the current -- spring 2013

CurrentThel

Spring 2013

Editor - Ellen ShawFiction Editors - Kristi Dao and Deanna Wicker

Poetry Editor - Coral LeffewFlash Fiction Editor - Kaitlyn Weiss

Art Editor - Spencer GaineyLayout and Design - Dillon MacDermant

Advisor - Mr. Brian Lysholm

Ms. Melissa GolleglyMs. Beth Jensen

Ms. Erin EveridgeMr. Brian Lysholm

Ms. Donna HoMs. Laura HoltenMr. John Scrivano

Ms. Ellen Shaw

The Current

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Final Round Judges

A B C D E F G C H I J G D C E E K I L L E F M N J E E J B D E O C G C P I Q C R B G J S C T M U I L V W I P B T C X Y F T R C E O C G C D B Q R J Z C D Q W CD I N C E B H Q W C I F Q W B G E B G Q W C J G E P W B B L E X [ Q F T C D Q \ F T R C E O W B C D Q C G C T Q W C P B D Q C E Q O C G C D B Q I L ]L B O C T Q B \ F T R C Q W C R C D G C J D O W J P W Q W C U E F M N J Q Q C T X

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Editor-in-Chief

A B C D E F G H I G C J H K I C H G L M C N I L G L D O K P H F F G B L F Q C H I H G R S T U E N H F V P W N D H N H Q V Q G B CL X H O L D H G L W D U L D F L O B G U H D J L D G Y L G L W D W Z G B C F C G N C D G Q F G Y J C D G F [ E F H N L D C H K B H M W L K C H D JH G H P C D G G B H G X L O B G W G B C I N L F C O W Y D D W G L K C J L D G B C I C O Y P H I \ D O P L F B K P H F F I W W X [ ] D J E Z C P GG B H G G B C F C F G Y J C D G F N C I C W D P Q G B C G L ^ W Z G B C L K C V C I O [ ] F N C N I W G C H D J ^ P H D D C J H D J C _ C I `K L F C J W Y I ^ C D F U E K B H P P C D O C J X Q F G Y J C D G F G W F C C a W Y G H D J Z L D J X W I C M W L K C F U Z I C F B M W L K C FP L a C G B C L I F U G W O L M C H K P W L F G I H P F ^ H K C Z W I G B C F C M W L K C F G W Z C C P N C P K W X C J H D J G W O I W N [ b B L FK W D G C F G U G B L F X H O H c L D C U N H F G B C L I H D F N C I [ E H X F W O I H G C Z Y P Z W I X Q F C M C D V I L P P L H D G C J L G W I F UZ W I H J X L D L F G I H G W I F d I [ b H O C I H D J d F [ R L C P F C D H D J d F [ S K B L P F a Q U H D J C F ^ C K L H P P Q Z W I Q W Y UG B C I C H J C I U Z W I P C G G L D O G B C F C M W L K C F V C B C H I J [

Letter from the Editor

Advisor’s note

Table of Contents

03

04

poetry

05

- Octavio Paz- Octavio Paz

ToTo

with

with

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a

eyes,eyesears.ears

hear“

”ears.ears.See

readread

our

our

to

to

poem

it

it

06

Poetry Contest Winner

What made you start writing?

Has anyone influenced your writing style?

One piece of advice to give to readers?

What we liked about this piece

There comes many moments in life when you have a million things to say, but you don�t have the strength to say them out loud or the means to express yourself vocally, and I think that�s why I started writing. It has to come from the heart.

My biggest influence would be Taylor Swift in how to be honest and specific but com-pletely relatable at the same time in writing. Other than that, I�m always looking for inspiration, and when I can�t find a quote to describe exactly how I�m feeling, I write my own.

Use your writing as an escape and don�t hold anything back. What you put on paper can take you anywhere you want it to and say anything you crave. And embrace your own style; that�s what will set you apart.

When I read the first two lines of this poem, I dismissed it as a pseudo Hallmark card greeting. I could not have been more wrong. As you dive into the strange tug and push of this poem, you become enveloped in this rich view of life on fast-forward. I got chills while reading this. My favorite line is �procrastinate like you know there�s a tomorrow�. This line was the final pin for me. As I finished the life-long, two-page journey, I ended sobbing with the line �and look back knowing you never really grew up.� The contest judges and I agree�Cheyenne has crafted one of the best emotional poems that we�ve ever read.

Coral LeffewPoetry Editor

Look: at the flowers, at the sun, at the beauty only you can see.

Talk and laugh.

Cry: it won�t be your last time.

Enjoy the time with your cousin before time changes him.

Trade goldfish for applesauce and find friends.

Play make-believe and live in your own world.

Mommy and Daddy love you to the moon and New Hampshire and back.

Go to the races with your dad.

Let your mom do your hair.

Watch everything change. Feel everything grow.

Hear people say, �it gets better.�

Don�t believe them.

Lose your friends each year. Hear them say, �We�re better off.�

Correct them when they say, �we.�

Eat lunch in the handicap bathroom stall because it�s better than being alone in the

crowded lunch room.

Notice that boys don�t seem to have cooties anymore.

Hear the adults say, �The best four years of your life are coming.�

Believe them.

Wake up before the sun does.

Make life decisions in the shower.

Meet your best friend; the long lost sister you wish you�d known all your life.

Find your reason to be and a family of peers that share the same passion.

07

HowGrowUp

to ! " # " $ $ " % & " ' () " ' * + # & $ , - " , . ! / 0 1 ! * . ! 2 2 31st Place

08

Notice the presence of your heart and wonder how long it�s felt lonely.

Wonder how much longer it will feel that way.

Meet the boy next door.

Cry when your best friend loves him.

Say to her, �It�s because I�m happy for you.�

Learn to love him like a brother.

Feel tears silently escape from your eyes when you try to sleep.

Crave just once for someone to ask if you�re ok.

No one will.

Fight with your parents.

Tell them nothing except that they don�t understand.

Notice the gray beginning to reveal itself in their hair.

Hug them a little tighter.

Tell, �Him�, when you�re finally together, he�s perfect.

Know in your heart he was worth it.

Hear people say, �Look at how cute they are together.�

Hate doing the dishes like you hate overplayed songs.

Get used to losing family.

Spend too much time on the internet.

Don�t spend enough time living out dreams.

Procrastinate like you know there�s a tomorrow.

Make yourself look pretty.

Feel the world end when he breaks your heart.

Put it back together again.

Spend prom night alone. Read and eat ice cream with a thousand regrets.

Fall in love with fictional characters.

Stare into your parents� eyes and know they only keep it together for you.

Let them borrow money because you do for family.

Don�t let them forget they did.

Dance alone when you�re supposed to be cleaning.

Go to your last football game.

09

Shake your principle�s hand with purpose.

Tell him that you�re going to make him proud.

Make him proud.

Live the dream you�d always dreamt but never spoke.

Be your best friend�s maid of honor.

Find who you�ve waited for and never let him go.

Hear people say, �Look at how happy they are together.�

Give Daddy butterfly kisses before he walks you down the aisle.

Marry on a hillside of lavender. Say, �I do.�

Whisper so much more.

Settle down, spend time to just sit and talk. Sometimes you won�t have to talk. Sometimes

you will.

When you�re ready, expand your family.

Learn as you go how to be the mother that�s always lived inside you.

Protect the children that are your everything.

Cherish every moment and break down every day.

Ask your mom for advice.

Watch your children grow up in no time.

Plan for them the best birthday parties.

Always make cookies for after school.

Tell yourself that heartbreaks will make them stronger, but don�t make them feel too much.

Help them move out but do not let them see you cry.

Still have date nights with your soul mate.

Reread the old love letters and fall in love each day.

Let him hold you when you lose your parents.

Life will go on, but it will take someone strong.

Grow strong.

Get the arrangements together and cry, every night.

Talk to them. Talk to God.

Wish you�d talked to your mother more.

Wish you�d hugged your father more.

10

Become a grandparent and spoil your grandkids.

Look into your husband�s eyes and feel butterflies.

See him still act as a gentleman even as his mind starts to fade.

Slow dance with him as you rest your head on his shoulder.

He�ll make it ok you missed your prom.

Hold his hand as his eyes close.

Prepare the memorial. You�re stronger this time.

Decorate with his favorite flowers. The kind he brought you on your first date.

Look; at the flowers, at the sun, at the beauty only you can see.

Talk and laugh.

Cry; for your last time.

And look back knowing you never really grew up.

