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Wit 2004 - Index of - Stevenson High School
Purity a b The Wit The Wit 2003-2004 Volume 37 Adlai E. Stevenson High School Lincolnshire, Illinois Purity c Sarah Bauer T he Wit was designed and type-set by the Student Staff using Adobe InDesign 2.0 and Adobe Photoshop Elements 2.0 on Apple computers. The fonts used were Adobe Garamond and Parisian. The magazine was printed out of house at Hi Liter Graphics in Wisconsin. i The Wit In the 2003-2004 Wit year, nine voices rang with tales of voyages into the world. They had learned of the treacherous descent into darkness and the hope that comes with once again stretching toward the light. And in the end, their journeys finally complete, they gathered one final time to share their stories. THE NINE HAD travelled a dangerous road to reach this campfire. There was little space in the world of lies for them, the smith of words and the spinner of songs, the recorder of legends and the orator of myths, the painter of worlds and the repairer of rifts, the teller of truths and the weaver of reality, and last of all, the forger of dreams. They sat around the flame and whispered the truths to one another. I suppose, said the weaver, that all things are pure at their beginnings. They all agreed, but the smith said that purity only begs taint, and the repairer added that the road to corruption winds quickly downhill. There was much head-shaking at this bitter principle until the forger spoke, saying that corruption begs redemption. And they realized that this continual story, one of purity and degradation and absolution, was now theirs to describe, and in turn they told of this cycle of cleansing. These are their stories. The metered clunks of metal on metal peter out as the cycle finishes off and the buzzer sounds its ceremonious end. I amble down the hall toward the dryer. The door pops open, heat radiates. I bend down to reach for cotton that has been reassured—two sheets of fabric softener per load. With laundry basket held at my hip, I push open the door to my motherʼs room. In a single swish, everyhing sprawls over the nealy tucked blanket. The socks and towels exude an invitation to wreck the pile. When we were young, we judged with our innocent instincts. Now we all are at different stages. Some of us have retained our purity, while others have become tainted. All of us will be corrupted, and at the end we all hope for atonement. So we start and end at the same points, but in the middle we separate. We hide beneath layers of matted hair and our scruffy coats, keeping our eyes averted when passers-by wrinkle their noses at our his miserable condition. Damp notebooks are tucked safely into our baggy pockets. At night, the park empties, and we squat under the yellow light to tell the world about love and life and green grass under a blue sky. We start to write poetry once the booze money runs out. This drug is free. The hamburger meat shimmered on the stainless steel counter. It was fresh the other day. But the doctor at the hospital disagrees. “Not only did you keep it in the fridge instead of the freezer,” he says, “but you ate it practically raw.” I canʼt taste the tartar coming up again; the stomach pumpʼs plastic tubing masks the taint. A pen scratches dully against the coarse grain of paper. Words bleed among the fiber as ink leeches into filament and skin, staining the corrugated ridges and wrinkles of the gnarled fingers that grasp the pen with devotion, with greed, with anger and hunger. The dark, volatile well of ink vaporizes slowly, inperceptibly, permeating the air with minute particles. We inhale, the scent of addiction diffusing through tissues,lungs, brain--dizzying, intoxicating. Eyes devour the scrawl, and a soul shatters among the pages. You stumble into your house at three in the morning. Eerie shadows cast themselves upon you from the yellow steetlamps outside your window, and only one thought echoes through your mind. Can you find the strength to walk up your stairs,strip off your dirty clothes, make it to your bed and find the courage to rest until morning? You donʼt know. Your tired eyes droop, and you see your reflection in a dusty window. The light shines off the side of the side of your face; you see your reddened eyes, and see the dirt on your body. You imagine the pulse of water upon your skin, a chance to wash away the long dayʼs stain. But all of your energy is concentrated on this one thing: getting your body rest. You reach out to flip the light switch, but the electricity has been out for days. Travelling up the stairs, though, you know things will look brighter in the morning. And so you read on. Alexander Alyssa Amy Jori Julie Kelly Shaily Steve Stephanie Purity ii 29 34 2 Anchored Qi Zhu Turkey 10 ColdEugene Fertelmeyster 13 Propriety Jori Widen Too Many 17 OneGregory Rozen Prose Kundalini Reeti Shopping for Death Raychaudhuri 58 74 85 94 Long Sleeves Lauren Port Being Mommy Alyssa TheUnderwood Chronograph Bleach Anne Nakamura Jody Casden 4 Let Go of the Day Poetry Alyssa Revised Cat Nap 4 A Underwood 5 Goodbye Alyssa Abe Lincoln Underwood 6 in the key of c Melissa Levin 7 Your Voice Amy Holbrook 7 Rhapsody Jillian Hogan 8 Eggs Sara Ghadiri 9 A Little Fall of Rain David Paige Tide 9 Alyssa 12 Chemistry Underwood 13 Sleeplessness Daniel Embree 16 Escapes Amy Holbrook iii The Wit 25 Passing Micheal Becker Word 26 Impossible Alexander Book of Heartbreak DeWitt 27 Little Qi Zhu 27 Unseasonable Melissa Levin 28 Texas and Twisted Lisa Patterson 30 Tangled Qi ZhuWalls 31 Concrete of M&Ms 31 BagAlexander DeWitt 32 A Transitory Enchanted Moment Colin Roper edward 32 Sean Savitt fugitive days 32 Christian 33 ShiftKillion 42 44 44 57 59 61 62 63 63 64 65 65 68 68 68 69 70 71 73 82 83 Wrinkle Free Alexander 84 TheDeWitt The Driveway Dance Other Side of the Day Jori Widen 84 IceJori Widen System Jori Widen 84 A Red Donʼt Walk Way Alexander Jori Widen DeWitt 88 Once Words Whispered in Fickle Flames on a Subtle Afternoon Alexander DeWitt Alexander Memory is a Shattering Woman 89 Housework DeWitt Kelly Bilton Until Then the Oceanside 89 ByMichael Becker Megan Schultz Curling Iron Promises 89 Relocation Ari Kolel Jori Widen Yellow Teeth Morning 90 TheLeila Ann After Ben Bentsman Whitley My Girlfriend Bombs Buildings Parent 91 Single Alexander DeWitt Jack Gloves Ung 92 HerBarmey Melissa Levin Roper The Real Deal vs. Glory 93 PainColin Lisa Patterson MeganDay Schultz Girlfriend 96 Laundry Barmey Ung HeatherWondering Pink 97 Sightless Rosenberg Alexander DeWitt Sunset and Ignorance 97 Adoration Alyssa Meghan Reilly Jody Casden Underwood Maturity Fantasy 98 Penultimate Jori Widen Michael Mom ToesBecker 101 Muddy Jori Widen Jonny Feet on Cold Oak Steps 103 BareAlexander Sarah Puzes DeWitt veteran 103 Breath Katie Sarott Brooke Bonnem Reading in Stressed Lilac& Moonlight 104 Fully Blossom Disillusioned Qi Zhu Laura McGowan David Paige Purity iv 66 Photograph Becky Bielinski 66 Photograph Media 46 Mixed Daniel Embree Rachel Photograph Graphite Jody Casden 67 Greisman Media 46 Mixed Butch Walder Photograph Photograph Jody Casden 67 Lindsay Sliwa 47 Charcoal Marcus Ober Photograph Courtney 71 Photograph OilLindsay Sliwa 48 Ana Sanchez Rogers Ink Wash Print 72 OilMarcus Ober Daniel Hohs Steven Slivnick 48 Ink Drawing Photograph 73 Colored Pencil 48 Steven Slivnick Katie OʼConnor Marcus Ober Photograph Photograph 75 Mixed Media 49 Rachel Greisman Thomas Dubois Jaclyn Hausman Photograph 77 Graphite Drawing Colored Pencil 49 Mike Gutowski Sarah Bauer Catherine Owens 85 Photograph Digital Imagery Pastel Alexander Lome Catie Bartunek 50 Chalk Juliana Crispo 86 Photograph Photograph Jim Pasakarnis Steven Slivnick 51 Painting Jody Casden Graphite Photograph 91 Chalk Pastel 51 Nicole Linville Matt Lauren Macklin Photograph 92 Pencil Drawing McNamara Drawing 51 Pencil Lauren Macklin Siying Chen Graphite Photograph 96 Steven Slivnick 52 Charcoal Steven Slivnick Nicholas Bach 97 Photograph Photograph Butch Walder Bust 52 ClayYelena Selissa Mantas Genchanok Photograph 97 Photograph Emily Kurtyka Imagery 53 Digital Yelena Genchanok Regina Oterin Chalk Pastel 100 Photograph Marcus Ober 53 Photograph Britt Steinberg Kelly Vaughn Photograph Photograph 100 Joey Knox 54 Tempera Kristin Collins Alexander Lome 101 Photograph Photograph Charles Kim Imagery 54 Digital Selissa Mantas Georgia Ciobanica Photograph 102 Graphite Butch Walder Imagery 55 Digital Kelsey Montalto Becca Shattuck Photograph 103 Photograph Butch Walder Painting 56 Oil Amanda Sarah Bauer Marsh 105 Ink Drawing Photograph Becky Bielinski 60 Photograph Angelica Kamysz Michele Trickey 106 Pencil Drawing Colored Pencil Rachel 64 Photograph Christopher Greisman Diana Katibnikova Drawing Colored Pencil 106 PencilMcLaughlin Cover iii iv 1 3 7 8 9 11 14 15 15 18 22 25 29 33 35 38 41 42 43 45 45 v Sarah Graphite Boedecker The Wit Art Daniel Embree Alex Lalley Courtney Rogers Purity 1 We crowd around a small, square table, the surface dulled of its finish; itʼs awkwardly ancient in my auntʼs waxy art-deco apartment, a sign of clumsy new wealth in a four thousand year old culture. We are sucking on the heads of decapitated shrimp, thumbs and index fingers sticky with sweetened soy sauce; it gets under the nails, too. The shells pile on the table, with their flimsy legs and empty heads mangled over each other—orange and dirty—transparent. Sometimes I look at one and cower just a little in a pinch of disgust. Then I look across to my aunt, my dad, my cousin, all pulling at the shells, and regain my senses—this “moldy weather” season is too humid for the fans; this table too small for the eight of us; this place too Chinese for manners. I hate finger food. I hate the savageness. I hate the feeling of spreading the stickiness to my chopsticks, my bowl, my fingers. I hate the part where I deliberately have to clean under the nails after I eat. But shrimp could just as easily not be a finger food, or at least not such a messy one. My mother discovered the convenience of cocktail shrimp a few years ago. I take them out of the freezer and brush off the ice crystals, weary of the plastic wrap, sealed so perfectly, as if it were never supposed to be opened. Headless and shell-less, neatly arranged around the bowl of dip, the pale, carroty tails frozen to each other. There is something not quite anchored about it—the readiness at which I could consume it is a little amiss for me. I remember having to stand on a stool to play with my shrimp in the sink—my mom bought them from the daily market, live with unruly pincers—I would prod their eyes with chopsticks and try to lift them up by the tail without getting pinched. Sometimes their whiskers would inadvertently brush the back of my hand, and I would shriek and let go. These days I donʼt need a step up anymore, and I let go of the shrimp of my own free will. He slipped back into the water and re-acclimated himself to the silver of the sink, a little relieved, Iʼd like to imagine. If only he knew the fate that awaited him, unless he already did—a little disheartening to think that I would be eating this friend soon, but I would probably forget which one he was when he turned a russet orange. My aunt reached over to take him from me; he was the last one. My aunt prepared them the same way my mom used to—she ripped off the pincers. I grazed the claw with my pinky; it moved a little, expending the last and tiniest spark, but maybe it was just my eyes. I used to jump up and down on my chair when I thought I saw a tail wiggle slightly, but my mom said I was just seeing things; she didnʼt want me to slip. I heard metal, and reality resumed; my aunt snipped the shell at the back, picked out the black intestine string with the sharp end of the scissors and tossed it in the bowl, shells all glistening faint blue and pale gray. Sometimes I eat shrimp shell and all—a good source of calcium—but only in the presence of my best friend, Liz. “The calcium,” she says as she plucks the tail off and pops the rest in her mouth; I remember and do the same. The shell crunches between my teeth and then slides, with a small scratch or two, down my throat. I never found it completely pleasant, but for some mindless reason (perhaps the sake of fighting premature osteoporosis) itʼs what happens when the shrimp sits next to the Styrofoam plates and plastic forks, when the bustling of Mandarin words sits next to a blaring Nickelodeon commercial. Itʼs what happens when Liz sits next to me and reminds me 2 The Wit that I need strong bones. But today, Iʼm anchored next to my grandmother, not fighting osteoporosis. I am her favorite every time I see her, and as much as I appreciate it, I dread it, too, as the seventh shrimp comes at me, wedged between her chopsticks. We squabble over this; I give in, like always. And I put down my chopsticks and bite off the head and think about how Iʼll have to scrub my fingers clean, but continue nonetheless. I pull away the shell, pinkies stretched as far away as possible, and discard the carcass with the rest. I dip it back in the sweetened soy sauce, examine for a Qi Zhu moment, and devour. Iʼm pretty sure this was the one I was torturing earlier today. Steven Slivnick Purity 3 Let Go of the Day Several minutes have passed since she last moved. Her eyelids have relaxed themselves over her eyes. Both arms have let go of the day but not me: one is wrapped loosely around my neck, the other falls softly over my stomach. Her breathing has become more thorough and precise. I match my breathing to hers and watch her rock slightly as my chest, her mattress, rises and falls. Her lips are parted slightly to reveal tiny white slivers that are place-holding for those who are yet to come. Her angel-fine hair tickles my chin, but I mustnʼt move to scratch it. If she wakes, Iʼll carry her to bed. Better for me, better for her. I would return downstairs, open my math book to page three hundred eighty-nine. Stare at cruel numbers, unaware that my hand still tries to cup her soft head. She would curl up in her chilly bed, forcing sleep to come once more. Stare at the ceiling, willing the closet monsters to stay put. How different from this melding of limbs into warm, drowsy unity! Alyssa 4 The Wit A Revised Catnap The sun smiles on her limp legs, warm fur piled randomly on the floor tiles reflect the light that is taken in greedily. Her sturdy frame has melted into oblivion. She could be a stuffed animal but for the cadences of sleep. Smooth marbles slide under small drawn eyelids. Paws twitch in pursuit of a dream rabbit. Ribcage rises rhythmically breathing in the warmth and love of Saturday morning kitchen. Father reads paper. Mother bakes bread. Child watches cartoons. Puppy is comatose. Rustling paper, clattering utensils, blaring television, all bury her soft snores. “Let sleeping dogs lie.” Yes, good advice, but who would dare interrupt this peaceful slumber? Alyssa Underwood Goodbye An arousing tickle on the base of my blanched back, sweetly fabricated by the crushed daffodils and obscure weeds as they stayed secluded from the dulled radiance of the autumn sun by the cast over single shadow made by two. My cerulean eyes gaze with wonder ceaselessly upward to a distorted photo album, made purely of evaporated water molecules, and other chemical reactions one half-learns about in a high school chemistry lab. The obscure contour of the state of Florida, where earthen ochroid beaches now froth and flutter much like the waves in the true temperate tides of Miami Beach. The fundamental features of a mystic unicorn, its enigmatic tail glistens a rare blush in the contiguity of the adjacent sun, stagnant in the agitated winds of towering miles. Abe Amongst the overshadowed radiance of the cumulus clouds, the hazy silhouette of our sixteenth president adorned with his infamous ebony top hat perched proudly upon his cocked head, as he sits there stroking his mangled beard of fluff, stares down from the vast skies of forever. Our intertwined calves relent, motionless as the serene winds of this Tuesday tousle the tatters of yellowed grass around us. Your inquisitorial hand has pioneered around the forbidden trail of my waist, now laying stationary there. All is dormant except for the steady rhythm of our chests moving in unison, inhaling and exhaling, the crisp air of autumn. At this mere moment, I canʼt forbear myself from ceasing. The sickly remains of summer grass will soon be blanketed by a typical ivory December. It will acquire an undesired tan and wither, as the cold takes life from its parched roots. But then spring will lurk into what we come to perceive as now, permitting time to do its justice, furnished green and vitality. The prestige that trails the departed president in the album graces slowly across the sapphire and white canvas up above as we peacefully lie there, stationary, I see time gradually taking those pictures away, endowing me with a fresh accumulation of a random obscure representation. I will never see those beaches of Miami bubble jubilantly the same way. The abstruse unicorn will never radiate the same roseate tint again. So goodbye, Abe Lincoln, thanks for roaming by. Melissa Levin Purity 5 O ver the noise of harp and xylophone, a painful, pulsing euphony, was the centerpiece, the important part, your solo, hovering above the cacophony like Aʼs above the staff, like this time above the thousand others Iʼve heard the nutcracker because now itʼs clearer like mailing me a feather from denmark fluffy, gritty, bent, suffering the abuses of a transatlantic journey crammed inside an envelope but I slid it into the front part of my overalls not where it would be safe from more twisting punishment, but where it would always stay close like your hands, long piccolo-playing fingers understanding more about us— we are the concerto— and looking for keys between strands of my hair to play your solo, our duet, the sublimest of symphonies in the key of c Amy Holbrook like asking for crayons at the restaurant disbelieving the surreality of us, sixteen (me, by only a few short hours) drawing a picture, a scrawl— on the back of a childrenʼs menu next to the jumble— of us, saving the world like your solo, coaxed from where it was hidden in your fingertips played for the nutcracker and an audience of philistines but also for me because I knew then— hair tingling, reverberating with the sonority of it all, feeling the warm breath from your parted lips reach me, four rows from the back— and I nearly jumped up to yell it, your sister held me down— that it was really you, you really were my piccolo girl 6 The Wit Your Voice The sound of ivory keys eludes itself from the other side of the door where I sit head against the wall my agonized muscles straining for comfort but the major after minor chords are running, gracing; And they leap through my ears into the apprehensive vastness of…me— to strike that chord— the one so hard to reach, indulging my senses, and you sing, a sweet, soft melody echoing even over the keys, the rhythms, the theories your hands and your voice pulsating in time with one another, for my eyelids to softly fall shut to better soak up the voice Your voice So that Iʼd walk through the door to subtly sit at your feet, to lean my head against your knee and let myself go, maybe. I listen to the sound of ivory keys beautifully seeping through cracks from the other side of the door where I sit head against the wall, listening to your voice. Jillian Hogan Rhapsody The room, the one room that echoes my hopes and dreams. Time ceases to exist as the music commandeers the enraptured. The lone voice of a deep bass crooning its melody seduces the silence. Its aria resonates and then fades through the sheer glass panes of the oak French doors. An enchanting flute adds a sparkling zephyr and captures all who listen inside the winding descant. A honeyed piano steals lightly into the air turning the swirl of music to a rhythmic hurricane setting whirling chords to the wending bass line and the light airy melody. The clean white walls breathe the purity of the music. A burnished trumpet now surges to ear. It lilts with harmony that eddies like flowing water splashing the cheeks of the other musicians. Then the music stops, the silence broken only by the whispering of the clock as it beckons us back to consciousness. The music has ceased, yet the smell of the resin that relentlessly clings to my silent bow endures. The scents of metal polish and lemon waft into the corridor. My callused fingers caress the smooth finished spruce of the scroll. The piano keys are still warm to the touch from my motherʼs gentle hands. The brass and steel of trumpet and flute bear the fingerprints of my sisters, who led the notes off the page and into the air of the music room. Sara Ghadiri Katie OʼConnor Purity 7 Eggs Standing in the kitchen, the tiles cold, the frosty air permeating, I make your eggs. The butter melts to a thick amber liquid. You stand by me, your shivering body, sheltered by my sweatshirt, presses against mine, your arms wrapped tightly around my waist, your grip never loosens. I must admit I do not crack eggs well. But You offer to help me. The hard eggshell cracks flawlessly against the white edge of the countertop with your touch. The thick clear liquid drips from the shell, following the bright yellow egg yolk. When the eggs have finished cooking, until the liquid, clear to start, turns white and the water no longer bubbles, the blue and orange flame no longer scorches the panʼs underside. All is calm. The eggs are finished. Perfect. 