Blue Review '13 - Writing

BLUE REVIEW ‘13 Editor-In-Chief for art: Aidan Wallace Editor-In-Chief for literature: Caitlin Cremins Art Editors:

Literature Editors:

Caroline Yoo Johnny Mancini Christina Hyrkas Juny Kim

Sarah Vorsheck Logan Trask Spencer Trask Katie San Filippo Max Furigay Alex Jackson Grace Piatrowski Rebekah Samuels

Co-Layout Designers: Jeremy Greenberger and Joyce

Faculty Advisors: Kristy Higby and Jim Applebaum

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Billy Collins Feature

Aidan Wallace and Caitlin Cremins What War Bringss James Riford A Spider Chris Fritz Truly Upsetting Rachel Rosa Taking Back Autumnn Jessi Fulton Frost was right. The woods were lovely. Spencer Trask Barren Winter Katie Henderson

Playback Katie San Filippo

Katie San Filippo Sinking Zack Holzwarth Two. Words. Duy Mai and Caitlin Cremins Intertwined Sarah Vorsheck Bells Bethany Falcon Wilting. Emily Schoenberger Routine Ritika Malkani Ruler Spencer Trask Inspired by “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brian Rachel Rosa Teddy Bear Rachel Rosa Wendy Sarah Vorsheck Forever, on the run Maria Zlatkova

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The Food Motif

BILLY COLLINS

Billy Collins, former US Poet Laureate, did a residency at Mercersburg Academy from October 1st to the 2nd. Aidan Wallace and Caitlin Cremins, the editors of Blue Review, conducted the following interview after a community-wide reading and discussion.

Aidan Wallace: Do you think there is a value in the combination of Literature and Visual Art? I recall you focused on one point that your poetry should stand-alone and speak for itself.

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Billy Collins: My bias is really toward the separation of the arts. I think there are more sins trying to link up graphics or visual arts with poetry and I am sure there are interesting things to be done with that. But if there is a poem that pictures a tree and then on the facing page there is a picture of a tree, I think that is idiotic. It’s redundant. The poem should create a theatre of imagery in your mind or as the visual is right there and because the poem does this in a linear way or gradual way and the drawing just does it immediately, I find them incompatible. So I am not excluding areas of experimentation with mixing media; but for me I like my poems to stand-alone. I find other kinds of media interfering with the poem. And so when my poems have been set to music, I used to say, “Sure, go ahead,” if someone is like, “Can I set your poems to music?” And then, to punish me, they would send me the CD and the results were all excruciating. Usually the poems will be sung in a kind of light operatic voice. What is that? My poems are quiet.

Tones are usually whispered, spoken not sung, and reflective, meditative tone, and so “No” when someone asks. Usually when they would ask me, can we set your poems to music, I would say “ Go ahead and set them to music, but I must tell you, they have already been set to music by me when I wrote them because I write with my ear.

AW: How do you start your poems? Is there a moment where you encounter an Aha! moment, where you are like, ‘I know what I am going to write about, I can see it at the end of the tunnel.’ Is it just a matter of getting the process going? Or is it a battle to get to the end?

BC: Sometimes it’s the former, sometimes I can see pretty much where a poem is headed. However, it is still not written, so I might know the direction but there still remains the actual writing line-by-line and

word-by-word, so that you realize this image you have in your head where the poem is going to go. You can sort of see that it is going in a direction, but you can’t get it there until you actually write it, which is just to say the obvious. So sometimes I see where it is going and then I just have to get there. Other times I really have no clue. There is potential there, but I don’t know where the poem is going to go. Sometimes, the poem has a mind of its own which needs to be listened to.

There is a poem that I read last night, I think about three blind mice. I started out by thinking about, “Who are these mice?” “How did they become blind?” and I had no idea where it is going to go, but I started asking questions: “Were they blinded at birth?” “Was there an accident?” and then I could feel it rolling forward. I have a poem called “Questions About Angels,” which is just a series of questions that you might ask about angels and I don’t know where the questions are going to lead, but I know there is a path of interrogation that has started.

