COMPOSED - McNally Smith College of Music

COMPOSED
COMPOSED
TheLiterary
LiteraryJournal
Journalofof
The
McNallySmith
SmithCollege
CollegeofofMusic
Music
McNally
• •Spring
Spring2012
2012Issue
Issue22 ••
Liberal Arts Composed: at McNally Smith College of Music
The Literary Journal of McNally Smith College of Music
Liberal Arts classes at McNally Smith College of Music
Composed is a delicate combination. A perfectly poised brush.
have a creative edge. We offer a unique and dynamic curriculum specially
tailored for our students, designed to sharpen critical and creative thinking
and problem solving skills while building an understanding of the world.
The Liberal Arts Division provides a breadth of knowledge and skills important for launching a professional life after college.
A hand trembling above a piano. The fine point dipped in ink. The meeting of art and soul. It’s the “being” of art, being blind in it, lost in it,
scared in it, totally and irreversibly immersed in it, the making of it, the
state of mind. Composed is the process of finding ourselves in something
whole and out there. Composed is where we as humans and we as artists
exist as one. The ark filled to the brim with the wild beasts inside all of us
that we’ve somehow tamed. Composed is passion and compassion spread
across pages once blank and empty. Composed is the eyes and the ears—
what’s tasted, smelled, and touched. Composed is what’s held suspended
within the heart. What soaks in waters of the soul. Composed is all that’s
inside and outside released. The essence. Composed is waving wands of
ink to paint words. Composed is a frame, stretched canvas, a state of mind,
a perspective. Something poised on the edge of mind over matter. Made
of matter with mind. An attention, attitude, awareness. Composed is
where the story ends, where the story begins, a centeredness, a coming together, a harmony, a balance, a point of departure, and a point of ending.
A moment of stillness. Composed is the act of beginning and the act of
completion. The feeling of achievement once the piece is finished. Composed is the still point before the next act. Composed is coming together.
Come. Pose. Composed is the first album you put out, the first essay you
write, the first time your pencil sketches, your last drop of paint on canvas,
the last letter you type to your keypad of the memoir you’ve been writing
your entire life, the last song you ever strum on your guitar.
Cover Art:
Followers by Allen Dupras is a mixed media of photography and
digital painting. Followers is part of a collection of pieces inspired by
Puerto Rico. Amidst all the chaos of Puerto Rico, there is a place hidden
in Old San Juan called the Pigeon Palace. And the Pigeon Palace is where
this art takes place.
Editors:
Ross Charmoli, Monica LaPlante, Brice McGill, Yesha Townsend
Assistant Editors:
Caroline Brady and Rory Mitchell
Book Design and Layout:
Monica LaPlante
Advisor:
Terri Whitman, Faculty, Liberal Arts Division
For more information contact:
composed@mcnallysmith.edu
Copyright © 2012
Composed: The Literary Journal of
McNally Smith College of Music
All rights revert to the individual
artists and authors upon publication.
Contents by Section
Contents by Section
morning
noon
Morning
Harley Patton
2
Morning’s Gold
Chris Bartels
3
paper armor
yesha townsend
4
“and he rose”
Lucas Beach
5
Snapshots of a Life in Music
Michelle Schneider
7
midmorning
Symphony for Humanity
Anatasia Davis
13
Micro-organizam
Ross Charmoli
15
Waiting in Waves
Jacob Bolles
16
When the Sky Speaks
Ryan Horton
17
I Trust, I Trust You Not, I Trust? Melissa Oakvik
25
Summer Wheat
Allen Dupras
26
Whisper of the Wind
Sean Chaucer Levine
27
Allen Dupras
33
Marching Bass Band
Jayden Roberts
34
The Decision
Anders Hoff
37
Nature vs. Nurture
Ross Charmoli
41
Hands of Time
Antony Cadiz
42
Make Your Move
Morgan Martinson
44
Everything I’ve dreamed of
Adrian Thomas
46
Monty’s in the Afternoon
Zachary Thayer
47
When you were mine
Atim Opoka
51
Vision
Chris Bartels
52
Psychological Warfare
Zachary Thayer
53
infant eyes
Christopher Scott
58
we’ll be together again
Christopher Scott
60
where are you?
Christopher Scott
62
remember
Christopher Scott
64
afternoon
jazz
Perú
Photo selections
Nature Loom
Vania Milanovitch Bastén 28
William G. Franklin
Contents by Section
Contents by Section
twilight
midnight
Moscow
Sean Chaucer Levine
66
Holo
Sam Goldberg
119
Inea/Mr Putsu
Andrew Hill
67
Daphne & Sampson
Ross Charmoli
120
Summer Set
Allen Dupras
73
Oh, God
Sean Chaucer Levine
124
Shadow
Crystal Shoener
74
The Cherry Tree
Oceanna Snyder
126
dawn
evening
Cancelled Plans
Melissa Oakvik
84
Breath of Life
Ta-coumba T. Aiken
127
Peanut Allergies
Paul Rousseau
85
Excerpt from Breath of Life
William G. Franklin
128
Peroxide and Apologies
Jess Pauly
87
Breath of Life
Ross Charmoli
129
Double
Harley Patton
89
night
Rave
Sarah Burk
101
An Epic Battle with the
Goliath Leviathan
Ashley Wiermaa (Ocian) 103
Beautiful Mess
Jackson Weyrauch
105
decorative veneer
yesha townsend
107
Harold Crumb
Adam Conrad
108
Contributors’ Notes
131
Composed Submission Guidelines
135
Contents by Genre
Contents by Genre
Creative Nonfiction
Poetry
Snapshots of a Life in Music
Michelle Schneider
7
paper armour
yesha townsend
4
When the Sky Speaks
Ryan Horton
17
“and so he rose”
Lucas Beach
5
The Decision
Anders Hoff
37
I Trust, I Trust You Not, I Trust? Melissa Oakvik
25
Peroxide and Apologies
Jess Pauly
87
Whisper of the Wind
Sean Chaucer Levine
27
Rave
Sarah Burk
101
Hands of Time
Antony Cadiz
42
Make Your Move
Morgann Martinson
44
Psychological Warfare
Zachary Thayer
53
infant eyes
Chistopher Scott
58
we’ll be together again
Chistopher Scott
60
where are you?
Chistopher Scott
62
remember
Chistopher Scott
64
Cancelled Plans
Melissa Oakvik
84
a decorative veneer
yesha townsend
107
Holo
Samuel Goldberg
119
Oh God
Sean Chaucer Levine
124
The Cherry Tree
Oceana Snyder
126
Breath of Life
Ross Charmoli
129
Fiction
Monty’s in the Afternoon
Zachary Thayer
47
Double
Harley Patton
89
Inea/Mr Putsu
Andrew Hill
67
Morning
Harley Patton
2
Drama
Shadow
Crystal Shoener
74
Contents by Genre
Contents by Genre
Song Lyrics, Rap, Lead Sheet, Scores
Vision
Chris Bartels
52
73
Symphony for Humanity
Anatasia Davis
13
Summer Set
Allen Dupras
Waiting in Waves
Jacob Bolles
16
An Epic Battle with the
Goliath Leviathan
Ashley Wiermaa (Ocian) 103
Marching Bass Band
Jayden Roberts
34
Harold Crumb
Chris Jopp
108
Everything I’ve dreamed of
Adrian Thomas
46
Untitled (for Breath of Life)
Ta-coumba T. Aiken
127
When You Were Mine
Atim Opoka
51
Moscow
Sean Chaucer Levine
66
Peanut Allergies
Paul Rousseau
85
Beautiful Mess
Jackson Weyrauch
105
Harold Crumb
Adam Conrad
108
Daphne & Sampson
Ross Charmoli
121
The Followers
Allen Dupras
Cover
Morning’s Gold
Chris Bartels
3
Mico-organizam
Ross Charmoli
15
Summer Wheat
Allen Dupras
26
Nature Loom
Allen Dupras
33
Nature vs. Nurture
Ross Charmoli
41
Visual Art
Morning Morning Harley Patton Harley Patton sun hovers burning heat waves through the window
pane now your dream is that one
you can’t remember an early morning thought spews from your throat,
singes your lips
numb you can barely taste your cheerios
(morning) And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
— Gwendolyn Brooks
you bite into your morning fruit
juicy
wet
squirts alive
spicy hits your tongue like a jackhammer with a grudge
who the fuck it was put the jalapeno in the fruit bowl
numb you can barely taste your cheerios
brief case full of crayons, crayola box full of invoices
if he was older you swear to god . . .
stuff your anger in some tupperware and pop in the frigidare
leave it there
someone else can use it
skate to the door on wheels of sheer
determination but one of em’s square you need
a cuppajoe hurry back make a pot chug a mug
leave the rest
someone else can use it
tie your tie tie your shoes tie a slip knot for your noose
no not today you’re too tied up
got a car to drive a chair to swivel a pencil to chew
and enough to time to wish you had more
honey are you leaving already
her hair is in freshly made knots she’s got one sock
lookin like somebody walked on her alarm clock
nearly drop your coffee she’s so beautiful can’t take a single breath
no i think i’ll stay in today
now you’ve got enough time to wish you had more
HARLEY PATTON
2
POEM
Morning’s Gold
paper armor Chris Bartles yesha townsend
for Jayden
my nephew sketches shields and swords in margin lines
protection
he wields an armory in his notebook
offense
outside his blue lined bunkers
arms are up
and to the teeth filled with every clanging metal
he knows how to etch
but not to wield
every turn of a sentry
it becomes a bit harder for him to
cling to his paper armor
to rip a page from his notebook
pin it to his chest
and believe that he’s safe.
CHRIS BARTELS
3
VISUAL ART
YESHA TOWNSEND
4
POEM
And So He Arose Lucas Beach
He sprinted hurriedly through the quiet, sparse trees.
They were nothing but color; no bark of any neutrality. Not a single bud
had yet blossomed.
He didn’t quite know if he was running away or if he was running toward
something he had never seen before. Maybe he didn’t want to know. The
trees became his only focus, his prime objective.
Those trees were like pages; pages in a book that nobody had ever
read before.
It wasn’t that nobody cared or desired to open it, hearing that soothing
crack of a virgin binding finally being broken. It was only that they didn’t
have the time.
His feet became one with the forest bed, moment after moment, somehow gracefully pulverizing the fallen twigs with each swift movement.
As his bare toes stomped the dampened soil, he began to let go of
certain things.
He no longer preoccupied himself with objects, with things.
He forgot the whirring machines igniting a dissonant cacophony in the ear
drums of his mind.
He found himself letting go of the soft and cold white pillows, pure and
reassuring, that he had rested upon each night.
They were like tears, these dripping beads of exultation, this joyous,
passionate emotion of the air.
They fell like knowledge upon him, breaking through and shattering the
windows of caution.
He stood there, eyes determinedly remaining ajar, bearing witness to this
often unnoticed miracle.
It enveloped his entire body. It took him over completely.
These reviving tears shone with green, inspired by the absolute monochromic nature. Somehow, by some odd chance, the sun was shining through
the cloaking rain clouds.
There had always been love in the world, just before his masked jade eyes.
It rested in the skies. It lingered within the soil, waiting to grow tall and
display its old soul.
It illuminated the planet day after day and night upon night through its
glowing sun and its calling moon.
It had been there all along. Like the story told by the willows and oaks, he
hadn’t bothered to see it.
He lowered his hands and closed his eyes. The rain came to a close, now
only dripping from the branches and leaves onto the awaiting earth.
It didn’t quite seem to matter to him anymore.
The clouds moved away and he took a deep breath, preparing himself for a
life with this knowledge.
Home was now a subjective concept. Where, exactly, was his home, if any
human even has one?
He held the key to a future he had never dreamed of.
Suddenly he halted and the dirt flew away from his braking heels.
With that, he exhaled and began to truly live for the first time in his life.
His hands, at his sides, slowly arose. He held them, fixed into the sky
above him, relentless in his sudden realization.
The rain began to descend upon him from the sneaking, billowy clouds
hidden above the manes of the forest.
LUCAS BEACH
5
POEM
LUCAS BEACH
6
POEM
Snapshots of a Life in Music
Michelle Schneider
How I Went from Being a Sweet, Little Girl Singing along in Church to
Dreaming of Being the Manager of a Hard Rock Band
Every Sunday at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church, we sat in the
pews on the right side of the sanctuary. From my seat I was able to
see the pastor at the lectern and the stained glass windows all around
me. The depiction that I always focused on was the one of young
Jesus in the temple. He is reading a book and standing in front of gorgeous red curtains. Despite these beautiful images, I still felt that the
service dragged on for
an eternity.
Keeping track of the various hymns was the only way to
measure time passing. The songs were always different, but I knew
that after the sermon there were only two more to go before I could
go home and play. During the sermon, I tried to occupy myself by
squirming around in my seat and pestering my little sister, Lauren.
My mother finally got fed up with the fidgeting. She leaned over and
whispered, “You are old enough to follow along. Now, I expect you to
sit still and pay attention.”
From that point, I began really paying attention to the lyrics
that we would sing. I began to gravitate toward specific hymns such as
“On Eagles’ Wings” and “Here I Am, Lord.” The Christmas service
is the one that I look forward to most now that I’ve grown up. It is a
time when all of my family attends, and we get to sing “What Child Is
This?” and “Angels We Have Heard On High.”
As I grew older, I received information about local Christian gatherings. It was only natural that I eventually ended up at the
Youth for Christ Warehouse in Willmar, Minnesota, the only venue
that we had at home where high school students could go to see live
music. The first time I went to the Warehouse, I was rather skeptical. It was just some little building next to the bridge leading out of
town. I rarely frequented this side of Willmar and felt unsure about
the whole situation. My friend Kelly and I walked in to look around
before the concert actually started. Directly in front of us was this little
stage; when we went up to the front, the platform edge barely came
up to our knees. The room was very plain, basically just a cement floor
MICHELLE SCHNEIDER
7
CREATIVE NONFICTION
with black walls and one set of metal bleaches. Then I looked to my
left and a door led to another little room. Inside I could see a couple
couches, a foosball table, and a TV where teens could play
video games.
This room slowly filled up with people I’d never seen before
until the first band went on. We watched as these strangers greeted
each other and just hung out. Little did I know that in the near future
I would be spending large amounts of time in this room. The time
came for the music to start so we made our way back the main room.
As Remedy Drive was about to begin, I saw that my best friend Chris
had arrived. This was just the start of having friends to go to concerts
with every weekend.
Throughout high school, I would spend almost every Saturday at the Warehouse listening to Chapters and Verses, Decyfer Down,
The Suit, and many others. Even though they were typically hardcore,
the music always had some connection to religion. The Warehouse
was a place where I could go and always know at least one person in
the venue. A core group of music lovers would attend every week.
They were friendly and I always felt comfortable there. I made new
friends and expanded the styles of music that I listened to. I started
to break out of my shell and become more comfortable with people
I didn’t know very well. I also had the opportunity to meet different
bands. Mike, the guitarist of For Today, came and talked to my friends
and I about our faith. I saw the ways the bands reached out and
interacted with their fans. They truly wanted to help people with their
music. I stayed at the Warehouse as long as possible each night, never
wanting the night to end.
The Warehouse played an important role in getting me where
I am today. I honestly don’t think that I would have considered music
as a profession if I hadn’t spent every Saturday night there. By my
junior year of high school, music began to take over and consume me.
I thought about music all the time and tried to include my favorite
artists in anything I did. Art class was filled with drawing of Avenged
Sevenfold and their lyrics. English included Rammstein when asked
for a project about Russia. Even though the band was from Germany,
they had a song about Moscow, which included a woman singing in
MICHELLE SCHNEIDER
8
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Russian. Soon, I couldn’t be productive unless there was a CD playing
in the background. Concerts became my main source of entertainment; Rolling Stone and Alternative Press became my news sources;
and I thought about ways to incorporate music into my future.
I played the trombone in band, but I was absolutely terrified
of playing alone. Solos in jazz band, improvised or written, were the
bane of my existence and I avoided them at all cost. Because I preferred to be in the background and help the group rather than stand
apart, I knew that I had no interest in playing music professionally. I
wanted to be behind the scenes and be a part of the industry. When I
made the decision to attend a music school and fully embrace music as
a lifestyle, I began looking into colleges that would offer a music business degree. On November 21, 2007, I received my acceptance letter
from McNally Smith. During my senior year, I worked with Mr. Agre,
my band teacher, to prepare for some of my upcoming classes. Since
I played the trombone, I only had knowledge of bass clef. I wanted
to start school being able to read treble clef as well. He helped me by
teaching me basic piano and theory.
I started school the fall of 2008 and quickly fell into the habit
of attending concerts as often as I could. Some of the most memorable were Avenged Sevenfold, Haste The Day, and Taproot. Jacoby
Shaddix was my favorite vocalist, and I had been a fan of the hard
rock band Papa Roach for years. I purchased VIP tickets to see them
in concert at the Roy Wilkins on November 5, 2009, so that I could
meet the band, see the sound check, and have early entry into the
show.
When I first heard about the VIP tickets, I knew I would have
to reallocate my funds if I wanted to get them. I didn’t know what
I’d have to give up, but I felt that I could live without anything short
of the absolute necessities. I went through my expenses from the past
year to see where I could cut back. It turned out that groceries were
one of my biggest costs. After weighing the pros and cons, I realized I
couldn’t pass up this opportunity. I resolved that I would stop eating
out and that I would only buy off brands of food to save money even
though when I started school, I promised myself that I wouldn’t buy
the cheaper brands just to save money. Tombstone, my go-to pizza,
MICHELLE SCHNEIDER
9
CREATIVE NONFICTION
and Kraft, my brand cheese, disappeared, and I was left with pizza that
tasted like cardboard and ten-cent mac-and-cheese. Both were horrible and left me wanting the brands I
was used to.
I stuck with the plan for a couple months and when the day
of the concert arrived, it was completely worthwhile. Suddenly, the
disgusting food didn’t matter because I was talking to vocalist Jacoby
Shaddix and watching the concert from the front row. Every time I
see the picture that I had taken with the Papa Roach makes me think
about my ideas of success. Being able to meet the band and have a
conversation really made me believe that I could work with some of
my favorite artists. The concert itself wasn’t all that different from others I’ve attended in the past, but it marks the first day that I truly felt
connected to the music industry. I realized that my dreams of working
with bands would come true.
Music will continue to require me to make sacrifices, but
everything I’ve had to give up pales in comparison to the benefits of
the experience. I gave up a more “stable” career like accounting to go
to music school and be in the industry, but despite that I can’t imagine being happier doing anything else. I will consider myself to have
achieved my goals when I am working with bands on a regular basis.
