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FreeLancer 2009 Edition 1 of Shawnee Mission Eastâ€™s New Literary Magazine

Shawnee Mission East High School 7500 Misison Road Shawnee Mission, KS 66208 http://smsd.org/schools/smeast smefreelancer@gmail.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS VISION The Best Toy Ever - William Patrick A Basic Grammar of the Poetic Language - Tom Clarke The Martians - Katy Westhoff A Perfect Day - Rachel Arnold Illustration - Beth Capps Untitled - Grace Boehm A Poem By Me - Kaye Polloi Photograph - Niko Colom Your Eyes - Caleb Hayden Photograph - Rachel Arnold TIME Nonet - Will Fisher Louisiana Stars - Elizabeth Colburn Illustration - Ford Miller Drop - Aileen Wright Reminders of How to Live - Duri Long Still - Nora Salle Illustration - Rachel Arnold It’s Funny - Mary Jackson Photograph - Trevor Collins Photograph - Rachel Arnold Watch the Clock - Rachel Arnold Wanderings - Grace Boehm Illustration - Alyssa Jolitz Time - Adam Isenberg Illustration “Agony” - Alyssa Jolitz JOURNEY My Flip Flops - Duri Long The Farm - Lauren Gillespie Inkling - Nora Salle Alone in the Wilderness - Duncan McHenry Photograph - Rachel Arnold Circle - Lauren Gillespie Number Line - Emily Morris

2 2 3 3 3 4 4 4 5 5 6 6 6 8 9 9 9 10 10 10 11 11 11 12 12 14 15 16 16 16 17 17

Photograph - Emma Schulte Gravedigger’s Prayer - Landon McDonald Illustration - Rachel Arnold Illustration - Alyssa Jolitz Beckle’s Bog: A Short Story - Landon McDonald Illustration - Ford Miller DIRECTION The Audible Burn - Ford Miller With my little box of matches - Rachel Arnold Illustration - Paul Mackender The Inside - Katy Westhoff Knowledge Holds No Power - Owen Gray Photograph - Katy Westhoff Illustration “Math” - Paul Mackender STRUGGLE Mr. Schizo - Eric Dickinson Illustration - Ford Miller Silence on the Battlefield - Connor Rice Illustration - Alyssa Jolitz Leafbeard - Michael Schwartze Illustration “Happy Boy” - Trent Coffin Illustration - Trent Coffin Pugnabit, Peribit, Videimus - Graham Stevenson Photograph - Rachel Arnold Photograph - Niko Colom POWER This is a Car Crash Who Are You? - Griffin McDonald Photograph - Regan Jamieson Voices of Dollars - Mary Jackson Anglo-Saxon Riddle - Ford Miller Little Yellow Dog - Nora Salle Photograph - “Doctor” Rachel Arnold Photograph - Trevor Collins Custard the Fire Engine - Miguel Storm Photograph - SME Robotics Mice vs. Men - Duncan McHenry Illustration - Rachel Arnold

17 18 18 20 22 22 24 24 24 25 26 26 28 30 30 31 31 32 32 33 34 35 36

38 38 39 39 40 40 41 42 42 43 43

Crouching Walter, Hidden Mitty - Landon McDonald Photograph - Trevor Collins The Power of a Well Spoken Phrase - Alex Moskowitz Photograph - Gail Stonebarger SELF Meet Jeremiah - Rachel Arnold Weekend Warriors - Grace Boehm Illustration - Paul Mackender As He Slept - Mary Jackson Illustration - Trent Coffin Photograph - Trevor Collins An Open Letter to Hanna Anderson, Outfitter of Infants - Madeleine Pinne If I Were To Give A Damn - Michael Schwartze Reminders of How to Live - Duri Long Kansas City - Mary Jackson Illustration - Ford Miller

44 47 48 48 50 51 51 52 52 53 54 55 55 56 56

Cover - Laeden Galicia Section Heading Illustrations - Jesse Thomas Un-credited Illustrations - Rachel Arnold

DISCLAIMER This publication may contain controversial material and does not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of Shawnee Mission East High School or its administration. However, it may contain some truly â€œkick-buttâ€? writings that could blow your mind. View at your own risk.

HOW TO SUBMIT The SME FreeLancer is now accepting submissions for the 2009-2010 issue. To submit, please send your photos, illustrations, short stories, poems, comics, etc. to SMEFREELANCER [at] GMAIL.COM Please send only one piece of work per e-mail. This includes photography submissions.

vision

The Best Toy Ever by William Patrick

A Basic Grammar of the Poetic Language by Tom Clarke

I pace the floor tired and stressed, Why couldn’t she have just given us a test? I recall the dreadful assignment in my head, “Create the best toy ever,” she said. A toy maker I truly am not, But when it comes to procrastination, I’m at the top She’ll ask for my assignment and I’ll hold out my hand, Sitting there will be the world’s stretchiest rubber band.

Chapter One Basic Sentence Structure When speaking or writing in Poem one must note that it is a distinct language with many dialects like Spanish or Arabic, but in terms of sound it is more like Chinese or Thai, in that phonetic tone and inflection matters a great deal. For example the English sentence, “John sees the apple; so does Tom” would translate to “John sees the apple in the tree/ He wonders perhaps if Tom can see.” Rhyme is also important, take a look at the Poetic sentence above; look at the words ‘tree’ and ‘see’, these words rhyme. EXAMPLE: John sees the apple in the tree; he wonders just what Tom might see and walks to grab the fruit so sweet, but trips and falls, the ground to meet. In this Example, the two underlined words rhyme and the two italicized words rhyme. When you have two consecutive lines that rhyme, they are called a couplet. Pronunciation and sound is also important when speaking Poem, one need not leave out good sound and annunciation for example; EXAMPLE: Today I took too many toffees. In this Example, The sentence will be understood by Poets because of its alliteration. 2

The Martians. by katy westhoff and if the earth should fall apart, we’ll fly away on rocket ships, fly far away from here. but in the end it all must end. and that’s just how it is. in the end, we all will die our culture will just cease. it did begin so long ago, but now, it won’t. it won’t.

they’ll show us all around. we found a brand new place, with new things in every direction. new sights, new smells, new colors, too. those of us who actually made it, to those who pulled through, we’ll breed with some martians, and other species, too.

but all things must end. after the earth has gone. we humans - we will still live on, though we may be different sizes. maybe different shapes. very different, yes indeed. “we left because of fear,” they’ll say but alive: very alive. “we were so scared of you.” and on our big fat rocket ships we’ll fly around so far. we’ll meet people twice our shape, some people who lived on Mars.

the martians will be nice to us.

“for us, it’s year one-million-twenty-two. i can’t recall what it is for you.”

p Ca

“well, how old are you?” we will ask the martians.

th Be

“did you see us?” we will ask. The Martians nod their heads. “yes, we did,” will they state. “we were curious,” they’ll say. “you seemed so bright.”

Perfect day. by Rachel Arnold One day Dancing in rain Playing sweet melodies On ivory piano keys One day. 3

untitled By Grace Boehm

A Poem by Me By Kaye Polloi

I saw your name in lights last night, like the stars formed together and spelled it out, just for me a neon sign, in pinks and greens itâ€™s the middle of the night and I canâ€™t sleep. My mind w a n d e r i n g running racing, thoughts of you crashing through my body like thunder with the shock of lightning

It is truth or lies Sense or non It is trial with more error And life as it does or does not Appear It can be a dream With no taste for reality It can be told like it Absolutely is Or like it Absolutely is not It can singe your tongue While spoken Or cramp your eardrums While heard But simultaneously it can lift your Sixth Sense Out of a dull, homeless stupor It is a deep trench in the ocean With all kinds of fish With all kinds of teeth* Or it is a crystal clear lake Lodged between mountains

Niko Colom

*Some fish have teeth and they are very frightening. 4

Your Eyes By Caleb Hayden

Rachel Arnold

Every time I look in your eyes they seem to change From the cool hazel brown of an autumns breeze To a calm sky blue that the oceans only wish to mimic As it goes without being said or even being thought Your the most beautiful thing that could ever be seen For when your astounding eyes close for your slumber My world shall go dark And that breeze be gone Until you grace this world with your glance into these eyes of ours 5

Nonet By Will Fisher In paradise we are. There we lay Heads to the sky, where stars suspend. Paradise, a special place. We look for it finding We are already There. Paradise Is present In our Minds.

