2013 chameleon

2013 Chameleon

Norwich University’s Literary Journal

“CARTWHEEL ON THE UP” 01

Photograph by Kaitlin Esche

Flip and Find Cartwheel On The UP Kaitlin Esche

01

How To Survive Afghanistan Anonymous

05

Photograph Michael McKeever

07

South Road Brian McNabb

08

Photograph Michael McKeever

09

The Fortune Jacob Evans

09

Photograph Prapat Kotpat

13

The Pier Tom Clay

14

Photograph Ivelliam Ceballo

16

The Barracks Drew Paulson

17

Words Alyssa Pinard

18

An Officer and a Gentleman Brian McNabb

19

Ever Say Alyssa Pinard

21

Artwork Kate LeWay

22

02

03

Searching Mariah Howard

23

Photograph Kaitlin Esche

23

A Crow’s Call Sarah DeBouter

24

Photograph Parpat Kopat

25

Norwich University Orenda Wooldridge

26

Something That Reflects Emilio Lozano

27

Artwork Tim Seibert

28

Patience Ben Cohen

29

The Chameleonites

Sean Prentiss (Advisor), Katherine Proffitt, Sarah DeBouter, Abi Donahue, Mark Chapman, Cassandra Guerrero, Ivelliam Ceballo, Adam Gravano, Thomas Childs

A special thanks to the following:

Jacque Day - Managing Editor at New Madrid, Jonathan Rovner - Editor at Large, Michelle Blake - Cover Artist, and Steve Perkins - Creative Services Director at Norwich University

04

How To Survive Afghanistan

io n

Anonymous

t c Fi 05

Before you go out on your daily patrol, take your Grizzly Wintergreen tobacco tin out of your pocket, and pack the moist remnants tight with your fingers. Glance out over the mountainous landscape that isn’t your hometown for the 121st day in a row, then insert the dip into your raw, leather-like inner lip. Peer out over the bullet ridden sandbags you dug last week and really look at the Hindu Kush mountain range. See the pearl white snow that sits at the tips of the land, despite it being the middle of summer. As your eyes move to lower elevations, notice the transition of geographic colors to a dark, fertile brown that grows poppies and resembles the soggy tobacco in your mouth. Push it to the left side of your mouth and taste the thick juices as they move about your gums. After a good moment of enjoyment, put the container that holds your momentary stress relief back into your digital camouflage patterned pants for later.

Now un-sling your M4A1 Carbine made by Colt Manufacturing Company in Hartford, Connecticut and feel the weight of the 6.9 pound rifle in your hand before you strip it naked, like the wife you used to have before your deployment to this damned place. Don’t start to think about how she went behind your back, slept with some no-name local musician, and then blamed you for “never being around.” No, that won’t get you closer to having a cleaner rifle than when you started. So, begin with a safety check to make sure there is no round in the chamber by pulling back hard on the charging handle. Observe the empty chamber, that is if the wind doesn’t blow more sand into your face. Release the charging handle and with your right hand hold the butt stock as you press in the buttons to split the rifle into two pieces: barrel with chamber and pistol grip with stock. Unhinge the T-shaped charging handle and put the carbon greased bolt in your hands. Take each little piece of the bolt apart; firing pin and bolt carrier.

With these delicate, yet essential parts finally exposed to the wind and sand, wipe the entirety of the rifle down from the bolt and star chamber to the spring in the butt stock

that has enough kinetic power to take off your finger if handled incorrectly. After at least 30 minutes of cleaning and your most important tool is glistening with cleanliness, replace all the parts opposite the way you disassembled the rifle.

Now that your lifeline in this war is fully functional and up to U.S. Army standards, you can assume your post on the Northern Guard Tower of Camp Freedom. Nothing really happens now; do some push-ups to combat boredom, count the number of days until the C-130 takes you and the rest of your unit home to Michigan, to the family that is still there for you. 73 days.

Estimate the distance of the ragged dog eating rotten trash on the side of the dirt road with your binoculars.

Eat a protein bar that doesn’t really taste like “all natural peanut butter,” but it’s better than what was in your MRE yesterday.

Serve as the top security element against all threats foreign and domestic to this Coalition Forces establishment of 1,000 troops. After you drink your third energy drink in order to not fall asleep on tower duty, look at the vast terrain one more time. Notice the young Afghani boy dressed in torn denim pants and sandals talking on a cheap, black Motorola cell phone. He’ll remind you of Johnny, your son, who is now age seven.

You imagine the boy’s conversation and can only hear Johnny’s voice as he says, “When are you coming, Dad?” Let out a deep breath then look away from the hurtful reminder of home disguised as a commoner in a foreign land. As an elderly man approaches, greet him, “Salaam Alaikum,” as is the Pashto custom. Conduct your routine search, from head to toe, of the village elder and let him pass. You’ll find no bombs or weapons because this isn’t the movies. It’s just another valley outpost in the middle-of-nowhere, Afghanistan. All yours to guard as you think about the opportunities and family you left behind in a life that isn’t yours anymore: empty. This feeling; this is how you merely exist in Afghanistan.

