CANVAS Volume 1 Issue 1

Canvas Vol. One Number 1 December 1997

Co-Editor/Publisher Joseph Kerschbaum

Co-Editor Dominic Holt

Poetry Erin Loughery - Editor Jason Bredle Sarah Titon

Short Stories Chris Sikich - Editor Brendan Thopy Sarah Thompson Bethany Leickly

Layout and Design Katherine Rippel - Editor Ryan Murray

Katy Chaille

Photograph by Aimee Pflieger

Canvas is taking submissions for the spring issue! We are accepting poetry, short stories, art, photography, essays...pretty much anything that can be repro-

duced on paper. Just email canvas@indiana.edu. for more information.

To obtain a copy of Canvas' editorial policy contact Union Board by calling 855-IMUB or emailing canvas@indiana.edu All works that appear in Canvas are copyrighted by the artists. Canvas only has permission to reproduce the works. i

Coming Soon: Canvas Website!

Table of Contents 12341011

Michelle Goodman Betsy Catt Holly Gorman Baily C. Taylor Karen E. Fiore -

12 1314-

3030 31

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3636 37 38 39 45 -

46 -

4747 -

Kristen Jordre Joel R. Elliot Liz Musson Karen E. Fiore

Sarah Gerhart Benjamin Roesch Kristen Jordre Joel Hilgendorf Christopher Todd Jones

Fear of Coffee Carnival

Spoiled Fumes "One Beautiful Night" Red Line, Green Line Dead End More Coffee, Please...

The Essence of Funk

"Generation X Lover Letters" Definitions of Heaven "Horoscope" Wanting a taste

On the Porch on a Sunny Day Rachel's Sestina

Sara A. Sheikh

"Newspapers"

Betsy Catt Liz Musson

Funeral

Rob Bola

51 52 -

Betsy Catt

53

-

Ryan Maanum

54 55 -

Karen E. Fiore

Lyssa Sample Daniel Paquette

Ghosts "Sleep Sleep" Litter

Looking at a Sleeping Baby Snippets Sunshine Imitators The Stew Kings

Front Cover: "A Sitting Pose" By Anita Debnath Back Cover: By Julie Livingston other photos by Amiee Pflieger and Chris Bennet The Canvas Staff would like to thank everyone who submitted: you are the reason why this issue is behind schedule. We had such a hard time chosing what would be published! We encourage everyone who submitted to please submit again. We look forward to hearing from ypp.

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Fear of Coffee

By Michelle Goodman Standing up outside in front of 20 or 30 people.

A toast, would you like some jam for that?

Or some jelly from my jittering legs?

The sun tickles my brain bringing me back to life, I stare at the faceless figures-unmoved, expressionless, wonder what they're thinking.

The butterflies fly to and fro, wildly inside my stomach.

They scream mercilessly to be set free.

At last, my words of confession spill out like coffee, staining the crowd's clothes.

No, I didn't steal the book from Mrs. Johnson's library.

It wasn't me who turned up my nose at the Pope in Italy, Who was it then, who would do such things?

Who would ramble on at their first acceptance speech?

The clouds flow across my face, but I sweep them away, catching my head as it falls from the sky.

Applause from the crowd.

But I can't remember a word I said.

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Carnival

By Betsy Catt deals on tickets, extra prizes, extra throw for the

little lady, little lady, little late, don't you think let's go home she begs cold chill twitch in the red neon heavy metal of the tilt-a-whirl dragging her feet through the smell of shit and straw All of the carnies befriend them tonight

of the woman that lifts him, lets him go climbing steadily teetering Sit Down, she shouts and shivers Shut Up while the carnie's rotting mouth drops open The camie flips the emergency stop.

But elephant earl one more, he says dirty fingernails on dirty hands sprinkle cinnamon down dusty on

a paper plate Carnies want Mag to buy necklaces that glow halos on bodies on green collarbones of ghoulish children all colors all bright all right, she says. fine, for Steve's mid-thirties beg for cutting and dripping out the glow from the tube and painting rings around his eyes huge rings, light-up glasses edgy, a little Last ride ticket to last carnie and last toothless grin of the evening last people at the fair and the Ferris wheel Steve, alone, in the green basket climbing swinging and singing Alice Cooper hits to Mag and the carnie, a woman Steve stands in the cradle halfway up one foot on the seat and one on the safety bar steadies himself on the spoke that flashes orange the carnie's not paying attention I'LL DO IT FROM HERE he shouts to Mag and the scarred hands

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Spoiled Fumes

By Holly Gorman The palate cleansing sustenance you brought me has turned brown and deadly. I forgot it; left it in the closet in the spare bedroom.

I turned foul, so I dumped it out by the compost in back.

I watched as steam rose from the liquide, wavered through the air like the warm air you exhaled in November.

I turned my head from the fumes, vowed to never forget again.

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One Beautiful Night

By Bailey C. Taylor -

I rolled it around on my tongue. There was no taste, not even a discreet feeling in my mouth. But I knew it was there. He said something was on that thin piece paper that he gave me. Something that would make me believe I was alive and feel the whole world bowing at my feet. Rich had given me my paper-baby to take the best care of, I had to nurse it under my tongue. "A little more than being drunk" was what he called it.

I had uncovered this tiny jewel, wrapped inthe tiniest tinfoil imagineable, and stared at its intricate designs. A little piece of paper, that's all it was to me. And after a few drinks I forgot I had taken it.

My night continued, the party continued...my life seemed real. Rich and I began to dance to the vibrating music yelling from the basement below us. Once in awhile he would stop and ask me if I was "feeling alright". "Yes," I always repeated, sometimes annoyed, "Why?!" And he smirked his 'Rich-smirk' and continued to dance. It was not like I had never been drunk before, he knew that. I always knew when to stop grabbing more alcohol, or rather he knew when to stop me. Rich was always with me whenever I was drinking. He made sure I was always safe- that's what boyfriends are supposed to do.

The night was beautiful. It was mid-September, just at the end of the summer season, my favorite time of the year. Just before darkness had fallen, the sky had turned a deep-dark mulberry, and I could see both sun and moon. Both were hazy but dramatically striking. Inebriated, I thought that that may have been the most perfect I have seen the world appear since I was born. I decided to make a memory for myself, to remember this beautiful night; I closed my eyes, and my eye lashes gripped one another. I touched my finger to my lips that then kissed it, and placed it against the sky, thinking to myself, "I wish the world would stay this gorgeous for longer than one night."

I went back ino my teenager-filled, hormone infested house. How convenient that Parents' Weekend at my brother's college fell on the weekend of my birthday. Rich had turned my whole entire home into one big present for me that weekend; I had never seen most of the people that were stuffed between the walls of my house. In a matter of an hour or two, however, I did not care who thery were. I laughed and danced.

"Rich," I asked, noticing the panic hiding behind my voice as I tapped someone on the shoulder. "What ever happened to, you know, what you gave me...," and before I could finish I realized it was not him. The person I had started talking to smiled and pointed to my eyes. I raised an eyebrow at her; I thought it fell off.

As I bumped around looking for my well-hidden Rich, who I knew was usually not hard to miss, I ran into Bradley. It was nice to finally see a familair face.

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"BradhaveyouseenRich!" The words shot out of my mouth like bullets. I put my arms around him to let him know I was serious.

"Calm down, girl. He'll be back soon," he said inbetween his cigarette drags.

"Maybe you should stop drinking... Gimme those scissors!"

Confused, i looked down at my hands. I clenched a large pair of silver scissors in my right hand. Mad. I didn't remember grabbing those. Brad took them carefully out of my hand, laughing inside.

"I haven't had a drink in overadayortworthree." It felt like I had put down my last bottle years ago.

"Look." He signalled over to the table filled with empty shot glasses and Boone's bottles. "Those are all yours. From tonight ... " I repelled away from Brad and all the people he had coming out of him like a mad magnet. All the lies that they were telling, feeding me. But they would not leave me alone... Brad came up behind me once again and whispered in my ear. "Rich gave you one bitch of a present tonight, didn't he?"

My head backed away from my body in disbelief. I stared at the Brads. They all smiling at me with shiny porcelein teeth that melted lies into my ears. were Frantic. Panic. Messy house. "Where IS he?" I needed to know. "Rich!" I screamed nearly ten times before I was told to quiet down. I could barely even hear myself yell. I thought it was so loud. "Quiet down? No. Not me," I said aloud.

The necessity of finding Rich became top priority. I needed to find him, just to... to FIND him. To tell him about Brad and how he and the people inside him tried to scare mel The music was frustratingly loud! Meaningless lyrics. Cancer infested singers, longhair, guitars, light shows, smoking, pot, drugs, melting away... No one needed to listen to it anyway... who was Fee to them? Milly was a slut. Garcia is only talking from the dead, convincing others to join him. Vulgarity pouring from my stereo.

Short quick steps led me up the stairs. My room was on the right, but every way I faced I had two rights. I couldn't take the incessant noise anymore, it had to be stopped. All the appliances that were plugged into the walls were looking at me- their little red and black chords running out of the sockets were thin, optic nerves. They were all staring at me, waiting, waiting, for me to kill them.

Power plugs. Everywhere. I broke the jacks, the computer, the phone. . . None of them could see me. The stereo in my room coughed when I tore apart the wires; copper hair frayed everwhere. The TV and its disgusting images of stick-thin women went blind in sight when I unplugged its three-prong plug. The whole entire upstairs was ripped aparts (but silent) and I jumped down the staircase, hit a few steps with the backs of my feet, but still landed gracefully. No Rich.

I made no sound as I lurked around. I hunted for the elusive circuit breaker.

Downstairs. No noise. Stereo off. Quiet. Someone needed to hear my screams.

Whatever was propped up against the wall downstairs, behind the evil widemouthed dryer, I pulled plugs out of. On/off switches. Switches with the words 'main' on

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them. Power. Now my house had no noise. All was silent and beautiful and new. I could live once again.

In this silence I was alone.

"Alone," was whispered into my tender ear. "Alone, you are cold." I jerked my head around but no one was there. Cold freezing icicle. I held my arms together for heat in this basement of my house. Splinters were driven into my peach skin, and I broke my silence with a sudden shrill scream... echo... through my head, house, earth, sky...

I didn't realize how frozen I was, my arms tingled against one another with their rigid bumps. I had shark skin, when rubbed the wrong direction it would slash like razorblades... thin strips of crimson red, striped across my flesh. I thought of swimming through the liquid walls I was drowing in... fast shark. Deadly shark. A shark that never dies.