Photo by

Stephanie de Abreu

This woman has a golden heart

and feathered downy angel winsvisible only to me

She�s enveloped by soft supple skinwith a million fine creases

born from years of woeand decades of joy

Her laugh is a bellthat kisses my ear drums

reminding me that she�s still here

Come nighttimeshe gazes through the pearly green nebulasat the moon from her silver-lighted patio

where she converses with God about the troubles

and the worriesshe carries in her heavy

golden heart11

! " # $ % ! & ' ! ( ! ' ' )& * + , - # . + # # % / ) 0 1 & - 1 2 2 "2nd Place

You left my life as silently as you walked into it

A budding blossom�s memoriesSoon after wilt awayAnd so I thought I had nothing left of youI thought: When you left this Earth Any chance of being close to youDied with you

Until I came across something tangible of yours:A baby blue bookmark You had given me some time agoWith framed orange tiger liliesAnd thin careful lettersThat mirror your frail bonesMaking honeyed wordsI will never hear you sayIt came to me just as a petal floats off the rose Too weakened by age to cling to the bud

Though that is how you left me,That is how you returned to me as well. ! " # $ % ! & ' ! ( ! ' ' )& * + , - # . + # # % / ) 0 1 & - 1 2 2 "

2nd Place

LaNegra

Photo by Beverly De Marco

I set a lavender field ablaze In your name todayIn hopes That its creamy pastel smoke Would billow with grandeur And be so thoughtful asTo conjure intoA celestial staircaseSo I could journey To where you are

But where you areIs not such a placeThat my beating heart Could travel to- Every gentle ThudThudThud Weighs me downTo Earth

Oh but I will not fret, LoveFor my day Is as imminentAs yours wasAnd the perfumeOf your lavender field fumesWill forever taint my lungs

Burn aLavender

Field

To

! " # $ % ! & ' ! ( ! ' ' )& * + , - # . + # # % / ) 0 1 & - 1 2 2 "2nd Place

In memory of the ones

that we have lost

12

13

Photo by Stephanie de Abreu

To

14

Why don�t youCome out of hiding?

My pen is here waitingTo lure you out from myArchaic obsidian seaThat no one seesBetween my ears-But with one MiserableHook

Stubborn poem,Become tangibleDo not be afraid To shoot out From the blueAnd manifest yourselfOnto my humble pageIn incoherent scrawls

Stubborn poem,Come quicklyFor someone elseIs bound to catch you

FishingWhy don�t you

! " # $ % ! & ' ! ( ! ' ' )& * + , - # . + # # % / ) 0 1 & - 1 2 2 "2nd Place

15

Heading in the door

I slide slightly on shiny floors.

Small stretch of hallway

mudroom to one side.

Shoes, mud, snow suits, jackets

Shedding layers, one by one

falling to a ratty rug.

Mother�s fancy shoes

a hidden treasure

in a closed closet

I stand there before school

waiting

as scarves, hats, gloves tumble down

Take down, unroll, put on.

Lovingly helped

shoving chubby child hands

through bulky sleeves and gloves.

A hug in thanks and farewell

and gleefully running out.

Running in.

Hands slathered in mud

in snow.

�Wash your hands

that�s what the sink�s for�

Comes the affectionately

exasperated call

Season after season

Year after year

Less and less

Too old for mud and snow

Too old for help

Now just a quick �see ya�

Thrown over the shoulder

As I slide on flipflops

Heading out the door.

SwingingSwingingDoor

SwingingSwinging ! " # ! $ % & ' ( ) *+ , - . " & $ - & & # / ! 0 % + " % ) ) (

3rd Place

16

Photo by Kyle Dabney

17

Far from a helicopter mom andWho watches and coddles from above up jumpYou fly us both up Hand me a parachute againGrant some adviceAnd push me out the door

Free-falling through the airStruggling with the chuteWith my fear backWith my doubtYour words echo in my mindThe mechanism clicksAnd my chute expands

Still fallingBut now in controlI feel the rushThe air soarAnd I flyThanks to you

Now the ground rushes upHard FastAnd my doubts returnAnd I am afraidAfraid of crashingAfraid of failing to

Yet you�re thereThere on the groundLooking upWatching me fallSaying nothingJust watching

And I recall your lessonsYour lectures ButYour loveAnd I rememberNot only how to land

Free Fall ! " # ! $ % & ' ( ) *+ , - . " & $ - & & # / ! 0 % + " % ) ) (3rd Place

18

Photo by Alyssa Hull

19

The winter wind blowsand the nomads move with it

in search of a home ! " # $ " % & ' ( # " )* " + , ) % # ' - " ' $ . / ( 0 . $ . 1 1 2

16

The monster pulled her

Down

Down

Down

I let him take her

Watched him leave his marks

All the

C / U / T / S

On her skin

My skin

Our skin

20

! ! " # $ % & '( " ' $ ) * + # & , " & - % . / 0 % $ - % 1 1 !The Monster

21What�s in the lunchbox I left overnight? A tuna sub that�s become extra ripe, Something that looks to be for a dog, And also some leftover ants on a log. A PB and J that�s going green,Plus cold chili that�s of three bean, A box of old squishy friesAnd two fermenting small apple pies, Second-day spaghetti that I hate,Followed by two prunes and a lonely date. Bendy carrots with warm ranch,Not to mention an invasion of ants.Baby tomatoes getting wrinkled,Also the grapes are getting crinkled.Berry yogurt that�s not that bad,But the stale cookie made me sad.Broken pieces of granola,

Have I learned my lesson today?Not to leave food out in the day.But most important, I take away,

My Twinkie can last from March through May!

Don’t

Leave

YourLunchbox

School

at

! " # $ % & ' ( ) % ( " ) * + % , ) % % - . $ / # + # ! ! 0Photo by Matea Friend

22

The Spin Cycle ! " # $ " % & ' ( # " )* " + , ) % # ' - " ' $ . / ( 0 . $ . 1 1 2

Photo by

Stephanie de Abreu

23Serenity through my veinsThe room starts to spinThis�ll be the last timeI will never do it again.I�ll be clean;I�m clean.You give me that look;a filthy look;a vile look.A twenty and tie-off; a tempting look.A dirty needle�s never looked cleaner.My spinning serenity.I�m clean;I�ll be clean.

24

In the heat of the day

Toxic waste in the air

No children out to play

No civilization anywhere

Glowing nights and scorching days

No voices spoken, no voices heard

Pollution filling in the bays

History became the ultimate word.

Hundreds of years go by

No man seen in all that time

No life, not the smallest fly

Waste of money, nickel and dime.

Aftermath ! " # $ " % & ' ( # " )* " + , ) % # ' - " ' $ . / ( 0 . $ . 1 1 2

Photo by Alyssa Hull

25Every night I close my eyesTo find myself at the threshold ofThe circus tent of dreams

Outside is dead quiet except for the Slapping of the tent flaps in the wind

The darkness beckons me Into this magical cityOf lights and noise and scents so sweet

Monday I was a trapeze artist,Soaring through the airWeightless somersaultsSwinging and flying with easeAudience gasps I spiral downward Graceful as a swanMy partner and I Catching me at the last secondThen tossing me back

Cir tent

of Dreams ! " # # $ % $ & ' ( ) *+ , # - & " # " " ' . ! / 0 + & 0 ) ) 1Circus tent

of Drea ! " # # $ % $ & ' ( ) *+ , # - & " # " " ' .

26

Tuesday I was a contortionist,Covered in shiny fabricPerched on a stageAll my ownTwisting and writhingIn a tangle of limbsUp is downFront is backThe crowd gulps atMy impossible stunts

Wednesday I was a lion tamer,Taunting the beastTeasing the bruteThe louder he roarsThe harder I laughEgging him onOnlookers cry outAt close callsBut he and I knowIt�s just another night

Thursday I was a fortune teller,Surrounded by curtains and incenseDressed in beads and handkerchiefsStars above glitter my nameMadame VadomaReading the cardsCaressing the palmsGazing at the misty orb At those foolhardy enough to believeIn my false hopes and fantasies

27

Friday I was an illusionist,Smoke and mirrorsHave no placeI blow a kissThousand butterflies Take flight from my lipsChairs are set aflame at my touchSpectators stare in wonder asI twirl until it seemsI am floating above the ground

Saturday I was a trick rider,On a snow white ponyI drape myself over his sideWith nothing but my foot to hold meAs the world passes in a colorful blurAnother dashes out to join us Straddling them bothI stand tall on their backsOne goes left, One goes rightI flip and land facing the crowdEnthusiastic applause fills the airRoses are thrown at my feetAnd when I open my eyes

I am in my bedGone are the twinkling lightsGone are the sweet smellsNo awe, No laughterGone is the magic

Until tonightWhen I close my eyes

28

Season of death and hidden growth,distance grows between him and the sunas their relationship goes on;he doesn�t love the Sun as he once did,and he often spends his nightscontemplating his desired revenge,haunting her streets with his snow flaked angerpiling his insecurities outside of her doorstep,leaving it for her to shovel away in morning,ruining the life she gave birth to in spring:her own children�his own insecurities.They say over-evaluating one flawonly brings up more.

His eyebrows are full of frost,his skin is a pale white,and he has a purple heartfrom beating himself up over things he can�t change.He is cold-blooded, and his feelings turned to stonebecause the warmth of his life went to his old love, the Sun.You see him more often than you think;she sees him more often than she wishes.He sees himself more often than he wishes.Like a disappointing unveiling ceremony,he swallows hard when facing his reflection in the mirror.

