From Within - Kean University

Creation Space 2007
From Within
Thank you so much everyone, for making this magazine what it should be.
Heather Trachta
Editor-In-Chief
Yes ladies...I’m available.
Ryan Espin
Layout Editor
I want to thank Ryan and Heather, who showed me how to create a great magazine with such great work. It
was great to be part of this magazine and I can’t wait until next year. I also want to thank all of those who
helped to inspire my photography, you were such great help.
Courtney Cordaro
Art Director
Jennifer Rubino
Poetry Editor
Special Thanks To
Dr. Mark Sutton
Dr. Linda Best
Faith Jackson
Graphiry Printing
Nicole Carrasquillo
John Stewart
Rebecca Raj
James Metzger
Heather’s Dell with the missing Y key
Ken Castellano
The
Of Allison Ruskin
Slash
Joey Ramone
Domino’s Pizza
And Everyone Who Submitted
The Staff of the 2007 issue of
Creation Space wishes to wholeheartedly thank the members of the
Kean University Student
Organization for their continued
support of student writers and
artists. It is because of their financial
assistance that these students are
able to be published, many for the
first time, proudly at Kean University.
Thank you.
CREATION
SPACE
2007
Afraid to Dance
M. Topoleski
I’ve seen men sleep so hard
I’ve thought they died.
I’ve walked in a hurricane
And slept through tornadoes.
I’ve smoked, drank, and swallowed
Hell.
I’ve had sex and wondered about the excitement.
I’ve missed sex.
I’m afraid to Dance.
I hate to cry.
I hate to lie.
I don’t like the truth.
I’ve thought I was going to die,
I was relieved.
I’ve watched others die,
I wasn’t moved.
I’ve been broken-hearted, broken down,
And broken, but
It’s never seemed enough.
I have a father I worship.
I have a mother I can’t bear.
I know which one will die first.
I’ve ran away from home.
I don’t like children.
I am a child.
I’d like to sleep at night with the T.V. on
When there’s music in my head, and dream
Of crying, of dead parents and no children,
Of giving a shit, and honesty,
Of virginity.
But I only dream that I’m dancing and no one
Sees me, even though I wave my hands in their face
And scream.
I’m afraid to Dance.
Attrition
Danielle Pecil
Inside this jar of solid glass
Stilly sits my pretty prize,
With wings aflame of gold and brass,
With helpless, apprehensive eyes.
I’d like to think you flap those wings...
Those wings so graceful, so majestic,
Creeping up those sundered twigs,
With wild legs transformed domestic.
Heavens beauties, skies and stars,
Can do no justice to your soul.
To capture butterflies in jars
Boasts only part of what’s not whole.
What is love? It’s watching fly
What you long to keep nearby.
August Is Fleeting
Dan Zomack
Ink Pen, Cardboard
A Womans’ Stride
Paula M. Taylor
The water is wild,
sashaying against the rocks
as it surges down the stream
with grace.
The wind is free.
It blows, hither and thither.
The feather
Glides
in supple
motion.
The snow flurries from
the sky flittering
over the earth
shifting
in malleable movement
The Poetess
Brian Maduruh
The tip of her pen caresses the cheek of the page
As angelic ideas flow through her hand and escape from their cage
Black ink performing on a two dimensional stage
Textual proof as to why she’s a sage
Her words are connected constellations against a night sky
Sometimes they make you rejoice and sometimes they cause you to cry
On occasion they are pessimistic and compel you to die inside
When the contrary, you are resurrected and are instantly revived
When she scribbles, Mona Lisa smiles and the blind can see
While captives of writers block gaze at what it’s like to be free
She brings Shakespeare to his knees and Poe begging at her feet
For she is greater than the greatest, and more preeminent than the elite
In Twelve Lines
Lori DiSarro
In twelve lines
I’ll tell my story
You can count them if you wish
They wont say much
That you have not heard before
True
But I try to push the boundaries
And make others aware
Even for a moment
Perhaps it’s my lapse in judgment
But it’s hard to tell my story
In twelve lines
Rosy Winter
Michael Sova
A frost bitten rose
Standing alone on icy patches
Fields etched with frail grass
Too weak to peak above the rose
The sun glaring through advancing clouds
Shimmering rainbow waves
Across morning buds of lilting daffodils
Shaded by the towering rose
Whose stature endures
The flurry of hailstorms
The freezing rain
And dawn’s dew dropped tips
Encrusting the edges of flush crimson
With suffocating precision
Transforming the rosy glow to purple
Leaving the rose
Still like a glass fixture
Ready to slip
And shatter
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Christmas was...
John Stewart
the snow will powder and the ice will glaze
candy canes are just a phase
a tree indoors
and the smell of pine
reminds you of a better time
sitting on a bended knee
tell the man in red
what you hope to find under your Christmas tree
magic, suspense, and surprise
you go to sleep but can’t close your eyes
sleep and dream of the morning yet to come
the cookies you left are replaced by crumbs
an empty glass of milk sits beside a letter
open gifts then get dressed in your Christmas sweater
food, gifts, family... there’s nothing better
the years have passed
and the spirit of the season fades
so what would you trade
... for the innocence of a child
the snow will powder and the ice will glaze
candy canes are just a phase
11
Poor Boy’s Homecoming (For My Father)
Elizabeth Ramey
Two brothers sit side by side.
Two patriarchs whose wrinkles
And sunspots tell twin stories,
Of hard work and failed marriages,
Of ungrateful children and long years.
My daddy talks about
Turkey and Greece,
New Dehli and
All the places he’s been.
My daddy sips a Bud Light,
Instead of his preferred imports.
Trying too hard to fit in,
In a “God Bless America” hat.
His brother talks about
Turkey and grease,
The new deli,
Down in Whitehall,
And everything he’s swallowed,
In the past twenty years.
His brother sips a CokeHe’s on the wagon now,
Forty years of hard times
And harder drinking
Have taken their toll.
My daddy tries to sound like his brother,
But his voice betrays him,
Resonating with a North- Eastern tang,
Instead of a Mid- Western twang.
My daddy meant to come home sooner,
But was too busy in Washington,
Working for NASA and the CIA,
Protecting the country, and
Catching terrorists,
Living a poor boy’s dream.
Two brothers sit,
Ten miles from where
Both were bornSpeaking of
The bitter years
Between parting.
His brother always meant to leave,
But was too busy tending the farm,
In the wastelands of Michigan,
Raising children and
Leaving farm for factory,
Swallowing disappointment
In huge, bitter gulps of beer.
His older brother, a man of the country,
My father, a man without a country,
The older listens patiently
To tales of my daddy’s success
And is very proud,
But not terribly interested.
12
Highway Lights
Courtney Cordaro
The Loner
Rebecca Raj
Alone I spend my days, a-wandering
Sober hobo drifting the freighted rail
I need no other part, no other thing
A rogue obliges no companion-ing
They chit-chat too much along the trail
Alone I spend my days, a-wandering
To and fro I watch the ranks marching
For tv, for taxes, for gold to fill the pail
I need no other part, no other thing
My thoughts are just for pondering
I send no postcards or lettered mail
Alone I spend my days, a-wondering
My bare hand asks no token ring
A free-flying soul is not for sale
It needs no other part, no other thing
It matters not the destination waiting
But what is seen, and done, along the way
Alone, I wonder, wayward, wandering
I need no other part, no other thing
13
“Untitled”
Erin Tate
bursts of green and white light up the sky, and i realize that nothing is ever how we imagine it to be. in a matter
of twenty-four hours, my life as i knew it slowly began to crumble to pieces. and in one short hour, my life as i
knew it came to end. in an exchange of a mere nine words, it was over.
it seems so silly to have others plot your future for you, and then how inevitably consumed you become by
their visions. you start to plot the day you buckle on that ball-and-chain for better and for worse. this is how i
believed things would turn out for me. such a glorious occasion. such a glorious lie. i’ll have converted myself,
all along playing into the lie they call god. but i can live the lie. we will be nothing short of that happy family.
but then comes the day when he admits to a secret life he’s been dreaming of. the secret life that i have been
dreaming of suddenly explodes in time with the green and white fireworks in the sky. and it’s just as beautiful.
all it takes is a simple confession from the one you are expected to always stand beside to realize the spin of
the earth. on a chilly morning in late october, we stand in his aunt’s kitchen awaiting the slightly burnt perfection of two grilled cheese sandwiches. and on this day, in this kitchen, he makes a confession. he wants to go
half way across the world to play guns and grenades against men who don’t speak his language. i cry. he draws
me near, and gently whispers in my ear that nothing will make him happier than following in the footsteps of a
father who didn’t live long enough for his son to even remember his face. i cry. he says he wants to take my
hand, to give his name to me. i cry. i walk out of the kitchen, out of the house. i go home. i go to work. i am
barely holding it together.
i leave the following day to rehabilitate myself with a little help from friends. i talk. i cry. we sit. we talk. i forget. i laugh. there are new faces everywhere i turn. i am uncomfortable. i am vulnerable. these people don’t
know me, but they can see right through me. i am terrified at what they see. i clam up and shut down. the
same routine every time. but one of a rambunctious nature walks into this room in which i have managed to
fold into myself on a chair in the corner. his eyes speak to me, and i begin to unfold. my arms first. torso. legs.
heart. i speak as if i have known this one for years, as if he is no stranger. i realize early on that there is no
one in the world like this one. reality comes rushing forward, faster than the train i came in on. he talks to me
about children’s movies from a decade ago, and i realize what i have to do. and in nine short words, it is over.
the life i had know, the life i had hoped for, fall to the floor an
d slip under the door unnoticed by all. simple. easy. painful.
we create mischief together on the night of our meeting. and under a sky of green and white fizzes and pops,
i see him for what he is. i see the soul of a young boy, overjoyed from the beauty overhead. i smile. i laugh. i
look him in the eye, and it all ends in that moment. i forget my past life because, in his eyes, i see the life that
lies ahead of me. my brain cannot put together the right words, or any words, to romanticize the display in the
sky. the colors just speak for themselves. i look to him again, and i feel it deep in the crevices of my very being.
