Imprint Magazine: CHS Online Literary Magazine Volume 1; Weather

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Fiction {

The day started out normally—perhaps a little overcast. There was a 40something percent chance of rain, nothing particularly unusual about the weather. Towards midday, small puffs of white cloud drifted from the east. One could see a light downpour in the distance, about a mile out to sea. Still, there was nothing out of the ordinary. A light wind picked up in the early afternoon, again from the east. It was nothing the small town of Phoenicia, Massachusetts couldn’t handle. It had long suffered from heavy sea storms and wild Atlantic squalls. It even boasted having survived the regionally famous, Grade 2 hurricane, Felix. The township of Phoenicia was a small fishing outpost that served mainly as a restroom break for off-duty mariners and naval officers. The mustsee destinations of the town included the bronze-cast memorial to all three of the indigenous military officers who had passed in battle, and Grandma Smith’s Pie Kitchen. There was a little white church with a tall copper-plated spire, an old, redbrick school that taught the seventeen children that lived there, and an old-fashioned gas station (at which the aged attendant was infallibly asleep) but not much more. At three-thirty, or thereabouts, the wind grew marginally stronger. Great white towers of rain clouds reigned the sky. Cumulonimbus, I believe. It seemed it was going to rain.

Cook Winslow, of the 5-Cent Diner (at which nothing cost 5 cents), proclaimed his praises and sentiments of the sky and its thunderous children, the clouds—how the rain and snow gave birth to a newly replenished and nourished Earth. How the showers would bathe the corrupted Earth, as in Noah’s Flood, and how the clouds would watch in jeering euphoria as man would dodge for cover and hide from the lightning that lit the world. He did this every time it rained. Chief Barber, the recently retired police chief of the town, told him to shut up and make him his hamburger. Bart Goodman of the Goodman Grocery Marketplace was arguing with Samson Withers of Magic 8 Towing Company (holding up all the customers in the fifteen items or less line) as to whether or not he had actually seen hailstones the size of bowling balls drop out of the sky the last time the weather had been this way. Thomas Gerard of the Books ‘n’ Such Bookstore didn’t much care either way; he just wanted to buy his free-range cucumbers. The whole town was stirred up in such debates, and most of them irrelevant and based on fallacies. Still, it gave the bored townsfolk something to talk about. Life in Phoenicia was based mostly on legends fabricated to entertain their fancies. Stories of a dinosaur-like monster in Lake Earaches of a bearded ghost that haunted the Highway 66. Even a story of a town called Zarathustra that had been blown away right off the map by a freak storm that had risen out of the very depths of Neptune’s grave. I find this story especially appropriate.

Passing By By: Rachel Chatwood

(Story Continued) At five-o’clock it started to rain. The wind had become almost unbearably strong. Big dark clouds blotted out the setting sun. A frigid chill settled down at dusk. Farmer Porter’s plantation on the outskirts of town had the worst of it. The wind had picked up to well over what was sufferable. I don’t know if anyone believes it, but he reported that three of his pigs and one of his cows were picked up in the wind. He escaped quickly enough driving his old red Chevy up to his cousin’s house in Agawam, Massachusetts. The Phoenicians, as they called themselves, hid indoors. The smart ones entered into their most central rooms, as they saw instructed on a television program, or something. The torrential downpours quickened. The roof hinges flapped (at least, those that were still hinged); and the temperature plummeted—this storm was worse than all of the others. Ice was forming over the windows only to be blown off by the horrendous winds. The streets were flooding over—most of the tires on the cars were now submerged. The tin roofs of the older houses started to be torn off; trees were being pulled out. The stop sign at the corner of Westbrook St. and Noncuro Lane was said to have bent to a ninety-degree angle. The loudest noises were the whistle and the whine of the howling wind, and the occasional noise of debris slamming into some building unfortunate enough to be in the way. They blocked out all other noises—no voice, no scream, no shout could be heard. Gradually, those noises grew even more fearsome and fierce as the night went on. The wind picked up, and the rain fell in a steady waterfall-like downpour. Lighting shook the buildings; it shook the very earth! It flashed blindingly, and crashed menacingly. The worst was still to come.

