Chimes ‐Saint Mary’s College, Notre Dame IN‐ Art and Literary Magazine 2010

Editors in Chief: Michelle Catenacci & Marilynn Anater (’09) Faculty Advisor: Max Westler Art Editors/Web Designers: Regan Magee & Theresa Tonyan Board: Kate Ortigara, Jenny Becker, Katie Brown, Brittany VanSnepson, Sarah Sheppard, Katie Ineich, Kathryn Lynch, Abigail Forney, Sarah Horn, Caitlin Duernick, Sam Wassel, Meghan Price, Nikki Taylor, Lisa Sommers (Spring ’10), Kelsey Knoedler (Fall ’09), Elizabeth Reinert (Fall ’09), Katie James (Fall ’09), Cristina Bueno (Fall ’09)

Machine Nicole Krou, 2011

Excerpt from First of May Kelsey Knoedler, 2010

She quickly scampered through the deep black night to the back of the tent where she saw several small tents lit from within, shadows of busy performers gathering their belongings and preparing for their next jump. Scarlet took shelter under a large wagon with “Baraboo Brothers” painted loudly on the side. She saw a man with a painted face emerge from the tent directly behind the big top. He was wearing over‐sized slacks with suspenders and no shirt and carrying a bucket. The tramp clown tossed the contents of the bucket across a patch of grass behind the tent. “Hey, Sparky, you better get your keister packed up here pretty quick. We’re about to demolish clown alley,” yelled a voice from inside the shadowy tent. “Yeah, I’ll be right back!” The clown walked nearer to Scarlet; she hid behind the giant wheels of the wagon. He slammed down his bucket and took out a cigar and matchbox from the giant pocket of his denim pants. The clown sat down on the overturned bucket, lit the cigar, breathed it in, and sighed, looking up at the stars. Slowly and softly, between puffs of the vanilla‐scented cigar, the clown began to hum a sad tune. Scarlet thought she recognized it from a broken music box she had gotten rid of a few summers ago. And slowly and softly, as Scarlet leaned against the enormous wheel beneath the circus wagon, she began to drift off into a dreamless sleep. S “Hey, you there! Is there someone there?” Scarlet started awake. The clown was standing right in front of her, looking down into her frightened blue eyes. “You shouldn’t be here, girly. The circus’s long been over. Go on home, now.” Scarlet crawled out from underneath the wagon and stretched her legs out. Her legs grew faster than the rest of her body, and her mother always said she’d shot up like sunflower. Sometimes they ached with growing, and after curling up under the circus wagon, she felt the same cramps just above her knees. “Why, you aren’t some little tot,” the clown smiled, “you’re nearly as tall as me! Twice as tall as Gilbert, but that’s another story. What’re you doing out here so late at night? It’s dangerous for you to be out here while we’re tryin’ to take things down and pack things up.” “I, I…” Scarlet stuttered until she could find her words; she hadn’t actually spoken since she’d said goodbye to her mother. “I had an argument with my father and I just couldn’t go home.” Scarlet thought about lying to the clown, but for some reason she trusted him enough to tell him the truth. It was something about his droopy brown eyes and the warm vanilla smell of the cigar. “Why would anyone argue with a pretty little thing like you? You couldn’t’a’ done anything wrong, now, could you? I used to have plenty o’ fights with my pappy when I was your age. Finally popped ‘im in the jaw real good one time. Knew he wouldn’t have me back under his roof again.” The clown wandered back over to the bucket and set his foot on it, resting his elbow on his knee. “I’d never raise a finger toward anyone I liked, mind you, but my daddy was somethin’ awful. I had to respect him for raisin’ us boys on his own all our lives, but enough was enough. I did a few odd jobs after that. Crashed in the sheds of some old pals around town, but the only thing I was good at was makin’ people laugh. So one day I saw an ad in the Daily Rocket lookin’ for someone who could do just that, and I hopped on a circus wagon, learned how to paint my face, and became a tramp. It’s not a bad way to make a living, but sometimes, ya know, sometimes you just miss havin’ somewheres to rest your soul.” “Hey, Sparky! Get yer body goin’ and pack up your junk! Train’s gonna leave without us!” “Yeah, I’m comin’! Sorry, little darlin’, but I gotta run. That’s how it is here on the road, always on the run. What did you say your name was?” “Oh, I didn’t. It’s Scarlet.” “Beautiful name. Well, Scarlet, you run on home now. I’m sure your daddy’s cooled off and is worried sick about where you been.” Scarlet doubted that. “Next time the circus comes around, you look out for old Sparky!” “Spark!” “I’m comin’, jeez. Bye, now, Scarlet.” Sparky picked up his bucket and hurried over to the clowns’ tent. Scarlet scanned the emptying circus lot. She’d made a decision when she was listening to Sparky ramble on about his father. Scarlet knew she couldn’t go home and that she couldn’t stay in Brookton. But she had nowhere else to run. And she wasn’t going to make the same mistake her mother did. Scarlet knew that she wouldn’t give up until she found her real father. And the only way to do that—the only way to get herself around the country without a penny to her name and only the clothes on her back— was to do as Sparky did and join the circus. She was sure they’d be able to find a job for her. And she’d read books about the circus. She knew the circus. She loved the circus. She would be the most loyal trouper the Baraboo Brothers had ever had. But the train was leaving soon, and she knew it was too late to find the man in charge tonight. And besides, if they found her on the train tomorrow, hundreds of miles from here, they’d have to keep her on. So Scarlet hurried down to the front of the train where all the cars were already packed but not yet closed up. She peeked into the first car. It was dark, but Scarlet could just make out the outline of several enormous pieces of metal equipment, a rolled up canvas, and a jumble of tables and chairs. It smelled like greasy fried clams and rotting eggs and was full of things that looked much too sharp and dangerous. So Scarlet moved on to the next car. Cages covered with heavy black cloths lined the perimeter and were stacked up to the top of the train car. The car smelled of animal droppings and damp hay, and Scarlet could hear squawking and maybe even a roar from deep within the animal car. She continued down the tracks. The next car was filled with wagons. A wagon much like the one she’d hidden under before, along with some seat wagons, the bandwagon, a wagon with giant spools five hundred times the size of the spools of thread she and her mother used for sewing, some parade wagons, empty cage wagons, and wagons for tickets and souvenirs. “Start closin’ ‘em up down there, Alvin!” “I’m on it!” Scarlet heard the soft shuffling of jogging feet, and she knew this was her only chance. She got a foothold on the train car and pulled herself up and inside. She crawled back into the shadows. There wasn’t much space between the wagons to lie down, so Scarlet laid flat on the floor of the train car and slid herself underneath an empty wagon between the wooden wedges holding the wheels in place. Scarlet heard the doors of the first two cars being pulled down and secured, and she heard the jogging feet nearing her car. They stopped in the back of her car, and Scarlet felt the eyes that belonged to those jogging feet scan the wagon car, just barely missing the left foot that stuck out the end of the ticket wagon. Her heart skipped a beat as she felt her door finally clunk shut. Scarlet lay there in the heavy silence, waiting for the circus train to rescue her from her yesterdays and imagining what her tomorrows would be like. Tomorrows filled with sequins and cotton candy and friends like Sparky. Tomorrows filled with her father. Her real father. A man who would love her and protect her from the things she was afraid of rather than being the very thing that she feared. Scarlet would find this man; she had no doubt. It might take her awhile, but if she had to be waiting somewhere, at least it would be in the place she and her mother loved the most: the big top. The train car began to lurch forward on the tracks. Scarlet could feel every plank of the train track, as the train slowly began to pick up speed. She peeled off her sweater and rolled it up in a ball to pillow her neck. The rhythm of the ride soon made it hard for Scarlet to concentrate hard enough on the adventures she might find in her future. The nap with Sparky hadn’t been enough to reenergize her, and soon Scarlet could feel her bones and her eyelids getting heavier and heavier. She was safe now. She was riding away from Frank, and she was riding into the dreams of her tomorrows.

White Nights Katherine Simon, 2011

Dostoevsky once had a character say in a short story that, incidentally, almost put me to sleep (twice) “But how did you manage to live, if there is no story?”

As hard as it has been sometimes— as hard as it can be on all of us I have lived I will continue to live in part because you have added to my story an irreplaceable character and unforgettable memories.

Untitled Meghan Casey, 2013

Aisle Seven Kathleen Maus, 2011

He first saw her in aisle seven. Her long blonde hair extended past her waist and flowed seamlessly behind her as she moved along the shelves. She wore a blouse of stunning white as she stopped to examine a box of cake mix. He had no reason to go down that aisle, but the woman seemed to emit some sort of electric current that attracted him. He could swear she was almost glowing in her beauty. He pushed his cart towards her, approaching slowly as to not startle the angelic figure. It’s not like he hadn’t ever picked up a woman before. He had done it loads of times. In fact, he had almost perfected the art. Women tended to be so enamored by him that it was almost too easy for him to find some company. He was a man of sizeable wealth of course, and always dressed expensively, not to mention the fact he had devilishly good looks that seemed to only get better with age. He was becoming increasingly confident, as he got closer to the woman. But there was just something about her that he couldn’t put his finger on. She seemed out of place here in the middle of this seemingly ordinary grocery store. She appeared almost unworldly. No woman could possibly be that beautiful. I bet she’s a model, he thought to himself. Yes, that’s it. She’s a model, he concluded. From Sweden no doubt. As he got even closer still, he went over the routine in his head. He could compliment her taste in cake mixes or ask for her opinion on frosting. Then he would compliment one of her most amiable qualities and ask if she wanted to grab coffee or a drink at that new bar downtown. He knew his wife wasn’t expecting him home until much later, as he told her he was working hard on a new account merger with some out‐of‐town clients. He carefully removed the wedding band from his finger and slipped it slyly into his pocket. It was like he was on autopilot now and the forecast was for clear skies up ahead. She was still bent over the box of cake mix as he made his final approach. Her immaculate face was now hidden behind her golden hair as she scanned the list of ingredients on the package. This would certainly be the most beautiful woman he would come in contact with, he was sure of it. She would be at the top of the list for his most crowning achievements. He was close enough now. It was time to make his move. But before he could even open his mouth the woman looked up at him and he was met with a most wondrous sight. His entire life seemed to pass before his eyes. He saw himself with his family. He was holding his young daughter and hugging his son. He was kissing his wife on the cheek. He recalled the first time he met her and how he felt when she walked into the room. Experienced again the joy he felt when she smiled and said yes to his proposal of spending the rest of her life with him. He saw himself as an old man sitting with his wife, holding her hand. He saw everything but the woman. As soon as it had happened it was over. He was thrust into the present and suddenly he was just a man standing in the middle of an isle in a grocery store, wondering how he had gotten there. The beautiful woman before him seemed changed somehow. More ordinary. She stared at him as he tried to collect his thoughts. “Are you alright, sir?” she asked genuinely worried but with an air of caution. “Yes, thank you,” he said. And he turned without another look and went home.

EARL GREY AND SNICKERDOODLES Mary Petry, 2010 You are the one I will tell my granddaughter about Over earl grey and snickerdoodles At my cozy kitchen table When she is fourteen And asks about my first time

Grandma with Bird Eileen Laskowski, 2011

Sun Fun Mary Laut, 2012 What passing­bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle can patte­ The book suddenly left Alex’s hand. His kohl lined eyes looked up, following the path that his book had taken but at a slower pace, into Tom’s smiling eyes. Alex sighed. “Give it back Tom.” “No way, dude,” Tom said. He took one glance at the page that Alex had been reading and shut the book with a vaguely queasy look on his face. “I’m not going to let you waste the day reading dreary poetry. I am going to get you in the sun and having fun.” “While sun and fun rhyme, they are not words that correlate with each other in my vocabulary. And I’m already outside, what more do you want from me?” “Yeah, sure, outside, but you’re in the shade, dude. You’re sitting under the tree that gives off the biggest shadow. I want you out of the shade.” Alex gave Tom a flat look. “I’ll melt. Give it.” He held out a hand reaching for the book. Tom ignored it. “No you won’t,” he said. “I know so. You just don’t want to get hot and sweaty and smear that make up you got on because you’re wearing all black.” Alex sneered lightly. That was true, but he wasn’t going to give Tom the satisfaction of knowing that. “Give me back my book or I’m going to kick your ass,” he said as he stood up. “Yeah? You and what skinny Goth boy army?” Alex leaped. He sailed through the air and on to Tom’s chest. The momentum from the jump knocked them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Tom stretched himself out so that the book was kept just out of reach of Alex’s questing fingers. “Come on you pansy, you can do better than that.”Tom said, not even winded. “You’ll see… Give it back… asshole…” Alex wiggled on top of Tom, trying to get more leverage on the taller man so he could get his book. In response to each movement, Tom moved the book a little in a different direction. The struggle was playful, a common way for the two to have arguments. Tom rolled them over so that Alex was under him. His legs were on either side of Alex’s and his weight prevented his movement. He gave Alex a look that said, “Was that all you got?” It was answered with a sly smirk. Alex’s head made a quick upward movement. A spell seemed to have been cast over Tom. His whole body felt warm and relaxed and his guard dropped little by little. Quite suddenly, Tom found himself on his back looking up at blue sky. Alex was perched triumphantly on his chest with his book in hand. “Hey…” Tom said. “You cheated.” “All’s fair in love and war.” Alex flipped through the book, trying to find where his reading had been interrupted earlier. “Whatever. Did you have fun?” Alex gave Tom an odd look, “…Yes… Why?” “Look where you are.” It was then that Alex noticed that they were no longer in the cool comfort of the tree’s shade. “I told you, dude. I was going to get you to have fun in the sun.”

Poem: Anthem for Doomed Youth, by Wilfred Owen

Dusk on the Lake Erin Brown, 2013 The lake is a mirror of movement as the deck dips and sways.

The water is an echo of light, the windows casting a liquid glow.

Guitar skims across the water The whisper of wind matches the murmur of the shuffling bodies.

A highlight of white is a chip on the dusty dark blue sky bleeding lighter around the edges.

Her cooking Kristle Hodges, 2010

Bigmama would say: clean your kitchen as you go, season your food in layers, I don’t like that store‐bought stuff, go down to the village farm stand and get the vegetables fresh, and above all else, cook in love.

These were the notes I took as I watched her cook, and then began to help her out.

All day, in school, I would imagine myself being at home eating her fried chicken, or greens, or cabbage, or black‐eyed peas with rice and a little okra, or cornbread, or roast with veggies all around it, or ox‐tail soup, or shrimp creole, or fish and spaghetti, or baked macaroni and cheese.

I could see the stove being on, and four pots cooking all at one time to cover the surface area, or across the kitchen the crock pot would be simmering, or perhaps the oven was full, cooking something great, or maybe all of the above.

She taught me how to make dressing, just like she does, and how to make cornbread, not the kind my mom made, but the cornbread on the stove, it comes out looking like a dark pancake, but it’s so good. And she taught me how to make greens, fresh greens—you pick them, then you wash them, then you cook them and they will always cook down to less than what you thought you had.

And instead of chips for a snack, we would slice up fresh tomatoes and add a little salt and pepper—it was a me and her thing.

So, when I came home from school, this is what I looked forward to. I would get off the bus and smell her cooking, and it would make me walk a little faster, and when I came in and reached over just to grab a corner of one of her dishes, she would tell me to wash my hands and fix a plate.

Angel Katie Ineich, 2010

It was the first day of school, and Steve squinted as he opened his front door and stepped out into a sunny morning. He let the screen door slam behind him, but it clipped his heel as it closed, making him clutch the rail lining the porch as he lurched forward. His eyes welled and he counted to ten; he was not going to cry. He looked at the cuff of his faded navy blue pants, and breathed a small sigh of relief when he determined that the hem was in tact. His mom had fixed his uniform pants less than a week ago, in preparation for the beginning of the school year. She would have killed him if he wrecked his pants again this quickly after having them repaired, and before he’d even gotten to school. She was always lecturing him about his clothes, and especially his uniform. He had two pairs of uniform pants—one for regular days and one for Mass days. His regular uniform pants were several shades of blue lighter than his Mass day pants. They had a patched knee, and the hems had been repaired more times than he could remember. Steve was always struggling to keep his uniform clothes clean and in one piece, but try as he might, he always seemed to find himself rolling or falling on the playground, or getting into a fight with a boy twice his size; more often than not, his school uniform needed repair. Steve ran a hand through his curly, brown hair, as he trudged down the concrete porch steps, and onto the uneven sidewalk that lined Main Street. He walked as slowly as possible, watching his feet and keeping track of how many steps he could take inside a single block of sidewalk. Steve hated school. He dreaded every school day and spent the entire week looking forward to the relief of the weekend. He was eleven years old and sitting in a classroom from eight to three was the worst way he could think to spend his time. School bored him. He wanted to be moving, jumping or running around, or playing with his cat, Mittens—not cooped up, sitting in a classroom until his butt went numb. Furthermore, no one at school liked him. He had few friends and even most of the teachers didn’t like him. Once, after school, he had gone with his counselor to talk to his homeroom teacher, Mrs. Stone about his behavior in the classroom, and the teacher stated flatly in front of Steve, to the counselor, that she did not like Steve at all, and that she was just waiting until he moved on to the next grade level. The counselor had been completely taken aback, and stared incredulously at the teacher for a few seconds before quietly ushering Steve out of the classroom. Fine, he thought to himself. If everyone was determined not to like him, then he was determined not to like them. And yet, he did want people to notice him. He had taken to acting out in class, picking fights and pulling stunts at school. One memorably bad day, when Steve was walking in the hallway, a small, familiar, red lever on the wall caught his eye. He quickly looked around to make sure no one was watching, and without hesitation, he flipped the lever, and an ear‐shattering ring erupted through the halls. He grinned devilishly and darted down the hallway. Unfortunately, a teacher had seen him, and his punishment was to stay after school for two weeks to wash windows.

Steve reached the entrance of his school, and pulled the heavy metal door open. He felt defeated and the school year had barely started. This year was going to be just like all the others. As he walked through the hallway, searching for his new classroom, he noticed signs on each of the classroom doors with each teacher’s name painstakingly printed in permanent marker and a picture of a different angel in each corner. When he came to his classroom, he peered inside cautiously. The windows were on the east side of the building, and the sun shone in illuminating an auburn haired figure he assumed was his teacher. But as she turned and looked at Steve with her kind, grey eyes, he could have sworn that she was an angel. And he allowed himself to wonder if maybe this year could be different.