it silently stirs. it awakens. and it begins.
the being dwelling in the dark, dank interior under my skin has forgotten how to live. it is smothered from past
lives. it cannot breathe. communication with him is hard. it’s so hard it ends before it ever seemed to start.
i cry. i don’t even sleep. my tears spark some sort of rumble deep inside of me, in places i never knew were
there. i don’t know what is happening, mostly because i don’t want to know. because i deny it. same routine
every time. his voice lingers on in the folds of my brain, and i can’t quite shake him. i damn him for it every
chance i get. i even damn the lie they call god merely because i have nothing, no one, left to shake my fist at. i
want to hate him. i cannot. and i want to hate him even more.
voices, undefinable voices, crowd the spaces in my ears. i trust these voices. they are familiar friends. they
14
speak to me, reach out to me. they direct me to do what i need to do in order to keep the dream of that past
life alive. it’s already dead, though. but they try. they beg and plead for it to reawaken. they tell me pain is all
that lies before me in this new life. and i want to hate him still. they spew their words. more. and more. and
more. and more. it’s not right, they say. and want to i hate him even more. i catch a fleeting glance of green
and white bursts reflecting in those brown eyes. but this is merely a memory. but this memory does something remarkable. it drowns out those familiar voices. i cannot trust them any longer. they know not who i
am. neither do i.
i go to rehabilitate yet again. the stirring, the awakening begins knowing i am in this familiar territory. i catch his
eye. he touches my arm, and it’s like watching lightning strike. and it’s just as beautiful. i am barely holding on,
but it is into him i fall. i allow myself to do so. his arms surround me. his smell, sweet like nerve gas, paralyzes
me. i am in his control. i cannot live the lie. this is all i want. this is all i need. i hear a gasping coming from
the dark, dank interior under my skin. the being is breathing. slow, shallow breaths. but it is alive. i am alive.
connecting brain to mouth has always been a difficult task. my heart knows it is a mere poet. the silent, dramatic type. but he somehow strengthens the connections in the folds of my brain. i find my lips whispering
sweet nothings when no one else is looking. i cannot believe i am doing this, that i have given up. that i have
given in. my world is rebuilding itself. i am learning as i go. he has saved my life. my love. my strength. me. he
and that beating lump suspended in the dark, dank interior under his skin. it is his greatest gift.
still dreaming is that little girl who lives inside the dark, dank interior under my skin. and the little boy behind
his eyes reflect to me these dreams. dreams in which they come together in perfect unison under a sky of
green and white. boy and girl. so we sit. we talk. we laugh. and we love under a sky of green and white. we
have surrendered. it has happened. it has.
self help books
shelved next to
the Kama Sutra
Heather Trachta
15
Cookie Crumbs
Nicole Pinto
Her tired hands would grasp that ball of dough
Her twisted fingers kneading and poking the chocolate chips down.
She was careful at perfecting her craft.
“See?”
Her voice would crack.
I would nod, with my nose just barely touching the counter
To allow me to see her every move.
She would put all her strength into getting those cookies fully
Pressed onto the baking sheets.
Her deteriorating arm muscles and flabby skin would just jiggle
Viciously with every pound.
So much effort into those cookies.
She only made them for me.
The edges had to be perfectly rounded,
Five chocolate chips for every cookie,
And they had to be at least the size of my palm.
Something smaller would be too tough.
Something bigger would be too gooey.
They had to be…in the middle…perfect.
We’d wait around for them bake.
She would tell me stories of her childhood,
Christmases spent in her cold New York City apartment,
The best gift she received one year was an orange.
Should would always laugh at that story,
“A perfectly juicy orange…in the dead of winter. A perfectly juicy orange.”
The ding of the oven would always excite us.
She’d jump up, slippers swooshing on the floor, and rush off to get the
cookies out.
I’d laugh at her while she ate them.
The loud clanks of her dentures against the cookie made her blush.
I’d sit with a chocolate covered smile,
She’d sit with cookie crumbs on her face.
16
Millie
Elizabeth Allocca
Like a worn jack-in-the-box,
Struggling to free itself from confinement,
Searching for potential energy deep within.
Yet it fails to break open the lid,
And bring light into the darkness.
Maybe if it were restored to its youthWhen it first brought song,
And smiles to the faces of childrenLife would be different.
Years ago,
It didn’t need to try so hard for attention,
But like a child,
It craves and yearns to be noticed again.
If only it could be released from the box,
And enter the world it’s been shielded from.
Days pass waiting for its arm to crank,
And the classic tune to free it from captivity.
Not today though….
Silence only consumes the emptiness around it.
5 Exits 4 Ladders
Collaboration between Dan Zomack & Erik Von Bartholomaus
Ink Pen, Manilla Envelope
17
Hold On
Jillian Johnson
As the rain taps lightly against the ground,
A feeling of sadness comes about.
For a child’s thoughts are to be found,
Although the clue is but a pout.
Lifted the child is into her wings,
The child’s head gently lying on her breast.
As she hears the lovely voice that begins to sing,
Her eyes begin to close and comes to rest.
“Hold me tight child, for I will not let you go,”
Her knuckles grasped so tight they are sore;
And the dripping tears come to show,
As the child continues to whimper ever more
All eyes now cannot rest,
For being alone is not a request.
Sitting In-between
Matt Roga
The day has ended
But the new day is tardy
A space between
A gap of time
I can pick up the darkness
It feels like a silk sheet
Run it trough my fingers
A light scent is picked up
False hope fills my patchwork heart
Only to be violently ripped open
And be spilled upon the ground
18
Lost and Found
Kevin Wright
Brodie Coyle bit the inside of his lip, contemplating the taste of his own blood. He often bit his lip,
without rhyme or reason, and every time he did he had to tell himself to stop. The car had to be sold. There
was no way around it now. The debts were mounting and the limited funds from varying bank accounts were
depleted. Brodie had hoped that this was the one thing he could hold onto, the one real piece of his mother
that could be salvaged, but it was painfully apparent that this was not to be the case. The problem, of course,
was that he could not find the title. He wasn’t surprised. His mother had embodied chaos. After her death
the family had torn his mother’s room to pieces searching for a will. All anyone could find were bills; many
delinquent, but all begging to be paid. Unfortunately, Brodie Coyle was the one who had to pay them.
At the funeral, he tried to cry. When his left arm extended and placed the first of many roses upon his
mother’s grave he swore he felt a tear well in his eye. But it was a false alarm. It’s not that he didn’t love his
mother, it’s just that he knew this day would come. He came home from work every evening preparing himself
for the worst. The scene was always the same. The half-empty bottle of Blackberry brandy would greet him
at the door. The glass on the coffee table contained not only liquor, but also secrets. Something was not right
with his mother, and though he saw it in her eyes, he would never hear it from her lips. He would stand at the
entrance to her bedroom and fix his gaze upon her chest, making sure it continued to rise and fall. Only after
assuring himself that she was still breathing could he close his eyes and drift into peace.
The title to the car was nowhere to be found. Brodie searched every room, every closet, every drawer,
and found nothing. He could, of course, just get a duplicate. Write a letter, fax a death certificate, it was a process he had completed twenty-two times since his mother’s death, and it had become routine. Ten days ago he
spoke with a bill collector from Alliance Credit. They called the apartment asking for payment, and threatening
legal action.
“My mother is dead.” Brodie told them. There was a long pause.
“Your mother owed us twelve thousand dollars Mr. Coyle.” Brodie could only manage a laugh before
hanging up the phone.
There was a 401k plan, worth about three thousand dollars. An IRA account, opened just last year,
totaled just over fifteen hundred. The checking account was overdrawn, and the savings had been spent. After
closing out the office Christmas club account the Estate was valued at five thousand dollars, without the car.
She won the car through a drawing at a corporate picnic on the day of her 50th birthday. That was almost two
years ago. It was the last time Brodie remembered seeing his mother smile. The black BMW 535 was valued
at about 22,000 dollars. If sold, the money would almost certainly be enough to pay his mother’s debts.
In the nightstand next to the bed, in an envelope where title should have been was a note. It was a note Brodie had written to his mother eighteen years ago.
“Dear Mom, Why did you lie to me? You always told me lying was bad. I told everyone Santa Claus was
real cause my mom said so. Now they all laugh at me. I hate you.
Love, Brodie.”
Only a child could say I hate you and I love you at the same time. Brodie laughed remembering the
night he wrote the note. He was eight, and his eyes were open for the first time. The cocoon of innocence
that had previously surrounded his life burst like an over-inflated balloon that January afternoon at the Dollar
Depot. Aisle by aisle the truth closed in around him. A stocking stuffer here, a gift from under the tree there,
all laid out on the shelves for him to see. He recalled his sister’s laughter, tiny daggers piercing the last remaining shroud of childhood he had left. His mother’s face, void of expression, unable to protect her son from the
world he now knew.
“By the way,” his sister said. “There’s no Easter Bunny either.”
The betrayal was too much for young Brodie to take. He vowed to never speak to his mother again as he
wrote that note. The vow lasted an hour and twenty-three minutes, until Brodie was hungry enough to ask for
an afternoon snack.
Brodie folded the note four times, sliding it into his wallet. He had to find that title. The stairs to the
basement creaked as he walked them. This was the last frontier. To his mother, there was no such thing as
19
trash and each box and bag sprawled out on the basement floor provided Brodie an opportunity to marvel at
his mother’s refusal to let anything go. The boxes were filled with stuff. Old stuff, broken stuff, useless stuff,
and even brand new stuff, untouched, unopened, bought and stored for no reason, other than the fact that his
mother could never resist a sale.
His jaw locked, Brodie dug in. The grinding of his teeth echoed in his ears, the beating of his heart
increased steadily, his blood boiled, scorching his veins, opening his pores, drenching him in sweat. Brodie’s
anger was palpable; he could taste his disdain for her on the tip of his tongue. Twenty-five years of crap, gathered here, encased in cardboard, layered in dust. Everything his mother ever owned, everything except the one
thing he needed. His hands sifted through box number twelve, latching onto a baseball. Brodie wheeled and
fired a strike against the cinder-blocked walls. The impact thundered throughout the basement, and the ball
rolled gently back to his feet. Brodie picked it up, reading the faded black ink.
