Table of Contents “Tim Tebow for President” - Paul Melchiorre
“Life” –Chris Knight p. 5 “Baltimore Sunset” – David Greene “Beads of Peace” - Ceramics 2 & Sculpture 2 p. 6 “Art” –Cory Baiada p. 7 Sonnets – Jamalie Roberts Haiku – Jared Clapper Song Lyrics – Jamalie Roberts p. 8 “American Flag” – Eric Burgmann Poem – Julian Durkin p. 9 “Autumn Forrest” – Kevin McBride Haikus – Ryan Abell, Jared Clapper, Nick McDowell “The Peace of the Sun” – James Palmer “Make Art, Not War” – Kevin McBride Haiku – Evan Mascione
“The Armenian Genocide” – Christian Endrigian “Hands” – Nick Daly
“Collage” – Dadd Poguie p. 12 “Hand” – Charlie Rodriguez “The Beautiful Letdown” – Evan Walsh p. 13 “The Invisible Growl” – Jared Clapper
“Jazz 1” – Nick Daly p. 15 “Self-Portrait” – Nick Daly Limericks – Dan O’Brien, Jamalie Roberts Haikus – Pat Flynn, Evan Mascione, Dan Spinelli “Band of Bickerers” – Eric Fox p. 16 “Family” – Billy Joyce p. 17 “Mind of a Businessman” – Jon McCarry “Castle” – Brendan Freyvogel Sonnet – Connor McNally Haikus – Pat Flynn, Dan Spinelli Story – Ryan Pluck p. 18 Art by Andrew Wyeth Haiku – Jamalie Roberts
“Now” – Julian Durkin p. 19 “Land” – David Greene “Sound Check” – Rob Summerhays Limerick – Jamalie Roberts “Icicle” – James Durkin p. 20 “Design” – Colin Pyne p. 26 “Love” – Dan DeMascia Sonnet – Ryan Abell “Tranquilite” – Julian Durkin p. 27 “Sonnet #59” – David Greene “Man on Stool” – Chris Bell “Italy Collage” – Jon McCarry “Landscape” – Nick Ward p. 28 “Childhood’s End” – Evan Walsh “Angel’s Rose in a Tangerine Sky” – Billy Joyce “Pattern” – Emmett Gross Haiku – Jamalie Roberts
Short Story – Dan Spinelli p. 30 “Man in Thought” – Rob Summerhays Short Story – Joe Giuliano p. 28 “Regret” – John Mills p. 29 “I Look to the Past” – Pat Easley p. 33 “Solitude’s Bane” – Evan Walsh Haiku – Jamalie Roberts “Invincibility’s Requiem” – Evan Walsh p. 34 “Stay Calm” – Tim Fichenscher p. 35 “A Holy Man in the Netherworld” – Nick Daly “Jazz 2” – Nick Daly
“Imagine If” – John Mills p. 39 “Lennon” – Kevin McBride “Solace in the Night Sky” – Evan Walsh Credits
Tim Tebow for President Paul Melchiorre With the 2012 elections coming up there is no clear front-runner. There are a plethora of problems that the United States faces. Some problems are the economy, the situation in Iran and the education system in America. Barack Obama has held his own as president but he has not done enough to solve these ever-growing problems in America. With all these problems there is only one man right for the job Timothy Richard Tebow, the back-up quarter back for the New York Jets. He was the man behind Tebow-mania and the founder of tebowing. There is no other man that can compare to Tebow in the Presidential race. Obama may be able to hit the outside jump-shot, but he can not put the Denver Bronco’s on his back and lead them to a playoff win. If Tim Tebow becomes president he will bring a unique style that will help solve all of the problems with the Nation today. The first problem that Tebow will tackle will be the economy. The Nation has never been in such debt that it is now. Many people have tried to find a way to solve this crisis but every-one has come up short. The economy is struggling and there have been many ideas on how to rejuvenate it. Some “experts” think that the budget needs to be balanced others think that there needs to be more stimulus. Tebow is the only man with the solution and that is why he needs to be president. The simple solution is his close relationship with God. Tim Tebow, whose success based on 20% ability and 80% luck, clearly shows that this man is on Gods good side. Tebow can simply pray to God that the economy gets better, most likely this will work. If for some CRAZY reason this solution does not work, plan B should also do the trick. The back-up plan would be for Tim Tebow to go to China and ask for them to stimulate our economy. Since Tebow is such a charismatic and good-looking guy, China will do this favor and ask for nothing in return. One problem down two too go. Once Tebow has cured the economy his next step will be to deal with the situation in Iran. In Iran they are trying to enrich uranium. The United States does not want them to do that for obvious reasons. The United States has tried multiple solutions but none have seemed to work. Tebow can handle this problem in two ways. First go to Iran and try to talk it out with them. If they don’t listen to Tebow there is something wrong with them. If they don’t listen the second solution will surely do the trick. Tebow can stand safely in New York and launch a barrage of footballs at the power plants in Iran. With Tebow’s perfect technique, incredible accuracy, and herculean arm strength he can easily take down the plants. At that point Iran will probably surrender all of their oil to us thus solving another problem. The last problem that Tebow will have to face is the education system in America. This may be the most difficult for Tebow, but he is amazing, so he will be able to handle it. There is only one solution to this problem. Tim Tebow must travel across America and visit every grade school and high school and have football clinics. This will teach kids how to be great at football just like Tebow. One every child is an exceptional athlete they will easily get into any college they want with their skills. Tim Tebow strikes yet again solving another crisis in America. At this point it is impossible to argue against Tim Tebow Becoming president. He has all that one needs to be a successful president. He can solve the economic problem in America with ease. He can end the strife between the United States and Iran. And lastly he can get ever child in America into the college of their choice. One would be dumb not to vote for Tim Tebow for president, and if we’re lucky he may even become king of the world. 4
Life Chris Knight You asked me what my life is like. Oh, let me tell you. It started when I said bye to Fyke. I left to see the world, cause for all knew It began and ended with suburbia. Man, was I naïve then. I left home to study, but I didn’t just learn from books. No, it’s what I learned from other cultures, other religions, other men That brought me to realize what joy you can find when you look inside those nooks. Who would have known? It doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, gay or straight It’s what’s inside that really counts. Just cause you’re one way doesn’t mean you’re destined to some fate. It’s the smiles you bring to people’s faces, not what’s in their bank accounts. That’s the beauty of it. You may be born into one thing, But it’s what you chose to do with your life that matters Now, you don’t have to be Martin Luther King. All I’m saying is you think you know life until it all shatters. So be good to those around. Family is number one, But friends are number two Cause without one or two, you got none. Never bid them adieu. And keep those you love close at heart
I would know. At college, off on my own, Going to class and reading Thoreau. I only cared about me up on my thrown. Not a care in the world, but me. Boy did it hit me with such a shock. My family at home, And me no longer with my flock. I decided I’d be fine alone. How hard could it be?
The semester went on, But I started drowning. But my roommate would only yawn. What did he know? He was into accounting. Maybe I do need someone. That’s when I met my best friend today. Who would have thought, He came from Bombay But I was still distraught. Would it ever get better? He inspired me to travel abroad. When I left my town I wanted to act cool, But simply just stood there and awed. This was so much more than school. This is when real life began. I went to new places, Experienced new cultures Met new faces, And found out none of them were vultures. What a wonderful world it is. I learned to be loving. I learned to be kind. I ended up shoving All my old thoughts behind. So this is my advice to you: Never be afraid to take new risks. You never know where you will find life It’s as easy as throwing discs Or cutting butter with a knife. Get out and do it. Remember to keep peace, And smile. Whether here or in Tunis. Believe me, it’s worthwhile. Live your life.
Beads of Peace Ceramics 2 & Sculpture 2 6
Diamonds are sparkling, Beautiful diamonds hiding from the scalding sun.
Beauty is liberal as the heavenly air, Beauty is boundless as the universe: The waves of evil ponderously immerse The pearl of good; beauty is everywhere. Beauty is a devout a deep despair; Hopes that with heaven’s highest stars converse: The poisonous blossom of a devil’s curse; The first and last word of an anel’s prayer. Creation and destruction at the deck Call love and lust: through battle’s bloody swarm And, ‘mid the shrieks of the fast sinking wreck, That youth with smiling faces sees but your form: A poet, standing on thw wave-washed deck Staring awe-struck at the beauty of the storm
Slowly dying cause of an infection Death comes to us all: inevitable From which we have nothing for protection A disease considered incredible Tearing us apart by our very cells Fear slowly creeping through the whole body Your ears hurt so much they bleed & ring: bells As the chimes fade your life leaves your body
Is there any conceivable savior Is it wearing armor like a King’s Knight I think his name was: Great Xavier His mission was to kill or til death fight & what was the result of his campaign Only a death in agonizing pain
Jamalie Roberts DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER
ďƒ Singing before he leads his troops into battle in War World II This Is My Country This is my country! Land of my birth! Thisis my country! Grandest on earth! I pledge thee my allegiance, America, the bold, For this is my country to have and to hold. What diff â€™rence if I hail from North or South Or from the East or West? My heart is filled with love for all of these. I only know I swell with pride and deep within my breast I thrill to see Old Glory paint the breeze. With hand upon heart I thank the Lord For this my native land, For all I love is here within her gates. My sould is rooted deeply in the soil on which I stand, For these are mine own United States. This is my country! Land of my choice! This is my country! Hear my proud voice! I pledge thee my allegiance, America, the bold, For this is my country! To have and to hold.
Clouds appear and bring to men a chance to rest from looking at the moon.
