THE MERCURY 2001 ^H^^^^^HI^HBHHHKiJ The Mercury The Student Literary Magazine oj Gettysburg College

2000-2001

Editor-in-Chief Colleen Hubbard Fiction Editor Melynda McBeth Nonfiction Editor Erin Baggett Poetry Editor Allison Schroeder Art Editor Ashley Pisanick

Staff Eric Danielson, Collette Green, Cara Hall, Mariesa Hinchey, Ruth Homberg, Patrick Jones, Anya Morrison, Lyndsey Rago, George Riley, Laura Root, Erika Stensvaag

Faculty Advisors

Oliver de la Paz Fred Leebron Kathryn Rhett

The Mercury Literary Magazine is published once a year during the spring semester. Throughout the jail semester, staff members review anonymous works submitted by Gettysburg College students and determine as a group which pieces are to be published.

This year judges awarded the best works in each category with the Mercury Prize. Prize winners are marked with an asterisk in the table of contents. ■^■^^^HHHHHH^^^HHHH^H^HH POETRY

Here you are Ruth Sysak

Scandinavia Hans Ramel i4

It's Nice Daniel Williams \6

Envision Melynda McBeth 25

Outside the Box Allison Schroeder 3i

Remembering the Cactus Michael S. Fish 37

The First Time Ruth Sysak 38

The Marriage Ceremony* Sasha Silverman 46

Collapse Allison Schroeder 52

Secret Revenge Hans Ramel 58

Desire George Riley 60 FICTION

This Place* Laura Root

Farewell to Beethoven Michael S. Fish a

Cy in the Morning Time Luke Ballman 16

Tojo Tommy Pearce 32

Fall Erin Baggett 40 you're the top Joshua J. Wyatt 54

NONFICTION

Lists* Sarah Doherty n

Crushing Kelly Kervick 20

National Panther Census Rustom Davar

41

The Mirror Joyce Sprague 61

ART

Hands* Elizabeth X. Kligge Cover Girls at Play Brooke Hutt to

Enchantment Michelle Meyn 15

Photo Booth Ashley Pisanick (9

The Doll Brooke Hutt 30

Our Neighbors Julie Gordon 36

Trees Elizabeth X. Kligge 39

Joga/myself Emily Simmons 45

Female Outline Leigh Sacks 53

Sketch #2 in Toulouse, France An Truong 57

The Secret Michelle Meyn 59

Distaff Any a Morrison

62

Here you are Rutb Sysak

Cherry soda pop Fizzing in your mouth Stinging your cheeks, You held it too long Looked right through The lipped crystal glass Full of grenadine, Spouting its colors Onto the bleached tablecloth Into your head, Your forgotten teabags Left steeping in Hot water. This Place Lniira Roof

This was how you looked to me: your hands were hanging at your sides like they were massive doughy lumps only barely attached to the spindly sticks that were your arms, which I thought was oddly appropriate because after all, you were in the bakery. What kind of bread would you buy? That was a hard question to answer. What kind of bread would you not buy? I knew that you would not buy the bread whose golden body was freckled by the onions and the olives. You wouldn't want your breath to still smell and taste like onions when you woke up tomorrow. And you wouldn't let yourself taste it before you got home because you would worry about the olives getting lodged in between the teeth that you were hiding in a tight-lipped visage of concentration. You would not buy bread with sunflower seeds for the same reason. Cinnamon swirls? No. To you, bread was not sweet. But you did belong in the bakery. You did not savor the indeterminate taste of Wonder Bread. You wanted bread that was not reminiscent of spongy Styrofoam. Your nose wanted to smell the dough: the yeast, the salt, the flour. Your nose wanted to smell the water, too. You looked to me like you were the person who wanted to smell water. Which I thought was weird. This was how you looked at me: your heart-shaped face swiveled toward my deconstructing glances. Your eyes grazed my nose my mouth my hair that I combed away from my face. You looked at the outline my hands were making in the pockets of my too-tight jean shorts. You looked at the blue Hip-flops and stared at the upper left-hand corner of my right foot where the big toe had almost worn a hole through the plastic. You looked and I felt like you knew how clammy my armpits must have been on the day in the bakery when I first saw you and your doughy hands and your spindly arms.

This was how I noticed you: as you walked in the door your nose re- minded me of my dog. Your nose was flat, like you had pressed your finger on its tip and held it there. My dog's nose was not flat, but I thought of my dog anyway. Which leads me to believe that maybe it wasn't your nose that reminded me of him. You had square shoulders like you had hidden football pads somewhere in your worn green tee-shirt that advertised Sir Speedy's Dry Cleaners in cracked white letters. The apostrophe was peeling off. You walked stiffly to the back of the line. My dog had a stiff walk, maybe that's why I thought of him. I was second in the line of nine people. As we waited, I forgot about you and 1 eventually forgot about my dog. Instead I concentrated on the breads until 1 looked up at you staring. I looked at you again and yes, I know that I avoided eye contact. As my eyes avoided yours, my brain stuttered stopped jumped. I recall thinking about the cherry pies while I looked up at you and 1 recall weighing the drawbacks of buying day-old muffins. 1 thought about the sugar cookies on the brown tray under the glass case and if they would taste better with milk or with orange juice and 1 couldn't remember whether the bakery was made out of stone or brick or wood. It was impossible for me to ask you these questions. 1 wanted everyone else, especially you, to think that 1 was familiar with the bakery, to think that I was a regular there. When it was my turn, I had not decided on which bread I wanted to buy. 1 pointed to the metal basket directly in front of me. I did not want to talk because I was embarrassed that you would hear my voice. The cashier did not understand me and so I gestured again and waved my hand backward. Do you remember when my hand connected with the man's coffee cup? The black liquid splattered and 1 looked up from the mess to see you walking toward me with solid arms swinging from stiff shoulders.

The bakery floated in the middle of the sea of cracked asphalt. The parking lot was separated from the four-lane highway by a narrow patch of grass cooked brown as a result of the harsh August sun. Despite rainy springs and summer Sundays, the grass could not rejuvenate itself. The highway intersected the suburban sprawl that was clustered around the factory. In 1978 (that's what the sign out front said), someone had decided that it would be a good idea to open a bakery along the highway. Since then, the bakery had welcomed other company: the roller-skating rink, the family dinette, the movie theatre, the lumberyard, the restaurant that sold tacos for under a dollar. Most of the neighbors were temporary—the skating rink that smelled like dirty socks and garlic had closed after the mothers heard rumors of gang fights on the glossy floors. The lumberyard went under after building patios became unfashionable. The dinette whose front windowpanes gushed water to remind patrons of tiny waterfalls was constantly under new management,- the ethnic dishes it advertised transposed from spaghetti and meat sauce to bratwurst and sauerkraut to lo mein and pork and back to spaghetti, but with meatballs this time. Even the taco dive was changeable: it started out as another place to buy soggy hamburgers, then it became home to fried chicken and pizza places. The bakery and the factory were the two constants. The bakery was actually a two-story house. The house had been built long before it was a bakery, long before there was a highway, long before there was a factory. Its wooden body was balanced atop a stone foundation. The house was probably built around 1920. The shingles were painted white every four years by the owner and the owner's sons. The shutters were painted red. The customers entered through the side door into a wall of dry heat, yells from the kitchen, and the acute smell of yeast and crusty loaves that cajoled the newcomer into returning. The smoking towers of the factory spindled upward into the heavy sky behind the bakery. Girls at Play Brooke Hutt

10 Lists Sarah Doherty

My father makes lists. On napkins, index-card sized stationery from his office, on the backs of business cards, in his even, all-capitals handwriting. The date is always at the top. BANK. LAWN. HARDWARE STORE. POOL. His lists are sparse, terse reminders of what needs to be done. As a child, I used to curiously study his lists on Saturdays and Sundays (he keeps his work lists at the office). The cryptic notes were invitations to my imagination, what is he doing at the bank? What is he going to do the lawn now? Do they sell toys at the hardware store? These lists plague him until they are finished (if you look closely, you can see the list behind his wrinkled brow),- upon accomplishing a task, it is firmly crossed through with blue ink. He doesn't wait to return home to cross errands off the list, yet he does not waste the two seconds in the act of crossing off as a singular activity,- my dad is nothing if not a multi-tasker. Driving home, he pulls the list from his back pocket, shifting all his weight forward in the seat and typically causing the car to sway erratically and my mother to raise her eyebrows at him, which he does not see. He rests the list on the steering wheel with the heel of his left hand and, taking his glance entirely from the road, uses his right hand to slash through HARDWARE STORE. He runs his eyes along the list, glancing only occasionally at the road, deciding which errand will be annihilated next. With a decisive fcmmpfo he replaces the list in his back pocket, satisfied. He pats my mother on the knee, gleeful and ready to move on. Later, my mother will tease my father about his lists, no one imitates that satisfied hmmph like she can. But Mom makes lists too,- hers are in her head, invisible. That is, unless she's overwhelmed. Then they are neatly written and remarkably thorough. Christmas cookies, change guest room sheets, clean upstairs bathroom, calljumace man, wrap presents, balance checkbook, thank you notejor the Tredennicks, take Annie to the vet 40.-00, go to mall, bake pumpkin bread jor Mrs. Kellogg. Dad's list is a sign of normalcy,- Mom's is a warning sign to stay out of her way until the list is thrown out (she crumples up the paper when everything is done - she's not a line by liner like Dad). But her day-to- day lists (bills, Stop & Shop, vacuum, wash windows) are in her head. She'll deny having them, if you ask her. But you can see my father's hmmph of satisfaction mirrored on her face when she puts away the vacuum cleaner and moves on to the windows. So it's in my genes, this tendency to list. Unlike Dad's, my lists are detailed, and run days - weeks even - in advance. Monday : run/call home/ seminar journal/notes Jor education research/ finish reading Jor seminar/ complete roster/ group meeting at 7/ lunch 12: i 5/ read Jor theatre/ return Ethan Frome to library/ dinner 6 .-30/ pay phone bill. Like my parents' lists, this is not a list of things I want to do, but a plan of what I will do. My lists are my plans. Period. I'm not a visual person, so calendars don't work. Yet, at the end of every August, without fail, I buy a daily planner for myself thinking somehow that this year I will use it. I go to Office Max, a store whose aisles brim

