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... 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  ...

... .The Fioretti The Literary Magazine of Marian College 1999-2000 Featuring the works of: Abuyomi A nim... shaun Brandi Howers P.M. Fisher Mark Hull Jennifer Johannigman Stefanie K. Kesecker Angela Pierpont Kale RCiper Kate Rave Rachel Ray Anne Reaves Viviane Sellmel Melissa Sprong Rachel Tompson Joslyn Virgin Lori Voorhis Suzmme Walker Rachel W uerlz Edited by Julie Goodspeed Advised by Sr. Stella Gampfer. OSF ~'ioretti The Literary Magazine of Marian College The 1999-2000 Featuring the works of: . ;. Abayomi Animashaun Brandi Bowers P.M. fisher Mark Hall Jennifer Johannigman Stefanic K. Kesecker A ngela Pierpont Kate Rctper Kate Rave Rachel Ray Anne Reaves Viviane Seumel Mel issa Sprong Rachel Tompson Joslyn Virgin Lori Voorhis Suzmllle Walker Rachel Wuertz Edited by Julie Goodspeed Advised by Sr. Stella Gampfer. OSF January 5, 2000 Prdace So, here is the next edition of The Fioretti . Thanks to all of you who took the time and effort to submit your creations. I can easily say I enjoyed reading all the entries and was pleased at the evidence of new talent. (I continue to be impressed with already acknowledged lalent.) For those submissions that are not included in this edition, let me say a few words of explanation. After careful perusal, I cha;e tha;e works that best represented one or more of the following merits: I) aesthetic value in tenns of treatment and development of material, 2) creativity, and 3) significance. Fifty-three pieces, ranging from poetry to science fiction, were entered for consideration in regards to publication in The Fioretti. Again, I would like to extend my gratitude to those 0( you who submitted your work of your own volition and to those who were subjected to my active recruitment. I think that this edition of Marian College's literary magazine is one that you can be proud to have been a part. Furthennore. it was a tough job only chmsing one piece from each author. II was with agonizing deliberation that I made final decisions in regards to which piece would be published when multiple pieces of equal merit were submitted by a single, clever writer. . However, in consideration of equal sJXlce for alltha;e selected, one piece per genre per author was the slandard. As for editorial concerns, attempts were made to maintain the original integrity of the works in reference to their content and format. Modifications have been made to certain works in order to format them in unity with othcr works (i.e. space considerations) and to make the works easily accesible to readers (i.c. author's name is always in bold in the upper left hand corner of the page) . Corrections have also been made in grammar and spelling if it did not affect the integrity of the work. Examples of pieces that have been kept as cl05elyas possible to the intentions of the authors are "Losing Nirvana Again" by BrcU1di Bowers and ,"My Girl" by Abayomi Animashaun. Bowers's layout of her poem is meanlto resemble the shape of the world and Animashuan's italicized type emphasizes the urgency conveyed by the content This collection is entirely comprised of Marian College students and faculty: Recognition belongs to Sister Stella Gampfer, OSF. advisor to The Fioret.ti. Her guidance and literary insight and understanding are much appreciated. Enjoy! ~~4 ~ tf Julie Goodspeed Editor .. / Table of Contents Poetry Animashaun, Abayomi Bowers, Brandi Fisher, P.M. Hall,Mark Kesecker, Stephanie K. Pierpont. Angela Raper, Kate Rave, Kate Reaves, Anne Sprong, Melissa Tompson, Rachel V irgin, Joslyn Voorhis, Lori Walker, Suzanne Wuertz, Rachel "My Girl" "Losing Nirvana Again" "Heart Talk" untitled "Static" "Longing" "Mixed Allusions to a Middle-Aged Adonis (Letter to a Long Ago Sweellteart)" "Easter Sunday" "Millennium Giddiness" "Wasted Beauty: A dedication to Janis Joplin on her death (Ock)ber 4, 1970)" "Fear of lite Nighl' "Nymphs, Satyrs, and Arctics (or Taxidennal House" "August Dream" "The Briefcase" "The Lovesome" :! 3 4 5 6 7 R 9 10 11 I:! 13 14 15 Fiction Johannigman. Jennifer Rave, Kale . Ray, Rachel Seumel, Viviane "Almost Complete Loss "Summer Solstice" "Element '1 13" "The Balcony" or En ..ergy" 16 18 19 :!2 Poetry Ab.yoml Anlmash.un I My Girl She lies down raped, abused, harassed, maligned. Before beauty, now a thing of distress. With innumerable breasts for those who thirst, The provider of health for boy and girl. But now she stands bare masked with ugliness. With siphoned breasts. and punctured ass, she rests On time's fateful hands a bloody carcass. Daily / he~r her cry. "/ am tired. My body is sore. my breasts have collapsed." Here / stand and indeed testify that More boys. more girls. (are) gnaw(ing) on her breasts. With no milk in sight. the boj's and girls fight . For time piled on high. the boys and girls fight. 1 Brandl Bowen Losing Nirvana A gain Again Again ... Life is a big circle The world goes round The beauty of the once lovely ground is now just a dream. And Again ... For everlasting eternity ascend, ascend Ascend iii th, But overrated superfluity of human asininity Disintegrated, Destroyed, Abolished Genocide Again The circle once again Reaches the beginning and end of its tether, the everlasting journey never ends. The desolate human destroyed And Yel... Begins Once Again. Fisher. P.M. 3 Heart Talk At night. while you sleep. 1 heart-talk to you my sleeping love. My pulse. under cover of night's darkness. races a rhythm of words for only you. They flow hotly to your waiting ear. Knowing they will be welcomed by your band-aid dreams. Not left to coagulate in day's cold light. 1- bleed for you. My blood makjng tiny ruby feeks upon your cheek. I lick the flecks, carefully. like a jeweler polishing the smallest of gems. Careful to not disturb your nocturnal healing. 1 know, years later, 1 will.still talk to you this way. Though yu may not be beside me. but lying with another Some other lover whose blood runs selfishly in their veins. Never to pool lovingly. as does mine. at your soft and slumbering ear. Mark lIali 4 I speak words of forgel fullness of time of place memory lost through years past connetion to you now. Stefan Ie K. Keset:ker The music begins to play, as I look at you and think of me The rhythm stops, as the musicians disassemble, but I keep hearing the tempo. feeling the impulse Soon the stage is empty, and the curious observers have gone home I look up and you're gone too I touch myself to make sure it is all real I look around because I hear the music begin again, loud, soft. and then piano-forte, and then the flutist's solo, the high, eerie pitch resonating from the walls. Each day is gone, and I wait impatiently, but the music has ended and I want to hear, see, and feel. Ominous silence reigns, as I sit alone in this expansive auditorium. and I never see that moment again. except in fabricated images, skewing my vision . You hear it all though. You create new musical compositions, while the director smiles in awe, in a full auditorium far away_ 5 Angela Pierpont 6 Longing A kiss is not the truth-- though we wish it were. Kate Raper 7 Mixed Allusions for a Middle-Aged Adonis (Letter to a Long Ago Sweetheart) Beautiful boy I would run to you and reaching up Throw my anns around your neck And you would laugh Whether from surprise or joy I never knew But always I took pride that I, Diana-like, Created them The sudden half moons of delight That rose at the comer of each eye My bows, signs of my conquest You had them even then, the laugh lines They are what I know in your face still When so much else has changed, aged The silky line above your lip grown brushy And the soft curls darker and cut short . The slender "neck once burdened With little more than my arms Thi.c ker now, weighty with responsibility They appear again, the crescents in your face And while I know they have been forever etched By time And work And weather And another woman I am the one who first cut their arc Set my bows My claim And when you laugh I tell myself It is still because of me. 8 Kate Rave Easter Sunday Fatherit's knowing even You can't save this fast talking. Picasso loving . Dickenson quoting. Crucifix wearing. Girl dancing to the music in her head. Anne Reaves 9 Millennium Giddiness I freely admit to my rampant consumer guilL My toes wriggle comfortably in commemorative socks: 01-01 -00 with pocket watches scattered over a somber black; wilder still, across neon whirling planets quite unmoved by our limited time. In case I could forget the night of change, I wear an ebony sweater covered with stars and fireworks and still more glittering numbers. I like the humor: 01-01-01 so many purists repeat is right but their kind had no more luck in 1900, arguing stiff-necked in righteous collars as the true start of the glorious twentieth century. The other joke is better still: the birth of Jesus was in 3 or 5 Be. Who caused the current calendar chaos: Julius the murdered Caesar or Gregorius the Pope? Did we miss the moment three or five years ago during a forgotten New Years? Were we laughing or sleeping away the time, oblivious to all but frenzy or friendship, lost in dreams with ice ouL"ide or in ourselves, cat or dog or love ncarby? Were we stupefied with food or drink or too much noise to let in meaning? Or watching a nickering screen in the dark? God's time and ours, unseen or delusionally seen, eternity in the evanescent, . truth through the comers of a warped frame, sparking in the bubbles of a decaf, sugarfree soda. Preposterous: that God sli pped on a garment of nesh. lived with us, lived like us, died b\" us , loves us still. Two thousand years or more of human dcniaJ-- and yet. the joke is, some times we actually JXluse to listen, the stars of kitsch remind us to hear and to act. Melissa Sprong Wasted Beauty: A dedication to Janis Joplin on her death (October 4. 1970) This beauty, what a pretty girl. Beauty fades little one. Your famous ride was a whirl. By then you were already done. Live it up. Shoot it up. Your comfort was Southern. Such soulful skill. Chasing dragons, and Heroin. What a raw deal. It was an odd following. . Tell mama.about it. That platfonn-- your only healing. Much more than just a hit. Oct. 4 was a Holl ywood Landmark. You did a Full Tilt Boogie Sister. Get it while you can, you'd bark. Nothing but Cheap Thrills and Pearl Mister. 10 Rathel Thompson II Fear of the Night Walking down a pitch black alley Alone Brick walls on either side Sliding her fingertips across them The grainy texture numbs her hand As she follows the cracks in the wall Like a map The broken puddles She walks upon Reflect The full moon illuminating the sky In the distance The silence is deafening She looks at her watch 12:30 Glances ahead She is almost home The silence is broken By . Footsteps near She clutches her purse Her feet move faster By some unexplainable force She stops She turns Around Slowly As if to catch someone Her eyes face The direction from which she came Nothing Just the black As she twists Herself back around Laughing at her paranoia A figure A distorted illusion of a man Stops her The thick air Engulfs her screams Her lifeless body falls Stiff to the ground And the figure That once stood Is now nothing But a hovering shadow Lurking In the darkness Feeding on fear And awaiting The next Victim To swallow Her Soul Joslyn Virgin Nymphs. Satyrs. and Arctics. (or Taxidermal House) Lunar moth Aattened and stiff, Pinned down by fragile hands, hands Holding your death As though it were life, Hands pressing down the last flutter into a glass covered Po?" '_ another pair had somewhere caught this last flight, poisoned . the edge of yourwing, . created you again, already having your home built and eager to name you. , . ' . You were presented to me, I took you to represent yourself. For that was the intent. Under a simple roof, A shaded and leaf covered Shelter, I saw you for the first lime, In all your pomp, In all your beality, Among your species and family Lineage, Among paper tablets and Crook necked herons. So close to your Tear dropped wings, I was your captive, Still and silent, moved At the sight of you So close. You reminded me of the attic And all that has been Packed neatly away there, Cotton sweaters belonging to their very own box, Waiting to be taken out again in colder seasons. 12 13 Lori Voomls August Dream Behind the drum, I saw you grass dancer. Grey Eyes peeking beneath the fox fur. Under the moon, I heard you grass dancer. Your ankles jingled as your feet in leather stepped softly away from me. 14 Suzanne Walker The Briefcase battered scuffed red mary janes tapping on moldy porch steps small hands cI utch dirty knees ... daddy, daddy get home. leaves stir blue to black ruffling the skirt of mary jane daddy, daddy get home. come on georgie, what are you waiting for? Fiction 15 Rachel Wuer1z The Lovesome To think I was one enough to have known her to have her touch my shoulder blade her compositions furlough on the gallery wall reflecting and capturing all that was of her smile, alive and framed, To think I was one enough to have heard him to have him address me by my name his reminiscence etched in words for a silent room charming and spinning all that was of his voice, animal and sacred, To think I was one enough to-see them together to have them kiss cheeks before me they were guileless soul mates in a room of cynics softening all that is of art and poetry. love and faith, To think I was one enough would be mistaken. 16 jennifer johannlgman Almost Complete Loss of Energy It is the twenty-first century and the year is 2005. My family and I have been fortunate enough to live in the country where we have been able to use thc horse to plow the garden and grow our own food . Others were not so fonuitous whcn thCJ tragedy strud~ several years ago. It happened one day vcry suddenly by something that is yet unexplained today-- for some reason, all energy, except that which is produced by humans, animals, and the ability to make fire, was wiped out. Everyone was forced to livc a new way of lifc. One in which there is no usage of computers, automobiles, or even electricity. At first there was total chaos. No one could get to or from anywhere, anything stored on computers was lost forever, and our main source for power was completely eradicated. It was as if we had been put on a time machine and warped back into the pil'il. I remember, very clearly, the day the catastrophe struck. I had hecn at home preparing for a job interview that I would find myself never getting to. My sister was away at college and my brother had just left to attend his technical training class. Both my mother and father were at work. I can remember that I was just about ready to leave for the interview when I noticed that all of the electrical items became defectivc. Let me assurc you that there was no big bang or anything of the sort, just all of a suddcn "black out" of energy. Of course I did not think anything about the electrical JXlwer failure; it happens quite frequently out in the country. I just figured that somebody had wrecked their automobile and in the process had probably hit an electrical JX>le. I didn't think there was anything strangely wrong until I wa.~ unable to start both my sister's and my car. I then proceeded ~k into the house to try to get a hold of my mother to sec if she could come home to lake me to my interview, but the phone didn't work either. By Ihis lime I was becoming scared. I couldn't leave and I had no way of calling anybody. It would be hours before I would see any of my family, but my parenl~ did finaJly make it home that day. Thankfully, they only worked in the nearest town so they were able to walk home. My brother also made it home, but since he had to drive to the city for his classes it would take him a few days to walk thc distance. My brother told us that on his journey home he had stopped at a grocery store to pick up some food. While he was there he only had a limited choice to pick from since the truck had not and would never be able to arrive. He funher told us that since the registers were unable to work they had to figure what he owed them on a piece of JXlper. He also had to pay them the e\act change because they couldn't open the register drawer either. It would be months before we would hear any news from my sister. None of us expected this incident would lasl more than a few days, but it did continue to last. Our typical day begins each morning by carrying in enough water and firewood for the day. In order to take a bath we must hcatthe water over the fire in the fireplace since we can no longer use the stove or water heater due to the lack of electricity. We then prepare our morning meal over the fireplace. My mother and father get ready lor work. Since their transponation to and from work can no longer he by the luxury of an automobile, they arc forced to ride their bicycles. I am still currently without a job. The majority of the businesses were forced to shut down due to thclr inability 10 function without computers and electricity and are still unable to reopen. My brother was forced to 'luit his technical classes due to his inability to get there, but also because he was studying to repair computers and now that is no longer needed. Therefore, my brother and I stay at home doing the many chores we had once taken for gmnlCd. I must now Jo the laundry by hand. 17 My brother goes out into the w(xlds e\ery d;J)' and l:uts the firewood that is needed daily . He performs this job with only the use of an a\ and can only get a day's supply done . After doing the laundry I then begin to prepare the mC<.lI that Will be fixed for supper. With no refriger.ltor or freezer, most of our meals consist of fruits and vegetables that we have grown and stored for ourselves. Lillie l:an be bought from the grocery stores because of their inability to transport the prodUl:ls to here or to keep the food from decaying. So their supply is mostly limited to what we can grow ourselves. Once mom and dad return from work we eal. By then it has already begun to get Jark and, believe me, lillie can be done by lantern or candle light. My sister is still studying at college. She tells us that all of her re~)rts have to wrillen by hand and she is forl:ed to study by candlelight at night. We only see her onl:e in a year, and that is in summertime, only after dad has gone to get her with the horses. Never in my wildest dreams wuld I ever imagine that something as this could happen. Considering that most of my growing life involved learning how to use the latest tC(;hnology invented-- but ail of thaI has long become useless and is farthest from ou r minds now . We have now come 10 live in a society in which energy has become a thing of the past and learning how to survive on your own energy is the key to living in the future . Kate Ran 18 Summer Solstice It was the summer Mother staned buying Calcium Fonified Orange Juice. Subsconsciously, she wanted to fonify our souls. They were coming with hammers and saws to tear our house apan. Leaving the innards exposed like cattle on a butcher's block, so all may inspect the baseness. I wanted to write my poetry on the walls, to wrap it tightly in warm words. Maybe I wanted "artistic freedom," or some bull shit like that. Maybe I just wanted the empty words to bum in their bonfire, being absolved of empty words on empty space. We emptied orange juice containers over soggy eggs, burnt toast, and the Peterson's College Guide. Looking far and wide for lava soap. Baseness seeps like ink on dry skin, coloring each line, each wrinkle, each crack of continuity. Only weeds flourished. Ruling like forbidden armies who are never forced to leave. Let it all fall to pieces. Who cares if there's enough calcium in your diet? Only the dandelions suffered war. The memories of childhood rough and crowns of vast kingdoms suffocated in the time by glass lay empty and shattered. The ghosts are here, their reflections in glasy fragments before my bare feet. Daring me to touch those sharp edges. leach the baseness from this body, test fortified bones. Pull back. the voice whispers, pull hack. Stupid girl, such a stupid girl, the light and the glass laugh. Stepping back, the days swirl like fragments in a dustpan. Time, marked only by the weeds height. Someone was giving them orange juice. Someone was challenging my empty words, my stillborn children. He calls from ragged pages: HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE rrs TIME So I toast them. Where's the broom? Rachel Ray 19 Element #113 . . Jason entered the chemistry lab and tossed his blueixx'lk bag on a desk-One hllUr of wor~ - study and then he c.:ould finally go home.' He looked forward to the four-day weekend awaiting him. It had been a long week with two pa~rs due and a test. He was glad that Friday had 'finally arrived. Hi: didn't mind his work study job in the chemistry lab. It was laid back. All he had to do was get the equipment ready for upcoming labs. That never took longer than half an hour. For the remainder of the hour Jason usually did homework or. ~d a magazine. Today he had a note from the chemistry proCessor saying that he was to get out equipment for a titration tab. He didn't envy the students who would do this lab. Jason remembered his first year of chemistry at UCLA . He thought about the titrations that he had had to do and how tedious it seemed at the time. He marveled that he had made it to his senior year as a chemistry major. It hadn't been easy. After Jason prepared for the ufX:oming lab he realized that he still had 35 minutes left before he was frcc to go home. He didn't feel like studying and he hadn't brol!ght anything to read . Jasoll glanced across the room and noticcd a new addition to the chemistry lab. NASA lias recently sent a space shuttle to Saturn. The astronauts returned with samples of rocks that they found on the surface of Saturn. Since UCLA tlas one of the best geology departments in the country, they received some of the rocks to study. There had been some speculation that the rocks mightcuntain a new clement hidden in their interior. They were to be studied by Professor Ellison, head oLthe Geology department, and Professor Janies; head ,)f the Chemistry department at UCLA. The professors would . then hold apress conference to reveal their findings. There was a lot of excitementabout what the professors might find . If in fact the rocks did contain a new element , then, depending on its properties, the applications for the substance could be immense. Jason didn't know much about geology. He didn't understand why anyone would want to waste their time examining rods He had taken one required course in the subject and that was enough for him . But, he was fascinated by the prospect that the rocks could contain a new element. He daydreamed about the potential applications for the substance. Perhaps it would be able to bond with the pollution in the air and form a hannless gas. Or maybe it would be a new metal, able to conduct electricity better than anything in existencc . Jason never considered that the clement could impose a negative a1lcct on mankind. Ja.'ion looked closely at the Saturn rocks . lie was intrigued by the iridescent colors on their surface. The time was er.lwling by and he had no work left to do. Ja.<;()Jl Iked towards the rocks. He wondered what colors were hidden in their core. He decided to split a small piece of the rock apart and examine iL'i interior. He figured that breaking one of the small rocks would do no harm. There would still be plenty of samples left for the professors to examine. Jason found sOllie tweezers and used them to remove a small fragment of the Saturn rocks from their airtight t.:ontainer. He placed the fmgment on a watch glass and searched through the dr.lwers in the chemistry lab for a mallet. He found a mallet and, to his surprise. he even located an it.:e pick. He wasn't sure why Professor James had these utensils in the lab, but at the moment he was grdtcful. Jason didn't think it Wa') necessary to take any precautions. He didn't really think that the rock would contain anything other than perhaps some intense colors. He would soon learn that he was mistaken . Ja.'ion cenlCred the tip of the ice pick on the small chunk of Saturn rock. He held the mallet firmly in his right hand and gently tapped the end of the icc pick with it. Jason was 20 careful not to hit the ice pick too hard. He wanted to split the rock but not the walCh glass. The rock didn't split with the first strike so he hit it again with a liule more force. The rock separated into two pieces. Jason picked up one of the halves with the tweez.ers and marveled at the substance that he saw. The interior of the rock glowed an intense blue-green. It reminded Jason of the water in the Bahamas where he spent last year's spring break. There wcrc specks of bright orange intertwined throughout. Jason had never seen anything so striking. The rock actually seemed to be emiuing an eerie light. The light grew brighter a<; time passed. Jason inhaled slowly and noticed a sour smell in the air. He remembered the expired milk in his dorm room that he almost drank this morning. The smell became more intense as the rock grew brighter. Jason's eyes began to sting and water. He blinked sever.lltimes and guessed that he was allergic to the new saline solution his mom had just sent him. It was getting foggy in the chemistry lab. Whatever the substance was in the interior of the rock seemed to be reacting with the air in the room. Ja'iOn began to worry that he had made a grave mistake. He grew dizzy and, before he knew it, he had collapsed. * Professor James was on his way to the chemistry lab to gather up all of the ungraded papers that he planned to work on during the four-day weekend. When he didn't see Jason in the lab he assumed that he had left early for the break. Professor James smiled and remembered his own senior year at UCLA. He remembered the anticipation he felt on Fridays when he would go home for the weekend. He knew how Ja<;on felt and he didn't mind that he had left early. He checked to make sure that Jason ha<; a least prepared the lab for the upcoming titration experiment. Professor James noticed a walCh glass with a str.lnge .~Iack, grainy substance on the surface. He saw tweezers, a mallet, and an ice pick lying beside it. Then he looked down at the floor to discover Jason's lifeless body. He immediately knelt down beside the boy and felt for a pulse. The professor's own pulse was racing as he woooered what could have caused this tragedy. Professor James felt no pulse running through Jason's arm. He quickly called 911 and, within minutes, they were there. . When the paramedics arrived they examined the body and catled the time of death. They said (hat it appeared that Jason died of asphyxiation. They wouldn't know for certain until after an autopsy. The paramedics suggested that perhaps Ja<;on inha.led or ingested some sort of deadly chemical. *. One month later Professor and Professor James held a seminar to explain kl the students, faculty, and slaff of UCLA what they had found in their study of the Saturn rocks. They had assumed that the rocks may have had something to do with Ja<;on's death and everyone was anxious for answers. The professors ha<; worked I uriously to find these answers. They reported that the rocks has in fact contained a new element. They callcd the element Saturonian. They explained that there was still much work to be done in order to obtain the definite structure and properties of Saturonian. But, with what they thought to be true at this point, they had developed a theory about what happened to Jason that evening in the chemistry lab. They believed that Saturonian belonged to group 17 elemenL<; in the periodic table. This element reacted strongly with the nitrogen in the alf. When Jason split a Saturn rock he exposed the Saturonian in the center of the nx.:k to the air in the lab. The Saturonian rapidly reacted with the nitrogen to produce a sour smelling. fog-like. deadly gas. The reaction also caused the rock to grow brighter. giving off photons of light. The most intriguing aspect of the new clement is that the reaction expires aller a short lime . The 11 precise time depends ()n the amount of clement exposed to the air and the Sil.e of the room. When the reaction is complete, aJlthat is left of the iridescent Saturn rock is a pile of black, gminy residue. Also, any nitrogen involved in the reaction appears to return to its former slate. The deadly gas vanishes from the air, lcaving no trace of its existence. The studenl';, faculty, and staff listened intently to the findings of the two professors. They quietly renected on the possible application of Saturonian if it fell into the wrong hands. A small amount could kill many people at once and without a trace of much evidence. The discovery of element II 13 was at once intriguing and extremely frightening. Vhl8ne Seumel The Balcony Our first hotel didn't sccm moch to us, he a fac;t-pattd, clean-freak North AmenlA.IO, I a perfcrtionist workaholic centml European_ Ils facade was or a sickly color, weather-worn and dirty with (hlsty windm\'s_ After all, it was only a two star place in Montcratini Terme. When we checked in, the rcrepCionist was silling in the lounge \\C

