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THE MARIST COLLEGE LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE
•
Spring 1988









THE MARIST COLLEGE LITERARY AND ART MAGAZINE
Spring 1988
Editorial Staff
Editor
Helen Arroyo
Literary Society
President
Diane Pomilla
Vice President
Secretary
Treasurer
Raeann Favata
Amy Ansin
Nancy Roof
Editorial Board
Amy Ansin
Vanessa Codorniu
Cover drawing by Danielle Berger
Lisa Cerniglia
Diane Pomilla






The Mosaic was designed with the notion of allowing the student the
opportunity to express themselves in an artistic manner.
It
is expr
e
ssly for the
Maris! community to share their life experiences through poems, essays
,
short
stories and art work. I would like to personally thank all those who contrib-
uted willingly to this magazine
,
for without the support of the students, this
would not be in existence. Many thanks to the editorial board
,
who were ex-
tremely patient
,
especially Amy Ansin.
Enjoy'







Congratulations to Keli Dougherty
,
the winner of this school year's Short Story contest!
Lone
There was no one out there but him. He was a tall slight young man
,
about
twenty-six or twenty-seven
,
and his blond hair and beard were short yet a
littl
e
shaggy. Compared to the vast green emptiness of the hospital lawn, he
was like a dot on a blank piece of large paper.
No one seemed to notice him sitting out there, and at first he didn
'
t do much
to attract anyone
'
s attention. He just sat there eating a sandwich, and drink-
ing out of a liter sized bottle of Seven-Up. He watched the people go by for
a short time
,
and after he saw that several people had stared at him while
they passed, he picked up a placard that had been lying face down in the
grass beside him
,
and implanted the sharpened wooden end into the grass
so it stood upright.
The placard was simple. It was a three foot square with a white background
,
and in large black block letters it said
"
ABORTION IS PREMEDITATED
MURDER. THE NEXT BABY YOU KILL COULD'VE SAVED THE WORLD!
'
As he finished his sandwich, he watched people stare at him. When it began
to get dark
,
he removed his sign
,
picked up a duffel bag, and left. Before he
left
,
he smoothed the grass back over the hole that he had made
,
and walked
off into the darkness.
The next day he was back. Only this time he walked back and forth on
the sidewalk with his sign
.
When he stopped to eat
,
he sat in the same place
that he had occupied the day before, and stuck the sign into the ground next
to him. Not many people paid any attention to him
,
but that didn
'
t stop him
from t
a
lking to them.
"I guess you never thought of abortion as premeditated murder did you
,
he asked while walking along beside one man.
Well, it
'
s planned
,
so that makes it premeditated
,
and you're killing some-
thing that has life
,
so it's murder. Makes
s
ense
,
doesn
'
t it?
"
The man just stared
at him for a few seconds and quickly walked away. Some people ignored him
a
nd just kept walking. Whenever someone did that he just yelled "A baby
isn
'
t just like a houseplant you know."
One person yelled back at him
.
"
I suppose killing a houseplant is a type
of murder too.
"
"
How would I know
,
I don't have any
,
and if I did, I wouldn
'
t kill them
."
He'd have to be more careful in the future
,
h
e
didn
'
t want anyone to catch
him with his guard down
.
He couldn't afford to look weak and vulnerable.
I can't let them get to me, he said to himself
.
The next day was the same
,
only he was more vocal. The .only time when
he wasn
'
t yelling, was when he was eating
,
with his sign stuck in the grass
beside him
.
Even then he yelled at people between bites of his sandwich. He
didn't yell with his mouth full
,
he told himself to keep his composure no matter
what.
If
anyone insulted him
,
and he couldn
'
t think of a snappy stinging come-
back, he simply ignored them and started yelling at someone else.
On the fourth day of his one man protest
,
while he was eating
,
two police
cars pulled up at the curb
,
and four policemen got out and came ~trolling across
the lawn to where he was sitting
.





"Abortion is premeditated murder, the public has a right to know
,
" he said.
"Maybe;' said one of the policeman
,
a tough looking middleaged man with
a wiry gray mustache, "but you have no right to be here
.
There are more peace-
ful ways of spreading information."
"Action must be taken to correct the situation here and now," he said, "be-
fore innocent hundreds more die at the hands of an ignorant public."
"Whatever you say sir;' said one. The four policemen hauled him to his
feet
,
and handcuffed him.
"You're under arrest," said the wiry mustache.
"I know my rights," he grumbled, "you don't need to read them." "Good
,
then we can get this
'
action' underway;' said the wiry mustache
.
One policeman picked up the garbage from his sandwich, and another
picked up the duffel bag, and yanked the sign out of the ground
.
The wiry
mustache took the handcuffed man to one of the police cruisers
,
and shoved
him into the back seat. The fourth policeman who had been following be-
hind, got into the back seat with his handcuffed charge. The other two police-
men got into their cars, and drove away
.
"Those folks at the hospital got sick of being harassed by you
.
They gave
you a chance to leave, but after four days, you had to go." The wiry mustache
glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. The handcuffed man in the back
seat only glared back at him.
"I was getting the message through to them
.
I needed more time.
"
That
was all that he had to say
.
They'll understand later he thought to himself.
At the police station he was allowed his customary phone call. Hastily he
dialed a number, and waited impatiently while it rang
.
After what seemed like
an eternity, someone answered
.
"Hello
."
The tired voice on the other end was barely discernable to some-
one sitting nearby.
"Hi
,
Rob?"
"Oh
,
hi Pete
,
what's new?
"
"Rob? You
'
ve got to help me out
,
please?
"
"Sure
;
' said the voice on the other end of the line, "what did you have
in mind?"
"Ba
i
l.
"
"
Pete, you got arrested?!
"
"Yea
,
and I think I was beginning to change some peop
l
e
'
s minds
."
"I'll be right down
.
Stay cool."
"
Rob?"
"Yeah."
"Don
'
t tell Norman
.
Please, not until I can get this straightened out."
"
Sure Pete
,
anything you say
.
Now stay cool."
"I will, there's nothing else to do. They stripped me clean. I haven't even
got a pen.
"
There was a click, and he held the phone out in front of his face and looked
at it for a few seconds
,
then he slowly replaced it in its cradle.
The wiry mustache had just come back in.
"
Peter John Wright?"
He nodded his head.
"
That's me
."
"Come with me," he ordered
Pete reluctantly got up and followed him to a holding cell.
"Get in there,
"
the cop growled in a tired way
.






