Off the Wall

Recklessness incarnate, pg

15Snap Shots, from the Life of our Editor Christian Moran

Feature article: Home and what it means to you

Letter from the editor, pg. 3

Table of ContentsSignificant places in Sarasota

Interview feature: home and what it means to you

Interview with Grandpa

pg.11

pg.12

Letter from the editor As a message to my readers, i just want to thank you for all your contri-butions to this magazine. I hope that this magazine, “Off the Wall”, por-trays the reckless and sometimes chaotic moments that can sometimes be cast upon our lives. In this magazine are three major stories, each dis-playing insights into either my or my friends personal lives. With each snapshot, interview, or story i hope to present to you with a detailed de-scription of a part of my life. My first story is a series of snapshots of my hometown, Sarasota. In this narration i hope to show diffirent locations that mean a lot to me through brief narrations. In my second paper i hope

to solidify the meaning of home and how having a bad family life can sometimes lead to a person to be just as reckless as his/her parents. And finally, in my third story, a travel narrative, i narrate a fictious story about myself, searching for meaning in this world. I hope that each of these papers are able to dis-play the recklessness and ca-lamity that sometimes wreck havoc on our personal lives.

Interview with Jac, my roomate

pg.14

Interview with Sofia, my girlfriend

pg.16

Personal narrative pg.18

pg.4

From this article I want the reader to learn about my secret spots, or places that an out-sider would never stumble upon in Sarasota. Instead of focusing so much on the location itself I want to give the reader my take on it, or the way a certain place made me feel. I want the places in this article to be living organisms, sites that breathe and are not borne down by unnecessary details. I focus a lot on the places around my house, since I experienced so much there; spots like the beach and restuarants being the easiest to write about because of all the memories I have there. Switching from third to first person I want this article to keep the reader in an almost unsure balance as to what is going on, but keep them entertained the whole way through. As this article goes on I push deeper, telling the anonymous reader thoughts or feelings I hardly ever tell my best friends. By sharing what I truly feel or experienced I hope that the reader can get a better understanding about my home-town than if I just described it verbatim. I hope the reader is able to walk away with an understanding of what I felt and why some spots mean so much to me.

My Adolescence in Sarasota

For many people, planning a Sarasota vacation is as simple as getting away from it all, amidst the splendor of sun, sand and beautiful weather that are the Gulf Coast’s greatest natural resources.

For them, doing nothing is the whole point.

When I was younger, my dad and I used to play Frisbee everyday outside on the street. I remember stepping out in the fading day-light, the leaves were falling. Every step on the lawn omitting a resonating crunch as the hardened leaves would break apart beneath my feet. The air was always crisp, with the scent of freshly mown grass. With every throw I would take a step back, testing my limits. I would rip the Frisbee as hard as I could and my dad would never miss a catch. On this street I learned how to ride a bike, to skateboard, to drive. I learned how to social-ize, play in the tree house and shoot basket-ball with the neighborhood kids. I learned how to work; to mow the lawn and trim the bushes. On this street I learned how to live, to enjoy life.

I’ve always loved pizza, and Dino’s is the best pizza joint in town. My best friend Joey’s uncle owns the restaurant, and I love it because you can eat as much as you want for 8 bucks. I used to go there every Friday with my friends, Nick, Joey, and John. We would talk about girls or just anything new. The res-taurant is on McIntosh road, next to the Ace Hardware store and Sweetbay. From the outside it doesn’t look like anything special; yet, every time you walk in you are hit by the succulent smell of pizza. On the buffet line are all kinds of pizzas; cheese, peperoni, sausage, Hawaiian, thin crust, margherita, and supreme. As you go down the line there is salad, ice cream, cinnamon sticks, and garlic bread. The garlic bread is always perfect; fat pieces of bread that have been saturated and glazed in garlic. I have still yet to find garlic bread that tastes anywhere close to Dino’s (combined with the pasta sauce it tastes like heaven.) After load-ing up our plates with at least 6 pieces of pizza and garlic bread we would head to the booth in the back of the restaurant. It’s large, round, and furnished with red leather, and the table has people’s names written all over it, mine almost in the middle, next to an engraving of

