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2012

Contributing Artists:

Malyk Smith

Susan Spencer

Contributing Writers:

Tiffany Taylor:

At the Edge

The Hotel in Alaska

It All Goes Back to When…

The Gunky Sink

My Demon: a Fictional Narrative

Christina Poghosyan:

Haiku

I Need

Drabble

I’m Messed Up

Cody Derby:

Another Hollow Man

Timothy Butler:

Know-It-All

A Sonnet

The Golden O’s

Haiku

Allie Farley:

Haiku

Uncharted

The Scream of an Artist

Daisha Johnson:

Lucy

Tenesha Clark:

One Day

The Room in the Red House

Miranda Salerno:

Winterleaves

Contributing Writers:

Matt Johnson:

It All Goes Back to…

Brandon Steppe:

Fields of Life

Arthur Samuel B. Rimbaud:

Fall

Fear

Line on cover

Sam Owen:

Jotunheim Benign

Paige Ferguson:

Wishing Well

Arianna Jensen-Wachspress:

Identity Crisis

Unknown:

Oh Yeah

Boulder Shutt

Loss

Sonnet to Snakes

Unrequited

Another Hollow Man

He is a hollow man

He is a drunken man leaning on giant bosoms

full of green silicone

a mouth swishing beer a soul swirling through oblivion

a drum set covered with webs of neglect

He sits on the couch with blank in his eyes

as lies spill out of his mouth

along with brown aftermath He lies down

once again

alone with nothing inside

I’m Messed Up

I am a little monkey full of a Lot of energy, I’m a new born

Baby, who wants to know the world A hot pizza, who waits to

Be eaten, a red fire,

Witch with a kind heart A book, full of

History I am

Me!

At the Edge

Where the endless highway halts and

Riddles lose their answers, there is a spider

tangled in its shaky webs and,

a pair of folded Aces. a cold fire dances in

the dark. Between the

Virgin in black and dry mists

there lies

Me

Winter Leaves

Tree shadows water

Dry leaves slowly crumble off

Reaching for a drink

Haiku

Sitting face to face

Under roar of the thunder

Their eyes touch each other

Haiku

In temptation the

Weak crumble like pillars

Never deserving stance

Fall

Brown leaves on tombstones

Widow’s marijuana glows

Cold graves burn brightly

Fear

Hundred laws in head

A million guns under bed

Zero walls within

Fields of Life

Crisp, green grass blows calm

Briskly walking through the field

While I enjoy life

Haiku

Angel sits alone

Wings warped with passing of time

Quietly she weeps

Wishing Well

I want to swim in black water

Become one with the snake

I want to be burnt with cold fire

The Queen made a slave

I want to conquer high mountains

And dance in the snow

I want to be shrouded in darkness

And have it never let go

I want to hear echoes roll back

To the songs I sing

And I want the brass bells

To ring and ring

I want to smell of a gray sea

Of lost white flowers

To feel a steady breeze

For hours and hours

I want to scream in the rain

And laugh in the hail

To dream my life away

Next to a stone wishing well

The Hotel in Alaska

There’s a story to be told,

And that’s the only price you’ll have to pay.

Come in from the cold.

Don’t tell me about the innocence you’ve sold

Your bruises give it away

There’s a story to be told.

I’ve heard from the heroes who’s really valiant.

Hurry, the night is threatening the luminosity of day

Just come in from the cold.

How about the bag you hold

I’m sure your journals and trinkets explain the reek of cheap chardonnay

There’s a story to be told.

The last tale I told echoed

But its message got stolen along the way

Come in from the cold.

I want to hear a story to break the mold

Even though you don’t have to stay.

There’s a story to be told.

Come in from the cold.

One Day

One day the earth will shatter,

And the clouds will freeze in place

It might even cease to spin,

While all is peaceful in space

We only live on this shattered earth

And that is for a reason,

So that we may not strain our boundaries,

Only progress with the seasons

We suck up all the oxygen

Destroy it with our grief

And one day the earth will cleanse itself,

Of our dancing feet

Our pitter patter grows no more

Now only ocean meets the shore

And the birds, and the trees, all animals alike

Pity how we beam with spite

How our wrong overcomes our right

And they will rejoice in all the quiet

As now falls the night,

The animals await this day

The end of all human life.