8 The Wit In the harshest winters, when our hands are numb and our toes sting with every step, I will make your eggs. In the darkest nights, when we cuddle to escape the jagged shadows that cling to the wall, I will make them for you. On the most remote island, When my stomach hurts and I have grown weak and thin. I will create for you. Together by the fountain, When the soothing sound of running water draws us close together, we will perfect. David Paige Thomas Dubois A Little Fall The raindrop slipped down the tree trunk, over rough brown knobs and smooth crevices, halting briefly before moving on to the flat blade of grass where it pressed down until the grass bent and the raindrop slid silently off the edge of the grass and sank into the earth. Alyssa Underwood Sarah Bauer Tide Your white shirt glows like a deep sea fish luring its prey. and I follow. We walk along the beach to our swing. Footprints dot the moonlit sand like the stars aligned. Gently I push you on the swing. Legs pump out and in, like our hearts throbbing to the oceanʼs rhythm. The moon pulls your hair with an invisible thread. I am mesmerized by it—rising, falling, rising, like the tide. I think that I can push you far enough to touch the moon, steal its power in your fingers, snap the thread, and down it will cascade to us. Then our hearts will swell with its frenzy manifest in love-sick voices. By our command the ocean will bow, and to our love throb. We will erase manʼs footprints. I rest my hands on yours and gesture to the open sea “That, sweet girl, that is ours,” I say, “Every pearl, every star, every coral palace is ours to wander.” I kiss the salt off your lips, and in nightʼs silence, our cheeks flush. Daniel Embree Purity 9 Cold Turkey Thanksgiving. Turkey, pot roast, potatoes, and pumpkin pie; itʼs amazing how much we associate our holidays with food. Food is reliable. If you have the same turkey, made by the same person every year, you develop a sense of accountability, some expectation for the taste. This can also be said for people. When I went to my sisterʼs apartment for the first time—the first time with my father, at least—I expected it to be a peaceful, warm event. However, my Dad, like a turkey, is not always warm and pleasant. We were sitting at the small table in the dining room of my sisterʼs apartment. My dad was sitting to my right, across from my sisterʼs husband, my brother-in-law, Glen. “Waiting is the Hardest Part,” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, played through the BOSE stereo…sometimes a song can describe a mood as eloquently as 26 pages of Charles Dickens. Let me introduce you to the wonderful world of subtext or, as it is called outside the world of literature, baggage. What a perfect word—baggage—because, if you think about it, it is quite stressful when youʼre in an airport, and you have two bags, as well as a large suitcase, that is, according to the airline, “too big to be a carry-on,” and the line is moving more slowly than a mule on morphine…but I digress. So—baggage. Letʼs get the check-in rolling, shall we? My sister, who, at the time was 19 years old, is married to Glen, who, at the time, was 44. Thatʼs not a typo, folks; heʼs 44. My dad, on the other hand, was 45. Sigmund Freud once said that our lives are spent in the pursuit of unresolved issues; this was putting it mildly. Finally, my sister brings out the turkey, which, surprisingly, looked amazing, as if Martha Stewart had decorated it to look like a delicious turkey. I had not tasted my sisterʼs cooking in a while, so I didnʼt know what to expect; however, the sight of the “perfect” turkey brought back memories of the many treats my sister tried to make when we were younger: delicious-looking brownies that made me sick for a week, delicious-looking pie that made me sick for a week; this turkey looked quite delicious. I decided that missing a week of school would not be the worst thing to get for Thanksgiving, so I took a piece of the turkey. I inspected it. It passed every test I had, except the most important: taste. I place the piece of turkey into my mouth. I almost spit it out, simply from reflex, but Iʼm glad I didnʼt, because it was delicious. So my sister can cook…thatʼs new. At this point, we were all eating, and I, having abandoned any past experiences with my sisterʼs cooking, decided to try everything. For about five minutes, there was a conversation at the table: not with words, but with noises. Chew, chew, chew was my dad saying that the food met with his approval. A sip of water and a quick glance from my sister was a thank you. Glenʼs faces at me—seemingly out of place, coming from a 44-year-old—were his way to break the ice and temper the awkward air. Food, however, had begun to grow short, a strange oxymoron, but a fitting one: the space left by the food left room for awkward silence. My sister and I started talking about how my school was going; my sister—just two years before—dropped out of high school, so it is always odd for me to discuss school with her. Think of it like a boyfriend or girlfriend; if you are dating your best friendʼs former boyfriend or girlfriend, there is always the feeling of uneasiness talking about it with them. My dad is a very-well read man whose wit and wisdom, as well as wanton opinions, permeate almost every comment he makes. With this in mind, it is understandable why he chose to ask the question that he did. “So, Glen,” he asked, “how long until the injury heals?” Glen, who is a truck driver for Shell—he delivers the gasoline—is also a motorcyclist. Recently, he had an accident on 10 The Wit his motorcycle that resulted in him fracturing some bone in his leg, I donʼt remember which one, but itʼs something scientific. For some reason, pain and science are very closely related. My dad brought it up because he made it clear that he didnʼt approve of the motorcycle. Itʼs hard, however, to tell a guy who you could have gone to school with that he should, or shouldnʼt, do anything. The only reason I didnʼt speak up is because I was saving my energy for what I knew was next… …dessert. My sister brought out a cheesecake—my poison—and set it on the table. I immediately grabbed a piece, because I knew that I would have had to fight for it later. I started on the cake, taking in each morsel as if it were a holy sacrament. My dad, who is “not lactose intolerant” but “hates cheese, milk, and dairy,” was not eating any of the cake. What may have been a moment of cheesecake satisfaction was interrupted by my fatherʼs question: “So, Glen, what do you think of all this national security business?” Damn it. Politics. This, all other differences aside, could probably get my father to maul Glen on the street if he had the opportunity—or the energy. Glen is a staunch Republican. My father is a staunch anti-Glen-ocrat. Seriously, though, he is a Democrat that believes that Glen has brainwashed my sister with his “crazy” Republican ideas, and soon she will be ready to participate in a weekly sacrifice…Iʼm kidding—my dad, however, wasnʼt. Glen also served as an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps, where he learned Jiu-Jitsu and Tae Kwon Do. My father, on the other hand, is a martial arts master… …actually, he just has The Karate Kid on DVD. The third part of this puzzle is the context of the time. This was Thanksgiving 2001. This was the Thanksgiving after a September 11th that left the country questioning what they could possibly be thankful for. I knew that politics was a hot topic between the two, but I didnʼt think my dad would bring up something on Thanksgiving, on that Thanksgiving. But he did. They began debating the issues between them; political issues—at least thatʼs what I think they were…I left the dining room and went to the living room, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire. I turned on Glenʼs Playstation and put in “Doom II.” I found one of the controllers on the ground, and pressed the start button… …I wasnʼt going to have a peaceful Thanksgiving; I might as well shoot some monsters. Eugene Fertelmeyester Catie Bartunek Purity 11 C hemistry is a funny thing. Thereʼs Unununium— an absurd element on the rational, organized periodic table, much like the inexplicable something—the sparkle of me, the impossible element in your life. Scooptulas— an outrageous word that I thought Mr. Kelly was inventing, like the concepts of my paying attention, settling down, the table in the front of the room— learning chemistry, nearest to the door, so I can get up, leave, take a walk, get some water, when like Leo the lion, my energy level is rising— anything to stop the mad twitch in my right leg thatʼs slowly crippling me— kinetic energy equals restlessness squared— to stop the inevitable completion of crossword puzzle clues, Amy Holbrook (29D: Having a high hydroxide concentration—basic. Itʼs hardly basic for me to ever have a high concentration.) to stop my sudden and undivided interest in the way your hand, holding your perfectly sharpened number two pencil, glides across loose-leaf paper, balancing chemical equations as effortlessly as you balanced the formula of us— You, on the left side of my table, and shoots up when he asks if anyone did the reading. (it was the most stable configuration) grab my knee, bring me back to ground state, when my vibrations shake the classroom— gas molecules filling up all available space with their ceaseless quaking— stop me from drawing comics of the electromagnetic spectrum— after I finally found something in chemistry worth doing! You remind me, irritatingly, that eye contact shows respect— as though you were some noble-gas paragon of the virtues you championed. Chemistry Every day I glare sulkily at you, stopping me from pursuing the things I care about— the oppressive nucleus keeping the orbitals close so it can keep an eye on them. But sometimes, when discussion turns to electron attraction— bonding— you pat that same leg under the table. Maybe itʼs like they say: it will only work if thereʼs chemistry. 12 The Wit Sleeplessness Two months have passed it feels like twenty since Iʼd seen you last— sitting hands tucked in between your elbows pulling your knees into your chest. itʼs not that long, I should have said, chin up, I wish Iʼd said. A million miles apart I listen to you talk in bed with my eyes shut tight facing the right side where you once slept. Hands clammy, shirt soaking wet patience runs short, as my nerves twitch muscles flex I pace, fidgeting with my fingers back and forth between rows of immovable metal chairs solo in an airport crowded with couples— Where a man holding a dark green duffel bag hugs a woman— she clutches the back slack of his blue shirt whispers, please stay, in terminal B I wait. Somewhere in the clean blue sky amongst clouds shaped like angelsʼ wings an airplane flies not fast enough. You ask the stewardess, soon? Soon, dear, very soon. Your index finger taps for fours hours now, the tip of your nail carves a crescent moon in your armrest, very soon dear. Soon my plane will land and I will take you home to bed to watch you sleep on the right side. Michael Becker “I donʼt think sex would be entirely proper.” He is curled up on the pillows at the head of the bed; I sit at the foot of it, not looking at him. “Sex isnʼt supposed to be proper. Itʼs an improper sort of thing.” “I know,” so charmingly hesitant. “We donʼt have to. Not if you donʼt want to.” I close my eyes; I can hear his breath, and the rain. He got here soaked and asked to use my shower, and now heʼs on my bed wearing that damned silk hotel bathrobe, and I want to rip it off him. Jori Widen Purity Taint 13 Steven Slivnick 14 The Wit Matt McNamara Steven Slivnick Purity Taint 15 T he sun reaches out to the old drunkard in the alley who limply holds Budweiser in the palm of his left hand like heʼs bottled a message to throw out to sea. Summerʼs hot streak leaves the man wandering aimlessly in the desert, leading his people to Israel. He crowds red fire hydrants hears the sacred voice of God telling him to press on, just to press on. Winterʼs cold breath is an Antarctic breeze blowing the old manʼs expedition awry. He tries to explore white dunes, lying making a snow angel as he searches for fertile ground to plant his nationʼs torn flag. He is king, watching Fifth Avenue heathens parade a quick march before his throne— a rotting banana peel a gum-crusted curb. The shadowed shelter of sentinel watchdogsʼ metallic embrace slips him gifts for his red-tipped nose. 16 The Wit Escapes When the street swims softly demonic shadows run the man is a night crawling shadow, convict, padding his feet softly treading down the street ducking low dodging police. At night the man is good at what he does, blending, escaping from the phantom crimes haunting him. He is tribal, ancient, a prize to Injun-killin cowboys. War scars can be read on his battlefield-streaked face, left too many days out in the sun to bake, left dry with his kingdom and a red-tinted bottle with notes begging for escape. Alexander DeWitt One Too Many Max stared forward at his reflection. Vigorously, he rubbed his hands together under the cool stream of water. He pulled his callused hands away, let the suds and bubbles encompass them, and then replaced his hands and watched the fizz and the froth melt away under the faucet. Grabbing the mauve towel from the rack next to the “Employees must wash hands” sign, he dried his hands as he had every night. When he had no more use for the towel, Max took it at the ends on one side and folded it, pressing the points together, creasing, folding again, and then replacing it on the rack. His gaze returned to the mirror. He noticed his hair, once jet-black and alive, had now developed scattered spots of ash, only partially concealed by the massive wads of pomade streaked into it. He grabbed at the right side of his dark red apron and pulled it back towards his chest, out from the crease in the armpit of his collared suit shirt beneath it. He placed his hands on the side of the sink cautiously, making sure not to get the cuffs of his shirt wet in the splash back from the faucet. He remembered the comics he had read as a boy, and the dangerous adventures of Huck Finn and the others he had just finished. In his mind, he created the image of these heroes, covered with scars and blood, staring into the eyes of a villian. Then, with a swift, mindless raise of his arms, he folded and molded his face, trying to replicate that picture. After holding that look for several seconds, his hands popped away and he let out a loud fit of laughter. “Someday!” he muttered into the mirror. Someday. Max then put his hand on the cool brass handle of the door and pulled with all his weight. That door always gave him trouble. After a couple yanks, it swung open, and the bright light pouring from the doorway made him cover his eyes with his freshly soaped hands. He blinked furiously and stepped into the light. “Itʼs just a little cozy place where winos and Rockefellers alike can come together and forget their worries.” Max had always repeated the same promotional phrase when he was forced to reveal what he did for a living. With his lips open and upturned, he swung his head around to survey his grounds. He saw the reflections of the high black tables in the waxed linoleum tiles that lined the floor. Each tile was large, nearly a foot on each side, and alternated between red and black. He and his coworkers often toyed with the idea of a life-size game of checkers. Next to each table sat four high wooden chairs, each brought in by Limo, the Italian owner, earlier that week. “Iʼd sell the whole place for chairs like these in my apartment,” he had said. “Have you sat in these?” Max and his fellow underlings (or employees, as the boss would call them) had all agreed, as they always did, and they told him what a genius of business he was, despite the fact that the bar had been around for more than a decade and Limo was still paying off the original debts. With his arms swinging and a low melodic hum coming from his throat, Max skipped to his post, and walked around to the back of the bar. Darren was already there. Maxʼs presence caused Darren to turn his head away from the sink, frothy with bubbles and dirty glasses. He raised an eyebrow. “Now what are you so happy about?” Max had known Darren since he had started working there four years earlier. Max had been the one to show the old man the ropes, but now he looked at him with a feeling of reverence. His stoic personality and his knack for always saying the right thing were what made him a great bartender. “You know why Iʼm happy, Darren,” was Maxʼs reply. “Enlighten me.” Purity Taint 17 “He comes on Saturdays.” “Ah, your mystery character. Whatʼs his name, again?” “I havenʼt quite figured that out yet.” A smug smile on his face, Max walked over to the sink and began to pick up the glasses Darren set aside. He would pick them up one at a time, grabbing them by the side, and would rub them methodically in a tight circular motion with his rag until they sparkled like the floors and the windows. “But I will figure him out.” “Well, you know what I think, Max. You should stop being so interested in other peopleʼs lives. We are all people, Max, we arenʼt very interesting. You oughta think about your own boring life, you hear me, son?” “I hear ya, I hear ya.” Darren looked over at the clock. “Opening time, my friend. Iʼll man service tonight, you got the bar.” “Sure thing, Mack.” And thus, the night began. And it began with a whimper. Most Saturdays began like this. People donʼt wanna get drunk first thing Saturday afternoon, Darren would reason. People gotta go out, have a good time first. Then they come and get their fill, when the night starts to get boring. Max loved the way Darren spoke. It was like the old, wise characters of his stories. There was always a wizard or an elder, the one who revealed the heroʼs powers to him. Someday. For a good two hours they had only three customers. They were your average depressed businessmen, walking in with their shoulders hunched up to their ears and their derbies in their hands. They would walk to the bar, slowly, step by step, and sit down with a depressed and lazy thud. These were Maxʼs Butch Walder favorite type. When they entered, Max would examine them, all of them. He would take note of the way they were dressed, the way they walked, the way they spoke, even the way they drank. And from these small details, Max would instantly know everything important that there was to know about them, except their names, of course. One man burst through the door with a sort of strong, sophisticated enthusiasm, pushing through the door with all of his body and charging to the bar with a smile on his face that was simply too large to be real. His shoes were newly shined, black, and marvelous. From under the sleeve of his beige trench coat emerged a dark stone cufflink, winking in the light from the ceiling. He held his brown derby tightly in his right hand as he pounded his fists into the bar. “Anything with rum in it!” Max shrugged his shoulders and rose one side of his mouth in a smug smile. Rum. Pleasure drink. Heʼs depressed. Trench coat? Cufflinks? Itʼs his job. Heʼs gotta good job, but itʼs stressful. And that smile? Heʼs pissed too. I could see through that mile-wide smile if he was on the other side of Main Street. This was Maxʼs gift. This is what made him good. Max took pride in his power, knowing that if he played his cards right, someday it would find him a job with the Secret Service or the CIA. Max could picture himself, dressed head to toe in a jet black suit, his hair, dark and lively, pomaded 18 The Wit back like those greasers at the shop. He would waltz in with the girl and then save the world from the bad guy. It would be like one of those Ian Fleming novels. Knowing exactly what was wrong (or what was right, in some instances) with the customer, Max would help spread his bartender wisdom. Heʼd console, heʼd encourage, and heʼd rescue. After a time, the depressed businessman phase would fade, and night would truly begin. The melancholy men in trench coats would give way to rich, gregarious boys of stature in white suits and Negroes with women all around them. Max would always laugh as Darren snuck over to him from the other side of the herd. “The flapper phase is here.” Max would just chuckle and dismiss him. Flapper? Who says that anymore? In groups the newcomers flocked to each end of the bar, moving in a swaying unison of shared intoxication. Max looked at them, each of them, individually. That woman is a lawyer. He noted the pen smudges on her hands, the upper-class company she was with, and the perfectly square briefcase at her feet. That man is looking for a woman. He caught the strong stench of cologne and barber soap trailing like a cloud from his shoulders. Sometimes he stopped to think about what he would be doing later that night, that week, that year, but it never stuck for long. There was too much around to see, too much to figure out. It was towards the end of their busiest hours that Maxʼs favorite subject always seemed to sneak up to the bar. He had been there every Saturday for going on a year now, but not one time, in the fifty-something times he had come to the bar, had Max seen him come in. Max would just be serving a college student, or cleaning some shot