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AfterGlowSJHSLit Mag2008

Mini Mart BubblegumElisha SchoepleinEver since I was little, I used to dream ofblowing big bubbles. The sticky lump ofgum always stuck to my teeth, and it neverquite made a balloon around my tongue backthen. That is, until I turned nine. Then, bubbletape from the mini mart down the streetbecame my best friend. The flavor diedin about two minutes, but in those minutesbefore it got hard and stale, I had my chanceto blow the biggest bubble in the world.It was almost like me and bubblegum brokeup for a long period of time, but then hookedup again my sophomore year in high school.I blew my biggest one ever at 17. Gum stuckto my eyebrows, my eyelashes, my chin, mynose.It may be the closest Iʼll ever get to landingthe world record; Iʼll never be the tallest orthe quickest or the fattest; but, I may yet blowthe biggest bubble in the world.Brotherly LoveLiz ToddSeven years,Now giving me tears.No special bond,But of the ones we are fond.He Tries Out For the Lead RoleBut Only Gets the UnderstudyMarie BurkardMy small, chubby hands cover my earsAs a wail erupts yet again from the small,Wrinkly baby squirming on the ground.My baby brother—loud,distracting,obnoxious.His tiny fists pumping the air,Singing his hunger loud enough to frighten me.I reach down and pat his sweat-dampened cheek,Evicting more howls of head splitting annoyance.Then he knocks my Barbie from my handI clench my own hands into fists.Enough is enough.I sink my teeth into the tender fleece of his stomachThen cower away from the new levels of noise spilling from hisPain confused lips.Mom comes rushing in now andI smile,Satisfied.She has at last come to save me.“Marie, did you bite him?”My eyes bug from my face slightly and I shake my head furiously.I say that he did it himself.But the toothless gums engulfing his mouth are a dead giveaway to my lie.I receive the spanking with tears and march up to my room,Reveling in the peaceful quiet my punishment has brought,Yet dreading the lecture that is sure to follow.In the beginning it was good,You always did what you could.Using watchful eyes,And covering my lies.I looked up to you,And sometimes I still do.But when youʼre nowhere near,Iʼm still stuck here.Moving on with your life,Causing them strife.making room for another,But Iʼm still looking for my brotherWinterKatie Buckleitner4 Spring 2008

Escape.Elisha SchoepleinThe South American air makesAll of us performersReek.The costumesCling to our sweatBefore we even start.His eyes are now smeared with liner,Skin powdered like a strung-out drugaddict.I pray in my head.The music starts.His hand hits my face,My arms,Time and time again.Dramatizing his “hit,”I fall,Hands first into the dirty street.The CottageChelle SkinnerAs July comes to a close there’s one thing on my mindThe anticipation builds for weeksI can’t wait for the smell of freshly fallen pine needles,carrying the salt shaker down to the beachjust in case leeches find their way between my toesEating a chocolate malt for breakfast at Tom’s,and the frustration of tennis balls constantly hitting the net.I long for the adrenaline as I hit a wave;my jet ski barely touching the top of the water.Conversations with people I haven’t seen in a yearbut who have known me my whole life.I begin to hear the drums from the Wampum Shopand see the booths that line the streets on Loon Day.As these things start to creep into my mind,I know the time is hereto finally leave for the cottage.The crowd of 300Stares and whispersTo themselvesIn Spanish“Is she ok?”His minions tear at my t-shirt and jeans,Surrounding me on all sides.I reach out for stale air,Knowing of no escape.Someone moves from behind meDressed in white garment.Jesus.His eyes stare right through mine,Concerned,Like they knowExactlyWhat I need.Saying nothing, he walksAround the figuresSurrounding me,And lifts me to my feet.I cling to him,Unable to stand on my own.And all he does is hold me,As all our enemiesHitTheFloor.These have I feared...Marie BurkardThe all encompassing darkness of the storage cooler where I usedto work, the way it would swallow you wholethen spit you out a more unfriendly, frigid person.The spaces that lie in between,In between the light and darkness,In between my mind and reality.I fear myself, what I have done, what I am capable of.The power that a secret can posses over people.I fear human nature and what I cannot control.Things unseen, things unknown, what hides around the corner.I fear the suffocating walls of confmement,the ones that increase the rate of my heart.The dark water that steals my breath with its icy claws.These things also, I fear:Disappointment.Failure.Need.Love.afterglow 5

FamilyNathan CihlarBlack is....The bruise from being hit by my fatherFor pouring his vodka down the sink,Is the name of the bar where he drank his family away,The crawlspace, my hiding spot from the screaming matches.Funny FacesMegan SandbergBlack is....The last night we cried for each other,The jeep we were in when we crossed the center line,The asphalt where we last lay together.One of those DaysJordan EdwardsLeaning against the counter of ice cream cases,I fix my eyes on the couple, sipping their hot chocolates.The dainty girlʼs head is thrown back, laughingAt something the man she adores has said.I envy the happiness that is radiating from the table,Wondering why I am dressed in a frumpy blue shirt,Letting a co-worker make my day go from badTo worse.The constant smack of the sign reading ʻCup oʼ JoeʼAgainst the windowReminds me of the torrential downpourAnd the strong windsThat will make the walk to my carAnother reason my mind is clouded with derogatory thoughts.Glorious sounds of 4 stringsDylan FordStanding in the shadows, fingers strolling.Time-keeper, rhythm master.Introducing guitar to drums.Lack of two strings, four extra thick.Slap Thump, Pop Twang.Sounds of the trade.Backbone for the guitar to melt faces.The diamonds in the rough.Virtuosic players that glorify the instrument.An instrument, that given a chance stands out...And strikes awe in millions.Rebellious bassists,Who fight the treble-y sounds of guitar.Jazzy sounds from “Nawlins” and Mardi GrasFunky fresh rhythms.Melodic bass runs.Rare solos,That hold more feeling.Capturing many moods.I question now, as I push dirty water from one end of the counter to the next,If everything he said was true.If his reverse psychology that made me feel like the scum of the earthIs something I had earned.I feel myself falling short of expectations.I no longer have a desire to sing to the music,While scrubbing the hardened chocolate from the pans.As 10 oʼclock turns into 10:30,I think back to the 3 hours I wasted earlier in the afternoon,Regretting that I put off my A.P. statistics,The last thing I want to be doingAt the endOf this day.Katie Priddy6 Spring 2008

The not so perfect coverLexy DilleyA fairytale endingHappily ever after,Bleached smiles,Highlights to match,Barbie and KenPuzzle pieces made to fitBut like the sports carLifeʼs exterior was plastic,Fit for a commercial,Under the airbrushed tansLaid the bruises of the American sweet heartWith clenched fists and swings of fury,Days of shopping became days of hiding,Tears flooded dressing roomsScreams tore through a Malibu mansionThe blue fire in his eyeSparked from beneath.Raging for her fameThe girl next door, a best friend, a beauty queen,Posters on every door, a face on every box, a signature on every toyA fairytale ending disgraced.Running AwayJordan EdwardsI gathered the only bandana I could findAnd tied it to a broom stick,The way cartoon characters did on TVWhen they were walking to god-knows-where,Whistling away.No worries, just the road ahead.I didnʼt know where I would go,But,I knew I was going away from home,Away from my bully brother.Even if it was freezing out,Nothing was stopping me from marching out the door.I pushed my wayThrough knee deep snow banks,To my haven,The biggest tree I could find.My footprints were evident in the deep snow;And he had bet on how long I would lastBefore I came crawling to the doorFor forgiveness.But I expected this,And forced my chattering teeth to cease.Curling into a ball,I shivered.Even through the 4 layers and snowsuit,I questioned how much longerI would be able to takeThe merciless wind.But then,I heard footsteps.The person I had least expected knelt by my side,He came to bring me back home.With a cup of hot cocoaAnd a forgiving smile spread across his face,I followed my brother back to the warm house,Forgetting why I had leftIn the first place.Latin RosesSally Poseyafterglow 7

Dying to be thin?Or dying to get thin?Kelli CelmerAs I get older, I always thought the girls youngerthan me were looking smaller because I was gettingolder, but thatʼs not the case anymore. Girls of all agesare now doing almost anything to get the pencil-thinshape shown everywhere: TV, Internet, magazines, andnewspaper. Even their favorite pop stars are sportingthe new, popular trend eating disorders.I sit down on my black, leather couch with a bigbowl of popcorn covered in as much salt and butter mytaste buds can withstand as I flip through the channels.I hope to find a good movie on when I realize everyother channel I pass is either “Americaʼs Next TopModel” or “The Janice Dickinsonʼs Model Agency.”Not only that, but even the news is covering a storyon Nicole Richie whoʼs down to a striking 80 lbs!Congratulations.Iʼm sick of what I see and turn off the TV. I throwmy uneaten bowl of popcorn into the trashcan andanalyze my body—what I thought was regular proportion—inmy mirror. “I donʼt look anything like thosegirls on TV,” I thought to myself. I quickly walkedinto my kitchen and abruptly ask my mom who ispreparing dinner—hamburgers and salad. “Am I fat?”My mom looked at me like I was crazy.“Absolutely not. Sit down and eat a good dinner,”she had told me. Instead I went back into my roomand marveled over my TV at the bodies in front of me,beautiful and tiny. I wish I looked like that, I silentlythought.I know Iʼm not the only girl to ever think that whengrowing up. But my question is why? Why do girlsfeel the need to be so skinny that a brisk wind couldknock them over? Refusing to eat, tossing food away,throwing up why do girls waste so much, includingthemselves, to feel accepted? If girls really sat downand thought about it, essentially in the end—theyarenʼt winning, they arenʼt making themselves skinnier,or even happier they are killing themselves.As I sit happily at lunch and scarf down my crispitosand rice, I look around the lunchroom and see girlsof all grades picking at a handful size salad with nodressing. Girls throwing away full lunches on theirtrays. And even girls eating nothing.How are these growing girls supposed to learn withnothing in their stomachs for almost a full nine hourday?High school is a war zone of girls willing to doanything to be accepted, to be liked, to be loved, to bepopular. What most girls donʼt realize is the happieryou are with yourself—the more others will like youtoo. So girls, itʼs time to turn off the TV and throwthose trashy magazines away. Learn itʼs not aboutdying to be thin. Itʼs about living to be happy withyourself.8 Spring 2008The ERDana HansenI hurried into that dreadful room,The ER,looking back with every step,where was my mom.I was not able to control what would happen next,The warm blood as it trickled,Down my arm,through theblue and white checkered towel.The nurse looked at my wristThe expression of doubt on her faceTold me that she couldnʼt fixMy wristI was sent down that long hallway.It seemed to never end.Room after roomDoctor after Doctor,My heart raced fasteras each doctor passed bywhy couldnʼt they help,what had I done that was so awfulFinally one doctor came in whisperedTo my dad, I read his lipsIt told me everything.My heart started to race again.We hurried down yet another hallI needed surgery,It was the only way to save my lifeThey didnʼt even wait for my momSlowly I counted 100, 99, 98…I was groggy when I woke upMy surgery was overI knew it would be okMy family was there,Mom, dad and my sisters.Hoping and wishingI would make it through.There was a sigh of relief asI opened my hazel eyesEven though they only opened a crack.I had made it through thatDreaded room,the ER,to surgery.

