The Lotus Reader

Literary Magazine

 

A good story

cannot be devised;

it has to be distilled.

 

- Raymond Chandler

Previous Issue

Posted April 9, 2007

Fiction

Higher Education

By Gary Beck

New York, New York

My best friend Steve and I were tired of Yale and discussed transferring to Columbia University for our sophomore year. I eagerly praised Columbia's virtues, possibly motivated by its proximity to Finch and Reenie, a girl I had a crush on. We would have to face a tremendous protest from our parents, so we reviewed some of the arguments we could present. Although we couldn't anticipate every objection, we decided that a gradual campaign might win more sympathy than a sudden demand for change. It was ironic that despite its allure, Columbia seemed as incongruous to us as Yale. Both were elite havens for the privileged, surrounded by slums and squalor. But at least New York City contained many new worlds to be explored, while New Haven was virtually a cultural wilderness.

When we got back to school for the spring semester, Steve enrolled in a nineteenth century romantic poetry course and a modern poetry course. He came back to our room raving about professor Joshua Carrington, a contemporary poet who burned with the fire of the muse. Carrington had recently published his second book of poems and the critics compared him favorably to some of the famous modern American poets. Of course, the critics used to despise those poets until they conveniently died and became classics. Steve started meeting Joshua after class for long, intense discussions and they quickly became friends.

When Steve had started writing poetry at the age of seventeen, it was mostly about the grandeur of nature, or ideal women who would passionately adore the young poet. Except for one occasion with Mother and Lorna, he showed no one what he was writing, except me. Every few months he would read his latest efforts aloud and request my opinion. I didn't know much about poetry, so I wasn't very helpful. I vaguely recollected Lord Byron and Keats from prep school days. I also remembered my boring English teacher who rambled on about them as if they were his intimate friends. Steve read a lot of poetry on his own, mostly 19th century French and American. His favorite poets were Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Walt Whitman.

He learned that some of the Russian poets had been killed in duels. This struck a chord in him that made him hunger to find out more about these swashbucklers. He did some research in Russian literature and immersed himself in the works of Pushkin and Lermontov. He described Lermontov as the Russian Shelley, who fought a duel at the age of 26, on the edge of a cliff. Both the winner and loser fell to their death. He recited their poems, burning with revolutionary fervor that struck a chord in me. I had been reading radical political writings about rebellions and resistance movements. The Russian poet's opposition to the oppression of the Tsars heightened my growing determination to resist injustice. Steve also had strong feelings about the injustices of the world, but from a very different point of view. I believed that only government regulation of capital would protect the poor against the manipulations of vast economic interests. Steve didn't disagree with me. But he wanted to explore how to get involved in a hands on effort on a grass roots level of human service, rather than seeking solutions in disruptive revolution.

I had enrolled in a philosophy course and somehow become very friendly with my professor, Ellis R. Belleclaire. When he was lecturing, he referred to himself as 'Belleclaire,' using phrases like: "Belleclaire observes," or: "Belleclaire asserts." He was obsessed with Buddha, who he thought was a great revolutionary figure. He wore different Buddha cufflinks and tie pins to class every day. Belleclaire described himself as a philosophic idealist, who believed that the evolution of man was determined by historical factors. I believed that action determined events. We had lively arguments in class that spanned the scope of human achievement. They also resulted in my accusing him of being an observer, rather than taking action.

Belleclaire invited me to have dinner with him after class, just after I promised to join Steve and Joshua for the evening. Steve and I decided to risk the meeting of two completely opposite characters and proposed that poetry and philosophy get acquainted. We dined at a greasy Chinese restaurant in town, on the second floor of a ratty building that had a reputation for poisoning students and faculty for years. Joshua and Belleclaire got along incredibly well. We talked together for hours and really enjoyed ourselves. After dinner we were reluctant to say good-bye. Belleclaire said solemnly:

"Belleclaire would like to take you someplace for an interesting experience."

"What kind of experience?" I asked.

"There is a gathering of supporters of the Dalai Lama. Are you familiar with the Chinese communist aggression against Tibet and their suppression of Buddhism?"

"Not very," Carrington said.

Steve encouraged him. "Tell us about it."

Belleclaire nodded. "In 1950 the Chinese communists brutally invaded one of the most peaceful countries in the world, Tibet. They slaughtered thousands of non-violent Buddhists and banned the Tibetan language from being taught in the schools. The Chinese deposed the Dalai Lama, the head of the Tibetan Buddhist Church, so they could install communism. No one helped Tibet, not even the United Nations. There is a meeting tonight of sympathizers who are organizing a protest at the U.N. Would you like to go with Belleclaire?"

I needed no urging. "Yes."

Steve was eager and said: "Very much." Carrington also agreed.

Belleclaire took us to a dingy building, in a seedy section near the decaying business district. There were no secret passwords or arcane rituals, but it was a fascinating meeting. Two Buddhist monks in orange robes talked about the destruction of their country in the most moving terms.

"All we wanted was to be left alone to practice our religion. But China wanted a possible invasion route to India and Tibet stood in the way. They invaded our country which did not have an army and began to destroy our religion. Now the world is forgetting about us."

The monk described the demonstration that was planned at the U.N. for Easter Sunday. We pledged to join the demonstration and assist in any way we could. We gave them all the money we had with us and went back to school, inspired to help a worthy cause. For the next few weeks we neglected our classes and spent most of our time fundraising, or attempting to recruit volunteers on campus. We didn't achieve very much in the way of money or warm bodies.

