roars and whispers 2009-10

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Images are low-resolution, are not color-managed, and do not reflect final quality.

Copyright © Jostens Inc, 2010

Fevers, Brandon Rafalson

Better Left Dead,Joey Schachner

Transience, LaurenBurnham

Bridges, Ethan Risinger

Ratiocination, MeaganBarger

Nyctohylophobia,Cameron Carswell

Dream Catcher,Lindsay Johnson

Impetus, Sasha Freger

To the Stem, EthanRisinger

A Lonely Night, KatrinaGutierrez

btw, Michael Falero

Igniting Discovery, TinaZheng

"dear ms. plath,"Gabriella Baer

poetry

ContentsTable of

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A BleedingDisappointment,Michael Falero

A Glorious Victory,Jeremy Pickard

A Perspective onDetonation, MichaelFalero

Yellow, BrynnClaypoole

Un Penchant pourAmélie's, CameronCarswell

Reality, BrynnClaypoole

A Thousand Words,Lauren Burnham

Ode to a Pudding Cup,Taylor Turnbull

The Urban Butterfly,Sarah Fewell

Guitar Strings, SarahChaney

All But Broken, LindseyRosenbaum

First Impressions, ToriChester

Imaginarium, EmmaRainear

The Bard's Song,Jeremy Pickard

Kindling, MadelynUsher

The Garbage Man,Claire Highsmith

nonfictionfiction

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Charlotte Blackley

Megan Vince

Charlotte Blackley

Sara Grant

Morgan McCloy

Morgan McCloy

Taylor Turnbull

Charlotte Blackley

Charlotte Blackley

Charlotte Blackley

Emma Rainear

Charlotte Blackley

Megan Vince Melissa Murphy

Carolyn Szczesny-Pumarada

Sarah Kinney

Lauren Burnham

Katie Holcomb

Morgan McCloy

Morgan McCloy

Carolyn Szczesny-Pumarada

Sara GrantSarah Kinney

Carly Taich

art &photography

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Michael Falero

Sasha Freger

Morgan McCloy

Morgan McCloy

Charlotte Blackley

2010 was printedby Jostens of Clarksville, Tennessee,on 100# matte paper. Body text is Helvetica 10. Titles areprinted using one of the following fonts:Avalon, Celestia Antiqua, Chantilly,Cheltenham, Clarence, Earthquake,Ebony, Engravers Gothic, Eras Book,Folio Light, Franklin Gothic, GaramondSm Caps, Helvetica, High Emotions,Kabel Book, Kurt, Letter Gothic, Luke,Maximo, Melville, Modern 216, NewsGothic, Times, Unitus Light Cond,University Roman. Chicken Scratchand Inkburrow are used for themagazine title. All graphic editing was done usingAdobe Photoshop CS3. The magazinewas created through the use of Jostens'Yearbook Avenue and Adobe InDesignCS3 on Hewlett-Packard computers.

policycolophon

Charlotte Blackley

Taylor Turnbull

Sydney Albion

is a publicationcreated by the literary magazinestudents at Providence High School.Poetry, prose, artwork and photographyare submitted by members of thestudent body. Each submission isassigned a number and is subsequentlyjudged anonymously by every memberof the staff. The magazine publishesthose poetry and prose pieces thatreceive the highest scores, as well asthe artwork and photography that ismost relevant to the magazine. is an open forumfor all students’ opinions; the ideaspresented in the magazine do not reflectthose of the Providence High Schoolfaculty. However, as a schoolpublication, doesreserve the right to deny publication tosubmissions that are deemedinappropriate for a high schoolaudience. is thepoetic and artistic voice of the studentsat Providence High School. Whetherthrough the strength of our roars or thesoftness of our whispers, we will beheard.

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Rejection rates rose.She realized she’d rather runfrom Romeo’s restricting relationships.After repetition of redundant relationship after relationship,Rachael realized rhythms ending.Romances repulsed her.Even recollections of reckless nights,racing hearts, and resplendent eveningsrefused to repress her ratiocination.

- Meagan Barger

ARTIOC

INA T IO

N

Megan V

ince

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at seven I was able to see you better thanyour own wife? My finger tingles as I trace over the printof you and me; I can almost feel yourbristly chin. This must have been myfourth birthday, when I made a wish fora new bike and you gave me that uglyyellow turtleneck sweater. I thanked you,but we both knew that the sweater wouldjust hang in the back of my closet, silent.Sort of like you. Mom enters the room, the new diamondring on her finger reflecting shadows onthe walls where your Jimi Hendrixposters used to hang. She hovers at thedoor, her strong perfume clogging mylungs. Let me tell you, I miss the smell ofwhiskey and cigars. Her brittle voice tells me to pack up thescrapbook; we have to go. I close the redvelvet cover, trimmed in gleaming silkenbraid. When I shut the book, all imagesof your stubbly face disappear. Everyword that came out of your sun-shriveledlips is forgotten–your past is confinedwithin those crinkled pages. But as Ileave the room, I pass by your dustystereo and can hear the sound you madeas your fingers strummed that old blueguitar. Your music is all that remains

Guitar

Cha

rlotte

Bla

ckle

y

Sarah Chaney

o this is who you were? Oldphotographs of the wedding andyour first Christmas with Momfade into the coffee-stainedpaper, crackling with each turn

of the page. The memories seem to fadewith the pictures, though I can still smellthe reeking whiskey and cigars thatlinger in your deserted office. You spentdays up here, feet propped up on thiswooden desk, jangling the metal stringson that old blue guitar. You banged thatguitar a savage blue, nailing yourthoughts across the door–never lettinganyone in. It’s hard to believe that the man in thephoto was you, but I'll never forget yourtoothless smile. Not that I ever saw it.You were never happy; all you everwanted was to get out. You spoke of howyou would one day leave to join one ofthose rock bands, you know, the onesthat ride across the country in beat-upvans and spend more time in bars thanon stages. Mom always just shook herhead when I told her of your dreams; shenever could accept the truth. Besides,you were too scared–at least that’s whatshe said. Scared of what? I alwayswondered. I never doubted that youwould leave. Funny, don’t you think, that

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was always told I looked like myfather. Yet no matter how hard Isearched, I could never see theresemblance. We liked many of thesame things: he was an avid readerand writer and passed on these loves tome, so we were similar in that respect.But when I looked at my face, I sawnothing of him—not the smallest traceof similarity. When he died, I dug up asmany pictures of him as I could find,searching for some way to recover whatI had lost. I did not want my family toknow of my minor obsession, so I keptthe photos a secret, trying to memorizetheir every aspect. I thought that if Iclosed my eyes, I could run themthrough my mind like a film, threadingthem together to once again see myfather in motion, but it was in vain. A few months after the incident, aftermost of the trouble had blown over, Itaped the pictures up on the back ofthe door to my bedroom—justa thoughtless collage of memories,boxed up within their small squares.Here was a Polaroid snapshot, taken asmy father swung my brother, then aninfant, in the park. The picture hadgrown reddish and faded with age in itsthirty years of life, but it was not somuch the beauty of the picture that haddrawn me to it. Rather, it was thebeauty trapped within it—that whichbubbled to the surface, popping andsteaming, making my eyes water. Thiswas a moment of joy, merely flattenedout, glossed over and silenced,boasting only a tombstone-likeinscription at the bottom: January 17th,1979. This photo froze them eternally,yet still appeared as thoughthey might begin moving again anysecond. This infinite anticipation whathappsifiwriterandomstuffhere?

"As photographs, weexist only to inspirereminiscence; we

fade and tear,dust collecting on

our depthless faces."

IC

harlotte Blackley

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my face, like the mute and colorlessfaces in the photographs, whichessentially revealed nothing. I did notlook like my father because my faceresembled his. I looked like himbecause I was like him, in ways onecould never find in a photograph. Wewere united in our personalities,identical in our love of the written word.With this, I resolved never to give upwriting, knowing that if I did, I wouldsomeday look in the mirror and seenothing but a photograph: silent, blank,and empty. When we die, our lives are reducedmerely to pictures, which seem to be allour families have left of us after ourbodies are gone. However, bycherishing these empty images, we donot know how they belittle our lives. Asphotographs, we exist only to inspirereminiscence; we fade and tear, dustcollecting on our depthless faces. Thescenes captured in photographs willnever live again as loved ones wantthem to. They shall never jump back tolife or regain the warmth and noise thatwere present in the instant they werecaptured. However, we live on in thepeople whose lives we have changed.In this way, our pictures becomesuperfluous, merely hollow represen-tations of the people that once existed. Iknow I shall never again forsake myfather in this way, reducing his life topictures when he left such a legacy inmy hands. I now know that I must writenot only to better my own life, but tosave his, in ways that mere imagesnever did and never will. They say a picture is worth a thousandwords. I always thought a life was morevaluable than that