Untitled Laura Lancaster, 2010

Shadows Mary Laut, 2012

She wore giant, clunky headphones that looked to be too big for her head. Attached to them was an extremely small MP3 player. They were a bright, playful orange and clashed with the drab grays and browns that she wore. The playground was barren. Rust decorated the hinges and around the heads of the screws. Paint was peeled off and chipped, making the original color of all the equipment unknowable. The swing was built for kids and the seat of it dug into her thighs as she spun it, causing the chains to wrap around themselves in tight knots. Around, and around, and around she went until her toes could barely touch the sand. Then she leaned back and let the swing spin. Because I see these mountains, they are brought low. Because I drink these waters, they are bitter. The swing spun slowly. Tiny breezes caught her hair and tangled in into easy patterns. Her eyes were closed, remembering, feeling. The swing hit the end of its chain and started to spin in the other direction. It spun back in the first direction, then the second. It went back and forth until the swing stopped spinning all together. It wasn’t until then that she stood up, boots making deep foot prints in the sand. She scuffed the sand as she walked to the monkey bars, kicking the grains onto her boots. But she wasn’t looking at her feet. She was looking at the monkey bars. Because I tread these black roads, they are barren. Because I found these islands they are lost. Now she was tall enough to reach the bars without using the ladder or standing on her toes. They had once looked so impossibly high. Getting a good grip on the bar, she bent her knees to get that familiar hanging feeling. Again she closed her eyes, trusting her muscle memory to remember where each bar was placed in the circle. Right hand, left hand, right hand, left hand; she moved forward, her hanging body making side to side movements with how her hands moved. Swing to the right, swing to the left, swing to the right, swing to the left. She went around the circle monkey bars one and a half times. At the half way point, she turned gripping a bar that was a part of the section that led to one of the slides. Automatically, she flipped her legs up and through the square that was between the bar that she was holding and the next one. It was harder, this time, to wiggle her body through the space, but she did it. From sitting on the bars, she stood, using the perpendicular bars to brace her feet and keep her balance. This she had not done, back then, but she had always wanted to. Isle of Canna, ease my sorrow. Isle of Canna, heal my pain. A smile made it onto her face and her arms were spread out wide as she walked on top of the monkey bars. It was fun, challenging, to stay on top without falling. Her eyes brightened, spying the end of her monkey bar walkway. Balancing both feet on the last bar, she jumped done to the platform. Her impact of her landing was lessened by bending her knees in a practiced move. She had to duck her head to go under the roof that was at the top of the slide and stay crouched. She was able to stand straight in the center of the little area, but nowhere else. Unfortunately, there was something different from the last time that she was here. The slide, a contraption of plastic, had been cut away at some point. But, at least the top fourth of it was still on it. Because I tread these black roads, they are barren. Because I found these islands, they are lost. She was tall enough that her feet were almost to the end of where the slide ended. It didn’t matter for what she was doing. She was still going down the slide, but the ride would be shorter. Going down the slide was like going down a dry water fall. Land under you, then nothing but air. She rolled in the sand and got to her feet in a smooth move, knocking her headphones partially askew. As she shifted them back over her ears fully, she walked to her bag, picked it up, and went out of the play ground into the desolate wasteland that was once a thriving suburb. Upon seal and seabird dreaming their innocent world, my shadow has fallen.

Poem: Shadow by Susan Craig Winsberg

Gravel Pit Kelsey Knoedler, 2010

We drive in Your mother's car The air conditioning Broken So we roll down the Windows And stick our hands out Letting them ride The thick waves of Summer.

You turn the knob On And Mozart's strings Hang heavy. My under‐thighs Stick To the leather seat, And my bathing suit clings To my bare Stomach.

Park. Door slams People picnic A knot of teenagers Gather On Beach towels. One with tattoos Jumps off the edge to a Deep I can't see, and Splash.

Kick off flip Flops Gravel digs into the soft Palms of our feet My cheeks beginning to Burn The sun kissing one And you kiss the Other.

I pull off my jean shorts and You lift your tshirt, Wet With sweet sweat, Over your head. You slip your hand In mine Sticky. As we walk to the Edge.

"You first," I say. You squeeze my hand We leap Falling Cutting the thick summer Air With our pointed toes, Into the shivery Pit.

To Write or Not to Write Lisa Sommers, 2011

I know why he compares you to a summer’s day and wanders lonely as a cloud and why the world’s a stage on which we play and why the raven wonders nevermore aloud.

He wanders lonely as a cloud because his love is like a red, red rose and because the raven wonders nevermore aloud. So he takes the less traveled road.

His love that’s like a red, red rose is for a tyger, tyger burning bright that takes the less traveled road and should not go gentle into that good night.

He can make a tyger, tyger burning bright go to the icebox and eat the plums or go gentle into that good night to see if the caged bird sings or hums.

He goes to the icebox and feeds the plums to his dreams deferred and asks the caged bird to sing or hum and the dying lady about the fly she heard.

He wonders about these dreams deferred, why Richard Cory went to town, about the fly the dying lady heard and why he has miles to go before he slows down.

While Richard Cory goes to town, the paper is a stage for the pen to play for a poet has miles to go before he slows down because he compares you to a summer’s day.

Detail, Parking Tickets Make Me Vomit Eileen Laskowski, 2011

Anemone Sam Wassel, 2011

I watch I labor under the crowning tears in my eyes pain racking the body My blood spreads across your swollen face your naked fragile frame Your life nailed down in this moment I

Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee

long to hold the fingers that reach outward to grasp this mystery

why me why me why

that I may conceive by God alone Your lips beg for water and cry to heaven Your eyes glance upward to the one who made you You breathe deeply and then still I wonder

why me why

how such brilliance was contained in the ordinary

Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee

In the shadows the animals watch as I wrap you in white cloth and place you in my arms I shift rock your body back and forth against my heart I cradle

why

the promise of new life in the darkness waiting for the return of the sun

●

The red tip of Israel’s budding anemone kisses the air—

Excerpt from Butterfly Kisses, A Senior Writing Project Desiree Fischer, 2010

­End of May­ It was the night before the last day of my junior year and I was nervous. I know it sounds pretty strange, but that’s how it was. According to band tradition, the new drum major was always announced on the last day of school, which meant it was the day I would find out whether or not the past three years of blisters, heatstroke, and steaming pavement had been worth it. I was going to find out if I was going to be drum major of the Heritage High School Marching Retrievers, or just another marching snare. Tryouts were tough, I’ll admit. I was up against a couple of great players, and let’s face it; drummers are almost never drum majors, something about our attitude. But, we had a pretty good shot that year, because there were two of us, Jesse and I, trying out. Jesse and I had been best friends and fierce competitors since our sophomore year when he moved to town just in time for drumline tryouts. We played quads together that year. Jesse and I were up against a girl who went by Sterling, which wasn’t her real name, mind you—I think it was like Francesca or something. I paced the length of my room rearranging stacks of sheet music and school supplies as I went—back and forth, back and forth. I kept thinking about the responses on the questionnaire Mr. Pike had asked us to fill out. Had my answers been good enough? What if I’d said something wrong? Would it ruin my chances if I had? I sat down on my bed, pouring over the answers in my head, wondering how I could’ve better answered the questionnaire. The actual tryouts had seemed simple enough at first. Mr. Pike, our band director, had given each of us a CD with music on it that matched the different meters he wanted us to be able to direct. Naturally, I had downloaded them onto my iPod so that I could practice every chance I had. The entire week before tryouts I had stood in front of my mirror and practiced each song and each meter until they were perfect, or at least I thought so. Jesse and I arrived at Mr. Pike’s office together after classes were done for the day. Sterling was already in Mr. Pike’s office and she was asking him a few last minute questions about conducting. I raised my fist to knock gently on the door, but stopped when Jesse walked right in. “Hello gentlemen,” Mr. Pike said smiling, “You ready?” We nodded. “Alrighty then, ladies first?” he said looking at Sterling, who shrugged. Jesse and I stepped out into the hallway. I sat cross‐legged on one side of the hallway and Jesse lounged casually against the other side. I plugged into my iPod and tried to focus on practicing ten‐eight time, like the movie, “Mission Impossible.” But I couldn’t. Jesse was distracting me. It’s not like he was talking to me or making faces at me—no, he was just sitting there. It was like the pressure wasn’t getting to him at all. It was almost as if he didn’t really care. He’d always been that way though. “Jess—” I said, tentatively, “you nervous?” “Nah, man. I know I’ve got lead snare if I don’t get this. Besides, Aiden lets me goof off, you know? Pike’d blow a gasket if I did shit like that.” “Then why do tryouts?” “Why not?” I looked at my friend, thinking. He was the type of guy who lived for his “cool drummer” reputation. He carried his sticks and the belief that any surface has the potential to be a drum with him everywhere. He was the guy girls couldn’t get enough of. He was a “bad boy,” if you know what I mean. He wore preppy clothes and kept his hair kind of long and down in his face, like I did, only girls preferred his. I think it’s because his was so dark. The other thing about Jesse that I think girls liked was that he wore a purity ring on a chain around his neck, which is pretty funny actually, because it wasn’t his—it was his girlfriend’s. She gave it to him after they—well—after the first time he screwed her. But that was something he didn’t like to pass around, he liked the attention too much. Not too long after that, Sterling came out. She gestured towards Jesse who got up and walked into Pike’s office. Sterling sat down across from me. She wasn’t the kind of girl who talked much, but when she did, you were stupid if you didn’t listen. She was pretty enough, nice hair, cute face, the usual. But I always felt kind of strange around her; she played the trombone, which is not exactly a “girly” instrument. But hey—she was good at it, so I really didn’t say much. “Hey, Sterling—” I said. She looked up from her magazine, “how’d it go?” She shrugged. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I hoped it was a good sign. After what seemed like ages, Jesse finally sauntered out of Mr. Pike’s office. My turn at last, I thought. Mr. Pike greeted me with a nod and a smile as I walked into his office. I think it was for reassurance purposes, not that it really helped much. But he’s pretty young for a band director, so I’m not sure he knew that. “Ok, Oscar, here’s how this is going to work,” Mr. Pike said, leaning forward, “I am going to start the metronome and tell you what meter to conduct in. After you’ve conducted about four measures, I am going to turn it off while you continue to conduct. Make sure you keep tempo because I am going to turn the metronome back on after a few bars to check, ok? And we’ll do this a couple of times in a couple of different meters, alright?” I nodded, because my throat was so dry I don’t think I could’ve spoke, even if I wanted to. The first meter he asked me to conduct was simple, four‐four time, the most common of the meters, but he did set the metronome pretty fast. I’d say it was at least one hundred sixty beats a minute. My tryout had officially begun.

I felt pretty good walking out to Mina. And in case you were wondering, no—Mina is not a person—she’s my car. An eleven‐year‐old Chevy Lumina to be exact. I decided to call her “Mina” because the “Lumina” insignia on her trunk was missing the “Lu.” She was a smoky grey color on the outside with a berry red interior. I paid fifty bucks for her when my cousin’s parents bought him a new car as a graduation gift. Man, I was so proud of that car. I was feeling relatively confident on my way home, too. I couldn’t wait to talk to my mom about tryouts, childish I know, but she’s always been a big supporter of my music. But with my dad, the subject of my music should be avoided at all costs. You see, my parents are about as different as an Alaskan winter and a Brazilian summer. My dad doesn’t care for my music; it’s not manly enough. He’s always been real hard on me, especially now. He wanted me to play sports. Which is almost understandable, I mean, he gave up sports and a scholarship in high school for a job. Mom had me when she was seventeen. I think Dad’s always blamed her for giving up his dream of college glory. And I think he wanted to live that dream through me. The only problem was, he wasn’t the kind of dad to stand at the finish line and be proud no matter where you placed—oh no, he was the asshole screaming at his son, even if his son won, because he wasn’t fast enough, his time wasn’t good enough. I was never good enough. And yet, he still wonders why I prefer music to organized athletics. My mom though, she’s great most of the time. She’s always supportive, even if it means pissing Dad off. And believe it or not that happens a lot. She’s always trying to keep the peace between Dad and me. Unfortunately, Mom had a tendency to overreact to things. Especially when it came to Mikaia and me As I am sure you can imagine things could get a little crazy at home. And they were in fact pretty crazy, there was a lot going on with my little sister, Mikaia. She’d been having trouble eating lately and was getting these killer headaches. Mom really wanted to take her to the Children’s Hospital for testing, but Dad kept trying to put it off. That is, until the family doctor got involved. Mom and Mikaia were in the driveway when I pulled up to the house. Mikaia was riding around in her pink Barbie Jeep, singing some little song from her Dora radio. As I walked up the drive, Mikaia drove down to meet me; of course after she had run over my foot, she couldn’t get it turned around so I had to help her. Once we got back up to the front of the drive, Mom came over and put her arm around my shoulder, “So, how were tryouts?” “They were ok,” I replied, “I think I did pretty well.” “That’s great honey. I’m so proud of you!” And of course, she had to ruin the moment by staining my cheek with her gloss‐covered lips. “Mom!” “Oh! I’m sorry, honey!” I tried to wipe the gloss off as best I could and hurried inside to make sure I hadn’t missed any. As I was scrubbing the last little sparkle off my cheek I heard the garage door open. Dad was home. Great, I thought, my favorite part of the day. I walked out into the living room just in time to hear Mom say, “And Oscar had his drum major tryouts today!” Dad looked at me and grunted. Then he walked down the hallway to his office where he deposited his laptop and briefcase before reappearing in the family room. Gabriel Jones was not a particularly tall man, something he was kind enough to pass through the gene pool. He kept his hair short, trying to hide the gray that was beginning to make an appearance at his temples. “Dinner ready?” he said, glancing over the top of his rimmed glasses at Mom. “No, dear, I hadn’t started it yet. Mikaia and I—” “You haven’t started dinner? Good Lord, Bri, it’s almost five thirty.” “I know, but I was just going to do something simple like soup and sandwiches.” “Fine.” He said, and sat down on the couch with the remote. Mikaia followed and crawled up onto the couch beside him. She seemed content for a moment, until she realized he wasn’t sitting down to watch cartoons. The Evening News was the bane of Mikaia’s existence. She began to fidget and then began to play with dad’s glasses. If I didn’t know what an ass he was, I thought, that would make a perfect picture. Of course I had spoke too soon because in the next moment Dad was yelling at Mom to “remove her daughter from the living room.” After finding something besides Dad’s glasses to entertain Mikaia, I followed Mom into the kitchen to help with dinner. Cooking was better than television any day of the week. I knew that if Jesse ever found out that I was learning to cook from my mom, I’d never live it down. Dad didn’t really like it either—it wasn’t “manly” enough for him. Not that dinner was anything spectacular tonight anyway. Campbell’s soup and ham sandwiches, toasted. Dinner was eaten in relative silence, with Mikaia relaying the events of the day to everyone. Dad hadn’t said a word about my tryouts, not that it was much of a surprise but I was expecting at least one comment about band’s inferiority to soccer, his sport of choice. Mom didn’t say much either, and my nerves were kicking in. They didn’t improve much after dinner either. I began to question my ability to lead the band. How was I going to lead the band if I couldn’t even get lead snare in my section? Stupid question, I tried to tell myself. Jesse is in with Aiden the way you are with Pike; you’ll be drum major, no worries. No worries—yeah right.

Silk and Lace Laura Lancaster, 2010

He sculpts a mesh of silken thread Like a frail and fragile lace, Then waits and waits, and waits And waits with hungry patience Till she feels safe enough to spread Her wings and take to flight. He waits and waits, and waits And waits with greedy patience Till the thrill of freedom grips her As each worry dissipates. He waits till she draws closer To his pretty silken snare,

Till she shuts her eyes to feel the rush And pleasure of the air. With a sudden lurch she opens Her eyes to find she’s stuck to A piece of lace and still He waits and waits, and waits And waits with cruel patience Till she’s tangled up in sticky silk From trying to break free. Then he pounces, and with open jaws, Sends venom through her veins, Sucking out the lifeblood, leaving Nothing but a dry and hollow husk With shredded wings.

