MOTLEY

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2011 MOTLEY Online Table of Contents Page: 2 Letter from the Editor 3 Creating Me ………………………………………….. Anonymous 4 Those Brown Eyes …………………………………….. Mia Cooney 5 Susanna Roberts ………………………………………. Sawyer Fenderson 7 A Fairy Tale Wish ………………………………… …Annika Dyhrberg 8 Liza Lou and the Yeller Belly Swamp …………………… Celia DeWolfe 9 The Railroad …………………………………………..Katie Greene 11 Recess …………………………………………………Brock Welch 12 Art Essay ………………………………………………Andrew Michalakis 14 Chrysanthemum …………………………………….......Antoinette Lambert 15 Grandmother Spider Steals the Fire ………………………..Seoyeon Kim 17 The Potato Obsession ……………………………………Brandon Martin 18 Frog and Toad’s New Home ……………………………..Anonymous 19 Heart/Corazón …………………………………………Sean Soucy 20 Luck Loss ………………………………………………Emma Noni 27 The Maine Moose ……………………………………….Brendan Bayer 28 To Kill A Mockingbird …………………………………..Charlie Hepburn 29 The Giving Tree ………………………………………...Kali Mildrum 30 The Women in the Museum ……………………………....Katie Barlow 32 Better School Lunches ……………………………….........Mira Wyman 33 Flat Stanley, Still Flat …………………………………...Brandon Peters 34 Not All That It’s Cracked Up To Be ………………………Michela Michalizio 39 Velocidad …………………………………………….....Tyler Spence 40 The Boy ………………………………………………..Sam Reed 41 The Green Stripe ………………………………………...Emily Rioux 43 Surfboard …………………………………………….....Conner Perron 44 My Sister’s Keeper (Remix) …………………………….....Cayman Bickerstaff 49 Ling’s Journey ………………………………………...…Maddy Adams 51 The Dream and the Thorn Bush ………………………..…Sophie Priddy 55 Imagination ………………………………………..…...Nicholas Beliveau

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Letter from the Editor Thank you for “picking up” this digital volume of Motley. It was challenging for me to accept that a publication made purely of computer code and HTML script could count as real, but then I remembered that every author and artist featured in this volume has lived their entire life taking the Internet and all things computer for granted. The onus is on those of us who were alive both before and after this moment of technical evolution, who witnessed the birth and exponential growth of the World Wide Web, to accept the now undeniable validity of online media. Of course, whether the medium is a blog, a webpage, a painting, a drawing, a poem or a fictional story, it carries no weight and signifies nothing if it is without passion, sincerity and artistic integrity. Since the first men took the time out from their busy schedule of daily survival to paint on cave walls, humans have needed to showcase their artistic achievements for others around them. The young artists and writers featured in this year’s Motley (and term

after term on the walls of FMS) are marking the next creative footprint on a path of infinite steps. We work together at Falmouth Middle School; teachers, staff, parents, and administrators to foster and guide our students, and we learn from them in turn even as we teach. The work here is the finest of their efforts; created, honed and submitted by the students. I take credit only as gatherer and organizer. Despite the obvious quality on every page set before you, please remember the courage it takes to put oneself under the scrutiny of the public eye. This digital magazine, 2011’s Motley Online, is a gift from the students of FMS to you, reader. Believe in the power of creativity on every front and enjoy. Sincerely,

Simon Adams FMS Art

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Creating Me

Anonymous I was created. I was not born. I did not emerge from a lake or descend from the clouds. Someone imagined who I would be and constructed a life for me. For this I am endlessly grateful, however there is a dark, impending shadow that tells me I will never be able to create a life for myself or make my own decisions. Maybe it is simply the shadow of my creator, hovering over my page, maybe it is a creature more menacing. Whoever it may be that gave me this lonesome feeling, the emotion has risen inside me. It is possible that I could be provided with a new beginning by being provided with a new creator. A base is plastered onto the surface of my new home. Although my body has not been created, I observe from behind my creator, studying each cautious stroke as if each mark could permanently alter my new self. My creator disappears. Soon dark descends on this strange town I have landed in and I am alone in this room, equally strange. Although the room is hardly illuminated, I peer through murky darkness so that my eyes do not lose the pure white of my home until my creator returns three days later. I subconsciously feel that my protective watch will prevent harm from reaching this precious surface. My creator lifts a pencil and I am suddenly frightened of what is to come. What if my new appearance is not attractive? What if my new character is not portrayed properly by my image? I decide to put my new life into my creator’s hand. I experience a sudden harsh sensation as my creator begins to scratch away with her pencil, creating the curve of my head.

The sensation continues as my creator sketches every detail of my body. I love my new body. It seems familiar yet mysteriously new. My creator uses careful brushstrokes to create the robin’s egg blue tone of the sky and I simply wait for the rest of my world to be created.

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Those Brown Eyes Mia Cooney

When I look into those dark brown eyes I know it’s okay. They comfort me. They tell me not to worry. She smiles through those beauties. Emotion shows through those brown eyes. Guilt: they don’t look at you, they are ashamed. Happiness: they twinkle and sparkle in your own eyes. You can look deep into them and tell why they are so happy. I never want to lose those brown eyes looking at me. But someday I will not have those eyes to look back at me. To tell me it will all work out. To keep me grounded when I float too high, And to keep me up when I feel too down. Those brown eyes.

Tessa Holbrook Horses (after Warhol) 2010

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Susanna Roberts Sawyer Fenderson

Susana Roberts was a once-in-a-lifetime girl. She had a face that stunned the world. With one glance she could drain the blue from your eyes, the red from your lips, and the brown from your hair. She dressed in very expensive jewelry, wearing earrings of gold coins large enough to buy the world with. One could have flung oneself on her for a sacrifice because of her pure beauty. She was born into one of the wealthiest families in England around the early 1800s. She was different than most girls because she had alter egos. She could one day be a wonderful little angel and the next day a certain “creamy fury” so to speak, with pale skin and an angry facial expression that made a seven-foot tall man feel two feet tall. Nobody knew who or what she would be when she woke up in the morning: a fairy tale princess or a wicked witch. Susana awoke from a long and cheerful dream about running in a beautiful meadow, blue it was and green it was. The sun, like fire in the sky, shined in her face. She lightly rose to her feet. She opened her closet exposing frocks that many girls only dream of. She chose her favorite gown that was of a blue unspeakable. When she was done getting dressed she gingerly walked down the ancient stairs. Like a winged goddess she entered the dining room, thinking about the marvelous dream she had the night before. She stopped in her tracks, having a flashback of her mother. Her mother, even more gorgeous than Susana, her eyes helpless, stared at her newborn baby. Susana saw her mother lying in bed right before the angels took her. Susana’s mother was deathly ill when she found out she was pregnant. The doctor told her that if she gave birth

she would die. Her mother didn’t listen to the doctor and gave birth to Susana anyways. Susana snapped back to reality, realizing that she was no longer in her mother’s arms, but inside her dining room and yet the darkness from the dream stuck with her. Her face became pale snow and stern. Her joyful attitude became depressed. She marched up the stairs, showing anger in each step. She ripped her gown off, showing no sign of remorse and changed into the darkest, most disturbing dress she owned. She marched down the stairs, through the dining room, and into the kitchen like a feverish wheel. She sat down on an old rotting chair, mourning the loss of her mother. She through the nearest cup at the icebox, making a sound so loud that it was as if a concussion of storms had occurred. She was angry, and sad, and depressed, and emotional, and anxious all at the same time. She started to cry, not like a few pretty tears, but like balling her eyes out. Each tear was like a raindrop and it rained, and rained and rained. She cried until she could cry no more. She sat there trying to push the tears out of her body, but nothing came out. She had literally cried out all of her tears. She felt somewhat good to extract all of her tears from her body, but she was still very sad. She looked out the nearest window. The fiery rays from the sun shined in her face. The sun on her cheeks like a warm iron. The blazing blue sky looked magnificent. She was no longer depressed but filled with happiness and laughter. She ran outside dancing in the fresh air. She danced around her garden. The clouds danced with her. The sun, like a giant penny in the sky, shined into the beautiful garden. She eventually collapsed. She laid on the jungle mattress, thinking about all the wonderful things in her life. She thought about her dad, her sister, her dog, her three cats,

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her uncle, her garden and her gowns. The sky was of a blue unspeakable. She quickly rose to her feet. She began to think of her mother. She ran inside like a battleship. She kicked and stomped over anything that stood in her way. She ran up the stairs and into her room. She threw her body onto her bed and began to cry. She cried and cried and cried. She started to feel rage and anger. She smashed and foamed and roared. Her skin turned the color of flaming bronze. She took her most precious piece of jewelry and threw it out her window. She smashed a teacup that was on her bedside table. She was an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, and a volcanic eruption all at the same time. The only words to describe her are emotionally confused. There are no other words for it. She could laugh and cry within seconds of each other. She could have danced and killed at the same time. Not a single person, not even her father, knew what to expect from her. All they knew was to expect the unexpected when the unexpected was to be expected. Basically they had no clue what to expect. She was a fairytale princess and a wicked witch. Her emotions were like a flower that blooms for just one hour. She could be a beautiful daisy one hour and a prickly rose bush the next. She was very different from other girls, even though she was much more fortunate than them, considering she was “emotionally scarred”. This however, never stopped her from living a somewhat normal life. Occasionally, she might have a breakdown, but when she grew up and became queen of England, her emotions rarely got the best of her.

Emma Torraca-Jones Self-Portrait 2010

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A Fairy Tale Wish Annika Dyhrberg

Sitting on a hill Begging in the breeze Wondering if he’ll ever come To kneel down on one knee. Hopes and dreams and wishing That someday my prince will come To save me from this dragon And take me to the sun. We’ll break this stupid tower Crush it once and all, So never ever again Will a prince have to scale this wall. Then we’ll run away, Singing in the breeze Going to my palace To have a feast for thee. Singing rejoicing laughing Dancing all the day Eating foods that you may think are so gourmet. But now I sit here waiting For my sadness to be done, Sitting, crying, praying, For that day my prince will come.