11 -■••• H^HH}?,;t ^H^HHH^H^HOH

with the hope of renewal at the start of each school year. Blank notebooks with crisp white sheets of paper waiting for scrawlings of wisdom, new pens with caps not yet mangled by bored teeth, and the planners. Bright, stiff covers and clean pages of empty white boxes for each month, organized into weeks of days set vertically down the page divided into half-hour segments,- this begs for organization, for commit- ments and projects and appointments you will always be on time for. I buy it for $12.99,-1 am prouder of this than any other purchase. I use it for a week, religiously jotting down assignments off the syllabus and into the appropriate time slot, copying down important due dates into the blank white boxes. I then give up, abandoning the rigid squares of days and use the blank paper at the end labeled Notes to make my lists, choosing freedom. Math homework/ study Jor science test on Friday/ riding lesson/ clean Sunny's cage/ pack bag for tomorrow. You may think that it's strange for a fourth grader to have a self- enforced list of things to do. To me, it felt natural,- to my parents, it was a sign of a motivated and organized mind. Not all people have such an admiration for lists, however. While planners and datebooks are the marks of organized individuals, lists are somehow seen as compulsive. At least to my friends, particularly my boyfriends (it could, however, also be my tendency to treat my lists as sacred orders). I was called neurotic for the first time in eleventh grade (the first of many times) because of the detailed weekend list that 1 had left, accidentally, on my dresser for my then- boyfriend to find. Math - review notes from Friday, assignment 23 on sheet/ French - read pg. 60- 65, blue book entry, ex. C&D on pg. 66/ American Studies - read Ch. 5-8 Great Gatsby, pg. iOO- 173 in History bk.lChem - pg. lOOfx. 5-6, lab write-up/ practice flute (i hour each day!) - D scale, chromatic exercise from green book, Mozart piece for audition, band music/ riding lesson Sat. 4 pml call Mrs. Tredennick about babysitting on Tuesday. The list wore on, but I am fairly sure that he didn't make it through the whole thing before exclaiming, "What? This is insane! You have everything on here!" He was not the only one to find my lists amusing,- my boyfriend senior year thought they were hilarious. Attempting to convince me to go ice-skating on a Sunday afternoon that I had scheduled for homework, my boyfriend heard m,e explain that 1 was sorry, but my list wasn't finished yet. But he found my lists admirable and made me one of his own. Sleep/goojoff/ sleep/eat some Twinkies/ take a nap/ goof off/ make it look like I'm doing homework/ sleep/ make a new list for tomorrow. He was an artist,- he did not think linearly. 1 have his list hanging on my wall today, four years later, a reminder to occasionally stop and smell the Twinkies. Today, my boyfriend finds not the list itself, but rather a Post-it note attached to the list amusing. The Post-it reads: No breaks until this is finished!, and is not an uncommon accessory to my daily list. It's a motivator. Some people have framed photos of astronauts and heroes and pilots with inspirational quotes like "Never give up" and "Find inspiration within you." I, on the other hand, have a compulsive Post-it to spur me on when my energy is lacking. Of course, it is hard to live a life by a list, no matter how disciplined you are. There are things that just don't get done, tasks from the day before that stare up at me like ugly accusations,- a list from yesterday that I am still working on today. There are days when I don't finish my list (when I don't even come close), when I

12 grab a beer from the fridge and watch Monday Night Football with my roommate and abandon all hope of crossing start seminar paper off my list. Eat a hamburger/give a compliment to the girl who sits in front of you in Theatre with cool shoes/ pickajight with your boyfriend for no reason other than that you miss him and hate being apart/ smile at someone you don't know/ get a B- on a paper you thought was worth an A/ hear a rumor about your ex-boyfriend/ dance in the kitchen to Britney Spears with your roommate/get a blister on your toe/ cuddle a stranger's dog/ smile at the overworked waitress at the Lincoln Diner and leave her a ten dollar tip. These are the things that aren't on my list, the things that differentiate my life from my lists.

13 ^^■^■MN^^nHHi^n^H I Scandinavia Hans Ramel

(. Epiphany Snow on dark houses Windows gaping like empty eyes in sad faces.

2. Annunciation During melting time leaves prepare to unravel like newborn children.

3. Walpurtjis Night Light is coming back Fires burn to celebrate competing with stars.

4. Midsummer Midnight summer sun shining on cold mountain range Pale light in steel mouth.

5. Saint Mikael's day In harvest season the scent of straw and leaves on fields like manure.

6. Lucia Snow is falling fast into dark winter night like blur on TV screen.

14 Enchantment Michelle Meyn

15 ■

It's Nice Daniel Williams

It's nice, Watching sunrise Stretch shadows On suburban Streets

Or maybe, Lying with lovers Kissing comfort's face

Drunk with desire Unaware of anything Save shelter And serenity

It's nice, Walking and walking To sirens On city streets

Or maybe, Lying on Shivering sidewalk Unshaven, shaking, Seducing the sun With cigarette smoke.

Half dead on wine Half crazy Dying for sleep and solace.

It's nice here, peaceful and protected or maybe, huddled and hungry

Watching the sun stretch shadows on the street.

16 I Farewell to Beethoven Michael S. Fish

Last year one of my six roommates put a sign up on the outside of our door and I asked him what it meant. But, that was then and that was school- where things are easily forgotten. I do remember some things though. There was that guinea pig we rescued, or accosted his owner and confiscated him, whom we named Walter and he hated us so. Most of us did everything we could for the little bastard. For example: we would smuggle him carrots and salad from the dining hall, and some- times take him out of his cage, which just happened to be a fish tank. One day he must have caught a cold because he wouldn't stop sneezing. So, we put a towel in his cage for him to use as a blanket. After that, he never came out of the towel. And there was that cute little puppy too, around the same time as Walter the guinea pig. We named the puppy MacMurphy- or Mac for short- when we picked him up from the farm. You see, I was reading the classifieds one afternoon and one read: Free Puppies. So, we got a free puppy, named it Mac, and it bit and clawed everything apart, went to the bathroom everywhere, and cried so much at night that we each had to take turns sleeping with him, lying awake in fear that he would shit the bed. Luckily, this was during a period of heavy exams. He cried so much while we were at class during the day that they found out about him. We weren't supposed to have him and we knew it and so did they. So, one morning they came to the door and asked if there was a dog in the room. We said, "no." At that point Mac walked out and urinated on the floor in front of them. Then they said, "that's why he can't be here," and he had to go live with my roommate's swim coach. He has two little girls, my roommate's swim coach that is, so 1 guess it's a good place for a puppy even though 1 hear he's quite big now. 1 just wonder why they never noticed or said anything about the guinea pig Walter in the fish tank. We wondered if Walter stayed in the towel all day because of the mirror in the fish tank. He may have been under the impression that another pervert guinea pig was in the fish tank with him, always staring at him. Or he may have just hated us. Anyway, it didn't matter because the bottom of the fish tank shattered when one of my roommates was attempting to clean it and he accidentally put his arm through it. So, Walter was moved into a box, and then shortly after taken to the pet store because a box is no place to live, not even for a guinea pig named Walter. A while later in the year I stopped by the pet store to bring some carrots and visit, but he wasn't there. He had found a new home, and probably new people to hate, and apparently he had even gotten laid and was a father according to the pet shop owner- in so many words of course. We were all happy for Walter, because he had never gotten the opportunity to get laid in our room, and maybe now he even liked the new people he lived with, and the more I think about it, it may have had something to do with that sign, and that room, and that clause. But wait, later there was that 290 lb. ice block that we had in our room for a Christmas party that people were sucking bright red and green alcohol off of all night and that melted and leaked three floors down into other peoples rooms when

17 we decided to go out later that evening. I suppose we could have tried to fit it into the freezer but Camilla, the plastic pink lawn flamingo was living in there at the time and one of my roommates was constantly claiming something about "having to keep her on ice" for whatever reason. So, after we came home to find security in our room telling us that we had caused "severe water damage and would be fined" we were drunk and angry. And, after they left we were so drunk and angry that we decided to trash the room and throw everything we could out of our third floor window. Even the little cactus, which one of my roommates kicked and hurt his foot while walking across the lawn below the following morning. And then sometimes there was that loud Beethoven sounding from the bathroom on Sunday evenings, and it was a bit silly and a bit beautiful all at once. Beethoven playing to the lives of six lost souls on Sunday evenings searching for redemption while roaming about aimlessly: one hundred and twenty-one cheap empty beer cans, fifty-seven crumpled food wrappers, several dripping sap ridden tree branches decorated with collective degradation, countless newspaper pages hanging from the ceiling, and our mail...in the wet, murky kitchen sink. And there was that Beethoven playing a wonderful song and I remember it pretty well when 1 think back. I do remember hearing somewhere that where you start can tell you a great deal about where you will finish, but 1 don't know whether 1 believe that or not. So, there were all these things and so much more, and when my roommate put a sign on the outside of our door that read: "CATCH-22" I asked him why.

18 Photo Booth Ashley Pisankk

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Crushing Kelly Kervick

I'm sitting in a quiet room purposefully, with quiet doors closed, and quiet hallways surrounding me. I'm finishing Jeanette Winterson's, Written on the Body. I just started it this Sunday morning. I'm shuffling, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt, thinking about unfinished work, over cracked pavement on a windy Wednesday. I'm running home, not paying attention, because I'm late for work everyday. And randomly, yet again, you pass through my mind and out the other ear. "You never give away your heart,- you lend it from time to time. If it were not so how could we take it back without asking?" This book seems to have footnoted itself throughout my life. I'm wishing you were in front of me. If you were I don't know what I'd do, but I'm craving the sight of you.

It's Friday night, and I want to sift passion into you. Coerce you through thrusts and lips. So don't sit there drunk and eye me up. Take me into your sober arms and don't slur when you tell me those three little words, "Get me coffee," or "I love you." "Those three little words..." A lover once said, in the body-filled book I couldn't put down, "It's the cliches that cause the trouble." I don't know if what I feel is cliche, but it's trouble, and I want to be your lover. It started last month. September. The clouds seeped through the screen of the window, leaving my face and skin musty. 1 sat, staring at a book thinking my life would be better off spent in ignorance when I caught a glimpse of you. Not physically, of course. Work harassing the back of my brain, and you decided to show up. You're a cruel person, playing games with my mind even though you don't know it. Staying just far enough away from a hug and a kiss, still close enough for my eyes to see. 1 would never say what I feel is love. But what if three years from now, we are together and decidedly in love, will my mind fool me into believing it was love at first sight? If 1 say I love you, and don't know that I don't mean it yet, am I still a hypocrite? You will end up nowhere and be happy. We'll all shake our monotonous heads one Fall day ten years from now, and say "such a shame." Together we make melodrama. Prove to me you aren't a cliche, and I'm better than 1 believe I am. Break all the rules, come crawling over, and beg to love me.

Standing, living in such idleness, is what can lead the mind to pass time with self-deprecating thought. There is danger in idleness,- there is sex in idleness. That is why monks have learned to move and chant when the chores are done. No one must be standing still, idle, vulnerable to thought. It can lead to locking yourself away to protect yourself from what has frozen you, just to write about it when no

20 one is looking. How contradictory for a Buddhist monk to state, "Nothing leads a man astray so easily as sexual desire. What a foolish thing a man's heart is!" Of course every man is driven mad by sexual desire, and only an 1 llh century monk sworn to abstinence would be able to write that with an aura of haughtiness. Kenko learned that idleness can leave the mind to ponder sex. Winterson agrees, "passion is not well bred",- it invades everyone's mind. It spites appropriateness, and a heart is little else than foolish.

I have a friend called Sarah, and I'm her "Fool." Her curly auburn hair and solid brown eyes have lain next to me many nights, with quiet chatter in confidence drifting over a single down pillow and light summer sheets. I remember one night clearly. She was beautiful,- she always had been, and I had just noticed. We had always just been us. And us had been platonic, genderless. Cenderless can't be beautiful to two people who were raised in a society where beauty and gender define the self. Maybe it was the August moon, but she was freshly feminized and softer than I remembered. We weren't talking because we were too comfortable to talk. Winterson explains our relationship. "We knew each other like old lovers and yet had less to pretend about," so we wound around each other like twisted blankets. Her arm had wrapped itself around my waist, my calf rested in between her thin freckled white legs. Our foreheads touched and our fingers braided. My crying had finally subsided and the bruises grew as we left them alone to be forgotten. She was the only one who ever listened to me and didn't offer illogical advice to help my life circumstances. I had nuzzled my face into her bushel of curls and wafted in sham- poo, and secondhand cigarette smoke. I let her comb my hair with her fingers, and rub my back in small circles. " The recognition of another person is deeper than consciousness, lodged in the body more than held in the mind," Winterson writes. Our breathing had become unconsciously cyclical, connecting to each other. Chatter died into silence. Silence died into friendship. Friendship died into passion. That's the only way 1 could ever explain it, she said 1 was being me when I explained it to her. And me was always confusing to her. I was idle, as Winterson slipped in between us speaking only to me- it's "wrong to seal illogical with a kiss." I was illogical, and content, as I let her lips touch mine. I was a fool because 1 kissed back. I'll only be her Fool. "You know, I love you," her voice touched the soft fleshy part of my earlobe. She made me comfortably, confidently straight. "And you know I love you." I have still, yet, to reach such sincerity again. "Fool." She had given me a name. "Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone." Winterson was speaking about that night. Two friends kissing into the day.

