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Cirque du Plume Literary Magazine

Writers’ Club 2013 – 14

Advisor Carey Miller President Maribel Leddy

Vice President Hannah Porter Secretary Ke Yu

Treasurer Abigail Hopkins Members

Nyamana Byaombe Bleu Ruby Daniels-Taylor

Dominique Detwiler Maia Gallagher

Kat Hague Annika Hocieniec

Maria Victoria Howell-Arza Weiyi Li

Yiyang Li Danielle Little

Mariah Reinard Erin Teeter

Aerin Wagner Jennifer Weber

 

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Towa Adegboyega – 4

Morgan Baker – 5

Madison Chamberlain – 6

Bleu Ruby Daniels-Taylor – 7-8

Dominique Detwiler – 9

Milan Gacioch – 10-12

Maia Gallagher – 13-15

Kat Hague – 16-17

Annika Hocieniec – 18

Abigail Hopkins – 19

Kaitlin Hughes – 20

Maribel Leddy – 21

WeiYi Li – 22

Hannah Porter – 23

Bessie Shiroki – 24

Jesse Sloier – 25-28

Katie Thomas – 29-30

Jennifer Weber – 31

Kerry Xu – 32

Table of Contents

 

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Déjà vu I press my hands to the Smooth wood of the door Swing it open and let in the light The motion is new and unfamiliar But the rhythm—grip, turn, push Flows smoothly, the beats natural The unfamiliar surface Molds to my palm like an old glove Have I been here before? This door, these walls, this chair, these clothes All seem a facsimile of The already-woven tapestry of memory The illusion to show itself Seemingly true but Hanging in the space between reality and fiction I close my eyes, count to ten Holding tight to the moment Memory's the diamond, my hand the jeweler's Time slows, my mind spinning Each facet of the crystal Over and over In time to compare The remembrance with the reality Like slides from two rolls of film that are The same, and yet completely different Reality is the fabric I can touch Illusion the nebulous idea I try to form Into tangible stone But that somehow manages to always stay Just a bit out of The reach of my grasping fingers  

Losing Faith I sit at the feet of the avenging angel

The steeple shadow hangs over me like a great black wing. I bow my head and await my judgment with my back to the

church Remembering a time long past when I took shelter

Under the feathered wings of my loyal guardian angel, Faith.

I close my eyes and sail back along the dark sea of memory to a time when

The pastors seem like warriors ready to slay the Goliaths of heresy

And the choir is a chorus of angels from Heaven itself. But as calendar pages tear off, fluttering to the ground like

feathers The ears of God seem closed to my desperate prayers

And my faith wanes as the clock’s hands spin round and round.

At last comes the day I crawl out from under the wings of my angel.

All that remains of my faith is gossamer memories of the past.

The pastor's voice, once so sacred to my ears Becomes meaningless chatter echoing in the sanctuary.

And the crucifix hanging over my bed that I used to imagine was an angel

Keeping watch and protecting me whilst I slept Is nothing but a piece of dead wood spinning lazily in the

breeze, As empty as the hollow cavity where the flame of my faith

Once burned so brightly, offering light and life. Where faith once extended roots deep into the tender soil of

my heart, Cynicism grows in the rocky, barren sand left behind.

I see the world through dark lenses, glimpsing only black in other souls.

Feeling damned, I reach out to take hold of my angel’s wings, recalling the days I soared.

But the wing comes apart in my fingers and the feathers flutter away on the wind.

To my tear-filled eyes the steeple looks like a guillotine About to fall upon my bared neck in punishment for my

unbelief. I feel unclean, unwashed, unsaved.

The need to flee from judgment bubbles up in me like boiling lava from the earth.

I rise and run away, my back facing the church, the steeple blocking out my sky.

Towa Adegboyega

 

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The Second Argument for Diversity A response to several New York Times articles by Walter Dean Meyers and Christopher Myers.

I went through elementary and middle school with one friend that mattered. For those first years of my life, books filled the void were other friends would have been. I would be mistaken if I denied that the books I read then helped shape my personality, now.

Here lies the problem. Up until recently, my reality was based on the people I saw and the books I read. To make up

for the real people, I read book after book about fictional ones. I lived through Harry Potter, Nancy Drew, Matilda, and the kids from The Mysterious Benedict Society, but I couldn’t help noticing that they reflected what real life shoved in my face every day.

I grew up feeling as though I was alone. All of my favorite characters, so varied in personality, were white, whereas none of my favorite characters were people of color. I was never shown that I could be anything other than the stereotypes I saw. One of my few strong memories from elementary school was wanting just to be white, so that no questions would be asked about why I was me. I felt like I was wrong, like I didn’t deserve to be in the skin I was in, just because I had never seen anyone else like me. No matter how many times I was told the color of my skin didn’t matter, it seemed obvious to me that I was neither white nor black enough to fit within the confines I had been taught. I am not an inner-city kid; I’m a mixed-race suburbanite who went to a dominantly white public school and was in the gifted classes as soon as the teachers could put me there. Regardless, as long as I can remember, people have been asking me what I’m “mixed with”, why I “talk so white”, and “how my hair gets like that”. The questions were alienating, and in my eyes, confirmed my identity issues.

I feel as though one of my biggest downfalls is that I never got the approval I didn’t know I needed to be something other than the stereotypes I had seen about people of color. I saw myself as an outsider, and everyone else who seemed just fine with themselves became part of the in-group. At the same time, I walked past every book on the library bookshelf that featured a person of color on the cover, because I didn’t think I could relate. After all, books are written for their readers, right? I didn’t do this consciously - it was a force of habit; a trend taught to me by all the other examples I had seen. No awkward third grader should have to deal with that. In the midst of all the identity crisis, it would have been nice to have someone tell me that people like me were allowed to exist.

