The Lotus Reader

Literary Magazine

 

A good story

cannot be devised;

it has to be distilled.

 

- Raymond Chandler

Previous Issue

Posted December 17, 2006

Fiction

Inconceivable

By Maria DeLucia-Evans

Albany New York

His head sinks back against the pillow, weighted with pain. Tubing was forced into place to empty his stomach. He's tired of fighting. The plastic tube was pushed in through his nose and down to his stomach. He feels it sitting in the back of his throat. Scratching, itching, forcing him to remain silent-hurting too much to talk. He shuts his eyes as frantic images begin to race through his mind. Slowly, he pushes the morphine pump, hoping its numbness will quell the images. His mind begins to settle, and the images meld into soft whispers. The whispering slowly surrounds him on either side and he moves his head back and forth trying to understand the messages. The whispers begin to blur and slowly he relaxes and drifts into unconsciousness. He becomes unaware, void of any understanding.

"Carolyn," he murmurs. "Carolyn, are you there?"

Time passes and he's there, alone. Removed from a world in which he was once vibrant. His days don't exist anymore. He doesn't care. He doesn't know enough to care. His memory is betraying him.

"Okay Mr. Young; we have to get you up and walking today. You aren't going to get better just lying here. Those bones need to get moving." Eyes glaze over and he stares at her.

"Carolyn?"

"Alicia, Mr. Young. My name is Alicia. I'm your nurse today. We're going to get you up and moving-or at least try to. Sitting up will be our first step. Now, I know it will be hard, but you can do it. And the more you do it, the easier it will become."

He closes his eyes-allowing himself to feel the incision pressing against his abdomen. Alicia motors his bed into an upright position. His eyes remain closed. She pulls his covers off him and he feels a chill run down his body. His eyes flutter open and he stares at her. He opens his mouth to speak, but can't. He is trapped.

"Okay, Mr. Young. Let's get you up. First we're going to swing your legs over to the right side of the bed. Nice and slow. Just take your time."

He remains motionless, just staring at her. Alicia moves her hand and gently begins pulling his legs over. Dead weight. His eyes close and reopen; not quite believing this stranger is making him do this. The thought of moving makes his head spin. He swallows and feels the coarse tubes taking over his throat. There's just no point. This woman isn't her.

"Mr. Young, I know this is hard work. I know you'd rather not move. But we just want what's best for you here. You've got to trust me."

He feels his body begin to move by her urging. The catheter between his legs pinches and gets caught. Pain rushes through him, but she doesn't seem to notice. He is screaming inside. Slowly, his body moves into an upright, sitting position. He feels the illeostomy bag crushed between the folds of his stomach.

"That's right, Mr. Young, that's right. You're doing it. Slowly but surely, slowly but surely."

Suddenly, his shoulders slouch and he blinks furiously tying to fight off blackness. Spots form over his eyes and his body pitches forward, no longer under his control. He is descending, spiraling down-deeper into his pain, into his body.

"Mr. Young. Mr. Young. Stay with me."

Slowly, he rises. The pain disappears. Lightness engulfs him and he realizes he is walking along their favorite river park path. Lifting up his shirt he sees the smooth creases of his stomach, free from scars, the stoma, the illeostomy bag. Smiling he lifts his arms up to the sky and feels the warm wind caress his skin. His lungs fill with air, and he realizes there isn't tubing lodged in his throat-he's free. He shouts "Hello" into the river. He can speak.

He glances behind him and sees Carolyn jogging towards him, shouting.

"What, you couldn't wait for me?"

"I'm sorry … I… I didn't know you were coming." "I told you I just needed five minutes…"

"Okay, I'm sorry… God it's good to see you. You look beautiful today."

"What? You just saw me ten minutes ago."

"I know. It's just different now. I need you to know how much I love you. I need you to know how good it is to see you."

"Chris what is going on with you? Are you feeling okay? We've just spent the last two weeks together-you're acting like you've never seen me before."

"I know…I don't know…Nothing's wrong…Everything's wrong."

"Chris, you are scaring me."

"Never mind, never mind. Please, just walk with me."

He grabs her hand and they walk, shoulders touching, down the riverside path. He keeps looking at her. He's free and she's here with him. How did he get so lucky? Doesn't she know what's happening-what's happened?

Slowly, his head begins to feel heavy. He covers his eyes with his hands. The path starts to widen and darken. The river is gone and the ground beneath them is eroding. Carolyn is staring at him but he can't talk anymore. He reaches out to her; she doesn't see him. Her face fades and she evaporates into the air. He stands twirling around in a circle, frantically searching for her. Somewhere, anywhere, she has to be here, she can't leave. He fights to hold on. He doubles over onto his knees feeling pain surge in his abdomen. He can't stand, his legs are weak and his throat tightens. He can feel the tube in his nose, winding through his body, chaining him to this hospital. His eyes slowly blink and open. He's back.

"Mr. Young, you gave us quite a scare there. Maybe we won't be having you get up just yet. We're not sure what caused your fainting spell, but you've been through a lot and these things can happen. We'll check on you in a bit. In the meantime, just get some rest."

Rest? How can he rest? His mind is whirling-she was there, he knows it. But where is she now? Why can't he find her? He moves his hands slowly to his face and breathes deeply. He can smell her on his skin-that faint smell of vanilla lotion that instantly brings him back to their apartment. God she loves that apartment. It is far too small for two people, but she demanded they buy it. She said large spaces made her nervous, and besides it is romantic in close quarters. She bought used furniture and decorated it with odd artwork-the stuff you'd buy at Target or Kmart; fake art. Somehow though, she made it work. It was theirs and God how he missed it now. He missed the little things. Like the mornings when she'd wake up and beg him to get her a glass of water. Or lazy mornings when he'd make a big breakfast and they'd eat in bed. The days they spent the entire day in bed, eating, making love, reading-he loved those days. He loved her. He needed her.

Pain brought him back to reality. Desperately he reached for the morphine pump. He shifted his body and looked around the room. It was empty except for the pink colored water pitcher and Styrofoam cup that sat on his tray table. He realized the TV was on, but the volume was muted. His surroundings began to sink in and he realized everything was wrong. How long had he been here? What happened?

He became aware of a presence on the other side of the curtain that hung to the left of his bed. Slowly, bits of a phone conversation drifted over. He had a roommate.

"Yeah, I'm doing better, thanks Ma. Should be outta here in a couple days. Yeah, I got a roommate. … Don't know, sleeps all the time. Did hear the nurses talking about him. Think his wife went crazy or something-I guess she attacked him with a knife and took off. Police are looking for her. … I know, poor guy. He's a mess."

The pain cascaded down on his head. The air was thick; he couldn't breathe. He grabbed the morphine pump and kept pushing, pushing, pushing. Tears streamed down his face, memories colliding in his head. The piercing truth unveiled, racing through his body.

"Carolyn." he whispered.

 

Big Jim, the Mormon, and Hitler's Grandson

By Quincey Burkhalter

Roswell,NM

Note: This piece is the first section of a longer piece, which chapters will appear in later issues of The Lotus Reader

"Hitler's Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver." That was the headline on the latest edition of the tabloid I stole after spending my last two dollars and eighty-five cents in change on cigarettes. I didn't believe it either. I just put the magazine inside my coat so I would have something to read while I was taking a shit. I had no idea at the time that what I read in the bathroom would soon be parallel to my life. But it's all true.