It All Goes Back to When…

It goes back to the first time “Hysteria” on the tube. “It’s happening again. I fall

apart.” I fall down seven times, but I stand up eight. It goes to the pennies with

NASCAR logos and spinning wheels, nay, turntables driving me to my destination,

tapping my feet in an eccentric sensation. It goes back to Cat Dog and mice that

chase Tom. When it was nine in the afternoon and my eyes had a smile that reflected

the moon when I thought I was a witch and Amy bewitched the pool at three in the

morning, high on a boy’s name who didn’t know our name. To sitting in windowsills

with insomnia dragging me to bed like a clock turning backwards in a million single

days that of one I’ve never finished, to pretending to be a man for the pride and

authority until I realized every man has a stronger woman and every woman has the

power to become anything she wants, if she is a man. To the time I gave a loaf of

bread and someone else taught the man to fish to when I stepped on the burning sun

and for the first time I felt that I was a part of a star, and not like the green planet

everyone knows.

Oh Yeah

Sirens blaring, background music, a flash

Day dreaming, there’s a fly on the wall.

Mom comes home, the dogs start to bark.

Constantly clicking my pen

I wonder what’s for lunch

“Everyone SHUT UP!”

“Did you see that?”

ADD

A dog

“huh?”

Unrequited

“Anyone there yet?”

The man stepped back from the window. “Not yet.”

He checked it again: double-barreled with a few nicks,

but it was trustworthy. A gift from his father who died

in a cattle drive years ago. “Won’t be long,” he

mumbled.

She reached out for him.

He ignored her. That was the last thought on his mind

this morning.

“Clinton, look at me! Talk to me!”

“Nope, won’t be too long now,” he mumbled again.

A single shot rang out.

Moments later, a woman emerged from the second floor.

Some say she reeked of lavender and gunpowder.

a Sonnet to Snakes

Oh slithering bowels of Satan’s groin

Bestial creature of the fallen world

I’d rather eat rocks, socks, or raw pork loin

Than see you near—my nightmares you have curled.

Your musk is enough to suffocate me

Venom or not, your tongue to me strikes through

With hammer and nail, I’ll crucify thee

Or strap you to rail ties with Duct Tape glue.

Your colors and shapes, I see no beauty

With beady black eyes, my fork will soon find

Beheading you is my civic duty

As I liberate all of human kind.

Another of God’s creatures you are not

My heel to your head and then left to rot

Know-it-all

I was told the other day that I was smart…

Yeah that’s true…

I pick apart every decision I make from the start…

Trying to make a part.

In this ever so delicate universe.

That our humanity complicates.

Yeah I’m smart…

When a kid farts in class I can’t help but laugh ‘cause there is something oh-so-American about passing Gas. Girls call me dangerous. I should wear hazard signs saying “beware asshole approaching” because I

Mock girls who wear Hollister and have coach bags. Seeing right through their material façade that makes

Up their existence.

Or the ignorance of Christians who label homosexuals as ‘fags’ not knowing that their people too. So they

Build their steeples higher to fit all of their loftiness.

Yeah I guess I’m smart.

I notice the homeless,

Begging for change,

The merciless, Not allowing change,

The pill-popping animals

That I call my friends

The cocaine fiends

That I call my family

The way a stranger’s smile can make your day. The danger hidden behind not caring

Or

How your lips feel if someone you don’t like touches them,

Or pure genius’ who drop out of high school who get labeled as fools.

They probably know more that we do.

The jocks that think they’re cool, rocking the socks out of the youth, will probably end up bald sweeping the Very halls of this high school.

They say I need an education:

A degree

A key to a mansion

An idea that is worth more than me

Our society builds and builds

Heading to the sky thinking they’ll fly

They call people like me

Wasted space than bury me deep

They’ll hide my dreams

Throw stones to silent my screams

When their victory seems

Certain my heartbeat will rejuvenate and I’ll rise from the ashes

Reinvent a nation. Ignite passion.

So never question my intelligence.

I prefer to not apply myself.

