Stray Shot 2008

STRAY SHOT 2008 Editors: Jon Hartmann, Sam Hunt Faculty Advisor: Mr. Benson

The Gunnery Washington, Connecticut back issues of the Stray Shot can be found at www.gunnery.org/Gunnery/academics/StudentWork.aspx

CONTENTS Cover photo by Jon Hartmann Alex Brimelow, My Fat Cat.................................................................. 1 Dylan Crittenden, Kantian Nature ........................................................ 2 Hope Simpson, Snow ............................................................................ 3 Austin Ryer, One of those days (Indian journal) .................................. 4 Zach Elston, Walking Nights ................................................................. 8 Jon Hartmann, There are the cinders .................................................... 9 Illustration by Jung Min Park ............................................................. 10 Three poems by Sam Hunt.................................................................. 11 Curtis Bram, Soundtrack..................................................................... 15 Chance Logan, Them Good Ol’Days .................................................. 16 Kyle Ward, An Empty Yard ................................................................. 17 Josh Johnston, Falling ........................................................................ 18 Ian Engelberger, Splitting (Gordon Matt Clark) ................................. 20 Jon Hartmann, Talking to Strangers ................................................... 21 Austin Ryer, Varanasi ......................................................................... 25 Three poems by Katie Pierce .............................................................. 28 Joe Mashburn, illustrations by Jung Min Park, The Boy Who Grew Up Too Fast............................................................................................... 30 Five poems by Kirsten Bouthiller ....................................................... 37 Portfolio of Photographs by Sasha Geerken ...................................... 38 Ian Engelberger, Untitled .................................................................... 47 Alden Reed, The sun unleashes .......................................................... 50 Cassidy Goepel, The Man at the Podium............................................ 51 Nellie Simmons, one voice lacks emotion now................................... 52 Zach Elston, His Eyes Are Cameras ................................................... 53 Illustration by Jessie Tsai .................................................................... 60 Julianna Lupo, Three haiku ................................................................. 69 Brandon Rodriguez, Every choice ...................................................... 70 Julian Schwartz, Sometimes it irks me ................................................ 71 Three poems by Alex Geerken ............................................................. 72 Joseph András Löbb, There is a place ................................................ 74 Two poems by Zach Elston .................................................................. 75 Alex Brimelow, Street Fighter ............................................................ 76 Marena Izzi, Untitled .......................................................................... 79 Katrina Kiritharan, Bourne Gardens ................................................... 80

Alex Brimelow My Fat Cat As I sit here trying to think of a poem I see my cat begin to roam From one side to the other side of what she calls home Only stopping to play with the cordless phone As she walks around the house She spots in the corner a mouse With its gray fur it looks like it is wearing a blouse My cat moves into position To deliver her retribution To the mouse unaware of its situation My cat makes a mighty leap And I hear the poor mouse squeak And now my cat is ready to sleep.

1

Dylan Crittenden Kantian Nature (I Kant Handel this so I think will go Bach and Haydn my room.)

I would like to take a few minutes here to address the changes that nature undergoes in the age of Kant. I have chosen to do this because I wish to address something different as so many people are writing reactions today. With that out of the way, I here contend that nature takes on a great change with the advent of the modern philosophers Descartes, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, and Kant. In fact, there is an apparent shift in the value of nature to humans.

As one may recall, the Socratic view had nature separated in two. On one hand one has the chaotic and impulsive, imperfect nature which surrounds us (physical nature); on the other one has the a priori perfect nature, the nature that is the form. As the latter being viewed as something worthy of study, ergo it would be apropos for one to seek study of this a priori nature, and in doing so employ helps and aids by the use of which one may come to a better understanding of the form, if you will, the “thing in itself” (ding an sich).

Here is displayed, for all to see, a valuing of a false nature, a nature which does not, for lack of a better term, exist in our physical realm. Ipso facto, it is incumbent upon the one who wishes an understanding of said “nature” to employ helps and aids, according to the Greeks, in this singular case, Geometry, to arrive at an enlightened understanding of true nature. Nature, at least the a priori form of nature, is now rational; it can be “made sense of.”

In contrast to this view, we have the ideas of nature put forth by St. Thomas where natural law, what St. Augustine might most closely allocate to the city of the body, is subjugated by eternal law, certainly allocated to the city of the spirit. Nature, for Aquinas, is certainly irrational and in need of subduing.

Now, with the advent of the renaissance and philosophy from Descartes and Hobbes, and later Locke, Rousseau, and Kant, we see nature not as an unworthy subject, but rather the driving force of human nature. Nature here, once again, vanquishes eternal law and makes itself, for all intents and purposes, the driving force; that which makes us human, and which is, depending on whom you talk to, good or evil. Nature here is, well, natural for better or worse. It is neither rational nor irrational; after all, does that matter, we’re stuck with it. So here, nature, whether society keeps us from seeing its given barbarism and harsh reality, or society keeps us from seeing the beautiful holier accord to be found in a return to it, is reality not concept. The question left open by these philosophers is whether society subjugates a good or an ill. More specifically, is the subjugation that society imposes on nature good in that it keeps us from barbarism, or is it bad because it keeps us from true freedom?

2

Hope Simpson Snow Beneath the stillness of winter The silence captures the night A blunt and cutting cold freezes time Like inside a capsule, a carcass waiting for death, looking up to the blackness, Lightness is swirling around Watching fireworks with no sound Millions of tiny meteors falling fast, Turning into feathers, gentle, calm, No more violence in this sky.

Nothing but the fall of snowflakes, Beautiful wet butterfly kisses, liquefying all emotion And dampening all thought.

Merely peace of mind for a few minutes with no desire to find Anything. Millions of microscopic doves levitate my body with complete seduction of my being, then purposeless, succumbed to the naivety of the blissful snowfall.

3

Austin Ryer One of those days (India journal) This bastard was trying to rip me off.

“150 rupee good price sir, very good price.”

Yeah, good price my ass.

“No way in hell, I got one just like this two days ago here for 100, I’m not paying 150 for this one.”

“Good price, best around.” This guy was relentless. I went to walk out the door; no DVD was worth 150 off the black market, even if in America that was roughly three dollars. But suddenly as I stepped through the door, the old man had a change in heart.

“Fine sir, 100, but no more; you’re my only white customer.”

Can’t say no to that.

I walked out into the street, but barely. Something that might have been a Harley Davidson roared by, almost clipping my arm with its rearview mirror. I watched it move down the road, barely missing two school kids still in uniform, a dog, and an old man fighting with a monkey for an apple.

“You know that guy used to be a Nazi?” I heard my friend, Ian, ask.

“What?” I wasn’t really paying attention.

“The guy you just bought that movie from.”

“He seemed nice enough to me,” I replied, but who was I to say? He just tried to steal my money. I found it hard to keep a conversation when instead you can watch monkeys take food from shops.

“Maybe he wasn’t a Nazi, but he had a Nazi flag up a while ago, probably why he gave you the discount. The whole blue-eyed, blond-haired Aryan race thing.”

“I won’t judge him, I just got a discount.” The monkey had dropped the apple and scattered to the rooftops, where it was going hand over hand along the power lines like James Bond to rejoin its troop a few stores down.

After the monkey had run off, the man with the fruit stand found his apple lying in a puddle on the ground a few meters away. Without hesitation he dried it off and put it back on the shelf.

4

We kept walking along the commercial section of the Bazaar, moving slowly because there was nowhere we had to be. We passed an elderly man sitting against a wall calmly behind a box advertising “FULL BODY MASSAGE” in big letters with a hole on top for money. Farther in we saw a group of little kids armed with plastic soda bottles harassing a cow on the street, even though cows are sacred in that part of India. Eventually we hit a food market, a place known as Rom Chander’s, notorious for handing out cheap gum as change. I had nothing to buy, at least until I saw the fireworks now on the shelves. This was the weekend of Diwali, a national celebration of lights and something about good conquering evil. And so I found myself eyeing fireworks that were nothing like I had ever seen before. Essentially gunpowder wrapped in aluminum foil with a wick, I asked balding man behind the counter the price.

“The small ones there, 2 rupees each, and those big ones 5, my friend,” he told me.

I noticed on the side of the display were some circles of cardboard, with what might have been a wick sticking out the side. On top was a cheap drawing of some Goddess on a purple background.

“How about for those little circle things?” I asked.

“6 rupee, but for you I make them 4 each.”

I loved getting reduced prices. I grabbed a pack of six small yellow ones, a few big ones wrapped in green paper, and 3 of the circular ones. When the man handed me back 15 rupees, I told him to hold it and grabbed a few more of the small ones. He gave me a pack of gum and a “Lacto King” lollipop instead of making smaller change.

Back on the street, Ian and I began walking back towards dorms; it was almost time for check-in. Towards the edge of town we began talking about school; it was the first time either of us had thought about it since getting out the day earlier.

“Any French homework?” I asked him.

“Would you do it anyway?” he asked me back. We both knew the answer was no.

We were walking by an “English Wine Shop,” called English because the Indian wine shops sell stuff that can kill you. I made the mistake of looking as we passed. The man behind the counter interrupted us.

5

“Chilled beer for you? Very good, yes” the man asked. His best income was probably from foreign students like us; why wouldn’t he ask?

“No thanks, ji, out of money” we told him. Usually calling an annoying shopkeeper sir and claiming you were out of money got him off your back.

“You sure? Very cheap, very good, best in Mussourie! Nice and chilled, you will like!” Of course he didn’t believe we were out of money. We were rich, privileged, and ignorant white adolescents. At least that’s what most the street venders believed.

“No, no, maybe next time” we told him. Before he could reply again though, we kept walking.

Five minutes later, when it was dark and we were out of town, we lit off one of the big fireworks. We didn’t know what to expect, so we handled it like a stick of dynamite. And from the size of the explosion, it might as well have been. Because I lit it, and therefore was closest, I couldn’t hear out of my right ear until ten minutes later. We lit off a few more before finally returning to dorms.

Earlier in the semester, I had been a part of the Woodstock football team.

We practiced about three times a week, and played in various friendly matches against other local teams. But none were important except for the ones played in the RIMC tournament. It had lasted a whole weekend and even into the next few days as we moved up in rank. It was hosted by a military school down in Dara Duhn, a city below the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains and closest to our school. We drove in through the main gates onto an impressive campus, on a thin road that wound among green lawns and low buildings surrounded by neatly planted trees.

Occasionally to prove that it was, indeed, a military school, the road would pass by an old helicopter or rocket.

The tournament began with a ceremony, but hardly so. The teams formed up, some in shirt and tie, others in uniforms, and they marched with legs straight and arms swinging as far as they could swing them. Somehow the other teams could do this in unison, but ours simply didn’t bother. At the end of the march, some politician said some words barely audible under his accent, and some balloons were almost released. Most got caught on someone’s arm and had to be cut after they spent a minute attempting to untangle them. Then the politician said something else, and I asked the guy next to me, a Bhutanese named Pasa, what he said.

“This tournament is now open,” he replied simply.

6

It rained that first game, the one following the opening ceremony. It rained to the point where our ankles were submerged in the water that had gathered on the field, and still we played. It rained until the other end of the field was static, and nothing was clear because of the water dripping into our eyes, and still the game continued. There were struggles in midfield where no one could see who was on their team and who wasn’t, and everyone fought for possession of the ball until finally someone emerged from the splashes of muddy water coughing and slipping, surprised to realize he had come out of the fray with the ball. This kind of thing lasted five minutes, or so it seemed, and it happened often because it could not be avoided. Our coach, a short Indian man called Mr. John, was shouting the usual slander from the sidelines.

“Come on, work together, kick the ball!” I heard him screaming into the rain.

He had begun the game clad with a pink umbrella, a weak attempt to stop the weather, but by halftime had lost it as well as his shirt, running around the sidelines to yell advice to us.

“Look, I’m soaking wet too, stop feeling sorry for yourself and get into the damn game!” he shouted at anyone who could hear him.

We won that match, and would move on the next day to play again. That night, before returning to school, we celebrated by eating at McDonald’s.

Inside, it seemed more formal than a McDonald’s should be. With two floors and employees who will clear your finished tray for you and then clean the table, it seemed as if the Indians had gotten the McDonald’s ideal wrong; maybe they actually believed it should be a real family restaurant.

Among the crowds of Indian businessmen and schoolchildren, I looked at the menu. Divided into either “Veg” or “Non-Veg,” it consisted of either something with chicken or something with some sort of substitute for the vegetarians. And still I had a hard time deciding. I ended up with a Chicken Mexican Wrap, a piece of a chicken patty wrapped with something that might have been salsa, mayonnaise, lettuce, and carrots. I ate it quietly, and I had to wonder why they didn’t have anything that good in the McDonald’s back in America. We returned to the school later in a bus that barely fit all the whole team, but we were fine with it. We had won.

7

Zach Elston Walking Nights these streets are all mirrors reflecting everything i know the blocks go on forever to be walked until im old i see only your face in the warm streetlight’s glow im tired of that image it’s all it ever shows ive stepped into a crossroads but i do not want to choose id rather keep on walking till there are holes worn through these shoes the air is chill and brittle and my fingertips are cold the stars are eyes upon me but their judgements are anulled i remember what you told me before you left me here “just close your eyes and see me, you’ll never forget, my dear”

8

Jon Hartmann There are the cinders There are the cinders of burnt bridges in the cigarette butts tossed like paper cups or crippled orangefireflies, falling from highway overpasses.

