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... Fioretti Fioretti a literary anthology Volume 48, Number 2 May 1990 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana Fioretti Contents That Special Someone by Susie Schmeltzer 4 C.O.G. by Raymond List 13 TheUnicornbyPamelaA. Webb 14 April by Stacey Nicholas 15 Memories of a Friend by Ed Ertel 16 Progress by Deardra Webb 20 The Mirror by Mary Weinzapfel 22 H Hearts Could Talk by Lisa Schmeltzer 23 It Gets Better Every Year by Mary Brita 24 The Greatest Gift by Brenda J. Gauck 25 Connections by Daniel A. Felicetti 26 A Letter of Importance by Jodi Yonts 27 The Tnbutary by Don Vogt 35 It Was For You by Dallice Hesselgrave 41 Sailor's Perceptions by Michelle A. Scheidt 42 The Boxcar by Kerry Dearth 43 2 Fioretti Art Work Cover/Michelle A. Leman p. 34 & p. 51/Heidi Hansen p. 52/Sherrie Bynum Staff EDITORS/Don Vogt, Julie Biltz ASSISTANT/Michelle A. Leman PRODUCTION EDITOR/Michelle A. Scheidt ADVISOR/Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. 3 Fioretti THAT SPECIAL SOMEONE Susie Schmeltzer A few nuzzles of Sadi's soft furry snoot signalled that it was time to rise and meet this brand new Monday morning. As Josh reached to snag his alarm before it had a chance to go off, he was reminded of the fact that it was indeed springtime by the wonderfully fragrant breeze blowing through his window. He took a deep breath. "Ahh .. .I just love springtime, Sadi," he said, briskly rubbing his hair. He stood up for a final stretch and scratched the crown of his head as he always did when he was getting ready to tell Sadi about one of his great memories. "I always want to get out of bed in the spring. I remember when I was little jumping out of bed early in the morning to get the chores done so my brothers and I could go down to the creek and explore." He began to make the bed. "I remember running through the fields of grass, which, most of the time, was an adventure in itself. The grass was so tall that we never knew where we were stepping, what we were stepping on, or what was going to step on us! But, when we made it down to the creek, it was all worth it. It was like a fairyland ... " Josh remembered how the sun would sparkle like diamonds on the crisp running water, and how the sounds of the mini-rapids, combined with the many other voices of nature, created a symphony all its own.--Those were the great times, he thought. After the bed was made, Josh headed to the bathroom. His first stop was the bathroom sink. He confidently reached down and turned on the faucet. He cupped his hands under the running water and gave a quick splash to his face. Knowing that Sadi was right by his side, Josh shook the remaining water at her face and got a sharp but amused bark for doing so. He apologized to her and patted the rest of his face dry. Josh pointed to the mirror in front of him, compliments of the previous owners, and chuckled, "Sadi, I am one lucky person. I don't 4 Fioretti have to wake up every morning and deal with how I look. I mean, I could be faced with an extremely goofy looking person and be ever so depressed, or I could be faced with ultimate good looks and plagued with vanity! Maybe I'm somewhere between the two. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?" J ash hadn't seen himself in a mirror for twelve years and had changed greatly from the twiggly fifteen year old he used to be. His now six foot frame was evenly proportioned and fairly muscular for someone whose primary exercise consisted of romping around the park with his faithful companion, Sadi, and a couple of "light" workouts at the gym during the week. He appeared to be someone who made an effort to look good. His blondish-brown hair, though short, was softly tossled on top, adding a playful character to his virile yet boyish face. His soft, light green eyes radiated with warmth and sincerity. Joshua Canfrey had grown into a dashing and attractive young man; much, much different than his boyjsh memory of himself. Even though Josh had often wondered what he looked like, he had grown to like himself all the same, something, he observed, a great many sighted people have a hard tiine doing. Josh's thoughts were drawn back to the memory of the creek. "You know, Sadi, it would really be nice to go down to the old creek now and just sit and listen. I wonder if it would sound the same." --It would really be neat to do that, Josh thought. --It would also be nice to have someone to experience it with. Josh had to skip Sadi's walk this morning and pop right into the shower, something he hated to do but had to in order to rearrange his schedule for an afternoon meeting. After breakfast, he raced as quickly as possible to the bedroom closet to get dressed. Many people were amazed that, even though Josh was blind, he was such a sharp dresser. His closet told the story. Inside the doors awaited several rows of neatly itemized articles of clothing: pants, then shirts, sportcoats, etc. Each item was marked on the hanger, in braille, 5 Fioretti according to its color, compliments of Laundry Service. There were many different shades of green since that was Josh's favorite color. Josh quickly reached in, felt the hangers, and made his selection; a teal dress shirt and a deep burgundy wool sportcoat and slacks. He was pleased with his choices and rushed to get dressed. Josh and Sadi made it to the bus stop just in time. The seven-forty-five metro had just pulled up. Josh was a regular pickup for the metro driver, Earnest. There had only been a few times when Josh could ever remember hearing the voice of some stranger greeting him when he had boarded the bus. Earnest had been with the metro system for thirty years and had only missed work on rare occasions. "Howdy, Josh." "How are you, Earnest?" "Just fine. And yourself?" "Oh, a bit rushed this morning, but other than that, terrific!" "Josh, Mrs. Potter is back with us today." "Really?! That's great. Where is she?" "About the seventh row back." "Thanks Earnest." Josh made his way back towards the middle of the bus counting the rows as he went. Mrs. Potter always brought joy to his day. She was a bright, cheery, gray-haired woman about five feet tall. She was in her mid-sixties, but her vibrant personality seemed that of someone thirty or so. Josh enjoyed their conversations which included normal, everyday talk about the weather and world news to her childhood stories and memories of her late husband Tom, who had passed away three years ago. After her husband died, Mrs. Potter began taking the Witford metro uptown every day or so to visit her sister Martha. Josh had met her that very first day she decided to start taking those regular outings and had been enjoying her company ever since. Josh had noticed that Mrs. Potter hadn't been on the bus for over four days now and was beginning to get a little concerned. He 6 Fioretti was curious to find out where she'd been. "Hello, Joshua Canfrey. Hello, Sadi." Sadi gave a cheerful whimper, for even she had missed Mrs. Potter's presence. "Hi Maria!" "Now I know you've probably been wondering about me," Maria chuckled, "so just plop down here, and I'll tell you the scenario." Josh sat down beside her. "You're right, I was starting to get a bit worried." "Oh, you're such a dear, Josh. Well, it was nothing big. I simply had a wart removed from my foot and had to stay off of it a couple of days. Isn't that silly?" "Well, I'm glad it was nothing serious. How are you otherwise?" "Oh, just fine, Josh. You, Dear?" "Terrific. It's a beautiful spring morning, and there's a nice breeze blowing.. .It's going to be a very enjoyable day at school." "Oh, good for you." There was a slight pause. "Joshua Canfrey... " Josh knew by the concerned inflection in her voice what was coming. There wasn't a month that would go by without that ever familiar question being asked. " ... Have you found that very special someone since we last talked?" "No, I'm afraid not, Maria." For some reason that question didn't seem to make him as uncomfortable as it had in the past. It came to him that he'd had thoughts earlier that morning about having someone in his life. "You know what, though, Maria? I think I'm beginning to understand why you ask me that question." "You do, Sweety? I'm so glad. I can just tell that there is something missing in your life. You are somewhat lonely, and I think the absence of that significant other might be why. My _ thirty-eight years with my husband Tom were the happiest, 7 Fioretti most satisfying years of my life. You know I just want you to be happy, don't you?" "I know, Maria, that's very sweet of you. And, I have to admit, you just might be right about a significant other. If I do find that someone I'm going to make sure she's as sweet as you. I'll keep you informed." "You are a dear, Josh." "You are too, Maria. I'm so glad you're back." The bus rolled to an easy stop and Josh rose to depart. "I'll see you tomorrow, Maria." "You betcha. Have a wonderful day." "So long, Earnest." "See ya' tonight, Josh." "Sure thing." With the trusted guidance of Sadi, Josh made his way down the street to the blind school. He had been working as a staff counselor at the Wilmore Braille Institute for two years now. He really enjoyed his work and loved helping the students by sharing his own personal experiences. The students there really loved him because he was someone they could relate to. He had high hopes for the school and worked hard to make it a success. As Josh entered the front door of the Institute, he was greeted by his secretary, Mrs. Crass. "Good morning, Joshua!" "Good morning, Mrs. Crass. How are you?" "Oh just fine," she replied in her usual chipper tone. "Would you like for me to take Sadi out back to the kennel today?" "Yes, it's a perfect day for her to be out of doors." Josh bent over and gave Sadi a big hug and a rub on the head before Mrs. Crass took her out back. "Bye, Sadi." Sadi acknowledged Josh's goodbye with a quick bark. "See you shortly Joshua. Oh, by the way, did you re- 8 Fioretti member you had a one o'clock appointment with Randy Mathews?" "Sure did, Mrs. Crass. Did I by chance tell you that I was coming in early this morning?" "No, dear," Mrs. Crass replied. "Then how did you know to meet me here at the door?" "Ohhh, I had just put a letter in the mailbox and saw you coming up the street. So I thought I'd wait for you." "Well, thank you very much." "You're quite welcome. See you shortly." Josh's morning went great. He had finished all of his paperwork, and his counselling sessions went well. All went a lot more smoothly than he had expected. The twelve-forty-five bell rang and Josh realized he needed to get to his office to run quickly over his questions before the prospective assistant counselor was to arrive. Josh was hoping, finally, that this would be the counselor he was looking for. Even though Josh had wanted to hire the person most qualified for the job, he was hoping it would be a woman because he had been informed that some of the female students had requested a female counselor to talk to about their personal problems. Josh had to face the facts, though. He was interviewing a man and even though he had wanted to hire a woman, if this gentleman qualified, he would have to hire him. The school board was getting impatient. As Josh closed his office door behind him, he was refreshed by a distinct spring fragrance filling the room. He took a deep breath. "Hmm .. .1 didn't think I'd left the window open this morning," he said to himself aloud. "It smells so springy in here." "I don't think you did, sir. None of the windows are opened now. It must be fragrance I'm wearing." Josh startled, turned towards his sofa, where the gentle feminine voice had come from. "Gosh, you startled me," Josh said. 9 Fioretti "I'm sorry. Are you Mr. Canfrey?" the woman asked confidently. "Yes. Did Mrs. Crass let you in?" "Yes. She said to come right in, and you would be here shortly." "Oh," Josh said, somewhat puzzled. "She must have forgotten that I had a one o'clock appointment. I do have a few minutes though, before Mr. Mathews arrives. What can I help you with?" Josh walked over to the sofa and reached out his hand in a greeting. "How do you do," the woman said pleasantly, extending her hand. When the woman's soft hand met his, an unexplainable sensation ran through his body. He could feel his heart increase its speed almost instantly. For some reason all of this was a pleasant shock to his system. Josh's mind began to drift. He began to wonder what she looked like. She sounded as of she might be in her mid--twenties--definitely a younger woman. Her voice also sounded genuine, sincere ... "Mr. Canfrey," she started, kindly removing her hand from his. Josh had realized he had been holding it a bit too long and was a little embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry... " he began to apologize. "Oh ... no .. .l was just going to say that. ..l think I AM your one o'clock appointment. I'm Miss Mathews, Miss Miranda Mathews. I'm called Randy for short. I'm sorry if that caused you some confusion." "No, no, that's quite all right. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed ... Well then, let's get started." Josh sat in the seat beside her. He was completely flustered by the unexpected surge of emotions he had just experienced, and struggled to compose himself so that he could proceed with the interview. Josh had learned very much about Miss Mathews during the interview not only because she was a very open person, but also because Josh seemed to have gotten sidetracked a few times and had asked some questions that obviously had nothing 10 Fioretti to do with the position that Miss Mathews was applying for. She didn't seem to mind though and actually appeared quite flattered that Josh had taken such an interest in her. Before the interview was even over, Josh knew that this was the right person for the job. She was caring, sincere, and seemed to have taken a general interest in students at the school. She had also mentioned that one of the driving forces behind her wanting to help blind children was her mother, who had been blind. Miranda Mathews was the one. She had the spark. Josh could just sense it. "Can you come in tomorrow?" "Really? I got the job?!" "You sure did. You are very qualified and just what we've been looking for." Why did Josh feel that he was going to be THE most excited to have her on staff. "That will be great. You don't know how much I'm looking forward to working with these kids and you, Mr. Canfrey." "That's great! And you can call me Josh. We are informal around here. Can I call you Miranda?" "Actually, you can call me by my middle name, Marie. That's what I'm called by my family, and I think it will be much less confusing." "I like that name. It reminds me of a very nice lady I know. See you tomorrow at nine o'clock!" Josh said rising to his feet and holding out his hand for a goodbye shake. "That sounds just fine. Thank you very much." She placed her hand in his. Josh felt the same surge of sensation rush through his body again. He made sure he did not overextend the gesture this time. After Marie had left, Josh sunk into his chair. He felt relieved, excited, and at the same time, completely perplexed. What in the world had just happened to him? Why in the world did he just act the way he did? 11 Fioretti ******************* Over the following monthsJosh's feelings for Marie grew immensely. The _two had become fairly close friends, but for Josh, the situation became awkward. His feelings for Marie deepened and he found himself wanting to be more than just friends. He had noticed a change in her too but could not tell if she was reacting to his changing emotions or whether something was happening with her, too. He didn't want to confront her though, because he was afraid his behavior would be inappropriate. ******************** Josh was sitting on his living room sofa. Sadi was lying next to him, her head in his lap. --That's all there is to it. I just have to call her. She has been acting so different, and I think it's because of me. I don't want to lose her friendship, and if that's all we can be is friends then I will just have to accept that...At that moment the phone rang. "Hello, Joshua Canfrey speaking." "Hello, Josh ... " "Marie?" "Yes. I think we need to talk." "Marie, I know, I was going to call you ... " "Josh, I have to be up front about this .. .l care for you more than just as a friend, but..." "You do?! Marie ... so do I!" "You do!" "Yes! Do you think you could come over tonight? I think we need to talk about this!" "Yes. I just need to change my clothes and I'll be right over!" ************************** It had been a long time since Mrs. Potter had asked the question, and from the way she was acting, Josh had a feeling that today... "Joshua Canfrey... " 12 Fioreui "The answer is yes, Maria," Josh said affirmatively. "I thought so, " Maria said putting her hand on his knee and giving a delighted pat. "You just have that certain glow." "I do?" Josh chuckled, "Well, Maria, let me just tell you all about her." C.O.G. (Children Of God) A people wandering, but not without direction. A people uncertain, but not without a vision. A people searching, but not without each other. Raymond List 13 Fioretti THE UNICORN The Unicom A glistening, snoy creature standing proudly beside a crystal clear lake The moonlight shines upon her and creates a magical glow Her graceful movements would shame a prima ballerina She serenely wanders to the water's edge she poses as if for a picture Her ivory mane ruffles in the cool night breeze She is unaware of the trouble in the world Most, because of disbelief cannot see her But for those who believe in magic, in dreams She is a magnificent sight to behold Something to prove that beauty still exists Pamela A. Webb 14 Fioretti APRIL: GRASS GROWS, BIRDS SING Stacey Nicholas Walking to Clare Hall, I was surprised to notice the vivid greenness of the grass. Actually, I don't know what surprised me most - the colors of the earth's carpet or the fact that I noticed the new colors. I have missed April for the last three years. Oh, I was physically here, but April came and went without my noticing. As the grass was turning greener and pushing up through the softening, brown dirt, I stared at the pulsating green cursor on a blackened computer screen. "This is a poem on racism ... " blossomed on the line. While the birds began their chirping chorus that welcomed the return of spring, I could not hear them. My head was buried in the O.E.D. and the Encyclopedia Americana in a sound proof library. Listening closely, I could hear only the continual humming of the cooling system as it maintained a constant sixty-four degrees. When the leaves were bursting forth from their buds on the awakening trees, I was hurriedly typing research papers on Quakers, Thomas Paine, and Herodotus. Each had accumulated and now must be typed and handed in. As I look at the lush beauty of Spring, it is hard for me to believe that I've missed the last three Aprils. It happened because I chose to believe that reality was term papers and final exams. Yesterday, I noticed the grass growing. I heard the swallow sing. Is there still hope for me? 15 Fioretti MEMORIES OF A FRIEND Ed Ertel Memories of our past are like hidden treasures waiting to be opened. Often times, the most subtle things serve as the key to these locked treasures. The most uneventful things can sometimes trigger our memories and send us on a journey to our past. The other day I was sitting in my office at the local high school where I serve as the guidance counselor for the sophomore class. It was about eight o'clock on a humid August morning, the first day of the new school year. As I organized various schedules and papers, there was a knock at the door. I looked up from my desk and saw a tall, lanky boy standing in the doorway. "Hi! What can I do for you?" I asked. "My name is Jeff Ryan. I'm a new student, and I was wondering if you could tell me where room 308 is." "Sure, Jeff! You go up the stairs to the third floor and 308 is the fourth room on your left. If you have any questions or problems, feel free to come talk to me. My name is Mr. Browning." "Thanks a lot, Mr. Browning," the boy said as he left my office. This meeting was one of those ordinary events that hurled my thoughts back to my younger days. Jeff reminded me of a guy I knew in high school, and I found myself reminiscing about my old friend, Matt Williamson. Matt's family had moved from Champaign, Illinois, to my hometown the summer before my junior year in high school. Our basketball coach, Joe Curry, held an open gym three nights per week from seven to nine. On one particular night, Coach Curry had told us all that a new kid named Matt Williamson was moving in from Illinois, and he was going to come in and 16 Fioretti scrimmage with us. Coach didn't know a whole lot about this new kid, but he did say that he was pretty tall for a sophomore. As we continued to warm:up before playing, we heard a loud racket over by the gym doors. We turned to find a tall, embarrassed figure sprawled on the floor. The boy had fallen over the rolled up wrestling mats that were resting in front of the doors. All of us burst into laughter as the lanky kid picked himself up and walked toward us. Coach Curry accompanied the boy onto the court. "Boys, I'd like you to meet Matt Williamson. He'll be a sophomore, and he and his family just moved here from Illinois," said Coach. Matt mingled among the players making small talk while shooting around. I gradually made my way over to him and struck up a conversation. "How ya' doin,' Matt? My name is Danny Browning. How do you like our little town so far?" "It's great! Everyone's been so friendly. I still don't know my way around very well, though." "Well, tomorrow afternoon I can give you the grand tour if you want me to,'' I said. "That would be great, Danny. Thanks a lot!" We continued to shoot around until it was time to select teams. He was about six feet four but weighed only 155 pounds. As we played the game Matt showed exceptional skills. Despite his awkwardness, he displayed a talent for basketball with which very few people had been blessed. We won all five of our pickup games that night with Matt hitting the winning basket in four of them. Coach Curry sat in the bleachers drooling over this raw talent of this diamond in the rough. The next day I showed Matt the town and introduced him to several people. He was very polite to everyone he met and showed a genuine friendliness. That day was the beginning of a great friendship for Matt and me. Matt was the kind of kid that lived and breathed basket- 17 Fioretti ball. His dad had been a basketball star himself, and he passed on his love for the game to his son. Mr. Williamson worked hour upon hour with Matt, teaching him the fundamentals of the sport. The two of them developed a special relationship. It was more than just a father-son relationship. It was a strong friendship bonded by blood. Over the next year, Matt blossomed into a phenomenal basketball player, and by his senior year, he stood six feet seven, and weighed 210 pounds. The lanky, awkward kid that I first met was nowhere to be found. The awards and accolades rolled in for Matt. With each honor, he thanked his father and shared it with him. Major universities across the country were hounding Matt. Mr. Williamson was very proud of how Matt worked hard at making himself a great player and a great person. His son had become the ideal role model for all the little kids in our town. But Matt's biggest fan lived in the same household. His eight-year-old brother Nolan idolized him. Nolan followed Matt around like a lost puppy, and he imitated his every move. The summer before his senior year, Matt was working for his father's construction company. On Friday, June 3, Mr. Williamson was inspecting the progress on a four-story office building: It had rained that morning, and there was water all over the job site. Mr. Williamson had gone to the fourth floor to talk to the foreman. As he went to step onto a scaffolding where the foreman was, he hit a slick spot and fell over the railing. Mr. Williamson tumbled four stories and died instantly. Matt was devastated by his father's death. The two of them had been so close, and he could not cope with the loss. The emotional strain became an insurmountable obstacle. As the weeks passed, Matt became more and more depressed. He lost all interest in basketball and started running around with a gang. With his father gone, Matt did not seem to have that driving force to excel on or off the basketball court. He would not have anything to do with his mother, Nolan, or me. It wasn't until six months later that Matt opened up and 18 Fioretti told me this story. At that time, though, he refused any help and was very rebellious. In a sense, the real Matt Williamson died along with his dad. The new Matt was skipping classes and hanging around with known drug users. Nolan saw the deterioration of his brother, but, since he idolized Matt so much, he imitated the bad behavior. One day Nolan and a couple of his friends had gone into a shopping store to buy some baseball cards. The group of his friends ended up shoplifting the cards and some candy. The store manager caught the kids after they had left the store. The police came and took them home to tell their parents. When Nolan arrived home with the police, Matt was the only one there. The policeman left Nolan and told Matt the whole story. The two brothers sat down and had a heart-to-heart talk once the policeman had gone. That was the first time they had really talked since their dad's death. "Why would you do something like this, Nolan?" asked Matt. "I saw you steal a tape last week at Sneider's so I thought it was okay to take the cards and candy," said Nolan. Matt eased back into his chair and remembered the day he had taken a cassette tape from Sneider's Audio. Instantly, he realized how he had allowed his grief over his father's death to dominate his life. Until now he was unable to see what he had done to himself. "Nolan, I know you were trying to be just like me, but I've done a lot of terrible things since dad's death. I've had a hard time dealing with it. From now on, though, I'm going to be my old self, and I don't want to see or hear of you doing something like this again, Nolan!" "Okay, Matt. I promise I won't ever do anything like that again." Matt began putting his life back in order. He started playing basketball again, and with the help of Coach Curry, he 19 Fioretti was able to get a scholarship to a small school in Kentucky. It was a far cry from what might have been, but it was a major step toward a bright future. It's been fifteen years since I last saw Matt. After high school, we both went our separate ways. I became a guipance counselor, and Matt ended up getting his law degree from Northwestern University. Although we didn't know each other for very long, I learned more from Matt than I ever have learned from anyone else. By seeing what Matt went through, I realized that I shouldn't take what I have for granted, because it could be taken away at any moment. To this day, I have a deep admiration for Matt and for how he straightened himself out. Jeff Ryan has a striking resemblance to Matt, and I heard the other day that he was going out for basketball. I'm going to have to keep an eye on that kid. I think he might be something special. PROGRESS I was here once Myself, or as part of the one before me Or the one before her. There were many trees And meadows of wild flowers and berries And scampering creatures And trembling streams. I was here once And knew the fragrance of early blossoms, --And then ripe fruit --And then dry leaves. 20 Fioretti Now the trees are gone. I see no flowers No berries No scampering creatures. Now the air clogs my nose And films my eyes And turns my heart to stone. The home that was once mine Is filled with mounds of dirt And machines And structures, close together. Where has everything gone? Where are the scampering creatures? - dead? Or exiles, journeying to a new home? I know I must go also. I spread my wings and soar high above, Never to know again this home of my birth Nor will the one after me, Nor the one after her. Deardra Webb 21 Fioretti THE MIRROR When I look in the mi"or, Who is it that I see? Is it only a reflection Of what the world wants me to be? A simple bend in the mi"or. A mirage made up of light When I look in the mi"or, Is what I'm seeing right? Am I the person that I see When I look into the glass? Or is it the one I pretend to be? --But I'm afraid to ask Through the endless reflections I look closely to find A glimpse of the one in the mi"or --The me I've left behind. Mary Weinzapfel 22 Fioretti IF HEARTS COULD TALK If hearts could talk, Would tell ofpain And love, Of relationships Old and new, Of hidden feelings Buried deep Lost in wells of blood Sunken to the cold depth Of the B01TOM If hearts could talk, Would tell of strength Gained by hurt and anger, Reaching out for hope Of what could be, Striving towards the shallow Grasping the warmth, Understanding the source Breaking through To the SURFACE.IF HEARTS COULD TALK Lisa Schmeltzer 23 Fioretti IT GETS BETI'ER EVERY YEAR Mary Brita An estimated 500,000 people polka-dotted the two sides of the Ohio River. Some had been there since early afternoon, while others still rushed to find their places before 9:00. Children sat contentedly with mountains of pink cotton candy next to their Jiilarents who were busy focusing cameras and adjusting lenses. The suspension bridge was closed. There was no more traffic connecting the two banks of the river. Everyone sat looking around grateful to have left home when they had, and convinced each had chosen the best seat on the whole river. As time inched closer and closer to 9:00, there were yawns at bedtimes that drifted by; there was music echoing across the water, and there was silent anticipation dancing in each pair of eyes. Minutes later, 9:00 had arrived. Children were lifted onto Daddys' shoulders, the music got louder, and every head turned to see the great color and listen to the sounds that the barges on the river hoisted into the night sky. Thirty minutes and hundreds of "ooh-ah's" later, those 500,000 contented people turned into pushy people who fought and pulled to leave the banks of the river as fast as possible. The blazing sun and all the day's excitement had exhausted everyone, and although each group had straggled in over a course of six or seven hours, the entire populace wanted to be home in fifteen minutes (or less). The barricades were lifted from closed streets and bridges, car keys were relocated, blankets and coolers were packed, and the once vibrant, excited children were carried home asleep. The streets were jammed with families and friends discussing where they had parked the car and what the shortest route home would be. Talk of the elaborate air show would have to wait until the trip home - or maybe even the next day. The thirty-minute enchantment didn't go unnoticed, though. Everyone there last night appreci24 Fioretti ated what he saw. This was the Labor Day Fireworks Display in Cincinnati, Ohio - complete with half a million friends, relatives, and strangers with whom to share. It gets better every year. THE GREATEST GIFT I thought I was brave, you showed me that it takes more courage to open up, than to keep inside. I thought I was strong, you showed me that it takes more strength to share feelings, than to hide them. I thought I was true, but you showed me that the truth lies in the way I feel inside. I thought being brave and strong and true were enough You showed me that real courage, strength, and truth lie within and arc shared. You opened my heart and showed m e that To give love is to be loved in return And that is the greatest gift of all. Brenda J. Gauck 25 Fioretti CONNECTIONS Beyond Iran. Came Poet Wanderers Talkin' Poet Talk Makin' New Connections Gentle Folks Connections; A verse to Verse Seekin' metaphors -those Enjoyin' Feelin' Good Connections nourishment -gettin' poems Non-Linear rhythms milkers' Below the mind from Hearin' off ofpaper-!ed Leamin' fine connections laughs Eye Daniel A Felicetti 26 I Fioretti. A !ETIER OF IMPORTANCE Jodi Yonts J The sound of the bouncing basketball echoed in the empty gym as Megan ran up and down the floor. Her tall, strong, muscular body easily glided through the air for a perfect lay-up, and with a final "swish," she stopped. Bending over, she took a few deep breaths. She glanced up at the clock and was surprised to see that an hour and a half had passed by. -- Uh-oh, she thought. Mom's going to be worried. She grabbed her bag after removing her shoes and ran out of the gym. The mile walk home was set at a brisk pace, and the wintry chill went right through her parka. Megan tried to keep her mind on basketball. The back screen on the weak-side will work, she thought, flipping her long, brown hair back over her shoulder. Dad always told me to work on that, she thought and smiled sadly. Dad. If only he could see me now. But then she brushed another thought aside and ran the rest of the way home. She relished the blast of heat that greeted her as she opened the door. "Hi, hon," her mom called around the corner. "You're a little late tonight." "I had to stay and practice. We have conference coming up, and I have to get better." "You're already the best on the team, Meg. Maybe you should just take it easy for a couple of days." Her mother's voice was soft. "I want to be better than the best on the team, Mom. Besides, it gives me something to do." Megan didn't see the hurt look on her mom's face as she said the last sentence, but she realized she wasn't being too helpful lately. 27 Fioretti "I'm sorry I'm such a bad daughter, Mom, fo rgive me?" And without waiting for an -answer, she bolted up the stairs. She plopped onto the bed in her room and looked around, and every way she glanced, she was reminded of her father. The picture when she was just five years old with him trying desperately to hold out a basketball to her caught her eye first. She smiled to herself remembering that she had been too interested in John, her older brother, who was standing behind him making a funny face. The other pictures were just as vivid. A smile, a frown, a look of pride. There were many of those. She jumped up. "Stop it," she said to herself. A tear began to form, and she was certain that this time, crying wasn 't the answer. There was a soft knock on the door, and her mom peeked in. "Phone for you, Meg." "I'll get it up here," she said confused by the fact that she didn't even hear it ring. "Hello?" "Hi, Megan, it's Coach." "Hi, Coach, what's up?" Megan voiced her curiosity and glanced at the clock. "It's a little late for you to call, isn't it?" "Well, it's pretty important; I think we need to talk. Can you come in early tomorrow?" "Did I do something wrong? An1 l in trouble?" "No, no," Coach assured her, "I just think we have a few things to say." Megan's sense of humor couldn't resist what she said next. "Don't you like me anymore, Coach Travis?'' she said in her best whiny voice knowing how Coach hated whiners. "Funny, Meg, really funny." Coach chuckled, but then became serious. "You know I'll always like you." . They hung up, but Coach's last.words echoed in her mind. " .. .I'll always like you." She smiled. She and Mary Travis hit it off the first moment they met almost three years 28 Fioretti ago. Coach immediately saw her potential and made her into a growing basketball star within a year. They had laughed together and become good friends. She often told Megan that she was the daughter she never had since she and her husband were unable to have children. Their relationship was simple; Megan listened to Coach Travis, and in return, Coach Travis made Megan one of the best basketball players in the area. Megan had even been contacted by a few big name college coaches, including a Division I school. But as she fell asleep in her bed that night, her mind was far away from basketball. It was on her dad, and she drifted off with his smiling face in her thoughts. She suddenly awoke and found herself covered with sweat. Another nightmare had jolted her from her slumber, and the tears coursed down her cheeks. The nightmare was familiar - she had been having it about three times a week since her dad died two months ago. She told no one, but she knew it was affecting her. She was often scared to go to sleep afterward, and tonight was no different. She sat staring out into the dark until the sun rose. In the morning she dressed quietly, packed her gym bag, and left, running the whole mile to school. She showered there, and met Coach T as she walked in the building. "Morning!" Coach said as she opened her office door. ''Hi!" Megan returned, as she took a seat in the musty office. She watched as the 30-year-old woman shuffled through the mess of papers on her desk and noticed a little bit of grey forming in her curly, dark hair. Suddenly, Coach T lifted her head up, and her brown eyes leveled with Megan's. Her look was somber as she handed over the yellow paper in her hand, and Megan was confused until she realized what she was holding - her grades. They had been steadily declining in the past few months, and Megan wasn't aware that Coach knew. "Look, Megan," Coach said gently, "you're not flunking anything by far, but there has been a serious drop in your 29 Fioretti quality of work in every class. I'm only concerned for your wellbeing. You are a talented high school athlete who needs to have strong grades this last year especially if you're still planning on Pre-Med in college. That is still your plan, isn't it?" Megan's eyes didn't look up from the old coffee stain on the floor. "I don't know, Coach T," she answered after a few moments of silence. "I just don't know much about anything anymore." At that moment, she looked up, and the pain in her eyes was obvious. She was struggling, and coach Travis saw it. Her dad's death had changed Megan from a fun-loving, outgoing individual into a quiet, unemotional, almost resentful person. Her heart was crumbling. They talked for a while about the upcoming games, and then Coach told her to take the day off. "Go home and get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in weeks." Megan rose, hoping the guilty look on her face didn't show. If she only knew exactly how much sleep I got last night, she thought. "I'll see you tomorrow, Meg." The woman's round face smiled warmly. "Take care of yourself." "I will," Megan said as she walked down the slowly filling halls, stopping for only a few seconds to tell a friend that she wouldn't be in trig class that day. Although Megan wasn't excited at the thought of an empty house, she decided it was the only place to go. Maybe I'll clean my room, she thought, and almost laughed out loud. Nah. At home, she fixed herself a large glass of orange juice and headed upstairs. Instead of going into her room, however, she found herself standing in front of the door to her dad's study. The smell hit her like a punch in the gut as soon as she opened it. It was him. If she closed her eyes, it was almost as if he were standing right there next to her. She made her way to 30 Fioretti his desk, pulling out the old, worn in, brown swivel chair that she knew so well. She used to spend hours at his feet in here. Under his desk, around it, and often somehow ending up in his lap. And, no matter how much work was piled up, he was always willing to give her a hug and a playful tweak on the nose. She leaned forward. Everything was just as she remembered it. Top, right drawer -- pens and pencils. She jerked it open. Score one for her. Middle, right drawer -- papers. Boring stuff. All the other drawers had been used for business purposes and were now unlocked and empty. Except one. Why is this still locked? she thought to herself. Her dad's business partner had picked up all the other things a month earlier, and yet this was locked. She was curious. The numerous keys on his regular key ring didn't open it, and after a while, she became very determined to see what was in that drawer. Suddenly, she remembered. In his garage, there were sets of keys to things she didn't even know about. "Surely one of those has to work," she said out loud. She scurried down the stairs and into the garage. She returned a few moments later with two sets of key rings and began to try. She was to the last key on the second ring, about to give up, when it clicked. She slowly turned the key, heard the latch slide, and then unlock. She stopped, suddenly afraid. Her strong hand pulled the metal drawer open, and what she saw at first glance was a flash of gold. She reached in and pulled out a Christmas card she had given him when she was in kindergarten. She looked a little more and couldn't believe what she saw. Everything she had given him, he had kept in here. A wooden cross with "DAD" etched out from her eighth grade hiking trip; a valentine from when she was nine which said, "Daddy of mine, will you be my valentine?" She smiled as she read this, remembering his words to her. "I'll always be your valentine." There was even a piece of the net she had cut down in basketball last year when the team won conference. 31 Fioretti "You were so proud of me," she whispered not even bothering to brush the tears from her eyes. She savored each treasure, each gift. It was as though he was giving all of this back to her, and she had almost emptied the drawer when she found it. It was a sealed long manilla envelope, and when she flipped it over, it was unmarked. No, wait, it was dated in the corner. September 30, 1970. "September 30, 1970?" she said out loud. "I was only five days old!" She fumbled with the opening, finally breaking the 17year-old seal. She slowly unfolded the single page that was enclosed, took a deep breath, and began to read. To her surprise, it was addressed to her. My Dearest Megan, Five days ago, you made me the happiest man in the world. As I watched you take your first breath of life, I was overcome with love and affection for you, your mother, and God's gift of life. From that moment on, I resolved to do everything in my power to make you happy for the rest of your life. The purpose of this letter is to let you know how much I love you. Always try to be the best you can be, and always remember that I'll be here for you. My love, Dad She put her head down on the desk and choked on a sob. It was as though her father had just read that letter to her. And, as she set the letter down, she suddenly realized that he was gone. Forever. It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she suddenly realized how tired she was. She cleared the desk, making sure that everything was exactly how she found it, and went to her room, taking the letter 32 Fioretti with her. She lay down and was asleep in minutes. When she awoke, she was surprised to see the morning sun coming through the window. The aroma of pancakes drifted through the air, and she sat up with a smile on her face. She threw off the covers and strolled downstairs, and her mom met her in the kitchen with a smile. "Morning, sleepyhead!" "Morning!" Megan replied with a yawn. "How long did I sleep?" "Over 12 hours, you were out like a light when I tried to wake you yesterday when I got home." Megan was silent as she remembered the events of the previous day. She glanced at her mother and her heart swelled at the sight. Megan suddenly felt selfish for the way she had been acting the last couple of months. She knew that her mom was struggling, too, and she walked over to hug her. "What was that for?" Her mother turned with a look of surprise. Megan shrugged her shoulders, then paused for a moment before she spoke. Her voice was soft, but firm. "You miss him a lot, don't you?" Her mom was taken off guard, but replied honestly. "Yes, I do." Megan smiled sadly at her mother. "So do I, Mom, so do I." A month later, Megan was still smiling. She had received a full ride scholarship to play basketball at Syracuse University; her grades were back up, and she and her mom were closer than they had ever been. She still missed her dad, but the pain was fading as each day passed by. 33 Fioretti --- .... - -.__ -- ..... . - . .:..- : ,. - - --- . ... ; -- --- -- ---- .. -~ ~~--~ - = P't,-v .r I I . . ~' i\ i . ,f .:._, ~ 34 ., . . , -'-., t- Fioretti THE TRIBUTARY Under the Eyes of the night Libra sky, Remnants of Spring seed lay cut in the fields. Stirring, the forces of winter on high -Vast and unfe"owed the frosty Earth yields. Invading this mystical countryside, Gently winds Life as a masked, flowing stream. Sweeping us forward from which none can hide -The cu"ent cold and untravelled it seems. Downward from Heaven the Right Balance Arm Touched a soft nightbird migration forgot. Away from the leaf that saved her from harm, Flees she to the darkness, gone from her lot. The tiny leaf falls with strong Libra's care -An innocent baby from his mother's hands. The infinite trek that he must prepare Begins .with the stream upon which he lands. Swaying, the trees on the steep, grassy slopes Bow to the sojourner; no visit he makes. On the leaf travels, a child of hope Guided by Libra - all gifts for his sake. Onward through Autumn the nocturnal beasts sing. Unchartered voyage - no path free to take. 35 Fioretti Libra keeps vigil - love everlasting, Maternal the bond that never will break Infringing stones do appear in the brook As obstacles causing anguish and pain. Yet early in life can no leaf but look Up on the Eyes of Balance who reigns? What will come to pass divinely withheld No creature divulges Fate's secret course. Obstructions in youth can oft be dispelled, But stones will remain, a bond-breaking source. * * * Crickets now quiet themselves in a rush While petals of snowflakes rhythmically fall. The breeze through the cattails fades to a hush. The silence of winter comes for a call. Maturing in the slight chill of the air, The leaf trickles down the widening stream. Passing the muskrat's dark underground lair, Sea-visions now become part of his dream. A fork in the pathway offers a choice -For independence he stubbornly fights. Libra's tears echo her heart-aching voice. He chooses his way defying her might. 36 Fioretti Losing intangible reins from above, Bonds still do attach in spite of his will. Libra sustains unconditional love Forever her heart with pride he will fill. The leaf on his new path awkwardly sails Into the distance - Frontiers do await. Undoubtedly his soul never will fail In loving his guide, no matter his fate. Solemn the void from which all things commence -Time ripples on from its mythical springs. Yet, Life interrupts, a stream of suspense, But time must return - to Libra it clings. The forces behind the autumnal blade Which push the undaunted child ahead, Flow under the Eyes which now seem to bade The leaf toward a new light, Terran instead. * * * As a mirage through the mists of the snow, An ancient bridge made of cobblestone spans The banks that funnel the waters below Into the realms offar, infinite lands. From out of the darkness come to the ledge Two lonely strangers whose paths oddly merge. 37 Fioretti Afar, music drifts from bells on a sledge While nervous emotions internally surge. With their cold feet dangling over the side, Together they watch the vanishing stream. Toward the future she stares, trying to hide Her feelings existing merely in dreams. Stealing quick glances he finally rests His quivering glove on her fragile hand. Untravelled waters he patiently tests -Rather he'd drown than try grasping for land. Returning his gesture shatters her will As previous wounds of the heart ascend. But in his strong arms, Life's arrows that kill Touch not her soul as the injuries mend. His eyes from the waters lift to behold A face silhouetted by moon-lit shades. Unknown embracing in midst of the cold -This moment for nothing he e'er would trade. She traces the sides of his blush-red cheeks As he softly whispers three simple words. Awake dormant heart from your blinded sleep To the first three words you have ever heard! Just as time dawns from its mythical springs, The genesis rises of sweet romance. 