No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as nar-rowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great disillusionment. The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world; and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all that is necessary for the support of animated existence. Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to the very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all, beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that it is not only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer its end. The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its physical condition is still largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region the midday tem-perature barely approaches that of our coldest winter. Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And looking across space with instruments, and intelligences such as we have scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own warmer planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through its drifting cloud wisps of broad stretches of popu-lous country and narrow, navy-crowded seas. And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must be to them at least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us. The intellectual side of man already admits that life is an incessant struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation, creeps upon them. And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit? The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing subtlety--their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of ours--and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like Schiaparelli watched the red planet--it is odd, by-the-bye, that for countless centuries Mars has been the star of war--but failed to interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready. During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the illuminated part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrotin of Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in the issue of Nature dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this blaze may have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us. Peculiar markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the site of that outbreak during the next two oppositions. The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars approached opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of the astronomical exchange palpitating with the amazing intelligence of a huge outbreak of incandescent gas upon the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of the twelfth; and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted, indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving with an enor-mous velocity towards this earth. This jet of fire had become invisible about a quarter past twelve. He compared it to a colossal puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the planet, “as flaming gases rushed out of a gun.” A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next day there was nothing of this in the papers except a little note in the Daily Telegraph, and the world went in ignorance of one of the gravest dangers that ever threatened the hu-man race. I might not have heard of the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in the excess of his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night in a scrutiny of the red planet. In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember that vigil very distinctly: the black and silent observatory, the shadowed lantern throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the steady ticking of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the roof--an oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a circle of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field. It seemed such a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly marked with transverse stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect round. But so little it was, so silvery warm--a pin’s-head of light! It was as if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating with the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in view. As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and smaller and to advance and recede, but that was simply that my eye was tired. Forty millions of miles it was from us--more than forty millions of miles of void. Few people realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of the material universe swims. Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points of light, three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all around it was the unfathomable darkness of empty space. You know how that blackness looks on a frosty starlight night. In a telescope it seems far profounder. And invisible to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly and steadily towards me across that incredible distance, drawing nearer every minute by so many thousands of miles, came the Thing they were sending us, the Thing that was to bring so much struggle and calamity and death to the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one on earth dreamed of that unerring missile. That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty, and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy ex-claimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us. That night another invisible missile started on its way to the earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern and walked over to his house. Down below in the darkness were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace.He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars, and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were signalling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets. “The chances against

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�

Red Shift Staff

Regina Pynn ........................Editor-In-Chief

Abel Alvarez..................................Publisher

Frank Riccobono...........................Secretary

Briana Gilmartin............................Treasurer

Daniel Ready.......................................Editor

Elliot Sadlon.........................................Editor

Michelle Attilio...................................Editor

James Weatherall.................Faculty Advisor

Red Shift is named after a poem by Ted Berrigan, who spent part of his illustrious career teaching at Stevens.Space constraints would not allow us to print all the submissions we recieved. Please visit www.stevens.edu/redshift to view all the work.E-mail Red Shift at redshift@stevens.edu with questions, comments, or to learn how you can get involved in the next issue.

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I � Page Title Artist 2 Shapes Will Estes 4 Letter from the Editor-in-Chief Regina Pynn 4 Untitled 1 Mary Badlissi 5 Lyrics Abel Alvarez 5 Falling Out Love Stephanie Smith 6 College is… Nantalee Kitpanichvises 6 Flower Matthew Edwards 6 Portrait of the Artist Raul Gonzalez 7 Sketch 1 Keith Roby 7 Tech School Romance Stephanie Smith 8 Dimesions Sheeraz Hyder 8 Fly Sheeraz Hyder 9 Snow Keith Roby 9 9-11-06 Michael Bocchinfuso 10 Speed Demons and Poodles Justin Yandell 10 Classic Bryce Kopp 11 The Experiment Frank Riccobono 12-13 Mi Milagro 13 Avignon Caryn Connolly 14-15 They’re All Gone Patrick Gleeson 16 A Poisoned Youth 16 The Next Chapter 16 Go Away Michelle Attilio 17 Incomplete 17 Turnpike and Abandoned DB Draw... David Pfeffer 18 Sucubus Wings 18 Hardcore Fairy Michelle Attilio 19 Sleep In Stephanie Smith 19 Acid Bryce Kopp 20 The Dancer Cassidy DeSchryver 21 Oh Dear Dylan Lupo 22 Amor Bryce Kopp 22 Personas Artificiales Raul Gonzalez 23 For the Narrator who Cannot Speak Regina Pynn 23 View of St. Peter’s Square Caryn Connolly 24 The Countdown Stephanie Smith 24 Zaragosa Caryn Connolly 25 The Dragon King 25 Pumpkin Sheeraz Hyder 26-28 She Jan Cannizzo 29 Blue Eyes Jake Bagdonas 29 Through the Looking Glass 30 Mermaid’s Lament Stephanie Smith 30 The century old Erie Cut... David Pfeffer 31 Be Ahead of All Parting... Regina Pynn 32 Hope Bryce Kopp Our front cover features text from the beginning of “War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells.

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�

If I learned nothing else from Introduction to Programming, I learned that there is a definite art to computer cod-ing. There is an aesthetic element to robotics. A certain rhetoric style is needed for business presentations and a thesaurus is handy when you write proposals. There is nothing strange or unusual about a creative magazine on a technologically minded campus. Red Shift fills a void that Chemistry and Differential Equations cannot. As human beings, we need to express ourselves and communicate. We need to play with paint and take pictures and make little statements about the world we live in. This is, technically, not the first issue of Red Shift, but the original artists and writers have faded away. There were no ashes for this magazine to rise from- it was created from nothing, and we therefore have no qualms about calling this our inaugural issue. Several people, upon hearing the title of this publication, inquired as to whether the “Red” in its title had political connotations. “Red Shift” is the title of a poem by Ted Berrigan, a professional poet who taught at Stevens for a time. A “red shift” is also a physical phenomenon, caused by light emitted from a moving object. I find it an apt title for a creative magazine. Years from now, I hope someone takes Red Shift off of a bookshelf or out of a box and thumbs through these pages. I hope this reader of the future appreciates that living, feeling people put their time into these pieces, showing a personal part of themselves. Men who are often sarcastic or crude have written pieces of love. Quiet, introverted women have offered stunning paintings for your viewing pleasure. May Red Shift continue its motion for many years and may many artists and writers look with pride upon the pieces contained therein. And may the Stevens community never value a line of a poem less than a line of code. I would like to take a moment to sincerely thank the Weatherall family, who are all closely tied to Stevens. They have supported Red Shift financially, they have attended our events over the course of the semester, and James Weatherall has devoted his time and effort into acting as our advisor. Without their belief that a collection of freshmen could pull this off, Red Shift never would have happened. My deepest thanks go out to our executive board and editors. They balanced a chaotic year, other extracurricular activities, and a demanding academic schedule with a sincere devotion to their positions. Finally, I’d like to personally thank my family for always supporting me in my writing, my friends for putting up with my constant talk of poetry deadlines and printing costs, and my own dear “Cheditor.”