06

Photograph by Michael McKeever

07

Sout h Road Brian McNabb

If I could take her down on the old south road Up past the field where the rows of corn grow Throwing a blanket on the ground, I would find a place where we could lay down.

I would point out pictures in the stars Like the big dipper, Orion, Jupiter and mars.

Behind us a doe and a fawn would walk out of the night, Silhouetted against the pines by the pale moon light.

They’d be too busy munching on clover to see me roll over just to look into her eyes.

It would be a perfect summer night; Not concerned with work the next day, just living for the moment feeling so right just laying with her in the freshly cut hay.

If only I could take her down on the old south road.

Po

y r t e

08

TheJacobFortEvans une n o i t c Fi 0 09

Daniel stood beside the old truck and watched as the flames climbed high into the night sky. This wasn’t a defeat, he told himself.

This was a good thing. He needed a fresh start, and he’d never find it while this place was waiting for him.

Good riddance.

Something collapsed inside the house and a burst of sparks and smoke rolled out from the downstairs windows. The interior was an inferno now; like a coal furnace, every surface was blinding with yellow light and heat. The

Ficti

on

flames had spread to the outside a few minutes ago, climbing from the windows and the occasional pool of gasoline to tear at the dry, lichen-spotted clapboards, the flaking white paint burning and blistering around them. High above, the roof was beginning to sag, the old tar shingles sliding and folding as their frame vanished into the searing blaze in the attic.

Behind the house, the old barn, all dry wood and hay, burned twice as bright and collapsed on one side; massive, dry-rotted beams fell into the workshop, crushing what tools and tractors he hadn’t already sold. That familiar building–that historic building–

Phot ograp hy/A r

t

“A Night to Remember” Photograph by Michael McKeever

was being reduced to a jumbled silhouette of broken boards and corrugated sheet metal reaching out of the rolling flames below.

Daniel could hear sirens in the distance, far off now, out beyond the overgrown fields, his latest crop of weeds and saplings lit by this flickering orange sunset. But they were getting closer.

It was time to leave.

Thank God, it was finally time to leave. ***

One month earlier.

“You need help, Daniel.” Kelly always said that, so it didn’t bother him anymore.

“No I don’t. All I need is some peace and quiet. Why do you still come here anyways?” He punctuated the question by jamming the pry bar between the next two pieces of plywood and shoving down savagely. The wood creaked loudly, popped up, and he ripped it out, tossing it onto the pile and looked below.

Nothing.

She cringed faintly at the destruction. She’d grown up in the house next door and had been closer to Daniel’s grandparents than he had. She might have inherited this house if it hadn’t been for him.

“Just thought today might be the day I talk some sense into you,” she said. “That and I brought you some potato salad.

You don’t eat enough on your own.” They had been friends once; perhaps that was why she still felt some responsibility for him.

Certainly no one else did anymore.

“Thanks, but I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know.” She paused, surveying the ruins of the kitchen.

He’d torn up the tile floor months ago, before moving on to search some other, more likely hiding place. What plywood remained was still covered in plaster, though the rough, light-gray surface now bore several paths where he’d ground mud into it as he went about his daily routine.

Her eyes followed those trails, from the doorway, with its missing frame, to where he’d shoved the refrigerator so he could check beneath it, to the counter where he ate whatever halfprepared meals he had, and then back to the door. She sighed. This place had been so full of life once.

The walls were bare now, the cheery yellow-flowered wallpaper torn down and most of the sheetrock was missing, as it was everywhere else in the house. The cabinets had been gutted, the upper ones torn off the walls entirely until the countertop and sink were all that remained. Dishes, old, delicate, and painted with blue flowers, filled the two-bay sink and stood in piles on the formica countertop, dusted and bracketed by construction debris. He didn’t have anywhere else to store them now.

“Listen, I’ve got this friend,” she said. “She’s a psychologist, but I thought maybe you might just want to talk to her a little. It wouldn’t be anything formal. Just, you know, sometimes it helps to talk about these things.”

10

“I don’t need some shrink telling me the same thing as everyone else.”

“I figured it’d just do you some good to get off the farm for a little while. You know, just get a change of pace... some perspective.”

“I don’t need perspective,” he snapped. “I got all the perspective I need right here. You’ll see when I find it.”

“Find what, Daniel?” she demanded. “There’s nothing here! It’s all in your head. You’re wasting your life tearing this place apart for nothing! For God’s sake, you bulldozed the orchard! You’re obsessed. You need help.”

“I don’t need help!” he yelled. “It’s my house. It’s my farm. And I’ll do with it what I will. I don’t need you coming in here telling me what to do with my life and my property!”

Kelly sighed and shook her head. There was no arguing with him once he’d said that. Most everyone in the town could do a passable impression of him saying that sentence. She turned away from him and looked out into the dining room, at least what was left of it.

“Okay.” she said flatly. “Sorry I brought it up. Just... promise me you’ll take a day off some time, try something different, go on a trip. I don’t want to see you spend your whole life destroying the last thing they left to you.”

He looked up warily, but nodded, more for her sake than in agreement.

“Maybe I will,” he muttered.

“I hope so,” she said, but she knew he wouldn’t. She said goodbye and left. He heard the door in the old summer kitchen close, her car start, and the crunch of gravel as it rolled out the driveway.