38 Fioretti A bright Phoenix flies with love on its wings -The strangers decide on taldng a chance. Chills from emotions that never were felt Induced by a sensual warmth that they share Pierces the ice that is starting to melt The walls hiding love that's doubtlessly rare. Despite all odds of the yonder stars, A new bond is born which never will fade And never will hurt and never will scar For lonely existence they must evade. The full, red moon embarks slowly to hide, Yet lends its hand for those daring to dream. And higher powers seem always to guide A leaf down an ever-widening stream. Peering its head through the veil-curtained East . The dawn arrives and replaces the night. Close to the sea, he fears not in the least, As the fated leaf drifts far out of sight. The stream now rushes, the cu"ent is strong. The bridge will fall under weight of the snow. As for the two strangers, what will love bring? Time solely knows as it flows into Spring. Don Vogt 39 Fioretti 40 Fioretti IT WAS FOR YOU Some saw Him in the cradle, Some saw Him on the street, Some nailed Him to the cross, While some wept at His feet. I saw Him just today, In the things you did and said, It shows He didn't die for naught, Or for nothing His blood was shed. And even ifyou 're the only one, Who worships and adores, Then it was for you He suffered, And for you the thorns He wore. It was for you that He endured, The scorn, the hate, the pain, For you that He followed God's merciful plan, To wash you of sin's stain. And if you do indeed believe, Then your anguished heart is quelled, Because that day He died for you, He bought your soul from Hell. Dallice Hesselgrave 41 Fioretti Lone Sailor's Perceptions The horizon stretches endlessly. The morning sun is watching me, Reflecting bright off each new wave. The sky is an intense deep blue, An unforgettable God-made hue -As far as my human eye can look. A deep-drawn breath of salty air Fills my lungs and helps me bare The ugly smell of oil upon God's sea. A runaway wave catches my face; It wets my lips; salt is the taste. I know fm with the sea once more. The sun warms me, pretends to care, As the breeze toss/es my wind-blown hair. The rough-grained wheel rests beneath my palm. A wave douses me where I stand With the sheet gripped tightly in my hand. The deck slopes steeply under my feet. A lone seagull's high-pitched scream Draws me back out of my dream Intoreality, where the winch drones on. Waves slap on the wooden hull; Sails flap in a moment's lull As the wind stops to catch her breath. A sense ofpeace deep in my soul, I sense that my /ife's made whole; Something within me is fulfilled. I find God on the open sea; I only hope that he finds me. Michelle A. Scheidt 42 Fioretti THE BOXCAR Kerry Dearth The sun slowly descended over the western horizon dragging along with it the beauty of the day. Orange-puffed clouds and a pink sky followed the large, rosy sun as it shed dimmer and dimmer in the darkening landscape. It was 1932. A lone, black figure carrying a small suitcase jogged to the top of a lonely hill and paused. As the figure exhaled, his breath froze in the cold winter air. The rickety-rack sound of a train echoed in the silence. Puffs of black smoke rose above the barren trees. Quickly, the man raced down the hill. The freezing wind bit at his ears, nose, and cheeks and froze his watering eyes so that, for a moment, he could not see the lay of the ground properly. He stumbled across a ditch and fell, nearly hitting his head on the railroad tracks. The sound of the train grew louder. Its headlight blinded him. He began to pick himself up, but then, for some reason, he stopped. Quickly, the engine drew nearer and nearer. The light grew larger, growing, growing. He dazed as the rickety-rack, rickety-rack grew louder and louder. The train, its blackness, its power grew ominous as it raced the setting sun. Rickety-rack, rickety-rack. Tweeeee! The train's whistle pierced his mind, and the man rolled back into the ditch. The train engine whizzed by. Rickety-rack, rickety-rack. The man gathered himself in the stance of a runner, grabbed his suitcase and watched the cars of the train race by. He spotted an opening in a passing boxcar and dashed alongside the speeding train, gradually closing in on the open door. At arm's length he tossed his suitcase inside and tried to find something to grab onto so he could pull himself in, but he found nothing. The train began to edge further and further from his outstretched hand. He gave up. But, just then, a hand reached out from inside the boxcar. The man began to run faster, 43 Fiorelli harder. His heart pounded frantically. His temples throbbed as he sprinted, and the freezing air burned inside his lungs, but he kept running. He grabbed the hand and lunged toward the opening just as h1s legs turned to jelly. The hand pulled him in. The man collapsed in a heap on the boxcar floor, exhausted, panting from his long run. A three-inch gaping hole under his left arm exposed a dingy, white dress shirt beneath his cheap black suit. He lay there for nearly five minutes unable to move. Then he clinched his fists and rolled over. He was clean-shaven, exposing his baby face - smooth and pale white. He closed his deer-like eyes tight then opened them again, staring at the ceiling. He stared for what seemed like hours, contemplating, planning, or perhaps just praying. He stopped staring and sat up. He scratched his head, frantically dishevelling his straight brown hair for a moment until it fell back into its natural place. He was not a very big man, five-foot-ten at best, nor did he appear heavy beneath his cotton jacket. Timidly, he examined his surroundings. Inside, the boxcar was dark, lit only by the light of the fading sun through the open door. From the light he saw the garbage and filth that covered the floor of the car, left behind by undesired predecessors. Now and then, a long skinny tail or small beady eyes peered out from beneath the refuse and then dashed away into the corners of the boxcar. He could not see what else lurked in those foreboding shadows, swallowed up by the darkness. A large figure of a man lay dead-like in the midst of the litter. He was curled in a ball, hiding his face. He wore a charcoal gray coat that used to be white. A red stocking hat was pulled down over his head, and he held a crumpled brown paper bag in his hand. Standing in the doorway, engulfed in the light, was the man who had pulled him in. He appeared very old, in his seventies or even eighties. His age, along with his shortness and small build, belied his strength. He had a full head of silver44 Fioretti white hair, and as he stepped forward, the man could make out his facial features. He had bright blue eyes that burned like the flames of a blue-white fire. He had a scruffy complexion with tiny whiskers and many wrinkles, yet they did not detract from his aged attractiveness. He wore long red underwear beneath his white sweatshirt that had more holes than cloth. He smiled, exposing a single gap in his pearly white teeth. Then he spoke. "My name's Sammy Savens," he said proudly. He whistled on every "s" as he spoke. "What's yours?" "P--P--Peter," the man stammered, still recovering from his run. "Peter VonDenBennn---," he progressively mumbled until it became intelligible. Sammy moved over to the lifeless figure on the floor and gave it a nudge with his foot. "Wake up, Buster, we've got company. The figure remained in a ball as it rolled over. It gave no other signs of life other than an occasional grunt or groan. "Buster's not the sociable type," Sammy offered as an apology for Buster's slothfulness. "We's both runners too. How long you been runnin'?" he asked only as a matter of conversation. Peter's appearance already gave away the answer. "I just came from home," Peter's voice trembled as he spoke. "I need work." "Ain't there no work here in Illinois, anymore?" Sammy said stressing the "s" on Illinois. "No" "Where're you headed?" "Don't know. West I guess." "So you decided to jump on this here train?" "Yea." "You know where it's going?" "No." "Neither do I. It's not always smart to put your life on the wheels of the train. Listen to me. I know. I've seen it. These are hard times; I know. There's a depression. Men don't 45 Fioretti have work. Men can't eat. They come here. They go where the train takes 'em. Some ain't ready. They ain't prepared for life at the end of the line. I don't know what it is. Life on the train can play awful tricks. It can mess up your mind, and only the strongest can survive, like me ...and him." He motioned to the lifeless body on the floor. "And even we ain't got off the train yet. Are you sure you're prepared to pick up your roots and ride this train?" "Yea," Peter replied shakily. "You have a peculiar pr'unciation. What is it, Irish?" "No!" Peter shouted and then calmed himself. "I'm Dutch." "Well," said Sammy as he offered his hand to Peter. "I'm glad to meet ya'." Peter looked at his hand for a moment then slowly reached out and shook the old man's hand. "Care if I have a sit?" Sammy motioned with both hands to a spot on the floor, and then he sat dawn. "So. What happened? Why did you give up the Dutchland for all this?" He opened his right hand, palm-up, motioning to the outside world. The rolling landscape flashed by in the darkness. Peter thought of his tragic childhood in the Netherlands. His parents were very strict, and his father would beat him often. "I came here because I believed America was the land of opportunity and free choice." Peter rubbed his neck. He felt the traces of a scar behind his left ear. By his father's wishes, he had been apprenticed on a fishing boat at the age of twelve. Early in his apprenticeship, Peter was caught stealing a piece of cake from the captain's cabin. When he returned home that day, his father beat him with a wooden shoe, inflicting the cut and the scar. That night Peter snuck onto a Dutch cargo ship heading for America. "I lived in Boston until I was seventeen." In Boston, Peter found a job as a furniture mover. He lived in a small room with no windows above the furniture shop. He worked and lived there quietly for four years. While in 46 Fioretti Boston, he took up billiards and became involved in small time gambling. At one time he lost a fifty dollar bet to an Irish man that he could not pay. He was nearly murdered in the darkness of his own room before he got away. That night he jumped a train to Liberty, Illinois. Sammy interrupted his thoughts. "How did you come about to getting to Illinois," again whistling the "s," almost purposely. "There was nothing for me in Boston - only bad things. I heard of Dutch settlers in the Midwest, and I needed more open surroundings. Boston was so busy, so closed. My mind seemed so closed." Peter began to think of his early years in Liberty. He became a dime store clerk, rented a room in the town hotel and earned a quiet honest living for himself. In Liberty, Peter met a young lady named Prudence Fortuna. They fell in love and married. A year later, Peter became a father himself, and he swore he would never be the father his father was to him. But then the hard times came, and the depression. Business in the dime store went dry. At first, Peter's earnings were cut, and then he was let go. "Let's see your money. Where's your money?" Sammy blasted out, changing the subject. Peter hesitantly pulled out a black wallet from his back pocket. Sammy snatched it away. "Heyyyy," Peter opposed half-heartedly. "Don't worry. You'll get your money but this goes." He held up the wallet. "Never carry a wallet on the run. You'll get killed for it. He removed the cash and handed it to Peter then began to toss the wallet out the door. "Wait!" Peter shouted, "Give me that." Sammy handed him back the wallet. Peter took out a black and white photograph hidden in the folds of the billfold and showed it to Sammy. "That's my wife Prudence, and that's Daniel." He pointed to a four-year-old boy held in his mother's arms. Underneath, printed in white ink, was the name "VonDenBenken." For minutes Sammy stared speechless at the picture. 47 Fioretti He rubbed his left eye with his fist. "You left them in Illinois," he said quietly, and this time there was no "s." "Had to," Peter said unblinking. "They're better off this way. The town will find pity for 'em. And I'll find work out west and send for 'em or send 'em a cut in my wages." "There's nothin' west, son," said Sammy sorrily. "You've run out of room. You can't run any further. You can't run from everything all your life." He handed Peter the picture. Peter hid the picture and his money in his shoe. Then he laid , down and turned his back to Sammy. Peter chuckled. "If there's nothin' west, old man, why are you two on this train?" "We've all got our different reasons," answered Sammy. "I ain't like you. I ain't got nobody out there. I'm ridin' 'til it's time for me to go to higher places." Peter began to feel a sense of pseudo-power. He turned to the other traveller. "And what about you, you lifeless bum? You two are here because you can't find life outside. You're afraid of what the world might do to you. You can't beat it like me so you hide in this stinkhole - You're bums." "And you're not?" asked Sammy. "Out there," he pointed to the darkness outside, "is the real world - toothless and decaying. To some it is repulsive to look at, but underneath it is the paradise in which we live. What we make of it is of our own free will. We choose whether or not the land is beautiful. It is the garden which we till." "Well, I choose to till the riches of the west," concluded Peter. "If that's your destination, then perhaps Cap here can show you the way." Sammy patted the other man on the back. "I thought he was Buster." "Call him what you want. He has no real name. He can't hear you anyway. He's deaf and dumb. Look at him. Everyday he drowns his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey and every 48 Fioretti night he drowns his senses in a pool of lost thought. Like you, he had it all. He used to be a millionaire stockholder before the crash. Now he's got nothin' but his self and his bottle." "I'll never be like that," Peter said as he rolled onto his side. Sammy chuckled. ************ Peter awoke in a pool of sweat. He heard a rustling. He sat up and scanned the boxcar, partially lit from the light of a full moon. A figure rolled out of the shadows. It was the deaf man. He appeared to be struggling with someone. He rolled back into the corner of the boxcar and then back out of the darkness. In the moonlight, Peter could see the struggle. It looked as if the man was wrestling with some shadowy creature. Peter was frozen. He reached out to give Sammy an awakening shove, but before he could touch him, the deaf man and his attacker culminated their fight. In an instant the deaf man was thrown out of the door into the darkness. His attacker disappeared in the shadows. Quickly, Peter shook Sammy awake. He whispered as he stared at the invisible intruder. "Sammy. Sammy, someone's here. In the corner. He just threw Buster out the door." Sammy sat up and looked around. "Forget it," he said calmly. "Nobody's here. It was his time. He was fighting with himself. He struggled for so long, he couldn't take the struggle anymore. He threw himself from the train." "But I saw it ... the shadow," Peter stammered "Good. Good. Yes, I know. There's shadows all around us, but so is there light. See the light of the moon? It's there even in the darkest hour." Peter began to calm down, searching his mind for the right answer. "Here, you must be hungry." Sammy pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and opened it. Inside the cloth were a few bites of bread. Peter picked up a piece and took a bite. Sammy ate a piece then reached behind him and pulled out a small bottle of red wine. 49 Fioretti He took a drink and handed it to Peter. Peter looked at the bottle and then to Sammy's eyes that burned in the moonlight. Sammy smiled and nodded. Peter closed his eyes and took a large drink then.returned the bottle and laid back down. Sammy smiled. Peter woke up coughing. .There was no light in the boxcar. The door had been shut. Peter sat up. "Sammy," he cried. He felt for him but found nothing. "Sam--urrrggghh!" Cold fingers closed around Peter's . neck and forced him to the floor. As Peter and his rival rolled back and forth across the boxcar floor, Peter tried frantically to jab the back of his invisible opponent, but there was nothing there. Instead, his fist ended up punching his own chest. The icy hands tightened around his neck as they fought in the filth. Peter's back was thrown against the boxcar door. He reached up and found the door latch. He pulled on it with all his strength. The latch gave way. The door opened. Peter nearly fell out the door; his head combed only inches above the . ground. As he looked up into the brilliant moonlight, the icy fingers released their grip. The freezing wind bit at his ears, nose, and cheeks and froze his watering eyes, but, for a moment, he thought he saw a shadowy figure fall from the boxcar into the dark ditch below. Peter pulled himself inside. He was alone. Sammy was gone, and all that remained were a few bread crumbs on top of a white handkerchief and a near-empty bottle of red wine. ************ Peter took his seat in the train compartment. "Hi, my name's Peter VonDenBenken," he said proudly. "What's yours?" he asked the business man sitting beside him. The mustached man wore a black derby hat and an expensive gray suit. He said nothing as he stared lifelessly at the compartment wall in front of him. 50 Fioretti The train began to pull out of the station. "Where're you headed?" Peter asked smiling, still wearing his cheap suit. Again the man said nothing. Peter looked out of his window. The sun was beginning its ascent above the horizon. The landscape basked in the fresh morning light as the train sped by. Beautiful white clouds greeted the golden sun in a gorgeous blue sky. A figure, wearing a tattered white sweatshirt, engulfed in the sunlight, stood atop a lonely hill and waved as the train passed him by. Peter looked to his closed right hand. He opened it exposing a black and white photograph of a lovely lady and a small boy. Peter smiled, "I'm going back to Liberty," he said. The train raced eastward into the light of the rising sun. 51 Fioretti . ' 52  ...

... ALUMNI .- I 25th ANNIVERSARY EDITION SILVEiR ANNIVERSARY EDITION 1937 -1962 THE ALUMNI FIORETTI AN ANTHOLOGY OF PROSE AND POETRY FROM MARIAN COt,LEGE ALUMNI SILVER ANNIVERSARy-what thoughts these words recall. The memories are of twenty-five years made up of days, hours, and minutes -many filled with the monotony of sameness, some filled with the discouragement of setbacks and failures, and still others bringing sweet triumph for a goal achieved. Since its birth in 1937 Marian has experienced all the familiar growing pains of these first twenty-five years; but now a milestone has been reached. We former students and alumni of Marian join with the students of today, the faculty, and the administrative officers to rejoice in the progress of the past and look forward to a bright future equally as fruitful. As befitting this festive occasion, some Marian alumni have made original contributions in the fields of art and literature. These able representatives speak for all students of past years. Margaret Ann Fleetwood, Chairman of the Board of Directors Alumni Association The Fioretti has been the showcase of student prose and poetf) for the last 20 years. Now, a special edition makes its appearance in recognition of Marian's 25th anniversary. Perhaps alumni will find a friend and former classmate here; perhaps a present student will feel a bond with the students who have been a part of Marian in the past. If so, our purpose has been accomplished. This page would not be complete without thanks to the alumni whose work appears within. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be a part of this commemorative anthology. Maribeth Schubert, '63 Editor CONTENTS ESSAYS Incidental Reflections on Augustine's CONFESSIONS 4 Phan Thien Long Chau The Dignity of Man 12 Katie Bashe Henseler Reveille for Latent Writers 22 Katie Bashe Henseler Some Thoughts on the Study of History 32 Rose Chan FICTION The Rocking Horse ill ustration 6 Our Ambitiously Unhappy Generation 27 Margaret Winsor Vespo Maribeth Schubert, '63 Rose:nary Tisserand Geiss POETRY Lois Tenbieg Godollei A Trio of Poems: Patterns Wings The Birthday Party 11 30 31 Day Dreams 26 Francis Rottet Reunion 39 Margaret Winsor Vespo SPE.CIAL FEATURE The Sad Balloon Poetry a nd Art by Design for the cover title 14 Margaret C. Braun Marianne Peternel Confessions is on.e 0 f those writings which transcend cultural boundaries and time. Written by a . North African some sixteen hundred years ago, it still reflects the basic psychological and spiritual dilemmas of modern-day people. Strikingly contemporaneous are the two aspects of the book dealing with m:tn's quest for happiness and his search for truth. pleasures derived from knowledge, power, wealth, lust. These did Augustine pursue and experience, until in utmost disillusion, he uttered in ~nguish: "Lord God, you have made us for yourself, and our heart and mind are without rest except 111 you!" However dissentifle- people may be about the nature of happiness, everyone cons;ders its pursuit a fundamental element of human existence. Man today, is, as ever, eager to be happy. He whirls himself in a uni ve rse he wants to ref ashion, trying to catch and hold on to the flow of ephemeral Restless :llso lS modern man. Restless amidst the uncertainties of a tomorrow he cannot fully foresee nor control, tormented and impotent before the works of his brains ~nd his hands. Restless, because more than ever he is lonely, despite the networks of instantaneous communication. Restless, because no human is for another forever loving, trustworthy, and underst:lnding. Restless, be- Incidental Phan Thien Long Chau, '61 Reflections on Augustine's CONFESSIONS 4 prehensible, to unra vel the inextricable. And man, wherever and whenever he h::ls lived, seemed to have been preoccupi ed with the reasons of why and for what did he exist, where was he from, who was he, what was he doing on earth, where was he going, why was he born, why was he suffering, and why had he to die. And, ;:tfter death, WHAT? cause his body, his heart, his mind, his soul are fore ve r dissatisfied with the tangible, the transient, the visible, the f inite. Y et man yearns f or securi ty, friendship, love, and joy. Mod ern man loses touch with happiness by attaching himself to the pleasures he loathingly seeks; with the eternal by tarrying amidst the ephemeral; with the essentials of life by overworrying about accessori es ; with r eality, by lack of inner life and contemplation. Like the dried up dandelion under summer winds, m an is scattered by currents of thought, f ashion and fads, desires of the fl esh, hunger for the "fast buck," and tlhirst for domination. Today, as thousands years past, man can have many things he wants or dreams of, except peace and happiness, which he cannot find but within himself, a self submitted to and oriented toward the One who gives joy to the heart of man. Time and again, man has tried to find answers for these questions, and time and again on his own he has not found the truth tlhat could satisfy his mind. From the magic of the primitive man to th e elabor:::te systems of thoughts of modern thinkers, all have proved to be inadequate which relied on the ingenuity of the intellect alone, for man needs more than mere intellect to understand. H e also !leeds faith. Before this limitati on which Augustine r ecognized after years of smug anxiety man may revolt in folly and intellectual anarchy, or like Augustine, he may submit in humility and dignity to the One who is the . W ay, the Life, the Truth. Inseparable from man's qu est for happiness is his search f or truth. The question of truth did not originate with the "modern" schools of thought, nei ther did it with Augustine, but perhaps ever since man was give n an intellect to know, understand, and wonder. And although man's intellect is in many ways limited, it was created aspiring to learn about the unknown, to und erstand the incom- Wh en his heart is in anguish and his mind bewildered, perhaps the only way f or man to find again peace and happiness is to clamor from his notlhingness: "Lord G od, you ha ve created us Jor yourself, and our heart and mind find no rest except in you !" 5 Margaret Winsor Vespo, '57 "How could you do it?" Bob's angry gaze fell upon a scene which would normally bring pleasure to anyone else. A beautiful brown rocking-horse, complete with a lifelike mane and tail, was being ridden by a bouncing baby boy seated on a real leather saddle. shouted Boh, his usually pleasant disposition completely routed. "How could you spend $25.00 on a child's toy?" "Oh, hut see how he enjoys it," Nancy replied in an effort to soothe her husband's ruffled Nancy h:lstened to explain the many fine features the horse feelings. 6 me where that $25.00 is coming from." possessed. "He's not only handpaintedhe's handcarved. Look what a cute expression he has." Relieved at this much of a concession Nancy hurriedly followed up the advantage, "Why, dear, I've been saving out of the house money for months and I've paid for most of it already." "Yes," growled Bob, "and look at the cute price tag on his ear." How could she have forgotten to remove that indelicate reminder. Bob's face brightened. "Why, that's fine, dear. How much do we still owe on it then?" "Baby loves him already," she proceeded with an enraptured expression. "Remember how he enjoyed little Johnny Stevens' rocking-horse? Th2t's what prompted me to look at them downtown last week and when the salesman explained all the extras this one had and the fact that this was the last one they had in stock, well, I just had to buy it!" Bob did not seem to be impressed. "He isn't ,even made well. Listen to that noise." "Squeek. Squeek," said the rocking-horse. "Well," sniffed Nancy, feeling that she wasn't making much of a gain in the discussion, "I suppose you want me to send it back even though all the other children we know have rockinghorses." "They aren't buying a new house either," exploded Bob. "Since you've already let him see and ride it, I guess we'll have to let him keep it; but you tell A weak voice replied, "Twenty dollars." With a look of complete despair Bob sank into his easy chair with the evening paper and disappeared from view all the more completely since the chair was quite old and the stuffing no longer had the resistance it once had. Nancy turned away from the injured husband, cooing Baby, and squeeking-horse to prepare supper, completely disgusted with herself. Why didn't she use some sense in buying things or at least in telling her husband about it. The books say wait till after supper and then when husband is full and content, tell him the bad news. Unfortunately, she was preparing a Friday tuna casserole. Bob had eaten tuna casserole the past two Fridays. That probably wouldn't have worked anyway. If only she had waited two more weeks then they would be in their new house and 7 sembled it himself several years before they were married and whenever he sought relaxation or consolation he turned to its brightly polished surface and beautiful tone. there would be plenty of room -at least Dobbin, as she fondly named the horse, would be less noticeable there than he was now in the middle of the living room where Bob would have to climb over or around him until they moved. Nancy spiritedly cleared away the dishes as Carmen sang wildly in the living room. It was time for Baby t~ be bathed and put to bed, and he splashed to tunes from South Pa- Her thoughts were interrupted by the cupboard door which had stuck shut. Deftly she banged on the left-hand door and the right one magically flew open to reveal the dishes she needed. cific. Finally, as she settled down to some unfinished mending, the bubbling waltzes of Lawrence Welk announced that Bob's anger was subsiding. "I wish they would regulate this heat," she muttered looking from the sticking - doors to the maze of pipes which criss-crossed the ceiling of their basement apartment. The apartment itself was far from exclusive but nothing about it bothered the young couple as much as these ungainly and sometim es noisy ceiling fixtures. "You know it's not that I don't want Bobby to have it," he finally said. "But we'll have our house payments as well as utilities and other bills ... well, we just can't afford it right now." "But Bobby doesn't really have many toys because we've tried to save so much for the house and this is one toy that he will really like and play with." "Yes, but I'm sure we can find one for less money with fewer (extras.' Look at him! He's much too fancy to belong to the Clark family, don't you think?" Together they looked with dissatisfaction at the regal trappings of poor Dobbin sitting in front of the Hi-Fi offering no defense for himself. Baby Bobby's chubby fingers had to be pried away from Dobbin when supper was finally prepared. His squeal of protest and then his happy gurgling over supper were practically the only sounds made as the other two members of the Clark family ate in an unnatural reserve. After supper Baby toddled back to Dobbin and Bob noisily scrambled around them to his beloved Hi-Fi. This was his pride and joy. He had bought and as8 been submerged in over an inch of icy water. "Bob. Bob. Wake up!" She could imagine how Noah's wife felt. "Bob, there's water creeping up the side of the bed." Bob awoke and leaped into action, but promptly leaped back again to the refuge of the bed. "Well, I'll see if they won't take him hack at the store tomorrow," Nancy sighed but still not entirely convinced. "I have to go past the store tomorrow anyway," remarked Bob sensing her reluctance. "I'll take care of it for you if you want me to." She nodded her assent as he shut off the record 7 player. The only music left in the apartment that sad winter night was the singing of the overhead pipes as the last heat made its way through before morning. "What's happening?" he demanded. "I don't know. The squeaking of the rocking-horse woke me up and I found this. Listen to that gushing noise. It's coming from the bathroom, isn't it?" By this time Bob had his pajamas rolledc,up and was wading into the bathroom. "A pipe's burst in here," Bob ereported above the noise. Not being able to find the shut-off valve, he rushed down the hall in search of the custodian, his pajama shirt-tails flying. A sleepy custodian and the two Clarks frantically attempted to stop the flow of water and mop up what had already accumulated. "It's a good thing these rooms slope. The bed is the only piece of furniture wet in here," reported Nancy after most of the excitement was over. "How is everything in the living room?" she c.inly, the sense of values so apparent in our society is one indication of that need for refreshment which only an informed and mature theist can provide. Assuredly, not :!II of the people subscribe to these values, perhaps not even 2 m'ljority; but the stifling notion of confoLnity for conformity's sake, the loud and liberal misuse of n:ass communications (which seem to cater to th e lethargic aud;e!1ces' plea, Speak to us in platitudes ~md say only what w e want to hear) overwhelm or discour:>.ge those individuals who 'A,'ould abide by their nobler convictions if their sense of freakishness were diminished by discovering kindred souls through literature. Creation of distinct characters, natural di::tlogue, absorbing mood, and plots wid,. a novel twist to entertain the prospective reader req,uire originality and the mastering and m anipt:btion of language. As ~he writer's ingenuity is exercised, a few mental muscles are likely to be stretched thus increasing the capacity to create with facility. To the sincere aspirant the acceptance of this challenge provides both an outlet for intellectual productivity ,md a path to fulfillment (which well may be his only recompense in those months or years prior to publication). Indeed, writing maketh an exact man; it 21so makes a complete man. Serious creative vintmg (plays, short stories, poetry, novels, all of it) requires a remarkable amount of material - something akin to the bird who is s2id to consume his wei gh t in food e ::~ ch day ; howve r, one n eed not possess knowledge of Aquinas-Einstein-Toynbee proportions, no:' to have a backg round of experiences from street pre2.ching on Skid Row to hunting abominable snowmen on Unfortu'1ately, t:he attempt to create literature that will inject a dash of Christian tradition into our culture frequently is reduced to ineffecti veness by the blunt manner of thrusting moral principles at the reader. Sermonizing is literary suicide for the creati ve writer today ; it has the same scattering effect 2S the cry, "Un24 Kilimanjaro. Authors would ha ve become extinct long :ego if that were a criterion. "it's too tough to bre2k into the literary market." The profusion of published cre:1tive writing (con- The writer may never have brought forth a c.hild in labor and unspeakable joy, nor have lain in a foxhole crin~ipg inwardly, swearing Ol:twardly, in anticipation of the unknown worst. Yet he does understand these and other feelings which he has experienced vicariously t h r 0 ugh reading, imagination, ~llld by a sort of proxy. In thi:; btter respect much is acquired by "he2xing" with the eyes because so .nuch is "spoken" through the eyes of others. sider for example the consumption of television scripts for one day of programming) attests to the vast market for this form of entertainment; and the profusion of published creative writing of a deplorable nature attests to our failure to offer intellectually honest material with meat on its bones, presented with a fresh slant, and aimed at man's edification. We have alreadv defaulted in our responsibility; t!1e simple alternative (fortunately there is one) is to force the to!1S of banal junk from the market by sendir..g in superior material as competition. The reading public has a voracious appetite and when Vie fail to satiate it others supply the demand with a much less nourishing diet. However, the f act that the alternative is simple to srate is no assurance that it v.,rill be effected with ease. People are not born at the literary summit anymore than the Christ was born atop Cal vary-but where . there is a need, and a will to meet it, there is a way up. The writer's journey has the added incentive of being enjoy~ble c:.nd fascinating. It is sufficient-and essential -to know oneself honestly, to be keenly aware of the various characters (no sarcasm intended) encountered in ordinuy circumstances, and to develop the six senses (Who doesn'1: lay claim to a sixth sense :lbol!t one thing or another?) l!ntil they can detect the fin est in the world of man. Gradually, as a pattern running through individual differences becomes apparent, there comes an understanding of human naturethe same human nature in mink or in a barrel, in chapel or in a bar. The artist is free then to reconstruct or to cre:1te plausible si tuations resulting from that nature. The hour and the circumstances are ideal for the potential author; today is that "someday" of which he has been dreaming. It would b ~ a pity if anyone of our writers-in-reverie-only were withholding his pen because 25 AY D REAMS I si t alone, I feel so blue, I find my thoughts drift back to you. I see you ne2r, you speak my name, I find you in my arms again . We stroll along, hand in hand, The world, it's like a wonderland . Your li vely ,Toice, your sparkling eyes Much bluer than the summer skies, Your smile so tender, so very warm Bring my heart peace and calm. But dreams must die and memories fade, And we forge on to each new day. Yet, my heart, m y foolish heart, has just one pleaDea rest, please, come back to me. ~;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;. Francis R ottet, 26 '60 Our Ambitiously Unhappy Generation "F or as much money as I make working at two jobs, you would think we'd have no financial worries. We must be living too high, Gloria." Rosemary Tisserand Geiss, '56 "But, Fred, we don't get everything we want. When I look around the house, it doesn't seem as if we have so much; and. I'm sure we don't go out any more than our friends." 27 "You can't gage our activities by our friends. We are the only ones with children in the group we seem to pre f er. We have got to keep our head above water, what with !:hc new b8.by coming, the fence to be paid off, and the rug I know you need to show off your new couch. We just go on and on. This is the worst we have ever been." would have to Improve. Like Fred said, there was no other way. They had to get back on their feet, and live according to their means. No more parties. That meant the meals would be slim that week. No more living from payday to payday. Fred worries so much about an emergency. If we just had some money in the bank. . . . Sleep had conquered Gloria's worrying mind. There was really no sense fretting about their financial matters. After all, she knew what must be done! "Fred, I am truly sorry for getting us in this shape. If I could just learn to say NO, I am sure we'd do muc!h better-financially and spiritually! I will try harder, dear. Please don't worry yourself sick. I am well aware that after four years w e should be in better shape than we are at the present. We'll just have to stay home more, and cut down on wining and dining our friends. The one activity I would like to continue is having your mother and my father for their weekly dinner here. That will be the last tthing to go." As Gloria knelt in Church that next morning, the Mass held something new for her. Yes, they would look towards God more in the future. God had put two lovely boys in their hands to rear according to His image and likeness. She had always been so busy going places, hiring babysitters, and having company. This settling down would be a new experience for her. "All right, honey. Let's try again. We've got to slow down this time. There is no alternative. If you could just be content at home, Gloria, we could be so happy together." But weeks flew by and the situation did not change, despite Gloria's wishes for a brand new life with her family. After being caught up in a whirlwind, it was by no means easy to steady her feet on the ground again. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted the invitations to stop. It was so hard to say NO, because people would Gloria drew the cover up to her neck. Pretty soon su-m mer would be past. Then it would be Christmas-time, with baby-time just three months away. She 28 told Gloria all this, Fred, and now she has to conform to my judgment." not understand their sudden "unwillingness to socialize." As muoh as Gloria wanted to change, the change just was not taking place. "Maybe she will listen to you, Doctor. I've told her this since we've been married." One gloomy morning in November Gloria was awakened by sharp pains in her abdomen. She reached over for Fred, and, with tears in her eyes, moaned, "Please call the doctor, Fred, right away." "Fred, she has got to do as we say. She has no alternative." As Gloria lay in bed that night she was frightened - frightened that she !had gone so far with the life of her child. Maybe a big scare like this was all she needed to straighten out her life. She would stop pleasing other people and start satisfying her family. It was sad that it took a threat upon an unborn child's life and her own life to make her become realistic for the first time. "There are a fortunate few who get a warning," Dr. Davids had said. God had been in there pulling for her again. She had been one of His fortunate ones throughout her life. As the doctor was speeding over to the Raibleys, Fred was busy on the phone contacting Grandmother. Grandmother had missed the boys so much while on her trip. Let's hope she would like to have them for a while now. "No, Gloria and the baby are not in any danger, unless ... " "Unless what, Dr. Davids?" (cu nIess, Fred, she keeps up at the pace she has been going. I don't mean just to temper her housework; I mean she has to slow down on all activities, inside and outside the home. This attack was a warning for her, and there are a fortunate few who get a warning. She has got to slow down for her sake and for that of the unborn child. I have In the darkness of this eventful day, Gloria found sleep. Never again would she close her eyes but to sleep, for Gloria's eyes had been opened widely to reality today. 29 WINGS Lois Tenbieg Godollei, '48 You butterfly, Firefly, Gadfly th:ng. You elude me, Wispwilled, Pursue me I have no q'..lick Worm teeth To flee down: No glimmering Gleamed light Bright to guide: Sun glittered wings A-sky I have not. Go, go away Wing thing; Let me be. 30 Lois Tenbieg Godollei, '48 The privileged children go to parties; Clean and smelling sweet; In organdy and well brushed hair, Shining. Early aged, they know intuitively Prideful right to place. In innocence, they press their claim To this Increment, these children of the chosen. Give them place; they have Relentless rights and heritage. Make wayl 31 SOME T'HOU'GHTS on the STUDY of HISTORY Rose Chan, '59 32 For scores of years, history has definitely been an integral part of the school curriculum. Whether he is in Europe, America or Asia, a youngster in prim::!ry or secondary school finds himself face to face with at least a three-periodof -history-per-week schedule. ":He does not know why he should be made to spend so much time on such a subject, but he does not protest because he knows it is futile to do so. He c<"lnnot see the necessity and <;ignificance, if such there are, of studying about peoples and thi11gs long dead and gone, and at times quite alien to him and his immediate surroundings. World history! Ancient and mediaeval history, indeed! How boring! What an utter waste of time! He would much prefer spending the time on subjects like "crafts," "nclture study," or " gym. " high mountain of Olympia. And;" the, boy added after a moment's thought, "Alexander the Great was the gre<:test soldier ever lived. He fought his most famous battle at SC!Jamis. He was a Greek, I think. And the Egyptians buried their kings in PYRAMIDS." "Do you like ancient history, world history and the like?" "Well, I like to read about battles, heroes, and all that sort of tlhing. But none of that political business for me. It bores me to death." Action, vitality - the symbols of youth. History, on the whole, is too dull, too static for their young energetic but untutored minds. The study of history demands a disciplined intellect, a genuine and profound desire to know, to understand. But young eager minds can ?nd should be disciplined; a little imagination, an abundance of p2.tience are the necessary tools. Once an English schoolboyan equivalent of a 6-grader in the States-was asked what he knew of ancient history, and without much hesitation, he replied, "J ulius Caesar." As the English schoolboy enters secondary education, he studies his own country and his own people; and foreign events, peoples and names are mentioned only when they have a definite bearing on national affairs. He now begins to get a clearer and more detailed knowledge of his country's past: its glories 2nd its tragedies, its '(What about him, my boy?" (:He crossed the Rubicon." "0 h! What else do you know about ancient history?" "The Romans conquered the world and were great road builders. Their gods lived up in the 33 shames and its distinctions. His approach, guided unswervingly by tion with the credulity of the innocent and admiring; and his .his teacher, is one of compassion, patriotic and indulgent. As he history text--he thumbs heavily the pages-serves as his guide to studies his nation from its begin- knowledge, 3timulation. Heroic deeds, great men and the wicked world-ah 1 there is nothing like History 1 Wh:::t fascination 1 He is spellbound by the magic of history, national -bistory-and he swears that he will be a history major in college. ning to the present, he is thrilled with a sense of intim~.cy; of belonging. He now loves his country deeply and passionately, like a man loves his mistress, most forgiving of its faults :md immensely proud of its virtues. Secretly he swears undying allegiance to it while he kisses the unfurled Union Jack _with lips quivering with emotions and eyes almost blind by tears of reverence. Like his English cousin, the American schoolboy, too, becomes enthralled by his own nation's history. He did not like the idea of studying American History at first. But it i3 compulsory in high school, he realizes. More years of fact-stuffing, memonzlllg of atrocious names and DATES to look forward tol-Oh, blast it anywayl From then on, his heroes are no longer the big brother of soand-so, or this-and-that movieactor. Replacing these fallen idols are historic:!l figures of the magnitude of Alfred the Great, William the Conqueror, Richard the Lion-Hearted (and Robin Hood, of course), the "enlightened Tory" Canning, the iron Duke of Wellington, the unique Lord Palmeston, the romantic freedom lover Lord Byron, the memorable Lloyd George, the incomparable Winston Churchill, the far-sighted Gladstone, the daring Disraeli ... With an unquenchable thirst, his eyes drink in untiringly all the historical works within his reach. He devours biographies of his heroes; he absorbs historical fic- But his teacher turns out to be a "peach," a ((gem." She is absolutely ((fantz.bulous!" She seems to breathe life into the American past; she makes dead heroes live by her vivid imaEimtion, and historical events leap from the dull pages of the history text to become dramatic scenes on the living stage! The Spirit of 1776, the Albany Plan, the Virginia Company, Thomas Paine and the Age of Reason, the founder of the Republic, Hamiltoni2.n aristocracy, the Federalist Papers, J efferson34 Jan democracy , Wars of 18 I 2, 1856, 1898 . . . -they are not so difficult to remember after all! And King Andrew! -the, ah yes, symbol of the untamed West. The West, still uncorrupted by civilization, rich with natural resources, sprawling unpretentiously beyond the Appalachians. It was like a new-born baby, endowed already with the potentials of every manly virtue and beauty, waiting to be loved, admired, fondled and caressed. the young, courageous leader and protector of a group of pioneering men, women and children and the wise, elderly chieftain of a wild, semi-savage Indian tribe. N ext to the West, the Ci viI War comes closest to his heart. N ames like General Grant-the Union patriot-and General Lee -the military genius of the South - stand out among hundreds of other Civil War heroes. Our fri end is by principle and family tradition a Unionist. Nevertheless, he has great admiration for General Lee-the perfect Southern gentleman. Somehow, for some inexplicable reasons, he feels a deep nostalgia for the "good old South" where life was nothing but an interminable period of hunting, sports and other manly pursuits, sumptuous dinners and balls. Yes, he reads about tiliem in historical noyels as Gone With the TVind and such books as A m erican History Made Simple. And everyone knows books don't lie. Completely enamoured by the wondrous Wild West that was, and is no longer, our American friend experiences a deep sense of regret. If only he had been born a century or so earlier! But the thought that all those legends and tales of the Great Wild West were pan: of his nation's past consoles him immensely. They belong to him as an American. He begins to conjecture and finally beli eve that his gr~at-great-grandfather was one of the pioneers in the Westward movement, he was, perhaps, a gunman; he might even be a kinsman of Jesse J ames! Unlike his English cousin, the American schoolboy does not become zealously and passionately patriotic as a result of his knowledge. He can only feel complacency. He is glad, yes, very glad, that he has born an American. Past glories hold rather slight attraction for his practical mind; he loves the present and the im- Our American schoolboy proceeds to read all he can about the lives of the pioneers; he becomes acquainted with Indian smoke signals, their trails and whathave-you, like he is with the palm of his hand. In his world of make-belie ve, he is at once 35 mediate, and is quite optimIstIc the battlefront ready to charge, defiant, frightened yet meaningful. . . . and complacent of the future. He respects what is concrete and is duly sceptical of the abstract. The image of the self-made menCarnegie, Rockefeller, Harriman, Vanderbilt, etc. - provides material for endless dreams. Someday . . . someday . . . he murmurs to himself. History, as far as he is concerned, has served its purpose: it has installed in him ambition, and given him hope. It has whispered to him through its pages of turbulent events what the promise of American life reall y means. Among his college professors, our English fellow finds one who seems to him the embodiment of all scholarly virtues. His ( this professor's) rich and sonorous voice gives colour to his otherwise too lengthy lectures. Like a magician he breathes life into the panorama of history as he unfolds it in front of his students; they listen, enthralled. He thunders accusations at the characters of the past for their undue ambitions and inexcusable errors, and with equal earnestness, he exalts them for their achievements and virtues. He delves with penetra60n into the past acknowledging his hopes to find therein the answers to the riddle of history. He ventures bold interpretations on historical grounds still untrod by his fellow historians, and he welcomes original ideas and new viewpoints from his students. Like a tyrannical trainer, he whips their minds into intellectual alertness by hurling at them, incessantly, complicated historical problems, demanding and accepting from them only plausible solutions. Haziness of mind and indecision he absolutely abhors and condemns. True to his pledge, the En:slish school boy enters college and chooses history as his field of concentration. It is here in college that he begins to realize that the study of history is an art. Yes, an art! A prospecti ve historian does not memorize facts, dates, names like one does mathematical tables or chemical formulas. Nor does he reproduce historical information like a parrot, devoid of comprehension. He knows that studying history does not mean the raking up of old leaves or the autopsy of a mummy. On the contrary, history is ve ry much alive: it is of flesh and blood. It bleeds under the penetrating glance of the historian as does the vic6m of a surgical operation; and it cries out like a soldier at Yes, this professor is a man of definite and bold ideas, with a 36 burning desire for truth. our English collegian and defends them whenever he And worships feels himself in the right in the such qualities. He has now met best way he knows how-devot- Socrates and he feels it his duty ing extra hours to serious studies to be Plato. of historical works by famous historians, analyzing controversial With our American friend, it IS a matter-of-course that he enters college-an Ivy League one if his father's bank account is large enough. Even his choice of history as a major is a matter-ofcourse, for history would serve as the best prerequisite for his law studies after graduation. To be a corporation lawyer, snugly established in Wall Street, is the dream of every young prospecti ve law student. It might sound incredible to say that this narrow, overcrowded street can lead to a land overflowing with milk and honey, that its endless hustlebustle is the magic key which unlocks the secret door to the socalled "American life par excellence." But such it is, they say. problems with a critical eye-and as a result he gains the awesome reputation of "radical." But he learns more about history in the process than he would have had he remained a docile class-attender. True, he accepts the value of viewing history as an "outsider" but a great historian does not necessarily have to be an unopinionated reporter, he argues. Often times, he feels that the non-communicative relationship between professor and student stifles the intellectual progress of the latter, but he is unable to suggest a remedy for the situation. Time, yes time, he suddenly realizes, is the assassin of intellectual dynamism in American youth. No, III all Americans, young and old. Hurry! hurry! - from nowhere to nowhere! "Wake up, my fellow countrymen! Wake up and live!" he cries. His voice comes back to him in an echo: he is alone, defeated. However, like all Amerjcans, he is practical minded. He accepts his defeat as an indirect invitation to re-enter the "time- Un f ortunatel y, our American collegian finds history in college rather dull. His major professor's incessant emphasis on impartiality and objectivity in passing judgment on historical events somewhat irritates him. Not only are his opinions, in many cases, considered partial and biased, but a number of his long-cherished theories openly attacked and refuted as unscholarly. He argues 37 honored respectable society." He is the prodigal son-home again. to his dismay, have devoted volumes to disproving the existence of the long established "Industrial * *** Revolution"; others have testified that "Renaissance," "Enlighten- An After-thought ... ment" and "America" are misnomers. Still others have ques- Believe it or not-I wouldn't if I were you-Graduate School 1S for die-hard "egg-heads" only. tioned the actual occurrence of the "French Revolution," of "Moses crossing the Red Sea on foot," and of the truth of the report that Kaiser Wilhelm II and Czar Nicholas II addressed each other "Willy and Nicky" shortly before German and Russian soldiers began massacring one another at the Eastern front. Invariably, the graduate student finds himself confronted with a ten-mile long reading list from each of his professors, and like a dutiful student whose only fault is his eagerness to learn, he tries his very best to fulfill h:s assignments. He burns the midnight oil and reads till his eyes almost "pop out" from strain. From a twenty-twenty vis;on, h's eyes worsen to become victims of bi-focals - and later, tri-focals. However, he has the miserable consola ti on of knowing that whereas most of his fellow grad students fulfil only three-eighths of their assignments, he is among the small elite who fulfils fiveeighths of them. Perplexed, confused, saddened -our industrious graduate student no longer knows what to think or believe. He gropes, patiently, in the dark, hoping and praying to find light eventually. He does. One day, a fifth year graduate student - a professional student of rather scholarly appearance comforts our bewildered historianto-be on hearing of his difficulties. Like a ray shot through the darkness and shattering it C0111pletely, the words of wisdom of the "professional" ring: "The aim of graduate school is to help you unlearn all that you have learned before. When your state of confusion becomes unbearable, you know you have graduated from Graduate School." True, he finds many of his prof essors most dynamic; their lectures inspiring and their questions thought-provoking. But he is at a loss as to what to think of his discoveries from his extensive outside reading. Some historians of world renown, he finds 38 Margaret Winsor Vespa, '57 N Hand in na!1d My love and I 0n pink clouds did par:-de. And men Vlould smile 2nd angels wink At lofty bliss displa~Ted . Heart to heart My love :lnd T did tdk; but others feared We would not keep love's unity When raging storms appeared. Side by side My love and I novi rest beneath the sad. But lovingly, two minds as one, Our souls rise up to God. 39  ...