Letter from the Editor-in-Chief

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I �

Lyrics- Abel Alvarez

Shameful thoughts that stain the purityWhich brought me comfort in my solitude

Now blacken the window through which I see the worldAnd leave me with my scarred and neglected soul.The shards of memory surround my wounded heart

As if the danger of the pain to come would scare me.But in the distance, blurred by the darkening skyI see the fall that I fear- that I’ve always feared-

The drop that you always promised would never come.Again a memory passes too close-

I catch a glimpse of a smile- the mirror reflectsThe last glimmer of our dying love as I fall.

In the light I found myself blindedIn the dark of night, I lost everything.

Falling Out Love

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�

College is the papers I stayed up till 3:00 am to finishThe exams I studied for till midnightThe class readings I meant to do The physics reviews that everyone attended The last minute projects

College is the professors with the amusing accents The TAs who’d laugh and joke The RAs arranging floor events The campus police unlocking doors The crazy faculty

College is the coolest party on campus The concerts in the gym The watching movies with friends The comedy shows that no one attended The social events

College is the midnight runs to Bagels on The HudsonActing in the Dramatic Society’s fall play Singing in the Choir concert Getting published in the Stute Falling in love

College is laughterCollege is anxietyCollege is freedom College is responsibility College is an opportunityCollege is growing College is a time, a place and an experience College is the best four years of my life so far

College is…-Nantalee Kitpanichvises

Now allow me that which what I am: Bird---with wind beneath and waxed wings, Hold art and beauty in each hand.

Crying ghost---which is my land. Weeping mother’s fruitless dreams. Dripping skies scold me: “Just man!”

Aren’t I not that shepherd’s lost lamb? --Who strayed to answer beauty’s rings?Never to return to yellow land.

Life-’s revealed at the shore of sand.Epiphany. In solace, suns sing.‘Cross trembling bridges towards wet land.

The net unseams to art’s demand.Mind, Body, Soul---Alas!---Art’s light gleams.Allows me that which what I am.

Harmony shall perfect the band.Radiance calls without the screams.Wholeness then---shall reveal the plan.

True art can be seen by a blind man. Less force taken than what it brings.‘S-long-as-I-can be that which what I am.

Exudes energy unknown by man.A vital force shall coat its seams. To create life---The task is grand.

Fabric---of which I am but one strand.Clothing beauty not yet redeemed.Seeing truth, in that fake-you brand.

I shall touch you all without my hands.‘S-long-as-I-can be that which what I am. I become that which for what I stand. A soaring bird to-wards freedom land. -RG

Portrait of The Artist

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I �

Why do you make me feel so highYet so low? I never gave you a

Key to my heart, never showed youThe back door. You opened that

Yourself

Why did I let you stay? YouDidn’t ask, I didn’t mind at the timeYou were a shadow, a spot on a spot

When did you changeYourself?

When did I change? WhenDid the walls shift and

Rearrange the truth within my soul.I swore that I would never modify

Myself

I was complete, but at the same timeEmpty. I would never love someoneLike you. I could wait for another

Person to hold, care, shareMyself

But then you came, you showed me what living could be; the ups the downs, the drops and the climbs that

permeate and saturate every aspect of the world. Roller coaster? No, I tamed the greatest with ease. A mystery? Not even Agatha or Conan himself could touch on the complexity of feelings that swirl and swell within me. The only laws my heart now follows are those set by God. -9.8 is now the number of times and the direction my pulse jumps when you touch my hand. You know those vectors. 8.31 equals the number of times I think

about you in a single second. And 96,500 is the number of times I find myself doubting myself, yourself, per-haps even the ever dangerous “us”. And then I see you. And control n, the world resets.

Your eyes and the way they lightMy way, my heart. Truth doesn’tExist, but trust? I would always

Trust you, blindly, despiteMyself.

You tear me apart when no oneElse dents my armor. But around

You the very air smells of wonderfulAnd I only wish I could give you

Yourself

Because that seems to be the greatest gift anyone could ever give me.

Tech School Romance

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�

There used to beTwo people

In this land

Two people whoWent their separate ways

Outside their control

Just a short time agoHowever it seems

Like an eternity…

Fly with meSpeak to me

Escape endless time’sNecessities

With me

Show the worldFree spirits

Reign supreme

See eternityDeep and dazzling

Darkness

Encompassing A “ring of

Endless light”

Come fly with meCome away with me

Come fly,Come away,

Come again

I look aroundTaking it all in

Looking at lifeIn all dimensions

1 DimensionAn endless line

The shortest distance

2 DimensionsA spaceless Square

Confining the unconfined

3 DimensionsAn Infinite cube

A finite existence

4 dimensionsAn unknowable tesseract

An erudite thought

5, 6, 7, 8 dimensionsSpace beyond space

Searching, yearning

9, 10, 11, 12 dimensionsTime beyond time

Judging, Thinking

n DimensionsUnknown and known

Known and unknown

I come backDown from the apex

To my dimension

And realizeThere is always more

Than meets the eye

FlyDimensions

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I �

“Snow” ~ Keith Roby

9-11-06-Michael Bocchinfuso

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 200710

In the year 2000, over 876,000 people were reported missing. Did you know that? 876,000. Do you know how many of those were children? Almost 90%. It’s a fucked up situation. What’s more fucked up, is that the majority of those kids will never, ever be found.

Drag the lake. Scavenge the woods. If you’re lucky you’ll find something you weren’t looking for. If you can call that lucky.

Do you know why it’s easier to dispose of a child’s body than of an adults? Sure you do. Go on, take a stab at it. They’re smaller. That’s all. I once met a man who said had developed a near infallible technique for disposing of children, particularly infants. Other than that, he seemed like a really nice guy.

There are thousands of roads that connect the habitations of naive little Americans from the East to the West, the North and the South, each one likely traveled consistently. These arteries of commerce and knots to familial ties... they’re filthy.

On any given Saturday night, some bad boy roars across the black top with his buddies. Maybe he’s not attentive, maybe he just doesn’t care, or just maybe he’s like 4 out of every other 5 people who will have that little itch to see if maybe that poor pooch on the pavement can take just one more tire.