Graham Shaw Barn Owl 2011

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Liza Lou and the Yeller Belly Swamp

Celia DeWolfe The first thing I felt was the sharp tip of a dragging pencil finishing the outline of my head and features. When my nose was drawn I got a big whiff of strong smelling paint. With my eyes, all I saw was an endless world of white on an indeed rough and uncomfortable surface. To be honest, it wasn’t a great experience, but if it weren’t for those first few flicks of a pencil, I wouldn’t be alive. Though at this point, it was just my lonesome head and the white freshly painted surface of the rough wood. But what happened next was strange, and almost indescribable, like a baby being born. I was fresh, new and ready to be filled with interesting colors and texture. Just when I thought I was alone in the “white painted wood world” I could see that painful pencil make a few swift movements, and before I knew it some gloomy trees and jungle-like vines rose over me. But I wasn’t scared, I was drawn to be a tough, crafty girl with a world all to my own, or so I thought. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain under my feet… it was the pencil. What I saw surprised, but didn’t scare me. I saw the pencil sketch a few menacing looking crocodiles under my feet. Because of the texture of the crocodile’s back, I could feel bumpy crocodile skin slip under my feet. When the crocodiles were sketched I looked at them like they were as intimidating as a little mouse scurrying across my feet. Just then some colorless water rose a few inches, just covering the sharp claws of the crocs. Then I felt a pause in my existence. All was still and quiet. But right when I started to feel accustomed to my new milieu, dark green paint swooshed behind and around me. Another pause, my heart beat fast and…

swoosh! Dark blue paint filled the water below me. Stroke by stroke the familiar white of the wood began to disappear behind all this new color. And before I knew it, the crocodiles were green and full of texture. Their teeth were a glistening sharp white, and their eyes, a deep never-ending pit of blackness. But what I felt next was surprisingly appealing. The soft bristles of a paintbrush glided over my skin that was exposed. As I looked, my light brown skin brought me to life and made a contrast to the dark brown background, so that I stood out. I started to feel complete, like I was an actual person as opposed to a quick sketch of a sharp pencil. Then, when the paintbrush filled in my dress of soft orange and white lines I was very excited. I had a very cute dress! Finally, I heard nothing. Not the dragging of a pencil, or the bristles of a gliding paintbrush. What I heard was the lonesome sound of nothing. I was complete, what else could I do? I was a painting ready to be marveled at. I thought I felt proud and happy. But what I felt deeper inside me was a loneliness and sadness, and a longing for more. This was the end… I was complete.

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The Railroad Katie Greene

I never liked Monday’s. So when

I rode the yellow school bus that morning, I was glumly staring out the foggy window. Wanting to see farther than two feet out the glass, I wiped my black-gloved hand across the fog, clearing the haze and improving my vision. The first image I saw clearly was of a purple car driving by. It was tiny, and next to the enormous bus, it looked especially minute. The driver was female, and gaped at us through her window, cleared of all frost. I watched her mouth open in shock, and I watched her take in the monstrous size of my bus. She suddenly twisted her head to look at me, and I quickly turned away, feeling embarrassed.

The next time I turned to gaze at the window, the bus had reached the railroad crossing, about half way to my school. I saw a woman, aged and wrinkled, staring at the tracks a few feet from where they intersect with the road. I immediately recognized her as Beverly Peters. I knew a lot about her. She was a mother of two, formerly three. She was fifty-seven years old, and a passing train killed her third child, a girl, fourteen years previous. I saw Mrs. Peters every year on this date, and assumed every year that it was the anniversary of her daughter’s death. I thought about the story.

Assuming the date to be May 21st,

fourteen years ago, Mrs. Peter’s daughter, Tilley Peters, was seventeen years old. She was a happy child, and lived her life to its fullest. Tilley never took anything for granted, always told someone how much she appreciated what he or she had done for her, however trivial it may have been.

Tilley was driving to school one day, a Friday morning. Her car was her mother’s, a

small Acura Advance. She was on her way to pick up a friend, but was currently stopping in front of the railroad crossing, waiting for a train.

It was a long train, but it was going very fast. Tilley listened to the train, ignoring her car’s gentle engine purr. The gates opened, for the caboose had just been tugged out of sight. She advanced, waiting for the gates to stop. They did, and Tilley crossed the tracks, and was at her friend’s house in a matter of minutes.

“Hi, Tilley!” her friend called out. She thanked her friend for giving her a ride, and Tilley pulled away. A few minutes later, they were parked, and out of the car, at the local high school.

“Oh, no,” Tilley whispered to her friend. “Look-it’s…them.”

“Crap,” her friend said. She knew why Tilley was so afraid. When she said ‘them,’ her friend knew that she meant the six-pack of huge tyrants approaching them.

Tilley began to run. My bus ride was over. I stood up,

and walked down the aisle, through the tall, narrow doors, and into the school. I walked past the cafeteria, past the library, and straight to my locker, number one hundred sixty-five. I threw a passing glance at the numbers I was passing. I saw number one, two, three, four, five, etc. I had a long way to go. To take my mind of trying to push and pull people out of my way to get through, I retired to my thoughts, and resumed thinking about the tragic story of Tilley Peters.

The bullies caught up to Tilley in a

matter of seconds, for she wasn’t a very fast runner, and they were.

“Stop running, Tilley!” the guy closest to her said. He was right behind her, and Tilley knew him as C.J. Pierce. He played basketball and football, and whoever knew him, they knew enough to stay away.

Suddenly, Tilley felt C.J.’s hand close around her wrist, and she realized then and there that she had lost. C.J.’s crew followed close

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behind, and one of them, not C.J., but Aaron Larry, another monstrous guy, picked up Tilley in one fluid motion. Tilley screamed, but before anyone could turn his or her heads, Aaron’s freezing cold hand clamped down on her mouth. Tilley felt pain to her head, then nothing.

I had finished gathering my books

and binders for all of my morning classes. I walked to my first lesson, first period geometry. I went into the classroom, and sat down in a vacant seat. I sank back, once again, into my reveries.

When Tilley woke up, she was tied to

the railroad tracks. Fighting and screaming at the boys standing near her, she tried to break free. To no avail.

“Train’s coming in about thirty seconds. I’d put my head down, if I were you,” C.J. yelled. As he spoke, Tilley felt a strange vibration coming off the tracks. She tried to force a hole into the ground to put her head in. She sank down, pretending to be one with the ground. She closed her eyes, and waited.

The sound was deafening, similar to that of a dragon’s roar right into your ear. The smell was obnoxious, like burning rubber, held right in front of your nose. Tilley screamed, but held still. Then, as suddenly as it had come, everything stopped.

I’m alive? Tilley questioned herself. She wiggled her fingers and toes. She lifted her head, and smiled at the fact that she hadn’t been killed. The bullies reluctantly untied her, and let her run back to the school.

As time went on, Tilly let her

growing fear of people overwhelm her until no one could help her. Finally, she grew so frightened, she stopped moving. She stopped talking, she stopped living. And after a few weeks, she died.

Her mother blamed the bullies, and went to the railroad tracks on the anniversary of the day that drove her daughter crazy.

My teacher started talking, and I forgot the story and settled in to listen, however reluctantly.

Jonah Paris Still Life 2011

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Recess Brock Welch

There have been some major problems in the United States of America lately. A large tornado struck Alabama recently, the economy has been in the drain, gas prices have been at a record high, and global warming has taken a turn for the worse. But one thing I’m noticing the most is obesity; child obesity. This is a result of two things: not enough exercise and too much junk food. Lack of exercise can be prevented in lots of ways and there are people enforcing daily exercise, like the NFL with Play60. The school system can also help prevent child obesity with longer recess for every grade. At my elementary school we had two, count ‘em TWO recesses every day, with two playgrounds, kickball field, soccer field and football field! We also had enough time to get our knees scraped, go to the nurse for a bandage, and go back outside and continue playing. Now at the Falmouth Middle School all we have is an empty parking lot, a soccer field and ten minutes. During the winter the only thing we have to do is stand around in a parking lot freezing for those ten minutes. That is the only time that I don’t complain that our recess is too short. We used to have a pretty nice playground with a spider tower, monkey bars, slides, and the sort, but they decided to take it down to make more space for the new school which we don’t need. And guess what they did with our playground; they gave it to the elementary school instead of relocating it to a new spot for us middle-schoolers. I guess they think we are just to old for playgrounds and recess, but expect us to be happy with just a field and a short amount of time.

