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Buffalo Seminary

Literary Magazine

2009-2010

Short Stories

Face Up There are nights when I can't sleep, lying face up on top of the comforter, using my eyes to trace the contours of my walls that are less than one year old, finding all the splotchy imperfections in the relatively recent layers of paint. I think of all the bodies lying face up on comforters in that same moment, all the bodies under lovers or searching for sleep or wishing the world away. I think of Robert Lee Frost lying face up in the dirt somewhere, mind no longer able to wander, eyes no longer able to trace the contours of the casket, finding imperfections in the wrinkles of cloth around him. I wonder how he would feel to know he wrote one the most often misinterpreted poems in history, recalled at commencement ceremonies in mumbling speeches that clearly miss the meaning. I imagine him frowning, or groaning, or simply laughing at the masses finding ignorant bliss in a boasting big fish story. I think that no matter what path I take, no matter how equal they are, I would probably say I took the less traveled one as well. I think maybe that is the point. I lie face up on top of the comforter. I think. I think. I think. And then often, I fall asleep. Deanna Marie Arthur

Pieces True or false: it is easier to break something small than it is to break something large. Most people would answer with a resounding “true”,

automatically making an inherent link between small and weak. A few who think they are clever would claim to see the trick in the question and shout out “FALSE” because maybe it is a small ball of kevlar, maybe it is large house made out of straw, the kind that gets blown over by the big bad wolf. There is, however, no trick here: just as there is probably no real answer, if one decides to dig down into the vague details learned in middle school about the scientific method and the twisting ladder one must climb to transform ideas into laws. If you were to ask me I would say false without pause. Take a sheet of glass for example. Now break it. It does not matter how you do it, strike it with your fist, a hammer, those high heeled shoes you love to wear even though they pinch your toes; shatter it into a million tiny pieces with the boxes that held the jewelry your ex gave you, the jewelry with metal as cheap as his or her words, the rings that turned your fingers green. With enough force you will cause that sheet of glass to transform into tiny, sometimes imperceptible, pieces that crunch under your toes and bite at the blood vessels in the bottom of your feet. Now try to break one of those microscopic morsels. You may loom large like the plate glass windows on your beautiful ancestral home, the windows that silently sleep under their sea foam green shutter eyelids, the windows that would scoff at the spider-webbing shards of broken glass that make up me. That is until someone playfully or malevolently throws a rock at you, mangling your majestic body . My pieces are stronger than your whole. True or false: it is easier to break something small than it is to break

something large. False. My answer is “false”. Deanna Marie Arthur

Through Bitter Angst When my mom got off the phone, she was close to crying. She turned to look at me, her face filled with disdain and confusion. "That was Aunt Tina…" she said, her voice trailing off. It took her a while to spit out the rest of what she had to say, despite her being a strong woman. She could handle bad news. The gist of what she spat out at me later, with her hand clenched on an overly-strong, cold cup of tea, was that my uncle Ernie had done some “bad” things, and my aunt had put a restraining order on him to stay away from my cousins, his sons. My uncle had gone missing after that, leaving his truck and wallet behind. Nobody knew where he went, and my aunt wanted to know if he had contacted my mother at all. My mom's side of the family was a bit messed up, no what you think of as a normal family. Yes, we all band together at the holidays and put a mask on the childish antics that go on, but it's to conceal it from Grandma. No one is sure what's going to happen when she goes. My prediction is that we will try to get along like normal, but then it will end up that nobody is together for the holidays. I can’t say that we will not stop talking to each other because that already has happened. My mother is the only person from my side of the family who kept in

contact with my uncle after he moved to Idaho with his family. Not even my grandmother, his own mother, had kept in touch. But, I cannot belittle my poor grandmother in this situation; it was a mutual silence. My uncle was normal, spent time in Vietnam, started a family in Cali, had two kids, got divorced, that’s normal, right? He always had a problem keeping jobs, and when he did, it didn’t seem too long after getting one that he would be searching again. My two cousins, Orin and Ethan, are eight and five, and I have only seen them about three times. I love them so much, but when I heard what was happening to them, it really broke my heart. It's not their fault to be stuck in this situation. I felt like I needed to help in some way, but seriously, there was nothing I could do. (Author’s note: It should be made known at this point that my aunt who is featured in this recollection, is not a good Catholic despite her outward appearance. She married my uncle, being at least thirteen years younger than him, controlled his life for about ten years, and now, finally tasting reality, could not divorce him. No, she had to make a Broadway musical out of it. I never enjoyed her presence; she always struck me as, too prim and proper. And she had this angelic voice that was awkwardly raspy at times, almost as if her nun habit was coming undone in the back and one of Satan’s goonies was going to pop out. Anyhow, the point of this footnote that has turned into a two paragraphs was to establish the point that my aunt is also sick in the head as well as my uncle and should have never married him. She is a witch.) My uncle and I never really got along. I guess we did in a sense, but I was always scared of him. When I first met him I was about five and roughly three feet tall, and he was and is six feet four inches tall and muscular. That, to me, was extremely scary. And it didn’t help that