Reading Lovecraft Statement of Randolph Carter Thanks for the nightmares
There is no false path Only wrong steps following The call of bad dreams
Cities made of ashes. Cinder over. Crust on a piece of a boiling man. Crush me. We boil over. Foam on an electric stove. Torched in the red heat. We jump. They will all boil in one way. Nobody knows how to avoid the fire. It is instinct that has been numbed. And so we all must boil. On an Electric Stove. Or burn in an electric oven. On silver racks. On beautiful silver racks. In lovely trays. Wrapped in foil, with our pride. Until something doses the fire. One drop at a time And we foam up again. And then they will peel at our crust. And decorate their lovely homes with it. Oh such pretty gardens.
Kevin McBride 9
“The Peace of the Sun” by James Palmer I was sitting, healing from the confusion of life, in the yard in late noon, when the sun reached the part of the sky where its rays form a forty-five degree angle with the earth. The rays fell like honey upon the earth, turning all that they touched into gold… Quite suddenly, but not unexpectedly, the world stopped, caught unsuspecting at the glow of this magnificent splendor. Life became invisible, but there was the buzz of life in the air, an excited silent communion of all existence enjoying the same beauty. An overstimulation of the senses, an inaudible rumbling, as if the most excellent thing were just about to occur… The birds concluded their joyful yellow chatter, outdone by this more spectacular golden hue. Only one bird, the mourning dove, continued her melancholy croon on a ledge above me. Turning to face her, I imitated her call. Slightly confused, but equally impressed and contented, she too followed into the silence. As I watched, a white butterfly flew from behind me and surfed up an unfelt breeze, presumably to find a more auspicious seat from which to watch the sun set itself. And then all was still… In this moment I found peace. It came to me through the sun’s royal rays and manifested within me. And as I sat there, something I’d always known but never realized, a phrase evoked from this moment of amber enlightenment, formed in my head… “It will never be okay, but I will be okay. I can be okay if I want to be okay. We will be okay.” This was my answer. All that I’d felt and not understood, all the pain I’d experienced — it wasn’t meant to be understood because there is no justification of evil. I looked back up at the dove, who was regarding the darkening east with a look of white terror. Even in her fear, however, she was preparing to fly back into its blinding darkness. It was then that I knew — she was a prisoner of the same darkness of which I’d been prisoner. “Bird!” I cried, “you are free! The darkness will provide you temporary shelter, but it will also hide the truth! Fly to life! Fly to love! Fly to peace!”
White flags flutter above The heads of disgraced soldiers The war is over.
Evan Mascione 10
The Armenian Genocide Christian Endrigian
Known as the Armenian Holocaust, Armenian Massacre, the Great Crime,(as to the Armenians) and most popular the Armenian Genocide, was one of the most tragic massacres in all of world history. The Armenian population was greatly affected by this massacre and Armenia will never be the same. To this day, Armenians commerorate and remember the 1.8 million men and women on the day of April 24th, who lost their lives to this disastrous era. Following World War 1, during the years 1915 to 1923, the Ottoman Empire struck the Armenians. Many Armenians were beaten, starved, tortured, or even massacred. The people responsible for this disaster of a moment was a group known Comittee of Union Progress(CUP) or the “young turks.” Throughout history, the Turkish people and the Armenians never got along. This era made everything worse as the Turkish-Armenian hatred grew to new heights. Ultimately, the Turkish people were looking for land and wealth. Therefore, the only way to obtain this land was through killing millions of innocent people. The Armenian army was simply not strong enough to handle the Ottoman power, which resulted in a great loss of wealth. They could not fight back and the Ottomans knew that going into this battle. I personally believe that this is an atrocious event. I am Armenian, and my ancestors were apart of this horror of a time. I had ancestors who actually escaped into a dessert in Turkey, where a very nice Turkish family took them in and fed them. This was very rare because that nice Turkish family might have been the only nice family during this era. Eventually, my ancestors would go on to leave Turkey and become survivors of this disheartening time. Obviously, I side with the Armenians because I am that nationality. However, if I were still not Armenian, I would side with them. The reason being is that the Ottoman Empire clearly took advantage of a less than weak army, and revoked all their wealth from them. They simply wanted land, so they took it upon themselves to forcefully take it and kill humans, which is wrong under any circumstances. Not only did they kill them, they made them suffer. They tortured them until the Armenians could not handle it anymore. It truly is remembered as a terrible experience for all of the Armenian community, but we as Armenians still think about all those men and women who risked their lives for our nationality. This tragic time for the Armenians will always be remembered because the justice of Armenians was totally diminished. This event is clearly a social justice issue for the Armenians. In a quote by Talat Pasha, a man a part of the Ottoman Empire, stated to a German Ambassador, “What on earth do you want? The question is settled. There are no more Armenians.” The reason I picked this quote relates to the social justice that was given to the Armenians. After forcefully taking the land from Armenians, the Ottoman Empire continued to kill and decimate the population of Armenians. There was no reason for this war to break out to the point it ended up at. Armenians had every right to their own land, but the Ottomans did not agree. My ancestors actually had acres and acres of open land. That land is no longer theirs due to this genocide. Not to be cocky, but my ancestors were some of the wealthiest people in Armenia until their land was lost. The Ottomans had no right what so ever to steal the wealth from any Armenians. It is clearly a social justice issue that really needs to be recognized by people in the world.
I decided to pick this important issue for a couple reasons. As stated earlier, my ancestors were a part of this era and actually escaped. As an Armenian, I take great pride in my nationality; therefore, it really makes me emotional when I think of this tragedy. My nationality will never be the same due to this issue. As an Armenian, I can only support the Armenians and commemorate the innocent dead on the day of April 24. In New York city, the Armenian Genocide is recognized by thousands of people who walk down streets of New York to support this cause. Unfortunately, I have never been to this walk, but I hope to attend this year with my Armenian friends. In addition, I decided to choose this topic because of how close I am to my Armenian family. These people will always be my family and best friends throughout my life. To be completely honest, every time I see them, this topic comes up. This simply shows the significance of this battle. That is why I wrote this essay because I want other people to know what my nationality suffered through. In conclusion, the Armenian Genocide is not something to joke around about. I take this very seriously as does every Armenian in the world. My ancestors suffered greatly from this event, I continue to think about this massacre, and Armenia will never be the same after this event. The aftermath of this event is not as bad as people would think. Obviously, there will always be tension between the Armenians and Turks, but
Dadd Poquie 12
The Invisible Growl Jared Clapper At first, he didn’t see it. It hid in the shadows just as a turtle takes refuge in his shell. It wasn’t until the two men entered the more broad and luminous area of downtown that poked its murky head out into the light of the desolate street lamp. Slowly, by slowly the body appeared and before Joe’s eyes he saw the meanest looking dog he ever saw in his entire life. Its eyes were blazing red, almost sinister like, and it had ruffled black fur giving off the impression that it was straight from hell itself. But the most eerie aspect of all was that it wasn’t moving. It kept a fixed position with an even more fixed glance on his victim. Its glance was right on him; uniformed and undistracted. Joe nudged his friend Kevin beside him. “How long has that dog been following us”, he said in a slow controlled manner as they stopped at an intersection waiting as cars whizzed pass the four-way bypass like bolts of lightening speeding to hit their target. Kevin shot a glance at his partner. “Wa dug?” he managed to blurt out as he clumsily hit the cross walk lamp panel. They had both just came from the bars and were both a bit drunk. Joe could clearly see his friend had a bit too much to drink tonight from his speech alone. So much that Joe walked back to the bars to be assured that his friend got back to his apartment safely. Kevin was so bad, in fact, that he probably would have to hold his hand in order to cross streets. He wouldn’t be able to tell a dog from a motionless keg. After a quick minute or so, the light finally turned from green to red and the cars came to a halt. Kevin led the way in an uncontrollable stagger and Joe continued behind so he could safely usher his friend to the other side of the street. Once across, Joe curiously looked behind to see if the dog had also made it across as well. It had. However, when he looked at the mysterious canine, it seemed frozen, posing with the same stance and the same stare. The only movement that Joe could see coming from the canine was the steady flutter of its tangled hair. Almost like it had complete focus on its target. Trying not to think about it, they moved on. Every second Joe was tempted to turn back. “So you can’t see that dog behind us?” Joe asked despite his friend’s unwillingness to listen. Just the whole mystery of the dog was eerie to him, but, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t crazy. Most importantly, he did not want to be alone with that “thing”. He looked behind once more as they were walking along. Every step he took, it took just the same. “I dunno wut you talk bout”, his drunken friend conjured as they swiftly passed a corner to get onto Fifth Street. As they turned the corner Joe heard a ferocious growling and a loud thumping on the hard sidewalk it began to make its move. He wanted to run but his feet seem to stay behind feeling like cement glued to the concrete below him. He tried to drag his intoxicated friend with him but he would not move either. As he attempted to run and scream, he continued not to move and his voice was all silent. In the distance a loud siren was going off. He could only hope it was the police to help him in his time of need. With sweat running down his face and fear throughout his body, he quickly turned to see the growling dog behind him running at an intense pace straight behind him. Then it all became dark. Joe awakened to the sound of his alarm. He quickly leaned over and hit the snooze button for an extended 9 minutes of sleep. He certainly was not drunk. Instead, he felt invigorated. “Thank goodness it was only a dream”
If I were a sphinx in the sand Who silently surveyed the land I’d grow rather tired of being admired and long for the chance to hold hands.
Arguments I say, Carefully constructed jabs Debate is my game
- Moms bakery Makes the best cookies, Great twice baked potatoes, My mom is the best.
White flags flutter above The heads of disgraced soldiers The war is over.