glasses, and then he would just be there, emerging from the din and the mess. And, as expected, his arrival on this night went undetected. Even under less “crowded” circumstances, he would have been difficult to notice. He was neither a behemoth nor an elf, completely average in size and stature. His clothes were only unique in their sterility, the heavy black trench coat hung over his ordinary shoulders was completely spotless from top to bottom, so immaculate that Max could see himself in it. Under the coat small trickles of crimson could be spotted over his stylish black collared shirt and gray tie. The small spots of color drove Max to wild ideas of fancy and speculation, as if there were colors hidden beneath and in the blackness, lying dormant. Perched on his crown and covering his eyes was a black derby hat, finely creased in the front with a crimson silk band wrapped around the base. It had never left his head, not for a second, and it never revealed his eyes. And so they began the “conversation” that had become their custom, a bartender and a drinker. “Whatʼll it be, Mack?” He would order his drink, a new drink every time. Sometimes he ordered something with gin, sometimes with rum, but it was always something unique, something that Max had learned how to make years ago without ever expecting to mix it. “Why would you want something like that? You donʼt like them mainstream?” A blank face, clear of all expression or emotion. Not anger, not sadness: just nothing. “No. My drink please.” And that was the end of it. Max would always yell at himself in his head. Idiot! Ask about him! Who are you where are you going where did you come from why do you keep coming here what do you do why do you do it? How can I become a part of your world? But he would not ask. Deep down, there was a part of him that knew he didnʼt want to know. But the gleam of silk on his derby, it lured him, a faint distant light on the horizon, a foreign lighthouse guiding him to a new exotic land. Or, perhaps, warning him of its jagged shores. Purity Taint 19 Slowly, deliberately, the man sipped his drink. He would bring down one hand, keeping his eyes down, and wrap his long fingers around the glass, encompassing it, swallowing it. Then he would bring the glass up slowly to his face, carefully, making sure no liquid escaped. Then, he silently sipped just a bit off the top, and placed the glass down on the counter with a faint, metallic crack. The man didnʼt say a word for an hour. The crowds continued only for a while longer; the dancers and the wealthy men slowly filtered out of the bar, until only the two bartenders were left, wiping down tables, washing glasses, and the mystery man in black, still sipping his drink. The bar was filled with a terrible, unrelenting silence, so unfitting for a bar on a Saturday night. The man just sitting, lifting, sipping, and placing, until the drink, his first and only drink, was finally gone. And then, as quietly and stealthily as he had arrived, he stood, placed his cloaked, ordinary arms into the sleeves of his trench coat, and dropped some coins on the counter. Then, with a fantastic twirl of his coat, he turned to leave, his hand adjusting the derby on his head. Maxʼs eyes sprang open. A single bead of sweat dropped from his forehead, carrying with it the mucky stickiness of his pomade. His pupils danced, gliding from side to side, searching the bar for something that might interest the man, something that might keep him for just a moment longer. But he had nothing. The man was nearly at the door, his steady, up and down rhythmic steps accompanying the silent flow of his robe. This is always how it ends you gotta stop him make him stay make him tell you. Not tonight, heʼs not getting outta here tonight without me getting something. “Wait!” Maxʼs plea caused the man to stop abruptly. Seeing the manʼs lips curl up in confusion, Max composed himself, taking a deep breath before continuing slowly and quietly. “Youʼve been coming here for a long time and ya never say a word. Canʼt ya let us in on the secret? I mean, cʼmon, this is a bar for forgettinʼ your troubles, you gotta just let go and relax, have a good time, meet some new pals. Heck, I donʼt even know your goddamned name.” Max praised his interrogational skill in his mind, convincing himself that he was getting closer to his goal. He needed to either confirm his fantastical visions of guns and adventure or find a new one. “No.” The stoic anger in his voice shattered Maxʼs optimism and forced him to physically recoil in surprise. The man was still facing the door. “My name doesnʼt matter, and if my presence has become irritating to you, then I will no longer seek the services of this establishment.” And with that, he pressed his gloved palm against the glass of the door and stormed out into the stale night air. Max stood, his eyes wide, his jaw dropped to his chest. His mind was congested, clouded with a thick muck of thoughts and questions he could not escape. Too many pleas and doubts and accusations. The one man he couldnʼt crack. His white whale. He had gone and would never return. Max felt his leg ache. “I gotta go after him.” Max tore the red apron from his chest and grbbed at the long, gray jacket that hung from the wall. “What are you talking about? Why?” Darren had lost the calm look of fermented wisdom and replaced it with one of great concern, his eyes wide enough to see the whites, his mouth dropped to his chest. “I just gotta. I canʼt let him go without figuring out just who the hell he is.” “This is insane! Youʼre going out at two in the morninʼ to chase down some big, burly-looking guy you donʼt know? What are you gonna do when you find him? Ask him all the idiotic and psychotic questions that have been burning in your thick skull for the past year?” Max paused as he was putting his left arm into the sleeve of his jacket. What am I gonna 20 The Wit do? “I donʼt know.” He stared at the once dazzingly bright linoleum tile of the floor, now covered with the gray and grime of a busy night. “And I donʼt really care.” He slipped his other arm into the jacket, and then grabbed at the collar, unfolding the parts that had been curled upward as he put it on. “Sweet Mary Mother of Christ. Youʼre crazy, boy, you know that? This doesnʼt make a lick aʼ sense.” Max turned to the door. As he placed his hand on the cool glass, he paused. Slowly he removed his hand from the glass, watching the smear of his hand slowly fade with the cold. Max shook his head from side to side. Just go. He pushed forward and leapt out into the city streets. The alleys were like a whole different world on nights like these. Gray clouds, barely visible in the night darkness, obstructed the incandescent moon and stars, letting only small speckles of light shine through. The roads were filthy. Cracked, corroded slabs of asphalt that looked as if they could have been simply dropped without any sort of arrangement or design. On top of them were countless articles of trash: old issues of the New York Times, covered in what Max hoped was ketchup and glass, fluttering around in the stale night breeze. Bellows of steam rose from the graded sewer covers, gray and moist, and floated in rolling balls up to the gray sky. Max breathed in heavily, taking in the destitution and the muck that surrounded him. The corners of his mouth turned slightly upward. To return home, you must cross the River Styx. Max swung his head to the left, then to the right, then back to the left, a perplexed look on his face. With bravado he puffed out his chest, knowing that somewhere that man was going to do something, something extraordinary, and he would be there. First he had to find out which way to go; he couldnʼt just guess. Only seconds into his journey he was at an impasse. Max closed his eyes and searched his memories. He remembered the rustle of the manʼs coat in the heavy wind, and the squeal of his boots on the hard, linoleum floor. He remembered watching him, Saturday after Saturday, as he pushed through the heavy door and turned to the right. Always to the right. Max smiled. Invigorated, Max jammed his hands into his giant pockets and walked swiftly down the road to his right. He took care not to look suspicious, keeping his chin up and his body upright, jogging briskly, causing his hair to bounce up and down like gelatin. It did not take long for him to catch up. The man was just around the first corner. As soon as Max made the turn, his heart jumped from his chest, nearly exiting his body through his unwilling mouth. The man was standing in front of a small kiosk selling newspapers and paper goods. Quickly, Max ducked into an alley, like he envisioned the Shadow did in his favorite radio show; he had his back pressed firmly against the wall, his hands outstretched, palms down. He made himself as flat as he could, and the same childish smile came to his face. Iʼve got you. Slowly he peeked his head out from the shadows of the alley. He watched meticulously as the dark man grabbed a newspaper from the rack and dropped change in front of the vendor. The bold print of the New York Times headline, with its writing in a black almost as deep as the manʼs coat, and in block letters large enough to be seen from a plane, read: “Fighting Intensifies in Central Europe.” The man rolled up the paper, then turned towards Max and began to walk in the same steady rhythm as before. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. As he walked, he untied the wrap around his dark coat and opened it wide. As he tucked the curled New York Times into his back pocket, something shiny and metallic caught the light of a street lamp and winked at Max violently. Maxʼs eyes suddenly shot open and perspiration began to build on his forehead as he realized what the menacing object was. Dear Lord. Purity Taint 21 Max curled his head back into the alley and shoved his right hand into his chest pocket. As he scrambled around his jacket, he nervously peeked his head over his shoulder as the man drew closer. Finally his hand emerged from his pocket and brought a cigarette to his lips, igniting it with the gold and silver lighter that Darren had bought him for his birthday last August. Then, he pressed his back against the wall and rose a foot into a crooked position, the bottom of his shoe pressed firmly against the wall. He flipped up the collar of his jacket just as the man arrived in front of the alley. Max was doing everything he could to try to stop his legs from shaking, sucking in deep, soul-filling breaths, letting the smoke and the tar and the nicotine pour into his lungs, packing them whole, then all at once letting it rush out of his mouth as quickly as it came. Keeping his face down, he watched as the man passed the alley, passed him with complete indifference, again keeping his body moving to the same steady rhythm. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. Max waited anxiously for what he counted to be a minute, then burst out of the alley to catch up with the mystery man who he now knew was armed with a clean, silver pistol. I have to keep going. I donʼt want to, every day, go to the bar, sit, talk, leave, I canʼt take it. I want to dance with the princess victorious after battle, I want to take down the villain, save the girl, and ride off into the sunset. I want to solve the mystery, learn to fly, shoot a gun. I want to live! He kept his collar up and his head down, his shoulders hunched to his ears, as he ducked in and out of the shadows. A sick smile of absolute fear stretched across his glistening face. What fears lie in the hearts of men? In another ten minutes, he came to a clearing. He had tailed the man through the streets of the east side, under a bridge, and out into the local park. Hesitantly he followed into the park, knowing that it was now going to be exceedingly difficult to go unnoticed. Occasionally, Max would pause and look down at his hands as they Emily Kurtyka shook violently. Youʼre scared out of your mind. The man walked slowly in his rising and falling rhythm. Under his boots, the white and gray stones of the beaten path ground like sand paper, crunching and scratching, sending chills down Maxʼs spine. Max, meanwhile, stayed off the path, ducking behind trees and bushes, the sharp pines and needles cutting his face and neck as he moved. When they came to the center of the clearing, Max was becoming part of the shadows, hunched over, his chest heaving in and out, stains of grass and God-knows-what else on what used to be finely pleated pants. He fished small needles of green out of his greasy hair as he hid behind a bush, watching the mysterious man slow, slow, slow, then stop and sit on a worn park bench. He let out a loud sigh, releasing a white cloud of hot breath from his lungs into the night air, then pulled out his New York Times and began to read. Max lay down on his back and closed his eyes, exhaling deeply and massaging his back, which was now aching from lurking hunched over. It had been an hour, and he still knew very little. Maybe I should just st— 22 The Wit “What are you doing here, you damned package boy?” Max shot up from his relaxed position as his body tensed, his hands balling into fists and the hair on his neck standing alert. Carefully, he peered out from the bushes at the new mystery character. He was an enormous man, the kind of hideous creature who, no matter how righteous or virtuous you may think you are, you could not help but point out and secretly ridicule for his obvious obesity and gluttony. His stomach bulged from the waist of his blue, pinstripe suit, and sweat dripped from his glistening, rotund face. “Whereʼs Dominique?” The mystery man grinned from behind his open New York Times, small folds appearing above his pale upper lip. The display of emotion shot a pang of terror through Maxʼs body. A mannequin never smiles. “He apologizes for the inconvenience, but my employer had a prior engagement. I am here as his replacement. He felt I could adequately deal with you.” Fatman responded with an agitating, hog-like snort, one filled with phlegm and disgusting muck. “Deal with me? Deal with me! That idiot son of a bitch owes me money! Iʼm not letting down until he comes to me with my money and apologizes like the dog he is! Iʼm not gonna be dealt with by some lowlife peon whoʼs trying to make his big score!” Package boy? Peon? Another chill down Maxʼs spine. He had heard these words before, in newspapers, books, radio, even the bar. He knew what they meant. “Iʼm afraid you underestimate my level in our organization.” The demonic smile grew wider, darker, his eyes still fixed on his paper. “I am no package boy; I am very capable of dealing with this situation in a quick and orderly fashion.” “Is that so?” Small trickles of spit flew from his flapping gums. “How is that? Can you pay me my dues?” “Yes, I can.” What happened next couldnʼt have taken more than five seconds from start to finish, but Max saw every detail. Every motion, every color and light was implanted firmly in his mind. The world seemed to slow down, every motion becoming deliberate and meticulous, as if the entire scene were occurring under water. He saw the gleam of the silver pistol as the mystery man drew it from his side, swiftly, as if he were flipping a light switch or turning on a faucet. He saw the hole torn and ripped through the creamy gray background of the newspaper, and he saw the blood, the dark, crimson ooze seeping from Fatmanʼs enormous stomach. And, like a dead tree, he fell to the ground, smacking into the dirt and gravel with a sickening thud. And there he lay, air slowly escaping and wheezing from his gluttonous lips and the hole in his stomach, until the final breath had spilled, and he died. Max knew everything now. There was no more mystery, no more confusion. He had won. A hit man. The guy came into the bar to prepare weekly for his hits. A different drink for a different target. And when he was prepared, he would leave and do his job. Heʼs the one they turn to to get rid of problems. I saw him. I saw it. Iʼm a problem, now. And he ran. He burst out of the bushes, thorns and leaves being thrown into his face, twigs and leaves crackling and popping beneath his stampeding feet, his trench coat catching countless jutting branches, tearing gaping holes in the pockets. Only moments before he had been prepared to pass out and sleep in the bushes of a park, and yet now he ran with an explosive vigor, the vigor of Purity Taint 23 adrenaline pumping through darkened veins and pulsing arteries, the vigor of bulging eye sockets and flowing sweat, the vigor of fear. No more! No more! I donʼt want it keep your guns keep your women keep your glory keep your huge mansions and expensive cars keep your money and your fame I donʼt want it I donʼt need it I just want to go to the bar and talk to Darren I just want to go home! He bolted out of the park into the black, disgusting, near-empty streets of the city. He didnʼt see the eyes of the perplexed street vendors following him. He didnʼt see the signs or the street lights or cars. He ran. Several times he fell, his dusty shoes catching a lightning-shaped crack in the sidewalk, or his coat being sucked beneath his foot, and he would sprawl out in the shape of a star, scraping his face on the rough cement, leaving a trail of his own blood. But in a hurry, in a daze, he would shoot back up, making sure never to look behind him and never slow down. Faster faster faster faster faster faster faster away from him away from guns away from bad guys and good guys home home to bed home to locks and doors. Home. Exhausted, he finally arrived at his apartment building, not slowing his grueling pace until he had run up the steps and to the front door, nearly crashing into the hard wood marked with his name and the names of neighbors. His knees buckling, his hands shaking, he groped around the inside of his breast pocket, removing from it a small brass key marked “Browning.” He could not keep his hand steady enough to puncture the lock with the key, so he grabbed around it with both hands, jutting it forward and then slowly turning it to the left. The towering door creaked open. His stomach filled with the bubbly, gaseous pain of anxiety as he bolted past the elevator, its operator leaning half-asleep against the wall inside, to the stairs and climbed. His legs burned with the fire of lactic acid and blood and juice, but he climbed quickly, and he climbed desperately. Soon he had reached the sixth floor, his floor, and burst through the open door to his hallway. He raced by his neighborʼs apartment, nervously reading to himself each number. Six-oh-one, six-oh-two, six-oh-three. When he arrived at his door, he repeated the key debacle of the front door with his second key. First groping for it in his breast pocket like a blind man, then struggling for a good five minutes to penetrate the lock. When he finally did, he swung the door open, feeling a burst of warm air, and charged in, slamming the door behind him. Immediately he went to his bedroom. He tore his bloodied and ripped jacket from his shoulders and threw it in the corner, then sat down on his bed, his chest heaving in and out, his limbs hanging, barely alive. His vision began to blur as he examined his room, the chipped Italian lamp on his dresser, the movie posters curled up in the corner, and his bookcase, stocked full of spy books and super hero comics and the like. He stood, and then, swaying from side to side, he stumbled over to the bookcase. He could barely lift his arms, but with his last ounce of strength, he grabbed onto the shelf that held his “Shadow” comics and pulled, throwing the heavy bookcase to the ground, breaking and splintering the wood, and covering the floor with his favorite books and comics, the stories that had captivated him and teased his mind for so long. His last energy spent, he collapsed onto his pile of fallen heroes. He felt the cold pages scratching and cutting the skin of his cheek. And under his face lay his favorite “Superman” comic. Max stared at the cover. The manʼs chiseled features, the villains cowering in fear, the women and Gregory Rozen children staring in awe at the awesome power of the hero, and as he slipped out of consciousness, the last thing he saw was the faded hero, his hands proudly perched on his hips, his face slowly being overtaken by the trickle of Maxʼs blood. 