While we were engrossed in Tibet, the biggest issue on campus that spring was 'cramming.' This strenuously intellectual activity took place when as many blockheads as possible 'crammed' into a telephone booth. The current school record was twenty-two and the local literati were planning a major run at the national collegiate record of twenty-five, sometime around Easter. We obviously couldn't compete with this meaningful effort that prevented serious consideration for the plight of Tibet. Ted tried to persuade us not to get involved in a 'collateral issue in the world struggle against imperialism.' His reluctance to come to the aid of an oppressed people further convinced Steve that Ted was not to be trusted. When Ted realized that he couldn't change our minds, he begrudgingly agreed to go to the demonstration. We were getting progressively more disgusted with Yale when another incident occurred. The tennis coach knocked on our door one evening. We were surprised to see him, since he wasn't known for visiting students. He had a gripe. He heard about our fight with Andy. The rumor had spread that we jumped him from behind and attacked him with ski poles, because we were jealous of his tennis success. I wasn't very patient with the bearer of false tidings, but I tried to be polite.

"That's not true, Bill. Andy insulted my sister and we each hit him, once."

"I heard you broke his jaw."

"We didn't. He and his pal were about to fight us. We were quicker."

"Did both of you have to hit him? That's not very fair."

I was getting annoyed at his defense of Andy. "He provoked it and that's how it turned out."

"I'm very concerned, because I won't have rowdies and roughnecks on my team," Bill said pompously.

"I'm rowdy," Steve quipped.

"I'm roughneck," I responded enthusiastically.

"You boys think it's a joke?"

"It's really none of your business, Bill," I said.

He said stubbornly: "Anything that affects the team is my business."

"Then I'll make it easy for you. Since you won't support your own players, I quit."

Steve said instantly: "Well, Mr. Roughneck, if that's how you feel. I quit."

Bill tried to backtrack. "Now don't be hasty, boys. Maybe we can work something out."

"I don't think I care to play for a jerk like you. Do you have an opinion, Mr. Rowdy?"

Steve answered mock seriously. "Your logic compels me to agree, Mr. Roughneck. Good-bye, Bill."

He sulked off, muttering about our ingratitude. That night we got a call from Dad.

"I've been hearing all kinds of rumors about you two."

I had no idea what he was referring to. "Like what?"

"You put Andy Klassen in the hospital and you insulted Bill Carlson when he tried to find out what happened."

"That little worm called you, didn't he?"

"Yes. But that's not the point. He was trying to find out what happened between you and Andy. Did you have to offend him?"

"Dad, Andy insulted Lorna. He called her some really foul names. Steve and I hit him at the same time, once. When Bill tried to poke into our private lives I told him that it was family business. He wouldn't take our word and he kept pushing us, so we quit the team."

"What did Andy call Lorna?"

"I'd rather not repeat it, but I assure you that if you were there, you wouldn't tolerate it."

"Then this is just another Klassen episode?"

"That's right, Dad."

"I have no objection to your defending your sister. Do you want me to call Bill and straighten him out?"

"No, Dad. I wouldn't play for him after this. Neither would Steve."

"That's your decision. I'm proud of both of you."

"Thanks, Dad. I've got to tell you something. We're not happy here. It's not at all like it was in your day. Everybody's so immature, or grubbing for some future career. The most important topic around here is how many students can cram themselves into a telephone booth."

Dad asked carefully. "Do you want to drop out of school and work for a while?"

I took the plunge. "We'd like to transfer to Columbia next semester and make a fresh start."

"We'll talk about it when you come home for Easter."

"We won't be home. We're going to demonstrate at the U.N. to free Tibet."

Dad said with certainty: "The U.N. won't do anything."

"We've got to try. We'll come home for a weekend and we can talk about school. I've got to go now."

Our preparations for the demonstration took up most of our time, as we made last attempts to raise money and recruit volunteers. Easter Sunday dawned with the promise of a beautiful spring day. A bus picked us up at the campus at 7:00 AM for the ride to New York City. There were only twenty-five of us and Steve and I had recruited more than half the volunteers. Steve kept affectionately teasing the two monks with Buddha jokes.

"Buddha was walking along Fifth Avenue...."

"What did Buddha say to the traveling salesman...."

Belleclaire and Joshua pretended to be outraged at his insensitivity, but they were secretly amused at his irrepressible spirit. The monks grinned in delight. The bus pulled up in front of the U.N. about 9:00 AM and there were hundreds of police in riot gear prepared to greet twenty-five of us. We waited in front of the bus, hoping that other demonstrators would arrive.

By 10:30 AM it was apparent that no one else was coming, not even the media. A small crowd of spectators had gathered across the street, eager to see us get our heads broken. Well, at least we had an audience. We gathered the group together, with the Buddhist monks in their bright orange robes in the front and we headed for the General Assembly building. The police immediately formed a line to prevent us from entering. The older monk talked to them.

"We have a petition for the Secretary General requesting him to help free Tibet."

A police sergeant confronted him. "Do you have a permit to assemble?"

The monk answered reasonably. "We only wish to deliver a letter."

"I repeat. Do you have a permit to assemble?"

"No. We only wish to deliver a letter."

"Drop it in the mailbox. This is an illegal demonstration. I order you to disperse."

"We are only here to ask for freedom for Tibet."

The rest of us chanted: "Free Tibet. Free Tibet. Free Tibet."

I gestured to the crowd watching from across the street, urging them to join us, but they stared back silently, waiting for bloodshed.

