2010 WNYWP Anthology Better | Adolescence

Western New York Writing Project

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Teen Writing Workshop * 2010

An Anthology of the Western New York Writing Project

Teen Writing Workshop

An Anthology of Poetry and Prose Volume XVIII Western New York Writing Project Teen Writing Workshop July 12th - July 23rd, 2010 Papa Smurf.....................................................................Suzanne Borowicz Brainy Smur...................................................................Genevieve Federick Gargamel.........................................................................Joel Malley Azriel...............................................................................Franklin Aquilina Smurfette.......................................................................Nicole Lesinski Peewit ............................................................................Matt Pavlovich Published by the Western New York Writing Project at Canisius College, Buffalo, NY. For more information about the WNY Writing Project, enrichment opportunities for students, and professional development for teachers, call (716) 888-3134 or go to www.canisius.edu/wnywp. See our community at grou.ps/thehearth. Copyright 2009 by Western New York Writing Project. All rights reserved. Individual authors and artists retain all ownership rights to their respective works. We are fairly confident this anthology has been printed in the United States of America. Anthology Design and Layout - Joel Malley Lastly, we have appropriated the use of the word Smurf because of it’s versatility as a verb and noun. We do not intend to smurf any copysmurf. Smurf smurf.

Franklin Aquilina

Matt Pavlovich


Nicole Lesinski

Joel Malley

2 0 1 0 W N Y W P T E E N


Finding My Hogwarts
How many summers have I gone to this camp? Eight? Nine? I am not quite sure, but it has certainly been a long time. I have been here for a lot. I started out in “Cricket’s Caravan”, exploring tunnels and watching people and eating the biggest popcorn stashes I have ever seen. But times have changed. I have relocated meeting places, from hallways to smelly yellow rooms with broken desks to secret gardens to rooms the size of closets. But then again, the spaces we used were not nearly as important as what we did in and out of them. I remember Forest Lawn trips, which inspired Derek’s “Forest Lawn Symphony”, and the subsequent honor to its author, “off-beat hat day”. I remember Franklin’s magnificent scavenger hunts—they were truly an adventure. I was there for the creation (and apparently, demise) of the Audio Anthology. And somehow I managed to others or novelists, while some may evade ever getting stuck in that write short stories. One of us may infamous elevator. read while standing on a table, while another might prefer the spot behind Of course, these events were all the projector screen (don’t worry, it’s important and significant, but what I cool). We can share our passions with found most important is that I have others, all while developing new loves found “my people”, as our group, aptly named “The Breakfast Club”, often talks of our own. about. This program is such a gift. We aren’t just learning how to write, we are Here, it is cool to write in your spare learning a whole new way of thinking, a time, or carry books in your purse, or lifestyle. We may only come here for listen to techno music. Here, we all flinched (and for some of us, yelped) at two weeks, but we learn timeless skills and make permanent friends. And man the apostrophe placement on that horrendous sign, and after the fact, even can we write, all at the same time! started a thread about it on Facebook. So I guess this whole thing was me And, of course, we all love the written trying to say thank you, for everything, word. but making a very inefficient job of it. And hey, even though this is my last Even though it is our similarities that bring us together, it is our diversity that summer, I’m sure I’ll be back to visit! It’s been a pleasure working with you all instills life in this program. We have —write on! fencers and actors and athletes and artists here. Even writing-wise, we are different. Some of us are poets, while

Kelsey Rice is an unusual character who very recently graduated from Kenmore West and will be attending Kenyon College this fall. She is a pescetarian lifeguard who likes to tell stories and laughs very loudly. She loves movie soundtracks, Agatha Christie novels, plush microbes, and semi-sadistic online “children’s” cartoons. Conversely, if she never were to see mosquitoes, wet hairballs, obnoxious “pool rats”, and Lifetime commercials again, she would

not be very disappointed. This is her last year in WNYWP and she is very sad about it, but is confident that she will return very soon.

My Experience by Rautemusik. - Kelsey Rice

On Albus Dumbledore and the WNYWP Teen Writing Workshop
Tonight, in the shadow of ominous rain clouds, we celebrated the end of the Western New York Writing Project Teen Writing Workshop with our final reception. The final reception is an open mic gala held at Canisius' Grupp Fireside Hall. We get a mic, trot out some tables and some food, invite parents and grandparents and friends, and let the kids share the writing they've been hunching over for the past two weeks. This writing camp was the 7th writing camp I have been involved in and has been a predictable part of my life since the summer of 2004. My role within this camp has gotten simpler over the years as we've smoothed out the process. I am basically the MC. I open up the mornings with some improvved directions and lame attempts at comedy, set up a website for the writers to share during the year, lay out the final anthology, arrange speakers, and manage the few tasks that are left after the Young Writers Program coordinator works her magic. of the past eight years of writing camp, building to her conclusions about what the camp has meant to her and to her There is a consistency to the camp.  I peers.  I sat there in the front row have been working with two of the listening to her and truthfully, I could mentor teachers since I started the not stop myself from crying.  It was one camp in 2004.  About twenty five percent of our kids return from year to of those moments where life nudges year.  Every year these veteran students your shoulder and reminds you that you are part of something special.  I step up and lead.  They sign up to lead watched this kid grow in two week the morning exercises.  Their writing and attitude and self deprecating humor spurts over the past seven years and now she is leaving. sets the bar for other students.  They help us take what we do seriously, but In her reflection she referred to the not take ourselves too seriously.  They camp as her Hogwarts and talked about are a great part in what makes the how valuable it was for her to find her camp special.  This year we were lucky people.  I guess that makes me Albus enough to have a young woman named Dumbledore, though not nearly as wise Meredith come back from her college or talented or...bearded.  These are my writing program and lead a one hour people as well.  We are all slightly nerdy demonstration sharing some of the yet interesting in our own ways.  Jokes insights she gained from being part of a about the velocity of unladen swallows college writing program.  Meredith has abound.  And even though I eventually been coming to our writing camps have to watch the kids leave, somewhat since before I started.  Even though the unlikely to return, I am heartened to participants change every year, it starts have been involved in an endeavor to to feel like family. help people find their people, to help remove the isolation that sometimes Tonight we said goodbye to a young I'll tell you what we tell the parents enwraps people who self identify as woman named Kelsey who has been every year. It is an honor to work with writers and poets.  And I guess that's coming to our writing camps for the these students. The camp draws high past eight years. We were lucky enough just it.  The camp provides a place to school students from East Aurora to to watch this kid blossom as a writer.  I write and share, but more importantly, Grand Island to Buffalo to Southern it provides a place to meet interesting remember her writing folk tales and Ontario who are addicted to the peers who wield words like magicians stories about routine childhood written word. They report on the first and are unsurpassed in the ability to experiences and over the years she day, pens and journals in hand, and write developed a talent for finding and make smile or laugh or hang on a word and share and talk about writing for or even cry with a final stanza or the exploring the humor in every day three hours a day. This is a camp for the events.  She also developed a turn of a phrase.  Over the two weeks, storyteller.   They are the type of kids and for some, over the years, groups gel charismatic reading style that forced that can write a villanelle with minimal audiences to hang on her every word.   and develop into this cohesive oneness, directions or spin a belly laugh inducing This fall she will start a writing program this community, characterized by story building up to an Arnold quirks, inside jokes, and a shared love of at a small liberal arts college in Ohio.   Schwarzenegger one liner in fifteen writing.  People find their people.  May Tonight she passed up an opportunity minutes.  They are the type of kids who to share the pieces she had been we all be so lucky.  will stand up in front of sixty or eighty working on in camp and instead read a - Joel Malley 7/24/10 reflection that recapped the highlights strangers and passionately pour out the contents of their souls.

A Sign of the Times Sergei Kozlov, admitted Russian spy and soon-to-be deportee, sank into the first pew, close to the altar. He was a God-fearing man who knew he had sinned. No, it was worse than that. He had committed atrocities, betrayed so many people, in the name of his country. He had accepted deportation rather than further investigation of these crimes. He did not know how to feel, uneasily shifting his hands and feet. Part of him was glad to be returning to Russia, to Leningrad. To home, he made himself add, to Saint Petersburg. But thoughts of his once-beloved, traffic-clogged streets plunged deep in history no longer felt to him like home. Now, home was in the small, but cozy house on the quiet street in Burke,Virginia. Home was his dog, Sacha, rolling around in the garden. Home was his love of 40 C degree days. Home was the pastry and coffee at the bakery down the street, every morning, without fail, except on Sundays. Because on Sunday, home was the unadorned, unassuming church in which he now sat. Yes, he had done horrible things for what he had, at the time, thought of as his country. But he had changed; he was not the same person. He found it harder and harder to think of himself as Russian, yet easier and easier to think of himself as human. Silently, he stood up to leave. His flight left in three hours, and airport security was very different from when he had arrived. Cerebral War I don't fight the visible rebellions, the world-changing, society-wrecking rebellions. As a whole, I think society is a pretty good thing. I am not a gun-toting anarchist, or a sign-carrying protester, and I certainly do not hide behind a Guy Fawkes mask and blow up buildings. That does not mean I do not fight. I fight the front lines of change every day. I fight in the subtle, almost unnoticed battlefield - people's minds. I fight to change their minds, to open the closed minds, and to make them see my side. I would not do it if I did not know I was right. I do not use weapons of fire and lightning; I use weapons of words and emotions. With every inch of ground they give, I justify my cause. With every hint of uncertainty, I justify my cause. With every mind drawn over to my side, which I firmly believe is the right side, I justify my cause. They say I'm opinionated. Well, that's true enough. They say I'm biased. Aren't we all? They say I'm harsh. Only when it really matters.

Jen is an eccentric, capricious, and all around unconventional person. She is an extreme lover of words (a logophile); her favorites include vignette, schadenfreude, paroxysm, and ersatz. She enjoys foreign languages, sewing, plotting evil things, and confusing people. She can frequently be found with her nose in a book or ranting about her favorite nerdy subjects. This has been her fourth year in the Teen Writing Workshop.

More from Jen Adcock... Midnight Monsters Wine Glass It sits, Gathering dust, Until they decide It's their best choice, Their accomplice In all bad decisions, Steadfast, Always supportive. They fill it with Their sweet poisons, Their secrets, Their truths, Their lies. They fill it, And they empty it Just as fast. Both brought close And beloved, While scorned And reviled. It brings the end Ever closer, While making it Easier to forget. Temporarily, that is. It counts down The drinks, The hours, The sips and pours, The minutes, The seconds, The drops until The bottom. And then it's left To view the results Of its work As they stumble off And leave it there, Sometimes whole, Sometimes broken, And always empty. The sun sets over the city, Darkness takes hold, But is pushed back By the artificial lights, Brighter than sun, By the overwhelming noise, By the vibrant night people. Madness takes over In the form of Car horns, Strobe lights, Danger, Neon glares, Laughter, And monsters That only come out At night. The moon rises over the city And calmer night Sinks in. Gentle stars And sleep Take hold, But not for long. All too soon The moon and sun Trade places, Exchanging the Wild, untamed night For the Safety of day. The population triples As people flood in Just for the sunlight hours. The sane, Patterned, Routine Business is done, Before everyone leaves For the night. And the monsters Take over Again.

Why Do I Write? Only because it’s necessary, And only because I enjoy it Because I only have so long to live, And what else might I have to show for it If only thoughts too important to keep to myself Are what keep me alive when I’m dead, Then I’m happy to write them all down one by one Until my heart’s just as empty as my head. - Erik West

Photography by Kate Light

Shorts from Natalia Trigilio #1: You jump from the cars backseat, eager and excited. We hook your blue collar to a long red leash so that you don’t run off, leaving us far behind.You pull us over the big, wooden bridge leading us to the island’s ground.You jump and sniff the air waiting impatiently to be let off the red lead. I reach over and release you, allowing you to run free on the shaded, green island.Your black fur streaks by as you run around looking for a friend to play with. A spaniel sits with his master on a bench while a great dame and a beagle play by a tall tree.You run to them, chasing them, running with all your might. Until they begin to chase you.You run in circles on the grass, tongue hanging to the side, tail wagging wildly. We call you to come and follow us down the path towards a water hole.You are followed by your friends to the water only to jump in and retreat when they have gone to deep.You splash in the water till it is time for us to leave. We lead you back towards the bridge and hook your collar back on the leash.Your tail droops a bit not but you are also excited because you know that tomorrow will be even more adventurous. #2: The rain soaks my open window pane and me as I sit quietly next to it. I sit there starring at the vast landscape covered in puddles and mud. The hem of my dress is wet with rain water as is the roof and porch. The gentle pitter-patter of the rain hits the old wood softly as I wait for the car. I wait patiently for the car to pull into my drive way, the car I am starting to believe will never come. A pit of despair hides itself within me. It gives me false hopes and dreams that I fear will never come true. As I wait, I notice that the pit has only grown deeper as I wait for nothing. I stand from where I was sitting and walk towards the door. I walk out, into the rain where I am immediately pelted with raindrops, and into a field where I wait. Wait for nothing.

Natalia is a swimmer for Saint Amelia's swim team. She spends a lot of time reading, writing and listening to music. She loves to hang out with her best friends. Her favorite things to eat are cookies with milk and tater tots. She adores her labrador mix Chowder. She plays tennis, helps her mom with cooking and to ride her bike around town. Her best friends are her Random Buddies! She loves to write and hopes to be a famous author when she's older.

Just She was just driving down the road, paying no mind to the traffic that roared about her small red Civic. She was just talking to her boyfriend, paying no attention to the ‘Stop’ sign that she didn’t stop at. She was just playing with her iPod, not noticing the lane she was driving in. She was just fixing her hair, not knowing what lay just ahead. She had just sent me a text, looking at her phone not the road. She was just struck by and eighteen-wheeler. She was just driving the wrong direction on a street with a sign that read ‘One Way’. She just died on impact, not even standing a chance. She just texted me ‘Life is grrrrrr8, ya kno?!!’ She was just busy at the wheel. She just had a passenger, her boyfriend, who just died too. She had just ended her life in something that she could have prevented. She had just taken a part of the future and threw that part away. Just doesn’t justify the things that people do. Sandstone Life People never take a second glance at me They think I’m the same as all the others I’m not the same… Well, to you I am; I don’t matter enough for you to care We all aren’t ‘bricks in the wall’ Though it is a label in its truest form I am plain to you Take another look and take it in I am not unique I am not pretty I am more like you than you know Things like us surround us; fir you it’s people for me it’s bricks If someone was to take a snapshot of the world, how many people would notice you? People don’t notice me either It’s not something I can change, but you can Take another look and take it in Decide, do you want to notice another ‘brick in the wall’? I notice you Return the favor, even if not for me Notice someone or something that doesn’t stand out More is going on in their, in our, heads than you know

In her down time, Sydney likes to write, of course, draw and listen to music. She writes mostly fiction stories, but is exploring poetry now. Her favorite author is Stephen King, the master of horror himself. She likes to write, but never can seem to finish reading a book, due to her lack of attention span. Some of her favorite bands are Slipknot, System of a Down and the Beatles. When writing, or drawing, or anything else for that matter, Sydney likes to listen to her beat-up green iPod. Her favorite season is fall, because summer is too hot to wear jeans all the time! Also, Sydney loves horror and chiller movies, both cult classics and new gory ones. some of her favorites are; Silence of the Lambs, Night of the Living dead, Mortuary, Andre the Butcher and Children of the Corn. Sydney enjoys writing things that sometimes do not make sense!

A memory that isn’t yours Sitting on a single lowly fencepost You think, you know, it is there People say it is not anything, not at its most The house sits dry and still, far from the water of a coast A twisted wire fence has a sign that warns ‘Beware!’ Sitting on a single lowly fencepost You kick your feet as you wait for a ghost It is race, like in the 'Tortoise and the Hare' People say it is not anything, not at its most Memories of good times, friends and a toast A row of cornstalks, all growing in a square Sitting on a single lowly fencepost When it comes, you know it shall boast Pale fingers reach out, hands in a pair Sitting on a single lowly fence post People say it is not anything, not at its most.