Ford Miller

Louisiana Stars By Elizabeth Colburn Cool Louisiana breeze blows by Refreshing after a hot summer day It tugs at my thick auburn hair And sways the hammock where I lay The crickets chirp loud and shrill And a dog howls up at the moon Stars twinkle in the midnight sky As Mama stirs iced tea with her spoon “Mama,” I say after a moment of quiet, “What makes the stars sparkle like so?” Leaning back in her rocking chair, Mama replies “Well, child, I’m afraid I don’t know.” Disappointed, I lay my head back down To gaze up at the bright shining stars And watch the glowing harvest moon hang In a wide open sky blacker than tar “But, Mama,” I say, still pondering the question “Perhaps they are not stars in the sky.” Mama rocks gently and says, “Now child, What else would they be, sitting so high?” “Maybe they’re just little bright holes,” I explain to Mama and the cool night breeze “Where people in Heaven can look down at us And sparkle because they are happy as can be.” I breathe in the crisp summer air And my words hang lightly in the quiet night Mama walks over and wraps me tight in her arms “Child,” she says, “I think you are exactly right.” The breeze blows lightly around the porch And rocks the hammock where we sit Crickets chirp and the dog howls again As mother and daughter watch the stars brightly lit.

time

Drop By Aileen Wright And the skies cried, right? Sickening, and it did make my stomach tighten. The tears, they slackened for a while, the tears of the sky, but not those from my own eyes. Friendship, perhaps, isn’t so fickle as September showers. While the sound of the rain drops intermittently, the dirt on the street washes away, away somewhere. Somewhere where we can’t see it, and perhaps that’s just it. The air conditioning’s on, and that watch that I bought and wore for a few months, now hidden somewhere beneath my bed where i can’t see it (and perhaps that’s just it), anyway it goes off at 9:30 at night. Or it did, when I set it, because now it’s slow and beeps at 9:45. It used to remind me that I needed sleep, but now that’s become all too apparent. Did you ever count raindrops? It takes a lot to rain. And now the shower’s stopped, the shower of rain, not tears. Now the tears are intermittent, and I imagine they’ll be forever. It’s raining again, it wasn’t a moment ago. But its hard to imagine not raining. The calming, elegant pour. It’s warm, inside, and probably a reflection of the outside. I’d rather the air conditioning off, to hear the rain better. Something of a poorly constructed room, next to an attic where insulation is poor, so to increase the need for one’s air-conditioning unit. But a room on the top floor warrants itself best for rain-listening. And knowing that I could hear the rain better. And the rain stopped, but not the tears, or the air conditioning. The regret follows, had I known the lucky shower was to be so brief, I might have lowered the thermostat. Now, I am cold, but I deserve. I do like rain so. Mostly, there is not a state of unrain, which I find. Lovely. Is, there is, a state of unfriendship, though the term isn’t expressed so. Animosity, is the noun, in the extreme. But unfriendship, unacquantinced, even. Uncolleages (a short spout of rain), unpeers. Strangers, but not strange, because we don’t know more people than we do, and its stranger to be friends that not. Frienship is not so fickle, but perhaps this spout is not so short. Drip. 8

Rachel Arnold

Still By Nora Salle Can you See the sound there? In the winter after half past three? Thereâ€™s peace.

Reminders of How to Live By Duri Long I wake up And slide into my favorite pair of jeans, Soft and worn, With memories sewn into the denim. Memories of hot summer nights, Of people you wish you had more time with, Of singing and dancing And for once in your life Not giving a care, Not thinking, Just being. Of piles of brightly colored leaves just begging to be jumped in, Of sitting by the fire and roasting marshmallows, The smell of smoke filling the warm evening air. Of curling up on the couch by the fire, After a long day of school, And sinking into the cushions. Of snowballs and sledding, And just barely missing that tree, And crash-landing, Laughing and panting as White powder blankets you. Of lying in the grass, My iPod blaring, Of sitting with my friends eating fast-melting parfaits, Squished on a bench, So that we can all fit. I pull on this pair of jeans, This constant reminder of How to remember, How to forget, How to weave new memories; How to make every coarse blue strand count As you stitch together the pieces that make up who you are.

It’s Funny By Mary Jackson

Trevor Collins

It’s funny How I’m constantly trapped in this building. Constantly waiting. Only suffocating. I often feel that i’m only one action Just 1 Reenactment away from INSANE. Picture,

The day when I’m sitting And possibly twitching. Maybe I could be twisting And watching the clock Simply Tick And Tock Until, it’s moving forward And then it just Stops. Like a—

Word In Or rain in

Slow

mid

sentence

S t r I d e.______ The top of a coaster NOW! Gravity Thrives. And QuicklyYourFalling TheFireCaughtOn People start SCREAMING While Legs S t a r t T o Vaguely recalling The shots that rang out. While blood’s On Your Hands and mind’s FuLl oF dOubT.

Run.

Rachel Arnold

Watch the Clock By Rachel Arnold It was here just one second, and now itâ€™s gone. It seemed so tangible, touchable, strong, but I guess I knew all along that it could never last in a place like this, not when it gets ignored, wasted, dismissed. What could I do but let it leave? I have no power against it as it twirls in that endless circle. I realize that what it meant to me will soon be just a memory. And Iâ€™m sorry, but you can break the clock, time wont stop, the second hand ticks on.

Alyssa Jolitz Wanderings By Grace Boehm The dark cold time before the sunrise hits, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone, Of casement ledges where the moss has grown, And before the sun truly commits. Where the dawn meets the gloom, A synchronized beat on an empty tomb, The crash of souls and the lifting light Together form and take flight.

And as I walk along this path Seeing how this happens every day, It gives me comfort in the change, And I know all is well again. The night is darkest before sunrise, Where rises light, and falls demise, But once that glow of morning comes, It is all lost with the sun. 11

TIME By Adam Isenberg Weary Like a circle Never ending, just goes Catching up with you as you go

“Agony” - Alyssa Jolitz

Slow down

journeys

My Flip-Flops. By Duri Long They flap against my feet Like elephant ears in the hot African sun, Dry and crusty. I wet my feet and they become slippery salamanders, Slithering away from me as I try to move forward, I have traveled far in these shoes, So far that my arches ache with pain, And the soles have worn thin, They are crumbling, The straps are coming loose, But though they may hurt me, I am free, The soles of my feet slapping the ground, Like birds escaped from a cage Flying wherever they please.

The Farm By Lauren Gillespie It was a beautiful piece of land with a white farmhouse, complete with a porch and swinging bench. Its perfect red barn sat invitingly at the crest of a small hill, a short five minute walk from the house. You could see for miles around: the little town’s church steeple rising above the trees, and past the steep valleys that rose and fell all around this little hilltop property. My wife Ruth and I bought the place on the spot. We had lived in our big brick home in the city for long enough; it was time to relax a bit and retire. We explored the 200 acres further; the small creek with the rocky sandbar, the winding pathway through the dense forest, the meadows, and most of all, the deep cave. The seller of the property told us it was inhabited by Native Americans many years ago. It was littered with rock, small stones to huge slabs of every shape and size. A cool freshwater creek careened over the slabs of limestone, rubbing them smooth. Several small tunnels housed bats, and had been explored by the seller’s son, an avid rock climber, revealing a few artifacts that were now displayed in museums. Ruth interrupted my thoughts by suggesting that we return to the house, since it was getting dark fast. I told her to go ahead; I would be there shortly. I heard the ATV’s motor purr, and slowly fade away. I continued exploring, marveling at the murals on the walls created so many years ago. I stooped down, to look at something that caught my eye. It was an arrowhead, black, now matching the night that had enveloped me, unaware. I knew better than to explore without a flashlight. But I had an idea: I pulled out my Blackberry, hoping for some light to be able to walk by. There was no service to call Ruth with, so I used its small light to stumble back to the ATV. As I began to start forward, I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I ignored the sound, suspecting bats or raccoons or some other night creature. The clambering sound of rocks moving sounded about fifteen feet away from where I was standing. I froze. That was not the sound of a small animal. I know my sight and hearing are going, but I would bet anything on the reality of that noise. My eyes strained in the pitch black darkness. I heard something move, breathe, behind me. I whipped around toward the noise. My Blackberry fell from my sweating hands into a pool of water and blinked out. Silent prayers flew from my lips. The sound of tumbling rocks, heavy feet dragging through the rubble, approached. Panic seized me and I ran. Blindly stumbling over the jagged stones, adrenaline pushing me with no intention of stopping, I heard the footsteps pursuing me. A sharp pain razed across my calf and I cried out. I looked down at it and it was cut deeply. Still in panic mode, I continued my blind run and suddenly felt a sharp temperature change. The warmer air flew down my gasping lungs. I knew I was out of the cave. I risked a look behind me. No one was there. The pale moonlight shone over the dense forest that I had ended up in. I slowly turned in a circle, searching for who, or whatever was following me. The air tensed to the point of snapping. My heart beat wildly against my ribs. Snapping twigs broke the silence, but I could not tell from where. I could run, but it could be straight toward it. I stood as still as I could, eyes straining in the darkness. The snapping branches and leaves stopped. My stomach dropped out from beneath me, the feel of helpless fear snaking through my veins. A hand grabbed me by the shoulder. The butcher’s knife glinted in the pale hand as it drew toward my exposed neck. I screamed. ********** Just as Ruth had finished boiling the soup, she heard a long noise pierce the night. Hmm, she thought. Those coyotes sure are loud.