My arms let go of one another; my fingertips were shredded by teeth. "Stand up straight," I reprimanded. "Gather yourself. Everything's normal. Real. It'll go away.. .

You know She is going to call tonight." Lunging for the stairs that led up to the main room, I made the most sober attempt of my life. Like the time I came home on the Fourth of July at 2:00 a.m. and had to talk to Her for an hour straight. Tequila shots. Or when I talked to Officer O'Malley after running a red light. Phillies.

Each of my toes lagged over the other, the tips of my feet kissed the top of every stair. Slowly, languidly... there was no sanity in my body or an ounce of sobriety. Were people stIll up there? I dreamed I heard voices, but they screamed from the inside.. . poured out my ears for everyone else to hear. My mouth closed, I knew Rich would never find me.

Hours later it seemed, I hit "thetop of the staircase. Expecting to see chains of teenagers, speeding roller-coaster fast around my kitchen on beer spilled, super-slick tiles. In darkness I stood alone. No electricity, no plugs, no one was looking at me. As i searched around for hiding souls, the hallway mirror caught my eye. It would not let go.

It drew every part of my body closer. My feet obeyed. My hands soon followed. My spinning stomach swirled a path to the mirror. And my heart, dead and red in my chest, sank into the floor. My head seemed to be left behind, lost in the confusion.

Amidst the nothingness of the room hung the portral. My mirror. I saw my face as it was not my own. Who was this girl? From a once from a beautiful family? With a once beautiful body? Who made her change and see the world as evil and deceitful?

Someone was keeping a beautiful world hidden away from her and just showing her its evil scars... I thought I saw Rich over my shoulder.

My eyes met with the eyes across from them, hiding in the silver glass. Wide and red--I had forgotten to blink the whole entire night. There was just so much to see.

The blue of my iris had disappeared, and the present blackness of my full eye attracted the blackness of my life. It was all so ugly and gaping. Lacking the most important joy in life: love. Parents? Gone. Rich? Forever gone.

6

I

I looked down at mny lips, cracked and bitter like they had not tasted food inyears.

I ate the other day, I thought. Looking at them made me starve for something to eat; I glanced away. I looked into the eyes once again of the girl that stood across from me.

Too shy, she was still looking down. Embarrassed, she could not stare back at me. She was too afraid that I would suck her inthrough the hole inmy eye, forever remembering what she really was. What I was. Scared.

Behind the hazy outline of her body in the mirror hung The Victims of her deceitfulness. Framed infive by seven's and matted eight by ten's, they still had the courage to look at me. I had my back to them but they still saw who I was. The girl that betrayed all of them, that lied, that muttered false promises like water. Individual photos, family photos, friends of our string of lineage. She always collected The Vicitims up on the wall for our visitors to see. Oh we are supposed to be so perfect. never lie. never talk badly about others. be true to yourself (fake in front of the world).

'A' grades only. 'B's are not in Her vocabulary. perfect people.

My Victims were able to see me and tell me outright what was wrong with my life.

Obviously, I could not follow these rules made from greed, pride, and false appearances.

Inour circle of handmade lies my deviance lived; not one of them ever hinted to the outside world my flaws. Even to Rich I made it seem all perfect and real. But in the mirror before me The Victims of my failure did not close my eyes. I saw their willingness to cast me away... or rather their anticipation. ... everything was melting away.. .

I turned my back on the tell-tale mirror and its accomplices. It was making my head hurt with internal laughter. "Smile that Miss America smile! It makes everyone happy gleaming white teeth that kept my truth hostage (a laugh tickled up my throat). It makes it all go away."

Like glittering stars falling from the clouds, objects appeared one by one on the carpet. Mickey's Bud Light Natural Light (that made me sicker) ashes, bowls, unvaccuumable material. It was all one congested mess that Rich had promised to help me return to cleanliness. I had to admit, nice vanishing act (liar).

I preened the items away from the clutches of the carpet hair, looking around hysterically to see if anyone caught me. Like talking candy from the local grocery store when I was four, I made a collection. I stuffed the trash in my pockets, down my shirt, even an ugly penny in the fifth pcket of my baggy Levi's.

I left with the trash on my body, a place where I knew She would say it should belong. The time of the night passed me by. The date was gone and Ididn't know when Shewascomingback. My watchwasunreadable, the hands gelled togetherasone. She always loved a clean house, but the cat hair was always stuck in the carpet. But this

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trash--I could clean this up.

Open the door. Close the door. Down the stairs. I felt, so, heavy. My pockets

were massive and looked fat. "I hope the garbage cans are hungry tonight." My friends had made a mess--expected. I turned the corner and saw the medium-sized metal trolls

lurking near the fence. There seemed to be more of them out tonight than on Tuesdays and Thrusdays when I take the garbage out. The darkness of the night blessed them in numbers.

I emptied the trash I had meticulously picked up under the lids of metal. Clink, clank, thud... they suddenly fell over. Someone was amidst the can's.

"Whothehellisthere?" I demanded to know.

"Me." (pause) That word was so long and awaited... A voice that interfered with the beating of my heart. Rich.

"What are you," I began, "Doing out here! Where were you?" I knew the answers. Rich was obviously drunk, again. Lost all sense of where he was, lush. I began to scream at him again, "What are you," I blinked in disbelief, "Doing to me!" Even in the black of night I saw his eyes widen and peer up at me. The little light of the moon shone on the underlids of his fake, innocent, snowy-white eyes. He wanted to be more confused than I was. He wanted to be everything to me, and I knew that. But the only thing he turned out to be was (a tear fell) someone who was not there.

He opened his mouth in tandem with his unsuspecting eyes, "What are you talking about!" he said unsympatheticly. "You wanted to do this." Stupid.

"1wanted you there for me. I wanted not to be scared for once in my life."

"You'll remember it for the rest of your life."

True.

Random thoughts raced through my suprisingly clear head. I had the perfect opportunity to relinquish all my built-up fears and hatred towards him. Rich, lying among a heap of garbage, like creation at the hands of God... He could not survive without my dependence on him. And for this, I smiled.

"And you," I cleared my throat of confusion. "You will always remember what it feels like, Rich," I stalled once again. "To be the one who is left alone." My back instinctively turned on him. For the first time in the course of the night I began to see straight.

Everywhere outside my home the light was not apparent, ebony air encircled the trees in my front yard, whose outline in the moonlight I fainity loved. Tarred drivway blended like grass. And the only real place I saw was my house. Even with the largeness of my pupils, and all the things I could newly see, the only light I allowed myself to see came from my house.. .

Maybe I heard my name being called in the provovactive, persausive voice I had always been used to, but if it was, Rich's voice was fading away. .. Softer and softer my perceptions fused into one.

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And now I sit on my porch, my chin resting on my third and fourth knuckles. I await Her coming back home, however long that may be. Maybe now I have the patience. Maybe now I have the wisdom to see the true world. There is no light above me; for some reason the power is out. This is the darkest and most dreary night I have ever seen. And I have seen a lot lately.

Someday I will find the girl I want to be.

The End

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Red Line, Green Line

By Karen E. Fiore 1 To Havid with Stephanie.

The squayuh is particularly empty today: summertime shine has brought rain.

On the train we talk of college: Big Ten, Ivy League.

Guitar case open, we listen to a vagabond play "the Boxer"--it becomes our theme.

Ice cream

with jimmies, attentive to the chaos caused by raindrops.

I hear Coltrane in the background, in my mind; the soundtrack to our moment.

2

The metal-on-metal screech at Government Center sounds our stop.

Heading towards Quincy Mahket, the Cobblestone streets grab heels like pickpockets as a violinist gathers a crowd outside of Serendipity.

Endless swarms of Bostonians and the like.

Union Oyster House for suppa.

The smell: salty with the commotion of people and the ocean.

The taste: oysters on the half-shell Dad downs by the dozen.

3

Next tops: the Haynes Convention Center.

Crisp-flavored fall air signals Nutcracker time.

A long ride from Rivahside station, I replay the movements in my head; the suite is continuously singing.

Maturing dancers, Cameron and I enter Boston Ballet's door.

Rehearsals, long and tiring; our bodies worn from repetitions.

The snowflakes outside dance with us, mimicking the grace we exhilarate.

-

4

Shopping on Newbury Street inour dungas and flannels: Betsey Johnson, Ben and Jerry's.

We share a seat on the stuffy train back to Rivahside; bags in hand, sorting our purchases, sucking on Italian ices.

The day has been long, but too short with Kate's company; I long for the deliciousness of it all.

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Dead End

By Kristen Jordre We used to pick black-eyed susans and pussy willows there.

The grass grew like wheat, taller than me, beginning where the road ended.

There was a spot where no grass grew, but there was no road there either.

It was earth beneath my feet and the only place I was allowed to stand beyond the road. From there I could reach the grass infront of me and to my sides, run my fingers through the honeysuckle, over the brown fuzz of the pussy willows, stopping to poke susans in their dark eyes.

I thought if I was ever old enough to walk into the grass, I would find, on the other side, the edge of the earth, where the sun hid at night, after it burned orange into red.

But I never did, and we moved from our white house on the dead end, my older brother and sister telling me today that the forest

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beyond the dead end, burned down.

They tell me smoke rose into the sky and they ran to tell mom and dad.

They say mom made me go inside with her while she called the fire trucks.

All this, I don't remember.

I don't remember the smell of burning honeysuckle, I don't remember seeing the pussy willows wilt and crack.

Today, I don't remember.

But Michael and Kelly tell me it's true.

I do, however, remember hating the sun. I must have thought the sun set fire when it turned orange and then red, slipped when it went to hide, and fell on the grass, touched the edge of the world and burned until it unhid a shining face the next day.

But today I don't remember the smell of ash, I don't remember a flattened forest beyond our road.

All I remember is the spot where I stood when there was an edge to the world and the sun was human.

More Coffee, Please .. .

By Joel R. Elliott I don't drink coffee but she does and that is enough for me.

Sure thank you I'll have a cup of the coffee that you made.

(Actually if it makes a difference I'll drink the whole pot then chew on the coffee grounds smiling loving them looking at you with your big cup of coffee and your saucer-like eyes that I swear have coaxed the cofee to turn brown with envy.)

Such a heedless riskexposing my decaffeinated self to the frenetic rampages of this coffee's caffeine demons.

It is no mystery that their careless gallivanting has caused me to shake, fidget, and quiver (in her presence.)

Clean and sober no more I am again hooked on her and this foul concotion I would learn to like.