24 The Wit A faint feeling, once stubborn, grown hazy, but not yet altogether forgotten, lingers like my morning lotion, as I watch my skin lose urgency— patterns arranged and re-arranged less perfectly. Despite fruity scents, all will be untenable like hair falling out, thinner than lines that will appear on my forehead, slight curves like power lines stretching across prairie grass backyards, deftly romantic. Electricity crackles at dusk, to be poured into wasted lamp light casting shadows and silhouettes through midnight windows. I smell it pouring into my veins— the last mosquitos and burning leaves that will be sterilized in white, and the crackling laughter still hanging in the air. We lean, but our bodies will blur into the background. Qi Zhu Marcus Ober Purity Taint 25 Impossible Word Melissa Levin Itʼs impossible to catch a flight of monarchs streaming among intertwined orange honeysuckle and sunflower fields of forever in a common glass jam jar found hidden in the back of your motherʼs mahogany cupboard to disclose for the world to marvel at. Itʼs impossible to replicate the illumination produced by the serene yet fierce descending sphere of heat as it casts a radiant carrot hue over the fervor and intensity buried in teeming jungles of entangled saffron moss and brimming Sago trees in the sweltering African dusk. 26 The Wit Itʼs impossible to capture the sweetness of the syrup as it first trickles from caverns in the hidden womb of the robust maple tree, the sugary glutinous liquid making languidly dripping amber rivers down the clefts Mother Nature formed in unrefined cinnamon bark. Itʼs impossible to seize the majesty of the brilliant supernovas sewn delicately into the sheer velvet cloak of night, torn effortlessly away from the anchored seams of the Milky Way to rest in the quiet of your own clenched palm. Love is the flutter found in the vast field of butterflies, the sparse splendor emitted from twilight. It is the luscious taste of newborn saccharine flowing unhindered from natureʼs nest and the greatness exerted from minute celestial bodies that supply us with the silence of wonder. In all of this, my heart seems bewildered and my mind refuses to fathom the concept that it is possible to capture the capitol of tenderness and emotion in the simple four letters: love. L etʼs take these stitches and burns as my humble offering. Lay them in a pile of stone. Pour the gasoline all over, and weʼll light the pain on fire. God knows weʼll never be alone again. It seems this little book of heartbreak has come to its bittersweet ending. Flipping through the pages, I remember the villains but hold no grudges. Iʼve struggled with forward motion for quite some time now. Iʼm more than ready to feel alive. Unseasonable Little Book of Lisa Standing on the edge of a cliff— I let my feet slip. I flail with my second-hand wings and am falling faster than you could ever imagine. But there are not doubts. Only certainties. Because I know youʼll catch me before I hit rock bottom. Two polite pairs yield breathing room around a weather-worn doormat, disregarding parameters; and in its place, an awareness of how shoelaces fall and heels kick. I gather my belongings, reluctant, in slow motions, unaffordable in frozen air: Scarf wrapped once around my neck and hair un-tucked, the buttons on my jacket done one by one. My shoes bent, T-shaped, and concrete cold. Snow, revealing the world soiled, melts at salt-sullied heels as two dirty pools accrue, cautious of touching edges. With gloves over my too-small hands, burrowed in my pockets, you blink, and are still; and I clasp my keys and turn. Qi Purity Taint 27 I n a bar, tenders use dirty glasses, men come instead of home leaving their wives childless, an illegal immigrant, escaped from a yellow town in Mexico, strums the cracked strings of a guitar stained wine red. He plays Spanish Love Ballads in a corner, an electrical cord is stapled to the wall tracing its way to neon lights in the ceiling. His voice has been oiled with the sweet bourbon the bar makes, coating the room with a gummy scent. A plastic cup (everything is bigger in Texas) begs for loose change plucked from the pockets of a poor farmerʼs dusty jeans. Texas Alexander DeWitt The mariachi wears away his fingertips playing one night and the next. He has thick blisters he picks at as he stands in the weak spray of his cheap motelʼs shower. The guitar sits in its case on a small twin-sized bed, always hot from midnight salsas, when the man watches television shows to learn Proper English. In mid-afternoon when the mariachi walks to the overcrowded bar to play, pale men in hunterʼs hats give him corner-eyed looks before the Texas sun sets and the hundred-and-ten degree day cools. 28 The Wit Joey Knox Kundalini The humidity of the room creates condensation on the window, feeding the growing mold on the bright white panes. The soft folds of the olive green and crimson fabrics hide the western and eastern parts of the sky from inside the window. And the bending treesʼ tenacious leaves decay on the bobbing branch, the wispy wind hurls snow on the freshly snow-blown sidewalk. The snow snakes its way into the cracks and settles, pioneering the way for more snow to conquer and envelop the path, narrowing it with each breath of wind. The rooftops whimper with small patches of snow, and gnarled tree branches cry fiercely in agony, while faded yellow cattails rustle and whisper their secret; they hide a shallow pond where unsuspecting sledders crash through a thin layer of ice and run crying home. Reeti Raychaudhuri Purity Taint 29 B eneath, in the darkened garden, the flowers serve shadows, harvesting my hidden stare. The pale moonlight squints through thorns of blackened rose stems. Lashes flutter, focus the painted candlelight, splash through the window. Flickering walls surround, protecting you in a vast slumber. Delicate, you rest as a balloon on a whispering breath, draped in satin and silk. Dream of your body, curved, resting, forming sloping ranges. Now, here, with you, my callused fingertip traces an outline embroidering your figure. I lace my finger, twirl, curling your hair— strong enough to please me, soft enough to not disturb you. Flaring nostrils suffocate my oxygen. Selfish, I am, for seeking to steal from you— Exhale. Tangled and Twisted Silk now covers a naked palm, collapsed, lost for her delicate thigh. Feathering her pulsing stomach as I dream to arouse her. Tangled and twisted, fingertips, vanished to hazelnut hair. Tangled and twisted, my thoughts, as I graze her inner thigh, soft and vulnerable. Birthing radiance, once in demise, now creeps along the shutterʼs glass. A snapping stare, full of loathing pleads for the light to dissolve. Sealed, your eyelids begin to quiver. I fuse my lashes tightly, peering through the darkened garden to confirm my deception. Gusts hush the flame, dimming the room. But an enchanted gaze serves curiosityʼs guide. Spread my eyes, across the floor, dodging fallen clothes resting perfectly, but arranged in unforgetfulness. Colin Roper 30 The Wit Concrete Walls My body felt warm—connected Nothing I had done had been right except this warmth. Raindrops on the moonlit window glow as cars pass by. Your eyelids quiver your body remains still. I lay motionless so as not to wake you. And listen to you breathe—shallow, sending warm air down my side and chills up my back. I try to time our breathing into synchronicity. I lie here now after having left, longing for an embrace, for tender lips. The warmth we shared when you lay beside me sank into my skin. I lay there searching for words to tell, to let you know that I had to leave my new room is cold. Sean Savitt I wanted your hands to stay where they were, one hand on my chest, the other by my neck. I wanted your head to stay on my arm— calm, still… B Bag of M&Ms eneath my eyes there rests a crinkled yellow bag, its contents unmarked. a slip of red between tongue and teeth smooth at first as his exterior melts away, the name tag of “m” now rubbed off. It yields my sight, this puzzle beneath, needing my hands discovery. A crack of sound, now sharp and pointy as he uselessly tries to fight back, his brethren of blues sit between silenced paper. The ripping of paper fills silence as the red-bodied, white-eyed figure Another straight crunch of hard nut bone, is scooped up into my hand. no toying anymore Iʼm hungry. Christian Purity Taint 31 A Transitory Enchanted restaurants and shopping centers sleep, emptied in the darkness my headlights break. they smear on the windows, losing against inertia as green lights greet me with courteous entreat and I indulge in the reverie of catching dreams that come up on my windshield dots, floating but ingestible. Qi Zhu edward i want to curl up inside you take a nap stretch out to reach your walls curl up fetal my thumb in your mouth and your heart in mine. Jori Widen 32 The Wit fugitive days in a definite turn from girls with guitars and underaged british schoolchildren, i find myself with a crush on a fiftysomething college professor who once tried to blow up the pentagon that borders on actual admiration. he makes me want to lock myself in my room with old history textbooks and a world map, make dynamite in the basement, leave pamphlets on windshields, and stand in the middle of busy streets and shout his words. Jori Widen I shift to keep the Victoriaʼs Secret band from showing above the waistline (hipline?) of my low-rise Abercrombie jeans. Shift Jori Widen In seventh grade I wanted to be a vampire, Interview the book beneath my right palm. I wore black. I mourned that Hot Topic had not yet reached the Midwest. (The Cure was and remains my favorite band.) My mother once told me to bite her, and I laughed and bitterly pressed my tongue against my dull canines. My best friend spends her summers in an upstate New York toy shop. Last summer I came to visit. We blasted Bright Eyes anthems of love and loss (but mostly loss) for the edification of Diamond Point youth. Conor sang about sex as I stumbled off my chair in an attempt to reach the volume control. My best friend smiled and asked if the man wanted that gift-wrapped. Charles Kim I cross one denim-clad leg over the other and knock my Skecher against the side of the desk. Purity Taint 33 Shopping for Death (The scene opens on a funeral parlor. There is a sign hanging from the stage somewhere centered reading Frankʼs Coffin Gallery. It is an antique parlor. It is something one might see in the earlier part of the century, a small shop. SR there is a counter. Along the counter are several samples of silks and laces as well as an old-fashioned cash register. On one side of the counter there is a water cooler. On the other side is a single chair. There is a bell on the counter. In front of the bell is a small sign that says, “Ring for Service.” To the left of the counter, there is a door marked “Water Closet”. There is a door slightly SL behind the counter. It reads, “For Staff Only,” SL, there is another door. This door signifies the front of the store. The glass door says, “Frankʼs Coffin Gallery” in gold lettering. Slightly downstage center there is a coffin, which should be facing sideways. For the purposes of this production, the coffin should not have a fourth side so that the actor may be visible to the audience. However, there should be three sides as well as a top that can open and close. This coffin is extra large in size compared to the other coffins. It is raised on a platform high enough that one would need to stand on something to look inside. Behind it, there are other coffins in rows. They may be real wooden coffins or simply painted on a backdrop; however, there are several different models in the shop. There is a small table DL with two chairs around it. The chairs at the coffee table are maple with velvety red cushions. Several funeral parlor magazines are scattered on the table. We hear a bell ding. As the lights come up, Jo Ann, age 16, is sitting at the table leafing through one of the magazines. She is wearing dark makeup and a spiky necklace. She is a rebellious youth. Gertrude, 60, is standing at the counter, in a knit cardigan sweater with glasses dangling around her neck, waiting to be helped). Jo Ann: Oh shucks, no oneʼs here. Letʼs go. Gertrude: Letʼs give them a few minutes. Iʼm sure the clerk is in the back. He probably canʼt hear the bell. Jo Ann: (to herself) Yeah, right. (Clerk enters from SR door. He is in his late teens. He is a typical dope who takes a job like this to earn extra money. He assumes position behind the counter, sighs, and then clears his throat before speaking. Note to the director: Larry should be played monotone and with a very dry, sarcastic tone). Clerk: Hello, welcome to Frankʼs Coffin Gallery. My name is Larry. Can I be of service to you on this fine day? Gertrude: Well, Iʼm interested in pre-ordering a coffin for myself. Clerk: Okay. I am just going to have to ask you a few questions. (He takes a clipboard out from under the desk, reaches for a pen and begins to read off the questions). Name? Gertrude: Gertrude Millie Partridge. Daughter of Barbara and Samuel Kittenberg. I married the late Jerry Louis PatrClerk: Date of birth? Gertrude: March 16, 1941. My mother used to tell me how glorious that day was. She would say, “The sun was truly shining the day you were bor-” Clerk: Estimated date of death? Gertrude: (Taken aback by this question) Oh, well, I…well, I…well, I donʼt know that yet. Clerk: (Slightly pertubed) Right. Thatʼs why I said estimated. 34 The Wit Gertrude: Well, letʼs see then. 2010, no, 2012. Yes, that would make me—(She stops to think for a moment)—85 years old. Clerk: 85? Thatʼs all? (Beat). Okay then. Gertrude: What do you mean, “thatʼs all?” I donʼtClerk: Cause of death? Getrude: I beg your pardon. Clerk: (Slightly agitated at Gertrudeʼs difficulty with the questions) I said, “How ya gonna die?” Suicide, homicide, failed open-heart surgery, the old ticker just stops— (The following sequence of dialogue should overlap between Gertrude and Larry. The overlapping ends with Larryʼs line, “Whatʼll it be?”) Gertrude: Well— Clerk: You finally just kick the can— Gertrude: Well— Clerk: (Very sarcastically, as if not believing it) “Natural causes”? Gertrude: Uh— Clerk: Whatʼll it be? (Pause) Gertrude: My word. How can I possibly determine a thing like that? Clerk: (Giving up) Okay, Iʼll just put you down as undecided. (Beat) Who will be giving your eulogy? Gertrude: (Visibly upset) What kind of questions are these? Clerk: Okay... moving on. Would you like to be cremated or preserved? And if you would like to be preserved do you have a preference as to which outfit you would like to wear? Is there an accessory we could throw in that you feel represents you? Butch Walder Gertrude: (Slightly offended) I beg your pardon, sir. I did not come here to be mocked. I can take my business elsewhere. Clerk: (Very agitated—smashes clipboard down on counter, but keeps his monotone voice) Tell you what, little lady. Why donʼt you peruse our fabulous little gallery. Come back when you find something you like. Feel free to get inside, see what they feel like. Hell, open and close ʼem if you want to. (Should be recited as a cheesy line all employees are required to say, but he says it with his teeth clenched): And remember, youʼll just die when you see our selection. Gertrude: Yes, thank you. (The clerk pulls a small sign out from under the counter and places it on the counter. It reads, “I had to take a break, my shoes were KILLING me!” He then takes the clipboard and exits out the SR door. Gertrude reads the little sign out loud and chuckles at its horrible attempt to be funny. She pauses when she realizes itʼs not funny at all. She then walks over to where Jo Ann is sitting). Well, he was a friendly young man, wasnʼt he? Jo Ann: Yeah, sure, whatever. Gertrude: Well, come on. Letʼs look around. He said we should peruse. Jo Ann: No, really. Iʼm fine. I think Iʼll just stay put right here. Let me know when youʼre Purity Taint 35 done. Gertrude: (Intentionally trying to give Jo Ann a hard time) You know, youʼre going to feel extremely guilty when I die and Iʼm buried in a cheap, dingy coffin. Youʼre going to regret not walking around the coffin gallery with your dear old grandmother to help her pick out a coffin. Youʼre going to wish and pray you could go back to that one day when it all happened and simply— Jo Ann: Okay. I get it. Letʼs just get this over with. (Jo Ann puts down the magazine and stands up, but keeps her purse strapped around her. Gertrude and Jo Ann cross upstage to where the rows of coffins are posistioned. Gertrude spots the coffin DC. She walks towards it and then stops in front of it). Gertrude: Well, this a nice one, isnʼt it? (Jo Ann has already lost her attention and is gazing in the other direction). I said itʼs a nice one. Jo, isnʼt it? Jo Ann: What? Oh, yeah. Great, Gertrude. Letʼs go. (This should bother Gertrude more than anything. She should pause every time Jo Ann calls her by her first name instead of Grandma). Gertrude: Do not use that tone with me, young lady. I am your grandmother. (Jo Ann does nothing, and Gertrude goes back to her coffin gazing). Well, what do you think? I donʼt know if I like the pink interior. Isnʼt pink satin too tacky for a funeral? (Jo Ann lifts the tag and examines it closely. She begins to chuckle). What? Whatʼs so funny? (Beat). Well, what? Jo Ann: Nothing. Just thought youʼd like to know this coffin is for fat people. Gertrude: Jo Ann! I know your mother raised you better than that. Jo Ann: No, Iʼm serious. The tag literally says, (Reads from the tag) “Created especially for the extra large deceased.” Gertrude: Oh. (Beat). Well, I think it looks roomy. When I die, I want to be comfortable. I want my space. Jo Ann: Then go tell Larry you wanna buy it and letʼs go! Gertrude: No. Iʼm just not ready yet. Jo Ann: Well, no offense. But this isnʼt exactly my idea of fun. (Should be strongly emphasized) I know how important these monthly get-togethers are to you, but well…this is just creepy. Gertrude: Well, perhaps if you had given me some input as to what you wanted to do, I could have structured our day around the things you enjoy. However, every time I phoned the house to talk to you, Mom told me you were busy or preoccupied or couldnʼt come to the phone or— Jo Ann: Yeah, well, your event sucks. Gertrude: That is quite enough, Jo Ann. Jo Ann: (Mocking her) That is quite enough, Gertrude. (This once again should bother Gertrude immensely. When Jo Ann says this, there should be a long pause in the dialogue. Jo Ann senses the tension and resumes the dialogue). Well, I think Iʼll just go back to magazines. Tell me when youʼre done. (As Jo An begins to walk away, Gertrude leans over to fix her stocking and as she does she slightly tears her sweater). Gertrude: (To herself) Oh my! Well, gosh darn it! Jo Ann: (Looking up from her magazine) What? Gertrude: Well, I...oh, itʼs nothing. Besides, youʼll just laugh at me. Jo Ann: No, I wonʼt. Just spit it out, Gertie. Gertrude: I am your grandmother. Why canʼt you call me that? (Beat). Jo Ann: Whatever. (Beat). Just tell me. 36 The Wit Gertrude: I donʼt feel comfortable sharing it with you at the moment. Maybe you had better just go back to those magazines while I continue to look around here. (Upset that her grandmother has “given up”, Jo Ann stands up and begins to walk over to the coffin. Gertrude puts down her handbag so that she can use both hands in examining the coffin. Jo Ann darts in front of Gertrude. She is now standing in front of the coffin.) Jo Ann: Why canʼt you just tell me? Gertrude: Itʼs really not that big of a deal, Jo. Jo Ann: Then just tell me. Gertrude: No thank you. Jo Ann: If you donʼt tell me, Iʼll do it. Gertrude: Youʼll do what, dear? Jo Ann: I will…(Pauses while she thinks of what to say)…I will climb into this coffin! Gertrude: (Sincerely) Be my guest. (She extends her hand as if she is showing Jo Ann the way. Jo Ann looks extremely uncomfortable. Unfortunately, she knows sheʼs going to have to get inside to prove Gertrude wrong.) Jo Ann: (Much less confident) I will…Iʼll get in. (Pauses as she waits for Gertrude to stop her. When Gertude doesnʼt, Jo Ann walks to side of counter and takes the chair. She brings it back.) See, Iʼll climb right up on this chair like this. (She climbs) and Iʼll get in. (She pauses again. Gertrude lifts her eyebrows in amazement. She doesnʼt think Jo Ann will really do it. Jo Ann puts one hand on the coffin.) Iʼm touching the coffin. Do you see me? I am touching the coffin. (Pause. Gertrude begins to walk towards the table Jo Ann sat at when they first entered the shop. As she starts walking, Jo Ann opens the coffin.) Itʼs opened. Iʼm gonna get in. You canʼt stop me. Gertrude: (With her back to Jo Ann as she continues walking to the table) Okay, dear. Have a nice time. Jo Ann: Okay. Thatʼs it. Iʼm getting in. (She puts one foot into the coffin. She waits. There is no response. She puts the other foot in and stands up in the coffin.) Iʼm in the coffin. Hello? (By this time, Gertrude is sitting at the table and has picked up a magazine. She waves off Jo Ann as she reads. Jo Ann, shocked Gertrude hasnʼt stopped her yet, sits down in the coffin, looks at Gertrude with hatred and anger, and then lies down. She yells out.) I AM LYING DOWN IN THE COFFIN. OH MY, IʼM LYING IN A COFFIN. (Suddenly gets another great idea). I think Iʼll close the top! (She does. The following Jo Ann says to herself although the audience can hear her.) Okay, little darker in here than I expected. I think coffin time is over. (She pushes the top to get out, but it is stuck. She pushes again.) Okay, okay donʼt panic. You canʼt be locked in the coffin. No, you just didnʼt push in the right spot. Try again, Jo Ann. Try again. (She does and is unsuccessful). Okay, deep breaths. Ask Grandma nicely to open the coffin. Yes, sheʼll understand. Ask her calmly. (Yells to Gertrude in utter panic). GERTRUDE! HELP, IʼM STUCK! Gertrude: Not funny, Jo Ann. Jo Ann: (To herself) Funny? What?! Sheʼs thinks Iʼm kidding? Oh shit! (Yells again to Gertrude): NO REALLY, IʼM STUCK. PLEASE HELP ME OUT! Gertrude: (Calls to Jo Ann over her shoulder) Right. So Iʼll come over, open the top, and then youʼll spray some of that goop on me... that stuff... oh whatʼs it called? Silly slippers... no... silly snot... oh no no no itʼs— Jo Ann: (Still calling to Gertrude) Silly string! Itʼs silly string! And why would I spray silly Purity Taint 37 string on you? (Gertrude