The Inkling By Nora Salle The inkling was twinkling The waves in his brain of something aâ€™coming without face or name sauntering through hollows of cypress in vain came the bellowing shadow to finish the game.

Rachel Arnold Alone in the Wilderness By Duncan McHenry I set out from home about two weeks ago. Just left. I had no clear reason but a desire to live in the wild. Out there, in the wilderness, thereâ€™s no one to bother you. No bills, no phone calls, no schedule. The wild runs on its own time. The snow-dusted bushes answer to no one. The air has a crisp scent, the kind that you always remember when you smell it, but forget as soon as you leave. I look up at the mountains, their dark peaks pushing up towards the sky. I wonder if somewhere on the mountains two sheep are locking horns over a mate. How many millions of big-horn sheep are there in this expanse I can see? A moose, slowly lumbering through the forest stops to looks at me. He is in the wild. He has no schedule. 16

Circle By Lauren Gillespie Flying across the white There is no end to the landscape No start, no finish; The sky and land blur Where does it stop?

Emma Schulte

Number Line By Emily Morris After the one And before the two Is where I stood to wait for you You didnâ€™t show So I chose to flee Away to the number three I thought I saw a glance of you But it was just The number two Number four Held no surprise As the same with number five. By number six Hope was small And number seven Was worst of all But near number eight I saw your sign And I quickly dashed Past number nine I bound across shore and hill and cost Because I could tell I was getting close And not until I heard you laugh, Did I spin around to see, With my journey almost done, You not at five or four or three But where youâ€™d been all along Back at number one And though I was so close to number ten For you I turned To begin again

The Gravedigger’s Prayer By Landon McDonald It was getting late, and Dastard’s Diner was preparing for the midnight rush. Almost all the diner’s regulars were night owls; truckers out on long runs, factory workers on their way to the night shift, shiftyeyed insomniacs in search of coffee. These were the true creatures of the night, and Missy Hollander loved their company. There wasn’t much interesting in Missy’s life. She was thirty, unmarried, and didn’t have much in the way of looks or brains. But she loved to listen, and the late night customers had some pretty interesting stories to tell. Her favorite regular was Rash Gallows, the fiercely religious old gravedigger. Unlike most folks in his profession, Gallows liked to dig by night. He would start digging in the early evening and usually wouldn’t stop until the first rays of dawn hit the cemetery grounds the next day. He would stop for a break at midnight and would head up the dirt road to the diner for a cup of coffee. When Missy asked why he didn’t dig during the day, when it was easier and less creepy out, he would take a thoughtful swig of his coffee and respond in a gravelly voice that grave digging was something meant to be done at night. He said that God didn’t like seeing the useless bodies of the dead, bloated and withered, vacant of thought or soul, above ground and offending the sun. So Gallows dug by night, when he believed that God and everyone else were asleep. Missy had laughed when he told her this. She asked him if he really thought God slept at night. He looked at her, deadly serious, and said that he was sure of it. Why else, he asked, would so much wickedness, debauchery, and sin go on after sundown and not during the day? Gallows said that he believed Satan, who slept by day, controlled the night. Missy asked Gallows if he was ever afraid out there, all alone in the dark with no one but the dead for company. Gallows smiled gravely and nodded. He said that fear was the reason he’d written the Gravedigger’s Prayer. When Missy asked him what that was, Gallows pulled out a tattered piece of paper from his jacket pocket and began to read it out loud: O merciful prince, let me dig the grave of man. Let me exalt his weakness and his frailty while reveling in his fellow man’s desolation and despair. Let me set him in the dirt and grime, down where no deity can reach his soul, which is by all rights your own to claim. Let me feed him to the earth. Let me offer him up to you. O prince, most generous and wise, let me seal his fate for you. You, who know what it is to be buried beyond

Rachel Arnold 18

the kingdom, let me dig the grave of man. Missy was spellbound by the old man, and she eagerly awaited his arrival every night. Tonight though, was different. It was getting past one-thirty now, and Gallows was nowhere to be found. She had already set his cup of coffee at his usual seat. Just as she was getting worried, his beat-up Chevy pulled into the parking lot. He was covered in earth and dust, but he smiled warmly and waved at her as he entered. “Where were you? We were about to send out a search party!” she joked. Gallows took off his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his face. He looked really tired, like he’d been digging hurriedly for at least an hour. In his hand, he clutched his crucifix. Missy wondered if he knew he had it on upside down. “Tight schedule tonight,” he growled. “Lots of customers. You know the feeling, I’ll wager.” Missy smiled and nodded. Gallows took his usual seat and drank deeply from his cup. The boiling hot liquid seemed to barely faze him. He turned to Missy and grinned. “I could actually use an extra set of hands out there tonight, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said. “I only ask because you’ve expressed such a…interest in my work and all.” Missy was taken aback. It was like he knew that she happened to be getting off early that night. She said yes with almost no hesitation. An hour later, the two of them left the diner and headed towards the local church and the Boot Hill cemetery beyond it. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in the far distance, but no rain came. An awkward hush soon fell between Missy and Gallows. She looked at him and suddenly realized she didn’t really know him that well, just had listened to a bunch of his stories and poured his coffee. He was a complete stranger 19

The Gravedigger’s Prayer, cont.

“Fly Away” by Alyssa Jolitz

to her, and she’d gotten into his truck! She became even more nervous when she realized she’d never really looked at his face before. Without his warm, inviting tone and easy smile, Rash Gallows was actually a very scary looking man. He had shoulder-length white hair, a long disheveled beard, cold blue eyes, and a deeply scarred face that made him look like a charred corpse given new life by some dark power. To ease her concern, she turned on the radio, listening to Bob Dylan croon “Tombstone Blues.” Gallows, moving much faster than someone his age should have been able to, swiftly turned off the radio. “No music please, darling, I need to think.” The drive went on in silence until they pulled into the graveyard. Missy got out and stretched while Gallows went around to the back of the truck and fetched two shovels and a flashlight. “Don’t they use bulldozers for this?” inquired Missy. “Well, most folks nowadays do,” said Gallows tonelessly. “But I don’t mind getting down and dirty. You don’t mind, do ya?” Missy shook her head and took a shovel. “Can I have a flashlight?” she asked. “Only got one darling, and I’m the only one who knows where we’re going.” Missy reluctantly followed Gallows into the darkness, feeling her way among the headstones and mausoleums. Finally they stopped in front of an open grave.

