ThE HERON - Great Bay Community College

The Heron
Literary Journal Volume 3
Derika Church
“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy
is a necessary ingredient in living, It’s a way of
looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.
Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at
life’s realities”
~ Dr. Seuss
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II
The Heron
2012
Vol. III
The Heron is an annual literary journal that focuses on the
writing community at Great Bay Community College. Poetry,
fiction, non-fiction and artwork produced by students, faculty
and staff are collected on a rolling basis.
III
Meagan Cowan
President
T.J. Wilson
Vice President
Ann Knight
Treasurer and Secretary
Chris Koenig and Michael Boynton
Editors-in-Chief
Melissa A. Muszynski
Faculty Advisor
Dericka Church
Cover Art
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form – including mechanical,
electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Copyright © 2012 Great Bay Community College,
Portsmouth, NH 03801
Copyright reverts to author upon publication.
Printed by New England Printing, Portsmouth, NH 03801
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Special thanks to the Student
Govenment Assoiciation
and to everyone who
submitted pieces to make this
publication possible.
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Contents
The Stage By: Nate Gruen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
Crossing Bear Tooth Pass By: C.W. Driscoll. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Where Are You Mother? By: Hannah Beringer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Everlasting Memories By: Harlan Searles. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Childhood Obesity By: Hannah Beringer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
The Storage Unit By: Michael Chwasciak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Untitled By: Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
A Collection of My Observations of the World By: Will Dube. . . . . . . . . . . 18
Up to the Pond By: Brittany Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Observation By: Louis Castaldo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
Having a Good Teacher By: Hayley Edgar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Sunrise Over Hampton Beach By: Douglas R. Towne II. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Paralysis By: Julia Dugas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Photos By: Samantha Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
Photo By: Derika Church. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Photo By: Lindsey Kennell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Fall in Southern NH By: Jen Nuzzolo. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Photos By: Julia Dugas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Photos By: Lorraine Mancuso. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Photos By: Shannon Keane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Drawings By: Erika Bissonnette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
A Study of Hands By: Robert Carey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Photos By: Elizabeth Davey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Untitled By: Pamela Cotter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Mocking Bird By: Tom Mears. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
S’more Please By: Laurie Jongsma. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Have No Fear By: Laurie Jongsma. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Midnight Watcher By: Elizabeth Davey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
The Worst Goodbye By: Elizabeth Davey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Factory Death By: Jacob Belmont . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Jenny’s Wager By: Trevor Prescott. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Wild Encounter By: Christopher Blackington. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Year of the Cow By: Christopher Blackington. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Dating: A Beginner’s Guide to Discovery & Introductions
By: Christopher Blackington . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Flaming Shots and Broken Bones By: Anonymous. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Sensing Betrayal By: Anonymous. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
Rise and Shine My Ass By: Eugene Northacker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Pigment Personality By: Andrea Anderson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Vampires of the Underworld By: Erica Sousa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
The Hunter By: Chris Mavrikis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Untitled By: Carrie Caldwell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Sex to Repopulate the Planet By: Dustin Beckmeyer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Delightful Drops of Power By: Hilary Campbell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Disposable By: Hilary Campbell, Vivian Ramy,
Ashley Prolx & Jamie O’Brien. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
VI
The Programmer By: Joe Hinkle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The New Car By: Joe Hinkle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
A Lost Love By: Jennifer Cormier. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Loneliness By: Desi Williams. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Greed Cycle By: Lara Rines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My Regret By: Shannon Keefe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Just one more Mommy By: Jacki Hughes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Artsy Students By: Tom Mears. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mark Where You’re Going By: Tina Chadbourne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Life Would Be Like By: Harpreet Kaur . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Space on the Couch By: Amy Swain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Furry Friends By: Cassandra Kirby. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lonely By: Andrew Meader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Every Year By: Cassandra Kirby and Amy Swain. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Black Smoke By: Cassandra Kirby, Amy Swain,
Karrie Riley & Tina Chadbourne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sorrow Filled the Lusty Air By: Karrie Riley & Tina Chadbourne. . . . . . . .
Fire’s Passion By: Chris Mavrikis, Angie Francisco,
Harpreet Kaur, Andrew Meader. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Simple Indulgence By: Brittany Gowell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hollow By: Abigail Priano. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
After great pain, a formal feeling comes-Imitation By: Caron Harlee. . . .
Red Maple Leaf By: Adele Dugas. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lines Make Awake, Wines: France, Romance By: Giles Cooper. . . . . . . .
Awakening By: Teresa Delgado. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
To Find her Nightingale By: Nancy Sherrill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Word “Dunno” By: Stephen Colarusso. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
St. Patricks By: RedBeard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Enigma By: Redbeard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Uhhh By: Redbeard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Risk By: Amanda Ormond. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Untitled By: Corey Foote. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Jodi- My Life’s Queen By: Redbeard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thoughts of a Murse By: Redbeard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Unblind By: Topher Rowe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This Little Girl By: Redbeard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Flow of the Sand By: Matthew Cohen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Fishes By: Julia Guidoboni. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
World Peace By: Joe Gesel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Happy Ending By: Steven Wesner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In the Bounds of Fray By: Wendy Carmichael. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mary P. By: Topher Rowe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
New World By: Erica Sousa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Go Crazy By: Erica Sousa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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VII
The Stage
By: Nate Gruen
The cramped black pickup truck ambled slowly into the cracked and misshapen
parking lot of the nondescript, downtown brick building on what would be to most, a
completely insignificant and uneventful night. Several straggling employees of the establishment are wandering aimlessly outside. Slowly clumping from ones into tight circles
of two, three, four, then dispersing as if to maintain an even amount of idling across the
asphalt. I pull through and position the vehicle so that the tailgate is in line with the back
door, and then proceed to unfasten my seatbelt and sink into the soft grey cushions of the
drivers seat.
I switch off the engine and glance into my rearview mirror; the view is completely
blocked by the masses of equipment we’ve packed haphazardly into the open bed of the
truck. These are our tools. Our influence. Our soul. I catch a quick glimpse of my fellow
hooligans passing the last remnants of the battered whiskey flask around the cab and
casually flicking the ends of their cigarettes out the windows. The bottle is passed over
my shoulder; I accept it gladly with my free hand and pull deeply to fill the gap in my lips
with the fiery amber liquid.
One for the money
Two for the show
I quickly check the time. Still ten minutes early. My co-pilot is scratching a crude set
list onto an old napkin and casually cracking edgy jokes as a means to relieve the tension
that is building in the chests of those in the cab. A tension that is present in all except me.
I have never in my life had nerves before a performance like this. Not even the first time
I awkwardly shuffled my feet onto the pedals and placed the sticks in my grip at my first
talent show in the second grade. I was born for this. I am ready. Color me the Rock-andRolla, then stain my visage with the hue of delinquency.
I stare down at my hands and think of every blister and callous that has been worn
into my skin over their many years. Every note they’ve played, every piece they’ve tuned,
and every cymbal they’ve brought to life and silenced. I read their worn lines like the
rings of a tree and reminisce of the endless hours devoted to honing each digit to conjure
a surfeit of cadences at my will. These musings are present before every performance,
almost as if I snap a picture to mentally document the exact moments when I feel so
ready to let loose my diabolical rhythms on those who unwittingly stand before me. Then
again, maybe I’m just a sucker for nostalgia.
I step out of the car to be greeted by the oversized bouncer who bracelet’s my wrist
and opens the back door of the club for us to load in. As I unlatch the gate of the old Ford
and grab the first piece I can see through the door the platform of my influence. Stepping
through it, my view widens and I gaze at the rows of lights and uncountable crisscrossing
lines of microphone and power cables. The carpeted floor is blue from the plastic tints
that cover the illuminated row of spotlights. It’s true color is known only to those who
first set it there as the soles of a thousand shoes have trampled in countless gallons of
sweat and saliva deep into it’s fibers, infusing it with an overtone of permanent ambiguity.
Stretching beyond the monitors on it’s edge is the stained and sunken concrete floor that
will support the sneakers and heels of the sea of heads that will soon occupy it’s space.
This is the place where we belong.
The carefree and reckless freaks that come out of the woodwork of the restaurants
and college campuses, casting off their aprons and book bags to don their eyeliner and
studded jackets, are beginning to line up outside the main doors. I arise from the stool of
my now assembled kit and lean casually against the side entrance to view the alternative
masses filed neatly in front of the venue. They are wide-eyed and giddy. The toxic
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slurry amalgamated from the multitude of illegal pills and psychotics saturated in their
bloodstreams sends a wavy, septic energy into the air. I breathe it in deeply and take a
sick satisfaction in the punk sour taste it leaves stitched into my gums. The taste is that of
the possibility of both regret and ecstasy. I fire up my last smoke and take a long drag to
mix the aroma of cheap tar and ash into the already heavy, drugged up atmosphere.
Welcome all to the bottom of the social totem poll.
We are the ones your parents warned you about.
We are the last sacred few who cast off your blessed norms.
We are, tonight, whoever we want to be.
We are perfectly out of control.
I stroll back casually to where my drums lay waiting for me and position myself
on my throne behind them. I slip off my shoes and place my naked toes against the
cold metal of the pedals and slip a pair of sticks from my satchel into my hands. The
soundman’s voice comes through the back monitors in a muted and distant timbre as he
conducts me through my routine sound check.
“Check bass.” …Kick. Thud. Thump... “Snare” …Crack. Pop. Clap… “Cymbals.”
…Ring. Crash. Bang…
This monotony continues in an anti-clockwise motion through the ranks of our
group until the balance is set. The final level now obtained, it’s time to bring in the
watchers. They file through one by one past the doormen, their hands either banded or
branded with an X to separate the older from the younger, the men from the boys, the
tigers from the cubs. The banded instinctually take to the bar at the back to further add
bottom-shelf gin and brandy into their pre-addled brains. They are closing in on optimal
impairment, on the verge of critical chemical content. The ones with X’s come up to greet
us and rest their elbows on the lip of the stage. As the crowd thickens I catch glimpses of
subtle passes made between heads in the crowd. A plethora of paraphernalia and packages
manifest from the creases in cleavage and the elastic bands of boxer-briefs and skin-tight
leggings and heads duck down and rise up methodically, leaving behind faint sour clouds
hanging in the stagnant air, revealing and betraying their creators. In any other place they
would be forced to leave, but here their taboo customs are paid no heed.
Welcome to the outskirts of the status-quo.
Our etiquette is our own.
They chatter and buzz with a static energy between them as the normal personal
spatial boundaries are absolved completely, and they are left hip-to-hip, shoulder-toshoulder, no movement possible, and no escape necessary. My heart beats rapidly in the
excitement of what is soon to follow; I play the opening number over and over in my
head, mentally repeating the meters constantly to ensure it’s auditory perfection when the
time comes to liberate them upon the eardrums of the heads that stand before me.
The lights dim over the concrete pit and the overhead spotlights illuminate with a
blinding flash of blue and red, turning my comrades and I into the larger-than-life
virtuosos of rock and/or roll. It’s neither the elevation of the stage nor the glare of the
high beams that grant you this sudden surge of clout, for this metamorphosis is gifted to
us from those that came to stand in the wake of our vibrations. Without their presence,
we are nothing. Upon this signal, their whispering evaporates instantly and the cheers and
shouts that follow seem to shake the rafters and supports overhead.
They are ready.
We are all ready for this.
In this moment I am alone, alone with my thoughts and transgressions, alone with
the promise of grandeur, and alone with beating in my chest and throat.
Welcome to solitude.
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Welcome to the beginning.
The silhouette of my vocalist’s slender form and the amorphous mass of leather and
hairspray beyond her are all I can see. She leans in sexily to the mic stand and croons to
those who gather before us with gratitude and welcome. They are now hypnotized under
our harmonic command. They stand transfixed, eagerly awaiting their cue. Energetically
poised for the countdown. These are the same people who have seen us before; they’ve
seen us on the streets and sidewalks, patiently awaiting our coffee in line, ordering our
dinner from their menus, passing them a matchbook outside of the bar. They’ve never
given us so much as a second glance, but tonight we are the only people they see. We
control their feet as they dance and their voices as they sing along. We lay our clutches on
their emotions and muscles and control through our vibrations the nodding of their heads
and the clapping of their hands.
They sing our songs tonight.
Although I know that tomorrow, if we cross paths, they will doubtlessly pass us by
without recognition or praise, but tonight they have come to be in this moment.
An ephemeral lapse from the troubles of the day-to-day existence.
Recessing fleetingly from the tainted world outside these walls.
Nothing more than a face in the crowd.
Just another one of the Freaks.
I raise my sticks high over my head and count off, with vigor, the first number of the
night. Welcome to The Show.
Crossing Bear Tooth Pass
By: C.W. Driscoll
Amidst one of the best motorcycle trips I have ever taken I found myself in Mon
tana leaving a small town called Red Lodge. I left my home in New Hampshire some 6
months and 15000 miles ago with no plan or idea as to where I was going other than I
was just going to ride. Filling up at the only gas station in Red Lodge I asked a couple
of riders with local tags what route would provide a great view. Not knowing what they
would tell me next would open me up to one of the most unexpected surprises I have ever
seen. “Bear Tooth Pass” the local biker replied. It sounded good to me, but what I failed
to know is that this ride would change my life forever.
Leaving the flat city of Red Lodge became obvious as I slammed into a steep incline
of road. As I looked up the road it seemed almost daunting, even on a motorized vehicle.
The road was held up by pillars made of steel. They twisted and turned through the
narrow landscape like a roller coaster you waited for hours in line to ride only to regret
it as you are being carried higher than you wished to the top. As I am riding I am trying
to follow the road and choose my next line because I am riding a chopper and not a sport
bike that would have fared far better in these treacherous conditions.
I can’t follow any line, the road changes so quickly and fast that I find myself from
turn to turn having to veer into the oncoming lane just to remain on the road. I slow down
more, well below the speed limit where I can at least remain in control even if it means
ticking off motorists behind me. I am able to continue but the road disappears as it wraps
around corners that go through the mountain. Trees block your view of what’s to come. I
gain my wits about myself and press on. Riding up such steep points I feel as though my
handle bars that normally are well below my field of vision have become bars on a ladder
from which I am hanging onto for fear of falling off the back. There is no doubt in my
mind the reason why this mountain is only open about 60 days out of the year.
I have found my groove sort of speak as I traverse up this windy landscape. A
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throbbing sensation in my hands makes me aware of how much the temperature has
dropped from Red Lodge.
I have been riding without gear for months now. The same pair of boots, jeans, gray
t-shirt, and faded black leather jacket. I have no toiletries, cameras, phone, or idea what’s
around the next turn but I feel like I have everything I need.
The road levels out as I crest over the top of Bear tooth Pass. The wind is breaking
against me like the ocean hits the bow of a ship when trying to escape a hurricane. I am
thrown from side to side within the yellow lines of the road that have snow drifts glazing
across it during the middle of June. At 11,000 feet the earth never thaws but unfortunately
this did not keep my confidence from melting. I think to myself quickly just how much I
hate being cold.
The pass from Red Lodge runs into a small town called Yuetsville, WY which
represents the NW entrance into Yellow Stone National Park. Yuetsville is about 68 miles
away and represents the end of the pass for me.
I have no idea how far I have already gone but am already wishing it was further
then what I have. I ride for hours not really paying attention to the landscape, or anything.
I just want to cover these 68 stupid miles so I can come down from this altitude and get
warm. Motoring along for probably only an hour, which to me feels like a lifetime, I start
to see caution signs. Slow down sharp curve ahead. I’m going 5 miles an hour and I think
if I slow down anymore I might as well be going backwards.
I traverse yet another steep curve and I didn’t really see the big deal in this curve
over the thousand other sharp curves I had already passed through that weren’t marked
when I realize why this one was called the “Tooth of the Bear”. This jagged piece of road
actually sticks out unsupported with about a 4000 ft drop underneath it. As I’m starring
over the ledge I start thinking about how much it would suck to fall off, I manage to kiss
the rear bumper of a car that stopped to move some rocks that had fallen into the middle
of the road from an adjacent ledge.
“Awesome”, I think to myself as I pull off to the only scenic point with a small
parking lot on the entire Pass to exchange insurance info- but as it turned out I didn’t have
to. There was no damage to either vehicle and the guy felt that it was his fault because
there is no stopping allowed. Clearly he is not from Massachusetts like me or he would
have introduced himself as the guy who would be suing me today. Either way, he left and
I stood there on the side of the road and for the first time I saw the most beautiful thing I
have ever seen.
Dead lakes, so high in altitude they were black and lifeless. There had to be at least thirty
of them as far as I could see, and they were imprisoned by a landscape of ledge and earth,
cliffs and ice. The air smelled only what I could describe as pure. A bear is running across a
peat moss cover knoll a couple of miles away with a few cubs chasing her; it’s amazing.
The whole time I was riding through this pass I was jaded by the cold temperatures
and the twists and turns thinking only about how I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Not
realizing one of life’s most precious lessons was starring me in the face. “Don’t miss what
is right in front of you”. I am so lucky, so small, and so insignificant to all of this beauty
that surrounds me.
I get back on my bike. No longer cold I am riding down steep gorges with “check
break” signs at every turn. Cliffs are trying to break my fall. The road barrels between the
mountain and creates its own guard rails of ice.
As the road becomes more manageable the temperature all of the sudden seemed to
rise into the June I knew. Being covered by the road spray of my own rear tire, I realize it
is over and I am out of the pass that I had started some 68 miles back.
I pull over once more after my bike seems to drop off of the road that I had slammed
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into to start this journey and look back amazed. These mountains are truly sky scrapers
made of pure nature. They give even greater depth to their literal name and I can only
watch in amazement as their peeks split the clouds as they pass over. Even the tallest
trees seem angered as they surround these mountains, they cannot follow them to the top.
Trying, they surround the mountains white mass wherever a root can dig in. It seems their
only purpose is to hide the very road that I came in on from its landscape. Which makes
those just like me question what is around every turn, and to protect the right to traverse it
with fear? I am lucky to have been a part of what this mountain had to offer.
I hope back on my bike and wipe the crud off of my glasses as I hear some other
bikes coming down the pass. I pause and turn around to see two bikes pulling into the
same crest of the road where I had stopped. They are the bikers that I had asked back in
Red Lodge about where I should ride.
Asking me how the ride went with a smirk on their faces, I told them that it was
amazing and I have never been so humbled in my entire life. I told them thank you. With
another smirk neither of them said anything, but gave me a wave signaling to follow them.
We road down into the Yuestville and pulled into a local bar. As we were getting
off of our bikes I asked him why the smirk? The other biker chimed in. “Normally we
send tourist around the pass when they ask us where to go, but for some reason we had a
feeling you would get it, and you did.”
Where are you mother?
By: Hannah Beringer
I awake to the birds chirping, the sun brightly shining, and the cool ocean breeze
coming from my window. I think to myself; ‘what a beautiful day’, but yet, for me it’s
something much less. It’s mother’s day, I’ll be a teenager in less than six months, and it’s
the twelfth year without my mom. Not having her here is the most challenging thing I’ve
faced yet. I wake up every morning and wish that things were different but the path of life
had already been chosen twelve years ago.
I was ten when I first realized she was gone, and never coming back. I can remember
thinking about her often that year. It was almost like it was yesterday; I could see her face
everywhere I went, feel her presence right with me, see her bright big smile behind me,
and hear her laugh as if she was right next to me. When you reach that age of curiosity,
everything you’ve ever known or heard about suddenly all makes sense. I knew she was
gone but as I got older it got harder and harder. There were many obstacles I had to face.
I found myself getting closer and closer to becoming a woman much faster than I had
expected, as a child it was such a scary thing to go through alone, it’s the time a person
needs their mother the most, but she was not there. I grew up a lot faster than the rest of
my friends. I was the kid staying at home doing chores, while the rest of my friends were
at the movies. My dad was a very hard worker, and still is, while raising five kids on his
own. He became my hero in no time and he’s never stopped.
Ever since I was seven I’ve had some type of responsibility. Living without a mom
has forced me to grow and learn things on my own. I knew how to clean, do laundry and
cook at an early age. By the time I was 15, I started paying my cell phone bill, and by 16
I was paying for my insurance and car payments. My dad has never had the extra money
to pay for all of our “fun essentials”, as he would say, but that was okay because someday
I knew he’d be right, I just didn’t know it yet. I was never given anything I begged for,
and the things I desired were never portrayed to be easy. I was not spoiled, but provided
with everything I needed. I bought my own car, found my own job, and went shopping for
the things I wanted.
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My dad had long-term girlfriends and other women he wanted in my life, but it was
never the same, because they were not my mother and never would be. Sometimes I feel
selfish for never really giving them a chance, but it was my own personal choices that
made me who I am today. My twin sister, Abigail, and I became best friends. Although
I had an older sister she was never really there, Abigail was the only female who was
always there, no matter what. I would always be there for her because the day my mom
died, she was there for me. We sat side by side on the couch about a foot away from the
kitchen, where we last saw her and where the memories of her would never be forgotten.
One second she was there and the other she was gone, she lost her life to a heart
arrhythmia. Yet so quick, but very painful, she never stood a chance because she never
knew it was there. Although I was only ten months old, that day will never go away. The
stories I’ve heard have been embedded in my head and just knowing I was there makes it
so much harder.
In 2003, I was 12 ½, and it was the first year I would visit my mother’s grave in a
very long time. All the other trips I can’t seem to remember as much as I’d like to, because
of the fact that I was so young. I was nervous; I can remember how scared and excited I
was when I woke up that morning. Death scares me and I hated every little thing about
cemeteries. I had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning all night. I caught about
three hours of sleep. I woke up to a discombobulated bed with my sheets everywhere,
drenched in sweat, my heart was racing and my head felt like a train had hit it. It was the
day that I’d see her face on that gravestone for the first time since I could remember.
I got out of bed, began to get dressed and suddenly noticed warm tears falling down
my face, I was so afraid of what it would be like. I kept looking at all the pictures of her
in my room to try to get use to how sad it was going to be. I knew I had to be strong. I
slowly walked outside and wondered how it could be so beautiful out when something
else inside of me was not. Looking up, and squinting my eyes to see the clear blue sky, I
noticed a cloud in the shape of a lamb. All of sudden I felt myself smiling.
Two hours later we had reached the small town of New Braintree, Massachusetts,
the place where she was born and raised, had a career for herself, found the love of her
life; got married, and had children, the place she rested so peacefully. The grass was
freshly cut and bright green, the smell of flowers and pine trees filled the air with a hint
of happiness, but as you looked down to see all the grey, black and white tombstones
that smell quickly disappeared. We had to walk past many other graves and through the
cemetery to get to the front where she was buried. The amount of stones we had to pass
was horrifying.
Her place of resting was as beautiful as it could be. The back of the tomb had a
picture of her family, engraved perfectly, and the front was a close-up picture, back from
when she was a teenager, I look just like her. It was heart-shaped and a soft red color. The
smell of hibiscus, her favorite flower, was all around her. There were little sheep and lamb
stones resting on the bottom of her grave. You could feel all the happiness in the world,
yet there was so much sadness. I remember watching my siblings and father staring into
the gravestone trying to find some sense of life still in there, their skin quickly turned pale
and cold. I just stood there and looked so deep into her picture waiting for someone to say
something, but of course they didn’t. Nobody was saying anything to each other, about an
hour went by and we were still all in the exact same spot, quietly crying.
We said our goodbyes but this time it was different, because this time I will
remember every little detail from that day. As I was walking away, I crouched down
and placed the letter I had written along with the flowers I had bought. I laminated it so
it would stay dry incase the rain came. I brought daisies because the smell and bright
yellow color seemed to catch my eye that day. I said my last words, hugged and kissed
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her grave and a feeling of sensation rushed through my body, I could feel something so
powerful go in and out so quickly. It was a reassurance that she was right there with me
and always will be. I couldn’t have asked for a better experience that day, and it changed
my life forever.
I’m very thankful for the life I have today, and if I could go back, I have no idea
which path I would have chosen for myself. Yes, I miss my mother every single day.
It’s been the biggest struggle I’ll probably ever face. But I believe everything happens
for a reason, and losing her has only made me stronger. I have been guided in the right
direction all my life, and every breath I take, and every move I make is always for her.