The Sergeant warned us. "If you do not disperse, you will be arrested."

The monk patiently replied: "We just want to deliver a request for freedom."

We chanted encouragingly: "Free Tibet. Free Tibet. Free Tibet."

"This is your final warning. Disperse," the Sergeant ordered.

The Sergeant was very close to the monk and he shoved him. The monk went down hard. We leaped to help him and the police started swinging their clubs. They were all over us before we could organize resistance. We didn't put up much of a struggle, because they outnumbered us ten to one. Ted managed to knock down one cop, but there were so few of us that the police subdued us in two minutes, handcuffed us, then took us to a nearby precinct. Belleclaire was one of the injured and an ambulance took him to the hospital. The rest of us spent the night in jail and we were released in the morning on our own recognizance. There were some rude surprises awaiting us when we got back to school. We discovered that the authorities had been secretly monitoring our activities. They fired Joshua and Belleclaire for their participation in the demonstration. Neither of them had tenure so they had no recourse. Just like that, two exceptional teachers were dismissed for having a social conscience. Steve and I were placed on suspension for one week. We were treated like lepers by our fellow students, who whispered that we were pinko radicals. We found it difficult to understand why our supporting a worthy cause like Tibet should provoke such disapproval. When the atmosphere didn't improve during the next week, we decided it was definitely time to transfer to Columbia University for the fall semester. The real test would be if we could last until the school year ended.

 

Big Jim, the Mormon, and Hitler's Grandson

By Quincey Burkhalter

Roswell,NM

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

The guy that gave me the tour of Big Jim's was a guy I like to call the Mormon. He was a burly, older, bald man with glasses. He had to have been my father's age, so I instantly thought, What's this guy doing working here? I soon found out.

"Don't get me wrong, Ken," he said. "It ain't like I like working at this place. This is the back room. What ya' think, Kurt? Great hall of beer, huh." I looked around. There were posters of Big Jim, the owner, everywhere.

"Yeah," I said staring at the posters that lined the wall. It was like Big Jim was some sort of legendary rock star and this was his first ever, live performance. "Arriving July eleventh, at a Big Jim's near you," each identical poster said.

"Had two wives once," the Mormon said breaking me out of my trance.

"Married twice?"

"At the same time. Married to both at the same time. Grab that dolly. On my fourth marriage now. Got fourteen kids, that I'm counting, you know what I mean."

I started to look at the posters again. Big Jim looked like a caricature, a clay version of a real man.

"Two at the same time?" I said.

"Yup. Thought the first one was dead. So, I got married again. Then hidey-ho, wouldn't you know it? First one shows up at my door."

"What happened?" I said, intrigued by his soap operatic life.

"Well, number one was better in the sack. So, I kept number two and screwed number one on the side. On number four now. I told you that. Grab the twelves of Red, White, and Blue. Don't drink ‘em, just grab ‘em. I don't drink no more. Quit."

When we finished the tour we returned to the cash registers up front. A new shift had come on. That's when I saw him. You know what I mean by him don't you? I mean him, Hitler's Goddamn grandson. I didn't trust him the moment I saw him. There was something about this average looking, mustached young guy that made my insides feel slimy, like warm mayonnaise. An almost poison tasting metal tinge came up on the back of my throat.

"Hi," he said. "Name's Craig."

"I'm Kevin R. . . Just Kevin." My voice shook. It never shook. What the hell's wrong with me, I thought. This guy made me feel uneasy, unsteady, like my ankles had been replaced with roller bearings. That never happened to me.

"O.K. Kevin, just Kevin, you know how to work a register?"

I said nothing. I stood there frozen. I could feel the Mormon retreating behind me.

I couldn't believe it. The Mormon had come in for the fifteen-minute tour and now he was leaving me with this guy. He left me with this guy, this Craig guy, this guy that reminded me of a used car salesman and Momar Kadafi in the same breath. The Mormon was leaving and there was nothing I could do about it. I saw Craig wave. I turned to see the Mormon wave back as he was getting into the car with his wife. This guy, this Craig guy, just stood there with this smile on his face. I saw the Mormon's car leaving the lot. The smile disappeared. I managed to speak.

"I know how to work the register," I said with a tongue that felt almost numb.

"Well, too fucking bad," he said. "You're on beer duty tonight. It's behind the cooler. And stock the single cans of soda too."

"I haven't been back there," I said.

"I've been on the fucking tour. I know you've been back there. Big Jim's gonna be here in a week. Do it and I'll check it when you're done."

He was right I had been back there and the Mormon had told me what I was supposed to do, but I hadn't really been listening. I was more interested in the story about him being married to two women at once. Besides, the Mormon told me I would be on the register the first night. The Mormon managed the goddamn store, but this freak of nature assumed the position of God the minute he was alone with me. There was nothing I could do.

"Get started," he said. "They're gonna start comin' in sooner than you think."

"I was supposed to. . ."

"I don't fucking care what you were supposed to do. It's Saturday, it's July the fucking third, and we don't sell liquor on Sundays. If you think I'm gonna stock beer tonight you're fuckin' crazier than my grandpa. Now get your ass to the back."

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could feel my ears -- What'd he mean crazier than his Grandfather -- get hot and my jaw clench. I stood there looking at him. I knew it had worked on people a lot tougher than Craig; so, I stared. I'd never had to be very big to be intimidating. I just had to prefect this stare. I didn't move. He rang up three customers. I stood there. All three of the customers were college girls, only one of them good looking. He didn't stand a chance with even the ugly ones. He said the same damn thing every time.