invigorated me. There was one partabout the photo, however, whichbothered me greatly. My father was notlooking at the camera but straight downat my brother, obscuring his face fromview. In this position, he looks as if he isin complete despair. A second later, hemay have looked up, smiling maybe,rectifying the image and saving me myfuture worry. Instead, with the taking ofthis picture, my father was condemnedto despair for the next thirty years. In another newer picture, my fatherstill does not look at the camera. It isChristmas, and he instead concentrateson wrestling with the dog, who hasstolen a gift from underneath the tree.His face is stern, almost frantic, thoughthe rest of us are all smiles. The warmscene appears loud and boisterous, yetthe wan-faced photo remains mute. Ifone could only return the sound and thewarmth, then perhaps the memorywould again become real, instead ofthis cold mix of deafening colors. The last photo I taped to my door isperhaps the most frightening of all. Myfather seems not to be looking at thecamera, but through the camera andout of the picture, as if he could part thehaze of the years and see me at thisvery moment. The photo was taken longbefore the others, decades before mybirth, when my father was an Englishteacher. He cradles a book in his righthand in the awed and adoring way thatPlato or Socrates might have. Adramatic left hand acts out the words hereads so reverently, his mouth slightlyajar, perhaps mid-word. In this silentsnapshot, however, he appears merelyshocked, perhaps at what he seesthrough the years and through thepicture. Does he know, in the instant thebleach

bulb flashes and the photo is taken, thecontext in which this photograph will beviewed in the future? Can he truly seethat this impromptu photograph willoutlive him? Can he even fathom, atthis young age, that he is indeedmortal? I hesitated to put up this photo,as it troubled me so. Yet there it wasalong with the other pictures, visibleeven as I looked in the mirror to dressmyself in the mornings. The photo seemed to stare at methrough my mirror, positioning itself rightnext to my face as I brushed my hairand put on my makeup. It mocked mewith its open, awed mouth, appalled atmy every fault. “Don’t you see theresemblance?” it asked with a cruelsmirk, its glazed surface shining. “I thinkwe’re just alike, don’t you?” I tried toignore it, focusing instead on the otherless dangerous photos which floatedharmlessly in the background. Yetsomehow the image surged constantlyto the forefront of my mind. I proddedand pored over my face, searching invain for the striking similarities everyonebut me seemed able to see. Still I sawnothing. I decided that I looked absolutelynothing like my father and resolved tomake this fact clear. Angrily, I gave upwriting altogether, unknowingly severingthe last bonds between us, vowing that Iwould no longer cling to any piece ofhim that remained. I slammed the doorto my room, and the photo floated to thefloor like an autumn leaf, erasing itselffrom the mirror. I looked once more tomy reflection but could not see my face.It was gone, swept away like the lastleaf of fall, plodding on to a numb andwhite winter. I realized that all the whilehad I looked merely at the features of bleach

THOUSANDLauren Burnham

AWORDS

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BRIDGES

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Michael Falero

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The writers decide that Bella, an emotionalvacuum to begin with, should revert to

epileptic fits when she lapses into depression.

between Bella and Edward (and laterBella and Jacob) are vague and cliché.The three only know how to use extremestatements that insinuate life or deathimportance where there is none.Edward’s personal favorite is to jumbleBella’s words and pass them off asresponses. Of all the dialogue, the onlyinteresting line of the movie is one fromRomeo and Juliet, which Weitz,Rosenberg, and Meyer decide to quoteat length in lieu of original discourse. Theplot, though it has action at times, iswashed over by a constant feeling ofdampness and angst. Nothing seems tomove along, and the mood of the film iscomparable to a persistent migraine. While the movie’s script is sluggish atbest, the three main actors do not makeany attempt to enliven the film. KristenStewart, Robert Pattinson and TaylorLautner all have overt deficiencies intheir facial expressions. To credit eachwith three expressions (frowning, angryand the extraordinarily rare smile) wouldbe a stretch. Edward remains visiblypained throughout the film, although hestates that being around Bella completeshim. The writers decide that Bella, anemotional vacuum to begin with, shouldrevert to epileptic fits when she lapsesinto a depression. Jacob seems to neverwear a shirt, an obvious pandering to theaudience demographic. While the threeprobably weren’t given much to workwith in terms of the script, none gives anotable performance. Despite a stagnant plot and emptydialogue, New Moon features refreshingscenery from the Pacific Northwest.Breathtaking shots of damp woods,jagged cliffs and thrashing coastlines are

I t should be a rule that, in the future,all romance movies must have humor.A romantic film is, coincidentally, aboutromance, and last I checked a healthyrelationship wasn’t a series of painfulstares and exasperated sighs. Butpainful stares and exasperated sighsare New Moon at its core, and theadaptation of Stephenie Meyer’ssecond book is far from enjoyable. New Moon both begins and ends inthe damp woods of Washington state.We find Bella, the eternally cheerlessprotagonist, lamenting her eighteenthbirthday due to a dream aboutbecoming an octogenarian. In the midstof her senior year, well-liked by herpeers and adored by her undeadboyfriend, Bella has everything goingher way. Nevertheless, she wears analmost permanent frown. (I can onlyguess it's the dreary weather.) Afterdisregarding the gifts showered uponher, Bella attends a birthday partythrown by the Cullens. A harmlesspaper cut leads to near birthdaycannibalism, and Edward decides toleave Forks for his girlfriend’s safety.Bella protests the decision, thougheventually she finds herself without aman. She begins to seize in the night forher vampire lover. It is only when thestrange Native American boy, Jacob,grabs her attention that she begins torecover. New Moon’s grandest and mostobvious failure is its ability to inducelethargy. Director Chris Weitz andscreenwriter Melissa Rosenberg makea huge mistake in keeping Meyer'sempty, esoteric dialogue between thethree main characters. The interactions

effectively utilized to provide somethingof interest to an otherwise fatiguedaudience. Several scenes take place inthese natural settings, and while thecharacters’ actions there may be boring,cliché or downright nauseating, thesurroundings are enjoyable enough. Theaesthetic emphasis can be paralleled toEdward: pretty though otherwise unsub-stantial. And it nearly goes without sayingthat nice vistas cannot redeem anotherwise lackluster experience. Unfortunately, New Moon uses itssupernatural elements to smudge theboundaries of obsession and true lovewhile passing itself off as the idealteenage love story. The underlying tonesof Bella's codependency are unsettling,and that the idea is still so attractive tothe female population even more so.That Edward’s cannibalistic urges are putin a romantic light is outrageous. Werehe any regular boy, he would be writtenoff as hot-blooded and pathetic. And themovie's ending, when Edward stops theplot to propose marriage, seems a deusex machina by the writers and Meyer, ajumpstart toward the third adaptation. A pretty film starving for substance,New Moon is yet another disappointingbook adaptation. It wasn’t the first, won’tbe the last, and may be another indicationthat books and cinema should remaintwo discrete mediums. New Moon is atwo-hour-plus gloom fest that will leaveaudiences weary, tired and angry thatthey wasted their time. Unless constantsighing or shots of Taylor Lautner’smidsection interest you, skip this film. Itis neither funny nor lighthearted. If you’relooking for something lighter, searchelsewhere, like the local morgue

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barely seemed like people, justmysterious and emotionless beingsliving for the sole purpose of taking awayour filth. My mother grew upset and triedto talk to us about their importance, butwe both tuned out, Ian blowing bubblesinto his juice while I observed a spider onthe windowsill. That night she thought ofa better solution. The next day, lured into her car withthe promise of ice cream, we drove outof town to the local landfill. She explainedto us how the entire thing was made ofgarbage. She told us how long it took fornormal things to decompose into dirt.This time we listened, amazed at thehuge pile of garbage. After a quick stop at Dairy Queen, weheaded home, our heads still filled withquestions—and disappointment whenshe couldn’t answer them. In those dayscomputers were big, blocky machinesthat seemed to take hours just to turn on,so our mom came up with a different plan

he garbage man pulled upearly that morning and walkedtoward the set of graytrashcans awaiting him at the

curb. But before he could get a grasp onthem we pounced, bombarding theconfused man with hundreds ofquestions. “How old are you?” “Have you always been a garbageman?” “Did you want to be one when you werelittle?” Earlier that week, over freshly-squeezed orange juice, my dad hadasked a simple question. “So, what do you kids want to be whenyou grow up?” “An explorer!” I declared. “A vet!” said my brother Ian. My dad smiled and said sarcastically,“Well, why not a garbage man?” We both burst out laughing. A garbageman? The idea was ridiculous. To us they

to get our questions answered. The next day, armed with notepadsand thank-you notes scrawled incrayon, we waited outside for thegarbage man. After a quick interview welearned his name was Hugh, he wasthirty-eight, and he liked cats. He hadalso wanted to be a fireman when hewas little, but he didn’t get good enoughgrades. He also had a two-year-old son.We presented him with our thank-younotes and watched as he moved on tothe next house. Our mother greeted us as we walkedback. "So, what did you kids learn?” We quoted facts, from how manypounds of garbage he collects a day tohis favorite color. A few months later at Christmas, arelative asked us what we wanted to bewhen we grew up. At the same time weboth said, “I want to be a garbage man!”

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Emma Rainear

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FeversIn the middle of the night I’m free to think,to roam the general plane of lifeuntangled, unbound, in spiritual freedom—freedom from the corporeal.I’m a spirit roaming the world of the living,playful and wise, but mostly playful.A spirit in mischievous ecstasy,an apparition learned in years of wandering.I walk on walls and dance on ceilings.I’m not of this world,but this ethereal power does not last forever,and as the night fades, so do I,like light and day.

Come like a fire; set everything ablaze.In wonder-lust passion let’s burn down the canopy—fibers will go up, first in a flash, but all will follow,dancing and dancing in sparks of fire-life, the tent will burn.Flicker, flicker—fling-fire-flung-flamejump around the circle.Everything—everything will blaze.

Your orange turns to my redturns to my yellow

turns to my whiteturns to my blueturns to my everything blazing,just blazing, just razing, just blazingin a haze of wonder-lust fire,in a dance of flickering flame,in a drum of leaping higher,something something you.

