If Animals could speak…

… what would they say?

This is an interesting question. Many people hold the “human race” in superiority to other animals. I think otherwise because we are technically classified as animals too. Homo sapiens, correct? Eating other animals is not the issue. Other animals eat other animals; it’s a natural phenomenon (food chain). I don’t understand why humans ignore the animal’s existence. Animals have rights too, we have completely demolished those rights.

My concern lies in the fact that America is still caught up in “Manifest Destiny.” Destiny is the subconscious and vague goal that Americans pursue. Deforestation is very common. Run someone out of their house and they live on the streets, at least until they find some place else. I am sure Mr. Raccoon will be happy to live in the tree that got trampled by a bulldozer. Animals have no choice. Want to be a grizzly bear’s pet? How about a mascot for a little league squirrel baseball team: “The Cincinnati Humans.”

Many would argue that animals would eat us if we were nice to them. I beg to differ. Animals assimilated to the human existence; they have assimilated to our ways and have put up with us, ESPECIALLY when we take their land. This reminds me of the Native Amer-…

“I hope you die!” is something I’d like to hear from another fellow animal. I participate in this selfish act of self-indulgence… It’s the American way.

-Carlo "Carnage" Callwood

Memories

A knight without a Queen,
None to obey or follow,

None to rule or lead,

A life without a hollow.

A prince in search of his princess,

A Romeo falling for his Juliet,

A Dante fighting for his one and only,

A Moon to live alongside his Sun.

My life I will not let go,

Whatever it may become,

No matter what its path is.

Regret to remain non-existent.

This life shall remain my own,

Whether it be meant for a martyr,

A knight in travel, or,

A King to save the world.

My heart still beats,

Without surrendering to the dark,

I kneel to the light.

To you I hold out my hand.

My pride can break,

My hope can shatter,

My life can fade,

Yet, my heart won’t stop.

Dearly beloved,

I will always miss you,

Being a thousand miles apart,

Being even seconds apart.

With hate as a witness,

Love continues to fight,

With the dark as my ally,

I fall into the light.

You break past my every wall,

I build past the ones that belong to you,

An imperfection in one,

Is a perfection in the other.

The world could be on the brink of despair,

Yet, you would only matter,

Is this a dream … or is this,

A dream turned into a nightmare?

The faces watch,

The voices speak,

The thoughts wonder,

And the truth sleeps.

My end was brought about,

Leaving only your beginning in the horizon,

The dark took me whole,

My light flickered weak.

I lost myself and I did nothing,

Lost in the thoughts of the past,

My hope burned away,

From night to day.

I never forgave myself,

Yet, I wouldn’t change a thing,

Even if I could,

A new beginning I will bring.

I still think of you,

My inspiration lives on,

My hope rekindled,

My life out of the shadows.

From the dark I walk on,

With the light I know,

Perhaps in time we will meet again,

Strangers closer than any other.

Until that time I will let it be,

I can’t live blind my dear,

I won’t allow myself to,

I’ll always remember you.

A farewell, this is not.

For the puzzle is incomplete without one another.

This one’s for you,

My Karoline.

-Anonymous

Countdown

Less than a week is
less than 52 before I holler
"Yoohoo!" to a U-niversity.

It's adversity to
live in a city
that you feel is real sh--ty.
Deeper in the gritty
is the house that be my prison cell...

phone is the only escape.
I don't want to be here,
I'm too near the bull----...
too many tears, especially
when I get a mind flick
and dream of a Phil Jackson
Bulls hit.

Damn...

Six rings around the rosey
and my gaurd is down... no point
or James Posey...

A resignation of the pain
is only...
days away from Or-land...
Oh sh--! I ran from the Middle
East bottomless pit.

I will be a ballpoint pen...
Get it?
I'm the point, give me the ball
and I OD with the pen after I shake them all
off.

So ship me away, next-day.
Because I'm impatient
to lay in a place vacant
of sh-- that plagues
the brain...
A vacation.

For four years is what I need...
come back to visit a place and bleed?
Fu-- is you teekin aboot?
I'm speaking of true hurt.
I'm never leaving the truth.


-Carlo "Carnage" Callwood

Surviving SAS

I will truly miss the summer. No more waking up when I want, going out when I want, and doing what I want to do. Come August 24th the awful feeling of school will be back. Waking up at 5:30 in the mourning, doing outlines given by Mr. Pino, catching the bus 75, and that’s just a few of the things that I will encounter when I come back to school. At least on the bright side it’s my senior year so I have something to really look forward to. That is my back to school experience which is different from the experiences other seniors had, and different from the experiences the juniors had. Since the juniors are not coming back to SAS but are now entering SAS, I would like to give them a few tips that I find helpful.