"I'm
moving, don't get so uptight," he said to the cop.
The holding cell was small, and its three walls were lined with benches.
There were only three people in the cell besides himself, and all of them acted
like they didn't see him come in. Pete sat on a bench
,
in a corner of the hold-
ing cell, his knees up against his chest
,
and his head resting on his bent knees.
He had been in that position for about fifteen minutes when one of the
other men in the cell came over and sat down on the bench next to him. Pete
pretended not to notice, and he didn't move until the man began to speak.
"What didja get picked up for?"
"Demonstrating
against abortion in front of Claiborne Memorial." Pete lifted
his head to look at the man.
"Were
you the only one arrested?"
"Yeah,
because I was the only one there." The man looked shocked.
"
You were the only one demonstrating?"
"Yeah.
I felt it had to be done, and I still do, but I got picked up before
I could begin to make an impression on people's minds."
"
That's the irony of it."
"Yeah,
and don't I know it." Pete began to chuckle. The other man began
to smile and nod.
"What's
your name?" The other man looked serious for a second.
"Pete,
Pete Wright, and yours?"
"Larry
Mc Laughlin," replied the other man.
"What
did you get picked up for?"
"Assault.
I was drunk
,
and don't even remember doing it
,
but they say that
they have a lot of witnesses."
"
Wow
,
sounds like a tough situation.
"
"My
lawyer says that I could just get fined
,
or some time in jail, but some
of those witnesses say that the other guy struck me first
,
so they may go easier
on me
.
At least I hope so."
"
I've been in a few fights in my time, but I only got arrested once. All the
other times I was cut up pretty bad, and ended up in the hospital. They go
easier on you if you've gotten the short end of the stick. Nobody can argue
with scars."
Larry looked pensive.
"I
can see your point."
"I've seen a lot of fights
,
and you learn after a while, what goes and what
doesn't." Pete leaned back against the wall. He focused his eyes on Larry and
knitted his eyebrows.
"And
sometimes, I've even seen people get killed. Just
remember one thing Larry
,
death is forever
,
and it's needless. Life is just too
good to waste."
Larry began to look uncomfortably at Pete, and drew back. Just then an
officer came down the corridor next to the holding pen.
"Wright?"
'That's me," Pete said getting up, "take care Larry, and if there's anything
that I can do for you, let me know." From the front of his shirt, he withdrew
a small light blue business card with black inked lettering. Handing the card
to Larry, he gave him a half salute, and turned on this heel, and left. Larry
could hear him chatting amiably with the police officer as they headed toward
the squad room.
Larry looked at the card. In black letters it said
"Peter
J. Wright
,"
below in
smaller letters it said
"Journalist."
Below in a modern block type was written
The Massachusetts Modern Times.
There was a phone number in each of
the two bottom corners. In the left corner was Pete's home phone number
,








and in the right corner was the number of the paper
,
and his extension.
Larry carefully pocketed the card,
and
lay down on the bench, and put
his hands behind his head. Once settled
,
he closed his eyes.
Rob had come, and now Pete was going to be free again, at least until he
went to court. He wasn't afraid, he'd only been arrested once before
,
and then
the
charges
against him had been dropped. He had a relatively clean record.
After signing the receipt for his personal effects, he and Rob left. Once out-
side in the open air, they began to talk. Except for the civilities inside, they
hadn't said anything to one another.
"Were
they tough
on
you?" Rob had his hands in the pockets of his jeans
as they walked along.
"No,
not really. I guess they would
'
ve been a lot tougher if I had been some
sort
of
murderer
,
but I went peacefully
,
and didn't object, so they didn't treat
me too badly. I'm sorry that I woke you up, and thanks for coming and get-
ting me out. I'll pay you the money that you posted for my bail as soon as I can."
"Okay
Pete
,
you know
,
you're
lucky that I don't charge
interest."
"Oh
yeah Rob, then I don't think that I could afford you as a friend and
adversary."
The two chuckled and then walked in silence the rest of the way
to Rob's car.
Rob dropped Pete
off
at his apartment
,
then went home. Pete slung his duffel
bag
over
his shoulder, and trudged up the stairs. Fishing for the key in this
pocket, he pulled it out and put it in the keyhole. The door always stuck a
little, so he had to push
at
the same time that he turned the key. The landlady
always
promised him
-
at least once
a
month
-
that
she
would have her
brother
-
in-law the super fix it, but he never seemed to get
around
to
it, and
there was always
a
multitude of other things to fix in the old building
.
Pete
always wondered whether or not the city building inspector knew that the
old
building existed, because it would almost certainly be condemned if it were
ever inspected. Besides
,
he was used to the complicated means of opening
his front door, and most important, the landlady liked him, and didn't charge
him too much
rent.
Another plus were the h0t meals that she sometimes fed
him. No, he couldn't go wrong here.
The apartment was just the way that he had left it, the kitchen table was
strewn
with newspapers, and there were clippings taped to the refrigerator.
There were so many
of
them that they moved like a tree's leaves in the wind
whenever he opened the refrigerator door.
It
was
only
two rooms and a
bathroom
,
and that suited him just fine. The combination living room
/
dining
room
/
kitchen was the hub of all his activity anyway. The bedroom was almost
no more than a closet with a bed in it. He used to put all of his clutter in there
whenever his mother came to visit, but since she had died, the clutter stayed
in the main room. Maybe it was all for the best
,
he thought to himself
,
she
wouldn
'
t like to see what I'm doing now for a living, and she so missed dad
when
he died. Pete
sighed
and dropping his duffel bag, fell into a threadbare
chair.
He sat there for a few minutes in almost a daze.
It
felt so good to be home
in his mess, and not in that bare holding cell. That guy Larry seemed sort
of
nice. I wonder
if
he'll
ever call
me, Pete
sat
staring
out
the window at the
building across the street, watching the people who lived there walk back and
forth in front of their windows. He tried to imagine
what
it was that they were
saying
to
one
another. It was like watching
a
silent movie and supplying your