It all goes back to…

It all goes back to my first Dean Bass and the little Fretwork 10 watt amp that came with it. To

the endless nights of learning Red Hot Chili Peppers songs and the unwavering worship of Flea as I

negotiated the tonal mastery of his riffs. To the day after I played in the Shelburne cafeteria when I asked

her to the dance. To the nights of talking on the phone and the first time I saw her scars, purple and

morose. It goes back to the endless nights of trying, and my infatuation with a new genre. To the time my

granddad gave me an old acoustic guitar, and the first time I played The Biggest Lie. To the time when I

said what I wanted to, walked away, and never looked back to that black lab desk of the past. It all goes

back to the times when I sat alone in my bed, listening to Elliott Smith, and thinking of how wonderful it

would be if someone was beside me. It all goes back to the sound of my own distress, echoing through

the tonal melodies of my new acoustic B100 Amplifier. To the days of sleepovers, and of wrestling, and

of competitive tournaments of NBA Live 2008 that I always remained victorious in. To the dull

realization of the douche bags that were my friends, and to the affirmation of change in my social

structure. It all goes back to the smile as my sister stood up for me, and the times we laughed together

while screaming Ludacris songs at the top of our lungs as we rode in her car. It goes back to Gym class,

and to the time it dawned on me that I could trust this friend, and that I might actually like call him my

best friend. It all goes back to singing Say Yes at Open Mic Night, and the way my world changed when

I looked at the girl singing beside me. It goes back to the nights on the couches, watching Archer until

midnight and feeling like I could maybe call her my own. It goes back to the times of confusion when she

said, “I’m scared” and the affirmations I would give to try to change that. To the time when “I’m scared”

turned to “I don’t want this” which turned to “we could never be more than friends” and the way my

world spun right back around to its original position. Then it goes back to where it went back, and now it

goes back to sitting in my room alone, listening to Elliott Smith, thinking about how great it would be to

have someone beside me….

a Sonnet

They try to be all that wearing brands

Blank stares make up their faces

They laugh at ideas they don’t understand

Thinking life isn’t fair when they can’t get new laces

Blonde hair and sunglasses show off

Their ignorance and love of materials

They like their men with sprayed on tans that’s tough

Not knowing judging someone on their looks is superficial

They try to be the best chewing

Their gum out loud CHOMP CHOMP

If you start to argue

With them they’ll walk away STOMP STOMP

They thought that the world revolved around

Them, too bad their world got flipped upside down.

I Need

I need a new brain to my body,

I need new eyes, that will never see you,

I need new lips, that had never kissed you,

I need new hands, that haven’t been touched by yours,

I need a new smile, so I will never remember that you loved it,

I need a new jar of Nutella for a better mood,

I need a new pen to never ever write about you,

I need a new MP3 player, so there will not be our songs,

I need new memories, where you will not be.

But, no, I just need to forgive.

Uncharted

The bottle of ink that remains unused.

The sentence without a period The balloon that is tied with hair.

The portrait without a face.

The silence or the noise. The scratch of a pen.

The step forward.

The step back. The chance.

The…

The Golden O’s

Oh the edible

The happy O’s fill my bowl Pouring hope to my soul

I take a spoonful

As I chomp on The mouthful

I think what a wonderful day

The sun winks my way And I know

Everything

Will Be

Ok

The Gunky Sink

The hair refused to escape the drain—the blonde tresses, the red curls, the

meant-to-be-medium-warm brown locks but were really just mousy and

greasy; all wrapped securely around the silver edges. The smell wandered

hazardously from the bottom of the wretches, carrying with it rotting flesh

and last week’s milk—where did that come from? It was as if a mudslide

of skunks and grime had come crashing down, combined with the

yellowing floss and bright red clumps of lipstick. The colors were that of

a child who had eaten too much candy on Halloween.

The Scream of an Artist

A scream absent of sound Its face so empty with eyes so hollow

Subconscious begs to be found Its feet don’t touch the ground

Fiery sky like the chariot of Apollo A scream absent of sound

Fists of wants and desires pound Empty thought swallowed

Subconscious begs to be found A life that refuses to let death be crowned

In his own thoughts of darkness it wallows Subconscious begs to be found

Again and again it hounds Its own thoughts hollow

Subconscious begs to be found He won’t let the unknown reaches of mind touch the ground

The work of art is what followed A scream absent of sound

Subconscious begs to be found

My Demon: a Fictional Narrative

I met my demon back at the beginning of summer vacation in 2007, when I had

invited my best friend over to celebrate. My demon has followed me since as the

shadow to my footsteps, still echoing in my nightmares. Cutting became an addiction I

barely overcame; through my experience, I learned strength was not in holding the

blade, but in being able to put the silver demon down.