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The Essence of Funk to andrew vento

By Liz Musson the funk didn't stay in the radio that day it melted with the cheese in the omelet pan stuck like those peppers in my teeth and the trombones played the mozzarella beat in my stomach the funk was the yellow on my martha's vineyard raincoat the raindrops that blew bubbles around my head as I walked that meatloaf-spotted spainel through the streets the funk climbed up my legs like the snow that snuck above my boots beneath my wool sent its saxophone chill through my body

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it's the essence of funk the bumble bee trapped beneath my bed spread the fingers of cherry smoke curling from my corn cob pipe the wrinkles on the chocolate face of a Jamaican farmer it's the essence of funk jazz jammin' slammin' be-bop that somersaults from the radio and dismounts onto the scrambled eggs snapping their fingers on my plate

Generation X Love Letters

By Karen E. Fiore

I. Date: Tue, 17 Sep 1996

From: Kaitlyn <kgardner@wellesley.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: mail hi frank. how are you? studying? probably, i know you. anyway, i thought i should let you know something. i've thought about us for a while now, and i'm sorry about what happened. all of that crap before we left for school was silly. i'm sorry you haven't heard from me sooner. i know you were really upset by what happened with us, and i know i really hurt you. i'm sorry i did it like that. fpur years all through high school, and we can't throw it away for a stupid fight. well? come on. let's try it again. it would be such a disappointment to everyone, especially my parents. what do you think? love, kaitlyn Date: Tue, 17 Sept 1996

From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Kaitlyn <kgardner@wellesley.edu> Subject: Re: mail here's what i think. it's stupid to try it again, for like the 1,000th time. i'm not going to do it because everyone expects it--i'm through with high school...and i certainly won't do it for your family. give it up. you hurt me, and i'm finally over it...us...whatever. then you write, like i've been waiting for that. nope. sorry charlie. -frank

lI. Date: Tue, 17 Sep 1996 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: remember me? hello, mr. frank hughes! remember emma bennett? well, it's me! yes, can

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you believe it? i finally got intouch with good old renee sargeant...she goes here, too, but it's so huge! she gave me the scoop on eveyrone and everything! i still can't believe it--i thought my freeport, maine days were over when we moved 7 years ago! it's so wild. remember middle school days, and mike newman--how's he? and claire lennox, and square-dancing in gym class, and getting introuble inenglish class in6th grade--ugh, i can't remember that teacher's name...waitM!! mrs. banks!!! that's it!!!--anyway, having to go out inthe hall for teasing samuel what's-his-name...do you remember any of this, or am i just babbling??? i miss that math class where you, julie, and mike sat at one table, and renee and i sat at another. this is too wild, i haven't thought about those days ina very long time. really though, how are you???? do you like mit?--i bet you love boston! syracuse is pretty ok, although i'm extremely homesick. we live near baltimore, and syracuse is about a 7/8-hour drive from home ("i have a feeling we're not in kansas anymore, toto!") classes are grand. i'm majoring in english and minoring inart...how 'bout you? i'm also playing field hockey--you still playing soccer? hey, julie is there too, right? will you tell her i said "hello"--say it like you're really excited to see her, too, got it? i hope you remember me from those long-gone middle school days. hope to hear from you! your friend, emma.

Date: Tue, 17 Sep 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: Re: remember me--yup hmmmm...lemme think back a bit. yes, i do remember a one, emma bennett. how could i forget my first girlfriend? silly. i hate this email business right now. i just wrote you a ton and the stupid system crashed and all was lost. ok. i've calmed down. that was so cool how you could remember all that stuff about middle school. i remember a few things. like giving you those flowers on v-day and all those silly dances. i remember how much you like james "buddah" edwards from the pistons, and funny enough just now about how when you cut your hair and thought i hated it, which i didn't. what fun days, too bad you can't go "back to the future" and watch/relive those days. well mit life is grand. i like it here and even though I'm not too far away from home i've been there only once this month. yup the 18th marks one month of college for me. i hardly see julie cause there are so many people...so when i see her i will do some cartwheels for you. newman is going into the air force i think. he just got arrested for dealing drugs. claire and i hung out a bit our senior

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year. she's a kool kat. she is going to the fashion institute in new york. look for her designs in a store near you. soccer starts on thrusday and there is more time lost. i think you should come home with renee sometime so we can hang out...that would really be a present from the past. will

you tell her i said hi? well i gotta run so email me back and it'll be cool. see you later...gator...frank Date: Wed, 18 Sep 1996 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Beth <beth@nyu.edu> Subject: bethy! beth! ohmygoshl i have beauteous stories for you! any stories pour moi? how's anthony? school? i miss you! bethy, you'd be proud: i'm intouch with my very first boyfriend--ever! yup, and it's just like from a movie--i told you stuff like that happens in real life! gotta run to class, but write when you can, and i'll tell more later! love ya, em.

Date: Sun, 6 Oct 1996 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: good morning! hello frank! how are you? everything's fine here...very busy, how 'bout you? how's soccer? yesterday we had a field hockey game, but we lost to umass. what a beauteous day for a game, though. how are your classes? this week isa big one because i have 2 midterms, a project, and a paper re-write. i can't wait for it to be over...the weeks do go by fast here. "life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans"--huh? good old john lennon. i can't believe it's already into october, and i've been here for well over a month! soon it'll be thanksgiving and I'm outta here for home sweet home. i heard from julie, and i can't believe she's getting married...wow. i can't believe it--we're just kids, right? marriage is a word that's totally out of my vocabulary right now. good for her, though. i suppose...hmmmm. i've been knitting a lot recently--no, really. it's a total time-passer (not like i'm busy enough or anything) and it's really fun! i just finished a rad hat. well, i must be getting along...i have a huge art history exam on cathedrals and mosaics and things like that tuesday...yikes. talk to you later! -em.

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Date: Mon, 7 Oct 1996

From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: Re: good morning! here's my order--i want one pair of rainbow knitted socks, delivered by one ms. bennett, in person, when she comes to visit mit. how's that one? yes this weekend was glorious. i love good fall days and when you're at home it's even better, so i know what you mean about home sweet home. i had a good weekend, if you can't tell. i went shopping, dancing, out with old friends, and hung out with my parents. school's cool. i've had two mid-terms already. i got an a on my anthropology exam and a 69 on my chemistry exam but everyone else failed so with the curve it was a 93--a-. yup, yup. i am a chem major right now, and i love it! we learned how cavaties form today. yup. i should be studying right now but email is too much fun. about that julie/engagement thing--didn't you know i was married, too? yeah, i live in married housing and all. i even have a kid...ha, did i get ya? probably not. i know, marriage is for parents and their friends--doesn't it seem like that? it is a bit scary. well emma, i best be runnin to my studies, so i'll talk to you later...gator...frank Date: Tue, 8 Oct 1996 From: Kaitlyn <kgardner@wellesley.edu> To: Frank <hughesf@mit.edu> Subject: mail i can't believe you. fine then. if you're over it, then i am, too. it's just too bad, that's all. why don't we try to be friends first, then see what happens? how's school? wellesley is fine and classes are tough, as usual. i'm going dancing this weekend, and i though about you because you love dancing so much. it should be fun, i think. well, i've got to run to physics, so i'll see you later. love, kaitlyn Date: Tue, 8 Oct 1996 From: Frank <hughesf@ mit.edu> To: Kaitlyn <kgardner@wellesley.edu> Subject: Re: mail stop! please, stop all of this! it is over, kaitlyn. i don't want to be your friend, and i don't want anything from you anymore. now i sound like the mean one, but it was really you, and i can never trust you again.

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never. i've moved on, but obviously you haven't. please stop writing like this...it's no use. it is over. it has been over for a long time. i'm sorry. i shouldn't be the one to say that, though. please, let's stop it right now. good luck to you. -frank Date: Thu, 10 Oct 1996

From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf@mit.edu> Subject: hi! hello, frank! i can't believe this...any of it...i just met renee for a little chat and catch-up on everything, and i can't believe how much everyone in freeport has changed! i suppose we're all just growing up. you know, today is my 18th birthday, and i really liked being 17. liv tyler said "i cried on my 18th birthday. i thought 17 was such a nice age. you're young enough to get away with things, but you're old enough, too." i really like that and that's exactly how i feel. anywho, one week until harry connick, jr graces the stage here at su, and i am proud to say i have second-row seats! wicked cool--say no more. do you like harry? i love swing dancing to his old stuff--the best. hey, my father goes to hartford, conn for business--maybe i'll hop a ride with hime over christmas and meet you somewhere around there for a visit...sound good? how's soccer? school? i have a question for your chem knowledge: why are there only holes in the ozone over the poles? why not over france or iowa or china or something? well, i have to go and watch "must see tv" tonight. it's a must, especially kramer--i love him! i want his lobster shirt. have a good night! -em.

Date: Sun, 13 Oct 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: Re: hi! wicked cool--that was a cool phrase. it ranks up there with super fly. i'm devastated that you didn't invite me to come and see harry with you. did you go with anyone? i could pull an all-nighter and drive there and be back for my 8 o'clock, right? hmmmm. i love good jazz. i have one harry cd and some good coltrane and getz. wait...happy birthday! any good plans? dinner? presents? tell me everything. i know what you mean, jelly bean, about being 18--i was a bit scared, too, but as long as the little kid is alive inside you're a kool kat! have you ever seen braveheart? i Ilye mel

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gibson...and kramer! are you kidding? i never miss an episode! i'll tell you cause you can keep a secret, but i'm gonna be kramer for halloween. i haven't cut my hair in three months inanticipation for this. how's knitting? you should cone with you dad whenever you can. that would be wicked cool. we will go swing dancing sometime--what's the chance we both swing? ha! i know this great place. ok, i will explain the ozone question you asked, but it will take a bit of explaining, so i hope this doesn't get too boring. it has a very scientific answer and uses a lot of chemistry. the basics i can give you, and I'm sure you can understand. first, there is no ozone hole, just a great depression, a loss of about 95 percent of ozone inthe winter, which inthe summer and fall replenishes itself. the reason being, inthe winter, winds around Antartica create a bowl effect. they circle around the continent. this bowl keeps everything in and allows the reaction to keep going on. chlorine ions are responsible for the destruction of ozone. a single cI ion can destroy 10,000 ozone molecules. when the warm winds return the hole disperses around the globe and is replaced by other ozone. there's more, bit it's very complicated and i hardly understand it. phew. hope you understand a little better. probably not, but i always like to answer science questions.

later.. .gator. ..f rank ;) Date: Mon 14, Oct 1996 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Beth <beth@nyu.edu> Subject: bethyl bethyl how are you? ok, here is the continuation to my brief note a month ago...sorry. ahl i'll marry him and we'll live happily ever after. no, really now. he likes getz and coltrane and braveheart and harry! and--remember those swing dance lessons at arthur murray--well, he swings, too! yay! his name is frank--like sinatra. i can't believe he was my boyfriend at one time--way back in 6th grade when we lived infreeport, and he bought me roses for valentines day and brought them to school...bethy, that's a big thing for 6th graders. what about anthony? how's the distance thing going? you'll have stories for me, i expect them. miss you--see you over thanksgiving! we'll bake pies and watch white christmas. :) love ya, em.