The students all raced out the door The teacher just watched them & swore So much pain in his face He couldn’t give them chase They’d nailed both his feet to the floor
Nick Dal y 15
Band of Bickerers Eric Fox It was a brisk and bright September morning in West Germany. The wind swept through the Rhineland, brushing back the grass and the trees as it passed. The land was near mountainous with its deep valleys between the large, rolling hills, and the densely packed forests only made the terrain ever more foreboding. Pockets of burnt and destroyed trees littered the entire region. They were fresh scars caused by the mayhem of World War II. The year was 1944 and Allied Forces were making their way Eastward, towards Berlin. But there were no battles to be seen in this neck of the woods; the only sound to be heard, besides the wind, was the footsteps of two American soldiers making their way through the thick brush. Corporal Luke Titus and Sergeant Josh Bennett were of the 101st Airborne Division fighting in Nazi Germany. Bennett was an ape: tall and lanky with muscular features, and was known to have quite the temper and an outlandish personality. The Corporal, on the other hand, was around average height, skinny, and had the ability to adapt and go with whatever situation presented itself to him. They had fought together behind enemy lines on D-Day and were of the many to have trekked from the French coast into the heart of Germany. After their most recent skirmish, the two had become lost, separated from their platoon. In the confusion of battle, Both men found themselves within twenty feet of an enemy platoon. They sprinted through the woods with adrenalin fueled speed to avoid capture. When they came to rest, being sure to have lost their pursuers, they noticed nothing around them except the thick woodland. “Where the hell are we!?” exclaimed Luke. “How should I know that!” replied Josh, “we ran like hopped up rabbits on coke for, like, thirty minutes. No tellin’ where we ended up.” “Well we better find our way back!” “Is that what we should do?! Thank you for letting me know.” The two GIs bickered immaturely for hours; all the while walking in the direction they presumed was back the way they came. In the war-torn forest, their voices echoed out over the hills. As they clambered over stumps, fallen trees, and around bomb craters, the faint sound of gunfire was in the distance. “Luke, climb up that tree and find out where those shots are coming from.” “Naw naw! I ain’t doin that” “Yeah yeah! It’s easy. But if you’re too chicken, I’ll just do it.” Josh Bennett began climbing up one of the larger trees, effortlessly ascending through the medley of branches and twigs. When he reached the top, he let out a loud, booming scream as if he’d been hurt. Then he began to swing his way back down to the forest floor like a chimp, enjoying himself. “I couldn’t see nothin’ but trees…trees, some burnt trees, and more trees.” “God Dammit! I don’t want to be stuck out in the wilderness with you. You’ll probably eat me when we run out of rations,” said Luke, fully believing in his statement. The sergeant shrugged off the ridiculous comment and began looking around the woods. “Well let’s get a fire going, Corporal,” he finally said, “C’mon, gather up some dead branches.” They had a fire lit by dusk and soon found themselves relaxing for a little in its warmth. Just then, a twig snapped. “Is that you, Luke Titus? Josh Bennett with you?” It was Lieutenant Nelson Montizo, their commanding officer. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you guys. I saw you two running like school girls from those Croutes.” “How’d you know where to find us, Lieutenant?” asked Luke. “You kidding me? The way you two bicker like an old married couple, I’m surprised you didn’t have the whole Third Reich surrounding you. Let’s go. There’s an old barn a few miles Northeast of here that the rest of the platoon is bunkered up in.” All three made their way to the barn, Josh telling Luke about how he saved both of them and Luke refuting everything Josh said, while Lieutenant Montizo simply shook his head and laughed for the entire journey.
Family Billy Joyce Family is something you cannot buy You can’t replace the touch of a mother, A strong relationship between brothers Can’t be broken, no matter how you try Nothing compares to a child’s first cry Or when we show love to one another. Even when in Grams’ kisses I’m smothered, There is a warmth and love you can’t deny. So cherish all the moments that you have, And try not to let your time slip away. Enjoy the moments you’re supposed to laugh, Listen to what your elders have to say, Because before you know it our life graph Will end and everlasting life will stay.
Brendan Freyvogel Lying down supine in my bed tonight I tell myself that everything is good I toss and turn Lord please bless me with light So I can help people act as they should Lord grant me the strength to hold my temper Give me the chance to turn the world around I want the chance to change the world for the better Fear that I can’t even cover the town Guide me always Lord to stick to my guns In the friends I make and the paths I choose Help us understand we are all your sons Help me be fervid when I lose Lord I will always love and paean you Just don’t help me help others get a clue
- Connor McNally
- 86 the ketchup Really. No ketchup? How can this be possible? A pantry staple.
I see my father And his small gentle gaze He is still with me
Ryan Pluck The sky was a dull gray, and the ground was white. Snow had fallen the previous night, and had settled over the green grass by morning. The countryside was drained of all its life. The trees had died and turned a dark, morbid brown. The clouds in the sky were all gray, taking any blue away from the sky. Even the house made of stones, which usually was surrounded by life, seemed to have lost all its color. Inside the house sat a single man in a wooden
chair. He was getting to be quite old, and the way he looked made him look much older. His eyes drooped into a sad, tired look, and his mouth was in a constant frown. His arms were thin and his hands were long and boney. The man sat in his chair unmoving, staring out the window. It was like he was waiting for something, but even he did not know what. He looked to the sky, waiting for something to happen. He looked to the ground, waiting for something to move. The man watched silently, waiting for a sound, just a tiny sound. Any sound would make him happy, but all
was silent. The man, no longer able to bear listening, spoke. “Why do you ignore me?” he asked. There was nobody with him. He lived alone, and was always alone. “I miss you,” he said. “Do you miss me?” All was silent. The man waited for a response, but none ever came. His hands tightened into fists. He could not bear it. The silence was driving him mad. The man finally stood. He turned and left for the door. The man angrily travelled through the hall of his home and opened the door. The man stopped suddenly. His eyes widened, purely shocked at what he saw. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and was shining brightly over the land. The light of the sun now beautifully lighted the once dull landscape. Its rays shone down over the white ground, making it shine. “You never left me,” the man said, but nobody could hear him. “You have only changed your colors.” Beautiful and bright Stunning and without a flaw Her beauty adept
-Jamalie Roberts 18
NowI’ll just disappear. The insect ratting on your casement. [I’m not here]Don’t Fret, No longer and never again. I’ve closed the aperture that makes you shiver. The one that keeps you up at night. [You’re name haunts me.] You looked inside, and saw a face. [You’re face haunts me.] It twisted you, and you cracked and fell back And could not bear it. And what you saw was real And clear as day. [And I felt you fall.] And the floor ached as you got up. But you walked back, despite the warning Despite the lucidity of what it had become, And you held on to the frame, Of a tired door. What you saw, you did not jump. No alarms. Ease. But still, and erect, standing. The hole. Your sight cleared, you could see, Past the darkness of night. [I had to do it] And it shut.
Rob Summerhays David Greene
A good tennis serve is an ace As it lands in the court at a pace A backhand or forehand I may need some more hand So my shot will not end in disgrace
: James Durkin
“ Please, stop! Get away from me!” said Donna Larson, the lead newscaster on Channel 8 News, as two men crept up to her, one with a lead pipe, one with a bat. “What do you want from me?” It was 11:54 p.m., Sunday, and Donna was walking home from a night out with her girlfriends. She had taken a shortcut through an alley to get to her apartment because every night, she is prescribed to take a sleeping medication. Her life before becoming the newscaster was full of hardships and regret. She would not get enough sleep at night because nightmares of her past would plague her mind, leaving her screaming in her bed for someone who truly loves her. Taking these pills would slowly but surely help her forget her past and stop having the horrifying nightmares. “Just come with us, and we won’t hurt ya,” the one with the bat said. “At least not too bad. What’s your name sweetheart?” Donna knew better than to tell them who she was, but it didn’t matter. They knew who she was, and they had a purpose for being here. “Aye Buck, ain’t she that fine news lady from Channel 8?” the one with the pipe said. “Well would you look at that, Ernie. It is! We got lucky today! Manic could make good of you.” “Manic?” thought Donna. “Where have I heard that name before. Oh, I remember! He’s the newest villain of Mentor City. Last week he murdered two children by messing with their brains. I reported on that last week.” Her hands were shaking and her heart was throbbing. “Get out of here!” she yelled. It just seemed to make them angrier. Just then, Buck and Ernie grabbed her. She scratched and clawed at them, but it was no use. Ernie pulled out what looked like one of Donna’s sleeping pills and shoved it in her mouth. She had no choice but to swallow it. The air then became cold and a breeze picked up in the alley way. A figure appeared at the end of the alley. He was wearing a blue jumpsuit with a blue hood around his head. On the jumpsuit was the picture of a snowy mountain. He also wore white ski goggles that were tinted black so you could not see his eyes. Donna recognized him from the report she did last month. He was The Icicle, a hero who was rarely spotted, that fought crime among the city. “Chill out boys,” he calmly stated. The two criminals dropped Donna where she was and made a run for it. The Icicle, Ice for short, ran after them. While passing Donna, he noticed that her breath smelled like alcohol and another scent he couldn’t recognize. Whatever it was, it was extremely strong and made his nose twitch. When he was several feet behind the two crooks, he took in a deep breath and blew a cold air at them, freezing their feet to the ground in the middle of the street. In a matter of seconds he was at both of their sides freezing their hands together. “I’ll leave you for the cops. Just hope they get here before you catch a cold,” he said sarcastically. Ice then climbed up on top of a building and ran off. Donna sat there, too shocked to move. She was brought back to earth with the sound of Buck and Ernie screaming at each other. She quickly stood up and ran as fast as she could in the other direction, not stopping until she was in her apartment with the door locked behind her. She walked over to her bed and sat down. She had a pounding headache and then felt like she was going to be sick. Before she could run to the bathroom, the room went dark and her mind went fuzzy. A nightmare once again plagued her dreams. * * * As Ice jumped from rooftop to rooftop, he could hear the police cars speeding to the crime scene. When he arrived on the roof of his own apartment, he looked out over the city. The sun was rising. He knew he had to get inside before the whole city was awake, hustling and bustling to work or school, congesting the streets with people and cars. But a part of him wanted to go out, just as he is now. Let the whole world see Icicle and who he is. But he knew he couldn’t do that. “I should be getting ready for work right now. Boss would wait for Icicle, but never plain old Vince Holgath.” He quickly slipped into his window only to be greeted by his brother, Ronnie. “You left before I could give you the new weapon I made.” “I don’t need it,” Ice rudely said. “Come on, it’s so awesome! You attach it to your wrist and you can shoot snow balls out of it. It’s not com pletely snow. I had to add some minerals to it to make it un-meltable. But it’ll help you since you can only breathe ice.” “I said I don’t need it!” “Oh, ok. So tell me, how was the patrol. Fight any crime? Kick any ass?”