... spring 1999 volume 57 a literary anthology of marian college indianapolis with prose and poetry by iennifer gregory stephanie k. kesecker tim koberstein norman minnick ir rachel spitler ioslyn virgin and rachel wuertz the fioretti spring 1999 volume 57 marian college indianapolis indiana contents theft ofher ... pagel the preacher's daughter.... page 2 monologue #l ... page 3 in the manner of noon ... page 5 grasp ... page 6 the promise in the opulence ... page 7 a letter to an old man ... page 9 couplings ... page 10 never assume ... page 13 find "her highness" ... page 14 9 miles to Iynnville ... page 15 institution ... page 16 your wife and mother ... page 17 chipped crystal. .. page 18 lone ranger: hero: poet ... page 19 THEFT OF HER Tim Koberstein Framed in the doorway in front of a dark, wooded bureau she stood there. The noon light, after fighting through the trees in the front yard, had found its way into the room filling the house as well, and wrapped itself carefully around her body creating shadows, darks and lights that made this Edward Hopper painting real. She claimed only small movements. I can't imagine her, or anyone for that matter, rushing on a Sunday. 1. THE PREACHER'S DAUGHTER Rachel Wuertz She thought that if she could she would bait her mousetraps with communion bread and kiss Jesus' cheek with lipstick on. 2. MONOLOGUE #1 Rachel Spitler Steve Marks is speaking as if to himself, slightly facing the left side of the audience. He is standing in worn blue-jeans and a white undershirt with light tan dirt smudges. I thought for a while it was to keep the peace between my brothers, but then I realized that God couldna put me here on earth simply to plant corn and keep the peace between two lazy boys that won't amount to anything. So I kept thinking about it. I had plenty of time while I was planting and hauling and bailing and sweating out th~re under the mornning sun to think about why I was there baking in the fields while all my friends from school were in college living the lush life away from home. When I was five years old I went into the city for the first time to keep my aunt company while she was fitted for her wedding dress. I fell in love that day, and it never was reciprocated. I loved the buildings! They were all so huge! So many people walked in and out of each one of those buildings, and they all looked immensely important, like 'the world would end if they didn't get inta the . building they were after. I was in such shock I barely said a word the entire time, even when she stepped out of the back room to show us,how the dress looked. (l never heard the end of that one.) Those buildings took over every waking moment and I often saw 'em in my dreams, plantin' seeds of confusion that just kept growing. When I milked the cows I sawall those people leaving the tallest buildings at dusk. When I sat on the tractor I envisioned the corn turned into a street, leadin' not to more flat fields of swaying healthy plants, but to huge pillars holding up -a twenty story building. Every spring as the corn would grow from little seedlings to tall stalks I would see a whole city growing. My mind would design building after building, one for every ten corn stalks (or twenty if it was a big one), until I had one tremendous dowtown. My parents never understood. My brothers made fun of me. The kids at school wouldn't talked to me because I wanted to be different. I never met anyone who understood my dream, so I tri ed to be a good farmer. I worked hard and long. I had the body and th e know-how of a true farm boy. My brothers were good at farming, 3 and they were better at it than I was because that's all they could see in their little lives. I am sure I never would have gotten the farm if Jimmy hadn't had that accident. I just never wanted it though. Now's my only chance to change all that. Dad passed away a long time ago, Mom is stable and taken care of, and I'm getting old! Just yesterday I found some grey hairs- on my chest! I never thought I'd live to see the day, but I'm even starting to get love handles! Ugh! I know Mary wouldn't like it, but I think I have to go. I've wanted this so long. I could go to the university in the big city, with all those great masses of stone housing all those important people. I don't know who would take over the farm though. Matthew hasn't been back since jimmy's accident. None of the cousins have time or people to give now that their farms are doing so well, so ... niaybe r could sell it. Mary would have a fit, and the family probably disown me, but... I know I could get a good price, I just had an offer two years ago. 1 think it should be enough. I wonder if they let greying 34 year olds into architecture programs. I'm sure they would let me in. I'll work hard. I don't know a whole lot, but maybe they'll like me because I've wanted it for so long. How on earth will I tell Mary? I'm sure this is what I was sent for, it couldn't be that my life was meant to bail hay and grow corn for others, I'm sure there is something more permanent I am meant to do. I'll apply today right after I pick up next year's seeds. 4 IN THE MANNER OF NOON Norman Minnick, Jr. At noon I walked toward the sun feeling something trapped like a barely innocent cat behind a cage of ribs trying to escape and find out what the gods meant when they said that man was to take nature under his wing and care for her as if she were his own. The god mother laid a blanket across my chest to.o heavy to bear, crushing my feline friend indeed. He said he couldn't breathe and wished to take a walk on the veranda and hold again the hand of the frail creature that bared her breasts to his ever eager ever willing applause. Ever in the noon hour that I first lifted a rock from its resting place, I found a ladyfriend flattened by this mound of turmoil. Her husband's coarse tongue spoiled her and drove her to her almost final resting place beneath the rock. I will never forgive myself in the time it takes for the moon to find a place to rest in the daytime sky. We cannot shut an eye to the daytime follies of every lonely sharecropper punishing himself over the face of the surface he proudly calls landscape. Please oh fenced in god please don't let us wake to find this only surface a constable reality, mine and my compatriot's very sustenance requires some morsel of protocol. Some bit of depth. 5 GRASP Jennifer Gregory who knows how the sorrow begins the wind the wind knows knows true at the birth of a child it blows and covers the sky while in the cradle the sorrow lies and blooms the child can walk, the child is two carries with it petals of dew sunshiny nights till the Harlem horns blew on the dizzy parade of laughter the sorrow comes the sorrow comes on the soles of the feet of father it hums in the small spray of light 'neath the bedroom door the child is sixteen he calls her a whore there's no one to shout she's sent them away on a funeral barge with the wind off the bay she cries, for the night senses nothing but doom but walks down the planks to her lonely room and sits forever lost in the dream of how it was and was supposed to have been she never grows old but she'll never be young frozen in rage with the afternoon sun 6. THE PROMISE IN THE OPULENCE Rachel Wuertz Mom's carpet was fading with the fleas suffocating in salt like the slugs on her back porch steps, their shimmering trails like the melting yellow snow where my man tramped the inevitable, and shared the answered urgency with the neighbors, "a cat among rocking chairs," or so my mother would say the cliche. Shortly thereafter, he became entangled in his own disciples with their toilet paper rolls and foil, not sure which way to go, back to me, or just home. He had never pondered the inexpressible or the intellectual, only whispers with hickeys, . only my breasts, small wonders in his greasy hands, and the fascination in his programmed mind. Mom cried and cried black tears, gestures to what we had a sentiment of what was yet to come. (She would always have yet to come.) 7 What sincere bl ue eyes he had When he bragged that he liked quilts and barn lofts, Sophisticated exotic dancers and passionflowers . . Mom said made one wonder if he was real or just lying. He had sa id that I was delicate and deserved so much more, given him such pleasure with my amateurish spoils. He had said damn all the people who stared and ounce the curses. He promised we'd get our own trailer and hang thick curtains. 8. A LETTER TO AN OLD MAN Norman Minnick, Jr. I have been vended from a machine which does only that, only I am the one dispensed. I am taking up the age-old custom of selling indulgences. Don't think I don't know the meaning of work. To work is to keep sober. We work to buy candy for the prisoners-to give them back some crystallized freedom-the saccharine pebble of reality you snuck to us when we were kids. I remember you so dignified on the .eve of consumption as Eve herself sat at your feetyou and I craving lasagna layered with gumption, approbation, and a mound of shredded assumption. This would only suffice, of course, as an appetizer to our one meal of the week-droplets of sweat .from the brow, and a silver ringlet of belief in the afterlife ... Everything went according to 'o ur understanding, and the great nature of your being in your old age and mind, and my lack of. Only now I hold a pen in my hand, and you ... you are dead. 9 COUPLINGS Josjyn Virgin I mostly remember him sitting on the porch, facing the window to look out on the Red Georgia sand and the dry pine needles bending and burrowing their way under the sand. Papa's eyes were small, blue clouds behind brown glasses. His hands held cigarettes most of the time, but when he saw me coming to him he'd put the white roll between his lips to make his hands free to touch my hand, then let them fold together between his knees and watch my every step. I remember his smile, sometimes the dangling cigarette still there, and the way he talked to me with his raspy voice, telling me to "get" something over my bare legs. He'd sit out. on the porch with a full ashtray and watch me do gymnastics on the homemade mat for hours. Even when he wasn't watching he would never tell me to stop. He could holler at anyone else, for this or that, but mostly he was quiet, and always kind and sweet to me. I still remember Papa 's easy going face when he looked at me. His gray-brown skin looked simple under the white T-shirts he wore tucked i!1to brown work pants. There was a sense of contentment in his breath, as if he had a feeling of freedom that let him breathe easier. I couldn't hug him as I could my Nana, but the little things we share-the soft and long looks at one another and the quiet, timeless encounters when I sat on the couch and watched his back inhale and exhale in time with the wind- brought me closer to him. Instead of patting my head good-bye after one visit, Papa handed me a small plastic bottle of nickels. It was such a simple token of his love forme. I accepted it with innocent wonder, unsure of what it meant, but certain it was meant for me. I looked into Papa's eyes as he spoke to me in his even tones. I imagined him gathering each nickel with thoughts of me and putting them one by one into the bottle. Over and over again I replayed his hand reaching into his pocket to draw out the bottle and sit it on the table next to the ashtray. He placed it there, as if saying y ou can have the nickels or not, but they are for you. That was his easygoing way, his simple and serene style. I still see Papa's hands handling the bottl e, that way I can still see the back of his thin gray hair and rough neck looking o ut o ver a landscape of his memory. 10. * * * I was sitting with my parents at dinner when I learned more about Papa that I could have understood as a child. I was sharing stories with them about my summer away, hopping trains across northern Canada. I expected them to react with a series of "what ifs," but instead they both laughed and shook their heads. Dad told me about Papa during the depression; how he had lived in Hobo Jungles, hopping trains across America for thirteen years searching for jobs and adventure. As Dad told me the story of my Papa's young life I started to see his smile grow, his eyes water up, and memories fill his head. He was thinking back to the time he was a kid, hearing stories from Papa about the trains and his own younger years. I, too, sat staring at the rain falling outside, imagining Papa on the boxcars with a crew of other kids searching for work just getting away from the sadness of the depression. Dad went on to tell me he himself had ridden the trains in the city with his brother, just for fun. Papa had been one of the boys with a satchel and dirt-worn hat, the boy with broken dreams and an empty heart, on the rails for thirteen years. He had seen the land pass like a moving picture show, heard the wind on the iron boxcar walls. He had felt the fear of the train stopping suddenly, the excitement of speed through mountains and prairies. He had felt freedom the way I had, letting the train be in control of the next move. I remembered his peaceful face when he looked at me as a child, the serenity I had felt as I let my soul surface and grow in the air that only a freight train can create. My heart was beating so fast I couldn't even push the corners of my mouth down from their heights. What \!Vas filling me up inside was of great value, a feeling that started to place me in the family. I felt a deep connection come over me, an answer to a longlived wonderment. It was no longer an empty-faced ghost figure that I remembered in the boxcars I rode in, but the face of my Papa looking at me and smiling. I longed to see his face looking at me, maybe even giving me a tip on hopping trains. Looking back at my father I started to see the softness in his eyes, the strength in his hands that led me to my Papa. He was looking at me with the same unspoken, simplicity of understanding and love that Papa had. 11. At the end of our dinner, Dad told me that when I die, Papa would be there on a boxcar his body, standing in the corner of the open door, extending his hand out to me, and inviting me to take a ride with him. My body again felt the anxiety of waiting for the train to arrive, the breaks to hiss and the land to pass by me in frames of iron doors. I thought back to my Papa on the porch, his face always towards the window. I felt as if I knew what he was searching for among the blowing sand. Thinking back to when life was on a boxcar, or how the wind takes into its hands almost anything, how little girls will grow up as little boys do. I felt that a connection between Papa and me that I could touch with my hands had been found. I had a story to tell now, an adventure to look back on and forward to. I went back to. the memory of Papa at the table on the porch. When he looked at me this time he called me to sit next to him, telling me all about the thirties and hopping trains. And then we sat silently, both looking out of the window, remembering and holding onto the freedom and soul-bonding journey that all life had been. 12. NEVER ASSUME Stefanie K. Kesecker " You sure," he said, as the wind lifted his hair reversing the part. "I'm sure," I said, as I squeezed his hand. 13 FIND "HER HIGHNESS" Jennifer Gregory fear, she does sleepingslips into their voices takes off all the clothes of a heavenly eye drifts into the demons whereworlds of words spoken who knows where the peasant girl goes off to die while narrow housedances in pale yellow grass you hear her" hark! " whispers and shut out the light while yonder fieldswhip like the queen of romances VOl! hreak their necks , laughing and sigh your last sigh some fingers scrapeeven some parts drift away SOlJle come justabegging to follow your gaze sling 4leave n don 't know yousay hell if I do drea m your rocking horse dancesyo ur own iron shoes 9 MILES TO LYNNVILLE Rachel Wuertz M y ear Open for crawl space To shell bugs and mosquitoes. Given the road ahead Open for wind space to step, Gravel to slip and crumble Beneath my slick bottomed shoes. Eerie things happened Like the headlights shorting out to black, Like the gas gage diminishing to E In less than a mileDemons in the wiresAnd night sounds, Voices in the limbs, Rustling ferrets Whispering Latin. Modern double-wide ruins Menacing the shadows. My nose Open to deceptive suppers from over the hills Across miles of soybean fields. I had left Without the intention of really leaving, Strayed from the ordinary with rocks Held in each hand Like solid, 3-inch bullets Should anything come close. INSTITUTION Stejanie K. Kesecker What's it like I wonder, as I look at you, To live unhappily in a world that merely stifles you? 16. Y OUR WIFE AND MOTHER Rachel Wuertz Consider me (kneeling at your feet, forever increasing my expansion, screaming, pushing, birthing, feeling but never completely releasing, waving unsupported, always dreaming, white lying, and giving more than what you asked for). 17 CHIPPED CRYSTAL Rachel Spitler My child with halo-round eyes and sunset red hair, you sit so lightly on your plush green pillow. A folded fan rests beneath your dainty right hand and your left holds a fold of your pure white dress. Two small earrings hang from your too small ears. That rich emerald ribbon holds your fountain of hair like the small round pearls about your pale white neck. Your princess' corset chokes the smile from your face. 18. LONE RANGER: HERO: POET Norman Minnick, Jr. No one knows where a hero gets his hero ways. The lone ranger is such today as he rears back in his saddle to kiss farewell his mother and sends her back to her den with a sonly yehaw and blazes a new trail through to the great beyond stopped by his own flesh and blood, (no one knows it yet, though everyone suspects it) the bringer of bad news, who sets the ranger back on his high throne to ride once again and write it all down this time! The poet saunters along hands stretching his pockets sopping up after himself and others like him while damsels in drag point and laugh and overhead naked metal birds fly toting hundreds of medievals that are nourished on kissy movies, salted peanuts and soda pop. Shaking his fist at the sky the lone ranger cries outBefore there were streets there was never poetry like this! 19 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 " littl e leaves" which is the same word as "a nthology," as in Lea ves of Crass hy Walt Whitman. This issu e was typeset in Sabon, which first mad e its appearance in -1 966. It was d esigned by Jan Tschichold, who was best known for his design of Penguin Bqoks. The cover is set in Futura, which was designed in Germany by Paul Renner in th e late 1920's. It follows the Bauhaus philosophy that form follows function , and helped launch a movement known as the New Typ ography. free  ...

... FIOR The Fioretti . A Literary Anthology Vol.55 1997 Marian College Indianapolis, IN 2 Staff Editors: Jennifer Beck Jacqueline Finney Advisor: Sr.Stelia Gampfer, OSF Special ~hanks to Duplicating Office: Larry Steeb Anita Smith Cover Design: Ryan Hoffar 3 Tc3ble of Contents Metamorphosis Spring Malekcar. ................................................. 4 Are you the girl from Lisdoonvarna? Emily Persic..................... 5 Peaceful Russian Joslyn Virgin ...................................................... 6 - - . Norman L. Minnick Jr. ........................................................ 7 The Chemistry of Love Brenda Guldner. ..................................... 8 Doll Houses Angela Hatem .......................................................... 11 Crossroads Jennifer Beck............................................................ 12 Untitled Aaron Hubbell ................................................................ 13 Backward Technique Miranda Hines ......................................... 14 The Expensive Check Jacqueline ,Finney.................. ~ ............: .... 15 Deirdre of the Sorrows Emily PersiC............................ ;..... ;....... 19 Coffee-Shop Writing Timothy J.F. Vollmer. ................................. 20 Sot Norman L. Minnick Jr. ............................................................ 21 Fancy Poetry Joslyn Virgin .......................................................... 22 Mercy Stacey Clevenger. .............................................................. 23 4 Metam.orphosis by Spring Maleckar Emerging slowly from its deep sleep The tiny beauty slowly awakens. Shedding its blankets It wakes up tqa new morning. The fragile creature leaves its nest And cautiously opens her wings. The delicate, colorful wonder leaves behind And silently flies to tomorrow. her ~ cocoon 5 IIAre you the girl from Lisdoonvarna? 11 by Emily Persic Under the pub's electric halo she lifts her head to his bleary, missingtooth grin, accept s the pint with "thanks", "howsyous" and is crowned with drunken mutterings., The rain has started its night mist, the city silent, from the curb the homes are glowing with shadoWy figures behind lace curtains. She stumbles home, Lovers huddle under the shattered streetlamps. 6 Peaceful Russian by Joslyn Virgin In the silence she spends her free time, buried in the translations. Looking around her ever so often to see the purple walls, the nail holes, the old dust. Is this what she had expected? Trying to feed her was useless. Like a sparrow making a meal out of an eagle's feast. She arrived in a red coat .that traced he.r slender body like a bell. I would often look into her blue eyes turned gray by the clouds hanging over Moscow. What has she seen? We tried to converse one evening; "My Mutta." I knew she missed her. We stood in the doorway of the purple room. A smile not quite of understanding, but of care became the language between us . . "I weel, I will go study," she pronounced while closing the door behind her. 7 by Norman L. Minnick Jr. Forevermore shimmers down Like a honey waterfall. Her face to my eye Is like a - Precisely, beauty is in the eye. Love is the beholder. Her soul to my eye Is like a - Precisely, I am going to Reach deep inside of me And pull my heart out And give it to you. Her heart to my eye Is like a - There is a word, Oompalationelionicasatoning With a Y and a Z. Precisely. 8 The Chemistry of Love by Brenda Guldner Once there was a very smart element named Einsteinium. He was a Rhodium scholar and hada PHd. He pledged Sigma Bond at Oxford University. One day Einsteinium realized he didn't have a Nickel in his pocket. He set off in his Mercury with its shiny Chromium to Califorium where he made his fortune in gold and silver. Einsteinium was a good element. He was Nobelium and .Galluim as well. He was always doing things for others. Some even called him a good Samarium. He was a liter in his community. One day as Einsteinium was sitting at the Palladium in Hollywood drinking a Phosphorous soda; he . noticed a beautiful element across the bar. She was so Radium, he had to meter, but he thought his chances were absolute zero. He introduced himself and she said her name was Glucinium. It was the sweetest name he had ever heard. She was a Platinium blonde. She was a little dense but had a significant figure. She had a cute little mol on her face and had the ':most beautiful orbitals he had ever seen. She was a real joule. She said she drove a Neon and worked as an aerobics instructor, but she liked to call herself a reducing agent. She used the Induced-fit Theory. She really liked Einsteinium, too. He wasn't really all that tall but he was fahrenheit. She thought he looked like the Greek god Thorium. They both fell in love. When they were together, they both could feel the potential energy. When he 'saw her his temperature increased and he felt like he needed oxygen. She felt as light as Helium without specific gravity and like she was nearing her melt- 9 ing point. It was like they had an ionic attraction between them. They could feel the electron magnetism. One day Einsteinium asked Glucinium to marry him and offered her a beautiful Cubic Zirconium and Rubidium ring as a symbol of his love. Her reaction was one of surprise and joy. Glucinium joined his religion because there is always that conversion factor. Their wedding was lovely. They hired the great composer Mendelevium to write their music and play,his Lutetium. The mass was magnificent. They pledged their love according to period ic law ~nd law of conservation of mass. Theirs was a covalent bond. As a wedding present Einsteinium bought her a little dog called a Manganese and she named him Plutonium. For their honeymoon they went to Europium. They flew Transuranium Airlines. They visited Francium, Germanium, Indium and Scandium. They took a ride on a Gadolinium in Venice. They even met Lawrencium of Arabia. They almost didn't make it back home since they sailed on the Titanium. Luckily, they both could swim like Neptunium. At least they weren't on the Xenon Valdez. They were both glad to get back to Americium. When they got back home, they hired the worldfamous architect Christopher Rhenium to design their home. The house was incredible. It was Cobalt blue with a big I ro n fence around it. They had it built in Tellurium, Colorado, because they both liked to ski, even though it sometimes gets to the freezing point there. After a year, they had a little test tube baby called Kelvin. They both shared in giving little Kelvin his formula. He was truly a product of both of them. It was a dream come true. One day Glucini'um started having temper 10 Tantalums. She would get so angry she would almost reach her boiling point. One day things got so out of hand that a rubber policeman showed up at their door. The Copper's name was Mark Fermium. ,He was from One Atom 12. Einsteinium asked how he found them, and the policeman replied that he could always trace elements. He told them to keep the volume down. Glucinium went through many physical and chemical changes. This was an indicator to Einsteinium that something was terribly wrong. She told Einsteinium that he was a Boron and this only compounded their problems. You could feel the surface tension between them. They were nearing the end point. Einsteinium thought maybe her electrolytes were unbalanced. Maybe her Potassium or Sodium was low, maybe she had Lead poisoning, or maybe she just had gas. He ,had Dr. Avogadro's number so he . called him. If anybody could find a solution to their problem it would be him. Einsteinium knew he could solvent. The doctor said it could be a mixture of things and said it was not uncommon in most heterogenous relationships. He told Einsteinium to leave her alone for a while because he was only acting as a catalyst in the situation. He told him the most basic thing to do would be to buffer the problem. Dr. Avogadro finally found the Curium. He prescribed Lithium for Glucinium. After several sessions with the world-renowned marriage counselors Dr. Ruthenium and Hugh Hafnium their relationship became more balanced. So they became more homogenous and lived in balanced equilibrium the rest of their lives. 11 Doll Houses by Angela Hatem In my doll house hung a picture of the 3 us together. Now hangs a picture of a pair. My dolls had one house fit snugly for 3, now there's 3 separate people and 2 empty houses. Memories tug at my heart like a 30 lb. Weight, to drop it would smash the plastic faces. In my heart hangs the portrait of the 3 of us smiling. Not the reality of two empty doll houses. 12 Crossroads by Jennifer Beck I have never known a place so quiet, so still As those dark rows of corn barely waving in the night Where the summer's heat embraced me like a lover And I drowned in a sea of stars. I have never known a fear so intense Nor felt a comfort so reassuring As I found in those fields and under those stars On that night when the essence of my being Cried out, and found a soulmate. 13 Untitled by Aaron Hubbell There are times when I feel for the tree In autumn. Summer passed The dry season now withering its leaves. Green blood flowing out, Draining. While carotenoid red, orange, .and yellow remain. Strength departs, . But and absurd beauty Lies in that weakness. Even that soon departs. The source of its power Scattered at its feet Desiccated. So it stands Naked Vulnerable Cold. But it will soon see spring. 14 Backward Technique by Miranda Hines Clammy hands brush the pleated skirt. Thoughts are racing as the apprehension fades. (Don't freak out and everything's fine.) I begin with a powerful run. (Technique is the key ... no muscling it.) Plant the hands, lift the legs, and Seal the roundoff with a twist. Long backhandsprings, One after another. Pull!(see the floor)Pull!(see the floor) (Get ready for the tuck.) Reach up! Spot the clock. (There it is. Yes!) Rotate it; knees-to-chest, hands-to-knees. Land it. Stick it. Perfect . . 15 The Expensive Check by Jacqueline Finney I was hoping that she'd leave him. After staying with me for a few months, physically miles away from him, I thought she had. They met in a bar. I had advised her once never to pick someone up in a bar and she said, "Blow it out your back-end. I'm going to meet somebody and I don't care where." So they found each other on a night marked on her calendar with a butterfly sticker: I remember seeing them together on one of their first excursions as a couple - before the storm. We passed during the food festival held on the square every year. I had a gyro, they both had corndogs. One of her arms was wrapped around his like a snake. They were pulling each other to different booths to watch food being prepared. They looked genuinely happy. I actually did think in those first few weeks that they made a pleasant couple. At that time she didn't think it would work out because he was "boring." "I just don't know about him. He's just too nice, I guess. He opens every door for me, always apologizes for everything." "Everything?" "The other day he apologized for an untied shoe." "Would you rather have what's his name back?" I said. She had been in a bad relationship just months before. "Oh God, no. I'm done with men like that. know I deserve better." 16 And so she decided, upon my advice which I wish now I could take back, to stick it out with the man who appeared too harmless to her. Now that I reflect back on it, I believe it was the only advice of mine she ever . took to heart. After they settled in to one another he began to show the side that provoked her to leave him - and go back, and leave him again, and go back again. It started with forgetting a date one evening and then picking her up a couple hours late another. I guess I can give him credit by saying he was gentle enough to ease her into his true nature. Alii heard in those months she stayed wit h me was how horrible he was and that she should never have stood for his crud ish behavior. She told me about the time they were in the restaurant in the basement of the courthouse and he decided to leave without paying because he was dissatisfied with the food and the.service. It was one among many incidents where he embarrassed her. Then there were the abusive remarks he used to hand to her personally: "shithead" and "my old cow." She said he had threatened her many times. How brutal he was, I don't know. . My favorite story happened at another restaurant, one in which he could not have gotten away with not paying. She told the story to me during one of our Saturday night bitch sessions: "I've heard of it happening so many times. The guy doesn't want to pay the expensive check so he tells his girlfriend he forgot his wallet and would she please pick up the check. I believed him, even though I could have sworn I saw him pick his wallet up off the dining room table when we left the apartment. Then he said he'd pay me back later. Well he never did. And he probably spent the money he saved on beer and cigarettes. " 17 My response, so often repeated, was, "The asshole. I can't believe he did that to you." Hers was, "Don't call him an asshole, Julie. That was the only time that happened." Once I reinforced what she said about him she always turned aro~nd to defend him. I had never quite noticed the type of person she was until she fell in with him. But after coming to me in tears so frequently and returning to him within hours I knew she was the dependent type. The dependent type - a-Iways returning to the oppressive "Dale af_ t er the usual six hour break up withput ever resolving the issue(s) that split them up in the first place. To the dependent type the issue does not matter. She simply enjoys the crying. She savors being treated lik~ a child or a pet once she returns to her owner's arms. She being a close friend I respected once for coml1lon sense, I was hoping this was the final exit. r really , believed her when she said she was never going to let him w.alk _all over her 'again. She disappointed Ole yJith ' her change of heart. ,. _ .' She went back to him the last time following repeated voice messages from him saying, "I know I've been a jerk, but If you'll just give meQner:nore chance I'm positive we can work it out. I've been '<;.razy without you." I told her he was lying, aAd:',Sht{ saidJ couldn't recognize sincerity when I saw'it. Csa,i dno, but I could recog,nize shit wheo I saw it. His next tactic was -to deliver flowers to her at work. - I said don't cave, she said it's romantic, I said the shit thing: again, she gave me the blowing it out the ass thing again, I reminded her she was living at my house, she threw the flowers away. Then the slippery fish bought her a ring. That one was the icing on the cake. The minute after she slid it on her finger she was out the door and I was left in the house to be the sole person ashamed of her actions. 18 One evening over coffee and Hawaiian bread she asked me if I was jealous. I had ended a serious relationship months before and was extremely hesitant to jump back into the game. In her own personal crisis, diverting her frustration, I understood her confusion. After I told her no she wouldn't take my answer and urged on, promising that she understood why. Again I insisted I wasn't. I told her that I could never be jealous of someone who was paying the highest price for someone that would never give her anything of real value in return. In anger I said I had lost all respect for 1 her because she didn't have any more for herself. She \ told me that I misread everything and that I was the one living in waste because of what I could no longer enjoy. That was the last time we spoke. The last place I saw them was in a shop on the outskirts of town last week. I shook my head in disgust at the pitifulness of the sight. There he was, smug and so sure of the trust of his dependent and there she was, still, like a child clinging to his shirt. 19 Deirdre of the Sorrows by Emily Persic When Deirdre's skull fell broken over the saltdark stones the waves rose up to bathe the rosyp~le lips the still wide eyes, and lapped gently the halfcurled hand. For with her man reaching, her quicksoaring body elusive to his grasp over the greenblack cliffs to the polished stones below she fell, silent in the falling Her lament voiceJess by the tumultuous wind. 20 Coffee-Shop Writing by Timothy J.F. Vollmer Soothing strands of Enya wafted breezily through the smoky, dimly-lit air of the small coffee-shop. I sat back in the plush lounge chair and pondered over the blank notebook paper strewn carelessly on the checkered table, half-eaten apricot cheesecake before me, cup of frothy capachino in my hand. . i. I knew what I was going to write. Monsters. Demons. Tragic heroes. No prince in disguise, t hough; he was going to die. . With a negligent hand I scattered thick tendrils of .cigarette smoke which threatened to overwhelm my senses, then picked up my pen. I knew what I was going to write. Putting pen to paper, I paused, and began to doodle. Gradually, a word began to take shape through the black mists of ink. . . . . -TheThe? The what? My fevered imagination resounded with the possibilities, with the unlimited horizons which awaited only the liberating power of my pen. ' Overcome with passion, I began to doodle again. It was going to be wonderful, I knew. It was going to be classic. > 21 Sot by Norman L. Minnick Jr. She hates jazz Like a cow hates milk Chocolate and razz Berries that ripen on a window sill. She likes thinking With old number seven. Ten thousand bohemians sinking, Multicolored cows in the Seven Eleven. She finds herself slipping On shiny slick words. Offensively pretty she is A confused muse musing Fell on a bed of words. She wanders in spiral Movements seem absurd. She likes her stormy seas Sailing half-seas-over And milk like jazz chums, Whose blender belly swells, A chocolate fire burns In her seventh heaven hell. 22 Fancy Poetry by Joslyn Virgin Suffocating from silence as I drove home with my eyes fixed on the blackness turning bright gray. Something in their words made me heavy. My heart swallowed my voice, my feet in restless shoes. Wordy hors d'oeuvres left my hears with a bitter;taste. My stomach fringed in pieces of falling rust. I wandered about their personal life, kitchens with empty j~rs and plates of the whitest sugar. Tongues in sweet conversation, strawberries dipped in fudge. They were feeding one another, and my fingers scrounged for their crumbs on the ground. One picked up a silver platter, white gloves and wine glasses of word matter circled around the room. Porcelain china dolls spilling over with tea. 23 Mercy by Stacey Clevenger At first A child's game Hands grasped Strength pulled up Withstanding of pain Eyes locked Challenge present. Mercy' The first one cries The mental game Won once more. Not so much Childish now I play the game Hold my ground Finally, I give' Mercy' I think. I cannot . Withstand the pain Mental anguish' is Not my forte Mercy' You win. 24 It's your turn To make up . No more effort on my part. It's hard to Sit on my hands And not reach out But you move. Do we play again? Do I pull out aU stops? Mercy~ Do I win? Mercy, you cry~  ...