nods in agreement. Then turns back to her magazine.) And Iʼm not kidding. Please. (She takes a deep breath, realizing what she is about to do.) Grandma, please. (Gertrude immediately looks up from her magazine. Silence. Gertrude, without a second thought, gets up and walks to the casket. She pauses. Then she tries to open the coffin. It doesnʼt open.) Gertrude: Jo, sweetheart. Itʼs stuck. Jo Ann: Itʼs stuck? Gertrude: Yes, the top is stuck. Jo Ann: Well, go ask Larry to open it. Gertrude: Heʼs on his break. I canʼt. Jo Ann: Oh, I get it, so I just get to stay in here until he comes back. (There is silence as Jo Ann thinks). Itʼs dark in here! Gertrude: Well…you had some lighting device on your key ring didn't you? Jo Ann: Oh right! My flashlight! (The jingling of keys is heard and, all of a sudden, a blue light illuminates Jo Ann's face. Her next few lines of dialogue should be done with the blue light on.) Nice call. (Gertrude sits down in the chair next to the coffin.) Gertrude: Why, thank you. Now Joey dear— Jo Ann: Okay, first of all, the Joey thing has got to stop. Sixteen-year-old girls do not get called nicknames by their grandparents. Period. Second of all—(The flashlight dies out). God damn it. The flashlight went dead. Got any other brilliant ideas? Gertrude: Jo Ann, is something bothering you? (Silence) Jo Ann: It's dark in here! Gertrude: Jo Ann… Jo Ann: No. Butch Walder Gertrude: Jo Ann… Jo Ann: I said no. (Because the fourth wall of the coffin is missing, at this point we should see Jo Ann turn the other way in the coffin so her back is to the audience. Suddenly, Larry enters from the door behind the counter. Gertrude jumps up and makes a quiet motion to Larry who simply shrugs his shoulders, then exits out the door again). What was that? Gertrude: Oh, it was nothing. Jo Ann: What the hell was that? Gertrude: I said it was nothing, and I don't appreciate your tone. Jo Ann: Oh I'm sorry. Let me try in a more sincere way. (In a British accent): Oh my dearest elder of the family, I pray thee, what ʻtwas that noise I heard in the distance? Gertrude: Little Miss Smartypants, aren't you? (Beat. Thinks of the first thing she can). I moved the chair. Jo Ann: What? 38 The Wit Gertrude: The chair you were standing on. I moved it over next to you. Jo Ann: Oh. (Beat). Is the clerk back? Gertrude: No. I will tell you as soon he comes back. Jo Ann: Thanks. (Silence) Gertrude: So how have things been lately? Jo Ann: I don't want to talk about it. Gertrude: What? Why not? Jo Ann: I'm not in the mood for this. Gertrude: For what? Jo Ann: For this! Mindless chatter to pass the time. I think I'll pass. I'd rather just sit here in silence. Gertrude: All right. (There is a long silence). Whatʼs wrong? Jo Ann: I said I didnʼt want to talk about it. Gertrude: But we used to be so close. What happened, Joey? Jo Ann: You want to know what happened? (Pause) Iʼll tell you what happened. Two months ago my punk rocker boyfriend impregnated me. Now weʼre going to hop the border and— Gertrude: Oh my! Jo Ann: And sell our souls to a shepherd to make a few bucks. The money we collect from him will go towards the down payment of the crate we will buy to put the baby in. Then we will— Gertrude: Jo Ann! Jo Ann: Then we will slave away in the fields until my water breaks. When that happens, Jethro, thatʼs my boyfriendʼs name, will rush me to the abandoned shack we have been living in, and deliver the baby using the “Delivering Your Own Baby” book he bought from the crazy old lady who followed us in the market. But then— Gertrude: Enough! Jo Ann: But then our baby will begin to lose color in her face— Gertrude: I said that is quite enough, young lady! Jo Ann: Weʼll get really scared. And she still wonʼt have cried yet. You know how babies are supposed to cry when they are born. Sheʼll turn a deep shade of purple. And then Iʼll start to cry because she hasnʼt cried yet. (As Jo Ann continues, Gertrude stands up, partially out of frustration and partially because she has to use the washroom.) And our baby, only a few minutes old, will die. Peacefully, but still sheʼll die. And we wonʼt have enough money to get her a coffin, so weʼll just have to dig up some hole behind our shack and put her in the ground. Itʼs rather depressing. Donʼt you think so? (Gertrude walks around the back of the coffin and opens the door to the bathroom. She goes inside. Jo Ann stops abruptly at the sound of the door.) What was that? (Pause). Gertrude, what was that? (Pause). Okay, okay. I get it. I shouldnʼt have made up such a ridiculous story. (Larry enters from the back door again. He listens to Jo Ann). Iʼm sorry, okay? (Pause. Larry picks up the phone to see if thatʼs where the voice is coming from.) IʼM NOT PREGNANT. I was joking. (Pause. Larry puts phone down.) Hello? (Beat). Gertrude? (Confused, once again, Larry shrugs his shoulders and exits. Pause). Are you even listening to me? (Beat. To herself.) Damn, itʼs dark in here. (Beat. To imaginary Gertrude). Okay, I get it. Itʼs not right to make up stuff like that if it isnʼt true. (She raises her voice a little, thinking Gertrude is a little further away.) Are you getting the keys? I think that clerk has had a long enough break. Iʼve been in here forever. (Pause) Hello? (Beat). Fine, ignore me. (To herself) And you thought I was the annoying one. (Long Purity Taint 39 pause. To Gertrude:) No actually, you know what? There is a problem. You are exactly like her. Thatʼs the problem. Thatʼs why I canʼt stand spending time with you. Thatʼs why I canʼt hold a conversation with you anymore. You are her. Which I guess in a way makes sense considering you were the one who brought her into the world, but that doesnʼt excuse the fact that you treat me like a child. Iʼm not a child any more, Grandma. Iʼm a young lady. I am sick and tired of being treated like a god damn four-year-old. Wake up, Grandma. Smell the roses! I need some freedom! You have to give me the space I need. Because SHE doesnʼt! SHE DOESNʼT! (On the final line of this speech, Jo Annʼs anger takes her to a level in which she is so filled with rage that she smacks the top of the coffin in an attempt to let off some steam. In doing so, she pops open the locked coffin. There is a moment of silence. Jo Ann is in shock that she has managed to open the coffin. Slowly, she emerges from the top of the coffin. At first all we see is her head. She peers around, realizing Gertrude is no longer there. She continues to emerge from the coffin and continues to look around for Gertrude. Using the chair as a stepping-stool, she climbs out of the coffin and stands flat on the floor. Her anger returns. Under the impression that Gertrude has left the shop, and left Jo Ann alone in the coffin, she walks back to the side of the coffin, reaches in the top, grabs her purse, and closes the top to the coffin). I canʼt believe you. I hate you... wherever you are. (As she begins to leave, she sees the strap of Gertrudeʼs purse sticking out the backside of the coffinʼs stand. She picks it up, looks at it, then around the store one final time. Then she forcefully throws the purse on the floor and exits out the SL door in the “front of the store”. Moments after, Gertrude emerges from the bathroom. She walks back to her chair and sits down.) Gertrude: Iʼm sorry, dear. I didnʼt mean to leave without saying anything. But I needed to relieve myself and you were telling me a story, right? Well, I personally think you were making that up, but I suppose thatʼs what kids your age do, right? You get pregnant and go to Mexico. Right? (She waits for the response, but there is nothing). Jo Ann? (She waits again. As she does, Larry enters one final time. He is carrying the keys to the coffin. He finally understands what is going on. He walks over to Gertrude and hands her the keys, then points/taps his head showing Gertrude he understands what she is doing. Gertrude looks at Larry, confused. Larry pats her on the back and exits through the door behind the counter again.) Well, never mind the story, Jo. (She jingles the keys). Looks like it's your lucky day. I have the keys. (Gertrude stands to open the coffin. She places the key in the lock and opens the coffin. Frantic, she looks out and around the store, then back in the coffin.) JO? Jo Ann? Where are you? This is not funny. How did you get out of there? I demand an explanation! (There is no response. Gertrude becomes frantic. She circles the entire store checking every coffin forLauren Jo Ann.Port She ends up back at "the coffin". She looks at the clerk's room, then back to the coffin. She continues to look around as she talks.) Jo Ann? Sweetie, what did I do? I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. (Beat). But I guess that just doesn't really matter, now does it? You're already gone. (Beat). I was too late, wasn't I? (Pause. She slowly pushes the chair over directly in front of the coffin. She climbs onto the chair. Then, with what strength she has left, Gertrude climbs into the coffin very slowly. Once she is entirely inside the coffin, one arm emerges and drops the keys onto the floor. Because the fourth wall is missing, we see Gertrude take a deep sigh of pain and regret. As the lights slowly begin to fade out, Gertrude slowly takes that same arm the dropped the keys and pulls the top of the coffin down over herself. She then slowly turns onto her side so that we can see her. She stares directly at the audience and then curls up into the fetal position, hugging her knees. She closes her eyes and blackout). 40 The Wit Becky Purity Taint 41 Disillusioned I. Sylvia Plath had it right, maybe, but her black and white picture is half white and half black, and she is smiling while her eye glares from hell, and the grain on the picture is her soul, unrefined rocks ground in beach surf eroding away to sand. II. We are poets, we are not happy. We are poets, the wind is from the West and our whims are the dry tumbleweed. III. America, America, America, America. I am losing my voice as I call, throat scratched and mild asphyxiation in the torrent of melodies, and I howl, and I howl, and my grasp is gradually diminished 42 The Wit Rachel Greisman IV. I remember Andrea Yates come play with us, Danny. I remember Albert De Salvo weʼre having a Tea Party in Boston. I remember Charles Manson and DW Griffith birth the nation and Charles Manson and Robert Frost take the road not taken. I remember the Zodiac Killer whose name I wonʼt forget whose sign has led me to today. V. I have tripped over a pile of rotting truths, VII. I am a child weeping in the cellar of a small shack with dusty wine bottles waiting to be opened and the vineyard grapes aged to perfection cherished. I have tripped in an outdoor septic field and thrash violently in rotting truths. VI. And if this were a house it would be made of brick, but laughter of meek phantoms would echo in its halls, but the soft warmth of fireplaces would be replaced by neon signs and ADULT would be in pink and ADULT would be in blue. VIII. The alcoholic buzz of cheap bottled Corona bitter Michelob and pungent vodka lightly diminished our inhibitions, our embarrassments. I am the nightʼs waking hangover, America, America, America, America, We are your morningʼs cold shower, thudding hangover. Alexander DeWitt Rachel Purity Taint 43 The Driveway Staring down, at my half-tied shoelace against the black asphalt. You watch me closely as my feet come to life. Somehow, no longer belonging to myself, but someone. We move slowly, in opposite directions. Back and forth, back and forth. Gliding across the sea of black pavement, smooth as ice to the blade of a skate. Drawing geometric patterns of circles and squares with each graceful movement of our bodies. Your hand to my hip momentarily releasing away, only to return after 360 degrees of rotation. I press up against you, and brush softly, my lips to yours. Stepping backwards, I bend over, as if to grab the hem of my dress, curtsy, and tie my shoelace. Kelly 44 The Wit System Crack the eggs cook them to rubber along with chewy toast bran or wheat or any other kind— that resembles the look and taste of cardboard eating a box a week, every day. Itʼs only the cool mornings that set them apart. Crisp, fall, orange light goosebumps and shivers are cured by the sun such imaginary colors are cured by the sun such imaginary colors pink elephants, fuchsia automobiles orange and lavender tortoises, all created by the sky Looking down, peering creamy clouds in my coffee, billow and flow only to blend into a drab, dense beige down into my system— and the day begins. Megan Lindsay Sliwa Purity 45 Lindsay Sliwa Marcus Ober 46 The Wit Marcus Ober Jaclyn Hausman Purity 47 Katie Owens Juliana Crispo 48 The Wit Jody Casden Lauren Macklin Siying Chen Purity 49 Nicholas Bach 50 The Wit Yelena Regina Oterin Kelly Vaughn Purity 51 Alexander 52 The Wit Georgia Rebecca Amanda Marsh Purity 53 Michele Trickey Diana 54 The Wit Becky Bielinski Purity 55 Daniel Embree 56 The Wit T he walking manʼs shadow shines not in empty air but on the side of the black box not meant to be seen from the side not like this. replaced then by flashing fire red— a hand I think but I canʼt tell I know only from past experience —it flickers too fast burns too bright for me to know it. an unnecessary command my foot shifts to the right pressing down just too softly he sighs—Iʼd glare but my eyes flit too often to the dashed white line as it is. Donʼt Walk Jori look straight ahead. music wouldnʼt be terribly unappreciated right now. itʼs against the rules. heʼd love to, wouldnʼt he his hand just too close guiding me back center maybe I wanted to swerve until the last moment maybe Iʼd enjoy the peril if I werenʼt half-asleep. I flinch as we pass the parking lot where I once hit the median leaving my motherʼs new car in the capable hands of my father, my sister, and the triple-A guy and walked home. it was cold. but I donʼt walk tonight. I am no walking man. Purity Corruption 57 Long Sleeves My mom opens the door from the garage and steps in, oblivious to my presence in the kitchen. Her dark hair has escaped from its careful styling and now surrounds her face in a frizzy tangle, which is evident when she unceremoniously tugs off her soft black hat and shoves it into her coat pocket. She unbuttons her coat and tosses it unsuccessfully at the coat rack. Her dark eyebrows furrow and her back cracks as she retrieves her pea coat and hangs it up. She turns around, sees me, and catches her breath, frozen. In her eyes, I can see her worries of the day threatening to overflow. “Sweetheart,” she says, as greeting and reassurance and admonishment, all at the same time. Uneasily, she steps toward me. I inch backwards, but the counter is behind me, hemming me in. A car honk from down the street seems to change her train of thought. “You know, I really think—” she starts forcefully, then stops. As if on command, both of us turn our glances downwards, to my hands, still gripping my Pepsi can. She carefully studies the scratches that no amount of concealer has been able to hide. We both know they arenʼt from the dog. Her eyes stumble painfully away from my hands to a safer sight—the fridge. Without finishing her earlier thought, she mumbles to the cabinet that she just needs a drink. When she turns around to get a glass off the shelf, I can see that her blouse has come untucked in the back. She smacks the glass onto the counter and leaves it wobbling furiously as she fetches a beer from the garage. My bare toes curl and uncurl on the tile floor, advertising my anxiety. My eyelids close involuntarily as she returns, the sweating bottle in her hand. Ignoring the glass on the counter, she pries off the top and takes several gulps. I can feel her eyes on me. Reluctantly, I meet her gaze. Her eyes are the same color as mine, the smooth brown of a Hersheyʼs Kiss. Even when mine are underscored by these dark moons, our eyes are enough to broadcast our familial relation. She turns around, away from me, ostensibly to look out the window. A sigh escapes her. Her head tilts back so that she can drink from her bottle again. Turning sideways, she leans against the counter, so that she can see me without directly facing me. The silence is broken. “Mrs. Smith called me.” “I know.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Iʼm sorry.” She bites her lip, peering sideways at me. “You couldʼve told me, you know.” I nod silently. Before I can reply, she continues. “Can I see?” Instinctively, I pull down on my sleeves. As I do so, my empty pop can drops and bounces on the floor. I kneel to pick it up, swipe uselessly at the few spilled drops, and then rise to deposit the can on the counter behind me. “No.” Her eyebrows register surprise at the volume of my answer. I repeat myself, softer: “Please, no.” She nods once, then turns her attention to the task of finishing her beer. She walks over to the sink to rinse out her empty bottle but does not place it in the trash bag. As if gathering her resolve, she pauses for a deep breath before smashing the bottle against the sink. Broken glass bounces into the sink, onto the floor, across the counter. The dog barks from an unseen room upstairs. I can only stand there, eyes wide, mouth dry. When she turns back to face me, I can see that she is silently sobbing. “Why?” she demands. “Why?” 58 The Wit It is contagious: I begin to cry as well. “I donʼt know,” I manage to reply. It is almost unintelligible; I can only hope that she understands. Standing in the dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by broken glass, she stares at me, as I am staring at her. Without another word, she breaks this contact and flees the kitchen. I hear the laundry room door slam, the car motor start, the garage door go down, and still I can barely move. Stepping over the fragmented bottle, I open a drawer and extract my tool. Like a sleepwalker, I walk slowly out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room. Automatically, I shut the door and lock it. The events of the day are still echoing in my ears. I must silence them. I roll up my sleeves and get to work. Alyssa Underwood Words Whispered in When the azure fades and the moon is a pale blotch amidst the ink and the starlight When the luminosity of your skin and the liquid floating in your eyes make me want to hurl you away into the inky darkness When the wood crackles and the blood of a dozen lovers burns in preparation for the tender ritual of devotion When my self-control is crushed and my senses are smothered by your body, too close, and your scent, too strong When your polished fingernails creep across my cheekbone and the silk dress slips off your shoulders The words whispered in fickle flames are yours and mine alike but the soul that swells as our lips converge is yours and yours alone When my lips warm your ear and my mouth gushes dulcet tones and saccharine worship Ben Bentsman Purity Corruption 59 Butch Walder 60 The Wit Memory is a Shattering Woman Cool air kisses my neck sinks its fangs like a feeding vampire lying and blowing in the cool air, pale, lying and blowing. We met. I saw you lying sprawled limp awkward in a pile of dead grass in a murky garden. You opened your eyes, white, moved your lips trying to speak. Your single phrase forms I am deaf you are hungry and bloodless. I moisten my lips plant down on you and trip thinking about the guard of the gardenʼs crumbling walls. I am seduced, all good boys are, I close my eyes blood rushes you grab me pull me in and shatter in gusts of violent wind. Alexander Purity Corruption 61 Until Until the incandescent carrot sun refuses to peek curiously, like a wide-eyed child, over the vast summer horizon of coruscating Oriental poppies and fully blossomed chrysanthemums engrossing your motherʼs well-kept greenhouse, that glinted sanguine in the dim light of a new day. of saffron withered tatters of grass in the piercing ether of winter where snow angels and single trails made by two created a chasm in the perfected ivory-coated landscape. Until the flushed lemon tulipsʼ subterranean roots recoil back Until my lungs into the newly no longer fill sifted soil, dewy with the crisp with the freshness air of autumn, come the onset your stalwart right of another spring forenoon, mended flawlessly that sit outside in my delicate left in your cedar window box, our clammy palms standing patient witness united. to every innocent Comfortably cocooned golden leaves union of our lips, dance blissfully first and last. as we saunter silently, basking in the greatness The welcomed ache of us. within my chest and the restive Until blankets of milky snow quiver in my step no longer engulf will not subside the hidden treasures until then. Melissa 62 The Wit Curling Iron Promises The sun is up, a pair of bright brown eyes await to bask in its glorious presence. The boy has a smile that would send any girl to her knees: she lands face first on the floor. Short skirts, tank tops, and enticing skin signal the journey to some uncharted territory. The bathroom mirror whispers “This is your night.” The curling iron promises hot & steamy kisses and the bottle of hairspray leaves a seductive scent. The warm summer breeze sweeps off salty tears, hurtful words, and unwanted melancholy. She dances to Hot Hot Heat, and pretends that no one is watching. Boy— I flip out my hair for you, and only you. Laughter breaks in as boys and girls smoke and burn. I lie on this bed in hopes of seeing your face the next time that bedroom door cracks open. I check the clock. But itʼs 2:30 in the morning. Thereʼs still no sign of you. Bathroom mirrors, curling irons, and bottles of hair spray tell you nothing but lies and empty promises. Lisa Patterson Yellow Teeth Youʼve grown into your cigarette habit. You smoke slowly. Youʼve put your lip gloss on for your daydreams revealed to me. Your fingers relax around a Marlboro Mild with confidence, hidden away from me. And your nails turned yellow-white like your teeth your eyes sag into empty space but we eat in unlighted rooms. And how repulsive, to have absorbed your scent but with a dense regret uncomfortably inside remarkably clear, as ever Parted away with good intentions, stronger with muscle, safer with decision, and toned. I eat in the dark, and still smell your yellow teeth. Barmey Ung Purity Corruption 63 My Girlfriend Bombs I love the glare and sideways glance, Your edgy body crooning; The wasted minute before the bombing— A licentious kiss falls, Moonshining your thoughts hormonally obscured, You trade your whorish dream for money. Alexander DeWitt 64 The Wit Marcus Ober Jack Crazy Uncle Jack jokes galore, court jester Jack always complete with a buzzer in hand only seen at holidays, never taken seriously because of his dazzling blue eyes and cocky smile. “Come here, princess!” as I would laugh and run away an empty lap etched in my mind. He always brought a shiny crown and cigar for himself, “For chewing, not smoking,” he always said. Cigar stub and crown unworn lay on the ground as the day fades. Hollow eyes, but still pale blue a shell of himself lies on that bed. I knows something is wrong, no buzzer in hand, no jokes to be heard. His smile is fading “Iʼm here, your princess girl.” It is too late for lap-sitting Meghan Reilly The Real is it true that the one great love song has yet to be written? thatʼs what I hear and I canʼt help but wonder facing you blushing with barely downcast eyes if youʼd like to write it with me itʼs a cheap pick-up line, sure but an honest one so give me some credit which is really all I ask thereʼs no rhythm in my speech no rhyme but you put music in my heart and I fall into cliché again over you and I canʼt help but wonder staring straight at you if youʼd like to write it with me Jori Widen Purity Corruption 65 Ana Sanchez Daniel 66 The Wit Steven Slivnick Rachel Greisman Purity Corruption 67 Pink Two people have your number: the best friend me Pretty in pink is what they called her in her long silky pink dress Her porcelain skin and fragile hands to the human touch she seemed of an angel Motorola ringtone: itʼs the best friend complaining of neglect again you agree to go for coffee. Her fluffy white hair tied with ribbons of roses with her soft little lips At home I laugh out of sync with the laugh track. Shining of pink gloss in the mist of spring This is me loving you. If only they knew. Sarah Puzes Jori Widen Sunset The sun is setting on my dreams. Pink and orange beams destroy the reality. Itʼs there I can feel it, but itʼs not real. It takes more than a perfect circle, glowing on the horizon to make it happen. 