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THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

1794

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Editors Editor-in-Chief: Mitchell Esterle Graphic Designer: Baxter Moneypenny

Senior Editor: Sam Lewis

Junior Editors: Michael Allen, Matt Hess, Austin Krueger

Faculty Advisor: Rebecca Reisert

Special thanks to Sam Melchior for Photography

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Table of Contents

On Madness Jordan Blair 4 Death of the Individual Doug Krauth 5 A Disinherited Race Jon Fish 6 Fire Sam Lewis 14 Leaning Robbie Goltz 15 Nolin Lake Jordan Blair 16 My Goal Treyveon Percell 23 Gray’s Tragedy Mike Allen 24 This Happens Trevyeon Percell 31 American Soldier Donny Hyman 32 Ride Matt Effinger 35 The Kaleidoscope Nicholas Spoelker 36 On Preparation Treyveon Percell 41 Eldertown Matthew Hess 42 Stork from New York Sam Lewis 45 Disturbing the Peace Dean Mock 46 On Struggle Alanson Stumler 48 Experiment on Language Doug Krauth 49 Fleeting Robbie Goltz 50 Guess Alanson Stumler 52 Nimbus Rising Anthony Epifano 53 Brothers Sam Melchior 56 A Day in Manhattan Cedric Miller 57 Aaron Landon Hagan 60 On Patience Anthony Epifano 65 On My Own Austin “Freddy” Krueger 66 Bee from Beijing Sam Lewis 69 Dark Tendencies Robbie Goltz 70 Speech Zack Amato 71 Title the Musical Blake and Amato 73 Water in Prison Mike Allen 81 Desire Matthew Hess 82 Rescued Baxter Moneypenny 83 Ode to Elephant Sam Lewis 84 Deep Within the Ground Mitchell Esterle 85 Sunshine at Night Treyveon Percell 86 On Our Legacy Sam Melchior 87 Stalker Baxter Moneypenny 88 4

On Madness Jordan Blair

Lord Byron wrote, “If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.” All of you reading this can relate to this in some way. You might not write to prevent yourself from going mad specifically, but I’d be willing to bet most of you find writing relaxing and therapeutic. This quote strongly rings true in my life. If I don’t write down my thoughts for a few days, I find they get all jumbled up in my head and I get overwhelmed as a result. Writing down my thoughts and concerns helps me find clarity in my life, and it also is a great tool for making tough decisions. When I feel overwhelmed and stressed, I turn to writing. By the time I’m done, I feel much better without exception. Dear God, help us to keep in mind the gift of writing when we feel alone and troubled. Let us see all that it can do for us. Amen.

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Death of the Individual Doug Krauth

It isn’t a room, where I am, it has no walls. It is blank nothingness. Well, except me. Except the mirror. I’ve been here for a while now, floating in the ashen haze of nothingness and gazing into myself. Sound has failed. I guess I’m dead. I guess I was alive. I have dark-russet hair that curls in ways that probably should annoy me. My eyes are green. I am of average build. I know all this by the mirror. But this is fading. As I stare into myself, I notice loss. My eyes are grey. My hair is black. My skin’s a pallid hue, not sun-brushed peach. I notice a dimming of light. I notice less. I stare back at me and we both seem sadder. I can barely distinguish my pale skin from the graying light surrounding me. Sound returns with the bubbling of invisible mud. Though, I stare only at myself, I feel the imminence of someone else. Behind me grow hideous monsters from the smoky nothingness; Beasts that I know not the words with which to describe. I have lost the ability to fear. I assume I had such talent. I stare into my disappearing self as the fiends rip my body to pieces. I do not scream. I cannot scream. I become nothing.

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A Disinherited Race

By Jon Fish

The artificial lights glowed dimly in the room above the street. A man of some thirty or forty years sat at a small desk and slowly but eagerly unwrapped a medium- sized parcel, stopping now and then to rest his arthritic hands. The man continued to unwrap. One strip of paper. Another. And there it was. Silas Marner it said in dark, embossed print. Well, it didn’t say it necessarily. It wasn’t like the soundviewers or the talkers. It was called a book. The man knew that, but few people did. In fact, few people could actually hear the book say Silas Marner. It didn’t actually make a sound, but when the man looked at it, a sound came into his head. Reading, it used to be called. And this man could still do it. “Ah,” he sighed as he extracted the book from its tight cardboard packaging. He brushed invisible dust off the cover and set it upon the table. “Silas Marner,” he said aloud. This would be an interesting book. He had a feeling. The man was called Harc. As a boy, his name had been Harvey Colson or something like that, but as he grew up, it became simply Harc. No one had called him by two names in at least thirty years. Not like this Silas character. Harc thought for a moment about what that name would become. Silam, Siler, or just Sim or Smar. Yes, Smar, it would be. So short, so easy to speak, it would save so much time. Harc remembered when his Depart had released statistics about the average time saved just from saying a one-part instead of a two-part name. According to his good friend Thu, the shortening of the name had saved at least six years over the course of one’s life. The statistic seemed abnormally high, but then again, Harc had not lived during the days of the two names. He had merely read about them. In fact, once he had read about a writer with five names. Five! Harc could barely think of such a waste of time. This fellow’s friends must have thrown away a whole year of life on him alone. John. That is what he would be called. For a second, Harc thought about removing the redundant h within his mind, to save time, but then he remembered that no one could read it; no one’s time could be wasted there. Now, though, he had something to do. This book, Silas Marner, would keep him occupied for the next week or so. It was a hefty book, a gift from his friend Morg who worked in the Sub Depart Finder in the Depart Old. Morg was an expert Finder, and he had promised Harc that whenever he found a book that he hadn’t read he would send it directly to him for study. However, while Harc learned a lot from these books, he read them mostly for enjoyment. He turned open the leather-bound book and flipped past the first few pages of notes and copyrights. When he found “PART 1, CHAPTER 1,” he stopped his heedless flipping and resettled the reading spectacles on his face. CHAPTER 1, he read. IN THE DAYS WHEN THE SPINNING-WHEELS HUMMED BUSILY IN THE FARMHOUSES—AND EVEN GREAT LADIES, CLOTHED IN SILK AND THREAD-LACE, HAD THEIR TOY SPINNING-WHEELS OF POLISHED OAK—THERE MIGHT BE SEEN IN DISTRICTS FAR AWAY AMONG THE LANES, OR DEEP IN THE BOSOM OF THE HILLS, CERTAIN PALLID UNDERSIZED MEN… Harc stopped. “Pallid.” He did not recognize the word. With the 7

unexpected muscle memory of one who had done something many times before, Harc spun his body in his chair and reached for a thick book off a low-hung shelf. Across the book was printed the long word Dictionary. An unnecessarily long word by normal standards. The soundviewers that told one what a word meant were called dicters. Much easier on the ear and tongue. “Pallid, pallid,” Harc whispered to himself as his index finger strolled through pages of text. “Here it is,” he said, pressing his finger down against a specific block of text. “Pallid: pale; faint or deficient in color; wan.” Harc thought about the words for a moment until he grasped the meaning of “pallid.” Shelving the dictionary once again, he turned back to Silas Marner, but was interrupted by the sound of a door crashing open. In another moment, the door leading to Harc’s study burst open, and through it came a streak of red. Rone, Harc’s eight-year-old son. Rone charged around the room a bit, making fake airplane noises, before he crashed into his father’s lap. “What are you doing, Da?” the shock of red hair asked innocently. “Watching the, um, um…” “Book,” Harc helped him. “Yeah, brook.” “No,” Harc responded. “Book. Bee, o—” He stopped. His son couldn’t read. Spelling wasn’t of any use to him. “Book,” he repeated again, but his son had stopped listening. A pair of goggles was suddenly strapped around his head. An eyeviewer. Two pieces of a soundviewer sat tight on the sides of the boy’s head where the goggles connected, covering his ears. “P’choo! p’choo!” Rone said in a child’s crude imitation of guns going off. Harc forced himself to laugh. “That’s right son. You’re a real airman.” Rone continued his simulation. The soundviewers were blocking out his father’s voice. In another moment, the boy had darted back out of the study, his wingspan tautly outstretched like the wings of an airplane. Harc smiled weakly, although he didn’t know for whom. He turned back to the book. …CERTAIN PALLID UNDERSIZED MEN, WHO, BY THE SIDE OF THE BRAWNY COUNTRY-FOLK, LOOKED LIKE THE REMNANTS OF A DISINHERITED RACE.

Harc worked at the Depart Old, which used to be called something else. The Department of Older Works, Harc remembered. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it had always been the Depart Old, and Harc’s way of rewording things had just gotten such a time- consuming idea in his head. Harc’s specific area was the Sub Depart Sound-Art. It was his job to read written things and turn them into soundscenes. Written things could only be enjoyed by a select few, but everyone could enjoy the omnipresent soundscene. Soundscenes played out of soundviewers, just like eyescenes played out of eyeviewers. Harc’s own son never actually listened to his father’s soundscenes: all books and magazines and bits of messages called letters. Many of Harc’s soundscenes were put in storage, great shelves in the Depart Arch, never to be taken down again. Harc’s friend, though, who shared an office with him, did read commercial soundscenes. His name was Fworn. Fworn had a beautiful voice, half-male and half-female, that pleased the ear 8

so. That is why he had the privilege of reading things that people actually listened to. Harc’s voice was gruff and slightly off-putting. His would never do as a commercial voice. “Hello, Fworn,” Harc mumbled as the young man walked into the office. He had a habit of walking in late. “What work do you have today?” “Another script” Fworn shrugged. “Another airman script. I don’t know what’s with these people, always want to hear about airplanes. I don’t think I can read all the fwooshes on here. I’ll need Tane’s help.” Tane worked in the Sub Depart Synth Sound. “What about you, Harc? Anything good?” Harc smiled down at the stack of papers on his desk. “A little essay. A man named Bertrand Russell.” Bruss. “I think I’ll need my dicter for this one. No man can be expected to know some of these words—” Fworn had drifted off to his cup of coffee, stirring in the cream with utter thought. Harc returned to his papers. Encomium, he read. He tapped the side of his soundviewer. “Encomium,” he spoke into the set’s little microphone. “No results found,” the dicter said into his ear. “En-coam-ee-um,” Harc said again, clearly. “No results found,” the dicter repeated. “Useless,” Harc muttered. “Maybe you’re saying it wrong,” Fworn suggested. The coffee had not occupied him long. He tapped the device again. “En-cahm-ee-um.” “No results found.” The man sighed. “I thought these dicters were supposed to get smarter.” “I don’t think so,” Fworn said as a matter of fact. “Ulo told me that they take out words with each new edition. Something about saving time. You know how it is.” Harc sighed again. “Did you know, Fworn, that dictionaries actually added words? Bigger and better, whenever anyone invented a new one. All we do is get rid of them, make them shorter. At some point, the lexicon must’ve just stopped growing. It must have reached its peak, and now it’s all a decrease. One of these days, we’re going to come back to our logical starting place. We’re going to have no words.” Fworn cast a half-interested glance at Harc. “Lexicon? What’s that?” Harc breathed out hard and resolute: “Never mind.” He returned to the essay. I should’ve just brought my dictionary today, he thought. He took his old fingers and placed a little pink piece of rubber by the word “encomium.” As he read into the recorder, he left a blank space where the word’s translation would go.

The hours passed slowly that day. Harc’s office rarely got much traffic, but today was an extreme example. No one passed for a long while, until about two o’ clock in the afternoon, when a messenger came in, waiting behind the wooden counter separating Harc and Fworn’s desks from the entrance. Fworn was stuck in a bit of reading. . .“Watch out, Jim, the bogey is right on your tail! Hold up, I’m coming around!” . . .“ so Harc stood and greeted the man. “Do you have something for me?” Harc asked. 9

“For Fworn,” The messenger gestured toward the young man, still reading intently from behind his desk. “I’ll give it to him.” Harc held out his hand, but the black-haired messenger withdrew hastily. “No, Fworn.” The man insisted again. He nodded toward Fworn. Harc surreptitiously glanced at the parcel the messenger carried. WORK ASSIGNMENT #10029-18, its label read. It was just another script. “I’ll give it to him,” Harc said again, re-extending his hand. “Fworn! For Fworn!” Harc shook his head and returned slowly to his desk. After about ten minutes, Fworn took a break and poured another cup of coffee. “What do you want?” he asked the young messenger. “For you,” he said, holding out the bundled script. “It’s just a work assignment. Couldn’t you get this for me, Harc?” “I tried. He wouldn’t let me.” Fworn looked at the messenger, visibly annoyed, and returned to his desk. The messenger stood there for another minute or two, without either Harc of Fworn speaking to him. Suddenly, he pressed his soundviewer eagerly. “Oh, okay,” He left the office. Harc frowned and continued his work. The time continued to drag on. Fworn finished the first script and got to work on the second (“Another airman script”). Harc squandered his time on Bruss’ confusing essay. It contained so many ins and outs, so many nuances. It was no wonder why this soundscene would go on the shelves; no one cared about this stuff. It was useless garble, philosophical musings with undertones and overtones, a cacophony of meaning. No one in this day and age cared to analyze this stuff, to study it, not even Harc’s Finder friend Morg. Harc didn’t entertain. His job was to preserve. In this world, all that mattered was entertainment and preservation, Fworn and Harc, and the former mattered much more. At about three o’clock, another visitor entered the office, just as quietly as the first. The woman was an unfamiliar sight; she didn’t wear the uniform of the Depart Old, just a faded yellow dress. She was a middle-aged woman, slightly younger than Harc but older than Fworn. She was carrying a single scrap of paper in her hands. She approached the counter quietly. Fworn was enveloped in his airman dialogue again, something about fuselages, so Harc met the woman like before. “How may I help you?” The woman smiled and planted the paper on the wooden counter. Harc could see that it was yellowing, with some sort of message on it, handwritten. The writing seemed twisted and curly, folding in upon itself and flowing from one symbol to another, not like modern writing, the kind that Harc and Fworn sometimes used. It wasn’t blocked off and mechanical. It was organic. It had some sort of soul to it. “Would you read it?” the woman asked. Harc coughed, a little taken aback. “Read it? You know what reading is?” The woman laughed. “Yes, though I can’t do it myself. That’s why I brought it here.” Harc noticed that the woman wasn’t wearing a soundviewer. 10

“If you want something recorded, you may send it to the Sub Depart Post Old. The service is free.” Harc said this mechanically, like one of the messengers. “I want a man to speak it. I don’t want a machine.” Harc dropped his preprogrammed responses. “Soundscenes are read by people, I assure you.” “Please, I want to see the person speaking it.” The woman seemed politely earnest. “Well, I guess,” Harc murmured, “but you’ll want a commercial voice, and he’s busy right now.” Harc cast a glance toward Fworn, who had been loudly yammering on about bogeys since the woman walked in. “Can’t you read it?” the woman asked. “Well, yes, but you won’t want to hear it in my voice. Fworn, on the other hand— ” “I don’t mind your voice. It’s nice.” Harc opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, unsure how to respond. “Well, you’re very sweet, but Fworn can handle it much better than I. I suggest you ask him.” Fworn let out a yelp, a “rebel yell” the script called it. The woman smiled at him and then looked back at Harc. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’ll just leave.” The yellow dress whipped about as she turned to leave, but Harc grabbed her wrist before she could go. “Let me see it.” The woman handed him the tattered old paper with the odd writing. Harc coughed as he glanced over what appeared to be a note. “Shall I begin?” Then, after the woman nodded, he continued, “Dear Mar-ga-ret,” he read. That must be her name. “It is wonderful to know you still think about me. The summers here are beautiful, as I’m sure you remember. The trees of the Champs-Élysées glow like magic.” He coughed. “My favorite part of the city must be the nature. I don’t care for the buildings or the streets or the little trinket shops. I just love the nature, the trees, the birds, the people. My cousin will be arriving next Sunday. . .“” Harc stopped and whispered, “That means firstday.” “I know,” the woman nodded. “You can go on.” He continued. “. . .and he has promised to bring your tidings. However, in case he does not arrive on time, I would love for you to return correspondence. Your words are beautiful and poetic. I am no writer, but you are. I cherish the letters. . .” So it’s a letter, he thought “. . .“that you send me. I keep them all in a metal tin under my bed.” Harc paused at a sound from the woman. A choked sort of sound. Her eyes seemed to glisten in the midday sun peeking through the window. “I know I have wasted your time with this letter. I’m just no good at writing! But I want you to know that my love for you will endure, even if it only serves one direction. I hope that one day I will receive a letter from you, and, under the beautiful chestnut trees of the Avenue, I will read of renewed love. That is my greatest hope, for a renewed love. Until then, my wishes will lie on the currents of the Seine, bearing back to the 11 mighty sea itself. Farewell, my love. Do not forget to write. Robert.” Harc looked up as he finished. The woman stared down at the countertop with an air of sad contentment. “Thank you,” she finally said. She seemed to have regained some of her composure. Harc handed her the yellowing paper, which she presently folded in her hand. She turned to leave the office. “Are you Mar-ga-ret?” Harc asked. The woman stopped. “No, Margaret was my mother. This letter was from my father to her.” The woman started to leave again. “He was a good writer,” Harc said firmly. “He didn’t give himself much credit.” She turned and smiled. “I’m sure he would be happy to hear that.” No one else came in the office that day.