"Lookin' hot tonight. Someone's gonna get their fireworks early."

All three of the girls giggled and looked his way. I stood with my frozen glare fixed right at him until the third girl left.

This Craig guy turned around as the door shut. The third girl turned around to look at, I'm sure it wasn't him, it had to be me. She looked right at me. I looked at Craig. Craig looked at me. My eyes watered and went blurry with anger.

"Did you see what they bought?" he asked.

I said nothing.

"They bought beer." He stopped to see if I would react. I stared. "Stock the fucking freezer," he said. I felt myself backing off as another customer came through the door.

"Lookin' hot tonight. Someone's gonna get their fireworks early." I would have thrown up if I had to hear him say it one more time. The girl turned around. "You're kinda cute," she said as her dress threatened to get even smaller. She was staring right at me. She thought it was me who had used that terrible line. I stayed there, just hoping that this girl who looked like a cross between Rosanne Barr and Elvira wasn't actually talking to me. She stared. She looked me up and down. She smiled with teeth the color of unhealthy urine. I went to the back to stock beer.

I jerked the cooler door open with what felt like anger, but was probably frustration. I slammed it behind me with the same emotion. There was a note on the inside of the door, over one of Big Jim's posters.

1st Crew,

Don't stock the beer. We got new blood coming in tonight.

Craig

I turned around. The cooler was empty. I hadn't noticed it before. I'd been listening to the Mormon tell his story. The Mormon must have seen the note, I thought. He must have noticed the cooler was empty. The other six pack cans were in the back room; so, I went back there.

I hadn't noticed before, but this whole back room was filled with alcohol. Cases upon cases were stacked at least twelve feet high. Who in their right mind would stack them this high, I thought. I would need a ladder or some rope to get to the first case.

Before attempting this miraculous feat. I decided to take a look around, get myself familiar with this back room. I might as well be familiar with it, I thought. I'm going to be back here all night and into the early morning. I walked slowly down the corridor, slowly down the Great Hall of Beer. God, I needed a drink. I checked around for cameras. To my surprise there were none. But posters of Big Jim stared at me from every direction. He looked unreal, distorted, but his eyes followed me everywhere. There was not a place where he couldn't see me. I looked closely at one of the posters trying to stare him down. He looked like a muppet, like one of the designs Jim Henson had thrown away. His mustache was a thick graying handlebar over a mouth that stood open in a hapless, Kermit the frog grin. His eyes stood out of their sockets like he had no lower eyelids. Hair sat on his head as if it was waiting for someone better to come along so it could escape. I checked again for cameras. Big Jim seemed too unreal to even exist, little alone to be watching me; so, I tore into a box that had Jim Beam written on the side in big red letters.

"Did you see that, Jim," I said.

I couldn't believe it. There must have been twenty flasks in the box and there were three more boxes. I held one flask in my hand and put another one in my inside coat pocket behind a tabloid I had stolen a few days before. I had forgotten the tabloid was there. I pulled it out as I took my first healthy drink of Jim. I felt warm as it hit my empty stomach. "Hitler's grandson," I said laughing to myself and opening the magazine. I skimmed over a couple of articles, one about an alien abduction and the other about a werewolf that had killed two kids in Vermont. Then, I got to the Hitler article again. "I'll be damned," I said out loud to myself. "His name is Craig." I thought about the dipshit, asshole up front and turned the page. It was him. It was Craig. There was no doubt about it; Craig's photo was staring back at me. It was a computer generated photo of what Hitler's grandson would look like at twenty-two, the age he was now, taken from a picture of him when he was five. I dropped the bottle of Jim Beam as I was trying to take another drink. It shattered into a million pieces as it hit the floor. I held the picture in front of me.

"Hey!" I jumped forward nearly slipping on the alcohol I had spilt. "Hey asshole. We're out of Milwaukee's Best. Get your ass in gear." I turned around to face the voice. It was Craig standing right in front of me. I looked from Craig to the picture, the picture to Craig. I couldn't move. "I gotta get back up front," he said. "Get your ass in gear." I stood immobile for quite some time, thinking of how he had probably seen my name on the time sheets. I'm not sure if my name's Jewish or not. I couldn't speak.

I didn't see Craig the rest of the night. I worked like a mad man throwing twelve packs of Milwaukee's Best and Red, White, and Blue beer to the front of the cooler. The twelve packs disappeared before I could turn around. I got the motion down. Up, down, pull out the twelves, and slide. Up, down, pull out the twelves, and slide. After awhile it got easier, but it never slowed down. By the time midnight rolled around I had worked for twelve hours straight. I hated this Craig guy with a unholy vengeance. I prayed a silent prayer. I don't believe in God but I prayed silently. I prayed that this Craig guy was Hitler's grandson and that I could prove it and sell that bastard down the river.

 

The Dream Place

By Brianna

North Highlands, California

It was a Monday morning and I had just woken up from having a weird dream. I was walking home from soccer practice with a couple of my friends until suddenly I was walking across the main street and just then some guy in a midnight blue dodge ram ran a red light and was headed right towards me, I heard a big screech as the man driving was slamming on his brakes and as soon as I was about to get hit, I had woken up from the dream.

"Marcy!" I heard my mom shout, Marcella Justine Sinister is my full name and I'm thirteen years old.

