Bellerive, Issue 4:Illumination

Editors

Technical Di,rector

Editing Committee

Olivia Ayes

Geri Friedline

Floyd Portell

Geri Friedline, chair

Kim Cowan

Nathan Hunton

Adena Jones

Elizabeth Lee

Sarah Spafford

Layout Committee

Olivia Ayes, chair

Lindsay Beckman

Computer Tech Committee

Floyd Portell, chair

Ricardo Garcia

Andrew Larose

Gary Sohn

Art Committee

Biography Committee

Christy Rudloff, chair

Li Shi

Keely Bursik

Susan Lundry

Communications Committee

Elizabeth Lee, chair

Sarah Spafford

Publicity Committee

Keely Bursik

Casey Schacher

Faculty Ad visor

Nancy Gleason

Geri

Julie

Mike

Charlie

Christy

Dorothy

Kristen

Keely

W.

Dorothy

Ken

Rokas

Shelly

Hoffman

Paying

Instead

Thick

Olivia :

In t h e _beginning when only a small group of people ·we r e 1nvolv_ed, I had high hopes for the upcoming issue of Bellenve. There was going to be a workshop class in the Fall of 2003 that would involve more peo ple in this project. This seemed like a marvelous idea: more people = less work. I even assumed that we wouldn't have any troubles when the deadline approached. Well, I assumed wrong. The deadlines quickly approached, and nervousness thickened. In the end, however, I am still highly hopeful. Although there are both positive and negative aspects when dealing with a bigger group, this particular group of enthusiastic and opinionated students did not let me down. The product of these aspects, the readers can judge for themselves. I give thanks to everyone involved in the making of fllumination for your hardwork and commitment. It has been a pleasure discussing, debating, laughing, working, and sharing an abundance of chocolate and food with you. Thanks especially to Nancy for giving us this opportunity and for her advising, although it is much more than that.

Geri:

Bellerive is like one of those fun group stories, a Product that unfolds as individuals take turns contributing something original to the process. It ~as b~en a privilege and a pleasure to have a turn in th e rnlX that evolved into a dynamic, and really cool, . group story. fllumination is more than the :itle of th1 s fourt h issue of Bellerive. fllumination descnbes th e

procetH~ as well as the product. I have enjoyed s h aring thjs process with N_ancy Gleaso n , t he staff, and especially my fe ll ow edito r s. Alt h ough we learned a little bit about surviving an editing marathon (and more than a n yo n e c ould ever possibly care to know about comma s) , th e be s t parts of the experience were acquirin g a n in s piring sense of camaraderie ... and realizing th e empowering benefits of chocolate.

Floyd:

As for me, the human psyche (and the metamorphosis that it goes through) continues to be one of the more fascinating parts of life. There were times when I would have loved to have been that proverbial fly on the wall and merely observed the intense growth spurts as they occurred. The biggest group concept I picked up on is how different groups could all work together, yet be under different demands all at the same time. In many ways, in nearly all facets, this book portrays all the little parts of life. There are the slow times (which we need to learn to recognize and enjoy more thoroughly), the busy times (when that little ounce of prevention cures so many later ills), and th~ all out mad times (this is when we need to learn ,to enJoy the insanity instead of suffering through it). It 5 been a blast, and we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we've enjoyed putting it all together for you.

It is a pleasure ~o share with you the Pierre Laclede J-{onors college fourth issue of Bellerive. W~ile the previthree issues have been very good, this issue is a prod- ous . . . h uct of a new innovation in t e Honors College. For the first ·rne we have held a class called Bellerive. As instructor of ~lass, I guided 16 students through the process of this •ssue's publication. i h They began wit over 150 blind submissions representing 73 students and faculty/ staff members from across the entire campus. Each week in class , students honestly discussed and debated all of the 150 submissions before making the final decisions. The weeks following were spent viewing art, working with the writers in the editing stages, making corrections, and finally completing the layout of the text. That process, though long and difficult, provided rich learning experiences and quite frankly a great deal of enjoyment for all of us.

As a faculty member, I must admit that the class took on a life of its own; I will be sharing stories from my first Bellerive class for quite a long time. I would like to sincerely thank each one of my Bellerive students for sharing their skills, opinions and open attitudes this past semester. I would especially like to thank Geri for her editing skills and mature guidance, Olivia for conquering Quark and kee.ping us on track, and Floyd for being Floyd and sharing his computer skills, candy, and sense of humor. For me, the whole class has been a wonderful academic and personal experience. I don't know if the class realizes just how special it became. · · t· I am I hope you enjoy the fourth issue, fllumina wn. very pleased with the book and even more pleased with th e success of our first Honors Bellerive class.

Nancy Gleason

Charlie Bright ...__.., q,

Directions From Benton Hall to the Honors College

Wantler far from science

oown a path of fallen trees

That spans the raging, metal rushes

And take the chance you're given.

Stroll past literary ruins, Where the ground bleeds ink and bricks.

Inhale a fence of fresh-cut cedar, Curving (as you do)

Towards the place where others stop, but you go on. Pass the great banana curve

To find a glass pyramid

Uprooted by the hand of God

With its tip deep in the ground.

Walk across a hot, black sea

Between two dying evergreens

And listen for the ghost of music. There you '11 smell

A place of burning sticks and cancer, Where a black circle holds

A green and growing heart.

It is there you'll find me, hovering Just within a crystal door.

tS ..__.., Good for You

"I'm getting myself _an education," she said as a tter of fact. "I'm going to learn to help society." ma 'd , . . She obviously di n t recognize my sincere disintert in the subject because she continued to open her es h h . mouth. Perhaps she thoug t t at since we attended the same institution, then there must be some common ground between us. She was wrong. I was in the university for all the right reasons. I took up space and breathed air . I belonged here as much as the next twenty-something delaying heinous amounts of paperwork and loans. I just didn't want to be an adult. But I did my share. I took air and gave back carbon dioxide. I went to lectures and read books that now sit in dusty piles upon my floor. Maybe I can recall Melville at a cocktail party, and maybe 111 get laid. But I doubt all that. I did what they asked, and I gave them money that wasn't mine to give. I breezed through general requirements, hung over through it all. Most of all, I put up with these types . But on this particular day, I did not feel the glazed-over smile stiffen to my face as the small town b~auty pageant contestant spoke of her chewed and digeSted outlooks on the American public school sys-

::~- Instead, I thought of all the supposed underi:~ I. oped countries that understand English better

"I arn h k t and slirn rn · d ere because a thousand fat poc e s 1, 10g in s b 1· · t ta~ advanta e ieve in this factory. I arn JUS y presence up~~ of ~heir beliefs by pretending that: sigt1ificance ,, this campus called earth is of sorn

Her mouth droppe d: and l wiRh there W fHl O f1y earbY to land on her hps and peek inH'ide . P<!rhaptt ~e fly would see more than _my na,rrow mind . nut n<) wise fly was around, and neither w as thi 8 poHt-ad <>l,~tt · cent beauty queen. She probably went on an cxpedi tion to find her husband -to -be while making Rome promiscuous pit stops along the way.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time ." I think 1 heard her say before she trotted into the campus horiwn.

I don't think I'm sorry for much of anything, except for when I switched my major from French Literature to Cultural Anthropology that one semester back at that state school when l was still considered a sophomore.

<±3 Red Cardigan

It bothered me. . So I said somethmg. The note read, "Hi, sorry to interrupt, But this perverted man Next to me keeps looking At your legs ... "

I handed her the note On my way out to make An unnecessary phone call.

I came back to uncomfortable movements Of a balding man At the table beside me.

And a red cardigan attempting To cover Seduction.

She left without a word ' A nod, nothing.

He left minutes later

After a st0ut woman placed herself In the empty seat

Glancing i th : .

Sh ct· n e direction which e isappeared.

i'rn al ways t h er e . i never let you fall. i've picked you up when both my arms were broken.

i consoled you while my world fell apart.

i smiled for you, knife to my wrist.

i promised you it would be okay.

i taught you to use me and made myself nothing by giving you everything. i can't pretend to understand. i'm so fucking tired of being your mother.

Dorothy L. Onstott ~$ L~

Between the Lines

Just look at herin her big Lincoln Town Car, leaving a sweet smell of money like a tempting trail of honey behind her.

And here I sitin my dented Ford Escort, leaving an acrid smell of smoke so thick it almost chokes those who walk behind me.

Thomas R. Ford tJ3, 4-,~

...__..., rJ!,

Truths Will B e To l d

(for gDubya and the Bush du c h e sses)

even as we dangl e from the maws of post - mod e m b ush -men truths will be told . .. privately and publicly in whispers and screams in secret courts and on stre et cor n ers in hysterical pentameter and lackadaisica l open verse gently, forcefully, with language fair and foul through poetry , music , prayer, c urs e truths will be told ...

i dine with crack-pot geneticists: he, pimp of the bow-tie tongue declares in barely concealed yorkshire dissenting , principled colleagues deranged arrogant assertions of quarter-truths masking unfettered greed viagra-jacking the limp profit margins of free-market globalized misery socio-pathologically spliced onto teflon-skinned self-delusions of an adoring humanity.

she, maddame to nature's shamelessness cocktails genomes willy-nilly while canonizing nightmare riders from the project for the new american century at www. thisisMYfuckingplanet. com created by a monsanto M2 godling in CCRS -image an d delta -32 -liken ess fearful of flaming, taliban-powered arbustos

trapped in the ethical obsolescence of cartesian reductionism th e M2 _godling cowers in spin-doctored new-age confessionals spammmg apocryphal tributes to a hostile , over-privileged , drug-addled, self-absorbed, apotheosis of mediocrity sprung from the priapic misanthropy of fatherless ideology and the gener t· al a ion kennel -womb of unrepentant curs

hell-hound , drunk o~ the necrophilic stench of absolute dominion orries the mineral-nch neck of our planet ; [ran tic search for the universe ·s living j ugular hoping to secure psycho-scatalogical. self-attributed rights to oYer-bn:'eding and to avoid the inevitable encounter \\ith time which will turn him into road-kill on the \\·ay to its next big bang where duchesses, whored by a star-spangled cerberus. refuse to liYe in penitent silence the fetid success of duct-tape-hinged , depleted uranium thighs refuse to give birth to upside-dmvn reading. crude-reasoning caterpilla rs who plunder in the name of justice , murder in the name of life , terrorize in the name of freedom ... where despite white-noise interference over clear channels by a coward, wrapped in a trust fund , inside an unelected president truths will be told ...

Julie Pruitt <t3

The Race

1 have a problem that has plagued me for most of my adult life. It all started back when my parents' parents fell in love.

You see, my mother's mother was 100 percent Caucasian. When she was in Africa, she met my grandfather. She told me that it was not love at first sight because a young Caucasian woman wouldn't have dreamed of falling in love with an African man. Yes, my grandfather was 100 percent African. But, as they got to know each other, it was what was on the inside of each person that brought them together. In spite of the opposition from both of their families, they married and lived happily together for thirty years, until my grandfather's death. They had one daughter, my mother.

Not too unusual of a story. However, across the seas at about the same time that my mother's parents were falling in love, my father's parents were meeting for the first time. It was not love at first sight for them either, they claim. My grandfather's 100-perc~nt Hispanic parents would have cut him from t~e will if he even had dared to date a 100-percent Asian wo~an. Yet he dared. And because of what was on ~he inside, it didn't seem to matter that they were t rom two different races. They married. He was cu off from h' f . ' peak to h is arnily, and her family wouldn t s er form d t be enou h any years. But their love seeme 0

Pg for both. They had one son my father. y 11er- erso 11 ' 'th rI1 itage ·r. na Y, I wouldn't have a problem W1 ' on i it Was 't " . thats alma t n 10r that darned question s any form that I fill out. "Race?"

The question pops up everywhere If 1 . "R ?" T . want a dnr's license, ace. o attend co ll ege "R ? " ve 1 . b "R , ace. When I app y ior a JO ' ace?" When I give blood , "Race?"

What am I SUJ?posed to say? My dilemma is that I aII1 one-fourth Asian, one-fourth Hispanic, one-fourth African, and one-fourth Caucasian. That is exactly what I am. (And dang'd if I don't look it.}

So, I usually check all four.

Ho-ly international smorgasbord! I can tell you from vast experience, that is not the right answer. I think that I have messed up more computer databases than the "I love you" virus.

Here is one scenario of what sometimes happens ...

"Excuse me, but you are only supposed to check one answer under 'Race,' and you checked four," an eagle-eyed clerk usually tells me.

"I know I checked all four; I am all four," I reply honestly.

"Well, pick the one that you are the most of," Clerky tartly shoots back.

"Actually, I am exactly one-fourth of each race. It's like this ... "

. "Are you trying to be funny? Or do you w~t this Job?" Clerky is now getting hot, and all I'm trying to do is be truthful.

"I really am equally all four. But I don't care, why don't you pick one," I say.