I also think that the school should give every grade a long recess because it gives the teachers time to plan the next day, grade tests, and other things that a teacher might not have time in the day for. And if they don’t need to correct or plan anything it gives them a little time to chill and get away form their rambunctious classes, because everyone needs a little time to themselves. I also think that every grade should have a long recess because recess can help reduce stress. For example: you are having a big test in math, but even though you studied and are prepared for the test, you still don’t want to take it. Then you remember that you have recess right after, so you carefully and thoroughly complete the test and go out to socialize with friends from other classes. Meanwhile, your teacher is grading your test, you get and A+, and your teacher is not stressed about grading your test. That is what I call a win-win situation. So please take into consideration the possibilities a longer recess for every grade could give us. Sincerely, Brock Welch

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Art Essay Andrew Michalakis

The famous art piece that I chose is called “The Jewish Cemetery”, and it was made by Jacob van Ruisdael. When I was looking through the books to find an art piece, I really wanted to do a landscape piece. I came across this piece and decided to do it. I realized it would be difficult, but I’d rather do a harder piece than an easy piece. To me, this painting looks a little mysterious, because most of it is in dark shadow, so I had the perfect animal to fit into the piece. The animal I chose to incorporate into my piece was a bunny. Bunnies are quiet, shy and like to stay to themselves. This art piece is dark and gloomy, so I chose a bunny to put into it. The medium I used to create this piece of art was acrylic paint. I chose acrylic paint because it was the closest thing to oil paint I was able to use. I also chose this medium because I experimented with other mediums and it seemed that acrylic was the best choice because it is thick and I am able to make short, thick brush strokes. The art element most important for my piece is form. Form is making the things that are 2D look 3D. You can make things look 3D by putting shadow onto the object. You can also put objects in the foreground and background of the piece to make it look like things are behind and in front of it. This makes it not look like it is flat. Also, you can do some overlapping to catch that there is a whole new thing going on behind the object. Form is important in my piece because to me it looks like sun rays are coming from the top right corner and is shining on the hill. The clouds facing toward the sun are lighter and the sides that are facing away from the sun are darker. This gives the impression that all sides of the cloud are there because of the

shadow that was made, even though you can only see one side of the clouds. The trees in the right of the picture are overlapping. This gives the impression that there are other things going on behind it; making it look 3D. Finally, the building has many sides and walls to it. The sides facing the sun are light and the sides pointing away from the sun are dark. This gives the impression that the building is 3D, because the shadows show the walls going in different directions and angles. Jacob van Ruisdael was the artist of the painting. He was a Dutch landscape painter and was born in Haarlem, Netherlands in 1628. For most of his life he lived in Amsterdam, Netherlands. Before he was a painter, he studied surgery and was a botanist. A botanist is a person who studies plants. His father, Isaak van Ruisdael and his uncle were also artists. Some of the paintings he painted were of his own town. Haarlem had beautiful land and flat countryside, which were perfect scenes for Jacob to paint. Jacob mostly painted landscape paintings like woodlands, cities and oceans. Jacob’s style decreased in the mid 1670s, and his most magnificent student, Meindert Hobbema, sustained his tradition after he died on March 14, 1682, in his hometown of Haarlem. The thing that I enjoyed about this project was that I could make a mistake by painting over the lines or using the wrong color, but I could just go back over with a different color and make it seem like it never happened. Also, this painting is very blended, so if I made the wrong color, I could just mix in different colors to make it the same color as the original. The thing that I would change would be making a different piece. I would still do a landscape, just maybe something a bit simpler; otherwise the project was fun and interesting to do.

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Andrew Michalakis The Bunny Cemetery (after Van Ruisdael) 2011

Emmy Wroblesky Harlequin (after Miro) 2010

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Chrysanthemum Antoinette Lambert Bushels upon bushels; A rainbow, so vivid. Lighten up the fields and prairies; The spices in the soup. An impossible origami, The folds are too many, But there they sit, a beauty upon us. The grass would be lonely, The world; so dull. But vase after vase And bush after bush… The chrysanthemum waits. Waiting for the rain to hydrate its thirsty roots. Waiting for the sun’s rays to warms its lovely petals. Waiting to stretch its stiffened leaves after a long winter Hibernation. Waiting, longing, hoping. Bushels upon bushels; A rainbow, so vivid. The vibrant petals meet the sky. A gift, an enchantment, a blessing… An adoration to the earth.

Grade 8 Spring 2011

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Grandmother Spider Steals the Fire

Seoyeon Kim Long ago, when the world was still dark, cold, and empty of the sun, moon and even the shining stars, all People had to move around by touch. There were the Bird People, the Animal People, the Insect People, and the Human People. One day, the Animal People and the Bird People decided to get rid of the terrible darkness that was suffocating them. Some had heard of a great bright thing called fire that the people in the East had. It was decided that they would send someone to steal fire from the East since the people there were very greedy and wouldn’t want to share their fire. However, many animals wanted to have the honor of stealing the fire. Grandmother Spider tried to volunteer, but was outspoken by the Opossum. “I can bring the fire back in my furry, bushy tail,” it said, “the people of the East will never notice.” It seemed like the Opossum would have great success in stealing the fire. However, the people of the East found the Opossum stealing their fire and took it back. The Opossum fled home with a burnt tail and crushed dignity. When it was time for another attempt at stealing the fire Grandmother Spider tried again but was interrupted again by the Buzzard, a proud beautiful bird with many long feathers. “I will hide the great fire in my elegant, attractive feathers on my head,” it said. The People agreed. But when the Buzzard stole the fire, the people of the East immediately saw and stole it back. The Buzzard returned home with a bald head and disappointment. The People started to get desperate. They were sick of the dark and wanted to see what the world looked like. Once again, when Grandmother Spider spoke up, she was

ignored and the Crow went to steal the precious fire because of its cleverness. Back then, the Crow was pure white and had a melodic, gorgeous singing voice. It was said that when it sung, all scars would be healed and a sound of great joy would fill your ears. Unfortunately, when the Crow swooped down to steal the fire, all its white feathers turned black as tar when it was burnt and its voice was ruined forever. If the Crow tried to sing one of its euphonic, sweet songs, only a “Caw, caw!” sound could be heard, and it was a shrill, coarse cacophony that would harm your ears. When even the Crow returned burnt and devoid of confidence, the People finally sent Grandmother Spider. Grandmother Spider knew that fire was a dangerous thing, so she made a little pot out of clay and successfully carried the stolen fire back to the People, and came back in a sea of glory and pride. After the fire was brought, the Animal people, the Bird People and the Insect People all grew fearful of what it had done to all its carriers. All people except the Human People shied away from the red, bright, illuminating fire and the Human People were taught by Grandmother Spider how to take care of fire and feed it with grass, and all People forever lived in a peaceful, bright and blissful world. Summarized Interpretation from www.indigenouspeople.net/spider.htm

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Michael Gramse Pig mask 2011

Matt Gramse Wolf mask 2011

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The Potato Obsession Brandon Martin

Potatoes, potatoes, oh how I love potatoes. They give me the chills When I pretend they have gills And drown them underwater inside of the sink. I always freak out And go running about All around the kitchen. I say, “Oh no! What have I done! I feel like a bum For murdering and innocent potato.” I pulled out the potato I grabbed onto my finger Then jammed it into the brown sphere. My tongue slithered out From inside my mouth And then licked the area of the potato. I loved it too much My life would be ruined such, When my mother came walking in. I tried to explain But she was fuming anyway And that was the end of potatoes for me.

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Frog and Toad’s New Home Anonymous

Rrrbbit! I’m the new and improved Frog. You might know me from “Frog and Toad” the book, but recently, I no longer live in those many pages. Now I live on a log, which is where frogs and toads belong. I thought that since the whole world is expanding and advancing, I would change my house and my appearance into a relaxing hole on a piece of nature! I no longer have scratches and marks where the artist’s pencil dug out my skin, but smooth brush strokes, nor the hassles of scenes after scenes to keep me dirty! These are some big changes, but not everything has changed. The good things, like my muted hue, are still there and are as muddy as ever. Toad likes that there is unity and balance and I like the highlights on some things. I am so glad I am here and here to stay! Toad and I have lived on that smooth, flat and CLEAN paper for over thirty years! And we, finally, are illustrated in our optimum environment! If you possibly don’t know anything about frogs and toads, the first thing you should know is that we like it muddy, dirty, and possibly a “health-hazard” as you could call it. A log coming from the dirty, but beautiful nature is my dream home. It has bugs in it, bumpy areas and it’s rough with three cracks down the middle. I could not picture a better place for two amphibians to live. I am so pleased with the outcome of the painting. I love the subdued color and the whole mood of the scene. There is great emphasis on Toad and me. The painting seems to revolve around us, but also does not take away the importance of the kite in the tree. There is a slight highlight on that. In addition, the brush strokes feel so much better on my skin.

Toad agrees that he likes it here, because he had it worse, being much bigger than me (for greater surface area equals greater pain, sadly). I feel at home, where I can relax and simply enjoy life! I no longer have to keep pages and pages of scenes dirty. Now, I only have one, and in my old age, that burden was getting too much. I can definitely see this as a place where I can retire and settle down. There were many things I complained about on those pages where I used to live. I am happy that those days are behind me and days with my new home are in my future. It was so skillfully painted, with emphasis on the right objects and none on the wrong ones. The colors were made for Toad and me in mind! Now everything works together to create unity and balance. There is not too much light or dark areas, and the little things, like the grass, pull everything together to create one illustration, not just random objects put together.

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Heart/Corazón Sean Soucy Corazón Como un globo Dentro el pecho Grande y rojo Excepto el Grinch Porque el no tiene corazón No corazón, no viva. Heart It’s like a balloon It’s inside your chest It’s big and red Except the Grinch Because he has no heart No heart, no life.