Ice CreamKristel KlankYou taunt me from that half empty Ben and Jerryʼs carton.Ice melting off your cardboard sidesreminds me that Iʼve had enough,but when you whisper in that sweet, sultry tonedonʼt you just want one more bite?I always give in.Cookie dough,Reeseʼs cups,Brownie pieces—you own my self-control.And when I fmally set down the spoon,carton empty and bare,I know itʼs too late.I know Iʼve failed.You have won again.Another diet ruined.Another mile to run.Another pound to lose.You leave me feeling empty,just like the calories youʼre made of.PopEric GorenfloShe sits there, suspended under the frigidwater, turning into a block of ice. Only 16.“Please God, press rewind.”Her body lurches, and she plunges back upthrough the hole in the thin sheet of ice aboveher—back up into the bitter December air. Thewater droplets fall off her fur coat and Out ofher long hair—back into the hole in the lake,where shards of ice form back into a perfectfrozen pane. The water withdraws from herlungs, and her last breath works its way backin. She feels the dry pier drop itself firmlybeneath her designer boots. And again shestands there—on the edge—unthinking it all.Teardrops unfreeze and dribble back up hercheeks, into her tear ducts. Her legs begin torun backward, pulling her footprints back outof the snow—her shoes collecting them, stackingthem back onto the soles. She continuesaway from the pier, through the docks—thewind pulling the chill out of her cheeks. Herlegs rush her in reverse through the town—pastthe mall and the school and the liquor store.All the while, the frozen ground spits snowback up into the sky. Finally, she unruns upthe sidewalk and through the front door— pastthe family that never noticed her leave. All thewords she couldnʼt take any more soar out ofher ears and back behind the teeth of Motherand Father. Dropping the fur coat on the floor,she falls back into bed. Her head hits the pillow,and she unhears the breaking lamp. Slammingher eyes shut, she flinches back to sleepand begins to undream of a faraway place.The empty bottle sucks the anger back out ofFatherʼs mouth—out of his brain. Sitting therein his chair, he unbreaks the seal. Curled upon the couch in the basement, Mother uncries.Normal.Then all at once, it plays.Pop.The seal breaks—and soon after it, a lamp.She jumps out of bed and into a closed casket.Only 16. Her hands cross neatly inside herbox. Muffled sobs come from the outside. Hishand places the last white chrysanthemum ontop. Then words she never thought sheʼd hear.“Please God, press rewind.”Megan Sandbergafterglow 9

Rapunzelʼs NooseEvan BishopYears she spent up in that towerLonely and filled with despair,Nothing at all to do,but grow her magnificent hair.She brushed, combed, and groomed,Braiding what seemed to be miles of silk thread,Taking care of it, even by the way she slept in bed.Having so much time to think to herself about her —so called-Knight in Shining Armor,She conceived a plan, contrived by karma, to take care of her Knight.The day finally came when the silvery salvation appeared upon a steed.She greeted him with loving words urged him to save her.She tossed down her well nourished locks of beauty to the knight,Waiting for him to start the climb up.But when the knight reached halfway up the tower, Rapunzel jerked her hair,Which created a wave that headed straight for her knight.He didnʼt know what hit him until the golden strands of love tightened around his neck,Causing him to suffocate in mid air.Rapunzel, with an evil smirk on her face, climbed down the castle wall.Looking at her now blue, unconscious Knight, she said;“Thanks for the horse.”Unwanted GirlJulee OatsvallShe sitsamong her many problemsthis unwanted girlconfused byher anger and depressionlike a broken old guitaron a cluttered shelflike a dust-filled guitarthat never gets usedagain.—after Langston Hughes’spoem “Troubled Woman”Pas da chatJulianna FlahertyClonesEmily LemonsTheyʼre everywhere.Each covering their bodies in the same thing;V-cut shirt over a lacey tank topWith the painted on bell bottomsThat rest upon their flip-flops.They speak as if they have the intelligence of an ox,With their excessive use of the word like.Weʼve all noticed the sudden outbursts in class,As if they have something important to say.Nothing soothes them moreThen to hear the sound of their own voice.Theyʼre programmed to believe that theyʼreNormal.Unfortunately, theyʼll never understand thatThere is no such thing.In the real worldPeople think before they speak,And mean what they say.In the real worldPeople are unique,And live life for themselves.Disregard their close mindedness.After all,They only know how to beOrdinary.10 Spring 2008

The Shofar*Devora GleiberI sit in a hard-backed pew of the Sanctuary,jittery, with fingers crossed as I watch my brotherascend the steps to the bimah.Now I must wait.Two pages, one page,then finally the Rabbi raises his armsas he sings out the last word of the prayer,signaling the congregation and the Baʼal tekiah to rise.I watch as my brother stands holding the shofar, prepared, ready.Tekiah!The first note rings out loud and clear,swelling my heart with sibling pride.The call of the shofar continues and I listen,wishing I could produce such a sound.Now sure of my brotherʼs success,I prepare and wait with watchful eyes and fine-tuned earsfor the final pronouncement of Rosh Hashanah.I stand and listen to the now familiar notes waiting, waitinguntil finally...Tekiah Gedolah!The note starts soft then grows with strength,a crescendo as it fills the sanctuary.I close my eyes and listen as the music of that single notespirals upward, swirling around me as I empty my body of all tension,responding to the power of the call as it speaks.The note slowly fades awayas murmurs of approval ripple through the sanctuary.Handing the shofar to his teacher of this tradition,my brother descends from the bimah,back straighter, standing taller,to accept the praise of the congregation.Face beaming, he sits and relaxes, the tension in his body released.He has finally joined the few whocan accomplish this difficult ritual.*A shofar is a ramʼs horn that is ritually blown by theBaʼal Tekiah on the Jewish holiday of Rosh Hashanah.Danielle MoitThe PoolAbbie FranckI had always been afraid of water; it was until recently myworst fear.I sat staring at a particularly hard math problem. Geometryhad never been my strong point. Suddenly I hear mydoor slam open with a startling jolt I rise up from my chair,and turn to see who slammed it open. It was my mother,her clothes crumpled, her eyes wide with a look I had rarelyseen.“Your brother is missing and I have looked everywhere,I need you to go check outside.” The words just drippedwith panic. I jumped up from where I was sitting and ranoutside, a coldness sweeping through my body, clenchingmy throat so I could hardly call out my brotherʼs name. Myfeet thudded as I ran from the back to the front yard searchingfor what I hoped wasnʼt lost forever. I couldnʼt findhim anywhere and went to report back to my frantic mother.She screamed when I told her, for she realized that we werequickly running out of places where he could be.We both realized at that instant he could be anywhere, hewas so small. Iʼll always think of him as small, even thoughhe wonʼt be forever. He was constantly getting in to troubleever since he was a tiny baby; his umbilical cord had evenbeen tied in a knot, though not tight enough so that he wouldhave died. He is and always will be a survivor, but I canʼthelp but worry about him.“You have to check the pool, Iʼll call everyone in the neighborhoodto see if the have seen them.” The words washedover me, bringing me to a cold sweat. It was as if she toldme to jump off a cliff, but it was twelve times worse. I wasdeathly scared of water and always had been.But it was my brother. I rushed outside and stood there forwhat felt like years. My feet were like stones that weighed30 pounds each. My entire body was like lead, and I couldbarely inch forward to the edge of the pool. I longed for thewater to be clear so I wouldnʼt have to get in; if it were clearall I had to do was look in the water. But much to my dismayit was not.It was dark and cloudy, leaves swirling around like whirlpools,the water looking as if it would eat me alive. I finallygot to my senses and realized that the longer I took the harderit would be to get in. I lifted both of my legs from the groundand leapt for the water. I landed with a menacing splashand started shivering both form the cold and the feeling ofdread that was smothering me. I stood up and started feelingaround with my arms and my legs, reaching into the darkcorners trying to grab for something that did not belong inthe pool. I felt something soft and foreign brush past my legas I stood there. It took all my courage to feel around—forwhat I didnʼt know, but I did know what I didnʼt want it tobe. Suddenly I heard my name being called and lifted myhead, heavy with dread.“I found your brother. He was asleep in his room. I completelyforgot about putting him down for a nap.”I sighed and all the pent-up emotions left my body, makingme feel empty and at the same time filled with the need tojust scream and run.afterglow 11

Beyond the DarkKatie PriddyFear is spiders, small spaces andFalling through the ice.Fear is speaking in public orNot speaking up at all.Fear is saying the wrong thingWhen it really matters the most.Fear is a noise in the darkness.Fear is a shadow on the wall.It is smoke-stained couches and suffocation.Fear is being trapped in isolation andThe calm before the storm.It is deceptive hamsters.Fear is losing family orLosing a friend.Fear is being too late.It is regret and rejection.Fear is feeling out of control,Coming home to an empty house,Night alter night.It is hospital gowns andThe IRS at your front door.Fear is skeletons and circus clowns.Fear is slamming car doors andFish larger than your boat.Fear is power and hunger.Big mice like Chucky Cheese andPoliticians.It is total dependence.Fear is the unexpected.Fear is misunderstanding.Fear is war.Fear isThe end.The MachineEric GorenfloItʼs at the door.The cold, lifeless android I created.Its human—like arms and legsClicking and whirring.No doubt analyzingFor a weak point in the doorʼs turboseal,Trying to break in.This wasnʼt supposed to happen.At some point, behavior core became brain.Creation became destruction.And nowThe pounding grows louderFrom inside storage cell 89.I remember the day when gilded alloyDecided to call itself “alive.”The day oil became blood,And misinterpreted strings of dataWere declared the fabric of dreams.The walls around me shudderAs the dent in the door deepens.The very fingertips I soldered into motionWill soon pierce the flesh of my hiding place.It thinks itʼs alive,But the only thing it ever gainedWas the ability to say “No.”Aluminum was never supposed to become skinJust as imagination was never meant to be derivedFrom programmed logic.To the machine,Systemic anomaly provides choiceAnd the realization of existence defines life.But in the final moment,Iʼll glare back into its mirthless sensory receptors,And I know already…I will not see a soul.David in GreenKatie Buckleitner12 Spring 2008

Never look backKelli CelmerWe step out the door,And squint from the sunʼs raysThat warm our bare arms and torn jeansWe lean up against the carAnd blow smoke rings up to the sky,Thanking God we got out before third hour.We stand in relief, smiling to ourselves“What do you think is going on in there?”Students who never dare to live, and get the dreadful yellow slip.We smirk and blow more careless smoke ringsUntil students pour into the hallways.Itʼs time to go back to what we call hell.We would much rather drive awayBlow more smoke ringsAnd never look back.Feel for himCaitlin ClaytonIʼm so tiredI could cryI take his painas my ownI take the blamefor what I couldnʼt help.Just onceKatie HurstLife is full of chances to take,Some opportunities may present themselves just once,So when I got the chance I......Raced plastic frogs down a river on pop cansate alligator meat,Launched pumpkins with a homemade trebuchet,Tried rasisin ice ceram in the Dominican Republic,Made a snowball in July,Ate squid ( even though I hate seafood),Walked around my school on stilts,Helped put a new roof on our house,Decorated an old pop- up camper and moved in one summer,Ran like and idiot through the streets of New York City,Played croquet at 7:00 am on the last day of summer,had a sword fight in the streets of downtown,Climbed on the roof of my school (then ran!)Slept in a concrete water pipe,planted a tree in the Rainforest of Belize,Fell in love with someone I would never see again.Sun and MoonMegan Sandbergafterglow 13

The WoodsMarie BurkardFollow meAs I scurry over the scum-encrusted drainageditch,Wade through the waist high weeds,Jump over the juniper branches that hide thepath,Crawl under the cracked, bug-filled log,Walk amongst the wondrous awning of trees,And it’s here that you’ll find the place I go todisappear.A pile of leaves substituting for a bed,Creeping ivy acting as my pillow,The lulling sound of twittering squirrels myonly music,The pale sky peeking through the tree tops,The crunch of branches upset by noseyanimals.It’s my escape, my safe place, my secret.I can sit there all day,Reading a book,Hiding from the rest of the world,My cell phone off,And no one will find me.I am a KeyKatie PriddyI am a keyOpening doors to dusty attics of the mind,Unlocking the mystery of what tomorrowwill be,Igniting the engine to a road trip ahead,Opening a journal brimming with memories.I am a keyCut differently than any other,Even if my features are copied,My edges are rough and complicated,I used to be polished but now I lost my shine.I am a keyI can become attached to a ring,A circle to hang from so I don’t get lost,I am carriedBy those who need me the most.Blue SteelKatlin KnaakThe tail end of a 1992 Ford Pickup truck calls to me.I see a treasure of blue steel,others see an old rust bucket.You eat my money, like itʼs a sweet at Halloween time.Seats discolored from the sand and dirt on the bottoms ofmany.Hot summer nights,where you would carry us for a beach drive.The dashboard cracked from the pounding of drummershands.You both have grown old,and heʼs moved on with his life.The insides of the seats leak out from broken seams,where the metal of my jeans rip at you.Aged and rusted memories locked away inside,no one to know other than the riders.I wonder when the day comes whenI have to say goodbye to you Blue Steel.Michigan Pines14 Spring 2008Sally Posey