Closeup Kathryn Fisher, 2012

Members Only Katy Lunch, 2011

Macy trembled like a baby giraffe on the cedar patio at Ridge Country Club. She stood a good inch higher than Kevin and everyone else at the table in spite of the flat, whispering soles of her tennis shoes. When she waited on men at the patio tables, masked in the shade of their yellow umbrellas, Macy’s hips would sway uncertainly above her frail awkward legs. Macy nodded at Kevin when she saw him with the boys from Fisher Academy. She smiled at each one respectively before handing them small laminated menus. Their father’s were all full time members at Ridge. They wore white golf shoes and polo shirts adorned with horses rampant and grinning crocodiles. Kevin’s shirt was green. A blue embroidered stallion galloped over the region of chest where his heart rested. Macy’s long fingers played with the equine thread as she leaned over dealing out menus to Kevin’s companions. Her nails pinched him fiercely before drawing away. Kevin was still, though he raised his eyes to Macy slowly. “I’ll take the Ridge Burger, Macy,” he said. The boys smiled, and Macy did too, her flat little teeth fixed tight. “Erin will take your order. I am just finishing up my shift. She will be out in a minute. Kevin nodded understandingly and watched Macy retreat from the patio with the fragile steps of a fawn. He waited fifteen minutes, and ordered a Ridge Burger from Erin before rising. They met in front of the club swimming pool. Its murky lights brought an alien brightness to the dusk. Grace Sullivan from Our Lady of Peace rose from her daily sunbath, and removed her white tunic. She dove cleanly into the water illuminated in the sleepy glow of the pool. Macy had a bottle of Ridge’s champagne, tucked into her bag. “She’s wearing your ring,” Macy said in a low voice as Kevin casually followed her through the gates of the Club‐house and out towards the rolling golf green. “It’s just my Fisher Academy ring, Macy. My mother made me give it to Grace. She’s really chummy with Mrs. Sullivan. The thing’s big and ugly. You wouldn’t want it.” He laid his hand on Macy’s side feeling the rise and fall of her ribs. She was lean and starved like a racehorse. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t,” she answered airily smiling slowly as she spoke. “I was surprised when Grace showed it to me. I thought that there would be a fish on it, Kev. You know, because of the Fisherman.” “Bishop John Fisher, Macy? He never caught a minnow.” Kevin’s eyes crinkled with amusement, and his hand eased Macy into the dim of the golf course. Macy shrugged, although her sun kissed cheeks glowed pink in the half‐light. “Not by the lake, Kevin. The geese are down there.” Macy begged. “Geese? The groundskeeper chases them out. Trust me, Macy. I golf this course every week.” “But I hear them from the patio. They sound angry.” “They want in, just like everyone else.” Kevin and Macy skirted the small man‐made lake, shallow and green in the fading sun. There were lights in it, just like the swimming pool. Macy lowered herself onto the grass before the water. Her long legs folded awkwardly beneath her. She twisted, stiffly squinting at the clubhouse lights in the distance. The bugs were biting, and she had forgotten a blanket. Kevin knelt and slipped off her whispering white shoes revealing mangled feet. They were small and twisted like a Chinese courtesan’s. The broken toes curled ineffectively towards Kevin’s firm and deliberate touch. Macy would not look at them. She pulled her feet underneath her further, and drew close to Kevin’s face. He buried his head in the cavernous hollow of her thin fluted shoulders. Macy kept her eyes on the clubhouse lights as Kevin kissed her. Her teeth grazed the little polo horse on his shirt. It tasted like thread. Macy sighed and closed her eyes. “I took off the night of the Ridge Luau on Friday,” Macy whispered grasping the polo to herself like a child’s blanket when it came over Kevin’s head. “Why?” “So we could go,” Macy answered slowly. She clutched the polo closer forcing her eyes away from the clubhouse lights. “Are you taking, Grace?” she asked. Kevin licked his lips. “I didn’t think you would want to go, and my mom thought it would be better if I took Grace, just because, you know, it’s usually for members, Macy.” “I bought a dress.” Kevin clutched his brown arms to his chest that was bare save for a scapular. He warily eyed the polo in Macy’s clutches. “God, Macy. I’m sorry. I really didn’t think it was something you would want to do. It doesn’t seem at all your kind of thing. And you know how it is with Fisher and Ridge, and everything. There are some places we just shouldn’t go, you know, together.” “We’ve never left the golf course, Kevin,” Macy said slowly rising to her feet. She was stiff, and her feet had fallen asleep. Kevin watched her limp about in a small circle, gathering her things together. “I want something,” she finally said. “Grace got your ring, and she got your dance. I want something too.” “Please don’t take my shirt, Macy,” Macy tossed it back to him as she forced her white shoes over her twisted toes. “I wanted to take you, Macy.” “No, you didn’t” He put his arms around her before she could pull away. Kevin swayed her in the dark, though she stood some way above him. Macy put her arms around Kevin’s shoulders, and rested her head against him, her legs knotting clumsily beneath her. They danced on the green. Macy sniffed a little. His brown scapular brushed against her cheek. The mysteries of the crude and frail leather captivated her. It smelled like him. “Why do you hide it in your shirt?” “It’s a private devotion.” The radiant woman’s face on the brown leather rectangle was twisted with sorrow, her heart pierced by steel. Macy frowned into those pious eyes, and looked up the hill at the clubhouse once more. “You shouldn’t hide her like that, Kevin.” “It might be a little hard for you to understand, Macy, not going to Our Lady of Peace I mean,” Kevin explained gently. “I understand who she is, Kevin,” Macy said fighting back laughter as she watched the heart of a virgin in agony sway between them.

Your Mitten Katie Ineich, 2010

I remember when your mitten had a twin. They were a gift, soft green and blue thickly knitted and knotted woolen handmade and imported from Paddington’s Peru.

They reminded me of your favorite picture book, although they were sold by a table of cheese. And I wondered how long they’d retain that look of winter and warm and cosy and freeze.

I held each one like a new friend’s hand, weighed and clasped. I fingered the thumb, learned from the inside, began to understand, and I hoped they’d shield you from the cold and numb.

It’s December now, winter’s barely begun I hope you’ll keep warm with that solitary one.

A Man’s Desire Sarah Sheppard, 2011 Your strawberry lipstick smears my cheek when you kiss me for the last time. When you walk out of my bedroom in your tight jeans, big hips swaying, I can see the butterfly tattoo from your left hip, just under the white sweater your mother gave you for Christmas.

I want to drag my lips across those black wings. If only you would stay another night, then we could watch that movie you wanted to see, and I could cook you dinner and watch you fall to sleep.

Kathryn Fisher I’m Not Here 21 of 22

Blackmarket Baby Caitlin Duerinck, 2011

I didn’t mean to get pregnant. It was an accident, a I can’t understand these girls. I take care of broken condom with a random john who bought the them when they come into the hospital with swollen only thing I had to offer. The exact night could have bellies. I nurse their premature children to health. I been one of a hundred: back pressed against try to convince them to be abstinent. Still, they stained, crumbling brick in dark alleyways, hands return to the streets and the drugs, burning clawing at cheap sequins and imitation leather, themselves out before they turn thirty. It isn’t long teeth biting at exposed skin. Quick thrusts from men before they come back to the clinic for STD tests or who were as sleazy as they were desperate. Most of because of an overdose or to give birth again. I’ve them weren’t looking for sex. Not really, anyways. been told that you need to separate emotionally from They wanted power, control over someone who your patients. That it’s easier to work in the free wouldn’t complain about the bruises. They probably clinic if you don’t think about what happens when went home to nagging wives and whining brats. I your patients walk out the door. Still, every time I don’t know why they chose me. I didn’t want them, hold the tiny hands of children born addicted to but they were willing to pay for my body. The heroin I wonder why their mothers would do this to momentary shame was worth a full belly and a them. I wonder why they would keep the children warm bed. This was the first time a john had left when they intend to return to their crackhouses and something behind besides cash. I can barely feed pimps. myself, but I can’t just get rid of it. It hasn’t done They don’t deserve these babies. wrong. I think I love it, my baby. I couldn’t make her feel better. Not when I don’t want to believe her. That bitch. She promised my daughter was denied a child again. I’d held her us, swore to heaven and high hell that she’d give us when she found out that an insidious virus had her baby. Nearly seven months, we’d taken care of invaded her womb. I cried with her when the her. Seven months of medical bills and living costs doctors told her she couldn’t have children of her and anxious hope for nothing. She decided to keep own. I’d stood by my daughter when the first two her son. It isn’t fair. I would do anything to have what adoptions had failed, but nothing I did could remove she has. I can’t have any children, not ever, and this the despondent gaze from her eyes after the loss of stupid teenager gets pregnant on accident. She this child. She simply shut down when the promised us. She promised us a child and now she’s birthmother decided to keep the baby. I held my ripping my baby away. I held him. The little boy who girl. I told her this wasn’t the end. That she would was supposed to be mine. I wasn’t allowed to, but I get her baby one day. I don’t know what to do. I did. I wanted to show the girl that her son would be talked to the birthmother, making sure to flash my happy and loved as a part of our family. I wanted a police badge as I tried to convince her to give up the connection to make it clear that he should stay with baby. I even went to the offices of the lawyer who me. I held him but it didn’t matter. There was no works with my unit. He said there was no case, that connection, no love. the birthmother was correct in the eyes of the law, I wasn’t his mother. even if she had broken a verbal contract. The baby isn’t theirs. There is nothing I can do.

Strong Women Kristle Hodges, 2010

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water… ‐Psalms 1:3

Likened to a strong tree, grown by the river to bless the land and cool the souls of black folk—

Real black women lean.

In an ongoing struggle to keep herself from falling into clear water— turned filthy by the grim of earth.

She tilts a hip to raise her people onto solid ground all while stretching— to take the sun on her back

Butterfly at Saint Mary’s of the Annunciation Bristol, Indiana Desiree Fischer, 2010

If you ask her, She will tell you, I am a butterfly.

She floats Through the empty church pews.

Lands on The oak prayer bench. She is three in a blue dress.

Her wings Show the world her bruise.

I say to her, Touch the sky. Do not flutter unsuspecting

Into the net Of malignancy.

Flutter on by, butterfly. Sweet child.

Spread your cheer everywhere you small wings fly. Flutter.

Flutter.

Untitled Film Still #1 Theresa Tonyan

Shadow Sarah Horn, 2011

Shadow is an interesting thing. Though an area may be bathed in light, shadows sulk and shiver in the wind. When two shadows meet, they compete to see who can be the greatest, the darkest. At high noon, shadows are at their most concentrated state; as light wanes, shadows become thin, distorted monstrosities. In the absence of light, the world lay covered in thirsty darkness. Children fear this Shadow, as they should, but parents amuse their fears by “solving” the problem with a small light. This light seems to chase Shadow away. But Shadow lurks in the muted darkness: waiting and watching, waiting and watching. Obtaining this information about Shadow is not hard to do. All you need to do is watch. The longer you watch, the more you know. I have watched Shadow all my life. Shadow does not know when it is being watched. Day and night, seeming to enjoy the normal activities of life, Shadow is easily observed. Shadow plays tricks on people if they do not watch as carefully as I. The favorite game is finding ways to steal a tug at a person’s darkness, usually tugging the souls of feet, tripping a person terribly. Fancying this a childish game, the occasional observer will laugh away the poor soul’s misfortune. I know better. Shadow wants to make itself stronger. Only by gobbling up darkness is this allowable. Shadow doesn’t play games for the sake of merry making, no, Shadow wants more. Shadow wants you, Shadow wants yours. If Shadow can separate you from your darkness, you become lost, like Peter Pan. But you do not stay young forever and Wendy cannot help you. When Shadow steals your darkness, darkness alone can become of you. That is why you must watch, for watching Shadow lets you see it coming. And when it does come, you can stare your blackness into submission. For by watching Shadow, you see how it grows stronger, learn how it grows stronger, become a likeness to Shadow itself: until Shadow no longer dares play its tricks on you. Simply by watching I have become the Blackest Shadow. Mornings Abigail Forney, 2012 you sat up against the sunlit window birds chirping rainbows forming your symphony warm coffee a ready smile

“Good morning”

Pool with a Tool Carly O’Connor, 2010

It was finally Christmas vacation. I slid through the powdery snow as the snowmobile led me back toward our house. My big brother Brady held on tight behind me with white knuckles. We were going to take a break from our extreme winter adventures to grab some lunch at the house. As I sped up the driveway, I gave a small gasp. Waiting for us in the driveway was Kyle Bertram, who lived a couple streets down from us. Kyle was a senior and the point‐guard on the varsity basketball team. And I may or may not have been in love with him since I was in kindergarten, when I had first caught a glimpse of that then ruggedly‐handsome third grader picking his nose one beautiful day on the bus ride home. From that moment on, I loved him with a passion. We had shared exactly forty‐ five verbal exchanges since then. It may have been difficult for me to think of anything to say whenever I was around him. But I had never seen anyone else like him in my life, and I didn’t think I ever would. Brown, fluffy, wavy hair, warm brown eyes, a killer smile and high cheekbones all combined for a dynamic product that made Johnny Depp look like Anthony Hopkins. When you’re from a small‐town like Cerro Gordo, Illinois, the picking is pretty slim, but this just goes to show that I have always set my sights high from the get‐go. But there he stood at the end of our driveway, with his snow‐gear on, and apparently waiting for us. And by “us”, I mean Brady. Brady was a junior on the varsity basketball team, so he and Kyle got along well. They weren’t best friends or anything, but Kyle would come over and hang out with him once in a while. “Isn’t that Kyle?” I asked Brady nonchalantly. “Yeah,” he answered. “He’s probably here because he heard the snowmobile running.” “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like him?” “He’s alright.” Kyle waved and Brady waved back. I quickly decelerated, attempting to give an air of cool and calm indifference. But, I picked the wrong spot to slow down. Before I knew it, the snowmobile was stuck on the hill that led up to the house. I tried to speed up to get out, but the result was only smoke and a stationary snowmobile. Brady got off the back and the snowmobile finally jerked forward. I was mortified as I pulled up to the house and parked the snowmobile. Brady had gone up to Kyle and started talking to him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying because I had suddenly forgotten how to turn off the snowmobile, so the loud motor muted their voices. Thank goodness I finally remembered 45 seconds later. “ – you’re more than welcome to join Annie and I for lunch, we have tons of leftovers,” Brady said. “Sure, man,” Kyle said. “Sounds great. I just came over to ride a little bit with you, but I can always eat.” Kyle looked over at me with his big, warm, brown eyes, smiled his perfect and sparkling smile, and said, “How’s it goin’, Annie?” I smiled and tried to say, “Good,” but what instead came out was more of a quiet grunt, like “gahh”. Given our pathetic history of interactions, he probably believed that I was incapable of speaking. Kyle came in and ate lunch with us, and then he and Brady went out and rode the snowmobile through the trails in the woods for the rest of the day. I didn’t go with them. For one thing, there was no room for me on the snowmobile. And for another thing, I hadn’t showered since before Mass on Christmas Eve, making it my longest streak without a shower – four days. I was mortified to take off my helmet and expose my dirty, greasy hair when I went in for lunch with Kyle and Brady, and even more embarrassed when I realized that he must have caught a whiff of my sweat‐and‐motor‐exhaust perfume when we both reached for the mac‐and‐cheese at the same time. But he didn’t say anything – he just looked up at me with his smiling eyes and winked when our wrists bumped together as we were both scooping out the mac‐and‐cheese. So, as soon as they left the house, I ran to the shower and spent about an hour cleaning and prettying myself. I even took the time to straighten my unruly hair. My hair now straight and flat, I started putting on my make‐up. It was a somewhat confusing task for me then. I never really learned how to put on make‐up until I was twenty‐one years old. But nevertheless, I did what I could with my CoverGirl press powder, Almay brown eyeliner, clear mascara and chapstick. After I was done, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and felt very unglamorous and plain. Then, I remembered the big smile that Kyle always gave me, and thought if a guy like that could smile at me the way he did, then I must not be completely repulsive. I blushed, and then turned the bathroom light off. I ran downstairs and looked out the kitchen window. They were still out in the woods. Even though I prettied myself up to the best of my ability, I had absolutely no intention of actually joining Kyle or Brady. These measures were taken just in case he happened to see me again, even if only for two seconds. So I popped Miracle on 34th Street into the VCR and my mom and I watched Mr. Gailey woo Doris Walker while we enjoyed our favorite Christmas fudge and cookies together. While Mr. Gailey was flooding the courtroom with letters to Santa Claus, Brady came into the living room and asked if he and Kyle could order a pizza. It was dark now, but they were going to play video games and hang out some more. I did not see Kyle with him. “You sure you don’t want to play with us, Annie? We’re playing James Bond – you kick ass at Bond!” “No thanks, Brady,” I said, “I’m going to watch some more Christmas movies with Mom.” “Really, Annie,” Mom said, “go play with the boys. We can watch these movies together any time.” “Come on, Annie. Don’t tell me you put on make‐up and did your hair just to watch Christmas movies with your mom.” Ouch. Both Mom and Brady knew that I was hopelessly in love with Kyle. But their manner of influence was ticking me off. They finally accepted that I was more stubborn than they, and so they left me alone. We saw that White Christmas was playing on AMC and so we turned it on. As the move began, I started praying. I was frustrated with myself, that Kyle was right downstairs, breathing the same air that I breathed every day, with his strong hands gripping my video game controller. And here I was, curled up on the couch with my mom, stuffing my face with fudge and watching old movies. In horror, I suddenly saw my future: I was going to be an old lady with thirty cats. “What do I do, God?” I asked in despair. “He doesn’t even know I exist! And he never will at this rate! What do I do?” I eventually got tired of my hopelessly depressing reflections and decided to focus back on the film. Judy and Betty Haynes were talking in their dressing room. Judy was saying, “You know how honesty needs a little plus, well sometimes fate needs a little push...” I froze. “Sometimes fate needs a little push.” Okay. That’s it. God had answered my prayer, I was sure of it. I needed to push fate. But I wasn’t good at pushing. I was good at gliding. But no, I needed to do something about this crush once and for all. It was now or never. I stood up and walked out of the room. “Where are you going, Annie?” my mother asked. “I’m going to give fate a little push.” “What?” I stood at the foot of the staircase and paused. I almost chickened out right then and there. I needed some courage. I remembered that guys in movies would sometimes take a shot of “liquid courage” before they did something nervy. I didn’t know where my parents kept the alcohol, so I went to the fridge, took out the eggnog, and slammed a shot. Sick, but it had a kick. I was ready. I walked downstairs and into the basement. They were playing video games. I hesitated, but then sat down right next to Kyle. I was going for bold. Brady noticed. Kyle’s eyes were glued to the television screen. “Nice of you to join us, Annie,” Brady said with a smirk. “Yeah, I was getting bored, so I decided to come down.” Kyle looked up at this and noticed that I was sitting next to him. He had never heard me speak so coherently or so much at one time before. My heart was racing, but I couldn’t back out now. They continued to play video game in silence for a few minutes. I decided that fate needed another push. “Would you guys want to play pool?” I asked. “Then all three of us could play.” “Sure,” Kyle said. We walked to the other side of the basement, where the billiard table sat. As Brady was picking out his cue, I stood at the side of the table, wiping the lenses of my glasses with my American Eagle t‐shirt. Kyle stood next to me and said, “Did you have a good Christmas?” “Yes, I did, thanks,” I answered with the biggest smile I could muster. Kyle looked me in the eye for a moment, then smiled and said, “You should really think about getting contacts.” “Why?” “I just never noticed how pretty your green eyes are,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to notice when you’re wearing your glasses.” “Well, maybe I will,” I said, blushing. This giving fate a push thing was working out quite nicely. “Who wants to break?” Brady asked, interrupting our Moment. “I will!” I answered quickly. I grabbed my cue, floated to the other side of the table, and prepared to shoot at the head of the table. I bent over at the waist, leaning my body over the table, with my right hand strongly gripping the bottom of the cue and my left hand softly directing its aim. I pulled the right arm back, pushed forward, pulled back, and stopped for a second. I considered my options: (1) play normally and beat them all to a billiardly pulp and emasculate Kyle’s macho manness, or (2) play awful and see if Kyle would try to teach me how to play. I suddenly remembered my grandma once telling me that a woman should never let herself beat the man she loves in a game. I went for option #2. I tightened my grip on the tip of the cue with my left hand, pushed forward again, pulled back, then BAM! completely shanked my cue against the cue ball and watched the ball move about three inches from its starting point. “Oh, crap,” I said, “I’m so bad at this.” Brady looked at me quizzically. “Annie, you’re gripping your left hand against the tip too tight,” Kyle said. He walked over to me. “Here,” he said, demonstrating with his cue, “grip it like this, so the cue can slip easily between your fingers.” “Like this?” I asked, gripping it entirely too tightly. The cue burned my fingers as I tried to push it through. “No, here,” he said, prying my fingers off the cue, and, wrapping his fingers around mine, reformed them into a bigger “O” shape around the cue. “Just like that,” he said, “and remember how the cue feels between your fingers now, remember the space you need to make for it. Now try again.” I looked up at Brady as I prepared to take my second attempt at breaking. I raised my eyebrows and he shook his head. BAM! The pool balls flew haphazardly across the table. I was great again. What magic. “Annie, that was fantastic! See, it’s all about the grip,” Kyle said. “Or all about the instructor!” I said coyly as I prepared to take my second shot. Brady rolled his eyes, but Kyle didn’t seem to notice what I had just said. I purposefully shot off target. The boys started talking about school and basketball as they took their turns, and then, as I was pondering my next shot, girls. “You know Lydia Linkee, right?” Kyle asked Brady. “I know who she is,” Brady answered, “but I don’t really know her. She’s new, right?” “Yeah, man, and she is hot!! I took her to the dance after the home game last weekend. You wouldn’t believe the dress she had on, man – did you see it? “I guess I didn’t see much of a dress,” Brady laughed. “Haha, yeah, man. And we went to that crazy party at Larison’s afterwards…it was awesome.” As Kyle said this, a burst of anger shot through my body, and I pulled back and slammed my cue smoothly and squarely against the cue ball, sinking my shot perfectly. Lydia may have been pretty, but she wasn’t very smart or very nice. Kyle could do better than her. Plus, I saw that dress she had on, and she might as well have taped a dish rag to her body. “Whoa, there she goes again!” Kyle said. “See, it’s all about the grip, huh?” “Sure thing,” I answered with a forced smile. Brady prepared to take his shot. Kyle asked, “Did you take anyone to the dance? I saw you there.” “I did,” he answered as he missed his shot. “I took Angela Donahue.” Kyle laughed uproariously. “That fat girl? She’s a dog, man! What were you thinking? You could have done better than that!” My heart sank. Angela was a friend of mine from youth group. She was the smartest and funniest girl I had ever met. And she really wasn’t fat. “She’s goes to my church, and we’re good friends. We had a great time,” Brady answered smoothly. “She’s not that bad. And she isn’t really that fat. She’s just not built like Lydia.” “Whatever, man. You’re better than I am. I wouldn’t go to any dance with a fat girl,” he retorted, preparing to take his shot. Which he missed. Angela’s too good for you anyway, idiot, I thought angrily. I suddenly became aware of the slight muffin‐top that my snug low‐rise jeans created upon my hips and was embarrassed about my own body. But I bent over the table to take my shot. Slammed it. “Great shot, Annie!” Kyle said enthusiastically, giving a little wink. “You’re really getting the hang of this!” “Yeah,” I said distantly, taking my next shot. SLAM. That was for Angela. Brady stood back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. I could see the amusement in his face. On my next shot, I hit the ball so hard that it bounced off the table and hit the wall, taking a chip of paint with it. The boys were highly amused by this. I joined in their asinine laughter half‐heartedly. After missing his shot, Kyle leaned against the wall. As Brady prepared to take his turn, I looked at Kyle, my heart feeling anger, disappointment, disgust, and yet, somehow, still love for him. Oh, he was gorgeous. But I was so confused. I had never heard Kyle talk like this before. How could someone with such a perfect smile be such a jerk? I watched him as he looked at himself in the mirror hanging up on the wall of the basement. He examined his face and touched up his hair discreetly, and turning to his side, examined his figure. Brady did not notice this because he was hitting some balls in the pockets. “You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you, Kyle?” I spewed before I could censure myself. “Such a pretty face, such a lovely figure.” Kyle turned around and just stared at me, clearly surprised by my words. It was my turn. I picked up my cue, looked at him defiantly, slammed all three of the remaining solid balls into the pockets, and then sunk the black eight ball in one strike. Game over. You could cut the silence with a knife. Kyle was in shock of how quickly the game ended with my turn, at my sharp and sarcastic words to him, and my dramatic improvement in billiards. Brady stood, leaning against the wall with a big smile, wondering what I would do next. It should have been an awkward moment for me, but it wasn’t at all. I stood like a tower with my arms crossed over my chest, empowered by Brady’s encouraging smile. I looked at the clock on the wall – 8:10pm. “Well, it’s been real, guys. I think I’m going to go back upstairs and finish White Christmas.” I put my cue back in the rack, smiled and raised my eyebrows at Kyle, and started up the stairs. I looked over my shoulder at Brady and gave him a big smile. From that moment on, I had gumption.

