only television set we had seen belonged to Bonnie’s dad; and it only played one channel even when the weather was right. Yet, we could wait forever without fail for the ice cream truck to roll around. None of us had enough pocket change for our own ice cream; we would each dig into our pockets or search the side of the road for green, grimy pennies. We always had just enough for one. Joanne got to pick the flavors, as team captain, and we’d all gather behind her as she’d lick her lips and look at the peeling postcards of ice cream cones. But it was always the same. She would always pick the strawberry popsicle while we climbed over each other, trying to suggest grape, or some days a lime slushie. We were the little bits of paper and candy wrappers which would stick to change in the insides of pockets, clamoring for some place in the known world. Picture 8

(Photograph) 32

Getting There Yuna Park

She doesn’t even care, you know? It’s like this: you get up one morning, shrug into some clothes, pull on a pair of oddly fitting boots and just start walking. Doesn’t matter where. The point is you’re getting there. You’ll know your destination when you see it – you’ve already seen it. In the corner of your mind’s eye, or somewhere in the folds of a dream. It looks green and a little sandy and has a large body of water. Maybe an ocean. Maybe just a lake. What I’m getting at is that you just get there. It doesn’t look exactly the same, really. It’s more like a paddling pool filled with a bunch of four-yearolds pissing left and right and a gaggle of mothers cooing over an exceptionally well done red velvet cake. In the middle of it all is sitting the most unlovable girl in the world. “Goddamnit, Mom. I’m turning seventeen . . . . Is this all really necessary?”

Obsessive Compulsive Distortia Carmen Guillen-Casal (Acrylic)

You shiver a little. A good old shake in the boots. The girl throws you a look, like a who the hell are you? Kind of look, and your heart sinks a little. She’s standard fare: brown hair, eyes, heart chin, a pearl of sweat balanced on the skin between her nostril and her curled upper lip. But like some bells and whistles pickup truck off the conveyor belt, you see her ordinariness as divine intervention, a just right alignment of metalwork and glossy 33

veneer making up a singularly sublime product – “Are you some setup my mom arranged? Because that would be embarrassing.” She spits, hits you right in the heart, but you don’t stagger. Staggering is for sissies, and wounded woodland creatures, and toddlers learning to walk for the first time. Not you. Never you. “No. No set up. I don’t think I even know you.”

She’s looking at you like you’ve got three eyes, or just really bad acne; either way it’s scathing – the way that some girls can look at you and make you feel like you’re not even a man Just a little pansy of a boy with your tail between your legs. You’re not quite a man, though. You’re only seventeen, too. But it’s her birthday and all, and you sing her a little happy birthday to you, and she rolls her eyes and yawns behind her hand, “Mom, this freak won’t leave me alone.”

at you and stirring her stupid pinky-pink Shirley temple. It’s so aggravating. “Merval… Oh, that’s just rich.” She sips. You wonder if she’ll care once you smash her birthday cake into her face.

“ I don’t even think I know you.”

“That’s your old friend, honey, remember? That neighborhood boy.. what was his name? You shaved off a chink of his hair, remember? And he got so frustrated with you he wet your bed? What on earth was his name? Merval?” Pfft. Merval. And she laughs, oh she laughs. It’s a beautiful laugh, like an exploding bag of popcorn or something. You know how popcorn pops – that insistent little rat-a-tattat behind the microwave door – that’s how her laugh is, just bigger. It’s going to burst. She doesn’t even care that you walked here – who the hell walks anymore? But you did it. You walked. She doesn’t care that you’re wearing the most godforsaken uncomfortable pair of boots. And your parents named you Merval, for crying out loud. They intended for you to be awkward and gawky.

She doesn’t care though, she’s just laughing

Self Portrait Nelson Santovenia (Oil)


This is . . . Mariohn Michel This is a song. That our young women shut their lips for. That our girls refuse to sing. That our women are told is too loud to want to be heard.

This is love. This is confusing. This is sacrifice. This is strength. This is the first taste of hot cocoa on a cold winter morning. Lots of cinnamon, no sugar, foam.

This is a dance. That our young men step too fast to. That our boys break their hips for, too desperate to understand. That our men are told must be quickly ended.

This is love. This is theft. This is misguidance. This is truth. This is a disappearance act. A disappearance from our homes, from our parent’s hearts, from our own lives.

This is love. This is heartbreaking. This is painful. This is delirious, and oh-so-worth-it. This is the feeling of bare feet on grass sprinkled with morning dew.

This is an ode. To an adventure so many of us young ones are declining or wasting. To a journey we see as too risky. For a price we consider too high, a cost we believe demands too much. This is glory. And we are refusing to take it.

Sydney Katerina Gonzalez (Photograph)


A Bird’s View Marilou Gantier (Photograph)

Solace Katerina Gonzalez The trouble with it… is that we condemn ourselves to it. We despise ourselves because of it. We look down at our lonely doting anarchist of hope and we find all relations lost without a swaying scent or whisper of peace.

Instead of solace, we find hungry black elves knocking at the back of our frontal lobes and all of our silver plated holy charms get lost in a sea of penance. After all, the lonely little dolls get lost in a world Where squared away heavy brackets are bullet heavy in a basket full of nothing.


Look at you, sipping that Monday Guatamala Casi Cielo decaf with your legs crossed as you browse the newspaper. Newsflash—just because you bought your stirring pot of sludge from Starbucks, a store that divvies up the menu by country, doesn’t make you metropolitan.

where you spend hours posting bulletins and spying on your significant other, in bitter anticipation of that one comment that proves he cheated on you.

It would be monotonous to reiterate the horrors of MySpace™, how it opens up the door to 40-year-old shut-ins who sexually harass Your ipod™ on your new deluxe ihome™ adolescents taking pictures of themselves is blasting that mainstream crap you scantily clad because it’s “sessy”. It would also uploaded;your blackberry is ringing incessantly, be ignorant to praise the website because you and that MacBook™ of yours is practically can network and reconnect with old friends. attached to your hip. What’s up with that anyway? If you lost contact, it was for a reason. You take a picture with your new Canon Powershot A95™ loaded for MySpace™, The problem isn’t MySpace™. It’s you. 37

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions Daniella Carucci

Clockwork Universe Robert Roman (Mixed Media) The iGeneration is taking over. People order rental movies off the internet so there is no need to go to Blockbuster™. You can even have your groceries ordered home. There is no need to ever leave the apartment. There are growing issues fueled by the media: obesity, anorexia, and conflicting self –images. The world is damned as we damn it.

Now ask yourself, “WHO IS EVOLVED?” 38

Ascension Julia Luu (Digital Photography)



Fi re

t hat

s e m u s n o C Andres Saenz

The Fire that consumes whispers at my left ear Speaking words of sinistry, filling me with fear.

