The New Currency 2010
Faculty Advisors
Ms. Crosby
Ms. Blair
Editing Staff
Seniors ‘10:
Rebecca Hecht
Juniors ‘11:
Julia Domenicucci
Olivia Martinello
Sophomores ‘12:
Gwen Baptiste
Nate Shaffer
Elizabeth Yuu
Freshmen ‘13:
Andrew Downing
Anh Le
Christine Ogburn
Anna Patterson
Anna Teixeira
Kathryn Vallis
Laura White
Ms. Crosby
Ms. Blair
Editing Staff
Seniors ‘10:
Rebecca Hecht
Juniors ‘11:
Julia Domenicucci
Olivia Martinello
Sophomores ‘12:
Gwen Baptiste
Nate Shaffer
Elizabeth Yuu
Freshmen ‘13:
Andrew Downing
Anh Le
Christine Ogburn
Anna Patterson
Anna Teixeira
Kathryn Vallis
Laura White
Table of Contents
Her
Anonymous.......................................................................................7
The Fisherman’s Son
Morgan Bruzzese...............................................................................9
Wanted
Rebecca Hecht ................................................................................12
The Color of Hate
Anna Teixeira ..................................................................................13
Crying Man and The Letter Never Sent
Kathryn Vallis....................................................................................15
The End
Laura White......................................................................................16
Untitled
Matt LeBlanc....................................................................................17
Embellished Jaguar Paint-by-Number
Laura White......................................................................................18
Sitting High on an Ever-long Stage
Anna Patterson.................................................................................19
Cedric
Julia Domenicucci............................................................................21
Clarisse
Anh Le................................................................................................22
They Started by Fighting Just a Little
Christine Ogburn..............................................................................23
Travels of Kingsley Part 1
Billy Harney......................................................................................24
Untitled
Matt LeBlanc....................................................................................25
Rainows and Broken Dreams
Anna Teixeira...................................................................................27
Self-Portrait
Kathryn Vallis...................................................................................32
A Thought
Isabel Spence...................................................................................33
Eleven Moments of Truth
Anna Teixeira...................................................................................34
Corn Beater
Olivia Robertson..............................................................................40
To Me
Nate Shaffer.....................................................................................41
Cybug
Olivia Martinello..............................................................................43
Tunneling For Memories
Andrew Downing...............................................................................44
Surrealist House Drawing
Olivia Robertson...............................................................................45
Transformation
Peter Finigan.....................................................................................46
Hope
Nate Shaffer......................................................................................47
Welcome Home
Kathryn Vallis...................................................................................48
Pumpkins
Julia Domenicucci...........................................................................49
Gossip
Kathryn Vallis....................................................................................50
Saxoduck
Karen Alvarez....................................................................................51
Moonlit Paradise and Twilight Beacon Paint-by-Numbers
Laura White.......................................................................................52
Misery I Blame You and Paradise
Elizabeth Yuu....................................................................................53
She is the Moon
Nate Shaffer......................................................................................54
Anh Le Acing Guitar Hero
Laura White.......................................................................................55
Serendipity
Laura White.......................................................................................56
The Library
Kathryn Vallis....................................................................................57
What the Pencil Sees
Erin McIntyre.....................................................................................58
Inspiration or Lack Thereof
Nate Shaffer......................................................................................59
You
Matt LeBlanc.....................................................................................60
The Man in the Overalls
Amy Lane..........................................................................................61
Untitled Poems
Rachel Marolda................................................................................62
Tuna and Cans
Nicole Kwan.......................................................................................63
Untitled Drawing
Kathryn Vallis....................................................................................64
Faceless
Karen Alvarez....................................................................................65
Bird’s Eye Pumpkin
Julia Domenicucci............................................................................67
The Strike
Isabel Spence...................................................................................68
Tulip Cards
Michelle Kay.....................................................................................69
Tea For Two
Olivia Martinello...............................................................................70
Black Dahlia
Anh Le...............................................................................................72
How to Get By
Cory Hoffman...................................................................................73
7 Her
I hear them,
Yes...I hear them in my head
the empty moon smiling sadly upon the tranquility of the lake
its sweet ripples setting the pulse of my words
this aching but smiling moon cries gentle and silent tears for the stillest of waters
its devastatingly slow droplets leaving ripples
settled the pulse of these words
and I hear them
Yes...I hear them in my head
the crying, smiling moon and the quiet prodding of the
waters
Do you feel it?
Do you hear it?
Listen...that was Silence
anger...remorse...desperation
Can you hear it now?
sadness, Joy, Life, death
louder still
Loneliness
Do you feel the ache now?
Loveless
ever clearly throbbing now
I hear them, these silent tears of a heartless moon
How can it not feel, but cry so?
It cries and I hear
All the things that it can’t feel
and I feel it buried deep within, vines creeping through me
Remorse, Anger, desperation, sadness, joy, alive, dead,
confused…
all random, all connected, all eternal
Lonely, loveless, weakness
my gray and crying moon
You cry because you can’t but how I only wish I could
smiling sadly down upon me, cold in the stillness, crying moon
Anonymous
Yes...I hear them in my head
the empty moon smiling sadly upon the tranquility of the lake
its sweet ripples setting the pulse of my words
this aching but smiling moon cries gentle and silent tears for the stillest of waters
its devastatingly slow droplets leaving ripples
settled the pulse of these words
and I hear them
Yes...I hear them in my head
the crying, smiling moon and the quiet prodding of the
waters
Do you feel it?
Do you hear it?
Listen...that was Silence
anger...remorse...desperation
Can you hear it now?
sadness, Joy, Life, death
louder still
Loneliness
Do you feel the ache now?
Loveless
ever clearly throbbing now
I hear them, these silent tears of a heartless moon
How can it not feel, but cry so?
It cries and I hear
All the things that it can’t feel
and I feel it buried deep within, vines creeping through me
Remorse, Anger, desperation, sadness, joy, alive, dead,
confused…
all random, all connected, all eternal
Lonely, loveless, weakness
my gray and crying moon
You cry because you can’t but how I only wish I could
smiling sadly down upon me, cold in the stillness, crying moon
Anonymous
9 The Fisherman's Son
Back in 1942 when I was a kid, my father taught me how to fish. From what I remember, it all started on a beautiful spring morning. The flowers were budding before our eyes, the stream was flowing again as the ice melted, and you could hear the sounds of workers coming from the lumber yard down the street. It was like a rebirth after that long, cold, winter. The youth were filling the stores, the ballparks, the yards, and even the cul-de-sacs. You couldn’t blame them because it was such a beautiful morning. The temperature was not too cold and not too hot. There were just enough clouds shielding us from the hot sun rays. It was a perfect day for fishing.
I asked by father, “When are we leaving, Dad?” while holding two rods and two large tackle boxes in my scrawny arms. He said to me, “Where do you think you’re going?” “Well,” I replied, “Aren’t we going fishing? The weather is perfect and I already have everything ready.” He told me no, and that it wasn’t the right time yet. Being an impatient eight-year-old, I grumbled and groaned about what he said. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fish so that I could show him that he was wrong. The plan was foolproof.
Later I left for the river with my fishing rod, my net, and my can of worms. I was so excited that I sprinted all the way there. I found a good shady place where I assumed there would be plenty of fish. I assumed wrong. I wasted my whole can of bait, and broke two lines that caught on rocks out in the river. I guess my father was right. This was not the right time to fish.
When I got home later that night, my dad didn’t say anything. He must have gotten the hint when he saw me come home empty-handed. After my failed attempt to catch some fish, I decided to forget about fishing. It didn’t interest me because I didn’t catch anything. I started playing basketball, and later on in high school I got pretty good. I won some tournaments and my team went to States. After my basketball season ended, the years seemed to slip by. Next thing I knew I was a twenty-year-old looking for a job.
It was a summer afternoon and I was working at “Jeffrey’s Hardware Store.” It was the only job I could find that was hiring, so I took it. The only working fan in the whole hardware store broke on me, so I was stuck sweating every day for the whole summer. One day my father came into the store and he told my manager to let me have the rest of the day off. I was so confused that I couldn’t even put my lips together to form the words, “What’s going on?” My father had his pick-up truck waiting outside. I hopped into the car only to see a tackle box at my feet and fishing rods in the back seat. I smiled as I thought to myself about when I was younger and wasn’t patient enough to wait until the right time to fish. I guess now was the right time to fish.
As we drove on that summer afternoon, to Laguna Lake, we reminisced about the good old times and how I had always wanted to go fishing. Having been in my prime, at twenty-years old, it didn’t change any of those feelings that I had for fishing. I still wanted to go out there and catch the biggest bass that lived in the lake. When we finally got there, my father picked the spot where we would sit and set up our rods. After that we went to the water’s edge and cast away. It was beautiful. The sun was setting, and the reflection off the water’s ripples was magnificent. The greatest part of the day was that we didn’t catch one fish. Not even a single sunfish, but we were happy.