Untitled Laura Lancaster, 2010

Papa Camille Gebert, 2010

I was seven: I would play on the swings at the park like we used to do together pumping my legs as fast as I could dreaming I was a bird.

In these dreams: I would soar through the fluffy clouds and fly through the sky until I found you in heaven.

In heaven: it was dark and cold and nothing was white like I thought it would be and all the angels were quiet and sad.

We talked: you said you were lonely here and I told you, But Papa, there are so many other angels around.

We played: hide and seek in the clouds but when it was your turn to hide I couldn’t find you until I woke up and realized I was never really in heaven.

Snapshots, II Camille Gebert, 2010

Pomegranate apricot scarlet crimson tangled together a resurrection of colors and wind beyond the solemn sea setting day.

Excerpt from Breaking Point, A Senior Writing Project Michelle Catenacci, 2010

Walking over to the pile of swords at the base of a tree, I picked up the same one I had been using for the last couple of days. It was slightly sturdier than the one I had started out with, but somehow lighter. The latter point may have had to do with the fact that this particular sword was made out of a different kind of wood. I had had the opportunity to see a real one a few days previously. Very few guards carried them on their person, preferring to carry small daggers which could be discreetly concealed. The wooden ones we were using were relatively close to the real thing. The blade was about two and a half feet long with a handle long enough to be grasped with both hands. Here I had hoped we would use rapiers or fencing swords. No, no, these were the big boys that could do some serious damage. As I took a couple of swings, Donovan crept up behind me. When he spoke I almost jumped clean out of my skin. “What have I been trying to tell you for an entire week now?” Donovan drawled out as he circled around to stand in front of me. “That if I don’t start blocking as many blows as I receive, I should just give up because in a real battle I would be dead?” I offered. I lowered my arm until it rested on my side and I gripped the handle tightly. Donovan chose to ignore my sarcastic remarks, which was probably a wise choice. “While that might be true, I will not stand for it. We will not leave the field this day until you start showing improvements. Am I understood?” I groaned loudly. This was indeed going to be yet another long day. “Yes, Captain,” I relented. It would just be easier if I agreed. “You will be practicing with me today,” he said almost casually as he bent down to pick up a sword from the pile. My mouth dropped open. Please tell me he was joking. I couldn’t even fend off Oliver, so what made Donovan think that I could with him? He had to be twice my size and definitely far stronger. I was toast. Correction, I was going to be crumbs of toast. There was going to be nothing of me left by the time this ended. I smacked myself mentally. If I continued to think like that than I would never succeed and succeed I must. It was quite clear that Donovan was already on his last nerve with me, so progress was vital at this point. “Shall we begin?” I snapped my mouth shut and gritted my teeth before nodding. I followed Donovan into the center of the clearing. Glancing around, I noticed that Oliver, Erik and Tristan were all standing to one side. Great! Not only was I going to have to fight Donovan, I had to do it in front of an audience. Could this possibly get any worse? I probably shouldn’t have even bothered to ask myself that question. When we reached the center of the field, Donovan faced me squarely as we both placed a clutched fist over our hearts in a ritual gesture to our opponent. “Remember,” Donovan called out as we raised our swords before us, “it is all in the eyes. You can see your opponent’s next move in his eyes before he ever makes it.” Donovan made the first move, sweeping his sword in a slow elegant arch towards my left shoulder. Lifting my own blade, they met with a loud clap. He swung to the other side and somehow I managed to deflect that one as well. These were practice shots which were not that hard to defend against. Donovan crouched in a position to strike. “Good. You would do well to defend yourself. I have seen what you can do; let us see if I can exploit your weaknesses. It is from those that you must learn.” He swung his weapon to almost purposefully hit my own. It was from this I learned to watch from where the blow would come, so that I could respond to it. The fight went on for several moments like this. It was almost easy because Donovan made it clear where his attacks would be coming from. Donovan pulled his sword away and took a slow step back. “Now, it will become harder and faster, I will not be so easy to read, but remember what you have learned here.” With that, he sprung, brandishing his weapon across my shoulder, and spinning to catch me with his elbow in the ribs. I quickly fell to the ground but still clutched my own weapon. The blinding heat that pushed wetness to my eyes came more from confusion than from pain. Though the pain was ample. Donovan hadn’t been kidding that it would get harder, though it had come rather quickly. Scrambling to my feet, it was all I could do to block Donovan's descent upon me. My legs had not had time to steady themselves and my ankle started to throb. I stumbled backwards from a succession of quick assaults, but I managed to block most them this time. However, Donovan’s pointed looks did not give me much hope that this was going to get any easier. I barely had time to catch my breath when Donovan's sword forced me into action again. The third time I picked myself up from the ground, I decided that I had had enough. Taking what brief pause there was I took a deep breath. I could do this, I told myself. I had to, otherwise I would end up as pulp and pulp was the last thing I wanted to be. I lunged forward, scoring my first direct hit upon Donovan since beginning. But Donovan was sturdier than I and my weak blow seemed to have no affect on him. Athletic excellence was refined in Donovan, whereas I had very little physical skills. My arms were strong from archery, but that was a completely different strength than what was needed here. Donovan smiled a genuine smile. This honestly freaked me out a little since it was a rare expression for him. "Are you not enjoying this game?" "Not really, no," I said, ducking under Donovan's swing. Before I even knew what happened, the flat of Donovan's sword caught me in the ribs again. The pain blurred my vision as I thought I felt a silent crack. In quick succession, I stumbled back, my foot catching on something; my ankle finally gave way and I fell to the ground. My sword fell from my hands and slid to a halt at Donovan’s feet. I couldn’t even look up at him as I wrapped an arm around my middle. Sweat poured down my face and neck from the pain and physical exertion. My hair fell in a curtain around me to help hide the tears which streamed down my cheeks. Donovan kicked the sword back to me, landing at my side. “Get up,” he intoned dangerously low. I swallowed hard on the bile creeping up the back of my throat, as I roughly wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt. Rolling over, I planted my hands on the ground and tried pushing myself up. My breath came in short ragged gasps as I struggled to breathe. I couldn’t get myself to stand up, it hurt far too much. “Get up.” I heard Donovan hiss at me again. “I have seen enough of this!” a loud voice called out. My head was in such a pain‐induced fog that I barely heard the whispered voices behind me or the footsteps. A pair of footsteps approached me from behind and someone came to kneel next to me. Turning my head, I gasped, as I saw Tristan besides me and Oliver standing behind him. It seemed as though Erik had run off somewhere. It was quite clear that I was surprised to see them, especially Tristan. “You will stay out of this,” Donovan commanded. “No.” There was a dangerous edge in Tristan’s voice. “I am thoroughly disgusted with you. I will not sit idly by and watch you do this to her. I cannot keep my silence any longer.” “I have treated her no differently that I would have done to any other recruit,” Donovan rationalized. “That is exactly the issue at hand. We do not treat our females this way. I know I would not tolerate having my sister treated thusly.” “She is not your sister and she was not given to me to train.” “This occurrence has only aided to re‐solidify my feelings all long about your holding this position.” Donovan started coming towards us. At the moment, I wanted him nowhere near me. So, I lifted my hand, angling it towards Donovan’s boots as I squeezed my eyes shut. The energy surged through me and I felt it leaving through the tips of my fingers. After a few moments, I dropped my hand and softly fell back against Tristan. Opening my eyes, I looked to Donovan who was standing perfectly still, his boots appearing as if they had been cemented to the ground. He cursed them quietly as he tried to move them but to no avail. Tristan gave a quiet laugh beside me. “For the record,” I began slowly as breathing was rather difficult, “I don’t have any wish to be treated any differently because I am female. Donovan is right to do what he has.” “And the injuries you have sustained are all in a day’s work?” Tristan asked sarcastically. I whispered a quiet “yes”. As much as I might hate Donovan, I could not hold him responsible for any of this. “This is absurd! You are sitting here with at least two broken ribs and a sprained ankle and you are defending him?” Tristan threw up his hands in exasperation. “Obviously your wits are not completely intact. I am taking you back to the castle this instant for healing.” Tristan and Oliver helped me to my feet, each of them taking one arm. After I was stable, I held out my hand towards Donovan’s feet again and released him from his current state. Once free, Donovan came right over to us. His eyes fixed on me and for a moment I thought I saw some sort of remorse or sadness. I quickly shook my head; that was probably the last thing he was feeling. However there was something I had to ask him. “Before we go, can I have a moment of your time, Captain?” Donovan inclined his head and waited. I turned my head towards Tristan who did not move. “Alone, please.” “I do not like this,” Tristan said as he relinquished my arm to Donovan. With Oliver in tow, Tristan moved out of earshot. I stood balanced on my one good foot with Donovan holding onto my elbow so I wouldn’t topple over. He gazed down at me with those brilliantly blue eyes, waiting for me to speak first. One would think he would have a few choice words for me right now, but it seemed even he was not going to say them. “Is it true?” I asked. “What you said about treating me no differently?” “Of course. I told you so on day one. I do not plan on going back on those words.” “Why?” Donovan hesitated, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “Never has a situation like this presented itself. Never has a she‐elf stood where you are, trying to accomplish something that none has ever done before. I know you want to prove yourself, to prove to all of us that you can do this. What sort of triumph would that be if I allowed for you to only come halfway? If I were in your position, I would want nothing more than to be placed on the same level. It is the standard we all have to live up to regardless of where we came from.” There was a slight resentment in his voice with those last few words. As his words started to sink in, I realized how much sense they really made. Donovan had pretty much summed up everything rather neatly. It was strange, the two of us who can never seem to see eye to eye about anything agreed on this one detail. A very important detail of all things, as well. Maybe Donovan and I were making some sort of progress in the realm of being at least civil to each other. For whatever reason, I felt the need to point this out to him. Donovan laughed when he realized it too. “We come from the same stock, you and I. I am not one of them,” Donovan waved his hand in Tristan’s direction. “I came here as the son of a blacksmith to prove myself. Everything we do, everything we are is so wrought in tradition. It was all new to me as it is for you. I became an adult on this field alongside the likes of Laurie and Tristan; trained by Cornelius who wanted the very best from us all and would accept nothing less than perfect excellence. And it is here that you will prove to them all that you belong here. That is why I will not apologize for what I did today.” “I would take none,” I replied. I reached up with my free hand and placed it on top of Donovan’s. “While I am sure my ankle is the size of a grapefruit and my ribs have never taken this kind of abuse, you have only dealt to me what you received.” “Exactly so,” Donovan said as he placed his other hand on mine. He nodded his head in Tristan’s direction again, who now stood tapping his foot. “I think you better go with him now before he gets any funny ideas. I am sure he is itched for more of a reason to report me yet again.” Donovan helped me over to Tristan, who scowled at him briefly before leading me away. In return, Donovan just chuckled, shaking his head as he went about picking up our fallen weapons.

Under My Socks Kelsey Knoedler, 2010 I painted my toenails fuscia cuz under My socks, Dad couldn’t see. I stole My sister’s Teen Bop and stared at Devon. Stared at Michael’s muscles in gym As he threw the football to tall Justin In his tight white shirt. And after School, I stopped at Wanda’s diner Cuz she always played opera. And every Afternoon, before Dad got home, I turned on the shower, stepped In, let the scalding water roll off My back. Tried to wash off the gay.

Tape18Clip2 Raygun Magee

Bus Stop Katie Ineich, 2010

I walked to the familiar bus stop, my heavy shoes sloshing in the puddles as I hurried along the sidewalk. I looked ahead and strained my eyes to see if she was there already—she usually was. I made out the top of her red head and I smiled. I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second as I remembered what I had planned to say, and I slipped my hand into my coat pocket to make sure the small velvet box was still there. Penny and I had been meeting at this bus stop since the beginning of the summer. We both got on the bus at Ferguson and Peavy, and we always took it past the Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway, where Ferguson became Centerville. From the moment of our first conversation, I had known that one day she would share my name.