The Innocence within me dares to put it out With teacups of water in fruitless endeavor The Fire roars with laughter, releasing a shout : “You cannot tame me, I am with you forever” Hearing these words I cringe, and its flames grow vicious Furthering its conquest, its intent malicious Stop! Stay! I command you! Stand at your barrier! Empty threats made of discernible clarity, The Fire ignores them, like a true harrier And penetrates still, with haughty vulgarity.

Shall I succumb to such a harmful aggressor? Knowledge is the gain, but also the oppressor.


Hacking Into the Mainframe Alina Balaguero (Gouache)


A Face to Launch a Thousand Ships Martine Powers

I should have had A face to launch a thousand ships, The gentle curve of potent lips, And eyes that burn like fire! Those things are what young men require; My photo in their combat caps. Men die for me: They die to save me from our foes, They die to save me from all those Who do what they themselves desire.

They finger Kodak Polaroids My image ‘tween their callused paws, (Of course, that is my place in war) They look and think of home, Ashamed For jerking off in bathroom stalls For relishing those rifle balls And fearing death by desert gods And once those RPGs unfold, They find their helmets, green and gold My pristine portrait, slightly fried, And bits of brain and goop inside

While here I stay, I come across a road-killed mutt And think of how its battered gut Can make me pine for furious war A war where I can count for more. So finally, When I am (mmmmm) gently deflowered And they go BOOM! by rocket-powered Grenades, you know we’ll be so thrilled: The point to which our lives do build, With all our carnal aims fulfilled.


Staring at a mound of sand resting in your humble hand, you swore that not a single grain would sift through your unyielding palms. In turn, my brain swore to dismiss the scarlet horns of your mischief, and quick were you to bring such calm, sealed with the scarlet of your lips.

You and I waited, legs sewn betwixt the sand, transďŹ xed by lips elated.

You and I waited, the sun lays intermixed with the sky and sea with which its cycle rests ill fated.

Of 43


e ls a

n a d

w o es jor




In time, the forceful draft of night ushered forth the sweet delight of a eeting circumvention and a promise left intact. Your most vigilant palms feigned most pitiful qualms And in turn made your hopes into fact.

You and I enumerated Each swiftly soaring speck of sand that parted from your smiling hand by means of secret wishesor fortunesthat you and I had never planned.

Missing You, Beautiful Nelson Santovenia (Oil)


Ghostfaced Ryan Williamson

Vandal Max Reed (Photograph) I’m told that I’m evil. I’m told that I should feel guilty. I don’t. I’m told that I took your land, raped your women. I didn’t. Should I be ashamed of The Holocaust, slavery, or the extinction of indigenous peoples? Am I too guilty, when those responsible are related to me Not by blood, but by melanin? My white skin is a flag. It is not one of defeat. White is not only a shade, It’s my color. 45

It is always a surprise to you that I am well-spoken, And yet I still can’t get the job I want. The better dressed I am, The more suspicious you become. I am told to focus on athletics, not academics Then accused of stealing your chance at an education You insist on “evening the playing field,” Though only one of us is given the equipment to win.

You then have the temerity to complain about discrimination While you hold all the playing cards. Black is my color— not all I am. I hope you stop pitying yourself long enough to figure this out. Oh— And stop trying to tell me what it means to be black. I think I would know better than you.

Khalil Jolibois

More Than You Think . . .

You might not have enslaved my ancestors, But you continue to hold me down.

Young Black Man Amy Scott (Mixed media)


Mixed By Martine Powers

You tell me I’m “mixed,” Like a foul, ill-kept mongrel A mutt of sorts, Filthy with the smatterings of so much heritage. Evidently, My mother was a simple island whore, Lucky to be saved from her primitive existence By a civilized white man with a Ph. D: My father. Is the plump and portly nature of my flesh A stamp of lurid Afro-Carib birthright, A Rubenesque tribute to Italian heritage, Or simply the result of too much Taco Bell and Dairy Queen? By “mixed,” Do you mean “everything”? Or do you just mean “nothing”? 47

Brain Contusion Johanna Villamizar (Acrylic on canvas)


New Generation, New Voice: Emanuel Xavier and Spoken Word Poetry By Martine Powers


ith his freckled, youthful face, staccato Brooklyn though several controversial lines were removed for the accent, and t-shirt-and-jeans attire, Emanuel high school audience, Xavier’s passion and emotion were Xavier seems to be your average, urban twentyunmistakably palpable. something. But Xavier is the new face of a burgeoning “I want to break tradition/ Respecting elders que no literary art form – Spoken Word, a style of performance me respetan/ Because blood is supposed to be thicker art, where lyrics, stories, or poetry are spoken, instead of than arroz con dulce,” Xavier said in a line of “Tradiciónes” sung. a poem that deals with his Hispanic family’s reaction to On February 22nd, 2007, Xavier came his homosexuality. “But you see, my friends are to Coral Reef Senior High School to my family/ Because they love and accept present a sampling of some mis locuras/ And don’t consider of his finest works of me/ Una desgracia de la “I want to break tradition, Spoken Word. familia.” His poems Two years a go,

Respecting elders que no me respetan,

Because blood is supposed to be thicker than arroz con dulce.

But you see, my friends are my family, Because they love and accept mis locuras,

touched on multiple social issues – from homosexuality and urban life to Latino machismo culture and the meaning of America.

X a v i e r was walking through his Brooklyn neighborhood when he was Una desgracia de la familia.” brutally attacked by a neighborhood street gang. Though Xavier sustained -Emanuel Xavier multiple injuries from which he recovered, he In his ten-year career, Xavier has published several permanently lost hearing in his right ear and possesses anthologies of his work; he has also been featured a grisly scar on the back of his head. He says that he was multiple times on the HBO show Def Poetry. attacked “because [he’s] gay,” and because he’s a “semi“This art form appeals to youth because we can express public figure in New York.” ourselves openly and creatively,” Xavier said. “We are all Though Xavier sports a black t-shirt reading, “politically entitled to express ourselves in some fashion.” sexy, culturally mixed,” he says that he doesn’t consider At the age of sixteen, Xavier informed his family that he himself an “activist.” was gay. After his mother kicked him out of their house, he “I don’t protest – I’m simply an artist. I express the world descended into a life of homelessness, drug-dealing, and around me,” Xavier said. “I cannot commit myself to one prostitution. A turning point came when Xavier “stumbled specific group or organization.” onto” the Nuyorican Poets Café in the East Village of New Xavier encouraged the Coral Reef students to participate York City. in Spoken Word, and gave them tips for effectively “I was inspired. I said to myself, ‘This is what I want to performing poetry. He also stated that he plans to continue do with my life,’” Xavier recalls. “It’s important for people with his Spoken Word career, focusing on writing more for to hear that there’s someone like them, that it’s okay to the page, accompanying his poetry with music, and perhaps express themselves.” writing more in Spanish. But Xavier says that he’s sure he At Coral Reef, Xavier recited excerpts from some of picked the right job for him. his most famous poems, including “A Simple Poem,” “Americano,” and “Tradiciónes.” Much of his work utilizes “We will always have people expressing themselves, because familiar Spanglish phrases and pop culture references; there will always be war and challenges to face.”