Little thoughts creep through our heads,their ambassadors unknown to us.It’s better that way,for if their words had mouths and their mouthshad faces and their faces had names,it would be too much for us;we would sink down and die and burn and poof into smokeand disappear…and it would be too much for us

A head spins, a heart spins.It is difficult to reconcile desire and obligation,where one rouses and the other begins,or is there not a distinction at all?Strange murmurings from within.

- Brandon Rafalson

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L aissez-les danser en musique!”(Let them dance to the music!),embellishes the walls of what was oncea run-down storage space. Eclecticchandeliers dangle from the ceiling, andmaps of France adorn the wall. Onlyseconds have gone by, yet one isinstantly drawn into the inviting and cozyatmosphere of Amélie’s Bakery. Thesmell of coffee wafts through the café;Napoleon cakes and crème brulée bringa rumble to even the fullest stomach.Open twenty-four hours, this quaintbakery has become an oasis for a varietyof customers, some fluent in the romanticlanguage the café incorporates. Ownerand manager Ms. Lynn St. Laurent isproud of the sanctuary she has created,especially since the shop has developedin the North Davidson side of Charlotte,commonly known as NoDa. Amélie’s isbeautiful and inviting, an unexpectedtreasure inside an area once widelyreputed to be criminal and derelict. When asked about her favorite elementof the café, St. Laurent responds, “[The]amazing pastries you see when you firstwalk in the door.” Her answer reveals theculinary success of Amélie’s over theyears. The menu includes everythingfrom freshly baked cinnamon and raisinbread to a French holiday classic, laBûche de Noël, or Christmas Log.Amélie’s is able to capture the features ofFrench recipes in a way that appeals toan array of people. The superiority of thefood and design brings people together,from “starving artists to Charlotte

socialites.” They all have one thing incommon: an “appreciation for the qualityof food… and the love we have for ourcustomers.” Perhaps the flavors of thebakery enchant consumers. After all, myinitial experience was adorned with thesmells and tastes, such as the éclair, thatencouraged a second visit. Equallyenticing are brightly-colored ceramic cupsso voluminous they might be mistaken forbowls. Even on a hot summer day, thewarm mugs are soothing to hold, filled tothe brim with continually fresh coffee. Allof the scents and flavors of Amélie’s areenough to entertain any connoisseur offine food, yet St. Laurent has ensured thatAmélie’s also possesses a picturesqueenvironment and commendable workers. Amélie’s creates an atmosphere that isreminiscent of a genuine French café, aswell as a nostalgic retreat to one’sgrandmother’s kitchen. Charming pieces,such as old-fashioned grandfather clocksand framed messages of embroideredsweet-nothings, create a sentimentalambiance. Incredibly enough, many of thefurnishing come from the Habitat forHumanity Restore, where the baker’sinterior designer, Brenda Ische, volun-teers regularly. St. Laurent commentedthat Ische possesses a knack for “findingthe gems that come in,” and gems theytruly are, from the one-of-a-kind tablesmade of mosaic tile, to an ancient pianothat invites musicians of all expertise.Observing the attention to the café’sappearance puts customers at ease;security comes with such a nurturing

environment. One must “see it to believeit,” Ms. St. Laurent emphasizes, for it is asight like no other. St. Laurent’s passion is evident in everyaspect of this humble bakery. Unfor-tunately, few people have discoveredhow memorable each visit to the café is.As a faithful customer, I can guaranteethat one will not be disappointed withAmélie’s: the food, the friendly em-ployees and the setting are spectacular.These qualities set it apart from chains,which St. Laurent notes are reliable for“duplicating the same products andexperiences.” Recognizing that success,Ms. St. Laurent nonetheless challengespeople to choose innovation overredundancy, for the individuality ofAmélie’s is not embraced by uniformcoffeehouses. Revisiting the café recently, I wascalmed once again by the European-style sanctuary. I sat with my best friendat our favorite table overlooking theCharlotte skyline and slowly ate apumpkin spice cake with coffee. (I foundtranquility despite the bustling of thestore.) Amélie’s has presented Char-lotteans with a great opportunity to notonly learn more about French décor andculinary masterpieces, but also toeducate themselves of the world aroundthem. One can never be happy withothers until one is truly happy withoneself, and every day at Amélie’s,people are discovering that intrinsichappiness over an introspective cup ofcoffee

Cameron Carswell

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,,

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Carolyn S

zczesny-Pum

arada

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I only have about a minute herebefore I’m gone and you don’t catchwhat I’ve needed to say.Behind every disdain and distasteand fraught sigh and frown you’ve ever seen,heard or felt between then and nowhas sat a yearning for life anew.And I suspect this want will go unfulfilled,that without some change in the seasonor mood, this fragment will fade.

I mean to say that I’ve cornered myself out of fear.That I could and should embrace all that I can see with a loving and beating heartis now clear.I gamble recklessly for affection,for friendship and warmth without expectation or reciprocation.And when, seeing Disappointment’s lofty drop approaching,I laugh and run to you and the others and our future together, smiles and all,knowing whatever fate I’ve bought into is meager compared to us together.

I tell you this knowing that such a life is wholly possible,that we can wrap it up and save it.And when overcast skies demand our vibrancy of reckless spirit,we’ll breathe it in and begin again.

For now, with love for other days–

- Michael Falero

Sarah Kinneydigital painting

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Lindsey Rosenbaum

but

Morgan M

cCloy

k

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As I sat in the back of the car, listening tomy parents' screams carrying across theblack sky, I knew I'd never be able to namethe culprit. Perhaps it was because I wastoo close to the situation, but I’d like tobelieve it was due to my poor detectionskills. My father had never been a particularlyromantic man, and when work called foran increased effort on his part, all amorousactivities in my house ceased. I had neverbeen granted any siblings, and this factseemed to irk my mother. In the beginning,I remember many hushed argumentsbetween my parents, seemingly con-cerning the reality of our three-personhousehold, but soon enough, thosestopped, too. It was not long after this that my motherbegan sneaking around our house, un-aware that we were all watching for her. Ihave heard the word "affair" thrownaround many times in my life, but I assureyou, this was not a traditional case. Mymother was, in fact, carrying on an affair—with herself. The signs were blazinglyand embarrassingly obvious. We wouldgo to the market, and she’d be overcomewith the urge to buy vast bouquets of rosesand large boxes of heart-shaped choc-olates. I once foolishly questioned if thecandies were for me, but my appeals werestrictly denied. Only after persisting, in theway only a child can, was I begrudginglypermitted a piece of chocolate. Newbooks found their way onto our shelves.Not the thick, dusty volumes my father soadamantly read, but shorter novels withscantily clad women and shirtless menwith long, flowing hair on the covers. These actions did not go unnoticed bymy father, and when his workload finallylightened, he began trying to woo mymother. But by then, it was too late. Mymother was so immersed in her new lifethat his advances meant nothing to her.My mother had become her own perfectlover

lover, and nothing could deter her. That’s when the fighting really began. Atfirst, it was merely tiny arguing here andthere. Nothing out of the ordinary. Soon,though, the arguments became moreheated. Voices were raised to an alarminglevel, and things broke in angry hands.The escalation continued on its upwardrise for months before finally ending thatJanuary night with me sitting in mymother’s car, speeding away from myfather and the life I had known. It took only a few months for my motherto find a suitable house for us, and eventhough it was a mere twenty minutes frommy father, we moved in quickly. Myparents skipped the separation phase andheaded right for divorce. There was nouse fighting for it; neither loved the other,and there were too many problems tosolve. This is how I became the son of adivorce. After living in our house for a year or so,my mother suddenly became aware ofhow terribly single and young she was toraise a child alone. The romance novelswere dropped, and the dating began. Theritual started slowly, a date or so a month;then, like all things, it sped up. Datesfrequented our house every Friday whilemy mom left me with a babysitter. Whenshe came home and kissed me good-night, her breath smelled heavily ofalcohol and her jacket of cigarette smoke.I hated these nights and buried myselfunder the covers to avoid my mother'skiss. As babysitters became an increas-ingly expensive investment, my motherbegrudgingly left me at my father's everyFriday as she roamed about the town. At twelve, I packed up my belongingsand declared I was going to live with myfather. Secretly, I had no wish to continuewatching my mother make a daily fool outof herself, but I simply told her my father’shouse was much closer to school. Thepaperwork went through without a fuss. Inall

all honesty, I don't think my mother wasthat unhappy to see me go. Oh, we wouldstill see each other every other weekend,but I knew how hard it was for a singlemother to date. I knew that, with mydeparture, my mother could pretend shenever had a son; she could keep her littlesecret until things became too serious forthat poor guy to leave. Call it manipulationif you will, but that was just how my motheroperated, and I have never resented herfor it. The atmosphere in my father’s homewas totally different from that of mymother’s. Whereas she had found post-divorce solace in the exciting game ofdating, my father had gone back to work,putting in almost every minute of his life.He had no wish to have another rela-tionship fail on him and therefore refusedto exert any effort to find one. By the timeI arrived in his care, my father was goingto work before the sun rose and arrivinghome long after it set. For the first couple of months, heattempted to alter this schedule, hoping toplease me, but it obviously was notworking for him. Rather than see him sodisheartened, I proposed a better plan. Myfather returned to his former schedule,and I modified mine. I awoke when he didso that he no longer had to eat breakfastalone. Afternoons were used for study andmuch-needed sleep. I cooked my owndinners, making sure there was alwaysenough left for him, which he ate gratefullyas we watched Leno before heading tobed. As careful as I was, my relationship withboth parents became strained through theyears. I reminded both of them too muchof the other, and a passing look ofresentment always clouded their eyeswhen they saw me. I began to wonder ifthey believed I too would one day betraythem and break their hearts. Sensing theirfear of my betrayal, I spent my teenageyears

