Flash frozen in the mind of a man who was driving home from a very late night of something like
drinking or arguing or making love is the image of a slight girl with angular movements walking side-by-side with a boy whose loose gait screamed of athleticism. They might have been lovely in some other time or in some other place, but on that road, they looked like martyrs unaware and exposed. In a moment he had passed and his headlights fell only on a road and the yellow line.
Eddie Willers
Autumn's Breath
Autumn, I mouthed the word as I sat down and leaned against the gravestone. For today was certainly an autumn day. There had been many fall days over the last few weeks, with their nagging rains and icy breaths, but very few true autumn days. It really is a shame that autumn is so shy. The other seasons lord over their months like toddlers that always needs to be the center of attention. But autumn prefers to perform rarely and with a quiet, majestic dignity.
Don't get me wrong, winter is an admirable poet, able to expose the beauty in melancholy without compromising the melancholy itself. Spring is a brilliant mother, wholehearted in its dedication to righting the world for its children. Summer is a profligate retiree who's earned its right to gorge on all of the excesses of life. But Autumn is something different. Autumn cannot be summed up so simply.
Autumn is the sage old voice that silently calls you outside in your sweatshirt to marvel at its bright skies, cirrus clouds, and brilliant colors. It invites you to bring a book, or take a walk, or a nap, and it lures you with a flavor that no one with any warmth can resist. It leads you down lonely streets at night and lights your way with the nostalgic glow of jack-a-lanterns. It leads you back with a sky so bright with stars you can almost hear them over the peaceful song of falling leaves.
As far as I know, I was the only person in the graveyard at the time. And there weren't any homes for miles around. But every time the wind rose, it carried the rich, unmistakable scents of spiced apple cider, roast turkey, and the other, subtler smells of autumn. Every fallen leaf that danced past my feet planted a ghostly taste of pumpkin pie in the front of my mouth.
I spent over half an hour swimming in those memories and sensations before I decided it was time. Time to finish the book. I had read the first few pages of the last chapter in my bedroom back in March, but I realized then with an instinctive certainty that I wasn't in the right time or place. Now I was.
My eyes began peeling the words from the pages and constructing a set right in front of me. There was a huge, wooden table stacked with food and decorated with pumpkins next to the old oak. The characters materialized in their colonial garb and the dialogue began.
I thought I had smelled a hint of food before, but now the aromas of the feast saturated every breath I took. Words reached my ears as real as the sounds of rustling leaves, and some kid even tripped over my leg. I almost apologized.
And in an instant it was over, and the book's ghosts, satisfied with their ending, seemed to melt away into the air. Only then did I notice that I hadn't actually been looking at the book. When I did, I saw that all of the pages were blank.
Aurast Rane
Ivory
The sky was velvet blue studded with smoky yellow crystal stars. They should not have
been yellow; the moon was so white. The girl in the front seat of the car was looking out the
window trying to keep her hands still. Clouds were moving through the night and the air was full
of silence like she had never heard before. No one would know where they had gone. Still, her
knuckles were ivory in her lap.
“Let’s just go. Let’s just be gone.” she had whispered as she took his hand. She had to
keep herself from smiling too much; too much of anything is a nightmare. She knew it shouldn't
be like this. This little girl in an adult body knew that everything should be soft and well lit.
There should be some shared glance and equal feeling between them. Equal and returned the
feeling most definitely was, but it was not what it should have been. There was no love. This
stalking monster through her veins was fear and recklessness while he was driven by lust and
opportunity. It was that simple. It was not supposed to be and she knew it.
They got into the car and she was thinking of a different boy curled up on the grass in
some summer of long ago. He had this beautiful way of cracking his fingers carefully so that no
joint was forgotten. It drove her mother mad but our red-headed dream girl just smiled. He was
strong and clean and was her very best friend.
“Where are we going?” the driver asked.
Eddie Willers
Big Boys Don't Cry
I haven't cried in nearly six months.