The wind in the area was recorded to race at speeds well above 225 mph and counting! The barometric readings were unprecedented. Most of the Phoenicians tried to escape, by any means they had, but most of the cars had been overturned by the tornado-like winds, and most of the roads were blocked by flooding from the rain. The many powerful lighting strikes had finally put the power out and severed all telephone or internet lines out of the town. Only an idiot would try to take a boat into the Atlantic in weather like this (though, notably, several people did try to leave that way). A few tried to hike out of Phoenicia Valley over the Maintain Mountains, but none of them were ever found. Those who first realized they were not getting out locked themselves in their houses, and hoping for the best, tried to ride out the storm. At 9: 37PM, the power went out in all the surrounding towns. Emmetsburg and Green Plains were thrown into complete darkness. Flooding in the area was said to reach well over 6 feet in height. Lightning hit the tops of almost every tall building. Several hundred dollars in damage was done by raucous debris some of which was reported to be roughly the size of a loveseat. At precisely 10: 10PM, thick black walls of furnace-like clouds engulfed the town of Phoenicia. At 6: 30 the next morning, the Coast Guard and the Salvation Army were briefed about the disaster. Rescue plans were immediately enacted. At 6: 47AM, the Coast Guard arrived at the Phoenician coast, or at least what remained of it. Were it not for the one little fishing boat that had managed to cling to the mostly destroyed dock, they probably would have needed Air Support to find it. Those that were assigned to the rescue mission ran onto the rocky shore, climbed over the small hills that guarded the beach, and lost their focus in awe.

At 6: 54AM the captain in charge of the operation was informed of the damages, via walkie-talkie. There was nothing left of Phoenicia. Over those hills, the Coast Guard officers, Salvation Army volunteers, and other assorted philanthropists stood in shock at what they had seen. Where once buildings and homes had stood, there was now simply a stretch of dirt, grass, and rock. There were not any pieces of furniture, nor any bricks, girders, or beams that had once held the roofs over families’ heads. No random scraps of garbage. Nothing. What remained of basements were now just holes in the ground. Not even concrete slabs or tarmac remained. Nothing. There were no survivors; no random scraps of clothing; no tufts of loose hair; no blood; no body parts; no bodies. Nothing.


I, water, wander from one hand and to the other. Have you ever wondered about me? Why am I nutritious to humans, plants, and animals? Why do I even exist? I started hundreds of billions of years ago. There was only me. Back then, all living organisms were of water. I’ve been around all this time. It was just a few millennia ago that these big huge pieces of dirt began to show up all over the place. Many new organisms and green things have shown up. I’m not even sure what to call them. All I know is that living organisms in these waters have now drifted up to land. I’ve housed many different creatures, but I’ve never been thanked or really appreciated. I’ve just stayed quiet. There were certain points in time when I just lost my temper and lost control. It was as if I blacked-out. When I re-awakened, all I saw was destruction.

Water, Water How I Wander By Rachel Chatwood

Flight By: Mark Benitez Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me! I open my eyes laughing. Yesterday was great. But today, it’s my second time waking up. The first was at 5 AM to get ready. Way too early for me. But I do have to thank my dad for saving me from school today. On such a pretty Tuesday too! He looks busy right now though so I’ll wait to tell him. Hopefully I don’t forget to. Being 8 years old in a building of this size, I feel like… like… like a reporter! So important! Being a News Reporter is the dream job only cool people could have. Nothings as cool as a reporter. Except maybe… being a pilot! In an Airplane! SKY BUS! Yes. That’d be amazing. Flying is the coolest thing anyone can even do. EVER. Besides being a reporter of course. Oh but how I would love to take control of one of those planes flying around outside this window. Sixty stories up they look so much better... so close… yet so far away… When I get older I think I’m going to be a reporting pilot! Who says everyone needs to sacrifice what they want? I could see it now: “Scott Thompson, Reporting pilot, CNN Airlines”. It sounds much better than “Phil Thompson, Whatever-thatword-is, WTC” in my opinion. I’m not exactly sure what he said while I was day dreaming though. But I did manage to hear “food” and “downstairs” together. Boom boom boom. I got up, stretched, shoes. Eager to leave the bed of chairs I was laying on. I turned on my brand new CD player to be surprised with loud music. No words. Just instruments. I love it. Great gifts for early birthdays! I’ll keep this in mind. I stepped into the elevator and I swear it felt like forever before reaching the first floor! Dad led me outside passed the clock thing on the wall saying 8:30AM and into the open air of Manhattan Island.