My Canine FriendJackie McElroyEvery day, heʼs there,at the house on the corner.His face is always the same,calm and wrinkled over the years.Creamy colored, with two brown spots,one over his right eye, one on his back.Heʼs been there for everything.Taylor CrowWhen I learned how to ride my pink bike,with the bell on the handlebars,he watched me as I wobbled by.When I fell, he just sat there with his eyeshanging over me.So I kept trying,until finally, he lifted his head.As if to say be knew I tried my best.When I walked home cryingbecause my friends didnʼt show up at my basketball game,I rounded the corner and there he was,lying on his bright blue mat beside the fencewith his head perched delicately on his paws,and his face so reassuring, that he brought a smile to mine.Somehow, I knew everything would be okay.When I jogged to the high schoolproudly wearing my new bright yellow backpackbecause I was so excited for the first day,he was there as I strode by, wishing me luck.Yesterday, I was wandering around the blocktrying to find ideas for my poem.He was there, my friend.And he had helped me again, to write this poem.But this morning he wasnʼt there.Tears welled in my eyesas I stepped on my neighborʼs worn welcome mat.They answered the door, and the words they saidwere no surprise.“He was old.” they told me.“It was time for him to go.”Now every day I see that empty blue matguilt creeps over me.He helped me so many times,but I never took the time to thank himFood for ThoughtCaitlin ClaytonNo idea what to doCannot think of what to sayJust watching you look.I find you brokenI canʼt sew you together,As only you can.What was is over,Thereʼs nothing to be said,I just watch you hurt.Live your life for youNo one else can tell you howTo live your own life.Now I am with youNow we can be together,Now and forever.The smile on my face now.The one no one can take off.Who knows where itʼs from?afterglow 15

Winter’s EndJesse RomeoThis photo screams look at me, see what I amWinters harsh nature to kill all in its path,Silhouettes of trees stand in the backgroundThe branches form a spider web in the sky,Catching the frozen rain,Reaching up to the heavens for help,Screaming help me God, for winter has spread its disease,The leaf killing disease,Response from the heavens,“Be patient children, your time to flourish will come soon”China white blankets al letting nothing grow,Death has plowed its way through,In seasons life will return.New YorkKrista EricksonSkamania ManiaJake PallasIt was a frigid morning, one of the coldest of last winter.The thermometer read twenty-six,But my four layers were screaming below zero.The shores of the St. Joe River were lined with ice.As I took a mouthful of coffee a giant cloud of fog drifted over my eyes.I left my warm bed at five-o-clock this morning.Got to the dock around five-thirty.Brian is waiting for me, boat ready to go.We were the only ones on the water.The water had a thin layer of fog above it.We dropped the seventy pound anchor, and the boat swung around in a hurry.The current was bringing debris past the boat at amazing speeds.This morning, each breath froze your lungs.Your throat screaming for warmth.We cast our lines, set out the lures, and hustled back into the heat.It wasnʼt until seven oʼ clock when we hooked our first Skamania.The line on the reel was freezingI tried to retrieve inch after inch on this acrobatic fish.He was alive with hunger, and not giving up.When we got it on the boat it was all over,And I warmed my hands up on the propane heater.I call it Skamania Mania.My Left HandsKatie Bucklietner16 Spring 2008

Love SpotsHannah Fritzke“Whatʼs that?” Jamie asked as she plopped herself downin Gramps lap. She was still sucking on a treat from Grams.It was her favorite; a frozen raspberry and she loved how itmade her cheeks and tongue tingle. Jamie loved sitting inGramps lap because it meant it was story time. When theysat in his lazy boy chair, Gramps took them to exciting placeslike Mil-Wau-Kee and back to the farm where he grew up.He was like a giant teddy bear that smelt like oatmeal andpeppermint arthritis lotion.“Whatʼs what?” Gramps replied. Trying not to laugh aboutthe raspberry juice running down her chin.“Those spotty things on your hands.” Jamie asked with animpatient curiosity.They were Gramps liver spots, hut Jamie was too young toknow that at four, so he snuggled her in closer and whisperin her ear,“Love spots.”“Love spots?” Jamie said with a giggle.“Yep,” said Gramps.“Where do they come from and why do you have somany?” Jamie asked while examining his whole arm andhand.“Well, when you really love someone, I mean with yourwhole heart and no matter what, your heart bursts because itdoesnʼt have enough room. This love has nowhere to go andso itmakes a spot.”“Nu uh,” Jamie said. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief.“Of course, Iʼll show you. This one (he said pointing to thelargest one on his hand) is Grandmaʼs love spot, itʼs the biggestbecause I have loved her for a very, very long time.”“Whose spot is this?” Jamie pointed to a much smallerspot.“Thatʼs yours,” Gramps said.“Really, I have my own spot too.” She said looking back atGramps and then back at her spot.“Yep, and each year our love will grow bigger and biggerand the spot will grow too.” Jamie put her little hand on hishuge palm and examined her own hand.“How come I donʼt have any spots,” she said disappointed.“Yes you do.”“What?” Jamie said looking even closer at both her hands.“No I donʼt,” said Jamie.Gramps got up from his chair, took Jamieʼs little hand, andwalked to the bathroom. He picked her up so she could seeherself in the mirror.“See theyʼre right there, in front of your nose.” He pointedat her cheeks.“Those are freckles silly,” she giggled again.“Right now they are, but someday when your older andyour heart has so much love that it bursts, they will start togrow and become love spots.”Jamie leaned over and gave him a big kiss on the cheekand said,“I love you Gramps.”Warm ColorsOma RadisKristel KlankYour favorite wool sweater hangs in my closet.The one I took from your house when you didnʼt need it anymore-I thought it wold never lose your once familiar smell.I can still remember that March phone call,how I didnʼt realize how sick you were,the moment you no longer remembered my name,the sight of my father hugging you for the final timepickingyour lifeless body out of that stained maple casket.I can still see you lying in that hospital bed,silver hair sweaty and unbrushed.Dried spit flaking at the corners of your mouth.Blue eyes barely open.I didnʼt expect to see you like that.I was so young,I didnʼt know what to say,or how to say it.So, I am letting you know nowwhat I didnʼt know how to say then:I loved cooking with you;hearing those potato pankcakes sizzle in the greasewhile listening to you rattle off advice on lifein your harsh German accent.I miss you.Come back to me.Call me your Little Helper one more time.Teach me how to be strong.I didnʼt have enough time with youto even learn how.Megan Sandbergafterglow 17

Give it a chanceJackie McElroyIʼm a junior in high school, and just a little side note:Iʼm not the greatest student. never really like teachersvery much at all—it seemed like every teacher was justthere to do their job. They never went the extra mile andgot to know the students they taught, or tried to learnanything in return.Well, when I was a freshman just starting my highschool experience, I found myself in the hardest English9 class ever. The teacherʼs name was Ms. Klusendorf,and I didnʼt really like her all that much. She made uswrite a lot, even in the first week. Iʼm talking about timedessays every day, and what seemed to be a lot of busywork, and I didnʼt want anything to do with writing. Iwas all about science, you know, chemical equations andall that good stuff. Pretty much the thought of even readinga book made me sick. I donʼt remember exactly whatit was that made me second guess myself. Maybe it wasthe day I got my first paper back with a smiley face andvarious goods and exclamation points on it, or perhapsit was the way she understood everything that I set infront of her, but all I remember thinking was, “Wow, thisteacherʼs not that bad.” She thought I was a good writer,that I had insight, and that I was smart, and hey, I wasnʼtgonnaʼ argue. Not only that, but she cared about me. Shelooked past my bad grades and my horrible attitude, andshe got to know me. She gave me a chance. Which issomething none of the teachers before her had ever triedto do.Slowly my writing got better, and she began to makeme look at things differently. I noticed the color of things,and the smells, and the sights, and when I turned to thesun, I felt something besides hot on my face. She mademe think more than anyone I had ever met, and I loved it.I found myself writing poems in my journal, instead ofgossip and trash talk. And when I wrote papers for her, Igot really into them. I put my heart and soul into it. Shemade me into a completely new person. I remember thelast day of my freshman year I made a promise to myself.The promise was that no matter what English teacher Igot my sophomore year, I would not let my love for writingever leave my soul. And I didnʼt.So here I am. The new person that I came to be. Andevery day second hour I find myself walking into thatsame classroom for college writing, smiling at a teacher—aperson I know I used to look down on, but now Ican call somewhat of a hero. It turns out that giving theteacher I really didnʼt like, a chance, was the best thingI had ever done for myself. Now, I know that when Igo to college, I want to major in creative writing, andmaybe even one day, change someoneʼs life the way shechanged mine.So hereʼs my challenge: Give your teachers a chance.Okay, I admit, theyʼre not all cool, but you might justfind one that will change your life. And if youʼre lucky,maybe even your future.Time BombMelissa GollidayYelling. Screaming. Sharp voices, abrasive words pierceand scrape like claws at my ears. Sitting in my bedroom, I am ahelpless witness. Tightening her mouth, my mother cocks her headto the side--brown eyes open wider-waiting for a retort from theenemy. My fatherʼs wrinkled forehead is his shield, shooting anddeflecting each deadly blow. This battle is never ending.My stomach lurches every time a shameful word is used.Shooting out of their mouths like cannons, these words bounceoff the walls of the open dining room-battlefield. I yearn to lashout. Growling, grumbling, my mouth curses the pillow under myhead. I feel like a time bomb that will soon explode. I CAN MAKEMORE NOISE THAN YOU CAN. I mock my parents. I let out ashout.The camouflage of my room is no longer effective. I am theirnew target.They pretend as if they are no longer enemies As if they areallies. Standing in my doorway, they demand to know why I amcrying-why I am wounded. But my snappy remarks donʼt gainme any ground. Drilling into my forehead, their gazes trigger mydefenses: more tears. Itʼs two against one. I cannot win.People are ClocksDale WilletTheyʼre always moving, but never stoppingSome are tall, some are shortSome stand alone, some are supported by a wallSome break when they fallSome fall and donʼt get harmed at allSome wake me when they call.Some donʼt make noise at all.Some work for a long time.Some donʼt work at all.Hotman Misane, SJHS ‘0518 Spring 2007

Just the MomentCaitlin Claytondonʼt wantit to enddonʼt wantyou to gostay here forever singingjust usjust the momentno talkingjust singingletting the music findthe words we cannotNothing between usno planeor thousands of milesto keep us apartjust usjust this momentinfiniteunendingneeding onlythe airand each otherAngie WilliamsIʼm a JournalChelle SkinnerEasy to write on,willing to travel,able to keep secrets.Used for many things:lists,memories,reminders.Black and white on the outside,true colors known by the ones who study it well.Identity formed deep within the pagesbound tightly together by each individual stitch.Often takes time to adjust,while many pages are still unwritten.Corners folded on memories to remember,Xʼs crossing out the things to forget.The longer you see it,the more familiar it becomes.Letting GoAshley ConklinAs you tell me of your lies,I gather the gifts you gave mePlacing them in a boxTelling myself I will forget you.The last tear falls,I take my last truthful glanceAt the pictures of us.I fold your shirt and place it in the boxBreathing in the smell of you.I desperately reach for truth,Feeling my heart shattered-A million piecesPatiently lying there, waiting to be put back together.As I think about the lies you kept,Somehow I still couldnʼt pull myself apart.Realizing that the hardest part isLetting go.afterglow 19