ToWinter ! " " # $ % & ' ! ! () * + % ( * # $ , # - . / $ . 0 0 +

29

To her,he isblocked roads,hindrancesand rose petals withering.She needed him to benew beginnings, blossoming creativity.

It didn�t matter thathe wished to bethose for her;She was never satisfied.To her, he will always bethe series of dayswhen the only thing left to doto please her is nothing.

30

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An English Sonnet,

31

All

A

QuietWestern Front

Quiet on the

I don�t feel grief or sympathy or fearfor I�m not man, but shadow of what�s left.My eyes don�t swell or even shed a tear.What is humanity? We are bereft.The hair on the back of my neck stands up.I spring! A narrow miss by hand grenade.My mask! For next the gas then did erupt.The few return, for death they did evade.What do I do when this comes to an end?I cannot see a future after this:the horrors I have seen will never mend.My life, it feels as if it is abyss.March on, march on, there is no turning back; the life I knew lost in the first attack.

A boy of eight just small enough to seeabove the counter of the tiny store.

He looks too sad for such a soul so free;dark skin, dark eyes and dimples are his core.

I hesitate and see him turn to leave.His grandma�s threats of pain cause him to shake.

This area is rough and I�m naïve.There�s effort in the smile that he makes.

A smack and guarantee for more alike;in his soft face stays sorrow and remorse.

He�s waiting for all the fears of his to strikeknowing his weakness can�t beat her strong force.

I whisper to the ground and car�s exhausta prayer his precious soul would not be lost.

Prayer ! " # " $ $ " % " & '( " & ) * # % $ + , " + - ! . / 0 ! ) - ! 1 1 2

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32

Flash Fiction

33

- ernest Hemingway- ernest Hemingway

is

you have

true

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you

writewrite

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allallto do

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34

Flash Fiction Contest Winner


�Last Call� is a strong father and son scene that stands on the brink of heartache and growing up. It is a great flash fiction piece because we get a much bigger and fuller story through the few careful words that author gives us. This story makes twists and turns through family misery in just a short time. The tenderness of the boy�s final actions touched the judges� hearts and those of all of us that had the pleasure to read this piece. �Last Call� is an extraordinary example of how a flash fiction piece can convey depth and emotion through just a small space of rich language.

Katie WeissFlash Fiction Editor

Intuition. Ignition. Inspiration.

35

The air I�m breathing is visible. It�s a fog made of the exhale of tobacco filled lungs. Right now I�d rather be breathing water, anything other than this dense, putrid, scent

of vomit and lost purpose. The sudden clash of pool balls breaks me out of my trance. �Dalton it�s your turn, Bud.�

�I thought I�d sit this one out, Dad.� �Nonsense, it�s only 3 a.m., get up here!�

�Exactly.� I mutter under my breath. As I get up from my chair by the fan, the smog hits me, making my eyes tear up, and not just because of the stench.

I hit two balls in with my first shot; I�ve had entirely too much practice. �Chris, you taught the boy well! How old is he again, ten?�

�Twelve, he�s twelve.� I dart to the bar table to snatch up a hand full of pretzels and take a sip of my dad�s

drink. It tastes like liquid fire. Nearly coughing up a lung, I ask, �Why can�t I just get a Sprite, Dad?� his only reply is

a motion made with his thumb rubbing back and forth along his other fingers. This means money, something we don�t have.

�Dad, when are we going home? I mean all the way home. Missouri isn�t as fun as I thought it would be.� I know the answer before he tells me; I silently pray the outcome will eventually change. �Dalton, I told you, we are going to try it out here for a while. I�ve already got you

enrolled in school and everything! Isn�t that great? It�s a new start, for both of us.� The intensity in his eyes while he tells me this is something I�ll never be able to explain. I admit I was young, but not that young.

�Last call!� the bartender yells. My father is the first one up to the counter. �Crown and Coke.� I can tell by his rosy red face that he�s perfectly happy, perfectly

at home. Liquid Courage my father calls it. It�s almost time; the bar closes at 5:00 am. We are finally walking out the wooden doors; my first clean breath of air within the

last twelve hours nearly knocks me off my feet. I look over my shoulder to find my father face first on the ground. His feet still up the staircase, his upper half at the bottom. He reminds me of a lost toy, a rag doll you grew out of and tossed into the back of the closet.

I somehow summon the strength to drag him into the damp grass, where I then position him on his side. I don�t want him to vomit into the air facing up; I learned that the hard way the nights before. I take my shirt off and roll it up into a loose ball and place it under my father�s oily head. Rubbing his shoulders and humming lightly, I slowly begin to rest my weight onto his side.

This night is only one of many spent in the fog.

Last Call ! " # $ % & ! " "' ( ! ) * ( ( + ( & , - . ' / . $ $ "1st Place

36E

ven though you haven�t

sought out solace in my room

for months, your smell still clings

to my sheets and curtains. I can

imagine you fitting your body to

mine, weaving your fingers with

mine. I can feel the ghost of your

lips on the tip of my ear, your shal-

low breath ruffling the tendrils

of my unkempt hair. I can hear

your groggy voice rousing me be-

fore the sun even spills over the

horizon, god, I loved that voice.

And despite having not brushed

my teeth, I�d let your mouth find

mine. Sometimes, early in the

morning, it�s almost like I can

still taste you on my lips. So I

must scrub my teeth before the

sorrow seeps into my bones.

In the

MourningMourningMourning ! ! " # $ % & '( " ' $ ) * + # & , " & - % . / 0 % $ - % 1 1 !2nd place

37

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MattertheOn

of PurpleH I J K L M N I O O I P QR S T L P U V T U U Q W X Y K R P K I I O3rd place

Cows

38

Sand is tiny fragments of rock that have been worn away over thousands of years, by wind, rain, or current. They start out as larger fragments, which can break down over time, but though some crumble into nothing but dust in the wind, some go on to form beautiful crystals that refuse to shatter.

My father was young, strong, ambitious. He wanted excitement to flourish in his life, so he enlisted in freedom�s Army. He followed the flow of the other recruits, diving and weaving with the punches of basic training, but then the drip of the small town creek roared into crimson oceans of things no one should ever see.

Through the wind, rain, and current of the jungle war, in a land so far away, in a time where everything was cold, he crumbled. Bloodied abrasions, heart piercing screams of ago-ny, broken ankles with rusted steel. Despite the hardship, his outer shell broke away to float down the river to a place un-known, taking with it his uncertainties, leaving something so much more beautiful. And soon, nothing but an unbreakable crystal was left behind.

breakablebreakableUn ! " # # " $ % & ' ! () ! * + , - ( # " . ! " & / 0 % 1 / + & / 2 2 3

39

I recall, when I was younger, being intensely afraid of the dark. I had to keep my eyes shut once I turned out the lights so I could convince myself I could see when I opened them if need be. I knew, just knew that the instant I opened my eyes there would be a pair of glowing red eyes staring at me from across the room, or I�d see a thug stealing my Yu gi oh! card collec-tion, and he�d have to shoot me now that I�d seen him. Every night, manag-ing to get to sleep was like running a gauntlet, took lots of concentration and telling myself I was going to be okay. But I could never quite convince myself. I did manage to do something else. I managed to convince myself, if I got mauled by a 12 foot wolf, or should I be eviscerated by the terrible demon

lurking beneath my bed, it wouldn�t hurt for more than ten minutes. And then I�d feel nothing after I died. And after a bad day, I�d be able to sleep like a baby, feeling safe in the knowledge that if something happened, well, I wouldn�t have to deal with this pain, this stress, this oppressing loneliness ever again. This trend stayed with me, I get it occasionally even now. But having gotten a little older and been heartbroken one time too many, there�s something a little new and sort of upsetting. I used to get a feeling of triumph whenever I managed to walk down the hall in my house alive in the dark. Now it�s been replaced by a sort of melancholy whist, which I seem in-capable of escaping.

Recollection ! " # $ % & ' ( ! % ! ) * + , % - . / ! . ' 0 1 " 2 0 * ' 0 & & #

40

Too Much in Common ! " # $ % & ' ( ) * !+ , - . / ! 0 - ! ! 1 2 3 * # + / # ( ( 4

42

Short Story

43

- william H. Gass- william H. Gass

TheThe

lead

world

do

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gold;gold;change“

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44

Short Story Contest Winner


I grew up on a small horse farm in the country, so I often find inspira-tion in my surroundings. With a sister close in age to me, we spent many hours weaving enchanting tales together and acting them out, using the woods around our house as the setting. A passion for writing runs in our family, and my mother taught me to write at a very young age. I enjoyed it from the beginning, and feel that writing reaches into a very deep part of my soul and allows me to put it on paper. My family serves as most of my inspiration, and the strong traits I give my characters in my stories come from them, as the people I admire.