I want to know that I am helping create the experiences that were so
vital to me growing up. I hope that some day I can arrange opportunities for bands to connect with their fans on a personal level. It’s one
thing to go to a show, but it’s completely different to have a chance to
talk to the people you admire.
Music has always been in my life through church, the radio,
the school band, and live concerts, but how I view it and the level of
importance has changed. I used to just like to have a pretty, little song
to listen to, but as I learned more about music I cared about the emotion it invoked. For example, whenever I’m having a bad day or really
stressed out, I listen to Godsmack and immediately begin to relax.
I used to just have music in the background; it was always there to
listen to but I didn’t care what the songs actually meant. Slowly, music
became something to participate in when I started going to concerts,
playing in the band, and actively listening to the music around me. It
MICHELLE SCHNEIDER
10
CREATIVE NONFICTION
was no longer just a product on the radio or in the stores; it was a living, breathing part of my life.
Going to college for music business has completed the cycle
and now music encompasses every aspect of my life. I have learned
more about music theory, artist management, record companies, and
business communication. I have also learned about the different career
paths such as agent, manager, publicist, and venue owner. I have had
the chance to intern at Artist Representation and Management, a
booking agency, and First Avenue, a prominent music venue in the
Twin Cities. Throughout these opportunities, I have come to realize
that I will be happy doing just about anything in the industry, but I
am still looking for my dream position. Most of all I want to continue
to find new ways to hear and listen to new music.
(mid-­morning) The first thing
I do in the morning
is brush my teeth and
sharpen my tongue.
—Dorothy Parker
MICHELLE SCHNEIDER
11
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Symphony for Humanity Anastasia Davis
No one will grant you freedom
if you’re going to make it
you’ve got to take it.
No one will give you equality,
justice, or anything.
Then, how come when a crisis falls
the majority remains immobile, and weak?
But X, what does that really mean?
To make it? to fake it?
Compare myself to a commercial market
just to get to the top and erase who
once dreamed of living this dream?
Is it all really what it’s cracked up to be?
When so high does it hurt harder when falling?
If I asked a cracked-up celebrity
I doubt they’d agree.
A moment is just temporary;
find new direction for that energy.
I foresee at the end of my rainbow
to be a pot of gold that can’t be sold.
One over-filled with the happiness
of my life, right now, as I know
bearing pure, juicy fruit
that continues to grow.
Continue to grow.
Watch me, as I metaphorically transform.
I walk off the bus and begin to see
an increasing number of people I don’t want to be.
Isn’t that freedom?
The ability to live an original life
with the right to get up and speak,
the right to defend and fight?
ANASTASIA DAVIS
13
RAP
Do something, do anything
trust yourself, your perception, and what you believe.
If you don’t like what you see
then, open a window in your soul
and find something new to read.
Focus direction with positive energy.
Think of these simple things as nourishing vitality.
Vitality? A strength with abundant survival capacity.
Powerful existence of a life filled with meaning.
Preserve your own being.
Live with balance over instability.
Remain true to yourself, happy and free
as ONE part of humanity.
The power we have is crazy, but in reality
showers on the heads of the wealthy
political parties, and big business conglomeracy.
See? I’m gonna get my point across
without encouraging violence or using profanity.
I want to stimulate you, emotionally
mentally, and academically.
You don’t have to be a scholar or have a degree
to see the painted picture I create before thee.
Even with your eyes closed, you’ll see me.
That’s the thing about musical connecting.
It ensures I serve with strength so you feel me.
Do you feel me? Do you feel me?
ANASTASIA DAVIS
14
RAP
Micro-­Organization Ross Charmoli
Waiting in Waves Jacob Bolles
She crashes though the room like a series of waves
Then drifts and retreats to all the gasps of air I take
And she’s carefully blowing my sails through her seas
As nauseating as it is I’m begging her please
To take me away, far far away from safety
Now I’m stranded alone
With no one to hold
And the breeze is kicking in
While my skin is growing cold
But I can’t go
Because all I see through salty eyes is you
ROSS CHARMOLI
15
INK AND MARKER
JACOB BOLLES
16
SONG LYRICS
When the Sky Speaks Ryan Horton I was nervous flying on a plane such a long distance. My friend
Jimmy had asked me to come with him to Amsterdam for Christmas. If
I could pay for my plane ticket, I could share his hotel room. Amsterdam
became all I wanted for Christmas, a ticket to freedom. Jimmy’s mom and
sister were going, but Jimmy and I wanted to focus all our time on evading them and exploring the city by ourselves. We were both eighteen, and
both extremely irresponsible. I had had dreams about Amsterdam for a
while, and with each dream came the same recurring feeling that something really important was going to happen there.
Before leaving, I had decided I was going to leave the girl I was
with and pursue the girl of my dreams. At the time, the girl I was with sat
next to me in astronomy, and the girl of my dreams, Hannah, sat behind
me. It was an painful situation, as I knew when I got back that I was going
to end my relationship with the girl next to me and go for the one sitting
behind me. The plane took off and we were on our way. Jimmy, being the
weirdo he is, opted to take a sleeping pill. While Jimmy slept, I vented my
emotions about girls to his sister.
Our arrival went as follows: we landed, got to the hotel via train,
and settled in. Jimmy and me wanted to get into the city. It was already
dark, but we pressed on. After nagging Jimmy’s mom to let us go into
town to get stoned beyond belief, we were on our way. His mom wanted
to tag along for the first night, which we hated, but it was for the best. His
sister had decided to stay in the hotel room, as she was tired and not feeling so well.
Arriving at Central Station, Jimmy already had the area figured
out. He had spent countless hours searching the Internet in forums, looking at what people talked about and where to go in Amsterdam. Then he
located each place on the map and familiarized himself with the places that
seemed friendly and decently priced. We were going to the Grasshopper
just down the street from the Central Station.
As we walked, we noticed how empty the streets were. It was
Christmas after all. We saw this hotel-looking tan building, lit up in green,
with the word grasshopper glowing across the facade. I felt rather nervous,
as even Jimmy’s mom seemed very out of place. We walked into the entrance in the alley next to the building, down concrete steps underground
RYAN HORTON
17
CREATIVE NONFICTION
into a dark crowded room. With the cashier right in front of us and seating
to the left, we stood there looking for prices, signs, anything to help us
understand how to start the process. Along came some hipsters to push
a large red button on the wall that lit up a tan oak-framed window with
pot types and prices all neatly organized. The ease of the transaction felt
ridiculous.
We made our choice, and because all the seats in the room were
filled, headed out into the street again. We wandered the alleys with shops
back to back all along the walls, searching for somewhere to be. We felt
lost, and I felt rather awkward with Jimmy’s mom tagging along. We came
across this place called the Paradise Café. Sounded good enough to us.
It was bright in there, and we sat in the back and ordered drinks
so that we could stay and smoke. Jimmy left his wallet sitting on the end of
the table after paying, and while we were making preparations to smoke,
one cashier came and asked him for his wallet. Jimmy’s mom defended
immediately saying, “No, of course not,” but the man persisted. “Give me
the wallet!” he said, and she said, “No, you really can’t have it. Finally, he
relaxed, and stared Jimmy down telling him if he left his wallet out on the
table again, someone would walk by and pocket it—so be careful.
Now we really didn’t feel comfortable getting our jollies on there.
We had just walked straight into an unknown city, bought an usually illegal
drug, and sat down at a completely random place on the day after Christmas, and got publicly bashed for being idiots and leaving a wallet in the
open. We still smoked and felt rather strange, which then turned to trying
not to laugh at Jimmy’s mom when she asked amateur questions, or so we
thought, about how we felt. We had broken the ice of Amsterdam, and a
bit of comfort seeped into us, as we knew we could go back to the hotel
and relax as we would anywhere.
The following days we received all the freedom we needed.
Jimmy was starting to drive me a little insane at points, walking so fast
from place to place that I felt like I was being pulled by a rope. It was puzzling to me. I didn’t understand what had lit the fire under his bum, but
then again he didn’t tell me he had broken up with his girlfriend, so I just
kept up the pace in awe of a side of Jimmy I had never seen.
RYAN HORTON
18
CREATIVE NONFICTION
As the days passed, we ended up walking around by ourselves
most of the time. We kept contemplating how we might elevate our
foreign experience to the maximum that Amsterdam laws allow. Jimmy
hadn’t done mushrooms before, but I had. I felt confident in my ability
to control the situation, and since my dreams had all included this factor
of tripping, I felt inclined to see why I was having such vivid dreams and
whether I would feel like I finally found why I had been attracted to the
place for so many years. At first, Jimmy let the idea circulate, but then said,
“Dude, I just want you to know though, I’m not going to do them. My
mom said it would be a bad idea, and I think we should just skip it this
time.” I received this well, responding, “It’s no big deal man, but it would
be awesome.” The discussions started that way, but they fell apart because
we kept realizing we would never get another chance to try legal mushrooms again, and they kept beckoning us.
Then, one morning, out of nowhere, Jimmy was set on doing
mushrooms. He was almost too confident, and I worried because he had
no idea the little control you have when unfamiliar with such overwhelming emotions. We set out into the day, jumping off the train and walking
around the outskirts of the downtown Amsterdam area. We only got a
couple blocks before we saw a fridge with little clear boxes of fresh mushrooms and a little piece of paper taped on the glass at the top noting the
strength, type, and price. There were about six strains all with differing effects. It was so weird. I had never had them fresh before and they looked
just like store-bought mushrooms … at least most of them did.
I suggested to Jimmy we get the least powerful ones, but he
insisted on getting the second most powerful. He was already making me
uncomfortable. We were staring into this fridge outside an open storefront
with people constantly passing behind us into the darker inside of the store
with its small convenience store-looking mess of items. I watched as two
older Asian guys with candy-store faces picked out a box of mushrooms. I
couldn’t help but think that they had no clue about what they’re getting
themselves into.
We grabbed a box out of the fridge of these second-to-mostpowerful ‘shrooms, and walked into the darkened store. A nice-looking
hippy dressed lady behind the counter asked if I had done them before and
RYAN HORTON
19
CREATIVE NONFICTION
then shifted her attention to Jimmy. She told us that if the trip went bad
and things got scary, we could eat some M&Ms or soda or orange juice
to make the trip come down. She said, “Also, make sure you drink lots of
water with them and relax and have fun.” I was totally bewildered. I had
never heard of eating candy to remove a trip before, but hey, the tip made
us more comfortable.
At this point, time started to accelerate at a faster pace. I felt as if
I could already feel the energy of the experience to come, even though I
hadn’t taken anything. We found the three-level café that we had grown
fond of during our stay, sat down at the bar up against the wall by the
front window, and ordered a drink. We had two boxes of mushrooms (the
lady told us each to take a whole box), but I told Jimmy that there was no
way I was going to take a whole box, and to split one with me, because
I felt they were going to be extremely strong. We each gobbled up half a
box and made our way out into the mess of people walking down the alley.
Within ten minutes, I told Jimmy that this was going to be absolutely ridiculously strong because I could already feel a very good amount
of the substance that enacts the trip, psilocybin, in these ‘shrooms. As we
walked on, more and more people seemed to be walking in the streets. I
caught random glimpses of the faces of walking people. At one point, we
were in a single file line of people, moving like a train, and I had no idea
where I was, or where we were going, and I wanted to get out of line.
Time and vision had disappeared for the last half hour, and now we were
in a line, ready to get out. I could feel I had only scraped the beginning of
the power of this trip. We jumped out of this weird line and headed down
an alleyway towards the sun. At the end of the alley, an absolutely beautiful
view of the canal attracted us like mosquitos to a zapper lamp. Standing
alone between two buildings, we looked out over this sunshine-lit canal,
staring at the water. A red bicycle with a ringer leaned up against the railing before the canal.
Jimmy was completely off in space. I started taking a bunch of
pictures, including one of the red bicycle. Jimmy called me over, “Hey
Ryan, you’ve got to check this out!” I turned around to see a tree had
grown in a little courtyard area between the buildings where we were
RYAN HORTON
20
CREATIVE NONFICTION
standing. Vines grew all over the walls and kept growing.
Jimmy put his finger on the ground, and from his finger, a grassy
green color spread out to all sides from him and started growing over
everything and up the walls. As Jimmy turned the world green, I felt like I
had lost my mind. He took his finger off the ground and the green disappeared.
I laughed and said, “That was ridiculous, Jimmy. Do not do that.
. . . By the way, do you know where we are?” We grounded ourselves in
reality for a bit. Then Jimmy realized he had to pee, and his need became
an instant emergency. In Europe, public bathrooms cost money paid to a
cashier. Jimmy thought there must be a public bathroom in the doubledecker McDonalds. I was not so sure about this, nor did I want to go in
there. I felt that I was emitting so much energy, that someone might fall
off a chair if I looked at them.
We walked into McDonalds. Everyone was sitting down, and
staring at us. We walked toward the back, and Jimmy led me up the stairs.
At this point, my full trip hit me. As I came to the top of the stairs, I was
having a hard time seeing where I was. The walls were changing, and
I kept seeing window blinds going up and down, and the whole place
seemed to constantly transform. I realized I was losing control when I saw
the bathroom. I started walking towards the door and it disappeared, and
that’s when I regained consciousness, realizing I was thinking through
Jimmy, and he was totally unable to ground himself in any way. Confused
and hallucinating, he couldn’t sort through his vision. When you’re in that
state, the people you are with almost become a part of you, and if you’re
unfamiliar with the emotional impact you have, you’ll struggle to divide
yourself from others and see through your own perception.
Realizing this, I snapped back, grounding myself, coming down
from this first wave of emotional intensity. I led Jimmy out of the McDonalds, assuring him that what happened made sense somehow. I could
see Jimmy was losing his trust in my vibe. When I asked him if everything
was all right, he started to shoot angry vibes at me as if I was causing the
despair of his need to pee. I pushed his emotions out of myself, realizing
that getting caught up in his anger would only make things worse.
RYAN HORTON
21
CREATIVE NONFICTION
We wandered around, Jimmy getting increasingly angry for reasons I couldn’t understand, and we ended up in front of Central Station.
We now knew where we were, but by this time we were arguing. Jimmy
was scarfing M&M’s and chugged a Coca-Cola. I kept trying to tell him
that he was walking really fast with no idea where he was going and to stop
for a minute. He cut me off before every word that came out my mouth,
like he knew everything I was going to say already, which he probably
did, seeing as we were both in this together. I was becoming pissed at him
and realized that I needed to take control before he went off and did who
knows what in that mood, so I stopped. I stopped walking and said, “I’m
not going with you.” I needed to show him that I understood what was
happening and that he had no idea what he was doing or angry about.
He turned around and said, “You can’t stop here!! This is a foreign country!!” He was so irrational that I turned around and looked the
other direction, up into the sky, anxiety streaming down my face. Arguing
when you are tripping is like cutting each other with knives. You can’t help
but be extremely emotionally confused and hyper with tension. Jimmy just
stood there for a moment, unable to continue without me. I was feeling this approaching peace, and my emotions were starting to get more
intense, as I felt I was reaching the peak. I felt split in complete opposite
directions, totally disturbed and at complete peace at the same time.
I was looking into the sky as color and sunshine and intense
power washed my thoughts aside and replaced them with, well, … nothing. I felt serene. The light of the sun, now seeming to engulf me entirely,
lifted me up and set me back down with a new perspective: “Why are you
here?” A simple question rearranged and somehow connected my entire
life meaning. I realized I knew nothing, that I was a servant to this energy,
this consciousness guiding me through this life, invading my thoughts. It
was like a hammer slammed into a bell in the center of my mind, waking
me up. My heart filled with tremendous love but also with shame that my
mistrust of the instincts in my own gut had led me to need this moment.
All of the feelings of uncertainty washed away. Everything
had happened how I imagined it. The experience was perfect in that
way— it made overwhelming sense. I felt validated. For a moment I had
RYAN HORTON
22
CREATIVE NONFICTION
a glimpse at understanding God. I knew the universe had a relationship
with me, and I could trust forever that God was the universe and every bit
of energy in it. A sense of purpose culminated and rested inside me like I
was given an internal flower to grow. I had been truly blessed, in the most
unorthodox of ways, but in my life, I believe blessings happen this way.
I started walking the other direction, still across the street from
Central Station. Jimmy caught up to me and admitted he was having a
hard time. Relieved, I told him that he needed to be honest about how he
felt so that we could communicate. I could see thathe had felt my emotions. He recovered, but then relapsed again into paranoia, becoming
nervous and needing a place to go.
Out of absolute nowhere, he slammed open the door to a German bar on the corner of the street. The sudden violence of this motion
almost knocked a traditional-looking German guy sitting near the door
out of his chair. All conversation stopped. Jimmy walked straight to the
bartender while I stood in the doorway lit by the sunlight behind me as
a roomful of angry German guys stared at me. My heart stopped and
started again, as I realized I must enter. I walked in, no choice, to see, ah
son of a bitch, Jimmy ordering water and a Coca-Cola. The bartender
was nice and comforting in a strange way. I still wished Jimmy had at least
ordered a beer after making such a ruckus.
We sat down at this tiny table against the back wall. I looked back
across the room towards the window and the long table where all the
Germans were sitting. The place started to talk again, and everyone left us
alone. I was seeing shadows all over the place, and was watching the walls
move and the whole place constantly reinvent itself. I contemplated this,
spinning through this transforming room and amazing imagery of these
people’s confused feelings mixing with our open-ended bombardment of
energy. Then I snapped out of the trance, realizing my eyes were focused
directly into someone’s eyes across the room. I looked away and wondered
if he had taken that weird trip with me. Jimmy gave me the water and
sipped his coke, and I sat spinning through my amazement. The trip was
getting heavy. Jimmy’s emotions were tiring his mind into confusion. I
could see his mind had come to the “I don’t know who I am anymore”
stage, and I had become the opposite, still filled with the love from the sky.
RYAN HORTON
23
CREATIVE NONFICTION
I told Jimmy we should walk over and sit at the train station. The
freedom my mind experienced caused me to trip even harder, and I was
afraid I would walk into a train in the street, as I had already seen trains
that weren’t actually there. The sound of trains was so distracting it blurred
my vision. I told Jimmy to follow me, and we walked to a bench in the
Central Station, next to a bathroom—to Jimmy’s relief.
As each train stopped in this huge metal-canopied building with
open ends on each side, the sound of the brakes took me away from myself, and all that I could see were fragments of the station blended together
in shape-shifting patterns. When the trains completely stopped, everything
would come back together like normal. I looked at the brick wall next to
me and sunk into the history of it all. While Jimmy was in the bathroom,
I could hear voices, asking me questions. I kept having conversations with
people I didn’t know, see, or hear what they were saying; only my mind
was talking to them. All this energy in my mind rearranged my thoughts,
fixed things, brought me down softly.