Everlasting Memories
By: Harlan Searles
Life is a journey of the human spirit. The accumulation of memories starts at a very
young age. We can all remember certain events in life that evoke a particular response
from our core that represents how we feel about that occurrence. Most people would
agree that memories and feelings are closely related. I would go so far as to say that
one cannot exist without the other. A well-established memory from one’s life is going
to stem from some extraordinary impression that was made upon that individual. We
can look at society as a whole or at an individual and derive a collective feeling about a
memory or event; so I would suggest that most long lasting memories will evoke either
a positive or negative emotional response. According to healthyplace.com “The span
for these feelings can range in intensity (high, medium, low) and be placed in seven
categories: Happy, Sad, Angry, Scared, Confused, Strong, and Weak” (HealthyPlace.
com). Analyzing one of my personal memories as well as one example from history
will show how certain memories define our emotional response to future situations and
scenarios. The psychological component of feelings and behavior is fascinating to me and
worthy of much scrutiny. The ability to understand yourself as well as others can be done
when we comprehend the way the brain works. If you go one step further, you can dissect
an individual’s mind by peering into their past experiences, exposures, and environments.
The people we choose to associate with also contribute to the types of memories we
create, and this consequentially affects the feelings we create about the life we live.
In the words of William Clement Stone (May 4, 1902 – September 3, 2002) a
prominent businessman, philanthropist and author, Be careful the environment you
choose for it will shape you; be careful the friends you choose for you will become
like them.
Like success, failure is many things to many people. With Positive Mental Attitude,
failure is a learning experience, a rung on the ladder, and a plateau at which to get
your thoughts in order and prepare to try again. (Drive)
Each of our own experiences of life will create a certain number of opportunities.
The example of William Clement Stone and how he lived his life is one that exemplifies
success. I believe everyone can learn from this example and also prosper from the
implementation of his personal approach to life.
The joy in my heart is directly related to many memories in my life, both good
and bad. I choose to embrace these and grow from the lessons inherent in all of life’s
experiences. This is, we will find, how we grow as individuals. The benefits of our
many experiences shape us into the people who we are. We grow and profit from both
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positive and negative experiences, but our feelings related to these memories may
change over time. We also need to consider that a memory can be viewed as positive or
negative depending upon how close we are to it. Sometimes what we feel about an event
is only sustained by ignorance or a stubborn spirit. A willingness to participate in the
growth process is of vital importance. There are so many variables that influence human
emotions. A thoughtful and logical mind will attempt to be less reactionary to human
events whether it is in real time or upon careful reflection of the past. I consider myself
patient and deliberate, not perfect. Facts are unchangeable. However, memories can be
jaded. The memory created can depend on each person’s perspective as the experience
is filtered through their understanding and knowledge of the stimuli. Time is a factor of
memories which can act to effect a change or to strengthen an emotional response or
feeling to a long-term memory. If we look at an example of an individual’s and a societal
memory, it may help us to appreciate the effect memories have on our feelings.
When I was a child of nine or ten years of age I had an experience that had a lasting
effect on me. It was Christmas time and there was a toy I really wanted badly. I come
from a family of average means and I am sure I was not expecting “Santa” to bring many
gifts. I am not even sure if I was aware of the holiday tradition’s fact or still believing the
holiday’s fantasy, but the point of this story goes to something unrelated. Much to my
surprise I received the toy I had asked for and I was elated beyond belief. I played with
that toy all day long and would not let that out of my sight. I was quite possessive of it and
it almost seemed to consume my every breath. This attitude was going to teach me a hard
lesson.
My father is a wonderful man for whom I have a great deal of respect. As a child
I can only remember being punished a couple of times, corporal punishment was not
prevalent in my childhood. However, one night shortly after Christmas as I played
with my toy, my father asked to take a look at it. I responded in a manner less than
respectful. This moment passed and bedtime approached. I was on my way to bed and
was approached by dear old dad, and I again rebuffed my dad’s request to see my toy. I
took that toy up to my room and hid it so no one could find it and crawled into bed. Soon
thereafter my dad came to my room, and as a result of my selfish, rude, and disrespectful
behavior, I got the spanking of a lifetime. I also lost that prized toy for quite a while too.
This event made an impression on me then and the memory continues to affect me today.
My feelings at the time were of anger, sadness, fear, and weakness.
This personal anecdote was one that changed me forever and stirred a certain
emotional response. The emotions I felt then I can now appreciate. Although it was
somewhat traumatic at the time, I grew from it and now see it as a stepping stone of
development. I have no ill will toward my father and actually respect him more for
addressing my unacceptable behavior. Although I would not use the same disciplinary
action as he did, I would certainly address the behavior in an attempt to curb it. So a
memory that initially started as a negative one from my perspective turned out to be a
valuable life lesson. This is how it metes out for most people. Many different memories
are created and our first response is as a knee jerk, just instinctive. As time passes and we
reflect on those events with a clear and rational mind, hopefully most people will embrace
the positive lessons, while discarding the negative memories. It seems to me that this is
a process which should continue in perpetuity throughout life for most healthy minded
individuals. This process will help to develop each of us into positive contributors of
society.
Society as a whole can be affected by some event in history. Many specific events
change nations and likely will create an emotional response too. One such memory still
fresh in my mind is the terrorist attack on the United States of America. On September
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11, 2001, most Americans woke up as it were any other day. This, of course, would turn
out not to be the case. This tragic event overwhelmed Americans and brought fear, anger,
confusion, and uncertainty to us all. This event acted as a catalyst for change in America
on all levels. The divisions between our elected officials had evaporated overnight. We
became a unified nation and the partisanship was set aside. The petty bickering within
our borders paled in comparison to the threat that loomed large over this entire nation
and its liberty. “The numbers are staggering to read. Thousands were killed in only a few
short seconds, 12 seconds for each tower” (New York Magazine), at the two towers alone.
The exact number of lost souls could not be ascertained for years after the attack. Not to
mention the many lives sacrificed in the name of liberty since that day. These sacrifices
should be recognized, honored, and cherished. Americans should never forget that fateful
day when our borders were penetrated and our way of life was violated. Almost a decade
has passed since that dreadful day, and this memory still evokes a passionate response
from most Americans. Our emotions as a nation remain steadfast and resolute whenever
we are reflecting on that day. However, we continue the learning and growth process in
the wake of this horrific tragedy. This tragedy stemmed from the actions of a group of
radical extremists who with limited resources, consumed by hatred, were able to cause an
entire nation to experience the feelings of hopelessness, if only for a brief moment. Since
then though, the collective growth of the nation has been great, but the pain of our losses
is still pressed firmly into our memories. We should never forget that day and we should
keep it fresh in our memory. Our very existence may rely on this state of mind. “Former
President George W. Bush, promoting his memoir, Decision Points, said he worries that
the September 11 attacks will become a ‘distant memory’” (Chicago Tribune). Sometimes
the feelings from a distant memory will level out, and we can even reduce the perceived
severity of a memory as we place time between it and those affected. However, keeping
the feelings fresh will work to our benefit and help us with our survival instincts as we
can learn from the excerpt below,
Feelings evolved in humans for the purpose of alerting us to everyday threats to our
survival. We constantly scan our environment for dangers and opportunities, to
satisfy our most basic needs. We get a constant bodymind report about the state of
the world through our feelings. They give us a quick assessment about whether
something is good for us or bad for us and they motivate us to take action
accordingly. (Stone)
I believe the resiliency of the human spirit is one of an immeasurable quantity. The
durability, elasticity, and persistence of mankind allow us to overcome unfathomable
adversity. Our trials may bring heartache and pain for moments and those feelings of
certain memories will always be held closely in our hearts. Whether it is a memory made
on the mind of a developing child or the memory established into the fiber of an entire
nation. What we do with those memories internally and the actions stemming from them
in the world around us will be the evidence of our growth either as an individual or as a
nation. Some memories etched into the depths of our spirit are firm. They motivate our
behavior immediately and thereafter more urgently. Other memories are there as a tool
waiting to be used later for growth and learning. Some memories create a lasting feeling
and others have an evolution of emotional response as time generates a new vantage
point. My growth emotionally and intellectually has been influenced by my collective
experience. The lessons I learn in life are not always immediate as with the experience I
had a child. Others are more severe and sudden as the lesson we as a nation learned from
the vicious assault this great nation suffered on September eleventh two thousand and
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one. I have found that my greatest growth has come from the memories of experiences
that are the most difficult to endure. Ultimately I believe that the adversity I have faced
and that also of this great nation, will inspire and propel the great minds of today and
those of tomorrow forward to even greater successes.
Works Cited
Chicago Tribune. “Bush Fears 9/11 Attacks to become ‘distant Memory’.”
Featured Articles From The Chicago Tribune. 11 Nov. 2010. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
<http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2010-11-11/news/ct-met-bush-911-1112-20101111_1_
attacks-world-trade-center-daleys>.
Drive, Dynamic. “W. Clement Stone Home Page - Biography and Book Listing.”
New Thought On-line Books for Self-Help, Self-Improvement. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
<http://cornerstone.wwwhubs.com/Clement_Stone.html>.
New York Magazine. “September 11 by Numbers.” New York Magazine -- NYC Guide to
Restaurants, Fashion, Nightlife, Shopping, Politics, Movies. Web. 22 Nov. 2010.
(see website for statistics) <http://nymag.com/news/articles/wtc/1year/numbers.htm>.
Stone, Robert. “Why Are Feelings Important?” Psych Central – Trusted Mental Health, Depression, Bipolar, ADHD and Psychology Information. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
<http://psychcentral.com/lib/2006/why-are-feelings-important>.
“The Feelings Chart - HealthyPlace.” HealthyPlace.com - Trusted Mental Health Information and
Support - HealthyPlace. Web. 17 Nov. 2010.
<http://www.healthyplace.com/abuse/hollis-triumph-over-tragedy/the-feelingschart/menu-id-1890/>.
Childhood Obesity
By: Hannah Beringer
“Nearly 25 percent of 2- to 5-year-olds and one-third of school-age children in our
country are overweight or obese” (“Child Hunger and Obesity”). Obesity is a condition
characterized by the excessive accumulation and storage of fat in the body (“Merriam
Webster Dictionary.”) Obesity most commonly occurs when a person consumes an
immense amount of calories, causing them to gain weight but most importantly a strain
on the heart causing it to overcompensate for the bodies’ abnormal size. Childhood
obesity has become a prevalent issue in this country. Can you imagine your child having
a higher chance of diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, depression, behavior
problems, being obese as an adult and harassed by their peers? Something needs to be
stopped in this epidemic we, as Americans are facing each and everyday.
The side effects that come along with childhood obesity can be deadly. With diabetes
on the top of the list, there’s little room for any other devastating illnesses. But there
is in fact something happening around the world, children are being bullied to death.
“Sisters Samantha and Michaela Kendal [were] so taunted and bullied about being obese
they [went] on hunger strike ... both died. On 17 December 2003: 18-year-old Hannah
Kirkham takes an overdose of painkillers after a long campaign of bullying, harassment
and assault by fellow employees at KFC who called her, amongst other things, a “fat,
spotty bitch” ” (“Bullycide”).
“Commercial media must create a fantasy world that we hope, in some way, can
become ours” (“Our Bodies Ourselves”). For decades the media has had a huge impact on
body image in American culture. The pressure on women from the media to be younger,
taller and thinner has become inevitable. Today, it is socially unacceptable to be over
weight. For some individuals these stresses serve as deterrent for weight gain causing
eating disorders and extreme weight loss, the exact response the media had hoped for.
These influences can also work completely in reverse; some individuals become easily
depressed from the constant burden their body image has on their life. One of the most
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common side effects of depression is weight gain (“Our Bodies Ourselves”). “Young
people who reported symptoms of depression…gained weight more rapidly over a 15year period and accrued more belly fat than those who appeared to be happier” (“New
York Times”). Many people turn to food for comfort and binge eat in order to medicate
their feelings on their wellbeing. The media doesn’t have to endorse a super thin body or
an over weight one, but purely a healthy individual. Until the media promotes a healthier
life style, it will be a significant contribution to obesity.
Lately on television there’s been many shows created in favor of people who are
obese. In fact these shows have become the most popular. For examples, Biggest Loser, I
Used to Be Fat, Extreme Makeover Weight Loss, Heavy, Shedding for the Wedding, Huge
and list goes up. These shows exist solely for entertainment; any one of these boot camps
could be just as successful off camera as on. Some may argue that they are televised for
inspirational purposes but a person’s courage to make a significant change in their life can
only come from within. It is no secret that America is one of the world’s fattest countries
due to a combination of fast food and technology that makes our lives so simple. They
are also created and televised so that other countries can see how ‘wonderful’ the United
States is despite it’s silent killer, obesity.
Take the Biggest Loser for example. It is arguably the most inspirational weight loss
show on cable. (“M Live”). Some say they can’t sit and watch that show without getting
the motivation to want to change your life. The question is, how many people actually
lost weight specifically after seeing this show. Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge advocate
for positive peer pressure, however, a person should make changes to their body merely
for themselves only, not because everyone else is doing it. This show is one amongst all
the other shows that may actually work, but where are the statistics? You can constantly
find facts about annual weight loss and gain in the Unites States as well as the methods
used. As for the reasoning behind weight loss, where are all of the explanations? For a
show as popular are The Biggest Loser, the network has to be making enough money to
survey the country considering a good portion of the US watches the show. In order to
give the media credit for the attempt to regulate obesity through weight loss shows they
must prove that they are not only changing the contestant’s life but making an adequate
impact on the viewers as well. A former Biggest Loser contestant, Helen Phillips, stated
in a recent press release “It was hard as hell, loosing 140 pounds in 8-months, but I did it,
and anyone else can, too” (“M Live”).
The Biggest Loser not only provides marketing through television but also through
books, online and in magazines. The Biggest Loser has really proved itself to the media
and its viewers. Every season there are thousands of contestants that try out for the show.
Although not everyone makes the show, some are given the chance to prove they can
become a better person at home with a little help from The Biggest Loser. Whether you
are chosen or not, there are other options out there to help loose the weight; you can find
The Biggest Loser anywhere. The show has put together meals, workout videos, and tips
on how to maintain a certain lifestyle that can be found in stores and online. With help
from The Biggest Loser, the chance to gain your life back is achievable.
U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Regina Benjamin stated at a recent National Association
for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) launch event in Washington, DC, “We
are emphasizing good eating habits, lots of exercise, lots of play. We want Americans to
have fun, and to enjoy being active” (“Black Voice News”). This is how life should be;
children should have fun while staying active. No matter the ethnicity of a child any can
be obese. In fact, recent studies have found that African-American children are more
susceptible to fast food then Caucasian children are. “African-American youth order more
items and are more likely to purchase larger-sized, less healthy options, as compared to
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white youth” (“The Grio”). The only way to get a child to start exercising and eating right
is by teaching healthier habits. It usually starts in a child’s home and at school. If you
think about it, most children eat two meals in school and one meal at home. So it’s very
important for a child to receive the same nutritional value in both places. There needs to
be more discipline when it comes to staying active and eating right.
It’s important to keep junk food out of reach when trying to lean your child into
healthier eating habits. When thinking about what to make for dinner think about what
is healthier. All you really need in a healthy diet is greens, vegetables, whole-wheat
and protein (“Web MD”). It’s really simple to provide your child with healthier foods
at home. It just takes time to cook the food they should be eating. “Parents and other
caregivers serve as role models, and mealtime helps younger family members to learn
good table manners and healthy eating habits” (“Web MD”). Living a healthy life style is
not just about eating right. Staying active is very important as well. It is key for children
to stay active, so sign your kids up for sports and make them sweat, because in the end
it will be the best thing for them. If every parent in the United States had these beliefs
obesity would not exist.
There are the parents who believe in providing their children with fast food as well
as processed foods. You can’t really blame them though, can you? Fast food is fast, easy
and cheap the parents who take their kids to these places are usually obese themselves.
Parents who are obese should be educating their children on the negative side effects of
unhealthy food, however, do to the increase in childhood obesity it is extremely clear that
they are not. Childhood obesity is a problem in the United States so why parents continue
to steer their children down that path is a mystery to me. I understand that most parents
like to spoil their children. But how are you providing a better life for a child by feeding
them whatever they want? You’re the parent, you’re the person whose suppose to set
examples for your child and teach them the right things in life. In the end, an “obese child
is an obese adult” (“Child Hunger and Obesity”) and they’ll have a hard time forgiving
the person who put them in that situation causing resentment. It is possible that as a child
gets older they can change their path of life but it is nearly impossible for them to forget
how they got there or where they came from. Besides only the professionals can really
prove what it does to a child. “It is no secret that if not eradicated, childhood obesity will
be one of the many causes of premature deaths and chronic disease for our children,” said
NAACP President and CEO Benjamin Todd Jealous (“Black Voice News”).
Obviously there are many obstacles that come along with childhood obesity. But it’s
clear that one thing preventing it from going away is in everything that lives all around
us. You can’t blame a child who lives in a household full of junk food, after all they are
still children and don’t really have a say in what goes in their mouths. The one good part
is that the demographics all around us are starting to take notice in the good and bad and
trying to get rid of it. It’s just the beginning stages and predicted to only get better over
time. The one thing we can hope is that people start noticing what is wrong with the
picture and get rid of it. Since we know the causes and everyone to some extent has the
resources to obtain the knowledge for weight loss it should be an easy subject to tackle
but its not. If you’d like to join the fight against obesity, please log onto http://www.
childrensaidsociety.org/obesity.
Works Cited
Anyaegbunam, Jennifer Adaeze. “Are Black Kids a Bigger Target for Fast Food Companies?” TheGrio | African American Breaking News and Opinion. NBC Universal, 10 Nov. 2010.
Web. 08 Nov. 2011.
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“Beauty and Body Image in the Media.” Media Awareness Network | Réseau éducation Médias. Media Awareness Network, 2010. Web. 08 Nov. 2011.
“Body Image - The Media Lies - Our Bodies Ourselves.” Information on Women’s Health & Sexuality - Our Bodies Ourselves. Boston Women’s Health Book Collective, Inc., 2005-2011. Web. 08 Nov. 2011.
“Bullycide Cases of Children and Young People Who Have Lost Their Life or Committed Suicide
Because of Bullying at School.” Bully OnLine: Bullying in the Workplace, School, Family and
Community, Action You Can Take, Stress, Psychiatric Injury, PTSD, Resources, Case Histories,
News and Contact the Media. Web. 26 Oct. 2011.
“Obesity - Definition and More from the Free Merriam-Webster Dictionary.” Dictionary and
Thesaurus - Merriam-Webster Online. 2011. Web. 26 Oct. 2011.
O’Connor, James. “Child Hunger and Obesity.” Parks & Recreation 46.3 (2011): 55-57.
Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Web. 20 Oct. 2011.
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| MLive.com.” Michigan Local News, Breaking News, Sports & Weather - MLive.com.
Michigan Live LLC, 8 Nov. 2011. Web. 08 Nov. 2011.
Rabin, Roni Caryn. “Exploring the Links Between Depression and Weight Gain - NYTimes.com.”
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Ward, Elizabeth M. “Quick Healthy Meals for Busy Families.” WebMD - Better Information.
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The Storage Unit
By: Michael Chwasciak
There was a point in time when my life did not even come close to resembling the
happy, productive, and rewarding life that I live today. In fact, it was pretty much the
complete opposite of that. At a point in my early teens I found drugs and alcohol and
I fell in love. These substances produced an effect in me that I did not want to give up
for anything, but what eventually happened was that I gave up everything and anything
to chase that feeling. I gave up all my money, I gave up jobs, I was even willing to give
up having a place to live and become homeless to chase that feeling. In the end I was
reduced to living in a storage unit in the Rocky Mountains in the middle of the winter.
On January 2nd of 2005 I packed up all my belongings into the back of my truck and
I was off. I was leaving New Hampshire for good and for all and I was off to Colorado to
start a new and exciting life. You see, I had this idea in my head that New Hampshire was
the problem. I was bored and my life was going nowhere fast, so I decided that if I just
got out of this mind-numbing little state then maybe my life would be good. What I didn’t
realize or maybe just wasn’t willing to look at was the fact that the colossal amounts
of alcohol and drugs that I was putting into my body at the time could have been the
problem. So I left and I didn’t look back. I spent three days driving out to Colorado and
it was all a blur. I was drunk the entire way and I defiantly have something out there to
thank that I even made it there alive. I did make it though and I ended up in a ski town by
the name of Breckenridge.
Breckenridge was a marvelous place to behold and I was so thrilled to be there. The
immense mountains looming overhead all around me were bigger and better than I could
have ever imagined. The town itself was small but was bursting with so much energy and
the atmosphere was exhilarating, one of fun and excitement, and everywhere I looked
there were people just like me, people just looking to have a good time. I immediately
knew that this was the place for me. I said goodbye to my old dull life and embraced the
new one that I had always been searching for. Things were going to be different, I was
happy and everything was going to change and be so much better, at least that is what I
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was thinking.
Things started out pretty good but my lifestyle didn’t really change at all. I got a job
working at the ski area as a lift attendant, and got a room in an apartment with a few other
people. I made a host of new friends and we spent our days on the mountain soaking up
the rays and enjoying the champagne powder. We spent our nights hitting up the plethora
of bars that the town had to offer, drinking the “champagne of beers” and partying until
the wee hours of the morning. The new scenery and the new friends that liked to party
like I did, which was hard and nonstop, gave me the delusion that all was well and that
I had changed things around. This was not the truth though. The truth was that although
the people and things around me may of changed, I had not. I was my problem, drugs and
alcohol were still my solution, and no matter how much I changed the things surrounding
me I stayed the same and soon enough my life started to crumble to pieces all around me,
once again.
The same problems that I had faced earlier in life started to come back. I couldn’t
show up for work on time most days. The days that I did show up I was almost always
drunk, and when I was there I couldn’t wait to leave, which was clearly visible in my
attitude and performance. Needless to say, I got fired from numerous jobs. I also found
myself getting kicked out of one apartment after another. For some odd reason nobody
seemed to find me exceedingly pleasurable to live with. Eventually even my friends
wouldn’t let me sleep on their couches anymore. That is when I found myself living in a
storage unit.
I had a six foot by ten foot storage unit that housed all my worldly belongings, along
with me, for the better part of three months. It was winter at this time, it was cold and
there was no shortage of snow. The compound where the unit was located was comprised
of three warehouse like buildings surrounded by an eight foot tall chain link fence. There
was a mechanical gate on the fence and after you entered the code on the keypad it would
raise up like the barriers you see at a railroad crossing to let the cars come in and out,
or people on foot in my case. The problem with this gate though was that it was only
active from the hours of 8 am to 8 pm and since I wasn’t usually leaving the bars until 2
am I was left with only one way to get to my unit, and that was to climb the fence. This
wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t have to trudge through a waist deep snow bank
just to get to a fence that was taller than I am, then climb over the fence wearing snow
boots, snow gear, and a backpack. Also I had to do it all as fast as possible so as not to be
spotted by anyone who might just happen to drive by while I was doing this. Once over
the fence I would run up to the door that led to the center hallway of the building that my
unit was in, and once I made it through the door I would be safely home for the night.
This was my routine every night.
The building was nothing more than a skeleton of steel I-beams with a skin of thin
sheet metal. On a windy night the sounds of the roof and the walls being bombarded
by the gusts made the building sound as if a large truck was crashing into it repeatedly.
The floor was solid concrete and that along with the lack of insulation provided by the
structure kept my living space at a subzero temperature It was like sleeping inside a
commercial walk in refrigerator, and it was about the same size. There were plenty of
nights that it was zero degrees or below. Since there were no electrical outlets I had no
way of heating the place and I would have to make do with what I had. What I had was a
thin foam mat that went on top of the concrete, then a sleeping bag and two comforters.
Even with that it was still very cold at night so before I went to bed I would usually
put on a couple more layers of cloths along with whatever I was already wearing. My
sleeping area was right in the middle of the storage unit and I had most of my stuff
packed into boxes that were stacked up along either wall. The stuff that I needed on a
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daily basis was at the front of the unit so that I could easily grab it when I would leave
in the morning. The unit was small, so with everything that was in it, I was left with just
enough space to lie down. The unit was tight and cramped and with all the stuff piled up
around me it was almost as if I was lying in a grave, which I have done before, but that’s
a different story. Living in that storage unit is not one of my most pleasant memories. It
was a pretty miserable way to live. One of the worst parts about it was that, I had for the
most part, accepted that this was the best I was going to get out of life. I had hit a very
low bottom. When I say that lying there at night was like lying in a grave it’s not because
I was scared I was going to die there, its more because at that point in my life death had
become something that I would have gladly welcomed. Fortunately for me though, that’s
not how the story ends; I didn’t freeze to death locked in a storage unit.
I caught a break and was able to get out of the storage unit. A friend of mine knew
some people that were looking for a roommate and she put in a good word for me. I
was then able to move out of the storage unit and into another apartment. There was a
problem though, and once again it turned out to be me. The people that I had moved in
with soon found out that I was not the wonderful, respectable, charming human being
that they originally thought I might be. They got to know the real me, the drunken mess
that had absolutely no respect for anybody around him. Then something fairly common
for me happened and I was asked to leave. At that point I knew the gig was up. The party
had ended for me a long time ago and I was just then coming to realize it. It wasn’t fun
anymore and I had nothing left, so I caught a ride back to New Hampshire with the same
thoughts that brought me out to Colorado; that if I moved I could change my life around.
