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RedShift Creative Magazine VOLUME II ISSUE II

SPRING 2008


Letter From the Editor Albert Einstein once described art and science as being “branches of the same tree.” Nowhere is this sentiment more apparent than within the pages of RedShift. In RedShift, there are no lines to distinguish artist from engineer, poet from scientist, or student from teacher. It is, and has always been, the goal of RedShift to serve as a place where art and science converge. We encourage, and will continue to encourage, the exploration and presentation of artistic medium. We are, and will continue to be, open to all members of the Stevens Community. We believe, and will continue to believe, that what we do, as an organization and as individuals, is significant and important. The RedShift project is indeed an ambitious one. Between these covers, you’ll find only a very small sample of the creative efforts from the individuals that comprise our, perhaps, surprisingly vibrant community. You’ll find stories of love and of hate, poems of victory and despair, and visual displays of beauty and merit. Keep in mind, however, that the stories, poems and images you now hold in your hands are not the culmination of a few hours spent with a pen, camera or canvas, but rather the direct result of an individual need to come to express those many details of the human experience. It is on that note that I close this letter. Let us remember that if art and science are in fact two branches of the same tree, the human experience, in all of its trials and triumphs, is the soil from which that tree grows. Let us strive daily to foster that growth, and let us learn to truly appreciate the significance of exactly where that growth comes from. It is now with great pride and honor that I invite you to enjoy this semester’s issue of RedShift. Best Regards, J. Kyle Yandell Editor In Chief

All work printed in this magazine is copyright of the respective artist. The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those held by the Executive Board, members of RedShift, or Stevens Institute of Technology. RedShift is named after a poem by Ted Barrigan, who spent part of his illustrious carreer teaching at Stevens Institute of Technology.


Contents The Artist..............................FRONT COVER Barbara Kiersz Venice.........................................................4 Caryn Connolly In Pages Hid...............................................4 Phillip Mainwaring I Feel Towering...........................................5 Kurtis Watkins Rapid Eye Movement..................................6 Barbara Kiersz One Way.....................................................6 Sheeraz Hyder We Are The Future......................................7 Nantalee Kitpanichvises Embrace......................................................7 Kurtis Watkins Maasai Dwellings Near Karatu..................7 Rebecca Kolberg The Good, The Bad, The Ugly.....................8 Carl Marcellus Centraal Station, Amsterdam.......................8 Jessica Foldhazy Money.........................................................9 Natalia Bilchuk Snowy and Lonely.....................................10 Fatimah Na Amat The World Is Gray......................................11 Barbara Kiersz Liberty Park Sculpture................................11 Maria Giotis Two Minutes..............................................12 Barbara Kiersz Pretzels......................................................12 Fatimah Na Amat Pepper........................................................13 Kurtis Watkins To the Further End of Days........................14 Phillip Mainwaring Zanzibar Sunset and Fishing Boats...........14 Rebecca Kolberg La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona..................15 Jessica Foldhazy Into the Blue...............................................16 Barbara Kiersz Sing as Quickly as Possible in the... .......16 Zach Freedman Don’t Just Walk Away................................17 Hasan Mithiborwala

RedShift is currently accepting submissions for the next issue.

Life size chess in Amsterdam.....................17 Jessica Foldhazy Cura te ipsum.............................................18 Kyle Yandell Angel.........................................................19 Kurtis Watkins Moonspattered Halls.................................20 Phillip Mainwaring Limitless.....................................................20 Maria Giotis TECHNOchtitlan.........................................20 Christina Martins Key To My Heart........................................21 Genesis Jimenez Stairway to Heaven...................................21 Barbara Kiersz Static Unicorn.............................................22 Kyle Yandell Wings.........................................................23 Zareen Mobin Express Yourself.........................................23 Maria Giotis Twiga.........................................................24 Rebecca Kolberg Birdies and Onions....................................24 Kurtis Watkins Windmill.....................................................24 Fatimah Na Amat In Her Own Understanding........................25 Regina Pynn Trapped.....................................................25 Barbara Kiersz Counting Stars...........................................26 Kyle Yandell The Getty Center, Los Angeles...................27 Jessica Foldhazy Rotten Fall.................................................28 Barbara Kiersz Fjord Sunrise..............................................28 Rebecca Kolberg After Anticipation.......................................29 Kurtis Watkins Bear............................................................29 Regina Pynn The Flame..................................................30 Natalia Bilchuk Sticky Frog..................................................30 Barbara Kiersz Red Shift.....................................................31 Dylan Lupo