The morning broke early. This was sevenday. Harc did not have to go into the office today. Today was a day to sit at home and enjoy the eyescenes and the talkers. When Harc woke up, he entered the kitchen and started to brew a pot of coffee. As the device churned out the weak, tasteless beverage, Harc went to his study. He picked the eyeviewer up off his desk and stored it in the bottom drawer. Then he pulled Silas Marner off the bookshelf behind his desk and found the page marker within it. He twiddled it with his thumb for a bit, then left it alone and packed the book away in a satchel. He left the study with the satchel and placed it on the kitchen table. After a couple minutes the brewer was about half-full of coffee. Harc poured himself a cupful and sat at the table to drink it. Around nine o’clock or so Rone woke up and strolled into the kitchen, his eyes firmly covered by the goggles of the eyeviewer. Harc dimly heard Fworn’s voice coming from his son’s soundviewer. “We’re going to go to the Promontory today,” Harc said. Rone didn’t respond, instead sleepily pulling up his eyeviewer to see a glass of orange juice set out for him on the table. The boy took the glass and drank a sip in between yawns. “Did you hear me? We’re going to the Promontory.” Rone yawned again. “Why?” Harc smiled. “I want to show you something.” Rone shrugged carelessly. After the two had finished their beverages, and Rone had eaten a piece of dry toast, Harc put on his jacket and pulled the satchel onto his shoulder. Rone slid the goggles back over his eyes. “Not today, son,” Harc said, pulling the eyeviewer off and laying it on the kitchen table. “No eyeviewer.” Rone looked at his father in complete confusion. His eyes showed the sign of simply not understanding. The boy then reached for the goggles and started to put them back on. “Not today,” Harc said more forcefully, removing the eyeviewer again and slamming it hard on the table. “You won’t need it.” 12

Rone continued to look up at his father, completely lost without the goggles wrapped around his head. Harc thought he saw the face of the black-haired messenger when he looked at his son. He reached for the eyeviewer again, fearfully. “No!” Harc cried, snatching the device out of his son’s reach. “Not today! Come on, I want to show you something. You won’t need it.” The messenger’s expression continued to stare at him. Harc could almost hear his son saying, “No! For Fworn! For Fworn!” The man reached out his arthritic hands and grabbed his son by the collar, pulling him out of the kitchen behind him.

Harc hired a streetmover to take the pair down to the Promontory. The Promontory was a rocky cliff at the edge of town that jutted far out into the sea, buffeted daily by waves heavy with foam. When they arrived, the driver of the streetmover charged Harc thirty dollars, which he paid. Harc and his son walked out onto the Promontory and sat down on the rocky sand. About ten feet away sat what appeared to be a family: a husband and wife with their two children. They were sitting on a blanket, and the woman prepared a portable breakfast while the husband and the two children sat and blankly stared into their eyeviewers. The mother had taken hers off long enough to prepare the meal. When they sat down, Harc removed his satchel and unbuttoned it. Then he pulled out the old tome and sat it down on top of the empty satchel to keep it free from sand. Rone looked over at his father and spoke for the first time since breakfast. “Is that the brook, Da?” “Yes, son, it’s the book. The one I got the other day.” Harc opened up the book and began to read. “Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe, by George Eliot. In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The shepherd’s dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?” Harc stopped. Faintly, he heard the voice of Fworn, its beautiful, mellifluous sound reading off another airman script. Harc tried to shake the noise out of his head, until he realized that it was coming from the family sitting on the Promontory with them. One of the children was listening to a soundscene about airplanes and watching a corresponding eyescene. Above them, in the sky above the ocean, a jet airplane thundered through the clouds. The kid didn’t seem to notice it. “Oh, who am I kidding? You don’t want to listen to me, Rone. You want to listen to Fworn. He speaks stuff you like. You don’t want to be out here, listening to me speak a book of all things.” Harc looked despondently down at the pages of Silas Marner. A gust of wind blew little snakes of sand onto the withered pages. “Da, I like it when you watch brooks and speak them to me.” Harc looked over at his son. “Really?” he asked, surprised. “Yeah. I like it because you’re my Da.” 13

Harc’s thoughts involuntarily jumped to Robert, the father of the woman and the author of the letter with the odd handwriting. “So you like it when I read?” Rone nodded his shock of red hair. “Well, would you like to hear more?” The sound of Fworn’s voice slowly died away. The family next to them vanished. “Yeah. And Da?” “Yeah?” “Will you show me how to watch brooks like you?” Harc smiled at his son as the midday sun peeking through the window made his little eyes sparkle. “Of course, son. Of course.” Rone smiled and lay his head back against the wooden counter, silently closing his eyes. He was still clutching the folded yellow paper in his hand. Harc kept reading. “And these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-off time superstition clung easily round every person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the peddler or the knife-grinder. No one knew where wandering men had their homes or their origin; and how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother?”

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Fire

Sam Lewis

Downpours of rain now pound inside my mind. The drops all ravage me, my feeling cut. I wish there was some strength I’d find, But rain’s too strong, my sullen mouth is shut. I know her manner shows a clear-cut sign. I know that fate is heavy on me, not you. And that the choice and decision is mine, But rain persists— our rabid fire is through. She goes to leave, maybe this time for good. I know it’s not her fault. . .but all my own. Depression hits me like I knew it would. My feelings are in mind but never shown. But wait, a spark! One chance is all I require! The log is lit, oh inescapable fire!

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Leaning Robbie Goltz

We lean towards the usual, nothing out of our swing. Leaving, coming, and going, never on time for anything. We plead to the masses. We plead to the scene. We plead to anyone, but no one hears a thing. I bleed just like you, but you throw me aside. I feel what you feel, but you destroy me inside. There’s a message, there’s meaning-- a time, and a place-- Things we don’t understand--there’s infinity--there’s space. We’re nothing, we’re everything. We’re sorted, we’re confused. We don’t find what we have until we’ve nothing to lose. We’re racers and doers--we’re givers and hosts. We’re shakers and movers, and we’re able . . .at most.

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An excerpt from his novel-in-progress, Nolin Lake Jordan Blair

It was finally that time of year again. Several months of austere, cold winter had passed and lovely spring had taken its place so overwhelmingly that it was hard to remember winter had ever existed at all. I was sitting in my last exam of the year, English. The warm, pleasant breeze swirling through the window right next to me was making it impossible to discuss how gender plays a pivotal role in Macbeth. I was dreaming only of the lake and the good times with friends that always accompanied it. It had been eight months since I last saw my friend’s cozy cabin nestled back into the woods. Trying to explain to you the feeling I get when I think about it is futile. It is a place so profound only the soul can understand. I snapped back into focus when the bell rang. I had just started on my last essay. I contemplated asking the teacher for extra time to wrap it up, but summer break had arrived and Macbeth fell right down to the bottom on my list of priorities. I got up, turned it in, and strode quickly through the doorway. I immediately bumped into someone hard and fell down, bruising my tailbone, ego, and maybe even my spleen. My mood was so perfect that even this event couldn’t put a dent in my day. I looked up to see who I had run into and found my friend’s face smiling down at me. It was his cabin that I spoke of, and his name is Michael. He pulled me to my feet and after I gathered my belongings, we headed to the gymnasium for the book buyback, where we would get partially refunded for the books we had bought at the beginning of the year. Having lost most of his throughout the second semester, his process didn’t take long. After selling mine back, we headed down to the junior parking lot and hopped in his overly-loud, diesel-powered Chevrolet truck. His house was just a few minutes away, tucked into the heart of the . As we pulled out of the lot, I smiled, picturing his parents putting the finishing touches on loading up the van for the lake. Michael’s brother, Patrick, would no doubt be totally unprepared and unpacked which would set us back thirty to forty-five minutes. That was fine. Impatience and frustration were completely foreign to me on this day. Three months of having little to do was ahead and starting it at the lake was ideal. Even my typical annoyance at Michael’s off-key screeching to loud country music could not find its way into my consciousness. I was in bliss. We pulled into his back driveway where we could see his brother up on the roof He gave a goofy eyes-half-closed smile and raised a finger to his lips in a “Shh” gesture. We ignored it and walked inside. His dad was watching Fox News while his mother scrambled around, loading up pretty much everyone’s luggage. We wouldn’t have to wait on Patrick because she had done his packing for him. This was good. Around twenty minutes later, we were on our way. We hopped on the Watterson where we quickly merged onto I-65 headed south. The terrain abruptly changed once we passed the airport for the big UPS jets. Flat land gave way to what would be considered out West as boring foothills. Here in Kentucky, though, this was a radical 17 change in scenery. To me, it was the first sign that I’m leaving the monotony of society, headed to a place where time slows to a stop, and happiness steps in. Michael tried to engage me in conversation a few times but I was short in my responses and he soon gave up. I was in my own little world. We got off the interstate at Exit 78. The journey was then about halfway over, and the next stage was always my favorite. Seeing the rolling fields, comfy little ranch houses, and the beautifully serene forest never failed to put me at peace. Everyone we passed waved, and we waved back enthusiastically, always refreshed by the “country” attitude. People, possibly Amish, rode slowly down the street in a buggy pulled by a horse. I was amazed at how different their lives seemed to be from ours. We passed Cub Run, the little town’s elementary school which was, at most, filled with about 90 students. I always wondered what it would be like to grow up with the same 10 or 15 kids in your grade throughout your entire childhood and beyond. Relationships would be deeper and more meaningful as opposed to the merely tangential bond I shared with most of my class at St. X. Everything seemed more meaningful out here removed from society. “Jordan! Jordan!” I snapped back into reality to see a whole family of deer walking across the road. It was something I hadn’t ever seen before. The calm way the deer walked across the road as if they owned everything out here pleased me for some reason. A few minutes later we were pulling onto Briar Creek Road where Michael’s house lay half a mile off in the distance. Rodney Atkins’ “Take a Back Road” was blaring on the radio, and I couldn’t be happier with life. Joy was bursting through every pore in my body. I just wanted to get out and run down to the lake and dive in, but unpacking had to be done first. Michael and I tossed our belongings quickly on the floor and rushed back out the door to run down to the dock to claim the jet skis before Patrick could. Patrick probably shouldn’t be operating motor vehicles, anyway. I ran down the length of the dock and did a neat dive into the water. The water was surprisingly warm for late May, and I swam around for a few minutes enjoying this surprise before I climbed on my jet ski. I was ready to explore the coves and inlets that had eluded my sight for the last three quarters of the year. I followed Michael out of the creek, weaving in and out of the treetops that still poked up due to the low water level. The sun was beginning to lower, casting a beautiful glare on the water and every other bit of sacred nature around us. The breeze rippling through my hair at 50 miles per hour felt nothing short of ecstasy. We rode around for about an hour, taking time to reassure ourselves that our ability to do donuts was still intact. We then headed back to the dock. Patrick was sitting on the dock fishing, and his head perked up when he heard the hum of the engines as we came around the bend. He was happy to show us that he’d caught a few fish while we were gone. We congratulated him, told him to be careful, and then made our way back up the path to see what we could scrounge up for dinner. I found a thing of Hot Pockets dating back to 2009 so we left those alone. Michael’s parents, having realized there was nothing to eat, let us know they were leaving to go get some groceries. My hunger couldn’t wait, though, so I started making pancakes. 18

Fifteen minutes later, I realized that I had been too immersed in my eating to notice Michael wasn’t even in the room with me. I strained to hear any sign of where he might have gone to within the house and heard a low voice from the loft adjacent to the attic. I walked up there in time to see him pacing around on the phone. ”Yeah, we’ll try to make it. It’s kinda far though by land and I’m not sure how thrilled my parents would be about us driving the pontoon there. It’s already only an hour ‘til dark.” A few seconds of silence ensued. I started to feel creepy just listening when he didn’t know I was there so I walked in and sat down on a bed. “Yeah, I guess we could do that. They do go to bed pretty early, and I know the lake well enough to get home in the dark. Okay. Okay. I’ll let you know. Bye.” “Who was that?” I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea. He had been talking about this girl Alyx for the past few weeks. Talking might not be the best description actually. Glowing is more like it. “Alyx,” Michael said with a measure of excitement. “She said her and a few friends managed to get the lake house to themselves. No parents. Would you wanna go?” “Of course. But are we allowed?” “I doubt it.” “How are we gonna pull this off then?” I hoped he was not seriously considering the idea I believed Alyx had suggested. Well, that’s not completely honest, actually. The thought of sneaking onto the pontoon late at night and driving it across the lake thrilled me. But the more logical, responsible fragment of my brain was objecting with all its might. “I know how to drive a boat. I know exactly where her house is. Are you game?” I considered it. His pontoon was equipped with some of the best headlights I had ever seen in action so that would help, but, regardless, the risks were there. I also loved his parents enough to not want to disappoint or scare them. I was stuck halfway between being a sensible person and a crazy hormonal teenager craving adventure. Additionally, Michael wasn’t the only one who had some investment in this plan. A girl I’d had a crush on since the beginning of high school would probably be there. Nearly every time I’d been around her, a big group of people had been around. My shy disposition usually did not lend itself to making the impression I wanted with her. Despite this, we had become pretty close friends. Being at the lake and with a smaller group might give me the opportunity I needed to make my feelings known. All these thoughts flitted through my mind in a second or two. “Yeah I’ll go.”

His parents returned home about 45 minutes later with what looked to be several hundred dollars of groceries. I had mixed feelings about this. While a boatload of food is never a bad thing in my eyes, the feeling of guilt I had at what we planned to do increased considerably knowing how much his parents were doing to make us happy. I tried to push that thought away. I was the type to make a decision and stick to it. 19

An English exam, long car ride, an hour on the lake, and anxiety at the upcoming night had all combined to exhaust me. I went upstairs claiming I was going to read and quickly fell asleep. It was 8:15. I woke up disoriented and sweating. I had forgotten how hot the upstairs rooms were before the air conditioner got a chance to get going. I checked my phone. 11:03. I had two text messages, one of them from Lauren. She was the girl I spoke of earlier. It read, “Are you coming tonight?” A flutter of excitement shot through me. I quickly responded with a yes and then went to check the other one. It was from Michael and told me to come down to the dock whenever I woke up. He would no doubt be setting up a trotline designed to catch catfish. I also had no doubt he would be using Patrick’s earlier catches as bait, which Patrick wouldn’t be too pleased about. I walked down the tightly-wound spiral staircase and looked around for any sign of his parents. Michael’s dad was widely renowned for his snoring, so he and Michael’s mom slept in different bedrooms. Both of the doors leading to these bedrooms were shut, and I could hear the faint hum of fans. All signs pointed to them being asleep. Hopefully they would remain this way throughout the night. I walked out the door closing it lightly and picked up a flashlight to help guide me down the path. I was fairly sure I knew it by heart but I had thought that last year and ended up tumbling into the lake with my phone in my pocket. The sounds of bullfrogs in the distance soothed my frayed nerves. Then I heard a sound like a match being struck and looked around for the source of it. Patrick was up in a tree five yards from me. He held the lit match underneath his chin and made a creepy face. Normally I would be amused, but the effect the light had on his face spooked me for some reason. Patrick put the match out with his index finger and thumb. “Where you goin’?” “Down to the dock.” “Why?” “To see Mich--Stop asking stupid questions, dude.” “Sneakin’ out, eh?” We stared at each other for a beat, and then he hopped down out of the tree. “What makes you say that?” I asked. “I saw Michael taking the pontoon covers off. And I’ve heard him talk to that girl on the phone for the past month. I want to come with you all.” I ignored him and kept going down the path. I would let Michael deal with this. He followed along, singing some obnoxious rap song loudly. I finally got to the dock where I saw Michael lounging on a pontoon seat with his back to us. He had headphones on. Patrick went up behind him and struck another match. He turned around to look at me with a “watch-this” expression and reached above Michael’s head and then dropped it into his lap. Mike didn’t even seem to notice. His eyes might have been closed as he relaxed to the music. I sat there for a second longer and then shook him. He jerked violently and the lit match flew off his lap and onto the pontoon carpet. Michael didn’t even notice the match and started walking towards me, unplugging his headphones as he came. I tried to scurry around him but he blocked my path with his body, busy asking questions I couldn’t hear through my panic. 20

I finally shoved him out of my way and went and stomped on the match. The damage had been done. A black scar two centimeters in diameter had imprinted itself on the previously pristine carpet. “What’s going on?!” Michael asked. Patrick remained silent while I explained. Michael was furious. He had spent months putting together the pontoon with his dad, going over every detail several times to make it perfect. This was the first weekend he’d get to show it to somebody besides family and his brother had already messed it up. Not to mention that Michael’s dad would now know we had been on the boat and lighting things on fire near a gas container. This was not a smooth start to the night. “Patrick, please go away before I hurt you,” Michael said casually, but seriously. “I want to come with you all tonight.” “What makes you think we’re going anywhere? “A lot of things. If you don’t let me come with you all, I’ll tell Dad where you all went.” “You wouldn’t. I’ll tell him you burned a hole in his new carpet.” “I don’t care.” Michael appraised him for a second. He and I both knew Patrick was capable of extreme callousness, especially when it suited his interests. “Okay, fine. You can come. But don’t be a jerk. We can’t afford any of that tonight,” Michael said. My neck was starting to hurt from moving it back and forth to see them respond to each other. I stopped and laid my head in my hands for a second. I had a vague feeling that something bad was going to happen. This made sense considering the risks we were taking but the feeling seemed to transcend that. I tried to convince myself I was just being paranoid but my intuition was rarely wrong. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t realize I was moving. Michael had already started backing the pontoon up into the creek. It was too late to say anything now, and I wouldn’t have been able to explain my feeling adequately anyways. I might as well enjoy myself. We drove really slowly until we exited from Briar Creek out onto the main lake. Michael immediately shifted gears and sped up to around twenty miles per hour. The breeze was far cooler than earlier in the day, and I was still wearing my cutoff t-shirt from earlier. I shivered. The moon was out, but partially covered by thick clouds drifting slowly through the sky. I was doing anything to keep my mind off the feeling I had, and nature was the best available distraction. I called Lauren and told her we’d be there in about thirty minutes. Michael navigated every turn flawlessly. He had been on this lake since he was five, and I trusted that he wouldn’t get us lost. We were coming up on Moutardier, a large marina on the lake when Patrick announced he needed to go to the bathroom. We told him to pee off the side of the edge. He told us it wasn’t like that. He also clarified that he “needed” BBQ chips and a Blue Powerade so we reluctantly agreed to stop. We tied the pontoon to a slip and got out. I wanted to get a pack of gum, but I wasn’t really admitting to myself that I was preparing for a kiss unlikely to come, so I went inside. Patrick jogged to the bathroom which made me grin. I walked to the 21 counter and got a pack of Stride Mystery-flavored gum. There was nobody behind the counter. I turned around and looked down some aisles to see if maybe the clerk was doing inventory or something. I didn’t see anyone. I turned back around and jumped at the sight of a mountain of a man leaning over the counter grinning at me. How did he get there? “What do you want?” the man asked gruffly. He was wearing a large flannel jacket and an unmarked cap. He had a gray unkempt beard and a set of teeth an orthodontist would grimace at. I counted three teeth remaining. “Uh yeah, just this.” I pointed to the pack of gum. He stared at me for what seemed to be an eternity before reaching for the gum to scan it. “What brings you all out on the lake at 12:30 at night?” “Um. . .Dad likes to fish at night,” I said lamely. “Oh yeah? Me too. Haven’t caught much of anything though lately. Maybe you could bring him in here to share his secret to success?” I didn’t know what to say. I figured I should switch to honesty. I let a smile slide across my face, but it was forced and didn’t reach my eyes. “Well truth is, sir, we’re going across the lake to meet some girls. Did you grow up on this lake?” I hoped to distract him with the question. “Yeah.” “I suppose you know what it’s like then, meeting up with girls on the lake and all.” “No.” He didn’t add anything to this. He had even started to say no before my own sentence had ended. I laughed nervously. The gum was still lying next to his hand. I extended two one- dollar bills as payment, but he didn’t take them from me. Patrick came out of the bathroom at this time, still buckling his pants. I laid the dollar bills on the counter, and the man flicked the gum at me. I quickly walked out of the store and back to the boat. “Have you ever met the clerk in there, dude? He’s scary as hell.” I said to Michael. “Um. . . yeah. . .my dad’s friend has been the only worker there for like ten years now.” “He doesn’t look or act like someone who your dad would become friends with.” “Well what’s he look like?” “A serial killer.” “No, seriously. What’s he look like?” “Um. . .he is like six foot eight with a long white beard and probably more eyes than teeth.” “Yeah, that’s not my dad’s friend.” “Figured.” “What made him so creepy?” 22

“Well, first of all, he seemed to come out of nowhere which doesn’t seem possible considering how large he is. And he stared at me weird and was just mean and weird, dude. I don’t know how else to explain it.” “Well, whatever, man, it’s nothing to get all upset about.” Patrick came jogging out of the store. This intrigued me as Patrick is never the type to rush anywhere. “Jordan, did that guy freak you out?” Patrick asked immediately upon getting back on the boat. “Yeah! What’d he do to you?” “He didn’t do anything but he stared at me like I was food. There’s something wrong with his eyes.” “Yeah I know what you mean. It’s like there’s nobody home.” “Right.” “Okay, I’m gonna go in there and see what you all mean by this,” Michael said. “No, let’s just leave,” Patrick said. “I agree. We’re already late meeting these girls.” I added. “This will take two seconds. Stay right here.” Michael got out and walked quickly to the door. He came back out of the door in less than five seconds. How could the guy have freaked him out that quickly? Michael got in the boat, started the engine, and began to back it up. I waited for him to say something. Patrick was anxiously asking something, but I didn’t hear the exact question because I was too focused on Michael’s body language. Something was off. “What happened in there?” I asked. “I walked in there and he had his back turned to me. His face was like two inches from the security camera, and he was grinning into it and mumbling under his breath. That was enough for me.” “Should we go home?” My voice cracked a little. “I don’t know. Let me think.” He was already steering towards Dog Creek, though, so I had my answer. We weren’t going home. “Just hurry up. I don’t want to be alone on the lake with that guy around.” I said.