So my father had been wrong about when the “right time” to fish was, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that we got to spend time with each other, talk, and just act like it was old times. For that day I was once again ten-years-old, without a care in the world. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I soaked up every minute of it and treated my father like he only had one day to live.
It was an evening in fall, and I was driving down the road, when I realized how time flew by me those past years. I was a forty-five-year-old with two kids, a dog, a wife, and no time to go fishing. I was now an aging individual and I couldn’t stop and take time to go fishing for fun with my father. I had a serious job, and my father was now an old man. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to call him “elderly” or a “senior citizen.” As if fall hadn’t come soon enough, now winter was closing in on us once again.
Winter: that long, dark cold period of time that has the two biggest holidays of the year jammed into it just to brighten it up. That winter was my father’s last winter with us. He died Christmas night. They say that winter brings death, and that death brings sorrow, but I think death brings rebirth. After my father died, I felt that it was my duty to go fishing every year in his memory. So, out of his very sad death I took up fishing again. Every year I went to the same spot at the same time of day that he came to my work, picked me up, and drove me to the river to fish. The only difference was that I actually caught fish when I went. I caught the biggest bass in the whole entire lake, and I was in the paper for it every year. In the article I was always known as the “Fisherman’s Son,” and I was proud of it.
Morgan Bruzzese
I asked by father, “When are we leaving, Dad?” while holding two rods and two large tackle boxes in my scrawny arms. He said to me, “Where do you think you’re going?” “Well,” I replied, “Aren’t we going fishing? The weather is perfect and I already have everything ready.” He told me no, and that it wasn’t the right time yet. Being an impatient eight-year-old, I grumbled and groaned about what he said. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fish so that I could show him that he was wrong. The plan was foolproof.
Later I left for the river with my fishing rod, my net, and my can of worms. I was so excited that I sprinted all the way there. I found a good shady place where I assumed there would be plenty of fish. I assumed wrong. I wasted my whole can of bait, and broke two lines that caught on rocks out in the river. I guess my father was right. This was not the right time to fish.
When I got home later that night, my dad didn’t say anything. He must have gotten the hint when he saw me come home empty-handed. After my failed attempt to catch some fish, I decided to forget about fishing. It didn’t interest me because I didn’t catch anything. I started playing basketball, and later on in high school I got pretty good. I won some tournaments and my team went to States. After my basketball season ended, the years seemed to slip by. Next thing I knew I was a twenty-year-old looking for a job.
It was a summer afternoon and I was working at “Jeffrey’s Hardware Store.” It was the only job I could find that was hiring, so I took it. The only working fan in the whole hardware store broke on me, so I was stuck sweating every day for the whole summer. One day my father came into the store and he told my manager to let me have the rest of the day off. I was so confused that I couldn’t even put my lips together to form the words, “What’s going on?” My father had his pick-up truck waiting outside. I hopped into the car only to see a tackle box at my feet and fishing rods in the back seat. I smiled as I thought to myself about when I was younger and wasn’t patient enough to wait until the right time to fish. I guess now was the right time to fish.
As we drove on that summer afternoon, to Laguna Lake, we reminisced about the good old times and how I had always wanted to go fishing. Having been in my prime, at twenty-years old, it didn’t change any of those feelings that I had for fishing. I still wanted to go out there and catch the biggest bass that lived in the lake. When we finally got there, my father picked the spot where we would sit and set up our rods. After that we went to the water’s edge and cast away. It was beautiful. The sun was setting, and the reflection off the water’s ripples was magnificent. The greatest part of the day was that we didn’t catch one fish. Not even a single sunfish, but we were happy.
So my father had been wrong about when the “right time” to fish was, but that wasn’t important. What was important was that we got to spend time with each other, talk, and just act like it was old times. For that day I was once again ten-years-old, without a care in the world. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I soaked up every minute of it and treated my father like he only had one day to live.
It was an evening in fall, and I was driving down the road, when I realized how time flew by me those past years. I was a forty-five-year-old with two kids, a dog, a wife, and no time to go fishing. I was now an aging individual and I couldn’t stop and take time to go fishing for fun with my father. I had a serious job, and my father was now an old man. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to call him “elderly” or a “senior citizen.” As if fall hadn’t come soon enough, now winter was closing in on us once again.
Winter: that long, dark cold period of time that has the two biggest holidays of the year jammed into it just to brighten it up. That winter was my father’s last winter with us. He died Christmas night. They say that winter brings death, and that death brings sorrow, but I think death brings rebirth. After my father died, I felt that it was my duty to go fishing every year in his memory. So, out of his very sad death I took up fishing again. Every year I went to the same spot at the same time of day that he came to my work, picked me up, and drove me to the river to fish. The only difference was that I actually caught fish when I went. I caught the biggest bass in the whole entire lake, and I was in the paper for it every year. In the article I was always known as the “Fisherman’s Son,” and I was proud of it.
Morgan Bruzzese
12 Wanted
13 The Color of Hate
Laurel hesitates in her brother’s doorway.
“Jarid?” she says.
“What?” Jarid demands, glaring at her.
Laurel takes an instinctive step backwards.
Her brother is sprawled on his bed, texting and listening to music. She steps over the threshold into her brother’s crimson room. She shudders inwardly, looking around. Jarid calls this room his prison. Jillian, his twin sister, says that if he didn't do things that would get him grounded, he wouldn't be stuck in here.
“It’s time for dinner,” Laurel says.
“It’ll be down in a minute. Get out of my room.”
“Jillian says I should bug you until you come downstairs,” Laurel persists. Jillian, Jarid’s twin, is likely to yell at both of them if they don’t come down soon and Laurel hates being yelled at. Laurel wishes that Jillian had done this instead. Jarid, a highschooler, is not about to listen to his ten-year-old little sister.
“Jillian is annoying. Go away.”
“Jarid is a jerk, and if he wants dinner, he had better come and get it,” Jillian says from the hallway. Laurel jumps; she misses their old house, where you could always hear if someone came up the creaky stairs.
“Fine.” Jarid does not take his defeat well; he shoves past them and stomps down the stairs.
Jillian rolls her eyes at Laurel and follows. Laurel brings up the rear.
“Sandwiches?” Jarid yells. “I’m going back upstairs. I can make my own sandwich later.”
Jillian shoves Jarid into a chair. “Stop throwing a temper tantrum,” she snaps.
Laurel hurriedly makes a sandwich and sits down. She doesn’t like getting in the middle of fights.
Jarid storms around the kitchen, yanking open cupboard doors.
“Where’s the mayonnaise?” The words are curt, impatient, angry.
Jillian sighs. “On the table, genius.”“Laurel, give me the mayonnaise.”
She walks over and hovers uncertainly next to Jarid, who is digging through the silverware drawer. He come up triumphant, with the knife clutched in his hand.
He takes one look at Laurel, at her expression, and snaps.
“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” he roars. “EVERYONE—EVEN MY LITTLE SISTER—IS SCARED OF BIG, BAD ME, HUH?”
“Jarid, stop it, you’re scaring her!”
He turns on Jillian. “You have all the answers, huh? What did I do, huh? Everyone thinks I’m a monster—when did it all get screwed up? What happened? WELL?” she shouts, advancing on Jillian.
“You happened!” she yells right back. “You’re the one that’s been yelling at everyone, you’re the one who messed things up with Nora, you’re the one who screwed up your life! Not me, not Laurel! Grow up! Stop blaming everyone else for your mistakes!”
Jarid swears at Jillian, Laurel flinches at the look on her face, flinches away from the shouts. Jillian punches Jarid, and the blood gushes out of his nose, all over his shirt, dripping on the floor.
Both of them are gone, Jarid pounding up the stairs, the front door still swinging from the Jillian's shove, before what happens starts to sink in.
Laurel is left alone in the kitchen, in the silence, holding the jar of mayonnaise.
Anna Teixeira
“Jarid?” she says.
“What?” Jarid demands, glaring at her.
Laurel takes an instinctive step backwards.
Her brother is sprawled on his bed, texting and listening to music. She steps over the threshold into her brother’s crimson room. She shudders inwardly, looking around. Jarid calls this room his prison. Jillian, his twin sister, says that if he didn't do things that would get him grounded, he wouldn't be stuck in here.
“It’s time for dinner,” Laurel says.
“It’ll be down in a minute. Get out of my room.”