The first time I cut through my skin, covered with blue varicose veins, I had just

witnessed my best friend commit the same tragedy. I was devastated and infuriated that

she could possibly be so brainless, so I yanked an old and yellowing staple from the dust

-covered floor. Impulsively, I penetrated the staple through the length of my left calf,

feeling the staple etch into my taut skin. I yelled at her, asking her how anything like

that could make her feel strong. I remember her standing agape, astonished I would in-

tentionally hurl myself into her black hell in a futile attempt to quiet her anguished cries

for attention. My scratch, now a faded scar, slowly started to dribble blood in little red

patches until it was a percolate mess and drops of my blood fell onto the floor, scattering

the dust in little clouds tainted with crimson.

I didn’t realize then I would foster the habit for years to come; the endorphin

rush after the first time lingered with me like a bad smell occupies your olfaction. I kept

my cutting surreptitious. I left the blade buried in my boots and in my mind almost

every moment of every aching day, for all those times I’d be eating dinner and the silver

would shriek, “You’re not worth it.” I hid it there so I could hear it murmur in the si-

lence, “Come on, you have no hope. You began from nothing, and that’s where you’ll

end.” Every cauterized wound was the direct effect of the screams of ghosts from my past

haunting and disturbing my consciousness.

One summer day, I danced with my demon in a dangerous waltz by wearing shorts the

night after slicing open my upper leg. I had read about women cutting all over their bodies as

part of an addiction, but I cut there to hide it more easily. My grandmother wasn’t supposed to

grab the elastic waistband on my shorts and accidentally uncover the painful word I had con-

cealed from my exterior, only showing in the red scars on my thigh. “HATE,” it read. She

thought it was in red marker, but of course, she wondered why a thirteen year old would write

that on her thigh. She looked more closely, and I watched as she convulsed and began to cry. I

hadn’t drawn on my leg, she realized; I had chosen to engrave it.

That evening, my dad sat me down on his bed and as I sank into the cushioning, in-

creasing the time of my impact with the bedspring; he sighed and increased the time of impact

on my heart thundering inside my chest. My X-Acto blade shrieked from his palms and shook

from its and my dad’s nervousness of the words to come. “Honey,” Dad started. “Bitch,” the

knife accused. “We’re disappointed in you.” Although they said it in unison and in unambigu-

ous and comprehensible terms, they might as well have been speaking in tongues. I couldn’t

understand either of them questioning me. I was deaf to attempts of reconciliation up until I

heard, “Help me.”

I don’t know whether my dad whispered it, or my demon had been trying to flee from

Dad’s possession, but I understood crying for help. My whole struggle had been me howling

and torturing myself because I thought it helped. My knife had signed in blood a contract that

no one else had read. My knife connected to my body in a way that some people only find in

sex; we became one and my knife knew all my soft spots, all my curves, and where a cut could

hurt the most. My knife was the representative for pain. My dad was trying to be a delegate of

peace. At least the stiletto was always honest.

My dad said it again, “Help me. Tell me how to understand. We’ve been perplexed for

hours what has compelled you to support such a sick fixation. Just tell me.” Then some terrible

beauty occurred, and as he stood up my dad accidentally dropped my demon to the floor. I

heard the metal clank against the wood flooring, and I listened as it steadily st-st-st-stuttered its

last complaints. It jumped on the floor before going silent and still.

I looked at my dad, and his blue eyes averted from my own black-dark pools. He tow-

ered over me, standing up while I remained sitting. It was magically fitting; I was the damsel in

distress and my dad was my knight trying to save me from damnation. By dropping the knife,

he did something I never thought I could have done. He stood up to my fears. He silenced my

insecurities.

My demon was more than just cutting myself: it was falling out of control and touch

with reality; through my addiction, I learned that strength isn’t always holding the weapon, but

letting it go. I stood up beside my father, who is barely three inches taller than I am, but at that

moment, I felt only 3 feet tall. I looked in between us and saw the blade of three inches lying on

the ground, silent and defeated. I brought my gaze back up to my dad, and for the first time out

loud, I said, “Help me.”