Forgotten - Kate Light

How Precious Life Can Be: Dedicated to Great Uncle Ron (10/16/36-7/17/10) Fourteen days ago, we were walking in the creek’s gentle current. He had no worries; life was beautiful in his eyes. His tender, loving hands grasped mine as we trekked on the rocky underwater surface. We trusted each other that we would not let the other slip. He asked me about school and shared a bit about his love for mathematics. We were leading the pack of relatives down Buffalo Creek, Great Uncle Ron and I. He marveled at nature’s pure beauty: the flowing stream, the swaying trees, the cloudless sky. He was careful to avoid the waterfall, so I guided him to the right side of the creek, where he could rest on a boulder raised above water. Ever so calmly, he watched us all splash around in the falls. It seemed as if it gave him contentment to see us that amused. He left the next day. His wife, Great Aunt Rosalie, assured me he would tell her all about the creek walk. He was so sweet that he would share his experience with her. Just three days ago, it had been their fiftieth wedding anniversary. They had plans to go exploring in Canada to celebrate. Twelve days later, he was freshening up in the shower, just after leaving an anniversary party his friends had thrown for he and Great Aunt Rosalie. He was struck by God’s command and taken immediately. Why? Why him? Why now? Why was it his time? Why so soon? Why, when he was so happy? Lacy, Jack, Luke, Kurt, Ben, and Katie would be missing a very loving grandfather, their “Papa.” Cindy and Steve would never see their dad again. Chip, Buzz, and Taffy had lost their longest uncle. Kay and Ernie would miss their brother. Rosalie lost her loyal husband. If we had guessed on the Fourth of July weekend (when we had our family reunion) who would have left us first, we never would have guessed Great Uncle Ron.Yet, I am proud of him: He lived like he was going to die in fourteen days. He did not hold back from anything. He was adventurous enough to go creekwalking. He spent hours talking with and listening to his beloved family. He laughed with himself in pleasure. He lived, he loved, and he laughed, and that is what really counts.

In addition to writing books, short stories, poems, and journals, Morgan has a wide range of interests. Primarily, she thoroughly enjoys literature. When it comes to sports; running, cycling, swimming for recreation, and gymnastics are her favorites. She is very fascinated by animals, making her greyhound, Tigger, and her two cats, Winfred and Meadow, very important members of her family. Therefore, she aspires to be a veterinarian. She prefers a busy schedule involved in her many activities, but Morgan is happiest when spending downtime with her best friend.

No One Would Have Guessed That It Would Be You No one would have guessed that it would be you. You were happy with your family around, Content with the world in all that you do. We walked in the creek with waters light blue. So relaxing it was, despite the rocky ground. No one would have guessed that it would be you. You mustered up conversation, fresh and new, As we led the pack of creek-walkers, waterfall-bound, Content with the world in all that you do. Fifty years married, you were loyal and true. You planned to explore with her in the world so round. No one would have guessed that it would be you. We received a call about you in a sad hue. While taking a shower, dead you were found. No one would have guessed that it would be you, Content with the world in all that you do.

Quiet - Kate Light

I am Right. You Are Wrong.
I know I think I know everything, I know. I am also very much aware of the fact that it sounds like I know the answers to everything. Like I know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop, if the chicken came before the egg, the mystery of Chuck Norris, or what the heck Willis is talking about. But alas I do not. My extensive amount of knowledge is just an illusion. It’s not quite a disease per say but a stage.Yes, a stage in the development of aging. This stage in the aging process is commonly referred to as being a teenager. This trait is very common when it comes to the battle of the wits between teens and or authority figures. Consciously we don’t believe ourselves to be smarter… okay, that was a lie. A good amount of us are not consciously aware of our tendencies to act this way. Just on the surface of our subconscious we maybe somewhat aware of our ignorance but do not ponder much on the fact. We just continue with our I’m-right-your-wrong-Googleit attitude and keep it moving. We’ll deal with the consequences later when they blow up in our faces. “ So are teenagers ever wrong and will they ever admit they were wrong?” Why, yes we do have a tendency to support our statements even if they are false. These statements are then proven false with outside sources such as Google. (Yes our haven for quick results and answers is a double sided sword.) We may then enter a stage of denial or we may cut right through to acceptance (In turn admitting we were wrong.), in terms of when and or how it comes is not certain. Because of this I have to state the disclaimer that results may vary. By giving you a brief insight to the knowledge of our ways I have put myself in danger, but I can only hope you heed my warning. We teenagers are at an age were we are very stubborn and seem to know a lot when in reality we know very little. When and if you feel the need to challenge us it may be in your best interest to turn away and forget about the conversation, for I will give you one last warning. We. Go. Down. Swinging. And with that last thought fresh in your mind I can tell you it takes three licks and a crunch to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. The chicken came around the same time that the egg was discovered. Chuck Norris cannot be explained he just is, so bask in his awesomeness. And finally the answer to most mind boggling question of the 1980’s Chuck Norris is what Willis is talking about.

If you can recall to that day in 1993 on that hot August day when everything seemed to freeze. It was the day that people describes as 'The Day the Earth Stopped on its Axis'. Well sadly i can't remember that day either but i've heard stories about it, and oh what marvelous stories they were. Through the school of hard knocks and a commited family Micah was on her way to being a force to pay attention to. With her love for reading, comedy , music, and words that meant something or another Micah. In her journey to find that ever lurking greatness she will continue to write and explore her creativity so the world will know of her and the messages she hopes to spread.

Radiation Reaches Red I can only stare, wearily, but fully aware of the dangers such a weapon possesses With time it has grown old and bitter Time and time again have such things been replaced But this, oh this one has grown bitter The constant usage, is followed by constant cleanings I try to keep it satisfied I do. I depend on it. I keep it fed with a constant flow of electricity It keeps me fed with its control over radiation And as I watch it at work the constant turning acts as a warning The cycle will come to a stop It no longer matters that we have an unspoken agreement The dimming of its lights are unforeseen Such as its intentions with all the power in its possessions We are but larger germs that are only waiting for the clock to come to its final stop before we hear the beep The loud piercing noise that gives us warning but not enough time to escape The warning that we are next And we must acknowledge the fact that my microwave will one day reach termination But would such a fall be easier if it had someone to fall with?

Misery Business
- an excerpt
A man walked swiftly up the street. His eyes were a fiery red, along with his short, curly hair. His breathing was quite fast and irregular. His large, muscular stature cast a shadow in the snow, as it had been one of those rare winter days where the sun was actually shining.

Ben Cain lives a life just as average as that of a space ninja. He plays the didgeridoo, has an IQ of..... well, higher than yours, and in his spare times, he likes to go clubbin.Yes indeed, he lives the ideal life. His favorite food is Cow brains, and the thing he does best is making fake biograph- wait a minute...

As the man walked, his confidence became greater, his eyes becoming redder. Once he reached the house he was travelling to - one that was significantly smaller and not near as beautiful as the others on the street - he turned and walked up the driveway into the garage. This event had been so unimportant, so miniscule, that no one would ever have expected that he was a murderer. Ben attends Lockport High School

Surreal Landscape - Kelsey Rice

Do It
Do it, do it, do it because the opposite is cowardice, the opposite doesn’t exist. Nobody ever notices the storm clouds gathering, piling clumsily and ominously on top of one another and reaching upward toward what is hardly ever assumed to be anything but grace and blocking it out. Likewise, nobody pays a bit of attention to you as you climb hand over slippery, sweat-drenched hand toward your position.You notice with some detachment that you’re shivering, but it’s not very cold and with surprise manufactured purely for your own benefit you realize, or rather at last you admit to yourself that you are, in fact, trembling.You shouldn’t be trembling. Cowardice doesn’t exist, remember? So you steel yourself and assert that you must have some fear of heights lying dormant inside you for some time now, and that it’s decided that for whatever reason today is the day to reveal itself. Better you be afraid of heights than the task at hand, far better. You hoist yourself up onto the roof and far above you the clouds rise up, ever higher, thicker than you’ve ever seen them, and block out the sun. This is the highest church you’ve ever been on. But then again, how many churches have you actually been inside, let alone on top of? You leave the question unanswered and make your way to the position.Your position is of utmost importance.You peer over the ledge and nobody notices as the whole sky seems to bear down, all of it focusing, scrutinizing and passing judgment as only the divine can be said to do, upon one single something. You check your watch and find that you have five minutes to spare. Despite this, you keep your eyes and your gun trained precisely on the spot where your target is set to appear. If you are to fail for any reason it will not be for lack of attentiveness or some other garbage reason like that. It’s a good thing, too, because your target turns out to be something like three minutes early. As he strides confidently from the church you find it ironic that his place

Erik (with-a-kay) West is a tall (and incomprably handsome) guy who hardly ever has ANYTHING to say. Until he does, and then you're in trouble. In his spare time he likes to hang out with his faithful sidekick and among other things, ride shopping carts down hills and watch the sky go by. He will lick you if you cover yourself in jelly, or, you know, if you just happen to look lickable. And a word to the wise, if you become too close to him he will try to transcribe whole entire chapters of books he likes to you via text message. The horror. D:"

of worship has become your vantage point, an instrument in his demise. Adrenalin replaces your nerves and you lean forward, testing the limits of your balance. The sky mimics your excitement and the clouds swirl, somehow both towering and piling higher while continuing to bear downward with even more force and apparent fervor than previously. All thoughts of life beyond this moment, beyond achieving your goal disappear. Cowardice does not exist. Nobody notices you as your fingers curl around the trigger, but everyone neotices as the sky opens up and the air fizzles and practically vibrates in anticipation of what is sure to occur next. The clouds loose a deafening roar that shakes what has become close to unshakable inside you. Lightning strikes somewhere. The entire crowd below you turns, terrified, but there’s only one face that you’re even remotely interested in. He’s middle aged and balding, likely in the throes of some type of mid-life crisis or another. Possibly a bachelor and possibly a family man. Certainly he’s somebody’s son. The whole sky bears down further. You pull the trigger and the clouds pass final judgment. White fire jerks and

fights its way out of the so-called heavens, lights up the sky and rips down through the air, slamming into and coursing through its own target. Finally, the clouds clear. The sun shines down on you as you smolder, dead on the roof of your instrument of death. Both the unfortunate victor and the unfortunate victim of what will one day be documented as a terrible yet hilarious coincidence.

Color Opened the Door - Kelsey Rice

A Paper Was Dismal - Kelsey Rice

The land being covered in a white blanket of snow, it looked impossible for any being to travel out into the open. Still, something inside her knew that it was a dire need to survive the stirring blizzard where the winds danced in a forming twister of ice and snow. Veronica blew an ebony lock out of her left eye, watching her husky play out in the snow. The husky seemed perfectly at home in the shifting tundra. Alaska in the winter was the best yet the worst place to be. The winds blew against the small cabin again, though she was used to it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the nearby kitchen window and the reflection didn’t exactly please or bothered her any – a heart shaped face framed by black hair that never seemed to quite cooperate and the emerald-green eyes she inherited from her mother’s side. As the phone rang on the wall, it startled the woman out of her mid-morning reverie. She tapped the button that read “speaker” and waited. “Hello?” The voice on the other end was deep, male. Perhaps a man in his midthirties, she thought. It didn’t sound familiar to her – and it didn’t sound like Dan whom was her closest neighbor. “Hey there…who is this?” She couldn’t help herself being blunt. A perfect stranger calling at 8 AM this time of year was unheard of. And gods, if it was another telemarketer, the cord was coming out of the damn phone again. “This is the Smith household?” V couldn’t help it when she rolled her gem green eyes. As if it wasn’t a common enough name. “Yes…” “You should know the test results came back in.” “Excuse me?” “Your son is dead, Ms. Smith.” That made her blink once, twice, three times. “What son? I never was pregnant to begin with…” That was a pure lie, though the man didn’t need to know that. “I never had children before.” That was true, at least.


The line clicked, then the echoing sounds that the man had ended the call. “Hello? Anyone there? Is this some sort of sick twisted joke? Hello?!” No answer on the other end. She cursed mildly as she hung up the phone back on its cradle. Her husky barked at the back door again, pleading to be let in. When Veronica reached for the door handle, the ring of the telephone sounded once more. She raised a brow and decided to ignore it – after all, it was likely another ridiculous prank call. Counting her blessings that her parents never bought her an answering machine, she let in the poor freezing husky that came bounding inside. Saesha romped over to the rug, that flag of a white tail wagging. “Good girl…” After wiping off the husky’s paws, V turned around to close the door. Until she saw something standing outside of the house…was it Dan? No, it couldn’t be in this weather. She squinted her eyes, trying to see desperately through all the falling snow. The figure looked vaguely human – a man, as far as she could tell. Could it be another of those daring wanderers trying to conquer the Alaskan wilderness? It wouldn’t be the first time. Nearly all youths have traveled past her little cottage hidden back in the Alaskan bush. The house itself was at least twelve or thirteen miles outside of any civilization. Grabbing the gray parka she kept handy in her closet, she pulled on her favorite pair of boots and turned the door

handle. Saesha continued to growl aggressively at the man-like figure invading her personal territory. V pulled up the hood as soon as her boot-clad feet hit the fresh fallen snow. The hood kept most of the wind out of her eyes. After a few moments, she reached where the man stood. Realizing he had vanished in the blizzard, she paused. It was impossible for her to tell if her husky had stopped barking or not with all the wind in her ears. Then, something wet on her boots in the snow. It smelled horrid and as she lifted her boot to examine the bottom of it, her hands covered her mouth in horror. Blood. Fresh blood stained the leathery bottom. Terrified, she slowly put her foot back down. The air filled with the scent of rotting corpses and the wind seemed to have faded when she was examining the boot. Looking around, V did a full turn, looking around the windswept landscape that was her yard. Or really the Alaskan wilderness was her front yard though she decided that was neither here or there at the moment with possibly a wild murderer on the loose. With the winds dying down, her eyes could outline that familiar figure in the distance, about ten or twenty feet away. “Hey, you! What are you doing on my property? Get off of it! And if you’re the one who made the call, I warn you. The cops don’t take long to get here—“ This time, she felt a hideous lurching sensation in the pit of her stomach. Before she knew it, the young woman

Untitled (cont.)
was laying face down in the freezing snow, the moisture seeping into her boots and dark jeans. When she looked up again, the man stood towering over her. He only smirked, as if he enjoyed seeing V in pain. “Hello mother.” His voice wasn’t the one that she had heard over the phone – no, she decided it was much higher pitched and that he was young. His face….her mind hesitated. His face looked almost exactly like her own, with the large gem green eyes and the same long black hair she had. “Who…are you?” She barely managed to drown that out. Her stomach lurched again and again, until her stomach felt heavy. Pain. Nausea. It almost felt like….she was. With child, again. 'How is that possible? This must be a nightmare. Maybe I forgot my meds again—' Veronica Smith didn’t receive the privilege to finish those thoughts when the man slipped a knife from his coat pocket. As a killer would, he slit the throat of the woman neatly. He was a killer in heart, mind and soul. He revered in the wet choking sounds V made in her last few moments of life. “Goodbye mother. My redemption has been made.” The man turned to walk off into blizzard, vanishing into the white snow perfectly. More fresh blood welled onto the snow. While her son walked away, the corpse bothered to make no response. Two corpses along with two hidden unmarked graves were found on the Smith property hours later by Alaskan police. "There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." -Friedrich Nietzsche
White Fences I. white houses Among rows and rows of imitation et fences lined by perfect white pick . a girl plays on a nearby sidewalk II. same The houses and trees all stand the house lined by the house after rything in its place. red-flagged mail boxes, with eve III. The girl plays with the same old e her, rubber bouncy ball that a boy gav right across from her one that lived white picket fence. in a gray house surrounded by the IV. ns, The wives in starched white apro black high heels on kitchen linoleum floor, waiting for the kids to come home to their imitation lives. V. et Little Virginia looks across the stre to the little boy's house that gave her the ball to play with. Little Danny turned to wave, his face a clone of hers. re They return smiles and waves befo returning to their duplicate worlds. never changed. Everyone looked the same and it fences. And neither did the white rhood, It's a beautiful day in this neighbo l day for a neighbor, A beautifu Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

Jungle of Shadows
Date: July 21, 1967 The screaming has finally seceded with a thunderous roar. It was quiet, I could only hear the embers crackle. We went into their homes…. We burnt it all down, down to the ground, even the fields. I felt a strong sorrow for these people. Stg. Griff said that they are nothing but savages and thieves that bare the color red, but even savages cry and bleed. Stg took one of the women from the village and brought her back to his tent. He said, “I believe she has valuable information, I need to interrogate her thoroughly,” but we all knew what was going to happen. Date: July 22, 1967 I went to Sarge’s tent in the morning for orders. He hadn’t cleaned the floors yet. There was a thick bloody trail leading outside of his tent. Our brigade had been put on patrol duty. While wandering though the thick vegetation and tall tree’s, we then found three boys in a mortar hole; they had blank faces. One of the boys stood up filled with tears, he charged at Stg with a bayonet knife stained in blood, most likely his fathers. Stg struck the boy down and picked up the old bayonet. The young boy was “dealt with immediately” as Stg had said. The other two were taken back to camp. Stg said, “he had to be made a example of to the other two boys.” When we arrived we ate our rations, we were told that we were going to be put on ambush tonight, again. So I tried to rest, every time I closed my eyes all I saw was flames and the young boys pale blood smeared face. Two minutes turned to two hours, it was time to head out for ambush. I grabbed my rifle, my helmet and spent a brief moment thinking of my loved ones . We found a place not to far from the base and waited. We waited and waited in the bitter cold. I tried to think of home, mothers warm soft cookies, a glass of milk and my soft be…. I was awoken by the bugs swarming all around us, always on us, never taking a break. Every one was only half awake, yet we waited. We waited for the sharp blade to shine over the tall grass. It’s a grim sight waiting to meet your maker.