When Jimmy returned, we sat there for the next couple hours in
peace. My eyes opened to a world I was aware of, but hadn’t believed was
real. This world of energy and spirituality. Some would call it the selffulfilling prophecy, but I knew this relationship with the universe was real.
At the same time it was more than I would ever understand. We eventually made it back to the hotel, and I slipped into a pleasant resting feeling,
knowing I had accomplished what I dreamt.
As I sat on the plane on my way back to America, I wrote a
poem about the girl I wanted to know and date, Hannah. I laid down my
thoughts honestly. I decided I was never again going to turn my back on
what my heart said. In my poem, I promised God that if he gave me love,
I would work the rest of my life to be as good of a person as I knew how
to be and that I would follow my dreams without self doubt.
When I got back, Hannah and I fell deeply in love. As for Jimmy,
he’s still being Jimmy. He’s much more relaxed now, and we still hang out
every once in a while. He hasn’t found love like I have, but we share our
experiences, and I feel someday he too will find love in the sky.
RYAN HORTON
24
CREATIVE NONFICTION
I Trust, I Trust You Not, I Trust? Summer Wheat Allen Dupras
Melissa Oakvik
A rose, like many other flowers,
seems so beautiful. The vibrant
colors, the soft petals—
the beauty she beholds. A rose
can even seem like it has inner beauty
by how she lights up a room
and makes you smile. You feel loved
when she is around; she is constantly
reminding you of that love. She requires
a little attention in return, but she comes
back every season with more of her presence.
Thorns, many of them, yet so
deceitfully hidden. The dull
colors, the rugged edges—
the danger she beholds. Thorns
can seem to show inner anger
by how she pokes into your skin
and makes you bleed. You feel betrayed
when she is around; she is constantly
reminding you of that scar. She requires
a little attention in return, but she comes
back every season with more of her presence.
The same vessel, a different face.
Plucking away each petal…
I trust
I trust you not
I trust?
MELISSA OAKVIK
25
POEM
ALLEN DUPRAS
26
PHOTOGRAPH
Whisper of the Wind Sean Chaucer Levine
I was on a park bench when this lady came up to me
She asked me to dance but there was no music
Nothing playing but the whisper of the wind
And I said to her
Perú “You’re crazy to be thinking I’d dance”
And she sneered and said
“Why because I’m not pretty enough, or because there’s no music?”
I told her it was because there was no music
She started to sing, and I got up and we danced
And we danced, and we danced.
Come quickly to my veins
and to my mouth.
Speak through my speech,
and through my blood.
—Pablo Neruda, Canto XII,
The Heights of Machu Picchu
(translated Nathaniel Tarn)
The McNally Smith X-tet traveled to Peru for a performance and cultural from May 2 to May 16, 2011.
SEAN CHAUCER LEVINE
27
POEM
May 5: Manchay Performance for
400 students ranging in age from
12 - 16
May 14: Afternoon concert at
Kennedy Park amphitheater
in Miraflores
Rehearsal at Jazz Jaus
Master class with Hugo Alcazar
Lima: Walking from the hotel
to the Jazz Jaus
May 3: Welcome luncheon,
Monastery of San Francisco, Lima
X-TET
29
PERÚ
X-TET
30
PERÚ
(noon)
Alice: How long is forever?
White Rabbit: Sometimes,
just one second.
The McNally Smith X-tet, directed by Pete Whitman, traveled to
Perú for a performance tour and cultural education
from May 2 to May 16, 2011
Students: Ryan Benyo, Chris Côté, Jonathan Emehiser, Hayden, Fihn, Jessica
Gates, Cierra Hill, Petar Janjic, Ben Kelly, Alex Kosak, Adrian Larkin, Ben Link,
Andrew Luka, Peter Nyberg, Billy Shoenburg, Lauren Verhel, and Elliott Wachs
Faculty: Jeff Bailey, William G. Franklin, Steve Jennings, Pete Whitman,
and former faculty member Andrés Prado
Photographs by Vania Milanovitch Bastén and William G. Franklin
X-TET
31
PERÚ
— Lewis Carroll
Morning Marching Bass Style
Jayden Roberts
Harley Patton Nature’s Loom Allen Dupras
´1DWXUH·V/RRPµ$OOHQ'XSUDV
MONICA LAPLANTE
44
MID-AFTERNOON
JAYDEN ROBERTS
34
LEAD SHEET
JAYDEN ROBERTS
35
LEAD SHEET
JAYDEN ROBERTS
36
LEAD SHEET
The Decision Anders Hoff
It was the noon hour on a sunny, bright, Vermont April day. I
was just waking up as I usually did, groggy and unclear about the previous
nights events. I sat up, feeling and smelling what probably was the leftover
vomit inside my throat. I coughed a little bit, hacking up whatever I could,
the acidic nature of the substance causing my nose and throat to burn. I
looked over at the other bunk. My roommate was gone, apparently off to
class, which was a rarity for him.
I believe it was a Wednesday. I gathered myself, throwing on
some random sweatpants and an old t-shirt and walked to the community bathroom. I stared into the mirror. My vision was blurrier than I had
remembered, and I felt like I was spinning to a degree. I figured it was just
another hangover, and I would be fine in a couple of hours when I had
gotten some food and started drinking again. Back in those days, gauging
how I truly felt was an immense task, considering I had too many toxins in
me at any given time to really figure it all out.
j
I headed out of the bathroom and walked down the hall back to
my room. It was a walk I had taken a million times, both severely intoxicated and “semi-sober.” Nevertheless, this time felt different. Again I
noticed how blurry my vision seemed to be with the brick walls seeming
to mesh and the carpet pattern seeming to spin. My anxiety began to kick
in. I tried to rationalize that I had most definitely drank way more than I
should have the night before, and that’s probably what was causing these
symptoms. But then my thoughts turned to: How much was it? Was it too
much? Am I going to die?
Eventually I made it back to my room, and like always, I plummeted back into my bed, turned on the TV, and began to pack my vaporizer. I didn’t want to face what was going on with me. I wanted to get
high, and hope that my panic would pass.
I remembered arriving on the campus. The first few days of
school. I was anxious to meet all the new people. The girls, the guys,
whoever. High school had been less than productive for me, and on some
level, I was hoping I could change my habits now. There was overwhelming this factor though: I still wanted to party.
ANDERS HOFF
37
CREATIVE NONFICTION
I sat in my bed, vision still blurry and head throbbing like the
blood inside was going to spurt out. I was trying to piece it all together:
Did I hit my head again? Shit I must have? I became immensely worried
and, like so many times before, began to question my drinking. I sat stewing in my anxiety. I knew something was wrong, but I just didn’t know
what I should do about it, and furthermore (in some strange, alcoholaddicted way) I didn’t want to do anything. My stomach was churring not
primarily from the level of poison in it, but rather from the vast ray of emotions I was experiencing. After almost every time I drank, I thought about
quitting. I always over did it, resulting in head injuries, alcohol poisoning,
and an overall lack of ability to be productive. As I said, I didn’t want to
change, no addict ever does, but I knew I had to. I knew if I didn’t make a
change, I was on a path to a life-long addiction and probably even death.
I finally managed to sit myself up and really think through what
I was about to do. It was hard to think with how clustered my mind was,
but somehow I managed to get up and act. Possibly it was the fear, possibly it was the guilt, possibly it was the sheer fact that I didn’t ever want to
feel that horrible again— whatever it was, I’m glad it happened.
I mustered myself to a standing position. I knew what I had to
do. In an anxiety-ridden, feverish pace, I searched for my cell phone, which
commonly was either lost in my sheets, or just plain lost. Luckily I found it
at the end of my bed, wrapped amidst the sheets where my old socks usually wound up. I was amazed; it still had battery left.
In almost the same frantic pace that I looked for my phone, I
stepped out of my dorm room. I took a left and walked to the staircase
in the middle of the hallway. I proceeded down the stairs to the lower
level. Downstairs, I took another left to the end of the hallway where the
vending machines were. There were classrooms on this level, but they were
often empty. I felt like this would be a good place to make the call. Very
little activity, and I could hide what it was I was doing from my friends and
fellow students.
I stood for a minute, still anxious, starring out the window to
ANDERS HOFF
38
CREATIVE NONFICTION
my right. The view overlooked one of the many hills on the campus in
between the dorms. The sun was out, and kids were playing baseball,
lacrosse, and what have you. These were the kids I sometimes aspired to
be. Certainly they never woke up with hangovers. They didn’t fail their
tests, and have the self-esteem crushing that came with feeling powerless.
No, they were perfect and had it all, but for some strange reason I didn’t
want to be any of them. Despite all my less than fond feelings for the
place, I didn’t want to leave. Thinking back, I truly had had some wonderful memories. The nights out to the movie theater with the girlfriend, the
trouble my friends and I always seemed to escape, those real defining, firstyear-of-college moments. But in the end, it was probably the freedom, the
easy access of use, and the overall simplicity to get messed up that made
me want to stay. Basically, I didn’t want to make the change.
Nevertheless I took one last glimpse out the window and
looked down at my phone. I knew the number by heart but hesitated for
a second. This was it. I was about to commit myself to throwing away
everything I had ever known. I was uncomfortable to say the least. I was
making the decision to throw myself into a foreign land, not knowing any
of the language, way of life, or how to survive. Nevertheless I dialed the
number, my heart beating faster with each ring.
My mom took her usual couple of rings to get to the phone. “Yes,” she
said, holding the word for a while, putting her signature on it.
“Hi mom.” I replied timidly.
“Well, if it isn’t by big college boy. How are you?”
I hesitated for along moment. I was sure she could sense something was
wrong. My mother and I were very close, and I loved her very much. The
sheer sound of her voice was one of the most comforting things on the
planet.
“I’m doing okay,” I said. “But there’s something I need to
tell you.”
As I stated, my past wasn’t always so stellar, so when I started a
conversation like this my parents typically honed in on the worst.
ANDERS HOFF
39
CREATIVE NONFICTION
“Okay, what is it.”
Again my heart, lungs, brain, paused. I wasn’t sure if I could really say it. “I need to come home. I’m in big trouble, and I . . .,” I paused,
the words could barely come out of my mouth.
“I need to go to treatment.”
“Oh, Anders, are you okay?”
“Yea I’m fine,” I said, masking the severity of what was really going on.
“Alright. Do you need to come home then or . . .”
“Yea I think that’s probably the best thing.”
She sighed on the phone, giving me that instantaneous cue that
I let her down. I had been using for years, and on several occasions, she
knew what was going on. I think for the most part, both she and my father
were hoping I could clean it up when I got to college. That this small,
preparatory college would provide me with the surroundings I needed to
focus in more and get back on track. But in reality, I think they both were
waiting for the call. I went on to tell her everything that had been going
on. From the daily drinking and drugs to the concussions, and everything
else in between.
She immediately contacted a family friend who is a registered
nurse and had me speak with her. The friend asked me the frequency with
which I had been using and was truly trying to feel out if I could survive
until I got home. I felt terrible, my head was pounding, my body was
shaking. I felt like I was going to die.
After getting off the phone, I walked back up to my room. Back
down the hallway. Back up the stairs. Right at the top of the stairs and
right into my room. I stared at my bed, digesting what had just occurred:
the conversation I had just had, the sins I had just confessed, all of it. I felt
nervous, almost apprehensive, but in a larger sense, I felt relieved. I didn’t
have to hide from habits anymore. The work was just beginning. We had
talked for an hour. It was a gut-wrenching hour, it was nerve-racking hour,
it was a confusing hour. It was the best hour of my entire life.
ANDERS HOFF
40
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Nature vs Nurture Ross Charmoli
Hands of Time Anthony Cadiz
12am
I stretch my hands toward the ceiling.
The old man, my grandson, had just shuffled off to bed.
The last switch was thrown off...
1am
Quiet...
2am
I tick softly,
Waiting patiently
The house sleeps
I stand up against one of its walls
3am
The darkness hangs still,
Waiting with me until his shift ends
4am
The wind rattles the windows
The cat scampers down the hallway
And I sing a song of chimes after her as her tail whips around the corner
5am
The old man would be up in an hour
I watch the door of his room
It was left cracked open
I listen, eager to see him rise for another day
6am
Nothing
I tick faster
7am
Where was he?
I heard his alarm go off an hour ago.
I tick faster, focusing on the the door.
8am
9am
I tick faster.
10am
11
ROSS CHARMOLI
41
INK AND MARKER
ANTHONY CADIZ
42
POEM
Make Your Move
Morgann Martinson
I stop.
The cat appeared and pawed at the old man’s door.
It swung softly open.
The light from the window inside spilled out into the hallway.
Darkness waved farewell
The white sheets on his bed gleamed in a beam of morning sun.
I could see the old man’s calm face from where I stood.
Pale, tired, lifeless
He wasn’t going to rise for another day.
12pm, noon
I wept softly,
Hands covering my face
Maybe I had killed him
Maybe it was his time
ANTHONY CADIZ
43
POEM
i am waiting
waiting for you to make your move.
make your move so that i can breathe.
i want to breathe with you.
with you i want to be
i want to be yours
yours i want to be
to be in your life and make you feel happy
i want to be happy
with you here, i know that is possible
but the probability of that happening,
seems so small now.
make your move and tell me your feelings.
im tired of waiting.
waiting is all i do.
i dont want to wait any longer.
the longer i wait, the more you lose me
so hurry up
make your move.
MORGANN MARTINSON
44
POEM
Everything I Dreamed Of Adrian Thomas
(afternoon)
There is a place where
the sidewalk ends,
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows
soft and white,
And there the sun burns
crimson bright
And nothing really fits like the crown now a days...
Still shooting for the stars shells falling on my J’s
Breaking every law just tryna stay paid…
because that porsche silhouette takes away all the pain,
and I’m reaching for the torch that symbolizes all the fame,
views from the porch in Milan on my brain…
Thoughts of yesterday still in my mind today....
I take success how it came, and celebrate with champagne
I’m at the top of my game cause losing... is so hard to take,
and I want it all now but I hear it’s better if you wait…
I guess its all good because I’d rather be great… and I know
just where Im going because I know just where I came…
Throw my luggage on the plane….
Yo I got it and put the world in my back pocket, so i cant drop it…
AirTime, so high we autographing comets,
in the press conference, now taking comments.
— Shel Silverstein
ADRIAN THOMAS
46
SONG LYRICS
Monty’s In The Afternoon Zachary Thayer
I looked up from my cup of coffee to see what the suddenly silent
cafe was staring at. Outside on the street corner, I could just barely make
out two figures through the rickety old windows that had long ago begun
to warp with age, distorting the outside world, isolating the inhabitants of
the cafe in their own little cocoon.
Monty’s was a local neighborhood sandwich shop on the
outskirts of Chicago that served a wide range of drinks and deli items to
whoever walked in the door. It was never crowded, but someone was
always there. It was my thinking place. I liked to sit in the very back booth
close to the restrooms. No one ever used them so I could sit by myself to
be alone with my thoughts and a cup of coffee.
Although I was facing the front window, I had to crane my neck
out into the isle by my booth in order to see past the solid wood seat
back of the booth bench on the opposite side of the table. As I squinted
through the warped window, the silent grip on the cafe was shattered
as the door was flung open with such force that while most of the old
storefront windows rattled violently in their frames, the single, small pane
of glass set in the heavy wooden door shattered as the door rebounded
off the wall. Before anyone could react to the broken glass, the figure
responsible for the disturbance leapt into the cafe where he stood blinking
momentarily as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior.
“Is there a phone in here? Someone dial 911!” Before waiting for
a reply, the man collapsed into the rough-hewn wooden bench next to the
door and began swearing profusely to himself. “Holy shit, what the fuck....
Good lord...” A pause followed, and with the exception of mumbled, incoherent cursing coming from the bench next to the open door, the room
lapsed momentarily into silence again.
“What the HELL is going on...” The silence was broken as the
cafe’s proprietor, a well-meaning but rather gruff and dim-witted fellow, emerged from the back room, stopping mid-sentence as he saw the
shattered glass on the ground. “The FUCK you think you’re doing?! You
better fuckin pay for that window!” He roared from behind the counter.
For such a large man, he seemed to nearly fly over the top of the counter
before teleporting the fifteen feet to the door. Startled, the young man on
the bench looked up. Even from my vantage point in the rear of the cafe,
I could see Monty’s face starting to turn a shade of red I hadn’t seen since
ZACHARY THAYER
47
FICTION
watching the Saturday morning cartoons as a kid. Before Monty started
roaring into act two, I stood up from my booth.
“MONTY!” It wasn’t an angry yell, just forceful enough to be
taken seriously. Monty’s attention was now focused on me as he turned
around. “The kid was just saying there has been an accident or something... He needs a phone. Is that right?” The question seemed to snap the
young man out of his trance.
“Uh, yeah. Someone just got hit by the bus... Its really bad. He
probably needs an ambulance... Well, assuming he isn’t already... J-Just call
an ambulance!” Just as fast as anger brought all the blood to Monty’s face,
it drained back out again.
“Y-Yes, uh, t-theres a phone in the back you can use...” Monty
stuttered. “Or I could... Unless you wanted...” The woman at the counter
interrupted calling, “I got it,” over her shoulder as she awkwardly banged
through the swinging door marked “Employees Only.”
In the brief lull following the waitress’s abrupt exit, I turned
back to my coffee and studied it for a moment before taking one last,
long, deep drink from my mug, leaving it nearly empty. I absentmindedly
swished the last swallow around in the bottom of the mug, watching the
loose grounds drift slowly from one side and then back to the other as I
collected my thoughts. Realizing there wasn’t anything left that I could do
for the situation, I decided to give over initiative to my curiosity. Standing up, I threw back the last swallow along with all the loose grounds and
walked briskly to the front door. Monty, still apologizing for his outburst,
was seated next to the shell shocked youth on the rough-hewn bench. I
stopped on my way out to hand Monty a five as I mumbled a “Thanks for
the coffee...”
Although the door was already open, walking into the powerful
early afternoon sun felt like pushing through a curtain all the same. Like
the young man when he burst through the door only minutes ago, I stood
blinking blindly for a few moments as I stepped into the light. As my eyes
adjusted to the blinding sun, a scene of chaos unfolded before my squinted
eyes. Along with the light, the sound seemed to intensify as I left the cafe.