Lucy

Gripping the black Xbox controller, I allowed my eyes to scan over my list of

friends that displayed on the screen. I had a large amount friends that met through online

video games and random friend requests. However, out of all of them, there was one person

I could not seem to delete from the list or even erase from my mind: Lucy. I didn’t know

what to expect when I met her; she acted like any other person I had met on Xbox. I mean,

perhaps she could be slightly eccentric with her personality, but everyone loved her for it. I

loved her for it. Lucy allowed me to feel like I had someone to trust; she gave me a charac-

ter I knew. Sadly, no matter how well I thought I knew her, I had no idea who “Lucy” was

“in real life.” Can one truly trust a person who they cannot see? I would find out soon.

It had been an average school day; all of my classes were stressful. I needed to find a

way to relax, so I went straight to my room and to the Xbox. There had been something

comforting about the way the Xbox greeted me. It felt almost as if it cheered, “Welcome

home! I understand the stressfulness of high school, so come and take a break here.” How

could anyone resist such tempting words?

I placed the headset over my ears and allowed myself to drift off into the world of

Xbox. As usual, before starting a game, I would join a party chat and check up on my

friends. There were always a couple of people I didn’t know, but that was practically how I

made new friends; that’s how I met Lucy. I especially enjoyed Lucy’s company because she

had this way for cheering people up. But even behind her optimistic personality, I wondered

if she were truly happy herself.

Since the first day I encountered her, my best friend announced that Lucy could not

speak. I learned that Lucy is what people called a Mute. At that moment, a wave of pity washed

across my face. I knew I shouldn’t have felt bad about it; however, a person’s ability to speak

had a ton of value to me. I couldn’t imagine myself in such a position. Yet, Lucy knew exactly

how to express herself. She created this clicking system for “yes” and “no” questions. She no-

ticed that if you muted the microphone, then it would create a clicking sound in everyone’s

headset. Of course, when she wanted to send a longer reply, she would just send us an inbox

message. The plan was flawless.

A few months later, we had grown to become best friends; Lucy and I were practically

like sisters. We would spend hours writing messages to each about our favorite things: games,

actors, television shows, and music. Unfortunately, not everything we talked about was happy-

go-lucky. According to Lucy, since her starting public school, she had come across bullying

problems from other students. The invisible barrier of distance prevented anyone from helping

her; we could only encourage her to hang in there.

After a while, I started to hear strange rumors about Lucy from the person that intro-

duced her to me. He constantly spoke of things of how “Lucy wasn’t real” or how I was being

lied to. Eventually, I grew weary of him telling me these rumors; I did not want to hear them.

However, I had to confirm what he had told me or at least change his mind somehow. Lucy was

far too sweet to do such an act; furthermore, why would anyone lie about being a mute? I just

did not see the logic in it. Ironically enough, Lucy was online and going about her daily ritual of

sending me messages.

Without giving the idea a second thought, I entered the same chat room that Lucy sat in.

At that very moment, I found out information that I did not want to hear. Lucy’s microphone

had a voice speaking through it, in fact, that voice stopped only minutes after I joined the chat.

The voice that I heard was deep and had a rough edge to it. This wasn’t a voice that could

match be matched to Lucy’s petite personality in a million years. This voice belonged to a

young British boy.

“Lucy?” I questioned cautiously.

“Sorry, this is her brother. If you want, I can tell Lucy to send a message later?” The

ominous voice sounded insecure and slightly shaky. Something felt very wrong; Lucy never

mentioned any siblings. There was no evidence of them on her Facebook or in any of our previ-

ous conversations.

“Who are you?” I faked my way through confidence, but nothing could hide the butter-

flies waiting to be released from my belly. I felt more nervous than ever. Before I allowed him

to reply, I simply left his party chat.

Later that day, Lucy’s account sent me a message asking if we could talk later. Of

course, I automatically sent her an invitation with the intent to find out the truth. Suddenly,

Lucy entered the chat room without a second to spare.

“Hello?” It was the same voice from earlier. He seemed a little more timid than earlier

that day. I replied with the similar greeting. There was a long and awkward pause that seemed

to last for ages. Between that amount of time, questions filled my head like a paparazzi group

looking for the latest gossip.