butk

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years walking on eggshells. I treadedquietly and carefully, thinking cautiouslyabout my words before I spoke, hopingnot to disturb the fragile peace I main-tained in both households. My social lifebegan to deteriorate, as I had no heart todeny either parent a late night movie or afamily dinner. In other words, I became aghost of the child I should’ve been. These are the crimes committed againstthe three parties. The first party wasdenied love and now cannot name itsform. The second party was betrayed byhis own endeavor, or lack thereof, andnow must bear the consequences offearing love and commitments in all forms.The third party grew up in the shatteredremains of two unstable households andlives as a shadow of his former self. Theseare the victims. These are their fates. Whois the culprit in this crime, the criminal whodeserves the same fate as the victims?I’ve gone through years of therapy tryingto understand, and I have uncovered noanswers. How can I possibly single outone parent as the villain who ruined mychildhood, when both of their lives weredestroyed in the process? What I havestumbled upon, however, is a devastatingtruth: we live in a fix-it-quick society. If itdoesn’t work, return it. If it breaks, replaceit. If it doesn’t work out, divorce. Couplesdon't try to fix their problems anymore.And the ones who do try rarely ever cometo the solution. The time and effort is toomuch work for our world to handle. This isthe only truth I know; this one I must learnto live with. Yet, to this day, I am still haunted by thistruth and the question arises: if my parentshad tried to fix their problems, really triedto work it out, would I still be the pitifulshadow of a man that I am today? Orwould I have grown up in a singlehousehold, free from restraint, with twoloving parents who could fully and trulylove me? I guess I will never know

I began to wonder if they believed Itoo would one day betray them and

break their hearts. ,,

,,

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Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 028 (232396803) 03/26/2010 9:06 AM



Beneath the skin we are all just skeletons, impure and perfect,with skin of tar anddust-dirty movement. Condemned to this pitiful cage,we thrive beneath the heathen sun,dancing as bare-bones spirits beforea match flame.We gently hold our hopes,wiping the tears from their tiny faces;they find no comfort in a lifereserved for the dead.I never really did believe in heaven,but I’ve seen a passing trainhold a long, triumphant chord,dawdling for passengers who exist in smoke,and only in smoke. We watch as they disappearinto the open maw of the night.You have become but one of them,a transient shadow.I delve into your fading wordsand pluck them from the page like feathers from a helpless bird,searching for the expanse of vulnerable skin beneath, butfinding only hollow bone.

- Lauren Burnham

Melissa M

urphy

Transience

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RealityBrynn Claypoole

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A

Katie H

olcomb

s he stared at me with hismassive brown eyes, I couldn’t help butlook away.

Beep. Beep. The room had four dull, tan walls and acreaky cream-colored door adjoining thekitchen. A mahogany table with fourdilapidated mahogany chairs was in thecenter. I sat at one end of the table, andhe was seated at the other.

Beep. Beep. I was certain that an alarm clock wasgoing off in the room.

Beep. Beep. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, hisdeep voice barely above a whisper. Heseemed like he was attempting toapproach a wounded animal withoutscaring it away. The beeping halted whilehe spoke but resumed with the ensuingawkward silence.

Beep. Beep. I had no response to his question.

Beep. Beep. I noticed a digital watch on his left arm.

Beep. Beep. “Could you make your watch stopbeeping?” I begged. He glanced down atthe contraption on his arm.

Beep. Be- “It’s not beeping. Do you really think it’sbeeping?” he recited. He was regur-gitating exactly what the doctor had toldhim: prove that it’s only in my mind, thenask if I thought it was real. Beep. Beep.

I stared at his eyes. They carried no illintentions–they were inquisitive andfriendly, as they always had been–but Iwasn’t sure if I was ready to trust him yet. Beep. Beep. “No.” He smiled, displaying his white teeth.This was the positive reinforcement he’dbeen told to give me when I answered thequestion correctly. I was so distracted by his deep eyesand perfect smile that I didn’t notice thesilence. “That’s good.” No, it wasn’t good. It was pathetic. I wascertain that the sound wasn’t real, but Icontinued to search for the source.

Beep. Beep. I could sense so many complex emo-tions inside of him–guilt, disappointment,fear, and concern–yet he exposed noneof them to me. He only spat out what hehad been told to say by the doctor. Hekept all of his feelings inside, like healways did.

Beep. Beep. Perhaps that was why I felt like I shouldn’ttrust him. He always seemed to be hidingsomething–just as I had hid my darkestsecret from him. His sad eyes begged meto tell him everything, yet pushed me awayat the same time.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It didn’t matter anymore. We had runout of time

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Lauren Burnham

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o this is what it’s like to be crazy,”I whispered to myself, pressing myforehead into the plush carpeting. Iexhaled slowly, digging my fingers deepinto the wooly fibers, thick enough to sleepon. At the next rush of air into my lungs, Ipushed myself up onto my hands and feet,my favorite yoga pose, Downward-FacingDog. I counted my breaths slowly,pushing my body to keep my back archedand feet planted, emptying everything outof my mind other than my singular, drivenfocus. Once my arms began to quiver, Itucked my chin and somersaultedforward, landing splayed on my back. Fora few breaths I took in the exposed-beamceiling of roughly hewn pine, compli-mented by large picture windows offeringa panoramic vista of the surrounding Blue

Ridge Mountains. Everything about thecabin was geared toward relaxation:large bookcases, overstuffed couchesthat could swallow a man whole, aperfectly-stocked kitchen nook and therequisite crackling fireplace. Yet I was not secluded in some deepcorner of my mind, meditating andnearing a state of Nirvana. This idyllicsurrounding still could not force me totranquility or help me find some innerpeace. I let out the breath I had beenholding inadvertently and focused on thecrinkled newspaper clipping lying a fewfeet to the left of my outstretched arm. “Goaway! Go away! Go away!” I yelled, myvoice unnaturally high. It did not belonghere, anchoring me in the very real, veryugly world of reality. I drew a deep breathand crawled over to it, the offensive off-

white square blighting the carpet. Isnatched it in one hand and carried it atarm’s length, like a dead mouse, over tothe fireplace. I hesitated for a second,wrenched open the heavy grate, andthrew in the paper. The fire caught quickly, starting at thetop right corner and spreading down in agraceful arc. As the paper shriveled in onitself, it shifted ever so slightly so that asingle line scrawled across the bottomwas clearly visible. My eyes, disregardinga frantic plea from my brain, read the smalltype one last time before it was devoured.I sucked in a deep, smoky breath. A sob,previously hidden somewhere deepwithin me, burst forth with a suddenviolence. Beloved husband and father, you will bemissed

"S

indlingKMadelyn Usher

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think this just might be mymasterpiece,” says Lieuten-ant Aldo Raine, standing upfrom the quivering form of aNazi officer, a bloody swas-tika carved into his forehead.

Lt. Raine’s words could have mimickedwriter/director Quentin Tarantino’s as hesaw his long-in-coming war epicInglourious Basterds in theaters lateAugust 2009. Tarantino, known for hisgritty stories of crime and punishment inmid-western America, has shifted thescene to “Once Upon a Time in Nazi-occupied France.” Here we follow aneclectic cast of heroes and villains, froma company of American commandosparachuting into France to the char-ismatic and possibly insane, yet definitelyenjoyable, Colonel Landa of the SS. The characters in Inglourious Basterdsrange, as in most Tarantino films, fromunique and entertaining to incredible andmemorable. The main protagonists arethe eponymous Basterds, a company ofJewish-American soldiers sent behindenemy lines in preparation for the D-Dayinvasion with a single objective: to spreadterror. As Lt. Raine (Brad Pitt) says to acaptured German officer, “We in thekilling-Nazi business. And cousin, busi-ness is boomin’.” Supporting theBasterds come a handful of other Allies—a British film-critic-turned-soldier andthe fictional German film-star-turned-spyBridget Von Hammersmark (DianeKruger), both of whom join the Basterdsin their coup-de-grace operation to endthe war: Operation Kino. While the protagonists are all excep-tionally well-portrayed, it is the antagonist

who truly shines. Colonel Hans Landa(Christoph Waltz) is an eccentric,charismatic and manipulative GermanSS officer called the Jew Hunter, who,through oft-sprouted philosophy andsuperb instinct, has become one of themost feared Nazis in all of occupiedFrance. Waltz delivers an energetic andmenacing performance throughout thefilm, creating one of the most memorableantagonists since Hannibal Lecter. Inglourious Basterds is a war epic inevery sense. Coming in at 152 minutes,the movie is extremely long, yet neverdrags. Unlike many directors who chooseto increase the pace to fit ninety minutes,Tarantino sacrifices brevity for precisepacing in every scene. In one instance, agroup of disguised Basterds attempt tomeet with their German contact forOperation Kino, Bridget Von Ham-mersmark, in a basement tavern. Thescene crawls with minute detail, andTarantino even characterizes the handfulof patrons at the bar playing a game ofGuess Who. An SS officer eventuallyinterrupts the game when he becomessuspicious of one of the Basterds'accents. And the gig is up when one ofthe group signals to the barman howmany beers to bring in the American way,without the thumb to show numbers.Astounding levels of detail are written intoevery scene of film. Inglourious Basterds is Tarantino’sself-described masterpiece. A witty,masterfully-written war epic, InglouriousBasterds is the finest film Tarantino hasever penned, and one of the greatest filmsto be released in years. Five gloriousstars

Sarah K

inney

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Left to Right:Carolyn Szczesny-PumaradaCharlotte BlackleySara GrantCharlotte BlackleyMorgan McCloy

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decaygrowth&

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DREALet all your dreams come to me:the shattered, the stolen, the sweet, the serene,the frivolous and rational, the contained and free,for these are the dreams on which lives lean.