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You caught me by surprise. Looking back at me like that. Leaving me red and embarrassed. Not letting me brush it off. You're walking toward me. You frighten me. I want to warn you, "If I rush at this...it is because I fear for it." I fear you. With your fists lightly clenched, swaying like mallets at your side, I seep up your elegance. I turn my head. Winterson mumbles through the back of my head, "I am desperately looking the other way so that love won't see me...It is so terrifying, love." I force my eyes up. You're here.

Bram used to make me feel like that five years ago. He spoke one day, and that's how I used to explain, how two people like us ended up together. He said it was fate. 1 agree with Winterson in her belief that "Destiny is a worrying concept. I don't want to be fated, I want to choose." I had known him for eleven years and then he chose to speak to me, and that's the first time I remember him. Brain's Jewish. He comes from a family of nine Rabbis. I'm not. I come from a family of alcoholic psychics. It didn't appear to be a problem until he asked me to convert. If he loved me, supposedly, me being an alcoholic psychic would be enough. He told me that we couldn't be together. 1 cried. I called him a bigot. He cried. Then apologized. But we had already begun our descent. I can't help but recollect him. "How easy it is to destroy the past and how difficult to forget." Winterson dwells like I do. Bram is the only man I can say I did love, at least in one instance. I don't know if it was continuous because now 1 can only seem to recall snippets of happi- ness, and wads of tears. 1 can't even say when the emotion stopped. Sometime after we began and sometime before we broke up, the love stopped having feeling. It was more like a routine. Winterson can sympathize when, "Everything in its place,- the lover, the friend, the life, the set," just doesn't seem like enough. She sent the narrator to adultery, I sent myself out the door hoping to bump into passion again on my way home. And I felt like shit because I left my best friend, my comfort, his hug, alone and crying at his desk holding onto my might-have-been engagement ring, knowing I wouldn't go back for it. I wish I could remember when I decided these people of my past would become my lovers. Then I could prepare myself now. But I can't, because love isn't that easy to pinpoint. If it were, Kenko would have put an end to this useless writing ten centuries ago, and I would be at ease sliding myself into my new crush's arms. But Winterson's words mock my present emotion. "I've been through so much I should know just what it is I'm doing... I should be grown-up by now. Why do I feel like a convent virgin?" Why can't Winterson leave me alone?

It's last call when you kiss me on the cheek. You were standing there saying hellos, and then it was over. Just like that your kiss had fallen on me and I missed the opportunity to respond. You kiss the girl standing next to me as well. Leaving me with an anticlimax. You touch my arm as you turn to leave and I can't tell if it was on

22 purpose. I want to reach out for your arm and touch you back. I want to touch you. But again, I'm too late. Sei Shonagon wrote about this very instance eleven centuries ago in Japan. 'The lady watches him go, and this moment of parting will remain among her most charming memories. Indeed, one's attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave-taking." It's been eleven hundred years and people are still struck by a sudden departure of a lover. I want to beg you to walk into and out of my quiet room. I can't get you out of my head. I feel like Winterson and Kenko and Shonagon metamorphosized into a confused, heated twenty-one year old body. And I fear that my voice will end up like theirs. Screaming silent pleas for passion to readers' eyes, and never landing on the ears of the unaware lover. 1 will remain detached and intensified by the existence of your body, until a thousand years from now when someone wistfully embraces my words and mimics my voice, reincarnating mine and theirs,- hoping this time they'll get through. This time I'll leave my room and you'll hear me and walk back in with me.

Such a shame I'm faced with your broad back, and I can't walk away from where I stand. Your stubble has etched your face into mine, and I can't wipe you away that easy. I just can't seem to get you off my body. My arm is tilted slightly in your direction as if only it has received the quiet command to go after you. I watch you walk away. "I'm drowning in inevitability," and I wish her words would stop integrating themselves into my thoughts. Drowning, as if Winterson couldn't escape the grasp too. Enticed in with a coo and a smirk, just to sink into you. Are you my inevitable? I'm still standing here waiting for you to turn around and come back. Will you ever realize I'm here? No. Not if I keep standing here, pretending I don't see you, avoiding contact because I'm scared. No. You won't realize me, because I can't find the words to write on my body to show you what tickles my skin when you walk toward me. Winterson was wrong when she wrote, "Passion...will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high note that smashes the glass and spills the liquid." 1 stay still even though my hand is quaking, but 1 manage to not spill a sip of beer. I stay silent sealing my mouth with the head of the bottle, but I know without the plug, 1 won't be able to stay silent much longer. I'm too shy to speak to you. I'm too shy to seek for you. I can sing my lust of you on paper to complete strangers, and yet when you approach I turn my head and seal my mouth for protection. 1 want to write CRUSH ME on my body and stand in front of you. I'm confused. I'm a Gemini. I'm a hypocrite by nature.

You walk over a week later, noticing me before I notice you. You take me by surprise, your arms wrapping around my waist through the smoke like that, and I have no problem leaning into the embrace a little too hard. I can feel you hair

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pressing against the inside of your shirt like down feathers in a mattress, and the smell of smoke rises from the cotton covering your chest, beneath my nose. You whisper something implausible in my ear like, "I've been looking for you." When I pull away you're looking at me, and I try to look back but I finally shatter into myself. I let my voice seep out through the shards and into your green eyes. I say you have to kiss mejirst, because I'm not one/or making the first move. You smile through a toothy smirk, and laugh when I kiss you first. But I'm shaking when you take me into your hands to kiss me again. You crush my body into yours, and I lose the stamina to shake. Your fingers press into the small of my back, holding my body up and into yours, elevating my hips without my consent. I wonder if you'll disappoint me. Such a shame you have to.

24 Envision Melynda McBeth

Your face: it captivates me. It's the kind of image that burns itself into the back of my eyelids, so that when I close them you remain. Unwillingly, 1 am plagued by my Obsession with you, bound by ghostlike passion to the fading Memory of your fingertips on my skin. 1 shiver and turn away when I look at your eyes, because I know that I could lose myself In you.

25 Cy in the Morning Time Luke Eallman

Cy coughs himself awake in the morning. It's a long, deep, involuntary, hack of a cough. Some men stretch, others have a cup of coffee, Cy coughs. Cy coughs fifteen minutes ahead of the alarm clock buzzer. The violence of his coughing never fails to awaken anyone else in his bed. For this he is thankful, because he hates being awake when those around him are asleep. So when he opened his eyes Monday in mid roar, he was please that Lucy was staring at him. "Morning Lucy." "If you don't smother that frog in your throat, I'm leaving." Lucy snapped at him. Cy was caught off guard for a moment. Most women offered to get him a glass of water. Lucy just lay there with the sheet pulled up to her chin. He was tempted to tell her that leaving was fine. Instead, he said he was going to get a glass of water for himself. Lucy rolled over on her left side and promptly fell back asleep. Cy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on his white boxers that lay crumpled at the floor. In the bathroom Cy took off the stiff paper top that rested on the rim of the undersized glass and held it under the faucet. After the glass was filled he promptly drank the water in one long swallow. Then he filled it up again and carried it back to the bedroom where he stood at the foot of the bed. "Hey, Lucy. Wake up. It's six. Don't wallow with the pigs at night if you can't soar with the eagles in the morning." For his efforts Cy was rewarded with a scowl and a pillow tossed at his head. "Go away. My head hurts, Cy." "Not mine. Nope, doesn't hurt a bit. You should have had some water last night when I offered it to you. Come on now." Lucy slowly rolled over, arms spread out as if she was being crucified. She peered out through her eyelids and looked at Cy who was still standing at the foot of the bed looking down at her. "You look...funny in those shorts," decreed Lucy placing special emphasis on funny. "I like your hair though." Cy turned around and examined himself in the mirror. From the top of his head to the top of his knees where the mirror stopped, he saw himself reflected. With the curtains drawn as they were, there was only a dim gray light and it cast a chalky pallor over the room. His hair though remained a shocking white. It was thick for anybody but especially so for a fifty-three year old. And, despite having been in bed for seven hours it looked as if it had just been combed. His face held deep lines in between the side of his lips and his cheeks. They weren't exactly laugh lines but they weren't frown lines either. They seemed to be a melding of the two. The face of a man whose smile came naturally but had grown more wary of revealing itself as the years progressed. Like the rest of his body his face was fleshy but firm. In jeans and a button-down he could have resembled one of the ranchers that bought tractor tires from him.

26 Cy did not understand why his boxer shorts made him look funny. "What do you mean funny? They're boxers." "I know, but when you're dressed you look really sexy. When you're naked you look, kind of, cuddly. So I guess when you're in your boxers it's kind of funny." "Humph," was all that Cy could manage in response to Lucy's assessment. He was annoyed by Lucy's comment. He didn't like not understanding what Lucy had said. Girls less than half his age shouldn't be allowed to confuse him. Since Lucy had begun traveling with him three weeks ago he had been consistently thrown for loops. He had met her in a bar called Rhonda's, in a small town about fifty miles south of Tulsa, Oklahoma. There was a farm supply co-op that needed tractor tires. Cy had spent four days with the manager, Samuel, trying to convince him that Cy's Tires could offer the co-op a better deal on John Deere brand tires than any other company. At night Cy would take the manager out for drinks and dinner to talk business. Rhonda's was the only bar in town open past nine at night. After dinner Cy and Samuel would go to Rhonda's and slap each other on the back. Lucy would serve them drinks and flirt with Cy. She went back to his motel room on the second night. A four-day courtship was ample enough for Lucy. On the fifth morning of Cy's visit, desperate to leave town, she had climbed in the car with him and driven to Flagstaff, Arizona where a large farm needed 100 tires. "I hope she signs those papers. Do you think she'll recognize you? Maybe she already got remarried," said Lucy hopefully. "No, she's not married." "How do you know?" "She needs to get a divorce first, just like me. Otherwise it wouldn't be legal." Three nights ago, Cy had asked Lucy to marry him. He wasn't quite sure why he had proposed to her. Since leaving his wife fifteen years ago, he had always been more than happy to stay single. Cy was touched though, when he had asked Lucy why she never seemed disappointed and she replied that she never expected anything so when things didn't work out, she wasn't disappointed. That night Cy proposed to the young woman. Lucy accepted and so now they were Carson, Kansas to see his wife, Jo Anne, and secure a quick divorce. Jo Anne had been a quick-witted woman. Smart enough to see the world as it really was, but also light hearted enough to laugh about it. She was always wearing tight jeans that really showed off her figure. Despite two kids she had stayed trim and lithe. Her smile had been fantastic, he remembered. Cy often though about Jo Anne. He didn't think about the kids so much, only Jo Anne. They had gotten married when they were only eighteen. That had more to do with their marriage ending than anything did. Eighteen was just too young, Cy thought to himself for the millionth time. "Honey," interrupted Lucy, "let's go eat. I'm starving." "Okay. Let's get dressed first." Cy didn't really want to go to breakfast. He would have much preferred to eat alone. Generally in the morning Cy liked to be alone. Having a traveling companion though would require some concessions. So