It had been raining that day too—not your pleasant, light drizzle, but a heavy, north Texas summer storm. I was carrying a large black umbrella, but it did me little good because the rain was coming fast at a slanted angle. I was soaked from the waist down and my arms and face kept getting sprayed. I neared my bus stop, and I immediately saw her brilliant ginger hair, soaked in spite of her attempts to shield her curls from the teeming rain. Her stuffed tote bag was slung over her shoulder along with her purse. She held her khaki trench coat up over her head, but rain trickled down her temples and into her ears. She periodically shifted her weight in what looked like an effort to save her shoes, which were an odd but lovely shade of blue. As I arrived at the bus stop, I went and stood next to her, immediately proffering my umbrella. “Excuse me, miss, would you share my umbrella?” She looked up at me, startled. She wore no make‐up. Her grey‐blue eyes were framed with light brown eyelashes and her nose and cheeks were smattered with freckles. Her mouth opened slightly in surprise, and I noticed that even her lips had some freckles on them. “I’m sorry?” she asked, sounding slightly confused. “My umbrella,” I repeated stupidly. I indicated the black thing that I was already holding over her head. “You just… it’s…” I sighed. “You look a bit damp.” I finished lamely. “Oh!” She brightened a little, slipped her trench coat down around her shoulders, and moved closer to me so that she stood beneath my umbrella. She smelled wonderful— clean and crisp like apples. “Thank you so much, I’m Penny, by the way.” She held her hand awkwardly toward me so that she kept it sheltered by the umbrella. I took her hand and told her my name. “Your umbrella makes me think of London,” she said dreamily, looking at the black parachute above her. “Oh, have you been to London?” “Very briefly, with a friend, when I was in college. We were studying in Ireland, and we went to England and Scotland for our mid‐semester break.” She wasn’t looking at me anymore, but past me. “Well, that’s exciting. I’ve been to Europe, but I didn’t make it to the UK.” “No? Where did you go?” Her eyes refocused on my face. “I actually was stationed in Germany for a few years, and so I got to see a lot of the country. I also got to Austria, France and Belgium.” “Wow, those are all places I haven’t made it yet. What branch of the armed forces were you in?” “I was in the Army for five years. I went to school on an ROTC scholarship.” “That’s impressive. What did you major in?” “English—” “No way!” She cut me off quickly. “I was an English major too!” Her sudden enthusiasm made me smile, and I could have sworn her eyes turned a bit brighter as she grew more animated. “This is so exciting! I feel like recently, everyone I meet majored in something business related…or nursing…” I nodded silently. “Well,” she continued, “You’re not in the Army anymore, are you? What do you do now?” My neck felt warm. People rarely showed this much interest in me, and women even more rarely were this interested. I hesitated. “I actually own an Italian restaurant several blocks from here. What about you, what do you do?” I asked her quickly before she could ask me something more about myself. “Oh, I’m a teacher,” she smiled broadly. “I teach sixth grade at Mark Twain.” She clutched her tote bag closer to her chest. “So I gather you enjoy teaching then?” I asked. “I love it. I had amazing English teachers growing up, and I always knew I wanted to teach English myself. But wait, what about you? You studied English, but you own a restaurant now? Not that that’s not wonderful but…” This was a question I dreaded. I looked at the ground and watched a puddle grow by our feet. “Yeah, I had always wanted to be an English professor, and maybe write. But when I left the military, I got placed in an office job for a while, and through some connections, I ended up managing and eventually owning my restaurant. I actually like the business and the people I meet; it’s just not what I’d had planned for myself.” “Well, that sounds pretty great actually,” she smiled warmly. “And I mean, I know it sounds cliché, but things don’t always work out the way we plan.” Before I could answer her, the bus pulled up to our stop and we turned to board. We climbed the steps slowly as I held the umbrella over her until the last possible moment. Once she darted inside, I shook the rain from my umbrella and closed it as I backed into the bus. “Sorry,” I apologized to the few people waiting to board. Penny had taken a seat on one of the long benches along the windows, for handicapped passengers, and I went and sat next to her. We talked until the bus reached her stop. We talked about our families, our favorite books, our jobs and our goals. I kept wondering when she was going to get bored and stop talking to me, but that moment didn’t come. We did arrive at her stop too quickly. She stood with unbelievable grace, considering the lurching bus, gathered her bag and purse and walked to the door. “Maybe I’ll see you again,” she smiled at me over her shoulder. “I hope so,” I said quietly. I waved to her back, and the doors quickly swung closed.

Soleil Katy Lynch, 2011 Your perfume lingers My eyes grow tight With the sting of jasmine And winter wood. After all these years It holds to the clasp On the string of pearls You promised me. El­Train Revelations Mary Laut, 2012

I hold my purse like it is a shield. God, as if a fabric bag is enough to ward off men that stink of bad news. But, I live alone here, and it’s what I got and I know how to use it. In the city, you have to use everything that is at your disposal, even if it’s just a small, flimsy purse. The lights outside of the subway car flash when the windows fly past them. The faces of the other people here get cast in brief stark relief. Each flash causes me to flinch slightly. They look like gun flashes, the lights. Not that I’ve seen any gun fights, but I’ve watched gangster movies. Guns are always flashing in those. On one end of the car sits an old Jewish man. He’s got a stooped posture and leans heavily on the cane between his legs. He’s a bit like an owl because of that and his eyes, what little I can see of them. He has these round eyes that are covered by his bushy eyebrows and Coke bottle glasses. I didn’t know that they made those things anymore. He also has this hooked nose that looks like it’s going over his mouth. Overall, he looks harmless to me. I don’t need to worry about the old Jew. I know that the train is stopping because the flashes of lights start to get longer, less like gun flashes. But the announcer still makes me jump a little in my seat. None of the people in the car had been talking, including me. I know that, logically, the announcement was about the train stop, but it just sounds like electric garble. The Jewish guy stands up and walks to the door. When he passes me I can see a rosary hanging out of his pocket. Oh. I guess he isn’t Jewish after all. The announcer’s garble said that the doors were closing… I think. With the old man gone, it’s just me and… him. This guy is standing caddy corner to where I am sitting, next to a door in the car. He’s tall and broad, good looking if I wasn’t two shades shy of terrified, with dark African skin. He’s also wearing these faded and worn jeans and a jacket that has thread coming off of the cuffs and collar. One of his hands is around the strap of his messenger bag. Like his clothing, it’s starting to fray at the edges. But it looks newer than what he has on. Could he have stolen it? No, that would be silly, what with how many fake designer bags were being sold on street corners. There’s nothing on that bag to suggest that it’s designer, fake or otherwise. He has hawkish features. Those sharp cheek bones look like they’re going to cut through his skin. His eyes look like they belong on a wolf or something. No eyes that I’ve seen are that tone of brownish amber. Instantly, I bow my head so it doesn’t look like I’m looking at him, even though I take sideways glances every few seconds. It’s just to make sure that he doesn’t move from that spot. Really it is. I can feel my fingers tighten around my purse. Oh why did I not listen to my mother and make sure that I always had a can of mace on me? If I had that I would feel just a little safer. All of the rules my mother told me about keeping yourself safe fly through my head.

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 43 of 85 Always flip the deadbolt on your door. That one’s kind of useless for my situation right now because I’m not home. Don’t make eye contact. Okay, I’m already doing that. I glance at him again, and quickly look back down at my purse. No eye contact, remember, no eye contact. Always walk like you have a purpose and when you walk, walk close to the curb. Another useless one as I’m sitting, not walking. Hold your purse in front of you and close to your body. Okay, I’m doing that. I have my shield in front of me. I take another glance at the dark man. One of his hands was in his pocket. Oh God… What if he had a knife in there? A gun would make an obvious bulge in his pocket, but a knife wouldn’t. My eyes go from his pocket to his predator eyes and back down to my lap. But then I notice that the flap of the bag has started to move. I stare at it as well as I can from the corner of my eyes, and my jaw drops open at the sight of what emerges from the bag. It was small. It was white. It was fluffy and absurdly cute with the bluest eyes that I had ever seen on a kitten.

Untitled Laura Lancaster, 2010

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 44 of 85 The Deal Sam Wassel, 2011

Jason’s gawky frame gave an involuntary shudder as he slowly navigated his way towards the rust‐encroached Buick that idled at the corner of South Brent and Juniper. The moon was in that strange transition phase between a full and a quarter—a waning gibbous, that’s what it was called—and it bathed the car in an eerie glow that left its driver’s face half‐hidden in shadow. Jason took a quick puff of his inhaler and returned it to the shallow front pocket of his corduroys, where it protruded conspicuously above the seam that was stitched along the pocket’s edge. He hesitated a moment, then hastily removed it and transferred it to the Spiderman book bag he bore on his back. Taking another deep breath, he willed his legs to carry him forward. He caught a glimpse of his pale reflection in the driver’s side window before it lowered in a jerky manner, creaking as it did so; his acne was even more pronounced than usual in the strange light cast by that not‐quite‐full moon, and the cowlick on the left side of his head stood more erect than it normally did, a result of being pressed against his pillow for the past three hours. Not that he had managed to actually sleep at all that night. “Climb on in, kid,” came the voice from inside the car. With the window now lowered, Jason was finally able to see the driver’s face; he recognized it from the picture of the football team in his high school yearbook—Rick Statson. Jason had never talked to him in person before, but he had studied the yearbook photo in order to make sure he met with the right guy tonight. This was definitely him. Even in the dim moonlight, Jason recognized his angular features, pronounced chin, and slightly crooked nose. Jason shuffled around the front bumper of the car, pulled the rusty handle of the passenger side door, crawled onto the worn, velour‐covered seat, and carefully pulled his bulky backpack in after him. Rick turned and gave him the once‐over before abruptly cutting the engine. Jason glanced nervously out his window. The glow of his neighbors’ porch light was just visible through a gap in the pine trees that bordered their front yard. “We’re staying here?” he asked, his eyes flickering towards Rick’s face long enough to absorb its hard expression but quickly enough to forgo the awkwardness of eye contact. “Sure, kid,” Rick replied. “This place is just as good as any, ain’t it?” His voice carried the hint of a challenge, as if daring Jason to question his choice of location. “I—well—no, I mean, yeah,” Jason stammered, shifting his backpack from his lap and wedging it between himself and the passenger side door. “I just figured that maybe we’d go somewhere, I don’t know, private or…something…” his voice trailed off. Rick chuckled. “You nervous, kid?” he asked. “You havin’ second thoughts? Never done this before, have you?” Jason used his elbow to nudge the backpack a little closer to the door. “No,” he mumbled, “but I’m here aren’t I?” His voice took on a slightly defiant edge. “I showed up, didn’t I?”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 45 of 85 “Yeah, I’ll give ya that, kid,” Rick answered, a mixture of bewilderment and— Could it possibly have been admiration?—coloring his voice. He looked Jason fully in the face now. His eyes took in the field of acne spattered across Jason’s forehead, moved upward to the cowlick, and finally settled on the Spiderman backpack wedged between Jason and the passenger side door. “Look, kid,” he said. “No offense, but you don’t exactly fit the profile of people I normally deal with. I know we go to the same school and all, but I didn’t even know you existed until you called me two days ago.” “Well,” Jason replied, fidgeting in his seat. “I just thought…you might be…interested.” Rick slapped his hands against the steering wheel. “Oh, trust me kid, I’m interested,” he laughed. “I just didn’t expect someone like you to be selling, that’s all. How’d you get your hands on it, anyways?” “Does it really matter?” Jason asked, looking out the window with a pained expression on his face. “You tell me, kid.” “What do you mean?” Jason asked, genuinely confused. “What I mean,” Rick answered, the laughter that had momentarily lightened his tone completely gone now, “is that maybe it does matter. How do I know it’s legit?” “It’s legit,” Jason replied, almost regretfully. “Trust me, it’s the real thing.” “Why you sellin’ anyways?” Rick asked, his voice thick with suspicion. “Does it really matter?” Jason asked again. Rick slapped the steering wheel again, harder this time, and without the laughter. “You gotta stop asking that,” he said. “ ‘Course it matters. I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter. I’m not one to waste my breath on things that don’t matter.” “Or my time,” Rick added as an afterthought, his face hardening and his knuckles flexing. “You better not be wasting my time, kid.” Jason looked down at Rick’s flexed knuckles and tried to come up with an adequate response, but he found himself choking on his words. It felt like his Adam’s apple had dislodged itself from his throat and gotten tangled up in his vocal chords. Rick didn’t respond well to the momentary lapse in conversation. His body tensed, and both his face and his voice grew harder. “Are you wasting my time, kid?” he demanded. “No,” Jason replied, finally managing to find his voice after looking away from Rick’s clenched fists. “I’m not wasting your time.” “I don’t want this getting around school,” Rick said. “I’m on the football team; I’ve got a reputation to think about. If I find out this is a setup, if you go ratting me out to someone—” “It’s not a setup, I swear,” Jason assured him. “Then tell me why you’re selling,” Rick demanded. “Are you desperate for money or something?”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 46 of 85 Jason sighed. “No. I mean, the extra money doesn’t hurt matters, but that’s not why I’m doing this,” he explained. “I just…I guess it’s just time for me to move on to bigger things. It’s time for me to grow up.” Rick looked a little taken aback at Jason’s response. “Wow, kid. I gotta give you props for that one,” he said. “You’re takin’ one helluva risk, makin’ one helluva sacrifice just to ‘grow up.’” “I know,” Jason said in what was almost a whisper. “Believe me, I know what I’m giving up here.” “So what are we waiting for? Are we gonna do this or not?” Before Jason had a chance to reply, the car was filled with a sudden buzzing noise. “Aw, shit, what now?” Rick mumbled to himself under his breath, reaching across Jason’s lap. Jason instinctively clutched the backpack that was still pressed against the door. Hugging it tightly to his chest, he didn’t loosen his grip on it until he realized that Rick was only reaching for the glove compartment. “What?” Rick demanded as he flipped open the cell phone that he had snatched out of the glove compartment, filling Jason’s lap with a potpourri of cigarettes, loose change, and McDonald’s ketchup packets in the process. “I’m in the middle of something here. What do you want?” Jason heard what sounded like a woman’s voice on the other end of the line, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. “Yeah,” Rick said into the receiver. Then, turning his head away from Jason, he added in a softer, slightly worried tone, “But it’s only five minutes past curfew…Yeah, I know I have the league in the morning…NO! No, you don’t need to take away the cards…I’ll be home in five minutes.” Rick flipped the phone shut and turned back towards Jason, his voice resuming its harsh tone. “So let’s do this already. I got places to be.” “Was that your mom?” Jason asked. “ARE WE GONNA DO THIS OR NOT?” Rick yelled. The sudden increase in volume caught Jason by surprise, and he jerked forward in his seat; the abruptness of his motion sent the backpack sliding to the floor. “Yeah, okay,” he replied, bending forward to retrieve the backpack from where it had settled against the tops of his sneakers. He pulled it back into his lap and began unzipping the front pocket. Rick watched with an anxious expression on his face as Jason fiddled with the zipper. He shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes on Jason and the backpack the entire time, and retrieved a wad of cash from the back pocket of his jeans. “We said seventy‐five, right?” Rick asked, attempting to sort through the crumpled bills wadded in his hand. “Right,” Jason confirmed, reaching into his backpack and grabbing the plastic bag. “Seventy‐five.” Rick eyed the bag greedily and shoved the bills into Jason’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid,” he said, and Jason reluctantly handed him the plastic bag that contained his first edition holographic Charizard Pokemon card before he had time to change his mind.

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 47 of 85 Honoré of the Yards Katy Lynch, 2011 My mother’s namesake. I would have sold it for a slab of bacon. It hangs in the Yards The raw red reek Of my America dreaming.

I fell in love with the butcher And his bloody hands. His crimson nails Were crusted black with my desire. I nipped them once Just for the taste of it.

I tend a strange hearth. Drunk on the wine sweet smell Of roasting lamb chops. I keep a strange kitchen. A child grows fat on my borrowed breast And I shrink a little in my stupor.

If it would sustain me I would drink his breath. I would walk the Yards And drink the air Heavy with the stink of slain yearlings I would be satisfied.

Excerpt from Twin Trees Jenny Becker, 2010

Lawrence picks up the metal shovel resting against the front of the white house and walks down several steps before beginning to clear the driveway of snow. The cold air pounds his face and with each shovel of snow, Lawrence feels the aching of his knees and back overwhelming his weak, fragile frame. Despite the pain he endures, nothing pleases Lawrence more than taking care of his home. Each year the house is repainted a pristine white color with navy blue shutters. During the summer, the grass is mowed with precision and always reflects the perfect shade of emerald green. Neighbors proclaim that the property keeps Lawrence alive and without it, he would have followed his wife to heaven many years ago due to a broken heart. Lawrence takes his time shoveling the long drive leading from the rural country road to the small house. His son had bought him an electric snow blower years ago, but Lawrence refuses to use what he calls “that new fangled automatic