People everywhere talking, shouting, arguing, crying... The sirens of emergency response vehicles started to come into focus as the first responders
drew within a couple blocks. As I surveyed the scene, I scanned first to my
ZACHARY THAYER
48
FICTION
left... There it was. With its last pair of rear tires still in the intersection, the
bus was splayed haphazardly across both eastbound lanes of the four-lane
avenue. The front left wheel had jumped the curb into the median, but
under the right front bumper, pinned against the curb, I could see a single
pair of grey NewBalance tennis shoes and the bottom cuff of khaki slacks.
As my mind started speeding up, trying to process everything at
once, jumping to conclusions, and becoming less rational with the surge
of adrenaline my body decided to release, the rest of the world seemed to
slow down.
“Why isn’t anyone helping this person?!”
“Who is he?!”
“What happened?!”
“Is he alive?!”
The storefront arrived suddenly, surprising me. Monty’s felt so
far away. Was I really there just five minutes ago? It emanated a strange
familiarity and protecting comfort from the insanity outside... almost
artificial. How could I walk back through the still-open doorframe and
pretend everything was the same? Because everything was not the same.
Nothing would ever be the same. Not for me, not for Monty, not for that
young man who was in all probability still sitting on that bench just inside
the establishment. Monty’s was my safe place, and a cocoon of familiarity for all the regulars. I haven’t been able to set foot in there since then.
The innocence of the place has been ruined. Not by anything physical, no.
Monty had the broken glass replaced within three days... The meaning of
my regular trips has been interrupted by what changed for me in there.
That young man, crashing through the door, shattered that illusion of
security for me forever.
Questions started filling and echoing in my mind, frantically grappling for a meaning in what I was seeing. I’m not sure if I was asking the
questions, or if my shocked mind was just inserting snippets of overheard
conversations into my own consciousness. I’d been to funerals and visitations before. I’d seen dead people in caskets and on TV and in the movies,
but I’d never before witnessed real death. It still hung fresh in the air, so
violent and unexplainable. I felt like I could feel and smell some otherworldly sensations, like I’m just a little closer to the bridge of the living and
the dead, even from across the street.
Finally, the sirens broke through my trance and the world lapsed
back into real time as an ambulance, traveling the wrong way in the eastbound lane, screeched to a halt in front of the bus. Four people jumped
out of the ambulance carrying several instruments and bags. As they
rushed towards the victim, so did the four officers leaving their squad
cards rush to push back rubberneckers like myself and establish their
impenetrable perimeter of plastic yellow tape. With my view of the scene
blocked by myriad emergency response personnel and their transports, I
wandered aimlessly in a haze of racing thoughts down the sidewalk back
towards Monty’s.
ZACHARY THAYER
49
FICTION
ZACHARY THAYER
50
FICTION
When You Were Mine
Atim Opoka Letter And Lines
Chris Bartles hey you over there its been a while, since we sat down,
how is life since we burnt out, hope you goals came true,
I hope life was good to you. i remember when we were young and in love,
you took my hand and it was said and done, cruising round the town
lil stops and corky shops, night covered up under the stars
talkin bout livin on mars
BRIDGE- well maybe its my fault for picturing things to fast,
i thought baby this thing was gonna last,
and maybe life got the best of us or maybe the distance way too much
CHORUS- ill never ever ever forget the time we had our first kiss,
and maybe it was over our heads to think we had control of this
to the night we dont remember, and the time we shared sweet bliss,
i pray you dont regret what i remember, when you were mine.
VERSE- that summer was filled with wonders, but seasons change.
the clouds were coming with a storm of rain.
with the shortage of seeing each other filled our hearts with uncertainty.
tearing one another, but you wanted to be free and forget about me
BRIDGE- well maybe its my fault for picturing things to fast,
i thought baby this thing was gonna last,
and maybe life got the best of us or maybe the distance way too much
CHORUS- ill never ever ever forget the time we had our first kiss,
and maybe it was over our heads to think we had control of this
to the night we dont remember, and the time we shared sweet bliss,
i pray you dont regret what i remember, when you were mine.
LAST VERSE- and maybe it was over are heads to think we had control
of this, but i hope u dont regret that i remember this.
please dont forget. . .when you were mine.
ATIM OPOKA
51
SONG LYRICS
CHRIS BARTLES
52
WATERCOLOR /DIGITAL
Psychological Warfare
Zachary Thayer
What the man said to the sheep in the night
I wont always be here, someday you might:
You may need to fight off the wolves. The right
way to do it is to make him believe
the brain
Insane, I know but
listen
It glistens, belief.
Believe you’re beneath him
He deserves better
And never
Take no for an answer
Belief, the spark of an idea.
Inspiration
Sensation
Revelation
Dull agin’
people over there in the
East, West
the worst, and the best and
all human kind
with all our mind
believe not the truth,
but will ruthlessly defend
Again and again
And against the wills of other men
Whatever we choose to believe
For a wolf thinks the world of his own worth
Where you attack
is the crack
between logic and his ego’s girth
Make him believe
Believe you’re beneath him
He deserves better
And never
Take no for an answer
A physical assailant, if turned aside
may still return unless he’s died
But a convert chooses
again and again
and against the wills of other men
where he goes and where he’s been
and what he does
based not on power up above
real or fake, not out of love,
but based on what he believes is the best course of action
The traction
his mind’s wheels spin on
aint gin on
ZACHARY THAYER
53
POEM
Convince ourselves of
And delve not
Into the meaning and reality
But we
Accept what we hear
With our mind but not our ear
Which tells only the truth
And not what the mind chooses to interpret
Though what some believe is sometimes correct
Connect
The dots in the right order
The border
Precisely aligned
ZACHARY THAYER
54
POEM
It’s only by luck
Like a duck
That happened to be nearby
When “oh, my”
Old miss brown
On the ground
Dropped a piece of bread
Jazz A one-in-nine billion chance
Might be advancing exaggeration but it isn’t all bad
Just an idea
Might be a thing they’ve even talked about in psychology magazines
I don’t know, I’m only speculating.
What I do know is
The kind of mental stimulation
it takes to make a difference
is smaller than you could ever possibly imagine...
Jazz is a feeling,
more than anything else.
It isn’t music,
it’s a language...
And all you have to do is subvert
Convert
Alert him to a new reality...
— Enos Payne
... yours
ZACHARY THAYER
55
POEM
ZACH THAYER
67
AFTERNOON
Infant Eyes Of Wayne Shorter
Christopher Scott
wail on it.
blow it out.
push it,
push it.
it’s no time for being shy.
but wail on it gentle
and push it easy.
let it speak for itself,
let it walk you around, too.
you’ve got
a nice sound brother.
and you’re telling me
where to go,
and i’m following.
i am, i am.
i’m following you.
trying to erase
the entire room of the people
and the tables
and the wooden stools
and the glasses of scotch.
i’m trying
to get ‘em outta here.
to leave us be.
leave the music.
leave the smoke,
crawling through that air.
kiss it,
just enough
for the sound to brush the cobwebs
of the empty room,
full of music.
you’ve sure got it now,
sure you’ve always had it.
who am i
but the lone ghost in the back,
sitting in that old dusty room,
enjoying the sound you were born with
and i could die just listening to.
© Bruno Bollaert
57
WAYNE SHORTER
CHRISTOPHER SCOTT
58
POEM
We’ll All Be Together Again Of McCoy Tyner
Christopher Scott alright moon light.
dark room,
lamp
high in the back.
alright soulful
dark man at the piano
letting his fingers speak.
mouth closed,
eyes shut.
alright soulful,
alright music.
let me in on your heart.
keep on,
send me in your head.
what kind of world you at.
sweat beads
like rain drops
bubbling on a window
on the skin of your face,
alright jazz.
you feeling anything yet
or has the music
got you numb
to everything else
but
those
white & ebony keys
and the jazz.
alright jazz.
alright moon light.
lamp high in the back.
alright soulful
dark man at the piano
letting his fingers speak.
it’s about time
someone
brought us all home.
© Gisle Hannemyr
59
MCCOY TYNER
CHRISTOPHER SCOTT
60
POEM
Where Are You? Of Dexter Gordan Christopher Scott
cooler than the cool air
waiting for the show
grooving to the groove there
blowing out the smoke
sitting all relaxed
hat tilted back
cigarette in hand
and the sax is on his lap
drummer’s got his smile on
leaning on the cymbal
don’t need the music on the stand
makes it too simple
you gotta struggle to play it
it’s gotta be hard and be tight
this way, everything you’re saying
is that much more right
he’s waiting for the smoke
to dissolve in the bright light
then he’ll play, and what he’ll say
will be that much more right
© Herman Leonard Photography, LLC
www.hermanleonard.com
61
DEXTER GORDON
CHRISTOPHER SCOTT
62
POEM
Remember Of Hank Mobley Christopher Scott the beer,
the box of bones
and the black shades
laying on the floor.
he’s feeling something
and it’s something worth feeling.
the sax laid out across
the foldable chair
like the man
crouched
in the middle of it all,
at ease.
elbow on knee,
sucking on a cigarette,
treatin’ him sweet.
no stage,
no crowd,
no page,
no loud.
just a beer,
box of bones,
black shades
and a man
laying on the floor
feeling something,
and it’s something worth feeling.
My poems are dedicated to my Mother, God, all of my Family, Jesse Patkus,
Mr. Wells, Teresa Curley Beaudoin, my Father, Mr. Scarpone, Mrs. Rodrigue,
everyone from Seeds of Peace, my friends from the Cony Class of 2010 & my
friends from my two semesters at Berklee, my Grandfather Gilman (RIP), my
Grandmother Gilman, Ancient Aliens, AKA & Prestige Worldwide, August
& Brunswick, Maine and Greenfield & Boston, Massachusetts. May you all
stay loved, inspired & blessed. Thank you for giving me all three. And to all
my brothers and sisters serving our country in the Armed Forces,
somewhere in the middle.
Thank you.
© BLUE NOTE
63
HANK MOBLEY ALBUM COVER
CHRISTOPHER SCOTT
64
POEM
Moscow
Sean Chaucer Levine (twilight)
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
—Robert Frost
Well I had a red haired girl from Moscow
And she said “doo doo doo doo doo doo doo I love you”
Well I swear, while you’re in your underwear
I love you too, oh yes I do
And I had a fair heart and mind to leave you
But you said “doo doo doo doo doo doo doo I love you”
Well I must confess, while you’re in your night dress
I love you too, oh yes I do
And now the sun is down, and who can turn my frown around, not you
You left me, now that’s absurd, I’ve moved on, or so you heard, it’s true
Well my red haired girl moved up to Boston
And she said “doo doo doo doo doo doo doo I love you”
Well I swear, while you’re living way up there
I love you too, oh yes I do
Oh what a big surprise, the tears cascaded from your eyes as proof
Please, oh please, just take me back, I’ve been a fool, I’ve always loved you
too
Well my red haired girl moved back to Moscow
And I said “doo doo doo doo doo doo doo I love you”
She said, “I don’t care, you’ve been unfair”
Please forgive me, I’ve been such a fool, but I love you
Oh yes I do, oh yes I do, oh yes I do, oh yes I do, oh yes I
Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo
doo doo doo.
SEAN CHAUCER LEVINE
66
SONG LYRICS
Inea / Mr. Putsu Andrew Hill Author’s note: The original concept for this piece came from the musical The
Last Five Years. In that musical, two characters tell the story piece by piece, one
from the past to present and the other from present to past. Here, Inea’s story
moves backwards in time while Mr Putsu’s story moves forward in time. In The
Last Five Years, the characters meet in the middle of the story, but I wanted my
characters to meet near the end, which, I think, heightens the suspense.
Inea held her breath. She saw nothing but dark galaxies in front of
her. Eyes, squinted so painfully shut that her tears even failed to escape the
pressure. It really does take forever, Inea thought, as her neck started to strain
and she noticed the weight of her head. She held completely still, until the
galaxies faded away.
. . . two weeks earlier?
“Mr. Putsu, your standards don’t meet up with our expectations.”
Words spoken by the man standing kitty corner to Putsu, a drill press, and a
topless babes calendar.
Putsu remained silent.
“You know what I mean? I mean what you call ‘good,’ we call
‘crap,’” the man explained. Putsu took a hard breath as he watched Ricky’s
eyes dart between the calendar and Putsu. The man kitty corner to Putsu, a
drill press, and a topless babes calendar began to get nervous. “Ya know, your
father, when he built this place . . .”
“Alright!” said Mr. Putsu, cutting off the man mid-sentence, “I’ll do
whatever you want me to do. I need this job, my family needs this job.” Mr.
Putsu grabbed a drill from the shelf next to him.
The man stepped back and smiled, ”Okay, alright, good. This isn’t
the first time I’ve been out here, but I hope it will be the last. You’re a good
man. I’d hate to see this fall through for you. I’ll expect then that Mr. . . . ,
oh, what’s his name . . . Orlandi . . . that Orlandi’s car will be fixed up and
ready in two weeks, and I mean really fixed up, no cut corners, no excuses.”
“No excuses,” Putsu said, as he turned his large frame around,
ANDREW HILL
67
FICTON
moved between the man, the drill press, and topless babes calendar into his
shop.
After the man watched Putsu slowly walk away, his attention turned
to Ricky who was staring at the calendar. “Nice, huh?” the man said to Ricky.
Ricky darted his eyes, “Nah, that’s for old people.”
11:00 pm
Each hastened step was a fifty-fifty chance at the end of it all. Inea
ran. She ran the triathlon of her life, every bit of experience learned in her
fifteen years of life led to this moment. She felt more alive than ever before.
Time was finally understandable, slow and expected in its passing, then a half
slip to wake up from daydreaming. “Damn skate shoes. Damn laces.” As if
running in the rain wasn’t tricky enough, untied shoes with flat soles did her
no favors. “Damn rain, damn grass.” Darting around two large trees and a
shed, Inea rounded another dark corner into a stability-dance to stay upright.
“D . . d . damn mud.”
Inea’s eyes had adjusted enough to see trouble spots in the terrain. To her left were stairs up a hill. To her right were sand and blackness
that probably meant water. Straight ahead looked iffy as a few trees and an
embankment hid more blackness. Left. Inea never looked back. She felt as
though she was training again for high school cross country, intervals up
and down stairs, then three-mile runs to cool down. “Did my coach think
of situations like this when training us?” That was it. Final transmission from
thoughts to speech.
11:00 am
Chrome twenty-twos. Italian Shoes. Orlandi took a dramatic step
into Putsu’s custom car and repair shop. Not a dramatic step because stepping
was difficult nor because he was putting on some sort of show; it was entirely
the white suit Orlandi was wearing that took the situation up a level. Orlandi
had stopped in to pick up his car, which had not only been repaired by Putsu
after Orlandi’s recent accident, but had also just been fitted with brand new
chrome rims.
ANDREW HILL
68
FICTION
“Hi,” Mr. Putsu said, already bringing up the bill for Orlandi’s car.
“Again, I have to thank you, Putsu, for allowing me to delay this bill
for so long. Things have been difficult lately for me and my family,” Orlandi
said, peering around Putsu’s bulk to see who else was working. “Where’s little
Ricky?”
“School,” Putsu responded mindlessly while circling all the places
for Orlandi to sign.
“Ah. Right. I’m glad he’s makin’ something of himself. God knows
he doesn’t want to end up working here for the rest of his life.”
Putsu eyes finally met Orlandi’s face. “Comes to $7,311.16. Sign in
all the circled areas. “S’pose I didn’t need to mark ‘em for such an educated
man as yourself. I’ll be right back.” Putsu turned to an unknown destination; he wanted to move away from Orlandi’s all-pervading whiteness. Putsu
walked between the aisles of car parts, labeled and categorized with the
hardware-decimal system, and toward the break room where fake-judge reality shows were still on from his morning break.
Grabbing a diet Coke from the mini-fridge, he headed back to the
counter. Orlandi was gone. Putsu walked slowly to the counter and read over
the note Orlandi left with the check, “Thnx again Putz-u. If you want the
rest of the money, meet me in the back of the shop at 7 pm tonight.” Putsu
started at figure on the check. $20.
9:00 pm
Inea awoke in a start that jolted her body upward to where face met
mesh. What the hell? She tried to open her eyes but she couldn’t see, her bed
kept moving and she couldn’t stretch herself out. Then she figured out what
was ailing her body. She was in a bag. Oh God! This realization was met by a
speed bump as her body was flung into the air and down onto a much harder
surface than she was previously situated on. Hard edges under her shoulders,
hips, elbows. She was obviously in some sort of automobile . . . boxes . . .
and her arm was warm. Flashing off-white light highlighted torn mesh and
torn skin, bleeding. Re-situating her body to face the hole, she pulled with
both arms at the gap. Tearing it wider and wider until she could get her head
through the tear and then her arms, hips, feet.
ANDREW HILL
69
FICTION
She surveyed the area correctly detecting she was in the back of a
van. A wall with a window separated the space in back from the two front
seats. No backseat but lots of boxes and tools. Her arm now began to really
sting as she realized the skin had been cut by some loose danger on the floor
of the van. Finally grasping the situation, Inea went still. Should I put my
head up and see where I am or wait til we’re wherever we’re going and bolt
out the door? If I roll when I hit the ground could I survive? It seemed like
the van was going pretty fast. Inea decided to look for some sort of defensive
weapon for the moment when the van slowed enough for her to jump out.
Carefully, Inea searched the darkness for whatever cut her arm while she was
in the bag. She could see different tools shining in the passing lights. The
tool that had cut her was a circular saw blade. That’s no good, Inea knew as
she motioned, throwing it like a Frisbee. All Inea could find was a hammer
and a flat-head screwdriver to defend herself from whatever assailant met her
attempt to escape.
The van slowed. Inea’s heart rate skyrocketed as she momentarily
forgot the severity of the situation. She crouched low as the man driving
the van rapidly slowed down and turned right. Inea wanted to look out the
side window to see where she was, but the man now kept half his attention
on the road and half looking through the window into the back of the van.
When the van slowed enough that Inea thought she could make a break for
it, blinding light shined through the windows of the van. She could now see
everything in the van, including her own blood on many of the boxes.
I gotta go. I gotta go now!
Inea opened the van’s backdoor, and blinded by the lights, fell
forward out of the van. She heard the van screech to a halt, she heard the man
shouting, she couldn’t see where she was going, but she sprang upward and
ran.
7:00 pm
Putsu had considered not showing up. Any business Orlandi was
into was probably not business he was going to enjoy. But because Putsu
needed all the damn money he’d poured into Orlandi’s car, he returned to
ANDREW HILL
70
FICTION
the shop after a quick dinner. Putsu arrived at 7:00 pm sharp, and to his surprise, Orlandi was already there. When Putsu pulled up and parked, two other
cars left the lot. Orlandi, still in his car, motioned for Putsu to come over.