Please send any submissions to RedShift@stevens.edu Your submission must be your original work, and you must be a member of the Stevens Institute of Technology community.


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Venice --Caryn Connolly

In Pages Hid --Philip Mainwaring these words cold flung too far too fast at marks blazing through the burning past or was it burning through the blazing past for who is this man who walks in flesh he drives on, spurs without rest but who is to care or call out his name to spark his fall within a helm of golden dreams gilt images of his life they gleam too near to go too far to come too dark to see what has begun

life wrought from those unlived by men who howled, gibbered, in pages hid dead rotting but alive again to better those bested, the tried untested fare no worse than franklin frozen subsiding in far stiller waters scream, upholden, like gerrouj chosen when finally the torch is lit light rises and endless hammers fall shaping the silver strands, the casting of men


I Feel Towering --Kurtis Watkins

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Rapid Eye Movement --Barbara Kiersz The alarm clock goes off; Its small, metal hammer pounding on the bell Just like my brain is smashing up against my skull. It is 9am; I am already late for my date With my boring fate Of daily routine. Will I ever be free?

One Way --Sheeraz Hyder

Wake up For what? Another day of sitting down And getting distracted by the chalk particles Floating in slow motion around the room. What an expensive price, giving up sanity for success! Sometimes I think of Not reviving after a night of sleep; Giving into this conniving fantasies To avoid dying in this nightmare And slip into an eternal dream.


We Are the Future --Nantalee Kitpanichvises We will not be apathetic We will not sit idly by while the rivers are polluted We will not watch while the governments are corrupted We will not turn away while the innocent suffer We will not rest while intolerance and hate reign We will not quietly await destruction We will fight for the future We will reach farther than ever We will build stronger and better We will create new methods We will love with all our hearts We will dream of a brighter tomorrow We will not wait We are the engineers We are the scientists We are the executives We are the artists We are the future

Maasai Dwellings Near Karatu --Rebecca Kolberg

Embrace --Kurtis Watkins

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The Good, The Bad, The Ugly --Carl Marcellus Life’s pretty good at the moment Good friends, good money Even have a few good grades …well for right now anyway Too good in fact Which is why she’ll say He’s too good for her Unfortunately, good in a bad way So, he swears on his good name He’s not finishing last this time Just that bad chick wait and see It helped greasy kids get the one that they want So it should work for him He puts on his cruel game face And filled with crueler intentions To be his worst in the best way And what a surprise She now wants him in the worst way But too late now he’s on to new girls Or as he now refers to them new hoes

Centraal Station, Amsterdam --Jessica Foldhazy

Can’t forget the new words He learned from the badass’ dictionary And of course good ole’ MTV So he settles down at his lowest and ugliest point With the top of the top of cuties Just so he could break up n break down And That Chick who was once too bad Just aint good enough now But even as his rep spread far and high His new chicks still thinks she’s the one to change him But in consoling her, He’s really just looking For a way in which his new life could be justified By falling back on that trademark fallacy “That I just can’t help it It’s in my bad boy coding To be inclined to infidelity” And she just has to know That this just aint Grease part 3 And unfortunately as the immoral moral story goes When the good goes the bad gets ugly