Do you know the difference between swaddling cloth and a filthy t-shirt? The difference is whether it is wrapped around a newborn.

These Pomeranians, these Great Danes, these crippled, malnourished mutts... after long enough, the carnage isn’t even noticeable. Blood and bone becomes one with hot tar and gravel. Nothing so pure was ever meant to last.

That dog, that one that lies in the road, that one with punctured, ruptured, and battered organs; that one that everyone thinks about giving at least one more good tread mark; look closer. Babies in fur coats aren’t always children of aristocrats.

Speed Demons and Poodles

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I 11

On a street not so far from here—it may even be your street—something strange is about to happen. In the basement of his house, George, a young boy of fourteen, is performing an unusual experiment, an experiment that could change the course of human evolution. This would be the culmination of weeks of preparation, months of planning, and years of research.

George is suddenly frightened. It is as if he has just realized exactly how dangerous this experi-ment could be. There is a distinct possibility that it could destroy the very fabric of reality. But George is sure of his calculations. He had devised an ingenious theory that, if correct, rules out the possibility of such a disaster. The theory involves quantum mechanics, aspects of string theory, the concept of the fluidity of time-space, and the color of strawberries, but it is too complex to explain. Yes, George knew that his theory was correct, but the possibility of error always exists.

If only George’s parents knew what their son had been doing all this time in their basement, things would have been different. They should have warned him. They should have stopped him. They should have never let him borrow the blender. Unfortunately, it is too late now. Whatever is going to happen will happen.

George checked his calculations one last time. What happens if he fails? Would everyone make fun of him? Would there be anyone left alive to make fun of him? There is no turning back, how-ever. This is the moment of truth. George presses the power button.

Nothing happens. He kicks the computer. Still nothing happens. He is frantic. George has for-gotten to plug in the computer. He does so and presses the power button again. This time the com-puter begins to boot. There are the familiar beeps and humming noises as well as several unrelated clanks from the radiator. The Command Prompt appears. George enters his password and runs a system diagnostic. Everything seems to be functioning properly so George types the command:

$: StartHe takes a deep breath and presses return.The lights flicker and there is a burst of thunder outside. George can hear the rain falling. There

was never supposed to be a storm. A power surge could ruin the entire experiment. The computer displays:

$: Are you sure? (Y/N):George contemplates aborting the procedure. How easy it would be. How safe it would be.

George was never one to play it safe. He presses Y. There is a blinding flash of light and a deafen-ing whistle and, then, silence and darkness.

Then, from another room, George hears a sound that sounds exactly like a fish would sound if that fish were a bowl of popcorn. George turns the lights back on and checks to see whether he is still alive. (This is just a bit foolish because if George had in fact destroyed the universe, then he would have simply ceased to exist and, therefore, would be unable to verify his living and/or dead status.) Luckily, this is not the case. He looks at the result of his labor and cries tears of joy. George had accomplished what no man, woman, child or dolphin before him had been able to do…

He had successfully created the ultimate smoothie.

The Experiment-Frank Riccobono

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 20071�

Dedicated to Jane Milagros del Carmen DoeIn the morning of June 5, 1988 my life had begun. I was seven pounds and eleven ounces of cute and irresist-ible joy. And I had the greatest mother in the world. But my father on the other hand had more important things to think about, like himself. He brought immense pain to his family. Fortunately for me, God loves me. And on July 20 of the year I was born he created the greatest thing in my life, Jane Milagros Doe. She was from Peru and in Peru milagro means miracle. And that was what she was my miracle.I was from a small town called Hicksville in Country County, New Jersey. It was 64 square miles of farmland and woods. The county above us was Pumkin County, New York. I loved going there in the fall to pick the apples from the orchards and help harvest the pumpkins for Halloween. I spent my first 18 years of my in the most beautiful place on earth, yet something was missing. True love was the hole in my life, and the pain from my father made it hard for me to really love anyone. I was too self conscious and afraid to show my life.I went to high school at Country County Technical School where I played soccer. My freshman year I joined wrestling ‘cause my dad wrestled and track to stay in shape for soccer. I the middle of my high school career I met a female thrower from Peru. She lived in Woodsville at the time and had already lived in America for the large majority of her life. I did not know it at the time, but this girl was going to change my life forever.In my senior year fate pushed me toward my true love. I had bought carnations for several of my friends and made joke love cards. It was Valentines Day and I had an extra carnation. I knew I would have an extra carna-tion, so the day before I made her a fake Valentines Day card. It had the Nike symbol on it and said “Let’s do it.” I put some other things in the note to make it funny. When I gave her the note was the day she started to notice me. We were friends, but not very good friends yet. As senior year was nearing an end I got my chance to know her and I started to fall in love with her.That summer we texted each other as if we could not speak and we had a lot to say. We shared our deepest, darkest secrets with each other. She absolved me from all my pain and made me the happiest man in the world. The problem was I was scared. I had never knew that kind of love before and pain and weakness were my two best friends before her. I was giving myself excuses, like forgetting what she looked like and I told myself that long distance relationships don’t work. I got scared and I did not want to hurt her so I started to push her away.We had not talked to each other for a month by the time I got to Stevens. I would have still talked to her, but I did not have unlimited texting like I thought I did and I had no signal at home to call her. But we made a packed to always be friends, so on one of the first nights at Stevens I called her. She answered and it was so great just to hear her voice.During the conversation I had found out that my fear of love had actually hurt her. I did the one thing I was try-ing not to do. Anyway after that day we talked constantly and I fell in love with her all over again and this time I knew I loved her.It was October 25 when we were talking on the phone. She was scared to be my friend because she was scared that what happened over the summer would happen again. I was going to let her go because I thought she was only doing what she thought was best for her. When I found out that she was going to leave for my sake too I told her that her leaving would not help me at all. She wanted to see if fate would bring us together again. Then I had told her that fate only gives opportunities to be happy and that you only get so many of them. Some where in that conversation she told me that we could make it work and that it does not matter if I don’t always see her because if we really love each other we can make it work. Then we both decided to go out with each other.Two days later I am talking with my love on the phone. She tells me that we are not boyfriend am girlfriend. Her reason is that she is an old fashioned girl and I still have not asked her out. Although she can’t see me I get down on one knee and ask her if she would be my girlfriend. Jane Milagros Doe said yes and from then on I yearned for the day her last name would change and we would have vows of eternal love and one day have a family of our own.