“Putsu, you’re a hardworking man. Your father was even more
hardworking than you. I hate to do this, but you’re just the guy to help me
out, whether you like it or not . . .” Before Orlandi had finished his sentence,
four men dressed in black suits stepped out of Orlandi’s car and walked over
to Putsu. Then they took hold of him, one showing he was carrying a gun.
Putsu tensed up but said nothing.
Orlandi continued, “Like I said, I hate to do this, but I have no
choice. A business associate of mine has been bustin’ my chops lately, and he
thinks he can get away with shorting me on deals. But see, I can’t do nothing
about it. Everybody likes this guy and I don’t to lose business. I just want to
see this guy pay for what he’s done. So, Putsu, I want you to murder his precious, ‘star athlete’ daughter.”
Putsu’s face went whiter than Orlandi’s suit.
“And you’re going to do it tonight. I have my associates outside of
your house right now. If you fail to do what I want . . . well someone’s gunna
end up dead tonight, and I’m sure you’d rather it not be little Ricky.”
7:30 pm
“ . . . which is why I think Abraham Lincoln was the best president
of them all.” Inea wrote the last sentence of her paper, saved, and printed
off the biggest bunch of BS I’ve written yet! She took a moment to reset
her head after all of that writing and checked to see if any of her friends were
online to chat with. As she began to pack her backpack for tomorrow’s day
of school, she heard a car pull up to her driveway. Tom’s here!
Inea ran down the stairs and grabbed her present for Stacy’s
birthday party. Inea had been waiting all day for Tom to pick her up to go to
Stacy’s golden birthday party. Checking the dog dish as she passed to be sure
the collies had food and water, turning off the lights, and locking the door,
she ran to Tom’s. . . van? She paused for a moment. Did Tom take his dad’s
work van? Who else are we picking up? Shrugging off her doubts, she ran
to the other side of the van that said “Putsu’s Auto Repair” and opened the
ANDREW HILL
71
FICTION
door.
7:36 pm
Putsu grabbed the girl and pulled her into the passenger side of the
van. Inea screamed and pulled, but she was cut off by a thwack to her head
that left her unconscious.
Putsu didn’t what know what he was doing anymore. He was sure
he wouldn’t go through with it, . . . but she just climbed right in the van, and
then she screamed, and I had to do something! Putsu was breathing so heavily he felt lightheaded as he shut the door and drove the van away from Inea’s
house. Looking over his shoulders constantly to see if anyone was following,
he drove the van forward in no particular direction, trying to open up the
paper Orlandi gave him.
35 East. Exit 235. Right at Century. Right at Industrial Blvd.
Enter the “Apogee Direct” complex and look for an open garage door.
4:00 pm
Inea returned home from school. “No practice today?” Inea’s father said.
“Nope! And it’s November 16! Stacy’s birthday party tonight,
GOLDEN birthday, everybody’s going. I’msoexcited!” Inea said, running
passed her dad and up the stairs to her room.
“Hey! Your mom’s got dinner planned for five o’clock, and I don’t
want you to miss it. Your brother will be home and it’d be nice for you to be
there for once, even though I won’t be there.”
“Yeah,” Inea called from the top of the stairs.
“And be sure to get any homework done if you’re going to be out
late tonight!”
“Okay, Dad,” Inea’s reply echoed from her room.
“Inea, I have to head out now, and I’ll be out ‘til real late. I love you.”
Inea’s father looked down at his hand, the necklace with a golden
pair of running shoes dangling from his fingers. He said to himself. I‘ll just
give these to her tomorrow.
ANDREW HILL
72
FICTION
Shadow
Crystal Shoener
Lights up. Woman 1 is on the platform. All other actors are on
the floor, frozen.
Woman 1: When I was little, I remember going to the dining room often to
read and re-read a little wooden plaque that my mom had hanging on the
wall. It read,
“O God,
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.”
I didn’t know what it meant then
Woman 1 walks off the platform and into the other people, all milling around
and walking New York style.
Woman 3: People are interesting. We hurry to and from various locations,
always in a rush, and looking down because we would much rather avoid eye
contact than make it. Everyone is afraid of emotion. Say one thing, mean
the other. You’re having a great day…but you’re really paddling frantically in
a pool of suicidal thoughts and you can’t seem to escape the cyclone in the
center.
Woman 1: I’ve met so many people in my life who think that crying is a show
of weakness, but I couldn’t disagree more.
´6XPPHU6HWµ$OOHQ'XSUDV
Woman 3: Crying is a release of pent up emotion;
Woman 2: a way to let the pressure out of your soul.
Woman 1: I cry so often in movie theatres and other daily activities that I’m
pretty sure I’ve mastered the art of silent sobbing.
Man 1: I mean, it’s really only natural. It’s your body’s way of expressing
emotion.
Woman 3: Cry if you want to. There’s no use trying to be brave. We’re all
human, after all.
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Woman 2: To me, it’s a release. There’s no shame in it – you feel the way you
feel and that’s that.
All: But I never cry in public.
Blackout
Lights up
Enter Man and shadow and Woman 1 and shadow.
Man: I just….don’t know what to do. I can’t find a job, so I’ve been resorting to this. And now, I owe some big people a lot of money. I have to go out
tonight to do a job. It’s going to be pretty dangerous.
Woman 1: Again? But you promised me you wouldn’t. Not after last time.
They beat you so badly that you forgot who I was. Or did you forget that,
too?
(silence)
Please be careful.
Man: No
Woman 1: What do you mean, no? I don’t understand why you can’t quit doing this and get a real job. You know. A legal one.
Man: You know it’s to late for that. I’m going.
Woman 1: You can’t! What about our life? What if you never come back? You
might never come back!
Exit man
Woman 1: Be careful!
Woman 1‘s shadow rests face in hands and weeps, while saying snippets of
thoughts such as “why couldn’t he say he’d be careful?” and “oh God” and
“what am I doing to do?” etc
Woman 1 walks away from the scene and faces the audience.
Woman 1: I never knew how much of what he told me was true, or what was
a lie. He told me that he considered people to be pawns, and if he said what
those pawns wanted to hear, they’d move (or in this case, react) the way he
wanted them to. And I was no different. So I guess every part of our relationship was an illusion. On his end, anyway.
Blackout
Lights up
Enter Francesca. She is in a pretty summer dress and is very graceful.
F: Hello! Welcome! My name is Francesca. I enjoy kittens and I really like to
take kayaks out into the middle of the lake – it’s quite relaxing. Would you like
to go on a picnic? Or to the park to swing? We could do anything you like! It
would be wonderful, don’t you think? I know…let’s go to the candy store.
I could buy us some sweets. That would make everyone happy, wouldn’t it?
Wouldn’t it?
She skips offstage. Blackout.
Man: I’m not. They don’t know you exist, and I’m going to try to keep it that
way. You’ll be safe. And you’ll go on without me. You’re strong enough..
Lights up
Two couches. Two girl shadows enter during the beginning of Woman 1’s
monologue. They are on one couch, silently laughing and carrying on. One
girl shadow is alone on the other couch, unmoving and seemingly unnoticed.
Tries to get the attention of the other girls but is either ignored, or the other
girls signal for her to stop talking.
Woman 1: You don’t think you’re coming back tonight…do you?
Woman 1: Honestly, I’ll tell you why I was so distant. Well, why it began
Man: You’re right.
Woman 1: You don’t sound… worried.
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DRAMA
CRYSTAL SHOENER
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DRAMA
anyway. I felt so ugly. I felt, so, so unpretty with the two of you there. First it
was her, becoming solely obsessed with the way she looked. And I thought I
would be ok because I still had you. Sure, everyone wants to look really great,
including me, but you were normal about it, and so was I.
But then you jumped on the bandwagon. Exercising every waking moment.
The dieting. The pills. And you can tell me you had nothing to do with those,
but at the very least, you encouraged it.
And my God. I felt…disgusting. I have never felt so uncomfortable in my
own skin in my entire life. And I knew that you two talked about it whenever
I wasn’t there. About how ugly I was, how fat. And I couldn’t take it. I could
hear everything you two would say in my head, and the tears came so often.
You should have never told me what she said. I still can’t forget it.
“If she gains any more weight, well, I just don’t know what she’ll do!”
Say you stood up for me all you want…but I know you better than that. I
think you just let her say it, and I think you agreed with it.
I sank into a deep depression that winter. And you didn’t even notice until I
told you. I couldn’t believe I had to tell you. Why doesn’t anyone just notice?
And when I told you, I wanted your help. I wanted you to lead me out. You
were always the strong one. But I had no help there. You had a new best
friend.
(Everyone except Woman 1 freezes)
Before we all moved in together, I was so confident with my body and I loved
myself, just the way I was.
Now I can’t make it one day without hating myself for it.
Blackout
Lights up! Woman 1 is onstage, Francesca skips in.
Enter Francesca (with candy).
CRYSTAL SHOENER
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DRAMA
F: Oh! You’re still here! I’m so glad. I’ve got some candy for you, see?
She sits down, cross-legged on the ground.
F: The world is a beautiful place, isn’t it? You can see beauty in everything if
you look for it. Do you know…I don’t hate one single person on this planet.
Everyone is fighting a different battle, and you never really know what someone is going through. So why not be kind?
Woman 1 sits at a keyboard, practicing a song. She plays steadily for a few
minutes, and then messes up one time.
Woman 1: What the FUCK! Fuck this, I’m never going to get it, I might as
well just quit, …why am I even trying to learn this? I mean, I will never use
this in my life. Honestly. SonofaUGH! I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this. I will
never be able to do this.
She hits the keyboard hard, and pushes her music to the floor in her anger. After a few moments, she begins to sob, and slowly gets down to pick the music
up off the floor.
Woman 1: Why can’t I do anything right… I give up.
She walks offstage. After a few moments, she walks back onstage, sits back
down at the keyboard, and begins again.
F: Aren’t the stars simply breathtaking tonight? It’s crazy. There are so many
up there! And to think that someone in…Indonesia or something is looking at the exact same ones…well, that is amazing to me. What if that person
is my soul mate? I suppose I’ll never know, him being in Indonesia. Hmm…
Indonesia. Isn’t that the part of the world where people are starving? Or is that
just Africa. Heck, we even have that here in America. I don’t understand that.
Most of us have plenty of food on our tables – enough to throw quite a bit
out! …so why are there people that don’t get any food at all? (thinks about
this for a moment) I know! I’ll hold a benefit! Or something! I could get a
team of people together to make sandwiches for the homeless shelter down
the street. That’s a good idea, isn’t it?
CRYSTAL SHOENER
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DRAMA
Blackout
Lights up.
Woman 1 and Counselor are seated on two chairs facing one another.
Woman 1: I don’t understand. Things were going so well between us for so
long. I mean, I was giving him advice on how to get a girl at his camp to like
him! You know? Normal ‘good friend’ conversations. But then, during our
video chat…he looked into my eyes –right at me! - and essentially called me a
bad Christian. And that was two months ago! I can’t stop crying about it…
Counselor: Why are you so hurt by that? He’s just one person, right?
Woman 1: Well, of course he’s just one person. But…haven’t you ever met
someone, and felt like you’ve known them forever? Like…you knew them in
Heaven before your souls came down to earth. (counselor nods) That’s how
it was with me and him. We are so alike! But every couple of weeks he tells me
he can’t talk to me anymore. I don’t know what to do.
Counselor: Can you make him talk to you?
Woman 1: Of course I can’t make him, butCounselor: Can you make him want to be your friend back?
Woman 1: No, but…
Counselor: You really like to be in control of situations. Would you agree?
Woman 1: Well…I wouldn’t say it like that.
Counselor: But, if someone is feeling bad, you try to make them feel better,
right?
Woman 1: Yes.
Counselor: I would say that acting is a form of controlling, too. You control
an audience’s feelings.
Woman 1: I don’t think of it like that so much…
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DRAMA
Counselor: But?
Woman 1: But yes. I see what you’re saying.
Counselor: You didn’t do anything wrong in this situation. This person is, for
whatever reason, choosing not to be friends with you. And that hurts, and it
hurts even more because you don’t know why. If you knew why, you could fix
it. Right?
Blackout, remove chairs
Woman 2: How did you think rehearsal went today?
Shadow 2: Yes, please. How did you think it went?
Woman 3: Oh, it was ok. How about you?
Shadow 3: You sounded so much better than me. Why is the choreography so
much easier for you?
Woman 2: Well. It certainly could have been better (laughs), but I’m sure it
will get better next week.
Shadow 2: I mean, maybe if you had your shit together. I can’t believe I
thought it would be a good idea to rely on you. I mean, did you even practice
the routine?
Woman 3: It definitely will be. I’m going to take the rest of the night to work
on it, actually.
Shadow 3: I’m terrible at this. I’ll never make it in this line of work. What was
I thinking? I think…I think I quit.
Woman 2/Shadow 2: Hey, you ok?
Woman 3: Oh, yeah. Of course! Just a little tired from today.
Shadow 3: No…
Woman 3 and Shadow 3 leave
Shadow 2: I hope I didn’t cause that. I must have caused that. She must have
sensed my hostility. Ugh! Now I feel terrible. I was just upset from earlier. She
CRYSTAL SHOENER
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DRAMA
sounded great. I should have been encouraging her. I’m a terrible person.
Woman 1 crosses in front of Woman 2 and Shadow 2 as they exit. NO
BLACKOUT.
Woman 1: Do you ever sit there and just wonder about life? Specifically, do
you ever wonder what it is about you that makes people sort of…skim over
you? That’s not what I mean. I don’t know what I mean. Well, yes I do. Ugh.
Let me try to explain it again.
If I decide I want to be friends with somebody, I don’t half ass it. I try to know
them as deeply as I can. I can read a slight change in a friend’s tone of voice in
a split second, and know exactly what it means.
When I get close to tears, I roll my head, like this. Someone told me that it
helps to release tension in the neck, so now it’s become somewhat of a habit.
No one knows me well enough to know that means I’m about to burst out
crying. No one takes that time. Why? I’ll never understand.
But then again, you’d think I would learn. After years of going that extra mile
to show someone they are loved and getting nothing in return, you really
think I would have learned my lesson by now.
But I don’t think I could be any other way. I love people. I just get…really
lonely sometimes.
(Enter Francesca. Throughout the rest of this scene, there will be moments
where Francesca mimics Woman 1’s actions, and moments where Woman
1 mimics Francesca’s actions. It should be unclear which is the shadow and
which is the person)
Woman 1: I feel like no one understands me.
Woman 1: Time! Time is an illusion. Have you ever needed to a huge task
done, but you put it off for hours because of how long it would take? And
then, when you finally got around to doing it, it took you a half hour? Yeah.
Time is an illusion.
F: Tell me what’s really wrong.
Woman 1: I want to feel like I’m needed by someone. Somewhere. Anywhere.
F: (takes her hand) But you are needed. You are loved. Where has your fire
gone? I know you better than this. When someone says you can’t do something, what do you do?
Woman 1: (chuckles a little) I tell them…like hell I can’t!
F: That’s right. So, you’re feeling a little beat down today. That’s ok. Everyone
has their bad days, and you have every right to feel down in the dumps. But
you’re going to perk right back up! You’re going to bounce back and hit them
all in the face with all the passion that’s in your heart!
Woman 1: You think so? What if…no one shows up to the benefit concert
next week? What if we barely raise any money? I don’t know what I’ll do…
F: No, no. None of that. Let’s say our favorite prayer together.
Both: God,
grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
the courage to change the things I can;
and the wisdom to know the difference.”
F: Oh, come now. Of course people understand you.
Woman 1 walks offstage with a smile on her face and a spring in her step.
Francesca waves to the audience and leaves behind her.
Woman 1: Not deeply.
Le blackout.
F: Well, no one understands anyone else deeply, do they? People try, but there
isn’t the time…
CRYSTAL SHOENER
81
DRAMA
CRYSTAL SHOENER
82
DRAMA
Cancelled Plans
Melissa Oakvik
(evening)
Live not for the-end-ofthe-song.
Live in the along.
—Gwendolyn Brooks
You said you wanted me
When you winked at me
Your hands shook when you asked for my number
It was only seconds till you called
And cancelled all your weekend plans
You said you wanted me
When you kissed me
You told stories about all your slick moves for an excuse
It was only seconds till you leaned in again
And cancelled all your sleepin’ plans
You said you wanted me
When you showed up five hours early
You said you needed help drinkin two bottles of red wine
It was only seconds when offered another glass
And cancelled all your sober plans
You said you wanted me
When you drove miles to see me
You made sure to come on time
It was only seconds when our eyes locked
And you cancelled all your yieldin’ plans
You said you wanted me
When your face grinned wide
You made sure to tell me I was beautiful in my little dress
It was only seconds when your face turned red
And you cancelled all your thinkin’ plans
You said you wanted me
When you simply told me
You didn’t believe love could be returned
It was only seconds that you wanted to give it a shot
And you cancelled all your doubtin’ plans
Then the flip switched the clocks, and we were all mixed up
The lines were all gray with fear
No one could understand
You didn’t remember
Intoxicated
You said you wanted to leave
When you had given up on me
Your heart was broken and scared
It was only seconds till you ran away
And cancelled our lovin’ plans
Fingers pointed my way
Truth couldn’t be dealt out
It was my fault for falling in love
You didn’t remember
Intoxicated
MELISSA OAKVIK
84
POEM
Peanut Allergies Paul Rousseau
Was it as easy for you
As it was for me
To drop your defenses
And live our lives out eagerly
The over anxiety from my loves lack of piety
Or better yet how I tried to populate her minds society
And I curse the day you realize your heart has no vacancy
Undermining the unmotivated prayer of “God wont you kill me please”
Understand that your art is something to guide you through the thick and of the
filling
Of the cup that was once half empty, but now has shattered and is spilling
With the idea of an image
We both dreamed to consume
The dark goddess
Breathing new life into my futures sullen bedroom
But the way her mind acted as prison guard for what her heart truly wished
This tiger was trapped in a cage of life’s never ending vanquish
On the floor, that I lay
Head like a ball of clay
The summer was a time for me to digest all that was on my plate
Music and syllables to describe how I felt when you looked me in the eyes
Still sit in my note books but I no longer ask the reason why
And I gave with my heart
My will behind my ideals
Every artery embroidered on my arm slowly splits and spills
The red liquid that we both seemed to hunger
My music and my words that breast feed this god-forsaken thunder
The concept of time appears to lose all of its meaning
Distances in space are
Disregarding and demeaning
For the depths that I’ve reached
Engulfed in this woman’s shadow
As she gently cut the cord to my everlasting battle.