I made it back to New Hampshire and to my surprise nothing changed, not
immediately at least. After a bit more emotional pain I did eventually take some steps
in the right direction and took some action to get my life back on track. I finally came
to the conclusion, not on my own but with some help from some other people that once
had the same approach to life, that drugs and alcohol were no longer working for me and
that they never would again. I found out that the best I was going to get out of life if I
continued down the same path was to end in another storage unit or worse.
It is now several years later but the time in my life when I lived in a storage unit still
has a great deal of significance to me. I can remember vividly what it was like to spend
my nights sleeping in the cold, how I thought that it wasn’t a big deal, how miserable and
depressing it was, and I don’t ever want to forget it. Remembering that moment in time
helps me to stay on the right path today. It reminds me of what I have to look forward to
if I feel like I may be missing out on something fun. The reality of my situation is that
my life had stopped being that much fun and I just was unwilling to deal with it. I have a
great life today and I’m not willing to give it up for anything, especially now that I know
what it is like to end up in a storage unit, and to know that it is one of my alternatives.
Untitled
By: Anonymous
“Brewster!!! Get dressed and go to booking…you have court at 9 a.m.” The temperature felt like it was twenty below and I was waking up somewhere in the arctic shelf. It
all seemed so surreal. This wasn’t my first tour of the wonderful judicial system however,
it would be my last.
As I rose from my metal, bolted into the wall cot, I felt a pain shooting through
my back and neck, like someone was trying to open me up with a dull knife. This is the
pain I get every morning from sleeping on metal twenty four hours a day seven days a
week. I guess you could say sleeping is something that I prayed and pleaded for every
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night though. You see…I had been detoxing from methadone, which is a drug used to
treat pain as well as heroin addiction, for about three weeks now. Its extremely potent,
and the hardest medicine on earth to get off of. Picture your bones made of napalm, and
your joints feeling like they are constantly getting nails driven through them with a soft
hammer, soft enough that it would take a month for the nail to get all the way through.
Multiply that feeling times seven, add to it uncontrollable sweating, even though you are
freezing cold and top it off with the fact that you haven’t slept more than an hour each
night for the past three weeks, and you’ve got yourself a healthy detox. Any and every
minute you expect to just seize up, the life ripped from your beating heart, and you drop
dead. It should be illegal to dispense this poison as a medicine but its all about money
these days so I guess the government and pill companies can do what they please, and
hey…a doctor told me I should take it so it’s all right, but this is not a political rant and
rave and we are getting off the subject.
I managed to swing one foot off the metal slab, like an autopsy table, and missed
my rubber shoe. Touching the cold concrete sent a pulse of ice down my spine. It was an
all day task to do something so simple in this condition. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst
enemy. After fighting through my tangled wool blanket and sweat soaked sheets for my
socks and other shoe, for the first time in my life, I felt scared. I had been dealing drugs
since I was twelve years old. I come from a good home with two parents, went to a good
high school, was a good student, and played varsity sports. I led a double life however,
that only a handful of people actually knew. At first I thought it was harmless. I was a
young kid who skateboarded with older kids and they told me what I wanted to hear. Deal
a little weed here and there, make some good cash, and plus…its only weed. Ten years
later, it was kilos of cocaine and heroin, tons of cash, constant violence, a mountain of
problems, and I was hurting myself and contributing to an already horrible problem in
this country. Along with that I received two free stays at Massachusetts state prisons, and
now waiting to hear how long my next bid is going to be. I guess it is safe to say I had
been consumed and blinded by my own ambition and addiction.
After about forty five minutes of wrestling with my state issued, super fashionable
clothes, I managed to brush my teeth, comb my hair, shine my shoes and hit the button.
The button called to the control pit. Out of the stainless steel speaker I hear… “Yes?”
Like they don’t remember screaming into my cell to get ready I thought to myself
as I pushed out what ended up being two life changing words for me… “I’m ready.”
The buzzer went off and the electronically sealed door unlocked with a bang that only
the sound of steel on steel would make. I dragged my weak body through the heavy
doorframe into the bright lights, which felt like balls of sun piercing into the back of
my skull leaving me with nothing but shut eyelids and a shattering headache. The walk
to booking felt like an eternity. As I forced each leg down the long, off white corridors,
I passed all the inmates who had made a career out of this place. Murderers, gang
members, rapists, violent offenders, small time crooks, men waiting to do the rest of their
lives in prison, they were all eyes on me, wondering what I had done, and how long I was
going to get. Step by step I made the long and painful stroll to the intake room where I
would be escorted to court. Looking at all these men in there, I realized for the first time,
this is not where I belong…there has to be something more to life than what I am making
of it.
I never enjoyed the feeling of metal on my wrists. Over the course of my career, I
inhabited a burning hatred and disrespect for the other side of the law… it’s the nature of
the business. After taking my prison suit off, I managed to slip myself into the one piece
orange suit. Bending my joints one by one to put on each appendage of this thing was
needless to say, extremely painful. I think I probably sweat a gallon of water out of my
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body in just this excursion from cell to intake tank alone. To my right, two guards fully
equipped with pepper spray and batons were just waiting for me to do something so they
could have some excitement in their job. The harder you push back with these people, the
harder you get beat, so I knew to do everything exactly how they asked. The deep voice
behind me calmly growled, “Turn around and place your hands in front.” I could barely
stand any longer. I was so weak from not eating and not sleeping that I felt the weight of
the earth pulling me into the ground like a vortex. As each cuff was put on, wrists, ankles,
and then a big leather waist strap that each set hooked into, I couldn’t help think to
myself “ God please get me out of this…one more chance please.” Its funny how people,
whether they believe in God or not, will ask him to help in times of hopelessness, and
never give thanks for a simple day of just waking up in good health with a roof over their
head and food on the table. As would be expected, the guard squeezed the cuffs a mere
inch away from cutting off the circulation to my hands and feet, then proceeded to yank
on all four of them asking me if they were comfortable. I figured by the end my trip we
would have to dig them out from underneath my skin. Of course I didn’t answer because
in all honesty, he would have just made them tighter. Once again, the bang of steel on
steel erupted and another door opened. I made my way through it, inch by inch, shuffling
my feet ever so slightly so I don’t fall straight on my face because my hands are about as
useful to me as square wheels on a car. As I slide myself into the plastic back seat, which
is purely built for the riders comfort, the Chevy ignition cranks over and my transport to
the fate of possibly the next two to four years of my life rolls out of the garage and into
the sunlight.
I hadn’t seen the sun in almost four weeks. It was the middle of June but my skin
was already a flat pale color from my body purging the poison out of itself. The back
window was down, and I let the wind hit my face like a soft cold pillow. In that instant, I
almost felt as if I was free again. The car rolled up and down the county hill roads, clearly
going about fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit, just like every cop does, and I
couldn’t help but wonder if I was going to make it out of this. I had hired a good lawyer,
and in reality I didn’t get arrested with anything in my possession, at my apartment, or
at my house. The only problem is in the great state of New Hampshire, all it takes is for
someone to tell the authorities that you had something to do with it, and they will try and
take you down. My lawyer told me I had a good chance at beating the charges, however,
I was also on probation and parole in two different states, and could be looking at
maximum sentences for both, which would amount to about two and a half to four years
inside.
“What had my life become?” I asked myself this over and over again as each muscle
ached with excruciating pain as I made my way out of the car and up three stairs. Three
stairs in ankle cuffs and no hands was quite an interesting task I might add. As I pondered
how my life had come to this I alsoremembered two words that had significant meaning.
“I’m ready”. I thought about those words and what they could mean, why they rang so
loudly in my already clogged head. I thought maybe they meant that I was ready to face
my fate and go on with my life. Before this, my mentality was do what I’m doing as long
as I can, get busted, do my time, and come out a better criminal with better connections.
That was the insanity of my own mind. Then I stopped, frozen in the tiny elevator taking
me up to room which holds the judge, jury, and executioner, and it hit me like a kick to
the forehead by a horse. I was ready to change. I’m ready. Two simple words that had
more meaning to me than anything that had entered my stubborn, ego-filled brain. As I
forced my still aching body into the court-room, I had a feeling like two ten thousand
pound anvils were lifted off my shoulders. The feeling of satisfaction and acceptance
came over me almost like a trance. I didn’t hear much of what they were saying in the
17
court room that day, I just nodded and agreed. I knew that whatever the outcome of that
day was, I would be ok. I had committed the crimes, I had lived my life the way that I
did, and my actions put me here in this court room. I don’t know many people that get
arrested or go to jail that don’t break any laws. I was young, taken by a life that was
glamorized and, in one disastrous swoop, turned into a violent nightmare, and I didn’t
need to go on like this anymore.
If you’re wondering how the story ended, I think that we can all conclude that this
paper wouldn’t even exist if I hadn’t followed through with change. Two years later, I
make sure each and every day is just that, one more day. I’ve dodged death I don’t know
how many times…bullets, car wrecks, run-ins with the cops where I was clearly drunk
with firearms and drugs in the car, and let off, and for what?. I have found that the most
simple things in life, the most simple values in life, make life that much more enjoyable.
Each and every day, I write five things that I am grateful for, and rarely do I have any
trouble coming up with them. Do I think about it? Not as much anymore. Most of my
associates are dead or doing a decade or two in prison, which is a healthy reminder of
where I will be and where I will end up if I choose not stay on the path I’m on. Go back
to where I was? Never.
A Collection of My Observations of the World
By: Will Dube
Sight: A strange mass, casting its gigantic shadow over the parking lot, all the cars
underneath, and the trees. The granite tables standing strongly on the concrete slabs.
Glowing white, still fairly new, hardly cracked, showing the benefits of our tuition money.
Walking into the main lobby, as I open one set of doors the second set blows open
due to the pressure difference. The sunlight pours in through the front wall, which is
comprised solely of windows. The white tile has obviously been well taken care of,
shining in the sunlight as I head towards the stairs.
Coming up the stairs it gets progressively darker and darker as the lighting switches
to artificial, electrical illumination. To my left there is the large glass wall leading into
the library, as well as Connie the receptionist’s desk. To my right the long yellow hallway
leading to the Green Bean café as well as the “One Stop” area, with its service windows
and its line forming apparatus.
As I walk past the large sheetrock pillar, I notice several pamphlets on the “FYE”
desk telling me about the various events on campus and such. When I push the button to
summon the elevator I prepare myself for the wait and watch the noble, health conscious
people climb the stairs. The elevator arrives; the door opens, revealing the old interior, one
of the few reminders of the fact that this building was not always a college. This utilitarian
hospital elevator, although run down looking, will be adequate to get me to my destination.
I push the button with the number four on it. It springs to life, lighting up to let me know it
has received my request to take me to the fourth floor. It’s time for English class.
Smell: Walking into the bar I am greeted by the nutty, fruity, pine tree-esque
stench of hops. This is soon overpowered by the smell of the frat boy like men who are
obviously only there to pick up women. The AXE deodorant commercials have evidently
convinced them it would be a good idea to take a shower in AXE body spray. To me, and
most sane people they actually smell more like a moldy sailboat with some pine needles
and cones stuffed in to try to kill the stench.
As I pass the bar headed towards the bathroom I notice the smells start to change. I
start to pick up on the aroma wafting out of the kitchen, almost like in old movies where
there is a pie sitting on a window sill and some traveling nomad detects it and decides to
18
make it his. Tonight the smell of burger cooking hits my nose first, but is quickly masked
by a plate of wings coming out of the kitchen. It stings the nostrils, with the acidity of
vinegar and the volatile heat of the habanero pepper juice (or whatever else is being used).
As I get closer to the bathroom, the busboy comes out of the kitchen to collect more
dirty dishes. Following him is a trail of pungent stench consistent with that of a bus boy.
The salty smell of sweat mixed with the cleansing smell of dish soap, cleaning the sweat,
spit, and grease off of the dishes, as well as the bus boy’s hands.
I finally arrive at the bathroom and open the door. As I do I am welcomed in by the
stench of something that has died and been rotting for weeks. Someone was clearly not
considerate enough to turn on the fan when they finished using the facilities. Luckily I
sight a can of Lysol deodorizing spray on the back of the toilet. As I spray it out the smell
of fresh linen hung out on a close line on a lovely summer’s day begins to mingle with the
previously mentioned smell of rotting flesh. Eventually the air becomes so saturated with
the smell of fresh linen (to cover the less pleasant smell) that I begin to think that I am
in the middle of a chemical factory on the Jersey Turnpike. This turned out to be just the
beginning of another great night.
Sound: Coming back down Mt. Major on my first solo night hike I heard some of
the most frightening noises in recent memory. My feet were stirring up the leaves on the
ground crunching and crinkling like a paper you’ve just realized is complete garbage. The
leaves were reminding me of visiting my great grandfather as he open the newspaper. The
sound of that dry, frail, thin material rubbing on it’s self, or the crackling of a fire.
As the wind ripped through the trees it also disturbed the leaves on the ground, as
well as in the trees. As it carved its way through the forest the wind was whispering to
me, whispering like a close friend at a slumber party in elementary school, pretending
that we were in some sort of dire situation, only this was much more convincing. The
wind disturbing the leaves was much more deliberate and powerful than my feet. When it
gusted, it sounded quite a bit like the sirens on an ambulance, warning you to get out of
its way.
All of the sudden I heard another sound, not me walking, and not the wind blowing.
I heard the thudding of another four feet hitting the ground; two sets of two, treading
quietly heavily beating the earth underneath them. These feet however were not kicking
the leaves as forcefully and carelessly as I, these feet were being sneaky, moving only a
few leaves at a time; sounding much like the whispered conversation of convicts planning
their escape from jail, keeping it secret from the guards by speaking in extremely short,
abrupt phrases.
Terrified, I extracted my keys from my pocket and began shaking them. The sound
was like that of a panicked soldier running, with his dog tags slapping together, metal on
metal. The plinking of the keys proved to be much louder than I had thought it would be.
Because of my heightened sense of awareness from the adrenaline, those keys sounded
as loud the school bell that used to sound at the end of each period at my old elementary
school.
The noise of the keys, combined with my crackling screams (I was trying to sing)
were enough to scare off the animal. It lost it’s stealthy demeanor, as it went into panic
mode itself, and scampered off into the woods. Leaving nothing but the sound of leaves
crinkling and its feet’s loud thudding, like that of sneakers in a clothes dryer behind.
Touch: One of the most interesting sensations I’ve ever experienced through my
hands is the feeling of giving some one CPR. First when you put on your plastic gloves,
your hands first feels the stretchy plastic as you attempt to put them on, followed by the
powder rubbing against your hands, reducing the friction and allowing you to slip into
them more easily. Then, within seconds, your hands start to get all sweaty, feeling like
19
meat marinating with liquid in a plastic bag. All slimy and slippery, you actually begin to
lose some of your feel and dexterity once you have them on. It gets to a point where you
feel like your hands are going to slide right out of the gloves.
When you actually lay your hands on the patient they are dead, you are essentially
trying to start them up again. So when you start pushing, their body is absolutely relaxed.
It’s like pushing on a rag doll; there is absolutely no resistance. It almost feels like you
are trying to wake up a person who’s sleeping. Pushing on this big mass of flesh, moving
it around with about as much resistance as you get from boiled spaghetti.
If you’re doing it right this is also the point where you will start breaking ribs.
Breaking someone else’s bones is a really interesting feeling. It makes me think of when
someone is out walking on the ice and all the sudden their foot hits a spot and breaks
through. Alternatively, on a younger person, I liken it to bouncing up and down on a weak
tree limb and then eventually – snap! Under your hands you can feel something fighting
back, until it suddenly just decides that it’s done and gives way to your hands. This allows
you to get more direct access to the heart. When you are pushing on the heart itself, it
is so tough and so muscular that it feels like your trying to squish one of the stress balls
that’s been in the freezer for a little bit. Every once in a while you might even feel it
fluttering lightly, like if someone was tapping you on the shoulder.
As you continue doing this for however long, you start to feel extremely sore,
everything in your upper body starts to ache. Imagine running a road race and as you
start getting tired, everything in your body starts to feel like it’s on fire, your legs feel like
they’re going to fall off and your lungs feel like they’re shriveling up. The same thing
happens in any exercise, and CPR is a great work out. After a while, you’re arms literally
feel like they’re going to give out, and you’re going to just fall on your patient.
That said, if your patient comes back it will wipe all that away, and your muscles
will feel like nothing has happened. You feel like the strongest person on the planet, you
feel like you could run a marathon. Then about 15 minutes later, you’ll fell like you got
hit by a train again, and you’ll be thirstier than you’ve been in your entire life. But still
satisfied on a job well done.
Up to the Pond
By: Brittany Taylor
Mendum’s Pond is not a famous body of water by any means. I’m quite sure most
people, even some locals, have never even heard of it. Mendum’s is located off the back
roads of Barrington, New Hampshire. By GPS, the pond is about a forty minute drive
from the Seacoast, an hour and a half from Boston, and approximately three hours from
the White Mountains. There is little formally documented information on this pond. In
fact, most Google searches for it only come back with real estate advertisements. To
many, it is an insignificant basin not even big enough to be considered a lake. However to
my family, Mendum’s Pond is a part of life.
Mendum’s Pond looks like any other body of water in New England. The water’s
color is dependent on the weather. It ranges in color from cornflower, to navy, to
midnight. Some days when the air is still, the entire surface becomes a mirror and takes
on the reflection of the clouds, sky, and surrounding trees. The water is enclosed by
woods, the shoreline mostly consisting of rocks and pine trees with the occasional sandy
beach. The rustic houses scattered around the pond’s edges have not changed in decades.
They are each unique in their shape and size. Mendum’s contains seven islands, the two
most prominent being a stone’s throw apart in the middle of the pond. The second of
these islands has a stone cabin that is too old for anyone to know how it got there. It juts
20
out of the island’s rocky edge, glistening when the sun hits the thick rough glass in the
windows. Down the far end of the pond is a dam. It is a large structure of rectangular
smooth stones. The top of the dam is a flat grassy lawn which drops off to a trickle of
river a hundred feet below. The water enters and exits through a small opening in the
middle of the dam, which is controlled by the wooden shack sitting above it. During the
winter months, Mendum’s is drained significantly to expose the giant rocks on the pond’s
uneven bottom. When spring arrives again, the pond is filled back up and everyone’s
beaches are restored. Finally, the seasons will change with the warming temperatures, and
summer life at Mendums begins again.
According to Morton H. Wiggin in his book, A History of Barrington, N.H.,
Mendum’s Pond originated in 1742 and was named for “Captain Nathaniel Mendum of
Portsmouth, whose sawmill was on the Little River, which flows from Mendums Pond”.
However, my father’s maternal family, The McDaniel’s, was involved with the property
long before the pond was named. The family line begins in the early 1700s when John
MackDonnell (i.e. McDaniel) and his wife, name unknown, left Scotland by sea and
arrived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire in 1712. Although records are scarce, the couple
settled inland from the seacoast. By 1738, John McDaniel (son of John MackDonnell),
had purchased 150 acres of land surrounding Mendums pond through a land grant put in
place by the King. Twenty-six year old John and his wife Jane built their home on this
land that same year. They worked to make the land provide for their family, facing the
opposition of harsh winters and Indian attacks. The land became the final resting place
for many of the family, proven by unmarked grave stones that are cracked and taken over
by moss, which still lay quietly in the woods next to their house’s crumbling foundation
to this day. The house and 150 acres at Mendum’s Pond were passed from John to his son
William and his wife Mary. They continued to utilize the land for their livelihood as well
as enjoyment. As William and Mary’s children grew, they must have instilled the love
for land in them, involving their children in the process of adding over 300 acres around
Mendums. The Mendum’s estate was left to their youngest son, Andrew.
It is here, at the beginning of the 1800’s that the history of Mendums and the
McDaniels begin to juxtapose. All of New Hampshire was becoming more industrialized,
and the town of Newmarket was looking for a way to improve their textile mills. The
town devised a plan to dam the Lamprey River, which flowed in and out of Mendum’s
Pond, to gain better control of the water flow to their mills. Production of the dam began
in the 1820’s, a process that involved quarrying large granite stones next to the river and
dragging them into place. This wall of stone was built without electricity, using only
manpower and horses. The dam is still standing, reaching over a hundred feet in height.
As the dam was finished, the surrounding land was changed drastically. Mendum’s went
from a river pool not much larger than a puddle to a body of water over a mile in length
and half a mile in width. The pond today covers 250 acres of what was once woods
and pasture. The McDaniel land had suddenly become “water-front property”. They
immediately put the lake to work, as they began to use the land just below the dam to
operate their lumber mill by water power.
Although this new, much larger, pond greatly contributed to the family’s already
profitable lumber business, Mendum’s also brought new sorrow and hardships to the
family. In the summer of 1866, Isaac Daniels was fishing with his friends on Mendums
when their boat capsized. Isaac found his final resting place at the bottom of the pond; He
was seventeen. Twenty years later, True William McDaniel (grandson of William) and his
son John were harvesting lumber when a tree fell suddenly, landing on John. He held on
for three agonizing days but his injuries proved too great. He passed at the age of thirty.
Around the same timeframe, True was hauling blocks of ice across the pond one winter
21
when the ice beneath the sled gave way. According to the story passed down through the
generations, True William McDaniel, with no concern for his own safety, immediately
jumped into the water, cut one of the horses loose from the sled and by doing so saved its
life. He had no hope, however, of saving the other horse, which was pulled to the bottom
of the pond in its own panic mixed with the heavy sled. The emotional and financial
burden of this accident must have weighed heavily on the family that winter.
When True William died in 1892, he passed his part of the family land as well as the
lumber business to his oldest son, Frank. He seemed to be just as successful in the lumber
business as his predecessors as he continued to harvest wood and add acres to the family
property. It has been said that Frank’s life revolved around the woods and water as he
worked tirelessly to provide for his family. Frank died in 1928, leaving behind over 700
acres of land to his name. The largest piece of the estate was the 226 acres at Mendum’s
Pond, which he left to his five sons.
The mid-1900’s showed that times were changing in Barrington, and this reflected
on Mendum’s Pond as well. The five sons of Frank McDaniel had joint ownership of
the two pieces of property surrounding Mendums Pond. Arthur, the oldest of the five,
was fascinated with caring for trees and plants. He tirelessly examined and recorded
the different types of rocks, wildflowers, and trees that grew on his property. Arthur
was particularly concerned with the land at the old family estate at Mendum’s Pond.
He convinced his brothers to let him buy them out of their share of the 226 acres near
the dam and cared for the land for many years. In 1952, Arthur donated every single
one of the 226 acres to the University of New Hampshire without consulting his
brothers. He intended the area to be used for recreation as well as a research site for the
Forestry program. In return, the University granted Arthur with an honorary Masters of
Agricultural Science degree for his dedication to the field and generous donation. Arthur’s
siblings presumably were horrified that their largest piece of property, as well as their
connection to the first McDaniel house owned by John MackDonnell, was no longer in
the family. The land is still used by the University of New Hampshire today for recreation
and research.
My Great-Grandfather George McDaniel and his wife Grace owned the other piece
of family property at Mendums. These acres were at the opposite end of the dam, roughly
a mile and half across the pond. In 1953, George and Grace decided to map out a dirt
road through the woods and subdivide the water-front property into cottage lots. The
project was finished in late 1958 and soon the lots were sold and cottages began to dot the
water’s edge. These houses are the same ones I drive by today on the same dirt road that
bears my family namesake, McDaniel Shore Drive. The road brought many new families
to Mendums, and is arguably the most significant change that has occurred at the lake in
the past sixty years.
As my car bumps off the hot pavement, the familiar grinding of dirt beneath my tires
comes as a relief. Kicking up a trail of dust, my thoughts turn to the origin of this winding
road. I can picture my Great-Grandparents walking along here, excitedly discussing the
prospective placement of the road. I can see my father as a small boy riding bikes up
to the lake, balancing cans of gasoline between the handle bars just to make sure there
would be enough fuel for the boat. As the car crawls along, I can finally see the familiar
glimmer through the trees, the first signal of the water’s edge. The road narrows to barely
one lane as the cottages, unchanged in half a century, appear on the left. I finally pull
the car off to the left and cut the engine, letting the stillness surround me. The water is
rippling softly as the sun creates diamonds on its uneven surface. I casually slide out of
the car, leaving the keys in the passenger seat. There has never been a need to keep keys
hidden here and I hope there never needs to be. I walk down to the pond’s edge and put
22
my feet on the wet sand, letting the water spill over my toes. No matter what the winter
handed me, the pond is unchanged just as every year before. Except for the few cottages,
I am staring at the same landscape that met the men and women of generations past. As
my Grandfather said each June, “The water’s still here.” And so begins another summer.