68 The Wit Itʼs there within all of us to grasp but until the sun rises free of pain free of guilt and restrictions can it be? As for tonight the sun will set, the glowing will cease and I will live on in the dark. Katie Sarott The sweet touch of fresh soft skin. Peaceful and warm. Fragile features with a splash of stars in blue plush eyes. Petite fists grasp her motherʼs index finger. Strong and wise. With caramel eyes, admire her granted wish. Swiping a loose print across undeveloped cheekbones, down the baby fat cheeks to her gumdrop nose, ending at candy lips. A dove performs out the August window. A light breeze dances with the curtains. Cars pass by. 3:49 am. Almost two decades passed. Clicks of her gold wristwatch drum and beat painfully. Caramel eyes drooped, Swirls of fear. Dart sharp right towards the door, whiplash back to her wrist. Try to concentrate on something new. She chews on the corner of her bottom lip as the door handle rattles. Maroon-painted fingertips, cluttered with rings, winds the handle and enters the home. Relief and anger infuriates her mothers fists. An impulse to scream, hug, cry— a reactionary yell protrudes from pruned lips— rules and regulations. Grind her teeth in frustration. Stone cold eyes, resentful, stare back. Disrespectful glares. Black ash lined her made-up, two coined eyes. Bronzed blush cheekbones, thin chiseled cheeks, gloss painted lips— emotionless statures. Stomps of three inch heels push her up the stairs. Sympathetic sigh. Eyes follow up and around the stairs, Laura Purity Corruption 69 Mom I stand by her at the gum-crusted curb, our sweaty skin mocks the red and blue strobe. Passing. That image of her face blushed pink with makeup reminds me I was inside wriggling, squirming my legs, kicking, punching my limp fists well before the fake Italian leather skirt. Now all she can do is try to wave her hands as if God can hear her. Sheʼs only good at getting boys with fifty dollars and a reputation to build using girls—their fists curl, blunt, and hit. On my broken bed in my cracked room, her nails were splitting my back and my heavy blood hit the dulled wooden floor. So today, I see her praying by the street, selling out with open palms and a smile stapled on a plastic face. Joan of Arc had divine thoughts, too. When my hands touched her breasts, the wind rushed out of me and I fell on the stone ground, doubled over and heaving. Alexander 70 The Wit I am the sum of all the stereotypes youʼve been taught to hate. my father didnʼt beat me but he came home late and left early. my mother drank and screamed and cried and f–––ed her boyfriends often and loudly and our apartment was no trailer but the walls were paper-thin. Jonny Jori I drink and do drugs and sell drugs at exorbitant prices and use girls for their bodies. I do not mourn for my lost childhood and I have never cried myself to sleep. Mike Purity Corruption 71 Alexander 72 The Wit Jim veteran your black bland word flies white dove flying in the mist her shadow follows little children cry flashes of gunshot become white bulbs of lost men your red bland word cuts blade of foreign musty hands sewn tight with stitches drunk ghost lies with tears no one twenty sees phantoms on our streets, rank, file boy back from battle chokes his throat with newspaper she finds his carcass your bland word softly crawls under sills to my room smothering my child Alexander Purity Corruption 73 Being Mommy She hated it when Brian was on business trips. Being alone was something she had never liked, though she did need her solitude at times. “But youʼre not alone,” others would say. “You have Ami and Kate.” Sure she did, but what kind of company was that? With them she had to be always accessible, never busy, always serving, and infallible. She could not simply be herself. No, she had to be Mommy. Of course, she loved her children. But she was still entitled to think about herself sometimes, right? Brian had gone a day ago—off to London for a meeting with clients, or something, she wasnʼt really sure why—leaving her alone again. Sometimes, she didnʼt want to be The Mommy. Now, for example, she just wanted to lie in bed all day. The kids would be in her room in a few minutes, jumping onto the bed and wanting breakfast. It wasnʼt their fault. They were the center of their universes; they didnʼt know any better. And it wasnʼt their fault that she just wanted to lie in bed. Really, though, what was the point in getting up? She was tired, and would just end up getting back in it at night, anyway. Looking at the clock, she rolled out of bed and put on a bathrobe. She didnʼt think things like that anymore. She had escaped that path long ago. “Mommy!” “Iʼm coming!” When she opened the door, her heart in her throat—what if something had happened, after she had thought such awful things about the kids—Ami was standing in the middle of the hall in her nightgown, unharmed. Relief washed over her. “I had a bad dream. A scary one.” “Oh…” she said, sympathetically. “Wanna tell me about it?” “Yes.” Ami sniffed. She picked the child up and walked into the kitchen. Kate would be awake soon enough, both of them would be hungry, and the bad dream would need to be erased. The day had begun. “You have to change the way you think,” he says. “Instead of saying ʻI hate thisʼ, say ʻIʼm waiting for things to get better than they are.ʼ Or instead of saying ʻI screwed up again,ʼ say ʻI did the only thing I could at the time.ʼ Itʼs important to do this.” “And instead of saying ʻyouʼre an idiot and this is stupid,ʼ I can say ʻyou do the best you can despite your low intellect.ʼ” He is silent for a moment. “All right then. But what is it that you want? Why are you here?” “…Sorry. I didnʼt mean that. Itʼs just hard.” “Everythingʼs going to be hard for a while.” Her daughters loved going to pre-school, for which she was extremely grateful. They were learning, having fun, interacting with others—and she had exactly four hours and thirty-seven minutes to herself. Raising children was stressful, and often just vacuuming the family room in peace and quiet could be relaxing. It gave her time to think. But she wanted to do other things at the moment. Cleaning seemed dull and mind-numbing. There was a Starbucks right near the apartment, and she decided to get coffee. 74 The Wit The cashier was good-looking. He had black hair, like Brian did, and a voice she could listen to all day. Kanan, his name-tag read. He looked about college age. She smiled. Dharini would be happy; she was always looking for a “good Indian boy,” preferably a doctor, for her daughter. The daughter had other plans, of course. Behind Dhariniʼs back she often said she would marry a black artist, just to see the look on her motherʼs face. “Momʼd freak,” the daughter laughed gleefully. “ʻWhat? Youʼre what? Whatʼd I do wrong? Why me?ʼ Sheʼd probably have a heart attack.” She realized the cashier was asking her something, pretending not to mind being stared at. “Iʼm sorry?” “Can I help you?” he repeated. “Café mocha, please. Medium.” “One grande mocha,” he murmured, punching keys on the register. “Anything else?” “No.” “All right.” “Are you studying to become a doctor?” she asked. “Not all Indians are doctors, maʼam. Thatʼs just a stereotype.” “Iʼm sorry. I didnʼt mean it like that. Itʼs just my friend…never mind.” He smiled noncommittally and got her drink. “Have a nice day.” “You too.” She sat down in a booth next to the window and watched the people passing by. There were so many of them, all going about their business—to a luncheon, maybe, or a meeting. Maybe they were on vacation, or going to a wedding. Maybe they were going to work, or their friendʼs house, or coming home from a trip. Busy busy busy. She wasnʼt busy. She had nothing to do, except to clean the house. Her good humor left and she sighed. Telling herself to just deal with it, she downed the rest of the mocha and went back outside. Nicole Linville “Hey, honey,” Brian said. “Hi. How are you?” “Good. Tired.” “You need more sleep.” “I know. Whatʼs going on over there?” “Same shit, different day. You know how it goes.” “Having a bad day?” “I suppose. But Iʼll live.” “Youʼve been having a lot of those lately. Are you okay?” “Fine. I just got over my period, thatʼs probably why Iʼve been this way. Howʼs London?” “Pretty, but expensive. The clients took me to see some of the historical Purity Corruption 75 buildings.” “Iʼm glad.” “Yeah. I have to go, but Iʼll be home in a few days, okay?” “Okay. Love you.” “Love you too. Bye.” “Bye.” The line went dead and she hung up the phone. She looked around the living room. It was getting kind of disgusting, but it could wait until tomorrow. Right now she wanted to eat. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, but she had no idea what it was. Frowning, she got ice cream out of the freezer and took the top off to let it soften. In an hour she had to pick up Kate and Ami, which meant she would have to be Mommy again. Too bad she couldnʼt be Sleeping Mommy. But life went on. It was nice out; maybe she would take them for a walk. “Itʼs still making me nauseous,” she says. “I canʼt even go to school without wanting to throw up.” “Iʼm sorry about that,” he says truthfully. “It should have gone away, especially after a month.” “It hasnʼt. Why not?” “I really donʼt know. This kind of thing is just hit-and-miss at this point. I suppose we could try something else—” “No,” she cuts in. “Iʼm not going through all that just because I get carsick.” “Okay. Then try taking Gingko, too.” “Gingko?” Ami came running as she and Kate entered the classroom. “Hi mommy!” “Hi, sweetie. Did you have fun?” “We made barns! Look!” The child held up a piece of construction paper with a roughly barn-shaped red thing pasted on it. Cut-out animal heads peeked through sloppy windows. It was beautiful. “Thatʼs great, Ami. Weʼll hang it up on the refrigerator when we get home.” “They made us sit on mats,” Kate frowned. “They read a story. It was really boring.” “Letʼs go,” she smiled. “Do you want to go for a walk before dinner?” Their agreement was drowned out by a cry in the room. “Thatʼs just Josh,” Ami informed her primly. “Heʼs loud. And heʼs a baby. I donʼt like him.” “Honey, be nice.” “But itʼs true!” “Even so. Thatʼs not a nice thing to say out loud.” She picked Kate up as the teacher walked over. “Hello, Mrs. Temple.” “Hello. Ami was great today.” “Thank you.” “Mommy takes pills,” Kate put in. The two women blinked. 76 The Wit “Thatʼs nice,” the teacher said. “I was just going to remind your mommy that tomorrow is pirate day, so Ami should come dressed as one.” “Thanks for the reminder,” she said, trying not to sound embarrassed. “Iʼll remember.” “All right. Have a good day.” She wondered what else her children—and other peopleʼs children—told their teachers. Brian came home a day early, which was a good thing. She wanted a bath. A nice hot one. So, after the welcoming was over and dinner was finished, she filled the tub and got in. She closed her eyes and smiled, muscles loosening. “Whereʼs Mommy?” she heard Kate ask. “Mommyʼs taking a bath. Why donʼt you pick out a book? Iʼll read to you.” “I want to watch Bear in the Big Blue House. Put the tape in.” “Please.” “Put the tape in please.” “Okay.” She stayed in there until the water got cold, just thinking. Her head felt so heavy lately, as if she were balancing weights on it, and her mind felt numb. This alarmed her slightly, but she pushed it away. She was fine. This was nice, she thought. Maybe she would stay there forever, and never come out. Why get out? It was cold outside, and she was tired. This was relaxing; there was really no reason to get out. She shook her head, sending ripples through the water. She didnʼt think things like that anymore. Of course there were reasons to come out. The fact that none of them seemed like particularly good reasons mattered little; she was just in a bad mood, thatʼs all. Late that night they lay in bed, listening to each other breathe for a while. Lauren Macklin Purity Corruption 77 “I missed you,” she finally said, not bothering to turn and face him. “I missed you too.” He kissed her neck gently. “No,” she said, irritated. “Stop it. Go to sleep.” She swatted at him halfheartedly and rolled away. “He doesnʼt get it,” she says. “Most people wonʼt.” “I know that. Thatʼs as it should be. But it still sucks.” “I understand, believe me,” he says gently. “Itʼs so infuriating sometimes,” she says. “He knows I canʼt just ʻsnap myself out of it,ʼ but he doesnʼt get how it feels. And my emotions move from irritated to depressed fairly quick.” “This is something you need to think about before getting in a serious relationship with him. Are you willing to deal with that?” “I donʼt know. God, Iʼll be so thankful once Iʼm finally cured.” “…This isnʼt something you can cure.” “Yes it is.” Kate ran over and tugged on her sleeve. She closed her book and looked down. “What?” “Cʼn we play outside? Please?” “No, I want you to stay in. Itʼs getting dark out.” “Please,” Kate whined. She winced. “All right, all right. Just stop whining. Go get your sister.” The child ran off gleefully. Reluctantly, she got up out of her chair and put her shoes on. “Ami, put your coat on.” “I donʼt wanna.” “I donʼt care. Put it on.” “But you arenʼt wearing one…” “Thatʼs because Iʼm the mommy. Now put your coat on.” After she gave the child “the look,” Ami did as she was told, and the three of them went out into the backyard. It was half an hour later, as she sat on the back steps, that she remembered about dinner. She cursed silently and got up. Before going in, though, she realized she was tired. Her head hurt. She thought a moment, and then sat back down. They didnʼt really need to eat dinner; the kids had gotten into a bag of potato chips not an hour ago, and she and Brian could both stand to lose some weight. Dinner was overrated, anyway. She watched her children playing on the swing set and wondered what it would be like being so easily entertained again. The sun disappeared, taking the skyʼs vibrant colors down with it, and then it was night. She heard Brian pull into the driveway. “Letʼs go in,” she said. “Daddyʼs home.” Brian came into the living room, wearing sweat pants and a tee-shirt. “Hi, hon,” he said. “Have a good day?” “It was fine.” She kissed him noncommittally. “Good to hear. What are we eating?” Ami and Kate perked up at the thought of food. 78 The Wit “Mommy, Iʼm hungry.” “Me, too.” “I didnʼt make anything tonight,” she said. “I figured we could either go out, or you three can find something in the pantry.” “You didnʼt make anything?” Brian asked. “Do I have to spoon feed you every night? I want days off, too, you know,” she snapped. She pursed her lips together in annoyance and dared anyone to protest. In the name of peace, Brian put an arm around her shoulders and asked where she wanted to go. “I did it in the bathroom,” she says. “I filled the bathtub and put them in.” “Why the water?” “Iʼve heard somewhere that it wonʼt clot that way.” “Do you wish your brother hadnʼt found you?” he asks. “Iʼm not sure. Where they took me, it was the most depressing place Iʼve ever been in. Just not being there anymoreʼs probably good enough at the moment. But I could have rested.” Brian turned out the light and got under the sheets. She clung to him. “Is everything okay?” he asked after a while. “Yes.” “Youʼve been acting strange.” “I told you, I just got over my period,” she said irritably. “…That was two weeks ago.” “Well, I donʼt know; maybe Iʼm coming down with the flu.” “Honey.” “Donʼt ʻhoneyʼ me.” “Your meds—” “Iʼve been off my meds for years. You know that.” “Maybe youʼre slipping back a little.” “Weʼve talked over this before, Brian. Just because I get in a bad mood once in a while doesnʼt mean Iʼm ʻslipping back,ʼ as you put it.” “Think rationally here,” he said. “Be realistic.” “Okay. Reality: Iʼm fine. You donʼt understand. Iʼm going to sleep on the couch. End of story.” She left the room, leaving him alone in a bed that would soon become cool. How dare he! Who did he think he was; her goddamn therapist? If so, that was going to have to change; the last time she saw a therapist was a month before Amiʼs birth. She was not fragile, she was not made of glass, and she was perfectly rational. Things like that didnʼt happen to her anymore. She didnʼt think that way anymore. She didnʼt live that way anymore. She had left that path long ago. It was over. Done with. Cured. Gone. Brian had no idea what he was talking about. He needed to back way off. There was only so much she was willing to take. “Let me start out by saying this: if you donʼt want to be here, donʼt come. Itʼs a waste of money on your part, a waste of time for both of us, and someone else would be happy to take the time slot.” There is silence before she realizes he wants a response. Purity Corruption 79 “No, I want to be here. Iʼm tired of hating everything all the time.” He smiles and leads her into the room. For the first time in a long while, she thinks maybe things will be okay after all. “Honey?” “I wanna see Mommy.” “Hush, Ami. Play with your sister. Honey? Can I come in?” “I donʼt care. Itʼs your room, too.” He entered and found her lying in bed, wearing her pajamas even though it was only four. The shades were pulled down, and the TV droned softly in the background. “What do you want?” she asked in a monotone voice. “Itʼs okay.” “Okay? Itʼs not okay! These are our kids!” “Shh. It happens sometimes, really it does.” “To who? Anyone you know? Iʼd really like to know.” “Theyʼre wondering why you wonʼt see them.” “I donʼt care. Have them play outside.” “Youʼre upsetting them, Ami especially.” “I forgot them. For three hours. Iʼll bet that was upsetting for them, too.” “But they were all right.” “Yeah. And next time they could be picked up by some random pedophile.” “Their teachers were with them the whole time, honey. You left them at school, not on the subway.” “Still! They could have been killed!” “Hon—” “Shut up!” She smacked him as hard as she could. Silence hung thick in the air between them. Finally Brian got up and left her alone. “Okay. Iʼll go make the kids dinner,” he said. “You just go to sleep.” As soon as he closed the door she began to cry. “I cry a lot,” she says. “Okay. Anything else?” “Um. I try not to see people.” “What else?” “…I get really angry.” So maybe she wasnʼt fine, after all. Okay. She