Collect dust on a shelf they must not,nor completely consume life’s spontaneous flow.Let them live and breathe and withstand all odds.In my hands they are nourished to grow.

Underrated and abandoned in the face of defeat,dreams are glorious gifts to behold,from the seemingly trivial wants in life,to the hope for a shelter from the inclement cold.

If you only do one thing today,aside from the various tasks of the mind,do not forget the desires of the heart,for you will regret leaving them behind.

Let all your dreams come to me:the bizarre, the mundane, the fragmented, the whole,the gilded and lucid, the hopeful and sincere,for these are the dreams that inhabit the soul.

- Lindsay Johnson

C C RM

A EH

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Sara G

rant

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Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 040 (233552063) 03/26/2010 9:10 AM



toPudding

hirty minutes until dinner. Thirty long,painful minutes until I can satisfy my belly.“No food,” my mom commands, shuttingout any hope of destroying the rumblings.The clock ticks, I drum my fingers.Twenty-nine minutes. Then I spot it: Heaven, ecstasy, myumbrella in a downpour of rain. It sits there, contained in a small plasticcup, the velvety chocolate shiningthrough the translucent skin, the flimsytop only a minor blockade on the road ofdeliciousness. Oh, how I wish to taste therich comfort, to feel the smoothconcoction slide into my mouth. It’s all Ican think about. You know you want me, it taunts. Iglare. Dear pudding cup, I cannot have you.My fingers inch toward it, slowly, as if theyare afraid of getting caught. One touch,yes, that will be enough. I won’t need toopen it. My fingers collide with its glossy frame,skimming over the red top, down the sidesof the plastic. I want, I want, I want. Twenty-five minutes. No one is around, it whispers. “Yes,” I agree, glancing into the livingroom, the hallway. I am completelyalone–“just you and me, pudding cup.” I

stick my nail underneath the corner flap,pulling it slightly upward. One tug and I’mthere. One tug and I’m free. I’m just goingto smell it. I only need the delicious scentand I’ll be fine. No! I slam the cup back down on thecounter. I will not, I cannot eat you,pudding cup. The clock ticks in my ear,once again. Twenty minutes. Hunger ravishes me. All I can focus onis the growl of my stomach, the smell offood wafting from the stove, that tiny littlepudding cup that is perched in front ofme. Eat me. No. But I’m delicious. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. Eighteen minutes.Eighteen long, long minutes. They would be much more bearable withjust a nibble. My stomach roars, and I can’t take it anymore. I could do it–and it would be sosatisfying, so delicious. I crunch the cuptogether, squeezing the pudding into mymouth, hastily shoving every drop I canpossibly get. Globs slide down my chin,but I don’t care–I’m consumed by thetaste, the scent, the perfection. I’m all yours. Oh, yes you are

Cupa

Taylor Turnbull

Megan V

ince

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Mo

rgan

McC

loy

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Mountains form from simple outlines, a lakebecomes glassy-surfaced, trees take root,a bird takes flight. The pen learns as it goes along; it is an amateur as much as the hand, and they discover mutuallyhow to blend and diverge darkness and shadow, lights and highlights. The reference book guidesthem, coaching pen, ink, and hand on technique,style, patience.Mark by mark, the work of artdevelops, the hand cramping, the pen feeling the thirst of perseverance,yet they persevere. Through the morning sun they hatchand crosshatch; throughthe tranquil evening they makeeverlasting marksthat will remain on the paperfor a century and a year.

Of course, the handseventually stop: they cannot go on forever and a day. They are not robots.The pen, breathless, gazes at thework, beaming at its handiworkand the smoothness of ink on paper.The hands, outwardly self-criticalas ever,pick out errors, mistakes, wrongtextures and compositions in the piece.They show disappointmenton the outsidebut deep down, on the inside, they rejoice,for another successful work of artis finished.A click echoes through the hushed air.

- Tina Zheng

A shuffling of papers and supplies—a handuncovers the reference book—it loiters, reluctant, admiring the singular images,the techniques, the expert shadings,the reflection,finding the right pages all too soon,memorized from countless studying, sifting,scrutinizing. Procrastination resides intrinsicallyin the hand; the fingers shift the placementof objects on the desk once more as an excuseto draw out time.Silence.As the paper waits, ever-patient,the other hand, exasperated by stagnation,reaches over, pulls the pen cap:a click echoes through the hushed air.

The languid hand, astonished by the other’simpertinence, holds up the slender pen and examinesthe delicate micron point, tipped at the topwith smooth black ink, ready to serveat a moment’s notice.Unable to hold back its curiosity, imagination,experimental nature,the hand tells the other to holdthe paper firmly down. Obedience is immediate.An imperceptible scratch of nib on paper:an encouraging start.The pen works perfectly, stippling in clouds, sand,ocean spray, responding gently to the pressureof the frenzied hand.The ink flows, by and by, pausing here—and there—while the hands converse on the progress.Following line after line, curveafter curve, freely-done scribble after scribble, a scene emerges.

Igniting Discovery

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Dusk glows through the spaces in the gaping canopy.Don’t breathe.Night settles around me,and hide-and-seek is no longer a children’s game.Surrounded by companions, the woods were not daunting.A once-welcoming shelter now looms around me.We laughed. (Fear was inconspicuous.)But with darkness comes that which was concealed.Silence.“Joey!”Silence.“I give up, come out!”(The) shriekof an owl brings tears to my eyes.Sorry, Mom, I heard your warning;I tried to stay close…but they hid better, they ran faster.This forest encompasses my treehouses and adventures in the jungle,eats them up and leaves me with vulnerability.“Help.”Silence.I amsilenced.

- Cameron Carswell

(fear of dark woods)

Nyc

toh

ylop

hob

ia

Taylor T

urnbull

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IMAGINARI

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hat ungrateful thoughts burn through my mind as I sit buried inmathematics. All I see are bountiful story ideas glittering likediamonds, spewing from an unused ballpoint pen. My pencil layshelpless upon a blank sheet of grid paper—write on me, help me, it cries. I stare mercilessly into its white vacancy: should I pleaseits last request? Somewhere a voice drifts back and forth with a monotone sound,uninteresting and dull. A mess of problems scroll the red-and-blue-inked whiteboard, scrawled together like swirls of coloredmud before my eyes. Thoughts of voracious stories spin across awheel of blue, green, and red that launches guilded train tracks. Icould jump on one of those trains, ride an idea until the sun setswith a tangerine glow into the west beyond the suffocating wallsthat enclose my caged spirit. What journeys lie beyond the chains of this classroom? Yellowbrick roads stretch over emerald hills, enticing curiosity, drippingvenom from the branches of the mind. I’ve finished withreality—finished with the perils of worthless textbooks and thesorrows of words on decaying pages of faded print. My escape isnear; the high ledge calls. The door has opened to a fantasy ofdreams and ideas. My pen points forward, north, like a compassneedle; the blinking screen of a calculator and the weight of acrumbling textbook disappear. I am free

UMCarly Taichacrylic

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I could see was yellow. I saw short strands of blondblahhair resting on top of your head. The room surrounding us wasblahpale lemon—or, at least, that’s the way I recall it. My memoryblahisn’t perfect, but I always remember your face at that momentblahsurrounded by pastel yellow. The object you held out to me inblahyour cupped hands was dull gold, but its beauty seemed toblahblahshine. It was a wire star you crafted at a Boy Scout meeting.blahYou left a small loop at the top and tied red and green ribbonsblahto it, which gave me the impression that the star was meant toblahbe a Christmas tree ornament. I don’t find it odd that you handedblaha Christmas gift to a little Jewish girl. I find it odd that I neverblahquestioned why you gave me the strange present. I merelyblahblahthanked you for it, took it from your hands, stashed it in myblahblahbackpack and placed it on a shelf in my room when I got home.blahThe words “appreciative” and “flattered” don’t come to mindblablahwhen I think back on the incident. “Confused” and "embar-blahblahblahblahrassed” seem more accurate. Love wasn’t a concept I reallybrelahunderstood in third grade.