The True Meaning of TGIFKristel KlankWhen I was younger, TGIF was the highlight ofmy entire week. In the mid-90ʼs my family, along witha million others, looked forward to gathering aroundthe TV every Friday night to watch our favorite line-upof shows on ABC: Step by Step, Family Matters, BoyMeets World, and Full House filled our night from 8 to10.We just couldnʼt get enough of those lovable family-focusedsitcoms.In elementary school, I remember sitting around thelunch table with friends deliberating what would happenon our favorite shows. Were Jesse and Becky reallygoing tie the knot? What stupid things would Ericdo this week? Eight oʼclock couldnʼt come quicklyenough.But as everyone grew older, my friends and I didnʼttalk about TGIF as often and the crowd in our livingroom started to thin out—at one point all 6 of us,including the family dog, congregated in the livingroom and passed around a big bowl of popcorn. Soon,I found it was just me, my sister Gretchen, and momsitting in front of our old television: dad was workinglater and traveling more, Kelly found a boyfriend thatshe couldnʼt bare to be without for even a night, andEric simply grew up.But I swore Iʼd never let go of my beloved TGIF.Yet sadly, I eventually grew out of it too. Lessoften did I find myself sitting in front of the TV singingalong to the theme songs I once knew so well.TGIF was replaced by high school football games andsleepovers. I no longer made time for some of my firstchildhood friends: Cory Matthews, Shawn Hunter, andTopanga Lawrence.But, I guess my family wasnʼt the only one whoseFriday night schedule grew busier and started consistingof things that seemed more important. We werenʼtthe only ones who stopped making time for it becausebefore I knew it TGIF was cancelled and replaced bymore popular shows with racier storylines.Yet even now, I still find myself searching thechannels for my childhood favorites; I still look for thefamiliar faces of the Tanner family and always hope tofind Urkel standing in the Winslowʼs living room in hishigh-water pants sporting those ridiculous bug-eyedglasses—but I rarely do.But, what I have found is that most modern familiesno longer make time to gather together on Fridaynights to watch some good old fashioned TV and sharea bowl of popcorn; that the term TGIF is no longer associatedwith the classic line-up, but rather a term thatexpresses how relieved people are for the weekend.But for me, TGIF will forever bring me back to thedays of my childhood: those Friday nights when myonly care in the world was if the popcorn was butteryenough, and if everyone had a place to sit.The Game of LosingCatherine PastrickLose your baby teeth, receive some well-earned moneyFrom the tooth fairy.Lose a button from your favorite baby dressHave your mother sew a new one on.Lose your favorite dollWho happened to be your faithful side-kickFind a better one at the store.Lose your grandmaCry, but move on quickly because youʼre too young to know.Lose your first best friend to the big, mean moving truckCry for days, but continue your friendship through lettersUntil the childhood connection eventually fades.Lose your first assignment in grade schoolApologize, and start over fresh.Lose your elementary clique when you start middle schoolForget about them, and meet new ones.Lose your first, childish “boyfriend”Be sad for a few days, but move on quicklyIt wasnʼt anything comparable to real love.Lose your brothers to collegeTalk daily to continue your relationship.Lose your innocence and purity to your first real boyfriendFeel relieved, yet sad that you let down your parents.Give all of your love and time to make it workBut, lose that same boyfriend to selfishnessBegin a long stage of never-ending depression.Lose your best friends becauseThey accuse you of being differentAnd youʼre never the same again…Ode to My Honey Crisp—The Best Apple Alive—Hannah FritzkeEach and every time my teeth carve into yourImperfect jacket, I can rely on you to be crisp and firm.You are unlike any otherWanna-be, soft and mushy,Who call themselves “Apples.”You are sugar sweet amd yet you makeMy cheeks tingle with acidity,I have to rapidly close my undeserving lips soThat your juice does not spray out.You may not be a shiny supermodel Red Delicious, on the outside,But on the inside, you blow their skinny peels off the runway.My love for you reaches deep down to the core,Since tasting your sweet innardsI havenʼt been able to cheat on you, Honey.20 Spring 2008

Mr. InvincibleJordan EdwardsOur usual fifteen-minute drive to the gymis now filled with clouds of smoke from halfa pack of cigarettes instead of long conversation.As we cruise along the bluff, lookingat the frozen lake, I crack the window (evenat 30 degrees) to give the smoke a placeto escape, for a source of fresh air. Heʼsmanaged to light up two cigarettes from thetime we left the house to the time we pulledinto South Shore. He takes one last dragbefore he drops the bud on the ground andwe make our way toward the treadmills.And after only ten minutes of running,my brother wonders why he is bent over,panting heavily, and has to stop. Itʼs as ifeverything Iʼve said to him goes in one earand out the other. “Why does it matter? Iʼmgonna die someday,” he says as he lights upanother cigarette for the drive home.I canʼt understand why David wont quitsmoking after seeing my grandma die oflung cancer. I question if he notices mygrandpaʼs eyes brighten, and then saddenwhen we bring her up at dinnertime,his struggle to hold back tears even after2 years. I wonder why he disregards theSurgeon Generalʼs Warning posted on everypack of his Marlboro cigarettes. My brother,like millions of teenagers today, still choosesto light up even after reading the SurgeonGeneralʼs Warning. Even after seeing theTruth adds. Even after listening to a familymember nagging you to quit.Teenagers think theyʼre invincible. Theythink they can go through life toughskinned,that it will never happen to them,that even though they choose to live theirlife in the fast lane— theyʼll make it throughwithout a ding or bruise. I see this kind ofmentality in my brother, David. He doesnʼtsee the true harm heʼs doing to himselfevery time he buys a new pack.Many people, like David, fail to thinkabout their futures. Millions of “Invincible”teenagers today donʼt think about thefamilies, their thriving careers, and theirfreedom they may have to give up twentyyears from now when they are diagnosedwith lung cancer. Nobodyʼs thinking abouthealth, about having to miss their childʼssoccer game because of a chemo treatment.Like my grandma, they will be counting thedays, not knowing the last time they willsee their loved ones. They will have to livein fear, in pain, and in regret. Their choiceto smoke will affect their children, friends,and family. Seeing their children grow upmay be out of the question, and it will allgo back to a choice they made as adolescents—thechoice to smoke.So why, even after all these repercussionsare drilled into teenagers heads, do theychoose to light up? Is it to look cool? Tolose weight? To fit in with the party scene?Itʼs a question I donʼt have answer to. Afterseeing the rapid decline in my grandmaʼslife after her lung cancer diagnosis and thepain she went through before her death, Idonʼt think Iʼll ever be able to understandpeopleʼs justifications for why they smoke.I refuse to listen to my brotherʼs argumentfor his habit, and I am disappointed thatafter my grandmaʼs death, he didnʼt learnanything about the consequences of smoking.He thinks heʼs invincible, that it wonʼthappen tohim. But I wont stop nagging him untilthe drives home are smoke free and I canroll down the window to feel a cool breezeblow through my hair instead of clearing acloud of smoke.Danielle MoitNot There YetRyan PawloskiOpening the double doors to alecture hall and quickly greeting mystudents, I take my position at thefront of the room. I waste no timelaunching into the detailed process ofchemical bonding. A student raiseshis hand, and we start into a discussionabout covalent bonds. After tenminutes of this, I pause, realizing thatmy students have begun to teach mejust as much as I have taught them. Ismile to myself. Discussions like thisone are why I wanted to teach after Iretired.Iʼm not there yet though.Letʼs step back about twenty years.Iʼm working in a chemistry lab, researchinga new medicine which willhopefully aid millions of people infights against a number of deadlydiseases. Just last year I helped developmedication that froze cancer cellsin their tracks. Working in a researchlab allows me to continue to learn andapply my chemistry knowledge evenafter I have graduated from textbooksand dorm rooms. I get to help peopleand keep learning at the same time.My dream.Still not quite there.Ten years earlier, Iʼm sitting inmy dorm room laboring away at atextbook thicker than the EncyclopediaBritannica. Hand shaking, I finishwhat seems to be the hundredth pageof notes on stoichiometry, gas laws,and titrations. Even as I relieve thepain in my hand, I canʼt wait for thenext set of notes for calculus. I gatherup my books and head out the door.I have to get to class early to talk tothe professor about an internship at achemistry lab that Iʼm interestedin.Iʼm almost there.A year earlier, Iʼm sitting in mybasement. The only light in the roomglows from the computer monitor.Tapping on the keys, I form wordson the page—writing out my future.I check every word and check everyconvention, hoping this essay helpsgive me the opportunity to make thatfuture happen. I hit print. That iswhere I am now.afterglow 21

Caucus ChaosMatt KodisEvery four years, Iowa becomes thecenter of the universe. America kicks off thepresidential election process in the HawkeyeState. Citizens gather in schools, gymnasiums,even in homes to persuade their friendsand neighbors to vote. The Iowa Caucuses areas American as the opening day of baseballseason.Later on, the torch is passed to NewHampshire. Presidential candidates canvassthe Granite State attempting to get a leg up onthe confident competition. New Hampshireloves its primary so much that when minorleague baseball came back, the team was almostcalled the New Hampshire Primaries.While the two states have upheld a greatAmerican tradition, itʼs time to give wayto a different process. Republicans andDemocrats need to reform the nominationprocess, so that voters in America can havea stronger voice.There are two ways that states canelect a nominee: a primary and a caucus.A primary is like a regular election, wherevoters go to a polling place and cast theirballots privately. There are also three typesof primaries. First, thereʼs an open primary,where anyone can vote in the Democratic orRepublican election, but not both. Next isthe semi-closed primary in which registeredRepublicans and Democrats vote for theirown party, and Independents choose whichparty they want to vote for. The final optionis a closed primary in which only registeredDemocrats can vote for Democrats, andonly registered Republicans can vote forRepublicans. In most cases, after all thevotes are counted, the delegates are distributedproportionately among the candidates.All of the Democratic primaries, as well asmany Republican contests, distribute delegatesbased on this system.Caucuses are more open than primaries.Republicans or Democrats will caucus, ormeet to cast their vote, at a set time and place.One representative for each candidate willrecite a prepared stump speech for these gatheredvoters about that candidateʼs platformand views on important issues. According toiowacaucus.com, the Republican caucus isconducted similarly to a straw poll. Then,the numbers are tabulated in the same way asa primary.In a Democratic caucus, after the stumpspeeches are made, caucus-goers have thirtyminutes to walk to a designated area based onthe candidate they support. For example, if acaucus were held in a house, Barack Obamabackers would go in the kitchen, and HillaryClinton supporters would head into thefamily room. A group needs fifteen percent22 Spring 2008of the total participants to be considered viableand move onto the next round of voting.During the thirty minutes that voters have tojoin a group, people who are caucusing forCandidate A will try to persuade voters forCandidate B to join their preference group andmake it viable for the second round of voting.Groups that are not viable are eliminated, anda second round of voting takes place to realignparticipants whose candidates were removedfrom the process; in other words, to get thatcrucial fifteen percent. Then, a head counttakes place, and this number is combined withthe total for each respective group at all theother caucuses in the county. Next, since eachcounty has a set number of delegates, thoseThe DemocratChris Kuriatadelegates are divided up according to the percentagesfor each candidate. Those numbersare then reported to the state convention, andadded to each candidateʼs state-wide delegatecount.Iowa and New Hampshire attract a lot ofmedia attention during a presidential race,since they have the first caucus and primary inthe nominating process. A lot of money getspoured into these two states, yet the majorquestion is “Why?” Combined, the two statesonly have eleven electoral votes. Candidateswill use the bulk of their resources on the twostates and leave other states out to dry whentheir primary or caucus comes around. WhenJohn Kerry won Iowa and New Hampshire in2004, the media named him the Democraticcandidate for president, leaving 48 otherstates out of the process. Had Barack Obamawon New Hampshire this year, the New YorkTimes would have been ready to herald him asthe Democratic candidate.TV pundits describe the first Tuesday inFebruary as “the closest thing to a nationalprimary,” with approximately twenty statesholding primaries or caucuses on that date. Tosettle the nomination, why not have a nationalprimary? Each state, as well as the Districtof Columbia and other American territories,would have the same number of delegates asthey would electoral votes. We would have anational campaign that simulated the electoralprocess. Every state would have a say.The Democrats will send 4047 delegatesto their convention in August. Out of all theattendees, 794 are considered super delegates,which consist of a variety of elected officialsat the state and national level who receiveone vote for the presidential nomination,and account for twenty percent of alldelegates. The super delegatesʼ votes arenot bound by primary or caucus results, andthey can vote for whomever they want. Thecandidates stack up the number of superdelegates they have so that the nominationcan be wrapped up months before theconvention. For example, Senator DebbieStabenow (a Democrat from Michigan) hasalready pledged her super delegate statustoward her good friend, Hillary Clinton.Much of a super delegateʼs endorsementof a candidate is based on personal beliefs,thus throwing popular vote out the window.Hard-line Democrats who supportthe system will say that most of theSuperdelegates are elected by the votersanyway. True, since the Democratic NationalCommittee defines super delegates as“Democratic members of the United StatesCongress, governors, former presidents,former vice presidents, leaders of the USSenate, former Speakers of the House andminority leaders, former DNC chairs, andvarious additional elected officials.” Yet,Joe Lieberman was labeled a “Bush lover”by the Democratic Party during his re-electioncampaign in 2006 for his moderatestances. He lost in the primary, yet won thegeneral election as an independent. He wasgiven super delegate status for the 2008 DNCConvention. When he endorsed John McCain,a Republican, for the presidency, his Superdelegatestatus was renounced. If the Democratsclaim to be the party of the people, why donʼtthey give the voters a stronger voice and getrid of super delegates?Meanwhile, some Republican primarieshave a “winner-take-all” system. GOP candidateswill talk to state party boards to changethe rules of their elections to award all of thestateʼs delegates to the winner of the vote, insteadof dividing them up based on the resultswhen all of the precincts are counted. WhenRudy Giuliani was the national frontrunner,Continued on page 23