1. Don’t be intimidated by the school
2. You will get as much as you put in
3. Don’t take the MDC classes too lightly
4. Strive for all A’s in your MDC classes, it will augment your GPA significantly
5. Don’t give up
6. Don’t be fooled by your inflated GPA
7. Study for your PSAT, it will help you a lot
8. You need your sibling not vice versa

-Mrs. Skinny Jeans n the J

African-Americans

Are African-Americans accurately portrayed in television and movies? First, I must first ask: What standards are used to measure this? Setting standards that an ethnic group must succumb to, whether African-American or not, sanctions the basis for social discrimination and prejudice. In truth, there is no single characteristic that can define an African-American. How then, can we say whether or not African-Americans are accurately portrayed in the media?

My favorite television series is “One Tree Hill”. One of the most memorable characters is nicknamed Skills (played by actor Antwon Tanner), an African-American basketball player who always says what is on his mind. Skills speaks Ebonics, which some might say is an improper use of the English language. While some are proud of his acting and representation of our Black culture, other viewers on online forums have commented that Skills makes African-Americans seem uninformed. Does his use of slang show that African-Americans are ignorant? Can Ebonics be considered a part of our heritage and be cherished as it is a sign of our past struggles in America? Is his “speak whatever is on my mind” attitude indicative of an African-American's impulsive and defiant nature towards society?

On the other side of the spectrum, we have Carlton Banks, played by Alfonso Ribeiro, on “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”. The sitcom became so popular that my generation would later watch the show through reruns and still relate to the issues presented. On one such episode, Carlton Banks’ “Blackness” was examined as he attempted to join a fraternity. Simply put, the leaders did not believe that he was black enough. Carlton Banks can be described as a preppy conservative. This is far from the usual portrayal of African-Americans as left winged individuals with a more urban style of attire. Carlton Banks was articulate and destined for success. Did the character Carlton Banks stray too far away from the typical Black male living in the “hood”? Did his hopes and aspirations to attend a prominent school and become a judge contradict with the accepted stereotype that African-Americans try to “get rich quick” through schemes like the lottery or street pharmaceuticals?

Society represents African-Americans in many different ways. Are they inaccurate? Of course they are not. We are a diverse group of people who come from many different social backgrounds. While we all share similar ancestry, we have different upbringings and different personalities. Whether it is an African-American who is great at basketball and speaks Ebonics or a conservative prep that chooses to speak proper English, we are all African-Americans.

The underlying message portrayed through this essay is one that ignites considerable thought. It is not about how society portrays us as a culture. It is about how we see ourselves as a people. We may dislike what we see on television or think it is inaccurate because we have not yet accepted the beauty that is the African-American culture and the diversity that is found within it.

-Anonymous

My List

I find the senior year to be one of the hardest years of my life. Not only do I have to juggle college applications but I have high school and Miami Dade classes to keep up with. Most people, who are not in SAS, would go crazy and would not be able to handle the stress that comes from having so much on their plate. In order to prevent myself from giving up, I made a list that would help me through the year.

Get a girlfriend

Get friends; I wish I had some

Avoid “oxymorons”

Attend classes five minutes earlier than usual, 11:45

Recognize that the answer is always irony

Get the “Bruin” to accept me

Get a smaller white tee, medium isn’t small enough and manages to make it into the office

Sit by the “cool people” in building one

Get a brand new phone and a DS

Get a Micro SD (lol J), it is way better than a memory card

Send in this article before the deadline, whenever that is . . .

Avoid senioritis, aww never mind too late



By the person who is always around in the background even if you don’t know it, LITERALLY.

I’M RIGHT BEHIND YOU AS YOU READ IT.

-Anonymous

The Communication Thread

Words

The only connection between

Us

I cling on to them

Like my last line to life

Smiling at the fact when you speak them

Frowning at the fact that I don’t get to hear them often

Wavering at the fact as to where I stand

Save your breathe, is the action my friends tell me to take

Thinking.

I start off in following their suggestion

Until I feel that yank toward you

The words you speak to lure me are mesmerizing, compelling, calming, flowing

Yet firm and clear

My decisions are and are not of my own

I know that my body is following your direction

Yet I have no intention of stopping it

Connection created from concrete

Hidden

PROMISES, it’s what build this tremendous solid structure of consideration

Red is the color of our thread that interlocked our

Words


-Nemo

College...

