Mosaic_F_1995.xml
Media
Part of The Mosaic: Fall 1995
content
.
FLECTIONs
Literary Arts Society's
MOSAIC
December 1995
(
FLECTIOl\rs
Literary Arts Society's
MOSAIC
TABLE OF CONTENTS
My Soul. ..
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3-4
Metaphoric Love
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Mirror Images of the Act.
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5-7
Twelve Times Still
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Joker
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The "Carrot" Sketch
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10-12
You .
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Beyond Our Dreams .
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The Scream .
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More Winter than Spring
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Forgotten Souls
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17
*Please note that there are many other works in this Magazine that I could not put in the
Table of Contents because they had no title
.
These
,
as well as all the other works have been justly
credited with their author's names, however. Also, all artwork was done by Sue Goodwin
.
So If
you submitted something and don't see it here, please look through our MOSIAC
.
Take your
time. Look for your poem or short story or creative work, while your at it why not glance at
what else is here
.
You might like what you find
.
Editors
Kristen Carlson
Adele Thaxton
Sarah Hudak
Meghan Sloan
Merrideth
Joe Marranca III
Chief Editor Jason Crandall
Untitled
Into
your arms.
Senseless comfort.
Back toward the fire.
A new battle,
But
the
same war.
Look beyond
the oblivion that
is
pride
.
Or day-darkened
memories.
Fade into
the fire.
The joy
.
The pain.
The truth.
- Meghan Sloan
Untitled
Wirlwind
of
Pain, pleasure, confusion
.
Feeding frenzies of
Secrecy
.
Lies, hidden stories,
Hidden
lives.
Needing,
wanting,
Purging
My
insides.
Hoping the pain
Will
cease.
The frenzy begins.
Endless cycle.
- Cammi
James Keogh
"My Soul"
You explain to me!
Who are you!?
You do not really know
me.
My depth is unreachable
to you.
Think you understand
me?
Think again, you've
been had!
My soul is a book,
A mystery with no ending.
Do not even try to figure
me
out.
For I am a maze
.
A maze which cannot
be navigated.
You try to get to my heart.
How do you know I even
have one?
Even if you get to your point.
You will never be allowed
to read
.
My soul is under lock and key.
You will never read.
I will take my feelings
with me
.
Will not express
.
This is not allowed.
Do not want you to know
to much.
Ripping my insides apart.
Killing myself when I am
near
you.
Depleting myself everyday.
Pride and honor running
out.
Coldness coming in.
Cannot
stop
it from entering.
My soul is now
purged of you
.
Locked out from me.
More chapters have been written.
Chapters only I understand
.
Getting lost in my
abyss
is the
only way.
Cleanse my mind and
soul.
No memories shall exist.
Clean and void at last.
A practice I perfected
.
Now there is no past.
New era has begun in
me.
With you leaves confusion
and pain.
Cleaning out of my wounds
does me
good
.
Regaining
slowly but surely
.
Slate is now blank.
Ice has taken it's form
.
My new soul has been installed
Circuitry is now working.
Override my programmed instincts to run.
Will not come running anymore.
Help yourself1
Confused with my programming
.
Pulling together to survive.
I have survived your onslaught.
Will continue to fight.
Soulless?
No.
It is now clean
.
My cancerous spore now cut out.
I can go on living again.
- Joe Laposta
Metaphoric Love
Love is like a rosebush
.
It's beautiful and is sweet.
However, heed these words.
For you shall find,
That this rosebush,
·
Has many secrets inside
.
You have to be wary,
Where you touch it.
For if one is not careful,
It will plant a seed.
Right in your hand
.
Which will cause you to bleed
.
So hear these words.
Oh, weary traveller.
For love is often blind,
But can also be unkind.
- Walker
Untitled
Inhaling
Outers pace
Mind and body
Seperate
Kissing
Fingers crawling
Stimulating
Mind floating
Body wanting
Empty words
Molesting
Rough kisses
Not caring
Not thinking
Meaningless
Undressing in a rush
Of want
Torn blouse
Broken zipper
Doesn't matter
Cries
Turning into
Moans
Not even remembering
His name
One night stand
Lost virginity
-Cammi James Keogh
Mirror Images of the Act
Kristen Carlson
The simple,
shinning, contemplative image suspended above
the
floor illuminates the
corners of the body before it. Shunning the image
and
cursing the
thoughts, I stand hopelessly lost in my shapeless form. Mortified,
I feel
as a speck of dust
among an
atmosphere
surrounded by
greater
particles and
impressive atoms; alone and singled out, I am
deserted.
My
life is
nothing but a
speck of dust lost in an over polluted
atmosphere. It is
no more than a player
on the stage destined to shine in the
spot-light only
for
a
moment,
and
fade into the foregrounds. After the base and coloring
is
washed from
the face, the costumes removed, and the props returned
to
the storage room, I
become a lonely commoner lost in the
dusty streets
of the world
.
My life exists upon the shadow of the mirror, and through
the
eyes
of
others. I live to be criticized and grow how I am told. With so
much
stress
from the outer world, my own inner world has become suppressed
and
tortured.
There are many episodes to my personality and many become
award
winning
sitcoms.
Comedies, tragedies, dramas, and one-acts
pieced together
play out my personal history; for the reasons for my
being
and the background
of my personalities are reflected in each scene
and in
every
act.
There are so many characters and so many spectators.
There is
no escape from
the light and no hiding from the commentators.
Social
critics
determining
your perception by others. No free thinkers, just
conformists.
Few
are willing to preview a mov
i
e without rave ratings
by
Siske! and Ebert.
These concepts mirror what I hate most about myself:
the
need
to belong
and to be accepted by those around me. The idea that I
need to perform as
others would want me to, and the fact that I hate
conformists, but
I
myself
am an Oscar winning conformist, creates the false
character that
I
try so
hard to reflect upon my life's stage. Subdued
by
reviews, I am so easily
influenced and so self-conscious of my appearance
and personality. It is the
picture of perfection brought on by
my peers that
have forced me
into a state of dismay and disbelief. Disbelief
of
myself
and my qualities as a person;
hatred towards the body I should
cherish. At
this point
in
my life, I am unable
to accept what has been given to
me;
it
does not live up to expectations
of others, and in turn not good enough for
me. Making life so unbearable,
it is these mirror images of society
which
wrap their shinny foils around
my hapless form, and look inward, gnawing
at
the sole pure thoughts
of acceptance left.
When the sun rises
and I awake to the world, my first thoughts are
of
what to wear and how
it will make others look at me
.
I swore to
myself,
before leaving for school,
that I would not let the social restraints clasp
onto my wrists; here
I stand engulfed by conformity and society. I am
so
worried with how
I
appear
that I find myself hating my hair and the
shape of
my body. Placing a
cold chair in front of my foe, I torture my hairs with
harsh pricks of
the brush and stringent smells of mouse and hair spray. As I
twist
and bend, poke
and prod at each individual curl, they feel the
punishment
if
they
move from their assigned positions. My character
transformation slowly
begins to unfold as the minutes tick by and the
frustration of perfection overcomes my innocent and feeble person.