I'm a boy, and for over a decade I lived by the rule "Big boys don't cry." It seems absurd, thinking back, but it made sense in a strange way. Crying in school in elementary school gave bullies their perverse thrill and more reason to goad me. In high school, where everything was a popularity contest, it was social suicide, plain and simple. By the time I reached college, where it might be okay to break down once in a while because, frankly, everyone does, I was stuck in the habit of stuffing all those bad emotions. Crying is something I just didn't do.
When my grandfather was dying, I wanted to cry constantly. I couldn't open my mouth to speak for fear that the slightest sound would make the flood gates open and drown me. Each day made holding back tougher but I didn't cry. My family needed support more than tears. I had to be strong for them and give comfort where I could. Big boys don't cry.
After he passed, I found I couldn't cry at all, no matter how badly I wanted to. When I was around my family, I kept my feelings to myself - they didn't need my burdens atop their own. When I was alone, and I often was, I could mourn and feel sad and marvel with disbelief at a world without a man I thought would last forever, but no tears ever came. The gates had rusted shut.
It's been almost half a year since I lost my grandfather and I still can't completely accept that he's gone. While I worked through my sorrow, I watched the rest of my family deal with theirs. Every one of them, including the strong, stubborn man who is my father, has cried at some point. Some were more discreet, vanishing for a few hours only to return with glassy, bloodshot eyes and a carefully schooled expression, but they all gave themselves that simple relief. All but me. It's made me realize that, yes, big boys don't cry, but men do. Men aren't afraid to fall into a vulnerable state and be true to themselves because they have the strength to pick up the pieces and carry on afterward.
I would like to think that I have come to terms with the loss of my grandfather, but I have yet to attain a sense of closure. One day I'll grow up enough to let myself finish mourning. Until then, no matter how many rites of passage I complete - getting a driver's license, having a bar mitzvah, legally drinking or getting laid - I won't be a man. I'll just be an overgrown boy.
And big boys don't cry.
Alex Taber-Moore
Non-fiction Burst
The randomosity of life endeavors to take me away from the things I love, but what is random about it? It's the path and the place and the purpose that was set down before me; that I followed because it seemed appealing and there were no other opportunities that really presented their presence. Was I right to wait and weigh only what was in front of me? Was the worn path the wise one?
Bronzed
A Proper Attire
I went to an all-girl’s catholic school. I’m sure you can picture me now, standing in a plaid kilt with brown leather shoes and a white polo. Some people think it is torture. It did make getting dressed in the morning pretty easy but it could be a little irritating at times.
The white polo had to have the Stone Ridge brand on the breast and there better be no print from a t-shirt on under showing through. Your kilt must not only cover your shorts that you might be wearing but must also touch a soda can when you kneel. And please, don’t try to hem it with staples. You must wear black or navy blue tights with brown or black leather shoes in the winter. In the spring and fall you may wear sneakers and no tights unless otherwise noted on the calendar.
This is what I put up with for nine years. I was always a law-abiding student, following all the rules. So my senior year I decided—one day—to wear sneakers. Whatever the season was, we were supposed to be wearing leather shoes that day. At lunch time I went to the dean of students’ office to sign out for lunch (as seniors, we had earned the privilege) wearing my sneakers. She looked at me and said, “Maggie, I see you’re wearing sneakers today.
I looked up at her, “Yup,” and walked out. Damn it feels good to be a gangster.
Maggie Laurie
Sunday, September 27, 2009
So...
It's been a while since my last post. It's 11:30 PM on the eighth night of the
Navratri festivities and the neighbors are blasting music, which will most likely
continue into the wee early morning hours. They have done this every night since
last Saturday. It annoys most people in the house, but I actually don't mind it that
much. As long as you're not trying to work, it's actually quite relaxing. I can sleep
through it. But then again, I have an easy time sleeping here in general, even without
loud music and feverish dancing going on in the streets. I can't explain it, there's just
something about my bed here...I can't sit or lie down in that bed and work because
I'll be asleep within an hour.