Seniors! It's the last year of high school and there's so much to do! But college is on the horizon, and you have to make time to complete your college admissions applications, even though they may be intimidating. Here are some pointers to help ease your way through applying to college.

• Academic history, including grades, standardized test scores, and difficulty of your classes, is one of the most important parts of your college application. College admissions officers like to see that you have challenged yourself throughout high school.
• Your college application essay or personal statement is another important part of your application. Use this opportunity to show that you are a unique student who will add value to the college's student body.
• Make a list of all of your extracurricular activities, school clubs, and accomplishments. Because you'll likely have limited space on the application, list your most impressive achievements first. Examples include leadership positions, academic or athletic awards, and community service accomplishments.
• Show genuine interest in the college. Colleges are receiving more and more admissions applications each year, so you need to stand out. Admissions officers are more likely to admit you if they sense that you are genuinely interested in their college.
  
• Proofread your application. Make sure that your writing is clear, compelling, and concise, and that it supports the ideas you are presenting. Ask your high school counselor, a parent, or a mentor to help you review your admissions application. Having a fresh set of eyes read what you've written will help prevent mistakes and give you valuable feedback.

Remember to breathe, be truthful, and most importantly be yourself! No sweat, we're scholars remember?

Quotes

A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.
~Jessamyn West

An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast; a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind.
~Buddha

A man content to go to heaven alone will never go to heaven.
~Boethius

Cleverness is not wisdom.
~Euripides

Collected by Naomi

"I Love College"

-Altricia Wilson

Riddles

It doesn't hurt to take a hard look at yourself from time to time. This little test should help you get started.


During a visit to a mental asylum, a visitor asked the Director what the criteria is that defines if a patient should be institutionalized.


"Well," said the Director, "we fill up a bathtub. Then we offer a teaspoon, a teacup, and a bucket to the patient and ask the patient to empty the bathtub."


Okay, here's your test:

1. would you use the spoon?

2. Would you use the teacup?

3. Would you use the bucket?


"Oh, I understand," said the visitor. "A normal person would choose the bucket, as it is larger than the spoon."

What was the director's response?

Is Chad Pennington out for the season?

Miami Dolphins’ quarterback, Chad Pennington, has been diagnosed with a torn capsule in his throwing shoulder. The Dolphins are expecting him to miss the rest of the season. Pennington has had two previous surgeries on his shoulder, in 2004 and also in 2005. Pennington was injured when tackled in an awkward position by linebacker Kevin Burnett on Sunday the 27th. With Pennington sidelined this gives 2nd string quarterback Chad Henne the opportunity to take control of the Dolphins offense. The win over Buffalo on Sunday gave Henne his first NFL win and his first NFL passing touchdown. As the season progresses we will watch and see how Chad Henne leads the Miami Dolphins.

Joey Novoa

Will John Brantley be the Gator’s New Starting Quarterback?

     John Brantley, a backup quarterback for the Florida Gators is prepared to be the starting quarterback if teammate, Tim Tebow cannot play as a result of his injuries. Brantley says that he always has the mentality that you could never be too sure when the team will need you, so you always have to be prepared. Brantley, a sophomore at the University of Florida, finished the game against Kentucky on Sept. 26 after Tebow received a concussion from a tackle. During that game, he played a full quarter. He said that it was good because he played well and he knows the team trusts him and he trusts them. Brantley is yet not sure if he is going to start, but he has been going to practice thinking he is going to be the starter, an attitude also shared by Tim Tebow. Florida’s quarterbacks coach, Scot Loeffler, has drilled Brantley to be prepared for anything and that preparation begins with being mentally prepared. Brantley claims he is mentally prepared if he gets the chance. He says if something goes bad, he will just forget about it and keep playing.