a couple that goes to Riverview High School. Even though the seat cushions are ripped up and somewhat broken-down it was always our favorite. Usually one person had to sit in the

lump, a spot where the cushion kind of sinks in so that you feel like you’re being consumed by the seat. We never sat anywhere else, and if that booth was full we waited until whoever was in it to leave. The

booth was perfect because it was practically closed off from the entire restaurant itself, and we could say whatever we wanted and not feel judged because our voices never escaped the perimeter. In that circle I’ve had some of the best laughs. The best part is we n ever left hungry; we ate until we felt like throwing up. Dino’s was our safe haven; a place to escape

to on the weekends. And yet, every time we went there the only thing that changed was us. It always started out the same: Tabitha, our waiter, asking if we wanted refills too early, and Greg, Joey’s cousin, at the

cash register complaining about how his dad works him too hard, John in the back flipping pizzas, yelling at Joey for never paying. Like a museum, the atmosphere was frozen in time; we were the only ones that seem to grow and change. Every time we went there we created

Significant Places in Sarasota

A scenic view of my hometown Sarasota

“Like a museum, the atmosphere was frozen in time; we were the only ones that seem to grow and change. Every time we went there we created an experience that was unique; the restaurant was the constant and we were the variables.”

an experience that was unique; the restaurant was the constant and we were the variables. Yet, after a while we stopped going, each of us getting more and more busy on the weekends. By the time we were seniors all of us had jobs and most of us had girlfriends. Although I haven’t been there in a while, it is still one of the greatest places in Sarasota, or perhaps we just perceive it to be the greatest because we experienced so much there.

Driving on McIntosh at night always calmed me down. It’s the road my neighborhood is next to but it takes me to some of my favorite places in Sarasota. Whenever I got angry or upset I would drive on that road. The reflec-tors on the street always seemed to explode outwards when I turned my brights on, taking me to some new place I’ve never seen before. With each turn and fork in the road, letting my hands make the decisions, striving to be as loose as the wind that poured through my win-dows. Moving forward as the trees and houses flew by; drifting past spots where I used to hang out when I was younger. My friends and I listening but not talking, my CD’s turned up, spewing out lyrics that I felt entwined to.

My feet blister on the steaming cement, I for-

got my sandals again. I step out to the commo-tion of people loading and unloading, like ants scavenging for their queen: the sun. “God I hate these tourists”, Joey looks over struggling to carry an ugly Hawaiian beach chair and a backpack with only one strap. “Why the hell don’t they give parking to people who actually live here?” I shut Joey’s beater car door with a kick. I look closely at the 96’ Camry, the paint ripped off and the tires sagging, worn down by time and usage. “Dude you really need to get a new car, how the hell are you going to drive to college with this piece of shit?” He chuckles, “That’s what I’m saying man, my parents keep telling me that they’ll get me a new car, but that I’m going to have to pay for…” his voice trailing off as I look towards the pavilion, watching a pack of flawless girls frolic their way towards the beach, skipping up onto the sand to escape the heat of the blacktop.

Coming back from the Siesta was always a unique experience. We never returned the same as we came. Covered in sand and salt water, we would stop at a 7-11 or a Mc-Donalds, always finding some place new to see. Never truly caring where or when, it was summer and we had no restrictions. Some days we would go back to my house or a friend’s

house and swim, some-times

we’d drink, sometimes we’d smoke, but without a worry in the world we always seemed to have a good time.

-

“I was within and without. Simulta-neously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.”-

F. Scott Fiztgerald

It’s pitch black out, the ocean crashing and receding, undulating back and forth incessantly. We step out from the brush and see all the stars in their full intricate glory. Walking out to the red life guard stand, the beach is deserted except for a few kids fooling around with a lighter. I turn to her and she points at a constella-tion, “That’s Orion’s belt”. I look into her; “What are you thinking?” She continues to look up at the night sky, “I don’t know” “Well you look like you’re thinking about

something”. She looks back, “What are you thinking?” “I don’t know”. I lean against the sand encrusted wood and stare at her until she looks away. I come closer, until my fingers are just barely pressed against her abdo-men. She looks back and I lean in and kiss her. She looks hesitant in the moonlight, but I feel close and infinitely far away from her like the constellations hanging in that night sky. I put on a stoic expression “Dare me to jump in?” “You won’t” “I will if you will.” She

smirks, “I’m not go-ing skinny dipping” “That’s fine”. We strip down and jump into the warm ocean water. I remember looking out at the horizon, the sky matched the water so perfectly it almost seemed like you were floating. Only looking back the beach and the red lifeguard stand reminded you of something that seemed so distant.