Clerky scrutinizes my appearance in an effort to determine which race that I look like the mo st · As rne~tioned, I am the epitome of the non-definable Heinz 57.

t Unable to commit to choosing an appropriate race "oWrh~e based upon my looks, Clerky then asks: , 1ch d h t 'white or 'bl O you consider yourself t e mos , ack'?"

N

I'm the one getting hot. Clerky does not kn ow " h. " ow ch I hate the terms w 1te and "black" 1 how mu " h. " . n all

d Ys I have never seen a w 1te person nor h my a , ' ave

I r seen a "black" person. I have seen people of eve b . . k various shades of browns, e1ges, pin s, golds, and mbinations of all these colors. Everyone is colored co h . as far as I'm concerned. Tee n1cally, as any artist will tell you, black and white are not colors.

I look my opponent in the eye and say, "Neither. However, if you insist upon categorizing me according to the color of my skin, you may put me down as a soft seashell pink with subtle, yet rich, highlights of gold, and specklings of various shades of browns, reds, tans, and oh yes-even blues and greens, spat- tered randomly and poetically all over my body."

"I don't know why you're being so difficult about this simple question," Clerky snaps.

I think to myself, "This question may be simple for you, but it has never been simple for me."

"Look at it this way," I doggedly respond. "If you hire me, you will not only be getting an excellent . employee, but you will be filling four EOE goals with one shot. You'll be getting three minorities--plus a woman--all in one person." A 1·

"You ight suddenly glimmers in Clerky's eyes. have a point. When can you start?"

4-----, 'c[1, '--, Th e Living Hell

Wounded Nation

He stands at the window and grieves. He grieves for his sinking, divided, Wounded nation.

He now merely exists, Submerged within a helpless, Frightening inertia.

Frozen thoughts, a troubled sea, No Christ to calm the waves, Not here.

Elusive foes encompass him. To wait is death, To die is failure.

A glint of faith still shimmers In his waking dreams. Tin metals on his chest Catch the light, All memories of triumphant times.

The Coffee is Free

Marshy wet Wednesday March morning

At the hostel in Cedar Crest

Up in the New Mexico Mou~tains On my spring break sabbatical 2000.

The ground is soft because the February snow Melted two days ago when the Renegade sun attacked the clouded landscape .

I laced my Adidas up and Boiled the tap water in the Tarnished pot and poured a cup Of Folgers coffee and snatched up My Newports before heading out to The porch to gaze at the thick pine trees.

Terry is at work and that Patrick Guy is off somewhere doing his Zen Meditation and eating Herve's Wheat tortillas with Globs of Honey Bear honey.

I t ried to strum the Gibson acoustic But Fred the donkey shuffled his Furry hide my way and started eating

Th e s oggy cigarette butts out of the old coffee Can 1 cringed in disgust and the Jackass lick ed my bare right arm and Left a trail o f crud , t ob acc o s e dime nt, a nd s a liva ao<l gave me an Affectionate don k ey s mil e.

1 threw on m y w ool coat and Trounced do w n East 16 th street to Lunar coffe ehouse w here that guy Jack 1 rnet , who ov.rns it , play s free concerts

On Sun day e v enings in the dusty comer Illuminated b y bars of moonlight.

The ce llist is off at the community Symphony and Sarah, Is wo rking the counter . She makes my Cappuccino and croissant stuffed with Prosciutto ham and sharp cheddar chunks.

I fingered through the news rack and Grab bed Psychology Today and checked out The new Feng Shui corporate solutions For low productivity and yoga mantra Relief for painful childhood memories.

The thick old purple armchair swallowed me Lik e a pearl in its oyster shell and every Other page my eyes snuck out the Window into the noontime horizon so Vast like soft blue ivy climbing out forever on A wall of the universe.

The sunb eams had particles of dust dancing a falling waltz--a man

Jn a gray suit came in for an espresso and 8,a rah gave me a cup of leftover Co lombian coffee "It's free she said," s 1 ' ' nu ed and traipsed away.

Henderson

" a 1,, 1 scream as I slap h~r back. Jerg~ry pierces t~e game hke a wounded animal.

W all stop running, stunned.

H:r face burns b~ick-red, and she can't stop the tears. In my childhood innocence, I cry too.

1 oive her a hug, but that hurts her too.

"Let me see your ac . .

b~ b k " "NO "

"Please I want to see if I really hurt you." "YOU didn't" I look through her eyes into her soul. · The telepathy that children have hasn't left us yet. She slowly turns around, I raise the back of her shirt.

Bruises cover her back, like the sky had rained quarters one day, or a large man had dipped his hands in purple ink. We tell the teacher and I hold her hand.

We walk to the nurse and I hold her hand.

We talk to the principal and I hold her hand. They call her father and tell me to leave: But we can't.

Our hands will not let us. Our souls have touched and now they cling

Th · ey pull our arms and eventuall th '.

But our soul Yh e httle muscles yield. 8 old hands.

answer

why do i close like a reluctant flower every time you try to pluck me from my spot? why am I not willing to be planted somewhere else? the rain cries for me because i cannot; I must be bright until. ..

(would you notice if i faded?) and that is the answer to all my questions.

e 1 . s her e to comfort

No on h Wh en the tears burst thro:ug

Th e du cts of human emotion.

Behind t h e doors, I whimper silently, Terrified that someone, anyone Will hear and ask what is wrong.

It is the question I dread Because I do not know.

So , I mask the sounds Of m y attempts to purge These emotions With the rushing of faucet water.

JuSt in the other room sleeps The epitome of dreams. 1 must not disturb them.

Indian Woman in San Miguel

Keely

Bursi k

'-""' tJ3 '-""'

Th e Little Woman

Men n ev e r c omplain about having to pee in a c I s u ppose t h a t when there is a suitable means of

ing for it , th e cup isn't such a daunting object. 1 w:standing in the cold cubicle of a bathroom looking a: t h e lit tle Dixie cup in my hand and wondering if 1 s hould go through with it. Maybe it would be easier t o hold off discovery until my tummy swelled. But, of course, peeing in a cup while maneuvering around a belly with your center of gravity decidedly off sounded a lot harder, and I was sure that they'd still make me do it. Damn doctors.

I had filled out the professionally intrusive form with my identity and vital statistics in the waiting room. On the back I divulged my personal life. I last had sex on exactly December 14th. I checked the box marked "do not" to fill in the sentence, "I ___ want to be pregnant," and resisted the urge to complete it with, "but I'm pretty goddamn sure I am." Handing it to the receptionist, I turned to sit down. She said, "The pen?"

Washing my hands in the stainless steel cell of a bathroom, looking at my "specimen" on the shelf in front of me, I came to the conclusion that it was a good thing she got her pen back out front. She wouldn't have wanted it back after this. I dried tnY hands and stared at myself in the mirror. I poked at y my dark circles and picked at a pimple forming on tl1 chin. This is not the face of somebody's mother ,_ 1 to th0 ught. This is the face of somebody who is gotn~ it have to carry their pee into another room a nd han to some body else.

-Oka,-. itiss 1\fcC1e11an I h. a\-e th test .-: the nurse glanced at her cii b e results of , ~our P oard .. . · appear th~t ! ·o u are pregnant .\' , anct it does

"Okay . .

She paus ed . a s if \\-aitino- for m h d o ore of a rea . from me . S e sat own and a djusted h e c:- uon like sh e thought I couldn 't t ell Sh 1 r Pantyhose pamphlets and s tarted in to h e~ pre~s:;; '!t~t some "vVe have counseling a vailable both fio peech . . · r you and the father . Is the father still a part of your lifi ?ll

"Sometimes. When he 's not a ·part ofe~omebody else's. "

She appeared taken aback, and I smiled . She must have been new . I was glad I wasn 1t the only uncomfortable one there. The smile caught her totally off guard , though , and she stood up. It appeared my interview was over. "There 's a list of doctors here with these pamphlets. Please read them and contact us if you have any questions about your options or if you just need to talk." She left the room , and I got dressed.

"Can you come over tonight? I need to see you. " I heard loud talking in the background, peppered by the occasional enthusiastic shout. One of his kids , I guessed.

"I've got plans, I really can't." He covered the phone, and I heard muffled laughter.

"Then this weekend? I have Saturday off, you can come over anytime."

.

"Listen, this is just getting to be too muc~ for me. 1JUSt can't see you. I think you're getting a httle too attached "

"Y ah. . ,,1 you around. " 1h e • You 're probably nght. I 1 see . artUng up. I started to pick up the mess in my ap lllent. I knew he'd be over. I knew it would be s?on .

Be h d · ht after bis a gotten me the apartment ng

,,ife almost caught us toge~~r. At the time I thought it was e.xciting. He was exciting . He wore nice sui ts and he a1 ,,·ays let me do hi s man icu res . I wo u ld ' s pend an ho u r ~arefully fi lin~ an d cli p p in ~, then topping them off \!\'1th clear varn ish . Oth e rwise he bit them. After a w hil e h e stopp e d c oming over so much· he m a d e me a s k . He'd say no , but he 'd always come. '

"Do you notice anything different about me?" 1 turned around in a circle and waited.

"Yeah , y ou \r e got clothes on. " He grabbed my arm and pulled me over to him .

"No , I'm serious . Do I look any different to you?" 1 stepped back . I didn 't know if it was because I was all of a sudden officially two people and had therefore gained a second perspective, but whatever it was, the new point of view looking at him was not flattering.

"Oh , Julie , why can't we just go to bed? Why do you hav e to play all these games?" He looked at me with impatience.

"All right ," I gave in.

He left after an hour. I wanted to t ell him, but it just didn 't seem to be the right time. I knew he was going to be with someone else. I told myself it didn't bother me. I told myself that it wasn't like I was ever the only one in his life . At least I was better off than his wife , at least I knew where I stood. I told myself that it w as going to be just fine once he found out about the baby. I told myself lies until I almost believed them .

I knew he would be back , probably before morning . He didn 't stay with his one-time girls, and he couldn 't go home since it was usually a "business trip " that gave him the matrimonial reprieve. He would call me on his car phone from in front of my . building , and like an idiot I would always take him 10 · He refused to keep a key . He paid the rent, but he

de rn e le t .him in . He ~ a d c ·m e for g iv e him e ve ry

e . He rn.ad e m e pla y w 1~ey a ~d Jet him c h ea t ... a nd

tt 1 wa s pregn a nt a nd Ju st hke h e r. Alon e . there ' . . .

The sme11 of hi:111 st u c k to m e . My third s howe r of the night did nothing but ma k e m e we tter a nd more ry. My la st dry towe l wra pped a round me, I putang k. h .

ed around th e 1tc e n, op e ning cupboards and ter h' ff' · I bunting for som~t 1ng su . 1c1ent y unhealthy for me to wallow in. Nothing found, I dropped the towel halfway to my bedroom and curled up in my bed. Sleep came easily.

I woke up freezing cold and naked at six in the morning, my hair matted and dried to my forehead. My mouth felt like something had died inside it, and a leg cramp in the night had left me stumbling out of bed with a limp. The phone had rung at least five times throughout the night before I had finally turned off the ringer. As I walked into the living room, the flashing red light on the answering machine ceased abruptly as I yanked the plug out of the wall. I wasn't interested in hearing him beg me to pick up the phone. I knew it wouldn't be long before I would get to hear him up close, begging me to open the door.

It was a familiar pattern. We both knew our lines. ! knew when to be appropriately angry and standoffish; he knew the proper length of time before he : ~~ulct show up at my door with the right number of An ~te;oses. Apology roses, he always called them. alw t en there would be the sex. Apology sex, he apo:s. ~alled it. It was horrible sex, sex that merited hirnseft1~g for, I thought. It was his way of showing 8.nyboct that he was the one in control. He could fuck an ct fuci e wanted and come back to this apartment

I took rne, too. Bastard. front of thanother shower. Standing sopping wet in e bathroom mirror, I picked up a pair of

. f om the counter and started cutting. Lo scissors r th fl . . ng k f hair dropped to e oor , piling up aroun chun so . . h d my feet. I smiled , thinkin g about ow much he loved my hair. So feminine , so pretty. He always told rne how much he loved red _hair, and how much my ternament didn't match it. I shook my head and ran per . h f h . h my fingers through the inc o air t at remained. 1 turned at the sound of a knock on the door. He was right on time .

I stepped into my bedroom and dumped the contents of dresser drawers into a suitcase. I pulled on a dress and slipped into shoes. Carrying the suitcase with me, I picked up the scissors and walked to the front door, his pleading and knocking louder now. Dropping the suitcase, I sat down on the floor with my back against the door. The pounding beat a staccato into my body as I waited until I felt him lean into the door and sit with his back to me.

"I hate you, you know that, right?" I asked him through the door.

"Please don't, Honey. You know I'm sorry. I don't mean to do this. I'm so sorry." His voice was shaky• I had departed from the script.

"Get t " OU.