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Date: Thu, 17 Oct 1996 From: Beth <beth @nyu.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: mad about you

em, this is just like that mad about you episode, where jamie and paul meet at the museum when they are kids, then meet up again and the rest is history. horray. it is like a movie, and arthur murray will soon pay off, i just know it. anthony is bad news. never do the long-distance thing. it doesn't work. i have stories for you about langston. he's pre-med and looks like jfk. you have to meet him. em, i'm thinking of majoring in philosophy and scratching pre-med. it's so wonderful here. you should come down and hang with us. the city isthe coolest. you would totally love it. we'll go clubbing and ride the subway and people-watch. you have to meet langston-he skipped this big dinner thing to see neil diamond, but he's brilliant. stories, my friend, stories for you over pumpkin pie batter. see you then. less than a month. love, beth. wait. happy birthday. we'll do ben and jerry's and eat grapes to celebrate it over Thanksgiving. love ya, bethy.

Date: Sat, 19 Oct 1996

From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: harry hook-up mr. francis hughes, are you kidding me? only one harry cd? frank, we have to fix this. i will hook you up with a one-tape anthology of all harry's greats, all right? good. my absolutely favorite part inbraveheart is when the little girl gives the soon-to-be-mel the thistle--ooh. it breaks my heart. do you think stuff like this really happens in real life? such a beauteous movie. i love the music at the end when the guy slings the sword, and the music plays, and when mel drops her handkerchief, and when he speaks to her in french! what could be better? swing dancing--we'll go. i can't believe you swing--ah! i learned, then taught senior citizens to swing, tango, etc. at the center in our school. my birthday was good, but wierd not being home. mom sent some rad clothes (think velvet and orange!) and the book by ethan hawke, "the hottest state"--should be interesting. you know, cards and the usual stuff as well. gotta work on a paper for comparative lit now, so goodnight! "the day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night, as a feather is wafted downward frorp an eagle inhis flight." that's from my friend longfellow. -em.

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Date: Sat, 26 Oct 1996

From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Gwenyth <ghanks@middlebury.edu> Subject: advice gweny, first of all, how are things at middlebury? i'm liking this gig much better than high school, and no more mr. conway for physics. horray, yup. i have a good story for you if you haven't already heard--remember emma bennett? you were good friends in 8th grade before she moved, if i remember correctly. anyway, she was my first...ah! you know, the "I" word--you know, not like grown-up love, but "the wonder years"-type. anyway, she and i have been emiling a lot--after 7 years of nothing! have you heard from her? she goes to syracuse with renee...that's how she got my address. she's probably coming over the holidays--i guess she lives near baltimore, so it's a bit of a jaunt to good old freeport, but it will be worth it. anyway what should i do? i haven't thought about kaitlyn in a long time. she emailed me a bit, but it's just a big waste of time to have anything to do with her. she wanted to get back together for her parent's sake! gweny, i'll never understand her, and i'm glad that's all over. being in touch with emma again was totally the thing to snap me out of that state of...whatever it is that one goes through after a long relationship. you know what i mean? emma is wicked cool--she loves swing dancing and braveheart and jazz! finally! she was once my girlfriend and it's so wierd--like i just met her all over again, and she came right out of a dream...that's corny, i know. you know me, though, so you'd understand all of this babble. anyway, i've only communicated with her through email--should i call her? ah! call emma bennett. crazy. we'll all go out when she comes--i know she'd love to see everyone again. write and let me know how things are with you. later...gator...frank Date: Sun, 27 Oct 1996 From: Gwenyth <ghanks@middlebury.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: your mail frank! that's so cool--and just the other day i was watching those mad about you re-runs and they showed the one when jamie and paul are kids, and she drops her bag in the museum and paul picks it up and they look at each other and oohl they didn't know each other then, but when they're older they meet up again and get married! it's so great. go for her. hell

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yeah. of course i remember her. we used to write b/f/f/a/a on our hands for best friends forever and always. anyway, call her. email has brought you this far, so you must call her. frank, she swing dances and likes braveheart (i will never understand that movie--too frustrating!)--that must tell you something. anyway, do it and that's that. i'm so glad to

hear kaitlyn is abolished from your life. what a relationship! remember all of our never-ending talks about the two of you? scary, huh? anyway, are you going home anytime soon? we'll get together over thanksgiving. my roommate, kendellynn says hi and school is good. i'm so glad she's my roommate--I have to tell you about these girls down the hall. she says go for emma, too. i told her the story, and of course, with my own biases. anyway, good luck! love, gweny Date: Sun, 27 Oct 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu>

To: Gwenyth <ghanks @middlebury.edu> Subject: Re: your mail thanks. i'll let you know how things go, and tell your roommate i said hi, too. later...gator...frank Date: Mon, 28 Oct 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu>

To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: groovy tunes whoa! i must relay the fantastic news. i got your package!!! oh my and am i ever in love with that tape, i don't think i have ever gotten a tape made by someone else and liked--wait loved--every song on it. it was awesome. i wasn't expecting a thing, especially a package in an oatmeal box! the lady at the desk gave me a funny look. i listen to it all the time. now for you...anything you would like that i could make for you? i'm big on the beatles and u2. i've got like 33 cds between the two. place your order now. i had a great weekend but it was only enhanced by your tape. my parents and brother came to visit. i don't know how i can ever match that masterpiece. i'll try, though. what's your phone number? i have to study for anthopology now. i have to know the classifications for the primates. yuck. about your question about movie-love, yes, i do think that it really does happen in real life. only cynics will deny movie love and santa's elves and peter pan. well, this monkey has to be movin on. talk to you later...kool kat...frank ;)

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Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996

From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: :)

i'm so glad you like your tape! ok now, here's my order: a beatles/u2 tape would be rad! wicked, wicked cool. i know some beatles tunes, but you pick out some good ones...u2--love 'em! such good background music. i love "one" and "all i want is you" and "pride"--love 'em. ok, now that that's out of the way...my number here is (315) 555-5839. and, if you get my recorder, listen to it--neil diamond is playing in the background. can't wait for the holidays--nat king cole and i will welcome all my callers with jolly holiday cheer. i love what you said about santa's elves and peter pan. that's what i love so much about literature and art--they enrich the mind a build a really unique character, like peter pan does. did that make sense? and it's so fun to use the mind on things like that. this could also be the reason i forget everything when it comes to aqueous solutions in chemistry and articulatory descriptions in phonetics. thinking of santa won't help. hmmm. "reality is for people who lack imagination." sound good? bye! -em. :) have a good weekend!

Date: Sun, 3 Nov 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Gwenyth <ghanks @middlebury.edu> Subject: did it:) well, called her and it was wicked cool! have you ever talked on the phone with someone forever about nothing, but that same nothing means so much...just knowing she was on the other end was such a comfort. gwenyth, i can't explain it but it's so...good. thanks. see you soon...frank Date: Sun, 3 Nov 1996 From: Gwenyth <ghanks@middlebury.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: horray! wonderful frank! now you need to help me--big mess with boys here. i'll talk to you over turkey day, you smoothie you! so happy for you!:):) love, gweny

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Date: Tue, 5 Nov 1996 From: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu>

Subject: visit first of all, it was so great talking to you! are we all set about meeting on the 16th? you guys have such a long break. lucky. and you're sure about directions and all that good stuff? i'll plan some good things and we will swing. you will probably dance circles around me and be throwing me up in the air. actually that would be cool. let me know about anything else. guess what? i did end up cutting my hair! the curls were too much. bzzzzzzz. i went from 5 inches to less than an inch. i can't believe it. i also picked up billy joel's greatest hits and you were right! i love "italian restaurant". your tape will soon be away. finished it today. do you really knit all your hats? i should learn how cause i keep looking for a hat, but can't find any to my liking. i love the snow, and we had a snowball fight here tonite inthe streets of boston. it was so much fun! talk to you later...gator...frank;) Date: Thu, 7 Nov 1996

From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: hi! so it's no more rapunzel hughes, i take it? yikes! that must be wierd when you wash your hair (err, lack of, i suppose). well, things here are splendid. i watched casablanca today, and all my exams are finished until finals. things are good and all set with me coming up on the 16th--i can't wait! hey, let's say that i know someone who happens to make wicked cool things with yarn and some needles, and you just happen to want a nice warm hat to go with your nice boots for the winter months. now, let's also say that she has some free time because all of her exams are done and she would think it all right to make you one. here's the question: what colors would you want? orange is a given, but any other colors? want a fuzz ball on top? striped? patterned? plain? let me know--uh, i will then pass it on to this knitting fanatic. ah! thank you so much! how could it have slipped my mind? i have been listening to your tape non-stop! ah! how did you know--"the times you've come" by jackson browne! an all-time fav. and enya! listening to "anywhere is" reminds me of laying inthe snow in a clearing inthe woods with mel gibson or someone and making snow angels with the only light coming from the full, bright moon...no noise except

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the falling of snow. i could recite "silently,one by one inthe infinite meadows of heaven, blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of angels" written by my friend longfellow. ah--love it! and the braveheart music from the end--you remembered! my favorite! thanks a gazillion times over! talk to you later--see you soon! -em.

Date: Sun, 10 Nov 1996 From: Frank <hughesf@mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: can't wait have a safe drive! the hat idea sounds superb...all colors--think like a rainbow. stripes, i like stripes. i'll leave it up to you and i'm sure it will turn out great. see you soon, but don't bring mel. maybe next time. later...gator...frank ;)

llt.

Date: Mon, 18 Nov 1996 From: Frank <hughes @.mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: christmas visit i know you are home and so you won't get this for a while, but i need to write while it isall fresh inmy mind, although it will probably stay there for a while. everything was perfect, and i can't wait until you come up again. was dancing not rad? that older couple must have had a blast in the forties dancing to the real stuff--uncopied and totally original. they were kool kats. i will not ask if you are coming up over the christmas break--we will have a grand old time. and you will meet my uncle and we will go up the coast after a snowstorm--the best time! it was so good to see you! i can't explain it and the unexplainable should be left alone. i can't go back to telling you about the huge chem test i have tomorrow or the new cd i bought over the weekend. it's all too trivial now, but i will tell you because i know you like hearing everything. wait! i got my hat inthe mail today, and i put it on and the minute i did this guy i don't even know says "cool hat". and i've gotten three other compliments since then. and why not? that hat rocks!