But usually I want to surprise myself to some degree, at least with the ending of the poem. I don’t know that at all, I want the ending to be a surprise to me. Someone, I think Robert Frost, said, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” If you can’t surprise yourself you can’t surprise the readers, and it is difficult to surprise yourself.

You can’t come up behind yourself and put your hands over your own eyes and say, “Guess who?” It is you. It is me. But there are ways to surprise yourself and one of them is to give up the fidelity to the past, to the actual experience that generated the poem. So instead of trying to record what actually happened, just throw that out the window and let the poem be true to itself, rather than factually true to past events.

“ I think there are more sins trying to link up graphics or visual arts with poetry ... but if there is a poem that pictures a tree and then on the facing page there is a picture of a tree, I think that is idiotic.”

AW: Do you think it was hard for you to find your ‘voice’? You became a poet later in life, around 40, so was there a process before that, of you finding this ‘voice’, or was it kind of an easing into it because you talk about mundane things, so it is almost like a conversation?

BC: No, it took a long time to find my voice. I was busy imitating the voices of other poets, and I found my voice through reading. I have a lot of trouble with the expression ‘finding your voice’, which one hears bandied about, especially in writing programs of the MFA variety. The implication is that that your voice is within you. Finding your voice involves introspection. You have to look deeply in yourself. Your voice is down there somewhere and is tied up with your personal authenticities.

And if you don’t connect with this internal mysterious voice, you will never be a writer. I think that is garbage, and it is misleading garbage too. Your voice source: it is not lurking somewhere in your diaphragm.

Your voice is on the shelves of the library. Your voice is in the voices of other poets, and you find your voice by reading, not by navel gazing.

CC: Is there something that you can say about modern day poetry? You seem like you are not getting your voice from anyone current. It is the ones that have been done, ones that have done their work and left their impact. Do you have any trouble with modern day poetry? And do you believe that maybe someday you will be on the shelf and be able to influence voices to come?

BC: Maybe. I don’t really think much about the future. My opinion is that 83% of contemporary American poetry is not worth reading.

I just think there are a lot of sins committed in the writing of poetry.

One basic sin is willful and unnecessary obscurity. Such poems don’t seem to be aware of the presence of the reader or display no interest in speaking to a reader. I like the poems that talk to me. It doesn’t have to just be colloquial and easy-talk. But I enjoy poems that at least sound something like speech. And another deal breaker for poems and me is the poems that assume some kind of interest by me in the psychological misery of the poet. Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun to me. So, yeah, I think there is a lot of bad poetry out there, but I think the 17% would be difficult to live without.

Caitlin Cremins: Along with the topic of voice, do you write as a character or yourself? You said you had a persona.

BC: Persona is a character. I don’t know if I said it last night, but if you are a novelist or a dramatist, playwright, your life’s work is basically making up characters and having them perform, speak and move and do things. Let’s say Charles Dickens, Balzac or Shakespeare: they left behind hundreds of characters. If you are a poet you just have to make up one character and then you are done for life. And that character is the vocal sound, tone sound, a verbal personality sort of tied up with the idea of the sensibility too; about feeling and seeing things in a certain way.

So, eventually, this has to connect with the voice. To define your voice is actually to build a persona and that persona then becomes your voice. And then all issues of craft become very simplified because craft simply boils down to, “What would your persona do next?” “What would he say next?” You just let him talk.

BC: Both. Satisfactions of finishing the poems are great. I wouldn’t write unless the writing was enormously self-entertaining. It is just great to be in there, in the middle of the poem or having written a poem recently and all of it still wet, still moist, knowing you can do some more stuff with it; that is an enormous pleasure. So, I am getting that out of it, but I am always thinking of taking the reader along with me. I want the reader to be in the sidecar of the motorcycle before I start out. So I try to establish a companionship with the reader. But at the same time, there are deep satisfactions connected to creating something out of nothing, creating something that did not exist before you created it. That sort of thrill is at the basis of any artistic endeavor, I think, making something new.