He sighed, hung his head, and looked hard at what he was doing, the prybar strangely heavy in his hand. For a moment he felt the old, familiar guilt welling up around him, but he pushed it back with the ease of long years of practice and tore up the next sheet of plywood. If he gave up now, it would mean that all his work, all his searching for the last eight years had been for nothing, and worse, that the treasure would still be here waiting for someone else to find it.

He couldn’t let that happen.

She’d see when he found it, he told himself.

They’d all see. There had been a small fortune hidden in this place, and once he found where the old man hid it, he’d be rich.

Then he could finally leave. ***

Eight years earlier.

“It’s gotta be here somewhere,” Daniel muttered, rummaging through one of the cardboard boxes sitting against the dining room wall. He knew he’d probably thrown the letter away over a year ago but he kept looking, partly because it was the best clue he had, and partly because a little proof would go a long way towards improving Kelly’s opinion of him.

There was a small stack of letters from his grandfather tucked into one of the boxes, but most of them were old, from a month or two after Grandma Carrie died, and Grampa Samuel had started writing to him asking him to return to the farm.

11

Daniel had started throwing them out within a year, and didn’t remember why he’d even read the one he was currently looking for – the one that mentioned the treasure. At the time, he’d assumed it was just another trick to bring him back, but he was starting to have second thoughts. It looked like the old man had taken it upon himself to teach him one final lesson before he died.

“Maybe you’ll find it when you unpack,” Kelly said politely.

It had been almost a month since Daniel moved in, yet he’d barely removed anything from the four boxes, which contained all of his worldly possessions. It wasn’t that he was a naturally tidy person – just that he felt no reason to unpack when he would be moving out as soon as he found the money. He liked to tell himself that he always traveled light, but he knew he would have kept most of the things he’d sold to pay his debts if he could have.

He didn’t say anything--he was too busy looking for the letter, so Kelly started again. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re staying,” she said. “I was worried you’d just sell this place off to developers or something first chance you got.”

He looked up and realized that she was smiling, so he smiled too.“Yeah, it’s...” he trailed off, when he realized he couldn’t think of a single thing that would be nice about living here. He hated this place.

“Quiet? Safe?” Kelly asked with a smile as Daniel stood and picked up his coffee cup. Everyone here thought they knew all about him.

“Yeah.” He nodded and sipped his coffee. At least she’d stopped short of saying ‘honest.’ That would have sounded a bit too close to those letters for his liking. He didn’t need their opinions, and he didn’t need them trying to save him. He was doing just fine on his own.

Of course, he would have been better if the old man had just left him the damn money, but no, that would have been too easy.

Every account and investment Daniel found had been closed over a year ago, and though he could still sell the farm for a decent profit, he wasn’t leaving until he found the rest of it.

Daniel gave up on the letter and stepped back into the kitchen. “I don’t know what happened to it,” he said. “I hope I didn’t throw it out. I swear he mentioned the money. Said if I worked here long enough, I’d find it.” he shook his head. “It would be just like him to hide it on me.”

She frowned at the bitterness in his voice, but kept her thoughts to herself.

“So what were you doing before you came back up here?” she asked.

“Uh, sales work, actually.” he said. “Heavy machinery insurance.” That was sort of true.

“Oh, that sounds interesting.”

Daniel shrugged. “It was alright, I guess.” He decided to change the subject, but she beat him to it.

“Well, I guess I ought to head out,” she said, as she finished her coffee and set the mug down on the counter with a thump. “It’s been nice talking to you.” He could tell she had her doubts about him, but she was kind enough not to say anything.

“Yeah, thanks for stopping by,” he said. They walked out through the summer kitchen and he waved as she got in her car.

“I’m glad you’re back. I hope it all works out,” she said as the door shut.

He stood and watched until her car was out of sight, then he set his coffee mug down on the threshold and grabbed the dirt-caked shovel resting by the door. He’d been out in the fields when she stopped by, and when she’d assumed he was working on the farm instead of searching for buried treasure he’d seen no reason to correct her. Not that letting her think he’d turned over a new leaf had kept him from asking her about the treasure. After nearly a month of searching, he was starting to get frustrated.

She hadn’t known anything, but it wouldn’t matter.

He was pretty sure the old man had hidden the money out in the east block. According to the calendar he’d left behind, Grampa Samuel had been planning to leave that one fallow for the next three months, then plant it for a fall harvest.

Assuming that he’d meant for his grandson to follow the calendar, that would probably have been ‘working long enough’ or whatever it was that letter had said.

By then, he would have magically gained an appreciation for this place and would probably put the money towards a life of honest farming like he was supposed to.

But he wasn’t going to play by the old man’s rules.

He was smarter than that.

*** Eight years and four months earlier.

Samuel sighed as he put his bowl of soup on the table, and settled into his seat. He swore he’d never ached like this a few months ago, and he’d never felt this tired this early. Not too long ago he would have stayed up late pouring over the ledgers, working hard to keep the farm profitable, but now it was all he could do to shower and eat a decent meal before he fell asleep.