“Yeah. I caught the man who robbed the bank on Tuesday. Froze him in the act of putting the money in a safe at his house. Oh, and there was this woman being attacked by two muggers. But I get the feeling they weren’t just mugging her. Like they needed her or something. You know what I mean?” “Not really, but who was the chick? Was she pretty, or ugly? Did she have blonde hair?” “Why would you ask me that? You know I can’t see very well at night. What’s wrong with you? I have no idea who she was!” “Oh yeah. Sorry. Hey, shouldn’t you be getting to work?” “Crap, you’re right. I’m gonna be late!” Vince grabbed some clothes and ran into the bathroom. After a quick shower and shave, he had transformed from Icicle, Mentor City’s greatest and most mysterious super hero, to Vince Holgath, the delivery man for Delive Inc. “This walk only gets longer,” thought Vince as he shuffled his way to the building. As he walked inside, he signed in, made himself a coffee, and received his runs for the day. He first delivered a package to the Daily Reader, a newspaper business, probably the biggest in the city. Then he drove to Ready Freddie, a toy company owned by Fred Johnson, the most successful business man in America. After several other stops, he delivered to the Channel 8 News building for the first time. When he walked through the doors, there were newscasters, crew members, and other people running all over the place, getting ready for tonight’s show. Before he could take it all in, someone ran into him. It was Donna Larson, the lead newscaster. “Oh I’m so sorry miss,” Vince expressed as Donna blushed her dark hair back out of her face. As he looked into her sky blue eyes and her into his, it was like no one else was around them. “Oh, th-that’s ok. It was actually my fault. I should have been looking where I was going. Um, may I ask you your name? “It’s Vince, Vince Holgath. And yours?” “I’m Donna Larson, the head news reporter here on Channel 8.” “Oh, right,” Vince said stupidly. What occurred next was a long chat between the two of them. They spoke about their jobs, their favorites and least favorites, and life in general. They instantly clicked, only to be separated by Donna’s manager yelling at her to go see hair and makeup. “Can I buy you a drink sometime?” “Sure! I’ll call you, or you call me, or…” Her voice trailed off into the voices of the other busy people awaiting tonight’s newscast. Vince walked out feeling like he owned the world. Nothing could ruin this feeling. * * * “Are they together?” “Of course, boss. Ernie and I did exactly what you told us. We slipped her the pill and the stupid ‘Ice Man’ couldn’t stop us even if he tried.” “Shut up! If it wasn’t for me breaking you out of jail, you would be sitting in a cell eating burnt toast probably from last month. I have another job for you two dimwits.” He tossed them a bottle. “If you screw this up, I’ll have both your heads mounted above my fireplace.” “Yes sir. Don’t worry sir. We won’t let you down sir.” “Good. Now get out of my sight,” their master said as they scrambled off. “Hope you enjoy your life while you can, Icicle.” * * * “Thank you so much for the money, Grandma!” says Sally Bays, a thirds grader at the local elementary school. Her eighth birthday was yesterday and her Grandma, Rosy Bays, had given her a crisp $100 bill. She and her grandma were now on their way to Ready Freddie Toy Store to buy a princess costume Sally had been dying to wear. “Hurry up! The store’s about to close!” hey have named this criminal Shadow,” Donna informed the next morning. “This is Donna Larson, signing off. Be sure to join us again at five for the five o’clock --- ” Click! “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Ronnie said to Vince. “This chick’s not gonna be easy.” “Come on Ron, I’ll be fine. With that new weapon you made me, I’ll be unstoppable!” he replied. “You really mean it!” “You bet I do. Well, I’ll see you later,” Vince said as he strolled out the door to work. “It’s like he’s a whole different person,” Ronnie said to himself with a smile. 22
* * * It’s been about a week and Donna and Vince had been going strong. Vince is able to go out on dates with her and still get back in time to stop crime by night. One of the reasons for this is because Donna insists on being home by 11:30 every night. Other than that, he couldn’t have been happier. Well, he could. If he could only catch that mysterious woman stealing money from others. “Well, I’m on my way to Donna’s house. I’ll be back by midnight and make sure to have my new weapon ready for me!” Vince told Ronnie. “You got it!” he replied happily. The couple met at Sri Lanka’s, a restaurant on the south side of town. After eating, it was only 11:00. So Vince walked Donna to her apartment. “Why don’t you come inside for a second.” Of course Vince said yes. They then took the elevator up to the 17th floor and strolled to room 762. When inside, they both sat on the bed and turned on the television. Donna then got up, walked to her dresser, and grabbed a jar. There were pills inside. She quickly swallowed one and then sat back on the bed. “Sorry about that.” As she said this, Vince smelled a familiar smell. It was extremely strong and made his nose twitch. He then remembered where he had smelled it. The person’s breath being mugged a couple weeks ago smelled like this and alcohol. “Donna, tell me, what are these pills? Where did they come from?” “Oh, they’re just my sleeping pills. I am prescribed to take them every night. They haven’t been working lately though. I always wake up extremely tired, like I had just run a marathon.” “Mmhhmm, now, what do you think of this Icicle figure? Have you ever seen him?” “Umm, I didn’t want to tell anyone this, but I feel like I can trust you, being my boyfriend and everything. Several weeks ago, I was attacked by two muggers. They wanted me for some reason. They said something about Manic. All of the sudden, Icicle jumped down from a building and stopped the two men in their tracks. I was so scared and I didn’t want to tell anyone about this because I thought they might come back for me if I told. Please promise you won’t mention this to anyone!” “Donna, I’m glad that you were honest with me. And I promise. The thing is, I haven’t been completely honest with you. I need to tell you a secret. A secret that you cannot tell anyone, for as long as you live. I guess I should just start from the beginning. It was about forty years ago, I was seven years old, and I lived with my family in a tribe of hunters on Mount Everest. The year was 1968. Our village was extremely high up, too high for most humans to live. But our ancestors found a way to adapt to the freezing weather and it passed down with each generation. There was no need for dogs in our town because everyone had a keen sense of smell. Tracking down our prey was fairly easy. Few people knew about our civilization. We lived in peace, until the day the Raven tribe attacked. I was out by myself, trying to catch some meat. I wanted to show that I could be the man of the house when my father and the other men would go on their one year hunting trip. I was closing in on a rabbit when I heard drums beating. In the distance, I could see an army of men and wolverines charging in the direction of our village. They kept getting closer and closer. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran to warn the village. However, I wasn’t very fast. As I said, I was only seven. The army eventually caught up to me. Three of the wolverines saw me and chased after me. I just kept running and running and running until I fell over and blanked out. “Before I knew it, I started to feel warm. I opened my eyes to find a man and a woman, husband and wife, staring at me. The woman had black hair and the man had a scar over his left eye. I was in some sort of laboratory. However, my vision was extremely blurry. After all the ice was completely melted off my body, they informed me that their names were Charles and Hannah. They told me that when they were exploring the mountain, they found me frozen in a ditch. They brought me to their lab at the bottom of the mountain. I was terrified. I ordered them to take me to where they found me. So they did. I ran in the direction of the village, but when I got to where the gate usually was, there was nothing to be seen but snow. I later learned that the year was 1983. I had been frozen for fifteen years in ice. While I was frozen, I had gone partly blind. I then realized that my village and the people in it did not survive the attack from the Raven Tribe. “I must have cried for two days straight. However, Charles and Hannah told me that I could stay with them. They were traveling back to America and they told me they would take care of me. I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I agreed. And it was the best decision I had ever made in my life. In America, I met my brother Ronnie. But strange things started happening. Whenever I would scream, ice would shoot out of my mouth. Being scien 23
tists, Charles and Hannah looked into this strange behavior. They took an x-ray of me and discovered that there was ice permanently attached to my lungs. They made me swear not to tell anyone about this, and I obeyed. “When I was about eleven, Charles and Hannah were taken to jail for a reason that I still don’t know today. They never returned home. Two years later, I had heard that they both died there. I was furious. And I took my anger out on other people. I must have frozen Ron a dozen times. Ron, being a total comic book geek, started coming up with this crazy idea of me being a superhero and fighting crime. At first I thought he was joking, but I then realized he was right. I guess what I am trying to say is that I am Icicle….Donna……Donna please say something.” As Donna looked out the window, tears rolled down her cheeks. “Donna please don’t cry.” “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to take this all in. I can’t believe what I just heard. I’m not sad or mad, I’m just confused. But---” Ding! Ding! The clock stroke 12 o’clock, midnight. “Ugh, oh, hah, ahh,” Donna mumbled. “Donna! Donna are you ok?” Vince yelled. “I’m gonna be sick!” she blurted out. She stood up and stumbled into the bathroom. As she did, her eye color started to change to a blood red and her skin was turning light blue. “This can’t be,” Vince said to himself. He tried to open the bathroom door but it was locked. On the other side he heard a crash. With a running start, he was able to knock the door down. Inside, Donna was gone, her clothes lay on the floor, and the window was shattered into tiny pieces. Out the window, he could see a figure with a black mask on and a purple cape jumping from building to building. Without thinking, Vince jumped out the window too, landing on the roof of another building. While jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he kept thinking the same thing: “This can’t be true, this can’t be true.” But Vince finally faced the fact: Shadow was Donna. He pulled out his cell phone and quickly called the person he trusted most. “Ronnie, meet me on the north side of town on 34th street. And bring my suit and gear!” * * * After meeting up with Ronnie, Vince quickly changed into Icicle and followed the smell of Shadow’s fowl breath to a factory on the outskirts of the town. He stealthily crawled up to a window. Inside was a control room and in the middle of the room were dozens of bags. Standing