“Brodie’s 1st no-hitter 8/15/89”
August 15th, 1989. Seven innings pitched, no hits, and Brodie struck out 19 of the 21 batters he faced.
Mrs. Coyle wasn’t at the game, or any of the others that Brodie played. A paycheck and food on the table
seemed infinitely more important.
“You gotta give that ball to your dad.” Brodie’s coach told him after the game.
“I don’t have a dad”, he said.
So Brodie gave it to his mom. She stared at the ball forever, and then placed in it a drawer.
“I’ll be there for the next one”, his mother said. But of course, she wasn’t. Two weeks later, he opened
that drawer and the ball was gone. Brodie just figured she had thrown it away.
A strange feeling passed over Brodie as he stared at the ball in his hand. He became rejuvenated. Tearing through the boxes like a rampaging beast, he became more determined than ever.
“I know you’re in here!” Brodie screamed; lifting the last box above his head, and turning it upside
down, its contents breaking upon the cement like waves on surf. Filtering through the items, memories flooded his brain, each more vivid than the last. The box was a virtual paper trail of Brodie’s life. A seventh grade
report card, his SAT score report, a bound story, entitled “The Life of Brodie Coyle”. The story was a project
for his 5th grade English class. His mother sat with him until after midnight the night before it was due, cutting
and pasting pictures, making sure he would receive an “A”. Brodie knew he was close now. More papers, more
memories, he was almost at the bottom of the pile now. And then he found it. Beneath the dust, against the
cold damp floor, lay one ripped piece of paper, about half the size of a business card.
Five years ago Brodie stood at the entrance of the Dunn Theater collecting tickets. The theater was
small, no more than a hundred seats, and the production was somewhat second rate, but none of that mattered. Brodie wrote “It Had to Be You” over the course of three years, and after working double shifts for six
months to pay for the theater space, tonight was opening night.
His hands moved quickly, taking tickets, ripping them in half, and placing them in the basket beside him.
Her face froze him. She was not supposed to be there.
“I thought you had to work.”
“Somethings are just too important to miss.”
He took her ticket, ripped it in half and moved to discard it.
“Can I have that back?” she asked.
“It’s just the stub,” Brodie told her. “It’s not even quality card stock.”
She took it anyhow, and dropped it in her purse, a cavernous pit of trappings. Most things that went in
there never found their way out. But somehow this did.
“I’m so proud of you”, she whispered, hugging Brodie tight. Her tiny body, weak and frail from life and
the passage of time, exuded warmth and love, and somehow managed to transport him back in time. Back to
when he was a child in that Dollar Depot. At once Santa was real again, and when Brodie took the mound to
pitch, he could see his mother waving from the stands.
Brodie clasped the ticket so tight his knuckles turned white. His hands shook, and his body crumbled.
Lying in a heap upon the floor, Brodie finally cried. Twenty-eight years of “I love yous” and “I’m sorries” packed
tightly within each tear. He cried until he smiled, and when he did he had never felt happier in his whole life.
20
The dull vibration in his left pocket brought him back. It was his uncle, the lawyer for his mother’s estate, calling.
“Brodie, did you find it?”
“Find what?”
“The title. We really need it.”
“It’s not here. It’s lost.”
“Unbelievable. That’s just like your mother. How do you lose the title to a 30,000-dollar car!?”
“I don’t know,” Brodie said. “I guess some things just aren’t that important.”
When I woke up
Alison Grill
I felt the sun on the naked bed beside me.
Your shoes were gone, your wallet missing.
It was Monday morning, no sign of Sunday night.
I traced the indent of your question-mark shape next to me.
Your watch forgotten on the nightstand, your scent abandoned on my pillow.
I rose from a knot of sheets, tripping over bra straps and limp socks.
I heard the bathroom still melting from your shower.
Drip-drop echoes bounced from tub to sink, shorn hairs clinging to the porcelain.
Your green toothbrush is still damp, withered bristles bursting from their roots.
I smelled your favorite perfume on the crumpled shirt by the door.
Stretched at the neck, delicately worn from years of adolescent slumber.
Velvet cotton pressed into my face, the broken print cool on my cheek.
I tasted the liquor of your lips in a thought of last night’s kiss.
Swollen and sticky, pink and puckered, they meet and recede
as waves, teasing each other between each bated breath.
I watched the dust hang in the silent sun.
Suspended by amber rods, the shadow of noon crept along the faded rug.
I smirked:
the stillness of the morning, the chaos of its eve.
21
NYC Pubic Library
Carly Porrello
In a quiet dusty corner among the old novels
a vast ocean of hardcovers engulfs them.
paper, words, fiction, truth
Her body leans against a tall shelf, her head,
next to Masson’s The Humor of Love
She wears no panties on Wednesday
making it easier for him to reach up
her conservative and proper skirt.
Her hands keenly unzip his pants,
She drapes her leg around his hip
lassoing him into her, quietly moaning,
their lips barely touching,
breathing deeply into each other.
The scent of his Pleasures cologne
bleeds into her skin.
Echoing off the high ceilings The ring of her cell phone yanks them apart.
She picks up her purse off the wood floor,
her pink cheeks glowing and answers, whispering,
Dinner will be ready at seven.
As her tongue returns to her lover’s mouth.
her husband exits her mind.
Alexandra Sacci
22
Oblivious
Elizabeth Ramey
You say you like
The clean, manly smell
Of my cigarettes,
Even as they fill
Your head with smoke,
And make you cough.
I like the way
Your short hair
Falls around your face,
And long, pale neck
When you talk tough.
You say you like
My red hair and full lips.
The way my clothes cling
To my big breasts
And round ass.
I like you naked
And oblivious
In the mornings,
A pink blur
While I put on my glasses.
I like your laugh,
The way you drink water
From a mug
And put it back,
Dirty, on the shelf.
The way you look at me
And say my name.
You say fat can be sexy,
And I smile,
When you look away.
In My Back
Brian Schimming
Hidden behind a halo, brimstone on your breath
Angelic wings spread open, obscuring barbed tendrils
Spewing venom, disguised as nectar
A vision of Lamia, or mask if you prefer
Tell me to walk the ocean’s back
Then watch the sharks feast
Tell me I can touch the sun
Then give me wings of sand
My champion, my savior
Praise me with bullets
Oh virtuous angel
Your wings are dying
Your halo is slipping
It’s wrapped around your neck
Note on Lamia:
I discovered the name from the John Keats poem “Lamia”. This
definition comes from the “Norton Anthology of English Literature”:
“A fabulous monster supposed to have the body of a woman, and
to prey upon human beings and suck the blood of children. Also, a
witch, she-demon.”
In my poem, I am referring to Lamia as something of a vampire,
sucking the life from the person he/she is backstabbing.
23
Farewell
Raymond Wong
Darling, for whom the stars shine and the hours leap,
I leave you here with who I am
And all that you have known me to be;
I leave you to the song of the world
In which our love strikes every chord and resounds every note.
Your warmth I can still feel in this cold and pallid place,
Pushing through the snow of April and the clouds of May.
In the amber glow of your eyes are still the reasons for my being,
Now burnt upon this page with these words that I must write.
You are the one, my true and deserving,
The golden shade beneath the bridge in which I bask,
Where shadows fear to stray and the moon envies the day.
For your lips, for your smile,
The way they spread with the morning’s light across my way,
The waterfall of raven silk that pours from atop your head,
And the starbursts on your cheek from which flare the flames of life,
To see this portrait that is you, I yearn once more,
For you are the world in which my passion is conceived
And in which my heart will live on as a faded dream.
Farewell to the world,
Farewell to you, my love.
I bid my peace to the blissful time that will never have been for us.
24
Sweet Dismissal
Francesca Romain
It’s that time.
Time to say goodbye.
Time to let go.
Releasing my heart of the pain.
Pain of holding on.
Can’t no longer promise me the sun,
So let me let go
Stand before your broad frame
Biding farewell.
Now to erase all the memory
Replacing them with mere dreams
Of what could be called happy
Moonlight that shines on
A pure river is what I imagine
Dry all the unnecessary tears
That so many days I have stood in
Carry myself out of all the
Darkened days that is you.
Ready am I to start anew.
Accept now that to you
“I DO” from me
Will not be heard
Let me let you go
The time has finally come
Time to start anew
A life not including you.
The Mad Man And The Romanticist
Jeremy Ray Frasca
Faded Knight
John Stewart
writing on the castle walls
your empire is soon to fall
brick by brick will start to crack
the golden kingdom turned to black
their shining armor turned to rust
the men you loved, you now disgust
what gallantry, what bravery
now your love has put you into slavery
you sweat, you work, you toil
a beating heart, but blood does boil
you cook, you clean, you dust
you raise the children, is that enough
endless tension, endless stress
she feels the beating of her breast
what love is this
save me oh shining knight
a princess is dying, please save her life
if nothing else, show me that chivalry isn’t dead
...that it still has a pulse
25
I Am Yours
Samantha Groh
Your sensuality is truly amazing
I sit and admire you from a distance
You once were mine
There was a time when I was the one you dreamt of
Now as I slip up your skirt
I see the traces of someone else
And when I kiss your lips
I can taste her kiss your lips
I can taste her kiss too
You whisper “I love you” into my ear
And I know that I’m not the only one
This is no longer my sanctity
You are no longer pure
I bury my face in your breasts
To feel the heart that once beat for me
I run my fingers acrossed your skin
That now only crawls for me
How did our love turn into this?