Mi MilagroChapter 1

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I 1�

In real time it has been almost 4 months since we have been together and we have broken up a week and a half before Valentine’s Day. She says she loves me, but not in that way and right know her life is too complicated for a boyfriend so I will let her be. We are still best of friends, but I am going to have a hard time finishing the story. So instead I will say what she means to me and how I feel.Mi Milagro-I will never stop loving the woman I met in high school, my first real true love. I will always love the way you made me smile. I will always love the way your hair flows when it is curly. I will always love the memory of our first date and how the cop pulled over next to us as we were making out. I will always love the way our love triumphed over my stupid-ity, especially when I was unsure of my love over the summer before we went out.I am glad you gave me all the confidence in the world. I am glad I stopped thinking about what other people might think and I looked deep inside my heart to find out that I love you. I am sad that we broke up, but as long as you are happy I will be fine. I know I am not perfect, but your love inspired me to get there. And I thought it was possible too when I saw how perfect you were. And you still are and will always be perfect in my eyes for you showed me what true love is. I know you, again, stopped believing in true love, but it is out there and I will pray that you will find it. Please trust your heart when you do find it and don’t be afraid, for you are strong, much stronger than you think. I wish you well and to the love we had between us I will try to say farewell. “So good-bye to our love,” I will say after some time, but now I say hello my friend. If you need me I will be there. If you want to talk to me I will be there. And if for some strange reason you change your mind and you need to love me I will be there.-Your new Best Friend, John DoeThere is love and there is loss. There are miracles and there are disasters. And all I can say about them is that everything happens for a reason. We may not always know what the reason is, but there is a reason. That is all I have to say.Well I have one more thing to say. Because I have truly loved my life has been better, because of my miracle I know what happiness is. Thank you, Jane, for giving me that brief moment in time. Though it was so small (in time), it was well worth it. I love her and she will always hold a special place in my heart, as the woman who showed me what love is.

Mi MilagroChapter 2

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 20071�They’re all gone…Why, I don’t know,Family, friends, everyone…I pick myself up off the ground,I walk down the street,The diner,The gas station,The butcher shop,All empty…I don’t remember anyone leaving on vacation,I don’t remember anyone moving away,I don’t remember anyone I don’t remember anyone dying…

I walk through my neighborhood,Looking for children playing in a yard,People getting their mail,A dog barking at a passing car,Nothing…

No wait, a cat in the bushes!It flees from me,I chase,To the park,Under the slide,Though a house,Out into the yard,Out of the neighborhood,To the edge of town,To the graveyard,The cat stops, standing in front of the high gate,I approach slowly, hoping to surprise it,I coil, hoping to spring on the cat and catch it,I leap, it jumps away,Into the graveyard.I slam into the gate,Forcing it open, tumbling in after,I look up,Directly at the nearest tombstone,I read it. I can not help it,It’s the bus boy at the diner,No dates,No epitaph,Just a name.I don’t understand,I look to the left,

The waitress,The right,The cook,I don’t understand,Why did they die?What could have happened?I look away but see another grave marker,This one of the gas station owner,Around him are his employees,The cashier,The attendant,The window washer,Scared, I look away again, but only see more signs of death,The head butcher,The guy who ran the slicer,The girl who mopped up,And over here are the children who would play ball in their yard,And there are the people who would get their mail,Even the dogs who would bark at the passing cars,My friends,My family,All here,All dead,Why…I still don’t know,Away in a corner, the cat begins to meow,Over and over again,Meow,Meow,Meow,It won’t stop,My head begins to ache,Throbbing with each meow,Hurting more and more every time,The cat is still meowing,It won’t stop,I must make it stop,I run to the cat,Cover its mouth,It bites my hand,But I barely notice,The blood dripping to the ground,The cat’s bite relaxes,Its body goes limp,

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I 1�What I have I done?I killed it,I don’t really know why.

Since I’m in a grave yard,I might as well bury the corpse,I grab a spade,Dig the hole,With perfectly straight edges,I put the cat in, and bury it,When I’m done, the ground is perfectly level,The gravestones and the chisel are nearby,In a small shack, on the edge of the graveyard,I walk over,There are five markers left,Just as I remember,I carve into one,“The cat that was in the bushes”Again, perfection,I place it on the cat’s grave,Then I wonder what happened,And why everyone is deadI try to think,And remember carving the tombstones,All of them,I think harder,And I remember burying the bodies,All of them,I think harder,And I remember digging the graves,All of them,I think harder,And I remember killing the people,All of them,One by one,The dogs who barked at passing cars,The people who got their mail,The children who played ball,The girl who mopped up,The guy who ran the slicer,The head butcher,The window washer,The gas attendant,The cashier,The gas station owner,The cook,

The waitress,The busboy,My friends,My family,Everyone,All me,I killed them,I dug their graves,I buried their bodies,I carved their tombstones,I did it all,Why?Why did I kill all of them?What is wrong with me?I run from the graveyard,Screaming,Crying,Trying to understand,I run through my neighborhood,Knowing why there are no dogs barking at pass-ing cars,No people getting their mail,No children playing ball in the yard,It’s because of me,I run down the street,The butcher shop,The gas station,The diner,All still empty,But now I know why,Me…I stop and lay in the middle of the street,No longer screaming,But still crying,I don’t know what to do,I’m a monster,A horrible, despicable imitation of a person,The right side of my neck begins to twinge,And my head begins to ache,The pain is all I can think of,But I don’t know what’s causing it,I feel something in my mind break…

They’re all gone…Why, I don’t know,Family, friends, everyone…

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 20071�

Reluctant stream of happinessA train that’s dark and coldWill this young boy be aliveWhen he is twelve years old

He knows not where the exit isOr why he took this road

The only thing he wants right nowIs his humble abode

He kicks and screams and latches onTo anything that’s near

And that is why he won’t againSuccumb to his one fear

The taste of his blood fills his mouthHe gasps for air to breathe

This young boy who wants so muchHis heart worn on his sleeve

He needs to escape everythingHe thinks is dark and cold

If this young boy wants to liveUntil he’s twelve years old

A Poisoned YouthThe Next Chapter

The young boy survived his testAnd now his is fourteen

But now he’s on a different pathAt the edge of a ravine

He thinks of giving his heart upAnd making himself weak

But the girl he wants to loveThinks of him as a freak

He leaves his friends and cuts his hairTo fit in with her crowd

She finally says “yes” to himHe now floats in a cloud

And then one day she says to him“We’re better off as friends”

But unlike other people’s livesThis isn’t where it ends

He later sits upon his bedAlone in his big home

And to win this girl’s sweet loveHe starts to write a poem

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I 1�

The angel I have long sought outIs just within my reach

But now my heart is deep in doubtIf on her I should leechNot that I’m a parasiteOr anything like that