“Jillian says I should bug you until you come downstairs,” Laurel persists. Jillian, Jarid’s twin, is likely to yell at both of them if they don’t come down soon and Laurel hates being yelled at. Laurel wishes that Jillian had done this instead. Jarid, a highschooler, is not about to listen to his ten-year-old little sister.
“Jillian is annoying. Go away.”
“Jarid is a jerk, and if he wants dinner, he had better come and get it,” Jillian says from the hallway. Laurel jumps; she misses their old house, where you could always hear if someone came up the creaky stairs.
“Fine.” Jarid does not take his defeat well; he shoves past them and stomps down the stairs.
Jillian rolls her eyes at Laurel and follows. Laurel brings up the rear.
“Sandwiches?” Jarid yells. “I’m going back upstairs. I can make my own sandwich later.”
Jillian shoves Jarid into a chair. “Stop throwing a temper tantrum,” she snaps.
Laurel hurriedly makes a sandwich and sits down. She doesn’t like getting in the middle of fights.
Jarid storms around the kitchen, yanking open cupboard doors.
“Where’s the mayonnaise?” The words are curt, impatient, angry.
Jillian sighs. “On the table, genius.”“Laurel, give me the mayonnaise.”
She walks over and hovers uncertainly next to Jarid, who is digging through the silverware drawer. He come up triumphant, with the knife clutched in his hand.
He takes one look at Laurel, at her expression, and snaps.
“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” he roars. “EVERYONE—EVEN MY LITTLE SISTER—IS SCARED OF BIG, BAD ME, HUH?”
“Jarid, stop it, you’re scaring her!”
He turns on Jillian. “You have all the answers, huh? What did I do, huh? Everyone thinks I’m a monster—when did it all get screwed up? What happened? WELL?” she shouts, advancing on Jillian.
“You happened!” she yells right back. “You’re the one that’s been yelling at everyone, you’re the one who messed things up with Nora, you’re the one who screwed up your life! Not me, not Laurel! Grow up! Stop blaming everyone else for your mistakes!”
Jarid swears at Jillian, Laurel flinches at the look on her face, flinches away from the shouts. Jillian punches Jarid, and the blood gushes out of his nose, all over his shirt, dripping on the floor.
Both of them are gone, Jarid pounding up the stairs, the front door still swinging from the Jillian's shove, before what happens starts to sink in.
Laurel is left alone in the kitchen, in the silence, holding the jar of mayonnaise.
Anna Teixeira
15 The Crying Man and The Letter Never Sent
16 The End
Most stories finish with two short, simple words. There's a ringing silence in the room, all other sounds distant and foreign, when the whole audience sucks in their breath at the beauty of it. Suddenly, the covers shut with a crisp snap. Glazed-over eyes slowly come back into focus. They are returning from another world. A smattering of applause fills ears all around, and everyone is forced to realize reality once again. It's a sad sort of thing, ending. In our story, though, I have a feeling we won't get to hear those two words...
Laura White
Laura White
17 Untitled
I'm surrounded by perfectly engineered strangers conforming happily to the instinctual drone of the wants and needs of society.
I walk parallel to myself, shamefully. I disguise my heart to hide the tender and tangled arteries while smirking demons draw fright, disgusted, and embarrassment from the raw chambers of my spirit.
Simple and shallow contentment acts as a placebo, scribbling a transparent grin on my face yet not able to resist turning my vulnerable soul over to the nocturnal satanic puppeteers.
Reality and ignorance have allowed me to hear the futuristic and low growl from my foundation. Time will tell if my educated illustration becomes my painful present.
I'm drenched and permanently stained in turmoil. As the water from the shower head grows hotter my body shivers coldly in response.
I'm homeless, not houseless.
Matt LeBlanc
I walk parallel to myself, shamefully. I disguise my heart to hide the tender and tangled arteries while smirking demons draw fright, disgusted, and embarrassment from the raw chambers of my spirit.
Simple and shallow contentment acts as a placebo, scribbling a transparent grin on my face yet not able to resist turning my vulnerable soul over to the nocturnal satanic puppeteers.
Reality and ignorance have allowed me to hear the futuristic and low growl from my foundation. Time will tell if my educated illustration becomes my painful present.
I'm drenched and permanently stained in turmoil. As the water from the shower head grows hotter my body shivers coldly in response.
I'm homeless, not houseless.
Matt LeBlanc
18 Embellished Jaguar Paint-by-Number
19 Sitting High on an Ever-Long Stage
Sitting high on an ever-long stage
upon thrones of shining white gold
beside Them the page
to write, write a story untold
Sitting behind velvet curtain black
with spears and swords at hand
and shining silver as They pull back
and hurl the spears before they stand
And stand They did as spears did fly
shining silver ever-bright
as they soared through back-stage sky
while beside Them the page does write
He writes this story untold, untold!
makes but one draft
not bought, not sold
the best of his craft
The page wrote with great care
how the Gods made the holes
holes in the curtain black, and fair
Their aim, when They hit the White Below
Shining white for-ever half-bright
darkness is for what They aim
far far below, it is not right
but for Them it's just a game
Anna Patterson
upon thrones of shining white gold
beside Them the page
to write, write a story untold
Sitting behind velvet curtain black
with spears and swords at hand
and shining silver as They pull back
and hurl the spears before they stand
And stand They did as spears did fly
shining silver ever-bright
as they soared through back-stage sky
while beside Them the page does write
He writes this story untold, untold!
makes but one draft
not bought, not sold
the best of his craft
The page wrote with great care
how the Gods made the holes
holes in the curtain black, and fair
Their aim, when They hit the White Below
Shining white for-ever half-bright
darkness is for what They aim
far far below, it is not right
but for Them it's just a game
Anna Patterson
21 Cedric
22 Clarisse
23 They Started by Fighting Just a Little
They started by fighting just a little
and now I'm caught up in the middle
silent dinners and cold-hearted stares
strong on the outside with a heart that tears
"tell dad this" and "tell mom that"
I feel like a human baseball bat
but, but even baseball bats can break
but it's not my fault it's their mistake
"Here's a 20 I love you honey"
but they can't buy my heart with money
I could live through nights of endless fighting
but not my little brother's crying
I swear someday I'll run away
nothing could live here and possibly stay
Christine Ogburn
and now I'm caught up in the middle
silent dinners and cold-hearted stares
strong on the outside with a heart that tears
"tell dad this" and "tell mom that"
I feel like a human baseball bat
but, but even baseball bats can break
but it's not my fault it's their mistake
"Here's a 20 I love you honey"
but they can't buy my heart with money
I could live through nights of endless fighting
but not my little brother's crying
I swear someday I'll run away
nothing could live here and possibly stay
Christine Ogburn
24 Travels of Kingsley in Three Parts
25 Untitled
The gentle smell of skeletons caressing the moonlight dove cover fills the starry night sky.
Thoughts that were buried by the radiating sun scurry to the front of my mind. An opaque commotion of feelings. How is it possible to assuage the emotions, at what time will they stop and how can I sift through the floury mass of pain alone?
The tears harden on my youthful face they seep in and age me. Layers and layers of fears, doubts, lies. Perhaps this is the serum of insanity filtering into my thin kid-like skin... Slowly thickening me into an incurable conquistador belonging the unknown territory of pain.
Heartbeats through the wintery storm of adolescence, a painful music rings. With each measure the dams of my secrets crack. Snow capped silence freezes and hardens into an un-meltable phobia haunting the aging frame.
Slowly weakening, drowning in a torrent of solitude.
How much is one person prescribed to suffer in one life? Gasp for air, hold hands out.
Am I supposed to love the vessel that sailed me so deeply into the hardship?
Can I blame?
Watery blood pumps through my veins poisoned and tainted. How can I keep the faith without the struggle?
So what do I grab onto as I plummet downwardly in the rocky Shute of hate?
Heart is dark from algae.... too much exposure. Too many people looking in and speaking with forked tongues. Waves of deception thrash upon ... like the steady vibrato of the ocean waves. Furious but calm.
A flood a sun dyed pink wrap around my sandy eye lids generously. All of my thoughts are cold to hot and scramble for the exit to the depths of my mind. There they await, leagues and leagues under memories and such, waiting until once again I'm a skeleton laying on the cool dew dropped blades of grass.
Covered by the sea of midnight.
There my body lays armor less, penetrable, eyes pressed closed, at the mercy of my attacker.
I am me again.
Matt LeBlanc
Thoughts that were buried by the radiating sun scurry to the front of my mind. An opaque commotion of feelings. How is it possible to assuage the emotions, at what time will they stop and how can I sift through the floury mass of pain alone?
The tears harden on my youthful face they seep in and age me. Layers and layers of fears, doubts, lies. Perhaps this is the serum of insanity filtering into my thin kid-like skin... Slowly thickening me into an incurable conquistador belonging the unknown territory of pain.
