Preface
The theme was life and death, so stakes were high for both the weeping mother and stoic husband. The conflict was a tug-of-war over deeply-held convictions, and so giving in meant betraying something dear and vital, one’s heart. The main character couldn’t speak for herself, only increasing the pathos. We saw the courtroom drama, the medical drama, and the newsroom drama. One event, countless stories.
And while Terri Schiavo was fading, the Pope too was passing from us. His death, also public and slow, had little conflict. He embraced suffering as a redemptive act and death as part of life everlasting. One event, countless meanings.
We often think of imagination as a rare gift of only a few people. However, sifting these situations for meaning, we all exercised our creative potential. It is a power we all share to connect what seems unrelated and to see what is possible. Simone Weil said, “Imagination is always the fabric of social life and the dynamic of history.” One gift, many expressions.
All the writers in Scop 2005 exercise this power in various ways, exploring powerful and ordinary moments for the dynamics of our entwined life. You’ll also see that their greatest tool in that work is emotional honesty, for as George Orwell put it, “For a creative writer possession of the ’truth’ is less important than emotional sincerity.”
This publication would not be possible without Student Government and its advisor Woody Knowles, for essential financial support; Bames & Noble Booksellers, Consumer Square, Big Flats for matching the awards; the Communications/Humanities faculty for judging prizes, soliciting manuscripts, promoting the whole effort, and protecting crucial funding; and Joyce Hallenbeck of Printing Services, who always creates a fine document each year.
Edward A. Dougherty Renee L. Gross
Assistant Professors in English Coming Community College
2005 Kenneth Miller Literary Awards Winncrs
The contest for the Kenneth Miller Literary Awards is open to all fulltime and part-time students at Coming Community College during the 2004 - 2005 school year. Entry into the contest gives permission for publication in SCOP. Judges read the entries anonymously, and their decisions are final.
f* oetry
First Prize
“Philosofigment” Mary Nangle Second Prize
“Sacrifice to the war god” Victoria Di Ana Murphy Third Prize
“The Grand Slam Hustle” James Doherty Honorable Mentions “hey blue eyes” Brooke Wilder “Perspective” Mary Nangle
fiction
First Prize
“The Man in her Closet, The Boys in her Jewelry Box” Holly Baker Second Prize
“The Bottle Cap” Dutch Sturdevant Third Prize
“Silent Cry” Katie Gray
Honorable Mention
“The Consummation” Mary Nangle
E_ssay
First Prize
Joey’s Boom Box John M. Meaney Second Prize
Cherished Memories Michele Rodriquez Third Prize
The Chess Game Drinald Bilcari Honorable Mentions
Locker Room Lessons Stephanie Specchio It’s Only Water Nancy Woodworth
Cover Art Holly Baker
Table of contents
The Man In Her Closet, The Boys In Her Jewelry Box... 1
The Bottle Cap........................................6
Silent Cry............................................8
The Consummation.....................................12
Philoso figment......................................13
Sacrifice to the war god.............................14
The Grand Slam Hustle................................15
hey blue eyes:.......................................16
Perspective..........................................17
Joey’s Boom Box..................................... 18
Cherished Memories...................................22
The Chess Game.......................................24
Locker Room Lessons..................................27
It’s Only Water......................................32
Wall.................................................35
untitled.............................................36
Who Are The Sufferers................................37
Jo..................................................  39
The Butterfly Queen..................................40
Back in Time.........................................41
My Heaven............................................42
Kelley Lounge........................................43
Getting Physical.....................................44
Above and/or Below...................................45
Between a Rock and a Hard Spot.......................47
Feelings and Felines.................................48
Love Is Like The Ocean...........................51
Breathing In Peppermint..........................51
“The Warmth”.....................................52
Escaping Nirvana.................................53
You Are Silver...................................54
Untitled.........................................54
Experiencing Oneness.............................55
It Was Like Living in a 007 Movie................56
Sweet Memories...................................57
Long Way Home....................................58
faction — f^rst f*rize
The Man In Her Closet, The Boys In Her Jewelry Box
Holly Baker
I suppose I should have started shopping sooner, but she’s so damn hard to buy for. Part of me thinks she wants to be. It’s just one more of the challenges she’s always presenting me with.
It’s like that time she had me drive on icy roads to the store to buy bread, which she was in desperate need of. She had to have toast and hot chocolate while we sat by the fire in her dad’s basement. Seemed like she waited until after 9 o’clock to say something too, so that I would have to go to the grocery store on the other side of town. The roads were damn slick, and I had wished she was in the passenger seat next to me, so I could bitch at her about the ridiculousness of her requests. I came back with the bread, and found her sleeping on the floor by the fire. Yeah, I was pretty pissed off but I didn’t want to wake her up to tell her that. I just fell asleep beside her.
What time is it now? Three? What time did I get here? One? Never, in the existence of mankind, has shopping been so difficult. Everything I came across I found an excuse not to buy. She definitely wasn’t the perfume kind of girl.
I imagined her standing by the Perfume Palace, spraying herself with some “Essence of Eden” concoction. I would linger at the entrance wanting desperately to leave.
“Perfume is a nice gift, I’m not saying it isn’t. I’d get it for someone if I had seriously lost all creativity, but I wouldn’t be able to help thinking, if a boy got me perfume, do they not like the way I smell? Do they want me to smell differently? Like some other girl that they lust after who wears the stuff? And anyway 1 like the way I smell.”
That’s exactly what she would say, after she maligned the name Perfume Palace of course, which I had to agree was stupid.
I certainly can’t get her clothes. There is way too much involved with that. I can’t place her size. All I know is that she is the right size. Sometimes she wears button down blouses, puts lip color and earrings on, makes herself look completely out of my league, and holds my hand as we walk side by side. Other times she dresses the way my old girlfriends do; jeans and layered shirts, black and pink shoes and a hemp bracelet some friend braided for her. The fact that she’s always shifting from, “I’m just like my boyfriend” mode to “I’m clearly too good for my boyfriend” mode drives me crazy. Since I have
no idea what mode she is going to be in on Christmas day and I don’t know her size, there is way too much involved in getting clothes. I don’t mind the shirts too much because they are fun to unbutton, but who does she think she is in lip color? I’ve told her a million times I don’t like it (lip color is definitely out of the question as a present) so why should she need it? No matter what she is wearing she always has that bracelet on her wrist though. The hemp bracelet is why she reminds me of my first girlfriend Eva. Eva wore about a hundred friendship bracelets and flashed them around, so that everyone would know how popular she was. She wasn’t at all popular and she made all those bracelets herself. Sad.
A bracelet? Can I get her a bracelet? She wears jewelry. She has tons of jewelry, and she goes through this cycle where she wears the same bracelet, necklace and rings everyday for a long time and when someone gets her something new she takes off that piece and replaces it with the gift. Well she has a ton of jewelry and I don’t know for sure that they haven’t come from guys she won’t talk about, and I don’t want to be another one of those guys she sticks in her jewelry box when some smooth talking (she’s very easily manipulated with words) blockhead comes along. One of the rings she wears came from her dad. I really wish I could get her a new dad.
He’s never home, and he expects her to occupy the house, take in the mail and stay in it long enough to make the place worth the mortgage he pays for it, in spite of the fact all of her belongings are in her mother’s house on the opposite end of the town. He is always going out and vacationing in the south with his girlfriend. She is always begging me to stay with her because the place freaks her out. It is kind of ironic that she prefers the basement of all places despite its dark emptiness.
One night 1 was in her bedroom, which is the basement, and while she was on the phone with someone I didn’t know I went through her closet. I found a shoe box. Why are girls always keeping things in shoe boxes? There were a dozen envelopes addressed to and from some guy she’d failed to mention to me. There were some pictures of some people I’d never seen before. There was one of her in a violet dress, in an “I’m clearly too good for my boyfriend” mode. There were random writings, in a bundle of papers labeled For the Rock Star that I didn’t have time to read completely. Skimming through I recognized the line, “And I hope they made it worth your loss,” which is a line from a song we wrote together. She wrote the lyrics and I wrote the music. I shoved everything back in the box when I heard her coming down the stairs and threw myself back on the bed.
-2-
She came in her “I’m just like my boyfriend” mode, and started jumping on her mattress like a four year old. She had this big smile on her face as if nothing in her life had ever gone wrong, but she and I both knew that wasn’t true.
“Thanks for staying the night again. This place creeps me out.” she said when she dropped on top of me, short of breath. I think it was the mold that was eating the house that scared her. It was in the bathrooms and in her bedroom, but she covered it with posters.
“Why don’t you just go to your mom’s house?”
“Because we have a lot more fun here together, don’t we?”
"Would you stay if I didn’t?”
“Why wouldn’t you stay?” she looked so confused. Why in the hell wouldn’t I want to spend every waking moment with her? She was wonderful, beautiful, enchanting. That’s what she was thinking of course. She didn’t have to say a thing. I’d rather she didn’t say anything anyway sometimes. She gets so philosophical and strange and mostly at night when I can’t see her face.
“Why wouldn’t I stay? I don’t know.” I put my arms around her and my lips on hers before she could say that crazily perplexing thing that I knew had just popped into her head. I didn’t want to hear it. 1 didn’t want to know about the man she hid in her closet, the boys in her jewelry box, or if she had written songs she sang with me for one of her old secret suitors.
Maybe a book? There’s the bookstore. She reads. She writes too, so maybe I should get her a book to write in.
That was what she was doing when I came into the classroom. I started it really. I found reasons to touch her, I twirled her around in the professor’s swivel chair, and I made dirty comments that I assumed would scare her away. They didn’t. She smiled vaguely and it seemed as if she was ignoring me. She waited until the last day to hand me the letter she was writing (in her nearly illegible penmanship) that said she found me insanely fascinating and wanted me in her father’s empty house the next night. I didn’t see that coming, but she smiled vaguely at me and left everything up to me. Funny how things work out, and I was in her house the next night, sitting by the fire with her, eating toast and hot chocolate.
She wrote me other things too. I would read them, I wouldn’t understand them and I would feel guilty for not understanding them. I kept thinking that the man in her closet must have understood them, or else she wouldn’t assume that I would.
“Who are you writing these for?” I asked her one night. She was watching television with her head in my lap and I was pulling my
-3-
hair out over the complexity of her story, her vocabulary, and her brain.
“For you.” she said. “It’s not very good I know, but I thought you liked reading my stories.” I don’t know why the hell she thought that. I never asked to read her stuff. I only did it because after I read it and said I liked it she would make out with me. I was pretty cheap I guess, but she too is always looking for validation in the form of affection, and maybe that was why she insisted on being with me.
“I don’t understand this story. I don’t understand you.”
“I know. At least you pretend. It’s ok.” Nothing fazes her. She is totally unpredictable. I thought for sure that would have pissed her off. And it wasn’t okay.
It’s not okay. It’s not okay that I don’t know her, but she insists that I stay in her bed to protect her from some phantom mold monster. It’s not okay that she shifts modes, it’s not okay that I don’t know anything about the man in her closet, it’s not okay that I’m going to become another guy stuffed in her jewelry box when she finds a prettier trinket, and it’s not okay that I’ve spent three hours now walking around this mall trying to find a perfect present for her.
I could get her any piece of crap for a buck, because it’s not like 1 need to impress her with material garbage at this point. Her heart was already pretty broken when I found her. She fell into my hands easily once I convinced her I was just as sad and confused as the previous guys she had tried to fix, and that I needed her outrageous confusion in order to maintain my own sanity. That’s all she really wants anyway. She wants to be needed. She wants me to need her, and if I don’t need her anymore she’ll stuff the remains of me in a box in her closet. I don’t know where this trend got started in her life.