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wicked cool. thank you so much thanksgiving was great and i have another order for that tape you made me way back when because i played it in the

car with my uncle and he loved it! he's a big jazz fan, too. one of the tribe. i got a new getz and it's really good, and i do have a chem test tomorrow, so wish me luck. miss you. that's corny, so i'll say je te manque, it's not quite braveheart, and my french is rusty. frank* Date: Mon, 2 Dec 1996 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank<hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: hello again martin luther king, jr said this "occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words. their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart." and i'm glad you like your hat. i was in a yank all weekend to send it so you'd have it monday, your bad day, and it would cheer you up! was your thanksgiving fun for the whole family? i like them...your father is goofy. now, it's back at school for 3 weeks and exams and last papers and such, then it's home for a whole month and santa! i can't wait. i was planning a visit, but well, then what? i can't explain it--i think you know what i mean, but there's nothing to be done about it. what happens after christmas? then what is it? spring break? easter? summer? i don't know what to do. i know what you mean about telling me what cd you bought, and if you got an a on your chem exam, but i do care and that is the truth. it's been 7 years, and look now! you're a new person to me, you know? but, you were also my first crush-an old friend, really. i want to hold your hand and walk in boston again and talk with your family and play in the snow with your brother and kiss you good-bye again. but i don't want there to be all of these good-byes. the hellos are something wonderful to look forward to, but not the good-byes. i know this sounds silly after seeing you for a weekend, but i can't explain it, and you said it right when you said we should leave the unexplainable alone. we know what we're saying, and that's what's important. but right now i am just writing and i don't even know if it makes any sense. does it? i'm not going to re-read it. i do have to get going now, though. one of those last-of-the-semester papers, you know. i love your braveheart aspirations. ditto. -em*

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Date: Mon, 2 Dec 1996

From: Frank <hughesf@mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: Re: hello again yank is another cool word you made up. kool kat. i don't want this to be a soap opera thing, because we deserve better than all that. i don't want to be always thinking about what if this and what if that because that would be silly. i don't want to have to work at anything as far as this is concerned because i don't think this should be hard work. it shouldn't be. that sounds harsh, and maybe it is, but do you know what i mean? even if we have to wait another 7 years...i don't know, do you? i don't want to get into all of this too much too soon. i did that before. it got bad and i don't want this to end up bad. i'd rather wait, with us so far away from each other, freshmen incollege with everything ahead of.us, and you going to england next year, who knows. it would be better for both of us, i think--not too much too soon. now, the thing is, without visits and phone calls, i really can't just email you my grades and friday night plans. i can't do that. too silly to do. too impersonal, and we've already passed that point. it would be hard to go forward without--i don't know. without you being here. that's a bad excuse and i'm not saying that a long distance thing can't work, but i'd hate to have it hanging on last words that are said or typed or written between us. i'd rather have nothing and my memories and thoughts rather than the truth that you're there and i'm here. why does this have to be like this, even now? i miss the simple chatter and expectations of something bigger than emailing. it wouldn't be like this with anyone else, and i don't know what makes it different, but i do! wait, it's the fact that you're...well, an angel--a beautiful, radiant being. i really think that, too, really i do. em, you're miles and miles above anything pretty or interesting or even amazing. wait, it's all of those but much more, that extra thing. you have that secret garden that springsteen sings about. i've never known any woman like that. and that is the thing that makes me want to say wait! this long distance thing will work, damn-itt it would be selfish to say that though, because that's what i want, and in the long run it may not be the best. but wait! why do we have to do what's best? i sound like i have multiple personalities inmy head, i know. i'm totally sane, just a bit confused, and why did one weekend do this? in some ways i don't know why, but in other ways i do know why. so what happens now? that new getz i got iswicked cool. nope, that's good to hear, but...so what? i know what you mean, and i already hate long emails. i have a quote for you now by edna st. vincent millay.

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it goes "my candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes and oh, my friends--it gives a lovely light." yup. it was inthis book of poetry and pictures and little quotes and things that my mom gave me when i graduated. she said there would be different times in my life when all of these words will make sense, and that quote makes perfect sense to me now, and i'm not deep! i don't know. will i see you over christmas, or maybe 7 christmases down the line? will we ever swing dance again? will we be like that old couple, still swinging to goodman after our 50th anniversary? will we ever walk down marlborough street inboston wondering what's going on inthose windows? will we ever watch braveheart together? or will you ever teach me how to knit? will we drive up the coast inthe winter? will i ever watch a field hockey game of yours? will you send me another wicked cool tape for my uncle? my brother would love to build snowmen inthe snow again, and will you ever? will i hear your voice again? or get some mittens to match my hat? will we watch seinfeld and laugh at kramer? will i ever sit next to you in a crowded movie theater? or see you dressed up for a new year's eve party? will you read me your poetry and sing to springsteen inthe car? will we talk about coltrane and getz over bagels? will i ever kiss you goodbye again? kiss you hello again? will i ever get that incredible feeling when i see you walk into a room? will we write each other again? will we ever see each other again? will we ever anything again? frank

IV.

Date: Fri, 10 Sep 1999 From: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> To: Frank <hughesf @mit.edu> Subject: remember me? four years later, graduating soon, everything's changed. england was rad, lots of stories for you. do you care? i know, i know. it was awful to leave you hanging like that. i know, but there wasn't a day that passed that i didn't think of you...us...whatever. what a line, i know. ugh. i wish you knew what i was thinking. what was i thinking? maybe i should stop--for all i know you don't care and have washed you hands of it all, or aren't at mit anymore, or are engaged...married...whatever. who knows. i don't know if you care, or if you listen to getz anymore, or are still into chemistry. i've grown up so much since then--i surely wouldn't treat

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anyone now the way i treated you back then. I'm embarrassed. well, that's that. i'm still here, but leaving for boston to student teach in january.

talk to you? hope so. i don't blame you if we never spoke again. sorry for everything. -emma.

Date: Fri, 10 Sep 1999

From: Frank <hughesf@mit.edu> To: Emma <ebennett@syracuse.edu> Subject: Re: remember me--finally!

the end.

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Defintions of Heaven

By Sarah Gerhart Flies buzzing pursuing the light odor of death.

She raises her feeble wrinkled hands exceeding the mess of pans.

Gasping breaths for final tastes of energy.

Vision blurry, only the flies whispering her fate are in view.

Reaching the boiling canned peas, desolate with her lonliness The peas drop with her body to follow.

The kitchen floor absorbs her flesh into the tiles As if its own definition of heaven.

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Horoscope

By Benjamin Roesch Today is my birthday, I am sixty-three. It is a Wednesday. As usual I went out for the paper before breakfast; Nora still fast asleep in our bed. 1left my shoes on the porch and I could feel the hot black asphalt beneath my feet.

I gave greetings to Kent Cooper, my neighbor of eighteen years and opened the Times with a snap, still standing barefoot in my turn-around. The headline was bold and black but held me no interest.

I have long since stopped keeping up on current events. The world just moves too fast for me these days and I find my efforts to keep up are consistently futile so I choose to sit and watch instead.

I returned inside and poured myself coffee with cream, no sugar, toasted myself an English muffin, and pulled a chair to the table to read my horoscope and the comics. Only one day a year do I read the horoscope, on my birthday. Many years previous, I read my first horoscope the day I turned forty and it told me I would encounter vast wealth. No real reason for reading that day, just chance you understand. Four days later I won the lottery and I have read the 'today' horoscope on my birthday every year since. Call it a tribute to my encounter with exquisite luck of many years ago.

I donned reading glasses and turned to page twenty-three to learn my day's fate and I read a passage I could not believe, could not comprehend.

"Today is the day you will die" it read, "it is your final day. May you go from this world loved and appreciated." I was shocked. I quickly scanned up two lines and quickly re-read the same passage again. And then again. I was mortified, I was speechless. My eyes darted from horoscope to horoscope below: Gemini, Taurus, Cancer. Nothing like mine. These friendly greetings read that a co-worker will be showing more than plutonic interest, and red is a good color for you today. I tumed back to the front page and checked the date. Still my birthday. I flipped nervously back to twenty-three, still my final day. What was happening? I must have made a sound because Nora called from upstairs.

"Bob, are you alright?"

"Yes Nora, I'm fine" I lied.

I broke into a sweat right then and there. I couldn't remember the last time I broke a sweat. I could hardly move fast enough to perspire anymore, let alone feel the drops of sweat beading above my lip.

I didn't know what to do. I slammed the paper shut, as if slamming a door.

I stood up. My final day. Death. What does that mean? Why heavy was I going to die? How? I needed answers quick. My mind started going.

Who would write such a thing for a horoscope? Who even writes the horo-

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scopes? Could it be a practical joke? What if it's not? What do I do?

The stairs! Nora. I moved the paper away from myself quickly and bit deep into my English muffin, strawberry jam spilling out of the muffin onto the comers of my mouth. Be still.

"Morning" she said and smiled, a smile that I've known forever. It seemed different suddenly. Almost unfamiliar.

"Un huh."

"Read your horoscope yet?"

"I was just getting to it."

"Well open up, let me see" she said. "I wait all year for this."

I panicked. She turned to the fridge.

"Oh will you look at that" she said. "The orange juice is all out." She shook the empty container in the air infront of her to be sure.

"I'll go get some" I said and stood up crisply.

"Well let me see the horoscope first" she said and sat down, habitually crossing her legs right over left and opened up to twenty-three.

"Well that's nice" she said.

"What?"

"Your horoscope. I don't know how but you always get the sweetest things on your birthday."

What was she talking about? I pulled the paper away from her and read again myself. Still my final day. Still death. Oh my God. "What do you mean that's nice?" I asked.

"Today will be the best day of the week, so seize it. It's not great Bob, but that's a pretty good one don't you think?"

"Best day of the week?" I questioned. "Are you reading right?"

"Well sure" she said and moved her finger along the words as she read aloud. "Today will be the best day of the week, so seize it. I think it's nice."

Oh my God. She's in on it. What's happening? How come she doesn't see what I see? Or does she? I stood up. I had to move, had to get out.