-David Gomez

The Shawshank Redemption: A Movie Review

The Shawshank Redemption is an impressive film from director and screenwriter Frank Darabont. Darabont adapted horror master Stephen King’s 1982 novella Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption (first published in Different Seasons) for his first feature film.1 Stephen King cheaply sold the rights to the movie due to his friendship with Darabont. They had originally become friends when Darabont adapted a short story of King’s called “The Woman in the Room” (King has a policy stating that any aspiring filmmaker can adapt his short stories for a buck). The adaptation thoroughly impressed King.2 Darabont and King maintained a pen pal relationship and didn’t actually meet until Darabont optioned Shawshank.
The Shawshank Redemption is a narrative theatrical film. The video version has not been reformatted. Darabont interweaves scenes with fluid shots. He tends to take the story at a distance allowing the characters to establish their traits to the audience. A memorable scene is when Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins) is in court at the beginning of the film. There’s a zoom shot concentrating on Andy’s face. You can see the shock and anguish plastered on his face when the judge declares his final decision to two consecutive life sentences at Shawshank State Penitentiary in Maine. Just as he closes his eyes, the scene fades to a black backdrop, and you can hear the resonating sound of the gavel. Easily one of the best scenes in the movie occurs when Andy is looking through some records that the state has just sent to the prison. He then decides to lock himself in the Public Address (PA) room of the prison, so that the guards do not stop him from playing the record. He goes about doing that, with a grin of pure disregard and unmeasurable joy. The camera goes through a montage that captures the prisoners’ love for the record, despite the fact that they did not exactly understand the words of it. The montage consisted mostly of panning shots and was made fluidly with the camera moving at the same speed in all the shots. Darabont took special notice to the actor’s expressions by using many close-up shots. He wanted to capture the facial expressions and express their feeling of deep longing for simple freedoms. I think that it is important to mention that the music, particularly in this scene, also helps add to the atmosphere of the scene causing a surrealistic feeling of calm. Two evocative instances of dissolve, are when Andy splatters water on his face on the first night spent in jail—the scene takes us from here to the outside of the imposing and oppressive Shawshank State Prison—and near the end of the film when Ellis Boyd “Red” Redding (Morgan Freeman), is headed on a bus towards Zihuatanejo, on the Pacific coast, with the objective to reunite with Andy. That scene fades into the grand blue ocean, the two images mixed together for only a matter of seconds.

Another scene worth noting is the scene in which a character named Brooks Hatlen (James Whitmore) feeds pigeons in the park. We listen to the lonely old man recite a letter which he has recently sent his friends in prison. I believe that it is essential to note that the light source in the scene seemingly comes from the sun, consequently causing the trees to cast streaks of shadows onto the character. The camera at first pans along the ground, giving us a full shot of the pigeons eating seeds, and it then tilts up into a low angle shot of the old man. The camera gently slows to a close-up of the man’s facial expression. Darabont then shows us again a full shot, except this time with the elderly man sitting on the bench all alone. This scene gives us a sense of emptiness which is stirring and touching. It grasps you into the reality of how this man, Brooks, a long time inmate of Shawshank had lost his hope. What I believe proved to be most thrilling was the climax which was seen through a series of cuts, a sudden abrupt end to a shot—where one shot was instantly replaced on screen by another. Red recounts what really happened and through these cuts we were able to see Andy’s whole calculated scheme through which he ultimately acquired his much coveted freedom. Furthermore, Andy enacts revenge on those in the prison, providing an unexpected resolution.

The Shawshank Redemption illustrates the potential disparity between initial box office success and ultimate popularity. Despite a lukewarm box office reception, barely enough to cover its budget, it received favorable reviews from critics and has relished a noteworthy life on cable television, home video, DVD and Blu-ray. Shawshank currently heads the Internet Movie Database’s poll of top 250 films, leading such pictures as The Godfather, Star Wars, Goodfellas and Schindler’s List.3

The film score composed by Thomas Newman was a vital element of the movie since it helped establish the mood and perfectly complemented the visuals. For instance, at the introduction to Shawshank Prison the music is slow, played by strings, which adds to the feeling that this is a place of despair and misery. Since the movie transpired throughout a period of nearly two decades, the characters underwent evident external changes such as graying hair and wrinkles. The lighting going along with the scenes, is interesting. For example, the prison inside is dark and lit only by natural light from the windows. Subsequently, this creates long shadows which give an eerie and icy feeling. We get the gut reaction that all is not as it should be—shadows, may, hide secrets. The guards are mostly in the shadows and the lighting that follows them portrays darkness to their characters. They are displayed as harsh and villainy. We should also take into account that the violent scenes all take place in the shadows as well, with low key light. Therefore, the lighting of these scenes evokes a sense of violence without necessarily illustrating it. In regards to archetypes, I think that it’s crucial to mention the caring, smart, and enigmatic banker Andy. This character, played by actor Tim Robbins as mentioned before, comes, changes the prison in his own unique manner, and leaves. Andy is the classic, perhaps unsung, mythic hero.

