Oculus

Special Edition2013

Alabama School of Mathematics and Science1255 Dauphin Street

Mobile, AL 36604

From the Editor:

-Amy Welch Editor-in-Chief

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Table of ContentsPoetry

A Woman’s WindowHopelessKnockoutsIllusionLacrimawater-carvingGone AwayBeautySomber OaksSunday Mornign PassionOn the Other SideCluttered AtticsHumility, not DefeatSolipsismTenantsNevertheless, I am Glad I Got to the Root of the ProblemBuriedInfatuationUntitlesAn Evening OutFrom Circles to SquaresWant a Second, BilltoldA DreamForest Walk with my BrotherGillespieThe FrostFrom: MY DAYThe Old GuitaristMusicCity GirlThe EndAsking for AshesBad PoetryChronicle of a Wednesday NightIgnorance/HypocracyMax HerrmannTen Thousand TimesTo The Dandelion on My LawnI Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls

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Jennifer HarrisGayla CaddellKelly McInnisLesli OttDaphne LewisIan McMurteyKate McClearyJennifer ButtsJennifer ButtsBurke McFerrinMelissa FadulKevin GreeneCindy ReeseTony KwonJillian Van EllsRebecca Rozelle

Kevin HolmesMonica GrayDan TenpasCrystal ColemanKimberley Rose TubbsDavid LumpkinApril JohnsonRebecca BrubeDavid LumpkinElizabeth FrenkelWill O’ConnerTommy StevensonCarmen BarronElysia WheatSarah GelsingerChandler FultonElysia WheatElysia WheatSarah GelsingerNiesse Evan HaarbauerTranced BonnieJordan DanfordLauren Cagle

Title Author Page

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Monsters Under My Bedwhat else, stupidJacquelyn RoseThe Murphy LoopDecietThe MillerFrom: Auguste Rodin’s “She Who Was Once the Helmet-Maker’s Beautiful WifeCuteParatrooperUntitledA Painful Glimpse of HopeDesksBottomCashThe DepartureCold SunriseIn EverythingGrandmother DearestSouthern Lady301Out of OrderViewPiscean NeurosesFor SueGhetaTimelessBecausse of the Red ZinniaCheap Red InkFinaleBed RiderThe Way the World WorksWhen I Am HereArt PoemHospitalE-Mail PoemStorm NightI Believe YouFinnLeftExtended MetaphorAuntPortraitsMeadowsClark: the Modern BoyThe FarewellThe Closet Above the Stairs

Lauren CagleBonnie BaileyRachel BrunoMatt KelleyConnie ChangAnonymousAllison Moore

Kate WaselkovPeter BurnsErin WhiteMichael AwadJoe HamiltonPeter BurnsRandy BullockMeryl HarsadiDianna RoweTyndall TestermanCierra SpencerJessica MorrowJessi AgeeMegan O’LearyRae HamakerJessi AgeeCindy TheisLinc GraceBecky YatesShenaika DavisElise OttenfieldJohn ThomasonJohn ThomasonEmily BrownCristina NavaAmanda MelvinLee MillsEmily BrownKatie AdamsHannah Schiller Isabelle KallenbergMathew RobsonSydney TafoyaJen LimAlisa DegraveVictoria VazinJulia NewmanJoseph DelapLiza Schwieterman

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Short Story Title Author Page Sylvia Plath Meets Curious GeorgeThe ScientistThe Quiet Death of A LadyCoral ReefHer Contrived TruthA Night of TruthAnna and MichelleConfuzzlementKorea

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Irene and JoeRhythmAsianFatherhoodTowerGetting OlderIan’s EyeAnonymityWhat Once WasZebraSelf-PortraitPretty LightsViolin

Allison KeeKatie ElkinsDavin HarsadiJessica EdwardsKristina JarvisAngelica KallenbergHannah SchillerJoe MontesfuscoSonda SenguptaAshley BlalockJonathan EvansJulia NewmanTracy Lin

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Title Artist Page

Heather MooreErin WhiteSara YoungsLierin MartinAnn SmithKevin GreeneAdele AustinBonnie BaileyJeanie Park

Artwork

Morgan JowersPeyton Tirey Konnor Kuhlman

Andria DiamondSydney TafoyaAnonymousJohn ChancellorLatei IyeghaHannah BurnsJordan Danford Jordan Danford

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Sound and ColorsA Poem for a Girl I Once KnewAn Ode to the Random Girl Whom I Passed One Day at a Shopping Mall Many Years AgoOnce Upon a TimeKanagawaBarbieMy HeroTwo-Year-Old SoldierSHHHH…OnwardDon’t Be Surprised

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I see your shadow dancing through the light

Flowing in the glass. Gently fallingOn legs outstretched upon an orchid

sill,The warmth that comes with each

fluorescent glow

Of the yellow sun. Often do I seeYou resting there, watching with

stoic eyesThe children playing hopscotch in

the street.Playful laughter riding on the wind

stops

Short before your ears. Although sometimes faint,

The weary lines that gather round your mouth

Shout forth their warning of lost time, and I,

Without a look back, turn to cross the street.numbers

variableslogarithmsmatricesstaring

radicalsfractions

plotting against

pencilsmotionless

facesblank. Hopeless

Gayla Caddell

A Woman’s WindowJennifer Harris

The sky is my escape as I liethoughtful and heavy under its

lapis seas—a softnesstickles my skin—

lost for a moment in its illusionuntil the wind shuffles slightly and

I look to find my turtleis a hen.

Ignorant of selflessness,Cutting wicked glances at

the meek.Climbing over others with

burning, crushing feet.

The spotlight taken awayimpinges a silent sting.

Reaction of hate ishidden, but jealousyspreads like a smoky

ring.

Relying on what is superficial.

Losing friendships byfaking a smile.

The only thing real istheir beauty, but it only

lasts a while.

Parasites of popularity.Lovers of eyes looking up

full of wonders of theirgreatness.

Constructing towerscliffs of falseness,

crumbling pedestals, whichcause the fatal slip, the

fall…

Plunging down they grabfor a lifesaving limb.

All have been torn by theclimb.

The scum of rock bottomgaining in sight

promotes a quick lookback, the once great

height,

Knocked out of the glamorous spotlight.

KnockoutsKelly McInnis

IllusionLesli Ott

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When rainslides on crystal grooves

and dripsbroken

from jagged blades –beads,

inverts the streetlights,the stringed necklaces

falling from greased blue skiessmear the pictures.

infinity by zerois zero just the same

and even if you’re fast enoughto carve the water

the shapes you carveare gone in seconds flat

but the beauty in water-carvinglies not in the creation

for creations dieand all things made come to an end(and even this shall make the maker

irrelevant)but in the skill of creation

infinity multiplied byzero

water-carvingIan McMurtrey

LacrimaDaphne Lewis

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The memories of my heart are stored

In an old dusty atticIn plain cardboard boxes and

anonymous bags. In this old dusty attic

The thoughts of wishes never filled

Beneath layers of rainbow dust. In my old dusty attic,

The pieces of my soul under albums of faded pictures,

I close the chest on my desolate life.

Dust, like a baby’s fingers,

falls softly here and there,

like thoughts of a child,pure

as mountain dew.

Beauty Jennifer Butts

Gone AwayKatie McCleary

Allison KeeIlene and Joe

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Katie ElkinsRhythm

Davin HarsadiAsian

The grass blades,troublesome to the

sun, nowmowed. The flaming tongues split,

parched. No kisscan moistendesire once

the fire has dried.

Sunday Morning PassionBurke McFerrin

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Wicked and motionless,Skeletons protrude

from the green.Foliage,

like a skirt,in shadows around

the plump, aged base,casts shadows

on the house behind.Arms heavy

in the night air,as if sad,

for the children playing,when the sun shines,

gone, whileit stands tall and strong,

alone.

Somber OakJennifer Butts

On the westward side of a mountain,A single flower breaks through the

cold, hard earthexposed in a maelstrom of salty air.Winter, welcoming its ivory children,

an endless blanket of nothing

but virgin slopesand a single flower.

On the leeward side, a placid brook,water rippling,syncopation.

eddies of wind and leaves,flirtation is

birds singing fervently with exultation

while trees bow to honor thy flourishing flowers in

adorations.

On the Other SideMelissa Fadul

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I trip over yesterday’s thoughts,Memories, boxes,

piled too high to forgetThe ache of belief, and

I pretend to wonder who we are and you’re stuck with a

deserted rose.

Cluttered AtticsKevin Greene

Night conceals me as I dreamI am a butterfly of milk and creamwith petal wings and azure seamsantenna strings, all float a beam

of twisted oak; then I burst aflight!I wake from sleep, time synchronized;Strange dreams I dreamt! My human

sideforever fades, the sun does riseas I flutter the wide dawn sky.

And that’s what butterflies dream at night.

SolipsismTony Kwon

You told me to run aheadYet you resented my pace.

You, though capable, with your gray beard,

will not take my hand. You, old sage, have lounged on the

Acropolis. You, old patriarch, have sparred with

Plato. You, old love, have shared a pipe

with Emerson. But I understand now

I must walk at your pace,for I am only a child

and will get lost. I must not force the hands of the

clockfor I am only a child

and will lose precious moments. And though I rise this morning

wanting to runI will wait

for you to teach me how.

Humility, not DefeatCindy Reese

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Irene and Maude live downstairs. Though usually quiet, they have burst into

a clamorous uproarthat calls me

from my wakened sleep.The one holds the other’s foot in hand.

They rise, celestial beings in dragto find their weightlessness heavy beyond

recognition,and consequentially, collapse

into the laughter-filled carcass of their dis-sents

Remorse plays off their tonguesthe force of pressed teeth punctures flesh

but the thirst of their obsessions soon quenched

By the purity of their lovers’ bloodsatisfied, they melt into unconsciousness

and leave me awakened by the hollow logs of dreams.

I Wanted

This to LookLike a Christmas

Tree But I Am ScaredThe Resemblance Will NotBe Too Apparent BecauseAfter All I Came Up With It

And In the Past I Have Learned That ThingsAs Well As People Cannot Be Transformed

Into Our Ideals Visions Hopes or IdolsI Beg Your Pardon Tree But You Are Merely Words

Written Upon PaperThat Have Come

To The RootOf The Poem.

Tenants Jillian Van Ells

Nevertheless, I Am Glad I Got to the Root of the ProblemRebecca Rozelle

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Sylvia Plath Meets Curious GeorgeHeather Moore

He again glanced into the casket. The blue satin folds surrounded her, seemed to overwhelm her. The long sleeves of her dress hid the punished wrists, but he knew what he could not see. He had been blind for so long. He slumped into the first pew of the small church. The stained glass windows that ran down three walls of the church contrasted with the orange-cushioned pews. He looked over at her small body. She looked so tiny and fragile in the huge rectangular box that was soon to be gift-wrapped by cold wet earth. Today was a terrible day for a funeral. Bleak and damp, it was uncom-mon weather for Tampa, but it fit his mood. He had cried for three days, ever since his wife’s death, cried out of guilt and loss and regret and hurt, but now he was numb. He was tired of crying, tired of thought that came in pursuit of a definite answer. He felt that somehow he had caused this, that he had ignored Susie and her happiness in return for his own happiness. The memories pounded against him and this time he did not push them away. He could see her, six years earlier, sitting on their four-poster bed, rocking herself. Her tiny crimson lips were pursed, but when she looked up at him a few moments later she grinned and her small green eyes glowed. Her long black hair fell across her small features, and she chewed on her lip as she debated what to say.

“Gabe.” She hesitated, then smiled again. “Gabe, you know what?” He rested his hands on her shoulders and shook his head, no. She proceeded. “I guess the Pill doesn’t work that well after all,” letting out a tiny laugh after her profound statement. He pulled her up from the large bed and wrapped his arms around her. “Really, Susie? Real-ly?” He danced her around their com-fortable room with its dark green walls and the simple oak bedroom furniture, and kissed her forehead. He spun her past the mirror and the windows that looked out onto the quiet street, and sat her back down on the bed. “Really,” she whispered. She could have been a bit hap-pier, but he did not notice this in his state of ecstasy. For four years he had tried persuading her that a child would be wonderful. Gabe had come from a family of six and he missed always having people around. Although their marriage was fulfilling, he thought a child would complete everything. Susie had different views, Gabe knew this when they had married, but he was sure her thoughts would change in a couple of years. Susie had always been very independent and never planned on getting married so early, at twenty, much less having a child at twenty-four. She wanted to go on her own life’s adventures. And then she had fallen in love with Gabe, in her second year of college, and her ideas were coerced by