"I'm going for that juice" I said. I threw on my tennis shoes quickly, not stopping to put on socks and off I went. I turned up the air inthe car. I was still sweating. As the ice cold air pured out of the vents and hit my moist face, I could feel the beads of sweat getting colder and colder and slowly drying in place. I didn't know what to do. I looked around at the world through my windows. I didn't recognize the streets. I'd only been inthe car thirty seconds.

Was I lost? I-looked further. None of the street names were familiar, as if I'd never heard them in my life. I looked around the car. On the seat next to me, sitting there was the paper, folded neatly to page twenty-three and my fateful

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horoscope. I read the word 'final' again before having to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting an animal in the road. Not an animal crossing the street. An animal in the road. Sitting in the middle of the road. I looked closer. A cat. A

black fucking cat. Oh goodness. Gas, quickly. Trees streamed by like childhood memories deep in mind. The sky seemed off-colored. I wasn't in my own car. The grocery, I can find the grocery.

I found myself in the cold section of an A&P with a quart of juice in my hand. It felt cold. Sweat streamed off my palms and rolled quickly down the cold plastic container. As each drop fell to the floor, the splashes on the tile sounded like individual sirens going off in my mind. Loud. So loud. Orange. I looked down at my feet, they seemed small. My hands felt heavy. I was nautious. Maybe a tumor. Maybe nothing. Why? I wiped my brow, it felt strange, thick. I handed the kid a five.

"The total's $8.75" he said.

"What? For orange juice?"

"Why sure" he replied. "Why not? It's on sale today."

I gave him another five.

"Enjoy the day" he said. "You never know when you might get another one."

I looked at him for a moment and rushed for the exit with my juice. An employee near the door pushed it open for me.

"Have a good day, it's a doozey" he said.

Oh my God. I moved as quickly as I could. I dropped my juice and the container hit loudly on the ground, not a drop was spilled. I looked around. No one. Everyone.

"Afternoon Mister."

I whirled around to find a teenage boy walking past me.

"What did you say?" I demanded.

"Have a good one" he said and walked on into the store, whistling as he went. Go. Just go. I couldn't find my car in the lot. All the plates were from a different state. All the car names were wrong. I ran. I hadn't run in ten years, but I pumped my arms and moved my old chicken limbs as fast as I could.

I was in a bathroom. There were animals everywhere. I didn't recognize them at all. Maybe distant relatives of the chicken, goat, or dog but they were all wrong. Everything was wrong. A mirror. A sink. I turned on the cold faucet and splashed some water on my face. It was scalding hot. I felt the sting and the instant swelling in my face. I checked the hot faucet. Ice cold. I was shaking. I raised my face and looked in the mirror. My eyes went directly

33

to the figure behind me. I flew around quickly, my guard up and ready. No one.

I turned back around and saw the same figure. Then I realized that it was the only face and body being reflected by the glass. I moved one of my hands up and covered the face I saw. It was mine. I didn't recognize. I turned. Out. Go. I tried to jump but I fell. I tried to laugh but I screamed. I punched angrily at the wind but hit myself instead. Why? Who? Outside. Ground. I looked here and there. Grass. Trees. All altered, all different. One object caught my eye. I moved closer, caution firm on my lip. It was the newspaper. Open, folded neatly again to page twenty-three in a corner somewhere. My horoscope was infull view. I was still going to die.

But how? The message.

I heard voices all around me. Nobody there. In my head. But it's not my mind anymore. I longed for death. Somehow. I didn't care. Pain. Shooting, agonizing, terrifying.

I could feel sweat rolling off my body. Dripping off my fingers, off my face. I touched my body, my head. My hair was gone. I touched other features. my ears and nose has switched places, both felt too large.

Christ.

What's happening to me?

I tried to speak, it wasn't my voice, wasn't my language. I gurgled like an infant. I drooled on my clothes, onto the ground. I itched all over. I scratched at my body violently. It wouldn't stop. Why? Please. Help...

Suddenly.

Sound. Beeping.

Where?

Who? I sat up. What was happening? I felt my forehead. Damp with sweat.

My clothes also. My bed. My room. Nora.

"Bob, are you alright?"

I turned. Speak.

"Yes hon, I'm okay. It must have been a...a dream I suppose."

She sat up.

"Must have been some dream, you're soaked."

Touch.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes." "Tell me."

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"I..I...I can't remember."

"Oh well it's alright now" she said and rubbed my shoulder softly.

"Probably better off not remembering anyhow. Let's go back to sleep."

"Yes." "You want to be well rested for your birthday tomorrow."

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Wanting a Taste

By Kristen Jordre Le Roux of Martha's Vineyard showed off fleeces too expensive for girls supporting themselves one summer to buy. They hung in the windows looking like different colored lollipops in the trees of Willie Wonka's chocolate factory.

Their names made us hungry: lightweight citrus pullover, heavyweight cranberry zip-up, kiwi midweight snap-T, so we stood with our mouths open, drooling on the concrete remembering we had to save our money if we wanted to eat, and their tastes remained trapped behind the glass.

Everyday we passed the candy in the window, but once you made me stop to read a sign just below the fuzzy melon button-up. It said, "PCR: Post Consumer Recycled.

We make our polyester fleeces from recycled coke bottles."

From then on, every Friday night after work, on full stomachs of PB and J, just before they closed, and before we began our evening of small talk with new faces, we went in to touch our fingers to soft fuzzy coke bottles that had once touched the lips of all the people we missed back home.

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On the Porch on a Sunny Day

By Joel Hilgendorf The black steel. The cheap timber awning painted in shades of buttermilk.

Smoking, tin beverage icy chill cooling my hand, calming my dry chalky throat, like water on embers I sat like a dirty old man relaxing, preparing For next days serving of stormy colored work Not even a bolt of light brightens these days Blew smoke over these twisted prison rails Without looking for a castle in those clouds.

Looked down at dirty torn sandals, noticed Smog of the city stuck under my toenails, felt The thick sweat stained shirt sticks, onto my charred back and bleed to my shorts So there on the porch I sat and looked up as the sun undressed from a cloud, causing my eyes to thin and my lips to curl, into a smile.

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Rachel's Sestina

By Christopher Todd Jones Loud words like chrome buttons on a leather jacket, blinding light that pierces the ice.

Delicate ice melted by words now runs through Pierce's clenched, chrome hands, bleeding light and dripping down his leather face. Her body, soft sueded leather now a hollow icy shadow frozen still in light of glaring words raging from the chrome motorcycle mouth of Pierce.

Hearts, once pierced crack like ancient leather or rusting chrome, fracture and fragment like thin ice until healing words caress with soft candle light.

A light that won't pierce.

Illuminated words warming her heart like a leather glove and melting the ice from her burning eyes of chrome.

Chrome shines with a light like that of ice.

Both can pierce as leather mends, but none as easliy as words.

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"Newspapers"

By Sara A. Sheikh The man in the navy jacket looked at me as if I had two heads when

I asked to speak with Jeffrey.

"Jeffrey Kitzer?" his voice broke through the overbearing smells of incarceration. Though the waiting area boasted a sign that read "NO SMOKING," it reeked of old cigarettes. Coffee smells intermingled with the aging smoke, and I could picture the Mr. Coffee machines and doughnuts lingering behind the paint-chipped walls.

"Yes. K-i-t-z-e-r. Kitzer. Is there a problem?"

He shook his head and blinked at me as if I had grown a third head. "No," he said. "If you'll wait one minute. We don't usually allow--You say you're his sister?"

Prepared to grow a fourth head, I nodded.

"A blood sister?"

"A blood sister."

"Well, as I said, it'll be a while. He's in maximum security and it takes some time to prepare them." He paused. "Are you aware that he has a parole date tomorrow?"

"Yes." "OK. Have a seat over there and I'll let you know when things are ready."

I sat down on one of the ripped caramel-colored leather couches.

The guard's weariness had somewhat unnerved me. Breathing deeply, I thought of the black and white photograph of Jeffrey and I, at ages nine and eleven, sitting in the white sand of Seville Beach. The thought somewhat comforted me, as did the thought, "He deserves this visit."

Reassured, I took in my surroundings. The first thing I noticed was the fluorescent white walls. Framed newspaper clippings, reading "Rookie of the Year from Evansborough County," "Mayor Approves Election Results," and "Evansborough County Revels in Glory," hung on the wall opposite me. The rest were bare. The first clipping had a picture of Joe Namath, and the third included a chart on the number of men executed in the Midwest.

"This place always gives me the creeps," an elderly lady startled me from my daze. She had sat next to me.

I smiled.

"Are you visiting someone?"

"My brother."

"Oh, then he's just a young one. My husband Philbert has been in

39

here for thirty-eight years," the lady chatted aimlessly. "We had just gotten married when he got caught."

"Really?" I asked, imagining this lady's husband smacking his dentures behind bars. Maybe he had a few odd pieces of hair, white, that he wetted down every day. I pictured him in a white tank top, his arms white like the flourescent walls around us, the skin droopy like that on a lazy basset hound. I never imagined this place to be for old folk.

"Yes. And I'll tell you something, dearie. After thirty-eight years of coming here, you'd think I'd be used to it, but I'm not. I still get the jitters every time one of those men looks me up and down, and they do it every time," the frumpy lady told me. She wore a mushroom shaped hat, blue, with white dots. The purse she carried could have been around since the forties. The handles were sewn and re-sewn, until they finally had to be stuck on with a safety pin. I pictured her Philbert as having skin discoloration and a big nose and ears. "Do you know what I mean?

Those men just give me the creeps."

"Those men," the lady's words mirrored my thoughts. For the last ten years, my brother was just one of "those men" to me. Friends and neighbors would talk politics and, inthe course of the conversation, the topic of criminals and crime would arise. I would frown indisdain and turn my nose at the murderers, the burglars and robbers, the Jeffrey Kitzer's, with the wives of the district attorney and the mayor. I was as good at the frowns and snubs as anyone else, as I had been ignoring my brother's existence for ten years. To me, he was just another one of "those men," not a part of me, of my family.

"Dearie?"

"Yes?" "What's your brother's name?"

"Jeffrey."

"Jeffrey...?"

"Kitzer," I said.

"Jeffrey Kitz--" the lady stopped and looked at me. "Oooooh," she said, the pitch of her voice rising. "I remember reading about him inthe newspaper. He did the banks and then hurt the little boy, right?"

I nodded.

"How long is he in for?"

"Fifteen years."

"Do you visit him often? I don't remember ever seeing you here before."

"This is the first time I've come."

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"Ms...." The sign-in man was back.

"Voter," I said.

"They're bringing him in the visiting room now. You have fifteen

minutes. There will be phones. You'll speak into those, and your conversation may be recorded."