In my opinion, The Shawshank Redemption communicates a message of the liberating power of hope, and, most importantly, to never lose hope as this is the ultimate means of survival. For this genre of film, drama, I do think that it was successful artistically because the director was able to effectively convey the protagonist’s desperation, agony, and, in due course, his exaltation after escaping from the dreaded Shawshank State Prison.

Rating: 10 out of 10

-Stephanie How

NAÏVE

I believe the unbelievers
The agnostics

The deceivers

I believe the indecisive

Who decide for me?



And frankly I don't have a mind

I say

I believe them anyway

The people yelling in the court room

The mighty gavel descends upon the stand

And all’s at rest

The final order?

Seemingly restored

Their lives been put to the test

Learning

Is something,

They’ve ignored.

Oh well, shall I continue

To be so damn naive

And wait to be deceived

When I could figure out my life

On my own

And not wait for their advice

Because it’s the easiest to take

Just following theirs

I might break

My own neck

And they will laugh in repose

Oh screw that I am willing to compose

My own life

Because it's a hard earned strife

And nothing in this life

Comes easy

And if it did

Wouldn’t that, be cheesy?


-Anzhelika Zhuravleva

Destiny’s Fate

I stare into the sky,

These stars, they appear to cry,

To my silence, they echo no reply,

Among them … I no longer fly.

I have taken to the field,

Hate, in my presence, is repealed,

To love, I shall always yield,

My sword, my only shield.

My stance, sure and steady,

Against fate, I stand ready,

To these illusions I am sold,

To hope, I continue to hold.

The signs, they are oblique,

Just as this fight reaches its peak,

The world suddenly becomes meek,

Demonstrating all the symptoms of the weak.

These people, they just watch it burn,

Their pathetic attention they do turn,

Yet, they wish to be saved,

To have their road, paved, at a price they reject to have paid.

They think they have control,

Disproved by chance and its patrol,

To safety they attempt to stroll,

Leaving to others, the payment of life’s toll.

Sacrifice, my only measure,

Hope, my only pleasure,

However, surrounded, I have been,

My soul, flanked, by the dark and intense sin.

From these ashes I rise,

Leaving the hypocrites who deny their lies,

Abandoning the inanity of the intolerant cries,

Rejecting the ignorance of the supposed wise.

Against the current, I continue my strife,

My own and for none other is my life,

Perhaps I’ll vanish in the mirrors of memories,

But maybe, I’ll stay a while for your eloquent harmonies.

I’ll wait, swimming so still among life’s tide,

Alive and unafraid,

Incomplete but not frayed,

For love’s arrival, and for fate, by will, to be made.

Until that moment, I’ll ride against fate,

To the moment death meets me at the gate,

My majesty, this mission shall debate,

To the dark and to all of hate.

By my Majesty I shall abide,

To hope, my travel, I shall confide.

The flower in the garden

I walked somberly to the place,
Looking for a visage, a face,

Only to find a disheveled trace.

Vowing to honor such disgrace:

Enduring a visage of a dead space.

Yews, roses, orange blossoms, all,

Once tall, absorbent of radiance,

Ubiquitous foliage then--now, Fall,

Latent to afflict, has found balance

Letting the stalks droop, causing

Insurmountable woes to unity and beauty.

Laboring for an anomaly, I tread through,

All while environed by the apparent chaos.

Then suddenly, I am taken aback,

Risen from the deaths, a vivid lily,

Uniquely stands erect in defiance of the

Looming destruction.



Picking it softly,

Yearning brightly, I cradle it lightly.

-Deicide Ozymandias

The Universe be my Castle

A rugged pearl,

Suspended in the sky,

Battered from the stares

Of time,

Broken from the battles

Of the heavens,

My arms raise up

Letting my purple

Sleeves

Fall to my shoulders,

Fingers extended,

Gently grazing

The white luminosity

Floating

In a sea of stars

My fingertips

Brush it

Sending a million ripples,

Sailing away

On the canvas of night,

Like a banner

Waving its patriotic pride

Each smaller circlet closes,

Opening a wider ripple

In its stead

A moat,

Running around the incandescent

Moon,

Spreading wide and wider

Till the entire universe

Is encompassed

In protection.

-Lillian Podlog

Unititled

They work in green fields,

Fields of dreams.

They sweat runs down

As the sun scorches

And torches them.

Getting outta here

Leavin' your fear

Behind you in the rear

And you go to hear

And follow your dreams.