Kyle Kasserman Red Weight (after Nevelson) 2010

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Luck Loss Emma Noni

The man was an artist. His mind filled with so many ideas like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes. His name was Ethan. He was only twenty-four and he had his whole career planned out. For the past year he had been traveling around the world like leaves before a new hurricane, rapid and carried by the lift of the wind in search for just the right face to paint. All of the faces he had seen flew around in his head like animals escaping from their caves, running and shouting in circles. Once, Ethan thought he found her, the perfect one but she faded behind a stir of mist too quickly for him to approach her in time. Ethan always got caught into some sort of bad luck, and it came at him like the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms, so heavy they were like tidal waves. He was a serious man. He didn’t believe that bad luck existed although he would find himself getting into some sort of sticky situation on his journeys across the globe. He was told by many people, women in particular, to watch out for “luck loss”. Luck loss happens to people who don’t believe that bad luck exists, or when they think that they can do anything that is considered unlucky and get away with it. But luck loss will be out to find those people and they will loose their luck forever. Ethan thought that was a stupid myth as well, but a piece of him was a little suspicious about it. Saturday morning finally came around. He woke to the sound of his phone. It sounded like the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces. It was a call from his art studio saying the wiring was shot. Ethan

rushed there as fast as he could, and as lazy as he is, he made it in time to meet with the electrician. No longer than a half hour after he signed the papers, the electrical men had already put up ladders and their rubber gloves right before they cut a big hole right into the middle of the wall. Ethan sat down on a metal stool and watched helplessly while he rubbed his eyes and forehead in misery. As he shut his eyes, he started to see a myriad of faces of women that he had seen or met in his life. The noise of construction stopped, he felt as if his ears had been stuffed or he had lost his hearing all together. It was the smell of the silent, waiting world coming into him. His world closed into his mind. At first it was that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened to the silence, which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. Then, the faces swarmed around in his mind, blurring together. He tried to slow it down in order to find her face in the craziness of the others. He was trapped in his own mind. His heart started to pound as if he were being chased. The women’s faces flew faster and faster in his head until he opened his eyes quickly with a shout. Everyone in the room stared at him. The noises started to come back and his mind settled. He reassured them that he was okay and they all went back to their work. Ethan’s heart rate went back down and his breathing became normal again but he couldn’t get those faces out of his mind. His friend, Weston stopped by to see what was going on in the studio. Ethan waved and stood up from the stool, he walked over to greet Weston at the front door of the building. “That’s bad luck you know.” Weston said, pointing behind Ethan. Ethan turned around and looked. He

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Genevieve Paradis Still Life 2011

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had just walked directly underneath a ladder that the electricians were using to reach the wires in the ceiling. Ethan shrugged. “I don’t think my day could get any worse, the ladder probably won’t affect anything.” He said. Weston smirked and started walking into the studio, looking around at the ceilings and walls where the construction men were reaching into them, pulling out sparkling wire ends with their thick gloves. “It’s a wreck, and it’s gonna cost me.” Ethan said as he pointed out that he was paying quite a bit for all these men to come down to his studio to re-wire his lights. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay them all when the work is done.” “Maybe you just need some good luck,” Weston gave a slight chuckle knowing that that would never happen to a guy like Ethan. Bad luck was always finding him at the worst times. “I don’t find that funny…” Ethan said as he gave a smile and a tiny laugh. He knew he wouldn’t get any luck. But he never thought it was the bad luck either, he just simply thought it was the way life should be. After Weston went on his way, Ethan let the electricians close up the studio and he decided to go home. On his way out to his car, a young woman came over to him. “What happened with your studio?” she asked as she looked towards the holes in the walls. Ethan hesitated to reply. Her hair was the color of flaming bronze just like a warm iron, and it was falling in tons, like an avalanche. He thought to himself that maybe this was fate; maybe it was luck that this girl might have the perfect face. “Uh yeah, the wiring shot last night.” He said quickly. “That’s too bad, it’s going to cost

you!” she replied as she started to slowly move towards her previous destination. Ethan wasn’t sure how to reply. “I know…” he decided to say. He paused before opening his car door. She turned to him quickly from across the street as if she was to say something. “Watch out for the edges of the car windows…they’re sharp.” She shouted. The woman kept walking and disappeared out of Ethan’s sight. He wasn’t quite sure what she had said; it all came to him like the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. He opened his door and on his way into his car, he hit his head in a curving motion on the corner of the car door window. “Ow!” he said with force as he clenched his hand over his forehead. He bent his body halfway and got into his car. When he shut the door and took his hand off his head he looked at it. His head was bleeding a little and written in drippy, bloody letters on his palm were the words: LUCK LOSS. Ethan’s heart rate went up again and he blinked a few times to make sure what he was seeing was real. When he reached up to his head again to stop the bleeding he saw his hand in the rear-view mirror of his car. The words faded away into just wipe marks. Ethan raced home as fast as he could so he could get out of this curse that he thought someone had put on him. He swerved onto his street and right before approaching his house, a little black cat ran across the street causing him to veer right into his mailbox. The airbags went off. Struggling, Ethan managed to get his hands over to the middle consol of the car. He grabbed a pen and stabbed the airbag. He got his hands up over the bags and let them deflate. He saw through his windshield that his mailbox

21 Brandon Keller Still Life 2011

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bounced off the hood of his car and into his yard leaving a huge dent in the hood. Ethan took a long, deep breath before he let out a short yell as loud as he possibly could from his seat and pounded his fist into the side of the car in anger. Consequently, an unresponsive airbag went off and hit him right upside the head a few seconds later. He clenched his jaw to hold his anger and he opened the car door with force. He fell out of his car onto his knees into a puddle of water. He didn’t move, he just let the water soak through the knees of his pants right to his bare skin. He looked around him and started to snivel which led to slight sobbing. A lady came up to him from across the street. “Are you alright?!” she shrieked. Ethan looked up from his cold, wet knees. She looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Like a lemon all of this was, he thought: very, very sour. She helped him get up and she walked him to the door of his house. “You must have known there was a puddle there…its been filling up lately from all the rain.” She said. Ethan rolled his eyes subtly and thanked the woman for helping him. He watched her go back across the street. He looked at his mailbox post and then he look at his car, the airbags all over the place and the huge dent on the hood and then he saw his mailbox tipped on its side, in the puddle of water. He frowned and slammed his front door on his way in. It’s like a fire he thought. Like a penny, worthless. His head got light all of a sudden and he remembered the cut and the

writing on his hand. He rushed to the bathroom to look at his forehead. On his way to look in the mirror, he felt very sick and dizzy. He fell to the ground suddenly and fainted. Then, like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun. All of the women, throughout his bad luck, all the women that had warned him of things, were in his head. Their faces again came in a swarm around him in his mind. He started to panic and tried to wake up but his body had already shut down and he was stuck in some sort of apocalypse that occurred in his head. It was as if, in the midst of a film concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had first gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders. And then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The women were everywhere, moving so fast their faces started to blur until he couldn’t tell which one was which. It was like lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. Then suddenly, they slowed down to almost a stop. It focused up on this woman he had never met or even seen in his lifetime. Her face was stunning, just what he had in mind. She had clover in her hair and her eyes, looked like they belonged to a cat. Her hair was long and beautiful, but somewhere in it Ethan could see shapes. It was like a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring. There was a ladder and a car...he could almost see a mailbox and its post bent into her waves. Then, he looked at her skin. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and

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Unknown Artist Still Life 2010

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ink, and it was the color of the moon. It was smooth and silky and Ethan could see that it was like water; like a puddle. She only stayed for a few seconds; just enough time for Ethan to realize that everything he had spent his life looking for was jammed around in his mind. It felt amazing, like a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She disappeared fast, like she had been sucked away in a black hole. Ethan felt almost embarrassed with himself, it was like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. And then there was nothing. Just blackness and silence and Ethan fell into a deep fainted, sleep. His eyes started to open slowly. He blinked a few times. The light was bright and it made him squint as if the jungle had burned with sunlight. “Ethaannn…” said an inane voice. Ethan looked around; his vision was still blurry. “Ethan, buddy…wake up.” It said again. This voice was more mature but sounded about the same. Ethan’s vision came into place. Weston was sitting closely by his bed. “Ethan? You awake?” He asked. Ethan opened his eyes wide and sat up a little. “What happened…?” Ethan asked. Weston stood up and walked to the other side of the room and picked up a glass of water. Ethan stared outside into the street. He saw the sun, It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. The sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. Then Weston’s hand came in front of the window. “Here you go, it will help.” Weston handed Ethan the water. Ethan sat up some more and took a huge gulp. “One of the construction guys said you were on your way out of the studio yesterday afternoon and you just fell and fainted right there. They called me up and told me what happened so I came

and got you and I brought you home.” Weston explained. Ethan felt so confused. That’s not how he remembered the day at all. What about all the women, and all the bad luck? That couldn’t have happened, Ethan realized it was just a dream. “I had the craziest dream ever, you wouldn’t even believe it. I hit my head and crashed my car and then I fell in a puddle. It was awful.” Ethan claimed. Weston looked at him like he was crazy. “Yeah, okay.” Weston said and he smirked. “It’s true! That’s what happened in my dream, it was so scary!” “Alright man, what ever you say…” Weston said. Ethan let it go and put down his water. “I’m going home, you gonna be okay?” Weston asked. “Yeah ill be fine.” “Alright, peace.” Weston made a peace symbol with his hands and left the house. Ethan got out of the bed and stood up. He wasn’t so dizzy anymore. He walked into his bathroom. When he looked in the mirror, he noticed that he had something on his forehead. He looked more closely and saw that it was a scar, curvy and in the shape of a four-leaf clover. As he was looking at it, he felt something brush up against the bottom of his leg. It was a little black cat. Ethan stood as if somebody had driven him, like so many stakes, into the floor. Written in the fog on the mirror were the words: “Be careful for the corners of windows, you never know what kind luck it will bring you.”

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The Maine Moose Brendan Bayer

Serenely encased in the seemingly endless Maine wilderness, Antlers atop the large head like moss-covered pieces of driftwood, A sturdy structure covered with a thick mahogany colored hide, Drinking from the crystal clear lake then calls its muffled call for all to hear.

