Letter from the EditorLitmag has always been an important part of our Chase experience. This

club has allowed us to immerse ourselves in our passion for English. Gainingstature over the years has enabled us to explore our creative and editorial visionsby experimenting with new techniques and styles. Reading and editing theworks of our fellow students have been both rewarding and enjoyable. The jour-ney from being mechanical writers to being lyrical editors has broadened ourhorizons. We have a newfound appreciation for analytical essays, structuredpoetry, and dynamic fiction.

That said, our involvement in Litmag has taught us that eloquent writingand efficient editing are useful tools applicable to many aspects of life. Theprocess of creating Litmag encompasses not only technical grammatical usage,but also creative flair and careful organization. This year-long project has mold-ed us into well-rounded writers and adept editors. We both look forward to uti-lizing our developed skill set in the next chapter of our lives.

We have many people who we would like to thank who help make thisLitmag possible. Without the help, trust, guidance, and devotion of our long-time advisor, Mrs. G., the work and creativity of Chase student-writers would beunknown. It has been a privilege to read and share the thoughtful submissionsof our peers. Thanks to our dedicated staff of copy editors and artists, we havebeen able to complete this publication. We would also like to thank the designerof our cover, Alexa Elmy, whose inspiring artwork adds life to our Litmag. Aswe leave Chase Collegiate and publish our final Litmag, we feel confident in thenext generation of writers and editors.

~-Christian and LindseyCo-Editors-in-Chief

Christian Lewis, Co-Editor-in-ChiefLindsey Nelson, Co-Editor-in-Chief

Jacqueline Bickley, Assistant-Editor-in-ChiefRachel Tokarski, Assistant-Editor-in-Chief

Alexa Elmy, Cover ArtKristen Harger, PhotographerRose Minkler, PhotographerLindsey Nelson, Photographer

Rachel Altamarino, ArtistBrittney Antous, ArtistSonali Khanna, ArtistLauren McDonald, ArtistGabe Pietrorazio, Artist

Akorfa Adobor, Copy EditorSam Bard, Copy EditorJohn Belval, Copy EditorTom Brayton, Copy EditorMonica Leszczynski, Copy Editor

Alicia Payne, Copy EditorRachael Pettinicchi, Copy EditorGabriel Pietrorazio, Copy EditorAngelique Polard-Knight, Copy EditorJonathan Singleton, Copy EditorPeter Smith, Copy Editor

Litmag Staff

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ESSAYS

Eight Years

Audrey Hickcox

“I would have done anything for you.”The words hung in the silence, thick and heavy and onerous. She

had whispered them, brokenly, but they resonated between the two fig-ures like his guitar had once reverberated in her head for hours on end.He looked over at her. Those were the most sincere words that she haduttered all night. He hadn’t expected it, really. She hadn’t been veryforthcoming that evening. In fact, she had been all but cool and polite.To him, it was the most obvious thing that time had taken away—hereasy openness. This woman was not the girl he knew. That girl had beenalight with innocence. She had spoken absolutely every thought thatflickered through her mind. Things had changed, and he was painfullyaware of it.

His eyes followed the sharp hollow of her cheek, the dappled linesof the faded sun on her forehead, the gentle sweep of her eyeliner on hereyelid. He took in the graceful curve of her developed body. She hadgrown up since he had known her last. Physically, he noted, but morestrikingly, emotionally. Her eyes were guarded, her stance direct, herface angular- even her fingernails foretold maturity, now fully mani-cured and no longer ragged from childhood habits.

“I know.”He finally spoke, and the heat of his heavy words hung on her heart likea brand.

His voice was deeper, she realized. His hair was finally cut short,dressed in a manner that flattered his adult lifestyle, though she noticedthat it still refused to lay flat. He probably still brushed it for hours,hopelessly trying to get it to cooperate. She knew it would probably stillfeel the same between her fingertips. No longer did his hands grip at askateboard, but instead held the marks of long hours helping his fatherand the roughness of years spent working his way up in the world. Shesmiled inwardly at the way his eyes flickered to hers. They still held thedoor to his soul and they still pulled at her with simple, burning inten-sity.

The sun fell from the sky gently and cast beautiful colors into theocean in front of them. Silently, they both re-lived the last time they satin this sand. She had been visiting him, and they had come here for the

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day, lying in the rocky sand and kissing until their lips became raw. Theyhad walked, hand in hand, among the shops, and had lain on a boat inthe middle of the most crystal water she had ever seen. She rememberedwhen she had touched the water, amazed at how divinely it sparkled,how it looked just like the ocean in her dreams about paradise. She stillhad the pictures somewhere. He still held those memories among hismost precious.

With the sun gone, the air became colder, chillier. He tried to stophimself from drawing parallels, and instead watched as she delicatelyshivered. He invited her to have a drink at his apartment, an innocent-enough offer. They both knew it wasn’t a good idea. She politelydeclined.

Her whole body ached to follow him home. But she did not knowwhat her heart would do if she allowed herself to fall down the familiarpath of his soothing touch and his quiet, reassuring words. Her heartbegged for her to remember what it felt like to be so young and so hope-lessly in love. She wished she could have one more night in his arms,one more night to be innocent, one more night to feel the safeness of hislove. But he was different, and she was different, and it would be differ-ent. Time and pain had changed them both. He saw that her teenagesimplicity was gone. He knew her heart would ache from the deepscratches he had gouged. He recognized the look of longing in her eyes,and he acknowledged the rift that had grown between two once-entwined souls.

So though they both ached for that familiarity and safeness, thoughthey both prayed to feel each other’s love, they walked their separateways at the lamp that they had once desperately kissed under.

He shuffled to his one-room flat that was just minutes away fromthe school where he taught. She strode back to the comforting blandnessof her hotel room, listening to the familiar click that her heels made onthe marble floor. He lost himself in the memories of her taste and herlaugh. She tried desperately to remind herself of the reason she wasthere, tried to think of her busy business schedule.

He lay in his bed and, for the first time since he’d bought it, foundit too stiff. She had once told him that she loved his soft, childhood bed.She slipped off her heels and sunk into the firmest bed the hotel offered,but for the first time in a long time, she was uncomfortable.

He rolled over and smiled. After eight years, he still kept the scrapsof notebook paper with her little scribbles on them. She had left him let-

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ters on the day that she boarded her plane home. They sat, now, on hisbedside table.

She reached for her suitcase and dug into the hidden pocket on theleft. After eight years, she still could not travel without the small teddybear they had bought together. Threadbare and tattered, she held it toher and picked at the tag that bore his name in faded blue lettering.As eyelids drooped, he thought of how gorgeous she looked, even afterall this time, and she thought of how handsome he was, even after all thepain he had brought her.

Eight years was a long time. They knew that.

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Gender Inequality and Female Empowerment inCharles Dickens’ Bleak House

Christian Lewis

Charles Dickens uses the traditional Victorian domestic structures,in contrast to the relationships in his novel Bleak House, to both commentand satirize gender, familial, and filial ideals of the time. Within the mas-sive cast of characters, inequities and anomalous situations combine tomake a statement not only about women’s role in society, but whatwomen’s role could become. Although Victorian culture mandatedfemales to be housewives, domestic, sociable, polite, subjective, andloyal, Dickensian female characters defy these stereotypes. The womenof Bleak House provide a beacon to feminism, and reveal an optimisticview of domestic importance, social mobility, and economic potential ofnineteenth century women. Dickens utilizes these characters and theirrole in personal microcosms to make a statement about, and to mock (ina Horatian manner), the conventional ideas about women in VictorianBritain.

Convention dictated that women were more pragmatic in their abil-ity to be a housekeeper than their ability to be a wife. It was expectedthat the husband would make the money and that the wife would man-age the household. Although these family roles were almost universal inthe period, in Dickens’ Bleak House most of the females represent excep-tions. In the novel, the women define the households, and often havemassive amounts of domestic power over their families and their hus-bands. The Jellyby family is the most obvious example; while Mrs.Jellyby is a somewhat infamous philanthropist, Mr. Jellyby is definedonly by the fact that he is “‘the husband of Mrs. Jellyby’” (Dickens, 48).Mrs. Jellyby is in perpetual motion of charity, correspondence, and busi-ness; Mr. Jellyby, on the other hand, sits mindlessly in a chair for themajority of each day. This couple provides a major example of a femalefigure controlling the entire family and domestic life of a household.Although the husband should command his home (so was the stan-dard), the Jellyby house glorifies the domestic power of Mrs. Jellyby, theruling matriarch. This example proves that although women could sim-ply accept their role as wives and housewives, some did not and there-fore rose to power domestically.

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In Bleak House female characters also reflect the potential for socialmobility and power in an increasingly class-dominated society. LadyDedlock is from a non-aristocratic family, marries a baronet, and some-how becomes the most fashionable woman in London. She is a clearsymbol of the social potential for women; she rises in class and gainsinfluence over the upper class popular culture of her society (for it ishers). She is described as having

Beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough . . . .Been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence, and at the top ofthe fashionable tree . . . . One of the leaders and representatives ofher little world. She supposes herself to be an inscrutable Being,quite out of reach and ken of ordinary mortals. (Dickens 24-27)The social frenzy that revolves around her is a major source of

mockery in the novel. Sir Leicester Dedlock, the faltering, unfit husbandto the Lady, is another satire on outdated nobility. Her immense influ-ence reflects Dickens’ optimistic views of women’s potential in societywhile simultaneously mocking the attention a socialite can receive. InBleak House many female characters have grand social influence thusdefying conventions and empowering their gender.

Economic independence was unrealistic and difficult for women inVictorian Britain. However, some single women did achieve monetarystability. Dickens provides an example of a female’s struggle to supportherself (and her family) through poverty with Charlotte Neckett.Although Charley is only thirteen, she economically supports her five-year-old brother, Tom, and two-year-old sister, Emma. This heart-wrenching glimpse of poverty in the novel represents economic dispar-ities in London, but more importantly proves that an unmarried womancould maintain economic control. Charley manages to hold together herfamily and works to provide (for them; this determination glorifies thepowerful will of women. During her visit to the Neckett residence,Esther states “The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and theirmother, as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of takingcourage, and by her childish importance in being able to work. . . . I sawtwo silent tears fall down her face” (Dickens, 213). This exemplificationof female determination is contrasted to the also orphaned and impov-erished sweeper, Jo, who does not work, is homeless, and has no eco-nomic standing. Jo and Charley represent foils that display the notionthat women were able and willing to work, receive and keep monetarywages, and support others, even in the wake of urban poverty.

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Bleak House is a novel of contrasts that can been seen as a proof ofwomen’s potential for power. Dickens uses characters like Mrs. Jellyby,Lady Dedlock, and Charley Neckett to defy traditional views and rolesof women in Victorian Britain. Through the application of foils, includ-ing Mr. Jellyby, Sir Leicester Dedlock, and Jo, female characters arerevealed to be domestically, socially, and economically influential andindependent, even within a world that minimizes them. Although it wasstandard for women to have lesser roles in society than men, in thisnovel females rule their socioeconomic units. There is clear genderinequality in Charles Dickens’ Bleak House: however, instead of womenbeing objectified and degraded, they are empowered while the men arebelittled and disparaged. This simultaneous commentary and mockeryrepresents an optimistic and forward-thinking view on women’s rightsand position in society.

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There is Always a Light at the End of the Tunnel

Morgan Maisto

Imagine leaving a place you called home, and coming to a placeyou’ve never been before. Imagine leaving the people you consideredfamily, going to a new school, not knowing anyone. Imagine yourself ina room with no windows, trapped inside, not being able to escape.Imagine my situation.

Eighth grade was here; the year’s planning had begun: pinnight, shadowing, class shirts, class night, and graduation. The studentsin the O.L.M.C. class of 2012 brushed off graduation like it was nothing,but I was counting down the days until I would be sobbing and sayinggoodbye to my best friends since pre-k, my family.

Pin night couldn’t have come any faster; picking sponsors,designing the class pin, so much work in so little time. Picking whowould pin me was a very difficult choice to make, but with time I decid-ed on my cheerleading coach who was also my math tutor. Seeing thelook on her face when I asked her to pin me, couldn’t have made memore enthusiastic for that night. Nearly tripping on the stairs as I was upto receive my pin because my high heels were too high couldn’t havebeen more terrifying for me. When the time came and the words,“Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you the class of 2012,” came fromMrs. Fuller’s mouth, it hit me. This was the beginning of the end. Thiswas a time to cherish the few moments we had left as a class, to makethe moments last.

The next few months of school were focused on shadowing. Imyself must have shadowed at least five different high schools beforerealizing Chase was the one for me. When I shadowed, every studentasked me my name and welcomed me as one of the students instead ofstrolling up to me and calling me “shadow” like at all the other schools.At Chase I was included in the class discussions, rather than just sittingin the back of the room staring into space, wondering if it was the schoolfor me; I just knew.

The entrance exams for schools started right away. Holy Cross,Sacred Heart, and the one I was most nervous about, Chase. Passingevery exam before I took the Chase test I was sure that I would pass theChase one as well; then I got the test. The second I opened the test I com-pletely choked. I was running out of time and didn’t know what to do.

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Rushing through the test I finished almost every section on time.Leaving the testing room, I thought I might have done alright, and thenit hit me, I had most likely bombed the test to the school of my dreams.I had no chance of being accepted. I couldn’t believe myself.

Life went on. Cap and gown pictures were right around the cor-ner. I had just changed the color of my braces to my favorite shade ofblue. I straightened my hair, and I perfected my makeup that day. Ilooked perfect. When I received my pictures, I had to look at them twice,I looked hideous. With no retakes, I was forced to keep my picture andhave it put in the yearbook, story of my life.Acceptance letters started arriving in the mail, day after day, but no let-ter arrived from Chase. At school every day I had to hear about how myfriends got into his or her high school of choice and I would sit there try-ing to be happy for them, but at the same time I was dying inside.Finally the day came, and I received a package from Chase. I curiouslyopened the package defining my future. I had received a six on my SSATtest, which was news I did not want to hear. The next week I received adifferent package from Chase telling me I had been accepted. Findingout I had been accepted to the school I had always dreamt of attendingwas probably the most exciting moment I had ever come across in mylife. The next day at school my teacher asked us what high school wewould be attending in the fall. When it came to my turn, I was proud tosay, Chase.