Heartbeats through the wintery storm of adolescence, a painful music rings. With each measure the dams of my secrets crack. Snow capped silence freezes and hardens into an un-meltable phobia haunting the aging frame.
Slowly weakening, drowning in a torrent of solitude.
How much is one person prescribed to suffer in one life? Gasp for air, hold hands out.
Am I supposed to love the vessel that sailed me so deeply into the hardship?
Can I blame?
Watery blood pumps through my veins poisoned and tainted. How can I keep the faith without the struggle?
So what do I grab onto as I plummet downwardly in the rocky Shute of hate?
Heart is dark from algae.... too much exposure. Too many people looking in and speaking with forked tongues. Waves of deception thrash upon ... like the steady vibrato of the ocean waves. Furious but calm.
A flood a sun dyed pink wrap around my sandy eye lids generously. All of my thoughts are cold to hot and scramble for the exit to the depths of my mind. There they await, leagues and leagues under memories and such, waiting until once again I'm a skeleton laying on the cool dew dropped blades of grass.
Covered by the sea of midnight.
There my body lays armor less, penetrable, eyes pressed closed, at the mercy of my attacker.
I am me again.
Matt LeBlanc
27 Rainbows and Broken Dreams
Every moment sends
snowflakes whirling around you
a cloud of ideas
always out of reach
vanishing before your eyes
rainbows glimmer on the horizon
you reach for them
laughing, they dance away
into the sky
words, phrases, memories
a thought, a face
you catch a snowflake on your hand
and remember the words as they melt
into a beginning
a thousand puzzle pieces
(what dreams are made of)
hidden and waiting
to come alive in your hands
they wake up
you give them pieces of your soul
every memory and thought
they take for their own
and they become real
pencil flies across the paper
their words dance on the tip of your tongue
and explode onto the page
you are flying
feet leaping through the pages
until you trip
and fall
you look now
at the picture you've written
the knife has slashed through your painting
destroyed the wonder
destroyed the beauty
of their story
the storm melts the beautiful snow
erases your snow angels
you take the paper
rip it up
and vow to find another world
less deadly
than theirs
you chase butterflies
of dancing color
and ignore their gazes
the accusing whispers
that refuse to fade away
half asleep
awake yet dreaming
they remind you
draw you back
show you
a new voice
a glimpse
of something wonderful-
and you awaken
and try to forget
in the end
all it takes
is a single word
and you are running
back to the chasm
you believed was too hard
to cross
laughing, they show you
there was a bridge
all along
just out of sight
you chase the scraps of paper
the wind captured
and win them back
you begin the story again
soaring through the sky
below you, life and logic
mundane and uninspired
others call out to you
to your body far below on the ground
how can you explain
that you aren't really there?
when you write the last word
the best and worst
you celebrate
and grieve a little
as do they
it is over
but it isn't
you spend minutes
centuries
years
moments
in their world
you fall
but you get up
and keep running
you open the door
others come inside this world
(yours and theirs)
and wonder at the beauty
and you
and they
laugh together with delight
four hundred
seventy
six
pages
that are
yours
theirs
everyone's
gleaming covers
crisp pages
brimming with the words
it is perfect
and yet-
you return them
to the place
where they belong
you walk away smiling
happy
unknowing
of what is to come
they cry out
but others
don't hear
don't look
don't see
don't notice
don't care
so they remain
on the bottom shelf
forgotten
and lonely
who stops to think
of you?
the life
you gave them?
others' lives are too full
to dream of yours
and theirs
they die alone
Anna Teixeira
snowflakes whirling around you
a cloud of ideas
always out of reach
vanishing before your eyes
rainbows glimmer on the horizon
you reach for them
laughing, they dance away
into the sky
words, phrases, memories
a thought, a face
you catch a snowflake on your hand
and remember the words as they melt
into a beginning
a thousand puzzle pieces
(what dreams are made of)
hidden and waiting
to come alive in your hands
they wake up
you give them pieces of your soul
every memory and thought
they take for their own
and they become real
pencil flies across the paper
their words dance on the tip of your tongue
and explode onto the page
you are flying
feet leaping through the pages
until you trip
and fall
you look now
at the picture you've written
the knife has slashed through your painting
destroyed the wonder
destroyed the beauty
of their story
the storm melts the beautiful snow
erases your snow angels
you take the paper
rip it up
and vow to find another world
less deadly
than theirs
you chase butterflies
of dancing color
and ignore their gazes
the accusing whispers
that refuse to fade away
half asleep
awake yet dreaming
they remind you
draw you back
show you
a new voice
a glimpse
of something wonderful-
and you awaken
and try to forget
in the end
all it takes
is a single word
and you are running
back to the chasm
you believed was too hard
to cross
laughing, they show you
there was a bridge
all along
just out of sight
you chase the scraps of paper
the wind captured
and win them back
you begin the story again
soaring through the sky
below you, life and logic
mundane and uninspired
others call out to you
to your body far below on the ground
how can you explain
that you aren't really there?
when you write the last word
the best and worst
you celebrate
and grieve a little
as do they
it is over
but it isn't
you spend minutes
centuries
years
moments
in their world
you fall
but you get up
and keep running
you open the door
others come inside this world
(yours and theirs)
and wonder at the beauty
and you
and they
laugh together with delight
four hundred
seventy
six
pages
that are
yours
theirs
everyone's
gleaming covers
crisp pages
brimming with the words
it is perfect
and yet-
you return them
to the place
where they belong
you walk away smiling
happy
unknowing
of what is to come
they cry out
but others
don't hear
don't look
don't see
don't notice
don't care
so they remain
on the bottom shelf
forgotten
and lonely
who stops to think
of you?
the life
you gave them?
others' lives are too full
to dream of yours
and theirs
they die alone
Anna Teixeira
32-33 Self-Portrait and A Thought
Self-Portrait by Kathryn Vallis
A Thought
Wondering, I would walk through wildernesses,
Spotting and stopping strolling along slow,
Glamorous glow would grow throughout my tresses,
Following the fresh and full river’s flow.
A bold bend in the back bade me go on,
Toiling in my thatched trap I emerge,
With wobbling legs I walk like a faun,
Running now round the rapids, onward I surge.
Oh bright horizon! Oh wonderful thing!
To be free and run; to run and be free
A fickle fancy flings me forth, fleeing
Away from the land and towards the sea.
Being wild and wise, I reach the Ocean,
Raise my eyes to its holy commotion.
Isabel Spence
Wondering, I would walk through wildernesses,
Spotting and stopping strolling along slow,
Glamorous glow would grow throughout my tresses,
Following the fresh and full river’s flow.
A bold bend in the back bade me go on,
Toiling in my thatched trap I emerge,
With wobbling legs I walk like a faun,
Running now round the rapids, onward I surge.
Oh bright horizon! Oh wonderful thing!
To be free and run; to run and be free
A fickle fancy flings me forth, fleeing
Away from the land and towards the sea.
Being wild and wise, I reach the Ocean,
Raise my eyes to its holy commotion.
Isabel Spence
34 Eleven Moments of Truth
ONE
Polly's sketchbook was sacred. Noah, her brother, understood this. He never asked her if he could look in it, but when she offered, he always accepted.
Noah handed Polly back her sketchbook and said, “I liked those pictures, especially the ones with people. Can you teach me? All I've ever been able to draw is stick figures.”
Polly laughed. “Maybe some other time. Don't you have a history project to do?”
“I forgot about that. Have I ever told you that I hate history?”
“Many, many times,” Polly called behind her as she walked out of the room.
“I almost forgot,” Noah said hurriedly, “Why was there always someone in the background who you couldn't quite see?”
Noah assumed that she'd moved out of earshot, because Polly never answered him.
It was the last time she would ever ask him if he wanted to look in her sketchbook.
TWO
“Noah? Noah!”
Polly's best friend since elementary school, Natalie, ran up to him.
Noah blinked at her, surprised, and said, “Hey, Natalie. What's up?”
“I...” She hesitated. “Look, have you noticed anything weird about Polly lately?”
“No. Why?” Noah frowned at her.
Natalie looked away. “Maybe I'm imagining it. She just seems different lately, that's all. Oh, drat, I'm going to be late for class. I've got to go-” and Natalie was swallowed by the sea of people.
THREE
“... can't believe she thought he liked her.”
“She's so naïve. Honestly, how did you put up with her for so long, Natalie?”
“I...”
“With a lot of effort, I bet. Did she really start crying when Danielle kissed him in front of her?”
“She made some lame excuse and ran off. I bet she did, though. Polly always does stuff like that. Did she really flunk the math test?”