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 48 of 85 shovel.” To call him old‐fashioned would not be altogether unreasonable. “I’ve shoveled this driveway with the same metal shovel for over fifty years, and it works just fine,” he says, and no one including his son can reason together an argument to change his mind. Having finished shoveling the driveway, he places the shovel against his shoulder and trudges back up to the house. His aging lungs gasp for breath and cold drops of sweat drip from his temples. He places the shovel in its normal spot against the porch and turns the metal doorknob, opening the front door. Lawrence quickly steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The warmth of his home quickly begins to comfort his aching joints and muscles. Removing his coat, he reaches for the handkerchief folded neatly in the back pocket of his jeans. Lawrence wipes the sweat off his face before blowing his nose and then places the now wrinkled handkerchief back into his pocket. A large circular mirror hangs above the table, and Lawrence glances at his reflection. He struggles to recognize the old man staring back at him in the mirror. The oval face is familiar, as well as the round, sparkling blue eyes, but the wrinkles covering his once smooth and freckled face remain foreign. His once light brown hair has disappeared and the strands that remain are now white. Lawrence pulls a comb out from the drawer of the small table. He combs back his hair and draws a part on the left side his head, hoping that the long strands of hair will cover the bare spots. He adjusts the glasses that sit atop his long slim nose. The tip of his nose and his cheeks have gained a rosey red color, contrasting greatly from Lawrence’s normal pale complexion. Lawrence tucks the blue plaid shirt into his jeans and readjusts the belt that keeps his oversized jeans from falling down. He steps back from the mirror, and the quiet house is quickly disturbed by the sound of tires scraping against pavement. Lawrence turns to the window and sees a small car pull up the freshly shoveled driveway and come to a stop. He smiles as a young woman emerges from the car and makes her way up the sidewalk and to the house. Lawrence opens the door and instantly welcomes the young woman into his arms, and she places a gentle, familial kiss on his wrinkled cheek. “Hi, grandpa.” The young woman shuts the door behind her, and Lawrence removes her coat and places it on one of the vacant hooks of the coat‐stand. “How are you? You look great,” she says. Lawrence does look good for his age. Although his elbows and knees protrude greatly from his especially thin arms and legs, he otherwise appears to be in good health. “Just fine, just fine,” Lawrence replies with an upbeat tone and a smile that encompasses his face. Lawrence leads his granddaughter into the kitchen, and she takes a seat at a small wooden table. “Coffee, warm tea?” Lawrence asks. “Hot chocolate?” “Things never change,” Lawrence replies as he grabs a clean mug from the counter. He pulls a package of cocoa mix from the cabinet, pours it into the mug, and fills it with steaming hot water fresh from the kettle. “I suppose you’ll be wanting marshmallows with that too?” “You know me too well.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 49 of 85 Lawrence pulls a bag of marshmallows from the same cabinet and after dropping several into the hot chocolate, he pours himself a mug of hot water, drops in a tea bag, and takes the remaining seat. “So, pumpkin, what brings you always the way out here this morning?” “Pumpkin? Grandpa, I’m 22 years old. When are you going to stop calling me pumpkin?” she laughed. “Alright, Sara, I suppose you’re right. But you should really stop growing up. Just the other day you were graduating from kindergarten. You’re making me feel old.” “Grandpa, you are old.” The two laugh, but the laughter quickly disperses, and the small kitchen is suddenly overtaken with anxiety. Sara swirls the marshmallows around in her hot chocolate. She places her mug firmly on the wooden table and says, “Grandpa, do you remember why I came today?” in a serious tone. Lawrence avoids her gaze. He diverts his eyes out the window and focuses on the snow covered backyard. He picks up his mug and takes a sip of tea; interlocking his fingers around the mug, he places it firmly back on the table. He lets his fingers rest against the warmth of the ceramic mug and looks across the table to his granddaughter. “No, but no matter,” he says in a restrained voice, “any visit from you brings joy to my day,” forcing a half hearted smile. Sara smiles back. “Grandpa, did you shovel the driveway again by yourself this morning?” “Is that why you came to visit? To inquire about my shoveling?” he jokes. Sara sighs. She knew this would be difficult to explain. “Three weeks ago when it last snowed, you woke up early and shoveled the driveway by yourself. About half way through, your back gave out. You slipped on the pavement and fell. You didn’t have the strength to lift yourself up or crawl back up the drive. The newspaper delivery boy showed up forty‐five minutes later to deliver the morning paper and saw you sprawled out on the driveway. You were lucky he came along when he did. He called for help, and once we got you safely back inside, you promised you would no longer shovel the drive by yourself.” “That can’t be,” Lawrence laughs. “It’s true. And just last week you left the gas burner atop the stove on for hours. Enough smoke built up and caused the smoke detector to go off. The fire department came and broke down the door to get in, because you were sleeping, actually snoring, through the whole thing upstairs.” “Sara, what are you saying?” “Grandpa, what I’m trying to say is that you can’t continue to live like this,” tears begin to build in her crystal blue eyes, “you’re beginning to forget things, you’re beginning to lose your memory. Physically, you’re not as strong as you used to be. It’s not safe for you to live out here all by yourself. One day something bad is going to happen,” her voice quivers and the words drift into sniffling. “I can take care of myself perfectly fine, really.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 50 of 85 “Grandpa, you’re getting it all wrong. I know you’re independent. I know you can take care of yourself, but, the thing is, your mind is starting to fail you.” Lawrence struggles to speak. He leans forward to breathe in the steam rising from the fresh cup of tea. He releases the mug and stares down at his hands. The smooth, soft hands of baby have disappeared long ago, and now all can be seen underneath the wrinkles are the scratches and sores accumulated over decades of hard work. At last, he says, “This is my home. I built this house decades ago. I can’t leave. I won’t leave.” “You won’t leave for me?” Sara asks. It was as if a dagger had pierced his heart. Her eyes filled with tears staring into his. Lawrence has no daughters, and Sara is his lone granddaughter. Many of his other grandchildren call her the favorite, but even though he denies it every time, vowing he loves them all equally, Sara has always been his little girl. His Sara. “If I could leave, I would do it only for you,” Lawrence replied. Silence overwhelms the small kitchen. In one gulp, Lawrence finishes the rest of his tea. He rises from his seat and begins to fill his mug with more hot water. Sara stares down at her mug of hot chocolate. She barely took a single sip, and the marshmallows continued to bob up and down on the surface. “Why can’t you leave?” Sara asks. Lawrence stands up and begins to pace back and forth. He knew it would eventually come to this question. “The simple answer would be the pair of trees that sit in the far corner of the backyard.” Lawrence points to the pair of grand oak trees through the window. Their trunks are no more than a couple of inches apart from one another and the branches are intertwined so tightly that it is impossible to tell which set of branches belong to which tree. “You refuse to leave because of a pair of trees?” Sara asks in disbelief.

Fanpiece 18 Kathryn Fisher

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 51 of 85

At the Station Katie Ineich, 2010

On the train from Chicago to South Bend Two old friends, a blonde and a brunette sit down. They’ve been shopping and the one by the window tries on her new knit hat, checks her reflection.

Fix your bangs, her friend tells her, brushing her hair aside, you look like a square.

A gaggle of ladies, grandmas really parade down the aisle. There are six or seven or eight of them each laden with bright red shopping bags. They take their time finding seats, making sure they can all sit together and their bags crinkle and crease as they settle in for the ride.

One of the grandmas, a lady with peach colored curls, deep wrinkles and thick glasses rises

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 52 of 85 Who wants to see my new jacket? she asks her friends, and the occupants of the car crane their necks.

She pulls the noisy plastic up around the hanger in her hand, and she fans the bottom of her crisp, new black and white houndstooth coat. Her companions Oo and ah their approval.

Looks like you ladies have been shopping! the women in front of me call out.

Oh yes, we went to Macy’s! the ladies beam

You should give us a fashion show! but the ladies blush as one.

A dark haired woman across the aisle closes her magazine slides her glasses down from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose, waits to see what will happen next.

A small lady with snowy hair delves into her own shopping bag

Let me show you this lovely purple blouse! Marge, Rose and I all got one.

She slowly pulls her prize from her bag and the delicate fabric ripples from her fingertips.

Gorgeous! the women exclaim together.

And what did you ladies get? Rose notices their red handled bags.

I got three bras for two hundred and forty dollars! the blonde announces proudly.

My stars! Rose gasps. and the train lurches forward

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 53 of 85 whirling her into her seat.

Survivor, an Excerpt from Senior Writing Project Marilynn Anater, 2010

Before I had a chance to wonder why Gregg was calling me in the middle of the night, “Call from, Gregg,” appeared on the screen again, accompanied by the all‐ too familiar vmmm, vmmm of my phone’s vibration. “Hello?” I answered, curious, though still dazed and a little groggy. “Hi, Kristi, did I wake you up?” Gregg’s voice sounded soft, almost to the point of a whisper. “No, it’s ok, I just couldn’t find my phone in time to get your call,” I answered. I couldn’t have him thinking I was lame enough to be asleep at 2:00am on a Friday night. “What’s up?” “I just‐,” he hesitated a moment, “needed someone to talk to.” “Why, what happened?” Sensing this could be a long conversation, I crawled back into my bed to stay warm. “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, can I see you?” “Are you serious?” I asked, shocked that he would make such a demand in the middle of the night. “Yeah. I hate talking on the phone and this is kinda a big deal. I really need to talk to you.” “Can this wait until tomorrow? I could probably meet up with you somewhere then,” and not be sneaking around in the middle of the night risking my life, I added to myself. “I can’t. I had a huge fight with my stepdad and I can’t go home.” “So, wait, you’re just driving around?” By this time I was definitely wide awake, and scared. Scared that my parents would hear me on the phone and come down to see what was going on, scared that Gregg was driving around in an emotional state and a threat to himself and to others, and scared that this was a bigger situation than I was able or willing to handle. “No, I’m not just driving around,” Gregg mockingly said, “If I got busted for breaking that stupid curfew they put on new drivers again, I’d lose my license.” “Oh, well that’s good.” I said, not knowing what else to say. “Listen, Kristi, I know it’s a big deal and I wouldn’t ask you if this weren’t super important. I just really need someone to talk to.” “It’s more than just a ‘big deal,’ Gregg,” I replied, “My parents would physically kill me if I snuck out.” I couldn’t stop my mind from racing as I thought about all the punishments and lectures that would undoubtedly be waiting for me if I were to get caught. “Then don’t sneak out.” Gregg stated. “Ok, good. I’m sorry, Gregg, but it will be better if we just talk about it on the phone or tomorrow.” “No, that’s not what I meant,” he answered, laughing. “I’m outside, open the door and let me in.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 54 of 85 “You’re WHAT?!” “Outside. Didn’t you hear me knocking on your door a little while ago?” I glanced over at the double doors leading from my room to the back yard. I could barely make out the profile of a person standing outside. I didn’t even know what to say. “Kristi? Please let me in.” “No! I’m not letting you in! You can’t just show up here in the middle of the night like that. My parents will flip. Your parents will flip wondering where you are. What the heck are you doing?” I was mad, and couldn’t contain it anymore. “Shhh, calm down, you’ll wake someone up,” he tried to soothe. “I’m not going to wake anyone up, their rooms are all too far away to hear anything anyway. You shouldn’t be here. Go home.” “Just come out here and we can talk about it, ok?” “No. Go home.” “I’m not going home. I’m not ready to go back there and I have no where else to go, so I’m just staying here whether you talk to me or not.” I could see his outline sit down on the back patio. I sighed, I couldn’t have him sitting there all night. That would not go over well at all in the morning. “If I come out there and talk to you will you promise to go home when we’re done?” “I promise.” “OK,” I said, getting out of bed and reaching for a sweatshirt, “Give me a second to get dressed and I’ll be right out. “Actually, Kristi, it’s raining, can’t I just come in there?” I hesitated. Was it really any worse that he was here and we were sitting outside than if we were sitting dry in my room? Both were pretty equally horrible in my mind. “Fine, you can come in here,” I said, walking toward the door and unlocking it.” “Thanks,” Gregg stood up and made his way to the door, “See you in a sec,” the screen of his Razor glowed briefly in his hands before he flipped it shut. Almost an instant later he was at the door. “I can NOT believe you came over here in the middle of the night!” I hissed at him. “I know, I’m sorry, I couldn’t go home and I didn’t know where else to go. Pus, I just had to talk to you anyway.” He sounded apologetic and frustrated all at the same time. “For the record, I do NOT feel ok about this,” I told him, turning my back to him and walking back towards my bed. “We’re going to talk for a few minutes and then you are getting out of here. You can sit on my desk chair,” I added, almost as an after thought as I sat down to face him. “Hey, calm down,” Gregg said, walking after me, “Please, just give me a hug, it’s been a really rough night.” I conceded, letting him bend over me and wrap his arms around me in a tight hug. As he held me, he breathed a deep sigh and I could smell a strong stench of alcohol on his breath. I thought I felt him lose his balance, but as our bodies tiled backwards onto the bed, their movement was too slow and controlled to truly be accidental. I wriggled my body a little bit to signal that I was done with the hug and

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 55 of 85 he relaxed his grasp, pulling his arms out from under my body and pushing himself up on his elbows, though still leaning over my reclined body. “Thanks. I feel better already.” He said. “Good,” I replied, blushing as I realized what position our bodies were in. My legs were still dangling over the edge, but his hips and thighs were pressed firmly into mine as he looked down at me. I felt a little thrill at the sensation, but also great discomfort at the familiarity that my friend’s boyfriend was showing to me. Gregg was not a big guy, but he was solid, and big enough that I wasn’t going to be able to get out from under his body without his help. “You’re pinching my leg,” I told him, trying to tactfully get him off of me. “Sorry,” he replied, shifting his weight as he slid his leg was off mine and lodged it between my legs instead. Not much better, I thought to myself, maybe if I change the subject he’ll get distracted and move. “Have you been drinking?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory or uncomfortable, though y voice shook, nervously. “No,” Gregg said, stalling as he rolled to his side next to me, “That’s from the…fight.” “Let me guess, your stepdad threw a bottle of liquor at you,” I replied, sarcastically. I tried to be light about the conversation as I sat up and put some more distance between our two bodies. I couldn’t explain why, but Gregg was making me feel really uncomfortable. “Yeah, something like that. Kristi, stop moving and let me just look at you.” “What?” I asked, pulling away a little more. “It’s just good to see a friendly face again, that’s all.” “Oh, ok,” I felt bad for being distant and squeamish. Afterall, the poor guy had just had a huge fight with his stepfather and only wanted some comfort and consolation. “Give me another hug.” Gregg demanded as he reached up and pulled my body down from its sitting position and into his own. This time, I hugged back, conscious of his apparent need for comfort and support. Feeling my response, his arms tightened around me and he pulled me closer. “Kristi,” he whispered, before sliding his left hand behind my neck and kissing me firmly. The kiss sent electric shoots down my body and I felt myself grow warm with embarrassment. I hesitated a moment, letting him kiss me as I tried to process what was going on. What is he doing? I screamed to myself I’m his girlfriend’s best friend! I turned my head away just as his tongue searchingly separated my lips. “What are you doing?!” I almost yelled at him. “Kristi, I just‐“ he tightened his grip on the back of my head and pulled me into him for another kiss. “Gregg, stop!” I yelled, thrashing to try to get out of his grasp. He had positioned himself squarely above me, pressing all his weight down onto me and his face against mine muffled the sound of my cries. Still holding my neck tightly with his left hand, Gregg used his right hand to pull my right leg up, bending it at the knee and wedging it between our bodies. I felt

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 56 of 85 a shock of pain run down my thigh and into the muscles of my butt as his weight settled down against me again. Leaning his chest into my leg, he pushed my clawing right arm under my body, pinning it below. He moved his left hand from my neck and gripped my left arm firmly at the elbow, digging his fingers into the soft skin and causing my arm and to feel numb. Still pressing his face into mine to muffle my screams, he pulled my sweatpants and underwear off my butt and up my legs. He slipped his right hand up to cover my mouth before pulling his head away. “Don’t scream and carry on,” he said, giving me a piercing look, “You’ll just make me mad and it’s not like anyone will hear you anyway.” I felt the tears well up in my eyes. This was really happening. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to do. As I felt his hand pull off of my mouth and move to his sweatpants I started sobbing, “No, no,” I moaned as the tears streamed down my face, “Please don’t, Gregg, please.” He slapped his hand against my mouth, hard, cutting my lip. “I told you to stop carrying on!” he yelled; “Now shut up and then I’ll leave you alone.” It’s hard to accurately predict time when in a state of semi‐consciousness. It could have been a few minutes, it could have been half an hour, I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that the next few minutes, however many there were, were a blur. And, when it was over, he just left. Left me lying there; my legs stretched out on the bed; my pants still pulled down, the elastic torn; tears streaming down my empty face.

A Windy Wonder (Revision of Winding Green Galaxies) Laura Corrigan, 2013

The only view available is the green Mountains cascading each into The other and continuing for miles.

The air is filled with the tin whistle, As the mind swells with a jig And red curls that accompany a smile.

There is no way to describe it, The scent is Ireland: Sizzling sausages on the range And the crisp air that clears the mind.

The garden, early in the morning Makes sneakers wet and remind Us of the damp cold weather.

The feeling of the horse’s

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 57 of 85 Mane as I hold on cantering into the river, The rough recurring breath soothing.

Tape28Clip7 Raygun Magee

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 58 of 85 Excerpt from Tulips and Daffodils Desiree Fischer, 2010

Act One

Scene One

(LIGHTS FIND the room full with three BRIDESMAIDS and NIKKI fawning over ANNETTE who is in front of the rotating full-length mirror. The BRIDESMAIDS and NIKKI are in matching purple tea-length dresses. Each has a bouquet of purple tulips and daffodils. ANNETTE is in a wedding gown with plenty of fluff to it. The girls are giggling and teasing ANNETTE who is the typical “blushing” bride. Her mother, JOANNA is standing by the snack table, looking impatient. There is an anxious knock at the door.)

NIKKI All right already! I’m coming! And don’t you dare open that door!

(NIKKI opens the door a crack. She greets the PHOTOGRAPHER who steps into the room. He is carrying a large camera and is dressed in a lilac suit.)

PHOTOGRAPHER Excuse me, ladies!

(PHOTOGRAPHER claps his hands with a flourish.)

Ladies! I need the M.O.H. and the B.M.’s. You ladies with the groom are the last shots before the main event! Come, come, come! Bring your bouquets! I’m sure Mama would like a moment!

(BRIDESMAIDS EXIT, NIKKI crosses the stage and hugs ANNETTE.)

NIKKI Don’t let her get to you. This is YOUR day, not hers. It’s all about you, baby.

(ANNETTE takes a deep breath and nods.)

PHOTOGRAPHER (PHOTOGRAPHER places his hands on his hips.)

I’m waiting.

NIKKI Blow it out your hole you impatient prick! I’m coming!

(To ANNETTE:)

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 59 of 85

I’ll be right back.

(NIKKI follows the PHOTOGRAPHER out of the room. She winks at ANNETTE and closes the door. ANNETTE turns back to the mirror and begins to fiddle with her veil. JOANNA comes up behind ANNETTE and begins to pick at her dress.)

JOANNA Most of this beading is uneven. And look there’s another missing bead. And honey, please, pull the bodice up in the front, not everyone needs to see your bosoms.

(JOANNA tries to pull at the bodice of the gown and ANNETTE brushes her hands away, angrily.)

ANNETTE Mother! Leave it!

JOANNA Excuse me, missy, you picked this dress. I’m just trying to make it look less cheap. If you had gone with the dress I told you to pick, you know the one with all the lace and tulle—

ANNETTE I didn’t like that dress, Mother.

JOANNA I know, honey, but this dress...well...it makes you look...well, you know—

ANNETTE What? It makes me look what?

JOANNA Loose, honey. Your bosoms are hanging out the top and I would hardly call those strings straps.

(ANNETTE opens her mouth as if to speak.)

Let me finish, dear. Now, I know that when you were running with that Jake character that you were pretty easy, but Sean is not that kind of man, and I am sure his family doesn’t appreciate—

ANNETTE I can’t believe you are even bringing that up! And today of all days—

(There is a quiet knock at the door.)

JOANNA Hold that thought, honey, I’d better get that. Coming!

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 60 of 85 (JOANNA crosses the room to the door and barely turns the knob before JAKE pushes his way into the room. ANNETTE gasps and JOANNA looks furious.)