Observation
By: Louis Castaldo
I step into the Grunting Gremlin pub in Victorville and I saw someone in the
window. No, I see myself, hardly recognizable wearing a dusty black suit with a red silk
under-shirt and a fedora, with sandy blond hair that’s been cut to my brow and forgotten
about, tossed carelessly to the side. I’m exactly six feet tall and 180 pounds, I’m not
overly muscled, but I’m not thin either. I have hazel eyes, some have even called them
gold, I have a young face. It used to wear a smile all the time, but now it has a blank stare;
and if you really look at it, you can see all the sadness and hardships locked away behind
those gold eyes.
The pub is a dark and dreary place; but in light of recent years, it’s better than most.
Times have been for America, and the economy finally collapsed. Then the government
was next to go, the army that couldn’t be paid just really disappeared. Then the law
went to, and crime rose, and soon enough America was at war with itself, but it wasn’t
north against south, or east against west. It was everyone for themselves, and it only got
worse from there. Then, inevitably, someone got a hold of the nuclear weapons the old
government had stockpiled, and let loose upon America, making it a barren wasteland,
few people survived, but it served to better the condition. less people are now competing,
and the people that were left could rebuild, unfortunately, the rest of the world had
fallen in much the same way, as i had found out. Humanity couldn’t continue the way it
was, and so it found a solution, a very horrific solution. The world simply calls it “the
collapse,” that happened in 2012.
So I walk in and sit down at the bar, the tender asks what I want.
“A gin and tonic sounds fine to me,” I mutter it just loud enough for him to hear me.
“That’s gonna run you 30 bits.” Penny’s, that’s the only good money, around the world
that’s what it is for currency. Penny’s, paper money isn’t good anymore; most of it got
burnt up, or is being used for toilet paper. So coins are what we use now, and none of the
silver crap. That’s too heavy and too hard to recognize, it’s also too hard to come by now.
So I toss up the thirty, and he gives me most of a bottle of gin and an unopened bottle of
tonic.
“Honestly I don’t know why I even tell you anymore, you come here often enough to
know. Take as much as you want, the bottles yours.”
“Thanks,” I say simply as I pour myself a glass, it’s a smooth crystal old fashion,
with ridges the spiral down, making it comfortable to hold. The ridges and grooves make
an interesting sensation, almost like having water pour down my hand.
“It’s no problem Lou. So how’s that motel treating you? I hear they’re tryin to up your
rates again.”
“It’s fine, I checked out this morning. I finally found the guy I was looking for. He
comes here every three days, and he’s gonna pay for what he did,” I take a light sip and
feel the smooth taste run down my throat, hot and dry. I can tell it’s pre-collapse because
it doesn’t have that feel that feel that booze does now, that defeated taste, the taste of
giving up.
“Really? What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you, I’d scare you off Frank.”
23
“It takes quite a bit to scare me,” Frank said in a matter of fact tone.
“Trust me, when you see what I do to him, you’ll be scared.”
“Oh really? I don’t believe you.” Now that was true, Frank didn’t, he lived through
the nukes and the bombs, and had seen his share. It helped that before the collapse he was
a crooked cop, taking bribes to look the other way and keep his mouth shut. It also helped
that he was a giant, six foot six and twohundred and forty pounds, or so he boasts.
“He should be here soon. You’ll see,” I state blankly and take a large gulp, feeling it
burn as it slides down into my guts.
“Well, as long as I don’t have to clean it up or worry about it ruining my shop, it’ll
be A-okay with me. And it better not scare off costumers, or I’ll beat you to within an
inch of your life.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to lift a finger”
“If you say so Lou” and as soon as he’s finished talking, a man walks through the
door. So i turn around on my stool and lounge against the bar, trying to look as relaxed
and non-threatening as possible.
“Well I’ll be damned, don’t I know you?”
“Maybe, what’s your name?” He asks, on edge.
“That doesn’t matter right now if you aren’t who I think you are. You good old Tom
Phisher?”
“Why, I do believe I am, and what’s it to you?”
“I’m Big Lou. Remember me?”
“Oh, shi-” but he never got to finish the sentence, because I pulled out my .44
revolver, and put a bullet through his head, tearing it apart.
“Hey hey hey!!!! What was that about?!” Frank shouted.
“You know damn well what it was about Frank. You knew me the minute i walked in
here and hoped that i wouldn’t remember you. You were in on it.
You took my girl. Where is she?” To show how interested I was about the answer, I
turned around, and pointed my .44 at him
“Hey, Lou, I really don’t know, all I had to do was tell him where she was, and all
Tom did was hand her over. So I can’t help you, all I’m trying to do now though, is run a
bar, and it would be hard to do that dead. You know what it was like during the collapse.
I’m sorry Lou, but there’s nothing I can do now. I regret what I did, and I’m sorry for it,
but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Well that’s no good, is it frank?” I ask very pointedly, looking at him from under
the brim of my hat.
“It isn’t, but I promise to not speak a word of this, ever, you were never here, and I have
no idea who you are.”
“Well that’s good, real good. In fact, I think I’ll give you a tip. I have enough coin to
buy me another ten crates of ammo, and each bullet will run me about
500 bits.”
“That’s an expensive gun.”
“I have the money to cover it. I’ve spent a month in this place, and even with what
that damn motel has been charging me, I still have more then I can carry. Thank god my
car still works... So how does a bullets worth sound for a tip?”
“That sounds great!” Frank says, with a greedy gleam in his eye.
“Good,” and I point the gun at his heart and caress the trigger, the gun barks, and Frank
falls to the ground.
“There’s your bullets worth,” I mutter. I grab a bottle of whiskey and a rag that I
shove in my pocket and I slowly stand up and walk out the door, taking out one of my
cigars and stopping over Toms body. “I still think I let you off easy.” I take out a wood
24
match and strike it. Then I use it to light my cigar and drop the still burning match on
Toms carcass as I step out into the night. I make it to the sidewalk and when guard finally
makes it to the bar. He takes one look inside and figures it out. “Hey! You! Hold up!” So I
do, and I let him take three steps, then I turn around and put two shots into his gut, barely
even looking. Then he buckles to his knees and drops his gun, holding his stomach, and I
quietly walk over and hold the gun to his head. I take a deep drag off my cigar, and pull it
from my mouth. I then tilt my head up to look at the stars, breath out, and pull the trigger.
I feel the kick of the gun, and feel blowback hit my suit. I see another guard run up. Even
though he saw what happened, I stay calm, the cigar helps. “Hey, don’t move, or I shoot,”
he tells me as he lifts his gun and points it firmly at me. “I know what gun your using,
that’s a .44,” He states blankly
“So?” I ask.
“Well, I heard you fire that off five times. That gun holds six, You’ve got one left,
and my guns an AK-47, its got more, who do you think wins?”
“Me,” I state, and before I even finish the word, I pull up the gun and line up the
shot. Then I fire, and it’s almost like time slows down. There’s a staccato click as the
trigger pulls back and releases the hammer. The hammer strikes the firing pin with a dull
metal thud. Then there’s the bark of an explosion as the power ignites, and a swoosh
of air as the bullet pulls free of the barrel. The bullet hits him on the bridge of the nose
making a sickeningly wet smack, and his head bursts like an over-ripe melon falling off a
balcony.
“Guess I was right.” I take another deep drag on my cigar, and savor its flavor. It’s an
Ambassador, one of the few I’ve found. I calmly holster my gun.
Then I take the rag out of my pocket and stuff it in the bottle, making sure I get plenty of
whiskey on the rag. I take out another match and light it, making sure the rag really gets
going. Then I exhale, and throw the bottle through the glass front on the pub, setting it
ablaze. I feel the heat hit me like a wave, rushing over me at first, and then surrounding
me. The next thing to hit me is the smell of burning wood, then the smell of burning
bodies, it assaults my nose with its mix, overwhelming my sense of smell with the smoke
and heat.
I slowly start to make my way back to my car, and I manage to find it without
running into any more guards. I get in and shut the door, but I don’t start the car right
away. I sit and think instead, this lead was a dead end. I have nowhere to go from here.
Well, that means I can go anywhere that I haven’t been. I know that Vegas was a criminal
hotbed during the collapse, and it’s nearby. I have quite a few enemies there that are still
breathing; I guess
I can start there. With my destination in mind I turn the key and start the car. It’s
a black 1989 Mercedes-Benz E190, and its 2015 now. It hasn’t died yet and it won’t
anytime soon. Vegas is over 200 miles away, so I start to drive, and drive, and drive.
Having a Good Teacher
By: Hayley Edgar
We all know what it’s like to be kicked when we’re already down. You think things
can’t get worse then, of course, they do. You begin to wonder when and if things will
look up, and how it will happen. Sometimes we find the strength to get through our ruts
ourselves, but most of the time we need support from others to remind us that we have
the ability to persevere. In high school, I was faced with this dilemma. I didn’t have the
faith in myself to do well. With the help of an extraordinary teacher, I was able to find the
inner strength to succeed.
25
Throughout middle school, I was your typical “good” student. I studied, got grades
my parents were proud of, and I actually cared about getting a good education. This all
changed when I got to high school. Physical science with Mr. Duncan was the hardest
thing I had ever faced up to that point. It might as well have been taught in Spanish
because I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I remember whenever the teacher
called on me to answer a question I began sweating and shaking out of nervousness. I was
too shy to ask for help, and I sort of allowed myself to fall into failure. I inevitably failed
the class and had to go to summer school for it, which was taught by Mr. Gats. He was a
tall, plump man, middle aged man with a receding hairline and eyebrows that made him
look like he was mad all of the time. He stood apart from most of the other teachers I ever
had because he was truly passionate about teaching and his students. He cared.
After I failed my first class, things started going down hill. Failure sort of turned
into a habit for me. I began to skip classes, come to school tardy, not do my homework,
and I just stopped caring. I no longer valued my education or believed in myself. The
consequences started to pile up quickly. For every day that I was late, which was nearly
every single day, I was given a four hour detention on Saturday morning, they called these
“Saturday schools”. I had to repeat the classes that I had failed with lower classmen. All
of these consequences weren’t just boring, or embarrassing, they made me feel like this
was where I was supposed to be, like I wasn’t good enough.
My principal, Ms. Meterville (who I nicknamed, Ms. Meter-devil) was very
impersonal with me and didn’t understand how to help a student. Nor do I think she
really cared, it was just part of her job description. She thought by giving me four hour
detentions on Saturday mornings every weekend, having me escorted to the bathroom
by a staff member, and taking legal action to have me put on “child in need of services”
and forcing me to go to weekly check ins with a probation officer, she was helping me
become a better person. The Saturday schools did nothing for my character, just made me
miss out on Saturday morning cartoons and kept me from sleeping in. Being walked to
the bathroom by an adult whom I didn’t know was just invasive and made me feel worse
about myself. And forcing me to urinate into a cup every Thursday to prove I wasn’t on
drugs, when I had never in my life been in trouble with any kind of drug before, was just
unfair. All of these actions made singled me out from the other students and did just the
opposite of improving me. They made me feel like I was labeled and put into a place
where I couldn’t get out of.
I remember one Saturday morning very clearly. I woke up, exhausted, and dragged
myself out of my warm bed and into my Dad’s frost-covered car. On the way there, I
complained and went on a rant about how much I hated Ms. Meterville. When we pulled
up to the front of the school, I got out of the car, embraced the cold morning air, and
sucked it up. I hustled into the dark cafeteria my hair a mess, wearing sweatpants, my
older brother’s oversized coat, a blanket draped over my shoulders, with a pillow, my
books, and a scolding hot cup of tea in my hands. I said good morning to all the other
regular Saturday-schoolers and took my seat in the middle of the room. The teacher who
hosted Saturday school, who I came to really bond with, jokingly asked me to recite the
Saturday school rules to the other students who were new to the punishment. For the next
four hours, I struggled trying to keep myself awake. I had already done every puzzle and
crossword imaginable during my time in these detentions. With nothing left to do, my
mind began to trail into why I was there in the first place. I began to grow frustrated. For
a while, I grew accustomed to being in Saturday school, much like a prisoner for many
years grows accustomed to being in jail. Then I began to wonder how many valuable
hours, even days, of my life I had wasted sitting in that dark, silent, cold cafeteria in the
empty school. I was livid, I never wanted to spend another moment in Saturday school
26
ever again. So I reminded myself of the people who believed in me, like Mr. Gats, and
managed to muster up enough determination, and I told myself I could do it.
Mr. Gats not only understood me, but he felt sorry for me and he knew that this was not
the right approach to “fixing me”. He ignored the labels the other teachers would give
me. Once during a parent teacher meeting with all of my teachers, the principal, and my
parents, Mr. Gats stood up for me when all of the other teachers were ragging on me. The
principal told my parents all negative things about me and influenced the other teachers
opinions on me. But Mr. Gats told my parents “She does well in my class. She’s a good
kid.” Plain and simple.
Many teachers already had labeled me as a “bad student” and didn’t put fourth
much effort into me showing my full potential. Inevitably, I began to believe these labels.
They embedded in my confidence, and thought that was just who I was. Mr. Gatssaw that
helped me see my worth. With his help and faith in me, I began to see the light myself. Slowly but surely, I began to realize my value. I realized I was a
tiny glimpse of light in me and helped me see my worth. With his help and faith in me,
smart person and
wasn’t asto
hopeless
or troubled
I was madeSlowly
to believe.but
Aftersurely,
years of sitting
in a chair
the principal’s
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scolded by Ms.
I began
see the
lightasmyself.
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to inrealize
my value.
I realized
I was
a smart
and
wasn’t
as hopeless
troubled
I was
made
Meterville, I began
to steer
clear ofperson
her. I started
getting
good grades
and I landedor
on the
honor roll as
for the
first time
ever. to
My believe.
parents wereAfter
proud, I was
years
of
sitting
in
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principal’s
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being
scolded
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Meterville,
I
proud, and even my favorite teacher was proud. If it weren’t for Mr. Gats, I wouldn’t have had a teacher at that school who was routing for me, pushing for
began to steer clear of her. I started getting good grades and I landed on the honor roll for
me to win. Without the support of someone to motivate me, I may not have ever realized my value, and who knows where I would be. This is why it is so
the first time ever. My parents were proud, I was proud, and even my favorite teacher was
important and proud.
vital for students
to succeed tofor
haveMr.
a good
teacherI who
truly, genuinely
God for Mr.
for all the
caring
teachers out
If it weren’t
Gats,
wouldn’t
havecares.
hadThank
a teacher
at Gats,
thatand
school
who
was
routing for me, pushing for me to win. Without the support of someone to motivate me, I
there.
may not have ever realized my value, and who knows where I would be. This is why it is
so important and vital for students to succeed to have a good teacher who truly, genuinely
ART
cares. Thank God for Mr. Gats, and for all the
caring teachers out there.
Name/author below each pic
Sunrise Over Hampton Beach
By: Douglas R. Towne II
Sunrise Over Hampton Beach
27
Douglas R. Towne II
Paralysis
By: Julia Dugas
Paralysis
Julia Dugas
28
By: Samantha Smith
By: Samantha Smith
29
Samantha Smith
Samantha Smith
By: Samantha Smith
Samantha Smith
30
By: Samantha Smith
31
Samantha Smith
By: Derika Church
Derika Church
32
Lindsey Kennell
By: Lindsey Kennell
33
Fall in Southern NH
Fall in Southern NH
Jen Nuzzolo
By: Jen Nuzzolo
Fall in Southern NH
Jen Nuzzolo
Julia Dugas
By: Julia Dugas
Julia Dugas
34
By: Julia Dugas
By: Lorraine Mancuso
35
Julia Dugas
Lorraine Mancuso
By: Lorraine Mancuso
By: Lorraine Mancuso
Lorraine Mancuso
Lorraine Mancuso
36
By: Shannon Keane
Shannon Keane
By: Shannon Keane
Shannon Keane
37
Erika Bissonnette
Erika Bissonnette
By: Erika Bissonnette
38
By: Erika Bissonnette
39
Erika Bissonnette
Erika Bissonnette
By: Erika Bissonnette
40
By: Erika Bissonnette
Erika Bissonnette
By: Erika Bissonnette
41
Erika Bissonnette
Erika Bissonnette
By: Erika Bissonnette
42
A Study of Hands
Robert Carey
A Study of Hands
By: Robert Carey
Robert Carey
A Study of Hands
Robert Carey
Robert Carey
By: Robert Carey
43
Robert Carey
By: Robert Carey
Robert Carey
By: Robert Carey
POEMS
The Brown eyed Stranger
The brown eyed stranger passed my way.
Too bad he couldn’t stay
He said he lived somewhere far away.
44
Robert Carey
By: Robert Carey
45
By: Elizabeth Davey
By: Elizabeth Davey
Photo's by: Elizabeth Davey
46
Flaming Shots and Broken Bones
By: Julie Mitchell
I had my first drink when I was 15 years old. It was a Bud light. I must have had three of them before staring at myself in my friend’s bathroom
Untitled
By: Pamela Cotter
The Brown eyed Stranger
The brown eyed stranger passed my way.
Too bad he couldn’t stay
He said he lived somewhere far away.
What might have been between the two?
Both hearts apart, like a lost old shoe.
She wanted to scream “I love you”!
He wanted to scream “I love you too”!
Yet there in silence, they managed a smile.
Knowing it would be a while.
He boarded that plane. It wasn’t the same.
One more year, he will call me dear.
Once he has his career.
The wedding bells will ring!
The birds will sing.
The brown eyed stranger will wear a wedding ring!
Sitting in an airport chair, I had a daydream it wasn’t fair.
The stranger with the big brown eyes was only a fantasy full of lies.
He didn’t even ask my name. As if I was someone with fame.
A middle aged woman with a daydream
A brown eyed stranger and some steam.
Mocking Bird
By: Tom Mears
Mocking-bird sitting on a telephone wire
Singing his songs in which to conspire
To mimic other birds for his amusement
To cause other birds confusement
The big old wise cat laying under the mocking-bird’s nest
You can guess the rest
He’s hoping to steal
His morning meal
However the mocking-bird attacks
That big old wise cat
Scaring him away
For the mocking-bird now has more time to play
S’more Please
By: Laurie Jongsma
Goose whimples bubble on the spine
Wet drips trickle down the brow line
Burning rubber permeates the air
Puddle soaked sneakers have no spare
Thick smoke chokes and winds dictate
Eyes to blind or asphyxiate
Change in direction a welcome retreat
47
Smell of s’mallows sicky sweet
Darkness flees with meteorite sticks
Melted, magical, marvelous fix
On graham or other conveyance bore
Too nostalgic to ignore: Pass me s’more
Adjust for closer view and warm
The tighter the huddle the greater the charm
And on and on with stories yak
The big one lost, scaled, biked, kayaked
And to and fro flames die and grow
While underneath red hot coals glow
Heavenly sweet hot liquid gold
Cocoa cups combat cold
Rise in temp from tongue to belt
Marshmallow mountains mix and melt
Hands grip warmth with liquid core
Too therapeutic to ignore: Pass me s’more
Cob webs fill, erase your mind
Flaming dancers now unwind
Tales like dirges, hushed in tones
Narrators speak in far off drones
Embers grow cold as the sun warms the dark
Too tired now to make even a spark
Morning comes once sandman reckons
Bacon baking breakfast beckons
Waffles with marshmallows, pancakes too
With chocolate chips and cherries to chew
Or Sandman pass and let me sleep more
Too breakfast to ignore: Pass me s’more
Have No Fear
By: Laurie Jongsma
The worldly things I trusted in passed away that day
My well laid plans no had no place in time
I cried out to my Lord and found my heart was reassured
I need not fear, His promises are mine
He will be the husband to the widow; He will be the father to the kids
He will be the rock I can rely on, He’s the one on whom I can depend
Now I don’t have to fear for tomorrow, I don’t have to worry about today
All I need to do is trust my Savior and He’ll lead me all the way
Now as I travel down this road I will not be alone
His hands and feet will help me on my way
He put this song into my heart, I sing it every day
I want the world to know He is the way
He will be the vine to the branches; he will be the seeker of the lost
He will be my strength in times of trouble; He has filled my heart and mind with awe
And I don’t have to fear for tomorrow, I don’t have to worry for today
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All I need to do is trust my Savior and He’ll lead me all the way
If this old world is not your home you need not be alone
When the hard times come you’ll have a hand to hold
If you read His Word and pray you’ll find a promise for each day
If you trust in Him your fears will melt away
He will be the rest for the weary; He will be the comforter you seek
He will be the light in times of darkness, He will be sufficient for your needs
And you won’t have to fear for tomorrow, you won’t have to worry about today
All you have to do is trust the Savior, and He’ll lead you all the way.
I don’t have to fear for tomorrow, I don’t have to worry about today
All I’m gonna do is trust my Savior and He’ll lead me all the way.
Midnight Watcher
By: Elizabeth Davey
The moonlight shone through the twisted trees
And there I stood.
The wind blew, scattering the leaves before my feet
And there I waited.
In the distance, wolves howled at the pale moon
And there I listened.
The stars pierced the velvet sky one by one
And there I watched.
The trees whispered their secrets of the day
And there I stood.
The Worst Goodbye
By: Elizabeth Davey
I waited in the shadow
of the moonlight
I inhaled cold air
and held it tight.
I waited below
the large oak tree
I waited for the girl
that was looking for me.
I had time to think
about all I’ve done wrong.
I’ve been waiting for this night
for so damn long.
Her necklace shines
and catches my eye.
I suddenly brace
for the worst good-bye.
She sees my bag
and starts to tear up.
She asks if I’m leaving
and I mutter a “yup”.
She embraces me
for one last time.
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I kiss her on the cheek
And wish she was mine.
She gives me her necklace
the key to her heart.
I put it on
and wear it as we part.
I never looked back
to see her cry.
I never answered her
when she asked me why.
And to this day
That was the worst good-bye.
Factory Death
By: Jacob Belmont
I wake again to the same nightmare I’ve been waking to since the day I was born.
The only reason I even know I am alive is the pain, and the smell of shit. I struggle to
open my eyes. The infection makes this harder and harder to do every day. Through
the crust, puss and the bars of my cage, I take in my surroundings. The same exact
scene that I have looked at every day of my life: Dim lights hanging from high ceilings
reveal endless rows of my sick and dying family, stretching for what seems like miles in
every direction. Our food sits right in front of us, always there, never changing. I do not
feel like eating. The smell is especially bad today. It seems like weeks since this place
has been cleaned, but then again, I’m not sure if this place has ever really been clean.
When the gods come to take the chosen groups away, their cages are sprayed, but soon,
sometimes before they are done, another group is brought in. This has been the way of
life since time began; an endless cycle of us, coming and going, but never moving. We
stand, day by day, trying to just sleep, hoping we will be chosen next, eating to stay alive,
eating this filth because it is our only option. The smell will keep me from it for now, but
eventually, I know I will have to eat. I will not become like those who have fallen. They
make the gods angry. I will not do that. Someday they will come for me. I will be a part
of the chosen group to be taken away from this place, away from the pain, away from the
smell. I know that what comes next will be better than this.
Another day, the same smell, the same pain, the same struggle to open my eyes.
It hardly seems worth it anymore. Why should I struggle like this when I know what I
will see? There is never any change here, some of the faces might come and go, but it is
always the same scene. But I can’t think like that. That is how you end up one of those
who don’t make it. First you stop eating, then you stop looking, hope goes, life goes. So I
struggle on and open my eyes.
At first I’m greeted by the normal scene of endless rows of my family, but there is
more commotion than usual. I force my eyes to open wider and see what all the noise is
about: The gods have come. I watch them look us all over; they are about ten rows down,
writing on their ever present clip boards, deciding who is deserving enough to be set
free. They walk closer, I hold my head up high, hoping against hope that today will be
the day they will choose me. I see little besides them. They are much taller than us, their
heads are round like eggs, and their eyes rest in the front. They have arrived at my row.
I keep my head up and try to get them to notice me, but they hardly look up from their
clipboards. The noises I try to make are drowned out by the clamor of the others around
me. They aren’t stopping, they aren’t looking. They’ve moved past me, on to the next row.
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I’ve been left behind once again.