own sound.
It was still pretty early
,
only about two o'clo
~
k
,
and Pete was bored
.
Being
arrested threw his whole day out of syncronization
.
He had taken the week
off, for personal reasons he had said, but he had been planning this protest
for a very long time. Rob had known about it, but neither Pete nor Rob ever
thought that he would be arrested for it. Rob had done some research on
demonstrations from the legal standpoint. Pet
e
had asked him to look into
it
,
after all
,
Rob was going to law school. He should know about these things
Pete thought to himself
.
Oh well
,
it would all come to pass.
The only thing that he could think of to occupy the rest of the afternoon
would be to drop in at the paper and see if there was anything exciting going
on. He felt like seeing what the rest of the world was doing for once.
Pete took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head, then got up out of
the chair. He grabbed his jacket and a little shoulder bag that looked like it
might have belonged to a ph
o
tographer. With a great heave he pulled th
e
stubborn door open
,
then once he was out in the hallway
,
he strained to pull
it closed so it would lock on the first try. Pete grinned with satisfaction as it
closed and locked on the first try. Maybe soon
,
he thought to himself, the
landlady
'
s brother-in-law the super will have the time to fix my door
,
but maybe
that's just wishful thinking on my part. He shrugged at the door for no appar-
ent reason other than the fact that it was there
,
and charged down the stairs
and out the door.
He went down the driveway to the back of the building and opened the
door to the rickety garage
.
Inside were the various things that the typical
homeowner would have
,
but didn't like to use
,
like the lawn mower. Pete dis
-
appeared into the dank depths of the garage and reappeared wheeling his
red Honda dirt bike
.
It
was every inch an off-road machine
,
but he had in-
stalled turn signals and other lights to keep the cops happy
,
and himself from
getting tickets
.
Securing the shoulder bag to the rack in back of the seat
,
he
mounted, inserted the key in the ignition
,
turned it
,
and pumped the starter
with his foot.
It
didn't start on the first try
,
but did so on the second. Taking
his helmet off the handlebars, he put it on his head and adjusted the chin
strap
.
He gunned the engine and rode down the driveway and off into the
street.
Traffic wasn
'
t too heavy, and he quickly found him
.
self in the heart of the
city. The
Free Press was on the other side of the city
,
and the shortest route
was through the middle of the city.
The air was brisk
,
but not too cold, and Pete kept the visor of his helmet
up so that he could feel the air blowing on his face. The fatigue that he had
felt before in the apartment had left him now
,
and he was ready for action.
The air had revitalized him
,
and made him feel new. He often got a second
wind like this when he was
e
njoying his ride through the city on his way to work.
Pete enjoyed watching the people when he went to work, and some of them
he knew through his work for the paper. He had had a story on almost every
major street corner in the city. He was proud of himself, doing what he wanted
to do
,
and living a childhood dream. He was where he had always wanted
to be, a journalist in the heart of the people who make the real news
.
He
felt contempt for Reagan in the White House
.
How could he know the real
America if all he did was stay in Washington D.C. making promises that he
couldn't keep anyway? He had always wondered about politics
,
but he dreaded
November when he had to interview all of those stuffy politicians
.
In his opinion







they all made promises that they couldn
'
t keep
.
But all he could do was grin
and bear it.
N
o
rmally he was excited when he went to the paper
.
He loved the challenges
of his job
,
but today he would have to go tell his supervisory editor Norman
,
that he needed an afternoon off so he could go to court about his demonstra-
tion
,
and before anyone else told Norman. He didn
'
t think that anyone else
besides his immediate circle of acquaintances knew about his personal demon
-
stration
,
and for the time being
,
he wanted to keep it that way. He didn
'
t want
any reporters calling Norman before he had a chance to talk to him himself.
Him telling Norman might make things easier in the long run.
The "people" part of the
Free Press
was housed in a big old house on a
fairly quiet main street.
It
was just on the edge of the business section
,
so there
had been no zoning conflicts when they moved in
.
The actual printing was
done by another company, due to the fact that one of the owners had to sell
the printing equipment that the paper had once owned
,
to pay off some debts
,
and since then had not been able to buy a new printing press
.
Pete parked his motorcycle in the dirt and gravel parking lot next to the
old house
,
hung his helmet on the handlebars, and ran his fingers through
his hair. Taking his bag off the rack
,
he paused to compose himself and strolled
across the lot and started to ascend the steep wooden stairs leading to the
back do
o
r on the second floor
.
The door was half open
,
and from inside he could hear people talking and
laughing
.
Standing in the doorway he looked around the cluttered room
.
Desks
were arranged in a cramped style
,
and scuffed plywood dividers cut the room
up into tiny
"
offices.
"
From somewhere in the depths of the mess he heard
a familiar voice chattering away in a low tone
.
"
Anybody home?
"
His voice sounded more timid than he had intended
.
"Pete?!" The unseen voice had stopped chattering
,
it was piercing now
.
"
Sheila? Yes
,
it's me
."
His voice sounded stronger this time
.
A brunette head popped up behind a far piece of plywood
.
"Pete!
"
Her
face looked shocked
.
"You
'
re not in jail
,
what happened?
"
Pete looked con-
fused
. "
We heard it on the police band. Eddie was monitoring it for stories
and he heard them say that they had picked up a protester at the hospital.
We all knew that
i
t was you
."
'
Tm okay
."
That was all that he said
,
then moved on to this own cubicle
on the opposite side of the room
.
"I don
'
t feel like talking about it. Okay?
"
His face was stern
.
"
Okay
.
But you'd better tell Norman
,
before he finds out from someone
else
."
Her face was questioning.
"
Well, I guess there
'
s no better time than the present.
"
He rose to go
. "
Wish
me luck?
"
Pete
'
s face softened
.
Sheila gave him a quick hug.
Norman's office was down the hall
.
He shared one with another editor, and
their desks were opposite each other
,
perpendicular to parallel walls
.
The one
thing that Norman liked about the arrangement was that his desk was the closest
to the door
,
so he could keep the door open and yell at the reporters as they
ran by on their various errands. He loved this, they didn't. One April Fool's
Day when he wasn
'
t paying attention
,
they locked him in his
o
ffice. He never
forgave them for that. Pete didn
'
t like Norman
.
Norman was too pompous
for his tastes, but he persevered, as did all the other reporters
.
Norman was on the phone when Pete knocked on the open door. Norman
waved him to a chair in front of the desk, and continued to talk on the phone.