"Please let me in. We can work things out, I know we can. I love you." His voice took on the tone of an overly sincere television preacher. His warbly baritone could have charmed the purses off of little old ladies. 1 had forgotten how good he was at this. . d

"If I st00d up and turned toward the door. I stn11e · er?~' open the door will you promise to love me forev-

"Of ou're th course! You know I love you. You know y of e only 1 sure h . one really want " He sounded more imself no . No rnore surpri w. He was on familiar territory. d ses , he knew what to say now that I ha

rn e d to my w e ll - known lines . r e tu h . Th e scissors were eavy 1n my hand as I shifted h e tn , m a king a fist . H e was still sitting against the ~oor , wai t ing for m e to open up and let him in. 1 held the scis s ors up a nd brought them down hard, stabbing them into th e heavy wooden door. An unbelieva ble s hri e k c am e from t~e hallway as he heard them hit and h e starte d banging louder. I left the scissors sti~kin g out from the wood, picked up the suitcase, and op en ed the door. He backed up, looking at me " rit h a mix t ure of shock, fear, and what looked like a hint of am usement. I walked out of the building.

"Heyl" He yelled after me. "What the fuck did you do to yo u r hair?"

A First Date Dinner Conversation Over Wine

E erp ts from a dinner conversation overheard during an even· xc mg mea1 .

I know you won't like my friends, and I'm sure I won't like yours. My level of intensity is far too high for you. Our social lives won't mesh, and we live too far apart. I'd rather wait for another date before discussing kids.

~ '---, My Sister's Pink Light Saber

wow! I got a brand new pink light saber

I found my sister's secret birthday stash

Why didn't she hide it at the neighbors'?

I did not get the Han Solo laser

This thing must have cost her some major cash

But I got a brand new pink light saber!

If she finds me here, I must escape her Damn. She's ten years older and really fast

Well, she could have hid it at the neighbors'.

111 stand my ground, land a blow, or graze her

I bet this thing can kick some major ass

Ha! I got a brand new pink light saber.

New batteries-though no wrapping paper

I click this button it purrs like a cat

Why didn't she hide it at the neighbors'?

111 show it off to friends; I've hit pay dirtf

But the girls at her sleepover just laugh

Well, I got a brand new pink light saber

Bet she wishes she was at the neighbors'!

J 3 Full ('ount ~u1d l lungry

'--'"', Illogical Fallacy

(A Stress-free Approach to the Ar gument Essay)

one of the worst mistakes you c t . an make when writing an argumen essay 1s to take the . 1 ass1gnmen t too seriously. Re ax. You ~e already on the right side of the argument, and since everybody wh . . 0 IS anybody shares your superior intellect, they are merel waiting for someone with your vast experience to Y articulate the stupidity of dissenters. If the skeptics refuse to come around, they should be left to wallow forever in the bliss of ignorance. However, for the sake of argument, you will be expected to prove your points. There are a number of tried and true techniques to do so.

Statistics can be boring or tedious, but you can simplify things for readers by using ordinary words like everybody, nobody, always, and never. Since everybody likes to be in the majority, use the more positive everybody and always to support your poi~ts; negatives like nobody and never are much better suited to the opposition. It is also a good idea to include examples. Amusing anecdotes, peer discussions, and relevant parts of selective quotes usually provide plenty of support. You can also employ a compare ~d contrast technique by falling back on a separate iss~e. After all, everyone agrees that if it "looks like,~ d~c~ it anct "sounds like a duck" it "must be a duck, an k do , 1· · up due s . esn t. •.it isn't. An added bonus to ining d is th . h . ns beyon a . at your paper will stretch its onzo single issue and will never bore readers. t to govs d n't resor ern Peaking of boring readers- 0 h Everybody kn lllent studies or association researc · agendas. ows these groups always have their own

d f d e vo ti n g lo n g tedi ous h ours t o smelly old Inste e o ' • books a nd libr ary r e s earc h , head strrught for the Inte r net. It 's fa s te r , ea si e ~ , an d ~e cut an d p aste feature r edu c es th e risk o f m1 squot":g yo ur s ources . When selecting y our sources , do n t stres s ove r th e d etails of alternative viewpoints . Sav e time and ene rgy by finding something unflattering to report abou t a prominent dissenter. Be sure to choose a we ll- known source. If you reveal the right tidbit about the righ t dissenter, nothing the contrary individual say s will have any credibility. It 's okay to be a namedropper ; serious writers have an obligation to consider detail when revealing the results of their research. However, the job doesn't end with reve lati on. As an effective writer you also have an obligation to consider audience response. Let readers know that you have their best interests at heart. Use second person so readers know that your intentions are sincerely aimed at improving their perspectives. Second person provides a personal touch that gives readers an opportunity for bonding and improves their chances of seeing the light.

As you can see, essay writing requires a little bit of time and thought. Yet it doesn 't have to be a s~ressful experience when you have a plan and the n?ht tools for the job. Don't give up until you have tned everything to help readers see the light. Hold on as long as there is still a chance to move them toward the brilliance of your perspective. Sometimes all it takes to make a point is good old-fashioned persistence and ti. · repe tton. However, some people are just 10st causes. Don't give them another thought. You really don't w~t to go there. You might be inclined to

::~~d your views ... to change your m.ind ... to discover ignorance can be contagious and that you actul ally may have more in common with the blissful walowers.

Then you would have to find all new friends . . .to e your name ... to move to another city. You cbai;! never find any rest. The whole thing would w~ . b . tall over agrun ecause someone with your talent st ar hetoric is forever compelled to open the eyes of for r nenlightened masses. You will never be able to th e uthem all· sadly, there will always be unenlight- save ' ened masses ...

Grant me the golden keys of gloried poetry And I'll breach the dungeons of expression, For wed rhyme and sound binds in swishing velvetry Each bard unsung to Shakespeare's succession.

Fr om the jagged depths of the valley has drifted

The printed phoenix of the cushioned meadows. Fr om the dreary jaws of a desert ungifted Swelled unseasonal blooms pink on plateaus .

'Twas void of conscious wit the vagrant vagabond

Snatched bars from some sacred praising canon When foolscap he found to join the lauded plume donned As pinched peace paid the queen transfarmed to nun.

Yet honor articulated not from the heartHow dark the glittering clouds of tribute! Wh erefore whisper the ever-silent silvered part Were impassioned lips of poetry mute?

For though the shadow overcomes passing daylight And the hand that enclosed the plume decay, Can the consummated artistry be less bright Or shabbier dressed the scripted array?

rJ3,

Man-Made Mother Nature

the courtyard, part of the ground has been covered ~ith cement, creating a path from building to bu~lding: No squirrels scamper across the grass here. No birds sing. Even if they did, I doubt they would be heard over the constant banging of a closing door And the MetroLink car as it whizzes by With its "supposedly quiet" whispering cry. I sit on a green, metal bench and try to ignore The noise, as the scent of manure blows through my hair. I think about Wordsworth, with his heart leaping up, While I gaze at the daffodils planted here and there. As I drink in their beauty, like tea from a chipped cup, I realize that man cuts his own path, sows his own seeds, And rearranges Mother Nature to fit his own needs.

Floyd Portell

~ tJ, ~ Hostas in Bloom

..,__.., At Bugg Lake

It couldn't be .

Amore perfect spnng afternoon. It is slightly breezy, partly sunny, and not hot. It is quiet, as quiet as nature gets.

I sit by Bugg Lake

Observing Branta canadensis

Who feed, swim, and cackle near me. The turtles glorify in sunlight

By loafing on a rock.

Golden carp swim by the shore Away from the disturbances of the geese. By the flowering trees near the lake, Robins and gray squirrels scurry to feed.

Nichole Vickrey ~tS~

The Worms

the sidewalks turn into rivers soaking shoes that smack the concrete bottom. rosy-cheeked and bleary-eyed you stumble next to me, but my steps are meticulous, avoiding the writhing wormspinkish but corpse-gray on their deathbedsa public drowning. I would stop and carry them to land, but you would make an ugly face and say cruel boy things. so I sacrifice their lives for another moment of peace.

Venice 2: Gondolas

Charlie Bright ~tS~ Islands

Green on gravestones , Growing where Black pervades the ground. As if the bones, All lying there, And knowing they are bound Are furious, Delirious And hate their living foe.

Plain as day

Why grasses there Cannot seem to grow. Through the sunlight, Darkness runs

All along the path. But bits of green Revolt against Their skeletonic wrath.

Stony mosses, Islands of A life that will not die On the markers

Gently gloss

Names of men

And dates

And lives

And skeletons Gone by.

Elliott Reed tJ3 4-----,

A Letter from New York

Dr . Mansett began scribbling out a prescription for Rose Burks: . . .

S00 mg of amoXlctlltn, one tablet three times daily, for the next ten days.

"I think this'll just about do it for you, Rose," he said in an amiable tone. The stool squeaked abruptly as he turned from the oak supply desk to face his patient, still sitting on the examination table. He folded the prescription neatly and clasped it between his right forefingers and handed it to the frail woman before him, her pale and veined ankles dangling just above the stepping stool. "Now I'll tell you Rose, you'll probably start feeling better in the next couple of days, but I want you to continue taking these until the bottle's empty. If you're not your usual self by then, just call up Debbie, and I'll squeeze you in and have another look . Sound good?"

"Oh yes, Dr. Mansett, you've always taken the best care of me."

"Rose, you know better than to call me that; remember I'm the same Pete Mansett you used to catch snatching those huge Golden Delicious apples out of the tree in your backyard. You know, good 01' ~enry almost cleaned my butt a couple of times, chasing me down with that garden rake of his."

"Oh, I didn't mind that a bit. You were always such · a nice boy. Henry only kept after you because it rneant less pie for him in the fall!" t "With good reason. That pie of yours won sevenee~~~ars straight at the county fair."

tghteen years, Dear. Twenty- seven altogether."

" that 's right ," he said with a chuckle. "Let rne Ah, d wn ,, She reached out for his hand and h 1 you o . ' h: ~eld her arm as she stepped on the stool and down to the floor. . .

She sat down in an or~ge side chair and slowly put on a pair o~ bleac?-whit_e _socks followed by ~orn black loafers with a dim , oxidized penny tucked mside each tongue•

"Those bunions are just a part of life," he said. "There isn 't a whole lot we can really do about them , other than for you to take it easier on your feet and keep out of those loafers."

Seemingly oblivious to the doctor's comment, his patient looked up at him kindly through her thick, bifocal lenses. "He really does love you, Peter. In many ways you're like the son we never had."

"Is his phlebitis improving any?"

"He has his good days and his bad days, I reckon , but he keeps on like you do, always tryin' to do his best."

"I imagine he does, Rose, I imagine he does. I'll call that specialist up in Flint again and see if anything can't be done for a visit. Do you need a lift back to the house?"

"Oh, heavens no, Peter. Flora drove me today. She~s waiting for me in the lobby. Which remm d s me, she asked me when you were going to get a subscript' h ' ion to Good Housekeeping 'causes e 8 ~~ad all th e Woman's Days, and she doesn 't care for at sports magazm·e "

"l'l . . a you 1 get nght on that," he said with a smile . Do

"nHeed a hand getting to the lobby ?"

eaven 's sak . 1 d " she said sh 1 e, Peter, I'm 72--not cnpp e ·

" arpy, .

. All right R · . bbie th15 v1sit's on m ' ose, Just making sure. Tell De c\' e and have Bill Wagner at the pharrna ·

the office. I'm still in your debt for those chaf1ge Oh and do gi ve Henry my be s t " p es. , · ap she got to her feet slowly, smiled, and steppe d into the doorway . "You really are the sweetest dear '" sh e .d as she suddenly turned her head and coughed sa.t ' h. ·ghtlY into a w 1te monogrammed handkerchief. "Th e 11 eetest dear" she rep eated as she smiled again and swrned down the office corridor. tu . 1 d or. Mansett quiet Y steppe out of the room and watched his patient scuffle down the pale green - tiled hallway until she went around the corner to the lobby and out of sight. He walked back into the room , pulled the orange chair to the oak supply desk, an d plopped down with a muffled thump. "Twenty - sev en years," he muttered to himself as he took his stethoscope from around his neck and tossed it onto the polished umber surface. He leaned back in the chair , glancing upward at the fluorescent lights. His eyes wandered over to the black specks and squiggles in the white rectangles as he drew a deep breath. Lingering on the abstract designs and patterns , he held the air in his mouth. He began exhaling through pursed lips; his cheeks ballooned, as a hamster's would after hoarding a sack of birdseed. After a brief while, the doctor's eyes fell upon a framed certificate on the wall. Just below it, an old tardcover copy of Gray's Anatomy rested on the shelr.

b ~s eyes darted for a second towards the Venetian 11nds hanging in the window before he half- stood, reach· + • . ing 1or the book's spine. He return ed to hi s sea t

:;~ the book in his left hand. As he blew a thin la y er skel~st off of the cover, his eyes refocu sed on the cle tal profile of a human head and th e m ajor mu agroups · H · · ht hanct revealed on the cover's diagram. ts rig . Parr ~rushed across the cover to wipe a way a few ices of dust that stuck to the surface , then fli c k e d

er op e n . He r ead the inscriptio n o n the b . the cov e1ge inner flap: Many Christmas Daddy! Lov e, J es sica ( 19 ??)