Pressure was coming from every direction at the time. My mother called me at night and left messages during the day. My batty girlfriend threatened to leave me. They both asked the same damn thing every time. 'Have you found a job yet?' Then pressure came in from the other side. I had just spent my last two dollars and eighty-five cents in change and this was my last pack of cigarettes.

So, I sat there, sat in the crapper smoking away on the sweetest Marlboros I had ever tasted and thought about my options. I had avoided this from the beginning. This option would tie me to home. My parents won't give me anymore money. I'm just their loser son. So, why go back to a family that didn't care for their son? I forced the last option I had out of my mind.

I pulled the tabloid out from underneath my jacket. "Hitler's Grandson is Alive and Living in Denver," it said. I sucked in hard on the third cigarette from the pack. I wasn't really counting, but I figure it was the third, because I had only wiped once. There was a picture of a young man with his arm around a pretty girl. I couldn't tell if the man was Hitler. It looked kind of like him, but he didn't have that demonic square mustache and the distinctive little dictator grin; he didn't look evil. He looked sort of happy. Under the picture it said, "Hitler and his 'Secret Lover.' She was Jewish! (1923)." Hitler had a secret Jewish lover prior to his dictatorship of Germany. His lover had been Jewish. Ah-Ha! I guess that gives a simple explanation as to why Hitler hated Jews. She dumped him like he was rancid meat.

And hey guess what? The plot thickens. Hitler's lover was pregnant. And Hitler didn't even suspect. The child was a boy and whether Hitler knew about him or not Hitler's lover and his love child escaped the persecution of World War II. The kid grew up and even snagged some unsuspecting wife. It's no wonder; his wife was an American. They moved to Denver. Anyway, Hitler's son and his wife were killed in a car accident ten years ago. And this is where it gets good. Their child survived and is "Alive and living in Denver."

Hitler's grandson was going to the university. So was I. He had been sighted going to criminal justice classes. That seemed right. I had always thought cops and dictators were only a step removed. And that's what Hitler's grandson planned to do. He planned on persecuting people who broke the speed limit. Especially if their last names were Lowenstein or Seinfeld or Rosencrantz like mine. Actually, I'm not even sure if Rosencrantz is a Jewish name, but my parents are Jewish. I looked at the baby picture of Hitler's grandson. The caption read, "Now an employee of Big Jim's convenience stores."

And it just so happens that Big Jim's just happened to be my last option. My sister-in-law worked for the main office and had promised me a job if I ever wanted one. I was down to my last pack of cigarettes, so I took it. There were more than a few Big Jim's in town. So when I got the job, I didn't expect I'd be working with you know who. I didn't even believe that this person really existed. I'd read about him in a goddamn tabloid.

Who believes anything they read in a tabloid?

 

Enchanted

By Jillian Whitney

Omaha, NE

Tempest snuck out the back door of her house. She was going to follow her big sisters and find out where they always disappeared to every Friday afternoon.

She slipped down the rickety wooden staircase, the blue princess dress she was wearing softly trailed after her. She tried to stay in the shadows so Beatrice and Lily wouldn't see her.

"Where are you going?" she had asked them earlier as they were preparing to leave.

"Nowhere that's your business," they had sneered back.

"Can't I come? I promise I'll be good," Tempest said as she jumped up from her game of baby dolls.

Beatrice smiled at her with that patronizing older sister smile.

"Tempest, where we are going is a big girl secret," she cooed.

"But I'm a big girl," Tempest had protested, stomping her foot impatiently.

They gave her a sympathetic smile, but continued to put their shoes on and walk out the door without another word to her.

So she was forced to follow them. In her hurry to keep her sisters in sight, she forgot to put her shoes on, but she didn't mind. She darted out the old gate that they had forgotten to shut on their way out of the back yard.

She had never been on the other side of that gate without one of her sisters or her mama or daddy. And without them holding her hand, she felt as little as an ant, but as free as one of the lighting bugs she had let go of just that morning.

Tempest looked around. To her left was a huge sea of wheat crops crashing together in the wind. To the right was the old creek her whole family swam in just the other day. In front of her was a dirt road that led to who knows where. Farther down that dusty road were Lily and Beatrice walking huddled together discussing something secretive.

Tempest ran towards the sea of wheat and pushed her way inside so that it would hide her if her sisters happened to look around.

She peeped her head out to see the direction they were headed just as the pesky wind started acting up. It blew wheat and dust all around her. Her princess dress flew up and hit her in the face.

Tempest heard the wheat begin to make that whooshing sound it always makes when the wind tries to blow it down. She always thought it was kind of like they were arguing with each other.

"Stop blowing!" the wheat whooshed. "I've got a lot of hungry people to feed this fall. I've got to stand strong!"

"No you don't," the wind blew back. "There is so much of you and I just want to blow down a little."

No, let the wheat be, Tempest tried to yell at the wind, but he blew so hard that he forced her words back inside and threw dust in her eyes.

"Stinking wind," she grumbled as the wind died down and she rubbed the dirt out of her eyes.

The wheat tickled her face softly as if to say thank you for saving her. Tempest suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be following her sisters.

She peeped her head out again; they were farther ahead than she had thought.

Hitching up the hem of her dusty royal gown, she took a deep breath and began to run. The wheat crashed by her as she tried to catch up.

She ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. The wheat hit her in the face, but she didn't even notice. She was set upon finding out where her sisters were headed.

The wheat started to thin, and Tempest began to slow down. She dropped to her belly in the green grass as the wheat completely disappeared.

The sun was set high in the sky. She was lying in a huge valley of tall grass. It was like she was a snake, slithering softly after her prey. Tempest began to slide on her belly making soft "ssss" noises.

As she peered around, looking for her prey, she noticed a large grove of trees off in the distance. Her prey seemed to be headed in that direction. Tempest began to slither faster. If she didn't catch up to them, they'd disappear into the grove, and then she'd never find them.

The grove was coming closer and closer. Tempest stopped slithering, and slowly rose to all fours. She transformed into a cat. Not a lion or a tiger, but a fearless tomcat with pale brown fur, and speckles. Her fur would keep her hidden in the grove. She flew through the grass silently. Her long limbs stretching as far as possible again and again. Suddenly she stopped. Her cat ears had picked up voices. She was going to be discovered. She dropped to her side and curled up into a tiny ball. She hoped no one would pay attention to the ugly, ratty tomcat.

"Come on Lily, we are going to be late. We don't have time to rest. The others will be angry if we aren't there right on time," a familiar voice urged. It was Beatrice.

A soft whooshing sound near Tempest signaled her sisters passing her. Tempest let out her breath. She had been running so fast she had accidentally outrun her prey!

She sat up, once again the little princess named Tempest. As she looked for her sisters, she noticed she was sitting right in front of the grove of trees. Her sisters were disappearing into the grove when she finally caught site of them.

Tempest stood up. Those trees looked awfully scary to her. She wondered what Beatrice and Lily could be doing in there? Tempest put her nose in the air defiantly, grabbed the hem of her dress, closed her eyes, and stumbled into the grove.

Slowly Tempest opened her eyes. She had to blink a couple of times before they finally grew accustomed to the dim lighting. Everything in the grove felt unfamiliar. The canopy of branches overhead blocked the warm summer sun. It felt cool in the grove, even cold. The air smelled like dewy flowers and mud. Tempest stood still, listening for any sounds of life. It was completely silent. There were no birds chattering, no rustling of hidden creatures, no pesky wind. Just silence. She must have stumbled into a different world when she had stumbled into the grove.