“Yeah, she got a forty on it. How did she ever get into Honors? She's so stupid...”
Noah watched the girls as they walked by, listened to their mocking laughter, saw the look on Polly's face as she stood listening, unnoticed by all but him, a still figure in the chaos and crowds.
FOUR
“How was your day, Polly?” Dad inquired as he sat down at the table.
“It was good. I got the grade back on my math test.”
“Don't tell me- an A, right? Our Polly, the genius of the family.”
“Of course, Dad.”
Noah said nothing.
FIVE
Noah found Polly on the swing set in their backyard with her sketchbook.
He hesitated, searching for the right thing to say. The only thing he could come up with was, “Are you okay?”
Polly laughed. “No.”
Noah could do nothing but wait.
“Everything's so screwed up. I don't know how to fix it, and I'm so tired of trying. I don't know how much longer I can live like this.”
Noah said, “What do you mean?”
Polly shrugged. “I'll find a way to change things. If this doesn't work... but it will.”
“What will?”
“Dreaming. Dreaming forever...”
It wasn't really an answer, but it was the best one Noah was going to get.
SIX
“Why doesn't Dad notice?”
“Dad cares about his perfect daughter, the straight-A student, who has a wonderful, happy life. He doesn't want to admit she doesn't exist anymore.”
A pause.
“Sometimes I hate him for that.”
SEVEN
“...Yeah, school's fine, Dad, it always is.”
“What about you, Noah? How've you been doing?”
“Fine.”
After dinner, Dad said, “Noah? Are you sure you're okay? You've been so quiet recently... I'm worried about you.”
Noah looked at him, feeling relieved. How had he ever forgotten? He could tell Dad, Dad would fix it, Dad would make everything okay....
No.
Noah looked at Polly, standing silent and unnoticed behind Dad. She was glaring at Noah, and he could read the threat in her gaze.
Noah remembered the bitterness in her earlier words.
“Nothing, Dad.”
Polly wouldn't have let Dad help. Polly would have felt betrayed. By Dad, for not noticing, and by Noah, for telling. She wouldn't have let either of them help her.
At least this way, Noah had a chance. Not much of one, but better than nothing.
EIGHT
“Why are you doing this?”
“You can't hurt what's not real, Noah.”
“You're real, Polly. All the lies and acting in the world won't change that.”
“You don't understand. I've gotten better at living in a dream.... I don't hear them anymore, don't have to wake up as much. Maybe soon I'll never have to wake up at all. The person talking to Dad at dinner isn't real, and she doesn't care if they laugh at her, if nobody notices, nobody cares...”
“I care, Polly, I want you to wake up.”
“I'm awake now, aren't I? I'll stay... at least for a little while.”
NINE
Noah sometimes looked in Polly's sketchbook when she wasn't there. He didn't feel guilty anymore. He had to know...
There were beautiful pictures of castles, of people going places, pictures of a life somewhere else. Pictures of Polly's dreams.
He always looked for an indistinct figure hiding in the corners.
The figure was becoming clearer and clearer.
TEN
Noah found out from a rumor.
“Did you hear, somebody tore up every paper in this girl's sketchbook? Apparently she opened her locker and little pieces of paper came pouring out of it...”
ELEVEN
Polly shrugged. “It's not a big deal. I've outgrown those stupid doodles anyway.”
“I miss my sister, Polly.”
She looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about? It's not like I've gone anywhere. I'm right here, Noah. I'm right here....”
Anna Teixeira
Polly's sketchbook was sacred. Noah, her brother, understood this. He never asked her if he could look in it, but when she offered, he always accepted.
Noah handed Polly back her sketchbook and said, “I liked those pictures, especially the ones with people. Can you teach me? All I've ever been able to draw is stick figures.”
Polly laughed. “Maybe some other time. Don't you have a history project to do?”
“I forgot about that. Have I ever told you that I hate history?”
“Many, many times,” Polly called behind her as she walked out of the room.
“I almost forgot,” Noah said hurriedly, “Why was there always someone in the background who you couldn't quite see?”
Noah assumed that she'd moved out of earshot, because Polly never answered him.
It was the last time she would ever ask him if he wanted to look in her sketchbook.
TWO
“Noah? Noah!”
Polly's best friend since elementary school, Natalie, ran up to him.
Noah blinked at her, surprised, and said, “Hey, Natalie. What's up?”
“I...” She hesitated. “Look, have you noticed anything weird about Polly lately?”
“No. Why?” Noah frowned at her.
Natalie looked away. “Maybe I'm imagining it. She just seems different lately, that's all. Oh, drat, I'm going to be late for class. I've got to go-” and Natalie was swallowed by the sea of people.
THREE
“... can't believe she thought he liked her.”
“She's so naïve. Honestly, how did you put up with her for so long, Natalie?”
“I...”
“With a lot of effort, I bet. Did she really start crying when Danielle kissed him in front of her?”
“She made some lame excuse and ran off. I bet she did, though. Polly always does stuff like that. Did she really flunk the math test?”
“Yeah, she got a forty on it. How did she ever get into Honors? She's so stupid...”
Noah watched the girls as they walked by, listened to their mocking laughter, saw the look on Polly's face as she stood listening, unnoticed by all but him, a still figure in the chaos and crowds.
FOUR
“How was your day, Polly?” Dad inquired as he sat down at the table.
“It was good. I got the grade back on my math test.”
“Don't tell me- an A, right? Our Polly, the genius of the family.”
“Of course, Dad.”
Noah said nothing.
FIVE
Noah found Polly on the swing set in their backyard with her sketchbook.
He hesitated, searching for the right thing to say. The only thing he could come up with was, “Are you okay?”
Polly laughed. “No.”
Noah could do nothing but wait.
“Everything's so screwed up. I don't know how to fix it, and I'm so tired of trying. I don't know how much longer I can live like this.”
Noah said, “What do you mean?”
Polly shrugged. “I'll find a way to change things. If this doesn't work... but it will.”
“What will?”
“Dreaming. Dreaming forever...”
It wasn't really an answer, but it was the best one Noah was going to get.
SIX
“Why doesn't Dad notice?”
“Dad cares about his perfect daughter, the straight-A student, who has a wonderful, happy life. He doesn't want to admit she doesn't exist anymore.”
A pause.
“Sometimes I hate him for that.”
SEVEN
“...Yeah, school's fine, Dad, it always is.”
“What about you, Noah? How've you been doing?”
“Fine.”
After dinner, Dad said, “Noah? Are you sure you're okay? You've been so quiet recently... I'm worried about you.”
Noah looked at him, feeling relieved. How had he ever forgotten? He could tell Dad, Dad would fix it, Dad would make everything okay....
No.
Noah looked at Polly, standing silent and unnoticed behind Dad. She was glaring at Noah, and he could read the threat in her gaze.
Noah remembered the bitterness in her earlier words.
“Nothing, Dad.”
Polly wouldn't have let Dad help. Polly would have felt betrayed. By Dad, for not noticing, and by Noah, for telling. She wouldn't have let either of them help her.
At least this way, Noah had a chance. Not much of one, but better than nothing.
EIGHT
“Why are you doing this?”
“You can't hurt what's not real, Noah.”
“You're real, Polly. All the lies and acting in the world won't change that.”
“You don't understand. I've gotten better at living in a dream.... I don't hear them anymore, don't have to wake up as much. Maybe soon I'll never have to wake up at all. The person talking to Dad at dinner isn't real, and she doesn't care if they laugh at her, if nobody notices, nobody cares...”
“I care, Polly, I want you to wake up.”
“I'm awake now, aren't I? I'll stay... at least for a little while.”
NINE
Noah sometimes looked in Polly's sketchbook when she wasn't there. He didn't feel guilty anymore. He had to know...
There were beautiful pictures of castles, of people going places, pictures of a life somewhere else. Pictures of Polly's dreams.
He always looked for an indistinct figure hiding in the corners.
The figure was becoming clearer and clearer.
TEN
Noah found out from a rumor.
“Did you hear, somebody tore up every paper in this girl's sketchbook? Apparently she opened her locker and little pieces of paper came pouring out of it...”
ELEVEN
Polly shrugged. “It's not a big deal. I've outgrown those stupid doodles anyway.”
“I miss my sister, Polly.”
She looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about? It's not like I've gone anywhere. I'm right here, Noah. I'm right here....”
Anna Teixeira
40 Corn Beater
41 To Me
And tomorrow, when the dawn breaks
when the sun peaks its monarchial crown over the all too wide horizon,
there will be hope.
It rings in the birds cheerful song
celebrating their triumphant resolve to exist,
their voices reverberating through the receptive pathways to my mind.
hope sings.