next to them was Shadow. She untied one and inside were twenty, fifty, and one hundred dollar bills. She threw in a couple more and then tied it shut again. On the far end of the room was a giant screen and a chair facing it. Someone was in the chair, but Ice couldn’t see who. “Is that all the money?” the person in the chair asked Shadow. “Yes master,” she replied, “all one million dollars.” “Perfect. Now I can afford to build that laser. I’ll shoot that baby at the moon and every night, the world will be under my control. I will rule the universe!” “I don’t think so!” Ice yelled as he broke through the window. Shadow looked back, shocked, while the man in the chair just sat there. “We’ve been expecting you, Ice, or should I say, Vince,” he said. “Show yourself! Who are you?” Ice said extremely confused. As the man turned around, Ice’s face went pale and his heart skipped a beat. He was an older man, but extremely muscular. He had solid silver hair and tan, wrinkly skin. But the feature that made him sick was the little scar above his left eye. “Charles?” “Well, it looks like you’ve figured it out. Yes, I was Charles, but now you will refer to me as Manic!” “But---but how?” “When Hannah and I went to jail, it was because Hannah told police that we were constructing some sort of killing machine and we were turning ourselves in. She did this to protect you from me. I wanted to use your powers for evil, not good. So we went to jail, but not for long. Hannah was smart, but I was smarter. You see, while in jail I knocked my head up pretty bad, so bad that something went wrong with my brain. In the emergency room, the surgeons working on my head made a mistake and something went wrong. They fixed my brain, but made it stronger and more powerful than any other person’s brain. I was so powerful I could move items just by looking at them. So I was able to fake Hannah’s and my death. I released both of us from the prison, but I knew that I needed to get rid of Hannah. I didn’t have the guts to kill her. A part of me still loved her, so I brainwashed her and built a time machine. I forced her into the machine and changed her into a thirteen year old girl. I then had two druggies raise her until she was able to live on her own. In fact, she turned out to be a very successful news reporter. Get what I’m hinting at?” 24
Ice couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was hoping that he would awake in his bed and this would all be a nightmare. But no matter how hard he pinched himself, he wouldn’t wake up. “Yes! Hannah is Donna Larson! I am now able to control her by switching her sleeping med with mind control pills so that every night, she would be my slave. By day, Donna, Channel 8 newscaster. By night, evil villain who terrorizes Mentor City. And I have to say, the name ‘Shadow’ fits her perfectly.” “No…NO!” Ice yells as he jumps on Manic. Before Psy could see what was coming, Ice froze his face and hands to the chair. The sun was coming up and as the light shined through the window, Shadow started to change back into Donna. The ice around Manic then burst into pieces. “You’re too late,” he told Ice. He didn’t know what the villain was talking about. “Last night’s intake of the pill was an overdose. You won’t save her now. The harmful minerals in it should be making their way through the blood stream now. She’ll be dead within an hour or so.” All of the anger was building up inside Ice and he had to let it out. “Get.....a.….WAY!!!” He took in a deep breath and let out a blizzard which made a giant ice cube around Manic. There was no way he was getting out of that. Before he could run to help Donna, Ice started to feel light headed. Before he knew it, he was passed out on the ground. * * * “Vince…Vince…Come on Vince wake up!” As Vince opened his eyes, he saw Ronnie hunched over him! “Oh thank God, Vince. You’re alive! You’ve been out for forty minutes. Are you hurt?” “I’m fine, thanks,” he replied. “But…gasp…Donna!” He sprang up and rushed to Donna’s side. “Donna, oh, Donna! Ronnie, help me!” Ronnie rushed to her side and checked her pulse. Nothing. “Manic said something about harmful minerals that were in the pill. They would infect her blood and now, she’ll be dead in about twenty minutes.” Tears started to roll down Vince’s face as he held Donna’s hand tightly. “Wait, harmful minerals? The minerals in that weapon I made for you should counter the effect of the pill.” They looked at each other for a split second before Ronnie stood up and ran to his car parked outside. Within a matter of seconds, he was back at Donna’s side, panting like a dog. Ice knew what he had to do. He shot several snowballs up into the air, took a deep breath, and blew as hard as he could. Snow started falling everywhere in the room. It covered the bags of money, Manic frozen in his ice cube, and Donna. When the snow touched Donna, it penetrated into her skin. The minerals went right to work, ridding her body of the pill. At first, nothing happened, but then… “Cough, cough!” Donna slowly sat up and looked around. “Where are we? What happened?” Her words were cut short by the embrace Vince gave her. “Donna. Ron. I need to tell you a story,” Vince said after composing himself. “It’s about Charles and Hannah.” * * * Two years later “Off to work again,” Vince, the new manager of Delive Inc., told Ronnie as he strutted out the door. “See you later, partner.” “See you later,” Ice’s new sidekick, The Mechanic, replied. The two brothers were now working as a team to rid Mentor City of crime and evil. Donna and Vince knew that they couldn’t be together, so they both went separate ways, Donna moving to a new TV station as Vince stayed in Mentor City. As for Manic, he remains frozen in the empty warehouse to this day in remembrance of the great accomplishments and sacrifices Ice made for the city. Now and then, if you’re lucky, you’ll be able to see Ice or feel the chill down your spine when he walks into a room. It is said that Ice sometimes brings early winters and talks to Mother Nature, reasoning with her to allow winter in the summer time. But Ice is just a normal person with extraordinary powers living life among the citizens of the world.
The End 25
Writing in iambic pentameter; I suck It’s something definitely not in my genes Use prolixity I’m shit out of luck Sonnets are not my forte by any means Shakespearean is type number one With three quatrains and a couplet to boot Writing this type of poem is not fun All these rhyme schemes seem to be is moot The authors have an affinity to be grand With empathetic voices they speak up But this genre is just so damn bland If I’m not patient, I might just erupt Although some types of sonnets can be fun It took a pessimist to write this one -Ryan
The twinkling of the majestic stars The indigenous plethora in the sky Seeming so small ‘cause they are so high The constellations vary from spoons to cars The sight ineffable from behind these bars Insouciant feelings are all I now live by This life sentence inveigles; I don’t know why Fetid emotions the only ones it doesn’t mar My mind racing as I lie here supine Mistakes I’ve made seem to fly into view But even with this guilt, stars make me feel divine My cellmate stirs; why he’s here – I have no clue Shiv in my hand, I think I’ll be fine These prison walls have changed everything I knew -Ryan
Silent. Do you feel the insects, crawling back to their holes? Do you feel the wet bark? Compression. The world is quiet here. And maybe I should go to sleep. But what fun would that be? Where I would have you to hold, is not that place where the salamanders roam, and the young streams cross with the old. It is not that place, where I can feel yours. Yours are some so distant, and mute. For the world is quiet here. And I am able to listen.
Chris Bell Sonnet #59 By David James Greene
If I spent time reading Mrs. Dalloway, or Orlando or A Room of One’s Own, or perhaps even Monday and Tuesday, could I barely even touch what you had to’ve known? If I knew that you had nervous breakdowns after a childhood of sickening abuse and if I knew that you let yourself drown like Ophelia…but what would be the use? What if I wrote about you in stories or talked about you around all my friends? If you were the center of my worries and if you were all my mind could defend, then could you come back and spend time with me? then would you come back and remember me?
Evan Walsh 28
Angel’s Rose in a Tangerine Sky Billy Joyce
The dirt road that led up to the cottage was practically unnoticeable; only the slight grooves between the grass and a few pebbles filling these grooves made it visible. It was a secluded cottage in the woods of south Wales. There was no running water or electricity. All different types of trees and bushes around created a sea of beautiful green. The sun peeked in between the tops of the trees and the thin spring clouds. A beautiful tune could be heard from afar. “How do you think this sounds?” James asked his friend Bob. He picked up his pick and began to strum. Bob sat back in his chair smoking his cigarette. The two had been burnt out by their tour. They were all over the world playing shows for people near and far. They hadn’t had any time to themselves over this time and felt like they had burnt their candles at both ends. As the song continued, Bob closed his eyes and felt like he was taken away to another place. It was a long, slow instrumental that James had composed one day in their cottage. The sound flowing off of the guitar was so pretty Bob envisioned a harp in his closed eyes. James continued as it began to climax and played the song out as he progressed it into a strong, fast strumming and as he finished his last strum, he put down the pick and began to pick at the guitar with his fingers. After a minute of perfect picking, he finished the song with one last chord and looked up. Bob’s jaw had dropped. “Wow! That’s the way! When’d you come up with that? It’s beautiful!” Bob couldn’t believe his ears. The song sounded like an angel had written it. The continuing chords, stellar strumming, and precise picking warped into one made a song that sounded like Apollo had put a spell on James’ guitar. The sole door in the house opened and a beautiful woman walked in with a basketful of apples. “Put ‘em down and sit Penelope! Listen to this beautiful bit James just came up with. What’s it called, anyway?” “Angel’s Rose in a Tangerine Sky,” James replied. “Actually, I had been composing it for a while now. I hadn’t made it up on the spot Bobby! Ya think Shakespeare wrote Hamlet in a day now?” “Play it, please! I really want to hear it James!” Penelope interrupted. James played it once again. Once again, the song wowed them both. They felt like his guitar was a time machine to a beautiful yet distant past, but when he was done there was nowhere more peaceful or beautiful to be in the first place. They two even applauded James and the three burst into a fit of laughter. It was Euphoria in their little cottage. The three went outside for a walk just before sunset. The sky was a slew of pink, yellow, blue, red, and orange, mixing into the perfect tangerine sky. Bob pointed ahead of them. “Holy shit! Would ya look at that!” he exclaimed. Through the holes in the green the sky shone. “What are we looking for?” Penelope asked. “I see. Look at that rose,” James replied. One of the shots of sun had hit a beautiful, single rose. It was perfect. An angel’s rose in a tangerine sky.