... A LiterarrAntho[ogy Volume 54 1996 Marian Cql1ege Indianapolis"~' IN. 1 The Staff Editors: Jennifer Beck Annette Roberts A'manda White Art Editor: Beth Sawchuk Advisor Sr. Stella Gampfer, OSF Special thanks to Duplicating Office: ~arry Ste~b Anita Smith . .. 2 Order of Contents Growing Process - Stacey Clevenger....................................... .4 Art work - Stacey Clevenger....................................... ......... ...... 5 Disappearing Act - Brenda Meinhart ......................................... 6 Earthen Girl - John Miller.......................................................... 9 Art work - Kelly Carter....................................... :..................... 10 Smile Cracks - Stacey Clevenger.. :..................:.... ................... 11 Toothbrush - Timothy J. F. Vollmer......................................... 13 Art work - Beth Sawchuk. ....................................................... 15 What is Love? - LeAnn Evans ................................................ 16 . Art work - Amy Zielinski ........................................................ 17 Misconceptions arid Irony - John Miller................................. 18 Art work - Jennifer Stewart.....................................................21 Untitled - LeAnn Evans ........................................................... 22 It Came from the Sky - Heather Ireland .................................. 23 Walk With Me - Joshua Paul Gerding ...................................... 27 Art work - Sibylle Bolleter................................ ...... ................ 28 Mother - Crystal G. Mudgett.. ................................................. 29 Art work - Brenda Hausman ......................... .................... ...... .30 Lodestone - Emily Persic ........................................................ 31 Cabaret Revisited - Timothy J.F. Vollmer................................ 33 3 the growing process by Stacey Clevenger jane & dick see, look, play letter by letter; add apples, subtract oranges; delight in story time in the library; sack lunches and pulled pigtail; evolution with vocabulary and dissections; best friends and boyfriends, projects for papers typed rather than written; arbitrary number scores for applications; the move from home hours, credits, requirements mentors and ... tormentors; the love of knowledge when curiousity runs your mind grasping at ideas and ideals; application to the "real world" striving to learn needing to internalize. what is in store with the next step of a professional day? hopefully more knowledge and the love of intelligence. 4 5 Disappearing Act by Brenda Meinhardt It was done. And he regretted it. The lab was in shambles, broke glass was everywhere. All that remained intact was the box. All of his research was gone, only the result remained. His result. The result that violated every law that he had ever been taught. The result that was going to wreak havoc on the world and make him rich. It stood in the center of the lab, a glass box on a stainless steel stand. He got shakily to his feet and walked to it, then around it trying to fathom what he saw. A sphere, a perfectly black sphere occupied the space where his mini brick wall once stood. All four glass windows were shattered qnd the glass crunched under his feet as he paced in circles. Off one of the lab tables he grabbed a test tube stand, carefully, oh so slowly he tossed it at the sphere. It disappeared. "Oh, God ... " " ... be careful! That gun's been in the works for years, you drop it there'll be hell to pay!" "Yes, sir." "Okay, set it on that lab table ... Gently! Didn't you hear what I said? Alright people, I know how this thing's supposed to work, but this is the first firing test so get behind the shield and I'll take it from here." His assistants gratefully disappeared behind the safety shield in the back of the lab. He put on his gloves and set about lining up the Orison accelerator in front of his wall. Having done that, he uncoiled 6 the control panel's wires and walked them back to a mini shield set up behind the accelerator. His palms were sweating in the gloves, so he took them off and laid them on the floor next to him. Setting the panel on his knees, he took a deep breath and pressed the button that coded for warm up. A low humming filled the room as the Orisate particles started to move through the accelerator. He took his first breath after what seemed like hours when no explosion or odd noises came from in front of him. After waiting five minutes or so ti-II the hum was steady he pressed the ready key. The humming grew higher pitched until it was screeching at the high point of his .hearing range. He closed his eyes, steadied his hand and pressed fire. He watched as a magenta beam shot- from the accelerator-a nd hit the bricks. He watched as the bricks exploded and shattered the three inch thick glass of the box. He watched asthe whole process stopped and reversed drawing everything back towards the center of the box. Not only the bricks, but the glassware on the tables six feet away. The chairs behind the tables, even rocking the tables themselves. The pu ll knocked the sh ield on the top of the accelerator and took him with it. Hitting his head on the boards, he blacked out and didn't see the lab walls warp and then snap back into place as th e pull cl imaxed then terminated, leaving the black sphere in the center of the box. "Oh, God. There's nothing there. It is a void, filled with nothing, it can hold anything but it itself is nothing! How did this happen? The Orisate particles were to disintegrate 7 the bricks into their separate elemental forms, not create oblivion! This is not right. This is not good. I can't let anyone know about this." His assistants started to come out from behind the shield, their faces alight with curiosity. He motioned for them to stay back, they did so reluctantly. "Sir, did it work?" His mind whirred with indecision, tell the truth; they had created a weapon far more dangerous than a disintegration gun. Or lie and keep everything secret and start all over? "No. It didn't work properly. Back to square one folks. Why don't we call it a day and we'll clean up the lab tomorrow?" He stood motionless as everyone filed out of the lab. When they were gone he walked to his accelerator and picked it up from underneath his shield. As he walked towards the sphere his mind tried to tell him that this wasn't the right thing to do, but his conscience silenced his brain. The accelerator disappeared into the sphere. Then his notebooks and drawings, the precious bottle of Orisate procured by the lab at great expense, all disappeared within the sphere. Then he turned his back and left the lab. Not caring what they would think of the black sphere that they wouldn't be able to move or touch. It was time to start over. It was his turn to disappear, within the void of humanity. 8 Earthen Girl by John Miller Do you remember the things that were pure? And do you remember the last time-... You remember you? Remember you? ************ Eathen girl made of spirit. , She's a childhood friend, happy walking. Found peace? Long hair wOl:Jld reach out to make love with the breeze. Earthen girl dances on the wind. I stil envision you; the grass licking your every step. Earthen girl, I still see you standing among the trees. Earthen girl plays with dragons. . I can almost f~el your arm linked in mine. Free to roam, one with the land. Earthen girl, too much is fantasy. Beauty, though dazzling and radiant, is sometimes lost in a land of wanting to believe. ' . . . The soul twists and turns knowing ... but still. .. wanting to believe. ************ Something pure. Earthen girl, you will always be. Dancing in the wind. Making the wind follow. 9: . 10 The Smile Cracks by Stacey Clevenger Locked in my secret world Brought up only in dreams This notion created in a past time Will not be ceased And not dispelled until It is forced But the secret world Lives in the unconscious Because of a lack of effort A lack of reason Huge Happiness is found And taken from times ago. Beautiful and unforgotten hands clasp Enormous arms tighten Unimaginable legs move The smile cracks The brow ponders Deep meaning and dark wonderings The head touches unfathomable concepts And enlightens others Morbidity and finally solitude are present and real In the secret world with smiles Times ago are resurrected And given birth Unique bliss is found once more Never to be announced But held within In the scret would Contrary to nomality Walls are nonexistent And nothing is retained 11 Thoughts transfer without Spoken words Or restraints And are felt as well as Comprehended Others outside the secret world Are discussed and analyzed Talk exists as the common medium Thoughts flow Touches brush Pieces of the heart are revived The state of being rattles As the secret world is pulled out of And reflection occurs. 12 Toothbrush by Tim Vollmer Cindy. The small girl sat motionless against the dirty white wall, tiny knees hugged to her chest, watery brown eyes staring past the sergeant into the dark void beyond. The police sergeant sighed, and paused to brush back the long brown hair which covered her face. "Cindy," he began again, "I know you're in shock, but please, please, tell me; did you see anything? I've got to know." Cindy didn't even look at him. But she 'heard his words. See, what did she see? She saw her green toothbrush, taped against the wall in the bathroom of her mobile home because the rack had fallen off the night before. But that was all. Cindy she had heard her mother yell from the decaying couch in the TV room, Cindy, go brush your teeth this minute before I have to come and beat you . And so she did, because she knew her mother might. With deliberate modesty she closed the bathroom door, then clambered onto the high-backed chair which rested before the sink so that she could reach it. For a moment she stared at the brush, wondering if she could lie to her mother and get away with it. But then the front door slammed open, and rough voices reverberated through the plaster walls. She heard very little as she stared at that little green toothbrush, gripping the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned a ghastly white. A scream from her mother, high-pitched, piercing. A 13 scuffle. Men's voices, deep and heavy. One of them laughed as a table over-turned, shattering the cheap carnival vase. Another scream. And then ... gunshots. One ... two ... three ... Another scream, and then ... then ... Silence. A silence so pervasive Cindy could hear her own thumping heart beat, and the heavy breathing of men in the TV room. A slow shuffle, shoes scraping against linoleum , a screen door pushed open and banging shut; these sounds faintly reached Cindy's ears as she stared with wide eyes at . the dull green toothbrush hanging on the wall. A low moan tore open the air, but Cindy was oblivious. The toothbrush had become her reality. When the police arrived two hours later, she was still staring at it. 14 15 What is Love? by LeAnn Evans Love looking through your eyes sees where you began love can see all of your struggles and can tell where you will land. Love holds your hand in fear and walks with ,You into the fire love knows our every thought and your every wanting desire. Love is the rain when your fields are dry and the water that cools from a stream love is a rose that grows in the snow and the eternal flame of your dream. Love is the courage to keep on trying even when the road looks grim love is the wisdom that spills from your lips and the tear that falls from your eyes love is the spirit of those before us and the power of a friend at your side. 16 17 Misconceptions and Irony By John Miller It is crisp outside. The autumn has always reminded me of happy memories. I am content where I am, new doings to reminisce about later. The smell of smoke is almost imperceivable by the people here, anyone else would surely notice the smell before they saw the haze. Tonight I can look around and say that I know everyone here; the few unknowns haven't shown up. The Dash-In isn't one of the largest restaurants, but it is sufficient to accommodate 35-40 people comfortably. The oils have recently been replaced again, part of the ever changing art here; walls are organized with rectangles that hang basking in the light they deserve. Everything between their ideas dims to match the atmosphere-smooth. My coffee is warm, just right for drinking; it sets on the table with my creamer's container, three torn, empty packets . of sugar, a pack of cigarettes, my zippo, and a dirty ashtray (I've been using it). The smoke rises from my cigarette to dance on the air, playing lingering, entertaining itself and me. Now, I am easily put into play. The stirring stick in my cup, thin and long, rests from the inside out against the lip. Against the lip, that sounds . pretty. It looks pretty. Sometimes when I'm like this I feel everything, and can understand anything. I am content tonight philosophizing the nature of any seedling that crosses my mind. This seat, I believe, is a poets nirvana. The tables and chairs are practical, wooden. Around and on top of the counter and bar with the taller stools is the clutter of flyers, a couple Far-side comics, a dollar bill now out of print, someone's signed scrap, and brilliant black and white photographs under the glass that protects the bar top. 18 On the far corner table I can make out the current Dash-Doodle, that wonderful, changing, disappearing, "Hey, what happened to the Dash-Doodle?" book of poems and such written in by the somebodies, nobodies, and dreamers that frequent this home. The Dash-Doodle is as much a part of this environment as the front door. No one I've found knows where its beginnings are rooted. It is here, and always has been as far back as anyone can remember. It has taken many shapes-spiral notebook, perforated and torn; one I remember was no larger than my open hand. The doodles are always easily identified; folded paper unevenly eating its way out from a booklet prison, roughed pages stained with coffee and memories someone left for others fo ponder. Unfortunately, like its unknown beginnings they sometimes disappear. "Someone stole it" is always the reply when someone asks what's happened to it. Soon another one appears begging to be ripped, mutilated, and written in. The inhabitants are very friendly and easy to meet, if you talk to them. Most are teenagers that seem to scare the middle aged adults that sometimes stop in after attending the theater, or on their way home from somewhere they obviously felt obliged to wear formal clothing. I'm sure that it's not their ideal setting to walk in from the chill to see people like Sam. Sam is mulatto, short, about 5'8", has black hair shaved to less than a fourth inch save the three thin six inch long braids on his scalp which click when he walks because he wears beads at the ends of them. He has green-aqua eyes that contrast beautifully against his olive complexion. They seem as if they'd be able to curse and overwhelm you if you looked into them for any extended amount of time. When he smiles and holds a glare he can convince even the ones that know him best that maybe he is crazy after all. He's not crazy, radical views, but very pleasant. Quiet. 19 Sometimes Mike will make his entrance wearing a dress, lipstick, and eyeliner. His dull white ceramic . complexion looks as if to radiate around his face peeking out from behind black-mopped hair. Combined with his thick black plastic glass frames he looks like something out of a bad 80's music video. Tall and thin, slanky, as if you were to touch him the wrong way his brittle body would snap in two like a dead twig under foot. Mike is very outgoing and funny. I think he's scared inside. I've always felt enlivened here, electric, ever since I first entered this province. Here is where the thoughts of demons rise, the experiences only these few, still becoming a majority culminate into one physical being of idealism. Only these few will ever understand. To have 'one's perception altered into a million light flashes, to know the only importance in life is the insanity living within each of us, the virtual world becomes reality. Each person sitting, running, jumping, socializing, from one table realm to the next all connected in mid flight by concurring ideals of how the planet rests in an unevenly weighted vacuum; we all have our own solutions, which often makes for wonderful exchanges of insight. This is the land in which any question is welcome; there are no taboos, no judging authority; this is the knoll my mask fell onto when the wall came down . This was my birthing place into existence. Before I found this world I felt isolated as if in a freeze r that crystallized my thoughts as they left my head, made ' them heavy and hurtled them to shatter against the backdrop of some alien landscape. In this new land I am free to learn new perspectives to the ideas locked in my head; now they are made free to bounce off the walls, grow and multiply. 20 21 Untitled By Leann Evans Confusion rushes through my head like ink flows through my pen. My mind is spinning so quickly I can't tell you where I've been My feet ach from walking and my back hurts too much to bend My schedule is so cluttered a spare moment I have not to lend my bank account is empty, just like my well is dry My wings are so deeply damaged I doubt that I can fly. . .Though my life has changed these years my soul remains the same I still dream the same big dreams and my goals will never change. I want to live the fullest life the best that God can give I want nothing but loving neighbors and a happy life to live. If you know a place Where I can go and rest; I'll give you everything I own and buy you more of the best All I need is one quick moment in the place I want to be A place where my body is comfortable and I am comfortable with me. 22 It Came from the Sky Heather Ireland A hazy mist covered the black fields of Pumpkin township. The crickets serenaded the full glowing orb. The shining eyes of hundreds of night creatures could be seen scurrying around the countryside searching for food. The night, a stage for all that nature calls upon to perform, was in full swing. Suddenly, as if the plot took a fatal turn, an earexploding noise reverberated form every corner of the pleasant scene. Shooting purple and orange lights expanded from every corner of the horizon. Their source was a strange iridescent cube which hovered slightly above the treetops. What was this strange object and why had it appeared at this specific place? The citizens of Pumpkin township would all too soon find out. A lonely man, named Peter Neila lived about 2 miles from the strange scene taking place. On this particular evening, he just happened to be sitting on this front porch rocking the stardust minutes away. He was enjoying the pleasant night sounds as he always did every evening when all of his twilight serenade was cut short. Now being a man of great experience when it came to his wilderness surroundings, Peter was not alarmed by his sudden change. Oftentimes, a bear or coyote might prowl around the woods or his trash cans searching for the perfect midnight snack. So, Peter picked up the shotgun by his side, flipped on his string of floodlights and decided to take a look around his premises. Everything looked as it usually did, the trash can lids were still intact, the area was clear, and there were no visible tracks anywhere. Now even though Peter's outdoor knowledge was extensive, he also had a developed sense of gut instinct. It was gut instinct that had helped him survive in Vietnam and it was also that gut feeling that had made him such a successful FBI agent. However, in all the three years that he had spent traveling around the world achieving the impossible, he had never experienced a danger with which he was about to come face to face. 23 Meanwhile, back in the middle of town, strange things were taking place. Although the temperature of the night was pleasant seventy degrees fahrenheit, the fountain in the middle of town had frozen solid. The dogs in the local kennel were all going nuts, barking and scratching ag the screens that enclosed them. However, even though the dog's jaws were opening and closing, no noise was coming out. At the local ice cream shop, the tubs of ice cream all melted suddenly as if put under an invisible heat lamp. The spoons began to float in mid air and circulate around the room. Cars, although in "drive" would only travel in "reverse". Frost appeared on the windows of the shops of main street and it began to rain frogs and lizards. Utter chaos broke out. People ran across the street Qlindly causing several accidents as did people in cars who crashed dangerously into other cars and objects in their attempts to rapidly flee. Five minutes after the wave of strange phenomena, the middle of town looked like a battle scene form an old war movie. If it weren't for one fateful call, the whole town would have perished. That one call was from the one competent man in Pumpkin township whose name wasn't Peter Niela, the town sheriff. The town sheriff was an ex- New York beat cop who had after 25 years on the force decided that he's had enough. He'd returned home to the welcome arms of his hometown with the hopes of retirement, only to be recruited the same year for sheriff by the local townspeople. It was a cushy job . .Nothing ever really happened here .excluding the occasional drunken squabble or the crackdown on a local poacher. Mrs. Bradberry always brought him apple pie every Wednesday and on the 25th of August the town had a parade in his honor. That's why the whole thing had left a bad taste in his mouth. He was scared for the first time in years and he knew that something was going down. Since something was going down, he needed some help and some reliable help at that. So, if help was needed, the person he'd definetly want on his side would be the man whom he wished would answer his phone. 24 Peter heard the loud ringing on his telephone inside. "Just let the answering machine pick it up," he thought to himself. However, that famous gut feeling urge him to run to the phone. "Hello," he nervously answered. "Yes, Peter, it's John. I don't know quite how to explain this." "Explain what?" "Well, these strange things have been happening." "What kind of strange things?" "Let me start at the beginning .... " After packing his truck with guns, grenades and ammunition, Peter drove like a bat out of hell. However, he felt as if he should be slamming on his brakes. It took all of fifteen minutes to arrive to the center of town and when he did arrive, he wished that he hadn't. The place was in shambles. It looked as if a bomb had dropped on the city. There were car accidents everywhere, buildings had collapsed, people were screaming form underneath rubble and as they ran frantically down the street. Fires would spring up out of nowhere and then dowse themselves. Strange things were happening as they had before. All in all, it was a complete mess. . "Better to travel by foot," Peter thought to himself. Back in the Sheriff's office, anxiety was building in John's stomach. How could he help his simple citizens who at the moment were being tormented and tortured, His mind would have burst had he not heard the knock on the door. "Let men in. It's Peter." John rushed to the door. "Come on , we have not time to lose. I've got some heavy artillery in my truck. We've got to blast those suckers back where they came from." So, John and Peter ran out to Peter's truck and loaded their weapons. Then Peter ran out, among all the chaos, and yelled up at the glowing cube. "Come out an face someone your own size why don't ya?" 25 Then, it was as if World War III began. Lasers started shooting from the cube directed towards Peter's truck. Peter and John opened fire also. This went on until Peter and John realized that their plan had suddenly gone sour. For, Peter and John, from using all their ammunition were out of weaponry. Somehow, the beings who inhabited the strange orb sensed John and Peter's fear and confusion and the glowing cube began to rapidly approach John and Peter as if to obliterate them. Peter, not one to ever give up a fight, did all he knew to survive. He went to his last resort. He reached for the only thing in the bed of his truck besides empty cartridges, a 24-pack of Coca-Cola. He hurled each can at the throttling space cube disintegrated. Frantiqally, Peter and John threw the cans until the cube had been demolished. As soon as it had occurred, all of the damage and horror was erased as of it had occurred, all of the damage and horror was erased as if it had never existed. John and Peter blinked in amazement, each wondering to himself if he were crazy. Finally, John spoke. "Did you see what I just saw?" "Yes, I'm afraid I did." Then, they both sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Flashbacks of the evening raced through the two men's heads. After the longest pause that either man had experienced, John turned to Peter and said the only thin that came to his mind. "Ya know, a coke really sounds good right about now." 26 Walk With Me by Joshua Paul Gerding Walk with me, dear child, For the day has come to a close. Night, like a cloak, has covered the land . . Speak of dreams And days gone past. For dreams come as softly as the darkness. Caress me gently with your words. I will protect you from your fears, And the worries that creep in shadows. Embrace the night, and its mystery, To solve the problems that weigh on your heart. For the day has come to a close. Tell me of the sorrow that hangs on your soul. And all will be well. Show me the pain for which you weep. So I may know of your suffering. Confide your anguish so you have room for joy. And know that I shall forever be here. To guide you when sun faUs from the heavens. Walk with me, dear chitd. 27 28 Mother by Crystal G. Mudgett As the river flows, Birds sing at the joy Of the sun's glow A Mother yells for her only boy. A yell which is never heard But not forgotten Not even the birds Could spot him. This yell lives forever And ever, in the mind of the mother, Nothing could sever This memory from her. This yell lived till the end of time To haunt her, She could not shake it or this rhyme, She the mother. 29 30 Lodestone by Emily Persic Into the west I go looking for Michael Furey, sleeping beneath his shroud of coarse grass, heather and words. He waits, as I wait for the truth that Mad Ireland in her madness has hidden beneath her shrould of laughter and drinking of music and poetry. A nation of poets is always at war. Yeats and Maud Gonne battle eternally through poetry of a Troy burned and anger remembered. To Dublin I go looking to a country I have never seen, With its pipes and drums, beating beating out the path chosen the tracks of tears, widow's laments a war of hundred's of years, reborn every year. The hollowmusic, the holloweyed men, that Easter morning's birth could not quell the deaths not end the anger, not touch the fight. To Mayo A green place, fairer than heaven, prouder than hell. Letter to American cousins telling, praying (Holy mother of God Jesus and Mary be with those in this house) sending across the oceans dreams of home, pleas for money Only sons, beautiful daughters an American Wake to speed them along 31 to a new world, far from famine, far from poverty, far from home. Into the north the curbstones painted green and gold and orange blue and red and white division lines to throw stones over. House against house, Irish against Irish. Every mother waiting for her son. Into the west where to beware of the wee folk, and dare not walk down the road where a black dog was seen last week. To where the tales are told with a great deal of the drink and the drums are playin' and pipes and tinwhistle blowin' round and round the girls feet go and the dresses swirling, dancing as to keep at bay the voices calling across the years and Michael Furey sleeping beneath the snow. 32 Cabaret Revisited by Timothy Vollmer The stage is empty now. All props have been cleared away, the wooden doors and walls, the fruit shop stand, the train car. Even the Cabaret sign which had swung like an epitaph overhead, black-bordered letters etched in wood, light bulbs and silver glitter behind, had been disassembled. I had removed the screws, and torn away the silver lining. Not by choice, certainly, had I carried those slabs of wood down into bowels of the auditorium where water pipes vented their stick heat, to arrange them in awkward skeleton piles of doors, walls, and panes of glass. I w.ould have left them standing on stage, erect eternally, a tribute to the glory that for three nights and a day had been our heritage and our triumph. But the show is over. The actors have lives to reenter; the directors, families to see again after their monthlong labors. Interminable other shows (I will not say better) await the birthing pains of creation. Life is dynamic. It should stagnate. Oh, but to relive those moments, onstage and off, when body and mind are galvanized by the exuberance of an audience, flawless execution of a scene, the performance of your peers as they sing, hauntingly, of pineapples and Meeskites and chilling Nazi fanaticism. My spirit still sings the opening song "Willkommen, " and dances with its ethereal chorus, step-step-stomp, step-step-stomp. The heat of the spotlight still sears my eyes as I glance over the audience, laughing and clapping and then, somber, as Nazi salutes are thrown not by stoic 88 soldiers, but by the decadent sailors and chorus girls who had enticed not an hour before with their youthful frivolity in the midst of a nation smoldering with ruin and despondency. . My God, how the audience clapped, every song, 33 every bow; the present silence is awful and heavy, humbling and dim, static in the wash of time until actors and audience assemble once more, different in compositions yet unswerving in the purpose which has persisted since stories were first acted around campfires and an observer thought, how beautiful. I am no actor. The thought repeats itself as it had so many times before, a mantra, a shield, against the bitterness that rears when my voice cuts off before the song is finished, when a line or dance step is bungled, when I feel ill and out of place and desirous of being where I sit now, an anonymous non-entity smug in my obfuscation. Through three weeks of rehearsals I had chanted it with' every stumble and cough. Looking at my companion sailor, seduced as I was, promised walk-in parts by charismatic women who blithely failed to mention the exit, we'd shake hands solemnly over the tiny red table before the music of our halting dance struck its first note. And we'd agree aloud, . simultaneously, that we should not be here, but since we were here we'd do the best damn job the limits of bodies and voices of non-actors permitted, Two painful weeks taught us that resolve was rarely enough, discouragement is contagious, muscles are easily strained, and even accomplished actors despair. Weary and overcome three of us, two sailors and a customs officer, . would occasionally huddle in the seats of the auditorium during breaks in rehearsal and compare notes. The way they backstage each other, its pathetic, quoted one, and we would nod in sympathetic agreement. The women especially, awful. I am reminded of what a friend said at the cast party, sitting against the wall, after the alcohol had overflowed our restraints and all the subtle conflicts we picked up on in the theater erupted in hot words and tears too salty to be touched. He said, how sad, how very, very sad. And I replied, life is sad, as if that explained all the 34 bitterness and rage of the world. There was beauty, though, transient as a shared smile between scenes: as we passed, h~rrying to our places. Two days before opening night, when the dance we had practiced so painfully and diligently finally looked like a cohesive dance and not the awkward dribblings of an elementary school drama, we erupted in such exultation that for several short minutes we were finally actors, aloof and assured and content in our talents. After the Cabaret sign lowered at the end of the first performance and the Nazi flag peered ominously from behind; after we had skipped onto stage for our bows and reveled in the roar of hoots and clapping; after singing in finale, Life is a Cabaret, old chum, Only a Cabaret, old chum, and I love a Cabaret...; every passing brought its own euphoria, a nirvana and closeness that the hugging which followed could not fully express. A connection had been established, a bond of spirits warring and hating and reveling in the end, and still it has not died, three weeks after the final performance on a warm Sunday, February afternoon when our voices one last time carried in blissful unison. The quiet is oppressive, and fearful, in its emptiness. I never knew how heavy the air was, until I in breathing was alone. My wish has been fulfilled; I was no actor, and again, I am no actor. Maddeningly, still, I would have it otherwise. I would bring the Cabaret back, the makeup, sweat, doubt, and fear, all the turmoil and heartbreak, the rush to finish homework assignments 2:00 in the morning, just for one last moment on that stage. It is an addiction, invigorating and debilitating. And now, empty, desolate, I cannot tear myself away from the stage, but listen to the voices still calling from the shadows: 35  ...