Pete pulled out a pen and a small spiral notebook
,
deftly flipping open the
notebook with a flick of his wrist. Norman began to look nervous and quickly
muttered a hasty "goodbye" into the phone. The sight of Wright with his note-
book open always had made him nervous
.
"
Norman
,
I just came to tell you that I got arrested for demonstrating against
abortion in front of Claiborne Memorial. Just me, only me, nobody else, 'cause
I was the only one there
,
it was a one man demonstration.
"
Pete stopped only
long enough to catch his breath, and then leaning forward, he said
"
I have
a court date in two weeks.
"
Pete then got up and left.
Sheila was gone when Pete returned. Hastily he went over to his cubicle
,
grabbed his bag
,
and hurried out the door and down the stairs. When he
reached the bottom he vaulted over the rail and ran towards the parking lot.
Once the gas was flowing through the bike
'
s engine
,
he slammed on his
helmet and was gone in a
~
pray of gravel and dust.
Back in his office Norman was watching two Alka-Seltzer tablets fizz in a
glass of water.
Pete was on the highway by the time that Norman was drinking his antacid.
He had a full tank of gas, and a head full of steam. He was made
.
Something
in him had snapped
,
and now he didn't know where he was going. All he
knew was that he was on the highway
,
and the wind was blowing on his face
,
and it cooled him off a little bit. He didn't know where he was going
,
and
now it didn't matter.
The scenery flew by as he rode along the highway, passing almost every-
body. The needle on the speedometer alternated between 85 and 100 m.p.h.,
and the needle on the gas gauge was going steadily down, and noticing this,
Pete slowed down to about 70. Luckily there weren
'
t too many cars on the
highway. Most people must still be in work he thought to himself.
Feeling thirsty from his outrage at the
Free Press
,
he began to look for a
place to get something to drink. The first place that he saw was a deli. Pulling
in
,
he jumped off the bike and walked it up to the doorway.
The door was open
,
and Pete could hear a Bruce Springsteen song blaring
from inside
, " .
.
.
took a wrong turn and I just kept goin
' .
..
"
As the song
continued, those words kept echoing in Pete's head
,
and instead of going over
to the soda
,
he ended up in front of the beer. With new strength he grabbed
a six pack off the display
,
and looked at it
,
then grabbed another one with
the other hand
.
He looked at them and felt satisfied.
The cashier hardly glanced at Pete as he rang up the beer. Pete paid then
dashed out with the beer. After fastening it to the rack
,
he mounted
,
started
the engine and roared off. A quarter mile later it occurred to him that he had
forgotten to put his helmet on
,
but the wind on his bare head made him feel
good
,
so he decided to leave it off, at least for a little while longer.
The highway began to get boring, so he pulled off
,
and rode up a grassy
hill to another, less traveled, road. He slowed down as he was enjoying the
scenery. He was beginning to get tired
,
and the afternoon sun was beginning
to bother him
,
so he rode off onto the grassy side of the road
,
and stopped.
It was very quiet
,
and he could hear the wind blowing through the trees
behind him. A car whizzed by on the road beside him
,
and he quickly got
up and pulled his motorcycle into the woods so he could not be seen from
the road. He didn
'
t feel like he wanted the whole road to be watching him.
There was a small clearing about one hundred yards beyond the gate of the
trees, and he stopped there and leaned the bike on its kickstand.







He had never been very much into beer. In high school it gave him strange
hallucinations, all alcohol did that to him
.
I might be cra
z
y he thought to him-
self
,
but at least I'm not a lush. He didn
'
t know why he had bought the beer,
a stronger force had been at work on his brain, and the Springsteen song was
still echoing in his mind.
After unfastening the first six pack from the rack
,
he took it over to a sunny
place under a large oak tree
,
and pulled off a can. It felt cool, even though
it hadn't been in the refrig
e
rated section of the deli
'
s beer display. This puz
-
zled him
,
he had a feeling that something big was going to happen, and that
whatever it was, it didn
'
t feel right.
With little effort he popped open the first can of beer.
It
tasted good to him
,
even though he hadn't had any beer since
,
he couldn't remember when it
was that he last had a can of beer. But it didn't matter
,
he was alone
,
and
that
'
s all that mattered to him right then
.
P
e
te was happy
,
and he was begin-
ning to feel good
,
and the beer seemed to be warming his soul from some-
where inside.
He drank the first six pack of beer without much trouble
,
and realized that
it hadn't played any tricks on his mind yet. Everything around him seemed
to look normal, the trees were all still there where they were when he had
first come. Maybe I outgrew that hallucinations bit
,
he thought to himself. He
reached for the other six pack, but his body seemed alien to him
,
it didn't
move like his brain told it. I'm getting drunk he told himself.
Pete unfastened the second six pack with difficulty
,
and he fell over. As he
was lying there on his side
,
he started to laugh
.
It
was a drunken laugh that
sounded more like a cackle
,
and in the middle
,
he was hiccuping. He straight
-
ened up slowly
,
and look
e
d around
.
There was no on
e
there but him
,
but
he felt as if he were being watched
.
His mind wandered back to the one man
demonstration he'd gotten arrested for.
He
'
d not always cared so much about abortion. He'd never thought of it
until about five years ago
.
Angel and he had always worked out their problems
,
but this one had just be
e
n too big
,
and its solution split them forever.
Pete
'
s mind wandered back to college. He had everything he wanted back
then
,
a motorcycle, a place on the newspaper
,
and Angel. They
'
d met in a
class
.
He wasn
'
t as cynical back then
,
but no less a seeker of th
e
truth. He'd
always been a moral Catholic
,
but h
e
knew that he wanted to marry Angel,
and she was very much in love with him, so even the taboo things seemed
right to them
.
They were inseparable
,
and life seemed so sweet when you
were with someone that you loved
.
Pete loved Angel like he had nev
e
r loved
anyone else. Pete's mother nearly dropped her rump roast when he told her
one day that he had slept with Angel.
She warned him that nothing good would come of it, but he didn
'
t listen,
he was too high on life to hear her, and too infatuated to think things through
.
Everyone said that they made a good couple, the tall blonde young man
with the Marine haircut and the trimmed neat mustache
,
and the darkly beau-
tiful girl with the warm dark brown eyes, and soft auburn hair that caught the
light.
Angel wanted to be a social worker
,
and help people. She was always helping
someone, she seemed to thrive on her service to others
,
and that her life with
Pete seemed to be the only things that mattered to her.
They planned to marry after they both graduated from college
,
and had
been settled in the outside world for a year and a half. But they would still