With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A murder of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go
I didn’t know better
From the decomposition that you dealt
The anger, lack of pride and destruction of myself
Left behind, no longer
No time for this distress
I’m moving forward through this desert
On my everlasting quest
With life
With love
With all of the above
Scapegoats and memories in a field of push and shove
A murder of myself, the things I can’t control
If love controls my fate, then let my future go
And I wish I could hate you
But I’m too busy trying to relate to
Your brains past events that caused
This corruption of the person we all knew
So true
But now the feeling of fear in your heart
Has single handedly reattached the strings of puppet manipulation to your
trembling arms
PAUL ROUSSEAU
85
RAP
PAUL ROUSSEAU
86
RAP
Peroxide and Apologies Jess Pauly
You know, I’ve never had normal fingernails.
I don’t think there has ever been a day where I haven’t chewed or clipped
my nails down to nothing (excluding the many attempts to quit). It seems I’ve spent
my whole life arguing with my mother over this issue, and clearly I have won every
argument. As a 15 year old, I once became so bothered by my mom’s pestering, that
I chewed every nail to the point of bleeding just to spite her. I subsequently spent the
remainder of the night soaking both hands in bowls of hydrogen peroxide and surprise,
surprise made my mom’s argument about quitting stronger.
That night started off like any other; I was on the floor doing homework and
my little brother, Jake, was playing on his Xbox. When the garage door angrily inched
open and filled the house with the sound of metal scratching metal we knew that mom
was home. The scramble to clean up any mess that had developed in the last two weeks
of her absence began as the clock ticked down to the door opening. We managed to
throw the majority of problem items downstairs but when the door opened the first
thing we heard was the huff of her breath as she found her first dilemma to fret over.
“How many times do I need to say that the instruments stay in your rooms?”
she shouted through the house. I inched around the corner and grabbed my guitar as
Jake snatched his clarinet out of the laundry room while my mom dragged her suitcase
through the tiny door to the kitchen. It hit the floor with a thud as my pointer fingernail
hooked onto my lower front tooth.
“The house is a mess.” She seethed through closed teeth; “do we live in a
barn?” I heard the satisfactory snap of the fingernail and thought carefully on my answer
before nudging Jake in the back. He carefully snuck out of the room as I stepped over to
the counter and sat down.
“Mom,” I said calmly, “the house isn’t that messy. I’ll finish the last of the
dishes before I go to bed and Jake just took his crap upstairs and I’ll take my stuff downstairs when I head to bed, no worries.” I snuck my middle fingernail into the same spot
where my pointer had been not too long ago.
“That’s not the point.” She spat back.
“Was the trip that bad?” I whispered.
“You know the answer to that so don’t be a smart-ass and get yourself to bed
it’s after nine already.” She huffed as she retreated to the stairs. The stomping patterns let
me know when it was safe to check on Jake as I simultaneously heard the same comforting snap of the nail before heading upstairs.
“Hey dude-man you all fixed up for bed yet?” I called through the closed
door.
“Just a sec bruddah.” He said in his usual mocking manner. The door clicked
and swung open with a creak a few seconds later. “Can I stay on the floor tonight?”
“I don’t think that’s a grand plan now that mom’s home. You could probably
get away with sleeping in her room but I think you should sleep on your bed like the
normal people do.” I retorted as I snuck my ring finger into the familiar spot.
“Fine, fine whatever.” He responded with a huff.
I retreated to the living room as my finger slipped and I caught my tooth on
the underside of my nail and caused a painful pinch to run through my fingertip. Damn.
I thought, as I tasted blood. Mom’s going to notice this one. As I rounded the corner
JESS PAULY
87
CREATIVE NONFICTION
I sat down to watch the remainder of my show before heading to bed. The TV volume
was as low as possible but she still heard me. She slammed the door shut behind her as
she came downstairs.
“Didn’t I tell you to go to bed?” she shouted. I hesitated and unknowingly
stuck my thumbnail into my mouth followed by a snap of the nail. My mom launched
forward and slapped my hand away from my mouth. The red mark stung on the back of
my hand where her fingerprints were barely visible. “How many times do I have to tell
you to stop chewing those damn nails?” I grabbed anything within reach, including my
cat, and bolted to the basement door slamming it behind me and locking it shut. I heard
her pound her fist on the door in frustration before she sat and took a few deep breaths
then headed back to bed. She must have finally exhausted herself. I thought to myself
and went to work.
Snap by snap the pain increased as the length of my nails shortened by the
minute. Finally I couldn’t chew them any shorter and out came the fingernail clippers.
I snipped away as much nail as I could without causing unbearable pain. After about 20
minutes I sat back and looked at the mess. My yellow bed sheets were stained with tiny
droplets and smears of blood and I finally realized how much my fingertips hurt. I snuck
upstairs and retrieved the extra bottles of hydrogen peroxide (you know the little brown
bottles with the science words on it) and poured out each bottle into a separate bowl. I
spent the next two hours soaking both hands in the bowls. To describe the pain would
take a lot of swear words and a lot of time.
In short I spent most of that time crying and after I was done soaking my fingers I had to go through the process of bandaging them (one of the many talents severe
nail biters are forced to learn quickly).
The following morning my mom woke me up. I nearly screamed when I
woke up and found her in my room, though it shouldn’t surprise me that she knew
where a key was to the door. She apologized. It was one of the first times I hadn’t had
to apologize and it felt weird but good all at once. She said she had had a stressful day
and that she wasn’t fair to hit me even if it was just my hand. She asked to check my bandages, which I carefully declined to allow. The last thing she said to me before she left for
work that morning stuck with me for a long time.
“I know it’s something you feel you have to do but know that I want you
to stop. There are a lot of things you do that you shouldn’t and I realize that they are a
comfort to you that I have no right to take away. You can do whatever you want to do
just be sure it’s really what you want to do.”
The bandages came off a couple weeks after the incident and I can honestly
say I didn’t chew my nails for about a week after and it wasn’t just the fact that my
fingers were still very swollen and tender. I knew she wanted me to stop but as hard as I
tried I knew I’d have to want to stop to succeed. I couldn’t stop chewing them then and
I’ll continue to chew them until the day I don’t feel the pressing need to anymore. It’s
a comfort, a stress reliever, and a control, but I know I made my mom smile that week
that I quit. It didn’t last but it was a start.
JESS PAULY
88
CREATIVE NONFICTION
Double
Harley Patton February 12th
8:00 PM
I have decided to keep a journal. To keep from talking to myself.
Out loud. On the subway. I don’t want to be one of those guys. You know
the guy. He looks at you, and then you look back and he just keeps looking,
right through you. And he talks to you, or you think he’s talking to you,
except really he’s talking to his mother. He says it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t
his fault. You know the guy. You’ve seen him.
So I figure if I can get my thoughts down in this book I can hold
them in during the day. Quarantine.
Better start this off right.
My name is Mathew Jacob.
I’m 23 years old. My mother’s name is Deloris. My father’s name
was Henry. My mother tells me she met my father on a subway. It was a
Sunday. She remembers that. When he sees her on the subway, he greets her
by name. “Hello Deloris.”
She’s never seen this man before. “How do you know my name?”
He blinks and tells her she just looks like a Deloris.
Can you believe that?
I work at a corner store across town, Lou’s Market. The owner’s
name is Mark. He’s a big man, about 50. Used to be a butcher before he cut
his pinky off. Now he owns a market. Says he named after his uncle because
“Mark’s Market” sounded too gimmicky. I’ve been working for Mark for
a couple of years. It’s pretty nice. I don’t have to talk much. And I make
enough there to pay for this little apartment. It’s a bottom floor corner. My
neighbors are okay. They just leave me be most of the time.
February 14th
6:47 PM
I saw my grandmother last week. My mother’s mom. Jeanie. My
mom hasn’t been around for a while so I’m the one taking care of Gramma
Jeanie. She’s been real sick, something with her lungs.
So she got out of the hospital again last Monday, and I went to pick
her up. I got her out to the car without any trouble. The first time in a long
time I didn’t have to help her walk. I had been talking to her but she hadn’t
said a word to me. She didn’t seem to notice I was there.
So I got her in the car and put on some classical music and then, as
we were driving down the highway, she says “Henry.” Just Henry. I asked her
if she misses him. She just shook her head and stared out the window.
When we got back to her house she was agitated. Kept digging
through all the drawers and everything, going through the sofa cushions.
She kept saying, “You’ve never seen his face!” She was getting so
out of breath and I was worried, but I hadn’t seen her with that much energy
in months. I didn’t know what to do so I went to the kitchen and called her
attendant. She said she’d be right over.
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By this point the living room is a wreck, junk thrown all over the
floor, chairs turned over. So she goes to the closet, says, can I grab that tin for
he? She’s got this old metal chest tucked way up on the top shelf. So I grab
a chair and go up there to get it. It weighs a ton. Got this big metal padlock
on it, all rusted. She tells me open it. I tell her there’s no way I can open this
lock, it’s about as big as my fist. So she says, “Keys!” and gets up and starts
running around again.
Luckily the caretaker showed up and was able to mellow Jeanie
out a bit. She told me that she could take it from here so I said goodbye to
Gramma and got up to go. Jeanie grabbed my by the sleeve and told me,
“Take the box!” She said she thinks my mom has the key.
So now here I am, sitting at my desk, with this chest. I’ve been
pounding at the lock for days, can’t get it off. It’s all I can think about. I’m
sure it’s just a bunch of old pictures. Maybe there’s a picture of my father.
February 18th
11:36 AM
Gramma Jeanie died day before yesterday. In her sleep. She was 84.
I’ve arranged the funeral for tomorrow and I still haven’t heard from Mom.
I tried calling her several times. Keep getting the voicemail. She said she was
going on a vacation. Somewhere tropical. She said she was going to go to the
airport and buy a ticket to somewhere. That was three two weeks ago. I’m
starting to worry a bit, I don’t know where she is. And her mother just died.
I told Mark I was keeping a journal to keep myself from talking to
myself. He said I don’t get out enough. All I ever do is sweep his floor and sit
at the park. I like to watch the birds. I like the way they walk. The way they
all agree with each other, bobbing their heads. I like their oily feathers and
the way that dirty puddle water just bounces off of them. They all look like
doubles of each other.
February 18th
1:45 PM
Mark says he used to have a journal, in college. He said he told it
all his secrets. He said that he went through all his old journals when he first
opened the shop, to see if any of his secrets were still secrets. I asked him what
he found in there. He told me to keep my own secrets. I will.
Secret 1: I’m a virgin. It’s probably not much of a secret, but I’ve
never talked about it with anybody.
Secret 2: I’ve sometimes thought that I’m crazy. But everyone says
that the crazy ones don’t know they’re crazy. I guess I’m not. But I see things
that other people don’t sometimes.
Secret 3: I don’t really like to make friends. People don’t really like
to be my friend. I think I give people the creeps. I’ve only had a few friends
my whole life. And all of them are dead now.
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Well my lunch break is over now. Mark says I need to put the goddamn pencil down and go clean the restrooms.
February 19th
9:00 PM
Gramma Jeanie’s funeral was this morning. Mom wasn’t there. Not
many people were. I don’t know my family very well. I wish Mom would
have put together the funeral. She would have been much better at it.
The pastor asked me to say a few words. I didn’t know what to say.
I said that Jeanie was an old woman and she had lived a good life. I said that
she was in a better place now. I think that’s what you’re supposed to say at
funerals.
We had a reception at the funeral home afterwards. Mark came,
even though he wasn’t at the funeral. He was wearing a suit. I’d never seen
him in a suit before. He brought me a beer and told me I could take as
much time off from work as I needed. Then he left. My uncle was there, my
mother’s brother, Leo. He hugged me and told me I had made a beautiful
speech. I asked him if he knew where my mother was. He shook his head
and walked away. Mostly Jeanie’s friends from the library came. Old bookish
women with wigs. None of them spoke to me. They just stood in a circle and
chattered.
After the funeral I went for a walk in the park. I was thinking about
Gramma Jeanie. She always used to tell me when I was little that I was a twig
in a cup of water. I always asked her what she meant. She would just smile
and say “Sweetie, you’re just a little crooked.”
I thought I saw Newt in the park today. He was feeding the pigeons. He had less hair and he was fat. I called out to him. It wasn’t him of
course. Newton’s been dead for a very long time.
February 20th
1:23 AM
I can’t sleep. I have too much on my mind. I’ve been lying in bed
for hours. I’ve been thinking about Newt, and Jeanie, and the chest she gave
me. I still can’t open the damn thing.
I met Newton in the sixth grade. Everyone called him names. Like
Snake Boy. He was my only friend and I was his only friend. After school I
would go to Gramma Jeanie’s until my mom got home from work. Sometimes Newt would come with and we would sit on the living room floor and
build Lego sets. We didn’t talk that much but we’d tell each other jokes.
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in a hot tub?
A: Stew.
Newt died when we were in the 8th grade and it was the first time I
ever thought that I was crazy. He died on a Saturday.
On Friday, we had the day off for parent teacher conferences.
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The last time I ever saw him was that Thursday when we went to Gramma
Jeanie’s after school.
I had been feeling sick that day so me and Newt were walking pretty
slow. We were almost to my Gramma’s house when suddenly I felt dizzy
and tripped. I hit my head on a rock and cut my forehead. Newt helped me
up and I looked up at him with blood in my eyes. He was bending over and
holding out his hand to me.
Half of his face was gone. No left ear. A big hole in his head instead
of an ear and his eyeball was hanging out. Blood was running down his neck
and getting his shirt all wet. He tried to speak to me but part of his jaw was
missing and all that came out were wet gurgles. I screamed and got up and
ran away as fast as I could. I got to Gramma Jeanie’s and she cleaned me up.
I was shaking so badly she told me to go rest in the living room and watch
television.
I was flipping through the channels, forcing myself to take deep
breaths when I heard the doorbell ring. I heard Gramma Jeanie’s voice as she
opened to door for Newt. She asked him about school, he said everything
was going well except for English class. He didn’t like the book we were reading. My friend came and sat down with me. His face was whole. We didn’t
say anything. We watched television and waited until his mother came to pick
him up.
That was Thursday afternoon. On Saturday morning his mother
took him into the city to see the dinosaur exhibit at the American Museum
of Natural History. He had been telling me about it at school all week. He
wanted to see a T-Rex tooth. He said they were as big as your hand. As Newt
and his mom were waiting for the subway, Newt lost his balance and fell onto
the tracks. There was no time for anyone to save him. The train ran over his
head. But I didn’t know any of this until Monday when my mother told me
Newt had been killed.
February 22nd
9:35 AM
I didn’t go to work yesterday. I’m not going to go to work today.
I feel too dizzy. My thoughts are all mixed up like a deck of cards sprayed all
over the room. It’s a task to pick them all up and count them. I still haven’t
heard from my mother. I really need to talk to her. I don’t know where to go.
Yesterday I got up early. I had had a dream about Mrs. Watson.
I haven’t dreamt of her in three years. She looked like she did on the day I
graduated from high school. I was terrified. I called Mark and told him I
wouldn’t be coming in to work. He told me again I could take as much time
as I needed. Mark is a nice man.
I took the train to the city after breakfast. I brought Jeanie’s chest
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with me. She wanted me to open it. I took it to a locksmith and asked if there
was someway he could make a key for the lock. The man hesitated; he asked
me questions. Like the chest didn’t belong to me. Like I was a robber. I told
him it was my grandmother’s chest and she gave it to me before she died. He
said he would do his best and that I should come back in an hour.
I walked to the park and bought a newspaper. I sat down on a
bench to read, and I began to feel spider legs on the back of my neck. I
rubbed my neck. The feeling persisted. I shivered and turned the page. I
was being watched. I got up and began to walk through the park. An older
man sitting on a bench was reading the paper just as I had been. I watched
a couple about my age laughing by the fountain. A man on a cell phone. A
woman pushing a stroller. Two teenage boys throwing stones.
Then I noticed a man with red hair, standing against a tree and
smoking a cigarette. He had a large scar on his cheek which made his skin
ripple into a strange kind of smile. He held a briefcase in his hand and was
dressed in a brown suit. He darted away from my glance and began to walk
away. He seemed hurried. I followed him. He walked through the park and
took a right down an alley. I copied. He looked back at me and sped up his
pace. He was nearly running. I called out to him but he paid no attention.
Instead he doubled his pace, sprinting down the alley now. I tried to keep up
but I began to lose him. We came out of the alley into a busy intersection.
He skirted around a crowd of pedestrians and ducked into a coffee shop. I
followed suit, but when I got there he was gone. There was no back door.
Out of breath, I bought a cup of coffee and sat down to finish my
paper when I remembered the locksmith. I didn’t know exactly where I had
ended up so it took me a while to get back. The man held up a tiny brass key
and I paid him. I put the key in my pocket and took the train back to my
apartment. I tried the key. It fit perfectly.
Inside the chest were three folders. One labeled “Letters” another
labeled “Pictures” and a third with no label. I opened the folder labeled
“Pictures” first. Inside was a large stack of photographs held together with a
rubber band, which crumbled in my hand when I tried to take it off. On the
top of the pile was a picture of my mother, obviously pregnant, standing next
to a man with red hair and a large scar on his cheek. They were both smiling;
he had his hands on her stomach. I flipped the photograph over and on the
back I saw my mother’s handwriting:
Deloris and Henry. 1983
February 23rd
1:30 PM
I came back to work today. Mark is glad to have me back. Said he’s
been lonely the past couple days. He keeps asking me how I’m doing, like
he’s writing a report or something. Sometimes Mark asks me unusual questions. Just now, before I took my break, he asked me if I’d ever seen some-
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body die. I told him sort of. I thought about Newt. And Mrs. Watson. Mark
doesn’t need to know about them. I’ve never told anyone about that.
I’ve been feeling anxious today. I can’t seem to stay still. Mark told
me I should quit working so hard. Mark says things like that, he’s funny. I
think writing in this journal helps. Helps me think. I used to just walk around
the park and talk to myself. Or sit and talk to the pigeons. I like this better.
It’s a bit like writing letters. I used to write letters to my father when I was
younger. Because my mother told me he was in Europe, working for a newspaper. I always wondered why we didn’t go to Europe with him. She said
that it wasn’t that simple.
I stopped believing that my father was in Europe a long time ago.