I went to a Navratri carnival last night !! It was fun. I was really hungry when
we went, which wasn't very wise because my hunger was already causing some
slightly nauseating sensory disorientation. The first ride I went on was called "The
Firzbee" and its motion can be equated to doing an 'Around-The-World' on a tire
swing. At the peak of its cycle, we came so close to the main structural members, I
thought they were going to knock my teeth out. I was scared shitless and screaming
and laughing uncontrollably. That was a lot of fun. "The Firzbee" left me a bit
wayward, but still, most of me felt fine enough for "The Renger", a pendulum-type
ride where the bars would make a few full rotations, thusly flipping you all-the-way
upside-down. This one was a real doozy. I felt an explosive rush of blood to the head
and I seriously felt like I was going to fall out of my seat. Yet again, I was livid and
screaming, laughing, and cussing uncontrollably. The turning point of the night was
my ordeal on the Tea-Cup ride. This one was just a bad idea. It launched me into a
state of rapidly escalating vertigo and no amount of effort at closing my eyes or
holding-on-for-dear-life would've saved me. Walking away from that ride, I was
right on the cusp of throwing up. I drank some water and Fanta in order to calm my
innards. I wanted to call it a night, but I had already promised Danielle that I would
ride the Ferris Wheel with her, and I hate to break promises, so I obliged. I actually
ended up being Wheel-buddies with a little girl who laughed every time I made a
pained facial expression. At first, the Ferris Wheel wasn't so bad, but as the ride
went on, the up-and-down rotation was making my stomach go up and down and I
could feel substance climbing its way up my esophagus. The only thought going
through my mind was, "I'm seriously about to regurgitate on this poor little girl's
face", but I tried to force every wince into a smile to keep that from happening. As
the ride came to a stop, I tried to fight it, but it was beyond me. "Um, I think I'm
gonna puke. ... No, no, NO !! I'M GONNA PUKE !! GET ME OUT OF HERE !!" I stumbled
over to a barrel of water and just let it out. It was actually pretty quick. One shot and
I was done. I didn't eat much that day anyway.
...Such are the details of my first time getting sick in that kind of setting. I
think I've given you enough food for thought so I'll stop for now. ^_^ Stay tuned !!
Peace for now !!
Vivian Banks
Journey Home
Over break I went back to visit my high school for a thing called “Little Christmas.” Things
weren’t as exciting as my first time back. Instead of our normal fare of pizza from this great place
downtown, they gave us pathetic wraps and sun chips. You know; the ones with the crinkling bags from hell. Most of our favorite teachers had left, there was a new headmistress. While most of our friends had left, a few underclassmen were now seniors and they caught us up on all that had changed. While there had been lots of petty prep school drama when I was there, things were staring to get a lot more “public school”. Freshmen were hooking up with strangers on school trips, stripping at school dances in the gym. Our new Headmistress was essentially a 12 year old girl. When she had problems with teachers, she’d pass messages to them through other teachers. It was rumored that teachers left faculty meetings in tears.
As much as all of this disappointed me, going downstairs to visit my Latin teacher made up for all of it. Don’t get me wrong, things had changed, but in a good way. She now had a little carpeted set of steps so she could reach the top of the blackboard. It was so perfect for her. Stooped a little, weighed down by her terrifyingly impressive chest, a plastic bin of those soft peppermints that dissolve in your mouth on the shelf. Some things just don’t change I guess, and I’m okay with that.
John Doe
The Journey
Through the intercourse of two lovers who met each other years ago, an egg is planted. This egg grows defined by a science that it is too young to understand. Funny, because it is not a person yet. But science doesn’t care. Science just does. Attached to the mother that feeds it, day after day, week after week, the seed grows inside the female. Her body changes to suit her needs because she is not she anymore. No. She has become a them, or they. They grow together for nine or so months, embodying a process that is bigger than the both of them: life, the essence of our world. Life: The difference between people and paper, the contrast between grass and ground.
Everyday you’re alive
There are a number of approaches to wasting time. There is the minimalist approach--requiring only one's mind. The mind can transport you first class to anywhere that exists and everywhere that doesn't. It can cure disease, but perhaps more practically: it can save lives--from couchstroke of boredom. For those wishing to rise above the amateur level, a number of tools exist to make this sport more enjoyable and accessible. The most versatile of these is the laptop computer. It is a device that feeds off the dwindling brain cells of young adults. Although it may result in a drop in social skills, intelligence and general awareness--it is surely a tradeoff worth its share in entertainment. Or is it?