see each other, just like they had done when they were dating in the early
days of their relationship.
He had been with an area newspaper for six months when she came to
tell him
,
and she had been a social worker in a local hospital. They were settling
down in their respective careers, and putting together the arrangements for
their marriage. Then their world
,
and their relationship shattered like a piece
of fine crystal on a stone floor.
Pete had been working on a story when she came in
,
and she quietly sat
down next to him and watched him type on his computer terminal. He had
told her that he had two more paragraphs to type
,
and then he would talk
to her.
It
came back to him as clear as day
,
and then he realized that he was
hallucinating from the beer.
Again
,
she was sitting next to him, looking scared but determined. Again
he heard the words whispered in his ear
"
Petey
,
I went to the doctor today
,
I'm pregnant." He remembered jabbering something about it being wonder-
ful, then assuring her that everything would be all right, they would get mar-
ried sooner than they had planned to
,
and not to worry. Everything would
be
all
right.
"
You
'
ll see" he
said
to her.
That was when she dropped the bomb on him.
'
'I'm not ready to have a
baby Petey
"
she told him
, '
'I'm getting an abortion
,
and I can't marry you know-
ing that I aborted your baby, and I know that you could never forgive me for
doing that
,
and what kind of a life can we build on that?
It
would never work
Petey. I love you more than 1 have
ever
loved anyone else, but this would
always come between us.
"
She said it so slowly and calmly
,
that Pete could
tell that she had thought it all out very carefully. He realized that she was right
,
but he had to persuade her to keep the baby
,
and to marry him
,
or he would
lose them both
,
and he couldn't lose Angel
,
he couldn't live without her
.
He
didn
'
t believe in abortion
,
and he knew that he couldn't love her as deeply
if
she
had an abortion
,
and they did get married
,
but abortion
or
no abortion
,
he couldn
'
t lose her
.
They were in a no win situation
,
and they both knew it.
Angel stormed out of the office
,
and he didn
'
t see her again until he went
to her house and attempted to see her. She didn
'
t want to see him, and called
the police to have him
removed.
He called her, but
it
didn't work. He visited
her at work, and the hospital security evicted him from the grounds with orders
to never come back or they would have him arrested
.
Rob told him that he
had no legal rights because he didn
'
t
even
have documented proof that he
was the father
of
Angel
's
baby.
She had the abortion anyway
,
and then she moved out of state. He knew
that it was to get away from him. He didn
'
t see her
again
until they brought
her home for her funeral. Poor Angel
,
his Angel, she had been killed by a
car while she was trying to free someone trapped in a car accident.
From then
on
Pete changed. He grew
a
beard and let his hair grow long.
He quit his job
,
and
joined the more radical newspaper. His mother had been
right
,
but his pride wouldn
'
t let him admit that
,
and he buried the hurt deep
,
but it still pained him.
By now he had finished the second six pack, and felt very drunk
.
He tried
to get up, but his head
was
spinning from his intoxication. Pete felt helpless
,
and decided to wait until the feeling had passed
.
Five minutes later he passed
out.
It
was cold
,
the grass had grown cold
.
Pete rolled over. Through the trees
he could see the clear
sky.
The
stars
shone brightly. There was an eerie glow









in the woods
.
Pete looked at his watch
,
it said three am. He lay back in the
grass and dozed off.
The sun woke him.
It
was ten o'clock. His bike still sat there
,
shining in the
sun. Pete had a terrible headache
,
he hadn't had a hangover in so long
,
he
had almost forgotten what it felt like. He stood up and stretched
.
The woods
seemed to sparkle in the morning sun.
It didn
'
t take him long to start the bike
'
s engine, he
'
d figured that it might
need some warming afte
r
sitting outside all night. Pete collected all of his empty
beer cans, put them back on the plastic things that had bound them together
,
and tied them to the rack. Then he put on his helmet
,
and roared off down
the road back to the highway.
The highway was very busy. Probably all those people who are late to work
he thought to himself. He was still on his vacation
,
just two days left in his
week off
,
then back to the
"
hard-beat of the city.
"
That was what he called it.
Far off he could hear the sirens, but they didn't really r
e
gister in his mind
,
he was too busy thinking of his night in the woods. They registered when he
saw the dense black smoke rising up slightly to his right. The natural reflex
in his subconscious made him speed up
,
his mind raced with possible leads
for the article
.
It
always happened like this. When he was out chasing a story
,
or stumbling upon one by acc
i
dent
,
his body gave itself a shot of adrenalin
e.
When he rounded the curve
,
he saw what was generating th
e
smoke. A
car had skidded out of control and had been broadsided by a tractor trailer
rig
,
which had pushed the car down the highway a few ya
r
ds and then into
a wall of rock on the roadside. The smell of the gas fumes was strong
,
and
Pete could see a man struggling in the cab of the rig. He was screaming for
someone to get him out
,
and a more frantic voice was screaming
"
It
'
s gonna
blow
,
it
'
s gonna blow
."
Pete quickly rode off the side of the road and laid down
his bike as he dismounted
.
He ran up to the cab of the truck and started pull-
ing on the door, but it was stuck.
A
piece of the hand rail next to the d
o
or
had fallen off
,
and Pete grabbed
it
and started to pry open the door. He had
almost gotten it open when the gas fumes got stronger, and the gas tank he
was standing above was getting hotter. The door swung free and he grabbed
the driver and pulled him out of the truck. The driver fell and Pet
e
tried to
jump. The driver started to crawl away from the accident and turned to see
who had pulled him free.
Pete found that his jacket had gotten caught on a jagged piece of the hand-
rail that was still bolted to the cab. He tried to break free, but he couldn't. The
amazed driver watched as Pete made several futile attempts to free himself,
then the gas tank exploded into a wall of orange
,
and then Pete's blood curdling
scream could be heard from somewhere behind it. He screamed just one word
,
Angel.
A policeman was questioning the driver.
"
Name?
"
"
Larry Mc Laughlin."
"
Who was that guy?
"
"
I don
'
t know, but he saved my life.
"







You Think I'm Your Friend
I destroy families
I put lovers through hell
I end all friendships
I destroy the future
I step on people
I have no feelings
I never feel any guilt
I come in mai;iy forms
I come in many shapes
I have no real home
I harm all ages
I am clever
I am deadly
I am jeolousy
.
Karen Beth Haight
Ah, Autumn. Season of transformation:
The nights grow longer and the air colder.
Glorious change for all of Creation.
A pungent scent while burning leaves smolder
,
Creating a line of blue smoke through light
,
Clean air. Drifting above the scenery.
Atop the tall, fiery trees of bright
Scarlet, of gold, of rust and greenery.
But
,
oh, too fast, the splendor of the Fall
Is gone
;
the leaves are dead
,
the land is bare.
Wind will groan, snow will come
:
the stone-cold wall
Of Winter. Death in this bittersweet air?
After Autumn and Winter, snowstorms bring
Lush
,
rich life to be reborn in the Spring.
Laura
C.
Kuczma








A New Season
Winter, spring
,
summer
,
fall; I've opened up and seen them all
.
Sunlight
,
moonlight, weary sky; all must flourish, all must die.
I've spent my moment in the sun, and lost the laughing lonely one.
The faulty four has left me weak; it's but another that I seek.
Rick Zamanti
I\OJIV17
~









Now You Know
What you see
,
Well
,
it
'
s not really there
Thought and visions -
Twirling eddies in the air,
A river of tears to flood your eyes
You
'
re hungry
,
wake up to realize
.
Softly patters -
Footsteps through the hall
Reaching a destination -
That's not there at all
Confined inside yourself -
You begin to see
What is there -
'
Will never reflect of me
Rules and regulations -
You can
'
t think without them now.
Religion and society -
Always determine your life somehow.
Can you stop yourself -
Must you push so far
Stumble and fall -
And I
'
ll laugh at you in the dark,
Wings of a dove
-
May flutter softly to the ground
.
Read their message -
See their truth
-
Hear their sound -
Pray for the salvation of your soul -
Fool!
You'll never understand -
What burns dark as coal
;
Tunnel vision is yours -
Entire worlds torn apart
Dream at day -
So now you think you know
As they circulate around you -
Theirs is only show
Dance in frenzy -
So you can belong to night
Claws that dig into the sheer illusion of your flight
Mist clings in shadows over your mind
Impair your vision -
Dreams you'll never find
They see through your screen
-
And don
'
t even wave goodbye as they go
You had it all -
Or so it seemed
,
But do you honestly think that now you know?
Leigh Davison