I am not who people generally think about in the scheme of diversifying literature. It’s important, however, to imagine characters of color just as complexly as all the other characters - not just to write the institutionally-downtrodden, inner-city characters, but the brainiacs, the cheerleaders, the dancers, the gamers, the athletes, and every hybrid in between. That said, just having the characters isn’t quite enough. An integral part of these characters should be having them go through the same barriers that most kids of color have to face. If not for the kids who need it most, for the kids who may never have the opportunity to meet someone like that in actuality.

Coming back to present day, I am excited that the need for representation of all kinds is beginning to become an issue in the spotlight. If I had had the opportunity to read more books featuring kids of color, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so uncomfortable with myself. And, perhaps, some of the prejudice that surrounds people of color would be less prevalent. For now, though, I’m content that the conversation on diversity in literature is taking place.

I thank Walter Dean Meyers, author of the article, “Where Are The People of Color in Children’s Books”, for this excellent quote:

“As I discovered who I was, a black teenager in a white-dominated world, I saw that these characters, these lives, were not mine. I didn’t want to become the ‘black’ representative, or some shining example of diversity. What I wanted, needed really, was to become an integral and valued part of the mosaic that I saw around me.”

Morgan Baker

 

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Grape Outcast

Why did someone invent The grape flavored skittle?

Did they feel obligated to have Purple jumbled up in that Red paper package of s’s?

How could they? Did they think that outcast of a confection Could merge itself into the kaleidoscopic

Taste of the others? Or maybe that rich, vibrant color was met

With the unfortunate truth That the only food blessed with its

Superior hue Was the revolting and foul grape.

An automatic disappointment Sweeps over me

Every time I’m faced with this purple chunk. Would a bag of skittles be far too sublime

Without this blunder of a creation? Or are they simply trying to out-do

The little brown paper packages of m’s That are avoiding this predicament

Altogether?

Madison Chamberlain

 

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Bleu Ruby Daniels-Taylor

The Simplicity of Destruction I was eleven years old when I stole my sister's lace blouse and my mother's

makeup. Due to my novice status, I had to keep wiping away and reapplying. Looking back to that day, I was a mess with flaming lips and gold eyes, but I was proud that I looked different to what I looked like last night. Soon the bus came to a screech and I tumbled down the stairs. Meeting me at the doorway was my mother, wanting to give me a kiss goodbye. Upon seeing me in my abnormal state, she did not give me a kiss that day. She didn't do anything at all, except parting her lips with old eyes she told me, "Darling can't you be a girl, for a moment or two longer?” This is what my mother now refers to as the first fall. It only took me two years to find myself enjoying the back bleachers with old pizza boxes and cigarette buds more than the classroom with a stern voice and screeching chalk. I found that terrifying. In the eighth grade I had only gone to English class for one month, math class: two weeks. My father calls this the imbecile rebellion. Now, I was a smart, creative girl. My poetry made my fifth grade teacher’s eyes fill with tears of hidden sadness. And I had a future. I had the brightest future, I swear. But somewhere between age ten and age thirteen I got bored. Suddenly my life was not entertaining enough for me. I would spend hours staring at a blank wall. Waiting waiting waiting. Waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for my future to come shine down on me. I didn’t seem to realize that the future was so far away. So I made it come sooner. I made my future arrive faster. I didn’t want to stay a girl for even a moment longer. Eleven-year-old me wanted to see if I’d be pretty, if I’d be rich, if I’d be adored, admired, lust after, happy. And I didn’t want to leave that into fate’s hand. Now I'm an adult and my red lipstick clings to my cigarette bud. I often wonder, what would have happened if I had stayed a girl and left it into fate’s hands. Wishing that I could wipe away my past and simply reapply it. Perhaps fate wanted me to be pretty, rich, adored, admired, and happy too.  

 

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10:00 PM Her faded hair began to blow in the wind as her arms grew bumps. Her eyes

flickered with a nervous tension. He looked back at her but his eyes were more determined, more strong, more… dominant.

Her eyes fell to her shoelaces as he tried to indulge her in big words and nonsense spells. He knows what he does. He enjoys it, it fills him with some sort of satisfaction, a passion. A dark passion in which he tries to tell himself that there's no harm. But, somewhere deep in his mind. Hidden away in a box, after box, after box, he remembers. He remembers what mother would whisper after too much wine and too many bruises. But, he does not want to think of that. No, those memories are stored away in a dusty attic that he's moved out of long ago. Her eyes are hollow and dead as she tries to keep up with his rambling words. She doesn't understand anything he exploits yet she smiles nonetheless. She tries to love him. But she doesn't. She doesn't love him, she despises him but she has some sort of loyalty. And she hates that she can't leave. She's trapped. Trapped in a place she believes she's locked. Her hearts is a dull drum waiting to be awakened by anyone. So she settles for him. After long nights of too much wine she wishes for more bruises. To be knocked unconscious, to escape this pain. She doesn't want to be locked up in the same room as his mother and his big words anymore. She's looking for a key. The cigarette in his hand falters to the ground, this seems to slow down his train of thought. He takes his left hand into hers and his right to her chin, tilting it towards his eyes. As his lips part she can tell he's not going to use any big words. But what he does say she still doesn't seem to understand. A smile appears on his face, "I love you." She forces her lips to match his. But her eyes still flicker with a nervous tension. Still hollow. Still dead.  