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feelings. Marriage was a compromise of the two. Gabe and Susie agreed to give up certain things for each other. Gabe relinquished his terrible smoking habit at his wife’s request. Susie had promised not to be so stubborn. But she still did not want a child, not yet, maybe not ever. Gabe, hunched before the casket, pulled his long fingers down his face. He sunk into his own thoughts again, that abyss of hurt and guilt. He hadn’t done this, had he? In the six years after she had had Caroline, Susie had stayed home with her, every single day, because Gabe was happy with this arrangement. Directly after Caroline’s birth, Susie had suffered from a “mild case of postpartum depression,” as the doctor put it. Gabe was at his job as mechanical designer for an engineer-ing company, and could not see Susie cry every day when Caroline napped, frustrated with the general responsibili-ties of a newborn. Slumped in the pew, he remembered Susie with the baby. She was standing in the kitchen when he came home one afternoon, cradling Caroline as she fed her a bottle. The baby’s head rested in Susie’s bent arm and Susie wore an exasperated look. She tried a grin when Gabe walked in, but didn’t succeed. She stood before him, so quiet that Gabe could hear the tiny baby making small sucking noises. Handing the baby over to Gabe, she turned around and disappeared into the hallway. “What?” Gabe called after her. “Susie?” Returning to the doorway, she looked at him, waiting. “Bad day?” he asked. Susie prayed that tears would

not interrupt her answer, as she shook her head and said, “Not too bad.” All the days were bad. They were all the same. Lonely, harsh, pointless. This ex-haustion did not end in a few months like the doctor said it would. Gabe was so in love with the baby that Susie’s quiet repressiveness was overlooked. She seemed fine to him. And Susie never brought it to his attention; she wanted to make Gabe happy. Anything that might upset him was done secretly. She would quietly walk to the bath-room and close the door if she needed to cry; she felt safe within the pristine white of its walls, with the solid tiles underneath her, holding her up. In the bathroom, she did not have to be careful. Gabe could not see the silence. the silence grew for six years, breaking in a way that Gabe did not understand. Susie was close to the point of hysteria, and she wondered if it would always be like this, the incessant care she had to give the child and deny herself. She loved Caroline, and at the same time resented her. She had given up her life for the things Gabe wanted, for this small child. Susie knew she could not continue like this, defeated by expec-tations. She knew that she was close to hysterics and no one else seemed to notice. Funny, in most cases it was the other way around, where everyone thought you were crazy and you were convinced you were normal. Susie could not go on with the charade. Susie was stretched out on the carpet reading when Gabe walked in from work. “Hey, Suz, where’s Caro-line?” “Backyard.” He kissed the thick

black hair that was gathered at the back of her neck and peered at the book she was reading intently. “What’s that?” Susie rolled over and looked up at Gabe. “Sylvia Plath,” she answered, then, “Listen to this, Gabe: ‘In faith, we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.’” Susie smiled expectantly. “Is she the woman that committed suicide?” Gabe questioned. “Umm, yeah.” “So why did she com-mit suicide?” Gabe asked, like a small child that always asks why. “People do. No one knows why.” She chewed on her lip and sat up. He frowned. “But that’s stupid. There have to be reasons,” Gabe insisted. Susie touched a finger to his hand and drew circles with her fingertips. “Well, there are, Gabe. Mm, sometimes I guess they’re obscured from others.” Then Caroline came in, and ran to Gabe and gave him a hug. Her small figure leaned against him. she was a miniature ver-sion of Susie, with her pygmy-like features surrounded by the long black hair. “So what did you and mommy do today?” Gabe asked. Caroline sat in his lap. “Well, me and mommy watched Sesame Street, and we colored, and then we walked to the lake.” This pro-duced a smile on her tiny lips. Later in the evening, Susie tucked Caroline in bed and read her Curious George. Caroline always sat very still at the part where George gets lost at the zoo. Susie lingered a few

more minutes after Caroline had drift-ed off, to stare at the innocuous face, to kiss the small pink lips and smooth the dark straight hair that was fanned out on the pillow. Then she walked down the silent hall to the bedroom, where Gabe was watching Letterman. He picked up the book she had been reading that afternoon and examined it. Susie sat beside him, knees folded into her chest, the lean body moving back and forth in calculated rocks that prodded squeaks from the four poster bed. She stopped and touched her hand to Gabe’s shoulder. “Gabe,” she whispered. He turned his face toward her and she smiled at him. He smiled back as she pressed her lips to his cheek and then rose from the bed to take her bath. She closed the door be-hind her and lock it, just in time, as the tears escaped and she slid to the white tile floor. She, in her hushed sanctuary, lingered her fingers under the warm water spilling from the tub faucet. She rose from her crouched position and slipped two small pink feet underneath the water’s surface, and as she relaxed the rest of her frame into the bath, she reached for her twin-blade razor.

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Kristina JarvisTower

Jessica EdwardsFatherhood

Hannah SchillerIan’s Eye

Angelica Kallenberg

Getting Older

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The scientistErin WhiteA slightly arched right brow and you are shaking your head to emphasize the importance of these equations, these mathematical ideas upon which you base your life and I –and I and so many others are thinking of our work, of our lives and loves and of all that we need and want to do, and your head is shaking and your eye brow arching and you don’t seem to notice. You grasp the podium, leaning for-ward, pressing your point, somewhat satisfied in your eyes that we have absorbed what you are saying. You vary your tone and flail your hands but we are here, silent, unmoving, not looking, just being and thinking and you keep speaking about what you love—the math, the variables and you gesture more, illustrate your point over and over again and we absorb nothing, hear nothing but ourselves and our silent thoughts, but ourselves and our silent thoughts. Occasionally you’ll say a word a little louder, ex-claim something even in your scholarly

reserve and we will look up, a thought broken, and blame you, quickly try-ing to regain what had so recently captivated us and we are angry, trying trying, trying to think of it but blaming you because it is gone forever. You return to your speech on the virtues of Faraday’s Law and the Bernoulli Effect and we return and sink deeper into our conscious states and it is all the same again, thinking breathing delving won-dering. Then there is silence and you are finished and we applauding and standing up and leaving, the moment broken and our thoughts fleeing to our stomachs, our work and everything else that we tide ourselves over with until the next scholar comes along, fill-ing our thoughts not with mathemati-cal equalities and properties, but with our own lives and our ever-persistent desire to meditate on anything but what we are, what this is. You have done your job, sir. Thank you.

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Shallow graves ooze mortalityWith the stead unyielding rain:

Evidence of neglectAs ivy hides the tombstone veins.

Watching himAs he sits alone

Looking obliviously around him. Eyes meet.

Mine burn with discomfortAs I look directly into the fine, Black pupils, so fascinating.

Every day appearing the same – Forlorn, despondent, but beautiful.

I wonder why he is unhappy;He wonders why I watch him.

InfatuationMonica Gray

BuriedKevin Holmes

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The sky drips shades of purple and dark bluesThe overhead trains emit fiery light, moving

along their tracksThe stores are still lit

For commuters have not yet escaped to their upper apartments

Girlfriends roam the streetsAfter a hard day’s work in a man’t world

They wear their two piece suits and sporty hats and high heels

On their way home or to a place to relaxThey laugh arm in arm, hand in hand

They run to cross the street before a car draws nearBut one is afraid

And stands in pure dread as she watches her friends cross

A couple of feet in front of the oncoming carThey beckon her to come

Yet she stands there with one hand outstretchedThe other clamping her face

To help her remain calmFrightened and numb

An Evening OutCrystal Coleman

a place of lost dreams where broken promises liefilled with hate yet wanting love

land of the free under clear blue skybird of prey placid dove

the lone voice calls to an unwanting earnothing’s heard and all is lost

bright sun falls into the sea of fear shattered promises at one man’s costonce pondered hope let freedom ringin glorious bliss turned to hypocrisy

he does what’s told in fear of the stingthe powerful deceptions lead to lunacy

and the wish of all excludes decadenceit lies beyond in a mirrored glance

Untitled Dan Tenpas

Joe Montefusco Anonymity

She rolls over on the turquoise spreadThe lemon-yellow pillow mocks her anger

As her cupped hand catches her faceOne arm falls listlessly forward

Nostrils flare, eyes squint, sneer appearsHer tears lend themselves to rage

Determination consumes herThe sunset reflects from her leisurely frame

The rooster cries for the new dayAs the trees are consumed in flames

Comforted through rageHer hands destroy the circle

From Circles to Squares Kimberly Rose Tubbs

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I attempted to lovea smile without reason,lips of parting, melting

hands of wine.

Humming, thoughts forthcoming,and the bitter-sweet taste

of leftover passion,splitting the second and

choking ontime.

Her silver tears flow like wine in a pipe,Too timid to find a person to help.Like a little mouse tripping on acid,She dreams of unicorns with purple wings,Hoping to meet Prince Charming.Night creeps away.The red sun smiles.Frogs jump.The green earth wakes up with a hangover.And she goes about her day with a smile.

A DreamApril Johnson

Want a Second, Billfold David Lumpkin

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I felt like Alice,entering mysterythrough a tiny door.Except this door was darkand made of dead bramblesthat pulled me backward,attempting to keep my pink-plastic humanityfrom invading their world

They allowed my leader to pass, short, stick-but thin boywith freckles like fallen leaves. He turned and tossed blue wildflowerhumor my wayas I broke from my pin-prick captors.

He weaved fluttering footstepsamong the vengeful bramblesahead of meleaving my earthbound legsto contend with their disgust.

But we reached it—his eager eyes regarding it momentarilybefore rising to the huge tree’s challengeElastic young limbs attached themselves to stone agebecoming part of itlike vines that floweddownward

from its mountainous mass.

I stood apart.As separate as the empty beer can lyingin the untouched bushes,or the spray paintwith its lecherous hold on holy bark,watching from my prisonstructured of word and thought,space categorically containedwithin me

Until, triumphant,the boy flowed awayfrom the defeated tree,leaving me onlythe flashof turquoise pants.

Forest Walk with my BrotherRebecca Drube

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Sundays seem quietin the cold citiesof America,but the parksspurt life forthand the surrounding streetsare pregnant.

The old jazz playerstalk about coloras if it were easy to come by.Their lips curlto the sound of drums creeping down urbanspinal rhythmlike cats crawlingawake.

Rusted dusk drags behind itthe flooded ash of an exhausted day,and tired men in shaded parkssit and play.The squirrels watch the black musicians and grip their nuts tight, because we all fearfor something.

And that’s music to me,on quiet days like these,when our weeks are spentand duties done.We can’t help but highstep

to the writhing sound of wired life, thundering through the open poreswhen Gillespie spillsthrough the airpounding outhis primitivemedicine man rhythmslike madand togetherwe become lonelystoned to the wallnailed openbliss.

The old jazz playerstalk about color as if it were easy to come byand you learn whywhen the day ends.The city turns to champagne,towers melt to wine,and wheels roll with timein splendid silence.The tall buildings make museums.The city paints music.And in twelve-tone visions,Intertwined and improvised,yellow becomes colored gold.

GillespieDavid Lumpkin

The Quiet Death of a LadySara Young

The white box room is hushed, and even the starched hospice cur-tains are solemn after the door has closed on silent hinges. Personality fled from this room long ago when the flowers stopped coming and when the only gifts brought into the room were socks and extra blankets. Even the cracks along the ceiling sit still now, having no one to imagine them as trees or rivers or hunched creeping things in the near‒black evening light. The only notice-able light in the room reflects off the lady’s hair, still black though definitely infused with silver. This is the moment near death ‒ this is what she’s sur-rounded with. Yet no use crying over spilt years ‒ she’s not even aware of the room. She’s only dreaming of awareness, floating in her thoughts of the room. Lord knows, she’s intimately acquainted with every shadow that works its way around this room as the days and the weeks pass. Thoughts, barely belonging to her now, are still intrigued by her body ‒ so they swirl and squirm until they hold the “best seat in the house,” hovering over her. All warm, all passionate, all oddly alive, they try to create life and build a character for her who lays so still. They grab from a handbag of memories to comfort her, herself, like a grandma, pulling a piece of candy from a tattered apron pocket to sooth a tearful, puffy-eyed child. Thoughts hover above her toes, and remembering starts again: “This little piggy…” said to her while she was still robed in chubby

babyishness, and later what she said quietly to little ones in her lap. Re-members the familiar coldness in the big toe of her right foot as she dipped it so carefully to test the water. Her recollection’s warmth encompasses her slender feet. And still her feet re-cite the prayer that feet recite, “Stand Firm.” Let me stand firm, even as my soul is shaken is what they mean, but feet aren’t known for eloquence. But the memories say more ‒ how they’ve rushed towards the high heavens, then felt the joyous jolt as their swing jour-neys back to solid earth. These feet so rudely awakened morning after morn-ing by the chill on the linoleum floor as she makes her way into the kitchen from the bed, comfortable like the womb.

Her legs are awakened by these remi-nisces to recall the sad, slow move-ments they performed fluidly while dancing at the ballet ‒ well, actually in front of the large mirror in the foyer as a girl, waiting to go to church in her seashell-pink Sunday frock. Now to her hips, so frail and like her whole body, seeming paper-light, these which housed her soul, home to her two daughters. Her entire body now warm, the heart, the breast, by memo-ries, filled with memories, recalls the first tugs at her heartstrings by gentle young men and the first mysterious touches of the hands of gawky young men.This enlivening fervor crawls through her arms to hands that know well the stickiness of drippy ice cream cones,

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and fingers that stretch into the night, pointing to mystic firmaments where Orion stands (the only constellation she could pick out on a winter night). Her neck is consumed by the ardor of thought as it once was when it was the altar of worship for pretty strang-ers who left tithes of warm kisses and warmer memories, their offering.Her face, her visage ‒ where expres-sion and emotion lived a turbulent existence ‒ has aged, though not harshly, with creases. Her lips, so thin, once pert with youthful verve ‒the same lips that kissed away the sad spirits and the tears of lovesick sisters; and all the rest, mystic eyes and hair, warm with remembrances.Her ears, where all interactions with others begin, begin their journey that becomes memory. Memory like the soggy serenade by an off-key though well-intentioned collegiate boy. Voices of the singers and their guitars again alive. Her body, captive in the solitude and solemn quiet of the room, is re-leased as these voices sing and echo and re-echo. Her life likewise carried away on this fantastic score.

Ashley BlalockZebra

Sonda SenguptaWhat Once Was

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Jonathan Evans Self Portrait

Julia NewmanPretty Lights 31

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Tracy LinViolin

Cold fingers touch night sky.

THE FROSTElizabeth Frenkel

CLASSWatch the green boards of Hell.LUNCHMilestone of distraction.AFTERNOONI kick cans of lonely.

From MY DAYWill O’Connor

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The image of frailty DespairHe sits, legs crossed, decrepit, ghoulishA crooked spine holds his crooked frame.His torn shirt exposes a bare shoulderHis fingers, living tendrils, expose his bare soul,Blue envelops him, heavy like fog in the airHe shuts his eyes to escape his realityHe sees with his handsThose fingers they are still alive.They are his ears, his eyes, and his beating heart.His throat, his mouth, his voice.He needs not speak, nor play a single noteHis song is already heard.

The Old GuitaristTommy Stevenson

MusicCarmen Barron

Oh can you hearThe singing shoes?They dance like thunderTo dance the blues.Oh can you laughAs would a sweater?Frolic in the rain,No happiness it wetter.

The beat of urban songplays softlyagainst blue

horizons. It calls me discreetly

into a confusing liveliness.

It saves me from apathy

beneath luminariesof breakingloneliness.

What capturesthe despairof stranger

I am not ignoring?