They put their clipboards down: They’ve chosen. They leave the building to open the
door to the Other Place. Large doors slide open to reveal a long, dark hallway. A ramp is
lowered, the same ramp that has always lowered when the gods choose a new group to
save. The familiar buzzer sounds the signal for the chosen group to be taken away. I have
watched this same scene in disappointment over and over again for my entire life, but this
time something new happens. I feel a loud bang followed by a jolt and suddenly my cage
and all those around me are being lifted into the air. I let out a yell that is met by what
sounds like everyone else in my row. Our time has come! I’m being pushed from behind
by an unseen force. It has been so long since I’ve moved my legs that the sudden motion
almost causes me to collapse. On shaky knees I struggle to watch the doors that will lead
me to my new life get closer. I hear a scream coming from behind me, someone’s cage
must have fallen. I ignore it and press on. I have to watch those doors. I feel another push
from behind that almost causes me to collapse, but I regain my footing and push on. I
hear another scream, this time it is closer. I don’t look back. I’ve reached the doors. I’ve
made it. I can’t believe it, today is the day of my salvation; the day I leave this place.
I’m brought down the hallway, all the while looking for whatever it leads to, but, then
I realize; it leads to nothing, nothing but a wall. I try to turn to look for another exit but
before I can my cage is pushed up against the wall and I stumble to the floor. I pick my
head up and try to breathe. The smell in here makes it near impossible. This is not how
it is supposed to be. I hear the door at the other side slam shut. There is hardly any air
in here. I hear a loud roar coming from the other side of the wall that I’m being pushed
against, and there is a sudden feeling of movement. I nearly fall as the hallway jerks
forward. There is the sound of my family screaming all around me. Blackness overtakes
me and I hear nothing.
I wake up again. The same sounds surround me that have since I was born: Pain and
machinery. It was just a dream. The gods never chose me. I’m still in my cage. I know it
without opening my eyes. It seemed so real but once again it was just a false hope. I give
in. The gods will never come for me. I’m doomed to rot here, caged and forgotten. I’m
not going to even bother opening my eyes today. I’m just going to try to fall back asleep.
I have eaten in what seems like days so that shouldn’t be too hard.
Suddenly I am jerked from my sleep. Something huge is grabbing me. It hurts my
wings. I rip my eyes open to see what it is. It takes a second for to adjust because of the
pain and sudden light. When they finally focus it is onto a scene I’ve never seen before.
Huge machines pump endless lines of conveyer belts towards pools of water. There is my
family spread out in different sections of the belts, some are struggling but most don’t
move. They’re not in cages anymore. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Maybe the gods
did come! They had to have! This is the place beyond! We have escaped the hell of the
warehouse, of our cages, of that smell! I struggle to turn my head towards the thing that
is carrying me. The gods did come! They are carrying me! They have chosen me! I can’t
believe it! After suffering so long I had almost given up hoping for this day, but it has
come! Gods be praised! The one carrying me has a bald head, and round features. He
is wearing a white apron that has splotches of red on it. He isn’t looking at me. I try to
spread my wings, but he has them held too tightly. I try to thank him. My voice reaches
his ears and he looks down at me. His gaze makes it seem like this is the first time he
has actually seen me. I wait for him to say something, to tell me that all the suffering
is over to tell me that he loves me and always has. But he says nothing, just look at me
with disgust. I squawk again, trying to tell him how much I appreciate that he has chosen
me. He just squeezes harder and looks away. I can hardly breathe now. I feel like he has
broken my wing. I scream out in pain but he just tightens his grip more. I try to fight. Try
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to kick and scream but he won’t let up. I feel like he is killing me. He slams me down
onto the table and I struggle harder. He picks me up by the legs and wraps cold metal
shackles around my legs then flips me around to try to do the same to my wings. I’m
struggling for my life now. I get a wing free and it hits him in the face. He grabs it, breaks
it and ties them together. I hear him say, “Fucking crazy chicken,” as he throws me onto
my side on the conveyor belt. I can’t believe the pain I’m in. This isn’t how I thought it
would be. This isn’t how it is supposed to be. I lie there watching the water come. I feel a
strange current in the air and my feathers stand up. I’m about to hit the water now. I wish
I was still in my cage.
Jenny’s Wager
By: Trevor Prescott
Beneath his jacket, Jenny’s microphone made Danny’s right breast feel unbelievably itchy. After being taped there all morning--since midnight, when Tuesday became
Wednesday, to be exact--it was starting to grind on his nerves But Danny had accepted
Jenny’s wager. At about ten o’ clock Tuesday night, they were sitting in their apartment,
talking and having a few drinks.
Jenny was razzing Danny about his tendency to brag, boast, and otherwise talk too
much.
“Oh yeah?” Danny retorted. “I bet you I can go an entire day without talking.”
Despite being slightly intoxicated, Jenny was no idiot. She knew what Danny would
do: he would go about his normal routine, but whenever someone spoke to him, he would
cover his mouth and pretend to be a mute. Immoral? Probably. Still, Danny cared more
about winning bets than morality.
“That’s too easy,” Jenny replied. “I know you’ll find some way of weaseling out of
it. You always do. No, I don’t want you to go an entire day without talking. I want you to
go an entire day without saying a specific word.”
“Oh?” Danny was intrigued now. “Which word? And?”
Jenny nibbled her bottom lip. “That’s too easy. All you’d have to do is reference one
thing at a time.”
“Okay, okay,” Danny agreed. Indeed, Jenny was looking for a challenge this time.
That was fine. Danny could take any challenge she threw at him.
“What about ‘I’?”
Jenny giggled. “Well, that would be hard for you, wouldn’t it? That’s your favorite
subject!”
Danny rolled his eyes. “Face it, Jenny. There isn’t anything you can throw at me that
I can’t beat.”
This time, Jenny thought long and hard. Danny could almost hear gears were turning
her head. “All right...” She jumped from her seat and scampered out of sight (swaying a
bit with every step; Jenny was a notorious lightweight) and returned with a pad of paper
and a pencil. She scribbled down a word in curvy cursive letters, and slid it to Danny. “You can keep that, just to remind you what you can’t say.”
Picking it up, Danny stared at her word of choice for a moment, and then glanced up at
her in disbelief. “How am I supposed to go a whole day without saying that?”
“Duhrrr, I’m Danny.” Jenny crossed her eyes. “I’m a big macho man. There isn’t
anything you can throw at me that I can’t beat.”
Jenny’s taunts made Danny’s blood boil, but he simply smiled. “All right, let’s talk
business. What do I get if I win?”
Jenny shrugged. “Well...what do you want?”
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Now gears turned in Danny’s head. What did he want from Jenny? He looked her over.
God, she was cocky. Danny had to humiliate her. Bring her down a peg. Teach her who
was in charge of this relationship. “I want you...to be my personal slave for a day. You’re
going to clean our apartment, wash my car, and do whatever else I want you to do. And
you’re going to do it in your bikini!”
Jenny’s cheeks turned red. “Danny, you’re terrible...but okay. And if I win, you have
to be MY slave. You’ll clean, wash my car...” She raised her leg and displayed her foot to
Danny. “...and rub these for as long as I want you to.” She wiggled her toes. “...And you
have to do it in my bikini!”
Thinking about wearing Jenny’s swimwear had Danny blushing now. He scratched
his chin in an attempt to conceal it. “...All right, deal.”
Wincing, Danny reached under his jacket and scratched his breast. Electrical tape secured
a small microphone to his chest, just beneath his collarbone, concealed by his shirt but
still close enough to pick up Danny’s every word. A wire connected to a small recorder
in his front pocket ran down Danny’s chest. This recorder not only recorded his voice,
but also kept track of how long it had been running. If Danny pressed ‘stop’ at any point,
Jenny would know.
“All right, Jen,” Danny narrated aloud, for Jenny to hear later. “I’m putting gas in my
car. You know, that thing you’ll be washing tomorrow.”
Danny brought his car to a stop in front of a pump and headed inside. There were
only a few people ahead of him, and they trickled out quickly.
“What are you needing?” Inquired a short Puerto Rican cashier.
“Thirty on five.” He handed his money over and departed before anyone else could
say anything to him.
Danny was on a roll. All he had to do was fill up his tank, and then visit Tony at
work. Tony usually had very little to say, so that conversation would probably be pretty
short. He didn’t count on a very attractive redhead pumping gas behind his car. Initially,
Danny viewed this as an opportunity to tease Jenny: Not only will I hit on this gal; I’ll do
it without losing our bet.
...Until he realized: Gee, Jenny might not really want to hear me hitting on another girl.
That could be worse than losing. Resisting her was difficult. She kept throwing glances
at Danny and his car. All he could do was pretend that he didn’t see her. Tragically, she
departed and disappeared down First Avenue.
Dejected but not defeated, Danny got his change from his Puerto Rican friend-proffering a terse ‘thank you’ and not much else--before taking off toward Davis Records.
To take his mind off his task, Danny popped in a CD and before long he was singing
softly to himself.
Davis records was empty, like usual. Behind a cascade of dreadlocks, Tony was
stoned, like usual. Clad in a stained white T-shirt and greeting Danny with glossy,
bloodshot eyes, Tony looked like he’d just gotten out of bed.
“Sup, dude...?” Tony greeted.
“Hey man. ...Keeping busy, huh?”
“Oh, you know...same old, same old...hey, listen...I’ve already taken a few breaks
today, but I’m definitely exhausted...you wanna twist one up out back?”
“I’m all set, Tony. You know I don’t do that stuff any more. Not since I started dating Jen.
But listen, Jenny and I made a bet.”
“A bet...? Far out.”
“Yeah. Anyway, instead of all of us meeting at your place tomorrow, we should meet
at mine.”
“Ohhh...? How come...?”
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Danny couldn’t help but smirk. “Because Jenny is going to lose our bet. And
tomorrow, she’s going to be in her bikini, cleaning our apartment. All day.”
“Is that what she gets if you win...? What if she wins...?”
“Well, in that case, it’s me cleaning in a bikini all day. But that won’t happen. I got
this.”
Tony shrugged. “All right, cool...we’ll all show up tomorrow, and like...make fun of
Jenny, for losing your bet...it’ll be sweet...”
“Sure will. Listen, I’m gonna get out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he left Davis Records and headed home. This would be classic.
11:00PM, Wednesday night. Jenny sat in her chair with a pair of headphones over her
ears. She’d already made sure that Danny hadn’t pressed ‘stop’; he’d succeeded in that
test.
Danny lay sprawled across his recliner, smirking at her. Jen’s expression remained
calm and collected. She didn’t seem to be growing nervous about her imminent failure.
Danny had to give her props for being able to keep her cool (despite encroaching
humiliation). Finally, Jenny finished. For a moment, she just looked at Danny.
“I know, toots. It sucks, doesn’t it? But it’s okay; I’ll go easy on you. Don’t go
getting any ideas, though. This apartment’s gonna be so clean, it’ll be more sterile than a
hospital room.”
“Danny...sweetie...what do you in your car?”
Puzzled, Danny cocked his head. “I drive.”
“What else?”
He thought it over for a moment. “Well, sometimes I sing. But lots of people do that. What’s wrong, you don’t like my sing--”
Danny’s heart skipped a beat. His face drained of color and his jaw dropped open.
“I...uh...that doesn’t count, Jenny!”
She laughed out loud, clapping her hands, even standing up to do a little dance. “I
beat Dan-ny! I beat Dan-ny!”
“No, no! It doesn’t count! Those are just lyrics! I didn’t say it to anyone!”
Jenny paused long enough to regurgitate some technicalities. “You couldn’t say it
aloud at all!
You said it like fifty times while you were singing!”
Try as he might, Danny couldn’t argue with her. Lacking a good response and tiring
of Jenny’s obnoxious victory-dance, Danny stormed to their bedroom. “Fine. I’ll clean
our stupid house and I’ll wash your stupid car.”
“Don’t worry, Danny!” Jenny chirped. “I won’t make you give me a foot massage-in my bikini--until Tony and his friends get here!”
Wild Encounter
By: Christopher Blackington
The moose and I were well aware of one another; I could see her, she could see me.
She was tall, lean and muscular, and covered in a dark coat of thick, shaggy brown hair,
like the thatched roof of a crofter’s cottage, a perfect barrier against the elements. She
was beautifully built to survive some of the most inhospitable environments found in the
hard rugged mountains of the West. I felt as though she had stepped into this world out of
myth. I had my Nikon around my neck so while this wondrous animal peaceably nibbled
at the willowy grasses that lined the roadside I quietly snapped a few photos. I watched
with awe as she slowly ambled along the wood line to an open parcel of land about thirty
feet from where I was standing in the road. A ration of heaven, a tract of sweet verdant
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grass peppered with a resplendent array of parti-colored wildflowers: blues, purples,
yellows, oranges, and all shades in-between—a delight for the eyes and a feast for the
soul.
In silent wonder I stood and watched a scene of beauty and grace unfold before my
eyes. The mountains and world around me were cloaked in a heavy blanket of damp and
drizzle. I had never been to the Uintas before and I was glad to be out of the harsh din
and concrete of Salt Lake and in the embrace of Mother Nature no matter her mood. I
was once again receiving the kind of solace that I remembered from long days roaming
the forests and woodlands of New Hampshire as a young boy. Memories were stirred.
Memories not of the type one is consciously aware, but memories of a much more
visceral nature.
They were memories of a kind that dwell deep within one’s soul; memories that are
the makeup of being. Life was grand! There I was in the wilderness, sharing a wonderful
moment with another living creature, an alien from a very different world. Rather, I was
the alien, the extraterrestrial from a world of fences, music, and supermarkets. Her world,
the world that I had wondered into, was far removed. As I thought about this unshakable
fact, I realized that regardless of our extraordinarily dissimilar lives, we were integral
parts of the greater world around us; a world in which all things, both living and nonliving, are perpetually and inextricably bound in a glorious and mystical way.
I do not presume to know the mind of any animal with whom I do not share an
intimate relationship, but I imagined she had never thought about such things before. How
could she? She had never seen a fence, a grocery store, or heard the Baroque masters
that I love. Her supermarkets were the swamps, fields, and forests of the mountains. The
only music she knew was sung at dawn by a choir of songbirds. The only barriers she
encountered were those which darkness brings. Despite our inherently disparate lives, we
were together there, in that place, in that moment. The moose and I silently experiencing
life, I enjoying her company, she tolerating mine. There was peace in that place.
The two of us were quietly watching one another, enjoying the hushed mood of the
mountains, when the grey mists parted and with a bellow of clanging gears, in rolled
a manmade monster belching fumes and noise. Its arrival banished the quietude of the
mountains and shattered the silent harmony of spirits the moose and I had been enjoying.
The newly arrived beast settled in behind my parked Mazda, completely without our
welcome. It was an SUV, the dark red color of dried blood. Roaring clatter emanating
from within the body of the four-wheeled beast was clearly audible through the confines
of its hard steel skin. The moose and I were more than upset at this encroachment on
our private little world. The sudden appearance of the vehicle infuriated me; the metal
monster had rudely forced itself into a very private moment that I had been sharing with
my newfound friend. The moose was unnerved and anxious because her home had been
invaded by too many outsiders. She had become exasperated with the human invasion and
she was quite done with us.
How do I know the moose was exasperated and done with us uncouth and misplaced
human beings? Simple…she told me so. It was not something she said, of course,
instead it was something she did, something that spoke more volumes than even the
longest tomes in any human language ever could. She took off running at breakneck
speed—straight toward me! I had done something utterly reckless. I allowed the peace
and serenity of the past few minutes to dim my judgment just as the clouds of fog that
enveloped the world around me dimmed the sun. I foolishly let down my guard.
With fear and panic in her eyes, she barreled forward. That would be it. My life cut
short by a hulking mass of lean muscle perched atop four great spears.
Spears to strike down even the most formidable enemy. I have never been more
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keenly aware of where I was in space or on Earth than at that precise moment in time. I
could feel the ground shake as those four sharp hooves beat rapidly against the pavement.
My heart was pounding as though it were trying to escape my flesh and escape the
danger, a danger which I had imposed upon myself. Time around us seemed to slow to a
halt; only the moose and I continued to exist.
My subconscious must have been processing at an unimaginable rate. I do not
remember thinking the slightest about life or death or my imminent demise; my legs
simply took a single step back. It was enough. As she sped past I could feel her close in
the air. I could taste her warm, earthy scent. Through my own fear, I could sense her fear.
She continued to race her path toward the safety of the trees. She allowed me to live.
Once the frightened animal had removed herself to the security of the forest, I
was reminded that time had not in fact frozen. I was abruptly shaken back into reality,
brought once again into conscious thought, when from the window of the SUV I heard
a voice exclaim, “Oh my god, I thought you were a goner!” The voice had come from
the passenger in the front seat of the sanguine monster. I did not respond aloud. Instead,
I thought to myself that had those other humans—so noisome and rude—not arrived
when they had, I would have been in no danger whatsoever. I would have continued to
watch the moose mosey along and she would have continued to watch me watch her
until one of us tired of the other’s company. We would have parted in peace, parted in
a way incomparable and unequalled to any other, leaving only silence and taking only
memories.
Year of the Cow
By: Christopher Blackington
The smell of freshly mown hay mixed with the warm pungent odor of manure
lingers on the cool air. The lands here are dotted with the familiar black and white
Holstein, the quintessential New England dairy cow. Open fields and emerald pastures
can be seen rolling across rich green hills stretching out to touch the feet of nearby
mountains. These fields and pastures are bordered by fences which are in turn bordered
by a rainbow of golds, reds, yellows, oranges, and fading greens—the hues of autumn.
Not far from the cow-spattered fields, lie tall grain silos and an ancient red barn. In the
distance, a farmer can be seen carting in a fresh load of corn to stock the silos and feed
the cows. This corn is on its way to becoming milk, yogurt, and cheese. Overhead the
sonorous trumpeting of geese migrating south can be heard. Soon, snow will be seen
tumbling from the clouds above to blanket the bright green fields in soft white. Winter is
coming.
Far west and south in a land where trees are scarce, beyond the wide and muddy
Mississippi, tawny gold desert fills the country. Here a breed of cattle wanders the vast
and dusty expanses of the arid plains. This is a breed with a nature quite unlike that of
the submissive Holstein; this is a breed of cattle with a wild nature. These cattle are
long-horned russet-colored Angus, busy converting the rugged desert plants into muscle
and fat—beef. They are vagabond beasts, existing only to provide meat and hide for
their masters. The land of the free-roaming cattle is laid open before the world like
the pages of some august and intemporal book. Land unmarred by the hand of Man
and painted with pale green washes—sere scrub brush, fragrant sages, and tough dry
grasses. Sun-baked creek beds wind their way across the desert, barren most of the time,
far too infrequently overcome by deluge and torrents from far off rain falling on far off
mountains. An ominous grey shrouds the once warm face of the sun. The faint sound of
geese can be heard approaching from the north. Here too, winter approaches.
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The lives of cattle are governed by the immutable cycle of seasonal change and the
ceaseless procession of time. Spring brings cool rains and succulent green grass to the
dairy cows of the northeast. On the dairy farms, the piebald cows are bred year round to
encourage a constant flow of milk. For beef cattle in the west, spring is for calving. Angus
calves are born on the plains far from fences and walls and will not see a human being
until the midsummer survey when they will be rounded up, vaccinated, and branded.
For both the Holstein and Angus alike, it is a human hand which dictates the matings,
selecting for the highest genetic quality to produce animals that yield the most milk or
meat.
For the gentle Holsteins of New England, their existence is limited to the farms on
which they are born, in constant contact with the men and women who care for them.
The farmyards are safe havens from predators and the birth of each calf is overseen by
a skilled veterinarian. Lush green pastures and warm barns provide a fine place to grow
up. For the delicate young calves and their mothers, clean water is supplied daily in long
troughs along with a healthy amount of fresh grass, hay, and feed made from grains. The
idyllic life of a Holstein in the Northeast is simple and effortless.
Life is very different for the stalwart Angus of the rugged and hostile Desert
Southwest. Every spring the cattle are lead away from the safety and security of fences
and the watchful eye of the ranchers into the hard and rugged grazing lands in the desert
where they are left to fend for themselves in the wilds of the west. Into the wilderness
wobbly-legged Angus calves are born, many of which are exacted by the fierce
environment as payment for use of its limited resources. For those calves who survive,
their mothers must provide protection and guide them to safe water and food. Water is
pumped in and stored in tanks and cisterns out in the desert and on the plains; it is up to
the cattle to find them. Bountiful nutrition in the form of tough shrubs and dry grasses is
supplied by Nature, only occasionally supplemented by feed-grain. The cattle must know
what is safe to eat and find it, or perish.
The heat of noontime sun comes with summer, cause for Holsteins and Angus alike
to seek shelter from the scorching rays of light. For the dairy producing cows in green
New England, shade can be found within the confines of the battered and faded red
barn or under the gnarled and loving branches of amvenerable old oak. Not only is New
England hot in summer, it is wet. The hot sun blends with often stifling humidity and
encourages biting flies to multiply innumerably. Roiling clouds build in late afternoon
and the smell of ozone is released as a bolt of white-hot light spiders across the sky. Rain
is coming, with it a reprieve from the flies and sticky air.
While the pastures of New England are enveloped in an oppressive humidity,
the golden plains of the desert are dry and sweltering. Shelter for the Angus is sought
in the cool shade of surrounding canyons and low hollows along dry creek beds,
occasionally within the shade of an ancient and withered juniper bush. Here too, a
passing thundershower is a welcome event for the desert cattle, bringing soft breezes and
cooling rain. The rains bring hope. Calves and mothers will have water for a time, flowing
through the creek beds which are otherwise barren and dry near perpetuity.
Now the moon is full and smiles down on the country. The harvest is ready in
New England and the ranchers of the Desert Southwest are preparing to round up their
livestock and head to market. Autumn has come.
Autumn for the dairy cows of New England brings children to the farms on school
trips and weekend adventures; they love to see and pet the large black-and-whitepatchwork animals. The children’s giggling laughter rings out across the barnyard as they
try their hand at milking the reluctant cows; their hands are cold and unskilled, a far cry
from the machines that daily extract milk from the soft udders of the docile bovines. After
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the cows relinquish their thick cream-rich milk, farmers process it into any number of
dairy products and ship them out to surrounding communities to be enjoyed: cold milk on
the breakfast table, ice cream in a cone.
The deep-red Angus in the desert, cautiously listen as a coyote serenades the moon
over a distant hill. The coyote is a familiar sound. From another direction, an unfamiliar
and unfriendly sound is heard, the sound of ranchers coming in their trucks and on
horseback to round up the Angus and usher them home to the safety of the ranch to
wait out the long cold winter. At the ranch, mature animals are sorted by breeding stock
or taken to market to become meat for human consumption across the country: savory
Christmas brisket, hot dogs at the ballpark.
Another year has passed for the cattle in both regions of the United States. Now, as
autumn yields to the advent of winter, a heavy blanket of snow covers the green grass of
the Holsteins in New England as well as the sage and scrub of the Angus in the Desert
Southwest. The soft-tempered cows of the northeast spend their winters in much the
same way they spend the rest of the year. They eat well, sleep safe, breed, and produce
milk. The sole difference is experienced as a yearning for soft earth beneath their feet and
bellies full of succulent green grass. Within the bosom of the ranch, the hearty cattle of
the southwest can relax until spring. For the Angus, the bitterness of winter is a time of
patience. A time spent longing for the freedom of the desert plains and the sweet smell of
sage in the spring.
Dating: A Beginner’s Guide to Discovery & Introductions
By: Christopher Blackington
To date: The systematic process of trial and error by which Westerners bravely
attempt to locate a perfect (or near perfect or presumed perfect or satisfactory or
completely mismatched, dater’s preference) partner with whom to travel through life.
What a wonderful concept. To choose one’s partner based on common precepts and
principles and the shared experiences of life’s journey, both joyous and tribulatory.
Dating with a sense toward discovering true love is diametrically opposed to the process
of finding a life partner via an arranged marriage. These marriages, where one’s parents
choose a suitable partner primarily based on socio-economic and political reasoning, are
practiced by several cultures across the globe. In such arrangements no thought is given
to the prospect of love or philosophical compatibility between the two parties to be wed.
What follows is a guide to the Western method of finding love, that innate and
ubiquitous emotion which makes life as a human being worth living. One should note
that this guide is not intended to be definitive nor all inclusive. There are myriad ways in
which one can apply the steps laid out in this guide and each step within the processes is
open to interpretation.
There are several procedural moves during the dating process one must make in
precise (or not so precise) order to ensure the end result is one of “happily ever after.” Of
course, the eternal phrase happily ever after differs tremendously in meaning from one
human being to the next. The actual definition of such a concept needs to be determined
by the individual setting out on the dating process and is hugely dependent upon what it
is the dater wishes to accomplish by completing said process. While on the dating tour it
is paramount to remember one singular point: Have as much fun as possible throughout
the journey. Enjoy life!