my most distinct memory of him is when I was eight, and he made me cry on a boating trip. My younger cousins and I were playing under the deck of the boat and somehow a bottle of water spilled on my aunt's cell phone. Now, please keep in mind the fact that we were on a boat and boats have a tendency to rock back and forth, moving the people and items on board in a rhythmic sway. It was completely logical that the boat’s own momentum caused the water bottle to spill onto the phone, but no, that could not have possibly happened with my uncle in command. Somebody had to be blamed. So, being physically incapable of blaming it on my cousins, the only option plausible was me. I was so afraid of him for the rest of the trip that as soon as we got on land I remember running to a bench, with my mom trailing behind me as I sobbed to go home. Well, who wouldn't be homesick with these people? I had already been with them for two weeks! Eventually, my uncle realized what he had done and he tried to make up for it by asking me what my favorite kind of restaurant was. I slowly replied, still extremely shaken up, "Mexican." At that time, my idea of Mexican food was Taco Bell. I had no idea what a real Mexican restaurant was like. And when I did find out, oh that just killed my day even more. I couldn't find anything vaguely like a Baja Chalupa, and disliked whatever alternative my mother had ordered for me. I'll never forget that day. It was the worst day of my life next to my grandmother's death. "What are we going to do?" I asked my mother, sounding like the confused child I was. She didn't know much more than I did at that point, and just said, “I don't know yet. We can't do much anyway." This felt weird to me, not being able to do something to help. I knew my uncle meant well, but his recent actions didn’t show signs of optimism.

Suddenly a rush of sympathy ran through my body. I tried remembering all the twisted things he had done to hurt me inadvertently and all the “good” times. And for some reason, those recollections had no effect on me now. Now, my emotions could only mirror the deep anguish that he was going through. Well, the anguish that I pictured he was going through. About a week-and-a-half later, he called my mother. She tried to explain to me what his voice sounded like on the phone, but it worried her too much. He sounded half- drunk, but it could have been blamed on the crown in his mouth that had, with stellar timing, just fallen out. I was at the mall with my two girl-cousins, who were on the same side of the family as my uncle. We were talking about who our Godparents were. My younger cousin politely said, “Uncle Bob and Aunt Rosie,” in a chipper voice. My other cousin stood in silence as if she was debating what to say, then she replied back in a remorsefully low tone, “Mine's Uncle Ernie.” And then I changed the subject right away. I couldn't tell what that was supposed to mean, but I assumed she knew the situation. I didn’t dare ask in front of my younger cousin, which would have resulted in tragedy itself. So I held my tongue, through bitter angst. Emily Cardullo Stephanies He always fell for Stephanies, and he always fell hard. Stephanies were not like Christinas. He spent long summers remembering the scent of Stephanies’ perfume and their half-shy smiles and forces you to choose a side when you reach the last dehydrated plank.

No, Stephanies were not like Christinas. Christinas come and go; they send texts way past midnight, and twirl bubble gum around their fingers. A Christina meant awkward months spent not knowing whether they were friends or more, or friends, or more, or friends…but Stephanies never left his mind. Stephanies were different. He wanted to marry a Stephanie, to spend the rest of his life with a Stephanie, to grow old with a Stephanie. Countless hours were spent writing love letters never seen by anyone else because he was actually too shy to mail them, but the end results were always perfect. The train swayed and vibrated as it made its way from station to station. Tall and thin, with long black hair, and deep, red lips, she slipped into the train as the doors were sliding shut. She wore tight blue jeans and a loose tee with a stain on the pocket. The train was almost full, so she stood waiting for someone to get up, leaving an empty seat behind. In the back of the train he sat, next to the only free seat. She walked to the back, sitting down next to him. She was obsessed with heartbreak. She loved making her heart feel sorrow, forcing her eyes to weep. She relished ripping up love letters and burning pictures. She moved from boy to boy, leaving each with the sickness of love. She would attach to them and make them need her until she sucked away all their life, forcing them to quit her, And when they quit her, she always took it personally.