Unknown to this imbalance, I haul on costume after costume, modeling
before the truth and in disgust give up and wear whatever seems most
graciously acceptable. The show must go on.
My face revolts against all beautifiers used to convert it to the
acceptable with the worst defense imaginable to a self-conscious brat--
pimples. The face refuses base and the cheeks laugh at the attractive
shades of coloring I wish to apply. The apples of my cheeks swell with
pimples at the dusting of it. My thin chapped maroon lips, naturally uneven,
refuse to be anything but what they are. Cold sores ambush the flesh
about my lips when I use lipstick to correct the errors of my natural form.
These sores degrade the appearance of my entire face. Afraid to leave
the room and perform for fellow conformists, the forming cracks in my
materiel consciousness advise me to surrender, and the war is over. Slowly
the conquerors recede to their homes beneath the surface of my dry and
flaking skin awaiting the next attack, and I retire to the plain and simple. The
dull luster of this natural show constricts my abilities to be the versatile
thespian who comes to be adored by an ill disposed public.
When people complement me, I can never truly accept it. Are they
being strictly sarcastic or is it actually a serious remark? I simply smile and
continue on my way. Being so involved with my outer shell disturbs me. I do
not eat right so that I may try and maintain the perfect weight for my height
and build. I begin to starve myself at times because I have already eaten
the daily intake of calories and carbohydrates. When I peer into my plate,
there are always colorful heaping mounds of bland flavored health food,
only to be picked at and hardly touched by utensils. Even if I get one lonely
bagel, half remains uneaten. That would be my sole meal of the day until
5:00pm, when I have either a salad or pasta (if it is being offered that day).
Still there will be particles remaining from each dish. At times my stomach
becomes so famished I can hardly stand to eat. Looking at food
commercials or smelling it's aroma is enough to make me ill. My stomach
moans and cries as a defense and embarrasses me in public places for
revenge. Although it beckons for food, I refuse to be defeated. There
must be one part of my body that I have power over
.
Although I become
drastically tired by the early evening, I am proud of my control and with a
ridiculous and malicious grin of accomplishment I reward myself.
On my way to the fitness center, I am often laughing inside at my
triumphs of eating so little. Despite my lethargic feeling and suppressed
desire to fall and let my pride shatter into an unconscious state, I
subject
myself to this schedule Sunday through Thursday. Each night at 7:00pm I
leave clothed in sweatpants (so not to show my unconditioned legs) and a
T-shirt and I return two hours later to shower and complete homework.
Along the paths between the dorm and the fitness center, I often mimic
the snobbish strides of the seductive impostures. I imagine my long brown
hair flowing with the gentle breezes revealing my slim face and luscious
features, only to see the dream shattered by the shimmering deformity of
reality found in the rippled puddles underfoot and the reflective windows
along side of me. It is those mirror images of the glamour queen figure and
the goddesses of beauty created by my mind's interpretation of the
perfect person that
have created
such hostility and anxiety within. This lack
of self-acceptance steers me from mirrors yet draws me in toward the
shinny objects to see
if
my
image is
at
all
beautiful and shapely. It has
becomes an obsession
as
well as a
problem.
To go
far
beyond
the mental
wear and tear, there
is
certain damage
done to the surrounding
skin and underlying
muscles and tissues. Over
exercise and constant fatigue create dark
rings
about my eyes,
developing wrinkles and a
forever
wearisome
look.
My face is least
appealing in
it's normal stage
and amplified by
the
fatigue, I feel monstrous
and degraded. Striving
for the healthy
forms a sickly feeling inside my gut.
I feel the tight abdominal
area but only hear it
moaning underneath for
supplements
of nutrition.
Still
I refuse.
A
lth
ough I
may
appear to be
relatively thin and
in
good
physical condition,
my
mind
generates the
opposite
aura to my inner person. I feel
chunky and lacking any physical
endurance;
for if I am
in
such good shape, why
do
I
not appear
to
be
forming into the modeled women
in
Elle,
or
in Cosmopolitan.
There is no rest for me, no end to my obsession for
the perfect body.
I
want a
perfect body, I want a perfect face, and I
want
to
be noticed for
it.
A goal set too
high for
myself
,
and I already know
what
the
consequences are. The lack of self-respect and the
self-conscious
haunting my every
move and
staring back at me in
every reflective object.
There are times I will find myself staring into a spoon at
the distorted figure; I
wonder
if that is how I am· perceived by the
critics of my life and the fans of
conformity
.
My friends tell me that there is nothing wrong with my
appearance
and something very
unique about my personality makes
me more beautiful
than Cindy
Crawford. The gentle warmth of compassion
that
flows
from
within,
is more appealing than long wispy hair and a perfect complexion.
The
kind nature of my heart, becomes more luscious
than perfectly parted
lips and curved
hips. Within my heart there is
a
natural
beauty that
generates
a
perfect
soul and a healthy
personality. Underneath my
battered and decrepit
body is
person
who
shines a
radiance
of love and
respect for all who are able
to look
beyond the dry skin and plain looks.
Perhaps the
strange
ways
I
see myself have made my personality a contra
attack on my war for perfection and admiration
.
I am not a snob nor do I
consider myself
vain, simply down to
earth and
utterly
confused. I am
tortured by the divine
things of
vanity, and the expensive material articles
of popular dress
.
The
initiative
strive to be the mirror of stardom and
perfection, is only
the
beginning of
a
long life filled with
little
to be proud of
and much unhappiness.
If I continue to try and remodel
myself into a
moving replica of a painted
beauty, I
am
guaranteeing
myself a
misdirected life.
I do believe
that my inner
soul only needs
to
accept my outer shell,
then all will be complete
and
whole
.
To
deny
the
poor reviews, and focus
inward to the truth
is
all
I need
to do to make
life
rewarding. Reflections
from my long-lived
foe, must
be disregarded in order to break free from
the conformists of my
time.
Only if those damned mirrors would shatter to
the ground allowing
people to
look
inward to
others and not out toward
the physical beauty of
it all ...
Her eyes are gold.
They are Uke precious ge'lns embodied in splendor.
I
enter the room with no expectations or reluctance
,
but without warning her glare grips me like the sight
of a woman jug,g,Ung three horses. Among the
thousands of eyes within the room, none but hers strike
me as being divine. Her eyes are deep and secretive:
they will not let me in. They simply follow rne.
I
nwve to the left, then to the right. Each time her eyes follow:
never losing their positfon. They are like the moon which
lurks through the horizons yet never stirs. Within them their
lies a distinctive beauty and an overwhelming ability to mesmerize
.
They are a picture of grandeur.
As she sU upon the wall.
I
am hypnotized by her eyes. They
frighten me
,
but
i
am too enthralled by every glance to turn away.
I
ani fascinated by her ability to control me with each glare she forces
upon me. Her eyes screarn for acknowledgment.
I
scream for freedom
.
I
can not stop looking.
I
fight the urge within me that wants to grasp the
passion of her eyes, but
I
surrender.