My house has always been the house we hang out at. Friends

are always popping in and out, and showing up without even telling me. It’s decently big, and very pretty. My mom is always decorating something and calling our house her “fan-tasy shoebox”. My best friends Kasey and Joey practically live there. So much time spent with them sitting on the couch in the TV room, bantering about girls, sports, or desires; my mom always cooking food in the

kitchen, and teasing joey about something new. On weekends, coming home late at night after a party

and cooking bagel bites or frozen pizzas, cause food tastes ten times better when you aren’t sober. Times spent in the

pool when I was younger, play-ing dumb pool games like marco polo or shark. Surprisingly, the room I’m least in is my bed-room. My room is dark blue and decorated with really random posters that I don’t even remem-ber putting up. Above my bed is a huge poster of the world and beside my TV is a really random poster of a Yellowstone national park. On top of my dresser is a bulletin board with pictures of

my friends and I at different ages/places, and I often catch myself looking at it, seeing how much I’ve changed. Pictures of my friends and I at a dance in middle school, reminders of people I’ve grown so much apart from.

The front room in my house is mine, even though every-one in my family disagrees. I’ve spent countless hours in there, listening to music, playing guitar or Xbox. The room has two dark, glossy lounge chairs, and another rickety wooden chair. It has a wooden floor, but a huge carpet on top of it so you tend to forget that it is actually wood. There are two windows but there always shut because my sketchy neighbor Juan always wants to look inside my house. The room is decorated with pictures of our family, dif-ferent vacations or family members, and then there is this huge bulletin board, with more pictures, concert tickets, and notes. A picture of my sister and I hang on the wall, both from a cruise in 2009, in the picture I look very angry, because I

remember my parents forced me to take it. Our family’s main computer sits in the corner of the room as well. It sucks; partly due to the fact that I’ve illegally downloaded music or movies from illicit websites, and the other half because it’s old. The room is always stuffy and I still don’t know why, but I’m guessing it’s because all the electronics and the bad ventilation. Next to the computer there is a piece of loose leaf that my ex-girl-

friend wrote her name on when we were in that room one time, she wrote it in those big bubble letters with a triangular looking exclamation point. Under that is a list of cool band names because my friends and I told her we were in a band, which isn’t true but we were debat-ing about how a band name can tell a lot about the band itself. That piece of paper has been in the same spot for 5 months but I can’t bring myself to throw it away, I feel as if

it’s one of the last tan-gible things I have about her. It’s surprising how much something as min-iscule and worthless as a piece of paper can mean the world to me. What’s more surprising is that when my mom cleans the room she doesn’t throw it away, she doesn’t even

touch it. And I don’t know why, I didn’t tell her not to and there is nothing stopping her. One part of me wants her to throw it out while the other half is scream-ing for her not to.

“ One part of me wants her to throw it out while the other half is screaming for her not to ”

Feauture Article: Home and what is means to you

When deciding to conduct these interviews I really wanted to focus on the aspect of home, and how it molds us into the people we are today. I strived to see how a person raised in a chaotic family compared to a person who was raised in a loving home, and how people’s perceptions about a certain place or object could contrast, or on the other hand could be strikingly similar. I decided to pick three people close to me that could answer these hard and sometimes personal questions. The first interview being Jac, my roommate; I felt Jac could supply me with a very educated yet reserved perception of what home truly means. Though he stumbled over the majority of questions I asked, he believes home to be where your family is. In my second inter-view I chose to interview my grandpa. I felt like my grandpa could give me a more laidback and kindhearted approach; which with his ease of his answers and honesty can be seen overtly. And lastly, I yearned to interview my girlfriend, Sofia. This was the interview I had been waiting for, an interview that displays how sometimes home isn’t always the retreat or safe haven we expect it to be. Sofia is a person who doesn’t have the greatest relationship with her family, and I felt as if she could convey a very real and sometimes sad perception of what home truly means. When asked about home life she was pretty quiet and hesitant to say what she was really thinking. Yet, what surprises me the most about these interviews is that many of them overlapped, and the feedback I received was more alike than different. From these interviews we can infer that your family is where your home truly is.