We were so beautiful
I lower myself inside you
Small gasps escape your mouth
I can’t help but think that you’ve felt this before
That this is no longer my sound
That your breath is no longer mine
26
We grab the sheets and move together
Becoming one and seperating again
There was a time when I did not feel us part
A time when you were mine and I was yours
And that was something special
Now I slip off your dress
To see a body that I can’t touch
And a soul that I can’t have
I cannot even begin to understand you anymore
Our bodies sweat and move closer to climax
You lay your head back and close your eyes
Completely exposing yourself for me
I embrace you and fall inside you completely
You fill every void that you took and gave to her
I move deeper inside you; penetrating your very being
Completely removing her from you
As your nails sink into my back and your breath shortens
She leaves you
And for one moment of complete ecstasy
You are mine again
And I am yours
Shannon and I
CJ Dodge
I remember Saturday morning crawling
into the T.V. room, changing the channel from
My Little Pony to Thundercats and you
punting me in the stomach reminding me of
dinner last night. McDonald’s on the blue stained
tablecloth, you reached for a fry and I stabbed
your hand four prongs withdrawn drops of blood
left on the table as I try to explain
why we don’t talk much.
Early years spent away from each other
me in hospitals getting poked with needles
trying to figure out what was wrong.
You played with your friends and Dad when
he came home from work, I wish
I could have heard more stories of his childhood.
Years later, you came home
from Tufts for Thanksgiving.
Passing in the kitchen we don’t say a word as I
bite into an apple watching you put your suitcase down.
You embody all that I despise:
Abercrombie & Fitch kids
their cutting words under their breath
under my skin telling me my blue hair doesn’t belong.
I wheeled through our front door still wearing
my basketball jersey, pulled from my game
by the phone call.
You stood to the side, empty look in your eye.
I knew from the white dried salt on your cheek
that Dad was gone.
We collapsed together the one time emotion between us.
Later that week I ignored the urge to cry
as I watched the mascara drip from your chin
staining corner of your pink frilled bed.
I swallowed Jameson’s saying I’m fine.
27
Decorations
It’s Halloween.
I’m walking home from Quick Chek
with a bag of chocolate coins and
Jolly Ranchers,
ashamed of my suburban streets
for being covered with so many dead pine needles
that no one’s cleaned up.
My mother is hanging decorations.
The window hangings face outward –
scotch taped picture-side away
to the inside of our windows.
The same decorations
in the same places
every year.
The world saw smiling scarecrows,
happy witches,
and jack-o-lanterns smiling warmly,
all washed out by the sunlight.
Inside we saw cut patterns
of OakTag blobs
that might be pumpkins.
Nothing scary allowed,
no cotton spider webs,
or peeled-grape eyeballs,
no vampires, or gravestones
saying “Here lies Freddy.”
I set my bags down in the kitchen.
My mom is hanging a black and purple
“Happy Halloween!” banner
over a hole punched in the wall.
28
Untitled
Lia Akkerhuis
Moody Beach, Maine
CJ Dodge
Rolling up that two lane road
gravel moving slightly under my wheels.
The yellow line up the center that looks like it was hand painted
by some old man crouched over
talkin’ about “people don’t come round these parts much”.
Pushing up the grass hill
muscles tensing slightly.
The brightness of the posies against
the back of the white house intense.
As I reach the top of the hill
the smell of the salt and sand burning under the sun
reminds me of years ago.
Sitting around the fire pit
flecks of fire catching the wind.
Roasting marshmallows, letting them melt off the stick and bubble in the fire.
Neon swim trunks and drip castles in the wet sand.
Greg and I crabbing in the marsh, getting stranded on a rock during high tide.
My dad putting the lobsters on the ground to chase my dog
right before they took a hot bath.
I remember the last summer dad was real sick
he didn’t have the energy to go fishing.
Now they sold the house and
I can’t remember it as well as I used to.
29
Lost in Nature’s Beauty
Francesca Romain
Call the light from the gleaming sun
Luxurious
Call the glow from the moonlight
Soothing
Listen to the songs of the song birds
perched up on the old birch tree.
Shh....... quiet.....
Listen to the sound and whispers
Of the spring wind.
Hear the words that
Nature speaks.
Hear the sound that the dirt makes
Behind each footprint
Step after step.
Call me lost you may
But, lost mentally I am not.
Unaware, I am of my location
Unaware, I am of the direction home.
I am recognizing the blessing that I
Am standing before.
Many have lived their entire lives
Without such a view.
The view of Nature’s pure beauty.
Cry I will not for my physical misfortune
For I will only shed a tear of happiness of
This sightseeing venture.
Color me not fearful
Color me overjoyed
I wish to remain lost if only
To leave behind a life standing in
Malice and true fear.
30
Morning Glory
Jennifer Rubino
Watercolor
Go Green
Kelly Fogas
Recycled Magazine, Newspaper, Etc.
31
Ryan Espin: Super Bad Ass Mofo On Page 32 In Yo Face
Ryan Espin
Fire
32
Courtney Cordaro
Allen
Elisa M. Pianka
Pastels
Mr. Matsuo
Barrett Rice
Morning Trees
Courtney Cordaro
33
Blushing Mountains
Suzanne Rougier
Acrylic Silkscreen
Eagle Rock Sunset
Courtney Cordaro
34
Time versus Energy
Suzanne Rougier
Acrylic Silkscreen
Painting
Francis Soriano
Acrylic Paints
35
Portrait
Suzanne Rougier
Acrylic on Canvas
Untitled
Ilya Stolyar
36
Untitled
Lia Akkerhuas
37
Village Leader
Suzanne Roujier
Acrylic on Canvas
Female Nude Study
Barrett Rice
38
Family Roots
Carly Porrello
I think of my father when I take out the bottle,
put on the gloves and comb the tangles
out of my hair. Intertwined within
my black tresses, gray strands rest course and thick.
A gift given to me by him,
his head covered with silver early in age.
Disgusted, I poison mine with dye so
I don’t have to see him in the mirror.
Instead, I wash away my roots
month after month.
But they always
return
to
haunt
me.
World of Panes
Kristin Bapst
I’m lost outside the window
but trapped inside these walls,
my ears assaulted by the death-rails
of the cappuccino machine,
my body surrounded by concrete slabs
and steel beams,
the chatter of college students clogging the air,
the scent of espresso wafting past me.
My eyes are focused on the cornflower blue sky
and puffs of cumulus peeking in the window,
wishing I could feel the warmth of the sun spilling
onto my skin,
feel the chill of a frigid breeze caressing my bare arms and neck,
see waves of peridot grass and beige wheat dancing in the wind,
as I begin Mountain pose
on the rolling hills
of Stillwater.
39
Virtues
Lori DiSarro
Virtues
I am still here
Although less everyday
Wild, I was once
I think
Crazy are just memories now
Do you want
Or remember the eyes
That glistened
With tears of laughter
Probably not
I don’t either
If we’re being honest
But that was never your
Strongest quality
Gema G. Castaneda-Martinez
40
Deep-Rest
Jennifer DeGraw
Lower my eyelids
As I lay down
Tears hold on to the corner of my eyes
like tiny rock climbers
dangling for dear life.
Each falling one at a time
Every drop brings me farther down
The air in my lungs
struggle to the rest of my body.
Allowing my fingers to become cold
then the pulsing resides as the numbness
takes over.
Every grasp brings one more doubt.
Then the voices start to shout
“You’re a horrible person” “No one cares if your
alive of not”
“If you were dead everybody would be happier”
ricocheting off
my thoughts of the only sanity I had remaining.
I open my eyes
cloudy and black
unable to see…
41
End Line
CJ Dodge
A bead of sweat drips
down my forehead into the crease of my eyelid.
A dull sting, as I look up at the ball bouncing on the rim
it pauses for a moment looking at the net
as if it knows what’s about to happen.
The ball rolls off the rim
Number 34 reaches over me and grabs it
smirking at his small victory.
As we match up rushing down the court
34 and I duel.
Metal wheels scraping.
The familiar smell of sulfur and perspiration
as sparks jump off our rims.
He grins again hissing,
“you play like your father looks, like shit.”
His man picks me off from behind
as his words cleave through my brain
letting him go past me.
I look to the sideline at my father.
Once an imposing man
now his body shrunk into his maroon t-shirt
his ragged St. Barth’s hat swimming on his head.
The cancer eating away his stomach
him watching me play
me watching him die.
42
Charging 34 as he goes for the shot.
Seeing Red.
Smelling sulfur
as our wheelchairs crash.
34 on his back.
I jump on his chest.
As my first punch meets flesh
the lock is undone.
Unloading everything.
For all the kids who beat me up.
For the thumbtacks they put in my wheels.
For the time spent trapped in lockers.
I feel your septum crumble.
For all the stares.
For all the times they talk slow to me.
For all the fake pity.
Your nose will run red.
And for you reminding me
that my hero is almost gone.
“I’m going to end you”
Feeling my coach lift me up
still wanting to destroy.
Looking down at the pulp
remains of a face.
“Fuck You”
“Fuck This”
God?
Jennifer DeGraw
Studying the small girl
her blonde loose locks
remain still on her shoulders.
Her tiny fingers grip the dark burgundy velvet.
On her tip toes, her tiny porcelain nose hovers right above
the edge of the casket.
The others around her gagging on theirs tears
As their shrill cries stab the chill in the room
sending hot flashes that burn the back of my eyes
she remains calm,
“Wake up Mommy” she whispers
as her grandmother lifts her up.
she gives a final kiss
upon her mothers
insipid cheek.
That’s when I can no longer sit in the room
warmth from the tears
help me to regain some leverage.
As I drag myself to the door,
I look over to see her still peeking in,
waiting for her mother to wake up.
Hand
Ilya Stolyar
43
Hey Grandpa,
The last time I wrote for you
I was seventeen, drunk and retching,
crying and pulling my hair.
When you died I was a virgin.
Now I’m not.
When you sat in the front row
of my middle school flute concert
you didn’t know I drank
Majorska straight.
Now you do.
I like it better this way.
You know me.
We don’t pretend.
You know your picture’s
on my desk
in my favorite frame,
with the silver and lavender hearts.
I whisper good night
and you hear it.
There’s no shame.
44
Velvet Rose
D.J. Jean
I would love to have
myself enclosed
in this velvet rose,
Everyone else is so
encompassed in their
own worn out petals,
unable to touch,
let alone see that
velvet rose that lies
in the middle
of a meadow
with an aroma
that’will have one
who reacts in a bellow, shout,
relax, mellow out,
what I’m trying to say is
take the time to smell
a rose,
and you may see a flower
draped in velvet I suppose
Black Women’s Hair
Paula M. Taylor
Curl it, lock it, roll it tight.
braiding it up takes all night.