Going to the acceptance dinner not knowing anyone, andknowing I could be kicked out of confirmation for not attending passionplay practice was a very frightening moment for me. The minute Iwalked in the door, I was greeted by numerous smiling faces; that’swhen I knew this would be my new home. I knew two out of the 12 peo-ple sitting at my table in the beginning, but by the end of the dinner Iknew almost everyone.

As either grade came to a close my class went to Holiday Hilland New York City. Both trips were in the pouring rain, between fight-ing for umbrellas and dancing in the rain, those trips brought my classeven closer than we had ever been. These trips also brought us closer tothe end of our journey together, they marked the end.

Then, after many hours of practice, class night was finally here.Many of us in the class read our class memories which made everyonesob with tears of laughter and grief. The most memorable part of thenight was watching a slide show of how our class evolved from toddlers

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playing with blocks together into a family. With the whole class crying,the night was over, and the next day would be our last day together asone.

Finally graduation day arrived; we walked into our classroomone last time only to find our teacher was not there. Her husband hadbeen in a car accident, and she was not going to make it to school andeven worse, graduation. Members of the class were taking pictures withevery student, walking around to say goodbye to the teachers they haveknown since they were toddlers, this was our final day in that class-room. When it came to 12:30, the time for our class to be dismissed onefinal time, everyone looked at each other in an awkward manner andstarted weeping and hugging each other, until we were forced to leave.

With the class lined up in our caps and gowns, it was time forgraduation; our teacher had shown up, the whole church was filled withcameras flashing; it was our final time together as a class. Walking up toget my diploma was my biggest fear, it meant saying goodbye. I could-n’t leave my class, but I had to. Watching everyone walk up and receivetheir diplomas made me think of all the good times I had enjoyed withthem. The words “I now pronounce to you the O.L.M.C class of 2012”marked the absolute end, the end of everything, the parties, the dances,irritating substitute teachers, everything.

Walking into Chase on my first day of school just a few daysafter the class trip was terrifying. I was no longer the popular kid inschool; I was now the little freshman who barely knew anyone.Everyone at Chase was beyond nice and helped me find my classes if Ineeded help, said hi to me as I walked down the halls, and helped mefind my way around campus.Because of these people I realized that I would be fine for the next fouryears. I was home again.

The class of 2012 changed me; it helped make me the person Iam today. It helped me realize sometimes change is good. Even thoughI might not see the people I consider family every day, I will still havethe memories to treasure and carry with me forever as I venture toextend my adventures.

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This I Believe

Dr. Haracopos assigned his sophomore ethics classes to write “This I Believe”essays that reveal the morals they hold most dear to their hearts. Here are sam-ples of what this year’s sophomores were thinking.

This I BelieveMaren Burling

If you think about it, this is all so insignificant. All of this; none of itreally matters. Because I mean really this day, this very hour, will all passbefore our eyes before we know it. Even the words I'm saying will getlost in the abyss of the past. Life is always moving. And we, you and I,were just a tiny grain of sand in a world with miles and miles of beach-es. We're so small, so unimportant. But that isn't necessarily a bad thing.The way I see it, life is mine to live. And when I say that, I mean life isso short, why should I waste it being anything but happy? Every day Isee people, sheep in a heard, trying to conform to society. I see them holdback and never fully express themselves in fear being outcast. I see themdo things they wouldn't approve of, things that make them unhappy.But really, you will never have this moment again. This very moment,once it passes you by can never be regained. Now I'm not contriving allthis with the concept of YOLO in mind. I'm saying it because I too havechanged who I am in some ways. I've been mean to people, I've evenhad those days where I didn't have a care about anyone or anything inthe world; we all have. I've not told people how I really feel, I've heldback. But that's no explanation. Sometimes I think, why? Why are peo-ple cruel to others? Why do they pass moments by? Is there really anypoint at all in any of that? I guess what I'm trying to say is life is quick,it flies by us by before we know it. And yes, you should live it to itsfullest, but you also should be the best person you can be. It has beensaid: if your past self-saw you now, would she be proud? Or would theybow their heads in shame, abashed of the person you have become? Ifthey would, you still have time to change. I still have time to change. Weall make mistakes, but when it comes down to it, we only have one life.So live yours. Day by day laugh, smile, and live. If someone brings youdown, don't let them. And if you bring someone down, make up for it.

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Hug the ones you care about, be yourself, take risks. If you like some-one, tell them. And most importantly, always hold on to the ones closestto you. You may not realize it, but those people will always be there foryou, no matter what. So never take them for granted. Never take anyonefor granted, because you could wake up one day and they could begone. Life is so short, so never be anything but happy. If you died tomor-row, would you have any regrets?

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This is What I BelievePeter Kaouris

And out of the train window, I watched. She hugged her mom andher mom hugged back; tears streaming down her pale face. She kissedher mom one last time, wheeled her designer suitcase onto the train,curled up on the seat and cried. I watched her mom break, and start, thesame pale face streaming the same tears; an unbreakable bond, broken.Her mom waved as the train headed away, her arm shaking with sad-ness. But the longer she waved, the more emotion seemed to be. Therewas fright. There was remorse. There was forgiveness.

I don’t know where she was going, or why. All I know is what I saw.And what I saw was a bridge that had taken years to build, had beendestroyed.I saw her mom mouth something, the words “I’m sorry.” The girl criedback, “There’s nothing that you can do that would make me hate you,”even though her mom couldn’t hear her. Her mom smiled and mouthed,“I love you.” “Forever and ever,” the girl replied.

As the train left the Westport station, the girl pressed her facedagainst the window, something that only little girls do and waved to hermom, saying goodbye.

I learned something by just watching. I learned about forgiveness. Ilearned to forgive someone, even if they are wrong, because it isn’tworth losing a relationship. A relationship, be it family or friend, takesyears to build. It takes years to trust each other fully. It takes a momentto break. That is what happened to the girl.

During that train ride to Grand Central Station, I wondered whathad happened, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. I wanted myimagination to create the events. I wanted to think it was a small argu-ment in the car, not one that could break two people apart. I know itwasn’t. I just wanted to convince myself that it was.

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The Guy Without A FaceAngelina Pollard-Knight

I wake with an ache that resides inside. I think about you in myheart and feel you in my mind. I pound through pulses of love andblurs, tying myself to the thirst that heaves and yearns. I see many facesduring night and day, but still feel you in my breath with every cry Imake. Winding in slowly I feel it in my core, that you’re beyond the face-less shadow I never saw before. I walk on by overlooked by many, but Iknow deep inside that I’m spotted by you daily. I’ll be your special, andyou’ll be mine. The pain that’s burnt will tangle and intertwine. Ashesto ashes, my lashes are damp, feeling the time soaking in sand. Grit andblood shed scratches within the seams, a broken smile that cracks yetgleams. I feel your sound, while you’re not in this room, I know you’reprobably not even in my school. My story will bleed around the pagethat’s missing knowing that you will fill it, find me, and listen.Daylight’s hue melts into the dark, another day has passed and I still feelthe spark. Time doesn’t know, and neither do I, you’re the guy whom Iwill spend the rest of my life. I don’t know who you are, I don’t knowwhere you’re from, but I do know you’re there waiting for my love. Fornow you’re the guy without a face, the guy who will appreciate me withevery embrace. I see you in my heart, I need you in my mind, but thatday will eventually come with each passing day and each loathing night.We are beautiful, hold on tight, one day we willmeet and the spark will ignite.

Short Stories

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VignetteAkorfa Adobor

The brutal winter wind brushes my shoulder quickly, then just assuddenly as it appeared, it is gone, without a trace, down onto the hill-side. Inhaling the cold current of air sends a chill through my body as Iponder what to do next. Sitting on the brand new purple sled, atop thesteep hill, opens up a world of possibilities. But still, I hesitate, waitingfor a silent signal, to reassure myself that the journey down will be safe.

It does not come; instead, miniscule particles of snow accompanythe layers already covering the ground. Like dust from a shelf, the snowfalls, gently and slowly, each individual speck drifting along, to a differ-ent location on the hill.

Unique white snowflakes suddenly coat the sled and ground next tome, within minutes forming a thin blanket, wrapping around the con-tours of my sled, filling each crevice. Finally, the fear and anxiousnesssubside. It is time to go. Slowly, I find both hands already planted in thesnow, ready to push the sled forward.

I involuntarily push myself down, deep into the snow-covered hill,gaining speed as I go along. Looking up, I observe a thin ray of sunlightshine through, somewhat concealed by the clouds, but neverthelessthere. The sunlight leisurely appears in the sky, instantly brightening myview of the hill.

Abruptly, I jump out of the sled, wanting to climb back up andspeed down the hill once more. Hurrying, I pick up my sled and beganto trudge through the deep blanket of white snow, accidentally losingone of my snow boots along the way.

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RunningLindsey Nelson

Her pale feet were swimming in the warm sand, her messy hair wasflying in the cool wind, and her bright green eyes were staring out at thedistant horizon, a deep pink with the setting sun. As the icy waterlapped up at her toes she didn’t flinch or pull away. She simply keptwalking, unaware of the cold, unaware of everything really. The cry ofthe gulls, the gentle moan of the wind, and the brilliance of the settingsun went unnoticed. And when her anxious sister called out to her, beg-ging her to come inside, she didn’t ignore her, the voice just didn’t reg-ister in her brain. She heard nothing; she was too numb. She kept walk-ing.

The strange place where land meets water stretched on forever. Nogates or barriers blocked her way, and she saw no reason to stop or turnaround. So on and on she went. She passed the line of houses in sight ofthe shore, the plethora of restaurants and souvenir shops, and at lastfound herself in a place that she didn’t recognize. She had never strolledso far from home on her own before. But the unfamiliarity didn’t fright-en her, nor did the ascending darkness. But she couldn’t help but feel thecrispness of the wind biting at her bare arms and legs. Shivering, the all-consuming numbness she had felt before began to fade away. Her situa-tion became clear; her aimless wandering had finally caught up to her.

With a clearer head, she turned her feet and began the trek back toher beach house. She walked for what seemed like at least an hour andstill hadn’t reached civilization. Fear finally began to sink in, and hersteady pace was suddenly not fast enough. She began to sprint, to forceher eyes to see through the blackness that surrounded her. Freezing andout of breath she finally collapsed on the hard sand, her pounding headhidden in her hands. She lay there crying, giving up for a long time.

She hugged herself, holding her knees up against her chest, tryingto hold herself together. The pain she was keeping locked up inside herheart threatened to burst out of her, to consume her at any moment. Shewas scared to look at the truth too closely because everything about itcaused her anguish. She had been avoiding this moment all day, tryingto suppress the pain into nonexistence. Feeling the waves of realitycrashing upon her heart, she suddenly stood up and began to run again,trying to escape her own thoughts.

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She ran faster than she had ever run before, reveling in the stitch inher side, the pain in her chest, and the soreness in her legs. This kind ofpain, physical pain, felt good for a change. She pushed herself harder,she ran even faster. Her hands were clenched in tight fists and her jaggednails cut into the soft flesh of her palms. Beads of blood tricked down herwrists and onto the sand, staining it with her pain. She felt numb again;the mental pain had vanished, replaced by agonizing physical endeav-ors.

She didn’t think about how long she had been running. Timeseemed to pass differently in that period of numbness. She sprinted bythe line of restaurants and shops without realizing it and only when shefound herself climbing up the stairs of her own little cottage did the fren-zy begin to fade away. Exhaustion settled in her bones, and she truly feltthe pain in her body, but this time it was far from pleasant. She forcedher aching limbs to walk the familiar path to her bedroom on the secondfloor. She collapsed on her unmade bed fully clothed, hair in knots,palms bleeding, and legs burning. Asleep within minutes, she finallydrifted away into the solace that is unconsciousness, her only trueescape.***

She woke up late the next morning to blinding rays of sunlightpouring into her room through an open window. Blinded for a minute,she gently eased herself up into a sitting position, rubbing her eyeswearily. Blinking several times in order to see her room clearly, shebegan to stretch her sore muscles. In doing this, the events of the previ-ous night began to flood into her mind. The frantic running, her bleed-ing hands, and the numbness all resurfaced before her eyes.

Her mind was racing, reliving the night’s adventure. She absent-mindedly caressed the scabs that had manifested on her tender palmsduring the night, stroked her fingers through her tangled hair, and con-tinued to stretch her sensitive limbs. She collapsed back on her pillowand buried her face in her sheets, letting the tears fall freely; letting thepain take over for once.

She laid there for a long time, letting the intense sun warm her body.After what seemed like a long time, she rolled over and saw that it was1:30 in the afternoon. Normally this would have shocked her, for shewas usually not a late sleeper. But today it made sense that half the dayconsisted of sleep, of blissful unawareness. No matter how hard shetried to find an escape during the day, it proved to be impossible. Her

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only getaway was the blackness of night, the deadening solitude thatonly deep sleep could provide.

Eventually she rolled herself into a sitting position and heaved herheavy body onto her two unsteady feet. She ran her fingers through herhair and pulled it back into a messy bun so that she could see her roomclearly. Everything was just as it should have been. Her overstuffedbookshelf, unclosed dresser drawers, and intimidating cracked antiquemirror were positioned as they always had been. The fresh air swirlingabout her room smelled of the ocean, and her homemade patchworkquilt lay sprawled over her unmade bed. It was like nothing hadchanged. But of course, everything had.

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UntitledJohn Belval

And so it began. The war that would decide that fate of all mankind,started in an instant. But how did it start? How did such an infamousevent, remembered for decades, centuries, and millennia by all theknown empires of the world, Egyptian to Mayan, begin? Was it somehuge threat to a great unknown that was only thought to lay somewherein the universe, or was it a simple jest at the wrong place and time on theplanet we live on, called Earth? Was it made public, causing disparity tospread throughout the nations, or was it private, made behind closedand guarded doors? How did it start? Well, when it comes down to it,this horrific event that condemned the human race began with a papercup.

No one truly knows how it happened, but if anyone has an inkling,it’s me. I recall the day clearly; the sun was hidden behind the immenseclouds of Hurricane Darcy, a super storm now made common by theglobal warming epidemic that had engulfed the planet all the way backin the 1900’s. Those had been simple times, good times.