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Money --Natalia Bilchuk These past few days it has occurred to me: The world is all about money EVERYTHING about dear Mr. Bill It’s why things get done Why people Hurry And why sometimes the world stands still Quite frankly I can’t say I blame them Theres something mystical about these coins Even the clatter of loose change in a pocket Creates a jingle one can dance to all the way to the bank

Even MONOPOLY was boring My friends would cheat to get Park Place All I ever wanted was a house on Pennsylvania Despite all my efforts; most of the time I went to JAIL I used to think I was unlucky Luck was what everyone had but me That must be why I didn’t get it! Why I’d always hate money

What is it about cash…please tell me That makes people hide it in the floor? Is it a secret? Why’s it so special? Am I the only one who doesn’t know?

Don’t get me wrong I’ve had plenty… Maybe even put some away But then Mr.Softy would stroll by And despite the weather conditions; it would turn into a rainy day

How could a token Lead to bloodshed Cause marriages to break How come they’re all heart broken? Whenever dollars lose their rank

Then I thought it was the weather! Sun becomes Rain Sometimes the other way around But that wasn’t it either Even the rich got wet some days…

Everyone’s always so unhappy Depression rates are through the roof One day they have millions… next day they are beggars.. or vice versa ...Something about dough makes them aloof

No it was not their umbrella We both owned the same one. It was how they reacted to a drizzle I wished I could run through it barefoot They were too busy wishing it away

Kids are in strollers when they realize They’ve got to be good and must behave Because come Christmas, old man Kringle Won’t feed their pigs with what they crave Growing up, it never mattered I never liked those weird green things They weren’t sweet-THEY DIDN’T EVEN SMELL

I’ve realized now, I’m like the weather It too’s confused `bout stocks and bonds Wealth can’t protect you from the rain I on the other hand, am not afraid of MUD.


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Snowy and Lonely --Fatimah Na Amat


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The World Is Gray --Barbara Kiersz Realization. The world is gray. Well, at least my world. Although it is not actually gray, but rather a colorful mixture; it’s hard to describe. I chose the color gray, because it is the only color that people know lies exactly between other two: black and white. If I were to have chosen, let’s say, blue and orange, I wouldn’t know what word to use to describe the color in the middle, the one that found the balance between blue and orange. The fact that we do not always find the words (in this case colors) to describe our world brings me to my main point. All my life, I have thought that I needed to find a balance; I was always speaking of extremes. For example, I always feel happy and sad at the same time; happy for everything I have, and sad for everything I’m missing. But whenever I try to describe how I feel, I either talk about the how-happy-I-am part or the how-miserable-I-feel part; so, naturally, the people around me (who care about me) always think that I am either depressed (which I have never been) or ecstatic (which I seldom are). What I have recently discovered, is that I have found a balance in life. But the problem is that there are no words to explain it; which brings me back to colors. We all know the colors blue and orange, but when we want to describe the color that lies exactly in the middle, we tend to say “blue-orange.” Our language, as complex as it may be, is still missing words that (it seems) would make communication much easier.

Liberty Park Sculpture --Maria Giotis


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Two Minutes --Barbara Kiersz She wiggled the chalk between the fingers of her right hand as she walked from right to left, waiting for an answer. I knew the answer she was looking for, but said nothing. My brain was too busy calculating, conspiring. If I use 10 weeks to train my brain, I will have four weeks to satisfy my urges. She stopped walking and listened to the dead silence; a playful smile painted itself on her face. I was smiling on the inside too. It can’t be that no one knows the answer, can it? They must be like me, they are simply too tired of answering questions they know the answer to because it’s just too easy. No challenge. I want a challenge. I was embedded in my own world, caressed by imagination. I would corner him, show him that he was at my mercy. Then, I would stare so that my eyes would perforate his. He would fall to his knees... The chalk in her hand fell to the floor and interrupted my fantasy. Still, no one had answered the question; some even laughed when her lumbar vertebrae cracked as she bent down to pick up the small white piece. My brain was not working anymore, no longer absorbing thoughts. My body was attentive, but my brain was not letting any input past sensory memory. Her wait for an answer continued as my brain turned back on. I wonder what Dexter would say: ‘’You should answer her question; you never know, she might be a serial killer.’’