The primary purpose of dating is to locate a mate with whom one can spend a
lifetime together. Thus begins the hunt. There are several places one may seek out
another. Here are provided a few suggestions. As one reaches the age when it becomes
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necessary to begin partner seeking in earnest, one is generally in college or attending
a university. These are fine places to begin the search. At school one will, with relative
ease, find persons of the opposite (or same) sex who possess a like mind. However, the
prowling of a college campus or university is suggested only if the seeker is enrolled
at the college or university, for if he or she is not, he or she will be referred to as
“that creepy guy/girl lurking in the bushes.” This could also lead to arrest providing
opportunities to discover, while in prison, a whole new meaning of the phrase to date.
Bars, pubs, and taverns are also good places to locate potential partners. These
establishments could be either dingy or not so dingy. The choice is heavily dependent on
the outcome wished by the one seeking a date. (Caution: an advanced state of inebriation
on the part of the pursuer can have severe consequences.) Should the campus or public
houses fail to provide success, one’s office is often a source of potentially agreeable
mates. However, this locale is not highly recommended as there are many dangerous
side effects to be found lurking within the labyrinthine array of cubicles. For example,
there is high potential for malfeasance, especially if one party is superior in rank to the
other. Distraction within the workplace is likely, including the arousal of corrosive gossip
among co-workers, or time lost while attempting to discover the ins and outs of one
another within the confines of the storage closet, copier room, restroom, desk, etc. The
probability of revenge or torture, should one party find the date unsatisfactory, is also
high.
One may find the local park to be a fruitful source of relationship potential. This
is an excellent choice for the outdoorsy type, or for persons seeking others of a more
geriatric nature. Not far from parks one can often find a coffee shop or restaurant in
which to seek love; food and drink have brought people together for millennia. The
restaurant is a wonderful place to seek those of a more rotund build, should that be what
one seeks. For those seeking a mate with more of a sense of adventure one might choose
to look for someone while SCUBA diving off the Galápagos. Or for those seeking a mate
with less of a sense of adventure or for those seeking a mate with intellectual acuity, the
library is a phenomenal place to look.
Should one find the task of hunting down lovers too time consuming or tedious,
one might ask his or her friends to set up a blind date. A blind date is a date where each
party will not have been previously introduced. This is a good opportunity to meet a
partner who otherwise might not have been available to encounter without the help of an
intermediary. No matter where one chooses to seek a date, it is important to keep an open
mind and use one’s imagination. The possibilities are endless.
As one seeks a mate there are several important items the pursuer should keep in
mind. One of the most significant factors to be considered is the intellect of the pursue,
or not, again dependent on the outcome wished by the individual seeking a date. The
socio-economic status of the pursuee in relation to that of the pursuer requires great
consideration; should one partner be of greater financial means, the other may be viewed
as a monetary parasite. The physical, mental, and emotional health of one’s potential
partner is also of high import—nobody wants a sickly, emotionally distraught loony,
though it could be surmised that some might. Last, but not least (perhaps least to those of
a more philosophic nature), the appearance and hygiene of one’s potential mate needs to
be reviewed. Generally this is the first item determined while looking around in a bar or
other public location and serves as the initial impetus for pursuit.
Once one has settled on a potential mate, he or she must then approach his or her
quarry. For some, especially those who do not mind making fools of themselves or
are unaware that perhaps they should not be swimming in the gene pool, this step is a
non-issue. However, for the average human being approaching a complete stranger is
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generally not so easy and regularly leads to nausea, profuse perspiration, and a rather
luminous reddening of the face.
Several internal questions will arise in the mind like, “will he or she like me and
find me interesting?” or “do my armpits stink?” These questions are natural and should
be considered. However, should one take them too seriously, one will rarely succeed in
the dating game. It is best to simply ignore the answers and proceed anyway. Be like the
fools, perhaps they do know something about life most others just do not understand.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Finally, once the courage to introduce oneself to his or her target has been mustered,
he or she must then, with undaunted pluck and nonchalance, approach said target. This
is important—being cocksure can indicate a sense of arrogance, often a turn-off to the
pursuee. A lack of courage will indicate weakness, an undesirable trait in one who might
be relied upon for protection and a means of survival in the future. After the pursuer has
made an introduction, during which one must attempt to halt the quivering mass of one’s
body from shaking to pieces and simultaneously suppress the nausea that is building
(there is nothing that can be done about the blaringly red face), the pursuee will smile and
give his or her name in return.
Now one can breathe deep and relax, a great deed has been accomplished. The
culmination of the date-seeking process will be to make arrangements for a formal date.
The eventual meeting will be the beginning of another step in the process of finding a
partner with which to share the journey of life and love Good luck!
Flaming Shots and Broken Bones
By: Anonymous
I had my first drink when I was 15 years old. It was a Bud light. I must have had
three of them before staring at myself in my friend’s bathroom mirror. Head swimming, I
gazed through my hazy vision at my warm red cheeks and thought to myself, “So this is
what drunk feels like.” I’ve had countless beers since then, too many blackouts, hospital
visits, and defensive conversations with friends concerned about my drinking.
My drinking patters changed from social drinking to alcohol abuse after I broke
up with my first boyfriend. I ended up cheating on him, something I promised myself I
would never do. I’ve seen first-hand how damaging cheating is to all the parties involved.
After breaking up with my boyfriend, I was a little more than confused. I didn’t know
who I was anymore. If I was capable of betrayal, what else was this new me capable of?
How was I going to find someone who would treat me as good as my ex-boyfriend? I
wasn’t. So alcohol replaced him.
I was a senior in high school and preparing to go off to college at the University of
New Hampshire. I was terrified. I came off as this person who was so confident in who
they are, but inside I was an anxious, depressed mess of emotions. I quickly discovered
that alcohol kept these emotions in check.
Alcohol became the mask I hid behind, the warm blanket I wrapped my insecurities
in. From this point forward there wasn’t an obstacle I tackled alone; alcohol was always
by my side.
Night after night, I would come home covered in new bruises and scars. I had no
idea where they came from. Every night of drinking was followed by either missing parts
of my night or blacking out the entire night. One night I drank until eight am. When the
rest of the party was waking up from a few hours of sleep, I was still chugging beers. I
was dropped off at my house around eleven am and started throwing up in my front yard.
I, of course, don’t remember this. Accounts from friends, along with a huge pile of what I
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ate the night before, pieced the story together for me.
One night I was outside a party making out with some random guy. I couldn’t tell
you what his name was, what he looked like, or if I was even attracted to him. My best
friend Alcohol was there and she wasn’t in short supply. While making out with this guy,
he leaned into me pushing me up against what he thought was the side of the house, but
was actually an open door to the basement. The entire accident happened so fast. One
moment I’m kissing some guy, and the next I’m in a dark hole with him on top of me.
I was seeing stars and I couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable, the shortness
of breath from having the wind knocked out of me, or the sheer pain of my arm being
pinned down and twisted beneath me. Once the pain began to register I immediately let
out a shriek. This was my first alcohol related injury. I learned the next day that my arm
was fractured and spent the rest of the summer in a sling. The fractured arm kept me out
of work which meant more free time for my friend Alcohol.
Once I entered college my drinking became worse. Every weekend I would plan to
blackout. I would drink as much alcohol as hard and as fast as I could. On one of these
nights I was extremely drunk when someone handed me a flaming shot. I wish I knew
then what I know now. You must blow out the flame before you take the shot. I was told
later that everyone around me was screaming for me not to toss it back, but Alcohol, the
sneaky bitch that she is, blocked out all of their voices. All I heard was her voice telling
me that I wanted that liquid courage, and I wanted it now. I threw the shot back and didn’t
know anything was wrong until I smelt burning hair and flesh. Pieces of my skin were
floating in the bottom of the shot glass. I blacked out around this time. I was told the next
day that I forced a friend to take me to a fraternity where I sat in the corner, burnt face
and all, and chugged rum straight from the bottle.
I woke up the next day in unbearable pain. My eyebrows and eye lashes were gone.
There were two lines on both of my cheeks oozing blood and puss. To this day I still have
the scars. A black light illuminates them even more. Only recently have people stopped
saying, “Hey, aren’t you flaming shot girl?” My face being scorched with flaming alcohol
did nothing to deter my drinking. One night I went up to Plymouth State University with
my sister and two friends. Once we arrived we immediately started drinking. Had I not
been as drunk as I was, I probably wouldn’t have gone to the hospital that night.
We were all trying to hop an eight foot fence and everyone made it over fine. I was
the last to go. I climbed up to the top of the fence and swung one of my legs over so I was
straddling it. Then I drunkenly slid down the fence dragging my other leg and my right
hand all the way down the rusty chain links.
My hand was covered in blood and no make shift bandage would stop the bleeding.
I opened my hand and saw pieces of my body that I shouldn’t be able to see coming out
of the huge gash in my palm. What are those white chunks? Is that cartilage? I needed to
get to the hospital. I should have known I was abusing alcohol when I was making sure to
carry my insurance card on me at all times.
I look at pictures from this time in my life and am embarrassed. I stopped wearing
makeup and rarely changed out of the sweatpants I was wearing the day before. I woke
up at noon every day, too hung-over to even care how I was presenting myself. That was
if I could even think of a reason to get out of bed. Looking like a mess made me feel like
even more of a mess. I would walk around campus more insecure than ever. Why is that
person staring at me? Did they see me do something stupid last night? What did I do last
night? I couldn’t concentrate in my classes, if I even went, because I was either trying to
figure out what happened the night before, or figuring out what I would be drinking that
night.
A few months later I hit rock bottom. I could see how scared people were for me
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and I became scared for myself. I had just gotten suspended from UNH and I was more
depressed than ever. This wasn’t who I was. This isn’t the direction my life was supposed
to go. So, I decided to change it.
When I was upset, instead of drowning my emotions in alcohol I dealt with them.
I accepted things for what they were. As soon as I was suspended from UNH, I started
working full time. I worked hard and it became abundantly clear to me that I didn’t want
to work a minimum wage job for the rest of my life. I began seeing my worth again, with
help from a new boyfriend who met me at a low point in my life but saw the real me
though all of my mistakes.
Looking back on all the stupid decisions I made and risky situations I put myself in
while inebriated, I’m lucky nothing worse happened to me. I could have been raped or
gotten alcohol poisoning or worse. I still drink, but nothing like the way I used to. I’m
happy with my life and the direction it’s going and I no longer need to use alcohol as a
crutch.
Sensing Betrayal
By: Anonymous
The gin burns my throat as it slides down but it’s nothing compared to what’s going
to happen. I swirl the glass in my hand and the cool perspiration from the glass slides
down my white knuckles. I take another swig and it feels like liquid fire burning my
throat, then my esophagus, and finally my empty stomach. I’m careful not to drink too
much. I don’t deserve to be numb to his blows. He deserves to feel the relief of hitting
me. I deserve to feel the pain of my best friend’s fist to my pitiful face. I did, after all,
sleep with his wife.
I hear the front door swing open and don’t even turn around. He’s here and I know
what’s coming. My muscles are weak and tired like I’d just ran a marathon. Although
there’s no mirror nearby, I can feel that the blood’s drained from my face and that I’m
cold and sweaty like I have the flu. My stomach feels as if I’m on a roller coaster that
just won’t quit. I’m constantly falling and I wish the bottom was in sight. The only thing
that’s keeping me from passing out is knowing that after he hits me I’ll finally begin to
descend.
“Is it true!?” he screams. My eyes clench shut and a silent tear rolls down my cheek
and enters my mouth. It’s salty and warm and reminds me of the coward I’ve become. I
don’t deserve to cry, he does. He also deserves an answer.
“Yes,” I reply softly as I stand and turn in one swift motion to face my best friend. He
looks like a wreck. His hair is disheveled. His brown eyes are bloodshot. I can’t tell if it’s
from not sleeping or crying. His face is red and pulsating with anger. I see him pull his
arm back as he prepares to hit me and I don’t even flinch.
Every muscle in my body tightens as I feel his fist make contact with my face. I see
a flash of tiny silver and purple circles right before I hit the kitchen floor. The silver and
purple discs are replaced with a sheet of red. Blood is streaming down my face from right
above my eyebrow and clouding my vision. It tastes like copper as if I’d been sucking on
pennies. My head is pounding worse than any hangover I’ve ever experienced which is
bad because after the night I betrayed him I punished myself with many a hangover. I can
feel my pulse in my temples as though my brain might burst through my skull.
The glass of gin shattered in my hand as I hit the ground and I begin to grip the
shards tightly and feel the tiny pieces pierce my skin like razorblades. I stay on the
ground for a moment watching my entire hand fill with blood as white chunks peek
through my open wounds. I’m waiting for the second blow, a kick to the face perhaps;
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whatever he thinks I deserve, anything to make me feel ever a fraction of his pain.
“Oh, you think I’m going to hit you again? You know why I’m not going to?
Because you fucking disgust me! You’re too low for me to even hit!” he spouts above me
between sobs, and with that I hear him turn and walk out the door.
The rollercoaster has begun to descend. My muscles have relaxed and I can feel the
color come back to my face. I can see the color coming back to my face, as the blood
is still cascading from above my eyebrow. I wipe it off with the back of my hand and
pick myself up off the floor. I fill another glass to the brim and take my seat again at the
kitchen table and try to dissect why I did it. Why did I ruin my best friend’s life?
Was it that hair? There were so many different colors in that hair, I could have
looked at it all day and tried to name them all. There were the fiery red undertones that
reminded me of her fiery personality; the golden streaks that often stuck to the corners of
her perfect little mouth. But my favorites were the burnt orange wisps that often fell into
her eyes and reminded me of a crisp autumn day.
Or perhaps it was that skin. The first time our hands touched I wondered how it was
possible for anything to be so smooth. Her hands felt as if mine had been wrapped in silk.
I doubt she felt the electricity I felt that first time her hand met mine, like I was finally
awake for the first time. Did everyone feel this electricity when they touched her? Did he
feel feels this when he touched her?
Nothing compared to her scent. She smelt of warmth, sunshine, and honey. I closed
my eyes when I first smelled her and I could see the brightest and warmest sun shining
down a never ending field of tall green grass. Her scent was so familiar and so calming.
When I smelt her, I was home.
I’d give anything to breathe her in again.
I hear the back door swing open again and without turning around, I know he’s back
for more. The gin has begun to go down smoothly now. I throw the rest of the glass back
and wait for him to approach me but he doesn’t. Instead, sunshine, grass, and honey fill
the air. The combined pain of my bloody face, my pulsing hand, and my twisting stomach
immediately subside. I turn around to see that beautiful autumn day hair and I know that
everything’s going to be alright.
Rise and Shine My Ass
By: Eugene Northacker
Peace… Relaxation… Contentment… Interrupted… Ugh… That accursed alarm
clock is going off. It’s morning again. Everything around me is black except for the
glowing red numbers on the clock indicating that it is 6:03 AM. Ugh. Realizing that I’ve
begun to regain consciousness Heidi, my 3 year old Australian Shepherd, wastes no time.
She comes over and unceremoniously collapses on top of my chest driving her elbow into
my ribs. It’s her subtle way of letting me know that if I’m awake I should put myself to
use and pet her. After adjusting her so that I am no longer in pain I oblige. I wish that I
could absorb her energy and enthusiasm through physical contact, it would make waking
up so much easier. Realizing that I am awake and bestowing affection on someone other
than her, Greta, my 10 year old German Shepherd mix begins to rouse. Scooting closer
to me she lets me know that, as the eldest, if anyone is going to get love it should be her.
Contorting my arms around, I pet them as best I can. Greta, with her short coarse fur,
loves her head and ears rubbed. Heidi, with her longer soft fur, prefers to have her tummy
petted. Time stands still temporarily. Finally however I realize that the inevitable can no
longer be delayed… it’s time to get up. I relay this message to Greta and Heidi they both
get up to give me room. Ugh. It takes a second or two for my body to catch up with my
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mind but finally both agree, it’s time…
Breaking free from the warm and safe cocoon that has protected me through the
night I throw back the covers. Immediately the cold air of the room shocks my skin. The
laziness of awakening begins to take on some urgency as I swing my legs over the end
of the bed. In the dark I quickly grab for the sweat pants left on the chair across from the
bed and pull them on. Just underneath is my robe which I grab and wrap around myself
for protection. The bitterness of the cold’s assault has been stemmed but that is only just
the beginning. Muscle memory takes over as I stand and lean over, my left hand bracing
my body against the wall. Without thought my right hand reaches instinctively to the
lamp on the dresser and turns it on. Knowing how the light will burn my eyes I keep
them closed for a few seconds longer. This instinct is just my body’s attempt to delay the
inevitable for just a few seconds longer.
It’s too late however, I open my eyes and suffer the burning light. Ugh. Reality
beings to take focus around me. Heidi and Greta are ready to go and looking at me
expectantly. Barring our way however is Gus, my 4 year old Great Pyrenees mix, who is
collapsed in a heap of white fur in front of the bedroom door. At least he is like me and
resists consciousness to the bitter end. I walk over to him and kneel on the floor in front
of him while he clings to sleep. Rubbing him vigorously from head to tail he begins to
wake. But he’s not stupid, he’ll hold out for as long as he can. When I stop he remains
motionless. Rubbing him again from head to tail he comes to life. Rolling on to his back
so that I can rub his tummy I know I have him…. He’s finally awake. Standing I tell him
to get up. Shit travels downhill and if I have to get up so does he. After a few stretches
he’s up and the door is now free.
Moving down the stairs we arrive at the front door where I stumble around trying
to slip on my boots. Grabbing my coat I open the door and we walk outside for the first
walk of the day. Slipping on my coat I realize that it isn’t actually that cold out. Without
the full light of the sun the world is a mix of black and gray. Lingering fog obscures
everything further. Walking towards the back yard I notice that the lake has virtually
disappeared in the dense mist. Everything beyond fifty feet vanishes. It is as if the clouds
have descended to the ground and enveloped the earth. After admiring the stark beauty
for what I assume is about ten minutes I decide that it is time to round up the troops and
head back. Raising my left hand I touch my thumb and middle finger and bring them
to my mouth. Closing my lips around them I place my tongue to my fingernails. Filling
my lungs by inhaling through my nose and releasing the breath through my mouth I
emit a high pitched whistle. This signals to the dogs that it is time to head inside. Heidi
and Greta bound to the door while I follow. Gus lazily brings up the rear, determined to
always be the last dog to enter the house.
Once inside it’s time to address my needs to regain consciousness… coffee. After
kicking off my boots and hanging up my coat I head into the kitchen. Reaching up and
opening the cabinet door above the coffee maker I find the treasure I seek. As soon as I
pop the lid of the jar the scent of the roasted coffee beans intoxicates me. Once I’ve ladled
three scoops of beans into the grinder I close the lid. Amidst the whirring of the electric
motor the dancing beans clatter as they ricochet between the blades and the lid. After a
few seconds the impacts fade as the beans have been reduced to dust.
Transferring the grounds from the grinder to the coffee maker I notice that the scent
has been intensified. Pushing the button the machine goes to work, transforming beans
and water into the elixir of life. The hot water begins to flow slowly, a few drops at a time.
Now all there is to do is wait. Eventually the stream of hot water is replaced by sputtering
gasps of steam, indicating that the machine has finished its job.
Another cupboard hides the mugs and sugar jar. One teaspoon of sugar in the cup
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and I head towards the refrigerator for a generous splash of half and half and then back
over to the coffee maker. Pouring the dark brown liquid into the mug churns the white of
the half and half. Tendrils of coffee and cream wrestle one another until I plunge spoon
in between and begin to stir. Discarded the spoon clatters in the sink as I head to the TV
room. Sitting down I begin to sip at the hot drink. Slowly at first, starting with tiny sips
so as not to burn my lips and tongue. The bitterness of the coffee is countered by the
sweetness of the sugar while the cream enhances its richness. Bolstered by the beverage I
can begin to think. What do I have to do today…
Pigment Personality
By: Andrea Anderson
Did you know that even before a woman opens her mouth to utter a word, or does
any definable action, you can know enough about her to greet her openly, proceed with
caution, or flee? Yes it’s true, this knowledge can come in handy whether you’re hiring a
new employee, meeting a potential customer, or even starting a casual conversation out in
public. I have come across this little known secret through decades of first hand experiences while working as a hair stylist. Ours is a world of freedoms and choices, everything
from the car we drive, the clothes we wear, to the people we hang out with, and the way
we act and react in any situation says something about us, but none more obviously and
instantly than the choice a woman makes about what color and how she’ll wear her hair.
Will she remain natural, or does she dislike what genetics has chosen for her? Projecting herself as a bubbly blond, a vivacious red head, or a sophisticated brunette, all reveal
something about how she wants the rest of the world to view her, whether it’s the truth or
not, you will soon find out.
Blonds
First an insider secret that stylist have known for years, but wouldn’t want to get
out, is the direct link between pigment in your hair and active brain cells. “The lighter
the hair, the less is there” we say. We call baby blond that for a very good reason, not just
because it’s common in small children, but that those with this color still retain some of
their childlike qualities. They are happy, soft spoken, naive, with sweet expressions, and
sometimes with irritatingly tiny voices. Their lack of confidence makes them indecisive
as customers. They look to you and say “Do whatever you think will look good, I trust
you” even though you just met. Their Forest Gump mentality will have them loving the
outcome no matter what. They are semi clueless to many things around them, and normal
jokes go over their head. You have to really think about how you say things to them, and
question them after to make sure they understand. A non-aggressive demeanor makes
them great receptionists, working with children comes naturally, and they are good
at taking orders literally, so waitressing of any sort appeals to them. Her darker blond
sister considers herself ‘The Golden Child’ and is way more out there in her efforts to be
noticed. They are fun loving party girl types who do everything to perpetuate the ‘Blonds
have more fun’ theory. What they’ve told me about their escapades could curl toes; fill
books on x- rated shelves, and would definitely fall under the way too much information
category.
I should add here that texture is another defining characteristic, straighter hair being
more refined and serious, while the more waves and curls a person has indicates their
level of open and easy going, bouncy if you will, attitude. Even though blonds get smarter
as they get older, witnessed by their darkening hair, they continue to highlight and
over process it in an attempt to recapture their toe head youth. So you can see why we
stylists don’t let on; why lose all the money they spend every month on maintaining their
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illusions. We actually charge 20% more for a blond, knowing they’ll never notice. There
are also the Want-to-B’s who buy into the con of an easier, fun filled blessed life, and will
pay anything to be like them. Including trash their hairs’ condition to get a little closer
to the light. You’ll notice blonds with thick hair, these are all Want-to-B’s, the hair shaft
diameter of real blonds would never allow for thick hair after the age of fourteen.
Auburns
Real auburns, or red heads, have the thickest hair shaft, although the least number
of hairs on their head. Stubbornness and thickness of mind however come along with the
thick hair. The rumors are true; feistiness is a personality trait of fiery hair. Red heads are
creative, independent, and have above average intelligence, and so are usually successful
business owners, or work in a creative field like acting, music, media or even hair stylists.
The lightest reds or strawberry blonds usually like their hair, it’s got a balance between
the Golden Child appeal and originality, which makes them keep the color as long as it
lasts. The happiness with their hair makes them happy and bubbly in general. They’re
confident and as a customer they know what they want, are good conversationalists and a
pleasure to have in your chair, though usually not big money makers since they do little
more than a cut.
The darker the red gets however, the more out of touch with their mental faculties
they become. What we refer to as “gingers” can be the scariest of customer. They’ll
seem to know what they want, clearly communicating, sometimes even with a picture.
As you work on their hair, they begin telling you about all the horrors of past hairdresser
experiences, how no one has done their hair right except some chic in N.Y. City who
did her hair twenty seven years earlier. She’ll conveniently forget to tell you she colored
her hair at home two days earlier, to cover over faded highlights. Even when you’ve
asked “Is this your natural color?” she assures you that yes it is her natural color, yeh,
Natural Instincts #R36. Regardless of the outcome she’s never completely satisfied “It
doesn’t look like Debra Messing’s” she’ll say, and when you point out that the picture
she brought in was Amy Adams the reaction, depending on her hold on reality can be any
where from a two to eight on the Richter scale. For this reason when we see new ginger’s
walk in the door, it’s a race for the back room.
Brunette
The majority of the population will naturally fall in this category, unless they choose
to become a Want-to-B. They will always have latent brunette tendencies and will have to
invest considerable time and money to hide their true nature. The higher pigment levels
make brunettes intelligent, but how they choose to use it differs. The lighter, fawn- like
brunettes, being in the middle of the color spectrum, are easygoing, balanced, keep the
peace, neutral type people. Like Switzerland they get along with just about anyone.
They can empathize with all sides, and are docile enough to go with the flow in any
conversation, usually having interests on both sides of a topic, for example sports and
fashion, or religion and politics. They are the working class backbone of the country.