Slowly she stepped forward, careful not to step on any twigs, so she wouldn't make a sound. She didn't know what types of creature lived in this foreign land. Tempest went to all fours again, transforming back into the tomcat. He was faster than the little princess; he could outrun a terrifying, princess-eating monster.

As she stalked through the branches, she sniffed at the air, sniffing for any sign of Lily and Beatrice. She thought she smelled something. She breathed in deeply. She had caught the scent of Beatrice's lilac perfume. The tomcat picked up speed, staying hidden behind the big trunks of the trees. Finally she caught sight of them. They were crawling through a small makeshift tunnel of branches a couple of feet away. They were whispering something to one another. Tempest tuned her cat ears and listened hard.

"OUCH! Beatrice you just hit me in the face with that branch," Lily complained. Tempest stifled a giggle.

"Shush Lily, we are almost there. It looks like we are the last ones too," Beatrice sighed.

They disappeared. Tempest strolled over to the tunnel and crawled through, stopping just at the other side's entrance. Her cat eyes adjusted promptly to the darkness.

The tunnel led to a little opening among the trees. The trees formed a complete circle, but were only the walls. Their branches were the roof and let in just the right amount of sunlight to make the place magical. Flowers of every kind filled the ground. Lily, Beatrice, and about six other girls were sitting among the flowers in a circle. In the middle of that circle was one lone tree.

The tree was very sad looking; it almost looked as if it didn't belong there. Its trunk was no thicker than a couple of broomsticks tied together. Its branches were too bare for a tree in the middle of summer, and it was only as tall as Beatrice when she stood up straight. Tempest felt like crying for that small, ugly tree.

The little girls around the tree began to pick flowers and tie them together into one long rope. Tempest licked her lips. She thought it looked like a candy necklace, every color you could think of and delicious.

When the rope got as long as twice the tree was tall, Beatrice stood up.

"In order to appease the Fairies, we have come to meet once again to restore life in this lifeless tree," she announced in a faux English accent. "Everyone rise."

As Tempest watched in the shadows of the tunnel, every girl slowly rose to their feet and grabbed a part of the flower rope. Beatrice held the beginning of the rope, and Lily held the end.

As if propelled by some unseen force, Beatrice began to walk around the tree and all the girls followed. They wrapped the tree with the beautiful flower rope, from the bottom of the trunk to the top of the branches, when finished they all sat back down, closed their eyes, and joined hands.

Before Tempest's very eyes, the tree began to change. It grew taller and its trunk began to grow wider. Everything about it transformed. Its branches burst into bloom, with the most beautiful flowers--they were a pale, almost white, pink, with a center that looked like a diamond in the middle of a ring. The flower rope began to meld into the tree, so that it looked like some masterful artist had carved it there. The tree became breathtaking.

The little girls all stood up, with hands joined, and circled the tree three times. It was over.

Tempest didn't know what to do. She was stunned. Could this have really happened? She shook her furry head and looked again. The tree was still there, just as exquisite.

"The Fairies are very happy. Our work is done for today. Next Friday we will meet the same time, same place. The Fairies will bring us something different to make beautiful next week. Head home now," Beatrice commanded.

Tempest quickly scurried out of the tunnel and into the thicket before any of the girls could see her.

One by one they filed out, solemn, but with a look of joy in their eyes. They walked silently out of the grove and continued on their separate ways.

Tempest sat back on her haunches and transformed into the little princess again. She hesitantly began to make her way back into the tunnel, fearing that the tree would be gone.

As she crawled out of the tunnel, there was the tree in all its glory. She stood up and reverently approached the tree. Laying her little hands over the flower carving, she began to laugh. She was amazed that she could touch the magical tree. Slowly she circled the tree, like she saw the little girls do. Then she began to twirl and dance around it, as if she was a little ballerina in her music box. Faster and faster she twirled, until she became so dizzy she fell over into the fragrant bed of flowers, laughing all along.

She looked up into the roof of branches overhead, and became still and silent. Falling from the roof like light dust were millions and millions of little fairies to retrieve the beautiful tree.

Tempest was in complete awe! Her world was enchanted.

 

Gloopasti

By Gloria Tsirelman

Brooklyn, New York

The 4th of October came and went and etched another year off of my life along with a building's day worth of lights. The halls were pitch black due to a blackout and I got an awful fright when, after being smothered with kisses from my grandmother in the morning (who also handed me an envelope containing a card and money), I opened the door to two green eyes staring out at me in the darkness like headlights. It was the neighbor's cat: "Yozshik". Even in a blackout, they leave their door slightly ajar to let him roam our small hallway. He too, startled and ran inside his home. Officers were positioned at every elevator on the main floor, though, I had forgotten this and jumped when I saw one who said: "Good morning lovely lady" from between his missing front teeth as I leapt toward the entrance, flashlight still in hand.

Later that day long after I had gotten home from classes, my father pulled my ear twenty times and one (for good luck) , my younger brother labelled the day as: "Shelby day"( his nickname for me is Shelby for some unknown reason) and gave me a card that fit me perfectly: Its front has a drawing of a grouchy thin girl with long straight hair , dressed in an artist's outfit , holding scissors and a sign over her head that reads "Don't bother me...I'm in a creative mood". Then on the inside flap, over my brother's sloppy : "HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHELBEH QUEEN OF THE SHELLS!" It said : "...and I have a glue gun!." I laughed and thanked him, then went to join my grandmother and mother in the kitchen for tea and crumb cake

"Gee." My mother said in Russian "At twenty I remember standing there thinking now I'm really old! -- and now I'm 40 and thinking what a ditz I was. But, you..."

"What about me" I asked and dipped a piece of crumb cake into my tea. It broke apart and I had to fish the soggy bits out with my spoon

."You were old from the second you were born!" she laughed.

"Seriously" My grandmother chimed in: "You came out looking as if you already knew us and we bored you!"

"-And the talking!" My mother continued "You talked in your own language with such speed! As if you were trying to tell us something and were frustrated when we couldn't understand you, isn't that right?"

"Mmmhhmmm" Nodded my grandmother, her mouth stuffed with cake.

I have seen videos of myself as a baby. It is true what they say. At times I would look up at someone and start my elaborate gurgling stories. Adults would hunch over me egging me on: "Is that right?" they would say in high pitched voices. At times it looked as if I was warning them of something; stretching my arms over my scrunched hairless brow and in loud baby-talk , announcing some harmful thorny foliage looming over the horizon that was only visible to my eyes. My efforts were lost on those elders who continued to smile and squeak : " Is that so? Yes? Yes?".

"Now, all that's left is to find her a nice boy." Said my grandmother. She is awfully worried that I will become an old maid.

My mother nodded.

"Inna's grandson is a doctor (Inna's grandson is 32). You want to meet him? He's handsome looking..."

I raised my hands in protest: "Oi, Baba, not that again...he is a bit old...no?"

"Ha! I think he's too young for you. You need someone that's seventy! " My grandmother replied between muffled chuckles.

" He is settled, he has a good income ...handsome. You'll make pretty babies." Started my mother. Boy does she ever. They know how to push my buttons. Instantly I filled my cheeks with cake like a hamster. They were wanting for me to say that I don't want babies so, they could thrust their hands to their hearts in crying about how much I'm 'breaking them' and how much they 'worry enough'. Once I told my mother that I will have one and only one child so she would stop pouting. Since then she has been especially giddy .