The clouds emptied water on top of my head as I walked the alleysof Orlando. You see, after Miami had been consumed by the salty watersof the ocean, Orlando became the new tourist hotspot. It was one of thefew places still untouched by the Chinese, who, after WW IV, took con-trol of most of the Western Hemisphere, not that there was much left.The war had extended to most of this side of the world, leaving itsmarks, whether they be towns destroyed by battles or radioactive craterswhere there had once been bustling cities.

The wind and rain were fierce, driving most sensible people intotheir homes, leaving me free to roam. That was good, seeing as the placeI was heading for wasn’t exactly legal. I took no chances though, andkept my blade close at hand. Like all Epergists, it was a special blade,infused with my DNA, allowing it to almost fit into my skin. And thereit was, day and night, for no one liked an Epergist, and yet once youbecame one, you always were one. I peered around the corner of a dilap-idated brick building and, when I saw that the coast was clear, contin-ued on, always alert, always ready.

I took a swift turn down another alley, through a rusty steel door,and down a flight of stairs. This was the old part of the city, and so mostof the buildings remained in the old style unlike the new drawn out,smooth buildings of 2083. It was nice, for all I had seen during my last

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mission had been the death and destruction that’s left of the north of theUnited States of America. I was sent to retrieve documents from theruins of New York, but like everything else, they had been destroyed.

I strode through the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, ever quiet,and stopped at an old wooden door. I took my hand off my knife,reached into my pocket, and drew out a metal card. It seemed regularenough; that is until you looked at it closer. Once you did, you wouldfind its surface was constantly shifting.

I slipped it into the space between the door and wall and waited forthe card to activate. Only a few second later, the door swung open andthe metal cylinder used to keep it shut fell out of the wall. It was stan-dard nan-o-bot technology stolen from a Chinese officer a few weeksback. Killing may be what I was trained to do, but I didn’t enjoy it, so Ihad disregarded my commands and let the man live. Well, as much as inmy control. One could only wonder what punishment awaited himwhen he got back to his commander.

After taking one more look around me, I slipped into the room andclosed the door behind me. The room was dark. There was but one win-dow that held the duty to share light with the entirety of the room.Streaming standards of dust undulated through the room, obscuring myvision. It was easy to tell that no one had been in here for a long while.I strolled about the open area, breathing in its musty scent.

Now time to get down to business.

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Silence

Angelina Pollard-Knight

There was once a girl who, when she was young, suffered so greata tragedy that she found herself plunged into a never-ending sea of sad-ness. She felt as if she was constantly drowning, sinking in a pool of herown tears; her limbs were heavy with misery, her head filled with dark-ness and gloom. Her hair, once golden, slowly melted to black, and hereyes turned from bright blue to stony grey.

Eventually, the girl’s mind, unable to function under the constantgrief, began to drift away; and the girl was constantly disoriented andout-of-tune, never quite speaking the right way, or saying the rightthings. People avoided her. Her parents were afraid of her, and she hadno friends. She tried hard to stay afloat, and to continue forward, but itwas no use. Smiling was painful. Soon, she stopped trying altogether.

One morning, the girl awoke to the presence of a small rain cloudover her head.

No matter what she did to make it leave—she shut herself in hercloset, jumped up and down, and even dunked her head underwater—the cloud stayed put. When she swore or swiped at it, it thundered irri-tably and released a downpour of warm rainwater on her shoulders.When she was especially angry with it, it sometimes shocked her witha miniature bolt of lightning.

No one was able to explain how this happened; no doctors, special-ists, or meteorologists could provide any rhyme or reason to the pres-ence of the small thundercloud above the sad girl’s black hair. The girlcried and cried, begging the cloud to go away, but it stayed put—andthe girl became even more miserable than before. Every day she wokeup to soaking pillows and electrocuted hair. She pitied herself andpitied her life, and wondered constantly what she had ever done todeserve such suffering.And the girl grew up this way, at first loathing the cloud, but eventual-ly growing used to its presence and the odd stares that came along withit. It never left her, but rather grew along with her; by the time of ado-lescence, it had expanded past her head and loomed above her menac-ingly, threatening her with rolls of thunder and drips of water.

The girl was absolutely desolate. She was void of hope of ever feel-

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ing an ounce of happiness again. All she ever did was sob and wail soft-ly, lying in bed for days and warming herself from the constant wetnesson her shoulders. She did not know what to do. She felt as empty as ashell. She did not know where to turn.

One day, as a young lady, the girl walked along the sidewalk on herway back from an errand. It was a beautiful, sunny, warm summerday—but, of course, she could not feel it. The cloud cast a shadow overher that engulfed her own, and, as always, it thundered gravely. Peopleon the road scrambled out of her way in pure terror.

“Did you see that?”“Don’t look at it.”“Bless that poor child.”The girl was becoming used to it by now, but wiped away a tear

from her eye that had slipped out as more people passed. She tried tomake her way down the road, but faces began to peer at her from thefringes of her cloud; they stared wildly, and some even snickered whenshe flinched away. Others began to call out to her.

“This is a neat trick you got here.”“The girl looks rainier than the cloud!”Finally the girl began to cry in earnest. All of her pain and sorrow

that she had locked away deep within herself broke out and filled heruntil she was blind with despair. She dropped her bag and ran away,sprinting down the street at light speed, so fast that the cloud struggledto keep up and she swore her feet were lifting off the ground. The facesblurred away as she kicked off her shoes and ran further, off of the pave-ment, onto the dewy grass of the park, through the soil of the gardens,over the woodchips of the playground, and finally into the shade of alarge oak tree. There, behind its protective trunk, the girl slid down,drew her knees to her chest, and cried until there were no tears left. Hercloud boomed a flood of rain down on her all the while.And suddenly, the rain stopped.

Well, it didn’t stop, she thought, because she could still hear thedrum of the downpour above her. But they were no longer falling on her.She raised her head curiously.

Above her head was a huge plastic umbrella. And attached to theumbrella’s neck was an arm.Her gaze followed up the arm until it reached a sleeve, and then a shoul-der, and then a face. A young man smiled at her as he bent down awk-wardly and positioned the umbrella directly over her head. Her cloud

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growled warningly.“Hello there,” the young man said.Caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay—no one had

ever approached her, let alone speak to her, as he had—she trembledand stared back at him. He sensed her nervousness and balanced him-self on one knee, holding his other hand out to her.

“Do you need a hand getting up?”Cautiously, the girl took one of his fingers and pulled herself up.

When they both stood, he introduced himself and shook her hand. Itwas a small gesture, but the girl relaxed just a little.

“Is it always hanging over you?” he asked delicately.“Y-yes,” she replied. “Since I was a child.”“How awful. And you never thought to use an umbrella?”At this they both laughed quietly, and, for a split second, the cloud

ceased its grumbling and faded slightly. But as soon as she stopped, itcame back fiercely, and shocked her lightly on the head. She whim-pered. The boy attempted to stab the cloud with his umbrella, which, ofcourse, did nothing, as the girl had learned years ago.

“Does it always hurt you like that?”“It doesn’t really hurt. Not on the outside. But it reminds me of my

sadness. And it makes my hair wild and my head itchy. I always lookterrible.”

The boy paused, and raised his eyebrows at her.“I think you’re quite beautiful, actually.”

The girl, in disbelief, did not even feel the radiant smile emerge on herface, but it came, quickly and brightly, and awoke the facial muscles thathadn’t moved so in years. The girl didn’t stop smiling, amazingly, for afew seconds.

And during those few seconds, while she was smiling, the cloudabove her faded completely; and for the first time in ages, the girl feltsunlight on her shoulders and back, and could see the bright blue skystretching above her, and her smile grew even larger.“Does it go away when you smile?”

“Yes.”He took her hands.“Then I’m going to make you smile every day.”And so, holding hands, the girl and boy walked off together, as the

cloud, damaged, reformulated and followed. But eventually, at the fre-quency of her smiling, the cloud became weak, and rarely rained orshocked her anymore; and as she became less and less sad, and evenbecame happy, she woke up one day with nothing over her head. Andfor as long as the boy was with her, it did not return.

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So the girl and the boy remained happy for a long time. And evenwhen the boy was gone, the girl continued to smile. For she knew nowthat happiness was dependent on one’s self—crying and wallowinghelped none at all, nor did self-pity, nor disgust. Happiness can only beachieved when one is ready to let go of the past, and to let people intotheir hearts once again—for without smiling, laughter, or a hand to hold,one could be rained on forever. And, that, she thought, was reasonenough to smile every day.

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For Better or For Worse

Chris Campochiaro

Dreams. Dreams can take you far away from a bad situation. Adream is interpreted as a blank canvas that allows you to paint strokesof beauty and enchantment and to make a masterpiece that only you cansee. Unfortunately, like a piece of art, dreams can be flung aside, when itis understood that they cannot actually happen.

Cecilia awoke from the same fairy tale she imagined every night.There was a forest and within it, a glassy lake. Cecilia cavorted on thislake, her feet never touching the water. From the swirling mist sur-rounding the water, came onlookers that gave praise and repeatedlyspoke of fantastic things that amazed her! Lamentably, she had neverheard of such nonsense in actuality. Again, this was a place that couldnever exist without divination.Cecilia was reminded of reality when a loud, screeching sound perme-ated bedchamber. This could only have been from the owner of thehousehold, Ms. Camilla de Ghent. Ms. de Ghent called burdensomely,most likely because her breakfast hadn’t been cooked yet. Cecilia, know-ing that the agonizing sound wouldn’t stop, did what was asked, as acourteous servant should.

Yes, Cecilia was the only maid in the de Ghent household. Set in atiny kingdom, peaceful, prosperous and rich in romance and tradition,the stately chateau had been one of the most highly regarded homesuntil it fell into disrepair when Mr. de Ghent passed. As a new widow,Ms. Camilla had no source of income to live as one of the upper classand soon sold every servant and most of the wares that belonged to thehome. Ms. Camilla’s only hope in acquiring funds lay with her apathet-ic and awkward son Jeremy and with Astrid, her vain and selfish daugh-ter. The only piece of property that Camilla had attained since her hus-band’s passing was Cecilia, whom had been left on the doorstepwrapped in an innocent white blanket embroidered with her name. Withnothing to do but grope for funds, Ms. Camilla raised this girl in hopesof at least one future servant. As the girl grew, she started to embody acharm and gentleness that furthered her great beauty. This remindedCamilla of everything she wanted to be and of everything which she cer-tainly wasn’t. She despised Cecilia because of this and abused and

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humiliated her as well as forcing her to become a servant. And so, this iswhere our story takes place.

Before Cecilia made her “family” breakfast, she sang to the morningdoves that came to her window every morning and seemed to takenotice of her troubles. After this, she went about her daily routine, oneshe had lived by since she was old enough to hold a broom: clean thecarpets and tapestries and draperies, wash the windows, tend the gar-den, scrub the terrace, sweep the halls and stairs, and clean the chim-neys. Don’t forget the mending, the sewing and the laundry! Cecilia didall this just for food and a bed to lie upon and dream. Today, however,was the day Cecilia would make a decision that would make all of hertroubles disappear.

A message from the palace arrived that day and behold! A ballwould be held that night. The kingdom hadn’t had a ball in half adecade, and Cecilia pleaded with Ms. Camilla that night for the chanceto go. Jeremy and Astrid sneered at Cecilia and grimaced at the thoughtof Cecilia, a poor little maid, being associated with them.

“Can you hold my broom your highness?” the twins mocked.Cecilia felt a tear roll down her cheek; always strong, this was new toher. She beseeched even more with Camilla. The lady of the householdsmiled perniciously down at Cecilia. “Why would I let a horrible littlething like you go and ruin a chance for my children to find love, happi-ness, wealth and power?”

Cecilia, now sobbing, choked out, “Did you ever once love or carefor me?”

“How could anyone love something like you?”Cecilia dropped to the floor, her face delved into palms. Realizing

the pain she had caused her, Camilla snickered along with her childrenand uttered one single word, “Goodnight.” The villains slithered awayand left Cecilia alone, pondering what would become of her. She soondashed out of the home and into town.Cecilia wandered the deserted streets of the tiny kingdom crying andlooking at the far away castle that illuminated the night sky like themoon itself. Cecilia stumbled upon an alleyway that only enticed hercuriosity because it blocked the view of her distant dream. There, Ceciliasat against the alley wall, taking no notice of the looming shadow thatcame near.

A voice called to Cecilia.“Hey! Girl!”

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Cecilia screamed with fright.A raggedy old man about four foot ten, hobbled out from the dark-

ness, “It’s alright! I won’t hurt ye! I just want to know what’s wrong with‘ya.”

Cecilia tried to run, but the man grabbed her arm and whispered, “Ican make your troubles fly far away.”

Curious, Cecilia stopped. The old man handed her a blue silk bagwith three gold coins that each had a skull and bones stamped uponthem. The peddler explained that each coin would grant her with anywish. “But a word of caution my sweet girl”, the peddler added,“Should you become filled with greed and hatred toward others, youwill be put back in the same position you’re in now.” Cecilia lookedbewildered at the gold and finally looked up to thank the aged gypsybut could not find a trace of the old man.

Cecilia starting wandering again, thinking of how to use these coinsand passed by a petite, trickling, white marble fountain that in front ofwhich a lovely couple posed together, dancing. Cecilia knew what shewanted and deserved. She closed her eyes, threw her coin into the foun-tain and waited.

The clock at the palace chimed each hour, “DING!” ten o’clock.Cecilia still had hope and waited longer. “DING!” eleven o’clock. Cecilianow wondered if the old man had lied to her. “DING!” twelve o’clock.Cecilia paced back and forth and worried about how she’d face her mas-ters again. She sat on the cold fountain step and looked up into the star-ry sky and pondered whether or not she was the only person not at theball.

All of a sudden, a glistening white and gold leafed carriage led bysix white horses came from out of the shadows, trotting along the brickroad. Cecilia tried to see who owned such a magnificent piece of trans-portation. The carriage stopped in front of Cecilia and as the brass-han-dled door opened, a tall handsome man with brown wavy locksemerged, a man that could only have existed in her dreams. He glidedup to her, a silvery mist swirling around his feet and stared into Cecilia’seyes. Cecilia’s icy blue eyes were so vivid with imagination and wonderthat it put him in a haze. The man knew at once; he had to marry thisgirl.