She was so collected when I stumbled upon her in the midst of my attitude problem. I told her I was an asshole and she shook her head at me as if that was nothing new to her. She rolled her eyes at me when I screamed profanities in the car at the frustratingly slow imbecile driver in front of me. She jumped on her bed like a four year old when I was obviously pissed so as to remind me that she was sorry that she too was not flawless. She cried all over me and wanted to talk when she knew all I wanted to do was unbutton her “I’m too good for my boyfriend” blouse.
I’m not going to buy her anything. She doesn’t really want anything anyway, except what she can’t have. One night I was playing my guitar for her and she thought it was funny that I didn’t sing, that I didn’t write songs and that I don’t give a damn about the lyrics. That’s all she pays attention to. And she thought that’s all every musician
-4-
cared about. God she just has a weird way of thinking. I can’t decode it, and I assume that man in her closet could, but he isn’t ever coming out again. Maybe she wants him to, but then maybe other times she doesn’t. Just as long as I need her, I think, she’ll keep him locked inside.
I’ll see her tomorrow and when she hands me some fantastic gift that I didn’t even know I wanted I won’t have anything for her. She’ll smile vaguely as if it’s nothing new to her. Then I’ll sit by the fireplace and tell her I’ve got the best thing in the world for a greedy girl like her. I need her. And I think that’s all she’s ever really wanted. That, and someone to drive on ice to the other side of town for bread.
-5-
faction - Second f*rize
The Bottle Cap
Dutch Sturdevant
The moon seemed yellow tonight. The sweltering heat from the prior day has seemed to illuminate the night with a strident haze that impedes the midnight zephyr’s affect from being felt.
Bill Rutledge stands in his need to be mowed lawn sipping near cold beer from the can. He glimpses down at his wrinkly, disheveled uniform that exhibit’s spots of blood on the shoulder patch reading Briersberg State Prison. He makes a perfunctory effort to scrape the dried blood off him but fails. He stares up at the undeveloped vista of the moon and squints his eyes trying to focus in through the steam of the night heat.
He remembers, it seems, when he could see the moon clearly on any given night. The convertible top would be down and the wind would be blustering through his hair on his way to anywhere. The air seemed thinner and clearer and somehow cooler and crisper. He would pop in a cassette tape and drive...just drive. Destiny, challenges and time seemed to be nonexistent. Dreams wrapped in enigmas and beliefs cloaked in magic, oh those drives through the city! Not fanatical or foolish but grounded in life’s hopes and life’s trials and tribulations. But in the end the picture would come together and focus into a life of crescent moonlights, beside a life of passion and relevance. Oh those drives through the country! No helmet, no shackles, just conceding to the peacefulness of the night air.. .freedom! Peace! So distant now, like the man on the moon wanting to come home.
It was all supposed to make sense someday. Life was supposed to come together and make sense of the freefall out of ecstasy. At some point the pieces would all fall into place. And sobriety of the intoxication of life would transform into a complete being.
What was it Frost said? The road not taken? But which time, Mr. Frost? How many crossroads does a man come to before he’s reached the objective? The serenity and solace every human soul craves, did Mr. Frost even contemplate any of this at all?
Bill swallows the last of his beer and dumps the residue of the bottle on to the ground. As he pours the excess out his eye caches a piece of metal. He reaches down, grabbing his back simultaneously, and digs it out of the dirt. Bill scrapes the corrosion and muck off the
-6-
formally red bottle cap. He dabs a dash of spit on the cap and smirks. As he rubs the loam off the cap he sees a very faint spelling of Cherry Crush embossed along the rust and indents. Bill emits a low key chuckle and squeezes the cap in his hand pressing the serrated edges against his hand. He can feel the sensation of the jagged ends, he squeezes harder and harder. The teeth from the cap leave marks in his calloused skin.
Bill strips off his shirt and spreads it on the ground as he lies flat on his back eyeing straight toward the space above him. He reaches his hand out as far as he can and grasps at the empty sky.
Only questions arise, no more answers, no more guarantees of what, where and the when. Bill looks back down at the bottle cap and stares at it intently. The red’s luster has all but disappeared into a myriad of time and exposure. The corrosion and depressions in the metal make it hard to discern the bottle cap’s original intent.
Bill’s squeezes the cap once more and tucks his hand underneath his head as his thoughts roam between blossoming flowers, the stitches on a baseball and the taste of watermelon in the July heat.
The Leprechauns must have stolen it because it isn’t there.
The moon fades in the haze, and the heat continues its relentless hold on the night. The search continues.
-7-
fiction - Third Prize
Silent Cry
Katie Gray
“Just put it on the table, I’ll sign it later.”
“Can’t you do it now?”
“I’m watching my shows. Don’t worry if you put it on the table I’ll sign it later.”
“But, it will just take a second.”
“Jesus Christ! Just put it on the God-damned table and I’ll sign it later! Now move! You’re in the way. I can’t see the TV.”
She won’t do it later. She’s going to fall asleep in that corner of the couch. That’s where she was when I got home from school and I haven’t seen her move since. I know I’ll end up forging her signature in the morning.
My little sister is crying now from Mom’s yelling, so 1 walk over to her playpen and pick her up. I rock her gently and she tarts to calm down. “I’m gonna change her and put her to bed.” I say.
“I used the last diaper earlier this afternoon. I’ll have to get some tomorrow.”
“You mean you haven’t changed her since then?”
“She's fine, I checked her an hour ago.”
“You should have said something,” I tell her, “If you asked
me I-”
“She’s fine! Now shut-up, the commercials are over.”
I shake my head and turn my attention back to Cyan. She’s breathing fairly normal now, just the little stutter of a sob every now and then. “Ssshhh, Baby. It’s okay, we’ll clean you up,” I whisper. I take her into our room and lay her down on a towel. I actually have some diapers in my top dresser drawer. Mom forgets often enough that I figured I should have a few around just in case. When she’s all cleaned up I kiss her and put her in her crib. “G’night baby.”
She makes a few little noises when I turn the lights out and with the flickering blue glow from Mom’s TV in the other room dancing on the ceiling above us like every night before we quickly fall asleep.
***
“Jesus Mom. Come on, not today. Wake up. Wake up please.” I keep shaking her. I rap her face a bit. Nothing. No response. “Come on, please wake up. Please.”
Cyan starts crying from the bedroom. “Hold on baby. I’ll be right there. C’mon Mom, wake up. Wake up.” I grab her by her
-8-
shoulders and really shake her. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Wake up.
Wake up, wake up, wake- Quiet Cyan, just a second, Baby. Jesus!
Wake up!”
Cyan is screaming now. I let Mom drop back into her corner,
and ran into the other room.
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m here, baby. I’m here.”
I rock her a little. And she starts to quiet. She cries a lot but she’s a good baby and she usually quiets down for me pretty easily. If only my mother were as dependable. “Okay baby, lay down,” I say putting her back into her crib. “I’ll get your bottle as soon as I get mom up.”
When I walk back into the living room she’s stirring a little bit.
“Jade?” she says. “Jade baby, you awake?”
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m here, Mom. I’m here.”
“I don’t feel so good, baby.”
I sigh, “I know.”
She settles back into the couch. I put a blanket up around her shoulders. I pick up the belt from next to her on the couch and the needle from up off the floor. I walk to the kitchen and put the belt over the back of a chair and I wrap the needle up in my unsigned permission slip and push them both down to the bottom of the garbage. I wash my hands and take one of Cyan’s bottles out of the washer. I hope we have milk.
***
The phone rings. Mom’s still on the couch sleeping. But at least she’s not sweating anymore. The phone rings again. I put Cyan down near her toys and pick up the phone.
“Hello?- Oh, hi- No- Yes I know that was today- I know. I really wanted to go- No, I just wasn’t feeling well this morning, I threw-up twice- No, she’s fine- No, not right now. She went to the comer to get diapers for my sister- I know- I’m sorry too- Okay-Yeah, bye.”
“Jade? Was that for me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m sure.”
***
It’s three o’clock now. We’re all in the living room watching Sponge Bob. Mom’s doing better. She got up around noon. She went into the bathroom, and I heard her throwing up. She ran the shower to fry and hide it, but I heard her anyway.
-9-
***
The phone rang while Mom was getting dressed. I answered it. It was some guy who wanted to talk to her. He yelled at me when I asked him his name. “Just put the bitch on the phone and mind your own business,” he said.
I brought her the phone and now she’s been in there for half and hour yelling with this guy. First I closed her door. Then I turned up the TV volume. But she’s so loud, and Cyan is getting really cranky. I tried giving her a bottle but that didn’t do anything. Now I’m just walking around the apartment. If I stop rocking her she’ll cry.
“ASSHOLE!” she screams. I hear the phone hit the wall. Well, at least that’s over.
***
I’m in the kitchen stirring macaroni. Mom’s sitting in on the couch watching Jenny Jones. Cyan is in her playpen, crying.
“Mom, can you get her.”
“Yeah, baby,” she says. She turns up the volume so she doesn’t miss anything while she walks over to the playpen. She lifts my sister up and sniffs at her bottom.
“Whoooooo! Jesus,” she laughs. “You’ve got more diapers in your room, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are they, baby?” she asks, putting Cyan on her hip.
“I’ll get one,” I say.
I go into the bedroom and open my top drawer. I hear pounding at the door. Then I hear my mom answer the door with a “Go away.” Then I hear a gun shot. You hear them on TV and in movies. You hear them all the time. I hear them sometimes late at night blocks away. But they never seem that loud.
***
Cyan is crying. I’ve never been so happy to hear her cry. As long as she’s crying she’s okay. He was in the kitchen for a bit. I heard him opening and closing drawers and cabinets. I was afraid he might be looking for something; a search that might bring him in here. But I’m pretty sure he was just looking for a bowl for the spaghetti. He’s sitting in the living room now. I hear him changing the channels. He had the news on for a bit. Murder uptown. Rape downtown. Breaking and entering on the eastside. More violence in the West Bank, but that’s not local. What about us, are we going to be the next headline?
***
- 10-
I peek out of my door. I thought I had heard sirens, apparently so had the man. The door was open and he was gone.
Cyan was on the floor next to my mother, crying. I crouched down and looked at my mother. How many times had I heard her say she wished she were dead? She was living to die. And now she was. I would have thought she would look happier. But she doesn’t. She looks terrified. She looks horrible. The attitude and defiance from her “get away” is nowhere to be seen.
“Shhhhhhh, baby. It’s okay; we’ve got to get out of here.” I went to pick her up but hear a noise out in the hallway. I freeze. Is he still here?” I don’t hear sirens anymore. They must have been going somewhere else. There is no police coming. No one had called them.
I have to call them. The phone is in Mom’s room. I have to find the phone. “Baby, I’ll be right back.”
I run into Mom’s room. Cyan screams as I leave her. / know,
baby. / know.
Where is the phone? I look on the bed. I throw off the covers. I look on the floor and under the bed. There is a pile of dirty laundry in the comer. I tare into it. Nothing. No phone. Where is the phone? And then I hear it. Ringing. The phone is ringing. She had thrown it at her closet. It’s ringing in the closet. I turned towards the wall the closet shares with the bedroom door. There he is. Standing in the door. I freeze. I don’t say anything. I just start to cry ‘because I realize I no longer hear Cyan.
- 11 -
faction - Honorable Mention
The Consummation
Mary Nangle
I hurried to get ready, for tonight I was to meet Creon. How many nights I had dreamed of his attention! How many days spent in wistful longing and hope for what could not be. But tonight would be the culmination of many months of planning, for I had wanted Creon as long as life. I have existed on the nourishment of my own minds calculating, and fed my spirit upon occasional glimpses and seemingly innocent brushes with the great man, until now.
I have had help from the Gods, I know, but I will need them no longer. For Creon, on his knees and broken of will, appeals to me little. It serves my purpose at present however, and gives me a foothold to his temple, having him brought to a level where principles and loyalty mean nothing, for they have been chief among his armor against me. Now the vaporous shield has been set aside, and tonight I shall begin to mold his destiny to mine.