There was a letter sitting by the threadbare placemat, one of hundreds he had written to his grandson, striving vainly to convince him to come home. It was already folded, nearly finished now--the small, cramped letters were carefully printed by a hand which was better suited to large, strong movements than writing on a sheet of Carrie’s old stationary.

He read what he had written the night before while he ate his soup, thinking over the events of the last week, checking to see if he’d missed any. There was always work to be done, and it seemed like it was building up faster and faster these days.

Or maybe he was just moving slower.

Once he’d read it over, he picked up the pen, and started writing. It was a small thing, sending out these letters, and he doubted that it was helping--Daniel probably didn’t even read them and he’d probably moved away from the address he was sending them to long ago, but Samuel liked having someone to talk to, even if he wasn’t listening.

‘I’m feeling my age Daniel.’ he wrote. ‘It took me long enough, but I finally am. I could use a hand, if you ever get tired of doing whatever it is you’re doing down there.

And if you don’t, then just remember that this place will be waiting for you. I know I won’t be around too much longer, I can feel it down deep. I just wish you’d come home, learn to run the farm while I can still teach you.

Lord knows it ain’t easy running a place like this, but you’ll do well. You always had a good sense for business and I’ve made sure this place’ll be ready for you before I go. First season’s crops are all planted and the debts are all paid–that should give you some time to make mistakes, learn the ropes.’

Samuel stopped and worked his cramped fingers. Writing hurt worse than pretty much any other job he could do now; luckily, he didn’t have to do it often.

He looked over the last paragraphs and nodded with satisfaction. He might have had to spend everything he’d saved over the years, but he’d paid every debt, bought everything that needed to be bought, even planned for his own funeral expenses. When Daniel got this place, he’d have a clean slate, nothing to worry about but learning how to do the job and keeping the place in the family. He flexed his hand and started writing again.

‘The greatest fortune I can leave you is right here, Daniel. I know you don’t appreciate it now, but come home, work the land awhile, and I know you’ll find it.’ He signed it. ‘Stay safe, and come home when you can. Samuel.’ ***

The light from the fire in the rear-view mirror flickered on Daniel’s face as he pulled out of the driveway, shifted gears, and started down the road. He didn’t look back.

12

“Fall FTX”

Photograph by Prapat Kotpat

13

e tiv ea Cr

No nfic tion

The Pier

Crea tive N onfic t

ion

Tom Clay

The waves rolled in, whirling around the pier pillars. The constant splash and slap would break rhythm now and then. Behind me, a seagull screeched out, inviting fellow gulls to swarm at the prized leftovers of a burger. And the waves continued to flow and retreat, bubbling upon the rusty bedrock next to the pier.

I wasn’t looking at the waves though. I wasn’t looking at the horizon or the island that stretched out across the bay. I wasn’t looking at the clouds that filled the sky, shifting between white and gray, spinning above. The only thing I noticed was the breeze. Crashing into my face, it pushed my hair to attention. Squinting was the only way to see. As saltiness filled my lungs, I remembered the first time I stood on that pier. How high it felt, how long it felt; hovering over the ocean, looking down on another world that was murky blue and forever changing. Now, it was just a pier.

Behind me a face looked at me, holding onto the thought that I’d speak. The face dropped down, eyes following the groves of the wood planks that were nailed in by generations before us. That face was my sister and my back continued to stare at her. I watched as a seagull dove into the bay, next to the anchored sailboats. Don’t come up. The white body crested the waves, with a fish in its yellow beak; bobbing with the rise and fall of the waves.

Five minutes before that, the weathered wood of the pier seat bent to my weight. My arms weighed on one another while lying on my stomach, pressing and folding my red flannel sleeves. My back felt the wind climb up from the tide below, rising and resting on my shoulders.

A repetitive flash swung into my eyes. The small peak of a lighthouse stuck out on the horizon. The world seemed to go by slower as the light swung around, facing me and then disappearing to the endless horizon, searching for ships. A voice was talking to me, my sister. She was saying words with a tone of honesty and concern. More words like “alcoholism” and “family” and “you might not have it”. I was never one to catch every word but only grab the important ones. But the heaviness of my sister’s words made me listen less. She could say everything she’s said in one sentence. “I’m an alcoholic but that doesn’t mean you are, so don’t be afraid of it.” Why should I be afraid of it? I know perfectly well now the horrors of the disease. You’re my perfect example. My right leg

stretched out and tightly rested on my left, feet reaching for the sky. Connected by a ramp to the pier, a dock rested in the water, swishing side to side with the current. A little boy and his older sister sat at the end of the dock, taunting the ocean with their feet. His puffy, red jacket that seemed to make him small and fragile clashed with the sister’s brownish gray fur coat. The sister looked down on her brother. Her long, brown hair wrapped in strands around her face from the wind, causing her to swing her head to the side, revealing her young face. She smiled while wrapping her arm around him tightly, whispering some meaningless secret into his ear. Giggles echoed up to me and my eyes looked away. The breeze changed and rolled into my face. It’s getting awfully warm for April. The light had come back around and then disappeared. I guess I was supposed to care what was being said but I already knew.

I always knew. How did they think I didn’t know?