AW: The quote that you started with The Trouble with Poetry, The Henry James quote saying that my idea of paradise is a perfect automobile going 30 miles an hour on a smooth road to a twelfth century cathedral.” What does this mean to you?

BC: That establishes a kind of a sensibility of my persona. My persona is kind of a dilettante. I think combining the modern automobile with a 12th century cathedral is a nice way to create some kind of a link. It is obviously a quotation of a person of a certain refinement who has high-level hedonistic taste. And I guess that’s something I like my persona to convey. It is an image of a deep satisfaction too.

The other implication of paradise is not somewhere else. Paradise is right here. There is a paradise at the next right. There is another world but it is right inside this world, as one of my betters put it.

BC: My persona bears a significant resemblance to me but he is… well, better. He is a refinement or an idealization of me. Tonally, he sounds a lot like me. It is just that it doesn’t do things like take out the garbage or have a job or that stuff. It is sort of a purified version of me. It is not me but it is closer to me than any other voice I know.

AW: Which do you prefer, the one that takes out the garbage or the one that writes poetry about taking out the garbage?

BC: Well, someone has to take the garbage out, and he is just not going to do it, so I have to do it. He has his own work to do.

AW: Do you write to an audience? Or are you writing for yourself?

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CC: Do you think your voice or persona is very similar to yourself or completely different?

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WHAT WAR BRINGS

James Riford

No enemy to look on foes dismayed, For all are dead forgotten bones.

The drummer’s beat is long since silent, And gone the same as fife and horn, The foe on which we were reliant, Is no longer here for us to scorn.

They whose evil we resisted, And much abhorred in rhyme and song, Of what deeds could theirs have consisted, That did to us such dreadful wrong?

What to us made them the scourge,

Or was it we who did the crime?

For what cause did awful war emerge, Forgotten with the passing time?

What was the reason, I can’t recall, Nor can they, the fallen dead, Then perhaps not seen banal, But today it goes unsaid.

What ere the cause for blood and fire, Today it is quite plain to see, The foolishness of men’s desire, Will only lead to misery.

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THESWORDIS RUSTEDTHE BOWSTRING I S F R AY E D T H E BA N N E R L AY TATTEREDUPON THESTONES,

Suspended in the still frozen air of night, a gentle spider rocks on his web, waving as the breeze slightly nudges and draws back. By weave and toil, the spider spins his web ever diligently, arduously yanking needle strands into their places. He can’t but help imagine the delectable fly, the succulent moth to be ensnared in his sticky web. Now is too soon, he must prepare his steel ambush, his sticky temptation. This prey will feed and sustain him, he must capture it and take its life, lest bitter death face him. Somewhere inside that bristly shell there lays a force pushing the spider to feed, some urge to sustain his body that keeps him working diligently on his web, to keep laboring endlessly, pouring his spirit into these tasks, all for the purpose of food; that he may live to simply hunt longer.

As his work nears its completion, his eight eyes widen Chris Fritz and a beautiful, invisible web lies bolted between two thin tree branches, tenuous and fibrous.

to come. As the unaware moth draws closer with every flutter of its unwavering wings, thoughts of serenity cross its mind, hypnotized by that pulsing golden speck on the horizon. Then for a moment its wings are heavy, and as they are drawn back, an adhesive blanket is pulled around its body, then as its blanket becomes its noose every bit of motion grows more impossible for the little damned moth, and as he struggles to tear off the wings now bonded to the web from his body, his horrified eyes focus on gaping fangs dripping with what must surely be poison, neither approaching nor twitching: waiting. As the moth burns through every gram of energy in its body, it fails to realize the accommodation it makes for its own death, and surely as it exhausts its last flutter, that demented predator draws near, mouth agape.

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A SPIDER

Admiring his work, the spider rests for a brief time, if only for a moment. And he waits. And he waits until, when out of the emptiness of the night a scarlet and white moth flutters near, beautiful creature, antennae poised, seeking some sparkle of light off in the horizon. The predator’s eyes immediately dash to the unaware moth obliviously heading for its invisible sepulcher. His legs tense, his body tightens, and the spider readies every ounce of energy for the ensuing battle yet

As the final moment approaches, the exhausted moth ceases to flutter. Sharp talons sink into its flesh. First violent jerks, jolts and writhings from the moth threaten to cripple the lethally engaged little spider, as he too incinerates every ounce of force until the final twitch of the prey. Then liquefying its inner organs later to be gulped out solely for the purpose of survival, this little spider has succeeded in sustaining its life by mangling its achingly laborious web for a meal, sacrificing all his strength to provide just enough energy for him to build one more web.