His wife gone, his son dead by his own hand, and yet another martyred spirit pressing against his once hubristic heart. All of these 1 shall use to my own ends after I have dragged him back from the damned. I shall have to manipulate him to need my influence, and cajole him to the bond of marriage, and in this tonight, my first step toward that goal, I shall be most soothing and discreet.
I have heard that Creon talks little these days, and permits ridiculous liberties. Those who were once loyal subjects are now in the position of peers, and have great influence over Creon, who seems to care little for his political position. A situation in need of rectification, and one in which I shall aspire with such determination as to shake the almighty Gods who have brought Creon to his tragedy.
I know that I was born to rise higher than the high, but not unless I take fate into my own two masterful hands, and bend it to my will. This I know now, and this the citizens of Thebes shall know before many more months pass. And now I must set my mind to readying myself, for Creon approaches.
But no, it is only a messenger sent to tell me Creon will be here within the hour. What is another hour to one who has waited a lifetime for the final, the ultimate prize? I have no recognition of impatience, for I will know the secrets of Kings. I have need to know the tears of Creon, and I would have him tell me of his ignorance, and beg of me for acceptance unto my realm.
And now Creon has been arrived these many hours, and I have shared his spirit, and partaken of his wine. I have found reception
- 12-
for my long awaited seduction. We have lain intertwined, demanding, quiet, raging, growing, peaceful, ravenous.
But even as I speak, Creon readies himself to take leave of me. “Creon! I have embraced you, don’t you know that you can never leave me now? Do you think that you can cast me aside, like Antigone, and be done with me, and have me washed out of your blood forever? Do you think you can call for your guards to have rid of me? Aah, Creon, you have been avoiding me for too long! You did not want to know me, but you must accept me now, you know my secrets, you know me well.
Come to me then, and bow your head, for you know my name...I am Wisdom.”
Poetry — pirst Prize
Philosofigment
Mary Nangle
I entered his class in a quest for knowledge A professor at Coming Community College, said “There could be an elephant under my chair” (in fact there wasn’t one anywhere) if there was then he must have hid in the place where my quest for knowledge did.
Today there was no mirth in the eyes of the teller of these whopping lies as I placed the peanuts on the floor and gently headed for the door...
But then decided to take a seat and watch the invisible elephant eat.
Poetry - Second Prize
Sacrifice to the war god
Victoria Di Ana Murphy
I see red white and blue A couple embracing While musicians play Tribute to
A life sacrificed to the war god.
Still holding on To each other Remembering They’re only one.
Mother rests on husband’s embrace,
Her head down
His Chin up
Four eyes closed
Her piercing pain
His rock-ribbed strength
They inject me with courage
As my son
Accepts his commission.
- 14-
Poetry - Third P rize
The Grand Slam Hustle
James Doherty
Scooted in quick, waitress lagging, escorting.
Square cell phone to ear, black hat, hungry face, dark and smooth A practiced nod to the thugs in big coats in the comer booth. Crawling the bench like a bed, leaning on the wall.
The Grand Slam Hustle
Don’t stunt, don’t stunt, I’m tellin’ you don’t stunt.
I’m not gonna, I’m not gon’ do it, I ain’t gon’ argue witchu, no.
Thas other people shoutin’, naw man the people at the other table. No! I-on’t care, whatever, whatever. No, whatever, whatever, What. Ever.
I’ll be, gimme ten minutes man. Naw, man I just said I be there.
The Grand Slam Hustle
Eating sausage links in single bites, pancakes tom not cut, managers look over apprehensively when his voice is upset, but they see him,
easy, tired, head and phone rocking with thoughts, under the black brim—lean glances.
The waitress brings Styrofoam in a white plastic bag, big tip. quick strides back into work, at three seventeen on Sunday morning. The Grand Slam Hustle.
- 15 -
f*oetry — honorable Mention
hey blue eyes:
Brooke Wilder
i started out by saying
i wanted that one thing
just that one thing
that other people could look at
find themselves in memorizing awe over
in amazement, incapable of looking away
in fear of never seeing it again
to want something indescribable to be in fear of lacking it forever to be anxious that i may have... wasted yesterday not looking for it
i wish to be fulfilled
with every possible emotion
i am finding myself to the brim with frustration
head high in anxiety
i am accumulating guilt and pity
my appetite is urging for a taste a revolution
something so fucking different i will never recognize these common lines
simple place galaxies again
and i bide my time each day, wondering but then the day is over and i sleep
and awake in the same bed i laugh and cry in the same tone and yes
the next day comes and without fail i will sleep and awake in the same bed
- 16-
the clock tells no lies
and i, like all the other sheep
appease its every wish
i want to be recognized for something else
i want you to walk away knowing
that our conversation could be your last breath
because you are filled with such a
peaceful
quiet satisfaction
a love more unique than blown glass more intoxicating than white wine
a pain more intense than a gash to the cheek more secure than a pacemaker
to be able to pick out the hue of your eye from every color Van Gogh painted even when i am blind
F*oetry - Monorable Mention
Perspective
Mary Nangle
don’t pity the man in the moss covered case don’t let tears soak the ground where he lies
save your sorrow
for those of us
left in the race...
for the struggling poor wretch
who in agony cries
oh to be in a moss covered case
-17-
E_ssay - pirst f”rize
Joey’s Boom Box
John M. Meaney
About a week ago, I went back home to Buffalo to help my father clean out his storage shed in the back yard. I hadn’t seen the inside of that shed in years. It just stood in the back yard packed to the ceiling with old memories of times long ago. As I opened the door, a musty odor of aged artifacts consumed me. Dust and cobwebs covered every item inside and suddenly caused me to cough and gasp for air. I covered my mouth and nose with the neck of my t-shirt and began cleaning the area as best I could with a hand held vacuum.
Then I started removing the age-old boxes, storage trunks, and garden utensils. As I moved the boxes from the shed to the yard, the early afternoon sun broke through the clouds and cast a bright ray of sunshine through the dirt-stained window by the door. The particles of freshly disturbed dust began to glisten in the thick air of the old shed, and I suddenly felt very strange standing in the middle of this whirlwind of dust.
I noticed many items in the shed that reminded me of my childhood, and now I didn’t only feel a strange uneasiness, I somehow felt very old. I found a Sizzler skateboard in the rafters that belonged to my sister Joan. I remember, as a child, having to sneak off to use it when she wasn’t looking, and when 1 was caught, I’d have hell to pay. Hanging on the far back wall was a guitar that had no owner to speak of, or strings for that matter and the wood grain laminate face had peeled away. Sitting on an old dresser to the right of the shed door was my moms cross-stitch box still filled with unfinished masterpieces. There was an old Huffy banana-seat bicycle with no handlebars and a rusted rim on the front fork hanging from a hook on the left wall. As I pulled the door behind me, I discovered an old, rusted po-go stick leaning against the wall behind the door. I turned back toward the dresser where mom’s needlepoint box was and peered over some cardboard boxes to see what else was there, and that’s when 1 saw it...
Back in the far right comer, wedged between the 2x4 studs of the wall, and held firmly in place by the old dresser that pressed against it, was my brother’s boom box. A Sony, portable stereocassette player with a speaker on each side and the cassette deck in the middle. The carrying handle had long been broken off, and there was a hole in the honeycomb plastic speaker cover on the left side. The top was covered with a rainbow of paint splashes and spatters from many years of being used while repainting the interior rooms of the house. I climbed over the boxes and reached between the dresser and
-18-
the wall to carefully pull it out of its resting place as if I were an archeologist unearthing an ancient piece of pottery. Upon closer inspection of the cassette deck, I noticed there was a tape still inside. The mechanical push buttons were all still in tack, but the pause button was pressed in, forever keeping the cassette ready to continue its song if given the chance. After opening the cassette deck, I read the name of the musician, and the album title, which read Pink Floyd / Wish You Were Here. How appropriate I thought, as memories of my brother began to surface.
I started to think about all the fun we had as kids, and how proud I was to have him as my older brother. I never told him that, because brothers just don’t say those sorts of things to each other. I think there was an unspoken understanding between us. The constant competition, I think, said it all. I wanted to be just like him. We both had paper delivery routes, Joey had the even numbered side of the street, and I had the odd. We would start the routes with a loud “On your mark...Get set...Go!” and run from house to house, tossing newspapers all over the place. Joey was three years older, about a foot taller, and could run much faster than I could, so he would usually win the race and I would get mad and pout and stomp all the way home. Yeah, I’ll say it. I was a sore looser. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I would get up early and turn off his alarm clock to get a jump on him, but it rarely worked. He would start later than I would, but we would usually always either tie or he would beat me. On the rare occasions that I did win the race, I’m sure it was because he let me win; perhaps to keep me motivated enough to endure another loss. He would never let me give up. Joey and I would save our money from our paper route jobs to buy big-ticket items like bicycles or an ATARI video game and we would usually share everything we bought.
One year, I think it was 1982, my brother saved all his money for the whole summer to buy a Sony radio, and he wouldn’t let me or anyone else touch it. I respected that, after all, he earned it, but that didn’t mean that I honored his ‘hands off’ order, I just respected that he had the nerve to proclaim it. How dare he give me a challenge like that! “Don’t touch!” he said, “or I’ll pound you!” I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it, and at my very first opportunity, I took his brand new radio out and accidentally broke the handle off. I was devastated and scared to death to return it to him so I snuck it back in the house, and put it back exactly as I found it, sans handle. I was never questioned about it or accused of taking it, but I think he knew I did it. I never told him that I did because younger brothers like me don’t do that. I ruthfully, I just didn’t want to be pounded.
In 1984, my brother graduated from Hutchison Technical ••'gh School in Buffalo and joined the Army immediately after
- 19-
graduation. He wrote to me all the time, telling me of all the stuff he was doing. He would write about all of his adventures and his new challenges. He wrote about all the new friends he made in the Army. Joey was a practical joker and some of his jokes didn’t always go over well, so he wrote of his enemies as well.
The brotherly competition between us had tapered off, and a new competition had begun. I was jealous of him and I felt defeated. He was a big shot soldier now; I could never compete with that. He beat me again. He would always end his letters with the words “write me back!” However, I never did. I’ll admit it, I was a sore looser again, and my only retaliation was not to write. Looking back, that single act of selfishness was probably the worst thing I could have done to someone I respected and was so proud of.
In 1986, shortly after joining the military, Joey died somewhere in Germany. His body was sent to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware to be autopsied before being released to the family. He returned home in a body bag on Tuesday, March 20lh, as a nineteen-year-old national hero. How could I compete with that?
A military officer escorted my mother and father to the morgue to identify his body. When they returned, mom was crying and didn’t stop for three days. Dad told me that Joey looked different, perhaps more mature than when he left. He had grown a mustache and looked very fit.
Joey’s wake was at the Ray O’Connell Funeral Home on South Park Avenue, just two city blocks from where he and I went to grammar school. We had a Mass of Christian Burial for him at Saint Ambrose Church, where we served as alter boys’ years before. He received Full Military Honors at his interment ceremony and was laid to rest in Holy Cross Cemetery with a twenty-one gun salute. I stood by my mother when the Honor Guard officer handed her the neatly folded flag and quietly spoke these words:
“This flag was folded very carefully as it is precious to the American people. It is our nation’s very highest honor- there is none higher. It is presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the American veterans who have fought and died to preserve it. It is given in memory of your son by the Army, and the United States of America. This flag is in acknowledgement of his honorable and faithful service to our beloved country. On behalf of the Army and the president of the United States of America, I present you with Joseph’s flag.”