To think that many people lack it. Whether physical protection or mental...emotional. It's frightening--the vulnerability we experience at times; the thought of being hurt. For many, faith is a solution to this fear. But then again, faith fails us at times. We are only human. We cannot always be at the peak. Things happen, out of our control. We get dragged down the side of the mountain, over the stretch of the valley. Then we are led up another mountain; sometimes we lead ourselves, but sometimes we find protectors. A different fear is encountered at that point--fear of losing that new hope or person that we found. Sometimes we "protect" ourselves from that fear by not expecting much, or by expecting the worst. By avoiding attachment and creating barriers. But we may be hurting ourselves in a different way then. That person...that newfound hope...could be there for a reason. Maybe, without them, you're gonna fall--and hard. But trust is something life has taught us not to deal with foolishly. Doesn't mean you should never take a chance.
The act of eating with a fork should not be punctuated by a chilling scrape as the metal grinds against one’s teeth.
Copper Ring
The copper ring on her finger had once been silver—or painted silver, at least. He had bought it for a whopping 96.333 cents ($2.89 for a pack of three) from the largest mall in the area. They had picked it out together on a belated anniversary trip, as their real anniversary had been spent at a quaint little bed and breakfast in Vermont. This placeholder ring, purchased from the meager jewelry section of an otherwise well-stocked store, was only meant to stay on her finger until he had the money to afford a real engagement ring.
They spent almost an hour digging through the haphazard piles of rings scattered around the tables, surrounded by bright overhead lights, vaguely indie music, and pushy teenage girls. She jokingly held up a flashy gold ring adorned with a humongous fake black stone, but to her surprise, he didn’t reject it outright, though a skeptical look swept across his face.
“Well, it’s ugly as fuck, but if it’s what you want…”
“No, no,” she said quickly, dropping it back into the ceramic bowl that held a number of other tacky rings. A ring like that was not symbolic of anything meaningful, let alone their relationship.
Finally, they settled on one, plain like a silver wedding band, and subtle. Subtlety was important—he wanted to keep the news relatively secret until he had met her parents.
“Why? So you can ask my dad for my hand in marriage?” she had laughed.
“In a way,” was his unexpectedly serious response. “It’s disrespectful to propose without your parents’ knowledge.”
She shook her head, amused. “It’s not like we’re putting it on Facebook and letting them discover it for themselves.”
But she let it go.
Tanglewood Silhouette
Basketcase
In my pants, there are 3 objects. I'm ignoring what's in my pants for what's in my pants pockets, because honestly, to describe what's in my pants is a bit of an old hat in terms of a joke, and a bit of tooting my own horn so to speak. So, three objects follow the right-left-ass rule. Right pocket is keys. Left pocket is phone. Ass pocket is wallet. I keep this routine because it makes it very easy to tell if something is missing. If left ass cheek does not feel slightly uncomfortable, then wallet is missing and I should panic. If left pocket is not vibrating then phone is missing and I should panic or no one loves me today. One of the two. If right pocket is not heavy, then keys are missing and I should panic, relegating to left pocket to find roommates phone number to let me in. if phone and keys are missing, focus is then turned to ass pocket to buy a hotel room for the night. If all three are missing I am either naked (in which case we return to the beginning of the article) or I am homeless. For the sake of this article, I do not want to be homeless. So to the beginning we go.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
So...
It's been a while since my last post. It's 11:30 PM on the eighth night of the
Navratri festivities and the neighbors are blasting music, which will most likely
continue into the wee early morning hours. They have done this every night since
last Saturday. It annoys most people in the house, but I actually don't mind it that
much. As long as you're not trying to work, it's actually quite relaxing. I can sleep
through it. But then again, I have an easy time sleeping here in general, even without
loud music and feverish dancing going on in the streets. I can't explain it, there's just
something about my bed here...I can't sit or lie down in that bed and work because
I'll be asleep within an hour.