Richard L. Polley II, born December 3, 1991. Richard lived in the suburbs of Tonawanda, graduated from Sweet Home High School and is currently enrolled in SUNY Fredonia. Richard was always surround by loving family and friends that helped get him to where he is now. He worked for his high school news paper (Panther Paw) and at the same time The Spectrum news paper at the University at Buffalo, where he learned a lot. He wishes to become a journalist, heavy influenced by politics and creative writing. Richard wants to one day work for The New York Times and Buffalo News. Richard’s belief is, “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, that is my opinion” and “Always be kind and curious to others, you never know who they are or will be” - Richard Polley. But none of this could not have been accomplished if it was not for the help of Lisa Valent/Feyes, she was the first to get him to write his first article. Dedicated to Lisa Feyes

Concrete Jungle
On top of the ant hill I can see the trees breath Swaying back and forth With the gentle breeze The concrete molds the outdoors When once the forest molded the concrete Brick by brick The towers are stacked high Taller than the highest canapé A metallic vine slowly entwines a humble land Thousands of trees sprouts with a single pear each That began to glow at the hint of nightfall As night begins to shroud there is a amberus glow Colors consume the concrete jungle Much like the cold northern lights A shooting star with turbines shrieks across the sky Leaving a long smoky trail

Sniper on the Fourth Floor
Bang! “We were warned.” A metal casing hit’s the floor. “We should have left.” A quick cocking yet suttle sound eco’s across the forth floor of Old Maind. “They said they would come, if we didn’t leave.” Bang! “Now they are here” The temple of worship is a smoldering rubble. It wasn’t worthy of their beliefs. He hears a sound much like a slug hammer hitting the ground across the court yard coming from a building top. A mortar shell rips though the left window in the room. He reloads with a smirk, it was his turn now. There was a loud thud that rang though the campus, much like the bells of the once beautiful church. A broadcast of a Arabic voiced began swallow the complex with its propaganda. A patter of boots against the cold tiles could be heard in Old Main, followed by what only could be the breaking of metal door hinges then screams silenced by a thunderous roar of gun fire. He tunes it out concentrating for the objective ahead. There is chaos in the court yard below, a perfect place for a sniper. The Americans garrison themselves in smoldering church. A single man baring red white and blue ran toward the once glorious church from the student center across the way. Then he stops and falls to his knees. His face, stained in blood. He reloads. Two men pray for their last time, the sniper puts his rifle down and prays for them as well. They run out into the court yard from the left and right, they reach the American stronghold. A blast tares though the stronghold with fearsome roar, shrapnel becomes the air. The window to the left of the sniper begins to spider cracks, then explodes into shards of glass. The sniper drops to the floor. He picks up his rifle and begins to crawl. He crawls though the broken glass, digging and scraping though his flesh. He looks over the ledge, the ledge emits pieces into his face and a bullet is placed in the ledge. He saw another sniper in the bell tower. He crawls again, blood trickling down his forearms. He gets to the mortar hole and looks down his scope. Bang!

The Corner
As I sit in a corner, Quiet and still, I think of you, Your smile, Your laughter, Your joys, Ever since you left me, Mind, Is blank, Soul, Is cold, Heart, Is broken, Every moment, Of everyday, I sit in this corner, And think about you, You filled me with joy, You filled my with hope, You filled me with dreams, Of a bright and happy future, And, now that you are gone, I have no dreams left in me, I have no hope left in me, I have no dreams left in me, At times in my deepest sadness, I wish I did not even know you, For then, my heart could heal, My soul would begin to be warm again, My mind would think again, Alas, I did know you, And you knew me, This corner, is my last connection to you, My last ways of knowing, How you are, how you feel, Therefore, I will never leave my corner, And my soul, Will always be cold. My mind, Will continue to be blank, And my heart, Will forever be broken.

Jodie enjoys writing poetry. She writes most of her poetry very early in the morning. Besides writing, Jodie takes ballet, acts on stage, sings, plays the trumpet, french horn, and piano. She is very busy, but she manages to get it all done. Jodie plans to take a creative writing class in eleventh grade. She also loved the Western New York Writing Porgram this year. It was her first time being a part of it and she hopes to join it next year too.

The Brown and Tattered Hat You wore your brown and tattered hat As you walked up to my door As you stood on my welcome mat I let you in, and you sat You sat, and promised to love me forevermore You wore your brown and tattered hat A cat now sits on my welcome mat Where you once stood, leaning on my door As you stood on my welcome mat As we talked for many hours, you suddenly gave me a pat One on the shoulder, as you have done before You wore you brown and tattered hat You always make me smile, unlike those rats They scurry towards my inviting door As you stood on my welcome mat You never again will give me pat Or stand there leaning on my inviting door You wore you brown and tattered hat As you stood on my welcome mat.

Stranded I’m on an island, Where the waves roll by, Where the birds always sing As the day goes by. I’m alone, not afraid, since the boat went down With all of the people I loved. I live in a shack, With no garage in the back. When the palm trees whirl in the wind, A thunderstorm is rolling in, I run in the shack, and close the door behind my back, The sound never scares me, Instead, the sweet smell of the rain soothes me as I sleep. I never want to go home, For if I do I will not be happy, But here, where the whit waves roll by, And the birds sing soft songs, I will always be alive.

Greed is the color of the blackest night It sounds of an evil unpleasant laugh through dark and lonely tunnels Greed tastes of rancid food that should never be touched by humans And smells of a dead carcass rotting on the streets Greed looks like a tree that lost it’s will to live Greed feels good when you are performing its act, but when it is finished, there is no audience to clap when the curtain closes.

Who am I?
I am as fast as can be, There’s no stopping me, I am sometimes nice, When I am not rolling on ice, I can’t be beat, Even in the summer heat, I am a circular ball, That you can roll down the hall, I am made of glass, And top of my class, But if I did crash, I would be trash, I race on tracks, Fit for me, not for packs, I work alone, With no set home, It’s the life of a marble, Now I have to roam. - Jodie White

Reach, Theater, and Yellow by Kate Light

Nature surrounds us, it crushes us, it lifts us, it is us. Every single blade of grass From the rough edges to the soft and easy to tear roots Whether it be a subtle shade of green detecting that it’s been there for a while Or a new bright green that sways in the grass, and is a little more delicate Even a dead, and dull palate of brown dying, undistinguished The rough and hard individual pieces prick when pressed on by a force The soft and moldable pieces fold in command when the wind blows Put them together and get a strong blade of grass That sways its own way when the wind blows It folds when pressure is forced upon it But it bounces back up when the sun shines bright It depends on the sun As we all do The sun is not a ball of gas It’s not a star in the sky It is a playground ball You play with it, burning and tanning Every hand in the world has touched this huge orange, yellow, and red ball Every foot and finger and toe and body That has put itself out into the enormous playground called the world Has played and prattled with the sun It’s shining when you sing, dance, and laugh The clouds roll in when you cry, sob, and scream The clouds are the suns eyes, nose, and mouth It cries, sometimes harder than others It blows and blows and blows when it is sick It smells all the new food from around the world that will make history It tears everything apart when it’s mad And it screams and booms loud with a thunderous roar causing kids to cower and hide The sun is so powerful that we all bow down to it Subconsciously of course We play and swing under the sun’s watchful eye We look out into the gray, blue, purple and beautiful sky that is the sun’s home It comforts the sun like a parent comforts a child It comforts everything and everyone around it All the birds know their destination before they start to flap and fly The sun knows when to rise and set The bugs know when to crawl and come out to play We all know when to swim, cook, giggle, and look up to the sky Because in nature It’s beautifully disastrous So rapid, and so gentle So rash and so thought out Nature is us

Aryanna Falkner is a Sophomore in Amherst High School. She enjoys writing poetry and creative stories. She is always carrying a book with her, and in her spare time she plays the piano.

Rocky Beach - Kate Light

Were You There?
Glory is a function of obscurity, not courage. How many important historic and modern people do you know and have a personal connection with? None. That’s right I just called you out.You didn’t watch Jesus painfully get nailed to a cross.You weren’t the husband in Iraq searching for his wife only to find ruble and a dead body.You weren’t a soldier on the front Russian line who invaded Nazi Berlin.You weren’t one of the sane ones fighting in Congress against the Republicans to achieve health care reform, or a Cherokee walking the dreaded Trail of Tears. You didn’t watch your friend burn in the water above a million gallons of oil ready to be spilled in the Gulf of Mexico.You aren’t one of the thousands of Haitians living in shanty towns, unemployed and dirt poor.You people have only thought of these things, never living them.Your greatness has been thrust upon you.You grow up with ideals you will never fight for. In these cases, I’m gonna say that System of a Down is right. So don’t say Hitler was evil because you didn’t know him. Betcha he was a pretty good

Mike Montoro has gone by many names. Mike, Mikey, Mike without a hat, and many insults. Did you know that he once went by the name Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III? Yes it was a long time ago in a galaxy quite close actually. He was the Lord King Pope Khan of a distant planet inhabited by only lush vegetation and highly intelligent crabs. His beginnings are unknown, but said to be hidden in secret documents in a supergiant black hole. His rule lasted for a long 13.37 million years; that is until the man was born. The man who is the offspring of a tiger and an atomic bomb; he was born in the core of the planet. That man is Chuck Norris. Now, Chuck Norris’s birth is known by little, but known. When he popped out of the core of the earth (causing the end of the dinosaurs), he went flying into Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III’s planet. After 65 million years he did his first roundhouse kick on Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III’s planet, destroying it, but not Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III. Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III and Chuck Norris went back to earth, where they landed safely. Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III now goes by Mike Montoro (or see list above), because he doesn’t want people to know his powerful position of Dr. Lord King Pope Mike Khan III. He wants to regain power on earth now though. I quote, “I’m gonna start at a teen writing camp.” Make sure he doesn’t join a teen writing camp.

everyone who cares is crowded in one corner of a room kissing shadows but turning a blind eye to those around them, yet all seek the same validation, the same warm sentiments. No one is pressured to go as far or as high as the others who feel the unsettling buzz in the air that keeps them up at the time of night when people are being killed for mindless obedience or mindless aversion to the scene, to standards, but your radio won't tell you this. Its signals are crossed with those of a perfect, parallel universe where boys and girls hold hands from ten feet away and music only speaks of bright skies and nothing in the world is in any way too mature for a toddler to view and understand with such clarity that they could paint the plot with the tips of their fingers on a white canvas blank to ideas, to thoughts, to criticism, and can't be censored or belittled due to its subject matter, because it's not complete yet, it can't think, but with these words I will riddle it with a controversial stance and render it helpless.
"I love to travel, but hate to arrive."

Olivia Mozée reluctantly lives in Akron, New York. She started out as an actress before deciding, due to her laziness, to pursue writing since it requires much less moving around (just kidding). When she's not watching Phineas and Ferb, you can find her eating peanut butter toast or wearing hipster glasses.

I love the way a train rocks as it speeds along the countryside, how a plane takes to the air with a sudden jolt, and the comforting dullness of the thruway. For me, the longer the trip, the better. I'm soothed by the sound of the rest of the world zipping past me in an intangible blur. It makes me feel above conflict, despair, and anxiety. However, every time the car slows, the train blows its whistle, or the plane descends, I snap back to reality. I'm surrounded by conflict, despair, and anxiety again. But this is no time for poetry. I have a job to do. So I sigh, pull out a pistol, and make my arrival known.

You know those songs that feel like you could have written them?
You know those songs that feel like you could have written them? Not because of their atrociously cliché lyrics or stupidly simple melodies, but because they speak to you in a way that describes your life with such perfection that you wonder if they’ve been watching you like that googly-eyes stack of bills in the Geico commercials. When you hear that song, a bell rings in your head. This is exactly how I feel, this is exactly what I’m trying to say. Then you post it as your Facebook status and you feel deep and mysterious until someone “likes” it and posts a comment saying “OMG I love this song!” and your hand is itching to press that delete from friends button even though you know you can’t because then she’d stop letting you copy her math homework. But you’re still mad since that’s your song, it’s not anyone else’s. Then weeks later you’ve cooled off and stopped holding song grudges until you’re singing along to Lady GaGa in your cousin’s car-- the cool cousin, not the cousin with the five kids and beehive hair-- when the chipper radio host announces they’re going to introduce a song for new music Monday. Then the car ride goes downhill because that’s your song playing, and you just know that there’s probably thousands of teeny-boppers swaying along to your song in their Justin Bieber pajama pants and Jonas Brothers tour tshirts. But they shouldn’t be, because they don’t understand like you do. In one more week’s time, you’ve stopped logging onto Facebook because so many annoying freshman girls have your song’s lyrics floating all over their sickening statuses, and you find yourself wishing there were an application for chopping off people’s hands, but no, all you can do is send them freaking Farmville Cash or send them a “poke”. The things you’d do to change that innocent poke to a stab... That’s besides the point now, though, because no amount of violence will change the fact that your song is out on the airwaves now and you can’t take it back, you can’t call anyone to complain. You’re stuck in a world where your feelings are in heavy rotation. And maybe that’s what’s bugging you more than the fact that your favorite song is now a trending topic on Twitter. You didn’t feel like anyone else could possibly identify with it until you realize you’re as insignificant as all the others who hear the song and can sing all the words, even the super confusing part where half of the lyrics are hidden under the guitar solo. Now that you’ve identified your problem, you start to back off. You quit sending hate mail to radio stations.You log back onto Facebook and don’t scratch at the screen with a scalpel.You’ve even stopped sending threatening text messages that concern putting people’s mothers in grave danger through the use of a short rope and piranhas who can jump five feet into the air. In fact, you have a new favorite song. Sure, it doesn’t make you feel the same as your song did, but it’s got a catchy chorus and you hear the lead singer is attractive. You’re recovering. Besides, you’ve learned a good lesson from this whole ordeal. Next time, you’ll make sure your song is an unreleased one by a super indie band who reject commercialization. - Olivia Mozée

I lay in my tent some what cozy in my sleeping bag. The ground below me is rocky an some branches are poking me in my back. I think to myself why i should have came more prepared. I lay in silence in the middle of my of my two sleeping friends haley on the right and brittany on the left. The silence really let my mind wonder why did i agree to sleep out. I could be sleeping in my cabin bed, much warmer,dryer,and cozyer. If the dark didnt scare me enough the rushing winds did, pushing our tent back and forth. I cant wait till sunrise and i pray ill get to see it. I am being over dramatic about this whole experience. But i guess better safe then sorry. Hours pass by, the minuets go slow and the numbers on my watch seem never changing. At last my clock strikes 4:00 which mean only 2 more hours till sunrise and some one will be in to wake us and bring us back to our warm cabin. I figure i am i safe now and i better get some rest. My eyes ,exhausted, easliy shut. I drift away in sleep in seconds. I must have only been asleep for minuets when the striking sound of what seems to be human like wakes me. It sounds broken and in pain. Its voice screaming like and untuned violin in desperate repair. I lay here on the forest floor, wondering if i have enough courage to leave my tent and go help. Minuests pass and decide that ill just poke my head out and take a look. Turns out a bug has flow in my cabin consler mouth and she has been trying to cough it up. I quickly run behind her and squeez her stomach as hard as i can. Turns out i saved her life.

Faith Caldiero, enjoys running and being active. She loves being with her friends and family just having a good time.

Her feet slowly drag across the solid concrete, as she is talking on the phone. Her voice high pitch and annoying, her clothes raggy and old, her shoes barely serveing any purpose anymore. As sit and watch her walk by in the 10 seconds that it took her to walk by, I picked her a part and found nothing good. I was took quick to judge her exterior, that i didn't see her pain that was practically screaming to be set free from her battered soul. Being to quick to judge and look beyond leaves the whole in black white and leaves little room for the fade of gray.

Metal Box of Doom
It shook and then came to a stop. But inside of the elevator, I didn't hear a pleasant "ding" or a little light announcing our arrival on the fifth floor. I hoped the elevator wasn't stalled - I wasn't too anxious to spend a lot of time with the two others in the elevator: my mother and the Devil. These different people/demon creatures both had their different methods of torture: my mother had her endless chores and the Devil often chose an eternity of torture, but they shared a partiality for the evil eye. Anyway, I started to watch the pair stare at each other with an intensity that seemed to heat up the metal box we were trapped in. Because of my company, I changed that to the metal box of doom. I couldn't tell which one of them won this particular showdown, but I predicted there would be many more if we were in here very long. I didn't want to spend a lot of time like this, so I broke the silence with a feeble "Hey." Both of the piercing glares turned towards me and I swear I could feel them probing my brain. I knew then that if one of us perished, I would be the first to go, so I pressed the red emergency button (something I've always wanted to do) and hoped that the nerds in the basement could fix this death trap. I started to sweat - I always do when I get nervous. Sometime I'll sneeze, too. It was one of my quirks that I especially did not like and tried to hold in. My efforts, however, were in vain and I let it out. My mother, said, "Bless you," and the Devil said, "Curse you." Both seemed angered by the other's response. I was content to repeatedly jam my finger in the emergency button as I started to lose whatever calm I had left in me. Tempers were running high as my mother tapped her foot on the floor impatiently and the Devil paced around in a circle, leaving fiery footprints behind him. Apparently he got too close for her liking because she spit in his face. I admired her nerve, but this was definitely not the time to get a backbone. He returned her silent dare with a volley of flaming arrows. One snagged the edge of her new skirt. It was go time now - he had better watch out. I never saw what she did next because I fainted from the stress of the situation. I woke up to the pleasant ding I had been expecting earlier and my mother fanning my face. She had been fighting with the Devil. Her new skirt was more than scorched and her usually tidy hair was hanging down in scraggly clumps around her dirty face. I looked behind her to see the Devil. He too carried the marks of their battle and gave me a Cheshire cat grin before disappearing.