23

My Goal Treyveon Percell

I’m trying to stay ahead of death. I’m just trying to chase the wealth. I'm tired of taking cheap shots as if I got hit below the belt. Heater on his waist that will make all that ice around your neck melt. In the hood, it’s a jungle— therefore try not to become a pelt. In the hood, I’m the hunter, but I’m just trying to hunt down success. I’m trying to become the best— Or is it the greatest? I think it’s the greatest. No, scratch that, I’m looking to be the greatest. One day I want to say, “Look, momma, we made it.” Through all my success I know that I’m always going to be hated.

24

Excerpt from Gray’s Tragedy Mike Allen

“I swear ter the virgin mudder, me head don’t usually hurt this much even after a lot-ter fun with a bottle in me hand.” Newell’s complaint was the first thing Gray heard when he came to. He was tied up, face-down upon a wooden deck. He lifted his head and saw that Newell was similarly. He could also see five banditos sitting near the door to the cantina: Tuco, with his hand freshly bandaged, the two who had been waiting outside the cantina plus two more. Cigarette smoke drifted out from the darkened door. The lit butt of a cigarette was all that was visible in the doorway. In the corner of his eye, Gray saw his pale steed and Newell’s horse grazing. “Shut up, gringo,” one of the banditos exclaimed merrily. “I’d like to show you how good I am with mi pistol. We’ll see how much your head hurts with a bullet in--” There was a lone flash and the boom of a revolver. And suddenly, there were only four banditos sitting outside the door. The two who had tied up Gray and Newell now had on their face the looks of animals in front of an oncoming train. Tuco sat scratching his chin as though he had not noticed the shot. The remaining bandito--unfamiliar to Gray--kneeled over the now-dead one. “Why did you do that?” that bandito asked, horrified. For a moment, his only answer was a boot which jutted through the door and kicked that bandito square in the face. The bandito fell backwards onto his rear, grasping his nose. Seeping through his sun-baked fingers was a brick-red fluid, which slid slowly from his hands down his face. After the bandito gave a few muffled gasps of agony, the offending boot stepped out of its shadowy lair. The boot was the color of dried-mud, as was its partner. Beaten black trousers extended to the top of the boots, and above them was a red-and-orange striped poncho which was in much better condition than the one Tuco wore. Long sleeves the color of the night sky came out of the poncho, rolled up at the ends. In his right hand was a Colt revolver, which shone in the light. On top of the poncho was the head of a man with long black hair. “Because he threatened to shoot the gringo, Patrick Newell. If I wanted my friends killed, I would have said so.” “Well,” Gray said, gaining the attention of each man present. “Buenos dias, señor Gomez.” He struggled till he could sit upright. Gomez, the leader of the banditos, replied simply, “Hello to you too, John. Have all these years apart finally taught you to speak Spanish? “Hell no,” Gray answered. “But it’s hard to live on the border so long and not know how to say hi.” Newell struggled to sit up.“This is a very touchin’ reunion, but come untie us, Gomez. My arse is startin’ ter itch.” Gomez shook his head sadly and stepped forward. In his eyes Gray saw disappointment—sheer and unadulterated disappointment. Gomez looked off past the horses, to see what appeared to be a tree. From one of the limbs hung a straight line, 25

silhouetted by the sun and on the end of the line was a loop. Then Gray saw Newell turn the shade of the snow Gray had seen on trips to the mountains. Newell shook his head, glanced at the tree, then at Gomez, and then back to the tree again. “Calisto, ya ain’t bein’ serious are ya’?” “An amigo that would betray his amigo,” Gomez hissed, “deserves the noose.” “Gomez, please,” Newell implored. “We were compadres! Hermanos! Brothers!” the leader of the banditos yelled. “And what do you chicos do? You agree to kill me! All because some federales threaten you, you would do their bidding?” Gomez spat on Newell, then came to Gray and kicked him. Gray fell hard upon his back and landed with his head just off the wooden patio. Dust and dirt clouded over him, and for a moment he felt it shade him. Gomez commanded Tuco to bring over Gray’s pale grey mount and Newell’s chocolate brown steed, and Gomez crouched to look Gray in the eye. “The government boys want blood, Gray, and they shall have it.” Gray stared hatefully into Gomez’s eyes. “You’d hang your two best friends in the world?” Gomez smiled sickly and shook his head. Tuco and the bloody-nosed bandito placed the still-tied Gray and Newell upon their horses and took them to the trees. As he rode, Gray wondered what Gomez meant by his smile. Gray refused to believe that both would be hanged. The lone noose hung malevolently upon the tree limb. Gray frantically tried to think of a way to escape despite his handicaps: Gray was unarmed while Gomez had four armed men at his aid; Gray was still tied, as was Newell. The sound of the rope swinging slightly in the breeze sounded like a funeral knell. Gomez stood between Gray’s horse and Newell’s horse and held up two small pistols. “John, Patrick,” Gomez said loudly. “I will not hang both of you. In each of my hands is a derringer. You each have one bullet. When you receive your gun, you are to fire upon each other. One of you will shoot the other. One of you will hang.” “You’re a sick man, Calisto Gomez,” said Gray to the bandito leader. “Are you so much better, mi hermano?” Gomez demanded. “You came to Mexico to kill one of your brothers. You still have the chance to do so.” Gray stared silently at the derringer in Gomez’s hand. He had no more desire to be shot than he had to be hanged. If he were to kill Newell, what would it gain him? A few more miserable seconds on the Earth during which he be killed. Gray knew all too well that to turn the derringer on Gomez or the other banditos would be suicide. And as for Newell, Gray didn’t know how he should feel about shooting him. There was no way Newell would survive the swinging rope on the tree, should Gray be less quick in his shooting or less accurate. In the situation before him, there was, from Gray’s perspective, no moral advantage, no right or wrong, in killing Newell. “And suddenly you see the issue with killing your brother,” Gomez taunted. “Ain’t that right, Gray?” 26

“There ain’t no moral way here, Gomez,” Gray answered. “There ain’t no right and no wrong here.” “You see only the shades of grey, is that right amigo?” Gomez questioned. “Then I hope you and Newell both feel that way before one of you guns your brother down.” “No more brudders, Gomez,” Newell said dismally. Gomez laughed and handed a derringer to each of the two banditos. They both accepted the single-shot pistols with a smile and went opposite directions. The bandito who came towards Gray handed the derringer he had been carrying to Gray’s guard, Tuco, and the one who had gone toward Newell gave the bandito guarding him the derringer he had been entrusted with. Gray examined Tuco, and he saw when the breeze came once more over the Mexican land that it blew Tuco’s poncho around the edges, revealing the Colt in the holster on his left side. Gray looked toward Newell and saw that the bandito guarding him was using Newell’s stolen Borchardt semi-automatic handgun. The banditos who’d carried the derringers moved out of site. Gomez gestured for Tuco and the bandito in front of Newell to give the derringers to the two gringos. Gray felt the cold metal of the small gun being wedged into his right hand.. Gray felt a lump in his throat as he struggled to aim with his hand, and likewise he saw Newell making similar moves. After the longest few seconds of Gray’s life, there were two blasts. Gray felt his bindings grow loose and he saw Newell fall off his brown horse. “Forgive me, brother,” Gray whispered into the wind. The wind answered back with another breeze. It was cold against Gray’s skin, but not as cold as the shiver that found its way down Gray’s spine. Gray felt he had no choice, but that didn’t make him feel any less like a monster. Gray’s horse flinched when Tuco grabbed its reins with his right hand. The breeze again revealed the peacemaker under Tuco’s poncho. Gray saw his chance. He shrugged off his ropes, shot loose by Newell’s bullet and toppled onto the Tuco, bringing them both to the ground. Tuco grunted and put his right hand on his revolver, but Gray brought his fist to Tuco’s eye before it could be aimed. The shot sailed impotently away, and the blast frightened Gray’s horse so much that it ran away. Tuco slammed his fist into Gray’s midsection, but Gray persevered and brought his elbow into Tuco’s cheek. With one hand, each man fought the other, and with their other hand they struggled to gain or maintain the pistol, respectively. “Don’t shoot at the gringo!” Gray heard Gomez yell over the struggle. “You might hit Tuco. Better to see if he can win out himself.” “You’re going to die, hombre!” Tuco yelled as he fought. Gray remained silent, intent on bringing down his foe. Tuco brought his knee into Gray’s chest, and pain exploded throughout his body. Tuco knocked him away and tried to line up a fatal shot, but Gray swiftly swept his leg under Tuco’s. The bandito fell, yelling curses in Spanish as he did so. Gray lurched forward to strangle his opponent, but immediately was knocked to his right side. It felt to him as through a mule had kicked him in the side of the head. Tuco had pistol-whipped him. “Get ready to die, Cabrón!” he cried out. 27

Gray shot an arm up just as Tuco was yelling. In an instant, the yells turned to screams. Anguish lined the bandito’s face as Gray squeezed down upon his injured hand. A strange warmth washed over Gray’s hand and he became conscious of a liquid dripping down his elevated arm. The colt revolver fell to the ground, and Gray brought his free arm up with a fist into Tuco’s throat. The Mexican and the American descended at the same time, Tuco falling to the ground, reddened hand upon his throat as he struggled to get a breath, and Gray diving for the revolver. The two faced each other once more, and Tuco got in one final strained gasp for air. Then the gasping stopped with a flash and a bang. Gray heard a shot and a scream and turned to see the bandito who had given Newell the derringer on his knees clutching one of his hands. I knew that damned Yankee gun would blow up in someone’s hand, Gray thought as he leveled Tuco’s revolver. In an instant the bandito was on the ground next to Newell, no longer clutching his damaged hand. The ground at Gray’s feet began to come up in clouds of dust, and Gray ran to escape the incoming bullets. He made haste to raise Tuco’s peacemaker in the appropriate direction as he ran and one of the two banditos dropped dead. It was one of the ex-vaqueros. Gomez stood next to the survivor, who was still firing away, with his arms crossed. Gray found himself behind the tree where he was to be hanged, and he placed the pistol at the edge of the tree and fired one more shot, and then there was silence. One bullet left, Gray lamented. Better not miss. “John,” rang out the voice of Gomez. “Right about now you must pretty damn low on bullet—isn’t that right, mi hermano?” “Yeah, that’s right,” Gray confirmed. “I always knew you could count better than Patrick could read.” Gomez laughed “I can count all the way to six if I got to. But with the jokes done, I think it’s time to finish this. You come out from behind the tree, and we’ll do this fairly. You have my word on that, mi hermano. You have your one bullet—I’ll take out five of mine. We lived as equals before, John. Now we can fight as equals.” Gray pondered whether there was any truth behind these words. On one hand, he realized that there was the distinct possibility that Gomez was lying through his dirty teeth. On the other hand, what if he wasn’t? While it was certainly true that Gomez was no more an exceptionally honest man than Newell had been a sober one, it was one thing to suppose Gomez would lie to someone he had just met before burying a lead bullet in their heart. It was quite another to assume he would do it to a man he had sworn a blood oath of brotherhood to. It was undeniably correct, so far as Gray could see, that either he or Gomez would perish in the desert breeze under the baking Mexican in a short period of time. If Gomez was telling the truth to Gray, then there was a shot at survival. If Gomez wasn’t, then Gray would not have time to adjust his aim on the revolver and he wouldn’t make it past the noose swaying on the adjacent branch. “Gomez, I’m coming,” Gray announced. “I’ll be waiting, Gray,” came Gomez’s reply. “We’ll shoot when you get past Tuco’s body.” The noose swayed in the breeze. Against the baby blue sky, even the noose was beautiful. With a deep exhale, Gray walked calmly out from behind the tree. Gray saw 28

Gomez throw something forward. Five golden flecks danced through the air, sparkling brilliantly in the light of the sun. Five bullets fell into the dirt, and Gray walked forward with Tuco’s gun holstered where his own revolver was missing. Gray pulled off his clean poncho and saw a familiar gun; his own peacemaker, sitting in Gomez’s holster. Gray looked down inches away from his feet, where Tuco lay lifeless on the ground, soaked in his own precious fluids. “Is that my gun, Calisto?” Gomez smiled. “Yes it is, John. My own is sitting in my room. Would you rather I used that instead?” Gray shook his head. “No, I think it’s fine. We’ve shared food, horses, time and blood. I ain’t gonna be stingy with my revolver.” Gomez nodded and closed his eyes for a moment, the smile still on his face. “I’m ready when you are, brother.” Gray inhaled a long breath and positioned his hand within reach of the holstered gun at his side. Gomez did likewise. A lone crow cawed somewhere in the distance. The smile left Gomez’s face. Upon his exhale, Gray felt a sort of nervousness leaving him. Whether he lived or died, it wouldn’t be long now. He set his foot over Tuco’s body. In an instant, the hands of both Gray and Gomez shot to their respective sides. There was a lone explosion of light and sound. A cannon‘s roar could not have sounded louder at point-blank range to Gray than the sound of the revolver. Blood fell onto the ground, and the crow cawed once more. The smoking revolver fell to the ground. Gray walked forward. Gomez was on his knees, trembling hands upon his reddened chest, Gray’s revolver forgotten in the bloody dirt. The skin of the man who called his own friends gringos had never looked whiter. When Gray’s shadow fell upon him, Gomez looked up and extended a shaking and blood-stained hand. “Help me, mi h-hermano,” Gomez said softly and desperately. Gray picked his revolver up off the ground. It weighed greatly on his hand, and it gleamed like the sun. The sound of Gomez’s ragged breathing filled Gray’s ears, and he strode with his six-shooter raised over to the fallen bandito leader. “And so it ends.” “You wouldn’t shoot me, mi amigo, mi hermano,” Gomez said, desperation thick in his voice. “Just like I wouldn’t shoot Newell?” Gray replied coldly. “I’m sorry Gray.” Gomez moaned. “Please, spare your brother.” Gray remembered Newell’s words before the shooting. He pulled the hammer back on the revolver. “No more brothers.” He fired. ***** Three horses came slowly to the run-down hideout of the late Calisto Luis Gomez. Two of them carried Mexican federales, and the remaining horse—a snow- white horse between two coal-black horses—carried a man wearing a three-piece black suit with a black tie. On that man’s head was a city-dweller’s hat. The man’s shoes were 29

polished like a gemstone and gleamed like a well maintained gun in the daylight. The three rode past the tree, which still had a noose swinging on one of its branches. Gray—waiting on his pale horse between the two graves—spat in their general direction. “Mister Gray,” the man in the suit called out in greeting, “I take it you succeeded?” Gray glared at the agent. “If you want to know for sure, Holland, I recommend you visit the grave to my left.” Holland laughed.“Ah, very good Mister Gray. And what of Mister Newell?” “Check the grave on my right..” Holland shrugged. “Acceptable loss.” That simple shrug in the face of the news of Newell’s demise nearly pushed Gray to shoot Holland, but he thought better of it. A shadow descended over him, and Gray wondered, as he had been doing in the days following the last shot upon Gomez, whether or not he could justify his actions. It had been what he mainly thought about as he buried the men he once called his brothers and sent the telegram from the nearest town to announce that he had completed his mission. Holland looked up at the source of the shadow. “Some animal must have died around here,” Holland remarked. “Gomez wasn’t alone.” “Why didn’t you bury his friends too?” “The birds,” Gray said simply, “have got as much right to eat as the worms.” Holland nodded and straightened his tie. Gray noticed the holstered pistol on Holland’s side for the first time. The federales were similarly armed. Gray suddenly knew what they came for. “I believe our business is done here, Mister Gray,” Holland said proudly. “You can enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done. In Hell!” The agent, along with the federales moved their hands to their pistols. Gray was faster, and he shot Holland through the chest. The agent fell to the ground bleeding, his face as white as his horse’s. The federales had barely lifted their guns past their chests when Gray fired one bullet in each federale’s heart. They too hit the ground. Holland stared weakly and with wide eyes up at Gray. “This is for my brothers,” Gray said, and he shot his peacemaker one more time. Holland hit the dirt, and this time he did not get up. Gray rode slowly to the tree and looked out across the beautiful Mexican landscape. He saw a snake sunning itself on a rock, and a deer running out on the horizon, most likely startled by the gunshots. Finally, Gray turned his attention to the noose. He pondered what Gomez had said that day. “An amigo that would betray his amigo,” Gomez had hissed. “Deserves the noose.” The noose was loose around Gray’s neck, and his horse stirred under him. Gray inhaled gently and thought about all he had witnessed in his life. He hadn’t done too much good, but had he ever done any bad worse than any man? He had always been able to justify his actions to himself, if not to anyone else. Was there a right 30 and a wrong? Or was there, as Gomez had said, only the shades of grey? Gray didn’t know. Gray exhaled and looked at the clear blue sky. There were worse days for people to die, and the men Gray had killed never had the luxury of choosing how they would die. He had emptied a lot of lead into a lot of men, and it was a funny and bitter irony, so far as he could see, that he wouldn’t be going out the same way. With one last look on the horizon, Gray kicked his horse. Without his rider, Gray’s pale horse rode away.