... FIORETTI FALL '94 A Literary Anthology Volume 53 Number 1 1 994-1995 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana 4 Jack-in-the-box I spin the handleand the song unravels my life . Some days the revolutions slowly turn, but today I outran the Apache Indians, and tomorrow Jack may visit, yet the music will end. The box I will close, and spin again . -Annette Roberts 5 Flight It is possible yes I am wishing for you or not you entirely but the security of you (your arms) on my breath you r breath caught. And yetyou lay your hands on me delicate on strong shou Ider blades (bare) you cannot even feel beneath your tremulous fingertipswings. -Emily N. Persic 4 Jack-in-the-box I spin the handle and the song unravels my life. Some days the revolutions slowly turn, but today I outran the Apache Indians, and tomorrow Jack may visit, yet the musicwill end. The box I will close, and spin again. -Annette Roberts 5 Flight It is possible yes I am w ishing for you or not you entirely but the security of you (your arms) o n my breath your breath caught. And yetyou lay your hands on me delicate on strong shoulder blades (bare) you canno t even feel beneath your tremulous fingertipswings. -Emily N . Persic 6 Sestina The warmness of the Shoppe is strong. Shaking off morning's last touch, She notices his smooth, clean hands. He takes his coffee black. Soft, Sweet aroma, and delicate Coffee clouds dance. Flawless white eggs dance Over rolling water. Outside, strong Winds strangle Old Glory, as delicate New sunbeams whisper in and touch His face . His stare is deep and soft. She's embarrassed for her hands. Charmed, she watches his hands Move easily in a fluent dance. He explains w 'ith soft Words, and a heavy voice. A strong Rhythm in her chest brings a touch Of rose to her cheeks, almost delicate. He swoons over his delicate, Western-style masterpiece . His hands Move swift as he devours it with a touch Of grace, and only a smile left to dance On his lips. Anticipation is strong, And she en joys the soft, 7 Look of the omelette, and then its soft Feel on her tongue. She moves in a delicate M anner, trying to impress . Hope rises strong When she sees him glance at her hand s, And faintly smile. Her heart dan ces A little when he reaches to touch Her wrist. She notices a touch Of happy pink freckles spread soft Around a childish grin that lights to the dance In his eyes. As smooth and delicate As hot yellow, his hands Find hers and he holds strong. With his touch, she becomes delicate And no longer wishes for softer hands. Coffee clouds dance~ and the warmness is strong. -Jennifer Stewart 8 October Soccer by Derek Witte She reluctantly stands. It's morning. She knows that much. Why did she have to get up again? The boy. Oh yes, the boy's soccer game. She pulls on a robe to protect herself from the cold October air that stole into the house sometime before dawn. Down the hall to his room. He's still sleeping. She brews a pot of coffee using the last night's grounds, and then sits by the window. Seven 0' clock. The game's at nine. She'll wash his uniform, a red thermal undershirt, and her work clothes-then she'll wake him. The washing machines are three flights down, and she struggles with the laundry basket. She is sti II stiff and tired from last night's shift. Saturdays are always hard for her, because she feels the whole week in her legs and . back. Luckily, there is an open machine. She sprinkles in the powdered detergent and then slides the quarters into their slot. She wonders how many quarters she's slid into these machines over the past ten years. She knows if she had managed to save all those quarters, she could buy her own washing machine. At a little after eight, she wakes the boy. He stirs, mumbles a few words to some dream companion and then awakens to the sight of his mother. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. "Mornin' rugrat." "Good morning, mom." "First game today honey. What do you want for breakfast?" 9 "Can I have French Toast?" "Sure Tiger. Put on your sweats, and wear something under your uniform." "Aw mom, I don't want to look all puffy. Kids'll think I'm fat." "All the other little Cardinals will be puffy too, I guarantee it." "But mom?" "It's cold darling. It froze last night. Please don't argue with me." She cracks the last egg into a small mixing bowl, adds some skim milk and then 'A:'hips the ingredients with a fork. She dunks two pieces of bread and drops them into the frying pan. The sizzle fills the quiet house, and she smiles. She's made a pact with herself: on her day off, she's happy, period. She doesn't think about the week or the bi lis or the boy's father. She spends the day at the recreation department watching midget soccer or at the zoo or in front of the T.v. It doesn't matter as long as she can be with her son. He rounds the corner, and sits at the kitchen table. He's like a warm little pod, grabbing his legs with his pudgy arms, and resting his head between his knees. She keeps glancing over her shoulder at him. Before he was born, her life was grayness. She married young, nineteen, and dropped out of college. She signed on at the grocery store only to earn some extra cash, but soon was trapped. She couldn't risk even a week of un-employment. Then the pregnancy, her husband left before the second month. He said he needed his freedom. She cried, but not for her failed marriage, and certainly not for fear of losing him- ~ ~ 10 she cried for herself. Her future was being ebbed away, and she couldn't fight the current. But then the boy was born. She glances again at him. His golden hair loose and tangled, and his sheet-wrinkled cheeks already glowing. IIHere's breakfast, peanut." IIThanks mom," he smiles and starts eating. IIAre you ready for the game?" she asks. IIOh yes, We've practiced every day after school for two weeks. We learned all sorts of drills and passes, and special codes." IICodes?" she asks. IIYeah, codes, so we know where to pass the ball. If some kid has the ball, and you're open you don't just say, ' Hey Rodney, pass it to the right.' The other team would probably steal it. You say 'alpha one' or somethin'. " . nOh, I see: How advanced." . IIYeah, it's neat. Like the other day, dad came to practice, and he ... " She gasps. IIHe asked me why the heck we were talking about apples and oranges out on the field, and I had to tell him that apples are passes to the left and oranges are passes to the right. He thought it was smart." IIYour dad came to watch you practice?" IIYeah, he's back in town for a while. He said he told you." He hadn't told her. Her husband was a crook, or in his words, an opportunist. He was a brilliant man who G 11 saw humanity as so many pawns and rooks. He understood their feeble hopes and misconceptions and played them to his advantage. He would dress up in a worn suit, and stand around the train station waiting for gullible commuters. Often, he would tell them some story about a lost wallet and a dying mother. Other times he wore an old wristband from the hospital, and begged money for some imaginary prescription that would save h is life . Unfortunately, kind people often refuse to see brokenness. He made several hundred dollars every night. This money had paid for her first wedding anniversary present, diamonds. He said he'd won a longshot at the dog track. She was so blind. She loved the presents, but they were sparse. More often she would find a twenty missing from her purse, or she would receive her balance statement from the bank, and discover numerous withdrawals he hadn't mentioned. When she tried to bring it up, it was always the same: "Oh that. Don't worry honey. I had to make a couple of investments . Our ship'lI come in." He had a job at some bar downtown, but she never saw a paycheck. He was either pockets-out broke, or buying big, expensive gifts . He'd buy her China, and then leave her to pay his credit card bills out of her meager salary. So, when her son was born , and he left, she was glad. She wanted a chance to be normal. She wanted him to fade away down one of the endless Inter-states. She wanted to forget his face as much as she wanted to forget her adolescent love for him. "Is it bad that dad's here?" the boy asks . "No, it's all right. I'm just a little surprised to hear ~ ~ 12 he's in town darling. I didn't mean to frighten you." She reaches for her coffee, and then she hears it: the familiar rumble, the screech, the abrupt cutting of the engine, and then the ticking of the cooling metal. The opportunist coaxes the car for which she is still paying between a jeep and a station wagon, and then runs up the stairs. He storms into the apartment without knocking "Hey daddy, daddy, daddy-a," her son yells . "Hey there, cool cat, What's going down?" he asks with a smirk. She grasps her robe near the neck, and steps out of the kitchen . "Good morning sexy," He says. "What the hell are you doing here?" "I came to take my son to his soccer game. He said today was his first match so I thought I'd head out there . with 'em. Ya know, 'to do a little father son bonding. Right kiddo?" "You bet dad," her son says. "I even brought a new jersey for him. I had his name and a little cardinal embroidered on the breast. Whaddaya think tiger?" "Cool dad. Look at this mom. This is the coolest." He runs. to his dad and gives him a hug. She had wanted to buy him some soccer gear earlier that week, but she just couldn't swing it. She doesn't know what to say. Her son is so happy. She can't tell his father to leave, nor can she make the boy return the jersey. She wants to scream, and tell the man that he doesn't have a son, that he can't see her boy, but she only bows her head. Every boy deserves a father even if he is only a myth or a lie. ~ 13 "Why d on 't yo u go get ready fo r th e game ho ney. W e need to leave soon. " "I'll put on my new jersey, and be right back daddy-a." "You got it," he says, shaping his hand into a gun and playfully shooting the boy . "Why?" she whispers, after the boy leaves. "Why what?" "Why the surprise, why the gift, why today?" "He's still my son. What's wrong with dropping in . I don't want him to forget me. I'm his father for chrissakes. " "You may be his father, but you're no father to him. You're some phantom Santa Claus who just materializes with gifts every six months. If you were a father to him, he wouldn't forget you, because you'd be here." "Aw come on, lighten up . I gotta move around to make money. You know how it is ; I can't be somethin' I'm not." She just shakes her head . She doesn't understand why he has to do this to her son . It just makes everything worse. His visits just punctuate his absences, and his gifts just make them seem all the poorer. She is biting her lip when the phone rings. "Hello." She pauses. "Why, yes. He's right here ...... .... .. . Did he give you this number?" "I see. All right." She hands him the phone. .*.... ~ ..,..: --:G> 14 "Jerry, yeah, what's up? Tonight, are you serious? Fantastic. Of course, I can make it. I'd be a fool not to. See ya'." He hangs up the phone and hesitates a moment before turning. "Uh," "Uh, what? Uh, I'm gonna abandon my kid, because some scam is going through tonight? Uh, I'm really sorry I didn't mean to barge into your life and break your son's heart? Uh, what? what?" Backing up with his palms facing the woman, he says, "You understand, right. I mean, if I don't get to New York by six, I stand to lose a lotta cash. I mean, hey, I'll send ya some. I can't turn my back on business right?" "Right. You'll always have a son, but this is a once in a lifetime deal." He has no answer. He turns and creeps towards the door; . "You can explain it to the kid. I'll be back later. Hey, I'll drop some cash in the mail forya.Sorry.it.s just business." He quietly steps out, careful not to slam the screen door. His el)gine roars, and he vanishes as quickly as he has appeared. She sits at the kitchen table, and finally lets go of her robe~ She hears the boy's footsteps creaking towards her. 15 Clean All chance of true love lost Or not I would not venture outTravelThe length and space of two full days Opportunity cost be damned The sojourn To see the spectre of a man And hear life exit death's clogged, bloody throat. Are you, perchance, familiar with what I say? A cough or sputter, spray The red and gutter-gray It might be nice to know again Let me feel clean, put bleach in my bowl Because sometimes death sings sweetly And I know an awfully rotten soul. -Sean M. Parsons, 16 Winter Love: A Sestina Our breath formed brief clouds in the chilly night. Our scarves flapped likeflags in the crisp wind. My hand and yours were tucked together In a warm pocket of your coat. I shivered as your cheek touched mine. Your kisses felt like frost on my lips. As we hugged and froze beneath the winter moon. Your face in your parka was round and white, a moon With gooseflesh, and moonlike in the night Your lips were white and, chilly-but still they pressed my lips; And as the scraping of the wind Peeled the last warmth off your body and mine, We could have frozen there, for all we cared, together. Above our heads the trees swayed together, Creaking with the ice that gleamed back at the moon, Bright as your eyes piercing like slivers into mine. You cried. "I love you!" for the first time that night. And love raged between us like the wind, As we bit kisses from each other's lips. Your lips are now divided from my lips . Time edged apart what winter drove together. Through my window I watch the battering wind Lashing the trees under a quiet moon. We sheltered each other once on such a night, I with your love and you with mine. The cold moon haunts me with your kisses, do you think of mine? And have your lips lingered with another's lips Freezing his flesh with your love on a winter night? I like to think that only we together Could be so foolish and that you've never shared the moon With another for so long in such a wind . 17 The trees cry more softly now, the wind Is a fitful gutter, these thoughts of mine Ebb slowly like tides pulled by the moon. I can't recall the sharpness of your lips Or why we chose to stand outside together When sensible lovers stay behind warm doors on a winter night. Your love and mine, Born in the wind, Under the moon, Nipping our lips. Your love and mine Blew fierce like the wind, Glowed soft like the moon, Bonded us together. Your love and mine, Set like the moon, Died down like the wind; Went out in the night. -Brian McDonald 18 A Leaf to Remember by Daniel Pryzbyla Once again the aging widow begins her somber saunter towards the garage. The door creaks as she searches for her treasured rake. As she finally reaches the rake in the dark hollows of the garage, the dreadful images haunt her again. It was October 20th, and her husband, whom she loved far more than herself, had been in combat for four months. She felt that depressing moment at the Baltimore train tracks when their eyes last met before a cloud of smoke from the engine made him disappear forever. "Ring, Ring," the doorbell cried. It was one of those telegram deliverers. As the woman, with a swift pull of her finger, unsealed the letter, she unconsciously caught sight of a golden yellow leaf prematurely descending from the sky. Word by word her most dreadful fear was confirmed. As she marches towards the front of the yard on this cool, wet October morning, she gazes at each and every leaf to be raked. Kids are joyfully playing football at the nearby park and two youthful girls are jumping rope in the alley next door. "Your husband has tragically died in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean on October the 20th, 1942," read the telegram. Thirty eight years later each leaf falls perilously to the earth, and each leaf is carefully and reverently swept up by her concerned rake. Each burnt orange and each 19 brick red prematurely taken from its home to leave the tree tragically bare. Every leaf that falls is her grand husband who for four years of her life was the most special someone she could ever imagine. But now, as she rakes, the inescapable picture of that first golden yellow leaf plummeting to its fate, reminds her of her husband, helplessly carried to his own fate, and causes her to enshrine each leaf to its burial. Her heart trembles, but for a moment, as she once again relives that frightful October morning carrying the last leaf away. HAIKU ' Leaves lullabying With soft rustles and whispers Sighing us to sleep . -Deardra Webb 20 The Backs Beaumarchais or Baudelaire or a thousand thousand others squat dumbly, their backs to me, hissing in somnolent solemnity Multitudinousness, multitudinousness" like Ecclesiasticus in the shoddy garb of Matthew Arnold. II I can't leave a bookstore emptyhanded no more than I can lay to rest my still awe in the presence of the woman in the long black duster, her back faci,ng me. -L. Atwood 21 Face to Face Caressing with hands of stone better made for gouging, hitting, cutting Giving with words trembling, waivering, muttering, faltering Facing, years gone, I wonder of days, of disbelief, of hope, of questions Seeking, searching, trying undeterred, I continue Feeling, touching, loving, wondering through marble chiseled years of union Caressing inspite of hands unchanged. Softly answered. -by Mark Hall 22 Heritage It is theweight of the past, that lies heavily on my back, and leads down streaking to my right bare shoulder, tattooed with the kissof whathasbeen and whatyouare. Palms up, strong hands, my writers callus, slender fingers (my mother's strength). In the mirror, my brother's eyes, wide and deep and my sister's endless smile, on my face (that look of laughter) Then there's me, the middle one (almost black sheep, but not quite). With one foot raised in anticipation of the future falling out beneath me. Behind me green plains break to city streets to mountain tops, and red-gold earth where grandparents, uncles, cousins, aunts, great-aunts, sisters, great uncles, brothers, god-fathers, mothers. (Shall I even mention my father?) hold me up, a wall against which I stand, waiting. -Emily N. Persic 23 38th Street Nicholas Nickleby dragging through bones of riddled writers sitting on thrones, how serendipitous lovely humid air making alcoholics confused as what to wear, close talkers breathing halitosis to kill Civil War reenactments here on Crown Hill, now its Green Gables and maybe Aesop's fables those damn Grimm's fairy tales and Disney labels, riddles alike and I iterature confuse 38th street passed only to amuse . -Annette Roberts 24 The Question Watching the waves gently fall, on the soft warm sand, And I wonder what others see, when they stand where I stand. I smell the coming of Spring rains, as I sit by my window sill, And I wonder how others believe, and if they always will. I hear the gentle blowing wind, and the rustl ing of the leaves, And I wonder how others feel, and how they grieve. I touch the silken petals of a newly formed rose, And I wonder how others learn, and everything they know. And in all of my travels , and the more people that I see I wonder if they are curious and wonder just like me. In this great big world of ours , with so much knowledge to earn, The more we stop to wonder, the more we seem to learn . -Amanda White 25 The Value of Warmth by Timothy J. Vollmer The dark night weighed down on me like a heavy winter cloak, slowing my stride, causing me to stumble. It was Halloween, that dreadful night when Hell opens wide its dismal gates and spews forth the wailing souls of the damned. Midnight was fast approaching. The children were safe, tucked snugly into warm beds with bulging bags of candy resting at their sides, but I was not. I was utterly alone, adrift in a cold and lightless neighborhood. If I had fallen there, I would have died, and no one would have found my lifeless body until late morning. An icy breeze moaned softly through naked branches, causing once-vibrant leaves to swirl at my feet in a dusty brown spiral of decay. Numb to the world, I crunched through them, leaving their shattered corpses behind . I looked at my watch. It was nearing ten 0' clock, and yet my nocturnal journey was far from over. It would be another three, perhaps four, hours before I would find warmth . I drew frigid air into my lungs, and sighed. Suddenly, I heard a sharp rustling of leaves to my left, followed by the soft pounding of feet against the earth. Only ten strides away, a small boy broke from the cover of darkness in a panicked dash , his blue jacket flapping behind him like a cape. I paused, watching with mild amusement as he leapt upon the shadowed porch of a nearby house, his white sneakers skidding as he landed. Almost immediately, ~ 26 he began to pound at the door with his tiny fists, all the while looking behind, searching for monsters .... . . . "He's searching for you, /I a familiar voice whispered, "looking for you because you are evil, evil, evil ..... /I The voice was banished by the sharp retort of a lock being unfastened. The door opened , spilling warm light into the yard, and with Cl' yelp of relief the boy rushed inside. I waited for the door to close before moving on, but it did not. Instead, a lithe, squirrelish woman stepped out-his mother, evidently. She was wearing a loose, red nightgown which reached to her bare feet, and had short brown hair, tangled and frayed . Her eyes were weary, yet bright, and they glittered like emeralds consumed by a gentle flame. For one rapturous moment, I was consumed by complete adoration . Then, our eyes met, and my heart was filled with a cold, liquid dread. Hers was too, for she grimaced and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind her. But, before she turned away, her wide eyes had betrayed her feelings : go away-go away and leave us alone. We have not enough warmth for you . With dire finality, I heard the door bolt click, and watched as the curtains were pulled over their windows, one by one, shutting in the light. I walked many miles that night, down many cold and desolate streets. As I walked, I peered into the lighted windows of neighborhood houses, watching with detached wonder as a husband embraced his wife, as a father hugged his daughter, and as a mother held her son. I wanted to experience that acceptance, that warmth, that ~ ~ 27 love; I was so cojd and had so far to travel But no warmth was offered. All the love was trapped behind brick and glass. It was hoarded like gold, as if sharing might diminish it. I sighed, and turned away. My shoes scraped the street slowly, sullenly, as I limped my wretched way into the night. A church bell tolled, heavy and ominous. Once, twice, twelve times its rolling gongs shattered the silence, a death knell for all humanity . I stood motionless, listening, until the last reverberations faded into the black abyss. It was now midnight, that dark hour of the damned, and I was all alone. A sharp, bitter wind suddenly swept down the street like an ocean wave. I paused, huddling in my jacket as it tossed dried - leaves into the air, causing them to swirl and dance. As I waited, I could almost hear the darkness speak to me in tones of icy despair: "Poor, poor cub. There is no one for your . Your fate is meaningless . Embrace me, and you will feel no more pain . We can make them pay ." I shook my head and continued to walk, mindless of the pelting wind . My strength was slowly ebbing, sapped by the night's dank chill. I hungered for warmth, thirsted for light, but none was available. And so, like a hardened soldier confronted by the enemy hordes, I carried on with stoic determination. Darkness, however, was not to be denied, and with frigid breath it murmured its sweet message into my ear : "Forgotten child, abandoned, unloved. Life is suffering, and God is dead . God is dead. God is dead. ~ ~ 28 With numbing dread, I halted, then fell to my knees, the vitality sucked from my spirit. Terror gripped my heart as I looked up to a black sky devoid of moon and stars. I wondered, "Where is God in all this darkness?" Gradually, I became aware of a light touch at my shoulder. So slight was it, and so new a sensation, that I had barely noticed it; it was just enough, however, to pu II me back from the brink of a dark and desolate pit. I stood up with a soft groan and turned around, expecting to see a ghost, but saw instead an elderly gentleman standing only a pace away. He wore rough work boots, patched jeans, and a frayed, plaid jacket. His wrinkled, unshaven face was kind, and his dark eyes relayed an air of concern. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. His voice was gravelly and rough, but warm. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare. Eventually, I nodded. He turned to leave. "You best be gettin' home, son," he called over his shoulder, "This night is getting cold, and it's not safe to walk alone in the dark." Before I could reply, he was gone, like a ghost dispersed by the wind. I began to walk at a steady pace. I had many miles to travel before I was home, but now I knew that I could make it. 29 Dangling my Wine Wine does not make you Wise: it mak~s you drunk, But sometimes I drink, and I think, And I sit down in the corner of some poor fella's living room, with a bottle, dangling between my legs. It helps if you've forgotten your name, Or don't care, just the same, And then you might lean back into that corner, and see The scrapbook of your life. Page one to done. And, with wine Sometimes, It makes sense to be, drunk or in the corner, just the same. -Derek Witte 30 one single can pop inhale swallow ... ah! c lose the eyes feel the drops half-finished set aside flat -Stacy Clevenger 31 The Compost Man We gazed out across the beanfield just in time to see our childhood pal, the Compost Man a-reeking in the breeze. Ah, the slushful scents of old, when by the creek we'd trudge, up-rummied our very nostri Is like being knee-deep in the sludge. Oh Compost Man, oh Compost Man, we've missed you ever so. We wonder why we now look down upon that ground we used to know? Oh Compost Man, oh Compost Man, we've missed you ever so. Tell us, won't you tell us please, what's beneath your tan chapeau? The Compost Man looked at us grimly, his brown eyes shone a bit, we weren't sure if we saw a tear or if he was just full of wit. 32 "Children, children, you're all grown up," he said with hugs all round, "I've missed you so these last twelve years stompin' through the 01' sloggin' ground. You've grown so old, I see, and so very wise, I judge, that you've got more important things to do than stroll down through the fudge . "Getting older changes you, " he said . winking, wit h a ' mark my w ord .' "For all your being something, on this you can rest assured, that once you're planted in the ground you're naught but one more turd. -L . Atwood 33 I. Never Sleep Very Well I never sleep very well, Dogs chase me out of my bed, Up the prison wall, Head-long into the snarling barbed-wire. Bleeding in its rusty teeth, Crouching in the twisted strands, 1 spring with wings unfurled. The growling wind chooses my direction, 1 follow obediently. 1 land in the bushes . Dogs chase me out of my yard, Up the garden wall ... ... 1 never sleep very well. -Gregory Scott Beasley 34 Did You Hear That? I placed a glass of milk upon my couch To the left, a cushion centered rightlyJust soI then sat up to leave Not looking back, not sure But I know, That glass of milk th"ere stayed Kept erect Did not fall Did not go, But 9f many things as such, wavered so. Well. .. as one might imagine, Among themselves, Not much was mentioned About the milk Its precarious position on this ridiculous situation . And yet Upon disaster's quiet nearing I distinctly remember hearing From them, if you will, the furniture surroundingAt least I think soAn emphatic though hushed ... ""OOOHHH!" -Sean M . Parsons 35 Night Vision Far above the harbor, We see the lightning in gigantic forks. No electricity. The big front window Is cinematic. Each flash Iights the palm trees and the ocean towards Japan for a blink !!!! !! Only the porch shines in the darkness. -Derek Witte Sincere Thanks to Larry and Joe in Duplicating for their time and efforts.  ...