Flight?
My mind is like a plane out of control. It's spinning wildly and its fate is
uncertain. Can I get myself out of this tailspin
,
will I be able to pick up my
nose and land myself safely in the world of reality and rational. What put me
into this state was not a failure on my part to navigate. But an uncontrollable
outside force
,
another human being. Not just any human being, but one that
brought down my defenses
.
She was my auto pilot. It was this person who
with a lash of the tongue and a reaction of the heart sent my reeling into a
world I can't explain. Before her
,
nobody had ever captured so much of my
love and trust, nobody. What was this? To the eye she was appealing, but
to my heart she was essential. It was her blood corpsing through my veins
and her skin wrapped to my bones. And that was unexplainable
.
What did
she use to deceive my defenses
,
how could she take me over without me know-
ing? These and other questions may never get an answer
,
but they are not
the answers I need
.
I need to know how to get back my control, how to get
back me. As I fall into a clear
,
yet dark place, a place I have never seen and
wish never to see again. Should I deny her existence
,
I would be denying that
I ever lived
.
But to think of her only makes me want. Can someone tell me
if there is a land
,
a land in between, where I can get control and finish the
flight?
If
I eventually do find this medium
,
if I ever land, how can I get back
to the sky, a place where I can be happy again? Will anyone ever be able
to copy the feat of invading my system or will I fly solo? And what of her
,
will her presence invade me again or can I fight the desire, for it will only lead
to a certain death. And what of those who want to fly with her, since she
was I
,
how can they be here? Why must I engage them when a victory would
certainly net a loss
,
why would I want to go back to a position where I can
end up in another spin? The answer lies somewhere, maybe somewhere never
to be found
,
but the search for it is called life
.
When I no longer wish to find
this answer, I no longer wish to live. And no longer wish to find this answer
,
I no longer wish to live
.
And that answer
,
I suspect, lies somewhere in be-
tween life and death
,
a place called love.
James Cook









Friends of the Same Kind
It
was Christmas Eve
,
the store would be open for only anoth
e
r hour
,
and
still no one wanted me
.
I guess I really couldn
'
t blame them, there were so
many other more cuddly, newer bears to choose from. All of my bear friends
would be spending their Christmases in someone
'
s warm
,
cheerful home
.
I
'
d
have to spend another Christmas in the lonely store. I think I'd spent two Christ
-
mases there already.
My hair, which used to be a fluffy golden brown
,
was now all messed up
and soiled from all of the lollipops and chocolate kisses that had been smeared
ov
e
r me. Even my Christmas cap was half off
,
and my porn porn was now
just a lump of glued yarn stuck together. To make matters worse
,
I had a red
and green checkered patch over the place where my left eye used to be.
Not many people come in the store at this hour of the night. Only a mother
and daughter came. Every time the girl said
,
"Mommy
,
I like that bear
,
buy
it for me,
"
her mother would pick me up. At first, I thought maybe she would
buy me because she had so much money
,
but then she bought a beautiful
stuffed lion sitting next to me instead. I don't really know who he was because
he had been in the store for only a few days.
Just as despair and rejection overwhelmed me, a man and woman walked
in. They didn't look rich like the other people had. They both wore faded
jeans and jackets that looked older than they did. I overheard them talking
about a little boy named David
,
and how he never had any friends because
everyone always stayed away from him
.
I thought that David must b
e
the big-
gest bully around. I sure hoped they wouldn
'
t buy me! I almost died when
th
e
man picked me up. I thought that would be the end. He had such a mean
looking face
.
I couldn't believe that he was taking me to the checkout counter.
I was hoping that the manager would say the store was closed now
,
or maybe
the man wouldn't have enough money. This was the first time I prayed that
someone would not buy me.
The last thing I remember seeing was the cash register and hearing the man
and woman saying,
"
David will love to . . .
",
and then I was shoved into
a brown paper bag. All I kept thinking about was the man's mean face, and
that David must be a bully who would love to use me as a punching bag
.
Oh
,
how I wished I was safely back at the store!
Soon I was in the stranger
'
s home and placed under a tiny tree
.
I dozed
then only to be awakened by the chiming of church bells, triumphant and
glorious in the distance
.
The brilliance of a star shining through the window
startled me; my eyes followed it and came to rest on the same man and woman
who had bought me. But they didn't look the same. The man was holding
a little boy very gently, and the man's face was very soft and kind. I told my-
self that the little boy couldn't be David
,
because David is a bully and no one
goes near him. I could sense that this little boy was a special boy. The only
thing I noticed as different about him was the frightening metal things around
his legs. I thought maybe that
'
s what bullies wore to make them look tough,
but this little boy certainly didn't look tough
.
As a matter of fact
,
he looked
like a little angel who had just finished playing in the mud.
The man finally put the little boy down. I kept wondering where David,
the bully was hiding
.
Then the little boy started walking
,
and I realized that
the metal things around his legs helped him
,
to walk. He slowly came toward







me and picked me up. That little boy gave me the biggest hugs and kisses
in the whole wide world.
It
was also the first tirpe in my entire life that I had
ever been loved. I heard the little boy say
, "
Thank you, Mommy and Daddy
.
"
Then they both said
,
"Merry Christmas
,
David
.
"
I couldn
'
t believe this was David
.
I
r
emembered hearing the man and woman
talking in the store and how they said no one ever played with David
,
and
h
e
had no friends. This was not because he was a bully
,
but because he was
special and needed something to help him walk. I felt so ashamed that I had
even thought this innocent little boy could ever do anything bad.
My shame
worsened when I realized, too, how selfish I had been in wishing to be placed
in a very rich home
,
because here before me were riches beyond imagination -
riches given only to the heart who truly loves and cares. David was only a
little boy who had much love to give, and he made me the happiest and most
loved bear of all.
Karen Beth Haight