Press or straighten with some grease,
it must be done piece by piece.
Take little strands and bend the ends,
up or down - it all depends.
Flip, blunt or cut caeser short.
it doesn’t matter which one we sport.
Flat twist, corn rows, doobie or wrap,
we wear them, yes, even weaves down our backs.
Afro, jehri curl, wave nevou,
french roll, pony tails, we swing and show.
African knots, natural, permed or sides and back shaved,
our hair is one area we are not enslaved.
Texturized, dyed and pin curled to the side,
our hair is v e r s a t i l e and our womanly prize.
Everyone
Born after 1985
Hates the dog from Duck Hunt.
Heather Trachta
45
Falling Fans
Suzanne Rougier
Construction Paper On Illustration Board
46
Desert Eagle
Michael Sova
Jeremy’s hands, clinging to an M-16 assault rifle, quivered when he lifted the weapon. He glanced around
the corner of a demolished house that once belonged to an Israeli family. Insurgent forces had taken cover in
it and his job was to infiltrate any enemy forces and gun down all those who showed hostility. The group of
marines he commanded separated from his whereabouts in a small firefight a few miles back. Now− he was
alone.
While surveying the area, he forced composure upon his shaking hands as his feet crushed pebbles and
shards of shrapnel around the house. The sun shone its head through the mountains of clouds burning the
ground he treaded on, yet ice-snapping shivers writhed down his spine with each attempt at pushing his standard, black military suited feet forward. Arab voices echoed out through the cracked walls of the house and
rang into Jeremy’s ears. By his account, Jeremy heard only two hostiles within the building’s walls, which meant
he had enough time to toss a flash grenade inside and eliminate both while they were disoriented.
While creeping up to the front side of the home, Jeremy whispered a prayer as he gripped his crucifix
hanging from a thin gold chain, “Lord, give me strength. Give me strength to fight this evil.”
He un-strapped the silver flash bang grenade from his desert camouflage vest and clutched the pin waiting for the right moment to breach the door and launch it inside. His M-16 was bound to a shoulder strap that
hung from his right arm, which enabled him easy access to unload the bullets after he tossed the grenade.
Before he knew it, the door burst open and one man wearing military fatigues and a turban ran out with his
gun flailing bullets in Jeremy’s direction. Jeremy dropped the grenade to the ground, as he scurried to the far
side of the house to regain cover. Luckily for Jeremy, the pin remained fastened to the container. If it had lit off,
the bright flash would have blinded him, allowing the hostile to shoot him to hell.
The unidentified man scampered to the middle of the road that lay parallel to the house. He pointed
his gun towards God shooting blankly and yelling Arab obscenities. With one glance in his direction, Jeremy
swerved around his cover and fired his M-16 point blank into the individual’s head. The man fell backwardsspewing bullets into the air until he smacked his torso against the ground.
Jeremy continued slithering closer to the door. He had already heard at least two voices before; so one
man still cowered inside of the house. With his back against the edge of the door, Jeremy hurled the unused
flash grenade through the open front door. As the grenade exploded in a huge ball of light, he began blind firing
his M-16 through the doorway. Before he unloaded his first clip, the gun jammed and the trigger stuck. Jeremy
lobbed the M-16 to the ground. He unhinged his only other firearm, a Desert Eagle; similar to the one he and
his son, Jamie, used while target shooting Maxwell House coffee cans back on his ranch in Oklahoma.
He ensured a peek inside the building, but no one was visible. As he tiptoed forward his arms and
hands, locked together gripping the Desert Eagle, slowly began to weigh his body down. At a weight of nearly
4 and a half pounds, the semi-automatic pistol now seemed to feel like 30 pounds. He elevated his heavy arms
and secured his aim as he stepped forward. Using the knowledge he had gained as a member of the marines
for 20 years, he began twisting his body and his arms toward the left side of the room feeling an impending
force from that side. His instincts were correct. As a figure popped out of cover with his finger drawing on
the gun’s trigger, Jeremy dragged his Desert Eagle’s trigger back. The man plunged to the ground before he
fired. Jeremy kicked the dead man’s rifle aside while still scanning the interior of the home for more insurgent
forces.
Jeremy rotated the body of his victim over exposing his young, bearded face. Jamie’s eyes still open
glared back into his father’s eyes. Blood splurged from the gunshot wound in his forehead and streamed out
onto the concrete floor into the seams of Jeremy’s soles. Creeping closer to his body, Jeremy kneeled down
and shut his son’s eyes. He could not gaze any longer into the eyes, which helped to zero in on his death.
While kneeling, Jeremy yanked his gold crucifix out once more clenching his hands around it whispering,
“Lord, give me strength. Give me strength to fight this evil.”
47
The Man I Never Knew
(Reflection at the Vietnam Memorial)
Christine Ann Peña
Complete and utter silence.
I was slowly walking down the empty path, tracing the names on the wall with my fingertips. It was an
early morning in spring, and the clouds completely blocked out the sun. The trees could be seen in the reflection on the black marble engraved with names. This was the Vietnam Memorial. It was empty and silent. I was
here to find my brother’s name.
I do not remember him much; he died when I was six years old. My mother always described him to
me. He was tall and handsome, and had unusual eyes for an Asian boy. They were a very light shade of brown—
almost like honey. My father always told me stories about him. He loved baseball and the color blue and died in
South Vietnam, in the providence of Binh Dinh. He was twenty-three years old.
Amidst the silence and the black marble wall, I felt lost. Many emotions were running through the air.
They belonged to the Memorial and the soldiers it was built for but I borrowed a few for my visit, because
I was not sure what I was supposed to feel. Why was I looking for the name of a man I never knew? I had
stopped walking by now. I could have been anywhere, anywhere else in the world, but I was in the Vietnam
Memorial, tracing names with my fingers and trying to find a man I did not remember. I never stopped to think
about why I wanted to find this deceased stranger. What made this man special to me?
I found his name on Panel 37E - Row 016, underneath a soldier named John K. Weber. There were
58,195 names engraved onto the walls of black marble. I was only eighteen years old, visiting the memorial
alone, and without anyone’s help, I found my brother’s name. The wind blew softly and a soft clinking noise rose
to my ears. I found my answers as I remembered the pair of army dog tags hanging from a chain in my right
hand.
Daniel was only twenty-three. He loved baseball and could have played on his college team. He was
proud of his honey eyes and always smiled. He was drafted into the army and was seen off by his family. He left
behind his girlfriend, Marie, whom he loved and planned to marry her when he returned from Nam. He loved
to read and write, and so he carried a journal. He received letters every month but wrote his replies in his
journal, because he was determined to return home from the war.
For his twenty-third birthday, I sent him a royal blue, cotton scarf because he loved the color. For my
birthday, I received his journal, dog tags, and the news of his death. A note from his platoon leader explained:
He asked to have his things sent to his little sister, and then he died. On April 11, a comrade in his platoon had
triggered a hidden trap while returning to the providence of Binh Dinh. My brother was caught in the explosion. He was wearing his scarf.
Staring at the wall where his name was inscribed, I felt something bloom inside me; a feeling that I understood, but could not comprehend. Then I saw him: Daniel, standing in front of me in the black marble where
the names had been. He was dressed in white and was smiling at me with his honey eyes. He was wearing his
scarf.
I understood the things that connected him to me. His replies to all my letters are written in his journal. His army tags are always with me. He loved Marie. He loved baseball. He loved the color blue and loved his
scarf. He died twenty-three but loved me too.
I sniffed back tears and smiled back at him. I had searched for his name to insure the truth I found from
the dog tags in my hand. I reached out to touch him, and he did the same. As our hands met, I felt the engraving,
and he was gone. All that was there at the end of my fingertips was a name.
My brother died at twenty-three years old in South Vietnam because of an explosion. He was wearing a royal blue scarf because he loved me. At the end of my fingertips on the black marble wall of the Vietnam
Memorial is his name. Panel 37E - Row 016: DANIEL PENA Jr.
I never knew him, but I did… Because I love him too.
48
Reprisal
Rebecca Raj
I balance empires like Atlas
Under oak we meet
Eye to eye, eye for head, or peace
Which morning shall we greet?
No beast or bird so foul but man
Devil’s progeny
To cross that desert named Murder
Would our gods agree?
The blood under your nails is not
Your own devout kind
Fanatic, freakish demagogue
Accord we’ll never find
No repentance scours clean the black
Maggot-eaten core
I degrade to counterpart
Malice child you bore
What heaven can we now walk
All the blood that spills
At dawn she’ll ride with tomahawk
For All Those Who Were Lost
My white angel kills
Courtney Cordaro
49
TEXAS HOLD ‘EM POKER AND HOW IT IMPACTS ME
Jay Hicks
Two years ago, my deaf club, the Northwest Jersey Association for the Deaf (NWJAD), hosted its first annual
Texas Hold ‘Em Poker tournament. I had seen this event on television quite a bit prior to the October 25th,
2005 event. I thought I understood how to play the game, although I never played this type of poker before.
This deaf tournament proved to be a learning curve for me. Despite the fact that I was the first player eliminated in the first annual event, the game was like a fishing rod reeling its line and hooked me in the mouth
because, literally, I was hooked (no pun intended).
It was embarrassing for me as I was kicked off the table and the event in just less than an hour. The tournament
raged on for six long hours, so most of the six hours, I was a bystander, observing the game with both a feeling of utter dejection and incredible exhilaration. I saw players making bold moves and either lost or won their
crazy bets. Slowly, but surely, one player began leaving his or her table after squandering their chips. It went
from a sizeable thirty-six total players to nine after about five hours. The last hour sped up the play on the final
table because the small blind-big blind antes quickly escalated, forcing players to give them up and that made
for an early exit from that table.