I read “wait here” from his lips so I sat on a bench and saw him off into the building again. Waiting. Deaf to the world I thought about the great Birthday I had yesterday and how missing school today was even better! I noticed a lot of cool things while sitting on that bench. A hotdog stand that still had my Birthday on it, “Sept. 10”, some kids from a fancy school in their fancy uniforms and an airplane! Wait. I’m forgetting something. I need to tell Dad thank you! Do not forget. Do not forget. Do not forget. Do not… Airplanes are so lucky. They don’t need people to fly. We just give them direction and they fly until they’re thirsty again. A lot like this plane above me. Someone is telling it to fly in the direction of this building, to fly over it. But it’s getting so close. So…So cool. It’s a little closer when I stand up but not by much. Why is everyone looking so shocked? It’s an airplane people. Looking up I see fire, cement. Ground shook, hands, floor, ribs hurt, hovering, shaking violently… I was kicked by someone running over me after I fell then picked up by another man running the same way as the other. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to fight it. Or maybe it was that I was in pain or because I’m actually sort of flying? That’s probably it. I closed my eyes as the floor under us got more shaded to picture myself flying. After a few seconds my music stopped and my ribs no longer hurt. My eyes felt very heavy and my body was light. Bedtime already? What a day! So much excitement! Now I get to fly with the planes in my dream again. And escape that nasty pain in my ribs. Oh that fire too. That was really scary. I never got to say thanks to dad though. I’ll do it tomorrow after I see… friends… school. Sleepiness… taking over…So… till tomorrow… 9/12/01... this... Scott… live…. Trade Center….. Signing off……. America.

A Fairy Tale Found Nowhere by Keano Vang Icy droplets hammered down at the earth while lightning

arced menacingly across the night sky. The air carried a strong chill and the roads were soaked to the point of flooding. No one would dare come out from their homes in these conditions, let alone even think of going to this old beat up park. That was why he chose to come here. He sat beneath the old, battered Ramada, watching the rain with an uneasy look on his face. So many things had happened, and so very fast too, that he didn’t even know where to begin. Where was he to go from now? What was he going to do? He just didn’t know.

Then he met them. He suspected them too—oh, how could he have done that?—but not for long. They were simply too nice, too trusting, and too naive for him to ignore. They accepted him so easily though they knew next to nothing about his past, and they had willingly shared their lives with him as if he were family. Soon his days were filled with nothing but joy and contentment, and he felt as if the weight of the world was slowly being chipped off his shoulders. For once in his life, he truly believed he could live as a normal person and be fine with that.

His face fell into his hands just as thunder rumbled through the earth. It was funny, just how much the world seemed to match the state of his mind, but it was somewhat comforting too. At least there was something in this universe that understood just how messed up everything was.

He couldn’t help but chuckle darkly at that thought—his breath as cold as the air around him. How could he have been so foolish? No matter where one looks, there isn't a fairy tale out there where the villain gets to live a life of peace and happiness. Especially one that has committed so many crimes, and screwed over so many people. Human nature -human justice- just won't allow that.

Lightning shot through the sky once more and he found himself thinking back to the past. When he had moved in, he had been wary of everything around him. He had been ready to flee at a moment’s notice, and eyed every person that came by with nothing but suspicion. Many sleepless nights he spent worrying over whether those after him had finally caught his trail and were closing in as he laid there.

He should have known his past would eventually catch up to him—just as it had done so many times before. This time; however, he couldn't claim satisfaction at having gotten away. No, for once he was the one on the losing end. At last, those bastards had managed to take away the only thing he had truly treasured in a long time.