As the fairy tale goes, the man turned out to be the prince and thetwo star-crossed lovers agreed that they were madly in love with oneanother and something so deep and passionate shouldn’t go to waste.They were wed the very next day. The de Ghents lost their home andwere forced to become slaves to the castle and submit to every wishCecilia had. Revenge felt good.

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As the years passed, the kingdom prospered and flourished as italways had, but, upon the time of this golden age, Cecilia realized shecould have anything her heart desired. The Queen became obsessedwith getting what she never had. Greed melted away her meek andbenevolent self and turned her into a cold, selfish woman. Cecilia soonstarted to treat her servants like worthless trash, calling them wretchedlittle things if her new gowns were not the right shade of color. She oftenaccused them of being trifling little snakes if an item was misplaced. Thekingdom feared her, not because of her words but because of her actions.As Queen, Cecilia had power over everyone and everything. She taxedheavily and hung anyone that couldn’t pay them. She also had affairswith unwanted kingdoms and spent every last dime the now destitutekingdom had. Yes, Cecilia had wealth, power and fame.

Soon after the golden age, a great war broke out in an allied king-dom far off. Cecelia’s generous and caring king gladly accepted the jobof leading an army for the kingdom. Unfortunately, this led to thedemise of the king. Killed in battle, not even possessions could repairCecilia’s broken heart that was now filled with envy for anyone in love.As the sole official ruler of the kingdom, Cecilia beckoned and calledupon anyone that made her jealous, only to dispose of the thing thatmade them happy.

The kingdom had had enough of the hardships Cecilia broughtupon them and decided her fate. Death.

Cecilia stirred in her slumber. A picture flickered in her mind, some-thing that hadn’t happened since she had been a prisoner. Candles lit upa dark room; voices could be heard from the corners of her mind, chant-ing horrid words. Cecilia arose from this nightmare only to hear thesame voices coming from outside the palace. Cecilia climbed out of herbed and drew open the draperies that she no longer cleaned. Outside, afaint glow of light could be seen in the distance. The light drew near andbrightened up the dreary bedroom, eventually coming close enough forher to see the source. Fire, pitchforks, guns; this was a vicious mob. Themob ravaged through the kingdom to reach the castle. The guards wereno match for the strength of the crowd and they soon broke into the frontgate. Fearful for her life, Cecilia had no choice but to flee. She scouredher vanities and jewelry boxes that held her priceless items only to findthe once blue silk bag that still held two gold coins. A pounding soundcame from Cecilia’s bedroom door. The mob had started to break in.Mirrors clambered to the floor. Glass shattered on the cool wood. Ceciliashrieked and wished for her second desire.

Black smoke arose from under the door; the carved wood becoming

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nothing but firewood. Fire ransacked the castle and soon the room. Thepeople scurried away, for fear of being burned alive. Cecilia stood, pet-rified at the thought of burning. She tried to escape through her window,but to no avail. The fall would surely kill her anyway. So she sat on theopen windowsill, the smoke engulfing her. Now standing on the win-dow frame, her light blue silk robe flapping about when the breeze hitit, she watched nightingales fly in the night sky. They took no notice ofCecilia. She wished her final wish. “I want things back to the way theywere and I never want to see anything as horrid as I see tonight.”

Darkness. Darkness fell over the once cheerful eyes of Cecilia.Wondering where she was or why it was dark, Cecilia heard the soundof doves, flittering in her ears. Familiar but unpleasant footsteps camestomping up the stairs.

“Cecilia! You sluggish little toad! Where’s our breakfast?”“Ms. Camilla! It’s black as night out!”

Camilla laughed and laughed and laughed until she felt a twinge ofmaliciousness.

“Well Cecilia, I shall have no more of your foolishness!” Shegrabbed Cecilia’s ear and dragged her out of bed and onto the floor. “Getup!” Camilla slammed the bedchamber door closed and it soon openedagain with familiar, unpleasant voices.

“Here’s my laundry!”“Sew this Cecilia!” Astrid and Jeremy threw miscellaneous pieces

of clothing, burying Cecilia in fabrics. “Why are you just lying there? Getup Cecilia! Don’t wallow in self-pity just because you’re blind!”

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Expecting the Unexpected

Jackie Brouillette

It was a rainy, winter night; it seemed as if the ominous skies knewwhat was to come. The scent of rain on asphalt lingered in the air. Theroad job was coming to a close; so far, everything had gone smoothly. Hewalked to the crosswalk, every step seemingly in slow motion.Sauntering to the other side of the road seemed simple enough, but notonce did he expect the unexpected. In a split second he turned his headand was blinded by a car’s bright lights. The blow knocked the breathout of him, as he flew up into the air. Pain lingered in every part of hisbody, as he shattered the glass windshield into a million pieces. Peoplecame rushing out of their cars, their cries for help sounded as if theywere miles away. While the clock ticked, hope gradually diminished.The ear-piercing sirens along with the flashing blue and red lights addedan eerie mood to the night. After passing out, he awoke again surround-ed by EMTs asking multiple questions. Shaking from shock, he was toocold to respond.

***It’s a typical day, a typical night. Dad’s at work; mom cooks dinner.

Nothing out of the ordinary. As humans, we tend to live our lives in aroutine. We presume everyday we’ll do the same things to maintain ourlifestyle. This is what we expect. That night, I believed Dad would comehome to join us for dinner. I would then clean up, shower, and changeinto pajamas as is my nightly pattern.

This all changed the moment the police showed up at my door. Mymother stepped outside for about five minutes, then she came backinside. I sat at the dinner table and intently watched the color drain fromher face, as if she’d just seen a ghost.“Mom. Mom. Mom!” I had to shout three times before I caught herattention.

Gradually, my mother snapped out of her daze. With a shaky replyand a fake plastered smile she responded, “Okay, kids Grammy is com-ing for dinner.”

At this point I had no idea what was going on, but I assumed it did-n’t concern me so I let it slide. Before I knew it, my grandmother reachedmy house appearing calm about the situation. They exchanged a fewwords while mom hastily dug through her purse. She dashed out the

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door without even saying goodbye. By the conclusion of dinner, nobodyhad spoken and confusion lingered in the air. I went to bed that nightwithout a goodnight kiss from daddy and that scared me.

I awoke the next morning wanting answers. I may have only beenten years old, but I knew there was something unusual going on. Ipushed the covers to the other side of the bed and slid out. I then walkedfarther into the hallway until I heard the sound of the television blaring:

A police lieutenant, Todd Brouillette, head of the detectivebureau was hit by a car Monday night. He was directingtraffic which leads from Naugatuck into Prospect, for a jobbeing done by Connecticut Light & Power. Emergency callsabout six o'clock reported an officer was down. Brouillettewas taken to Saint Mary's Hospital in Waterbury around 6:15.The severity of his injuries were not released Monday night.

I was so terrified! I thought my ears were betraying my mind; myhead was spinning. That was my dad they were talking about. I dashedback to my bedroom and cried, I was scared! I cried from uncertainty. Icried because I never expected this to happen to me. I needed to knowthe severity of his injuries. Grandma told me he was safe, but I neededto see my dad to believe he was alright. It wasn’t until I walked into hisroom in the hospital that I completely broke down. To see someone Ilove more than life itself in such a state, is petrifying. The last thing Iwanted to experience was seeing my father lying on a hospital bed, con-nected to monitors. Eventually, I learned he came out of the accidentwith only a broken leg! I’ve never really been a believer in miracles untilthat day, but my dad’s survival is indeed a miracle.Never in a million years had I expected something so inconceivablecould happen to me. Even though this incident was tough to endure atfirst, I strongly believe everything happens for a reason. His accidenttaught me to never take anything or anyone for granted. How do youexpect the unexpected? The answer is simple, you don’t; live life to thefullest every day with the ones you love. Life can change in a split sec-ond, so live with no regrets.

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The Monkey’s Paw

Mrs. Gusenburg asked her ninth grade English classes to write spinoffs of thewell-known tale: The Monkey’s Paw by W. W. Jacobs. This tale of suspensedemonstrates how everyday lives can be dramatically changed by a fateful wish.Here is a selection of some standout essays.

IsolationMicaela Estrada

The icy ground jolted Mrs. White awake, as the frozen grass nippedat her like sharp blades of steel. She was startled to find that her hus-band was absent. Where had he gone? Frantically, Mrs. White scoutedthe perimeter of their yard for any sign of Mr. White, when a thoughtbegan to formulate in her mind like a wave slowly slithering up ontothe sand. This startling idea immobilized her as an obscure vision of Mr.White trickled into her mind: run. Mrs. White hustled from the frostyground and hurried to the place where she knew her husband would befound. The frigid wind glided over her already desensitized fingertips.Slipping down the deserted, icy road, a feeling of absolute alonenesscaused Mrs. White to shudder with uncertainty.

She hustled down the path that was still with the eerie silence of thefrozen forest. Her feet left gaping prints in the snow, as the decompos-ing leaves became visible through her footprints. The gray sky, congest-ed with the high hope of a snowfall, sat heavily on the hunched shoul-ders of Mrs. White. The heavy fog clouded her eyes with a ceaselessmist that blanketed her surroundings. Her pace quickened as thehushed screams of the Monkey’s Paw surfaced in her memory. “I mustfind my husband. I must find my son.” These thoughts echoed in theback of her mind as if they were the only compulsion she had to keeptrudging forward. Mrs. White sprinted through the trees, sliding past inflashes of white and grey.

A fence finally became visible. Mrs. White had lost her coat to thewrenching branches of the icy trees, along with her warm hat and oneglove. She ignored the searing pain caused by her frozen limbs, cring-ing with every step through the mountainous snow. Her mission was tofind her family, and there was nothing capable of stopping her.Mrs. White saw the black-iron fence that she had been seeking, andrushed over to it as her heart pounded. She shrieked as she touched the

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fence, seeing the coat that she had last seen her husband wearing on theother side. Mrs. White did her best to rapidly climb over the fence, andshe then retrieved the jacket from the ground. It was warm. She gaspedwith the anticipation that she may be close to her husband. Franticallysearching the trees and the overcast sky for any sign of human life, Mrs.White was shaken by the absence of sound. The cold in her bodyengulfed her like a glove. Mrs. White’s vision went black; her hearingturned into a high pitched ringing, and her knees gave out from under-neath her. She collapsed onto the icy, hard ground in a frozen heap ofloss and sorrow. She silently let her last breath escape her body, alongwith the final morsel of heat that she contained. The still air was deco-rated with a beautiful fog as Mrs. White disappeared into the deep,white snow.

Mr. White awoke sharply. He had lost the feeling in the left side ofhis face and could not move his hands or feet. His eyes, tightly shut withthe diamonds of ice that encrusted his eyelashes, slowly opened. As theblurriness of his vision subsided, he began to see a gray stone, etchedwith a name that would never leave his heart.

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Monkey PawClairice Drexler

Three weeks after Mr. White made his last wish, life for the old cou-ple slipped back into oppressiveness. Subdued, Mrs. White mopedabout the house, weeping often for her lost son. The old woman and herhusband tried to avoid the talisman as if they were afraid of its powers.However, this couple would soon have to make a decision; what wouldthey do with the monkey's paw?

The day started out just as any other, cold and lonely; as the daywore on, Mr. White started to consider his plans for the shriveled littlepaw. There was always the possibility of trying to give it back toSergeant Major Morris; after the warning, Mr. White did not think hewould be inclined to take it back. Of course, Mr. White would warn thenext possessor of the misfortune the paw could cause and would not tryto keep the talisman; he wanted it out of his house and out of his way.Mr. White decided to consult with his wife about the issue:

"Mother, could you come in here for a minute?" he asked. "I need totalk to you about-"

"Father, if you are going to talk to me about the paw, I have an idea."Surprisingly, Mrs. White's voice had some life to it. "I was thinking ear-lier, that instead of you giving the paw to a stranger, I could take the pawand implement my wishes."

Mr. White was aghast. He exclaimed, "How can you say that? Haveyou not yet seen all of the damage this paw can cause? It killed our son!It tore our family apart!"" But with the wishes, we could make it right again! We could fixeverything and life would be as it once was!" the woman cried hysteri-cally as she grasped the paw firmly in her right hand.

"No, Mother. I am not going to put us through that again. If you donot want me to give the paw to a stranger, I will not. But I am not goingto hand it over willingly to you instead."

With grim determination, Mr. White grabbed the paw and hurled itinto the blaze, moving quickly in front to stop his wife from retrievingit. As the old couple stared into the dying fire, they glimpsed a simianface in the flames; it was a face with their son's eyes, beckoning the cou-ple to their child, but also to their ruin. They heard a cackle, as if the fakirwas laughing at them, and were drawn further to the flames. In a trance,the couple shuffled closer and closer to the fire, until their robes weretangled with it. The old man and woman stood, consumed by theflames, without a thought or concern of the happenings. The sin of themonkey's paw had finally been removed, but so were its last two vic-tims.

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Three Wishes in a BottleMaggie Atkins

Mr. White was all alone now. It had been a year since he had wishedhis son back to the grave with the monkey’s paw, a year since his wifehad starved herself to death, unable to bear the thought of living with-out her son. After all of this tragedy, Mr. White found himself to be theonly surviving member of his once closely knit and loving family. Hislife had narrowed to one constant question: how could such a minusculeobject cause such destruction? Daily, he pondered how he could omit thedisgusting entity.

One spring day while he was sitting alone in his empty house, hesuddenly remembered his favorite book as a child. In the book, a littleboy had to do away with an article that had cursed his family, Mr. Whitevaguely remembered minor details. But one important componentremained very clear: to discard this object, the little boy had enclosed theevil talisman in a bottle and dropped it into the ocean, never to be seenagain.

And so, it all seemed to click in Mr. White’s disgruntled mind. If itworked for the little boy, why couldn’t it work for him? He tore throughhis cluttered kitchen, or what used to be the kitchen before his wifepassed. Now, it was just a room filled with the scents of rotten food andexcessive amounts of liquor the widower had consumed during the pastmonths. Mr. White looked for a bottle with a large enough openingthrough which to squeeze the dried up monkey’s paw. He threw everybottle to the floor that did not fit his purpose; loud crashes of shatteringglass echoed throughout the desolate house. Mr. White had reached hisbreaking point; there was no family to keep him company. Only thepresence of the cursed monkey’s paw reminded him of the loved oneshe had lost. Finally, he found a large enough container; in one ecstaticmotion he shoved the paw into a bottle.