I just want to hold her tightAnd tell her she’s not fat

Why I love her, I don’t knowI don’t know why I try

She wants to let our friendship growBut all I do is cry

She means more than the world to meBut she rejects my love

I want her to be in my lifeShe fits me like a glove

Its like this girl is my godsendA half to make me whole

I wish she knew just how I feltA peek into my soul

But every word I have to sayIs something I repress

I hold my tongue and count to tenThese things I won’t addressThey’re stupid and emotional

The words I have to sayMy heart can skip a beat or two

When next to her I layIts like this story never ends

Its every time the sameIt all repeats over again

I’m always left in shameI sure do have a lot of things

Wrong with my heart and mind

IncompleteThe girls just want to be my friend

They all say I’m too kindI wish I could go back in time

To where it all beganThings would sure be different if

I acted like a manI’m not sure if you know thisBut you mean the world to meThe best person I’ve ever metYou have my heart’s one key

You say that I cannot love youI don’t know what it means

I’ve felt this way only for youYou run through all my dreams

This isn’t just about contactIt ain’t a kiddie fling

The last two years matured my heartThis is the real thing

You’re everything I want in lifeI’d give up anything

Just to hold you in my armsYou treat me like a king

You’re the one that I deserveFor all those years of pain

Now this is your time to healTo clear up your heart’s rainI hope when you at last healThere’ll be a place for me

To be there with you once againReturn again to me

You make me happy when you’re nearI know I’ll do the same

When we’re together once againI will have won the game

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 20071�

Floating down a tear filled roadOn a single leaf of hope

A young boy filled with so much pain Decides not to elope

This succubus once looked so kindThis demon had his heart

She reached her hand in, tore outAnd ripped his love apartNow he’s on his bed again

Long after his ordealPondering whether or notHis heart will ever heal

Succubus WingsA bottle full of vicodin

And lots of alcoholHe sits and wonders if that girl

Ever loved him at allAs he takes the first white pill

His pain all melts awayThe next two pills help him decide

If in this life he’ll stayHe chooses “No” and takes ten more

And half a quart of ginHe then lays down and slips away

From life he’d never win

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I 1�

Sleep InWake up.

Do something.Do anything.

Your alarm clock’s callingBecause you can’t-

Relax I mean.

There are things to doTo be done

To discover-Your future

Society needs itYour present-(Presence?)-

Can change the world.Or worlds

Whichever, whatever, you want

Because you know what?Creativity is the new pink-

No, orange I think.

They think-No, they say

That you should strive to achieve,Succeed

For the futureBut why wait?

God knows life doesn’t.

Because if we’re defined by what we do,Then maybe we could all be something new

How about black?No, mauve I thinkIt’s your decision,

Do you want to sleep on it?

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�0

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I �1...oh fun...too tired to function properly...maybe I should sleep...nah...not just yet...so things...and stuff...and crap...which is not a neutral word...of course...negative...how fun...it should be positive for a day...we did fun crap today...like throw flaming cheese balls off the fifth story and taped them smashing into the cement...or the people below...who then proceeded to catch fire..as if they had a choice...they could have used their made dodging skills to dodge them...or ripped them off and threw them onto someone else...haha...that would be funny...yet....after a while...poor-ing..cause no one would walk there anymore...they’d all be on fire already...and then...then the animals...like the squirrles...would start a riot..and throw acrons and other woodland objects and projectiles at the firey people...and then the squirrels would have toasted nuts...as well as the other people...but do squirrels really enjoy toasted nuts...can they eat them that hot or without salt...maybe they prefer slightly grown acorns...liek the kind that has partially grown...but then the squirrel takes the tiny sapling and smashes it against the cement and eats it...dumb squirrel...destroyign the ecosystem and all...then the grown up trees would get mad at the squirrels for causign a descrease in birth rate for hte tree population....the squirrels would then get violently evicted from their tree homes and smashed against the forest floor without abandon from the trees...and the roots would suck the squirrels up and transport them underground...and then through the earth’s core..the surviving squirrels would then have to dig themselves out through the core through miles of molten rock and then really hard rock..those who survive that journey would become Chinese squirrels...but not real Chinese squirrels...sicne they;d be on mainland China...they’d be communist Chinese squirrels...they would be “real” Chinese squirrels if they managed to get to Taiwan where Chang Kai Shek lived...but everyone knows that squirrels can;t swim...therefore they would have to use their excellent navagation skills to navigate the earth;s crust as they left the core to enter into Taiwan without hitting other China or the ocean...where they would probably die..cause they can;t swim..haha...dumb squirrels...and then the squirrels would repopu-late China cause they can survive in the desesrts of China and crap...and have no natural enimies or something..and then their armies would take over mainland China and overthroww the communist regime...now when they do this...we do not know if the squirrels would instate capitalism or not...they may even keep communism...but it would be squirrely communism not dumb communism...they;d be the nazi squirrels....they;d first take revenge on the trees with a mass extermination and harvestation of all plant matter...which they would use to clean their toilets...then they would takeover taiwan after their infintie knowledge of German baroque music they would tame the wild Chinese dragons to do their bidding...since the Chinese dragons enter a state of hypnotism when exposed to such music as German baroque...this way they can fly over to Taiwan and fling flaming cheese balls at Taiwanese squirrels and watch them hit the cement...or ideally the other squirrels..and watch them catch fire...but then their would be no more squirrels to set on fire...and that is when they conquer Taiwan..but then the Taiwanese fishes fling seaweed at the bur-nign squirrels exrtinguishing them..and the Chinese squirrels get mad at hte fishes...and force them into servitude and exile...except since squirrels don;t liek the smell of ifshes...all the fishes would be exiled...except they can;t get into the earth;s core cause they’re fish and that would be silly...so the fish would be loaded onto pulleys and sent to the moon...they dont; need to breath...they have gills...so only the retarded fish..the ones the other fish said would never survive cause they lack mental capacity would survive to the moon...and then the fish would restart the evolutionary chain on the moon...despite the fact that the moon has no atmosphere..and they woudl all die in a bajillion years any way even if they did restart the evolutionary chain..they would get to like dinosaurs and the the sun would explode...and the squirrels...the ones who survived the cataclismic blast woudl be like...haha...would restarted the evolutioanry chain on the moon where everyone thought it was impossbile cause there;s no atmosphere but then the sun exploded and you all died...hahah...but then the surviving squirrels would have no where to go cause it would be like a gaga-zillion degrees in every direction cause of the massive explsoion..which is only liek a dot compared to others...and the squirrels would float on in space forever cause the common knowledge that certain squirrels are immortal..like the ones who run across freesways infront of tractor trailers and junk and don;t die...cause they are dumb..and immortal...everyoen jsut thought they were dumb..they were really immortal...but they didn;t know that...they were all suffering from manic depression and wanted to end it all very quickly..haha...sucks to be them in depression and know they can;t die...now they are floating in space forever...and havign pains being not able to breath eat or sleep and crap...haha...manically depressed squirrels...thsoe squirrels should kill themselves...but they can’;t...hjahah