Pretzels --Fatimah Na Amat


Pepper --Kurtis Watkins

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To Further the End of Days --Philip Mainwaring to further the end of days to blind with brightness and make whole the sightless raise up the roots of the tree of worlds

the words we scribed upon high my brother bring what hammer ye may bring what bleakness ye may they will yet recall the rhyme

too lengthy the discourse of ages too weighty the name of the sun the skill of muttering sages the skein of life half-undone

lay rest still be o brother my brother what rent not whole again one story, sagateller, for my kin one note upon the wind.

so we write in the blood of our fathers so we write for the light in their eyes so we will howl, names to the pages so earth will roar, so oceans will speak.

scream in the face of the thunder let loose your rage at the sky as the gods crack the earth asunder let wind will our words to fly.

ice-hallowed swept with madness sand-blasted plain of glass a forest of dead birds and trees the slow burning of the heavens

a single soft song, o singer of men rise from the deep, come again a single soft song, o singer of men these songs shall be sung to an end

Zanzibar Sunset and Fishing Boat --Rebecca Kolberg


La Sagrada Familia, Bacelona --Jessica Foldhazy

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Into the Blue --Barbara Kiersz

Sing as Quickly as Possible in the Tune of Your Choice --Zach Freedman This world is blanketed with those who lack the vision to forgo their lives and integrate yours Go forth, and Save them Tell them to build up castles and then sell them the bricks Design your daily work to break and you can sell a fix Slave away your days and nights for feats of artifice Your children shall walk naked upon fields of crackling ice Catalytic crack ancestral ground for fossil fuel Cut down your production costs by drawing kids from school Their shores were made for garbage dumps, their fields for factories Render cultures to liquid assets and skim off finder’s fees If you can’t see the victim then the act is not a crime Your worth on Earth is hourly wage multiplied by time Your future is secure and safe no matter you spend Your government looks over you and your dealer is your friend.


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Don’t Just Walk Away --Hasan Mithiborwala Every time we think we know each other, we think we were wrong to be sure. Often we hide under lips and talk no further, we hope we would find some cure. As delicate as it could be, my dream, we know we dream of us together. Then what in our hearts; stops our requiem, we still do not believe each other.

Life-size chess in Amsterdam --Jessica Foldhazy

Simple lives keep us busy and away, may be, But i know you miss me as i do when we are away. How does then the ego not dissolve in the sea, while we cry for our pain, fight for no gain anyway. Some distances never melt on waiting, but patience, glance at the empty moment by my bed tonight. I believe we have little time to feel too much these days, can you just let me know if you are alright?