... THE FIORETTI Spring 2012 Charles Pealosa Editor-in-Chief Sarah Gabonay Assistant Editor Contributors: Jessica Armacost Karen McNulty Michael Baumann Dylan Ng Cassy Brown Jasmine Nicholson Hillary Carpenter Charles Pealosa Sarah Gabonay Kaitlyn Reed Brianna McCasin Michael Schrader Caitlyn McIntyre Tyler Tenbarge THE FIORETTI Spring 2012 Tasting Spring Charles Pealosa Editor-in-Chief Sarah Gabonay Assistant Editor THE FIORETTI Spring 2012 Tasting Spring Charles Pealosa Editor-in-Chief Sarah Gabonay Assistant Editor Editors Note: The word Fioretti, translated from Italian, means little flowers. Specifically, the Fioretti is a collection of little tales on the life of St. Francis of Assisi. The idea of little flowers was a catalyst for Marian Universitys Fioretti, a student-run literary and art journal. Editors Charles Pealosa and Sarah Gabonay wanted to create an atmosphere where the little flowers of Marian University could flourish and bloom. We sincerely hope you enjoy this edition of The Fioretti, which the Marian University student body has offered. Dr. Diane Prenatt Faculty Advisor Charles Pealosa Editor-in-Chief and Layout Designer Loved Front Cover Tyler Tenbarge 2 1 Table of Contents Loved Tyler Tenbarge Cover Big Bang Charles Pealosa 7 Spring Michael Baumann 8 Adagio Sarah Gabonay 8 Abuse Michael Schrader 9 Melodic Memories Karen McNulty 10 Lace Cassy Brown 11 Storm Charles Pealosa 12 Tasting Spring Caitlyn McIntyre 12 Magic Marker Michael Baumann 13 The Flower Dylan Ng 15 Its a Vegetable Dylan Ng 15 Untitled Kaitlyn Reed 16 Mia Bella Jessica Armacost 17 December 24, 2011 Caitlyn McIntyre 19 Its Only Called Faith Anonymous 19 The Chaos Theory Dylan Ng 20 The Invention of the Stratosphere Sarah Ganonay 20 Untitled Michael Schrader 21 Untitled 2 Michael Schrader 21 Spanish Minor Jasmine Nicholson 22 Recipe Michael Baumann 23 Foam Hillary Carpenter 23 Artemis and the Phenomenon of the Womens Bathroom Brianna McCaslin 3 24 2 Cobwebs Karen McNulty 28 The Ecstasy of St. Teresa Sarah Gabonay 31 Aqueous Transmissions Michael Schrader 32 A Beautiful Rain Anonymous 33 A Belief So Twisted Caitlyn McIntyre 34 Love Cassy Brown 35 Shake the Dust Michael Baumann 36 Can You Feel the End? Cassy Brown 36 Haircut Charles Pealosa 37 A Letter to a Boring Man Dylan Ng 38 The Clock in the Kitchen Karen McNulty 38 For Kara Michael Baumann 39 Prodigal Pen Charles Pealosa 41 Salida 71- Sarah Gabonay 42 Love is Like Air Anonymous 43 Thats Why They Call It Naptown Michael Schrader 46 Oxy Moron Michael Baumann 47 Blinds Karen McNulty 49 Where Did Our Lives Go? Michael Schrader 50 Shutters Cassy Brown 51 The Skate Park Michael Baumann 52 No One Talks of Fall Love Cassy Brown 56 Single Servings Sarah Gabonay 57 A Time for Everything Charles Pealosa 58 Contributors Page 4 59 Tasting Spring - Spring 2012 - 5 6 Big Bang Charles Pealosa In the beginning there are popcorn kernels. So I place the small, folded universe Inside the microwave and push a button. Then there is light, the glass disc Beginning to rotate. Kernels pop and collide. Puffs of stars form, brim with heat. The universe expands, gets bloated. As time passes, the popping becomes less frequent. Gravity pulls everything to equilibrium. I take out the scorching universe from the microwave, Tear open the top to release fragrant gasses. Air and mist escape. Big crunch commences. Stars get chewed and die, until only the dregs Of failed stars remain. The universe contracts, Gets crumpled, and thrown to the trash. 7 Spring Michael Baumann We hibernate here near murky water. Where once a man dumped a dead body that after three days grew pregnant and burst with mud and mosquitos. Where heat lightning rolls through burning sheep in the sky. Where streaks of coal murmur in the bones of the rocks. We hibernate here, and when the air thaws, we wake and sow seed. Our children play with tires and tin cans. Adagio Sarah Gabonay They say that music is everywhereAll you have to do is listenThis is trueBut I never learned to playWords are my celloGod, I love that soundThe rich primal groan that lovers make when they stroke the right placeI try to recreate this with poetry- 8 Abuse Michael Schrader You say tomatoes, I say radishes. That bruise on your arm isnt from me, you fell down the stairs, remember? If you would quit running into tables, sofas and chairs, you wouldnt need to go to the hospital. You say tomatoes, I say radishes. Dec. 20, 2011 9 1 Melodic Memories Karen McNulty I wrote the lyrics to my favorite songs on the wall in my closet. It took one day. The poets down here / dont write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be. Bruce Springsteen I was seven when Dad handed me the lyrics to Jungleland, an eightminute song by The Boss and said Memorize this before Im finished cutting the grass. He set off on his task and I started on mine. He mowed. I memorized. It took me longer than a mowing hour to memorize each line, but I did it. The verses are up on my wall now. Beneath the city, two hearts beat is plastered in a place that catches my eye each day, cursive script on purple paper above my closet door. I remember every word. Regardless of his purpose, it brings us closer every time, singing in unison, windows down, music loud. Each melody still speaks to me fourteen years later. I swear that old bear whispered Boy, welcome home. Kenny Loggins He whispered the secrets of my childhood in one single album: Return to Pooh Corner. Goosebumps still shimmy up my arms and legs at the end of the title song. Sprinkled with silly childrens stories, the music masks fairy tales with melodic voices and sweet harmonies and the rubbing of guitar strings as he shifts chords. I sat outside of my window on the roof of my house under a blanket watching the stars while Kenny serenaded me. Just watching. Just listening. The brisk night air and the bright white stars whisked me away to another world. I was home. I cannot forget where it is that I come from. John Mellencamp Mellencamp grew up in the house next to Mom. Seymour, Indiana. Grandpa yelled at him when he played his guitar too loud on the front porch, so I keep listening. The cornfields played audience to his shows, listening with their ears, intent to remember every note, at least until the farmers came to collect them. Mellencamp reminds me of small town heroes playing music in the basement of the local bar for a room full of thirty people, entirely unaware of the talent in their midst. That was him 10 2 in small town Seymour, playing for my family. Come take my hand. Bruce Springsteen Thunder Road blasts through the speakers of Dads gold Infiniti, and he reaches for mine. Only for a second, we hold hands and finish the verse: Riding out tonight to case the Promised Landbefore we let go, not even missing a beat. Neither of us could tell you where this all began. This holding hands ritual. I only know that its important, and not just to Dad. You know I still want to play. / So just make sure youve got it all set to go / before you come for this piano. Jackson Browne Let me stay. Just a little bit longer. With these lyrics that empower their listeners. Empower them to live. The words sink into their skin, not like tattoos, but more like words that were always meant to be there. Imprinting on their skin and their lives. My life and yours. Lace Cassy Brown Tattered Fabric Reminds her of home Broken Windows tell her That she is no longer alone Faded Wallpaper Only thing that marks the age Peeling Paint tells her This is no longer her gilded cage The Creaking Comforts As lullabies often do The bloody carpet reminds me (Oh, rent is overdue!) 11 Storm Charles Pealosa The superstitious would have said That Zeus was just having fun, Perhaps throwing a stick of light, For his dog to fetch. But thats just silly. The truth is that the gods Convinced Prometheus Not to steal the fire, And instead to settle for something less: A digital camera with a spacious memory card. So I guess today Prometheus was in the mood To take pictures, showing off The loud shutter sound, the bright flashes. Tasting Spring Caitlyn McIntyre Its a new leaf type of day A way that wont go away To a place where angels lay. A fire burns in a hobos eyes The trash can holding hope for another day. Slow down, taste the sweat on your upper lip To reveal the efforts of today And breathe sweet lungs I tell you We can all just breathe and new beginnings can fill you. 12 1 Magic Marker Michael Baumann If I gave you a magic marker and Im not talking about any of that Sharpie shit but if I gave you a magic marker that was (really, truly) magical, I feel like you would use its powers for good and not evil, because you would rewrite the wrongs to make rights and write songs onto kites so you can raise your melody, hoisted like the spines of so many big, black tree trunks in the high sky, and the leaves would become the punctuation at the ends of your declaratives and interrogatives, raining exclamation points and periods and question marks onto the sentence-soil of your paper-world-ground, giving the earth and the nation and all of creation some sort of connotation. And after sketching a stretching mouth in the earth it would dictate wisdom-words you would translate-write in the white clouds, the sounds of an orb hoisted on the hurt heart and head of a man named Atlas. Then you would draw a mustache on his face. And if I gave you a magic marker that was (really, truly) magical, you would draw me a new set of hands that can make fists gripping inside ribcages, pulling heartstring curtains apart, and squeezing the soul inside so soul-juice would drip onto the canvas of your new world, soul-drops dotting the is you left undotted unblotted unjotted unbottling the bottledup stuff. Thousands of bottles with messages you wrote, corked, and left drifting in all the small and tall waves you would draw in a new ocean of emotion outlined by the lines of your marker. With my new set of hands, I would uncork each and every bottle and eat the message hiding inside so that I could exhale your exiled words into the wild wind currents that you would write onto the calloused skin of the sky. 13 2 And if I gave you a magic marker that was (really, truly) magical, you would draw me a new set of eyelashes that can curl like the swirls of a girls hair, and My new set of eyelashes would be stringent. They would only allow images of the imagination that I approve into my eyes and filter guilt or deflect rejections easily. Breezily. And then you would illustrate on me a new set of retinas because whereas the eyelashes are for filtering, these would let me see everything you drew with your magic marker I gave you. And if I gave you a magic marker that was (really, truly) magical, you would draw me new set of internal organs That go pumpety-pump-pump in synchronization with yoursity-yours-yours, opening valves and doors and letting blood take elevators to different floors in our skyscraper bodies like little skyscraper people that tell the little skyscraper stories of our lives. You would draw the stories on my circulatory system using veins arteries like lines on notebook paper. Your ink would blacken my blood and eventually replace it so that you would have to surgically remove my body parts one by one by one and draw new ones one by one by one, and by the time youd be done, Id cry ink and blink ink and breathe and bleed and drink ink. I would be your masterpiece. But if you gave me a magic marker that was (really, truly) magical, we would stomp on and scoop up and landscape over the crust of the articulation of our lives, brush off and shove down and burrow under the dust and the rust of the ironclad, spiralbound spines of the books of our bones. And I would write this poem a hundred thousand times on the surface of your body so that when you walk, I talk, and the world will be better for it. 14 The Flower Dylan Ng A colorful little blossom With petal after petal plucked In hopeless wishes That He loves me When truly love is dead Buried in a field Of petals and bare flowers. Its a Vegetable Dylan Ng Consider the orange Feel its skin Taste its juice Pluck the seeds That grow a new tree Delicious, isnt it? A magnificent Display of food Only Its a vegetable Or so society Tells us. 15 Untitled Kaitlyn Reed Her eyes were slightly sunken lids heavy and underscored with a delicate bruising that betrayed a lack of sleep punctuated her sallow, drawn skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones. She looked down her nose at the mirror then turned away, wondering who the reflected woman was. She didnt recognize her. The woman had been showing up in the mirror with her unkempt hair. She found a certain beauty in the lavender cast of the womans lips, but it was offset by a blemish at her hairline. Stroking her neck, feeling each ridge of her trachea, she watched the woman do the same. She sniffed dismissively and turned around in her chair. It was always said that mimicry was the best form of flattery, but she wanted this imposter reflection to disappear and never come back Surely that could not be her. 16 1 Mia Bella Jessica Armacost It was completely her fault this was happening. Her friends had warned her about him. He was dangerous, a rebel, which was probably why she had fallen so hard for him. Even though she was only 16 and he was 21, she was completely smitten with him. Everyone said he was too old for her, but for Sylvia, true love knew no bounds. Then there were the rumors, but Sylvia had ignored every one of them. They couldnt possibly apply to her Tony. So what if he had a temper. They were working on it, she told herself. The bruises on her arm had even started to fade. But now, as she lay in the cold dark alley, she realized she had to accept the truth. Her friends were right. She should have stayed away from Tony from the start. It was funny really that it all had to happen today, of all days. Valentines Day was supposed to be a day of love, when couples did something special together. She and Tony had been dating for almost a year now, so she had hoped he would say something. She waited and waited for him to invite her to some romantic expensive restaurant, had even dropped hints about the approaching holiday, but Tony never said a word. That should have been her first clue. Instead, she had been the lovers fool and finally asked him straight out, despite the strict mores that a girl should never have to ask a guy out, especially on a day like this. Shed confronted him three days ago. So Tony, what are we gonna do for Valentines Day? Whatdya mean? His question had been nonchalant, and that irked her. Hello, its Valentines Day! The day for couples, and we are a couple arent we? Sure. Look, mia bella, I dont think were gonna be able to do anything this year. Me an the boys have plans. Sorry. On Valentines Day? Yeah. Look, I said I was sorry. How come you and the boys are always doing something together? Why cant we just hang out for once like every other normal couple? If I say we aint doin nothin, then we aint doin nothin. He was starting to get angry again so she backed off. Tonight though, Sylvia started to have her doubts. She wanted to find out just what exactly Tony was doing instead of being with her. All she knew was that he spent most nights with his friends at a bar 17 2 downtown. It was shady, but he wasnt the kind of guy to get involved in that kind of stuff. It was for that reason that she had walked to the bar while most of her friends were having romantic dates with their boyfriends. The bar was almost deserted when she entered. There was no sign of Tony or one of his friends. No one was at the counter, but she heard voices coming from one of the back rooms. She followed them, even though her instincts were screaming at her to just go home. She saw his friends first. They were all standing in a tight knit circle around. . . something, she couldnt make out exactly what it was. The guy should have known better than to go back on his word. Silvias heart stopped. She knew that voice only too well. Tony- At that moment, the sickening sweet metallic smell hit her, but it was already too late. The circle parted slightly and she saw him, standing right in the middle, holding a silenced gun. Then she saw where the smell was coming from. A dead body lay at Tonys feet. She stood frozen for a moment, then turned and ran. She heard quick, measured steps made by a pair of familiar leather boots following her and she ran faster. She fled from the bar, turning down a nearby alley. The first shot missed her by a mere couple inches and hit a window. Sylvia ducked and curled into a ball in the dirty alley, her back against the wall of a rundown apartment building. The steps were slowing now that he had her cornered. That was when the sobbing had started. In the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of black leather boots. No. . . please. . . Tony. . . The boots stopped and she could picture him raising the gun. She heard a soft click as he cocked the gun. I swear I wont tell anyone. . . I swear. . . Tony. . . She could barely understand the words coming out of her mouth over her own tears and the frantic beating of her heart. Youre too much of a risk. Its a shame, really. You were . . . quite diverting, but all good things must come to an end. You should have known better than to play with Mafia. She didnt hear him fire the shots, only felt three bullets penetrate her chest. She thought she had screamed. Sylvia rolled onto her side, struggling to breathe as she watched him turn and slowly walk back towards the bar without a qualm. He paused at the end of the alley and, without turning, whispered so softly she could barely hear him. Ciao, mi bella. 18 3 Strange, how she had never seen this coming. She should have listened to the rumors about him, but she had been too in love to care. Now, everything was becoming clear, though. Now that it was too late. With her dying breath, Silvia couldnt help laughing. Funny, how it had all happened on Valentines Day. December 24, 2011 Caitlyn McIntyre A Christmas poem left unsaid Where one child laid his head, upon straw Im sure was dead. Who would have thought a child could save me One being could change me. One sacrifice when the blood spilled from each thorn His eyes did not cry. For He knew it was all for me. Yes that one child did save me. It is Only Called Faith Anonymous Why do I have faith? Because the empty longing for love that was so strong, that had such a part of me that it itself came to define who I was, is gone left without as much as a bump or a whimper. Now theres a little spirit in my heart that is hugging its Love with a smile and closed eyes, and my heart is broken from the bursting. It is only called faith because my eyes cannot see through my chest and my shirt. 19 The Chaos Theory Dylan Ng This pen is orange Except its blue And the sky is green Because everything is backwards And God is dead Only Hes not And religion thrives Except polytheism is king Because the queen ran away with the spoon And the fork is dating an egg Because the chicken didnt come first And trees dont make noises when they fall Because sound is irrelevant And science doesnt make sense Since stupidity is awesome And IQ levels dont matter So well color pictures With our orange pens Even though theyre blue. The Invention of the Stratosphere Sarah Gabonay The invention of the stratosphere. Whether or not invention implies intention is superfluous. Superfluous because the question is not by whom or why but what and how. Sky. Sky. Sky. Where we fly. Fly. Up so high. Primitive. Primitive in our perception. Deception of a limitless plain striated by the excrement of engines and speckled with stars as we stumble out of bars and cars. Look up. Admire. Damn. Its all so limitless! Cry the grains of sand in unison as they peer bewildered from their jar. Gotcha. Retorts the jar. The stratosphere is a skeleton. Its warm bones suspended not sporadically, but superimposed. Superimposed super absurdly in a space that tells it to do so. 20 Untitled Michael Schrader If I were a Buddhist on my death bed and Jesus came to me, I would tell him to save his breath and to not pray over me, I wouldnt mind being a dog. Feb. 10, 2012 Untitled 2 Michael Schrader She wanted to dance like the Natives, so she put on a head dress and painted line on her face, jumping up and down around a fire, waving a blanket moving the smoke in odd patterns, singing to the great one. It started to hail. Feb. 10, 2012 21 Spanish Minor Jasmine Nicholson En mi vida Quera aprender una nueva lengua To express myself To challenge myself Entonces, tome una clase de espaol After the first taste Quera ms I fell in love Con la cultura, con las personas, con la lengua I found it to be beautiful La forma en que suena The way it feels I felt a part of something Una parte de la historia For a long time I wasnt very good Yo practicaba, y practicaba, y practicaba Finalmente I could hold a conversation Una conversacin nueva With new people Una nueva perspectiva Por la primera vez I saw myself somewhere else Algn lugar en el mundo Somewhere other than my small town Quiero explorar To see new places Comer comida diferente To listen to new music Experimentar una cultura nueva So when I came to college Decid arriesgarme To do something I knew would be difficult Algo que necesitaba hacer Thats why I decided to get A Spanish minor 22 Recipe Michael Baumann Ive decided to liquefy my heartbeats so that I can boil them down to broth and drink drums. Heres how Ill do that. Step one: punch netted bags of onions until my nose bleeds quickly and thickly. Step two: sip elevator music. Step three: snail mail you a letter composed on a patchwork quilt of my dead skin cells telling you about Step four: build a machine. Step five: smack sunflowers in the face until they grow up into weeping willows hunched and bruised from years of my abuse. Step six: travel back in time and call you on my tin can telephone in our tree house and inform you of every time someone will think something nice about you so that you will transform your arms and legs into tablets bearing hatch marks, into constant reminders that you are loved so that you will not grow up to hang yourself from the gas pipes in your garage. Step Seven: lick olive pits like a koala bear. Step eight: swallow scalpels I crafted from bird bones. Step nine: redeploy my vertebrae. Step ten: witness the birth of a hero. Step eleven: stir. Let cool. Foam Hillary Carpenter The waves crash and I hear your voice, pulling me back like the currents. Dwelling in my brain, where you have burrowed yourself like the shell deep in the grainy sand stuck. Rip tides crash and the waves wash over me, you are here again. I cant escape. Memories collide in my brain of thens and used to bes and I cant move my feet out of the sinking sand. They are covered, buried, out of sight. You flood into my mindyour unending memories. I blink and the waves have gone back out to sea Only the foam remains. 23 1 Artemis and the Phenomenon of the Womens Bathroom Brianna McCaslin Sacred space is a phrase that conjures to mind cathedrals, sanctuaries, and churches. However, for as long as culture has existed there has been another kind of sacred space: the female bath. I have to go to the bathroom, does anyone one want to go with me? I could pee a little. I dont have to, but Ill go anyway because the twenty hours a day we spend together is not enough! (theannexboulder) This common exchange when in female company has been satirized in the YouTube video If Guys Were Like Girls. Everyone can recognize the legitimacy as well as the humor in this exchange. The womens bathroom is a concept that is bigger than the term itself. The mystique of the womens restroom was first quantified in the classical mythological story of Artemis and Acteon. Acteon encounters Artemis bathing with her nymphs and as punishment she turns him into an animal that subsequently is devoured by his own dogs. What is it about the womens restroom that makes women want to travel there in packs? Why do women go so often and stay so long in the bathroom? What are they doing in there? The phenomenon of womens bathrooms makes perfect, if inexplicable, sense to women. Men could not be more confused. The womens restroom is a place that women like to travel in groups to, and a place that they spend a great amount of time in, because it is a sacred space. The womens bathroom is a place for women to go to be alone, a place to go to be together with other women, and a place to go to be away from men. Women go to the restroom as often to actually use the facilities as they do to be alone. The restroom is a respite from all of the things that go on outside of its physical or metaphorical walls. When a woman is at a bar, or on a date, or out with the girls, the restroom is the one place she can go to be out of the public eye and recharge herself. Even in ancient times, the bath was a place to rejuvenate oneself in more than just the actual act of bathing. Here the goddess of the woods would come/to bathe her virgin limbs in its cool waters,/when hunting wearied her (Ovid 203-205). Like Artemis, after a long day, many women retreat to the bathroom for relaxation. Jo Barretts book The Mens Guide to the Womens Bathroom explains through fictionalized accounts many 24 2 different bathroom experiences. There is an unspoken rule about the womens restroom that it is a secret place; if a woman looks like she wants to be left alone she is left alone. This secret sacred respite for women is their chance to be alone, to put their game face back on and the shield or hunting equipment like the goddess Artemis to return to the real world. The womens restroom is also obviously a place for socialization, for women to come together as a group. Most of the tales in Barretts novel are experiences Claire, the main character, has with women in the bathroom: She realizes that all of the good advice she has ever received has been from strangers in the women's bathroom. If only she'd listened before she'd married the wrong man and wound up on the losing end of a divorce (Barrett). There is an unspoken rule of isolation in the restroom, but there is also inherently a solidarity that can break the rule when a woman needs to. Artemis had her own special community of nymphs that she shared her sacred space of the bath with, just as women share their sacred space in community with other women. she hands the Armoress of Nymphs her spear, her quiver, and her unstrung bow; and while one nymph folds her discarded robe over an arm, two more remove her sandals, and the accomplished Theban nymph, Crocale, gathers the stray hairs on Dianas neck into a knot. (Ovid 207-213) Even back in the eighteenth century there was an understanding of the community in womens restrooms. Even across cultural boundaries the sacred space of the female bathroom is understood and accepted. It is a place for the female community to be venerated and separated from all of the pressures of society. The bath is a place where women can be as naturally the women they want to be. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu discovered the transcendence of culture of the sacred space of women when visiting a Turkish Bath and wrote home about it in 1717: The first sofas were covered with cushions and rich carpets, on which sat the ladies, and on the second their slaves behind them, but without any distinction of rank by their dress, all being in the state of nature, that is, in plain English, stark naked, without any beauty or defect concealed, yet there was not the least wanton smile or immodest gesture amongst them In short, it is the women's coffee house, where all the news of the town is told, scandal invented, etc. They generally take this diversion once a week, and stay there at least four or five hours (Montague). 25 3 These natural women could be relaxed and natural because they were away from the prying eyes of men, a necessary component for the female restroom. Women often go to the bathroom to escape men. They go to discuss how a date is going, or to take a break from bad male jokes, or to have important talks with women that they could not have with men; all the while primping or prepping or making themselves physically feel better and stronger with their metaphoric shields. When men break that sanctuary it is the gravest of all sins. Women have not been granted much space or power historically. They had to carve out their own place from the small allowances they were given. For a man to intrude on their minimal space, the place where they derive their power is so unacceptable that the punishments must be as severe as Artemis transfiguring Acteon: but making do with what she had, scooped up water and flung it in Acteons face, sprinkling his hair with the avenging droplets, and adding words that prophesied his doom: Now you may tell of how you saw me naked, tell it if you can, you may! (Ovid 238-243) Acteons brutal death, by his own dogs, warns all men to stay where they belong. The womens bathroom is not a place for men. However, one must wonder if a certain kind of man would have been welcomed by Artemis if he had asked. Dionysus was not an average god. From the moment his mother Semele died when she gazed upon Zeus in his natural form, Dionysus was destined to be different. Zeus transfigured his thigh into a uterus to place Dionysus, so that he might be continue to be nurtured to life. The child is bizarre, abnormal from the standpoint of the gods, since he is simultaneously the son of a mortal woman and the son of Zeus in all his brilliance. He is bizarre because he was nurtured partly in a womans belly and partly in Zeuss thigh (Vernant 142). As a roving and itinerant god, one who is not inherently male or female, especially one who challenges the status quo of logic, would Artemis have allowed him to be a part of her sacred space? Dionysus had followers in the same way Artemis had. Both had female companions, though Artemis were nymphs and Dionysus were women already entrenched in their social roles in life as middle aged women. Would Dionysus androgyny as well as his connection and understanding of that unruly female world allow him entrance into the female sanctum? (Vernant 147). Dionysus story as 26 4 well has themes of sacred space for women, and their total freedom there; so much freedom that they become others and do not necessarily know what they are doing. Agave is so outside of herself that she kills her own son when he is caught spying on the women: Frenzy has already possessed them utterly, and they do manage to buckle the tree. Pentheus topples to the ground, they fall on him and shred him to pieces. They rip him apart the way the victim animal would be ripped apart raw and alive in some Dionysian rites of sacrifice Pentheus is dismembered in the same way. (Vernant 150) These themes are so similar in the tales of Artemis and Dionysus, one wonders if an exception would have been made in the case of Dionysus in the sacred space of women. Today, exception are made for those men who can respect the sacred female space and make themselves a part of it: gay men. In modern understand of the sanctity of the female bathroom there are new exceptions made for homosexual men. Gay men desire the same sacred space to be alone, to be in community and to be separate from men that women desire in restroom space. Male restrooms are not conducive to the same kinds of asceticism. In Mean Girls one of the main characters best friends is almost too gay to function and he is allowed into the female bathroom sanctum to discuss petty high school drama which is the central theme of the movie. In the scene he is in fact more helpful in the girl realm that the female best friend because he actually owns pink. Will & Grace contains the same dynamic, where homosexual men are allowed into female sacred spaces because they are unlike heterosexual men. Gay men can understand, respect, and be a part of the womens bathroom in a way that straight men could not. The phenomena of the womens restroom is a sacred concept that has existed for as long as culture has existed and can transcend cultural boundaries. The first quantification of the sanctity of the space of the female bath was in the story of Artemis and Acteon, but the veneration is given to that space today. Women need the hallowed space of the bathroom to be alone, to be in community with one another, and to be free from men. However, homosexual men are increasing be included in revered space because they hold it in the same esteem as women and they desire the space that women have created. 27 1 Cobwebs Karen McNulty NASCAR fans are dropping like flies in Indianapolis. With the arrival of the NASCAR Brickyard 400 in 2011, fans notice that it seems hotter each and every year, regardless of the actual temperature. Fans pass out due to heat stroke. Some sit underneath the bleachers, basking in the balmy shade. Others sleep under the protection of the trees on the cool grass of the golf course. Only the true fans duke it out in the hot seats, dowsing themselves with beer, furthering the dehydration process, but its race day. Theyll risk it all to watch Tony Stewart beat the shit out of Kurt Busch. The Brickyard 400, a 160-lap race that takes place in the middle of July, is new to the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series, only seventeen years old. A baby when compared to its IMS counterpart, the Indianapolis 500. The first NASCAR race rivaled the Indy Car races in crowd size with nearly 300,000 fans pouring in to watch the closed wheel steel beast tackle the speedway (Langford). The race was new. The fans loved it. But Buds Tavern hangs on by the sticky string of a spiders web. On race day, the tavern pretends its in business and thriving. The bar is wet with anticipation of the races outcome, and the countdown ticker on the wall reaches 00:00:00 because its finally here. The regulars sprawl out next to the nearest televisions, watching intently because they couldnt afford a ticket and would rather watch it in the comfort of the local bar anyway. With NASCAR's new television contract with NBC, the race [is] no longer blacked out in Indianapolis as of 2001 (Martin), so they dont have to wait until the winner drinks the milk to see the race in its entirety. The bar, however, remains quiet. The empty seats, cold and lonely, yearn for the warmth of butts. The butts of racing fans. NASCAR vomited on the walls at Buds. Posters, race programs, license plates and full car bodies cover every open space on the walls. A program on race day used to cost a penny. The history of NASCAR touches the hearts of the race fans that walk into the bar. They reminisce on the times when beer was cheap and race tickets came easy and the IMS sold out for the Brickyard 400. NASCARs heyday. The full walls make up for the empty bar and the dying culture. The bar longs for the days when NASCAR reigned and had fans that had fun. Its not the same anymore. NASCAR no longer boasts of packed tracks. No one goes to the races. Indy Car stole the thunderous roar of the 28 2 engine, and the race is more exciting with smaller cars and better drivers. The Indy Car series continues to captivate the crowds, cars racing to speeds of 225 miles per hour where NASCAR remains at a low 182. The pace alone draws in bigger crowds, but racecar drivers that represent more countries than just the United States bring in a more sophisticated fan base. NASCAR is for the hicks, the blue-collar, down-home folks like the ones that sit at the bar. They drink beer like Pabst Blue Ribbon and Milwaukees Best and Natural Ice Light. Cheap shit. Beer made for swollen bellies and backyard barbeques in low-income neighborhoods. Where NASCAR flags still fly in the front yard and racing hats dont gather dust on the top shelves of their closets. Where everyone enjoys watching cars turn left. But NASCAR fans are dropping like flies in Indianapolis. The 2011 race only drew in 140,000 fans. While this number remains high for NASCAR races, the Indianapolis 500 blows it out of the water. Indianapolis race fans no longer appreciate the intensity of NASCAR. The Indianapolis Motor Speedway seats 257,325 people in the bleachers alone, not counting the extra thousand or so that cram into the infield on race day for the 500. The 2011 Brickyard 400 couldnt even fill the grandstands. Many unfortunate events account for the crater in the number of Indianapolis NASCAR fans. First and foremost: the weather. Asking fans to sit in the July heat for 3 hours is a little much. And frankly, given the fact that the racing isn't thrilling, getting fans to hoof it to IMS and sit in the Turn 4 bleachers, where they will bake, isn't the easiest sell (Potter). Second: the 2008 Goodyear tire debacle. The day before the 2008 Brickyard 400, Goodyear tires were suffering unusual wear due to the new Car of Tomorrow, [and] fans were a bit put off. With tires blowing out after a handful green flag laps, race officials threw competition cautions in roughly 10-lap increments (Potter). Ever since the tires blew on race day, fans lost faith in their favorite teams, no longer able to count on them for an exciting day full of fantastic racing. The decline in NASCARs fan base sinks Buds Tavern with it. The memorabilia on the walls doesnt do much to glean profits from the customers. The bar is a ghost town almost every day. Come in on a Wednesday night, however, and the scene changes. Only a two-minute drive from a small university, Buds becomes the adopted campus bar, where all of the students go to drink away the duress of obtaining their diplomas. When you walk in, it feels like a different place entirely, beginning with the noise. The talentless singers 29 3 serenading the bar with their not-so-beautiful voices cannot be classified as musicians. Karaoke at its finest. The bar is packed, all the pool tables are spoken for, and only one booth is open in the back. College students dressed in t-shirts and jeans fill the bar spilling beer on the floor as they stumble to the stage. Its only eleven oclock, and their rendition of Friends in Low Places makes Garth Brooks hang his head in humiliation. They enjoy it, and so does the bar. The dying race culture makes for tough fiscal years, but college karaoke is a savior. Two nights a week. Wednesdays and Saturdays. The parking lot fills up. Buds makes money. Everyone goes home drunk without feeling it in their wallets because pitchers of domestic beer only cost seven dollars split between four people and slammed down quick and easy. Who cares if its Coors Light? The bar gets quiet around one in the morning. The lone waitress starts to clean up after the college drunks. Its only Wednesday and she has another four days of this before she gets a night off. At two, the bar closes. She is irritated at the mess but she knows that its going to be a long three days before the bar fills up again, and the loneliness is more irritating than the full ashtrays and the sticky floor. As she walks out of the bar after the long night of listening to the blubbering educated fools, she takes a look around her home away from home. The NASCAR memorabilia hangs like cobwebs on the ceiling. Works Cited Langford, Richard. 2011 Brickyard 400: String of Boring Races has Left Fans Tired of the Brickyard. Bleacher Report. 20 July 2011. Web. 3 December 2011. http://bleacherreport.com/articles/773847-2011-brickyard-400latest-news-qualifying-speeds-race-results-and-more/entry/110623-2011brickyard-400-string-of-boring-races-has-left-fans-tired-of-the-brickyard. Martin, Bruce. How to Revive the Brickyard 400. Sports Illustrated.com. 26 July 2011. Web. 3 December 2011. http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2011/writers/bruce_martin/07/26/how.t o.revive.brickyard.400/index.html. Potter, Billy. Can the Brickyard 400 Regain Its Momentum? SB Nation. 28 July 2011. Web. 3 December 2011. http://indiana.sbnation.com/2011/7/28/2301948/can-the-brickyard-400regain-its-momentum. 