“Well, here we are,” Gallows said. “Last customer for the night. Just needs fillin’ in. Ain’t you curious who it is?” “Do I know them?” asked Missy, shaking a little. “You might.” Missy bent down to the headstone and squinted to see the name. Finally she was able to make it out: Missy Jessebelle Hollander 1977-2007. She had time to scream once before Gallows hit her from behind with the shovel. There was a moment of blinding pain, and then her entire body went numb. She dropped her shovel and fell stiffly into the open grave, semi-conscious and paralyzed from the neck down. She screamed and pleaded as Gallows began to shovel dirt into the open grave, splattering her with wet soiled earth. “NO PLEASE, PLEASE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Missy shrieked, choking a bit on the dirt. “Sorry babe,” Gallows grunted. “But the prayer don’t work without sacrifice. Gotta guarantee my safety out here, don’t I? And what better way than through prayer! Now hush now, and let me start, O merciful prince, let me dig the grave of man. Let me exalt his weakness and his frailty while reveling in his fellow man’s desolation and despair. Let me set him in the dirt and grime…” “GOD WON’T LISTEN TO A PRAYER FROM A MURDERER!” Missy screamed desperately as the soil piled up around and over her. “You’re religious, you read the Bible, you…you know that prayer is only for…for the pure and the penitent! DO YOU HEAR ME? GOD WON’T HELP YOU!” “Darling, in case you ain’t noticed, it’s still dark out.” Gallows sneered. “And the Gravedigger’s Prayer ain’t to God.” He finished about twenty minutes later and headed home whistling, swinging his upside down crucifix as he went. The next morning came, and Gallows was up with the sun. He made breakfast, put on his best suit, and hurried outside to his truck. It was Sunday after all, and Rash Gallows didn’t want to be late to church. THE END 21

Beckle’s Bog: A Short Story By Landon McDonald Just beyond the Narrows, the Vagley River widens into a massive expanse of marshland known to the nearby villagers as Beckle’s Bog. Named after the famously incompetent explorer Sir Francis Beckle, the swamp marks the site of the untimely demise of not only Beckle, but also his loyal crew, freshly sprung by Beckle from a nearby madhouse. Convinced through what must have been seconds of careful planning and patient research that the marshland was in fact the long sought after Northwest Passage to Antarctica, Beckle loaded his crew onto a team of handsome racing donkeys, fed the steeds a batch of Ye Olde Bullred, and soon the journey was underway. Accompanying Beckle was his faithful concubine Olga and his prized collection of monocles. Soon, Beckle’s party came across a roving gypsy caravan. Beckle dismounted Olga and, slipping in his most impressive monocle, demanded that the gypsy king show him the way to the Northwest Passage to Antarctica. Taking the gypsy’s shrugging as a foreign way to point with one’s shoulder blades, Beckle and his crew ascended up a series of mountains until they finally arrived at the Bog. By then half the crew was dead, three of Beckle’s monocles were missing, and Olga was very tired. But Beckle was still determined to finish his quest, urging Olga on. Soon the rest of the crew had starved to death. Only Beckle and Olga remained. Olga, halfcrazed and high on swamp fumes, knocked Beckle over the head with his monocle purse and returned home alone. Thus perished Sir Francis Beckle and thus was born his legend.

Ford Miller

quotes from Fight Club

direction

The Audible Burn By Ford Miller The audible burn of the streetlight. Drawn out shadows cast by the moon. Whatâ€™s left of the silence, Subtly disrupted by the men Who by day forge the peace They secretly despise so much. Ruin is their design. Their sanctuary. Their craft.

Paul Mackender

With my little box of matches. By Rachel Arnold I am down, sinking in this mire With my little box of matches Should I start a fire? To burn it all to dust and ashes To fight the thunder And lightning flashes? This book is filled with nonsense, mayhem Words spiral down Confuse us, concern them This tempest is a violent rage With my little box of matches Should I burn my own page? It would be easier to read Without my desperation Fear and greed But doesnâ€™t every storm have to end The rains cease to fall And the light to transcend? As I stand here in this crushing black With my little box of matches Should I light my way back? I look around in this perpetual night Who do I see here? Who is here to make things right? I rise up on graceful wings Each feather is a friend Their multitude of voices sings Sing with arms entwined to lift me high With my little box of matches Should I release them in the sky? Today I may Because today I fly. 24

The Inside. By katy westhoff modeled after Billy Collins’s Aristotle Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Talk about my life, about where it might go. A clever anecdote, perhaps. Maybe a catchy first line. Deep insight to a character... but... we’ve only just started, so not too insightful. Unless I’m going for deep. Then let’s go all the way. Dive into the deep, deep end. Hold my nose under the water for a while. Almost die. You sucked in yet? You want to read it yet? Good, good, that’s how you measure a good beginning: The reader’s willingness to go on. So we’ve started at the beginning. Now, let’s move on to the middle. The center, the core. Well, not the core. No one can eat the core of an apple, that is. No, no, if the beginning was the red skin on the outside, then let’s call us the nice, juicy, tasty part of the apple – or novel, or poem, or any bit of literature. Let’s get into the deep ideas.

It’s OK if I’m boring – You’ve already been sucked in That beginning was excellent, But it’s my job to inform. This happened. Then this. Now this. Wait, this! Are you reading carefully? Did you catch that brilliant: a) foreshadowing? b) symbolism? c) theme hint? d) character development? Hold up, conflict. Oh no. Oh no. What now? What do I do? Panic, PANIC! Things calm down. Thus ends the middle. The end! The end! Wrap it up with a neat, fluffy bow. We’ve picked out all the seeds in this conflict, time to end it. Make sure we leave the reader something to think about: Something deep, something nice, Something that will make them think about me. For a long time. You can’t read and forget! Then what is literature? Without thought? It is not literature! It is fluff! Mind fluff! Let me not cloud your mind, instead, Let me expand your thoughts! I am the point! I am the reason you read my middle and my beginning! They came together to create me! It’s all been building up to this! You’ve made it! You’ve done it! It’s over! Now what?

Knowledge Holds No Power By Owen Gray As I sat in the corner of a bar, hiding and basking in the darkness, I overheard the beginnings of a fateful conversation growing at the table beside me. Three men, two much younger than the other, hunched themselves over their drinks, speaking in subtle and droning voices that I alone could hear. I tried my best to ignore them. But the topic of the conversation was one in which I have never refrained from taking an interest. It took me but one pint of ale to discern that the two young men required a teacher; the older man was their hope for filling that position. “Teach us to read,” said the youth. “Teach us to write and compute and philosophize. Teach us the names of the birds, the land-creatures and the fish. Teach us all the matters of fact that you know so that we may one day be as wise as you.” The older man sat in silent thought for a moment, his white hair and beard almost blending into the white smoke of two dozen pipes smoked throughout the hall. “I do not have an answer for you,” he replied. “Come back tomorrow evening and I will discuss with you again.” With that the man rose and exited the bar, walking into a starless night, his white hair bouncing and swaying as he disappeared into the forest.

Katy Westhoff

I returned the next night, half out of interest, half out of habit, and entirely because I knew I had no choice. I assumed my same spot, as inconspicuous as a man could be in such a place. My black garb and sultry manner blended well with the dimness of the bar. I waited for only a few minutes before the old man came back in. Seeing him fully for the first time, I must say he did look the part of teacher. A long blue cloak wrapped around his torso, a beard that reeked 26

Knowledge Holds No Power, cont. of authority, and black-rimmed spectacles that gave the aura of education. He sat down at the seat he had taken the night before and unknowingly joined me in waiting for the other two. It didn’t take long. The two entered together only five minutes later. They looked around the room and spotted their potential master. Both had eager looks of anticipation on their faces as they took their seats from the previous night. The bearded man sat expressionless across from night. The bearded man sat expressionless across from them. “Well?” one asked. “Have you come to a decision?” The man paused one moment to collect his thoughts and spoke. “I have come to a decision. However, it depends on how you answer this one question. Why do you want to learn?” The young men sat quietly for a minute or two until one answered slowly “We want to learn because knowledge is power. The greatest minds of our time know so much. The most successful at business have vast knowledge. To know everything is to be all-powerful. Our lives will be better if we know what you know.” The old man smiled. “I have my answer,” he said. “Your response was one of honesty and truth. However, your journey, I think, is not. I cannot teach you.” The two youth were devastated. “Wise sir” one said, “your decision disappoints and angers me. I believe if anyone is worthy of your tutelage it is us. How can it be that we, who show such promise and have such a longing for your knowledge, are turned away! It is outrageous!” The two stood to leave, fuming. But the old man called for them to stay just a moment for an explanation. He began… “You two do indeed have a yearning for knowledge. To know the anatomy of an animal, to know the theories of Pythagoras, to know the capitals of the world – these are the things which you hope to know. There is a time to learn these things and it is not bad to do so. But your quest should not be concerned with knowledge- to understand trivial matters is not in your best interest, nor mine to teach you. True knowledge, the knowledge that one