31

This Happens Treyveon Percell

My daddy has been in jail since I was two years old. I grew up without a father which equaled to me feeling forever alone, But I rewrote history and restored my family name. Young, black, sophisticated—hood boy just chasing the fame. See, I’m taking aim at dreams, and it’s not with a gun. BANG BANG—and everybody know it’s time to run. When that glock starts spraying, Grandmothers start praying. Shh, a deadly silence washes over the hood, And everybody knows that’s not good. BANG BANG—and he just let it go. ‘Bout time. . .people get there. . .his body starts to feel cold. Everybody there and most of them crying. His killer is somewhere out there hiding.

32

American Soldier Donny Hyman

I’ve been deployed for a year and four months and this is my last tour; I’ve served this country enough. My flight out of here is in two months and the patrols have been slow lately. We heard some rumblings from our local contacts of a storm coming and I’m not talking about the weather. This was going to be the Taliban’s last hurrah, Ramadi. We’ve heard other rumors of lots of weapons trafficking though the city. As we continued through our daily patrol routes there was nothing, no IEDs, no roadside bombs; we were elated with our work. This went on for about a week and then we got an order from the president for a region wide cease-fire. As word of this got around camp, we knew this was no good, especially with the rumors heating up that this was their chance to strike. We were patrolling with non-lethal rounds in our guns. We were on edge for the next few days, expecting the attack. . .but nothing happened. Then they all hit us at once. It was an early morning for me. I woke up at 4:30 AM to video chat with my wife and two-year-old daughter. We got ten minutes twice a month but I pulled some strings and did some extra work, so two guys from alpha platoon gave me their time for the week. As my family and I started talking, I realized how much I missed them. I felt terrible that I had missed so much of my little girl’s childhood. We’d talked for what seemed like a minute, but when I got the buzz alerting me I only had two minutes left, we started saying our goodbyes. Then the ground shook and she was gone, the screen black. This was it. Suddenly the building was hit with a spray of gun fire. One man went down with a bullet to the shoulder. As I ran to grab my gun, I realized we couldn’t fire back. We were defenseless. As we tried to communicate with our responding U.S. base, all communications went down. We had no way to contact them to drop the cease fire order. As I sprinted from cover to cover, I was struck once in the side—a flesh wound. I finally reached the armory. My fellow soldiers were in the armory, fully aware they couldn’t shoot, but nevertheless they were loading the magazines with normal rounds. The whole camp, 142 people, squeezed into the tiny room. It was getting since it was already 100 degrees outside. Then it hit me—we still had the Morse code machine in the tent on the other side of the camp. So we rounded up a group of about six guys, including myself and we made a run for it. One man went down—he’d taken a shot to the dome—but he was one tough man as he got up and ran back to the armory with blood running down his face The rest of us reached to the tent. The Morse code machine was covered in papers and an inch of dust. We threw the papers to the ground and grabbed the machine. It weighed more than we expected. As we ran it to the armory, it took a few shots. . .nothing major though. 33

We set it up just like we learned in basic training. Sure enough, that thing fired up like it was no problem. We got in contact with the right people, and using the special code word, the Secretary of Defense lifted the cease fire. As soon as we got the news we passed around M16s, M4s, and M9s. We were fully loaded and ready to crush the opposition. We filed out of there with a vengeance to discover our whole camp was torn down. We split up into eight groups and attacked the opposition with deadly force. My squad and one other group went in to clear out sister buildings. We were about half way up when we heard an explosion. The ground shook. When we got to the roof, we saw two sniper insurgents and took them out promptly. We then went to examine the source of the explosion. We were shocked when we saw the 12-story building next to us reduced to rubble. It was terrible. I had known those guys in it. They had been in my platoon. It was also painful to think that it could have been me in that building. I stood in shock for a while then heard the gunfire. It was time to take my revenge. We only had four sniper rifles to our eight men, but one man watched the door. Soon we’d gotten two more rifles from the insurgents. One man provided cover fire to draw them away from us, which gave me more time to shoot. As we set up our hides, we saw upwards of 500 men fighting against us. We knew this was going to be something for the ages if we could pull it out. At first, when we started to fire, it was easy—we were taking them out as fast as we could pull the trigger. But as it progressed they were becoming better at hiding, and it was getting dark. Still, our squad kept fighting on for what seemed to be days. By 2100 hours, it was pitch-black, but it was over .We rendezvoused in the middle of the camp. The only problem was that we were five men short and four of us were seriously wounded. So we went through the rubble. The first three guys were pulled out alive but pretty messed up. The next two guys were dead, bodies mangled, and while they were a horrific sight, we still got them to the camp. We fired up the communications again. To our surprise, it worked. Medivacs were called to get the injured soldiers out. It took four of them and about an hour to get those men out of here. Then we had to get ourselves to safety as well, so we called for some Chinooks to take us to a safer base. They responded saying the nearest convoy of three was 60 minutes out.. About 30 minutes into our wait, we heard some wild gun fire off into the distance which worried us, so we set up a solid perimeter which we thought would suffice. That’s when they struck us again, but this time it was different. They had nothing to lose; they were coming with everything they had. But luckily the Chinooks arrived right on time—in the middle of a firefight. We set up a drop zone and threw all the smoke we had. Two of them landed without a problem but as the last one descended, the smoke cleared. I, along with 12 other guys, had to get on that last one. The others were hovering and trying to provide covering fire. It was now or never. 34

As soon as the chopper hit the ground, I commanded them to load up. As I ran to the chopper, I could hear and see the bullets ricocheting off the metal. I leaped on the rail, and we were off. We were all shooting blind down at the ground just to get us out of here. We were safe. When we arrived at the new camp, the staff sergeant greeted me with mail. As I cut it open, I was hoping for a letter, maybe a picture, but it was something better. It was my papers telling me I could go home—my discharge papers had finally come. Three months later I was in my home in Louisville, Kentucky, when I got the mail, I saw another big, thick letter with the Defense Department seal on it. As I opened it up on the table, I started to read. This was a direct message telling me that I had received a Congressional Medal of Honor. I was honored and blessed, but I wrote the president back, telling him that I didn’t deserve it. I told him if it should have gone to anyone it should go to the families of those who died on that fateful day. I finally got a response, but I was shocked at what I read. It said that he sent the medal to them first, but they rejected it and said it should go to me for pulling them out of the rumble and not leaving them behind, and that I am the true definition of an American soldier.

35

Ride Matt Effinger

I ride in great fury along the dark trail, Blood seeping through my skin (ever so pale). My breaths pierce my lungs with the sharp winter breeze, And distortion inflates each coughing wheeze. The horse’s rough gallop echoes through the night As I cling to the rein with all of my might.

Oh Lord, help me, I scream—they are gaining on me! This scream of a prayer is my last, final plea

For they’ll take me down to the depths where remain The souls of the evil who rot in hells of shame. I’m forever chased by those who haunt the living, For mercy’s not given and death’s unforgiving. My past is haunted by tribulation and evil Of all of my doings, of madness, upheaval. The pains of my past will never be set aside For this is my last and final midnight ride. 36

The Kaleidoscope Nicholas Spoelker

There was something different about being at a museum at night. Theo had discovered this on his first day on the job. Theo enjoyed his job as night guard at the art museum. He enjoyed patrolling the dimly lit corridors of the museum at night. It gave him some quiet time to view the various paintings and sculptures that the museum contained. Theo stopped at one painting. It was an oil painting displayed in an elaborate gilded frame. He had seen this painting many times. It was a beautiful masterpiece depicting a dog in a field of amber wheat. I just need to be inspired, Theo thought to himself. All of these guys were inspired by something to create these works. Theo had tried multiple times to paint a masterpiece. His lifelong dream was to become a renowned artist. He just couldn't find any inspiration. He remembered why he had taken this job in the first place. It had been four months ago. With his art not selling, Theo desperately attempted to acquire money to pay his rent. He decided to work at the museum to get money and maybe, some inspiration for art. Screech! The sudden sound in the silent halls made him jump. He looked up and down the halls. He didn't see anything. He thought that he heard the sound come from somewhere down the east hall. As he walked down the hall, he couldn't help thinking, What could have made that sound? Is someone breaking into the museum? He found himself at the doors to the back storage rooms of the museum. He opened the doors and fumbled for a light switch. After finding none, he pulled out his flashlight and turned it on. He had only been back here once. Theo walked down the dark hallway and saw that one of the doors lining the wall was slightly ajar. He cautiously entered the room. He had never been in this room before. It was dusty and dark. Theo's light passed around the objects in the room. Most of the stuff was just old wooden boxes. One object caught his eye. The object was tall and veiled by a white sheet. Curious, Theo grabbed the sheet and yanked it off. What was beneath caused him to scream. It was a grotesque, life-sized statue of a man. The statue’s long, claw-like fingernails and his skin appeared to be melting. Startled, Theo tripped and stumbled into the horrifying statue, which fell onto the ground and broke apart. Theo, shaken, got to his feet and picked up his flashlight. He pointed the light at the statue, which was in dozens of pieces on the floor. Something was sticking out of a piece of the torso. Theo grabbed the piece and saw that it was hollow. Sticking out was a small tube-shaped object. He removed it from the statue and put it into his pocket. I am so fired Theo thought. Then he realized something. The statue didn't have any tag and it was clear that nobody had been inside of the room in a while. I just need to remove the pieces and nobody will know what happened. 37

He removed the pieces of the statue and disposed of them into the dumpster behind the museum.

Theo awoke around noon the next morning. He lay awake in his bed, contemplating the events of the previous night. Who made that statue? Why was it tucked away in some storage room? Theo didn't know any of the answers. He decided to get to work on a new painting. Setting up his easel and canvas in such a small apartment was a difficult challenge. As Theo sat in his chair, thinking about what to paint, he remembered the object that he had discovered hidden within the statue of the melting man. He removed it from his pocket and examined it. It was a brass kaleidoscope. It was not very large and appeared to be quite old. Theo could tell that this wasn't a toy. Theo held the kaleidoscope to his eye and turned it. He gasped in shock at what he saw within. Within the kaleidoscope was the most beautiful arrangement of colors he had ever seen. Designs unraveled themselves as new ones formed. He found the colors hypnotic and comforting as they danced before his eyes in perfect harmony. Speechless, Theo put the kaleidoscope down and glanced at the canvas. "I think that I have found my inspiration," Theo said aloud. Looking into the kaleidoscope again, Theo began to paint onto the canvas what he saw. Finally, his work was done. Theo sat back admiring his painting. It was a beautiful abstract picture. Excited, Theo grabbed his new work and brought it to the museum. George Kuzio, the curator of the museum had set up what he called a "Young Artist Gallery", where poor artists could showcase works for free. Theo had been showing his works here for months, but with little success. No one ever liked his works. Excited, Theo entered the museum and found George. "Sir, I have a new art piece to display in the gallery!" Theo exclaimed. He showed the painting to George, whose eyes lit up. "Oh my!" he said. "This is by far your best work." George placed the painting on the wall of the gallery. After only one day of being on display, Theo's first painting sold for $5,000. Over the next few weeks, Theo created fourteen paintings using images in the kaleidoscope. All of these paintings were sold for thousands of dollars. Theo began to gain fame. His dream was finally becoming reality.

One night at the museum, Theo was happily thinking to himself. Soon I will have enough money to quit my job and become an artist full time. He held up the kaleidoscope. "All thanks to you." he said aloud. He held the kaleidoscope to his eye and gazed within. The colors welcomed him and swirled around. Blues and greens mixed with golds and reds. Then the colors started to darken. Blacks and reds started to swirl and a jagged lines of blood-red streaked around. The kaleidoscope began to burn in his hand and Theo let out a cry and dropped the kaleidoscope. He looked at his hand. It was red and it burned. Theo touched the kaleidoscope on the ground. It didn't feel hot. He picked up the 38

kaleidoscope and looked up. At the end of the long corridor, he saw a dark figure. The figure appeared to be looking straight at him. "Hello, sir!" Theo shouted. There was no response. The figure stood motionless. "The museum is closed!" Theo yelled. The figure disappeared around a corner. Theo yelled and ran toward where the figure went. He turned the corner and saw no one in sight. Theo shrugged and turned around to see a melted man standing in the corridor. The man looked exactly like the statue that he had broken. "Hey!" Theo yelled, startled. The melted man began to walk towards him in long strides. His melted face stared blankly into Theo's. His long claws made a clicking sound as he came closer. "Stay away from me!" Theo shouted. The melted man did not yield. Theo turned and ran. Everything was a blur as he barreled down the corridor and out of the museum into the cool night air. Was the melting man following him? He turned around and didn't see anyone. Theo ran home and locked his apartment door. He did not sleep that night.

Theo quit his job the next day. He had planned on quitting anyway. His artwork had become so popular that he didn't need the money anymore. Theo created more paintings inspired by the kaleidoscope. The kaleidoscope hadn't burned him since the encounter in the museum. Theo decided that he wouldn't tell anyone about his encounter with the melted man. Did the statue come to life? Was it just someone wearing a costume? Was I hallucinating? He had no idea what had occurred that night. All he knew was that he would never go to the museum at night again. Theo walked down to the gallery to show his newest abstract painting. He walked down the street towards the museum. With the kaleidoscope in one hand and the painting in the other, he felt his hand burn. Once again, the kaleidoscope felt like it was on fire. He looked across the street to see the melted man. The grotesque, mangled figure didn't seem to be noticed by other people. The melted man lifted his hands and pointed one long fingernail at Theo who recoiled in horror and looked away. When he looked back, the melted man was gone. Theo reached the gallery and presented his latest work of art. A short man of about twenty-five years walked up to Theo. He introduced himself as Johan Maxler and offered to help Theo sell art as his agent. "I can advertise your work and find opportunities for you as an artist," Johan said. "You're hired," Theo replied.

With Johan as his art agent, Theo became even more successful. Weeks went by. More and more money began to accumulate. He began to see the melted man everywhere he went. He was so afraid of the melted man that he moved out of his small apartment in the city and moved into a 39

large estate in the countryside. Always carrying the kaleidoscope that had drastically changed his life, Theo stumbled about his house, rarely seeing the light of day. In the seven years since Johan had become Theo's art agent, Theo had become the most well known contemporary abstract artist. Johan was constantly badgered by reporters asking about Theo. In these seven years, Theo had become very reclusive and refused to leave the house so Johan had become more than Theo's art agent. Now Johan picked up food and other necessities for Theo because Theo was afraid to leave the house. Theo's paintings had changed in the past seven years. They had become more disturbing and dark. All of them had been painted in blood red and black paints. They depicted disturbing and dark images. It was a bright and sunny day when Johan approached Theo's house. As he exited from the car, he looked up at the house. It had once been a beautiful country manor, but neglect had turned it into an overgrown ruin. Johan stood on the porch and knocked loudly on the door. "Mr. Kunstler, open up!" he shouted.. There was no reply. Johan looked into one of the boarded up windows. What is that madman up to? he asked himself. The door suddenly flew open. “Get in!" Theo emerged from the house, and looked around wildly. "Hurry, before the melted man comes!" Johan entered the house. Theo locked all fifteen locks on the door. "I have your food," Johan informed him. "I brought ham, turkey, and some bread. Can I see your latest works?" "Eh?" Theo grunted. He looked awful. Theo was deathly pale and skinny. His eyes were wide and bloodshot. His long hands with extremely unkempt fingernails grasped the kaleidoscope tightly. "Have you painted anything new, Theo?" Johan queried, a little louder. He was getting impatient. Theo slunk to another room. The house was very dark. Johan followed Theo to the room. There were many paintings sitting against a wall. The room radiated a malodorous stench. Scrawled on the walls were lines and swirls. The workings of a madman, Johan thought. "The kaleidoscope is showing me beautiful and horrible things," Theo said deliriously. "I have seen the true essence of existence and the world and it is beautiful." He held the kaleidoscope up and stared at it in awe. Theo placed it to his eye and looked inside. "I see good and evil, life and death, light and darkness!" Johan stood watching in discomfort. "The kaleidoscope calls to me!" Theo yelled. "The melted man beckons to me!" He was looking through the kaleidoscope, quickly rotating the end of it. "Theo, you have to stop this!" Johan exclaimed. "You're losing it! Put the toy down!" Suddenly Theo started screaming. "It burns! I see all evil in the world! I see evil!" He removed the kaleidoscope from his face. "I feel like I am melting! My skin burns and my mind aches!" He looked at the kaleidoscope in rage. "It is your fault! You promised me success and life, but you have given me madness and death!" In all of his fury, Theo smashed the kaleidoscope on the floor screaming. 40

The lens shattered and a blood-like liquid spurted out of the kaleidoscope. The accursed object fractured into dozens of small pieces. Theo fell backward onto his back, dead, the kaleidoscope's final victim.