admitted that. And sheʼd screwed up big time. There was the pre-school incident, then she accidentally set fire to the wooden cabinets in the kitchen, and just now she had literally screamed at the kids to be quiet. “Why is Mommy being mean to us?” she heard Kate ask. “You momʼs just a little cranky because sheʼs tired, just like you and Ami get when you donʼt nap.” “I do not get cranky!” Her reflection sneered at her as she looked in the bathroom mirror. It said that no, she was not cured. She was not even fine. She was awful—an awful person, an awful parent, an awful everything. Yes, she was all those things, she admitted that. But what exactly was she supposed to 80 The Wit do about it? She was the Mean Mommy now. It was a position she had no desire to keep. In fact, she did not want to be a Mommy at all. It was too good for her. The days were getting colder, Brian was getting more stressed, and she was feeling worse and worse. There was no plausible reason she could think of to live a life that was pointless and miserable. It was her right as a human being not to endure years and years of worthless, painful existence. She had a right to getting rest. Besides, if she stayed she would probably just end up insane and screw the kids up. “Mommyʼs scary,” she said in a childʼs voice. She answered herself in Brianʼs voice. “Oh, donʼt worry; sheʼll be fine once the nurses sedate her again.” She laughed bitterly. Life really was something to endure. Years and years of feeling emotionally numb all the time, having no control over her mind, feeling as if she were trying to drag uphill weights that were heavier than she was, fumbling around in the dark with no one to really get it—it was stupid to put up with that. A long time ago, before Ami was born, she had put something in the medicine cabinet. Just in case, she had told herself. Just in case. Well, now she needed to use it. She took out a bottle that used to contain allergy pills and opened the top. Inside was a shiny, unused razor blade, the kind sold in grocery stores. They were intended to be used on hardware or facial hair, depending on what they were attached to. But they were also good for something else. Brian knocked on the door. “Honey? Are you alright?” “Iʼm fine,” she said smoothly. Smiling, she played with her wrist, drawing light scratches in strange patterns. She had been told by the therapist—years and years ago, practically an eternity—to stop in these situations and really think hard about what she was doing. Was this really something she wanted to go through with? Maybe not. If the kids saw her body, theyʼd really be screwed up. But just a cut was okay. On her forearm. Deep, but not fatal. Slicing her skin with the blade, she watched as blood welled up on the wound, a perfect shade of crimson. There was no pain. Parting the Red Sea, she thought. Funny. “Honey?” “Leave me alone.” “You sound strange.” It hurt a little this time when she pressed the blade into the wound, but she ignored it. She had gone through childbirth, after all—twice! Nothing was more painful than that. A fresh stream of blood welled up. “Honey.” “Iʼm fine,” she said. Well, maybe a cut on the wrist was okay, too. Not enough to kill her, just enough to make her feel good. It was an act of self-sufficiency, really; she had found a way of dealing with her unhappiness perfectly well. The pain went away, and she stayed alive. No one got hurt. Brian knocked on the door again. “Quit it,” she hissed. “Iʼm coming in, okay?” “Donʼt you dare!” She scrambled to hide her arm and the razor as the door flew open, but it was unnecessary. The blood spots on the floor would have given her away even if he had not seen the arm. Purity Corruption 81 “Oh, God.…” “Iʼm fine. Really. I wasnʼt killing myself.” “Oh my God.…” “Brian. Calm down.” And then he tore the blade from her hand, threw it on the floor, and embraced her as hard as he could. Dimly, she wondered what had just happened. They talked little on the way home from the doctorʼs office. The bleeding had stopped, but Brian was worried she could have gotten tetanus. She sighed and looked out the window. “Thereʼve been two times in my life when I felt real fear,” her husband said. She turned her gaze to him. “One of them was when I almost fell off a bridge. The other was when I saw you back then.” “You took the razor blade away, and Iʼm going to see a therapist next week. What is it that Anne you want me to say?” “I donʼt know. I just want you to be okay again.” More therapy. More meds. More stress. She was on the path again. There was a long way ahead, and now she knew it was quite possible to get turned around somewhere and go back the Reading in Stressed Lilac & Moonlight Flipping pages brushed my hands the texture like the painting from an brush— stressed lilac & autumn moon white pouring on to me. While the color frosted my eyes, my eyelids drew down and I fell asleep and dreamt. 82 The Wit artistʼs I was drowning in Times New Roman font size twelve and stressed lilac images and moon white images stark against blackness made me feel like I suffocating in the broad strokes of Salvador Dali. And I woke up, Alexander DeWitt was I found a long piece of string cleaved to my red sweatshirt. I pulled and yanked stitch by stitch annoyed looping it around my hand, strengthening my tug, snapped it clean off. Fingers numb, the string too tight unwound, a small red ball of sharp twine indents engraves circle creases in my hand, permanently. Wrinkle Free No, she slides her palm, a soft quilt under my hand and lifts it close to crimson lips— moist they form a needle hole, cool breath blows across the flesh. It doesnʼt sting, lips close— thicken pucker she kisses it. But lines still remain. She takes me in both hands, fingers— small and slender rub across scarlet bumps inflamed kneading wrinkled surface, erasing the lines engraved. Micheal Becker Purity Atonement 83 The Other Side of the Day All these wonders just a few thoughts dream carelessly sleep quietly hear nothing see through it all learn again and be perfect feel again to fall through to the other side of the day to drop into the next and not diminish what was left behind to remember the things that define the future and are the past donʼt forget to stop for one second, think and continue on till itʼs over and the day is gone again. Ice When the wind stands like crystal, and walking makes the air shatter and cut your cheeks when the ground for a moment is a dazzling diamond that stretches untouched and unforgiving when green is gone, and blue reaches beyond the world when not needles but knives prick fingers and eyes Coats are forgotten, and scarves left behind we are deaf to those who would tell us to stay tell us to wait until we are ready beautyʼs beckoning is louder. Leila Ann Ari Kolel A Red Way Freedom is a ripple of a stone, work is the wave of a boulder, together is a force, is long, is red, stems from east to west. Is free faith in man like sunflower mornings horizon lifting into contemptuous rise from the better of ourselves to ourselves of others. Barmey Ung 84 The Wit The Chronograph She had started it exactly three years ago after she got home from the hospital. Her school days, full of empty spaces where her friends had been, craved a new outlet, and the only way to make it through was to write it down. It had begun, inauspiciously, as a purple notebook, full of pencil sketches and random thoughts, and grown into her magnum opus, The Life and Times of Laurel Saffron, or the most accurate document in existence about Everything That Ever Was, 2001-present. She had been in such a distress about its divided nature, computer at home and notebooks in school, that her alarmed parents ceded and bought her a lap top, a used one that would have been obsolete if she had gotten it that freshman year. But it didnʼt need to connect to the Internet or play high-resolution games—it only needed a word processor. Once she could be confident that she could always carry it, she knew it would be the record of a lifetime, the long-awaited Chronograph. Her office was the setup of benches outside the cafeteria, blocked like walls with one small opening where a door belonged. She ate lunch there everyday, keys clicking and wrappers rustling, legs propped up across one bench and Chronograph propped up against legs. “What are you writing?” someone was asking. Oh yes, she thought, I never tire of that question. No one ever askes me, Laurel, what are you writing? “A novel,” she said, which was a flagrant lie. “Whatʼs it called?” the interrogator countered. It was another girl, a giant. She looked about six feet tall and wore a leather trenchcoat that hung to her ankles. Her face was amiable, as though she thought she was making welcome conversation and not interrupting a historian. She was eating a sandwich. Laurel recorded this briefly in the Files, noting another time that her motives had been impugned. Steven Slivnick Purity Atonement 85 Well, someone has to do it, okay. Now go and eat somewhere else. She had long ago prepared for this particular conversation, it having happened eleven times now. Some well-meaning idiot always had to know about the girl with the computer, what are you doing, what are you writing. “Itʼs called ʻThe Chronicles of Saffronʼ,” she mumbled, an innocuous title that generally dispelled further questioning, eliciting a knowing “Oh,” and a nod as the trespasser wandered off. “What, the flower?” the girl asked, raising her eyebrows and sitting down. Oh God, she was sitting down. Laurel tried the opposite tactic and stood up, well, it was nice seeing you but now I have to stand up and show you to the door. “Like my last name,” she said, then realizing her strategic error. Names, names, names, she was inviting further conversation. “Oh? Whatʼs your first name?” And the question she hated, whatʼs your first name, well itʼs Laurel, oh, thatʼs a very pretty name, why thank you. “Laurel” “Iʼm Holly Whittaker,” she said, extending a hand. Laurel ignored it. She didnʼt approve of rudeness but sometimes it was the only way to talk to people. “Well, Holly, it was nice to meet you, but unfortunately, Iʼm very busy at the moment and I really canʼt take any more time from my work.” Holly, the idiot grin still on her face, ignored the dismissal and ventured, “Your life story.” “A life story. A story of lives. Itʼs about this school and this town and this country and this year,” she said irritably, not wanting to continue this conversation but not about to let a comment like that slide by. The Chronograph was not some common journal. It was the exhaustive history of an age, complete with deep insight and eerily accurate prediction. An examination of human nature, of the nature of leadership, the nature of love, everything that came up every day. “Thatʼs a noble thing,” Holly said, taking a bite of the sandwich and gesturing vaguely at the computer, which Laurel desperately placed to the side. “Youʼre going to write down everything that happens, huh, to fully record what things are like?” “Thatʼs the idea,” Laurel said, wishing she werenʼt so damned pleased that someone seemed to be getting the idea. Noble, huh. A hero, thatʼs what she was, the historian of an age, the proud and valiant scribe of a pivotal (she loved the word “pivotal” and used it often in describing events) period in human history. “I mean, youʼre going to sacrifice your own history to write down everyone elseʼs. Thatʼs quite an undertaking. I would hold that chronicler in the highest esteem, I really would.” Now Holly, sandwich finished, stood up and brushed the crumbs off of her coat. It was, Laurel thought, then typed, rather a nice coat. It swished satisfactorily Selissa 86 The Wit about the top of her boots as she walked off to parts unknown, leaving the reporter alone again with the events, albeit pivotal ones. Laurel traditionally spent the mornings before school in the library, occasionally searching for reading material but generally typing away. The current issue at hand was human expansion throughout the galaxy, which she had decided was the natural extension of the social contract. How do you get what you want? Find a planet all to yourself, she mused, and because she rarely let a thought go by without recording it, added a parenthetical statement to this end. It was, thus far, a successful editorial venture, and made her feel much more important that yesterdayʼs tirade about what security guards had done. She glanced up and saw Holly again for the second time in two days, at the next table over, hunched over the Chicago Tribune, doing the crossword. Their eyes met for a moment but Holly looked away, the message clearly being, “You dismissed me. Iʼm gone.” Laurel had a certain amount of respect for someone who, once spurned, didnʼt come back for more, but was also a little hurt that someone, having tasted the true nature of the Chronograph, could tear herself away. Laurel certainly couldnʼt. Maybe, a treacherous thought crept in, maybe maybe the Chronograph would be, you know, enhanced, if it contained another perspective. Maybe she could do, like, interviews. Then it would certainly be okay to get up and sit with Holly, for interviews. She did, sliding over into a high-backed wooden chair next to her. Holly was filling in squares at lightning speed and this time did not look up. “Archivist Saffron,” she said, by way of greeting. “Good morning, Holly,” said Laurel. She was rather pleased with it, it was a polite and traditional greeting that sheʼd worked on for the last few minutes since she steeled her resolve. “How are you?” “Iʼm actually quite all right,” Holly said, still not looking away from the crossword, as though the clues she was filling in were…well, the Chronograph. Laurel recorded this response, and added, as a brief aside, her interpretation of a telling statement about a person. “What are you doing?” “The crossword,” Holly replied, not tersely, but Laurel recognized a hint of something familiar behind those words. What are you writing, she mused inwardly. Nothing, and go away. “You like to do the crossword,” prompted Laurel. It was amazing really, how one question led to another. She could get the hang of interviewing yet, certainly expand, talk to plenty of people. “Every day. Itʼs part of a balanced breakfast.” Subtle sarcasm indicates resistance to this line of questioning, Laurel typed, and was proud of how professional it sounded. Clearly she was a natural at this. She realized abruptly that sheʼd hit a dead end. Perhaps she should have prepared a list of questions beforehand, so it could all flow naturally. She cursed herself; she was still an amateur. Next time, next time. “Er, so, you like word puzzles.” “Especially if the words are crossed,” replied Holly, somewhat suspiciously, and finally put down her pen and pushed the paper aside. “Are you taking a survey or something?” “No, no,” she replied, noting the response again. “An interview. I decided that you would be an interesting person to interview. So, I guess I have to learn all about you and everything. Itʼs my duty.” “Ah,” said Holly, grinning again, just like she had yesterday at lunch. “Have to sit with me a lot, I expect. Hang about, and get to know me.” “Exactly,” said Laurel, once again impressed at how quickly Holly grasped the purpose of all Amy Holbrook these exercises. ”Thatʼs exactly it. I expect I will.” “Okay,” said Holly, the grin reduced to a knowing smile. “What do you want toAtonement know?” Purity 87 W hen I peer into the hollow iris of Apollo, my eyes remain unmoistened and dry. The shadowing Arabian sun looks faint at high noon. My misty lashes flutter in the grazing, medicinal warm rays. The evolving sweep of the oceanʼs current settles, silencing the engulfing white-capped surf. The pounding rhythm in my ears settles, to a spiritual, patient beat. The suffocating breath of the gusting wind surrenders, hushing the willowʼs brush. Once on a Subtle Afternoon Thick and fresh, the tangled soft moss feathers away from the tip of my nose. The once sulfuric trail of rotted marine life rots away, dissolving in the dead wind. My once astute nasal hairs now weaken, escaping towards my tiny condensed pores. Thunder blows from above, splits the atmosphere, sends warm drops melting down. The perspiring teardrops turn bleak, rolling around my cheek, dripping off my chin. The chilling trickle is not enough to even tease a single shiver through the cold blue ice in my veins. The ultimate drops of mourning from my sight accumulate, finding a forgiving path to my lips. Here they settle, tickle my tongue, splash into my gaping, dessicated cavity. The salty droplets vanish. Now here he rests, crippled and tangled, supported by the rolling, transformed hills of the sand. Each disturbed grain finds peace, in an unfamiliar home, outlining him. The soothing warmth of the foaming water rinses up, cleansing his body. Colin Roper 88 The Wit Housework S un shines through tissue clouds green needles dance in and out in rhythm and sync to the tune in our heads. Plunged deep into dead earth cracks and dust, unleveling retrieving your hula-hoe tearing the skin of prickle weeds into wet shreds. How repetitious are we to return every Sunday how smug are they to regrow and spread our constant battle. Bag ʻem, trash ʻem encircle ʻem with twine take out their flanks exterminate the prisoners release pesticides. Back to the garage hoist the weapons encrusted with blood rusts the joints only to be recoiled next Sunday. Megan Schultz By The We walked hand-in-hand you near the wet sticky sand. The stars flickering on and off. We whispered as if someone was around, but the only noise were the waves as they kissed our calves. Heather Rosenburg Relocation My sister touches a delicate hand to her face. It slinks over her muted eyes to swipe at hair that dares to block her vision. Alyssa Underwood Purity Atonement 89 The Morning After At first blush as the sun rolls out over the eastern sea bay reflects across the sapphire sea spreads wildly colors gray jarring landscapes, and at last filters through cracks on white blinds suspended over the windowsill. She rouses from slumber pushes off her soft pillow yawning, she sits up and sinks into the mattress. The blanket slips smoothly off her shoulders uncovers her entirely, then swathes across thighs, bare. Little by little her arms slowly straighten, fingers flicker towards the chalky powder ceiling. draws in a breath exhales a whisper slouches over to her side balancing her nodding body with her arm, delicate and defined. Her back towards me sprawled out beside her my cheek rests on the cushion as I pretend to sleep, studying. 90 The Wit I watch her become illuminated, exposed by streams of white light emitted through the window pane, long and brown, silk threads lace across shoulders, drape down the side of her arm curving, conforming to a round ivory breast, a velvet veil for my imagination. Her spine descends down a caramel-colored back past a thin snowy path untouched by sunlight— further down, vanishing under round buttocks— the milky posterior to her hips embraced by soft springs. Every curve every contour is settled, is exposed— basking in radiant energy. Michael Becker M other used to sit cross-legged and stubborn in a corner on the carpet lazily reading a Danielle Steel romance. Hair, brown as the lacquered cherry wood of the bookcase behind her pokes her eyes— she brushes it away with a distracted finger. I make us dinner in the kitchen clanging metal pots and she lets out a long shh— vanishing into warm corners of the sleepy home. Single Parent Alexander DeWitt The salty aroma of our dinner resonates through her mind as she finishes a chapter, dog-earing her page, stretching as she stands, a cat arching her back after waking from a dream, thick molasses still dripping into untapped crevices behind her closed lips. Yelena Genchanok Purity Atonement 91 Her Gloves She squats in her garden for hours, wearing thick starchy gloves while her hands sweat underneath uncomfortable layers. Wiry mesh contains tiny vines that spread across her fingers and down to twist about crinkled wrists. These gloves have grown tired through the seasons; they are too tight, too constraining to allow each hand its previous movement. Britt The dirt that wedges itself beneath the mesh is now moist and fertile. But after sitting in the clay flowerpot in the garage until the next gardening it will have aged, just like her hands, into a crackled cement. Her hoe and her shovel are also encased with earth, but she peels and picks with patient gloves until they are satisfied. Sitting back on her heels, she pushes the ground to a standing position, wipes perspiration from her brow. The velcro is violently torn back and her mirthless gloves skid off stubbornly, revealing fine, delineated fingertips aged with time and gardening. Yet they are calm, they know the time they have. They move slowly to fold the gloves and place them back in the flowerpot until tomorrow. Brooke Bonnem 92 The Wit T he leather football stings as it is snapped into my trembling hands. The linebacker tears through a gaping hole in the left side of my offensive line. His helmet spears my spine, reducing me to the grass, which stabs and pokes my skin. My head becomes weightless. No fresh air to soothe my burning lungs. Again, the sting upon my hands as the football is snapped. The water molecules freeze in the air, fogging my reflective facemask. The linebacker shoots through the line. But this time, I see him. My left Nike cleat, planting hard into the grass, leaves holes where my phantom foot once had its roots. An open path to the endzone lies slightly to the right. The hurricane blows against my back, propelling me through the defense. 