Nothing Is Perfect By Eric Dickinson The lawn mower is a perfect tool scare a neighbor’s dog use in a loud noise contest impress natives of the deep jungle slay and dismember zombies make very blended vegetables But I really hate cutting my grass every week 27

Knowledge Holds No Power, cont. should live their entire life with, cannot be summarized in a textbook or sermon. True knowledge is the truth that each person comes to by themselves through their experiences; their interactions with others. It is the same reason one cannot be lectured into believing in God. One must find their own faith by themselves, not be told of other people’s. Knowledge such as this is rare, and many live their entire lives without it. And those that know the meaning of every Greek word, the physics of an atom, and the history of every country have no greater advantage in their quest for true knowledge than does the uneducated bum. To seek such knowledge is a waste of time. You must seek and want something deeper. When you do, I will teach you.” The young men barely listened to the last words of the old man’s speech before they turned around and stormed out the door. The teacher sat for a few more moments, finished his mead, and paid the tab for himself and the two boys before leaving. I don’t think any of the three ever noticed me, and will surely never remember me. But I will remember them. The words the old man spoke were ones which struck a chord with me. My life had taught me the lessons he was teaching and there is no doubt that he had spoken the truth. The two young men came with a want for the man to teach them. And teach them he did. They just didn’t know enough to understand it. “Math” - Paul Mackender

struggle

Mr. Schizo By Eric Dickinson

Ford Miller

It was a slow Tuesday night at the Crabapple Que’s. I was at work as a waiter, dazing off and waiting for some excitement. I turned to my friend and said, “It’s5:08, Schizo late!” So you see, every Tuesday night, at exactly 5:07, this guy walks in with his head down and his hand in his pockets.. He always wore the same purple plaid jacket, sat at the same table, and ordered the same food. We called him Schizo because he always talked, but never to anyone but himself. He’d order by just pointing at what he wanted on the menu. At first, this really pissed me off, but I learned to love a customer that didn’t speak. Now it was 5:13, and still no schizo. Finally, he barged threw the doors and walked immediately to his table. Ignoring everyone, he started moving sugar packets until the egdes were perfectly even. This wasn’t like Schizo, he was much more nervous and jittery than usual. I strolled over to him with my professional smile and waited for him to point to his meal. He glared at me and shouted, “What are you staring at?” Now I was speechless. It was interesting to hear him talk, but his voice gave me a swooping chill. puttered out a response, “How can I help you, sir?” He quickly replied with, “Do you know where I can buy a gun?” I couldn’t tell if he was joking, so I said, “Sir, this is a restaurant.” “Never mind,” he said, “I’ll just have to settle on setting them on fire.” “This is hardly appropriate, Sir.” Schizos eyes sharply opened wide as he said, “No! What is inappropriate is having a thief take everything but the clothes on your back and your fat wife!” Again I was speechless. I looked back at my friend and saw his face had turned pale while. Schizo shouted, “Hey, wait a minute! That’s the guy who robbed my house.” My friend bolted to the door, and the customer quickly f ollowed, screaming, “You forgot my wife, asshole!” Once both of them disappeared all I heard was crying and shrieking from my friend fade into the distance. That was the last time I saw either my friend or Schizo. The end is simple, and I learned the moral of the story is, don’t mess with the quiet ones. 30

Silence on the Battlefield By Connor Rice As a thousand enraged voices cried out, the drums of war sounded. Peasants gathered at the glade, and had armed themselves with the iron weapons of their so-called â€œProtectorsâ€?. Already has blood been spilt by their hands, yet their bloodlust has not been quenched. Sounds of the drums grew louder as the Protectors drew near. The voices of the peasants seemed to rival the drum beats. Then the inevitable and unsettling silence before the battle was upon them. For a moment, neither a drum beat, nor a warcry was heard. It was the unfamiliar silence which struck the most of fear into the very soul of every man, woman, and child. With the fear came doubt, and with doubt came fear. This unrelenting cycle continued until one man released his grip on the string of his bow, and his arrow pierced the heart of another. With the doubt shattered, the drums and the voices sounded once more. Their silence had been broken.

Alyssa Jolitz 31

Trent Coffin

Leafbeard By Michael Schwartze There was nothing that irked Leafbeard the Green more than the loud, littering, irresponsible people that slurped tomato soup all of the time and left their piles of trash around the tree of truth. The tree of truth had been nothing less than worthy stationary pirates’ roost ever since he found it 5 years earlier. Leafbeard loved and cared for this tree more than he cared about any human being on Earth. He trusted the gifts of nature much more than the gifts of mankind. The gifts of mankind are more often than not, destructive in their core. One bright morning near the beginning of Autumn, Leafbeard was many branches up in the tree of truth. The leaves had already changed into a sea of oranges, yellows, and various brown-shades such as mahogany. He heard voices from below him, so he took a glance downward. He saw two guys in polos with baseball caps on backwards holding thermoses full of tomato soup talking loudly and making quite the fuss. They were covering the ground in trash and spitting on the poor tree! This filled Leafbeard with a rage greater than that of even Poseidon on his grumpy days. He leaped down upon the hooligans, drawing his wooden dagger from its earthy, all-natural sheath. “Ahoy, me mateys! I’m Leafbeard and I’ll be your mugger for today,” Leafbeard said, holding the dagger rather close to the smaller, 32

Leafbeard cont.

Trent Coffin

smarter-looking invader first. “We refuse,” he spat out. “That’s our stuff and we’re not gonna let some stinking hippy-pirate run off with it!” “Too bad, my boy,” Leafbeard said, grabbing them and stuffing them into a burlap sack. Leafbeard had decided not to rob them. No, he had something far more creative planned for these troublemakers. He began to pick up all of the trash and stuff it in the sack on top of the rude offenders. Leafbeard dragged the sack all of the way over to a nearby trash can. He stuffed the two delinquents and their trash into the educational receptacle. Now, wouldn’t you know it, but those troublemaking nature-haters had a revelation while crammed in that trash can. They realized that trash is gross, and no one wants to be covered in it. After a couple of days the trash men came by and were surprised to find them, and helped them out and sent them on their merry way to never litter again.

Pugnabit, Peribit, Videbimus Graham Stevenson As the soldier stepped out standing straight and proud He listened to the hateful jeers of the crowd Some chose to stand, for their seats were made of stone All but the rulers who were perched upon thrones Everyone came to see a blood bath today This man betrayed a country or so they say Faced with the threat of public execution And offered hope of complete restitution A challenge between man and fate that decides By pitting him against forces that collide Destiny’s tools are soldiers’ swords in sheaths Lion’s claws sharp as knives and tigers’ teeth This man in his prime clad in shiny chain mail And a helmet giving him hope of avail In his mind he knows he’s guilty as all sin He did the crime and he would do it again Although it was wrong, it did not deserve this It was not adultery but just a kiss They say love thy enemy but this was lust A courting that went against a nations trust He kissed the princess under another king But she was the fairest he’s ever seen She glowed like a goddess, cascading brown hair Her eyes were baby blue against skin so fair She dropped a hint that apparently I missed I finally got it then couldn’t resist The rest of the night I could not recall All but the guards that had dragged me down the hall The king took his stand, guards quieted the crowd Because when he spoke talking was not allowed The king spoke with valiance and boasting pride He stood with at least 18 guards at his side 34

Pugnabit, Peribit, Videbimus, cont. “Pugnabit. Peribit. Videbimus” At the top of their lungs they screamed “damnamus” This meant he will fight, he will die, we will see What the crowd screamed was we are condemning he “Today we are here,” he went on to say, “To see a man die and if he’s guilty we may. Aerothosis kissed one of the enemies, Now he begs for his life on his hands and knees.” The crowd broke out in steady laughter at this Stripping the dignity from Aerothosis The king signaled to free the lion to fight, It lunged to Aerothosis with all its might From the nearest stands he had heard the crowd shout “You do not know what honor’s even about” The tears in his eyes clouded his view by now Then combined with dirt from his furrowed brow, This had made him trip and stumble to the wall Feeling along the stone reduced to a crawl His brother knowing justice cannot be served If they’re this helpless even if its deserved His brother was crawling around, his life cursed A guard of the king but blood always comes first, So trained to be strong he stood up with the sword The very same one wielded by his own lord It was broad, balanced, and crafted by hand It was shaped with hammers and sharpened with sand To wield this sword brought honor like no other Now it will have to be used to save his brother The lion looked up right when he touched the ground Even though he had not made a single sound It found him as more of a threat than as prey Only because of the sword needless to say He couldn’t even believe what he now saw