Ten minutes before that, leaves scattered and rustled below my feet, rising and falling on the hill. Trees old and weathered rose and hung over my sister and me, bare from the greed of winter. I had lost track of how many times I had come down that hill. It was even harder to remember the times I walked down it with my sister. There were only vague memories of us as children rappelling down a dirt cliff leading to the ocean next to my grandmothers; trying to safely lower our bodies with the thin, nylon rope attached to a small tree. She would always go first, clearing the way for me. Her overall jeans provided her with the protection for her knees. My knees didn’t fare as well with my shorts. My young hands would tire easily and the rope would become slippery. I would fall every now and then but my sister would be there to catch me.

My hands always ended up red by the end of the day. And we would sit along the eroded rock beach, watching the crash of the small waves and reddish purple of the sunset.

Maybe a sailboat would be coming back into the harbor.

That was before she stopped coming to Dad’s. My sister’s arms now had to catch her while she walked down that hill.

Her greenish, gray eyes watched the bumps and grooves of the asphalt that cracked and broke from the countless winters.

I hadn’t seen her like this since my mother’s father passed; quiet and lost. I knew what was going to happen.

The same thing that always happened when my family wanted to discuss something serious: talk down to me.

14

Twenty minutes before that, low, wide, white walls surrounded us. Pictures of cats painted in another era hung on the bare walls, giving some sense of worth. My eyes strained at the old, dirty, white carpet. When was the last time this was cleaned? My grandmothers sat next to each other, wrinkled and thin. My sister rocked in the old, wooden, glossed chair next to the fireplace. Her knees pressed to her chin while her arms wrapped around her legs.

My father sat by himself in the opposite corner with his back off the chair and elbows pressed on his knees with a finger pushing his lips to a frown. My mother and aunt sat to my right on the musky, red, short fabric couch, arms folded.

The same frown carved on their faces, with glares searching the room. In one motion, my eyes and left hand move to the red fabric of the armrest on the couch. My finger pulled the fabric back slowly, standing it up, making it look rough.

I pushed it back, smoothing the fabric out, making it soft. I loved making it soft and smooth. Constantly, pull and push, pull and push. A stammer cut the air. It was my sister. She pushed through words like “alcoholic coma” and “second time” and “six months sober”. A tube was shoved down my sister’s throat, pumping her stomach while I was blowing out my eighteenth birthday candles. Happy Birthday. The tone changed from the high nervousness of my sister to the deep unpleasantry of my father, only to be cut off by the sternness of my mother. Then back to my father. Then back to my mother. Two cents were given by my aunt.

A new tone was on the rise, one that I thought I would never hear again. My blood began to race around my ears as my finger pulled and pushed harder on the fabric.

Words like “divorce” and “custody” and “you never wanted help” were said. Never yelling, they never yelled. The tone though, that was the yelling; a tone of “fuck you” without saying it; a tone that brought back an old time when I was just born, when my sister learned to hate my parents and me.

I never understood the fighting or the tension but my sister had to live with it. I always wondered what her life was like before I came into her world.

From what I was told, there was a small red house tucked away at the end of Tenney St. in Yarmouth, Maine.

The night was cool and clear in late October. The closing of car doors raised my sister’s five year old head off the couch.

She rushed up to my mother and father as they entered the narrow front door, eager over the small package in our mother’s arms. My father caught my sister and scooped her up into his arms. With a kiss on her cheek, he said “Not now, sweetie. Mommy’s very tired and your brother is asleep.”

A pout on her lips stuck out while she crossed her arms.

Carried up the stairs, my sister looked back at my mother who tugged back the blanket. The slow rise and fall of my chest allowed for my mother to sigh. My sister rested her head on my father’s shoulder. Maybe he’ll enjoy cartoons?

Or dress up with me? Or, maybe, he might be my playmate with my toys! Her eyes closed and reopened as my father placed her in bed. My father kissed her on the forehead. He turned off the light and shut the door, leaving the night light on. Down the stairs, my father met my mother. No words

15

but stares. She walked down the hall to the bedroom with me in hand, and closed the door. My father looked down at the white carpeted floor, hands on his hips. Another night on the couch.

My father never went back in that room. Within a year, my parents would split, destroying my sister’s image of a happy family. My father quit alcohol and found God. He then questioned my mother’s misuse of finances. They began to openly fight and yell. Every day became a battle.

My sister would hide with me, trying to protect me.

But what she didn’t know was why. Why had her loving father suddenly left her? Could it be the new addition to the family?

Could it be her brother was the root of this pain she felt? It must be. She spent the rest of her life bottling up her resentment towards me. She turned to drugs and alcohol, trying to drown her issues and feelings. She tried to get away from the pain she felt, yet it was one of the very substances that had caused her pain that she used: alcohol. Too little for her to know, my father had been an alcoholic. As he put it, he never drank to excess but he had to have some sort of drink every day; a disease that controls how you live and think. However, the disease doesn’t affect just the individual but everyone they love and care. My sister finally understood that as her stomach was pumped eighteen years later. My eyes never looked up but my aunt glanced at my sister and nodded. My legs could use the walk.

Six months before that, I opened the cheap wooden door of my mother’s new apartment in Watertown, Massachusetts.