41

On Preparation Treyveon Percell

Virginia Woolf wrote, “As for my next book, I am going to hold myself from writing it till I have it impending in me: grown heavy in my mind like a ripe pear; pendant, gravid, asking to be cut or it will fall.” As we make the long journey through life, we have at some point wanted to please someone. The creative juices start to flow, and we come up with the most wonderful ideas. We get so excited that we want to give the person a rushed delivery instead of the standard transaction of taking our time. To be great doesn’t happen overnight; it takes years and years of preparations. You see, preparation is the key to success. To be successful, we have to take our time and wait until the time is right. Then and only then will our best works, ideas, and performance result. Dear God, help us to realize that You have a plan for us all. We have to realize that You will guide us the way to success. Help us all build more preparation time in whatever it is we’re doing. Amen.

42

An excerpt from his novel-in-progress, Eldertown Matthew Hess

Previously in his novel-in-progress: A number of kids have been kidnapped from their homes and kept captive on the roof of an unused parking garage—what their captives call the Sanctuary—for this is the only place they are allowed to go. On their eighteenth birthday, they disappear from the Sanctuary. Some say they work for their captors. Others claim, they are never seen again. Now a group of kids—Webster, Marissa, and Weiping—have decided that they want to try to escape and go for help before Weiping turns eighteen tomorrow. But their biggest obstacle is their kidnappers who are nicknamed the Power Puff Girls for their red, blue, and green colored dress clothes. Will they succeed?

The wind blew the desert sand against my back and across the cement in front of me as I leaned against the wall bordering the edges of the Sanctuary. I crossed my arms and tilted my head toward the ground, closing my eyes and counting in my head. Two minutes, one second. . . Two minutes. . . One minute, fifty-nine seconds. . . Looking up for a brief moment, I saw my friends in their positions. Weiping was saying his goodbyes to his little sister for what might be the final time. Gilbert was by the elevator coming out of the ground, in the same spot as Marissa had been when she spat on the chef’s shoes. As for Marissa, she was out of sight, nowhere to be found. Perfect, everything was going according to plan. One minute, thirty-two seconds. . . I started sweating. This new sweat was the same sweat that accumulated when the Power Puff Girls jumped me. Just you wait, you creeps. I’ll make sure you never take another kid. With that silent vow, I hit one minute. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight. . . I wanted this to be over with, for the next step of the plan to commence immediately. But what would be the fun of that, eh? I looked over my shoulder to the empty streets below, watching sand blow in the wind. We’re gonna be down there pretty soon. Shivers ran up and down my spine. Twenty-three, twenty-two. . . Gilbert shifted his feet so that his left lay over his right, trying to relax himself for what was coming next. His eyes, however, were perfectly relaxed. I’d hate to play poker with someone that had a face like his. Twenty, nineteen. . . The elevator dinged. The two doors slowly slid open. The metal of the catering carts came out first, followed by the armed chefs. They came to a stop in the center of the Sanctuary. Kids, one by one, slowly swarmed around them, waiting for them to hand out the food. I casually walked over, leaving the safety of the wall to join the crowd of hungry individuals. Eleven, ten. . . 43

Gilbert followed, entering the crowd from a different angle than me. Nine, eight, seven. . . Weiping kept his sister back away from the crowd, but he himself also joined in. Six, five, four. . . I got right up next to the chef with the bad attitude toward Marissa. Three. Two. . . One. “Get off of me, you little-—” I tackled him to the ground. Then, before he could reach his sidearm, I stepped on his hand, grinding it into cement. I reached down slowly, taking my time, enjoying his pain. I was going to get his holster. . .but not quite yet. First he had to suffer. The more he struggled, the more I wanted to crush his hand under my boot. “Please let me go, you don’t hafta—“ “Shut up,” I growled. I unbuttoned his holster and slipped the gun out from it. I moved my foot from his hand. Fear left his face, and anger replaced it. He put his hands on the cement to prop himself up. But before he could make a move, I forcibly stopped him. I stood up as he wiped blood from his lips; it looked like the red wax seal you see people put on letters in movies. He was down for the count. I looked up, hoping to find the others with the same success. But the group of scattering kids left Gilbert and Weiping twisted and tangled. A shot was fired. Everyone turned to see the other chef over by the elevator, free from the mess of kids, holding the gun up in the air. “Nobody move unless you want to die!” the chef yelled as he pointed the gun at the crowd. To me specifically. “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.” He pointed it at the other kids. Screams arose from the crowd; some of the kids fell back on each other, and like dominoes more fell. I dropped the gun and kicked it away. Steadily I lifted my hands up, signaling that I gave in. There was a strange sort of silence, like everyone was holding their breath, wondering what he might say next, whether we would live or die, be given a warning or be punished. All except for me. Because I knew what would happen. Still with the gun aimed at the crowd, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Now!” I yelled. The chef pointed the gun at me. His arms shook as he put the phone back into his pocket. Sweat started to form on his temples and dripped down to his cheeks. He looked to his left side, then to his right, unsure of what I evoked by yelling my command. “Just kidding,” I smiled. He looked at me with a furrowed brow, and then lowered his gun. “What I really meant was, now!” I screamed even louder. The chef didn’t prepare himself. A figure from behind the elevator to stand in front of him. He started to lift his pistol to take aim. Marissa grabbed his wrist and 44

aimed in the air so no stray bullets would hit her or the kids. She spun around to elbow the chef in the stomach with her free arm. He bent forward in pain. Marissa spun again and turned behind him, still with her hand clamped on the wrist of his shooting-hand. She grabbed his head and stretched his arm out. He could not react quickly enough—she was too swift. Marissa rammed his head into the outer brick layer of the elevator. Needless to say, he too was out. I picked up the gun as I walked toward Marissa, and she met me half-way. Gilbert and Weiping joined us. “You guys ready?” I asked. Everyone nodded. Gilbert ran to the side of the garage and leaned over the edge, looking to see if the coast was clear, if the kidnappers heard the shot or not. I checked the chef’s pockets for his cell phone, a red flip phone. “Weiping, check the other guy’s pockets.” He jogged over to the body with a boot print on his face and reached into his pocket. Kids stood watching; they seemed dazed by what happened, unsure of what to make of it. Along with a bunch of pocket lint, Weiping pulled out a blue flip phone, similar to this one. “What are you doing?” asked Marissa, obviously wanting to hurry this up. Weiping handed me the other phone. I opened both and turned them on. Looking at the preset numbers, I entered each phone’s number into the other. I ran to Gilbert. “Call us, keep in contact.” I handed Gilbert the blue phone. “I’ll be watching out for you guys,” he said, his mouth smiling but his eyes as serious as a director’s on Hell Week. Weiping appeared beside Gilbert.“Please take care of my sister,” he asked, bowing his head and clasping his hands together as if praying to God. Gilbert, put his hand on Weiping’s shoulder. “I will protect her with my life.” replied Marissa motioned to the elevator. “Let’s go already!” We left Gilbert. Half way to the elevator, I stopped, turned around, and raced back to the Chef that I knocked out. I reached under his arms and started to drag him across the cement toward Marissa at the elevator. “Weiping, Get the other body. Marissa, grab the catering cart. I have a plan.”

Sure it’s trite, but it’s effective. Weiping and I slipped on the Chefs’ uniforms and took special care to duck our faces out of the sun. Marissa peeked through the curtain- like tablecloth covering the catering cart. “What are we, the freakin’ Looney Toons?” she whispered. Weiping shushed her with haste as we were about to cross the street. We didn’t need to look both ways—nothing was there for miles. I heard nothing save for the wind. We headed to a nearby restaurant, right next to the road that the bus came down. We weren’t planning to go in, though. We would stroll right past it. 45

Stork from New York Sam Lewis

There once was a stork from New York Who thoroughly wanted some pork. He went to the store, And bought a big boar, But forgot that he needed a fork.

46

Disturbing the Peace Dean Mock

John Townsend was very happy. In fact, he was the happiest he had been for as long as he could remember. His autocratic father’s will had been read a few days ago, and John was now the owner of a 2010, scarlet-red, convertible Ferrari. After a depressing ten years of misery, this was exactly what John needed. He had been in a downward spiral of misfortune, but now it was turning around for him. First, he had lost his job at the newspaper plant. Then he had been diagnosed with lung cancer. When things seemed like they couldn’t get any worse, his wife of ten years had left him, taking the house, the kids and his car. But now here John was, speeding along just outside of Albuquerque in a half-million dollar Ferrari. He smiled, feeling the sea-breeze hitting his face. How blissful was it to be alone, just him and his sports car, driving along like this on a Sunday morning! He shot along down the abandoned road, testing out the acceleration and. . . John’s bubble of peace was shattered by a siren and flashing blue and red lights in his rear-view mirror. A cop car was directly behind him, signaling for him to pull over. His mouth fell open and his heart sank as he slowly put his foot on the brake. He pulled the luxury car to the side of the road. Behind him he saw the cop get out of his car and start swaggering towards him. John put on his best poker face and rolled down the window. “Is there a problem, officer?” “You know how fast you were going?” the cop asked. He was a small man, about two heads shorter than John. He had a malicious, terrible smile on his face. “No, I don’t,” said John. “You were going one hundred and ten miles per hour! That’s forty miles per hour over the speed limit.” “Sorry, officer. It won’t happen again,” John said, praying that this cop would leave. His morning had been so perfect. He remembered his ex-wife calling him up and asking when he was going to sell the Ferrari. He had told her that he was going to keep it, and her reaction of surprise and undeniable annoyance had brightened up his entire week. And now some eager, obnoxious cop was going to try to ruin it. “Yes, I know. It won’t happen again,” said the cop, now positively beaming. John shot him a quizzical look. “Please step out of the car, sir!” John obeyed. “What is going on?” John started to feel a little anxious. He wasn’t going to be arrested, was he? “Stand over there, to the side of the road!” the cop shouted. His face was glowing with vindication and triumph. That annoyed the hell out of John. Nevertheless, he obeyed and walked over to the side of the road. About twenty feet away from the road was the edge of a thirty-foot cliff leading to the ocean surf below. “What is going on?” John repeated, unsure of what was happening. 47

“I am impounding your vehicle, sir.” “What? What for?” “You are a danger to your fellow vehicle operators. You will be given a court date, but until then, your vehicle will be impounded.” As he said “your vehicle”, he whapped his hand lightly on the hood of the Ferrari. “Don’t do that!” yelled John. The cop smiled and then took out his billy-bat. “Don’t do what? This?” Then he whacked the hood hard enough to create a small dent, the whole time sporting a twisted sneer of glee. As he did it, a fire lit in John. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist. No one, not even a cop was going to take his Ferrari from him. Taking away his Ferrari was taking away his happiness. For once in his life, John had seen the good side of luck. He had been given a car which he loved more than anything and which had now made his life worth living. If he’d been speeding in a minivan he wouldn’t have gotten in trouble! This cop was out to get rich people. John wasn’t rich – he was just lucky. The cop was walking toward John now, almost level with him. Surreptitiously, John glanced at the crashing ocean surf at the foot of the cliff, only yards behind him. The cop still had on a twisted, hideous sneer. John thought that if the cop didn’t cut it out soon his face was going to be stuck like that. His hatred of the man in front of him was growing by the second. The cop could tell. He peered into John’s face and said, “You didn’t like that, did you?” John remained silent, his face contorting in rage, surely giving away his feelings. “No, you didn’t like that at all. Well, guess what? Life’s not fair! You people are all the same, driving around in your fancy cars, thinking that you are above the law! Well, I have news for you, pal! You can get above the law, but you can’t get above me!” The cop began to laugh. He then walked back to the car and pulled out the keys. Looking over his shoulder, almost overwhelmed with glee, the cop scraped the key along the outer coating of paint on the Ferrari. The fire that had been lit in John was now no longer just a fire. It was a roaring inferno that would destroy anything in its path. The cop walked toward John until he was level with him. He then pulled out his handcuffs and stepped behind John. “You have the right to remain silent—” John donkey-kicked him, hard, and the cop fell back over the cliff, his face twisted in utter disbelief. John turned around just in time to see the cop splash into the crashing ocean surf. He surfaced, losing his hat in the process, sputtering madly, like a cat forced into the bathtub. John watched as the cop tried to swim after his police cap. “Impound that!” John yelled down at the floating policeman. The cop shouted up curses and threats at John, but he didn’t care. He was getting out of this town. Right now, the best place to go seemed like Mexico. Yeah, Mexico. That sounded good. He could go to one of those cantinas and he’d get a room over it. Watch cock-fighting in the day, drink tequila, and eat tacos every afternoon. A great new change of scenery. As John hopped back into his Ferrari and the engine roared to life, only quesadillas and queso were on his mind. 48

On Struggle

Alanson Stumler

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “The reason one writes isn't the fact he wants to say something. He writes because he has something to say.” As writers we are never forced to write. If we were ever forced to say something, we would never accomplish the art of letting thoughts pour onto paper. Writing is all about the inner desire to "get something off of your chest" or simply express the truth of your thoughts. Writing is about giving your thoughts, dreams, and emotions the chance to escape from your clustered mind. Writers are expected to speak from the heart. We are never supposed to cover up any pure ideas due to embarrassment or fear of failure. We are only supposed to speak based on what we want to say and on what we feel. Dear God, as writers we are challenged with the task of taming abstract ideas. Please give us the complete ability to harness these ideas and make them a reality. Amen.

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Experiment on Language Doug Krauth

Listen to the rich hazel chords of this verse and submerse yourself in my language. As my words flutter into the space between the air itself, I want you to recognize their strength. Feel them pervade the air in your lungs and let them dance on the tips of your eyelids. Do not blink. Do not breathe. Do not move. Concentrate on the language of creation, my language, and the language of all others who choose to write. Under authority of words, I remain a child, eyes open and gleaming for life to sweep me off my feet. This is the power of words, the power to create and to grow and to remain. Open your eyes and your mind and create beauty like no one else has before. This is the experiment of language and the life of the creator.

Listen: We can be so much more than just people. We can be gods! We can create universes out of the blood of pens and a single thought; we can pluck names from our soul and make history; we can live forever in the etchings of a dream on a stone wall. Our homes are paper caves that will never crumble and our lives are as infinite as the weaving of our words. Let the language out! Let the words live! Write about love and hunger and the tears of children. Write about the color of screaming and the sensation of triumph. Cut the vein and bleed your story onto the page, let it soak the paper in black gold and tell the story of the God of dreams. Listen now and understand the weight of your words. This is the experiment of language and the life of the creator.

This is why we write.

50

Fleeting Robbie Goltz

Josh watched as the flowers blew around in the dirt. The hard stone had accepted the earth around it. A tear fell from Josh’s cheek, as the sullen reminder of what used to be jerked his emotions violently. Standing up, he heard a noise. Somewhere nearby, Josh listened as a bird chirped, a mother bird calling to its hatchling. It sat on a birch branch, ripe for flight, the sole survivor of the cold early spring. The fowl began to chirp back, leaving the air filled with happy tunes of life. Josh watched the scene unfold: the young hatchling was opening its wet wings and going to take its first flight. It slowly bobbed its way towards the end of blooming branches, its wings flapping, dusting up pollens from the trees, picking away at its feathers, while its mother watched. Chirping happily, it began to bounce on its perched twig. Still trying to find her kin, its mother cooed along with the bird encouragement, filling the creature with certainty. It flailed and flailed its small body up and down on that branch, flapping its small wings to no avail. As much as it tried to detach itself from the only tree it knew, it was no use. But, like a distant being, the air kept calling to the bird, telling the bird that it would be okay. The birds kept on flapping, trying and urging its small wings to accept the breeze. Josh watched as the bird, still singing its screaming song of frustration, began to teeter closer to the edge of the branch. Josh stood under the tree, watching the bird. It leaned, and in one swoop, the small creature jumped straight off the tree, falling to the ground, no air blowing through its wings. Josh ran toward the bird, and reached his body out, catching the bird in his jacket. It let out a clucking noise, hopping around as he cupped it in his hand. Josh took his other hand and wiped his still tear-stained cheek, and bowed his body, setting the small bird on the ground and then walking away back to the stone, where he then flopped to the ground. He looked at the decay of the stone again, the long thin lines and cracks that ran up its split back. The rock was eternal. The bird sat and squeaked, and Josh watched on as the mother of the bird came down from the tree, pecking at the poor thing. Its demeanor had changed, as if the young bird had become sick. Josh knew what had happened. The baby bird still jumped at its mother, its fragile body begging for the mother’s forgiveness. All at once, the mother bird lifted up her elegant wings and in one motion, flew away. 51

There was all silence, except for Josh’s sniffling which he quickly wiped away with the sleeve of his jacket. “I know you’re here,” Josh said aloud to the body which lay just a few feet below him. “I know.” Josh watched as the baby made its way back to the tree, its familiar home, calling for its mother with no response. The breeze chilled Josh and the small bird. His heart ached. He saw it try to climb the tree, still flapping its small wings with no response. “Okay,” he sighed, slowly feeling for the ground, lifting himself up with trembling hands. He walked to the bird silently, bending down with the upmost care, scooping up its little body. He stared at the innocent bird, and it stared back. They understood each other. He—a man—and it—a bird—both left alone, both lost, both unable to survive on their own.

52

Guess Alanson Stumler

Do you really know? Have you taken a guess? Do you want me to tell you about the rest? I want to show But can’t confess. These words only make it more of a mess.