Oh no you don’t, Mister! Get out of this room and away from my daughter this instant!

(JOANNA puts herself between JAKE and ANNETTE. JAKE tries to push past her. They struggle. JOANNA is shrieking and ANNETTE just watches the pair, shocked.)

JAKE Now, JoAnna, I just want to have a few private words with the bride.

(JAKE begins to push JOANNA towards the open door)

It will only take—

(JAKE shoves JOANNA out the door, closing and locking it behind her.)

A minute.

(JOANNA can be heard pounding on the locked door and shrieking. JAKE ignores her and approaches ANNETTE.)

Surprise.

ANNETTE Yeah. Surprise.

(They embrace.)

What are you doing here?

JAKE I’m here for you, of course.

ANNETTE Then you better go see if you can get a seat, we didn’t get an RSVP from you. JAKE I didn’t get an invitation from you.

JOANNA (OFF) (JOANNA is still pounding at the door.)

Annette! Don’t worry honey! I am going to get your father! We’ll get you out of there! I won’t allow him to disgrace you further!

(JAKE snickers and ANNETTE looks mortified.)

ANNETTE

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 61 of 85 What do you mean you didn’t get one, Sean and I put you on the guest list and my mother...oh God...my mother...

JAKE It’s not like it wasn’t all over the papers, “Struggling Artist to Marry Rich Architect”

(ANNETTE swats at JAKE, smiling.)

ANNETTE They said no such thing!

JAKE They may as well have.

(JAKE sighs and sits down on the loveseat. He gestures at ANNETTE to join him.)

ANNETTE (ANNETTE sits down gently next to JAKE.)

Is that why you think I am marrying Sean? For his money? You sound just like my mother.

JAKE No.

(JAKE tries to take ANNETTE’s hand. ANNETTE stands and moves to look at herself in the mirror.)

Annette—

(There is another knock at the door. ANNETTE starts towards the door but JAKE blocks her shaking his head. The pair can hear JOANNA feeding lines to TOMMY.)

TOMMY (OFF) Annette, sweetie, what’s going on in there? Your mother is quite upset and wants me to remind you that you are supposed to get married in 10 minutes and—

JOANNA (OFF) Oh! Just let me do it! Annette!

(Knocks persistently at the door)

I know you are in there! Are you listening? You are getting married to Sean in 10 minutes! I don’t care what that bullshitting Irish cad tries to pull!

(JAKE snickers and ANNETTE’s eyes widen at the words “Irish cad.”)

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 62 of 85 Annette! Annette? Tommy! Find the pastor! We need the keys to that room!

(Jake pulls the keys out of his pocket and jingles them. ANNETTE gasps.)

ANNETTE How did you get those?

JAKE Swiped them off the pastor while he was arguing with your photographer.

ANNETTE Oh, Jake...

JAKE What? Hey, I think she’s gone. Irish cad, eh? At least she has come up with something better than “that photographer.”

(ANNETTE sits down slowly onto the loveseat and buries her face in her hands.)

ANNETTE Oh, God. This is awful! When Sean finds out...

(JAKE sits down next to ANNETTE and puts his arm around her)

She’ll make this sound so much worse!

JAKE Then let’s get out of here! Run away!

In My Dreams Sam Wassel, 2011

Souls flock like sea gulls in the silver sky. Mine drifts wayward. It searches in marginal desperation. Salt burns open wounds. Intravenous crystals flow to my heart, hardening what once beat so freely for you. I wake

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 63 of 85 to the salty casing of your abandoned pillow.

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 64 of 85

Never Again Sarah Sheppard, 2011

I didn’t speak. words moved through me, images burned my brain, and I kept swinging. Up and down, up and down. My hands bled white from the cold metal chains.

The cars blurred together on the other side of the playground, and you begged me to say something, so I gripped tighter until my fingertips turned purple. I saw her hand on your neck, her lips on your lips. I stopped swinging. You touched my shoulder and tried to hug me, but I felt nothing. Two years of your love, and for once, I felt nothing.

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My Books are Overdue Eileen Laskowski

Mistake Caitlin Duerinck, 2011

Sophie sat alone at the pottery wheel, working the turntable with her foot as her hands gently formed the walls of a large water jug. John entered the studio and examined the floor. It was dirty, stained by the natural colorants of spilled clay and years of compacted dust. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything.” The wheel spun faster and faster, kicking up muddy sludge as the pot in her hands collapsed. It was unusable. Unstable. Just another mistake to be tossed aside and dealt with later. “It fell apart.” “I’m sorry.” “I know,” Sophie scrapped at the slippery mess, “ But you can’t fix it when it falls apart.” John reached over her and hefted the clay into his arms, struggling with the slick grit. He slammed it onto a plaster table and started to knead to clay. The table rocked as the excess water and air bubbles were worked out of it, transforming the clay into a tame, spherical mass. “You can start over.” “A pot made with reworked clay is never as good as the memory of the first one.” “You could try.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 66 of 85 “Maybe.” Sophie stood, walked over to the clay waste bucket and looked inside. Still, murky brown water stared back. “I’m not sure I want to.” She scooped up a hand of disintegrated clay slop, letting it plop through her fingers. Rings spiraled outwards and distorted the surface. “I don’t want second place.” “I’m sorry.” “You said that already. Why do you keep saying that? It doesn’t make it better.” “I don’t know what else to say. Tell me what to say to make this better. Tell me what you want.” Sophie turned. “I don’t want you to say anything.” “It was meaningless, you know. It didn’t mean anything.” “It never does to you.” “That was unfair.” Dust swirled in the air as the distant sound of bells resonated through the ceramic studio. “I’m sorry.” Sophie cocked her head, rubbing her hands against the gritty edge of the bucket. “Now you’ve got me apologizing.” John rolled the prepared clay a final time, than placed the moist ball into Sophie’s hands. “ So what do we do?” Sophie placed the clay on the wheel, kicking the turntable gently to set it in motion as she wet her hands with water. “Make something new.”

A Prayer Katherine Simon, 2011

I used to imagine heaven full of sunflowers a Shakespearean pun sun or Son? And I wished desperately for God to be a person behind my pen and fill the empty letters and sounds. Most of the time, I love people sometimes I think I might love their words more

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 67 of 85

In My Sweet Release Bianca Leonardo, 2010

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 68 of 85 Disgust Elizabeth McDonald, 2011

Blush and Sprinkles Sarah Sheppard, 2011

The day I applied to be an employee of Cold Cow, I was wearing my best dress; the yellow cotton one with the white daisies and along the chest line was a rope‐like texture that twisted round and round all the way to the back where it buckled. It reached the bottom of my thighs, a few inches above my knee. My mother bought it for me the previous year for my cousin’s wedding, and I was only allowed to wear it on special occasions. This qualified, she said. I was fourteen, and she decided I needed a job to help with finances. She twisted my long brown hair around her hot iron until it hung with loose curls. She pinned a bobby pin to the right side and added the tiniest bit of hairspray to keep the hair in place. I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup usually, but my mother made an exception and lent me her blush. I stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes making fish faces until I was one hundred percent sure where to apply the RoseDust blush. On the drive to Cold Cow, my mother said, “Smile big and keep your shoulders back. Do what I taught you and you’ll be hired instantly.” She drove away, leaving me to fend for myself. I didn’t expect her to wait, because I knew she wouldn’t. My mother was too busy to be thinking about me all the time, even though she claimed I was the only thing she ever thought about it. Throughout elementary and middle school, my mother, Pam, worked two jobs, sometimes three. She was hardly home and so most nights I cooked my own dinner if she didn’t plan on bringing back takeout. I didn’t mind that she worked so much, because I learned to

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 69 of 85 enjoy my solitude. It was when I got my first job, though, that I began to wonder about girls my age, and boys, especially.

I rolled my shoulders back until I could feel my muscles tighten as I walked up to the counter. Unfortunately I had to wait for the other customers to order before I could say anything. When an older couple stepped aside, I put my face as close to the window as I could manage. “I have a job application to drop off, and I was wondering if I could please speak to your manager.” I was proud for saying exactly what my mother told me to. The older boy with the shaggy brown hair and dark skin yelled to the back room. I waited. He turned back to me and smiled, “what’s your name, cutie?” I experienced memory loss for a second. “Mary, Mary Rosebush.” “Well, Mary, he says he’s got a minute if you want to meet him in the back,” he pointed as he spoke. He rested his forearms on the counter and leaned forward until his face was inches from mine. I read his nametag that was pinned to the green Cold Cow shirt: Marco. I could feel Marco’s eyes on my body as I walked around the counter to the back door. I was suddenly sweating from the sunshine and my hands began to shake with nerves as I greeted the manager. He was old, as old as I imagined my father was. He was wearing the same Cold Cow shirt that Marco was wearing. I noticed later, though, that he had Manager printed on the back. He greeted me with a handshake, telling me his name was Marty. I followed him into the tiny office located behind the storage room. It was cluttered with random papers and empty cups of ice cream. He asked me about my work experience. I admitted that I had none. I told him I was eager to work, though, and when he asked how many hours I was willing to commit to, I said as many as I could. He offered me the job on the spot. I left his office in high spirits until I remembered I had to walk the two miles back home. I passed the front counter as I started down the busy street. Marco winked at me when I glanced over my shoulder to see what color his eyes were. I turned back thinking maybe they were green, but I wasn’t sure. I continued to walk with my shoulders back until I reached the gas station a few blocks from my house. I let out a deep breath and pulled my thick hair off my sweaty neck, tying it into a tight ponytail.

The morning of my first day, I asked my mother to curl my hair again, but she said, “Honey, you already have the job, you just need to do the work, it doesn’t matter anymore what your hair looks like.” It mattered though. I wanted to curl my hair and look cute again, but instead I wore a white headband to match my white t‐ shirt and jean shorts. My first shift was 11am‐7pm. I brought a brown paper bag with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple juice box, and a banana for lunch. Marty told me to report to the office when I arrived. He showed me around the back: told me where to find the extra supplies, where to put the receipts, where to punch my time card when I arrived and left and where to put my stuff, if I had any. He said my shirt would be ready by the following week, and in the meantime I should wear plain

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 70 of 85 colored shirts. He also said there were five other workers, and only two worked together at all times. I met Bethany on my first day. She was very tall for a girl, with black hair that extended from her head like serpents. She tried to contain it with a hair tie, but it sprawled out of her head and fell down the middle of her back. She wore dark charcoal around her muddy‐colored eyes. It reminded me of the time I dressed as a black cat for Halloween and my mother smeared black pen around my eyes. She had big breasts, like my mother, and her skin was severely tanned. She tried explaining everything to me in the first fifteen minutes of my shift. “There are the sprinkles, chocolate chips, nuts. There’s the caramel, the chocolate sauce; there’s the yogurt machine, but it doesn’t work all the time, so let me know if it’s broken,” she rambled on as I followed her around the small room. She explained how to make everything: sundaes, flurries, milkshakes, etc. I glanced at each product, but noticed that when she lifted her arm to point, her shirt lifted to reveal a tattoo on the left side of her lower back, just above her tight jean shorts. I wondered if her mother took her to get it, or if she went by herself. I was tempted to ask what it was, and if it hurt, but every time she turned to look at me to say, “Got it,” her eyes tightened and stopped me from speaking. I just kept nodding. The day was a blur. I tried making a sundae, once, but I added too much yogurt and forgot the nuts and whipped cream, so Bethany had to fix it. I also tried making a chocolate milkshake, but didn’t add an enough ingredients, so it only filled half the cup. So, I spent most of my time taking orders and handing them to Bethany. Every time someone ordered, though, I had to look up at the wall behind me to make sure of the price. Bethany kept reminding me the costs, but it didn’t help. It wasn’t a problem when I told them I was new, except once when an older man complained about being late for his son’s soccer game so I gave him his ice cream for free. I never got a lunch break. When it slowed down, Bethany went to the back to meet her boyfriend for lunch. She said, “Someone has to be at the window at all times, and you’re new, so you need the practice.” When Bethany was busy with her boyfriend, I scooped out some strawberries from the bucket and poured vanilla yogurt on top. It tasted so sweet. I devoured the whole cup and tried to finish the vanilla residue at the bottom, but it wouldn’t take to my spoon. I discarded the evidence in the middle of the trash, covering it with lots of napkins, so she wouldn’t know. Marco strode through the back door two minutes before seven o’clock. He punched his time card and dropped his phone on the ledge in the office, unaware of my presence. I tugged at my shirt to glance at my armpits; I was sure I had sweat stains. Then I readjusted my ponytail and pinched my cheeks. Bethany was busy making a yogurt twist. “Looks like you’re back for good, huh?” he said as I walked to the time card machine. “Yeah,” I replied quietly. “Lucky me,” he said as he glanced at my legs. I didn’t know what he meant by that, so I didn’t respond. My hands were a little shaky when I punched my card and walked out the back door. I forgot to grab my lunch. I walked through the parking

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 71 of 85 lot, over to the pharmacy’s parking lot, and around the dentist office back up to the main road, where I was sure they couldn’t see me.

Before I stepped into the shower that night, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was no longer the scrawny girl I used to be. I had little hips forming, and my chest wasn’t flat anymore. My hair was long, and I decided I needed a haircut. My cheeks were plastered with freckles from the sun and I didn’t exactly hate it. I looked in the top drawer and found the tweezers I remembered my mother using. I put my face up to the mirror and focused on plucking the little black hairs in between my eyebrows. My eyes burned with each pluck, but I kept going until the area was smooth. I turned on the shower, and while it was heating up, I used a disposable razor on my blonde‐haired legs. I scraped it against my raw skin until the little pieces of hair fell on the bathroom floor. After I showered and slipped on my pajamas, I walked into my mother’s bedroom. Her dresser was cluttered with clothes and beauty products. I moved the shirts and random bras to look at her makeup boxes. There was so much; I read each thing: water‐resistant mascara, dark brown eyeliner, Maybelline foundation, cherry chic lipstick, hazel and gold eye shadow. When I heard the back door open, I closed her boxes, shoved the clothes back on top, and sprinted across the hall to my bed.

The next morning when I awoke for breakfast, I waited for my mother to ask why I was in her room, but she didn’t. Instead she told me she had errands to do and wouldn’t be back for a while. I asked if she could give me a ride to work on the way, but she wouldn’t. I arrived to work six minutes late, but luckily Marty wasn’t there to notice. Marco was working, along with another girl who looked about Bethany’s age. She had straight strawberry blonde hair that hung freely on her head. She was skinny, with wide hips and a little waist. I could tell she was laughing at something Marco said, because her head tilted back just slightly and her whole body shook. Neither of them noticed me walk in. I watched her take orders as Marco moved back and forth. Each time he handed her an order, he smiled and lingered for a second before moving on. I wanted to see her face; she had to be pretty. “Hey there,” Marco yelled. He was staring at me, clearly wondering what I was doing and how long I had been standing there. I started to speak, but couldn’t find words. I stumbled over to the window and sat on the chair near the wall. “I was, um, waiting for my shift to start,” I said. Marco and Vicky looked at me, not saying anything. She was pretty. She had flawless skin, thin lips and the perfect smile; her blue eyes glittered, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. “Have you met Mary?” he asked her. “I don’t think so,” she said, smiling. She put her hand out for me to shake. “I’m Victoria, but you can call me Vicky.” “Nice to meet you,” I said. “So, where do you go to school?” “South Lake.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 72 of 85 “Really?” her head tilted to the left when she asked. Marco greeted the next customer as she continued to talk. “You’re so young.” “Yeah,” I said. “That’s cool, though.” She turned back to Marco and asked if he needed help, he said he didn’t. She jumped out of her seat, “wait, what time is it?” She sprinted to the back room without waiting for an answer and came back in high spirits. “Are you leaving already?” Marco asked. “Yeah, thank god. Don’t forget, Lisa’s having a party tonight, you should totally come.” I thought maybe she was talking to me, but knew she wasn’t when Marco yelled back. “I’ll call you after work,” he yelled. “Okay, cool. Nice to meet you, Mary,” she said as she ran out the back door with her flowered purse dangling from her palm. “Wanna get the next one?” he asked. “Sure.” I stepped down from the seat and stood at the counter. A young couple a little older than me walked up. The guy had his arm wrapped around the girl. She whispered in his ear just before they reached the counter. I felt awkward for watching them. The guy asked for two scoops of chocolate ice cream in a cone and then motioned for his girl to order. She stood there for a minute staring at the menu. He begged her to make up her mind, “come on, baby, just pick something.” While she stood there thinking, I secretly wondered if a boy would ever call me “baby.” Then I wondered if I even liked the word “baby.” Maybe “babe,” would sound better coming from a guy. I stopped thinking when she decided on a small cup of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles. I watched them interact while I scooped out the ice cream and poured on the sprinkles. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. Then he kissed her cheek as she giggled. I handed them the ice cream and watched as they walked away together. They were walking at the same pace, hardly able to look away from each other. That’s what I imagined being in love felt like. “So, Mary, tell me about yourself.” Marco was leaning on his forearm with his right arm hanging at his side. I was suddenly back to reality. “Like what?” “I don’t know, anything.” “There’s not much to tell.” “Well, how old are you then?” “Fourteen.” “Wow,” he said, his head jerked back in astonishment. “What?” I asked. He couldn’t have thought I was any older. “You’re so little.” “I am not,” I said more forcefully than I intended. “Well you’re young. You’re still in middle school,” he said matter‐of‐factly. “How old are you?” He seemed old, but I couldn’t be sure. “Fifteen. I’ll be sixteen in December,” he said proudly. “You’re not that much older than me.”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 73 of 85 “I guess,” he shrugged. He went to the back room to get more supplies. I sat back down and waited for the next customer. He re‐filled the condiments while I twirled my hair around my pointer finger. We didn’t speak for a while. It wasn’t until later that I finally asked, “So are you and Vicky,” I began. “What?” he asked, before I could finish. “Are you together?” He laughed. “Why would you think that?” he finally asked. “I don’t know, ‘cause she’s really pretty,” I said while looking down at the countertop. “She’s not bad. Some girls are prettier,” he said. I could feel his eyes on me, so I lifted my head. He kept his eyes locked on mine and didn’t say anything. My body shivered. I was suddenly aware of how thick his lips were. They were open slightly, as if they were waiting to be closed. He glanced at my chest, and then down at my legs. He looked back up at my face and smiled. Just as he started to turn away, I lurked forward and pressed my lips to his. I closed my eyes for just a second. His lips were plump and smooth. The pressure of his face against mine was almost uncomfortable. It was my first kiss. Marco pulled himself away and stepped back from me. He stood there, dumbfounded. I wasn’t sure what to do just then, so I looked down at my tennis shoes. The laces were loose and needed to be re‐tied. I was afraid to look up at him, but I knew he was watching me, so I whispered, “sorry.” He walked to the back room and shut the door to the bathroom. I returned to the chair and prayed for someone, anyone to come and order ice cream. I didn’t care if I messed up the order; I just wanted to be doing something when Marco returned. When he came back from the bathroom, Marco told me we should probably re‐stock the yogurt machine. He didn’t mention the kiss, but I wanted him to. I listened as he explained how to re‐fill the machine and did my best to follow his directions, but the whole time I couldn’t help but stare at his lips. The rest of my shift was uneventful. Marco hardly spoke to me and all I could think about was kissing boys. Maybe Marco was a bad kisser and maybe I would get better with practice. When my shift ended at four, I walked to the back room to get my sweatshirt. I pulled it over my head and took a deep breath. I punched my time card and looked over at Marco who was now sitting with Bethany. I wanted to say goodbye, but he was talking. Just as I was about to leave, Marco looked over his right shoulder at me. I smiled, but he didn’t smile back. He just looked at me. His eyes were empty. He didn’t nod, or smile, or shake his head. He did nothing but look at me. I could feel the heat in my cheeks. I turned away. I no longer cared if he watched me or not.