TRULY It is truly upsetting, That nowadays people cannot be alone without an attached medical illness. I saw an elderly man the other day; he was sitting on an old, green, cracked bench with a Dunkin Donuts cup of coffee enclosed in his hands.

To his right, a beautifully simple wooden cane rested against a tree.

He appeared at peace, eyes were focused on a single flower Not five feet in front of him.

UPSETTING Rachel Rosa

I was with friends on my way to get breakfast From the local B&B, when I noticed him.

His clothes were more resembling rags, And he was not clean, nor shaven.

My friend leaned over whispering, “he’s probably crazy,” But I felt this pull to move toward him, to sit right next to him and stare at that little flower.

I would not have said a word, just walk over, Nestle myself into the bench beside him, breath, And stare at the unpretentious part of the world.

He would then feel my presence, and Grin a little, showing his yellow teeth; But nothing would change, We would continue to be baffled by the flower’s simple exquisiteness.

People would stare, point fingers saying I Was insane to be next to him, and that The man is probably a bum; But we would just be meditating on the Petals, wondering how they turned purple – minds Uncaring.

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“Rachel come on!” It was my friend. I took another glance at the man and was socially forced to move along.

TAKING BACK AUTUMN JESSI FULTON

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“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” – Albert Camus

It was a lazy October afternoon, she remembered, when they were asleep in bed until noon. Outside, it was fall and the vibrant red and orange leaves cast a shadow into her bathroom. This was her favorite time of the year, right before the leaves lost their color.

She always woke up before him, and in those few hours when she walked around the house by herself, she realized lying there beside him made her feel safe and protected.

But there was a part of her that remained undiscovered. There would be moments when her body would be full of energy and she’d know that it was time for her to start doing something like finding a job, going back to school, or maybe learning photography. But it would never happen, she knew, as she clutched her stomach and lay down beside him in bed again. She wasn’t upset, but she wished she could shake the empty feeling she had inside. And as she pondered these things, she fell into a heavy, winter-like sleep.

She wasn’t ready to leave him. The driver was drunk when he collided head-on into her husband’s car. In his jacket was his address book and a photo, one she took with her red lips and youthful glow. “He was too young to die,” she thought in shock when she met with the police, “and I’m too young to be alone.”

The day came when she couldn’t stay in bed anymore. Bills had to be paid, and the food from neighbors and friends had stopped coming as frequently. She got a part-time job as an assistant to a local photographer, carrying the equipment and accompanying him to bigger events. It didn’t pay a lot, but she liked the distraction of busy work, especially during the holidays. One afternoon her boss called, panicked. He had the flu but needed someone to cover a wedding the next morning. He would pay her enough for the next two months’ rent and groceries. She tried to think of reasons to say no, but ultimately nothing seemed convincing enough. Instead, she agreed and wrote down the address, putting all the equipment she needed into her car.

The wedding was small and in an old barn covered with red chrysanthemums that made the room feel warm as snow settled outside. The reception was full of laughter, dancing, and soft candlelight; a celebration of new beginnings. She had taken enough photos, staged and candid, to rest.

As she sat down and looked through the photos, she felt proud. The bride was a vibrant ity in each picture that showed how genuine his love was. These emotions moved her so deeply, but as she looked at the photos she reminded herself how strong she’d become.

It wasn’t huge progress, but it was progress. And it made her realize that a part of her would always carry him inside her heart, but she couldn’t hold herself back anymore. This was the season for changes: scary and unknown in her life. But these changes would be necessary to figure out who she was, instead of always saying who she was in love with.