... Fi.oretti. 1\ I .... rl~ I~ It A It y 1\ N rl~ lie) I., e) e. Y 52 N IJ)IIII~lt 2 19f):I-1 f) f) 1 ,7 () I .. IJ )II~ HAItiAN C()I.. I .. I~(~I~ I NIJIAN AP()I.. IS, I NIJIAN A This edition of Fioretti is lovingly dedicated to our classmate and friend Kurt Cleeter, who passed away this past December. We hold him dearly in oqr hearts. Editors April Duff and Stephanie Fort Assiting Editor Lisa Homer Advisor Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. Artistic Design Julie Maraszkiewicz Table of Contents WHY I WRITFlKurt Cleeter 4 UP AND DOWN/Kurt Cleeter 7 TO DO SOMETHING/Neil Clayton 8 ENGAGEMENTlBrian Sweany 9 DANCE FLOOR/Jennifer Bola 10 A VISION/Jennifer Bola 12 KITCHEN SILENCE.../Derek Witte 13 KITE STRINGS/Keri Leffler 14 THE FATHERLY ROSFlBrian Sweany 17 THE MOTHERLY ROSFlBrian Sweany 18 COMMON DESIRES/Gregory Scott Beasley 19 WORNOUT FAITH/Annette Roberts 21 DYSFUNCTIONAL/Annette Roberts - 23 IT'S JUST ME/Cindy Trefz 24 STEPPING STONES/Stacey Clevenger 26 Why I Write by Kurt Cleeter There are as many reasons for writing as there are people in the world. Each person has distinctive desires, philosophies, and needs that are unique, yet similar. Probably the majority of people write for no other reasons than to make money, to fulfill educational requirements, or to inflate their own vanity, but even for these people, there exist more compelling reasons. Writing, unlike talking, allows a person to see, analyze, and refine his thoughts. Presently, I write for all of the above reasons except to make money and perhaps someday, that will be another reason. There is enormous satisfaction in placing thoughts on paper. It must be the same type of feeling that a farmer has when looking at his field at harvest time. To get to this point, he started with an empty field, plowed it, seeded it, nurtured it, and finally harvests it. The writer does the same thing with words. He starts with a blank sheet, formulates an idea, writes it, modifies it, and then views the finished product. Although, both the farmer and writer may acknowledge that the finished product could, and probably should, have been better, they can not think too long on the shortcomings, but must plan for what comes next. I was introduced to creative writing in the 4 fourth grade. At the time, I thought that it was a difficult assignment, but by the time I entered the fifth and sixth grades, I was enjoying writing about daily activities, summer vacations, and special events. During my high school years and most of college, the enjoyment of creative writing took a "back seat" to the drudgery of analyzing other people's writings. But in hindsight, that is not as bad as it seemed. I have been introduced to some great authors and the analyzing of their plays, books, and poems has become interesting. Probably the most enjoyable part is the reading of the authors' biographies; they have such varied personalities and many of them have very interesting lives. Originally, I assumed that everything these authors wrote is a masterpiece and that only those with a "gift" could write such stories. A1tho~gh I still believe that these people possess special talents, the more that I read about different authors, the more human these "gifted" writers become. With only a few exceptions, my interest in writing increased with each book I read. It is very possible that none of my writings will ever be viewed by anyone except myself, but for me, that is acceptable. In fact, some of my writings are for me and me alone. One thing that I have discovered is that the more I write, the more 5 that I want to write. Nothing I do seems to satisfy me; there are so many imperfections in every line and sometimes modifications seem to make it even worse. So why do I write? Do I want to become another Homer, Shakespeare, Hemingway, London, or Lawrence? Yes, that would be very nice, but that is not the main reason I write. Basically, I am conceited enough that I want to see my thoughts in print. It is not that these thoughts are important or that they will change the world for the better, but they are of value to me. If nothing else, they are a chronological recording of my ability to think and . put my thoughts into written words. It allows me to see, analyze, and refine these thoughts. 6 Up and Down Kurt Cleeter Sometimes it does not take much to cause the brain cells to begin activity. One day last summer while I was roaming around a shopping center, I saw two women talking, and as I went past them, one of them said, "I'm going up north to visit my parents this weekend." The other one replied, "You should do that. Family is very important. I went down south to visit my brother a couple of weeks ago." Although some people might say that their speech may not have been grammatically correct, it did illustrate how people think about "up" and "down." There can be no dispute that what is "up" to one person, may be "down" to another. A man sitting on a chair may look down at his bulging stomach, but a child may look up to see it. Most of us accept that "up" is in the direction of the sky and "down" is in the direction of the Earth . Now, "up north" and "down .south" is another matter. Many people, at least in the northern hemisphere, have the attitude that traveling north is "up hill" and traveling south is "down hill." It is easy to understand this feeling, since all globes and maps have north at the top and south at the bottom. Everyone knows that top is up and bottom is down. Just for ease of explanation, forget that the Earth's axis is inclined about twenty three and a half degrees and imagine that the North Pole is at the exact top . A person standing there could consider everything "down south." But what about the person standing on the South Pole? Is everything "up north?" This seems to be a contradiction because if he digs a hole down \n the ground and goes all the way to the North Pole, he has gone down to get up to the North. As I said, it does not take much to get the brain to begin thinking. But going down to go up, what will they think of next? 7 To Do Something Do Something this day to give happiness to someone whose joys may be few give someone support to help him drive away his sadness or make someone's dreams come true make time for a neighborly greeting, time to delight and converse with a friend always remember my fellow classmates the days are fleeting and life's latest day will soon come to an end inspire another and go that extra mile Do something this day, that tomorrow will prove to be worthwhile help another conquer grief and sorrow and always greet the sunrise with a smile think of the life God has given you and Do something Do something today, and put yourself to the test take a new challenge and give it your all Do something that will rise above the rest and do not give up even though you may fall everyone can appreciate living for it is only through compassion, and the giving of friendship, love, peace and cheer that we may all find the real joy of living and receive Heaven's happiness here. -Neil Clayton 8 Engagement Pierce the infinite circle of gold, crowned by the fractured cutting stone. Beams of bouncing light through the pnsms, outward to the eye and inward to the heart. It is a siren's call, but fated to avoid the slated shore and safely embrace the harbor's sand. He gasps his last breath of loneliness, then falls, no jumps into the comfort of an elusive destiny. -Brian Sweany The Dance Floor The radiant bride walked up the aisle, dress Rowing. The Rower girl smiled Pink petals dropped to the Roor Each one represenbng a special moment. time spent together A new life A new understanding. The bride looked into her husband's eyes, understanding. Love Rowing. A chance at life. They smiled Joining hands together They walked out onto the dance floor. They held on to one another and glided across the dance floor Her father, understanding. Realizing that they would no longer be together. But love is ever flowing. Artd he smiled. As he let his little girl grow up and take on a new life. Her mother cried, as her daughter left her old life She couldn't bear to stay on the dance floor. Wishing she hod smiled. The flower girl nodded, understanding. The tears ever flowing. The held on together. What did it mean to be together? 10 What would be their new life? Peace ever fbwing? It seemed as if everyone had left the dance Roor They felt a new understanding. For true friendship brings forth a change in life. Everyone was leaving the dance floor. Love is ever fbwing. Time took its toll. but she soli smiled. They were apart. but yet they would always be together. The frail old woman nodded. understanding. 11 A Vision A vision sets the spirit free. The eagle flies. A boy no longer, a man he will be. A child screams. His parched throat letting out the horrid cries, as a vision sets the spirit free. Discovering his true destiny. A howling wolf, snarling teeth ... trembling, living with lies. A boy no longer, a man he will be. Flowing blood, wretched dreams. Dark and sinister skies. A vision sets the spirit free. The corrupted paradise of the garden of Eve. He lets out his last cry. A boy no longer, a man he will be. Living with memories. Rising above a distant childhood-The eagle flies. A vision sets the spirit free. A boy no longer, a man he will be. -Jennifer Bola 12 Kitchen Silence on Sunday Night Sipping eucalyptus tea I stand in the Wooden-floored flat. My son sleeps deeply . Curled under animat printed blankets; My wife's glass of wine Still half full on the table. Outside, even time has fallen And frozenAs only the moonlight Bounces on the graves of summer. -Derek Witte Kite Strings Kerri Leffier Daddy had been promising me for weeks that some Sunday afternoon we would go to the park, and when the day finally arrived, he brought a kite. I had never flown a kite before, but Daddy said he knew all about it, and that once you knew how it was smooth sailing from there. I laughed at Daddy, he was so smart, and I thought about how I'd be just like him when I grew up. When we got to the park, Daddy let me carry the kite while he blew cigarette smoke into the air to test the wind. He said it would be a good day to fly a kite. Then he said that every day was a good day if you liked it enough. I thought of how much Daddy liked to have a drink everyday. We carefully tied the kite to a ball of string. We tied it extra tight so we wouldn't lose it. Daddy told me you just have to be smarter than the kite . and it would be easy to control. Then he popped open another can of beer. Finally, it was time to fly the kite. He said we would throw it up into the air, start running, and if we were lucky the wind would catch it. That reminded me of the times Mommy told me to leave Daddy alone because he had a stomach ache and was throwing up. So we threw and we ran, but the kite kept falling back to the ground. Daddy had a lot of jobs back then. He would say they were keepers, but then he would lose them. Now Daddy was determined to make the kite fly. He ran and ran, until finally it worked. The kite was flying, but then he didn't see the tree. I saw it, but I knew that Daddy knew what he was doing. Then he gave up. He just let the kite stay in the tree. He was tired of fighting it, he said, just like he did after he lost his last job. Daddy and I didn't go to the park for a long time 14 after that. Not until today. I brought a kite along with us. Dad made it fly on his first try. It flew so high we could barely see it in the sunshine. Dad said you may not see it, but you can always feel it pulling. He enjoyed it for a long time, and then asked me if I wanted a turn. I said sure. So he expertly reeled it in, handed it to me, and then opened a fresh bottle of Evian. I took the kite, got it to fly like he had shown me years before, and the next thing I knew it was stuck in a tree. Dad said it was okay, we could try again some other time. He told me I have plenty of time to learn. And as we walked back to the car, I thought I could see some old kite strings tangled in the branch next to my kite, and I thought about how Dad had already taught me everything about flying kites that I ever needed to know. 15 16 The Fatherly Rose A wilted rose bush lies upon the ground, fading back into the place of its birth. Its life snuffed out by the early frost, breathing br but a moment on this earth. Gone are its leaves, its petals, its roots; No longer br other creatures can it provide. Invigorating the world with not only external attraction, but beauty as well inside. Why must this rose die so young, a victim of unseasonable cold? Was not its wonderful life to shine longer, only to pass when it finally grew old? The seedlings which the rose protected, now little flowers in the world alone. No great rose to encourage them, nourish them, watching how they have grown. Yet it is within the seedlings power to suNve, prey to the cold they will not fall. This strength stems from the fact that a piece of the rose exists within them all. And as the rose rests silent among its children, this is not in anyway the end, The wind-blown seedlings gesture not" goodbye, " but "until we meet again. " They say a rose's beauty fades-away in the winter, when from this world it does part. I say the beauty of a rose can be eternal when remembered with your heart. Dedicated to the memory of my father . -Brian L. Sweany 17 The Motherly Rose The fatherly rose lived br but a short, wondrous time, only to then pass away. It is said that its companion rose began to wilt, only to grow two ~t that same day. It grew to be even more beautilll, compensating br its loss. It strived to protect its seedlings, no matter what the cost. Only a short time since the fatherly rose from the garden was tom And yet there sprang the seedlings- now young plants, renewed and reborn. The rose never brgot her companion, as she overcame pain and strife. She will honor his memory with hope and love, and a new and different life. Dedicated to my mother, Diarma L. Sweany. Her strength and love inspires me . -Brian L. Sweany Common Desires We have desired knowledge beyond nonnality, We have desired A's on tests. We have desired wealth beyond riches, We have desired money to buy a new pair of shoes. We have desired to buy a new pair of shoes. We have desired power beyond all kings, We have desired the power to speak our thoughts. We have desired a love that would last a lifetime, We have desired that a date -gone-wrong last no longer. We have desired looks and beauty to seize the eye of the beholder forever, We have desired someone to simply say that we look nice today. We have desired an end to the never-ending search for happiness, We have desired a story with a happy ending. We have desired an answer to the question, "'Does God really exist?" We have desired an answer to the question, "'What's for dinner today?" We have desired immortality, a drink from the K>lllltain of youth, We have desired for our hair not to turn gray when we get older. We have desired colllldess friendships that will last K>rever, We have desired someone just to listen to our troubles over the telephone. We have desired to know if there are little green men out there who are wondering if we're out there, too. We have desired to know why dogs and cats don't get 19 along. We have desired streets without crime around every comer, We have desired answers to where the universe began, We have desired answers to why time flies when you're having ftm. We have desired an end to death, no such thing as disease, We have desired a cure br the common cold. We have desired not to have to fight a war in search br peace, We have desired not to have to fight the bully down the street. We have desired the good without the bad. We have desired the joy without the tears. -Gregory Scott Beasley 20 Wornout Faith The united circles broken by that timeless truth, Though their union had been sanctified by a child. Never so unleashed pains as of that night When blurred eyes saw no reconciliation. Rings once bonded by matrimony now separate at the sight of his wife's unknown desires. Two bodies clashing for mortal desire, Yet no shame until the revelation of truth When love and honesty must separate though slightly gathered for the sake of the child Who does not understand the need for reconciliation. Who wants the comfort of mommy and daddy tonight. But he still wonders how many unfaithful nights Did she give herself for some other man's desires. Rage predicts no hope of reconciliation No need to wonder for one night revealed the truth. Hold the ears and cover the eyes of the child as the family she knows forcefully separates. Sleep child, daddy's denial forbids his heart to separate And maybe kisses can get him through the night And maybe this is all a dream so sleep child. Bed full, yet empty from the two is marital desire. Though side by side denial can not hide the 21 truth. There would never be a reconciliation. Her guilt left her without reconciliation, But from her lover's side she could not separate. Whether it was love or not does not change the truth Of all that was revealed in the act of that night When reason was outweighed by desire And memory could not recall a husband or child. Guilt alone remembered her precious child And tears pounced for their reconciliation As the mother-child bond separated. No begging eyes or words could end the night when wrong felt right and lies were the truth. Despite love, without reconciliation they must separate And marriage between man, woman, and child ended that night When desire led her and revealed the timeless truth. -Annette Roberts 22 Dysfunctional I've I've I've I've seen the desecration of the Holocaust, gaped into the lives of victims, watched earthquakes tear families, experienced the AI OS patient and his symptoms. No man will give that bum some change. I've noticed many walk by that cardboard home. I've glared at those self-righteous who say he is lazy, a spendthrift, a drifter, leave him alone. I've pierced the eyes of the judgmental, and sought to sew my own eyes. Knowing I cannot watch another gulf take lives, or let oil spills be covered by lies. Dysfunctional leaks from my words. Society, families, my family, meHas it come to my sacred ground? Rooted its salt in my family tree? I caught a glimpse of all of you that run. My eyes followed, but my feet kept like stone. Carbon monoxide may release you from the race yet your voice is nothing but a dramatic groan. A quick glance and I see blood, yet I peer to find the rush oozing up my spine The odors of being dysfunctional linger Yet I walk away from the fin~ line. - Annette Roberts 23 It's Just Me ... The biting cold, the smacking wind, All I can feel is the leathery touch of the basketball in my hand, All I can see is the goal, All I can hear is the thunderous pounding of my heart, It's like a drug, With a never..ending addiction. There's nothing on earth like this addiction, My shot may be affected by the wind, But there's nothing more satisfying than this drug, I hold the entire world in my hand, A feeling of being overwhelmed with joy fills my heart, It's just me, the ball, and the goal. The sweetest sound is that of the ball going through the goal, Some say it's like a job, I say it's an addiction, A burning feeling in my heart, The smell of the wild wind, A combustion of feelings as the ball leaves my hand, Yes! It's a total high, similar to a drug. I know it's like a drug, The sight of the goal, Sends shivers through my body, ies a total addiction To something I can't control. I crave the feeling of the ball in my hand I can feel the bitter cold wind, 24 But there's an overbearing warmth in my heart. Those who don't feel it in their heart, Will never understand the undying need for this drug, The feeling is wild, like the wind, There's nothing around me except the goal, The sound of the ball going through the net is such an addiction, That I ling for that time of the day when the world is in my hand. As soon as the ball hits my hand, I'm not playing with my body, it's all my heart, My heart and soul are in a state of total addiction, To the helplessness I endure while under this drug, I look up and see nothing but the goal, And feel nothing but the wind. The wind in my face, the ball in my hand, I see the goal, and feel the pounding of my heart, I crave the drug, and live for the addiction. -Cindy Trefz 25 Stepping Stones The Stepping Stones of love Are sometimes small While others are large; Some are side journeys Others, dead ends. But with each new stone, I learn more Of others, Of myself, Of relationships. Some never really begin, Some seem to never end . As one is too lengthy, Others are simply too short; Some are just right At that time. But through the latter, Grueling days, You thank God That He Intervened. Stepping Stones slowly fonn Life's pathway. 'Mthout a stone, Standing In the stream Watching the trickles Flow on. Hope will rekindle As the next Stepping Stone Makes Its presence known. llme Is continuous As Is the Inevitable stream And the beautiful, precious Stepping Stones. -Stacey Clevenger 26 27 Special Thanks to: DuplicatinglLarry Steeb & Joe Doyle It is with much delight that we hand over our keyboard and stapler to next year's editors, Lisa Homer and Derek Witte. We would like to wish them the best of luck. -April and Stephanie The deadline for the Fall edition of Fioretti is the October 13th. Please start thinking about short stories, poems, or drawings you would like to submit.  ...

... ,,'r"\;'1'-: ~"' ,~ A Literary Antho(o9Y Volume 52 Number 1 1993-94 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana Staff EDITORS/ April Duff and Stephanie Fort ADVISOR! Sr. Stella Gampfer, O.S.F. . Special Thanks To Duplicating! Larry Steeb and Joe Doyle Technical Assistance/ Dave Shumate Artistic Assistance/ Dr. Anne Reaves 2 Contents SWEATSHIRTS IN THE FALLIDerek Witte 4 THE PASSAGElNick Schanz 5 ON WITH THE SHOW/Corey Cleary 6 UNTITLEDlEileen Nyikos 8 VERSED IN YOUTHINick Schanz 9 HAIKU/Drew Appleby II SERAPHIMIDerek Wi tte 12 LOVERS/Greg Knipe 19 MOUNT PENNIDerek Witte 20 BADGER/Larry Atwood 21 DO YOU REMEMBER ONCE?/Greg Knipe 28 REST CONTENT/James Johnson 29 Sweatshirts In The Fall Derek Witte Caffeine Buzz. Should I call that girl, or go to bed. Yesterday, I wanted a tattoo, Today, I went for a walk-The cold wind, and falling leaves Smiled in my head. 4 The Passage Nick Schanz The leaves cycle silently up and then down softly sinking like the colors of the setting autumn sun. The stillness breaks as the trees slowly sway crackles and creeks yield echoes through the mid-morning day. Under the frost of the brisk morning dawn twisted and curled are the blossoms that soon will be dead and gone. 5 On With the Show Corey Cleary As 'I sit in this plain, dull, empty room I watch the sun setting across the horizon with the beautiful red-orange surrounded by a golden yellow with the glimmer of the sun actually appearing as the though it were setting on the edge of the earth. It reminds me of the leaves softly flowing towards the ground, and when they land, life doesn't end. Suddenly, life has a complete warmth like the sensational feeling of "love," though I don't believe in love. Life had played a game with me, a very cruel game. When I was growing up, I was led to believe that I was meant to travel due to my father's yearly moving, but now I see my error. I remember when I was a teenager (about 19), I spent a lot of time with a beautiful young lady named Erin. I more than enjoyed her company and the completeness she seemed to bring to my life. We would take walks in the park, see movies, go fishing, skiing, and do many other things, sometimes spending weekends or weeks together. Life seemed to fall in place like the final piece in a puzzle. One day she came to me and told me she needed to talk, so I took a few moments and sat down to prepare 6 myself for a big break-up. "Mike," she said, "I'm changing jobs because I have found what I've been looking for." I thought this was great-until she told me that this would limit our time together, but I figured if we cared enough for each other, it could still work. I did not realize she meant seeing me one day a week when she would stop by the bowling alley and try to catch me up on her last week's events. Eventually, we both agreed it was useless. We didn't even try to keep in touch. She went her way, and I went back to the road, the way my daddy taught me. She became a corporate executive; I read about her in the paper this morning. I discovered what my daddy was trying to tell me all along: "love," money, and time all go hand-in-hand. I felt love was a fallacy: a theory only, I thought, and never really existing. With each city I encountered, I found it more and more evident. Now, I sit staring out the window of an apartment two stories above the close-minded, cruel, unaware world, just waiting for the words that will link these images to paper and allow me to close the window of my mind. 7 Untitled Eileen M. Nyikos There are long, dreary days when all of the injustices of the world seem to be thrust on my doorstep. They blink and scream annoyingly, a reminder that all is nowhere close to being right. These injustices, these wrongs, tear at the seams holding my sanity together and dare me to find some hope. Then, there seems to be a lighter tint to the grey sky. The blinking dulls, and the screaming ceases. All that is left is a little person. A person with hands that will someday join a nation, and eyes that will not judge by color, sex, or religion. The heart in this person encompasses all that is good and decent in the world. And in this heart is the capacity to love all creatures that exist upon the surface of the earth; all creatures that exist in places unknown. This person, this child, smiles widely at me, and in that smile I see that all of the wrong in the world can not ever compete with this entity. For in this child's sparkling eyes lie the answers. Versed in Youth Nick Schanz He started down the wooden stairs Pausing, looking once, and then again Through the blue drenched sky Past the unwrapped white birch trees To the rolling hills, where his eyes stay Fixed on his children playing a hide and seek game. Thinking of his days of lighthearted games, Of coasting down the banister of the curved stairs, Wildly running about when mother allowed a friend's stay. Waking by the morning light to begin the process again . Climbing father's apple trees And then reclining in the green grass in view of the sky. What happened to the days of climbing trees beneath the sky? When did the countless days stop in the fields playing games. Was it the day father cut down the apple trees? Or the day mother caught him on the rail of the curved stairs? Though it doesn't matter, he feels a rush of youthfulness again. But then it quickly fades, for it cannot not stay. Melanie tugs at his fingers, to show she wants to stay Near her occupied father. "Why are you looking at the sky? What are you looking for?" she asks again. "Oh, just watching May and Amy playa hide and seek game." Melanie places her hands on the window near the stairs. "Where do you see them?" He points, "Near the trees." As May quickly hides with Dusty behind the bent birch tree Trying to teach the restless dog to stay, 9 Amy sees Melanie and him standing in the window near the stairs. She waves her fragile hand, bringing it up into the immense sky. To make sure they see, she waves it higher once again. He watches as they continue their hide and seek game. The reminders of carefree living and playful games, Of long afternoons spent on the branches of the apple trees, They are shining reflections of the past lived again. As they walk back to the brown colored house, they stay Close to the white birch trees that branch far into the sky, Giving a closer view from the top of the stairs. Time is constantly passing, never wanting to stay For long, replaced by the sudden future, vast as the sky And innocent as the children standing near the stairs. 10 Blizzard from the north The barn's weathervane frozen Its duck flying south Drew Appleby II Seraphim Derek Witte The clinking of mugs and plates, the hum of intellectual conversation, the warm smell of pastries and coffee swirled around my head. I love coffee shops, brilliant smells, and aromatic thoughts, college professors, students, and travellers like me sitting around tables arguing the values of socialism or the interesting thesis of Dr. So and So. Graham and I were only in town for the night, and we had a mission. We were sipping cappucinos and waiting for the well-read, eloquent, beautiful co-eds that frequent such establishments. It isn't that we were incapable of political conversation, or philosophical discourse-we'd argued for the leftists and pondered metaphysical laws of being as much as any mid-western highschool senior; however, we were young and inexplicably driven to seek women in any situation. We sat near the large, glass counter filled with exotic cakes and puffs, our backs to the wall, our eyes sweeping over the conglomeration of characters. Every time the door whined open, we whipped our heads around. 12 "Check her out," I said. "She is beautiful, but she's gay." "What do you mean? She's gorgeous." "She's a gorgeous lesbian. Look, her legs are unshaven, she's not wearing any make up ..... " "So, she's environmentally conscious, a granola person, one with the earth," I pleaded. "Look at the way she's talking with that woman across the table. They're having a lover's quarreL" He was right. I was naive, I guess, or selfish. "She's still beautiful," I sighed. To say we were superficial would be partially accurate. We were dealing with the superficial reality of male, female physical attraction, but that doesn't mean we weren't capable of operation on a deeper level. Few females have had a behind-the-scenes view of men engaged in the natural ritual of surveying women, and I imagine those who have were frightened and sickened. "How about her, by that Dali print?" "She's a mother," I remarked, sipping my iced double-cap. 13 "So what?" I frowned. . "What about Mrs. Robinson?" he asked. I smiled. I always did identify with Benjamin Braddock. We stopped talking, and watched. People milled around the counter waiting to buy flavored coffee drinks and over-priced cookies. Outside, the sun released its last burst of light before sinking below the campus skyline. We'd been in the cafe for nearly an hour, and we thought about leaving because we had to wake up early the following morning. We were just passing through University life as if it were a giant, interactive, robotic museum exhibit. We weren't going to pierce the skin of that pulsating college night, and we decided to realize it. Then, the door opened, and two seraphim floated in. "There they are," Graham whispered. "I know." They were dark .and beautiful. ::.. "I'm in love," Graham stated dreamily. "Man, they're probably in college. We don't stand a chance." 14 "I'm in love," he repeated. "With which one?" I asked. "I don't care, chief." On a cushion of air they strode to the grand counter,and ordered two cups of the day's coffeeColumbian Antigua. They gently landed at the table adjacent to our own, between us and the giant picture window in front. They were infinitely more beautiful up close. They both had beautiful black hair, cut a few inches below the ears, dark brown eyes, and large, sensuous lips. They didn't wear make-up to cloud their purity, and they were wrapped in coats and sweaters that I imagined to be those of fledgling poets. Graham stared at me. "I know," I mouthed. "What should we do, besides stare with jaws open that is?" "I don't know," I answered under my breath. We watched girls all the time. We even entertained thoughts of speaking to some on a couple of occCisions, but in the face of such daunting beauty, we were useless. 15 For the next thirty minutes we listened to our hearts beat, and played first lines in our heads. I came close to actually speaking to them once, but my heart began to beat so fast, I was afraid I might explode all over their table. I looked at Graham as if he were my fellow victim lashed to the desert floor under a blinding sun. They looked at us twice, but we were nailed to our seats-men of words not actions. Our hearts sank when they stood up and headed for the door. "We have to do something," I said, trying to convince myself. "I know. I won't be able to sleep tonight if we let them walk away." "Let's go." So without a plan, and no tool but determination, we overcame our fears, and bravely marched outside. We glanced down the street, expecting our goddesses to have returned to their parallel universe. They had not. They were twenty feet from the front door, illuminated from above by a street lamp, staring at us. As if hypnotized, we rhythmically walked towards them, and soon stood face-toface. Every novel about love, every second-rate high 16 school movie, every female encounter story told by peers, raced through our minds. "Hi, you guys go here?" Graham asked, to clear things up immediately. They looked at each other, and then down, all the while shuffling their feet. "We don't," I said. "Oh, neither do we. We're in highschool," they giggled. The one on the left asked us where we were from. She had a thicker build, but was in no meaning of the word, fat. She had high cheekbones, large breasts, and a beautiful form. I glanced at Graham. He had targeted the one on the right, as I had the one on the left. Graham's girl was of the same stock, yet slight, and with a sharp face. We exchanged essentials, and other interesting facts. Words were flowing smoothly, and our confidence was doubling with every moment. We learned that the girls were half Dutch and half Cherokee Indian. They lived in Pinconning, cheese capitol of Michigan, and were headed to college the following year. After smiling at one another for a while, I I7 suggested that we walk. It was a model college town, a slice of Manhattan. We wandered by foreign language bookstores, record s~ops, and a late night showing of Citizen Kane . Angela, the thicker beauty, and I walked several paces ahead of Graham and Maria. Angela's dark hair gently fell over part of her face, and her exposed visage shone subtly like a crescent moon. She wore a thick brown coat that hung around her like a big blanket. "This is a wonderful night," I said without doubt. "Yes," she said, "it is warm and the sky is clear." Lovers Greg Knipe I remember our moments together in sunlight: splashing in puddles like children, our first kiss, the night you held me close and whispered in my ear. You were young, and fresh, yet your eyes shone with age old wisdomwhat was it you saw? Were we fated to love? Have I held you before, whispered your name through melancholy ages? Perhaps we have met, even loved, before. When I first looked deep into your eyes, perhaps I found an old friend there. 