And don’t consider me



awareness of sound. A conscious effort to hear what words become when put together, to roll them around on our tongue and feel them out. It goes beyond meter and rhyme, and into the world of language and its musicality. You do not listen to spoken word with your mind. Instead, your ear selectively tastes— By Sara Leslie catching words or lines here and there, holding onto strong ones and letting the weaker ones slip through. And the words that stand out pound poken word is an unusual art. Its origins lie in through your head like echoes, words spoken in poetry, from the lyrical sounds that arose in back a plain, strong voice: hard, tight, biting. rooms of dingy cafés in the Beat That is when you start to feel you’ve generation. From then on, it entered the territory of spoken word—when has lived secluded, in a quiet, you yo ou stop trusting your mind and start to trust secret movement. Few your senses—when the words resonate on people know what spoken their own accord through your vertebrae. word is, much less have It’s when you can pair the word “soft” with heard it. Its birthparent, the beat of a drum and almost feel the poetry, is universally read gentle, rolling beat carrying the syllable and recognized. Rap, a close to infinity. cousin, is perhaps the only e McLorinS Photo by Cecil other well-known art that can be compared to it.



t an alv

Perhaps the reason spoken word has yet to emerge out from the shadow of poetry is because it’s so difficult to classify. The line is often blurred between poetry, acting and music, and the mélange of the three is something entirely different: unexpectedly full, lyrical and inviting.


like to call spoken word something along the lines of “Soundspeak”. It provides a stronger definition for the essence of spoken word, which is built not so much on actual speaking as on what drives a spoken word poem into being—an acute

All designs and photos by Nelson Santovenia 51

Black and Chic Nelson Santovenia (Textiles)

My Favorite Striped Fabric Nelson Santovenia (Textiles)

All designs and photos by Nelson Santovenia

Under All the Ideas Lies a Soul Nelson Santovenia (Textiles)


The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth: The Merits of Art versus Science

An Essay

Martine Powers

“We know the truth, not only by the reason, but also by the heart.” -Blaise Pascal (French mathematician, physicist, and religious philosopher)

Wiesel that retells his experiences as a Jewish victim of the Holocaust. Wiesel chronicles his journey into the hell of concentration camps, the loss of all of his family members, and the effects that this experience had on him. His words are powerful, no doubt – it is chilling to hear how he found God “hanging here on this gallows,” and how, when he saw his reflection in the mirror for the first time since the concentration camp, he only “saw a corpse gaze[ing] back.” After reading Night, it seemed to be that there was no art form more powerful than literature in retelling the horrors of World War II.

Rat Study 2 Kourtney Gillet (Oil)

Throughout the history of the written word, it has been the duty of literature to speak and convey the truth. Whether these truths are ethical, emotional, philosophical, or physical, they are an essential and definitive element of the merit of a creative work. Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude – these linguistic achievements would all be nothing without their delivery of a profound and indisputable reality: that good and evil are everlasting and inseparable, that relentless ambition can lead to one’s downfall, and that the past and the future are fundamentally related. Humanity has always depended upon the power of storytelling and the written word to make sure that painful yet important truths and experiences are not forgotten. Literature often seems like the most unambiguous and accessible means of chronicling these truths, and this is only natural. After all, humans think and analyze in terms of language and of words: we use words to recognize our own emotions, to define ourselves, and to describe our experiences to others. Words could easily be seen as the most powerful art form in the task of “telling the truth.” However, we should not be so quick to discard non-linguistic art forms in their quest to convey reality. Genres of art such as painting, photography, and music may be more subjective because they cannot explain truths in clearcut sentences and phrases. Still, they are often able to describe reality in ways that are as authentic, or even more authentic, than in poetry or prose. Ultimately, every area of the Arts possesses the capacity to “tell the truth” in its own profound and insightful way. In my own personal experiences, I have encountered the ways in which varying and diverse art forms may convey the same truths. One of my favorite books, Night, is an autobiographical account by Elie 53

Rat Study 3 Kourtney Gillet (Oil)

However, my views on the superiority of literature were instantly invalidated when I first observed Pablo Picasso’s most famous mural, Guernica, hanging in the Museo de Reína Sofia in Madrid. Guernica depicts a town by the same name, bombed to bits during the Spanish Civil War. Of course, Guernica is nowhere near as factual or as literal as Night in its portrayal of the consequences of warfare – these are the limits of painting, as opposed to language. The mural is filled with images of mutilated horses and bulls and women, melting into one another and occasionally indistinguishable. However, the truth is still there – the pain, the anguish, and the horror. I stood in front of that painting, and I could swear that I could hear the screaming people, the whistle and crash of bombs, and the wailing of mothers over their dead babies. Though Guernica is certainly not literature, and includes no words with which to clarify itself, its message is as loud and as clear as that of Night: war is hell. War causes tremendous, indiscriminate suffering, and the innocents are by and large those who suffer the most.

If different genres of art can produce equally honest and candid portrayals of the truth, can the same be said for different areas of knowledge, such as history and science? Though these fields of study are certainly factual and accurate, their ability to “tell the truth” essentially depends on the definition of “truth” that is being applied. If “truth” simply means veritable pieces of information – names, dates, statistics, and concepts – then history and human sciences are no better matched. History’s sole purpose is to provide a factual and unemotional report of the passage of events; human sciences such as economics and sociology can explain the causes and effects involved in the major events in world history. However, “truth,” to me, has come to mean much more. It is more than just a precise explanation or relation; it is a conveyance of the honest tendencies and experience of the human condition. Truth is not simply what happened, but how events were perceived by humans, and what impact they had on those same individuals. 54