11 ji^Hi^HI^HHH^^^HBH^mnBaH

he pulled on his navy suit pants and a short-sleeved, powder blue button down shirt, knotted a navy blue tie around his throat and escorted his fiance across the street to Denny's. 'Two. Smoking. Booth by a window please," Lucy replied to the waitress' inquiry. 'Thank you darlin'," Cy said as the waitress showed them to their booth in the back of the already busy restaurant. "You know how many Denny's I've eaten at Lucy? A lot of them. In seven different states. They're all the same. The seats are always uncomfortable and the air always smells greasy. "But I still like them. The people are always on their way to somewhere else. Except the old people that come on Sunday. In every Denny's, no matter where it is, there's a group of old people that comes in on Sunday." "I think I want an order of pancakes and bacon. And also some orange- juice and water." "Lucy, did you hear a word 1 said?" frustrated that he was being ignored. "Yeah Cy, I heard. But right now it's breakfast time and we're decidin' what to get." "Well, I always get an omelet. With cheese and peppers on it. And coffee to drink, you know that." "Good. Now Cy, I've been thinking. I want to know why you left your wife." The question surprised Cy. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth for a minute, between his gums and lips, considering the question. He reached for his cup of black coffee that the waitress had set down on the table, and sipped from it. "1 guess 1 don't really know." "Nobody leaves a wife and two kids without knowing why. You'll have to do better. When my daddy left we knew why. He just wasn't the settling down type. There was always another place to see. You can't fault a man for his nature. "You aren't like that. You aren't really interested in seeing the world, otherwise you would have done something other than travel the same route for so long selling tires. I'm not either, so don't think that I'm saying there's something wrong with it, 'cause I'm not. But if we're gonna go out today and have you get a divorce I think 1 ought to know." Cy was taken aback at the ferocity of her statement. "Maybe it was because we were just too young. We thought we were in love and then boom. Next thing I knew we weren't. That's just the way it happens sometimes," said Cy, satisfied with his answer. 'That's no good either. It's too easy. What was it that set you off?" Cy stopped for a minute and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one with a book of matches that he kept tucked between the cardboard packaging and cellophane wrapper. "I guess that it was just, well," he began, softly and deliberately, "in the morning, when 1 coughed, she stayed asleep. But she woke up at the slightest creak from the screen door hinge. I just didn't think that I could live the rest of my life with a woman who didn't wake up when I coughed."

28 Lucy remained silent for a moment, looking down at the linoleum-covered table. "Okay Cy," she finally said, gently taking his hand and looking up into his eyes. "I'll wake up when you cough."

29 The Dol Brooke Hutt

30 Outside the Box Allison Schroder

He says she moves too slow on Mondays. She says she likes Sundays better. He says she better start running. She says she's really gonna go this time. He says she better watch her mouth. She says she knows who she is. He leans in to kiss her roughly, She shakes her head and starts running. He says if she doesn't get back here... She stops but doesn't turn around. He smiles slyly like an old pervert on the beach. She has broad eyebrows from years of not smiling. He doesn't move toward her or away. She looks like she's pressed against glass. He has hands for pressing. She looks like she's begging herself to stand stil He looks like a smuggler, breathing her in. She looks as if he invented her expression. He says she'll come crawling back.

31 Tojo Tommy Pearce

The blood had not dried so much as it had become syrupy so that it hung in strings from his nose and eye to the puddle of it on the ground. The strings tugged at the wounds until they split, one end falling back to the puddle and the other recoiling back towards his face and eye, making him flinch involuntarily. His head slammed back against the brick wall behind him. Raising himself tenderly from the pavement, he brushed off the chips of stone that stuck to the wet side of his jeans. Spotting a spigot at the end of the alley, he walked to it and turned it on. The cold water stung his abrasions as it splashed against his face and fell to the ground with a pink tint to its transparency.

"Ben, here comes Tojo, hurry up." Holding his guitar over his shoulder by the neck, Tojo tried to coolly swagger across the street, but the oncoming traffic's disregard for his strut forced him to scamper the last few steps. We darted into our work truck. Ben handed me his coffee, and a few scalding drops squirted out the sip-hole, landing on my wrist and resting there, burning until it cooled. He turned on the ignition, and we stared at the red light behind the Wait to Start portion of the control panel. The light seemed to sense our gaze and want to hold our attention for the entire morning. It was early and the truck had only been driven from the office to 7-11 ,■ the engine hadn't warmed up yet. Tojo saw our truck and, now safely on the sidewalk, resumed his swagger in our direction. There was no time,- Ben turned the ignition to start even though the control panel told us to keep waiting. The diesel engine turned over twice and started to rumble, but never caught, and now Tojo was at my passenger side window. "Hey boys, how y'all doin'?" Tojo smiled as he leaned against the side mirror. His teeth were mostly yellow, but a substantial buildup of white gunk separated his teeth from his fleshy red gums. Below and above his oversized smile unkempt gray and black hairs darted in all directions in varying lengths. His sideburns had begun to turn gray, but his long, oily hair combed straight back from his forehead was still black. His head seemed disproportionately big for the long, skinny neck that jutted out from the narrow shoulders beneath his tattered sweater. The bottom of his guitar rested gently on his left boot. The leather of his boot was dry and cracked, and the shoelaces were busted in several places, only knots held them in their eyelets. His stone-washed jeans had become a dingy white where they rested against his thighs, and the seat of his pants was a dark brown from sitting on the ground and benches. "What's up, Tojo?" I said. "Not much, not much, man. 1 tell ya' one thing though, thei's a chill in the air this mornin'." "Listen, Tojo, we got to get to work." Ben didn't look at Tojo as he spoke to

32 him from across the cab, his eyes fixed on the Wait to Start light and his fingers on the ignition, hand cocked back in preparation to turn it again. "1 know, I know, man, I don't want to hold you boys up. One thing, though, Tojo's cold, could one of you boys lend Tojo a dollar for some coffee?" 1 reached in my pocket and grabbed a dollar as the diesel engine rumbled and shook the truck to a start. Startled, Tojo lifted his arm quickly off the mirror. Ben slammed the gearshift into reverse and began to back out. A red Chevy pulled out of its spot behind us, making Ben slam on the brakes and wait for it to get out of our way. 1 gave Tojo the dollar and he nodded in appreciation. 'Thanks, man." Ben backed out of the spot and pulled slowly to the back of a line of three cars waiting to get out of the parking lot onto the main road. "Why did you give him money? He's just a mooch." "I don't know, Tojo's okay." 'This isn't the city, he's not homeless because there are no jobs. He's homeless because he can just mooch off of all the high school stoners who think he's cool because he just showed up one day and he walks around with a guitar over his shoulder. He never even plays." "Alright, alright," 1 said, restraining myself from pointing out that Ben thought Tojo was cool when he was in high school not that long ago.

Turning the nozzle towards the street and watching as the water flow grew more and more narrow until it was just a trickle, a drip, and then nothing, he withdrew a napkin from his back right pocket, tore off the top layer and folded the rest into a neat square. He gingerly dabbed at the cut over his eye with the square, then replaced the napkin into the same pocket that he had taken it from. The other piece he folded into a rectangle and rolled so that it looked like a miniature cigarette. He lodged the tissue into his left nostril to stop the small trickle of blood that still flowed. When he got to the street, he turned and walked towards the bridge at the end of Main Street. He walked past the post office where the couriers in blue were just beginning to load their Jeeps for their rural roots. In the bushes by the front entrance to the library, Tojo saw his guitar, smashed and trampled. The strings still held the guitar together despite its destruction. Tojo picked up the guitar by the neck and flung it into the street. A few pieces of wood splintered off as it slid across the concrete and came to a halt against the curb in front of the Town Hall. Tojo put his hand into his pocket, took out his pick, and put it in the corner of his mouth to suck on. He turned, swung the guitar pick to the other corner of his mouth with his tongue, and started walking out of town.

The bells hanging from the door-hinge both jingled and slapped against the door when Tojo came into the 7-11. He placed his guitar against the magazine rack next to the door and walked towards the pastry and coffee section in the corner

33 opposite the register. From behind the counter, Mr. Stelson watched Tojo in the bowed mirror mounted high in the corner straight-ahead from the counter. He'd been secretly spying on Tojo every time he came into his store since he appeared in town four years ago. He had never stolen a thing, but that didn't convince Mr. Stelson that he wouldn't. He always sat his guitar against the magazine rack as if it were a pet that many of his customers would tie to the entrance and exit signs before entering the store. The guitar looked old because it wasn't shiny anymore, but it was still clean. The grain was smooth and all of the strings were strung tightly and wound to the knobs at the top so that they weren't dangling off the neck. "Will that be all?" asked Mr. Stelson as Tojo placed his sixteen-ounce coffee on the counter. 'That's it," Tojo replied. "One dollar and four cents." Tojo picked four pennies out of the penny tray and placed them in Mr. Stelson's palm along with a one-dollar bill. His long, thick, yellow fingernails grazed the storekeeper's palm before he could close his stubby fingers around the change. A chill went up his spine as he said, "Have a good day" without lifting his eyes from the cash drawer. Tojo poked through the penny tray, and, finding two nickels and a dime, he took them and placed them in his pocket. He looked up to find no eyes accompany- ing Mr. Stelson's friendly utterance. 'Thank you, sir, you have a good day too now." He picked up his coffee with his left hand and turned towards his guitar. Swinging the door open with his right hand, he placed his boot against the bottom of the door to stop it from closing on him. He grabbed his guitar by the neck and walked out of the store. Behind the register, Mr. Stelson tore open a moist Wet-Nap and scrubbed it briskly against his palms and between his fingers as he did several times a day. "You never know where money's been," he'd always say.

Despite the latter stages of dusk, I could still see red and brown leaves covering the parking lot gravel. The engine grumbled peacefully to a halt as Ben removed the key from the ignition and lifted his foot from the clutch. I opened the passenger side door and swung my legs so that they hung out over the gravel while 1 unzipped my work coveralls. The dull and constant pain in my back expressed itself as I hopped out of the truck and leaned to unzip the ankles and pull the pant legs over my scuffed and muddy work boots. A few Pabst Blue Ribbons would ease the pain until it was time to get up again tomorrow morning. I threw my coveralls into the cab, slammed the door, and walked around the dump body flatbed. Ben tossed me the keys. "You're driving home. First pitcher's on me," he said.

34 Tojo slept in the days and walked at night when it started to get cold out. He would stay on Main Street and walk back and forth from the bridge to the grocery store, ducking into doorways when gusts of cold air became unbearable. Occasionally he would see someone walking their dog in the middle of the night and holler "Good evenin'" before they got too close to avoid the embarrassment of startling them as he came upon them. But mostly he walked alone or played his guitar until his fingers became too numb to feel the strings. He saw the work truck in the parking lot next to the Village Tavern and knew that they never locked the cab. Tojo thought that he might take a nap before his weary, wintry night began. When he opened the cab door, he set his guitar against the front driver-side tire and got in quickly. He could feel that the heat was still in the cab from when the engine had been running. He lay down across the seat and covered himself with the coveralls lying there.