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An excerpt from his novel-in-progress, Nimbus Rising Anthony Epifano

I lay on my back staring up at the roof of the tent. Beneath me was the soft spongy feel of the foam pad along with the cool of the sheets we had laid out. Although I would be in close quarters with Steven for the night—since I could almost reach out and touch the top of the tent from my prone position and could touch each of the sides perpendicular to the zip-up entrance by spreading my arms out on both sides—I still had no complaints about the situation. Not like the tent had all of the comforts of home. . .far from it. I’d always been the kind of guy that considered myself roughing it when I had to switch from the regular incandescent lights in my house to the fluorescent ones that take forever to light up just to save a little money on the electric bill. But even so, that moment paled in comparison to how we had all been feeling the day or two leading up to this night. My eyes started to get heavy. I was about to drift off to sleep to the sounds of crickets chirping and the stream gurgling as it emptied into the lake. I closed my eyes and finally drifted off on my memory foam cloud. Then something cut through all of my relaxation to wake me back up. “Hey, Anthony, can I ask you something?” I opened my eyes and turned my head to my left to see Steven sitting up, watching me. He had the worried look that hadn’t left his face since we reached this clearing. “Dude, what are you worried about? Just lay back on your foam and listen to the crickets. Works faster than Nyquil,” I said. “Can I ask you something?” he repeated. Desperate to get this over with and go back to sleep at the end of a day that seemed to pass like decades, I said, “Sure, buddy, go ahead.” “What do you think of Robert and Andrea?” he whispered, in a clear attempt to ensure that they could not hear us in their tent. “Huh?” “Shh, keep your voice down!” His whisper was harsh like the snap of a whip. “What do you think about Robert and Andrea?” “What do you mean?” “Well, how do you feel about them?” “I think they’re okay. A little quirky maybe, but I don’t think I’d say anything’s wrong with them, if that’s where you’re going with this. I was a little uneasy when Cameron starting spewing out our story at them, but I’m not too worried about it anymore. To me they seemed like perfectly nice people.” “I don’t know. I think Andrea might be okay, but I’m a little concerned about Robert,” Steven said. “He just seems like he’s too quick to downplay our situation like he wasn’t surprised at all to run into us. When you think about it, just the sight of other people had us speechless for a minute.” “Yeah, but I think he just assumed that we were out hiking like they were. Remember how they asked if we were staying in the lodge right after they heard we 54 weren’t in the area on purpose? I think all this stuff that’s bothering you is just coincidental.” For a moment, Steven went quiet and lay on his back, just staring up at the top of the tent. During his silence, I had no idea whether or not he thought my attempt to calm him down about our guests was reasonable, or whether or not he was looking up at the top of the tent and still feeling trapped by it as if we buried ourselves deeper into a hole the longer we waited with these strange people in the neighboring tent. “Yeah, maybe I don’t have anything to worry about.” Then he turned on his right side to face me and propped himself up with his arm. “But maybe I do. I think we are way too comfortable with these people that we don’t know anything about. Maybe in normal life back home I wouldn’t have any problems with these people, but out here, everything seems like it’s slowly closing in on us. Well, on me at least. We aren’t back in Seattle. We aren’t in our neighborhoods walking around with the neighborhood watch practically at every corner. We really have no idea where we are.” He added, “We aren’t used to anything around us, so we aren’t giving it enough appreciation. Look, out here, there isn’t anything we know for a fact that we can trust other than the four of us, and I think we are taking a tremendous risk by letting these people get close to us while we’re asleep. If we want to be absolutely sure that we are giving ourselves a chance to make it back home, we should leave tonight and try to head towards that lodge Robert mentioned. Maybe we can get some help there, if we can find it. Or even if we don’t, we just have to keep moving.” I got a sick feeling as I felt guilt start to bubble up in my stomach. Of course, Steven was right. We were taking an unnecessary risk just because these people talked about something that could potentially serve as a way home. I think we had been too desperate to weigh the cons, so they all went over our heads. Except for Steven’s. I let out a sigh, and my eyes sank to the cushion. I couldn’t meet his gaze knowing that I’d shown another lapse in judgment that could possibly lead to people getting hurt. Steven saw my drooping posture and expression and he put his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t gotta be upset, Anthony. You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t need to keep blaming yourself for everything that’s happening, most of all for this. We are all desperate to get out of here, so when Robert mentioned the lodge, it was hard not to let your guard down. Trust me, I know. It was hard for me too. But I guess it takes me so long to trust anything that I didn’t get sucked in with the rest of you. Tell me what you’re thinking about this. What should we do now?” “Do you really trust my judgment?” “Don’t you?” “No. I don’t know why I would. I seem to be trying pretty damn hard to kill us.” “Well, maybe you’ve given up on yourself, and maybe the rest of us should too. But right now, we can’t afford to think that way, so, damn it, Anthony, what do you think we should do now? Should we take off while it’s still dark or are we okay to stay here?” “Why do you want me to make this decision so badly?” “Because we need you. It may not feel like it, and James and Cameron may not even realize it, but it’s true. I can’t deny that you led us off track, but we followed you 55 there! We are in this just as deep as you are, and I believe you can help us out. I have faith in you. Now please, tell me what happens next.”

56

Brothers Sam Melchior

This is for the one and only Man I can count on. Fights or Laughs— Brothers.

Raised together back then, Years apart, but no bad effect , Common qualities— Brothers.

Sticking up for each other. Dunking bullies at the pool, No one messes with us— Brothers.

We’ve had our disagreements, Basketball games, ping pong. Punches and jabs— Brothers.

57

An excerpt from his novel-in-progress, A Day in Manhattan Cedric Miller

Bruce Hanson kissed his wife and two daughters goodbye before he went to work. “I love you, Daddy,” his two girls said, smiling. Bruce got into his patrol car and headed into downtown Manhattan. Another day. He clicked on his scanner to see if there was anything going on in his area. Nothing. . .a little odd for an early Monday morning in downtown Manhattan. So he decided to go where all cops go when there’s nothing to do. The doughnut shop.

Back at home his kids jumped in the minivan, excited to start a new school year, their first day in the second grade. His wife Lisa slowly backed out of the driveway. Unexpectedly, a car drove past, almost hitting the back of the minivan. The driver, a guy in his mid-teens, rolled down his window and flicked them off. “Don’t worry about it, girls. What that man just did is bad, so I better not catch you doing it, ever, to anyone. Do you understand me?” said Lisa. “Yes ma’am,” the girls answered. Lisa had never seen that guy in the neighborhood; she figured it was a reckless teen who just received his driver’s license.

Still at the doughnut shop, Bruce remembered 20 years ago when his job felt more exciting, when his time was spent searching for a drug deal on the street corner or going into the bad parts of town just to show his face. Now, he went to the doughnut shop and talked about last night’s football game. Bruce wanted some excitement again; he wanted some real stuff to happen. Then he got a call on his scanner. Unit seven, we’ve got a 921 on East Fifty-third Street, do you copy? A 921 was code for a robbery. Bruce’s wish might have come true. “This is unit seven,” Bruce said. “I’m on it,”

He got there in five and a half minutes. A little rusty, he thought, 10 years ago I could have made it in five. He pulled up to the neighborhood food mart and saw the shattered glass from the door. “Is anybody injured?” he asked the cashier. “No, but the guy stole some food.” “Which way did he go?” 58

“Towards Central Park.” Bruce headed to Central Park. He figured the robber was probably homeless and desperate for food since it was winter time. Manhattan had one of the largest homeless populations in the country. Besides, Christmas was a couple of days away. Bruce had a little sympathy for the guy. Meanwhile, there was some trouble stirring up on the West Side. The Mid-City Bank was experiencing security malfunctions. Some of their surveillance cameras were sporadically shutting down. The bank, one of the most heavily guarded banks in the region, had never experienced such problems. It contained 35 shifting foot-guards who patrolled the premises, 40 surveillance cameras, and 10 vault sensors that detect human body heat. The Mid-City Bank contained more than 19 million dollars, over 30 percent of it in a highly concealed vault located beneath the bank. No one in the history of the bank’s 85 years had ever succeeded in robbing it. The current number of attempts was 255, an average of three robberies per year, all of them unsuccessful. A man by the name of Spencer Rodriquez had come the closest to robbing the bank 25 years ago. But he had forgotten one thing. . .his getaway plan. As he approached the bank, Bruce saw a white van approaching in his rearview mirror. It was going fast, and it wasn’t slowing down. “All right, we got a winner,” Bruce said. He clicked on his siren and put the pedal to the medal. The van kept going. Bruce called for backup. “This is unit seven. We got a 574 on I-95 and he’s not stopping, he’s driving a white Caravan.” “Copy that, I’m on my way, unit seven.” Bruce tried to accelerate but the traffic was heavy. The van continued down the highway, recklessly cutting off cars and nearly crashing. At this point there were at least five more patrol cars following Bruce. Even though the Manhattan police department called in the city chopper, the chase had lasted over an hour and a half. As Bruce approached an exit ramp, the van didn’t slow down and accelerated through the spikes. The car lost control and crashed into a ditch. All the police cars slammed on their brakes. Bruce and his fellow officers got out of their cars to approach the vehicle. “Get out of the vehicle slowly with your hands up! We have you surrounded!” Bruce commanded. There was no response. “I’ll give you one more chance to get out. If you don’t, we can do this the hard way.” The cops waited another 40 seconds. Still no response. “Get an ambulance down here! I think this guy’s hurt,” Bruce said. Bruce and his colleagues approached the car with caution, still alert in case the man had a weapon. Bruce gave the signal for his men to pounce. He rushed to open the driver’s door. There was nobody inside. 59

“What the hell? Is this some kind of joke?” Bruce asked. “Did the chopper see anything?” “Nope. . .nothing,” another cop answered. “Well, where did he go?” The policemen all looked at each other puzzled. “Okay, I need the search team to inspect every surrounding area we passed and ask people what they saw,” Bruce ordered. The cops stood for a second. “What the hell are you waiting for? Do it now!” Bruce commanded. They quickly rushed back to their cars and took off. Bruce rubbed his head in confusion. He looked down the long highway and started to think of the possibilities. He recalled when he first saw the van approaching him on the highway. It was all coming together now. Bruce remembered seeing the car, but he didn’t remember seeing anyone driving the car. That’s it. Bruce called over a detective. “Search the vehicle for any type of computer device or control that seems like it shouldn’t be on the car,” he said. “Chief, might I ask why?” Bruce paused, then said, “I think we’ve been punked.” The detective began to search inside the vehicle for anything that seemed peculiar. Thirty minutes passed. There was nothing inside the car. The detective climbed out, frustrated and ready to give up. Then he saw it. He got on his knees and lowered his head to view the bottom of the car. There was a strange device attached to the bottom of the exhaust pipe. It had a flashing red light and it was coated with greenish goo that wasn’t very pleasing to the eye. The detective called Bruce over to the car and showed him. “What do you think it is?” Bruce asked. “By the looks of it I think we need to call the bomb squad over to check it out.” “Are you sure this is the real thing, detective?” “Yes, sir, it looks like it’s some sort of explosive device.” “Good God” Bruce mumbled. “Whatever it takes.” He called for Manhattan’s bomb squad to come down.

60

Aaron Landon Hagan

The infernal buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the sounds of phones ringing, printers printing, keys being typed, and people talking—it all scratched at the recesses of Aaron's sanity as he sat in a cubicle in the Customer Service Department on the fortieth floor of the Infinitum Corporation. He was bored but diligent. While typing away, he glanced around his cubicle in boredom and sighed before slowing his work to a halt. He scanned the various trinkets and photos around his desk: a small post card from Montana, an old picture of him in a suit, him with his parents in front of a ranch house as a teenager (looking unhappy). He sighed again, a deeply saddened feeling of longing and regret in his chest. Infinitum was a subsidiary company, one part of the larger conglomerate, Deus Industries. Infinitum was a soft and hardware company who had overtaken and bought out the competition about in the twenties, a decade back. Its popularity and monopoly could only have been facilitated by the recent rise in lobbyism at Washington. It’s a begrudging truth but it’s not like anyone can do anything about it, Aaron thought to himself, since Deus seems to have more money than God. Besides that, everyone has Infinitum tech. It’s too wide spread to get rid of even if they were doing something illegal or amoral. “So you’re taking a break for once, eh, Aaron? It’s nice to see the one person around here who gives half a crap pacing himself for once!” a voice loudly announced behind him. Aaron, his reverie shattered, jumped in surprise and turned to see Anthony his supervisor standing behind him. “Actually I was just getting back to work. I don’t really need to take a break I don’t eat that much and the work is really easy so it’s better to just get it done.” Anthony looked both ways to make certain that no one were looking and leaned into the cubicle, saying exasperatedly, “Look, you’re by far the most valuable person here. You’ve got a great work ethic, and you’ve done more here than everyone else combined, but I worry about you sometimes! You’ve never taken a lunch break and have never used any vacation days! If nothing else, just take some time off for a few minutes so I won’t think you’re running yourself ragged!” Aaron looked at him for a moment, searching his face for any signs of dishonesty. Finding none, and feeling very flattered, he smiled lightly to himself and conceded with a nod. “All right, if you really are that worried, then I’ll take a break for a moment, okay?” “Good. Now if only we could get you to do something over the weekends,” Anthony chuckled.

As he thought and waited lazily for the work day to end, Aaron decided he'd flip on his phone and check the global news. He reached down to pull out his phone but stopped himself when he saw his reflection in the computer monitor. He hated the way he looked now, with his normally long jet black hair trimmed short and neatly combed along with his clean-shaven face. Although he liked his shirt and tie, the rest didn't suit 61

him. He'd once been a rancher's son back in Montana where he was born and raised. There it hadn’t mattered how he looked. Aaron sighed to himself thinking of his past mistakes: leaving his family home at eighteen in search a something more, arriving in Ohio a week later and spending the last of his savings on college, moving to the megalopolis of New York later on in search of opportunity, failing at that and signing on with Infinitum. All the terrible decisions that had ripped him away from his peaceful, sensible life in Montana, a life he so desperately wanted back but was too afraid to crawl back to shamefully. Besides, modern New York's development has increased so greatly in recent years that it now stretches for hundreds of miles, covering most of New England, so I'd probably get lost anyway. There was nothing for it, so he continued to pull out his phone—the latest but most drab of models. Tech had sort of stagnated in terms of appearance after the touch screen craze in the teens. Nothing very different had come along since then. The only aesthetic difference in Aaron’s from one fifteen years ago was the logo which had changed from fruit to that little sideways-eight infinity symbol that Deus slapped on all of their products just to remind him that they owned everything. He flipped it on and tapped the News app which immediately brought up the top stories from around the world. The only one to catch his eye was some sort of terrorist attack on the Deus World Headquarters in Manhattan earlier that morning. “Speak of the Devil,” he whispered to himself. The entire entrance section and parts of the surrounding pavilion had been reduced to rubble and scorched in the attack which had cost eighty-three people their lives. There was a video of an on-the-scene reporter talking about the odd nature of the explosion and how it came from inside the building despite there being no trace of the attackers themselves let alone any signs of an infiltration job. In a live feed, she reported that “Pandemonium has struck here at the DEUS world headquarters as there seems to have been a rebel bombing at the base of the tower. . .”

There were two seconds left in the video but in those two seconds he noticed something out of place. Aaron and saw that far off in the background—distant to the point to where it was almost a blur—was the figure of a girl with bright red hair— wearing what appeared to be hospital scrubs, also red—standing on a roof. He didn’t know why he picked her out, just that she was out of place. He also felt an odd sense of nostalgia. . .like he knew this girl before. While pondering this, Aaron failed to notice the spider web of red light that crept up the side windows of his office building until it crossed seven floors sitting there like a bad paint job attracting a crowd of onlookers to the windows. Only when the dim tendrils sprouted buds that at first looked like roses then blossomed into balls of flame, did he begin to take notice. Suddenly Aaron looked up as he heard a distant commotion. He was blocked, however, when Anthony stepped decisively in front of him. It was too late. The flames grew brighter and more intense until—with a deafening blast and a brightness that covered everything in light and heat—they exploded. 62

A massive blast tore through the building from the direction of the roses. The floor, walls, and ceiling ripped asunder and flamed. For a moment as the world tumbled around Aaron, there was nothing but fire. He flew, colliding midair with objects and people. By slamming against a wall harder than he thought possible and cracking a few rib, he eventually came to rest. He slid to the ground with a thud followed by his own pained groan. As he lay there on his side with his hair flopped into his eyes, he tried to observe his surroundings. Despite the searing pain bringing tears to his eyes and the flash, heat, and sound, which had locked most of his senses, he was still able to get a glimpse of his former office. The place was a wreck with flaming rubble and office supplies littering the ground. The hole that had been blasted through the windows and wall was a long gash-like tear running down the side of the building. Flame and smoke gushed like blood through that hole which was around twelve feet wide and seemed to extend down through some other floors. What should have been a gaping threshold to the bare sky was instead shrouded and choked unnaturally by flame and smoke. After the lights in his eyes dimmed, and the ringing in his ears stopped, Aaron found that he was much more able than he’d thought. He slowly and excruciatingly shifted his weight to push himself up, but when he tried, he found that there was something holding him down. Beginning to panic, he shoved himself upward into a sitting position against the wall, causing two things to happen: the first was an inconceivable amount of pain shooting through his whole body, and the second was to throw the weight that had been on him to the left. Out of curiosity he looked over to see what it was, expecting to find part of the ceiling, but instead finding something life- changing. Anthony, his close friend and supervisor, lay to his left, half-scorched and dead, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. It took a moment to register, but when it did, the horror of the situation struck Aaron with full force. He gazed around the destruction-strewn office and saw people lying all over the place: limbs peeking out from under collapsed sections of wall, some even without the rest of a body to accompany them. Blood lay splattered all over the rubble strewn office. Tears swelled in Aaron's eyes. “Why. . .Why did this happen?! W- What caused this?!” he thought through sobs. Then, through the wall of flame and smoke that seemed to be moving of its accord, there appeared a break—a hole that lead outside, contrasting the beautiful sky with terror inside. Suddenly a figure wreathed in flame—yet not burning—levitated up in front of the hole and floated forward, the wall closing behind it. When it touched down a few yard from Aaron, the inferno that surrounded the figure began to recede. It sank back into the skin, showing bright red markings in the shape of roses. . .or maybe balls of fire. That revealed more markings on the figure’s face—and that it was female—and from her head the traces of gradient fiery orange and yellow looked red hair which flowed unnaturally but gradually becoming indistinguishable from the real thing. It was the girl he'd seen before. He then saw she was in her early twenties and would have been beautiful were it not for the hellfire at her command. Aaron gave a wheezing gasp, shocked that she was 63

there. For a moment there was a fog in his mind as some obvious conclusion tried to force its way out. Then it struck. "You did this!" he shouted through fury and tears. Her attention snapped to him, and she gracefully made her way over. Aaron tried squirming away but the pain held him in place. She stopped just in front of him and lowered herself to eye level. Aaron was forced to look her in the eyes and when he did, he saw nothing. They were dim with no signs of intelligence or thought. She cocked her head like a dog might and blinked. Aaron was dumbfounded and afraid. He didn't know what she was going to do next. She lifted her right hand, and as Aaron flinched in terror, she brought it over his shoulder. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye, and her hand hovered for a bit as she surveyed him. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if confirming something for herself. Then she suddenly gripped his shoulder. His response was immediate and strange. Part of his shirt burned away, and with a distinct sizzle, so too did his skin. He shot his eyes to his shoulder and saw the color changed from vaguely pale to a bright red, and—if his eyes weren’t tricking him—a little black closer to her hand. Agony shot through Aaron like he'd never experienced even in the initial blast, and his body convulsed. His mind commanded him to get out of her grip, but he was oddly paralyzed. Not that it mattered since the pain drew him to the brink of insanity. As the pain threw him into shock, his mind blurred, and he began to lose consciousness. She released him from her vice-like grip. He slid weakly to the floor, shivering. His consciousness fading, blackness began to creep in and receded repeatedly. What little he could see was blurry and seemed to be slightly rocking like on a ship at sea. His view was centered on the wall of fire behind them, but at the far corner of his peripheral vision, he could see the feet of The Girl as she stood up. Suddenly he heard a loud, repeated thumping from outside, loud enough to startle The Girl and cause her to suddenly turn around. The wall of inferno burst as some strange shockwave was blasted through it, blowing around some of the dust, fire, smoke, and debris. In the sky outside hovered a massive attack helicopter with a strange set of forward-mounted weapons and a familiar infinity symbol on its side. The came closer and pulled parallel to the building. A side door slid open, and seven soldiers leaped out into the room. The Girl fled out of sight. the soldiers fanned out and followed her, save for one man who walked up to Aaron. He examined Aaron up close, and for a moment Aaron’s view was filled by the soldier’s face. With a look of surprise, the soldier placed a hand against an ear piece and turned to the helicopter. He shouted above the loud background noises, “Hey! She left a live one this time, and he’s got something on his shoulder! I’m bringing him in, but he’s injured so he’ll need medical care!” 64

A blast and lots of screaming and gunfire and light and out of Aaron’s view. The soldier swore angrily under his breath. He hoisted Aaron up on his shoulder and sprinted towards the helicopter platform. The helicopter repositioned itself as best it could without getting too close to the building. Just before the soldier reached the floor’s edge, he looked Aaron in the eye.“Sorry about this!” he shouted. The soldier then used his momentum to throw Aaron’s limp body toward the passenger area. For a moment Aaron spun through the air, glimpsing everything above and below him. As his mind attempted to process what was happening, time seemed to slow. During the few moments that he flew, Aaron wondered at the soldier’s incredible and unnatural strength. He then landed hard in the passenger area and slid on his side to a halt. He had a glimpse of the soldier raising his rifle back up to aim as he ran back into the recesses of the office from which even more smoke and fire poured, and then the helicopter glided away. As he seemed to float serenely over the skyline, he saw that fires and holes like the one in his office had sprung up all over the area. As smoke darkened the sky, the darkness in Aaron’s eyes overtook his will, and he fell into the last peaceful sleep he’d have for a long time.