Our “truths” are not remote and technical invoices social and natural sciences may, by themselves, on things that have occurred; they are statements produce accurate facts and figures, they cannot, in that elucidate and probe deeper into the human isolation, deal with the truths that are most important psyche. Thus, we must recognize the limits possessed at the end of the day. Only the arts can wholly by these other fields of study in “telling the truth.” address these fundamental truths, and that is why A history textbook can certainly communicate the the arts have played and will continue to play such number of casualties that occurred during the Vietnam an important role in the history of human existence. War, list battles and important fronts of conflict, and describe the US Congress’ decision to withdraw from the war. However, you can not fully understand the depth of the United States’ involvement in the war until you read literature like Tim O’Brien’s anthology of war-related stories, The Things They Carried. You cannot fully comprehend ‘However, the arts and the sciences are the terrible impact the inextricably linked: science can sometimes Vietnam War had on the people of Vietnam explain the beauty of art, and art is often used to until you see Associated convey scientific “truths” to the common man.’ Press photographs taken by Nick Út and Eddie Adams. One pictures a naked child running down the street, her mouth open and screaming in pain because her skin is slowly burning from a napalm attack; the other exhibits the execution of a Viet Cong prisoner by a pistol held by General Nguyen Ngoc Loan at point-blank range. In the realm of mathematics and the natural sciences, it may seem that these “emotional truths” are secondary, or even superfluous, to the primary objective of hard, cold facts and figures. Mathematicians solve equations and scientists search for answers to problems; the arts hardly seem applicable when it comes to deciphering exact numbers and testing hypotheses. However, the arts and the sciences are inextricably linked: science can sometimes explain the beauty of art, and art is often used to convey scientific “truths” to the common man. For example, graphic representations of mathematical concepts, such as the manifestation of sequences and series as “fractals,” provides a deeper level of comprehension to the average human being, who could not easily grasp the meaning of statements such as Mandelbrot’s Set, defined as: The fractal, or the “art,” conveys what the equation cannot: a beautiful set of numerical patterns that are both infinite and intricate. Ultimately, the quality of a “truth” is measured by its ability to allow individuals to grasp and fully comprehend the extent of a historical occurrence, economic trend, scientific phenomena, mathematical 55 reality, or emotional universality. Though the


Michelle Kourtney Gillet (Oil)

Yo-Yo Ma and Janos Starker: Catalysts for Enlightenment Marylin Winkle

Cello, Esteban O’Sullivan (Digital Photography)

I had attended several master-classes before and always found them to be informing, inspiring even. I walked away from them with a newfound knowledge of things I could make my cello do and ways I could improve my technique. But I was not enlightened until I had the succinct pleasure of attending two masterclasses by two internationally acclaimed artists: Distinguished Professor Janos Starker and Yo-Yo Ma. 57

On February 19th, 2007, the University of Miami’s Fillmore Hall was positively buzzing with an unprecedented excitement. To my personal exhilaration, this was an opportunity for me to introduce myself to the legend who would in two weeks hold the reigns of my Indiana University audition in his hands, but to every enthusiastic soul in the room that evening, the thrill of being in the presence of greatness was unavoidable.

That thrill did not dissipate after the class had begun. “I do not like to call these sessions ‘master-classes’,” Starker stated boldly in his heavy Hungarian accent. “‘Master-class’ suggests that young master plays and old master says he likes his way better. This is not what I do.” At one point after one of the students performed a particularly contemporary piece, Starker claimed that the student was being too serious; “This piece should remind you of a cartoon. Play this piece thinking of Donald Duck,” and to demonstrate what he meant the great cellist played the piece from memory without missing a note while crossing his eyes, sticking out the tip of his tongue, and lifting his feet to rock in his chair.

taken any longer to arrive. It was the afternoon that I would meet YoYo Ma, the cellist extraordinaire. Once again, my zeal was shared by many, and by the end of the night, it had not dwindled. I made sure to get a good seat: second row, right in the center. The first performer, one of the New World Symphony cellists, set up to perform the Schumann cello concerto, but as I looked at the people seated in the audience around me, I was aware that their eyes were not on the young performer – they were searching the theatre for the famous cellist! And at last the Great One appeared!

“The first note of the solo The miraculous thing was, though, grew from nothing, and that suddenly the piece sounded the phrase was sung with better! And not just because the tone quality was superior and his a melancholy beauty.” runs were cleaner, but because it had life! It had a voice! It was a story to which the musician behind the cello was simply a character. It soon became apparent to me how exactly it was that this man managed to rise to the musical level that he did, as well as so many of his students who’ve come to achieve greatness. But before me was not only an “old master” and “Distinguished Professor” but an artist, who after so many years of interacting with his instrument had not allowed the time to defeat his technical ability and enjoyment of musical creation. February 22nd, though it was only a few days later, couldn’t have

Applause. Buzz. Yo-Yo Ma shook the hand of the wide eyed musician on stage, said a few short words to him to wish him luck, and walked off the stage to observe the young man’s performance from the back of the auditorium. The pianist began his interlude, and the performer set his bow on the A string. The first note of the solo grew from nothing, and the phrase was sung with a melancholy beauty. The concerto ended, and Yo-Yo Ma approached the stage. So as to

unknowingly satisfy Janos Starker’s qualm with a typical master-class, he did not say anything was wrong with the piece. Indeed, he never once, throughout the performance and the three that succeeded it, claim that there were any specific flaws. Instead, he questioned. He asked the musicians what they saw in the piece. He asked them about the story that was being told. He asked them to explore what passed through their minds as they played. And he asked the audience. He asked us how we felt and what we thought and saw and heard. At one climactic point, Mr. Ma spontaneously closed discussion so he could sit in a seat directly in front of me and wave his arms in the air and make faces at one young woman whom he had asked to begin the Dvorak Cello Concerto for a second time. The point? To make her smile and enjoy what she was doing on the stage, proving to her that she can separate her conscious mind, concerned with actions around her, with the subconscious that is responsible, when left alone, for a truly spectacular musical performance. Together, we talked about energy. We identified that neither audience nor performer can exist without the other; an audience and a performer feed off of the energy that the other produces and together give birth to beauty.