Within the first few lines, Ariana�s rich sensory language washed over us like cool ocean waves. This is a young writer, the judges felt, that has great control of her language and her narrative pacing. The balanced mix of thought and dialogue and action and charac-ter development is rare to come across. In �Pull of the Ocean,� they flow together so well. Ultimately, we felt that the story wasn�t complete, that it must turn into a novella in order to fully explore the �selkie� world. Even still, Ariana�s descriptions and storytelling rose above the many great short stories submitted to the contest. We hope to see more of this selkie world, and we hope to read much more from this talented writer.

Kristi Dao and Deanna WickerShort Story Editors

45

The waves crashed against the sand with a beautiful, melodic tune. It cried out softly each time it fell to the golden granules and determinedly turned home, leaving nothing but a long line of frothy, white flowers.

Melanie imagined it to be a lonely sound, a song of beautiful loneliness that was wild and free, and as she edged closer to the cold water, with all its hard and cutting beauty, Melanie thought of how sometimes she wanted to join it. The waves washed over her ankles, and she resisted the urge to leap out of the shallow water and fly on windy wings back to the safety of earth. Instead, she plunged forward, wading into the surf until she was lightly stepping on solid, wet sand hidden beneath several feet of green water. Slowly, she eased into its depths and did a twirl as the coolness of the sea washed over her.

As she floated in the water, she listened to the seagulls, and the quiet drone of a few tourists playing out in the shallows. Luckily, though, it was mostly quiet. The day was cold, and the tides were strong. Signs warned visitors of the dangers of monstrous currents that swept victims far out to sea, keep-ing them in an iron fist of water until

one was surrounded only by a blue ocean meeting a blue sky.

Melanie wasn�t worried. She leaned back with a sigh. The beaches of Florida were so busy most days that there was no way one could enjoy the beauty and strength of the oceanic at-mosphere. Tire tracks marked the beach, the bright colors of cars, umbrellas, and towels cluttered the flat stretch of land, and ugly skyscrapers hoarded the beau-tiful blue sky, jostling for space.

Yet, on some days, the beach was quiet, and Melanie could drift far away from the crowded beaches, and pretend she was part of it, a single wave drifting and throbbing with the others, occa-sionally surging towards a deserted, white island of sunshine and then slip-ping back into the wildness of the blue sea. Melanie smiled. It was so nice to be alone for once. No people, she thought. No cars, no ice cream or umbrella stands. No surfers, just�

�Look out!� Someone yelled. Mela-nie shot up from her daydreamed filled sleep in time to see the nose of a bright red and white spear shooting at her. She yanked herself out of the way, but there was little time to move. The point nar-rowly missed her, but the side slammed

Pull oftheOcean ! " # $ # % & ' ( )* + ! , - & . ! & & / 0 " 1 ) * - ) 2 2 '

1st Place

46

into her head. Stupid surfboard! Melanie thought as she cried out in fury and pain. She pressed her hand to the side of her head as she waded away from him, further out to the sea. She knew that she might be bleeding, that she should get to shore, but her fury and humiliation prevented her from thinking rationally, and she ignored the stupid, redheaded boy that called to her in a panicked voice and asked her if she was all right. Idiot, she thought as she put as much distance between the scene of the accident and herself as possible. She knew, however, that she wasn�t calling him the idiot, but her. Why wasn�t I more careful? How could I have been such an idiot? One voice scolded in her head. She argued back. How could he have not seen me floating in the water? He�s the idiot. And doesn�t he know about the riptides? Melanie froze as she looked around. She was far away from shore, and here, such currents were guaranteed. She carefully began swimming back to shore, shaking with nervousness and weariness. Breathe in, breathe out. She thought. She was getting closer, and she allowed herself a small smile. �See?� She told herself. �Nothing to worry-� Suddenly, something yanked her off her feet, a solid mass of water sweep-ing past her in one long trail. She choked as she was sucked under water. It pulled her farther and farther out to sea. Mela-nie forced herself to think as the beach shrunk and floated away on the horizon. What was it her parents had told her? Melanie nearly cried at she thought of her parents, waiting on the

beach for her. Oh, she thought, dodging the waves of panic that lapped against her skull. Something about�waiting until it stopped, and then swimming out of it? Melanie wasn�t sure if that was right, but she did remember them telling her the most important part of all: don�t fight it. Melanie could remember countless tales of people who had died that way, drown-ing because they were too weak to stay afloat anymore. She settled on her back and closed her eyes as it took her out to sea. After a couple of minutes, the cur-rent slowed, and Melanie pulled herself out of it and searched for the shore. She saw only water. Panicked, Melanie won-dered if maybe she had simply gotten turned around. She spun around to the other side: more water. Melanie gave out a shriek as she thrashed in the wa-ter, making a full circle. Dark, ominous waves rose up and down around her like soldiers. The light, blue sky met the navy blue water, and Melanie had the feeling of being trapped in a huge globe. �Somebody help!� She screamed. �Help me!� Yet she knew no one would hear her. Sobbing as the salty tears dripped off her face and into the ocean, Melanie numbly wondered if perhaps the ocean was made out of tears. Maybe if I head back in the direction I come, I�ll make it, Melanie thought. How-ever, in the panic attack that had ensued af-ter escaping the water current, she had no idea where she had been facing when the current stopped. She thought about enter-ing it again to ascertain her direction, but knew that the currents were unpredictable and didn�t go in straight lines. Fear kept her

Photo by Hayley Garris

47

frozen in place, and the sun sank deeper and deeper towards the gaping, blue maw of Melanie�s monster.

Melanie felt something warm and wet drip onto her hand. Frowning, she examined it closer. A bright, red dot slipped off her hand and into the water. Melanie trembled as she felt her forehead. The cut was shallow, she noted with relief, but it was bleeding a little too much for com-fort. She winced as her wet hand brushed against the cut, salt stinging the wound. Another drop got on her forehead and Melanie quickly submerged in the water, wanting nothing more to be clean.

Something brushed her foot, and Melanie screamed, bubbles bursting from her mouth and up towards the sur-face. Her eyes shot open in time to see a long, serpentine figure sliding away through the water. Shooting towards the surface, she began a frantic paddle to get away. Was it a shark? A water snake? A monster? Grotesque, outra-geous thoughts torpedoed through her mind as flashes of every horror movie she had ever seen invaded her head. She spun around in the deep water ner-vously, wanting nothing more than to pull up her feet onto a hard, solid sur-face where she could see them.

A million hands yanked at her feet, and Melanie screamed as she was yanked under the water, twice in the space of a day. The writhing, live things around her feet clutched at her ankles and legs as she

was pulled farther and farther from the surface, her weak arms reaching for the

beautiful, glassy, calm surface. She sank deeper and deeper

into the depths. Her throat tightened like a rope being pulled at both ends, and her hands strained for the sur-face and the world of oxygen; her stomach

clenched, unable to make a sound. Mela-

nie�s mind screamed at her as she ached for a fight-

ing chance. It felt like it was caving in on her. Her vision was dotted with black, and as the creature pulling her took her deep from the land of the living, she sank into oblivion.

�You killed her, you idiot!� An accusatory, high pitched, female voice said loudly. Melanie�s head felt like it was shattering like a knife plunged into thin ice. She scrunched her face up in pain, but even the attempt of the action made her head pound as if someone had tossed the nose of a truck directly onto it. The conversation, unwanted as it was, continued.

�Well, it wasn�t my fault! I prob-ably saved her. Besides, humans are pathetic. They�re so slow, and weak. This one probably had barely any lungs at all!�

�Derrek!� The high-pitched voice gasped. �I can�t believe you�d say that, you monster! Out of everyone else, the ocean chose her. This only happens once a decade, and it picked her. And she�s

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48


one of us now. So don�t insult her!� Ocean? Picked? They make it sound like it�s alive� Melanie thought in horror and confusion. Where am I? An asylum? Alcatraz Island? She thought nervously. She felt something brush her arm and recoiled from it. Her head scraped across hard rock, and her eyes flew open in pain as she gasped. �She�s awake!� A blurry figure standing over Melanie said. Three blurry figures suddenly stood over her, waving and shifting back and forth. She blinked, and suddenly there were just two. May-be I�m just hallucinating, she thought hopefully. �See? I didn�t kill her!� And maybe not. Melanie groaned and put a hand over her face, shielding it from the sun-light blaring in her brown eyes. She slowly sat up and winced. Two teenag-ers stood over her. One was a boy with deep eyes and wavy brown hair. �Told you not to worry.� He snorted as he glanced at the other teenager, a carbon copy of him, only in a female form. She had the same brown eyes, and a long mane of wavy, brown hair that hung around her like a shiny cur-tain. �Where am I? � Melanie said as she scooted back. They were both dressed in unusual clothing. A brown, furry fab-ric that looked like sealskins covered the girl�s body in a flowing dress, flaring out at the bottom. She looked like she had seaweed in her hair. �Hi, I�m Suleyka! What�s your name?� The girl said with a smile. Mela-nie ignored it. �Where. Am. I?� The girl looked at her brother uneasily. �Well, that�s a little complicated-� The boy cut her off.