"You have to meet one now so you can marry by at least twenty-six. After that it get's difficult..." Said my grandmother

I wasn't about to open that can of worms, even though the lid was already coming apart. I left them planning my whole future. In their excitement, they didn't even notice me slip out at first. In two weeks I will probably have to go on a date with that doctor who is twelve years older than I. Though, for them this is normal. My father is ten years older than my mother and my grandfather was eleven years older than my grandmother. The key word is: doctor. It frustrates me how they don't believe that I can make a decent income for myself, on my own. Furthermore, I am petrified of commitment. I have never even fantasised about marriage as a child! Instead, I would dream of being some big adventurer or an actress but, never in those fantasies was I married. Frankly I am not much for wedding ceremonies either; I don't understand why women make such a fuss about it. I could care less what color the flowers are or if the carpet matches with the shades; flowers wilt and all that matches well in your life at one moment might not the next. My girlfriend Loren always talks about weddings, and each time there are new details. Each time all those details make me awfully dizzy.

"Ey' Professor Sahar, kooda ooshla?" (hey professor sugar where did you go?) yelled my mother. Professor sugar is her favorite character from one of her Russian comedies and also her recent nickname for me.

"If you insist on plaguing me, I cannot sit there." I called out from the restroom where I sat on the floor leafing through a magazine.

"Gloopasti!" I hear my grandmother grumble. 'Gloopasti' meaning: 'nonsense' is her favorite word when she is irritated. Out of respect I returned. Noticing that my mood was out of sorts, my grandmother tried cheering me up: "You will be a great writer one day" She said and brushed a strand of hair out of my eye , tucking it in the back of my ear : "Don't you worry"

I took her hand and kissed it: "Gloopasti!" I replied to my grandmother who got the joke and laughed.

"Not this time, lovey" .

The conversation veered into plans about Saturday. Reluctantly, they agreed to go to a buffet once again. My father is the only one that didn't complain because he doesn't like waiting for his food. Every year we go to the buffet and I am the only one that doesn't tire of it (with the exception of my father). Every year they try to get me into a Russian restaurant. They think I don't want to go because I don't like the food. On the contrary, I may like it too much. Those restaurants remind me of the time our family would get together on mine or someone else's birthday. I would always wear my favorite outfit: a dark blue, speckled blouse that is made to resemble the night sky with two white cats sitting on a cloud in the front and leaning side by side against each other, their backs turned to you , watching the stars. The skirt was also blue and I always carried a little purse filled with toys. At these gatherings I would be everyone's entertainment: I would sing and dance and they would pinch my cheeks and stamp their red lips onto my forehead .When I got tired , I would curl up in someone's lap and leaning my head against their chest , listen to their voice vibrate in their throat as they talked amongst the others. When everyone got drunk enough, they danced and sometimes they would pick me up in their arms and swing me around and around. How the food stayed inside my belly after that, I don't know. Other times I just stood on the side and watched my family on the dance floor. Even at six years old, my happiness boiled over my skin at how much love I had for those human beings. Then came the time when we saw less and less of each other and then eventually, never at all.

Two years ago my friend Roman who, back then was still trying to woo me, led me into a Russian restaurant. I placed one heel through the door and with the familiar whiff of food and perfume filling my lungs, almost cried out in agony. I told him that my stomach didn't feel well and so instead, still dressed in our formal attires, we went and drank tea at a Starbucks. Loren wants to have her 18th birthday at one of these restaurants that I know so well. "Big, big bash" She tells me, exited. Though I am not a drinker, I might have to become one in order for me to go and sit stewing in the stale air of my memories.

"Don't you get tired of that place?" My mother asked me.

"No!" I said more forcefully than I had meant to. My mother looked at my grandmother and together they shrugged.

Not long after, my grandmother and I retreated upstairs to her floor where I had been residing since my grandfather had passed so that she doesn't feel lonely. She went to watch her Russian soap opera, turning the TV on full volume and I went to watch the ceiling. I lay awake in the dark, remembering how we had spent all of my birthdays in the past and wondering if the people who had once added so much life to my years thought about me this day at all. I wished that they felt as much guilt as I felt sorrow. I wondered what societal violence had managed to seep through the barrier that divided the sacred realm from the chaotic, and poison our unity- our spirit. But most of all, I wondered why we had let it. After an hour or two, my body finally began to grow as tired as my mind already was.

"Gloopasti" I whispered and then turned to my side for sleep.

 

Nonfiction

A Mystery at Hand

Garrett Lech

Tunkhannok, PA

Eeeeeek! screeched the T as it approached my stop. I jumped out, preparing to set out on my investigation. Bundled in my winter clothes, I still felt the crisp air pinch my face as I took each step to reach all that awaited. I came to a halt. I witnessed the regular sitting between the two sets of steps holding a paper cup out, apparently sleeping. I walked by hurriedly as not to disturb his sound state. Burying my face in my jacket as I continued up, the wind hit me, sending a chill throughout my body. I turned to the right as I reached the top of the stairs, and headed towards Copley Square.

So many mysteries and unexplained phenomena come into our lives, start to finish. How were the pyramids built? What is the true purpose of Machu Pichu? Do we experience a life after death? How does our unconscious really function? Will the truth ever be discovered? To solve a mystery is to solve a riddle; it is a great achievement that many wish to accomplish. Our initiatives to understand are great; our drive to know is there. Uncovering the truth is our ultimate goal.

They live among us. Throughout the city streets we find them everywhere. Nomads among natives, they are always searching for a new dwelling. Hoping for that cool spot in the summer, that place to keep warm in the winter. Always looking to stay out of the bad weather. The homeless live a life of mystery. Misunderstood, passed by like they are nonexistent, they sit in the subway or on the corner, clinking their cups. Jingling them in hope for some spare change to buy some dinner, a new pair of pants, a set of warm gloves, or is it a bottle of comfort? Southern Comfort that is. Looking to take the easy way out, they live off of others, refusing to get a job. Dangerous, uncontrollable, and foolish. These are the characteristics of a homeless man or woman. We go by them as if they have a super power of invisibility, yet we manage to think we know everything about them.

The fact is these people are indeed a mystery. Their lives are masked, their ways are hidden. Just as we search to discover the uncertainty of the building of the pyramids or truths in ourselves, we must try to figure out the life of the vagabonds we are in contact with every day.

I passed the Boston Public Library when I noticed three men sitting on the ledge of the building. Two of them sitting with their leg carefully positioned over the other like a fine gentleman while smoking his pipe, the third standing, facing the others in conversation. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: three old chaps passing a few words. They were dressed as I: a coat, hat, and gloves, trying to stay warm. They spoke rather loudly and seemed to be enjoying their time outside of the library together on this cold November afternoon. I heard intermittent laughing and joyful conversation from where I stood; I decided to move a little closer. I sat on the steps in front of them, trying not to make it too obvious. Nearing the men, my body took an unexplainable pause. These men were homeless. What is it, I thought, that made me feel this sense? What is it about the homeless that raise such a fear?

I attempted to listen in on their chat to learn more.

Back in the day, man, I could get twenty-five a dem fer a dollar

That was what I walked in to. Money today ain't like it used to be. I mean back in the day.

Yeah, back in the day! the others chimed in. They continued to speak on money and how everything used-to-be as they moved to another similar topic: wealth.

I mean I know this guy, he got like a hundred suits! Yeah man, a hundred suits, stated one of the sitting men, speaking of a friend, past or present.

You know what it is? the standing man stated as he finally understood the reasoning behind wealth. Gay people are so rich. Gay people, they make all the money, man.

The others nodded along, stereotyping with every sway of the head.