Major David Rozelle Alina Balaguero (Scratchboard)

“David Rozelle is more than just a man.�


Major David Rozelle Alina Balaguero

The Hawaii Ironman is notorious for being one of the most difficult triathlon events in the world. Frantic masses of people begin the race with a 2.4 mile swim, their legs kicking in confusion, bodies thrown against each other. Noses break and goggles crack as competitors try to separate from the throng. As the race wears on, the 112 mile cycling begins, temperatures rise past the nineties and the wind picks up, meaning only one thing: crosswinds. These gusts are powerful enough to send a cyclist from one side of the road to another in a single blow. It knocks them to the floor, makes them swerve off the road, separates tires from wheels—winds so strong it can actually break a bike. Then comes the marathon, a long twenty-six miles to the finish, plagued with debilitating dehydration, exhaustion, and—if you’re not prepared –even stress fractures. Just to finish an Ironman is an accomplishment that can define a lifetime. Finishing this race is not the only thing that defines Major David Rozelle. Rozelle has a military career that spans over a decade, having served two tours in the war overseas as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. While leading a convoy during his first tour, his vehicle struck a landmine, an encounter that resulted in the loss of his right foot. In an instant, he had become an amputee. As is typical of many people suffering through the loss of a limb, Rozelle fell into a deep depression. He dosed himself with massive amounts of pain medication and drank heavily to wish the world away, leading him down a sure path to death. It was a special delivery that saved his life. Flipping through his mail one day, he found a letter he’d mailed to his wife from overseas a few months earlier. He considered the letter for a moment. What had he said? What if on the day he’d lost his

leg, he’d also lost his life? That letter would have been their last communication. It would have been his last words to her. But he hadn’t died. He’d survived a war, and now he was squandering his life away, taking for granted something that could easily have been taken from him. He changed. He got serious about recovery and rehabilitation. Through hydrotherapy, he began swimming. Swimming led to cycling. Cycling led, finally, to running, and suddenly he was hooked on the sport of triathlon. With new inspiration, he became the first amputee of the War in Iraq to actually return to the same battlefield that resulted in his injury. Several years later, a friend approached him with the idea of competing in an Ironman race, and after six months of training, he did. In 2006, he ran and successfully completely the infamous Hawaii Ironman. David Rozelle is more than just a man. He is an inspiration to all amputees, all who are in service, every athlete, and every person who witnessed his recovery. Rozelle made the decision to continue living his life. He could have spent the rest of his days, lazy and tragic, living on government money and wasting away. But he didn’t. He got back into the game and achieved more in only a couple of years than most people achieve in an entire lifetime. Some people sit in their festering hole of a life, feeling sorry for themselves and expecting the government to apologize for every bad thing that ever happened to them. Rozelle doesn’t expect an apology. He expects something of himself. He sets the bar high for human achievement, and it is an absolute crime for anybody to just lie down and die in a world where so many, like Rozelle, have chosen to stand up and fight.


Election Day Nicolás Forero

Bloody Hand Esteban O’Sullivan (Scan)


The day of the year – as it had been constantly announced on TV – had finally arrived. I woke up quickly and early, wanting to see the procedures in person. The whole time I intended to look my best, have my future president see me elegant and ready to fight for a new nation; I was after all representing the noble element of my people. The elections took place in an unorthodox manner: the candidates were on stage, both smiling and waving, while the people voted in booths by the sides of the stage. Someone had thought it nice for people to see who they were voting for in person. I arrived normally, walking into the colorful midst of people, each of them carrying shackles on their ankles; the result was a constant rattling as the rusty chains touched the gray concrete floor with drops of what appeared to be red paint. All of them were looking up at the candidates: one wore a hat and looked haggard; the other had a red shirt and a blanket – one of those woven by indigenas for tourists – over his shoulder… he seemed tall, but in reality he was just a short man with five inches of air between the stage and the sole of his feet. Years ago the country had to pick between a mustache and a hat; this time it was a fight between a hat and a levitating red shirt. The procession was noisy from the rattling and the laughter and the murmurs of the spectators and voters. Around them the buildings seemed as ancient and haggard as the hat; the elections were done in a suburb, as to give an image that the poor had a voice. But that voice was unavoidably drowned by the cold stare of officers within the vicinity. And by the commotion of a confused soul. This was the soul of some man who didn’t feel it appropriate to believe in a levitating red shirt. He yelled and complained that the shirt was merely a distraction, and that it had more darkness in it than what was below the hat. He complained that they wanted his finger, and yet they would dispose of it so that the shirt would win anyways. He didn’t want maggots eating the flesh of his finger. This commotion lasted until

after that soul came dozens of photographers and reporters; each flash of the cameras disfigured the appearance of the fellow, until he was an unrecognizable pulp of meat on the floor. The rain made the mere visage of the pulp intolerable… a religious and benevolent officer came and shot it, putting the fellow out of his misery. Only God can give or take life, say the religious. He must have been working through that officer; otherwise the base of our culture becomes too shady for us to hold onto. By the time the pulp was out of his misery, the shackled masses were getting tired; the rain that had greeted them as they left their houses had never ceased, and no one had brought cover. I remembered how much amusement that rain caused me: the greatest expert had remarked that it would at most last four years, eleven months, and two days. But in reality, it never stopped, even in the most heated of days. Sensing the coming thunder of chains, the red shirt elevated a few inches more and greeted the crowds, while ordering the count of votes. An officer began counting what appeared to me as red stumps, each of which counted as a vote. The officer had no problem in counting the shirt’s votes, substantially less than those of the hat. But then a flash of green, of dirty paper, changed the number drastically. The officer smiled. The hat protested in silence. The shirt laughed; it was now president. I retuned home after seeing the red stumps thrown in the sewers like endless piles of shit. I was numb, for my elegant attire proved useless when the hat lost. I didn’t want to think about the green, dirty flash. I didn’t want to think about anything – until, while in the shower, I saw a red smear on the tiles. I moved to clean it, but my attention was stolen by the state of my hand. I finally realized then that I no longer had a right index finger; a red, bloody stump was there in its place, lying asymmetrically between the four survivors.