Such is when
Cannot cry
So can sky black
And though to try
Such is how
Can touch to hand
So when grass green
Be promised land
Such yes is no
When smile erupt
Swing to and fro
Fill China cup
And sadly laugh
Earth under sand
Green book binding
Away from ran
That when such is
Will always be
Peace universal
And piece eternity.
Leigh Davison
I Know What Love Is
Oh, what honest and pure happiness I feel
After having met you.
What I have always dreamed of
And wished for
Have finally become a part of my life.
Hopefully we will last.
My feelings for you (and yours for me) are deeply-rooted. Sincere.
Not superficial.
Not shallow.
Oh
,
please let it remain like this.
For I can no longer endure the immense pressure and
Lonely solitude
Of rejection and infidelity
,
Of lying and tears.
That have played such a big part of my life.
That have scarred my trust,
Hurt my pride. And made me afraid to ever love again.
It
has been so hard to try again and again.
But now I know what I truly want:
Someone who I can honestly say that I love without fear of loss.
In this silly game we call Love.
Laura
C.
Kuczma










Sybilism
At times I wish I could die
And be reborn again into the person I want to be
.
And not exist as the person I am.
To be reawakened into life with new found vibrancy
To be euphoric and empathetic to man and all that exists
.
To become caring and compassionate and to overcome
all that hinders man.
As I speak I can see that my words can sometimes stab the ones
I care about most
As I speak I can see the sneering
,
the cutting
,
,
and the crimson red
of the incisions.
Yet I do not think twice to stop.
Yet I inside feel the pain of my deeds
Yet sometimes within my words I can show caring and compassion.
And reflect the true meanings of my feelings and thoughts.
Yet
,
why is it that the knives appear to hide what really exists?
As if a covert attempt to show what really is there
.
My words echo like footsteps in that they begin at the door of reality
And they echo until they dissipate away.
Yet they can be heard as the door closes.
The echo rings as I speak
And the crowd laughs . .
.
and I laugh . .
Yet as my audience fades and I am left alone again
I sit, I wonder, I think.
My words are sharp and cutting
.
The crimson red scares me.
An audience is
e
verything to a clown
Without an audience . . . a clown is nothing.
Yet as I sit alone I cry.
And as I weep a single trickle of a tear makes its way down my face
Where the smile used to be.
Sometimes the laughter just isn
'
t worth the pain
.
And the redundancy of saying
"
I'm sorry" is sickening.
Why is it you always have to hurt those people you love the most?
Renee
A.
Hewitt











I will supply you the secret
If
you will supply me an ear
I will tell of the pain
and the happiness
Of many
,
many years
If
only you will listen
If
only you will hear.
Ben Fried
The Shell
I like to have a shell snugly wrapped around me,
So no one can see the hurt and pain gnawing deep inside me.
If
I strike out first at those around me,
I won
'
t be hurt or touched by him
,
When I wear a long face, sad face
,
or mad face
,
It's to keep me in and others out.
But nobody wants to hear because they all fear me
,
So in reality
,
I am destroying myself and no one is there
,
To stop me
,
to pick up the pieces
,
so I shall slowly die
,
Leaving behind nothing but the hurt and pain I feel inside me
,
And the broken heart that is irrepairable
,
Repairable by its maker
,
its creator, its destroyer
,
My heart is only one heart to give
,
You had it for a long time
,
And now I give it to you forever
,
But will you accept it?
And as I write this
,
I wrap the shell more tightly around me.
Renee A. Hewitt








Write-of-Way
Dark-skinned people workin
'
hard. Workin' to stay alive
.
The white man who
stands up on a hill
,
watching them
,
yells
, "
You better start working a little
harder
!'
And they do. Ninety-eight people taking orders from one man standing
on a hill. And this is the way it was. And this is the way it is
.
At twelve a
.
m. the dark-skinned people are allowed to walk home which is
twelve miles away
.
No
,
they can't live in the town. The white man left five
hours ago, when another took his place. They live less than a mile away from
where they
"
work.
"
And this is the way it was. And this is the way it is
.
A dark-skim:1ed family is eating dirt.
"
Daddy
,
can you find another job?" ''I'll
try son.
"
He knows he cannot. He takes only what he gets. That
'
s not much.
White man won
'
t give it. He says if you want it
,
you gotta fight. So
,
dark man
fights. And this is the way it was. And
_
this is the way it is.
So, now they fight. Too many are getting killed. Dead women and children
lay in the street. The white man looks at the destruction he has caused
,
but
he feels no pain. Police come to question this one whit
e
man and he points
to a group of young black men
.
Immediately these young men are struck down
by one quick blow. "Get up
,
boy
,"
the policeman yells. They are shoved in
a crowded van and arrested. And this is the way it was. And this is the way it is.
A young black man's father is dead. His brother in jail. He can
'
t get a job be-
cause of the color of his skin. His mother cries herself to sleep at night. And
this is the way it was in America.
And this is the way it is in South Africa, and though
you
may not be able
to see it so clearly
,
this is still the way it is in America.
Tara Parker
A drop. A single splatter fallen doesn't matter when one sees life not as
a way of fun but soon to over and done when time surpasses all that we see
and all that we be and circumscribes our hearts into revelations that bitterly
reveal what's underneath the way we say we feel and the way we act is differ-
ent approach that signals the youth to rise to the war and get bloody for only
a few swelled heads who believe in God yet believe it
'
s okay to kill thousands
of babies that seems like only yesterday were born in sterile white rooms and
die in cold grey tombs and in between cry that life isn
'
t fair so they slit their
wrists and shave their hair and the whole time never forget that rain makes
the world go 'round and lends a hand to the ground so much that even you
would call it a downpour.




