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Cura te ipsum --Kyle Yandell When I put her to bed that night, I knew it would be for the last time. Her face was red with fever, and her bones shook with chills. As I brought the blankets up to her chin, I began to sing to her the song she so many times sang to me. I sat over her, sweeping the hair from her eyes and watching as the chorus brought her to sleep. I sang for a while longer, perhaps more for my benefit than for hers, until I felt comfortable that she was asleep enough to not notice her pains. With the same whispery breath I had used to sing to her, I blew out the candle by her bedside, knowing fully that by the time light had again found its way to the room, she would undoubtedly be gone. Delirious from her fever, or perhaps just nostalgic, I could hear her form words in her heavy breaths as she reenacted her part in events long past. I stood, listening and wondering about these events that she had never thought to tell me about. In my sorrow or in my fear, I know not which, I closed the door to her bedroom. It was a long walk to my bed that night. My head was a jumble of vivid flashes of memories and the heavy foreboding sense of what would await me come morning. I wondered, at this point, if should I actually ‘say’ my goodbyes, or if thinking them was enough. When I had found my way to my bed, it was clear that my pillows could offer me no real comfort that night. The late hours came with an unforgiving storm. The dark clouds hid the moon and the stars, so that the only light came in violent flashes. The wind, furious and unpredictable, tore shingles from the roof. Throughout the dark there were the sounds of breaking branches and falling trees, barely audible over the static of the rain and hail on the windows. Sometime in the night, when I either slept in my resignation or sat awake in my concern, she had fought the wool blankets until they were only a ball at her feet. Perhaps it was the storm that woke her or perhaps a stubborn independence rekindled from the few remaining embers of her life. Whatever the case, she awoke with a sort of strength and determination that had not been present in her since before the sickness had set in. In the night, as the storm raged around us, she had managed to lift herself from her bed. She had managed to stand. The morning came as mornings do. The storm had passed some time earlier, and the sun had been in my window for quite a while before I had garnered the courage to pull myself from my sheets. My thoughts forbid me peace that night, and the only change the morning offered was the fact that now, I could wait no longer. When I had forced myself, weak and wavering, into the hall, everything was sadly as I had left it. My hand held to the doorframe, reluctant to allow me to tend to what I was certain waited for me. I left my room, slowly and quietly, as if to keep myself from being noticed. My stomach felt as if it were filled with stones. I stood just outside her door with my hand hovering about the knob, my fingertips reluctant to do their duty. In my apprehension, I shifted my weight, right to left, on the creaking floorboards beneath my feet. With deep breaths, I muscled down the lump swelling in my throat. In one fell swoop of careless inevitability, the wood swung inward on its hinges. My first step into the room was accompanied by an unfamiliar chill. I watched as my breath danced, suspended in the air. My eyes began a careful survey of the room. The nightgown that had not long ago hung loose over her frame now rested limp on the floor, the boards damp from the storm. The curtains swayed in the morning breeze let in from her open window. The sun came through in thin beams separated by branches. The morning light shone on her bed, and she was gone.


Angel --Kurtis Watkins

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Moonspattered Halls --Philip Mainwaring A flash of fire blazened on my breast My dying ire, it’s poison in my chest In this rotting decayed age I fell below the rest Why should I harken to these deep, intoned sounds When before this sky darkens They fade and cease resound When will you harken to this black wailing roar Traversing the moonspattered halls Of these spiral, tilting shores

TECHNOchtitlan --Christina Martins

Limitless --Maria Giotis


Key to My Heart --Genesis Jimenez How many have thou heard? How many will thou hear? That cry they have found the one? Thine incredulity offends. Dost thou proclaim love? Young naĂŻf! Thou knowest not of what thou speaks. A love so young, so innocent, so rebellious, it wants not to ask for direction but follow the path the leads to its own destruction of being. Utter no words of what thou not comprehends. You stand weak with thine argument for I do not choose where to roam, I am led by elements out of my control. But perhaps it is so. If not from my own discovery, thou must know why his smile illuminates the dismal days, why mystical creatures flutter in the core of my soul, or why the sensations of his kisses ripple throughout my body ‘til it penetrates my bones? Child, you are blinded by superficial feelings. What thou perceives is not genuine. Infatuation perchance, but love? Nay! Preposterous ideas; youth dost not understand love. Speak no more thou foul, arctic words. You articulate logic and reason. Love is not to be understood. Have thou not been given the gift of joy or given the chance to soar on the wings of pure love? For if thou have not experienced a love that makes thou strong and in turn weak, thou hast not lived. If thou has not felt the world is only a fraction of what love can offer, thou is the one that knowest not of what thou speaks. Now Hush! For thou gives no chance to hear the melody of his song. Does it not lure? Halt! For thou distractions does not let one see the stars in his eyes. Does it not captivate? Speak all thou wants but thou cannot sway love to doubt. For as much as thou likest it to be untrue only his is the key that fits. Only he has been bestowed to reign over my heart, and he has opened up a heart that wants to love without bounds.