And landing, extinguishing with a faint sizzle in the spilt oil and rainwater of urban downpours.

There’s a plastic sunflower in the steely green trashcans of rusted chainfence industry.

Oil like a Technicolor fanfare of pollution licks the grease off blacktop.

Scaffolding and incense stubs english streetsigns fade like stars in an urban evening to parks where chinese kids play alone there’s greeks in chinatown too, I’ve seen them wander through fishmarkets and gag on unseen smells.

We sat and threw trash out the 23rd floor, it didn’t hit anyone.

He likes the west and crumbled Catholic shrines film photography and rum He would like a front porch and a greenhouse, but is fine with mowing the lawn instead.

He likes abstract art and big cars and walking.

There’s pawn shop heroes of battered guitars and cloudy diamonds and eternal 5 o’ clock shadow, of cigar store character and pool hall small talk.

9

Someone used to grow sunflowers in this lot, until they faded like the ink in our church hymnals, and got stuck like gum underneath pews. We are bent on forever.

What does it matter though, with sunflowers.

I never knew you but you still jumped and your friends wrote on the tower “we spent your last two hours here together” and it does not seem like you are gone.

It never seemed like you were there.

But I am here and sure there are sunflowers on your patch of earth not entirely disappointed.

I’ll sit on the front porch where you can’t and watch the sunset behind frozen trees and brown grass turn to the dark purple glow of small towns at night.

10

Three poems by Sam Hunt Fairytale Life I may not be your favorite Disney Prince, Maybe I don’t have the car you’ve Always dreamed of, There’s a large chance I won’t come by your house, Take you away with me, and ride into the distance On any kind of horse.

But, what I can give is; a smile when no one else Can seem to put one on your face, someone to talk to, A hand to hold when you’re scared A shoulder to cry on.

I may not be your knight in shining armor, Maybe I won’t be able to afford the diamond ring so many other people have, Quite honestly, I don’t have a lot of money or a big house, I can’t walk up to you, push someone else away, And kiss you in the middle of the hallway I can; make you promises and keep them, Stand in the pouring rain, hold your head in my hands And kiss you under the stars.

I’m no Casanova, But with a girl like you Why would I need any other?

When it’s you and me, my eyes are fixed, My heart beat quickens and I constantly blink, Just to make sure I’m not dreaming.

I may not be the man of your dreams But maybe I’m in them, I might not be who the other girls are Talking about, But maybe I’m who you talk about To the other girls.

11

I’m not the type of guy To stand outside your window with a boom box But I will climb the tallest mountain In the world, and scream “I LOVE YOU!” From the top, so everyone can know.

I can tell you right now, I’m not a good dancer, I can’t sing to save my life, and I can’t paint you A picture.

But since when do I have to be a good dancer?

Let me take you dancing, I’ll look like a fool But I don’ care.

If you want a song, I’ll write you lyrics To melt your heart.

A painting…I can’t paint perfection.

I’m not the most romantic guy in the world, My idea of the perfect date is dinner at home, With a movie that will make you move closer to me, And a kiss from your lips.

I’m not the most hansom , I’m not the smartest, I can’t make just anyone laugh, and I’m by far Not the best, at anything.

None of that matters to me though, none of it matters As long as you notice me, as long as you know I’m here And I’m here for you, and you alone.

I may not be a Disney Prince, Or a knight in shining armor, Casa Nova, or even the popular one But. I’m here.

12

The Kiss It all starts with a kiss.

So fragile, so sweet — that taste found on her lips Hearts held together by a single sentence, “I love you” is all.

Their words become empty, Time goes on, years go by And there’s simply no way For this to go on any longer.

But it must.

So sorry to hear that this must come to an end, That all of the time spent, All those words of passion, truth, love Must be left behind in the sand.

Along with you.

It all starts with a kiss.

What a shame that such a perfect thing Is brought down by such a beautiful moment, Must I say it? We all know how it goes.

It all ends with a kiss.

13

A Meaningless Action Here I sit, broken hearted Mind collapsed upon this very paper, Nothing to say, Nothing to express, not even a single Emotion to describe to you today.

Just words, empty words No feeling behind them, no reason To continue listening to me.

Might as well keep talking, just forget I’m even here.

I’ve got nothing left to give, nothing Left to say, or do It’s all been done before.

So many times before this, you think I’d learn by now, but I’m a fool Who keeps coming back for more When I know each taste will leave me Begging and pleading for death in the end.

Death. That would be nice right now A release from this — It’s as easy as a push, a turn…

Ten, maybe twelve will do, eight didn’t work Last time.

It’s a feeling I can’t describe, you go numb From head to toe. Nothing disturbs you, You disturb no one, A bliss.

It isn’t quick, it isn’t painless. It’s quiet It’s peaceful from the outside.

That’s how I want to go. Quietly.

So let me say my final words, not that they Have any meaning, It’s for you, that I do this For you, that I won’t wake up in the morning For you, all for you.

Are you listening now…

14

Curtis Bram Soundtrack I’m walking through the snow; my socks begin to darken, as the wet of the snow seeps in. A warehouse comes into view out of the snow, which is pouring down. Loud techno music reaches my ears. It is coming from the warehouse.

As I walk towards it I see people lurking around outside. Closer scrutiny reveals that these people are very drunk. The warehouse is made of cold sheet metal. I wonder what is going on inside. The garage door flies open as I pull up on its handle. I immediately stagger back into the snow, shocked by the lasers and other lights smashing into my retinas. This seems to be some sort of makeshift club or bar. The room is circular, with a dance floor in the center, a bar to the left, and chairs and tables to the right. Everything is in disarray.

Through the lights I notice that the walls are plain just like the outside. Bright lights come up around my shoes as I walk across the floor. Looking around for a chair, the first one I find is covered with a mystery substance that reeks.

The second chair I find is a metal folding chair, rusted and old. I sit down and a loud metal on metal grinding noise is made by the chair. A poster of an unidentifiable band hangs near my head. The bar counter is dusty and when I try to order something I am greeted with a snarl. When I finally get my beer I find that it is warm and of an unknown company. I pay the “bartender” and drop the beer in a nearby garbage can. The garbage is filled with empty bottles of vodka. More litters the floor. The carpet is damp and discolored.

What color it once was is not apparent to me, now it is a sickly yellow. As my eyes scan this odd place I spot people dressed very strangely. Strange beats fill my eardrums. When I step on the dance floor neon colors come up around my shoes. As I step backward I trip on someone’s vomit and spill a bottle of vodka. Angry, slurred words are directed at me. I retreat back into the area with chairs and tables. Taking a seat I notice the ceiling, which is completely covered in cobwebs. There are no lights in this odd place; the only light seems to come from the dance floor. The orange soda I ingested earlier is compelling me to find a bathroom. A dusty sign that says “restroom” comes into my view. The linoleum floor is almost completely covered in a mystery brown substance and the walls appear to be caked in the same thing. There is no toilet or sink. I realize that this is simply a closet that drunks have turned into a makeshift bathroom. Struggling to avoid vomiting, I exit the ‘bathroom.’ The relatively clean air of the club is refreshing. Everyone in the club is wearing thick fur coats. They also have brown fur pants. Most people also are sporting fur hats. I wonder where I could be; perhaps Russia. What is my name? Confusion fills me; lunch exits me. Running outside the club, I step out into the snow, my vision grows blurry and I fade into unconsciousness.

15

Chance Logan Them Good Ol’ Days When I was the age of six I used to pee in the bed No need to repeat myself you heard what I said Every night water would drop from my leg Because I was so close it would be absorbed by the bed My mom and I would go to the store and buy pull up pants Every time we would leave she would say You need to stop peeing in the bed Chance I hated when I had to put them on my booty But it was the only way for me to be able to do my duty I would be too embarrassed to sleep out and have fun I knew if I did it at a friend’s house I’d be done I bided my time and waited for this %#&! to be over I needed to be called to the other side like the game Red Rover I hated that I peed all over the place My style, my glamour was all put to waste But with a little time and work the peeing stage was done My days and my life started to become fun.

16

Kyle Ward An Empty Yard The winter wind blows snow across an empty yard that wants a stranger.

A stranger who may be in a direction of another person, but still, he travels through a yard not yet taken leaving his footprints.

17

Josh Johnston Falling I am falling. There is nothing below me. My stomach, formerly in knots, is now completely…gone. There is nothing inside me. Yet I feel okay.

Will I ever be fine? Nevermore. Will I ever laugh or joke, or see those eyes again? Yes. And I will be thankful. I will learn to be propitious. To be the best I can be. Why? Here is my story: I see a face. I cannot make out any features of it. All I know from the knowledge of a face is that there should be a nose, two eyes, and a smile, the feeling of absolute loveliness. But there are no eyes. Just tears. Tears falling from two empty holes. I see right through them. Behind the holes is no brain, but thoughts. Thoughts of memories, of fantasies, of one’s deepest darkest most undisclosed secrets. Quite possibly the moral dilemma, or the ethical choices. And for certain, the thought of me. The smile is replaced, not with a mouth, but just a throat. From that throat emerges sound, but not of regular voice. A wailing, a whining cry that seems to resonate all around me. I slowly crouch to the ground, and curl up into a ball. I hear nothing but wailing, and sobbing. The tears pour around me, engulfing me in a salty water pond. The nose is expelling sniffles and snorts of stifled crying. My own ears pound with this sonic boom. I suddenly hear I’m sorry. I’M SORRY! And I suddenly realize it is not this face that should be sorry. It is I. I left myself open. I opened my heart – and I never closed it. I am still falling.

Still looking up at blackness, looking down at that floor that never seems to be drawing nearer. I try to feel my stomach again, and I place my hand around my stomach – or where I thought my hand should be. Placed on my non-existent entrails, I don’t even see my own hand. I see the black and white outline of where a hand should be. Without being resolved, I am disappearing. Scared, I start to cry out, slowly I begin to panic. What has happened? And then the face in full appears. And my epiphany: that face will always be there, whether I see it or not. Will the cause of my loss always be? Never. For never in the world can it happen that a force stronger than mine would present itself. I am too good. I am the one. I believe it, but I drew myself in a little too much. My weakness. I will never have it again. But I will have something greater – the face. Just the face, always there – and now, it is a face, not a figure with holes. The holes have been filled up, and the eyes present a greenish glint that reflects 18

my own eyes. I am clean-shaven, and the face smiles. Perfect teeth, and a beauteous smile, the nose is center, and non-expelling now. I begin to slow my fall, because for some reason, I can still see past the eyes. I can still see into the space where a brain should be. I see the thoughts, the joy, the secrets, and the shame. It is here that I stop falling – stop right in midair, and look around. There is the face again, and again, all around me.

Not just a face, but a body and clothes to accompany it. And a personality, unlike any other I know. Things are okay, I say to myself… Things are going to be okay.

Will I ever forget the fall? Never. For as I fall, the most vulnerable I’ve ever been, and as I think, harder than I ever have, I realize that the fall was the first changing point in my life. I realize that I must step past obstacles, and hold my head up high. I know at this point – and it is at this point that the ground appears below me – that if I ever need that face, if I ever feel down, or in despondency, I can just ask for that face, for that smile, and the rest of her. I will be okay, and as I take my first step, again, I feel brand new. Nothing is forgotten, but everything is much clearer. I have learned that nothing is forever, and that what I had, before my fall, which is another story, is something so powerful, that the consequences must have impacted me beyond my wildest and most naïve thoughts.

I start off at a brisk walk, into the darkness, with my most loyal, my best friend, this face, behind me: my guardian angel, watching over me, forever.

19

Ian Engelberger Splitting (Gordon Matta Clark) rays of sun splitting empty quiet rooms blurred memories and images bloom joined together at the edges like a jigsaw puzzle and mind alike a fabrication that becomes reality in quiet empty room’s finality images split by thought’s mentality edges fabricated in the mind rays of thought revolutionize a dull sunny day.

20

Jon Hartmann Talking to Strangers Having spent less than a week in India, I began what would become a dangerous habit: riding trains hanging out of the open boarding gate door.

When you blow your nose after riding in this way for a while, you find it is coated with the dust of spent coal belched out by the engine-car, and dirt off the train tracks. This is how I saw most of the Indian countryside, wind-in-hair and occasional pebble-kicked-up-in-face, with dusty shirts and blackened nostrils.

I think I first realized the unspoken consciousness of class that all people have at a train stop outside of Delhi. It was one of my first train rides in India, and I remember, as the train slowed down, being interested in the way people of this particular town had taken to growing pumpkins on top of their tarpaulin shacks. They let the vines curl around their tin walls, blackened by railway soot. And soon, at a total halt, the boarding platform appeared. It was an area of packed earth with a Hindi station sign and a tree. The tree itself was one of the sacred-fig trees planted at the stations across the Indian plains to provide shade. Sacred figs, the same variety as the Bodhi-tree that Buddha attained enlightenment under, are actually sacred to Hindus. They’re often the resting places of Hindu holy men, or Sadhus, who occasionally erect shrines around them. This tree’s keeper, orange-robed and turbaned, shot me a startling glance. It was piercing and unwavering. I knew it was because I was not Indian, and I appeared to be wealthy, yet I was riding in the manner of the poorest of India. Whether this was puzzling to him, or aggravating, I clearly saw the division in his eyes that would haunt my seven months in India.