Rachel Arnold

Niko Colom

Pugnabit, Peribit, Videbimus, cont. His whole head was only as big as its paw This lion was a beast bred just for fighting 400 pounds was no trick in the lighting He knew he was doomed but he could only stand With his only weapon, sword stiff in his hand He got angry and mean adrenalin shot Through his veins practically threatening to pop They fought with the fury of a hundred men A ball of muscles struggling to the end Then leaving him as the victorious one Standing before the audience looking stunned The lion at his feet blood splattered and still

The gaping stare of the eyes gave him a chill He ran to his brother, who shouted “you’re okay!” I thought I was losing a brother today” The king was not happy; this was not allowed But their lives now depend solely on the crowd They took a moment to make up their reply They all said let them live, there was no doubt why This man risked his life just to save his brother Somewhere a man clapped, one followed the other All erupted in shouts: they were saying “live!” Though they came to watch him die without misgive 36

power

This is a Car Crash Who Are You? By Griffin McDonald Rocked over cliff, barrier shatters, shrapnel flies impales into skull of passers by. Car disintegrates, flowing across the sky becoming atmosphere gas to metal, metal to gas, complete osmosis in 36 seconds. Fumes flow flow flow flow flow We drift over the edge in slight silent unison, over the bluffs Forested green orbs glimmer roll bowl of marbles spilling unto the earth through midwestern knuckle discrimination We look at each other and smile. Can we read the other like a billboard or an open notebook? The folds of one brain are congruous to the other and when smothered together fit like a puzzle

Photo by Regan Jamieson

Voices of Dollars By Mary Jackson Voices of dollars and drops of blood, stifle the minds of ones we might love. People in places that sell a name a title a symbol or simply a phrase. Voices of dollars trick them to spend. Tainting the blood for feelings with in. Degrading the soul, wasting their time to be like the ones whom they idolize.

Anglo-Saxon Riddle By Ford Miller [answer at bottom of page] I am a dancer, talented in my trade, Flowing swiftly, sweeping to and fro, I rise and fall to a crackling rhythm, To lick at the food you fondly watch over.

All cut their hair. All just the same. Selling themselves to forget their names. Clones become armies all over the world Living to breath while some flag is unfurled. answer to riddle: fire 39

Little Yellow Dog By Nora Salle There is a little furry friend sitting in the shade, with a little furry tail wagging wildly way to way. He has golden eyes and a long pink tongue, happy and unflustered “and the little yellow dog was sharp as mustard.” He is the smartest dog in all the land, playing daily with children in the warm yellow sand. He and his buddies like to chase the ducks bathing in the pond, and of all the people in the town he was very fond. One day on his way home to the little clearing in the valley, he saw an unfamiliar creature flattening Flower Alley. “Woof-Woof!” he cried to the man on the machine, “what’s this you do to all my friends, our homes, and to me?” The mustached man looked at the dog without any empathy, “You’d better get on outta here before I make you leave.” The man snarled at the dog and motioned him to shoo, “I’ve got orders here to build a mall, and there is nothing you can do!” The little dog looked at the man shocked and disbelieving, “I never thought that people could be so deceiving!” This was his home and the bird’s and the deer, not a place to pour cement and not a place to fear. The little yellow dog stood proudly defying the man’s orders, “You will stop this madness right now!” the dog said sounding like a warder. The little yellow dog that night called a meeting of his neighbors, to let them know about the man and to stop it without favors. “Now I don’t think it’s fair that he flattens our homes, let’s stand up for our lively hood and our families and our homes!” he said urgently to his friends “Let’s stop “Wrinkles on the Face of the Earth” by the Doctor 40

Trevor Collins

Little Yellow Dog, cont. the man, the machine, and let’s protect our land!” All the valley creatures, then, stood right up and cheered! The mice, the rabbits, the snails, the squirrels and the family of deer! “But what can we do?” asked Ms. Bluebird concerned, “To stop that machine, those men, and their order? We are smaller than them and they don’t seem to care about us and our families, our homes and the air!” The little yellow dog was saddened by this. “Why Ms. Bluebird, don’t worry, we are stronger than him—we don’t have machines that pollute and destroy but we have our pride and our love and our joy! If we all get together to stop the machine, then maybe, just maybe we, can keep our green valley clean!” A thunder of cheers erupted just then by the birds and the beavers and even Ms. Hen. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” said the little yellow dog, “Tomorrow at sunrise if rain or if fog! We’ll defend our homes with peace and with reason and we’ll stop these men from destroying our season!”

Custard the Fire Engine By Miguel Storm Custard was a beautiful fire engine With long ladders, big hoses, and loud sirens. One day Custard got a call, And the new local ice cream shop was on fire. During the grand opening, Mr. Hurley Burton Had left the freeze machine on and it overheated. Children panicked as the roaring flames Tore through the bright colors of the shop. Hurley scrambled to the telephone to call Custard Now Custard was an older fire engine, But up jumped Custard snorting like a new engine, Sirens wailing and horns tooting. He raced down the street grunting and grinding,

As cars scrambled out of the way. Custard arrived seconds later at the blazing fire And immediately started shooting water at the fire. The lead fireman was shouting at the top of his lungs. â€œMan the hoses and ladders!â€? The men scrambled to Their stations and worked old Custard to exhaustion. Children stood around with blank stares as The old fire truck saved the day and the summer, Because the ice cream shop opened The next weekend for all the children To enjoy ice-cold refreshments.

Mice vs. Men By Duncan McHenry Us humans bustle round the Earth, Ever building, since our birth. Hustle, work, go catch the bus, I might be late, in God we trust. Skyscrapers, cars, I need education. Steel and bars, the building of a nation. What next? A deadline I must meet, Thinking, improving, what a feat. Time is money, donâ€™t be a dummy, I laugh sometimes, if something is funny. But then back to the drag, the speed of life, We work so hard, living under a knife. A mouse who lives beneath my feet, Worries about little, but how he will eat. Rachel Arnold

Less progress, ambition, their condition I envy. Living under the sky, not caring, tillâ€™ they die. 43

Crouching Walter, Hidden Mitty By Landon McDonald The sound of her banshee screech was deafening, but God knew he was used to it by now. Walter Mitty often wondered how he had managed to avoid going completely deaf from the many years he had spent enduring his wife’s constant caterwauling. It was baffling to him. Maybe his ears, like the rest of him, had just become accustomed to it. Here she came now, like the inevitable roar of thunder that always follows the lightning, wearing a repulsive fluffy florescent pink bathrobe, hair curlers, blue lipstick, way too much eye shadow, Spongebob Spuarepants slippers, and unfortunately for Walter, a shopping catalog from Best Bargain with “great deals” on 5,000 dollar big screen plasma TVs. Walter stood up from the couch from where had been trying to watch his favorite game show and braced himself for the worst. But now, now was the calm before the storm, now was the time that Walter liked to refer to as “The Great Suck Up”. His wife’s ruddy red face, flush with excitement and anticipation, slowly but surely inflated with hot air, bulldog-like cheeks expanding to make room for more yelling fuel. Once she had successfully reached her maximum limit, she pursed her bloated lips together, and then the countdown began. Batten down the hatches, Walter thought to himself, here comes the countdown! 5…4…3…2…1…BLAST-OFF! Elvis has left the building! “OH WALTER! WALTER! I’VE FOUND THE CUTEST THING EVER! WALTER, ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME? WALTER! HELLO? EARTH TO WALTER THE COUCH POTATOE? IT’S ME HONEYCHEEKS, YOUR MAGNIFICENTLY BODACIOUS WIFE! BEST BARGAIN’S HAVING A SALE! THE SALE OF THE CENTURY! WE JUST HAVE TO GO! IT’S A LIMITED TIME OFFER, WALTER! WALTER, BABY CAKES, LISTEN TO ME! ARE YOU 44