City GirlElysia Wheat

I promise to confessSeven times seven timesIf you will offer me a penanceOr remove my shame. I will take the blame, if you’ll forgive me. I’ve covered the litanies, Said the rosaries, Forgotten about GodIn midst of angstAnd prayed to Death instead. Because it’s hard to liveWith sins not yet forgiven.

Asking for AshesChandler Fulton

Where do we go from here?

The EndSarah Gelsinger

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Coral Reef Lierin Martin

Desert sand skittered over the smooth rocks on the side of Highway 90. Sean looked up to read the new sign that had decided to alter his monotonous view, “Danger: Detonation Occurs in Vicin-ity.” Sean shook his head and smiled indulgently at the sign. The government fumbled excuses to its people about the lack of monetary aid in a crisis, but they spent thousands of dollars on repeti-tive roads signs that the whiptail lizards wouldn’t even trek over. “Figures,” commented Sean in undisguised sarcasm. He continued to stare at the sign for a couple more seconds before heft-ing his pack more securely on his back and walking on. His boots were half filled with sand, but he considered it more of a challenge than a nuisance. Sean pushed back his tangled copper-colored hair and wiped the sweat from his brow with a ragged yellow bandana. His starburst blue eyes were dried out from the heat, the luster and youth almost unapparent, especially set in his hardened and coarse face. A scar, revealed by his awkward hair ran from the cents of his forehead to the top of his left eyebrow. It transformed into a crescent moon every time he squinted into the distance; the blemish stood out from his perpetual sunburn like celestial badge. Sean reached up and ran his calloused fingers across his forehead. He dis-lodged a mixture of sand and sweat and wiped it on his soiled jeans, the grit working into the interstitial spaces of the fabric. As he rubbed his hands along the material, he felt the small bulge in his pocket that reminded him of his reason for leaving Truth or the Consequences, NM. Sean fished the lipstick tube out of his jeans and cupped it in his right hand

as he read amusing for its unfamiliarity to this location, this wasteland if military test sites. His mother always bought the lipsticks with beautiful names, whether it looked good on her or not: Moonbeam, Fairy Forest, Swiss Alps, and Purple Haze… everything sounded so charming and surreal. New Mexico was the Land of Enchantment, or at least that’s what all of the dusty license plates proclaimed. Sean knew it was a load of bull, just like the name of his town meant noth-ing more than a sad attempt to be rec-ognized. When Sean was younger, he was so proud that his town declared such an admirable name as Truth or Consequences. It was so justified and honorable. He thought that his superhero dreams could be fulfilled in a town with such a name; left it no room for evil and wrong-doers. But, just like every child, Sean grew up. His town, like all others, had racists, liars, sexists, and thieves, far from the Utopia he had once imagined. At seventeen, his world had become drastically limited, forcing him to broaden his opportunities for a better life. He had been strangled by the Consequences of his hometown, and Las Cruces, New Mexico, seemed the only existing alter-native. Sean groped in his back pocket for the crumpled yellow flyer that had provoked his cross-state trek. Actually, it was a fluke that he had even found the pole, leaving the bare staple to clutter up the rotted wood like all others. This was when his lip had been busted from a school fight and had left a pretty imprint, like the one you would see on a Valen-tine’s Day card. The sun was just beginning to set as Sean stepped across the bound-ary line for Las Cruces. He still had a

good ways to go before finding any-where to sleep, but he decided to rest awhile and to check the address on the flyer again. Sean dropped his pack by a 45 miles speed limit sign and sat Indian-style against the pole. Rummaging through his pack, he pulled out a green Nalgene bottle and a small box of Fig Newtons. He set them on top of the bag and then shifted himself so the he could extract the flyer from his pocket. “Damn,” he exclaimed, and twisted his hand over to examine the splinter that was embedded in his palm. He brought his left hand to his mouth and used his teeth to remove the irritant; with his other hand, he roughly unfolded the paper. Sean licked the puncture mark like a wounded lioness and casually read over the flyer in the fading light. Emerald Isis Traveling TroupeProfessional Cross Dressers*Starring*

Jean “Cleopatra” BordeauxJim “Glinda” RobertsMichael “Annabelle” SmithDante “Princess” BackerJeremy “Kenya” CandleMark “Dixie” Jones

Performing February 19 @ 9:00 PM

Jaycee Bldg.35 Sunset StreetLas Cruces, New Mexico

*Dress for the performance and receive a special prize He checked the date on his digital watch: 2.18. His toes flexed and curled with the anticipation. Impatient, Sean tossed his head back and took a long sip from his water bottle, then hast-ily screwed the cap back on. He shoved everything into the pack and strode over to a couple of scraggily bushes to take a pee. Afterwards, Sean grabbed his pack and started towards the center of

Las Cruces, the sky darkening to a deep purple and the moon shining like a bea-con. By the time Sean arrived in downtown Las Cruces, most sane people had locked their front doors and settled into their couches for Wheel of Fortune. Signs of Greek sororities were apparent in the deltas, betas, and kap-pas scribbled into faded stucco walls. Sean moved past the world of “normal-ity” and continued his search. He ab-sently patted his pocket a few times for reassurance. Before he headed towards the south side of town, he stopped at Taco Bell for a Gordita. “Open till 1 AM,” he casually read to himself. Glancing at his sweat-soaked watch, he determined-ly grasped the door handle and pushed, but nothing happened. He continued to shove inwards on the glass door before it hit him that he needed to pull. Sean turned the color of an overripe straw-berry at the stares the employees turned his direction, but despite it, he continued in to order. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see them whispering about him, looking him over, speculating, criticizing. He was still an outcast even here. Did they know? Could they? Anxiety overwhelmed him. Sean dashed to the rest room and splashed his face with freezing water. He hung his head and steadied his thoughts before looking in the mirror. His wet fingers traced the lines of his face, picking at the blemishes and smoothing the rough-ness; they ended at his scar, caressing it carefully with some degree of rever-ence. Absently, he reached down to pull out the tube of lipstick. Uncapped, he spread it thickly on his lips in two steady and practiced strokes. He took one glance from the mirror before unbolting the bathroom door. Sean left the restau-rant swiftly, abandoning his hunger and a perfectly blotted piece of toilet paper in the shades of a Coral Reef. His footsteps brought him to a

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peeling painted door set in the middle of a brick wall with no windows, just off Sunset Street, The door had been painted red quite a few years ago but the chipped-off parts were steadily revealing an iron door with quarter-sized rivets. It looked like it had been ripped off a naval ship, bringing a foreign feel to the Jaycee Building. Sean reached up to scratch off a piece by the small peephole in the cen-ter of the door, his nervousness renewed, causing his leg to shake rhythmically. “This is it,” thought Sean. He attempted to still his nerves and relax his muscles. But too suddenly, the door was thrown open and a pair of burly, black hair-covered arms grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into the building. The door shut behind him, and he pressed his aching back upon it, groping for the handle, eyes searching. A bellowing laugh and a couple of giggles and snick-ers caught him off guard even further. Lights slowly flickered on, revealing a ragged group of men smiling conceitedly at Sean. Immediately, they jerked him to the center of the room and pelted him with questions. The concrete of the floor was uneven and caused Sean to sway uncertainly towards each voice. “What do you want with us?” “Whatcha doin’ here?” “Come to see the freak show, huh?” “Where did your skinny ass come from?” “Are you wearing lipstick?” an incredulous voice sprang above the oth-ers. “Well boys, it looks like we have a freak on our hands,” disclosed a smug man about half a foot taller than Sean. The man wore a gold colored necklace with a winged-arm woman kneeling. Sean recognized the symbol from his Egyptology class, Isis, a mother to all. The older man wore a black and white striped tank and a pair of worn in

jeans. Perhaps the most unique detail about the man was the tattoo of a weep-ing willow on his right bicep. When he moved his arm, the muscles rippled and it appeared as if the wind was blow-ing right through the lonely strands of leaves. “Oh, lay off it, Jean, you know we’re all freaks. You’ve been in the same position,” and overweight black man replied as he stepped forwards from be-hind a couple of the men. He was squat and shaped like a pumpkin, but his eyes were a deep warm brown. “You got a problem, princess?” sneered Jean in annoyance. “You know, you’re still only up-set because Annabelle had to go back to Tennessee for the funeral and now you’re short a man. Don’t take it out on this kid. He looks like he’s gonna drop dead as it is.” The man, Princess, seemed to have already appointed himself as Sean’s defender, and Sean hadn’t even said anything yet. For all they knew, he could have just been trying to graffiti the door with a gang sign. He tried to remember the rehearsed story he had worked out in his head during the hours he had spent walking along the hot roads. The two men continued to argue, while two others came up to Sean and introduced themselves. “Hello young man, my name’s Jim, but I go by Glinda when I’m around these old guys,” chuckled a tall blond man in his late twenties. Jim sported curly hair that cascaded around his temples and bounced with his long laughs. His pink t-shirt was much too big for his thin frame, so he had ‘knotted it at his waist like Sean had seen his sister do a couple of times. “And my name is Mark ‘Dixie’ Jones; forgive our manners, we aren’t used to new people. Would you like something to drink?” I have sweet tea and strawberry lemonade, though I recommend the tea, it’s a family recipe.”

A middle-aged man with a checkered bandana wrapped around his head winked at Sean. The man with the draw-ing accent, Mark, offered his hand to shake and went off to another room without waiting for Sean’s reply. He returned soon enough with a plastic blue Dixie cup filled to the brim with tea and presented it to Sean like it was the Holy Grail. Slowly, Sean sipped from the over-sweetened beverage, restraining the urge to gag. Another man, if Sean remem-bered correctly off the flyer, Kenya, had strolled over to Jean and Princess to ex-change words in their heated argument. To keep himself occupied, he decided to be candid with the questions Mark and Glinda were throwing at him. “Why are you here,” questioned Glinda. “I want to join your troupe…I want to be a professional cross dresser,” Sean shakily replied. His face burned red and he could feel the heat collecting around his collarbone and moving up towards his floppy ears. “Absolutely not,” interrupted Jean, who had come up suddenly be-hind Sean. He continued, “What makes you think you’re even capable of it? It’s not a pretty little dress up game from out of your sister’s costume trunk. We have audiences that we have to entertain and money to make. You’re just a young teenager who thinks you can have every-thing you want.” Sean slowly turned to face his opponent, “No, you don’t understand,” Sean began irately, “I know what it is. This is important to me. I wouldn’t have walked for as long as I did to get here if it didn’t mean something to me. I wouldn’t have given up my life to switch tracks to this if it wasn’t essential. I didn’t…” he was quickly cut off by Jean. “You think you can come pranc-ing in here like some gay boy wannabe with your lipstick and pretty eyes and

expect to just get in like that? I’m sorry boy, but you’ve certainly wasted your time walking through that damned desert to get here, ‘cause we don’t need you and we certainly don’t want you,” the honest glare that Jean shoved in Sean’s face made him back up a few steps uncertainly. Glinda stepped up to the plate, “What is this ‘we,’ Jean?” “Are you kidding me? You just met him, Glinda, and you have the nerve to contradict what I say? Do you value staying in the troupe?” Jean’s incredu-lous reply displayed a sense of hurt at the disagreement among his troupe. He didn’t seem like a bad person, just over-protective. The whole group continued to argue as Sean stood alone in the middle of them; his fists clenched and he shook occasionally at his inability to change the situation. He wanted to say so much, but they all squabbled too much to listen to him attentively. If he could tell his story, he would tell them this… The tennis racket hit him squarely in the forehead; blood ran into his eyes and onto his mother’s flowered yellow dress. She was going to kill him if Brad and his boys didn’t. “Hey, you little fag, come here.” He wasn’t gay, but the dumbass wouldn’t understand the difference. Everyone grew up believing what their parents told them, it was a vicious cycle that never quite ended because intoler-ance bred intolerance. Sean had tried to fit in, but even in trying that, he stood out. His school had held its annual Spirit Week and Sean had decided to go through each of the separate dress up days – Retro, Sports, Teacher, and Spirit – as a girl. He had figured it would be easy enough to be seen as creative and funny except that he wasn’t the “funny guy” now. He probably walked in those heels a little too well in those heels, too,

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but he was paying the price for it now. His busted lip and head could easily at-test to that. He lay on the asphalt, the metal-lic tang in his mouth kept the adrenaline pumping. Sean wondered when they would leave and why they even found it amusing. To keep his mind off the cur-rent situation, he thought about all the times that he had practiced in front of his mother’s mirror. The dresser mirror would be smudged with his polished kisses in the multicolored shades. As the years went by, he had had to tilt the mir-ror further upwards to view his face and the way each eyeshade color brought out a different part of his features. He remembered twirling in his mother’s flirty dresses, tripping over the heels as they embedded themselves in the shaggy carpet. Sean picked himself up off the ground and staggered over to Brad. “Here I am, you butthole!” He had punched Brad square on the nose. Blood streamed down over Brad’s stubbly chin and his eyes began to water. He looked like he was about to cry. “Go to hell,” stuttered Brad, and he quickly sauntered away down the street with his confused friends. Triumphantly, Sean gathered together his scattered things, pocketing a tube of his mother’s lipstick in a pocket on the stained dress. He walked down the alley and rounded the corner, almost smacking directly into a beat up lamp post. A yellow flyer grabbed his attention and he stooped a little to read what it had to say. The troupe continued to argue. Sean wondered how they ever got along or even worked well together. He slung his pack over his shoulder and walked into the bathroom; it was slightly hid-den behind a couple of fake plants and a rusty garbage can. He shut the door, locked it, and flicked the light switch on.

The light buzzed with an artificial glow that unnerved him. His pack he placed on the lid of the toilet. Rifling through it, he pulled out a flowered dress and a pair of blue pumps. He bunched the clothes up and held them against his chest for a couple of seconds. “You can do this.” He shoved his swollen feet into the shoes and stood up, allowing the dress to fall in place, flaring out at his knees. Sean bent over the sink; he rolled out the lipstick and stroked it onto his lips. He reached back into his pack and pulled out a pair of gold colored clip-on earring that looked like bent palm trees. Each ear soon proclaimed itself a tropi-cal island. He couldn’t say his mom had good taste, but it worked for him. Deep breaths. He stared one last time in the mirror, appraising himself as if he were on an auction block. Let the stars fall from the sky, he would make something of himself tonight. “My name is Luna, and I am a professional cross-dresser,” he said to himself.