And during the excruciating day, despite their jubilant calling, the
beautiful sunbeams enthralling, someone will be falling. there will be
failure.
but hope remains.
We have been designed with blinders - survival in the forefront of our
minds, conditioned to believe that "I" is the most sublime.
we live with that selfish need for greed, life’s constant speed, we
cannot escape. No one will make it out of here alive.
where is the hope?
I cannot believe, or perceive, my knowledge has yet to achieve this eternal truth that rings - we are impermanent - and neither will yours.
Why do we crave this optimism, these positive feelings in an
inconstant world, with each moment as fleeting as the last?
why do we need hope?
Yet how can I forget those eyes, to glowing orbs, the center of my
universe, inspiring my being with joy, lust, passion. This thought,
incapable of articulation, echoes - reverberates - through the very
fiber of my being.
This world is fleeting
our time retreating
our tide receding
our thoughts misleading
our hearts are bleeding
bleeding to find this insurmountable, unaccountable, invisible
hope.
Nate Shaffer
when the sun peaks its monarchial crown over the all too wide horizon,
there will be hope.
It rings in the birds cheerful song
celebrating their triumphant resolve to exist,
their voices reverberating through the receptive pathways to my mind.
hope sings.
And during the excruciating day, despite their jubilant calling, the
beautiful sunbeams enthralling, someone will be falling. there will be
failure.
but hope remains.
We have been designed with blinders - survival in the forefront of our
minds, conditioned to believe that "I" is the most sublime.
we live with that selfish need for greed, life’s constant speed, we
cannot escape. No one will make it out of here alive.
where is the hope?
I cannot believe, or perceive, my knowledge has yet to achieve this eternal truth that rings - we are impermanent - and neither will yours.
Why do we crave this optimism, these positive feelings in an
inconstant world, with each moment as fleeting as the last?
why do we need hope?
Yet how can I forget those eyes, to glowing orbs, the center of my
universe, inspiring my being with joy, lust, passion. This thought,
incapable of articulation, echoes - reverberates - through the very
fiber of my being.
This world is fleeting
our time retreating
our tide receding
our thoughts misleading
our hearts are bleeding
bleeding to find this insurmountable, unaccountable, invisible
hope.
Nate Shaffer
43-44 Cybug and Tunneling for Memories
Cybug by Olivia Martinello
Tunneling for Memories
In the valley of knives and grass,
There are two windows.
Nothing comes to it,
It seems,
For I can still remember that ancient, freezing, feeling.
The master of that warmly cold feeling
The window leads to death,
The other, trapped demises.
I freeze again.
A paradox that leaves,
And goes,
And comes again.
Backstabbing my memories.
Every decision is fate,
Every path, life-changing.
The clay mold you made of me,
Will be the one that I fit into.
You and I are the same.
Would you trace yourself wrongly?
Enter the windows,
One by one,
Search for a light,
And find your own sun.
Andrew Downing
In the valley of knives and grass,
There are two windows.
Nothing comes to it,
It seems,
For I can still remember that ancient, freezing, feeling.
The master of that warmly cold feeling
The window leads to death,
The other, trapped demises.
I freeze again.
A paradox that leaves,
And goes,
And comes again.
Backstabbing my memories.
Every decision is fate,
Every path, life-changing.
The clay mold you made of me,
Will be the one that I fit into.
You and I are the same.
Would you trace yourself wrongly?
Enter the windows,
One by one,
Search for a light,
And find your own sun.
Andrew Downing
45 Surrealist House Drawing
46-47 Transformation and Hope
Transformation by Peter Finigan
Hope
A flower gazed upon a friend,
whose time had come and passed.
And from its pedals sent a prayer
a ship-unfurled its mast
She existentially questioned why
Why Fate had stricken—he
A drop of dew—perhaps a tear
did spawn—no things to say
It sparkled for a moment there
from glistening of the sun
It teetered on the edge—like her
it fell—they both were gone
And then another second passed
her stem so strong—it fell
Then all her hopes and dreams and love
were decomposed as well
The perennials are fleeting too
no time for them remains
Alas we all are annuals
for no one can remain
Nate Shaffer
A flower gazed upon a friend,
whose time had come and passed.
And from its pedals sent a prayer
a ship-unfurled its mast
She existentially questioned why
Why Fate had stricken—he
A drop of dew—perhaps a tear
did spawn—no things to say
It sparkled for a moment there
from glistening of the sun
It teetered on the edge—like her
it fell—they both were gone
And then another second passed
her stem so strong—it fell
Then all her hopes and dreams and love
were decomposed as well
The perennials are fleeting too
no time for them remains
Alas we all are annuals
for no one can remain
Nate Shaffer
48 Welcome Home
Welcome to the place where the sun doesn't shine
To the place where curtains are drawn
And arguments are drawn-out fights.
Welcome to the place where no laughter is heard
Where hearts break every day
And footsteps cause conversation to cease.
Welcome to the place where no birds sing
Were family members are strangers
And eyes can no longer produce tears.
Welcome to the place we all dread
As the final school bell rings
Signaling our return to battle...
Welcome Home
Kathryn Vallis
To the place where curtains are drawn
And arguments are drawn-out fights.
Welcome to the place where no laughter is heard
Where hearts break every day
And footsteps cause conversation to cease.
Welcome to the place where no birds sing
Were family members are strangers
And eyes can no longer produce tears.
Welcome to the place we all dread
As the final school bell rings
Signaling our return to battle...
Welcome Home
Kathryn Vallis
49 Pumpkins
50 Gossip
reading across the screen
her eyes open wide
she can’t believe what she sees...
"who could of written all this"?
she gets up, it’s time for dinner
food turns to ash in her mouth
those words race across her mind
hammering away at her soul
she can feel the day flying past her
the winds of time snapping at her face
hungry
like starving dogs on short leashes
she snaps out of it, time slows again
all around her, family laughs and talks
this is thanksgiving, this is a holiday...
yet no one seems to notice her disappearance
she returns to the dark room
her eyes quickly scanning the screen
she starts to type...
but stops
and presses DELETE instead...knowing inside that it all has to end eventually
Kathryn Vallis
her eyes open wide
she can’t believe what she sees...
"who could of written all this"?
she gets up, it’s time for dinner
food turns to ash in her mouth
those words race across her mind
hammering away at her soul
she can feel the day flying past her
the winds of time snapping at her face
hungry
like starving dogs on short leashes
she snaps out of it, time slows again
all around her, family laughs and talks
this is thanksgiving, this is a holiday...
yet no one seems to notice her disappearance
she returns to the dark room
her eyes quickly scanning the screen
she starts to type...
but stops
and presses DELETE instead...knowing inside that it all has to end eventually
Kathryn Vallis
51 Saxoduck
52 Twilight Beacon Paint-by-Number
52-53 Moonlit Paradise Paint-by-Number and Paradise
Moonlit Paradise Paint-by-Number by Laura White
Paradise
This land I walk on
This air I breathe, is paradise
The sun shines here and blue sky is big
I hate you, you know
It’s a false picture this dream land
A simple illusion to what is there
Lies, all lies and blinding hallow words
And empty joyous emotions
The water is cool and wind is fresh
Its like getting sucked into a typhoon
A whirlpool drowning you with finger crossed promises
I love it here, this truly is paradise.
Elizabeth Yuu
This land I walk on
This air I breathe, is paradise
The sun shines here and blue sky is big
I hate you, you know
It’s a false picture this dream land
A simple illusion to what is there
Lies, all lies and blinding hallow words
And empty joyous emotions
The water is cool and wind is fresh
Its like getting sucked into a typhoon
A whirlpool drowning you with finger crossed promises
I love it here, this truly is paradise.
Elizabeth Yuu
53 Misery I Blame You
Grey skies, screaming wind
and falling coconuts
The waves thrash and roar
This is misery
I love it, the sweet, bitter taste of salt
Nothing to hide, but bare grains of sand
True words of silence… exile
I’m not all alone
The wind lifts me off the ground and I’m free
On my lone misery, I blame you and I thank you
for tossing me, and letting me be… drenched in misery.
Elizabeth Yuu
and falling coconuts
The waves thrash and roar
This is misery
I love it, the sweet, bitter taste of salt
Nothing to hide, but bare grains of sand
True words of silence… exile
I’m not all alone
The wind lifts me off the ground and I’m free
On my lone misery, I blame you and I thank you
for tossing me, and letting me be… drenched in misery.
Elizabeth Yuu
54 She is the Moon
She is the moon, lighting up my darkened sunless skies, waxing and waning as she pleases.
However, this inconsistency weighs upon me, her lovely visages transmuting from night to lonely night.