I
move closer
,
but her eyes
turn away as if to cover her guilt. 1 am confused. My thoughts
become irrational like a Picasso niasterpiece.
i
move away. . . the surveillance continues. Does no one else see her?
She is eoil
,
yet so ravishing.
I
am swayed by the magical eyes.
Her eyes are overpowering. Iler eyes are rich.
Her eyes are gold.
-LisaAnnor
)
Twelve Times Still
and
still we see our hopes, rekindled by the still lit ashes .. .
and
still
we
feel the cheers, recaptured from our youth .. .
and
still we
feel the
innocence, of school-yard games and childhood
dreams
...
and
still
we fear the
end, for life moves quicker, quicker
still ...
and
still
our minds
are moving, though they say there's no originality any
more
...
and
still
we kiss the dawn,
for the morning
still
gives us new hopes to
cherish
...
and
still
we move and
saunter on, for our bodies have life, our blood keeps
runnmg
...
and
still we
realize, that
our lives will go on, 'till our bodies are
still . ..
Joker
He
laughs because
of
the pain
It won't go away
He
jests at
it
He
pokes fun at the pain
His
joking helps him
get by
His
laughing gives him an
emotional high
He laughs on the
outside
While
harboring deep pain
in his heart
I know who he is
He
is me
-Joe
LaPosta
-Mike Pappagallo
ARTHUR
walks into an emplty stage from stage left. He walks halfway to the
center when he sees something on the ground.
It
is a carrot.
ARTHUR
looks
delighted, and picks up the carrot.
ARTHUR.
F
... Food! I found food! (look
s
around) No one else
better find this ...
(stares happily at the carrot)
Now, I heard a man con go
without food for about a week.
(looks up)
So, I'll wait until just before I'm
about to starve to death, then I'll scarf down this
(pauses, looks at the carrot)
s
umptuous
carrot!
(raises the carrot to the heavens)
THANK GOD!
(The lights dim and
JESUS,
the Son of God, walks in from stage right. A
chorus of angels
s
ings out
.
All spot
s
shine
JESUS
creating an effect as close to
"blinding radiance" as possible
.
This carries on for a few seconds until the
spots return to normal and the lights return to normal levels.)
ARTHUR. JESUS CHRIST!
JESUS. Hello, my son.
ARTHUR.
(startled)
WHO THE 'ELL ARE YA?
JESUS. I am the Son of God. I am Jesus Christ. I have returned to
earth.
ARTHUR. Oh Yeah! I recognize you from those ... pictures ... um ..
.
those cross thingies! They're always in those ... those .. .
JESUS. Churches?
ARTHUR. Yeah, that's right! Y'know, you're the first person I've seen
since the bombing. I walked for twenty miles, and I didn't see anyone!
JESUS. Everything in Tulsa died, Arthur. And so did everyone else in
the world. You're the last man on earth.
ARTHUR. Wow! You mean I'm ... Wait ...
(suspiciously)
You're
not here to procreate with me, are you?
JESUS. No.
ARTHUR. Good! 'Cause I'm not into that kinda thing,
even with
the
Son of God. Oh, by the way, thanks for the carrot!
back.
JESUS. Ah, yes. The carrot.
(hesitates)
We're going to need the carrot
ARTHUR. What?
JESUS. The carrot. I need to bring the carrot back to heaven.
ARTHUR.
(holds carrot close to his body)
This is the last thing I have
to eat! What right do you have to come down here and take my last carrot?
JESUS. Would you question the word of God?
ARTHUR. This is my last bloody piece of food! You can't have it.
JESUS. Would you have all of heaven suffer because of a single man's
selfishness?
ARTHUR. Who's being selfish?
JESUS.
(pauses)
God is incapable of being selfish. God loves all his
children
.
ARTHUR. Then how do you explain this catastrophe? Everyone's
dead!
JESUS
.
Cannot
God
rest?
Cannot
God use the
bathroom? Cannot God
watch television sitcoms?
ARTHUR.
The
world
was destroyed
...
because God was watching
sitcoms?!
JESUS. Did I say that?
(pauses)
God was using the toilet.
ARTHUR. That's utter crap!
JESUS. You can see
it
that
way, but I'm afraid I must have that carrot.
;
ARTHUR. What's so special
about this carrot?
If God
'
s so perfect, why
can't
he just make a whole bunch
of carrots?
JESUS. Greek philosophy
taught that ...
ARTHUR.
I never cared
mach for Greeks.
JESUS. Oh hush! Greek
philosophy taught that many physical objects
were
based
on ideal
models.
ARTHUR. Huh?
JESUS. Take
the circle.
A circle is a curved line everywhere
equidistant from a single point in the center.
ARTHUR.
So?
JESUS.
Have
you ever seen a perfect circle?
ARTHUR. Yeah.
JESUS.
No, you haven't! It's impossible to see a perfect circle on earth.
ARTHUR. No, it isn't. I see 'em all the time! I even have an "O" key
on my typewriter. That's
a perfect
circle, right?
JESUS. No, not absolutely perfect ...
ARTHUR. Look! Who gives a rat's ass about a perfect circle?! The
world was
always
fine with
our
substandard bastard circles, THANK YOU
VERY
.
MUCH.
JESUS.
That carrot isn't just any carrot. It's the model on which all
other
carrots in
the
universe
are based.
ARTHUR. Is it edible?
JESUS.
Yes.
ARTHUR. Right! I'm gonna eat it then!
(raises
the
carrot to his
mouth)
JESUS.
No!
Wait! You'll
throw the entire universe out of balance!
ARTHUR.
And?
JESUS.
The
universe
will
cease to exist.
ARTHUR.
Normally, that
would
be a
major
faux pax,
but since
everyone else is dead,
it'll just
be between
you
and
me, 'eh? (ARTHUR
is just
about to eat the carrot)
JESUS. We'll give you a women!
ARTHUR. (
quite stunned,
stops threatening to eat the carrot)
Is God a
pimp?
JESUS.
No!
There is no money involved.
ARTHUR.
Then
they do it
for spiritual favors?
JESUS
.
All right, maybe.
It
shouldn't
be
a surprise ... I mean, that
whole Adam and
Eve
thing
..
.
ARTHUR. Mmmm ... I
see what you mean .
.
. Well,
I'm not
interes
t
ed.
JESUS. \Ve'd be willing to overlook the whole "sinning" thing ...
ARTHUR. It's not that. I don't feel like having the awesome
responsibility of recreating the entire human race.
JESUS
.
I never mentioned the S-word.
ARTHUR. Sex?
JESUS. Yeah, that one.
ARTHUR.
(pauses)
But you were insinuating it.
JESUS. May God damn me forever if I ...
(lights start dimming)
(
pause)
Okay, so I was hinting at it.
(lights return to full)
ARTHUR. Hey, isn
'
t that taking God's name in vain? What
happened to all that stuff in the Bible you're suppose to follow?
JESUS. Hey, I didn't write that stuff.
ARTHUR. Then what's up with the New Testament?
JESUS. Don't look at me, I'm Jewish.
ARTHUR.
(pau
s
e
s
)
So, I've been a good man. Do I get to keep the
carrot?