“Is Lucy a real person?” It was the question that would provide the most truth. What

would I do if everything I had shared with her had been a mere illusion? Why would anyone lie

about everything Lucy represented? Questions continued to crash into me as if they were waves

attempting to drown a small child.

“Of course she is a real person! I mean, ugh, maybe you should just talk to Lucy about it

all. I am taking my leave now.” The British voice left the party as quickly as he joined. Things

were becoming fairly annoying with the progress I had not made. Why were things so compli-

cated?

I received another message in my inbox from Lucy.

Lucy and I are working together as the same person. How could I describe it to

you? Um, have you ever watched Me, Myself, and Irene? I have a situation similar to that. You

see, I have always wanted to be a girl but it obviously didn’t happen. Lucy is everything I

wanted to be as a girl. I am told I have a personality disorder, but make of it as you will. Sorry

if you feel betrayed. To be honest, I really did value our friendship and meant everything I ever

told you. -Lucy

Within seconds of absorbing the final words, my emotions jumbled into one: shock. I

didn’t know what to believe anymore. Lucy was the closest person to me in world, yet we were

complete strangers. I spent weeks thinking about the memories we shared and the final message

Lucy sent me. In the end, everything turned out to be very wrong. I thought I knew Lucy, yet I

truly had no idea about the person who created “Lucy.” I claimed Lucy to practically be my sis-

ter. How did things turn out this way? I expected him to be honest with the same honesty I had

given him.

Things are very different between us now. No matter how hard I scout for him, I return

empty handed each time. I still wonder how things carry out for him, and I still question

whether there were parts of our friendship even existed. I fear I will never know all of the an-

swers to my questions, but life has a silly way of doing that to people. However, I did learn one

thing. Regardless of the person, one should be very careful of who they place their trust upon. A

person can never truly be sure of how well they think they know another.

Drabble

The table was ready. Sarah made heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies and put it on her mom’s favorite China plate. She set red

roses on the table from the garden. “Mom! Dad! Tea is ready!” “I said I’m going to get a job!” Mom yelled.

“No wife of mine is going to work!” Dad yelled back. They entered. Tears rolled down Sarah’s face.

“My mind is made up!” Mom screamed, shattering her plate against the wall beside him.

She turned and left. Broken cookies littered the floor. Dad looked at Sarah and smiled. “I just love your mom.”

Loss

Loss is finding your grandpa dead on the cold, concrete floor behind a suitcase bound

for Florida. Loss is you’re seven and at seven you see your first dead body before you see Mickey Mouse.

Loss is hearing your grandma scream, “Damnit!” for the first time as she pleads for the ambulance to hurry the “Hell up!” Loss is another grandpa, another heart attack, another operation, another infection,

another operation and another and another... Loss is watching a grandma rot away on the couch to cancer. Loss is the odor of rotting flesh with no candle strong enough.

Loss is you’re only eight now. Loss is your father sending those I love you fingers through the front window on your

way to Chucky Cheese. Loss is the reality that they are not for your mom. Loss is a friend telling your eight year self more about your dad who acts more eight

than you. Loss is a father who stops by-- a week after Christmas, to take you out. Loss is a father who soon forgets Christmas.

Loss is forgetting you have a father only two miles away. Loss is that same grandpa, another operation, a last breath. Loss is trying to talk football to him so that he’ll forget.

Loss is a move, away from childhood. Loss is a new school. Loss is a mother who can’t remove her wedding band.

Loss is a grandmother who no longer smiles. Loss is your mother, a nurse, who can’t nurse any more. Loss is her eyesight.

Loss is her self-esteem. Loss is her self-worth.

Loss is eight and having to be thirty-eight. Loss is childhood. Loss is adulthood.

So, don’t tell me how you lost your homework, your class work, your pencil. I don’t want to hear about your purse, wallet, or jacket.

So, say that loss is the reason you do nothing Work on nothing Dream about nothing

Wasting away inside your desk, under your bed, in front of the television So, say loss is the reason my loss pays for your social security habit

Your weed, booze, and porn Say loss is the reason for the season of your ADD-HD

Say it’s the reason you need more time, a seventh chance, another dance A silver platter of pitiful plenty. Say it!

Say it! Say loss And I say that I know loss

And here I am Still losing but still

living

The Identity Crisis

The concept of adoption is considered precious; families save a child from an unfortunate

lifestyle and give her a new life in which she may define herself not by her side of the tracks, but

through her own independent character. I was raised in a philanthropic world that viewed happiness through success, which was not seen as an option, unless unhappiness was the final destination.