Part of me wishes to depart from the dim light,
retreat back into my desolate abode and have no care
in the business of suns nor moons nor stars nor skies;
in terms of celestial bodies be unawares,
for this cavernous room's ceiling can disguise those skies,
put a blanket on their infinite beauty:
for ignorance is bliss.
But whether or not you disagree,
I cannot go on with her state of inconsistency,
I hath no daylight time, no dawn no dusk,
With no rising sun to light my day,
her light for my night times is all too brusque
an unaccountable moon for my nightly way
I shall retire from this war, resign from this fight for her vivid light.
I shall instead squander my waking hours,
fumbling around in a caliginous world.
trampling over innocent darkened flowers.
for with no light to guide my way,
how can I see the land's true lay?
Nate Shaffer
However, this inconsistency weighs upon me, her lovely visages transmuting from night to lonely night.
Part of me wishes to depart from the dim light,
retreat back into my desolate abode and have no care
in the business of suns nor moons nor stars nor skies;
in terms of celestial bodies be unawares,
for this cavernous room's ceiling can disguise those skies,
put a blanket on their infinite beauty:
for ignorance is bliss.
But whether or not you disagree,
I cannot go on with her state of inconsistency,
I hath no daylight time, no dawn no dusk,
With no rising sun to light my day,
her light for my night times is all too brusque
an unaccountable moon for my nightly way
I shall retire from this war, resign from this fight for her vivid light.
I shall instead squander my waking hours,
fumbling around in a caliginous world.
trampling over innocent darkened flowers.
for with no light to guide my way,
how can I see the land's true lay?
Nate Shaffer
55 Anh Le Acing Guitar Hero
56-57 Serendipity and The Library
The Library
Weaving between bookshelves
two snake charmers play
their movements in sync
their heartbeats aligned
the library is quiet
a cold, rainy day
as the wind and the rain
beat down on the windowsill
It’s the perfect place
for some mischief,
to travel into other worlds
made entirely
of fantasy
Kathryn Vallis
Weaving between bookshelves
two snake charmers play
their movements in sync
their heartbeats aligned
the library is quiet
a cold, rainy day
as the wind and the rain
beat down on the windowsill
It’s the perfect place
for some mischief,
to travel into other worlds
made entirely
of fantasy
Kathryn Vallis
58-59 What the Pencil Sees and Inspiration or Lack Thereof
Inspiration or Lack Thereof
This inspiration can't find me
Or I cannot find it
Its absence wearing down on me
Still it evades my wit
This beast appears and then retreats,
Denying me of food,
Reducing me to lower ways,
Desperations always crude
This long hunt must be satisfied
For I will not go home
But then I win, I cut it down
I eat it to the bone
For fortune is a fickle friend
For fame can oft be false
Yet inspirations epic hunt
Perfection - or its close
Nate Shaffer
This inspiration can't find me
Or I cannot find it
Its absence wearing down on me
Still it evades my wit
This beast appears and then retreats,
Denying me of food,
Reducing me to lower ways,
Desperations always crude
This long hunt must be satisfied
For I will not go home
But then I win, I cut it down
I eat it to the bone
For fortune is a fickle friend
For fame can oft be false
Yet inspirations epic hunt
Perfection - or its close
Nate Shaffer
60 You
To float along in life merely as a body
Is the most painful punishment
One could give themselves.
What shame and unresolved memories
Add up to something as abstract as despair?
To be so broken and wrong in what you are, through your own eyes looking from an outsider's perspective.
To apologize for honesty
That remains unquenchable
Yet throughout this time
A familiar friend seems to always be close by,
To draw you in and hold you tightly.
Bubbling over with hives in the moment of contact, you're
trapped in your own disapproval.
You can't be someone else no matter how hard you try.
Matt LeBlanc
Is the most painful punishment
One could give themselves.
What shame and unresolved memories
Add up to something as abstract as despair?
To be so broken and wrong in what you are, through your own eyes looking from an outsider's perspective.
To apologize for honesty
That remains unquenchable
Yet throughout this time
A familiar friend seems to always be close by,
To draw you in and hold you tightly.
Bubbling over with hives in the moment of contact, you're
trapped in your own disapproval.
You can't be someone else no matter how hard you try.
Matt LeBlanc
61 The Man in the Overalls
The ocean air blew as my father and I walked briskly down the sidewalk of the small beach town square. I felt protected until I saw an old man leaning up against a wall near an alley. He looked like he was in his late 70’s or early 80’s. He was styling an old pair of white overalls splattered with paint across the front and back. That may have been his profession. His black boots were scuffed so many times that they looked worn. He had a half-empty beer bottle in his right hand. He had a petite figure and looked like he hadn’t shaved in days, and his eyes, oh, his eyes were watching every step I took.
For some reason I didn’t feel safe anymore. He saw my fear as our eyes met, starting to smirk as we walked by. At this point my father noticed what was going on and began to stare puzzling at him. The old man never stopped staring until I was out of his sight. That night as my father tucked me into my bed, I remembered the old man’s smirking face. I couldn’t sleep; nightmares crowded my head that night. I tossed and turned until the brilliant sunlight crept through the cracked windows of my small but cozy room.
It felt like a dream; it didn’t see possible. It got me to thinking why he was admiring me as my hair blew swiftly through the wind towards his direction. Passing the old beachfront condos on our way home from dinner, I saw him again. But this time he had two young girls draped around him, still holding his half-empty beer bottle. My heart skipped a beat. He was farther away this time and all I saw were their shadows, and then we turned the corner. I never saw him again but his smirking face still haunts my dreams, and I still don’t feel safe to this day.
Amy Lane
For some reason I didn’t feel safe anymore. He saw my fear as our eyes met, starting to smirk as we walked by. At this point my father noticed what was going on and began to stare puzzling at him. The old man never stopped staring until I was out of his sight. That night as my father tucked me into my bed, I remembered the old man’s smirking face. I couldn’t sleep; nightmares crowded my head that night. I tossed and turned until the brilliant sunlight crept through the cracked windows of my small but cozy room.
It felt like a dream; it didn’t see possible. It got me to thinking why he was admiring me as my hair blew swiftly through the wind towards his direction. Passing the old beachfront condos on our way home from dinner, I saw him again. But this time he had two young girls draped around him, still holding his half-empty beer bottle. My heart skipped a beat. He was farther away this time and all I saw were their shadows, and then we turned the corner. I never saw him again but his smirking face still haunts my dreams, and I still don’t feel safe to this day.
Amy Lane
62 Untitled Poems
I wish I could remember my memories even when wracking my brains they’re not there
Everything is fogged over by enemies and people who really don’t care
Each morning I wake to the same feeling
Loneliness, hopelessness, despair
My interest in life is depleting
Would it be better if I were no longer here?
Each moment of my life is second-guessed
There’s no more passion, I’m just depressed.
The rain running down the window pane
The lightning glowing up the sky
All of my fears, worries and shame
The reasons that make me ask why.
Falling in puddles, flooding the ground
Or forming vibrant colors up high
My heart beats so loud I can hear it sound
Longing to release its cry.
Rachel Marolda
Everything is fogged over by enemies and people who really don’t care
Each morning I wake to the same feeling
Loneliness, hopelessness, despair
My interest in life is depleting
Would it be better if I were no longer here?
Each moment of my life is second-guessed
There’s no more passion, I’m just depressed.
The rain running down the window pane
The lightning glowing up the sky
All of my fears, worries and shame
The reasons that make me ask why.
Falling in puddles, flooding the ground
Or forming vibrant colors up high
My heart beats so loud I can hear it sound
Longing to release its cry.
Rachel Marolda
63 Tuna and Cans
64 Untitled Drawing
65 Faceless
Faceless
Memories of memories
Pictures of words fostering fabricated scenes of a life long forgotten
We peer through eyes no longer ours endlessly into the winds of time
Faceless
Eyes of innocence filled with unfiltered emotion, uncomplicated, untainted by immorality invariable to circumstance
Faceless
Protected by glass, distorted images of creatures approach in admiration, hunger and desire.
In the clarity of melted sand, they wish to shatter, acquired what they no longer have
Eyes of gleaming trust
Faceless
So the hopeless do what the hopeless can with their soiled hands
They shatter glass, stain the pure, bruise the meek.
Create scares tat shall never heal or cease to bleed
Faceless
The hopeless do what the hopeless can create more hopelessness
Faceless
Eyes extinguished, cut by glass, forgotten and abandoned, broken and distorted, foul and now ravenous for what’s been taken.
We are the faceless
Faceless
Karen Alvarez
Memories of memories
Pictures of words fostering fabricated scenes of a life long forgotten
We peer through eyes no longer ours endlessly into the winds of time
Faceless
Eyes of innocence filled with unfiltered emotion, uncomplicated, untainted by immorality invariable to circumstance
Faceless
Protected by glass, distorted images of creatures approach in admiration, hunger and desire.