My grandparents’ house lies next to a placid pond, in a beautiful neighborhood full for charismatic people. Upon entering their house I am hit by the familiar and scrumptious smell of freshly baked cookies. Looking past the kitchen towards the TV room I can see my grandpa begin to swivel his LA-Z boy chair. After speaking with my grandmother I stride past the sliding glass doors into a room full of tangible memories. Pictures of my family and I hang on the wall, places we’ve been and snapshots of my sister and I opening presents at Christmastime. Finally making eye contact with my grandfather, I recognize kind blue eyes and his same inexhaustible grin. “Chris! How are you doing?” Seeing behind his plump and round face, he’s an honest man through and through. After working as a detective for the NYPD, my grandfather came down to Florida to retire. Very knowledgeable and always supportive he is a man I can come to with any question. Seeing as my grandma and he are the genesis of my family, I believe he could answer my question of what home truly means.Me: What does home mean to you?Grandpa: Home means supporting each other no matter what. We are like the bricks that make up a wall or foundation, without one another we all will fall.Me: What was your home like when you

were born?Grandpa: My home was very tiny and packed full of kids. As you already know I have three and two sisters. My father was a brick layer, but he didn’t make much money; most of us had to start working at a young age to support our family. We didn’t have TV or internet, and most of our entertainment came from talking to one another. I feel because of this I grew incredibly more close to my family. I can re-member nights when we would gather around in the living room and my father would tell us stories or ask each of us how our day was.Me: Who makes up your family?Grandpa: My deceased father Patrick, my deceased mother Marie, my brothers Matthew, Tom, Kevin, and my two sisters Mary and Judy. Continuing down the line, my wife Ve-ronica, our children Kevin, Chris, and Cath-

Interview with Grandpa erine (your mother). Our grandchildren, Shaun, James, Gianna, Erin, and of course you.Me: Why do you feel close to your family?

Grandpa: I feel close to my family because they have brought me so much love and joy over the years. I love spending time with each of my family members and I am grateful that we support each other so much.Me: Where were you born?Grandpa: I was born in Long Island, New York.

Me: When did you move away from home?Grandpa: I moved away from home when I was 18, after high school I applied to the police academy in New York. During this time I moved from Long Island to Brooklyn, New York. Me: How did you like moving away from your family?Grandpa: At first I was a little homesick but after a week I wasn’t as sad. Times were differ-

ent then and most kids had already been working for a while. At young ages we got used to figuring things out on our own, and when the time came for us to live alone we knew what to do.Me: After graduating from the police academy did you return home to your family?Grandpa: No during my time study-ing at the police academy I picked up a half-time job. I began working as a grocer in a nearby store. I started to save up some money and after a couple of years of dating your grandmother we got married and she moved in with me.

“At young ages we got used to figuring things out on our own, and when the time came for us to live alone we knew what to do.”

Interview with Jac, my roomate

“...Home is like the locomotive leading you on-wards in life, love, and happiness.”

Me: What’s the name of the street you lived on?Jac: Dubsdread circle, it’s the name of both the neighborhood and street.Me: How did you enjoy your neighborhood?Jac: It was alright, it was mostly full of old people so I didn’t have many kids to play with when I was younger. Most of the time I spent hanging around the neighborhood was with my siblings.Me: How do you enjoy your family?Jac: I love hanging out with them but I of course get into fights with my siblings all the time. My brother will and I have always been pretty competitive. We’re pretty close in age he’s 16 and I’m 18, and we like to best each other in anything. A month before I left for college we actually got into a nasty fistfight and I broke my wrist. Yet, while we’re always bickering I really do love him.