Mr. White drove and drove for hours until he arrived at the shore.The air was so foggy; it hung like a curtain drawn over the town. Hecould see nothing but his two polished loafers and the sand beneaththem, making it very difficult to find where the sea met the land. Afterten minutes of aimless wandering, he met the water’s edge and placedthe bottle into the ocean, bidding it farewell like an old friend.

Meanwhile in the town of Norfolk, England, fifteen year oldVeronica Green, a homeless girl, was wandering about. Her family wasdirt poor, and she wished day and night for her family to have a home

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of their own. On a cold Tuesday morning in November she walked tothe beach, waiting for the morning. Somehow, there was something dif-ferent about that early Tuesday morning. Something compelled youngVeronica to walk toward the water. To her surprise she found a bottlenestled in the sand right where the tide had washed up on the shore.Curious, she picked up the bottle and examined it dexterously. Unsureof the bottle’s contents she pocketed it for further inspection.

Later that day, while walking down her street in her town, shepopped open the bottle and found a note nestled between the glass anda wrinkled, gray object foreign to the girl. After scanning the object shefinally realized it looked like a mummified monkey’s paw, she thenlooked to the paper. The note read: Hold in your right hand. You havethree wishes. Choose wisely.... Or you’ll pay the consequence. This noteprovoked young Veronica to decide to take a chance and make her longawaited wish. So she took out the dried up object, placed it in her righthand, and made her wish. She thought the paw moved around in herpalm, but then decided it was probably just a figment of her imagina-tion; after all it was only six thirty in the morning.

She finally made it back to the center of town where her family,along with another group of families, slept. Once she reached her fami-ly they told her the news. A family of three had been in a car accident,and their house was to be sold to the state. In addition the father’s willsurprisingly state that their house would be left to the Green family.Veronica’s wish had come true! Finally, they would have a warm placeto stay and beds to sleep in. Then she realized her mother had been cry-ing and that the rest of her family looked gloomy.

“Why are you all so sad we have a house of our own now,” Veronicaquestioned ecstatically?

Her mother then replied, “Your cousin, aunt, and uncle have beenkilled.”

Only at that moment, when her mother uttered that sentence, didVeronica realize what she had done. This must have been the conse-quence that the note had warned her about. She had to make anotherwish to undo her wrong deed, but not in front of her parents or else theywould know what she had done. She thought, why not wish to becomewealthy, so her family could hold a proper funeral to honor their dead.Then she made her second wish, Veronica clasped the object in her hand,and this time she was sure it moved.

Veronica said goodbye to her parents and walked to school, igno-rant of the evil to come. It was right after lunch when the principal ofVeronica’s community school came to talk to her. He pulled her out ofthe middle of an arithmetic lesson to deliver the terrible news. She was

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told that both of her parents had been killed by a driver, who did not seethem in the middle of the road. To compensate for their only child, thetown gave Veronica five hundred pounds. Now, neither poor nor home-less, Veronica had no one to share in her good fortune.

She was all alone now. The only thing she had left was one wishfrom a mummified monkey’s paw. Not much to live for, right? She real-ized greed and want, can be a curse. She now knew that she should havecounted her blessings before she became greedy. So, Veronica respectful-ly buried every last one of her family members with her acquired money.

Veronica Green walked toward the cemetery early that coldNovember morning. Just like she did every morning, to watch the sunrise over the hills in the East. But, this time it was different. Laying onher back in front of her family with the monkey’s paw in her right hand,the paw made a slithering motion in her palm and Veronica watched herlast sunrise.

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The Monkey’s PawCatria Gadwah-Meaden

It was a shockingly sunny day in the early summer of 2010, and theCooper family was cherishing it, as most English families do. The own-ers of the lavish home previously known as Laburnam Villa, were out-side surveying the workers. Husband and wife stood together, dis-cussing any last minute adjustments to the location and size of the in-ground pool, while their daughter circled the hole. Peering into itsdepths, she noticed a flash of light and leaned closer.

What had appeared to be light was merely a reflection of the sun offof an ancient gold box. As the girl tentatively picked it up, her mother,having also seen the glint of light, snatched the box out of her hands.

“Sophia!” the woman cried “How dare you touch my jewelry box!”Sophia, knowing very well that the box was not her mother’s, tried toreply, but her retort was cut off by her father who sent her to her room.Sophia mumbled a response, as she stormed away and headed inside.Mr. Cooper kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, as she too, turned backto the house, clinging to the mysterious box.

Once inside and positive that she was alone in her office, a some-what distraught Mrs. Cooper sat down at a large desk and attempted toopen the intricately designed jewelry box, soon realizing that it was nothers. Her interest growing, she decided to further investigate. Afterstruggling silently, she discovered the letter “W” on the bottom, hidingthe real opening. She smugly removed the lid, feeling she had won thisbattle.

Mr. Cooper bolted inside when he heard the screams. Upon enter-ing the office, he found his wife standing on top of a chair in the cornerof the room.

“What on Earth is going on here May?” he questioned his wife “Areyou harmed?”His wife rambled about a rat underneath the desk and assured him thatall was well. She nudged him out of the room, insisting that she was fine.After closing the door once again, Mrs. Cooper coolly walked backtoward the desk and stared into the jewelry box at its only content, arepulsive but somewhat alluring monkey’s paw.

Late that night while her family was sleeping, Mrs. Cooper visitedthe local antique shop with the paw wrapped securely in a paper bag.Upon entering, she felt the eerie sensation that she was being watched.

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“May, come here dear. I’ve been expecting you.” A gypsy sum-moned.

Mrs. Cooper hesitated for a minute and then walked toward her,intending that she wanted to get rid of the wretched paw at all costs. Thegypsy knew that the woman had no idea of the power that the paw pos-sessed, and she had no intention of telling her. She told her that the pawwas useless, and would take it off her hands for nothing in return.However, Mrs. Cooper was suspicious and knew the gypsy was hidingsomething. She turned to leave and the gypsy fell into her trap.

“Wait! You have are oblivious to the power the paw possesses! Youdon’t want to end up like the Whites, falling into sorrow because of yourthree wishes!”

White, that must be what the initial on the box stood for, Mrs. Cooperthought to herself as she continued to leave. When she arrived home,she confided her findings with her husband. They agreed that their firstwish should be a simple one in order to test the paw’s true potential.

“I wish that the pool will be done tomorrow, a month ahead ofschedule.”

With a shriek, May completed her wish, as the paw twisted in herhand.

The next day, the Coopers awoke to a pounding on the door. Sophiaanswered and found one of the workers standing before her, saying thepool had been completed. Astounded, she shared the news with her par-ents who were elated. Although the weather was dreary, Sophia wentoutside to survey the now finished work.

After Mr. Cooper had left for work, his wife went outside to findSophia, who was going to be late for school. She rounded the house,sauntering towards the back yard. What she saw was dreadful. Mufflingher screams, she ran inside to call 911, leaving behind Sophia’s body,floating in the water of the pool.

The next few days were chaos. Between planning a funeral for theirdaughter and sobbing at commemorations the Coopers forgot all abouttheir remaining two wishes. The wife was sitting by the windowsill,staring out at the rain. The husband was across the room, watching hiswife tentatively. Suddenly, Mrs. Cooper broke the silence, shouting injoy about the paw and their remaining wishes. That night, the Coopersmade a unanimous decision to bring their beloved daughter back to life,barely grimacing as the paw writhed in their hands.

Mrs. Cooper couldn’t sleep, all she could hear was the water in thepool sloshing back and forth, back and forth; sounding as if someonewas swimming laps. The noise grew louder and louder - slish,

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slosh….SLISH, SLOSH. It seemed as if she, herself, were outside, in thepool. That was when she knew. They couldn’t do this. They couldn’tplay with fate. She made the third and final wish for her daughter to bedead again, tears running down her face. As the paw granted its lastwish and twisted for its last time, it passed like sand through Mrs.Cooper’s hand into a transparent pile on the floor. That night, wails fora lost daughter could be heard throughout the home.

Over one hundred years before, Mrs. White had awakened in herbed, crying for a girl named Sophia. She recalled her nightmare and hadawakened her husband, telling him to go dig up the dreaded paw so thatthey could destroy it. A half an hour later, the two sat in their parlor witha fire blazing before them. Mr. White threw the paw in, ensuring that itwould never again cause a family harm. The two watched as thewretched monkey’s paw burned to ash. As Mrs. White turned to go backto the bedroom she could have sworn that she had caught a glimpse ofan “S” in the smoke.

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The LetterAlly Feldman

A tall young man walked up to a country house for the second timethat month. Timidly, he shuffled down a weedy walkway that looked asif it had not been used for years. The chilly night was dark, and as theman rapped on the door three times, a blustery gale caused him to shud-der. Just as he was about to turn away and trek home, the door creakedopen with a groan. “What do you want boy?” a disheveled man inquiredof the prowler. The young man barely managed to stammer his motivebefore the older man barked, “Spit it out, boy!”

Hesitantly, the mysterious young man began to explain, “Sorry, sir,I work for Maw and Meggins. I am not certain you remember me, but Idelivered the horribly unfortunate news of your son’s death. I returnedto state that I am terribly sorry for your loss, and on behalf of the entireMaw and Meggins company, offer my most sincere apologies. Freakaccidents do not often happen, but when they do, disaster strikes.” Withthat he turned around and tottered down the steps, his limbs seeminglyungovernable.

“Wait a moment,” the old man called to the retreating figure.“Would you like some tea?” he questioned the juvenile.

The young man pondered this offer for a moment. “I suppose thatwould be pleasant; thank you.” Mr. White gesticulated, pointing hishands into the doorway. The white haired man held the door open as thetall youth ambled again up the steps and through the doorway. What theyoung man could see of the house was quaint, but the enveloping dark-ness clouded his vision.

“I am sorry it is dark. We have not had much need for this room late-ly,” Mr. White apologized shamefacedly.

“It is no matter. A quick candle will lighten the mood.” With that,the mysterious man in Mr. White’s sitting room pulled a matchbox outof a large pocket and lit a candle. Suddenly, the room was aglow withwarm light, and the two figures were defined in tall shadows. It was apeculiar sight indeed: a short old man hesitantly sitting down on a sofaand a gangly young man pacing in front of him. The room was severelydusty, as if it had not been used for weeks. The young man noted that“lately” could have meant much more time than it suggested. “I don’tmean to pry, but where is your wife? She was here when I was here last,

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wasn’t she?” The young man queried.Gruffly, the haggard man sitting on the dusty char replied, “She is

out. Groceries and what not.” This was a lie, and the young man knewit. However, he did not feel the need to be overly nosy. The truth wasthat Mrs. White was sleeping upstairs. In fact, Mrs. White had been in aself-inflicted stupor ever since the news of her son’s death had reachedher. On good days, Mr. White could convince her to eat a bite of the foodthat he had brought up to her. Other times, she would not eat for a week.Mrs. White was depressed, and Mr. White was helplessly standing by asthe only person left in his life was slowly deteriorating. There was asilence between the two men as they stared at each other, both trying toderive some sense of this situation.

“What is your name boy?” Mr. White broke the silence, needingsome explanation for the stranger in his house.

“Alexander,” the young man reported.“No, no, your full name,” Mr. White insisted. “It is my belief that

men who do not state their full name when asked have something tohide.”

Alexander, who did not want to be taken as a liar, quickly asserted,“Brookman, sir. Alexander Carter Brookman.”

“Very good, Mr. Brookman,” Mr. White pronounced his satisfaction.“Now, to business. Before you elucidate your reason for visiting, we willhave tea.” At this, Mr. White unsteadily rose from his chair and totteredto the kitchen. He returned a moment later, his shaking hands holdingtwo large mugs of steaming tea.

After having received his mug, Alexander professed his thanks. “Iappreciate this,” he said. “The walk here was quite cold.”

“It’s no problem,” Mr. White replied. “We always have a kettle of teabrewing. My wife used to say that tea was like a hug in a cup.”Alexander smiled. “Personally, I believe it is only fancy water, but Icould never argue with her.” The two men both took sips of their tea,and after a moment of silence, started to speak simultaneously. Theystuttered around each other before Mr. White said, “By all means, goahead.” Thus ceasing the awkward stuttering.

“The story’s a tad long, if you don’t mind.” Alexander spoke withthe same accent of Herbert and most of the youth, slowly and informal-ly.

“I am in no rush,” Mr. White admitted while nodding his head forthe young man to keep telling his story, a bemused look adorning hisface.

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At this, Alexander commenced his story. “It all starts with mygrandfather. He was a colonel in the army, and he often came back fromdeployment with a slew of stories. Most of them were similar: tales ofexotic women,” Mr. White marveled to himself that a young man couldsay this without snickering, like most young men his age would, “andheroic adventures. Only one story stood out to me. My grandfather hadjust come home after a long stretch in India. He returned quite rattled; ittook a few weeks for him to re-situate himself into a normal, English life.On a stormy evening, Grandmother and Grandfather came to my par-ents’ house for dinner. Only after a couple of beers did he start talkingabout his adventures in India. My grandmother, of course, looked wor-ried, because she did not think I should hear the tales. However, mygrandfather vehemently insisted, and she grudgingly assented.

Grandfather began his legendary tale about an old fakir that hadpossession of a specific Monkey’s Paw.” Mr. White was looking evenmore skittish now, as the candle dimmed and sputtered, giving a sinis-ter look to the room. Alexander Brookman timidly went on with hisstory. “My grandfather decided he must see this famous fakir whilst hewas in India. He traveled two hours by horseback to visit him, a journeythey attempted to hide from the clever general. Grandfather did notactually tell me much about the visit, there was only one thing he caredto mention. The fakir was fabricating a monkey’s paw.” Alexander saidthis with a shudder. “A talisman so powerful and deadly, it could bringentire armies of men to their feet, desperately coveting the power itcould give them.”