The doctor 's index fing e r t race d ov e r the scra 1 . hild w ect blue pen m ark s . She was JU.St a c then , he though t . He p a us ed for a moment before his right hand grabbed the pulp of t h ~ book's p ages and started flipping through th e m. His th umb stopped between pages 214 and 2 15 , where the boo k s eemed to have been creased some years past. There he saw a two-page sketched diagram of the human heart , which outlined the left and right ventricles, highligh ting all the major veins in blue and all t he maj or arteries in red. The walls, ceiling, and floor around him disappeared for a moment as he became engrossed in the printed image . It took him back to his first year of medical school and the books he used to study .

Th~se sketches became what he expected to see when he dissected his first cadaver . He was shocked to experience the real thing in comparison to the pages and pages of diagrams of bone structures, organs, nerves, and lymphatic system he had been quizzed and tested on. Yet it still seemed so real and solid-physical, he thought, sensing its rhythmic pulse : budum, bu-dum, bu-dum, bu-tap, ka-tap, ka-tap--and the office returned with the sound of approaching footsteps. In the near distance he heard a woman's voice.

"D M · h ?"

" r • ans~tt, Dr. Man sett, are you 1n ere· ed No, Debbie, I'm in two," he replied as he snaPP the book shut.

"Dr· Man sett," the woman said as her broa~urks

?10nde head poked around the doorway, "Mrs. bill ''

JUs:/eft the office, and she said you'd cover the .

"U ' u..1. • 1th 1 · hm ... okay, Doctor. What should I do w

That's right " he s~ 1d · ·t?''

"J st put it in my mailbox. I'll tak . u d .t . e it horn check, an turn I in to you first thi e, Write ou t a d if Bill Wagner from the pharm ng Monday. Oh , an 11 cover it and to just add it to ttcy calls, tell }1iJ1l we e rnon thly

"

tab-"And Dr. Owens won't have any problems with this?" '

"He shouldn t. The Burkses and I have had th· arrangement for years_. It's kind of a long story. 1;s earl does, just have ht~ call me at home or page me; but it's never been an issue before, and I don't think it ever will be."

"Yes, Dr. Mansett."

"Please, Debbie, call me Peter or just Pete. We run a pretty informal clinic here; most of our patients either watched us play little league, played with us in little league, or had our own kids in little league. It's one of those quirks you '11 find in a smaller community like this. So tell me, how are you adjusting to Lansing so far?"

"Well, it's a far cry from life in Detroit, that's for certain," she said as she looked down and made a note on her clipboard.

"Oh, are you missing the hustle of big city life already?"

"Not a bit," she replied with a grin, not looking up. . "Well, just let me know if you need any help finding anything in or around town."

"I will, Doctor. Thank you." h' Dr. Mansett smiled, closing his eyes and shaking u.~ : ?~eact slightly. "So, what's left on today's sched-

((The la t . a 4 ·15 but th 8 appo1n tmen t you had today was · ' at wa "she rePliect. s cancelled earlier this afternoon ,

((c ancelled? Toby Smith?"

"Yes , his moth er called to apo lo~e. Apparently he was on ly faking a fever to ge t a Fnday off fr om school."

"How did she know?"

"He was running a fever of 106 , but his forehead was co ld as a cucumber," she said with an open smile.

"Ahh, a case of 'test aversion fever.' I'm sure he would have felt much better tomorrow anyway , but as far as that goes, I expect there isn't much left for me to do here today. I'm just going to finish up a few things, and I'll be on my way out . Would you do me the courtesy of getting my patient files for Monday together?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Mansett," she said as she turned suddenly on a perfect axis and walked back down towards the lob by, her clicking footsteps growing fainter: KA-TAP, Ka-Tap, ka-tap, ka-tap, fading into a still silence.

The doctor looked back down at the book still clenched in his left hand. He turned the front cover over again, this time more gently, and focused on the words scrawled by his daughter some eighteen years before. The rest of the page transcended in to a vast yellowed field, while his right index finger unconsciously caressed the outer ledger. He spent a latent moment staring at the understandable typographical error, Marry. As he felt a lump growing in his throat, a tugging, stinging sensation shot from his index ~nger. Stunned, he looked over at his hand and noticed a trickle of crimson creeping out from the append age. "Shit," he murmured aloud. He flung the book on th e desktop and opened the top drawer , rummagin~ throu~h it f~r a bandage. He found a suitably siz:e one, picked 1t up with his left hand and grabbed er th in red string by his teeth. The waxed paper wraPP

back into the drawer as he fumbled to down d h. fi 5pu!1 e bandage aroun 1_s 1nger. The red string wraP th entlY onto the floor Just as he finished. floatede ~actor's eyes flashed to the top of the desk. He

T~ lly scooped the book up with his left hand, f ,.,11t1ca · th· · rc:u... . the cover open again, 1s time with his f1 ·pp1ng d d 1 rnb His eyes ran up an own the edge, looking thU :f he had bled on the page. Clean, he thought to s~e 1 elf not a single smear. A relieved smile to h1rns ' d . d his lips. He stoo upright, closed the book aos~ . ' and carefully placed ~ton the shelf, back in the dustI rectangle where 1t had rested before. He closed ess . k d h " h the desk drawe~, pie. e up 1s stet oscope, and tuffed it into his white lab coat pocket. He washed ~is hands thoroughly in the small comer sink and then walked out of the room.

"Here are Monday's files, Doctor," Debbie said. "Twelve in all."

"Thanks, Debbie," he said, placing the stack of ochre folders inside his black leather briefcase. He walked over to the coat stand near his mailbox and noticed a large manila envelope crammed inside, a quarter of it sticking out of the opening. He pulled it out with one swift tug. The Burks' bill had been placed on top. As he picked up the bill, he recognized the return address label affixed to the upper left-hand comer:

Jenkins & Prothwell,

Attorneys

3418 Germania Ave. Ste# 200

"Th Lansing, MI 489XX tocta at was a special delivery that came in earlier lunch. had to sign for it when you were out at

"Th. ,hope that's all right," Debbie said. at s fin ,, h . Work's d e, e replied. It's here? The pap e rseven, one already? Twenty-seven years tw e n t y··•Years d ' ' an Diana. Slugger. Blood -sucking

Lawyer. Blood-sucking Lawyers. He felt the weight of the envelope in his hand increase , as if it turned to lead. She must ' ve been happy with the condo. His hand dropped to his side. Don 't sign it. Don Jt sign any of it. Don't sign anything else away. He " ·alked back to the reception desk, placed the envelope in his briefcase, and set the bill on top before he latched it.

"Have a nice weekend, Doctor," Debbie said.

"I will, Debbie. You, too," he said. "Oh , I was wondering if you could do one last thing for me. "

"Shoot."

"Could you see if you can get the office a subscrip- tion to Good Housekeeping?"

"Are you having problems getting that 'streak-free ' shine in your linoleum?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no, it's not for me. It was just brought to my attention that the waiting area has a short supply of interesting reading material."

"Have you ever read Good Housekeeping?"

"Mmmm, no, I don't believe I have ," he said while pushing the brass combination wheels on his briefcase.

"It's not all that interesting," she said, maintaining a straight face.

"Ahhh. Well, that may be the case, but it's a personal favor, so I'd appreciate it if you could get it added to the subscription list."

"You're the doctor," she said .

."All right then, I'll see you first thing Monday. EnJoy your weekend."

"First thing Monday," she said, "and you do th e same."

Dr· Man sett walked out to the parking lot a nd unlocked the door to a champagne-colored Cadillacd He pulled it out onto the main road and then turne south onto Highway 99. Of the myriad of billboards

and exit signs posted ~ong his way home, the only h e ever paid attention to was the brightly colored one . h , blue ci ty marker sign as e approached the south end of wwn: . . . .

You are now leaving Lansing, Mzchzgan's capital city. Thank you for stopping in. We hope you enjoyed your stay.

Please visit us again real soon.

Dr . Mansett continued down the highway, cracking the sunroof open as he passed Skyway Estates Regional Airport. As the sound of wind whipping into the car's interior grew louder, he began fiddling with the stations on the radio dial. Country. Classical. Talk. Country. Crap. Commercial. Commercial. Noise. Country. He turned the radio down, then off, and allowed himself to fade into the sound of the road , the wind blowing his grayed-black hair against his natural part. He pressed the cigarette lighter knob in the dashboard and reached over to the glove compartment. He opened it, extracting a cellophane package of Lucky Strikes. His hands on the steering wheel , he stuck his index finger inside the wrapper an d clumsily probed around for a cigarette. He felt one and extracted it. He placed it between his lips an d tossed the pack back inside the glove box. As he le an ed back over to snap the compartment shut, he heard the lighter pop in the dash. He pulled the knob out and t owards him staring for a moment at the bright orange glow h~ held in his fingers. He pressed t~e lighte r to the end of his cigarette, drawing a few ort , dee p puffs . After he lit the cigarette, he looked mown and plac ed the lighter back in its tiny compartent A h . • for p~ . s e looked back up, he noticed the exit sign in thet~~ville and glanced left at a deserted fact~ry off rette, h 1st~nce. He took a quick drag from th~ cig~olding the smoke in his mouth before inhahng.

Th sun hung low in the sky, casting a faint t . e d 1 b . . anger1 1. ht across the corrugate meta u1ld1ng. Ac ne 1g . ross th field he could make out the rusted rain streaks dow e th e side as well as some of what remained of th . n . e din white lettering: gy Burks Paper Products, est. 1947

The doctor exhaled, blowing the smoke upward the sunroof. _Forl:y-four_ years spent fj]etting the plac: to started, keeping it running, and making it successful gave half of Petrieville steady, decent work. Where's the f aimess in that? He took another drag off the cigarette, and flicked the ash through the sunroofs opening. "Eat, or get eaten," that's what they say. Some people don't have the faintest idea. Not a damned clue. Just sign on the dotted line. That line. Sign here. Here. And here. It's not in blood. He took a final drag on the cigarette and pressed a chrome button in the armrest, rolling his window down a bit. He flicked the cigarette through the opening, exhaled, and then shut the window.

The doctor continued down the highway until the exit for Eaton Rapids. He turned off the highway to the exit road, turning west down Highway TI. He drove past a small wheat field and then came to a ranch style house sitting on a secluded, four-acre lot bordered by a grove of pine trees. He pulled into an empty, paved driveway between two wooden fence posts and eased his foot onto the brake pedal. He te h . . d the rerno r e ac ed up to the sun visor and chcke on _ f h . d ned corn or t e garage door. Once the door ha ope As pletely, he pulled in and set the gearshift to park.d h e got out of the car he grabbed his briefcase ar:rage. ' the gv ~oti ce d the cooler autumn air blowing i1:to ed the but-

e ope n e d the side garage door then chck ge ton b ·ct ' ·n gara es i e the doorjamb closing the mai . he door Pu11· ' h. d htJll, · ing the side door closed be in

oked west and saw the sun draped . ~te of pines and the pinkish glow on ;er ~he_ s1lhoue alked to the end of the driveway and e onzon. He w . 11· over to the black mailbox, pu ing out the day's ma·i H · d I · fl i · e lowered the bngh t re p astic ag on the side of th . d h b dl . e mailbox and tucke t e un e under his arm as he walked to the_ front door, unlocked the deadbolt, and stepped inside.

The house was dark and empty; the air was stagnant, much as he expected it to be. He tossed the mail and his keys on a small mahogany stand in the foyer and set his briefcase down on the ceramic tile floor beside it. He made his way over to the thermostat and turned on the heater. He walked over to an oak and glass end table in the living room, pulled out a bottle of Scoresby Scotch Whiskey, and poured himself a small glass. After replacing the bottle, he walked back over to the small mahogany stand and picked up the mail. Sitting down on a burgundy leather couch, drink in hand, he started flipping through the epistles. Junk. Junk. University begging for more pledges. Phone bill. Junk. What's this? He held up an envelope addressed to Dr. Peter Mansett, written in blue pen, then turned the letter over looking for a return address, but there was none to be found on either side. He looked closer at the washedred postmark:

7 NEW YORK NY 101 PM 3 NOV 1994 . d

The doctor turned his eyes back to his na~e ~n t~ e Peculiar way in which it was inscribed. 8t1 cking his ba d . h ipped the n aged finger behind the flap, er envelope down the seam and pulled out a smal_l creased sheet of notebook paper and unfolded tt:

?:!~wit's been awhile, prob~bly too _long. Mom called me yesterday from Grandma s place in Madison. She told me about the divorce ~nd that y~u weren't. contesting anything. She also said that shed be moving down to Florida, to the place we had down in the Keys. I thought a lot about trying to call you, but I didn't think I'd be able to express myself very well. She seemed kind of upset about the whole thing, like she didn't know if she was doing the right thing. Somehow I can't help but feel that this is my fault. I know it's probably silly, but that's just how I feel. I know I left suddenly, and that it upset you and Mom, but I tried to explain that I couldn't be much of an artist in Lansing. I know you 're not all that crazy about Greg, either, and that only seems to make things worse. But we 're doing really well right now. I'm being put in a group show here, and it opens next Friday. Greg got a job doing illustrations for a local magazine. It doesn't pay a lot, but it's enough to get us by for now. If I sell a couple paintings, we'll be all right. We have a little place in Brooklyn. It's REALLY small, but that's pretty normal here. It's a pretty decent neighborhood though; it's not as dangerous as you'd think I hope things are going well at the clinic and with everything else. I do miss you, believe it or not. I know you probably won't, but I'm enclosing our address in case you want to write back.