The Alligator
One day
,
an
alligator sat on
the bank of a swamp
with
his mouth
open
as
a
bird gracefully
cleaned
his teeth
.
Presently
,
another alligator
crawled up
beside him
and
stared unblinkingly (for alligators
cannot
blink) at him for twenty
minutes.
"
What do
you
think?
"
she asked
him.
"l
do not think
,
for I
am
an alligator
,
and alligators
are not
supposed
to
think." he
replied
with
a
degree of un-alligator-like intelligence
.
"
We don
'
t
,
"
she said tentatively
,
"
have to be alligators."
"
Don't be
silly
,
"
he
snarled
,
"we
will
always
be alligators.
"
She thought
about
this for
a
while. The
other
alligator
slithered
back into
the
water with
the
ease
of
one who
thinks he has
won
an argument before
has been
started.
She thought
,
"
Well . . .
,
maybe .
And so
she
sauntered up the bank of the
swamp
to try
and
find the
world.
Presently
she came
upon a bird sitting low in
a
bush.
"
Please
,
bird
,"
the
alligator
pleaded
,
"please
take me to
see
the
world
.
"
"Oh
,
no
,
1
couldn
'
t,
"
replied the bird
, "
for
you would
probably
eat
me
."
"Why
would
I
eat you?
"
asked the alligator in consternation
.
"
Because
;'
explained
the bird logically
,
"
l
am a
bird
. .
,
and you
are
an
alligator."
"Oh . . . "
"And
besides," trilled the bird
, "
I
couldn
'
t
wait
for
you
who
are
slow. Ask
a snale!
"
So, the alligator plodded
on
,
looking desperately for
someone
who
could
show
her the world.
The rabbit
said
the same thing as the bird
,
and the turtle didn
'
t
care
that
there was a world
.
The deer
explained
that it would take many days going
out
of the way to find the edge
of
the world.
"
Go ask
a
man," said
an
old
owl
, "
to show
you
the
world,
because
only
men know much about the world, but
even
they do not know all. There is
much of the
world
beyond the world itself
which
a man cannot
see.
.
"
and on
,
and on went the owl.
Well, the alligator finally found a man. He was sitting
on a stump
,
smoking.
"Hello
.
"
said
the alligator.
"Hello
,
said the man,
"what
are
you
doing here?"
"l
am
trying to find a man
so
he can tell me about the
world."
"
And am I the man?
"
"
Yes, I think that you are
a
man."
And the man sat
,
and puffed on his stick-thing, and
coughed
,
and puffed
,
and thought.
"Yes,
1
suppose
I am a man. You look like an
alligator."
"No
,
I don't think I am really an alligator
,
for
alligators are
dumb
,
and
eat
birds and rabbits
,
and they don't care
about
the
world.
"
"But
you
look
like an
alligator."
"Yes
,
I suppose I do.
"
H
So ...
"
"So
,
please
,
oh
please
,
could
you
take me to the world.
"
"
Yes.
"
he answered, and promptly made her into a travel bag
,
because
,
of
course
,
he was a man, and she was an alligator.
As he did it, he cried
.
..
Crocodile tears.
Ben Fried






I For YOU
I have finally come to realize that I am not the most important thing in the
world, that I am rather insignificant, and I have found that YOU are the most
important thing that I know, but I have cast YOU away from me by being myself.
That is why I hold this knife now, not that I shall hold it long
,
for its poison
is fast
,
though its venom is slow.
There.
I have done it, and the pain is great, but I am so numb that I do not think
I can feel it.
Still, nothing seems different.
I still see, I still write
,
I still bleed.
Now, things are beginning to swim before me, to lose shape, form
,
distance
,
reality melts away like a teardrop, leaving only the burnt end of a wick.
I feel sick
,
so I have to close my eyes, but even with my eyes closed, I can
still see, though only in a dream I think.
Is this death?
Do I dream in death forever.
I don
'
t want to dream forever
,
I never did
GOD . . .
I don't want to die!
Oh, but the dream blossoms, silvery petals of nothing flaking away from
the corners of my mind.
The dream is torn from end to end by fiery white shards.
And I see .
The End
Ben Fried







The Whale
The whale is beached -
a black speck on an endless shore.
And in the deep blue waters can be eyed
Five black fins circling each other.
From one another they seek help.
To help their life long friend in need.
The magnificent animals push toward the shore
In an instinctive effort to save one of their kind.
A kind that is so few.
And the closer they get
,
the more impossible it is for them to
return
,
And the tide goes down
To reveal
Six black specks on an endless shore.
All this
,
because they love
.
Danielle Berger
My dreams become nightmares
When I remember the news.
The horror is fresh in my mind.
The trembling still hasn
'
t left my body.
The tears still threaten to flow.
Looking back,
I
don't know how I survived.
Yes,
I do.
I survived because I had no choice
.
I'm living.
And the living move on.
Anu Ailawadhi
















Of Bitter Sweet Tears
He sees you there
,
he looks away.
You notice him,
A tear
,
A small, salty tear.
A tear that to him means nothing.
But to you, it is as precious as gold.
It glides down your powdered cheek
Leaving behind a bitter sweet stream
That approaches an end and stops.
The fear can go no more, so it waits to drip from your chin.
Content to be waiting
-
It
will soon be gone, lost forever
A tear shed for him.
Here comes another, down that bitter sweet stream.
The two tears fuse at the end and coast to the ground -together
When they reach the cold hard pavement, they splatter,
No longer as one, but as multitudes of tiny droplets
Droplets which are soon joined by many more,
And the bitter sweet stream overflows.
You sigh a sigh, and be on your way
.
Following him at a distance
.
Your head hanging low.
And you see as you pass where he once walked
Brilliant shimmers at your feet
Forever conserved
In his own pool of bitter sweet tears.
Danielle Berger
\
\
'f
)~
~
-
~.;~
\







I'll be
your
dreamer
Whenever
you awake
I'll
be
a
keychain
If
you
need
a
keepsake
I
can
be
anything you want
If
you should have the need
I'll be your tears
If
ever
you should grieve.
If you need a little time
I can be
eternity
If
you need
a
word to rhyme
You
can
just ask me
I will be the thing
you want
A pond,
a
pool,
a
lake.
And I
'
ll be an
excuse
should
you make
a
mistake.
If
you want
a
smile
I
'
ll be right here.
Should
you
need
something warm
I will
always
stay near.
If
you
need a hand to hold
Somebody to talk with you
.
Yes
,
I'll be your dreamer
Will
you
be mine too.
Ben Fried









Death is a scary thought.
Or is the end of life scary?
Living without someone is what
frightens
·
me
.
When we die, our pain is gone.
But what do we leave those
left behind?
Sorrow
,
tears and lonely memories
.
Memories are more fun when shared.
And after death the sharing is gone
.
Forever.
Anu Ailawadhi
Alone
Deep in the darkness
there are no walls
I travel alone.
Silent with voices
crowded with tears
unforgiven
pasts
,
presents
,
and
choking with possibilities
too heavy
•
to grasp
I run in darkness
alone
trying to outrun my shadow
hoping to get there before me
I see
deep in the darkness
wallowing in blindness.
Hoping sometimes
to forget.
Jossette Geronimo






Drive Train Blues
The car drives slowly,
Wary of its existence
,
Unable to move
,
Despite its persistence
.
Showing its power
,
Under resistance,
Letting it go,
At drivers instance.
The power it holds
,
Keeps it in place
,
Giving it more
,
leads to distaste.
5 years of life
,
is all too quick
,
Having a few more would be quite slick.
But in the end,
You paid the price,
You went too fast on that thin sheet of ice
.
You saw your life
,
How quick it went
,
The things you did
,
The time you spent.
You joined a club
,
You entered a fad,
And in the end it wasn
'
t that bad
.
It
went so quick
,
The life you had,
So you owned a car,
Weren
'
t you glad???




l
l.





The
Mosaic
Published
by
The Marist
College
Literary
Arts Society
Printed
by Maar Printing
Service
•
Poughkeepsie
,
New
York


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