There’s an unheralded class in Delhi that doesn’t appear to live anywhere in particular; they’re seen on highway service projects, sweeping streets, and selling chickens. When you stop your car in traffic, they’re there with a baby in arms and shattered teeth, asking for loose rupees.

Sometimes the baby is dead. I was rummaging through a lower residential bazaar, and had finally come upon the source of its foul smell: a poultry slaughterhouse. I noticed its gutter in the ground at the entrance, the stream that bled avian fluid onto the sidewalks and alleyways of the bazaar. Clouds of flies reassured me that it was the foulest smell I had ever detected in my life. Near vomiting, I stumbled past several bazaar children, who were amused I had wandered so far into the slaughterhouse.

Finding some fresher air, I watched them, matted hair and torn green 21

cardigans, begin to kick an improvised cricket ball back home.

Their home was the square kilometer of packed clay earth between the railroad tracks and the slaughterhouse. It was dusted with chewing tobacco packets, and spent beedi cigarette stumps. At the height of the afternoon, the greater part of the community was languishing in the heat, seeking shade in their hodge-podge of shacks, made mostly of tin siding, tarp, mud, and the more salvageable parts of Delhi’s waste. Some families had a tire full of drinking water, or an outdoor bed, raised off the trashcovered and infestation-prone ground. The government had put up a stick fence around the entire lot to hide it. I sat for a while, and no one seemed to mind; it was as if they knew what I was thinking. They could exit the enclosure, but they could never leave. The children smiled.

Earlier that day, when I rode the train into Delhi, I sat in the open boarding gate with one of the train’s conductors. We were discussing railroad life and his home, when the train began to slow down as we pulled nearer to the station. We stopped in the thick of a slum. I at first was inapprehensive. Just beyond the tangle of power lines, I saw the tin roofs and blue tarps, bonfires, smelled the air of unrefrigerated meat and dairy. A group of children came skipping up the railroad tracks, matted hair and dusty clothing, homemade toys of electrical wire wheels and soup-can chassis. Immediately the leader of this group ran up to us and began shooting pictures with his small yellow camera. The situation quickly escalated as the conductor demanded they leave “Jao!” – but they didn’t leave. “Go f--- your sisters,” the conductor said in Hindi. The camera boy spat as the conductor closed the boarding gate door. The children skipped quickly back down into the sea of tin, as the conductor threatened to throw a piece of fruit from behind the tinted window.

I asked him “why did you do that?” He said “because they are salas, they are bastards and rascals.” I only hoped that the reason he had done that was because I was present, and that normally he would have even let them on the train. “May I have a tip?” he said. “I have no money with me,” I replied. It was true. I even showed him my empty wallet; he laughed. *

*

*

The cicadas had just begun their evening chorus when a certain farmer discovered the reason I had been resting atop one of his trees for the past half hour or so. The time of course made no difference to him, as he did not have, and had potentially never seen a watch. His guard dog, mastiff22

like and wearing a nail-studded collar to deter leopards, had pursued me and several other backpackers until we scaled the nearest trees. Laughing to himself slightly, he persuaded the dog to return to his yurt. I descended the tree, slipping on monsoon ferns and fungal growth. Half apologizing, he beckoned me and my two fellow hikers to follow him and the dog back to the yurt.

At that moment, I felt resistant, resistant to accompanying a total stranger, whose ferocious and completely obedient dog had just chased me up a tree. Ignoring my screaming western “practicality” or “common sense,” I followed him. We were soon sitting in the evening shade of his walnut tree, audience to the chorus of the cicadas and jungle crows. He shot me a searching look, and adjusting his wool hat, thought to give me a bag of walnuts. I smiled, and we both ate walnuts looking down into the malayan valley, sharing something unspoken or intangible, a knowing collision of two cultures in the wilderness. Realizing that walnuts are prized produce in the Himalayas, I made an effort to give him a small amount of money.

Ten rupees, enough to buy his family a few kilograms of rice; he declined.

I continued to insist and he said in Hindi “Because you give out of love, I cannot refuse.” His crumpled brow loosened, and he stuffed his hands into his grey kurta-pockets.

At the Baha’i Lotus-Temple in Delhi, out of respect, all visitors are expected to take off their shoes and tread barefoot on the woven mats that lead up to the temple’s entrance. I remember first seeing the temple, somewhat masked by the haze generated in Delhi’s own greenhouselike atmosphere. It sits on a parched grass lawn, and is shaped like the traditional flower of Hindu and Buddhist iconography, twenty-seven interlocked petals emerging from a pool. I accompanied several Buddhist monks to the doorway, and stood back for a few moments watching them enter the base of the marble lotus. Looking out over the walkway, Asian tourists, Hindu holy-men, all backgrounds of Indians, and the occasional Westerner slowly pushed their way through the humidity to the temple entrance. Unaware that I was blocking the door, I was urged by a French backpacker, currently a Baha’i door-holder, to enter the temple.

I expected there to be some sort of ceremony or activity inside; however, there was nothing, nothing but the stone silence of several hundred people breathing. Never before had I encountered a congregation of people simply sitting, listening to silence, simply thinking. I sat on one of the few hundred wooden benches and stared three stories upward at the ceiling.

The temple itself is surprisingly light for having so few windows. It seems 23

to collect the sighs and soft murmurs of its occupants, bottling them into a collective and primal drone.

I was at first puzzled by the meaning of the temple, and my posture must have displayed this clearly as I walked back to the parking lot. Kicking a bit of trash up the road and trying to spit the dust out of my mouth, I passed a strip of bazaar that sells various religious goods such as marigold garlands and strings of peppers to ward off evil spirits. I spotted a Hindu holy-man sitting underneath one of the open air stalls, the dusty air just agitating his beard and dreadlocks out of their resting position. He was bare-chested, with eyes ablaze; our eyes met.

Several months later, I again found myself entering the home of a complete stranger. He was a Rajasthani folk artist, one of the precious few painters still using ground minerals and oil as watercolors. We sat for a while on his rooftop, looking out over the desert city Jaipur, drinking tea out of shot glasses. He said “I hope I’m not boring you.” I immediately responded “not at all,” looking out at the paper kites flying above the city.

Every telephone wire in the city is wrapped in twine and kite skeletons.

I was silent for a moment, looking at the swarms of people below us, flowing through the bazaar, the heavy traffic of rickshaws and greasy diesel trucks, the occasional cow demanding to cross the road. Moving to his studio, we discussed art for a while. The walls of his studio were covered in parchment, each bearing a famous scene from Hindu legend.

The incarnations of Vishnu, the birth of Ganesh. He smiled, said “artists need to help other artists out,” and handed me a small package of water colors.

I came to rest by one of the small shrines interspersed throughout the twisting bazaar pathways. This particular one had been built up around a withered tree that was now coated with religious calendars, hundreds of spent incense stubs, and layers of sweet oils. The shrine bore the presently sooty and oiled image of Ganesh, the elephant-headed remover of obstacles. I sat for a moment looking up at the parched growth on the surrounding mountains, and back to the shrine, interested that no one had stolen the coins from the oil-filled offering bowl. I thought, “because you give out of love, I cannot refuse.”

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Austin Ryer Varanasi “You know, you very much look like Elvis,” the old man said to me. I couldn’t hold back my surprise; being compared to Elvis was new to me. I was wearing aviator sunglasses and had long hair covering most of my face. I doubted this man could even tell what I looked like. But several times before Indians had called me Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks. Once I was even compared to Mel Gibson.

“Why, thank you very much,” I slurred, weakly attempting an Elvis impersonation. Of course he laughed, and went so far as to say I sounded like Elvis as well.

But I wasn’t fooled at this man’s Elvis banter; he was an intelligent observer.

Sitting outside of my hotel in the city of Varanasi smoking a cigarette, he sat because he had nothing better to do. Roughly in his sixties, he was a large man with the stubble of a graying beard and dyed blond hair. His stained yellow teeth were interrupted by a gap where his two front teeth should be, and his nose was large enough to be almost swollen. He remained nameless to me, but I knew from our talk of theology that he was an aspiring Christian, who liked Jesus and thought he was a good man. From our talk of politics I knew he disagreed strongly with George Bush’s policies, and would be glad when a new president is elected in America. He claimed to have lived in Varanasi his whole life, and so had his father and grandfather, generation after generation. It was this last fact that led me to ask him what I and some friends should do while in Varanasi. In response he wrote down the name of a particular Ghat, and told us that was where we had to go.

It was not often that I found myself wandering into an unknown city looking for some location based solely on a stranger’s recommendation. However, earlier we had learned that “Ghats” were holy places on the Ganges where a tributary joined the river, and so we followed the old man’s advice. After lunch at a nearby Pizzahut, I and three others caught an auto-rickshaw and showed the driver the name of the Ghat; its pronunciation was way beyond any of our simple knowledge of Hindi. The driver gave us a price, but told us he couldn’t go the whole way because it was closed to vehicles; we would have to walk some of the way. More hesitant now, we still agreed, and entered the rickshaw.

The auto-rickshaw was three-wheeled and about the size of most refrigerators turned on end, shaped into a rounded V. In front was a t-shaped handlebar used on motorcycles, and a small bench seat for the driver. In back, as the vehicle widened, there was a larger bench seat meant for three passengers though 25

I’ve seen many more than that in rickshaws. It had a roof and windshield, which offered some protection, though it had no doors or sides. I sat in front alongside the driver, though half of me stuck outside, narrowly missing passing traffic. Behind me, on the bench, were my three friends, Julia, Dan, and Will, each lost in their own thoughts. After riding through thick traffic for about fifteen minutes, the driver finally pulled to the side, and let us out.

We found ourselves on a main road, with a solid division between incoming and ongoing traffic. Periodically, a side road or alley broke the endless line of buildings on either side. Accompanied by hand gestures to augment his weak English, our driver had told us that to get to the Ghat we had to walk straight for a while and, after three somethings, turn left onto another road until we saw something tall, and then to maybe take a right.

Almost immediately lost, we stopped to ask a man sitting on a cart for directions. “Excuse me sir, do you know how to get here?” we showed him the paper with the name of the Ghat on it. “Uhh… no angles?...” We assumed he meant that he didn’t speak English. Turning to leave, we heard him say something in Hindi to a man passing by. The man stopped, looked at us, and quickly introduced himself. Hello,” he said in barely accented English, “can I help you get somewhere?” He was young, maybe in his early twenties, and wore a white long sleeved shirt with a purple sweater tied around his neck.

Though he looked flamboyant, he also looked well off, dressed in western clothing. To us, this meant that he didn’t need our money, and therefore would probably not try to steal from us. That, as well as the fact that we were already far within the city and had no idea where we were, lead us to trust him; we were probably safer with him than on our own.

Raz lead us into what we later learned was old Varanasi. This section of the city is comprised of thin alleyways crowded with people, cows, and debris, overshadowed by high buildings on either side. This deep into the city, even shopkeepers were indifferent, and didn’t chase after us to sell their goods. In this area, everything was built for purpose. Beside countless silk and spice shops there were small restaurants serving chai to passing customers. Religious buildings lacked the grand archways and gates of other holy buildings. Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist temples blended into the city, with nothing other than occasional statues of deities separating them from the cafes and homes next to them. I do not know if we ever reached the Ghat the old man recommended, but we saw more. We saw an Indian city thousands of years old that still operated under the same principles as those of its founders and builders. We saw a life not prepared or watered down or expectant of foreign eyes. We saw life in this city as it simply was, with nothing to distract from the work that had to be done to survive.

26

Raz, like the old man at the hotel, had lived in Varanasi his whole life.

However, Raz was different than most strangers we had met before. He was a perfect example of western culture intruding upon Indian traditions. As we walked, he asked us if we had seen a show aired on the BBC network a while back, because he had been in it. He knew perfect English and dressed in the western style, but as we learned later, Raz worked in a silk shop with his family, a small family owned business passed on for several generations, located in old Varanasi. We asked him, “But why are you helping us? There must be somewhere else you could be besides showing us around the city?”

“Karma. This is good Karma, helping strangers, and it will help me in my next life. Besides, it’s my day off at work, why not show you around? It gives me something to do, yeah?”

We were not far into the city, however, when we were stopped. As we passed a police checkpoint, an officer called us over. He wore the standard tan uniform of the Indian police, and had a long brown rifle slung over his right shoulder. He was slightly overweight and wore a constant smirk, as if he enjoyed harassing foreigners like us, and did it often. He pulled Raz aside, but told us to go on. However, we were now in the city, and would be even more lost than when we were on the main road. Eventually we convinced the officer to let us go on our way, with Raz leading us. As we walked away, Raz thanked us. “If you hadn’t helped, they would have kept me there for hours.

They see sometimes Indians leading foreigners around the city, pretending to be tour guides and then charging very high prices later. The police are corrupt though, and would’ve demanded that I admit to being a guide or until I bribe them. Why should I say I’m something that I’m not? It’s not right, I will not lie. I have the right to go where I want, and help who I want.”

After the encounter with the police, we eventually reached the river, and came to a place none of us had expected Raz to bring us. We had reached a Crematorium. About 5000 years old, it was the oldest one in the city. We were introduced to a man known as the “Dhoon Raj,” or King of the Dhoons, the untouchables who worked at the crematoriums to break the bones of the burning deceased. Though an untouchable, part of the lowest caste in Indian culture, he was the richest man in the city, and well-educated. He explained how only men were allowed down by the pyres to watch the deceased be cremated, because women were too emotional.