Your Daughter, Jessica

The doctor set the letter on the glass deco coffee table, after swallowing the contents of his glass . J-{ e d stood sl 1 H icke u h. 0 ~ Y and walked over to the foyer• e P Be 5et p 18 bnefcase and walked back to the couch .

bla ck leather bri e fca s e o n th the e coffe t hed over t o t h e end t ab le anct e ab le , then rea c . d th grabbed th f ca tch. H e twi s t e . e cap as he 1 e bot tle o s '. 1 1 eaned th neck over h i s g ass ; on y a few drops trickl e bottle's Empty . He fe lt ho t b l ~od fi lli ng his head ed ou~. h num b e r ed brass d i als on his bn· • · He a dj us t ed t e e1case u 1 ·t and pull ed ou t the thick envelope H ' n atchect t 1 'band pu ll ed out the reams of legai p e opened the a h d apers . There was a ye ll ow note attac e to the front p . · all th 1· age, remind- ing him to sign e ines marked with a red X and to send the forms back to the attorneys' office. He flipped thro~gh the pages, counting the areas marked for him t_o sign. One, two , th~ee, four-five, six, seven, eight. His hand started shaking. He tossed the stack onto the coffee table. Losing it? No. Is this happening? Everything? Without thinking further, he grabbed the bottle of scotch by the neck, and with a sidearm motion, flung the bottle hard into the mirror above the fireplace. He heard the crash, the splintering glass, falling shards trickling off the mantle, and onto the floor. What am I doing? What do I have? He leaned forward, holding his face in his hands , rubbing his closed eyes with his fingers. He looked over at the fireplace, the cracked mirror, and noticed a trophy that had fallen to the floor.

The doctor stood walked over to the trophy, and . ' picked it up. The gold-painted figurine had ~napped off of the top. He looked around the room-in th e fireplace, under the couch, and th en U~der the armchair--but couldn't find where th e fig- Unn 1 h' fin e ~ded. He stood, gently rubbing is f broken gl gers in his hand to dislodge a few shard s O t ass Sl 1 hy over o the f · ugger. He turned the smal trop n the bott ront, looking at the embossed brass plate o

Otn:

Jessica 1"1a n sett

Burks ' Bu llfrogs

2nd Place, Girls T -Ball (1 982)

Th e doctor pl a ced th e figur ele s s trophy back on the mantle , then loo k e d u p into the s hattered mirror . He looke d a t him self an d wa tch e d a s fragmen t ed piece s of hi s face and chest shifted in the dim ligh t. Te ars well ed up in his eyes . He s t ood in p la ce for a min u t e before wiping his eyes with his s leeve and sittin g back down on the couch . He searched around in side his briefcase , finding the Burks ' rece ip t, which had slid off the top of the manila envelope. He set the b ill on the oak and glass coffee table as he reached inside his briefcase again, pulling out a green checkbook. He wrote three checks: one pay able to his clinic, one made out to Bill Wagner, and one made out to Henry and Rose Burks in the amount of five-thousand dollars. In the "for" line of the check, he made an inscription:

A lifetime of apples.

Dr. Mansett put all three checks into a mailing envelope, folded the flap inside, and stuffed the envelope into his inner sport coat pocket. He looked at his watch. Four seventeen. He picked up the stack of legal papers and proceeded to sign his name where the red X's indicated. He stuffed them into an envelope already stamped and addressed to the firm of Jenkins & Prothwell. He sealed the envelope, stood , and headed for the front door, taking the envelope with him. He picked up his car keys from the mahogany stand, opened the front door, stepped through, pulled the door shut and locked it. he

After Dr. Mansett entered the garage, he close door behind him. He got in his car and tossed the large envelope onto the passenger seat. He started th e car, taking in a deep breath. Exhaling, he

• cci up to the remote for the main garage door rrnc ,1 h. b ,J nused. He ran 1s andaged finger over the tiny nnu p ] h b .. d~rs th at ran a ong t e utton. Strange, J can't feel 1 1 1 , 1 ·He continued to gloss over the button with his t ,en . 4 r ger for a few moments before setting his hand on 1;~~ wheel. He leaned over and pushed in the cigarette lighter. then reached further over to the glove compartm ent. He pulled out the package of Lucky Strikes and found there was one left.

The doctor pulled out the last cigarette and crumpled the package, stuffing it in the console between th e sea ts. He lowered the driver's side window. The li ghter popped out of its compartment, and he pulled it out and lit his cigarette. He opened up the ashtray, and as he replaced the lighter he noticed the handful of pennies and nickels left inside. He chuckled to himself. Money. He sat in his car, smoking his cigarette, entranced by the hum of the engine. He closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Dr. Mansett drifted into a dee p and comforting sleep.

~IJ?,~

Luminous Beauty

I see an open window

Silk curtains blowing, Shimmering and haunting

In the darkness.

The air is cool and dry tonight, Sweet with the smell

Of white orchids.

They bloom for her

Even in the wintertime.

Sparkling in this darkness, Dew from a warmer day. She lies here sleeping.

Form-perfect and luminous

As the flowers that caress the wind.

'-'""' rJl> Camouflaged

Jamie Kerry ~tS~

An Afternoon in May

Grinning, you run your tongue across the bottom of your teeth, your lips a darker pink than usual,

and I can't help but smileyou do that so well. Later, it's your tum to be shy and I watch you dodge my eyes,

my thumbs smooth the damp hair near your temples. You smile and your sweet blue eyes blink slowly, lashes wet and clumped into soft triangles.

Memphis in January

In the broken gazebo in the dark two headlights expose our pale skin on more occasions than often we sit and polish politics swimming on the surface of our young minds and we talk of America as if we are outside the aquarium looking in.

The winter grass, manicured maybe three months earlier by a man who comes up every year and with stuffed green for his family he leaves, sings with our shoes as we walk back past the gate that keeps others out an d lets us gaze over the weathered patio chairs ~d soiled barbeque pits cigarette butts and dead leaves

td~er in the comer by the 1 1ng door.

~t;l3 4----, Winter Palace

Blue Shoes

se m e mam, you got a minute to spare Ex c~pla in those fee lings beh in d t h at gla r e?

toy~ur eyes ro ll bac k to clic k off yo u r ears

heart 's gro wn n umb by yo ur co n tro llin g fear s your h t the dirt on my face, or t e r ags o n m y back?

Is 1 · h ' k · 1 I

Or is it th e se lf-m ot1vat1on yo u t m ac k ?

I t the word s I mumbl e wh e n I s in g my blues?

s I I d ' d ' h

Life 's re ckle ss turn s- 1 n t c oose

Is it th e pain in my eyes from m y husband's lie s? The shrieking crie s, from a stranger's thigh s who took advantage of my helpless size?

I'm sorry, have we met- I didn't know you knew me, who I was or who I could be

Or are you just judging on what your eyes may see God! How ignorant can you possibly be?!

Sure it's easy to glance and pass assuming I'm typical poverty trash

But were your eyes two years pastcomfortable in a marriage I thought would last

Were you in my shoes when I walked in the door to find some other woman's clothes on the floor?

Was it your eyes that seen your man undressed with the accountant he hired, so you both wouldn't stress?

Then to find out it was all in his name and all you earned is all he gained

So , here I am I barely stand Out on the street raped and beat

So, where's my motivation in social isolation

Who wan ts to hire one with no shower

It just ain't fair

Wh that I get that glare en I' h

S mt e one cheated out of all that I care

0 ~aybe next time your eyes will open smil e a nd nod and show some emotion

'C~use if it happened to me

T it could happen to you

wo Yea rs down , wh e n you have no clue

You find y If sitt' ourse fillmg these shoes Ing on th e corner, singing your blues

..._..., <13 Supporting a Good C l a u s?

As a cold wind blows the powdered sno w pas t your window, you drowse into a peace~ slumber . The night is crisp . You snuggle deeper into y our plush, heated comforter. The ki~s, t1:1c_k~red ou_t from a long evening of board games with visiting ~amily, are in their beds down the hall. Suddenly , a noise from downstairs breaks into your lazy dreams. Drowsily, you sit up in bed, wondering at the cause. It's proba- bly just the cat trying to dig into the leftovers abandoned on the counter. With a sigh of irritation, y ou debate getting out of your cozy nest to reprimand the beast, but instead you flop back into the warm spot and decide to clean up in the morning. As the next day arrives, you clump downstairs to find that it couldn't have been Fluffy after all. Someone has opened the fridge and guzzled the last of the milk from its plastic jug. A difficult task for a cat, but easy for a cat burglar . Who would want to break in to y our house? Wait! There are chocolate chips ground into the carpet leading to the fireplace and a grey powder floating down from the mantel. What is in those bags next to the family pictures? Opening them you find ~umps of dusty, black coal. Who was this strange intruder? Suddenly, you feel as if eyes are boring into y~ur back. As you tum toward the window, you see a glimpse of red flashing across the sky and a voice ?00ms through the air "HO HO HOI" 'You've been vis- ited b S ' · Y anta Claus. Joy to the world. In OU ·

d d r society where public morals and stanar s are comm 1 d toward th on Y ebated, many people look e paSt and familiar tradition for a glimmer of

fort to bring into the present Th S com • . · e anta that ericans know 1s associated with th Ch . . A.111 • • e r1stian 1· . n This rehgton promotes ethical heh . re 1gio . h ..- 11 av1or and con 'ders those w o 10 ow a good moral p t · .s1 1..., 1 rac ice and live upstanding 11esty e to be Christians H an • owever whY revere Santa Claus as the epitome of goodne;s? Look closely at the acts that this character p "' · . . . er1orms. he is an extortionist, a pervert, and a home int d perhaps in years of old, when it was more com::O:r. practice for people to leave keys in their ignitions and their front doors unlocked, they trusted strangers such as Santa with their valuables and loved ones. Would you trust a man who you've never seen before? How many people do you let into your house without checking all of their proper credentials? Maybe Santa has a little red and green card with bells on it issued by the North Pole State Department, but has he ever given anybody a chance to ask for it? He only comes in the middle of the night and "disappears" up the chimney by touching a finger to the side of his nose if confronted. Santa might need rehab for that coke problem.

Tales of Santa involve a trip into your house through uncommon means. If he were the upstanding citizen that most believe him to be, why not use the front door and greet his beneficiaries in person? If sneaking around in the night is to create a sense of a mystical, benevolent patron saint, then he s~o':1-ldn't have to be bribed with milk and cookies. This is th e equivalent of paying insurance money to the local thug. There's no mystery as to whether he will or W~n 't _c ome on that particular night. The o~ly SurPrise 18 for those who awake to empty stockings a nd hun ks of coal, which might be used to help warm the room f •a1 M be the coal · rom the chill horror of den1 • ay 18 his way of softening the blow. You didn't deserve

ebo b Squarepants. You got coal! Now learn to Spong fi d heat the embers of your resentment tart a ire an h . . s ear he'll leave you a c em1stry set, and Maybe one y . . b b . h

ra.ctice building pipe om s 1n t e garage vou can P s ·

· Most traditions also portray anta as asking for . h 11•st from all of the children. At the same time a \ \Tl.S l . , thev say that he knows when you are s eep1ng and a . ke If Santa is watching, he should know what a,v . people want for Christmas without asking. It is only an excuse to allow this dirty old man to bounce hundreds of thousands of children on his lap. How disgusting is that? What mother in her right mind allow s her precious bundles of joy to be carted off by ·women scantily dressed in skin-tight, red hose and green miniskirts? Every year mothers queue their toddlers up for a lovely picture of a complete stranger holding their screaming, crying infant. It is meant to be a treat for the children to meet Santa-if they behave nicely in a line that stretches longer than the kid can count on their pudgy fingers and toes. How is this a reward? If you're a good little kid, I will abandon you to scary-looking people and they will set you on some fat old guy with bad breath and a scratchy beard that flops around when he talks. Don't worry if y~u feel somethin g poke you in the back, that's just his belt buckle. Really. It's no wonder that those photos get sho ved to the back of the family album , ~n ly .to resurface years later, in little Sally's therapy ses sion s .