Caucus Chaoscontinued from page 22he went to Republican Party bossesin the Northeast that had their electionson Super Tuesday. He wanted to makeall of those states winner-take-all, sothat he could wrap up the nomination.When Giulianiʼs campaign tanked,he endorsed Arizona Senator JohnMcCain. McCain won all the “winnertake-all”states on Ser Tuesday. Thisput the nomination out of reach for hisrivals and for the common voter.In late 2007, Michigan moved itsprimaries up to January 15th. TheGreat Lakes State thought that it hadsomething important to contribute tothe electoral process. The economyhad hit a rut statewide, and both partiesthought that it would be a major issuein the general election. The RNC andDNC fought back; the Republicans losthalf of their delegates, while the Democratshad all of theirs stripped. Lo andbehold, when the stock market crashedrecessed, exit polls indicated that theeconomy was the most importantissue in the campaign. As a voter inMichiganʼs Republican primary, I wasvery peeved that when I went to castmy ballot, I only got half a vote.Yes, most delegates are won basedon the votes of the people. But pleaseexplain how the votes in the NevadaDemocratic caucuses turned out. HillaryClinton won a larger percentage ofthe vote, yet Barack Obama won thedelegate count 13-12. From what Iʼvelearned in calculus, shouldnʼt Hillaryget more delegates?The Republicans might argue thatthe winner-take-all system prepares thecandidates for the Electoral Collegeand the general election in November.This is true; however, all votersshould have their votes go toward thatcandidateʼs delegate count. If my votewere, essentially, placed in a papershredder or “accidentally deleted,” Iʼdbe pretty ticked off.While the miniature municipality ofDixville Notch, New Hampshire startsprepping for their 2012 midnight primary(the first in the state), the electionprocess has to be reformed. If eitherpolitical party wants to call itself the“party of the people,” they should scrapthe current primary and caucus calendarand start anew. Start with swingstates for the first primaries. Perhapsjust hold one national primary for bothparties. Otherwise, the anger felt byvoters may be “too close to call.”Her Blue SkyElisha SchoepleinStop and think. Picture before you readthis story what truly matters in life.Jadeyn and I painted together when wehung out earlier today. Sheʼs five. So herewe were sitting in the church office with thetwo poster boards spread across the floorpainting with washable paint.My poster said THANK YOU (it was forthe pediatric nurse I worked with), and everyletter was a different color. Some were forward,some were backward, some were capital,others werenʼt. On the O in Thank You,we drew a smiley face. The nose turned outa deep red that ran into the eyes and mouth.She stuck her handprint in orange on thewhite gaps.My conscience yelled in my head, youhave to do that paper for next week, cleanyour room, clean your bathroom, study foryour mid term, work...Her poster resembled nothing even closeto mine. Hands grabbing two paintbrushesat a time, she made a simple little flower witha brown center. The grass stuck up, spikeyand overgrown. In the middle of it all, thekindergarten letters became layers of paintand polka dots that spelled Jadeyn.Getting the bathtub cleaner, I smile nowthinking of the clumped paint and the smileon her face when we finished.She messed up on the yellow sun in thecorner and decided to make it red to cover upthe smudged smiley face. We painted the skyblue and outlined her name again. Trying toskip a letter, she caught me. But by this time,My Ali-sonI was impatient to clean my room, finishmy homework, and try to squeeze in anunnecessary nap before I worked tonight.My hand holding a paintbrush, I globbedblue paint onto the page and smoothed itinto the sky. Even though I hurried her,I was surprised to say that the sky didnʼthave white lines or paint smudges or evenan imperfection. It was the perfect blue.Later, as I scrub my bathtub, I rememberthe smile so big she tried to hide it behindher hand. Her mom peeped throughthe door at our work. Jadeyn must havefelt like Picasso.“Jay, youʼre the best artist Iʼve everseen. This is such a beautiful picture weʼllframe it. Thanks, Lish.”As I rinse the bathtub cleaner off,I realize that cleaning my bathroom ortaking a nap or oing that paper for nextweek didnʼt really matter at that moment.I remember a line from my favorite poemwhen I was little: ”Life is short, donʼtdance too fast.” We step on each otherʼstoes and cast aside dance moves for a lifeconsumed with our agendas, jobs, problems.We forget that life is about the simplethings—moments. Saving the neighborkid from a two mile walk from the busstop. Holding a baby. Calling someonejust to see how they are. Taking yourmom out. Talking to the stranger besideyou on a plane instead of sleeping. Makinga little kidʼs day.Why is it that the things that truly matterare the first things to get choked out ofour lives?Angie Williamsafterglow 23

Where Iʼm FromBen BaumgartnerI am from backyard football,with grass stained knees and fat lips.Iʼm from the big blue sandbox.(Wooden, paint chipped off,rotted in the corners.)I am from acorn warsbombarding each otherFor hoursI am from corn husking competitions,cherry pits, and green handsfrom freshly mowed grass.I am from barefoot summer nightsRunning through the neighborhood like savages.Hooting and hollering and feeling big.Autumnal EquinoxKatie PriddyAutumn is edging its way in,Soaking the leaves inCrimson and Gold,Chilling the air in cool wisps,Smelling of rain and wet clay.Today might have been the last one of summer,Fencing digs into the sandChallenges snowSuppressing any hope for local beach bums,Layering fleece and denim.I am from Get your homework done”,And days of fresh powder.snow forts, and snowball warsIʼm from Hot Chocolate with cayenne pepper,with marshmallows and a scoop of ice cream.I am from those memories,The pebbles at the bottom of the fish-tankSeparate they are insignificantBut together, they make who I am.—After George Ella LyonPower OutageChristian CraigIn the time it takes for eyes to shift awayFrom a beggar on a lonely city streetThe lights went out in a homeThat sold its soul to the comfort of ambiguityDarkness like black paint flowed overThe artificial fluorescent glow of “how was your day?”That lit their suburban dinner tableAnd dried to seal all mouths shutA family so used to dialogue supplied by twenty-two page scriptsShook under the silence of a powerless televisionThe calloused reality of indifference between husband and wifeStabbed like a knife left out for days in Decemberʼs frigid airThe kitchen polished by a motherʼs love and a fatherʼs paycheckBecame ground for whispered truthSpoken by the nervous screech of chair legs on a synthetic tile floorAs conversation was averted by a search for a candleBut as quickly as they left, the lights flickered backSmiles cautiously climbed on the familyʼs facesDinner was resumed as hungry hands found silverwareBut the ethic of a happy family was lost in the panicThe platoon of wounded soldiersWere left to nurse scars receivedOnly from kissing the skin of a warBrought by thirty-one seconds of a blind household.24 Spring 2008

What Snow Days Taught Me About LifeJarod KnuthItʼs third grade. Youʼre lying in bed.Fingers crossed, pajamaʼs inside-out,spoon under your pillow—praying to thesnow day god. Does anyone rememberdoing this? I do. A snow day in elementaryschool was probably one of the greatestdays—besides Christmas. I rememberbursting out of bed—probably aroundnine—and running downstairs. Eating mycereal as fast as I could, Iʼd quickly gulpdown the last of the milk and head for thecoat closet. Iʼd put my attire on: gloves,jacket, snow pants, boots, and hat. Thistook all of 45 seconds. Then I was ready todo what a snow day was made for: playingin the snow. Walking outside, I would seeall the kids in the neighborhood makingtheir journey to the same place that I wasgoing: the park. At the park, there was ahill that stood, towering over everythingaround it. All of my energy would be spenton staying atop my sled and winning thedownhill derby or pelting that last handcraftedsnowball. Finally, once it was dark,Iʼd come home and hot chocolate wouldbe waiting for me.It doesnʼt happen like that anymore.Now, when I find out there is a snow day,I go to bed and sleep till 11 or 12 oʼclock.Stumbling out of bed, I mosey up thestairs and eat some cereal (although itstill is Cookie Crisp). No snow pants. Noboots. No gloves. My days remain snowball-less.Frankly, Iʼm ashamed to say thatout of the three snow days weʼve had thisyear, not one of them was spent on, hadanything to do with, or was pertaining to,snow. I havenʼt even gone sledding in atleast four years. Does this mean my childhoodis slowly slipping away from me?Itʼs a scary thought to think that next yearI will be taking care of myself and findingmy own way in life.Caught up in the hustle and bustle ofcollege entrance essays and English homework,have I forgotten to do one thing: bea kid? My life has become more focusedon gas money and part time jobs. Ateighteen, I find myself getting depressedabout my “stresses” and even reminiscingabout how easy life was when I was threefeet tall.So here is the final conclusion Iʼve cometo: live life as a child would. Appreciatethe small things. Donʼt spend all your timeworrying about college and money. Noteto self: Play in the snow.Will PowerKristel KlankSam faces the mirror that hangs on the gymwall whenever she works out. She stares backat her reflection—watches the fat on her facebounce up-and-down when she runs or her armmuscles barely define themselves when she curlsa weight to her chest. Reminding herexactly why she comes back, night-after-night, tothis cold, testosterone-filled gym long after mosthigh school girls have called it a night.The smell coming from the Chineserestaurant next door taunts her, but the plumpwoman waddling, slowly to the door—herstomach large and shapeless—gives hermotivation to keep going.Sam stays at the gym for hours. At least oncea day, she likes to walk back to the drinkingfountain and watch the athletic women liftweights or jump rope. Their bodies are agile andtoned. Itʼs because of this she wonʼt pack up herthings and leave until the treadmillʼs screen reads1000 calories.She wonders what the skinny version of Samwould be doing at that very moment. Maybesheʼd be at home curled up on the couch with along-term boyfriend, or maybe sheʼd be out at aparty—dancing the night away—in her new size4 jeans that she never has to worry about beingtoo tight.She would be anywhere, but here.KaraElisha SchoepleinAn old picture of my sister and me hangs on the wall by the closet andreminds me sheʼs gone. Below the towels, jewelry hangs in clumps onthe closet wall. Half of thatʼs gone. Kara owns a lot of what we shared,you know. In the blue basket, the hair coloring kits she detested and herdisposable shower caps collect dust. She took her shears, so I wouldnʼttry to cut my own hair. My momʼs old perm kit that Kara opened onetime still sits there untouched; I donʼt want to throw that away.I decided earlier today to clean up the spilled eye shadow. The charcoaland white pallets cracked weeks before she left, and now the two colorsswirl together, becoming a soft pewter as I run my finger over the oldsparkles. I love the white. She loves the charcoal. With the powder onmy index finger, I run the gray on the crease of my eye.She took my pink and yellow vertically striped beach towel. She tookthe rest of our hairspray from the salon. And our liquid eyeliner. And allthe washcloths.I have our eye shadow, the toilet that leaks, her favorite tropical printtowel, nail polish she bought, the clothes she couldnʼt fit in her suitcasesAll the things Iʼm missing from our bathroom closet, she must havein hers. I miss the silver hoop earrings. The mauve nail polish. Myfavorite white t-shirt. I miss the layers of unfolded towels taking over thecloset. And the almost empty phials of Chanel Chance.I miss her.afterglow 25