I went to a Navratri carnival last night !! It was fun. I was really hungry when
we went, which wasn't very wise because my hunger was already causing some
slightly nauseating sensory disorientation. The first ride I went on was called "The
Firzbee" and its motion can be equated to doing an 'Around-The-World' on a tire
swing. At the peak of its cycle, we came so close to the main structural members, I
thought they were going to knock my teeth out. I was scared shitless and screaming
and laughing uncontrollably. That was a lot of fun. "The Firzbee" left me a bit
wayward, but still, most of me felt fine enough for "The Renger", a pendulum-type
ride where the bars would make a few full rotations, thusly flipping you all-the-way
upside-down. This one was a real doozy. I felt an explosive rush of blood to the head
and I seriously felt like I was going to fall out of my seat. Yet again, I was livid and
screaming, laughing, and cussing uncontrollably. The turning point of the night was
my ordeal on the Tea-Cup ride. This one was just a bad idea. It launched me into a
state of rapidly escalating vertigo and no amount of effort at closing my eyes or
holding-on-for-dear-life would've saved me. Walking away from that ride, I was
right on the cusp of throwing up. I drank some water and Fanta in order to calm my
innards. I wanted to call it a night, but I had already promised Danielle that I would
ride the Ferris Wheel with her, and I hate to break promises, so I obliged. I actually
ended up being Wheel-buddies with a little girl who laughed every time I made a
pained facial expression. At first, the Ferris Wheel wasn't so bad, but as the ride
went on, the up-and-down rotation was making my stomach go up and down and I
could feel substance climbing its way up my esophagus. The only thought going
through my mind was, "I'm seriously about to regurgitate on this poor little girl's
face", but I tried to force every wince into a smile to keep that from happening. As
the ride came to a stop, I tried to fight it, but it was beyond me. "Um, I think I'm
gonna puke. ... No, no, NO !! I'M GONNA PUKE !! GET ME OUT OF HERE !!" I stumbled
over to a barrel of water and just let it out. It was actually pretty quick. One shot and
I was done. I didn't eat much that day anyway.
...Such are the details of my first time getting sick in that kind of setting. I
think I've given you enough food for thought so I'll stop for now. ^_^ Stay tuned !!
Peace for now !!
Vivian Banks
Journey Home
Over break I went back to visit my high school for a thing called “Little Christmas.” Things
weren’t as exciting as my first time back. Instead of our normal fare of pizza from this great place
downtown, they gave us pathetic wraps and sun chips. You know; the ones with the crinkling bags from hell. Most of our favorite teachers had left, there was a new headmistress. While most of our friends had left, a few underclassmen were now seniors and they caught us up on all that had changed. While there had been lots of petty prep school drama when I was there, things were staring to get a lot more “public school”. Freshmen were hooking up with strangers on school trips, stripping at school dances in the gym. Our new Headmistress was essentially a 12 year old girl. When she had problems with teachers, she’d pass messages to them through other teachers. It was rumored that teachers left faculty meetings in tears.
As much as all of this disappointed me, going downstairs to visit my Latin teacher made up for all of it. Don’t get me wrong, things had changed, but in a good way. She now had a little carpeted set of steps so she could reach the top of the blackboard. It was so perfect for her. Stooped a little, weighed down by her terrifyingly impressive chest, a plastic bin of those soft peppermints that dissolve in your mouth on the shelf. Some things just don’t change I guess, and I’m okay with that.
John Doe
The Journey
Through the intercourse of two lovers who met each other years ago, an egg is planted. This egg grows defined by a science that it is too young to understand. Funny, because it is not a person yet. But science doesn’t care. Science just does. Attached to the mother that feeds it, day after day, week after week, the seed grows inside the female. Her body changes to suit her needs because she is not she anymore. No. She has become a them, or they. They grow together for nine or so months, embodying a process that is bigger than the both of them: life, the essence of our world. Life: The difference between people and paper, the contrast between grass and ground.
So for those long nine months, she nurtures it like a chicken on her egg. She feeds it. She lives with the baby. The baby lives in her. They struggle together. They laugh together. They simply live together breeding the love that is growing within her. It is nature, our nature. But, nature isn’t without its flaws. Sometimes, mother and child part ways, a sea of red representing the seed that was premature, the seed that could not enjoy the full bond between mother and child. It happens as life happens.