Oh Dear- Dylan Lupo

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007��

Amor-Bryce Kopp

En cual tienda fue que tu comprastes tu persona?Piensas con tu mente prestada de otra genteA quien le mientes con tu personalidad fiada?Con tu mirada de hypocrita. Hablas con una voz robada.Sacando escudo y espada cuando te digo la verdad de lo que eres

En tus ojos veo un cobarde encarseladoUna oveja vestido de loboUn estupido, mendigo, ignorante, precipitadamente dis-frazadoAcusas y criticas por las mismas cosas que tu practicas

Que es lo que ves cuando miras en el espejo?Te contenta saber que eres una duplicacion?Claro que no. Ignorante. Nunca llegaras a la Realización Tu no eres un hombre; eres chango.Lo que ves y olles estudiando y replicandoRegurgitando toda la mierda que te comes

Tu, con todos otros como tu, son personas artificialesSin nuestras propias mentes, nosotros humanos no somos

PERSONAS ARTIFICIALES mas que animales.DaleAtrevete por primera vez a valorisar lo que de verdad vale

No son tus joyerias o tu carro o tu ropa finaNo son cuantas putas proclamas que has tenido o tienesNo es cuanto bajo pegan tus bocinas o con quien caminasNo es de donde tu eres o vas, porque tu vas, pero mil lla vienen.

Para ti es incompresible pensar profundamente de lo que yo hablo.Has sido otro por tanto tiempo,Que’l puro pensamiento de actuar como tu mismo-es lla un concepto lejano

Tu eres menos que humano;Salvage! Solo un bruto animal!Tu eres menos que hombre;eres una persona artificial.

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I ��

For the Narrator who cannot speak

Contact, consummation, consumption, creeping, crawling, crouching, cringing, struck. Jack, she had a dream last night and you were in it. The whole world blew up until you both stood on a bit of rock with clover under your bare feet. You leaned in and tried to unzip her jeans again, but she pushed you away until you fell over backwards and went tumbling over the stars. Now her eyes are open and the stars were only water stains on the ceiling. The clovers were bed sheets tangled around her toes and the explosion- thank God- was her head against the bed frame. “Maybe, you might want to.” “No.” I wring my hands. You wring your hands. You wring my hands. He/she/it rings together. Uncomfortably vivid. Once, after you bit her neck too hard, she dreamed the sky was a cotton canvas, suffocating her. When her father died, the stars sounded like piano keys and she dreamed about opera. The day before she started cry-ing in your bedroom, Jack, she took rubies, bashed them against each other until blood came out and the dust was a sheet she threw around herself. Bells, like those leaden circles again. “Are you sure you don’t want to?” “No.” Those nights while laying, weeping/ hardly daring, sleeping/ speaking, keeping, reconciling/ the windows and the wall. Teach, taste, tantalize, texture, taught, tight, taught some more, trade, trilling down the spine, touched,touche, but it couldn’t have been like I imagine it to be. Something so delicious wouldn’t delicious couldn’t be could never be the way it seems from my from (white sheets) Bed. No, no, no, no, no. And the inky afterbirth, the (sorry, sinking, sleeping, sexy, sad, sadist, sorry?) hours before mid-night, the confessions the whispers that glide into the ear (down to the heart, the stomach, they never stop sliding, do they and I hoped not). ~she said.

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007��My feelings for you shift like the wayward winter windThe crosswind catches and pulls and rips at meDaring me to chase you- but I resist.I’ve been down that path before- that treacherous journeyThrough danger and pain- I braved it all for youOnly to find that you didn’t want to be saved.

Instead I perch within the cage of my mindDefying my heart to follow its own will and wander again.Oh how it fought to break free! And oh how I wanted to let itBut I knew its traitorous intentions- to flee down your trail againAnd release the unyielding storm that now feels like home.

I swirled and danced within the cold once- twice- I’ve lostThe count of the number of times you turned against meAnd left me there alone to fend off the knifelikeAdvances of the grinning wolves of night.

And yet, deep within my mind’s eye, within my soulI know that someday you will no longer be able to swayMy defenses and break through my barrier against your touch

And then my heart will truly be able to choose anotherRoad to walk, path to follow- and the cold ache in me will fade.

And so I wait- for spring will come

The COUNTDOWN

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I ��

A flame inside me burning brightTo darkened land and sea bring lightI found a regal magic ringWhich made me feel like I was kingAnd then upon a ruined throneI sat and it became my ownI then rose my bright flag highWhen dragons saw it in the skyAnd when they came upon me swiftI had no fear, I did not shiftA dragon’s might should not be fearedRather it should be reveredIts wicked wrath and wretched cryWill never make a good man dieThe evil man should fear this callFor dragon’s wrath shall be their fall

The Dragon KingThe dragons live not by our lawsThey live by a more noble causeFor soon they will return againArise from slumber in their denThe world is full of sin and strifeIt rips through us just like a knifeI sit here in my throne and thinkWhat I could do to fix this kinkI realize that I can’t possessA cure-all for this deep distressPeople, evil just for kicksIs what the dragons come to fixSo friends of mine, I ask of theeTo open up your eyes and seeEvil is no way to goThere’s no excuse for now you know