Ben saw the guitar leaning against the tire as he stumbled out of the Tavern door. "What the hell?" he mumbled as he walked up to the guitar with his arms placed firmly against his hips to steady his drunken sway. Inside the cab, Tojo woke up to the sound of his guitar split between the tire and Ben's boot. Tojo opened the driver side door above his head and scrambled out of the cab away from the noise of splitting wood. He fell to the gravel on all fours next to where 1 was relieving myself, and, startled, I kicked him in the right arm so that he fell forward, face first into the gravel. Ben ran around the back of the truck with the crushed guitar in hand. He swung his steel-toe into the side of his nose as he was trying to stand up, sending him back to the gravel again. Ben stumbled over Tojo's collapsing body, falling to the gravel himself. Tojo staggered to his feet as Ben lifted himself from the gravel and I stumbled to zip up my fly. Ben grabbed the guitar and chased after him as he ran down Main Street with his hand to one side of his face. In his inebriated state, Ben made it only to the post office before stopping and leaning over to catch his breath. He threw the guitar into the bushes in front of the library and walked back to the truck. "He made me piss my damn pants," I said, buckling my belt and walking around to the driver-side of the truck. "What did I tell you about being nice to him?" Ben said.

35 Our Neighbors Julie Gorio

36 Remembering the Cactus Michael S. Fish

Im all dried up again desert winds are warm but sand stings eyes and skin like the fallen promises days when we thought we knew where to stand under burning suns of youth ignorance and redemption with dying eloquence on our side

37 The First Time Ruth Sysak

She fell into a state of first Wavering through her day, The day she lost Long and hard She wished she ran away, Wished she had built her playhouse stronger, Pinecones, needles thicker, closer To the big house, Before this first time coming Her candles numbered eight. She crossed her legs up To her cleft and waited for her guests... Her mother glanced her to be sure, Then turned away at the sound of "Sixty-three, sixty-four. . One hundred sixty-five," his feet came walking Unheard, Un-hurrying, His fingers soiled in his pockets, Her cream face reaching into the air, smiling She didn't notice Seaweed in his teeth, pimientos in his eyes, Splintered pinecones mixed torn oak leaves Torn fingernails.

38 Trees Elizabeth X. Kliijcje

39 Fall Erin Baggett

There was only the sudden opaque glint of green before it was all basically over and done with. A sudden wink from the blackness bordering the road and then nothing but the absence of it. She wasn't sure if she sucked air and swerved before or after she had hit it. The car itself quietly rolled over the small body and drove on,- she was oddly shocked that it could keep going, that it didn't react more violently of its own accord. She did know Hotel California was playing on the radio and that it was as she belted out the chorus that the accident occurred. Somewhere between the lines such a lovely place and such a lovely face, it happened. And she realized she had completely finished the verse in a horrified whimper. The mild jolt that had shuddered through the car reminded her of the speed bumps in her childhood neighborhood. Her Dad told her the car always bumped at the entrance to the neighborhood because they were passing through a magic force field that sheltered their house and neighborhood. Her mother had nodded and said, "Oh yes, that's absolutely true," so Galen knew it couldn't be. She hadn't heard any crunch or squish but she could imagine, and she did. Her shoulders hunched in guilt and disgust. The initial swerve shimmied the car for about ten feet before she was able to control it. When had she hit the brakes? It must have been one of those impulse reactions because she did not specifically recall doing it, or pulling over to the side of the road.

Her father had read The Wind in the Willows to her as a child, so Galen had to get out and make sure it, the thing lying in its own gunk on the road, wasn't still alive. It lay where she'd hit it, paws gently to the side as if in anxious rest, the sleep of a puppy, or a child at naptime. She looked a little closer, but couldn't make out any rise or fall of the chest area, what she thought might be the chest area, no, this was not a nap. Just a squirrel, just a squirrel, there are so many out there, so many, and what harm if this one was dead, or if she was responsible for it. But she didn't want to have that in her head. That crunching sound, or that jump of the heart, or the smell or color of the thing she killed. She heard the whoosh of tires slowly chewing at the gravel on the shoulder before she turned to see that a truck had pulled up near where she stood. Her heart kicked her in the chest. It was dark and the road was quiet. When she heard the passenger door open in two creaky groans her shoulders involuntarily hunched up and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim skirt. She felt a coin, too big to be a dime, too small to be a quarter, and a gum wrapper, but her keys were still dangling from the ignition, in the safety of the car, swinging gently to the rhythm of an old Beatles song.

40 "Miss? Are you okay? Do you need some help?" The voice cut through the shadowy darkness but she couldn't see the face that peered over the bed of the truck. She had already started to slowly back away to her car, and now she turned to run.

Back in the car she sang aloud angrily, though she didn't know the words, to spite her trembling hands and racing heart. She forced herself to nod her head along too, and to accelerate at a normal pace. The mace that hung from her key chain bounced into her knee, a gentle tapping I told you so to the beat of her mother's voice. "Be Careful" was always the last thing her mother told her, even if she had to chase her out to the driveway or call her back on the telephone. "I trust you honey, I just don't trust the rest of the world" she'd always say. And now all that had led to this, her running stupidly back to her car. She didn't like living in her mother's world of threatening strangers and imminent danger in every action you took. Her father's world was different, a world of pointless smiles and actions with no consequences. That was the world she wanted for herself. Yet when she looked around it was not to smile, but to estimate the peril present. She dragged her skirt further down, to cover her knees. She felt silly for dressing up so much for a first date, but she'd never dated anyone but Mark, and she'd wanted things to be perfect, perfect besides the fact that she was cheating on her boyfriend. The shadows at the edge of the road all looked like creatures about to leap into her path and she found herself harshly braking every few minutes. She squinted forward into the windshield and tried to make out the road in the limited scope of her headlights.

Galen turned into the driveway, her lights illuminating the oil stains on the smooth white surface and the reflective numbers by the front door. She clicked the lights off and climbed out of the car. She forced her key into the lock and pushed it to the right, waiting to hear the retreat of the dead bolt. "Galen! Is that you? Are you home?" Her mother's voice came from the living room. She was lying in the recliner reading the newspaper. The rest of the house sat quietly, empty. "No, Mom, I'm a murdering rapist here to get you." The newspaper lowered a bit, then raised again. The headlines on the paper were something about a war in a country somewhere and gas prices still on the rise. "Galen, that's not funny. How was your date?" Galen shook off her heels and squinched into the recliner next to her mother. Their hips pushed into each other, but they fit perfectly, tightly, into the chair. Galen rested her head on the bony shoulder next to her and shut her eyes. "It was fine." She shifted uncomfortably in her skirt and pantyhose, reaching a toe up to scratch the back of her calf. "What's Mark been up to?" Galen opened her eyes and watched her

41 mother's pupils skim an article, resting on a map of the Balkans briefly. Galen's toenails were too long, and one caught against the thinly woven material, starting a run. She kept scratching. The newspaper crackled as her mother wrestled to turn another page. Galen saw that the tips of her fingers were smudged with a thin gray film. "It wasn't a date with Mark. I went out with a guy from Biology class." "What happened with you and Mark?" "Nothing happened. I just decided I should maybe see other people" "Did Mark know about this?" Galen kept her eyes on the gray fingers. "Honey—" Galen shifted her pelvis up to unwedge herself from the chair. "Sorry, Mom. I've got to get changed. I'm think I'm going to go to bed early tonight." She clomped down the narrow hallway, and into her room. She'd left the window open, and her curtains quivered in the breeze. A book she'd left out on her bed was idly turning its own pages. Her mother must have put down the newspaper, because Galen could hear her from under the bed where she was looking for her sneakers. "Be careful or somebody's going to get hurt." Galen didn't hear if she said anything else,- she had found her sneakers and shut the door to change. A few minutes later she had climbed out the window. The house she shared with her mother sat at the end of the housing development, between the other houses and the woods beyond. Galen paced the border, on the edge between the paved neighborhood and the wooded terrain, watching the thin glow of electric lights in between the grappling slaps of the saplings. Two street lamps half-heartedly lit the weary cul-de-sac, and Galen knew no headlights would further illuminate it. The asphalt looked out of place leading to nothing but woods. She heard the echo of the cold slap of sneaker against pavement reverberate through the night and stood up expectantly.

"How was your dad's house?" Mark's fingers were in her hair, tugging gently, then outlining her jawbone. "Fine." Galen didn't know why she'd accepted the date with David, was even more confused about why she'd actually gone through with it. It had been fun, she guessed, or maybe just different. She had accepted a second date with David when he asked, automatically, though she hadn't expected herself to. Mark had been inevitable for so long, it was surprising to find herself capable of choosing anyone else. "When did they get divorced?" They'd started to walk into the woods and his right hand was tracing infinity in the small of her back. "Who?" Her shoes were coasting through the wet leaves, she watched as one leaf stuck to the double-knotted shoelace. "Your mom and dad." "Oh, well, they're not really divorced, they're just separated. I mean, I

42 guess they've been separated for most of my life, but they aren't divorced for money reasons. Taxes, and all that. How was your day?" She grabbed his hand from her back and held it loosely. "Fine. I have to get back soon though, I have to study for geology. I should have taken biology like you." She let go of his hand to pluck a leaf from an overhead branch, and began to swirl it in her fingers. "It was stupid of you to take it again, but you just couldn't let it go." He grabbed for the leaf and tore it in half. She looked at her empty hand for a second before he wrapped his fingers through hers. "I could do fine, 1 just don't have enough time to study." His body was right next to her now and they stopped walking. He was wearing his baseball hat low so that it shadowed his face. The only thing she could see was his mouth, pulled into a smirk. "You always say that. If 1 hadn't written your papers for you junior year, you'd never have passed English" His hands were on her waist now, and through her jacket she felt them tighten. She put her hands on his chest. He was walking forward and she shuffled her feet to move backwards. "Stop it, I'm gonna trip." She giggled dryly, and tried to squirm out of his grasp. His mouth was frozen in the smirk, and his head didn't bend to see whether there was anything in their path. His hands gripped her tightly and his face was on hers. "Mark, quit it. 1 don't feel like it." Her shoulder hit a tree, and she stumbled backwards a little, and would have fallen if he hadn't been holding her. His cheek was rough and scratched her face,- a shiver crawled up her back. Her fingernails pushed into his shoulders and he yelped a little, but didn't give up his hold.

Mark wiped his hands on his jeans and lay beside Galen. Between falling and landing she must have put her hands behind her to catch herself. There was a scrape running from the base of her pointer finger to the bottom of her palm and a thin red line of blood had already started to ooze out of it. Her face was turned away from him, examining her hand but he could see the downward curve of her mouth and moisture stuck in the corner of her eye. "Sorry. I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean to—" He reached to take a leaf out of her hair, but she brushed him away. "It's fine. Just help me up." Her lips were pulled back and he could see blood collecting in the grooves of her gums, she must have bitten her lip.

The trees were close around her, and though she didn't look, she knew they grew closer as they reached up. When she turned to walk away, he didn't try to kiss her good night. Walking back through the woods, she let her hands slide against the tree trunks, the bark scraping and scratching them more.