He never called. Or answered any of my letters. Or sent Mom any letters. My
mother never even showed me a picture of him. I searched through her room
when she was out of the house a million times, looking for a picture or a note
or even a piece of paper with his name on it. I guess she put their relationship in that chest and gave it to Gramma Jeanie. The one that’s sitting on my
kitchen table.
February 29th
8:13 PM
Today is February 29th. This year is a leap year. A solar year is longer than a 365-day calendar year by almost 6 hours. So every four years we
add an extra day to the end of February so that our calendar still marks the
seasons. I learned that from Mrs. Watson. She liked to talk about leap years
because she was born on one. Today is her birthday. She would be 48. But
really she’d only be 12.
Usually, I try not to think about her. But today is her birthday. And
I dreamt about my graduation last week. It’s always the same dream. Except
it’s more like a memory because the dream is exactly what happened.
Mrs. Watson was the librarian at Watershed High. I used to sit in
the library a lot after school while everyone else was out parking their cars
and smoking dope. She was the one who recommended I read Lord Of The
Flies by William Golding, my favorite book. We would talk a lot. Usually it
was just the two of us in the library. She was a short woman with dark brown
hair, which she wore up in a bun on the back of her head. She wore glasses
and was always chewing gum. I liked her. She didn’t ask me questions about
myself. We would talk about other things.
The principal of my high school, Mr. Davis, ran into a tree while
skiing in Colorado over the holidays my senior year. He broke both of his legs
and had to spend the rest of the year being pushed around by his wife, which
wasn’t really that unusual. Mrs. Davis was on the Board of Education. He
didn’t return to school all year and at graduation, Mrs. Watson handed out
the diplomas.
Graduation took place in the gymnasium. It was a large room, but
not very well ventilated. We all wore black robes, it was very hot. This is usually where my dream begins. Me sitting in the gym at graduation, sweating.
I hear Mrs. Watson calling out names. Anthony Hartford. Michael Howard.
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Sarah Ingleson. Mathew Jacob. I stand up and look at Mrs. Watson. She’s
wearing a blue dress and orange earrings, our school colors. She’s holding my
diploma in her hand, smiling.
I look down at my feet as I take the first few steps towards my diploma. I
plunge my hands into my pockets, which are filled with Kleenex. My mother
told me to do that so my hands wouldn’t be sweaty when I had to shake
hands.
I look up at Mrs. Watson. Her hair is let down and it’s curled. She
doesn’t have her glasses. My gaze drops to sneak a glance at her chest; I have
never seen her in a dress before. As I look, the skin beneath her pearl necklace begins to ripple. Like dropping a stone into a puddle, ever so slowly. I’m
about ten steps away from her when I hear a loud clap of thunder. It seems
to move through the air slowly, like smoke. I stop walking. I look around to
see where the noise came from and I feel someone sneeze on me. This hot
spray. I wipe my face and my hand comes down red. Blood. I look at my
feet and see a pearl roll to a stop against my shoe. I look up at Mrs. Watson.
Her mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wide. There’s a big whole in
her chest, like her heart exploded. Blood is coming out and it’s pooling up
around her cleavage, spilling down the front of her dress. I fall to my knees
just as she does. Our eyes meet and she reaches out to me, diploma in hand.
Then she falls on her face.
This is usually when I wake up from my dream. But in my own bed.
That day, the day I graduated, I woke up in a hospital bed. My mother told
me I passed out half way across the stage. She said they had to pause graduation and call an ambulance to take me to the hospital. She said everyone was
worried about me. She didn’t say anything about a man with a gun. When I
asked about Mrs. Watson, my mother seemed confused. She told me to get
some more rest.
Two days after graduation I read in the paper that a local woman
was shot in the back while attempting to flee a gas station that was being
robbed. She died. Her name was Eleanor Watson. The suspects had not
been apprehended.
was my father. My father is alive. He is in New York. My father is alive and he
is in New York. I don’t know what to think. My mother is gone, but now my
father is here. At least he was last week.
I still haven’t read through all the letters. But from what I have read,
I have gathered they are letters from my father, written to my mother. The
first one is dated a few months after I was born. The last one is dated the day
of my second birthday. I am going copy the letters into this journal. The first
one is fairly short.
February 29th
11:25 PM
I was going to sleep, but writing about Mrs. Watson has made that
difficult. I guess I should write about all that has happened in the past week.
I haven’t written anything because there has been so much to think about. I
haven’t known where to start. I still don’t.
I couldn’t bring myself to look through chest for a couple days. I
told Mark about it. Not everything. Just that my grandmother had left me a
box of pictures. He said it is good to remember people. To remember family.
I finally looked through everything two days ago. First I looked at
all the pictures. Many of them are of my mother and my grandmother. Some
very old ones were of my grandmother and grandfather. But there were a few
of my mother and the red-haired man. I now know that the man I chased
March 1st
9:00 AM
Last night I dreamt of my father. We were running through the
park, but we were running together. We ran with urgency. There were men
behind us.
I long to see him again. I cannot think of anything else. I am sitting
in the park now, under the tree where I first saw him. Having read his letters,
I feel as though I know him now, even though I’ve only seen him once my
whole life.
I brought a briefcase with me this morning. I bought it at the
haberdashery on 6th street three days ago. A brown leather briefcase. Like
my father was holding. It makes me feel close to him. Inside are the con-
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Deloris,
I hope this letter reaches you. I don’t have much time, but I’d like to try to
explain. I know I left in a hurry. You must believe that I did so out of necessity. I
would never abandon you like that if I didn’t have to. And our son. I am so sorry
I wasn’t there to see him born.
Del, you must never tell him about me. Never. Do not show him any pictures
of me. This is the way it has to be.
I admit I wasn’t entirely truthful with you. This must come as a shock to you
but I want to tell you as much as I can. I’m not from Florida. My parents aren’t
dead. I never went to college in New York.
Really, I am not from here at all. Not the here that you know. Ever since you
met me, I’ve been a man on the run. I thought I had managed to escape for good
when we settled down together. But my old life has caught up with me. If I had
stayed with you, I would have put your life in danger. I cannot let that happen. I
cannot bear to lose you again.
Please believe this as the truth Deloris. I can’t imagine how hard this must be
for you. I love you so much. I will write again when I can.
Forever yours,
Henry
P.S. You may write me back but I cannot guarantee that your letter will find me.
I must stay on the move.
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tents of Jeanie’s chest. The pictures. The letters. And the doorknob. I don’t
understand it. The third folder, the one that had no label, contained nothing
but an old rusty doorknob. It has turned green with age and has an ornate
carving on the front of it. In the center are three letters ---. Under the letters
is a phrase, which I cannot read. Terminus Patronus. I have spent hours just
looking at it. Holding it in my hands. Feeling its weight. It is very heavy.
Sometimes I feel dizzy when I hold it for very long.
I haven’t been to work in a few days. Mark called me last night to
make sure I was okay. He told me not to go anywhere. Not the leave the city.
He said he wants me back at work soon. I feel restless, like something is going to happen.
The second letter is dated almost two months after the first one. It
appears that my mother managed to send him a letter.
My dearest,
I received your last letter just before I left the motel! It was so good to hear
from you, even though your words were sad.
I am glad young Mathew is doing well! I’m sorry he is crying all night. I’m
afraid I can’t tell you much more than I did in my last letter. I think it better
that you don’t know much, it is safer that way.
There is one thing I do need to tell you. I left something very important with
you when I went away. A doorknob. It is very old and made of steel. I do not like
writing about this, for fear this letter could be intercepted, but it is imperative
that you know. I’ve hidden it away in our house. Remember the place where you
spilled a whole bottle of wine our first Thanksgiving together? It is near there. I
hid it well, but you must find it. When you find it I want you to get it out of the
house. Put it somewhere safe. Somewhere you are sure no one will ever find it.
Somewhere where it will never be disturbed. Do not tell anyone where you put it.
I am sorry for all the mystery. I hope to come back to you one day, Deloris. I
miss you terribly. I think about you before I sleep and I dream about you every
night. Give Mathew a kiss for me.
Will write again soon! I love you.
Always,
Henry
I think I’ll go back home now. I’ve been sitting here for two hours. No sign
of my father.
March 4th
5:38 PM
These past two days have been a motion blur. I am at the Hilton on
Charles Street in the city. I’ve been here since early yesterday morning. I have
been waiting.
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Two days ago Mark called me and told me to come into work immediately. He sounded distressed. I drove across town right away and when
I got to the shop the lights were off and the front door was locked. I went
around back to grab the spare key from the drainpipe. It was about eight
o’clock and it was dark. I didn’t notice Mark standing by the back door until
he said something to me.
“Mathew. We must be quiet.” It startled me. But I wasn’t scared.
Mark was wearing a suit but his hair was disheveled and his eyes wide.
“Do you have the Turnkey?” he asked me, still standing in the shadows.
“The what?” I replied.
“The doorknob, Matt! Do you have it?”
I had brought my briefcase with me, but I left it in the car when I arrived. I
started to ask Mark how he knew about the doorknob but he cut me off. He
said that I must get it. I told him it was in my briefcase, in the car. He swore
to himself and didn’t say anything for a few minutes.
Then he turned to me and said “Matthew, go back to your car.
Drive to the gas station down the street and buy some gas. Do not talk to
anyone. Do you understand?”
I said yes and asked him what he was going to do. He told me he
would meet me there and that I shouldn’t leave without him. I was very
confused and I had many questions but I had never seen Mark act that way
before.
I went back around the building, I had parked my car on the street
in the front. As I was getting in I heard a noise. A soft kind of cough.
It was as if someone had leaned up to me and whispered in my ear.
“Bring us the Turnkey.”
I immediately got into my car and drove off. When I got to the gas
station, I did just as Mark said. I went in and paid for my gas. I went back to
the car and started to fill my tank. A man I had never seen before stepped out
of the car beside me. He had dark hair that was slicked back across his head.
He was wearing a long coat.
He called out to me, “Have we met before? You look strangely
familiar.”
I didn’t respond, Mark had told me not to speak to anyone.
He continued. “Did you hear me, guy? I said I think we know each
other.”
I didn’t say anything. He shrugged and went into the gas station. I
finished filling up my tank as I saw the man coming out of the gas station. I
went to get into my car and I saw Mark hustling towards me from across the
street. I pulled up beside him and he got in the car.
“Drive!” I drove. I began heading back to the market but Mark told
me to get on the highway. I asked him where we were going.
“I’m not sure yet. But we’ve got to get away from them,” he said,
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nodding his head towards the back of the car.
I checked my rearview mirror and noticed the car I had seen at the
gas station two cars behind us. I asked Mark, “Who are they?”
“They’re just fucking bureaucrats. They don’t even know who
they’re chasing,” is all he said in response. I got on the highway and went
north. We drove in silence for several minutes. Then Mark said something
strange. “Your father has always loved you Mathew. I know that he’s sorry for
not being there for you.”
I changed lanes. “Do you know my father Mark?” I asked. Mark
chuckled.
He said, “Yes Matthew. I’ve known your father since the old days.
Since before everything got so muddled up.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. Mark glanced out the back window and told me to take the next
exit. “I think we can lose them.”
“But I don’t know where we are! How will we get back to the
market?” I asked.
“We’re not going back to the market, Matt. They know about the
market. We can’t ever go back there,” Mark responded, gravely.
I thought about this. “Mark, can I go back to my apartment?”
Mark looked me in the eye. He said, “No Matt. Things have taken a
turn for the worse. You father was discovered. It may have been my fault. But
they’ve taken your mother and they plan to take you too. We need to get to a
safe place.”
“Mother’s on vacation!” I exclaimed.
“Have you heard from her? Gotten a postcard? Spoken to her on
the phone? Anything?”
“No, but she told me she was going on vacation before she left. It
was very strange. She said she was just going to go to the airport and buy a
ticket somewhere.”
“I’m sorry, son, but your mother never went on vacation. She
went with them. And I don’t know where she is. Pull into this diner.” We
were driving down an old, dimly lit street. There was a lonely looking all
night diner up ahead. I turned into the parking lot and we went inside. We
sat down in a booth in the corner. The seats were covered in old translucent
plastic and they crinkled as we collapsed onto them. Mark ordered two cups
of coffee and we began to talk.
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(night) Though my soul may set in
darkness, it will rise in perfect
light; I have loved the stars
too fondly to be fearful
of the night.
-Galileo Galilei
Rave
Sarah Burk
“Do you live here?” the sentry asked as he peeked an eye
through the door.
“Huh? Umm....yeah,” I said.
I heard It from blocks away—pulsing and insistent with an arrogance that states rather than invites. The Bottom Beat was holding court
and I was about to enter its domain and submit to its authority.
The sensations of throbbing bass pumped through thousands
of watts are most extraordinary. When I was a teenager at my first rock
concert, I was surprised and thrilled to feel the pulse in my sternum, but
this experience blew that away. This time, It infiltrated my entire body and
commanded that basic functions such as breathing would operate according to its dictates. It was dangerous to be there with The Bottom Beat
ruling respiration, palpitating my heart and threatening to close off my
throat with its thunderous vibrations. How could anyone dare to dance?
That requires complete relinquishment, but promises passage into another
dimension. The body cannot operate on its own terms when The Bass is in
control.
I stood there “motionless,” reveling in the sound waves that
danced all over me, visibly rippling my skin and flapping my nostrils. I
laughed at how my clothes moved in the pulsing sonic wind, inspiring me
to sing “ah” like a child does with his face in a fan, delighted at the filtered
sound effect. Then I closed my lips and a deep internal hum resonated
throughout cavities that pulsed from external manipulation.
The 3-D Bass Experience is most curious. How is it that I heard
the beat at one pulse, and felt it in my chest on the off beat? My ears and
chest are parts of the same body, so why was the Bottom Beat experienced
in two parts? And why did this not change with the tempo of a song or
my proximity to the speakers? How can this big sound pound in such a
consistent dichotomy? Don’t the laws of physics state that the relationship
SARAH BURK
101
CREATIVE NONFICTION
of time and space dictates the rate of refraction?
All I know is that I sought out The Bass like a lover. I’d visit
other rooms to try a fling with a different timbre but kept returning to the
back room where It never let me down, despite some teasing. I’d desperately beg for more when It dropped out of the mix and then moan like
an addict catching a rush when it resumed its coursing through my veins.
And like a gentleman, It accompanied me to my car blocks away and said
good-night.
It seems the affair isn’t over. The next day I listened to a CD that
a DJ gave me at the party, and the moment I heard The Bass, my body
remembered all of it. It was bliss all over again with a bittersweet craving
for the force of a monster sound system. I may have lied to the sentry that
first time when I arrived as a visitor, but now the Big Bottom Bass lives in
my flesh.
SARAH BURK
102
CREATIVE NONFICTION
An Epic Battle with the Goliath Leviathan Ashley Wiermaa
acrylic on canvas
ASHLEY WEIRMAA
103
VISUAL ART
ASHLEY WEIRMAA
104
VISUAL ART
Beautiful Mess Jackson Weyrauch lyrics to a song I wrote about my car crash
im going in circles im lost in this world im not very familiar
with the place im in
ive got plenty of gas so im not worried, im heading down
to the beautiful city
i pull up in the parking lot i lock all the doors i look back
at the beautiful mess
my future turns darker and im so clueless, i had no idea what
path i had taken
now why cant i see that its way to risky flying down
the highway risking my own life,
your life is in your hands your hands are holding the people
in the back seat.
but god has spared me one more time and ill take his advice
and be true with my life
and why cant i see that its way to risky flying down
the highway risking my own life,
your life is in your hands your hands are holding the people
in the back seat.
six inches of space is all that i had to get out, i look back
at the beautiful mess again,
im so ashamed my friends almost crying and glass
i shattered all over the ground.
JACKSON WEYRAUCH
105
SONG LYRICS
JACKSON WEYRAUCH
106
SONG LYRICS
decorative veneer yesha townsend
Harold Crumb Adam Conrad
there’s a scattering of ornaments
I occasionally adorn my years with
to beautify
the time
as it slinks, skulks
hangs on my shoulder
Chris Jopp’s film Harold Crumb, approximately 22 minutes long,
takes us on a psychological journey as our main character Harold, a fortune
cookie writer, battles with creativity and loneliness. Without much dialogue,
the entire film without dialogue relies on visual and auditory motifs to help
bring us to a conclusion regarding what happens to Harold. The film stars
Rich Love as “Harold Crumb” and Shannon McDonough as “the woman
in yellow.”
every now and then it needs
a thing
to make it worth looking at
My job as composer of this film was tough because I had to speak
for the emotions that Harold was feeling. Often the scene was left ambiguous
as to how the audience should feel or how Harold was feeling. When it WAS
clear how our main character was feeling, it was usually two or three conflicting emotions. Without dialogue, I had to fill a lot of the space with music. To
organize it in my mind, I broke the film into three different “Acts”:
it always seems
to acquire a battering after following
the fall of my shadow for a while
1. Introduction to Harold and the girl in yellow,
2. Harold’s dilemma, and
3. His resolution.
so
to swap a bruised eye
or a fallen lung for a dazzled trinket
is a good enough cover
I created a melody for Harold that was a kind of klutzy and awkward
waltz, and a very simple melody for the girl in yellow. Then I created two
patterns of notes (sort of like tone rows) that I used to decorate the scenes of
his conflicts. The instrumentation I chose, (oboe, piano, cello, and percussion) suggested the color of creepy and awkward that was appropriate for the
tone of the movie. I wrote every cue by hand and did my best to explain and
play the scenes on the piano to the director. In studio two at McNally Smith,
I conducted the players to the film without a click track so as to have more of
the “natural” or older style film score sound that was popular in “The Golden
Age” of Hollywood.
an acceptable guise
People involved:
Adam Conrad: Composer/Conductor
Ben Kelly: Supervising Producer
Graham Wakeman & Dane Hoppe: Engineers/Mixers
Kathryn Knuttila: Piano
Mickey Mangan: Oboe
Cory Grossman: Cello
Dylan Jack & Alex Vaughn: Percussion/Prepared Piano
YESHA TOWNSEND
107
POEM
ADAM CONRAD
108
FILM SCORE
Harold was spying on the woman in yellow as she was digging to put something in
the ground outside. He took a Polaroid of her but in his excitement, it dropped out
the window, where another, younger girl in yellow found it and picked it up. Here, he
takes a break from writing fortunes and admires the few Polaroids he still has in order
to discover the mystery behind the woman in yellow.
Harold is a very introverted person who stays locked up in his room most of the time.
As a result, he hears noises from all over the building, some real, some just in his head. In
this picture, Harold is becoming paranoid and hearing the small room he is encapsulated
in, come to life. Every little noise makes him more nervous than the previous. Soon he
will discover the woman in the yellow dress lives in the room next to him. The question is,
what is her motivation and why is she so concerned with Harold?