Wa t c hing them while they're sleeping seems rathe r point} . . h ·- ""or · th · ess as a means of determ1n1ng t eu . . in ess of pr e " t . oin g 101 a littl f sen 8. How e v er if Santa w ere g sensee ~ e kiddie porn then i~ makes much ~on; goodi~s th:at b ette r tim e lo get a p_ee k .at th e ht tbirD s\' night' n wh e n they are changing into th eir ies at bedtime? I11 bet he lov es those paj arT1fl

bob Squarepants. You go t coal ! Now learn to Sponge fi nd heat the embers of your resentment start a ire a ear he'll leave you a chemistry set, anct· Maybe one y . b b . h you can practice building pipe oms sin t e garage. Most traditions also p~rtray anta as asking for . h l"st from all of the children. At the same tirn a WlS 1 e, h ay that he knows when you are sleeping and t ey s . ke If Santa is watching, he should know what a;:ple. want for Christmas without asking. It is only excuse to allow this dirty old man to bounce hundreds of thousands of children on his lap. How disgusting is that? What mother in her right mind allows her precious bundles of joy to be carted off by women scantily dressed in skin-tight, red hose and green miniskirts? Every year mothers queue their toddlers up for a lovely picture of a complete stranger holding their screaming, crying infant. It is meant to be a treat for the children to meet Santa-if they behave nicely in a line that stretches longer than the kid can count on their pudgy fingers and toes. How is this a reward? If you're a good little kid, I will abandon you to scary- looking people and they will set you on some fat old guy with bad breath and a scratchy beard that flops around when he talks. Don't worry if y~u feel something poke you in the back, that's just his belt buckle. Really. It's no wonder that those photos get shoved to the back of the family album, only_to resurface years later in little Sally's therapy sessions. '

Watching them while they're sleeping seems rat er pointl . wor- th· ess as a means of determining their iness of p · g for a lit tl f r~sents. However if Santa were goin

h

e ree k dd · ' re sen se Wh 1 ie porn then it makes much mo

goocti~s th at better time to get a peek at the l~tt~rnsY nighties atn w~en they are changing into the~r 1 a bedtime? I'll bet he loves those paJarn

S with th e button-down flap rtor11 • s on th b

bO w someone outside y our bedr ack. If -ou sa 1 th oorn Winct

: uldn't you cal e cops? If it 's not k ow, r-lO th tr t h o ay for th

_1 1.r r down e s ee or t e teen next d e st~e · th h oor to the women m e ouse, then it's not . Peep on pervert to watch the kids either nght to allow sorne , th . · Then there s e issue of whether O . • r not httl Sallv and Timmy were good httle kids this y e -' . h"ld ear. If a

.,11'"'' won 't convict c i ren on the grounds th t h

Jl.,U _, d . . . h b a t ey are unable to istinguis etween wrong and ri ht one man alone doesn'~ have that right either. Jhe~e is th e line between being bad or good drawn? If TimmY throws rocks at his dad, most people would say he was bad that day. If Timmy threw the rocks at hi s dad because he was sick of seeing his dad beating his mother, is he still bad? One man does not have the power to judge guilt or innocence. Considering again that this is primarily a Christian tradition, the idea of Santa as judge and jury is also false. It is a fundamental Christian belief that God is the final and only true judge of humanity. So where does Santa get off leaving sacks of coal and empty tree skirts for boys and girls who may not have known any better? There are few decent role models left in this day and age for children to look up to. We should not allow our kids to idolize such an irreverent character. One suggestion many devout Christians would prefer

be to rescue Christmas from the consumerist it~hday and return the worship of Christ to X-mas, as b 1 1 3 often abbreviated. Ironically Xis the Greek sym0 for Ch · ' · 1 th t weh 1 , meaning Christ which would imp Y a ave ' · h' d In actct· . never left the religious connotation be in ·. 1tion th · the holiday as C : , ese critics are still celebrating _ ing th h~1.st s birth, and therefore, are alre~dy keep tant ~}Pirit alive for those to whom this is imporI · lv1an d 't folow the c Y_People who celebrate Christmas on hri stian religion and just use Santa as an 65

excuse to give and receive presents. Instead, perhaps we could extend Thanksgiving into a month-long holiday and offer Giving Day presents for them to unwrap. All of the presents, food, and tradition, and only one measly turkey slaughter to mar the fun. At least we won't have to lie to our kids about the truth behind the holiday; the public school system already does the dirty work for us. There are no lines to wait in at the mall for pictures, unless you want the kids to pose next to authentically unwashed Pilgrims in hot, scratchy wool garb. The tree could remain, just throw on a few cornucopias with the other decorations. Almost any alternative would be preferable to keeping the tradition of such a disgraceful persona as Santa Claus.

Whisper of breath

All that is Between now And eternity

Exhale

Life is loud-

Transition is soft Release

Loud fades

Soft fallows

Shots, sirens

Beeping monitors

Grief

Beauty transcends

Phone calls, snapshots

Perfect day videos, Final tears

Memory seeksLove finds

Tranquility

Whisper of breath

All that remains Between now And eternity. Breathe.

Etenrue , oh Etenrue!

Ho\\- I loved y ou Etenrue! . You ·were m y life , m y love , m y Joy; 'Niy breath belonged to y ou.

But you carelessly cast m y heart aside, And there it lay exposed and raw, Where I guess it should have died.

Yet-the PUL-sing-BEAT sur-VIVED.

Instead of dying from the crime, The pumping flesh gained strength sublime, Until it seared callous and malign.

No one lrnew I suffered unrestrained; I laughed without and boldly claimed, "Love 's small defeats are but a game."

Though all along , I waited, I waited ... For y ears , I secretly waited.

Oh Etenrue , oh Etenrue\ How could y ou leave me Etenrue? y ' ou seduced me giddy with lover 's brew ,

th en QUICK-ly -WOOED some-ONE a-NEW. So ·r ' 1

anyone w ould understand , M· It Y intent , my wicked plan , would be y ou , oh treacherous man.

F r [ram y ou I learned to massacre late one night, beneath the star~, ·I put six bullets through your heart.

.\ll they found was your Mercedes Benz, Drenched in ~e blood of love's revenge, \Vhich pointed to your fatal end.

Friend s told me of your savage doom; I paled , and cried and said with rue, .. ~h- poor , sweet, darling Etenrue."

Though all along, I smiled, I smiled ... In my seclusion , I secretly smiled.

Oh Etenrue, Etenrue!

Whe re have y ou gone, my Etenrue?

I mi ss your laugh, your charm, your sighs,

And EV-ery-STINK-ing R OT-ten LIE.

l went to your service \\rith head bowed low,

.-\n d placed a rose near our posed photo, Quietl y quoting Dante's Inferno.

Th ere I sat amongst y our many queens , Wh o wore faces painted with misery , Yet th eir ey es twinkled victory.

1)/Thhou gh all along one knew one knew .. · at h ' ' ad become of dear beloved Etenrue · '

Mike Fetters

........, Sunrise in a Hidden Dale

Cool, flowing water over soft, velvet rocks murmurs, murmurs to the trees, of mountain heights and melting snows. Silently the trees smile back and bow to the streamdipping their hands into the coming Spring.

Charlie Bright ~tS~ Gangland

Between the shops of Asian grocers

Lie the lanes of strung-out junkies

Making homes in rusting dumpsters

Hiding from the gangland flunkies

And setting flame to coffee spoons

To try and make the poison sweet

Dodging rats and drive-by goons

And scrounging scraps to eat.

Fortune loves the dead

And favors plenty here

At home in paper beds

A forty full of beer

And nickel bag

The only friends

Of men in rags

The cold descends ...

Frost can kill

And does

And will Until The world Ends.

Christy Rudloff ~rJ3~

Hoffman House #2

Paying Dues Down South

M d d called me the other day y a d. d And told me you had ie ·. . Said they could hardly ?eheve it. Lardy! How they had cned!

(tears of joy)

Everyone in your Southern town Knew all about your deeds, So going to your funeral Satisfied people's needs.

(open caskets provide more closure)

He said my stepsister had stood Staring at your dead face And told him that she wished you well In your new, better place. (she hoped you would be warm)

He told me the graveside service Was quite a grim affair With hints of peaceful gratitude Hanging in open air.

(as they lowered your coffin)

He said the whole town had turned out, Some of them, just to see The man who had touched so many In their community.

(especially the little girls)

1 th anked my dad for calling me And giving me the news.

1 told him I was glad to hear y( ou were paying your dues. I hope th ' . ey re never paid in full)

Instead You Fill It In

1 thought I was out of the hole you dug

1 had washed my hands and cleaned my nails

I had stopped the bleeding from my palms

I had tended to the cuts on my knees

I thought that the ground beneath me now was firm

That my tears had fused together the land

That my feet had carried me away from the spot

That my mind had forgotten that crevice of yours

I thought that the summer only lasted weeks

And still its searing glare melts winter's healing ice

And still it blisters and cackles in my face

And still it swallows my heart whole, pushes me back in

I thought I was out of the hole you dug

But my hands are caked, nails stuffed with dirt

But my palms yield only blood that cannot be wiped away

But my wounds defy their nature and continue to gape

I thought that you would help me out of this hole this time

Th at you would reach a hand into my shadows

That you would offer up some reassuring words

That you would not, instead, fill the hole in and bury me

behind your eyes contrition sits sullenly staring off into space, pretending not to be there. apologies aren't something you do often, darling. i can almost see it as it stumbles out, hiding among your words behind your eyes. dashing past me, hoping i see it and hoping harder i don't.

The End of Childhood

Who can say what childhood really is and where it ends. Madmen ha~e trudged the globe in frantic search for the fountrun of youth. Mr. Medbourne th Colonel, and Mr. Gascoigne threw punches over ii. e Psychologi~ts ~i;id~ it into ~tages. Poets defme it by spirit. I think its hke the tide. The ocean is clear . The beach is recognizable. Yet, that in-between-that slushy goo with runny footprints that gets sucked into the water and spit back onto the shore--is exactly like our transformation into adulthood. Time gets sticky. One minute we're swimming, throwing the beach ball , and watching for sharks. The next thing you know the water is gone. We're stuck folding lawn chairs and tiptoeing across fiery sands like a game of hot potato for the feet. Childhood is an oblivious absorption . Then without warning we are suddenly awake. We just are. It comes at weird times, too. I knew childhood was over when I found myself in the bathroom mirror at midnight plucking renegade silver hairs out of my scalp. I was lost in the home furnishing aisle at Target. I was busy matching country-tan thatched tablecloths and place mats for my dining room 's table ;hen I looked up into the lights. "My God .. •" I ought. There's a shopping cart with a Dirt Devil , a cutlery set (complete with oak block) bathroom rugs , anct napki ' · h t h ns--and the cart is mine' I'm nest1ng.··w a ave I b · . Ba · ecome? At least I picked up the Ocean M1st sic Ligh ny re ts candle because the scent bore an uncansemblan · 1 b I Would b ce to the perfume at the stnp cu · e okay.

Bu t I kn ew childhood was over when I st arted going hom e to cut my parents ' grass for free . Mom was getting old and could barely rumble down the stairway without the aid of a few rickety "Oh lords" her e an d there. Dad even got arthritis in his eyeballs. Hi s eyeballs! Yuck ... that just sounds so yuck. It kind of sucks for him. His only hobby is watching movies . I told him they've got books on tape and old time radio shows like the ones from his childhood. He laughed. Mom didn't. I even do the dishes without being asked, told, or ordered. I hate dishes. But now, no complaining--just washing.

Somehow childhood ended when I decided that bars and women weren't that fun. There is so much more to relationships than safety. Her yawn that squeaks. That stupid back twist she does in public to crack her spine like milk on Rice Krispies. The words she makes up--"nushing and blye," for example . When she burps louder than me but looks up with sparkling innocent eyes and says "scuse me" in baby talk. I can only laugh. How crabby and stubborn she gets when she's pissed at the world. My chapped lips and her annoying habit of making me sit still while she pulls it off like strips of old wallpaper ... wow when did all that become more important than breasts? I don't know. They were here a second ago ... but now I don't care. These things are mine; nobody else will know them, or any of the moments between us before we grew apart. How can I go back to wanting any- thing less?

It ended when I caught myself explaining the complexities of the real world to my sixteen-year-old nephew and he said, "Dude, you're almost thirty.". It ends every time my niece calls me "Uncle," every t1tne my parents or older sisters come to me for help because they don't understand life. But then I fiu d

myself eating peanut butter from the jar-- . finger in it like a deep-sea oil drilling ri gsougin_g my · · xh g. omettmes I still come in e austed from my parents' g . . arage and chuck the lid off the milk and guzzle away, only to hear her yell those sweet words, "Get a damn glass and shut the door; we're not chilling the whole ~kitchen, ya know." I get a big smile and steal a cookie out of the jar labeled "Grandpa's only, do not touch!" to boot. And for giggles toss some crumbs in her hair before I go back to lifting their heavy stuff. Some moments it never ends. When I lay on the floor and Kaylee dog licks my face and all that shit about truces magically disappears ... my portfolio dropped how much? Fuck it. .. me and the munchkin princess niece are going to dance a waltz while her mom yells at me to let her go to bed. She and I just share a brown-eyed gaze and laugh at nothing as I spin her under the ceiling fan and she yells ... "Wooly, stop it. I'm gawna puuuke!"

