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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