Maria Giaquinto attends Nardin Academy and plays tennis and golf. She reads in her spare time and (obviously) enjoys writing. She teaches dance and hopes you like her writing.

Sam's Heart The evil colonel chuckled at the sight. Children played; having fun. He knew they wouldn't be when his work was done. Ironically, bright stars merrily lit up the night. Troops waited anxiously for the colonel's "Move in." For many, this would be their first kill. Killing children, what a thrill Thought Sam sarcastically, knowing this was a sin. But the army paid, So here he was - ready Strong and steady. It was almost time to invade. "Move in!" - and it starts. Sam doesn't shoot; he grabs a kid, who would never forget what Sam did. This one lived because of Sam's heart. The child was told to run. He later came back to find everyone dead. It made his own heart sink like lead. He planted a green sprout for Sam, and it was done.

Red Maple
- Victoria Licata
Come out of my brain, That tempermental hot spring, Look around my world and See with my eyes if you can. This red maple by the curb is the first tree I ever learned to climb; I used to swing on that branch right there all the time and Guess what? It still holds my weight. It's the ultimate hiding spot in outdoor hide and seek And it's also where I hide my dreams, The wild ones with shimmering fins And the mild ones with big, bushy tails Alongside crooked smiles I never got to use, Broken pocketwatches, And unshed tears wound up in a ball All woven throughout the branches of my red maple Like a magpie's kleptomaniacal spoils Or a squirrel's carefully gathered salvation. But from the curb it looks like the rest of the red maples stolidly planted along Woodshire North Trite and normal and nobody looks twice. But I know the curves of the branches and all the spots of yellow-green lichen and Where to put my feet so I don't fall When I sit in its rough cradle Arms around the trunk, eyes closed. I know the feel of its bark in my hair, Under my fingernails, between my lips; I know how different it is, so vastly incomparable To the other red maples It might as well be the only one on the curb. Beneath its red leaves that fade to purple That fade to bare branches That fade to green shoots and then red leaves again Lie a thousand memories, That make my red maple extra ordinary Just like me.


Victoria Licata, besides being totally awesome, enjoys Agatha Christie novels, eating candy canes in the summer, quoting obscure poetry in her facebook statuses instead of trite song lyrics, celtic music, the look on people's faces as they attempt to disprove Hume's bundle theory and find it impossible, watching Disney movies on her laptop until ungodly hours of the morning, and returning empty bottles and cans to the supermarket. She is afraid of the lost spider pit scene in Peter Jackson's King Kong and clowns. She thinks that the Twilight movies are an embarrassment to the world of cinema as they are little more than badly acted closeups of pale, mopy teenagers. Smurfs. Victoria is a senior at Williamsville North.

Albright-Knox Outrage

They tell me to step away from the painting When all I want to do is step inside it And inhabit the dreamscape of a mind long gone, Watch Monet's meanings come to life with the added perspective of distance Changing hasty brushstrokes into a statement of defiance. I knock aside the conclusions and assumptions that are thrown at me like darts Describing Rauschenberg and Rosenquist, Missing the target completely because it's lost somewhere in the maze of Flashing ballerina legs and grotesque baby dolls; They don't understand that it is everything I can do Not to tear down "Convergence" and throw it on the floor, Crawling all over it looking for Pollock's cigarette stubs Or climb Fletcher Benton's alphabet letters like jungle gyms, Running my hands over them as if somehow that will give me the answer To what Warhol and Soutine and Mondrian wanted to say Even if what they wanted to say is That they weren't going to say anything. But no, That I should even dream of knowing more Than can be known purely by looking Is shocking and repugnant, even dangerous But they don't understand that I am no deranged geologist attacking the Pieta All I want to do I do out of love, But it is this same love that restrains me From defying the rules and ripping down the Modiglianis and Seurats, Intent on swallowing them and making them part of me forever, The same way I want to pick the long-stemmed lilies I pass by at the library that are so strikingly gorgeous they become the stuff of nightmares, But don't, Knowing that my indulgence, My quest to understand their scent and the softness of their petals Means their death. And I would rather have them live.

- Victoria Licata

The Truth About Suicide
It fell this morning, Dropped out of my hand while I was holding it And shattered on the kitchen floor. Now it lies in pieces. Pieces that I recognize and don't believe. It's too soon, too soon for me and you The words accident, I'm sorry Bounce around in my mouth Like pinballs that I say and dissolve on speaking Even though it's not my fault Per se Accident, accident Desperation is more apropos It's only now after the handle fell off in my fist Leaving me with a useless smidgeon A memory now, a former coffee mug That I remember or care That there have been cracks forming for months Around that handle, getting weaker.... I should have seen this coming. Still, shock I was not there in time to catch it As the coffee mug leapt out of my hand And fell Staining the kitchen floor, A mouse brown Rorschach test that screams Your fault YOUR fault Your FAULT YOUR FAULT You weren't there in time and what's worse You never would have noticed it if it hadn't broken in the first place. Just another white coffee mug Only considered special now because it's gone.

- Victoria Licata

The Sights, The Sounds, The Feel of Nature As I lay here, I feel the warm, summer breeze. I see the loose stands of grass tumble around freely, while dancing to the rhythm of nature. A loud humming of machines interrupts the soothing balance. When I close my eyes I can hear baby birds chirping and the happy chatter of nearby children playing. I run my fingers along the rough and grainy exterior of the rock that I am sitting on, and the sun is beating down upon my body. People walk across my path and for a second I catch a glimpse of what they’re saying. Clusters of vibrant magenta morning glories sway with the wind. I take in a deep breath and inhale the sweet, yet subtle fragrance that swirls in the air. If it weren’t for the streets lights, the tall stone buildings, and the raging sirens blaring in the background, it would be as if I was sitting in a soft, grass-filled plain. There are people eating nearby and the smell of fried food drifts under my nose. A stone paved walkway has cracks filled in with moss, giving away the old age of the area. I see an ant carefully crawl onto the stones and escape to safety by leaping gracefully into the grass. For a second everything is peaceful, but then a strong gust of wind blows my way, and everything jumps to life again. An old, brown, crusty leaf blows my way with a pitter-patter sound on the pavement. I look up and see the sky covered with clouds, except in the areas where the sun cautiously peeks through, like a baby playing his first game of peek-a-boo. The scenes of nature make me want to jump in and join them.

Helen Xu will be attending Williamsville East in the fall. She is overly obsessed with incorporating nature in her writing and really cheesy rhyming. Also, she enjoys listening to music with one earphone stuck in her ear, reading MLIA, going on Facebook way too much, following fashion blogs [style rookie,cupcakesandcashmere,fifilapin,fas hion toast,etc.], listening to kpop [as well as KISS 98.5], shopping [can someone say RETAIL THERAPY], ballet, playing tennis, daydreaming, raspberry lemonade, Pretty Little Liars [the show], and enjoys speaking whale. Over and out.

Out on the Town Dresses and skirts and lace galore, Who would possibly want anything more? Slip into heels, and prance around, Dance and twirl and shout out loud. “You’re wearing your best dress,” you say to yourself, And then proceed to grab your clutch off the shelf. You see your reflection in a puddle by your feet, You twirl around, and your inspection is complete. The sun has set and the night is alive, You take it all in, and sigh a dreamy sigh.

The Mourning of Gettysburg The mourning tone of the violins, Harmonize to stir something within. To remember those who had so gallantly fought, Their lives taken, and bodies left to rot. Honoring both the grey and the blue, Both fighting and giving their lives up for you. Red blood spilling from the ragged uniforms, With the breeches and boots so baldy torn. The faces of the soldiers displayed so many emotions Shock, fear, anguish, but we still move in a forward motion.

-Thou the DepartedRain like ice pelts down from those cruel skies above It prevents me from forgetting that day The world that I wanted and dreamed of Burning to ashes, it cannot remain Thou, the departed Thou, the departed There is a void as vast as outer space I howl at the moon in the dark of night This way I can go to a better place The pain is lessened, but tears flow in spite Thou, the departed Thou, the departed There's blood on my hands and pain in my heart I cannot stand to watch your soul depart Thou, the departed Thou, the departed

I like to roflcopter. I wasn't insane a while ago... then I wrote a novel... 155k+ words. Now I'm editing it, so yes, I am now insane. I enjoy video games... too much, and play all the time. I also love writing fantasy/ sci-fi works, and I often brag about my bottomless pool of creativity. Well okay, so it nearly runs dry plenty of times. The point is there is always at least a drop left. IT IS NEVER EMPTY!!!!!! oh, and finally, submarine.

-DreamcatcherLost in the dark Tangled in a web of my mind The false pain is stark Following no path or line A solid helmet on my head Stops the bullets as the come As of yet I haven’t bled I wouldn’t know; I’m all numb Falling deep into the canyon No ground beneath Awaken, overhead is my companion The small webbed wreath Will you be my dreamcatcher? Keep the wicked thoughts away, Stop my mind from going astray, Rid the evil from the day Will you be my dreamcatcher? A beacon in the dead of night,

The Adventures of Malthus
This is what I believe is the first of a series of short stories following Malthus, one of my *future* novel characters. He lives a life filled with fast-paced action, blood, guns, swords, and not wearing clothes.Well, he is a leopard, after all. Still working on it, but I believe it's in fairly good shape here. Prologue Duncan Presley was a man of mediumlight skin and short black hair. He was five-foot ten, and had deep brown eyes that made most women swoon when they saw his face. The world was quickly discovering his tremendous literary skill and his incredible expression that went into his writing. Within the last month, he had gotten a book of his poems published. It had made record sales, and now he was on top of the world. All of the reviews complemented his excellent work. His editor and long time friend, David Hardy, took him out for a drink at tavern near Duncan’s house. “I was impressed you were able to do such great artwork to go with the prose, Duncan.You’re the most artistically gifted person I’ve ever seen.” David said enthusiastically. “Thanks, Dave. It took me forever to complete the whole thing.” Duncan said. “I’m really excited that it was so well received. How do you think the novel will go over?” He asked. “It’s hard to predict anything in today’s market, but you’ve got great mainstream fiction in my opinion. It should be on the front shelves of bookstores everywhere. You’re going to be big, one way or another.” David added. He laid down the money for their drinks and they both headed out of the bar and into the night. Duncan looked to his left and saw a shady figure approaching. He pointed it out to his friend, who turned to see for himself. He turned back to run at full sprint, but gunshots rang out, nailing him in the back and dropping him to the sidewalk before he could get away. Duncan watched as his friend and editor fell lifelessly to the ground. He was so shocked and afraid in that moment that he couldn’t force he body to move, despite his best efforts. Suddenly he felt a rush of some sort of incontrollable sensation. At first he thought it may have been anger or sadness, but the next moment he was in tremendous pain, almost as if his skeleton was being ripped out from inside of his body. His head was spinning, and he pressed his eyes closed as tightly as he could. He heard himself screaming, but even that changed, and all he could hear moments later was the roar of some large cat. The pain stopped abruptly, and his body instinctually guided him to run into the nearest alley, scaling the walls, leaping back and fourth from one to the other with unbelievable agility and strength. He got up to a rooftop and regained control of himself. He hyperventilated, gasping for air. He felt the icy rain pelting him, but the cold was muffled, almost as if he had a thick layer of hair on his body. He looked into a puddle to check himself and see what had happened. He did not see his face, but instead a leopard’s with white fur, razor sharp teeth, black lips, and lemon yellow eyes. His tee shirt was ripped, probably from when he changed into this creature. His jeans were still in good condition, but both his hands and feet were replaced by paws. His shoes were gone, and he looked over himself in utter disbelief. Out of completely compulsive curiosity, he looked into his pants; and yes, he was definitely a full-fletched leopard. He swore under his breath. He wasn’t afraid, nor did he dislike his new appearance. But he was most certainly curious what had driven him to become this way. He still stood on two legs, could walk, talk, and think like a human, but he wasn’t. It was almost as if he were some sort of werecat. He looked off of the rooftop, down into the street below. The gunman had run off, and he could hear distant sirens that he likely wouldn’t have been able to hear without the auditory senses of a cat. His friend was dead, and in his fury, Duncan had become… furry. He had no clue as to what had happened to his body, but he was wishing he could have used it to take his revenge on his friend’s killer. He realized in order to get up those walls in that alley, he must have had plenty more muscle than even a real leopard. If what he knew about cats and what he figured out about his new body was accurate information, he should be able to jump to the ground from the rooftop with out injuring himself, granted he landed correctly. Either that or he would pay a hefty price for doing something so stupid. So, he readied himself for the jump, trying not to stiffen up. He leapt gracefully from three stories up, and landed on all fours once he hit the ground. He straightened up and couldn’t help but smile; with a little practice, a jump like that could become an easy, routine action for him. He jogged over a mile back to his house. He got inside and sat down on his couch. He grabbed his remote control and turned on the television, only to find that David was pronounced dead on the scene. The phone rang, and he jumped wildly. He scrambled over to it clumsily. “Hello?” He asked nervously into the receiver.

“Yes, is this Duncan Presley? This is Mark Rowinski from PR Publishing.” A voice answered. “Oh yeah, hi.” Duncan answered. He noticed his voice was a bit deeper and generally more aggressive sounding now than when he was human. “Hello there, Mr. Presley.You sound a bit different from last I saw you, sorry. It took me by surprise.” “I just woke up, I’m a little groggy.” Duncan said in reply. “Oh, well I was just calling to voice my concern about Dave, your editor, and from what I could tell, your close friend. I take it you heard.” He said sadly. “Yeah, I did. Well thank you.” “I don’t know how you feel about it now, and I don’t want to push you into anything, but I can find you another guy if you like.”

room. He went over to his bench press, and put on 100 pounds. He lifted it without much effort at all. He went up by

This was very unusual. But perhaps if he signed on with this group, he would get a valid excuse to kill the gunman for what

fifty pound increments until he got to a he had done. The thirst for revenge had weight that would challenge him; an entire become strong in only a day, even though half-ton. He managed fifteen reps and he still couldn’t feel the pain of his friend’s racked the bar. He ran for ten minutes straight at maximum speed on the treadmill, and did a number of difficult push-up variants on a stability ball. Not only was he stronger and faster, but he had excellent balance and coordination to go with it. He changed back into a human and went out to his mailbox. He tried hard not to think of his lifelong friend’s death, and his new abilities helped to distract him. He looked to find a single letter addressed to him. He opened it and read the neat and extravagant cursive writing. death. He immediately sent a letter to the return address. Thinking about what had happened, he decided to his home leave for a week as well. He needed to get away, and for the moment, he decided to head to the Amazon Rain Forest. He had always been enchanted by all he had seen of it, from pictures in books and on TV. He changed to his human form and headed for the airport. He arrived in Africa and trekked for a few days until he managed to reach the edge of the rainforest. He continued on inside for a short ways until he came to a small hut. A man came out ranting about something in a language Duncan had never heard before. He ran off into the forest, and Duncan decided to follow him for the moment. He caught up to the man, who was leaning on a tree, sobbing into his arms. He also noticed a pistol in the man’s hand, so he didn’t dare try to come to his attention. Hiding in the trees, he saw the madman put the pistol to his head, shooting himself. In shock and horror, he went up to the man, who was indeed dead now. It was so extremely random. Why would someone living in the rainforest run outside and shoot himself? Duncan shook his head. He didn’t know the man, and it wasn’t any of his business anyhow. He now had a shelter to fall back on, and leave his human traces behind. He went back to the gut and went inside. It was a cozy place, with a main room that had a table to eat at, a kitchen, a bedroom, and even a bathroom equipped with a sink. There was a small, closet-like space attached to back of the bathroom, and it had a shower head hanging from

Dear Mr. Presley:

I would like to inform you that the “I suppose, but… just wait a few weeks Bounty Hunter’s Guild (BHG) is searching before you call me again. Now if you don’t for new members. We are a group of mind, I really have to go.” individuals, who, like yourself have “Yes, of course.” There was a click, and discovered we have abnormal abilities Duncan hung up. He turned off the TV that enable us to go beyond normal and headed for his bed. The next morning when he awoke, he found he still was a cat. He hadn’t dreamt it after all. Instead of wallowing in despair and question he decided it best to get up and focus hard on changing back into a human. To his surprise he did it without considerable effort. He took off all of his clothes so as not to destroy them any more than they already were, and he human capabilities. If you agree to become a Hunter, you will be bound to follow our rules by written contract. A copy of these rules has been provided to you in this letter. While they mostly pertain to your conduct involving other Hunters, a few involve your identity as a Hunter, which mostly has to do with how

you display yourself publicly. Please read over them for more information, and practiced changing from cat to human and reply to this letter via the return address back again. Within a couple hours, he had if you are interested. Take your time, there’s no rush. I look forward to seeing pretty much gotten the hang of it you soon. entirely. When he was finished, he stayed in his leopard form in order to get used to his newfound abilities a bit better. He put on shorts and a spare shirt he used to work out, and went into his weight