19 Mount Penn Derek Witte A little warrior pushing to the top. Small legs are spinning circles to the sky. He does not cry or think to brake and stop, But searches on for wings that sprout and fly. As those who look upon a painting new, Yet see a smiling face instead of art, The empty men see but the winning few, Forgetting him who burned blood from the start. But to the Spartan boy they are cold stoneHe struggles only for two love-tied souls: The driven self and his life's architect. Thus, when across the finish line he rolls, To see the man with clapping hands, erect, His sweat-soaked arms, raised tall in victory Not for all men, just for his dad to see. 20 Don't Pet the Badger L. Atwood Once upon a time there lived a quiet and industrious badger named Mortis B. One day, sitting on the riverbank briskly combing his pelt for those pesky little nettsuds that made life so charmingly irritating, he glanced up just as three abysmally large nettsuds broke through the tangled underbrush. "Oh fine," he muttered, "just when I'd gotten used to the last batch, they've mutated again. If they keep growing so beastly I won't be able to carry them at all." He eyed them askance, hoping their oblivious stares were the real thing. Their heads turned toward Mortis B. as though t he cabbage-shaped things were swive l-mounted to their bodies. Their eyes locked on Mortis B. and they blinked in unison. Keeping him directly in their line of sight because t hings they couldn't see had no existence, they trod stealthily nearer. The hackles rose on his neck and his anger flared. "Dare no more to trod stealthily nearer!" he roared in his most fearsome badger-voice. "Nettsuds are the bane of my existence-begone!" "Shall we throw caution to the winds?" asked Williby, for such was its name, of the others. "Caution shall we to the winds throw," re21 sponded the second, Wallaby. "Wind me some caution and I shall spurtl" -:exclaimed the third, Wannabe, in a bombastic frenzy. Mortis B. heard the door of doom squeak. They sidled closer, sniffling and humphing, redolent with the early stages of terminal flatulence. "Shall we pursue our purpose posthaste?" Williby asked of the others. "Posthaste shall we our purpose pursue," answered Wallaby. "Posthole me a porpoise and I shall spout," shouted Wannabe, overcome with mindless glee. "Egad," murmured Mortis, "they come apace. Should I run for cover? No, they'll scurry after me upon their nimble and disgusting tentacles. Should I pretend not to see them? Never works. Should I heap praise and flowers upon them for being so kind as to visit my bit of the riverbank in order to continue their idle fermentation? No, nettsuds thrive on that, like waving rotten meat at a stampede of roaches. Ahh ... I'm lost ... woe ... wo ... wait ... if I play dea ... " With that the wily badger thrashed about in a paroxysm of severe chest pain, at last sinking into comfortable (and apparently dead) repose on a cushion of leaves. 22 The three lumbering nettsuds warily approached. Williby ever so gently prodded the supine badger with a sharp pointed stick. Mortis ground his teeth. Again he felt the stick probe his ribs and as it was yanked out he plopped into the softly spreading pool of his own blood. "Please, oh great Badger-God," he pleaded, "please give me strength lest I smite down these senseless oafs with the wrath of my angry retribution." Mortis always talked like that when his rage welled up from within. The three nettsuds stood looking down at the lifeless badger. They would have been filled with sadness, but that was beyond them. They would have been filled with remorse, but that was beyond them. They would have been filled with endless grief, but that was beyond them. They would have been happy to be filled with anything, but they didn't know how to hold it. They always tried to keep it in their hands so they could show everyone else who wasn't interested and it always slid through their fingers like silky strands of silvery blobbing mercury. Very often, this was enough for them. They smiled like brainless children. They chortled with glee, 23 they sang a song of sixpence. But mostly they just endlessly smiled, lobotomized lemmings that they were. They stood hulking over the badger, mewling over his glossy black fur and fascinated by the bright redness spreading beneath him. Mortis B. cursed them in his heart of hearts. "Damn nettsuds," he swore, "won't give a body a moment's peace." Williby knelt ove r the badger, reaching out to touch its shoulder. Wallaby snatched Williby's hand back while Wannabe beshat himself in the feverish excitement of the moment. "Must we not wake him from his slumber?" asked Williby. "From slumber wake him must we not," answered Wallaby. "My lumber must awake and I shall spurt!" wailed Wannabe, joyfully thumping himself into oblivion. Mortis cocked one eye open and surveyed the hovering nettsuds. He felt a pleasing anguish spread over him. It was a warm feeling and it softened his heart toward the vile nettsuds. He moved slightly, lifting himself up. "Stop peeing ... stop peeing, he's alive!" blurted Williby. Wallaby and Wannabe recoiled in amazement. Mortis rose, standing in a yellowish pool of steaming urine, and bleeding nicely from the 24 wound under his ribs. "You cursed swine," he began, as he caught a whiff of the stench rising from his besotted fur. Williby, Wallaby, and Wannabe cowered in dismay. Mortis B. scowled, "What ... what is it you want?" Williby looked at Wallaby and Wannabe. Wallaby looked at Williby and Wannabe. Wannabe looked at Williby and Wallaby. They all looked down. "What am I gonna have to do here?" The nettsuds were all still looking down. They thought they were looking deep inside themselves. They thought they were pondering the mysteries of the universe. They 'thought they could see the answer key to all questions lying at the bottom of their souls. Actually they were just looking down at the muddy ground. They felt unspeakably large and grand. Mortis B. waited for their answer. There , was no point in talking further. He waited. Then he waited some more. It began to look like waiting was what these nettsuds did best. Storm clouds gathered, yet the nettsuds stood there, shifting back and forth, shuffling their feet, gazi,ng knowingly into the distance and seeing 25 nothing, shutting their eyes and marvelling at the same deep nothing inside. Mortis B. feared that these nettsuds would be content to cool their nasty little tentacles here for eternity. The trouble was that he lived here and he really didn't relish the idea of having three nettsuds constantly in his front yard doing their imitation of Ponderosa pines. The nettsuds swayed gently in the wind. Mortis B. watched them bobbing to and fro, seemingly anchored to this spot, unmovable and unmoved. He looked into the face of each one, hoping, to discern some sign of intelligent life. One had a wistful, faraway, cloudy look. One had a vacant, rabid, grinning stare. One looked perplexed and confused. Taken all together, it was no Mt. Rushmore. Mortis B. threw up his paws in despair. Perhaps the best course would be to move on to greener pastures after aiL He got his things out of his mudhole and as he passed the petrified nettsuds one last time, he heard the gentle squeak of a flatulate conception. "Ah, aromatic essence," whispered Williby. "Oh, essence of aroma," murmured Wallaby. "Effluvia of the gods, be26 hold!" ranted Wannabe. Mortis B. looked back. And then he left the three tottering nettsuds standing as silent sentinels of the deserted riverbank. 27 Do You Remember Once? Greg Knipe Do you remember once When I told you of my secret place; a place where a man could think or weep or make love and be secluded from all but his own heart? The creek has washed away the shore where once I skirted precariously to reach the hidden paththe trees have taken it over, even if I chose to wade; You can't get there from here. The lawns of rolling green I used to roam now boast a soccer field, with tan and clean-limbed youths to sport, and play, and prove their manhood. I, shirtless, sit and think of them, wilen they were me. 28 The rushing creek, once my guide, my beacon, now tumbles past me uselessly. The days of youth and glory now are gone, leaving me awash, adrift in a sea of memory; a ship without an anchor, a soul without a mate. Rest Content James Johnson Spirit you refused to know of me. I gave you what you want. You complain all is superficial, But that is what you asked. Three points, then I was not to speak on. I feel, but will not speak. There is something there needs sharing, Hope you heal it quick. Though your parents cast you off, I was there to go with you. But now I am the one who is not your friend? And you will not see me alone? Christmas is a special time, Unlike Halloween. Things I have to give You would like to have. But better than all these things, I give you what you want. You may rest content, You are left alone. 29  ...

... Fioretti Staff Co-editors Jennifer Miller Claudia Struewing Assistant Editors April Duff Stephanie Fort Advisor Sf. Stella Gampfer, O.S.P. Artistic IJesi9n Claudia Struewing Thanks to Larry Steeb Joe Doyle 2 Fioretti Ta6Ce Of Contents Up & Down Kurt Cfeeter Fringe Dyfan Roahrig Clerihews Mark Ha[[ Madonna James Goe6ef Nick Shanz Dan Zief insk i Afex SWifden Masfow Appfe6y Kerri Lefffer Kerri Lefffer Stranded on Xernu Mary Jackson As Time Goes By Jennifer Bohfer Kerri Lefffer Breaking the Habit Lost in Life Nick Gfikis It's Just Another Day The Shameless Night Jennifer BohLer Jennifer Bohfer Enlightening Experience Corey Cfeary Redwoods II Jennifer Bohfer Greg Waning Cordi Kroeger Mysterious Yellow Rain Berlin 3 Fioretti Up and Down by Kurt Cleeter Sometimes it does not take much to cause the brain cells to begin activity. One day last summer while I was roaming around a shopping center, I saw two women talking, and as I went past them, one of them said, ''I'm going up north to visit my parents this weekend." The other one replied, "You should do that. Family is very important. I went down south to. visit my brother a couple of weeks ago." Although some people might say that their speecl~ may not have been grammatically correct, it did illustrate how people think about "up" and "down." There can be no dispute that what is "up" to one person, may be "down" to another. A man sitting on a chair may look down at his bulging stomach, but a child may look up to see it. Most of us accept that "up" is in the direction of the sky and "down" is in the direction of the Earth. Now, "up north" and "down south" is another matter. Many people, at least in the northern hemisphere, have the attitude that traveling north is "up hill" and traveling south is "down hill." It is easy to understand this feeling, since all globes and maps have north at the top and south at the bottom. Everyone knows that top is up and bottom is down. Just for ease of explanation, forget that the Earth's axis is inclined about twenty-three and a half degrees and imagine that the north pole is at the exact top. A person standing there could consider everything "down south." But what about the person standing on the south pole? Is everything "up north?" This seems to be a contradiction because if he digs a hole down in the ground and goes all the way to the north pole, he has gone down to get up to the north. As I said, it does not take much to get the brain to begin thinking. but going down to go up; what will they think of next? 4 . . Fioretti Damn this sprin9 wind! ForcefuC as it is jra9rant, BCowin9 throu9h the hair of pert youn9 9irCs, Ceavin9 behind onCy the smeU of their perfume. LoudCy I pCay the music, ye t onCy the wind I hear. Let me Cisten to the music and truCy hear! ALas, it caUs forth that seductive, distractin9 wind, A mere bird's son9 to others, but in my head a heCCisfi music. ALert am I to its caU, thou9h findin9 it Cess jra9rant, I no Conger sense the presence, on its breath, of perfume. No more does it pass throu9h the hair of youn9 9irCs. . I turn quick[y round the room at the sound of those 9irCs. Is that their innocent Cau9hter that I hear? CouCd that be the scent of their perfume? Do they brin9 a softer wind? Are the flowers they brin9 more jra9rant? CouCd I e~perience once a9ain their thriUin9 music? "Never a9ain/ answers the Cecherous music. It is the music of primitives that is unknown to youn9 9irCs. It is a[[urin9. It is appeaCin9 and jra9rant, forcin9 me forward, its true nature to hear. I cCaw my eyes, no Conger seein9 the damage of the wind, yet I stiU smeCC it Caden with perfume. 5 Fioretti of the youn9 9irCs and their sweet perfume. dream of sprin9s past and the hopefuC music. hope for redemption to come from the aCd wind. cry for the Cost innocence of the youn9 9ir(s. touch the 6Coody stumps of my ears, no (onger do T hear. smeU the air and claw my nose, the air is no (onger fra9rant. I think I I I I I On(y my touch. I cannot fee( that which is or is not fra9rant. I can oney dream, once more, of their perfume. I cannot touch that which one can oney hear. I can on(y in my head sin9 my own music. Rapture stiU! For I couCd caress the hair of youn9 9ir(s. But it is 9one, and their skin dried and cracked 6y the wind. So faint(y now I hear the oCd, innocent music. smeCC the fra9rant perfume of a thousand 9ir(s. But aU I can touch is the razor hand of the sprin9 wind. I -Dylan Roahrig 6 Fioretti The clerihew is a time-honored poetic construction that possesses a jocular mischief all its own. It consists of two couplets of irregular meter commenting upon the person named in the first line. Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) invented this form as a means of quietly exercising his mind whenever openly riotous behavior was likely to be frowned upon. --L. Atwood Mr. Mark Ha((- Stran9eT than aU. He has a 6at tackea to his aoor Ana a(so auck win9s ana more. --Nick Shanz Maaonna the queen, Boy, can she sin9! she strips just for funGee! can I fia ve one? --Dan Zielinski Ja mes GoebeL, wteraUy mo6i(e, Ena(ess[y praisea the Romantics Ana even for9ave Slie{(e1s semantics. --Alex Swifden Doctor App(eby, Professor of PsychofOtJy, Cou(a make his stuaents caU him "kin911 Usin9 cCassica( conditionin9' --Kerri Leffler 7 Fioretti Stranded on Xemu by Mary Jackson I'm trying to fmd refuge for us from the heat coming from the twin suns of the planet Alpha Minor Six. My race is called the Regals and my protector is a Corpus named Unie. I am of humanoid form and do not fight because my protector fights for me. My protector and I were separated from our section during a battle with the Axtols and Leptillians yesterday on the continent Xernu. I was wounded and could not keep up with them when they retreated. The Axtols thought I was dead as I lay still, and I motioned to Unie to stay hidden until they left. Unie and I are biologically linked. We make coenzymes that the other needs. We are totally dependent upon each other when on the battle field, but in times outside war, artificial coenzymes can be given to us. One sun sets two units of time before the other. A sun is setting now and causing the long eerie shadows before us as we slowly wander along. The flat . dusty plains are painted with deep purple and golds and rich reds. It would be beautiful if things were different. Unie is much braver than I; he is not sure that every shadow is a Leptillian ready to attack and fInish us off. I know that every step hurts him, and we both fight to keep walking as we are weakened form the heat and injuries. It will soon be time to make a blood transaction. The vegetation is brown and sparse but surprising tall, seeming to reach for the suns. It does not provide us with much shade or protection from the Axtols. I feel the end is near for us if we do not get help soon from our section. Unie brushes up against me with his feathery back and growls softly. I have been very close to him since I was a boy. I am touched by his affection and unwavering protection and loyalty. I ruffle his light green feathers and am grateful to have never seen his 8 Fioretti sharp gnashing teeth turn upon me in anger. We were raised together as a fighting team. I am the director and planner while Unie is pure fighting beast. We communicate by a series of complicated sign language and vocal sounds. Corpus can catch the wind and descend upon their prey. hovering above them while they attack. In the last few months I've seen the Leptillians. the huge. thick-skinned. and snakelike protectors of the Axtols. fight the Corpus and have seen many on both sides die. Protectors mainly fight protectors in battle. but you will be the next victim if your protector is killed or unable to defend you. Unie an I are symbionts. Without each others' coenzymes. many of our bodily reactions would not occur fast enough. and we would die. If we were unable to exchange our coenzymes form our blood supplies every eight units of time, neither of us would be able to survive during war. We were separated once before for nine units of time and I began to feel dizzy . . almost drunk. IfUnie had not shown up. we both would have gone into shock and died. Unie and I are as close as Regal and beast can be. Unie would die fighting for me, and I have often thought I would die for him as well. Mostly he listens to me, but sometimes I listen to him too. The sun is still beating down on our tired bodies. and we are getting weaker. Unie clamps his teeth onto my pant leg and pulls, almost tripping me. I respond. "Hold on; we need to find a place where we will be safe from the Axtols and those dirty Leptillians." We need about one unit of time to complete the coenzyme transaction. "Over there-behind those rocks," I say. I pull off our arm patches and snap the connectors. We lean back and sleep, feeling much better as we awake. Unie quickly runs to look around the rock, in response to a noise. It is a group of Leptillians and 9 Fioretti Axtols coming toward us . Panic shakes me as I desperately try to fight, but I indicate for him to wait. The Axtols are advancing upon us. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Leptillian spring toward Unie. "Unie!" I yell out--but it is too late. The Leptillian would have torn his throat out if I hadn't pushed the ugly creature away from my friend. Unie turns around hissing and hovers in the air above the Leptillian. The Leptillians and Axtols are moving in on us as the second sun sets and everything is covered in darkness. 10 Fioretti As Time Goes By ... You sit ane! think of me. A certain voice, particu[ar [au9h, A warm smi[e And" you think of me. Images of me A Of us Become dearer in your mind" And" a smi[e Or perhaps a tear No. No tears._ And" I am there a9ain A9ain in your arms And" in your heart A9ain in your heart A9ain I am in Cove In Cove with everythin9 verythin9 I see in you, verythin9 I fee[ for you verythin9 I know oj you. I am in Cove with you And" for that moment I am rear to you I am there... But dowry I fad"e away Leavin9 you with your memories A[one With what you knew. The smi[e dips away And" sud"e!en[y the memories 6( ur __ Ane! so you sit ane! think of me. No tears._ I am sti[[ in Cove with you._ --Jennifer Bohler 11 Fioretti Breaking the Habit by Kern Le.fj1er Several years ago on a lonely winter night a friendship was made. When I first met my friend, Sy was his name. I had no idea that we would grow to be so close. I had just picked him up for companionship during a long drive. My intentions were to abandon him after the trip. But there was something about Sy that captivated me. Something made me want to hang on to him, keep him around for a while, see where our relationship went. Soon after the trip, we began spending time together. The amount of time we shared started out small. We would get together every couple of days just to get to know each other. I only wanted to be his friend because that way I would always know that I could end things with him if I ever decided I didn't care for him. And most of the time, I didn't care for him. I would neglect him for days or weeks, and often, when we were together, there were things about him I . despised. Yet there were other things I was growing to love. These things helped forget all that I didn't like about Sy, as often happens in a friendship. Before I knew it, we were together just about all the time. When we were apart, he was all I could think about, and I longed for him. I tried to make sure that we never had to be apart. But, as my growing dependence on him developed, I could not see it. When others accused me of being dependent, I denied it. I still knew in my mind that I could leave him anytime I wanted and never look back. But at the time, I didn't want to leave him. I simply enjoyed his companionship. Sy was a great friend. When I was depressed or lonely or stressed out, he was always there to quietly reassure me. We went to parties together, on trips together; we studied together; or just laid around together. 12 Fioretti Then one day I felt that we were growing too close. I was starting to feel suffocated and scared. I decided it was time for us to part. I had to move on. and I needed to be free and independent. But every time I tried to leave Sy. he coaxed me back .. He had a grip on me that I resented. yet could not resist. For several months. I endured this stifling relationship. Then the time came for me to make a decision. Either I learned to live with him. or I left him once-and-for-all. As much as I hated it. I knew I would be better off without him. He had gained too much control over me. So. I began phasing him out of my life until the day came which I decided would be our last one together. The moment came to say good-bye. and not a word was spoken. I took him into my hand. and then placed him between my lips. crumpling up and tossing aside the package he came in. My flame licked his tip as I sucked. and then I took him back into my hand. I inhaled his cool.smoky navor.and slowly . exhaled. I repeated this process--between my lips. inhale. hold. exhale. I savored every inoment. until it was done. And at that moment I threw him down and squashed him out of my life forever. 13 Fioretti Lost in Life Doctor, Cawyer, potkoCe }iUer? No, none of tfiese. Wizard, warrior, psyckotic k.iUer? Womd someone fie[ p me, pCease? Singer, storyte[[er, perka ps a tai(or? Comd I 6e one of tfiese? Painter, writer, may6e sailor? Someone pCwse teU me, wfia t tfie fie( ( shom d I 6e? --Nick Glikis 14 Fioretti It's Just Another Day by Jennifer Bohler Steadily she watches time crawl in her final class of the week. as usual, J en has taken only a few scattered notes down in one and a half hours. Finally she closes her notebook and tucks it away in her backpack where it will no doubt stay until the next class. Walking out of the building, she participates in a bit of small talk with some of the other girls. They bring up such things as the weather, events for the weekend, and the all-around attractiveness of their witty and bizarre professor. Laughing a little, she and the others say goodbye and go their separate ways back to their rooms to prepare for the evening festivities. She says hello to any familiar faces she sees walking by as she steps into her dorm. Her first stop is her room to drop off her things and, most importantly, check her machine for messages. There is . a call from a friend, Ann, who is talking of going to a big party at another school and wants her to go. Typically, her message is about three minutes long and she is speaking at an approximate rate of one hundred words per second. Jen rolls her eyes, smiles and then walks upstairs to visit her friends. First she checks Tiffs room, then Blair's, but sees no sign of either one. Mel is her last hope and as she swings open the door, she is not too surprised to find all three of them there waiting for her. As she makes herself comfortable on Mel's bed, the usual information is exchanged. They talk little of their classes. For the most part they sit and gossip about who was with whom andwhat so-and-so was wearing. The four girls laugh a little and exchange more stories about the oddities of the day, but Jen feels herself pulling away again. She sets her dazed 15 Fioretti stare on a nearby tree outside. When she works up the energy moments later, she makes plans to meet them for dinner and then excuses herself from the room. Now she sits alone in her room. She decides not to return Ann's call and hopes that she doesn't call back. The muffled sounds of voices are gradually tuned out. Painful memories of the rape roll in like thunder preceding an ugly storm. The fear and anger she feels sends chills up her spine. She had trusted him, and he had used her trust as a weapon to manipulate her. Soft teardrops wann her chilled flesh. She remembers how vulnerable and frightened she felt. She remembers wanting to fight or to scream, but he had sucked all of her strength out of her. Her pride, her dignity, her confidence are things she struggles to feel again. The woman inside of here is fighting and is screaming, but the little girl inside is shaking from fear and lacks the strength to merely hold up her head. She is ashamed and has locked ,herself in a room of blackness. The woman cries out in a fit of rage, but all Jen can bring herself to do is hug herself gently and curl up in a ball to cry. Before long she has rocked the little girl to sleep, and she finds the strength to stand. The little girl is tucked in, and the storm has passed, hovering in the back of her mind. She picks her keys up off the dresser and opens the door to her room. As she steps out to close it, she locks the memories in behind her. There is no telling when they will haunt her again, whether it will be a month from now or tomorrow. But as she glances at her watch, she realizes that she was supposed to have met her friends for dinner at six and as usual she will be late. 16 Fioretti The Shameless Nightmare by Jennifer Bohler He wipes the salty beads of sweat from his bushy brow. The guys smile and pat each other on the back. He is psyched for the big game against their biggest rival, Higgins Wate University, on Saturday. He tucks himself into his '92 Acura Integra, a small gift from his family ... perhaps an early graduation present, though a year and a half is fairly early. He drives on through his campus of rolling, peaceful hills, smiling and waving at all of the familiar faces. The wann gentle air races through the thick black mane on top of his Roman god-like head. As he pulls into the parking lot of his colonial style donn, he gets the usual dreamy-eyed looks form the women walking to and from their classes--and as usual they go unnoticed in his modest mind. More mail awaits him as he walks to his tidy desk. Letters upon letters from universities allover the country accepting him for their graduate programs spill from his deco-file. The fact that the could go anywhere doesn't even phase him. The message light on the answering machine blinks twice. One message is from his worried mother, who wonders if he is spreading himself too thin, and one is form his fraternity asking him to help out. He gives his mother a reassuring call, tells her he's taking the night off to get some rest, only to call the fraternity and commit himself for the night to hazing timid pledges. The dried sweat has now been chiseled away after his steamy shower. He puts on a favorite CD and plops down in front of the television. Various magazines lay scattered on the coffee table, obviously the work of his laid back roommate, who has taken the week off to get "away from it all." For once in his day he is still, quiet and alone, but his mind keeps going. He is faced with the 17 Fioretti decision to drink or get stoned ... a tough choice to make. Slowly he removes himself from the couch and heads for a particular cabinet, a familiar cabinet, across the room. His bold arms pull a nearly full bottle of Jim Beam and a small Cleveland Browns shot glass from its innards. He walks back to his comfortable couch and keeps a close eye on the time, remembering his devout loyalty to his frat brothers. The first shot of whiskey goes down surprisingly rough as he recalls a horrifying memory. Angrily he slams another shot; he tries to run away. He still cannot admit what he has done to her even though it haunts him each and every time he is alone with himself. But he knows. Somewhere inside he knows that he has taken advantage of her; he knows or he wouldn't be running. She suffers now, and he wishes he could take her pain away--he wishes he could earn her respect again. But he can't, and he won't; at times like these he wonders if he can live with himself and surprisingly he can ... because he denies. The night grows on like the sorrow of a young girl's cry. The frat house never sees him. The bottle is empty except for the last drops which drip slowly onto the cold floor below. He sits like a dummy, his head tilted back and his mouth drooped open. It's a shame he'll wake up with his head like a time bomb and little traces of dried drool on the sides of his face. 18 Fioretti Mornin9 A 6(inc!in9 ni9htmare. Penpoint to spotCi9ht Sits in my eyes Con tinuousCy movin9 throu9h My retina,9ivin9 such initiaC Pain that I scream As its rays cut Throuift. my vision. --Corey Cleary 19 Fioretti Redwood's II Standin9 taU in the mornin9 sun The Redwoods never faC ter. They are aC ways stron9 and aC ways secure How I envy themFor I am 6ut a CittCe 9irC Not too qUick to make decisions Sometimes feeCin9 weak and vuJnera6Ce How I envy them. I waCk over to em6race th~ Redwood To a6sor6 its mi9htiness if I can. But I step away and reaCize How coCd it is to touch, how hardWhiCe I am warm and soft So I em6race myseCf instead. --Jennifer Bohler 20 Fioretti The Mysterious Yellow Rain by Greg Waning It was a nonnal day at the office when the phone rang and my partner Wilson picked it up. By watching his facial expression, Iculd tell that something perplexing was being discussed and would need our immediate attention. After the phone conversation, Wilson said, "Well Bill, we have ourselves a real stumper this time." As we left the office, he began expaining the next problem facing Wilson and Dunn, Scientific Investigations. Wilson began where the caller started, by saying. "Here's the situation: everytime it rains, some of the people in this area develop yellow skin blotches, that become red and irritated. Some people have a stronger reation than others." He continued, "Another problem that they are facing is that if the sun comes out immediatley after it rains, all the metal surfaces become pitted--except aluminum and chromium." After several hours of travelling, we finally knew . we had arrrived when we saw the new chemical processing plant just outside of town. Once in town we inquired as to who we should talk to, in order to gain some infonnation about the mysterious yellow rain. We contacted several individuals who complained about being afflicted with a skin condition that was a chronic problem after a rain stonn. One individual stated, "After any rain stonn that I have been exposed to recently, I wake up the next day with yellow blotches on any part of my skin that had been uncovered." He continued by saying, "I am a lucky one though, I have a relatively light reaction; the lady across the street breaks out over her entire body, whether directly exposed or not." Wilson and I then proceeded to interview the lady, and she gave the same symptoms and problems already mentioned by the caller and the man across the street. 21 Fioretti Wilson and I decided to do a little research into the exact symptoms. We wanted to fmd out if there was a prior history of this condition in this area or elsewhere around the country. After spending a couple of hours in the library, we turned up some startling clues. First, Wilson mentioned the possibility of acid rain contributing to the problem, and we agreed to look into that possibility. Another reference that I turned up concerning the yellow blotches dated back to the Second World War. The article stated that one side effect of research on nitrogen-metal alloys caused similar symptoms th~t we were encountering. The article went on to discuss possible causes but was eventually labeled "Unsolved: Inconclusive Evidence." Now that we had some possible leads, we wanted to track them down. First, we went to the local weather station and inquired about the possibility of acid rain causing the problem. The meteorologist said, ''The redness and irritation could be caus~ d by acid rain, but he yellow blotches are not a common side effect, as far as I know." . But he did give us a simple test to perform on the water to seejf there was acid present. Sure enough, when tested, the rainwater contained acid, . although when further tested the acid was not of a type that was commonly found in the local rain. After contacting the local chemical processing plant and consulting a general chemistry text, I told Wilson that the problem was solved. He was amazed that I had solved the problem so quickly while he was still baffled. I replied, "What got me thinking was that account of similar symptoms as this case when research was conducted on nitrogen-metal alloys. I remembered seeing the new chemical plant outside of town, and then I found out that one of their byproducts is a nitrogen compound. I then talked to the personnel department and found out that several of 22 Fioretti their employees had also reported skin conditions similar to the ones we noticed, especially after working with nitric acid. This accounts for why nothing substantial turned up on the acid rain test, but yet the rainwater was acidic. After consulting the chemistry text, I knew for sure that the problem was nitric acid that was getting into the rainwater." Wilson said, "But what about the rain only pitting certain metals-- and how did the nitric acid get into the air?" I replied, "Nitric acid dissolves all metals except aluminum and chromium, and the metals are only dissolved when the nitric acid has been heated up--like when the sun heats up the rainwater when it is still on metal. As for your second question, why don't we wait until tomorrow's paper." To Wilson's amazement, the paper had an article entitled "Nitric Acid Contaminates Rainwater." Further down, after mentioning, the finn of Wilson and Dunn the article read, "The escape of nitric acid into the environment was traced to a faulty filter in the new . chemical complex, which has been replaced; the whole problem is completely rectified." "Well, Wilson," I said, "I guess that wraps up another problem that we solved. Hopefully others will think of Wilson and Dunn, scientific Investigations when they have a seemingly baffling problem." 23 Fioretti u.nremova6[ej 24 Fioretti As we pass tlie stapCer to tlie Fioretti's newest editors, we wouCd fike to tliank tlie Marian Co[[ege Community for tlieir support and contri6utions. during tlie past two and a liaCf years. To ApriC and Steplianie:Happy PageMaking!!! Jenny and CCaudia 25 Fioretti The next issue of the Fioretti wi[( 6e com i11.9 out in Decem6er 1994. We Cook forward to your contri6utions incC udin9: photos, pen and ink drawin9s, dramas, short stories, and poems. 26  ...