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ray of sunshine, dazzling, and although the groom was more reserved there was sensitiv-

FROST WAS RIGHT. THE WOODS WERE LOVELY. Spencer Trask

“And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep” It’s true these woods I think I know There’s something ‘bout them different though The screeching birds fill me with fear And fire rains instead of snow “I pray the Lord my soul to keep for miles to go before I sleep” I don’t remember why I’m here Or even truly what’s the year The dark is slowly closing in The foliage is growing near “I pray the Lord my soul to keep for miles to go before I sleep” But soon a change does now begin In answer to my grievous sin About me bark does cling and creep And Harpies cry a screeching din “I pray the Lord my soul to keep for miles to go before I sleep” The woods were lovely, dark, and deep I heard their call, I went to sleep To dreaming dark and Hellish deep I went to sleep, I went to sleep ...

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“I beg the Lord my soul to take for all I wish is now to wake”

BARREN WINTER. Katie Henderson The air is freezing And my feelings have gone numb The winter weather stripping the beauty From the used to be blue skies From the once soft grass Now to barren trees And a bone chilling silence I can walk around and think of the sun And pretend the snow is sand But my breath gives me away And the trees scream the truth That they shed their green for now And bare their austere skeleton

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The grey is spreading, no color lingers Washed away from the sky and the buildings Drained from eyes and spirits And even when the sun tries to shine I know the season Because the dull light shines through the tree With no leafs to protect my eyes

PLAYBACK// Katie San Filippo

INT. elevator- nearly midnight ELA presses a button then moves to stand dead center in the elevator, alone, holding a tape recorder in one hand and clutching her other arm around herself protectively. She presses the recording button and begins to speak into it.

ELA This isn’t a game, you know! I can’t take it anymore. I’ve pressed the emergency stop, which should also call the police, or security or someone, and when they come I’m turning myself in and taking you with me. We’re done.

She gasps and clutches her head, bending forward.

Cut to:

She stands tall again and her whole demeanor has changed. She stands straighter, one hip cocked, a smirk on her face as she holds the recorder with obvious contempt. The last few words of the recording can be heard playing back from the machine.

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BRITTANY Not a game? Of course it’s a game! Your life, and mine, it’s all just a great game. A joke. And you’re so pathetic that you don’t even know how to play. That’s why you need me so badly.

She blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, there is a new message on the recorder.

ELA (O.C.) Like hell I need you! Before you I had a family who now think I’m diseased, a relationship with a woman who has now taken out multiple court orders against me, and a job thatBRITTANY (stops the playback in order to record a message of her own) Is that what you think life is: a job, a relationship and a family?

Please! That’s not even consciousness. You spent all your time running away from anything that could ever wake you up, and when it was finally thrust upon you, you tried to fucking block it out. You’re lucky I was there to catch you, or who knows where you would be now?

Cut to: ELA holding the recorder, enraged by the last message. She jabs the record button.

ELA I know exactly where I would be! I would be in therapy, trying to work through the trauma of having a stranger horribly violate me in a dark alley in my first moments in the twenty-first century.

But I would be coping! And after all this time, I would be moving past it, with the help of my friends and family, and eventually, I would be okay again. I wouldn’t, on the other hand, be living half a life, constantly afraid of where I’m going to wake up and who with, constantly trying to clean up after a figment of my imagination.

BRITTANY holding the device BRITTANY I’m not a figment of your imagination, I’m the prophet of your salvation. All you need to do is let go. Give up control and we can finally work together. I could show you what it is to truly be alive. (she looks down and sees a new message, but does not press play) I don’t want to hear your excuses. You are not the one in charge here, and it’s time to accept that. I’m never just going to go away.

Cut to: ELA holding the recorder, listening to the message continue to play.

BRITTANY (O.C.) (CONT’D) It’s pissing me off how generous I’ve been to you. I give you freedom and choices and countless chances for enlightenment, and you ruin everything. Every single year I have given you the chance to relive that one perfect moment in your life and do it right, and I’m done with watching you fuck it up. Either you do it right this time and savor every precious moment in the alley and the salvation it will bring, or I’ll be forced to finish this game for both of us. There’s no point in you living if you refuse to live. So here’s what you’re going to do: When security comes to get you out, you say: Cut to:

INT. elevator- minutes later ELA stands exactly where she was, but the elevator is now on the bottom floor. The door is open, and a security guard is with her in the room.