The Chairman

the ceiling, upon closer inspection. Duncan noticed a revolver sitting in a drawer in the bedroom. He took it and put it in his bag, just in case he would need it in an emergency. He shed his clothes to change into a leopard, then put them back on. He went outside again and tried to climb a tree. With considerable effort, he made it to the top. He looked down at his shorts to fins them almost in tatters. He swore under his breath and noticed tears and holes in his shirt as well. He jumped down from the tree and threw his clothes in the hut. If a real leopard didn’t bother with clothes, he didn’t figure it would do him any good to,

it. No person around that had a problem with his exposed genitalia. No human to say that what he had become was awful or evil. He was free, which was what he had wanted all his life. No need for annoying clothes, technology, or what he now considered, “human bullshit.” There were no rules. It was kill or be killed. He didn’t want it any other way. Two weeks had slipped away from him, and Duncan saw on the television he had found that he had “disappeared”. There was no trace of him anywhere, and people wondered if he had been kidnapped. With a snort of laughter he turned off the television and looked

finished playing. Since she lived only two blocks away, Duncan decided to pay her a visit. He walked over to her house and rang the bell. There was no answer for the longest time, but she pulled the door open slightly just as he was about to knock. Marissa was a pretty blonde in her early twenties, just as Duncan was. She had large gray eyes that were alluring and sincere, and were always paired well with her make-up and perfume that gave her the ability to blend in with anyone or any group that she wanted to. Today she had dubious light blue lipstick on, a slightly darker shade of it on the nails of her fingers and toes, with some glittery silver powder around her eyes. As usual, she still looked great to him. She had been his friend in a local writing guild for several years, and they knew each other fairly well. “Hey Marissa. I just got back today, and I got your message.” Duncan said. “Oh yeah. Come in.” She said quietly, looking around. She pulled the door open, allowing him to enter, and then closed it again quickly. “So what’s up? You sounded pretty rattled on the phone.” Duncan said. “I saw your friend die that night. I also saw what happened to you. I was a bit of a distance away but… you changed, somehow, didn’t you?” She asked even quieter than before. He blinked skeptically at her. “Maybe... why do you ask?” he said darkly. She swallowed hard, kicked off her flipflops, and stripped down to her underwear. He couldn’t help but stare. “Okay, this is probably going to be really awkward, but you need to see this.” She said. She closed her eyes, and changed into a cheetah right before the artist. But she was a cheetah in the same way that

either. He climbed the tree again, this time around the hut. He found a fiction novel with little difficulty. He leapt from tree to entitled, “Malthus the Great”. He needed tree, swinging from vines and branches. a new name, so that nobody would He was free of everything that had held recognize him as being a strange and him back in the human world. He hung brutal creature opposite a passionate from branches upside down with only writer. Malthus. He said it to himself a few one leg holding onto the branch. While it times, and it sounded far better than his was painful to hold for too long, he was given name. even able to suspend himself using only his tail. He flipped and soared through the “So then it is.” he declared to himself. “My name is Malthus.” He changed back into a canopy of the rainforest, regarding the various other animals milling about. As he human, gathered his things and left for the dropped nearly fifty feet to the ground, he airport. He got back to his home in Salt Lake, where he went inside to hear a realized that he was starving. He decided plethora of messages on his machine. to hunt for food and kill it the old Several were from the publishing agent, fashioned way. He wasn’t sure what some from close fans. One in particular, leopards ate, but he knew for sure that came from a girl he had befriended the boar he saw passing by would make a months ago. She sounded nervous on the fair meal. He leapt and bounded again, machine. chasing it down and mauling it to death. He looked at his hands… or paws, as they had become, and regarded the blood. He shook this out of his mind as well, and ate without tasting a thing. He had become wild, but it was far easier than being civilized. And for that matter, it was far more fun. He hunted and ate what he had killed on the spot, and no one was there to call him a freak. He wore no clothes, and he didn’t have to be criticized about “Duncan, I… I saw what happened during… I mean… I have something really important I need to show you. I hope you’re okay.You’re the only one I who I think can understand. I’m sure you’ll come back, though. Everyone needs some time to… find themselves, I guess. But, can you come by my house when you do get back? It’s really important… bye.” There was a click, and the message

he was a leopard; a biped, half-human cat capable of speaking. Her hair flowed all around her ears, but they were still visible at the top of her head. She stared at him, afraid of what he would think. Duncan stared back at her in awe. “Wow. I really thought I was the only one.” he said. “Okay, I’ve shown you, so now it’s your turn.” she said. In a flash, Duncan turned into Malthus once again. They looked into each others’ eyes, and into their very souls. “There, happy?” He said with a small grin. “How long have you had this ability?” “A year or so longer than we’ve known each other.” He nodded at Marissa. He again tried to speak, but couldn’t find words. David’s death had finally gotten to him, and he almost broke down into tears. She came over and hugged him. Somehow their mouths met, and, for the first time in his life, he experienced a kiss. “It’s okay.” She began to say. “There’s plenty on this planet that can make a grown man cry, even if he’s a half-feline. I’m sorry, Duncan.” She said. She led him over to the couch, and they both sat down. “You alright?” Malthus shook his head uncertainly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be, even if I can avenge him.” he was going to say more, but she covered his mouth and they kissed again. Her presence was extremely comforting, and he didn’t bother trying to stop her. They shared the wet, smooth lip

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” “No, not really.You want to come over here again?” “Actually, why don’t you come by my place around, say six? Maybe we can go to dinner or something?” “Oh, that’d be great.” They both put on their clothes again. There was one last kiss goodbye. “See you tomorrow then.” Duncan nodded, and headed back to his house. There a load of paper in his mailbox, and a couple of reporters waiting to nag him. He ignored the reporters and read the mail as he walked. He was going to be on the news, it was going to be his epic re-arrival, and the only shot they’d have of him was his reading the news, walking into his house as if nothing had happened. He didn’t really care, since he had much more pressing matters to attend to. He got inside and sorted through a variety of bills, credit card applications, and other junk mail. He finally found a letter with golden trim, and a seal on the back reading BHG. He hastily tore open the letter and read it, his hands shaking.

The Chairman

Duncan gasped. Tomorrow? When had the letter been sent? He panicked and searched all over the letter and the envelope, but couldn’t find a date. He looked as carefully as he could, and eventually found it in nearly microscopic lettering at the bottom of the letter: 8-20-08. He let out a huge sigh of relief. Ironic as it was, the letter had arrived earlier today. He wasn’t going to question why that was, but he was going to make sure he showed up at that meeting. He reread the regulations. He needed a code name; well, that was an easy one. Depending on his skill level in certain areas, he could apply for either an apprentice license, or class 1, 2, or 3. Three was the highest rank. Unique to this rank was the ability to challenge another Hunter, on the proper grounds, to an All or Nothing Hunters’ challenge. This was a fight to the death between two or more rival hunters. It was forbidden unless one had threatened the other, or “crossed the line” in a rivalry. Level 1 was able to participate in capturing challenges, but nothing that involved killing. Level 2 was allowed to hunt more dangerous foes, such as important criminals, and thus killing, if necessary, was allowed.

Dear Mr. Presley,

This letter has been sent to inform you of your acceptance into the guild.You will need to come to 48 W. Market Street tomorrow at noon to discuss your license details. When you arrive, ask the host to show you to J. Murray’s table. Have in

lock for a moment, all the while in a tight mind your cover name in addition to any embrace. As they pulled away from each other, they changed back into their human questions you may have. Above all, you must be on time, as we will wait no forms. longer than five minutes past your “I’m sorry, but I’ve really gotta get going.” assigned time for you to arrive. he said softly. “Oh, so soon?” She said with her arm still around his back. He nodded drearily. Thank you for your participation,

Where I'm from Being different is common And being original is expected Poems speaking volumes About love or hate or war And how one can solve the others Are all writer Different words Different pages Same meaning As one of them I'm tempted to make that a metaphor Because everything's a metaphor, here In the real world I am different, I am a minority Fighting for rights with a pencil and my mouth But here I'm just More of the same

Kim Carlson is going into tenth grade at Clarence High School. She likes playing viola and dancing, alone, in her bedroom and feeling pathetic in her spare time. She also loves dogs. Cats, not so much.

The Artist Where to go, where to go? Who's not to know? We go where we please upstairs, downstairs to the left and to the right who cares, who cares? If we are wrong or if we are right? I'll go where you'll go if you follow me into the light prompt me and speak to me But I'll take no direction I'll go where ever I may roam a map's a pen for my brain. I'm not wasting paper I don't wast paper on fun This is fun, I live for fun This sounds like a rhyming playground chant. I'll clap my hands and laugh along And I'll leap into eternity from the swing into my own poetic destiny, where my incoherent love is just free verse. Free verse like Paris and assassins and waltzing and suicide and don't forget, ma belle, La Tour Eiffel and while we're there, it's raining, my favourite season my favourite almost memory of almost loving, in a certain sense of the word. Almost spending eternity on two hours of kissing in the dark, the cost of white hot bright, or not emptiness, loneliness Longing, wondering Wondering why you never did come back for me to lead me into the world of you your bed, your backyard, your own personal rhyme. What I'd give for that time eleven 30 when little lights surprise me, while the ones on my ceiling fade unexpected, undefined you. I knew you'd make a masterpiece make me a work of art your choice of colour and lust and life. You're an artist, ask my paper, you're the one who wrote this. you did this to me.

Emma is a seventeen year old poet who will be a senior at Amherst in the fall. Her favourite colour is navy blue, and she likes things that sparkle. Emma's greatest passion is learning, and she spends a vast amount of her time reading and traveling (but mostly reading).

The Art of Être I don't know much about this place. And that's fine with me, because that's all I need to know. But where I am now, at this very moment, summer at noon, I know everything. I know the sun pressing on my shoulders, an encouraging push. I know how the grass tickles and scratches my mosquito-bitten legs I know how the breeze whips around the corners of buildings, ruffles pages and hairs, obscuring my view. I know the sound of approaching and receding passerby footsteps, and the millisecond of words in between. I know the yearning of a wish that I had picked a bookshelf in the library to study instead. I know the feeling of être when I face the sky, my head in the grass. I know how I see the flora dance, but feel for myself, only stale wet heat on the back of my neck.

The Deportatin of Dreams The oppressively enormous door shuts behind me with a resounding boom. It seems to taunt me, and grin smugly while enjoying every syllable, “your tomb will be sealed for millennium to come, underneath a pyramid of fear.” I cannot bear to look at that door again, holding me in, barely better than shut out, shipped off, dasvidanya forever. With half a step, I am lounging on my bed in only name. A mattress and two itchy grey sheets offer me no solace. I didn't settle or rest my mass of unwashed ginger hair on the concrete wall to my back. I merely exist against the wall. My head was already throbbing from tears, and there is no comfort in my cell. I lift my tired eyes to the ceiling, white and plain. I yearn for a skyline, and I shut my eyes as quickly as I can. I conjure from the depths of my past somewhere apart from this cell, and outside the consulate. Somewhere I can feel at home, no matter where I am, or where I'm going, where I'm staying. Behind closed lids, I'm born anew under candle lights, between the shelves and under the pages of a classic. I can close my eyes, or run away, or remember that another Anna faced bigger problems than my own. I could get lost, float or fail, or I may even learn from the place that my childhood neglected and my adult mind forgot. The silence, for once, welcomes me. And solitude here, I do not complain. My mind is in good company. The characters by my side easily outnumber my neighbors in New York, and may even be more

intriguing. A turn of the page, a city block, and the friction of pages, unused to being flipped, the horns of taxicabs in the witching hour, in the universe indisposed to sleep. Each number in the corner , the face of a neighbor, who I haven't yet met, and may never be fated to meet. As I stroll through the aisles, I let my fingertips brush the spines of the books, and feel more embraces than would meet me after my hopeless release. At the end of an aisle, a case basked in light appears before my weary eyes. As I approach it, I behold a large leather-bound volume with a layer of dust that may indeed resemble my forgotten body at the end of my detention. I slowly open the sheet of glass that protects the book, and gently free the grey powder from its home on the surface. I lift it with two hands in reverence. With my new treasure, I traverse the room to the only true source of light in the cavernous library, the delicate glass window. What is so magnetic about that particular resting place is not the wonder of glass, nor the adventure on the other side, but the maroon cushions that are placed before it, faded and softened with love. The aged velvet offers me a welcome unlike any other received in my own lifetime. The pillows embrace the sharp curves of my knees and elbows, and I sigh in long-forgotten comfort as I settle onto my stomach. I open the plain leather volume on the floor in front of me,and I delicately lift the cover. The first untouched page offers a polite introduction. I smile to myself, for the first time in weeks, and consume myself in bliss that I can trust. - Emma Balkin