He explained that, rather than the more economic electric crematoriums in the area, people preferred the wooden pyres because it was more traditional, more spiritual. He explained all of this, as well as much more, before Raz lead us away, back into the city.

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Three poems by Katie Pierce The Funerary Mask Funerary Mask, 10th–11th century Peru; Sicån (Lambayeque) Gold, copper overlays, cinnabar

The masks of the ancients Gold and bronze covered face The ceremonies and the history behind this one piece of art Baffles and amazes me The time and patience The ceremonies that proceeded The funerals that were dazzled and sparked By this mask Before my very eyes!

The Pottery Jar Terracotta neck-amphora (jar) Greek, Attic, black-figure, Archaic, ca. 540 B.C.

Imagination and creativity An unimaginable amount of effort and time put into this one jar Questions pour into my brain Who found it?

Who made this pottery?

What is the history behind this jar?

The amazing image of Men and women in a chariot, Carried by three magnificent steeds Swirls and intricate designs surround that picture, the illustration caught in Time on this pottery jar, forever.

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Misunderstanding Jasper Johns (American, b. 1930) Céline, 1978

“Everything is open for interpretation! So go ahead students, what are your thoughts!?”

I hear an over enthusiastic teacher standing behind me ask his students.

“My baby sister could do that! This isn’t art. It’s mostly grey anyway” As the students go on I hear more complaints, More misunderstanding More grumbling Not even trying to understand what the artist was thinking, What the artist’s point was If there was a point at all The multi colored hand prints on this painting Must have some goal, some reason!

However, I do not argue with them Also people are entitled to their own opinion No one should ever try to take away someone’s Point of view.

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Joe Mashburn, with illustrations by Jung Min Park The Boy Who Grew Up Too Fast This is the account of a boy who thought that everything got easier as a person grew up. The unfortunate thing is that he lost sight of what really mattered: things that most people miss.

Lee was six years old. His daily routine consisted mainly of 1st grade and coming home to study his vocabulary words and then going outside to play in his backyard. His bedtime was eight, and on weekends it was nine.

However, life was not perfect. He didn’t have many friends at school because he was very shy. His best friend was his dog, whose name was Spike. Spike had lived with Lee since Lee was 2 years old. Spike was not a large dog and he was very timid. Spike liked Lee, but he liked anyone who gave him the occasional bite of food. Lee usually talked to Spike about life and school and his parents and things like that. Spike, being a dog, was a very good listener.

Lee also liked to take notice of small things, some of which the other kids took for granted. The grass appeared greener to Lee than it did to most kids. Colors in general were much brighter and clearer to Lee. What Lee felt was also greater than what the other kids felt.

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One time, Lee jumped off a swing and when he reached the height of his jump, it felt like he would never fall. Everything melted away. When he looked down, all he could see were little ants, and the bright colors of trees and the red covered slide and the blue swing that he had just leapt from. It was the best feeling in the world to Lee, and he kept jumping off that same swing and getting the same feeling.

One day, the kids at school made fun of Lee. They picked on him because he did not want to go down the red slide. Lee was scared that he would get trapped inside and not be able to get out. When Lee got back home, his mother was teaching her students, as she was a piano teacher, and his dad was off in New York, but Lee had no idea what he did. His babysitter picked him up from school and took him home. She plopped him in front of the TV and started to read her magazine. All Lee wanted to do was talk to Spike. Slowly, Lee crept off into the other room where Spike was 31

asleep on the couch. Lucky for Spike, it was Lee and not his mother, since she would have kicked him off the couch.

“The kids at school are not nice to me Spike. If I didn’t want to go down the slide, would you have made me?” Spike’s response was to roll onto his back and sneeze. “Of course you wouldn’t have. You’re much nicer than those kids at school. That slide was scary and dark, and you know how I don’t like the dark. See, if I were older, none of this would be a problem. Grown-ups have no problems with anything. You never hear them talk about how their friends pick on them, or how they can’t go down a covered slide because they’re scared. That’s because they aren’t scared, Spike. For some reason, they don’t think that the dark is scary.

They can fix everything. It would be so much easier if I was older…”

At dinnertime, his mom took him out to eat a restaurant. She asked him how his day went at school and Lee avoided the question because he did not feel like explaining it to someone who would think it was an easy problem to fix. “Only Spike understands,” thought Lee. “Mom wouldn’t know what it is like.” This all took place on Friday, which meant that Lee’s bedtime was nine o’clock. Lee did not do anything between dinner and bedtime.

When bedtime came, Lee climbed into his bright orange dinosaur bedsheets quietly and listened to his mom read him a story. Before the story was done, Lee was asleep.

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That night, something strange happened. Lee’s legs seemed to stretch, and his arms seemed to grow, and his stomach seemed to stretch. Everything changed on Lee while he was sleeping. His hair got longer, and he now had hair on his face. He woke up on Saturday to his mom telling him to get out of bed and go shave before he went to work. Lee was very confused by this, and got out of bed. As he turned around to make up his bed, he realized that his sheets were no longer the brilliant orange that they had been when he went to bed. They were very normal and very dry colors. In fact, his whole room had changed colors. Nothing struck Lee as being magnificent anymore. He was not surprised at how much color there was in his room. He looked outside, and the same thing had happened. The trees were now a boring color of green, as was the grass.

Everything looked as though it was covered in a light smoke or something that was blocking the true color. The buildings that he saw out his window had even changed. They were not bright shades of white with the deepest of black shutters anymore. They were all copies of the same type. Even the birds that he used to hear every morning seemed to be further away.

However, his mother was not, and she burst into his room screaming about how he needed to shave and go to work right away.

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Lee, after a few mishaps with his razor, walked into what he used to know as a town. The birds still sounded far away, even though one was in the tree above him, and the colors still had a film of smoke over them. Lee was very confused. There was a chocolate shop up the street from where Lee lived and he had always said that he would like to work there. Lee guessed that this is where is mom meant, and he walked into the shop.

The usual smell that came to his nose was gone. It was not fantastic anymore, or surprising. It just smelled… like a regular chocolate shop.

They asked him if he needed anything, and Lee was so surprised that they did not tell him to get to work that he walked out of the store. He walked to the next drab building and walked in. This was the library. Lee always told himself never to get a job here, because he did not like that there were no interesting smells or colors or sounds in there. He walked in, and one of the ladies who worked there bustled over and asked him to fill the shelves in section C-2. Lee stared blankly at her and nodded.

As she moved on to help a person looking for a book, Lee saw himself in a windowpane. He was very tall and very skinny. The blue eyes he had yesterday were now covered with the same smoky film that covered all the other colors in the world. They were now more of a grey, which made Lee very nervous. He liked his eyes, and colors in general, and wished that everything would go back to normal.

Before he could leave, however, he turned around and saw the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Now, he didn’t actually know she was beautiful. He couldn’t tell that for some reason, and the more he thought about it the more he fell away from the idea that she was beautiful.

But there was something about her, something magical almost. He went to talk to her, and realized that her eyes were completely green. There was no shade over them, and immediately he knew he was in love. Then he turned around and saw the blandness in the world.

Lee left the library and ran home. He thought since he had fallen asleep young and woken up older, that if he fell asleep again it might set him back to being young again. As he entered the house, his mom started to say something, but he held up his hand and ran into his room. He jumped in bed without even taking his clothes off and shut his eyes. He relaxed, and in fifteen minutes was asleep.

During his sleep, Lee changed locations completely. He woke up with a start and looked around him. He stood up out of bed and looked at his covers. “Oh-no” thought Lee, as he saw that his old dinosaur covers had been replaced by boring grey ones. He looked in the mirror and saw that 34

he now had short black hair, and actual grey eyes, and grey everything.

In fact, Lee looked around, and realized that everything was grey. He ran to the window, and all he could see was another window, which had grey curtains. He ran outside his room and ran to what he believed was the front door of his house. The girl with the green eyes was in his house with a ring around her finger. Her eyes were dull. Lee didn’t know what to do, since this was the girl who appeared to shrug all the effects of this horrible world off, and her eyes were grey. The door he found brought him to what looked like an alleyway, and he took a right and headed down the grey hallway. He found stairs at the end and ran down them, taking two at a time. He ran past two people who were walking their dog, which was grey, just like the people and the walls they were near. By now, Lee was getting nervous. He found a door that had a grey street behind it. He ran outside and was surrounded by the noise of nothing. All this time, Lee had not realized that he could not hear anything. There was a consistent buzz in his head that was fairly loud, but there were no birds, and there was nothing that reminded him of home.

When Lee went on the street, he saw something that terrified him.

Surrounding him were giant buildings, so tall that planes would have to fly around them. The people who were near him were talking, but he could not hear them. They were all the same shade of grey as the buildings. They were talking very fast, and seemed to be in a rush to get somewhere. However, none of them seemed to be moving. They stood where they were, in a rush to get somewhere, but not actually going anywhere. Their outlines became blurry, and Lee could not tell where one started and the other ended. The world started to spin, and then there was nothing. Lee was floating in a huge amount of nothing. There was no noise, no color, and no smell.

Lee awoke with a start. He looked around him and was surprised to see vivid color. He looked at his bedsheets and realized they were his brilliant orange dinosaur bed sheets. He looked in the mirror on his door, and smiled when he saw his brilliant blue eyes. He jumped out of bed and ran to look outside. Overnight it had snowed, and the snow lay over everything equally. On the pine tree that covered his driveway, the occasional patch of brilliant green caught his eye, and then was gone, taken up by the brightest white Lee had ever seen. He went downstairs where he was sure he could smell pancakes being made. He was right!

When he opened the door, his mom was standing in front of the griddle yelling at Spike to get off the couch. Spike was ignoring her. She turned and looked at Lee, and he realized that she had brilliant blue eyes also.

35

Her robe was an astonished shade of red, and her hair reflected the light into millions of different patterns on the wall. Lee ran to find his favorite thing in the house: the crystal, which hung in one of the windows. When he found it, he stopped in his tracks. The blue and red and green and yellow that fell on the floor in patterns were the most astonishing things that he had ever seen. And they were all so alive and vibrant, he could hardly think of what to do next. He stared for a couple more seconds, then left to go tell Spike about his dream.

Now, some people say that there are different endings to this story. Some people will tell you that he talked with Spike for over three hours about his dream and how he thought that he never was supposed to grow up in the first place. Others will say that when he saw Spike, he realized for the first time that Spike actually was many different colors which combined to make him a beautiful peachy white, which Lee thought was the most gorgeous thing that he had ever seen. But I know what really happened.

When Lee sat down to tell Spike about his dream, Spike leapt up and gave Lee a giant lick right on his face. Lee laughed and said to Spike: “You don’t really even need to know about my dream, do you? I bet you already know what happened!” and then laughed some more. Lee hugged Spike, and for a split second, Spike’s eyes changed from the deepest black to the bluest blue and in a flash, were black again.

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Five poems by Kirsten Bouthiller The Deserted World The wind tears at the outside world, Silence intrudes at the inside.

No one is left here, No one at all, Silence.

The days are growing colder and colder, The sky is becoming a deeper gray, Memories are fading, Time is erasing, Nothing.

Leaves fall silently from dying trees, Flowers wither accepting death.

Liveliness once warmly felt, Is rapidly disappearing, Gone.

The starry night sky no longer twinkles, The sun no longer shines down, Days are growing numbered, The world is ending.

Deserted.

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Portfolio of Photographs

by Sasha Geerken

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Prints On DOC Not Litho 39

Prints On DOC Not Litho 40

Prints On DOC Not Litho 41

Prints On DOC Not Litho 42

Five poems by Kirsten Bouthiller The Dead Tree The grey bark is peeling away From the once sturdy trunk.

The leaves have all fallen down To the cold, hard Earth Below.

It once used to be so beautiful, Beaming green with life, But the rain stopped falling, And the ground dried Out. Life slowly being sucked from Each and every flowing vein, Leaves, once filling the tree, Crumple, die, leaving the branches, Empty.

Death takes its hold from within And eats away from the inside, To the very outside, Life completely drained.

Dead.

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Black Sunflower Black from the darkness surrounding, Hiding from the beauty of light.

The black sunflower grew away From all that was filled with life.

Pure, black ink flowing through the veins, It was truly a beautiful sight, In a twisted, abused way, of course.

All the same though, it was beautiful.

The black sunflower, Being taken by life and all that comes with.

Black morning dew evaporates in the darkness Taking the life that once was but went adrift.

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Hollow Days The sun’s beautiful, golden shine Has faded to a depressing, deep grey.

The green grass, once moist With the cool, morning dew, Has dried up and burnt To an orange-yellow tinge.

Days are becoming hollow, And everything has fallen Into a weird groove.

Light has vanished from The once azure sky with Piercing strikes of gold.

Children remain inside; quiet.

Not a soul speaks a single word.

Not even a little peep.

Silence looms and blares Throughout the sad, Cold air of the World.

The sky has turned to grey, No words are left to say, Everything once thought real, Has simply gone astray.

These are‌ The never ending Hollow Days.

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Memory’s Ghost But the age of ten, With the world in my hands, A memory is engraved That should be marked as “Contra banned” A smile that spanned From here to Mexico City, The world was my playground, Nothing could stop me, A gun in your hand, You aim it, then fire.

Everything once held so near, And so, completely, dear, Has just left me tired.

Eyes swollen from tears, I had become numb to all fears.

Years had to pass, While the truth was coming To be heard by all ears.

Memory’s ghost has awakened, And I am finally alive.

The story has been told and recorded.

My soul is free and boundless.