Many have military, government, or public servants jobs. They are also the salons
most reliable customers; always organized enough to pre-book their appointment like
clockwork every six weeks. Given their flexible nature, they can choose to be a Want-to-B
of any color, and look good doing it. Having a variety of textures and styles, they are fun
customers to work on from a stylist’s point of view. The only down fall being that we
usually have to direct the conversation as fawny browns can be quiet, due to their desire
to not offend. As the hair gets darker though, look out.
The most annoying of all customers for me personally is the Winnie. Named after
Winnie Cooper from the old T.V. series The Wonder Years, She has a mane of long darker
brown hair, swishing it around like a horse’s tail, and is so self-absorbed she barely covers
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her pretense of listening to you, as she prefers listening to herself. She talks randomly
about anything to do with herself, her kids, her vacations, her husband’s job and all it
buys for her, while never breaking eye contact with her reflection in the mirror. This
type has a pretentious, entitled attitude. You’re on her time, and when will you be done
because she’ll go crazy if she misses her run. She’s unaware that she isn’t liked by many
people, or maybe she is, and just doesn’t care. She never changes her hair style, having
reached a perfection others should strive for, in her superior opinion of course. She is the
smartest person she knows, and can’t be bothered with the ignorance of others. There are
always a slew of beautiful, curly haired girls that follow in her shadow, willingly turned
into her Want-to-B by forking over hundreds of dollars to permanently straighten their
hair. Cha-ching for me!
Happily the world is full of fun loving confident brunettes who keep their texture,
having learned the power of products and techniques. She’s the girl next door type, a
great mother and as a customer she’s like visiting an old friend and catching up mutually
on each others lives. She’s mentally strong, powerful, and kind, she uses her brains to
help the world, and there’s always Want-to-B’s of her as well.
Black
True black/blue hair is very rare. Most of what we think is black is really just
very dark brown. I having only seen one true black in my life so will not attempt
to characterize anything other than the Want-to-B. Mysterious, quiet and painfully
misunderstood, they want the world to back off a bit, but not forget them. They use
their look as a filter for true friendship. Usually outwardly shy, they have a habit of
always looking down, forming a curtain with their hair to hide behind. But this is only
one side of the Doctor Jeckel and Mr. Hyde personality. There’s always an opinionated,
passionate, creative, truly unique person hiding behind the mask, believing that they wont
be liked if people knew the real them, and angry at the world for that belief. No matter
their original color, they’re usually highly intelligent, the black pigment having taken its
effect. As customers it takes a while for them to trust you enough for anything other than
a slight trim, but over the years I’ve learned that acceptance is the key to unlock the door
on their real self. Extremely loyal as customers and friends, they are the creative geniuses
in the world. Someday, as they learn to accept themselves, their contributions will benefit
everyone.
Grey
There are two types of grays, or hair that has darkened to the point of highest
intellect then transforms. In the color world black is the absence of all color, but with hair
the absence of all pigment is Silver, which is really clear, like glass reflecting light, and
the pinnacle of transformation. Silver’s are the sages on the earth, the wisest of women.
They never thrust their wisdom on others, only sharing when they’re asked. They keep
their hair medium length or shorter, for convenience and practicality, not hiding or trying
to impress anyone anymore. They come to the salon every week more for social reasons
and because it’s been a life long habit, than for any vain purpose. Everyone greets them
by name, glad to have them around to brighten the place up, like baby blonds they have a
calming peacefulness about them. They come and reflect the wisdom earned from a long
life.
Then there are the true grays. They are slowly losing their intellect, but aren’t
transforming as they should to brightness, they hold onto the darkness like a security
blanket, afraid of letting go of the familiar. They complain about their families, neighbors,
drivers, cashiers at the grocery store, any body they can think to hold a grudge against.
Usually they claim it’s a miracle they’ve made it to the appointment, for all the health
problems they have. They know the end is near, like they know everything, and will tell
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anyone who will listen. Their mood is as gloomy as a stormy sky on their wedding day,
and to them no one cares. No matter what you say, or how you try to cheer them, your
efforts are combated by a seasoned pro of pessimism.
We usually have to have a ten minute break after, to shake off the residual hopelessness
that comes from spending too much time with them. Does any of this sound familiar?
I’m sure everyone can relate. You can use these guidelines as the basis for sound decision
making. If the new guy you’ve started seeing is talking to a blond in the corner of the
bar, give it up you’ll never win. Does your new brunette co-worker have wavy hair? She
could turn into your best friend. If the cop that pulls you over for going five miles over
the speed limit is a ginger, don’t waste your time trying to defend yourself, you might
find yourself behind bars on trumped up charges, or worse. If any of it sounds like you,
and you don’t like what you hear, come see me. I’m a master illusionist and can help you
appear to be anyone you want, except for silver, who wears no mask. You’ll have to earn
it the same way they all do, the hard way.
Vampires of the Underworld
By: Erica Sousa
It was the late afternoon when Sarah is outside reading her book called Rachel’s
Tears. Suddenly she had heard a growl and someone saying “Come to play, Come to
play.” She looked around her but there was nobody there. It was getting dark so she
walked into her house to relax. Suddenly there were pale white dried, cold hands coming
from the closet door, grabbed her legs and pulled her into a mysterious world. She had
screamed in horror and then she had fainted. Buffy the vampire and wolf fang the wear
wolf had disappeared into thin air. “Hello, miss. Miss.” Sarah had woken up to Jasmine’s
voice. “Hi” Sarah said “Who are you?”
“My name is Jasmine, I am a vampire.” “Get away from me.” she said frightened.
“No, no I don’t hurt humans or should I say a mortal. I am the good kind.” “Well would
you be so kind to tell me where I am?” There was dead silence. “Jasmine!” “Shhhhhhh,
we have to go, now” What’s going on” “Buffy the vampire is the one who brought you
here and she has a pet named…” “Ok I don’t want to know about that part.” “Well she
wants to get her revenge on you because your sister had killed her mother. She was the
greatest vampire. You see your ancestors were vampire slayers even you and your sister
so she wants to get rid of you as soon as possible.” Sarah gulped.
Sarah couldn’t believe that this is happening to her all she wanted to be is a normal
girl to have a normal life but now it’s over. Jasmine had grabbed her arm and took off to
somewhere that they can hide from her because Jasmine is held hostage and she is not
allowed to help her to get away. She was supposed to bring Sarah to her for her revenge
but she couldn’t do it. If Buffy had found out that she is helping her out who knows what
she is going to make her do. Buffy had taken her from her world because the power of
love that she cannot destroy. “How did she know who and where I was?” as she had run
out of breathe.
“She has been stocking your sister and since you guys have been talking together she
would know where you are just by using your sister without her knowing.” “So, she wants
my sister suffer for what she had suffered.” “That is correct” Sarah is even more terrified.
She started to gulp again. “Sarah my friend nothing is going to happen to you not when I
am with you ok? I promise.” Beep, beep. “Oh no, it’s the human tracker.” Where is it and
how did it get there?” She must have put it in your arm when you have fainted. “How do
we get it out?” “We would have to go to see Professor Hob to get that tracker out of you
and to get rid of your scent so her animal won’t find us.”
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They started walking on the path of red through the terror forest. It looks beautiful
on the outside but once they get in there it will become terror time.
“Sarah, just to let you know that this forest is defiantly tricky I mean that it looks
good now but once we would go in there it is extremely dangerous so I would like it if
you would stay close to me because immortals here are not friendly. They would help but
that does not mean that they would do it in a kind manner.” They kept on walking while
Sarah is holding on to Jasmine very tightly. “Is there another way to get there besides this
path?” There was dead silence.
Then suddenly they heard a noise straight ahead it sounded like someone is singing
and when they had gotten further they saw professor Hob near a terror river. “Professor
Hob, we were about to see you at your place. This is Sarah.” “Hi professor I need your
help to get this tracker out of me quick.”
“Ok but this will take some time.” They walked down to his place and Sarah had sat
in a chair. He went into his cabinet to get his tools. He needed to get a scalpel, needle,
thin string and something to numb her arm. “Ok Sarah let me know if you can feel
anything after I have put this in you and this should be quick.” “Ok professor.” He took
the needle and stuck it in her arm.
It took him a minute to get the needle in and out. “Ok professor it is numb.” She said
quickly. Then the professor took the scalpel and made some incisions in her arm. He was
going in a circle Professor had lift up her skin and took the tracker out of her arm. The
tracker is small enough for them to see.
He took the device out and he had put her skin back into place and then he started to
stitch her up. She had gotten twenty to twenty five stitches on her arm.
He got up to get an ace bandage for her arm so she won’t open it up. He also got a
hammer to break the device but that didn’t work. This device has to be disposed so what
he did was that he threw it far away as possible.
“Professor, Do you have something for us to see if Buffy has our trail?” Jasmine
asked “I most certainly do. What happened to yours?” “I left it when I was helping out
my friend Sarah.” Here you go” “Thank you. She had stopped right there in the desert
where we had left before we came to see professor.
Professor Do you have anything that can get rid of Sarah’s mortal smell?” “Yes I
must get my hands on that.” Professor is looking for a mortal smell away and immortal
smell for her to use.”Ah here it is. Here you go Sarah.” “Thank you Professor.”
“Now, to use this you would need to put this on only once and then all of the mortal
smell will be gone and you will smell like us.”Put the mortal smell away spray on her and
then they would use the immortal smell. “Ewe this smells terrible, I mean mmm smells
good.” She said in a sarcastic voice. “Sarah we better hurry, we have to find you a way
out.” Professor Hub went to the bookshelf and looking for the book called the World and
the underworld.
This book would help them find their way out and describing the difference between
those two. “Professor, what are you looking for?” asked Sarah “I am looking for a book
for you to find your way back to your world but we have to do it quick because if we
don’t then Buffy would find you and the only way that she can is that she needs to smell
the spell and then she would find you. But she won’t know what spell it is. “Ok.” Sarah
said. “By the way professor what do I do when I get back and she had found out where
I was” “Then go to your sister’s house and stay with her and tell her everything of what
you have been through and she would get you trained to defeat her.”
Sarah had gulped very loud. “Ah here it is. This is the book that you need to get
yourself back to your world in no time and be sure to go to your sister’s house and give
her the heads up.” “Ok I will, promise and will Jasmine be able to come with me?” “Well
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in her situation yes.” “What do you mean by that?” “Well Jasmine is part vampire which
means that she can go into a mortal world but she has to stay in the house or the sun will
give away where you and jasmine are.” “Ok we’re ready.” He had swung his wand and
brought her back home and by the time that she had gotten out of there the vampire sliced
his neck and she had said “You let her get out of your sight.”
They went to Sarah’s sister’s house to get help but before she could do that Buffy
had found her and Jasmine and said “You have portrayed me and your family.” “What
family all you do is hurt my friends and other people you so call family just because they
won’t do what you want them to do besides my family are mortal you turned me into a
vampire so you could use me to help you to get your revenge so you can kill innocent
people who stand in your way.” Sarah is so surprised of what Jasmine is saying so not
only that she is trying to kill Sarah but to stay alive she would have to stay in her world.
I have to call my sister Jane to get Sarah ready to win her own battles she would still
help her out but she won’t do it alone. “Jane this is Sarah, and I was wondering if you
can do me a favor. I was wondering if you could help me get ready because obviously
the vampire that you have defeated, well her daughter is after me.” “I will get you ready.”
Sarah is limping to her sister’s house because of what happen when Buffy had pulled her
into another dimension. Suddenly she had fallen and that had opened up her stitches right
outside of Jane’s house. “Jane!” Sarah had cried “Jane!” Jane heard Sarah crying out for
help but before she was going out there to help her there was a car coming it can’t stop
itself because the spell that Buffy had put on the car so it won’t stop.
Jasmine had a feeling that she would get hurt so she had put on a cloak on and ran
where she is and saved her life. “Sarah, get away from her she is one of them.” Jane had
said to her but she doesn’t know that she is helping her out. “It’s ok Jane, she is one of
them but she is here to help me.” Jane was shocked she thought that Jasmine is there to
hurt her but I guess that she was wrong about that. When they all met they have brought
Sarah into the hospital to restitch her arm and check on her leg. All they have given her
was a cast that she needed to keep on for about a few weeks. After the hospital they had
went back into Jane’s house and started to explain the situation.
“The reason why Buffy is after you is because I had killed her mother?” “That is
exactly right Jane so what would we do?” “Wait a minute then how did you get out of her
sight I mean how did you get out of the house I thought you would be stuck?” Jane had
asked “Well if I wear something that would cover my whole body so the sunlight won’t
get to me.” Things in this dimension are not what they would appear but a lot of weird
things would happen.
What would happen next nobody knows, some things would appear out of the blew,
nobody would figure out what Buffy would do next. Nothing good can come out of this.
“Sarah you and jasmine find a safe place to hide and I would come and find you.” “Ok
Jane” Sarah and jasmine ran off to a place where a full vampire can’t get through, which
means they have to find a place where there is a lot of sun light. Buffy gets very strong
out of frightened people but what can they do? They can’t just give up or Sarah would be
dead.
Sarah stopped to cry this is ridiculous I can’t stand this anymore this I do to keep
myself alive. Jasmine is there right next to her and trying to cheer her up. Sarah had
picked up her phone and trying to contact her sister but she didn’t answer. The answer to
that is she went to defeat Buffy. This was obvious because there was no reception around
where Buffy world. “Jasmine we have to go back to the underworld Jane went there to
help me out can you get us to the underworld please.” Jasmine didn’t understand why she
wanted to go back and risk her own life and maybe even Jane’s.
Jasmine is making a big decision to let her go or not, but she doesn’t want any life
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to be in a terrible danger. “Sarah I don’t think that…” “What that I shouldn’t go that I
should not try to rescue my sister’s life.” “But she is doing this for you remember she
wants you not her. Besides you don’t know that she had gone there on her own she
probably got pulled into the underworld by Buffy just so she can get to you o….”
There was a dead silence. “Jasmine I……..” “I know that she is your family but I am
here to protect you from Buffy ok so let’s just get where we need to be and wait to see if
she will call ok?” “Ok” Sarah said in a low tone of voice. They started to walk into the
sunlight place called the sunshine state.
“There is one thing that you should know about Buffy Sarah. That she can make
people to do things that she wants him to.” “Great, the one thing that I should know
sooner.” Jasmine was sorry for not telling Sarah sooner but she was trying to protect her
from that but realized that won’t work. RING, RING, goes Sarah’s cell phone. “Hello
Jane?” “Hi Sarah how are you” Buffy said “What do you want? Why do you have my
sister’s cell phone? Where is she?” “She is here with me, you know what she would make
a good snack and you can be my dinner.” “You let her go you ugly thing.” “Bye” Buffy
said. “Jasmine you have to go and get my sister she is trapped.” “Sarah I…..” “I will be
ok. Ok. As long as I am right at this spot I will be safe.” Jasmine went to save Jane.
“Buffy let her go now” Jasmine shouted out. Jane just realized that she had a stake in
her pocket. She had run up to Buffy and stabbed her with it.
“ Jasmine. Run!” They finally got back to Jane’s world. “Jane! Your back, oh my
gosh I thought that I’d loose you.” “I’m alright.” They both started to hug each other.
“I’m afraid that this is not over.” Jasmine had said “What do you mean it’s not over.”
“Well I had stabbed Buffy with a stake but I had missed her heart.” Like she even has one
Jasmine had thought. “Well what now the sun is too bright and…..” RING, RING, goes
Sarah’s phone.
“Hello who’s this?” “This is your worst nightmare” “wha…” “This is Buffy’s Best
friend and your sister had stabbed my friend almost at the heart now take the knife and
stab yourself with it good bye.” The knife had appeared into her hand and she started to
lift it up and stabbed herself into her stomach. “Sarah. NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Jane had
screamed and started to cry “What’s wrong J…..” There was dead silence “No Sarah.” While Jane sobbed. Jasmine took Jane’s cell phone to call 911.
They don’t know what else to do “This is my entire fault” Jane said still crying “This is
not you’re….” “Yes it is if I hadn’t stabbed Buffy I….”
“You wouldn’t be able to help us if you didn’t.” The ambulance had just shown up
they put her on to the stretcher, put her in the truck and drove away.
When they got to the hospital the doctor had pulled the knife from Sarah’s stomach,
cleaned her up and started to stitch her up. “Sarah would be fine she is in bed sleeping.”
They were both relieved that she is fine. “She did this because one of the vampires had
told her to stab herself but which one? It has to be someone who is really close to her.”
The next day Sarah is ready to leave the hospital nothing seemed so expected that
she was ready to go home. When the girls had left Sarah started to cry because she was in
a terrible pain. They went back to where they were and had her to sit right down just until
she is ready to walk again. “Professor Hob, Professor Hob.” Professor is not answering
but the one thing is that they don’t know is that he is dead from Buffy. They don’t know
what else to do or maybe they do. “Sarah how are you feeling.” All they could hear is her
balling her eyes out. “I’m guessing that means that she is not doing well.
“Jasmine we have to do something.” Jane said in a terrified voice Jasmine is the only
vampire in this world well maybe there might not be anything that they can do right now.
But wait a minute Jasmine had thought of something that they both can do to get there
revenge on Buffy and her best friend.
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“What if we put them into a toxic waste and grab the necklace away from them.”
“That is a good idea” Jane said. “Wha…” Sarah had just started to feel much better that
she tried to stand up but the she started to fall back on to the ground.
“Sarah be careful you don’t want to open up your wound.” Jasmine had said quietly.
“Where where am I?” “You’re safe and sound here with me.
By the way I took your cell phone away because what had happened before this
whole mess had started.” Sarah can’t think about anything but the pain that she is in. She
had fallen asleep to get some rest. Sarah had just woken herself up by her crying. She
can’t rest with this much pain. What is she going to do next? Sarah can’t just give up she
has to do something about the pain. “Wait a minute I know something that could help.”
Jasmine had said. There was dead silence. “So what is it?” Jane had said in a curious way.
“It’s dangerous though.” Who ah cares if it is or not I need ah to feel better.” She said in a
sore way. “Ok well what if we go back to professor Hobs place and find a healing spell.”
“Are you crazy” Jane had said “Well he can help us make Sarah better.” “Ok” they both
agreed. When they got back to Sarah’s house Jasmine had opened up the portal when
they got into her room. “OK now we have to go into the into the terror forest.” The one
thing that is different about the forest is that it is more dangerous than it was before. They
walked into the forest and found professor Hobs dead on the ground they found his bones
next to him and his body split right open.
“ Oh no this is terrible. He is the only one who could help us.” Jane said in a worried
voice. “What ow are we going to ow do?” “Well we could go to his place and find the
book that we need to cure you.” Jasmine said in intelligent way. They started to go to
professor Hobs to find the book. The book is called the healing. “So what is the deal
about this book I mean is it that special like are you supposed to be a witch or something
to be able to activate it” “Yes but there is one thing that you guys don’t know about me. I
am part witch and Hobs had taught me how to do spell casting but the problem is that it
takes too much energy out of you.” Now Jane and Sarah are worried that they won’t get
out but Sarah knows what book she can find that spell.
The book is called the get out come in. This book has spells about getting out of one
place to get to the other. They went to professor Hobs place and started looking for the
book. Suddenly Buffy could smell them a mile away but then they had found the healing
book.
“Jasmine you have to get us out of here” said Jane. “Helping us helping you get
us out before we are through.” Jasmine had just said the magic words and now they are
home safe and sound. Jane had opened the book on the floor but then Buffy had grabbed
Sarah’s leg and pulled her into her world “Sarah!!!” They both said. Jane had it up to here
with Buffy now she must pay. “Jane what are you doing?” “We have to protect my little
sister I am not going to lose her not this time.” Jane went back into Buffy’s world and
went searching for her sister. Buffy had taken Sarah into her layer to punish her for what
her sister had done to her mother. She is going to make her suffer just like she had.
Jane had just saw Buffy’s tracks on the ground and she had started to follow them.
Jasmine had followed Jane but there is one problem jasmine turns into a monster when
there is a full moon. A vicious vampire, “Jasmine what’s wrong why your fangs are
longer than it was.” Jane said in a nervous voice. Suddenly she had turned back to herself,
and she did not know what had happened. “Don’t mind me I am fine this happens once in
a while.” Jasmine had said to Jane. “We have to get ready for the battle. What must I do
Jane?”
They walked for miles and miles but then they had found Buffy’s castle. “Let go
of me you beast.” Sarah had just found the heart necklace on around Buffy. The heart
necklace is her actual heart. It allows her to live. Sarah was put into a cage but then her
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sister and her friend had come to the rescue. Now Jasmine had just told Jane that they
need to get rid of the necklace to kill her. So when her sister had a hook to hook onto the
necklace while Jasmine distracts her. Suddenly their plan had worked and Buffy was dead
but the last word that she had said was “Nooooooooo” Then they got the key to open up
the cage. “Thank you so much sis and Jasmine. Let’s go home you guys.” “You just read
my mind Sarah you just read my mind.”
UNTITLED
By: Michael Chenard
I collect lives in my sketchbook. Lives run through with deceitful lies. I trace their
lines and build their shape, to match and slake my need to create. I collect lives in my
sketchbook; lives filled with their dreaded ties to meaningless matters that arise. I collect
lives in my sketchbook. Through November skies my needs compromise the happenings
of new lives.
I collect lives in my sketchbook. I flick their faces into creation, pen and paper an
inkling imitation. Male and female eyes do see these lines I place so suddenly. I collect
lives in my sketchbook. I dance through places too new and collect their faces, scents and
graces. They know me now, the artist undone, who collects these lives who have come
undone.
I collect lives in my sketchbook. My lure is faced with conceited taste as you collect
my promise of good to come. These deceitful lies fill the spaces needed to lure you to my
pad, where I can race and trace your luscious curves. These deceitful lies fill the spaces
that my paper cannot hold, creating imagery for your life to hold.
I collect lives in my sketchbook. Your path is clear; my clever lies have led you here.
There you lie all prim and proper, as my pen flits across without a stopper. A fluid dance
and promise of more, you laugh aloud as your breath runs cold.
I collect lives in my sketchbook. Your breathing runs tandem with my lines; reaching
a crescendo as I trace along your thigh. My pen moves quicker, your breath too, labors on
to keep my rhythm. To drink the lines of your life, my sketchbook brings your face to life.
All things considered, your life is mine.
I collect lives in my sketchbook. The climax is near, you gasp for air as my pen
strikes fair. Here it comes, the anticipation built and all together the piece comes
together. The final line, partake of your hair, as you begin to gasp for air. I collect lives
in my sketchbook, you see, they never know I play for keeps. Your lives are mine, my
sketchbook satisfied. Ink and breath come together one final time, as your life melts away
one line at a time.
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The Hunter
By: Chris Mavrikis
Dawn breaks over a frost covered fen
An Osprey glides above its prey
Emulating passions once defined by men
On a crisp lovely November day
A lone hunter watches near
An idle dream or a quenchless desire
Cedar swamps harboring white-tailed deer
Blood forged iron tempered by fire
Memories of a fathers love
Sublime guidance a nurtured past
Watching the hunter from above
Ka Boom goes the mighty muzzle blast
As the hunter cares for his provision loneliness makes him sad
He whispers to heaven a little prayer and says I love you dad.
UNTITLED
By: Carrie Caldwell
Oh, how love is just like a new baby.
Love alone will not keep it alive’ust
It is delicate, vulnerable, and tiny
It needs commitment, loyalty, and trust.
A relationship like a newborn is
Not a simple matter in any way.
If you want a long lasting spouse, be wise
You must be kind and faithful night and day.
If you cannot take care of this infant
He or she will most defiantly cease.
If your care is not truly sufficient
He or she will pack up their things and leave.
You need all this but love is everything
Otherwise all you’ve done is for nothing.
Sex to Repopulate the Planet
By: Dustin Beckmeyer
Objectively trying to make the world a better place
Citizens attempting to get their views heard by politicians
Irate countries at war with each other
Emptiness amongst the poor; longing for more
Technology coming to the forefront
Year after year, adding to history
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Delightful Drops of Power
By: Hilary Campbell
A
Single
Drop drips
Down, touching
The ground with grace.
Leaves shed tears of gloom,
Blending of torrential worries,
Pounding the ground in agony.
Covered in filth and tender misery,
Mud engrosses the pain that is released,
Creating delight and joy for children to play.
Warming hearts near, soothing sweet dreams.
Comforts of sweet beads, the hatred of water
Something so small, so natural, and beauteous
Yet it brings glee and enchantment throughout
Pain is rid from the peace, allowing all misery
To disappear. Stomping in puddles, slashing
In mud. Happiness of all is contagious
This this the undefined power of
Something so simple as
Summer rain.