I got out of bed and walked into the living room but there was no sign of anybody,

"Mom?!" I shouted not knowing where she was and nobody replied I started searching the house and I couldn't find my mom or dad and not even my little brother, Bryan. I got worried then realized they all must be outside and I went outside and saw a boy sitting in a lawn chair in the front yard and I thought it was Bryan and I came up behind him.

"Bryan, where's mom and dad?" I asked

"Huh?" the boy stood up, it wasn't Bryan he had been much taller and looked about my age.

"Oh sorry I thought you were someone else"

"That's ok"

"I better go back inside" and I started walking back towards my house,

"Wait what's your name?" he asked and I stopped and turned around,

"I'm Marcella but call me Marcy"

"I'm Devon"

"Well I'll see you around Devon" I said and started walking off again.

"Wait are you looking for someone Marcy?" he asked

"Kind of I can't find my parents or my brother"

"Well let me help you look for them"

"Ok"

We went inside my house but weren't really looking for my parents or my brother we were just getting to know each other a little more.

"So did you just move here or something? I haven't seen you around"

"Yah I moved here yesterday, from Wisconsin"

I tried to remember if I had seen anyone moving in next door yesterday but I couldn't seem to remember anything that happened at all yesterday or even the day before that. It was as if I had no memory of anything except the weird dream I had.

It was getting late and neither my parents or brother were home yet and I was getting worried.

"My parents are still not home yet"

"Don't worry about them let's go get ice-cream or something" Devon suggested

"I'm really worried though"

"Don't be, come on" I just sighed and followed him out the front door and we went to the ice-cream parlor near my house and as we were on our way there I examined things closely and realized everything looked much different. Nothing around me like the trees and the houses looked the same they had looked better and brighter usually the city looked as if a tornado had swept through it. There would be dirt and leaves swarming around in the streets and on the sidewalk, now the streets were so clean I could eat off them and I had not seen one car go by spreading pollution everywhere. Then that's when I realized I had not seen anybody but Devon and the cashier at the ice-cream parlor.

"Devon where is everyone?" I asked

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the only poeple I have seen are you and that cashier over there" I pointed to the cashier as I said that.

"Umm..." he hesitated to tell me what was going on,

"Devon you know what's going on don't you? Where are my parents?" He just looked down at his bowl of ice-cream, I knew he knew what was going on and I was curios to know. Everything was different and everybody was missing was all I knew at the time.

"Just trust me ok?"

"How can I trust you when I dont know what's going on?!" I shouted

"Ssshh...keep your voice down Marcy" he whispered

"You're really scaring me Devon, I want to go home" I got up and started walking away then he stopped me.

"Marcy wait you won't be safe anywhere you go"

"What do you mean?" Devon grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the ice-cream parlor, suddenly I saw the cashier disappear from behind the counter.

"Devon the cashier is gone"

"Oh no..."

"What? What's the matter?" I asked

"We have to go! Come on" I could hear the fear in his voice which scared me even more, we stared running but I wasn't sure what we were running from. Then all of a sudden the cashier appeared right in front of us out of nowhere,

"Devon let her go" the cashier demanded

"Run!" Devon shouted and we started running again and we ran into my house and sat down, I was out of breath.

"Devon..." I took a deep breath "What is going on?"

"Ok listen, you probably won't believe this entirely but it's all true, nobody here is real well they're real but they're being controlled by the person that wants you" I laughed a little,

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Didn't you just see what happened?"

"Yah whoop-dee-doo so the cashier knows a little magic trick" I did sort of believe what he was telling me but I didn't want to believe it.

"This is not some kind of game, this is serious, Magnolia is after you and she wants you dead" he was pacing back and forth looking out every window.

"Magnolia is her name?" I asked

"Yes she's the one who has control over everybody and everything" then suddenly someone knocked on the door.

"Come on we have to hide" We hid in one of the closets,

"Let me just go see who it is"

"No you cannot trust anyone here but me"

"So why aren't you being controlled by her"

"Because I was sent to rescue you" Just then we heard footsteps,

"Ssshhh..." Devon said and we listened carefully to see if we could hear where the footsteps were coming from, suddenly we heard them coming from right outside the closet door. We stayed quiet and suddenly we could no longer hear any footsteps and it was so silent I could hear my heartbeat getting louder and louder. I opened the closet door about an inch to see if anyone was there,

"Is anyone out there?" Devon whispered

"No-" Just then someone flung the closet door wide open and I fell to the floor, I turned around to see who did it and it was my mom.

"Mom!" I shouted and was about to hug her until Devon grabbed my arm and pulled me away. We ran out of the room and out the front door,

"Let go Devon!" I shouted

"You dont understand, that's not your mom it's Magnolia" Suddenly a deep dark hole appeared in front of us out of nowhere just like the cashier at the ice-cream parlor and we fell down the hole.

"Aaaah!" we screamed then ended up in, what looked to be, a cave.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know but we have to find a way out, so you stay here and I'll be right back"

"You're going to leave me here by myself?" I asked worriedly

"Yeah, it might be dangerous" So he left me there by myself and I sat down and leaned against a bolder and all I could hear were water drops falling from the ceiling and into a big puddle on the ground. I shut my eyes then something happened, I appeared somewhere else, my eyes were still closed and I could hear beeping noises coming from some kind of machine. Then I barely opened my eyes and I saw doctors leaning over me, then I heard,

"She's waking up! she's waking up!" I shut my eyes and it was silent and when I opened my eyes back up I was somewhere else other than where I was before. What was going on? Was this all a dream? All these questions kept running through my head until I realized I was locked up in a cell.