Bleu Ruby Daniels-Taylor

 

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Dominique Detwiler

Narnia Within my Woods Billowing branches form silhouettes against the sky. As they bend and blow, stretching taller and taller as I fall deeper and deeper into a world that may or may not be real. Do I care if it is, though?

At five-years old, Santa was real and broken hearts were beyond reasonable doubt. Five-years old without five single cares. What a state of mind that was! A time when I dreamed in prisms of light and lived in houses with walls but six inches tall. I could walk through miles and miles Of uncharted territory which Venomous Barbarians had

attempted to annex from me. They could not

for I was Queen of the pulp and of echoes between their bodies.

Queen for a day? a week?

a month? No, I am queen still to this day. I am queen for eternity.  

 

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Milan Gacioch

43 Percent

Wanted: the previous two years of my life back. Reward: my whole, lifeless heart. I look at you all like criminals, A group of degenerates who have taken my world. 57 percent of myself is left empty. And I wait for the tumbleweeds to blow by. Left thirsting for life, Droughty in its luster, psyche, and individuality, My life clings to the dry clay of the desert floor. You have taken everything from me. All my normality, every last breathe. My anhydrous body searches for nourishment, But it cannot be fulfilled. You are missing, Your only remnants are the stains left On every tile floor of a bathroom I have ever entered. Cold, wet tears that have taken the life from me. I have no umbrella to shake them off. And no backbone to make them stop. So I continue to let my lifeless, unsupported body grovel and fashion into a ball. And my barren eyelids work to replenish themselves in their own bawling. My tears are no longer missing. They have been found, but not replaced.  

Emotional Depths

The stream continuously flowed, Like a river leading to the Garden of Eden. The ripples fluttered like a syncopated Ballet, All the same size and beautiful form. Cinderella gazed back at me, As my reflection glittered off the undulations. But this was no sacred place, no delicate pantomime, no magical fairytale. To most, it was the ordinary blend of natural elements, An everyday sight. My eyes had turned it into another world, In which, I was the princess. It was once more that I stared into the glass-like water, Filling my bottle with the untainted drops. Seeing my enchanted face, I leaned closer and closer to the surface… Plop! Splash! In this very moment, my childhood safe haven became an adolescent inferno. The drenched cloth gripped my shivering body, And my dripping hair weighed me down, as I tried to leave the abode that was once all my own. It didn’t belong to me anymore, but to every connotation of embarrassment. It housed all of my secrets, all of the dreams I had shouted to the sky. This blunder only led me to a larger haven, One that could envelop all of my developing thoughts And collect all of my previous dreams. It reflected the many different faces I could be. No longer the unmarred ones, But the true beings I could become. This reservoir holds me down to who I am, And reminds me of the teeming life that has been made.  

 

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Milan Gacioch

Ten True Facts About Me When I experience weather phenomena, I imagine I'm in a scripted movie. I love when the glowing sun forces me to squint. I take a deep breath and pretend I will remember the moment forever. I am prone to spilling nail polish, so I somehow manage to permanently dye every curtain hanging in my room when I try to look fancy. Had I not lost interest, I was a few months away from becoming a black belt in Kempo Karate. For this reason, I can declare myself a ninja. I have often been told that I live in the middle of nowhere, but, to me, everyone else lives in the middle of nowhere. Wet hair is disgusting. Really, anything wet is grotesque. The color red is my husband; the color yellow is my boyfriend on-the-side. Walking barefoot on a pool deck sends shivers down my spine. Used Band-aids and foreign foot fungus comes to my mind. I am certain there is a man living in my attic. He only makes noises when he believes no one is home. Mass production is my nemesis. Why can't people be individuals? The core of my body is made up of donuts. My stomach can no longer contain the contents because of the deep love I have for them. Someday I will meet Beyoncé. She will ask me to dance with her and my life will be complete.

My favorite time of day is 5:00 p.m. The lowering, glistening sun makes me invincible.

 

 

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How can we expect her to understand? No longer inside herself, Just a barren obscurity that roams the halls, A fog that makes you weak for her, On her perfect decline. Descending. Descending. Descending. Down into the very depths of herself, Her inner most secrets revealed, With no more space to hide. Her values change, As she starts to eat away at herself. And the cheers inside her head become more powerful, As the screams from the outside world lose strength in their repetition. Their volume… Descending. Descending. Descending.  

Perfect Decline She wills to risk it all. But with nothing more to give, Her bones on the line, Tearing, cracking, snapping. It’s all worth it to take the trash out, right? But what if more is going in than out? More bologna… I mean, rubbish tunneled into her brain, her heart, her soul. Yet escaping her flesh. Snap Every slight wind of energy sucked out, More junk entering the soul. At least it is something, she says. Yeah, Enough to know there is still a slender share of hope. But not enough, Five more Ten more To wish away the intruder who drifts beside her, Her own dark cloud overhead, I’m fine Telling her it is alright, Okay. Five set of arms, stretched out, It isn’t enough. Five open mouths. Another slowly closing… April comes and nothing clicks. She doesn’t get it.  

Milan Gacioch

 

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The Absolute Keeper

Swear it! Upon your grave You say to the little girl

Cross my heart and hope to die But you do not understand my finality

You think you joke

Simply play with frivolous thoughts But don’t you know the weight of what you

swear For in death there is finality

Finality that your secrets are safe

That they die with you Extinguished along with the lights of life

Left to fade back to nothing

But no There is me

Who comes and steals away your soul

Who hears your last whispered thoughts And involuntarily must remember

Each one no matter how trivial

Lost friends, regret, anger I have seen all you’ve seen

Felt what you have felt Emotion, war, old age Making me feel human

Almost alive Although I assure you I am not

The vault of secrets It’s all in my head

Ever growing, never fading Swirling with brilliant colors

There to stay forever For I am the final confidant

The last listener of your secrets The absolute keeper of unknown mysteries.  