Disposable
By: Hilary Campbell, Vivian Ramy, Ashley Proulx and Jamie O’Brien
My life, my world; surrounded by rubble
Disposed of, alone; left with nothing but trouble
Thrown out in the heap, to fend for myself
Every mountain too steep, every man for himself
The Programmer
By: Joe Hinkle
Why is it I love video games so?
I don’t get to play as much as I’d like
I would play more if I had countless dough
Or if all my free time suddenly spiked
I should find a job in this industry
I could spend more time in school
And work towards a programming degree
Then I’d play all day; it’d rule
When does passion outweigh comfort?
I’ve heard horror stories in this field
Eighty hour weeks would sure hurt
Could a constant paycheck be my shield?
I would be paid to play games
Everything else just sounds lame
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The New Car
By: Joe Hinkle
I bought a car back in 2006
A co-signer was needed ‘cause my credit
Now that it is paid off it needs a fix
It is time for something new and I dread it
My old man works at Peters
They have quite the selection
I hope for working heaters
Or one with free inspection
I was shocked to get pre-approved for a loan
It took a lot to bump up my score
Oh what a thrill to have a car of my own
For the next six years I will be poor
But I will make the most out of my new Civic
As Cruisin ’bout the beach may attract a new chick
A Lost Love
By: Jennifer Cormier
You said we were lovers
Soul mates
How could you leave me like this?
Alone
To face this life without you
Afraid
That nothing will ever be the same
Sadness
That I will never kiss those lips or feel your touch again
Happiness
Will I ever feel that again without you?
I don’t think
Loneliness
By: Desi Williams
Can you hear despair spill out its lonely painful cry
See the blood red rainbows drip from long since blackened sky
No more a heart to beat within the icy cloud upstairs
A flood of anguish pouring down amidst the twilight flares
A final gasp long resonates from disemboweled earth
The barren trees fall crippled from the lack of their self worth
Screams echo in pain as yet another pulse ebbs down
And lovers breathe their dying breath as in their tears they drown
And though the crimson fires expire and color fades to void
And everything you once held dear has long since been destroyed
Look long into the mirrored soul laid silent in your eyes
And hear the empty fortitude issued from silent cries
Breathe deep the smell of hopelessness as all within you stings
And touch the frozen shell of life and all the lack it brings
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Reach out into the blaze of ice and shout your final plea
Before the bones of yesterday amplify your misery
Greed Cycle
By: Lara Rines
Mother and child is left out in the cold.
We know it’s greed that blinds the one percent.
Big business stole all the money we lent.
Who’ll help all the disabled and old?
Food stamps won’t put a roof over their heads.
Living in a box my baby’s not safe here.
Sadness stifles each breath is a fight.
The rich and powerful care not of our plight.
The people walking by do smirk and leer.
We wonder if their hearts are made of lead.
This soulless dance is truly killing me.
They try to kill us one stone at a time.
By counting every nickle and each dime.
Our sick government chooses not to see.
My Regret
By: Shannon Keefe
A call from a lost love, claiming he got clean for me.
He wanted me to come, to come and see.
Yes I would go to him, that was my decree.
With much regret, that meeting never came to be.
While he was alone, about to take his final leap,
I was at home, fast asleep.
It was something inside, I couldn’t bring myself to go,
How I loved him, now he’ll never know.
His demon chased him for years,
The sight of it always brought me to tears.
This time he had taken it too far,
Cold and alone, drowning in black tar.
Now he has gone to join his big brother,
Never again will we hold one another.
I will never know if I could’ve saved him,
I never realized how much I craved him.
Just one more Mommy
By: Jacki Hughes
Just one more Mommy, for me?
She asks me constantly
One more movie? One more bowl of goldfish?
Something I never say no to, is one more kiss
For she’s only little once, but she’s enough for me.
Just one more Mommy, for me?
Lay down for a minute or three?
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Mommy has things to do,
But just another snuggle just for you.
Once she’s asleep, I creep out quietly.
Save room for all your things,
And stay strong through all that life brings.
I watch her pack her car,
To go to school afar.
But wait little girl, just one more thing…
Just one more for Mommy?
Artsy Students
By: Tom Mears
The world of colors abound
On your palette they can be found
Using your mind
Sketch out the lines
Using your brush
The colors will blush
The flowers will bring
The colors of spring
On a summer day
The colors will dance and play
The colors of fall
Brighten up us all
Winter’s white
Sparkle in the sunlight
Mark Where You’re Going
By: Tina Chadbourne
Warnings have been given to me
I must conserve the beats of my heart.
How can this come to be.
I may depart
This world I’ve been making with such devotion.
With no time for my art.
Its tempo is swayed by emotion.
Each moment to savor.
In muddled times, I must slow the commotion.
Mark where you’re going and anticipate its flavor.
Before rapid fire beating hastens my leaving.
It’s time to take part and discover.
Before rapid fire beating hastens my leaving.
Life Would Be Like
By: Harpreet Kaur
I live here in this so called Earth.
And I wonder what life is worth.
I think to myself every night what life would be like
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if I picked some other type of path or life.
If I had would I go through happiness or strife?
I always ask myself what if I was in their shoes?
What if I was in their shoes and found out how other people live
and I say what have I got to lose.
Out in the world people go through so much strife and happiness.
But, I’m trying to understand how each type of person whether they are poor middle class
or rich do all of them go through sadness?
I live here in this so called Earth.
And I wonder what life is worth.
Space on the Couch
By: Amy Swain
Sitting on a couch,
I thumb through a book.
Disregarding the man
On a small loveseat right beside me
Who a few years past
I couldn’t have disregarded had I tried.
Awareness that I had tried,
While sitting bitterly on the same couch
Many months, weeks, days in the past
Causes disregard of that book
And a longing for that man
Who has chosen not to sit beside me.
Was this the same man
Who couldn’t keep distance from me had he tried?
It had never occurred to me
That, with so much space on this couch
He could choose the loveseat and a book.
Contradicting the past.
Remembering the first time he walked past,
My eyes saw nothing but the man.
Using every trick in the book,
Neither could ignore it, had we tried.
Sitting uncomfortably close on a stranger’s couch
I kissed him and he loved me.
It hadn’t occurred to me
Our youthful passion could become the past.
The discomfort of nearness on a couch,
The nervous heart and sweat of a man,
Lost, though had I ever tried
To keep some passion in the book?
So though I know him like a book,
Monotony overcomes me.
Making up for things never tried
Our new fire must burn stronger than that of the past.
And it does, as I am pleased enough to want this man
Still to join me on the couch.
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To have years come and gone in the book of past,
Without having tried - Loving and wanting the same man,
Maintains in me, with space. Space on the couch.
Furry Friends
By: Cassandra Kirby
The Cat sat soaking the sun at the window,
Looking at the world she sure she owns,
Her piece of the pie,
Is her window in the sky,
Looking down on those in the snow,
The Dog plows happily through the snow,
Dragging the reluctant master in tow,
So which is the leader?
The Dog or two feeter?
No matter, ‘cause the Dog really knows,
The Cat Purrs lovingly at the touch,
The Dog Wags his tail ever so much,
Such signs of great love,
From our furry beloves,
Is why our pets mean ever so much,
Nothing better in a home than Pets,
For unconditional love it’s a safe bet,
Even Fish in a tank,
Can lift a heart that sank,
Man with a pet is a life well spent,
When our fuzzy, furry brethren,
Pass on to the heaven,
I want and must follow,
And be with them always,
For Their place is better than with humans.
Lonely
By: Andrew Meader
Longing to be held reaching out for comfort
Only to be caged, solitude everlasting
Never ending boredom, rescue me
Escaping the confines of my mind
Leaving my body trying to reach out
Yet even it feels caged, rescue me
Every Year
By: Cassandra Kirby and Amy Swain
The spring winds caress the face
Bringing delicate flowers like bright colored lace.
The summer sun warms the heart
The rivers and greens realize a new start.
The fall leaves fill the sky with color
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Reds, yellows, oranges matched by no other.
The winter winds put an end to it all
Coldness and ice destroy the whole sprawl.
Black Smoke
By: Cassandra Kirby, Amy Swain, Karrie Riley & Tina Chadbourne
The smug lady
With lungs as black as her dress.
Her frozen face
Long awaits a caress.
Her stance belies
The dark emptiness of her eyes.
The lines of her skin
Like cracks in the pavement of her life.
The air presented is an expensive cloak
The air of her life is just cigarette smoke.
Sorrow Filled the Lusty Air
By: Karrie Riley & Tina Chadbourne
Sorrow filled the lusty air.
The time to be brave is now.
Without a care in the world
I have wanted this moment.
Gracious steps were taken today
This time in the here and now.
Fluttering of the heart stood still
Leading to the future I’ve been wanting.
At last the day had turned to dark.
Fire’s Passion
Written in collaboration,
By: Chris Mavrikis, Angie Francisco, Harpreet Kaur, Andrew Meader
Fire ever growing, burning with a passion
A house consumed property dying emotions rising, memories die family cries
Dreams shattering, fading in the smoke, Darkness consumes all
Smoke billowing ominously looming, the house creaks loud echoes of its pain.
Simple Indulgence
By: Brittany Gowell
We sit across, face to face
I look into his eyes and he looks away
Not know what to say or the language to speak
He’s working
He rubs and he rubs and he rubs,
His hands are so strong, yet so small
The warmth overcomes me
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I look up to the masked face with apprehension
Asphyxiated with the scent, that he is accustomed to
He’s touching me while speaking to her
As if I’m not in the room
I don’t understand
The strokes are fluid and artistic
We are like siblings in agreement but worlds apart
The words I thought I would never hear…
He says, “Do you want a pedicure too?”
Hollow
By: Abigail Priano
The word Book
has a hollow sound
to it
Buh— “B”
Starting with a spring
The “B” is also sharp
The double “o”
so direct but empty
under swung
“K”
Ending with a
Clap!
After great pain, a formal feeling comes-Imitation
By: Caron Harlee
After the death of he, the remorse comesMy heart now has a hole
The whimpering soul- looks to Him tonight,
I don’t know if I believe, I think I might!
My feet lifted off the GroundAs I frantically looked aroundTo find a way,
To sleep this nightWithout him- in my sight
This is the hour to remember the DeadAll his friends and family attend.
As my heart slowly turns to stoneIt’s hard to believe it can be regrown
Red Maple Leaf
By: Adele Dugas
Behold the red maple leaf
Its appearance is very brief
Crisp, fragrant
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Anything but patient
Falling in showers
Concealing even smallest of flowers
Captivating tourists
That enjoy anything but rainforests
Lines Make Awake, Wines: France, Romance
By: Giles Cooper
A trochee foot does not an iamb make;
Sestinic, too, iambic, make románce:
In tandem, meter’d form the five-foot lines;
Sestina poem’s rigid rhymes in France,
Alike the finest of imported wines;
This second bottle pours, as I, awake:
The presentation, essay, Po’m, awake,
With greatest efforts, struggle I to make;
Despite with heart and mind both full of wines:
Oppressive homeworks’ time’s for not románce,
Or browsing wiki ‘bout the wars of France,
Or Henry V his speeches to his lines.
Professor does, I hear, imbibe some wines,
When hath upon exam forgot some lines;
Yet care I not, forgot for cheap románce-That later night in town still I awake:
With “Après-vous” an open door I make,
Imply with tongue, my lips, know too, of France.
I must confess I’ve never been to France,
And little know but red from white of wines;
The little fraud of life: the mask I make;
And speak just as an actor reads his lines;
As never truly sleeping nor awake;
Of what I’ve known I’ve since forgot: románce.
There is, I think, a real and true románce:
New York, though far, is closer than in France.
And I, so nightly think and drink awake,
And drown my sorrows, s’well as dreams, in wines,
And yearly watch the mirror’s growing lines,
Upon my visage youth ere long not make.
So I, for Rómance, Love, and She: bring wines
From France; and writing many loving lines:
Awake to She, my only love to make.
Awakening
By: Teresa Delgado
The promise of Earth to grow.
Winter has bid her adieu.
Green stems punching through.
The first to show.
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Are the crocus deep blue;
And the daffodil glow.
The warm sun begins to flow.
Penetrating my cold, pale hue.
Heating my weary sole head to toe.
The promise of Earth to grow.
Sprouts new Life once withdrew.
Blooming trees, whoa!
Bees speak their hello.
As they make their debut.
Pollinating as they go.
Wonders of spring to bestow.
Utterly amazing to view.
The promise of Earth to grow.
Puts on one breath taking show.
To Find her Nightingale
By: Nancy Sherrill
I started thinking and my world came to a stop
I could no longer sweat or go to the shop
The sea of black and white and soda pop
Will one day forever say forget me not
Oh pray for sliding scale
The memories and frustrations
For all are new expectations
The competition of new applications,
To find her Nightingale
Four gray walls and time sits still
My heart is pounding; I need a pill
For one more day I seek goodwill
From here on out it’s all up hill
Oh pray for sliding scale
Sweet dreams have been shattered
For questions have been unanswered
It all should have mattered
To find her Nightingale
The Word “Dunno”
By: Stephen Colarusso
The word “dunno” is expedient slang,
informative, dismissive with no repercussions
the “d” commands attention with “u” hinting couldn’t care less
“no” seals the deal, go away and disappear
away laughing, those left behind bewildered
what about the extra “n” left over?
I dunno
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St. Patricks
By: RedBeard
Tis late into the night of St. Patricks
the lads are quite enjoying their anticks
Probably not a good night to go driving your car
Tis safer by far to drive a stool at the bar
A good night to hoist steins and toss a dart
Banger and mash chased by green drinks of art
This night many persons will get toasted
If friends clever and quick witted perhaps even roasted
Till the next morning the party will last
heads still singing sleep likely their breakfast
Enigma
By: Redbeard
13 Jan 2012
The puzzlement begins
The curiousity soars
Who will see the boars
As they charge into the pins
Who will ride the tides
As they seek to learn
How many will be of convenience brides
How many thresh the bush
How many stumble with minds of mush
Scream and cry as stomachs churn
Uhhh
By: Redbeard
9 Jan 2012
Asked a question draw a blank
For some strange reason I think I’m frank
As I struggle my brain begins to cramp
I am in a cave all dark and damp
Hopefully soon I’ll see the light
Before this daze turns to fright
Maybe as the focus changes I’ll start to think
My anxiety calms as I leave the brink
Then there is a commotion from my drink
Frozen water explodes doesn’t that stink
As we discuss the world and start to dream
My inner imp starts to cavort and share its scream
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Risk
By: Amanda Ormond
Risk so sweet but yet so fearful
Are, following so lusciously
The feel of a serpent’s kiss
So smooth and slow
Movement in every letter
A hiss of mystery
Sweet, serene, and dangerous
Perfection
Slithering passion.
UNTITLED
By: Corey Foote
I throw things.
I get frustrated and slam doors.
I break objects,
things I care about.
I throw them across the room,
throwing my frustration with them, but
it never leaves my hand.
I put my anger into words.
I put my anger into actions.
I put my anger into violence.
But it stays with me.
I break physical things.
I break solid things.
But I do not break my anger or depression.
I do not break myself.
I argue with my wife.
I argue violently.
I argue openly.
I don’t hold back.
I argue about money.
I argue about chores.
I argue about responsibility.
I argue about nothing.
I hit things when I argue.
I throw things when I argue.
I never hit my wife.
I want to.
I want to hit my frustration into her.
I want to put all of my anger into one blow, into her.
But I don’t.
I know it won’t change anything,
at least not for the better.
So I hit the wall when I argue.
I break things.
I slam doors.}
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I yell at her.
In front of our son.
I don’t yell at him.
I don’t hit him, or hurt him.
But I damage him.
What does he see,
when he watches us fight?
When he stands in his bedroom doorway,
as we argue down the hall in the kitchen,
what is he thinking?
As he holds his blanket in the dark,
on the edge of our fight,
why does he watch?
He watches to learn.
He watches to understand.
I argue with her, to teach him.
I yell at her, to show him how to behave.
I throw things to show him how to act.
I slam doors and break things
to teach him how to deal with frustration.
Like I was taught.
I love him.
I love my wife.
I hate myself.
Jodi- My Life’s Queen
By: Redbeard
When I met her I was a kid
We would go to the beach and talk in a car
We spoke, laughed and loved both near and far
The Navy I did join and travel must I to serve
While here she stayed her mother’s house to preserve
I came home for other reasons and yet
We rediscovered our joy and happiness from when we met
Even while this struggle we start to curse
This epic journey to be a nurse
even when life is crazy and starts to be harried
I am glad we found our castle to get married
Her eyes and smile are so bright
It makes the world seem oh so right
Now we share our lives with our own kid
Thoughts of a Murse
By: Redbeard
Sometimes as a nurse I have to wonder where’s my purse
I walk with patients and sing a song
The faces animate and their presence grows strong
I talk with people and make them smile
Helping fix the wrong all the while
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When my patients call for care
I’m glad to help it’s why I’m there
With all my care I share my heart
So it makes me glad when the healing does start
When staff & patients remember me
It makes me giddy & full of glee
This is the time to leave a mark
Despite not being Noah with his Ark
I may not have to fight a flood
But I will help them keep their blood
Unblind
By: Topher Rowe
Thou could imagine my surprise,
When I heard that you jazzercize.
How very blind must be mine eyes,
To notice not thy killer thighs.
I cannot help but stop and stare,
When wicked winds whip ‘round your hair,
And you just laugh out through the air,
I’ve never seen a thing more fair.
‘Tis odd how words have given me,
A light for my blind eyes to see.
Thou thighs, and hair, and laugh must be,
A gift from host most heavenly.
This Little Girl
By: Redbeard
She had me wrapped right from the start
She carved a niche into my heart
I watched her struggle for life I watched her fight
I had never known true fear until I felt that fright
Seeing the changes and watching her grow
Makes me wish I could make time go slow
When she wants to show me things and reaches for my hand
I revel in being daddy and life seems so grand
Watching her giggle and coo in delight
Makes the world seem warm and bright
I start to tickle the little squirt
She laughs, cries and lifts her shirt
Someday I will with the world, I will share
But right now she’s mine and I don’t care
I feel lucky and blessed to be daddy to this little girl
Others will share the love from this little girl
For now daddy is king for this little girl
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The Flow of the Sand
By: Matthew Cohen
The sand lifted off the ground.
Without making a single sound.
Soaring through the mystic night
No one could see it had taken flight.
Leaving the place for which it was bound.
The Fishes
By: Julia Guidoboni
Long ago in times of yore,
A lonely girl took up her oar
And set forth out beyond the shore,
Never to come home.
As the sky grew dark and the day grew old,
She shivered in the bitter cold,
And beneath the waves she did behold
A school of silver fish.
Shining leaping from the sea!
Like stars aflame within the green
Sparkling with the soft white sheen
of the moon, and singing sweet.
They sang of sun-warmed, gentle waves,
Of ships within their deep blue graves,
They sang of loss, of death, of pain,
But mostly sang for joy.
And the girl leaned out, far off the boat,
It rocked but still it stayed afloat
In shock, her voice, a husky croak,
She asked the fishes this:
“You seem so happy in your world
Of soft white sand and shining pearls
But what of when you all are hurled
into a deadly storm?
And what about the hungry gulls?
The sharks that lurk beneath the hulls
Of the ships, that cast their nets to cull
you from your lovely home?
Aren’t you frightened? Aren’t you sad?
Answer me, is the world not bad?
Does not unfairness make you mad?”
And the silver fish sang “No,
We are not mad that it is so,
For you must not fear what you cannot know
You just can’t change the tides that flow,
The gulls that snap and the grass that grows,
Yes, the rain may rain and the snow may snow
The earth may shake and the wind may blow
But for now, we are happy here below
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The moon, and we are free.”
“What use is being sad?” They laughed,
As they made their final, swirling pass
Around the boat, “Farewell, young lass
And remember, life is good.”
And as they left, the sea did roar
A mighty wave caused the boat to soar
And carried the girl far back to shore
Upon its foamy crest
And never again did the young girl cry
Nevermore did she wish to die
For she knew there was no reason why
That she should live afraid.
Yes, the rain may rain and the snow may snow
The earth may shake and the wind may blow
But you must not fear what you cannot know,
The fishes told her so.
World Peace
By: Joe Gesel
When did the sky turn so Gray
When did the sun stop shining today?
When did love and peace turn to hatred and war?
When did our hearts drop to the floor?
And flow with love no more
Why can’t we see that you and me and everybody are a great big part of a family?
The family of humanity
The family of humanity is just like all of the fish in the sea
All shapes and all sizes all colors alike
Can’t you see that’s the way we’re supposed to be?
You and me and everybody are supposed to be a family
The family of humanity
No matter whom you are or where you are from
We live under the same moon and sun
We are one can’t you see we are brothers and sister of humanity
We are one you and me and everybody need to see that you and me and everybody are
one great big part of a family
Doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from or whether you’re Japanese or Chinese
or Lebanese we are can’t you see this includes
everybody from American to Mexican to Canadian. We are one you me that why we need
to be like a family no matter where you’re from or who you are there’s a place for us let’s
not make a fuss
We are one can’t you see it has to be in order for us to be a family
We need to stop the war start the peace help one another because we are all brother and
sister of humanity
All shapes and all sizes all colors are combined as one but in the end we will be strong
the bells of peace will ring ding dong and we will be one living under the sun no more
war only love and peace because we are one.
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Happy Ending
By: Steven Wesner
There once lived a man by the name of Rex,
with perfect health except for his specs.
He worked and worked until he could no more,
his mind aching and tired, feeling sore.
He found that he just could not do,
what everyone else wanted him to.
He hungered for a life to live all alone,
with his own hands he wanted to create his home.
Money was nothing, but skills were what mattered,
so his sanity could rest and no longer be battered.
He set out to do what seemed impossible,
a free home on land was completely improbable.
Five years later it came to be,
a free home on land for all to see.
Built from the wood from the nearby trees,
settled on camped land without any fees.
His home was complete yet he was missing one thing,
the quiet loneliness had an unsettling sting.
The man searched and found himself a wife,
happily ever after is how he continued his life.
In the Bounds of Fray
By: Wendy Carmichael
Silent, blackness, frigid fare
Looming dark, impending ware.
Slice of lightning, slips through night,
Shears the darkness, stings in spite.
Callous tremors, quake the ground,
Bruise the meadow, throbbing sound.
Winds lash rain drops, thrash at trees
Stretch bowed branches, forbid appease.
White light cracks, marks it’s peak,
The sky clamps shut with vicious speak.
Violent tempest, gale retreat
Roll away on thunderous feet.
Moon peeks through, a single eye
Winks through clouds, a sultry spy.
Tear drops sprinkle, wretched woe.
Diamond drops in moonshine glow.
Silver puddles, pools of glass,
Velvet ripples each amass.
Anguish flees, the bane of night,
An amity unearthed by light.
Cherry morning, sweet pink sun
The dark’s ill will, deject and shun.
The morning kindles, yellow wake
Sifting sun trace land and lake.
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Lurking, nighttime emissary,
Winking moon, fading, wary.
Spider lattice, exploit and mend
Tapestry of give and bend.
Glistening songs of bird’s kind twinkle
Sounds of soothing luscious sprinkle.
Undulation, morning breeze,
A golden sun and air agrees.
Come, forbearance, end of war,
Come again and nevermore.
Mary P.
By: Topher Rowe
I love a girl named Mary P.
She’s perfect, at least practically,
But she could never stay with me,
She travels with the wind.
But I still love her just as well.
Her voice is like a ringing bell.
If she loves me, she’ll never tell;
I asked but she just grinned.
So I told her, “I love you lass,
Your face, your voice, your perfect ass,
The way you smell like fresh cut grass,
It sets my heart a whirl.”
She took my hand and held it tight,
And said, “Hey, let’s go fly a kite!”
Since then, my life’s been a delight,
I travel with my girl.
New world
By: Erica Sousa
Everyday is not the
same. So look around
you and you won’t
feel any pain it is a
new world new life
just look around you
look at something
that you never heard
or seen before have
a little adventure
in your life so
enjoy it while you
can in this new
world that fills your
heart with delight.
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Go Crazy
By: Erica Sousa
I see your face
Sparkling like a
diamond my heart
would beat faster
when you talk
to me, my face
would turn cherry
red when I’m not
with you I would
go crazy when I
don’t see you I
would go crazy.
Being with you
completes my
puzzle. Now we can
both strive for
the future.
Now accepting submissions for 2013!
Email as a Rich Text Format (.rtf) attachment to: TheHeronGBCC@gmail.com.
Make sure to include your name (as you would like it to run in the journal)
as well as a title for your piece.
If you are interested in becoming a Member or Officer of The Heron Club –
Contact Melissa Muszynski Faculty Advisor (MMuszynski@ccsnh.edu)
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