JESUS. If you were a good man, you'd give me the carrot. The power
of God is mighty enough to move mountains. Surely, you'd reconsider
.
ARTHUR. Ah, but can the power of God prevent me from eating this
carrot?
JESUS. Yes
.
ARTHUR. Oh.
(pauses)
Ah, but without faith, God is nothing. Right?
JESUS. This is true.
ARTHUR. And I am the only human being left on the planet ...
(
pau
s
es, closes hi
s
eye
s
)
I"M A BUDDHIST! I'M A BUDDHIST! I'l\!I A
BUDDHIST!
(
JESUS
cringes in abject fear.
ARTHUR
continues to chant, all the while
,
nothing happen
s
. Finally
JESUS
compo
s
e
s
him
s
elf)
JESUS. Amazing! The perfect carrot is a Christian carrot!
ARTHUR. What?!
JESUS. The belief of this carrot is stronger than your belief.
ARTHUR. It's just a carrot!
JESUS. The perfect carrot, and you intellectual superior!
ARTHUR. That's just insulting!
JESUS. The spirit shall rule forever, my son
.
ARTHUR. Fuck that! This carrot can't
eat
me!
JESUS. Don't do it Arthur. Just put down that carrot ..
.
(ARTHUR
crunches into the carrot
.
A chorus of angels sings. The lights on
stage
s
uddenly turn off)
-Bryan Walko
YOU
By: Holly Cai.Tip
You is a word
I think of at night
You is a word
That makes me feel
right
...
-
...
,:,
-
-
..
-
- --
_,
.X.VU
.Lti
d.
WV.LU
Running deep in my head
You is a word
You is a word
I
write of a
lot
You is a word
That has conquered
My thoughts
You is a word
that
Brings me much pain
You
is
a word that·s
Loud like a train
You is a word
I'm lost here without
ivu
.1.s
a word
That I often
Youis a word
_,__,.
....
bHVUL.
That confuses
my head
You is a word
3ometimes
I
wish
you were
dead
You is a word
That mixes love with hate
You is a word
That's more than just fate
But you are thing
More than a word
You're more like an eagle
Not just a bird
It•
S
yvu
c:1.::.
c:1.
J:)t=L
::;vu
with your smile and heart
It's you that I've dreaiued
of
since the start
But it•s you who has broken
Hy heart 1.n two
And it's me who suffers
now
Not you
UNTITLED
trapped in a darkness we've
created sitting, waiting for a
signal.
.
stuck 1.n
an
oasis on an
endless
journey searching for
questions to which we have the
answers
knowing now where we·ve been
but where we are and the
bright green neon leaves me
sightless, maples with its
word gasping, gagging
I want to throw it all up the
lies, the truth, the secrets
opposites?
•••
maybe or one in
the same
flip a coin choose living or
dying peace or war making love
or sex is there a difference?
continue searching for your
God and show me your way to
heaven and to hell
while I continue to create my
own heaven and live in my own
hell God? ...
I
am my own God
____ ...._ _______ ,,:_,: __ ---J...!--
vabL.Ut:bb .Lt:.L.L'::f.LV.f..l ..,;a;;:;L..i.J..l'::f
stones as citizens burn flags
and trade blocks for guns
dreams turn reality while
reality becomes nightmare in a
merry-go-round playing 'A
spoonful of sugar· laughing,
crying speed
spinning, crashing never
existed figment of the
imagination, the
mind
my
mother's presence
under my
sole burns with the rise in
temperature
and there
standing
tall he
protects
his
members strong,
quiet, firm,
and
reserved he
graces the dark with his
presence
and I recognize, accept, my
want to be the palm at the end
of
IT(f
rr1ind
caiiuni James Keogh
BEYOND OUR DREAMS
Beyond our dreams
Beyond the consolation which leaps forth
Their
stands
a place, no evil action lives
Laughter tells the story and
no tears are trembling
Tender care cradles each breath
and names reflect nothing more
Beyond our lives
Beyond the
·
consolation which leaps forth
Their's place of hearts of humankind
Laughter reflects the story and no one is
weeping
Mothered care cradles each one and
names are meaningless
Beyond our dreams
Beyond the consolation which leaps forth
Their stands a place, no evil action lives
Laughter tells the story and
no tears are trembling
Tender care cradles each breath
and names reflect nothing more
Kevin O'Neill
Untitled
Your true colors,
Came shining through,
Like a torrent
Of raindrops,
Beating against m~head.
The mask you wore,
Shriveled and dissolved
Into the puddles,
Of your insanity.
Left is a blank face,
Which will greet you,
From now on.
Diane R. Kolod
THE SCREAM
The truth is a thing best
left undisturbed lest it break free from it's chains and run amok
throughout
the
world
causing
untold devastation--bringing with it the multitude of demons that
we have
created--we have
caused all that is wrong and we must be the ones to undo all that has
been
undone--we are the ones
who
have
ripped apart what should be and trampled it into the
grass
like a poor ant who
only wants a meal--chaos is what is--we have broken the natural law
with
our own demands and
that is not us--seeking only power and self-gratification-- we hide our
transgressions in
a reality
of
our
own fabrication and never let them show--like bad children told
to
behave
when
company
comes calling--to us righteousness is only semi-apparent and, even then
,
it's a confusing
thing--we
have lost our way and now all roads lead to Hell--we would rather hide
our
heads in the sands of
fate,
than
take the trouble to climb up the dune of salvation--we make
our
own
choices
and
responsibility cannot be passed around and tradded like a baseball
card--never
look at
the sun
for
it is truth and it will ruin you sight-- but sometimes the blind see
better than anybody--will
you be the one climbing to find the mountain-top guru, searching for
enlightenment,
or will
you be satisfied with all the illusions of society?--illumination is the key--it
only
hurts to tum on the
light when you have lived in the dark for a long time--the pain of reality
created
our tylenol world--open
your mind to the warning pulses--society is a lord that never lets
you see
the possibilities--silicon
valleys of progress all flow to oblivion but your king and country
owns all the boats--and who wants to rule
when the black death comes to town?--we never see
the rats and we never see the filth
we're living in--taking all and giving back only in
pretense--living in a ditch drinking the
muddy water and thinking it's champagne--who the hell
wants the good life now that we've found
it?--but we're content because we don't see the
stormdrain ahead sucking us down into
the pits we crawled up from
-
-it's all greed and lies that
make the world revolve--but that was
up
to
us and nobody listens to what we're saying anymore
because it's all the same words--we're going through the motions
acting like we have a million of
them--it's
a Disney world after all, but even Disney
gets paid-- and the sun continues to shine and
we ignore it like all the other fixtures of
our lives--sure we bask in the sun and feel those warm
rays of heaven as we fall asleep dreaming
things we don't care enough about to have--our minds
only there to give our necks a purpose--it's
only a dark ride because someone forgot to tum on
the lights and we never opened our eyes--why
climb when you can sit at the botom drinking
lemonade?--so here I am rambling on and
spouting my mixed metaphors and not doing a god
damned thing--why?--because I
like lemonade and it's too much trouble getting out of that
chair--this is hell, folks, but we don't
want to admit it and I don't like walking out halfway through
the show.