Maia Gallagher

 

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The Person in the Box It was a dreary Tuesday morning, quite early if I remember correctly, with a sharp

wind –the kind that rips through your clothes and makes cold puddles settle in your bones. I had just dropped off a couple business men and was making rounds, looking for another fare when she caught my eye –the woman with the box. She leaned in as I rolled down the window, smiling a greeting and asking if I could take her to a cemetery opposite side of the city. I nodded a reply and she slipped into the backseat, her huge box and a bouquet of flowers in tow. The taxi re-entered the stream of cars and I made my way through the grid of streets to our destination.

As I drove, I glanced occasionally at the rearview mirror at my passenger and her cardboard box. Long after I lost count of the glances I had made, I looked to see her smiling sadly back at me. “An entire person is in here.” She said catching my gaze in the mirror and gesturing to the box. “A box of life’s stories.” I stared at the road, trying not to express my confusion. There was a soft sigh, then “My mother, she passed away a month ago.” Silence. I wanted to say something, anything to express how I felt. But I’m sorry, are two words that people say too often and often too carelessly. Sometimes silence is better –silence and an ear for listening. So I listened to her soft voice telling me about her family, her memories of her mother. How she worried that her brother wouldn’t be able to cope. How she had never felt so alone. “Pictures.” She said tapping the box on her lap, “Pictures and clothes. They’re the best things I have to remember her by; the closest I will ever be to bringing her back.”

There’re a few beats of silence as I pulled solemnly up to the cemetery and she handed me her toll. The door clicked open and fabric slid against fabric. She paused and turned. “Thank you.” she said with a grateful smile.

“For what?” I croaked out my first words to her. There was another rueful, sad smile. “For listening.” she said simply before slipping

out without another word and gently shutting the door behind her. I was left alone with my thoughts and the purring engine of my taxi. I drove away with

misty eyes and watched in the rearview mirror as she kneeled beside a tombstone and gently pressed the bouquet of wildflowers into the fresh dirt at the base. I watched as she got smaller and smaller, finally disappearing as I rounded a bend, her story joining hundreds of others.

It’s been five years since the woman with the box, since I realize that I made a difference. That’s five years serving a never ending stream of civilians; hustling them from place to place; taking cash and dolling out change. Five years of listening to stories. Some are fascinating, others boring. Sometimes they’re told with an accent, or through the clothes they wear. Some stories are told directly to me, but others I overhear –because one rarely pays attention to the taxi driver. I have heard hundreds of stories told inside of my yellow taxi. I have learned no two are quite the same because everyone has their own unique story. I look around the world in a different light, at the people on the sidewalk; anonymous people hidden beneath coats and scarves, each one of them with a story.  

Maia Gallagher

 

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Chasing the Stars It’s a sweltering night, the kind of night when the sweat drips between your

shoulder blades with slow stickiness before soaking your shirt and you toss and turn trying to escape the oppressing heat…the kind of night we dread to spend indoors. But tonight, that doesn’t matter, because we won’t be sleeping in that stifling cave. Tonight, we’ll be outside on a hilltop where the real wind blows, not the sputtering, weak gusts propelled by the rickety fan and ancient air conditioner. Tonight we’ll gaze at the bright glitter in the sky, uninhibited by grimy glass and fraying curtains. Tonight, we‘ll watch the stars.

Rubber rumbles against gravel and then pavement, an exciting sound that electrifies the air, yearning gleaming in our eyes and reflected in the dancing lights above us. Rumbles fade gradually as the ground turns to grass and then fall silent when the engine cuts.

Silence. Beautiful silence until we realize a concert of cicadas and crickets has risen to a

crescendo in its place…or have our ears simply adapted? Soft summer grass tickles our bare ankles and feet as we leave our shoes behind

in the truck, running barefoot through the waving sea of tendrils. Fireflies dance with us, their wings shimmering and waving like stars reflected in an inland ocean, glinting at us from even the farthest reaches of the meadow. We crane our necks upward, at last staring at the jewel studded sky, the unattainable treasure, and the adventure begins.

Aquila glides overhead on his silent wings, seeking for his prey as we cower, hiding in the soft meadow grass. The ocean in the sky ripples as Cygnus swims past, his white feathers almost within reach of our fingers yearning to feel their sleekness. Our journey continues as we pay homage to King Cepheus and bow before Queen Cassiopeia, scamper away from Draco’s flaming maw, and try to run with the seemingly wing footed Sagittarius. Hercules keeps Ursa Major and her companion the Minor at bay as we flee, having strayed a bit too close. Finally, exhausted and feet aching, we fall back into the comforting mattress of soft green turf as Lyra plays its soft music, luring us into the land between dreams and waking.

But what’s this? An invisible hand tugs the jewel studded curtain back, tugged to reveal soft pinks and oranges. We’re on our feet once more, running and running back to our chariot fleeing the light, trying to rejoin the comforting darkness; to keep in sight our sought after adventure. This is purgatory, this sunrise, the time between night and day. The hour so many people find joy in is nothing to us but the end of the thing we so love. Rubber grinds against pavement in a desperate cry of despair, glaringly different from the earlier excitement. But it was never fair, this race, as they all perpetually slip through our fingers, as water does through a sieve. We always lose this race and succumb to the hot golden eye who crests the horizon and sweeps away the last of the darkness. Because she always wins, the great golden eye, and always will no matter how much we chase the stars.  