"Devon are you here?" I asked

"He's not here" a voice said coming from behind me, I turned and looked and saw a very tall lady with long red hair and her face was very pale.

"Who are you?" She laughed

"I'm Magnolia"

"Let me out of here!" I demanded

"Marcy you must trust me"

"No!"

"Why? Because Devon told you to only trust him?"

"Yes"

"Well Devon is wrong he's the one you shouldn't trust, why do you think he left you there in that cave?" She was right he did leave me there all alone, no! What was I thinking? Devon probably is trying to rescue me right now.

"You’re wrong he only left me there to keep me safe!" Then one of the guards walked into the room and whispered something to Magnolia,

"You stay here I have to go take care of something" Magnolia said and she left the room then, suddenly I realized I could fit through the bars of the cell and that's just what I did and I ran into a room nobody was in but there was some kind of machine in the room, then suddenly someone snuck up behind me.

"Magnolia!" I shouted

"No, no, no I'm not Magnolia I'm her twin sister Gabby, I'm here to help you"

"Well I'm looking for Devon"

"Follow me I know where he is"

"Wait what is this machine for?"

"That's how Magnolia controls everybody" Then we walked out of the room and into another room where I saw Devon locked up in cell,

"Ok you go get the keys to unlock the cell and I'll get the guards out of here" Gabby said and she walked over to the guards and demanded them to leave the room and they did thinking she was Magnolia. I walked over to a desk and picked up the keys and unlocked the cell Devon was locked up in.

"Marcy what are you doing? Magnolia is right over there" Devon said

"That's Gabby her twin sister" Right as Devon was about to get out of the cell someone pushed me in and slammed the cell door shut, it was Gabby.

"Gabby get us out of here!" I shouted

"You think I would betray my own sister?" she said and just laughed,

"You know what she's doing is wrong" Devon said

"Actually she's making everything better, if everyone acts like she wants them to the world would be a better place"

"Let us out of here Gabby!" I shouted again

"You just don't get it Marcy" Devon said

"I don't get what?"

"You can't trust anyone here, if you would've listened to me we both wouldn't be locked up in this cell"

"Are you saying this is all my fault?"

"Yes, because it is"

"I'm sorry I was just trying to help"

"I don't need your help Marcy! I could've gotten out of here without you" Devon was getting frustrated and I got mad at him. I wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the time we were locked up in the cell, I sat down and held my legs up to my chest it was getting cold. I could see Devon running his fingers through his sandy brown hair, trying to think of a way out of here. Suddenly the lights turned off and I couldn't see a thing, then they turned back on and Devon was gone.

"Devon where did you go?" I whispered, he must've found a way out and just left me here, I was getting really scared.Then suddenly the lights turned back off.

"What is going on with these lights?" Gabby asked then suddenly I felt someone take hold of my arm and take me out of the cell and when we walked into another room I saw that it was Devon.

"Devon you came back!" I said and hugged him,

"I wasn't just going to leave you there"

"Well I thought you were mad at me"

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, I didn't mean what I said"

"That's all right"

"Ok come on" We walked into the room with the machine,

"What are we doing in here?"

"We have to destroy this machine" Then suddenly Magnolia and Gabby barged into the room,

"Hide" Devon whispered and I got down behind the machine,

"Where's Marcy?" Magnolia asked

"I don't know"

"He's lying Maggy" Gabby said

"I know that and dont ever call me Maggy!" Magnolia demanded

"Maggy, Maggy, Maggy!" Devon shouted repeatedly and Magnolia got mad and formed a tornado, I held onto something so the tornado wouldn't suck me in and so did Devon.

"Devon I can't hold on much longer!" I shouted as I was about to lose my grip,

"Just a little while longer!" He shouted then suddenly I realized what he was doing, the tornado was taking the machine in piece by piece and it was being destroyed. Magnolia caught on to what Devon was doing too and tried to stop the tornado, but it was too late she no longer had control over everything.

"Nooo! How could this happen?" Magnolia shouted then suddenly a desk came flying up into the air and was about to hit me. I shut my eyes and everything was silent and when I opened my eyes I was back by the crosswalk and was going to cross the main street again where I had almost got hit by the truck. It was all happeneng all over again I tried to stop myself from crossing the street but it was as if something was forcing me to and then the midnight blue dodge ram was headed right towards me. Just this time I saw Devon and he was running towards me and pushed me out of the way of the truck and we both fell to the ground and I had blacked out.

When I woke up I was in the hospital,

"Oh Marcy are you ok?" My mom asked as she walked into the room I was in,

"Yah mom I'm fine" Was the whole thing about Magnolia and Gabby some kind of reenactment of what really happened to me? I asked myself.

"Some kid saved your life, you better go thank him" my dad said

"What's his name?"

"I'm pretty sure his name was Devon, he's in the room down the hallway" Was he the same Devon from in my dream? I had to find out.

"Well can I go thank him now?"

"Sure we'll be down in the waiting room" my mom said and I got up out of the hospital bed and walked out of the room and into the hallway and when I found the room Devon was in I hesitated to go in but I got the nerve to.

"Devon?"

"Yah I'm right here"

"Oh hi, are you all right?"