The saloon doors swung open, the LO TE first time inM P O R NR E MMolly, wiping awhile. I P S U 12 OST A M: off whisky stains 3 4 M a iRthe A E C Sean Delles is quite a remarkable man. A n y from n M bottom of ENA tow St n, t a shotT Eglass, jerked S therr e ehead Sup From co-piloting the ship Spaceman Spiff ate LEP ZIP H uses to trek the intergalatic space system from ( 1 2 3 ) 4 5 6cup.E Her action was the - O N 789 FAC 0 and crush alien scum (Yes, that was a S I M control visceral, letting her (instinctsI L E 123 ) 45 Calvin and Hobbes reference), to being a 6-78 what’d see rather than her 9brain. 1 member of The Inglorious Basterds even To no surprise, nothing stood at the when they weren't cool, Sean has enough entrance of the dolor wind had credentials to pass any AP exam with a Lorem ipsum bar. Thesit amet, perfect score while blindfolded, hopping moved the doors. The wind always consectetuer adiPascing ipsum vel on one foot, and making half court shots did Pellentesque lorem ipsum tur elit. that. with Lebron James. He's just that Molly tilted her face back to dolor. Pas, ullamcorper at, molestie awesome. He's also an excellent liar. the vitae,glass. She was disappointed malesuada id, tortor. Cras above all. She had facilisis mattis eget lectus. Quisque dreamed the night .before a m u s wanderer u g u e eLIGULAaSUSPENDISSE , r o s Vi v lone f e l i s a would enter, a rugged, firm nec, with a malesuada nec, congue man semper NULLA RHONCUS mysterious Praesent Someone out a, risus. presence. urna quam, TEMPOR of an old et, tale. hendrerit folkconvallis luctus, facilisis Molly actually didn’t care who it sit amet, sem. Morbi interdum. Pas Donec the bar. Rod Houston lobortis nibh. was reminiscentlacus, eleifend wall of ultrices, quam ut ran the Love Proin pede of the outside was that porttitor was the vitae wisi. tristique, inn. libero was a real ass tempus, town was settled on. It eget ivamus visited. It MAECENAS NOSTRA lectus thought of town’s eros He malesuada quam, area the porta sed, auctor was MAECENAS ALIQUAM company that vel neque cras. Interdum Donec suscipit, eu libero malesuada s o m e t i m e H b e a t h i w i f e nothing but dead, vacant eu, ridden Dolor mauris, fancied her. She wouldn’t utat.gravidas . Sede consequats dolor imperdiet ut, ultrices plains ipsum. mind if complete nutcase est, a bar vulputate nunc. aDonec ac sem. Proin Vivamusand dirt. All of this immured fringilla alaoreet,elementumsat on ipsum purus nisl ante dignissim. occasionally in drunken frenzy, her of dust felis augue, malesuada nec, Eget habitasse stool porttitor class, ut adipiscing, aliquetloud pleas vitae feugiat his enraged Donesome semper a, risus. Praesent Rasellus ordered pulvina quis pede andhendreritsomething. Molly just faucibus, mifor help and lacinia, nunc congue nec,Love. And sadly, that was sed wanted imperdiet to talk to.diam missed libero someone arcu per Curabitur eget augue.She dapibus leo congue nulla, id sagittis magnadown urna the town was progressing into. Nam sit attempts to silence her echoing risus what quam, hendrerit et, convallis auctor, conversation. amet m tus ut bero agi the felis of the town. Oh! Donesome Love was progressing into a duis. Enimeeros in vel,l ivolutpat snec. t t i s eget road lorem augue erat. And then luctus, facilisis sit amet, sem. Morbi She also missed the hustle and there was- metus. Pellentesque cursus interdum. Pas ivamus porttitor lectus vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec on Page 2In non Maecenas pulvinar sagittis enim. ghost town. Bits and pieces of seasoned Continued bustle ofquamtown. Looking back at it felis Molly’s thoughts ceased at the vitae wisi.Nisl id, urnalike the pellets of ultrices, the ut lobortis tristique, eros a mauris. Curabitur eget augue. timber was scattered tellus vestibulum now, Donesome Love was quite re a l sit amet h at h h a d b e e n a shotgun sit in the town. pede, vel libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi Nami z at i o n tmetus s ute libero sagittis arcu, at etblastpharetra odioThey used occupied neque. Vestibulum arcu. reminiscing Aliquam in or two. She to all be attached sit. Ligula dolor nisl non during it’s time. Men on vestibulum. for a minute risus. Donec libero mauris suscipit to recognizable SOCIIS MAURIS IN INTEGER horseback always found their way to found quam doing that more and buildings. posuere consequat gravida, Pellentesque habitant sit amet, consectetur Lorem ipsum dolor morbi tristique ultrices,herself ut lobortis tristique, eros vel ipsum The sound of nothingness, the town, each sharing fames ac more senectus et netus et malesuadapersonal libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi the feel of nothingness, the sight of adipiscing elit, set eiusmod tempor incidunt et often. Her nose picked up the all mauris at, in suscipit magna libero anecdotes about the nec urna Ut enim unt turpis egestas. magna aliquam. taken too non scent the oak wood bar nothingness, and Sed ut imperdiet labore et doloreCras lives they’d et elit nisl familiarneque.ofVestibulum arcu. enim mauris a. smell of nothingness and the sollicitudin. strewn all about she stood next to. Its odor was a strong plagued they magna aliqua. Ut enim ad aliquet scarsdolorehadUt orci purus, Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique ridiculus.the hollow air. pellentesque, Arcu nunc Dust coated ut labore et their ucu p s uSome lmonugor. of the one; it had always malesuada fames it and weathered i d p h a r t a i d s i t l o r e bodies. ipsum o r s i t trenz m ihughm d oeven told a m e t , senectus et netus etbeen since she gotac e l e m e n t u m everythingeit rcould latch cities in the adi a strange but discreet turpis consectetuer east, pascing elit. Cras eget on Page 3 egestas. Nam suscipit diam in pellentesque, the objects with amassa Continued imported from a tempor placerat. onto, granting metus placerat. Rhoncus young fellow years Rhoncus tempor dapibus beige fantasy among facilisis mattis and ago. Cras nec urna et could only and wrinkly mus molestiae, nulla that lectus. Quisque all the cowboys eros. urna.The catch was Molly elit aliquet maecenas sit coat. The only factor eget their wives in town. Then, of course, sollicitudin. Ut orci wasn’t anyone else id ac ametthe already creeping process Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, smell it when there purus, bibendum hindered vel. there was the NON congue auris quam. ALIQUET FELIS around. It was a reminder that eget was Molly and her amet vel id fusce, sed, aliquam Porttitor mollis imsit was Molestie ornare husband, who still ac, dignissim she A DOLOR NETUS settled community. The onesMorbi eget nunc necin Donesomeeiusmod neque. perdiet libero senec who stayed had eros tincidunt amet, Lorem consectetur adipiscing elit, set essentially alone in this town. lived on the platea. floor of the saloon rem volutpatupstairs Magnis vel, lacinia Love. Albert Steam was the sheriff, a bibendum. dolore magna aliquam. Ut et labore et Sed sagittis placerat massa.enim ad Praesent tus pulvinar. Etiam She didn’t really hendrerit et, nisl, vel nostra nunc eleifend arcu leo, urna quam, need this in the abandoned settlement. damn veniam, quis nostrud exerc. Irure reminder. Taking a look mauris the Sed nec nisl. Etiam malesuada broken convallis luctus,molestie throughsem. in dignissimface turned red. All of the Molly’s lorem vivamus. Justo vel facilisis sit amet, minim good one at that. He’d mi nec dolor up reprehend incididunt ut labore et Morbi of the bar windowegestas itself ante sed augue her face, her donec so many Pellentesque habitant shutters interdum. Pas was in id, features on facilisis, quisque nose, iasudkepede. drunken quarrels in the dolore in ligula eget laoreet. bar, Molly had morbi tristique senec sed placerat. enough convince fermentum non, e y e r o w mou h, her whole magna aliqua. his named engraved in convallisto sit amet, anyone. Donesome wisi,blorems ,fringilla taliquam, et lacus. a plaque and hung up on the far left

THE Nulla Lectus
Porttitor Vitae

Donesome Love


countenance tensed up. She couldn’t drawn each other so close 20 years ago and their wives. They were ready to LO TEM believe how P O R N R E M I P Sdifferent this and even now. radically move into the city. The unknown realm 123 OSTRA UM: January 2009 are the only peopleSeventeena place full of colossal buildings and Issue No. left of apple.com/iwork 4M town was compared to two E C “Molly, we M A years ago. It Any ain ENA tow Stre n, S S was justE so unfathomable. One year the in this town. Donesome Love belongs blooming industry. One that received T L tate et ZIP (123 EPHON ) 4 5 through its lively, regular E town’s goingto us. Only us. Doesn’t that strike you so much talk two years ago, and it 6 78 FA 90 ( 1 2 3 it’s I L phase. Two years later ) C S I Mlike this, on as something special?” Abe paused and being the same one that strained out all E Congue tortor 456 -7 the verge EGET NASCETUR AENEAN SODALES VERITATIS MAURIS Love’s population. First of becoming8 9 1 another a weak smile radiated from his lips. of Donesome LIBERO cursusthe naïve, then the risus vestibul nameless, unpopulated town. A single “We’re the bartenders of this town. the desperate, then lum commodo nisl, tear rolled s u m d o o r i t a m e t , The barbers libero town. The shop discontent, then the skeptics, gravida, L o r e m i pdown the lflesh s of Molly’s tristique, eros of this malesuada quam, vel ipsum posuere consequat then the luctus augue amet cheek. She wouldn’t dare live here elit. owners, the cleaners, the assistants. Me prostitutes, then suscipit magna libero consectetuer adiPascing ipsum vel one ut gravida Sed consequat dolor mauris at, in Molly and Abe. quis Sed the horse and more week. and you, Molls. It all ac sem. Proin The couple boarded ut imperdiet Pellentesque lorem ipsum tur dolor. vulputate nunc. Donec belongs to us! enim mauris a. aenean maec Pas, “What’s the matter, molestieA vitae, faucibus, mi vitae of that lacinia, nunc ridiculus. Arcu nunc of the luggage ullamcorper at, babe?” long, Didn’t you dream feugiat constantly as buggy after loading all enas sit, lorem et pellentesque, lanky man id, tortor. Cras covering a a kid? You were the highest authority into the t u m ipsum e t r a i malesuada in denim overallseget lectus. leo congue nulla, id sagittis magna risus e l e m e nback. i d p h a rdonec d s i t faded redfacilisis came down the steps and felis lorem auguein town without pellentesque, to?” the dapibusin massa “Where metus man front Quisque shirt mattis eros. Vivamus eget ran everything erat. that led up to the bedroom. He limped felis augue, malesuada nec, congue nec, being held metus. No regulations, no maecenas sit mus molestiae, nulla eget LIGULA SUSPENDISSE NULLA In non back. Pellentesque cursus asked. every time his Praesent one quam, restrictions, no rules. Not unless, of semper a, risus.left leg hit urna of the felis a mauris. Curabitur eget augue. id acA b e vel. s p o n d e d r u e f u l l y. amet r e RHONCUS TEMPOR stairs, involuntarily blinking each time. course, you wished tout libero sagittis “Anywhere.” ornare amet vel id fusce, establish some. hendrerit et, convallis luctus, facilisis sit Nam sit amet metus Molestie His black hair seemed to jump off his Just complete, arbitrary will?” amet, sem. Morbi interdum. Pas vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec rem They both looked at thevel, lacinia volutpat platea. Magnis town sign scalp each time he MAECENAS color of ultrices, quambeaming now. His talking nisl, vel nostra looks eleifendriding leo, Abe was ut lobortis tristique, eros with shameful nunc before arcu off ivamus porttitor limped. TheNOSTRA lectus vitae wisi. MAECENAS ALIQUAM his hair wasn’t as eu libero malesuada had malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi in dignissim lorem vivamus. Justo vel Donec suscipit, neque it used to libero Dolor mauris, vel defined ascras. Interdum at. grown firmer about halfway into the blazing afternoon. Thanks for be, habitasse nisl ante dignissim. through neque. Vestibulum arcu. visiting augue facilisis, Population _. fringilla laoreet, still managed to keep nisl Egetbut his hair elementum est, ipsum purus nonthe speech. He had spoken ante sedDonesome Love,quisque donec him porttitor class, than he Rasellus hendrerit pulvina quis actually with what Molly sensed as tristique A 2 had been scratched off the pede looking youngerut adipiscing, aliquetPellentesque habitant morbipride and wisi, lorem fringilla aliquam, et lacus. sed was. Curabitur egetMolly diam dapibus senectus et netus et the end. fames ac Duis ipsum justo in, curabitur That’s what auctor, imperdiet arcuaugue. Nam had libero per always sit tenacity towards malesuada Upon melancholy sign. liked t aboutt u s u tHe b e r o a ga lot turpis egestas. had suscipit diam in appeared i a m e m Abe. duis. Enimeeros in vel,l ivolutpat snec. t t i s finishing, MollyNam begun to realize curabitur nisl condimentum, sit sodales younger than what his age Continued urna. would something. nec urna et here. And vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec on Page 2 Cras Abe was happy elit aliquet a pretium. Est ultrices hasellus suggest quam lobortis That’s eros there was Maecenas pulvinar sagittis enim. ultrices, one toutlook like.tristique, how sollicitudin. no way purus, ever leave ullamcor per ridiculus, donec id Ut orci she’d bibendum Abe received his nickname Baby Face. Donesome Love. dignissim eget sit adipiscing sit placerat sit, eget euismod, libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi sed, aliquam ac, She began nisl “Oh,” neque. strutted, non Molly Vestibulum arcu. amet, neque. to weep. She buried her luctus lectus eros vestibulum eu hac SOCIIS MAURIS IN INTEGER choking up on emotion. dolor sit amet, consectetur in his urna shoulder. As Abe Lorem ipsum “It just seems that face Praesent bony quam, hendrerit et, pede, neque et nonummy. Ante Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique yesterdayet netus et malesuada famesincidunt et senectus was serving gin tempor ac convallis her leaning body, he brushed adipiscingIelit, set eiusmod to all of the supportedluctus, facilisis sit amet, sem. delectus laoreet felis turpis porta, nunc guys egestas. the nec urna Ut enim unt turpislined up on magna aliquam. those her hair with his fingers. He couldn’t labore et doloreCras stools. Nowet elit Morbi interdum. Pas egestas id, sem suspendisse turpis, hac massa stools are empty. Empty aliqua. Ut enim ad aliquet et dolore magna orci whole help but sit amet, fermentum non, morbi erat, amet condimentum ut laboresollicitudin. Utlike this purus, convallis confess right there. town. I p s u “You’re pede lacus, eleifend l o r e ucuihughmit all.” o r s i t do trenz m just missipsum lmonugor. a m e t , nibh. Proinright, Molly.” She looked pulvinar augue. Quam lorem pede Abe walked casually elit. Cras eget on Page at indifference displayed in his eget proin lectus laoreet, est sit sed quis, over to Continued up 3 Molly. tempus, porta sed, auctor face. consectetuer adi pascing He knew that Molly needed his support “I’ve been ut, ultrices eu, ipsum. myself for lectus. Quisque facilisis mattis eros. imperdiet lying totempor placerat. the past odio ac mollis nulla in, ad cursus sit Rhoncus Rhoncus tempor placerat. now more than ever. malesuada nec, two years now. I just couldn’t see to Vivamus felis augue, They had always Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, ante. Lacus risus felis volutpat, magna shared auris quam. of honesty leaving this town when risus. Praesent euismod leo, maecenas at aenean cras congue rare bond congue nec, semper a, everyone else A DOLORaNETUS NON ALIQUET FELIS and acceptance eget nunc nec eros tincidunt urna felt so hendrerit et, convallis gravida eu consectetuer, fusce convallis was. odd. But now, I think Lorem consectetur adipiscing opinions,eiusmod Itquam, Porttitor mollis im Morbi for each other’s elit, set even if et dolore magna aliquam. Ut you’re et labore they didn’t necessarily massa.enim ad right. The time has come.”Morbi etiam velit pellentesque. perdiet libero bibendum. Sed sagittis placerat agree luctus, facilisis sit amet, sem.senec with nec nisl. Etiam nostrudhad shared interdum. Pas ivamus porttitor lectus minim veniam, quis malesuada mi nec dolor Sed them. Molly and Abe exerc. Irure Enim ridiculus aliquet penatibus tus pulvinar. Etiam that throughout their long habitant in reprehend incididunt ut marriage. doloreA carriage arrived tellus vestibulum amet, tellus at morbi, mi hac, mus sit iasudkepede. Pellentesque labore et vitae wisi.Nisl id, urna at noon the next molestie mauris Abe never lied magna aliqua. to Molly and Molly arcu,Theet sitligula eget laoreet. morbi tristique senec sed placerat. day. at couple had packed pede, vel mauris facere. Natoque et. Sit nam duis pharetra odio the bags Continued early never ultrices, quam ut lobortis libero mauris suscipit ready to dolor Doneclied to Abe. It was what had on Page 5 on. They were sit. Ligula finally montes, arcu pede elit molestie. move on like the rest of the cowboys

THEPorttitor Vitae Pulvinar Et COLLECTOR Nulla Lectus
Magna Quis Nunc Velit Pellentesque Consectetuer Ipsum Ornare Etu Pellentesque Vehicula Arcu