The train pulled into the next station. She settled into the seat and pulled out her iPod. He watched her slip the earbuds into her ears and her fingers trace their way around the circle until they found a song. “You like The Haunted?” he asked, his voice filled with the sound of shy excitement. She pulled an earbud out of her ear, “Yeah, I love them.” “Cool.” She took a long look at him, at his shaggy, black hair, full lips, and slightly crooked nose. She wanted to push the hair out of his eyes to see what color they were. She imagined them to be brown. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and rearranged himself in the seat. He held out his hand, “I’m Nick.” His eyes were green. She liked green eyes. She took his hand and, with a sly smile, her lips opened and said, “I’m Stephanie, nice to meet you.” Mingus Daniels-Taylor

Poetry

Spanish Words in Cursive You mock the satellites By seeing things so perfectly I promise I see belief In the false shooting stars, the sea, and me. Now, I spit rusty rhymes and dance with you Under the stars, my American blue. There’s emerald on my fingertips gilded and ghostly, I reach for the moon. I know it will be over soon. So you say “Relax, it just takes time.” The promise of forever, in the back of my mind. Still, you bind me like your favorite book. Two simple words is all it took. Romanticism, exaggerations, and all of July Recollect, and like Flight DI127 I fly. You are absolutely ordinary I see it on your face Since last June you’ve been lost Suspended out in space

But when you speed too fast in your car your favorite color is grey like broken concrete, and that day. But now you’re gone Like winter and fall And matchsticks Broken over false attempts at lighting you. Sometimes I wear your work blazer around I promise I can still feel you. Elizabeth Bassett

Suspended In The Sea Sometimes I wear your blazer Just to feel you with me But you are gone, like winter and fall And matchsticks Broken over false attempts at lighting you “But it’s impossible to outshine the sun” You intertwined me with your words Twirling and toying until we were divine Somewhere far away, lost in the sky Your sister is a vision in all black

I found her in the sand Dealing with the aftermath You left her still with daisies in her hair You two were indigo on canvas And I swear to the sea I miss you.

Elizabeth Bassett

The First Day of Forever Late at night. The airport was quiet and cheerless. I've finally seen you, Wearing a sweater, carrying a bag, Listening to an iPod, and walking to and fro. The memories drilling into my heart Are all about you. I walked up and hugged you. Your voice, your smile, your tears are all coming to my bosom. You promised to fly to me today With your love Across the States. Today I saw that. The first day of Forever I finally realized our promise. Time will be one incident With love in our heart. Two thousand one hundred and eighty five miles is nothing to us

The box of your letters was too full to close. Jealous of the way others talk, the way others are. But you are the one until the end. Christina Chen Winter I look out the window Through the frost that coats the glass. The full moon glows in the dark Surrounded by little pinpricks that are stars. Snow flutters down slowly And sticks to the sill. I turn my head back to my room, Where prayer flags hang And blue paper lanterns glow warmly. The sky in winter holds a beautifully cold magic But the war colors indoors And warm the heart This time of year. Sara Daly

Dearth The mellow guitar Strumming one chord over and over and over. The poor yellow and mahogany thing seemed doomed to play that one tune over and over. Didn’t know any others. All of her little teeny fingers splayed out carefully around the neck. She was pretending to be a great star with bright yellow spotlights on her exuberant face. Now that bliss has left. She knows her chords and she sings her songs. But the bright yellow future she once saw while standing on her mother’s bed with that little guitar, has faded. And the cups and flyers that people had at the concert are being swept up by the cantankerous custodian. Bella Dixon Papou I say “hello” You say “hello, have I told you I love you?” I say “how are you?” You say, “I’m great. The most beautiful girl in the world just walked into my living room.” I say: “tell me a story.” You tell me ten. I say, “I love you.”

I say, “I miss you.” You say nothing. The stories you once told are gone. The laughter you once brought has vanished. The walks and talks we used to have are departed. The life you once breathed into my heart has flown away with the leaves of autumn. This is my family history. My family history is you. You kept it alive for me. You told me the stories and made them real. And now you are no longer alive. History is just that again. History. I say “goodbye Papou”. You say, “I love you Ibbie” I say “goodbye Papou” to you now. And all I hear is the wind puff a little harder. Kind of like when you would chase me around the park. Bella Dixon

On the Edge I am not going to tell you about the dock on the river, where the wood splinters and creaks at every step that releases pressure unto it. Where its long narrow T-shape

the little beauty mark under their chin.