"Yah I'm fine"

"Thanks for saving me"

"No problem"

"So..." I was going to ask him if he had remembered anything about Magnolia and Gabby but I was kind of afraid to but I did and not in a way that I expected." We did it, we stopped Magnolia and Gabby"

"What?" I couldn't believe I had said that,

"Umm...nevermind"

I rushed out of the room and went home with my parents and my brother and the next morning my dad woke me up,

"Marcy, Devon is here, he wants to see how you're doing" he said

"Just tell him I'm fine" I was afraid to get to know Devon because I was afraid he would be much different than the Devon I knew from my dream.

"Now Marcy you owe this boy some respect, he saved your life" It didn't seem I had a choice I had to get to know him more,

"All right"

"I got up and went out on the fron porch and saw him sitting there and I sat down next to him,

"Hi" I said

"Hey"

"I'm sorry for running out of the room like that yesterday" Then he said something quietly,

"What?"

"I'm glad we stopped Magnolia and Gabby" he said and I couldn't believe it, it was really him the same Devon from my dream but how could this be?

"Well why didn't you say anything?"

"Because we aren't supposed to talk about The Dream Place or it will either be destroyed or tooken over by someone like Magnolia"

I suspected the place I went to was called The Dream Place and even though I couldn't talk about it and neither could Devon it was nice to know someone knew about it other than me. I bet Devon felt the same way, I liked the feeling of knowng something I would never forget for as long as I live.

The End

 

A Tranquil Breeze

By Kristy Maez

Nelson, Wisconsin

I rummage through the makeup bag and find the orange red lipstick. Not tangerine, not melon, orange red. Carefully I outline lips that seem unfamiliar then fill in the rest. These lips once smiled and laughed, but no more, not for me.

Digging down deeper I find the mascara. A nice deep black color. The kind that clumps, the kind that takes turpentine practically to remove. Never once did that mascara run, even through a lifetime of joyful laughter bringing you to tears, or intense grief that leaves you gasping agonizingly for breath.

I tip the bag back and forth until I see the small black square plastic box. Pulling out the worn case containing a frayed brush I sweep it upwards, creating a stark contrast of the reddish brown powder onto white skin. "Where did all the wrinkles come from," I ask myself. I can't remember when I first noticed the age beginning to show, but they're there, a testament to time.

A breeze blows in through the window kissing my cheek and I breathe in the scent of spring. It brings back memories of my childhood. I remember a day with perfect clarity, of me, my sister and mother sitting on the porch swing. I remember my mother laughing at a silly song my sister and I had made up, clapping at the end and hugging us tightly. That day was perfect to me. I feel as if I've had far to few of those days. The sun was warm with a tranquil breeze, that carried the scent of my mothers perfume as I snuggled against her.

Remembering that I still have much to do today I push the memory aside and reach for the hairbrush. I can't help but notice the streaks of gray and white, again times testament. It used to be brown and so soft to touch, but now it feels course and brittle. I arrange it as best I can trying to frame the face. There are a few wisps that refuse to do what the brush bids them. I try to smooth them down, my fingers lingering, remembering how I used to like the way it curled.

I look at my handiwork and adjust the dress. It is blue, my favorite color. I had spent an hour agonizing over the choice. Laying out several dresses on the bed, I narrowed it down to two, the blue or a black. The black in the end just didn't seem right. I feel the breeze tickling my skin teasing me to go outside and enjoy the sunshine. I'm tempted. My mother always said to enjoy your days while you can. I don't think I'll ever enjoy anything anymore.

Somehow something is missing and I search my mind for what it can be. Again the breeze filters in through the open window and like a siren tempts me to run outside and forget my duties here. Mentally refusing the invitation I search through the bag, hoping something will stand out showing me what I have forgotten.

My fingers touch the cool feel of glass and I pull out the bottle that has been resting on the bottom. Uncapping the filigree gold top I inhale the fragrance. Chanel, only for special occasions. I tip the bottle and add just a dab to both wrists and another on each side of the neck. Tears blur my vision as the smell brings up a flood of memories. Memories I had pushed deep down when I promised myself I would get through this day. This awful horrible day!

Angrily I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and look down at the casket. My mothers face looks peaceful. I have done what she had wanted. I remembered the hospital room sitting next to my mother trying to sound like everything would be fine, but she knew better. "Promise me Alice that when I'm gone you'll take care of the way I look," she asked. She looked tired. The cancer had eaten all the vitality my mother had always seemed to have away. "I remember your Aunt Margaret's funeral and how they made her look like a clown, not like her at all." I could only nod that I would, too choked up with the possibility of losing her to speak, and now I had fulfilled my promise, my mother looked nice.

Once again the breeze rustles the curtains, brushing over me, giving me the notion that it is my mothers touch. She is thanking me. Her kiss is cool when the air touches the tears on my cheeks. I bend over and kiss my mother for the last time, and walk outside to feel the spring sun and enjoy the tranquil breeze for awhile.

The End

Poetry

Keep On Dividing

By Bashir Athar (translated by Dr.S.K.Raina)

India

You divided the sky

Divided the Universe too

God too you divided,and

Divided the countries all over.

You divided the shade of trees

Divided their greenness and freshness

Our traditions rich you got divided

Bonds ever thick you divided

You divided water,air too

Divided our rich past

Present too you brutally divided

You divided man, his humanness

Divided his soul, his psyche too

You divided the love

Of our mothers;brothers' and sisters' affection too

Keep on dividing my friend!

Till you are exhausted.

But tell me

How will you divide my

Motherland,my homeland?

Where you live,I live and

Our ancestors lived!