LISTENING, WALTER?” “Yes dear,” mumbled Walter, “what do you want to go there for?” He already knew the answer and but was dreading it nonetheless. “I WANT THE 75 INCH MONSTER EL MUCHO SCREEN! THE BIGGEST THEY MAKE! ON SALE FOR A MERE $4999.99! MY GOD! WHO COULD POSSIBLY ASK FOR MORE?” “Who indeed, my dear? But uh, don’t we already have a pretty big TV? It’s bigger then most of the ones I’ve seen at Best Bargain.” “WELL WALTER, I SEE NOW WHERE YOUR TRUE LOYALTIES LIE! TRUE, OUR TELEVISION IS BIG…BIGGER THEN MOST! BUT I WANT THE BIGGEST! I WANT THE BEST! DON’T YOU THINK I DESERVE THE BEST, WALTER? DON’T YOU?” “Only the best for you, d…d…darling. Let’s go now. We can get there right when they open up! Wouldn’t that be great, h…h…honey?” “NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT! I HAVE A LIFE, WALTER! A LIFE THAT MUST BE LIVED! I HAVE TO GO SHOPPING WITH BETTY AT TEN, GO TO LUNCH WITH ROSIE MAY AT NOON, AND I NEED TO GO SEE THE NEW MOVIE “SKINNY WHITE PEOPLE WITH PROBLEMS” AT THE MULTIPLEX AT TWO! SO YOU SEE, SWEETY POO, I COULDN’T POSSIBLY ACCOMPANY YOU TO GET OUR NEW TV! I HAVE FAR TOO MUCH TO DO! YOU’LL HAVE TO GO YOURSELF! BE BACK BY FIVE! YOU HAVE A CURFEW NOW DARLING! REMEMBER THAT!” “Yes dear. You go on and I’ll get the television. I didn’t have any plans for today anyway. That silly jury summons can wait. I love…” By the time he had said “you”, she was already out the door and gone. Walter stood alone there for a minute, and then left as well. By the time he had gotten his ancient 1982 El Camino all the way to Best Bargain, the store had already been open for more then three hours and there were lines out the door. Walter realized that this was the day that the new Happy Time Kung Fu Disco Bloodbath video game came out for the GameBox 360 system. It was all the rage with the kids these days and had become somewhat of a phenomenon. It was then that Walter saw it. A gigantic billboard for the video game, showing a bling-bling wearing leprechaun dressed in a ballerina tutu wielding a flamethrower and a samurai sword, had some small fine print at the bottom of it Walter squinted to see what it said. It read

Crouching Walter, Hidden Mitty, cont. the following: GAME IS BEST WHEN PLAYED ON A 75 INCH MONSTER EL MUCHO SCREEN. “Oh…crud,” Walter thought, “this is… not good Not good at all.” Then he saw it. At the other end of the store there was a display for 75 inch Monster El Mucho TVs! Wait…was that display empty? No! It couldn’t be! Wait a second…there was one TV left! One last El Mucho big screen television! The last one in the entire store! It had to be his! That was when Walter saw another man making his way towards the TVs. Walter knew he had to get to the display first, but the other man already had a big head start. There was no way to beat him there. Suddenly it dawned on Walter: he would have to fight the man for the TV. But the other man looked pretty tough. Wow, thought Walter, I wish I knew kung fu… A bloody crimson sun had risen in the Far East and then settled into the center of the sky. High noon. It was a fine and honorable day for battle. Kung Fu Master Mitty knew this, and so did his opponent, the aptly named Unknown Guy. The object of today’s clash of the kung fu titans was over the priceless El Mucho amulet. One would win and one would lose. One would live and one would die. It was time. There was no going back now. The two fighters readied themselves and took their battle stances. Then, like in an Old West shootout, it was only a matter of time before someone made the first move and then the conflict would begin. Unknown Guy soon grew impatient and rushed Kung Fu Master Mitty. Master Mitty blocked the clumsy punch and delivered an expertly placed kick to Unknown Guy’s face, sending him staggering back. Then Master Mitty pressed his advantage. His fists and feet were blurs, striking blow after blow as Unknown Guy was forced back to the edge of the Temple of El Mucho. Then Unknown Guy cheated. He faked Master Mitty out. He pretended to try to punch Master Mitty but then kicked him instead, sending 46

Trevor Collins him back into the Holy Container of the El Mucho Amulet. The Holy Container wobbled and began to fall. Master Mitty, knowing that the gods would punish him if the amulet was hurt, caught the Holy Container at the last minute before it crashed to the ground. Then Master Mitty jumped into the air, well over the head of the awe-struck Unknown Guy, and landed behind the confused warrior, grabbing him by the neck. Master Mitty then calmly threw the unfortunate Unknown Guy off the Temple’s edge. The Unknown Guy landed headfirst on a thorn bush far below the temple and lay there, unconscious. Then Master Mitty claimed victory, took the El Mucho Amulet as his prize, and returned triumphantly to his homeland, where his beloved mistress awaited him… By the time Walter got home from the police station after being let off with a warning, his wife had fallen asleep in front of the old TV, her face covered in a disgusting nightmare mixture of Doritos and chocolate hot fudge ice cream. She was snoring, and bubbles of chocolaty snot burst forth from her nasal cavity in successive intervals. Walter wrapped the new TV in old Christmas wrapping paper and set it by his wife’s side to discover when she awakened. Before at last retiring for the evening, Walter kissed his food splattered angel on the forehead and wrapped her in a blanket to keep her warm. Then Kung Fu Master Mitty, the greatest martial arts warrior the world has ever known, crawled into bed and fell asleep watching a rerun of “Courage the Cowardly Dog” on his old black and white television. 47

The Power of a Well Spoken Phrase By Alex Moskowitz Is the pen truly mightier? What power does it have to back such a force that stifles artillery and inspires menâ€™s hearts? Can it not be mimicked? Is there no better alternative? Where else can such force be found? Those words you spoke so well articulated can plant a bomb start a war make history Where does the power lie In a well written speech? Is there some secret? Can words buy a soul? You once wrote of equality under the eyes of a being supreme and people understood Writing has inspired the souls of all. And whether for better or worse writing is in the hearts of all

Gail Stonebarger

self

Meet Jeremiah By Rachel Arnold He sat at the desk, coffee nearby, typing as many words as his fingers could manage. Light was beginning to filter in through the slatted blinds, dancing around the illuminated dust particles that hung in the humid air and making a bead of sweat appear on his brow. Glancing up at the pulsing screen, jagged red lines caught his attention and he cursed softly. His fingers paused for a moment and a moment was lost as he deliberated fiercely whether to fix the errors or to continue. The fevered clicking would announce his decision to anyone listening. The sky was almost completely lit when he leapt up from his chair and struck the desk with a closed fist. The printer beeped and a voice called from downstairs simultaneously. “Jeremiah! You’re going to be late!” A pause – the silence filled with his frantic bustling around the study. “You’re not doing homework are you?” His mother’s unnaturally shrill voice rose another decibel as she accused him. “No, mom, I told you, I didn’t have any homework.” Jeremiah called back as he snatched the warm, freshly printed pages of his thesis paper out of the tray and boisterously leapt down a flight of stairs. He kissed his frazzled mother on the cheek and dashed out the front door. It was so nice for such a devout procrastinator such as himself to live right next to the school. Settling into the decidedly uncomfortable desk, he felt a familiar sense of relaxation wash over him. It was too difficult to be uptight at school The bell trilled three ear-twisting times, and on the last ring, his best friend shoved the door open, crushed papers in his hand, backpack unzipped and a generally harried look about him. Jeremiah grinned as Ace dropped his bag and dissolved into the seat like he’d just run a marathon. In due time, his weary green eyes met Jeremiah’s humored purple ones. “I totally just finished my paper. I’m so going to fail.” His voice was resigned and decidedly apathetic. Jeremiah chuckled and slapped Ace on the back, drawing a groan. “Don’t procrastinate, dude.” He held up his crisp three sheets of paper. “I got mine done a week ago.” And then school passed as it always did, in a blurry sort of haze that left him feeling like he had forgotten something and not caring about what it was.