I guess it never ends all the way. Until the tide stops rocking and it's time to take that nap. Though some people take that nap early or walk around sleepwalking their whole lives. But ya know, forget the prostate, the ultrasounds, the Doan's pills, morning breath, The Dow industrial average, mortgage rates, junk mail, telemarketers at dinnertime, oil changes, and New Years' resolutions--the whole sha-bang... and just break out into a stupid song from the fifties the next time you're pushing a cart at the grocery store. The next time stress has turned you into an insomniac , prank call someone at midnight. Just enjoy your day at the beach and remember to watch in awe a s !he s un sets. Wow, it really is an incredible uift isn't It? b~ '

Thick as Thieves

Sitting cross-legged in the rusty Radio Flyer with my little brother pulling me up the steep, skin-thieving hill, I clenched my eyes shut and swallowed fear in nauseating gulps. Nothing good could come of this.

A foot shorter and 30 lbs lighter, the mighty runt moved steadily onward, upward. Pride had forced him to take the dare. Determination fueled his trembling legs . Leaning forward, hands behind his back, he was a miniature convict walking his last mile.

Kids lined the slanted street, cheering and jeering as we passed by. The freshly-laid asphalt looked as soft as cooling lava under the blackened shoes of this taker of dares, this jumper of ramps, this doer of impossible things. Almost there ...

One sneaker lost its grip, then the other, then his fingers slipped from the wagon handle with a loud whisper. The road jumped up and slapped him hard, adding a fresh patch of skin and fragments of his left front tooth to its ill-gotten booty.

And every scrap of skin on my left shoulder was ripped off when the wagon toppled and I tumbled backward down the hill. As blue sky flickered in and out of view, spectators gasped, and asphalt laughed.

Later that evening, watching TV, my older sisters gave us their coveted spots on the couch, and we sat there comparing blood losses and bandage sizes. The following week, he showed me how I could crash my bike and not get hurt too bad .

The smoke curls and lifts my spirit into the deep black sky, guided by the North Star to the creator who craves me home.

Rokas Varanavicius ~tS~ Kaunas

Be tween Two Wor ld s

Almost twen ty years ago I was gi ve n th e d aunting task of playi ng Leah , a young girl whose body is inhabited by her dead lover in The Dybbuk. A J ewish theatre group was performing the play at Hill el on the Washington University campus. Our director told us , "Seek your own life within the circumstances of your character," but I wasn 't sure if I had any experiences with death that I could call upon. One set of grandparents had died when I was a child, and the s h eer force with which m y remaining nine ty -year-old grandfather threatened to die every day convinced me h e would live forever.

My husband, whom I had only recently marrie d , had buried his first wife three years before. Elly ha d been a disturbing presence in m y life ever since I m e t him, but I was too young and inexperienced t o understand her power. When I moved into his house , he had given away most of her clothes and je,ve lry , but I kept coming upon her spices on the kitch en sh e lf as I tried a new recipe. It was as though som e p art of her were being poured into my soup , m y p a sta, m y rice. But I hadn't known her. How can y ou reach back , to seek out someone you have never known?

Our director brought in a rabbi to supply background, who told us that the mystics of Sfad believed the soul hovers after a person dies, reluctant to leave the body, the vessel that contained it, and the place it once called home. I began to sense Elly aroun d me. Candles on the nightstand flickered when my husband reached for me, though there was no breeze, not a hint of wind in the room.

0

ening night, as I began speaking, And then on ? omething happened. At the about three hnes ind, lsi·ne where the stage lights gave f that blurre edge O d. e something or shall I say some- t the au ienc ' ' way O At fi st she was a bare presence, no more stood 1f aki one , h .dow But as I continued spe ng my than as a · . 1· she became something more. inelsf, 1 uld have stepped out of my role, I would co h h. ·1 have seen the edges of people's shoes, t e t u1:, s1 ver legs of their chairs barely lit, the wash of the hghts spreading out just beyond the stage. But I was Leah, completely at one with her, and just beyond that darkness, someone was waiting, listening to every line. I knew she was there, impossible as it was, among the rows. Quiet, but as real as the silver legs of the chairs, and listening to me. A heart feels a heart, my grandpa had once told me, and there was mine, beating, and hers there, too, like an echo. Our language, unlike the lines of the play, was not transcribable. What happened on that stage went beyond language, more idea and feeling than words. It was a silent murmuring, an exchange of heart beats and pauses. After the monologue was over, I drew back a few feet, my legs quivering. As I made my way offstage, I was hoping no one noticed I'd been addressing my lines to someone not even remotely connected to the play. I knew I could never explain what had happened out there.

_And then, almost twenty years later, Washington Universit d ·d · of The Y ec1 ed to mount its own production Dybbuk I . oiven h · was called 1n as an advisor and was 0 ~ · t e ch

• thl 5 . . ance to revisit the play. I no longer believe . is strictly · • d portion f a coincidence . I have spent a goo 0 the last t • · 1 JeW, h . wenty years living as a trad1t1ona turo ~ aping challahs just before Shabbat my hat1<ls cl1 ing and t . ' h !JlU urning round loaves of warm doug

way Leah would have. I have sat in other peopl , the . . t bb. . es . . g rooms, hsten1ng o ra 1s give over the rich 11v1n . 1 1. .

1 gacy that 1s my peop e, 1sten1ng to the stories and 1:ssons that inform A~ski's play. And I have finally had those death experiences I naively wished I had had all those years ago, so I could perform the role. I have sat at the bedside of a friend who was dying, watched her eyelids flutter and felt the presence of Hakadosh Borchu in the room. I have stood at my grandfather's grave and read a letter I wrote to him, felt the wind curl around us, watched the sycamore leaves turn in the breeze and felt absolutely certain he was there, listening to me tell his story for the last time. I have spent much of the years since I first performed as Leah learning that the physical does not last, but the spirit goes on forever. I have lived the cycles of the Jewish year and worked to attain that "heart of wisdom" the rabbis speak of. I have discovered that death is a part of life, that it all turns and turns as certainly as the red leaves drifting from the maples outside my window that will be green again in the spring. And I have come to believe that in strange and untranslatable ways, there are connections between us that are beyond our imagining. I approach The Dybbuk differently now , having c ome to believe, like Anski, who originally titled the play Between Two Worlds, that there is a realm of the s pirit and sometimes we bump up against it . The leap s w e c an make in connecting to that world , whethe r taken by faith or imagination alon e, ar e asto undi n g. S ometimes, though, we ar e led along by the unseen han d of s ome one w e h a ve love d an d lo st . In the dim re h earsal h a ll wh e r e they are running th e last scenes o f the p lay, I sit, envy ing t hi s young Leah. I w ou ld be t h r illed to p lay t h e part today , because I b e lie ve her so muc h mor e than I used to ,

but I am too old. I can only sit in the audience on the night of the performance and watc h, daring myself, as we all must, to take the j ourney with her when the lights dim. Hers is a lan d scape of spirits and demons, messengers and angels, but when the lights finally come up, if we have truly gone along, we stumble between the too-brightly lit aisles, still traversing two worlds.

Jamie Kerry ...__..,

tJ3

...__.., A Letter Home ("The River Merchant" Revisited )

I am forgetting how the silk of your dress dances as you walkgreen leaves fluttering among the apple blossoms, pure and white in our garden.

Have you already forgotten my eyes? I am for getting your voice, Always I hear the pale dull tones of the other merchants, I am numb to the warmth of yellow stars.

Will you know me when I return?

Robert Bliss

..,., <13 .._..., Not Stopping by Woods

With Apologies to Robert Frost and to his pony.

The Lucas woods where the sisters sleep is white and quiet, neither dark, nor deep.

Snow coats graves, and limbs. Falls softly, holds the light, cheats the evening.

Now comes a rapid transit train, fully lighted, fully laden. Would its passengers wish to stop, break their promises. Here and now to think of words, to watch these woods fill up with snow?

But it has miles to go, so along it slips, cityward. It shakes its bells, there's no mistake. A woods does not a station make.

tJ3 .._.., Silent Mo rning

· ers of t e

ld 11.ke to congratulate the ll ·ve wou Be en h Pierre Laclede Honors College

· W ·t· winn d .. r Excellence 1n r1 1ng Awar s io

2002-2003

1000-level Writing: Zachariah Crow

"A Modest Disposal"

2000-level Writing: Matt Trost

"Love Tastes Like a Mango" and Brittany Trice

"Can Dewey Be Done Today?"

Upper-level Writing: David Huxel

"A Summation of Independent Study on Existential Psychology"

'c8

Love Tastes Like a Mango

"Orchards," a short story by Eppie Zor e'a , s u e ceeds in every fathomable way. The author is no mer e 'writer' or 'artist,' but in fact a creator whose verbc.11 and aesthetic brilliance shines through in her chara c.; ters, setting, and plot, emphasized by her u se of theme and language, an amalgamation of aural be<JU ty-words to listen to as well as read- and simpli city, a life-form born of the purest, most amorous care and affection for her own work. She is a creator of fi ction harvests. As for the epic dogma of literature, the history of storytelling and those grand short fables passed down for generations, this author will in my mind always remain "in the first book ."

Three nameless characters, two time frames, and one primary motivation-these simple literary joists provide the framework for a story of incredible emotional complexity. The narrator, who utilizes the first, second, and third person, is a young woman both confused and enraptured by her discovery of love for : unl_ikely young man. Adjoined with her past relanship with her mother and what she knows of anb.cient myth on the topic, she tells her love story in nef but . 'd d ' e . VJ.VJ. segments which provoke the rea . er s rnotions th · 1 1· Th ra er than advance a complicated p ot 1n e. for~·~tory begins cryptically-"Imagine if mango wer e sto~ ~en_"-:311d _immediately lures the reader into the draw .ntil its bittersweet conclusion, an end that ernbe~~:to focus the enigmas posed by the de eply acter d personal affects and respons es of the ch armay :· th e love between the two main char acte rs nd , but the taste of pure, true love will al ways

. . the narrator's mouth.

rerna1n 1 ~ f love' proves to be the theme of th

That taste o . th "-I-" b. e . werful emotion as e ior 1dden f . This po • ll.l.1e start . al l gend remains a constant idea-the auth of Bi~bcs t:e story of creation, temptation, and eve or rnention k myth of Atalanta to explain the feelings n the Gree · d ·t d . t d with love gru.ne , unrequ1 e , and lost Th assoc1a e . • · · 'fi · e t explains the hngu1stic sign1 icance of cert!); narra or d fi . '-Un Old Testament passages-the wor 7:1zt used as a verb, ample-and seamlessly relates 1t to the topic 10C~ ' adding a sort of spiritual ~d et_ernal ~ar~robe to the emotions of the story, a dimension which is necessary given the ultimate subject matter: True Love. This tale is one which seems to have been created in a single thought, an epiphany, and written in one day, although surely genius writing like this is impossible to produce in one sitting. The connection of her ideas to the universal ideals in all of our minds, as well as to ancient theory such as the Bible, is unparalleled. It is often said that "God is love," and clearly Eppie Zore'a understands this, perfectly explaining something that may not need explanation but deserves it regardless.

. The author's greatest success, her use of language, is apparent in her sentences which are neither burdensome nor minimalistic, b~t both adequately and ?orgeously portray the exact mood she certainly intended h'I h r h ' w 1 e also not alienating the reader from e c aracter's . myth·

1 personal nuances, like her historical, 1ca -reli · . fl like nectar ~ious quasi-obsession. The words ow anct finally' ebittersweet but warm, intrigue the reader, one sean-. nchant him or her. She transitions frorn tyu.en t to th . g What word . e next flawlessly never forgettin s Will d' ' . - stances wh h isplay accurate emotiona l circu~ ct a1· ' et er th h d hile e 1ng With e c aracters are depresse w a Worm-infested house or hypnotized bY

.. rcvc rish love for one; un of her . I fer vo ca huJ, . tl1 Cll I' . • ctry JS

ll cnt nnci comprchen~•nble, nev e r pJ,_;:1jn hut ~J exec . .. u so er mclodnrmat1 c. S1mpJy pu t , the author has nev f r . h ntt nin ed a type o pc r,c c ~1on 1n er pr<JHe, n ever

·>peatin g a though t, aR 1f a bottom1c8H cornu copia ~~ists in her mind, a lwa yH providing her p en -hand with fresh lyri ca l c rop.

This story is an Eden of its own, and it is uncorru pted The 'first day' of this story has never passed; I can read it ove r and over without growing rest1ess. J can imagine that, on one fatefu1 day, God must have smil ed upon Eppie Zore 'a and commanded her to fruit, whi ch she has don e exquisitely, providing the world with "O rchards," a stunning piece of unforgettable short lite ra ture that will, for me, define wh at a love story- in my own Jife's drama or in my writing- should alway s be.

i AdyMcDonald is an Instructor in the English aGregor o t and the Pierre Laclede Honors College. He was b Departmen 1. f p Wh om in t he City of Colon, Repub ic o anama. enever anyone asks his age , he always add~ ten yearhs to the act~~ fihgure. !he look of consternation on their faces t at comes w1 t realization that someone THAT OLD could look THAT GOOD, 1s priceless. Among the inspirations for his poetry are rage, lust, and a visceral awareness of how sublimely ridiculous human beings really are [not exactly in that order].