The journey of father, mother, and child twists and turns with roots tangled through the deepest of earth. Roots intertwined in history boasting stories of great Kings, wondrous empires, and magical adventures all stemming from that one process. Through screams and tense pushes, a newborn is welcomed into the world. It wails, crying for life, crying for love. The baby, no taller than a springing sunflower alerts the world of its arrival.
It is in the same fashion that I arrived in this world. I was a gift to my father especially after the premature death of his previous son. He has a daughter, my older sister. However, he always wanted a son, to carry on his legacy, and to continue the family name. I could imagine his face, bright brown beaming smile, when he received the news of my arrival. At approximately 4:38 am I was born wailing, sliding into the hands of the midwife that was aiding in my birth—at least, that what I was told. The calm blazing African nights hummed still like a negro spiritual. Stars in the sky, I was born.
From love, lust, pain, sorrow, purpose or intoxication, children are cast into this world like stones into a vast stream moving in the direction of their circumstances. Some stones crack under the action of the water and others persevere flowing blindly to their unknown destinations. This is also life, the mystery of life. No warning, it begins. No warning, you begin embarking on the long journey. Some stones make it the end of the world and others falter midway unable to cope.
Timmy Turner
In Preparation for Finals...
Everyday you’re alive
It’s a test you survive (Breathe Again by FEAR ZERO)
Often times at RPI students such as ourselves become wrapped up in exams. It’s all we can think about and all we worry about. I gotta pass this test, I gotta do well. We get so stressed out about one test that we forget about the most important test of all: living a good life. That’s the real test. Enjoying life and living it the best way we can is a much more difficult test than any professor could come up with and most of the time we don’t realize that. I had a teacher in high school who told us one day that if one test pushes you to the breaking point, then you need to rethink your life. He was absolutely right. One test, or any test for that matter, should not be something that makes or breaks you. They are important, yes, but not to the level that we sometimes take them to. If you ever feel too overwhelmed or stressed because of an exam, my advice to you would be to take a step back, “close your eyes and breathe again” (Breathe Again by FEAR ZERO).
Padraig Cairbre
Who Cares about the Real World?
There are a number of approaches to wasting time. There is the minimalist approach--requiring only one's mind. The mind can transport you first class to anywhere that exists and everywhere that doesn't. It can cure disease, but perhaps more practically: it can save lives--from couchstroke of boredom. For those wishing to rise above the amateur level, a number of tools exist to make this sport more enjoyable and accessible. The most versatile of these is the laptop computer. It is a device that feeds off the dwindling brain cells of young adults. Although it may result in a drop in social skills, intelligence and general awareness--it is surely a tradeoff worth its share in entertainment. Or is it?
Eh Eh
Protection
To think that many people lack it. Whether physical protection or mental...emotional. It's frightening--the vulnerability we experience at times; the thought of being hurt. For many, faith is a solution to this fear. But then again, faith fails us at times. We are only human. We cannot always be at the peak. Things happen, out of our control. We get dragged down the side of the mountain, over the stretch of the valley. Then we are led up another mountain; sometimes we lead ourselves, but sometimes we find protectors. A different fear is encountered at that point--fear of losing that new hope or person that we found. Sometimes we "protect" ourselves from that fear by not expecting much, or by expecting the worst. By avoiding attachment and creating barriers. But we may be hurting ourselves in a different way then. That person...that newfound hope...could be there for a reason. Maybe, without them, you're gonna fall--and hard. But trust is something life has taught us not to deal with foolishly. Doesn't mean you should never take a chance.
Peanut Butter
Things I Hate
The act of eating with a fork should not be punctuated by a chilling scrape as the metal grinds against one’s teeth.
Bulbous and chunky, swimming around like the self-righteous little beasts they are, fish stare aimlessly through bulging, unblinking eyes. They all glide effortlessly along without giving you a second glance. Fish clearly have better things to do, like swim in circles and be the most boring, monotonous, repulsive creatures that favor cannibalism and hooks through the gills.
In order to be properly heard and understood by other people you must open your mouth and project your voice. Those who only part their lips a fraction of an inch are forcing their words to all blend together and seep out as one. Mumbling is common for many yet it accomplishes nothing and benefits no one.