- Mark Francisco
More Winter than Spring
(The
Winter/Spring
Transition)
By
Robert L. Furlong
Tomorrow,
at 9:12 a.m
..
the first day of spring
will
arrive.
Flowers may
bloom; the
air
may have a
sweet-sixteen
scent; singing
robins may return and have offspring;
beautiful girls may
skip in their pretty, pastel
cotton
dresses, saunter with
coy
smiles
as their youthful,
shining
hair gracefully swings to
the beat of
each
frolicking
step
past wiry boys whose hearts are twitchin' at the first
signs
of
the blossoms.
Yet today, this snowy
da in late March, is
the
last da
of winter.
I
want to
relish, experience, give
witness to
Old
Man's Winter's final moments.
To ski, skate, pitch
snowballs,
create a
snowman;
stroll through powder,
shovel,
sweep the six-sided flakes off of
the car; sip
hot chocolate
topped with whipped cream,
taste
steaming
hot oatmeal,
Vermont
toast layered
with butter, honey and jam; then
bravely
climb back
into
my
snowsuit, hat, gloves
and boots in
order
to
slush
towards the face
of
this dying giant
once
again.
Afterwards, as
I recline on my bed, supported
by my
favorite
backrest
stitched by Mom, covered to the
waist
with
my sentimental pilgrim
blue
afghan
crotched by Grandma
, I am
grateful for the feeling of
warmth as I watch the
snow-filled
gusts of wind swirl
outside my second-story window
and hear
the heavy, grating sounds
of the snowplow scraping
the
speedily accumulating 'blanket
de blanc' off to
the side
of
the road.
Inside, however,
it is a classic snow
day for
me
filled
with that unique
serenity only found during
this
hibernating time of
year.
For tomorrow,
it
is
spring.
The sun will be
shared
equally by everyone
on planet Earth - twelve hours
of
daylight
-
twelve hours of nighttime.
It is then
official;
the northern winter
is
over.
We all move
on
. . . . .
Yet today, this season
of
drifting
dormancy
is
still
very much present because of
Old Man Winter's
extraordinary
last ditch efforts.
The withered
ol' guy wants
you
and
me to
know and respect that even
if by
only
a few minutes,
there is
still more solid cold darkness
than
warm
liquid
sunlight,
more roaring lion than
meek
lamb,
more bone-chilling
wind
than soft soothing breeze,
more March snow
than April
showers, more barren white than lush green,
more
withered
brown bark than innocent pink petals, more
aged
closed than
spryly open, more frozen dust
than
floating
pollen,
more
seamless
gray cloud
cover than roaring deep blue
sky, more
idle
solitude than
moving togetherness, more winter
than
spring.
They
walked
all night with their shoes full of blood.
And like Gods, like deities who roamed the earth centuries ago,
they
speared
the dirt into their cupped hands and formed it to
try
to
create new life.
Aah
...
but no new life sprung.
They
walked alone,
for no man so intent on life dare walk with or
near them
for
fear that they too may be cast into the
emotionless darr~ation to which these few endured.
They walked with their hands full of sweat, and their wrinkled
faces
told
a story, yet not a story of heros or of love, but a
story of time.
They walked with their pockets empty from the larcenous men who
stripped them too, of their dignity.
They walked all night, yes, and through fields arrd thickets, and
cement paved roadways.
Through schoolyards, and parking lots of
city offices in which the danmed bureaucratic powerlords sat at
their desks wielding their mighty cross pens.
Their shoes full of blood, blood-the reminder of deathly screams.
And it oozed out the sides as they stepped over the dead that lay
before
them.
And nobody looked their way.
They walked wounded from the bullets that flew from the barrels
of the m-16's that always seemed to be waiting around every
corner.
They walked, unnoticed as they fought to protect the freedom
their country.
-
.&:
VJ..
Hike Pappagallo
:.:-::,~;?
:
~?
-
--
·
~
' , /
-....,,,
·-
,;::-,.
.
;
,
..
;
,,'
...
_,,,,,
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~
=~
,,
~
-
~
-
~--
/
\
--.
'.
.,,
'
_ ,
;
,
~
I
, .
'
/
,'
_/.'
.
.
.
'
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,
,,/
///
I
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i
i
,
v
}
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L
Mosaic_F_1995068
Mosaic_F_1995069
Mosaic_F_1995070
Mosaic_F_1995071
Mosaic_F_1995072
Mosaic_F_1995073
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Mosaic_F_1995077
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Mosaic_F_1995080
Mosaic_F_1995081
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Mosaic_F_1995083
Mosaic_F_1995084
Mosaic_F_1995085
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Mosaic_F_1995092
FLECTIONs
Literary Arts Society's
MOSAIC
December 1995
(
FLECTIOl\rs
Literary Arts Society's
MOSAIC
TABLE OF CONTENTS
My Soul. ..
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
...
...
.
..
.
.
.
.
.
...
.
..
.
...
..
...
.
.
.
.
.......
.
..
.
.
.
..
..
.
.
.
...
.
.
...
.
...
.
.
....
..
.
.
.
.
3-4
Metaphoric Love
.....
.
...
..
.
...
.
...
..
.
.
..
..
..
..
..
....
.
..
.
..
..
.
.
....
..
...
.
........
..
..
..
.
... 4
Mirror Images of the Act.
..
.
.
.
.....
....
........
..
.....
.
.....
.
..
.
.
...
.
.
.
.
...............
5-7
Twelve Times Still
......
.
...............
.
........
.
....
.
.
.
.............
.
...
.
....
.
..
.
........
9
Joker
..........
.
...........
.
.......
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
..
.
...................
.
......
.
......
.
.................
.
.
9
The "Carrot" Sketch
.
.
...
.
.
..
..
.
.
.
.......
.
..
.
.
.
.
.....
.
.
...
.
...
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
....................
10-12
You .
......
.
.........
.
..............
.
.
.
.......
.
.
..
......
.
.......
..
...
.
......
.
...........
.
..
..
.
.
...
13
Beyond Our Dreams .
.
.
..........
.
.....
..
.............
.
.....
.
...
.
...
.
....
.
.
.
...
.
.....
.
...
14
The Scream .
........
.
.....
...
..
..
..
.
....
.
...
.
...
.
.
..
.
.....
..............
.
.....................
15
More Winter than Spring
..
.
...........
.
......
.
........
.
.........................
..
.
.
.
.
.
16
Forgotten Souls
..............
.
....
.
.......
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......
.
...........
.
.....
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.
.
............
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.....
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.
17
*Please note that there are many other works in this Magazine that I could not put in the
Table of Contents because they had no title
.
These
,
as well as all the other works have been justly
credited with their author's names, however. Also, all artwork was done by Sue Goodwin
.
So If
you submitted something and don't see it here, please look through our MOSIAC
.
Take your
time. Look for your poem or short story or creative work, while your at it why not glance at
what else is here
.
You might like what you find
.