Lizzy Goodrich Still Life with Jaw Bone 2010

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The Giving Tree Kali Mildrum

The sharp lead was being dragged across the wooden surface. First my nose, then my head, before I knew it I had arms and legs. Then I get my messy hair that framed the top of my head. My arms extend out to catch the perpetually dropping apple that I don’t think I will ever receive. Being on a tree stump as I am, I feel very insignificant. I was always that way. My friend, the Tree, thinks that I am just a naïve little boy and she said that she loved me for that. She loved it whenever I was around. I feel the same though. She is my friend; I love it when she is around. Being drawn never compares to being full with color that is painted on me. I love being colorful. If I hadn’t been painted I would just be too boring. I would be as boring as an adult. I know Tree is an adult, but she is different. I feel like all the other adults want me to grow up. But she wants me to have fun. Climb her trunk, play king of the forest and play games like hide and seek. My limbs wish to flail about with excitement because the colors are spilling into my body parts and I am excited. The wood that I am drawn on has cracks in it so it feels very uncomfortable. But after awhile I have gotten used to it. When I was being painted it tickled me. Better than being drawn with a pencil. It feels weird but it kind of hurts me. I didn’t particularly enjoy the pencil. Once I am painted and perfected I finally feel stable and feel comfortable. Once the paint started to harden and dry the excitement was wearing away. The bright green that has blinded me felt blasé. I wonder if this is how it is going to be from now on. Day after day, through cold nights outside, the cruel

snow in the outdoor classroom. Maybe it won’t be like that. I hope the warm sun will visit often and hope the weather will be nice to us. We’ll see.

Han

d pa

inte

d sto

ol b

y K

ali M

ildrtu

m

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The Women in the Museum

Katie Barlow

Gingerly I walk into the old museum, seeing myriad old pictures, sculptures and paintings. One hallway caught my eye. Stiff as iron I stand at the end. I saunter down, tearing along across splendor of pictures that made me sing. One picture leaped clear from all the others in great jumps. She looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. Her cheeks were a flaming bronze color. “Oh…Oh,” I whispered to myself as I look up at the ancient, but breathtaking painting. I feel as if I’m with her in the painting, like I could smell the flowers curling around her hair, her curly locks hugging tight to her face. Her hair was like a nest of octopi, like a lemon. The dress that fell upon her tan skin, it was a blazing blue. The tough looking girl was sitting on a beach, the sea behind her. Blue it was, green it was. The water was a creamy fury, but it was like a winged god with its beauty. The girl looked proud to have dark skin, proud to be a woman, but she looked like she enjoyed life and if anything bad came at her she would do anything to turn it into happiness. When I was looking at the painting I suddenly heard a booming of feet, sounding of many feet making its way to where I was. They shouted as they were singing for joy. The museum became crowded with people, everyone wanting to look at the famous picture I was looking at. All of them yelling “Look…Look!” Everyone was pressed to each other like so many roses; so many weeds intermixed, staring at her beauty. I was being pushed and shoved losing

my sight of the picture. When I was finally pushed out of the crowd I walked down the hallway a little farther. I stopped and stared at a picture, the girl in it was like an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. I was looking here, looking there, trying to absorb what was happening in this picture. A triumph I was in, it was royal, to see that beauty. The girl was faded away in the background, but the background was popped with color. The sun was like a penny, like a fire, the sky like a blue roaring ocean full of gulls. Then I looked back to the girl. She had a pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future. Comparing her to the background she was like a dying mouse that no one noticed. Her eyes helpless; starring into nothingness. I walked away slowly making my way to the end to the window to sit down. I look out the patterning windows. Rain, rain; rain like it was never going to stop. Lightening struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, and a half-mile. Gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons, avalanches, everywhere and forever. The real world was gloomy, but when I took my eyes off outside I felt like a new person starring into a bright new world. I walk down looking left, right, then left again picking out my favorite pictures, skipping down the long hall in joy. Everyone has left; it was like leaves after a hurricane. Standing at my favorite picture that was crowded earlier but now no one in sight. As I was standing there I suddenly hear a tap, tap, tap, which sends me into great jumps. A short man stood at the end of the hallway, stiff as iron, just like I was. “Ten minutes till closing time,” he said in an angered voice. “Yes sir,” I said as I keep my eyes glued to the picture. When

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I couldn’t here the clack, clack, clack from his shoes I was just about to leave when I saw the most beautiful painting, even more beautiful then all the others I have seen today. The sky around her was a blazing blue tile color. Her face a flaming bronze, like a penny. The veil was glued to her face like a mom holds her baby, tight but gracefully. I take one last look at her and walk down the hallway leading me to the steps. It was down pouring but I didn’t mind. I loved rain; even though it brought my mood down it always gave me ideas. The rain sprays in showers of sparkles. When I was almost home I stopped in the middle of the side walk, in the pouring rain thinking, what if someone smart enough was able to morph all of those famous paintings I saw of the women at the museum together, making the first girls hair turn into a veil or background, flowers turning it jewelry or hair… but who would be able to do that?

Grade 8 ROCK Mrs. Lovett 2010

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Better School Lunches Mira Wyman

You wait in line, starving, wanting to just get your food and sit down with your friends. Then you’re up next, you see the food and are disgusted by the processed goop in front of you. 754 calories, 1402 mg sodium, 24 grams trans-fat, 7 grams saturated fat, and 85 milligrams cholesterol. That’s what the cafeteria is serving us day after day. The things we are forced to eat are getting old. They serve the same type of food all the time. After interviewing the lunch ladies I found that NO food the cafeteria serves is made directly there, and that it’s all processed, boxed junk. When I asked them how many calories are in the food they said, “Hold on, let me check the box”. I mean really: the box? That’s what we are forced to eat now-a-days. From the fake chicken to the greasy pizza; it’s just flat out disgusting. The school shouldn’t be able to serve that type of food. I think personally, that $2.50 is too much for food that is completely fattening. Not only is the price unfair because of how unhealthy the food is, but the portions are too small. It’s always ONE tiny scoop of pasta or taco meat. And if your dare take TWO scoops, there is a woman behind the counter saying, “ONE SCOOP!” We are growing kids; one spoon full of food is not going to satisfy our craving stomachs. Although the food is completely unhealthy, what annoys me is the fact that they never have enough food for everyone. By that I mean, if you happen to be late for lunch and you are towards the back of the lunch line, you are likely not to get any food. Yeah: NO food whatsoever. So you end up getting chips, an ice cream, or nothing for

lunch, which is completely unhealthy too. Although this doesn’t happen to me very often I see it happen occur almost everyday to various friends and peers. So what I would recommend to the cafeteria is to do a better head count. Or even make extra food. I mean what do they expect us to do? If they don’t have any food left do they just expect us to pack our face with ice cream? So before you grab that processed junk the cafeteria serves think, “Do I really want to eat this stuff?” Because the food they serve is NOT the type of food you want to ingest everyday, day after day.

Brian Chamard Shark 2011

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Flat Stanley, Still Flat Brandon Peters

As I was drawn and then painted on a log, I was still flat. My name is Stanley Lambchop. I was the main character in the book Flat Stanley. I was sleeping in my bed one night and a bulletin board from above my bed fell on me! I was FLAT! I was no longer the perfect 3-D Stanley. I was only 2-D. Not as bad as it sounds: being the only flat boy in the world, I became famous. As great as it sounds, I longed to be my normal self again. This was my chance. An eighth grade boy as an art project was sketching me on a piece of paper. Been there done that, blah, blah, blah. Not until he finished creating my eyes did I realize I was being sketched on a piece of paper next to a log! Not perfect, but it could still work. Maybe the log would be my body, or my head, or one of my legs or arms. The possibilities were endless. I had gotten my hopes up too high. The boy finished my ears and I overheard his art teacher talking about how these logs were going to be used. It was as far from what I was thinking as physically possible. I was not going to be normal again. I was going to be painted on a log; the log was going to be used as a stool. I was still going to be flat and I was going to be sat on. To make it worse, I was drawn in pencil first. Pencil on paper isn’t too depressing, but pencil on log is like getting punched in the face. The sharpened lead scrapes against the wood and the pain is unbearable. After that torture was over, the boy decided to paint me. Paint is great color and sets the mood for you. But for me, paint nearly drowns me and is so thick I can barely move. To make it worse, the paint blends together my body parts, so now

you can’t even tell I’m Stanley Lambchop. My hopes of being myself again became much farther away. As I was drawn and then painted on a log, I was still flat. The pain from being drawn on a log is unbearable and the paint doesn’t help too much. I still dream to be 3-D again, but now I will have to wait a little longer. Please don’t sit on me too hard.

Han

d pa

inte

d sto

ol b

y B

rand

on P

eter

s

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Not All That It’s Cracked Up To Be Michela Michalizio

Raining. Of all the weather that was imagined to be in heaven, it was raining. I could tell that my luck well had run completely dry. The steady droplets of water might have seemed to some people like tunes for a dance, but to me, it was just rain, rain, and rain and rain. In my life I hadn’t been exactly bright and cheery and I sure wasn’t going to start now that I had no life. Three hundred seconds. Can you believe it? It took just three hundred seconds to end all the hard work I had put into my fourteen years of life. Okay, I didn’t work that hard, but you know what I mean. Who knew it would end so…quickly? In the movies they make death seem like you have enough time to have a fifteen-page monologue before dropping off, but I didn’t even get to say “hopscotch.” I would love to say that I died peacefully, with dignity, but I pretty much went blubbering, and screaming, and crying, and all that un-dignifying crap. It’s not as if I would have lived that long anyway. Call me melodramatic, but my life pretty much ended when it began… It all started at a nightclub. My mom was only a few years older than me and she was having a blast. That is, until he showed up. My mom, also melodramatic, described him in this way: “One could have flung one’s body to him as a sacrifice. He just came in and he looked right at me, his eyes of a blue unspeakable. I was stupid, new to the world, but he…he was the one thing that would have made my life worth living every day. He was a wonder and a glory and a terror. One of those boys who you hated to love, knew that he would break your heart if you came too

close, but I couldn’t help it. In his eyes, you might have well been tearing along across a splendor of sea that made you sing.” Cheesy, right? And then he ran off after the little stick had the happy plus sign. My family is obviously not a lucky bunch. My grandfather died right after winning the lottery because the supermarket he was in was shot up. I hope that bugger with the gun is enjoying the money. So, I lived my life with my uncle, a freeloader who had a passion for football. Well, watching it. As for me, I went to school, did school-y stuff, and that sort of crap. I was going to settle on being a cashier at McDonald’s, and die alone. I got the dying part right, but pretty much my life was a throwaway. What, you want to know how I died? Even if you don’t this is MY story and I’LL write whatever the heck I feel like writing…Oh, yeah. Power is awesome. So, I was walking, minding my own business when (a bunch of laser-powered monkey-gun-armed crocodiles started shooting at me. I managed to dodge them effectively until one particularly nasty bugger jumped up and…no, I’m just fooling with you. That would have been pretty sick, though). So, minding business, yadda yadda, when, I kid you not, some jerk decides to pour a bunch of filthy almond-smelling gunk out of his window. Now I was covered in gunk and I smelled like almonds. I hate gunk and I hate almonds. Anyway, I was pretty ticked off then so I started yelling at the guy. Then he had the manners to look down at me and his eyes pop WAY out of his head. He screamed something unintelligible and ducks down like a greased bullet was coming toward his face. Well, I was feeling pretty good and I got about ten feet before I was in pain. Like, a lot of pain. It felt like I was a