Maia Gallagher

 

 

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Kat Hague

* In the depths of an institution, in a far-off foreign land The terrors of torture Are found in the entrails of a student’s mind In the remoteness of a soldier’s heart A collegiate milieu of higher learning Found below lies despondency A “justifiable” war A “justifiable” prison Lies within the Heart of Darkness Capable within humanity Rears its loathsome head When no one expects it to at all  

* I am no longer interested in the broadcast, the hearsay of the phlegmatic ink slingers I am no longer interested in the deliberate cover-ups that mask their half, the thorny lies that strangle our own, and the obscurity of rational found in both. I no longer want to see the bloody crucifixion, the dehumanized figure, the exposed mesh of bodies I no longer want to hear the tragedy, the scientific results, and the deductive conclusions. I am no longer interested in others’ problems, snafus, or the dog’s breakfast. I am no longer interested in the truth I don’t want to bear witness to malfeasance, the aberrations of man I want to forget I want to return to the halcyon world above, The place I call home  

* I played no part in that prison (study) That wasn’t me That wasn’t my indiscretion That was the Prince of Darkness I was his pawn, his mere player. He took me to his spine-chilling oubliette In the recesses of his manor There he used me He transformed me I was his lamb going off to slaughter I was studying—polyconmics, ergonomics, reaganomics I was fighting—for freedom, my country’s fathers, good morality. When something snatched, gripped, and uprooted me, and placed my soul in a blender he gave my mind a shot of scopolamine my nose caught wind of the Devil’s Breath My soul dripped into a collective mentality I was one with darkness I had no say I was held captive by the Devil’s red hot strings He took my soul to the valley of Gehenna My body was left to his command I watched from afar as he made me perform his little dance.  

 

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* Devil, why did you choose me? I paid my taxes My shoes aren’t leather My library books go back on time I dropped fifty bucks in the preacher’s hat last Sunday I ain’t no communist, no devil ideologues I graduated from high school, Top 5 in my class I’m on my way to an Ivy League I’m on my way overseas. I was honored, chosen, venerated by my family Devil, why did you choose me? I had a future A degree, badges, awards The world was waiting for me (to return) So why, Devil, did you choose me?

* You may wonder why I’m not describing the victims, The prisoners in the study, the prisoners at Abu Ghraib But, there are two groups of victims Not mutually exclusive The victims who were physically and psychologically persecuted and humiliated by the guards And The guards who were physically and psychologically governed by the perversity of Evil Which group deserves more of our sympathy? Well, most would say the first, but I would like to see more people who express sympathy for the latter group as well They weren’t born villainous, they were transformed by diabolism By non-tangible forces of the world and mind Understand, not everything is so black and white If you were standing in that prison, baton and cuffs in hand, would you withhold? Unfortunately, most studies point to No.  

* 30 years ago, an inquiry of the effects of hegemony 30 years gone by, an inquiry manifested into an actualization 30 years ago, wide-eyed and studious undergraduates 30 years gone by, Middle Eastern militants accused of terrorism 30 years ago, a study abbreviated to six days 30 years gone by, rulings ranging from multiple years to life sentences 30 years ago, humiliating conditions, degradation, and solitary confinement 30 years gone by, rape, sodomy, murder, and phosphoric acid The differences in the situations of the two events arguably differ, however: 30 years ago, the Stanford study showcased the abhorrent power assigned to those with superior roles in society, such as prison guards. 30 years gone by, the acts committed at Abu Ghraib showcase the ghastly authoritarian roles the soldiers allowed themselves to divulge after into believing themselves to be superior to the prisoners. * My many faces come in all different Shapes, sizes, colors, and credence’s I don’t discriminate I control what I can You cannot pray Or solicit your way Out of this one Evil lurks within all My effects are horrifying Even more hair-raising is my potential to become active within all Even your run of the mill middle American college student And your sterling soldiers Your one escape is to become aware of the situation

Kat Hague

 

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Fade Back There was so much red As far as the eye could see there was the red The red of man, woman, child, animal, father, sister, brother, mother All the red you could dream of. We were swimming in it at the end We had no other use for it Nothing to say about it but the stories But eventually the stories of the blood red incidents fade away to black. Everything started to fade to black. Some say it came just as quickly as the red Others say it was gradual But when all you remember is the red It doesn’t matter how fast we saw the black Just that we are back to black Waiting for another spark of red.  

Only Slightly If it isn’t, it isn’t And if it ain’t, it ain’t But if it isn’t, it ain’t And if it ain’t, it isn’t. But what if it is? Then what ain’t it? If it might be, it might be And if it may be, it may be But if it might be, it may be And if it may be, it might be. But is it maybe, or is it only slightly? But if it’s slightly, then its only And only isn’t good enough. It isn’t, It ain’t, It might be, Maybe, But in the end, it’s only slightly.  

Preconceived Notions These humans have such a strange notion of me. They think I come with a bright light, a gentle way to go, But they would never think it’s just me Dressed in black, Just a normal fellow, Just me. They don’t get a kiss or a fearful image to be scared by. Just me in my heavy black coat, hair styled ever so perfectly. What’s wrong with that, though? Why should I be so feared when everyone knows I’m coming? I’m not some Hallmark card character for people to have a preconceived image of. And what’s the point in trying to cheat the man who invented the game? They know they can’t win anyway, Yet my youngest brother H.O. PE always tries to trick them into thinking they can. These humans just wish I wasn’t so normal, So they can wonder, So they can dream I’m not such a normal thing. But I’m not a thing. I am just D.E. Ath.  