Editors
Kristen Carlson
Adele Thaxton
Sarah Hudak
Meghan Sloan
Merrideth
Joe Marranca III
Chief Editor Jason Crandall
Untitled
Into
your arms.
Senseless comfort.
Back toward the fire.
A new battle,
But
the
same war.
Look beyond
the oblivion that
is
pride
.
Or day-darkened
memories.
Fade into
the fire.
The joy
.
The pain.
The truth.
- Meghan Sloan
Untitled
Wirlwind
of
Pain, pleasure, confusion
.
Feeding frenzies of
Secrecy
.
Lies, hidden stories,
Hidden
lives.
Needing,
wanting,
Purging
My
insides.
Hoping the pain
Will
cease.
The frenzy begins.
Endless cycle.
- Cammi
James Keogh
"My Soul"
You explain to me!
Who are you!?
You do not really know
me.
My depth is unreachable
to you.
Think you understand
me?
Think again, you've
been had!
My soul is a book,
A mystery with no ending.
Do not even try to figure
me
out.
For I am a maze
.
A maze which cannot
be navigated.
You try to get to my heart.
How do you know I even
have one?
Even if you get to your point.
You will never be allowed
to read
.
My soul is under lock and key.
You will never read.
I will take my feelings
with me
.
Will not express
.
This is not allowed.
Do not want you to know
to much.
Ripping my insides apart.
Killing myself when I am
near
you.
Depleting myself everyday.
Pride and honor running
out.
Coldness coming in.
Cannot
stop
it from entering.
My soul is now
purged of you
.
Locked out from me.
More chapters have been written.
Chapters only I understand
.
Getting lost in my
abyss
is the
only way.
Cleanse my mind and
soul.
No memories shall exist.
Clean and void at last.
A practice I perfected
.
Now there is no past.
New era has begun in
me.
With you leaves confusion
and pain.
Cleaning out of my wounds
does me
good
.
Regaining
slowly but surely
.
Slate is now blank.
Ice has taken it's form
.
My new soul has been installed
Circuitry is now working.
Override my programmed instincts to run.
Will not come running anymore.
Help yourself1
Confused with my programming
.
Pulling together to survive.
I have survived your onslaught.
Will continue to fight.
Soulless?
No.
It is now clean
.
My cancerous spore now cut out.
I can go on living again.
- Joe Laposta
Metaphoric Love
Love is like a rosebush
.
It's beautiful and is sweet.
However, heed these words.
For you shall find,
That this rosebush,
·
Has many secrets inside
.
You have to be wary,
Where you touch it.
For if one is not careful,
It will plant a seed.
Right in your hand
.
Which will cause you to bleed
.
So hear these words.
Oh, weary traveller.
For love is often blind,
But can also be unkind.
- Walker
Untitled
Inhaling
Outers pace
Mind and body
Seperate
Kissing
Fingers crawling
Stimulating
Mind floating
Body wanting
Empty words
Molesting
Rough kisses
Not caring
Not thinking
Meaningless
Undressing in a rush
Of want
Torn blouse
Broken zipper
Doesn't matter
Cries
Turning into
Moans
Not even remembering
His name
One night stand
Lost virginity
-Cammi James Keogh
Mirror Images of the Act
Kristen Carlson
The simple,
shinning, contemplative image suspended above
the
floor illuminates the
corners of the body before it. Shunning the image
and
cursing the
thoughts, I stand hopelessly lost in my shapeless form. Mortified,
I feel
as a speck of dust
among an
atmosphere
surrounded by
greater
particles and
impressive atoms; alone and singled out, I am
deserted.
My
life is
nothing but a
speck of dust lost in an over polluted
atmosphere. It is
no more than a player
on the stage destined to shine in the
spot-light only
for
a
moment,
and
fade into the foregrounds. After the base and coloring
is
washed from
the face, the costumes removed, and the props returned
to
the storage room, I
become a lonely commoner lost in the
dusty streets
of the world
.
My life exists upon the shadow of the mirror, and through
the
eyes
of
others. I live to be criticized and grow how I am told. With so
much
stress
from the outer world, my own inner world has become suppressed
and
tortured.
There are many episodes to my personality and many become
award
winning
sitcoms.
Comedies, tragedies, dramas, and one-acts
pieced together
play out my personal history; for the reasons for my
being
and the background
of my personalities are reflected in each scene
and in
every
act.
There are so many characters and so many spectators.
There is
no escape from
the light and no hiding from the commentators.
Social
critics
determining
your perception by others. No free thinkers, just
conformists.
Few
are willing to preview a mov
i
e without rave ratings
by
Siske! and Ebert.
These concepts mirror what I hate most about myself:
the
need
to belong
and to be accepted by those around me. The idea that I
need to perform as
others would want me to, and the fact that I hate
conformists, but
I
myself
am an Oscar winning conformist, creates the false
character that
I
try so
hard to reflect upon my life's stage. Subdued
by
reviews, I am so easily
influenced and so self-conscious of my appearance
and personality. It is the
picture of perfection brought on by
my peers that
have forced me
into a state of dismay and disbelief. Disbelief
of
myself
and my qualities as a person;
hatred towards the body I should
cherish. At
this point
in
my life, I am unable
to accept what has been given to
me;
it
does not live up to expectations
of others, and in turn not good enough for
me. Making life so unbearable,
it is these mirror images of society
which
wrap their shinny foils around
my hapless form, and look inward, gnawing
at
the sole pure thoughts
of acceptance left.
When the sun rises
and I awake to the world, my first thoughts are
of
what to wear and how
it will make others look at me
.
I swore to
myself,
before leaving for school,
that I would not let the social restraints clasp
onto my wrists; here
I stand engulfed by conformity and society. I am
so
worried with how
I
appear
that I find myself hating my hair and the
shape of
my body. Placing a
cold chair in front of my foe, I torture my hairs with
harsh pricks of
the brush and stringent smells of mouse and hair spray. As I
twist
and bend, poke
and prod at each individual curl, they feel the
punishment
if
they
move from their assigned positions. My character
transformation slowly
begins to unfold as the minutes tick by and the
frustration of perfection overcomes my innocent and feeble person.
Unknown to this imbalance, I haul on costume after costume, modeling
before the truth and in disgust give up and wear whatever seems most
graciously acceptable. The show must go on.
My face revolts against all beautifiers used to convert it to the
acceptable with the worst defense imaginable to a self-conscious brat--
pimples. The face refuses base and the cheeks laugh at the attractive
shades of coloring I wish to apply. The apples of my cheeks swell with
pimples at the dusting of it. My thin chapped maroon lips, naturally uneven,
refuse to be anything but what they are. Cold sores ambush the flesh
about my lips when I use lipstick to correct the errors of my natural form.
These sores degrade the appearance of my entire face. Afraid to leave
the room and perform for fellow conformists, the forming cracks in my
materiel consciousness advise me to surrender, and the war is over. Slowly
the conquerors recede to their homes beneath the surface of my dry and
flaking skin awaiting the next attack, and I retire to the plain and simple. The
dull luster of this natural show constricts my abilities to be the versatile
thespian who comes to be adored by an ill disposed public.