After the officer handed my mother the flag, he took one step back, snapped to the position of attention, and began the ceremonial salute by very rigidly and slowly raising his right hand to his brow, holding it there for just a moment, and then slowly returning it to his side. Mom began to cry again, and I wanted to do the same but I
-20-
couldn’t.
Joey’s funeral was the most honorable yet gut wrenching experience I ever had to endure in all my sixteen years. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I needed to say, I wanted to tell him all about my adventures and misadventures back at home but couldn’t. I wanted to tell him about the new paperboy who was slower than molasses in winter and about all the new friends I’d made in high school. I wanted to tell him how I would take Joan’s skateboard, and how she would chase me around the neighborhood to get it back. I wanted to tell him that I got my driver permit on my sixteenth birthday and nearly wrecked mom’s car that night trying to parallel park in front of the house. I wanted to tell him that 1 was taking good care of the Sony boom box he gave me, and that it would be here for him when he returned. I wanted to tell him that 1 loved him, I missed him, and I wished he were here.
Almost nineteen years had passed since Joey died, and a tear began to swell in my eyes as I was standing in the shed behind dad’s house. I stood there for a moment holding the radio and starring off into nowhere when my dad asked me if I was ok. I turned toward him, with my eyes slightly reddened, and told him “it’s just the dust dad,
I’m fine.”
On the way out of town that evening, heading back to school,
I stopped by the Sunoco gas station across from the cemetery, filled the gas tank with premium, and bought eight D cell batteries. I installed the batteries in Joey’s boom box, and went across the street to visit his grave. I got to his gravesite and found the headstone had been covered over with dirt and dried soil. I Set the radio down by my right ankle, knelt on one knee, and began to pick away at the dirt that covered the silver-grey rectangle headstone, creating a cloud of dust around me.
The evening sun was just above the horizon and had cast a beautiful red-orange glow across the sky that reflected off the clouds magnificently. The particles of freshly disturbed dust began to glisten and swirl in the cool evening breeze that passed through the cemetery, and I suddenly felt very safe kneeling in this whirlwind of dust above Joey’s grave. All of a sudden, I heard a snap, and the cassette players pause button popped up, and the tape began to play as if it were paused only a moment. “How I wish..., how I wish you were here...”
Before I left the cemetery that evening, I told him everything I wanted to say all those years ago and many things I wanted to tell him since then. I didn’t say it aloud; brothers just don’t say things like that to each other. I like to believe we have an unspoken understanding about things like that.
-21 -
Elssay — Second f*rize
Cherished Memories
Michele Rodriquez
While adding another chunk of dirty wood to the fire, I catch a whiff of the sweet smelling hickory aroma the fiery red embers are giving off. Although the house is as warm as a hot sunny day in Georgia, I am relaxing in my soft blue cotton sweats. I close the black squeaky damper extended off the long woodstove then go back into the pleasing kitchen where there is an incense of an apple cider press.
I had a warm-hearted feeling seeing the kids doing their part as if they were working in an assembly line. Containers were being filled up of either sliced juicy Cortland apples or red apple peels. I notice the bubbly mixture of applesauce on the cook stove and go to give it a stir. After adding cinnamon and sugar to the concoction that was slowly brewing, I glanced out the window into the backyard and was reminded of a similar time long ago.
Skipping across the worn down abandoned railroad tracks, I was on my way to pester the nice lady that lived in a small country-style white house with green shutters. I knocked on the door getting the reply to “go around back,” where I assumed Mary Brown might have been relaxing on her screened in sun porch. I quickly swung open the old squeaky screen door and smelled the sweet apple spice perfumed air. With the slamming of the door, I raced up the steps into the archaic kitchenette and there stood Mary in her crocheted sweater that was as bright as a candied apple. She was taking turns twirling her long-handled spatula between two big stockpots that had foam frothing over the sides onto the yellow lacquered cook stove. She asked me to add a cup of sparkling white sugar to each pan while she continued to mix away the suds of the boiling mixture. I wondered why she didn’t just send me over to the store to get her a container of applesauce to avoid all this hassle. Once the mixture settled, I was delighted to see the lumpy pink applesauce. Needing to be cooled first, the large pans were placed on the thick teal green hand-sewn potholders. I could hardly wait to devour my share of the scrumptious smelling stuff.
As Mary started her hot soapy dishwater, I went to the living room to sit in front of the extraordinary smooth bricked fireplace. The amber flames reflected across the whole room like the sun shining though a prism in a window. I gazed at the fire with comfort and respect. I could have lain down on the white plush rug and fallen fast asleep until I heard the clanging of dishes not far away.
Remembering the cooling pink applesauce, I went back to the
-22-
kitchen to talk Mary into letting me have a bowl now. To my surprise, she had some already dished out for me. After slurping up spoonfuls of the juicy medley, I knew the long craving I had for just a smidgen of that pure sauce was well worth the wait. When I looked up from my bowl, I noticed that Mary couldn’t have a bigger smile on her face.
Looking back, I now have the feeling that my enjoyment of the homemade applesauce pleased Mary very much. I now get to experience her pleasure of crafting something that my seem insignificant to some, but I know, as my children grow older their quality time spent at home will be getting shorter. They will each have their own individual lives to keep them busy, such as sports, friends, shopping, movies and even driving. Passing on special moments like making applesauce and spending a day together with my children is very dear to me since it’s not everyday that my kids work together without fighting constantly. Someone else who shares in this feeling of family routine is writer Gregory Fritz from Brown University. In his commentary letter, “Children and Adults Need Family Tradition,” he emphasizes, “The most important traditions and rituals are family-based” (Fritz par. 3). Fie also talks about foods “Where the preparation and eating link generations” (Fritz par. 3). Fritz acknowledges that even the simplest of life’s tasks, such as cooking, can lead children to carry on certain customs to their own families when they grow up. Even though I realize I could save a lot of time and mess by purchasing a 99-cent jar of applesauce, I would miss out on the warm-hearted feeling that sharing this time with my family brings to me.
Knowing that tomorrow my kids will be back to normal, and fighting like cats and dogs, I can enjoy their carefree laughter today.
As Kyle starts cleaning the extremely messy table, Nathan chucks a few apple seeds at him, but when Kyle ducks out of the way the seeds come to a sudden stop in Rashanna’s hair. The boys laugh while I untangle one mad little Indian’s hairdo. I can only hope that they will one day recollect this happy time and acquire the feelings of how fortunate they were to have someone pass along a special memory to them. Nathan mentions the fact that you can’t buy applesauce that tastes and smells as good as ours in the grocery store as we pile our fruitful of zip-lock bags into the freezer.
Works Cited
Fritz, Gregory. “Children and adults need family traditions.” The
Brown University Child and Adolescent Behavior Letter. Jan 2004. 8 pars. InfoTrac OneFile. Corning Community College Library, Coming, NY. 7 Dec. 2004 http:// webLinfolrac.ualeuroup.com itsv/inl'o mark.
-23 -
F ssau — "Third f rize
The Chess Game
Drinald Bilfari
The other day I was sitting in the computer lab at Corning Community College. After completing my assignment, I decided, since I had some time to kill before the next class started, to open an internet game of chess. As strange as it sounds, chess brings a feeling of relaxation into my mind. The mind is constantly thinking: it is predicting the next move of the opponent while at the same time is planning an effective strike at the opponent and calculating the possible outcomes of that move.
1 am sitting in my chair looking at the computer screen and the white and green chess table at the left comer of it waiting for my turn, while my mind brings up memories of 18 years ago. There appears before me the little old house of my grandparents. I’m walking on the hallway floor which is made out of light brown colored planks. A long mg is laid down in the middle of it from the front to the back door. There is no TV in the house so everyone has to improvise his own entertainment. I walk into the room, used as a living room and a dining room, and my dad and my uncle are playing a game of chess, on the green dining table covered by a plastic table cover with fruit pictures on it. As I get closer, I’m just tall enough to see the chess board and the black and white chess pieces placed on the correct squares. The board sits in the middle of the table and my dad and my uncle sit across from each other staring at it in deep concentration, as if they were on the actual battlefield trying to find a way through for their soldiers. Myself, I couldn’t even begin to capture the importance or the understanding of the game. “Shah,” (“check” in Albanian), says my dad, breaking the long silence. Then, my uncle stares at the pieces in even deeper concentration and makes a move. 1 am trying to understand why my dad says “shah” after his move. After another long pause, my uncle says “shah” and his face changes from straight serious to a barely visible smile. My dad puts his hand on his chin saying “Hmmmmm, levizje mire,” (good move). . 1 notice that my dad and my uncle seem to be more alert after the word “shah” is said. Game after game, times goes by and there I am listening to my dad and my uncle laugh and comment on the previous game. Of course I would leave the room for a while and then come back, standing by or sitting on the round brown chair, staring at the
-24-
chess board. I would stare at it with the same level of understanding as before, which was zero. My dad and my uncle would play chess every night.
Years go by quickly and at the age of five I had no idea how my life would turn out. At that age, coming to America was just a dream-like winning the lottery. My family members would say “sigurisht qe do shkosh” (sure you will go). Their real thought was probably “grow up and stop dreaming.” At the age of five, kids have big dreams, like wanting to be a pilot, a policeman or an astronaut. I also had mine. At first I thought of being a pilot, but then I decided I wanted to be a policeman. From a five year old point of view I had a variety of options and plans for my life. 1 remember at some point around that age, I thought that it would be so great to be a tractor operator. Driving a big red tractor while plowing the fields seemed like the most exciting job to a little boy. Just like a chess game. You start out with a variety of plans and moves you can use. That is how I was at the age of five. I had so many moves I could make, and if I thought that what I chose wasn’t good enough the next day, I could easily replace it with something better.
Now I see that my life didn’t go as 1 planned it at all. As a matter of fact, I’ve had to make a few unpredicted moves in my life. What is it that shapes our lives in different and possibly unexplainable ways? Is it an event that happened in the past? Is it a wrong move that we made, or the death of a loved one. My life certainly changed after I lost my dad six years ago.
I was in my second year of high school when my dad died of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. There is no sadder situation for a seventeen year old boy to be faced with. At the age of seventeen, while my dad was still alive, I was still dreaming and planning different outcomes for my life. At one point I remember that I wanted to go to the police academy and become a cop. Another thought was to join the Special Forces in the army and use that training to join Interpol. That was my wildest dream. Suddenly, whatever plans I had made about my life before had to change after the tragic loss my father. At this point in my life, I was responsible to take care of my mom and my younger sister. It is common where I come from for the son to take care of his mother and siblings if the father of the family dies. My dreams had to be directed down a road that I never thought I’d ever have to take. The move I had thought to use for so long wasn’t going to be efficient anymore. There was no time for long planning. I had to take the quickest and best alternative in aide of my situation. I had to quit school and start working.
-25-
I started working soon after I turned eighteen, at the same place my dad had worked for over thirty years, as a railroad worker. The pay was low and the work wasn’t easy, but it had to be done.
After working on the railroad for some time, I started to get the feeling that I had no other option but to continue to work. I felt like I was in check, and I couldn’t figure out another move to get myself out of it. I was almost in a checkmate. Not long after I began to believe that my life was laid out straight before me, an amazing turn in the road appeared before me. I met my wife.
When I was nineteen, my future wife, Jeanne, a US citizen, came to my village in Albania to teach English. I was in her class and to my advantage, I had some prior knowledge of the English language. That allowed me to communicate with her much better. We fell in love after a friendship of six months and were engaged. I was starting to see a great turn in my life again. I had this move in my hand that would not only get me out of check, but would also give me the opportunity to strike. Jeanne and I got married in June of 2001, and I could see my dream of coming to America, which was once thought impossible, become a reality.