However, I am a constant reminder to myself that, despite my individual character, the side of the

tracks in which I come from is the poorest of all cities. One would think that it would a blessing to have a ticket to hop aboard an opportunity for a better life, but my crisis is, although I am thankful to

apart of my family, it is always a present factor that I do not fully belong.

When my town first opened an Indian restaurant, my dad took my Indian brother and me there for dinner. As I sat down in the brightly light booth, with a strange not-quite-bread substance

and an unknown dip sitting in front of me, I realized that I had no idea what anything tasted like. I

wanted to discover everything about my culture all by myself, so without hesitation, I took the

opportunity to ask our waitress how spicy the curry was. She looked at me, surprised that I would ask such a question, but answered. I tried to make conversation with her and asked “What part are

you from?” She looked at me unwelcoming again and pretentiously stated “We’re from Nepal,” and

vamoosed away, carrying her water pitcher. My crisis was present, even when I thought I would be able to belong among my nativity. Although she was not the first outside almost-Indian I

encountered, this waitress made me realize that her being…almost- Indian did not change her

acrimonious character, and that her side of the tracks did not matter here because she was, like everyone else, just a person in the world.

One dark night, at the age of seven, I was wide awake wondering about the two families I

had somehow been granted. Lying stiffly in bed, I tore off the covers and placed my bare feet on the

tarnished, hardwood floor. Slowly, I trudged across my room to the window, where a wave a bitter, freezing air greeted me and wrapped itself around my body. Before the cold window, I wanted

desperately to look like I belonged with my family. I turned over my hands to my palms and a

revolution was presented before me: the sweet apricot pigment was present in everyone’s palms. I gazed outside and noticed that a heavy blanket of stars, illuminated throughout the cold, dark night

was shining its light upon the massive walnut tree in my yard. The tree was old and had jagged

branches that spread everywhere. It was a tree that had leaped out of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

or something similar to the sorts. During the day, the tree was spooky and did not look like it belonged among the rest of the butterfly bushes and the rose patch sitting one hundred feet away.

However, in this moment, the walnut tree looked like it belonged, just like the rest of the yard.

One hot summer, my mother and I flew to Oklahoma because she thought it would be a good experience to meet other adopted Indians through our adoption agency, Dillon. Eating Indian

food for lunch and supper was different for Indian-Americans. We learned a limited amount of the

language, dancing, yoga, and music. Each day was something new at the camp. The last day of the camp was a traditional festival, which included throwing paint on each other to represent light, or

something; however, exhausted and not feeling social, I asked my mother if we could skip the

festival. Truth be told, I again, did not feel fully connected to the people.

My identity crisis will never disperse; it will always be a part of me, but I do not have to allow it to define me. I can create my independent character within these two worlds and instead of

feeling like I need to belong to one side of the track or the other; I will remain along for the ride on

this journey. Instead of waiting on the platform, I will examine both sides of my train, and I will smile at both sides of the railroad tracks.

The Room in the Red House

There is a room in the red house, and behind a closed door,

must lay an empty space and nothing more. There must be a vast vacuum here, for there is no way in, here or there

in the red house, everyone is upstairs no child stirs, below the banister

But I am here, and a sound so sinister, comes, a creaking of the floorboard

behind the closed door and how is it possible? A creaking of the floor, damage in a pipe? A false wood, or… more…

Could there be more to the sound? I walk to the step, and slowly go down

and stop in front of the door, locked from the inside I see, But… how could this be?

How then, why then, a creak? There can be nothing here, nails so violently stuck through the side

then closer, I veer, my imagination, so wide I tap the floor, and my fears tap fast I’m near to the door and I find horror at last.

I knock on the door, and the door knocks back.

I jump back, my mind scolds why, Why curious child must you see? And I timidly call,

Is it you? Are you a ghost?

Are you friendly? And the voice calls back, “Not I. You, my friend, are the entity.”

Jotunheim Benign

Mother Earth has claimed another No pyre for the lost

The unfound carcass, once called brother Preserved by ruthless frost

Floundering in fear of his fate

In vain I strain to see Blinding light from hell negates

What is to become of me?