Weekend Warriors By Grace Boehm Weekend warriors and our best friends The writers weren’t kidding when they said All good things must end Roller coaster rides make me sick, The beams and boards of your mind keep me racing, The fright and consequences of your touch keep me rolling And after all this time, I just want to get away. I’ll grab my keys, run for the hills. Too sick, I’m too weak for your thrills.

Paul Mackender

Weekend warriors and our best friends All good things must end Sunshine blazed hot and burnt the earth Even the winds ceased movement with fury, But although the heat of your touch is trapped in my veins like fire still I wanted you I wanted you forever Weekend warriors; our best friends They weren’t kidding when they said All good things must end

As He Slept By Mary Jackson As he slept clinched in his hand was a book of Superman. Batman posters draped his walls. Green Lantern light shaded them all. Spiderman covers up to his waist but held dear and toward his face. A blanket, print of camouflage which made the boy a faint mirage. It was washed so many times but the smell built its design. It smelled so light of chemicals, and smoke that had not bled from wood. Stained with dirt. Now torn and tattered. But none of this even mattered. For the boy could smell something. A now faint smell of onion rings. Matched with cologne that filled his dreams. Dreams that made him

Trent Coffin

want to scream. Dreams that woke him with a start. Made his head throb and blue eyes dart. Thoughts so filled with blood and gore. Torment from a far off war. Scenes that held loud cries of pain. But even here a hero reigned. A hero dressed in camouflage. With his mind unsabotaged. Complete with boots that had the power to make him run fast and march for hours. He had a gun but wore no cape `cause this hero wrote his own fate. He wrote it on post cards of things that had been untouched. Had been unseen. And every time he signed his name he smirked and laughed and lost all pain. He signed it with a smiley face And never felt at all disgraced. He signed the name of â€œSoldier Manâ€? 52

As He Slept, cont. And then as quickly as he can glanced into his open palm and only for a moment long a picture of his son did show as night around him seemed to grow. But this was not just a dream. Across the oceans. Near the seas. There sat a male with cobalt eyes who hid his fear. Who showed his pride. Who sent some mail two months ago and now as we all must know, He sent a package to his son, which he had bought had saved. Had won.

something that you may not know. For upon the other side sat a thing that escaped eyes. It was a tag in scarlet red. With great effort

Afghanistan ” Signed so light with shaky hands it also said, written in ink, “I love you more than you could think.” From your hero and your friend whom you do call -The Soldier Man-”

Trevor Collins

Laying upon this young boy’s breast rests a blanket on his chest. Still the light of midnight sun cast a stream not very long. But the rays could truly show 53

An Open Letter to Hanna Andersson, Outfitter of Infants By Madeleine Pinné Dear Hanna Andersson, You and your friends in the mailroom may know me as your “loyal customer” at 14 Peach Street, but I’m not sure that this information is entirely correct. There was a time when I could have been considered a loyal customer. To look through my parents’ old photo albums is to see the perfect copy of the babies in your catalogue. Here I am coming home for the first time, sporting your Grow With Me Organic Pink Onesie; there I am at my first birthday party, dolled up in your Sunny Day Baby Dress. Smiling fashionably, I looked perfectly content. Your clothes were everything they promised to be: stylish, expensive, and pink. I could feel your love in every stitch. But times have changed, Hanna. I’m no longer the size of a baguette; as a result, I’m not sure that your clothes are really practical for my day-to-day life. Would I love to purchase your Giraffe-Print Soft Landings Pants (at 30% off!)? Nothing would please me more, but something tells me that you don’t exactly make them in my size. I wish you did. I wish it were socially acceptable for me to wear a stainresistant animal print. Seeing your seasonal catalogue arrive in my mailbox brings bitter tears of nostalgia to my eyes. Miserably, I must throw it into the recycling bin. I know that just one more glance at the glossy-print good old days could send me over the edge. I’m asking you, Hanna, to remove me from your mailing list. Please don’t take it personally. What we had was special, but unfortunately it’s time for me to move on to bigger things. I know that in time, you’ll find someone new. A small child is out there somewhere, dressed inappropriately. She needs you, Hanna. She needs to feel the snug comfort that can only come from a pair of your Pretty-in-Plaid Overalls. Send her a catalogue, and tell her it’s from me. With love and thanks, Your Loyal Customer at 14 Peach St.

If I Were To Give A Damn By Michael Schwartze

Reminders of How to Live By Duri Long

I wake up And slide into my favorite pair of jeans, Soft and worn, If I were to give a damn With memories sewn into the denim. Keep in line and obey the man Memories of hot summer nights, Turn myself in, never go on the lamb Of people you wish you had more time with, Keep the lyrics clean when I jam Of singing and dancing Live like a patriot, saluting Uncle Sam And for once in your life Live by a schedule, live under a plan Not giving a care, Live blind and obedient, no thrills, no glam Not thinking, In the end, when my lifeâ€™s hour-glass runs out of sand Just being. I would die with no clue as to who I am Of piles of brightly colored leaves just begging to be jumped in, Of sitting by the fire and roasting marshmallows, The smell of smoke filling the warm evening air. Of curling up on the couch by the fire, After a long day of school, And sinking into the cushions. Of snowballs and sledding, And just barely missing that tree, And crash-landing, Laughing and panting as White powder blankets you. Of lying in the grass, My ipod blaring, Of sitting with my friends eating fast-melting parfaits, Squished on a bench, So that we can all fit. I pull on this pair of jeans, This constant reminder of How to remember, How to forget, How to weave new memories; How to make every coarse blue strand count As you stitch together the pieces that make up who you are. 55

Kansas City By Mary Jackson modeled after Carl Sandburg’s Chicago America ’s music maker, City where water twists and turns, The bread basket of the world, Alley for the storms, Smooth, thoughtful, fickle natured, People of the south wind. They tell me you are boring and I believe them, because I have seen your empty malls with one department store and chained gates never to be raised. And they say your dangerous and I answer: Yes, I’ve lived in the meth capital of the world and I’ve heard the poor man beg. And they tell me your people are foolish and I reply: Many schools are run down and single mothers work at minimum wage. And having said these things I turn once more to the ones that mock my city, and I mock them back and say to them: Come show me another city where people give food to the homeless when their own stomachs rumble for it is the city that feeds America . Giving America a heart beat and the world a rhythm with its creative lyrics and magical tones played by instruments that seem to have a voice all their own for this city is the nation’s pulse. Humble as the ox who pulls the burdensome wagon, and kind as the mother who protects her child from danger even if her own life is taken in his place, Strong, Bold, Cunning, Ford Miller Brave, Planting, sowing, replanting, Behind the fields, dirt covering his face, singing with his sun scorched lips, Behind the turbulent obligation of family singing as a youthful Boasting and singing that in this neck is the voice Nightingale sings, and in his heart is the soul of the people, Singing just as a naive vocalist who has Singing! never lost his voice, Singing the smooth, thoughtful, fickle natured song of Nightingales, valiant, sweating, proud to be America ’s music maker, City where water twists and turns, 56 The bread basket of the world, Alley for the storms.

Landon McDonald Katy Westhoff Rachel Arnold Ford Miller Alex Moskowitz Trent Coffin Jack Booton Paul Mackender Madeleine Pinne Adele Daniel Jesse Thomas Eric Dickinson Ms. Beachy

Fearless Leader and Friend to All Animals Brilliant Mastermind The Giant Jovial Jockey The Smoking Cat The Hoover Darn Villainous Advisor to Salamanders The Govna Warlord of Our Hearts Czarina of Convention Conflicts Empress of Grammatical Affairs Doctor of the Dark Arts Our Sparkling Rainbow The Man

Sound Technicians: Mary Jackson, Jesse Thomas, George Snyder

The FreeLancer staff thanks... SMSD Print Shop and The East Fund for making this printing possible, Dow Tate for sharing his vast knowledge and journalism expertise, Steve Deatley and Robert Meyer for their assistance with the publication, Journalism Students for putting up with us and allowing us to use their computers, Adam Finkelston for his enthusiasm for and support of The FreeLancer artwork, Ben Eukel for being Our Buddy the Techman, and Chris Larson and Nancy Fritz, the coolest librarians, for their infinite patience.

This project would not have been possible without their contributions. We owe them the hairs they yanked from their scalps as well as our firstborn children.