CHRIS JOPP
109
FILM FRAME
CHRIS JOPP
110
FILM FRAME
ADAM CONRAD
111
FILM SCORE
ADAM CONRAD
112
FILM SCORE
ADAM CONRAD
113
FILM SCORE
ADAM CONRAD
114
FILM SCORE
ADAM CONRAD
115
FILM SCORE
ADAM CONRAD
116
FILM SCORE
(midnight) If the moon smiled,
she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
of something beautiful, but
annihilating.
—Sylvia Plath, “The Rival”
ADAM CONRAD
117
FILM SCORE
Holo Samuel J. Goldberg (The Rapture Kid)
Daphne and Sampson
Ross Charmoli
Misinterpreting graves,
They throw knives and the aid,
This selfless fate, this sense of shade
cold blankets, old pillows
they itch like mace
Misinformant about the torment,
this fellow cage where life is dormant,
dull gates and rusty streets,
limbo on into interment sleeps
smoke stacks rise,
ash billows down,
parts of friends lowered into the ground,
reopened scars, developed frowns,
if this isn’t death then what is hell
Necks worn from the wooden rests,
backs torn from the kissing whip,
half dead, minds asleep.
Drone kicks in
Becoming holorust,
what’s left behind is holodust,
a moment in passing, we must,
nothing left, holo us.
SAMUEL J. GOLDBURG
119
POEM
ROSS CHARMOLI
120
INK AND MARKER
Daphne and Sampson
Ross Charmoli
February froze
cracking copper
door handles
wave goodbye
winter white
flutter by butter fly
Quite timber home
be aware
it’s time to let go
pack purple marmalade
don’t ask
which direction to take
back
gone once you close the gate
awaiting warming cold
happily throw
another log on the coals
Tired brittle bones crotchet
colors of the rainbow
Running out of room
Neatly knitted
fabrics over flow
Alone I am
with the ghost of him
must have been a million days,
oh goodness how i’ve aged.
will you recognize me
after all has changed?
Once the snow melts
return to the burial elm
your tears were felt
bring you here by hand
I’ve forgotten your face
My Sampson
Your touch has escaped
Me Sampson
I’m awaiting May
to pass on
dyed spools of sheep’s wool
un-raveled in spring dew
ROSS CHARMOLI
121
SONG LYRICS
been there before
buried him myself
dirt darkened nails
slowly scrubbed out
roots of the elm
have him gently
wrapped up by now
what’s the use in trying
where what when why how is this happening?
who are you what tidings do you bring?
follow the forest path
dont look back
go slow
go go go past
youth
in a glance
we grow
too too too fast
do do do dance
listen to your words
released from your mouth
moving torwards
the sound
trust in times i’ve prayed
hope a difference made
you will recognize me
after all has changed
ROSS CHARMOLI
122
SONG LYRICS
“Oh God…” Sean Chaucer Levine fulfilled your half
wander the woodland
dull blades of grass
guard every step
SAMPSON!
Where is our sitting stone?
Where has our name carved tree gone?
something seems terribly wrong
ankles anchored in thick mud
frightened and frazzled
middle of a swampy bog
daphne your dazzled
coupled chirps of a cricket
brave steps towards the tiny bug
outta wet foggy thicket
cheeky chip monks pocket acorns up
misty memory
clouds cover every thing
how is it
i came to be
here with you
standing right in front of me
Most people cry out to God
Before they take their own lives
Not I, not I
I have far too much pride
“Oh God…” they say
With that look on their face
That look of disgrace
And they apologize
To the people who’ll cry
Who could’ve prevented their suicide
But instead let them die
Corners of the room close around me
Heartbroken, darkness has found me
I won’t run, I won’t cry
“Oh God…” says I, “Oh God…” says I
Am I such a coward? Am I? Am I?
daphne my darling
sampson my sweet
I love you
heavenly home
forever we live on
ROSS CHARMOLI
123
SONG LYRICS
SEAN CHAUCER LEVINE
124
POEM
The Cherry Tree
Oceanna Snyder
(dawn)
out of the darkness arrived
the sweet dawn
—Lauryn Hill
I washed my hands of your finger paints
And watched your grace run down the drain
Painted a mural above my window with the colors that remained
A sun to out-shine the darkness
That flows hidden through your veins
When your blood runs red then you know that it will stain
I ripped apart the paper
That held the venom of your words
Pieced together fragments that sounded slightly less disturbed
Held them up against the wind
Til every stroke of ink was blurred
When they reach you they will tell you what it is you should
have learned
I stood beneath a cherry tree
And breathed its springtime air
Picking petals from the buds ‘til every branch was bare
Planted them within your thoughts
And made a many-petaled snare
To catch a shred of love I know must be residing there
OCEANNA SNYDER
126
POEM
Excerpt from Breath of Life
William G. Franklin
Interactive Art/Music Improvisation & Solo Exhibition on Ta-coumba T. Aiken
Read between the lines, not just the words —Janet Aiken
Say it loud, I am black and I am proud —James Brown
Ta-coumba T. Aiken 48” x 60”acrylic on canvas, 2011
BREATH OF LIFE
127
VISUAL ART
In the McNally Smith College of Music Atrium on October 18, 2011,
Ta-coumba T. Aiken and a McNally Smith orchestra conducted by Jason
Kao Hwang improvised painting and sound in concert with each other.
This performance opened a solo exhibition of Ta-coumba T. Aiken’s
paintings from the last four decades, curated by McNally Smith faculty
member William Franklin.
. . . Starting his career as a realist in the 1960s, Ta-coumba executed
numerous drawings and paintings, copying images of football start Jim
Brown, Martin Luther King, and musicians and singers Taj Mahal, Sun
Ra, and James Brown. As illustrations to support himself, Ta-coumba
did portraits for many of his female high school mates, “celebrating their
greatness and beauty,” says the artist.
Ta-coumba worked primarily with acrylic paint instead of oil
because an allergy made his hands crack. His first canvases already showed
an eye-catching style and an advanced command of lines. Due to an
accident at age eleven that would impaired his perception of colors,
Ta-coumba turned to paint pens and ink, and opted to paint directly
from the bottles when having problems seeing colors. Others techniques
adopted by the artist include sgraffito (scratching surfaces), dry-brush, and
wetting the canvas to create a wash effect. The artist has always exhausted
the technical possibilities.
Inspired by the social vision of The Black Arts Movement in the
sixties, the philanthropic work of Dr. Jeff Donaldson, Howard University’s role in American history and Civil Rights Movement, and the work
of painter and educator Uche Okeke in Nigeria, Ta-coumba painted (and
continues to do so) with a strong sense of nationalism and pride for
African Americans. These and other important references opened a universal door for his art to serve as a vehicle to bring people together. . .
Ta-coumba’s art can be seen as emblematic, filled with movement
and symbolism, yet it is difficult to demarcate his style to a single notion.
What is essentially visible in his oeuvre is a synthesis of interior and exterior
realities expressed through undulant linear patterns, dotted surfaces,
and a unique color scheme. Hyperrealistic models of confluent lines and
layers seem to pervade his most recent work.
. . . By bringing particular attention to the rhythmic patterns of
his brush and coloration in his paintings, the show invites the audience to
consider and explore parallels between the visual arts and music.
Ta-coumba’s talent, dedication to his career, advocacy for the
arts, and ability to remain current is a true inspiration to artists in all fields.
It is with honor and pride that McNally Smith College of Music and the
friends of the show celebrate his life and work with an interactive art and
music performance with the artist followed by a solo exhibition.
WILLIAM G. FRANKLIN
128
BREATH OF LIFE
Breath of Life
Ross Charmoli
Written for Breath of Life Opening
Gather near, glad your here,
Gather near, ancient, innocent.
Friend, for cheer bend an ear
Atrium denizens, great gifted witnesses.
persons primitively, pre-emptively prepared for
“photon filtered flourished phonological flitted fantasy”
super liminal language, intrinsic, transformative.
splashes of our spirit
brushes of our body
melodies of our mind
Our hour our hour
Live art unified
Ta-coumba T. Akin:
A medium of ancestral guidance
A memorandum of life eternal
A monument of community revival
A mausoleum of absent ignorance
A museum of enchanting enlightenment
A master of allegorical inspiration
A monarch of metaphysical movement
Improvestra:
A conduction of immense intellect
A cornucopia of fruitful fingers
A colony of intwined intuition
A coronae of brazen brass
A combustion of patterned percussion
A couple of fluttering flutes
A combination of mystical musicians
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ROSS CHARMOLI
129
POEM
Panthers. Deer. Antlers. Talons. Pounce. Prance.
enter unknown wildernesses art extends
beyond quandary boundary foundries
Echoed internal visions answer
brain wave rhythms inflect ideas
moving emotional mountains
undulating mannerisms over mind matter
Observer.
Intention Power.
Directors.
Wonderful collection.
Tools at your tips.
light, shade, tone, time, pitch, color, line.
Project fittest interest
neuron nautical nervous system
umbilical skeletal compass spinning
longitude latitude solar prism
whimsical geometrical diadem
volcanic grown continent
flora fauna fertile hot bed
beautiful bountiful breezy
bubble blowing
faithful
Beginning
deep
Breath
of
Life.
ROSS CHARMOLI
130
POEM
Contributors’ Notes
St. Paul painter Ta-coumba Aiken is the force behind some of Minnesota’s
most beloved and acclaimed public artworks, including the Jax/Gillette Children’s Hospital mural, the Minneapolis Central Library’s tile fireplace, and the
north side’s Pilot City murals project. Working from black and white outlines, he
describes his process of coloration and shape building as “spirit writing” and his
usage of repeating imagery as “rhythm patterns.”
As an independent artist, Chris Bartels has developed a deep interest in every
aspect of creating and releasing an album. The 24-year-old Minnesota native has
spent hours upon hours of his life crafting different sounds and atmospheres with
electric guitar and writing songs on acoustic guitar and piano.
Chris fronted the Minneapolis ambient-indie band Letter And Lines, writing, engineering, and producing the majority of their debut album Vision.
The sonic landscapes of Vision are a testament to the atmosphere, imagination and creative detail Chris creates. Chris released his debut solo EP
Morning’s Gold in December 2011, combining elements of storytelling folk
with ambient textures.
For more information, about the albums Morning’s Gold, Vision, and his
other work, please visit chrisbartelsmusic.com
Lucas Beach is a first-year vocal major at McNally Smith and has been writing all
his life.
“And so he rose” is very personal for me because writing it forced me to
work through the toughest period of my life. This poem is all about the
immense power of one’s choices, and I try to make readers understand that
people always have the choice to heal themselves.
Jake Bolles is an aspiring songwriter and lyricist from New Hampshire, and is currently production major at Mcnally Smith.
The inspiration for these lyrics came from the connection between drowning in a relationship and in water. The feelings are so comparable that putting them into a song makes better sense of the situation.
Sarah Hohenstein Burk is a performing musician, theatre music director, playwright and McNally Smith College instructor with Bachelor of Music and Master
of Liberal Studies degrees from the University of Minnesota.
Adam Conrad is a composer and a conductor working in the Twin Cities area,
as well as a student at McNally Smith College of Music. Adam’s roots are in Los
Angeles, California, where, from the young age of eleven, he studied composition
techniques under the guidance of his grandfather, the legendary film composer/
conductor Allyn Ferguson. Adam has created a name for himself by scoring and
conducting many short films in Minnesota, Texas, Indiana, and California, writing arrangements for local artists, and collaborating on multi-media projects with
artists Brant Kingman, Ta-Coumba Aiken and with National Slam Poet champion
Sierra DeMulder. Adam is currently writing several live film scores, more arrangements, and working on a new theater musical to be performed in April.
Anastasia Davis is an inspired singer/songwriter/ rapper/ spoken word artist/
mentor/ lover and friend. With respect for the natural world around her, she
aspires to be a leader at the forefront of a musical revolution. She believes, the way
to make a difference in policy is by getting small groups together, and that this
can be accomplished through the outlet of music. She also created her own lyrical
genre, Neo-Freedom Soul, which is a new, multi-genre infused package of creativity, originality, and relatable content to individuals around the world.
Allen Dupras is an audio and visual artist constantly exploring.
A member of the McNally Smith faculty, William G. Franklin received a Master
of Liberal Studies (MLS) with a minor in Art History from the University of
Minnesota in 2002. He tailored this individualized degree to the examination of
Surrealism as an extreme development of several vital aspects of Modernism. He
also works as an independent art curator.
Samuel J. Goldberg (The Rapture Kid) of St. Louis Park Minnesota blood is a
writer who thrives on the world around him.
The Holocaust is a vivid chapter in my family’s history and this is
a representation of my imagination of the suffering during the
Holocaust.
Andrew Hill is a music Producer/DJ who writes stories for fun. He graduated
from MSCM in December 2011, and spends his time making and DJ’ing dance
music around the USA. Hear his music at www.soundcloud.com/nostalgia . Be a
friend/fan:) http://www.facebook.com/dnbnostalgia .
Anders Hoff is a fourth-year music business student.
“The Decision” was inspired by initial college experience at a Vermont preparatory college where I struggled with substance abuse. I would hope any
reader will take from this piece that it’s never too late to get help and that
you can always make the decision to change.
Ryan Horton likes a good mixture of really spicy and sweet flavors to satisfy
the pallet of uncategorized information.
Ryan Horton likes a good mixture of really spicy and sweet flavors to satisfy the
pallet of uncategorized information.
Anthony Cadiz is a man of mixed cultures.
“Hands of Time” started with a prompt to write a personification piece. I
chose to personify a grandfather clock and the story grew from there.
Ross Charmoli is a Minnesota native. Nubile and weathered. Art for Eternity.
Christopher Jopp is a filmmaker based out of Minneapolis. By day he works as a
commercial editor and by night he is an independant filmmaker, capturing stories
with a taste for the dark and whimsical.
See Jopp’s film Harold Crumb and hear Adam Conrad’s score at
http://christopherjopp.com/films/personal/
COMPOSED
131
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
COMPOSED
132
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
Sean Chaucer Levine enjoys John Adams and Ketchup, but he refuses to eat
either of those things.
The song “Moscow” was completely written from stream of
consciousness in the duration of the song’s total length (around 2 minutes
and thirty seconds).
Morgann Martinson was born and raised in a small town, loves to sing, dance,
and spend time with family and friends.
When I write, I am just relating everything that I write down to what is happening in my life. I use everyday experiences and emotions to make every
aspect of every piece personal and emotional. For this piece in particular, I
was using my experience with a man in my life. We, as women, tend to wait
for the man to make his move. We wait and wait, and we expect them to
act. But, that isn’t the case in every situation. I am still waiting.
Melissa Oakvik is a singer/songwriter who is currently studying piano and composition at McNally Smith College of Music, while she is also starting up a band
that performs her original music. For more information on her work, please visit
melissaoakvik.com
I write poetry to creatively make sense of the ups and downs of life’s crazy
journey. Sometimes these poems turn into lyrics for songs, and sometimes
they are left to stand a lone as mere words to reflect upon.
Atim Opoka is a singer/song writer.
This song came from a past relationship about the feelings I once had and
what I see when I look back. I see what happened as a lesson learned and not
a regret.
Harley Patton is a guy with a full head of hair. He writes stuff. With pencils.
Sometimes. He prefers cats to dogs, vanilla to chocolate, and he enjoys climbing
things.
Jessica Pauly writes fiction, and she has a strong interest in theatre.
“Peroxide and Apologies,” a personal essay, was inspired by
a class assignment.
Jayden Roberts This Drum Line is what I like to call Marching Bass Style to
help emphasize how marching basses are important too. The inspiration: I love
doing marching cadences on the drums. I’ve watched some other drum lines and
I thought of making some cool rhythms for the drums. This is also a dedication to
my band teacher who encouraged me to make music.
Paul Rousseau is a musican and writer from Andover, Minnesota.
I wrote this piece when I was influenced by a girl; our relationship was tense
at the time.
Michelle Schneider is a recent graduate of McNally Smith and lives with her
friends in St. Paul.
COMPOSED
133
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
Crystal Shoener is a singer/actor located in the Twin Cities with a particular
affinity for musical theatre, vocal jazz, and playwriting. She is a recent graduate of
McNally Smith College of Music, and is looking forward to performing in A Cappella Love this coming August at the Minnesota Fringe Festival.
Christopher Scott is a twenty-year-old Filipino Poet, Songwriter, MC & B-Boy
hailing from the North East (Maine and Boston).
By the time these are published, they’d have been written almost a year ago
exactly. They are four jazz poems. I would say Charles Bukowski, Nikki
Giovanni & Jack Gilbert were big influences at the time (and still are) for
me as poets. During this period, I had been going back and forth between
writing prose, spoken word poetry & raps. I was listening to a lot of jazz
music too, a genre of influence I had picked up while attending Berklee
College of Music as a freshman. A lover of music, artistry & black and white
photography, I wanted to to capture them all in a single poem, and all with
a jazzy feel. So I took these four artists that I really dug and was listening to
and chose a song that I liked by each artist, found a black and white photo
of them, and started writing. At the same time as I looked at the pictures
and listened to the music, I quickly jotted down everything I was feeling
and everything I saw, trying to put it all into words. These pieces are my
favorites of the poems I’ve written, and I suggest that you listen to the song
of the poem’s title, look at the photograph, take a deep breath and then,
and only then, to begin reading. Enjoy & thank you.
Oceanna Snyder is studying Music Composition.
Zach Thayer is an audio engineer, musician and enthusiast of all things shiny.
Adrian Thomas is an American rapper, producer, composer, and fine artist from St
Paul, Minnesota.
This piece was inspired by an overseas visit to Greece and Italy. It is about
admiring what you have and where you came from to get it, and when you
get it, kissing it on the forehead. Basically, count your blessings and celebrate
your achievements.
yesha townsend something something something poems, something something
something Lauryn Hill, something something Bermuda, something pizza.
Jackson Weyrauch is a singer, songwriter, and producer who is really energetic all
the time for no reason at all. He is from Stillwater, Minnesota.
“Beautiful Mess” is a song and a memory about my first car crash is a tribute
to my best friend Nick Sandor. It was the least I could do after almost taking
both of our lives.
Ashley Wiermaa Artistically known as Ocian, I am a singer, composer, visual artist,
and lover of all things sci-fi.
“An Epic Battle with the Goliath Leviathan” is acrylic paint on canvas.
COMPOSED
134
CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES
Submission Guidelines
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COMPOSED
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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night
till it be morrow.
—Shakespeare