Annika Hocieniec

 

19  

Abigail Hopkins

Page Numbers 4th You told me to shoot for the stars, To fight for my beliefs, even if they were against yours. You purposefully provoked my inner feminist and wouldn't relent until I proved my point. When I was little, I hated to be alone with you out of fear of being asked a difficult question - Questions to which you always knew the answer. You had an interesting fact for everything, and weren't shy to share them with anyone who was close by, Whether or not they were listening. You were perpetually impatient for lunch – but she always made you wait. An obsession with Costco brought bulk amounts of everything into your pantry, Where they still remain untouched and dusty, Like fading memories of forgotten souls. But that’s one thing you will never be – forgotten. Flipping through the pages of a poetry book, Crooked handwritten page numbers catch my eye and fill me up with a sudden memory of birthday cards and Christmas presents you sent me, and I realize I will never see the path of your pen held in fingers that trembled like shivering leaves in winter. 5 and 6 slice open that newly healed wound. 3 and 4 make my hand quiver with a longing to hold yours. 1 and 2 choke me and pull me under water. I never saw you until you were gone, And now I struggle alone in the wild ocean. I want your voice in my ears, telling me a story filled with morals, And like winter coats, I will try them on, one by one, And you will keep me warm in my own winter.  

Parisian Alleyways Soft red lights strung over cobbled streets and the air in ever shifting patterns of light breeze and conversation, warmed by restaurant ovens in a hidden maze of alleyways. Hot breath of an eager salesman on my shoulder as he presses a single rose into my hand, urging me to breath in Love’s ruby essence. In the dreamy weightlessness of words made indecipherable by lack of sleep, I can only see red when they speak. Red as the lights above me, dazing late night explorers into a state of trusting bliss. Red as the roses that infuse the air with the scent of love that knows it will never be ignored. Red as the firefly-like cigarette butts that burn through the night in irony. A stranger opens my eyes to the red glow, And it lingers even now in the crevices of memory, No place to go but through my fingertips, Burning its way onto paper.  

 

20  

Kaitlin Hughes

Under You fall below the heaviness of eyelids,

Somewhere deep under you do not know. Alone in this peaceful state,

Nothing but your racing imagination, Your wildest thoughts clawing to show themselves,

Bombarding center stage under the stars, Incomprehensibly haunting your unconscious body.

You gasp for air above the cloak of slumber, Desperately wanting the illusion to show itself.

The ambiguous state of haunting fantasies or reality. Desperation sets in as you almost reach the top,

But gnawing thoughts pull you back under. Disturbing, cruel, and frightening. Deeper and deeper you descend,

Like a rock laden body drowning under the waves. Your mind far under the cloak,

Your body restfully on top in the warmth of your quiet room,

Almost grazing consciousness.  

 

21  

Maribel Leddy

Variations on the Truth

iii. the death of the sun I held a pear in my hand and as its juice bled out over my fingers as I crushed its life between my teeth I realized that it ate too it ate the sun and the earth and I was relieved because once again I was part of the sacred cycle I was no more important than the bite I took into this pear but neither was the sun

iv. god, squared There is a god festering somewhere beneath my bones she is tall and proud and so unlike me that I fight her but at the last moment of our vicious brawl I give in and her hold strangles me into submission with her hands guiding mine the pen glides across the paper at the end of our shared frenzy she drifts away and I am left drunk with the sweet nectar of creation  

i. the interest of wealth one day I opened my eyes and saw above me only words all of them words I had written myself they painted pictures across the ceiling one day I opened my eyes and I ducked under yellow tape blood, smeared on the side walk death, its stench cold in the air I knew that this is where I belonged one day I opened my eyes and I was safe in my bed no more dreaming but I knew I had seen the truth of myself the wealth of a world that interested me

ii. the bitter flower is there ice for the wound of love? ice that can bruise as much as it can heal no, I find, there is not instead there is more burning more fire to cauterize and to numb but if love is the drops of dew on the grass and hate is the searing rod lying steady in my hand where is the licorice drink the alcohol of bees to ease both, separate similar stings?  

 

22  

WeiYi Li The Portrait of Sherlock Holmes

A silhouette erects outside of a building’s French casement in the evening. The resplendent lights in the so-called Appledore’s vaults contrast the silhouette in the night’s dark, for only a gutty figure of an absolutely motionless man can be recognized. He seems to be wearing a cape coat, the sleeves calmly pending down, the collars open upright, as if a wave of knowledge is radiating out of his collars, activating all the cells in his brain. Though standing still, the engine of his brain seems to work with full-power, as urgent as if there are sparkles flying in his hair.

“Sherlock!” Several feet away from the silhouette stand two other man. The shorter one, John

Watson, notices something and immediately shouts out his beloved friend’s name, gazing up at the sky. A helicopter rumbles out from the back of the Appledore’s vaults, suddenly lights up the whole body of the silhouette, Sherlock Holms, with its flickering lights. Sherlock’s face, perhaps the most extraordinary part of his physical appearance, glimmers in a pearl color under the irradiation of the light. His thick auburn curls, also due to the light affect, flickers golden color. Toward the approaching helicopter, Sherlock slowly turns his face, which forms the shape of a nearly isosceles triangle with his chin sharpening out. Due to the helicopter’s direct glare, Sherlock frowns a little, his vigorous eyebrows concentrating to one center, which drives his two eyes sharper, penetrating with shrewdness.