My deaf friend was on the final table, but he couldn’t stay on much longer as his chips vanished in a hurry,
finishing in eighth place and his money back from what he paid for, $45. Soon after that, three more players lost,
finishing in fifth, sixth and seventh, respectively. It came down to the Final Four...and the winner happened to be
the man whose wife was my old school classmate! Small world, I said to myself...
This was just the beginning of my fascination toward the game and I immediately tuned in to ESPN or ESPN2
to watch the top players in the world strutting their stuff. I became a willing student, examining how the bets
were made, when the time is right to raise, when to fold and when to bluff. The bluff part was very enticing for
me. I decided to implement that strategy into the eventual National Deaf Poker tournament on March 25th,
2006, the first Deaf tournament ever assembled in Atlantic City, New Jersey. It would be held at ther Taj Mahal
Casino.
When it came time to participate in the event, the committee assigned me a seat at one table. Prior to that,
the announcement informed us that two hundred and thirty players had signed up for the event. It was a much
grander scale than the October 25th event the year before. Naturally, I was both excited and very, very nervous. I didn’t want to be the first player gone in the event! That would have done me in as a poker player and I
would have retired for good.
The tournament commenced at 11:30 or so, give or take ten minutes. I played at a table with four or five guys
about my age or older and also four or five guys half my age. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that these
young guys would be the first four or five on our table to exit. I realized that I had managed to stay in with
a reasonable chip stack. I employed the bluff strategy on one of the young guys and after the river hand, he
folded. He lost on the next hand and left the table.
It all boiled down to one thing: patience. I learned that patience is the key to staying alive. I understood immediately the value of being a patient player. For the rest of the event, patience had been my forte and asset to the
tournament.
As several rounds expired, I found out that the cut line was 27th place. That meant that in order to cash in
this event, I would need to be one of the twenty-seven players left. I paid some attention to the board which
blipped in the number of players left. It went from 100 to 80 in a hurry, then down to 69, then down to 54. It
fell down very quickly and I was still very much alive. As it ebbed to number 30, I looked at my chip stack and
50
knew that I would be in the top 27. There was no doubt about it. Funny thing was that it went from 30 to 27
slower than from 54 to 30!
But when the magic number 27 hit, I was in it. I would collect at least $183 at the most. I told myself that my
goal is to place myself at the top five. There’s much more money involved in the top five than sixth place and
under that. So, I renewed my strength and worked my strategy the same way I did at the first table: bluff one
hand and see what happens. I bluffed when there was an A on the flop (first three cards on the table), knowing
that the players around me would have to put that much chips or fold. Slowly, one by one, each player folded
and I won the hand. That was the second bluff I won in the event.
I almost lost my chip stack during one hand when I called on K and 3 clubs after a guy to my right went all-in
on K and Q off-suit cards. I knew then that I needed either a flush or two pairs to win, providing that he didn’t
match his queen card on the flop, the turn or the river on the table. As the dealer drew the flop, I saw two
club cards on it and realized that I just needed one more club card to force an early departure for this guy to
my right. The turn came, but no dice...then the final card flipped over and I scored a flush. The guy to my right
jumped up in joy, thinking he had won on a pair of Ks, but I directed him to my cards and the table. He slumped
in defeat and gracefully exited the table.
After it narrowed down to nine players for the final table, I was in. I would be guaranteed at least $300, and
that would be a nice change after a $100 entry fee. As quickly as we began, one guy went all-in and lost, finishing ninth. Then, it was down to me and a deaf guy whose cousin went to the same school as myself. He went
all-in and I called, and beat him on a higher pair. He finished eighth.
Two more players exited afterward, then the fatigue of playing for over six hours took its toll on me. Being
diabetic, I had to eat. No one came around to serve food or drink and I realized at that point that it would be
another hour or so before I could eat. I looked at the board and saw that fifth place would garner me $820,
which was much larger than my entry fee. All of a sudden, I surrendered to a charitible attitude, playing on
several bad hands and even losing on good hands to better ones. The final hand of mine was a 8 and 10 off-suit.
I went all-in and one guy called. I shook his hand and looked at the flop. One pair showed up, but on the turn,
there was a king card that matched one of his cards. I realized that I needed either another 8 for a three-of-akind or a 10 for two pairs to stay alive. The river card revealed a 9. I stood up in pride, knowing that I had done
a wonderful job, beating out 225 players for the fifth place prize. I was also very exhausted and immediately
joined a group of deaf friends after collecting my moolah.
Ever since then, the Texas Hold ‘Em poker game wrought its tentacles around me. I watch almost every tournament on television whenever it appears on television. I still learn from the masters. I enjoy observing how they
play their hands. I even critique some of their bets or moves. I feel that I am getting to be an expert in this type
of game and will always participate in any tournament, deaf or regular, when the chance arises. One thing is
true: it’s a game of entertainment and pure fun...when you know how to play the game.
51
Old New Wave
Ryan Espin
Vagrants and Veterans
Elizabeth Ramey
52
They huddle in doorways; it gets colderThese men with hungry eyes and shaking hands,
Shreds of once warm blankets around shoulders,
“Can you spare some change for your brother, man?”
Soldiers once, now utterly destroyed;
Defenders against some foreign evil,
Children fighters given to fill war’s voidBrok’n tools for bending strangers to our will.
Dimes for a vagrant, untouchable caste:
To battle cold only whiskey will do.
Invisible warriors ramble pastIf I were so hopeless I would drink, too.
Sacrificed to our need to progress,
Wand’ring souls who may never find rest.
A Haunting Memory
Elizabeth Allocca
A Memory
Like a mosquito bite,
Swelling after contact.
Overlooked at first,
Visible with time.
A never-ending reminder of sin.
Haunting our corrupt minds, we panic.
Harmlessly dreaming, losing reality.
We awake in full awareness to truth.
Body drenching, Mind racing, Heart pounding.
Lacking self-control, we scratch until crimson.
Increasing size, intensifying pain.
Marked, a permanent scar,
Can we forget?
honeymoon
carly porrello
“To the memory of the gallant men here entombed and their shipmates who gave
their life in action on December 7, 1941 on the USS Arizona”
in front of these unknown names,
a strange woman offers to take our picture,
giving her our camera, we awkwardly smile and wonder,
is that what you do here?
just married, our tanned bodies shining,
on this island that clutches so many spirits.
the pearly and lustrous wall is shielded by red velvet ropes,
the soldiers’ blood protecting their watery crypt.
at this moment
we feel like the pacific - dark, astounding, and blue.
53
Legally Dead For The Second Time
CJ Dodge
I’m just a kid that grew up privileged.
No stories of the ghetto, my mom never hit me.
People look at me strange when I blast this music of rage
but they don’t know that it drowns out these feeling of pain.
Watching children play in the park
running full blast, red coated arms outstretched
looking up at the sky trying to take off.
Innocent eyes
how I miss the way they fly with imagination.
My eyes clouded with every day problems
sitting off to the side drinking my death.
It burns going down but it numbs.
I wake up in a room that is not my own
the light too bright for my eyes to behold.
My chest aches from the paddles of life
my mom looks down with burning eyes.
“The next time you do this you might not get back.”
Oh God please take, save me from this life.
I look around the room for a human crutch
but I know I must look inside myself.
So I take up my pen
and throw this shit from off my back.
Screaming and clawing
I want my life back.
How little you know when you look in my face
I’m just a kid that grew up privileged.
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Afraid to Commit
Jennifer DeGraw
Your words
wrap around me
A sadistic merry-go-round
The same tone-def music
circles my thoughts
Up and Down
It dizzies my vision
Grasping…
for…
the…
ring.
Harley-Davidson
Courtney Cordaro
55
Casualty of Hysteria
Michael Sova
I think I’ve seen hysteria for the first time
Knocking on Circuit City’s front door
On the eve of slashed prices, markdowns, and rebates
Each buyer, a victim of Christmas
Dressed up in hooded shirts and jackets
Bunched up tightly next to their partner
The line of casualties stretched around the store
Puffs of clouds billow through November air
Exhausting from the throats heated by
Toasting Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups
Too hot to hold without gloves
It’s five minutes before my 18-hour shift begins
I stare at our stationed assassins
Wielding clipboards for shields, pens for swords
A Prolonged Hi May Seem a Matter Slight
Elizabeth Allocca
A prolonged hi may seem a matter slight.
But when I pass you, my mouth still grows dry.
External composed, internal contrite.
Everyday we fail to do what is right.
If I speak first, will you care to reply?
A prolonged hi may seem a matter slight.
Appearing in my dreams throughout the night:
A test to see how long I will stand by.
External composed, internal contrite.
Our childhood memories hold on so tight.
Time is fading away; this is goodbye.
A prolonged hi may seem a matter slight.
Go on with your success, I’ll be alright.
Deep breath, I hold in my sorrowful cry.
External composed, internal contrite.
Years go by, will I hear from you tonight?
Sitting, aging, waiting, wondering why.
A prolonged hi may seem a matter slight.
External composed, internal contrite.
56
Distortion Abortion
Dan Zomack
Ink Pen, Paper Bag
57
CULTURE SHOCK
Jay Hicks
Prior to attending a high school for the Deaf in Washington, DC, I had been to three different schools:
two oral schools for the Deaf and a high school which had a Deaf program in it. Now, the first oral school
for the Deaf was in Tampa, Florida, and was strictly that, an oral school without the use of sign language. The
second oral school was in Millburn, New Jersey, and it was strictly an oral school from when I went in there in
1969 at four years and eleven months old until around eight years old, maybe nine. Slowly, that school in Millburn transformed from being strictly an oral school to a total communication school.
I recalled the awesome feeling when sign language was first introduced into this school. It was a new
world for me and I took to sign language like it was Sweet Tarts. I learned new words in sign language rapidly,
although I wasn’t that fluent with my hands. I was a clumsy child and it showed. Nevertheless, sign language had
a profound impact in my life. For one thing, I depended almost wholly on my eyes. Being profoundly deaf since
birth, I almost always had to use my eyes to observe and gather data. Rarely, I would use my left ear to pick
up anything, like certain sounds or words that by hearing, I understood immediately what they were. The only
way I would collect information by auditory means was with a hearing aid. Mostly, it’s done in school or even at
home. However, almost one hundred percent of my learning was, and still is, through my eyes.