Stairway to Heaven --Barbara Kiersz

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Static Unicorn --Kyle Yandell


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Wings --Zareen Mobin wings that s all i need to fly away and fill the air with who i am. i couldn’t imagine a world without you tired of being held back said you needed time to find the world what was out there. said i should come foolishly encouraging you to go without me afraid of what we would find.

Express Yourself --Maria Giotis

and now that you’re gone from the very thing you searched and now that i am completely alone i need to fly. and maybe even drown to drive away the pain. that has latched on to me. and what can i do my feet seemed to have taken root. and all i want to do is drown. but my wings have started to take flight my feet still on the ground.


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Twiga --Rebecca Kolberg

Windmill --Fatimah Na Amat

Birdie and Onions --Kurtis Watkins


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In Her Own Understanding --Regina Pynn She doesn’t use the crutches, two years after they said a wheelchair, soon. The cane won’t disappear, though she tries ignoring it. She can only choke it with bony knuckles. She is keeping the secret between her hand and the handle. Plain white sneakers: sensible, comfortable, traction, the illusion of activity and long walks. Hair learns submission quickly. It lies flat, holds its breath, it slides though her comb and does not present tangles. For a long while now it has been less than ornamentation, trained to hug her skull and not to dangle its trim feet below the line of her ear. “I am,” it sighs, “defeated. This was not the way I meant to be. I am a mane. I am a trophy. I like parties and hair spray, ponytails and people saying cascading locks or chestnut bangs. I do what I must.” Still, she carried two sons and no daughters and a husband, several cats and an old dog. I look at her, and I see the wind.

This will never be finished, because I will never understand her, until I am a mother myself and she is dead. So here I stand, kneading dough for soda bread. How does she watch another woman’s daughter with her son? She takes it too well and it frightens me. Mothers are supposed to glare at women like me but she is mild, polite and friendly. She looks at me and the fervor of our relationship embarrass me. (I am so sorry, yes, your son has said these things to me and we really do mean all this to each other. We have walked and touched and he loves my tangled hair and my strength and words, hands, voice, hips. Please don’t be angry.) That is not a yelling voice, that voice would never screech or growl but only bang like branches or trashcans flown about by the wind. She will never be wrong. If she disapproves of me it is only her truth and my failure. That woman makes me think of the wind

Many times I image how it was in those early years- her swollen belly below her thin cheeks. The pregnant hue to her skin and a tired smile on her lips gently touching her husband’s arm. It is early and there is breakfast to make, but the moment seems too much to let go of just yet. She is the mother of an infinitely awkward boy who loves his fire-truck at four years old and eight in the morning. A daughter would have been nice but her son looks so much like his father. Already, though, she can see the signs of deep empathy: the world crushes men who try loving it and she hopes he manages to stay safe. This next child will be a boy also, she thinks. It demands so much of her, even more than moving from the couch arm and making breakfast. My men, she thinks, watching them and rubbing her belly.