Olivia Ayes is a third year Honors College student at UMSL where she is pursuing a major in English, a Certificate in Writing, and a minor in Biology. While employed at a bookstore, Olivia finds time to be a Student Mentor for Multicultural Relations and a Bellerive co-editor. Originally from the northern region of the Philippines, Olivia was relocated to the U.S. at the age of 10. Now, at the age of 20, she lives with her partner, her partner's three young sons, three dogs, a puppy, and a kitten. Olivia says that even as a baby, she was ready to ascend to higher heights: when she was 18 months old, she climbed a huge tree and was missing for two hours. She states that complexities of nature, human relationships, emotions, and the uncommon inspire her writing.

Robert Bliss has been dean of the Honors College since August 1997 . He is an historian by training and inclination (early America and early modern England), but has yet to teach about th at period in the Honors College. "Maybe next year," as Cubs fans are wont to say. In general writing, he admires but cannot (yet) emulate the economic clarity and wide reference evolved by th e _early staff writers of The New Yorker magazine notably E. 8· White . . And of course White created a fictional wri~er Charlotte th e Spider who t 1 ' t H ' se s Y e was a paragon of economy and effec · ine~hearBly1· death, _ from natural causes is still seriously lamented e iss family. '

Sarah Bond is and a Cert'fi a graduate of UMSL with a B.A. in Art Histo r)' i icate from the H tin the first Celebrate th .onors College. Sarah took par 2003 .

e Arts m Honors Show in the spring of

li Bright, originally from Washingt . c11ar e h F h on, M1sso . . t and teac es res man Compos·t· un, is an MF tuden MSL H I ton for th E A s artrnent at U . e once ate a stick of b e nglish oepd I didn't need the money," he tells us) A utter for a dollar. (" An d f · d · s for w · · . his family an nen s, much to th . h . ntmg inspiratt_on;ay into his writing. e1r c agnn, often make their

ry Burbank has been affiliated with UMSL . Jer H . since 1978 etual student. e received an undergradu t as a pe~ with minors in Accounting and Psychologya eHdegree m busines h h ' • . . · e used to lik t tell people t at 1s maJor amb1t10n in life was t b e o o ecome an accomplished co~orate conm~n. He is currently enrolled as a graduate student 1n Community Counseling. He grew up in rural St. Louis County, before urban sprawl had driven away the bullfrogs and showered the land~cape with asphalt and eight lane interstates. If he had to pomt to a source for what he writ when feeling creative, he tells us that life is little more than es inspiration.

Keely Bursik is an UMSL graduating senior, majoring in English with certificates in Writing, Women's Studies, and the Honors College. She is originally from Iowa and has worn out her welcome in St. Louis. She is currently institutionalized due to mental instability resulting from the graduate school application process. She has a wonderful husband who writes beautiful poetry that inspires her to write because they compete in everything.

Mike Fetters is a graduate student pursuing an M.A. in English and previously a student at th e Honors College. He has lived his whole life in St. Charles, MO. Contrary to popular belief, he does write fiction other than fantasy, though you'd never know it from the way he talks. The two things that have inspired his writing te most are the work of J.R.R. Tolkien, and his teacher and nend at the Honors College, Na ncy Gleason.

~hoinas R. Ford is an undergraduate at UMSL studying Biology. R·e was born in St. Louis and grew up in the Maplewoodin1chrnond Heights area . The wildest nights of his frat boy years co:~~ed serving a warm pot of Earl Grey tea and shor t brea ~ th inne:e~ to a table of friends . He is fascin a ted by th e decay O e Loll' city and the injustice that it represents, particul arly st· is Transit.

ll F dma n received her M.F.A. at Washington Universi ty She y re d t a ches various wnting courses at the Honors College an now e . . One of her popular classes focuses upon v01c~ m the writing Teaching one class each semester gives Shelly time to process. d · · pursue her own writing interests and spen time working with other writers.

Geri Friedline, a St. Louis native, is currently a senior at UMSL/Pierre Laclede Honors College with plans to continue as a graduate student. She and her husb~_d started their wedding day working at Target, then secretly v1s1ted the county courthouse , celebrated with cheeseburgers at McDonald's, and wound down bowling sweepstakes for a spring league at Red Pin bowling alley. They shared the news with family and friends a couple of days later. As a Bellerive co-editor, Geri states, "day-to-day life offers both profound and subtle inspiration." She usually keeps a pad and pen next to her bed to capture those really great thoughts that come in the quiet of the night as sights and sounds of a hectic day settle into some really great words.

Julie Gram holds the position of Administrative Associate II in the College of Optometry at UMSL. Julie has long supported Bellerive; her photography was featured in last year's edition , as well as this issue.

Ken Gunn, a native St. Louisan and recent graduate of the Honors_ College,_ i~ a current graduate student in the Higher Educat10n Adm1n1stration program at UMSL. He has a 400-gallon P0 ?d in his basement, surrounded with tropical plants and ?1" 0 ": lights He _says, "It's always spring down there." His writmg is often inspired by existential frustration.

Samara Hamilton is a • Criminal Just" d senior at UMSL studying Criminology and ice an Psychology Sh . . . all f Wilmington Cali£ . · e 1s ongm y rom that she do~sn't ;r~a (a suburb of Los Angeles). She tells us she finds what sheo~ ;;w harder than other people. Instead , inspiration for her we·r Y wants to do and does that. The biggest spiritual angst · she bn 1~ng co:°"es from deep human suffering and , e 1eves t · · form ourselves as ind · .d 1 1 is in these states that we truly lVl ua s.

Michelle Henderson is a student at UMSL and • . . . . . . 1s maJormg m criminology with a mmor In Spanish.

Jamie Kerry is a recent graduate of UMSL. She ear d . E 1· h . ne a Bachelor~ ?f Art m_ ng Is with Honors College Certificate and a Wntmg Certificate. An active writer and poet J • . . , am1e spent a QI"eat deal of time working as editor of issues two and th f

t> dd. . h . . ree o Bellerive. I~ a Itlon to er ed1tmg and poetry writing skills, Jamie also likes photography. Currently, Jamie is working in Europe and plans to attend graduate school in the near future.

Maureen Kinney recently earned her B.A. in Philosophy at UMSL, as well as a Certificate from the Honors College. Her artwork was featured in the first Celebrate the Arts in Honors Show in the spring of 2003.

Elizabeth Lee is a sophomore at UMSL and in the Honors College. Originally from Bakersfield, CA, her family moved to Dittmer, MO , in 1990 and has lived there since. Her first day in college was also her first day in a classroom. She was home schooled all her life and was scared to death that she would have to learn specific course material at a specified hour in a designated room-instead of whenever and wherever she felt like it. Ironically, her greatest inspiration is knowing that she has no dominating inspiration. She sees writing as a journey, an exploration through language, and an attempt to discover who she really is.

W. William Melton is a St. Louis native and a senior at UMSL maj oring in General Studies, an interdisciplinary focus area of Philosophy, Psychology, and Sociology. Over the past 13 years, Will has written close to 10,000 pages, and at one point he got together two giant black trash bags bursting with loose leaf paper , as well as two boxes of seventy plus page spiral notebooks fi~le d cover-to-cover with writing and burned them. He felt that his Writing had reached a dead end and that the only way to evolve as a writer was to completely abandon the past. He states th at writing gives him a chance to explore questions such as what'~ true and beautiful, why we are here, and what is th e meaning of it all .

~~annie Meyer is a student in the Honors College at UMSL aTT<l 18 Worki ng on her B.A. in English.

1 duated from UMSL, and he earned a i recent Y gra · sco~t Mores the Honors College. With a wide range of inter- certificate from ttend graduate school. t Scott plans to a es s,

0 tott will graduate from UMSL in December with Dorot~y LE. 1~ 8 h She was born in Georgia (in the newly uphol- B A m ng1s . . a · d. f t seat of her daddy's pick-up truck) and hved there ~re ron . until the age of 12, when her fam1~y- moved to Kentucky. Her sis- t Donna inspired her to start wnt1ng poetry years ago. ;;ofessor Glen Irwin is responsible for getting her hooked on writing personal essays. He provided his class with thought-pro- voking essays written by amazing writers, and he created a safe environment "where we could share our work without fear of embarrassment or ridicule." She will miss him and all of the other wonderful instructors here at the Honors College.

Floyd Portell is a senior at the Honors College and the technical director for Bellerive. His family currently resides in Crystal City, MO, and he is expecting his second child around the beginning of May 2004. He believes we all live in our own separate worlds. ~though it may be the same physical planet, our unique transla- tion of the input we receive on a daily basis ensures that no two people define EVERYTHING the same way. Unfortunately, or maybe not--depending upon how twisted we think those around us are--because our brains define the world differently, no two of us can poss1·b1 · · · Y view 1t in the same manner He says "Att · · . ' · · .emptmg to descnbe the world as I see it is the greatest inspi- ration of all of . h r h my artwork, whether 1t is writing photograp Y, 0 w atever." '

Angelia C Pr . Busin · euss is currently a student in the School of ess at UMSL h . . Busines Ad . . w ere she 1s working on her degree in s ministration.

Julie Pruitt is

. • CA but has spe t an UMSL student originally from Riverside, d to drive an eig~t mo st of her life in the St. Louis area. She use straight trucke~ ~whee~ truck, and is still licensed to drive ad air brake endorse issoun Class B License) with passenger an thin g she does. Sh ment. God is her greatest inspiration in evefY f th e poerns You che ad~s, "I guess that sounds funny since on e lo ""or\< ose is ab . hurc 1 out murd er. Well, 1 wa s doing c

the idea came t o m y head . . . uh , that doesn 't sound t oo when . ? " good either, does it.

.Elliott Reed is a student at _UMSL who is working on his B.S. in dary Education. He will student teach in spring semester secon 2004 Elliott also 1s a member of the Current staff.

Jessica L. Richmond is a s~dent majoring in Civil Engineering

Part of the joint program with Wash U, where she previously as . all .. ttended. She grew up m a sm 1arm town southwest of ~hicago and came to St. Louis in 1996 to start college. She aspires to be the neighborhood eccentric cat lady, already having five running her life in a 1. 5 bedroom apartment. Typically, she hates to write, and it takes hours of concentration for her to pound out one page. Fortunately, she has a boyfriend who's even more cynical than she is, and one of his tirades gave her the basic ideas for her essay.

Christy Rudloff will soon graduate from UMSL with a B.F.A in Studio Art and a Certificate from the Honors College. Christy's work on the Bellerive staff, in the Honors College Student Office, and with the 2003 Celebrate the Arts in Honors Show have kept her busy while she earned her degree and worked on an internship at the St. Louis Art Museum.

Li Shi, originally from Singapore, graduated from UMSL in May 2003 with a B.A. in Psychology and a Certificate from the Honors College. Li is currently doing graduate work at Naropa University in Boulder, CO, where he is studying Art Therapy. Li has contributed many works of art to Bellerive, and last year he directed the first Celebrate the Arts in Honors Show.

~att Trost, a St. Louis native, studies English and fiction writing a_t the Pierre Laclede Honors College. Despite a trifling literary nvalry (see: Bellerive v. Brain Stew) that almost ended our scant acquaintanceship, he must now confess that he totally had : crush on Jamie Kerry. But, then again, who didn't? He tells .s th at "the greatest inspirations to my writing are the realizations th t h , · · k Th e i w at Ive wntten before really fucking sue s.. o~e

P_Phanies are often followed by lengthy manic periods in which I Wnte effi · b 'Id'

ervescently with only the hope of negating, re ui mg, anct the · 1· f th p n improving upon those countless comma sp ices O e teanstt_... Or, if you prefer a simpler answer, something less ~re10us s • h this· I just like't 0 ~eth1ng Hemingway-esque, maybe? t en use · rying get the words right."

Ro.kas Varanavici us , originally from Kaunas, Lithu . . B . 'th . an1a e!:l~ his MIS degree m usmess wi a minor in Economi ' "'-' '1ed earned a Certificate from the Honors College Rokas cs.. He also . . enJoys Ph tography as a hobby and was featured m last year's Bell 0 • enve and Celebrate the Arts m Honors Show , as well as this year's issue.

Nichole Vickrey is a student working on her Bachelor's degree in Social Work at UMSL. Born in Perryville, MO , but living in St. Charles , she smokes cigarettes because she likes them. Her writing inspiration is sitting outside at UMSL watching people go by, sitting on a bench at the mall, striking up conversations with strangers and the intricate stories of their lives. She states, "I learn a lot from every person I meet, and everyone has his or her own story to tell . Writing is very cathartic. "

Kristen Wells is in her third year at UMSL. She has been . enrolled in the Honors College since her freshman year and is pursuing a Teaching Certificate. She is originally from tbe St. Louis area and currently resides in Imperial, MO.