45 yards of open grassland, nothing but giant white yardmarkers. A black and orange cannonball liquifies my patella, launching my feet skyward. Pain vs. As the ball is launched towards the heavens, my body straightens, pupils dilating as I focus on the pigskin meteor. As this missile dives towards my vulnerable body, a good 250 pound guard flies, full steam ahead. I reach my hands towards the sky as the ball approaches. When my upright body unexpectedly takes the blow, as the ball and my fingertips barely make contact, it is launched back into the air. My back hits the kicking mound, violently compacting my lungs. My head whips back to make an indent in the frozen winter ground. Memories. They replay in the theater of my conciousness. Echoing the stings. But now, as I prance out onto the field, I long for one last memory. David Purity Atonement 93 Bleach “I remember your first day here,” Sheila says, as she has many times before, “You were such a shy little thing. Now look at you!” The saccharine sweetness of the comment registers somewhere back in my mind, but I respond with the same playful, good-intentions that the address was given in: “Rude and loud, and itʼs all thanks to you!” She laughs, standing by my chair with her coat on, a glaring symbol that everyone recognizes as a mocking sign of freedom: the day is over. Waving her fingers in a ripple, she impishly tells me she is off, her thick Chicago accent rooting itself in each vowel. She smiles widely. Her eyes sparkle behind her uniform of blue eyeliner and bottle platinum blonde hair. The shoulders of her coat appear squared and harsh; her nails are long and painted in a loud, vibrant, youthful red. A pixie, a waitress, a best friend, a smoker. She is more than twice my age, yet we jabber on each week about boy troubles as if we were both twelve year olds at a slumber party. She bounds off, her small body bobbing up and down with each confident step. I spin in my chair with a firm push off the ground to search the shop for work to keep me busy, glancing over at the clock. Behind me, Larry cuts the hair of one of my favorite customers. She is old, as are all customers of the salon. Each client came on the first day the shop opened in the seventies, when they were young housewives, to have their hair done up in a beehive each week and chat with their stylist about their children, and then grandchildren. They would never change their stylist; to change would be to commit hairdresser adultery. The lady in the chair now comes in twice a week. Every time she comes in she dresses completely in a single pastel color, and today it is lavender, the patterns on her shirt and pants clashing. Her hairpin, as always, is a butterfly on a spring, bobbing about, seemingly confusing the old womanʼs gray-gold curls for fragrant daisies or fresh lilac. Though her memory is faded and she must rely on others for care, she is contented with her state and smiles, looking deep into my eyes with a piercing innocence and tells me that she is happy to have her children about her again. And just when I doubt her, dismiss her as someone to pity, a senile aging woman with the stubbornness and conservativeness of thought that is the stereotype of those her age, she tells me about my zodiac sign, the houses and fate. I am a sweet girl, she coos, swinging her legs, placing her hands like a schoolgirl in her lap on her barbershop chair perch. Her first husband was a Sagittarius. This job, this job. What an odd series of discoveries it has been. Those first few months of confusion. And pride. It was the topic of a friendʼs paper, the day I bought a cupcake for my sisterʼs friend with my first tips. The bakery across the street, how tall I felt looking over the counter, speaking directly to the boy there who was young, but I was younger. Thirteen, but so glowing with a feeling of independence when my mom picked me up from work. Now, with school, my refuge is these Saturdays at work, away from paper and the smell of studentsʼ anguish, replaced with hair and the fragrant aroma of bleach. In sociology we had discussed work—whether people on welfare were lazy. One kid argued they were. Another, a girl I had never noticed before, raised her hand and in a trembling voice told the kid that her family was on welfare, that he didnʼt understand what it was like, to have been working since you were old enough to work, to never be able to work hard enough. I suppose I donʼt either. I am that “Daddy 94 The Wit bought me this, Daddy bought me that” girl she mocks, but somehow I think I am better than that. I hear someone say my name. I turn again toward Larry who is smiling at me, along with a client in his chair, as if waiting for a response. “The sign,” he helps. Oh, yes. Yes, it does look like him, doesnʼt it? There on the mirror, between pictures of grandchildren and articles clients bring in, is a sign I had made several weeks ago when Larry came in, as he had many times before, sick and determined to work the full day. As it turns out, he had a hernia. Went to the ER later that day. Two weeks later he was back, slowly returning to his usual pace, happy to get out of the house and be working again. Cards filled his mailbox when he was gone and his station was overflowing with flowers upon his return. The sign I had made has scissors and combs wildly whirring askew, eyes with cartoon spirals implying madness, and the words: TIRED, EXHAUSTED, UNCONCIOUS…BUT STILL WORKING! Getting home from work, I plop down in front of the computer and find a column in the Onion about one of my favorite comedians, Amy Sedaris. She works as a waitress, but knows she doesnʼt need the money. Come to think of it, didnʼt Andy Kaufman do the same? She feels it gives her the right to complain about the price of butter, to marvel at peopleʼs impatience, to stay grounded. “I donʼt have to do it. I used to have to do it all the time, so now itʼs more like I get to act like a waitress, you know what I mean?…I like that itʼs really hard work…And the connections: I can get my vanilla wholesale from there,” she told the interviewer. I couldnʼt have said it better. The double agent life of going to school during the week and working as a shampoo girl during the weekend has a sense of thrill to it. My grandmother once told me, making the long vacant beds of her childrenʼs rooms, that the greatest mistake of my grandfatherʼs life was to retire early. “Men retire,” she told me, “and they donʼt know what to do. Itʼs what theyʼve done all their life; itʼs all they know. They are the providers, thatʼs who they are.” My grandfather, sitting at the kitchen table, smacks his fingers against the pine wood table. The beat is arrhythmic, subconscious and violent. He stares at video footage on his computer screen; his latest project is to edit it into short segments to store and then replay at other family occasions which he tapes in the meanwhile. His office is cluttered, his car is cluttered and my mom tells me that she is shocked. He never even let her eat in the car and now coffee mugs leak onto the dashboard. In front of him now, I ride my tricycle up and down the street as my sister circles me on her bike. He smiles absently and his eyes glance over toward the next tape to be transferred. My grandmother sighs, then silently turns to walk about the house, folding and unfolding her arms as she moves from room to room. The smell of bleach on my fingers, hard to rub off, makes me feel like I earn a right to complain about the price of gas and clothes. The bleach. Oh, the bleach. It has become so familiar to me that I can completely neglect it most of the time. Sometimes, though, it hurts my fingers. White dead skin marks the places where my hands sat too long in the bleach, creating chemical burns. In off-hours, when I began the job, I got manicures. Paint chips in the bleach—the fragments look silly and cheap. Bleach would give me hands I could be proud of, that would sting less each week, soaking my hands in it like water. The creases are more pronounced; I trace them during class. When I started getting migraines, a nurse asked me where I worked. When I told her about the tiny salon where I wash perms and run from phone to sink, she suggested I quit. Maggie Miller No, no. What would they do without me? Purity Atonement 95 Laundry Day Viscious wind gusts bit at my face that day we walked home from the laundromat. Sauntered, silently, through the bitter and piercing rain. Your punctured umbrella protecting rain-saturated head My usually graceful feet gave way, partly due to the pools Mother Nature formed on the unpaved sidewalk. But I also tripped over your untied shoelaces drooping lifelessly from your ragged pair of low tops You leaned in to kiss me outside my door, the green spinach from our Chinese take-out dinner You— had comfortably the only one sandwiched between semi-prepared your two front teeth. for the weather Your breath tasted like with your dull your favorite brand of mint gum. gray mittens We stood worn down to the thickness kissing analogous to that of the gentle frost in the spineaccumulating on the ground. numbing cold. Your fingertips peep out of the top stitches My hands ran through your soaked hair, malodorous of dirty rainfall. Once out of the misery of precipitation, I switched out of my soggy jeans, put on fresh pink pajamas never once taking off your gray mittens. Curled up with the intentions of falling asleep in my oversized bed drowsy and chilly. But all I did that night was stay awake thinking of ways to dirty my laundry again clasping my gray mittencovered hands close to my heart. Melissa Nonetheless, you offered them to me. I wore them, held your hand in mine, and through the emaciated fabric I could still feel your palms— jagged coarse, and unrefined diamond. Kristin Collins 96 The Wit Sightless If I were blind, would it be enough to have stroked the smoothness of your eyelid, without appreciation of the sparkle it shields? To have fingered the sharp bones of your nose, without a glimpse of its dainty freckles? In the darkness of the early morning, when I feel your warm breath drifting along the back of my neck, When I hear you murmur “Good morning,” I donʼt need to see your familiar face snuggled close to mine. But maybe thatʼs only because I can. Alyssa Underwood Kelsey Montalto Selissa Adoration and Ignorance I spin and turn and smile I tilt my head and reach out my hand every move to seduce and yet while others stand mesmerized you stand alone neither watching nor moving I am closer and the ground between us spreads but the dance goes on I sway and rock I balance and twist I laugh and stretch towards you and others reach and try to grasp my hand to turn my eyes their lips crave a promised kiss all the while I smile and cover ground circling and curving and never noticing any other hands just to meet your eyes I would swirl and spin for ages driven by a wanting created before time Leila Ann Purity Atonement 97 I got stabbed in the shoulder by a goblin once on the world map somewhere near Marsh Cave— we were Light Warriors then, Orbs of Light hot with destiny as we traipsed the untamed borderlands. When minions of evil raised their blackened, twisted blades— dripping with death, or at least tetanus— I leapt in front of them, in front of you, slashing wildly, a whirlwind of agitation and deliverance…. But when it was me, a deadened strip of metal digging into my shield arm, tearing away at my own protection, I fell to the ground, wound rushing degradation and dishonor— I yelled, and you were there casting Cure, white magic, holy pacification flowing from your staff, mending, mollifying, completing. I looked at you with my face shrouded in my mask, in shame, my shield long clatter to the rough stone footing, the rusted disk wobbling its disapproval at my failure, but ninjaʼs eyes still shone a thank you. 98 The Wit Penultimate Fantasy You might not remember, since it was a long time (centuries?) ago, but you didnʼt forget South Figaro when you were tied up by the Empire after turning traitor, but I (the dashing ʻtreasure hunterʼ) remembered the day the world broke apart and I let her fall.... There was something of my angel in you so I drew my dirk, glinting with the light of redemption, beat up the guards, (the guards of my past?) and recruited you to my cause. But I didnʼt always save you— Iʼm still looking for a Phoenix Down after I saw you praying at the City of the Ancients, kneeling at the altar, but knowing your fate— awaiting the avenging one-winged angel spear glinting down from above you shooting down like a guillotine, judgment plunging through your chest. You had known you would be there now, spread-eagled over your ancestorsʼ hopes for salvation a martyr bound to the cross of forgiving us all for our ruin— your motherʼs White material bouncing off into the unknown depths. My friends held me back by the shoulders, (my shield arm a throbbing branch of fire recalling a frailty of millennia ago) inhuman howls ripping from my throat and murder rising off my burning skin, because I was dangerous to myself, to you, to the world. Where were you when we defeated Sin and I started to fade out of existence? We were standing on the bridge of a ship and you looked at me, not understanding how I could be losing so soon after we won. You raced to me, casting aside your fettering, ceremonial robes, embracing the air, electric in the places where I had ceased to be before your eyes, desperately yelling after me. But I was your guardian and it wasnʼt your job to do the saving. betrayed to yourself. But I smiled, a placating smile, and told her “Weʼre a team.” And now Iʼm in limbo not sure if Iʼm knight, thief, ninja, healer But the ninth time around, or if youʼre general, summoner, princess, fighter we were having dinner at But I wait, Madain Sari—small white animals I donʼt know for how long, flew around us while you knocked one annoyance but Iʼll be here, waiting, back, so if you come here youʼll find me— and I basked in the glow of having gotten this far, and I promised you or maybe you promised me the little girl asked (like that time we were both in Galbadia). if we were more than friends? Yes, I said, and you looked surprised, And maybe when weʼre off somewhere— scandalized at me revealing information the palace of the corrupt earl, to a six-year-old weʼd just met, the secret lair of the evil scientist— deep secrets you had not yet when the barbarous abominations of the nether worlds raise their wrists to do evil, to attack the beautiful half-magic girl (I forget who it was) and the brave swordsman (is it you or me?) rushes in, keen broad blade flashing with extrication, weʼll say the words that never fit in Figaro that were hidden by ignominy at the Marsh Cave that came too late in the temple, on the airship, that you werenʼt ready for in Madain Sari or Galbadia. Amy Holbrook Purity Atonement 99 Sarah Bauer Angelica Kamysz 100 The Wit S lipping out into the chilly night, hand in hand, the cool mist settles softly on our delicate arm hair which stands straight from goosebumps on our bodies. The moon perches high in the pitch black night as we walk towards reflections that give a luminous glow on the bubbling brook. At the side of the ravine where the river flows, a willow tree stands tall. Beside her bark we slip off our socks heading towards mystic water. We set bare feet on slippery smooth rocks, shiver, cold, as we wade in. Our toes sink into muddy soil deeper, until the water floods over my cotton shirt. Slowly, my shoulders are barely covered by the water. You hold me close. A faint drizzle falls from the midnight sky. You whisper, just as the wind whispers to the willow tree. Coming alive, her branches sway back and forth over tall yellow grass where crickets chirp a melody that echo over our bubbling brook. Your whisper is soft as your kisses are soft, taste of the fresh autumn breeze. Too soon but almost too late the willow tree calls us back. Where our socks lie, on the rocks, damp from the rain. We leave the mystic brook behind, socks in one hand each otherʼs in the other. We head towards the glowing yellow grass, where the crickets sing, with muddy toes. Muddy Toes Julie Cardella Christopher Purity Atonement 101 Daniel Embree 102 The Wit Bare Feet on Cold Oak Steps Cold bare feet pound on the old oak steps. Mornings late for school, shuffled papers and big heavy books. Preoccupied and flustered, I down Special K. Not noticing you, as the table spits you out. A sun-filled kitchen beams of light crash through the windows. The fresh brewing coffee tickles my nose. How was your sleep, take an apple. Brown sack lunch rests freshly creased. There you sit. Alone, but peaceful. In the tidy kitchen, where breakfast is always ready. Every morning. You read your book as the massive table swallows you. Slowly turning pages until I enter. You watch the sun rise as the light streams through the windows. Waiting, patiently and calmly, for bare feet down old oak steps. Julie Cardella Breath Writing, the unspoken word The life of thought that is Otherwise expressed in the death of speech We are in perpetual death Of speech, Instead of letting the breath take over Letʼs cherish This dying Alex Lalley Barmey Ung Purity Atonement 103 Fully Two tawny seeds sweetly tumble into the crafted womb of freshly sifted nurturing cinnamon soil. In an environment surrounded with charcoal colored masses and the occasional tempting sandstone, together their radiant hue and calico motif magnified through the thick haze of nothingness. As carrot suns sliver into inky pewter moons, their illuminations play lone witness to a chemical metamorphosis. From barely sprouted specimens of green vitality, evolved the unique tint of crimson, erupting from the dyed fleshy Anxious ligaments christen pallets of petals. a hydrated blanket A single brilliant chrysanthemum of earthen beaches, liberated from the union harnessed in the comfort of two idle spores, of a terra pot. sweetly ornamented Perceivable sprouts with flush freckles, of emerald and lime and parading rivers grace the sweet air of gold flowing for the biological unveiling to its potent core at dawn. with pride, Ivory veins rejuvenate with every aspiring from well below forlorn mass the rippling auburn surface tide, of parched dirt absorbing water as their audience. like hydration Stem quickly gains was a dream fabricated immunity against wilting, in the now. able to be resilient and exude luminosity as a lone bud in the quiet temptation of morning. 104 The Wit Enchantment from the delicate fuzz of a bumblebeeʼs base are welcomed here, in the hidden sanctuary of fertilization. Condensation emanates from within petalsʼ souls, as the bee slowly drifts, to different blossoms, to different sanctums. The two specimens of germination slowly disengage from the fastened roots, as crimson begins to radiate alone. Unanticipated vicious water molecules weigh heavy on the weakly sustained petals, that now dehydrate and decline to a deeper violet with every exhale erupting from Mother Natureʼs lungs. Jaclyn Hausman The now fair lining of the leaves adorned with a frail jagged finish scratch and scar the coreʼs delicate sheath, bleeding the remains of roots, infected with cavities, and left to rot embedded in once nurturing soil. The last browned petal plunges parched and curled to decompose in the stillness of silence, on the drifting surface of ruptured ruby moss. Time unveils a new today, as decomposed browns burn and blend to form a unified substance. And through all the bleakness of cracked terra compote and mucky earth, the glimmer of a familiar single emerald stalk bares from within the natural volcano of forgotten remains. Melissa Levin Purity Atonement 105 Promise Christine Heckel-Oliver Purgatory Jim Barnabee Atonement Karyn Murray Liberation Donna Hickman, art advisor Repentance Tom Loch Sarah Boedecker Sarah Boedecker 106 The Wit State of Being Exile Kelly Chang Alexander DeWitt Amy Holbrook Julie Pasch Shaily Shah Steve Slivnick Alyssa Underwood Jori Widen Stephanie Zhu Fallen Jackie Kozlowski Maggie Miller Ridhi Patel Reeti Raychaudhuri Leila Whitley Yasmin Akbari Kevin Kamen Callie McCune Mona Ghadiri Sara Ghadiri Denial Ben Bentsman Jeff Gray Liz Peng Erin Petersen Stan Vilensky Enlightenment The Writers Temperance The English Teachers The Art Teachers We have all fallen. We are no longer the pure, the innocent, the flawless. Life is a series of hills and valleys, of upward struggles and slippery slopes. Life neither lets us rest at the top nor dwindle at the bottom. We carry our scars, and bear them here, but not alone. We would like to extend our gratitude to Chris Franken for allowing us the means to show the world our fall and redemption. Tom Loch offered safe harbor during the storm. Thanks also to Donna Hickman for showing us the beauty we passed on our sometimes despoiled, sometimes purified path. Those Art and English teachers who inspired the many students to embrace who we once were, who we have become, and who we hope to be, are to be commended. But most of all we acknowledge the artists and writers themselves for their bravery and their skill in showing the world their journeys. Purity 107 108 The Wit