Arid, scortched desert I wander for days searching For: Shadow of Life
Emmett Gross 29
Short Story Daniel Spinelli
“Just admit you’re wrong. Please John-John….you’re just completely wrong.” John Tiriano rolled his eyes and laughed at his cousin Dante. He reached over and sneakily tapped Dante on the shin. “Dante, you’re an intelligent guy. Listen to your elders please and accept that Alex Morgan is way hotter than Hope Solo. Even so, striker is a sexier position than goalie.” Dante strutted his shoulders and adjusted the stool below him. “First off you’re barely an elder. You’re in college. Second—” “D, please. The media just hypes up Hope Solo way too much. She’s OK at best.” Both boys stopped talking for a moment. They were at present sitting in a small wooden booth. Above them was an orange-plastered sign reading “Guest Services.” They were surrounded by a waterpark. A few meters away stood the Atlantic Ocean, but because some men ahead of their time thought a beachside waterpark would attract guests, and it did, these two boys were employed and in business. The waterpark mixed metal with water to equal happiness. But today, a particularly chilly day in late June, there were few customers milling around. Above Dante and John was a monorail track, weaving through the waterpark like a snake. The waterpark acted as a buffer between the beach and boardwalk-amusement park fitted with a Ferris wheel, roller coasters, and the like. Sometimes, Dante and John would wave at the dry riders above taking a tour of the park. The monorail tour overlooked a sterling beachside park, equipped with ten major slides and two activity pools. Every which way ran sweaty lifeguards in their uniforms, blue like the sea, and Guest Services associates in their bright yellow shirts. Dante and John were lucky enough to be shielded from the sun in their Guest Services booth, but they still had to wear those yellow shirts—John called them “yellow like vomit.” In truth, the yellow shirts stood out brightly against a backdrop of warm golden sand and a crushing blue sea. Sometimes the waterpark felt like the center of the universe. Dante looked for any approaching customers and, when detecting none, turned fully to his cousin. “John, if we are talking American poetry, I’ll listen to you. When we are talking women, I trust my own opinion.” John stood up finally. “Well it’s not like English majors don’t have a wide cultural interest. What, you started following the girls’ soccer team two weeks ago? I knew who they all were like three months ago. And for you getting girls?” He points out of the booth to his right where a short girl with tan skin and black hair sat on her own stool. “You ever gonna talk to Devon?” “Well I told her…umm I forget…it was—oh crap-she’s coming over here!” Devon fittingly made her pretty way over to the booth. Her long brown legs looked almost golden in the sunlight. As she made her way over to the Guest Services booth, Dante tried sheepishly to look away. John spoke up. “How’s it doing, girl?” She had a quaint look on her face, her lips quivered as if she was giving an apology. Something was up. Devon rubbed her hands together and made eye contact with each of them before continuing. “Guys, Lou just called me. Someone fell off of the Ferris wheel a couple of minutes ago. She’s dead.” 30
4:50 pm. The chess board is set on the table. People are about the room at various other tables playing chess playing their various insignificant matches. Others are standing and convening at the t other matches being played, the spectators of the games, each game being rated by the number of spectators convening around it. The wooden chair across from on the other side of the board is empty and lifeless. 4:57 and my opponent has still not yet arrived. The clock on the tan walls is ticking second by second, minute by minute. 4: 58, 4:59 and the door on the left opens making a creaking sound catching my attention. A man wearing light blue jeans and a black cloth t shirt walked in. He walked over to my table and pulled the chair out. In another motion he turned the chair around and sat down facing me. With no introduction what so ever the man says “Well let’s start the game shall we.” This man with his dark blue eyes made the first move, with his opening move moving his pawn. One tend to think about their first move in the game as it is in life the first move is like a first impression and is a way to set up later opportunities. 5:01 and my first move is now the exact same as my opponents. I remember reading an article commenting on the strategic abilities of chess players saying “There are lots of misperceptions that influence how people think about and play chess. Most people believe that great players strategize by thinking far into the future, by thinking 10 or 15 moves ahead. That’s just not true. Chess players look only as far into the future as they need to, and that usually means thinking just a few moves ahead. Thinking too far ahead is a waste of time: The information is uncertain. The situation is ambiguous. Chess is about controlling the situation at hand. You want to determine your own future. You certainly don’t want your opponent to determine it for you. For that, you need clarity, not clairvoyance” This is how I will win this match, clarity. His second move is his knight moving it foreword two spaces and to the left one. After taking several of his pieces I have now realized that he has actually set himself up well. His queen has been moved forward two spaces, his knight next to his queen, his rook moved forward four spaces. His moves at first seemed random, static, almost unstrategized. However this is not the case here is it. He either has no clue what he is doing and has achieved a lucky twist of fate and has fell into a good situation or he is more of a strategist then he leads on to be. Now at this moment, at this time a dilemma is presented, not really a dilemma but a crucial number of steps ahead. Controlling the situation from the beginning is essential but it seems I have not had full control the whole game thus far. The crowd from which rumbled and moved throughout the room slowly started to gather at our table standing and watching our match, eagerly awaiting my painful defeat or a my glorious and triumphant victory. Another man walks to our table, then another, then groups and more groups walk over. I feel like this game has as much gravity as the sun, pulling the spectators and myself. While my opponent may or may not realize the benefits he has at this point in time a defense such as his can easily be overcome but if let go can become catastrophe for me later on and so it must be taken care of now. The key to wining this game is secretly controlling the situation, allowing my opponent to feel like he is winning but actuality he is not. My friend Johnny told me once that the only way to play chess is by controlling the game through seemingly insignificant moves that make of the greatest possible position “Slightly, slightly, slightly. None of those small steps mean anything on their own, but add them all up, and you have control. Now the only way that your opponent can possibly break your control is by giving up something else. Positional chess teaches that we are responsible for our actions. Every move must have a purpose.” This is why I will win. My pieces have been advanced forward and placed in such a way that I still have an advantage. My knight is holding a key position in the middle of the board but is threatened by his queen only spaces away. My queen is also moved out several spaces giving a threatening and dominating presence on the board giving way that I will soon attack. This is why I love the queen, it plays so many roles that when used effectively and efficiently its debatably the strongest piece on the board. The queen can attack with consistent and reluctant brutal force attacking every corner of the board and easily escape any danger that arises. Because of this the queen is also a great decoy piece, I have seen it happen. People become so entranced and fixated on killing the queen because of threats that it does and can impose on the opponent it can act as a great decoy and ploy an any situation, which is great when the focus is on this one piece instead of my other pieces which can be moved and regarded with less significance by regards to my opponent. 31
The clock says its 5:30. I think it’s a little slow but oh well; I should worry about that later. Now back to the game. In a fast paced epic two minutes my queen moves to the left four spaces. He counters, smirking, moving his bishop out diagonally three spaces daring me to attack it. Forced to retreat from this battle I must move my queen but where is the best position. Any mistake in this pint in the game and I could lose a crucial advantage. I cannot attack his bishop for if I do hi rook will take my queen, and I cannot attack his other rook because it’s protected by his other bishop, but wait a minute their it is, the unprotected piece. The bishop protecting the rook is the strike to his defense, his weakest link on the board currently. There is no reason for me not to take that piece in fact there is more of an incentive to take it with my queen as it will not put my queen in immediate jeopardy and it will allow me to take one of his pieces. So this is my move, attacking his bishop and I have now just gained a significant advantage. The strategy of the game of chess is everything but risks in any will make for an interesting game for the spectators and a more interesting game for myself. “A master of the counterattack, Korchnoi would take great risks at the board. He played to make his opponents impatient and to lure them into issuing aggressive but unsound threats. He would then exploit those threats in a ruthless counterattack -- by thrusting out, cutting off his opponent’s line of support, and trapping his opponent’s piece. Although this style sometimes backfired, it made for exciting chess at a very high level.” Good old Johnny always finding these pieces of information and random statements about the game. My queen is now deep in my enemies’ territory and there is nothing at this point in time that he can do that will be really effective. All he can do is defend and evade as his pieces are threatened by my queen. If he does not make the right move now he will be in check mate next turn. He advances his bishop two more spaces. How uneventful and unexciting; he missed it. I move my queen forward a space and he no longer has any way of defending himself. It is now the end of the game. With a little chuckle I say “And that’s check mate, unless I am wrong, which I am not, I am the winner.”