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Charlie Hepburn Political 2010

Olivia Baronowski Olivia 2010

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piece of paper, and someone was ripping me. My eyes turned on like faucets and my inner siren turned on. I guessed that something wasn’t agreeing with me. So, my vision gets all hazy and an ambulance comes up. I remember yelling at it to shut up, but the medics were all running and everything looked pretty funky. So I decided to shut up. The last word I remember hearing was “cyanide” and I dropped off. No white light, nothing. I sort of just… stepped out of my body. I was like, “sick, I’m a ghost!” and I was all pumped to start haunting people but a little weird hole popped up above me. I was sucked up like a straw and was pulled up to this huge courtroom that smelled like copper and Pinesol®. It was as if in the midst of a film, and I stood stiff as an iron, not wanting to miss a second of what was unfurling in front of me. Dude, it was God. Seriously. He was in judge’s robes and was all looking into my sole and stuff. It was freaky, but I stood still. When He spoke, it was an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption. He asked me to speak my name. For a terrifying second, I didn’t know. My conscience told me I’d better start dancing or I’d be going way down. My voice was a ghost compared to His. “Wait, aren’t you, like, all-knowing or something? Why do I need to tell you my name?” God sighed. “Jeez, I can tell you’ll be another annoying one. Okay, fine, I’m not all I was cracked up to be. People kind of… prettied up my job. Happy?” Uh, no, I wasn’t happy in the slightest but I was afraid of Him nonetheless so I said that I was. “Well, I’m glad we could accommodate so well.” The sarcasm in His voice was bitter as dandelion’s milk in the back of my throat. But, I was trying to get on

the “nice” list so I kept my mouth shut and locked. “Now, let’s see…” He was looking through what looked like a photo album. He leafed through the pages and chuckled and made noises such as “Ooh,” and “Really?” I caught a glimpse of a picture. It was a photo album of me and all the things I had ever done. “Uh, highness?” I made my presence known again. He looked up. “What?” I could tell He wasn’t in the mood. “Uh, is that… me?” He rolled his eyes of a blue unspeakable and replied, “Okay, so this is you, your life, everything you. It’s my job to look through it and determine if you’ve been naughty or nice. So far, as your generation goes, you haven’t been too bad. I mean, I suppose all that TV could count as Sloth, but I want you out of here, so I’ll let it fly.” I blinked, “Thanks?” God put away my book. “Sure, kid. Now you can just take a right down that hallway and have a good afterlife, toots.” I got up from my chair and started to leave. “I don’t have all day!” he boomed at me, making me jump. “Well, yeah I do, but I’m just sick of looking at you.” I felt something push me out the door and into a hall. If you could call it a hall, it was huge. Seriously, I could have fit my house in it. Well, what used to be my house. I felt the first pang of life sickness. It feels as if you’re homesick at a friend’s slumber party but you know you can’t leave. No use dwelling. He told me to go right, right? Or was it left…don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing…didn’t my mom used to say that…? Sick! Oh yeah!

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Scott Lambert Composition #1 2011

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My mom! Maybe I could see her! She wasn’t that bad of a mom, as far as moms go. I walked down the hall and looked down either side. To the left of the hall my face was suddenly burning as if someone had thrown a piping hot pie at my face. There was a sign “Wrong Way, Bozo!” I was surprised at this and then it changed to, “We Know Where The Big Guy Sent You, So Scram!” I was turning around when I saw the weirdest thing yet: a little sausage with horns holding a pitchfork. It looked up from filing its nails. (I don’t know if sausages have nails, but this one did…and it had arms.) “What’re you looking at?” I quickly looked the other way. I barely heard it say, “That’s right. Keep walking, buster.” The hallway on the right was pure white. I know that’s stereotypical, but it was. It was whiter than a snowball after being bleached. There was this neon sign that was blinking “Right This Way, Friend!” I took that as a hint and I started walking towards the blinding lighted doorway. I stopped in front of it. It was a huge double door that looked like it was made out of pearls. I grasped the spherical doorknob and it swung open after the slightest tug. I walked inside and it silently shut behind me. I blinked and stood, my mouth open. Heaven. That’s right, Heaven. I knew it was supposed to be tricked out, but man! I had no idea how awesome it really was! If you think the Taj Mahal was a cool place for dead people, you have no idea! It was the amazing white you’d expect from heaven, but there was a myriad of other colors, in tints and hues and shades. I was still standing there like a dead fish when a voice spoke up from behind me. “You gonna move or are

you stupid?” I turned around and the most beautiful woman I had ever seen was sitting behind a window. “Where is this?” I asked. “Ah! It speaks!” the woman said. “Yeah, this is Heaven. Well, not yet. We’re in the reception era. I’m Mildred, the secretary.” She held out her perfectly manicured hand. “Hi,” I said, and shook it. Her hand was cold and hard as marble. She gestured gracefully towards a general direction. “Have a seat, won’t you?” A chair made of clouds rose up suddenly from the ground. “Whoa,” I breathed, stunned. “Pretty neat, huh? That’s my favorite trick,” Mildred said cheerfully. I sat down. It was lumpier than I thought. “Just a moment, you’ll be seen in a minute.” Or a week! I don’t know how long I sat there, but I will just say that I was less than satisfied with their magazine choice. “They will see you now,” Mildred said. I thought they had forgotten about me. The windows split apart like a banana split (drum drum cymbal) to reveal a long hallway. I stepped through the opening and it rematerialized behind me. The next time passage was so mind-numbingly dull; I don’t even remember all that happened. All I can recall is one hundred beautiful faces all blending into the next. All of the women had me “sign here, please, initials here, please, not there, thank you.” Ugh, I am so sick of my name. By the time I went through the exit door, I was so frazzled I was still signing invisible papers. I felt a raindrop on my head and I snapped back. So, there you have it: the brand-spanking-new, no-artificial-crap-added story of my delightfully pitiful life and afterlife. Did I meet up with my mom?

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No, it turns out Heaven is basically a big city. I had to get a job to pay the admittedly low rent for my high-rise condo. I guess the afterlife isn’t that much different from life. It’s definitely not what I had in mind. It’s true: the

dude who wrote the Bible went on a killing spree with the Bedazzler. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be.

Velocidad Tyler Spence

Velocidad

Impossible a coger Encontrado en el corazón El sentimiento de poder

Más rapido que la velocidad de la luz

Velocity Impossible to catch Found in the heart

The feeling of power Faster than the speed of light

Gab

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Hand painted stool by Sam Reed

The Boy Sam Reed

In the beginning the log's surface was enveloped by an endless, dirty white, decorated by a system of cracks and creases, which tainted its surface. Within the blank world there appeared a boy. His creator looked upon him proudly; what a fine boy he had drawn! The boy however did not bring his eyes to meet those of his creator, for his head was tilted away from them, and it would forever stay that way. His face would never be looked upon by another. The boy blinked his unseen eyes, and he began to feel. He sensed the floor beneath him, the curtains felt coarse against his smooth creaseless palms. Then as if by magic, a colorless world appeared before him. Everything was black and white, as was he. He marveled at the definition, the contrast in the borders that separated the two opposites, who were fated to clash against one another until their frozen world met its end. When the boy came to be, emotions did as well. They trickled through him, their unseen detail and beauty was the only color o the page. Shining brighter than the rest was the burning green that was his curiosity. But this fabulous color could only be sensed rather than seen. With this new emotion he began to wonder: Who was he? Where was he? Why could he not move his limbs? Soon his thoughts took wing and grabbed onto things other than himself, such as the value of the world that stretched ahead of him. How many shades existed between the white of the blindingly bright stars and the infinitely black abyss that lay between them? With this he immediately set to work, hoping to discover all the wonders of his world from the point which he was

stuck to. Before too long he had discovered many of his world’s secrets, but there was still one thought that plagued him: who was his creator? However, that question would never be answered because, while his creator stared down on him, he could not bring his eyes to meet his.