Do not let dishes pile up in the sink; instead, wash directly after use.
Walking into a library, it is immediately apparent, or so one would think that it is a quiet oasis where school work may be done peacefully and without interruption. Some are seemingly oblivious to the studious saturation in the air and carry on like a flock of birds. How is one supposed to focus with the incessant chatter of shallow-minded bimbos clogging one’s ears?
The stench of a pickle meandering its way up one’s nose.
When walking anywhere in a public location, those who are slowly strolling like old ladies in the park are in everyone’s way and causing a traffic jam of angry people in a rush. One person sauntering along is acceptable; they are not blocking an entire walkway, and instead are merely a trivial obstacle to step around. Multiple gallivanters spread across are like a brick wall with no way around. This most obnoxious predicament is enough to instill an annoyance that one will carry through the day.
The slimy, slippery feel of using far too much hand lotion so that one’s palms feel as though they have grown a layer of thick mucus.
Albus Dumbledore
Copper Ring
The copper ring on her finger had once been silver—or painted silver, at least. He had bought it for a whopping 96.333 cents ($2.89 for a pack of three) from the largest mall in the area. They had picked it out together on a belated anniversary trip, as their real anniversary had been spent at a quaint little bed and breakfast in Vermont. This placeholder ring, purchased from the meager jewelry section of an otherwise well-stocked store, was only meant to stay on her finger until he had the money to afford a real engagement ring.
They spent almost an hour digging through the haphazard piles of rings scattered around the tables, surrounded by bright overhead lights, vaguely indie music, and pushy teenage girls. She jokingly held up a flashy gold ring adorned with a humongous fake black stone, but to her surprise, he didn’t reject it outright, though a skeptical look swept across his face.
“Well, it’s ugly as fuck, but if it’s what you want…”
“No, no,” she said quickly, dropping it back into the ceramic bowl that held a number of other tacky rings. A ring like that was not symbolic of anything meaningful, let alone their relationship.
Finally, they settled on one, plain like a silver wedding band, and subtle. Subtlety was important—he wanted to keep the news relatively secret until he had met her parents.
“Why? So you can ask my dad for my hand in marriage?” she had laughed.
“In a way,” was his unexpectedly serious response. “It’s disrespectful to propose without your parents’ knowledge.”
She shook her head, amused. “It’s not like we’re putting it on Facebook and letting them discover it for themselves.”
But she let it go.
Tanglewood Silhouette
Basketcase
In my pants, there are 3 objects. I'm ignoring what's in my pants for what's in my pants pockets, because honestly, to describe what's in my pants is a bit of an old hat in terms of a joke, and a bit of tooting my own horn so to speak. So, three objects follow the right-left-ass rule. Right pocket is keys. Left pocket is phone. Ass pocket is wallet. I keep this routine because it makes it very easy to tell if something is missing. If left ass cheek does not feel slightly uncomfortable, then wallet is missing and I should panic. If left pocket is not vibrating then phone is missing and I should panic or no one loves me today. One of the two. If right pocket is not heavy, then keys are missing and I should panic, relegating to left pocket to find roommates phone number to let me in. if phone and keys are missing, focus is then turned to ass pocket to buy a hotel room for the night. If all three are missing I am either naked (in which case we return to the beginning of the article) or I am homeless. For the sake of this article, I do not want to be homeless. So to the beginning we go.
In my car…well… my car is dead. So I am afraid this doesn’t apply anymore sadly. Camwell the Camry is dead and all I have left is the cassette tapes of M.C. Hammer and the Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack.
In my backpack are my headphones, a laptop, my mp3 player, and 25 issues of issue 10.8 of Statler & Waldorf.
All of this is in my head.
Scotty Drighton
No
No.
Andrew, do you want to hang out?
No.
Well, okay, how about tomorrow?
No.
Next week?
No.
Well, okay buddy, guess I'll see you around.
No.
Dude, wth man? Are you alright?
No.
Wanna talk about it?
No.
Well, alright dude, you wanna talk to anyone about it?
No.
Um, alright dude, but you should prolly talk about it. Don't you think it's bad to keep it in like that?
No.
DUUUDE! You gonna get all depressed and stuff. At least come outside.