I nodded. I had lost track of Jeffrey after the third time he'd been picked up for burglary. He had called for bail money, and I had denied him. After all, I thought, where does a criminal brother fit into suburban neighborhoods with privacy fences, red shutters, and golden retrievers? When he got out, he tried to call again. After six unsuccessful days, he finally gave up. From then on, the only way I knew about his life was through newspaper headlines like "Man Takes $500 in Convenience Hold-up," "Boy Hurt in Bank Robbery," "Man Arrested--Suspect In Ten Bank Robberies," and "Money Still Not Found--Kitzer Refuses to Cooperate."

The guard led me to the visitors' room. "He'll be out ina minute. One more thing," he looked at me.

I raised my eyebrows.

"You're the first person to visit him in ten years, besides his lawyer, so--" "I'll be a nice girl," I said, humored by the guard's protective attitude toward my little brother.

"Good. He'll be out." He left the room, leaving me to choose either a folding chair or a rickety old wood chair. I sat in the folding chair and waited.

Ten minutes later, Jeffrey walked in. I didn't recognize him at first. His face, which normally housed a beard, was clean shaven. His head was as smooth as his face. The skin where the beard and hair had been was as white as the numbers that were sewn into his uniform. There were wrinkles and bags under his eyes that I didn't remember from ten years ago.

He sat inthe chair infront of me and the guard behind the glass secured the chain on Jeffrey's leg to something under the table. As he was doing so, Jeffrey lit a cigarette with an orange lighter that matched his uniform. Orange had never been Jeffrey's color. Today, it made his already white skin appear paler.

After a moment's silence, I cleared my throat and initiated conversation. "Jeffrey."

"Sis," he said.

Ignoring the taunting edge in his voice, I said, "How have you

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been?"

He raised his eyebrows and scratched them with the tips of two fingers. Inhaling and purposefully observing the cold cement walls, the scratched table infront of him, and the beat up wooden chairs next to him, he said, "Great. I'm really living it up here in the old state penitentiary." He inhaled again. After he blew three smoke rings, he looked at me. "And you?"

"Fine. I've been fine."

"And Andrew? What's his last name?"

"Voler."

"Ah, yes, Voler. How the hell is he doing?"

"He's fine."

"Did he buy you the suit?"

"Did he...?" I was surprised by his question. "Actually, he did."

Jeffrey nodded. He looked around him, this time inboredom.

"You have a parole hearing tomorrow," I said.

"Yeah. I do. Are you going to put in a good word for me? The wife of the most powerful person in the Evansborough Republican Party?"

"Jeffrey, you know I can't do that."

"I know you can't, sis. That would be admitting you're related to a low life like me," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy.

I tilted my head to the side. "Do you think it would matter? Do you think people would listen to me?"

"No. Nobody cares about you. It's your husband that people would listen to."

There was a moment's silence. He stared at me through the glass, calmly holding the phone to his ear. He inhaled his cigarettes in intervals of twenty seconds or so. After about six drags, he said, "Mel, you haven't given a damn about me for the last ten years. So do me a favor and let's cut through the bullshit. What do you want?"

I looked at him, somewhat surprised at his sudden change in attitude. "For someone who's seeing his first visitor in nearly a decade, you sure don't seem very excited."

He lifted his hands nonchalantly. "OK. You just want to shoot the shit?"

I didn't respond.

"OK," he repeated. "I know. We can reminisce."

I looked at-him.

He returned my long look. After a moment's silence, he said, "OK.

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I'll go first. Remember that third time I got caught? And I called you

for bail money? And you refused to help me? And I had to stay in jail one lousy year for stealing a box of Poptarts, a Playboy, and a box of cigarettes?"

I nodded and glanced at my watch. Six minutes left.

"You really pissed me off."

Jeffrey's smart ass attitude was really starting to irk me.

"Geez, I'm sorry," I said, genuinely sarcastic.

"And remember when I finally got out of jail? When I called you?

When your snobby upper-class husband told me you were shopping or out of town for six straight days?"

"What's your point here Jeffrey?" I interrupted before he got too into his guilt trip.

"What's my point? What's my fucking point? Look at me, Liz. LOOK at me!" He was whispering, but his demand was so forceful it could have been a shout.

My watch slowly ticked away the seconds as I glanced at Jeffrey.

"You go," he said his voice louder, yet gentler. He brushed away the fallen ashes.

"Me? Go?" I asked.

"Yeah, Liz. Why don't you take a turn? Tell me a story from our past." He squinted as he inhaled. His eyes twinkled for just one second, and 1hated him for the rest of my life for it.

"Fine. Remember when you got in trouble for taking Thomas's baseball bat when we were twelve?"

"Oh, yeah," he laughed. "I got an early start, didn't I?" He looked at the wooden table infront of him.

I followed his eyes and saw the "Billy loves Suzanne" and the "666" carved into it. "And remember how you were grounded for a month?"

"Yeah. Weren't you the brat who went home to tell mom and 'daddy' right away?" He was silent for a minute. "Did they pay you? 'Keep an eye on your brother!!! You tell us if he does anything that his perfect angel sister wouldn't do so we can punish him fairly!' I can hear mom now." He stopped for a moment before continuing. Closing one eye, he asked, "Did they?"

"Did they what?" I asked.

"Did they pay you?"

"No," I said, irritated by my brother's demands.

"That's too bad. It sucks to kiss ass that doesn't pay, doesn't it?"

"I guess so." Two more minutes.

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i

"You'll learn someday."

"Learn what?"

He shook his head.

"Learn what?" I said again.

He looked at me for a moment before answering. "Some people don't give two shits for your ass-kissing attitude. Believe it or not, sis, most people don't give a damn about you. Take me for instance. I don't know what brought you here after all of these years..."

I thought about the black and white picture of him and I building the sand fortress. "...but don't think you're doing me a favor by coming here after all this time, because you're not."

"Jeffrey." Thirty seconds left.

He blew a few more smoke rings without looking through the glass.

A door opened on my side and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up to see the man inblue.

"Time's up," the guard said, the sound of his voice as pleasant as that of birds chirping in the cool morning air. The guard on Jeffrey's side reached under the table to unchain him.

"Well, Mel, geez, I appreciate you coming," his voice reeked of sarcasm.

I glared at him through the glass.

"Ready?" the guard asked.

I replaced the phone on its cradle and nodded. "Thanks."

"Hey, no problem. I know first visits can be rough." He showed me to the door and I walked back through the waiting room. The old lady had fallen asleep. Walking outside, I took a deep breath to soothe my burning anger.

Two mornings later, I was sipping coffee before a tennis match.

Waiting for my court, I sat down to read a morning newspaper that someone had left behind. It wasn't until then that I noticed the little excerpt inthe lower right corner.

"Court seven is open," I heard. Court seven, that was my court.

Taking my gear with me, I went to the garbage can and disposed of my coffee and the newspaper without so much as a second glance at the

front page or the little excerpt in the right-hand corner that read "Kitzer Paroled."

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Funeral

By Betsy Catt We are all Cecilia born and reborn and reborn again cut from whole cloth and sewn by name and by face and by hand my hands that were her hands once when she was twenty This is the body that she lent to my grandmother who lent it to my mother who lent it to me We are all potatoes on the farm covered in the soil that we come from roots in the soil that we lower her into

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Ghosts

By Liz Musson will you stop dancing with ghosts please? their breath is musty like an attic in summer on your cheek the sight of your fingers clutching their arms like a scared child or a blind beggar makes me pity you

pry your fingers loose from the picnic clothes of forgotten ones and let them snap the beat to your own song your own song once more

really you're made to climb with something greater than a dead squirrel a tree a tree

is growing for you to swing from not all the branches have been burned not all the juices drained you're made to drink, to gulp, to kiss skin that doesn't peel away like the winter stripes of a snake let the ghosts melt into the murals that have been painted behind you they will become colors that cry and sweat no longer groaning under the weight of your grasp their silver shadows dance away dance away dance away your feet will carry on in another direction fresher than a summer attic or a sealed up cellar and the mural will spread like black ink in water behind you

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Sleep Sleep

By Rob Bola "Chirp Chirp" It's all I know how to do, but at least it's something. I woke up

today, surrounded by over two hudred twins who chirp-chirped as best they could too. I know it's not their fault, but to hear them say that makes me instantly hate them. The thing is, chirp-chirp is mine. Aren't I allowed to have something? I have this feeling that I don't have anything, possessionless as a divorced man after alimony. And yet, in feeling my chick fur matted down like trampled grass, I realize I am but a minute old.

"Chirp Chirp," I go, because I don't know how to do anything else.

This one by me, the one with the discolored brown spots on him; he reminds me of that kid i once knew, yet different. That kid's name was Billy or Tom or something like that, but I can't remember. All I can remember is that chicks go chirp chirp, so then, why shouldn't I? I'm a chick. But then again, I'm not.

"Chirp Chirp," I say, but no one's really listening. They're all mimicking me like street corner mimes, copying my every movement. Or maybe, I am copying them. And yet, as I ponder all of this, I realize I am but a minute, now two, old. Deja Vu, or maybe coincidence, but the chick in front of me feels like my mother. I can feel her, but not physically.

Chicks must have souls, or better yet, they act as much like shells as do their eggs.

"Chirp Chirp," I say to my mom, but she remains facing front, waiting for the sentence of her existence. What she doesn't realize is that the only thing there in front of her is aluminum siding, and beyond that? Who knows, I think, how should I know? I am only three minutes old.

"Chirp Chirp," I say, shaking the last piece of egg shell off my foot, as if it were stuck from glue or velcro. It was my home, my womb, my coffin, and now, my lost paradise. I try to back up into it and put the pieces over my head, for I know the man will soon know that we have all just hatched. He knows better than we do, and yet we're the ones in here.

How's that for natural birth?

"Chirp Chirp," I plead, scared of the dark, but being able to see fairly well in it. I can see the kid who reminds me of Billy or Tom or what's-his-name. I can see my mother, but she can't see me. I pull the egg over my eyes, trying to escape to a darkness more attractive. Sleep, I think, Sleep...

"Chirp Chirp," mocks the man, opening the aluminum drawer and

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pulling us out one by one. There goes Billy/Tom chirping away, oblivious to what will happen. I'm oblivious too, but I know it's not good. It can't be good, because if it were, my mom would have seen me. But she didn't.

She left me here, scared of the light and hiding from the man with the last of my egg shell.