40

8:23 P.M.I saw you sweeping.

Your curly mass of hair

caught the light.You – slightly surprised –

tossed a look at me,saying,“Go.”

8:27 P.M.I apologized for a

third time,uncertainly.

Call me no I’ll call you,okay, please don’t look at

me withoutlove or lust.

You hate me. Work.

8:58 P.M. I’m sitting in

the car, under a lampin the parking lot. My last cigarette

is smoked. I attempt to cry

but can’t. Sip,

Crank the car

go home.9:17 P.M.

Outside on my font lawn.I lay down

in his lap and heconvinces me that

you’re bad. He’s right, but

I care little. I still want you.

12:12 A.M. Halfway hanging

from the bed, I write

under blue light. I need you,I love you.

I miss hanging you hairand you smile. I long for you to hide me and kiss

my head. It’s my mistakeforgive me and

love me. Please.12:15 A.M.

I love(d) you.

Chronicle of a Wednesday NightElysia Wheat

Teenage lives are empty.

Bad PoetryElysia Wheat

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the world produces pleasureand we are drunk with the perfumed liesof rock stars and omnipotent godsthat we faithfully worshipbefore and after we mindlessly sinby practicing our freedom of speechwhen we’re not even speaking our mindswhich are merely processing the same energy that flows through everything under the sunthat shines down on us as we kill each otherin the name of peace on earththat we’re steadily destroying but claim to care aboutbut to whom we lie anywaybecause t’s in our best interestto stay on the good sideof the only world that we know

Ignorance/HypocrisySarah Gelsinger

A glimpse, I holdOf Max’s life.

And I, silentWatch the eyes thatHold a mind.

Well,That is, if I let it...And I think I will take the time to tell it:

Max’s slumped headAnd rested bodyPush downWhat chair cushions will allow,But this,Max does not see,For heHas other things to see.

HeSilently blurry,Sulks or Worries

About thingsI do not see,Or things I cannot believe,Or perhaps only thingsMax herrmann-Niesse can weave.

Or

Perhaps not.

Max HerrmannNiesse Evan Haarbauer

I held the universe at baywhile the raindrops pattered on the window:and when the dots stood at my attentionon the glass,I stopped expansionand universe was still --

allegiance corrects all emotionten thousand times trancedI told all of my limbs theorigin of motion,trading a slice of my soulformy lucky winner million dollar prize --

machines break easy as porcelainthe efficacious heroes editedevery thought I scribed into memory’s obeliskand now shame owns this territory:my mind didn’t come with a manual,I sold my eyes to buy one.

Our Father Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name.know how is no how,no way, no regression into stability:I am cratered and hollowI am feather stuffed and null, on cloud in the ever expanding,evaporating sky.

for this is the time of the LORD’S vengeance.

Ten Thousand Times Tranced Bonnie

Jordan DanfordTo the Dandelion on My Lawn

To the dandelion on my lawnI respect you

You have somehow managed not to be struck down by the whirling blades of my

lawnmowerAnd somehow you have managed to

avoid being crushed by roaming cats and dogs and neighborhood children

And I find myself saddenedThat you have withered and died

Unnoticed by the rest of the worldBut I noticed

And I held a little funeralAnd although no one came

I left a little leaf where you stoodThe wind blew it away across the yard

Where I saw the other dandelions

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A sense of duplicity -- wonder and greed.

Showing their faces -- but not to be seen.

Hiding from truth -- the light that it sheds,

These are the monsters that live under my bed:

Love unrequited,ungrateful wretch;Sits in the corner,continues to fret.Hesitation,without a doubt;Hangs to the back,makes not a sound.Jealousy green,like Astroturf;Enfolds my mind,and chokes off mirth.Humility next,off to the side;Smirks bashfully,trying to hide.Loneliness,all by itself;Expecting nothing,waits to be shelved.

One monster is left -- without a name.

Not quite perfection -- still puts me to shame.

Monsters Under My Bed Lauren Cagle

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,The white wall threaded through by hairsOf red, the color of desire,and black, the color of despair.

The glistening floors polished, sereneNo decoration to be seen;Reflective of my every fearThough I alone cast shadow here.

They spiral spinning ‘round my feetAnd beckon me to join their dance;Though otherwise they me controlFears now the part of temptress prance.

My own hair thickens ‘gainst the wallTo join the strands already there;Though mine is brown and rough to touch,The grasping fears don’t seem to care.

As I forget to cry for help,I’m patterned in and woven shut;At this, I’m wrapped in temptress arms,Which then withdraw through her worn rut.

The marble halls are silent now,No sign of life or all its fears;Though I am frightened more than deathThat I alone might waken here.

I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls Lauren Cagle

Her Contrived TruthAnn Smith

“It’s finally happened, hasn’t it? She’s pregnant, isn’t she? So help me, Leonard Scott…” Margaret, Lenny’s grandmother, leaves her intimidation to settle into the pits of the young couple, Lenny and his girl-friend, Tasha. Tasha doesn’t see Margaret as an intimidating old woman by any means. At 80 years old, she definitely doesn’t have strength on her side, and her grey hair and bug hazel eyes do nothing to give her any sort of menacing edge. She’s a plump moth-er of twelve and grandmother of countless. Tasha remembers Margaret’s numerous scolding lectures to Lenny about all his slip ups, and this will just be another. Tasha instinctively brushes her fin-gers across her stomach, as though the hag’s words could be poison enough to extermi-nate the tiny infant forming within her. She looks from Margaret to Lenny, who is look-ing a bit queasy under Margaret’s unflinching stare. Tasha always hates when Lenny is submissive to Margaret. She wants him to be her tall and lean prince with penetrating brown eyes that are almost exactly matching to his coffee brown hair. She despises when he’s merely her wimpy boyfriend who acts more like a princess than she, and at least she has a right to be one with her full cheeks and delicate green eyes. “Yes,” Lenny says as he looks to Tasha. She can see he’s still as astonished as when she first told him ten minutes prior. “She’s pregnant,” he continues, “and she’s not getting an abortion, right?” “That’s right. I’m keeping the baby. It’s my first,” Tasha declares, her words are just as hard as Margaret’s stares, just as tight-lipped as Margaret’s frown. Tasha feels Margaret’s frenzied rage as it sparks from her smoldering eyes. “And we were hoping to stay here until we’re able to get a place of our own,” Lenny reluctantly pipes up, knowing he’s the

kerosene to this will-be furious display of explosives. Tasha recalls when Lenny asked her to continue sleeping on her friend’s suede orange couch, though she immediately refused to even consider the idea. A faulty couch is no place for a blonde-haired beauty, especially a now pregnant one. This reduces them to asking for forgiveness and help from the one person who wished nothing but evil inflicted on the slightly hefty girl. “Oh, Lenny.” Margaret leans her aging arm on the back of their beaten brown sofa in defeat. She looks up to the popcorn white ceiling, as though she’ll regret the next words that slip between her teeth. “You know you can always stay here. I love you too much to force you out as defenseless as you are. But you,” she’s back on her feet, youthful rage empowering her, looking to Tasha, “are only allowed here because of that baby. I won’t punish it for your indecency.” “Grandma!” Lenny’s big attempt at being a man and standing up to Margaret honestly surprises Tasha. Margaret obviously is stunned too, seeing as her hand is back on the ripped sofa and her eyes are no longer narrowed on Tasha. Tasha feels Lenny’s large hand grab her unnaturally small on, pulling her to the back of the house with him. He throws a dismissive ‘thank you’ over his shoulder to Margaret. Tasha is complete-ly enwrapped in her newly emerging knight in armor. Later in the evening, long after Lenny has left work at the local bike shop, Tasha feels her stomach quake with hun-ger. She lifts her flowered blouse a little to smooth her fingers across her somewhat bulging belly. A smile fills her face at the thoughts of the extra weight soon being from the baby, and not just her over indul-gence at meals. Her sock-covered feet are hard on

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the oak floor, and she curses the day they installed it. It’s been nothing but trouble for Tasha, always ensuring a loud entrance by creaking under her steps, there’s no such thing as a quiet approach. The small kitchen isn’t empty when she arrives as Tasha has been hoping. She’s not surprised however, it seems the kitchen is the only place she ever sees Margaret, aside from the random detours she made to Lenny’s room for a scolding. Tasha’s sure the old woman is on a strict diet to keep her waist extra-large. Margaret doesn’t signify her knowing of Tasha’s presence, she merely continues making a sandwich, which Tasha believes could possibly include every edible item in the whole house. She holds back her grimace for Margaret as she passes her to get to the white fridge. She doesn’t have time to fully open the refrigerator door before Margaret startles her into letting go of the handle. “I can’t believe you’re ruining my grandson’s life like this. You’re no good and everyone knows it,” Margaret speaks and only glances in Tasha’s direction for a brief moment. Tasha doesn’t know what to say, but it’s obvious from Margret’s quick move-ments that she doesn’t was a response. As soon as Margaret puts the mustard back in the green-painted cabinet, she grabs her sandwich and leaves the kitchen. Any stut-ters from Tasha go unnoticed or are uncared for. Tasha’s hunger dissipates into an-ger. Margaret has never given her a chance; she can’t recall a single time where Margaret was willing to converse with her in a civil manner, not even the first time the two were introduced to each other! She’s determined to leave the hostile household as soon as she can. She vows to do whatever it takes to get the money for a place for her and Lenny, no matter what extremes she has to take. Tasha waits for Lenny to return from work. She rotates through watching a sitcom on his small flat screen television to twiddling her thumbs while thinking of way

to escape Margaret’s house, back to watch-ing the unhelpful television, then to staring at the analog clock perched on his black bedside dresser and counting down the remaining minutes. Once Lenny walks through the plywood replacement for his door that he broke two months ago, Tasha is immediately telling him the tragic story of the abuse she endured from Margaret. To get her away from the house in order to calm her down, Lenny asks Tasha to accompany him to the grocery for dinner supplies, to which Ta-sha is happy to oblige. She knows that she deserves this small break from Margaret, even if it is just to run more errands for her. Tasha feels like she’ll never be able to fully get away from Margaret’s influences, but she tries her best to cool herself down. She knows she shouldn’t be putting so much stress on herself these days; it’s not good for the baby. “Lenny!” Margaret calls out to her grandson when he and Tasha are leav-ing. “Be sure to get twenty dollars back! I’m going out with the girls tomorrow night and I’ll need a little cash. Thank you. And don’t forget the lettuce!”------------------------------------------------------At the checkout, once Lenny moves ev-erything from the cart on the counter, he realizes he forgot the milk. He gives Tasha Margaret’s credit card and asks her to just go ahead and buy whatever is already being rung up.“That’ll be 37.92. Would you like cash back?” the little man behind the counter asks Tasha as she reads the same question on the machine. She rolls her eyes as she uses the pen to press ‘yes’. She hates the idea of Margaret going out and having a fun time. She hates the idea of Margaret period at this point. However, just as she’s about to press the box marking twenty dollars cash back, she hesitates. She wonders how easier it would be to just take twenty dollars more. Surely Margaret would never notice, and Tasha really thinks it’s the least she can do,

especially after all she’s made Tasha suffer through. Tasha presses the box right below the twenty d, smiling at the balding and aging man that hands her thirty dollars cash back.When Lenny returns and purchases the milk, Tasha wonders if what she’s done is wrong. She wonders what Lenny would think.“I accidently got thirty instead of twenty,” Tasha says as she hands the money over to Lenny.“That’s fine. I’m sure she won’t be too torn up about having ten extra dollars,” Lenny speaks through his smile before leaning down to kiss his petite girlfriend on her head. “But what if we just keep it,” Tasha takes the money back before explaining herself. “I mean, if she’s just going to waste it on noth-ing, why don’t we keep it and save it. We actually need it. Really. We should be saving as much as we can.” Tasha looks straight into Lenny’s eyes. She can’t tell exactly what he’s thinking, but she doesn’t think it’s in the same direction of her thoughts. She keeps going. “Sweetie, we have a baby on the way. Those are hardly money efficient. And we need to buy a place on our own. Now, we both know your grandmother wouldn’t help us willingly, so what if we just help her to help us.” She hands Lenny back the twenty while keeping the ten clutched in her own death grip.Lenny looks hesitantly, biting his lip a little as he mulls over the idea being presented to him.“I guess she does owe us, if only this much.” Lenny slides the twenty into his pocket for Margaret and watches as his girlfriend smiles with such delight as she slips the ten into the back left pocket of her faded blue jeans.Tasha’s escapades work, and she couldn’t be more delighted. From that point on, she’s constantly suggesting they withdraw a small amount in order to speed up their saving. Tasha can tell Lenny feels guilty about their actions, bit she knows that it’s impossible for

him to argue with her reasoning. She knows that he can’t deny the small amount to his future child.------------------------------------------------------ Lenny is fixing Margaret’s grey and black swiveled chair, and Tasha is sifting through Margaret’s things. She refuses to be let alone in the house now, even though Margaret is away and not due to be home for at least another three hours. Tasha’s eyes light up when she strikes gold, and silver and diamonds. She lets her fingers glide across the many fancy pieces of jewelry sitting in a chest in the corner of Margaret’s room. Her eyes go wider and her hands stops gliding when they reach a lengthy necklace made of diamonds. “Lenny, how much do you think this cost?” Tasha asks while holding up a flashy, dangly diamond necklace that belongs to Margaret. She’s never seen it before and hates to think such a lavish piece of jewelry would be stuffed away to rot in the back of Margaret’s stand-up mahogany jewelry chest. “I don’t know. A lot I guess,” Lenny says hardly looking up at Tasha or the twinkling necklace draping from her fingers. Those words were exactly what Tasha was hoping for. “Oh, it’s a shame to think it’s just sitting around. It’s so beautiful. It should be worn and shown off. This is way too pretty to be stuck in here,” Tasha says as she holds it up to the light, admiring the glimmer emit-ting from each diamond. “Yeah, I guess. She has a few of them that just sit in there,” Lenny says be-fore continuing to fix the swivel chair. “Lenny,” Tasha waits for Lenny to acknowledge her call. When he looks at her, she continues, “Would she even notice if it wasn’t here?” “I don’t know. Probably not. Why does that even matter?” Lenny abandons her chair and wrench formerly in his hand, all his attention locks on Tasha. “Well, I was just thinking. What