I feel far from deprived.

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Ian Engelberger Untitled so i put on a side as i walked out towards the city lights hoping for something to shout sometimes your silence and a walk after sleep are enough to convince me though my thoughts fade that we’re all broken because we were made when i’m quiet i can hear my fear like a river that screams as it rushes a room full of voices raised at once audible as it crushes composed of words i can’t understand and when i’m asleep my human dreams are distraught by nature my mind reels to find images and feelings by morning i rarely remember broken boys dry eyes agape at televisions telling the story of love and those holy days in mid december i sat on a hill and watched them all brought to a cliff and made to jump off with that drunk old supermarket cough their deaths they couldn’t embrace unmedicated fear that i could taste in their voices as they leapt from their palimpsest lives undone those dull screams like bullets shot at the sun when i talk i feel their weight words lost as i walk after them the ugly notion that i’m too late

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[…] people mistake me for myself as i float and refuse why should i seek that kinetic abrasion my own realisation? anyone’s realisation in this long country anyone’s truth found on these streetcorners of elusive happiness i’d rather descend instead into the sun and with melting eyes fail to see the flames without ears to hear and with melted hands i wouldn’t understand and people mistake you for myself moving in my head as someone else can’t you look learned? point everywhere and lead nowhere followed giant fingers pointed in the sky with clenched fists full of crumpled paper laid down staring after potential airplanes never to be realised in the rhythmic pursuit of my seconds and my flutter of concerns before sleep unsettled minds and poisoned heads their america found dead our bloodsport is six o’clock channel five news young men left lame fighting wars left undeclared old men’s money better off fared where’s the pill that closes my eyes to all this blindness i suffer?

48

how many weeks of two pills a day before an american can without seeing hate look out their window and find nothing worth buying and how do i make the safe dollar? and how many of those will take my eyes off the smoke on the horizon? that black bleak column that means nothing to me nor should it that from the side of my eye suggests that maybe old men bought me and old men sold me [Ian Engelberger won The Gunnery’s 2008 Poetry Contest, judged by Valzhyna Mort, with this poem.]

49

Alden Reed The sun unleashes The sun unleashes; Brilliant rays of glory; Lighting summer smells.

The sky is an empty parking lot, With the early bird clouds meandering in; As if it were a holiday.

Insects are the music of the air, Playing their tiny violins rambunctiously, Attempting to get the ear of a female associate.

The top of the pond ripples, revealing the face of the wind, And its distinct fingerprint is soon to be swept away from the books of time, Unable to leave itself in just one spot.

A sea of green sways in time, revealing the brown beneath the green.

50

Cassidy Goepel The Man at the Podium Repetition loses meaning for a man, This man’s job was simple.

He had to care, to lead, to read from a book.

To dress in tradition to convince his audience.

A savior for our poor souls, if I ever saw one.

The one soul of concern No longer needed saving, though she was hardly mentioned.

Was this day for her?

Was it really her birth to immortality?

Or did she end.

Resting in solitary confinement While time strolls by relentless.

Her children will grow, her husband will weep.

I will see him from time to time.

And we will share a look, that is all.

The man at the podium banters on He is ignorant, too lighthearted.

The urge to bolt bubbles inside me To scream at him, to make him understand That he doesn’t have the answers He doesn’t have anything, but his chalice And bread and robes and breath and heartbeat and room of brainwashed followers But they don’t know.

Escape my legs scream, my heart aches.

Is this real? No, awaken from your nightmare, Go visit one last time.

No. Gone.

51

Nellie Simmons one voice lacks emotion now words and fears like things you can’t control like spitting ink onto paper from a ballpoint pen like graphite carving into walls from a number two pencil like ever after and pale skin becomes a pure white canvas but she has no paint you say but she does and the blood from her wrist arms hands legs and that becomes her paint oh but now you don’t remember where you’ve heard that before but you know it’s not yours and so we become children of the dawn children of the dusk and the ones that are never coming home and so we become or maybe we’ve already been nothing you just don’t know it yet

52

Zach Elston His Eyes Are Cameras (work in progress) My mother. My mother is the reason I am like this.

She did drugs. She was pregnant. I came out. Now I’m like this.

I sat down, looking at my feet. The harsh florescent lights cast a sickly glow on everything, my imitation leather sneakers reflecting the source but warping it, changing it, bending it. Rectangles became unsure of themselves.

They became different through my shoes. They hit the cracks and the wrinkles, waving and twisting. The tiles beneath the shoes were off white, with dark gray grout between them. They were dirty, gritty, like someone had stepped where I was sitting with dirty shoes on, leaving a trail of the outside world on this inside floor.

Another person walked in. He stepped into the stall, closing the door with a little bit more force than was necessary. He was wearing sandals. Flip-flops actually. I just stared at his ankles. I saw the veins running around his foot and ankle. I noticed an artificial pattern on his natural skin. Dots in a pattern.

Dots in a row. I knew this pattern. It reached halfway up his calf, he had been wearing socks just before, but had taken them off, possibly to put the flipflops on. I shook my head, and closed my eyes. I studied how even when you closed your eyes, the light still came through. I could never really get away.

Not since I was born. I have never been alone.

I have a condition. I notice everything. Not unintentionally either, I am aware that I try to notice everything. Patterns, reflections, shadows, distortions, chaos in nature. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is the same. In nature I feel distracted. Too much going on. Too much to notice. I can’t calm down.

My mind is a whirl all the time. Colors, lights, sounds. I store it all away. I think it’s driving me crazy. Here are the facts: I’m 17, in public high school, I am failing 3 classes, I have one friend, a girl, she knows me, no one else knows me, I don’t know me, music is the only thing I love, I have a condition where I notice everything and store it away, I am going crazy, I often repeat myself, I often don’t talk for days, I often don’t eat for days, I often don’t go to school for days. I have too much in my mind. I think a lot, I read a lot, I know a lot, I don’t fit in.

I don’t only study nature or surroundings. I study people too. I can recognize every kid in my school from his or her walk or talk or laugh or mannerisms or gestures or eye movements or nervous shuffle. I group people based on characteristics they don’t know they share. I can tell when someone is lying, when they are nervous, when they are confused, when they don’t want to talk, when they want to talk, when they are smug, or when they are subtly angry at everything. I notice all of this, but I don’t want to. I don’t want all this knowledge. It makes me feel bad, like a stalker or something creepy like that. Too much for me.

This one friend that I have. I recognize her the most. When she is happy with something I say, she usually shifts her feet and changes where her ands 53

are placed, usually to her hips or behind her back. She shifts her eyes around and gets a slight smile on her face. When she doesn’t want to be talked to she avoids me, she turns her back intentionally and I can tell she knows I’m there. She is tight lipped, and paler than normal. She hugs herself with her arms, maybe re-assuring herself. Stop. I need to stop doing this. I can’t, though. For some reason my brain just tells me that all of this information is necessary. I can’t help it. I just want to stop!

I open my eyes. It’s dark in the bathroom now. I glance at my watch, whose hands glow green when the lights go out. It is 5:48 P.M. I am still at the gas station. The cigarettes I had bought are crushed underneath my right hand because I had had all of my weight on it for 2 hours. With a flick I slide one out and put it in my mouth, leaving the rest of the package there. I stood up and the sand, the grit of the outside world crackled and popped. My joints ached, my neck stung, and my head was a whirl, as always. I lit up my cigarette and walked out of the bathroom into the cold night air. Maybe that would make me feel less insane.

I went to Jill’s house. She was pretty happy to see me, even though she didn’t really know I was coming over. She was wearing her blue tank top with her black short-shorts. She was barefoot and her legs were smooth and her skin was a creamy brown color. Her brunette hair was up and her green eyes reflected me in a tiny microcosm of the world as seen by her.

“Man, where have you been? You look like shit.” She said, with the finesse of a blind toddler going down the stairs.

“I was at the gas station, thinking.”

“Again? Didn’t we talk about that? One day you’re gonna get raped in there.” There’s that humor again. It’s definitely an acquired taste. We went to her kitchen and opened up two sodas. I caught a glint off of the tab when opened it and then I felt the pressure leave the can as the fizz gave the can a slight rattle. It was warm, and the artificial lemon-lime left a strange film on my tongue. It was too sweet. I didn’t want that right now.

I don’t know why I had gone to Jill’s house. It seems like I always drifted over there when I was feeling confused or overwhelmed or lonely. We would always talk, and I would always feel better about myself for the time being, but it never lasted. I always go over the history of mankind in my mind, and I always come to the same conclusions: Humans are bitter and lonely. They are power hungry and don’t really care about anything. Everything they do is a facade to further themselves, be it with women or to get power or money. I think all this, and I can even see it in myself, and I am disgusted by it. There is no way to change myself though, because if I appeared as who I really am, I would fail in today’s society. I would be an outcast, with no job or money, and I would probably have to go live in the woods or something like that. I can’t do that. With Jill though, I can be me, mostly. She understands what I mean.

We went into her living room, with the floral couches and the slight perfume smell. It didn’t really cover the odor of cat shit though. The carpet was light pink and the walls were white. There were some local paintings 54

in small frames hung here and there, not really masterpieces, but they were nice. We sat on the couch and turned on her small TV. We didn’t really watch it, it was more there for background noise. We just sat there and didn’t talk.

She was laying with her legs over my lap, and I was leaning on the arm of the couch and we just didn’t talk. We understood what the point of it was. It wasn’t awkward or strange. It was necessary. Sometimes more can be said with silence than with all the words in the world.

“Tristan,” Jill said, finally breaking the silence after about fifteen or twenty minutes. “Have you ever been in love? I know this is a really dumb question.” Her head was lowered and her eyes were looking up at mine.

I had to sit there and think for a while. I flipped through my entire life, the major memories of the past. I tried to find one instance where I had been in “love” with someone. I couldn’t find even one. “No.” I turned my head and stared at nothing.

“Oh,” Jill looked around and I sensed that she was trying to find something to say. “I have..I am..but it isn’t working out too well.”

I looked back over at her. “Well, those things usually don’t work out like we hope or plan. A lot of stuff doesn’t work out like we hope or plan.

Why should love be any different?” I looked down at my hands and then said, “Listen, don’t worry about it. Just let it happen and you can figure out what or what didn’t come out of it. You can either suffer or be happy. There are only two outcomes for that. I’d rather not take my chances...” I stood up.

“I’m gonna head home.” Home was a stained mattress on the floor of a tiny apartment that my father and I lived in. “See you later Jill.”

“Bye Tristan, say hi to your dad for me. Oh, and thanks for talking..or, er, not talking with me.” She laughed and flashed me a smile and then lay down on the couch. I slid out quietly and started the 10 block walk home. I fished in my pocket for another cigarette but found nothing there. Well I guess not everything comes out as we hope or plan.

What was Jill trying to say to me back at her house? Why would she ask me about love? She knows I haven’t fallen in love. I wonder who she’s interested in...maybe some jock kid from school. I don’t know anybody’s name at that place. No, she’s not really that type of girl. I need to get my mind off of this.

The old ratty door creaks and swings open, revealing to me the small apartment I shared with my father. Luckily it was late and he was already asleep. I’d rather not see him or hear him. Any interaction with my father usually ends in a bad way. I know how awful that sounds, but it’s true. My mother never wanted me and still doesn’t, so I went to my father. I looked around my room with the blank walls and the stained mattress sitting on the floor. I lay down.

I stared at the floorboards. I saw the minute details of the wood grain and the stain coloring. The dull shine from the finish years ago. I bet this floor was beautiful when it was first put in. Hardwood floors are my favorite. I saw deeper and deeper into the wood, became more and more engulfed by the colors and patterns and rhythms and craziness of it all and then I slipped..no..

55

tumbled into sleep.

Dreams aren’t very good experiences for me. I only remember one or two good dreams I’ve ever had. All the rest are hating faces, hiding people, masked people. I’ve seen someone take off their mask, and it was horrible.

Bloody, grinning, and rotting flesh underneath. Horrible things. Not once have I seen a mask come off with a nice looking result. It definitely reflects people perfectly.

I woke up. My mind burned with the dreams from the night before. I never felt awake, I never felt like I had gotten a good night’s sleep. My mind never rests, it is always working, consciously or unconsciously. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether or not I’m in a dream state or not. I never am. I wish.

What day is it? What time is it even? I glanced down at my watch and saw that it was 9:18 A.M. I looked closer down at the dials and saw that it was October 9th, a Tuesday. School. I got up slowly, I was already late, might as well use it to my advantage. I slipped into the shower and felt the hot water running down me. My mind was trying to clear itself as my senses were engulfed by the steaming water and I tried to block out all light coming through my eyelids. I let my mind wander. It wandered over Jill, over my mother and father, over all the people at school whose faces I never saw. It wandered over the lost minds of people I knew, or thought I knew. It wandered over my childhood, where was it? It wandered over the music I listen to, the stuff that makes me real. The music is real to me. I lowered my head and warmed it with the water. I tried to empty my thoughts. I thought of darkness, of nothingness. Nothing is the same as I knew it. This period of time is the time for change, I’ve heard it all my life. Teenage years are the years of youth. They are the crazy years, and the fast years. Now I know why everyone says that.

Stepping out of the shower, I tried to make as little noise as possible.

Silence is golden, as they always say, and I definitely can’t find enough silence in my life. This is why I go to Jill’s house. Sure, we turn on the TV sometimes, but I like it the most when it is just the sound of our breathing and our hearts beating. My ears and temples would pulse with life, the heat very present on my mind. I would think, and I would laugh, cry, smile, frown, and anything in between. I would feel everything when I felt nothing.