When people complement me, I can never truly accept it. Are they
being strictly sarcastic or is it actually a serious remark? I simply smile and
continue on my way. Being so involved with my outer shell disturbs me. I do
not eat right so that I may try and maintain the perfect weight for my height
and build. I begin to starve myself at times because I have already eaten
the daily intake of calories and carbohydrates. When I peer into my plate,
there are always colorful heaping mounds of bland flavored health food,
only to be picked at and hardly touched by utensils. Even if I get one lonely
bagel, half remains uneaten. That would be my sole meal of the day until
5:00pm, when I have either a salad or pasta (if it is being offered that day).
Still there will be particles remaining from each dish. At times my stomach
becomes so famished I can hardly stand to eat. Looking at food
commercials or smelling it's aroma is enough to make me ill. My stomach
moans and cries as a defense and embarrasses me in public places for
revenge. Although it beckons for food, I refuse to be defeated. There
must be one part of my body that I have power over
.
Although I become
drastically tired by the early evening, I am proud of my control and with a
ridiculous and malicious grin of accomplishment I reward myself.
On my way to the fitness center, I am often laughing inside at my
triumphs of eating so little. Despite my lethargic feeling and suppressed
desire to fall and let my pride shatter into an unconscious state, I
subject
myself to this schedule Sunday through Thursday. Each night at 7:00pm I
leave clothed in sweatpants (so not to show my unconditioned legs) and a
T-shirt and I return two hours later to shower and complete homework.
Along the paths between the dorm and the fitness center, I often mimic
the snobbish strides of the seductive impostures. I imagine my long brown
hair flowing with the gentle breezes revealing my slim face and luscious
features, only to see the dream shattered by the shimmering deformity of
reality found in the rippled puddles underfoot and the reflective windows
along side of me. It is those mirror images of the glamour queen figure and
the goddesses of beauty created by my mind's interpretation of the
perfect person that
have created
such hostility and anxiety within. This lack
of self-acceptance steers me from mirrors yet draws me in toward the
shinny objects to see
if
my
image is
at
all
beautiful and shapely. It has
becomes an obsession
as
well as a
problem.
To go
far
beyond
the mental
wear and tear, there
is
certain damage
done to the surrounding
skin and underlying
muscles and tissues. Over
exercise and constant fatigue create dark
rings
about my eyes,
developing wrinkles and a
forever
wearisome
look.
My face is least
appealing in
it's normal stage
and amplified by
the
fatigue, I feel monstrous
and degraded. Striving
for the healthy
forms a sickly feeling inside my gut.
I feel the tight abdominal
area but only hear it
moaning underneath for
supplements
of nutrition.
Still
I refuse.
A
lth
ough I
may
appear to be
relatively thin and
in
good
physical condition,
my
mind
generates the
opposite
aura to my inner person. I feel
chunky and lacking any physical
endurance;
for if I am
in
such good shape, why
do
I
not appear
to
be
forming into the modeled women
in
Elle,
or
in Cosmopolitan.
There is no rest for me, no end to my obsession for
the perfect body.
I
want a
perfect body, I want a perfect face, and I
want
to
be noticed for
it.
A goal set too
high for
myself
,
and I already know
what
the
consequences are. The lack of self-respect and the
self-conscious
haunting my every
move and
staring back at me in
every reflective object.
There are times I will find myself staring into a spoon at
the distorted figure; I
wonder
if that is how I am· perceived by the
critics of my life and the fans of
conformity
.
My friends tell me that there is nothing wrong with my
appearance
and something very
unique about my personality makes
me more beautiful
than Cindy
Crawford. The gentle warmth of compassion
that
flows
from
within,
is more appealing than long wispy hair and a perfect complexion.
The
kind nature of my heart, becomes more luscious
than perfectly parted
lips and curved
hips. Within my heart there is
a
natural
beauty that
generates
a
perfect
soul and a healthy
personality. Underneath my
battered and decrepit
body is
person
who
shines a
radiance
of love and
respect for all who are able
to look
beyond the dry skin and plain looks.
Perhaps the
strange
ways
I
see myself have made my personality a contra
attack on my war for perfection and admiration
.
I am not a snob nor do I
consider myself
vain, simply down to
earth and
utterly
confused. I am
tortured by the divine
things of
vanity, and the expensive material articles
of popular dress
.
The
initiative
strive to be the mirror of stardom and
perfection, is only
the
beginning of
a
long life filled with
little
to be proud of
and much unhappiness.
If I continue to try and remodel
myself into a
moving replica of a painted
beauty, I
am
guaranteeing
myself a
misdirected life.
I do believe
that my inner
soul only needs
to
accept my outer shell,
then all will be complete
and
whole
.
To
deny
the
poor reviews, and focus
inward to the truth
is
all
I need
to do to make
life
rewarding. Reflections
from my long-lived
foe, must
be disregarded in order to break free from
the conformists of my
time.
Only if those damned mirrors would shatter to
the ground allowing
people to
look
inward to
others and not out toward
the physical beauty of
it all ...
Her eyes are gold.
They are Uke precious ge'lns embodied in splendor.
I
enter the room with no expectations or reluctance
,
but without warning her glare grips me like the sight
of a woman jug,g,Ung three horses. Among the
thousands of eyes within the room, none but hers strike
me as being divine. Her eyes are deep and secretive:
they will not let me in. They simply follow rne.
I
nwve to the left, then to the right. Each time her eyes follow:
never losing their positfon. They are like the moon which
lurks through the horizons yet never stirs. Within them their
lies a distinctive beauty and an overwhelming ability to mesmerize
.
They are a picture of grandeur.
As she sU upon the wall.
I
am hypnotized by her eyes. They
frighten me
,
but
i
am too enthralled by every glance to turn away.
I
ani fascinated by her ability to control me with each glare she forces
upon me. Her eyes screarn for acknowledgment.
I
scream for freedom
.
I
can not stop looking.
I
fight the urge within me that wants to grasp the
passion of her eyes, but
I
surrender.
I
move closer
,
but her eyes
turn away as if to cover her guilt. 1 am confused. My thoughts
become irrational like a Picasso niasterpiece.
i
move away. . . the surveillance continues. Does no one else see her?
She is eoil
,
yet so ravishing.
I
am swayed by the magical eyes.
Her eyes are overpowering. Iler eyes are rich.
Her eyes are gold.
-LisaAnnor
)
Twelve Times Still
and
still we see our hopes, rekindled by the still lit ashes .. .
and
still
we
feel the cheers, recaptured from our youth .. .
and
still we
feel the
innocence, of school-yard games and childhood
dreams
...
and
still
we fear the
end, for life moves quicker, quicker
still ...
and
still
our minds
are moving, though they say there's no originality any
more
...
and
still
we kiss the dawn,
for the morning
still
gives us new hopes to
cherish
...
and
still
we move and
saunter on, for our bodies have life, our blood keeps
runnmg
...
and
still we
realize, that
our lives will go on, 'till our bodies are
still . ..