Stepping into my musty dorm, I look around at all the clothes lying on the ground. My roommate Juan’s bed is completely stripped of bed sheets and his is fridge wide open. Turn-ing to my left I see my roommate Jac completely asleep. Starting to wake up after the hearing the noises of me unpacking my bag, he mumbles in his sleep “Christian, I left you some ba-gels in the fridge”. I look back at the empty fridge, chuckling I turn back to Jac, a scrawny and studious student. Either eating or sleeping Jac reminds me of a sloth. Yet while awake he has a quick wit, and down to earth personality. Willing to help with anything, Jac is a great friend and after tell-ing him about this project he simply said “If you need

an interview, I got you bro”. Hopping up onto my bed, I pull out my laptop. Foraging

for questions that could elucidate the subject I’m trying to broach. Jac, coming from an upper middle class family, is a unique candidate for my interview.

With such an exotic setting and unique person I feel as if I can find unrivaled answers. I hope Jac can resolve my pre-carious question, what does home truly mean?Me: What does home mean to you?Jac: Home is with my fam-ily and friends, to me home doesn’t matter where you’re from or where you’re going, home is being surrounded by people who love you. Home is like the locomotive leading you onwards in life, love, and happiness.Me: Who makes up your fam-

ily?Jac: My mom Laura, my dad John, my sister Alexandra and my brother Will. Me: Why do you feel close to your family?Jac: I feel close to my family because I love them and they care for me, without them I would not be where I am today. They have raised me with great morals and virtues. As an adolescent they sent me to a catholic high school for a better education. They have literally given me so much and I have the utmost respect for them.Me: How do you feel towards your family?Jac: I love them, with an everlasting love. No matter what happens I will always be there for them and they will be there for me.Me: Where were you born?Jac: Orlando, Florida in a neighborhood called dubs-dread circle. It’s a restricted community on a golf course.

Interview with Sofia, my girlfriend back homeAfter a late night steak n shake run, we head back to my house. Leading her upstairs to the game room, I am convinced Sofia is one of the most unique people I have ever met. Always will-ing to listen before talk-ing, and able to sit in silence and not feel awk-ward, she has been one of my closest friends. She looks at me with those dark penetrating eyes, as if she could see right through me. I look back at her pensively, trying to take in her every detail, her dark glossy hair, her pale yet smooth skin, the sharp cuts of her facial features. She is a very nurturing and affection-ate person, and the way she thinks totally different than all the previous girls I’ve met combined. “I’m so happy to be with you”, the words ring out as she comes closer to me on the couch. Know-

ing that she has a difficult relationship with her fam-ily, I feel as if she is perfect for my interview. Honest, she is right to the point, not afraid to show how she truly feels about something. After

asking if I could interview her she just nods, “Of course babe”, Since we had spent so much time in that upstairs room it felt only natural to interview her there too. Without hesitation I pulled out my laptop and began to strip away the layers of what home truly means.Me: What does home mean to you?Sofia: Wherever you feel most comfortable.Me: Who makes up your

family?Sofia: My evil sister Isa-bella, my clean-freak mother Fernanda, and my dad (she hesitates, unwilling to share what she really thinks) Den-nis.

Me: Why do you feel close to your family?Sofia: I obviously feel close to my family because they raised me, but in all honesty the only member I actually

feel close to is my mom.Me: Why do you feel that way?Sofia: I don’t know, my sister really hates me because I used to hang out with all her guy friends who were four years older than me, and my dad just loves my sister much more than me.Me: How is your relationship with your father?Sofia: (She pauses) Not good, I really do think he hates me. If I am out he tells me not to

“...the way she thinks to-tally different than all the previous girls I’ve ever met combined.”