Traveling through my mind like that and then returning to the “real” world was hard for me. Nothing is how I want it to be, but if I could change anything, I wouldn’t know what to make it into.

Cold water had puddled on the floor from the shower, and it shocked my feet. Everything was cold compared to the heat of the steamy wash. The softer feel of the carpet on the soles of my feet signified the change into my room. A sloping ceiling, a bed underneath. I’ve always wanted posters to plaster the walls, to cover their whiteness. I slipped on a new skin, gathered my things, and walked out of the door.

School has no meaning to me. People telling people things that may be wrong in a hundred years. Everything is school, people telling people things.

Learning something every day, not everything is necessary though.That’s 56

how I feel about school. They stress college so much by my age, but they still make you take courses that have nothing to do with the major that you have your mind set on for college. I don’t need a math 31 course if I’m going to be an art major will I? It’s all stuff you don’t need. Learning is natural, not institutionalized. I sit through every class, thinking what I will, not needing anything that is said to me. Some may call me apathetic, I consider myself ahead of everyone else. If I know that I don’t need this, there is no point in me learning it or caring about the grades later, meaning I don’t have to try because it won’t matter anyway, so I might as well save the energy and not try at all. It still gives me good thinking time, something I think I don’t get enough of, which I definitely do.

“Tristan, what did Hemingway mean when he wrote this passage?” the teacher, whose name I don’t care to remember, asked me.

“He meant to show his inner feelings about solitude, and what he knew it could bring to a person.”

“Hm..actually, that’s very interesting, but wrong.”

I don’t believe that, if it truly is a literary analysis course, they don’t tell you what’s right or wrong. You are supposed to make your own decisions. I spoke up. “You can’t tell me it’s wrong.”

“Excuse me, Tristan?” The authority asked.

“This is supposed to be a “literary analysis” course, yet you tell us what to think and feel about a certain story that was made up in the head of some man, and that has no real meaning in life. These are meant to be, as Hemingway intended, solitary excursions into his world. They are meant to be for the reader and the reader alone. No one cares what you think. It is all singular, and you can’t tell me how to feel about it because that is what it brought up in me. You don’t know me, or my background or what I’ve been through. You have no insight as to what any of these words bring to my mind.

I’ve got two words for you to consider for a while. Screw you.” I gathered my books, the teacher looking incredulous. I relished the feeling I had just woken up in the teacher. I loved seeing him act as if he had never seen such an unspeakable act of rebellion. Ha, right. I bet he didn’t even take anything I said and truly looked at it, because if someone did, they would change. I walked out, gazing at my shoes, thinking about all this. Descending the stairs, I realized that that was the first time I had actually voiced my true thoughts about anything in school. Shoving the doors to the school open, I left, with no intention to enter them again today.

It was cold. I had no jacket, and my jeans pockets didn’t do too much for my hands. The sky was an overcast grey, threatening to rain. I slipped a cigarette out of my pocket and slid it in between my teeth. I didn’t light it, but just let it sit there. My shoes scraped across the gravel road, making one of three sounds I could hear: The wind through the trees, my shoes on the gravel, and my breathing in my ears. I came to an empty intersection, the stop lights dancing in the wind. A drab convenience store sat on one corner, open 24/7. I went in.

57

A plume of dust rose when I opened the door to the bathroom and the florescent lights flickered on. The light green glow returned to the walls and floor. Gazing into the mirror, watching my eyes move and flit around, I thought about the microsaccades (the tiny muscles around my eye) adjusting my eyeball for a continuous stream of input, otherwise my brain wouldn’t be able to make an image of the world around me. That is what reality is; an interpretation of refractions of light that define everything we know. I went to sit in the small niche formed between the stall nearest to the sinks and the sinks themselves, where I always go to think. This bathroom is probably one of the most desolate and isolated places I can find, without the noise of traffic, or the beating of other people’s hearts. It’s funny, how people form habits even when they don’t realize it. I came to this bathroom first back in 8th grade. It was solitude, occasionally broken by the actual participant in bathroom activities, but still much more than anywhere else I’ve been. Ever since that first time, I have been coming back here whenever I need to think, work things out in my mind, or just sit and close my eyes, listening to the ultra fast clicking of the florescent light.

Slowly lowering myself to the ground, once again feeling the grit of sand or dirt grinding on the tiles, I exhaled and began to analyze. Had I finally given up with taking all of that force fed intelligence? Yes, I had. The stupid teacher, doing what he was told to do, passing down pseudo-analysis of a text that was actually extremely interesting and pertinent to my mindset.

Calm down. You are degenerating into childlike insults here. But why is that so bad? I am seventeen years old, not legally an adult. Why do I worry and think about all of this? I don’t have to, and, as the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. So why did I choose to stop my ignorance? Brain chemistry. I’ve been told by the science teachers, (whom I believe because it is a lot harder to lie about science than literary analysis) that when a teenager enters puberty, their brain chemistry changes and modifies the actual way that they think.

They become more abstract and profound. They search for deeper meaning.

Modern popular culture tries to suppress this as much as they can. They tell you to be dumb and play sports. Being smart or profound isn’t cool, and you won’t get a girlfriend. Do this, do that, buy this, be a slave to our marketing campaign. I don’t want it. Today’s perspective on intelligence and what is “cool” seriously needs to change, but what can I do about it? I try to show people what it is to be truly intelligent, but I am pushed away, beaten up, and called an outcast. Being stupid is right, and you go to school to get a job to get money to get a wife to have children to pass on your name. What a boring life.

Two hours later. Walking along the street, on my way home, still one hour before school lets out, I see Jill just a bit farther down the street, walking in the same direction as me. I hadn’t seen her before because I was gazing at the ground and my shoes, pounding out a pattern in my mind that was so elemental to humans. She was alone, and a feeling welled up in my stomach that was uncomfortable to an extent, but also enjoyable. I sped up my walking, upping the tempo of the pattern I was pounding. Left right left right left right.

58

“Hey Jill.”

“Oh! Geez, Tristan you scared me! I was really deep in thought over here,” She looked over at me after she had recovered from the scare, and gave me a tired smile. She has been going over something very worrying in her mind for a long time today, I could tell.

“What were you thinking about?” I asked, not really with too much of an inquisitive air.

“Agh, college. My parents are really stressing me out. They are all about me going to an ivy league, even though both of them didn’t go to one. I feel like I could live my life happily if I go to a small college, or even not going at all. This whole standards thing is ridiculous.” She looked back over at me, trying to find my reaction.

I finally looked back up, after taking in what she had said, and I just looked over at her and told her my own views on standards. “Standards limit your life. Without standards, a person is happy with whatever they have. If you have standards that you feel are stressing you out, let them go, because whatever you could want or be, you already have and are without them. Let that shit go.”

She looked over at me, her eyes pensive like her mood I could sense.

“You know, that’s the single smartest thing I’ve heard in a while. Thank you. I feel like I’ve been surrounded by idiots and sheep for the longest of times. They always do what the rest of their friends are doing, and they never question it. You’re different Tristan, I’ve seen you looking at everything. It might be a problem for you, but I think that’s what the world needs. The world needs a little bit more observation, some time to think things through.

We all move too quickly. Carpe diem doesn’t mean shit to me. I’ve got a lot of days, and I don’t need to seize them all.”

I smiled, looking at the ground. I saw Jill looking at me out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up. “I think that too.”

She smiled at me and we walked back to her house.

■

■

■

I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s been 4 months since Jill dropped a hint that she might be interested in me. I always want to do something about it, act on whatever might be going for me. I love her and she doesn’t know. She deserves to know. I should tell her. Wait..no..she hasn’t seemed very open to me lately..I don’t know, I go over this too much. Think about this Tristan. No, wait, you’re thinking too much about this. Go be alone. No, go be with her.

Go make yourself as attractive as possible to her. No, she should like you for who you are, and she does. Just stop.

I slammed my door open, walking into my room, dropping my bags on the floor. Sitting down on my mattress, I held my head in my hands. Facts: It’s February, I am Tristan, I am 17, I am a junior in high school, I have a condition where I notice as much as I can, I love Jill, I don’t know what to do about it, I want to stop thinking about it and let it happen, 59

I feel like nothing will happen if I don’t act, I am scared to learn the truth.

I looked at my watch. 3:19 A.M. I slowly took my clothes off and slid underneath my covers. I turned off the small lamp that lay next to my bed, and I studied the pattern of shadows and lights that ran across the ceiling, coming in through the window. The shadows danced with the light, an eternal fight with no conclusion. The wind blowing through my curtains caused the shadows to shift, the light to bend. This dance amazed me, mesmerized me. I looked at it for an indeterminable amount of time, as I had lost all consciousness of time. So many things change, and never are the same again, all of this reflected in the pattern I was gazing upon. I fell into sleep.

I was surrounded by people. The space I was in was dark and cold, but my breath did not show in front of my face when I exhaled. It was unbearably cold. The people looked like people I had seen at school. They were all standing there. I noticed they were not moving, not a bit. They weren’t breathing, and I was standing in the middle of their circle, looking around at all of them, with their chests still. My breath still didn’t show in front of my face. I couldn’t feel the ground underneath my feet, and I couldn’t determine where the light was coming from that was letting me see these people around me, standing and staring at me. Suddenly, they began to reach towards their faces. They all had their hands resting upon their cheeks, and they began to look upwards, toward nothing more than darkness. They gripped their faces in unison, opening their mouths as they did. The synchronized motions of the 60

group were unnatural and unnerving. I stood there, breathing. They pulled down and away, becoming chaotic in their movements, not staying unified.

They began to scream, it was an unnatural scream, almost a pure tone. The frequency was piercing and painful. I covered my ears, but the sound rang just as loudly as before. They screamed and screamed, ripping at their faces, clawing at their eyes. I was not scared, I was standing there, watching this grotesque act. The screaming stopped, and as I looked around. I noticed that they had changed. Their faces were rotten, and disgusting. They had pulled off their masks, their faces that made them normal. Their real faces glistened and dripped, the raw meat with maggots crawling through it making me feel sick. I dropped to the ground, still unafraid, but now feeling nauseous and dirty. I put my face in my hands, and blocked out the images. I looked back upwards, expecting the true people, but instead seeing Jill. She was standing there, smiling down at me. I stood up, and I continued breathing. I noticed Jill was like the others, she was not breathing, or moving a bit. She began to reach up to her face as well, with the same movements as the people I had seen before. She gripped her cheeks, and opened her mouth. She did not scream, however. She gently slid her “face” off of her head, and I saw what was underneath. It was a shining light, brighter than anything I had seen before. I gazed into it, engulfed by the brightness. It cleansed me of the people before, and I felt warm. Her normal face was visible despite the light’s intensity. Jill began breathing, her chest moving up and down. It was in sync with mine, and we moved closer, the light becoming brighter. I gripped her, and we both exhaled.

My bed was covered in sweat. I opened my eyes slowly, and I saw the shadows and light dancing on the ceiling. I got up, and put on some new clothes. Sitting back down, I stared at my wall, blank and pure. I felt my chest tremble, and I began to cry. I didn’t make any noise, I just felt the wetness on my cheeks, and the warmth in my eyes. It became more and more powerful, and I began to inhale sharply, and blink more often. I fell into my bed, my face deep in the pillow. I cried and I cried, feeling raw, unfiltered emotion rush over me and my brain. I didn’t think about the emotion, keeping it strangely new and foreign to me. I had never felt like this before, and I felt sadness with a whole new power and intensity wash over me, causing my eyes to run, and my lungs to jump. My stomach tightened and loosened, my muscles contracting and expanding, the power of whatever was controlling me too much for them to handle. I was cleaning myself. My tears were the concentrate of what I had stored in myself for the past five years. I was letting it go, dumping it from my eyes into my pillow. That dream had shaken me to my core, and I was not prepared for it. The deluge continued for an hour before I calmed down, and slept the most complete sleep I have ever had before.

I woke up slowly, my head rested from a night of natural sleep. It was Saturday, and I had all the time in the world. Glancing over at my clock, I saw that it was ten thirty in the morning. I sat up and rubbed my eyes slowly with the palms of my hands. The shadows dancing on the ceiling the night before had been replaced with sunshine. My curtains fluttered with a slight breeze, and it was cold outside and inside my room. I was thinking about 61

the night before. I hadn’t cried in over five years. It was as if I had passed through a dark corridor in my mind, walking for miles, searching for a door. I had found that door last night, and I had gone through it. I saw what I had to do to make myself happy. I hadn’t been happy in years. I now had to fix what I had done to myself in the past.

I got up and took a shower with my eyes closed, feeling the steamy darkness engulf my mind, relaxing me and letting me enjoy my senses.

I finished up and threw on some clothes. I went downstairs to get some breakfast before heading out to do whatever I needed to do today. I poured myself some cereal, the individual pieces clattering and filling up the plastic bowl. They glistened dryly, the sugar catching light. I got the milk out of the fridge, 2 percent. Putting it down on the counter, the milk slid forward in the container, causing the entire thing to move a couple centimeters forward.

That was interesting to me. I did it a couple more times, and then I smiled.