Trapped --Barbara Kiersz


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Counting Stars --Kyle Yandell The two of us had just run a marathon through early morning sprinklers, laughing about how our parents were going to be furious if they were to discover our open windows and empty beds. Our laughter died down as our heels hit the asphalt, and just as the silence had prevailed, she pulled me into her and gave me the longest, sweetest hug I have ever known. I was 16 and stupid, and she was pretty, developed, and soaking wet. We trotted a little further and sat in the grass of a baseball field that still rang with the phantom voices of ten year old boys in an uproar about the girl on the opposite team. I tried to do everything right, just like in the movies. I let my words slip through my teeth soft and slow, half out of hesitation, and half out of the hope that they might somehow sound more brilliant that way. She told me about her dreams, and about how she wanted to be a pediatrician and all the while the only thing going through my mind was how exactly to make my fingers moving up her blouse seem less pervasive and more romantic so that she might tolerate it. The night wore on and our hands got closer the longer we kept up counting stars. “The dugouts look creepy,” she said, and she leaned her head on my shoulder. She kept talking about everything and nothing and I just stared at the top of her head, and the white streak her scalp made from the part in her red hair. She seemed calm and relaxed, but my heart hadn’t slowed since her wet, lilac scented curls had made contact with my cheek. I had finally summoned up the courage to make my pass, but almost exactly as my muscles had made their first twitch, she spoke. “You know,” she said. Her tone was different. It somehow seemed more dreamlike. It resonated inside my ears for just a little longer. The sky had lightened without my noticing and the stars had long since said their goodbyes. “You know, “she said, “When we see the sunrise, the sun isn’t really coming up over the horizon just yet.” “What?” “It’s not really sunrise. The sun just looks like it’s coming up because the atmosphere bends the light rays. You know, like, refraction. We’ve got about another three minutes of night time left, I think.” I wondered if all those movie makers and dime novelists that had made a living on teaching people the standard of associating love with sunrise had once had this exact conversation. The moment before she had said that, I was 16 and just horny I guess, but afterwards, I grew up and suddenly I was in love. She turned and looked at me, and I just kept looking at her and trying to figure out exactly what had just happened. I sat and I stared, and then her lashes slid down her big green eyes, and she kissed me. And so, for the rest of that summer at least, I loved her intensely.


The Getty Center, Los Angeles --Jessica Foldhazy

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Rotten Fall --Barbara Kiersz the crippling leaves fall with her every exhalation.

a breeze appears to revive the dead in vain; leaves reduced to dust.

as the sun goes down, the brown, red, yellow, crack.

no longer a smiling someone in the sky, the breeze turns to storm, they are taken.

no gold, no bronze, just dry wrinkles. void of expression.

no longer a smiling someone in the sky, the breeze turns to storm, they are taken.

Fjord Sunrise --Rebecca Kolberg

not gliding, but violently removed from their nest. ever again, will her pink cheeks rise to caress her blue eyes? threads of gold ferociously wrapping and trapping. exhale no more, breath no more, the angel has come, she’s gone.


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After Anticipation --Kurtis Watkins

Bear --Regina Pynn Though my glass eyes watched for years of nights, they never saw those monsters in our bedroom. Instead the moon tangled and untangled itself in the cedars while you tangled in more of our sheets. But I stopped believing in branches scratching windowsills long ago, dear little one, and so must you, without my stuffing pressed against your eyes.

Let me brush off your hair, brush out my fur and lose myself in your closet. I must not stay. I free you (who found comfort in me from chimaeras at dusk and every kind of nightmare, winding me tightly while the night breathed with you, child) from nostalgia. Live before you miss me, cub.


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The Flame --Natalia Bilchuk The wind blows sparking desire, My heart is sick of joking, I am tired. Of being played with by them too, It started long before I met you. You made me see the love in life, You made me put away the knife; The knife that bled inside my soul, Ripped my heart and made a hole, It broke away and floated into the sea, Until you found it and brought it back to me. Lost and wandering without me, How dark must my world turn so that I could see? See all the good there is to do, And all of the joy that could be brought by you. Yet I am frightened of bleeding again, And tired of searching for a friend. Ignoring you cannot be done, You are one of many, yet I am one.

Sticky Frog --Barbara Kierzs

Looking into your eyes I feel safe, As thoughts of us together overcome me in waves. One side is purple the other blue, To listen to reason or succumb to you? Yet one thing on both sides is the same, A little red, blue, and black flame. It stands and lights my path, From the dark moments’ wrath. A part of me that is true, The part that loves and has feelings for you. Try and understand where I am coming from, Hurry before the flame dies, and I am gone‌


Red Shift --Dylan Lupo

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RedShift Volume 2 Issue 2  

Spring 2008 issue of RedShift Creative Magazine

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