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if w, you know, sold some of this? It’ll be clearing up her obviously over-stuffed jew-elry chest. And, it’ll definitely help us out.” “Really Tasha? You want to steal from my grandmother?” Lenny rolled his eyes at Tasha before picking up the dull grey wrench and continuing his work on the chair. Tasha snarls at the mention of the link between him and Margaret. “It’s not stealing! Look how much you do for her, how much you’ve already done! She’s surely built quite up a loan to you. She owes you. She owes your baby.” “How?” Lenny doesn’t even bother to pause his work this time when he asks Tasha the simple question. “You’re on your knees, as you have been for the last two hours, fixing a chair that probably wasn’t even broken to begin with! You’re always at her beck and call. Not to mention she already grimaces at my stomach. She won’t let us stay her once it’s born and she’s hardly letting us stay here now and she doesn’t plan to help at all. And after everything you’ve done for her. “Tasha feels herself growing more convincing with every word, which only fuels her spiel. “And it’s not like she even wears this stuff, I mean, I’ve never seen three-fourths of this jewelry. She can’t say it’s going to a bad cause. Her donations are going to be greatly appreci-ated, by you, me, and this baby. Our baby.” “Tasha, come on. Taking a few dol-lars here and there in one thing, but taking this? That’s a bit much sweetheart.” Lenny stands from the chairs and looks Tasha directly in the eye. “We need it. She doesn’t. It’s one necklace that she never wears. She won’t even realize that it’s gone.” Tasha beats her lashes at Lenny once she finishes her many speech. Lenny takes the necklace from her grasp, inspecting it. Tasha notices how he moves it in the light, letting the light bounce off all the edges of every individual diamond. They reflect everywhere. He sighs

and shakes his head a little before giving the chain back to Tasha. “You better be right. She’d better not notice. I can’t handle her screaming at me,” with those words, Lenny leaves the room. Tasha bunches the necklace up in her palm, a satisfactory smile on her lips. She knows now it’s only a matter of time before they’re on their own, just her, Lenny, and the baby that will forever be a repre-sentation of their love and devotion for one another. The couple continues their she-nanigans for weeks, always being sure to withdraw a few tens from checkouts. Tasha convinces Lenny to continue clearing out his grandmother’s old jewelry. A few times, Lenny has hesitated for his guilt, but Tasha is always right there to give him the extra motivation to keep him going. He eventually falls into the scheme of things and hardly thinks of Margaret until she approaches the two of them one day. “Leonard, have you seen my brace-let? The one your mother gave me a couple years ago?” Margaret asks from Lenny’s bedroom door. She looks breathless, prob-ably from running around trying to locate the small bracelet. When Lenny doesn’t say anything, Margaret continues, “It’s really thin and has those red rubies. You know? You helped her pick it out.” Tasha sees Lenny look away from his grandmother as the color drains from his face slightly. He shakes his head no, not once looking back up to her. Margaret huffs a little before walking away, continuing on her trek to find her missing artifact. “You took that bracelet? That’s her favorite!” Lenny screams in a hushes manner at Tasha. Before Tasha can refute, they’re interrupted by Margaret yelling from some-where in the house. “Leonard, will you get the mail please? And keep a look out for my Tiffany

necklace too; I seem to have misplaced it as well.” Lenny stands away from his blue-cotton sheeted queen size bed, still glaring hard at Tasha. He leaves the door open, but Tasha senses Lenny’s wish to slam it. When he returns a few moments later, he sits on his bed and stares at the small television sitting on the middle of his wardrobe top, mindlessly flipping through the channels. He doesn’t once give notice to her presence. Tasha tries to talk, but he shoots her down by turning the sound on the television up every time she speaks. She tries to get him to look at her by making noises and dropping things. They continue like this for twenty minutes before their tension-filled silence is destroyed by Lenny’s bedroom door smash-ing open. “Leonard Scott! I have got a $400 overdraft fee! There had better be some explanation!” Margaret’s face is red from her screaming. Though she yelled out Lenny’s name, her eyes narrowed in on Tasha and they’re not moving. “What do you mean?” Lenny asks as he turns off the television. Margaret throws several white pa-pers at him that all separate and float down to their own respective places on his floor and bed. He picks them up and puts them together, glancing over all of them. His eyes go wide as he is presented with the damage of his actions. “Grandma,” Lenny starts, his breathing getting heavy. Margaret’s eyes only flitter over to Lenny before they’re back on Tasha. “It’s nothing. It’s probably a mistake. God! Why is everything that happens here-” Lenny is cut off by Margaret. “Don’t you lie to me! I know this is something to do with you and this tramp! And where’s all my jewelry? I opened my chest and there’s practically nothing in there! It used to be full, Leonard. Who are you going to blame that one on? Hm?” Margaret looks to her grandson that this time, her

acidic words lashing him and stinging with every syllable. “It’s really just-” Lenny tries to speak again. “Disappointing. I can’t handle this, Leonard. I overlooked everything, I forgave and forgot. But this, too far. I want you gone.” Margaret looks between the two. Her heated anger melts into sadness and her eyes seem to flood, but she doesn’t let them overflow. When neither Tasha nor Lenny make any movement, her snapping anger is back and she screams, “Now!” Tasha watches as Lenny jumps at Margaret’s screech. He is instantly on his feet. He grabs his keys from the bedside dresser. No shoes and no shirt, Lenny walks out the door. He doesn’t slam anything; he doesn’t seem to make a noise. Tasha is quickly behind him. “Lenny. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay,” Tasha says as she grabs for Lenny’s hand. While he lets her hold it, he doesn’t cradle hers in return. She feels like she’d holding the hand of a dead person. They don’t speak as they get into Lenny’s black two-door Mazda that’s so low to the ground, even Tasha as to bend over to get in and they don’t speak as they are driving down the white cement driveway and pass the bright, cheery sign that welcomes visitors to the community. Tasha knows Lenny is driving to one of his friend’s, but she doesn’t know which and she doesn’t know what they’ll do when they get there. Her left hand runs faintly over the bulge in her jean pocket. It’s the long diamond necklace; she meant to pawn it off, knowing full well its worth would be a healthy contribution to their baby fund. However, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She feels that this maybe the only time she’ll ever be awarded the lavish gift she deserves, especially after putting up with Margaret as she had for so long. Clad in a thin, grey hoodie, she lets her other hand rest on her stomach as

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boyyou are so stupidhow else can I explain?brainless, dimwitted, ludicrous...?Stupidbecause I shouldn’t care what you thinkbecause I revised my schedulemy lifefor youfor Stupid, Ridiculous you

girlyou are so stupidwhat can I say?self-imposed naïveté, thoughtless subservient?stupidbecause you wait for his callbecause all I hear is your shrilled voice on one end of stupid babble -- stupid!the way you tell him, “I love you...”the way your words are so Pink and Fluffy

pink and fluffy like marshmallow bonbons you cooked years agoin your quaint ancestral easy bake ovenpink and fluffy melting on his already pink and fluffy lipsstupidbecause you need to throw your apron in the oven -- because your pink easy bake oven is in the attic under layers of dusty fluff -- and you are Still molding your stupid blasphemous marshmallows.

what else, stupid Bonnie Bailey

she makes small circles with her pink nail-polished fingers. She looks out the window to see two joggers, tending to their lives unaffected and unknowing of the disastrous affair that just took place for the couple. She smiles, however, when she feels Lenny place his hand next to hers on her stomach.

50

Scarlett. Searing. Furious.Spitting out intellect,killing it as soon as it leaves her mouth.Defying you just to prove a point;spite her only driving force.

Her flaming black hairdrifting away in chunks,curls flowing to the groundbecoming ash.

Used to be complete,now only striving to hurt.Unable to function she is porcelainshattered against a spike,her innocence diseased.Envious of nothing at all.Creating despair because she wants.

Seething in her own hate,She is her own death.

Jacquelyn RoseRachel Bruno

The laundry’s done, now we bathe in sun The humidity makes us drownWe stretch our bones on soulless stones, and begin to run around downtown.

The platting of your feet, your breathing sharp and sweet The cracked ‘crete carpet ‘neath your toesWe left the gates as running mates But run a course that neither knows.

The Murphy LoopMatt Kelley

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Hard man, your life comesIn shifts of 8 hours.But I understand, you’re Just trying to give us somethingTo call our own.

Your big arms encircle me,Throw me over your shoulder likeI’m a little girl still.Your rough and calloused handsPlay with my hands and pat my back.

But one day, those chemicalsWill bring you down, big man.And the ground will holdAnother hard-willed paper maker.

The MillerAnonymous

Tell me dear sir,Is this thy fur?

Which hides thy skinOf thy worst sins?

Excuse me sir,Are these whores yours?

Aye, in secrecy,Thou hast been seen.

Oh sir, dear sir,You lie in bed

A pain in thy headWishing thyself dead.

Tell me dear sir,Is thy rose with thee

Ah, is innocentThy rose is there.

Excuse me sir, Thy rose has seenThy ugly whores

Thy rose is marred.

Pardon me sir,‘Tis gone forever

This rose you’ve tornWith thy sharp sword.

DeceitConnie Chang

52

Naked, she shrinks before a godShe did not bother to thank.Peering out from underSandpaper wrinkles,Her summer green eyesMock her used up beauty.

Young, beautiful women spewAcidic giggle. Her faceDisappears under their mud. They laugh at her hungry voiceShe was once one of themThe most lovely, in fact.

But now she is nothing The figure she was so praised forDevoid of fleshJutting shoulders, sagging breasts.Her soft, blond curlsNow simply a bundle of twigs.

She drops her head and grieves.She has nothing.Her husband died in a Four-month-long battle,While her childrenWrithed with fever andPerished under soothing rags.

From Auguste Rodin’s She Who Was Once the Helmet-Maker’s Beautiful WifeAllison Moore

Think I’ve been insulted.

CuteKate Waselkov

53

I drop, I fly, a sudden catchThe ground comes under my control,I float, I sink, my death delayed,Defenseless, I approach the ground,Below us, our foe noticesOur gentle mass, and opens fireA bullet strikes, a scream is heardBut lifeless he continues down,Miracle of uncreationOne moment man, the next one meat.

ParatrooperPeter Burns

these feet tap in desperation.home calls. time slows.december sun leads the way.eighty hours a mile to land here.colors gray, things have changedwinter upon us again and realization:you’ve been gone this long.

UntitledErin White

54

color of bluemany or fewseen them before

in every classthat you might masstwo or three score

DesksJoe Hamilton

Your world is not yet over.Suns rise, forest layTears fall, children play

Sheets shake, lovers wakeBurial shrouds of screams out loudYour world is not yet over.

A Painful Glimpse of HopeMichael Awad

55

Green with power over all.

CashRandy Bullock

BottomPeter Burns

Have you heard the laughter of the brokenSeen the dance of he who has nothing left

It is those who have nothing left to lose whoHave nothing there to immobilize them

He stands apart, revolution in his eyeGiven time he would liberate them all

A Night of Truth Kevin Green

The waitress approaches my table ask-ing if I would like dessert now. I mildly order a piece of Hot Fudge Cake, the specialty of this sleepytown’s Shoney’s. As she turns to run off, I add that a refill of coffee would be nice. I try to smile, show a little general kindness for her ser-vices, but she isn’t looking and it doesn’t really come out right anyway. So much for compassion this evening. I look down at the poetic lines I have just finished, a little forced, somewhat cramped instead of the desired economical effect. I guess they aren’t all that spectacular. Nonethe-less, they do portray the view of human-ity that I have tried for. I read them again to reassure myself of their esteemed quality. “Not bad,” I say to myself, “al-though they could use a little polishing. I could trim the edges, clarify the body, just clean up. This just might work, you never know.” Deep down, grade teacher said I was “A Poet at Heart.” That very well may be, but it doesn’t mean I can write poetry. I can get the iambic thing down, but then it seems forced, the word’s don’t bend to the format, even worse yet, the thoughts don’t bend into words. I know what I mean to say’ I know what I tried to say with the words I did use, but when I read it from the reader’s point of view, nothing seems quite the same. I guess I will always be the only one to know what I mean, my mind tends to ramble that way. Or actu-ally I should say this way. The waitress, LaQuita, is on her way with my big piece of fudge cake. Evidently, she remember my request for coffee because she is also bringing a tall pot for my table, although I am the only one drinking . That’s fine, I should be here for a while anways. I watch as she pours my mug full of the piping hot brew. Caffeinated. I look over my cup at the

diners all around me. For a Shoney’s on a Friday night in a do-nothing town, there is a crowd. All are eating their meals as if nothing was happening. But II know what is going on. And I know why it is happening. Again I lean over my words that attempt to portray the real lives around me. The first line, for instance, is about the couple two tables down, on the right. He is a country boy. He has grown up in the country, has been used to rodeos, horses; used to that frame of mind because he has no other significant influ-ences. Hiss scuffed boots tell me just where he is from; his starched cowboy shirt, where he is going. He is being sucked into the very real world which has been created in this and many simi-lar areas, that is the life of the common man of the country. He looks around at the world and sees a vision blurred by soft corners, easy goals, and hidden problems that are to remain hidden. He never sees the Truth, whatever that is, but rather a half-truth handed down to him from his society. She is from the same community. She is blinded by the same vision. She, too, will never grasp Truth. But when it comes right down to it, if they are together in their blindness, if they are happy, at the highest level they can possibly rest on, then why does anything greater matter? Confounded, I turn to throw my stones at another table. I peer into the lives which my neighbors across the little divider fence have lived. Sipping coffee, just as I am, they talk. They have loved, gotten married, and now here they are, eating the seafood buffet at a Shoney’s on a Friday night. It isn’t a romantic spark that keep their love alive, but rath-er an occasion. It is nothing more than an occasion, really. They are, always, dull