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The Green Stripe Emily Rioux

Here Henri Matisse embellished on a portrait of his wife. One with a green stripe down the face. I reworked his piece, incorporating a mouse as the face instead. I used acrylic paints to show the texture and form of her face, where Matisse used oil paints on his genuine version. In mine I express his clearly visible brush strokes and contrasting colors trying to show the form of her face. To start, I replaced Amélie Matisses’ face with a mouse. The oval shaped face, in my perspective, relates vastly to a mouse. I painted this using acrylic paint, thinking about its thick, loud texture. I was split between using tempera or acrylic paints. I chose acrylic over tempera because tempera paint dries smoother than I would like. Adding more water to the parts of the paint made a difference on the brightness and texture, which helped it replicate the original. The art element that is most important in my artwork in my opinion would be contrast. Contrast is a state of being strikingly different from something else, and with art it’s when two opposites are near each other and there is a big visual difference between them. There is a green stripe down the center of Amélie Matisse’s face (hence the name of the painting). This stripe acts as an artificial shadow line and separates the face in two, with a light and dark side. Matisse divided the face chromatically with cool and warm sides. The construction of the colors adds natural looking light with the dramatic color change and highly visible brush strokes. The artist who painted The Green Stripe was Henri Matisse. He was born on the 31st of December and he died on

the 3rd of November, 1954 at the age of eighty-four. Through Matisse’s rather widespread life he came upon painting, printmaking, sculpting, drawing, and collages. I chose to remake a piece of Matisse’s because I appreciate his fondness for bright and expressive color. Matisse was called a fauve, which means wild beast, because of his heavy brush strokes and wild colors. Something that was enjoyable to me in this project was the fact that I was able to choose any piece of art from the given books to reproduce and rework, making it my own. Though I changed my mind a couple of times, in the end I feel I found the most suitable one for me. As am artist I like painting quickly, but in a perfected manner, so if I were to change something about this project I would give it more time with less requirements throughout the project.

Emily Rioux The Green Stripe (after Matisse) 2011

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Civil Rights Team Peace Wordles 2011

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Surfboard Conner Perron

Silently cutting through the rough choppy water like a knife through thin air. The

waxy, salty sun and water beating. The surfboard carves through the water like a dolphin

surfacing for air, or a submarine coming up after a long journey under the sea. It is

attracted to the shore like a moth attracted to light but it is stuck, only by the crashing of

the white foamy waves can it reach its destination. Waxy but hard, smooth but rough,

the surfboard is waiting, anticipating the perfect wave to carry it into the shore smooth

and swift, not rough and bumpy. This is because its peers are watching, waiting for the

moment it slips up and throws its rider off balance so they can laugh and mock it. It

wants to enter the beach with swagger and pride, knowing it just made a perfect ten point

ride.

Ellie Sapat FatCat Comic 2010

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My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult (Remix)

Re-imagined ending by Cayman Bickerstaff

My new ending starts on page 415 after the doctor says, “I know it’s not something you want to think about right now, but there’s a very small window… is organ donation something you would like to consider?” _________________________________

Campbell I awoke hastily, temporarily forgetting where I was. Soon after I woke up, the doctors informed me about what had happened. I was driving at the corner of Eddie and Fountain when I had an epileptic seizure. Anna was in the car, and I prayed to God that she was still alive. “WHERE IS SHE!?” I yelled across the room, until the doctors came to put me back in my hospital bed. “I know she came to this hospital, I need to know what happened!” “Mr. Campbell, we can not release any information to you until the family knows what happened.” The doctor calmly told me. This gave me a bad feeling, but the doctor left after that. I sat there contemplating all the possibilities. Is she dead? Does she need a transplant? What do I do? Thoughts ran through my head so fast that I became dizzy. Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep. “It sure is a rainy day outside isn’t it Julia?” I said to Julia. We were walking to the car after eating at Applebee’s. It was a torrential downpour outside, and by the time we got to the car we were soaked. “Campbell, I trust your judgment, but are you sure you want to drive in this weather?” Julia asked nervously.

“Julia, I am pretty sure I can drive my own car in the rain. Don’t worry, I will have you back to your house in one piece.” That is where I was wrong. Halfway down I-90, I lost control of the car and found that we were spinning off the road and causing a huge traffic jam. “Julia, can you hear me, are you okay?” I asked nervously hoping I hadn’t crushed her. There was no response, and there was only one thing I had to do. “Hello? 911? There has been a crash on I-90! I’m fine, but my girlfriend is unconscious, we need help right away!” I frantically told the 911 responder. “Ok, we’ll be there as soon as possible. Please, try to stay calm.” The paramedics said as they cut off the line. What did I do? Anna is probably dead right now, and it’s my fault. I am the one that decides and helps Anna with all her medical choices, so depending on the way this turns out, I will be the one with the final decision in this situation. I get out of my bed and walk around the hospital hoping to find Brian and Sara, so I can be informed about Anna’s situation. “Campbell!” Brian yells from across the room, and I slowly start to gravitate towards him. “Anna was badly hurt in the car wreck. This is your fault! But you help her decide when it comes to medical purposes, so what do we do about her?” I walked away traumatized by the thought of Anna dying because of me, when something happens. The thought runs through my head that maybe a miracle could happen, and Anna could come off the machines living.

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Peter Morrissette Volcano 2011

Noah Nagem Anteater 2011

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“Doctor Chance, is there any chance that she can come off the machines and possibly be alive?” “Mr. Campbell we have gone through the possibilities, and it would be very low, but there is a chance.” “Doctor, the family is already putting up with Kate, and they don’t need another catastrophic moment right now. Let the parents go and say goodbye, turn the machines off, and then we will see what happens.” “Okay Mr. Campbell, I’ll go tell the family.”

Sara

I am sitting with Brian in Anna’s room paying attention to the Life Support machines.

“Sara,” Dr. Chance calls out to me. “Mr. Campbell decided to let you unhook Anna from the machines, and see if there is even the slightest bit of life in her.”

I am shocked when the doctor declared this decision. I decide that Kate should know what happened to her sister. So I walk at a slow and steady pace to her room and upon my approach, I am surprised to find Jesse lying at the foot of Anna’s bed.

“Jesse and Kate, we have something we need to tell you. Anna was in a bad car wreck with Campbell. Campbell is fine, but Anna is probably not going to live.” I tell Jesse and Kate, and suddenly it goes from a cheerful room, to an inconsolable room, where both Jesse and Kate were crying.

“M-m-m-m-m” Kate was trying to spit something out, but she was too speechless to be able to.

I walk out of the room with Brian to head to Anna’s room to turn off the

machines. I keep thinking to myself, “This is a nightmare,” but it’s not.

“Brian, promise me, that no matter what happens, that this will not ruin our family.”

“Sara, this is a hard time for all of us, but we can make it through this.”

I go to sit at the foot of Anna’s bed. The sheets were originally blue, but there are some spots of red from where she bled. The pillows are in plastic covers, and there was a tube sticking out from her chest.

“Anna,” I say aloud even though she can’t hear me. “I am so sorry I haven’t been treating you the best I could, and I am sorry that I have always put Kate ahead of you.”

I start bawling, the tears pouring out onto the sheets. I turn to look at Anna as I cry, and one of the tears falls onto her hand.

“Brian I can’t be here anymore!” I sob to him, as he quietly grabs my arm and starts to escort me out of the room.

“Mommy?” I hear a groggy voice call out. I suddenly turn around and realize that Anna is opening her eyes!

“It’s me, Anna. You’re fine now.” I say.

The doctor walks in. He takes a little time, and explains to us how she would live, but we would have to take some major precautions, and she probably couldn’t play sports ever again.

Jesse

I was sitting at the foot of Kate’s

bed when my mom walked into the room.

“Jesse, Kate. We have really good news, Anna is alive, but she will need extreme care. I know that it will be hard to deal with both Kate and Anna, but we should be happy they are alive.”

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My mom triggered a thought in my head that Kate is alive, but she won’t be alive for long. I thought and thought hard about this fact, and surprisingly felt a tear drip down my cheek.

“Mom, you know how you wanted to donate the kidney?” I ask.

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with anything? You and Anna are the only two matches that would possibly work out.”

“Mom, I want to donate the kidney to Kate,” I let out.

The room went into a deep silence. Everyone was surprised that I was willing to risk my life to save Kate’s.

“Jesse,” Sara said. “You? Not to sound mean, but you have always been mean, and an addict who never really cared about this family.”

“Mom, I’ve changed, I want to do this for Kate. PLEASE!”

“Thank you Jesse.” My mom started to tear up while she spoke. She had nothing else to say. She just walked over to me, and I got the biggest hug I have ever received.

Epilogue : Anna 2014 I still remember that day almost

perfectly. It was both the saddest and happiest day of my life. I didn’t want to die, and didn’t. Kate and I lived. Also, I learned what it was like to be in Kate’s position, so I understand a lot more now.

Like I was hoping would happen: I am married to my husband John, and best of all: Kate’s sister. I guess it turns out that Jesse was my sister’s keeper.

Girish Tiwari Self-portrait 2010

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Ling’s Journey Maddy Adams

Hi, I’m Fini Linguini, but you can call me Ling. Today I want you to feel what it’s like living in my shoe. I’ll start in the store. “Ouch.” “Ow.” “You’re stepping on my foot!” “Sorry. I’m so stiff I can’t move.” This is what I start out in the middle of: Chaos. All of the selfish little pieces of linguini complaining about how stiff they are or how other people are causing them problems. Everyone is trying to get his or her own open space in this prison. Our box is the one way at the back of the shelf in the pasta isle, so I guess I’m going to have to put up with this for a while. Waiting... waiting… waiting…

2 Days Later Finally we are at the front of the shelf. It’s only a matter of time before… “Hey, here comes someone,” says Fin. We all sit here patiently on the edge of the box hoping, hoping they take us. But instead they pick the whole wheat spaghetti. “Awwww, man!” Those suck-ups. They are always saying how much better they are for you, and everyone falls for it. It’s so annoying; everyone believing everything magazines and TV tells them. Besides, we have a way bigger population than they do. In our box we have 623 pieces of pasta (I counted to pass the time while I listened to this ridiculous complaining). But the whole wheat has only 509 pieces. What a catch. (I counted them too. What? Don’t look at me that way. I was bored). Saying that just reminds me of

how much I loathe two other kinds of pasta. First; the Fettuccine Rigate. I mean seriously, they are so fat they can only fit 273 of them in a package. Really. Plus, everyone buys them for the Fettuccine Alfredo. Why can’t they just use us? The second kind I don’t like is Angel Hair. Oh, such angels… NOT. They all tease us and torture us in the work out room in the factory about how they are so much skinnier than us and how they can fit 1122 pieces of them in a box. URRGGG!! SO ANNOYING! But still, I made it through that and now I am just holding on hoping someone will take us. Oh, here comes someone! There hand is extended towards us- YES, YES, YESSSS! They took us. Finally, no more complaining. Now we are in the basket trying to get out of this store as fast as we can. Nothing much gets thrown on top of us in the store, nothing except a block of cheese and a can of sauce. Now checkout time! After we’ve been checked out and put in the back of the car, we are just anticipating the kitchen. Finally, we made it. Heaven… the kitchen. We hear the mom of the house call out to everyone else as she’s unloading the car, “Dinner in ten minutes.” She puts a pot of water on the burner waiting for it to boil.