�Scotland.� He said. �You�re in Scot-land.� Melanie gasped. �What?� She cried in horror. �What are you talking about? Last time I recalled, I live in Florida!� The boy and girl, who Melanie could only assume were twins, looked at her sympathetically, and Melanie fought against the rising wave of panic. Mela-nie stumbled backward to her feet. �Hey-wait!� The boy said as she turned and ran away from them. She stumbled on the rocks, noticing, in the back of her mind, that she was on a large dark, brown hill jutting out from the middle of the sea. A thin carpet of grass covered the rocks. Maybe I am in Scotland, she thought, but pushed it out of her mind as she threw herself into the water and dove. As Melanie entered the bright, green depths of the ocean, she threw her terrors aside and shot forward through the water. A strange, unearthly feeling of joy came over her as she felt the water slide off her skin. She did a twirl in the water, and it spun into a pretty, woven tunnel around her. Melanie had the eerie feeling of being able to feel the presence of everything around her. The tiny fins of a fish far below her beat towards her and tickled her nose, and she could fee the water lapping against the rock, and returning to home. Something�s wrong, a tiny part of her brain thought nervously, but she shoved it away and out of her head. Just nerves, she told it.

Suddenly, Melanie felt, more than heard, the water ripple towards her and displace itself, very slightly, as two

49

things enter the water. For some crazy reason, an idea flashed through her head that the ocean seemed to be welcoming them, as if it were happy to see them. She shoved that idea away, too. She instinctively shot off to a safer distance, to a place that she hoped was far enough away from the strange creatures to provide for escape. Look at her! A voice cried out in her head. She�s a natural! Melanie re-coiled in horror at the presence invad-ing her head. She cried out. What�s going on? Two brown, spotted seals came towards her, moving gracefully in the water. Re-membering how dangerous seals could be, she backed up nervously. It�s okay. The voice invading her head said. It�s just us. Melanie swallowed the bubble of panic rising inside her. Just who? She cried. It�s Derek and I. A soft voice said. Would you come back onto land so we can talk? Melanie shrank back. No! It�s impossible! The voice entered her head again, but it sounded different, more mascu-line. It is possible. It said gently. You�re doing it right now. You�re not human anymore; you�re- The voice stopped, as if considering how much to tell her. You�ve been under the water too long. Human lungs can�t take that. Look down at yourself. Melanie�s brain froze as the left side of her brain, the logical, ratio-nal half, began frantically thinking at a thousand miles an hour. If one could see a brain, she believed that it would perhaps look like a frowning, disheveled

person frantically writing down calcula-tions and scratching them out, making thick, black marks into the graphite scented paper. The other side of her brain, she imagined, Creative Side, would probably be thinking deeply next to Other Brain, leaning against the desk with chin in hands, a contempla-tive look that penetrated deep into the space. Perhaps the space was her heart; Melanie wasn�t sure, but she had been told all her life that her left brain was for life and her right brain for dreams. It was just like night and day. You believed the things you remembered in the day, but never the things at night, because you had imagined them. Right then and there, Melanie began to pray that she was having a concussion, or drowning, or having hallucinations in the hospital with her parents watching over her with sweet concern. The left side of her brain decided that it needed more information, and although her entire, whole being lit up like hair standing on end before a light-ning strike, begging her not to open the door to a possible, horrible revelation, she slowly looked down, her head shak-ing. She spotted a brown fin out of the corner of her eye. Then, she completely, and unconditionally, blacked out. As the sun lightly brushed her eye-lashes, Melanie soon woke up. She began to move to get up, rocking back and forth as she tried to push herself up. Resistance met her from all sides, and her eyes flew open from panic. She soon relaxed. She was resting in a small niche in the rocks; it was warm, but moist. As she sat up, the cool, Scottish air blew gently in her

50


blonde hair, threading with the golden brown strands and creating a floating stream that gently wavered in the air. She breathed in the salty smell of ocean and an inexplicable desire burst in her and pulled her towards the ocean. She could see the green waves, the light dancing into them. She could quite nearly feel the coolness washing over her. The ocean called to her, peacefully. It wanted her, and Melanie wanted it. She threw herself towards it, de-siring nothing more to dive into the water and flow with its everflowing currents. A hand stopped her. �You might not want to do that it.� Melanie looked up at the girl she had seen earlier and gasped. Her eyes were big and round, like shining spheres set in her face. The girl blinked, unconcerned, as the light reflected off of her black eyes. Melanie stumbled backward. �Your�your�eyes!� She choked out. The girl stared at her, and then started. �Oh, my- oh, I�m sorry! We�re just so used to it here and it�s such a nice, solitary place and there�s nothing to worry about but us so�� The girl began to babble. Megan interrupted her. �We? What do you mean, �we�?� She demanded. The girl bit her lip, like she knew she�d said too much. �We�re seals. Fey. Selkies.� Melanie turned around and looked at the voice behind her. It was the boy she had seen the day before, only this time, his eyes were also no longer human. They were just the same as the girl�s eyes, unearthly orbs that reflected too much wisdom and hid too many secrets. It made Mela-nie nervous.

�What are you talking about?� She said. �I�m talking about mythological creatures. Selkies are fairies, or fey. Not the Disney kind. They�re not the night-marish creatures you hear about, either. Well, some of us are. They are good and evil fey like there are good and evil hu-mans. Mostly, though, we�re just beings with a humanoid form; only more con-nected with nature.� Melanie realized her head was hurting. �What - fey � Disney � but you just said yourself that they were mytho-logical creatures!� She pointed out. The boy nodded. �They�re not, though. I only used that term so you could understand what we were talking about.� He motioned to himself and then the girl. Melanie tried to wrap her head around that, as there was currently no other reasonable explana-tion for why Melanie remembered being drowned by a blind Floridian surfer, only to wake up on a rock that supposedly existed in Scotland. �Then why tell me?� she finally asked. The girl shifted with an uncomfortable glance at her brother. �What?� Melanie demanded. �You�re selkie, too.� The girl said. �That�s why we told you. The sea chose you. Every decade, the sea picks a human child. Children are usually innocent, and they have a connection to nature. The sea picks the person who feels a strong connection to the sea. You�ve always felt like you belonged there, right?� Melanie nodded. �That was fate. The sea chose you to be a selkie.� Melanie glared at her. �So, basically, you�re telling me the sea kidnapped me?� The girl shook her

51

head. �No. It let you into a whole new world.� She threw her arms out towards the mist that hovered over the green sea, rocking back and forth with it. Melanie just stared at her. �If you don�t believe us,� the boy said. �Then jump into the water. Prove to use that you�re not a selkie.� Melanie was confused. �I don�t understand,� she said. His sister explained. �If you jump into the water, you change. It�s kind of like being a shape-shifter. It calls to us. Once we submerge ourselves in the ocean, we turn. Into seals, that is.� She smiled. Melanie shakily stood up. �Chick-en?� the boy taunted. She glared at him. The truth was that Melanie wasn�t afraid of getting into the water to prove them wrong. She was afraid that they would be right. She could hear the sea calling her, could feel her feet sliding towards the cool water. She didn�t want to. She was afraid of losing herself. Yet she had to know the truth. Melanie whipped her head away from the boy. �Never.� She said, diving into the ocean with an unnatural grace she couldn�t remember possessing. Once in the water, the sea greeted her with the happiness of a puppy that could see its owner from the window. It slid off of her and twirled around her. She twirled with it, spinning around and enveloping herself in the clear fabric. She sped deeper into the water, heart pounding with exhilaration. Happiness, she decided, wasn�t

yellow like everyone thought. It was a light, cool green that washed off you in waves. It was like calm spun into a rip-pling plane that bounced off of you with an alive, energetic feeling. Happiness, she thought, was beautiful, and she no longer felt the longing to drift farther and farther out to sea. She felt, Melanie thought, like she belonged. As the sea began to sway her back and forth with familiarity, Melanie slowly began to slide through the wa-ter, towards the glassy surface. Without even looking at herself, she knew the selkies waiting on the rock for her were right. She could feel the water beating off of her feet, and she knew that they weren�t feet anymore, but flippers. She could feel the ocean beating against the whiskers on her nose, and see the ocean floor far below her. No human could see that. Melanie was a selkie. She slid through the surface of the water, the waves lapping at her sadly as they called her back to the ocean, and slid onto the rocks. The boy and girl waited for her calmly, like they already understood. The boy had known she would the minute she jumped into the water, just as she had, deep down. How do I get this off? She asked, trying to speak with the other selkies in the way she had earlier. �Like this,� the girl said. She jumped into the water. A sec-ond later, a small grey seal emerged. She was beautiful. The water slid gently off of her greyish, brown coat. The selkie wriggled onto the rocks. It�s kind of like taking a wet suit off. It�s hard to explain. You kind of have