So, you can imagine why I was very drawn to sign language. It’s a visual aid and a new form of communication. The school in Millburn offered a sign language class one evening a week, and my mother and I almost
never missed it. We looked forward to this class every week and we learned very fast. The “students” who
attended this class were parents whose children went to my school. They even brought their kids with them
because the kids needed to learn, too. It was a great time for me because I got to interact with some of the
kids who were my classmates and friends.
After I graduated the Deaf school in Millburn, I went to Governor Livingston Regional High School in
Berkeley Heights. It had a Deaf program in it. I went there because the other Deaf school in Trenton, Marie
Katzenbach School for the Deaf (MKSD, for short) just happened to be the wrong school for me academically. I
was a gifted student and the Deaf program at Governor Livingston complimented me well.
It looked to be a promising school for me. However, as the year progressed, I began to feel lost in it.
My grades suffered as a result, partly because back then in 1978 to 1979, there were really no professional
interpreters at that school. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) was not signed into law until 1990. I had
notetakers for a few of my classes and one teacher from the Deaf program who came to interpret for me in
Biology class. As the time passed by, my fantasies about one particular girl at that school distracted me from my
education and caused me to become restless in classrooms.
Apparently, my mother took notice of my faltering grades and decided that this school was wrong for
me. She decided to transfer me to a Deaf high school in Washington, DC called Model Secondary School for
the Deaf (MSSD, for short), after a friend’s mother passed along a brochure about that school. I went there for
an intake testing, and was eventually accepted into it. I remembered rebelling against my mother about it, but
she won the argument.
When the fall of 1979 rolled around, my mother and I packed for the new Deaf school. We took the
Amtrak train because a friend’s parents were train fans. It made sense because it would become a mode of
transportation for me in all of my three years there. Did I really love taking the train? Not really, but that’s
beside the point. However, my mother and I realized that we overpacked for the trip down there. Looking back,
my mother told me that she wished that we would take some down there and then take more the next trip so
we didn’t have to carry all of my stuff at once. It became a real burden and stressful journey for us.
We arrived at MSSD. I recalled the entrance of the school which blew me away. The school, having
opened three years prior, was brand new and very futuristic in appearance. The entrance to the lobby by the
front office was breathtaking. It smelled very new and fresh, very different from the other schools I went to.
I was attracted to the school immediately. I guess you can say that I had experienced a culture shock to this
point because this school was totally different in form and shape.
The real culture shock was seeing the Deaf students using sign language called American Sign Language.
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I had learned basic sign language called Signed Exact English. These two are like apples and oranges. Signed
Exact English is used to sign the language in exact word orders, in other words, signed in its exact grammatical structure. Subject, verb and object. American Sign Language, however, is applied differently and is more of a
pictorial language than grammatical. It seemed to follow the foreign-language concept: Object, verb and subject
or verb, object, subject…and sometimes incorporating adjectives to express strongly what a Deaf person is
trying to convey.
Having never been exposed to ASL, observing the Deaf kids using it, their hands blurred in incredible speed and lively animation. It excited and scared me at the same time. Excited because it’s a new language,
scared because I understood nothing. Being primarily an oral person, most of my communicating method was
done through speaking and reading lips. I knew sign language, but was not proficient in it. I realized then that I
was in for an enormous challenge.
After being directed by the coordinator where to drop off my stuff, my mother and I went to the assigned dormitory. As we walked in, I saw many Deaf kids who were also new to MSSD. Most of them didn’t
know ASL, although a few did. I immediately scanned across the lobby for the ones who didn’t know ASL and
in a short time became friends with them. But at the very beginning, I drew myself closely to a resident advisor whom I felt akin to. His name was Ira. He was so friendly and very funny. He spoke very well and clear, and
that’s why I sought him.
I was still reeling from the culture shock. I remembered my first day in class. It was an English class. The
students there were mixed: some were new and some had been there a year or so already. All of them except
for me used ASL very well. At first, I spoke in class, but my fellow classmates chided at me for not using my
hands. I blushed and tried my best using them. Gradually, I started using them, but it was a long process.
It was difficult for me to interact with the kids. I barely knew how to communicate in sign language,
and I often sought peers like me. It would probably be a full month or two before I finally broke the ice and
really got involved with the other kids. By my third year at the school, almost everyone knew me. It took two
years, but I persevered and met the challenge head-on. I finally completely understood ASL and how it works
by becoming an actor in a school play in the fall of 1981. I played a major role in “You Can’t Take It With You” as
Grandpa Vanderhoff, and the director of the play, Eric Malzkuhn, took me under his wing and taught me ASL in
learning my lines. I caught on very, very quickly and because of that, I got another major role in the spring play,
as Tevye in “Fiddler on the Roof”. For my effort in both plays, I won the Joseph M.Velez Award as Best Actor.
Despite my accomplishments in three years at MSSD, I still remember the culture shock most of all.
It was a time when I almost wished I stayed at Governor Livingston because the comfort level of communication helped me get around with the Deaf and Hearing kids, but having gone through three years at MSSD and
facing the challenge, I am ever so glad I stayed at MSSD. This was the right school for me, culture shock and all. I
wouldn’t trade my time there for any other school.
59
Diary Of John Procter (Crucible)
Nargiza Sharipova
My precious diary
I touch you every night , salvation of my soul, my friend and my asylum. By unburdening my heart to you I disengage
myself from sturdy embrace of inevitable circumstances. And like reprise in the nocturne I will gush myself again
There was a night , a night of passion.
A hasty wish ruled my doomed soul,
I could foreseen a grave confession,
But was unthinkable my want?
Under the moon with stars around it ,
Her flawless silhouette occurred.
A breeze of frailty and oneness
Led me astray and turned me dull.
Oh, how I tried to hide my feelings,
To curb untiring appetite,
But was invincible my fervor,
And I collapsed my own life.
I went frenzied, I told I loved her
But never swore to leave my wife.
Her tearful eyes cast down after
The words I phrased,
“ You’re just a child”
That was a truth I’ve never thought of,
And never fully realized.
My soul was sold and heart was broken
I cursed myself and wished to die
60
Rain II
Morning Glory
Jessica Herd
Jennifer Rubino
I love your musical voice
Whether you’re speaking in
Soft pitter patters
Or intimate breezy whispers,
Amused thunderous laughs
Or serious drip drips.
I love your warm wetness,
Your dark mysterious presence.
You produce a foggy atmosphere,
An intimate vibe.
It bewitches me
Possesses me...
Sucks me into aSpiral of passion.
I love your gentle touches,
Your overpowering serenity,
Your sensualness.
I know you’re near
With your raw scent,
A blue flower opens with grace
Shining like a star in space
Its roots shoot higher
Vines twist like a telephone wire
Clinging to a white picket fence
The sun is the only defense
For a life that is taken by night
Portrait
Francis Soriano
Drawing Pencils
61
Untitled
Tina Hansen
I take one last drag of my cigarette before flicking it into to the street. I’m about to do something I
have done a million times so with cool confidence, I walk inside. A small bell rings as I push my way into the
busy, bustling diner and I take a moment to scan the place. I see all the usuals; the families, sitting around tiny
tables, stuffing their faces while imitating interesting conversation; the groups of girlfriends yapping about stupid
things they think are important, a cloud of laughter occasionally rising from herd; love sick teenagers pressing
themselves as close together as humanly possible while whispering into each others ears. Please, don’t make
me vomit. As I continue my survey, I spot what I’m looking for; the two or three loners sitting with their heads
down, pretending they don’t mind that they’re alone.
Taking my hands out of my pockets, I go left and slip onto an empty bar stool. The person beside me is a
petite brunette with what looks like the remains of a sandwich on a plate pushed to the side. Lightly, I mention
that I hope this seat isn’t taken but she ignores me. First strike. Not easily discouraged, I ask her if the coffee
here is any good. She forces a polite smile and nods towards her drink, explaining how she prefers tea to coffee
and therefore wouldn’t know. Deciding against my better judgment, I order the coffee from the middle aged,
lanky waitress behind the counter. As I wait for my order, I glance at what is laid out in front of the brunette;
some thick college book all highlighted and underlined. After a few moments, I ask her what she’s studying. Suddenly she closes her book and turns to me, “You don’t give up easy do you?” She tries to seem annoyed but I
can see in her eyes she’s flattered. It isn’t until then that I notice she is gorgeous. No big deal, I think to myself,
I’ve done pretty before. For me, pretty was nothing special. So she’s got sexy lips, a perfect body and legs that
don’t stop. Just take the opportunity to kiss her and grab her ass; otherwise they’re just the same as every
other job. Innocently, I ask what she could possible mean by that, she chuckles, and the conversation I expect
ensues.
I wake up the next day to my cell phone buzzing in my ear. I rub the sleep from my eyes as I try to unravel myself from the knot my sheets are in. My hand fumbles around for a bit until it finally lands on the phone.
My voice cracks as I answer. One word from the other end and I sit straight up in bed. I break out in a cold
sweat; nervously I rub the back of my neck and try to reassure the pissed off voice. There is silence from his
end and the only thing I can hear is my heartbeat in my ears. Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. I think for sure
I’m dead and start to panic, but then he gives me an ultimatum and hangs up. For a moment, I sit still unsure of
what to do. Then, suddenly, I remember and within minutes, I am dialing her number.
I check my reflection in the window of the restaurant, running my fingers through my slicked back hair
and brushing over my circle beard, before heading inside. It takes me a moment to find her and when I do I
am dumbfounded. A slinky teal dress loosely hugs her body and her hair is up in a messy, but sexy bun. She is
waiting by the bar, drink already in hand; no doubt something girly like a cosmopolitan or a martini. When I first
greet her I have to pry my eyes from the lacy trim that lies softly on her breasts and around the curves of her
thighs; she, of course notices. Throughout the evening, we casually chat about her life, my so-called-life and everything in between. I talk more than I normally do because that’s what chicks like, a guy who can open up, who
isn’t afraid of his feelings, someone’s who yaps just as much as they do. I try to stick to simple, general topics
and keep my answers vague and relativity mundane so there is nothing unique to me; nothing special enough
to remember details, yet mysterious enough for them to stay interested. I’ve got that down to a science. As we
flirt, she touches my arm and my heartbeat increases. But not like before, this time in a good way and my blood
circulates throughout my body so fast I can feel my ears getting redder every time she inches closer. At the end
of the evening, she is so close I can feel the heat emanating off of her silky soft skin. Because I am so wrapped
up in her, I forget to initiate the leave and as she gets up, she gently runs a finger up my spine; I can feel my
pants tighten.