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and listless with each other. The lines on her face from worrying reflect the ones on his hands from working. They say very little, although her mouth is mov-ing constantly. She speaks of church, of friends, of family, of dinners, of money. She talks a lot to never say anything. Maybe I am expecting too much from an after dinner coffee, but I listen to them until they leave and, though they have been married for several years they have not spoken of love, related topics, or of their lives together, not once do they grasp the chance to even look at each other, much less in a loving way. Is this what is become of love in this day and age? What about the happiness of the other couple, was this headed in the same direction? More coffee. Maybe it will bring me to some form of conclusion to this dilemma. If not, maybe the cigarette that calms my nerves. I look down at the poetry. Now I remember, there is one stone I can throw from this fortress of coffee, cake and words. That lonely man in the corner. He is very odd, perhaps, to the other diners, but not to me. I know who he is. He is the vagrant for whom no one cares. He looks to kindly churches to provide him with the boots for the job he has not found, but even the churches today are spent of kindness. I feel sorry for him, he has reached out so often for companions of any kind, but he has wrought his fate upon himself. He has tried to gain strength through solitude, and we can see where it’s got him. But really, where is he? I stare at him and see him calmly eating a third plate from the all-you-can-eat seafood bar. He survives. My fort is crumbling. LaQuita takes away the last bit of cake. The cof-fee pot is refilled—I feel alone, my only defense myself. I hope it can sustain me. I hope it can stand strong against the stones that are thrown at me. And then I look up into the big round eyes of a four year old boy. Who

is he to be looking at me? What is he looking at? His father tells him to turn around and he unwillingly does so. But this leaves me here alone. I want him to turn back to me. I need to look into his eyes, to find some fault, some little crag in society in which I can make a toehold before I slip back into total loss. He turns back. I stare at his glaring eyes, wide with excitement. They are glowing with…admiration? Ha! No. He looks too soon to others for truth. He should learn to control himself, to keep his eyes focused on his own food. But as I stare longer, I see the one certain thing which I cannot bear to see as true. Looking into his eyes I see myself, and my own eyes begin to fail me, as I see my own reflection in his. I see a crouched man, looking pitiful and worn. I see a man that not one dares feel sympathy for, a man despising the world, even the very help that could save him. I see a man crouched over poems and himself truly understanding neither. I see an unhappy, loveless, friendless man. My head falls heavily on the table, spilling coffee, and I feel my spirits pouring tears from my eyes. Yet even now, no one is watching, except the boy.

There she stands lingeringIn my mind, with her silverHair tied up in a bun.Her wrinkly complexionRevealing years of passing strugglesAnd happiness she carried on.

Embroidered patterns of blue,Brown, white, and black wrappedAround her waist and toppedWith baby blue blouse seepingBlustery air throughout her body.

Sleeping boundlessly, her spiritsArise gathering infinite memoirsOf life experiences and escalateInto the sky, while others acrossThe sea weep for her departure.

The Departure Meryl Harsadi

Blood is smeared across the skyAs the heavens bleed into the ocean.The indifferent face of Ra.His vanity reflected by the seaThe body which surged in unrestIts waters now calmed by the light.

Still small waves break themselvesAgainst a creaking fisherman’s boatIn the confusion of the mist,A single fisherman standsA spectator to the play of the godsAn observer among simple man.

Cold Sunrise Dianna Rowe

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What good is poetry to me?Though beautiful, it has no use.

It has no use, except to bean Exit of emotion - loose.

What can enter through this Exit?

Tamburas drone, SarasvatiYou look through all, to gaze at me

Gaze at our lack of prodigyWe’re all comprised of poetry.

The Exit’s closed, disperse these words.

In EverythingTyndall Testerman

You stab yourself With cold insulinto control your defiant body,Eating yourself alive unwillingly,as you chew through those who love you.Child of Godwith you pink haired,evangelist, just-for-men hair,and dentures is what others see.But you run deepand full of spite and jealousy.Instigator of rivalrywith your self professed innocenceI don’t believe you anymore.The disease makes you shake.Your offspring ignoreyour conniving words,as they stroke your handTo ease the pain.You loved no one,not even yourself.I pity you. They hate to see you hurt,but you lie and watch,as they tear each other apartfor your sad satisfaction.

Grandmother DearestCierra Spencer

Laced gloves, covered head.Elderly Southern lady.

Sunday morning bestOn Thursday evening.

Out of placeOn a city block.

Oblivious to surroundings,But aware of the past.

Don’t let go of it.It’s all you have.

Southern Lady Jessica Morrow

I would awake shakingfeeling what a wolf mustbefore it chews off its own footto escape a well-laid trap

you would murmur sleepilytowards me and drop an armacross my rising chestand i would feel at once secure

hours upon hourschatting, gigglingin that room of painted lilacand medical ceiling

that was keptat a constant state of sweaty comfortwhich often smelled of ramenleft out for days on end

it was bizarre how easily you fitinside my self-made world of chaosthough i couldn’t see itthrough the repetition of each day

but now it just so happensthat there is another girl withnightmares so bold you toss a careless armover her in sleepy protection

while i awake pantingheart beating wildlytense arms only bringing backa sweat-stained pillow

301Jessi Agee

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Not knowing the timeor knowing your name Iread the broken clock

dead hands graspsand falling between

the glass facereflecting fuzzy images

of your memory.

Out of OrderMegan O’Leary

Taste Peril:biting windflinging strandsof swamp-dampened hair.

so that falling requires onlythe effortof a whim.

The broad fourthfloorwindowsillisdanger on a stormy nights.Yet, a safe haven;sun-warmed glass that

comforts restless eyeswhich hidein the pale shadow ofbruisedrationality.

Glassy-eyedand far from dreams,your overbearing presencehas no effect.

Four floors upand a window-pane world away.you can watch the brittle fig-urines scurryand pass your chill judgementsremorselessly.

ViewRae Hamaker

If I close my eyes nowAnd envision you before meI see skin the color ofMy favorite coffeeTwo creams, three sugarsPlease

When I purse my lipsAnd stick out my tongueI can almost catch a taste of youThat reminds me ofLate blooming apple orchardsDotted with blueberry laden bushes

My ears are ringing with the soundOf your melodic laughThat rivals the twitteringOf carefree blue jaysDeviously devising plans for parked carsAnd newly bought fedoras

A tickle inside of my nostrilsHeralds the scent of youWhich teases with a hint of Ripe strawberries mixed inStrong, crisp coconut rumDazzlingly sweet and tart at once

My hands twitch with the feelOf your creamy skinFinding pleasure in the flawsPockmarks and scarsHidden beneath the dime store’s finest

The whirlwind that is youLifts me up and tumultuously tosses meYour emotions and your neurosesStirring my Piscean charmsTo a cataclysmic crash

I attempt to salvage from the wreckageA glimpse of civilized friendshipBut come up empty handedWhich causes me to wonderThe true merit of time spent together.

Piscean NeurosesJessi Agee

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Speckled with tiny molesher expressions whisper her languagewhen angeredthe forehead a relaxed ubut soon, a smilewhich delights and warmsas of summer.

Her complexionbrown yet blackher mind like weathernot accurately predicted

Her life brings life itselfpride, luxury, and strength.

GhetaLinc Grace

Maybe everything doesn’t haveto be mystical -

there’s something flatter thanthese techno-psyches

walking down moving sidewalks.When women cry during labor

their tears are of straightforward pain,not of the thought that

something isemerging from them that

is permanentlyscarring.

They don’t cry because nowthey feel the ropes tied to

uteruses,tied to silky pink flesh and

pulling them

downand backward.

Their tears are only organic --carbon-based of water and salt,

not symbolic and historical.

I might have been convinced,but today I read a story

in the paper about a teenage motherwho had her baby in an avocado

green bathroom stall with the coldtile of the floor against her back,

and she left itupsidedown

in the toilet

I guess there wasn’t a linefor the ladies’ room that night.

Really, surprised thatthere could be one

any night.

For SueCindy Theis

One clock soft and stilltelling time no more,hung from a dead treewhose life time is done.

One clock soft and deadits hours forgotten,face under waterfor a fly to drink.

One clock soft and limp,unable to respond.Memories lost nowin the face below.

One clock solid, stiff,useless for the now,companion for ants,Death, the only thingtime can provide you.

TimelessBecky Yates

because the rain fellone April morningto let the red zinnias growshe is heartbroken

because she loved red zinniasand always picked them in the springshe is confused

her soft red hair slows in the autumn’s warmththe breeze dances on her rosy cheeksshe looks at the dew from the rainon her red zinniawonderingwhy did her leave her?

Because the rain fellone April morningthe bridge became dangerous

Because there was no milkhe was in a rushBecause the boy dropped his toyand because the heavy carriage was fastthe rain stopped

She doesn’t look at the field behind hershe sits waitingher eyes still staring at the red zinniabecause she knowshe won’t come

Because of the Red ZinniaShenaika Davis

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Falling and noddingAll day ploddingThrough the hallsAnd up the stairs

Broken and tiredSinking in mireBooks and papersWith pencil and pen

Chair and tableTry, if ableTo eat and drinkOr rest and sleep

Crash and burnText to returnBreak and leaveSolace for a week

FinaleJohn Thomason

Notice the way writing glowswhen you use a cheap pen.

There’s a red shinewhen light hits,

especially noticeablewhen writing takes up the page.

A black river flows from end to tipstreaming onto crisp paper.Ideas overflow the banks

but all contemplatedis the glow of cheap ink,

distraction from the structureby just a glint and flash.

Memories shine together.Entire lives documented

and summarizedinto the glow of cheap red ink.

Cheap Red InkElise Ottenfeild

He slept in his bed, no one was aroundHe slept in his bed, there wasn’t a soundIn his head, there were no dreamsIn his clothes, there were no seams

I pitied his life and personalityI pitied his love of formalityThere was no hope and I couldn’t careI just wish that he’d stay over there

He feeds us his lies, forgets about alibisSee through his disguise, no heart or mindHe cannot seek, nor can he findSometimes I think that he’s blind

No thought, no person, no individualityNo singular uniqueness, just normalityJust pity him, nothing left to seeGet away or you’ll be stuck like me

Bed RiderJohn Thomason

one fallsnot to thingsbut from themfor children yearnnot for safetybut for corruption.

The Way the World WorksEmily Brown

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Gripping the chairlike a rope. Fingerslike toothpicksRocking chair tiltingon the edge Not sitting back, yetnot leaningforward, he is in the corner of view. Scenery ismore important. Grassgreen sea and sky blue.His fate depends onthe chair, or perhapsthe hill behind him.Maybe there is windblowing, as there often is along the coast. The teeteringof the chair measureshis worth just like an old fashioned scale. Art Poem

Amanda Melvin

Early mornings, introducing fresh eyes to lazy sunshine. Afternoons, spent dancing in the olives and mustards cast from stained glass Late nights, lulled asleep by the comforting bang of the dryer

When I Am HereChristina Nava

Automated sliding doorsKeep the sicknessInside the buildingOf mortality

Carpeted waiting roomsKeep hopeful family membersAway from their belovedDying kin

The doctors operateAnd the nurses assistTrying to put the manTogether againAll actions in vainThe patient sleepsQuietly foreverForever

The cold plastic bedIs the only thingHolding the still bodySix feet above the ground

HospitalLee Mills

HelloJust wrote this to say hi,I guess.Things are fine heremaybe.Except that I don’t reallyfeel as if I couldPossibly…But perhaps it’s allbecausetoday more and more hair is fallingoutonto the shower walls andalsoI think that the thing ---the one we thought was taken care ofwasn’t.But the weather was nice today.

E-mail PoemEmily Brown

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It’s calm and quiet hereAs I glance to seeYour breathingSwell andFill yourself upConsume all thenothing I Believe You

Hannah Schiller

east towest, eastto west, the sun risesand sets, excepton storm nights.disappearing before the morningpaper predictedit lingers, giving a sci-fi glow andcovering the black blanket’s pinpricks

clouds darker than theevening sky, grandma’s bones,once calm, are now restless. a night ofswitched identities

Storm NightKatie Adams

Anna and MichelleAdele Austin

Anna stood third in line in the Krispy Kreme near her school. She stared trancelike at the red circular neon sign that declared “HOT/NOW/DOUGH-NUTS” when read from top to bottom, something that had always amused her. Let’s see, three chocolate iced plus four apple-filled plus five plain glazed made… one dozen doughnuts. Didn’t it? She gave a small sigh as she reviewed her order for about the twelfth time since she had decided a Saturday morning deserved a better breakfast than the cafeteria’s burned pancakes. It would be unbelievably embarrassing for a student at the school of math and science to be unable to count up to twelve. For a moment she wished Michelle were there – she’d be able to add up the doughnuts – but quickly she reconsid-ered; she wouldn’t want Michelle to see even more evidence of what she couldn’t do.Anna leaned against the corner of the glass wall and reached up to her hair, which was discouragingly thin and dull brown, but at her shoulders was long enough to be soothing when she smoothed her fingers over it from the wings of her glasses down to where the tips brushed her collar, as she was doing now. She remembered when she had met Michelle. She had first been impressed by the sense of order and confidence that Michelle practi-cally radiated. The first time Anna had entered their dorm room on the Friday allotted for moving in, shuffling under the weight of her huge duffel, Michelle was already there, tucking a set of crisp light blue sheets into the

sides of her bed. That Sunday night, Michelle had selected a notebook for each class, filled each with roughly the same amount of paper, and labeled each neatly with the full name of the course. Anna had never seen anyone take such pains in preparation for school before, and she had watched with near-awe.At her former school – all her former schools, in fact, from kindergarten to high school – Anna had always been one of the best students effortlessly, it seemed. In the first couple of weeks of each school year, she had learned what each teacher wanted from stu-dents and how they wanted it, then delivered it to them in hopes that they would leave her alone for the rest of the year and not be very harsh on her when she daydreamed in class. One year especially this strategy paid off marvelously – her eighth grade sci-ence teacher had allowed her to read books in class “so long as they’re something science related,” which had left Anna happily reading Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke all year as the teacher repeated herself to uncompre-hending well-brushed blonde girls who nibbled pens between their slick pink lips and started blankly out from under mascaraed eyes.But Anna had always lacked social adeptness. There had been class-rooms full of “friends” in elementary school, where teachers mandated so-cial harmony, but in junior high no au-thority had cared whether the kids got along or not, so long as they kept their mouths shut in class. Anna had quick-ly discovered that, without encourage-