43 ■^HHH

Her sneaker still had a leaf tangled in the laces. There was an old Budweiser can in her path and she stopped to look at it. The scrolled writing had mostly been covered with deep rust, the color of rotting. She backed up a little and ran forward to kick it. Her toe tingled through the thin canvas sneaker, but she didn't notice. The can skittered through the bushes and rested at the foot of a tree. She started to walk again, jerking forward when roots caught her toes, grabbing the trees and pushing herself from them. Her breath came in spurts, and she didn't see the thin clouds she trailed behind her.

44 Joga/myself Emily Simmons

45 BflHM^HH^H

The Marriage Ceremony Sasba Silverman

Tbe breast symbolizes tbe essmtial Quality Distinguishing man from woman... Tbe breast is at tbeir center—where inner Qualities lie. —Emamiel Swedenborcj

My father's chest cracked open one night Asleep by mother's side. A rib cold and rigid from round his heart broke Leaving his cage gaping wide.

In moonlight my mother awoke to see His rib floating over her chest She watched it hover then settle at last In her soft and breathing breast.

When sunlight seeped in and my father began Humming a peaceful song My mother gasped to feel her new rib Vibrating softly along.

Her arms pulled him close, and in this embrace She sent out a fragrance of rose Which wound its way through the unlocked cage Finding his soft heart exposed.

Her fragrance infused his organ core Rose and blood enmeshed Now she is in his heart and he o'er her lungs No longer two but one flesh.

46 National Panther Census Rustom Davar

Thousands of sweaty, swirling bodies rushed about me in an ever-increasing anticlimactic frenzy. Lurching helplessly in the deluge, I staggered aside to ask a frantic man with a moustache which was the best train to take to Borivali. He gestured to the other side of the rusty red and yellow iron behemoth that ground out an electromagnetic moan -"Platform Phive, Jaldi, jaldi, take the 4:10 Virar fast." The roar around me gained substance and carried through to the warm sun outside the protective capsule of the station. Darting among the janta I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a steaming fisher-woman. She shrieked something unintelligible at me,- a sloppy wet green plastic basket cradled tensely in her sinewy fat arms. Ignoring the tjaali, I jabbed and poked my way onwards. At 4:1 1 and thirty seconds I managed to grab the iron bar of safety, and hanging halfway out of the majestic people-masher I let out all my breath, held in to avoid the stench, in one long low whistle. The grating jar of induction brakes screeched themselves out of their slumber as the last minute pile-ons wrestled their way into the narrow compartment. I moved into the jammed aisle and waited hopefully for someone to relinquish their place on one of the hardboard yellow benches. The three-seater benches now held five, who though highly uncomfortable, held their places with pride. Cursing my luck, I hung onto the squeaky hand bar that hung suspended from a hook in the train's ceiling. I checked my new Casio watch, with the circling speed timer. I had half an hour. The train ride to Borivali should take me forty minutes. Then I have to take a bus from the station. Amrita had told me that Dr. Ahuja and the other Ahimsaks were going to meet outside Sanjay Gandhi National Park at a quarter to five. I decided to spend the extra fifteen rupees and take an auto-rickshaw instead. It was for a good cause after all - and any way I hadn't been really extravagant that month.

The spluttering auto choked to a dead halt in the dusty parking lot. The smoky haze cleared and, after a short argument over the exact reading on the meter, I reluctantly parted with the monetary equivalent of three Pepsis at the college canteen. Damn it. The line at the ticket counter snaked past me, out of the park gate and spilled onto the narrow pavement outside. A bunch of noisy school girls in blue and white uniforms, red bows tied in their oily plaited hair, were singing a Marathi song which I wasn't familiar with, amidst peals of screeching laughter. I smirked at their foolishness and walked towards the arched entrance with Sanjay Gandhi National Park (Borivali) standing boldly out in dirty green paint. I waited. And waited. And waited. Trust Amrita to be late. Forty-five minutes later three auto-rickshaws pulled up. Out of the first stepped Dr. Ahuja -

47 H^Hi^HB^^^^HH

animal rights activist par excellence. She chewed out some latecomer as she hurried past, her dark brown hair worn in a single plait, trademark cellular phone held to her ear. This small lady could strike terror into the hearts of the most hardened and corrupt official, as she blasted them with details of her highflying 'contacts.' Con- trary to popular belief Dr. Ahuja was not a veterinarian. Her doctorate was in homeopathy, and she had probably never seen the inside of a veterinary school except perhaps to save some dog from the dissecting table. This minor distinction was often lost on the park officials who would gladly let her spray some medicine on a panther's bleeding ear, or nurse whatever ailing animal was suffering in the rank- smelling observation cages. It was more than their superiors would do for these sorry specimens, touted on large billboards outside the park as part of the world famous 'Lion Safari.' 'Lion Safari' consisted of a bus ride through the park, during which you would be lucky if you saw one sick lion licking at the mange that had infected its rump. Well worth it at twenty rupees a head. Beside her was the ever-reliable Dharmesh. He smiled his crooked teeth at me as he clasped his hands tightly together and chatted with a couple of the other Ahimsaks milling about in the sudden confusion. Amrita got out of the third rick and ambled slowly over to me in her familiar cowboy style. Khaki pants hung low on her waist, and the cuffs brushed over Nike sandals as she walked. Her 'ultra-cool' hairstyle consisted of boyish short hair with a solitary long braided 'Chotli' hanging down her back Brahmin style culminating in beads Jamaican style. A true example of Xavier College's fashion elite, she was my link to Ahimsa, never failing to recruit my help for this band of intrepid animal rescuers at the most inconvenient occasions. "Sorry we're late... lost each other between stops at the station... had to re- group."

The dried leaves crunched loudly underfoot as we made our way through to the lookout post in the first sector. The four armed guards keeping step smartly behind us gave me a false sense of security which was further enhanced when we reached the first post, a solid iron scaffold with an enclosed platform towering a safe thirty feet off the ground. Leading the way, the sprightly doctor made her way up the rickety ladder that hung down the side. "Can't panthers climb ladders?" 1 asked nervously of Amrita who returned a pair of rolled eyeballs that answered "No, stupid!" quite clearly. Next up was Dharmesh, followed by two other girls and all four forest- guards. It seemed to be pretty jammed up there. "Amrita, you and Rustom go with those guys - they will take you to the next sector post." So saying the doctor proceeded to check if her cell-phone was receiving a signal in this remote area, and we followed 'those guys.' I hadn't noticed this other group until now, perhaps because they didn't seem to fit in with my notion of professional forest guards, and I had subconsciously dismissed them as mere

48 onlookers. They' were an old watchman with a bamboo nightstick, a skinny swarthy man, and another rather fat man with a pleasant smile under his unkempt moustache.

Tramp, tramp, tramp... we wandered in what seemed to be ever increasing circles for a while. Finally Watchman turned to us and sheepishly admitted that we were definitely lost, but that he had everything under control. He then proceeded to yell intermittently to the glimmering twilight that darted through the dense canopy of leaves "Am OOOhl Koi Hat... Is anyone there?" For some reason this did not make me feel any better, and I could sense that Amrita shared my sentiments. However since we had no better ideas we decided to accompany him in his throaty refrain. Soon our efforts bore fruit as a lone villager with a water can made his way towards us. Watchman and this newcomer conversed in rapid fire Marathi. His back straightened as he spoke and I could tell that the news was good. Yes indeed, we were less than five hundred meters from the post. Watch- man assured us that there had never really been any danger and that he 'was simply in need of clarification.' Neither Fatty nor Skinny seemed to buy this and Fatty went as far as to give a few choice cjaalis.

I was not pleased at all. "This was definitely not something I had bargained for. The clearing was about an acre and half in area. There was a decrepit stone well at one end. On the other end, no more than ten feet off of the ground was an unenclosed grass machan. The tree that supported this platform seemed sturdy enough, and access to the machan was made possible by grooves in the bark that served as handholds and the gentle slope of the trunk. 1 remembered footage I had seen on the National Geographic channel, of a panther carrying a full grown antelope kill, held firmly by the neck in its cruel jaws up steep branchless trees, sometimes jumping up twenty to thirty feet. As we rather easily (a bit too easily for my comfort) ascended to our perch, Watchman proceeded to enthusiastically describe how a panther had carried a three- year-old child away at this spot just the previous week. We were sure to get a glimpse of him tonight. I peered through the surrounding near darkness that had now settled over the forest, and I could see a lone flickering light in the shadowy near distance. That was the village from which the hapless child had wandered to fetch water and, encountering the panther (who had probably come to the well with the same idea) had ended up as a meal for this endangered beast.

My stomach decided to growl. I opened my knapsack and shared out the cucumber sandwiches my mom had packed with Amrita, Watchman, Fatty and Skinny. The egg and ham sandwiches I knew would be my sole property - I was the only non-vegetarian in Ahimsa. 49 Besides the obvious fact that most animal rights activists abstain from meat, quite a few of the Ahimsaks I had met thus far were Jains - they were forbidden from killing any living creature by religion. I admired Jainism, a peaceful religion with good sound tenets. However, it did seem to me that they went to extremes on occasion. For example, most Jains don't eat onions, carrots and potatoes, since these are the roots of plants and eating the root necessitates taking the life of the plant. This leaves them with a rather boring diet in my opinion. It is not uncommon to see some devout Jains walking around Bombay with surgical masks on their faces. The logic behind this rather peculiar-looking mode of dress is that they do not inhale and thus kill any germs that might be floating around and minding their own business. I reflected on these points as I gulped down the remains of my last ham sandwich. Amrita was no Jain, in fact she was a Bengali, a species of Indian known for their affinity for all seafood almost as much as the Parsis are known to eat a lot of meat. Of course, the Parsis are also known to eat a lot in general, drink plentifully, get drunk occasionally and basically have a jolly good time. It was virtually impos- sible for a true-blooded Parsi like me to give up any of the fleshy indulgences, and it was equally impossible for Amrita to give up eating fish. She had surprisingly succeeded in giving up all other forms of meat, and hadn't eaten mutton or chicken for over a month. Her argument in keeping her marine diet intact was that she had never had an emotional attachment with a fish.

The dead silence of the forest is the noisiest that I have ever heard. Fatty, Skinny and Watchman had dozed off and Amrita relaxed with her eyes closed. I wasn't as comfortable. Since the guides had gallantly taken the innermost part of the machan where most of the nice soft grass lay, I decided to take the outermost vulnerable edge, leaving Amrita the safety of the middle ground. I had a solid poky branch sticking into the small of my back through the strapped bamboo sticks that were the floor of our roofless shelter. Fatty snored like a strangled tractor, and he would suddenly sit up and cry 'BagbiBacbao...Panther! Help!' This would wake the other two clowns who shone their flashlights wildly around, blinding me until they saw that Fatty had resumed snoring. On the fourth occurrence Skinny slapped Fatty hard on his resonating belly. Fatty was sure that Mr. Panther had finally gotten him and let out a shriek that would curdle the blood of a forest banshee. After a lot of severe cursing they settled down. The dark clearing that lay before me had hundreds of cautious shadows playing a deadly game with the bright light of the half moon. Sneakers dangled over the protective edge of my tree fortress, shy of the cavernous blackness that lay below and beyond them. My feet tingled as blue-gray spotted feline specters violently gashed at my heels before they faded, eviscerating into halos of light.