- Joe Giuliano
Regret John Mills
Everyone, everywhere has said something to someone they wish they could take back. However, once Speech has left the Tongue, it finds the target and burrows into their Mind. In the Mind the words form phrases, stories as they combine with memories from the Past, and soon a reaction, both mental and emotional is born and quickly, to the Heart, it binds. Regret leads to the most heartfelt of apologies, yet with the wounds from the Words still fresh, these are taken as shallow, as insincere, and we the Speakers are cast out, we are exiled to the realm of Ruefulness, where in groveling we effervesce. Yet our torment does not last forever; we find sweet Forgiveness, and all is forgotten about. Oh, the joy of acceptance after dejection, of jovial conversation after bitter excommunication! How brilliant it feels to have our repentance acknowledged, but more than that, embraced; to correct a mistake, to repair a relationship, to make clear a terrible miscommunication. What is this new feeling that from Me, Regret has chased?
I Look to the Past
I look to the past, and I remember you. I try to believe, I try to push on through. Looking in the mirror, see the product of my pain. Do I leave, or do I choose to remain?
My double edged solitude’s magnitude drove me into blue; sinking, sinking, every day lying in loneliness waiting for an invisible man dying in this intangible abating; every night searching for sinews of a stocky pair of invisible arms (of an invisible man with an invisible heart and an invisible love) happy in their comfort sating; every morning waking with a heaviness looking less for his pair of invisible eyes--instead, watch watch as hope’s fading I think, in every darkness, that the vast potential of his invisible love the seas of his invisible eyes-they will never bring me light they will never bring me hope but rather will only bring me strife— So this I long for, I long for a tangible man one with a corporeal touch and a love that brings me to life
A fight, not worth the hour, not worth the ignorance. Of an avoided circumstance. A bliss, unmatched by all, But countering that is the inevitable downfall. Of love. Of hate. Yet still I try to imaginate. A world without you. The chill. The thrill. The unforetold ending. Will bring. A life of joy or suffering. Which do I choose? A gamble I’m sure to lose. How do I know? I find it hard to let go. Of one, of all. Of those that grow to be tall. Today, I hate, The biggest choice I have to make.
- Evan Walsh
Absence inflicted, a body gifted. That’s how it ended, tears and a simple goodbye. I cried. Into the night, determined to fight. For us, it only seemed too right. Then you. Went to. The darker side of sorrow. And banished tomorrow. Giving yourself away. Over and over again. That’s a really nice way to treat a friend. What is right? My love or my fear? (Meeeee, Loooove) My heart is conflicted and the only thing I know is that I’m here. (The obvious answer comes from above) Trust and get used or be alone and refuse. (Trust in me, I’ll never hurt you again) Tell me what the hell am I supposed to do? (Let me come home to
- Pat Easley
The time for rebirth When baseball comes back to life The best past time ever
Invincibility’s Requiem Evan Walsh
The dead air on the phone buzzed in my ear and I waited for Vincent to spurt something out. Silence…. Silence, just silence. All I wanted from him was to answer my question, yet he refused to answer. In my silent, broken rage I blurted into the phone—“All people have a tendency to break, Vincent.” My voice began to break, and my knees tingled as my feet threatened to give out. My eyes stung, but in vain I continued: “I thought that’s something you would have remembered.” That’s the last time I talked to him for a long while. I slammed the phone down in regret, every inch of my body wanting to scream, vociferate, shout from the rooftops. My hands rushed to run themselves through my hair, and I felt my eyes start to sting, but I kept it away. I kept the tears away: not here. Not now. I told myself. You have to run. You have to leave. I felt the numbness wash over me as I planned my escape. I felt my childhood collapsing around me as Vincent’s call left me in the dust. Best friends don’t leave you behind. They don’t forget about you, they don’t let you go. Not like this. In a rush, my hands shook as I struggled to get my shoes on quickly. I have to get out of this house right now. He is everywhere, and my childhood is leaving in his stead. I turned the corner around the table sharply, quickly, and accidentally bumped my mother’s vase; I watch as it teeters on the edge of the table; I accept the ends of its fragile life. I tuned it out as it shattered to the ground—I couldn’t afford to think of what my mom will say—and the million little shards meant nothing to me; I still winced at the noise, yet. I glanced at them strewn across the floor, and the pain inside threatened to seize me. I closed my eyes, I took a deep breath. You can’t do this right now. You need to leave, you need to get out. I stop at the front door to lace my shoes, my fingers fumbling over the strings and my elbows sinking into mush. I couldn’t feel anything at all, except I felt my heartbeat, beating resiliently in my chest. I hated the noise at it resounded in my eardrums. The nausea in my stomach took me hostage. I rushed to the door. I reach down to tie my shoelaces, my hands quivering as I pulled the loops through. I grabbed my phone from the desk by some small desire that maybe he’d call. Maybe he’ll call. I doubted it. I jumped out the back door into the field, rushing to leave this place. I began to run. No one ever told me that having a best friend came with all of the emotional baggage. No one ever told me, “Christopher, don’t make friends—they’re just going to screw you in the end!” God damnit! I wish someone had. As the dead leaves crunched beneath my feet I felt my innocence wash away altogether. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone like I did then. It was here that I walked through the forest of our memories. I saw the tree where we sat for five hours, the day Vincent lost his heart to a monster he called a woman… I walked past the swingsets in the park, the ones where we used to sit and talk and laugh. I remember our laughter. I remember our fun… I remember how it used to be. See, you must know, time has something against me. I still remember the day Vincent and I first became friends: he told me that he wish he were friends with someone that he could hold a legitimate conversation with, someone who he could depend on to be there; he told me how he hated all of those obnoxious kids he used to be friends with in middle school that he’d managed to stick with until the end of his sophomore year. We spent countless days together that year, exploring, finding new forests, facing new challenges, thinking new thoughts. We were like two knights on the field of battle. I always felt invincible when we were together, or when he was in the room, when I could sense him there. It was because there was no one to worry about: you always had Vincent there. At least that’s what I thought. I forgot how people can change. I forgot how people move on, decide people aren’t good enough, aren’t there for them. And for all the shit I did for him, for him to just walk off and leave it, leave it like nothing ever happened—I was disgusted. I used to be that friend, the one who would stick around for days and it would feel like seconds—even to this day I still question where it went wrong. When our hours on swingsets—ours on swingsets—stopped becoming our home, and started becoming our own repellant—this I wish I knew. This I wish I knew. 34
The forest was no home to me today. The birds were silent, the sun rescinded behind the clouds, the wind slowed to a complete stop, the weather was bleak. Everything was silent. I broke the branches between my feet, treading lightly, treading slowly. I wasn’t walking anywhere… I was simply trying to walk somewhere to get away. Everywhere there are memories of the invincible boy I used to be…That boy died a long time ago. The traces of autumn painted the ground, yet was fading: the hues of the leaves began to take on brown. Everything around me in the forest was winter’s victim, everything around me was breaking down. My head throbbed more with every step, and my hands were shaking and my eyes stung and I couldn’t help but wishing it all away. Wishing all of the days away. Wishing that these woods could stay, but all the memories, all the leaves we watched, would all die away with the season. I walk past the secret path, the one we used to walk when he felt like breaking and I would try to heal him, we’d talk until he could breathe again. There was no place where I felt more at home than here. That was life for us then, a cycle of shattering and breaking, and picking up the pieces and gluing them back together: this is why we were invincible. Best friends always pick up the pieces. They always share the shards. The secret path brings me no solace today… it only rips open my wounds. I try not to think back to it, but it floods my mind with pain. I think back to the phone call, my desperate, raspy voice at a near whisper into the phone. I could barely speak, and all I can remember, all that resounds in my head is the detached tone of his voice: his indifference imprisoning me with every word. All I could do was desperately watch as all the pieces fell to the ground, like my mother’s vase, a million multicolored, unique, completely irreparable pieces. I told him I was falling apart and I needed him to be there, I needed someone to help me pick up the pieces, someone to help me be invincible again. That’s what I would do for him when he fell apart: time and time again, I would stay up with him all night until the pieces were back together. I found myself at opposition with myself: while I longed for him to help me get back up, I struggled to extricate myself from the imprisonment of his indifference. I look around me, at the effervescent, sparkling rivulets shining as the sun spots glow through the holes in the trees above. I hear the squirrels receding into the holes in the tree stumps, I hear the wings of the birds flying away, flying South to avoid the oncoming bleakness. This path used to be an effervescent walk: this is the path where we would go, today, if he cared anymore. He would drive over here and we would walk in silence, occasionally passing words, until I was healed again, until my wounds became subtle scars. This is the path we would take if he didn’t leave me alone here; but he did, and I stand here in solitude, the cold pangs of an oncoming winter shooting up my arms. This is the life he chose for me the moment he gave up. He told me on the phone that he didn’t have the time to watch me break, he was too overwhelmed to be there for me. With every word he spoke, the shared shattered even more. The glass of broken beer bottles from rebellious neighborhood teens reflects a blinding sunbeam into my eyes. I am blinded by the light of these broken things, and all I can think about is how I would have been there for him—I would’ve been there for him. But he is gone, and I depend on him no longer. I am invincible child no longer: I walk alone.