come home, and he is always yelling at me or my mom. And I don’t mean like occasional yelling, it’s all the time and it really scares me. I think he is a great man but I feel like he has some serious anger issues.Me: Where were you born?Sofia: Ottawa, OntarioMe: How has being born in another country make you feel towards this country?Sofia: I really love both; we usu-ally visit there for a month during the summer because literally all of our family lives up there.Me: What’s the name of your neigh-borhood?Sofia: Serendipity country clubMe: How do like your neighborhood?Sofia: I actually hate it. There are so many old people, and they complain way too much about random things. Furthermore, the guard gate is always annoying whenever friends want to come over or when I’m getting home late.Me: If you could live anywhere where would it be?Sofia: Probably somewhere in Australia, I know there’s a lot of pretty places there.Me: Are you excited to move away from your family or are you sad and wish you could live with them longer?Sofia: I am ready to get the hell out of here.Me: What do you think makes a place home, the house itself or the family?Sofia: That’s a hard question, but I would say family. If I came home to my house and my family was living someplace else it just wouldn’t feel like home to me.Me: Have you always lived in the same house, or are there other houses you lived in?Sofia: I first lived in Plaza de Floras apartment complex for 5 years, but then we moved into the house I’m living in now.Me: Which place did you enjoy more?Sofia: I like the community better in plaza de floras, but I also really like the house I’m liv-ing in now, it’s so beautiful and smells so extravagant.Me: How has living with your family affected you?Sofia: Sometimes it has led me to do more rebellious things but it has also taught me a lot about relationships and how to do well in school.

The Travel NarrativeI lean back, exhilarated as I push the pedal all the way to the floor. Racing down the highway at 140 mph, Car lights fly by and street reflec-

tors gleam a blurred white, a masquerade of locomotives. Nicole screams out by my side, never have I been so close to death, or felt so alive... The recklessness giving me a rush I’ve never felt before. I am enthralled and entangled by the licentious thought of bringing my life to an end in an instant, seeing nothing ahead of me but more cars to pass and asphalt for miles; a chance to transcend into a world I have not yet ru-ined. There is no sound but the purr of my engine’s pistons pumping back and forth as the wind caves against the windshield. The cold air pouring through the open window, breathing life into my lunges as the crisp oxy-gen awakens every pore on my body; Swerving in between cars as my unstable mind loosens my steady hands.“Slow down Christian! What the fuck are you doing?!”, her scream penetrating my trance.Green and white exit signs loom ahead. See-ing the Fruitville exit coming up, I drift into

the right lane. Looking over at her, she stares at me wide-eyed, her hair windblown yet still perfect. Her onyx eyes flickering back and forth, towards the road and then me. Slowing down to get off the exit ramp I impatiently tailgate a grey Nissan Ultima. Peering out the window I see the familiar Bob Evan’s red and white archway towering over the yellow streetlights. Hit once again by a surge of memories sparked by the sight of my hometown, Sarasota. Stopped at the red light, I take in the panorama of halogen

storefront lights, each battling the other to be the brightest, the biggest. In front of me an Applebee’s, with people spewing out of it, I watch as dinner parties say their goodbyes in the parking lot. To my right a Mcdon-alds I used to ride my bike to before I could drive. I once again turn to look at her, this time she continues to look forward, her lips

“I am enthralled and entangled by the licentious thought of bringing my life to an end in an instant, seeing nothing ahead of me but more cars to pass and asphalt for miles.”

pursed with anger and confu-sion, and yet I’m still taken back by her strikingly feline features. The sharp upward

curve of her nose, her slit-ted eyes. Canines as sharp as needles. The sight of her angry reminding me of the first time we met, at my friend Kasey’s 16th birthday party. She was so upset because she had to babysit her friend who had drunk too much. A time that felt like an eternity ago, still debating whether meeting her has made me better or worse.Her voice once again breaking the silence, “What the fuck was that about?!”I continue to stare ahead.“Answer me Christian you’re really freaking me out.”Without turning to look at her, “I don’t know I just felt…I don’t know.”“Have you gone pyscho?! You could’ve gotten us killed.” The light turns green and I loosen my grip on the steer-ing wheel. I accelerate up to a

blacked out range rover, try-ing to see inside but its thick tinted windows not permitting me. I continue to drive side by

side with the range rover as we pass the Check-ers and

Chick-fil-a that are practically glued together. Nicole pulls out her phone as I continue to gaze into the range rover, looking for a face to bring life to the car. But like a phantom the car continues on its cold and care-less path, not need-ing human empa-thy to do its job. “Can we talk?” “We’re talking right now…”“No I mean can we talk before I drop you…”Cutoff by the sickening sound of a metal colliding against metal I look forward at the

savage collision of two cars and a life coming to an end. As if in slow motion, I can see the average 35 year old man, a man who neither specified mediocre nor exemplif ied greatness, bore through the windshield of his car with the frontal lobe of his head; chunks of flesh and blood splattering over charred pieces of glass as he is ejected from his locomotive. In a split second I turn my car away from the shrapnel, swerving to the right as the sounds of tires scream to a stop. Shaken up

and hyperventilating we lean back gasping for air. I look over at her, she’s trembling, overwhelmed and disturbed by two consecutive traumatic moments.After a minute of calming