Little Red from the HoodMelissa GollidayA hooded silhouette grazed a handalong a graffiti brick wall.Pieces of glass and rockcrunched and crackedBeneath side-scuffed boots.She wore a tattered red hoodOver untamed blonde locks.A street lamp pooled light overher sunken, skinny face.Shooting and lighting up.A long, crooked noseblew harsh warm airInto Redʼs face.Wolf, as he was called,coughed and wiped his noseWith a mangy sleeve.Drooped against the wall,he rubbed his arms,eager for what Red was selling.stretched out a handFull of shabby,dirt-clogged, fingernails.Wolfʼs grin dripped with desireAs Red pulled the goodiesfrom her basket.He wrenched them from hergrungy gripand trudged down the alley.The legs that once carriedLittle Red Riding Hoodthrough the treesTo Grandmaʼs,Now carry her down the blockand around the corner.She peered at her customer.Hunched over,His eyes yellowedand bloodshotFrom long nights of“Hey Red, you got some stuff?”Her eyebrow rose to meet thestrangerʼs slouch.“Do you have a payment this time?”“Yeah, I got it.”Redʼs grip on her basket loosenedAs she flipped the lid.Both drew into inhale the strong aromaExuding from the container.Wolf panted harder andRedʼs teeth grit with distasteFor Wolf as she limped downThe street—strewn with bottles,used cigarette butts,and old headlines.She cradled that same basketShe took with her to Grandmaʼs.Her face, not so innocent anymore.--From the class prompt “Pop Culture”Robin HoodMarie BurkardRobin Hood and his merry men in tights,Sick of their cross-gender clothing,Traded in their signature styleFor outfits that boasted of masculinity—Sweats.Is it any wonder what the resultOf their new found vanity was?One merry manWhile swinging on vinesFell to the ground and broke his neckAll because his sweatpants were snaggedby a savage thorn bushAnother was beheadedAfter the loose fabric of his sweatshirt was pinned to a treeBy angry rich men who had caught him stealing foodFor the poverty stricken forest dwellersAnd poor Robin Hood?He was strangled by his hoodWhen he hooked it on a flagpoleAs he leapt from a window in the kingʼs castleNow the poor suffer the vanity of the merry menAnd the rich avoid sweats altogether.26 Spring 2008Snow WhiteLian ZhuShe lies there,Getting more and more vexedAs everyone presses their facesAgainst the glassWatching her.She wants to say, “enough!”To put her dark hair upAnd to swing her feet over the sideOf her ivory pedestalAnd walk awayShooting agitated glances at all the shallow spectators.But the story imprisons her,And the storyteller was apparently not concerned with feminism.And she is forced to lie thereWanting to smack that dolt of a princeWho couldnʼt even muster the conviction to save her“breathtaking raven tresses”From this endless boredom.Her gown is bothering her.The scratchy cloth lies stiff against her legs,And she lies thereWaiting for her “happy ending”And wanting to pummel that aggravating storyteller into the ground.Thinking that after that sweet lesson, perhaps next time,If his ignorance is not too time consuming,Heʼll remember to let the girl be something other thanThe mistakes and the prize.

I hateCatherine PastrickSundays filled with hours of completeAnd endlessBoredomPhone calls that consistOf the numerous ringsEnded with the voiceOf an answering machineI hate fishMustardSpicy foodsThe feeling after Iʼve eatenAnd the feeling when I havenʼt eatenI hate the feeling of guiltWhen Iʼve done nothing wrongWhen I donʼt feel contentWhen nothing is going rightWhen no one understandsExcept for one personBut itʼs impossible to communicateWith my best friendI hate mushy applesAnd the feeling of being lateAnd unpreparedGetting a bad gradeOn a paper that I spent hours onOr working on an assignmentWith no deadlineI hate changeAny type, I hate itI despise itA messy room or carOr when Iʼm unorganizedI hate the unknownAnd the truthEven when it hurts so badlyI hate losing peopleAnd feeling aloneI hateWhen the phone ringsBut itʼs not who I want it to beI hate jealousyAnd feeling tiredI hate driving behind slow peopleAnd walking behind slow walkersI hate teenagers without moralsAnd the ones who will just give it upI hate people who make up rumorsAnd who are fakeBut what I hate mostIs that everything that I claim to hateAre constant pieces of my lifeWhether I like it or notThere will always be some thingsThat I absolutely loveAnd then someThat I absolutely hateAnd I must learnTo live with itA Picture of JulieChristian CraigThe lens cannot see the greeting card portrait sunThat paints a vanilla haze over her faceAnd she chooses not to lookUnder locks of chocolate hair combed by a day of sea breezeSheʼs so deeply lost in thought thatNot even Godʼs orange sun can seem to distract herShe sees no reason to turn her mindFrom a van crowded with screaming laughterFrom hours of waves that rolled likeWind-blown bed sheets hanging from a clotheslineFrom conversation spoken over fashion magazines warmer thanThe summer glow that blankets her winter skinFrom the child inside her that willDistort her content smile in NovemberInto a bright-eyed joyPortrait of Dara CardwellMegan Sandbergafterglow 27

Who are youKatie PriddyWho are youTo dangle the past before meLike a ball of string and a cat.To watch me fall on my faceYou wonder why I donʼt trust you.Who are youTo beg me to stayBut when I do, nothing changes.Youʼre the fastest one I knowAnd you ran away from me.Who are youTo tell me how to liveWhen youʼre hardly in my life.To float in at the high points,Skipping all the sad partsOf your favorite movie.Who are youTo tell me that Iʼm wrongWhen you stopped listening months ago.To call me your friendBut never go as far as being mine.Math ClassKristel KlankAngie WilliamsI sit in this comfortable wooden deskin the front of the classroomwhere I manage to scribble downevery last formula, theorem, and equation.Hunched low to my paperI fight to understand—work out the problems,crunch the numbers,correct my mistakes.But when the bell finally rings,thereʼs only one solution I know for sure;no matter how hard I try,how long I study,how many pages of notes I pump out,I will never be quite good enough for this class.It beats me every time.But, fast asleep,the boy next to me,with drooling covering his paper,knows every answerto every problem.Hannah FritzkeAnd you see,just as two plus two equals four:Iʼm left clueless,while he gets the grade.28 Spring 2008

Hickory, Dickory, DockMegan SandbergThird HourKatie PriddyPicture yourself in classSitting conspicuously in front.The only thing ahead of you isThe full year,A long, murky tunnel.Listen to the low murmur,The teacher lecturing a lullaby.Droning onAnd on…And…Just forty-five minutes to go.As your eyes glaze over,The numbers on the clock lose focus.Press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.You heard somewhere that itHelps increase the chance of notCompletely losing…Consciousness.Your arm uncontrollably twitches.Only forty-four minutes to go.The Suicide of RetaliationDevora GleiberShe sits on her bed, fingers tapping away at my well-worn keys,her eyes darting back and forth from paper to screen. Editingfor simple spelling and grammatical corrections as she types, Isoon find myself getting bored and dozing off. Finally I hearthe printer whir and out comes the paper, a first draft. She headsback over to me and begins googling online; I, of course, can donothing but read along, since itʼs all up to the internet, a poweroutside of myself. Soon enough, she wishes for music anddouble clicks on iTunes which I must pull up, as it says in mycontract, although not at all fast. Right away I know somethingis wrong as she scrolls through her music, searching…searching.Eyes widening, she scrolls down and up, then clicks somethingand scrolls down again, eyes frantically dancing across the screenin her panic. I, sensing all this, see what the problem is: abouthalf of the music in her library is gone, incuding her favorite artist,Joshua Bell. Feeling her begin to quake, I tense up waiting tosee what will happen. She is mad at me, so mad at me-her trustycomputer who apparently lost her music.Unable to do a thing and frozen on the spot, I flinch as oneblow then another hits my frame. Then comes the poundingon my keys, my most sensitive spot, and I suddenly snap too.Anger wells up in my throat and I am just so mad! I mean, whathave I ever done to her that deserves such treatment and a beatinglike this? I retaliate. Lashing out, I find what I am lookingfor—the drain—and pull the plug. The screen goes blue jus as Iplanned—only, too late. I realize I pulled the wrong plug. Feelingmy memory being pulled away and then spinning away, I feelfaint. Begging my user to forgive me, I begin to flicker in andout of consciousness. I let out a last cry of Iʼm sorry, so sorry,before I flicker one last time, then black out completely, unable tobe started again.Baby PictureJackie McElroyMy fatherʼs tanned, calloused handspick me up after I fall.He is my rock.But when I grow olderhis strong hands will be used to push me downand slap my mother across the face.My cartoons will become background musicto plates crashing on the wall.Sheʼll struggle to defend herselfbut itʼs useless.Sheʼs fighting the bear.Tears will run down her faceand she will give up becauseshe loves him to much.That night.Sheʼll cover the broken holes in the drywallwith small tacky pictures that are somehow,all over the house.Sheʼll clean up the broken glass,and put the furniture right side up.Iʼll stay on the couch.Silent.Tears running down my cheeks,listening to cartoons.afterglow 29

Barnes and Noble is My KryptoniteChelle SkinnerHundreds of books line the shelves,sorted by authors, topics, genres,calling me to come closer.Even from the parking lotmy ability to resist has weakened.The brown brick building holds my attention,the attraction between us is undeniable.I try to keep my feet firmly planted,but they more forwardunsympathetic to my brainʼs wishes.I donʼt know where to start.The covers begin to blend together,a mixed collage of bursting color seared into my brain.I continue to fight the urge,before eventually surrendering,waving my white flag,completely drowning myselfin books.Thoughts from a WriterLian ZhuWe try to cloakTruths in contradictionsAnd a chuckle.We deal in abstractionsMerged with the concrete.But while we comment on reality,We can never seem to defineThe levelOf our own writing.Pages are swept and crumpledAwayWith each new ideaThat I mottleWith my dripping,Incomplete scratchesWhich once had all the emotionOf an understanding glance between friends.Taylor CrowPerfection of DavidThe First Step to SuccessMarie BurkardItʼs my turn againTo taste the dirt of failure.This ground is not new.30 Spring 2008Rachael HurstBut how do I write without first being certainOf the meaning of my own experiencesOf the truth that can be revealed?Should I merely sit before a piece of lined paper,Wanting so desperately to seize the courage to write about somethingWhich humanity can never define fully?Or should I leave that noble idea behindTo type out something amusing on a laptopBefore hastily turning to my calculus book?Do I leave my view of the orange and red leaves,The reminder of what life was once like,Or do I stand there, in front of my paned window,Feeling so close to fingering out a familiar melody on the worn pianoBut yet, never really getting there.