A yell of excitement erupted from the living room down the hallway. My mother rushed me and pulled me in tight, blabbering to me in a high-pitched tone of how young and handsome I looked. She never seems to think of me as an adult, just some little child. Hell, I’m eighteen already. My eyes scan the hallway, looking for another figure. My mother’s hug squeezed me tight as I asked where my sister was. Will she be here for my birthday? A downward look gave it away. Not this year. My fake smile let out a sigh. At least I get to spend my birthday with you, Mom. A wince in my mother’s eye turned into a warm smile while her fingers explored through my hair. The dinner was roasted, lightly salted chicken, with freshly mashed, buttered potatoes and dark green, wrinkly string-beans, all leading to the hand-made, double-decker, gluten-free chocolate cake; a nice break from the double-quarter pounder with cheese, filet-o-fish, medium fries, and Dr. Pepper with my father.

Four years before that, chunks of apple mixed with intestinal juice splash into the porcelain bowl below my face.

My face relaxed and beads of tears formed in the corners to my eyes. My knees ached and reddened on the glossy floor.

The stench rose up from below and a gag came out my mouth.

Emptiness, however, finally came to my stomach. God, I’m a light-weight. A condescending laugh echoed above me.

Toothpaste foamed out the side of her mouth while my sister looked at me. This won’t be your last time. I wouldn’t face her.

My head dove into the toilet. Don’t come up.

“that look in her eye" Photograph by Ivelliam Ceballo

16

Poe t

r

y

The Barracks Drew Paulson (Mimicking Night Gym by Jack Ridl) The Barracks are, filled with cadets and freshman recruits.

Through the metal doors, rooks are shining their hallway floors, and are engrossed in academic books .

Squad leaders yell and correct, while the freshmen try to catch their breath, and survive the 24 hour stress, of being a student at a military college.

One drops his rookie knowledge book, The maroon and gold seal faced down.

The volume of the disciplined atmosphere only heightens, as he is bloused.

Outside the room, that sits spotless, books aligned in order, floor shining from dusting.

Ready, for the future leaders to inspect.

17

Poet r

y

Words Alyssa Pinard Words can be wrought Hard as steel, But often that is forgot As we often forget to feel.

A simple sentence can cut Deeper than any blade; A heart, it can shut And cause a soul to fade.

A single paragraph can mend More precious than a stone; It can make a friend Or help someone alone.

Words mold us as we do clay; They can save us from strife, Can make a day Or even save a life.

So think before you speak Don’t underestimate your steel.

Don’t forget what havoc they can wreak, And don’t forget to feel.

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An Officer and a Gentlemen Brian McNabb

“An army must inevitably consist of the scum of the people and all those for which society has no use.”

- Conte de Saint - Germain (Mid 17th to late 19th century)

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As Europe engulfed itself in war after bloody war it needed a highly disciplined officer corps to lead its armies, which were mostly comprised of conscripted men or those who were criminals. The officers who led these troops were of noble birth- often lords or dukes. Many often had no military experience but bought their commissions and when they weren’t at war they spent their time on large estates in the countryside. These men were gentlemen and since most wars were fought at the time were gentlemen wars in which shooting an officer was considered almost unsportsmanlike. If you gave your word as an officer it meant something. Not only did you lay your honor on the line but you represented your country and with that promise also laid the integrity of your nation on the line.

Officers held balls during the winter taking leave of their campaigns and soldiers to socialize with the young ladies in the cities. No Lady wanted a jerk as a date for one of these balls so officers held themselves to standards with what they said and what they did.

In America most officers before Norwich University was constructed came from West Point and kept to the code of being an officer and a gentleman. This seems especially true with the Southern generals during the Civil War. Stuart, Jackson, and Lee all made it a point to be gentlemen, Lee and Jackson more so than Stuart who was more concerned with pageantry and gallantry.

Flash forward to today …

Although I cannot speak for the European countries, the officer corps in America is comprised of two types of people: those who were prior enlisted but now are officers and those who are college kids who participate in ROTC or go to the academies. The officer corps of the American army in particular, I believe, has gone from being a corps filled with gentlemen to being a corps of men who are no more chivalrous or mannered than the common enlisted man.

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Non fiction

The common enlisted man is the man who is supposed to swear, to make foul jokes, and to be both miserable and grumbling. But today, especially here at Norwich, we see the future corps of officers constantly swearing, becoming addicted to Pornography and drinking like it’s their job.

What’s wrong with this picture? The Military is trying to crack down on sexual harassment and rape in the military but does it not examine the lives and pastimes of its officers , the supposed leaders of the military?

It is said that alcohol, men and women do not mix well. This really became clear after the Navy’s “Tail Hook Scandal” and the emerging allegations coming out from Marine Corps Barracks Washington. Research suggests that viewing pornography or sexually explicit material leads humans to devalue relationships between men and women. Both of these sound like recipes for sexual harassment or rape. Instead of launching massive PowerPoint campaigns and requiring soldiers to watch them every year, why doesn’t the military examine the root of the problem – i.e. the alcohol and the porn.