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ment, very few classmates cared to talk to her, and indeed, that she did not much care to talk with them. Anna was used to the idea that the beauti-ful were idiots, or at least that those who strove to be beautiful were idiots. She had never held any respect for the girls who fretted over whether their nail polish matched their skirts, or debated over which of two boys – both equally unappealing in Anna’s eyes – was “fine,” or worst of all, discussed over the lunchroom table what styles of un-derwear they were wearing. They had been as alien in her universe as she had been in theirs, and she had been content to carry a book with her ev-erywhere. Slouching in the lunchroom to read The Martian Chronicles and only taking a bite of food when she remembered to every few minutes, as conversations carried on around her at a dull stream.The situation had continued with no significant variation until Anna had entered the state School of Math and Science in the eleventh grade and started rooming with Michelle. In Michelle, the two worlds were united; she was a “smart kid,” a good stu-dent, who also devoted a lot of energy to socializing and looking good. Her hair was glassy dark brown that fell straight and as just the right length to curl up prettily at the nape of her neck when she pulled it back in a ponytail. Every morning she’d use a hair dryer after her shower, and afterword she brushed her hair out until it shone. Anna would listen to the noise of the dryer as she got dressed or slowly woke up and remember that the few times her mother had tried to make her use a hair dryer, her hair had invariably gotten caught in it, and she had to spend several minutes trying to

untangle it.Michelle also knew more about makeup than Anna had ever ignored her mother telling her, and her clothes always looked stylish – not whatever lime-green skimpily-cut monstrosity was on the racks in the juniors section that season, but rather a style more unique, and because of that more mature as well. Each individual item of clothing might seem off, or dull, or outdated, and the combination most unlikely, but Michelle made them look as though they had been designed to be work together.But the first thing Anna had envied Mi-chelle was her ease with speaking and with other people. She might set them at ease or she might infuriate them, but she could always say something that was smooth and made sense. Michelle’s words came out exactly as they were in her head, Anna was sure. She wished she could learn how to talk easily from Michelle.Anna was sitting on her bed doing her algebra one evening in the first week of school when Michelle suddenly called her name. Anna put down her pencil and looked up, curious, and Michelle said, “Let me look at your face.” Anna was bewildered, but kept her face turned up toward the fluo-rescent light as Michelle approached, holding an open, dark blue makeup compact in front of her. She could see on the side facing her some upside-down gold letters that she vaguely recognized from some of her mother’s cosmetics. Though she and her moth-er had gotten ready in the same bath-room for years, she had never paid enough attention to the process of ap-plication of makeup to learn anything about it. Michelle brought the com-pact up by Anna’s face and seemed

to be comparing something between them. After a second or two spent with pursed lips and eyes darting back and forth, she lowered the compact, smiled, and declared, “I knew it was your color! I just had to check.” She turned the open side of the compact toward Anna so she could see inside. Anna automatically reached fir the container as Michelle handed it to her, but she only rested it gingerly on her fingertips, as though wary of it. It contained a flat pad of beige stuff that looked solid but would become a sort of lightly cohesive powder if applied to the face. Anna thought that it looked like what her mother usually applied to her face before anything else, but she couldn’t remember off the top of her head what it was called.“I needed to buy some foundation,” said Michelle, carrying on without a pause, “so I went to the drugstore today, but didn’t realize until I back here that I had bought the wrong box and it wasn’t my color. I hate to waste money so I thought of you. I was pretty sure your skin was paler than mine, and I do think it just matches.” She pulled back a little, still smiling, obviously waiting for a reply.Anna was confused. Why exactly was Michelle giving her this? What use had she for foundation? And now she knew she looked as though she didn’t know anything about makeup -- which was true enough -- but she hoped Mi-chelle didn’t think her stupid because of it. It didn’t matter if Michelle knew she was ignorant of it, she tried to tell herself; she didn’t care – except some-how it did matter, now. She wanted to be able to say something breezy, as friends of Michelle did when borrowing each other’s clothes, but she couldn’t think of anything. She was terribly

conscious that she had waited too long to reply. There was an awkward silence of expectation in the room, and something needed to be said now.“I thought that maybe if you tried a dif-ferent shade, it would heighten the ef-fect of your makeup,” Michelle offered, trying to close the gap.This made Anna start: the compact wobbled on her fingertips. “Oh, but I – surely you’ve noticed – that is, I don’t wear makeup,” she stammered, and was somehow embarrassed by this fact. She hoped Michelle would be able to say something to smooth things over.“Oh,“ said Michelle, and she paused for a moment looking absently at the wall above Anna’s head, as though it had never occurred to her that a girl she knew might not wear makeup. Then she turned back to Anna and inspected her face more closely. “Oh, so you don’t,” she continued, “That’s funny; I thought you did. Your lips always look so pink. Well, that’s all right – I can give it to someone else; my little sister maybe, when I go home.” And she plucked the compact form Anna’s hands, snapped it shut and with a loud click, and returned to her computer, tossing the compact on the desk beside her as though it were nothing important.Anna grateful for the end of the inci-dent, glanced at her algebra home-work, but didn’t pick up the pencil again. Instead, she turned away reach-ing to her nightstand for her Anne McCaffery book. IT was one of the Dragonriders of Pern novels, and she couldn’t wait to read more of it, After being in another world for a while, she would feel better.In the following days, Anna began o pay close attention to Michelle’s

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makeup and hair and clothes. She tried to learn as much as she could from Michelle and her friends about how to look good without directly asking. She listened to their conver-sation, but felt completely lost. She could understand some of the sim-plest information, she found –that eye shadow shouldn’t be applied too heavily for instance, or that two dif-ferent shades of black shouldn’t be worn together. But she was utterly confused by how these details added into rules for dress, appearance, and action. Why couldn’t one wear white sandals under a dress with a certain pattern, even though the dress had white in it? How could they tell that this shade of green and that shade of brown went together, but others did not? What subterranean signal had all of them squealing that one of the boys they looked “fine” liked Michelle? How did they determine “fine,” in any case? Sometimes Anna also asked herself why did she care at all? This was exactly the same kind of talk that she had always shunned at her old school. But she couldn’t dismiss Michelle as she them; Michelle was not an idiot. Indeed, within a few weeks, it was becoming plainly obvious that Michelle was a better student than Anna was.One afternoon about a week later Anna was sitting at her desk prepar-ing to review the chemistry test that had been returned to the class that day, the first test of the term, She had waited till returning to the room to look at it because she would have felt too exposed looking at her grade in class. She had made mistakes, she was sure; the test had been much harder that she had expected. She had just started slowly going through the test when Michelle swirled into the

room, laughing. “I knew it!” she cried jubilantly. “That test was so easy. I made a 96, and that’s just because I forgot some conversions and made a couple silly algebra mistakes.” She slung her backpack down on her bed and followed it, bouncing a little as she landed, still smiling. “What did you make Anna?”Anna was silent for a moment. This situation was familiar, but she remem-bered it from the other side. She had always been the one who thought the test was easy when other class members complained it was too hard. Something was very wrong here. But Anna gathered herself before Michelle could repeat the question and said, “A seventy-eight.”Michelle was obviously surprised; she arose form the bed and said, “Why? What happened? Did you not under-stand something?’ She walked toward Anna’s desk as she continued, “Let me see if I can help you.” Anna al-lowed Michelle to take the test from her hand and look it over. Michelle flipped through the pages, making little noises like “Hmm,” and “What?” and “Oh, I see.” Then she started to explain. “See, you’ve done this con-version wrong; this unit should be on the top and this unit should be on the bottom, and that threw your numbers off for the rest of the problem…”She rattled on, and Anna listened, slightly shell-shocked. “Stop,” she wanted to say; give me a little time. I need some time to get used to this, that I’m not the best anymore that you are. But Michelle kept talking. Finally, Anna held out her hand for the test and said, “Can we do this later? Please? I can’t – I can’t think right now; it’s too soon after classes.” That was nonsense and she knew it, but

hopefully it would be good enough for Michelle to give her breathing room.“Oh, of course. Whenever you like,” said Michelle, handing Anna back her test automatically. As Michelle turned to return to her side of the room, Anna reached for her book, one by Heinlein, to read for a while and soothe herself. Michelle saw this and remarked, “You know – reading is great and all, I know that, but maybe if you didn’t read so much you’d do better in you classes. And if you ever talked to people you’d have more fun. Just a suggestion.” Then she turned and started digging in her backpack.Anna felt a quck flare of anger – how dare Michelle try to take away her books, how dare she! But she quickly tamed it. Michelle was right; of course Michelle was right. Completely apart from the ract that Michelle tended to be right a vast majority of the time, she was right that Anna often forsook homework for the sake of reading. Of course she’d do better in class if she did more of her homework. And Michelle socialized a lot, and she was certainly happier than Anna was, so Michelle should know.Anna was suddenly jarred from her thoughts by the realization that she was now first in line in the Krispy Kreme. She still didn’t know which doughnuts she was going to order, though. She tried to give a weak smile to the woman behind the counter, but it quickly faded as her eyes darted form tray to tray behind the smudged glass. She felt as though something tiny inside her head was scrambling around desperately but moving no-where as she tried to think, to hurry up -- there were people in line behind her, she needed to order now -- and she felt the nervous heat rise in her cheeks

and in the core of her chest, too famil-iar, especially recently.She wondered what Michelle would do if she were here -- probably get out her calculator and make a joke of it. No, Michelle wouldn’t need a calcula-tor; Michelle would be able to add it all up in her head. If she did make a mis-take, it wouldn’t be a mistake for long, because she’d smile and say some-thing witty and laugh and it would be all right. But Anna didn’t have that power, and if she made a mistake she would just look stupid and feel stu-pid. It was silly, really to wonder what Michelle would do, because Michelle would never be in this situation in the first place. Michelle could do much more that just order doughnuts, but all the things Anna could remember being able to do seemed to have vanish, or to longer matter.The bright dreams Anna had seen for herself only a few months previously while planning to enter the new school were retreating ever further away from here. She would never be like Mi-chelle, but nevertheless she couldn’t stand to give up, admit defeat and acknowledge that she wasn’t good enough. She was trapped, unable to go forward or back. The mounting heat in her chest clutched her throat and the heat in her cheeks rose to her eyes and pushed out…Anna began to cry, feeling like a character form one of her books who landed on a seemingly idyllic planet only to meet with inescapable and irreparable disaster. She continued crying, unable to stop, even though she could feel the growing impatience of the woman behind the counter who was plainly waiting for her to make up her mind.

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A vintage god,you Zeppelin shirt swirlingin a cotton mess singingabout yearswe pretend to recognize. Your hands, acrylic stained, glided perpetually to painta passionate masterpiece. Arrogance was a side effect, megalomania, and drawn curtains of personalitythat I will never know, My eyes were heavy with the fear of night,vivid dreams of pain you imposed. Unscented curlscaught in the salty gulf air of better days.

FinnIsabelle Kallenberg

They say actions speak louder than words. The only thing I heard,was that one last verb,when the door slammed shut. Good thing another will open. Unlike my emotions,Which are buried inside. Look at me in the eye, And tell me the truth. Don’t think I can take it?I think I can. The truth is always better than wondering. But I guess we are only human, seeking knowledge, even though ignorance is bliss. I think not.

LeftMatthew Robson

A glare like empty TV screenreflects an impaled hearther hips like young boys’but her wrinkles rivaltheir grandparents’. Her mouth is in permanent purseand her cheekbones carved like cliffs, tears that find themselves therewould fall like Niagara.

Aunt Jen Lim

Life is sometimes likethat bathroom stall in the corner. Not much light reaches it—there are shadows all around. And sometimes, there is not toilet paperto help you on your way to comfort. The seat may be dirty, andthere might be vulgar writing on the walls. But once you unlock the grimy door, the light shine in. And sometimes, life is like the bright world outside that dingy lavatory.

Extended MetaphorSydney Tafoya

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I.Same blue eye shadowAnd red lipstickYou always wore My role modelNot being your favoriteAnd not being In my life nowCould destroy someoneWeakerTo be honestMy resentment for youGave me strengthAnd lifeWithout the complicationsCan I have you trust?You were so closeBut so far awayIn the faithful moonlightII. Soft eyes faultlesswith exhaustion you once thick, ravishing brown hairnow quickly becoming frail and thinThe Bible on your nightstand would bring me to my kneesjealousy hides in my heartfrom the walk you had with GodAngerfor you being erased for this EarthDelicate heart so inviting with lovecompassion for all the times you were there just wanting to be neededWithout the selfishnessCan I have your virtue?The hymns are now being sungYou casket closing

Portraits Alisa DeGrave

The wind blows lovingly The sun rays shine softlyThe deer graze gentlyAnd not a sound whispered. A blood free zone at least.

MeadowsVictoria Vazin

How does one say “goodbye”One the final parting?When the wall is built between usThe we well realize, that we will never see each other again. No reunion. Only a farewell. How will you feel then? separated until death. Say anything. Say anything at all. “Good luck!”

The FarewellJoseph Delap

Teddy bears and telescopesfascinate the boy.Cap guns and kitty catsmake him scream with joy. Jingle bells and jumping ropeswill entertain him for hours,but pornography and politicsare how his sweet mind sours. Silk ties and sushi rolls:how his fortune will come to waste. Board games and billy goatsin his mind have been replaced with flavored cigars and fancy cars. One could only assumethat hard liquor and harder nightswill bring man pleasure’s doom.

Clark: the Modern BoyJulia Newman

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That closet near the staircase,Lies perfection just for me.A long way down, low on the ground,Stood a child about 4’ 3’’.