I Am From…Caitlin ClaytonI am from bonfires and candlelightbedtime stories every nightFrom the tooth fairy and funny ghostsstaying up late and secret notesFrom synagogue—but never churchfrom crazy schemes—that never workFrom Santa Clausand menorah candlesfrom bike helmetsand broken sandals.I am from broken bonesand padded heartsfrom chicken soupand fresh startsfrom tomboy games like hide-and-seekme and the boys and scabby kneesMy family tree is grafted togetherweʼre always there, no matter the weathermostly sweet, a littlenutsIʼm from candy hearts and cigarette smokefamily pieces and silly jokesI am fromthe wind, the rainI am fromthe night, the daydaughter of Medinat Yisraelhija de España y MéxicoFlower childCurious KidI am from Disney moviesand Beanie Babies,From Jell-O squares and Chewy Spreesforget-me-nots and bumble beesI am from roasted sʼmores and firefliesfrom jelly beans and pumpkin piesI am from a broken moldfrom the world: the young, the oldfrom my years gone byto what may comeI am from truthand liesand chewing gum.—after George Ella LyonThe Beauty and the BeastTwin DollDani BurkNikki EnriquezSitting in a rocking chair, always staring at me, sat my twin doll.A little larger than an American Girl doll,Identical we were,Made to look like me, we had the same eyes and hair.Her beady glass eyes held an intense gaze upon me,Following my every move.Her pink floral dress had no wrinkles, her shiny white shoes with brassbuckles had no scuffs, and her smooth silky brown hair lay perfect aboveher shoulders,Because I never played with her,Except for when I threw her to the floor.So innocent a doll may seem, but I knew she was evil,Her cold mesmerizing eyes told all.I would throw her off her chair to the groundFull of hate and would yell how much I didnʼt like her,Then later on I always apologized out of fear,Fear she was alive,Fear she would take revengeLike the doll Chuckie from Childʼs Play.She never moved though.She just sat there contently in a rocker,Eyes always staring.afterglow 31

Coconut Flavored MiseryKelsey CollierMint chocolate chip ice cream is perfect forwhen you want to say “I have learned my lesson.”It consists of the classic chocolate flavorwhich says I love you and I am consistent inmy love. The mint flavor, which is stronger,implies some sense of positive deviation fromthat love, an improved love. Vanilla is goodwhen having conversations pertaining to sex.That all-too-obvious white begs the question:are you really this innocent too? Have I anyreason to believe that you might be tainted by ascoop of crimson strawberry or dark chocolate?Rainbow sherbet is good for transitional periods.Its multitude of flavors represents an adaptivequality that suggests oneʼs happiness willbe achieved again. Its mixture of warm orangecaring quality and intellectual blue curiositywill help you in unknown territory, while itsgentle yellow will make everyone love you.I know these things because my dad ownsan ice cream shop. My conversations with himover various flavors seem to have defined mylife.I descended the stairs of the apartment above“Lucy and Lukeʼs Lickable Luxuries.” Does heknow what my classmates say his luxuries are?Does he know that Lucy left him and itʼs ridiculousto keep her name on the sign? My dadsat behind the counter grinning, his red bowtie tilted to the right, his shirt wrinkled, andmore than likely at least one sock on inside out.“Iʼm coming to your game tonight Claire. Iʼmclosing shop early just for you.” Every interactionwith him brought more questions, eachone standing in line behind the next until myhead hurt and I hoped that at least one questionmight come hand-in-hand with an answer. Doeshe know that I wonʼt even get to play?During the game, I stared at my dad sittingin a cherry red parka, with the hood up, in themidst of green and white dressed parents, byhimself. I caught on to his attempt to camouflagehis loneliness. He was holding thedayʼs newspaper in his hand. It was turnedto the sports page, and every few seconds histired eyes scanned the field I wasnʼt on andwasnʼt going to be on. Then he would scan theheadlines and would mutter something underhis breath—”those damn Cubs.” My dad didnʼtcare about the Cubs, and he hadnʼt watched anysports games since Lucy left.“Good game, good game, good game, goodgame, GOOD GAME.” I let my hand slideloosely through the opponentsʼ hands, oftenmissing their high fives as I heard their ironicattempts at comforting me over a game I didnot play in and was not upset that we lost.With each successive “good game” I mentallyresponded with whatever I thought might hurtthem most: youʼre too fat to play soccer, youʼretoo slow, you donʼt have a personality.. .theattacks got more personal as I reached the endof the line.32 Spring 2008I hate cherry red. After mentally abusing theopposing team, I passed my dad standing inline with the other parents. I pretended that hehad another daughter he was waiting for, onewho had scored the winning goal and who gavehim a hug after every game, even when herperfect boyfriend was waiting for her. I wovethrough the crowded parking lot, threadingmy frustration between the beat-up Jeeps andrusting Honda Civics. I ended the pattern atmy car, and found Kyle standing there, handsin pockets, head down—shadow covering theright side of his face (the one with the clump offreckles by his ear).“So you guys lost.”“Yup.” I dropped my soccer bag and tuckedmy hair behind my ears. “Leah did a good jobthough. I bet sheʼs happy you were here.”“Yeah, she was. So I was thinking about thebook Iʼm reading. We should hang out sometimeand talk about it. None of my friends arereally into books.”“Thatʼd be cool. Soccer practice gets donearound five every day, so really anytime afterthat.” He moved toward me, the patch ofshadow slowly crossing his face as he shiftedbeneath the lamp light. He rubbed my headwith his hand and then squeezed my leftshoulder.“Iʼll call you sometime this week.”When I parked my car in front of “Lucy andLukeʼs,” I noticed the light inside the ice creamshop was still on. My dad was seated on astool, hunched over the counter, his elbow onthe surface, head in hand. Beside him sat a bananasplit with two cherries and extra whippedcream.I entered the shop. “I didnʼt talk to you afterthe game because I was in a bad mood.” Icouldnʼt say I was sorry. I hadnʼt apologizedto anyone since I was six and I accidentallyspilled Lucyʼs cranberry nail polish all overthe white carpet. I didnʼt tell my best friendI was sorry after I kissed her boyfriend at thehomecoming dance freshman year. Even whenI lay awake every night three weeks afterward—staringat the glow-in- the- dark starson my ceiling, hoping somehow I would besucked into the self- created black holes spacedbetween the neon green bright spots—I stilldidnʼt say I was sorry.“I saw a boy waiting for you after the game.He seemed nice...” He swiveled in the chair.I cut him off before he could finish. “Itʼs nota big deal, he has a girlfriend.”Leaving the room I pushed his empty hopelessexpression out of my thoughts with eachstop to the upstairs apartment. Stair numberthree, I deleted his eyebrows, so that his leftone wasnʼt pushed slightly in to the center.Stair number four, I wiped away his mouthstarting at the sides which were hardly curledup. Stair number ten, I dissolved his eyes sothat tiny dots of blue and green color graduallybecame less cohesive.I began looking at an old photo album of mydad and Lucy when my phone rang.“Hey, itʼs me, Kyle. Sorry itʼs so late, I hopeI didnʼt wake you up. I just realized I havenothing to do tomorrow, so would you want tocome over after practice?” I agreed and hungup the phone.The following day, after practice, we wentfor a walk in the arboretum. It was fall and thetrees were full of burnt sienna, lemon yellow,mahogany, sepia, torch red, and every otherautumn color I couldnʼt name. A stream ofwater ran between the nearly hibernating treesand tied itself in a knot near a fallen tree wherewe sat down. “You seem like a really goodperson.”“You donʼt really know me that well I guess.Sitting next to me in World History doesnʼt reallymake you an expert on my life.” I laughed,realizing how horrible I sounded. “Gosh Ididnʼt really mean it like that—itʼs just thatgoodness is so relative. But thanks”We started talking about random stories andthese tiny segments of conversation stackedupon one another until shadows floated on theriver and we began our walk back to the parkinglot. “What was the best part of your week?”While taking his keys from his coat, hepaused, and lifted his eye brows and lookedat the sky before looking back at me, “Rightnow.”I repeated that line to myself, placing emphasison different parts until the words soundedfunny and not like English at all. I wished Ihad a best friend I could call that would saysomething cheesy like “youʼre just speakingthe language of love.” But I stopped spendingtime with my friends after Lucy left, and ifI had one, she would have reminded me thatKyle had a girlfriend. Girlfriend, I repeated mynew word until I disfigured it as well.I thought about existentialism as my teacherlectured in my World History class, debatingreally had the capabilities to ponder somethingas big as life. I didnʼt think in terms of philosophyor theology, I thought about experiences:being able to fully enjoy peanut butter chocolatebanana milkshakes and the way it feels tohave your back scratched...“Claire.” Kyle waved his hands in front ofmy face and I couldnʼt think of a more welcomeinterruption to my nonsensical thoughts.“Yes? Sorry, I canʼt stop myself from doingthat—zoning out and becoming oblivious toeverything” His brown eyes looked like thebacks of painted turtles, with little gold coinsspeckling the inside near the iris. Should Itell him that? Instead, “so did you finish thehomework from last night? That worksheet waspretty easy.”“Yeah I did, and it was. Hey, we should hangout again. I had a lot of fun with you. Whatabout Friday? Does that work?”“Yeah, Friday sounds great.” We made plansto get coffee and see the midnight movie atState Theatre afterward.At midnight each night that week I noted that