63 Amish School Shooting Alina Balaguero (Enamel)

West Nickel Mines By Alina Balaguero


o expertise, no articulation, no masterful consortium committed those awful acts was certainly not the same of words will ever do this story justice. These are loving, sensitive man that she had married. Profilers real events with limited witnesses—and if the superficial attempted to shed even the smallest bit of light on his analysis of the media can be at all trusted, one of the most state of mind. They found that the 20-year old grudge was awful and despicable crimes of the last decade. not a crime against him, but his crime against another. 20 On the morning of October 2, 2006, a man entered years earlier, he had molested two young family members a one-room Amish schoolhouse with absolutely unholy between the ages three and four, and expressed that he intentions, intentions which can only be fully conjectured had recently been having dreams about molesting again. based on the broad assortment of supplies he brought Roberts also expressed a deep hate towards himself and with him. A shotgun, a handgun, a rifle, wires, chains, towards God, possibly due to the death of his premature nails, plastic ties, wooden planks drilled through with daughter a mere 20 minutes after her birth. Though these ten eyehooks, and most disturbingly, two tubes of sexual events would help to explain some aspects of his psyche, lubricant. His victims would all be young the truth died with him and remains a Their capacity for girls, aged six to thirteen, his motivation mystery even today. revenge for a 20-year old grudge. The heart of this story is not completely forgiveness and He barged into the school, ordering rotten, however. Providing proof of humanity is infinite. the perpetual balance of all aspects of the males students to leave and the female students to line up against the There is good in the the universe, Roberts’ pure evil on the chalkboard, having only enough mercy world, a good so pure morning of October 2nd was met with to let a pregnant woman and three other incredible heroism. Marian Fisher, the as to deflect even the parents with small infants to leave. In oldest of the ten girls, displayed more the confusion, teacher Emma Zae Hook most wicked of evils. bravery and more resolve at the age ran out of the school to call for help at a of thirteen than most people will ever nearby farm. The man, Charles Carl Roberts IV, proceeded display in their lifetime. She appealed to Roberts to shoot to bind the limbs of the ten young girls who remained. By her first, no doubt an attempt to spare the lives of the the time that Hook had finally contacted police at 10:36 younger girls. Barbie Fisher, her sister, offered Roberts a.m. and police arrived minutes later, the siege escalated her life as well. Marian was one of the five that died that and ended very quickly and overwhelmingly brutally. day. Her sister, thankfully, survived through several Roberts, wary of the officers who had arrived, ordered gunshot wounds to her shoulders, hands, and legs. them to retreat within ten seconds with the threat of Equally incredible is the reaction of the Amish community shooting all ten girls. When the officers didn’t comply, to the event. A grandfather, standing next to the body Roberts remained true to his threat, firing several shots of his thirteen-year old girl, preached forgiveness for before police immediately stormed the school, finding Roberts, saying “We must not think evil of this man.” three girls dead along with the killer, who had turned the The Amish community survived the ordeal on their faith gun on himself after raining a barrage of bullets on all ten girls. in God, reaching out not only to the victims and their Witnesses testify that there was not a single inch of that families, but also the family that Roberts left behind—a schoolhouse not covered with either blood or broken glass. wife and three children. Their capacity for forgiveness Pure shock. From the members of the community to and humanity is infinite. There is good in the world, a Roberts’ own family, complete incredulity. Nobody could good so pure as to deflect even the most wicked of evils. comprehend why Roberts would premeditate and execute Their loyalty to their religion, the unwavering faith in the a plan to capture, sexually assault, torture, and kill young same God that Roberts had denounced years ago when his girls from the Nickel Mines Amish community. He had daughter died, shows unimaginable strength. no grudge against the Amish and there exists no evidence The West Nickel Mines schoolhouse has since been taken that he even knew his victims. His community, located down, leaving only a quiet pasture in its stead, forever in near Nickel Mines, described him as a loving soccer-dad, a remembrance of the events—both evil and righteous—of role model to his children and a generally pleasant person. that day. 64 His wife expresses disbelief, stating that the man who

The Search for a More Perfect Union Joanna Perdomo

His starched white shirt had sweat stains on it by this point. They had been driving for a while, the searing heat frying them like the greasy donuts they had eaten on the roadside stand miles ago. His glasses slid down his nose, propelled by the beads of sweat that protruded from every pore. The air was thick with humidity, but his mouth was dry, chapped lips parted, thirsty for…for something. He knew that his wife was perturbed by his sudden request to stop. He could hear the rate of her gum chewing steadily increasing. He could sense her sweaty palm groping the wheel impatiently. He knew without looking that she had that face on – that one he had seen so many times before – that one that said, “C’mon already!” But this time he couldn’t. Amidst the sweltering heat, suffocated by the fumes of gasoline wafting in the air, he was beckoned. Drawn by that jagged line: that one so natural, so perfect in its infinite spontaneity, so rebellious, so defiant of the streamlined car, streamlined road, streamlined life. The canyon walls cryptically pointed to that line, they too charged with perfect imperfections. Everything around him, in fact, seemed to point to that line. Everything except his wife, except the car, except the highway itself. And he, crouched down, was helplessly thrust toward this line, a victim of his own curiosity. Were two worlds colliding? Or were they slowly parting? Inspection, introspection, longing for direction – the weight of the past, the trials, the errors, the bliss, the anger, the Christmases, the birthdays, the new toys, the new girls, the books, the movies, the whirring carousel of time. Stopped.


Declaring Independence Nelson Santovenia (Charcoal) He was headed away from it all, blazing a new path. Level-headedness aside, he was streaming away from the streamline for the first time. Did the past and the future mesh? Not quite yet. The slope would be slippery. Their union would be a jagged one, a tear in the knee of his ironed pants, a scratch on his pretty hands.

But for now, he could only ponder what lay ahead, enticed by the potential of the future. For now, he could only accept his wife’s despondency as love, knowing that she was still blinded by the veil of the past. For now, he could only dig deeper into that crag, seeking to find the intrinsic glue that would piece these two worlds together.


3 Cigarettes Cecile McLorin-Salvant

I A putrid smell of dust and oil smoothly entered his eager nose, slowly filling his lungs, feeding him. The sky seemed covered by a thick film of smoke and haze, hiding the heavens, filtering the sun’s purity. It had been this way for weeks—a thick veil of uncertainty slowly creeping inside of every being beneath it. He gently tapped on the steering wheel, feeling the areas where the leather had peeled off, remembering his careful application

Ashes Cecile McLor in


of aloe on Viola’s peeling back years ago, poolside at a Nevada hotel. He pressed his nose against the steering wheel. It flattened as oil seeped from his pores. He began biting on the pieces of protruding leather, ripping it off with his teeth, searching for the bone.

-Salvant (digital ph


II iola had been in the kitchen, attempting to lure a frozen tuna casserole from its clinging wrapping, when he turned on his engine and backed out of the driveway. He had come home from work about an hour earlier, sat in front of the television, staring at the countless colors instead of the images, sipping on a lukewarm beer, fingering his hairy, moist navel with his left index finger. She had shuffled in front of him, pretending to be consumed with an urge to clean while he rested his eyes on an excited pair of flies gathering on a pile of brown and gray laundry. He chuckled, turning to his wife, watching her create miniature dust storms with her duster. How sad it was, he thought, that she should continue to pretend for so long, that she should maintain this façade of maniacal cleanliness, when the truth had caught up with her long ago, leaving mounds of dust and hanging smells of feet and oil around the house.

He looked at his wife, at the scattered daisies on her dress, at the tears of sweat trailing down her forehead. Her yellow nails, the bulge of fat attempting to annihilate the restrictive button hiding it. The bags beneath her eyes, those eyes that had caught him, that had pulled him in. He smiled remembering that fateful night, remembering the lighting, how strange it had been, an orange that sepia-toned everything. He gazed upon the sweat stains, imagining their smell, as she tried to dust the bookshelf. He looked down at his navel, stood up and went to his room where he gathered three old cigarettes he had hidden when she had forbidden him to smoke. He plunged the cigarettes into his left pocket, found Viola’s leather handbag and took forty dollars from the wallet he had offered her last Christmas.