50 A band of crickets started playing their sad song, accompanied by a low wailing that came from the direction of the village. The hairs that covered my clenched fists stood in ovation, as a cold shudder passed through me. The wailing was probably that of the mother, or aunt or near relative of the departed child, beseeching the spotted forest god to bring back what he had unlawfully taken to be his own. Or so I imagined. A giant bat with a wingspan of at least four to five feet drifted lazily, casting his shadow over us as he obliterated the moon. The others felt his presence too, and they sat up to gaze in awe at this gorgeous cave-dweller, circling peacefully in the open sky. I could smell the night,- its earthy aroma wafted warm and fresh, grazing my cheeks softly and rustling the leaves in sinister percussion. The falling leaves, invisible to me in the bluish-black branched back- ground, crunched like the footsteps of hundreds of hungry nocturnes searching for reality of form in my nervous mind. The crunching got louder and more precise. It seemed to be circling near us. Fatty was expounding Hai Rams and Hare Krishnas by the dozen in breathy undertones. Skinny looked like he was going to be sick. Watchman held his flashlight in an iron grip, ready to point it like a pistol if necessary. A branch snapped like a firecracker, and Fatty let out a low moan. I felt my stomach muscles tensing. The crickets had gone silent, the bat fled to his tree hollow wherever it was. Even the wailing had stopped. Just the low steady tempo of deliberate direction crunched, crashed, boomed. Watchman became alert as his senses honed in on the source, and when I could take the tension no longer, he let out a loud cry.. .of relief. Our hospitable friend with a water can had thought we might be thirsty out here in the dark.

Morning dawned and with it the clearing returned to innocence. Bravely I started to descend in the cool clear light, and promptly fell off the tree. All the others seemed to find this extremely hilarious. The clearing rang out with their hooting calls. I lay on the dewy-wet rocks, my forearms scraped and trickling warm blood, and 1 laughed. We made our way through the village: a couple of hutments, built by thrashing together fallen branches, a small bonfire, an old bent woman in a purple damp sari thrashing a rug, and a small naked child chasing a rooster. No one bothered to acknowledge our presence. The 25'1' National Panther Census, Borivali National Park, Sector A team passed by their doors unnoticed.

51 Collapse Allison Schroeder

I didn't ask you to come here So don't look at me like that You lonely beggar Walking away with my shadow in your pocket Leaving me with my dusty palms to cry over.

1 didn't ask you to beg me So get off your knees—you are not my lover. I will not wear your dream around my neck Dangling its raw hues like some tarnished jewel. I will not wrap you in my words at dusk, because Your words battered me at twilight.

1 don't know you. I will not pick you up If you break on the sidewalk. You broke me on the sidewalk.

I didn't ask you to follow me Just because you lost your own footprints. 1 don't think of you unless its midnight And the trees are grating against the window.

1 won't think of you if you stop coming, If your voice stops sneaking in my window at night And laughing. I didn't ask you to come here. Now look at me: porcelain on cement.

52 Female Outline Leigh Sacks

53 you're the top Joshua J. Wyatt

His cigarette tasted terrible. He can remember times when they were all that was keeping him from tearing someone's head off,- but now they were useless. Just an addiction he told everyone, "1 don't know why 1 do it, I just do." He realized that it was a bullshit excuse, but when the rage was upon him he didn't particularly care. The smoke that filled his mouth now was not the creamy, refreshing, intoxicat- ing blend that had once romanticized his addiction, it was shit. It stung the back of his tongue and abused the gaping void left by his now jarred tonsils. The white tip of the filter had gradually turned a charming brown, while the filter itself was compacting between his fingers. He always hated the smell that it left on him, the smell that he couldn't recognize when he was young, the smell that he felt obligated to wash from his hands every time he touched a filthy fucking cigarette. Wool suits and sweaters were left with an indelible scent at least twenty times a day, and he was far too lethargic now to take them to the dry cleaners. The smoke that filled his lungs would also deprive him rest as it clogged those very organs with thick and foul tar. His cigarette tasted terrible. A slow, unassuming drizzle was making for a soggy cigarette break, but he didn't particularly care. He was tired after two hours of mind numbing phone calls to west coast clients, eager to sign at the "x" and never speak to him again. His office. Two months ago he had tried to appease the senior partners by installing a "Smokeeter" to consume the smell, so that he wouldn't have to leave the building to smoke, but they didn't seem to like the idea of cutting into the oak paneling for the mere purpose of avoiding an elevator ride. At board meetings everyone would deliberately seat themselves away from him because of his ashtray cologne. Now he was huddling outside, alone, allowing the day's moisture to amplify the smell ten fold. He had left his raincoat on the coat rack in his office, so he had pulled up the lapels on his jacket to attempt to keep his neck dry. The pathetic but earnest rain wormed its way under his glasses frames and onto his lenses, making the canyon of buildings look all the more deplorable. As things stood now, he wasn't even allowed to stand beneath the building's portico, because "we don't want our clients to have to breathe your filth." As things stood now, he was a leper, cowering in the shitty drizzle watching passersby silently judge his disgusting habit. The cigarette was burning away as slowly as the day. His application to the Central Park West co-op was still being processed, so he had to live in the otherwise dank apartment that had served as home since graduate school. He had awoken to a cocktail party of flies buzzing over and on his face, he batted at them with his pillow but they had been too quick. The timer on the coffee machine had gone off sometime far too early in the morning and the automatic shutoff had left him with cold, gritty mud. The best part of waking up sure as hell wasn't this shit. The shower was entirely disappointing as the calcium clogged showerhead spat at his weary body. His commute was marked with a general malaise that attacked him on

54 rainy days. He coughed and hacked in the subway car, leading the pretentious little shits from NYU to move away from him, even if it meant that they had to stand and be jerked around by the insanity of the ancient track. He tried to smile at them, a subtle subway apology, but they sneered and stared off into space as though something terribly philosophical was happening in the darkness of the tunnel. When he arrived at work, the elevators were being serviced so he had to trudge up fifteen flights of stairs into the freezing cold air conditioned office. The day was fucking slow and shitty. His last drag caused the filter to wilt in his hand, indicating that he was most certainly done. He dropped the dying husk onto the wet pavement, not noticing that it had instead fallen onto his brand new shoe. What remained of the burning ember began to sizzle on the black finish, but he didn't notice. He just waited to reenter the now busying line of traffic that was passing before him, heads down, hands stuffed into pockets. Soon thereafter the smell of his burning shoe overtook his nostrils and he recoiled against the cold, wet marble of the building to see if swearing would solve the problem. He pried his shoe from his foot, trying to keep his dry sock from touching the wet, foul sidewalk His balance was overpow- ered by his rage, and his shoeless foot plummeted to the ground where street filth would join his socked foot. The cigarette had left a mark on the toe of his shoe, no one would notice,- no one else but him Engrossed in the yellowish brown burn stain that had appeared on his shoe, he had little time to notice that the sidewalk was rapidly draining into the street He didn't notice that men and women alike were screaming, he didn't notice that he should be moving. Something fell from the sky and crashed not three feet from his person. Something warm and wet splashed thickly onto his face, neck and shirtfront. His glasses went dark as he dropped his shoe to see just what had decided to violate his face. He removed his glasses to wipe them off on his handkerchief, but the wetness only left a less dark smear all over the lenses He could make out a dark, drippy mass in front of him on the sidewalk, but without his glasses he couldn't quite make out what it was. He could hear terrible screams coming from somewhere close by, piquing his curiosity and anxiety. At last a clear spot appeared on his lenses, so he quickly tossed the plastic frames back onto his face. He reached a spongy hand up to his face and brought his fingers to where he could see them. Red. He looked down at his white shirt front. Red. He looked beyond his person to see what had caused such a stir. A sea of blood had gathered at his feet, slick and horrible. He stooped and placed his hands on his knees above the ugliness that lay before him and he began to gag. He heard someone rushing toward him screaming something almost incoher- ent. Hands reached into his ribs and tore him from his feet. He hit the pavement hard. His left temple was split open, his glasses splintered, his own blood waltzed with that which had so rudely interrupted his pathetic attempt at solace. Nile and stale coffee gushed up his esophagus and leaked from his mouth. Someone, no one in particular, scooped him up under his armpits and began to drag him down the street, leaving behind the only excitement he'd seen in weeks. An orderly took his broken glasses from his face, and was trying in vain to

55 tape them together in the waiting area. The intern who was suturing his face wasn't terribly good at what he was doing, the needle was stabbing through skin that it didn't need to touch. The stitch was loose, blood was getting in his eyes, the sweaty novice before him was resting one arm on his head to get the right angle to throw the stitch. The doctor was muttering something about trauma specialists and crisis counseling. He was going to miss his lunch appointment, and despite the fact that he wasn't at all hungry, there was a principle violated here. How on Earth was he going to explain all of this to the senior partners? "I went out for a cigarette and push came to shove and I ended up in the hospital," would result in nothing but comments deriding his smoking habit. He didn't have time for trauma specialists, he knew that they would just sugar coat everything with touchy feelyness. He needed to get back to his desk, where he could do his work and forget about this. The doctor tied off his suture and told him to sit pat. An hour and a half later the orderly returned with his patched glasses. 'They're not perfect, but you can probably see enough to get home." One of the lenses had a spider's web fracture in it, and the other had clearly been popped back into the frame. They were covered with 3M Scotch tape©, scratchy and awkward. He looked down at the terribly marred face of his Movado,- 2.00. Where the Christ did the past three hours go? Had he been waiting in this dank, green tiled hospital for that long? He looked at his shirt front, it was crusty and rigid from the blood and bits of person that had splattered all over his cigarette break. He scraped at it with a fingernail, only to reveal more layers of filth. His shoe was somewhere on the sidewalk, perhaps now gracing the elegance of a hobo's foot. His sock was ripe with squalid sidewalk water while his remaining shoe seemed to be laughing at the bare foot. He edged himself off of the exam table and pushed the curtain aside. A nurse gave an abrupt reproach, demanding that he wait for his insurance papers to be processed. Trying to maintain composure, he removed a crumpled business card from a silver business card case in his jacket pocket and insisted that the hospital bill him by mail. He had no time to sit around while these kids dragged ass, no time at all. The car from the service took far too long to get to him at the hospital. A driver he didn't recognize was asking him a myriad of inane questions about the incident, to which he could only reply "I don't know" over and over. He didn't know and he didn't particularly care,- he wasn't one for unpleasantness. He had to get back for a late afternoon meeting, but he had forgotten what it was about. Lucy would fill him in later, he was sure of it. He looked down at his shirt front and tried to brush the blood stains off. He looked around the car through the kaleidoscope that his glasses had become. The black leather interior that smelled new, even though the car was clearly five years old. The little silver window controls. The phone jacks specially installed for the firm. The tint peeling at one corner on the rear passenger's side window. He sneezed roughly and reached for his handkerchief. Cone. He felt his pack of cigarettes in his pocket, seemingly intact. Disregarding the "No Smok- ing" plaques elegantly placed throughout the car's interior, he lit up a cigarette, leaned back, and closed his eyes. It tasted good.

56 Sketch #2 in Toulouse, France An Truong

57 Secret Revenge Hans Ramel

Fire strikes through blue eyes with a touch of green As you silently shiver on the gray stone floor Not a sound comes over once seductive lips Consumed by licking flames Violently released energy tears Oval freckled face apart Leaves ash gray emptiness behind Air trembling from heat above you Shifts in bright colors like Sun stained with rust, blood on spring leaf Beautiful in a weird way Like you Used to be Before backstabbing me Tears fall on twisted face below Drops of hatred, of bitterness One out of embarrassment No regrets No more crying when hatred arrives This fits into your image of me Justifying unjustifiable behavior But you are no longer here to humiliate I relax feel good satisfaction I think I'll burn all my photos of you

58 The Secret Michelle Meyn

59 Desire George Riley

Desire can startle with its soft touch Just as lions, whom the pilgrim, huddled, Fails to hear circling his fire until They have brought their radius so close He can hear the thumps of foot pads On the packed sand, when they prowl in the dark.