The ledge over me toweredMaking an impossible climbOh nothing more, would I adore,Than to claim that shelf as mine.

Though many attempts did it take,To get so felt close to heaven,I saw the place, I longed the face,So proud for a girl of seven.

So for parents with large closets,Here’s a small word of advice,If kids are the kind with escaping minds,A simple ladder would suffice.

The Closet Above the StairsLiza Schwieterman

Splash!Shards of neon breakingfree of their soundless, dark prison.Green, red, purple, pink,orange, and yellow jump upto follow their blue leader with hisfist raised in anger. Theysurround him, trying to protect him.A gap in their defensive lines causes thecolors to meet and become,fighting to the death,entangled.

Sound and ColorMorgan Jowers

I wallowed through angstA slur of black clothingAgainst the white walls of the duplexA forced endeavor

Dazed I ceased walkingA rainbow appearedFar in the distanceSuffocating amounts of color

Her hair was short but longDefying gravity however it pleasedAn unnatural neon blondeStreaked with defiance

Her skin was so paleSnow grew jealous and spitefulEyes surrounded by gratu-

itous blackSomehow enticing

A thick plaid jacketSwirling and consuming her small figureDid not aid in deciphering her obscure band shirtWhite and green

Skin hidden beneath tons ofBeads, bands and beltsWaving carelessly past her legsBright yellow pants

In the eyes of Medusa I stoodMouth half openShe walked right by meI never saw her again

An Ode to the Random Girl Whom I Passed One Day at a Shopping Mall Many Years AgoKonnor Kuhlmann

Eyes glow like neon the shade of electric blue,With a dreamy stare beneath her shiny brown hair.

Talk with her about nothing for an hour, The conversation will amuse if not befuddle you.

She’ll call herself overweight, but you’ll disagree of course,As she absentmindedly scratches at the polish on her fingernails,And readjusts the may bracelets on her arm,So as to read the numbers on her watch.

A Poem for a Girl I Once KnewPeyton Tirey

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ConfuzzlementBonnie Bailey

This life is confusing. Honestly, I don’t understand it at all. I’dlike to, however. I’d like to go to my math class one day and insteadof staring at the ceiling in drool-inflict-ed oblivion, actually learnsomething good – such as why I’m here thinking about what the ceilingtiles would taste like in the first place. It’d be cool to ask my mathprofessor this very inquisition and have him reply, “Well, what agreat question. I can definitely answer it.” And then proceed to snaphis fingers and PRESTO!! The meaning of life appears right there onthe chalkboard in a simple, logical equation. Maybe something like:‒(Purpose+Self)‒^3/(Pain+Suffering+Struggle)=Meaning of Life+TruthThis would be great. My problems would be solved. But hold on, howwould I know if I could trust this or not? I would then have to ask myprofessor the source of his equation and to prove it. What if hecouldn’t? Then I certainly would not allow myself to use it for fearof eternal damnation. I mean, this thing could be evil or dangerous orfond of eating kids like me. But, on the other hand, what if theequation linked to my kismet was true? I’d be playing with the redfires of Hell either way.This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. Is that whole ordeal withthe equation not confusing? Well, it is to me. Yet, oddly enough, itis these bewildering instances that cause me to search even more forunrealistic situations that will provide at little or no emotional

cost the meaning of life.I’ve been thinking, though, that maybe I should drop this acquiescenceand do some research into what other people have come up with throughexperimentations, percentages, and evidence. But what exactly should Iconsult? Books? Well, okay, I can do this, but how do I discern whatis meaningful from what is ignorant? I mean, if I pick up a copy ofMein Kampf by A.H., I have a feeling I’m not going to uncover the lostsecrets of the universe or anything. I may, however, through carefulinspection and radiation techniques, be able to discover what exactlyit was that I ate in the cafeteria today.What about popular culture? I sup-pose I could check out commercials onthe tube, but still then, what is there to trust about a fat hairy guynamed Ernie who tells me to buy one of his used junkmobiles? Even ifsome bright idea about life did come to me while abhorring the greasyman on TV, I run the risk of being in-doctrinated, swayed, or deceivedby the tampon and Viagra commer-cials that most certainly followErnie’s Used car Blowout Extravagan-za advertisement.So what are feeble minds like mine to do in a world of biased authorsand propagandizing salesmen to un-derstand life? I don’t know.I’m starting to wonder, however, if this gnawing at my soul tocomprehend is an answer within itself. Perhaps I don’t need amathematical solution or a philosophi-cal book or a television

announcement to convince me that I am here for a certain reason.Perhaps all of my attempts to explain life are actually in vain,because life is too inscrutable, compli-cated, and unfathomablywonderful to be caged in the realm of formulas and patterns and ForDummies self-help books. Perhaps. Or maybe I just need to stopworrying and calm down for a while, discover the meaning of life oneperson at a time, beginning with my-self.

Intricate brush strokeseach like a fingerprint.UniqueIt can never be removed,only coveredbut still, it is there.

Captivatedlife that is long deadbrought anew

Streets bustle with horsesshades of ash and mud carriage in towWomen in fur coats and hatsconservative dresses trail the ground

The clouds denseair threatenssnow not yet bornthough it beckonsWind carries chills

Tall building of charcoalmiles on each sideblack roofs, a thousand chimneyswindows everywhere, everyone can see youbut no one sees anything, invisible

The streets of graytrees light the wayblack, barren, lifeless.golden streetlamps glisten

The horses hooves pound the groundclick clackclick clacka melancholy sound.

Once Upon a TimeAndria Diamond

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Enormous, impendingthe wave captures my attention.Crowned with white,it towers over the three narrow boats.Dark and light rippled stripes resemble hard, striated musclespowerful and ready,ready to crush.

Other wavesmake themselves apparent,No longer overpowered bythe grand undulation.From all the waves dripflecks of spray, like large dandruff flakes,falling from their white majestic heads.

Boats, like supersized wooden canoescarry small groups of paddlerswho crouch outward,portraying one of two outcomes.Will they tumble into the depths, orare they just preparing for the aquatic onslaught?

The sky, an afterthought,pouts and broods asin the distancebrews a storm.

But at another optical adjustmentappears a mountainsquatting timidly,almost forgotten.Black crowned with whitelike the waves which previouslyhid its identity.

Drawing the viewer back to reality,artful and defiant linesof calligraphy are poisedin the corner. The windowis closed.

KanagawaSydney Tafoya

When you hear the wordBarbie. She comes to mind. Skin like rubberShe exhausts the tanning bed. Eyes of iceGlistenReflecting lightlike the yards of bleached hairhanging from her head. Decrepit body,hidden beneath layers of fake. Her facial expression, stuck. Confused eyebrows emphasize Pure stupidity. Cars, money, clothes, All at her fingertips. Makeup hides al. Skin-tight dresses flaunt that fantasy body. Everything seemingly perfectUnder the surface, Pills. Just to stay alive. Anorexia and bulimia arethe shadows in every snapped picture. But you cannot tellThe flash dissipates truth. We se her as what she appears, Barbie. Behind closed doors, She cries every night.

BarbieAnonymous

My HeroToned body, a tomboy, you

Adventure out into thisDark, forsaken world spreading

The light of your bright crooked smileStill,

Your feminine beauty showsAs your apricot skin edges into pink cheeks

And your sapphire eyes fade to emerald Yet,

our God didn’t just create a beautyAs the proverbs of 1000 menTranscend into your wisdom

Through Whatever trial or trouble

Or wind or stormMy love and adoration for you will remain

My HeroJohn Chancellor

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…Stone coldsilence. A single digitlaid over closed lips. Apparitionof white. Unmoving. A face, Incomplete. Abysmal eyesstaring changless. PowerfulUndyingSilence. Shhhhh…

Hannah Burns

When I gaze into her eyes, I find my inspiration:

A little soldier, in the heat of battle,

afraid, but never giving up.Strong and sweet,

she struts with admirable sassiness. Her silly laugh is contagious

wearing a precious smilethat brightens dark days.

But the sound of her trimmed nailsgrating her battered skin,is screeching in my ear.

Fragile and pure,she suffers more than a person should.

Psoriasis, a cold-hearted disease,left scars and bumps

on her chocolate brown skin. Arms like the scales of a snake.

Legs like the bark of a tree. I stare at her feeble body,

a revolting chill rushes down my spine. I turn my unwilling eyes.

If I could take her pain awayand put that burden upon myself<a single heartbeat would untie her

from eternal peace of mind.

Two-Year-Old SoldierLatei Iyegha

Onward we traveled Like bashful barefoot wand’rers basking

warm indeed in warm young sunWe swam in light down beaten paths

Downbeats and rhythms on our backs We came together to be alone

Yet young and youthful, we on our ownFound fire frolics far from home

So we marched swiftly onOn swift March winds, we drifted on

OnwardJordan Danford

When you find loveDon’t be surprised

When its not in a red roseIn a Paris nightIn a getaway

Somewhere like ParaguayWhere you can hide away

and stayNo, it’s not always ballroom dancing

Or the love-at-first-glance thingThere are no sparks

No fireworksNo choir of angels or golden lights

Don’t be surprisedWhen you don’t find it on the rainy streets

Or in the falling snowOr the pouring rain

Or the bright daylightOr the soft moonlightIt’s not like the movies

Welcome to the real world---

But when you find itWhen you find your love

Don’t be surprisedWhen it’s the smell of his clothes

Not the smell of a rosewhen it’s the smile on her face

Not the time or placeWhen it’s what he can’t seem to sayNot what cheesy words he pours outWhen it’s the charm of her laughter

Not what cheesy words he pours outWhen it’s the charm of her laughter

Not the sex you were afterwhen the silence is golden

No awkwardWhen you can’t help but smile

Even after a whileIt’s the little things That are always So much bigger

So don’t be surprised

Don’t Be SurprisedJordan Danford

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KoreaJeanie Park

Boyun lived in a small house in the most bland part of Arnold city. The road nearby was very long and very straight and the small cars moved on it like insects, back and forth constantly. But at night, the big trucks would pass in clumps, bringing the road closer to the house. The blue shredded walls absorbed some of the strange noises, but others invaded the yellow rooms inside and settled in the heat. The light shone orange and dim and it smelled of peppers and wood lacquer. Boyun woke up very early, just before her daughter, Eun-hee, left for her waitressing job at the Hu-nan restaurant. Owned by a skinny Chinese man, Hunan hired foreign-ers illegally and exclusively, offering a little cash and maybe a few leftovers. As she had for the past fifteen years, Boyun walked part of the way with her daughter, following the carefully cemented path which led to the most crowded part of the city ‒ the subway station. It was hard to move in the thick air of the station. People moved each other in the dimness, moving together like water, taking the same breaths. Hispanics, Blacks, and the few Koreans seemed to flow into each other. Everyone understood the beep of the subways, the metal grinding of its wheels, the disgruntled expressions on faces. Boyun left her daughter at the station and walked back alone. Gray moved beneath her in a limp-ing rhythm and the whine of the ships pierced through its own smog in the distance. But Boyun did not recognize

it. Her eyes were prisms, capturing only the strange and distorted. And foreign ‒ she passed children laughing in the street, lawns filled with dande-lions she used to pick; she passed, it had been fifteen years in America, the unfamiliar pines which rose in sharp, vertical points. Yet, in her mind, she enjoyed the same trees which grew more gently abroad in Korea; the faces she had forbidden from her mind now for the past fifteen years. They had nearly disappeared. Boyun did not live in a world of things or even memories, however; hers was a blind desire to return to that nameless place called home, too painful even to exist in her own mind.

As her mind emptied, it was doused in religion, God filling in the spaces America would not fill. Faith replaced the void her memories left behind. And God paralleled her hollow desires, and consumed her strength and her spirit. Once home, she sang as she worked:“Now I am climbing higher each day,Darkness of night has drifted awayMy feet are planted on higher groundAnd glory to God, I’m homeward bound” She worked the rest of the day. She cleaned worn tiles, washed, mended, and waited in the darkness for her daughter.

As Eun-hee wiped table tops,

Henry Chin, her boss, watched. They talked in the noisy darkness of the place. He brought her a drink, and they smiled, and sat awhile. They even talked about serious things. “Fifteen years for nothing, just for nothing, if you go back,” he said to her. “My mother is sick. I think she’s dying. I remember when my father left her. She doesn’t get sick.” “Fifteen years of sweat in America if you go back…” “You might not believe me, but when my mother was young, once she was even charming. My mother never cries. She misses the family so much, I know, she feels alone. But she was once so strong. I can’t believe it. She thinks I’m a fool because I read American magazines with painted girls wearing bright colored dresses. Be-cause I dream in English. Young men call me ‘Eunice.’ I am forty-two.” “You are beautiful, Eun-hee. Your hands.” He touched her hands. “When we came, my mother was also forty-two. Has it been that long? Then, she did not even cry because she knew we would go back. How can we not go back? Strange. I hate decisions. Now we actually have money to return the money we have been saving for fifteen years and I want to spend it here. “Stay with me.”

“But I’ll save her. I’ll give her Korea. And there she will be healthy again. Happy.” “Korea means nothing to you anymore…”

Boyun stepped off the plane carefully. The sun seemed stronger than she re-membered behind the sliding clouds.

Squinting from airplane sleep, she disturbed the comfortable fresh wrin-kles outlining the spots on her face. With her small, stout hands, she pulled herself into the digital gateway and watched Eun-hee collect the small, grey bags she could not quite place. Boyun thought of running to her daughter, but the little strength she had had left her. The new aroma of Korean fast food was oppressing. Signs advertised Korean shoes, and foods, familiar yet exotic, hung from the ceilings and stained her vision. Children screamed for their moth-ers. Someone was selling chestnuts. Sounds, faces collided as in the sub-way at home.“My feet are planted on higher ground And glory to God, I’m homeward bound,” she recited slowly.But neither faith nor desire was suf-ficient. Desire had infested and erased her. And the God who was more than a crutch crumbled beneath her. “I’m Glory bound my Jesus to see …” She sighed.“For glory to God, He’s set me free.”Pain, like the lights of the taxi, whirled within her and spun strangely over-head.

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