3 Minutes Later The water is bubbling and the mom opens up our box. Aaaaahhhh, fresh air at last. She pours us into the bubbling liquid. Oh my gosh… this is Heaven!! It feels like a hot tub in here. Oh yeah! If my life were to end right now, I’d be okay with it. I hope I’m in here forever. Sadly my time ended and I

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am poured into this metal thing with holes in it. All of the water seeps out from around me and I am put in this huge bowl. My skin is all slimy and slippery after the hot tub. I feel really refreshed. “Clip, clip, clip.” I hear. There is a really big pair of tweezers coming to snatch me up. I’m lifted into the air and PLOP I land in a big plate. A huge spoon scoops up a red sauce and dumps it on top of me. The final touch is added to the dish with a twist of the cheese grater. Now I am ready to be eaten. “Clack, clack,” the fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl and I am lifted up into the air and set down in a dark cave bouncing up and down like I’m on a rollercoaster. During this ride I am split into at least ten different pieces. “Gulp,” I go down a bog chute and land in a huge hole. This is where I am leaving you today. See ya later.

Tanner Leslie Untitled 2011

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The Dream and the Thorn Bush Sophie Priddy

Clear bead necklaces fell upon the roof. The world was dark and gray, the sky thick as pea soup. The buildings towered high, as if they were reaching up to scratch the sky. On the slick sidewalk stood a poor man. He wore ragged clothes that had become wet and heavy in the rain. His untidy hair looked greasy and oily in the scarce lighting. The only light fell from the windows of the museum. He didn’t care much for art. That was what made this visit so peculiar. Tat, tat, tat. Looking up to the windows, he listened to the tatting drum that was the sky crying around him. He imagined that he felt the same way. The man’s outstretched hand opened the intricate door. The museum was made of marble and ornate with reds and golds. His tattered shoes sank into the soft velvety carpet. It smelled sweet: of elevated status and expensive perfumes. It was stunning how different it was from the outside world. He felt awkward and out of place in this world so rich. The woman coughed impatiently. He crossed the rooms to her, as his feet left padded carpet and moved to hard, cold stone he heard the floor sigh and squeak. “You’ve gotta pay if ya wanna get into the museum,” she whined. Her voice was high, sharp and annoying. “It’s five dallahs for a pass.” He gave her the money in wet coins from his pocket. Though she sneered at him, in the end he got his little golden sticker that was his pass. Without a word to her, he clomped off in the direction of the exhibits. He saw many people gazing transfixed at paintings and sculptures. He didn’t care much for art. Art was for people who had too much time and money. He

didn’t mind artists, though. He loved the way their brushes’ swooping created new views on the world. He passed perfect paintings. Too perfect, he thought. He looked to the windows. The drum and gush of water could still be heard from the outside world. He abruptly came to a stop in front of a large portrait. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years. She looked as if the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. In truth she was only an old photograph dusted from an album, and if she spoke her voice would be a ghost. She looked sad and angry, her skin was white as cream. But through all that she was almost smiling. Only a hint of happiness lingered on her lips. The man shivered. He didn’t like this picture. She looked too real, too human, too alive. He stumbled away, his eyes still staring into her pale ones. She looked too optimistic, yet too sad. He didn’t like this portrait. She was too anchored in reality. Reality was cold and hard. He didn’t like reality too much either. This was a problem he had always had; his feelings opposed each other, like oil and water. He tripped over a low bench. He fell. The young woman was still holding his gaze. His long hair was pressed into the shiny black leather of the bench. He tried to get up, but his head hit something that was the color of a second place medal. There was a moment when all he saw was red, and then everything went black. When he looked back at this memory in later days he thought he saw that picture laughing at him.

* * * The first sense that returned was smell. The smell of the silent waking world came to him. The rich scent of wet soil hit him like a brick wall. He

50 Simon Willard Self-portrait 2011

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opened his eyes. Birds chirped in the bright sunshine. Bright sunshine? A few minutes ago the sky had been dumping buckets on him. But the man didn’t want to think. This didn’t seem the place for thinking. He liked this place. Here he was happy. He was warm, but refreshed. He was thinking, but not worrying. He was calm and at peace. Sighing, the man laid back against the lush green grass. He glanced across the forest floor. The flowers and grasses looked sweet as sugar candy, with the slightest bits of morning dew. Bees wove dizzying patterns in the air. Through the corner of his eye he saw something. He stood quickly, and uneasily. It was the girl from the portrait. Though here her hair was yellow as gold, her eyes were blue as sapphires, and her lips were red as roses. Her skin was still whitened, as it had been in the picture. She looked happy here and her eyes shone. “What is your name?” she asked. The words she formed danced through the air and leaped into his waiting ears. “Marcus.” He spoke this for the first time in a long while. He stood slowly; she reminded him of a wolf getting ready to strike. She didn’t move towards him, though she kept grinning at him. He grin was a little lopsided. She bounced on her heels. The sun was on their cheeks like a warm iron. He stood as if someone had driven him, like a stake, into the floor. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she said smiling. “You don’t know?” “No, I guess I’ve forgotten. I know that I am an image of someone, but I also know that I am myself.” She blushed. “Most of the others have forgotten too.”

Other women stepped from the trees and the overgrowth. Some were familiar, some just unusual. One woman had a very oddly colored face, green it was and blue it was. A woman walked up to him and shook his hand. He gasped because he knew her. It was the Mona Lisa! So, all of the women, they were all portraits. It made sense. A question burned in his mind. “If all of you are works of art, how are you talking to me? And how am I here?” “We don’t know how you came here, but we can come here often.” For a moment the forest was in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. Then the woman with the odd face spoke. “We all know you don’t belong here,” she said. “No! I like him, just let him stay. Please?” pleaded the picture with no name. “I don’t think so,” said another woman who he didn’t recognize. “What? Don’t you like him?” said the picture with no name. He felt like he was a bad dog who a little girl wanted to keep. He liked all of them, they were beautiful and oozed power, but he didn’t enjoy the way they spoke of him. “I don’t think it’s a matter of liking him or not. I think that sooner or later he will have to go. He isn’t like us. Nothing good can come from this arrangement,” said the Mona Lisa. “Does he have to go just yet?” she said. “Yes,” all of the others said as one. They pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds; intermixed. Then they turned to each other like spokes on a feverish wheel.

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The girl with no name danced up to him, skipping on the soft jungle mattress. She stopped only briefly to squeeze his hand and then, she too, ran into the creamy fury that was the women. They combined and changed into each other. The women disappeared. Where they had vanished was a cloud of darkness. In the middle of that darkness was an old twisted bush, adorned with blood red thorns. Marcus thought that he too would disappear when the darkness touched him. He didn’t know if he wanted to stay there, alone in the forest, or if he wanted to go back to his own rainy world. Marcus stayed where he was for a while. In the forest time moved oddly. You couldn’t be sure what time it was or how much time had passed. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t moving but he couldn’t remember if it had been working when he entered the museum. Marcus looked around him. And this time he really saw. He now realized how odd this forest was. The high trees bent and oozed down to the ground, they shimmered and moved like liquid. All of this was surreal. He wanted to touch it but couldn’t make his feet move. He looked down and saw small vines climbing his legs, trying to pull him down into the earth. Marcus kicked and pulled at the vines, but they started to drag him, pull him, at the darkness and the thorn bush. He shut his eyes, ready for the sharp points. They didn’t come. Instead he opened his eyes to the shiny black leather of the bench he had tripped over. The portraits were all still there. He recognized them. Those were all of the women from the forest. He looked at the small room again. The room had been richly decorated with marbles and reds. The frames on the paintings were made

of gold. All he saw when he looked at the room before was just that, a room. Now he saw melting colors and new perspective. When he walked out of the room, he was seeing everything differently. The colors mixed and moved and he saw things that came from his dreams. He saw things like he was looking at the world through a mirror, only you could change what the mirror reflected. He combined those dreamlike images with his reality and he painted them. People loved the unique way he worked and wanted to buy his pieces. He became a surrealist painter and Marcus was never a poor man again.

Ella Boyd Orange Cityscape 2011

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Imagination Nicholas Beliveau

Imagination is a wonderful thing. So I Google searched it on Bing. At first I saw the wallpaper that changes everyday. Today it happened to be a wolf pack keeping each other Company. It turns out imagination is a Global Communications Company. There was news for Imagination. But nowhere was there a thing that says where Imagination comes from. After 41,200,000 results I nearly fell out of my chair. There were results for this place called WikiQuotes. It said Imagination was the thing that allows us to imagine. Thanks for pointing out the obvious. Really!!! Really!!! Really!!! Really!!!

Ashley Ricker Wolf mask 2011

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What e’er men do, or say, or think, or dream, Our motley paper seizes for its theme. -by line from The Tatler (Eng., 18th c.) from Juvenal (Roman satirist. 2nd c. AD)