Physics, what an all important thing. I got a spoon and poured the milk into the cereal, watching the current of white liquid make my cereal float and hover. We are the only animals that drink what is essentially breast milk coming from another species of animal. How strange. I dug in, and I liked the simplicity of my thoughts. I liked the present feeling, thinking about what is now, and not what could happen. Then my dad came downstairs. He was wearing a white beater with jeans, and he had just woken up as well. He scratched his scruffy beard and asked me what time I had gotten up. I told him, and he looked disinterested, searching for something to eat. He grabbed a donut and bit into it, some crumbs tumbling down his chest and onto the counter. He asked me what I was planning on doing today, and I told him that I didn’t know. That wasn’t quite a lie, I had a general idea of what I wanted to do, which was hang out with Jill, but I wasn’t sure if that would happen.

He looked over at me like I was doing something wrong, and left the room.

He had always been on me for not getting a job ever since the day I turned sixteen. I didn’t need a job, I didn’t buy anything. I finished up my cereal and dropped the plastic bowl into the sink. It clattered around and I watched it go through its temper tantrum before finally settling down at the bottom of the sink. I grabbed my coat and walked out the door.

The street was empty, the wind sidling down my neck and sleeves, chilling my torso, making my extremities numb. My shoes scraped the ground, small rocks bumping and rolling down the street. I was thinking about how I sometimes feel as if I am an observer on life. I almost never feel involved, and I feel as if I could just not interact with anything anymore, and things would just continue as they are now. My life is passive, and everything needs to be active. I prefer to look upon things, and not be related to them. I need to change that in order to be happier, at least, I hope so.

I came upon that cruddy old gas station, my sanctuary. I walked in, the guy behind the counter giving me a nod as I passed by. He knew what I did in there, and he didn’t care. I wish there were more people like that. Live and let live. The light clicked on, a slight buzzing as always. Florescent lights always seemed to do that, I guess it has something to do with they way they work, I might want to look that up one day. I sat down in my usual place, feeling the 62

usual things on the floor. Did they ever clean this place? My guess was no.

I was becoming dissatisfied with my life. I felt like I was going nowhere. I would end up just like my dad, in a dead end job, with some ungrateful kid living in my house, eating my food, and using my electricity. Everything I did I looked upon with distaste, seeing my own actions and the consequences they will eventually lead to. You couldn’t call me hedonistic, because I never am really happy. Nothing I do has any significance. I haven’t changed at all this year. I realized that I love Jill, but I haven’t changed myself outwardly, or even very much inwardly, as it seems that I always knew this, but never recognized it.

I am going to change. I know now that I need to make something different in order to make myself happy. What’s so good about happiness?

That’s a useless question. Happiness is the goal of our short lives. We want to become as happy as possible, through any means necessary. I got up, my shoes scraping the gritty floor as always. I walked out, flicking the light off as I did so. I always relished the moment of complete silence when the florescent buzzing was gone. It seemed so complete, such a whole silence in contrast to having a constant tension in the background like the light’s buzzing. When I was younger, I would sit in my father’s car with the doors closed. It was the most silent I had heard anything. I became aware of the constant ringing in my ears because of all the noise I was used to hearing at all times. The slightest noise became magnified to an extreme. I felt calm, and I almost even fell asleep sometimes. That was my earlier sanctuary. Then things went south between my father and I and now I can’t use his car. Not that I would want to, walking is more meaningful to me.

I left the gas station. The attendant gave me a weird look because I was leaving so early, but he stopped caring as soon as I passed him. Good man.

I looked down at my wrist, the black plastic rectangle telling me that it was twelve fourteen. I decided to head over to Jill’s. I told myself that I was going to ask if she wanted to go to lunch, but we’ll see what happens. I am never sure of what I am going to do. I make a plan, then I don’t follow it. What a big waste of energy.

Jill answered her door, thank God. I hate talking to her parents. They are so overly happy and outward. It kind of scares me. I guess they’re not so bad since they made Jill what she is, so I’m thankful for them. I remember one time they had answered the door, and Jill wasn’t home. I was about to turn and leave, thanking them anyway, but they insisted that I come in for coffee or something, I don’t really remember. I accepted, unusually, and I saw how hard it was for me to interact with other people. Most of that visit was her parents asking me non-intrusive questions, and me answering with single syllables. Yes, no, yes, yeah, sure, thanks, yes, no, nah, I have to go.

“Hey Tristan! Come in, come in.” I walked in and took off my shoes, like usual. She actually seemed happier than normal to see me. That might have ust been me, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. “I haven’t seen you in forever! How have you been? Where have you been? Sorry for all the questions, I just haven’t seen you in a long time, I know I’m crazy.” “It’s okay, and I know I haven’t been over in a while...I forgot how it smells in 63

here.” She smiled and we went into her kitchen. She opened her refrigerator, the light casting a yellowish glow onto the floor, because the lights were off.

I watched her flick some hair from her face with her soft hands, Her body was illuminated for those brief moments, her features softened in the warm light, her face as beautiful as ever. The door closed, and she handed me the soda, shockingly cold in my warm hand. She led me into the living room, the same semi-nice pictures on the same white wall, the same couch in the same place, with the same bouncy pink carpet underneath my feet. It was all so familiar, but I felt out of place. I had changed, not the room, but it gave me the same sense of uneasiness and blindness. She turned on the television for background noise. I ripped open the soda, and I felt the pressure escaping, something that accompanies every carbonated drink, but something that is barely noticed. I pay attention to all of the wrong details. All of this time Jill was looking at me with a strange sense of scrutiny. “Why are you looking at me so intensely?”

“I don’t know, you aren’t acting normal, well, for you.”

“How so?”

“You just seem a lot more here today. You don’t look so spacey. It’s just different to see you like this.”

“Is it a bad thing?”

“No, no, I like it, it’s just different. Anyway, how have you been? I haven’t talked, and I mean talked to you in a while.”

“I’ve been pretty good, you know, the same old stuff. I came over for a little change in pace.” She nodded and headed over to the TV room. I followed her and flopped down on the couch next to her. I presented her with my idea. “Hey Jill, do you want to go out to eat lunch somewhere? How about that new bar grill tavern thing downtown?” She looked over at me, her eyebrows raised, the corners of her mouth turning upwards and her eyes sparkling.

“Yes! Gosh, I’ve been cooped up in this house all day, and I’ve got some extra money, that sounds great.”

“Well let’s get going then.”

We went to lunch like I had wanted to, and she pointed out something interesting to me. “This is good,” she said, “It’s a change from our normal routine of talking and sitting.” We went to that bar and grill, and the food was pretty good. She ordered a grilled chicken sandwich and a chocolate milkshake, with malt. It reminded me of older times, when I would beg my father for a milkshake at Friendly’s and he would always cave in and comply.

I would get chocolate with malt, and suck it down without seeing that in doing so, my milkshake’s life span was severely deteriorated. I would ask for more, always being refused. He always told me that I would be full in ten minutes, and I would never believe him. Alas, I would always be clutching my stomach on the way home, full of mashed up chicken fingers, soda, and a large chocolate milkshake with malt. I never really learned what he was trying to tell me.

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Jill rented a movie from Blockbuster, something she had wanted to see, The Squid and The Whale. I had seen it before, but not for quite some time, so we figured it was a good rent. We headed back to her house, made some snacks and put on the movie.

I couldn’t really pay attention to the movie, partly because I had seen it before, and partly because I was focused on what today was for me. It was a turning point. I had stepped up, made plans, and had followed through on them. What an amazing day, and to spend it with Jill just made it even better.

She never showed any signs of displeasure. I was actually happy. After the movie was over, Jill turned to me and asked me why I was like this today.

“Tristan, today was a lot of fun, I’m so glad you came over.” She changed her tone to a softer and more serious tone, as if something was wrong: “What’s gotten into you? Why did you do this today?”

I stopped and contemplated what I should say. Should I tell her that I’ve made a resolve to change? Would she be able to help me with it? She definitely would. I didn’t know what to say there. All that I had been doing or the past couple weeks was thinking about her and how I would like to be with her. I just couldn’t bring myself to lie though. This was Jill too, so she wouldn’t be surprised by my sudden opening up. I’ve done that plenty of times before, so I hope that it wouldn’t come as a shock to her. “Jill,” I looked her straight in the eyes, putting my soda down on the glass coffee table. “I want to change myself. I’ve been looking at myself, and I’ve been seeing an unsuccessful person, a person who will never develop fully in life, a person who has withered away and will never gain the necessary skills for life outside of this sheltered bubble of our adolescence. I want to change all of that. I want to see myself better. I hate my own image, both internal and external. I see my future as stagnant, hopeless, and repetitive. Redundancy and routine is my name, and I never want that to fully take place, because once I’ve reached that place, I will never escape. This is what I had been thinking until today. Today I left my gas station retreat – you know the place – to come here and ask if you wanted to go to lunch. I changed my ways for you and I want you to continue helping me do that.”

She looked shocked for a moment, but her eyes instantly softened, and her hands found mine. My hands were cold, and hers were warm, with a strong feeling of reassurance in her pulse. She looked down for a moment, focusing on what to say. She glanced back up and opened her mouth to say something. She started to make a noise, but stopped and covered her mouth, looking away distractedly. She shook her head and softly said “I will help you.” into my ear. Then we sat there, looking at the TV, seeing everything, hearing everything, feeling everything. My senses were confined to the present, compressed and loud in my head. I felt my pulse pounding in my chest, my ears, and my fingertips. I was on my way, with Jill’s help. I leaned over to her.

“Thank you.”

Her face was whitewashed with advertisements, the lights flashing continuously, the waves pulsing through our heads and our bodies together. I melted through the couch, and I was floating in nothing, but suffocated by the 65

thickness of it. I tilted my head back and saw the ceiling, and saw shadows dancing to the beat of the night.

I left around one in the morning. We had spent the rest of the night sitting and looking at interesting things, explaining them to one another. We were able to see each other’s minds, each other’s interpretations of things. What interested us and what bothered us. When I finally left I watched the lights go out one by one in the windows of her small house with her small car out front. I walked down the road, not necessarily in the direction of my house, but close. Close was enough. Close enough. The road was shining from a late rain, with streetlights purging the darkness every couple hundred feet or so. The lights shone from the street, upwards towards the sky. Down to the ground, back to the sky, returning to the source. Everything comes from one place. Everything is related through the Sun. I walked quietly down the road, relishing the darkness and silence. I came to a light on a sort of island between three roads branching off to wherever. Stained with rust, standing still, doing the same thing every day and every night, this light was just like every other light, with the sole exception of its location. There was a small stump next to the foot of it. I sat, ignoring the wetness seeping through my jeans. Bathed in light, I stared forward. Everything was quiet and smelled of rain in the woods. I imagined that the world was confined to a small bubble around me, that past what trees were lit, there was darkness and nothing. The road led to another road that led to the road behind me, a continuous loop.

My mind was emptying itself of the moment, and filling itself with things past. I mulled over everything that had just happened tonight, last night, the day before, and the weeks before that. I was merely remembering them, not analyzing them or thinking of improvements to the situation. The past makes the present, and the past cannot be undone, so the present is always predetermined, this being so, the future is the only thing available to change.

My future. I had to change my future. I was changing my future. Tomorrow is the future, and I had made plans with Jill to hang out with some of her friends at one of their houses. I hoped that they would like me, and I tried to think of how I would act. No, stop that. These are Jill’s friends. They will be warm and accepting, just like her. Don’t worry about how you act, that’s lying. Don’t lie to new people, Tristan. I stood up, brushing dirt off the back of my jeans, and hoping they would dry by the time I got home. I started walking down the road, singing a song to myself that just seemed to fit the situation perfectly. It had a hopeful feel, but it was juxtaposed with sad lyrics. I felt it in myself, and I felt how much it applied to my life, and I began singing it aloud, louder than I had ever dared to sing or even speak in public. Granted, it was one in the morning, but I felt so much different.

I arrived home, tired, happy, and full of glowing hope, emanating from my body and bouncing off my walls back into my eyes and my ears, filling me with happiness and warmth. I slept softly and dreamlessly, and woke up with the sun.

■

■

■

Shining through my thin curtains, the sun opened my eyes for me, a soft 66

hand on my face, my cheeks. The warmth of my bed consumed me, and the cold draft coming through the window, closed, but still allowing the frigid air in, was enough to convince me to stay in bed for a while longer. It was Sunday anyway, and I had gotten to bed around two in the morning. My headphones had slipped off of my head during an unconscious night shift, and I could hear a murmur of music through them, just above the ambient morning noises. A car went by, the rubber on the pavement abnormally loud in my head. I looked at the clock, which told me it was 9:54 A.M. Early for me. I closed my eyelids again, letting the sleep glue hold them shut while my mind drifted back into simulated unconsciousness.

I woke again, softly once more. I noticed that the sun beams had moved across the wall and were no longer on my face. The clock said it was 11:33 A.M., and I believed it. Strange, time is. It is a measurement of our trips around the sun, and around our own axis. One day is 24 hours is one rotation (more or less). It is 11:33 A.M. Universal Time, to me. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold, smooth floorboards under my feet. I showered, the steam making me alive, and I dressed in my usual, white shirt with dark jeans and old, worn out shoes. I meandered downstairs, grabbed a donut from the counter and headed out into the street. The air made my face and lungs come to life, a warm tinge going through the breezes, with the scent of fresh rain still lingering on the land. I started off towards the local music store. Along the way, I noticed the bottoms of cars, dirty and dusty from the sand and grit they pour on the roads. Everything was brown and dark this time of year. The earth was shedding its winter coat, its hibernation state. It will rise and shake the crusted dirt from its still shining coat and live again. This occurs everywhere at once. I enjoy this time of year. I lit up a cigarette.