Both Alexander and Mr. White were enraptured with the story.Alexander shook his head before he could continue. “As soon as myGrandfather said this, he stopped. With a possessed look on his face, helooked straight into my eyes. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘don’t ever think about thismonkey’s paw again. Alright? It causes terrible misfortune to everyonewho comes across it; misfortune often disguised as incredible luck. Ittakes over the minds of perfectly sane men and makes them commit hor-rible crimes.’ My Grandfather suddenly shook my hand once and leftthe house. Grandmother kissed me on the forehead, shook her head andtrailed after my grandfather like a lost puppy. He never mentioned itagain.”

At the conclusion of Mr. Brookman’s tale, Mr. White was staring offinto space. With a look of deep concentration, his brow furrowed and hequickly solicited an explanation. “How did you know to come here?What made you come back?”

A look of sincere woe crossed Mr. White’s face, as he realized theanswer to the question before Alexander replied. “I overheard Herberttalking about it on the day of his death. I was auditing one of the work-ers, and I recalled the memory of my Grandfather’s tale. I tried to forgetabout it, but when I was sent to your house, I knew it could be no coin-cidence that Herbert just happened to have read about a Monkey’sPaw.”

“You are correct in thinking my family came into the possession ofa certain Monkey’s Paw. However, the wound of my son’s death is tooraw for me to talk about it to the extent that I am positive you expect.Nevertheless, I can supply you with the address of the man that gave theMonkey’s Paw to me,” Mr. White offered.

“That would be wonderful!” Alexander exclaimed, just as the can-dle was extinguished. Both men jumped as they were plunged into sud-den darkness. It did not take long for Alexander to draw his matchboxfrom his pocket, and he again lit another match. This time, the flame didnot illuminate the entire room, and only their faces were not shroudedin darkness.Mr. White began to scribble an address on a slip of scrap paper, his handshaking as he did so. As he handed the address to Alexander, he gave awarning: “This man is not overly kind to strangers. He, too, spent timein the army, and he is rightly suspicious of juveniles. Do not call beforeyou go, because he will refuse to see you. Knock harshly on the door,and he will most likely talk to you. I wish you the best of luck.Goodbye.” With tears in his eyes, he ushered the gangly, confusedyoung man out the door.“Thank you for the tea!” Alexander called to him, but the door hadalready shut. It was several days after he visited Mr. White thatAlexander Carter Brookman gathered enough courage to call on theman to whom Mr. White had referred. It took a long walk and three taxisfor Alexander to reach the address on the slip of paper:

Apartment 10,45 West Sunniside,Sunderland,SR1 1BAUnited Kingdom.

As he reached the steps of the townhouse, Alexander noticed thatthe street was deserted. Not one person was walking on the sidewalk

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and the shutters were closed throughout the street. “Odd,” thoughtAlexander, who was quite used to the hustle and bustle of Maw andMeggins. Alexander Brookman felt a strange wind rustle through hishair, almost as if it was warning him not to knock on the large, blackdoor ominously standing in front of him. Despite a strange premonitiontelling him something wicked was about to happen, Alexander tappedon the door. After a few moments of silence, curiosity compelledAlexander to knock again, but much more harshly this time. The thirdtime he tried knocking, the lock gave, and he was let into the house.

Although he thought it strange that the person who opened thedoor did not ask for a name, Alexander decided to push the door openfurther and step across the threshold. He looked around for whoeverhad opened the door for him, but he could not see anything. The entireatrium was engulfed in darkness. He looked at the floor only to see afaint outline of a large man, lying prone on the floor. Stifling a scream,Alexander fumbled along a wall to find a candle or a light.Unexpectedly, the slowly burning ashes in the fireplace rekindled andburned much brighter, bathing the room in enough light for Alexanderto see. From his vantage point across the room, Alexander noticed thepool of blood in which the man was laying. “Well that’s just fantastic. Iwalk into a strange house only to find a dead man lying in his ownblood on the floor,” Alexander muttered to himself.

“I…am not..dead yet..,” whispered the man on the floor. Hecoughed a little and beckoned Alexander with one feeble finger.Terrified, Alexander shuffled a bit closer to the man, and bent down sohe could hear the dying man better: “Do not worry about saving me,there is nothing to be done.” Alexander felt horrible when he heard this,because he had already assumed the man was dead. “I knew someonewould come, so I wrote this letter. Read it…” The old man was cough-ing too much to finish his statement.

“I will read it. Is that all you need? What happened?” Alexandercould not reason why this man was dying. Had he attempted to kill him-self? Had someone hurt him?

“Read…the letter.” The man took one last shuddering breath, andclosed his tired eyes. His clamped hand let loose a folded piece of paper,and Alexander snatched it up. He began to read:

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To Whom it may concern:You are obviously here for some reason pertaining to the Monkey’s Paw. If

you are reading this, I am dead. Unfortunate as that is, you have a task that Iam assigning you. The Monkey’s Paw is evil. It only brings terror to this worldand the people involved with it. It has killed countless bystanders, and it hasdriven otherwise innocent citizens to kill. Your mission is to find them. Find allof the Monkey Paws. The only way to destroy them is in a fire, so burn them.Write about them; spread the word somehow or go to India to stop their produc-tion. I have done many immoral things in my life, including giving theMonkey’s Paw to an honest family, knowing it would tear their lives apart. Mydying wish is that you are braver than I and have the power to fix it. I know youhave the will, Alexander, you just need to find the way.Sincerely,Sgt. Major Morris

“How did he know my name?” was all Alexander could think ofbefore darkness clouded his mind, and he collapsed.

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Canterbury TalesMs. Doak assigned her senior college preparatory English classes towrite their own variations on the classic tale. Each group drafted aprologue and a tale based on an original idea. They used vocabularybased on the original Old English language. Here is a selection ofsome standout creations.

The Tale of the Doctor’s WifeKristen Scheuermann and Amanda Thibault

"You ever feel bad about it?" The disembodied voice came from the otherroom, but Nate could tell who it belonged too. It was only the two ofthem in their fortress of solitude. "About what? Come in here.” Natespoke from his own room in their unseen stronghold.

The muted sliding noise of clothing on leather could be heard, aswell as the faint noise of his brother's shoes on the carpet as heapproached his brother’s room. The Redfield twins, Nate and Jacksonwere known as national thieves; they specialized in robbing museums.Wanted posters of them in their signature red masks were not uncom-mon in capital cities across the world.

"You know, stealing." There was an obvious air of uncertainty inJack’s voice as he posed the statement.

"What, are you kidding? Nobody will miss stuff like this."Nate stood up, striding toward one of the many desks that filled theirliving area and pulled out the bottom drawer. It slid out with little resist-ance; the faint crinkle of plastic breaking the silence. He carefully pulledout a small plastic bag, stained red as to hide its contents, and held it upfor his brother as he gesticulated wildly and admonished. "Stuff like this,that you insist on grabbing despite the risk." He opened the bag, extri-cating the small item within. He carefully held up the fragile assortmentof bones, a small paw which looked as if it had been to the underworldand back in terms of condition.

"It looked interesting!” exclaimed Jack. He had always had a fond-ness for superstition as a child.

"Interesting? It’s just a skeleton of some random monkey’s hand."The "Monkey's Paw" was an item on display in a small museum inLouisiana, an item that had enthralled Jack.

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“It grants wishes. Did you even read its description? Some old fakirput an incantation on it.”“Didn’t you learn anything in grammar school? It’s like the Greekmyths.”

“Whatever you say. I’m going to bed, don’t forget to make sure thedoor is shut.” Jackson did as he said he would, walking into the otherroom.

Nate could hear the click of the light going off in Jack’s room, but hecontinued to read. Where the Red Fern Grows was something he hadalways wanted to read, but had never had a chance as a child. It filledthe emptiness in him to an extent, the emptiness that is usually filledwith a childhood. But that luxury of childhood was not one of the thingsgiven to the twins as infants, as their parents could not rightly take careof them. The boys learned to survive on their own, albeit in a strangerand more dangerous way than most people.

In the middle of the night, nothing could be heard but the faint noiseof people passing by outside. Jackson had been awake for a time, sittingby the dim light created by his lamp and staring at the strange skeletalpaw in his hand. He thought of his life – his childhood, young adult-hood, and now, how much it could’ve been changed with a single wish.He might be working as an accountant and his brother as a lawyer;maybe they could both be bums, living off the streets. He wondered ifthat’s what he had always wanted, to be one of many. Jack got a shiveras he thought about it and rapidly and unceremoniously dropped thepaw back into its red hiding place. He crawled back into his bed, a senseof looming danger hanging over him as he attempted to sleep, a luxurythat was not given to him that night.

The boys sat in their small kitchen lacing up their boots. They wereboth heavily clothed from head to toe in protective desert wear,although heavily favoring their red cloth. The intricate red fabric cov-ered both of their heads and was pulled over their faces, covering all buttheir blue eyes. Their rich red ghutrahs laid vertically across their backs.Their body armor and weapons were concealed under all of their cloth-ing. Jack looked up with a sigh, and murmured softly, “Bathroom.” Natesighed and rolled his eyes, sitting back down to wait.

Jack scurried into another room; however, it was not the bathroom.He opened a drawer, and pulled out the skeletal paw from its place.“Please grant a wish?” he requested. The paw gave no sign of aresponse. He grimaced, and held the paw closer to his face. The pawseemed to have a voice, invading Jack’s mind with its seemingly endlesschant, urging him to make a wish.

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Younger siblings always crave power in their own way, purely sothey may demonstrate that they are capable of being the alpha. Jack wasonly born fifteen minutes after his brother, but Nate had always acted asthe decision maker and leader of the two. Jack wanted to lead just so hecould prove that he could.

Jack whispered, “I wish Nate would let me lead him this time.” Hequickly held his free hand over his mouth to stop himself from yelling,as the paw squirmed in his hand. It shook as if it was trying to escapeJack’s grip, then it stopped. A single finger, the ring finger, fell off of itand clattered across the floor. Jack’s jaw dropped as he quickly stuffedthe paw in his pocket and kicked the finger away under the cupboard.Jack’s flustered face was thankfully hidden by the red cloth. He simplynodded at his brother, and Nate walked over to the wall in the kitchen.Jack turned the hot and cold faucets in the sink all the way to full. Therewas a small click heard, and then the creak of complex machinery wak-ing up. The kitchen wall that Nate stood in front of began to slowly creakupward, revealing a door sized hole that lead to the outside world ofSaudi Arabia.

The operation aimed at the poorly-secured local museum was a suc-cess, although Jack’s mind was racing throughout the entire ordeal. Natehad stood aside to let him lead; Jack had simply thought it pure coinci-dence. The twins stood in the vault of the museum, Nate leaning upagainst threshold of the room as Jack looked around. He spotted thepainting that they had come for, moving closer towards the object. Natewhistled, clearly oblivious that his brother had no idea what he had todo, and had no intention of helping him.

Jack extended his arms to get his hands around the painting, how-ever a beat interrupted him. A beat in his ear drums, a beep from a faroff noise, and a beep coming from the ceiling. The beats and the beepsslowly became louder and more frequent, giving life to Jack’s lifelongfear. They had been caught. Jack looked with horror back at Nate, whowas also looking up at the ceiling with a grimace.

The sirens of the museum now blared as the two sprinted down theseemingly never ending hallway, forgetting about the prize that theyhad hoped to acquire. Jack knew he had failed and he knew what hadmade him do it. The paw made him do it.

The two came to a screeching stop in a doorway, looking around thelarge room that they had arrived in. Brown filled the room – the brownof uniforms. The brothers were surrounded on all sides by the armedpolice force, their guns trained on the twins as they yelled in Arabic. The

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boys slowly raised their hands in the air; however Jack’s left hand car-ried the paw.

Jack spoke the hurried words, “I wi-“ his voice was interrupted bythe sound of a crack, the sight of a flash, and the feeling of blood run-ning down his arm. Jack collapsed in a heap, tears rolling down his facefrom the pain. He began to slip away from consciousness, his last tear-stained view being that of a small skeletal paw hitting the ground, shat-tering just as his life had.

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Revenge of the Monkey’s PawEli Gardella-Westervelt

The Whites were once a happy family. They were comfortably livingin their Labyrinth Villa out in rural England. One cool night a visitorarrived bringing tales of a magical monkey paw from India. He said thatan old Fakir had placed a spell on the paw so that three men were eachallowed three wishes, along with the invaluable advice that a change infate always comes with a price. Not thinking, Mr. White was quick towish for two hundred English pounds, something he would end upregretting for the rest of his life. Mr. White did get the money, but at thecost of his son’s life. Then upon wishing him back, Mr. White fearedwhat his son had become; he wished him back to the grave.

That was over a decade ago and things have changed drastically.Since then, the quiet street on which they lived is now a bustling city.New houses have been constructed nearby, one of which belongs to me.It is a long story how I came to know about the paw, but it started on awarm summer day in our great country of England.

I was just going out for a midday stroll, when I noticed the Whitessitting on their porch. I have seldom seen them, because ever since thedeath of their son, they have stayed inside and rarely come out.Intrigued to learn more about them, I proceed to their gate and wavedhello. They returned my wave and added, “How do you do?”

This began a back and forth about the weather and the town.Throughout the conversation, I kept the thought of the illusive monkey’spaw in the back of my mind. I danced around the question for a goodamount of time before deciding to ask it.

“What came of that evil paw that legends tell of?” I questioned. Mrs.White’s reaction was full of horror and regret. She turned a ghastlywhite with shadows falling over her eyes creating a deadly effect. Mr.White however, remained stone faced, as if trying to recall a nightmare.A period of silence followed that felt like ages before Mr. White stuttereda reply, “What do you want with that revolting thing?” Mr. Whitegasped, “I did away with that wretched limb years ago, threw it into thefire!”

Despite what he said, his eyes told a completely different story; theywere filled with a perplexing light that hinted that he had not trulydestroyed the paw. I did not want to be intrusive, but my thirst foranswers compelled me to continue.

“Somehow, I don't believe you,” I confessed. “I feel that you wouldnever incinerate such a magical object.” The realization that I was right

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glowed all around Mr. White’s face.“You do not know what you are getting involved in,” he barely

managed to gasp, “I was in you place once, and I would now give any-thing to take it back.”

Intrigued by an urge to further my knowledge of the mysteriousitem, I continued. “What do you use it for now? All of the wishes areused up, you could have eliminated it, right?”