65

On Patience Anthony Epifano

T.S. Eliot wrote, “Most editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.” When something is easy, it is understood that just about anyone could successfully do it. Writing obviously does not fall in this category. It takes a lot of patience, dedication, and a little native creativity that causes some to stand out while others struggle. Fortunately, all of us have the creativity and the potential to experience success with writing. It is our responsibility to continue to do our parts with patience and dedication. We just need to stay focused. Let us pray in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. God, help us to find and keep the motivation to stay focused on our goals as writers so we can continue to use the gifts You have given us. In Your name we pray, Amen.

66

An excerpt from his novel-in-progress, On My Own Austin “Freddy” Krueger

Chapter 6 It was a dream like no other. I could feel the coldness of my body, but the sun on my face felt so good. I was with her. I was with Addison. We were sitting on the beach like we used to on the weekends. Florida brought so much freedom. Our houses were both right on the beach—the sand only a few footsteps away—with the sound of the ocean putting me to sleep every night. Knowing that the same moon I stared out at, she stared at too. It was perfect. It was home. A large bump threw all the bodies upward. Everyone made a loud crash followed by a few moans. The world was back in Mathew’s mind. His eyes were still heavy. He could barely open them. Justin still lay there, resting on his forearm. Mathew could feel his chest rise and fall. Mathew looked around once again. Most everyone was awake now. Their constant chatter created a light buzz in the air, it was almost soothing. One thing he was able to notice now was that they were all kids. He didn’t see a single adult. Was this a kids-only cart? Then a new thought rushed into his mind. They killed my mom; they killed everyone else’s parents. Why? Why not kill me? Why leave us kids? Why round us all up? What are they doing? All these questions that needed to be answered rushed through his head. I still don’t know most of them. All I know is that I’m on my own. The pain still shot through his leg. He didn’t want to move, but he knew he had to. He was still cold. Mathew pushed himself up to his knees again. He sucked in a large gasp of air and continued to look around. People were staring at him. “That’s the kid who killed two of them.” “I heard he shot them both dead.” “Is he gonna’ hurt us?” “He shot one in the face.” “I heard he is going to kill the little boy.” “Should we save him?” He heard it all, every conversation. He slowly rose to his feet. There was a small window on the far wall. He limped over, stepping over a few people, listening in on their conversations. “Oh my God! That’s him!” “Don’t hurt me.” 67

They were just kids, kids who would believe anything and everything. They were just kids, confused and scared, none with any idea of what is going on, all exchanging stories of what happened, everyone similar in an eerie way. Mathew reached the window of the train car and looked outside. He gazed at the open land as the train moved at a steady pace. The fresh snow shimmered in the sun light. Trees covered the frozen tundra. The sun through the window flowed over his face. He could feel the faint heat warm the pores of his skin. It was gone in a second, though.. His head dropped, and he walked back to Justin who was still lying there. His eyes were open now. Mathew got to one. Justin looked up at Matthew, opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. “You killed those men.” Matthew looked over to see the girl looking at him. Her eyes were full of anger. “Why did you kill them?” Her voice was stern. She wasn’t asking a question. She knew the answer—she just wanted to hear it out loud. She wanted to know why she couldn’t have done the same thing. What drove him. He said, “They killed my mother. It’s an eye for an eye. You take my mother’s life; I am going to take both of yours.” Her eyes opened wide. The anger left and was now filled with sorrow. Tears ran down her face before he even finished his sentence. She sucked back her tears and spoke. “I am only sixteen. I was up late thinking about a boy. I heard a. . ..” she paused and took a breath. Then she closed her eyes for a second and placed her hands on her face. She sat there sobbing. Mathew looked at her with empathy. He extended his hands, but she paid no attention. She took another deep breath. “I heard a noise. I heard it a few doors down.” She wiped away another tear. Her tears began to slow down. “I opened my door. I looked across the living room, seeing my mother standing in the doorway across from me. She had a confused look on her face. I thought it was because I was up so late. It was— what? Two o’clock in the morning. The door was kicked down. . ..” She couldn’t bring herself to say the next sentence. Mathew knew the ending though. He had witnessed it in his own home. He didn’t do anything to stop it. He only finished it in his thoughts. I can see it in her eyes. She envies me. She wishes she had the guts to kill those men. I still wish I did too. If I would have just stood up and fought , my mom might be alive, and we might still both be in our apartment, or at least, together. I feel like such a coward. Sure, I killed the two men, but that means nothing. I took their lives for vengeance. For pride. I wasn’t defending myself. I couldn’t defend my mother. It was anger, not justice. I could have stopped them. It still lingers in the back of my head three months later. If only I could have stopped them. If only I had stood up. If only I had fought. People call me “leader,” but I am no leader. I’m just a boy, scared and alone. I don’t know how to lead these kids. They all look up to me. Yeah, I was the first to kill ,but why would you follow a killer? Why would you put all your marbles in the hand of 68 someone who made the decision to take the lives of two people in the matter of a blink of an eye? I think it’s power. They translate power from fear. They are all afraid of me; I can see it in their eyes. They are afraid, and that’s how I gained power. I don’t want that power. I mean, I want power. . .but not from fear. That’s not how I am. That’s not how I was raised. That’s not what my mother would have wanted. Fear is a funny concept. I Like how our biggest fear is not knowing what is going to happen. Why do we have fear about the things we can’t control? I’m afraid that these kids will revolt. I'm afraid of getting killed. What if there is some psycho outside my room right now? What if he has a mental disorder and wants to kill me? I can’t control that. I can control me, though. I can control the type of leader that I am becoming. I am beginning to realize that no matter whether I want it or not, I have power. I can abuse it, or I can do it justice. I have all these kids. Every single one from God’s Point. All are safe. It’s because of me. Yeah, that probably sounds cocky or whatever you want to make of it , but I don’t care. I was successful. I won that battle. Now I want someone to hear my story. I want it to give hope to others since it already gives hope to the few we have here. We can fight the enemy. ‘Merica is still here. No one will ever take that away. But this building can only hold so much. We can only defend so many. We can only find so much fuel. The generators can only last for so long. We can only boil so much water. We can only find so much water. We can only survive for so long. If these things run out we have to move. But we will lose people if we do that. This morning a little boy circled the building for hours. He knew we were here, and that scares me. If he can find us, it is only a matter of time until they do. We have to move. These kids here are haunted by visions of me walking down that hall, raising that gun, pulling the trigger, falling, and pulling the trigger again. But I can’t afford to care what they think. I can’t care, because if I did, I would quit. And if I quit, all hell will break loose, again.

69

Bee from Beijing Sam Lewis

There once was a bee from Beijing, Whose knack—he’d proclaim—was to sing. He sang to his dad, But dad became mad Because all that he felt was a sting.

70

Dark Tendencies Robbie Goltz

Ahh, my dear, what to do today? Perhaps some coffee, would you please stay? But, by the way, my sweetie, if I may, Your dress is quite exquisite, I do say. I have noticed you on your walks beside the bay. So, I don’t mean to flatter you, but I’d like to talk, okay?

I do say—your words of anger, my heavens, dear, they are like razors: oh how they sting! Now cough on this rag, and hold it down, my cherished—oh how my ears ring. I promise now you’ll not remember this, you won’t remember a thing. You’ll wake when heavens doors open, when the angels sing. You shouldn’t have led me on like this, not just for a fling! I still sit and think about how you said you’d always treat me as a king.

So, when I questioned you earlier about your agenda, Ha, it was rhetorical you see, For I have a lot of plans for you (Oh, yes I do) and I’m shaking at the knees. I haven’t been the same since, you know? But would you mind some tea? I can imagine that you’re quite parched after your bath within the sea. I admired you for days, months, as you enjoyed the cool autumn breeze, And when you brought your trophy man. . .Ho ho, my, that was a tease.

I presume you think he’ll save you, my dear, but lock those thoughts up tight! Even this brute cannot rescue you, even with all his might. He came to the door the other day, and I say, he put up one hell of a fight. But now his body lay in pieces, goodness, dear, it was such a bloody sight! Ho Hey, don’t cry, my angel, this will all be over soon I promise you, all right? I’m glad to see you’re here, my, what a great delight!

I hold nothing against you, and you must know, I’d never hurt you, my dear! Please now, close your eyes, so you can see that there’s nothing here to fear. My love for you is never-ending, so, darling, please don’t you shed a tear. I shall cast your body off the shore you love so much, (you wretch!) right beside the pier. I hope these words go right through you, and into your reddened ears. I’ll have dominion over you, oh yes, but to a gentleman’s way I shall adhere.

71

Speech from the Mass for Mothers and Sons Zach Amato

Good evening. My name is Zack Amato, and it is an honor to speak to you tonight as the proud representative of the Saint Xavier High School class of two thousand thirteen. Much has changed since we first walked through the Saint X cafeteria doors on the first day of freshman year, nervous and unsure. We have succeeded academically up to the national level. We have become involved in various clubs and organizations. We have played numerous sports, from intramural to varsity and everything in between. We have participated in the arts through drama, drawing, clay, painting, film, and much more. We have given back to the community through service. Beyond all this, we have grown up. We have matured. We have learned how to be proactive students. We have taken on greater tasks, greater responsibilities, greater roles in our school community. We are no longer timid freshmen, but senior leaders. We have experienced new freedoms. We have learned to drive and become dependent on only ourselves to get from place to place. We have taken trips around the world to sing, to perform service, or to simply experience a new culture. We have bonded with our classmates and friends. We have made lasting memories. Yet, through this constant change in our lives there has been one steady thing, or, rather, one steady person. That person is our mother. She is the last to say “goodbye, good luck, have a great day” on our way out the door in the morning, and she is the first to welcome us home in the afternoon or at night. She is the last to stop crying at events such as this, and she is the first to support us in any endeavor we choose. She is the rock that we cling to without even realizing, the anchor that keeps us grounded and focused. And, unfortunately, she is too often the last to be recognized or to be thanked. Well, now is our chance. Mom. Thank you for your sacrifice. We know it is not easy to send us through Saint X. We know it was not easy driving us everywhere for so long. We know sometimes it is a hassle getting us ready for big school projects or dances. We know sometimes it is tiring cheering us on at our games and meets, or sitting through our plays for the third, fourth, fifth time. But you do all of these things, and you do so much more. You are always doing something to make our lives better, and for this we will always be grateful. Mom. Thank you for your worry. From the longing, anxious look as we pull out of the driveway, to the held breath during big moments in our respective activities, to the questioning about school work, thank you. Although we may not show it, we appreciate it. It shows us how much you care, and how much you just want what is best for us. Mom. Thank you for your patience. It is certainly not an easy task raising a boy, especially throughout high school. There have likely been several times when you have been exhausted, frustrated, and plainly infuriated with us. Yet, you have never given up. You have never stopped believing in us. You have never stopped pushing us to reach our potential, to correct our mistakes, to always find ways to be better young men. 72

But, most of all, Mom, thank you for your care and for your love. Without you walking behind us throughout our journey we would not be where we are today. Without your unconditional love we would not be as strong or as confident. With all that we are and all that we have, Mom, thank you, we love you, and we cannot wait to continue our life journeys with you there to keep us on the path.

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Excerpt from Breaking Point, The Musical Zach Amato and Andrew Blake

Synopsis: In the first scenes, auditions for a high school theatrical production are held, and the students react to the process, including Liam, “the theatre kid,” Tia, “the diva,” Evie, “the braniac,” and Gemma, “the shy girl.”

ACT I SCENE 3

The directors are at the table in the theatre, papers everywhere from the auditions. Watson stands to get the casting discussion underway. He opens his mouth to speak when DOMINIC MURRAY, a junior, walks onstage.

DOMINIC (Clears throat) Um— excuse me? (The directors all look at him) I uh-my name’s Dominic Murray.

PHINEAS And? What do you want, Mr. Murray?

DOMINIC I—um—I was wondering if I could still audition.

PHINEAS I’m sorry, but auditions are over. If you wanted to be a part of the show, you should have been here on time. Good day.

WATSON Hold on, Phineas, hear him out. (To Dominic) Why didn’t you audition with the rest of the students?

DOMINIC I’m a little nervous. I’m new to the whole singing in front of people thing.

PHINEAS Well, that’s not really a good fear to have as an actor now, is it?

DOMINIC Look, I’m new at this, all right? (Mumbles) Trust me; I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be. 74

PAM Didn’t have to be? What do you mean?

DOMINIC I, uh, kinda got into some trouble. They said I could either join an after school thing or go to juvie, and I figured, I like music so why not?

PHINEAS What a lovely sob story, but as I said, the auditions are over. DOMINIC But I—

PHINEAS But nothing. See yourself out.

STEPHANIE Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phineas. Let the boy audition.

PHINEAS I will not sit here and be undermined by you, Ms. Hewett.

STEPHANIE Fine, let’s put it to a vote, then. Those in favor of letting the kid audition, raise your hand. (Pam and Stephanie immediately raise their hands. Phineas makes a point to fold his arms. All eyes go to Watson who, after a pause, waves his hand to proceed.)

STEPHANIE All right, now, Dominic, start whenever you’re ready.

Blackout

Synopsis: The directors argue about the cast list, and then they released it. Dominic receives the lead male and Gemma the lead female. Both Tia and Liam are angry at this.

ACT I SCENE 6

Lights come up with Dominic, Liam, Tia, Gemma, Evie, and other students onstage. All the students have scripts for the show (Evie has a clipboard), ready for a read-through There is an arrangement of four chairs on the side of the stage; three of them are filled by Stephanie, Phineas, and Pam. 75

TIA So, Dominic, you’re a like junior, right? (He nods) That’s so cool. I remember when I was a junior

DOMINIC You mean last year?

TIA Well yeah. But so much has changed since then. I’m much more like mature and sophisticated. (Gemma, who has been listening, accidentally lets out a giggle.) Something funny?

GEMMA (Smiles to herself)Oh, nothing.

TIA (Rolls eyes then focuses back on Dominic) Anyways, we should like totally hang out sometime, right?

DOMINIC Uh, sure. (Gemma reacts. Tia turns to her and smirks and then starts talking to Dominic silently as the focus transitions to the conversation between the directors.)

PAM Where the hell is Alan?! The read-through was supposed to start twenty minutes ago.

PHINEAS He probably forgot there was rehearsal. . .that man is so scatter-brained that I’d be shocked if he could walk and chew gum at the same time (Laughs at his own joke. Stephanie whacks him on the back of the head.) OW! That was completely unnecessary.

STEPHANIE Oh, shut up. I’m worried that something’s happened to him. Did you all see him in school today?

PAM I saw him this morning, but I think he left early.

PHINEAS LAAAAAAAAAAAZY—(Watson walks on stage, looking disheveled and exhausted.) --’s right there. . ..

STEPHANIE 76

Oh there you are, Alan. We were so worried. Where were—

WATSON (Distant and insincere, but forceful) I’m fine, and sorry to keep you waiting. (To everyone) Sorry about the delay, everyone. We’ll begin the read-through now. Please take a seat. (The students walk to seats. Dominic sits down and Tia pushes Gemma out of the way to be able to sit next to him.)

TIA (Smiles) Oh. . .excuse me. (Tia and Gemma glare at each other.)

EVIE (While helping Gemma to her feet) All right, calm down, you two. Come on. Shake hands and make up. (To Tia) Let’s play nice with the other children, okay?

GEMMA (Sighs) Fine. (Holds out her hand to Tia)

TIA Humph. (Turns back to her seat and says under her breath) Who died and put her in charge?

EVIE Excuse me? You know, it’s people like you who make others’ lives miserable. You’re so spoiled and full of yourself, and… and… well, witchy! (Everyone gasps.)

LIAM Relax, Evie. (Pulls her to the side and discreetly high-fives her)

TIA (Sees the celebratory gesture) Hey! I saw that! (Points to Liam and Evie) Is everyone here against me?! (She pauses, waiting for someone to interject. Silence. She then makes a sound of exasperation.) I’m getting too old for this! (She storms offstage.)