Not only mine, but my uncle’s life has changed as well, since that long-ago chess game. I lost my father, but he also lost his older brother, someone he looked up to. My uncle is married now with two children. As a sequence of events he is now living in Italy. Whereas, I finally made my dream a reality, I came to the US. We as humans have the ability to improvise after any unexpected event that may occur during our lifetime. We can discover an alternative move that would get us out of check. Many people may approach a situation like mine in a different way, keeping in mind that there is always an alternative move for them, ready to be used.
Students shuffling books and the sound of the keyboard typing brings me back to reality. I notice that my opponent has made his move, I make mine. I realize that my life up to this point has been an unpredictable chess game. I live in a totally different world from where I grew up, and my plans for the future are also totally different from the plans of the 5 year old boy. Our lives may be shaped as a consequence of any life events. My life has put me in check a few times, and as I recall from the long-ago chess game, being in check makes someone suddenly more alert. The sequence of events of my life so far have made me more attentive with the choices I should make. I’m now attending CCC as an undergraduate and I am planning to continue farther to law school. I believe that I have my life under control now, as I also have the moves of the game I’m playing under
-26-
control. But then again, should I expect an unpredictable strike that would put me in check and possibly checkmate?
T_ssay — Honorable Mention
Locker Room Lessons
Stephanie Specchio
Just before summer vacation was about to begin when I was in sixth grade, my girlfriends decided that they didn’t want me to be in their group for the annual sixth grade talent show. To console me, my mother told me that those girls were just jealous of me, and I could do much better. She forgot to tell me that I wasn’t supposed to share this bit of wisdom with them.
Of course they disagreed. I was a loser, and the five of them decided to share with me exactly all of the reasons why. While I don’t remember the exact explanations, I do remember the feelings of selfdoubt, inferiority, anxiety, and fear that the reasons instilled in me. My mother may have been correct about the jealousy in the beginning, but at the point of confrontation, the jealousy was all mine, and it, along with the self-doubt, consumed me for years.
I was a bright child. I enjoyed reading, and 1 was good at math. I was creative and liked to dance. I graduated with a regents degree from the State of New York in math, science, and Spanish and was voted most likely to succeed by my classmates. Somehow, all of this success and the votes of confidence never registered, and I spent my days wondering what was wrong with my personality. More to the point, why didn’t I have one? Why didn’t people want to be around me? Why did my tongue get fat, dry, and sticky when someone I really wanted to be friends with sat with me on the bus? Why did the skin on my cheeks tighten so that my lips wouldn’t let me utter intelligible sounds when I tried to carry on the simplest of conversations?
I thought that things would be fine when seventh grade started. I had hoped that a summer away from school would have erased memories and made them want to be my friends again. I went to a very small school. You made friends in kindergarten and went to their graduation parties 13 years later. I, too, had chosen my “friends.” Hindsight being what it is dumping them seems to have been a mistake.
Of course there were other possibilities. There was the threesome: Katie, Alice, and Felicia. These blonde-haired, pig-tailed princesses skipped across the playground each afternoon in their matching dresses, heading for the swing set. I hadn’t worn a dress
-27-
since I was 3 and weighed more than all three of them combined.
There were Amber, Shelley, and Chelly (two Michelles). None of these girls grew to be taller than 4 feet 6 inches. They all lived on the same block in town and liked to roller skate or ice skate during recess. It was hard enough for me to stay vertical when I was wearing my rubber-soled red Converse sneakers. Belinda, Susan, Patty, Trina, and Connie spent their free time always just around the comer and always smelled of perfume when they did surface. They were the smokers. Pam, Lauren, Ashley, Cathy, and Melissa spent their free time discussing boys. Who was dating whom? Who smiled at whom? What did the note say? Did he call her last night or was it all a lie? I think sometime in the middle of sixth grade I began to want boys to notice me. I remember thinking that it would be convenient if Tyler liked me because we usually sat next to each other: seating charts were typically alphabetical. Tyler didn’t like me, nor did any other boy.
Summer vacation did not work to my advantage. It seemed my former friends had spent a lovely week in Cape Cod, strengthening their friendship, bonding, sunning, and plotting. They must have plotted, because the nasty tricks and mean-spirited antics could not have been spontaneous. These girls spent all of seventh grade executing a well-designed plan to make me regret my words. It worked.
Changing classes was a chore for all students. We only had 3 minutes to get from one class to another and no one seemed to consider the location of classrooms and lockers when they designed the schedules. I also had the added challenge of making sure that 1 didn’t run into “the group.” Timing was crucial. If I met them head-on,
I needed a line backer to get through the shoulder-to-shoulder fence of squinty-eyed jocks who would pinch me at the base of my neck as I squeezed through the human wall. I learned from experience to head for Tonya’s end of the line. Her fingers were the fattest, her nails were the shortest, and her pinch was the softest. If I happened to be just ahead of them in the hallway, I needed to be wary of hard objects.
From their vantage point, I must have had a bull’s eye taped to my legs. A solid tap placed strategically at the back of my knee sent me tumbling every time.
In gym class, it was a given that I was always picked last. To be fair, this was only partly due to the fact that no one liked me. I was also terribly uncoordinated. I have always been afraid of heights, and so climbing that rope was not was not even a personal goal, much less within my capability. As I’ve mentioned, I have never been particularly steady on my feet and so the trampoline, which I KNOW
-28-
had the potential to launch me through the roof, skewed my sense of balance even more. I had no strength in my arms, which, although they were finely-tuned feeding machines, consistently failed me in every physical fitness test. I could not shoot a basketball, nor could I hurl a dodge ball across the gym during what the coach called Bomber Ball.
These girls, though, who played kickball with their neighbors long after I had gone inside for my evening bowl of heavenly hash ice cream, had well developed muscle tone and enviable coordination. Their aim was precise. Their timing was impeccable. The resulting impact stung. Most days, I did my best to get “out” before one of them could make contact. There were some bright spots. Every so often, I actually caught the ball torpedoed by one of these girls. And then she was out.
On those days, it was especially important that I was fast in the locker room. I tried telling the coach that I didn’t need a shower. I tried telling her I’d forgotten my towel, and even that I had a big project for my next class that I needed to set up before all the other students arrived. I asked if I could spend the “shower time” practicing. The answer was always no. I assume that the shower police would have rescinded her teaching certification if she had allowed me to avoid the locker room. I also imagine it would have ruined her reputation with these jocks—her star volleyball, basketball, and softball players—if she had shown me a tad of kindness.
Locker rooms and group shower stalls were not created for the self-conscious. I was overweight. I began developing earlier than everyone else, and by seventh grade I was well along the way.
Although I was always an easy target, I was especially vulnerable when I was dripping and wrapped in a towel. My underwear only vanished once. I found them later that day halfway up the flagpole on the school’s front lawn. It seemed best to leave them there, even though my grandmother had given them to me as an Easter gift. They said Thursday across the back, and pink hearts speckled the white background. This prank was the extreme. Usually, I found my clothes in a pile on the floor, damp from someone’s freshly showered feet. I dried them off as best I could, made my way to my real locker to grab the spare clothes 1 had stowed there, and headed to the main bathroom for a quick change.
Fortunately, I developed a sixth sense for predicting pranks and was able to avoid many embarrassing moments simply by making niyself scarce. 1 discovered safe havens and would retreat as necessary to hideouts that often came equipped with wonderful role models. Although she was completely at peace with it, Ms. Maio was a geek.
-29-
Her clothes were outdated and wrinkled. Her hair was not out of style; it had no style; and, while everyone else was congratulating the boys’ varsity basketball team for its sectional title, Ms. Maio was hailing members of the Yorkers Club—the lowly seventh and eighth graders— who just returned from a convention on the history of New York State. She made me feel valued. Her attention was sincere, and she was living proof that more than the popular can be happy.
Once, though, I let my guard down and accepted an invitation to a party from my former friends. I know that I should have known they were up to something, but desperation over-ruled rational thinking. It was the first party to which I had been invited since some time in sixth grade. For days, I practiced what I would say, dreaming up conversations that I hoped would charm them. I spent the afternoon taming my unruly, naturally curly hair and agonizing over what I should wear. I remember when my mother dropped me off, she gave me her “I’m worried” look and squeezed my hand. “You call me when you’re ready to leave.”
I was ready before she made it to the corner. When I walked in, my friends were huddled in a big circle, with their faces hidden. Mustering every decibel I could, I greeted my old friends with a timid hi. As they turned around, I realized in a heartbeat why I had been invited.
It was a freaky Frances party. They were all wearing goofy glasses. Drenched with gel, their hair was greasy and sticking out in every direction. They all sported red Converse sneakers and “designer” blue jeans: Wranglers. They each had an armful of heavy books and one of them was waving a flag. (I was a member of the color guard and twirled a flag.) The finishing touch—which I believe must have taken most of the afternoon and all of their creative energy—was the flaming red, fake birthmark painted with lipstick down the left side of their faces. My mother always told me 1 had been kissed by an angel who wanted to make sure I never forgot her love. Apparently these girls didn’t believe in angels.
As I reflect on all of this, I believe that this is when I developed the mental equivalent of anorexia. I looked in the mirror and saw the loser that was described to me. Years later, I listened to my boss tell me that I hadn’t quite found the right angle for the newsletter article I was writing, and I heard their taunts. I heard my husband chatting with his buddies on the telephone, and 1 wondered why he didn’t want to talk to me with as much enthusiasm.
And, then, when I turned the big 3-0,1 read two quotes which sort of spun things around for me.
-30-
Henry Ford said, “Whether we think we can, or whether we think we cannot, we’re right.” Abraham Lincoln said, “Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” On that day, I decided that I wanted to be happy, and, most importantly, I decided that I could.
“To rise above the issue that has a caused a speed bump in your life, you need to think differently and behave differently,” said Marjorie Van Vleet, a nationally certified psychologist with two master’s degrees in counseling. “The process of healing begins when people realize the personal power they have. Once personal power is believed, details of the solutions for developing self esteem and building self worth may be very different; they depend on the individual and what is important to her.”
For those of you working on improving your self esteem, I offer my top ten favorite ways of loving myself and life:
10. Volunteer at your local animal shelter to walk a dog. Dogs are the best example of unconditional love.
9. Remind yourself that people can’t read your mind. Act confident and the world will believe you are.
8. Stop for someone in the crosswalk.
7. Put in your favorite CD and dance in your living room.
6. Join a fitness center and make exercise a habit.
5. Leave flowers on your neighbor’s doorstep.
4. Write down one goal with a list of steps you need to do to reach that goal. Check off each step as you accomplish it.
3. Register for a course at your community college. You’ll expand your mind and your address book.
2. Read USA Today. You’ll have plenty to talk about and quickly realize how lucky you are.
And my #1 way: Share some time with a child. Do what he wants, for as long as he wants, and enjoy it as much as he does!
-31 -
E_ssay - I-lonorable Mention
It’s Only Water
Nancy Woodworth
As I sit on the redwood glider rocking back and forth, I squint to help block the glaring sun from my eyes. My daughter Megan is in the 3 and 'A foot deep pool, shallow enough so that the water depth is not over her head, trying to perfect her doggie-style swimming. The filter purrs softly and sends the cool sparkling water rippling across the surface. The strong smell of chlorine and stifling humidity fills the summer air. Megan calls my name and as I turn to look at her, I catch a quick glimpse of her dragging her hand across the top of the water to scoop and splay it on me. The splatter of wet coolness that lands on my bare skin instantly sends goosebumps up my spine. I look down at the transparent droplets of water on my arms and my mind wanders off as 1 recall a re-occurring dream that I have, more aptly named a nightmare, of another time Megan was in the water.