Translator's note:

(The poem aims at exposing the nefarious and destructive motives of antisocial elements including extremists bent upon dividing the homogenous/secular character of Kashmiri society.The last four lines of the poem highlight the deep love the poet has for his society and homeland. He is hopeful that no one can divide his motherland.)

Peeled Grapes

By Maria DeLucia-Evans

Albany, New York

Water swirls in cascading circles

around the silver drain as I dangle the green bunches

and watch the spitting spray turn them clean.

Drip dry. Drip dry.

Home now becomes that faded wooden bowl you

keep on the back pantry shelf. I pick one and

roll it between my fingers, gently

pushing on its inner juice and feeling its

core taunt me with watery resistance.

I pop it between my moistened lips

and roll it around my tongue, feeling

the imperfections it wants to hide until

slowly, slowly I peel its outer skin

bit by bit, bit by bit with my teeth;

I eat the skin, finally feeling

the inner core release, and then softly, softly

I place my mouth to yours, and

feed you

peeled grapes.

 

Terminal

By Gloria Tsirelman

Brooklyn, New York

Came into the waiting room.

Just after I saw you go through the doors, dissapear,

and told me to watch your things while you were gone.

I moved them for her to sit down, because

she had the same type of weather coloring her pupils:

the storm that brews chemical tsunamis and avalanches onto human will.

(And you told me to watch your things).

At five minutes to three, she leaned over and

took off her Womaness -- exposing the bald truth

to my peripheral vision. I saw Sensibility bellowing

like a buoy in the eye of her storm, as she

pat my arm that held your colours in its grip:

blue coat, grey scarf, and the bandana – blood red

you use to cover your muse. To say:

“See, no hair under this hair?

Just head, and fuzz, and skull.

And brain that blossoms tumors like geraniums!”

Then she put over the truth; hair over no hair,

and drank from a thermos - the water scooped into it

from a river up North. She said:

“fresh, at least - to blossom the soul.”

Of, tire then, she yawned. And sank into her chair

like bedrock. Closing her eyes for a very long while to watch

the theatrics being projected onto the walls of her lids.

Smiles would erupt the chapped lips from time to time, at

the contours of her dreams blooming in a dark sun

past terminal 'terms'. Into the years she would not live.

And my eyes would not stray from

an expression so placid in the midst of a turmoil bearing

meadow - from which she found, still, and harvested a bittersweet or soothing.

You told me to watch your things.

While you were gone.

 

Beast

By Duggan Canning

New York City, Manhattan

Your dreams the beast haunts.

Filling your mind with fear and daunt.

Your dreams it rips and slowly tears.

Smiting all those for you care.

Leaves you empty, hollow shell.

Black as night, cold as hell.

You will see none, naught at all.

Going down an endless fall.

Lost all hope, alone you wonder.

Forcing all things known more fonder.

Deep into yourself you delve.

Find the beast is yourself.

Alone you cry, quiet your shout.

Silent murmurs all about.

The beast is unleashed, charge it does.

Wake up in beginning with a buzz.

 

Death To My Lover

by Lily Smith

May is the coldest month,

when flowers grow,

yet memories die.

Here are the roots,

the story of love

that dies with the heart.

Winter comes, the growth of the beginning

Summer comes with nothing but pracheam.

And the rain comes to drench the ahava.

The Sunlight comes and burns the gan.

The last hour left with silence.

Yesh li hammon ohev bisivel lakh.

He came to the mountain of hope and despair.

I was scared of the mysterious air,

but he let me go…

for the first time I knew how to feel free

in the mysterious air.

What comes in this story is nothing but—

If You don't know this,

then you should go away from here,

to find the answer of the truth.

Yesh li shaila bishieval ha ohev,

aht ya dat mackarach bi shevel li?

"You know the answer lies

within this garden."

I looked within the flowers,

knowing the truth and the lie.

The silence brings around nothing.

not even a simple answer.

Nonfiction

The Economics of Economics

Everette Wheeler

            Economics is one of the sole professions that argues against itself. The deep, resounding core of economics states that all choice is made based on costs and benefits. No actions are committed if the benefits don’t outweigh the cost. Either can consist of anything from monetary to emotion gain or loss. And so it is highly ironic that the costs of using economics outweigh the benefits of using economics.

 

            Microeconomics comes to the conclusion that a society is the most efficient in a purely free market scenario. In this, all firms are completely competitive. The only function of a government is to protect private property. Society and government values limiting the free sale of goods and services do not exist. The result is a completely efficient society, where no deadweight losses are incurred, and every good is adjusted to the price people are willing to pay for it so that their benefits outweigh their cost. But in addition to this result, there are some other consequences- the main one being that the given society would fall into economically efficient disarray.

 

            For one thing, a perfectly competitive market indicates that there are no barriers to entry. That means that lawyers, teachers, and even doctors can self proclaim themselves professional and begin treatment without entering the first grade. School, by the way, would likely be heavily decreased, as only those who could afford schooling would receive it. The labor worth of every American would decrease, as there would be no legalities surrounding immigration. The fact that immigrants are actively trying to enter the United States means that a given hour of entry level labor is paid at a higher wage here than in other countries. With the influx of immigrants, everyone else’s wages will decrease.

 

            Not to mention that the family unit will probably cease to exist. Since children give very few benefits to their parents when young, the parents will not bother to give them food or shelter. Nor will the children help their parents, once grown. This leads to both danger from our environment and emotional distress from our genetics. Also, disease will likely increase with parent induced orphans roaming the streets without shelter, not to mention the influx of unqualified doctors.