ELA AND BRITTANY (V.O.) Thank you, sir. Everything is fine. I don’t know what happened; it was making a weird noise and I just panicked and pushed the button. It’s okay now, so if you’ll excuse me, a friend is waiting on me.

Cut to: INT. elevator- minutes earlier ELA is holding the recorder, and the same message from before continues to play.

BRITTANY (O.C.) ... and we forget this ever happened. This could be the beginning of something beautiful for us, Ela. Just make the right choice. And happy New Year.

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Cut to:

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Katie San F ilippo

THE

MOTIF

FOOD

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Her all-purpose love overflows from my mixing bowl. The downpour of vinegar on her life hasn’t trampled out the wholesomeness she shares with me. Her house is the oven where I rose up. She took the dry ingredients of who I was and blended them with love and acceptance of all my lumps, creating my gooey center. Even now, when the heat burns, she takes me in and the laughter we share beats back the blackness. When I boil over in frustration and anger, she brings the cool water of calm and truth to my problems. And while life has formed a hard crust around my soul, there will forever be a light dusting of her love reminding me that there’s good, inside and out.

G N I K IS N th zwar l o H Zack

Trial and error, more often than not, ending in failure.

Fallen in a river attempting to cross a burning bridge.

There is no rock bottom but deeper water With gravity pulling down by the chest.

I’ll sink while the ocean gets darker And presents the vast empty.

Populated by the strange fish Who look more and more like me Millions of fish in the sea just as lonely Fighting currents that fight back.

There is no light that would bother to visit the void But I see them clearly lost, cold, clawing holdless walls.

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I’ll write to the surface my words fall short before they hit the page Stoic when they should cry Black and white no rolling red and blue.

They are indifferent when they should be saying it was all my fault.

The words sink to the soul-stripped bottom feeders Hoping someone wrote something that could climb from the depths.

All desperately wanting to hitch a ride.

But no one stays that long.

Everyone here is sinking to the surface Emerging lungs coughing curses Commotion catching eyes that were once open inward Now looking at each other.

Heads light from relief Stumble to shore feet cut on coral Healing starts with salt and sand Exhausted under the weight of the sun Bodies weak from the same happening We collapse in one another’s arms.

Two.Words.

He stumbled.

She laughed.

He cried.

She laughed.

He ran.

She followed.

She stalked.

Eyes met.

Hearts pound.

They smile.

They talk.

Dates shared.

He asks.

She accepts.

Bells ring.

House bought.

Babies born.

Jobs gained.

Jobs lost.

Less talked.

Less sharing.

She wanders.

He clings.

Questions asked.

Words shouted.

Children’s wonder.

Time passes.

They drift.

He stumbled.

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Duy Mai. Caitlin Cremins.

INTERTWINED DENIWTRETNI Sarah Vorsheck

I found my adrenaline lusting in the bath of your blood, as your white porcelain skin was the basin to my crimson sink; A needle bending at the breaks, where pain had rotted away what little faith you had had, and your throat had swallowed nothing but the intake of words spoken from vile lips of another male cheat.

So I had taken the role of Sweeney but played it in reverse, creating my own monster with beauty in the eyes and scars.

Stitching out a promise of faith in the shape of our wedding band, whilst creating your heart out of half of mine, so together we could beat a merry little tune, while blowing the trumpet of the corpse of blues.

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They called it sick, perverse and wrong when together we were found, your body two weeks rotted over mine, and our lips sewn to a kiss.

But I never expected them to understand that love never had to breathe in order to exist.