It’s a gorgeous fall day. The outside temperature is mild, the sun is shining brightly, and the clear sky is a brilliant blue. The trees look breathtaking dressed in their colorful splendor of reds, yellows, and oranges. Megan and I are taking a tranquil walk along the small lake’s edge absorbing the beautiful images of our surroundings and pausing to watch an occasional white-capped wave reach the shore and splash into a thousand drops of water to return back into the lake. The sun’s reflection leaves a shimmering glaze atop the lakes water making it look warm and inviting. We stop once in a while to collect leaves lying on the ground, and Megan is stuffing them into a white plastic grocery bag. There are other people there that are taking a stroll along the lake, perhaps for the last time before the bitter cold of winter sets in. As we near an old wooden dock that protrudes 20 feet out into the lake, Megan asks me if we can walk out it to the end and look down into the water. “Okay” I tell her, but as I step onto the dock, I notice that the wood is quite rotted and some places are covered with a slick green slime. “We better not go out there” I warn her, “The dock is breaking and looks too dangerous to walk on.” She looks down towards the ground and shuffles her feet looking very disappointed; then, we start to walk away.
Within a few feet an elderly couple is approaching, so we stop to exchange pleasantries. The old woman starts talking about the weather and how the winters are so hostile and cold at the lake. I stood
-32-
there patiently, often nodding my head, and listened to her tell a tale of the “worst winter” she’d ever endured. When she finished, we exchanged good-byes and started to walk our separate ways. 1 turned to tell Megan to “Come on”, but she was gone. Frantically, my eyes searched the area, but I did not see her anywhere. “Megan” I called out, “Megan, where are you?” A few seconds pass and there is no response from her. “Megan,” I repeated, “Where are you?” I could hear the quivering desperation in my own voice. My eyes dart back and forth scanning for any sight of her and then my vision focuses on the old wooden dock. “Oh God, NO!” my mind screamed. “Please don’t let her have gone out on that!” The fear that gripped my heart was so overwhelming that I don’t remember how I got out to the end of the dock to stare down into the water. The lake that had moments ago looked so beautiful, now looked dark and forbidding, and so very cold. I couldn't see anything in the water’s depth, only the kaleidoscope of leaves that floated on the top. Megan’s leaves.
As I jumped into the lake, the frigid water that touched my skin immediately took my breath away. It felt as though my lungs had closed up and I could not draw in enough air to breathe. Treading water, I tried to make myself calm down so that I could inhale enough air to hold my breath and go under to find my daughter. It seemed an eternity before I was able to, but finally I could, and then I went under.
I opened my eyes and began to swim towards the bottom, looking left and right with each stroke I took, but I didn’t see her anywhere. It seemed as though I was moving in slow motion, desperately trying to reach the bottom, but unable to get there. The water was very cloudy and the farther down I swam, the darker it became, making it even more difficult to see. I prayed to God over and over to please let me find her. If I could just catch a glimpse of the yellow shirt she was wearing, I could go to her and save her. If I could just feel one of her small hands reaching up to me, I could clasp it and save her. Even if I could just feel a soft silky strand of her hair floating upward, I could grab it and pull her up to save her.
My lungs begin to feel as though they are going to explode. The pressure and the hot burning sensation in my chest are unbearable. I try to blink away the black spots that are appearing before my eyes, my head feels light, and I am starting to feel dizzy. I can’t feel my hands or feet anymore because the icy water has made them go numb.
I know that I need to swim back up to the surface to get air, but I don’t want to. I still haven’t found my little girl. I quickly banish the fleeting thought of going up for a breath and continue to go down deeper and deeper until there is nothing but empty blackness.
-33-
Why do we have such disturbing dreams? Some people dream of being chased by a faceless stranger and in their dream will do things they normally would not do such as commit acts of violence or even kill to get away. Others dream that they are trapped inside a house they have never been in before, and in their desperation to escape they will smash windows out or break doors down; anything to get out. At times, people will dream of catching a spouse or the person they love being unfaithful to them and in their dream see how they would react in that situation. People will even dream about a loved one or friend dying and feel the pain of loss and sorrow. We can awaken from a dream crying and still have lingering feelings of the fright, anger or hurt that we felt. Sometimes our dreams seem so real; we question ourselves whether it really happened or not. Perhaps a bad dream is just that; a dream. Perhaps our bad dreams are really our own subconsciences telling us our worst fears and to what extent we would go to if we were ever confronted with those fears. In my own haunting dream, I realize that my Mother’s love for my child is so boundless that I would do anything for her. I would even give my life for her.
A voice calls to me asking “Mommy, why are you staring at the water?” I snap back to reality from my unpleasant dream and see Megan standing in the middle of the pool. A mischievous smile spreads across her precious face and she splashes me again, this time drenching me. The water saturates my hair making it hang down in my eyes and around my soaking wet face. Megan has a look of horror on her face as she stares at me because she thinks she is going to be in big trouble now. To her surprise, I laugh aloud and splash her back. I don’t mind that I’m all wet, after all, it’s only water.
-34-
Wall
Doug Cook
I am a wall of brick and mortar weathered and worn smooth This hall is filled with people: lovers, fighters, winners, losers, students, teachers passing by
sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which
I stand here silent and sturdy all day watching the currents flow watching them come and go while I am here going nowhere.
The Winter snows melt Soon cherry blossoms will fall wildflowers will bloom and the cicadas will sing Yet Winter remains in me
I followed the creek to the distant precipice though I did not jump
The lion gazes
trapped, caged behind iron bars in my hand, the key.
Soon the snows will melt I await the transition to be warm again feeling the sun on my face and kinder winds at my back
Fresh snow dinged to trees then the world seemed pure again now the trees are bare
The moon is rising shining light on tangled paths now I have lost her on some divergent way never to cross paths again
-35
untitled
James Doherty
F natural, a few cents flat, frequency,
Emanating from my horn, across the room,
Producing a vibration of snares,
Thin, squiggly wires almost like a fabric,
Coiled and structured together, complicated.
The noise is white and running,
Trembling tensely like the snares,
Although not tinny; warm like blood flow,
Not steady silver slivers of whisper but warm wobbling
I was confused when I discovered my noise.
It sounded like a quiver and tremor Wrapped around the back of my brain;
Then I had to close and roll back my eyes,
Now eyes open, regular as snares and F natural.
-36-
Who Are The Sufferers
Brian Ketchum
It is a warm late June evening. The windows are propped open with screens to cool the house. The lamp on the nightstand casts its light intertwined with shadows, dark and bright. The radio is quietly playing Neal Sedaka and Daughter, “Should Flave Never Let You Go.” I close my schoolbook and make final preparations for the next day’s final exams. So much in front of me, a boy of just 16, the world is mine to conquer or so it seems. I lie down and cover with just a sheet; from across the hall I can hear laughter, my younger brothers are playing; in my mother’s bedroom they find security. In the distance, I hear the phone ring, who would be calling at this hour as the clock on my nightstand glows its amber red “eleven o’clock”.
My mother’s voice is quiet at first, then a blood-curdling scream. Mv blood runs cold, my heart pounding in my chest, in an instant I am at my mother’s side, my mind racing with questions, searching for answers in her tear filled eyes. Little did 1 know of the weekend’s events that had transpired, wrapped up in my own little world. My mind drifts back to Friday; it was my last day of school, and I had so many plans, all I had to do was get through my final exams. Late Friday afternoon, my grandparents stopped by, my grandmother staying to visit as I went with my grandfather, not knowing this would be good-bye. My grandfather invited me to come and stay; the “Isle of Pines” was their summer home, where 1 was raised. “Not this weekend grandpa, I have to study for exams.” He looked at me and smiled as though he understood, drinking the last of our milkshakes he took me home.
My mother’s hands are clutching me by the arms and her cry brings me back, the words she said echoed in my head. My grandparents had been murdered. My heart wants to explode. My mind begins to race, my body is long since numb. Then my world and everything in it fades to black. “How Great Thou Art” my cousin is playing in this large church, softly touching the piano keys. I don’t recall too much about the past week, only bits and pieces of pain and tears and the images of a couple days before. As I listen to my grandfather’s favorite song, my mind replays the events like a broken projector. The headlines in The Corning Leader read “Corning Couple Bludgeoned and Shot to Death” with a photo of their home. There it was, in black and white. Then taking my final exams and doing the best that I could; 1 was trying to cope. News reporters standing outside the front of the house; their paper, pen and cameras ready at the first chance; not quite ready to cross that imaginary line.
-37-
Detectives would come and go; all had questions for which they wanted answers, and neighbors and friends would stop by to pay their respects. With the church full of family and friends, I take my place, third grandchild in the second row, all seated by age, 15 in all. I look up at the front of the church and see two flower arrangements, both filled with fifty red roses, representing the number of years they were married. Between the two pots are fresh flowers from my grandmother’s flower garden the grandchildren picked, in a symbolic way connecting the two pots of red roses. As the memorial service begins and the minister starts his eulogy, my mind drifts to painful images that will be forever burned in my mind. Walking into my grandparent’s home; some things a sixteen year old shouldn’t see; my grandma’s footsteps in her own blood, as if walking to her grim reaper, the outline of her body in a fetal position, dried in blood, a permanent stain in my memory. I walked into the dining area to the couch where the investigators said my grandfather laid, a National Geographic magazine soaked in dried blood lays on one of the cushions, a story of it’s own to tell. I hope they didn’t feel any pain. This will always be an unanswerable desire.
Sitting in the courtroom, I look at the three accused that have caused so much of my family’s sorrow. It’s hard to believe that it has been over a year. Several witnesses get up and testify for the prosecution and defense, time to relive the pain and sorrow. Shifting the blame from one to the other, the fact that my grandparents have been murdered no longer the issue, but the question of who done it was more important to some, prosecution and defense rest, two of the three get out tomorrow. Who are the sufferers? Wounds will heal, but if you look closely, for every wound there is a scar, and they will serve as a permanent reminder, always shaping my outlook on life and relationships.
Jo
Victoria Di Ana Murphy
My guardian Jo Lives in the burbs A grandmother to my children A comfort to me.
Her space is divine Comfy stuffed chairs Darling little footstools Bright picture windows Draped with the old days A stuffed Shetland pony My son loves to ride and Dressed dolls in convention Having tea, starring at me.
We share women issues Baking inventions Quilt intentions We discuss our mothers Fathers and brothers We make it all turn out right.
You were present at the birth of my son In your basement I met Jazz Musicians Recordings of Armstrong, Holiday and Ethel I treasure your mother’s clear crystal basket Its presence spurred me to call and thank you, a stranger’s voice answered ...
“This number is no longer in service.”
-39-
The Butterfly Queen
Holly Baker
Here she lies little Madison Scott Dreaming sweetly in her Nana’s garden On her honey eyes feed butterflies
Painted Ladies, Mourning Cloaks, Summer Azure, Pink Eyed Sulphur
Fluttering, cluttering her cherubic face
Lips of strawberry pink, amber locks and skin of cream
This grassy knoll her special place
The sky a bit bluer than it’s meant to be
The clouds snow white and sugary
She wears a gown of springtime green
On her brow a crown of buttercups
And in her hand a golden scepter
Topped with a Carolina Satyr
Safe and sweet and flowers surround her fragile figure Purple posies, forget-me-nots, roses, daisies and polka-dots Dream sweetly Madison The Butterfly Queen
-40-
Back in Time
Paula L. Gore
It was a Saturday night. I was spending a quiet vacation at home with my parents. I happened to be sitting at a computer which was in my room when the news came over the radio about the woman who had killed her sons by drowning them. “What is wrong with people that they kill their own children?” I said in disbelief. “I wish there was some other world in which I could go to, where there was no violence whatsoever.”
Then one day I thought wouldn’t it be weird if I could create my own world through my computer? I worked on it for several days and programmed everything I would like in my world on my computer. I must have forgotten to turn off my computer before I went to sleep that night because the next morning I awoke to a feeling 1 wasn’t in Elmira anymore!
I had gone back in time to create a world in which people of all races sat down to deal with their problems without violence. A world in which people never grew old or die, and children could play outside without fear of anyone hurting them.