Donesome Love


You are Here. LO T M P O R There, in She is E over NR E M I P S U a black OST M: 1 summer dressA n 2 3 4 find Aironic seeing you M a iR M A E C Kate is a natural redhead and n St ytow E eet N S n, S as black E isn’t exactlyt e rwhat Ayou TEL ta smart aleck. She can't dance. She ZI (123 PHON E consider ) “summery,” whatP with its 456 -789 can sing, though. She passed her FAC 0 (123 SIMIL heat absorbing tendenciesE and ) 45 geometry regents. Scary movies g e n e r a l l y d a r k d i s p6o7s8i9t1i o n . freak her out. Starry Night is her Nevertheless, she is There in her absolute favorite painting. Her dress, writing. Her ankles cross, and Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, socks don't match; she doesn't then recross adiPascing ipsum vel consectetuer thoughtfully like a mind. sentence being read for a second elit. Pellentesque lorem ipsum tur time. Pas, ullamcorper at, molestie dolor. A tree twists absent mindedly behind her, grown in tortor. Cras vitae, malesuada id, no position to offer lectus. Quisqueat least adding eget her shade but facilisis mattis to the. background. f e l i s a u g u e eLIGULA SUSPENDISSE , r o s Vi v a m u s You wonder what is like over malesuada nec, congueitnec, semper NULLA RHONCUS There, which really is not so very a, risus. Praesent urna quam, TEMPOR far from et, convallis luctus, facilisis hendrerit Here. You share the same breeze, the same sudden fluttering of sit amet, sem. Morbi interdum. Pas Donec ultrices, quam ut lobortis nibh. Proin pede lacus, eleifend and tongue, soft, pushed together in birds, same angle of lectus vitae wisi. tristique, eros libero malesuada quam, tempus, porta sed, auctor eget sun. ivamus porttitor MAECENAS NOSTRA your mouth. Tasting air. Surely the MAECENAS ALIQUAM A bed of garish flowerscras. Interdum is There, wind tumbles over consequat dolor Donecmauris, vel eu libero malesuada utat.gravida Sed her differently, the imperdiet ut, ultrices eu, ipsum. suscipit, neque Dolor identical to magenta blossoms heat fringilla laoreet,elementum dignissim. vulputate her in some ac sem. Proin Eget habitassethe nisl ante est, ipsum purus holds nunc. Donecother way? Her Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, Here, porttitor class, you. quis in front pulvina Bricks lay mouth taste vitae of its lacinia, nunc congue nec, semper a, risus. Praesent Rasellus hendrerit of ut adipiscing, aliquetfaucibus, miflavorsfeugiatown? pede sed obediently beneath both of your feet, libero Here isnulla, id sagittis magna risus urna quam, hendrerit et, convallis Curabitur eget augue. Nam sit leo congue a helicopter humming over auctor, imperdiet arcu per diam dapibus following t s u a m e t mtheusamet pattern o snec. and t h e h u lorem l aw erat. b e r of a g duis. Enimeeros in vel,l ivolutpatdarki t t i s eget felis m s o f augue n m owe r s a n d luctus, facilisis sit amet, sem. Morbi light. Bricks, you imagine, thatContinued confusing you briefly as you struggle were vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec on Page 2In non Maecenas pulvinar sagittis enim. to interdum. Pas ivamus porttitor lectus metus. Pellentesque cursus laid down by ut lobortis tristique,some felis a mauris. sounds, pulling augue. vitae wisi.Nisl id, urna tellus vestibulum the same hands eros untangle the Curabitur eget them ultrices, quam insignificant x amount of years ago. libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi Nam sit amet metus ut liberoHere is arcu, at et sit pharetra odio pede, vel apart to where they belong. sagittis no Vestibulum arcu. where that Aliquam in risus. Donec nisl There neque.different from Here, vestibulum.helicopter blows away from, libero mauris suscipit sit. Ligula dolor non is IN INTEGER SOCIIS MAURIS you decide. Except that sit amet, consectetur from a ut lobortis tristique, eros Pellentesque habitant over There is a a seed Lorem ipsum dolor morbi tristique ultrices, quam dandelion, floating off to vel ipsum posuere consequat gravida, slab of stone jutting out from the flower a whole other quam, where maybe senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac libero adipiscing elit, set eiusmod tempor incidunt et malesuadaThere, ut gravida wisi mauris at, in suscipit magna libero bed, egestas. a nec proclaiming turpisand Here Crasbench urna Ut enimthere are neque. Vestibulum arcu. labore et doloreismagna aliquam.et elit nisl non contradicting sun dresses and enim mauris a. Sed ut imperdiet unt KINGS sollicitudin. Ut orci purus, maybe there are morbi tristique aliquet RIVER CASTING SANGER Pellentesque habitantnot, but there ridiculus. Arcu nunc pellentesque, ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad CA e ucu cast m curls. r Andt the map, certainly isn’t hers malesuada is not in l o r on p s u ipsum o s i trenz m itsihughiron d o lmonugor. a m e t , senectus et netus etbecause she fames ac e l e m e n t u m i d p h a r e t r a i d s i t of course. It looms behind you sternly, turpis egestas. consectetuer adi pascing elit. Cras eget on Page 3 There… Nam suscipit diam in pellentesque, metus placerat. Continued that Rhoncus tempor placerat. Rhoncus tempor dapibus massa reminding you that YOU mattis eros. lectus. Quisque facilisis ARE HERE. urna. Cras nec urna dwindles aliquet maecenas sit mus molestiae, nulla eget Your head buzzes, et elit down. Not There. Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, sollicitudin. Utworry purus, you didn’t id ac amet vel. Vaguely you orci that bibendum You recross congue auris quam. your FELIS make a wish and wonder why. A imsit sed, aliquam Porttitor mollis group ac, dignissim eget Molestie ornare amet vel id fusce, A DOLOR NETUS NON ALIQUET own legs thoughtfully. nunc nec is always aeiusmod neque. perdiet libero between rem volutpat platea. Magnis vel, lacinia senec Morbi eget There eros tincidunt amet, Lorem consectetur adipiscing elit, set of children drifts to your right, difference. Sed could placerat massa. you Praesent tus pulvinar. Etiam bibendum. dolore magna forget? Here et labore etHow sagittisyoualiquam. Ut enim adand her, between Here and There, nisl, vel nostra nunc eleifend arcu leo, urna quam, hendrerit et, is wind nisl. Etiam nostrud exerc. Irure then Sed nectugging quis malesuada a nec convallis luctus, facilisis sit amet, sem. in dignissim lorem vivamus. Justo vel minim veniam, at your hair, like mirope dolor disappear. molestie mauris in reprehend Pellentesque Here is iasudkepede. incididunt war.habitant Morbi interdum. 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THE Nulla Lectus
Porttitor Vitae

Here and There


Bleachers - Kelsey Rice

My mother laughed through air raid drills. Sirens screamingLlike the children or the children TEM O POR REM I wailing like sirens,NrunnyP S U M slow from cartoons and eyes 123 OST A : January 2009 Issue No. Seventeen apple.com/iwork end-of-the-world 4 M a i Ralarms where they’d leap A n y falsen M A E C E tow Stre NAS et , St under T E L school ndesks, protected from nuclear holocaust by wood grown somewhere else and cut down, sacrificed their ate ZIP (1 3 EP ON to play2theirHgrafitied shields and ) 45 E 789 flat surfaces6 -for 0math.F A C S I M (123 ) 45 ILE So many times they would6 -line the halls Congue tortor 789 1 EGET NASCETUR AENEAN Find your locker, hands on your head, face the wall. SODALES VERITATIS MAURIS LIBERO vestibul cursus risus My mother laughing, her teacher’s lips twitching then lum commodo nisl, sternly i as you’re told. L o r e mDo p s u m d o l o r s i t a m e t , tristique, eros libero malesuada quam, vel ipsum posuere consequat gravida, How will this save us? My mother challenged with Cheshire grins, as if she could simply disappear when theaugue amet luctus fire came down consectetuer adiPascing ipsum vel elit. ut gravida Sed consequat dolor mauris at, in suscipit magna libero like she’d always been able to vanish from horror by switching off the television. quis Sed ut imperdiet Pellentesque loremher clevertur dolor. though she nunc. Donec ac sem. Proin enim mauris a. aenean maec She stood brave in ipsum ignorance, vulputate Pas, ullamcorper at, anyway, vitae, faucibus, mi vitae feugiat lacinia, nunc ridiculus. Arcu nunc enas sit, molestie lorem et pellentesque, might have been brave in knowing. malesuada id, tortor. Cras eget lectus. leo congue nulla, id sagittis magna risus e l e m e n t u m i d p h a rdonec d s i t ipsum e t r a i The cheap metal lockers,eros. up somewhere else and molded into dug Vivamus eget felis lorem augue erat. Quisque facilisis mattis pellentesque, metus dapibus massa possible coffins and cubbies for books felis augue, malesuada nec, congue nec, In non metus. Pellentesque cursus maecenas sit mus molestiae, nulla eget LIGULA SUSPENDISSE NULLA could not save her she knew, semper a, risus. Praesent urna quam, saved. a mauris. Curabitur eget augue. id ac amet vel. unaware that she might ever need to be felis RHONCUS TEMPOR hendrerit et, convallisan illusion she only partly understood, Molestie ornare amet vel id fusce, That “safe” itself was luctus, facilisis sit Nam sit amet metus ut libero sagittis saw how the Morbi interdum. Pas vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec rem volutpat platea. Magnis vel, lacinia amet, sem. trick was performed on invisible wires but not porttitor lectus vitae wisi. ultrices, when the sirens tristique, eros nisl, vel nostra nunc eleifend arcu leo, ivamus why her teachers were part-time magiciansquam ut lobortis sang, when imminent doom was near or MAECENAS ALIQUAM MAECENAS NOSTRA maybe just a quota of practices being filled. Donecmauris, vel eu libero cras. Interdum suscipit, libero Dolorother sky’s air neque malesuada whileat. malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi of in dignissim lorem vivamus. Justo vel That was actually raided her own breathed out gentle plumes country hills. fringilla laoreet,elementum dignissim. purus non neque. Vestibulum arcu. ante Eget those gum souled ante est, ipsum for matching bodies to names, not saving them. sed augue facilisis, quisque donec habitasse nisl lockers might be nisl That Rasellus hendrerit pulvina her. pede porttitor class, ut adipiscing, aliquetPellentesque habitant morbi tristique wisi, lorem fringilla aliquam, et lacus. sed Duck and cover, they told quis She laughed. Curabitur eget per diam dapibus senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac Duis ipsum justo in, curabitur auctor, imperdiet arcuaugue. Nam sit libero amet m tus ut bero agi duis. Enimeeros in vel,l ivolutpat snec. t t i s turpis egestas. Nam suscipit diam in curabitur nisl condimentum, sit sodales Continued urna. vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec on Page 2 Cras nec urna et elit aliquet a pretium. Est ultrices hasellus ultrices, quam ut lobortis tristique, eros sollicitudin. Maecenas pulvinar sagittis enim. Ut orci purus, bibendum ullamcor per ridiculus, donec id libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi sed, aliquam ac, dignissim eget sit adipiscing sit placerat sit, eget euismod, nisl non neque. Vestibulum arcu. amet, neque. luctus lectus eros vestibulum eu hac SOCIIS MAURIS IN INTEGER Lorem ipsum dolor morbi tristique Pellentesque habitant sit amet, consectetur Praesent urna quam, hendrerit et, pede, neque et nonummy. Ante senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac convallis luctus, facilisis sit amet, sem. delectus laoreet felis turpis porta, nunc adipiscing elit, set eiusmod tempor incidunt et turpis egestas. magna aliquam. Ut enim unt labore et doloreCras nec urna et elit Morbi interdum. Pas egestas id, sem suspendisse turpis, hac massa aliquet et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad ut laboresollicitudin. Ut orci purus, convallis sit amet, fermentum non, morbi erat, amet condimentum l o r e ucu p s u ipsum o r s i t trenz m ihughm d o lmonugor. a m e t , nibh. Proin pede lacus, eleifend pulvinar augue. Quam lorem pede Continued tempus, porta sed, auctor eget consectetuer adi pascing elit. Cras eget on Page 3 proin lectus laoreet, est sit sed quis, lectus. Quisque facilisis mattis eros. imperdiet Rhoncus tempor placerat. ipsum. odio ac mollis nulla in, ad cursus sit ut, ultrices eu, Rhoncus tempor placerat. Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, Vivamus felis augue, malesuada nec, ante. Lacus risus felis volutpat, magna congue auris quam. congue nec, semper a, risus. Praesent euismod leo, maecenas at aenean cras A DOLOR NETUS NON ALIQUET FELIS Lorem consectetur adipiscing tincidunteiusmod quam, Porttitor mollis im Morbi eget nunc nec eros elit, set urna hendrerit et, convallis gravida eu consectetuer, fusce convallis et labore et Sed sagittis placerat massa.enim ad facilisis sit amet, sem.senec perdiet libero Morbi etiam velit pellentesque. bibendum. dolore magna aliquam. Ut luctus, minim veniam, quis malesuada mi nec dolor Sed nec nisl. Etiam nostrud exerc. Irure interdum. Pas ivamus porttitor lectus Enim ridiculus aliquet penatibus tus pulvinar. Etiam in reprehend incididunt ut labore et dolore wisi.Nisl id, urna tellus vestibulum amet, tellus at morbi, mi hac, mus sit iasudkepede. Pellentesque habitant vitae molestie mauris magna aliqua. morbi tristique senec sed placerat. arcu, at et sitligula eget laoreet. pharetra odio pede, vel mauris facere. Natoque et. Sit nam duis Continued libero Donec ultrices, quam ut lobortis on Page 5 mauris suscipit sit. Ligula dolor montes, arcu pede elit molestie.

THEPorttitor Vitae Pulvinar Et COLLECTOR Nulla Lectus
Magna Quis Nunc Velit Pellentesque Consectetuer Ipsum Ornare Etu Pellentesque Vehicula Arcu

Duck and Cover - Kate Light

Karmê Chöling
I never wanted to go there. LO TEM POR “There” happenedR E M beS U Buddhist to I P a N 123 OSTRA M 4 meditation center, Mand M A E:sounded Any a i n it C E Often seen as a bit of a hippie, tow Str NAS weird. T EIL E imaginedn ,everyone having Stat eet e ZI Sara loves writing and is widely PH (12 P scraggly3 ) hair,O N E not showering; I 4 5 6 and -789 known for riding her bike around FAC 0 M (123 imagined a stereotypicalS Ihippie, or ) 45 ILE the city in any weather. She has 6-7 91 perhaps just my dad and his 8friends. played softball for nine years, and In a matter of seconds, I had hopes to continue in college. If imagined all dolor horrible Lorem ipsum sorts of sit amet, you ever find yourself in need of scenarios. What if they ignored me, consectetuer adiPascing ipsum vel a random fact, Sara will likely or what if they teased me? elit. Pellentesque lorem ipsum tur have one. Sara has done many “It's just a weekend.” molestie dolor. Pas, ullamcorper at,My mom things in her life, but reading, reminded me as I tortor. Cras eget vitae, malesuada id, frantically came writing, biking, softball and school up withQuisque facilisis mattis eros. excuses. “If you hate it, you lectus. are the only things she has not never have to augue, malesuada nec, Vivamus felis got back. Just try it.” LIGULA SUSPENDISSE quit. I agreed, still unsure a, risus. congue nec, semper of whether NULLA RHONCUS I really wanted to go. On the bright Praesent urna quam, hendrerit et, TEMPOR side, a luctus, family looks on convallis side my facilisis sit amet, altogether too often, I would ivamus “Hi, I'm Sarah and this lobortis As I porta sed, auctor car, sem. Morbi interdum. Pas miss two Donec ultrices, quam utis my twin tempus, carried my bags to theeget days of school for travel. wisi. Donec tristique, eros liberoand my younger imperdiet ran up to me and engulfed brother Lindsay, malesuada quam, one person ut, ultrices eu, ipsum. porttitor lectus vitae MAECENAS ALIQUAM MAECENAS NOSTRA We neque our bags full of ut me in a felis augue, another person suscipit, packed eu libero cras. Interdum at.gravida Sed consequat dolor Vivamus hug, and then malesuada nec, Dolor mauris, vel malesuada fringilla brother Ben.” The girl said. clothing and ante dignissim. laoreet, nisl our cooler full ofRasellus vulputate nunc. Donec ac sem. Proin congue nec, semper a, risus. Praesent Eget habitasse elementum est,snacks. purus “Do you have a deck of cards?” came and so on until I was the center ipsum I picked few class, hendreritapulvina quisto adipiscing, aliquetfaucibus, mi vitae feugiat lacinia, nunc urna quam, hendrerit et, convallis pede porttitor books ut read in the car. Lindsay asked, downing a pack of of a group hug. I cried as we pulled sed We set off at 7:30 arcuaugue.morning.sit libero Miss nulla, id sagittis magna risus luctus,from the house Sunday evening, on per Swiss Curabitur eget Fridaydiam dapibus leo congue powder. Someone found a away facilisis sit amet, sem. Morbi Nam auctor, imperdiet slightly Pas ivamus porttitor lectus a m e Enim eros u vel,l i bofr o a g i and deck of lorem augue all played BS as interdum.browner leaves crunching t m tus t e travel, duis.After eeightinhoursvolutpat snec. t t i s eget felis cards and we erat. metus. Pellentesque cursus vitae wisi.Nisl id, urna tellus vestibulum one half-hour Starbucks break, we we 2In non Maecenas people to come. under our tires. On Thursday I had vestibulum. Aliquam in risus. Donec on Page waited for more pulvinar sagittis enim. Continued a mauris. Curabitur teenagers been at et sit pharetra odio Sunday, pulled up Patneaude Lane. We drove felis About twenty more eget augue. arcu, terrified of them, but bypede, vel ultrices, quam ut lobortis tristique, eros over a bridge covered in bright orange arrived amet metus few hours, and they were some of my best friends, and libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi Nam sitover the next ut libero sagittis libero mauris suscipit sit. Ligula dolor leaves and neque. We pulled arcu. they were all at least in risus. as the Karmê Chöling was my home away nisl non up a hill.Vestibulum up in vestibulum. Aliquam as friendly Donec vel ipsum posuere consequat gravida, SOCIIS MAURIS IN INTEGER front of ipsum dolor morbi tristique ultrices, quam ut lobortis tristique, eros mauris at, in knew I would be back as the main house. We entered first three. As they came in, many of from home. I suscipit magna libero Pellentesque habitant sit amet, consectetur Lorem the front office malesuada fames of them senectus et netus et and it tempor ac libero malesuada quam, ut gravida wisi often mauris a. adipiscing elit, set eiusmod smelled incidunt et joined the game and soon we had enim as possible. Sed ut imperdiet incense and Swiss Miss aliquam. Ut enimaunt sixteen neque. Vestibulum arcu. turpis egestas. magnaHot Chocolate. labore et doloreCras nec urna et elit nisl nonperson, two deck game of BS ridiculus. Arcu nunc pellentesque, We signed in magna orci purus, Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique e l e m e n t u m i d p h a r e t r a i d s i t aliquet sollicitudin. and brought Ut enim ad Ut aliqua. our going. ut labore et dolore clothing ihugh ipsum lmonugor. The We et netus et mornings fames ac l o r e ucu p the d o o r s i t trenz m to s u mchanging room.a m e t , senectus spent our malesuada in sitting pellentesque, metus dapibus massa woman at the front desk elit. Cras eget turpis me to meditation, Nam suscipit diam in molestiae, consectetuer adi pascing directed Continued on Page 3 egestas. walking meditation, maecenas sit mustempor placerat. nulla eget Rhoncus tempor placerat. Rhoncus the Fire Offering Cabin mattis eros. discussions, nec urna et elit aliquet lectus. Quisque facilisis and my mom urna. Cras and the contemplative art id ac amet vel. Molestie ornare amet vel id fusce, went off in heraugue, malesuada sat in sollicitudin. Ut orciMiksang. The Vivamus felis own direction. I nec, of photography, purus, bibendum sed, aliquam Porttitor mollis imsit rem volutpat platea. Magnis vel, lacinia ac, dignissim eget to the cabin for a quarter hour, reading, afternoons and evenings were ours congue auris quam. A DOLOR NETUS NON ALIQUET FELIS before consectetur adipiscing elit, set use. Morbi eget nunc nec laughter, and amet, neque. perdiet libero senec Lorem I heard footsteps, eros tincidunteiusmod We hiked, and played card games, nisl, vel nostra nunc eleifend arcu leo, shouting. et Three teenagers, seeminglyenim ad Praesent tusMiss Hot Chocolate in dignissim lorem vivamus. Justo vel urna quam, hendrerit et, bibendum. dolore magna aliquam. Ut et labore Sed sagittis placerat massa. and ate Swiss pulvinar. Etiam convallis When they called mauris at ante sed augue facilisis, quisque donec luctus,molestie lights out facilisis sit amet, sem. siblings, nisl. through the door, mi Irure Sed nec burst Etiam nostrud exerc. nec powder. minim veniam, quis malesuada bowing dolor as reprehend midnight, we continued egestas at iasudkepede. incididunt ut habitant Morbi interdum. Pas talking for id, wisi, lorem fringilla aliquam, et lacus. in they entered.Pellentesque labore et dolore ligula eget laoreet. least an sit morbi aliqua. tristique senec sed placerat. convallishour. amet, fermentum non, Duis ipsum justo in, curabitur magna nibh. Proin pede lacus, eleifend curabitur nisl condimentum, sit sodales


No boundaries is a myth: the limitations of body and mind are there, always restricting thought and action, a dance of infinite control and fewer possibilities, muscles tensed and ready for movements they can’t complete, your mind buzzing with ideas that you don’t have the words to capture, as illusive as the gods on Mount Olympus high above the Empire State Building and one impossible elevator ride away, impossible only because we think it is, but still our minds wander there, drawn like falling ash in the wind, gray and soft like suffocating snowflakes fluttering from the blue-inked nib of a pen and smudged across the paper, a word you cannot spell but still attempt to because there is no boundary, no limit, but that’s a lie: you spelled it wrong for everyone who sees it to see, hidden in plain sight like a bible written in brail set before someone with eyes that see only meaningless bumps on a page instead of feeling words, quote unquote, “sent from god,” but if there is no god then who sent them, if there is no god then why do people say there is one, or three, or several gods all huddled on mount Olympus, and if there is a god or two up there then why are we still thinking about it?