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007��

I’ll tell you now: she was angelic. I never heard her sing, and probably she was terrible, but she spoke in the sweetest, most enchanting tones. Every word sprung from her lips was endowed heavenly enunciation, so even the simple how-are-you’s dispensed to passersby would kill you. And it was never how’re you. Her words didn’t run together, but each syllable received due articulation. Her nose was small, shapely, concavely sloping to its tip. Her eyes were mesmerizing—large, round, myopic, and a wonderful shade of blue, though I think she wore contacts that dyed their true color. Her lips struck an impossible balance between rigidity and pliability. They were large and full when she spoke, un-dulating with all the maddening fragility of one of those gigantic soap bubbles you sometimes see floating through parks on summer days. When she was silent her lips lay delicately atop one another. At times they pursed themselves together so tightly my heart felt compressed. We went to school together. I first met her when a class we shared dismissed and spilled into the outdoors. It was by all means a perfectly chance and innocuous encounter (she dropped a book), yet some-thing clicked in the back regions of my mind when I saw her. She was simply stunning, and beautiful—and possessed not by the beauty painted across the covers of magazines, but by a raw and arresting cuteness that pierced right through me. I was lucky enough to form a friendship with her, but it was a shallow friendship. We rarely saw each other. I had neither the courage nor the audacity to pursue her. Indeed I could dis-cern only so much about her life across the great gulf that separated us, but she seemed to me to move seam-lessly between boyfriends, leaving me without any apparent window of opportunity.Thus I witnessed her only occasionally: across desks, dutifully taking notes, or at the ends of hallways, or bouncing around campus from a distance. Every now and then our paths crossed and we engaged in stupid conversations, none of which I could pay any attention to. She had a habit of swinging her head, as if it were simply too heavy for her body, from side to side when she spoke, and it drove me mad. (At the peaks of her pendulum swings she left exposed a glorious tract of neck so perfect any vampire would dream of sinking his fangs into it.) This was the extent of our interaction.I will admit that my obsession with her often submerged me in delusion. I imagined her by my side when I slept, and next to me as I walked down the street, and, as I whiled away late hours of the night before the flicker of a television screen, eating soup and junk food, that her perfumed hair was draped across my chest. My powers of imagination grew, and we developed a fantastic, dreamlike relationship. Imagined arguments fizzled immediately into passion. She materialized, as if from the earth beneath me, into my arms whenever I desired her. Of course it was all imagined, and it all steered back to reality before too long, usually through a loud sound, or a focusing of my vision, and then her utter absence stung me. A small miracle occurred in my senior year. It was the sort of thing an objective mind expects to occur from time to time: a moment of togetherness, of falling-togetherness—the eventual arrival, after so many in-congruous circumstances flying past each other completely or colliding in odd, unsatisfying ways, of a com-mon denominator. It was a chilly Sunday morning. I had just awoken, thrown on my jacket, and left my apartment to sat-isfy an unusual hunger for breakfast. I was making my way across the lawn nearest my building when I saw her. A blur, at first, and I had to strain to make out the details (beautiful as she was, her basic shape was com-mon to a great many girls whose appearances dimmed into the ordinary upon closer inspection). I discovered in a rush that it was her. She had already noticed me—in fact we were the only people on that big lawn—and was smiling and glowing as she approached. The usual greetings ensued. There was a rise in the grass, about five feet high—just a ridge, really, that connected sunken lawn to sidewalk, but it was steep and slick with dew. I walked up it and she began her descent, and I had already turned my head when a shout shot through the air. I turned around and took a few steps back. She’d slipped and fallen and lay prostrate at the base of the rise. Hot tears were welling in her eyes, streaming then down

She-Jan Cannizzo

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I ��soft cheeks, making their way around bits of grass stuck to her skin. I think I broke something, she managed. One of her feet was twisted and she said it hurt. Come on, I said, and picked her up as gently as I could. My right arm was beneath her knees, the left wrapped around her shoulders, her right arm was around my neck, the left clutched a bunch of t-shirt at my chest. She winced now and then, despite the phlegm caught in her nose from crying, then sniffed, and each time she did I pressed my fingers into her flesh a little harder. We spun across that lawn, floating through a wrought iron gate, beneath an overpass, leaving in our wake but the briefest trail of winter exhalations, as if we were some locomotive. I heaved and smiled once we reached the steps to my building, and almost laughing I met her glossy eyes and told her she’d be fine. There was a terrible fumbling for keys, completed finally when she agreed to be let go and balance on one foot. It was a short hop to my apartment. Inside she lay down on my sofa while I called for help. It would be a few minutes. I knelt by her side and let my fingertips rest on her shoulder. She cast a glance at her aching foot, then closed her eyelids and let out an almost inaudible moan that sent me shivering. My thumb crept into the hair behind her ear and began to rub it. I should have gotten ice. Instead I found my other hand gliding over the tiny golden hairs of her forearm. I asked her if she was all right. It was all I could think to say. She told me she could barely move her foot, the pain was so bad. A deep breath sent her breasts pushing skyward. Already someone was knocking at the door, but I didn’t get up to open it. That she was stretched out before me, under no one’s watch but my own, was more than I could bear. I shamelessly searched her con-tours, trying, hopelessly, to sear their every detail into my wretched mind. At times like these the flood of the moment is enough to overwhelm any conscious attempt at memorization.The knocking persisted, a distant annoyance stabbing into my dream. She looked at me, and one of her knees dropped lazily to the side. I wanted to press myself into her lips. She didn’t seem to notice the knocking, even as it grew louder, and then in one swift motion she pulled my head towards hers and kissed me on the cheek. Thank you, she said, and then she disappeared again.

Years went by. I don’t know how many. And I find it difficult to describe the interim with anything but an endless ellipsis—in those years nothing happened but the dull and banal, the mechanistic wheelings of life’s cogs. Oh, I know: life is a sea of change and turmoil, a kaleidoscope of endless possibility and reawak-enings. But what had passed was dirt and drudgery (and at times isn’t life’s stubborn refusal to alter course and surprise you not itself an uncalculated surprise, reaffirming its infinite variability and unpredictability?). I got a job at a small insurance firm, for which I did smalltime actuarial work: statistical analyses, asset management, on the whole worthless and mirthless labor which I trudged through with neither zeal nor scorn. I still loved her. Indeed my love life had only withered since my college days—spattered (and with pathetic frequency) with overnight romances, but otherwise dry. I thought about her daily, and how I wish I could say that her features were etched forever into my mind exactly as I had once known them. In truth her face had blurred slightly, though I saw it in flashes of clarity from time to time. Her posture and man-nerisms—these too my mind had toyed with over the years, surely exaggerating them with a false intensity where the true memory had decayed. In the spring I was forced to attend a conference at the other end of the country. All expenses were paid, of course: a daily allowance for meals, and a week’s stay on the seventh story of a dank hotel. What I didn’t know was that on the eve of my third day of sitting through presentations, in an unfathomably unlikely coincidence, she and I would meet again.It was in the hotel that I saw her. Worn out from the day’s proceedings—too tired, even, to venture anywhere for a meal—I descended from my room and seated myself at a pub in the lobby. I ordered a drink. The pub ran perpendicular to the lobby’s large windows, and I sat rather near them. A white, overcast sky shone inside with annoying brightness, silhouetting, in degrees, the drinkers lined along the bar. I ordered another drink, considered ordering some sort of food, but a quick scan of the menu convinced me otherwise. The bartender, a genial, smiling man, registered my order and wiped the space in front of me with a dish-cloth. On second thought, I ordered another drink.