Risin' one day to the top

Never wanting to flop

Getting there nothing in between

Not lettin' nothing intervene.

Overworked, not rewarded,

They still have their dreams.

Their dreams you cannot foil,

As they carry on their toil,

Through the field and the soil.

At Simple Ramblings

The air around me shivers as if it wishes to whisper soothingly into me. I brush my straight, lanky auburn strands behind my ears to hear it better.

I don’t quite know why this blank green field called to me. But I know that it did, and I had to heed its warnings. I came and I stayed.

The grass here tickles the bottom of my soles, refreshing them. Perhaps my pilgrimage of indefinite destination stopped by this stretch of verdant short stalks only to alleviate the ache in my feet. Traveler’s weariness has pressed its mucky paws upon the tendons and ligaments that hold my body together.

I know why I ended up here. The simplicity of this grassland sheds the clutter of life behind. The open frolicking of the sun’s rays heals my body’s pain and tire. Here, I feel better.

My soul will take more than sunshine to repair its damage. Maybe this field will fix me. Let me listen to its song.

The humming of the wind has slowed. The words, once almost clear, have blurred into the inarticulate fondue of earth’s symphony. I cover my ears once again, shielding them from the cold. The sun has given me a flamboyant display of setting, yet I am yet immune to its charm. The emotion that has settled in me is only the discomfort of this sudden chill.

I feel my chilled pen fall limply in my palm as I scribble these last words: Good night world; convalescence is only but a dream now. Now, I dare dream.

Lillian Podlog

Pain Pools on the Poles; we are wedged in the middle.

Leopold Masoch’s Daughter.

      Each smack sent a clamorous melody through the deaf woman’s ears. The vibrations travelled through her skin like warrior plants slashing away towards the sun. Sun. The sun that was the lemon-shaped opaque crystal buried in the flesh of her chest. She was hit repeatedly, yet each ounce of pain slithered closer to her core crystal and to ecstasy. Ecstasy, it laid in the boundary land between pain and sensation, where life was experienced with a sort of quasi- awe, dis-attached from human emotions. The shards of feeling tingled sensuously from her cheek up. Spreading, like watery paint, the pain bounded off of her visual preceptors, and suddenly every thing she had ever failed to see leapt out at her. Taking a step back, she shook her head; no, there was no way she was letting this experience squirm from out of her grasp. The woman nearly leapt forward, causing the other one to widen their eyes in exhilaration. She motioned for them to strike her again, and with this final blow everything came tumbling down in currents of sensual velvet.

Escape has born a child too.

      Trying to release the demonic pain, the young girl pressed her rough palms to the sides of her head. As the intensity of hurt increased, she simply constricted her cranium with greater viciousness. White, turned the columns of her temples, as if the harder she squeezed, the more likely some divine presence would slither out and grant her reprieve. Nothing came.

      Nothing, and she drove her head into the sterility of her pillow. Dams of blood rushed laterally downwards with the force. Katrina bit the inner meat of her lip and let the violently-rushing blood crawl out of her mouth in ribbons. Streams of crepe paper fluid sank into the fibres of the cushion. Katrina’s eyes watched, intoxicated, with the aggressive hues. Eyelids pulled by the gravity of her face, the red in her vision slowly turned to black. And Katrina began to sleep. Sleep, as her body released ten pints of the most vital liquid. And as she released the years to come.

Lillian Podlog

Letter to the Roses

Prologue


She walked along the boardwalk, the cool wind blowing in her hair. It was empty, everything. She had not seen him in months; he had left so suddenly. It was still unbelievable and she expected him to show up at any moment, apologizing profusely for causing her such trouble. He had always been like this, and she couldn’t say she had not seen it coming. He was like a stray cat, never staying too long, only returning because there was some beneficial service being offered. It did not matter that he was wanted; he left of his own free will and roamed until it was time to fulfill that need yet again.

If anyone asked, she would acknowledge these truths and say she always knew it and never got too attached because she knew he would go off again. However, in her mind, those years that he was there meant that he was finally done with it, done with the travelling and all those activities that had alarmed her family when she said he was living with her.

Her family had made their displeasure known. They had not even attempted to humor her and pretend that things would finally go well. They refused to speak to him and eventually stopped inviting her to family outings. She had once confronted them, and their only response was that they would let her sort out her own problems and let her see for herself how much of a fool she was. Well, now she saw and when he disappeared last week, no one uttered it, but they all had their “I told you so” faces plastered on, glaring and pitying, making her feel like a child that had done something completely silly and was being laughed without knowing the reason.