III Viola’s face was framed--two abrupt wooden lines now traced across her mouth and forehead, fragments of a visage, the rest percolating through glass. She watched him back out, deeply exhaling. She threw the duster onto the floor and sat on the couch, taking the remote control and

robotically changing the channels. “Still smells like him,” she thought, watching two blondes holding up a pink plastic bottle, moaning with pleasure, pleading the viewers to call and buy.


The Dark Side Of The Moon Megan Chakko

A sun-Ripened apple house lies in a field of beautifully Helpless green. A song of the hopelessly interminable booms through-out the house. Subordinates admire its rebellious nature. Hybrid grapes grow gingerly, Their twisted vines choking a peeling wall. Between the mountains, across the hills Children dressed in white, take a leap As onlookers mock them, throwing stones, Cheered on by the unsure. But the children are visions, Looking up to the setting sun for hope. The apple house is satisfied, Its poison bleeds through. And the sun succumbs And the light disappears The venom has taken over. The apple rots as followers Hack at a fig tree. Each blow is devastating, The fruits fall to a Slow, lonely, brilliant death. An oldest girl rises to the house Her steps careful and measured The thorns pierce her ankles, A branch splits her side, The wind cuts her palms. But, her steps do not stop, Even though their ignorance Pushes down on her shoulders.


Her scream pierces the venom that has Overtaken the air and her head. Yet, she reaches the door of the Apple House. A lovely, lilac vintage door. Stunning to glance at, Yet impossible to admire. It is there she opens the door, Her blood caked hands Drip with pain and stain the threshold. But, the house. It is empty. Decaying leaves decorate the wall. Breathless worms cover a crusted floor and The air is full of rotten fruit. It is there she dies. And again the sun rises, The house transforms into a beauty everyone knows. And the hypocrites awake. They smile. Indifferent to the poison within.

Contrast Esteban O’Sullivan (Photography)


Your Lost Importance Andres Saenz

It seems that you are out of date Great pillar of a forgotten time Once hailed by those who gazed toward heaven Now reduced to a wayward child’s play thing. Beaten by the sun’s rays, weather-worn Exposed like a common whore, dropped, From hanging gardens too high for your worth You have no grace, only dusty shoulders. What has become of you? Where is your pride? Was it humbled by the barrage of sands and time? Bleak relic, tourist trap, prostrate “idol”, now Petrified in an eternal slumber. Prince Charming gone. Had he truly loved you, perhaps he would have saved you From the shame of the public’s glares and staring But alas, here you lie and wait for him in vain Fallen, with all the king’s horses deaf to your claim. Take comfort in your idle state and embrace the fate Forced upon your kind, for there is no second chance No redemption, helping hand, or divine salvation By which you may regain your lost importance.


Rain Cloud Jorge Pazos Solitary cumulonimbus, Are your shoulders empty? Does every cloud not have a man To lie upon it on his back? I see your vast and black plateau so bare. I see no man who’d want to lie up there. Solitary cumulonimbus, are those your droplets falling? Does every dream require harvest when dreamers are of fields aflame? Know that your descending pain transforms all dreamers’ hope to smoke. I see the droplets of your rain in vain. I see the anguish of a dreamer and his yoke evaporate. Cumulonimbus, alone, into your former alabaster came the tainting dye of ghosts. Countless dreamers have died upon you, and now I see myself made of smoke, dye, and rain; like you.

Greta Series Max Reed (Photograph)


The Lightness of Age Nicholás Forero What is it with that old woman? She is my grandmother, a being now considered obsolete, except by the few who can still leech come capital from her important relatives. Born ages ago, she saw the rise and fall of fools and kings, but never knew about it; she only knew that her husband wasn’t home, and that her sons and daughter wanted food. She followed the lives of the British royalty, not knowing that her nation didn’t care about figure heads across the ocean. Her nation was too busy caring about Violencia and repressive unity. It is a repulsive and yet adorable sight to see the small, old lady serving breakfast for an entire household, a custom of decades, not knowing that women had been set free by law. I let her serve me as well, but I will always question her purpose. To have lived more than eighty years, there must’ve been some purpose to her life. And I know she would have kept going. But the fragility of the body is the limit to the strength of our hearts. She never saw any of her teeth decay or fall; she never felt her sight falter as she watched novellas all day. She kept on living, purposefully I hope, not knowing her body would give up soon. There were so many things that old woman did not know. Maybe she didn’t know that death had set her free when it came.

What puzzles that young spirit? I see my grandson, healthy, not a shade under his eyes, nor a varicose vein in his hand. All he can ever worry about is drawing funds from us, from his loving ancestors, to indulge in his dreams of the future. He wastes hours thinking of Greek philosophers that died centuries ago, of dictators and presidents that he will only know as names. He thinks he’s being wise by observing how the world develops around him, but he is only distracting himself from the beauty of simple life. He worries too much about the violence he has never had to face – how glad I am that my family fared well for him to never suffer that!

It is sad that I will have to leave soon, before I get to see him realize the fallacies of his endeavors. I will look down upon him from other worlds; watch him ascend into a complicated, heavy life. I will see how he’ll begin to respect my lightness after I leave, and loathe the heaviness to which he ties himself now. He will find too much purpose, and too little joy.


Old Age Carmen Guillen-Casal (Acrylic)

And yet he will keep on going, reading and studying an entire life, consuming his health. In the end his name will be as obscure as mine when I die. For it to be remembered, he’d have to die before his first permanent tooth falls, become a martyr like so many of my contemporaries and ancestors. He is a smart boy – I know he’ll choose happiness over glory. There is so much for him to learn. Hopefully one day he’ll remember my lightness and fall in love with it, just like I did.


Inno ce nce For days, for months, and for years, I have waited for you by the sand dunes. Do you remember? I can still hear our laughter as we rolled down the hill . . . our whining as we had to climb back up. I remember the shared lies and secrets, the scoldings and tears when we came home late, the burning sun and the gravelly sand that ďŹ lled our socks and underwear. I can still taste the burned avor of our ďŹ rst cake and the pastelsweet ice cream and candy. I remember your beautiful large green eyes and your curly brown hair when you said that I was your best friend. We had nothing to worry about. Just you and me and the sound of the wind beating on our ears as


Marilou Gantier

we would come rolling down in a rush. Freedom? Or was it simply innocence? You left before I had time to say good-bye. You were my neighbor; my best friend, my twin, my biggest enemy. Ten years have passed and I am still waiting for your return. The dunes look smaller, and all I can see are empty beer bottles littering the grass. Is that what adolescence is? Can we never go back to that time when everything was simple and everyone was happy? No wars, no poverty, no genocides, no famine, no torture, no global warming? But then again . . . can we live in a dream where everything we know and love is a lie?