Charlotte B

lackley

All

Brynn Claypoole

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Last night I found the star, still restingon the same shelf. I admired the eleganceof your handiwork—I thought of you as anine-year-old with your large glasses,intently focused on a malleable hunk ofwire, working to shape it until youproduced something you and I consid-ered lovely. I slipped a chain through the loop andtransformed the star into a necklace. Idecided to wear it all day today. Currentlythe small golden object radiates aroundmy neck. The line finally moves up. The peoplebehind me push me forward. As I becomecognizant of my surroundings, I gatherthe energy to lift my leg and drop it a fewinches in front of me. I just drag my otherleg forward, lacking the power requiredto actually raise it. The line seems tostretch out infinitely before me—it snakesaround the room and moves ratherslowly. I suddenly turn around to face Gabby.She pushes her thick-rimmed glasses upher nose and looks me in the eye. “Okay?” I whisper, smiling. “Yes,” she replies softly. I nod briefly and turn again, only to findthe queue is now shifting forward. I takeanother labored step. I can now see aman standing near the front of the line,waving his arms frantically to urge thepeople forward. I begin to get nervous. What if I don’thave the time to do what I need to do?What if I can’t stop smiling? I internallyabuse myself for the expression restingpeacefully on my face. Why can’t Ibehave like any normal person would:cry, stare at the ground, shake my headand murmur, “Why?” to an omnipotentforce? Instead I question myself—why

am I practically excited to attend aseventeen-year-old’s funeral? Why doesmy smile grow with each step as Iapproach the grieving family? I realize that I am eager to see yourfamily again. More than just seeing theirfaces, I am eager to see if they rememberme. My face hasn’t changed drasticallyin the last eight years. Will they see themassive bags under my eyes, the faceof just another sleep-deprived junior thatknew you from school, or will theyinstantly recognize the blue-gray eyes ofthat shy little girl? I believe I met your family for the firsttime in fourth grade. They invited myfamily in when I was being dropped offat your house that fall night. Our parentstalked for a while, as parents always do,and you gave me an awkward “hello”before guiding me around your house.You showed me your big brother, yourdog, your television, and anything elseyou deemed important. When myparents left, your family and I packed intothe car and headed out. As we ap-proached the high school, I stared outthe window, curious to see preciselywhere we were going. All I knew was thatwe were going to a high school footballgame. I didn’t know which high schoolwe were going to, how far away it wouldbe, or even what a high school lookedlike. It was unlike me to not know thedetails of plans, but I was too nervous toask for specifics. As we pulled into the parking lot, I wasstunned—there was a real footballstadium, just like the one downtown,hiding behind a school. The complexseemed unnecessary to me. I didn’tunderstand why the kids couldn’t justplay in a big field like they did at ourI'msorry...

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“That wasn’t so bad.” Your father stands right next to thecasket. He looks exactly as I rememberhim. It is suddenly my turn to shake hishand. I tell him my name and show himthe star around my neck, stating that hisson made it for me. “Of course,” he says, nodding, andthanks me for coming. I approach your mother next. I in-stantly recognize her from my childhood

memories. Yet again, I tell her my nameand show her the star. Her reaction ismarkedly different. She gasps andexclaims, “It’s you! I can’t believe it!” She says my name a few more timesand your father and brother look over.Recognition hits them instantly, and theyall begin talking at once.

“It’s been so long…” “The name just didn’t register when yousaid it to me…”

“You! I remember you! I can’t believeit…” “All those years ago…” “Oh, dear,” says your mother, “he lovedyou.” “A lot.” “He really did…” “…just adored you…” “…love, love, love…” I feel a lump rising in my throat. My eyesbegin to burn and I inhale deeply. “I know,” is all I can muster. “Thank you so much for coming. Itmeans a lot…” says your mother. I noddumbly. I am unable to comprehend hercomment. I just think about how excited Iwas to see your family again and wonderwhy I need to be thanked for doingsomething I really wanted to do. Your brother gives me a hug andthanks me again. My brain still hasn’tcaught up with my body, and I suddenlyfind myself walking to the back of the roomwith Gabby. I look down at the star a-round my neck and try to understand whathappened. I never knew how much youhad liked me—it took me a while just tounderstand that you had had a crush. Irealize how hard it is for me to hear yourfamily talk about how much you liked me.It hurts immensely to know that I will neverbe able to speak with you again. I take ina deep, calming breath. All I can see is yellow. I see blond hairon most of your family members. Thestained glass window has amber panesrepresenting the stars—rich with mytho-logical stories and guidance for travelersin the night. Yellow radiates from my ownstar—rich with stories and guidance fromyou. In memory of Scotty Yandle (October30, 1992-October 30, 2009)

Why can’t I behavelike any normal personwould: cry, stare at

the ground, shake myhead and murmur,

'Why?' to anomnipotent force?

school. You weren’t confused or in aweas I was. You explained that you had beenthere before with your family. The next thing I remember is sitting inthe stands with your parents, staring atthe massive yellow lights surrounding thefield that seemed to stretch up to heaven.As I examined every object in the stadiumbefore me, uninterested by the littlepeople standing on the field, you told meabout a dream you had. Apparently I hadinvited you to my house for the first time,and you discovered that I had a junglegym in my living room. It was even biggerthan the one at McDonald’s, you ex-plained. The golden arches had nothingon the playground in my house. The line is moving rapidly. Peoplemerely shake hands with your parentsand your brother and hurry to their seats.I figure I can approach your family afterthe service if I don’t have time for a properintroduction now. As I move forward, Irecognize many of the seated people Ipass—I see faces of friends, classmatesand former teachers. While I approach the front of the line,Gabby whispers, “It’s an open casket. I’venever seen one before.” “Me neither,” I reply. I’m unfazed by thethought. I imagine you lying in a boxasleep and assume this will be the same. The line continues to move. When I amclose enough to see just the blond hair atthe top of the casket, Gabby whispers, “Itdoesn’t look like him.” I nod, unsure of what to say. I take astep forward and peer into the coffin. Init I see an extremely swollen face withwispy blond hair. I feel relieved for somereason—for the moment, the sightdoesn’t upset me at all. I look back atGabby.

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The dark streets are deserted;all blaring cars have vanished,and shops once bustling with customersnow stand vacant and abandoned.I walk, lost in an ocean of isolation,amongst towering ghosts of buildings.My steps resound through the alleysand shatter the ominous silence.The wind whispers swift songsand brushes my skin with its icy touch,so I wrap my coat around me tighterto endure the piercing, frigid air.Here, in this desolate and dismal night,I wonder where everyone has gone.

- Katrina Gutierrez

Charlotte B

lackley

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Morgan McCloy

""

For years I had the habit of sitting in front of yourpicture, tracing over the line your dark hair made

against the blue sky and wondering what parts ofyou were visible in me.

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Yhand, and I want to ask her what shethinks of us. Do we look like a father andhis daughter getting breakfast on aSaturday morning? Or does she think weare strangers, people thrust togetherbecause we have to be? She probably doesn’t care, I decide asshe goes back to filing. In fact, I bet thatshe’s making up an excuse as to why thecooks haven’t finished preparing our foodyet. It’s unfortunate that they haven’tbecause then, at least, we’d havesomething to talk about. Now, without asafety net like the taste of the biscuits orthe runny quality of the eggs, we sit insilence and stare at each other. You takea sip of your coffee. “Black, no cream orsugar,” you told the waitress. Yuck. Giventhe choice, I’d rather drink ground treebark. On second thought, I’d rather die ofthirst than drink anything you would like. It isn’t fair to think like that. It’s not likebeing introduced this way is your fault. I know you wanted to meet me. I knowyou couldn’t come before now becauseyou weren’t even aware of me at all. Iknow it’s been hard, I know. I’ve heardabout it one hundred-and-three times,how Mom tried to find you for years—fifteen, to be exact—and couldn’t. I knowhow, when she finally spotted you online,you were just oh-so-surprised andexcited. Happy, for lack of a better word.And I am so happy to finally meet you. Myfather. I have a father. I wish I could say all of this, but the words

are sticking to the roof of my mouth. I gulpmy tea, trying to think of somewhere tobegin. I want to know everything. Aboutyour job. About Lucy, your wife, mystepmother. And the boys you mentionedon the phone, Cody and Mark. Littlebrothers? I could hardly comprehendwhat that would mean when you told meabout them. Unconsciously, I leanforward as you finally speak. “Katherine,” you begin, as if trying thename out, and you smile at me. “I go by Kate,” I say automatically, areflex usually reserved for doctors andnew teachers. And now you’re nodding,confused and a little embarrassed, as ifyou don’t really know how to respond tothat. After all, there aren’t too manynicknames for Mark. I slide the mugacross the table, both hands gripping thewarm ceramic. I see you glance over atmy napkin. Your eyes are drawn instantlyto the childish half-doodles I scribbled withcrayon in the minutes before you showedup. You grin, genuinely, and in thatmoment your entire face is transformed,almost glowing with the rush of elation. “You draw?” you ask, and I nodcautiously. You reach out and take one ofthe crayons from its ugly plastic container,bending over your own napkin. “So do I,”you say. I pull in a deep breath and watchintently as you begin to draw, line afterline after line. You look nothing like the picture. The picture looks nothing like me

ou look nothing like the picture. That’s all I can think about, sitting acrossfrom you in the booth and swirling my teawith a finger, my eyes never leaving yourface. In the picture, you’re young, smiling,excluding vitality. Here you look different,smaller somehow. I should haveexpected that. Mom always said youwere photogenic, that you never took abad photo. Even at your worst, she said,you looked better than about half of theworld’s population. I don’t care much forgood looks. I know that sounds cliché andstupid, but it’s true. I’d rather be behind acamera, capturing images instead ofstarring in them. But then you don’t knowthat about me, not yet. I can’t look away from your face. That’sweird, stop, I keep saying to myself.Maybe, but isn’t it natural that I shouldlook? For years I had the habit of sittingin front of your picture, tracing over theline your dark hair made against the bluesky and wondering what parts of youwere visible in me. It isn’t the nose—thatI got from Mom, along with the athleticismand poor spelling. And even though youand I both have brown eyes and freckles,that’s just genetics. You can’t avoid thatsort of thing. No, what I want is somethingpoetic, something romantic, like if I hadyour lips or your cheekbones or your redhair. Something so that when people seeus together, they automatically know whowe are. I see the waitress eyeing us, nail file in

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Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 056 (232404137) 03/26/2010 9:16 AM



StemTwo blinks and a rotating sticksplit my eyes.At ease when the choice comes about,you’ve got all the safety you needin your blankets.But remember, simply, that is all you've got.