After seeing the helicopter arriving, the other man who calls himself Charles Augustus Magnussen standing next to John seems so satisfy that his evil and deceit become visible. Sherlock walks steadily toward the other two men step by step and hurls the question: “To clarify, Appledore’s vaults only exist in your mind, no else, just there?” Because of the noises above, he throws every word in a sonorous voice. After hearing the affirmation, he takes one more step forward and stands side by side with John, his precious comrade. For a moment, Sherlock only gazes fixedly at John. The strong wind caused by the helicopter lifts up his bangs, revealing the tender lines on his forehead, perhaps the fruits of his agile mind. He then moves his cynosure away, stares harshly at Charles Magnussen.

“Oh do your research. I’m not a hero; I’m a high functioning sociopath.” He shouts in a sarcastic tone, then suddenly his eyes widen as he swiftly pulls out a gun, asserts, “Merry Christmas!”

Sherlock shoots Charles Magnussen in the brain. Magnussen falls right away to the side while Sherlock drops his gun and raises his hands up in the air. Viewing from Sherlock’s back, the light source of the helicopter flashes like a tiny moon, turns Sherlock’s figure into a silhouette again. The wind blows; Sherlock’s coat flutters back in the air, his curls dancing wildly into golden sparkles. Outspread his limbs, Sherlock hugs the shimmer violet canopy, and the sky seems to set him free. After an absolute silence, he composedly turns back to John, eyes filled with sedateness. Throwing John a faint smile, Sherlock consoles his intimate in his serene voice:

“Give my love to Mary. Tell her she’s safe now.”  

 

23  

Hannah Porter

 

24  

Bessie Shiroki

Little Hedgehog You were my favorite

So cute and cuddly I would clench my fist around your tiny cotton body

Carrying you around everywhere I went Tucking you under my arm as I slept

Pretending that you were real As if you could cuddle me back

Instead of me just squeezing you with affection

Forkie was your name I look back and wonder where I came up with that name

But it suits you well You were my little hedgehog

Until I woke up and you were gone

Not in my bed Not under the covers

Not to be found I’ve missed you ever since the day you ran away from me

I don’t understand Where did you go?

Finding you for sale was one of the happiest days of my childhood

You were resting on the shelf amongst other stuffed animals I saw your miniature ears and your plump stuffed body

I knew I wanted you

I cried over you Sadness filled my heart

My eyes constantly were filled with tears I loved you

I always wonder if you will ever come visit me again

I know we haven’t seen each other in a while But I still want you and your fuzzy tummy

Maybe you were taken away Or maybe you really wanted to escape my tight grasp

Where did you go Forkie?  

 

25  

Jesse Sloier

 

26  

Jesse Sloier

 

27  

Jesse Sloier

 

28  

Jesse Sloier

 

29  

Katie Thomas

Constant I’ve never really been one for socializing. It’s never been a good idea for me; I petrify people and they end up running away because I’m much smarter than they expect a Chilean immigrant can be and better at English than they can ever imagine. It’s what they get for being ignorant about women’s equality and foreign countries. The dumbness of American men astounds me still. It was a bright Saturday morning, too bright for my liking. I had been woken up far earlier than I would have liked on a Saturday; a new house equates to no curtains. I escaped my house and made my way over to the Starbucks on Elmwood. Maybe coffee would help my drooping eyes perk up a bit. Thankfully, I lived pretty close, so the walk did not take very long. As I pushed the door open, the overwhelming aroma of coffee beans worked the incorrect magic; my eyelids felt heavier than before the sun had interrupted my dreaming, and I could feel gravity pulling my body into the ground rather than pushing me upwards. I stumbled over into the comfiest chair and contorted myself into a vague resemblance of a sleeping cat, and dozed off into the world of nightmares. My father stalked around the tiny apartment of my childhood, and I was crushing myself into a corner, clutching my mother’s picture. Papa growled at me in Spanish, and though I understood every word, they were all slurred together as he lurched towards my tiny self. You disappoint me. Why can’t you ever just be your mother? Why can’t you ever just do what I ask of you? Why can’t you ever just BEHAVE? His hand rose up and I shrunk even more into myself— I blinked my eyes open, surprisingly calm. That surprised me; dreams of my father never left me calm as I awoke. Perhaps this was due to the hit never coming. “So, where are you from?” Astonished, I looked up to see a scrawny yet clearly fit man cradling his Frappuccino in his hands. Bad decision, his hands would soon be cold. His blonde hair, a shocking contrast to my bright red mop, was messy, as if he, too, had just woken, yet judging from the lack of bags under his eyes meant he clearly had more sleep than I’d had a prayer of receiving. His eyes sparkled like sapphires, but they were probably contacts. No eyes were that shade of blue. His clothes, though comfy I’m sure, pointed to a lack of requirements that had to be done today. Cancelled plans, most likely. He seemed like a good enough prospect. “Nowhere special,” I answered, testing him. Would he persist? Or would he leave it at that? “Oh, come on. I’ve never seen you here before, and I come here every weekend. Where you from?” Bad grammar; ‘Where ARE you from?’ would have been the proper answer. But he passed, and yet I was reluctant to answer him. I looked him over once more, to properly judge him. He seemed nervous and flirtatious at the same time. Well, he thought he was flirtatious. My brain was not functioning properly, he was too difficult to decipher. I needed coffee. “Here,” I replied brusquely before practically throwing myself out of my chair to stand in the now-long line. I glanced at my watch. 11:15. Well, no wonder there were so many people; it was nearly lunchtime. Or breakfast time, in my case. I sighed as I inched forward. What was I going to do? I was rather lonely. Sometimes people are a good thing. Sometimes they’re not.