Her apartment is what they all are; cozy and small but comfortable with the typical homey items strewn
about. Things like colorful pillows, dozens of pictures and whatever stupid knick knack she finds oh-so-adorable
and for whatever reason, feels the need to horde are scattered around. It’s not tidy but in a cute, college girl
way. We bump into the foyer wall at first, my hand up her dress before she even closes the door. She stops me
62
and I stammer, hoping she’s not going to slap me, call me a jerk and tell me to leave. I need this. But instead she
closes the door and leads me down the hallway to her bedroom. Score.
I knew I was in a few moments after I’d met her, but it wasn’t the same feeling as it is with all the others. I started thinking about how foolish I was for continuing after I knew that there was something different
about this one. Something I couldn’t shake something that made me think about her even when she wasn’t
around. That was new. She was so trusting and sweet and her eyes seemed to see right through me, yet she
hung around despite of what she saw. As I looked down at her, her wavy hair framing a flawless face and her
bright green eyes staring up at me, I did something I thought I’d never do; I kissed her. Long, hard and passionate, I kissed her with every bone in my body until I thought I was crushing her. But when I pulled back, she
just smiled at me and ran her hand across my cheek. I tried hard to resist, to dismiss it like I always do, but I
couldn’t help it. It was tender and she was different. I leaned into her palm, closing my eyes, feeling her warmth.
When we were done, I rolled off of her and, lying on my back, swung my right arm underneath my head. She
turned into my crook of my other arm and curled herself around me. I kept my eyes on the ceiling until I could
feel her breath deepen and I knew she was asleep.
I shook off whatever sentiment that had started to form inside of me and slunk out bed. As she inched
over to the warm spot I’d left behind, I started to rummage through her things. Not much in the purse, smart
girl, but enough cash in the usual hiding spots to sustain my habits for another week or so. Girls are stupid
with the places where they stash their money. It’s always the same uninventive think-their-cleaver hiding spots;
a small pink pig on the top shelf of her bookcase, the sock or panty drawer, shoe boxes underneath the bed.
God, when will they learn. I reach over her sleeping body to where my pants have landed and inhale her smell
one last time before I pull them on, grab my shirt and leave.
63
A Drive in the Night
J. Alan Metzger
Dr. Johnson wasn’t crazy. In fact, that night he felt amazing. He was only sad all the time. He rarely told
anyone though. When you tell someone you’ve been sad for -- Jesus, I’ve forgotten how long it actually was,
regardless, when you tell someone you’ve been sad for a number of years, they pity you and try to drug you up:
Valium, Prozac, whatever the hell else there is until you’re so goddamn numb that you don’t feel anything at all.
That’s what he always maintained at least. Dr. Johnson never wanted to be like that. I don’t know if I agree but
I understand, I guess.
It was the clearest night he’d seen in years, the stars so big in the sky, so close you thought you could grab
one and keep it in a jar like a lightning bug. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the weather, finally coming out of
the long grey winter that lifted his spirits that night. Nobody knows what made him start driving. He’s certainly not telling. People have their theories but no one could possibly know for sure. There wasn’t anywhere
that he had to go.
He called her and said he wasn’t coming over and they started to fight. Another fight. Another fight. Who
knows how long the fights had been happening? Years, months, it didn’t even matter. He just didn’t care anymore. He really hadn’t cared for some time, at least that’s what I think. She told him that she wanted to come
along, that she missed him. They hadn’t seen each other in what seemed like weeks.
“Yeah, of course you can,” he said, “I feel great tonight.”
He told her that he just wanted to drive, to open the windows, to breath the air, not to talk. Beautiful
silence.
When she got in, his eyes gave him away. She could see the sparkle, the happiness that had been gone from
those eyes for so long. Her spirits lifted. The fight earlier, all of their fights, just didn’t matter. Had there ever
even been any? She could hardly remember.
“You look good,” she had started saying.
He just put his finger to his lips and said, “Shhh, just breathe it in, deep, it’s beautiful.”
She looked out the window and took a deep breath as they pulled away. He was right. “It is beautiful,” she
told herself. They pulled away and drove silently, the windows open, just looking. They didn’t spoil the moment
by talking. The trees on the side of the road were beginning to bloom. Even at night they could see the white,
pink, and green buds along the side of the road. They were glowing.
“It’s so easy to miss it all,” he said. She didn’t respond, he was right.
They took the ramp onto the interstate. There was only light traffic. He stepped on the gas.
45…50…55…they sped up. Dr. Johnson started passing the few cars that were on the road. 65…70… The
engine roared in the small car. The wind whistled in through the windows. It would have been difficult to be
heard even if he wanted to talk. 75…80… The engine roared and he passed cars every couple of seconds,
85…, each one fading in the distance behind them, the headlights eventually disappearing in the mirrors as
they went around the curves. 90… She glanced at the speedometer and he looked at her. He just smiled
and turned back to the road. It only felt like they were going fast because the trees were blurring past the
windows. He loved the feel of the engine, strong and powerful, pulling them forward. It felt good. It was the
closest he’d felt to true freedom in a long time. 95…100… He sped up, the pedal on the floor. 105… The
steering wheel started vibrating. 110… 115… The car topped out at 115 MPH. He couldn’t go any faster. It
couldn’t go any faster.
“You’re making me nervous,” she yelled over the deafening winds. “Can you please slow down?”
“There’s no reason to be nervous, this is why we’re out here.”
115…
“I don’t like going this fast!” she screamed, her voice quivering.
“I do,” he said looking at her. “It’s the only way it’ll work.”
“The only way what…”
115…
Again he put his finger to his mouth telling her to be quiet.
64
“But…” she started again.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be- you’ll be fine, trust me.”
They approached an exit, the signs flying past them.
EXIT 2 MILES
115 MPH, the engine roaring.
EXIT 1 ½ MILES
115…
EXIT 1 MILE
115…
EXIT ½ MILE
115…
The engine roared, proud of what it could do. He slowly put on his blinker and started moving into the
exit lane.
“STOP!” she screamed. “Slow Down!”
He smiled. The sign read “EXIT 25 MPH” as it shot past her window.
She screamed. He smiled.
115…
“I need to see where this road takes me!” He said to her. “But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
She screamed. The exit veered off to the right ahead of them. There was a steel guardrail and behind it
trees and rocks and brush. Dr. Johnson took his hands off the wheel. The guardrail was coming quickly. Her
knuckles turned white as she held on to the door handle, too terrified to move.
115…
The car drifted slightly to the right and ripped through the guardrail, metal on metal impact, scraping and
breaking like tin foil. The front end crumpled. The radiator hissed. They passed into the woods taking out small
trees in front of them, the headlights shining momentarily on their future before it quickly became their present and then their past. The hood opened up and they couldn’t see anything. The windshield cracked, smashed,
shredded. Glass was everywhere. He smiled. The hood ripped off and landed somewhere behind them. She
screamed. The rubber peeled away from the wheels. His foot held the gas pedal down to the floor. An oak
tree stood in their path, ready to stop them.
And then it was gone. Everything disappeared. The trees, the rocks, the broken glass, the sounds of destruction, everything was gone. It was silent. The windshield was whole again and the car was in mid air. The
hood was intact, the lights shining brightly in the dark night. He turned to his right and he was alone. He
looked down and saw the car, shredded and torn below him. In the dark one headlight was still shining into the
woods. She got out of the car, shaking, and stood on the ground next to it. She looked in disbelief at the trail
of destruction they had left behind them. She cried.
Dr. Johnson looked ahead of him and smiled. The stars, so beautiful from the ground, were gorgeous now.
They got closer. He drifted towards them, slowly, then faster, but always at the perfect speed. He began to
see them getting bigger, no longer just identical dots in the sky. Each had its own personality, shape, and color.
There were blues, reds, yellows; no two stars were the same. Each was a woman, in a long flowing dress,
standing, floating in time and space, every one more beautiful and striking than the last. As he approached they
smiled at him and let out a magnificent song and then turned away as he passed. Dr. Johnson smiled. It was the
only thing he could do. He was happy.
Dr. Johnson wasn’t meant for our world. I don’t know where he ended up, but wherever it is, he is smiling, and finally happy. Every time I look up on a clear night I can’t help but to believe, just maybe, that one of
those little lightning bugs, oh so far away, is him smiling down on me, her, all of us.
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Prelude to Finale
Brian Maduruh
One more page and this story is all over
The stage sinks slowly into a sinister silk shadow
As realities restraints no longer appear sober
Don’t bother with rabbit tails or four leaf clovers
The sky will fall on anyone cowering below her
This isn’t the conclusion we’ve all been waiting for
We sit back and wish this anecdote would go on just a little more
We’re not even given a chance to even up the score
As the world flips upside down and gravity walks out the door
Tears rain from the sky and hurricanes collide
As the naive and unwise run inside to hide
We hope it’s a dream, just all one big lie
But this is authenticity, The End heaving a heavy sigh
The hair on the back of your neck is confiscated by the wind
Each one a tally of your shameless sins
Finale 1, Us 0…we look around for our high-spirited hero
No champion or superman can be seen
Thus sorrow and sadness go about as uncontested fiends
Darkness falls and fade to black goes the screen
Whilst the sound of it all is stifled out by cries and screams
The aforementioned is only a theory; no ending is ever told precisely
In other words, this is one of many Preludes to a Finale
Drunkard’s Cloak
Dan Zomack
Bellum Paper, Ink Pen, Cardboard
66
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Cover Art:
Violet Visage
Kelly Fogas
Magazine Paper
68