B

BELLS

Bethany Falcon

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And so the fates have foretold A draconian tyrant gone uncontrolled When days and nights are cast cold The tyrant’s plan shall unfold Yet one shall rise and grow bold Their heart to the people they have sold When days and nights are cast cold Justice the gods will no longer withhold And so the hero slashed and rolled The once-thought brick was brilliant gold And so the young have taught the old A lesson to behold

WILTING 161718192021222324252627282930

Emily Shoenberger

Let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment. This life, this twisted, messy conception of mankind, is nothing but the tangled branches of a dying tree. My branch scratches his branch which twists around her leaf which falls with a silent thud onto the knotted and snarled twigs below. They are the detritus of those that came before us. And how did they get this way?

They are the twigs that grew from a branch which grew from the thick trunk that once stood tall and healthy and alive. But now that trunk falters, and its limbs are starting to crack. It starts with just one strong gust of wind that slams one of the weaker branches into another and they both snap and go flying. They spin and flip as they wrestle each other through the freezing air. And that first branch, the one that first broke from his mother, lies broken and corrupted in an icy stream of

tears. His poor mother is left crying.

Then more wind comes, stronger this time, hungry, and every child branch breaks from its mother, tearing through the forest where the tree stands alone. The tree is alone, the mothers are alone. Sad and old, they wilt and die.

The thick trunk is thinning. That trunk, which not long ago stood strong and held promise and hope, that trunk which was sturdy and reliable and full of color; that trunk is graying and the bark is falling off, piece by piece. That very trunk, which once stood in the middle of a thick, thriving forest, now stands alone in a desolate, dying world. Its branches and twigs have fallen, and now that trunk, that pathetic excuse for a tree, stands naked, barely a skeleton of its old self.

And then some lowly god lets out a breath and the whole tree falls.

I brush my hair in long strokes and my teeth up and down.

I lose hair ties everyday and my coffee cup slowly drains.

I can’t tell you my favourite colour and I don’t know what day it is.

I walk around with glossy eyes and clothes I’ve slept in, exhausted from a million things I don’t find enjoyment doing.

Nobody has ambition anymore. Chivalry is dead and we all might as well pack up and go home to our predestined mediocrity. Inadequacy is what looks back at me in the bathroom mirror.

I don’t need water to feel like I’m drowning.

I’m being asphyxiated by the routine of everyday.

I’m uninspired by the lack of interesting people around me.

But there’s something inside me, trying to get out. Something weaving in and out of my ribcage, filling me up. Telling me not to forget how to feel. You can’t see emotions, you have to feel them. I find myself running, my limbs everywhere, feet thudding against the ground. I hear a loud, wet, beat-- my heart playing a rhythm in my eardrums, rapid and uneven. The anticipation is almost tangible. I burst into the dance studio, barely even looking up, pulling my unwashed hair into a messy tangle on top of my head and sliding my feet into stiff, pale pink shoes, tripping on the long ribbons in my haste. I sink to the floor, consciously hearing for the first time the loud hip hop music vibrating through my body. I look across the room to where the player is and see a kid I’ve never met, furiously break dancing-- not even noticing my clumsy entrance. His legs make spirals and swirls in the air-- drawing an invisible picture of emotion. I watch him for a while, seeing his angry jerky movements contrasting softer, sadder ones. I have to join in. Even though I am in ballet shoes, I get up and I let the music take over my body. I let the sounds crash over me, around me and through me. I can finally stop the stream of conscious thought and just exist. Me and that moment. He finally notices me but doesn’t stop dancing. We draw closer together and then the music tears us apart again. It’s like the ocean, kissing the shore and then running away. And we are like waves, crashing and rippling, an intricate routine of emotion.

It was like we were in two different worlds, but we saw the same sunset.

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Ritika Malk an i

G. ROUTINE

rul·er /Spencer Trask/ My blinded king you brought the storm that rages in these lands The Prophet sings a song forlorn for doomsday is at hand

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Love caused you to fall so far as love caused me to rise as love now causes brother’s war and causes sister’s lies And now their blood is on my hands they’ve fallen one by one leaving me on these gray sands to rue the curse that’s done So now I sit with upturned crown with grief I hold the throne I wait for one to cast me down till then I rule alone

INSPIRED BY

The Things They Carried

by Tim O’Brian

Rachel Rosa They walked off the field with their heads Held high, helmets in their hands, the quarterback Leading the victorious army of men; But none of that is true.