60 The Mirror Joyce Sprague

I can hear his voice as if he is right here in the room with me. "You must learn how to take care of the surgery site yourself, Joyce. You need to change the bandage every day until the wound heals from the inside out." 1 want to do what the surgeon asks. How hard can it be to change the bandage every day? 1 stand in front of the bathroom mirror so that 1 can watch as I take care of myself. I remove the bandage. The tumor was large, but was it that large? The dark, reddened circle on my breast is about the same diameter as a Coke can. Gauze is buried in the wound. 1 cannot tell how deep. It is thick with blood, my blood. I calm myself by taking a deep breath. Watching the mirror, I begin again. I find what I think is the end of the strand of dressing and begin to pull, slowly at first and then faster, watching my face turn pale in the mirror as the pain from my breast reaches my brain. I stop, frozen, unable to continue. I am ajraid. I call to my husband, "Walt, where are you? Please, help me!" My husband hears and he comes to me. Without asking, he takes over the procedure. Pulling...Pulling...Pulling. This time I do not watch the mirror,- instead, I watch his face. The gauze is now out, but I cannot read his expression. He is wearing what some would call a 'poker face.' His facial features remain neutral - his mouth neither smiling nor frowning. I watch for a flicker in his blue eyes or a furrow of his light brow, something that will telegraph his reaction. Is he shocked by what he sees? Is he gratified that it is healing? His face seems pale, but whatever he is thinking or feeling is lost to me. I ask him to tell me how bad it looks. His eyes meet mine but he does not answer. Slowly 1 turn to look in the mirror. The blood leaves my face and travels to my toes in one swift rush. My knees buckle and I think I am going to faint. My husband supports me as I turn away into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. As the trembling of my body begins to ebb, he gently turns me back to the mirror. He knows I must see this. "Look at it clinically," he says. "What do you see?" I look at my breast again, imagining that 1 am dissecting one of the fetal pigs in my college Biology lab. 1 see a hole deep enough to put my fist into. I see tiny globules of yellow fat. I see bloodied strings of what must be muscle, nerve fibers, and sinew. The surgeon says it will heal. 1 will be left with an indentation in my breast, but at least I have my breast. It's not so bad. It could be worse, much worse. 1 am trying to be brave. Everything is going to be all right. I try to smile. Walt is helping me bandage the wound when the phone rings. It is the surgeon. "Can you come to my office?" he asks. "We found cancer."

61 Distaff Anya Morrison

62 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

ERIN BAGCETT (01) is a senior English major with minors in Writing and Philosophy. Her favorite things include Big Gulps, verisimilitude, and cod nuggets from Servo. Upon graduation she plans on expanding her personal space.

LUKE BALLMAN ('01) is a political science major. In May he tentatively plans to begin thinking about looking for directions.

RUSTOM DAVAR was born in Delhi, India, but was brought up in Bombay (now known as Mumbai) in the Zoroastrian faith. An avid fan of Star Wars, Rustom originally planned to be a Jedi knight, but a near death experience involving a light saber and a tight rope caused him to see that his vocation lay in the relatively safe field of creative writing Rustom's passions in life are the quest for immortality, the quest for a Utopian anarchy, his dog Brandy, his family and his girlfriend. He enjoys writing, photography, and the theatre.

SARAH DOHERTY is a senior English major from Newtown, Connecticut. After graduation she is returning for a ninth semester in order to complete her secondary education minor by student teaching English in a local high school. After receiving her teaching certificate, Sarah is planning to attend graduate school for American Literature, and eventually wants to be a high school teacher or college professor of English.

MICHAEL S. FISH is a Senior English Major and Writing Minor. Being a native of Ridgefield, Connecticut as well as holding strong ties to California he finds himself a bit displaced at times. However, a powerful lust for the ocean, a respect and love of the written word, and an infatuation with the American Dream keep his world interesting and constantly in motion. Most importantly, it is his family and friends that continually provide him with the soil in which his seeds can grow.

JULIE GORDON (01) is a Political Science major with a minor in Sociology.

COLLEEN HUBBARD is an English major with minors in both Writing and Classics. A poet since birth, she enjoys writing about mellifluousness, perfection, and the gastrointestinal disorders of fish. After graduating, she plans to establish a benevolent dictatorship in the South Seas. 1 10% kickass!!

BROOKE HUTT ('01) is a Biology major and an English and Visual Arts Studio minor. She loves to draw, work with chick embryos, sculpt, and analyze literature. Following graduation, Brooke hopes to pursue a career in Biology, which will most likely involve Veterinary School.

KELLY KERVICK (01) is an English major from Worcester, MA.

63 ELIZABETH X. KLIGCE ('01) is a Visual Arts Studio major. She enjoys practicing and teaching various martial arts, keeping busy on campus, traveling, reading, sports, nature, and learning random skills and languages. After graduation, she will decide what she is doing after graduation.

MELYNDA MCBETH is a junior English and Philosophy double major from Highland, Maryland. She has been writing since she was a little girl, and always finds comfort in a pillow and a good book, since her classes thus far have taught her to disbelieve in the existence of substantial reality. Her poem, "Envision," will also appear in Nature's Echoes, a poetry anthology due in stores next fall as well as on the c.d. 'The Sound of Poetry". After Gettysburg, she hopes to go to law school and, providing she makes it out alive, become a criminal prosecutor of domestic abuse cases.

MICHELLE MEYN ('02) is a Studio Arts Major and Physics Minor from Westfield, NJ. Active on campus, Michelle has been a Tour Guide, a Physics TA and Art Editor of The Mercury. She is a member of Alpha Delta Pi Sorority, the Art Society, the Spectrum, Habitat for Humanity and participates in Intermural Volleyball and Soccer. She spent last semester abroad in Florence, Italy where she studied Art and Architecture. Her prints were made using a variety of tools, including burnishers, acids, and needles on metal plates. Michelle's summer plans include an Architecture Internship and a month's trip to the Czech Republic where she will study more advanced Printmaking.

ANYA MORRISON ('03) is a Japanese Studies and Political Science major from Philadelphia, PA. As well as photography, she likes loud music, 80s movies, antique shopping, and vegetarian cooking. After college and grad school, Anya hopes to run away to New Zealand and raise kiwis.

TOMMY PEARCE ('01) is an English major and a Creative Writing minor. In addition to writing, he enjoys fly-fishing, canoeing, hiking, and traveling. Tommy is also a member of the lacrosse team, and he hopes to attend graduate school for creative writing next fall.

GEORGE R1LEY is a recent transfer and first year student to Gettysburg College. George enjoys long walks in the park, knitting, playing croquette, creating martini- dry witticisms, and licking the dew off of succulent pomegranates. George calls the birthplace of the Slinky, Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania, his home. He is a 2000 grad of the lonely, all-male boarding school, The Kiski School, of Saltsburg, Pennsylva- nia. George is a political-science and history double major, and plans to feed from the trough of the fountain of knowledge for as long as humanly possible.. .or until his Dad cuts him off.

ASHLEY PISANICK ('02) is a Management major with a French minor. She is also the owner of the cutest dog in the world, a very large St. Bernard named Charlie, and loves animal print, Elvis, and wearing flip flops. Ashley is involved in Art Society, Dance Ensemble, acting, being one of Chuck Garner's 7 angels, and playing Nintendo with Apple 1 12. She has been a lifeguard for the past two summers and plans to get an internship for this summer. Ashley doesn't have any definite plans for after graduation yet,- she just knows that she's planning on living in the DC/Baltimore area with two of the coolest girls ever!

HANS RAMEL ,23, is attending Gettysburg College for one year as a guest-student from Lund University in southern Sweden. Hans is not only a third year political science major but also a Swedish Army Second Lieutenant, a linebacker and a part of the Lund Student Theater ensemble. After graduating Hans plans to return to America as a political correspondent for a Swedish newspaper.

LAURA ROOT hails from the mystical land of upstate New York. It was in Rochester, actually, where Miss Root experienced her first mullet sighting in December of '99. Since then, Miss Root has spent far too much time exploring mullethead-infested locations, including Walmart, Cranny's Motel, and the Musselman Library. Upon graduation, Miss Root plans to become either a teacher or professional mullethunter, jobs that will help her amass enough of a fortune to fund her acquisition of the world's leading Norfin troll collection.

LEIGH SACKS ('03) is an HES major.

ALLISON SCHROEDER ('02) is an English major and also recently developed a special major in Children At-Risk: Theory and Practice. Outside of class, she works at the Center for Public Service as a Literacy Program Coordinator and volunteers with at-risk youth. She enjoys mint chocolate chip ice cream cones, the number nine, and Pat Sajak.

SASHA SILVERMAN (AKA Sushi) is the second daughter of Ray and Star, for whom she wrote her poem, and sister of six. She loves performing her special penny trick (ask her to show you), and drawing portraits. Highlights of her year include swiping cards with Esther at Servo and playing on the Gettysburg Ultimate Frisbee team.

EMILY SIMMONS (02) is an undecided major from Coopersburg, PA.

JOYCE SPRAGUE (a hopeful member of the class of 2003, having taken her first class at Gettysburg in 1986), is a Classical Studies major, and a member of its national honorary society. She works as an Administrative Aide for the Women's Studies Program, and has raised two daughters, one of whom graduated from Gettysburg College. In her spare time, she serves as a Reach to Recovery volunteer for the American Cancer Society, helps her husband build their new house, and tries to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. A transplanted southerner, Joyce still calls North Carolina "home."

RUTH SYSAK is a senior English major with a Creative Writing minor. She enjoys dreaming about her mini-scooter during nap o'clock. After leaving Gettysburg College, Ruth intends to hit the slopes with her best friend of forever, Betsy. AN TRUONG is a Management major with a minor in Visual Arts, Economics and Spanish. She has studied Art in Toulouse, France, and studied abroad in Seville, Spain. In her free time, she enjoys painting en plein air and creating sculptures and ceramics. In addition, she is a member of Dance Ensemble and Alpha Delta Pi.

DAN WILLIAMS is a world traveler, accomplished breakdancer, and an enemy of the state in 17 foreign countries. He currently resides in New Jersey.

JOSHUA J. WYATT (01) is an English major from Huntington, CT. The Mercury wishes to acknowledge:

Our faculty advisors Lynda Cockle, Kate Brautigam and the IKON staff

Our Mercury Prize judges

Robert Frederickson Fiction J.D. Dolan Nonfiction Oliver de la Paz Poetry John Winship Art

CONTRIBUTORS

Erin Baggett Luke Ballman Rustom Davar Sarah Doherty Michael S. Fish Julie Gordon Brooke Hutt Kelly Kervick Elizabeth X. Kligge Melynda McBeth Michelle Meyn Anya Morrison Tommy Pearce Ashley Pisanick Hans Ramel George Riley Laura Root Leigh Sacks Allison Schroeder Sasha Silverman Emily Simmons Joyce Sprague Ruth Sysak An Truong Dan Williams Joshua J. Wyatt