“Stay Calm” Tim Fickenscher Of course he’s always believed in fairies but this went beyond belief. He woke up and started the day in the same routine: wake up the first time his alarm went off, turned it off, woke up thirty minutes later cursing himself for falling asleep again, quickly put on his square glasses, scrounged around for some acceptable matching of clothing, and grabbed his bag and head out. Of course he forgot his keys again, as always. He started his car after the fifth try and quickly found out he had no gas. Fuming, he set out to fuel up. The gas didn’t seem to pour quickly enough into his car. It was like time was rushing by while he watched every cent go up. He thought it was inconsiderate of the gas to not flow quicker; didn’t it know that he had important things to do? His day was off to a bad start so he justified lighting up his first cigarette for the day. 35
He was in such a flustered rage at his unfortunately normal morning and preoccupied in lighting his cancer stick that he didn’t see the semi-truck as it came barreling through his passenger-seat door. He didn’t have the time to feel his arm crunch or his leg snap. He was in too much of a rush to feel his insides get pushed and shoved around. He had to keep going, he couldn’t be late again. Dismayed at this unfortunate turn of events, he limped through the intersection with one thought in his head: “Can’t be late again.” But little did he know that he was all too early. His eyes grew weary and his legs protested. His snail-like movement came to a halt so that he could rest for just a couple of seconds. He let his eyes rest for a bit and as his lids touched he heard the four black horses before he saw them. Being a good Celt, he knew that Ankou was near. Dressed in his robe with his sharpened sickle, he was sure that the spirit of Death was coming to claim him. He started to feel calm as the figure rushed towards him at an alarmingly slow pace. How could he rush so quickly yet be going so slowly? He came to terms with his demise and invited the Angle to take him. He was almost joyous as the figure drew near. He was ready for the strife to end, but as the figure drew nearer and nearer it was apparent that he wasn’t stopping to claim him. The horses trotted right over his body and went for the wreck of what used to be his mini-cooper. He opened his eyes and watched the sickle slice through his body, which was in the car, not where he was. He was confused; if he is here then who is in the car pretending to be him? As the spirit claimed the soul that rose out of the body, he wondered what was happening. Surely there had been some mistake. He was still here! Death had made a mistake! Someone had to hear his silent sobs, his plea to the Universe to end his separation from all he has previously known…but no one did. He laid there for centuries in anguish, unable to move as cars continued to go by as if there hadn’t even been a collision. People lit their cigarettes and pumped their gas until there were no more cigarettes and there was no more gas. He watched the Earth turn to Hell. War broke out and millions died in the street. He saw the Earth itself turn against those who hovered above his surface (the humans no longer needed their legs). Terrible atrocities he witnessed from his all-knowing spot of near-death, but yet so far away from death, that he considered himself wise. He stayed there until all the humans were dead. He saw Gaia reborn and witnessed it all happen again. He saw the creation of all and saw first-hand the new creatures that the gentle mother had created. He watched as his ancestors were formed around him. He saw his family formed until he saw himself formed from his spot on the pavement. He watched his childhood fondly and recalled the touch of his father and the smell of his mother’s perfume; but he also recalled the torment. He remembered the bullies and the fights. He felt rage all over again. It was like he was reliving his life without his life – the ultimate paradox. He watched every moment until that fateful day. He saw himself turn off his alarm, he watched himself rush and wished he could tell himself to slow down…but he couldn’t. As he came closer to his death he realized that he could move again. He started off snail-like once more; crawling on his belly he soon saw that he could stand and walk. He saw the car come rushing towards the intersection and the truck barreling down the street. He lined himself up with where he knew the accident would take place. He was too busy lighting his tobacco roll that he didn’t see the light turn from green to red – and then the collision. This was his chance! As the truck struck the mini-cooper and his arm crunched and his leg snapped, he grabbed himself by the shoulders and felt a cool, calm presence that he knew to be himself. He pulled upwards and watched as he ripped his soul from his body, threw it out of the car and whispered “don’t be late” and then re-entered into his body. He watched himself craw through the intersection with his one dying desire not to be late. He heard the black horses as he felt his body dying and saw the hooded Ankou rush towards him with such slow speed. He felt the sickle rip into his body and tear his soul upwards. He was finally dying! He watched his spirit lay there confused as he was rush off into the afterlife. He wanted to join with the Eternal and leave all suffering behind… but he couldn’t. He was forever trapped in the cycle of his own demise. He watched himself kill himself over and over and over for all of time until he just wanted it all to end. But it never has and never will.
A Holy Man In The Netherworld By Nick Daly Thick dark forests cut through with cold streams Trees that witness and withhold crimes that they’ve seen Swallowing sinners, and carry secrets, sent to the core Where eras of errors are kept and then swept under the door Written words curve and stir the past into present Essence of truth after time reexamined upon leaving a scent A trace for every evil will later spit upon the vandal Example seen in man burning then doused like lit candle Gave into unforgivable temptation when it dangled Thought knife would clear the slate, then couldn’t keep it handled All came down in shambles Moved fast through insular angles Never realizing he should stop, think and stand still Figure with the foresight predicts arrival at midnight Known as a religious but will go on to reject light Man’s decided fate, since to him guilt had no weight, Blind to own weakness for bait, carriage approaches the gate Claims the abbey without an abbot Happy to grab it, stabbing while disregarding law’s fabric that’s written on stone tablet Then slaughter Sleeping when thrown in cold water The father willing to sacrifice the first of nine daughters But who’s counting, head pounding Shouting, drowning in fountain high up in cloudy mountains hidden by their surroundings While the town on the ground never reveals any sounds they heard Hounds howl, while man with the crown throws away all he learned So the tides turned Prophet had knowledge between his ears and sideburns Guilt unhidden, made mistake and took a wide turn His eyes in towards the horizon as the sky burns Fear was creeping, tried but failed to keep his mind firm Mirage that existed, yes, but only when he thought it Needed a state of mind with less conflict, more melodic Heard the hooves outside, guards were at his door Orders from the Lord, but he said he needed to know more Already knew where he was heading toward No chance of ever getting forward Door torn, busted through to find him on the floor Having completed their chore, couldn’t take the war Crossed border into overboard, struck a chord Decision to end reality’s vision with his own sword So into depths he plunges and his pillars crumble Into chasms where he tumbles, falling through echoes and rumbles Reaches out for something to grasp but only fumbles A rumpled thought process 37
World of oyster turned to jungle Physically mysterious, no place to be delirious, Wearily floats through nothingness His body gone, but still felt something fit Presence was sonically ethereal The theory left him fearful of God Decomposed hollow material Concept of miracleâ€™s lost He was still spiritual, geared to reject powers imperial Dimension of his circle changed to spherical Clear and treading on the equator Near to the greater forces of nature His creator was his reflection, realm where he was sole vindicator Celestial Elysium where nothing followed or preceded him But subconsciously knew the devil was bent on greeting him Mortal life did for pleasing him, temptation always teasing him Tickled till blood trickled, hands of fate lunged from shadows seizing him Screaming winds thread together as the dream disperses Spitting mute curses As his last breath feels like first and is tied to black horses Course is implanted in his inner demons, Knew he was drawn to the source, but didnâ€™t know the meaning Lifting beneath the plates, through planets and beyond space Couldnâ€™t see it but felt the stare of an emotionless face Of which lines were drawn and connected Frozen spasms drowned and held back turned on the son once resurrected Begs to be corrected Softly rejected His mistakes and regrets were now internally projected Desire for perspective, as he sees ands feels the ocean of time that waves as its collected Nothing stays the same, struck as mesmerized and equally afraid Clouds above that cast him in shade His crimes he saw as wrinkles in the blanket that humanity made Replaced with wide stretched desert but felt cramped and narrow Presence of murderous Vikings and greedy pharaohs Lusting men and women, misers, sloths all shared home He now felt sharp pain of regret strip him to the bare bone Hit him like an arrow, attained less value than sparrows, stiffer than scarecrow Said he meant to repent but was just too scared to Stares upon bodies stacked as sentenced for direct fault no affinity Felt a crawling sensation that would then come into be Eternity, as he underestimates infinity Security of self, stolen and given jagged symmetry Among now the criminals, disturbed by dark imagery Preacher now among the creatures looks to the trinity Crying forgive my sins or please finish me Turns to see his only exit sealed with a boulder The sinner consumed by fire but only felt colder 38
IMAGINE IF John Mills Imagine if, the words your say Showed up in front of you on display For all to see… just make believe That one day the realms of reality and imagination, Will crisscross, unite make a combination Of everything you ever dreamed of… Of everything that you’ve ever loved… think for a second, the things you could do If every wish really came true Every time you blink… Oh, what would you think? If one day the realms of reality and imagination, Were to crisscross, and unite make a combination Of everything you ever dreamed of… Of everything that you’ve ever loved … Would you curse this mystical merger as mere profanity, Or fall into a fit of venomous vanity? Maybe you would just concede? Could you just believe? That one day the realms of reality and imagination, Will crisscross, unite make a combination Of everything that you’ve ever loved … Of everything that you’ve ever loved … Just imagine that for a moment and in a minute I’ll ask for your take, On the world you created inside your head, on the people and things that you made. I want to know every little detail, everywhere that you went, Please don’t think your boring me you have my undivided attent……….tion And one day the realms of reality and imagination, May crisscross, unite make a combination Of everything you ever dreamed of… Of everything that you’ve ever loved …
2011 â€“ 2012 Gazebo Staff
Editors: Joe Vasoli, Nick Daly, Sean Naessens, Nick McDowell, Evan Walsh, Contributors: Seniors: Corey Baiada, Chris Bell, Nick Daly, Dan DeMascia . Pat Easley, Tim Fickenscher, Pat Flynn, Eric Fox, Brendan Freyvogel, Joe Giuliano, Dave Greene, Emmett Gross, William Joyce, Chris Knight, Kevin McBride. Jon McCarry, John Mills, Colin Pyne, Charlie Rodriguez, Rob Summerhays Juniors: Jared Clapper, Christian Endrigian, Evan Mascione, Nick McDowell, Dadd Poguie, Jamalie Roberts, Evan Walsh, Nick Ward Sophomores: Ryan Abell, Eric Burgmann, James Palmer, Ryan Pluck, Daniel Spinelli Freshmen: James Durkin, Julian Durkin 40