They transitioned back to the old days. I mean the Italians were on one side, Puerto Ricans on the other, Irish on the other. The white people, man, they were all around the outside.

That's how it always was. The others concurred.

Suddenly, an interruption stopped their talk. Hey Skinny Steve! Whacha doin Skinny Steve? A friend tormented from the sidewalk.

Yo man! How the hell are ya? The standing man responded. Making crude jokes towards one another with multiple profanities involved that I won't delve into, they continued a conversation to the side, arms around each other like real buds; I was unable to hear. They shared a few stories, had a few laughs, and the friend walked away pushing his cart in front of him.

He looks better now that he got more weight on him, Skinny Steve declared as he went back, now to sit, with his friends.

They went on to converse once again. They spoke largely of their families, mentioning their brothers and sisters. Each told stories of their childhood, the good times, and possibly of their present relations with their siblings (I was unable to determine, through the context, whether they were talking about the past or the present). They seemed to bask in these stories, enjoying every minute of their own voices, as a beautiful melody that aches to play again.

After several stories were exchanged, two of the men walked away, leaving Skinny Steve alone to feel the chill in the wind slap across his face and sting the tip of his nose. He sat in silence, the first time I had seem him this way since I took a seat on that lone step.

As I walked away from Skinny Steve that evening, thoughts were racing through my mind: People fear the homeless, but are they really a group to be feared? They are associated with so much negative, why not positive? We know so little, yet we assume so much. Are these people languid, demented, raging alcoholics, or are they just given a bad wrap? Are they filled with the concern that was portrayed to me this day, the love and compassion that I have seen? Do the stereotypes we give them allow them to do the same right back? Do they want to go back to the past, change their decisions, change their relationships and receive new outcomes?

They are just like us; they are people. We stereotype them as a group and they stereotype several groups as well. They have different cliques, different hang outs, and are trying to earn a living, fulfill a live, just like the rest of us.

More answers were needed, my journey was not complete. I returned to the same spot in front of the library, with the same attire and the same objective. I took a seat, this time on the ledge of the library, to examine a little more. Although Skinny Steve was not around this afternoon, his two friends were, and they were joined by several other men. There was another group of men on another side of the building, chatting away.

As I sat down, I heard, I got your back, as a man informed another that watching his possessions while he was gone was absolutely no problem.

I noticed once again that their volume was much louder than necessary, and this time they were much more animated than last. It was like they were in the comfort of their own home, pacing back and forth, telling stories and jokes, really getting the chance to socialize. They conversed largely of their favorite movies and actors, seemingly biased to Al Pacino.

As I sat listening in, a man was carrying another over to take a seat. Obviously drunk, the carried man tried to sit by me. Over here, man, the other motioned to the group of men, respecting my personal space. The intoxicated man fell down onto the ledge and opened a bag of food. He took a bite of bread, as well as a cookie, and began throwing the rest onto the street in front of him, ignoring the passing crowd. He clearly didn't enjoy this food on which he was about to feast.

After trashing his food, the drunken man began to stand. He gonna fall down again, viewed the preying eyes of a man from the other group. He then turned back around to gossip with his friends. My group then began their round of gossiping as I listened in, Did you hear he said that to me? They went on to talk about others in a sort of he said, she said.

Growing tired, I looked up from my notebook, and recognized all of the people. They were staring; their eyes were burning into my soul with hateful eyes. I watched as people leered, but then would quickly turn away. I was immediately invisible. I was given the look of death which quickly changed to no look at all, I wasn't even there. Was this how the community viewed the homeless? Was I being looked at in the same eyes? Is this what the homeless have to go through everyday?

After this dramatic realization, I went back to the safety of my notebook. Taking a peek over, one man was reaching into his pocket as another watched with gleeful anticipation. The man was getting money out of his pocket to give it to his awaiting friend. I overheard that this man was heading to the store to purchase some food, for himself and for the drunken man on the ledge.

Suddenly, it was like a reunion. So many people started coming by.

Yo man, what’s goin on?

What you been up too?

Yo Mikey, chat with me later, a run-by hollered.

Did you hear from Mario today? Mikey, who was the same man helping the drunkard to his seat, shouted in his last effort to be heard in this momentary conversation.

After scratching a few more notes in my note pad, I watched as Mikey decided to head over to the store with the money he had just received. A quick, what's up, was exchanged as a newcomer was approaching.

Just as Mikey was galloping down the stairs, I heard, Are you alright? I looked up and his arm was around an elderly man, a grandfather type, clutching to a cane. He was strolling along as Mikey conveyed his concern for well-being, and replied with an inaudible answer (to me at least). However, Mikey continued his journey across the street. I looked up at my crew which I had been a part, and I had a realization, an insight. All this time, writing in my notebook, watching these people's lives, not once did they pay any attention to me. They ignored me just as they ignored every person that walked by giving that heinous glare. They treated me as a nobody.

Was I giving them that same fierce look? Was I treating them just as every onlooker? But I had been so unbiased, an observer. I made no judgments! With this feeling of contempt, I stuffed my notebook into my pocket as I walked away from my seat on the ledge. Walking down the stairs I looked back to view, for the last time, the group that I had felt a member, while looked upon as a complete outsider.

Walking away, I managed to answer some questions as well as compile several more. Are these men hiding from the public? Are they trying to portray themselves as loud belligerent people to stop the contact with the people that offer them such bad glares? Who are they? They seemed so kind, so compassionate, with so much camaraderie. Arms around each other, asking of each other's health and well-being. Lending each other a few bucks in time of need. There were two separate groups, visiting two separate homes along the library.

They were walking back and forth, chatting as if surrounded by their long-time-no-see relatives on Thanksgiving Day. This was their comfort, their quarters.

Are these the real people that we have chosen to overlook? I watched as a man threw out food that was not enjoyed. This isn't the stereotypical picture. Are they really these dangerous, hunger-driven lunatics, craving any morsel of food they can put their hands on?

They respected me, yet seemed so unopened. Was it my attire, was I just like everyone else? Was I staring them down with those eyes that I felt ripping through my body? Or was it that I was an outsider, a newbie that wasn't part of this group; who didn't know the way of the Boston Public Library ledge?

Reminiscing their past, looking back at their lost family and friends, the homeless were able to find contentment in new friends, new family.

Treating each other just as we would our closest, they get through everyday together.

As I journeyed back to Northeastern, I clenched my jacket tightly against my body. The cold was rushing in. I was alone, just as I had been all day. The setting sun made my eyes squint and a sniffle came to my nose. Walking down the steps to the T, I noticed the sleeping man with the outstretched cup. I walked slowly by, offered a hello, then continued on my way.

 

This Century

By Averin Resnick

Florida, USA

This century has been a century of scientific discoveries and emerging technologies. By the end of the 20th century products once thought impossible to create were in use by the majority of the American public. We have learned more about our own bodies than we had ever imagined possible. We have split the atom-truly a revolutionary scientific development-and used the technology involved to provide us with one-fifth of our electric power. It appears that the 21st century shall bring to us an even more astonishing technological revolution than the one we have witnessed-it promises to bring to us nanotechnology, which is expected to have an impact greater than that of the first tool.

However, with new technology comes a decrease in the necessary supply of human labor. When writing was invented, people no longer had to ask young children to remember legal agreements that they had made with each other. When cars were invented, people no longer had to use carriages as a mode of travel, the latter requiring a man to spur on the horses. When lifts, cranes, and other modern-day construction technologies were invented, it no longer took thousands of people to build a pyramid. Why did the necessary supply of human labor decrease in these situations? Simply because it's more efficient-and cheaper-to use machines than it is to use manpower. Unlike humans, machines only have to be paid for once, don't demand health insurance, generally do their job as they're supposed to, and never revolt. Any self-interested employer would hire machines over humans.