They did not walk off the field, but slumped.

Their eyes angled at their feet, the quarterback Last, and close to tears for his girlfriend, Who he has been dating for the past 2 years, Just broke up with him.

But none of that is true.

They really did win, or maybe they didn’t, And I could say for certain that the quarterback Was in the lead, but he was also at the end.

Only one player was injured, but really it was 4, Or 10, or 7. I can definitely say that they Played a game, but then again, Their was never a football game at all, Or was there?

Dedicated to the English Department

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They patted each other on the back, some Limped off, others gritted their teeth and beared it.

The quarterback was in the middle preparing His speech for the locker room.

It was half-time and they were just barely in the lead.

But none of that is true.

S

he used to hug me, Took me everywhere she went We played together, held hands; I slept closely by her side every night.

She would talk to me, Whisper her deepest secrets in my ear.

She trusted me and I loved her.

When she got older, we studied together I was her math tutor Staying up late by her side, She would glance at me when she was stuck And I would whisper her the answer.

We still slept together, but her childhood smile was starting to disappear.

When she grew out of all her clothes, I still loved her.

I waited on her bed to greet her when she came in And she would smile at me before sitting at her desk to her studies.

But when she was no longer a middle-schooler she rarely even glanced at me My position moved from the bed to a shelf.

I have even collected dust on my arm.

But I still loved seeing her, the brown long hair, her growing features, Everyday she would grow into a more beautiful person than I have ever seen before.

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From my perch, I watched her get her heart broken, And I was there with her when she Won best student in the class.

But now years have gone by, And I have been forgotten along with the rest of her childhood.

I am no longer blessed with her appearance, But trapped in a cardboard cell she discarded me in.

How could she do this to me? Was I not a good listener?

Did I not comfort her when she was down?

I loved her more than anything She gave me life, hope, purpose And then locked me up, and threw me away.

I thought I was going to be different But I suppose my skin isn’t as soft as it once was And my ears are torn, my body has taken its toll and I’m not the bear I once was.

Is that why she doesn’t love me anymore?

Because that is all she left me to think about.

Teddy Bear Rachel Rosa

W

EN DY

Sarah Vorsheck

I saw a small boy in the window He reached out to take my hand I wondered where we would be going Then he spoke of never land With brothers bare we took our flight With pixie dust still warm On past the second star to right And straight on till the morn

The pirate captures prodded me Their slimy teeth held stinking breath I begged and cried and tried to flee Down the board to my dreadful death He then saved me, the boy, green eyed He took me home and held me close Who knew that how I almost died Is what I dreamed of most

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I fell right to the magic land They called me Wendy bird Yet this journey could soon be damned When trouble quickly stirred

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FOREVER, ON THE RUN

BY MARIA ZLATKOVA

Freedom - foreign to her all her life. Some even question whether she ever felt alive.

Though it reaps at harvest time, The Earth is greedy, needy. But held captive, Persephone is still divine.

An ancestor of Rapunzel. The tale that troubles us is timeworn. The motherly and fatherly Affections - in disunion.

Inferno, Hellfire, the Abyss. Hades came from the underworld with a kiss. She sank to embrace the sweetest sin, involuntarily imposed on her wherein, As she was deprived of her flowers and virtue.

Unlike Mrs. Bennet, her mother would never give her away, As Persephone leaves, she is struck by dismay. All of nature feels her pain, Her composure she is unable to regain.

The mother of Earth - lost with the mother of Persephone. Without the caretaker, every tree Withered Died.

The Fates dictate the beloved will spend eternity with Hades, Tainted with the red of a forbidden fruit. (Tainted love, defiled, damaged; Or was it? - Just like Mary Magdalene’s.)

A nomad, voyager, Her free will surrendered to those with power. She fits nowhere, going from here to there.

Her absence - winter, her presence - spring. if she only knew what she can bring.

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Her father retrieved a woman from the pit. Her mother gripped her little girl at last. Though the latter is doomed to go back. The deal was made; it had to be obeyed.