52


to just do what feels right. It�s instinct now, I guess. Melanie watched in fascination as the seal coat began to ripple and shimmer, blurring in front of her. Two pale human arms stretched up as the girl began to shift into her more human form. Melanie followed suit. She brushed her arm back like a person does moving a hood off of one�s head. Her fingertips brushed her wet hair, and she shrugged off the selkie skin like a coat, brushing it off of her arms. Instinct took hold, and soon Melanie was staring at her human legs, stunned. �It is like wearing something.� She said. She looked at the selkie skin she was now wearing. �But�more like a dress. What happened to my bathing suit?� She said. The twins looked up at her. �Oh. It�s what happens when you change into a selkie. You have to accept that you�re a selkie, obviously, or you would�ve been wearing that when you woke up.� The girl indicated the outfit. �It�s a part of you, now. You can�t lose it.� �What do you mean?� Melanie asked. The girl stopped and looked at her, and Melanie searched her mind for her name. Suleyka, she remembered. Suleyka took a breath and ran her fingers through her hair. �If a selkie loses her seal skin, she�s trapped on land. Forever, or until she finds it. We can live on land, but we have to be able to return to the sea, or we go crazy.� She shuddered, and then gave a cheerful, but fake smile. �Would you like to see yourself?� She said. �I have a mirror.� Melanie wanted to know more, but she also wanted to see what she looked like. What if she�d changed? She didn�t feel any different. However, like when Melanie had dived into the water, she knew that she needed to see herself. She needed answers. She nod-ded. Suleyka disappeared behind a large rock and came back with a small, golden mirror. Melanie took it and slowly looked at her reflection. Dark, soulful seal eyes looked back at her. Melanie�s heart stopped. �I really am a selkie.� She breathed.

53

Lost inLost in ! " # # " $ % & ' ! () ! * + , - ( # " . ! " & / 0 % 1 / + & / 2 2 3

2nd Place

It was in Amsterdam, I know it was, because that scent of fresh water mixed with alcohol was so sweet. Test books and teachers were nothing like the life that grew out of the darkness of the smoky bar, nestled into the cozy space between the two taller buildings around it. The slow jazz crawled from the stage in a very carefree sort of manner, like the whole world was in slow motion. The only lights were dim and red, matching the name of the district.

He had brown hair, curled and swept back like new born waves, and blue eyes, so crisp and clear, like the winter sky had been captured in his gaze. Yes, he made me nervous... gazing at me over the glass his wine laid bed to as he took a slow sip from it, his eyes so playful but dangerous at the same time, as though they belonged to a lion cub. I thought I was to be held captive there for all eternity. It was as though the planets had aligned in the sky, lacing together as the fibers of my being were torn apart, pulling on the very thing that made me whole I am, threatening to steal my everything.

He crossed the room with his long legs, so slender and fine in his tight jeans. The tapping of his boot heel, then the heavy thud of the sole, seemed as loud as my own heart beat, swallowing me whole. And just as I thought I would spiral down into the blackness of my own desire, he was standing in front of me, and he said, �Would you like to dance, sir?� Music was suddenly everywhere. The attitude of the saxophone cut through the thick beat of

the drums. Cymbals played patty cake in the darkness, giggling to each other as though they knew a secret no one else knew. It was intoxicating.

I looked at him, being taken cap-tive by the cool winter mist that were his eyes once more. And my brain stopped. Not functioning anymore, not listening to the rest of me. I felt the words form on my tongue, curving with danger I knew they would cause... �Yes.� Was all I could breathe.

His plump yet thin lips curved into a smile, one that held more mischief under its lining than anything else. He grabbed a fistful of my shirt, and soon we were spin-ning, the smoky, dark wooded bar disap-pearing into night, soon becoming noth-ing but a fog around the edges of my eyes, and a buzz in my ear.

My heart came alive. I could feel it pounding against my chest, but it was so exhilarating, like a drug I never knew of, never tried, never tasted... I couldn�t stop. I needed more. He had me by the core and I could tell he never intended to let go until we were both spent.

He moved so fast, so gracefully. Ev-ery step seemed like he planned it. Maybe he had. But though I didn�t know the steps to his dance, he taught me with his eyes, his hips, the way his body curved and twisted around my own. The heat of his body rubbed down into my pores, making my skin itch for his. He let my hands rest on his hips, but only for a moment until he spun, having me chase after him once more. It was a tease, his dance. He�d get close, letting me taste what he had to offer, then would back away again, making me work for it.

His hands were on my shoulders, his

AmsterdamAmsterdamLost in

AmsterdamAmsterdamAmsterdam

54

leg coming up to wrap around my thigh. He didn�t have to tell me what he wanted. My hands moved to his back and I leaned forward, one knee bending to support our weight. He was remarkably flexible, allow-ing me to bend him back so far, that his curls brushed the dark wooden floor when he dropped his head back, giving his neck to me, inviting me to once again only get a taste of the big picture. My tongue flicked out to wet my lips as my mouth was overcome with moisture. I wanted him, needed him. Never had something so dangerous but so good come into myself be-fore. My chest was burn-ing with a heat that fueled my ever grow-ing desire for him. I craved to take him back with me and never see the light of day ever again. I yearned to kiss him until his lung failed him and he was gasping and begging to a lung-ful of life. I lusted to re-duce him to nothing more than a quivering, babbling mess, spread out across the sheets, then take him into my arms to protect him and cherish him until the day my heart couldn�t do so any longer. My lips then curved over the base of his Adam�s Apple, allowing me to feel his racing pulse and the sigh that escaped between his parted lips. When he lifted his head, we were close enough to steal each others� breath. As I brought him back to his feet, he pressed to my chest, my heart skip-ping a breath to make his. He reached up to take my hair out of the bun it was tied back in, letting it drop around my face. His beautiful, pale fingers moved to run over my cheek and jaw, then dance over my lips,

but when I moved to kiss him, that playful smirk from before appeared once more. He had to be an angel. No, a demon. No angel could move his body the way he could. When my brain caught up to me again, the smooth jazz was rolling over my trembling muscles and the dim lights painted everything in crimson, but the man was no longer in my arms. My breath left me as my heart picked up in an icy panic. He was nowhere to be found, and I feared that the

greatest moment of my life had just walked out of existence, but

my eyes caught his at the front door to the bar. He

stood there, his hands against the door-frame as he stood close to it, as close as we once were. He smiled at me, but was gone when I blinked.

Had I been dreaming? Why

would my mind be so cruel as to play such a

trick on me? My shoulders slumped as my excitement melted

through my shoes. A hand worked its way through my hair to get it out of my face, then came down to rub the back of my neck, but something pricked me. It was a card with seven digits and three letters. As I whispered the name for only me to hear, I felt the hair on my body rise, as though I was speaking of a spell. �Tom...�

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55

Artist& the

ManThe

! " ! # $ % ! $ ! &' # ( ) * & + ( $ , - ( . % / % 0 0 13rd Place

An empty bottle of whiskey and a serrated six inch steak knife lay on the table next to the middle aged artist, who had clearly intoxicated himself with the drink. A warm fire breathed in the frigid niveous night air, of the one room flat allowing a dim bit of light to scuttle throughout the towering ceilings of the bare room. The chair below the thick man shrieked as it rocked back and forth, scuffing the finish of the wood flooring. On the floor in front of him lay a baffling empty canvas, clumped horse haired brushes, and a tray of reds and blues dappled with spatters of crimson. High on the fumes of lead paint and red whiskey, the man�s nostrils flared mak-ing his mind light headed with aloofness. A finger solemnly pressed to his blistered lips cracking the chapped surface, staining them red with blood. The stache that hid his gnarled smile twitched and fiddled with his nose, scaring the hairs on his back stiff. His thinning pelt was ebony, greased back with his own feculence and symmetrically parted down the middle. Depressed russet brown eyes stared longingly into the va-cancy of the piece of cloth that lay in front of the artist. The bags bellow them bulged and drooped with fatigue from the dis-heartening virtue of his formative years. Crazed is what they called the tal-

ented artist who lived in Belarus, for he never ate, though he had a gut that swelled like the throat of a gulping toad. He was a bizarre man, said to have only loved once. Some say he was a widower, while others say he was left for another man altogether. Never the less, his heart was broken by a young girl long ago when he, too, was not burdened with the troubles of an aging man. Slumped over the side table, the man grabbed for the knife with his right and a brush with his left. �I�m tired of the cruel games you have played with me. Why torture me when you could simply kill me?� The artist contorted his face and inhaled the cold damp air, �Because, my friend, you are the contemptuous old fool who tries to exceed all that man has be-come. But it is a mockery in God�s eyes. He knows that you will fail and fail again. Never are you pure or divine as the one with all the answers, though you try.� Gripping the handle of the blade and strenuously tapping his right, foot the man�s eye twitched, for the brute words did not suit him. �I know!� he yelled audi-bly while standing on the tip of his toes, �I know I am a fool, but why must I be strained from all that I could be? I could have the world if only I could grasp hold of

56

your divinity for just a second. Yet, no. No, you keep it all to yourself and lock it away with all of the other unknowns, only to hide us from its saving grace. Why, I say, must we go through your times of judgment before we could ever reach its sanctity?�

Pensively, the artist held the brush with his lanky fingers and mottled it in the blue. �Like you, every man, woman and child desires the attention of another. Whether it be friendship, nobility or love, we all seek the assiduity of another. A savior cannot save a man who does not need saving. In a way, the savior requires man to be imperfect in order to be want-ed as he is,� the artist told the man while inspecting the split ends of the now blue haired brush.