Fortunately, this hasn't been much of a problem so far. Unfortunately, this means that the unemployment rate ought drastically increase with the emergence of nanotechnology, given how nanotechnology will pervade our lives in the future. Assuming a lack of institutions such as welfare, this will eventually result in the starvation of the majority of the population and therefore their revolt against capitalistic society.

Short of destroying technology, there is one way out of this-the way America seems to have been taking for quite a while now. If we enact socialistic policies on a global scale and force the few who still have jobs to give to the unemployed many, we may be able to head off starvation. However, it should be noted that this will require a tremendous increase in taxes in a relatively short period of time and that the rich, who are effectively in control of the government, will probably not be agreeable to such policies.

Right now we are at the dawn of a new age. It remains to be seen how we shall react to this.

The Achievement of a Rational Society

By Averin Resnick,

Florida, USA

I. The Foundation of Anti-Oppressionist Morality

In an absolute sense, we humans mean nothing. What's so important about the human race in general? What importance do we have to the universe? Assuming that there is no God (a significant assumption to make, yet as a wise man once said, "The burden of proof lies on the one claiming the positive"), our importance does not exist, and we are all equally irrelevant.

However, it is pretty clear that, pending morality, we are all important to ourselves. It therefore follows that because I am important to myself, every conscious being must be (relatively) important. It is possible for humanity to be important and non-important at the same time, much like it is possible for a marble to be big and small at the same time. The marble is big relative to the atom, while it is small relative to the solar system. Similarly, the human is important to himself, and therefore, to other humans, while it is unimportant in an absolute sense.

Because every conscious being must be objectively equal, it therefore follows that the sum of many conscious beings is more important that one conscious being alone; in other words, that the majority is more important than the minority, and that "the greatest benefit for the greatest number of people shall determine the moral course of action," which is, in effect, the theory of utilitarianism.

II. The Hierarchy of Morality

Yet it is quite clear that giving the majority what they want will eventually cause things to become ugly and immoral. Utilitarianism dictates that slavery would have been moral in the 19th century, and that it is morally acceptable to ostracize one person in order to strengthen ties between the others. It is therefore obvious that utilitarianism is subordinate to other moral ideals. It must be below compassion and freedom as well as justice. (It obviously isn't fair---or morally acceptable---to vote the winner of a nine-person race out of first place just to improve the standing of the other eight.) However, utilitarianism is occasionally the principle to be followed. If ten people want to play hide-and-seek, three people want to play house, and all of them want to play together, the kids ought to play hide-and-seek because there's no reason not to benefit the majority (assuming all are in good physical condition).

Because we have now established that at least three moral ideals are superior to utilitarianism, we now know that utilitarianism is not the ultimate (highest-ranking) moral ideal. But if not utilitarianism, what is the ultimate moral ideal?

Let us first begin with freedom. It is clear that if we put freedom above all else, society shall crumble (unless it's an anarchic society, but anarchism requires the assumption that the majority is anarchist). If we put freedom first, or even above compassion, corporations will be able to exploit people to the best of their ability, poor people will be left to starve to death, and people will be allowed to rape and murder people whenever they want to. Society, in other words, will be governed by force.

What if we put compassion above all else? Then everyone would be forced to live for everyone else, religion would be banned (it creates too many religious conflicts, thus disrupting the peace), and political activists would be prosecuted. So as you can see, all-out compassion destroys freedom, and all-out freedom destroys compassion. Because there cannot be more of one than the other, the two must be equal in value, or at least close to equal.

What if we put justice above compassion and, therefore, above freedom as well? This, of course, depends on what justice is. In this essay, we shall take justice to mean the "an-eye-for-an-eye" principle, the "you-get-exactly-what-you-deserve" law. (Some people use the term "justice" to refer to the sum of all moral ideals, for example "It's just not right.") Needless to say, this makes justice an abominable ideal. Under the law of justice, if one takes a life, he must have his life taken. Under the law of justice, everyone is treated equally regardless of the situation. Under the law of justice, we humans would all have to commit suicide because of all the bacteria we have destroyed by washing our hands. It is therefore fairly clear that we cannot have a society in which justice is more important than all other moral ideals, or even one in which justice is more important than compassion. So this makes justice at most third place.

So currently we have established that compassion and freedom are equal and tie for first, that justice comes third, and that utilitarianism comes fourth. What about reason? Let us imagine a society in which reason is of no importance....

A fleet of robots, each specializing in a very specific area, control the earth. When they feel the urge to do so, the humans urinate and defecate in a little tube. This tube leads to machines that make oil from organic compounds. The oil powers the robots, who not only replicate themselves but also serve the humans. All knowledge has been destroyed, for with knowledge, humans would know how to turn off the robots and thus subvert society. Nobody has a job; the robots do everything for the humans. Innovation is not necessary, for humans are content as is. What's wrong with this picture? Absolutely nothing---if one ignores the moral law of reason. We must declare as axiomatic the relevance of the truth, or else we end up with a society that frightens most sane members of the population.

Reason is also necessary because without reason, one cannot pinpoint the path of maximum morality. For this reason, reason is the most important moral law of all. It trumps both compassion and freedom, or at least ties with both.

III. Reason and Absolute Power

Authority is the arch-nemesis of reason. I say this not only because authority alone can diminish a person's reasoning capacities, but also because when a person has authority, he doesn't have to reason, and tends not to do so.

An example of authority diminishing a person's reasoning capacities can be found in the book 1984 by George Orwell, in which Winston, an undercover anti-Party crusader, is captured and is slowly brainwashed through the systematic use of force. An example of this occurring in real life can be found in the Milgram experiment on authority, in which the subject is told to ask another "subject" a series of questions and to administer electric shocks of increasing strength if he did not provide the correct answer. Now what this subject didn't know was that the person he was supposed to shock was actually a researcher, and that this researcher was not connected to the shocking apparatus.

The shocking apparatus supposedly could not give more than a 450-volt shock, and both the subject and the researcher were given a 45-volt shock before the commencement of the experiment; the subject because it was required for the moral conflict (between following orders and following conscience) that he know what he was supposedly doing to the researcher, and the researcher because he was trying to act like a fellow subject who had been given his role at random. xxxxxxxxxxx When the subject reached 150 volts, the researcher sitting in the chair asked him to stop the experiment, as it was allegedly becoming increasingly painful and dangerous. However, another researcher told the subject to continue with the experiment; if the subject was hesitant to do so, the researcher would tell him that he was responsible for anything that happened to the other "subject."

Despite the fact that the subjects knew (or thought they knew) the pain they were inflicting upon the researchers and that reason, coupled with the rest of morality, would have likely impelled them to stop had they not been exposed to authority, 65% of them went all the way; i.e., "administered the experiment's final 450-volt shock." This was in stark contrast to what was expected; most people that Milgram had asked beforehand had predicted that very few people would actually do so. And it shows quite well how much impact authority can have upon a person's judgment and actions.

The second reason I have given for my statement above is that when a person has authority, he need not reason, and tends not to do so. This is quite evident in many families; next time you see a parent with a teenager or child, wait for him to say "Because I said so" and threaten the kid with spanking, grounding, or revocation of a privilege in order to force the child to abide by a personal prejudice of the parent's.