... Fioretti Fioretti A Literary Anthology Volume 50, Number 2 1991-1992 Marian College Indianapolis, Indiana STAFF EDITORS\Jennifer Miller, Claudia Struewing PRODUCTION EDITORS\Michelle Fletcher, Noelle Gasco, l1ichelle Gobin ADVISOR\Sr. Stella Gampfer, D.S.F. Artistic Design COVER\Marianne Mitchell PHOTO\Sr. Stella Gampfer, D.S.F. NOTE:This year marks the Fioretti's golden anniversary. We appreciate all the contributions we have received especially our cover design and the uAdversarial" poem by former students Marianne Mitchell and her sister Joan Peternel. We also welcome new submissions for our next edition. Special thanks to Larry and Joe for th e ir help. CONTENTS OH SIMPLE SAINT/ Noelle Gasco 4 MIRACLE OF .LIFE/ Pamela Webb 7 ADVERSARIAU Joan Peternel 21 VENDING MACHINES/ Seymour Pane 22 BID ADIEU/ Michelle Gobin 29 UNTITLED/ Kurt Cleeter 29 A MOMENT OF A WAKENING/ John P. Zielinski 31 PAINT/ Diana Hultquist 36 MAN IN THE MIRROR! Karen Murphy 43 THE LETTER! Michelle Fletcher 44 THE CHAMBER! Noelle Gasco 55 NOVN Kristine Abel 57 OBSERVATIONS BY THE STUDY FIRE/ Nicola Rossi 62 Fioretti o SIMPLE SAINT Still he kneels patiently poised bearing a cross of heavy stone like beliefs he kept though not fast followed. His father held the doubt black doubt, that order tried to confine, shut out, his sanity of madness. His mother saw she sympathized, yet never understood just why he gave his life away to don a robe waistbound with rope. But rope he cast as line of hope into a sea of poor that they should drown no more in sorrow class created. Rose, sweet rose its thorn did shed by God's command scar not the man whose faith held fast named Francis. 4 Fioretti Like rose red temptation shed, outward cast his social class, riches borne unto him, so to lead life simply. Yet those who scorned his life did mourn upon his quiet passing, the room he died in placed inside a richly colored church. -And now near roses statue stands, bird nest in hands, for only nature sweet nature shall truly understand. Noelle Gas.co 6 ~iore"i THE MIRACLE OF LIFE Pamela A. Webb It must have been October seventh . no, it was October eighth. Yes, that was the day--the day my whole world fell apart. The morning began normally enough. My sadistic alarm clock went off at 6:30 a.m. I, of course, hit the off button as I usually do and fell back into dreamland. Fifteen minutes later, my mother, who knew me too well, yelled up the stairs, UBeth, it's 6:45! You're going to be late!" So out of bed I jumped and into the shower. The water felt like bullets on my body. I decided I needed to stop studying for French tests until 1:00 a.m. After my shower, while getting dressed, I looked out my window to the spectacular panoramic view of the mountains. I loved living in Colorado, especially in the autumn and winter. As I was putting on my black ankle length boots, I appraised my 7 Fioretti image in the mirror. The long black sweater over red and black checkered stirrup pants looked pretty good, I decided. I then applied makeup and put my blown-dry hair in hot rollers. My cat Blackbird strolled into the room and jumped onto my unmade bed. Aptly n amed, Blackbird, with her blueblack fur and yellow eyes, made a stark contrast with my ivory bedspread and sheets. Although red and bl ack were my f avorite colors, I couldn't bring myself to decorate my room like a bordello, hence, the ivory and mauve decor. After taking out the hot rollers and brushing my hair, I headed downstairs for my bagel with cream cheese and cranberry juice breakfast. Then I looked at my watch. Nope, no time for breakfast. I knew I'd have a battle with Mom over it, so I walked into the kitchen and said, uMom, it's too late for me to eat breakfast. If we don't leave right now, we'll both be late!" Mom turned around and . smiled. She always' seemed to smile while in the kitchen, her pride and joy. The room was bright and cheery, . painted yellow and white with yellow eyelet 8 Fioretti curtains and white table and chairs. Mom had even dragged Sunny, her little canary, into the kitchen so he could watch. Now , you know how I feel about breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day," Mom admonished. "C'mon, Mom," I moaned as I pulled my jean jacket on. We need to leave." "We aren't going anywhere until you eat this," said Mom as she put two eggs, a piece of toast, and three sausage links on the table. She'd already put the cranberry juice at my place. I sighed heavily and sat down. When I had forced down one egg, the toast, and the juice I stood up and practically shouted, "Let's go!" "O.K., but you don't need to raise your voice to me." Mom got up an put on her coat. On the way to school Mom told me about my eldest brother Steve's recent letter. "And Steve broke up with Carol last week." Mom waited for my response to that bit II II 9 Fioretti of information. When she didn't get one, she went on, "Steve said that Dr..e w should be sending you a letter soon." Both my older brothers Drew and Steve went to the University of Colorado. Drew was my idol and one of my best friends. I treasured every letter I received from him. After a few more attempts at conversation, Mom stopped trying. Soon we arrived at my high school. I opened the door and got out. Mom said, "Bye, honey. I'll see you at 3:401 Have a nice day." I muttered a terse "Bye" and slammed the door. Watching Mom drive off, I regretted my obnoxious behavior. Then, I just shrugged and thought. that I would apologize later. Little did I know how much later. The day wore on normally enough. I really enjoyed most of the classes my junior year. Chemistry was good--I found out that I had gotten a 100% on the last test. Algebra was the same . sorry story it always was ... being completely lost for fifty minutes. Next came psychology.. I really enjoyed that class. However, about halfway through, I received a message to go to the office immediately. I showed it to Michelle, my best friend, who sat next to m e. She didn't understand any better than I did why I would get called to the office since 10 Fioretti I only got in trouble for talking, a minor offense. I arrived at the office and instantly knew something was very wrong when I saw Drew and Steve. Both had horrified looks on their faces. nWhat's going on? What's happened?n I squeaked nOh, Beth .. "Drew began as he took me into his arms. nWhat?!" I shrieked. nBeth, on Morn's way to work, she ran a stop sign and was hit by a truck. She was killed instantly." I just looked at him. nBeth, do you understand what I'm saying? Morn is dead!" Realization finally sank in and I cried, nNo! No! Oh no .. " With that, I went into shock. Hours later I found myself on the sofa in our living room. I couldn't figure out why Dad, Steve, and Drew were all looking at me. Then, I saw Grandma LaRosa, Morn's mother. Suddenly, it hit me--Mom was dead! I began crying and Grandma rushed over to me. nOh, Beth. You poor thing! Oh, why, God? Why didn't you take me instead?" Grandma wailed as she hugged me. 11 Fioretti --No, I thought, --God should have taken me. Those next three days were horrible. The showing at the funeral home lasted for two days. I never realized so many people knew my mother. People kept coming up to me and telling me how sorry they were, or they would ask if they could do anything to help . I wanted to day that I didn't mean to make Mom late that morning, that I didn't mean to kill her. But I kept silent. The funeral was short. My Dad wanted me to get up and read the poem "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep," so I did. I amazed myself by not crying at all. Actually, I only cried when I saw Drew crying. I think my guilt overrode my sadness at the time. And I guess I figured that if I just shut everything out, nothing could ever hurt me again. I didn't know then, but I suffered much worse later by not grieving openly. Since the funeral was on Thursday, I waited until the following Monday to return to school. Michelle came up to me at my locker and gave me a big hug. She had come to the funeral home and funeral, but I barely talked ' to her. I barely talked to anyone. "I'm so glad you're back! How are 12 Fwran you?" Michelle inquired. "Fine. I gotta go. I'm going to be late," I muttered as I hurried off. I glanced back, and Michelle had a hurt look on her face--well, better to hurt her now than kill her later, I thought. My teachers told me to just take my time in making up things I had missed. I readily agreed. As the weeks went by, however, they began to approach me in a less than gentle manner and warned me that my grades were falling. Most were so surprised at first, I guess, because I had always been in the top ten in my class. Finally, they just gave up on me and wrote down zeros for assignments missed. I always came to school and took the tests, and these scores saved me from totally flunking that semester. I usually never needed to study much for tests to get A's. I was just lucky that way. Besides blowing off my school work, I also ignored my family and friends. Drew and Steve went back to college. I went back to school but they both called a lot, and Drew came home every weekend. I knew it was for me that Drew made the effort, but I treated him badly. The only two living 13 Fioretti things I paid any great amount of attention to were Blackbird and Sunny. Of all my friends, only Michelle stood beside me, though I never let her get close. Then the Christmas holidays were upon us. Deck the halls, silent nights, and Santa Claus. It seemed as if every time I saw a twinkling light or heard a Christmas song, I wanted to throw up. I used to love the season; Mom would turn our house into a IIChristmas town," complete with the tree and trimmings, candles all around, presents (and the cat) under the tree, and happiness everywhere. That year, however, the Christmas tree seemed cheap and gaudy. No other decorations adorned our once cheerful home. At dinner that night, everyone tried to pretend things were normal. Grandma cooked spaghetti, our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. ' I knew she was trying to make us and herself feel better, but I wished Grandma had made anything else ' than spaghetti. IIGreat meal, Mom," Dad exclaimed. , IIActually it tastes just like ... " As Dad's sentence drifted off, all eyes looked at me. Any mention of Mom was not good in my presence. My whole family thought I was like a time 'bomh---ticking, ticking--ju.stwaiting to explode. They were right. 14 Fioretti UJust like Mom's. Is that what you were going to say?" My voice rose an octave with each word. Drew looked at me uneasily. UTake it easy, Beth. Dad didn't mean anything." Of the rest of my family, I knew my new attitude hit Drew hardest. Yet I couldn't seem to stop myself from taking my anger out on the one person who could've helped me most. U1Take it easy, Beth.'"I mimicked. UYou all act like nothing is wrong. First, Grandma makes Mom's spaghetti. Then, we all play Ihappy family.' Well, I have news for you: we are not a happy family. In fact without Mom, we aren't even a family!" with that, I stomped to my room. After I'd entered the only place I could be alone and shut the door, I was sorry for what I'd said. I knew I was making their lives miserable. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. Maybe I had known all along. Just then, Steve barged into my room. UBethany Ariel Grayson, you are so incredibly insensitive and selfish. You can't go on acting like this. Get on with your life. Mom is dead, but your alive." UAm I?" I whispered, so soft that 15 Fioretti Steve couldn't hear. uGh, what's the use? Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall." He then fumed out of the room. Two hours later my family left for Midnight Mass without me. I had made it clear that I wasn't going. I needed to end this pain, end this grief. And the only way I knew was to end my life. I first went to Dad's medicine cabinet and downed practically a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I had taken a sleeping pill once before, and it made me dizzy. I knew this time I wouldn't be dizzy .. I'd be dead. While I was waiting to die, I wrote a note to Drew. I wrote: 16 Fioretti Dear Drew, I'm only doing this because I can't cope with life. If it hadn't been for me, Morn never would have died. You didn't know that, did you? I made Morn late for work, and that's why she ran the stop sign. I can't stand the guilt any longer. I do love you and everyone else, but I can't go on living when I don't love myself. I drowsily made my way to Drew's room, dropped the note on his bed, and then went back to my room and fell asleep. The first thing I remember after going to sleep was seeing myself floating above my inert f~rm on the bed. I began to rise and to go through the ceiling, attic, and finally through the roof. I knew I should be cold since it was snowing, but the only feeling I had was a weightless sensation. I continued to drift upward until I was far above the clouds and even the stars. Finally, I reached a massive stone gate with marble doors. I was wondering if I could budge the doors even an inch when they noiselessly opened. I floated through the doorway and found myself in a seemingly endless hall. I began to see pictures on the walls as I floated, scenes from my life, from my birth to that Christmas Eve. 17 Fioretti At the end of the hall came the end of the images. Two more doors loomed in front of me. They too, noiselessly opened. As I drifted through this doorway, I heard someone calling my name, "Beth, Beth!" in a beautiful, almost lyrical, voice. I could not believe my eyes and ears! The voice belonged to my mother! "Morn, is that really you?! I asked incredulously. "Yes, my darling. I ' ve missed you so!" Morn took me into her arms, arms I could fee l much to my surprise, and hugged me fiercely to her. Then, she held me at arm's length. "Beth, much as I want to be with you, I must send you back. You're too young and your life is just waiting to be lived!" "Oh, no! I can't go back! I deserve to die. I killed you and made everyone's life so miserable. It's all my fault! How can you ever forgive me?" I sobbed. "Beth, oh, Beth! There is nothing to forgive. It's true you did get up late, but you do that almost every day. I made you eat breakfast. And more importantly, I ran the stop sign . . I made that choice, no one else. The only person you are responsible for is you. I was careless, not you . " She paused to le~ her words sink in and then went on, "Beth, I love you and because I love you, I'm begging you to please choose life. It's the most precious gift God has given you." IIAnd the most precious gift you've given 18 Fioretti me, Mom. Twice now, you've given me life," I whispered. II Remember , Beth, I'll always be with you, in your heart and thoughts. After all, you are part of me--the best part." III love you, Mom!" I said as I began to drift away. IIGoodbye!" IINo, my heart," I heard Mom answer. IINo good-byes. Only until we meet again." IIShe's coming back to us!" Those were the first words I heard on Christmas morning. Around me stood the people I loved most--Dad, Grandma, Drew, Steve, and Michelle. I also knew that Mom was there silently cheering me for choosing to live. Nine years have passed since the death of my mother. So many things have happened. I quickly recovered from my suicide attempt with the help of a psychologist, my family, my loyal friend Michelle, and God. I managed to pull my grades up and graduated sixth in my class. I want on to college to major in psychology, specializing in child and teenage depression. While in graduate school, I met Kevin Alexander, the man I later married. I also began working in the adolescent stress center at St. Anthony, the same hospital in which I recovered. My wedding day came. Kevin, my nervous bridegroom, awaited me at the altar. The fresh April breeze filtered in through the stained glass windows of the church. Soon, the wedding 19 Fioretti march began and the proud father escorted me, the equally proud daughter, to my place with Kevin. "Who gives this bride away?" inquired Father Jim. "I do, answered my dad. And to me, he whispered, "We both do." While the readings of the wedding were being read, I glanced over to where Morn would have been sitting. An then I realized that Morn was there and always would be with me in my heart, just as she said so long ago. My next thoughts went back to that Christmas Eve, and I knew that what happened was truly a miracle . the miracle of life. 20 Fioretti ADVERSARIAL In an opposition of some kind. That's where poetry can happen. Between slime and sublimity, between a howl and a hosanna . A peom may be two armies met upon a bridge. Competing for anothr breath, one side is marked for death . Or two dancers waltzing round a ballroom floor. His mightier muscles and her finer feet cooperate. I ' m trying, Reader, to survive your liveliest artillery. You try remembering one leads and one must follow . Joan Peternel 21 Fioretti VENDING MACHINES KNOW ALL ... Seymour Pane When I was 15 and just entering my sophomore year of high school, or, to put it in the vocabulary of an educator, just past Julius Caesar, but not quite advanced to Hamlet, the most interesting experience of my life, to this point anyway, occurred. Having the voice cracks and preliminary acne of puberty well out of the way, the wonderful world of lust began its descent into my, otherwise sinless, world. (Please, allow me to insert now that I use the usinless" in the most liberal sense.) I knew this because the simplest of tasks became impossible to execute without it being interrupted with the idea that the girl who sat next to me in Algebra might have meant something more than just polite socializing when she smiled at me the day before. To casually flip through the Sears Catalog without it eventually falling open to the lingerie section was soon a difficult exercise in self control. In fact, I was even prone to find that such comic strip greats as Blondie, 22 Fioretti Sally Forth and any female character in Doonesbury did not go without their individual attributes; however, I could not find many qualities in Nancy that would interest an adolescent male. Alas, all of these stunning beauties, and there are a great many more I could mention, are not . the reason for this story. I tell of them, not to allow you a view into the hormone ridden mind of a 15 year old; rather, I share their existence with you simply because they will be mentioned throughout the following paragraphs; although, they will be so cleverly disguised that not even the most perceptive of readers could root them out. With the summer's end coming at full speed, I was filled with the usual symptoms of school withdrawal. I was almost excited to return to the mysterious realm of the classroom; however, I did not share this fact with even the closest of friends, who probably felt the same way. There was another feeling, though I have experienced it many times since then, and I puzzled over why I felt that way. The preceding summer months had 23 Fioretti had a similar agenda to all of the summers before: I had my usual lawnmowing job. I had gone on my usual vacation with the family, that year (it was 1986) we had gone to Michigan. I had spent hours of mind melting time in front of the television. It seemed that there should be no reason for that empty feeling to arise. After days of reflection it seemed that there was going to be no way of relieving this feeling, I had compromised myself to the fact that I was just going to have to live with it. Then something happened the next day. While I was busy taking my overflowing trashcan from my room to the dumpster outside of our apartment building, I happened upon a notebook lying just outside the entrance-way to our building. It seemed to be, aside from a large coffee stain on the cover, in very good shape. I took it back inside with me, and after replacing my trashcan, began to thumb through it. It was filled with numbers and incomprehensible facts and figures. I tried to make out what it was the numbers and variables and such represented with little luck. I was 24 Fioretti beginning to think that this was not such a great find when I turned to the next page and found that it was completely uncontaminated by numbers. Instead I saw that it contained an excerpt from a poem. It read as follows: Think about love, but do not dwell. Vending machines know all, when it comes to being used. And below the poem was written: Susan .. 2658408. The latter was scribbled, almost illegibly, in pencil. I stared at the page for at least twenty minutes. I tried to concentrate on the poem, but my eyes inevitably returned to the name and phone number. "What if this notebook is important?" I thought. I decided it must be, mainly because I was anxious to call the phone number. I went into the living room and dialed the number. As I waited for an answer I practiced deepening my voice, so I could sound more mature. I thought I was doing a very authentic job of it when I realized it was on about the s~venth ring, and there was still no answer. I was reluctantly about to hang up when I heard someone pick up on the other end. "Hello," an out-of-breath voice said. It sounded more like a proclamation than a greeting. "Uh .. yes," I babbled, my mature voice 25 Fioretti all but forgotten. UIs this Susan?" UYes it is." She sounded like someone who had either just rushed through the door with an armload of groceries, or fought off a recent attack of wild dogs singlehandedly. I favored the latter. uHello, my name is Terry Northern. I know that you have no idea who I am, but I found a notebook outside my apartment building, and your name and this phone number were in it, and I was wondering if it maybe belonged to you, or a friend of yours, maybe?" UA what? You found a what?" Her tone was bordering on belligerent. UA notebook. I found a notebook .. uh, with your name and number in it." UA notebook?" uYes, outside of my apartment building." UWhat's your name, again?" Her belligerent tone was fading into one of idle curiosity. I was becoming more relaxed, and realized that I had forgotten to deepen my voice. Deciding that it was now a lost cause to feign maturity, I attempted to be myself. UTerry Northern." uOh, U she said. UWhat's inside of it?" uWell, mostly a lot of numbers and fig- 26 Fioretti ures and stuff, but on the page that I found your name and stuff on, there's a poem." "A poem? What's it say?" I recited the poem to her, and was amused to find that I did not even have to look at the page to do so. I had apparently memorized it. When I had finished reciting it there were a few moments of silence on the other end. I finally broke it by asking if she was still there. "Yeah, yeah. I am. I was just trying to think of who that could belong to. I'm sure it's not mine." "Oh ... well, I don't know. I mean, I just found it lying outside, like I say. Do ya' want me to bring it to ya'?" "I don't know what I'd do with it." "Well, I mean, I thought it might be important or something. I don't know." "Well, I just don't know what I'd do with it." "Maybe, if you saw it, or something you might recognize whose it is." I said this last part with a little too much enthusiasm, but you see, dear reader, I was by now in love with the faceless Susan. I wanted, with all of my heart, to meet her. "I don't know ... I really don't care too much. Tell you what kid, why doncha' just go ahead and throw it away. I don't know whose 27 Fioretti it is, and I'm . uh ... usually out. You know with my work and all. I was on my way out the door when you called as a matter of fact. So, you may as well just go on and throw it out, or whatever, I don't really care." flWell ... It might be important. I mean, I don't know what all these numbers mean." flThen I can guarantee that I don't know what they mean. Look, I really don't care what you do with it." flWell, if maybe you just tell me your address," I pleaded, flI could corne by and leave it off." fiNo, I don't think that that would be such a good idea. Why don't you just throw it out or something, I really don't care. I gotta go anyway. Sorry. 'Bye." flWait ... " I called out to an audible click as she replaced her receiver. I recradled my receiver, and I returned my gaze to the notebook. I reread the poem and the name of the woman I loved, and then I closed the cover. I was taking it to my room to put it into safe keeping when I took a detour. I went outside and threw it into the dumpster. I ran back into the house crying. I went to my room and stayed there the remainder of the day, and evening; I even missed supper. Thus was the end of, what will always be, the most fulfilling summer of my life. 28 Fioretti Bid adieu to mere reality Realms of delusion fill your soul Fear occupies the darkened crevice Pain's arrived and taken its toll Fairy tales came back to haunt you Told in a dark and grisly mode Prince Charming sent a poison apple Now you are the ugly toad. Michelle Gobin The search for food and adventure, Being what it was, Drove the ring-tailed animal, To the edge of the woods. From this cool and shady spot, And across a narrow gravel trail, Was a place never before seen, And much more appealing than here. 29 Fioretti From this place considered as home, And across that gravel trail, without a second thought, Began the journey from here to there. Eyes and nose in downward slant, with nothing to be feared, No mortal enemy is in sight, No sound is heard except the growl in his belly. Suddenly from where the bandit does not know, C~es a metal monster with flames as eyes, Such a creature had never he seen, Floating like a phantom on the ground. Closer and closer. Nearer and nearer. With the screech of a thousand eagles, And the dust of a storm, Its hot breath was felt, Before it came to a halt. Staring for a moment, But no harm had occurred, Time is being wasted, To that woods he must go. Kurt Cleeter 30 Fioretti In the Style of J.R.R. TOLKIEN In Honor and Memory of the lOOth Anniver sary of his Birth (1892-1973) A MOMENT OF AWAKENING John P. Zielinski The fog rolled over the morning like the stench of a hundred nameless corpses. What went wrong ... ? Just three days ago the fellowship of the sword was a confident band, although admittedly a bizarre cacophony of heroes, brigands, and common folk. We had set out, I Elaura, and my free spirited, yet determined group of adventurers a fortnight ago. A band of three races traveling the countryside in these dark times must have seemed odd enough to those we encountered, but with a woman in command bearing the standard of the kings of old, my companions and I must have appeared as strange as a beardless wizard without a walking staff. 