(Story Continues)

Hot tears ran down his cold cheeks and his shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. Thunder roared above him shaking the land in harmony with his sorrows. Never once had he regretted his actions more than he did now. If he could go back and change everything, even if it meant he would not get to live with them again he would do so in a heartbeat. They didn't deserve to get their lives wrecked by him. “You're right, we didn't.” He flinched back as if struck. His mind filled with a myriad of emotion as he forced himself to look up from his arms and into two beautiful brown eyes. She stood there as tall and proud as the day he had met her. Her raincoat was splattered with mud and her big umbrella sat tensely over her shoulder. Her face was entirely devoid of emotion, yet his trained eyes could see a tendril of anger behind that mask. Of all things, he could easily say that anger was the most powerful blow he had suffered so far.

“But...” she spoke again. Her cold gaze settled on his pathetic form. “They didn't have the right to mess with our lives either.” His mouth opened, yet nothing came out. His body froze and his mind sputtered to a stop. He looked at her, and then looked at her again. His hawk-like eyes searched for the meaning behind her words. The answer eluded him and he believed it would continue to elude him for a lot longer. One thing was clear. Something rattled him, and gave him just the smallest flicker of hope; the anger in her eyes... wasn't being directed at him. Slowly, so slowly that it almost hurt to watch—she raised her empty hand towards him. Her previously cold eyes were now so full of the warmth he never expected to see again. She said nothing more, but everything about her spoke. Return to us. The roaring of the thunder was gone now as was the sound of the wind and rain. None of them registered in his senses. All of his being was centered on her opened hand. Maybe humanity wouldn't allow such a tale. Maybe their story would be tossed aside to be scorned and forgotten like many before. But... Wasn't a fairy tale about believing?


Mother Nature.



Random Weather ďƒ‘

By: Breanna Wharram

Feeling under the Weather? With weather, comes emotion. Take a break and listen to the Maelstrom of songs- new and old, that we’ve lined up. Enjoy!

Ain’t No Sunshine- Bill Withers

Rain- Akon

Purple Rain- Prince

Stand in the Rain- Superchick

© 1991 Jive – Summertime © 2006 Universal Records – Rain © 2009 Atlantic – Hello Hurricane © 2006 Capitol, Gotee – High of 75 © 1983 Warner Bros. – Purple Rain

Hello Hurricane- Switchfoot

Here Comes The Sun- The Beatles Do you see it?

Beautiful Day- U2 Don’t you wish you were there?

High of ’75- Relient K That’s a dream around here.

A playlist of great songs related to weather is nice and all but we have a final treat in store; an original rap by Nick aka N-Rod Rodriguez! Drum roll, please!

Summertime- Will Smith

Itsy Bitsy Spider- GoFishGuys

© 2006 Inpop Records – Stand in the rain © 2000 Island, Interscope – Beautiful Day © 2007 Found Free Music – Itsy Bitsy Spider © 1969 Apple Records – Here comes the sun © 1971 Sussex Records – Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone

This is the premiere for

Maelstr m "Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favor of fair use."

Fun fact: The working title for Maelstrom was Hurricane Toast.

Rain! Come back!



Taken by: Natalie Brokaw


Lost in Tranquility

“Diana Sleeping Full Moon” Featured at the Kazuya Akimoto Art Museum

Envious By Karli Wood

People say I’m mysterious But I’m really not I just provide some light for the night People share all of their time with the sun I am left alone Everyone assumes that evil takes place on my time The sun can do no wrong It’s obvious that I’m jealous But I think I’ve earned the right I just want people to fall asleep on the sun And rise for my night

Sleepless Dreams By Hayden Porter You should know lately I've been sleeping less but dreaming more. Deep into nights I'd want to tell you how I sat awake listening to the cold wind fold over and kiss my window. I'd like you to know that my desires and reality dance into a pallid snow storm. I want to tell you that hurricanes keep me awake while you sleep. Let me say that I am not the summer rain --- I am not breathtaking. You are not a propelling wind --you cannot catch me. Maybe I shouldn't tell you that I am a fragile raindrop that will cause the flood. You should know lately I've been sleeping less but dreaming more.


By: Rachel Chatwood

Beware the Flames







{ CHS Coyotes—Leave Your Mark Submit artwork, poetry, fiction, or photography to

Volume 1~Weather Sin City-2005,Frank Miller, Robert Rodrigu

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