“Well son,” Mr. White breathed, “I’ve tried to destroy the paw, butnever had much luck. You see, magic is something that is almost impos-sible to destroy. I tried to burn the paw, throw it into the ocean tied to abrick, and buried it deep in the ground. None of this worked though,because no matter how hard I tried, the paw would not burn. Upon myarrival home the venomous object would be lying on the parlor table, asif that’s the most normal thing.”

After taking a few minutes to comprehend what he had said, I real-ized something that would bring closure to my curiosity and to theWhites’ longing to have the object destroyed.

“I am traveling to India in a few days,” I explained. “What if I takethe paw with me, and try to find a way to nullify the evil shadow thatthe paw cast on you, once and for all.”

“That is a brilliant idea,” Mrs. White said, after a long time of hear-ing only the sounds of the bustling city, “It’s just too good to be true, see-ing as we have been living with that thing for over a decade now, andthere are very few ways that we haven’t tried to eliminate the paw.”“There won’t be any problems,” I claimed. “I would just need the pawnow so that I could pack it.”

“Well it’s our last shred of hope, and we’re not going to India any-time soon,” Mr. White concluded. “Plus, if anything goes wrong the pawwill end up back on our parlor table like always,” he shuddered. “Youmust promise not to do anything stupid, it will only end up with greatpain for you.”

“You can trust my word that I will only let the paw see light in thepresence of another person who understands the weight of its power,” Ilied.

With that Mr. White entered his house and returned with the mon-key’s paw in his hand, held tightly as if he was not truly sure if it was agood idea to give it up. He finally handed it over and told me to leavebefore he changed his mind.I arrived home to see that I didn't have time to take my walk and thatthe sun was already setting. Instead of doing as I had said, I proceeded

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to take the paw into my study to examine it. The limb was curious, itseemed to be centuries old and it was shriveled up like a raisin. If I had-n’t known of its evil past, I would not have viewed the paw with thesame respect as I did. While examining the paw, the thought came to me:what would happen if I tried to make a wish?

I never thought that it would actually cause anything to happen, butthe “what if” kept me going. Like the legends told, I held the paw in myhand and uttered out my wish.

“I wish to be a king.” Going against its legend, nothing happened.The paw stayed motionless and I wasn’t a king. However, unknown tome and at that same moment, Mr. White and Sgt. Major Morris wereboth jolted with a sharp pain and were then struck dead.

Mrs. White’s scream still resonated in the air when I reached theirhouse. I rushed through the gate and into their yard, not even thinking.Upon knocking on the door, I was greeted by a distraught Mrs. White,her skin reflecting her name.

“What did you do?” Mrs. White sobbed, “Why did you have tobring this grief upon our family, when we are still recovering from ourson's death?”

I could not respond. I only stood there speechless and filled withguilt and regret. There was nothing that I could do to stop envisioningMr. White lying dead on the floor.

“I am dearly sorry,” I managed to choke out before walking away inpure reverence. Upon reaching home I found that the paw was missing,and in its place was a note that read: “You have until Wednesday at highnoon to undo your wrongs.” I was not sure whether to believe this, butthat was when I saw the horror that compelled me to comply. Lookingout of the window, hanging from a tree, a monkey, who was missing apaw. He glanced at me quickly before disappearing into thin air.As I prepared for bed I could not stop thinking of how I had four daysto undo the cruel things that had taken me only a few minutes toachieve. The thought of the mysterious monkey was burned into mymind. When I finally mustered the courage to enter my room and triedto shut my eyes, I couldn’t sleep. When my eyes finally slid shut mydreams were filled with images of monkeys with razor sharp teeth chas-ing me through woods and of images of Mr. White lying dead on thefloor. The last figure I saw was Mrs. White, dead and even more palethan when I had seen her a day earlier.The next morning I tried to act as normal as I could, but upon reachingmy parlor, I was greeted by another note: “Your curiosity has cost youonce again, you must attribute for your sins.” Not knowing what it

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meant, I proceeded to make some tea and toast. After eating, and gettingdressed, I proceed out of the gate and to the street when to my surpriseI was greeted by a group of people rushing to the Whites’ house and thesound of an ambulance in the distance.

Without taking a moment to think, I rushed towards the crowd andupon approaching the first person, I proceeded to ask, “My god, whathappened now, is Mrs. White hurt?”

The response was enough to make the blood stop moving throughmy veins. “She is dead, killed herself last night,” the man said. “Themailman found a note on the door this morning; it said something abouta paw, dog paw I believe?”

“It’s actually a monkey's paw, not that that’s important,” I respond-ed. I proceeded to walk away, but suddenly to my horror I saw the samemonkey, with the same razor sharp teeth, deep black eyes and one pawmissing. My first reaction was to scream.

“You see that bloody monkey over there?” I questioned. “That evilthing has been stalking me since yesterday.” The crowd proceeded tolook at the tree, but could see nothing but reddish leaves. Now I wasreceiving strange looks from the surrounding assembly. As the red tracesof humiliation began to creep onto my face, I felt that it was a good timeto leave, so instead of going to work, I returned home. After consideringwhat I should do I came to the conclusion that I should travel to Indiaand seek help from a fakir.

After hastily packing, I hailed a cab and rushed to the train stationand hopped on the quickest boat to France, and then a train to India. Thetrain was not the first class that I was used to, but with my life at risk,the poor economy class was better than anything. As the train began tomove, I took one last look out the window and the town I called homeand caught sight of two similar monkeys sitting in a nearby tree. Twopairs of eyes staring sharply at me, almost as sharp as the teeth in theirmouths.

I traveled for one day to reach India, leaving me with only two daysto undo what I had done. The train left me on a dusty street that lead toa nearby town. Upon reaching the town, I was greeted by the noise ofmen and women arguing in an unfamiliar foreign language.

Within seconds I was swept into the flow of people and despite mybest efforts, I was completely unable to do anything. As I traveled alongthe river of people, I tried unsuccessfully to catch sight of a fakir. As theriver split into tributaries, I was able to move to the side and think aboutwhat I should do.

That was when my wandering eyes fell upon a booth which housed

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and ancient man and a caged monkey, almost identical to the one I hadseen back in England. I approached the man, but he seemed to knowthat I was coming before he even saw me.

“Hello, I’ve been expecting you.” His statement seemed distant tome, due to the fact that I was mesmerized by the black monkey in thecage by his head.

After what seemed like hours I snapped out of the trance andreplied, “Is it possible that you could help me to fulfill a demand onshort notice?” I stammered. “I have but a few days to save not only mylife, but the lives of some of my dear friends.”

“You must make a long and frightful journey to the mountains,where you will be faced with a decision of life or death,” the old fakiradvised. With that, he shut his booth and disappeared.

Unsure what to believe, I booked a night at the nearest hotel andtried to take a quick nap before considering my situation. I was awak-ened at six o’clock pm to the sound of scratching on my window. Iwalked towards the window and opened the shutters to find hundredsof bloodthirsty monkeys staring at me. I shut the shutters quickly, andturned my back to them while thinking about what I could do. The bestidea that I had was to follow the wise words of the fakir and travel to themountains and make the choice.

After a fitful night's sleep, I left early in the morning for my journey.I met a man at the edge of town who I had previously contacted aboutbeing my guide and so began the beginning of the end for me.

The trip was supposed to take one day and a half by carriage andleave me only a few hours to right my wrongs. When we finally arrivedat the dwelling of the old fakir, we were greeted by an old man wearingnothing but old furs and bones. As the carriage wheeled to a stop, I wasable to recognize the sounds of monkeys in the distance, somethingstrange to this area, but after what I experienced, very few thingsseemed strange anymore.

“Hello,” I greeted the fakir. “I was told to come meet you, that youhave the solution to all of my problems?”“Yes, son,” the old man replied. “You must now decide whether youwant to be selfish and live the rest of your life or undo the curse and fixall of the damage that has been done.”

Without hesitation I was able to respond, “I will undo the damage,my curiosity has already cost too much, it is best if I pay for what I havedone.”

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“Wise choice,” he responded. Then ushering me into his hut, I wastaken aback by the foul smelling odor that was resonant in the air. Thefakir pointed toward an old looking table and beckoned me to lie down,while he gripped an ancient looking gold dagger.

The man stammered out a few lines that I didn’t understand beforehe stabbed the dagger downward, straight through my heart. My soulwas lifted upward with the sound of beating in the background. Then Iwas met with darkness.

Mr. White woke to find himself lying in his own bed; he struggledup and walked to the stairs where he heard sounds of laughing, similarto Herbert’s.

“It cannot be.” Mr. White whispered to himself, but he still proceed-ed down the stairs to find his son and wife sitting by the fire, exactly thesame as that faithful night.

“There you are, Father. I’ve been waiting for you to come backdown,” his son said. “Are you ready to lose again? I just about havecheckmate.”

“What is the date?” Mr. White asked.“You are certainly acting strange tonight,” Mrs. White replied. “The

date is December 22, 1888.”“Well this is peculiar.” Mr. White said to himself. But he was shak-

en awake by knocking of Sgt. Major Morris on the door.

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Sequel to “The Monkey’s Paw”Thomas Brayton

The tears are rolling down my cheeks and freezing to my face. I lookaround and everyone is filled with sorrow. My mother is weeping in myfather’s arms. He does not comfort her; he just stares indifferently intothe distance. He is gone, I do not know where he has gone, but he is nothere anymore. The snow stings my face, but it is not as harsh as the stingof sudden loss. This pain not only sprouts from the death of my brother,but from the loss of my parents. They are now two broken individuals,shattered to their cores.

It is silent as we lower the coffin into the ground. My mother, heart-broken, lets out one last cry and collapses. My father does not catch her,nor even realizes that she has fallen. I can stand it no longer; I must walkaway. Since my brother’s death, they have grown apart: from each otherand from me.

I meander through the graveyard, shrugging my shoulders beneaththe heavy burden of misery. I do not know where I am going, and I donot care. “Am I becoming like my parents?” I wonder. My legs are tired,and my eyes are itchy and swollen from crying. As I wonder whether Ishould head back, I see a man. I stop.

I squint to perceive his actions. It seems as though he is intoxicated,as he clumsily stumbled toward a pair of graves at the top of a nearbyhill. When he arrives at his destination, he raises his fists and screams. Itcomes to me as a wall of sound, filled with anger and remorse. He thenthrows something into the distance and collapses onto the ground.

I run up the hill to attempt to aid the man. When I come upon him,he is breathing heavily and bleeding significantly. He must have hit hishead on the gravestone as he collapsed. I look around for another per-son that might be willing to help. As I slowly turn around, I notice thatthe man has disappeared. There is no sign of him, not even a trail of foot-prints. I let out a shriek as the blood on the ground spells, “Wish, Wish,Wish.” As I gape in horror, a terrible sound fills the air. It resonatesthroughout the entire graveyard, sounding like the howls of monkeys,and the rhythmic beat of their fists beating against their chests.

I am frozen, standing on the hill, petrified by the terror that coursesthrough my veins. Suddenly, there is a whisper in my ear: “Herbert, ohHerbert; hurry please, wish, wish, wish…” Accompanying the hauntingwhispers come cries of fear, the sickening grind of metal against humanflesh and bones, gasps of terror, and cries of regret and loss.

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The noises grow louder, until my ears hurt from the dissonance. Itbecomes too much to bear, and I fall to the ground unconscious.

I can feel myself returning to reality. I pause and reassure myselfthat all of this has been a figment of my imagination. I open my eyes,and crouched in front of me is a gruesome monkey; it shrieks, baring itsbloody fangs. My intestines knot, and my skin becomes a sheet of ice. Itcontinues to shriek, horrible and loud. It raises its paw in front of myface. Without warning the monkey dissolves except for a paw, whichdrops menacingly in front of me.

I force myself to stand up. The paw has an eerie, dark look to it. It isboth enchanting and magical. I am drawn to it. I bend down and pick itup. As soon as my hand touches it, I hear a slow and beckoning word.“Wish”

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POETRY

Burglar of LifeAkorfa Adobor

Time.For the average individual,an extensive yet still inadequateTwo billion seconds of existence.An overpowering phenomenonfull of uncertainty, interrogation,and hope.Lifeand then death.The tedious routinemarked by bursts of happinesscontinues on for what seems like an eternity;then comes a rendezvous with Death.It is too late to reconcile;time has already snuck stealthily away,never to be seen or heard of again.Time enters undetected,dressed in a concealing cloak,and returns demanding its personal belongings...our lives.So generous, yet so avaricious.An eternal, immortal, creature that willeventually retractthe life it once helped create.We continue to fight this unwinnableand futile battle,with desperate hopes that we will,over the course of time,become somebody’s.With desperate hopes that we will not leave this earthwithout a legacy, or something by which to remember ourselves by.We want to be; and not to merely exist.Because of this intense desire to departwith a sense of fulfillment,we surrender ourselves to time;our aspirations,our emotions,

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our identities...our souls.Time taunts us,hides us,reveals us,hinders us,and outlasts us.It sways to the steady beat ofan untarnished, golden pendulum,methodically and gracefully.It brings with it hope,joy,pain,and fear.At times, we disregard it,and leave it to continue on unnoticed.At others, we observe it incessantly,in hopes of a variation to our monotonous lives.The sly thief of life will forever live on;it is an omnipotent, ruthless yet beloved being.

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Slow and SteadyCatria Gadwah-Meaden

Rabbit! Rabbit! Why do you run?Through the forest to the horizon;I see no need to hasten your pace,Slow and steady wins the race

Run away? Run from what?Run from evils, noble and corrupt?Run from snakes, slowly slithering?Run from feathery predators flying?

Run from technology, our savior and demise?Run from fear, or from the wise?Run from war, run from hate?Run from hunters, run from fate?

Or run for food! Run for safety!Run for happiness, freedom, and joy!Run for life, run for fun!Run for love, straight towards someone!

Please slow down alligatorI dread saying “see you later”In a world created with such symmetry,Which is reflection? Which is me?

Rabbit! Rabbit! Why do you run?Through the forest, to the horizonI ponder as you hasten your pace:Does slow and steady truly win the race?

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Hug and Smile AwaySam Bard

I’ve tried to move on,But everything always reminds me of you.I need to try to get to where you are,Could it be you’re not that far?Nothing I do or sayMakes a difference anyway.