“As if in slow motion, I can see the average 35 year old man, a man who neither specified mediocre nor exemplif ied greatness, bore through the windshield of his car with the frontal lobe of his head.”

down she looks at me, “oh my god oh my god oh my god! What the fuck just happened?!”Calling for an ambulance I continue to stare at the mangled body, unable to look away. Out of the corner of my eye I can see a w oman and child climbing out of a distorted Honda Accord. Finally pulling my eyes away from the lifeless body, I jump out of my car and run over to help them. As I ap-proach her I can see that her forehead is cut and she is in a state of shock. The small blonde haired boy huddled at her waist, confused about what had just happened.“Are you okay?!”The woman doesn’t respond, she continues to stare blankly ahead; The little boy beginning to cry as the shrill scream of a siren rounds the corner. Knowing that I would just get in the way of the ambulance, I begin walking back to my car. As I look inside I can see Nicole crying. I sit down with a sigh, she turns to look at me, her dark eyes softening as I reach over to grab her hand. Her supple skin silky against mine.“Where do you want to go?”She simply shrugs, still in shock from the wreck. Turning back onto the road, I hold her hand as she continues to cry. Pulling up to another intersection, I make a left onto Mcintosh road. Cruising down the street I look around at familiar places, to my right St. Martha’s, a catholic elementary and middle school I almost went to, and ironically across from it, a Jewish temple. The dashboard illuminating my face in a blue aura as I look over at her. She’s no longer crying, her eyes blank against the pulse like patterns of the red and white car lights. I decide to pull into the empty parking lot of the Lutheran elementary school right next to my house. Opening the car door to the cool autumn air I can smell the dried leaves. I stepo out and look towards the parking lot and then the church I remembering how fun it used to be playing on its

“She’s no longer crying, her eyes blank against the pulse like patterns of the red and white car lights.”

playground. Four swings, a jungle gym, and a decent slide, it’s one of my favorite places to go at night because no one is ever there, nor will anyone ever bother you. I take her hand and walk with her to the swings. As she sits down the rusty chains squeak and groan, I come up from behind and begin to push her. Her head beginning to droop, tired from the rollercoast-er of emotions she just experienced.“What did you want to talk about?”, she says turning her head.“Nothing”I continue to push her and listen to the crick-ets loud chirping against the deafen-ing silence. Look-ing around into the surrounding houses I began to feel like a peeping tom. Yet at the same time I don’t really care anymore ; every house and family completely different, each with their own set of worries and troubles, passions and animosi-ties, good and bad times. Every house telling a different story, a family watching TV together, a pregnant woman eating out of a Ben and Jerry’s tub of strawberry ice cream, an elderly man screaming at someone on the phone. With each turn of my head, a new chapter beginning, a new story to explore. Nicole sits there quiet, I had lost track of time and almost felt like she was asleep. I stop pushing her and walk around so that we are facing each other. Looking at her face I see she is fast asleep. The moment frozen in time as I take a step back. She’s sitting in a white blouse and black yoga pants; slouched over, but somehow still

incredibly beautiful, the corners of her mouth turned upside down like my world only a few hours ago. The yellow emergency lights of the school shining over her but not touching me. A wall of light separating us as if we were worlds apart, surrounding her in an aura of ethereal light, while I am engrossed in dark-ness. Moving closer again, she awakens at the sound of my shoes against the grass. Looking up towards me with sleepy eyes she doesn’t show any emotion. We continue to stare at each other for a moment. I come closer to the swing and she gets up and surprisingly hugs

me. She’s expecting me to say something, anything. Yet, I don’t, and she begins to cry. Her face sobbing into my shoulder, the

sweet strawberry smell of her hair just beneath me, every detail sending me into an execrable frenzy. Growing more and more enraged, I grab her neck. She looks up at me exposing it more, with lifeless eyes she doesn’t resist as I begin to contract my hand over her airway. Squeezing harder and harder, her skin begins to turn a purplish hue, yet she remains limp; those blank eyes still piercing through me. Ripped apart from the inside I cannot do it; I pull my hand away as she falls to the ground gasping for air. She pants heavily, looking up at me, not angry nor afraid but an unearthly tranquil.“Why didn’t you do it?”“I can’t.”I lean down, out stretching my arm to her, she looks up and then grasps it. Pulling her