Wait too long and it all will bleed throughand muck up your pages with your thoughts on the back.The string near your ears will cut out the noise,but the white sort will continue to stay.Caught on a train divided,all you can do is stay calmly still.

We’re kept long enough to be hooked.Those misunderstandings will break me alone,but the reflections from broken glasseswill keep you from keeping up.

So fragile, like a flower and its connection to the stem,caught in a question you would not answer.The spaces in-betweenseem too small to pass through.Not even a worm could reach the decision at the end.

All you have is your mouth and your mind,both so destructive when put to the test.Last resorts, though,seem always as such.

These blinks must be heeded,or these worms will never escape.Without them they’ll be lost to an empty pastureand kept to the side,only to break away with their answers answeredand placed in our simple histories.

- Ethan Risinger

Morgan M

cCloy

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Stroke of genius!A kiss from Calliope’sparched lips,parting for a taste of sweet fiction,craving the injection of new thought.She smiles with glazed eyesand asks what innovations this blank canvas may hold.She has taunted Socratesand been pampered by Sophocles.She was Euripides’ kin,Homer’s paramour,and Aesop’s legacy.But nowher raw skin itchesfor the new deliriumthat leaks from the writer’s pen.An impetus of fair-weather promises,coercing the writer to bleak endeavorstainted with promises of acclimation.Her dilated pupilswatch ink marthe pale skeletons of felled trees.Constricted blue veinspulse withthe infinite wantfor fresh prose.Words are her opiate,and she is the writer’s amphetamine.

- Sasha Freger

Charlotte B

lackley

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Songmap of the world hung above thefireplace, old and weathered. Itsblah

Taylor T

urnbull

Jeremy PickardBard'sThe

Ayellowed form was bathed in shadows by thetiny fire that sat dying beneath it. The map wasat least a hundred years old, but still as accurateas ever, right down to the boundaries of thenations. The entirety of the world’s landmasswas dyed red—symbolizing the domain of thekingdom of Gailegrown. It had been so forcenturies, and would continue to be so forever.Gone were the days of magic and heroes andvaliant horseback charges against evil empiresand hordes of monsters; gone were the days ofelves and the old gods; gone were the days ofthe high adventure and chivalry of which the oldtales spoke. Come were the days of man andthe kingdom of Gailegrown, massive andomnipotent and immovable by even thegreatest of rebellions. Come were the days ofdarkness and tyranny. “Walther!” The prince of Gailegrown looked up with astart and shrank under the staring eyes of thesixteen lords, the advisors to the king. All eyeswere on him, searing him with their intensity.The prince slid the book, which he had beenholding as far beneath the table as he couldmanage, out of his father’s sight. The king ofGailegrown sat at the head of the table, with abushy eyebrow cocked at his son, golden eyessearching him intently. Walther could feel hisbones ache slightly as a weak wave of magicfrom his father passed over him—KingGailegrown was somewhat talented in thearcane arts, the last of the magicians since theoutlawing of magic a hundred years prior. Hesaw no issue in breaking his own law, nor usinghis art on his own son. “What is that you have in your lap, boy?”

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ongthe king asked, his voice resonatingpowerfully through the stone chamber,from his gold-plated throne at the headto Walther's sad stool at the foot. “Nothing, nothing at all,” Walther said,desperately trying to put the book out ofmind. The king narrowed his golden eyesat the prince, and Walther felt shivers runup his spine. The old man's magicintensified, bristling through his mind.Walther could feel his mind beingcombed, his memories being accessedby the arcane invasion. “There's nothingthere, I swear to you,” he pleaded hope-lessly. “Do you think your word meanssomething to me, boy? General!” The general stepped out of the shadowsbehind the king's high-backed chair. Hewas a massive man and, as always, worehis black steel armor, obscuring thewhole of his body. Even his eyes wereinvisible underneath his steel helm. Hewas the only person ever allowed to carrya weapon in the king's presence, and hebrandished his as he began to cross theroom toward the prince. The bayonet onhis flintlock rifle scraped along the brickfloor like fingernails on a chalkboard. Walther broke before the general waseven halfway across the room. Theblack-armored man had no qualms aboutassaulting the king’s son—he had doneso more than once before—the horrorshe could inflict with just the glisteningbayonet were astounding. Waltherneeded no more convincing. “Fine. Here, have it. See if I care,”Walther said, resigned, and put the bookup on the table. The king made a gestureand it flew into his waiting hands. He read the title aloud. “Of Sword andSorcery and Other Adventures. More ofthis filth?” the king scoffed, and tossedthe book aside. It fell into the fire andcombusted. The room filled with the

stench of burning paper. “It’s as if youenjoy betraying me. Go, out of mypresence, before I hang you!” “Tyrant!” the prince yelled, pointing athreatening finger at his father beforestorming out of the hall. The king onlylaughed at his departure. Enraged and hurt, Walther dashedthrough the halls like a man ablaze, hismind a maelstrom of thoughts. This wasbut the latest time the king had forcedhim to resign a book to be burned, a relicto be smashed, or another precious thingto be destroyed. Yet despite the fre-quency at which this sick ritual ofbetrayal and deprivation occurred, it stillburned the prince’s heart. His fatherthought it a joke to destroy everythingprecious left in the world—every book,every painting, everything that couldremind the people of times past, whenthe kingdom was not the sole sovereignpower—but it was the utmost act ofbarbarism a man could commit in theprince’s eyes. In a world so twisted andruined by the intervention of man, suchrelics of the olden times ought to beprotected and treasured, not hunted withthe fervor of a dragonslayer on the trailof a drake. The prince stalked out of the castlebarely half an hour after the destructionof his book, already plotting his nextacquisition. This time, though, not a bookor anything else the king could destroy.Today, he would find the one thing theKing couldn’t take from him: hismemories.

II

It was execution day in the capital cityof Gwher. The people were energetic,almost rowdy, and they filled the streetsuntil it was almost impossible to get pastthem. It was worse at the gallows, where

continued

TheBard's S

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with his feet up on the table and armscrossed as if he were master of all. Fromunderneath the hood, two shining goldeneyes locked onto the bard, waiting.Whether this fellow was a town guard orjust a conceited lad who thought he wasbetter than everyone, the bard couldn’ttell. But judging by the tiny rise of theman’s hip where the butt of his pistolshowed, he wasn’t an ordinary citizen. But it didn’t matter to the bard. He washere to play, and play he would. From hismeager list of tunes, the bard chose hisfavorite—one that suited him and theaudience, those disgusted with thekingdom and their fellow men. It was the“Song of Alfir,” the most hated, mostdespised, and most illegal work in all ofGailegrown, the epic of the one man whocould have stopped the first KingGailegrown many centuries ago. Everyone in The Red Dusk, from thebartender to the hooded man, knew thewords by heart and sang along. Outside, as the rebels were hangedone by one, they, too, sung the “Song ofAlfir.”

III

“A word please, sir.” The bard stopped where he stood andcast a glance over his shoulder, back intothe pub. The hooded figure was standingbarely a pace behind him, fists clenched,staring intently. The bard nodded andtook a seat across from the man. Hepulled down his hood, revealing the faceof a youth, a blond-haired young man noolder than twenty. There was a fire in hiseyes, like that of an eager apprentice. “Where did you suffer that wound?” heasked, pointing to his own left eye. “You’re very blunt.” “Please.” “The Battle of Blood Creek.”

people pushed and shoved and punchedat each other to get the best view. Theexecutioners were starting the month offwith a bang, too—three rebel leaders fromthe fallen city of Hanzrau, one practitionerof illicit magics, and an elf who hadmurdered a city constable. (An elf killinga man was “murder” according toGailegrown law, never mind the right forself defense against a drunken official'srampage.) It had been almost a monthsince anything exciting happened inGwher, and the masses thirsted for blood.They’d get it at high noon. A man blew into the only tavern openon execution day—The Red Dusk Pub.He was tall and lean and had an archaic-looking lute slung over one shoulder. Hissingle green eye surveyed the pub,examining faces in the main room beforehe took another step inside. If you weren’ton the streets on Execution Day, chancesare you had a damn good reason not tobe. And that was, nine times out of ten, ahatred of the bloodthirsty practice—or ofthe kingdom itself. By the way the handfulof salty old-timers and hardened youngmen looked out at the crowd through thedusty windows, they all fit the bill. The bardgrinned a little bit to himself andapproached the barman. “You wanted me to play,” the bard said. “Yeah, before the sheep out there getback,” the barman said, nodding to a stoolon a raised platform across from the bar.“Go ahead.” He did so. The bard went up to the stageand unslung his lute. The instrumentpractically hummed in his hands, bristlingwith energy, waiting to be played. He sat,adjusted the black patch over where hisleft eye ought to have been, and took onelast look over his audience. There was someone he hadn’t noticedbefore. Sitting at the far table, obscuredin shadow, was a hooded figure who sat

The instrument practically hummed in his hands,bristling with energy, waiting to be played."