At the apartment, I cooked myself pasta. My mother returned from her day job at the coffee shop and stormed past me to her bedroom. When she returned after a shower, I was sitting on the rusty brown leather couch in the middle of the main room. She opened the fridge to get a beer; she always had a beer before bed. For the first time in a long time, she sat next to me on the couch. I was watching a re‐ run of Degrassi. She didn’t say anything or ask me to change the channel. The room

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 74 of 85 was silent except for the voices on the TV and the clink of her beer bottle against the table top. Finally I spoke, “I kissed a boy today.” My mother was quiet for a while, and then she said, “If you want to use a razor, make sure to use soap and don’t shave your thighs unless you need to.” “Okay,” I said. She continued, “Also, there are tampons under the sink in the bathroom if you need them. If you want something else, just let me know and I’ll pick it up from the store.” “Okay,” I said again. And that was that.

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 75 of 85 The Corners of My Dreams Kelsey Knoedler, 2010

I dream about you every night. You’re not always the center of my dreams, But you’re always somewhere, in a corner, Looking on with a mischievous smile, And holding my heart In your pocket for safe‐keeping.

On Monday night I dreamed I was at that bakery on the corner But you were the baker, with funny hat and wide smile. You handed me a freshly‐baked heart‐ Shaped cookie, and I gave you a five and said keep The change. I left the shop, and it was suddenly night.

On Tuesday you were standing on the corner As I passed by you in the current of the smiling Crowd, I felt a shiver in my heart. I glanced your way and caught your eye but kept Swimming with the crowd. And the stars that night Sprinkled their light on the two of us dreamers.

On Thursday morning I woke with a smile And felt my hammering heart. I tried to fall back to sleep so I could keep Dreaming of you like I had through the night. I couldn’t fall back into the dream, But I sighed when I saw your boots in the corner.

When your ship is at sea and my heart Is longing for the rasp of your voice, I keep Your love in my jewelry box and open it at night And out pours the music of our dreams For the future, and it fills the corners Of the lonely room, and I remember how to smile.

Last night as I was sleeping, I kept Waking, thinking I heard your breathing in the night Air, but then I remembered that it is only in my dreams That I will feel the soft breath from the corners Of your soft sleeping smile Until you return and breathe some life back into my heart.

I think that when I dream of you, it’s my heart’s

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 76 of 85 Way of smiling and telling me to keep You. And I can’t wait to fall asleep in my bed in my corner.

Excerpt from The Misadventures of Belgrade Cabin, a Senior Writing Project Kate Ortigara, 2010

SUMMARY: This is a the story of a fictional group of girls at the fictional camp in Maine called Camp Chara. However, it is loosely based on my experience living in the real Belgrade cabin and my brush with the real "Finder Hope Belgrade." This selection includes a never‐typical day at camp as counselors Annie, the speaker, and Ellie, her ally in the never‐ending battle with the girls to get them to clean, try to keep Belgrade, the undeniably worse‐behaved cabin at camp, under control.

“If you girls don’t get this cabin clean by dinner, your group leader Steph will be watching you clean until bedtime.” Julie, our camp director, did not look happy. Our cabin looked like a complete warzone. The floor was not visible, which was fine, because there was probably way too much dirt and dust on it from the girls’ neglect of sweeping the floor. Never had anyone ever asked me how to use a broom before this summer. “Okedoke artichoke!” Naomi said cheerfully. Julie started walking out of the cabin. “By the way,” she said, turning around to reveal her loon‐embroidered polo shirt, “Rangeley was already clean halfway through this morning.” “We don’t like Rangeley,” Sarah informed her very matter‐of‐factly. “Well, you better try to be nice to them because all Camp Chara girls are all lovely, beautiful young woman who will someday make a difference in the world, even you girls in Belgrade, so try to see the gifts and talents in your fellow campers,” Julie told the Belgradians. I think she was under the impression that the girls were hanging on to her every word. They weren’t. Lexi rolled her eyes. Luckily, I don’t think that Julie saw her. As Julie exited the cabin, Sarah got onto her soapbox again, “But camp is supposed to be fun and cleaning isn’t fun. This isn’t the army!” I learned to ignore Sarah and started walking back toward the counselor room. “Annie?” For once, I don’t think that the voice of the child who had just crept up behind me belonged to Lily. I turned around to see Hannah. “I’m hungry.” “I’m shocked.” Hannah was always too busy walking around socializing to ever eat a full meal. “No, really. I didn’t like lunch.” “Well, what do you like, Hannah?” I said, calm and collected. “Cup of Noodles.” “Oh, really?” I raised my eyebrows “And my mom said she mailed some to me, and I was wondering if I got them yet.” How did she find out her mom had sent them?

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 77 of 85 “Well, actually, Hannah, you did, but you can only eat them if you don’t let the other girls see.” “So can I eat them in your room?” “I guess.” I let Hannah follow me into the counselor room, handed her a cup of noodles, and told her to go to the showers to make them and not tell anyone where she was going or what she was doing. I looked out the window to make sure she really was going to the shower house. She was. All of Rangeley was splashing around in the lake on their foam pool noodles. Apparently, to my surprise, the crazy 15‐year‐olds of Horseshoe had finished cleaning their bunk because they were in the lake as well. They had huge inflatable animals such as whales and dolphins to float on in the lake. They thought they were pretty cool. You’d think that after eight or nine summers at camp they’d know how to swim. Maybe they did, but they obviously preferred non‐lifesaving flotation devices to actually swimming or treading water. “Look, it’s Maddy!” Naomi yelled with delight as she pointed out the window. The girls all ran over to the window. Outside was a naked child running with her bath towel pinned around her neck like a cape. What the heck? Naomi’s sister Maddy was at least thirteen years old, maybe fourteen; I couldn’t remember what Naomi had told me. “Maddy is the only camper to have ever gone streaking every summer since sub‐junior year… during the day!” Naomi announced this as if she was extremely proud of her older sister. Ellie and I stared at each other in disbelief. Her jaw had dropped. Yup, we were definitely living in the loony bin. “Cleaning, girls!” I said and turned around to go back to the counselor room, hoping Maddy would jet past the cabin quickly so as not to give our girls too many brilliant ideas. About two seconds after the Maddy incident, Hannah walked into the cabin shrieking. I figured maybe it was because of Maddy’s escapades. She was not holding her Cup of Noodles. She had her hands cupped around something that I assume didn’t belong indoors. “Look what I found!” she yelled, “A mouse!” “Hannah Talia Cohen! Get that mouse out of the cabin right now!” I said. “But he’s not with his mommy! I found him in the shower all alone!” Hannah looked like she was on the verge of tears. “What shower?” asked Lily. “The third one.” “I am never showering in that one again!” Lily was horrified, as demonstrated by the look on her face. Her eyes were wide with fear. That child worried more than any other kid I’ve ever met! “Hannah!” I repeated sternly. “What?” “Get the mouse out of the cabin now!” “He needs a name!” yelled Lexi. “I already named him!” said Hannah. She would have already named him. “Then what’s his name?” asked Alexis.

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 78 of 85 “Finder Hope Belgrade.” Oh boy. “Put the mouse outside now,” I said again. “Quit being a poop!” Hannah yelled at me. “Outside now. No questions asked.” “Can I put him in a box?” Hannah asked. “I don’t care. As long as he’s outside.” I didn’t really care about technicalities. “How do you know he’s a boy?” Sarah asked. I didn’t want to see where this question was going. “Girls! The mouse…” I started to say before Hannah cut me off. “FINDER HOPE BELGRADE!” “Ok. Whatever.” I guess I’d have to go along with this ridiculousness. “Finder Hope Belgrade needs to go outside right now.” “You can put him in the box that my mom sent treats to me for my pony in,” Dani offered. Dani found a way of inserting the fact she brought her own pony to camp into half of the sentences she spoke. “And we need to give him food, too,” Sarah said. “He can have my Cup of Noodles!” Hannah said. “Why do you get Cup of Noodles?” asked Lexi. “Because I have ADHD,” Hannah said, “and sometimes I get hungry between meals.” “So what?” said Sarah, “That’s not fair!” In addition to being the cabin’s official judge of what was fun, Sarah also was the one to deem which aspects of life were fair. “Girls. This is stopping right now,” I said, “Either the mouse is going in a box outside right now or I’m bringing the mouse to Maggie right now for her to take care of it.” The girls put Finder Hope Belgrade in a box with horse treats and uncooked Cup of Noodles and brought him outside. Great. The cabin is still a pigsty and the girls are all outside crowded around a terrified little mouse in a box that they are “rescuing.” “Ellie, what are we going to do? The parents will be here in less than a day and the cabin is a mess. And this stupid mouse just made stuff worse!” “Should I go get Julie?” I was starting to think that Ellie looked up to Julie just as much as Hannah did. However, I guess it wasn’t a half‐bad suggestion. It’s not like I had a better idea. “I guess. Go get Julie.” Five minutes later, Julie was back at Belgrade cabin. Luckily, this time she didn’t come inside to see the extreme mess the girls had been neglecting to clean all day long. “Oh, Belgrade girls! You are taking caring of one of God’s creatures! What good stewards of the Earth you are!” Julie said with a twinkle in her eye. She looked like she was so proud of the girls that she was going to cry. “Can we keep him?” Hannah asked, giving Julie a sad puppy‐dog face. “Well, girls, you have a cabin to clean, and mice don’t like lots of noise like you girls so often make. I think that this mouse…”

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 79 of 85 “Finder Hope Belgrade!” I can’t believe that Hannah even corrects Julie! “…that Finder Hope Belgrade will thrive better is his natural environment. I will take him back to my personal cabin to nurse him back to health so I can release him into nature.” “But isn’t his mommy in the shower house?” Hannah asked. “I am sure that Daisy will help his mommy to find him at my cabin. Not only does Daisy watch over the little campers at Chara, but she also watches over all the little animals.” Nice save, Julie. Way to use the fantastical camp fairy as proof that this darn mouse will be okay! Hannah let a single tear run down her cheek. “Good‐bye, Finder Hope Belgrade. I will miss you so much,” Hannah said as dramatically as if she were acting in a movie. “Girls, if you can get this cabin clean by dinner, I will give you all Daisy Bars!” I was relieved to find out that even Julie wasn’t above bribery! I wouldn’t mind one of those chocolate bars, either; for stressful times like a summer at camp, chocolate is an absolute necessity. “We all need to say good‐bye to Finder Hope Belgrade, first!” Naomi insisted. “Can you announce at dinner that Hannah Talia Cohen was a hero today and saved a mouse from the junior camp shower house?” Hannah bright green eyes sparkled at the prospect of this event. “Of course, my dear,” Julie answered, “ now say your last good‐byes to your little friend.” The girls all said good‐bye to Finder, then I forced them back into the cabin to wash their hands. Ellie and I dried the tears that they all shed for Finder, then reminded them of the Daisy bars Julie had wagered for the cleaning of the cabin. At 3:00 p.m., eastern standard time, exactly two hours after lunch and two hours and forty‐five minutes before dinner, Belgrade cabin finally started to clean.

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Untitled Ashley Ryan, 2011

Gladys – A Monologue Kelsey Knoedler, 2010

(LIGHTS UP on GLADYS sitting on a stool in her kitchen. ROB is sitting in a desk chair in the attached den, bleeding profusely from the leg and barely conscious. GLADYS holds a gun, a bag of pork rinds and a cordless telephone. She wears tight stone‐washed jeans, an oversized sweatshirt with a teddy bear, and pink wedged heels. Her bleach‐blond hair is in a tall bouffant, and she wears no make‐up except pink frosted lipstick. Chairs are overturned in the room, the doors to the china cabinet are open, and papers are lying all over the floor. A broken rocking chair sits down stage right.)

GLADYS Where have you been? Do you know I have called you every five minutes for the last half hour? Jeez, am I steamed. I mean it, I am really jazzed right now, Sally. You’ll never believe what happened to me tonight. I mean it, you’ll never believe it. So I get home from work, and I got home late, by the way, because some dickwad on 63 smashed into the side of the 7/11 and there was a big crowd of cop cars there with the road all blocked off so it took me about an hour and a half to get home. So I get home late from the nail salon, and I go to unlock the door to the motor home, and what do you know? It’s already open. So I walk through the door, and I see this man standing there with this red handkerchief tied around his neck like he’s some kind of John Wayne robber looking to steal some horses or maybe a bottle of whiskey. And I see all these chairs overturned including my rocker that my granny

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 81 of 85 left me and one leg is broken off so I am steamed. And the drawers to my china cabinet are all open and everything that was inside of it is laying on the floor, all broken up. So I look at this guy, and he’s got this big ugly mug with some kind of rash all over it like he just stuck his head in a pot of marinara, and he’s got this long greasy hair that looked like I could probably wring it out and get enough oil to deep fry some pickled eggs with and he’s just sitting in my desk chair in the den shuffling through a bunch of papers. And as soon as I walk through the door, this dumb fuck stands up. I see him look at the counter next to me, and so my eyes go to where he was looking and I see his gun—right there on the counter next to me like it was sitting around waiting for the bus. And I can tell this guy is spooked, right? ‘Cause here he is caught red handed with his gun out of reach and he knows he’s balls deep. Oh, Sally, you better believe I grabbed that man’s gun and went ahead and shot him right in the foot. So this asshole falls to the ground and starts going apeshit and screaming like he was a newborn kid and I had just slapped him on the ass. So I start screaming right back at him—saying he had some nerve coming into my motor home like a mean twister making a big old mess of my things and looking for something he had no business looking for anyway. So I point the gun right at this shit head’s ugly nose and I tell him he better sit down in that desk chair and stop crying like a little pussy. Then I see this jerk’s got a big role of rope on his belt, like he was planning on hanging someone from a tree. So I tell the knobby shit to throw me the rope or I’m gonna blow his brains out. The guy throws me the rope, and I knew dating that sailor in ’85 would come in handy some day ‘cause he taught me all these knots so I could tie him up real good to the bed like he liked when I boned him. So the guy throws me the rope and I tie him up real good but the thought of boning him makes me sick to my stomach and there I go blowing chunks all over granny’s broken rocker. So I sit down on my stool and call up one of them cops down at the 7/11 and tell him I had a greasy goon tied up ‘cause he broke into my motor home. Well, apparently those Barneys with baked beans for brains didn’t think that some broad in a motor home is worth saving and they were more concerned with the dickwad that rammed into the side of the 7/11. So here I am sitting on a stool in my kitchen trying to stay alive on an old bag of stale pork rinds that I had in the cupboard. I’ve been meaning to go shopping, see, but it’s been late nights at the salon and by the time I get out of there I just about have enough energy to pick up some Chinese from Ling’s and eat it on the bus on the way home. And now I’m sitting here looking at this big ugly rash tied to my desk chair and I am steamed and I’m starving my balls off. So I’m asking you, Sally, if you would kindly go down to the 7/11 and get me one of them pre‐made hamburgers that they keep under the heating lamps all day. And while you’re down there, could you let those dumb fucks know they better hurry on up down to my motor home ‘cause this guy’s foot is bleeding pretty bad?

(THE END OF THE SCENE.)

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 82 of 85 Grammar 101 (Revision) Alyssa Vinluan, 2013 now this is grammar 101 so find a desk to write this course will make you take a look beyond whats black and white here is your first reading dont be frightened by its size these millions of white pages are simply just your life we’ll start off with a challenge and i’ll push you to the core the only way to persevere is by walking through this door with ink as black as nothing you’ll need a single pen to scribble out these memories that happened way back then: the one that brought you to your knees when you thought it was the end the one that brought you to the blade but only through a friend the one that brought you pins and needles that pierced through your heart the one that brought you endless tears as you finally fell apart. but even though these lines are smeared scratched and seared the lessons learned will only help but scars don’t disappear so here’s your first assignment and it’s due the day you die i’m making sure you’ve lived before you say good‐bye take all of these white pages and you’ll see that it’s your past but look ahead and what you’ll see is blank and clean and vast

Chimes Submissions – Poetry Page 83 of 85 so here’s your chance (and you can’t fail): reach out to those who need it most because their heart’s in pain and strive to keep your family close despite life’s daily strains rise up and take on every challenge because you’re being tested and forgive those who have done you wrong as bitterness only festers don't forget to turn your life in to my desk by your day's end as i would like to see each student walk through to heaven's bend

Tape8Clip2 Raygun Magee

Homework Katherine Simon, 2011

Once I wrote a poem for school. The structure was tired The themes self‐referential And the tone ironic. This is not that poem.

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Untitled Laura Lancaster

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