�Aha, so you admit that he wants to have su-premacy over us! When he needs us, we will attend to him like a drudge chained to the earth and bound to his words. And then when he is done with us, he throws us aside into the heavens above where eternal life is prom-ised to all who have danced,� scornfully swore the man. His bottom lip began to quiver and his hands began to shake as he gasped for a breath of air. Eyes glistening and heart billowing, he let tears slip into the palm of his hand while he clutched the back of the chair. �It was her who he took from me,� the man whis-pered, �Soft as anemones and plain like the earth below. I swore my love to her and she to mine. Then one day he led her astray, trusting her in the hands of Satan�s servants. That low life� she was commit-ting a crime of none other than adultery.

After that she was stained by its immoral-ity and plagued by a life none other than in hell. The child killed her just as I had killed the child.� Firmly grabbing hold of the knife, he brought the blade to his throat and ran the flat end of the tip up and down his pudgy cheeks.

The artist anxiously fiddled with the brush for he was becoming barmy. �Did it ever occur to you that he carries a heavy burden on his shoulders due to the fact that he has this primacy? Do you not think that he does not weep every time a child of his wanders astray? Do you not think that he too feels the pains of heartbreaks whenever his child loses their loved ones to the devil�s cry? No,

you do not see this because grace is wasted in your face while

you stand here, isolated from all others, because

you feel that none can feel what you have felt or see what you have seen,� the artist�s heart was pounding like a hammer striking the

searing hot steel. �Oh, Artist, you do

not understand,� the man cackled, �She, the one with

hair like serpents scales and knives for tongues that cut all words, has come to take me on this night to where my lover rests.�

A pleading cry slipped from the artist�s lips as the man slit his throat with the six inch knife allowing a pool of blood to tarnish the empty canvas that lay in front of him, reminding all of what could have been of the artist and the man.

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57

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ylan turns the next page, slightly

ripping it at the bottom, and sees the blank, emptiness that is her life. She knows it�s over but again she turns past the blank pages at the end to find nothing but a mere author biography on the last page.

�Wasted. Wasted, wasted, wasted.� She thinks, wanting more.

She realizes she�s sweating and her heartbeat is racing like she�s been trying to pump blood for herself and Bravery.

As she looks around the room she remembers that the snow covered ground stained with blood was not real. Bravery never died. Bravery never lived.

Another day, another book coma. She picks up her book from

the library table and gathers every-thing in her messenger bag. She picks up her camera case, swings it around her neck, and gets up to leave.

J K L M L N N L O P L Q RS L Q T U M P N V W L V X K Y Z [ K T X K \ \ ]Silent Grace

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On her way out she doesn�t look away from the cover of the book, star-ing at it intently, determined to make the characters come alive. Amidst her fantasies of a made up world and made up feelings, she suddenly hits a wall of a person and falls backwards. Her camera smacks the ground and goes off with a flash. Her stuff falls all around her and she freezes on the ground. And then she sees him; of course it�s him.

Brady, the star football player of the school is standing above her, looking down, and shining in all his glory. Okay, well, maybe he is just the star of the news crew and he is just standing normally, but still, it�s Brady. Dylan quickly gathers her stuff, or tries to. Her papers are scattered on the floor with her pride and her camera lens is shattered like her isolated little world. Brady bends down to help her gather her things and notices the broken camera.

�Man, I�m real sorry about that. I wasn�t paying at-tention I guess.� Brady says, running his fingers through his hair and holding Dylan�s camera in the other hand.

�Me either,� she responds.�You know, every time you ever

talk, it�s never more than like, five words at a time. Do you do that on purpose?� He asks, looking at her with uncomfort-able intensity. Dylan shrugs her shoulders and grunts. Brady looks to investigate the camera. �You know my dad works for a cell phone repair store and might be able to fix this.�

�It�s fine.� Dylan responds, fidget-

ing with her jacket, not used to so much social interaction.

�No really, this was my fault. I was going to go there right after Mike was done with tutoring, and it looks like he�s getting tired of hitting on his tutor. Ironically, math is his best subject, but he thinks the tutor is cute so he goes any-ways.� Brady says, pointing to where Mike is studying. �So yeah, I can fit it all up.�

�No, I need it.� Dylan says, reaching for it.

�It�ll only take a day; I can give it to you tomorrow in 4th. Oh wait, we have English first period together don�t we?� He asks, intentional with his memory slip.�Yeah.�

�Sorry, I forgot. I don�t know how because Mrs. Har-

rington calls on you every day. I feel bad, since

you don�t talk and all.� Brady says.

�I know this is going to sound dumb, and prob-ably rude. But I don�t know your

name. I mean, I know it�s Grace, but

I feel like you hate that name because every time a

teacher calls you by it, you kind of cringe. And I mean, no one else re-ally talks to you, and if they do, they call you�you know.�

�Freak.� She responds, unattached and unaffected.

�Yeah, that.��Dylan.� She says.�Dylan?��My name.�

�Oh okay. Well Dylan, I have to get going but I can give you this tomorrow in Eng-

er papers are oor with amera her d. o r

m t. at-ady ngers holding

e other hand.

�Sorry, I forghow beca

ringtoday

yoa

addd

nakkkno

I feel name bec

teacher calls y

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lish.� He tells her, holding the camera. �I need it in the morning.� She says. �Oh, well, how early?� He asks con-fused. �6:37.� She says. �Oh, that�s early; and specific. Well where do you live?� �Around Poor Richard Avenue.� She responds. �Oh, I�m right around the corner. We should walk to school together and I can give it to you then. Want to meet at the park say, 6:25?� He asks. �Okay.� Dylan says as she takes her stuff and heads towards the door. Her book coma no longer affects her as she is mesmerized by her last interaction with Brady. She turns outside of the school and walks about 5 minutes before she re-alizes she�s going in the wrong direction. She circles back, not lost in direction, just lost in thought. She passes a group of girls that sneer at her and say, �Here comes the Freakazoid.� �Watch out girls, the Freak is com-ing. Don�t let her touch you or you�ll lose your voice!� �Hey Freak, that�s no way to get a guy, you know? Guys like �em mouthy.� Dylan ignores the comments but makes a point to stop in front of the girls, stare at them for an uncomfortably lengthy time, and then lunge towards them enough to make them scream. �Dang, did I just do that?� She thinks. �Guess my adrenaline is running a little high today.� After the long day of too much in-teraction, the last thing Dylan wants is to have to talk to her dad. Lucky for her, she and him have their routine down. He asks how her day was, she always says some-

thing like, �moderately okay,� he asks her how dinner is, she always says, �the best you�ve made yet,� and she asks him how it�s going and he always says, �it�s going.� After the small talk of dinner, Dylan works on her homework until 10. By then she just wants to go to sleep so she can wake up and walk with Brady. It�s not like she likes Brady or anything. I mean, that�d be impossible, right? She talks herself to sleep trying to convince herself he isn�t everything she�s always wanted.

Dylan wakes the next morning at 4, as usual, exhausted, as usual. She men-tally counts the hours until she can sleep again and groans getting out of bed. She stumbles to the shower and shampoos on the hottest setting. She shifts to the coldest to condition and she spends a few extra minutes just letting the cold water race down her scalp and cool her spine. By the time her body is awake, her mind remembers who she�s walking with this morning. She runs out of the door and doesn�t bother getting a new book. She makes a mental note to stop in the library and find one; she�s in the mood for another good romance. When she reaches the park she doesn�t see Brady anywhere. When she is about ready to give up, she turns around and smacks into him, again. As soon as she sees Brady�s face, she recognizes the same look from yesterday. She feels the heat as a delayed reaction and looks down to see coffee down her hoodie. �I was just going to apologize for being late because I went to get you coffee. Oh crap, I�m sorry. I should have said I was right behind you. �

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He sets down the two coffees he had been holding, both mostly empty, throws his bag to the grass and removes the camera strap from around his neck and places it on a tree branch. He then takes what Dylan had been holding as she turns away from him to lift her wet hoodie off of her body. She senses people watching; she notices the same group of girls from the day before slow down as they drive by. She feels her jacket pull up the t-shirt she�s wearing under-neath and just as she feels her back bring revealed, cold fingers grab the bottom of her shirt and pull it down. Dylan shivers as she realizes the true weather outside and the wind picking up. �Thanks.� She says as another shiver runs through her. Instantly Brady removes his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. He picks up both of their belongings as two football players walk by. �Hey Freak, making friends?� One asks, serving as a reminder to Dylan of who she really is. �Back off, Mike.� Brady says as Dylan recognizes one of the football players to be Brady�s brother. The guys run off to do pull ups before school and then time sud-denly registers for Dylan. �We have to go!� She yells, running through the park. Brady doesn�t vocally question it and runs behind Dylan until they reach the biggest tree in the park. �Camera!� Dylan yells, winded but determined. She looks at her watch, hesi-tates a moment, then snaps a picture of the tree. Brady watches as she names the picture, �Grace Tree�, with the date. �Did you name it?� He asks, with a hundred more questions on his mind. �Yeah.�

Looking intensely into her soul through her eyes he asks, �What�s your story, Dylan?� �What�s yours?� And so he told her; he confessed his secret. He told her how he�d sat in the library every day after school for the past two years, trying to summon up the cour-age to talk to her. He told her how he�d watch her read and he�d see her laugh out loud and cry and finally he started reading the books he saw her read; he wanted to read what made her feel that way. Some-how that made him feel connected, read-ing what she was reading and living in the same worlds as her. Then he told her how he thought she was the most beautiful girl he�d ever seen, so yesterday, accidentally bumping into her was no accident. It was a plan two years in the making. �I had no idea.� Dylan said. �I mean, I always thought, or at least hoped, there was someone waiting for me.� �I know. Sometimes it�s hard to tell what is fiction and what isn�t. But what about your story? Why do you take pic-tures of this tree every day at the same time? Why is it so important?� Brady asks, pulling her to sit on the grass under the tree with him. And so she spoke. �My mom and I used to come here every morning for the sunrise and talk and we�d never be later than 6:37; this way she�d have enough time to walk me to school then get to work. After school, during her break, we�d meet under this tree and she�d walk me home. Until one day she didn�t come for me.� Dylan feels Brady�s finger wipe away a tear that has defiantly left her eye. �So I take a picture every morn-ing, so in case she ever comes back I can show her what she�s missed.�

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Dylan allows the tears to fall now as she starts to choke on the story she�s never told before today. �How long has she been gone?� Brady asks, lifting Dylan�s chin with his finger. �Four years. Four years I really could have used her.� �Do you blame yourself Dylan?� �I stopped talking because I blamed myself. I stopped because I think I�m what keeps ruining things. So I stopped talking and I let people think what they wanted.� �Was your mom�s name Grace, too?� Brady asks. �Yes.� Brady pulls her waist next to his and wraps his arm around her back. He lets her head fall to his chest and the tears she�d held in for four years soak into his t-shirt. �There�s just so much that no one knows, and even I don�t want to know it anymore. But I don�t know if silence is any better because then it�s all in my head and I just feel so alone all the time and even my own memories betray me and-.� He kisses the top of her head. He whispers, �I�ll listen, Dylan. I�ll let you be my queen.� And that�s how Grace Dylan got her voice back. And her story.

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He�s probably looking for me now; that Mr. Carter. Probably wanting to give me a piece of his mind or kill me. Well too bad for him I�m on a ship, going east to England from America. Ah and he�ll never find me once I�m there.

I used to be his apprentice, I�ll have you know. The year was 1909, back in Boston, Massachusetts, and I was under his wing as a watchmaker�s apprentice. Al-ways loved those things; clocks. All those little moving parts and powerful springs... I was delighted when Mr. Carter agreed to take me in. I was seventeen at the time and had just moved to Boston from Vir-ginia. With high hopes and empty pock-ets, my adventure began. Little did I know what kind of damage I would cause.

I started working for Mr. Carter right away. It was fair pay; about four dollars a day. Definitely better pay than those poor chums got working in those repulsive factories. Although now that I think back on it, I do believe that working for that old miser was a little bit like working in the factories. He made me work hard for every penny of my wage. He never smiled or tried to strike up a conversation with me. Every time I tried to he would either grumble and keep working, or yell at me to keep working. He definitely wasn�t a pleasant man to be around.

I was there every day, right on the

dot. My watches were the best on the market, and Mr. Carter knew it, yet he would never pay me more. Then when one of my watches sold, he would never give me a share of the profits. Sometimes, I suspected that he took credit for my work. But one day I went in, right on the dot as usual, but there was is large and disgusting machine in his workshop. It whined and sputtered as it ran. Belts and large gears could be seen spinning and working hard as thick black smoke poured of it then out the open window near it. Then that smug bastard told me that I was no longer needed. The machine had taken my place. He boasted about it could make watches that far surpassed my own, and he didn�t need to pay it either. Then he kicked me out onto the streets and slammed the door behind him. I wasn�t one to beg at his feet, so I cursed him and left, and solemnly swore that he would pay...

Now that Mr. Carter had very poor eyes. He would never see me stalking in the shadows when he left work for the night. His memory was poor as well, and most nights, he forgot to close the back window... Now I�m not a burglar; his mon-ey had no interest of mine. I did not want to destroy his machine either, because he could simply fix it or buy a new one. No... I wanted something more... I wanted him to

! " # # " $ % & ' ! () ! * + , - ( # " . ! " & / 0 % 1 / + & / 2 2 3Clockwork

63

suffer, and even better, I wanted him to know it was me. So I sat at home thinking; ponder-ing as to how I would go about this. This plan had to be flawless, since I had no desire to spend ten plus years in a filthy prison somewhere. I thought about burn-ing his shop down, but he could sim-ply rebuild. I thought about spreading rumors about him, but thought would never work the way I would want it to. He could just move and start anew. Drumming my fingers against the dining room table, I filed through all the thoughts and possibilities that ran through my head. I had almost given up, when it gave to me in a commanding wave. I remember looking up into that glorious blue sky of the Boston harbor and smiling. �Yes...� I had said as I stood and gathered my coat, �This will do just nicely...� The very next night, I snuck into Mr. Carter�s shop and took the last watch in his case at the front of the store that had been made by my hands. I worked hard through the night, being very thor-ough with my work. It had to be perfect... I rigged up that watch to do more than just shine, and as I placed it back in the case, I never thought of the depth of my crime. The most perfect invention, that still kept impeccable time. The next week, a young man gave into the shop. He didn�t take note of me as I stood across the street, umbrella in one hand and the other in my jacket�s pocket. I watched the man close his umbrella and put it aside. It had been raining quite hard that day. Of course I couldn�t hear what they were saying, but Mr. Carter had pulled on his friendly busi-

ness man face and started to show the man all the different sort of watches he had, but much to my pleasure, the young man pointed to mine, probably asking to see it. The smile on the old miser�s face wither for a moment, then came back to hide his dismay. I watched as Mr. Carter handed the man my watch. My heart never skipped a beat as the young man looked over it. He was pleased with what he saw... Now, pocket watches are held at the breast; just over the heart, so it wasn�t odd when the young man clicked the watch to him then placed it in his breast pocket to see how it felt. Casually, I took out my own watch from my coat and popped it open. Glanc-ing down at the time, I smiled some. I looked back up at the young man as I closed it and returned it to my pocket. Three... two... one... I�m not sure what came first; the horrified scream of a woman inside the shop, or the young man�s blood body falling to the ground. Or perhaps it was the loud bang that my watch had made when six o�clock rounded. Either way, I�m sure there was a lovely hole in that hand-some young man�s chest right about now. Fresh and warm blood was prob-ably gushing from whatever was left of his heart, and formed a nice pool on the hard wood floors of the watch making shop. I�m sure that death was not what that young man was planning on when we woke up this morning. The police were quickly notified and they rushed to the shop. I stood in my spot as a crowd started to form to watch the madness. Women screamed

64

and covered their children�s eyes as they dragged the young man out. Hmm... seemed as though my watch took out some of his ribs. Half his upper torso was gone. Then they dragged Mr. Carter out. The look of horror on his face was enough to make me smile for the rest of my life. He was shouting that he didn�t do it, begging for anyone to believe him. But then, his eyes caught mine. His gray blue eyes widened, then hardened with a nasty glare. Somehow, he broke away from the police and run over to me. His hand collided with my chest as he grabbed my coat, making me take a few steps back. �You...� he had growled, �It was you! You did this! You killed that man, not me!� I simply smiled at him, not fazed by his shouting at all. I�m sure that my own green eyes were shining with their own devious glow. �I assure, Mr. Carter, that I sim-ply have no idea what you�re talking about,� I saw in his eyes that my light and careless tone had angered him even more. The police rushed over and suddenly grabbed him, ripping him away from me. He swore as he was dragged away, �I�ll find you, Eric! So help me god, when I find you, I�ll-!� But I never did get to hear the end of his threat, because he was shoved into a carriage and taken to his fate. Ah... Now Mr. Carter has blood on his hands. He barely made bail, I�ll have you know, and he�s a ruined man. And he knew it was me! Ha ha! Oh he knew it was me behind the murder! Which made it just as sweet... And it all worked out, like clockwork.

the current -- spring 2013

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