It is also evidenced by what is now known as the Stanford prison experiment; in this experiment, which was designed for the purpose of observation of prison behavior, the subjects were divided into two groups of people, one labeled "guards" and the other labeled "prisoners." They were then brought to the basement of the Stanford psychology department, which had been designed to look like a prison, and the guards were told to keep control of the prison in question without resorting to the use of physical force.

After a while, the guards started mistreating and abusing the prisoners; that is, they started acting as if they were somehow superior to them, even though the roles of the subjects had been chosen randomly. This continued to the point where five prisoners had to be released from the experiment before its termination, despite the fact that the experiment itself was terminated eight days before it was supposed to end. As the people chosen to participate in the experiment were the most normal people applying to participate, and as most did not behave in such a monstrous way in real life, it is relatively safe to say that during the experiment, authority had clouded the guards' judgment and had removed them from a sense of moral responsibility.

So, in short, authority is the arch-nemesis of reason; this proposition can be restated as "absolute power corrupts absolutely."

IV. The Ultimate Utopia

Since authority is the arch-nemesis of reason, it therefore follows that the only way to achieve a rational society is through the elimination of all authority. This proposition has some very far-reaching consequences; in order to eliminate authority, we must eliminate government, capitalism, the structure of family, and religion. It's easy to see how the proposition necessitates the elimination of government; as government gives government officials authority over average citizens, or, in some cases, puts the majority above the minority. The religion proposition is also fairly straightforward: religion puts the alleged will of a "God" not proven to exist (note that faith is not subject to reason and is therefore immoral in a way) over all of humanity.

Some would deny the fact that capitalism puts bosses above workers; these people state that the two are in a mutually beneficial joint partnership. This is true to an extent; however, the boss is still often above the worker, as the boss can force the worker to do anything so long as his practices are less merciless than those of all other employers. And often other employers run scarce; this would explain why Third-World workers line up by the thousands to apply for sweatshop position in which they are constantly abused, overworked, and underpaid. One could even say that these laborers are doing backbreaking work under the threat of starvation, for they know very well that the bosses have the power to fire them at will and to reduce them to a state of hunger and homelessness, and the bosses know that the workers know this. This is little more than slavery, and obviously represents a relationship tarnished by authority.

(One could also say that capitalism puts the rich in general above the poor in general, as money grants one the power to have other people work for you, and the rich have more money, and therefore more power, than the poor.)

Perhaps the worst hierarchical relationship currently visible is the relationship between family members. The father is above the mother (fortunately, this is changing, albeit slowly), who is above the children. I say this is the worst form of authority because it influences children at a very young age. It impresses upon them that might makes right, that life isn't fair, that it's useless to challenge authority because the parents can make you suffer for doing so. The adults have a means of enforcing their will. They're the ones with the whips, so you'd better stay on their good side, even if they're wrong. In effect, the structure of family trains children to tolerate totalitarianism, and in doing so, forces them to accept the patterns of exploitation and dominance exhibited in other hierarchical relationships.

What would a society without these patterns of dominance, that is, a rational society, be like? First of all, government would be replaced by a system in which people resolve issues through discussion and debate, thus allowing the most reasonable solutions to flourish while the oppressive ones die out. (Contrary to the belief of many, voting in most cases would be a bad idea, as it would only serve to put absolute power in the hands of the majority. But of course in situations in which no side is clearly in the moral right or the moral wrong, on in time-sensitive emergencies, it is acceptable to vote, as there's no reason not to appeal to the desires of the majority.) Of course, everyone would be allowed in these debates, as nearly everyone has the potential to have good ideas. (If the meetings become too big, groups of people send delegates to groups of people who send delegates to groups of people who send delegates to the meetings.) Although some people say that the lack of government would cause crime, this would not be the case, as in a rational society, the rational majority would likely form a huge group dedicated to the prevention and termination of crime, owing to the fact that most people desire law and order.

Of course, this begs the question "How do we know it's going to do that?" This is where the revolt comes in. Unfortunately, this society can only be achieved through majority revolt in the name of such a society. (It's sad, but it's a clear case of the ends justifying the means.) Although this is mainly because revolt is the only way of abolishing a government without creating a new one in its place, the revolt also comes in handy due to the convenient fact that anyone who willingly revolts in the name of a society will probably be dedicated to the creation of that society in question. It also provides a sort of safeguard; if I'm delusional and this idea is far too idiotic to be even worth thinking about, the revolt won't happen, as I probably won't be able to persuade the masses to revolt in the name of a rational society. Of course, someone eloquent and persuasive could attempt to do so, but with rhetoric rather than reason; this, however, would lead to a revolt by the brainwashed rather than a revolt by the consenting majority and would therefore not be the type of revolt necessary for the achievement of a rational society.

Of course, some people claim that any revolt will be squashed by the government before it succeeds in achieving its objective. This is not altogether true, despite the fact that some governments are extremely difficult to assail. Why? Because no leader wants to kill everyone he rules over. It's hard work rising to power, you know. (This is another reason why we need a majority revolt and not a revolt by two or three radicals.)

But in any case, the huge crime-fighting group which I mentioned before would not treat criminals in an immoral and uncompassionate fashion, as its constituents would all be morally righteous, and all practices of the crime-fighting group would be open for debate, just as all other issues would.

This crime-fighting group, by the way, would also have as one of its duties the prevention of totalitarianism; that is, it or some other newly-formed group would prevent any hopeful despot from rising to power. This would be easily accomplished, as the majority would be highly sensitive to tyranny, and would also be relatively skilled in revolting, having revolted before. (This is another reason why the minority cannot liberate the people for them; if some despot decides to take over the world, the majority will be left completely defenseless.) It would also be easily accomplished because in this society the majority would give everyone one standard gun in order to eliminate inherent differences in strength and therefore put power in the hands of the majority (Alex can shoot Betsy as hard as Betsy can shoot Adam, but without guns, Alex would undoubtedly be able to intimidate Betsy as well as Chris) and for the purpose of protection against tyranny. Of course people would be able to make better guns, but those people would be disarmed by the majority.

While guns would ultimately put absolute power in the hands of the majority, ultimately power must lie somewhere, and the rational majority is the safest place to put it. (Unfortunately, no society is perfectly rational, much like how no chemical reaction can give you 100% yield, and although this society is more rational than many, it falls short of perfect rationality. Despite the fact that absolute power, even when placed in the hands of the majority, corrupts absolutely, the majority is far less corruptible than the minority is. Besides, if the majority starts becoming incredibly tyrannical, the minority could always attempt to influence its policy using terrorist tactics.

The economy would be organized in one of two possible ways: it would either be organized in a manner similar to the government, with people resolving economic issues through discussion and debate, or it would operate on a "from each according to ability, to each according to need" basis (sorry for the cliche). The former option would lead to a rational society, while the latter would lead to a compassionate and free one. (Recall that reason may tie with compassion and freedom.) Of course, the people might find a better option (through debate, of course), in which case they would (hopefully) adopt it. But in any case, it would be unacceptable for the economy to be controlled by any small group of people, as that would create a measure of authority in that grouop of people.

What would the family structure be replaced by in a rational society? My guess is that anyone who wanted to take care of children would be able to do so, but that nobody would force any child to do anything. Of course, they would warn them that their actions would have real-life consequences; for example, that playing in the street may result in their getting hit by a car.