No.
C'mon, it stopped raining.
No.
Oh, you'right, it didn't. Well, we can go bowling and snag some brewskies.
No.
Okay, well, we could head over to saint rose. They have like the opposite ratio that we do here.
No.
Well what do you want to do?
I WANT TO SHOWER IN GOD-DAMNED PEACE!
Selsdon Mowbray
The Sensation of Water
I love to feel water all the time. Mostly in my shower. I love showers. They remind me of waterfalls,
although I have never been in a waterfall warm enough to singe. The shower is one my favorite places and if it wasn’t for the fact that H2O cost money, I would let the water run for hours. When I was
younger, I used to let the shower run for 10 minutes before I ever got inside. I to sit on the toilet seat cover and listen to the sound of the water hitting the walls. It was like rain except harsher, since it
didn’t diffuse in grass. Nowadays I only run the shower for as long as it takes to get clean. I wish I could stay longer. The beads of water hitting my skin and rolling down feel delightful. I would stay under
water forever if I could. Alas, I need to breathe and I don’t like being pruney.
Saturn Assenav
Life in Disguise
As I sit here and watch the news only one thing is apparent: the news has become a carnival for disaster. It seems that each day reports of disease and death tolls dare us, with bulging eyes, not to be afraid, not to give in and not to give up. My mind flashes to the secret corners of classrooms, churches, psychologists offices, and confession boxes swelling with the jagged, crooked and sharp fears that have been exchanged in confidence along the way. Some fears come from within and and some fears come from without.
No
No.
Andrew, do you want to hang out?
No.
Well, okay, how about tomorrow?
No.
Next week?
No.
Well, okay buddy, guess I'll see you around.
No.
Dude, wth man? Are you alright?
No.
Wanna talk about it?
No.
Well, alright dude, you wanna talk to anyone about it?
No.
Um, alright dude, but you should prolly talk about it. Don't you think it's bad to keep it in like that?
No.
DUUUDE! You gonna get all depressed and stuff. At least come outside.
No.
C'mon, it stopped raining.
No.
Oh, you'right, it didn't. Well, we can go bowling and snag some brewskies.
No.
Okay, well, we could head over to saint rose. They have like the opposite ratio that we do here.
No.
Well what do you want to do?
I WANT TO SHOWER IN GOD-DAMNED PEACE!
Selsdon Mowbray
The Sensation of Water
I love to feel water all the time. Mostly in my shower. I love showers. They remind me of waterfalls,
although I have never been in a waterfall warm enough to singe. The shower is one my favorite places and if it wasn’t for the fact that H2O cost money, I would let the water run for hours. When I was
younger, I used to let the shower run for 10 minutes before I ever got inside. I to sit on the toilet seat cover and listen to the sound of the water hitting the walls. It was like rain except harsher, since it
didn’t diffuse in grass. Nowadays I only run the shower for as long as it takes to get clean. I wish I could stay longer. The beads of water hitting my skin and rolling down feel delightful. I would stay under
water forever if I could. Alas, I need to breathe and I don’t like being pruney.
Saturn Assenav
Life in Disguise
As I sit here and watch the news only one thing is apparent: the news has become a carnival for disaster. It seems that each day reports of disease and death tolls dare us, with bulging eyes, not to be afraid, not to give in and not to give up. My mind flashes to the secret corners of classrooms, churches, psychologists offices, and confession boxes swelling with the jagged, crooked and sharp fears that have been exchanged in confidence along the way. Some fears come from within and and some fears come from without.
And as I sit here and watch the news, I ask myself only one question: Why do I keep silent? Why do I watch this crazy scene in life's picture show when I know we can all do better than to implode into an essentially imagined world of woe- a temporary world of woe? Why should I join everyone else in looking back on “good times” when now can be just as good as then and better if we looked inside ourselves for the good inside ourselves and found a purpose for it?
And as I sit here, I can think of only one answer: get up Tatiana, says a voice from within. Nap time is over; it's time to work. Its time the show the people of the world that someone cares for them, even it they don't. It's time to show everyone that life is what you make it, no matter what it purports to be.
Tatiana DelCava