"Chirp Chirp," I whimper as he picks me up, examining me. For some reason it seems like he's invading my privacy. But I let him. How could I stop him? He hands me off to another man, this one a boy, who re-examines me. I let him too. He looks meaner than the last. He has brown spots on his skin too, but he doesn't look anything like Billy or Tom. He looks a bit like I used to, only bigger. Bigger I say, for I am five minutes old and a few inches tall.

"Chirp Chirp," I cry, being put into the plastic bag and having the oxygen go ffffft out into the daylight. The boy is exempt from displaying emotions, but not me. I may be a chick, but I swear I'm crying.

At last I smile. No other chick that I saw was crying. Finally, I think, finally something that is mine. I watch as they take my mom off somewhere else. I thank them for not putting her in here with me.

"Sleep Sleep," says the boy with the brown spots on him. Freckles, I think, freckles. Ahhhh yes. And then my chick lungs can no longer chirp.

"Moo" It's all I know how to do, but at least it's something. The cow that just birthed me got shot. I heard the gun and that's why I went "Moo". I tried to say "NOOO!" and I even tried to say "Me me me me me me me", but all that came out was "moo". The cow that birthed me wasn't my mother, but then again, she was. But then again, she wasn't. I didn't even cry.

"Moo," I say, fearing my loss of intelligence. I think "say sir, would you be so kind as to get me a nice trough of water?", but all that comes out is that unexpressively muttered word "Moo". I have fur matted down like trampled grass again, but it's cow fur now. I'm a cow, I think, I'm a cow.

"Moo," I wonder, asking the man with the gun if he's going to shoot me too. He doesn't have spots, freckles, but he does have a lot of red bumps on his face. They embarass him, I can tell. So I laugh.

"Moo," I say, chuckling at him. Somehow he hears my mocking tone, and although I am still lying down, just one minute old, he kicks me in the stomach. It doesn't hurt though. It used to hurt, but now? No, it doesn't hurt. It just feels like a nice slap on the back. How though, I think, did that really used to feel? You know what hurts though? It hurts

48

me to know that this man with the red bumps is soon to have the last laugh. I know it, and he knows it.

"Moo," I say, voicing my disapproval to the man with the red bumps and to the fellow beside him and to God Almighty above. It's a wonder I don't get up and defend myself, but my joints haven't locked into place yet. They feel as thin as noodles and as unsupportive as a wrongly measured crutch. The man kicks me again and this time it hurts.

"Moo," I cry, but I don't mean to. He must have hit me in my voice box, which made me say "Moo". I didn't want to though, because I know how he'll take it. And so he does, kicking me again.

"Moo," again. Again the kick inthe same place.

"Moo". This goes on for some time, but I don't know for how long.

How should I? I am only four minutes or so old. He stands me up before I can utter any more catch phrases and the noodles lock into place. I'm standing--I think--by George, I'm standing! And so I am. It feels a bit weird to be on four legs, but it doesn't last long. He kicks me again and down I go.

"Moo". I should be saying it,but nothing comes out. He has kicked the wind out of me, and for some reason when that happens all I can think of to say is "Chirp Chirp". So I do, but I really don't. How can I, I think, I'm a cow. Cow's don't go Chirp Chirp. This world would be a better place if they did though. He stands me up again and walks me. He calls me Veal to the other man, but I know that's not my name.

"Moo," I say, telling him my name is Moo and not Veal, but he doesn't understand. He just pats me on the back while I walk. It's not a friendly pat though. It's more like a man who pats his in-laws on the way out the door. And so I am an in-law to these men, I think, God save us all.

"Moo," I go, while I am being killed, but I am not conscious of it. It hurts too much to be conscious of it. Sleep, I think, Sleep...But sleep takes longer than I wish it would.

"Waaaa!"

It's all I know how to do, but at least it's something. Isay it enthusiastically and attentively, knowing for once that it means more than a Chirp Chirp or a Moo. But why should it, I think, why should it? There is a man with a mask on that grabs me, but I can't go far because I have a tube which acts like a drinking straw stuck onto my belly-button. He cuts it and for a second there I get scared and wonder why sleep hasn't come yet. And as I turn a minute old it still doesn't come, so i open my eyes.

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"Waaaa!" I say, looking at the man, who slaps me once. This hurts more than the kicks, so I say it again, and he does what the man standing next to the man with the gun did--he smiles. He hands me to a woman who's got fur like trampled down grass on her head, but it's not chick fur or cow fur. It's real fur, I think, human fur. I get scared again, fearing that I won't grow fur before they put me to sleep. But when the woman holds me, she strokes what I realize to already be fur. I am but two minutes old and I have fur like this woman and this doctor.

"Waaaa!" I say, thinking the doctor is going to shoot my mother who's not my mother, but who is. He doesn't shoot her though, doesn't even have a gun near him. He pats her on the feet and leaves the room, taking off his mask. He has a nose like her, I think, all so different and yet, all the same, like the chirping chicks. The woman, who's my mother but isn't, holds me in her arms and pats my fur. She doesn't feel like the chick felt, like she is my mother. But I don't hold it against her. She looks much nicer than the boy with spots and the man with red bumps.

"Waaaa!" I say, wanting something, something I can't put my finger quite on. I have what I've been looking for, but I want something more.

She carries on though, not realizing my request. Why should she, I think, I am only five minutes old. And so I am, five minutes old. If I were to guess, this woman who's my mother but isn't, is probably over one hundred thousand minutes old.

"Waaaa!" I cry, not wanting to be that old, but wanting to be old enough so she can hear what I need; the thing I'm itching for, but can't quite put my finger on. She takes me by the head and rocks me, gently, not placing me on my two new legs and kicking me, but just holding me. Gently.

I stop crying, because I realize it's what I've been waiting for.

"Sleep Sleep," she says, still rocking me.

"Waaaal" I cry. It's all I know how to do.

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Litter

By Betsy Catt When she hears the Carpenters she wants to hear more buttervoice like new highway pieces and she's good at putting on lipstick in the rearview, as she does now, with the cruise set at 85.

The carpenters hard at work on her dream home are two towns back, building a kitchen island she doesn't want.

She has always loved her hands, the length of her fingers, the shape of the fingernails that unhook curlers, the petals of her head falling pink to the floor under slippers and to the bathrobe lap, terrycloth tired of holding children.

Hands look beautiful wrapped in other hands, she thinks, but more lovely around the steering wheel.

She's going to Akron, she decides, because she likes the way the word sounds like "acoustic" or "package" Sifting through the cardboard box in the passenger seat one scratches her hand but she doesn't feel it she picks up another white one by the tail and it meows The white ones look the best, like dandelion fuzz behind the Volvo.

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Looking at a Sleeping Baby

By Lyssa Sample I should not see.

I should not wrap my fists around your loving neck (but every night this vision greets me).

I should let go of your swan nature, but I tense.

Harder. Greedily.

I am shaking in awe for fear of being the one who hates the one I completely love.

My eyes see yours (which once steamrolled roads to lock with mine) but now they stray from my sight, my body, my open love, my arms.

I see your eyes covet what I do not possess, inches where there should be and firmness I have not silkier hair and gentler stature (what a prettier aura you'd like me to have).

Guilt will hurt you.

Guilt lives in my hands, prepared to suffocate, twist,

strangle, which rest nestled next to your neck.

You lay asleep, only inches away.

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Snippets

By Ryan Maanum When i make a sandwich and pick it up to eat, The peanut butter is on the bottom

and the jelly's on the top.

When I have a paper due, I come up with a thesis, rent a video, and write an outline, watching the movie.

I eat to survive and drink Coke like water.

I cook food. I forget to eat. I have food in the microwave, in the toaster, and in the oven right now.

I have two lounging cats, Brooklyn and Memphis.

I hit the snooze tens of times. The phone must always ring twice before I answer. My food conspires to expire, on random dates. 1cruise radio and TV stations

sporadically. I check my mail every three days.

I sleep, 4 till noon. I take pictures that never get developed. My house is decorated with function, not plants or posters, although I have a bowling pin ornamenting my fireplace. I can reach my computer, the phone, my light, and my window from bed.

Sublet till August 97.

You can smoke and fill the fridge with what you want.

I have cable, a patio set, and a vaulted ceiling. I live by myself. Let me know if you are interested.

I only advertise by word of mouth because I am not into shameless self-promotion.

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Sunshine Imitators

By Karen E. Fiore A soft-bristled face, chocolate shavings nestled in a bed of silky petals, yellow ribbons imitate the sun's rays.

Dripping, like thick, golden cake frosting.

Radiating, like the arms of tide-pool starfish.

Dancing amid fields in France, free from restraining pots on a porch.

Listen: an Austrian waltz accompanies their rendezvous.

In a ballroom carpeted with emerald greenery, sunflowers await the chimney-smoke wind to partner this pas de deux.

Late August arrives: crickets and butterflies disappear.

Fearing the nearing season of baked apples and squash, of turtlenecks and short days, the flowers will turn their faces like bashful children on the first day of school.

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The Stew Kings

By Daniel Paquette These were the last of the great stew makers.

They came in a wagon train on an October evening over flowing with laughter and heavy breathing of whiskey.

They schlepped all their stewy supplies into our main street.

In four minutes our town became the ripest kitchen.

Onions melted into the basil and pepper with carrots.

Cutting became chopping and pouring and potatoes goldened.

Kicked up dust waved itself into the smoke of last week's lumber.

When asked for fresh beef we raced and argued to our stores.

The best pickins were cut and sliced and skewered to roast tender.

I staked out a smelling station perched above the grandest pot of all, a blackened behemoth held aloft by an enchanted rack of holy iron limbs.

What felt like seconds passed, but the shouts of children revealed it as hours.

Soon bowls lined tables lined building fronts and all was covered in checkered cloth.

I grabbed my bowl and spoon and knelt down when the pastor stood beside my god the iron kettle.

"Let us bow our heads and pray for God's blessing" and I knew the brew would commit itself to my vessel.

When at last I tasted, after watching the ladle droop and scoop, then dip and tip the brothy chunks of seasoned harvest into my bowl, I found in my darkness, within the mysterious mechanism of my mouth, a new religion so profound that each smacking of lip and tongue was holy skirt.

My teeth massaged each morsel as the Sisters of Charity would the flesh of the diseased, in fervent practice of caring for the lowest of the low, preparing both souls for death.

With the swallow, my entire body was pinnacled to launch my own soul out among the heathens, into that heart of darkness that lies beyond all among the heathens, into that heart of darkness that lies beyond all among the heathens, into that heart of darkness that lies beyond all gatherings of town and country, where no man can escape the quiet bonds of life, and no god can free us from our own memories of death.

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-Photograph By Chris Bennet

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