in 3 days, and 2 days, and 1 day I would beeating air popped popcorn next to Kyle, tellingmyself that I didnʼt care if laughed or wasscared the right parts, but secretly hoping I dideverything right.Kyle came at 10:05, his live Phish CD slippingout of the crack of his windows as the carpulled up outside my house. The inside of hiscar smelled like dove soap and bonfires and Itried breathe very softly as we drove to the coffeeshop, so that my quiet appreciation for thescents go unnoticed.Once there, he ordered a tall black coffee andI ordered a French Vanilla cappuccino. I burnedmy tongue on the first sip, just as I did everytime my dad and I ordered Chinese takeoutand every time my mom made chicken noodlesoup. “I always burn my tongue. Iʼm really sickof it.”“Iʼm sorry, Claire.” He made a ʻIʼm pretendingto feel sorry for you, but I donʼt really, andIʼm also flirting with youʼ face as he broughtme back a glass of ice.1 alternated tucking it under my tongue andrubbing it across the top. When I was finishedwith the glass of ice, and the cappuccino hadfound its home in the trash can, we walkedback to the car to leave for the movie. ʻIʼmmissing all my skin cells. See.” I stuck out mytongue as far as I could, swallowing first sothat I didnʼt spit everywhere when I opened mymouth.He pretended to be very interested. “Youhave a little streak down the center. Ha, youhave the shape of an L on your tongue. Howcould you burn it in the shape of an L?” Iclosed my mouth. His face was very closeto mine. I was frustrated with my stomachfor feeling so queasy, only people in stupidromance novels have butterflies, and they onlyhave them before first kisses, and I wasnʼtgoing to kiss him. There is no way he wouldkiss me.But he grabbed my chin and kissed me.He rubbed my nose like an Eskimo betweenkissing me, and held the hand that I was claspingmy jeans with. I didnʼt look at him whenwe were done. I clasped my jeans again andturned to look outside the window. “We reallyshouldnʼt do that.” I longed to ask him to kissme again, and again, and again, until I could nolonger tell which mouth or tongue was mine,or which hand was mine, or if I were sitting ina car or were somewhere far much greater—some incandescent space, hidden away in thestomach of some tiny silver fish in the streamwe sat by last week.“Why?” The gold coins in his eyes reflectedthe lamp light from outside the car.“Because you have a girlfriend. Leah is yourgirlfriend and Iʼm not.”He shrugged and turned away from me, “Ilike you; youʼre a lot different than she is. I cantalk to you about things. Please give me a hug.Iʼm sorry. I like you. A lot. Please come here.”I did, and in the following weeks wedeveloped a sort of pathetic game with oneanother. We would be sitting cross legged onthe floor, playing scrabble, and she would call.Kyle always answered a certain way—”hey. ..nothing.. .Iʼll call you later”—and I was left tocreate her half of the conversation. As weekspiled up her conversations became more desperate:“1 love you, are you cheating on me?Please donʼt cheat on me. Where are you?”After her calls, I would always crawl awayfrom our game of Scrabble or Life or Chutesnʼ Ladders, and sit on the opposite side of theroom, pretending to watch TV. Then he wouldfollow me and make me give him a hug. Thenwe would talk about how sad/frustrated/hurtI felt and the ways in which he would make itbetter. These were his options: stop talking toLeah, stop talking to me. He did neither, but accordingto our immoral code of conduct as longas he apologized a lot, kissed my forehead, andpromised that he was ending things with hervery soon, then we were all right.After seeing Leah at practice every day Idecided to call my coach and let him know Iwas no longer interested in soccer, that I wastaking up photography and that I didnʼt believein the theory of competitive sports. 1 wasnʼtsure where 1 learned to lie like that.I told Kyle of my decision as we drove fromhis house on the one lane highway toward myapartment. 1 felt myself flattening out the longgray stretch road. I turned down the volume onthe stereo and began to tap the steering wheelwith his fingers.“Looks like weʼll have more time to hangout now.” He gave his “Iʼm being cheesy andI know it but I love you and I look adorablewhen I smile” face. I was exhausted from categorizingall of his faces—placing the ones thatseemed honest and made me happy in one pileand the dishonest ones in another. The pilescontinued to collapse and I would forget whichfaces belonged where. I watched the landscapemove by, concentrating on the details outsidemy window so that I might have somethingelse to talk to him about. Nothing came tomind so I asked him the question that I had notmade him answer for the last few weeks. “Areyou and Leah still together? Please tell me youarenʼt. Please tell me that you havenʼt been lyingabout ending things this whole time.”He didnʼt look at me. I looked at the trees. Iwonder if they are sad when it is winter?“Itʼs hard, ya know? When you love someonefor so long. Iʼm not sure things will ever becompletely over. I like you a lot though.”“Trees must be sad when itʼs winter. Theyʼrenaked and thatʼs scary. All that cheesy vulnerabilitycrap that people talk about is true. Maybeitʼs not so lonely being dressed after all.”“Claire, what in the hell are you talkingabout? Did you listen to what I said?” Helooked at me now. He grabbed my hand andkissed my fingers.“So youʼre with Leah. You still kiss her andcall her and stuff. And you still kiss and call meand stuff.”“Yes.” Then I told him that was not fair andthat people werenʼt supposed to be in relationshipsthat way. While I explained to him whyhe shouldnʼt do that, I picked out what I woulddress the trees in, had I the choice. I woulddress every tree in cerulean blue leaves, sothat no tree really knows anything about theother one. No one would know if the other treehad apple or cherry blossoms, or walnuts, oranything at all. Kyle wanted to tell me that hedidnʼt understand what I was talking about.Instead he rubbed my ear and smiled as wepulled into the parking lot in front of the icecream shop. I should have been thinking of theway in which what he said would affect ourrelationship. Instead I thought, maybe he likesme because Iʼm crazy.We walked inside “Lucy and Lukeʼs” andfound my dad mopping the floor. “Good eveningmy young adult friends.” He stood straightand saluted us.We both said hi. Kyle remembered he left thehomework we were supposed to do together inhis car and he left to go get it.“You look sad tonight. Whatʼs up?” When heasked me questions he thought were importanthe never took his eyes off me. I didnʼt like itwhen people stared at me too much.“Stop looking at me like that. Itʼs not a bigdeal. Iʼm just not sure things are going to workout like I thought.“Heʼs such a great guy though. I always seeyou guys laughing together.” I didnʼt want tohear my dadʼs list of Kyleʼs positive qualities.So I told him. “Heʼs dating Leah. Thatʼs right.Iʼm helping him cheat on his girlfriend. Iʼmawful, Iʼm awful and disgusting.”“And youʼre letting him come back over?Claire, heʼs been cheating on you for twomonths. Every beautiful and nice thing he saysto you he says to another girl. He touches anothergirl. He makes promises to another girl.How can you be okay with this?”“Youʼre upset because you think this is aboutyou somehow. Itʼs not. Forget about Lucy. Shedoesnʼt love you anymore and sheʼs gone.”“Her name is mom. You need to call hermom. She left you too...Iʼm sorry. Claire, Iʼmworried about you.”“Kyle and I have homework to do.” When Ileft, I knew my dad was crying. The night hefound out Lucy was having an affair I foundhim sitting in the shop with his cell phonein hand. He told me he called her fifty fourtimes and she had not answered. I sat downwith him and offered to call her as well. Hemade me call her twenty seven times, and shenever answered once. For two hours we bothsat looking out the window waiting for her tocome home. We never looked at one another.But I could hear him crying very quietly. Hedidnʼt make any noise but I could feel the tablemoving a little and saw him rub his eyes out ofthe corner of my own.“What happened with your dad?” Kyleafterglow 33wa“veun““bewiI wdethehesechane“wion

walked in.“He found out that you have been cheating on me for twomonths. Heʼs very worried.” I looked at him, wishing that Ihad worn the black lace underwear I had bought two weeksago.“How do you feel?”“Iʼm not even sure how to answer that. I keep trying tofind a link between the way I act with you, and the knowledgethat you act that way with someone else. I donʼt eventhink a link exists—or itʼs invisible.” I wanted him to pullme close. Then I could close my eyes and sink deeper intomyself until words like Leah and infidelity deteriorated intothe walls of my self- constructed paradise. “I knew youwere still with her. I hear people talking about the two ofyou at school. Iʼm really the secret—the other girl. I knowthat you lie to me. That you never really have too muchhomework to spend time with me, and that your parentsnever really want to have family nights every Friday night.”“Itʼs not all lies though. Youʼre the type of person I couldfall in love with. Youʼre different than Leah. Iʼve told youthings Iʼve never told anyone.” I was not listening to him.“Youʼre not listening to me. If youʼve always known thisthen why are you still with me?”“Iʼm with you for every moment that you make me feelneeded. For the half an hour when we lie in bed breathinghard and hugging. When you tell me I have soft skin. Ibelieve at that moment, you really need me, even if itʼs onlyto help fulfill some stupid sexual craving.”“Itʼs more than that.”“I donʼt care.” Even as I yelled it I knew that it wasnʼttrue. I had lied again, creating a lie more realistic than anyother one he had constructed; it looked like the perfectapples I used to pick with Lucy around Halloween time.I used to eat at least four of the apples that were coloredgreen and sprayed pink. I always felt sick on the bumpydrive home.“You do care. Please tell me you care.” He was cryingand I was mad at him for that. But I crawled over to him. Iwas wearing oversized gray sweat pants and an old cottont-shirt. I liked giving hugs when I had pajamas on—so Igave him one. I touched each one of his vertebrae with myfingers, playing a sad love song on his back. I imagined thatmy dad probably heard that same song downstairs. Eachbump I pressed on Kyleʼs back, pricking some raw area inmy dadʼs heart. I knew that the love song was killing him,and I kept playing.I let Kyle kiss my cheek, and then my ear. I let Kyle kissmy mouth, and then take off my shirt.Coconut ice cream is perfect for when you help someonecheat on his girlfriend. At first all you can taste is sugar andyou are happy that there is nothing else to distract you fromrealizing your sweet desire. But as you become accustomedto that, a foreign taste slowly moves its way along youtongue. You ask yourself what it is and you donʼt answer fora while. When you are finished, and the spoon and cup liein the trash can next to banana peels and used tissues, youanswer yourself: it tastes like cheap perfume and tanningbeds—and even after knowing this, you are still not upsetyou ate it.34 Spring 2008Go Ahead, Slip Me onEric GorenfloIf I could be a shoe--any shoe whatsoever--I would be aslipper. Sneakers? Stilletos? Boots? Pshht, no way. Cinderella hadit right--slippers are where itʼs at.As a pair of slippers, you get to partake in all the most relaxedsettings. Lounging in front of the telly before bedtime? Theslippers are there. Midnight trip to the open-late drive through?Check. Quick dash to grab the morning paper in the nude? Certainly.On top of this, slippers are a kind of footwear that reallyfit emotionally—they know how to be intimate. No socks? Noproblem. From heel to toe, slippers can handle bare skin, baby.Plus, a good padded slipper really knows how to keep your “sole”feeling warm and fuzzy. And of course, the wearer will never get“cold feet” either.In the world of shoes, itʼs obvious who has the high ground.Slippers offer the necessary emotional support while also boastinga most-relaxed vibe. If I could be a shoe, I wouldnʼt chooseany other pair of kicks.The Villains of LazinessMegan SandbergMelissa GollidayMy heavy eyes drop shut over my (insert most annoyingclass of the day with the most homework here) book. The pagesrun together, and I canʼt tell the difference between integral andla idioma. Scattering my books to my bedside, I flop onto mycomfortable pillows. No more homework until the morning.Iʼm busy. And like any other high school senior, I haveno time to fit every rehearsal, evening shift, and paper into oneafternoon sitting. Late nights arenʼt uncommon. But when I amfree, the inevitable “laziness” sneaks up on me. Tapping me onthe shoulder, it invites me into its comfortable grotto that is acouch/bed, remote, and TV. I slouch until dinner and ignore mybooks; the evil-doers continue to coax me.Starting my homework isnʼt the problem; itʼs my lack ofmotivation to finish that trips me up. Iʼve realized the only wayto stay afloat is to use any free time I have to stay caught up. Mymom canʼt be around to light a fire under me anymore. I have totake hold of the lighter fluid.

The View OutsideCaitlin ClaytonThe playful wind dances quietly through the trees,whispering. It echoes in my ears, yearning for me tohear its story. The wind spreads the sunshine over us,giving a yellow tint to the day. It breezes through ourwayward hair, teasing us.When all is quiet, the wind seems to blow wordsback in my throat, showing me that, for a time, speakingis forbidden. I relish the almost perfect silence. Itprovides a time for my mind to settle and my thoughtsslip away: a spot of solace in a busy day.A voice cuts through to my small world, soundingsharp & foreign to my ears. On instinct, my voicecalls in reply, the action feeling strange. The silence isbroken, we must return to the world of noise, patientlywaiting for the next spot of relief.Ash in a StoveChristian CraigLines of age on a tired face step out of their apartment every morningTo see the same street staring back at themThey go through their dayWith words backed by fire in the head they decorateBut when the lines stretch to open a soft-spoken mouthSpeech is mumbled and words fall out likeAsh blown out of a stoveTo be swept into a corner by a custodianTired of pushing his broomAnd the man with lines on his tired face goes homeTo have his thoughts burn holesThrough his paper thin desireTo wake up again andHave his passion cleaned awayBy someone who doesn’t careHe will wake again anywayPool Table HoundsDylan FordA dimly lit bar.Smoke and belligerent barks fill the room.Bulldog lines up his cue,Eager to shoot.His basset hound side-kick gazes with franticadmiration through eye-glasses.Cocker Spaniel, in bowler and bow-tie, stops on hisway to the bathroom.German Shepherd, gets ready to guzzle another frostypint.Border Collie, takes another puff on a cigar, andpatiently awaits victory.Great Dane, smirks, chews his pipe.Bulldog, grunts “8 bail corner pocket.”A collision of pool balls and the game is decided.Both balls disappear into the pocket.Sinking beneath the felt green horizon.Shoes Sweet ShoesKatie PriddyYou can tell a lot about a person by their shoes. Men rarelyhave more than five pairs of shoes—just the essentials: tennisshoes, mowing shoes, dress shoes, and a couple pairs of sandals.On the other hand, for women, shoes are a statement. Shoes arethe reason behind wasting away an afternoon in the mall. Towomen, shoes can be an addiction.I have 28 pairs of shoes and Iʼve probably only worn half ofthem once or twice. How can I answer which shoe I would be? Ihave 28 pairs of shoes because I canʼt limit myself to one pair, oreven a couple.If my shoes could talk, each one would tell a different story. Myleather, knee-high boots could not tell you of summertime; myrunning shoes could not tell you of dances, concerts, or partiesand none of my three dollar flip-flops could remember snow-ballfights or soccer games. My shoes show my changing taste, myadaptability, my personality, and my life. To pin it down, I am themoccasin, flip-flop, vintage pump, furry snow boot, ballet flat,rubber Croc, black leather boot, running shoe, blue suede sneaker,brown clog, hot pink high heel, 3-inch prom heel, rain boot, andsoccer cleat. I am that shoe.afterglow 35

Deaven Worley