I focus on small, individual things. I work like a close up camera. I work like a haiku. Small things, small moments, small focus, large meaning. I see one drop of rain on the pavement, I see one pattern of cracks in tree bark, I see one twitch on someone’s face. I see all this and I read it, and I interpret it as many times as I can bear. The walk to the music store was full of nice moments, being a rare walk for me. I saw a small bare tree perfectly outlined by an old concrete wall. It was a flawless juxtaposition of natural and urban being. It was interesting. A crazy person would call me crazy.

The door swung open with a tinkling of a bell. The tired-looking cashier let his eyes rest on me for longer than usual. His face was blank, the creases unnaturally dark, and the muscles slack. His dark hair was greasy, and he fit the music store cashier stereotype perfectly. People fall into their stereotypes quite easily, I find. I like the people who break from this, I find them much more interesting, like they have something more to share with people than the people who are able to be predicted easily. So boring.

The cashier turned around and went back to whatever he was doing. By the look of it, he seemed to be categorizing some discs. New shipment, old stock, whatever it may be. I walked deeper into the store, looking for what I really wanted, posters. For so long now, my walls have been bare. They are empty and bland. In a way, I enjoy it, but I’m beginning to change. I need 67

color, explosive and abrasive. I need expression, I need to let it all go. I plan to do this through posters. Start with the small things, go to the larger things later. Posters are the starting point.

Looking through the racks, the flipping displays, the old rolls, I found some of bands that I liked. The eyes staring, the hair long, short, greasy, clean, styled, colored, normal, straight, curly, everything. They aren’t afraid to display themselves and their feelings through their music. Relate to us, they say, hear and feel us. Buy us. Thank god for independent record labels.

I paid for the rolls of posters I had tucked underneath my arms, the cashier relaxing finally, as if my purchase had affirmed me as a stable citizen, someone that was rare and to be admired. Did people shoplift from here a lot? Probably. They wouldn’t be able to do much about it. I slid another cigarette into my mouth, and held my lighter to it. There’s nothing to be done. At least I assured him that there are some honest people left. Some.

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Julianna Lupo Three haiku Rain falling gently On my foggy window pane Whispering spring time ________________________ With you comes the sun With your sun kissed skin and freckles Foot imprints in sand. ________________________ Like the leaves you fall Into a heap of color That will consume you

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Brandon Rodriguez Every choice Every choice you ever made Has turned my world around Moved me and yet bound me Held me there quite soundly As things just spun And Every time you ever shared Has kept me believing That all those thoughts and feelings You’ve told aren’t dreams In my head at night And Every time you ever left Has played with my emotions Killed and swept my notions That our happiness was in motion To better things to come And Every time you ever lied Has brought me thoughts of burning Your flesh and blood churning As I sit there all alone yearning For your descent into hell

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Julian Schwartz Sometimes it irks me Sometimes it irks me, the stillness of things Warm cobblestones sprinkled under the wrath of a loose hydrant The screams of happiness, are they free from the sun?

The hydrant’s offspring flows to the drain, avoiding each stone, a maze is formed As the flow descends, the hydrant feeds itself like a circle Each child has no understanding of this, for their focus is to laugh and play in motion Maybe I am the child, avoiding stillness

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Three poems by Alex Geerken Here...

Here is the grass, Here are the trees.

Here is the wind, That forms a breeze.

Here’s the pond Where we like to swim.

I look at the bottom, And see old man Jim. Allergies All the trees bud, the flowers start to bloom.

It’s the time of rebirth: Spring is nature’s womb.

Behind this illusion of beauty a fiend lurks about.

It lashes out sporadically and will attack without a doubt.

Small irksome spores become airborne from the wind.

Once your eyes start to itch you’ll beg the pollen to rescind.

Quickly take your meds, and hope for the best.

The only thing you can do is wait it out & get some rest.

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Symbolize I rise.

I criticize.

I exercise.

I socialize. ‌I summarize.

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Joseph Andrรกs Lรถbb There is a place...

There is a Place, filled with trees, and Trails upon which to walk Or run, And hills To climb, run up, hike Marvel at, Or to look at with dismay, realizing My goal is over these hills, and beyond them.

Is it necessary to climb these hills?

What a long trek, and hard, to quench my thirst for reaching my goals?

There is a river, winding through these hills, Cutting through the trails, Running under bridges, under rocks, under hills.

The river route is straight, with a few turns, Little slope, and Always runs downhill.

But taking the easy river route, One never thirsts for the peaks.

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Two poems by Zach Elston Here is the clock...

Here is the clock, ticking back the moments that you stole from me.

Here is a pink pill, the one that feels great Here is the wall of my room, so blank and warm Here is the abandoned car, rusted to the core.

Here is a wriggling worm, cut through the belly two halves, each one whole.

Here is the lonely kid, with two other people they are alone together.

Here is the ink that rests on the page, liquefied thoughts.

These are my hands, worn, cut, scarred, and scabbed, from countless encounters that won’t fade from memory, just memories. Just memories.

Memories of flashing sun-hair, of nice smells and movies and glittering floor tiles, wet with my embarrassment.

New superstitions More than 15 high fives within 5 minutes is considered bad luck.

For good luck, flare your nostrils while clipping your nails.

Tie a string around your pinkie while driving for good luck.

Pluck some hair from your head when you see a friend out of a window to give good luck to them.

Never open a window all the way if you want to remain in good fortune.

If you sit directly on a heater, get ready for bad luck.

Tilt your pictures for good luck.

Snapping your fingers below waist level isn’t recommended.

Weekly oatmeal baths prevent bad luck.

When a dog barks, stomp your feet and blink your eyes rapidly for good luck.

After a haircut, eat a fruit, a vegetable, and a candy all at once for good luck.

Throwing out an entire cake, freshly baked, will have no effect on your luck.

75

Alex Brimelow Street Fighter I remember the first time. The first time I killed another person. I was fourteen. My family and I lived in Baghdad, Iraq. My father, Amaz Busayna, was in command of the 345th Infantry Battalion, who during the invasion held off an American advance on a bridge for over 8 hours. After the 8th hour, my father said bombs and rockets fell out of nowhere as if Allah himself had demanded it. On that day his men broke and ran. He was then forced to surrender. My father blamed the Americans for everything afterward. Our family had served Saddam as long as he had been in power.

My father, even after being stripped of his rank, tried to serve Saddam.

I remember him leaving after dinner or slipping away during the day, sometimes with my brother, Azad. They would return later, sometimes happier, sometimes in a rage. Azad was eighteen. He thought that if not for the Americans, Iraq would be happy and wealthy.

One night I asked Azad where he went with my father. After a minute of silence I asked again.”Please, Azad, tell me where you go.” “I can’t tell you,” he hissed. I begged him. Eventually, he said they were part of a group who fought Americans. Azad said the only way for the infidels to leave was through a hail of lead and mound of bodies. “You see Imm, Americans are not like us. They are devils. They can only speak through their guns and only bring sorrow and misery to the places they go.” I listened to my brother and asked him if I could help too. He lay in his cot and did not reply.

It was not because I dislike the Americans, but because I was curious about the group that I wanted to go. In truth, I was once saved by an American soldier. It was a hot day in early June the same year. My friends and I were walking down the street heading to an ice cream store. We turned the corner and stopped at the end of the street was an American Humvee surrounded by half a dozen Americans. One of my friends said, “Maybe we should turn back? There’s always another street.” Some of us nodded and began to head in another direction but my best friend, Hdi, turned to me and said, “Come on Imm, they would never hurt us.” I called out to him “Hdi! Don’t! Come on, let’s follow the others!” He stopped and turned toward me chiding, “Imm, I’m not afraid. Are you?” I stood there, and then I chased after him. We walked side by side. The Americans were half way up the street, silent. They all seemed to be staring at us. The car seemed more like a giant steel dog, growling as it moved down the street. As we neared them, they began to talk to each other. Hdi didn’t even flinch. I was scared. So afraid. These men with black and white colored skin, whose bodies seemed to blend into the wall and whose eyes were nothing but black holes that you could see your own face 76

in, they seemed like devils. One of them smiled at me. I looked at my feet hoping that I could just walk through. Then there was a shriek and explosion.

Chaos exploded around me. The Americans began to shoot their guns. As I looked up, I saw Iraqi men standing on the roofs shooting at the Americans.

I was thrown to the ground. One of the Americans was holding me, using his body to a shield the bullets. He put me in an alley and started to yell at me, making hand motions. I looked into that face and felt more fear than I had ever felt in my whole life. The American ran back to the street, where the gunfire seemed to increase. I turned and ran down the alley. I did not stop running until I got home and burst through into my mother’s arms. There, I began to weep. She held me, hushing me, rocking. Later that day my father brought news that Hdi had been killed in a firefight downtown. I did not tell him that I was there too.

A week or so later, my father called me to the roof of our house after evening prayer. We sat in silence looking out over the city. My father looked at me and said three words: “It is time.” I was puzzled, but he continued. “My son, it is time for you to join us and help us remove this stain from our country.”

He told me that the Americans were not like him or me. They were devils.

They neither loved nor cared for others. They only sought to kill. I asked why we do not just ask them to leave. He said that they would never leave our country unless we killed them and drove them back to hell. Allah wills it, he said, and we must do Allah’s will. “Tomorrow you will see.”

The next morning after breakfast, they took me into the city. We walked and walked until it was noon. At a big house, my father went down the stairs. He knocked on the door. A small window in the door slid open and then closed.

There was a turning of locks and the door opened. The room was dark and musty. Only a few light bulbs dimly lit the room. I could make out some of the faces of the men who greeted us. As my eyes got used to the gloom, I saw men unloading boxes. They pulled out guns. My father picked one up and knelt before me. “This is the tool that will drive out the infidels. This is your sword that may strike down the demons to defend our home.” He smiled at me and offered it. I held it, but it did not make me more confident.

“Father,” I said, “I don’t know if I will be able to kill the Americans.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, “You will.” We sat there for what felt like a lifetime.

We wrapped cloths around our heads and made masks. A door opened from the top of the stairwell and everyone began to move. We followed the stairs all the way up and travelled along the rooftops until we reached a place with a busy street below. Fear gripped my stomach. I wanted to scream “Get away!” but I couldn’t. I felt like a stone.

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Then I heard the growl. The growl of the Humvees. The street seemed to empty as if people knew what was going to happen. Two Humvees began to move down the street with a dozen Americans on either side. A man with a RPG aimed at the Humvee. An American yelled, and chaos filled the street.

The American soldier aimed and shot the man with the RPG. I watched as the man fall, scarlet blood spewing out of his body. Another RPG was fired, hitting one of the Humvees. The explosion rocked the street but the truck seemed unharmed. Azad was standing now, shooting at the soldiers. I looked toward them and raised the gun to my shoulder. One was dragging his comrade into an alley. Then I saw one alone, standing against the wall under an overlapping roof, aiming with a grim expression on his face.

I put the man in my sights. My hands trembled and I couldn’t keep my aim.

I don’t need to do this! I thought, this isn’t right! Tears crept down my face.

The American soldier dropped to one knee and reloaded. He stopped and looked up right into my eyes. I felt his eyes scanning me and I felt so naked.

Time seem to slow and stop. The yells and gunshots seemed to disappear until there was only silence. My hands stopped shaking and the tears slowed.

Then I whispered, “I’m sorry.” I pulled the trigger. The bark and the kick of the gun brought me back to the real world. I unloaded my gun at the man.

I saw him hit the wall he was standing in front of. He stood against it and slipped into a sitting position. A red smear seemed to paint the wall even after the gun was empty. I continued to pull the trigger. I fell to my knees and began to cry. I heard someone yell “Back! Back to the safe house!” I grabbed my gun, turned still crying, and ran with the group. I jumped and weaved around the rooftops. I still cried. If god wanted me to kill these men, why did it seem that my soul died with them?

[Alex’s story was among the pieces of creative writing selected to be read at the evening event celebrating young writers held by ASAP and hosted by Denis Leary at the Washington Town Hall on Saturday, April 26th, 2008. The story was read by veteran singer, actor, and narrator John McDonough, who especially commended its author at the outset of his reading.]

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Marena Izzi Untitled You were my midsummer night’s dream A wisp of smoke caught between my fingertips A whisper of love escaping from your lips The blades of grass between my toes Staring down the sun, waiting for the rain Blinded by you in all your beautiful pain And I am undone by you

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Katrina Kiritharan Bourne Gardens The sun glows upon the gardens; infusing color with ecstacy.

A drug, nature is; the feeling of wind petting every freckle on my skin.

The high of sweet, sweet nectar injecting life into what was once dead.

Warming the winter bodies that lay there through the thickest snowflakes of February.

It all thrives now; under the distant lashing flames of a star.

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Kirsten Bouthiller Curtis Bram Alex Brimelow Dylan Crittenden Zach Elston Ian Engelberger Alex Geerken Sasha Geerken Cassidy Goepel Jon Hartmann Sam Hunt Marena Izzi Josh Johnston Katrina Kiritharan Joseph Andrรกs Lรถbb Chance Logan Julianna Lupo Joe Mashburn Jung Min Park Katie Pierce Alden Reed Brandon Rodriguez Austin Ryer Julian Schwartz Nellie Simmons Hope Simpson Jessie Tsai Kyle Ward