30 1 The Ecstasy of St. Theresa Sarah Gabonay Tonight, we have the itchYou know that itch in your loins that only one thing will satisfy? Like a proverbial beast at the sword of an ancient hero? I am Gilgamesh. You are Enkidu. Humbaba is our viceGod, how I want to lay into my beloved like Shamhat for seven days and seven nightsIt is the only thing that can tame my rabid hungerAnd now were on the huntCasanova salutes us from the rightSan Marco shades us in disappointment from the skyBut we forge ahead, Weaving through narrow sidestreets, we search for herOur belovedYes, others might curb our hunger, But we wait patiently for the MadonnaWe round the cornerSpottedThe most beautiful maiden in all of ItaliaTo taste her would be heavenA slice- -ineffable Tenderly, we approach our prizeShe smiles at us, Radiantly dancing in the sunWith calloused hands, we hold our fair maiden gingerlyLower our heads toward her southern-most apexPart her glistening centerAnd groan as we indulge in the sweet nectar31 2 Responsive to our trembling fingertips, She drips down our chinsOh fuck, thats good-We moan in unison Eyes rolling back, We savor every last bite of the most delicious pizza in Venezia. Aqueous Transmissions Michael Schrader The rain pitter patters on cold, grey shingles; each drop slipping down, colliding with another and all sliding into the gutter, carrying leaves further down the river towards the waterfall, as boats transporting out dreams, floating along the waters of sleep, waking us up as they crash against the rocky reality. Nov. 26, 2011 32 A Beautiful Rain Anonymous Help me understand the clues. Help me unravel these ties that bind and fall into freedom. One day my love will not just be an intently focused patch of aching blue, one day a prayer will return for a real kiss as the sun stoops for the earth, winged by fire, an embrace of light condensed to matter. No more pleading, no more questions. As of now, all I can see is a lie and a dark night. We only live a layer of paint apart, the kingdom hidden behind an electric mural galvanized across the walls of my mind. I study the textures, the bumps and bruises, the ridges and mountains, the colors... Reading this world like a map of your face, hoping to catch a glimpse of the true Beauty stirring underneath that disturbs the murky shadows on the glass surface. In this watery den, thick as thieves, Truth is only read between the brushstrokes of a fabricated reality, every once in a while given away by a flickering miracle, culprits in the corners of her eyes. It could take years of weary traverse within this facade to understand your depth, each step weighing a mile, but instead Grace has quickly fallen me lifes single secret, only love lies behind. It is only love, whose drops of sapphire sunshine, seven seraphim bright, rain on our heads like the blood of a heartbroken star, descending with higher purpose. It is only love that pulls the strings of the cosmos like the dance of a whirling dervish, a fierce storm whose funnel crushes us against the walls of this galactic stage as we stare plastered in place by the awe. Only love, whose Light floods into our souls, pouring in through the cracks and pooling on the floor, washing away the shadows, tearing on the edges of broken glass punched from the panes of broken eyes, spilling tears of color down our cheeks and consoling us a beautiful rain. 33 A Belief So Twisted Caitlyn McIntyre Please take me along the forgotten path With bruises on my skin For I am nothing but useless Follow me for I am setting myself free. Waiting on one hopes tear to fall I am nothing but useless Do not listen to me Forget all that my ink has brought And lose mind, body and soul. For I am useless, do not listen to me. Erase all unseen Give in to all sin Find peace in gluttony Divine light in killing with sweet hands smelling of melted butter. As knots arise in ones stomach Thrash and gnash all teeth As stones find their way to the skin And leave only welts, no pain do the eyes behold. Grace for only the world can save me Sweet sinner I am broken. 34 Love Cassy Brown She uncurls like a cat Right at my side Whats it like. . . To be in love? she sighs Have you ever burned. . . Numbingly, slowly alive? Those green eyes penetrate With deadly question Have you ever taken breath. . . Only to wish to stop? Her gasp threatens With fragile depth Do you ever bleed without meaning. . . Only to find meaning? Pale icy fingers Curl about a pathetic wrist Have you ever looked. . . Painfully into eyes that are no longer eyes? A hand to a tear__ Do you feel. . . ?! Have you ever felt. . .?! Her lips begging words she cannot say No, I know nothing of love Perhaps you could tell me 35 Shake the Dust Michael Baumann Im weary. Im spent like air recycled by the lungs of a million. Tough and taut like the cracked hands of the drudge. With palm lines that make maps and Callouses that could fill tomes. Recorded history. The chronicles. Shake the dust. I long for the well water. I long to cool blistered lips. I long for the dusktime slump and for the unravel and for the Caesura. I long for the day I can place my bones on the mantelpiece. A constellation telling my story. Shake the dust. Can You Feel the End? Cassy Brown My river, river is running dry And filling with these drops of lye They erode my soul like nothing else And leave me wanting something And yet I see that blessed be Ever forgotten my eternal eternity And your rope it binds, burning wrists Like so many, cigarette tips I lie in wait for an explosion Of your hatred built for so long I drown, drown, drown With the ache, with the beat Alas my fairest, Im yours to keep. 36 Haircut Charles Pealosa It was Persephones second day of cutting hair at Great Clips. I was the blind poet walking in with Cerberus, its heads made of paper. She told me to sit on the black throne, putting me on a toilet-paper leash. Demeter, the general manager, looked at me with dull scissors, grinning. Persephone splashed water on my hair, and for a while, I thought my head was Atlantis, submerged in the ocean. Maybe I had angered the gods, those mosquitoes in need of attention. She closed the shears like small guillotines each time. Needles of hair began to fall. My shirt began to look like a scratch paper for a child with a black crayon. 37 A Letter to a Boring Man Dylan Ng Mr. Smith, You bore me Get a life Youre not the least bit exciting In fact Watching paint dry. Is more fun than you Slit my wrists And blow my brains out Because I cant stand you Sincerely, A man with a better last name than you. The Clock in the Kitchen Karen McNulty It cant quite make up its mind that clock in the kitchen. Some days its right. Makes me feel sane. Other days Other days it moves backwards. Sideways even. Do you know what it feels like when a clock moves sideways? In any sideways second I could be stumbling down the stairs into a sizzling bowl of passion fruit vodka. Scrumptious. Sideways seconds pass, and Im spinning beneath a sky of Blue Moons and oranges waiting for the rain. The backwards days are my favorites. The world shifts. Rules rearrange. I stroll down the street in my socks as a ravishing rainbow peeks out from behind the purple clouds. Just my socks. My neighbor kneels down in the dirt of his garden in a baseball cap, plucking chocolate rabbits from the soil. Just a baseball cap. Back at home, the furniture floats to the ceiling. I spend the rest of the backwards days trying to sit on my couch and watch life upside down. It looks funnier upside down. On rare occasions, the clock stops. I dont like those days. 38 1 For Kara Michael Baumann Sometimes I tune out that makeup-caked slut sitting across from me. Every day she belches out about last nighthow much sex she has, how high she gets, how drunk she still ishow impressive. She heightens details to meet slutty friends expectations. They call her a sex goddess, not a slut, and she needs that. Shes very convincing, sure. But I dont think shes actually proud of herself. I think shes still upset that her brother killed himself last year. I think she still remembers the vigil we held that was both too soon and too late. I think she still remembers walking in on him. I think she forgets that I love him too and that I hate to see her disrespecting his memory. I want to tell her that. I bet she woke up today thinking that the thick, purple lens that tints her vision comes partly from her mascara, partly from the literal bruises, and partly from the figurative ones. I bet the stumble from the bed to the shower in the broken home felt like walking on broken glass like the Little Mermaid did in Hans Christian Andersons original tale. Funny how the world turned something so dark into something so princessy. Funny how she does the same thing. I bet the water felt like baptism or crying. I bet everything does. I bet she starts over with moving on every day. So everything looked purple, plastic, and spent, like the condom wrinkled under her bed. Shes late to school, and shes wrinkled. Her forehead and her Catholic school skirt and polo havent been washed for a week and a half, but its just what was in her car. We have theology together, so we talk a little every day. Hey how are you? Good. How are you? Good. No shes not. She smiles. But I know better. I see it in her eyes. We avoid the giant elephant. I talked to her mom the other day, and she said she worries about her. I told her she shouldnt. Of course she should. After what she went through? She asked me if I was okay. I told her I was fine. Of course I wasnt. After what I went through? It was only a couple months ago. We were still raw. I met him early that second year of high school. He was a senior, and he told me I should try out for the play because he really thinks I could be great. We hung out. He was a mentor. He made me feel important. He helped me know myself. He had scary depression sometimes. 39 2 We were planning to hang out in his garage on May 26drink a little, listen to some music, practice for the play, do whatever. My phone murmured into my thigh when I had one foot in the car. Cant do it anymore man, sorry. I didnt notice how final that sounded until May 27 when the public address speakers crackled with the message that started with Please pray for. I remember deleting the text because I was so mad at him. I remember regretting it one second later. I dont know why we started talking about it a month later. We had a half a pack of cigarettes before we said one word. She poured it out. She told me that she found him in the garage that he was dangling struggling pulling that he didnt do a good job with the cords that they fled to the hospital that they pumped on his chest until it bruised that he was in so much pain that he died in the ER that his larynx was mutilated that he was twenty that he was her brother that he was her brother that he was her brother. I hugged her. I missed him too. I try to talk to his sister for him every once in a while. He still talks to me every once in a while. During junior retreat, we talk about it a little. In the last week of school, when were about to go get diplomas and undergraduate degrees, I exhale because for a while there I was worried about her. On graduation day, she shows me her ribcage in the girls bathroom. It spells Matthew 1987-2007. On his birthday this year she writes Happy birthday Matt, I miss you so damn much I cant even describe it. I love you. please keep watching over me on his Facebook wall. I still dedicate a fraction of every performance to him. Id like to say that his sister has started to get better because I have. I know she chooses to deal differently now. I think thats a good thing. I hope she knows that I still pray for her. Heres to you, Kara. 40 Prodigal Pen Charles Pealosa My Pilot pen wanted to escape. Maybe it was too tired Of writing and erasing. So last laundry day It hid deep inside a pocket That I forgot to check Before throwing my clothes to the washer. Seasons changed for the Pilot pen, From a bubble-filled winter, To a spring of rinsing, To a summer of drying. After mindlessly Bumping into so many shirts and pants And not doing any writing, Life became meaningless for the pen. Then I went back to the basement To check the dryer And found it buried under the clothes. I took it and saw that it was bleeding, Or perhaps crying. Black tears covered my fingers As I threw it away. 41 Salida 71Sarah Gabonay Here, At night, Everything glowsClouds drenched in moonlightThe deep gleam of street lamps awaken palm leaves, Which expand like the great wings of archaic birds, Ready to taste the drunken stratusPolice sirens illuminate my pagesI can trace Orion's belt with my toesI'd like to imagine That if you were here, We'd be perched lazily on the banister of the spiral staircaseTwo shadows melding into one with each passing headlightWe'd giggle at the confused roosterAnd compose symphonies from the sounds of foreign faunaI'd study your lips and wonder if they still taste of sea saltIf you were here, I'd tell you that when I contemplate the constellations, I see triangles in the starsSo if you stumble across pyramids of Giza in the night sky, You're seeing them through my eyesAnd we could find solace in the silenceJust you and me. 42 1 Love is Like Air Anonymous Let me explain with a story. . . In a far-off land, there once were turtles swimming in the sea. . . . . . when Adam, the first turtle, was born, he was born out of the water on dry land filled with air. He was joined with his Creator and had infinite air to breathe, infinite Love to enjoy, behold and sustain in himself. He and his mate could waddle around, play in the flowers and sun, with birds and crickets to sing them to sleep at night. He knew only what his Creator told him, and what was told him was enough. All turtles were of course destined for this, but for sorrow, Adam was curious about his body, why he had fins and a shell and the ability to enter the cold dark water where he could not long survive without the need to return. He had choice. . . being born according to the Law of Love. He was curious and curiosity unfortunately killed the cat. . . pride. . . for he had followed his own will and not the Makers. For straying off land into the sea, where light and air are soon to found in want, he faced death and his children had to follow with him until they could prove themselves worthy to again serve their original purpose, for that was a place of perfection. Once he became deceived and thought he be something he was not, a swimmer, and he took a breath to do it, he closed off his connect to the air Infinity, even though it was for but a moment, and lost perfection. All his kin, all little Adams still encased in eggs were thrown into the depths of the sea, born in the sands of the bottom, where unless they swam perfectly straight up, could not reclaim their perfection and inheritance of the perfect land above drowning from from a lack of air. Life at the bottom of the sea was much, much different than the life of Eden, full of struggle and darkness, hunger, sharks and much danger. This place they called the world, but their Maker called the Sea of the Dead, filled with His tears, for if they could not make it back to Him again, His lost children would all surely die. These little turtles swam to and fro, not knowing where to go in the dark, dismissing the air inside of them constantly tugging them up to the light. These materialistic little turtles chose to stay blind, tempted by the smell of the dirty seaweed and dark sand, telling themselves that it was natural for them to love these dark depths, for is it not just turtle nature? Is it not their natural senses that draw them to love all the dead 43 2 things on the seafloor? Is it not just natural law of gravity that inclines them to keep to the bottom? Why should I have to fight to rise above the gravity of self-centeredness and materialism? they said. For sorrow, they failed to realize that even so, they had within them more precious air, air which as we know deftly conquers gravity by a superior natural force. The little turtles would not survive long miles down under the surface, but they were most unwise they thought they did not air need to survive for they could not, in fact, breathe underwater. Little did they know that they actually ran on it. They swam and they swam, weaving in circles and wasting time. They let their natural inclinations and gravity to take hold, while still others did not even believe in a surface. This lot swam about wasting their precious air on bottom-dwelling seaweed and mucus, never considering a place of higher dimension of land, sunshine and air Infinite, not knowing there were things much greater to be loved than what was currently available to them. They dismissed their quiet internal pull as insignificant; they didnt want to waste their time on the untouchable spirituality, as they called it. Others, however, came closer to the light, understanding somewhat what they had in them and what air really meant the only thing they had from the surface the power of the Maker. But try as the good turtles might, nobody was perfect. Their weakness to gravity, the materialistic things, and wasted air spent on chasing other things besides surface things and their Maker was their downfall. All, no matter how hard the fight, eventually succumbed to the temptations of the dark depths. None kept straight the path to the Maker waiting on the Surface. All hope seemed lost. . . Then came along the One, the Hope, the only little Turtle who swam straight-up all the way to the top and broke the surface into Light, for He was sent from the One Above and knew full well what lay up there. This One, by His Perfection, redeemed all, for He forged them a path and by doing so died (as in the act of leaving the realm of the ocean), but unlike the others who left to below by death, He left to air above by Life. However, that Good Turtle had to struggle and strain, for to reach the surface, involved a more suffering and strength than any turtle that had come before. Still, He was the Son of the Maker and He was victorious. Soon afterward He returned happily bringing with Him an essentially infinite supply of air, knowing well the Way back to the top. He breathed new life into those who died with eyes pointed up, a sign of love for the Maker, a faint glimmer of the sun illuminating their 44 3 longing faces, able to receive life because they could see His hand reaching down. His Love was the only thing that could bring them back to the surface. He loved them most dearly and His air found those that loved Him back. The other turtles, for choosing to live by an inferior set of natural laws, seeking the bottom got their hearts desire, choosing the dark depth as their exit, to their Makers great lament. It took One sent from above, the Creator Himself, the only One perfect enough to overcome the ocean, in order to save them, all they had to do was lift their little heads in belief. They call Him Jesus. Jesus ate our imperfection. . . our sin. He suffered and died for us. In His perfect, straight-up Sacrifice in order to save those who yearn to breathe love He died for us. In dying to evil He died for us. He comes for those lost, the ones alone, the ones empty, and all who suffer, for He loves us and knows well the word suffering. God Himself became as one of us and being like us, having a body and a soul like ours He can breathe into us a new Perfect life, for only a turtle can take a breath for another turtle but only God is Perfect. Only love covers sin, and Jesus is the tip of the funnel to Gods Infinite Heart. Jesus plunged Himself into the cold, dark sea to bring life and love to His most beloved little turtles, for as is the law of nature and the Law of Love, air underwater can and will only finally come to rest with Air Above. Yes, love is like air. . . 45 Thats Why They Call it Naptown Michael Schrader It was as we were walking down Massachusetts Avenue when you told me you sprouted a pair of wings and soared to New York City but the streets were screaming with horns and whistles and voices and the shops were crowded with people who dont care about your last name, let alone your first. So you flew to San Francisco where they caught you in the same tragedy as New York and kicked you out into Oakland so weak with fatigue you lifted up into the sky wing spread wide and came back here to Indianapolis, where nothing really happens and youre okay with that. January 17, 2012 46 1 Oxy Moron Michael Baumann Here, tie this around your bicep. Tighter. Take this and find the softest part in your crook. Dont go until you know you found blood. Go slow. There. Now you might throw up the first time yI was already on my way to the broken toilet in the bathroom. Then ten minutes of the strongest paranoia Ive ever felt. Then nothing. Nothing about that night was fun. I woke up on a faded purple couch under a scratchy blanket, encrusted eyelashes scraping at dark moons under my tired eyes, the inside of my right elbow perforated. Yes, Im left-handed. And addicted. That drive home was quiet. Want to know the price of OxyContin in Newport, Kentucky when I was growing up? He always sold it to me cheap2 milligrams a dollar. That dollar could get you there for 6 hours. Oxy is like capsulated morphine. It makes you thicker, the world slower, breathing governable. Maybe thats why I started. Maybe thats why I stopped. Because theres a fine line between control and controlled. I was categorically more patriotic to depressants. Halcyons and Vicodin did the same thing for me, although they are unfailingly more expensive. Twice the price. The hydrochloride inside works like a biological wrecking ball, a catalyst for molecular fission in the highways of the bloodstream, a plug pulled. Pills kill the power in adrenaline factories, warp blood vessels, deaden nerve endings, encumber energy, anesthetize heartbeats. Im a smart guy. I did my homework. Theres a fine line between control and controlled. High school is blurry, but I do remember that I didnt like it very much. Now, I dont want to feign depression or angst: I wasnt miserable. I was frustrated. I was highly critical of the world around me. Judgmental. I mean, I was popular, liked. Witty. Sharp and effervescent. Talented. I had friends I didnt really like. They were predictable and easily impressed. They bored me. Everything did. I wanted edge. Maybe thats why I started. I needed a reprieve from humdrum. I was so stagnant, so static. I went through the motions. Yupp: I got good grades and led clubs and organizations and printed off a stellar rsum and did what I was told. I was perfect. Maybe thats why I started. I wanted an explicit flaw. I dont even know the names of all the drugs I ingested, and its sad to say that Im proud of limits like 47 2 only shooting up twice in my life and making sure to be sober for Mass. I was addicted. I stutter-stepped like a zombie through the latter half of whatever I did junior year. Thats why its blurry. Sometimes, rarely, I found myself lucid and unbelieving of who I was unbecoming. Maybe I wanted a top-secret story, a double-life, some secret to contain, some skeleton to closet, some control. Maybe thats why I started. A fine line between control and controlled. It took some of lifes most powerful persuasion to convince me to get clean. I didnt sleep too many nights in a row, and I didnt eat too many days in a row for my mom and dad to not know. I hated telling them. We cried together in their bedroom after I hadnt told them the half of it: I only told them how I felt all of the time. I left some stuff out because I felt prickles of scorching embarrassment and guilt, and I wanted to protect them. They dont need to hear about how many pills or about how many mornings I woke up on the purple couch or about how many times I saw stars or about how many times I sat in the garage with a cold key cocked in the ignition, just thinking. They made me go see somebody who didnt listen and didnt help. He said he knew how I felt, and I said he didnt, and he said he could help, and I let him think he made progress with me, but he didnt of course. I love my parents for trying. But it took a cataclysmic car crash, the suicide of my dealer, and some good hard looks in the good old mirror to realize that I didnt want to die with this kind of ethos. Withdrawal sucks. You wait. For the storm to be over. You shake in cold sweat and throw up toxic sludge and just curl and unfurl like a roly poly. Or like a steamroller. Your arms and legs are concrete. You spit out tar. You flatten. It took me seventeen days. I blamed it on the flu. But when youre doneyoure done. Spent. Hungover. In love with the world. Turkey sandwiches taste like something again. God, please be with me was a very common prayer back then, and it still is. Although now, its said with a different firmament: its not as desperate. Ive been in controlfor real. I mean, addictions never stop. I want to get so high right now. Every once in a while, I itch to go back to Newport. But I never have. Here, college, lucidI grip life by the throat, and I love it. I have a purpose and a vocation and a target to shoot for other than the inside of my elbow. I want to teach. Im preparing for that now. I actually like my non-druggie friends, and I actually like my clubs and organizations, and I actually take pride in my grades, and Im actually excited. Excited to imbibe more knowledge in the stead of hydrochloric acid. Admittedly, Im still a little critical and judgmentalstill working on that. Its going to be a cool dnouement. 48 3 I didnt know why I started writing this essay. Maybe I wanted to learn why I startedbecause it made breathing governable or because I wanted edge or secrets or control because or because or because. Maybe I wanted to learn why I stoppedbecause theres a fine line between control and controlledA backdoor. A way out. A voice. A choice. Maybe I learned that Im better now for it. Blinds Karen McNulty She keeps her blinds closed. Hates the way the trees judge her with their bark and their green. Spread their roots from her backyard to Timbuktu. Mingling. Weaving. She keeps her door locked. Hates the smile of sunshine on her front porch. The warmth worries her. She wont retrieve her mail. Hates the way the envelopes remind her that the R shouldnt be there anymore. She sits in her dark kitchen. Empty pantry. Half gallon of Christmas eggnog rotting in the fridge. Nothing else. She sleeps. She breathes. She takes the picture frames from the mantle. She waits. She longs for pine and quiet. 49 Where Did Our Lives Go? Michael Schrader Where did our lives go? I put a quarter in my pocket every time you surge into my mind. A dollar seventy-five clings together, bouncing against a thigh. Your brown hair shines in the sweet summer sun, waving goodbye. I would have liked to say goodbye, but my cowardice is a cruel companion. We never had a moment in a coffee shop, never stopped on the side of the highway to argue, nor did we watch the sun drown off the Chicago Shore Line; we never took the time to look up at the screen. October 17, 2011 50 Shutters Cassy Brown Cool blue shutters Haunt my dreams Cool blue shutters All Ive seem Cool blue shutters Are all I dream Cool blue shutters Are all they seem Cool blue shutters On everyones house The Where are mine? Ill never doubt Warm blue shutters Tear at the seams Warm blue shutters Never ever, ever clean Cool blue shutters All I could want Cool blue shutters Oh, how they flaunt Cool blue shutters Haunt my dreams But, oh, those cool blue shutters What do they mean? 51 1 The Skate Park Michael Baumann They fly and fall there. Theyre like frail fledglings when they find fresh feathers on their wings. Flap. Metal-punctuated punk skater boys take wing, pivot slowly, and fall back onto the back of gravity, down to the ground of the concrete jungle of the skatepark at the cusp of Cold Spring Road, Indianapolis, Indiana, The United States of America. They glide on the glossy concrete of the skatepark by the Major Taylor Velodrome, a quivering bead of dew on the busy road-web of the nation. Quivering because the When we talk it doesnt matter hard scoops and deep Because real shitreal valleys, concrete yawns Conversation crafts Piles of words infused with Teflon and When we shatter clatter fiberglass and steel, Courage walls with speed rumble-shake with the Listen to us. Because When we talk, it doesnt matter, but earthquake of a rolling When we sing, stampede. Theyre smooth. We break sound barriers They line the silk of their And change things. We start with snowshovels for our word piles turf with the blurs of their And shovel until our heels cant feel anymore. bodies: watercolors on their canvas where they paint the stories of their lives. Theyre fast. Airborne. They teach gravity lessons; they flip and flop and rotate in the middle of a slower timeline. They dont talk, yet so much talking goes on. They communicate with stamps of graffiti tattooed to the floor, some fresh as grass stains, others faded and diced by the tracks of their war-torn wheels. Here is their jungle. We jump on the ground to pound our flat fate Into the stuff of pancakes. Thats what we do. We are the brigade of Dream Street, because We see here. We see here. And We educate the blind with a Headphoned cacophony of creation. We walk at the same time on the grafittied concrete sheets of Dream Street, Chalklines in the greedy soul of cement. I went there the first time because David Leszcynski was doing a photography project and asked me to come with him. He wanted to capture the achingly human aspects of the skatepark and wanted me to 52 2 write about them. An entourage of two. These people are interesting. Click. Camera. Scratch. Pen. Brake, scrape, break, curse, slap, smack, crack. Bodies and BMX and bleak concrete. The firm pant of the air raping my face as they race by. We got what we needed. Ive never actually seen them entering or leaving. Theyre always there when I get there and there when I need to leave. But I imagine they prowl, growl, haunches raised, shoulders back, eyes fastened on the park. They stop walking and start rolling and flying. At night, they slope off, new wounds enlisting to join old battle scars, joints sore from falls yesterday and today and tomorrow. They come from carpools and nice homes and slums and sordid sidewalks. They come Not Garbage: Starfrazzle like solar flare like from public high schools staircase of humanity built out of and public transportation greenhouse gases trapped inside glass houses with ripples and and, contrary to public rhymes belief, contrary to my personal bigotry, they are respectable. Moral. Upright. They are in the same Yellow Pages as you. They are not addicts or junkies. Nor are they deviants, delinquents, or dropouts. I really thought I would see a lot more tattoos than I did. No, I saw scabs and scars and facial expressions. And I really thought they congregated there to worship in the Church of I dont Give A Damn and prayed the Holy Liturgy of the Curse Word. In this chapel of the skatepark, though, in this sacred space, they do care. They express themselves and pray in the middle of the air. Their sacrament is the rush of their ambition and drive. Its invigorating and inspirational and almost tangibly symphonic to see. He told me his name was purple Because no one calls him AJ One kid, AJ, likes to be called Anyway. Purple. He wears the same T-shirt every day. I dare you to guess the color. Royalty used to wear purple dyed by the chemical found under sea snails shells off the coast of Phoenicia. Thats what he told me, and I looked it up, and it checks out. Hes a natural leader, the king of the park: the title so deserved because he can do the fanciest shit. Purple tells me he comes here daily to think. And if I werent here, who would look out for this guy? He points to a mentally retarded skater punk. He coaches the 35-year-old man with Down syndrome on roller blades who, I like how oblivious he is although he falls occasionally, can blade When he flails and fails Because it makes me feel better than I can. And if anyone real 53 3 gives him shit, he says, they have to answer to me. I have respect for AJPurple. Another guy with a green shirt tells me that he has to come here to take out his anger, his frustration, his Spinning is how I do. dissatisfactions, his regrets that hover Get out of there. Come here. overhead just as high as he does when Find my stamp, light lamps, he ramps off the edge of the bankor With kerosene of caring, hell take them home with him and With the Fragments of words we create punch holes in walls or in his tenmonth-olds head. He told me he has to When we skate When we hate hit concrete so he doesnt hit his family. When we scrape scribble scrawl drawl like skating scribes Hes 24. One kid spray-paints a new The gurus of love language that stamp every time he masters a new Cocreate realities trick. He graffitis his name intricately With these obscenities With these melodies into his canvas. He says he touches The song of songs on them all before beginning every day to The sheetmusic of the world, remind himself what hes accomplished And the whole wide world writes a Sentence slowly when we rotate. and to imagine where he wants to be. I started to see them now. I started to picture them as the little hydrogen and oxygen molecules in that quivering bead of dew on the busy road-web of the nation. They are a mini-microcosm with archetypes that sum up our world pretty well. They have a spectrum of winners and losers here; they are showoffs and coy. Modest and braggarts. Charismatic and embarrassed. Hard workers and naturals. Helpers and cheaters. They are leaders and followers. Experts and novitiates. They extend helping hands and lock tight fists. They remind me of no one and everyone. They are artists. They are athletes and Because when Im down everywhere else, I can control freaks. They come here Come here and to be perfectionists and to be able Go up and to control their tricks when they Clear Flipflop a gravity easily cant control anything else anywhere else anytime else. They create and express, and Im jealous. Im jealous of them. In addition to rocking my stereotypical viewpoint of skater punks, they learn to express themselves aptly. Poignantly. They have stories, and they tell them fiercely, fearlessly in their concrete jungle. But I cant help but think as I jot down the Hes a father: The guy with the green shirt? He cant lie, but he doesnt tell the whole truth, So he yells with his gears instead. 54 neophyte lines of another poem theyve injected into my mind: were they to visit me in my element, were they to swap their skateboards for my notebook, were they to tiptoe into my critical and creative nonfiction writing classroom Would they be jealous of me? Of my artistry and expression and story? The grass is always greener, I guess. I guess we could teach each other a thing or two about flying, respectively. Flap. I walk on your designs because I cant draw my own, And this is how I Take hollow hands to cup The soup in the sky But trying to hold soup Is actually like trying to Hold clear water, Which is impossible or improbable And so it sifts and strains From fingerlace and Weeps from fingertips Drips Slips Like rain-lips Kiss my mouth with memories. 55 Your teeth are fucked up, but you still slide glide with your wheels and feel more than I do. 4 No One Talks of Fall Love Cassy Brown The sun is so bright That it blinds and burns All at once -But we dont care Those beautiful colors Of red and gold, Yellow and brown Crunch beneath our feet -But we dont care We laugh And stumble While everyone stares -But we dont care Our lips touch While my hands run down Your soft and delicate form And we are not in love -But we do not care. 56 Single Servings Sarah Gabonay I want to compose, But all I can do is retrace the lines in my notebookInspiration doesnt come easily at 32,000 feetClosed quarters and the conglomerate cocktail of body odor stun my tongueMy tongue is connected to my handMy hand that writes springy poetry and pointed proseOr thats what I tell myself, anywayThats my excuseIf one needed an excuse to dawdle lazily with words on a planeHow can I compose with crust in my eye?! Someone fetch me some parchment and a fountain pen! Fan my dewy brow so that I may release this burdensome PO-E-TRAY! In times like these, I love the taste of sentencesI dont have to deal with the monotony of meter or maintain moralityHear ye, Hear ye! I would like to announce that my soul has dissipated into the abyss of stagnant dissonance! Thank you and dont forget to tip your waitress. One day, I hope to be as eloquent as sticky fingered school kidsCindy-slung-a-sack-of-shitI love synonyms for secretiveThis is my viceClandestine. Surreptitious. E-NIG-MUH The sordid snail slidesWhere does he go? Who gives a fuck? Not the sordid snailI have the attention span of a seagullEliot would smirk at my brevityBut Im a product of my environment, And so was heIm sure J. Alfred Prufrock would agree; Were all poetsSome of us just know it57 ! A Time for Everything Charles Pealosa According to the cat, There is a time for everything: A time to play, a time to nap, A time for a belly rub, a time to claw, A time to jump on your lap and curl, a time to ignore you, A time to pet, a time to collect the fur from the furnitures, A time to eat, a time to poop, A time to be cautious, a time to be obnoxious A time to knock down stuff from the counter, a time to eat pellets on the floor, A time to inspire a poet, and a time to tick one off. 58 1 Contributors Jessica Armacost is a freshman Pastoral Leadership major. She also loves reading, writing, and just about anything to do with books. Michael Baumann: I am a junior English and communication major, and I want to teach in college. I like flowers and tigers and poems. My God is an awesome God. Cassy Brown is a Junior Psychology student with a Concentration in Clinical Health. She has been writing poetry for many years now, and is a part of the Literary Arts Society. She is looking forward to coming back next fall and will begin applying to PsyD. programs then. Hillary Carpenter is a junior studying English and psychology. In her free time, she likes to be with family and friends, play tennis, read, and be outdoors. Sarah Gabonay Brianna McCaslin is a senior Sociology and English major, with a minor in Pastoral Leadership. She loves the word thither, thinks raisins taste good in everything, is slightly frightened of squirrels, currently has fourteen holes in her ears, could happily live in a used bookstore, and watches old Elvis movies on rainy days Caitlyn McIntyre, freshman, psychology major and photography minor. Karen McNulty is a senior English major graduating in a few days. She would like to thank everyone at Marian University who impacted her life, especially all of the faculty in the English department and her mentors in Student Affairs. She is now and will forever be a Marian University Knight. Dylan Ng is a sophomore double major in math and music with a minor in secondary education. He is a member of the marching band as well as the Literary Arts Society, and will be taking over as president of LASMU next fall. 59 2 Jasmine Nicholson is a freshman pursuing a major in elementary education and a double minor in special education and Spanish. Charles Pealosa is a senior double majoring in Catholic Studies and History and is a seminarian at the Bishop Simon Brut College Seminary. This is his third year being editor of The Fioretti and he loves to write poems as a way to contemplate the extraordinary in the mundane. In the fall he will be attending St. Meinrad School of Theology. Kaitlyn Reed Michael Schrader is Marian University's most prominent hipster, not only equipped with artistic talent, but also luscious, long locks that makes him every girl's dream-boy. He has sprouted from humble roots in a small industrial city that is home of everyone's favorite minor league baseball team, the Lafayette Jaguars. He aspires to remain unemployed and in debt after college as he is majoring in Philosophy, with minors in Peace and Justice and Global Studies, and has a concentration in Writing. He hopes to use his collection of studies to reconcile Karl Marx and capitalism in order to create world peace. - written by Mike Byers Tyler Tenbarge, a Haubstadt, Indiana native, is a senior graduating in May 2012 with a B.A. in Catholic Studies and minor in Psychology. He will be enrolling at St. Meinrad School of Theology to continue formation for Catholic priesthood. Tyler enjoys sports, art, and working on the family farm. ! 60  ...