Seastride Striations Christine Peters (Oil Painting)

“ The dunes look smaller, and all I can see are empty beer bottles littering the grass.�


Curiosity Christine Peters (Acrylic)


The Lake Iris Zhang

Thirty years later and the lake remained the same, ever smooth, ever calm. It held an eternal endurance bestowed only on certain places, as it had always been before the stretch of time and would remain even when the rest of the world moved on. The water was a fluid mirror, but you wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for the white edge of the boat gently nudging the surface. The day was crisp and clear, the breeze barely noticeable. It was only at this place, here, where he could remember a time when the boat was too big. Elbows clamored over the plastic walls, untied sneakers upright in an effort to add another inch. He had been fascinated for hours, staring over the edge—what could possibly live beneath those rippling blue skies? But thirty years later, the blue of the waters smeared into the grays of the edges. The white of the sun-bleached head was not very different from the white plastic of a well-cleaned boat. And the memory was too muddled, too painterly to appreciate. Everything was clearer now, crisp with focused edges. The docks jutted straight ahead, and his eyes did not waver.


The Wise Old Man by Patricia Alejandro

The wise old man drank dreams, dwelling in

She spoke of the world of man.

the everlasting thought of understanding

In it many talked but not as many listened – the noise was enough to challenge some to whisper. Freedom was worshiped by those that wore the crown, yet it was by them limited and never much allowed.

all that the world called Good. He lived in a hut like any other, secluded from all by a few dead and live trees. And today a young girl knocked on his wooden door.

She told him of a boy who too soon became She asked to be listened to and so he sat

a man, until he was left with only dark days

and let her speak.

and small rays of joy that were obliterated – one by one.

She told him of a world were grown men cried. Where children spoke before their

She came to plead the wise old man for a

time. Where worlds merged and people

cure – a drop of a shining liquid that she

were forgotten.

had heard he made from leaves of love and heaps of hope. She would repay him with

She conveyed a world where truth was

anything, even her own life.

allowed yet even more lies spread out. Where truth was imposed with a smile and a stab.


The old man cried.

Theta, Iota, Ro Ashleigh Fata (gouache)




his This Is A Dis-Jointed Spy Story Alina Balaguero (Oil)

is a


D -Jointed



S y 82

Pangaea Series Dona Marie Altemus (Enamel)

Special Appreciations Elysium could not have been published without the aid of many people outside of the magazine staff. Coral Reef’s technology department, the English department, and the Art department ensured that the magazine would have strong submissions and that the technical aspects of publication went smoothly. We are also grateful for the quality instruction provided by art teachers Mrs. Adams, Mrs. Hanks, Mr. McKinley, and Mrs. Stemple. These teachers and their students are responsible for the professional - quality artwork that helps make our magazine outstanding. Special thanks should also be extended to students Megan O’Connor, Alma Haas, and Elizabeth Vila who provided technical advice to our staff. Finally, we deeply appreciate the generosity of our Principal Adrianne Leal. Thanks to her, for the first time the staff had its own computer lab. She also completely funded the cost of publication and supported us with encouragement and recognition.


Philosophy Elysium literary/art magazine showcases the creative work of Coral Reef High School students. The Elysium website displays the artwork and writing published in the magazine as well as pieces that could not be easily incorporated. More importantly, the site displays media that goes beyond the twodimentional: clips of drama, music, and film. The mission of Elysium magazine and website is to recognize and display student creativity while giving club members professionalquality experience with publication and design.

Submissions Elysium’s initial focus was to gather submissions from Coral Reef High students. To do this, the Elysium submission form was placed on the school website for students to access and club members visited English and Art classes to promote the magazine. The Literary and Art staffs each made tentative selections from these submissions. For the purposes of review, these works were placed on Elysium’s school server space. Three weeks before the publication date, the submissions were reviewed by the staff and works of writing and art were paired with each other based on common thematic elements.

Staff Schedules The twenty-seven member staff of Elysium met from October through February on the second and fourth Thursdays of each month. In the last two weeks of March the entire staff met every day after school to work on the design of the 88 spreads. Each staff member completed at least one spread.

Layout, Design, and Printing All art images were captured with either a Canon Rebel XT® camera or a CanoScan 9950F® color image scanner and saved on a dedicated school server space with the writing selections. To create layout designs for each 2-page spread, the staff used Adobe Creative Suite 2®, specifically InDesign CS2®, Photoshop CS2®, and Illustrator CS2®. To create the Elysium website, the Technology staff used Adobe Dreamweaver®. The staff received training on InDesign CS2® before making the layouts. The layouts were created using 25 Dell® desktop computers. The order for the layouts was determined by their relation to the theme of the magazine and to each other. For the text and title fonts, Chapparal Pro and Minion Pro were used while Elfar and Festival were used for the cover page and endsheets. The cover page was printed on a 100# matte white paper; the inside pages were printed on lighter weight 80# glossy white paper. Four hundred copies were printed and sold for five dollars each. Staff members, contributing artists and writers, and teachers that aided in the production of the magazine were given a free copy. 84

Awards 2006 -2007 2006 Elysium Magazine Awards 2007 Pacemaker Award “Winner’s Circle: Best of the High School Press” National Scholastic Press Association 2007 Superior from NCTE National Council of Teachers of English PRESLM Program 2007 Arts Recognition and Talent Search: Young Arts Program’s National Foundation for Advancement in the Arts Carmen Consuelo Guillen-Casal and Nelson Santovenia 2007 Scholastics Arts Award Regional Level Michael Carey : Portfolio Gold Medal Award for Sculpture Alina Balaguero: Portfolio Gold Medal Award for Painting Christine Peters: Silver Medal for Painting Dona Marie Altemus: Painting juried into show 2006 NCTE Achievement Award for Superior Writing Ashleigh Fata Joanna Perdomo Martine Powers Andres Saenz

2007 Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Circle Awards Martine Powers 1st place poetry open (free form) poem “Never Again” Allyson Michael Carey (sculpture) Allyson Jones 1st place single photograph to illustrate a poem “These Hands” Alina Balaguero 1st place cartoon “Beeswhacks” Adrianna Arintok 2nd place single illustration that complements the content of the accompanying copy “Pocket Troll” Carmen Guillen-Casal 3rd place single illustration that complements the content of the accompanying copy “Peggy Sue Faces Oblivion” Greta Martinez Certificate of Merit for single illustration rendering photographic material “Red Balloon” 2006 Technology and Learning: Portraits of Learning Mary Lou Gantier 1st place (High School Division) for “Bird’s View”


Dona Marie Alltemus (enamel) Coral Reef High

10101 S.W. 152nd Street



33157 (305) 232-2044