Furthermore, the mouths of the army officers assigned to Norwich University spew forth filth. In our military science classes officers swear throughout the class. Talking to one of the kids in the naval battalion, he was shocked, saying that the officers would never swear like that in class; perhaps behind closed doors but never openly in class. Sitting in Naval Science classes during my freshman year, none of my officers swore inside or outside of class – not Commander Walker, Lieutenant Mariano or the Gunnery Sergeant. This is not true for the Army who often use “shit” as a filler, “fuck” or “fuck’n” as a verb, noun or adjective. These are words that are coming from a West Point alumnus, West Point being regarded as - a school that turns out some of the finest officers in the United States Army.

During military science, or army class as it is commonly called, one of the students asked the officer why the MS IVs or seniors were yelling at them? What right did they have to berate them? Was it just because they went to camp that they think they know how the big army works? The officer replied that when he was in deployed he had his company commander tell him, “shut the fuck up!”

The cadet replied, “He was a captain. He had time and service over you these MS IVs don’t”

The officer said, “I’m telling you right now to shut up.”

Is that really how an officer ought to handle things - telling his suburbanites to “shut up” because they don’t understand something?

Listening to one of my friends talk about his dealings with the same officer he said the following: “I went down to talk to the officer regarding a low Army Physical Fitness Test score. I can pass everything but I don’t get as high a score as I want.” The officer wrote it down and said, “The most I can tell you is to get with a buddy who is naturally good at pt and work out with him.”

Three weeks later the cadet happened to be walking into Jackman Hall and saw both that officer and another officer.

The former said, “I need to talk to you in my office.”

When they entered he proceeded to tell him that his pt score “sucked” and that he wasn’t as competitive for job placement in the army as he should be.”

Back the train up a minute. Didn’t this cadet come into the officer’s office three weeks prior and asked for help. He even volunteered to go to remedial PT to help himself get better. now you criticize him? He took initiative. If anything, it shows you to be a poor leader.

Standing in formation at the end of both PT and military labs we often have information passed down to us. So it came as no surprise when a MS IV called us over to form a horseshoe formation around him. However, what he said blew us all away and we even mocked him afterwards for days because every word out of his mouth was “fuck.” He proceeded to tell us if we were sick it didn’t matter we still had to come to PT and that we should all reexamine why we are here in the first place. I sat there with the flu that would later develop into walking pneumonia and asked myself, “Is this guy for real? I spent my weekend puking if I ran. I felt like I was going to puke, I was coughing up mucus every few minutes and running a fever. Yet, this senior, was calling those who are sick out, and swearing at us like we were a bunch of second rate citizens. Really? As an officer is this how he is going to treat those under him? If that is the case should he be given a commission at all? I began to really contemplate this after a PT formation where some of the other MSIV’s told him not to yell at us and he did anyway. I understand if PT is supposed to last until 0645 and that at 0630 people are stretching and sitting there talking you have a right to be mad. One can be pissed but to stand there at the head of a formation and tell us that we all suck and that fuck this and fuck that I have to wonder if the army isn’t making a bad choice in commissioning you. Is this how you will treat the men under you? Telling your men that they fucking suck? Is that how officers lead?

So much emphases is put on officers and cadets to out-perform one another at places like Officer Candidate School (OCS), Leadership Development and Assessment Course (LDAC), and Field Training. I think we overlook the most important part of being an officer, morals.

When you are in places like Afghanistan, Iraq, even our allied nations, who cares if you can get a 300 on the army physical fitness test (APFT)? That doesn’t matter. No Muslim elder will say you are a good officer because you can do 72 pushups in two minutes or can do 20 pull-ups.

Or smoke a pack a day and still max the run event. They care about things like respect, obeying their customs and if your attitude is, “I don’t give a fuck, where does that tie into the modern warfare doctrine of “winning the hearts and minds of the populace?” Who cares that you can over max a pt test when you don’t care that your soldiers are handing out bottles of piss to the civilians. If a naval vessel has a rape committed on it are they going to overlook that because the officer did well at OCS? It doesn’t matter if the officer committed the rape or not! Being a leader makes him responsible for the actions of his or her men.

Today’s army stresses teamwork as one of their core beliefs. While I understand the importance of the team and teamwork in every aspect of the army, the lines between officers and enlisted should not be blended so that there is no difference in the ways that officers and enlisted act. Leadership ties into this aspect of teamwork as a team naturally need a leader, and as a leader you needs to hold your actions and mouth to a higher standard than those around yourself. There is no need as an officer to swear at your suburbanites just to add filler to your speech. This makes you sound stupid and uneducated and as a leader. I think some of today’s officer’s just don’t get that. They see themselves connecting or being “cool” and trying to fit in. Guess what? You do not have to try to fit in or be cool with the enlisted side. If you are a professional, and you treat with respect those around -whether they are students, enlisted, civilians, or superior officers - they too will render respect. As respect and friendship grow you will start to fit in.

I am not trying to say that OCS or LDAC should be held at a convent either. It is not expected that an officer should become some saint; but there once was a line that separated the officers from the enlisted and it was more than just whether the rank was placed on their shoulders or on their sleeves. It was a doctrine or a code of conduct in the way these men acted, thought, and spoke. It is high time to go back to this for if we do not, then what Conte de St. Germain says becomes the truth, not just of the enlisted side but also that of the officer corps.