One day I was walking around the world I had created feeling good about what I had done, when a lady approached me asking, “What have you done!” She said everything was beautiful here, and being young forever could be wonderful. This lady went on to say, “Paula there aren’t any challenges in this life, everything is done for us. You cannot simply create a world just because you don’t know how to fix the old one.”
“You don’t know what went on in the old world, it was corrupt. People were murdered, all kinds of rape went on, and the most disgusting crime of all was the slaughter of innocent children.”
The lady looked at me with gentle blue eyes, and then I knew suddenly who she was. “Your name couldn’t happen to be Lillian Reed, could it?”
She smiled and said, “Yes, I’m your great grandma Reed and I have come to your world to tell you something important. I know you have been upset at what has been going on and as a Christian you should be, but where is that faith of yours?”
“Look, how can I possibly make a difference in my world. I have cerebral palsy.”
She gave me a surprised look and said, “Paula you contribute to your world everyday just by showing people how to live with a
-41 -
disability. I know you want to do more to help, but god wants you to be there when someone needs a word of encouragement or to say a prayer for them. Don’t worry about the rest, God is in control.”
“There are so many things I would like to tell you about, but you are right. I must go back and try to make it a better world in my own small way.”
My computer program ended and I was back in my room trying to figure out what it all meant. Then I happened to look over on my bed and there laid a lace handkerchief with the lettering L.R. on it. Now I knew somehow that my great grandma Reed’s spirit will be with me forever.
My Heaven
Nancy Daniels
We have the most beautiful scenery ever. Rolling country sides covered with flowers of every color imaginable. Gorgeous reds, yellows, violets, white’s abound. They never die. No matter what season. Year round splendor. See trees, different sizes, shapes together in rows like soldiers tall, stately proud. Soft, cool, sweet smelling grass like blankets on our beds. Lay there watching clouds drift by. Gentle breezes blow over my face. Look birds flying up high. Sparrows, Doves, Blackbirds, Cardinals. Hear their chirping here among branches long limbed, pointed. Silence is golden, no noise but mine. Creatures, small or large come near to graze. Careful dainty nibbles, as I lie in my Heaven.
-42-
Kelley Lounge
Ruth Douglass
There are a few people here today.
It is quiet, comparatively.
Other days it is crowded and wild.
They talk of many different things; sometimes I listen, sometimes I watch.
Paul, as I have heard him called, plays piano, but not presently.
I like listening to him play; it is soothing, it is a medicine.
The room is spacious, yet filled.
It is homey, surprisingly, bright and comfortable. A fire place is almost centered.
I have yet to see it glowing,
though it’s not cold enough for its warmth.
It brings a comfort to me, a longing, unexpected, for the frigid storms.
For now, I can enjoy the window’s picture. Colors fly around in the autumn breeze.
The trees have become my flowers and leaves to form my rainbow.
I see people walking in this picture,
while I sit here inside,
unaware of what has happened just.
I scan these surroundings once again.
Some have left, others taken their seats.
They still talk of many things.
Some asleep, some walk through, some study. And I am here, painting my picture with a single color, words, not images.
But I can see my picture’s beauty and I, yes I alone, enjoy this view.
-43-
Getting Physical
James Doherty
Players are becoming invisible, fading out before a crowd that doesn’t notice them at all, the ball has transmogrified, radiating arms of soft pink glow, flowing electrostatic, connecting one hundred pairs of eyes with the ball, the node.
He’s visible,
He’s anticipating, seeing the whole floor,
he’s elevating, he left the planet,
out near the speed of light, came back.
He’s playing in the future.
Calling the shots, knowing when to take the foul.
He controls the flow, electrons, going away from the ball, going to the ball, he’s finding open space, better than dark matter, no lumps, no force-fields or partially annihilated particles.
He’s creating space, and he’s opening up the lane.
-44-
Above and/or Below
Adam Dunham
On a frosty morning in late July of 2001,1 was waking from a much needed night’s rest. The day before, we carried bulky packs approximately 8.5 miles uphill through Cascade Canyon’s chunky granite trails. The ascent lays deep in the heart of Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming between the three Tetons and the Rocks of Ages. It was to be an extensive three day exploration of the wonders within the Cascade-to-Paintbrush Canyon loop with Mark, John,
Kevin, and I. They were all new friends of mine, but venturing out alone in nature’s calming expanses during the unveiling of a new day’s light is irresistible for me. This particular morning, I would come face-to-face with a harsh reality rock climbing exposes when you have a “loner” attitude. And with ego taunting mountain ranges, camp raiding pikas (small mouse-like rabbits), yellow-bellied marmots, and abundant water features, 1 could hardly contain myself.
As the layers of sleep began to thaw, my eyes chipped away the exhaustion of the previous day to reveal silhouettes gently moving across my tent. Curious now, I crept out of the sleeping bag and opened the tent’s zipper to discover eight mule deer mingling only a few feet away. Prompted by a subtle zip, the deer retired back into their daytime havens where they could be safe until nightfall when nature would become theirs once again. But for now, it was mine, and I could tell that this day would be special.
Motivated, I quickly grabbed my pack and headed towards the whispers of a nearby stream. I moved softly away from camp so as not to disturb my fellow campers. As 1 ate breakfast, I began taking pictures of glacial waterfalls that massaged every crevice of the majestic granite mountains around me. I was making my way through butterfly filled gullies when I remembered that somewhere between the lodgepole pines, behind me in the delightful view of the valley there stood something unparalleled — the almighty Tetons. Seated in their massive throne, without a sound, their mighty voice demanded that I take notice and give respect. In that moment, a fearless expedition was born.
I wanted to capture this flawless blend of natural glory as no electronic or digital device could. It required a loving hand and an appreciative eye. I knew what had to be done. I snatched my colored pencils and artists’ paper then headed for a nearby rock wall.
A moderately graded wall on the valley’s west side seemed like a reasonable place to begin. About seventy feet up was a plateau
-45 -
that would provide a perfect vantage point for this landscape portrait.
I don’t draw often, but I climb regularly, so I figured the climb would be the easy part.
I had a goal. I had energy and motivation. I had all the necessary supplies, or did I? Because I elected to do this on a whim, I hadn’t brought any ropes, spikes, carabineers, climbing shoes, or any other climbing supplies. But why would I need these anyway? After all, the climb was only graded moderate. Any avid climber should be able to complete this with little or no difficulty, even without supplies.
For fear of missing out on the best lighting, 1 wasted no time thinking and began my vertical navigation. My heart pounded from anticipation of the view I’d be rewarded with, not the thrill of the climb. In the midst of the excitement, I failed to account for one of the most abundant elements in this environment — water. Now rapidly approaching the half-way mark, the angle steepened and disaster struck. I lost my grip and was sliding down the rock. I struggled to find some friendly protrusion or useful crevice, but to no avail. I fell onto the jagged boulders at the base of the mountain.
It seemed like an eternity that I lay there. I realized that the fall could have devastated the bones in my body. Moreover, it could have killed me. But remarkably, I was okay. By the time I got to my feet the mishap was a distant memory. I took inventory of my surroundings, and nothing had changed except my location. With heightened awareness, I went back up the rock and finally made it to my “perfect plateau”.
My whole life, my parents taught me to always appreciate the things I love and never give up on them. These memories drove me subconsciously all morning as I delighted in this piece of heaven. But after my near fatal episode, why did I keep going? What worldly force made me feel like there was no other choice for me but to continue? I now knew that I do not love adventure only for the pleasure of physical accomplishment. Adventure for me is enjoying nature’s mysterious elements in creative ways. In the end, there is no risk I won’t take for the things I love.
-46-
Between a Rock and a Hard Spot
Karen Thumheer
One warm spring morning I had an unbelievable frog experience, when I went to the store to buy, interestingly enough, cat food. Around the driveway and the entrance to the store was a stonewall about two feet high that held back a grassy knoll. The wall was made of large round stones of the type common to the area. These stones created large empty spaces that were than filled with smaller stones that in turn created still smaller cracks and crevices: good places for bugs and spiders and small things to hide and live. When 1 walked up to the entrance I saw one of the many cats playing and batting something in the corner of the wall. He was a big yellow tabby and upon closer examination I noticed he was playing with a pathetic small green frog. The frog appeared to be trying to hide himself from the cat by squeezing back farther in the cracks and crevices of the rocks. Feeling sorry for the frog, I thought I would help him out by shooing the cat away. I pushed aside the big yellow tomcat and said to him “bad kitty, you shouldn’t bother things you aren’t going to eat”. But I noticed the frog continued to try to back himself farther into the crack. Knowing full well that the cat would return to his fun with the frog, I decided to take the frog from the crack in the rock and place him in the grass on the bank where he might have a better chance of hiding from the cat. I tried to pluck the frog from his hiding spot among the rocks, but he didn’t seem to want to come out, so I pulled a little harder. Suddenly he let go and come out. To my horror and surprise there was a snake dangling from him who was in the process of trying to swallow the still alive frog. It was only a Garter snake and not even a big one, but his mouth was misshapen and huge, he wiggled and twisted in the air, determined to not let go of his meal. I stood stunned for an instant, than shrieked as I dropped the whole mess on to the pavement. Stomping my feet and shaking my hands with utter disgust, I heard a voice behind me say “now that's the true meaning of being between a rock and hard spot”.
Feelings and Felines
Timothy Hall
I am spending time in my room and listening to the classical station. As the music rolls and is filling the air with stringed instruments and flutes, 1 look up at the wall where there is a picture of my cat, Sasha, who I will get to see in just a few short hours, and then my focus narrows to a small slice of time and space to remember that I had placed other pictures of cats from the S.P.C.A where I had volunteered in the spring of 2004. I pulled down the plastic case that holds the photos and open it, revealing more cats, which I will not see again. The first picture I stop to look at is of Sampson whom 1 met while I was staying at the halfway house and volunteering at the S.P.C.A. The picture is very regal looking as Sampson is cradled in someone’s arms, seeming to look to whoever is viewing the picture. His big green eyes looking, as if in anticipation of something only Sampson could know.
I often like to reminisce about my time I spent volunteering at the Finger Lakes S.P.C.A in the spring of 2004. Upon entering the building I would be greeted by the same familiar faces of the three women who work there, Beverly, Vicki, and Valerie. “How are you today Tim?” was the usual question and sometimes coupled with an exhaustive sigh of relief and a “Boy are we glad to see you!” I would put up my jacket, my Walkman and whatever articles I happened to have with me and sign in. Walking into the back room I was again greeted but this time with friendly chirps and meows. Even with the echoing barks and woofs of the dogs in the kennels to the left and right and the cats meowing with urgency, I can relax. I feel wanted and needed here more than I have ever been as the cats press their tiny furry bodies against the cage doors. Their fur pokes out in neat little pointy, checkerboard patterns. Some just look and meow to me and others reach their paws through the holes in the cage doors seeking my attention with excitement. My problems and frustrations start to dissipate and I am safe from them until I walk out the door, there they will be waiting. When 1 am finished comforting my friends here at the shelter I will be healed in a way that 1 can tackle those problems and frustrations. My first friend is Sampson. Sampson was a hulk of a cat, a gray striped tabby that is very vocal. Sampson remains constant with his shrieking meow and trying to convey it as a roar that a lion would hurl into the jungle. No matter how hard you try (even if you wanted to) you cannot forget nor ignore Sampson. He will not have it! Living up to his name he is fourteen pounds of cat that three quarters of I swear must be his mouth! Sampson is an old timer here at the shelter; having been here for more than six months, everyone has gotten
-48-
attached to him. He has become somewhat of a celebrity having had his picture in a couple different newspapers several weeks in a row. People that come to the shelter ask about him. Sampson is the first cat I tend to since he won’t be quiet until I do! Most people’s first reaction to Sampson is that of fear. With a standoffish demeanor he does scare people but I don’t think he knows that. Sampson often blats wildly for attention and he gets it! He is so demanding that at times he seems angry. Take him as he is, Sampson sets the rules. I do not fear Sampson though, because we are quite similar. We both put up a front but to the core are sensitive and loving. I open Sampson’s cage door, he gets quiet immediately and climbs into my arms. 1 hold him and he purrs in a way that cannot be heard, but only felt. Here in my arms he is happy and very regal looking. Having become calm unlike before he knows he has gotten his way with this feline sensitive person. I look around and notice the other cats whose eyes are on me, all hoping the same thing, that they will be next to gain a reprieve from their cells. While I am there I can’t help but think that these cats forget where they are, that they can mentally escape just a little bit from their confinement. Sampson in the meantime has gained mental and physical emancipation from his small quarters while in my arms. Holding this wonderful animal puts my mind at ease. I recess into a part of myself that is spiritual. I was brought here for a special purpose, not just my own but for the cats as well. These animals and I have something in common; we are at a crossroads in our lives.