DOMINIC Well, she is playing my aunt. . .I guess she’s taking her role pretty seriously. (Only Gemma hears this, and she giggles.)

WATSON (Whispers to Stephanie) Can you go talk to her, please? (Stephanie nods and exits. He stands slowly and addresses everyone) I suppose we’re going to have to reschedule our read-through. I apologize for the inconvenience, everyone. (Students grumble and begin to exit.)

PHINEAS 77

I can see you have everything under control, Alan. Here’s to a successful show. (Pretends to tip a hat, chuckles, and exits. Watson is left alone onstage. He collapses into a chair, head in hands.)

Blackout

Synopsis: At the end of Act I, Alan Watson, the main director, received a call from Dr. Huber informing him of his impending death due to pancreatic cancer, which is rapidly diminishing his health. Tech week has begun for the show-within-a-show, and everyone is feeling the stress.

ACT II SCENE 1

Entr’acte fades as lights come up. The stage is filled with the student company at a tech week rehearsal. It is chaos. Some are hastily trying to memorize lines, some are in ill- fitting costumes, etc. Pam is standing with a student in an ill-fitting costume. Phineas walks onstage, sees the chaos, rolls his eyes and leaves. Stephanie is surrounded by students asking about the dance steps.

SONG 7: HELL WEEK PAM OHHHHHHHHH HELL.

Orchestration begins. Pam is sewing an ill-fitting costume on STUDENT A.

COSTUMES TATTERED, LIGHTING SCATTERED, SPIRITS SHATTERED, OH HELL.

STUDENT PROPS ARE FLYING, MICS ARE DYING, STUDENTS SIGHING, OH HELL.

Student B walks forward covered in paint.

STUDENT B 78

PAINT IS DRYING, SET CREW PRYING, DIVAS VYING, OH HELL.

Student C is from Stephanie’s group. STUDENT C FEET ARE SLIPPING, PEOPLE TRIPPING, DANCERS TIPPING, OH HELL.

Student D is working with a vocal book.

STUDENT D VOICES FALLING, PITCH IS SQUALLING, NOTES APPALLING, OH HELL.

Phineas re-enters and is not amused.

PHINEAS THIS IS CHAOS. THIS IS CHAOS. THIS IS CHAOS, OH HELL.

Phineas sighs and exits again.

COMPANY OHHHHHHHHHH, WE HAVE LITTLE TIME TO WASTE, PEOPLE RUSHING ROUND WITH HASTE, PROPS AND PEOPLE ALL MISPLACED, MANY PROBLEMS TO BE FACED.

WE ARE DOWN TO ONE LAST WEEK, STRESS HAS REACHED ITS ALL-TIME PEAK. EVERYONE HAS GONE INSANE, SOME WE MAY HAVE TO DETAIN.

On cue, Tia screams from offstage, then stomps on.

79

TIA OHHHHHHHHH HELL. THOUGH IM PERFECT, I’VE NO RESPECT, COMPLETE NEGLECT, OH HELL.

EVIE DISORGANIZED, AND COMPROMISED. THIS IS OUTSIZED, OH HELL.

STEPHANIE PEOPLE TRYING, MOST ARE CRYING. END WE’RE EYEING. OH HELL.

DOMINIC NERVES ARE RACING, FEET ARE PACING, MINDS ERASING. OH HELL.

GEMMA WE WON’T MAKE IT. WE WON’T MAKE IT. WE WON’T MAKE IT, OH HELL.

LIAM THIS IS CHAOS. THIS IS CHAOS. THIS IS CHAOS, OH HELL.

COMPANY OHHHHHHHHHH, WE HAVE LITTLE TIME TO WASTE, PEOPLE RUSHING ROUND WITH HASTE, PROPS AND PEOPLE ALL MISPLACED, MANY PROBLEMS TO BE FACED. 80

WE ARE DOWN TO ONE LAST WEEK, STRESS HAS REACHED ITS ALL-TIME PEAK. IN HELL WEEK WE ARE ENSNARED, THERE NO WAY WE’LL BE PREPARED.

EVIE AND STEPHANIE END WE’RE EYEING.

LIAM AND PHINEAS THIS IS CHAOS.

GEMMA AND PAM WE WON’T MAKE IT.

GROUP A GROUP B (Very loud) OH HELL! (Quieter than Group A) THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK. OH HELL! THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK. OH HELL! THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK. OH HELL! THIS IS HELL WEEK, THIS IS HELL WEEK. OH HELL, THIS IS HELL WEEK. OH HELL, THIS IS HELL WEEK.

COMPANY OH HELL, OH HELL, OH HELL.

Blackout

81

Water In the Prison Mike Allen Inspired by Logan Bishop’s Locked Up

Drip. Drip. Drip. In the dungeon’s filth, rats scurried, and flies buzzed through the air. Other prisoners moaned and wailed. Many were sick, coughing from the condition they had been subjected to. Others cried out that they were innocent and begged for release. Through the sounds of rats, flies, coughing and pleading ,one sound was constant. Drip. Drip. Drip. Robert grabbed his ears, miserable and desperate. Even with all sound blotted out, Robert could hear the dripping. It was in his ears. It was in his brain. He had thought, when he had first arrived that his imprisoning was the most intolerable of the injustices he endured. Later it had been the beating the guards so zealously administered, then the scant and unsatisfying meals, then the biting of the fleas, the screams of the prisoners, and later the illnesses that festered in this Hell.. Now it seemed to Robert that there was no prison. There were no beatings, no fleas, no screams, and no illness. There was only the dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. He felt himself dying, but he paid it no heed. By his side was a wall on which he had written on in his own blood: Why am I in here? Alongside it were rows of tally marks indicating his days in the prison. Robert felt madness close in on his mind, and sat against the wall, hands on his knees as he did so. Despair closed in on him, and he shut his eyes. Drip. Drip. Drip. Robert’s eyes shot open as a pain engulfed him. All he saw was a blur of red, mixed with a flurry of teeth and fur and tiny specks. He was covered with rats and fleas, and they were doing the one thing that came naturally for them. Eating. Drip. Drip. Drip. Robert vomited. The fluid landed on his hand and knee. The rats and fleas fled. Robert knew he was facing his last moments. He rubbed his hand on the wall to make one final tally in his blood, and then he moved his hand back to his knee. It was the last thing he saw before the rats got to work on his eyes. ††† Drip. Drip. Drip. The guards walked under the leaky pipe as they opened Robert’s cell. His bones had been picked clean except for his right knee and right hand. All that was left of him was the writing on the walls and his yellowy-white bones

82

Desire Matthew Hess Inspired by Alex Dumstorf’s Can’t Hide What’s Inside, Matthew Krieger’s White Snowy Fence, and Sullivan Connor’s The Field

The collie looked at itself in the mirror. Everything in the room and every hair on the animal’s body was grey. Everything was grey—except for the iris around its eye. The rings surrounding the animal’s pupils were blood red. It was eerie, but at the same time it made the animal sad. The collie wanted to see color. More than just his red eyes. The dog closed his eyes and imagined a place where color prevailed. He imagined a field—of course, the first thing a collie would imagine would be a field— blanketed with cerise and golden patches of dandelion flowers. Bordering this field would be castle walls made from autumn trees the shade of orange and fire yellow combined. The tips of the trees would touch the sky, all blue with the exception of a tan orange smudging and smoothing out the ripples made by the clouds. The dog then decided it held too much red; he wanted diversity, contrast. He’d seen enough red. So he imagined a winter day, something he saw just once a year, if he was lucky. But whenever he did see a snowy day, the snow was never be white. It was coated with grey. He wanted snow to be perfect white, the color he imagined his fur to be. Then he imagined walking down a road, lined at the sides by a wooden fence. The fence would be sturdily built, with a second row of wood just half way down between the top and bottom of the fence. Snow would lie on every surface of the land, the wood, the trees, their branches. The trees mwould makede the forest beyond the wooden fences dense, and the branches above would intertwine to make a tunnel. The top of the tunnel would be difficult to see, though, since the snow covering the branches would make it blend almost perfectly with the sky. Now he lies awake, head on his paws, wishing this to be his world, his reality. But it isn’t. All the color he really has is in his eyes. The reason he sees his eye’s true color, he guesses, is because this is his wish. To see color. It’s a constant reminder of his dream, of his desire. He can’t hide what’s inside.

83

Rescued Baxter Moneypenny Inspired by Ian Scott’s Bob Marley

Through the fog of the clouds, I can see that the sun is shining. Everything is free, And the soul is rescued.

Time moves on and I am still smiling, When I play your favorite song. But, now I am detached, And the soul is rescued.

I experience Life’s Beauty, By allowing myself to drift away. Take in the good and the simple, And rescue your soul.

84

Ode to Elephant Sam Lewis Inspired by Nick Sehlinger’s Dovain Elephant Water Can

I feel the rumble from a distance— A reminder of its strength. Instinct tells me to run away, But my curiosity moves me closer. I see the beast’s eyes. Uneasiness consumes me. But as I look behind me, I realize I can only move one way— Forward.

85

Deep within the Ground Mitchell Esterle Inspired by Dwarf by Luke Esterle

Deep within the ground, We lie in slumber As the men huddle ‘round, Never finding what’s under.

Legends lie deep throughout the land-- Of mining, plundering, melting gold For the glory of the mountain, Our everlasting home.

Short we may be, But fierce as badger or ox, Breaking bones likes trees With the swing of our axe.

Leave us be in our dark lands, Our name now forever preserved By our strong hands, Hands of proud dwarves.

86

Sunshine at Night Treyveon Percell Inspired by Sam Rittenberry’s Thunder

First come the jets soaring through air, Breaking the sound barrier, causing quite a scare. Looking into the faces of little kids, you see a bewildered stare. Next comes the tank lining up on the Second Street Bridge With enough firepower to blow my city off the grid. People standing on the Great Lawn waiting for some action— It’s getting closer and closer to the main attraction. The first Boom goes off! We all give a great reaction To beautiful sparkling light glowing up the sky! City of Louisville--I'm glad to call you mine! Thunder over Louisville is here once again After a multitude of booms, an American flag at the end.

87

On Our Legacy Sam Melchior

Benjamin Franklin wrote, “If you would not be forgotten as soon as you’re dead, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing.” Benjamin Franklin brings up a fantastic point. While we are on this earth, we meet people and build relationships with friends and family that we hope will last a life time. But what about after we die? Will we be remembered for the generations to come? It is our job as children of God to contribute to the future generations. Either share something we have experienced or something we read from an elder. God gives us the gift of writing to plant an eternal source of our existence. Dear God, thank You for the gift of writing so that our existence on Your earth will never be forgotten. Help us leave our mark wherever we go in our lives. Amen.

STALKER by Baxter Moneypenny

1. INT. HOTEL ELEVATOR. NIGHT.

Floor One. Ping. Floor Two. Ping. Floor Three. Ping... EDWARD (late 20s) eyes the floor level intently. Floor Four. Ping. Floor Five. Ping...

2. EXT. ALLEY WAY. NIGHT. A BULB flickers on and off. It hangs over a single door.

HOOK (early 60s) and Edward stand outside the door-Edward pushed back against the wall. The flickering bulb is the only source of illumination. HOOK Look son. You’ve done what you do best...

3. INT. HOTEL ELEVATOR. NIGHT. Floor Six. Ping. Floor Seven. Ping...

Edward’s head moves down and stares at the door, as it is about to open. HOOK (V.O.) ...and don’t get me wrong. You are great at it. Floor Eight. Ping. The doors open slowly. Edward pulls his 1911 .45 out and slides the barrel as he walks out. It’s concealed under his coat.

4. INT. HOTEL HALLWAY-EIGHTH FLOOR. CONTINUOUS. Edward hurries down the hall- coat slightly flailing behind him. He passes by rooms: 804...806...808...810... He’s looking for 820, at the end of the hall.

(CONTINUED) CONTINUED: 2.

HOOK (V.O.) But you’re deep in something you shouldn’t be... He reaches 820 at the end of the hall. A window shows the moonlight shining in. He holds the 1911 at his hip. HOOK (V.O.) Everything is not as it seems.

He knocks-three times. Faint footsteps echo in the room, approaching slowly. A long pause.

5. EXT. THE SAME SHITTY ALLEY WAY. NIGHT. Hook is closer to Edward than before. He slips a note into his hand.

HOOK And there is only one way out... The note reads: "128 S. Jefferson St".

6. INT. HOTEL HALLWAY-EIGHTH FLOOR. NIGHT. The door opens. Edward rushes in. We see him charge into the room, 1911 pointed forward. The door closes: "820"

There’s a THUD. Multiple punching sounds. A loud BANG. "TITLE"

7. EXT. CITY SIDEWALK. MORNING. A WOMAN (20s-JULIA) walks along a village sidewalk. The sun is fully risen, causing the beautiful landscape around to be even more stunning.

She walks quickly with a purse along her left shoulder and a shopping bag dangling from her right hand. Her heels are high, make-up is light, and wears a simple yet elegant outfit.

(CONTINUED) CONTINUED: 3.

She passes by other BYSTANDERS. One, however, lightly bumps into her, causing her to drop her bag and stumble back a bit. This man is our Edward. EDWARD I’m so sorry about that miss- He picks the bag up off the ground and hands it to her. She takes it, and eyes him curiously. WOMAN Thanks. She walks away, leaving Edward standing there. EDWARD I didn’t catch your name!

She keeps walking, faster now, adjusting her purse that dangles off her shoulder. EDWARD Julia...

Edward watches her as she disappears further down the sidewalk, into the SMALL CROWD.

8. EXT. RESTAURANT PATIO. DAY.

A MALE WAITER approaches Julia and hands her a large salad as she sits on the back patio of a restaurant. It’s a simple but beautiful set-up, right across from a park and small pond.

She smiles as the waiter sets her food on the table. JULIA Thank you. This looks amazing.

WAITER Enjoy. The waiter walks away as Julia unfolds her napkin and puts it on her lap.

9. INT. RESTAURANT. CONTINUOUS. Edward’s booth is next to a glass wall. He watches Julia outside on the patio as she prepares to eat her food.

He unfolds his napkin as well and picks up his silverware. 4.

10. EXT. PATIO. CONTINUOUS. Julia picks up her silverware and begins to eat her salad.

11. INT. RESTAURANT. CONTINUOUS.

Edward reaches down to the table with his fork and knife, but no food is there. The waiter walks up and fills his glass with water. He appears to order. He points towards Julia. They have a conversation. He evidently wants the same food as her. The waiter walks away and Edward glances back outside towards Julia’s table.

It’s EMPTY-her salad still sits on the table. Her napkin is on the ground. Edward glances around the patio looking for her, but finds nothing.

He jumps up from his booth and paces to the exit.

12. INT/EXT. PATIO. CONTINUOUS. He walks out of the front door of the restaurant and onto the patio. He doesn’t see her down the street. He walks around to the edge of the patio. She’s not down at the pond with the geese.

He turns back around and looks towards her table. Julia just walked over and is now sitting down, picking her napkin off the ground, as well. He stares at her in disbelief. The waiter walks up and pours more water in her glass. He then hurries and walks out the patio gate, stumbling down the grassy hill.

13. INT. APARTMENT ROOM. NIGHT.

The room’s dark and only illuminated by a small desk light. Edward sits at his desk, writing. It’s a map (roughly drawn) of the city. There’s a bunch of lines highlighting different routes. Julia follows these routes.

(CONTINUED) CONTINUED: 5.

There’s pictures of her on his desktop computer screen. On the wall, pictures of different people are posted. All of them are crossed out with an "X" except the last one: JULIA.

CUT TO: Edward sweeps all of the papers on his desk into a brief case. He takes a flash drive out of his computer and throws it in the briefcase, too.

He rips the pictures off the wall and throws them in. He has a secret compartment underneath his bed he throws the briefcase into.

CUT TO: Edward lies in his bed. He turns the lamp beside his bed off. NIGHT quickly turns to DAY. He moves throughout the night, shuffling around in his bed.

14. INT. PSYCHIATRIC OFFICE. MORNING. Edward sits in a cushioned seat in front of MS. WELLS’ (40s). She’s a therapeutic psychologist designated to aid Edward. EDWARD I don’t really believe what I do is wrong, Jenny.

MS. WELLS Please call me Ms. Wells. EDWARD Well, Ms. Wells, what I do is not wrong or demented. I think it’s quite harmless really. Ms. Wells points to a stack of papers on her desk.

MS. WELLS Edward, it says here that you have 8 restraining orders against you, with 3 still pending. EDWARD What about it? Ms. Wells leans back and takes off her glasses, setting them on the table.

(CONTINUED) CONTINUED: 6.

MS. WELLS Well, it’s not the sort of action a normal person takes. EDWARD Who said I was normal? MS. WELLS No one, but you should at least hold some self restraint. You can’t go around preying on innocent people. Edward leans in, confused by Ms. Wells’ reasoning. EDWARD But who said that they were innocent? I simply observe. You are making a lot of assumptions about me, Ms. Wells. You of all people should understand what I do, you’re doing the same to me right now.

MS. WELLS What is that? EDWARD Observing. Your watching my every move. Picking up on the smallest facial reactions, structure and rhythm of my speech, confidence...you and me are not as different as you seem.

MS. WELLS I’m nothing like you, Edward. Edward shrugs and begins to toy with a small Newton’s Cradle mechanism at the edge of her desk. He watches it as it hits back and forth.

His eyes go: LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT... MS. WELLS (CONT’D) Do I have your full attention, Mr. Smith.

Edward Smith looks up slightly at Ms. Wells. EDWARD No.

Edward looks back at the cradle.

(CONTINUED) CONTINUED: 7.

Ms. Wells seems aggravated. She leans back in her chair and runs her hand through her hair. She leans back in and faces Edward. MS. WELLS What is it about this thing that so interests you? He continues to watch it for a while longer, and then slowly looks up at her.

EDWARD It’s just something that I can watch. It’s interesting. Ingenious really.

He looks back down at the cradle and lifts one of the balls up again, dropping it, and letting it to continuously bounce and ricochet. EDWARD (CONT’D) You do a very good job. Of observing. She watches him intently as he eyes the balls going back and forth. EDWARD (CONT’D) You’re just like me, only prettier. He looks up and smiles, she lets out a slight smile back. The balls continue to click back and forth.