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Ever say something you didn’t mean?

Words just end up dripping, Slithering from your lips Infecting with an unsuspecting poison, Ever say something that came out wrong?

I’ve said things I didn’t mean words running from my lips like a rabid dog Biting comments, forgotten conscience Snarling barks that didn’t make it Through that filter Unfounded, diluted, refuted Ever say something that hurt someone?

Words transformed into a blade, Capable of killing friendships, relationships, A statement meant to heal, not hurt A bandage, not a razor cutting deeper veins than the ones that pump precious blood through a body Ever say something that had a bigger consequence Than it should have? a single spark that ignites a powder keg of emotions A signal fire for revolution Bringing forth factions, Forcing a reaction That spawns a war from which one is safe Even when all is said and done The scars still remain Or perhaps it is slower, Bacteria, spreading from one to another A virus, infecting, reflecting An idea that was never meant to be An idea so small, it is unseen, untouchable.

So how do you stop what is invisible?

You don’t, you only prevent, avert, avoid You keep those-- Slips of tongue Those, Unfiltered thoughts Those, Undiluted ideas In your grasp, so you can ask “Is this what I mean?”

Before you unleash The poisonous snake The wild dog, the razor blade The powder keg, the bacteria Unto an unsuspecting victim

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So you never have to ask… Ever say?

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Artwork by Kate LeWay

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Searching Mariah Howard

The smell of damp dirt, soft new moss Fills my memory.

Where have I gone since then?

Why do material things bring such artificial joy?

I retreat to memories, To smell, feel, taste, If only.

Alone, submerged in real things.

Only thinking of where my next footstep will take me, Why follow any other than myself?

Why be afraid now?

“September 11th Flags�

Photograph by Kaitlin Esche

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Crow’ s Call Sarah DeBouter

He is perched on his branch overseeing his world, And he witnesses life and death every day.

The wind howls every night calling to him, And he calls back to the wind.

Some crawl onto his land bearing flowers and gifts; Most come with tears and sobs Spilling their secrets to carved stone and bark, And he calls back to them.

Today he circles above as he sees A woman and child throw dirt onto wood.

Others bring their sorrow and sympathy, And still he calls back to them.

He sees a scruffy man nearby watching afar, And perches by him above.

The man holds a photo in his hand; With a tear he places a family of four in his pocket.

A feather floats down, and the crow calls.

The man, the sobs, and the wind, Call back to him.

Poetr y

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“First Snow” 25

Photograph by Prapat Kopat

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Norwich Universit y Orenda Wooldridge Now is the time for thinking of the future, Of what we would like to become, Richly educated individuals ready for the world.

When the time comes we’ll be ready; In that time we’ll be well prepared, Cause we learned what we needed for now.

Home was left behind when we first came here to live, Unknown to other people who we’ll soon meet.

Never giving up is what we will live by, In times of trouble and strife.

Vermont is where we reside, Ever changing with the seasons, as are we.

Relaxing on vacations, Studying while at school, It is both hated and loved, Time and time again.

Yet one day it will end with the future still ahead.

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Something That Reflects Emilio Lozano Inside the mirror One side represents the universalization The other is its humiliation One will never die The other in unrested dust of a lost civilization Oh hail the simulation!

Both sides seek retaliation One side accuses the other of being the other One side believes to be the better solution The other accepts they are just an allusion They both approach me, they ask at the same time in an ominous monotone: What does it mean to be real?

What does it mean to be, and have the ability to feel?

I hope you are not one of them They are shapeless figures with silhouettes at any given time They beg the questions of the universe and they beg of an answer to mine Ha! As if I would know I am as dumbfounded as the answers that they seek alone I am as lost as the simulation from its birth in originality We have the appearance of freewill - just lost in affections No longer born, mere slavish reflections

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Artwork by Tim Seibert

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Patience Ben Cohen

“Kaley? Why did you put up with that?”

“I loved him. In more ways than one; he was my whole world until it was done.”

Be patient, in due time she will find her path.

She will break through the storm, fighting her way back from that, Horrible man, the one, the only, who took her first experience a woman should have.

Be patient, be the sun, the one who shines through her fog.

Clear a path for her to find the light.

“I love you, and will help you through this shit.”

Let your light shine the way to stop the storm.

“You can do this! Never forget who is there for you in the end!”

Allow the space and time to relieve the pain, For the smile that you used to have, will reign once again.

That happy face will come, in due time you will see.

Fight, be resilient, let it be.

Just for one moment, remember what it was like before you relied on that man.

We are here, we are there, we are everywhere, your family and friends.

The sun is bright, and you have some fight.

And the clouds have shifted and your fog has lifted.

Your patience has been admiring, the time has come to live again.

“Patience Kay. You may now stand.

Higher than he ever wishes to be.”

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We hope you enjoyed taking a look at the creative selections from our peers as much as we did!

Submit your work to chameleonsubmissions@gmail.com for a chance to get published in the 2014 Chameleon, Norwich’s Literary Journal.

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