She turned away from the salty ocean and began to walk away. She would just have to continue to wait. There was nothing else she could do, but go on and pretend that she was better off without him.

At the end of the month, she received the usual letter. They had started after the first time he left. She did not know if it was him, but she liked to believe it was. Those dried seasonal flower petals with their intoxicating scent, richer than the finest potpourri as though enchanted with the scent of a hundred flower beds. She had asked him once, whether he had been the one to bring her such joy. He dismissed it with a simple no. It had been quite unlike him. He was always one for explanations. He knew she liked to know why, she supposed, and always felt that he should humor her. So, she still held on to the fancy that he remembered her in his travels and was interested in her joy even when they were apart.

The letter was always simple: perfectly stenciled letters with curves and swirls like a whirlpool saying that it was hoped that the recipient would appreciate the sincere feelings of the sender. Who could possibly want to send her flower petals? It was a strange yet somehow flattering gift. She just wished that one day she could find who it was that insisted upon gracing her with them every month. She hoped it was him. Nothing would make her happier.

Wednesdays were melancholy days of warmth and tears. She never liked them anymore. She remembered when they were her favorite times; when they represented the whimsical and the cheery tulips in her garden. What had become of them? Ah, she remembered. The fanciful had been swallowed up by the darkness of despair and the flowers slaughtered by the drought of the heart. It was the Wednesday he first left her. She knew it well, the story. She had come home to an empty apartment. That wasn’t strange, but the oddity was that it stayed empty; first for a day, then a week, then a year. A whole year had passed of suffering and ridicule by her critics. He had used her, they all said. She tried to ignore the allegations but that was nearly impossible when she heard it every day, every hour, every minute resonating in her mind. She clutched her chest. The old memory had begun to sear her heart. Tears began flowing generously. She staggered to the armchair and sunk into its soft, feathery cushions.

A few minutes passed and so did the tears. Her sadness had not dissipated however, it never did. At least not until he returned to her. She began thinking about how long he would stay away this time. The longest had been a year; that first year. The thought of even longer disturbed her and shook her to the core of her very self. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

She leapt up from her place in the chair and scurried over to the door. She took a deep breath to regain her composure and unlocked the portal. A delivery man stood in the doorway. He did not speak. He just held out a paper and pencil board. She took it hesitantly and signed staring at him strangely all the while. Was the post now hiring mute workers? He handed her a package and nodded then left. She watched him walk all the way to the stairs before she closed the door and resumed her place in the armchair.

The package was very intriguing. It was heavy, unaddressed and suddenly very suspicious. What if it was some strange poison that would kill her right where she sat? Hesitantly, she began to unwrap it and carefully lifted the box open. Inside was a small, innocent mirror. It was a flat-bottomed orb-ish object; one side was mirror, the other an elaborate, curl-up dragon. It seemed to be made of silver or some component like it. It was exquisite. She raised the mirror up to her face and peered into it. How strange. There was no reflection now. It was a strange little field with spring flowers. What kind of looking glass had no reflection? Then there were people in the glass; two men. One was wearing plate mail armor and the other, crude leather robes. They were standing there looking around. She giggled. What could they possibly be looking for in such a field? It was all open, they couldn’t possibly miss anything. Maybe it was some sort of portable moving picture that resembled a mirror. She didn’t know why one would want to watch such a silly show. It was only slightly entertaining.

Then one in the robe took out a small, glowing blue stone and said something. She frowned. What an awful apparatus. Such an expensive-looking thing, and it had no audio. Well, that was a waste. She sighed and placed the orb on the center table in front of her and sighed. She leaned back into the chair and began to think again. Not long though, for suddenly, the orb began glowing a blinding white. She closed her eyes instinctively and suddenly it was cool.

She opened her eyes cautiously. She was on her back staring into the face of a man. She screamed. It was the man from the looking glass. He held his hand out to her. She scooted away and got up. The other man from the mirror was there as well. Was she hallucinating? There was no way any of this could be real. She just stood there staring at the two men and they stared back. They glanced at each other briefly and the plated one spoke.

“You are Bridgett, are you not?” he asked.

She could only nod.




To be continued . . .

RAY-UM-ZUS

The following convoluted story is dedicated to dear friends: Altricia and Sandy.