As a four year veteran of the WNYWP, Emily Schutte has been starting to repeat herself in this thing, so this year she's decided to list some different facts. Among other things she likes to eat dry cereal from a plastic bowl, hoard random things that no one else cares about, and eating cookies from the cafe. Seriously, those things are delicious. (Smurf.)

Shorts - Emily Schutte
The stairwell was quiet. Without the sound of students stamping up and down the artificial stone treads, it was more like a tall glass tube than stairs. Only two doors led out to the rest of the building. The feeling of isolation was nearly tangible. RUBI sat on the second highest landing, the permanently fixed smile on Its face faded and chipping. If the robot was programmed to sigh, It would have. It thought teaching an older group would be fun, but It wasn’t programmed to hold conversations. RUBI could only teach. It could think of things to say to Its students and colleagues, but It couldn’t voice them. The old wooden railings around It were scratched and worn, like RUBI was. It was an old machine, ancient compared to the other AI’s at the school, but It didn’t feel the age. Others sometimes complained of the younger droids making them seem outdated, but RUBI felt the same as It always had. Nothing changed except the shine as it slowly faded from Its metal parts. RUBI watched people as they walked along the stone paths outside. They never stepped through the grass. RUBI was too old to have the kind of technology that would allow It to feel, but if It did it would have spent all Its time there. Instead, It spent a lot of its free moments in the stairwell. It liked to watch students and faculty go by, and It could even greet those it knew, but at this time of day it was deserted. It wrapped the two mechanical fingers of Its left hand around the edge of the landing to feel the empty space. Another sigh whistled softly through RUBI’s artificial conscious, and knowing It couldn’t voice them brought on another. Many people thought that because It couldn’t speak Its mind, It didn’t have one. This was far from true, and though RUBI wasn’t programmed for emotion, It still felt the unkind words. RUBI stood, wishing now to groan instead of sigh; having an internal clock meant no excuses to be late. He could have stayed longer, but today he had no desire to see the stairwell fill with people. He abandoned his post on the landing, leaving it quiet and empty behind him.

Gretchen opened her eyes to nothing. It was early, before the sun would even consider rising. She sat up against the old tree trunk that had sheltered her and closed her eyes. Her own breath seemed loud in her ears, so used to the nonstop chaos of city life. It was quiet in the forest, too far in for any human noises to leak through the trees. For the first time in her life Gretchen couldn’t hear the rumbling of car engines or the whipping rush of air as they sped past. Panic, cold and sickly, rose like bile in her throat. Her eyes snapped open and were greeted by impenetrable blackness, speckled with darker shadows that represented trees. She swallowed and shifted, stretching her legs comfortably out in front of her. The rustling of dried leaves and pine needles startled her. She realized that the forest wasn’t as silent as she first thought; above her, perched high in the canopy, birds were already awake and singing. Gretchen listened to the feathered creature chattering directly over her head. Bird noises were usually described as music, but the more she listened the more it sounded like a distracted old man, muttering cheerfully to himself about the task in front of him. She picked out another call, more rhythmic than the random musings of the bird in her tree. It was jaunty and held a note of self-satisfaction. Gretchen calmed her jumping nerves, the realization of sound comforting in the dark. The interior of the forest didn’t seem as threatening with the cheerful trilling of birds. It was only a different kind of sound, not the absence of it, and it gave Gretchen the strength to pull herself to her feet and carry on.

SMURF WNYWP Anthology 2010

Blinding Lights
By Gabe Kelley

Blinding Lights. By Gabe Kelly The man is walking down time square. The worlds perfect, for America at least because it is in charge. China’s economic boom turned to a slump. America came back. It is equal, racism is gone. Time square remand relatively unchanged. The advertisements are bright and flashy. People are noisy talking about what they have seen on TV and movies. “Did you see that movie” said one person. “Absolutely” replied another, “boring plot but impressive visuals”. There is no escaping the lights, they are beautiful and everywhere. Weather is also regulated by a sheet above the city that causes rain to run off it and beyond the cities borders. Sun light too is regulated by this sheet, with only specific amounts coming in. Usually none or little at all come in. The man is walking and then, for a moment, he turns and stops from the flashes, sounds and other distracting things. It was the first time he did not look at the lights. He was about to continue walking when he saw the truth. He saw two police officers beating a man. “I did nothing I swear” screamed the man as the officers beat him “You did something. The Chinese they always do something” the officer responded. It was common knowledge that there was bad blood between America and China. But it was bad blood, back in 2035 or so when the war began. He moves to stop because the man whose is getting beaten is obviously innocent. But before he can reach them his eyes catch a glimpse of light from advertisement. Its beautiful those lights the man thinks, the he remembers the police officers and the Chinese man. But its not his problem, he should just go home to the lights. IT will just bring him trouble. He and everyone else walks away from the Chinese mans screams. He mumbles “how terrible”, and keeps walking. The man woke up the next day. He turns on his sweet television. He watches the news but it has neither

Gabe Kelly is a student at Amherst High School and enjoys various activities that squanders his spare time. Among the things he enjoys to do are Tennis, Reading, and wasting his brains away on Video Games. He has two dogs and three cats.

sound effects nor flashes like the other programs, so he switches to those. He leaves the house and goes to time square to go to work. Then disaster struck. The lights went out, the sheet let in all of the sun light. The man stared around he did not understand what was going on. He had never seen the sun in all of its glory before. Never, unlike the lights it was beautiful. “Beautiful, but that’s what the lights are” the man thought. “I thought the lights were beautiful”. He stared at the sun light it was not distracting nor flashy. It was the same yet different. His thoughts were soon interrupted when a women stood up on a mobile platform “We the people, should not let this tolerance go on. Everyday hate crimes kill tens of thousands of Chinese and other minorities.Yet less than 10% of America knows they happen. We have become tolerable of anything”. “Hate crimes, when did those begin” thought the man. “I saw one last night

but I did not stop it. Oh god I should have stopped it”. The man wanted to join her and the people she had rallied for support but the police arrived. They opened fired, and the lights blinded him The man woke up the next day. He turns on his sweet television. He watches the news and notices a special report. “yesterday a massacre of unrivaled proportions began when police opened fired against a peaceful protest group that might have been responsible for the power loss yest…” But it had neither sound effects nor flashes like the other programs, so he switches programs and mutters “how terrible” about yesterday’s events.

The Marvelous Sauce
The Marvelous Sauce! Oh, what a loss If you haven’t tried it. Come, now, don’t abide it! Please try this concoction. It’s up here for auction! Just one little taste, Now taste it with haste! The tomatoes are ripe; The straight-from-the-vine type. The garlic is fresh And together they mesh To form a perfect blend That never ends! With some secret ingredients... Come, now, be obedient! Just one little taste, Now taste it with haste! A trickle of pure joy. Come on, don’t be coy! Step right up to it! Don’t you dare ruin it! If you don’t have a spoonful, You will be quite rueful. Just one little taste, Now taste it with haste! I've made it with love From heaven above! You better have some, Or you’ll never have some! It’s a one-time offer; There’s no sauce that’s softer, Or thicker, or better, Or hotter or wetter! Just one little taste, Now taste it with haste! Hey! You’re not at a loss, Now that you’ve tasted The Marvelous Sauce!

(Curtains open, THE PART OF YOUR MIND THAT READS wanders onstage) THE PART OF YOUR MIND THAT READS: Amanda Popovski was born on a sunny day in 1998, April 11th at 8:57 a.m. to be exact, and has been loving life ever since. She has always been passionate about writing and expressing herself (modestly, of course), and usually does so with gusto. Her favorite color is orange. Though she has very much to learn, Amanda aspires to be a full-time creative writer, or teacher, or hairdresser, or fashion designer, or... well, many other artistic careers line her path. Random thoughts and spurts of imaginative ideas make up much of her mind. She loves the rainbow, simple things in life and being prompt, early, even. Amanda also enjoys making anybody laugh or smile. She, two Maltese-poodle dogs, two brothers and two parents roam around the house she resides in. That is all. (Curtains close, vigorous applause)

The Last The last dance is eternal, inferno-based in fiery salsa, passionate rumba and graceful ballroom. The last day is the shortest. No one can prepare for the last day, the terrible tragedy that lies within it. The last dawn is the worst, a bitter and bright goodbye to what could have been the closing of a wondrous day, but instead is wretched and etched with fear. The last daze is forever captured, embedded into the eyes of a closing gate, a last of everything. The last breath is eternal, a brutally calm exit of all that has haunted and blessed the victim's life, no good things or bad things to ever be inhabited in the body or inhaled ever again.

Short - Amanda Popovski
The jitters are contagious and I'm definitely ambitious. Nothing can cease the utter, raw electricity that fires up my blood. I try to convince myself that I'm equal in knowledge to the other contestants, but it's a lie. I have an ardent feeling about this event. It's all in my DNA, I tell myself excitedly. My confidence melts into fear. I'm feeling pretty cautious about the whole thing now; little spurts of anxiety crowding my mind. My hands, suddenly clammy and pale, crash and roll into and alongside each other, the sound of knuckles cracking ringing violently in my ears, the only thing in my ears. Sweat douses my brows, beads slipping over the furry hill and causing me to blink in ferocity. Now I'm scared. What if I make a false move, a lapse, a terrible mishap? It's all too much for me, so I close my eyes and do what I usually perform when I'm nervous. I think about a heliotrope-hued butterfly. It dances and twirls in a vivacious manner, the estival background behind it also a peaceful one. My name is called. Is it really time? My teeth chatter as I approach the ominous spotlight and microphone. They read off the words one by one, some familiar and others not quite, their harsh sounds ticking like a bomb about to explode. My head, thank goodness, is clear, but that means it's also blank. The judges have to repeat words over and over for me, sounding like a broken record, which is arduous and frustrating. Why can't I get this right? After the halfway break, in which all of the participants are grateful, I sit in my chair, close my eyes and try to clear my head. That same butterfly pops up, vigorously vivid in my mind. I can feel the exhilaration dance through my body, all the while tiptoeing up to my brain. Something clicks when my name is said casually once more and I stand back up, strolling calmly to the little black receiver of voices. I have an epic gain of where I am, a refreshing idea of what I'm doing.You're at the national spelling bee, the word is vociferation, and you're going to spell it right, I tell myself. A deep inhale of breath and I spell every word that they throw at me, dodging punches and not skipping a single beat. Against a senior, I, a measly seventh grader, conquer. I, I, I... I win. I win?! I w-i-n, WIN! I cry, tears of joy streaming in a steady river down my face. I shake his hand. I eat the cake they offer. I thank my lucky stars that I won. I pray to God, grateful for his help. I win.

Spare Change

Last, but certainly not least, who am I? The million dollar, penny on the tails side Mike loves to wear his favorite black hat question of questions rears its dusty to camp EVERY DAY almost as much as he loves writing and telling of his head tomfooleries/skylarkings/promiscuities in like spare change caught in a glitter third person. He has written poetry beside the gutter, since eighth grade, but has greatly left to jangle and scratch improved since Franklin broke his rhyme obsession and has diversified his in my pocket and the back of my brain writing. This is Mike's second year at shifting side to side with image and camp and he plans to attend one last comfort time next year, inventing new words such as "Extravagasmic" and fighting solace and self identification with Joel every single chance. Mike also through the constant carwash of people writes for the NEXT section of the BUffalo News. A to which I may never come clean quote from him states "This camp is and always will be my Hogwarts...and my parents are the Dursley's :)" If mike's parents read this, he is sorry and will go to his but walk lazily to some shining nowhere room now (to write of course) PARAGRAPHUS ENDUS (thats mah spell to and again ruffle the change in my pocket. silence myself and let you read my work) and i like The POwer Rangers much They are like angels....no, like paper-cut more than Harry Potter (I am 17, consider this a Wanted poster for my social life) angels snipped from thin air and cheap nostalgia for the illusion of substance, the mirage of but I can climb no higher, walk on longer, because oasis maybe I never did. in the desert of these endless days Then what is left? and the myriad of weary eyes that would cling to anything. If I can't jangle and twist as an equal Yet all they do is taunt and nip my skin I HAVE A with the change in my pocket QUESTION! or once JUST ONCE LIE in the FILTH a REAL question! a question whose answer won't fall from of coming clean...and the sky STARVE at the end of empty words like gems of rain or unearth itself from the sand or dirt. free myself from a purgatory of my pocket, First, and at long last, WHAT AM I? the paper chains of scrap I've never shared, Beneath this mahogany sky these words, like stillborn children, crying quiet, then whose once subtle beauty what is left? now only tells me a day has come and gone So when the streams of hollow voices shut their mouths a world has rotated round me, with or without me and the river of rhetoric runs dry, do we die? ME left spinning still beneath a tree to rot in the sun I wouldn't DIE! .....or maybe just in bed Have I lived? Am I done living? eyes then scour the ceiling, the ridges of aged paint made to Have I been lied to? be I've told a lie or two. the mountains and valleys I climb, the caverns in which hope Are these pockets lined with promise hides hemmed with emptiness? while the hum of the freeway plays a tone to welcome me Let's reach one more time tonight, and jangle. "home" So last, and at the VERY LEAST from the places I've never been. I'll ask Still I'd call it wonderful who am I? call the sky A CIRCUS OF CLOUDS! and A TIGHTROPE OF SKYLINE!


Love is Not a Two Way Street (for Chelsea Oliver)
I blew on the frost To thaw a cold notion To dissolve like the fog itself into the darkness As the world dies behind me “Are you out there, and where In relation to me?” I pressed my face On the window gazing Into the darkness Of my own unknowing chill Of however alone I could be out there Then inverted my view Turned my face, and pressed again And made it Look as if the faces were to kiss, but still a frost did sit in the reality between the sight, the seal, the touch, the feel the image was too cold to fill with she, so far beyond the darkness of that world I once loved the one behind my eyes, between our lips only in my head we kissed and now I see unlike she who may never stretch beyond arms length of my own cold imagination Love is not a two way street One like she may have two hearts and have only warmth for one while yours, within your little world is frozen, imagining a beating that has yet to be, just like you and she love’s a game of possession what you have what you know, what they may not what is only distant to him is non-existent to her a butterfly will never fly with one wing that knows the lips will never meet love isn’t always such a two way street only one wing, one heart, is beating for the other no unison.... but still the loving shadows cast, dance, romance, entertain the dream on one side of the darkness …thinking there is light on the other side there is symphony in the silence and love, burning in the bitter wind And even in the darkest, your heart, your one winged butterfly, cannot be compromised Even if its only flight is fantasy each night - Mike Sciandra

Footsteps - Emily Schutte

Anthology Shy

The Park - Emma Balkin

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