In the clarity of melted sand, they wish to shatter, acquired what they no longer have
Eyes of gleaming trust
Faceless
So the hopeless do what the hopeless can with their soiled hands
They shatter glass, stain the pure, bruise the meek.
Create scares tat shall never heal or cease to bleed
Faceless
The hopeless do what the hopeless can create more hopelessness
Faceless
Eyes extinguished, cut by glass, forgotten and abandoned, broken and distorted, foul and now ravenous for what’s been taken.
We are the faceless
Faceless
Karen Alvarez
67 Bird's Eye Pumpkin
68-69 The Strike and Tulip Cards
Tulip Cards by Michelle Kay
The Strike
It starts with an artists’ brush, whose strokes unfold the scene, the skies the bluest azure blue, the grass a vibrant green
Then he adds her, lying there, her eyelids tightly clasped, sleeping a missive in her hand, unaware upon the mass
Then how the clouds come rolling in, from mountains and for miles, fill the air with electric heat, fervor, wiles
She wakes; a bird takes flight, searching for the sun, bit she know the soil’s static and what is to be done
First she walks so gently, her footsteps oh-so-meek, but when she reaches the hill, her path is oh-so-steep
Her pace quickens, the ominous darkens, but she marches on with pride
She understand all she is, nature’s one and final bride
And so she reaches the crest, her footfalls now are fast
She stands erect, the mound’s solitary mast
The air around her cracks with light
She waits for the final bite
Her arms now outstretched
The lightning strikes its fiery path
Raining the world about her
But how she wants to hold the wretch!
And as she takes it in her arms,
As soon as it is there
She’s gone
It bends into the earth
Then ends.
Isabel Spence
It starts with an artists’ brush, whose strokes unfold the scene, the skies the bluest azure blue, the grass a vibrant green
Then he adds her, lying there, her eyelids tightly clasped, sleeping a missive in her hand, unaware upon the mass
Then how the clouds come rolling in, from mountains and for miles, fill the air with electric heat, fervor, wiles
She wakes; a bird takes flight, searching for the sun, bit she know the soil’s static and what is to be done
First she walks so gently, her footsteps oh-so-meek, but when she reaches the hill, her path is oh-so-steep
Her pace quickens, the ominous darkens, but she marches on with pride
She understand all she is, nature’s one and final bride
And so she reaches the crest, her footfalls now are fast
She stands erect, the mound’s solitary mast
The air around her cracks with light
She waits for the final bite
Her arms now outstretched
The lightning strikes its fiery path
Raining the world about her
But how she wants to hold the wretch!
And as she takes it in her arms,
As soon as it is there
She’s gone
It bends into the earth
Then ends.
Isabel Spence
70 Tea For Two
On our miniature stove,
Two feet by two,
Sits our itty-bitty tea kettle,
Of cobalt blue,
A gift from our wedding, it’s practically new,
Shiny and cool form the outside view.
Let its appearance fool you not,
Inside our differences are brewing hot,
And our thought of harshest nature,
Jumble within this pot,
Flavors of anger mingle and merge,
As spices of regret, at last converge.
Hear it whistle and whine,
But do not resign,
Now that the heat has risen and the steam has faded,
Conflict has been liquidated
Pour us tea for two
We’ve created a most lethal potion,
Together, let us sip on emotion.
Raising the teacup to my lips, I begin to take a cautious sip,
Touching my tongue with a temper so severe,
It’s easy to taste that your anger’s sincere,
Your boiling words burn my tongue,
Blister my gums,
Sear my throat, make it numb
Our scorching tension drips down in slow motion,
Tattooing my insides with deepest revolution.
And yet,
A dollop of honey should ease our pain,
Transforming bitter conflict to a sweetened brew,
One sugar cube for me, and one for you,
Tasting truths we never knew,
Tea for two.
Olivia Martinello
Two feet by two,
Sits our itty-bitty tea kettle,
Of cobalt blue,
A gift from our wedding, it’s practically new,
Shiny and cool form the outside view.
Let its appearance fool you not,
Inside our differences are brewing hot,
And our thought of harshest nature,
Jumble within this pot,
Flavors of anger mingle and merge,
As spices of regret, at last converge.
Hear it whistle and whine,
But do not resign,
Now that the heat has risen and the steam has faded,
Conflict has been liquidated
Pour us tea for two
We’ve created a most lethal potion,
Together, let us sip on emotion.
Raising the teacup to my lips, I begin to take a cautious sip,
Touching my tongue with a temper so severe,
It’s easy to taste that your anger’s sincere,
Your boiling words burn my tongue,
Blister my gums,
Sear my throat, make it numb
Our scorching tension drips down in slow motion,
Tattooing my insides with deepest revolution.
And yet,
A dollop of honey should ease our pain,
Transforming bitter conflict to a sweetened brew,
One sugar cube for me, and one for you,
Tasting truths we never knew,
Tea for two.
Olivia Martinello
72 Black Dahlia
73 How to Get By
Don’t look, just leap
Be blind, dive deep
Be real, live hard
Make a move, play your card
Be smart and be kind
Do this and you’ll find
This life and this earth
Not gold and not green
Something that you never see
I have my dreams I have heart it’s all I need to make my mark
It takes patience, it takes time
It takes more than one light to shine
Up in the sky, I see stars
They’re the reason I work hard
Evolution is the revolution of man
Institutions put death in the executioner’s hand
I don’t know what to do with the rest of my days
I’ll just exhale and let the bad dreams drift away
Every minute of every day
I am always on my way
To what I want and what I am desiring
Is not to be famous but inspiring
I want to be like JFK
Maybe I too will be blown away
For speaking words of unreal truth
To this nation’s blinded youth
Some will call me a revolutionary
And to some I will seem real scary
For wanting to inspire kids
To do things like their forefathers did
Like taking this life and living it to the fullest
Like taking a little thought and dealing with this
Bullspit
Life is a joke you’ve got to laught it off
Why does it seem this stuff never stops
Why does it seem this stuff never stops
Why does it seem this stuff never stops?
Evolution is the revolution of man
Institutions put death in the executioner’s hand
Now that man’s standing on the edge of the stage
Screaming “then end of all man is the war that we wage”
Can someone save me from myself
Because I think I need some help
I don’t know if I can get by
But I sure as hell know that I’m going to cry
All I need is a good friend and a lot of thought
It’s the only way to make the pain stop
If it doesn’t stop it will at least go numb
For a little while so I can have some fun
Because what is work with no play
It’s a bad payday from your low salary
It’s a message that gets stuck in your cerebrum
A thousand little voices begging for you to free them
From their heavy shackles and chains
From the images stuck in their brains
From the mainstream thoughts they seem to maintain
I’m not pointing fingers I just want to know who to blame
Cory Hoffman
Be blind, dive deep
Be real, live hard
Make a move, play your card
Be smart and be kind
Do this and you’ll find
This life and this earth
Not gold and not green
Something that you never see
I have my dreams I have heart it’s all I need to make my mark
It takes patience, it takes time
It takes more than one light to shine
Up in the sky, I see stars
They’re the reason I work hard
Evolution is the revolution of man
Institutions put death in the executioner’s hand
I don’t know what to do with the rest of my days
I’ll just exhale and let the bad dreams drift away
Every minute of every day
I am always on my way
To what I want and what I am desiring
Is not to be famous but inspiring
I want to be like JFK
Maybe I too will be blown away
For speaking words of unreal truth
To this nation’s blinded youth
Some will call me a revolutionary
And to some I will seem real scary
For wanting to inspire kids
To do things like their forefathers did
Like taking this life and living it to the fullest
Like taking a little thought and dealing with this
Bullspit
Life is a joke you’ve got to laught it off
Why does it seem this stuff never stops
Why does it seem this stuff never stops
Why does it seem this stuff never stops?
Evolution is the revolution of man
Institutions put death in the executioner’s hand
Now that man’s standing on the edge of the stage
Screaming “then end of all man is the war that we wage”
Can someone save me from myself
Because I think I need some help
I don’t know if I can get by
But I sure as hell know that I’m going to cry
All I need is a good friend and a lot of thought
It’s the only way to make the pain stop
If it doesn’t stop it will at least go numb
For a little while so I can have some fun
Because what is work with no play
It’s a bad payday from your low salary
It’s a message that gets stuck in your cerebrum
A thousand little voices begging for you to free them
From their heavy shackles and chains
From the images stuck in their brains
From the mainstream thoughts they seem to maintain
I’m not pointing fingers I just want to know who to blame
Cory Hoffman