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