... 1 2 A Picture of Spring Spring 2011 Editors: Anna Allen Bayli Bumen Charles Pealosa Daniel Lassell Andrew Popp Contributors: Michael Baumann Timothy Hendricks James Brockmeier Mia Horninger Bayli Bumen Daniel Lassell Hillary Carpenter Dylan Ng ENG 115J Class Charles Pealosa Philip Frederick Andrew Popp Patricia Harvey Abigail Roach Katie Hedrick Michael Schrader A Picture of Spring Spring 2011 Editors: Anna Allen Bayli Bumen Charles Pealosa Daniel Lassell Andrew Popp A Picture of Spring Spring 2011 Editors: Anna Allen Bayli Bumen Daniel Lassell Charles Pealosa Andrew Popp Editors Note: The word Fioretti, translated from Italian, means little flowers. Specifically, the Fioretti is a collection of little tales on the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. The idea of little flowers was a catalyst for Marian Universitys Fioretti, a student-run literary and art journal. Editors Anna Allen, Bayli Bumen, Charles Pealosa, Daniel Lassell, and Andrew Popp wanted to create an atmosphere where the little flowers of Marian University could flourish and bloom. We sincerely hope you enjoy this edition of The Fioretti, which the Marian University student body has offered. Dr. Diane Prenatt Faculty Advisor Charles Pealosa Format and Layout Designer Premature Front Cover Katie Hedrick 2 1 Table of Contents Premature Katie Hedrick A Picture of Spring James Brockmeier 5 Horse Eyes Daniel Lassell 5 Create the Title Yourself Charles Pealosa 6 Brother Andrew Popp 8 Eion Bailey Michael Baumann 9 Lovely Silhouette Michael Schrader 9 Ballad of Evil Jack Abigail Roach 10 Smoke Stacks Daniel Lassell 11 The Skate Park Michael Baumann 11 Tribute to the Man Who Didnt Deserve My Love Bayli Bumen 12 Dear Sandwich Man Daniel Lassell 12 The Moons Bidding Lips Michael Schrader 13 Icarus Rising Philip Frederick 14 Hero Dylan Ng 15 Untitled Cover 16 T-Orchard Andrew Popp 17 Dinner Landscape Charles Pealosa 18 The Beehive Abigail Roach 19 Spilling My Lunch in the Coffee Shop Daniel Lassell 20 Freuds Demand Charles Pealosa 21 Catch My Dreams Bayli Bumen 22 Midnight Dylan Ng 22 3 2 Toothpaste Hillary Carpenter 23 A Touch of Wind Michael Schrader 24 I Really Hate to Do This Timothy Hendricks 24 Petals of Love Dylan Ng 26 Words James Brockmeier 27 Madame Square Michael Schrader 28 February 8, 201 Patricia Harvey 28 Butcher Me Softly Daniel Lassell 29 Dear Valued Customer Andrew Popp 29 Snapshots of Snow Day Charles Pealosa 31 The Composer Philip Frederick 31 Naked Time Mia Horninger 32 Cracked Dylan Ng 39 Heels Michael Baumann 39 Trains Michael Schrader 40 Finishing the Rind Andrew Popp 41 Shadow Man James Brockmeier 41 Cobble Stone Streets Daniel Lassell 42 The Carnival 42 Suffocated Bayli Bumen 43 Suicide Jump of Building 3527 Daniel Lassell 43 Marian University Ghost Stories: Truth or Fiction? Daniel Lassell 47 Hide, Burn, and Seek ENG 115J 50 Contributors Page 4 51 A Picture of Spring James Brockmeier the sun plays off raindrops on damp leaves in late spring. lost, friends and possibly lovers leave their light jackets behind along with questions of future springs, not in the wilderness but she in his eyes and he in the loose blouse dangling from her shoulder innocently pale from winter. young birds haggle for their mothers song and attention Horse Eyes Daniel Lassell if you look closely into the eye of a horse you can see the history of mankind a tragic muddle of war and want pearly and black a reflection eye staring back at i no need for words for mouths have said enough these years the horse knows this it eats apples in silence and i listen to the gentle munch the grind between its teeth as the skins tear much like hearts when the bed is alone 5 1 2 Create the Title Yourself Charles Pealosa 4. 2. The snowball rolls down the small hill and gets bigger as it descends, but the whole scene gets swallowed up by a cat, who would later cough up a fur ball resembling the ocean. So tell me, how do you cope with lifewith all of its false advertisements and lack of opportunities to own an iguana? 6. Yes, if you whisper to me your secret, I will eat a hamburger for you, so that you wont have to suffer digesting gallons of grease. 9. Water keeps dripping from the faucetit reminds me of all the lobsters Ive eaten that no longer have shells. Does this mean jellyfishes have bones? 6 3. The kitchen is the best place to hunt for ants. Likewise, giraffes are lucky because they can always pretend as if they cant hear you from up there. 10. Its a lie! Koalas dont like eucalyptus leaves their favorite food is fried rice. 5. They say birds nest soup is delicious. I wonder what my house tastes like? 3 7. Behave yourself. If you keep eating potato chips, you are gonna be like the penguins that are too fat to fly. Whats the point of wearing a bow tie? 1. Dogs bark at the air, people talk to Bluetooth headsets. Whats the difference? 8. People tell me that ducks can swim in quicksand. Do you agree with this? Do you believe that goldfishes eat a daily serving of three fried elephant ears? 7 Brother Andrew Popp You bought me cigarettes When I was 17 and you 18, Like the brother I never had. You got me drunk On gin stolen From your mothers liquor cabinet, Like the brother I never had. You advised me go for it When I told you I liked her Advice only a brother could give. I cried The 45 minute drive to your house, When Diane called me The only words through the static Were ChichDead. I dried my eyes When I realized it was your father You needed someone to be Strong, Like the brother you never had. 8 Eion Bailey Michael Baumann I've broken my nose twice, but you can't tell because I drank a lot of milk when I was a kid--and I don't like to smile, but you can't tell because I do it a lot anyway, just to off-center the widow's peaks and the crow's feet and the suicide. Climb inside my eyes, though, like a scarab beetle, because there, you can turn a skeleton key into my padlocked memory-victory, bracing yourself on high cheekbones like handicapped rails to gather enough secrets to melt my thoughts; they leak out of the ears and onto the sideburns that your fingers traced last night before I smiled and when you failed to turn the key. My lips didn't move. Lovely Silhouette Michael Schrader A solemn silhouette moves swiftly across the bleakly covered campus fighting a grave and frigid night. The west wind howls, shouting for more terror of the white to engulf this young figures foot prints. But the gales of December couldnt freeze over my burning heart; for I found love that night. 9 The Ballad of Evil Jack Abigail Roach Evil Jack had heart surgery on Valentine's Day. We all had a good laugh about it Said he was the Grinch. His heart was two sizes too small. Everyday. Twice a day, even. Evil Jack comes in dressed like a little hobo sailor. He orders a tall bold coffee. He used to ask me if my hands were clean--said a person's hands couldn't possibly be clean handling money all day long. Now he barely says anything, just puts his change in the tip box and trudges away. He's the type that looks angry, even when he smiles. After giving him his coffee one day he blurts, "Did you know that Michelle Obama has made cupcakes illegal?" He smiles with jack-o-lantern teeth, waiting for a response. Then he is gone and we move onto the next crazy person, the next drink, the next hour, until we are completely immersed back into our own lives. And just maybe, maybe, we would pause briefly if he were never to return. We'd say his heart finally gave out. We'd say its sad even though he's a mean son of a bitch. And then we'd move on. A couple days after Valentine's Day Evil Jack reappeared his heart still two sizes too small. 10 Smokestacks Daniel Lassell Joe smokes cigarettes on wooden pallets holding the filters with dirty fingertips. he doesnt think of rain or trees swaying in gentle breeze or anything of universal proportions. beauty is subtle in Joes mind. it doesnt matter anymore. he puffs tobacco in chilled winter air watching the smoke curl and dance to the sky like frothy cotton candy. printed posters letter walls that stain eyelids that flutter in cigarette smolder. he reads words that dont exist with feelings that understand. Joe is alone. but company to butts littered about his feet waiting for him to speak to whisper secrets. The Skate Park Michael Baumann We jump on the ground to pound our flat fate Into the stuff of pancakes. Thats what we do. We are the brigade of Dream Street, because We see here. We see here. And We educate the blind with a Headphoned cacophony of creation. We walk at the same time on the grafittied concrete sheets of Dream Street, Chalklines in the greedy soul of cement. 11 Tribute to the Man Who Didnt Deserve My Love Bayli Bumen Love is a fairytale? Yeah right. Love is pain Its the blood dripping from my veins The bruises along my neck The curse words left never to be said The hole in the wall Yet, that hole is smaller than the one youve left in my heart Punching through my chest with the words Words you were never afraid to say Pathetic Ugly Bitch Yes, yesyou have left your mark Damaged Afraid Thats love Dear Sandwich Man Daniel Lassell Dear sandwich man, who holds the sandwich sign, I look at you in the hot suntoasted like the loaves you sell-and I cannot help but think of some tragedy it would be, if Godzilla stormed the streets and saw you, dressed plump and breaded, and ready to eat, like the sandwiches you sell. 12 The Moons Bidding Lips Michael Schrader The moon, gleaming through the still window pane, brightens the room behind. Alit is a cushioned chair in the corner. Silent, Lonesome, begging for an intellectual to come and entrance himself with the universe; To ponder what causes the phases of her royalty. The walls of the room are lined with bookshelves which collect what reflected beams they can. Poets, playwrights, authors, dictators, commentators, and philosophers dust these shelves and wait solemnly for the attracted to massage their covers with their calloused hands. Flipping page by page acquiring the words that float off the papyrus, lambskin, cotton bound together. The door, opened wide to a dismal corridor, hangs cautiously. Like a butler it stays until asked to leave. This luminescence digresses and retreats, crescents bidding farewell to a depressing chamber, kissing each title, each stitch, each splinter goodnight, Hoping for a brighter today. 13 Icarus Rising Philip Frederick The maze of life brings with it endless twists and turns Far too many for a man to bear, he slowly loses sanity My Father lives in the sky, and I long to see Him face to face I spread my waxen wings and leave this world behind Soaring above the clouds of my anxiety, looking down At the blackened and bruised world, pitying humanity Looking up to the heavens I see the Sun, brilliant as A diamond emblazoned with light, I soar higher Breaking the walls of caution, my soul begs to attain The unlimited light, the endless heat of transcendence But I begin to burn; the warm glow I sought is a horrific flame I was not prepared for it, wax drips like rain and my wings Become mere skeletons, and I begin to fall, plummeting downward Tossing and turning in turbulent winds, the sea approaches, roaring That blue lion with its wet tongue waving back and forth, waiting for me And brought back to earth, I crash into the depths of a sea of tears Icarus rising, Icarus fallen, I didnt know what would happen When union with God is sought, one must be careful not to look God in the face, because then one will surely die 14 Hero Dylan Ng Id like to think I saved the world that day. I didnt need gravity to fall. People brought me down. Their words like lead. I made a mistake. Everybody does. But why is my mistake the worst? Why am I crucified by all the glares? I am stoned to death in the verbal execution. Words are the rocks that strike me. Their eyes cut my soul in two. I am worthless. But I dont need a soul. I am alive. Crucifixion did not see me that day. Death gained a new enemy. Each stone passed through me. Lead is only an element on a table. I kicked gravity in the butt. I did save the world that day. I became a hero when I walked right through the fire of my mistake. You can all perish. I wont save you. I am my own hero. 15 Untitled Flour on a dusty countertop, crumbles of happiness left over from a day before. Cookies on the carpet, glass on the dresser, And a single red empty soda pop can kicked to the closet door: I used to like it When poetry was allowed to rhyme I kind of appreciated the feeling of smoothly quipping The bunnies hop, the flowers pop In the garden We cant write in the garden anymore Because all we want is power The strength of words and a shock value so high that all the garrets in the world couldnt encompass it We want Harry Houdini We want an atomic power so huge That it will knock the world apart and make a great Waste land Of our minds and our hearts So we Cant tolerate vicarage poetry, anymore, Weve moved on to better things 16 T-Orchard Andrew Popp Ten years old i capiTalized all my Ts, i was TaughT They donT conform To sTandard english. Twelve years old my apTiTude TesT wasnT sTandard i Told Them To change Their own aTTiTudes. excluded in high school, i wasnT a sheep; my lengThy TwisTed hair, was quiTe unique. noT unTil college did i find ouT originaliTy is a gifT some never obTain. 17 Dinner Landscape Charles Pealosa The last slice of lasagna was a small island At the edge of a flat world, Surrounded by a dry ocean of marinara. The napkins were the white-sand beaches Tainted by the tidal waves of crimson sauce. The pieces of French bread were boats With butter-drenched decks. The big mounds of salad were rainforests Still unconquered by the Italian And ranch dressings. The cups of root beer were the night sky Confined by plastic boundaries. Inside were the constellations of ice, The popping stars, and the fizzling clouds. 18 The Beehive Abigail Roach The beehive Buzzing little baristas do their dance Take money, make change Grind coffee, fake a smile Tall, Grande, Venti Buzz, Buzz, Buzz in the beehive of capitalism Brewing the blood that pumps through the nation Syrup and then milk steaming, hold back the foam and pour The espresso machine groans --What can I get for you today? Tall Nonfat No Whip Cream Light Foam 150 Degrees 3 pumps of peppermint White Mocha Upside Down A man asked for long shots At our store we call them dead shots I say, After 15 seconds the shot loses its caramel color and turns black, Turns bitter I told him that we arent supposed to serve deadshots. He says he likes the bitter taste. Most Starbucks customers do Most of the world does, Choking as it burns the back of their throat: ALL HAIL THE GREEN GODDESS! 19 Spilling My Lunch in the Coffee Shop Daniel Lassell they see me. wet and soiled. spilt milk muddled with pasta and what used to be a ham sandwich washed down crotch to carpet below a littered waterfalla wasted lunch shoving my hand down my throat to stop the vomit feeling the warmth in between my fingers choking on pride and watching dignity walk out the door like the old woman who stumbles getting up the stairs and the child who says sex in class and doesnt know its meaning until the rest start to laugh like the politician called out on television for the crimes hes made against humanity and the girl who bleeds at daycare on her first period i cant help making a fool of myselfa reflection in the mirror transparency has never been so painful they see me. i hide behind a mask of red and hope for the chuckles to die 20 Freuds Demand Charles Pealosa Plato sat on a couch as Freud scribbled on a legal pad. The scratching of his pen against the smooth, yellow paper sounded like the lighting of a match. Plato had been going blind after too much staring at blank pages and writing on air. Write me five poems and release your chained beasts on paper, Freud said with a grin. Be still and dont be afraid to erase them. With a big sigh, Plato took his quill, and stood up to leave. Thats what he gets for not bringing Freud some granola bars. 21 Catch My Dreams Bayli Bumen Dark. I'm scared Light. Swirls. Sweat pools on my skin Turns. Black. My hair is matted against my face White. Silent. Loud. I can't handle these dreams I close my eyes. I rest. I wake. Roll over and look up. Black and Blue Dream Catcher Dangles from my wall. I smile. I sleep. Midnight Dylan Ng 22 Red moon. Black sky. Silver stars. Gray mist. Midnight. The bewitching hour. The place where all my fears come to life. The place where I am lost. . . Forever. Toothpaste Hillary Carpenter At 6:57AM I stumble into the bathroom, my hands taking turns rubbing my sleep-encrusted eyes. The crusty remnants of my dream-state spiral to the tile floor, landing among cotton balls that took a detour on their way to the trash bin. The fluorescent bulbs illuminate the room and strain my eyes. Toothpaste slates over my toothbrush in a straight line. It is not until a flicker of light hits just right that its crystal-light speckles shine like a fine chandelier. I start to think maybe he is more than cracked up to be. His mint breath enters my nostrils, freezing the microscopic cilia to icicles. The coolness awakens my sleep-deprived senses and sends them into frenzy. Toothpaste has the genetic makeup of God. His genes are abrasive enough to aid in the removal of plaque that gules itself to the back of central incisors. Sodium fluorides strengthen the enamel, breathing new life deep into their roots. Toothpaste blankets the teeth, creating a shield that yields off potential enemies capable of utter destruction. The bristles of the toothbrush turn foamy from the paste, scrubbing deep into the crevices of the molars to extract remnants of caramel corn that served as my 1 AM delight. The toothpaste foam dribbles down from my chin and barely misses making a landmark on my shirt. It is too early for this. I am done scrubbing. 23 1 A Touch of Wind Michael Schrader The soft, comforting breeze, Whispering across the silent greens, As calm as a mothers hymns. Blades of grass glide gracefully through the air, Telling the old not to care, Cooling their skin from the suns scorching glare. Wistfully the wind plays with the leaves, Causing uproar amongst the trees. Wishing gladly for another breeze. I Really Hate to Do This Timothy Hendricks i really hate to do this i know it isn't fair; but i cannot last another kiss i fear i'll lose my hair. you see, i think i may be mad my mind is acting crazy; my sight is surely going bad the world's becoming hazy. after minutes of research and a second's contemplation; plus a walk around some church spent hoping for salvation; 24 2 an epiphany did come and much to my surprise; the source is you, of which and from comes sanity's demise. so i truly must admit, and surely do regret, that this really must be it the beginning of Forget. but i'll grant your heart some grace, some time to say goodbye; that my fingers on your face may catch the tears you cry. at which time i will leave, for the sake of my own heart; and the teardrops on your sleeve will signify the start. . . the beginning of our end, the doomsday clock will tick, o, my wits i must defend, but the time is yours to pick. you see, i'm giving you the date on which to end our love, your hands do hold our blessed fate please wear some sticky gloves. 25 Petals of Love Dylan Ng Whimsical. Not that I would know. He loves me not. Petals on the ground. Lifeless. Marking each and every hope. He loves me. I wish. One petal wont change the world. I am lost. A sea forgotten. Listlessly lolling lifeless eyes. Dance my pretty little feelings. Emotions are slaves. The world their captor. Love is a theory. Solve for x. But theres only y. Y. Y. Why. Why doesnt he love me? Whimsical. Not that I would know 26 Words James Brockmeier words she cannot process into thoughts bellow into ears as she stands from the stance she thought only she knew face meets dirt and knees scarred soothed by the balm of tears and earth. words she cannot let be put to thoughts, immediacy of sense turns to feeling, forcing her to truly face these proposed truths as they meander to her ears, but not quite to the heart she had given up. she had heard words before, calming, soothing, loving crap carrying concerned consolation. but not these words: I hurt too. words. real words, real concerned words. thoughts never realized, lost loneliness creates hope, springing from heart, thoughts she cannot put to words 27 Madame Square Michael Schrader Your curved body my calloused hand sweeps over; Your thick perfume Tickles my newly awakened Nostrils: teasing me, Inviting myself for Another kiss. Filling my fresh lungs, Stealing every bit of Oxygen left over From a peaceful sleep. Enticing my mind, Calming a hectic thought, You tell me everythings Going to be all right. Like a prince coveting his young maiden, You gently hand yourself over. And without guilt, I take you. Youre mornings breakfast, Youre my first cigarette. February 8, 2011 Patricia Harvey Warm tissue fleshed from the skeleton sewn into a new and better invention: Superabsurdly, Mary Shelleys opus. 28 1 Butcher Me Softly Daniel Lassell If Chicago is really the Hog Butcher of the World then what does that say of its pizza? Sure, its a windy city that beats childrens faces with frostbitten snowflakes that stab But if Chicago is really the Hog Butcher then what does Indianapolis cleave? I have lived there and seen it I have choked on its smog and strolled the littered alley-ways Indianapolis adds personalism to slaughter: It takes you by the hand and says, I know you. I have seen you in traffic before work and I have heard you complaining in the blistering winter wind and I like it Then it lops off your hand like any other butcher would. Dear Valued Customer Andrew Popp Dear Valued Customer, Its a sale of a whale, the tall tale, Of capitalist harmony. This is no going out of business sale, this is a sale of your soul. Id like to invite you Peruse my aisles, walk for miles, Spend more money, to be more 29 2 3 bluntly. Then return and fill I have all you need, Your pantries of our low low low Ill be the air you breathe, And all you see Priced deals. To perpetuate the cycle of Comes at a price. Capitalist harmony. Save twenty cents on tangerines, After all, Thirty on facial cream, Wal-Mart pride is And your wet dreams saving money. Are always on sale. I enjoy your business, Excuse me Children of Production, So indulge yourselves on No one told you to stop working, Anything you need. Nor did I say stop slaving. This money will not make itself Greetings Mom and Pop shops of America Continue production, On the toy Your capitalism is dead It takes My capitalism is new. Twelve cents There is no need To make. For you to be Your competition A toy We will sell, present as a deal, Doesnt exist And still make In capitalist harmonys One hundred fifty percent profit. I need to exploit, Attention: Wal-Mart Employees To gain my wealth. A clean-up in aisle three, But before you do The low cost of high profit Rests I will need you to clock out in your blood and sweat. so your hours are less than forty. Our capital gain You single mothers Rests Need no benefits you senior citizens In your pain. And our capitalist harmony I could give Is Two shits. your agony. Work to the bone But not too long, After work pick up your kids, Sincerely with love. Of Money. Pay your bills, 30 Your Local Wal-Mart. Snapshots of Snow Day Charles Pealosa Crystalized swords of dew Picnic table sledding Ahhh! they scream Scattered blue salt The digging of tires Not quite 12 inches But Im afraid to go to the library Painful elbow Shuddering in the cold Empty can of ice melt Finger-like branches Skating rink over grass Wearing matching brown jacket and gloves Slick steps downward The sound of hour-long scraping Im in denial Because everything Keeps sliding The Composer Philip Frederick He stood on the shore of the sea of sound Directing the tide, the rise and fall, the waves of music The Master in the world he conducts, Every sweep of his arm, every twirl of his hand The pained expression on his face Is the dynamic heart beating, giving life To the notes echoing in harmony to the heavens They are his love, his life, and the sea obeys him. 31 1 Naked Time Mia Horninger Characters: MARCIE32 years old, slightly overweight and buxom, brunette, low selfesteem KINDLE25 years old, eccentric, very starving artist, warm-hearted JASMINEKindles girlfriend, very elegant, thin, beautiful, but haughty Kindles apartment/art studio. There is a door to stage left, closed. A door to stage right is gaping slightly with a light behind it. There is a folding screen center stage and a table set up with strewn flowers and a long piece of fabric, obviously set up to be painted. There is soft, ballad rock playing in the background and the light of a sunset streaming in the windows. Candles have also been lit and are scattered about the room. The atmosphere is unintentionally romantic. MARCIE is standing behind a folding changing screen. All the audience can see is her naked silhouette. KINDLE has his back to the audience, cheated so that he is looking at her at an angle and the audience cannot see his canvas. KINDLE (Looking around the canvas at Marcie): Come out of there, Marcie! MARCIE (Pleading): Kindle, please! I cannot believe you are making me do this! KINDLE (Kindly but annoyed): Its not as bad as you think. Just come on out here. Im sure you look beautiful. MARCIE (Almost whining): But why do I have to be naked? Of all the people to be naked, why me? KINDLE (Exasperated): I swear to God, if you dont quit complaining, Im going to come over there and dump my paint water on your head. Now shut up, and come out here. I need to set you up to paint. MARCIE stomps out from behind the screen wearing a very short silk robe that barely covers her buxom figure. KINDLE sighs and throws his brush down in exasperation. She stands, with her arms crossed across her chest. 32 2 KINDLE: Damnit, Marcie! Ive been trying for three weeks to get the lighting right in here for this composition and this was our only chance! And now, youre going to ruin it! Ill never get it right! MARCIE (On the verge of tears): Dont yell at me! Please! This isnt fair. I told you from the beginning I was uncomfortable with this. KINDLE (Frustrated but sympathetic): I told you. No one is going to know its you JASMINE suddenly walks through the door into the room from the bedroom. She is prettily rumpled as if she just got up from beauty sleep. She is wearing a skimpy teddy and is bleary eyed. KINDLE looks terrified and looks between MARCIE and JASMINE. JASMINE (Sleepily): Hey, whats going on out here? KINDLE: Jasmine! Whatwhat are you doing home?! JASMINE (Focusing on Kindle): I woke up with a migraine so I called into work after you left for classes. (Sees MARCIE) Who the hell are you? MARCIE (Obviously embarrassed but slightly offended. She is also very confused): I could ask you the same thing MARCIE and JASMINE (Turning toward Kindle): Kindle? KINDLE (Thinking fast): Uh, Jasmine, this is Marcie, a friend from school. Marcie, this is my uh, girlfriend. Jasmine. MARCIE (Crushed): But I thought you were. . . I didnt know you had. . . Girlfriend? JASMINE: Yeah, girlfriend. Got a problem with that, sweet cheeks? (Realizing what MARCIE is wearing) Excuse me, but is that my bathrobe youre wearing? MARCIE (Pulling the robe tighter around herself): Um, maybe? I dont know? JASMINE (Becoming angrier): And are you naked under my bathrobe? MARCIE looks as if she is about to start crying. JASMINE is very angry, and looks as if she is about to blow up. KINDLE, the entire time, has 33 3 been looking back and forth between the two women. Seeing that the situation is about to go from bad to worse, he jumps in. KINDLE: Honey, Marcie is a friend from school! Shes in my painting class and is helping me with a project. JASMINE: By being naked?! Bullshit, Kindle! This is the third girl this month youve brought home for your painting class. Im tired of seeing naked girls in our living room that arent me! MARCIE (Trying to mend the situation): But, its true. Kindle asked me to be his partner. The assignment is to paint each other. JASMINE (On her last straw. Yelling): NAKED?! JASMINE picks up a vase and throws it at KINDLE. Her throw is wild, though, and misses him completely. MARCIE buries her face in her hands and begins to cry. KINDLE and JASMINE begin to yell at each other, saying things like Its a project! and You cheating jerk! MARCIE finally cant take it anymore. MARCIE (Yelling over JASMINE and KINDLEs argument): Stop it! The other two fall silent. MARCIE: Listen, Jasmine. Im really sorry about this. This is really just an art project. I dont know anything about the other girls. Kindle wanted to paint me naked for his project. I told him I wasnt comfortable with it and we honestly havent even started yet. Kindle, Im sorry about this, but I just cant do it. Youre going to have to paint someone else for your project. (She turns toward the bathroom, gathering up her clothes) KINDLE (Pleadingly): No, Marcie Dont go! I really need you for this project! MARCIE (Sadly): You can paint someone else. You dont need me. Im sure you have plenty of other girls or you could always paint your girlfriend. (She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her) JASMINE (Angrily): Good, let her go. KINDLE (Sighing heavily): Come on, you dont understand. 34 4 JASMINE (All the anger going out of her. Sits on the couch): No, I dont understand Kindle. Why do you have to paint her naked and not me? And what about the other girls? Arent I good enough for you? KINDLE: Of course you are, baby! Youre beautiful and sexy and gorgeous, but, in this case, it needs to be Marcie that I paint and not you. JASMINE (Slowly getting angry again): Just like it had to be the other girls, too, right? (Sighs) Ive always been good enough for you in the past! KINDLE: I know JASMINE (Cutting him off): What do they have that I dont? KINDLE: Nothing JASMINE (Cutting him off): Im a model for goodness sake! My god, Kindle! Shes fat! A fat cow! Unbeknownst to JASMINE and KINDLE, MARCIE has come out of the bathroom, now fully dressed. She has listened to the last half of their conversation. Her face has become more and more crushed. At JASMINEs last comment, though, MARCIE has heard enough. MARCIE (Quietly): Yes, I know I am. JASMINE freezes and lowers her head, obviously embarrassed, but she refuses to turn around and face MARCIE. KINDLE sighs heavily and drops his face into his hands. KINDLE: Im sorry, Marcie. She didnt mean that. MARCIE: No, I know she meant that, Kindle. Most people actually do mean it because, frankly, its true. Im not going to deny it. KINDLE: Aw! Come on, Marcie! MARCIE (Raises her hand to stop him): Dont try to defend her, Kindle. Shes right. You should paint her. Cause, shes beautiful. JASMINE (Turns slowly to MARCIE): IIm sorry. I dont even know you and I shouldnt have said that. 35 5 MARCIE (Coldly): Dont worry about it. KINDLE (Fed up): Damnit! Jasmine, I cant paint you! I want to paint Marcie because she has the right skin tone! Not because shes fat or skinny or youre not beautiful enough, or anything! For crying out loud, youre both beautiful women and I would love to paint you both, but its not fair for you to judge each other like this! Same with Rachel and Traci and Monique! They had the right skin tone! Skin tone! JASMINE and MARCIE: What? KINDLE (Slowing down): Youre both beautiful women. I would love to paint both of you. Jasmine, I love you and youre gorgeous and my girlfriend. Marcie, youre a great friend and I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. The reason I wanted to paint you was because you have the right skin tone. MARCIE: Skin tone? KINDLE: Yeah. It balances the painting. JASMINE: So, you would have painted me, if I had the right color of skin? KINDLE: Yes. JASMINE: Oh. Ok? KINDLE: Ladies, I am really sorry about the confusion. (He sighs heavily) Im going to the bathroom, be right back. KINDLE leaves, closing the bathroom door behind him. JASMINE and MARCIE stare at each other in awkward silence. Both women finally look away from each other, unwilling to break the silence for another few moments. JASMINE (Still not looking at MARCIE): Im uh, Im really sorry about what I said. MARCIE (Quietly, still not looking at JASMINE): Its ok. JASMINE (Finally turning toward MARCIE): No, it really isnt. I have no reason whatsoever to judge you like that. You really are a beautiful girl. 36 6 MARCIE (Smiling slightly): Thanks. You are too. JASMINE: So, will you let him paint you now? Now that hes explained himself, Im really ok with it. It was just a shock to wake up to find another strange woman wearing my bathrobe. MARCIE (Shakes her head, laughing slightly): I bet. But, no. I dont think Ill be painted anymore. Im too embarrassed. Im not comfortable being naked when Im alone in my apartment, let alone in front of Kindle. JASMINE (Warming to MARCIE): But you have such a pretty face and your skin tone is gorgeous! A few extra curves never hurt anyone. Youre beautiful! MARCIE: Thanks, but no thanks. JASMINE: Well, ok. But youre really going to disappoint him. You know how Kindle gets about his artwork. KINDLE comes out of the bathroom. KINDLE: So, Marcie, you want to do this or not? If its ok with Jasmine, of course. MARCIE (Stands, grabbing her purse to go): No, thanks, Kindle, but Im going to go. Im really not comfortable with this at all and I feel like Ive intruded enough. Ill see you in class on Monday. (She makes a quick exit) KINDLE (Watching her go): Damn. Damn, damn, damn. (Sighs) Well I guess Ill have to rework my painting for class. Damn. (Sighs again) Im really sorry about all this Jasmine. I didnt mean for everything to go down like this. JASMINE: Its really, ok, Kindle. Im sorry I freaked out. KINDLE: (Kisses her softly): I understand why you did. Im going to take a shower, babe. Ill paint more tomorrow. I love you. JASMINE (As he goes into the bathroom): Love you, too. As the door closes behind KINDLE, JASMINE watches him go. She blows out all the candles and goes as if to go into the bedroom. She stops and turns toward his canvas, which has remain facing away from the 37 7 audience the entire time. She checks first that KINDLE is in the shower and then goes over to the painting. She takes it down from the easel to look at it. Her face is shocked. She sets the painting down, now facing the audience. The canvas is completely blank, with pictures of other naked or scantily clad women pinned and taped to it. She pulls out his portfolio and finds picture after picture of KINDLE and scantily clad girls, mostly photographs. JASMINE opens his paint kit and dumps out rolls of film and a camera. There is no paint or paint brushes. JASMINE (Extremely angry): Oh, thats it. Im done. She goes into the bedroom. KINDLE comes out of the bathroom wearing only a towel and sees the mess. KINDLE (Knows hes in trouble): Oh. Crap. JASMINE comes out of the bedroom wearing a long coat and carrying a suitcase. KINDLE (Trying to explain himself): Baby, its just art! Art! You know, like Da Vinci, or Picasso! She looks at KINDLE, shakes her head in disgust, and walks out the door, slamming it behind her. KINDLE slowly sits on the couch, picking up a dropped photograph. BLACKOUT. 38 Cracked Dylan Ng Cracked. Each and every line a scar. So much pain. So much hurt. So much love. The sun shines. Rays of light penetrate. When I look through my cracked crystal heart I see a rainbow. Each and every color A color of love. Heels Michael Baumann When we talk it doesnt matter Because real shitreal Conversation crafts Piles of words When we shatter clatter Courage walls with speed Listen to us. Because When we talk, it doesnt matter, but When we sing, We break sound barriers And change things. We start with snowshovels for our word piles And shovel until our heels cant feel anymore. 39 Trains Michael Schrader Another weekend, another train, another ticket, platform, whistle. Paid the man in the booth For a seat to Virginia. Your life is but a dream, He said to me. Theres wisdom in foolish words. Many men with tickets also stand, idle on the platform; Shifting their weight to and fro. The first train comes, Next stop Maryland! and about ten board. The next, Santa Monica, follows its tail, and twenty scurry into its cars. These arent my train headed for Virginia. They are headed towards similar, desert locations. My train will come, or at least, I hope so. And when it does We will finally be alone. 40 Finishing the Rind Andrew Popp She reminded me of a lime. the most beautiful Shade of green. She tasted bitter, Vomit kisses. I continued to chew. If I finished the rind I thought she might sweeten. It wasnt until her friend Told me she doesnt deserve you That I realized Limes taste better with tequila. Shadow Man James Brockmeier dreary dark demeaningly damp days followed by similar dreams, have led me here in a bloody eyed gaze desiring only to dangle, how high this precipice seems. They say that Death haggles for souls, I imagine my barter, the simplest affair, he walks already with me hand in hand the shadow man told. Letting go my numbed mind still feels the whip of cold lifeless air. 41 Cobble Stone Streets Daniel Lassell Cobble stone streets, laid in history so intricately, yet tread upon everyday forgotten. A business man in a suit, a child, a homeless man, a pregnant woman, all cross over the bricksthese bricks of old that cradle the pastand not one stops to ponder, who placed these stones? Who are these brick layers who laid these heavily trodden streets so long ago, laid so well that not one cracked under the weight of the world? You, cobble stone menmen who mastered the craft of flooring and became one with the earthare not forgotten. The Carnival She walked down the twisted hallways Ins and outs and didnt understand Knowing of the light outside But with ins and outs and twists and turns and crying in a heap on the bathroom floor She couldnt really find a way for spinning Around in Distorted circles Trying, trying to stop Running up against a wall Slamming against the end of a hall Living in a house of mirrors. 42 Suffocated Bayli Bumen Suffocated I feel the pressure on my lungs Trying to draw in a deep breath The air scratches at my raw throat Screaming is no longer an option Fear is just a word I am beyond that I will forever be a prisoner A prisoner of sorrow I am alone Stuck in this dungeon Its dark and Im cold. The Suicide Jump of Building 3527 Daniel Lassell Man stands at the pinnacle of his creation. He ponders as the wind whips at his face. These sky scrapers, who defy gravity and tickle Gods toes, command the trees to bow (for they are no longer the keepers of the sky). Man built themthe Tower of Babel finally finishedand killed God. He thinks. He repents. He jumps. . . and Mother Nature swallows him. 43 44 Visions that Haunt Us: F E A T U R E D G H O S T S T O R I E S 45 46 1 Marian University Ghost Stories: Truth or Fiction? Daniel Lassell For years, freshman students have strolled down the dog walk late at night and knocked for ghosts to come out and play. It has developed into a rite of passage, one might say, as the Marian community welcomes its newest students through a chilling cobble-stone adventure. Even outside of the Halloween season, the topic remains prevalent and captivates people. Students have told many stories of Marians past and the spirits that pester the campus. To name a few: Clare Hall had an exorcism performed on the second floor, as well as a nun who committed suicide in a shower. Allison Mansion has a nun who collects keys, a swimming pool that splashes on its own without water, and a woman who prevents break-ins. Stokely Mansion has a woman in a beige dress, a boy who plays with tops at the end of the dog walk, a man who hung himself in the attic, a pair of legs that occupy the bathrooms, a man who shot himself in the bedroom, and a mistress poisoned to death in the tea garden. There has never been research conducted on campus were just not interested, it doesnt benefit us, the Vice President for Administration and General Counsel, Deb Lawrence, said, tired of the paranormal investigators that call every year to conduct research on campus. We dont dwell on that because there are so many more meaningful things to be doing. . . There isnt anything documentableits mostly rumor. I dont think its science, I think its something else. . . People tell me that there are ghosts in Allison Mansion, but I dont see any. The stories about Allison developed about twenty years ago, so I think they may have been made up, Sr. Norma Rocklage said in an interview, single-handedly eliminating a third of the questions. Concerning Stokely, she stated, When the college bought the mansion, the sisters invited the Stokely family 47 2 back to see it one time and one son would not come back, because he had such bad memories. She described Frank Wheeler, the owner of the mansion in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and how he had committed suicide, he got up one morning, showered, shaved, put on his good clothes and shot himself. An old article in the Indianapolis Star stated that Wheeler had shot himself, not in the bedroom, but in his bathroom, clothed only in a bathrobe. Frank H. Wheeler, 57 years old, Indianapolis millionaire, one of the founders of the Indianapolis Speedway and president of the Wheeler-Schebler Carburetor Company, took his own life about 7 oclock yesterday morning in a bathroom of the palatial Wheeler home, 147 West Riverside drive, by discharging the contents of both barrels of a shotgun into the left side of his head. . . Neither Mrs. Wheeler nor the servants knew that Mr. Wheeler had left his room until the shot was heard by Walter Freeman, one of the servants, who hurried to the bathroom and found the body lying on the floor clad only in a bathrobe. Touring Stokely Mansion, Mary Samreta, the Assistant Director of Admissions, told of her own personal experiences: I was in my officeand we had no windows open, so there was no windand I was talking with the other workers and my candle blew out. I later found out that it was the anniversary of [Wheelers] death, or his birthday, or his wifes birthday or something. Ive had handprints on my desk before that were not mine. I was coming down the stairs one time and there was a flash of white light that flew past me, and I screamed. One worker saw a pair of legs in the bathroom, and he said excuse me and stepped back, but then there was no one there. He had the legs down to every detail toohe had dark brown saddle shoes and cream pin stripe pants. She talked as though the unnatural occurrences were daily events and explained how they used to bother her but now they dont, I was working late one day and I was hearing 48 3 noisesdoors closing, footstepsand I couldnt leave so I was like, Alright, I respect your space, you respect mine, because I cant leave, I have a lot of work to get done and Ive never had a problem since that day. In the end, the only unnatural death that can be confirmed on campus was that of Frank Wheeler. The hauntings have no evidence to support that they really happened since they are only speculations. But the stories continue to thrill the Marian community, even though most are made up. Yet, all rumors stem from some truth. One story can easily transform into another through misunderstanding. Like a tanning bed in the attic of Stokely, which was nicknamed an electric chair, could have sparked some rumor of death in the attic, and ended up as a hanging. One will never know what truly happened on campus over a hundred years ago, since no living person can attest to its validity. * Published in the Knight Times October 2010 49 Hide, Burn, and Seek ENG 115J All the children coming up the front sidewalk to Timmys tenth birthday party heard him screaming. The clown had gotten to Stokely Mansion early. Fortunately, the other kids werent afraid of clowns. It turned out badly for Timmy who kept trying to hide from the clown, even while eating birthday cake and opening presents. Timmy only relaxed and enjoyed himself during the outside games. He only was happy when walking his new dog along the colonnade. With the gathering clouds, the children were called inside to play hide and seek. Timmy didnt want to go. Some think Timmy saw the clown again and decided to really hide. No one knows if he even knew what the furnace was. Surely, no one could have known where Timmy had hidden when the butler turned the furnace on, that first cold afternoon of the year. The children all thought, then, that the banging in the slowly heating furnace was just the old dark, scary thing getting hot after sitting, waiting for cobwebbed months, in the basements dark depths. Then, the other children all thought they could go back home and forget the horror, but no one wanted the clown or birthday parties again. They kept thinking about Timmy. After they all died, as old, old people, the young children they had been that haunting afternoon started showing up in the windows of Stokely Mansion. Some play happily, reliving the good moments, and others SCREAM FOREVER, reliving the moment Timmys burning body fell out of the furnace when the butler finally opened the door. Now, a hundred and five years later, on every very dark night, I walk up the catwalk to the mansions back door and knock: Can Timmy come out to play? 50 1 Contributors Michael Baumann: I am a junior. I major in English and Communication. I like this stuff. James Brockmeier is a senior theology and philosophy major. He was inspired to write poetry by his coworkers and friends at the writing center. Bayli Bumen Hillary Carpenter is currently a sophomore at Marian University. She is pursuing an English degree with a writing concentration and is minoring in psychology. Besides writing, Hillary enjoys playing tennis, reading, and being with her family and friends. The ENG 115, section j, wrote Hide, Burn, and Seek as an attempt at flash horror fiction together in Spring, 2011. We were looking at some of the conventions used in different forms of literature, at HOW creative writing makes meaning. (Really, we did it mostly because it was fun.) Class Roster: Kaitlin Antonneau, Veronica Belles, Joey Collopy, Drew Dearing, Allie Dragoo, Kelsey Fluke, Mary Ganser, Samantha Greasor, Dylan Green, Joe Grogan, Kelly Leyba, Michelle Marcum, Annabella Ondari, Sarah Osburn, Lauren Paras, Taylor Roach, Maria Schwab, Mary Kate Shanahan, Nick Shanks, Cory Slade, and Jessie Tawney. Philip Frederick is a sophomore and a Psychology major. He hopes to study in the field of clinical psychology. He enjoys hiking, reading, and, when a rare streak of creativity hits, writing Patricia Harvey is a tutor, teacher, and humble apprentice to the writers craft. Katie Hedrick graduated from Marian University in 2010. Timothy Hendricks 51 2 Mia Horninger is a fifth year senior and is graduating in May 2011. She hopes that her writing has matured to level, which allows it to no longer reek like moldy gym shoes. She is an English major and has minors in history, theatre, and a concentration in writing. She loves to crochet Daniel Lassell is graduating this spring from Marian with an English major, Pastoral Leadership minor, and a Writing concentration. For the graduation ceremony, he wants to ride in on a llama, just like President Elsener rode in on a horse during a football game. We'll see if his dream comes true. Dylan Ng: Born August 2, 1991 From Fort Wayne, IN Attended Bishop Dwenger High School Double major in math and music education with a minor in secondary education and a concentration in rhetoric. Freshman Charles Pealosa is a junior double majoring in Catholic Studies and History and is a seminarian at the Bishop Simon Brut College Seminary. He loves to write poems as a way to meditate on the beauty of Gods creationseeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. His favorite topics to write about are food and human behavior. He likes to experiment with different poetic styles. Andrew Popp Abigail Roach Michael Schrader 52  ...