31 Fioretti The wars, the mistrust, the destruction, what had become of the peace and prosperity of the kingdom of old ... ? Our guest was of Either we succeed and rightful keeper or the destroyed. Only I and a few lore truly understood prophecy: the utmost importance. return the sword to its whole of Eldamar will be scholars of the ancient the implications of the When Harmonia in the house of Cronus abides; peace and prosperity will be kept as a prize! Of course, the fellowship was a last resort. When the infliction began to plague every aspect of Eldamarian society, each race chose to deal with the menace independently, rather than implore the help of another ilk. The Dwarves shut themselves in the mines of their mountain dwellings. The Elves chose to fight openly, and the humans, as our race is apt to do, chose both paths of courage, as well as folly. However, none of the three had anything but minor success, and a last desperate gamble for redemption, faith was placed in an ancient prophecy that few believed in. A fellowship was formed united in determination and purpose in nothing else. 32 Fioretti My grands ire of old Cronus, during the first age of the sun, destroyed Malice, the Lord of hats and fear, an evil demon of the Seventh Circle, generation upon generations ago. This accomplished through an alliance of Good. The races of human, elf, and dwarf had once lived in peace and harmony and together they forged and placed their combined powers into a sword, which they named Harmonia in the Westron tongue. Through the power of this sword, Cronus was able to overcome the evil of Malice, slay his corporal self, and banish his spirit into the void. Peace and prosperity carne to Eldamar for an uncounted passing of the seasons. Then the spirit of the Lord of hat returned and by his tricks of malevolence caused the races to be prideful and bigotry was introduced to E Idamar . In the mayhem the sword was stolen. A pestilence entered the land. Crops decayed, animals died, and lamentation was heard throughout the three kingdoms as the curse of the stillborn inflicted pain and sorrow on man, elf, and dwarf alike. These proud races sent the bravest, or maybe the most foolhardy, I don't know anymore, of their people to comprise an alliance of the races of Eldamar; a 33 Fioretti fellowship to retrieve the sword Harmonia. What has become of us now ... ? As I stare at the battlefield this very morn, only carnage and sorrow lay before me. We were only a breath and a whisper from triumph. With victory in our grasp, a shadow carne across the land and the sun turned to blood as it faded into night. From over the ridge, an army like flies eager to lick at a puss-filled sore swarmed upon us. Trolls, orcs, and goblins, riding creatures I had only seen in my darkest nightmares were engaging us in battle faster than the winged horses of the Fireside Vale. We were only six score, but my companions fought like 500 knights of the Royal Guard. Only the fog and the light which carne with morning saved those of us who remained. The hordes of evil lay dead on the plain. Their blood spilled and mixed with our companions who had fought and died bravely, and who will surely be remembered in song for many moons. I Elaura of the house of Cronus, a woman mightier in lead and lore than in battle; Balamir the dwarf, s low in wit but swift with axe; and Evening Star the elf, 34 Fioretti the EI ven king' s squire are all of the fellowship that survived the battle. It is now up to the three of us, on individual for each race of Eldamar, to succeed in stealth and wit where a host had failed in might. here we stand at a moment of destiny for the entire world, finally realizing that only by working together through cooperation; by recognizing the powers and benefits that each race has to contribute; only by making whole again what the evil one divided in perception into three parts, do we strand a chance against the forces of discord. Here we stand, in harmony, at a moment of awakening! 35 Fioretti PAINT Diana Hultquist At eighteen, Elizabeth was pretty and popular and bored with the small town where she lived. Parkersville seemed to her to be plain and brownly ugly with the buildings looking too much alike. This place where everyone knew everyone else had always been her home. When she started kindergarten, she already knew her classmates, and the teacher had gone to kindergarten with her mother. In the fifth grade, when she won the spelling bee, practically the entire town went with her to the next stage of the contest in neighboring Huntsville. In the tenth grade, geometry was beyond her comprehension. It was during this time that she was pulled over by the sheriff while driving downtown. The sheriff was only George, whom she had known since her birth, but it was still embarrassing to have the flashing lights of his car behind her while he moseyed up to her window. IISO, young lady, how.' s geometry going by now? If it's not getting any clearer to you, we'll have to find you a good tutor." Living in this town was like living with a huge, loving, but smothering family. Maybe that was all right. Maybe they were 36 Fioretti like the were and they couldn't change. But the way the town looked--she could change that. Parkersville itself needed some brightness and color to its buildings and streets. If she were going to stay here, either she or it would have to change. Elizabeth liked herself the way she was, so the drabness of the town had to change. At 2 a.m. on June 2nd, she filled her car with buckets of brilliant paints. She had green , yellow, blue, and red. She brought paint rollers with pans and brushes of different sizes and even a little stepladder. Using the green first, with a roller she encircled the outside walls of the fire station with two feet of flowing green grass. Next carne the daisies. Some sterns were three feet high and some were taller than seven. At the top of each stern were five or six large yellow petals. With an extension pole and a short roller, she continued with light blue clouds. The fire house had never looked so good, with those bright yellow giant daisies, spaced irregularly around the walls. A few butterflies, birds, and some more clouds and she was through. As she loaded her equipment and thought of how to improve the library, her two gallon can of yellow toppled out of the car. The clang and clatter of the can rent the air. As it rolled along the walk toward the door to the fire station, its lid popped off and yellow paint splattered in all directions. It gave the entrance a 37 Fioretti unique cheeriness. The fire dog's barks added to the uproar. He dutifully alerted the sleeping firemen, who with the speed firemen are known for, ran through the yellow paint chasing her. uElizabeth! It's Elizabeth! What the hell is she doing? What the hell has she done?" They knew it was her. She had to leave now. She left her friends and family and everything she owned, except her car and her paint. She decided to keep going and call her parents when she arrived wherever it was that she stopped. All Elizabeth could think about was that she had almost been caught. What would have happened if she had been? What worse than being alone in a big, unfamiliar city? She hadn't slept yet, so she pulled into a motel that looked affordable. uThat'll be $40 for the night. Be out by 11." The man had gray, oily hair, and his stomach, which was covered with a blue t-shirt, hung out over his belt. He didn't even look at her as he reached out to take the money. Elizabeth was sure Harry and Martha charged half that for a night at their unflashy 38 Fioretti white and red cottages at the edge of Parkersville. Inside the motel room was a bed with a grayish-green spread, gray carpet and brown peeling walls. Worse than Parkersville. She fell asleep on top of the green bed spread. It might be cleaner than between the sheets. Eleven o'clock came with a sharp knock on the door. "I'm just about to leave. I need to grab my things." She had nothing to grab, but splashed cold water on her face, swished out her sleepy mouth and wished she had awakened early enough for a real shower. Out in the car, she thought about where she would go. Small town--big city, drab buildings--bright lights, over-protective people--people who didn't care. She pulled into St. Paul a little after noon. She drove through the downtown area, looking for a place to have lunch before finding somewhere to spend the night. She turned right toward a flashing sign that said "Eat here." Only after she had turned, did she notice it was a one-way street going the other direction. The only thing she could think to do was to pull up on the sidewalk. "You idiot, lady!" "Get your stupid car out of 39 Fioretti here!" The comments from those unfriendly pedestrians would have been enough, but a city policeman pulled up alongside her. He checked her driver's license. "I don't know how you people drive in Parkersville, ma'am, but in St. Paul we don't drive on our sidewalks." He gave her a ticket and pointed her to a parking garage where she parked the car. She needed to stop, since she came with only the clothes she had been wearing last night and her several buckets of paint, but where were the stores? "On the edge of town-in every direction, on each edge of town. Our really good stored are in the malls." She got directions from the young mother, to the mall that was closest. On her way ' back to where she had parked her car, she felt a sudden, quick and slightly painful jerk on her arm. A boy who looked about fourteen had the strap of her shoulder bag and was running in the opposite direction from what she had been walking. Elizabeth stumbled in awkward running steps backwards. She had never learned any selfdefense tactics, but the scream that came from her mouth was just as effective. Her offender let go so quickly that Elizabeth stumbled, fell forward face down on the street with the contents of the purse 40 Fioretti scattered everywhere. Two others walked on by with only a sideways glance. Elizabeth got up, got herself and her purse together and determined to get back to her car and to go to the mall. The mall was more familiar than the city streets, and she hoped it was also a little safer. She had been here a few times with her family, and once with some friends. It was fun being alone in this expansive place, where no one knew who she was, or cared. The feeling of enjoyment ended when it was time to pay for the sweaters she had gathered in an elegant department store. III'm sorry, I can't accept your check without more identification. Don't you have a credit card?1I No, she didn't, and she wasn't charging these things, she was paying by check. More I.D. She couldn't satisfy them. She didn't have enough to prove who she was, and nobody knew her. III have slept on a dirty bed, gotten a traffic ticket, been assaulted by a teenager, and now you won't take my money. This is enough. I'm going home." o III'm sorry, ma'am. It's just 41 Fioretti our store policy." On her way back to Parkersville, she began to wonder why she really had left, and she began to make plans for her next escape to the big city. Now she understood some of the differences between the plain, friendly town and the flashy big city. She felt an appreciation for the one and a respect for the other. She would be prepared next time with a packed suitcase, at l east one credit card, and maybe a friend for moral support and fo r someone who knew who she was . 42 Fioretti MAN IN THE MIRROR The worn haggard man Stooped low Dirty cardboard at his feet; One pocket of his jeans Ripped off, A darker patch revealed-Once new .. Cars stopped near him Light red; Motors running, radios playing. He stands The motors die, the radios stop, His eyes look straight ahead Far away .. Away from laughing windshields, From pity's rear-view mirror Someplace Where men will work for justice For peace and common decency. Not here ... Where men uwill work for food." Karen Murpby 43 Fioretti THE LETTER Michelle Fletcher CHARACTERS: Stacey ~ 18 year old college bound student, has just received college acceptance off of waiting list. Ron Stacey's athletic boyfriend, he is planning on going to the Community College. Jen - Stacey's energetic best friend. Has also been wai t listed, but hasn ' t been accepted yet. Doesn't want to go to CC, but is. SETTING: A small bedroom. Several articles, including a stereo, cluttered desk and bulletin board, cosmetic table, yearbook and telephone denotes that a female teenager inhabits the room. A footlocker wi th the tags still on it si ts at the foot of the bed. The scene opens with Stacey sitting on her bed, holding pillow, and Ron standing by desk reading letter. Ron: So you got in. stacey: Yes! I was really surprised. People on the waiting list usually don't. I think it was the second batch of articles that convinced them I was worth taking. Guess I got lucky. Ron: So you're going. 44 Fioretti stacey: I suppose so. (Stacey, uncomfortable, stands and walks away from Ron, Jen bursts in, bright and bubbly) Jen: STACEY! (she lunges toward Stacey and gives her a bear hug) I came over as quick I could! I am so happy for you! State is such a great place! I am soo jealous! Ron: She hasn't decided for sure that she's going yet. Jen: WHAT! Last night you said that Christian Slater himself could move in next door and you'd still go away to school if you got that letter. stacey: I know, but I ... (Ron interrupts) (Stacey starts sorting and trashing papers on desk) ' Ron: I don't understand why you think State is so great Jen. Jen: Why? WHY? You've lived in this town for 18 years and you don't see why State is so great? Ron: There's nothing wrong with this place. Jen: Ron, I thought you had a brain! (Stacey, startled by Jen's comment, turns to look at them) There are more people at State then there are in Jones County! With an opportunity like Stace has, why would she want to stay? stacey: Well I do like .... (Ron interrupts) Ron: Because all of her friends are here. 45 Fioretti Jen: There are 50,000 students at State! I'm sure she's bound to get along with one of them! Ron: Yeah, but she doesn't know anyone there now. Jen: She didn't know any of us when she got here. stacey: Only you ..... (Ron interrupts) Ron: She just met us three years ago. Why should she start over again? Jen: (matter of factly): Death is dwelling on the past or staying in one place too long. stacey: I think we should ..... (Jen interrupts) Jen: Besides, there's more for her at State. Ron: Like what? Jen: For starters, there are 25,000 eligible guys. There are dance clubs. There are theaters that show more than Terminator 2. Plus, it's the best journalism school in the country. with her talent, that's the only place that will be a challenge for her. Ron: Why are you in such a rush to 46 Fioretti get rid of her? stacey: Ron! Ron: Is it because you' re not going t his year? ( Jen b i tes lip and looks up) stacey: That's not fair ! Ron: But it's true. Does Corn Co l have a club for State Wanna Be's? Makes you wish that you'd studied more and played less, doesn't it? stacey: That was low. Jen: Don't we all wish we had studied a little more and played a little less? Didn't State need another wrestler? Maybe CC has a bowling club you can join to keep in shape. Ron: There were thirty of us to fill three spots. Besides, if I stay here, I can work for my dad and learn the business. Plus, I still help out at Footlights. Jen: ( sarcastically enthusiastic): Great Ron ! So "Mitchell Shoe Emporium" will go on. Plus, as an added bonus, you can still hang out at the community theatre you've been with since you were seven. Gosh, you're big on advancement. Ron: Is it such a bad thing to WANT to stay here? Jen: It is when it's a cop-out. 47 Fioretti Ron: Meaning ... Jen: Meaning that if you'd put forth more effort in things, you could have gotten in on academics or acting. Meaning that you could have aspirations like I do to transfer in a few semesters. Meaning you should move forward! Ron: I don't want to move anywhere anymore. And I don't think Stacey should either, not by herself at least. State's not a safe place for a small town girl. stacey: Would the two of you please ... (Jen interrupts) Jen: Yeah, you're right. It's not safe for Stacey on a Friday night when you're not around. The - place is crawling with good-looking INTELLIGENT and TALENTED guys ready to pounce on girls like Stace. Ron: No. I just don't see why anyone would go tc a place that has its own date-rape hotline and keys to the elevators. Jen: You just don't see why your built-in date is leaving you. You know, the freshman mixer at the Union will have more people between 18 and 20 at it than you've ever seen in your life and half of them will be male. stacey: You guys had better .... (Ron interrupts) Ron: (to Stacey): I don't understand why you just can't go to Com Col like we are. It's small, it's got good classes and we would see each other every day. 48 Fioretti Jen: (sarcastically): Oh peachy! (ignores her) :There's no need for security guards to walk you around at night. Plus, you can still live here and have your morn do your laundry. Ron: Jen: You're so homebound. You talked a little higher last year. What ever happened to applying to the University of Hawaii? I thought the girls in the grass skirts had you hooked! stacey: (smiling): That was the one where we could have rented the grass hut together, wasn't it? Jen: Yep. Weren't you the one that suggested we all go to Miami U together? stacey: We could have lived on the ocean or something,right? Jen: Now you want us all to give up like you have. There's an article for you Stace - UDefeated Wrestler Wants Friends to Sacrifice Lives So That He Won't Eat Lunch Alone at Corn Col". Ron: (calmly, ignoring their remarks): My morn and dad have talked about this forever. We all decided that I should stay here. So I am. And the more I think about it, the more I see that there's no reason for you or Stacey to leave here. (phone rings, Stacey answers it, Jen and Ron ignore her) 49 Fioretti Jen: You just don't want her to go because she'll forget you. Six hours round trip is a long way to drive just to see a movie with you. Ron: Our relationship is stable. If she decides to go, we'll manage to keep in touch. Jen: Yeah, until the next Peter Jennings sweeps her off her feet .... Ron: She won't forget me. She might forget you though, since you won't be her roommate. stacey: Jen, it's George. Do want to go out tonight? Jen: (not answering to Stacey, but replying in an unbelievable tone to Ron): Sure, whatever, Ron. Dream on! Any large jock with Greek letters tattooed on his chest could replace you. Besides, her roommate could never replace me. (arrogantly) I'm irreplaceable. stacey: Is a 7:30 movie ok? Ron: (not answering Stacey, but rebutting Jen): Yeah, sure-(being boldly dramatic) JEN THE IRREPLACEABLE. Remember how Stace told you that you replaced Jill since they never talked after the move? Do you think Stace is actually going to have time to write when she gets new friends? Jen: Remember how you replaced Darren? stacey: I dumped Darren because he was a 50 Fioretti jerk, not because I moved. Now why don't we all go . . .. (Ron interrupts) Ron: I just think it's dumb that she has to leave a perfectly good place to go be a number. Jen: Cope. Ron: Why are you so set on her going? Jen: Because she'll be happier. Ron: Stace, tell your friend here that you're happy. stacey: Well, I . (Ron interrupts) Ron: How can a person be happy at a place where along with your class schedule they hand out complimentary cans of mace? (Stacey returns to desk and sorts) Jen: Ron, a girl can only drive by the DQ and yell IIHey Bob!" so many times before watching everybody look gets old. There are only so many salt shakers in town you can loosen. Only so many light bulbs you can swipe from restaurants. Only so many times you can cruise thru Burger King asking for water refills in a McDonald's cup. What else does this town offer? Ron: Well, um .. there's always the phone prank (in radio announcer's voice) IIHi I'm Biff from Baskin Robbins and if you cali name 31 flavors in 31 seconds I'll ,give you 31 dollars and 31 cerits~ Now go!" Jen: Yes, that's kept you amused for hours, hasn " t it? ' 51 Fioretti stacey: will the two of you please .... (Ron interrupts) Ron: Well if this town is so lame, why aren't gone? stacey: Ron! Jen: If I could, I would. But I can't this year. So I'm sending my best friend. Ron: Sending? Jen: Supporting her in her endeavors, which is more than what you're doing. stacey: WILL YOU TWO PLEASE STOP IT! I've got two months left to listen to both of you the movie starts in a half hour and we still have to pick up George . Jen: Who? stacey: (smiling): Your date, George. Jen: (repulsed) George of the computer club? George the tuba player? George bound for Tech on a Rocket Science scholarship? When did I make a date with him? stacey: He called somewhere between Mom doing my laundry and JEN THE IRREPLACEABLE. Jen: (sarcastically) Thanks so much. Ron: (mockingly): At least he's INTELLIGENT AND TALENTED. Jen: Yeah, in collecting bottle caps and belly button lint. 52 Fioretti stacey: Imagine the guys I can set you up with when you corne to visit! Jen: (sarcastically): I can ' t wait. Ron: So you're going. stacey: Yes. I am going to the movies, George included. Ron: I mean going. You're really set State, aren't you? stacey: Yes. Can we talk about this later? Jen: I don't think there's much to say. You're going and we're not. stacey: Look, it's getting late. I promise I won't forget EITHER of you. Now can we PLEASE go pick up George? Ron: I don't feel much like a movie. (h ands Stacey the acceptance letter & leaves) Jen: If you think I'm going out with George, you're nuts. And don't get too hyped on playing matchmaker, OK? Oh and tell George I'm sorry to cancel, but that my big toenail chipped and I'm laid up for weeks or something, PLEASE? (Stacey nods) Thanks! (stops at doorway) I'll call you tomorrow. stacey: Yeah-I'll talk to you tomorrow. (Jen leaves) There's always tomorrow with you. until September. (Sits on bed, hugging pillow and holding letter) 53 Fioretti (pause) phone, dials) George? Stacey. Jen and Ron both canceled, but if you're still up for the movie, I can pick you up in ten minutes. (pause) Great. What? (pause) Ohthanks - I was really surprised when I got the letter. (pause) Well, don't spread it around, but I can't wait to go. All the people, the classes, everything (pause) Yeah, but we'll still be able to come home to visit everyone. (pause) Have you started shopping yet? (pause) Oh, you got your loft already? (pause) No, I haven't even started pricing anything yet. (pause) Yeah, I know time sure does fly in the summer. (pause) Target has fridges on sale? My mom got a trunk today at K-Mart on her way home from work- she was so excited when I called her - (pause) I think they're $15. (pause) No, I don't know if I'm bringing the TV or she is. (pause) We'll have to compare lists of essentials! (pause) OK - I'll be over in a bit. Stacey thumbtacks letter to bulletin board, grabs purse and keys and leaves, turning light switch off as she exits. 54 Fioretti THE CHAMBER I remember nights Lonely in the chamber of my heart, Upstairs The ceiling slants as i f an attic holding memories; my bed, my dreams From just one window I could live enough of the world and feel nature's growth Summer branches turned transparent vivid green then colored with age most brilliant red At the height of winter, from this second floor, my world was whitened, yet window touched by only chickadees Then trees tapped glass to show me their buds, my wakening alarm, the proud 55 Fioretti wren's reminder At dusk starry skies carried gossip of unseen cows and squirrels glanced in curious on their way home Now my world's beyond pastures and apple tree blossoms, No gentle breeze lulls me to sleep My chamber seems much Emptier now belonging and caring for none, for which none care The layers of dust, faint walls count the years in absence it's waited to become someone's world Noelle Gasco 56 Fioretti NOVA Kristine Abel I remember how Robert had seemed so confident when he picked me up that night. I can still picture him in my mind, sitting back in his blue Nova smoking a cigarette. It too k him a minute to notice me because I was hiding in the shadow of the house. Slowly, he reached over and unlocked the door for me. ns o what did you tell your mother? Did you tell her what I told you to?" he asked. We drove on for a few minutes in silence. When we were out of the neighborhood and in unfamiliar territory, I finally asked him what his big surprise was all about. JJJust wait, babe," he said, JJYou'11 love it." The wind blew hard against her shoulders, and the torrents of rain flogged her, forcing her to hide her face against the storm. She had been standing outside the door for a long while. She felt the baby kick inside her. After what seemed an eternity, Molly went inside. The woman at the front desk asked her to fill out some papers. It reminded her of the papers her mother had to fill out at the welfare place. Marital status--single. age-20. Father's name--blank. She now under- 57 Fioretti stood what caused the painful look on her mother's face. She finished the papers, sat down to wait, and remembered. The motel he brought me to was about to fall apart. From the car I could see a man walking around the room, smoking a cigar and drinking something out of a bottle. I could hear a woman in the background yelling something vulgar. The neon sign was starting to give me a headache, flashing on and off, on and off. Robert kept talking. "Shit, Molly, we always do the same thing when we go out. I pick you up, take you out, and then I gotta have you home in time so you don't turn into a damn pumpkin." He kept fidgeting with his cigarette pack, wanting me to say something. "For once, I ' d like to be able to spend some time alone with you without being on a clock. We can just relax here, that's all." Then he got out of the car, slammed the door and walked toward the room. When the woman returned, Molly gathered her bag and followed her down the long hallway. The dimly lit room she showed Molly to reminded her of one of those doll houses you'd see with just a bed and chair for furniture. The bed was covered by a small afghan, probably made 58 Fioretti and donated by someone from her parish. The lady told Molly that she could go to the kitchen in a while and have the cook prepare her some dinner. Robert opened the door and let me walk in first . The black-and-white television set stood in front of the bed, and it made me t h ink of my fifth-grade teacher, Sister Clare--how she would stand in front of our class with her hands on her hips , waiting for one of us to misbehave. Robert turned on the television . II I Never Promised You A Rose Garden" was on. He reached over and squeezed my hand, giving me a big, smug smile. He got up and went over to the table to get the ashtray. The cook crossed th e room and set the plate in front of Molly. She was a talke r , "SO how far a sking all sorts of questions. along are you?" she asked. When Molly told her she was eight months, she dropped the spoon she was drying and turned to her in amazement. "For being eight months, honey, . you shore are small. Here, eat some more." She scooped the casserole onto her plate. "Eat it, girl. You don't want to starve that kid, now do you?" Molly choked down the last few bites and the cook lit up a cigarette as she went on cleaning and speaking about the old days. 59 fll'Wamrt. a S!lIl(})~e'? r.t he o1E1Eee:ired.. [lIJ.odded no alIild jnst sat 'tblueree s 'tta:ir.fumg at itJh e ,t ,. V J1te )peered out ,tt'he cmrttai.:n as Jlire tocik a lh.i-tt. ofT DS cigarettce ll t.hEllil he put i t omt. .ilIil the aslhtray and sat ]baclk dowJIil 'IlleeKtt. ':to mre on the bed; close enol11~lll ,t ma'l t I c'O>uJl.d sme1.Jl. tlhee ashes on. his stin,. J[ dept 1.00kJllIilg (a t the it .. WI . hut I comldi :feel h.im sitarilIll9 at me.. Elis eye'S werre pEllilee'tt.rat,i ng ID.W skin, jp](1oli>imlg my very essellilce\Ul_iLIHdI. .me cc:]Lo'Sce ito lhl.is jface~ :[ [celt. l.iJke (eiI. mo@se throwilil. JllIiitO a slIia~e's cc:a~ e ~ JI lel it alIil empit.y fear rf a JEe ,aur !tlhat. It.lm(e l[\e was nco> :escape~ lIilO way co> c~ If:lIle start.ced iteo SJIilJLCc k cer ~ Balb);e tf "" Jhe sa JLd 1 j ms it. re1ax .idi 'f OM lhear :me? u t lhe c (o)'olk qe':mltly s honk .!Molly' 5 shoulder lEeer ID.amYds \Were c ilemcheen aJlilli she Jh:adm'it beem paYlRil[J amy atitem'tt.Jl(Q)lIil to ithe old w-amaJlil I's ,iram1O:l.l)Iilg'S .. ~I'!' o:m sbore Iileed ito re2ax rt g.irl.ice ,. Here{t sip some 'Of this .. I.f Slhe lilandled Ho,l ,l y a JIDlJlg of somet.lhilIilltj itllilrait smelled li~e cOTTeee ll yeet itas-lte-a. jl.i~e )pnre slmgJaJr ,. 'The warmtb of .it s)pread th.rolTlglholJl'tt lliler :11