AND SHE KEPT SCREAMING "RAY-UM-ZUS." And I look to her and I see that hair out-and-about. Then I try to run and I get blasted with another "RAY-UM-ZUS" and a "CHOCOLATE THAN-DURH" from a most fair lady. And I fall, clutching my throat. Gasping for air, I pray to the heavens: grant me a break from the relentless barrage; they won't stop. I try to run but my feet oppose the motion. Stuck there, helpless, on the floor, I weep. All is lost as I die from the constant, hilarious sounds coming from their sweet voices, constantly, blasting me with six "RAY-UM-ZUSs" and two "CHOCOLATE THAN-DURHs.”

Soon after, I wake up realizing that it was all a bad dream. I yawn. Turning, I realize that I’m still in Mr. Pino’s AP review session, 20 minutes away from break. Behind my seat are two lovely ladies, holding the titular names of Altricia and Sandy (both synonymous to me, in importance). I lock eyes with Altricia, innocently saying, “I love you guys.” Noticing me—she shoots me with another “RAY-UM-ZUS.” I flinch. My cute-comment didn’t work; the demons are on the prowl. They need the taste of flesh, need to completely destroy my being. I stand up and scream “CONFOUND YOU DEMONS.” I produce a sword from the confines of my imagination and soon after I attempt to slay the hydras in front of me (the hydras I confused for my friends), I wake up six years into the past on May 7th—still in Pino’s room, 25 minutes away from our lunch break as my stomach shatters the silence with intense growls.

I turn back and I see nothing in those two chairs. They are empty. A sense of loss engulfs my inner being—dangerously close to dampening my flames. (I have no heart; I was born with an obtuse flame.) Suddenly I hear a croaky whisper: “Ray...Ray…” I turn around—nothing. I turn back—nothing. I look up—nothing. I look down—AND GUESS WHAT? My stomach spawns a mouth six feet wide and screams “RAY-UM-ZUS.” Inside it is a portal to another world. I see a familiar face: Sandy. I tremble slightly and say confidently “FML.” The vortex spins out of control and sucks everything in—including me. Black dominates the landscape. I suddenly feel nothing. No hunger. No emotion. No love. No thought. I can’t grasp the meaning of my downfall. I turn around and see two beaming eyes projecting security and warmness.

The eyes intensely stare at me. Across the great, dark divide, I see them shine ominously. My mind cringes at the sight; my heart palpitates with renewed vigor, and still, with the internal confusion, I decide to approach the two beaming orbs in the distance. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps, five steps—all it takes to arrive; soon enough, the eyes morph before me into Altricia and Sandy. I rejoice. My jumps, pelvic thrusts, and other sporadic, involuntary movements are suddenly interrupted by my awkward question: “Wait. . .what are you guys doing here?” Then suddenly out of nowhere Altricia teleports behind me and Sandy levitates into the air; one says, “RAY-UM-SUS,” and the other one says, “DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE;” my hands turn into Love Cannons; aiming them upwards, I start to fire: “Pew, pew, pew, pew, pew;” Sandy takes a direct hit. My lasers take a heavy toll on her. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHGHGHG!” she screams to the heavens, head aimed upwards, as her skin begins to crack, rays of burning light emanate. The darkness trembles furiously, clearly vexed at the sudden turn of events. I rush onwards, ready to end the constant torture, when they disappear. A sharp pain travels down my spine and my eyes slowly close.

“Are you ok?”

“Oh No!—What happened to him?”

“Either he’s fallen asleep or he’s mad with some sort of disease.”

“Look at that white foam; clearly not asleep.”

“Give him some air.”

“No; I can’t give him air—he needs to wake up to be promptly punished.”

“Seriously? How can you say that?”

“Let me leave.”


Light rushes my view; fuzzes magnify into figures. I ask, “Dudes? What’s going on here?”


“You fell asleep,” Altricia says.

“Yeah. I think you’re in trouble. Mr. Pino went to the office to get some help,” Sandy adds.

“Why would he do that? I’m fine.”

“No you’re not…”

“Yeah, you’re not. Look at your shirt—“

“—it’s covered in white foam.”

“Foam?” (Oh no!)

“Yeah, look.”

“Oh gawd. Dudes, what time is it?”

“It’s—“

“Nah, wait a sec. Tell me the timez with teh year.”

“Ok”

“It’s um—“

“March 1st, 1992.

“We go to lunch in 40 minutes.”

“Oh gawd. Don’t tell me we’re in Pino’s AP Review”

“Yeah we’re. . .”


THE END

Deicide Ozymandias