... F i ore t t i , . . Volullle 59 2000-2001 Volume 59 Fioretti A Literary Anthology Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana Works of more than 60 years have been represented in the Fioretti. The name was given to the works of and about St. Francis. Fioretti means "little leaves" which is the same word as "anthology," c1s in, Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman . .:." Staff Editors: Lisa Rosenfeld Suzanne Walker Production Editor: Elizabeth Kreicker Advisor: Sr. Stella Gampfer, OSF Cover Design: Suzanne Walker Non-Fiction Contents Tangibles I Lori Voorhis My Cosmopolitan Education I Brian DeRouen Hero or Zero? I Thomas Weldon Sunday Afternoon on the Island ... 1 Lauren Stiener Physics on the Field I Thomas Weldon Girl Scout Cookies I Suzanne Walker 5 9 14 18 20 24 Fiction Immigrant Medley I Alex Gouty Dad I Stefanie Kesecker The Game I Ameetha Prabhu A Lesson Learned the Hard Way I Lisa Rosenfeld Three Conversations I Earl Carrender The Alchemist I Joan Marciniak 30 32 35 37 38 41 Poetry Tinfoil and Plastic Wrap I Stephanie Schoppenhorst Terra Firma I Lori Voorhis ,T he Book of Kells I Suzanne Walker Fading I Morgan Roddy Where Was He I Raenisha Karim The Pain I Sharon Wells The Un-Welcomed Guest I Ryan Kreicker Too Much Green I Lisa Rosenfeld Be True I Brandi Eversman Watermelon Days I Suzanne Walker .The Child I Elizabeth Kreicker Little Sister I Rachel Wuertz Jungles I Alex Gou ty Perfect I Leslie Heckelsberg Leaving But Not Forgetting I Elizabeth Kreicker Kite Flying I Suzanne Walker Eichhornchen I Alex Gouty 44 45 46 47 49 50 51 52 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 Non -Fiction AWARDS Tangibles 1st prize, Mid-West Regional Sigma Tau Delta Conference My Cosmopolitan Education 1st Prize, Non-Fiction, English Club Hero or Zero 2nd prize, Non-Fiction, English Club Fioretti Tangibles Lori Voorhis I unpacked a few more boxes yesterday. I cleaned the glass, lemon oiled the frames, and hung a few pictures on the walls. A select, few trinkets and knickknacks have been lovingly placed about. Photographs adorn the buffet. Trying to match the traffic pattern of my tiny kitchen, I rearranged the cabinets for the third time this week. Before I can complete my exodus from'~the marital residence," I need to move another ton of books and keepsakes, finish unpacking the boxes already here, call the Salvation Army to haul away the discards, and move the items for saving to my mother's basement. As I sit here writing, trying to settle my thoughts into the space of my head, I ponder over what to do about the pile of perfectly good junk in the middle of the living room floor. I have a problem with tangibles. I did not know the extent of my problem until moving after . seventeen years in one place, and twenty years of marriage. That I had not been able to park in the garage for four years, every closet was packed brim-full, and the hall was lined with boxes should have been clues, but so far I had chosen to ignore them. The only time I was rerrunded of the multitude of my possessions was my yearly quest to locate every box of Christmas tree ornaments. I have a multitude of those, too. And every year, after the tree ornaments were put away, I would vow to myself that I would sort through the junk in the garage and closets, and have a garage sale. I never did. I learned to be a great keeper from my grandmothers. Both grew up during the Great Depression. A time when my maternal great-grandmother sold quilts she had made for her daughters to pay the rent. A time when every piece of garbage was evaluated for possible future use, and saved accordingly. Nothing was thrown away, ever. My grandmother would crochet fine lace with cotton twine the cleaners used to bound grandfather's shirts. She saved every piece of aluminum foil to use again to catch future spills in the bottom of the oven. Old, threadbare blankets were used as batting for comforters, the tops pieced with squares of fabric from my mother's school dresses, my uncle's pajamas, and grandpa's shirts. Fioretti Grandma would recite the story behind each patch as I traced the patterns with my finger. My other Grandmother, my father's mother, saved memories, not foil and twine. She saved pieces of lace sent to her by her aunt who lived in the Philippines. Her aunt had a servant boy, and a little pug dog whose name escapes my memory now. Pictures of her handsome, dashing father when he went to Philadelphia. His nickname was "Red" after his hair, and he was a butcher who buried his wife when Grandma was three. Plates belonging to her mother "madein France, of bone china," she would teU me as she dusted .t hem. How'l loyed all of those old shiny plates and pictures, and the stories. I have them now. ." Of course, being the keeper.they taught me to be, I took their belongings, gratefully, when ~hey gave them to me. I bought the belongings of other women, the items. they no longer needed or wanted. Most of them were cheap, a dollar or two, -and I bought them by the sack . ,full at garage sales and flea markets. At antique shows and shops, espeCially the ones with a lay-a-w;a y plan, I was much more selective. And I placed every precious treasure throughout my house, little piles and stacks, and baskets, and boxes of tangibles . . . Now that I am moving, I am at the mercy of my tangibles .. I am torn between what to keep and what to save. I love and want all of it, and that is now impossible. So I write, and sift through the mementos of my life's journey and regroup it into the practical and the impractical, the needed and the not needed, the wanted and the riot wanted, and it is ' hard, What is it about four yards of sage green corduroy that makes me keep it? After nine years I haven't made a thing with it. Why do I have thirteen boxes of Christmas tree ornaments? The blue jeans from high school have to go. I'll never wear them again and why would I want to. have a petticoat made of linen and hand-tatted lace, and the collected recipes of a stranger. In a bushel basket, with the name of the orchard printed on it, is my collection of dolly clothes made by the mothers and grandmothers of girls I have never known. Girls so much like me. I have seen the pictures of the precious treasures that littered the Oregon Trail. Chiffarobes made by husbands for a wedding gift. Fioretti The chairs that rocked babies to sleep. Clocks from the stairway at horne in the east. The graves of loved ones. Boxes of carefully chosen books to bring some culture to a rough and unknown place, and dishes "made in France, of bone china" once belonging to grandmothers. I know they grieved when they had to leave these items behind on the trail, when weight became the enemy of survival. I know whyLodisa F;izzel recorded in her diary in 1852, " ... the heart has a thousand misgivings," because my heart does. The weight of my tangibles has nearly destroyed me. I watched my grandmother pack away, give away, and throw away a lifetime of memories when she had to move after grandpa died. know why she asked, "Why doesn't anyone want my beautiful things?" I watched her cry and cry her heart out. Piece by piece, we appraised her identity as a daughter, wife, a mother, a woman. Much to her dismay, we dismissed most of her possessions as junk. I took her spare knitting needles, an old olive jar of crochet hooks, pattern books that contained the baby bonnets and booties she made for me and my babies. I took her reCipe box. She was the one who taught me to sew and cook. I unpack my wedding album from a box, and placed the smiling, young faces in a bottom drawer. I will save the box of my son's baby shoes for his wife someday. I will send my brother the cigar box full of grandpa's drafting supplies. The outfits my five babies wore home from the hospital are in my closet, in a box, under old sweaters too precious to throwaway. My collection of antique children's books is on my bookshelf, with rocks and shells and feathers. The picture of "Red" Hanen, now framed, is on the buffet. Some of these are gifts, the others, my burdens. Every time a woman is uprooted, she fades and unravels like calico curtains. She becomes smaller, becomes less than she has ever been. So, in spite, we kick from our wagons all the tangibles we can no longer carry, or want. We give or sell, to other women, all that needs saving when we no longer have the room. And in layer after layer of tissue paper, we wrap the most precious of treasures, the memories, the intangibles, to keep them from shattering in our hearts. Sometimes, I can hear the click, click, click of grandmother's knitting needles as I type my stories late in the night. Fioretti The patterned squeak of her rocking chair, and her near- silent counting of stitches enter my memory. I wish I could crawl up on her lap and smell her soft, sweet neck. Some of her ashes were sprinkled over grandpa's grave. Some were caught in the prairie wind. I left her a pair of scissors, there beneath the ashes, as an offering to the past. The rest of her ashes are in a plastic margarine tub, in a box, with my mismatched plates, "made in France, of bone china." I think she likes it here. I keep writing to remember who I am. Fioretti My Cosmopolitan Education Brian DeRouen I consider myself to be a lady's man. I think of myself this way not because I get all the ladies (because I do not) and not because I am a smooth talking, Abercrombie wearing, popular college guy. I am a different style of lady's man and the qualities inherent in my style have been a long time coming. It all started with my mother, the wom,a n who is my best friend in the world. We tell each other everything and I could not hide a secret from her if I tried. Next comes my sister. Growing up, my sister and I were inseparable. One would be hard pressed to find two siblings more different from each other than Nina and I. However, it would be even harder to find a brother and sister who were .closer than the two of us. When it comes to my education, in the world of women, these two have been my most influential teachers. Thanks to their tutelage, I do not blush when I pass through the lingerie department, and I do not feel uncomfortable as I stand alone at the checkout line waiting to purchase the economy sized Tampax Multi,pack. I understand that shaving is a pain in the ass and prickly legs and underarms do not gross me out. I would rather watch a "chick flick" than football, and I am more than willing to share the remote control. I have even learned the most important lesson of all: a female does not always have a reason for crying. I learned that one over and over again during my high school years as my mom and I went through her menopause together. I am proud of my skills as a non-traditional lady'S man and I am constantly looking for ways to improve them. Not long ago I believed . that one of the best ways to ascertain how much rknew was to study the pages of men's magazines. The other day as I was standing in a particularly slow checkout line at Meijer, I picked up the latest issue of GQ. As I flipped through the magazine my pride got a lift as so many of the "Insider tips that will make her lover you" were part of my basic educati on. Riding on the high resulting from my perfect score on the Are you boyfriend material" quiz, I decided to go where I had never gone before. I wanted to put my knowledge up against the ultimate test! II Fioretti So I took a deep breath, looked around to see who was watching, and picked up the bright pink October issue of Cosmopolitan. Everything about this magazine shouted, "If you are male, STAY AWAY!" Well, almost everything (the cover had a scantily clad Lisa Kudrow staring into my eyes). Everything else from the headline that shouted "Gyno Horrors" to the next which whined "I Said Her Butt Was Too Big and She Heard Me," warned me that any guy who was reading the cover should let better judgement prevail by opting for the newest Sports Illustrated which was right there on the next rack. But I was above these warnings. I knew women, I knew myself and I honestly thought that I was ready. Without consulting the table of contents, I let providence be my guide as I opened the 352":page bastion of femininity. I was greeted instantly by a full-page add for a wonder-bra out of which a luscious seductive perfect pair of eyes stared out at me. As interesting as this vision of cleavage was, I could have found it in any of the men's magazines, so I quickly began flipping the pages. Finally I found what I was looking for, the signals from the opposing team's dugout, the little secrets about me that I with (according to Cosmo) my girlfriend knew, and how any girl can get what they want from me. Seeing as how I had earned a perfect score on my GQ test, I thought this little cheat sheet for the ladies would be pretty accurate so I quickly dove in. Tip number one, "Kiss first, talk later. A bad girl knows it's her right and privilege to sample, taste-test, and compare kisses before committing to a date." At first I thought this was a joke, but reading on, I realized that it was not. Cosmo was actually telling each woman out there that if she wants to win me over, she needs to follow precise directions. "Point your finger provocatively at the lucky man. Then, in a clear, loud, and sexy voice, say 'I want you! I want you! You! You! You!' ... With the crowd cheering you on, no self-respecting straight man will deny you at least one smooch." STRIKE ONE! If a girl ever tried this approach on me, I would run as fast as I could in the other direction after refusing her demand. That is, if I wasn't pulling my girlfriend off her as she proceeded to kick that "bad girl's" ass. So, I quickly realized that like everything else in this world, Cosmopolitan magazine was not perfect, but everything and everyone makes mistakes, so I continued reading. Fioretti I expected a more subtle approach to come next, but once again, I was wrong. Immediately after the kissing pickup routine tips came the moves to get me from the bar into my bedroom. "Let's say you've sampled your share of kisses on your night out and you're ready to play hard ball, so to speak. Here are the three bad-girl maneuvers designed for your desires. If you want to get lucky ... " STRIKE TWO! Everyday all I hear about is girls complaining that guys just want to get laid. While some guys do fit this description, I always wondered how all of us males got thrown into the category of lust-crazed penis-toting animals? If women's magazines are telling their readers that they should go to a bar, kiss five guys, pick the best kisser, then head back to the apartment for some "hard ball," why should guys get a bad wrap for doing the same thing? Another of my questions was why is this magazine encouraging women to attract the wrong kind of guy? Some guys I know do like women who are recklessly forward in their sexuality, and they would go home with a girl employing this tactic. But after the home-run was scored, they would be out of there as quickly as possible and, except for story-telling purposes, they would not even want to know the girl's name. While at the same time, the "bad girl" would be asking her friends, "I wonder if he's going . to call?" I had realized at this point that this article was not composed during Cosmopolitan's finest hour and I was ready to leave it behind. So in search of the greener pastures which must be found in the best selling magazine, I forged on. In order to get a fresh start, I closed up the magazine and attempted another random opening that I hoped would enlighten me into the world of women's secrets and tips. So I took another deep breath, told myself that I had stumbled across the worst article in the magazine, and gave it another try. Page 178 greeted me with "Use Your Sex Appeal to Get Ahead: These days, if you want to snag a high-profile position, you have to pull out all the stops. Here, we explain how flirting can fuel your career." STRIKE THREE! In this age of feminist thought and corporate progress, I expected to find an article about women who have moved beyond the stereotypes and achieved success despite all the obstacles still in place. Fioretti However, Cosmo finds it more appropriate to give women tips such as "slip into sexy sling-backs instead of sensible stacked-heel loafers or swap your tailored shirts for some super femme body-conscious blouses." I thought that tips on negotiating and maybe business strategy would help women get promotions but Cosmopolitan argues, "If your sex appeal gets you into a closed meeting or near a hard-to-reach client, then more power to you. Then you can show them that you have the goods behind the, well, goods." So let's see what countless women have learned about me from this latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine? If a lady had her eye on me, the best tactic is straight up lust appeal. Let the other girls use conversation, personality, and intelligence to work on a guy. The women that get what they want go directly for what the guys want and according to this source, that thing is sex. The same is true in the business world. If a female coworker wants to get a promotion over me or from me, she should use sexy shoes and form-fitting blouses to prove her worth to the company. Who needs business skills? Where do they get this stuff and what self-respecting woman would buy this magazine? My hope is that Cosmo is a guilty pleasure like WWF wrestling for guys and that everyone involved realized that it is not real. I have subsequently come to the conclusion that the writers at Cosmo were not joking around. They really were trying to give women good advice. However, they have misinterpreted some of the progress women have made. The proliferation of effective and affordable birth control has given women the freedom, which once belonged only to men . . Women are no longer told by society that they must bridle their sexuality and have gained equal footing with men in the sexual arena. All of these changes are improvements in my opinion. However, Cosmopolitan 's writers have missed the point. They are encouraging women to play the game according to men's rules in the hopes that they will win, rather than changing the way the game is played. In some cases, their suggestions will work. A business woman may be able to secure a promotion by showing off her cleavage in a meeting and a young single woman may feel empowered by treating a man like a piece of meat. Unfortunately, these successes will be short term and they will eventually lead women in the wrong direction. Fioretti - ~ ~- - - Following the advice given in this issue of Cosmo will not help women get a good guy, get a good job, or get ahead in any significant fashion . It will simply create a generation of women behaving like the male jerks they once despised and hated. Perhaps I am the backward one and the advice Cosmo provides is right on. I am willing to admit that this is a possibility, however, if this is the case, our future as a society does not lnok very bright. In the end, my first experience of Cosmopolitan was disappointing to say the least. I was let down by the fact that Cosmopolitan did not help to improve my lady'S man skills but this was,hardly the biggest blow. I now realiie that I should be wary of the fact that according to GQ, I am excellent "Boyfriend material." Of course laced the test in GQ, but I . don't want to imagine what kind of girl would score highly on Cosmo's perfect girlfriend quiz. Perhaps, I should give Cosmopolitan and GQ another chance as two subjects would not be an appropriate sample size in any accurate study. Unfortunately for Editor-in-Chief, Kate White,arHi GQ's respective top man (I assume it is a man), I am not interested in an accurate study. I am going to stick with the basics, the lessons I learned from the two top ladies in my life, my mom and my sis. I am sure my current leading lady has a few lessons in store for me as well. Of course . none of these ladies is Lisa Kudrow and none of them capt~red my faith . and adoration with their score on the boyfriend test. I am not a Johnny Oepp or an Antonio Banderas, so tips from the real world from real women will be just fine. Fioretti Hero or Zero? Thomas Weldon Could I be a super hero? Would I want to be? What if I was bitten by a radioactive spider or caught in the heart of a gamma bomb explosion, or exposed to cosmic radiation? (Does every superhero origin involve radiation?) Maybe I could have been born with superhuman powers. (Maybe radiation isn't the only source of empowerment after all.) Maybe I am really an alien from another planet. (That would help explain my family.) Could all the amazing things that occur in the life of a superhero (as reported by numerous comic books) really happen or would something less than spectacular occur to this wondering Joe Normal? Maybe I could be Spider-man. Bitten by a radioactive spider-and gaining the proportionate strength and speed of his namesake, normal nerd Peter Parker went on to become a superhero. Using his brilliant scientific mind, he even developed his own formula and design for a pair of synthetic web shooters to aid in his battle against evil. A spider bit me once. My hand kind of puffed up in the spot where it bit me, but in a few days it went away. I don't think it was radioactive though, which is probably a good thing. I can just see it now. Given the proportionate strength and speed of a bedridden invalid and the power of projectile vomiting, normal nerd Thomas Weldon goes on to strike fear and terror into the hearts of evil doers everywhere by puking on their shoes. I guess I could even try to develop my own web shooters, but then again the last time I played with the chemistry set, my friend's garage was accidentally set on fire. Thank God they kept their dog's water bowl close to the garage. Well, there is always The Incredible Hulk. Bruce Banner was a man who kept all of his emotions bottled up inside. All the fear and all the anger he ever felt was locked up and tucked away into the recesses of his mind. One day though, he was caught in the heart of a gamma bomb explosion of his own design, and instead of being torn apart physically, the locked-up emotion was torn open and the Hulk, a green-skinned behemoth of near limitless strength and raging emotion, was born. Fioretti Like Banner, do I bottle up all of my emotion? Is there a raging beast locked away inside of me waiting to burst forth with the proper catalyst? I was once caught in the blast of a firecracker explosion, but I have never been caught in a bomb explosion, and I bet the results would be quite different. Just picture it, waking up in a hospital room covered in green bandages I would shout, "Hulk smash puny bedpan!" as the scent of burnt hair and fried skin assaulted my nose. Then how about Thor, got of thunder. I know that Thor is a mythological figure, but he also has his own Marvel comic book. Thor is a Norse god. Being a god means that he was born superhumanly strong and nearly invulnerable. He also has a mystical hammer given to him by his all-knowing daddy, Odin. Now this isn't your typical hardware store hammer. This thing can generate powerful thunder and lightning filled storms with but a command, can transport its wielder to other planes of existence (Thor is from the realm of Asgard after ~ll), and when hurled properly can even give its possessor the power of flight. It even has !1 nifty inscription on it that states; "Whomever is worthy to lift this hammer shall possess the power of Thor." My father gave me a hammer once. All it could do was pound nails into wood. My father wasn't exactly all knowing either. The only , thing he really knew was the fastest way to the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels. I tried to use my hammer to fly once, just like Thor, but all I managed to accomplish was to break a window and give myself a mild concussion. My hammer did have an inscription on it though, but all it said was "Craftsman." Maybe I am really like Superman. An alien from the planet Krypton, young Kal-EI crash-landed here as a baby and was adopted by loving parents and renamed Clark Kent. As he grows up he finds that he is empowered by our yellow sun and has been gifted with the powers of strength, speed, invulnerability, flight, and numerous visions. Using these powers for the betterment of mankind he becomes the hero, Superman, and preserves peace, justice, and the human way. Although I feel alien sometimes, I think that I am a native of Earth. The only thing the sun gives me is a sunburn. Fioretti I have crash landed once but it was in a red Dodge Omni, not a spaceship, and it was after my friend slid on the ice, hit a boulder dead on, and sent us airborne right into someone's front yard. Like Superman, I survived the crash but didn't gain new parents, just nausea and a fear of driving with my friend. The whole experience was kind of exhilarating though. Look it's a bird .. .it's a plane .. .it's a red Dodge Omni? If I am not an alien then maybe I am a mutant like Wolverine of XMen. Born with an amazing healing factor that can almost instantaneously heal any injury, the man named Logan was kidnapped by a government agency, had his memories tampered with, and had an unbreakable adamantium skeleton complete with claws grafted to his bones. Eventually breaking free from his government abusers, he joined the XMen to fight for a dream of peaceful coexistence between humans and mutants. While I sometimes feel like a mutant, I know for a fact that I only have a normal healing ability. While I have never broken a bone, I have had numerous cuts and bruises, an eye injury that did not heal instantaneously, a dented skull (which proved my bones aren't laced with metal), and a serious knee injury that put me on crutches. That's not to say that I am nothing like Wolverine. Like him, I am kind of hairy in spots, and I can have claws if I don't trim my fingernails. I also have trouble remembering things sometimes, but I only blame the government for messing with my head as an excuse. It didn't really happen; at least I don't think so. I can't remember. Maybe I could be the Thing from the Fantastic Four. Exposed to cosmic radiation in a premature space flight, Ben Grimm discovered that like his three friends and copilots he was granted amazing abilities by the . unshielded exposure. Now with skin transformed into an orange rocklike substance and superhuman strength, he adopts the name the Thing and defends the world alongside his friends, the Fantastic Four. While I have been told my head is as hard as a rock (except that time I dented it), my skin is soft and kind of a pasty off-white pinkish color. My hands have turned orange before, but it was after eating Cheetos and not after being exposed to cosmic radiation. Fioretti I have been exposed to microwave radiation, but that stuff is supposed to be shielded and safe. As a culture we create our own heroes in the forms of celebrities and sports figures. We make our own real-life cultural superheroes. If I can't be a comic book superhero, maybe I could be a sports hero like Michael Jordan. A basketball Superstar, multiple championship winner, endorser of everything under the sun, and able to leap from half court and sill slam-dunk the ball. I don't think so though. The last two time I have played basketball, I have broken my glasses after being hit in the head with the ball. And the last time I jumped through the air with my tongue hanging out, I was reaching for a doughnut, not a basket. Plus I don't have shoes with my name on them unless I endorse them with permanent marker myself. If I can't be a superhero, then who could I be? Could I just be Joe Normal? Would that satisfy me? I enjoy reading the exploits of superheroes but would I really want to be one? Getting into life and death situations, supervillians trying to kick my ass constantly, having to save humanity continuously .. .is that a life I would want? I don't think so. It's fun to read about these things in comic books because the writer controls the situations. The heroes always corne out on top, and death never . seems to be permanent because it's written that way. In the real wodd there isn't this safety net. If people die, they can't just be written back into existence. If I was to fail as a superhero in the real world, that failure would forever be on my conscience, and I would have to live with the consequences. Spider-man's catch phrase has always been that, "With great power there must be great responsibility." Even cultural superheroes like Michael Jordan do not have it easy. Always being in the limelight, pressure to always win and be the best, and being looked up to as role models by youngsters everywhere also carries with it great responsibility. That is a responsibility I do not think I want. I think I can be happy just being me. Thomas Arthur Weldon, college student with the tendency to procrastinate and the power to hardly ever participate in class, who reads way too many comic books and watches too much TV It may not seem glamorous, but it works for me. Fioretti Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte Lauren Stiener I am the tiny girl in white holding my mother's hand. We are out of balance with our world, the only people looking out of the picture. I look forward to our destination. Mother's head is turned slightly, reluctant to leave a canvas place so full of one-dimensional charm. I know that I need to move ahead and stay focused on my plans, while my mother holds me back with memories of the past. In the distance, an ambulance's droning wail cuts through the air as my father lies motionless on the family room floor. I am lost in the fog frantically searching for the lights to save my beloved father's life. The fog is too thick for the driver to discern the addresses on the mailboxes, and it is my job to lead the ambulance into our driveway. I have no shoes on and can hear the slapping of my feet on the hard pavement. There is no feeling in my feet, even though my soft pads are already bleeding and . full of sharp rocks from the gnarled concrete at the end of my driveway. During this late January afternoon, I feel trapped underwater, unable to breathe. I keep asking myself, "Why is this happening to me?" Other fourteen-year-olds are coming home from school, watching television or talking to their friends on the phone now. I want the world to freeze so that I can make sense of my situation but know it is impossible. I am vulnerable and left by myself with these haunting thoughts, secretly knowing the ambulance is too late. My world and childhood are now behind me as I stare into the fog of my future . I am twenty now and still look back on that painful day. Always affected by the sound of an ambulance's siren, I freeze in the car when I am supposed to pull over to let it pass. That night when we returned from the hospital the only thing my family could do without falling apart was to clean the house. We cleaned for three hours until we collapsed on the floor in front of my father's favorite chair. I have learned to move on in life and have made his presence an important part of my future. Fioretti When a random phone solicitor calls and asks to speak with Robert F. Stiener, I no longer explode into a rage, screaming, "He is GONE you idiot!" I can now smile a soft, understanding smile and catch them off guard by saying that he has passed away. I am sorry that I make people uncomfortable. I wish my father had survived to share my joy. He was a strong and silent man that took his pleasures through the happiness of others and lived for his children. Dad was my catcher in softball and would patiently sit on a bucket or crouch down for hours in order to help me progress as a pitcher. I can still hear him brag to his friends how he needed to buy extra padding for his mitt because I burned a hole in it with my fastball. . Experiences trigger happy' memories of my father: the smell of his cologne, my expensive softball mitt he bought me when I was twelve years old, decorating Christmas cookies, and walking barefoot on beaches while collecting glass rocks. Even though I can~ever thank him enough for the things that he did forme while he was alive, I will always remember how hIS large, callused hand pat me on theback after We finished . throwing together in the park or in the pole bam. I know, as does that little girl in the Seurat painting, that I must go forward. I hope that my mother, too, will come with me. We will let . cheerful family times spent playing in the park be a springboard for future happiness and allow our tomorrows to be fed by our yesterdays. Fioretti Physics on the Field Thomas Weldon Fear gnawed at my newly exposed entrails, slashed open by an animal that I had eluded for almost three years. The beast has already snagged me once, my sophomore year, dragging my ravaged carcass to the field once again. However, my body could not take the abuse so I quit. It didn't sink its claws into me again until 'my senior year. Though thebeast had hunted me and tried to drag me back in, I resisted until the second'game of the s'eason. Only then, when it has ceased to pursue me, did the fear start of subside~ ' I watched the brutal science of the game unfold before me from the stands and realized that I actually wanted to be on the field ; I could see the fun again, and the next day I found myself on the football field ready to practice. ' , For -me football had been a friend that slowly transformed into an enemy. The first year I played, in fifth grade, it was fun. By sixth grade, the fun had all but disappeared. Weight limits went into effect and a hefty sixth grader soon found himself among the giants of the seventh , and eighth grade team. No longer surrounded by friends, I could feel the fear gnaw at my stomach for the first time. As the fear clawed at my guts, I damned grade school football and its weight limits. I had been prepared to play with my sixth grade friends, but I was forced into a situation of strangers. Too afraid to act and too stupid to quit, I accepted my fate and suffered in silence. Football is a game that follows the laws of physics. The law of force pairs states that all forces corne in pairs and that when a body exerts a force on another body, the other body also exerts a force on the first. , These forces are both equal in strength but opposite in direction. So what was the problem? If I hit someone, they-would hit me back but the force would be the same so we would come out even. Unfortunately, this isn't the case. Since the forces are always the same, mass and acceleration are the deciding outcome for who gets plowed and who does the plowing. Among these giants I was nothing more than a human tackling dummy, and football and its physics had become my enemy. Even though football was now an enemy, I toughed it out for the remainder of grade school. Fioretti Not only had I grown a bit, but the giants that had kicked the crap out of me my sixth grade year eventually graduated. By high school I had decided to call it quits, but I could still hear the howling beast calling to me. When it attacked my sophomore year, I was in bad shape physically. I had only recently started weight lifting, and running was a mystery I had yet to solve. I could still feel the old fear from grade school, and I could not see the fun. So I quit. By my senior year, I had some physical conditioning under my belt. Three years of track and field and a weight lifting class had greatly improved a still flabby frame. I wasn't going to win any best body . contests, but at least now running was less of a puzzle, and I CQuid dod-t without dying or at least wishing I had. Watching the team play, I was starting to see the fun in football again, and with the fear starting to shrink, I jo!ned the team willingly. On the field, I realized the physics of the brutal sport had finally started to shift into my favor. There were not many 6'1" tall guys that weighed 300 pounds. I now had mass on my side, so the main thing to work against me was acceleration. Work is equal to force times distance. To perform work, an object must exert a force on another object and . move it some distance. Since force is tied into mass and ,acceleration, to perform work successfully one must either possess a greater mass when exerting the force or a great enough acceleratIon to move the mass. That is why linemen are typically large individuals. The bigger they are the harder they are to move, so the better they are for blocking or breaking through the line. I was still as slow as a glacier, but my mass helped even out the playing field. Practice was easy enough that first day. I couldn't suit up in full pads yet because they had to special order a helmet big enough for my . substantial melon (too bad there is no law of physics or any other science that states that intelligence is directly proportional to cranial size). Until my helmet arrived, I was sidelined. A week went by and still no helmet. I had started to suit up in full pads minus the helmet, but I still could not engage in any contact for fear of cracking my skull open like a ripe watermelon. So while the others practiced plays, I stood on the sidelines and sweated with the extra bulk. Fioretti The law of conservation of energy states that the total energy of all participants in any process must remain unchanged throughout the process. In other words, energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only be transformed from one form to another or transferred from one place to another. As I stood on the sidelines, my potential energy was screaming to be transformed into kinetic energy and then transferred into opponents as we slammed into each other. But without a helmet this exchange of energy on the field could not take place, so the only energy transference I experienced took place between me and the sun. As the blazing sun transferred down its solar energy upon my helmetless head, the solar energy was transformed into heat upon contact with me and the only response I could gamer was sweat. After all, I could not tackle the sun. After a week of waiting, my helmet finally arrived that Friday. Being a game day, we were already at our home field warming up as evening crept upon us bringing with it not only dark, but also the chill of rain. As the field got damper and the warm earth slowly changed to mud, my helmet finally arrived as so did our opponents. "Just great." I thought to myself, "My helmet would arrive the day we play Cathedral." Tonight would be a messy game and not just because of the mud. Cathedral was a 5-A school and went pretty much undefeated about every year. Cardinal Ritter, on the other hand, was a I-A school and we lost a lot when I was there. The first contact I could engage in would be against the toughest team we would play. I went through warm-up drills without getting my head, helmet and all, taken off. This was the first time I had hit anybody in three years. It was more fun than I had remembered. The rain continued to pour as Cathedral stomped us into the muddy earth. We held our own the best we could, but victory slid further and further out of reach every time Cathedral scored. We lost that evening, but not before I got a chance to actually play in the game. Having just received a helmet, they weren't inclined to rush me into the game, but my time carne when Cathedral attempted a field goal. I marched out dripping wet onto the field and crouched in the mud at the line. It was time to put football physics into practice. Potential energy at the line transformed into kinetic energy with the snap of the ball. I burst through the line overthrowing their puny lineman and accelerated towards the ball only to slip in the mud, Fioretti gravity's pull calling me back down to the soggy earth. Kinetic energy of motion switched to gravitational energy with the fall and finally returned to potential energy as I lay in the damp mud. The physics had worked, but so did Mother Nature's mud covered monkey wrench. Fioretti Girl Scout Cookies Suzanne Walker They start arriving in February, right before Lent, right when Catholics all over the world begin to declare their Lenten resolutions. will give up cookies, I will clean my room twice a week, I will not hit Sarah I will say the rosary every night and go to confession. When I was small giving up those cookies in the rainbow colored boxes was the biggest sacrifice imaginable, and therefore, the one that would have me in a continual state of tempting for forty days and forty nights. Those Tag-alongs would just stare and stare at me. Their peanut-butter-patty eyes would plead with me to reach into the freezer and rip the corner of the box a little, just enough to gaze at the tempting circles of perfect, rich chocolate smothering pools of peanut butter, all on top of a crisp, cookie wafer. These enticing tidbits of sweetness were just a little bit bigger than the communion I would no doubt receive four times a week. Going to mass every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during Lent was typical. Pairing it with the Stations of the Cross, every Tuesday and Thursday meant the only day during Lent I was not in church as a child was Satur. oay. By the time I was twelve, my Saturdays were hacked into two groups: those I spent with my mother, and those I spent with my father. Sundays obviously followed suit, but Sundays began with mass. Mass, which was fraught with ancient rituals, demanding priests, and droning hymns that threatened to either suck all my imagination away forever, or to instill me with enough to last the rest of my etemallife. We adore you oh Christ and we praise you .. .because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world. I tried tremendously hard to be a good and faithful Catholic. I was never very good at going to confession as often as I should, and tried to make up for it by saying the rosary every night before I went to bed. Usually, this was accompanied by munching on the forbidden cookies, a whirl of hypocrisy that filled me with guilt when mom shook the crumbs out on sheet days. The Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning school masses began my days with an overwhelming sense of urgency to give financially to the church. Fioretti I remember being handed miniature milk cartons with slits on the top just the size of a quarter. They were always red and white and had goals written on the side: One dollar provides rice for a starving child for a week. Five dollars provides medicine for a family for a month. Ten dollars will feed a village community for a dozen days. Countless nickels and dimes were slid through the slots throughout my nine years in a Catholic grade school. We reserved quarters for the family folder with the blank cylinders whispering my name every time I tried to buy a coke out of a vending machine after school. Beth .. .that fifty cents could buy books for an African library ... 50 the quarters were slid back into the lips of my skinny coin purse to dutifully force into the vacant holes in the folders. The folders were given to the church at the end of Lent, heavy folders weighing down the baskets the poor ushers passed throughout the church. By the time I was twelve, the "family" folders represented four-instead of our px:eviously accustomed five. I remember mom saying once: Beth, I wanted to have another child before he left. I wanted you ' all to have a brother. Peace be with you... .\ In church I would pray serenely for dad to come back and for mom to stop crying, feeling responsible of course. I thought that Mary . was looking down and blessing me for about half of the service . .The other half I would rate the cute boys and try desperately to lock eyes with the cutest ones. This caused a "scandal" when one of the more observant girls in my class happened.to see me batting my eyelashes at.a short stubby fellow who happened to be walking home from s~ool with her at the time. I was banned from all recess games and ignored in the cafeteria for the extent of twenty-four hours. No amount of Girl Scout Cookie bribes would bend them my way. So snubbed was I that I decided to . ignore those girls right back. I quit talking for an entire week. I didn't answer teachers' questions, I ignored my best friends, I learned how to read a book under my desk without anyone seeing it and I learned how to make up my own friends. I also learned to ignore the things I heard from the teachers, who talked about me in hushed reverent whispers in the office, as if I wasn't standing there, waiting for them to get a hold of my mother ... Fioretti "It must be because of the divorce," "You know its final next week." "And they were just a perfect family," "Oh yes, Rebecca is now a freshman in high school." "And there's Little Sarah down with the fourth graders." "She's so sweet and smart and all three of those girls will make something of themselves despite it you just wait and see." By the time I was twelve, I was tired of waiting and seeing. I waited almost every day for mass to be over with, I waited for weekends and dinners out with my father, I waited for mom to stop crying. I remember mom saying once: A divorce is much harder to deal with than death, girls. I wish your father had died instead. ' Remember oh most gracious Virgin Mary . .' . ".' I was an absolute shit during the time the divorce was being finalIzed. By this I mean the actual moments when papers were being drawn tip and I had nightmares' of appearing in court. By this I mean the conversations mom had about annulments, strange Catholic documents that would prove that my parents should never have been married; documents that would somehow prove my sisters and I to be mistakes: David and Barbara's mistakes. Mistake One, Rebecca Regina Marie; Mistake Two, Elizabeth-Ann Teresa; Mistake Three, Sarah Louise Cecilia. Mistakes. I went through several bouts of not depression really, but more like a deep-rooted confusion, when I wouldn't talk to anyone. I made up imaginary friends. I refused counseling from the' bizarre social worker at school, the one my classmates and I all called Miss Scary Perry. By the time I was twelve, mom was sick and tired of dealing with my random moods. I remember mom saying once: If you ever want to talk about any of this, I can make arrangements with my therapist to see you. The Lord be with you, .. I never asked Mom about when Dad was coming back, I asked my older sister Rebecca. She would always say, well, wait and see, or we'll see, or sometimes she'd really go out on a limb and say be patient, these things can't be decided in a month, or six months, or two years ... "Can you believe it Becca, it's been two years since Dad left." "I t has not, you be quiet." "Yes it has, I wrote it down in my diary, two years ago yesterday." Fioretti "You're lying and I hate you!" "What did I do?" . "You were born now go away and quit shoving your diary in my face!" And more often than not, I would wait and see somewhere other than around my sister, usually with a book. By the time I was twelve, my mother was getting pretty tired of telling me to go outside and play insfead of spending every waking moment not spent at church or school, reading. I guess she didn't understand that the characters in Jhe books had beginning, middles, and ends~this divorce never had an end. I remember mom saying once: I love you, you know that right? I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at the situation. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit ... Books have the amazing quality of containing entire worlds where families have brothers; parents are either intact, or happily dead, always dying when the hero "was too young to remember;" and children have amazing adventures with friends who love and adore them. I was one of those kids who was always hearing, get your nose out of that book and go fly a kite, or climb a tree, or try to bake a cake, or try a new stroke in the pool. I walked back and forth from my neighborhood library at least , twice a week, feeling like Francie every time, and toting a bag c ontaining . at least five young adult novels. I flew through chunks of books, mourning when I reached the end of a series, or read the very last book a favor- . ite author wrote. I almost cried one "mom Saturday" when I was standing in my favorite spot in our little branch library, looking at the Lois Lowery section and realizing that I had read every single one of the books on the shelf. By the time I was twelve, I was asking for recommendations in the adult section. I always needed a book for the twenty-minute car ride to dad's. I remember mom saying once: Why don 't you tell him you want him to come home. I can 't do anything about it; he'l/listen to you . I believe in God the Father almighty ... There were times when I felt lost and trapped. Mom would cry and what was I supposed to do about it? Reading seemed like an escape, and when paired with a pocket full of Tag-a-Iongs, an afternoon could never seem better. Fioretti I read in trees, on various porches, in the bath, on top of the monkey bars, in the back seat of Dad's car during our rides to his one room apartment and of course, in bed at night before I prayed the rosary. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death amen. After the divorce was finally final, I fell into a funk, a rut, a deep depression, and couldn't read anymore. The characters I once found entertaining and important, only seemed contrived, fake, and all too perfect. To cure myself I found cereal boxes and read all six sides, including the nutrition facts. I read the manual that went with our TV, the warning labels on the cleaners under the sink, the "begats" in the bible. Then I read my diary from cover to cover, my parents old yearbooks, Rebecca's stupid teen magazines with all their beauty facts. And then I read pickle jars and captions on the frozen dinners and while I was in the freezer I found a box of Girl Scout Cookies. On their backs they have little letters to make-believe girls, my favorite kind. Once I read these things over and over again, I found that I starved myself for Dahl, Streatfield, Webster, Smith, and Bellairs, my favorite authors as a child. The cookie box letters usually start something like this: "1 just love water . sports! Our teachers are complete pros! Jamila and I actually synchronized our strokes ..." and on and on in a washing of growing girlness ... Sometimes I don't listen to what mom says. Thanks be to God. Fiction AWARDS Immigrant Medley 1st Prize, Fiction, English Club Dad 2nd Prize, Fiction, English Club Fioretti Immigrant Medley Alex Gouty The casting agent rolled her eyes skyward as the man on stage droned on about his excellent Polish cooking, listing all of the recipes that he could prepare. She swung around to the producer, "This is going to be a long day." The producer's head snapped back up, bleary eyes attempting to focus on her. "What? I'm sorry, I dozed off." He looked up at the stage, blinking slowly. "Where did the Chinese guy go?" She snorted, "That was five people ago. Since him, we've had a Frenchman, a German, a Brit, a Russian and a Canadian." The producer frowned, "They have Canadian cooking?" Glancing at her list of candidates, she muttered, "You've got me. I have no clue." Looking up, she called out, "Thank you sir, we'll be giving you a call." He looked up, lower lip quivering, "But, you haven't tried my sausages yet 1..." She cut him off, "We'll try them later! We just need to move on to the 'n ext person in the list!" The cook slowly trumped off stage. The casting director turned around, looked at the producer. "Where do we get these people? We advertised for a local cook, and we get some sort of immigrant medley." He shrugged, and she went back to her clipboard. "Ok, next, Juan Pedro Velasquez." An olive skinned man stood up a few rows in front of her, and walked up to the stage. She shook her head in frustration. The producer stood up, muttering, "Ok, I'm putting a stop to this." He . called out to Velasquez. "Excuse me, Mr. Velasquez, but we advertised for a local cook, and we just don't think you're what we're looking for. Next please." Velasquez, stopped, slowly turned around, shook his head and laughed. "I am a local. I was born in this little piss-ant town, and I put up with this shit all of the time. You know the big orchards east of town?" Not waiting for a nod, he pushed on. "I own those, and have for twenty-five years. Just because you think I'm some migrant tomato picker doesn't mean I am . Fioretti Now, I'm going to go up here on stage and audition, and then you can dismiss me, should you still feel like it." The producer blanched, sat slowly, coughed and started to blush when the casting director looked at him and laughed. Velasquez began, and astonished them all with the flair and exuberance with which he attacked his cooking. He created aromas that wafted through the studio, tantalizing the senses. As he finished, he gave samples to the stage crew, as well as the producer and the casting agent. The producer wolfed his down, exdaiming; "You've got the job! I'll be giving you a call i~ a few days to set up the contracts." The casting agent agreed silently, nodding with her mouth full. Velasquez merely smiled slo,:\,ly and nodded, shook hands with them and said good-bye. The casting director watched him a~ble through the door; his face briefly litby the green glow ot'the exit sign,)lighllghtingan odd smile. She finished her sample and looked at th~ producer. "Do you have the feeling that he was laughing at uS,there at the end?" The producer seemed perturbed by the question; wrinkling his brow, "Not really, why?" "Oh, I don't know, it justseemed like he,knew something that we didn't." , She shrugged and began to work out the 'c ontract details. As Velasquez strutted out of the building, he couldn't help but continue to laugh ,as he played with the empty box of laxatives in his coat pocket. Fioretti Dad Stefanie Kesecker Looking at dad now, you would never recognize the man that used to sit contentedly behind his big, mahogany desk, spectaclts resting -on the end of his nose, disturbed only when he heard the rap of one of his many children on his office door. His would always lay aside whatever book, paper, or research he was so involved in, rising slowly form his chair, making his way to the door. He would open it and as soon as he did he scooped the child up in his arms asking the cause of their visit, reassuring them.. that he loved them, and if he had 'to, he would leave his office momentarily, rolling up his shirt sleeves to ward off an evil enemy that was after his son's favorite toy. He never let his job or his research interfere with his children. I can remember many times he would return ho~e from a busy day at the hospital, his smocks wrinkled and his hair -receding into at least five different styles. For a month he replaced a doctor on medical leave who worked in the ER unit, and he fell greatly behind in research, but every night without fail he came home with a smile on his face, and a hug and kiss for each of his children. That month he stayed awake late hours into the night, researching and pondering. He never told us, but we found out later he was working on a retardation for cancer, which h~ hoped would lead him to the theory of a cure. He was an intelligent man, with five degrees to prove it. At first when he started his medical practice he had materialistic dreams of rising to the upper class of the capitalist system. However, after ten years of working as a doctor, he realized that money was not what propelled his heart rate, or kept him awake at night, nor was it the nicer house next door. He began to question his life, his purpose, and his addition to the human race and every time he mused over this, he came up with an empty slate. He couldn't be here on this earth he felt, from deep within, without a reason, and he was determined to change the fate of many. He opened a new medical practice which would be strictly for low-income families, single mothers, and those destitute individuals he saw filthy and hurting each day as he walked through the town streets of Washington D.C . Fioretti He never charged a fee, but he knew he was doing what he was meant to do when he saw the face of a tiny child get formula and diapers, and perhaps clean clothes, or when he saw the drug addicts look at him for the first time without their glassy, stunned stare. When he gave those little babies their vaccinations, he knew they were given a chance at health, which otherwise might not be afforded to them. Daddy believed in God too. He went to church every Sunday morning and evening. He sang so loud, sometimes he embarrassed me, but he never seemed to notice my discomfort. I thought church was boring, too routine and predictable. I did enjoy putting money in the plate when it was passed. Dad knew how much I liked doing this so he aiways gave me a little more money than the other k~ds so I could drop each coin in slowly, one at a time. When I got married, it was the first time I had seen Dad cry, but he did. When he gave me to my new husband, Dad squeezed my hand so hard I thought I would be permanently paralyzed. I may still have a thumb print. He couldn't stop grinning the day I received my Ph.D., even if it wasn't in medicine; he said English was a good choice, "Just not as good as medicine." That was how I remember my dad, in all his pomp and circumstance: the father who at times had more patience than I thought possible of a human being; the doctor whose fee never really covered the cost of one of his ball-point pens; the researcher who listened to Vivaldi as he looked at red and white blood cells, mutations, and chemical reaction until his eyes grew so tired he fell into bed exhausted, without being seemingly a step closer to his desired destination. Aside from all this, he was one of the most brilliant men I have ever been fortunate enough to meet, let alone have as my biological father. Today I went to visit Dad and I left his residence with a sick, horrid, empty feeling pervading my mind and body. I pounded my chest into the steering wheel of my car, which remained placid. Looking up, through the sunroof in my car at the sky, I shook my head, trying to fathom God, my father, this life. This universe had to be erected according to some equation, some formulation, but it must be badly off"because look at my father, his life, and everything he did for everyone but himself and tell me where the justice of creation lies. I hear echoing in the confines of my mind, those awful words, "Who are you? I said, who are you and what are you doing in my home?" Stunned, I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Fioretti ''I'm your daughter and today is your birthday! I brought you a cake and a card and I thought we could catch up on the news." "You stupid ' fool," he cried. "I never had any children, I never even married, and you come in here, in my bathroom of all places to bring me a bottle of . ketchup. Are you a lunatic, woman?" I wasn't even in the bathroom. I was standing in his nursing home room, at the end of hisbed, with a cake in my hand, not a ketchup bottle. That's how the rest of the visit went. 1 asked him to count for me and he couldn't even get past two. This had to be some bad dream, the product of that pizza I had eaten at lunch. But no~ it was all too real, a Vivid pattern on the canvas before me. D(!.d didn't even,know his name . . As was making my way solemnly through the hallway, the nurse who checked on dad several times while I as visiting tapped me on the shoulder. She said she had noticed my shock and hurt, and explained to me that they had finally diagnosed Dad's problem: he was in the final stage of Alzheimer's Disease. She went through what seemed like a memorized,.verb?ltim speech about how I should feel free to contact her if I had any questions or concerns. I kindly thanked her and made my way out of the home. As I flopped into the car seat, hot from the scorching sun, tears , even hotter pelted down my cheeks. It didn't seem fair that my father should have to suffer such a painful, disorienting death~ and he didn't even have his own children :there to help him through it and to ease his hands as he slowly faded into the ominous arms of death. Oh, we were ' there in body, but in his mind we were strangers who had invaded the privacy of his invalid seclusion. He looked at us like one f?reigner looks at another. ' We must have 'been blurry, iinages whom he sensed were , unreal, because he never spoke to us; not even to mom who had loved him for fifty years. She kept saying his name, "Harold, Harold, Harold," over and over but he was deafened to our voices, and he died in a world of confusion, where words'sing and music reads and doctors don't exist and there is no discretion between just and unjust, or good and evil. I wonder today as I readthe results of my AD testing, what difference did Dad really make? r Fioretti The Game Ameetha Prabhu I had never intended to have such a boring job. Today is one of those days when it gets to me more than most days. My priqllittle shoes are choking my feet. My smile feels ready to break into a thousand pieces and fall off. And if I have to say, IIYes, Sir," once more, I think I shall scream. IIYes, Sir." I did not scream. I can't. I need this job. It's not so bad most of the time. I have to make the required amount of coffee each day, give the bosses the required smile, speak in the required polite office voice, do the required amount of runDing around ... Today, however, the office is preparing for a Board Meeting. What this means is that I am doing an inhuman amount of work. I had to run off so many printouts and make even more copies then I had to refill the toner in both machines. The printer is not so bad; it has those new cartridges that slip in nice and easy. The copier is another story altogether. I have to pull the cartridge out and then refill the toner into the cartridge with ... Great! Nothing better than having inky black toner all over my hands and cuffs . . There goes my presentable appearance. It did not spill on my shoes. I wish it had. I would grab almost any excuse to free my captive feet. IIYes, Sir." More typing. I've typed so much all day that I am just an automaton now, typing mindlessly. Of course, I do have breaks every half-hour during which Mr. Cartwright, the Boss, expects me to make enough coffee to water a small country. I hate the smell of coffee today. I hate the way they are chugging it down. I despise them. I despise every one of those gluttonous coffee-drinkers. But the clock is my friend. Almost time for me to rescue myself. A few minu.tes more and I can escape into my life. IIYes, Sir." I cannot believe I had to say that again. And what have I done now? I've gone and committed myself to a game of tennis with the Boss. I adore the game. I'd rather not have to take my job into my life, but the Boss must be kept happy. I need this job. Look! Time to go, except not really. I have to run to my car to grab my gear and return to the game. Fioretti , It is warm outside and I wish I could stay and watch the sun set behind the tall buildings. But the Boss likes folk to be punctual. I free my sore feet from their office shoes only to straitjatket them into my tennis shoes. I can just imagine that I hear them protesting. Carrying my gear, I walk to the courts trying to muster some enthusiasm, but I have none left. Even, my plastic smile refuses to perform. All I want to do is to soak in a tub, eating crisps and watching Star Trek. I can only console myself with the thou'g ht that each moment into the game is a moment closer to my nice, warm bath. The Boss is not,a terrible player. He has been getting better, but my feet do not seem to care too much about that. I am trying, despite the feet, not to let the Boss score. I think lowe myself some satisfaction out of this day. It is almost the end of the day and I am glad. I shall finish this off nicely. I pull my arm back and hit him a smash so hard that my tired racquet lets a few strings snap. But I've won. "Good game, Miss Banks," the Boss says. He does not look as impressive now that he has lost the game. "Yes, Sir," I say smiling at him. This time it needs no effort. I always give the Boss a good game but it is pleasant to allow him . to lose every so often. I watch him haul his sweaty carcass off the court. With the remnants of a smile on my face, I sit down and pluck out a tuneless song on the strings of my racquet. Fioretti A Lesson Learned the Hard Way Lisa Rosenfeld Along the beach laid seemingly endless pieces of trash. Broken shell pieces were scattered everywhere. Coke cans from many picnics were also in the sand. Daredevil surfers were in the water, catching every possible wave. Everyone on the beach was watching them to make sure that they did not fall in. Fearless of the water, the surfers continued to put on their little show. Giant waves appeared out of nowhere, sending some of the surfers to the water's edge, sending the surfers under the currents. Hurriedly, worried observers rushed to the injured surfers to see if they were all right. It was decided that most of the injuries were not life threatening. Just to be sure, though, the surfers were taken to a nearby hospital for further examination. Keeping the loved ones who had witnessed the accident calm was a difficult task. Lots of them wanted to go to the hospital to see if their loved ones were all right. Many were allowed to go because they were the parents of injured surfers. No one expected what happened next. One of the surfers who was injured broke his collarbone and was taken into surgery right away. People rushed to say a final good-bye as the young man was admitted to surgery. Quietly, family and friends walked away and went to the waiting room. Rain had started to fall about the time they returned to the waiting room. Several hours passed as the young surfer went through surgery. Three hours later, the surgeon came out and said that the surgery had gone well and that the young man would be in intensive care for the next 24 hours. Upon leaving the waiting room the mother of the young . surfer began to cry. Very happy to hear that her son had made it through the surgery, she went to the ICU and gave her son a hug and a kiss. "We love you," she told her sleeping son. Xavier, the name of the injured surfer was in the hospital six weeks longer to go through many intensive hours of physical therapy. "You are truly lucky," his mother told him the day after he woke up, "truly lucky." Zero is the number of times he has been surfing since the accident and his mother is very pleased with that number. Fioretti Three Conversations Earl Carrender In a coffee shop in a city, which is every coffee shop in every city, on a day which . is every day. -Little Plastic Castle Ani Difranco "You gentlemen sit here and your server will be with you soon to take YQur order." 'iThank you;" said the first man politely. ~I And what can I get you to drink while you're waiting?" "I'll have iced tea," the other one said. "The same here," said the first, "Thank you." "Thank you," said the young waiter and walked away. "You know, I look forward to this every week. I really enjoy it," said the first man. "So do I," the other one smiled. The older man opened his menu, knowing already what he wanted, glanced~t its contents then set it aside. When the waiter carne he ordered the chicken thathe always ordered and a glass of chilled CharQonnay. When the wine arriv~d he sipped it slowly. "Katherine ... " he said as he saw 'the woman walk through the door, the man following behind her. . "Good eveni~g," said the maitre'd, "Smoki~g or non?" " "It doesn't matter," said the man. "FollQw me then," he said and they followed him, the man putting his hand around the woman's waist and guiding her step as if she were blind. "Her hair was soft and smelled of lilacs," the old man remembered, "I loved the smell of it whenever she would greet me when I came through door. Worried because I was late. 'Where were you?' she always asked. Fioretti 'Worried about me?' I'd say. 'No,' she'd say, 'Just wanna know.' I could never resist teasing her. 'Well,' I'd begin, 'Me and Miss Hobbs next ... ' 'Oh, spare me,' she'd say. She always said, 'The only thing that keeps you faithful is a lack of opportunity.' But she knew she didn't have to worry." "Well, I got the letter from Connecticut," the first man said. "What does that mean?" "Well, I'll finish up things here," said the first, "That'll take at least .. a year. Then we'll have to see." "I'd hate to have to move to a strange place," said the other one. "I'mlooking forward to it," said the first. "I've got people who depend on me," the other man said, "1 couldn't just up and leave." "Brothers," the old man thought as he noticed the two men seated at the table across from him. "Mine's condemned," he thought bitterly, "but no more so than I, I suppose. No more than 1. I could never-abide what he did. Never! It's a sin! And he would never change. Ne;ver! _ And now he's gone. And I can't seem to forget. Forgive, but not forget." The waiter brought the old man his dinner and poured hi.m another glass of wine. "Leave the bottle," the old man said. "Yes, sir," replied the waiter. The old man began to smell:, the slight scent of rosemary wafting . to his nostrils. "Rosemary, that's for. .. " "Where were you last night?" the woman asked innocently. "Working," said the man, somewhat annoyed, "and I fell asleep." "Of course you did," she smiled, teasing. "You don't have to worry," he said. "1 know I don't," she lied. "I've been trying to put in more hours. The bills are piling up again." "Speaking of which," she said cautiously, "I saw the doctor today. He's decided to try Repronex." Fioretti "You know I don't feel comfortable with that," he said. "I know, I know, but ... " "Let's just wait and see." "'Men have died because of this,' he tried to tell me. 'No one's ever died of a broken heart' I had said, condescendingly. What a fool I was," thought the old man. "Katherine, she tried to reason with me. 'He's your brother,' she reminded me. She's the one who saved his letters. She's the one who answered his calls. Until the day they stopped coming that is. Until the day they stopped ... " "Did I show you this?" the first man asked, pulling an envelope from his pocket. "I don't think so," said the other one. "It's a l~tter from Tia's teacher," said the first. "Problems?" asked the second, not yet reading the letter. "No, I think we're over that. This is good news." The second man read the letter softly to himself, then looked to the first man with sheer surprise. "A scholarship!" "Yeah, imagine that. Susan was so proud she cried." "We need to celebrate," said the second man, "When will she be home?" "Susan's bringing her next week," said the first, "but we'll be pretty busy. I don't know ... " Disappointed and hurt, the second man said nothing. His .e yes lowered then and he looked around the room. lilt's just that Susan still ... " the first man tried to explain. "I know," said the second one, "It's not a problem. Really." Fioretti The Alchemist Joan Marciniak Back in the days when gold was the only form of currency, there lived a brilliant old scientist, who many people despised and-looked down upon. He was not your average man and did not blend in well with society. As a child and a young man, he was often ridiculed for his "crazy" scientific ideas and his wild plans. Because of this verbal abuse, he became withdrawn and isolated. The majority of his life, he spent locked up in his laboratory, where he slaved day in and day out in pursuit of a magic formula. The people of his town made fun of him and called him the "mad scientist." But the old man preferred the title of The Alchemist. His life dream was to turn lead into gold, to rule the world, and to get back at the people that had hurt him over the course-of his life. Finally after years and years of tedious labor, his dream came true. He finally achieved the brilliant transformation of changing lead to gold. He originally planned to keep his discovery'secret and simply massproduce gold in his basement and slowly take over the world. However, . his ego got the bestuf him, and he went straight to the newspaper to brag about his discovery and to shove his brilliance in the faces if all the people who had hurt him. The people scoffed at him and called him a lunatic. The word psychotic was mumbled under their breath when talking about him. "I'll prove it! I'll prove it!" He screamed to the public. And just for sport, the people agreed to set up a demonstration. The date was set for a month later. By the time of the demonstration, all the major newspapers and television shows were interested. They showed up on the site with their cameras and recorders. The crowd was huge; people flew in from all corners of the country to see the "mad scientist" in action. The Alchemist was a little nervous but confident in himself. He had repeated his procedure many times before the demonstration just to make sure he was right. Every time he was successful. He set up his table with is potions, concoctions, and instruments and got to work. The camera crew was not allowed too close, because he did not want his secret to get out. He began with a chunk of lead and added a little of this and a little if that. He heated his blend, then stirred in a little bit of this and a little more of that. " Fioretti Followed by more heating and more of this and more of that. Until finally after two hours of concentrated work, he produced a beautiful block of gold. The material was tested and confirmed. The crowd went wild! From that point on, he became a celebrity. He wrote books, gave lectures and appeared on talk shows. However, he was careful to keep his magic formula a secret. He was enjoying his life and newfound popularity, until tragedy struck. He had just finished a lecture at the local university and was on his way home. Instead of his friendly house to greet him upon his return, he was met by seven men all dressed in black. They knocked him out and dragged him inside and down to his basement. Here the old man underwent hours of terrible and painful torture. His attackers wanted the Alchemist's secret formula. After about five hours of torture and to spare his life, he finally gave in and forked over his secret formula. They disappeared into the black night. The old man was left battered, bruised and bleeding on th~ floor of his beloved laboratory. The alchemist died a lonely death among his precious chemicals. The events that occurred next happened so quickly that it almost seemed like a dream. The seven men went public about their new "discovery." This initia~ed a chain reaction of peatings and killings; everyone was desperate to obtain the form:ula themselves and willing to do anything to get it. The se~ret formula was no longer sacred as it fell into the hands of many people, all interested in their selfis~ pursuits. Friends and family members turned on each other and began killing the people they loved to get the gold wealth. The country became so chaotic that the Alchemist's absence was barely noticed. The murders continued to rise.and so did the production of gold. All the while as the world fell, gold became so common that it was usele~s. In the end after all the ml}rders, only a small number of people remained. They came together to make a pact to get rid of all the gold, which they threw into the ocean and to start over. They vowed never to mention the name of the Alchemist or the destruction he caused. In place of gold, they turned to very detailed pieces of paper to use as currency. They felt these could not be very easily duplicated. And so the people lived on and reproduced, and the population was renewed. And the dollar became the only form of currency. Poetry AWARDS Tinfoil and Plastic Wrap 1st prize, Poetry, English Club Terra Firma 2nd Prize, Poetry, English Club Fioretti Tin Foil and Plastic Wrap Stephanie Schoppenhorst A tinfoil world Shiny, silver, impenetrable Where no one can see through to the inside How I long to go back To escape from this Plastic wrap world Where everyone sees And everyone knows Where I can't hide anymore This plastic wrap world Where people poke and prod Until I'm black and blue and broken And then laugh at me while I cry What happened to the security ' Of my tinfoil world The one that seemed to keep me safe' as a little girl The tinfoil world Where I curled up in a ball and hid And why can't I get back To my shiny, silver, impenetrable Tinfoil world Fioretti Terra Firma Lori Voorhis Maybe the wind will blow my thoughts, or my heart Somewhere you are not, cut Clean through me You. Such a surprise. A nor'easter, Alberta clipper, Melting Chinook A spicy trade wind. I will not need a sextant, when traveling the secrets of the moon the stars roaring through tree branches, the,doors of houses ra ttling your sashes and wind-chimes sucking doors shut, 'till you crash against my beac:hes. Fioretti The Book of Kells Suzanne Walker The door sealed shut, musky light dwindling downtwo fingers, a hair, nothing. A moldy doorman poked his mushroom face out"Patience... You'll be next." The door thumped shut before 1 could sputter the words of entrance. Time passed while I studied ancient spells and counter spells in the oubliette. Grey warm red light shines alluringly in the corners: a space filled with all the intrigue of a waiting room. Less than a fortnight, less than a night, about a quarter of an hour passed. When the mushroom man appeared, longer than before, I pushed through the crowded room of people like me and rushed through the stacks, columns, and glass cases and didn't even look at the Book of Kells. I pushed through the wall and emerged in a corridor, streaming with golden strands of sunshine, webby fingers clinging to my hair. I lengthened my steps to the end of the nave to find you, intent, studying a book about the Book of Kells. Your hands were impatient, but your mouth was amused, and no surprise in your eyes as I arched my back and stretched my limbs and joined you in your mockery of all those people like me. Fioretti Fading Morgan Roddy They say they like the way I've changed them. I've changed them for the better. They thank me for being there and they love how things are so much different since we first met. I'm the outsider who worked her way in. I'm here, part of the posse. I'm the right hand man. I'm the leader. Then the real changes begin. They thank me for the changes, but wish things never did. They look back fondly on times before I entered their lives. The gleam in their eyes is there, and the memories come out like fantastic stories. They're just out of reach from their hearts. I'm not there, not part of the flock. Not involved. Not important. Then the dreaming ends. What do they want? What do they see? Through the tears in their eyes. Through the smiles across their face. In the midst of laughter. In spite of anger. It's a puzzle I can't figure out. I saw it put together just as I came in. Everything fit, everyone was content. I see what it is now. I've figured it out. I just don't fit. Then the tears come streaming. Fioretti The pain in my chest. The fury in my heart. The regret I simply won't acknowledge. It lies beyond my grasp and it's luck it does. It wouldn't survive. Survival is ironic. I've survived all my life, from things they couldn't imagine. In their perfect world, things like my past don't happen. Aren't thought of. Looked down upon. Then the elimination continues. The door is shut. It's not locked but may as well be. Her heart is. The fallen leader. Leading her troops away from me. She once told me of Jesus. "Turn the other cheek," He said and she did .. . No on speaks of the cold shoulder just south of that cheek. What did I do? Why am I wrong? Why am I the abandoned one? Then the loneliness sets in. Fioretti Where Was He Raenisha Karim When I was young, it was my mother's face I saw I heard her speak of him rarely I saw him once or twice as I remember When I was young, it was my mother's face I saw I smelled her perfume, not his cologne I wondered if I would ever see him again When I was young, it was my mother's face I saw Where was he? Fioretti The Pain Sharon Wells I'm known as "Pain," as you can tell, I move through your body and do my job well. I make you cry and I make you weep. At times, I even keep you from your sleep. My favorite place to attack is the depth of your heart, To me it's your most vulnerable part. I wear a disguise, to let you think that life is grand. I allow you love, trusting over and over again. When the time is right, I step right in. That is when all of your anguish begins. All humanity is basically alike! Enjoying what love brings, but daring to put up the fight. With all things in life, there is a price to pay. So with love comes the hurt, today and always. Fioretti The Un-Welcomed Guest Ryan Kreicker It takes you in the night you know, When you are least expecting attack. Creeping around corners, in the breeze it does blow. It's just waiting for you to turn your back. When you think you have it you don't, When you feel you're safe you aren't. It's right there beside your head, Can't you feel it, see it, catch to. But that is not what you do, It Catches you. Now that you have it, Your pals will too. You pass it from friend to friend, This cycle never ends. It has you in its grip now, From this you can't be free. And this you wonder how, Can it be happening to me? It's like an annoying friend, That just won't go away. For this intruding thing ' That has decided to unpack his bags and stay. Fioretti - - -- - Too Much Green Lisa Rosenfeld Too much green There is so much to name Too much green My room is full of green Comforter, curtains and my rugs Too much green I think I am on a roll Pickles, spinach and cucumbers Too much green Still moving along Christmas trees and wreaths Shamrocks on St. Patrick's Day Too much green Still more to name The green of Astroturf that football players play on Including the Green Bay Packers Too much green Let's keep the ball rolling Trees, grass, leaves and bushes Are all seen at best in the summer Fioretti Too much green Looks like it will never end "Green Eggs and Ham" Greenday and "Greensleeves" Even that gross song about "Great ~reen Globs of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts" And let us not forget the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" Too much green Let's try not to go overboard Skittles, M&M's and jelly beans too But not the green Jelly Belly jelly beans For those are the ones I despise most Too much green Let's not forget money Which most college students can only dream of Too much green I think we get the idea That there is just Too much green In this world we live in Fioretti Be True Brandi Eversman Be true to yourself, create in your own image and you have just begun to live. Stretch, yawn, savor the delicacy that is the essence of your own true being. Light up and smoke the shreds of tears that once streamed down your face. Collect the shatter pieces of your soul, polish them until they reflect your true identity. Bitch and shout Laugh and love Live all emotion with depth and intensity Never settle for less. One minute lived . .. one moment to remain unchanged for eternity. Value yourself, all relationships Discover that misery resides inside you. Kick its ass out. Be True. Live. Fioretti Watermelon Days Suzanne Walker Watermelon. Red, juicy, sustaining. Janey and I ran through the fields of my uncle's farm, our braids tangling in the wheat of his crop, our hands sticky with the fruit. The sun, always in the west, always two hands away from setting, casts a glow across his land casting my aunts and uncles in rich light and shadows. They discussed recipes and priests. Mother was .t here with her salad and her cookies waiting to help my aunt feed this brood. Days filled with flowers and walks down lanes, conversations about who kissed who and how it felt. Lots of conversations about older sisters and what they did. Dad was always laughing .and pointing his camera, making memories of his laughing girls and their mother, she was with the aunts. Still, I'm not surprised that it didn't last. Things change and watermelon is Sticky and messy. The juice runs down my chin. My tongue has gotten out of the habit of licking up the juice-it has dried up to nothing . Fioretti The Child Elizabeth Kreicker Rainbow, shooting stars and small dreams Make you think there is more to reality than what it seems A white unicorn or a four leaf clover to pick Make the days go by faster with each "tick" A wishing well full of happy prayers Helps you take the next set of stairs A happy child full of make belleve can be more wise than a wise man, a teacher, and me Fioretti Little Sister Rachel Wuertz You smile, all sorrel teeth, All cozy in white layers and alien. I suggest we share lunch over outlooks, Turkey sandwich triangles and couscous. You allude to your birthplace, A poor isle where you found yourself Slipping from the gung-ho of innocence, Biting your lip at the tabloid covers On display in the express lane. So now you're here. You ask if I could swallow my elation. I ask if you find winks degraoing. Fioretti Jungles Alex Gouty The wooden bridge rose over the crowd. Waves of frustration roll slowly down the street. The heart of the jungle stirs with strange life Every horn and flying bird a beat. Gray sidewalks border the pitch black' ri~ers Trees of concrete tower over everything. Busy footsteps are heard along these paths. Voices of those who dare to speak echo and ring. Steam rises from cavernous depths unseen No buzzards or ravens regale us with their song. Jackhammers and engines fill the air with noise., Nothing here remains silent or still for long. A dull brown tinge fills the once blue sky Night comes and the bridge is bathed in neon light Smokestacks belch smoke and flame, the city lives No longer wooden, the bridge is silver steel so bright. Fioretti Perfect Leslie Heckelsberg i glance up from my own little world and follow your eyes up to mine and i smile just 'cause its you and in a way you bring me back to reality and again i am reminded why i am so happy , and just how perfect this feels Fioretti Leaving but not Forgetting Elizabeth Kreicker One step closer to our dreams One step farther and our future seems to have us fearing tomorrow as leaving fills us with so much sorrow We cannot help to wish time away Wanting so much for our lives today Then also wanting to move ahead Trying to remember all we learned, all we said Keeping the memories closest to our heart We leave, to have a new life, target a new start Although we may never be the same We will never forget from where we came And the people that touched our lives so, We want them to know We will never forget how they made us into who we are today, and who we will be tomorrow Fioretti Kite Flying Suzanne Walker You soar. Teasing the birds and the people below with your long whipping tail, made of old cheerleading ribbons knotted tightly on. Those old memories fly through the air, growing pale in the afternoon sun bleaching out into nothing. I'm holding you by a thread and watching you sail, back and forth, carried by a wind stronger than me. Beautiful, but old. Part of a life that's flown away. Fioretti Eichhornchen Alex Gouty Chittering at his assailants He defends his treasure. The cold winter is coming And he will need it to feed his family. The giant birds swoop at him He scratches one with his paw With movements almost human He jubilates at his victory And cracks open a nut with his teeth To celebrate. Fioretti Special Thanks to Duplicating Office: Larry Steeb Get your submissions ready for next time. The Fioretti accepts Poetry, Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Science Fiction. Be a part of future editions. Start editing now! fiQretti  ...

... MARIAN UNIVERSIT'Y THE FIORETTI A Student-Submitted Literary Journal EDlTORS: Karen l\tlcN ulty Aaron Wilder Charles Penalosa MARIAN UNIVERSITY THE FIORETTI A Student-Submitted Literary Journal Spring 2010 EDITORS: Karen McNulty Aaron Wilder Charles Pefialosa EDITORS' NOTE: The word Fioretti, translatedfromltalian, means "little flowers." Specifically, the Fioretti is a collection oflittle tales on the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. The idea of little flowers was the catalyst for this issue of Marian University's Fioretti, a student-run literary journal. Editors Charles Peiialosa, Aaron Wilder, and Karen McNulty wanted to create an atmosphere where the little flowers of Marian University could flourish and bloom. We sincerely hope you enjoy this edition of 'Ihe Fioretti which the Marian University student body has offered. COVER ART . "Francis" by Katie Hedrick Dr. Diane Prenatt, Faculty Advisor Layout and formatting by Charles Peiialosa Spcial thanks to Larry Steeb ... TABLE OF CONTENTS FRANCIS by Katie Hedrick ..................................... Front Cover BIRDSONG by Karen McNulty ........................................... 5 DANCE by Karen McNulty ................. , .............................. 7 ODE TO RAMEN NOODLES by Karen McNulty ........................ 8 DRY SEASON by Aaron Wilder .............................. .............. 9 MUSHU by Aaron Wilder ................. ..... . ............ . ............ 10 GOODNIGHT by Aaron Wilder ............ _............................. 11 BUT IT'S NOT PUppy LOVE by Mallori Smith ................ . ......... 12 THE DRAGON'S BREATH by Mallori Smith ............................ 13 UNTITLED by Mallon Smith .. " ......................................... 14 WHAT ARE You GOING TO Do AFTER COLLEGE? by Jonathon Ciani .................................................... 15 ICE-BREAKERS by Jonathon Ciani .......... ... .......................... 16 CHILDHOOD by Juliette .................................................... 17 READ BE1WEENTHE LINES by Abigail Roach ......................... 18 COLD, EMPTY SPACES by Abigail Roach ................................ 19 3 PEOPLE SIFfING by Abigail Roach .. ....... . ............ . .......... . ..... 20 GRASP OF CLARITY by Philip Frederick ................................. 21 ROBED IN NIGHT by Philip Frederick ........................ ... .... . ... . 22 DIRECTION by Philip Frederick ................................. . " ... . . . 23 CINNAMON ROLE by Charles Pefialosa ....... .. ............. . ........... 24 STARGAZING by Charles Pefialosa .................. .. ........ ..... . ...... 25 BONFIRE by Charles Pefialosa . . .. .. . .. .. .. .... . .. . . .. ... .. .. ... ... . ... .... 26 ACCEPTANCE by Claire Callahan .. . .. .. .. . ...... . . . . .. .... ........ ... .. ... 27 DISPATCH by Jonathon Ciani . . ... . . .... .. ....... ... .. . ... .. .... ... . .. .... 28 COME RAIN SNOW OR HELLFIRE FALLING FROM THE SKY by Jonathon Ciani ..... . ... . ..... . .............. . . ' " ....... .. .. . .. . .. 29 FLEUR DE LIS by Chiara Bel1adoce .................. ... ..... .... ......... 33 CONSTANT, LIFE-GIVING WORK by Charles Pefialosa .. ..... . .. ...... 40 DIVISIVE RHETORIC OF BARACK OBAMA: . THE NOTRE DAME COMMENCEMENT SPEECH by Corrine Purvis ... 45 LIVED by Tyler Tenbarge ............................ . ... .. .. . .. Back Cover 4 BIRDSONG By KAREN MCNULTY Sleep whisks me away to the golden meadows of Bliss. In your arms I soar like a Hummingbird, desiring all to hear my Song. It whisdes past the Sycamore trees shining in the mid-summer sun, past the Old Dirt Road as Billy cruises in the rusted red flat bed truck, soybeans flowing into the yellow-tinted, dehydrated grass that lines the dusty road, and finally reaches the ears of a young boy swinging out over the lake signaling his leapGasping for one last breath, 5 he plunges, the depths of the water cold in the early morning, and sinks to the bottom. His toes graze the soggy undergrowth as he propels himself towards the surface, arms racing as he regains his breath at the cusp of the rippling body of water. My birdsong carries in the wind around the corner of the barn, waking the lonesome cow as she cries in hunger to the only one 'who cares for her. l'vly song returns to you, my darling, as you tousle her dark brown locks , between your fingertips, carefully caressing her foreign body as I lie alone, asleep in our bed. 6 DANCE By KAREN McNULTY Black satin drapes over her curves as she,sways back and forth to the melody alone. Back and forth ... Her drink drips down her dress as she stumbles over the past, each memory whispering of loss and pain. Glass shatters between her toes, and warm blood caresses her black nail polish as she sways ... back and forth. 7 ODE TO RAMEN NOODLES By KAREN MCNULTY Cheap ~lick Easy Satisfying. Long legs wind around my fork a slippery Iness, and heat rises . to my lips, tempting. Like a prostitute, you fill me up, but only for a while. Leave me desiring more. 8 DRY SEASON By AARON WILDER On days like this Brittle prairie grass Rubs its cricket legs. Earth waits, Dry and fanning herself. In the stillness We forget we're not The center; we think Rain waits under logs In beetle-softened wood. Grown men burn bark, Dance naked Like forgotten chUdrenIn case a goddess is watching. "Venus has blocked the sun" Some say. Bats clamor In the chimneys; Outside, cicadas murmur On days like this We forget to breathe Like a rainstorm is coming; Deep like men, and on purpose; Deep like drums of clouds Rolling over the horizon 9 MUSHU By AARON WILDER Leslie pretends to sleep In my blue Bonneville, '99 On the way back from the theater. It's dark outside and Only five thirty because it's December And that makes her tiredOr not tired, exactly, She just wants to go home; I stop at the Chinese takeout To pick up some Mushu pork In white origami boxes, But not origami exactly, like a swan, But folded in some way I haven 't tried to figure out like origami; Leslie likes the Mushu pork best But I don't, so I eat Ravioli from a can Because I don't think Mushu is Chinese evenLike if you flew over to China And said "mushu" they would Shake their heads at their feet; Just something made up for Europeans But not Europeans exactly but Not Americans either, Just people in a place Who all come from somewhere else Without words like "Mushu" wrapped in not-origami Like China but not China Or anywhere else exactlyI just hate how it pretends 10 GOODNIGHT By AARON WILDER There's not so much laundry On the line. Grief flutters in the empty Spaces where your blouses used to fit. Not so many basketsNot so many loadsThe loads I no longer carry Are the heaviest. Not so much food To cook-but more left overNot so many forks or knives. An empty dishwasher makes The whole house feel like Swiss cheese. I leave the back door Open at night To let out the quiet. Moths whittle Through the halls Up the stairs In your open door. I never shut out the lights In your room anymore. 11 BUT IT'S NOT PUppy LOVE By MALLORI SMITH He knows love is lost. Rosie matters but little. It's his own pride that will be battered His mind that will pay the price He thinks of the best . .. For herFor himself. As one lone bead of sweat Rolls down his nose ~is ~yc-s-get sad And his nose snuffily like a puppy's As he tells her you are onlymy best friend . 12 THE DRAGON'S BREATH BY MALLORI SMITH 1he knight stands, As he is destroyed. Young and immortal, Fearless, yet alone, He watched In the dark. His head turned back: The town in the valley Reflected beads of amber, Tarnished lives of men. Flinted sparks, None else combats The coal-fire that confronts them 1he Dragon breathes On the boy's up-raised face. As he falls to the ground. 13 UNTITLED By MALLORI SMITH Look to the stars, the moon, the earth, Can one find happiness in earth's wide girth? Is it humanly possible so? "Folks never get what they want," * you knOw. Why are the children happy still? Knowing one day they will feelThe pangs oflove; death's embrace, The Grim Reaper's sickle mace. But then we know, I hear a call ~sn't it better than never living at all? 1he Running ofthe Tide by Esther Forbes 14 WHAT ARE You GOING TO Do AFTER COLLEGE? By JONATHON CIANI I'll be a drunkard, Ma. Sleep at noon. Deal cards at midnight. Rent a bungalow on the beach. Grow bananas in my backyard. Hop a steamboat for Japan. Learn Samurai tricks for two weeks or three. Maybe drive a garbage truck. Pound piano keys on stu.ffy urban streets. I could be a diplomat. Some grinning Napoleon, sign treaties with a sword. Therels always lawyer or doctor or teacher or sheriff or ice cream man too. Really, Ma, I want to drive a herd of cattle across some unpaved land. Ride off into boiling horizons and see where I end up. 15 ICE-BREAKERS By JONATHON CIANI 1. I plucked the Pleiades from their branch of space and wove them into a necklace. If you listen, I'll tell you how. 2. I learned to breathe underwater in Atlantis and came back to tell you. Aren't you interested? 3. I've started a goat ranch in Ghana fished for Pike with my bare hands sprinkled salt on a dove's wings to keep it from flying away. And still you say we've nothing to talk about? 16 CHILDHOOD BY]ULIETTE Mickey Mouse sheets crumple over purple bear and brown-eyed lions. Deafening light pours into the room muffling the screams outside. Grasping tight to childhood, I lose myself The soothing rays cover my fragile form, blinding the eyes, warming a heart, granting the grace of peace. Illuminated dust, assorted angelic specks harmonize in midair, tickling my nose while dancing to some inaudible symphony. I giggle. The door slams shut. Broken clouds from within thrust themselves upon me, yet Light lingers as my last defense against the tempest. Darkness is victorious, radiance departs but He whispers honey-tinged promises of return. Amid cotton beasts, veiled under humble covers I will cling to this bruised innocence. The footsteps grow closer, the shadow is here. Again, I am alone. 17 READ BETWEEN THE LINES By ABIGAIL ROACH I've had the same sickening taste in my mouth for ten years now. The taste of quicksand in my throat. It is the realization of the world turning in my scarred body on a bed of nails. Sometimes I teellike Sister Blanche, always relying on the kindness of strangers. I want you to love me. Have you ever read Catch 22? One of its most basic principles is that a crazy person would not know if they are crazy. But I am, and I know it. The Quicksand-It rises, it falls, it spreads. I told you, I'm suffocating. You didn't know how badly I wanted you. And how could you? It's 1:04 in the morning and I'm still wondering whyWhat is that you need? Why me? I don't ask, because I don't want you to ask too. You told me things would be better tomorrow. I said that tomorrow always has the potential to be better; you just have to let it take shape. You have to know that I feel responsible. You have to know that I love him, that I will always love him. You don't know me. Someday you will forget about me, like an old birthday card collecting dust in a desk drawer. I don't love you. I don't even really know you, but I need you to love me. It is the only thing that makes me feel real, that makes the quicksand subside. 