“ Lazily swinging back and forth, with each swing the pendulum of time creeping up on us, compelled to bring us to an imminent end.”

up we walk over to a park bench and sit down. I look around once again, noticing the hundreds of signatures engraved into the park bench; each name representing an individual person who graduated from the school. To my right is a drawn out spot on the cement where we would play four square when I was in the 1st grade. Looking down I notice with contempt a huge crack I tripped over one time and broke my thumb. Antsy I get back up and sit down on one of the swings again. Nicole sits on the other. Sitting on those broken down swings, we continue to talk and joke for hours about stories that already happened and things to come. Places we wish to see, and dreams we wish to attain. The night slowly turning into the morning, as our voices plod on. Still on the swings we talk about God and questions we may never know the answers to. The early morning sun creeps over us as I spew out words that just come to my head. Finally com-ing to an end, with nothing left to be said we sit there. Lazily swinging back and forth, with each swing the pendulum of time creeping up on us, compelled to bring us to an imminent end.

Thanks to...Rolling Stone has always been one of my favorite magazines. It always has such a edgy cover, one that displays the cool and distinguished theme of the magazine. I really want to incorporate the intriuging cover photo into my magazine.

The New York Times Style Magazine also has a very unique cover photo on every issue. What I really like about this magazine though is its unique page layout. The editor uses a layout I too want to incorporate into my magazine: on the top of most pages are emboldened and enlarged pull quotes, and beneath them are two columns of text.

What I Like about TIME magazine is that they always have very controversial and influential images for their cover photo. Their bold font and color choice always exudes a sense of cool confidence amongst controversial times.

Ray Gun is very unique magazine because with every new issue the cover, font, and color scheme changes. From this magazine I want to incorporate its vivid and attractive cover.

What I like about “The Corner” is its un-common page layout. With each turn of the page you are captured by rich images entangled in shambles of the text. The Corner demonstrates the immence power of visuals.

Un. is an interesting magazine I found on ISSUU.com. What’s curious about it is that it always has a unusual abstract cover. further-more, I found the page layout to be stimulat-ing as with each turn of the page, the font and color scheme changed arbitrarily.

What I like about Fiasco Hommes is its fascinat-ing page and image layout. I found the banter back and forth between subtle and explosively vivid images throughout this magazine to be lovely. The magazine itself feels like a living, breathing organ-ism, and the editor really displayed his emotions through his choice of images

Sports Illustrated has always been the classic go to for sports, but what I find refreshing is the editor’s unique disposition for font and color scheme. The editor uses a contrast of bold and subtle titles to illustrate importance and inferiority, I really want to incorporate this into my magazine.

V magazine has by far, some of the most elouquent and striking cover photos you will ever see. Each celebrity or model chosen to be on the cover has a very telling and brilliant style/beauty. Futhermore, V magazine has a very uncommon page layout, in which images coil and morass between and with titles and fonts.

What I admire about The Source magazine is its raw, intimdating cover photo. Every rapper or artist put on the cover omits a sense of herculean confidence, and compared to the majority of av-erage people in this world, we find this attractive.

Classic Rock is a outstanding magazine in ev-ery aspects. Every cover of this magazine has the prominent face of some of the greatest rockstars of all time. Furthermore, the audacious font of the title and blurbs displays the same momentous aura of that rockstar or band.

This is by far the magazine I love the most. The crazy, reckless cover photos of each issue always captivate me, and the editors seem to be really in tune to what the youth of our society want to see/ex-press. The audacious and devil-may-care style of the title automatically separates the magazine from the norm. And as if thats not enough, the page layout is always fresh with images of skaters flying over a half pipe or grinding a terrifying rail. This magazine emanates the meaning of recklessness.