At that time in my life I was staying at the halfway house. The second step in a three-step process of recovery from heavy alcoholism.
I was about four months sober and I volunteered at the animal shelter to pass the time and to make a difference. I used to use drugs and alcohol to escape from reality and was often worse off than before I had picked up the bottle. Many a time I had left a job because of an inability to perform because 1 was inebriated, then retreated into my apartment a little cell only to continue my sick affair with the very substance that started it all. I now come here to escape, to think... about how I used to keep myself isolated in my little apartment that was a cell of sorts that was of my own making. I had imposed myself into a cardboard prison too scared to face the world. There I would drink and be lonely arid be oblivious to the world. Sometimes people would come to see me to reach out a caring hand, trying to share their concern and love and hoping to appeal to the caring spirit that hid deep within me. These cats are locked up as well but not to escape and not of their free will.
My heart is filled with joy as Sampson purrs with fervor. The feeling that wells up inside of me is of great love and a feeling that will last and take my soul much further than a few drinks. As he lies in
-49-
my arms I can’t help but wonder if I am his escape. I understand the animal often placing more confidence in them than I do humans, why? I have yet to have an animal misrepresent itself to me. That is why I place my faith in Sampson; it is no secret if he wants to be held, nor if he wants food. I now know why I was brought here, to comfort and be comforted, man to beast or beast to man, but which of the two is the beast? I believe that Sampson and I subconsciously chose to be in the same place at the same time so that the transition we were making, we might make it together and more easily. I understand him and he understands me but neither of us had to speak a word. There are some who would like to think that cats are “lower” animals. The truth is that they experience the same feelings that humans do. They get sad, they feel pain and they also feel anxious at times. I used to drink to cover up and escape from those feelings. I also believe that they too enjoy escaping sometimes as well. The important thing is that we were together to help each other through those feelings, just as people often are and to help each other escape in a constructive way.
Sampson did get adopted shortly after I started volunteering, I was able to say my goodbyes and wish him well along with his new owner. The new owner thanked me for taking care of him and I still remember that slice of gratitude.
Looking at the picture of Sampson takes me right back to when we would hang out, when I would volunteer at the S.P.C.A. Here I am in my room looking at a picture of Sampson to escape, to steal away into a time that still exists within my heart. My heart feels warm and my soul comforted and 1 shed a tear, yes perhaps because I am a little lonely but not because I am using drugs. 1 can now escape to a time of comfort with Sampson and be healthy and even rejuvenated. That is a feeling that I can return to again and again, one that fills my soul instead of draining it like a river into the ocean and a glorious feeling that will take me much further than any drink. I had realized then as I still do, that escapes can be healthy as long as intentions are good and you enter objectively into a subjective state always bearing in mind the lesson to be learned. The price you pay for that escape should not exceed the rewards received, in order to be truly effective and Sampson has given me much more than I can ever repay. For that I am ever truly grateful. As I am putting the picture of Sampson away and hanging it back on the wall, 1 am taken aback just a little knowing that I will never see him again. Then there is my picture of Sasha in the plastic case and my heart leaps a little once more. I will get to see Sasha in just a couple of hours. I will escape into her world and she will escape into mine.
-50-
Love Is Like The Ocean
Doc Lunacy
Love can be as beautiful as the clear blue water
When you looked at it last
Or love can hit you like a tidal wave
When it comes down and you crash
Love can be as pretty as a school of tropical fish
Or love can leave you seasick
Asking yourself?Why am I feeling like this?
Love can bring joy like two dolphins playing
Leaving a smile on your face
Or love can have you confused emotional abused
And stuck in one place
Love can make you feel free
Like a fisherman alone at the sea
Or love can make you feel lost,
Surrounded by sharks with a big whole in your heart
Love is like the waves
It has its ups and its downs
But most of all
Love is like the ocean
Get too deep and you drowned.
Breathing In Peppermint
Holly Baker
Clever quips from peppermint lips Spending nights pressed into hips These have passed like all good things Unrested and restrained by steel chains Behind this wall of glass Are eyes downcast streaming Tears, salted, wet and clear Hear her sigh and she is breathing in Faded mint Respire
The scent of fear
-51 -
“The Warmth”
James Doherty
Mike wore a Bucket hat, he was dark, broad, and with facial hair that made him twice his age. Mike gives hope to his brother Sean and I. We drive way too fast in their parents’ Passat, stopping to spit and to yell at strangers on the street. This is a dead town at night, retired, lifeless, old, and aged. But, tonight Cape Cod shows us a good time.
We sit with giddy loins and anxious minds, waiting for some girls who are strangely inclined to us, the indigo dials and gauges of the car, only light. An Incubus song we’d heard 4 times tonight was waiting for a chord to drop and sing.
A muscular man in a hat unlike my cousin’s rolls up; apprehension, shifting, and finally words come through an open pickup window. He had heard the music, clearly; hat frayed at the front brim, in faded color if it were visible. A complement to the truck is given and the transaction ended. Mike swears as the man leaves, I begin to picture Mike’s hat as a bright red hunting hat with an extra-long brim. When the girls come out Tami sits on me in the car, I feel initiated, aroused, we did introductions. Tami is 19, Sean and I age quickly to 16 and 17. At the spot on the beach the four girls lay out towels, and I’m enthralled with Tami’s light colored jeans glowing in the darkness of the beach.
I strip and as I do so everyone makes fun of my small white boxers. Tami, the only one whose name I remembered approaches and we talk about the nursing school she’s in even though she doesn’t really want to help people. We get wet, there is a wide open sky, and I feel safe in dark water, wrapped around a girl I’ll never know, but I know now. Mike wants Sean and I to help him fight those guys, who are talking with two of the girls, drinking, and smoking the cherry cloves, I’ve smelled.
It’s a dream riding in the dark and twisting gentle roads. At an intersection glossy white paint is on little comers of fence, one of the roads is made of brick. All the way home we sing the same song for the 6th, 7lh time maybe—windows all the way down.
-52-
Escaping Nirvana
Doug Cook
Nirvana
was a bore
not the band the
state of being I
was there for a day
a monday I
think.
I couldn’t stand a minute more so I threw it away ran away decided to find a mistake to make to let my self fall to pieces and find some better way along the way.
Inner peace isn’t all that great anyway.
You Are Silver
Holly Baker
You are silver Second place lover Bejeweled bangles on my wrists and shackles on my ankles You are silver
Crescent moon smiling in the velvet sky Flatware fork in my path knife in my back You are silver Lake water to drink and Rims on the car I drove off a cliff Coins I scrounged to buy the gas You are silver Mercury in my veins Quick and shining Like foil glinting in the sun catching the eye of a crazy crow You are silver Bullet in my heart Masterfully metallic
Untitled
James Baltimore
crimson as the blood
sweet flesh ripped between my teeth
apple seed falling
Experiencing Oneness
Victoria Di Ana Murphy
I never want to part with My memory of Woodstock ‘69 Long hair everywhere Wet hippies forming for miles Hells angels with big breasted Black leather babes On long silver choppers Youngsters riding on mothers In hand woven pouches.
Two hundred and fifty thousand strangers Flowing continually like the rain Over trampled wet mud grass Shoulder to shoulder peacefully Covering one New York farm.
-54-
-55-
It Was Like Living in a 007 Movie
Karen Thumheer
To me it was quite unbelievable, it was like living in a 007 movie, complete with armies of ants, swarms of monkeys, thousands of venders, poverty and wealth all mixed and tumbled together in the heavy humid air of the tropics. We had rented a room, one of the best we had found. I lay uncovered on top of a makeshift bed with a grass mat for a mattress. There were no sheets or blankets, or any need for any. 1 sat up sweating and looked around the room. It was a small room painted long ago a pale, pale blue. From chest high down the paint was worn, chipped and blackened from fingerprints and use. The floor also had been painted maybe it was cement at some time, it was hard to tell or maybe it was polished cow dung, typical of the area. There were two dressers in the room. One had three legs and leaned heavily against the wall. The other dresser had all four legs but one draw was missing. It also had a mirror and it still had most of the silver backing. On the bottom shelf where the draws use to be, sat a big green frog. Where or how he had come in I hadn’t a clue, it could have been any number of ways. The one window was the same kind of windows all neighboring houses had, except for the very wealthy. It had shutters and bars but no glass. Around the window was a large crack in the cement wall. This crack ran from floor to ceiling and from this crack flowed a stream of ants that marched endlessly day after day, week after week to the attached bathroom with its broken toilet, dirty sink and cold shower. It was in this room that we would happily return to renew and regenerate our depleted souls after days of heavy toil and labor in the sweltering jungle.
-56-
Sweet Memories
Nainita Patel
Summer mornings in the field of sugarcane, at my home in India, makes me happy when I remember them. During my vacations from school, I used to go to the field with my grandma and my sister.
On my left, there was a hut made of bamboo walls and coconut leaves for a roof. Our workers lived in this hut. They used to guard our sugarcane field. Often they cooked, and I could smell the spices like cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg they used. Also, I could smell the bitterness of the banyan branches as they burned. On my right was a small pond. 1 enjoyed hearing the chorus of the frogs. Beside the pond, there were flowers and grass. They were dancing on the rhythm of the air. The smell of roses and lilies was in the air like I was passing by a perfume shop. In front of me, the sugarcane was standing like pillars. Each stalk of sugarcane was about 20 feet tall and 1 inch round. Each greenish black stalk has about 12 leaves at the top. These leaves were shaped like com stalks leaves. As the wind blew through the big, wide leaves it was like they were dancing. The sound the wind and sugarcane made was low and melodious like a flute. The sugarcane was surrounded by mango trees, which were taller and wider than apple trees, but their leaves were similar. On each branch I could see about 10 mangoes; some were dark green and some were ripening and turning yellow. The sweet smell of mangoes and sugarcane made me hungry. I could see different birds like sparrow, crows, and parrots in the sky. Some of the birds were flying in a group like they were going for work. The parrots were dark green colors. The sparrows were often making lots of noises while feeding their young one’s; their nest was in one of the mango tree. The sun would be peeping out from the clouds, like it was playing hide and seeks with us. I could see the blue sky clear like water and I was trying to make a picture on the big sheet of paper, which was above me, and clouds were a pencil for me to draw with my imagination whatever I wanted. The air was so fresh and everything looked clean. Now when I see the trees covered with snow in New York State, I close my eyes and remember my favorite place and those happy days, which I had in the sugarcane field.
-57-
Long Way Home
James Doherty
Purple-gray humps of earth
Wide, flat plane beneath, submerged in white
Dilapidated stalks of crops, chopped.
Looming over the lines of stubs
Were telephone poles, traversing the field.
This was the long way home.
Sun, eroding white Slowly. Friday afternoon.
-58-