"

“That's impossible.” “Is it, now?” the bard said with a laugh.“You humans really have forgotten the oldways, haven’t you?” Almost casually, thebard brushed aside his hair, revealing theknife-like ears of an elf. The young mangaped, and the bard kept on laughing untilit turned into a cough. “I stood with KingAlfir three hundred years ago, fought andbled beside him. Now I just sing hissong.” “So you’re a rebel, then.” “Through and through…as are you, Isee.” The young man realized with a start thata book was peeping out of his cloak. Hequickly hid the illicit object again andlooked around nervously to see if anyonehad seen it save the bard. It wouldn’tmatter if they had—everyone in The RedDusk was as much a rebel as he, thoughone couldn’t much tell by looking. They allhad the “Song of Alfir” in their heads, andthat was treason enough. “So, who are you, boy? What’s yourstory?” The young man took another nervouslook around and, with a shaking hand,pulled from around his neck an emblemof a sword running through a pentagram—the sigil of the Gailegrown Family. Thatwas explanation enough. The bard’s grimsmile faded into somberness. Before himwas Prince Walther Gailegrown himself,an admitted rebel living in the king’shouse. “You say you’re a rebel, boy? One thatwould see the return of the old ways?” “I long for nothing more than the days ofold—of heroes and learning and justiceand…and books!” “Good enough. Tell me, then, what wouldyou be willing to do to see this change?” “Whatever I can.” “I think, my prince, you can do quite abit”

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I feel so far gone;help isn’t helping.Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitorscan barely raise the bell jar—is it all in my head?(Better off dead?)

The answers are my choices, and for thatall I have is regret.

- Gabriella Baer

Charlotte B

lackley

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Job 19319 Year 2010 Page 066 (233549275) 03/26/2010 9:19 AM



up to the platform. A computerizedvoice identified the stop as Wall StreetStation. Putting her shoes back on witha sigh, the woman dropped hercigarette onto the cracked and peelinglinoleum, stubbing out the glowingembers with the toe of her black leathershoes. When she got up, her skirt stuckto the cracking vinyl seat, slightly dampfrom her perspiration. As she bent downto pick up her briefcase, I could see aglimmer of color in her hard gray attire.On her lower back was a monarchbutterfly beautifully tattooed in brightoranges and yellows. Its body andwings, outlined intimately in midnight-black ink, and the delicately-drawnantennae stood in stark contrast againsther ivory skin. Standing up, the woman tucked in herblouse, grabbed her steel gray jacketand walked off the train into the mass ofbodies. Looking out through thesmeared window from my own brittleseat, I saw her give a beggar a smokeand the rest of her coffee as she movedthrough the throng to the exit. Off she flew, the urban butterfly tryingto conform to the world of moths

TheUrbanButterfly Sarah Fewell

Sydney Albiontempera

H er pink bubble broke with a loud pop,disappearing into her red-stainedmouth. The overhead lights flickeredand buzzed. Sweat beaded down herface, creating zebra stripes in herfoundation. From where I sat, drowningthe world in AC/DC, I could see the runin her hose and smell the stench ofsweat mixed with too much perfume. The train rattled on, our car swayingand jerking on the old metal tracks.After her failed attempt to fan herselfwith the latest version of People, she lita cigarette and sipped her VentiStarbucks coffee, taking off her heelsand rubbing the inflamed line where theshoe bit into her skin. Wisps of smoke slowly drifted to theroof of the car, mixing with the dirt andgrime of the city. She rested her headon the greasy window and silentlylooked out at the flashing lights. An adon the side wall depicted a smilingcollege grad who had grown a sharpiemustache and was missing a fronttooth. She smirked, turned back to thewindow and continued to watch the dimyellow lights. With a loud screech the train pulled Freidrich the Dinosaur

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As I started down that day,the humble avenue there,I was accosted by bitternessof hair and clothing fair.

Her eyes did flare and flash at mine,that temptress of malady,and to her soapbox she did climbwith hate to instill in me.

And oh! This hate of her heart I feltfor thirty beats of mine,it caressed me, possessed me, obsessed me, yes,in satisfaction so fine.

But with a sliding glissandowas I brought back to sanity,my thoughts collected in my headin perfect solidarity.

The thought did come into my mind,no sooner thought than said,“Forgiveness is better kept aliveand bitterness left dead.”

- Joey Schachner

Sasha F

reger

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Left: Leaving All that Was GeometricAbove: Westward Expansion beforeTragedyPhotography by Michael Falero

“any sort of self-expression...that’s the art.”

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A woman in motion, ashining vase, a tree’ssilhouette. Rectangles of

smooth blue, fiery red, dusty orange.Among the five towering canvases standsClark Hawgood, his paint knife aimed andat the ready. I stand behind him, watchingas he engages with his work, feeling theflow of the newspaper clippings and paintstrokes. He glances over at the assemblyof his summer’s work, a smile plasteredon his face, permanent and ever-gleaming. Clark Hawgood wanted nothing to dowith art before the age of fifteen. As ateenager living in a small town inDelaware, his main focus was athletics—that was until he experienced a self-described “euphoric” moment of unusualself-awareness in his sophomore year. “Iwas sitting on my floor…and I just startedto draw. After two or three hours, I satback from my drawing and just feltextremely euphoric.” He realized that hehad a passion for drawing and decided todevote his high school career to art. “Itwas neat,” he says, “at that point in mylife to have one thing that seemed verystable and a part of my life.” By the ageof eighteen he had a nearly unhealthyobsession with all things art: galleries,visiting artists, new media. He graduatedhigh school and went on to East CarolinaUniversity for his BFA. There he recallshaving professors that had to “make meteachable” and more open as an artist.He beams as he discusses his college

Aon

Perspective

Michael Falero

years, describing them as “an amazingexperience, but [one] that I only realizedwas amazing as I was leaving it andseeing all these great people around me.”After moving to Charlotte in the late 90s,Hawgood applied for a teaching positionat Braitman studio on Monroe Road,where he continues to work today. Hawgood maintains an all-inclusive viewof art and how to approach it. He describesit as “any sort of self-expression, you’recreating this world, that’s the art.” By theway he discusses art, it’s easy to forgetthat this is his job. Looking over the bits ofmagazine clippings and brushstrokes inhis piece, he describes his attitude whenapproaching his own art as excited,understanding that he doesn’t know thefinish. That isn’t to say that he has somesupernatural enlightened relationshipwith art—he voices his continued strugglewith ceramics—but Hawgood makesevery effort always to view art as a laborof love that defines him, not a burden thatconstricts him. His advice for those pursuing or wishingto pursue art is to ignore feelings of self-doubt. “Don’t take it like you’re detonatinga bomb,” he jokes. “Enjoy risk-taking, andkeep reminding yourself that you’recreating something original and unique.”When his students become frustrated,critical or self-defeating, Hawgoodlaunches into an art parable full of armmotions, upbeat grins and fantasticalimagery, one of many analogies that heconcocts to aid his students, or at least to

entertain them. Teaching at bothBraitman Studio and Charlotte LatinSchool, Hawgood foremost considershimself a lifetime student of art who isconstantly learning by working alongsidehis mentor, Andy Braitman, and his ownstudents. He advocates relearning how to“play” with one’s environment, utilizing achild-like imagination and disowning anyfeeling that the product must be “amazing”at every attempt. Hawgood’s view of his own craft mightappear banal and overused, but just a fewminutes in his company can convinceanyone just how refreshingly genuine heis in his approach. A sandal-wearing,bright-eyed Vikings devotee who con-siders a coffee cup an extension of hisown body, Hawgood applies his ideals ofacceptance, perseverance and enthu-siasm to everything that he does, art-related or otherwise. He’s a man who cancarry on an intensely personal conver-sation with a new acquaintance; he canpounce on any passing topic with anoverwhelming vivacity. After an hour with Hawgood, one canfeel his overactive cheer seeping into theconcrete floor of his surroundings andthose around him. Being in the presenceof someone like him is remarkable,fascinating. His glowing personality andknack for fostering inspiration in hisstudents are moving. This energy is raw,powerful and must be detonated; it eruptsin fits in the works of Hawgood and hisstudents

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PatronsThe Balanced Body CenterRandall L. Carswell Charlottetowne Insurance GroupSusan and Mike DaisleyEthel Seiberling FoxRichard L. GiesAnn Kinney Lorinna LowranceDave and Patty MosesBob and JoAnn RainearJim and Missy RainearAndy and Vanessa TurnbullLee Ellen Turnbull

BenefactorsDiane BurnhamLarry SeitlinBlake Taylor

ContributorsAndy Hines DDSChris and Marianne ChaneyThe Claypoole Family Willard ChesterMin A ChoiLinda DisserThe Falero Family Tad and Jayne FoxIsabel LeavittMelissa LockleyAlicia McConnell

Michael P. Hair and Assoc., Inc.In Memory of Polly MiddlekauffA Rainbow of Color Painting/ Terry and Nancy Kute Starr OrthodonticsJohn and Pat TaylorMary Frances TaylorGary and Kathy UsherLawson B. WatsonWomble, Carlyle, Sandridge and RiceLeo W. Uicker, D.D.S.

FriendsArboretum PediatricsAnn M. BeezupRobert L. BurnhamDavid S. CathermanTom and Marian ChesterIn Memory of Virginia ChesterAnn ClaypooleJack and Opal ClontzMr. and Mrs. Robert E. CookKaren H. CummingsThe Fewell FamilyGreg GaertnerCrystal GiesCarol LewisJudie McBrideDeborah PriceDr. Jeanine R. RussmanPaul Russman

Former Staff Member

In compliance with federal law, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools administers all educational programs, employment activites andadmissions without discrimination against any person on the basis of gender, race, color, religion, national origin, age, or disability.

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roars and whispers 2009-10

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