Shakira’s “Inevitable” began to play, muffled in my pocket, and I immediately whipped out my iPhone and slid the iMessage image on the screen. Even though I’d been awake for a little while, Shakira’s old music was still a little too loud for me in the morning. In English, surprisingly, Music box was taken. Please come quickly. Not sure how much longer before Laura comes round. I had to reread it a couple of times before the barista interrupted my train of thought. “What would you like?” she droned.

 

30  

Distracted, I glanced up and ordered, “A venti espresso, please, black, for Constanza.” I took note of her bored eyes and decided to ignore analyzing her in order to decode the message. I didn’t recognize the number, so I shot a quick Lydia? Did you change your number? She was the only person who could have a music box that important to her. As I impatiently waited for my coffee, I stared at my phone. Could I finally have another case, and one that could turn out to be so easy? Is it possible? I peeked over my phone at the boy from earlier. He just stared at his drink with a curious look on his face. Well, it was curious to me, at least. My eyes ran over him once more as I took in his slumped posture and his eyes brimming with the emotions of rejection and wonder. And yet, none of that made any sense. He didn’t make any sense to me at all, and he needed to. Everyone makes sense, there is rhyme and reason to everything. So why did he not? What made him tick? What made him come to me and talk to me? How long had he been sitting there waiting for me to awake? I didn’t even know his name! Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so different from my father. Where my father was cold, he radiated warmth. Where my father held cruelness in his cocoa eyes, this boy gave kindness. Where my father stayed within himself until he grew furious, this boy would show you everything he had within his range of emotions, his heart on his sleeve. Who was he? Why could I not analyze him? He made my head hurt. I still hadn’t had my coffee. “Black espresso for Constanza,” another barista monotonously said as he pushed my order out. I took it just as the response arrived. Yes, it’s Lydia. Laura will be here soon! Perfect. I glanced over at the boy who had spoken with me earlier, and made a decision. Understanding everything around you is paramount to a detective, even if it’s not your fulltime job. He looked up as I walked over to him and asked, “Wanna come with?” He blinked. “Where to, exactly?” I sipped my drink slowly, and then responded, “A crime scene.”  

 

31  

Jennifer Weber

“Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?” – The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day in June…If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be forever young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that, for that I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!” – The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The Passing of Audacia as read at the Spring Café 2014 Audacia surveyed the water with such immeasurable uncertainty, a faraway look glistening in

her glassy eyes. Her blood ran like ice in her veins. A weeping willow knotted in the ground cast a shy shadow over where she stood, and

Audacia would have marveled at it if she weren’t preoccupied. The heavens were speckled with stars that night, and Audacia could see the half-moon seeming to demand the attention of the sky.

But her figure still loomed toward that eerie little lake that housed sad delicate flowers strewn across its surface. Audacia’s figure was elegantly distorted and thrown on the ground to produce a fuzzy shadow in the foliage. With each step, her feet sank into the crispy leaves, warning the small creatures nearby of her presence. Audacia’s chest rose with an incoming breath and her exhale pierced the otherwise quiet silence of the early hours.

She shuffled into the leaves with an unsteady gait one would typically recognize as the walk of someone’s first stagger out of bed in the morning, groggy with the ribbons of unconsciousness still wrapping around the frail defenses of the brain. But, of course, she had done nothing of the sort. It seemed, rather, that the more distance she gained towards that lake that whispered its danger in her ears, its icy breath on her neck, Audacia’s legs sensed the impending danger about to arise, and though, as if with a mind of their own, they decided they would rather collapse than proceed.

Audacia didn’t for an instant know why she was so drawn to this mere lake, nor why she chose to linger about it for such a long while. She never gained the strength to pick herself up again, so there she sat for what could have been hours, or minutes if one felt giddy enough to lose track of time.

A slight ripple in the water startled Audacia from her reverie, a silent ripple that could just as easily been imagined.

The woman, no, she was a girl still, waded into that dreaded water courageously. There was a strange gleam in her eyes, was it satisfaction? The sky the only witness, Audacia plunged into the deep hollow of the lake, never to ascend for breath again.

The girl under the water clenched her eyes shut, to protect herself from all the colors above that blended together in a frightening blur.

It shouldn’t have been, but on that night, when the stars twinkled blindly in the twilight and the leaves rustled in the torrent gasps of the wind, the murky water took this prisoner as his own.

The lake trickled and its waves made sweet music in the air the following morning, the world unaware of the victim it stole into its sinister cavities while the stars gazed on that unfortunate night.  

 

32  

 

Kerry Xu

Where is she A cloudy Monday afternoon, with breeze and several people on the street

I saw a woman with a grey trilby “Have you ever seen a girl with bob hair?”

“No I guess not, sorry.” “She was wearing pink sloppy pants while she got lost…”

“I’m sorry but I haven’t seen one. I still have work to do, so…” “Okay, thanks.”

I walked further, and looked around me There was a man with ginger hair and a pair of rusty glasses

“Have you ever seen a girl who likes painting and talks a lot?” “Umm…No.”

“She looks naïve and really never cries.” “I’ve never seen her, young lady.”

“Okay, thanks.” I felt disappointed

A boy who just came out from school was running into me “Sorry, have you ever seen a girl who is with dark brown hair walked by?”

“Ha ha, weirdo! No, I haven’t.” “Okay, thanks.”

Then where is she? Wait…I forgot she grew up.