18 COLD, EMPTY SPACES By ABIGAIL ROACH My mind feels heavy, Trying to beat out The weariness Bundled in layers, My fingernails Still hues of cold, I try to focus On their voices Words come off Their tongues: Orthodoxy Sacraments Goodness Truth-And I try, And try, The words shifting Inside me, But I can never Qyite make them outI just want to stay warm And not have to think About what the words meanWhen I shut my eyes, When I don't want to be For just a little while, When I burrito in your Down blanket, My face buried in a pillow, ThinkingIt would be better if I didn't understand 19 PEOPLE SIFTING By ABIGAIL ROACI i The human body, A fragile laugh Of lilies in My grandmother's garden, She never really Had a green thumbMummy makes Earl Grey with loose-leaf, Warming my hands And after, trying to read The remnants in the bottom. I don't speak to Gregory anymore, I 'only obey the formalities, There will be beer on birthdays, Look at all the pictures on the WallsSo much could be said Walking to class With Andrew Popp, Our faces bitten I wore my thick blue socks, I said I needed The warm weather to come. 20 GRASP OF CLARITY By PHILIP FREDERICK From my childhood on Everything is connected Things I did that were wrong Problems I never corrected What happened in school A life never perfected To live so cruel They are all connected The relations I have I am now more affected They act as a salve For a heart so infected And now there is hope For life to be directed I see how to cope For life is all connected To rise above myself I know my directive In loving Love itself I gained a life giving perspective 21 ROBED IN NIGHT By PHILIP FREDERICK Cloaking myself in darkness Being one with thee All in mind is stalling In the night I can see Floating in Your ocean The Bright Star shines in power Enveloped in Your Love Brought to life by the Flower Present me not, for I will wither Be still, she whispers in my ear And the dawn comes with a breath Then I shed a joyous tear 22 DIRECTION By PHILIP FREDERICK Turning like a spinning top My heart feels like an icy rock The soul swims in an ocean of fear Why does the future appear so near? Is there dawn upon the black skies? Is there light for my ravaged eyes? Mercy lacks in these eyes so blind Fear clouds my heart icily lined 23 CINNAMON ROLE By CHARLES PENALOSA Meaning and sense emerge one drop at a time to the coffee pot. One awakens the way pieces of toast or bagel leap from the toaster. Initial apathy is apparent as one slaps chunks of cream cheese to the surface of an unevenly-sliced bagel without bothering to spread it. Patience develops by keeping yourself from tapping your shoes on the floor. Yes, the eerie green light of the microwave will change one slow number at a time. Thus, one should not forget that life is like floating in a bowl of cereal. Humility involves seeing ourselves as small, plain rings of Cheerios instead of crunchy, frosted corn flakes . All will be soggy after the milk is poured. Instead, we should learn how to live like instant Eggo waffles. Cold and hard in the freezer, they nevertheless wait in hope for somebody to come and heat them up. 24 STARGAZING By CHARLES PENALOSA The crimson sleeping bag unfurled near the heart of the dim soccer field, I aim the flashlight at the map of the ocean abovethe borderless sea of dusts and specks distorted by the glare of civilization. She stands up, her feet planted on the moist cushion of grass, her misty breath ascending like smoke signal, unsealing the mute, ancient fables frozen above. First we view the heavens from the tip of the dipper-the key tied to the end of Franklin's kite. Arms stretched open, like an unfolding of wings, we then sway in a waltz of azimuths and altitudes, surveying the firmament for the Warrior's belt. 25 BONFIRE By CHARLES PENALOSA for my h"otha seminarians 1he soothing flame finally begins to seep through the moist logs, frail branches, and crumpled leaves. Warm smoke competes with our misty breath. The strumming of guitar, the sound of laughter tease the cool breeze and entertain the flame. The fire refines the skewered marshmallowsinteriors soften, outer shells turn brown. The more wood fed as fuel , the more ashes ascend, like fireflies fleeing to heaven. Standing up, my shoes stepping on the cold, wet soil and dead leaves, I begin to stare upwards. New stars have formed in the sky. 26 ACCEPTANCE By CLAIRE CALLAHAN He was pierced through for our transgressions, He was crushedfor our iniquities; 7he chastening/or our well-beingfell upon Him, And by His scourging we are healed Isaiah 53:5 He was all that was pure, good, and light Yet accepted all that was filthy, evil, and dark. This burden He bore without a word Even when He knew what lay in store. He was pierced through/or my transgressions, He was crushedfor my sins; 7he beatingfor my well- beingfell upon Him, And by His scourging I am healed. As I have accepted Him my Lord and SaviQr I accept my troubles. His trials were greater than mine He is Perfect I am not. I must accept my fate because He is Just. This is why I pray without ceasing So I may be like Him. 27 DISPATCH By JONATHON CIANI McNary,AZScary McNary. His father and uncle chant in unison as the truck rolls past the shacks lining the highway. Broken rakes, plastic garbage bags, diapers, shredded tires like charred scales-detritus chokes along the roadside and steals his gaze away from the tall pines and the open marshes. An Indian in a baseball cap spikes a glass bottle toward the ground. Two more Indians lean together outside the dry-goods store and spit into plastic cups. Worms? asks his uncle. Might as well. When the truck stops, his uncle gets out and talks to the two Indians on the step. So this is McNary, boy. Not a nice place. No. Has it always been like this? Pretty much. 'The two Indians lead his uncle over to a cooler on the side of the drygoods store. He sees a sign traced in kindergarten- red marker that reads: Night Crawlers 5-1. Like their version of a lemonade stand, his father quips. One Indian reaches in and pulls out a round Styrofoam container. What do they do here? They used to have lumber mills back off the highway but those shut down.'I11e ponds back there have pike in 'em but the Indians don't let anybody go back there and fish. Don't know that I'd want to either way. And we're off, says his Uncle after the door slams shut. Let me see those worms. You never know with Indians. His uncle pulls off the lid and digs a finger into the dirt. He pulls his head up and grins. His father glances over and bursts out laughing. You gotta be kiddin' me. lhe boy looks in and sees three brown night crawlers dried out like cigarette butts. 28 COME RAIN SNOW OR HELLFIRE FALLING FROM THE SKY By JONATHON CIANI I maintain it's my right to keep money I earned by Business. Business. Something those damn captains ain't never heard of. And if they did hear of it they only know that Business is a well-set table at which they can eat their fill while those that set the table scurry about them like spiders who ain't even deserving of names, just little stomps. They don't stomp with boots though. No. These damn captains use their thick stacks of paper smacked full oflittle print and lines to sign or initial but basically just to tie a man down or nail him up. And even when a man carries four thousand dollars cash in his wallet for recreation like I do-the Government owns him. Carries the man-even a man with over two hundred college credits-me- in its pockets. Sometimes I feel I don't own even a soul after the Government finishes up with me. I remember when I could feel my soul like a pleasant weight in my pocket. Feel it honest and that I for sure owned it cause I owned my property of my own right. But they've stomped that feeling away. I can't believe it even strung up .between these four cold walls and lying on this stale mattress on a damn rusted frame on which the Government ought to have no right to commission me. Me. With four thousand dollars pocket change. Scary, isn't it? And I'm a man not liable to get scared. Not even by two captains creeping on my land. I handled them. Cause scared is just another word to me. I know some men who'd have jumped scared at a letter from the Government full of words that look big, words the captains think someone like me doesn't even know: Evasion, Arrears, Subject To Seizure. But mewith over two-hundred college credits-I've seen some pretty big words. And know how to use them. But I didn't send any words back when they didn't bother to leave a man what's his. When the letters started coming, Lorrie, my ex-wife, a woman who never set foot in a college, started to fuss. She'd say my name slow and talk fast from there, "These taxes need. To be taken care of." 29 "Don't you go worrying baby." She just couldn't let it drop, as scared as she was by those big words, "But you need to pay them. We have responsibilities to be good-" "Good what? I am a good American Lorrie and you better get that straight. These captains don't know Business. Or this land. What I gotta pay taxes for? You know Grandfather bought this land before the captains crisscrossed every acre of these rolling hills with their fences and codes and other technical bowties that serve no other purpose than to ring a man's neck at their pretty beck and call. I own it. And I won't pay rent to a soul or even captains who wouldn't know a soul if one exploded through their eyes. I own it, hear?" "But- " "1 won't- can't- let them take from a pocket weighed down by four thousand dollars. Earned through hard work." "You didn't work for it and 1 hate when you say you did. All you did was sell out- " How could I let her speak to me like that? "1--1' m bleeding." On the floor where she'd landed she held her head in a' crooked arm. Little sickening tears burbled out of her eyelids. "If you talk tough you better get tough little girl. I didn't earn all my money to listen to you. So I'll say I earned it cause I did." She ran off after that. Not strong enough to stand up to the Government. And not long after she ran, the captains started pestering. And everything was their fault. Don't listen to the papers. The way they called it a pattern of destructive behavior when all a man did was defend his property. Those two little punks. Up to no good. I know how these punks are. Anyway,I was taking a walk with my shotgun-just in case-when these two punks start waving from a little hilltop on my land. Where the Government's stabs into it. "What you punks want on my land?" "Well, sir, our car broke down and we're just waiting for the tow- truck. Not a problem is it?" "And that gives you the right to scout my land, eh?" 30 "Scout your land?" "I know you punks." When the sheriff came to the house, he told it different. Said I took pot shots. Damn sheriff would believe two punks. He's a captain too so I shouldn't be surprised. Told me he'd be keeping an eye on me and now he tells the papers that he shoulda known about my destructive tendencies. Then maybe those two captains-But what does a sheriff know? I don't owe the Government the money I earned damn whatever Lorrie says. It's not my fault Grandfather didn't go to Business school. Or that Dad didn't know the Constitution and how our very Government violates it by taking what a man's earned, drilling it out of him with some string of words like property taxes. I just secured what's mine. And the captains couldn't tolerate it. That's what drove them out to my place. 1hey shoulda known a man would defend his land. They drove right up my gravel drive and scared dust into the air. I watched them through the window. The way they got out and looked around, hungry for what they couldn't have because it was mine. When they knocked I didn't answer. I brought the whiskey down out of .t he kitchen cabinet and took a pull. They knocked again and I walked into the . hallway to the big cedar cabinet and unlocked it. The third time they knocked, they started calling out my name. For a split I thought maybe, just maybe the fancy Government dispatched its agents to apologize. After all, I am a man who carries four thousand dollars pocket change, a man who has over two hundred college credits, and owns fifty-five acres. So I opened the door and the two men, in nice pressed suits, that never did carry four thousand dollars in their pockets, these two captains asked to sit down. "Why don't you just go ahead and put your feet up on the table, too." They didn't know how to take me: Their eyes started to bounce like pin ba]Js: looking at each other, then back to me. Them at the table, me next to the cedar cabinet that I'd just unlocked. 31 "Go right ahead sirs and get on with the apology. I've got plenty ofland l6:enjoy without you two straightjackets." "Excuse me?" asked one of them, with a serious look that almost made me burst out laughing like the night I came home frorn the casino and read llorrie's three line note about leaving me. liThe apology you owe me." He kept that serious face and my hand itched toward the cabinet latch. "The apology for all of the letters. The apology for the fact you've tried to steal my land and even my soul. My land and me a man who carries four thousand dollars-" "We're here to collect what you owe." He killed himself by saying it. I hauled the shotgun out of the cabinet and pulled the trigger to pulp the captain's head and chest. The other one dove for cover, but I tugged on that trigger again and the buckshot pulped him where he groveled scared on the ground. Blood decanted from both bodies and:stained a drunken circle on my fine marble tile. Even dead I didn't want any captains on my land so I lugged their pulped bodies into the bed of my truck and drove out to the highway -and dumped them in the ditch on the other side of my land. Someone found 'em . soon enough and the next time the captains swarmed my place there were too many of them to shoot and they got me quick before I could even unlock the cabinet. lhey started laying into me with their big words: Murder, First Degree, Rational Intent, Violent Recluse, Wacko. They pounded all these nonsense words into the sharpest sickle the world ever did see. I'm sure they've found a way to get my land now. Not out of respect for law but just to satisfy their appetite to see a man who could flash four thousand dollars out of his wallet, a man like that, strung up and butchered, naiiled here in this jail cell to do nothing but wonder when they'll go ahead amI capitalize his-my-punishment. To wonder why he even needs a body al1more after they ripped his soul out of his pockets. 12 FLEUR DE LIS By CHIARA BELLADOCE On the nights when it is most difficult to fall asleep, I look for the little dancers on the ceiling. They glide, leaving trails of shadows along the walls and disappear across the pane of glass that separates me from heaven. They dance as if they are free, yet they can only twirl when the lights go dim and my eyelids are weak but somehow are wide open to watch. Angels somehow depend on my movement in those last moments of wakefulness, my readiness to stay with them and imagination to guess at what their houses must look like. Thank God I found reason to keep all three. Those nights I usually think of how I might surprise Daddy with a new art project. Maybe a sculpture, a paper-mache mask or fleet of origami boats. I make them to see how he puts things in their special place: in flocks upon the shelves lining the ceiling of his workshop. Then I think of the things that he builds. He lets me help him or hand him his carving knife, saw blades, or scrap pieces. No other carpenter in the county has used the so-called scrap for such things as Dad. The biggest pieces, . he stacks on two slats along the side of his shop for future fumiture and the next largest he collects and stores in an open plywood box. The smallest pieces and sawdust he also sweeps together, for any spills. No portion is forgotten or left to the wind if he can help it. None laid to waste. Tiny dancers still dance and stand apart from the growing darkness. Sleeping just across the hall, the carpenter snores in his still slumber and my eyes, wide open to a movement larger than understanding, do not allow me to tum away from the tiny dancers in their most feminine gowns and their most graceful trot. Unexplainable and most beautiful, no one else sees them. Therefore, I conclude they must dance just for me. 'The same window that gives the dancers a place for playful vanishing powers invited light in to wake a child's sight in the moming. Pushing back 33 the comforter awakens me with the aroma of dryer sheet scent and Daddy's . natural handsome smell. "Harrison's shelves today, LayLay," he states, looking up from his sandpaper in the shop. Reaching behind him and back again, he hands me a matching square. ''Yours.'' There he had left another piece, one he brought out of the scrap box. The shape was odd; uneven, and its use altogether ambiguous. "See what is under the roughness," he said, looking back at his task. "I think there is more to that one than I saw at first, when I cut the piece from Lee's end table." Even at times when I saw nothing promising about the scraps he would hand me, I never could bring myself to doubt the significance of his judgment. With each motion taking away a thin layer of knotted callous, my thoughts return to the previous night when the light danced above my head. I wondered if Dad ever saw them before he sawed his logs. The wood was firm, yet forgiving in my hands. Based on the size of the amorphous shape, somehow I assumed that its greatness would be more than exquisite but that it would be more demanding than any other. Sure, the signs of pattern peaked where the roughness was not so severe, creviced, and increasingly stubborn . . lllere was no telling what the block might ask of me. Hands hung on the wall indicated that I had been working for three hours when Dad stood to stretch. His sanding the shelves had brought him to the point where he could stop for a break to scratch his blades against the door jam: a signal for noon lunch. lhere was no need to say a thing. I glanced at the clock to see for myself: yes, the scrap kept me occupied, more than engaged somehow, and one end of the oblong-bow protruded from one end. Progress. He stood in front of his stool and then strode to the door. In hearing his heel stop at the hinges with a slight smile, I took my cue. Chilled cola sweat dripped down my fists, each holding a glass bottle. As I retrieve bottles, Thomas, the boy from down the street, parks his bike under the kitchen window. rThomas was one who never caught the sacredness of Saturdays, but Dad and I did not mind. Not too much. Today I could do without you. I flinch 34 before facing his approaching step. "Do you like Coke or Dr. Pepper, Mr. Elpersman?1' she implored. "Well, hello, Elena." His tone and expression are both self-absorbed. "Hello, Thomas. What has Saturday brought you?" "A flat tire and a lost argument." "Your mom?" "Who else? Hey, Dr. Pepper will do me." He dawdled in the door of the icebox, waiting for me to notice his flirtatious yet preoccupied' pose, hip leaning against the jamb with head bowed as if in contemplation. When will I be able to take you seriously, Mr. Thomas? Handing him his can meant that he would eat with us, too. We all sat down, Thomas in my miserable spot. "How's 01' Miss Finch hanging in there these days?" Thomas commented on her pale transparent yellow curtains pulled away from the window with a tip of his chin. Who is he to ask after her without actually caring to know the real answer? I wished to know where the splendor of Thomas came from. Dad was apparently dreaming. "She does not come out much unless she has to," I respond, not trying to . hide my irritation; Miss Finch just happened to be one of the most crotchety, white-perm old women that my hands ever helped. Since before Dad brought me home from the delivery room, 01' Miss Finch ordinarily kept to her folding chair to the right of her front door, watching to see when I would next come by her chain-linked fence. Her favorite line directed at me upon my running along the fence in the grass, gloriously barefooted: "No shoes means cold feet. You know what cold feet will do for ya! WHERE do you think you're going?" Or, in the summer when I would offer the flowerbeds a sip she'd tell me, "Don't you be spraying that hose in my yard! I can hardly keep up with the grass growing as it is." Not to say that I owned her, Dad seemed to have the same sense of possession and shows it by changing the subject. Thomas's question does not merit a full answer. 35 "She's been slowing down, son," Dad replies, not needing to glance to find if she was staked out on her porch or not. I soon realized he already knew she was inside, not in her usual pose in her porch. Not skipping a beat he continues, "What has your mother got for you today, Tom?" Thomas came over more often when his mother worked a double and drank to make it a triple. "Oh, she's . .. she just needs to be alone for a while." Looking up from his hand fiddling the aluminum tab, he abruptly took the top sandwich and devoured it. Out of the comer of my eye, 1. caught Miss Finch's fingertips ever so slightly brushing the windowsill from inside. She'd left a flower pot there, holding a mound of loose, dark earth. We finished our lunch soon after that, and Dad sent Thomas on his way. 1\1)' eyes meant a scold, but Dad would not receive my silent retaliation. I went back to my sanding before Thomas climbed back on his seat to depart. I kept my eyes fixed on the project resting in my palm, trying to decipher the grooves as if they held the meaning of my life. "It's time that you go and see Miss Finch, Elena." I dropped the sandpaper and looked him in the face. He sometimes suggested I go to help other mothers in the neighborhood if they needed an hour to buy groceries or to chat with someone old enough to say and spell "Mississippi," but never had he told me to go to Miss Finch. She clucked her tongue, shook her horrid wrinkles, and demanded full upright attention. the last woman I thought to visit would be her. She found grounds for disappointment rather than any affirmation of grace. My head commanded that I refuse the request, but my heart moved with pity somewhere down deep. Must I go? It was then that I realized she'd never invited me in. "She would never be the one who would ask,"Dad whispered, almost to himself. That night the angels did not dance. I imagined them congregating in their iridescent gowns; glorious in their attire and expression, waiting in the wings ready and anticipating a grand debut. But they never came for me. Nor for many nights after that and I wondered if I had lost something, that is, lost something that would attract them to where I live. Mter they did not visit for 36 over a week; I was convinced I needed to invite them back, if only I knew how to relay the message. Every one of those days, Dad and I worked on our projects, but mostly on Saturday. One of the days, which I can not rightly remember, Miss Finch accosted me. 1 did not have to go to her, as Dad intended. She came to me. I was on my way to the shop to check on the project whose end still remained a mystery to me. Her eyes had become greener, sadder, and paler than I remembered. "Have you and your Daddy been building?" "Yes." I rattled off his list of projects. "And you?" Showing any interest in my work perked my ears. "I am not sure what mine is." Something brought me to want to show her. "Want to see it?" A faint glimmer in her eye said yes. I ran to the workbench and retrieved it, letting it gently rest in the palm of my hand. Returning to the fence, I produced the seemingly misshaped wood for. her inspection. She took it from my hand, turning it over and around in her own palms as she leaned over the top of the fence."Perfect." My look must have given away my unsaid thoughts because she returned the piece to my own possession quickly, forcibly, and hobbled back to her porch and inside. Abruptly she stooped to the sill where her pot sat with no evident sprout. Picking it up, she shoved it out of sight to the far comer of her porch. It shattered. The dirt lay everywhere. Probably to release some tif her tension/rom wearing those elastic-band, tablecloth cotton pants. I never went to see her that summer and the dancers did not come to see me. Once school started again, the fall months kept me bundled up. Saturdays meant ballgames and cookouts, science projects and new pedestals. I only spied Miss Finch once when I was raking the leaves beside the shed. Dad was in the shed, piddling around with his tools and toys. Happy for the colors but not the extra layers of shirt and scarf, I heard her porch door open and looked up to find her approaching my waist-deep pile. Time had passed it seemed as I stood above her now. She slumped, her hair falling out of its curl. 37 She looked to have lost several inches in height but by looking at me, I knew something in her was more alive than anything in me. She was holding a pot, green in hue, matching the last soft summer grass and somehow her eyes, too. I crossed the yard and around the fence to meet her. She lifted the pot into my hands, and motioned toward the card attached by an evergreen ribbon wrapped around the lip of the pot. Nodding to show that I understood, she hobbled back to her rocker, now with an extended back and wide seat, one far too big for her to fill. She stared across the street and into a nothingness, notat me. Not sure when it actually dawned on me, but that woman was mine in all of her aggravation, droopy wrinkles, and feeble step. I brought the pot of dirt into the shop and opened the note. There she had written gracefully in her ornamental calligraphy: :r .itA!. ,1.i./rt1.d..o-nn .o-{ .iJ.o-.d. m-.i.i.i. j, A!. i ,a,l.,e/rt ,am-.a.1Ij l.'thnn 1Ij.o-,u ,a/rt.d. 1.i.N.J!/rt in.a fl.e.o-fli..I!. i.lt.a.i m-.i.i..f 1Mh.d..u..c.l!..i.i.d. {A,u .i.i. Laying the note next to the pot on the workbench, I turned to face Dad later. "Why is it that she can be so angry, yet stop and show some sort of interest in what I am doing or making. Why would she say these things? Why should she care?" A second later, Thomas's head walked past the window and Dad moved to the door to greet him. We would continue this later, his silence said. Exchanging pleasantries, Thomas's expression spelled urgency, . expectation, and approximation. He tries to read me, but never completes the correct calculation. I had slipped into a daydream and Dad had left, catching me off-guard in the shop with Thomas. "I came to ask you to the fall dance." His gaze bore through my being. I could not accept his offer. He should have known it. 38 "I cannot," was all that I knew to say. He hesitated as if to check for confirmation that 1 was sincere, that there was nothing left to read. He turned to leave. "lhomas knows his poverty but forgets that he is a beggar. Miss Finch becomes weary of her poverty but kneels." Dad had slipped back into my sight. Somehow I knew he had not left. He took a step into the shop and opened a drawer of his largest chest. He pulled out a velvet pull string bag, one that once held expensive jewelry. He pulled the contents out of the bag, oddly shaped but with definite grooves; a distinctly saintly shape. No longer a block of m}sshapen wood, two curls extended to the left and right of a band and a diamond rose up between them. "This is called a Beur de lis. It means a number of things for many people. For some it is a symbol of royalty or saintliness, life and prosperity. Since you have been occupied, I recognized the vague shadow of the flower a couple of weeks ago and carved where the roughness concealed its life." Handing me the piece, I took in its sharpness and simplicity, simplicity polished with a rich stain. "Put it in a special place." I buried Miss Finch in early April when the rains wash the good earth . . Few came to see the burial, but I decided it did not make me much of a difference. I decided that 1 would leave the fleur de lis with her, an emblem of new life and happy beginnings for a woman so few really sought to know. With the heavy grey pouring over us, washing us, I met the green pot where it sat by the shop stoop once we got home. A stem reached as if going past the raindrops, bending but not breaking under the weight of the tears from the heavens. There a leur de lis erupted for me in red, dancing in the thunder. I stopped in my tracks and Daddy saw too. "All for little you." 39 CONSTANT, LIFE-GIVING WORK By CHARLES PENALOSA According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, the word "liturgy" refers to "the participation of the People of God in 'the Work of God."'! Today, work is generally viewed as a burden only done in order to gain money or to reach a desired result. However, work becomes more than grudging actions when imbued with love. It is in this context that we have the liturgy as the highest form of prayer to God, specifically through the Eucharist, or the l\1ass.2 1he Acts of the Apostles provides the earliest account of the Eucharistic liturgy for early Christians. A century later, Church writers such as St. Justin Martyr continued to describe the same structure of the liturgy. 'n1e liturgy then received elaboration with the standardization of the Mass during the Counter-Reformation and adaptations made during the Second Vatican Council. Instituted by Christ Himself, the Eucharist has been a continuous source of inspiration and strength for Christians, its spirit unchanged as it evolved organically over centuries of Christian worship. The . continuity of the liturgy reflects the growth of the Church as the Body of Christ. Early Christian accounts show evidence that the Eucharistic liturgy has remained unchanged throughout the ages. By the aftermath of Christ's Ascension, we already see in the Bible that the early Christians place.d great importance on the celebration of the Eucharist. In the book of Acts, we read, "Every day they devoted themselves to meeting together in the temple area and to breaking bread in their homes . lhey ate their meals with exultation and sincerity of heart, praising God and enjoying favor with all the Catechism 'of the Catholic Church. Washington D.C. : United States Catholic Conference Publishing Services, 1992, section \069. I 2 Wuerl, Donald. The Catholic '*W Faithfor Living Today. New York, NY: Doubleday, 2001, p. \46 . 40 people" (2:46-47).31his became the model for what we now call the Mass, or the Eucharist, which is divided into two parts: the gathering to read Scriptures (Liturgy of the Word) and the "breaking of bread" (Liturgy of the Eucharist). From the time the book of Acts was written, the liturgy continued to evolve in an organic way. This growth is described by the writings of early Christians, such as St. Justin Martyr. In his letter to the pagan Emperor Antoninus Pius,Justin describes the celebration of the Eucharistic liturgy in its second century form: The memoirs of the apostles and the writings of the prophets are read, as much as time permits. When the reader has finished, he who presides over those gathered admonishes and challenges them to imitate these beautiful things .... When he who presides has given thanks and the people have responded, those whom we call deacons give to those present the 'eucharisted' bread, wine and water and take them to those who are absent.4 Based from this account we can see that the structure of the Eucharistic celebration has remained the same over several centuries, since the Mass still consists oflistening to the writings by apostles and prophets (readings), .admonition by the presider (homily), thanksgiving (Eucharistic Prayer), and the giving of the "'eucharisted' bread, wine, and water" (communion). rTh e Mass was then further elaborated in the mid-16 th century, during the Counter- Reformation, as the Church was guarding her orthodoxy against schismatic Protestants. In 1545, Pope Paul III called a general Church council to gather in Trent, a northern Italian city. One of the concerns discussed was the standardization and reform of the liturgy. According to pastor and historian Fr. Thomas Bokenkotter, this reform was embodied in the formation of the Missale Romanum, or the Revised Roman Missal, in 1570. Because of the Missale Romanum, the reformed liturgy, or the "Tridentine Mass" as it has been called, became a "pedagogical tool for instilling the Catholic sense of 3 4 Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Bible. Catechism of the Catholic Church, Section 1345. 41 tradition, emphasizing the clarity, stability, and universality of Catholic ooctrine."5 However, the term "reform" of the Liturgy is misleading since the word implies substantial change. The Council of Trent did not establish revolutionary amendments to the structure of the Mass, but merely confirmed and enriched the meaning of the liturgy. 111e Revised Roman Missal paved way for stricter instructions for priests when celebrating the Mass, thus ensuring unity in the whole Catholic Church. Because of the standardization of the Mass, the Eucharistic liturgy remained stable and practically unchanged for four centuries. 6 By the mid-1900s, however, Pope John XXIII, felt the need to call a general council to be held in Vatican City. Historian Chester Gillis tells us that the pope "emphasized that the Council was to be an aggiornamenttr-an opening of the windows to let a fresh breeze blow the cobwebs out of the church's many nooks and crannies."7 This "fresh breeze" was manifested in the change in the view of God. According to Gillis, "[a] shift from classical culture to modernity occurred accompanied by a greater appreciation for the immanence of God instead of the transcendence that pre-Vatican II theology emphasized."R 1h e liturgy was then affected because of this shift in view. The former stress on the transcendence of God implied a great separation between God and His people, since God is eternal and immaterial. 1he new focus on the immanence of God resulted in a feeling of proximity between God and His people, since He manifests Himself through His creations. Thus, the Mass was allowed to be celebrated in the vernacular, or language of the people, while before Vatican II, Latin, the universal language of the Church, was used. The ~ Rokenko tter. Thomas. A Concise History orthe Catholic Church. New York, NY: Random 1louse. Inc. 2005, p. 244. " Ibid . Gillis. Chester. 1999. p. 88. 7 8 Ibid. p. 87. 42 ROn/OIl Catholicism in America. New York: Columbia University Press, altar, which formerly stood against the sanctuary wall, was brought forward and the priest celebrant now faces the congregation in offering the Eucharistic sacrifice. Due to these changes, scholars today contend that a wall separating the clergy from the laity was torn down, since there is now a greater sense of participation for the laity.9 Although some modern-day scholars see the Vatican II changes of the liturgy as an improvement, it is important not to dwell on just one of God's attributes. The Church's view about places of worship embodies the official, unchanging perception of God: ''The church building is a sign and reminder of the immanence and transcendence of God-who chose to dwell among us and whose presence cannot be contained or limited to any single place"l0 (emphasis added). In a sense, there was not really a comprehensive, 180 degree change, but a slight shift in consciousness of how God is worshipped. This shift can be likened to the physical growth of human beings, where each body part continuously changes, but still remains the same. After 20 years, a 10 year-old boy will become a 30 year-old man, reaching the prime of his life, yet he is still the same person he was before. In the same way, although there are minute "reforms" in the Eucharistic liturgy of the Church, these . changes in form are merely adaptations, the way one's body is affected by dayto-day circumstances. Ultimately, however, these elaborations are just a part of an ongoing organic growth of the Church, which is the Body of Christ (cf Col 1:24; 1 Cor 12:12). The endurance of the Eucharistic liturgy thus embodies the natural growth of the Church as the Body of Christ on earth. Even during the wake of Christ's Ascension, we see in the Book of Acts that the early Christian congregation already celebrated a form of the Mass. In the second century, St. Justin Martyr described the same structure of the liturgy. With the 9 Gillis, p. 90. 10 BlIilt of Living Stones: Art, Architecture, and Worship (Ftfth Printing). Washington D.C.: United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2007, p. 20. 43 standardization of the Roman Missal in the 16 th century, the spirit and meaning of the liturgy was emphasized.1hree centuries later, the Second Vatican Council brought the liturgy into further maturity, taking into account the long-standing experience of the Church. The Body of Christ on earth then continues to grow, nourished by the saving flesh and blood of her Savior. This communion with Jesus Christ and participation in His eternal sacrifice defines the essence of the constant "work" or liturgy that Christians throughout the ages have been clinging to for strength and inspiration. Thus, this "work" is the ultimate bond that unites Christ, the Head, with His Body, the Church. 44 DIVISIVE RHETORIC OF BARACK OBAMA: THE NOTRE DAME COMMENCEMENT SPEECH By CORRINE PURVIS President Barack Obama presented the Notre Dame commencement speech to the graduating class of2009.1he visit to Notre Dame sparked much controversy due to the fact that Obama's pro-choice views differ from the prolife stance of the Roman Catholic Church. His presidential campaign stressed unity in diversity and it included considerably explicit religious rhetoric. The Notre Dame speech put the Obama campaign to the test: how would his appeals for unity address the culture wars over the sanctity oflife? Obama met that challenge by calling for an open dialogue. The dialogue he envisions, however, is a false hope. The common ground he proposed in the speech only engendered more division. Barack Obama has deployed religious rhetoric before and during his campaign for presidency. Obama has peppered his speeches with references to his faith and Scripture. At the Notre Dame commencement as well as in his church, the United Church of Christ, Obama describes his faith journey as a secular community organizer until he knelt before the cross and became a Christian. Obama's background helps one to understand his civil religious rhetoric. The particular church a person attends influences their political ideologies and beliefs. With all the controversy leading up to the commencement, protesters assembled to rally and petitions were signed in order to prohibit Obama's visit to Notre Dame for the commencement speech. Father John Jenkins, Notre Dame's President, held to his promise to invite the president to the commencement. Father Jenkins told EWTN on March 23, 2009, that "Presidents from both parties have come to Notre Dame speaking on issues such as international affairs, human rights, and service." Father Jenkins realized that much controversy followed such an invitation because ofObama' s stance on issues such as abortion, yet he maintains that Notre Dame is not ignoring 45 sanctity of life, but that one of the reasons for inviting Obama was because Notre Dame cares so much about this issue. Father Jenkins argues that, "We cannot change the world by ostracizing those we want to influence." One should be open to diverse views in order make a difference. The speech at Notre Dame addressed students, friends and family of students, and faculty. Father Jenkins expresses boldly that, "We also foster and celebrate a distinctive mission to be a Catholic university, inspired and guided by a great spirihlal tradition." Notre Dame intently expresses their identity and mission to hold to the Catholic tradition. The speech created controversy between various religious groups, specifically Catholics and other Christian traditions, because the sanctity and dignity of life is a large concern for these groups. Obama's pro-choice attitude regarding life issues such as abortion and embryonic stem cell research allowed some people to think that when he spoke, he would disregard these essential values, specifically the value of life on their campus. Robert Bellah, one of the founders of the concept of civil religion, characterizes civil religious rhetoric in his article, "Civil Religion in America," as "not a form of self-worship but as the subordination of the nation to ethical 'principles that transcend it in terms of which it should be judged." Others have shown that the concept of civil religion is more complicated than just that. Robert Wuthnow reveals in his article "Divided We Fall: America's Two Civil Religions," that, "'The civil religion to which we so blithely pay homage has, however, become deeply divided. Like the fractures communities found in our churches, our civil religion no longer unites on common ideals" (1). For civil religion, there are no more common values, but rather a cultural divide between . the left and right. Wuthnow coins the term, "Religious Liberal" to express the ideas of the left side of civil religion. 1his liberal view can be applied to Obama's civil religiOUS rhetoric at Notre Dame. The liberal view focuses on universal values instead of specifically American yalues, more on the needs of humanity in general. 1his view sees that, "America has a vital role to play in world affairs not because it is the home of a chosen people but because it has vast resources, has caused many of the problems facing 46 the world, and simply as part of the community of nations has a responsibility to help alleviate the world's problem" (Wuthnow 5). These arguments that the liberal religious make center on basic human rights and common problems of humanity. There is a special emphasis on peace and justice showing that it is a basic aspect of the Christian faith. America should serve as an example of justice to all by "conserving the world's scarce resources and reducing disparities between poor and wealthy" (5). The liberal religious embrace cultural diversity emphasizing the unity of all people. Their civil religious goal is to establish social and economic justice for all of "God's children." Obama's style and themes are more exclusive than they appear. Even though he attempted to encompass the entire country under one religious canopy and non-denominational viewpoint, the speech appeared to have much liberal religious rhetoric. First, Obama emphasized the ideas of peace and justice throughout his speech. In his first paragraph of religious discourse, he mentions that we need to "save God's creation from a changing climate that threatens to destroy it." Obama also instructs us to, "seek peace at a time when there are those who will stop at nothing to do us harm, and when weapons in the hands of the few can . destroy the many" The liberal viewpoint leads us to seek solutions to the arms race while empowering the peace movement and making ita religious issue. One of the main ideas that Obama wanted to get across in his civil religious rhetoric was that he wished to unite people of different cultures; Obama attempts to unite all cultures and aspects of religion under one canopy. For instance, he says that, "We should try to live together as one human family." 1he word "one," suggests togetherness and "family," love and respect. Obama seeks peace not only between differences in cultures around the world, but also between religious differences and political groups in America. He specifically mentions that groups of "Catholic and Protestant churches,Jewish and AfricanAmerican organizers, working-class black and white and Hispanic residents," all with differences, should work side-by-side to improve our neighborhoods. Obama finds commonalities among these groups of people in an effort to unite all individuals. 47 Furthermore, Obama's rhetoric calls people to act for the greater good r.ather than for their own self-interest. Obama says that as Americans "we seek advantage over others. We cling to outworn prejudice and fear those who are unfamiliar. Too many of us view life only through the lens of immediate selfinterest and crass materialism. "These sentences suggest America has caused many problems of the world and it's our duty to alleviate some of them. Obama critiques American culture creating another controversial subject because his ideals express much bigger. political differences, such as consumerism, capitalism, and economic policies. As Obama puts it, "111e strong too often dominate the weak, and too many of those with wealth and with power find all manner of justification for their own privilege in the face of poverty and injustice." The rich should give of their possessions just as the gospel explained. At one point in Obama's speech, he presents a scenario tackling the differences between conservatism and liberalism. Obama mentions that both a gay activist and evangelical pastor may deplore AIDS, but never unite in their efforts. He continues with life issues indicating that, "those who speak out against stem cell research may be rooted in admirable conviction about the sacredness of life, but so are the parents of children with juvenile diabetes who . are convinced that their son's or daughter's hardships can be relieved." These few sentences cause controversy because they challenge conservatives' views of life. Obama's speech never appeals to our nation's founders, who deeply influenced a lasting conviction on our country, addressing our long thread ofJudeo-Christian history and values, and America's efforts to be a leader for other nations by spreading God's good news. Moreover, when Obama says, "When we open our hearts and our minds to those who may not think like we do or believe what we do - that's when we discover at least the possibility of common ground," he attempts to unite the audience. 1hese statements coax the audience into believing that this rhetoric attempts to not change or control the audience, but to sincerely reach a middle ground. Obama's targeting of the issue of abortion in his speech does not allow for open discussion of various views, just his view on the subject matter. Just mentioning the topic of abortion in mixtures of conservative and liberal 48 audiences creates an undialogic atmosphere, especially when both sides may not be expressed. Obama brought up the controversy on the platform addressing many of the controversial life issues. He confronted them direcdy, saying, "We're not going to shy away from things that are uncomfortable sometimes." Obama attempted to become more dialogic on the issue of abortion and other life issues in order to reach a shared understanding. He used phrases to canopy all people, such as "live together as one human family" and "solidarity binds us together as human beings sharing a common destiny under God." He used religious terminology to justify his actions for dialogue; yet at the same time, he addressed the issue by targeting the other side, challenging their view. By speaking at a religious institution, Obama may have felt obligated to use religious language to appeal to such an audience. He names universal religious values while advocating partisan policies. l11is religious rhetoric, though, may just be a continuation of his civil religious rhetoric from his campaign because he uses religious rhetoric alongside political life issues. Through this religious rhetoric, he attempts to encompass the entire country under both one religious canopy and non-denominational viewpoints in order to .gain unity among all members of religiOUS and political stances. Obama's commencement speech at Notre Dame intended to speak to all individuals and become more bipartisan. By discussing specifically controversial issues such as abortion, the tension between the liberal religious and conservative religious arose. Obama stresses unity in diversity, but fails to accomplish such a dialogue through the religious rhetoric he employs. He attempts unity, but that cannot be possible because the liberal religious rhetoric that he resorts to further divides the masses. 49 WORKS CITED Hagerty, Barbara B. "Obama's Religious Rhetoric Puts Faith in Spotlight." National Public Radio 13 Apr. 2008. Print. "Notre Dame President Defends Controversial Obama Invite." EWTN 23 Mar. 2009. Print. Notre Dame Scandal. Cardinal Newman Society, 2009. Web. Oct. & Nov. 2009. Obama, Barack. Speech. Commencement at University of Notre Dame. South Bend, Indiana. 17 May 2009. The HuJfington Post. 17 May 2009. Web. Sept. & Oct. 2009. Ross, Brian. "Obama's Pastor: God Damn America, U.S. to Blame for 9/11." ABC News. 13 Mar. 2008. Web. Oct. & Nov. 2009. Sullivan, Amy. "Going to the Chapel." TIME. 29 June 2009. Web. Oct. &Nov 2009. Wuthnow, Robert. "Divided We Fall: America's Two Civil Religions." The Christian Cmtmy 20 Apr. 1988: 395-99. Print. 50 CONTRIBUTORS CHIARA BELLADOCE is an English major who graduates from Marian in May 2010. She looks forward to picking the flowers of Francis's homeland and wishes to grow in understanding, to say only things of consequence. She most enjoys writing of life's sugars and spices and finding value in the ugliest. CLAIRE A. CALLAHAN is a freshman and exploratory major. Reading, drawing, painting, and writing poetry are her passions, so she'll probably become a starving artist. She recently visited the tomb of Qyeen Elizabeth I, one of her role models. Religion plays a large role in her life. "Acceptance" is her first publication. JONATHON K. CIANI, an English and Philosophy major, will graduate in May. He plans to start a rabbit farm in Southern Arizona. Someday, God willing, he'll get serious and go to law school. . PHILIP FREDERICK is a freshman majoring in C atholic studies. This is the first time he has had his poetry published. He enjoys hiking, walking in downtown Indy with friends, and drinking Shamrock Shakes, when in season, from McDonalds. KATIE HEDRICK is a double major in Fine Arts and Art History and will graduate this May. She will be attending American University next fall in order to pursue an M .A. in Art History. JULIE LASHER studies English literature at Marian and is in the graduating class of 2010. Thereafter, she will work on her Master's of Catholic Studies at St. Thomas in St. Paul, Minnesota. She likes her grandpa's strawberry ice cream best, and prefers to stay up late and to wake up at dawn . 51 JULIETTE is a Marian University student and a poet. KAREN MCNULTY, an English major, will be at lVlarian for two more years. She enjoys manufacturing facts with her colleagues at the writing center. And she always puts salt on her ice cream. CHARLES A. PENALOSA double-majors in Catholic Studies and History. He loves to eat, read, write poems, and design. His favorite topics to write about are food and people. Two of the three poems published in this issue ("Cinnamon Role" and ''Bonfire'') are about his experiences at Bishop Simon Brute College Seminary. CORRINE PURVIS, a Communication and Theology major, will graduate in l\1ay 2011. She plans to attend law school after graduation. ABIGAIL ROACH is an obscure, hermit-like writer who has dreams of owning a barracuda ranch someday. She mostly spends her time listening to Madame Butterfly and dressing her cats up like dead presidents. Her favorite is the calico Stubby as FDR. Her next venture is to fulfill McCarthy's vision of exposing Communists like the Girl Scouts of America. MALLORI SMITH is a sophomore English major. R. TENBARGE is a Catholic Studies major and will graduate in May 2012. A seminarian at Bishop Simon Brute College Seminary, he is following a call to the Catholic priesthood. Tyler's love of art was instilled as a child and remains an important way for him to capture a message or belief, particularly one concerning his faith. TYLER AARON WILDER is a junior English major from Decatur IN. He has published two prose poems in Toaster-cheese.com. 52 "Lived," by Tyler Tenbarge Copyright 2010, Larry Steeb Publishing  ...