Please, listen to my heart.It’s tearing me apart.We’re just a hug and smile away,From feeling loved again.

I want someone to take away the pain,And I need that to be you.I need you to say, “I’m hurting too,And how can we make it through?”But the longer the silence the deeper the pain,The sharper the words the more hurt remains.

Please, listen to my heart.It’s tearing me apart.We’re just a hug and smile away,From feeling loved again.

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An Impossible BattleAkorfa Adobor

Happiness.Its sly, devious ways mock us.Torture us.Control us.Something so elusive yet so prominent.We live,Forever longing a touch of this joy.Which wears a heavy cloak and a dark mask.Cleverly shielding its presence (from almost all it encounters)Our futile chase pushes hopes of happiness further back,Into the dark abyss of emotions.Only revealing itself at the most unexpected times,Only when the pursuit of happiness has ceased.Upon its arrival, there isNo greater desire but to live an eternity surrounded,By it luminous glow.Something so universal but so unique,Able to touch those of all statuses.Many miss it, and many mistakenly hunt it down,But can never seem to find it.Some, with riches beyond belief,Still desperately search for it;Fighting an undefeatable, useless, and almost pathetic battle.Others, struggling to survive,Are fortunate enough to enjoy its warm blanket of existence.It is everywhere, and it is nowhere.Its true whereabouts never truly known.One can squander an entire lifetimeChasing it,One can bask in its (glorious) glow for what seems like eternities,A state of the mind?An apparition,A manifestation created by the mind?A shadow, a specter, a spirit?A supernatural being?

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Or reality?A great and common fantasy!Formulated in one’s mind to lessen the woe that is life.It succeeds in dominating peoples’ thoughtsBut is it just a figment of the imagination?A hallucination,Or daydream of some sort?Is happiness just an illusion conceived by weary minds?A fabrication?Fool’s paradise?Is there an actual emotion by the name of happiness?A mirage, unrestricted by reality!Like all other emotions, it cannot be bought.However, countless invest their lives into hopes of its (eventual)

discovery.Attempting to attain the unattainable.A rare commodity,Desired by all,And obtained by so few.A state of peaceful bliss,Intangible, yet almost breathing.Almost alive.Happiness.

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Stinger DisconsolateJacob Estrada

Stinger, Stinger, in the sand-Why a grim world grasps with iron hand?Solitude in Heart, anger in headWhy think that amity is dead?

For what is a barb, so hostile and sharpWielded menacingly, warding off scarce life?Why Stinger, why push awayRemnants of a better life?

And in the same planet, monkeys will roamIn their lively world, their vibrant kingdom, their domeWhy is the monkey's life so mirthful?Who flips the fateful coin?

Why is the Stinger so minuscule in a world so prodigious?A needle cannot weave out of a haystack.Will the monkey be a helping, graceful handThat threads a harmonious quilt?

Or must the Stinger be ableTo turn dunes into rolling hills-And cacti to forests, abundant with life-And suffuse a scorching void with copious vitality?

And the Stinger, the Stinger shall carry on, vagrantWith weary feet that carry forward,Searching through a scorching voidFor a hidden aperture, an ambiguous answer.

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PredaciousJackie Brouillette

A conniving leopard, cunningly killingIn seemingly infinite lands of sandWaiting, watchingIts soon to be lifeless prey.

How could such beautiful beastsattack so aggressively?How could such antagonistic animalsbecome the prey?

It stalks, like the predator it is;When will it strike?Its stealth earns the advantage;What could suddenly defeat this beast?

The humans? Their inequitable weapons?Do they now possess the unfair advantage?How could we beautiful humansslaughter so savagely?

We kill, we eat, we survive;How different are we?We love, we protect, we live;Aren’t we humans similar?

A serene leopard, skillfully sustaining lifeIn seemingly infinite lands of sandRoaming, reposingFor the circle of life to take its toll.

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HerAkorfa Adobor

Lost in the gargantuan world of love,his soft angelic glow guides herthrough the darkness.Loneliness gnaws deep into her soul,and the torture endures.Frantically searching for an escapefrom this agony.Hopeless search,useless search.Her weary mind exhausts eventually,but never really gives up.It always looks for light.She is lost, and needs helpfinding him.Help her!Before her empty aching heart diesfrom the pain it suffers through.She needs him.The dilemma poses itself,and the pain hurts acutely.Stinging needles in her heart,eternal rain from her eyes.Don’t ignore her desperate pleas!A weeping soul that knows no rest,no escape,no end.Tired of the search but nevertheless continuing.A hungry, ravaged heartwanting but a small taste of lovebut never obtaining one.Let her weeping soul rest.Put an end to her eternal rain.Don’t make her desperately search in vain!Her mind deteriorates,

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gradually dissolving into the nothingness.The suffering knows no end.It is immortal.a soul,a mind,a body.Forever bound to love’s magnetism.Its pull overwhelms,its weight crushes,its gravity forever alive.Don’t let her diewithout love.Lacerations on her soul,seeping pain.lingering pain.then death.A life lived without love,not even a life.

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InkRachael Pettinicchi

The ever present, immortal trailsof tiny things, minute detailsUnseen but indelible, for quite long we thinkThe sometimes smudged stains from invisible inkThings that are kept inside and concealedAre ever so suddenly and surprisingly revealedinto which one deep inside peersfor one writes in their own blood and tearsThese words on paperof hope, remembrance and dreadThe fading whispersof those who are long deadTelling tales of crime and love and fearTimes of long ago and yesteryearSpeaking of moments, of thoughts, of liesby laymen, the victors, the victims, the wiseThe muses they vary, but who can comparetKristen Scheuermann and Amanda Thibault f love, witand despair?Many times, many years, indeed, many goalsbut united are these few, immortal lost soulsNo matter the tales, one’s pale or that glistenOne simply hopes that someone out there will listen

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Canterbury Tales

Ms. Doak assigned her senior college preparatory English classesto write their own variations on the classic tale. Each groupdrafted a prologue and a tale based on an original idea. Theyused vocabulary based on the original Old English language.

Here is a selection of some standout creations.

The Tale of the Doctor’s WifeKristen Scheuermann and Amanda Thibault

Prologue

There somtyme was a young woman named Claire.Innocent as a child’s teddy bearPetite and slender with skin like new snowFace splattered with freckles, all in a rowEyes the color of ice and showed her grace.Hair that was wild, free, and flew through space.Energy to spare, like a newborn foal.Alderbest she had a kind, gentle soul.She knew about the world, she was very smartShe also had a generous, kind heart.

The Doctor’s Wife

Ich was never part of the upper class,Heart was fragile, it was maad of glass.Living in the slums I thoht I would shatterI looked to start a new life where I would matter.

Sith came along the great man of my dreamsAnd my life took a turn toward the other extremes.

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The man was a great doctor, from the upper crustFro the outside he looked noble and justHe had a very strong and handsome faceWith skin the same color as antique laceHis hair was a dark blake and ay askewit made me want to run my fingers throughHis yen were deep and black just like the nightWhen I was with him, everything felt right.

During the day he worked feverishly to saveHis patients stopped from going to the grave.He helped all whether they were young or oldHe had a stellar reputation to uphold.

I looked in his eyes, I knew it was loveWe were married with blessing from above.During the first year, everything seemed rightBut tho there came a dark and dreadful night.

I don’t kan what changed, something in him snappedbut all of a sudden I felt extremely trapped.He came home after drinking too much beerHe came towards me and I felt an intense fear.He had a terrifying look there in his eye,When I saw it there, I wanted to cry.I asked him calmly what he was doing

He just crept toward me and kept on pursuing.His hand came back and whipped across my scared faceAnd I knew right then that it was not a safe place.I cried out and he threw me across the tile floorI shakily stood up and flew right out the door.

I remained outside, terrified, until the primeBut all too soon I knew that it was time.I had to return home, to get my thingsAnd to see what this new day was going to bring.

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He got adoun on his knees to beg and to pleadThis would never happen again he guaranteed.Stupidly I believed the tale he toldBack into his arms, to han and to hold.

Things were alright for the entire next two weeksThe very next day I felt the mood tweakHe had gone drinking again and came home too drunkI left again and spent the night near a gross skunk.

I went home while the doctor was at workI collected my things, snuck out and left that jerk.Looking back on my marriage I guess there were signsThings he nolde let me do, lots of strong confines.

What can you learn from this tale so severe?Things and people are not always what they appear.I thought a doctor would be a kind and good manBut I guess that all changed when he got a beer can.

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A Canterbury Tale of the PoliceAndrea Romanos and Stefan Dullinger

Policeman’s Prologue

Armed with a deadly gun and dressed in blue,He could be a menace or a hero too.Protecting the citizens and the law,But could wrongly accuse and create many flaws.

His brows furrowed with an impending grin,He cares for no morals, he cares for no sin.Black hair reflects the color of his soul,His face portrays the vision of an ugly troll.

Clever he is holding all of his skills,He pulls out his gun eek lives for the thrills.Drinking his coffee with a donut at side,If you break the law he’ll take you for a ride.

Maistow you fight him creating a fuss,He’ll restrain you simply with his handcuffs.People refer to him as pig or po,It’s hard to tell if he’s a friend or foe.

Policeman’s Tale

The coffee is dark and the donuts old,My heart is blake and my soul remains cold.If my day is rough and not quite to par,I’ll take you for a spin in my cop car.

The man in the back says, “I don’t understand...”I say, “be quiet” and hold up my hand.“You don’t have to get it, close your damn jaw,I am a policeman, I am the law.”

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“You know what you did and you know it was wrong,Shaltow pay the price right where you belong.”The guy quod, “pardee I am not a crook,You’ve mistaken me, take another look.”

The cop nolde listen, continued on his way.He flushed out the innocent man’s words without play.The man dressed in blue knew that he was wrong,But he kept his word for he thought he was strong.

Arrogant was the cop, he weneth he’s the man,Lost control of his car, skidded into a van.The windows smashed from the backside on out,The innocent man jumped out with a shout.

“Finally free at last, for I did no wrong,Take that you pig, I am out, so long.”The cop sat concussed, sitting silently,Trapped within his seat breathing quietly.

With second thoughts the innocent boy ran back,He busted out the cops window with a crack.Unbuckling his seat belt, he reached right in,He wasted no time, not wanting to sin.

The boy grabbed the cop by the collar of his shirt,He couldn’t quite tell how badly he was hurt.Gently laying him down on the black asphalt,He felt guilty but it was clearly not his fault.

He dialed 911 in a hurry,He felt within him all of his heartfelt fury.Attending the cop who wrongly accused,Stopping the blood right before it diffused.

An ambulance rushed in aiding the cop,The boy’s heart was pounding with just a little pop.

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He followed the cop to the hospital and stayed,He sat upon a chair on which he then laid.

The sun finally rose and the boy was still there,He had to check the cop so he rose from his chair.Finding his way to the battered man’s room,He spoke quietly towards him, feeling the gloom.

The cop opened his eyes looking around,He saw the innocent boy kneel to the ground.Opening his mouth the cop then stated,“I thank you for saving my life, which you aided.

Without you I’d be dead there’s no dout about it,I accused you wrongly, with that I admit...I owe you my life, what can I give you?Perhaps some money or a new pair of shoes?”

The boy then seyde, “I need nothing, but this,With saving your life you must promise me a list.Do not arrest innocents or ever be mean,I’ll keep track of your actions with my eyes so keen.”

“I’ll keep your promise, if it’s the last thing I do,I’ll change my ways to the better for you.I’m a different man now, I’ll prove it someday.I’ll show you my good actions somehow, someway.”

The moral of this tale is keep your heart open,Never be cruel, don’t let your heart blacken.Kill sweetly with care instead of a gun,Refrain from sin and have the morals of a Nun.

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A Canterbury Tale of a CommissionerLeah Foley and Angela Cipriano

The Commissioner’s Prologue

Sixty years hence, this selfish man was bornThe NHL as a rose, he is the thorn.A short old man almost resembling a hen,Losing his hair, his name is Gary Bettman.

Always thinking about himself and money,Heart-attack serious, never funnyHe makes the fans and the players agaste,He shows that the owners have expensive taste.

As the NHL’s revenue was growing,Their craving for money was not slowing.

He makes life hard for everich player,Controlling the league he is one tough mayor.The players will not have any other choiceThe owners are not listening to their voice

There has been more than one petitionerAgainst this NHL Commissioner.

The Commissioner’s Tale

One morning in the summer I woke up,And thought ‘how could I make life hard for Seguin’s pup?’And then suddenly it came to me“Aha! A hockey lockout it should be!”

There were many meetings through the summer,For the players it was a huge bummer.I know they want to get back on the ice,Before they can play, they need to pay the price.

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I know every fan is upset with me,Now they will not watch games but rather Glee.Meanwhile I will spend this lengthy lockoutLiving with luxuries, without a doubt.

The players meanwhile have their own plansPlaying in Germany, Czech, Switzerland, and even France.Not all of them are going overseas,Like Steven Stamkos, relaxing under palm trees.

I received a letter, and it stated:“Dear Commissioner, you are greatly hated.The announcers even have thoght,Especially Jack Edwards, who once wrote,‘This lockout is eating away at me.We need, hockey, Bettman don't you see.’

As Jack was doing odd jobs around the houseHe had an yvel idea, and told his spouse,‘Ah, it’s sely, take down Bettman without pity’His plan forming, and the end not pretty.”

Jack was ready, and began to gather the troopsI heard of the plan while I was eating my soup.I knew I needed to run and tried to hideBut Jack was gathering the players worldwide

He got players from Texas, Boston, and New York.They all gathered around with their pitchforks.They surrounded my house, while screaming with hate,“How dare you lock us out! Now we cannot skate!”

Frightened by this chant, I hid under my bed,But Jack had plans for me that I truly dread.I heard him hollering the scheme to the group,“I want him gone, so get in there with a swoop!

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Quickly they entered busting down the door,Grabbing my feet they dragged me across the floorI screamed and I wept, “Please do not take my life!”Jack looked me in the eyes, clutching a knife.

He placed the knife directly against my neck,Ere I could stop him, my head fell to the deck.They began to chant, “Ding-dong Bettman’s dead,We have captured him and cut off his head!”

Now explaining the moral of the story,I realize that money is not all glory.Don’t overuse your power searching for gain,You will either end up dead or in great pain

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