Religion hopefully wouldn't be replaced with anything, as religious belief is based on faith rather than on reason and therefore doesn't belong in a rational society. Of course it'd be oppressive to harm someone for his religious beliefs, but religion hopefully wouldn't matter during the rational decision-making process. In other words, there'd hopefully be separation of church and state.

Perhaps the most pressing question of all is whether this society shall ever actually be realized. In the end, what will determine whether this revolt which sets all this stuff in motion happens or not will be whether humans can conquer their own instincts through awareness of their faults. If they can conquer their tendency to be capitalistic, to always look out for themselves, to stay on top of the hierarchy rather than abolishing it altogether, then this revolt may eventually happen. Otherwise, humanity will forever continue to live in illogical misery and despair.

I am indebted to the following sources, yet have not relied exclusively on them in forming my opinions (in short, Bibliography):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milgram_experiment

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stanford_Prison_Experiment

http://www.stanford.edu/dept/news/relaged/970108prisonexp.html

http://www.zabalaza.net/pdfs/sapams/ffa.pdf

Steiner, Claude M. Scripts People Live: Transactional Analysis of Life Scripts. New York: Grove Press, 1974.

Orwell, George. 1984. New York: Signet Classic, 1977.

 

Soldier

By Sharon Denning

Las Vegas Nevada

My heart aches when I reach across the bed, in the deafening still of the night, only to recall that you are gone. Oh, how I miss the safety of your arms around me, but I always knew, you wanted to be a soldier.

When I watch news of war, the death and destruction leave me frozen with a fear I never knew existed. I am consumed with an urgency to pray for your safety. The frustration inside pushes the tears to flow again as I ask myself why, you wanted to be a soldier.

Every minute of every day I wait for word that you are coming home. I envision the moment our lives will be reunited, when our hopes and dreams can be realized, not just written on paper to be sent thousands of miles away. I plead with God to bring patience, as I am once again reminded, that you wanted to be a soldier.

It is then I reflect on how deeply I love you, the pride that I feel hand in hand standing next to you, how an entire nation admires and respects you. And I understand why you wanted to be a soldier.

Poetry

Black Sky

By S. D. Langsdale

London

Black sky.

One thousand ravens tearing

at bodies of day soon gone.

Indigo wings shield the

stars and the witches

claw at the moon.

Their branches cackle

and brooms fall as leaves, helping

night time to

finish day off with a

chord.

A club in the face for daytime.

Day falls beneath

the horizon to recover

and they do.

Time and time again they rise,

above the ravens with the

darkness in their eyes.

Now light pours in through

the holes in night's terrible plan and

the stars and moon expand;

the ravens must disband;

revealing dusk and dawn

and we can whistle now.

Help the sun to swell, triumphant as the day

with yet more glories

to unfold.

 

My Heaven Beneath The Sky

By Amy Marie Hess

Worthington, WV

Gentle beams of light wash over us; silent confessions from the constellations of the stars,

And in the comfort of their stillness, I can't think of a better place to be than where we are

Here beneath a full moon's blackened canvas, melting together in the warmth of embrace,

Chilled frost clutches the exterior of our blankets, unable to pierce the concealed; interlaced.

Passion cries out to night's deafened ears - we lie encompassed, yet make not a sound,

And in the aftermath of our closeness, I can't help but to hope we could never be found -

To remain lost in placates silence; cocooned in the affection reflected in your eyes,

Persuaded in the sense I could be content with you, here in my heaven beneath the sky.

 

OH SPARE ME HIV AIDS

By Adeoye A Adetunji

Kwara state Nigeria

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS

You are just what money can't and wouldn't want to buy.

You are the world greatest allot,

You fall in love with those who really hate you, and move from one to another.

"Situation" is no concern to you.

 

Spare me HIV AIDS!

People would seek properties but not like you.

You know no immune,

You give no respect to people of high places.

Surely, you have not heard the word "mercy" before.

 

Just spare me HIV AIDS.

You turn love to lust, fun to frustration,

Those that promise till death, you do them part.

You have made your self-a prayer point.

What a dream spoiler you are.

 

Why don't you spare me HIV AIDS!

Every single thing on earth is of a purpose; what is yours?

If you are prosperity, i would rather adhere to poverty.

If you are fame hmm! Forget it i had never wanted to be.

If you are to bring one closer to his God, so why that harsh.

 

You had better go out of existence and become a legend than to remain as a load.

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS.

I am a child of destiny.

Oh! Spare me HIV AIDS.

 

Autumn Mood

by Lora Biutz

Lithuania

One more nameless autumn;

October betrays you again

now with the rain

now with a glimpse of the sunlight.

The autumn gives you away.

You are tired bloody.

Only the bared teeth of November come next.

It's an error…

 

While going through the thorn-shrubbery

and tearing your heart in to pieces you are looking for a road.

The yellow leaves as a wet perishable carpet underfoot.

The bitter rain; and a white bleak melancholy comes next,

as well as the black silence

with the icy flowers ringing in the wind…

But you are waiting for dawn,

when in the cold morning mist,

in the emerald freshness,

in the splashes of the sunlight

you'll be able to breathe again.

 

Love is like a Chandelier

By Christopher Byrd

Winchester, Virginia

 

The form is exquisite, the curves vivacious and elegant

the bewitching luster of gold, a sonorous chorus

of voices that merely hint at the magnificent forms behind them

an intricate web; stronger for its softness. All supporting

the radiance of a thousand tiny crystals, each one a little speck

of verisimilitude, each a moment

preserved forever, unmarked by time or truth

the kind of comforting falsehood that makes life worthwhile.

 

But Then

The Earthquake. The Tempest. The fiery Armageddon

Where the very fabric of reality

SCREAMS

and then crashes in a shatter of skulls and weeping.

The chandelier plummets, and the gold bends against the hard granite.

The inexorable veracity of this moment

can break a mind and scatter it; the bitter scorched fragments

mirroring the shards of crystalline glass scattered across the stonework.

 

Eternity passes

 

Despair is a hanging miasma that extends for miles.

A pervasive cynicism, a thunderhead of broken dreams

just waiting for the storm to break, so maybe the suffering

will end.

But in the middle of this fog, a beam of light pierces through

a faded memory is revived and the faintly glowing embers of Hope are lit.

A fulgent kaleidoscope is formed, and this prophetic daybreak lifts the fog.

An artisan comes at last to this foreboding keep;

drawn hypnotically to this last sanctum, the remnant of a forgotten Eden.

And the chandelier rises anew, a coruscating aurora

that reclaims this shattered visage of felicity from the jaws of darkness.

The gold is tarnished and bent, the crystals ataxic and split

but the light shines all the brighter.

Love is like a chandelier; a broken heart is the most perfect form of Pain.

But a mended one

That is paradise, and every fruit is sweeter for having once been lost.

 

Anxious

By Kimberly Kochaniec

West Milford, NJ

She walked back and forth,

For about an hour.

Her toes clenched and

Hands frostbitten.

Where was she to go?

She wasn't able to

Concentrate on what she had done.

Her mother had said,

"Never get too close to a man!"

She ignored such silliness.

Sleeping with her father,

Was what she needed to do.

So he said.

If only she hadn't gone to

The next generation.

He could barely get it up.

She did it.

She kept walking. Trying to run.

Thinking.

The Xanax did the job…she thought

It never would.

She could hear her mother's cry

When she would get home

To see they were both dead.

"But how could she be so selfish?

What about me?"

Carrying on, to the next street.

She saw a light.

It was her light.

The light she used to swing around

She was six.

Red and White flashing lights were

Coming towards her.

She knew then, the worst was over.

 

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