Where the rusted copper-toned pipes give what little support they can to the uneven path. Where the right side of the top of the “T” no longer exists, jaggedly chopped to sever the ties between the past and future. Where a park bench stands bolted to the decaying wood as not to fall into the depths of the two foot deep river water. Where neighbors have sat together on the same neon green towel after a boat ride. Where a father has taught each daughter how to hook, line, and sinker. Where a girl has laid to bronze her pale skin in order to produce a glow. Where a girl waited on the bench as a boy knelt in front of her. Where a girl took the plunge in to the navy blue-tinted water, unknowing of what awaited her. No, I’m not going to tell you about this place. Jaime Engl

The Climb You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby Barney Theme Song Sisters Mambo Number 5 Click, Click, Click, Click Baby One More Time True Friends Outside Looking In One Step At a Time Click, Click, Click, Click Breakout You say, “I love you more than anything in the world”.

Girls Just Want To Have Fun Haven’t Met You Yet Just Want You To Know Click, Click, Click, Click Defying Gravity How Far We’ve Come Click

Jaime Engl In the Woods of Elm Deep in the woods of Elm Where the leaves are like melodies There are pools of punk That smell of skunk Where the real skunks Smell in the Mud of Grudge The kids Hip-Hop on rocks of Pop Wearing Old School socks and Eating love lollipops But my state of mind Arrives differently Becoming the Alternative Eclectic Providing different methods Forming a fresh perspective While running for the exit. Brianna Harris

Holding On For Dear Life I am not going to tell you About the gigantic, elderly tree in my backyard-- Whose branches used to be outstretched And inviting, like a grandmother with arms wide open, Waiting for an embrace--but now lie in shambles in the lush, Green grass that I used to jump into. The black, worn-away wheels nailed into her trunk Acted as a ladder for Telkemer and me, even though Imaginary friends can’t climb trees. Getting stuck in the high boughs of the tree, Secretly hoping that no one would come to my rescue, I could watch the autumn sunset pass under the horizon. I remember daring myself to climb out Onto the highest, narrowest branch with Molly the doll holding on for dear life Between my scrawny arms. And I remember so many More adventures in that tree, but I’m not Going to tell you about them. Arianna Rabin Grandmom’s Garden Grandmom’s garden sits in front of her little cottage

The little cottage has a red roof And a green gate Grandmom’s garden smells like candy She makes candy in violet shapes With a colorful coating Grandmom’s garden sings beautiful chants Chants admire a sweet fairy tale Fairy tales that grandmom croons Grandmom’s garden flies up into the sky And swings with twinkling stars Then I see grandmom open her little green gate Smiling warmly Like the clouds softening my heart. Joanna Zheng Summer Wind Who whispers beside my ear? Who left vestiges on my lash? Who dances on the tips of my hair? Who left sweat prints on my back? That is the wind of summer, and those are the clouds drifting in the summer. We stand in front of the cross of paddy, Train whistling rolls up the air. Who ever noticed the sadness of the summer?

So monotonous that only the lonely cicadas stay. That is the memory that hovers in the summer, It is the distress that cannot be dispersed. That absentminded wind which flows through the summer, That noiseless summer which bears the weight of wind. On our seventeenth year, The ages flow from our fingertips like water. The year of our young frivolity, The wind of summer never rests. Joanna Zheng Sleep Reach inside your heart And grab the veins That hold your soul together Rip apart your mind The luscious tendons Flowing Reaching Growing inside Call to the love The base The core The sensation of your life And cry of true feeling Stretch forward to touch the pain To flirt with the tantalizing

Sadistic love of hurt Hurt that turns to comfort Pain that turns to love Before being shaken from this dream Stretching arms up to the beautiful light Reaching to the world Kendall Priebe Finding Dreams Falling slowly Drifting Cloudless skies Vision Blurs Heavy eyelids fighting against the black The volume equalizer is broken Noises hiss in and out. Everything is pale Frozen, cold You walk alone in a winter land Silence startled As your brain catches on the image It pulls you back to the light. Wind is whipping Through the cavernous halls Bejeweled with shining streams of water Magic captured within your cunning fingers

Fingers that twitch And pull you back to the light. Gliding and splashing You crash through the waves of your childhood home Laughing as the world spins you senseless Your dog is now a mammoth Wading to you with jaws as a shark Snapping closed, pulling you back to the light. Tiny spots of sun flit through the forest branches Only, not sun but little people Fey folk, your subjects A jeweled crown and royal cape around you Drifting floating Losing the light, but finding dreams. Kendall Priebe