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�� She appeared suddenly, among the silhouettes towards the bar’s end—stricken, though, by the light of a low-hanging lamp. A tidal wave peaked and loomed inside of me. As my left leg slid hopelessly across the surface of my barstool and towards its edge, as both of my hands, bloodless fingers spread wide, pressed down onto the bar for support, I stared at her, matching eyes with eyes, hair with hair, lips with the lips I once knew. My mind ran wild, trying desperately to determine whether what I saw fit what I remembered, but memory itself was cast into a state of flux, blurring, then reforming, swimming constantly between too many remembrances and the image of the girl before me. From my distance all I really saw were red lips and blue eyes, smooth brown skin and golden hair. But, no—it was her. I was sure of it. It occurred to me that I had no idea how long I’d been staring at her, then that she was staring back at me. I felt my eyebrows floating and my jaw sink. She smiled, either coyly or sunnily or deviously or lovingly. As she slipped off of her barstool and approached me my face continued to melt, dripping soft clay puddles onto the floor. Our conversation consisted in a flurry of questions. She was doing well, she was here on business, she didn’t want a drink, thank you, she was—I missed the rest. She was wearing a short black dress and a glit-tering pendant necklace. Everything about her seemed intense. Her face was marked-up with makeup, the lips a bright, waxy red, the eyes a deep cerulean. She mentioned some-thing about something, touched my left leg slightly; I don’t know how it happened, but we found our way into the elevator, ascend-ing to the seventh floor. In my room I stammered a reckless confession. Ever since freshman year, every day for the past thousand years. I loved her. I couldn’t help myself. She was an angel. She laughed as she neared me. I plunged my hands into the soft flesh of her bare shoulders and kissed her. Her small fingers began to tug at my belt. Oh, the most electrifying swell of delight crashed over me as my princess beamed before me, genuflect-ing. In delicious gradations our clothes fell to the floor, and our hands slid around each others’ elbows, and we dove into a creaking sea of springs.

I drifted out of unconsciousness and into headaches. My left hand was entangled in a heap of bed sheet, the other slapped against the surface of a nightstand as I righted myself. My wallet, I noticed, no lon-ger had any cash in it. She was gone. I don’t know where she went. She left while I was sleeping. With bars of morning light rocking gently across my chest, rubbing my temples now, I squinted into the dark folds of sheets spread out before me. For a moment I thought: if only she knew. If only she knew the ecstasy we’d experienced together. The romantic moments shared over cans of soup and pudding spooned from plastic cups. The fits of passion. All that non-sense whispered across cold pillows, dust, and stiffening socks. On the nightstand next to me, an alarm clock rang.

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I ��

A few weeks ago, I was on the train. It was a perfectly normal morning; I had a lot of work to catch up on so I decided to go in an hour earlier than usual. Nothing suggested that this train ride would change my life. As far as foot traffic was concerned, the early ride paid off; very few people were out and about that early. Only five others were even on the train, just the average morning city commuters. However, one caught my attention. A lady sat across from me. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary about her; she was blonde, average height, dressed in business attire, and thin. But, she had the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. They were vibrant and intense, like a wolf’s eyes. I found it very difficult not to stare. I tried to look away for a moment, to abide by the one second rule: no two strangers could have more than a second of eye contact. After waiting for a little bit, I looked back at her and she turned and looked at me. Her entrancing eyes consumed my mind and something totally unexpected happened. All or a sudden, I was no longer on the train. I was high in the air, above an ocean. The water was the same deep blue as the woman’s eyes, and its light shimmer was very calm and tranquil. Just looking down at the shimmering sea made me feel warm inside, as if I were sunbathing. The sky was totally clear, not a cloud in sight. I looked off into the distance and saw land. I flew over toward the shoreline. The landscape was immaculate and beautiful. The beach was clut-tered with black rocks, making it look like a checkerboard with the light sand. The beach abruptly gave way to a vast plain, with lush green grass and a herd of mustangs gracefully galloping along the shoreline. Their movements seem chaotic, but at the same time organized, and they sparked a bit of curiosity in me. I drifted over to follow them. As I followed the mustangs, the flat plain gave way to dozens of hills as far as I could see. The mustangs started to slow down to a steady walk. Since they were no longer running, I descended to join them. Once my feet touched the ground, I was quickly and violently lurched from the daydream. I blink-ed my eyes and I was back on the train, staring into her eyes. We both awkwardly looked away. The train pulled into my station and the doors slid open. I wanted to ask her out for coffee or some-thing, but since I had been caught violating the one second rule, it would have been too awkward to ap-proach her. I quickly got off the train and went to work as if nothing had happened. I never saw her again. On my way home that day, I started to think about her again, remembering the little dream world.

All of a sudden, it hit me – her eyes set me free. I was an analyst for a software company. My job was to see and understand the com-plex web of cause and effect relationships around me. My immediate instinct upon see-ing something was to ask why it is so. But in the daydream, nothing was the same. I had no impulse to ask any questions. Why am I here? Why am I flying? What’s happening to me? How do I get out of here? Everything simply existed and needed no purpose, no cause. It just was, and that was all that mat-tered. It was the most liberating experience of my life.

Blue Eyes-Jake Bagdonas

Red Shift Volume I, Issue I Spring 2007�0

Wave upon rolling wave flows over my suspended body.Suspended animation, contemplation issues forth unbounded.My thoughts mingle with the raging water’s torrential course

Rushing, waning, never ceasing always leaving me confounded.

My mind stays battered, yet never broken looking for an escape.The sea surges, crashes around me washing away my hope of aid.While my body remains untouched, underneath: within the calm,

The currents catch my frantic feelings and slowly wear them away.

I know you are here- my ship and my sheltered, sound safe harborEver riding untouched above the squall, my anchor and yet much more.But though I may yearn to find you, and lie in the safety of your cove,My racing thoughts show me truth that you are the eye of my storm.

And so I remain fighting for reason- or reasons forever unknown.I persistently struggle within a world that you could never know.For even in a fierce tempest’s embrace in a battle I can not win,I turn away from your false smile- I would rather fight alone.

The Mermaid’s Lament

Spring 2007 Red Shift Volume I, Issue I �1

Be ahead of all parting, as if it were already behind you.

God, taking the form of a laughing professor, said to Eve- all this will be yours if you bow down and worship Me- and Eve looked up at the cosmos, the spinning lights and infinite space, and asked if the knowledge would also be hers. And when the Lord answered that He- knows best Myself, thank you, but you’re welcome to watch- she walked over to the pomegranate tree and out of the garden herself. Adam, hoping to be an engineer one day, followed soon after and later that day invented fire.

I’m only pronouns & I am all of them, & I didn’t ask for this You did

Red Shift- Ted Berrigan