Joker
He
laughs because
of
the pain
It won't go away
He
jests at
it
He
pokes fun at the pain
His
joking helps him
get by
His
laughing gives him an
emotional high
He laughs on the
outside
While
harboring deep pain
in his heart
I know who he is
He
is me
-Joe
LaPosta
-Mike Pappagallo
ARTHUR
walks into an emplty stage from stage left. He walks halfway to the
center when he sees something on the ground.
It
is a carrot.
ARTHUR
looks
delighted, and picks up the carrot.
ARTHUR.
F
... Food! I found food! (look
s
around) No one else
better find this ...
(stares happily at the carrot)
Now, I heard a man con go
without food for about a week.
(looks up)
So, I'll wait until just before I'm
about to starve to death, then I'll scarf down this
(pauses, looks at the carrot)
s
umptuous
carrot!
(raises the carrot to the heavens)
THANK GOD!
(The lights dim and
JESUS,
the Son of God, walks in from stage right. A
chorus of angels
s
ings out
.
All spot
s
shine
JESUS
creating an effect as close to
"blinding radiance" as possible
.
This carries on for a few seconds until the
spots return to normal and the lights return to normal levels.)
ARTHUR. JESUS CHRIST!
JESUS. Hello, my son.
ARTHUR.
(startled)
WHO THE 'ELL ARE YA?
JESUS. I am the Son of God. I am Jesus Christ. I have returned to
earth.
ARTHUR. Oh Yeah! I recognize you from those ... pictures ... um ..
.
those cross thingies! They're always in those ... those .. .
JESUS. Churches?
ARTHUR. Yeah, that's right! Y'know, you're the first person I've seen
since the bombing. I walked for twenty miles, and I didn't see anyone!
JESUS. Everything in Tulsa died, Arthur. And so did everyone else in
the world. You're the last man on earth.
ARTHUR. Wow! You mean I'm ... Wait ...
(suspiciously)
You're
not here to procreate with me, are you?
JESUS. No.
ARTHUR. Good! 'Cause I'm not into that kinda thing,
even with
the
Son of God. Oh, by the way, thanks for the carrot!
back.
JESUS. Ah, yes. The carrot.
(hesitates)
We're going to need the carrot
ARTHUR. What?
JESUS. The carrot. I need to bring the carrot back to heaven.
ARTHUR.
(holds carrot close to his body)
This is the last thing I have
to eat! What right do you have to come down here and take my last carrot?
JESUS. Would you question the word of God?
ARTHUR. This is my last bloody piece of food! You can't have it.
JESUS. Would you have all of heaven suffer because of a single man's
selfishness?
ARTHUR. Who's being selfish?
JESUS.
(pauses)
God is incapable of being selfish. God loves all his
children
.
ARTHUR. Then how do you explain this catastrophe? Everyone's
dead!
JESUS
.
Cannot
God
rest?
Cannot
God use the
bathroom? Cannot God
watch television sitcoms?
ARTHUR.
The
world
was destroyed
...
because God was watching
sitcoms?!
JESUS. Did I say that?
(pauses)
God was using the toilet.
ARTHUR. That's utter crap!
JESUS. You can see
it
that
way, but I'm afraid I must have that carrot.
;
ARTHUR. What's so special
about this carrot?
If God
'
s so perfect, why
can't
he just make a whole bunch
of carrots?
JESUS. Greek philosophy
taught that ...
ARTHUR.
I never cared
mach for Greeks.
JESUS. Oh hush! Greek
philosophy taught that many physical objects
were
based
on ideal
models.
ARTHUR. Huh?
JESUS. Take
the circle.
A circle is a curved line everywhere
equidistant from a single point in the center.
ARTHUR.
So?
JESUS.
Have
you ever seen a perfect circle?
ARTHUR. Yeah.
JESUS.
No, you haven't! It's impossible to see a perfect circle on earth.
ARTHUR. No, it isn't. I see 'em all the time! I even have an "O" key
on my typewriter. That's
a perfect
circle, right?
JESUS. No, not absolutely perfect ...
ARTHUR. Look! Who gives a rat's ass about a perfect circle?! The
world was
always
fine with
our
substandard bastard circles, THANK YOU
VERY
.
MUCH.
JESUS.
That carrot isn't just any carrot. It's the model on which all
other
carrots in
the
universe
are based.
ARTHUR. Is it edible?
JESUS.
Yes.
ARTHUR. Right! I'm gonna eat it then!
(raises
the
carrot to his
mouth)
JESUS.
No!
Wait! You'll
throw the entire universe out of balance!
ARTHUR.
And?
JESUS.
The
universe
will
cease to exist.
ARTHUR.
Normally, that
would
be a
major
faux pax,
but since
everyone else is dead,
it'll just
be between
you
and
me, 'eh? (ARTHUR
is just
about to eat the carrot)
JESUS. We'll give you a women!
ARTHUR. (
quite stunned,
stops threatening to eat the carrot)
Is God a
pimp?
JESUS.
No!
There is no money involved.
ARTHUR.
Then
they do it
for spiritual favors?
JESUS
.
All right, maybe.
It
shouldn't
be
a surprise ... I mean, that
whole Adam and
Eve
thing
..
.
ARTHUR. Mmmm ... I
see what you mean .
.
. Well,
I'm not
interes
t
ed.
JESUS. \Ve'd be willing to overlook the whole "sinning" thing ...
ARTHUR. It's not that. I don't feel like having the awesome
responsibility of recreating the entire human race.
JESUS
.
I never mentioned the S-word.
ARTHUR. Sex?
JESUS. Yeah, that one.
ARTHUR.
(pauses)
But you were insinuating it.
JESUS. May God damn me forever if I ...
(lights start dimming)
(
pause)
Okay, so I was hinting at it.
(lights return to full)
ARTHUR. Hey, isn
'
t that taking God's name in vain? What
happened to all that stuff in the Bible you're suppose to follow?
JESUS. Hey, I didn't write that stuff.
ARTHUR. Then what's up with the New Testament?
JESUS. Don't look at me, I'm Jewish.
ARTHUR.
(pau
s
e
s
)
So, I've been a good man. Do I get to keep the
carrot?
JESUS. If you were a good man, you'd give me the carrot. The power
of God is mighty enough to move mountains. Surely, you'd reconsider
.
ARTHUR. Ah, but can the power of God prevent me from eating this
carrot?
JESUS. Yes
.
ARTHUR. Oh.
(pauses)
Ah, but without faith, God is nothing. Right?
JESUS. This is true.
ARTHUR. And I am the only human being left on the planet ...
(
pau
s
es, closes hi
s
eye
s
)
I"M A BUDDHIST! I'M A BUDDHIST! I'l\!I A
BUDDHIST!
(
JESUS
cringes in abject fear.
ARTHUR
continues to chant, all the while
,
nothing happen
s
. Finally
JESUS
compo
s
e
s
him
s
elf)
JESUS. Amazing! The perfect carrot is a Christian carrot!
ARTHUR. What?!
JESUS. The belief of this carrot is stronger than your belief.
ARTHUR. It's just a carrot!
JESUS. The perfect carrot, and you intellectual superior!
ARTHUR. That's just insulting!
JESUS. The spirit shall rule forever, my son
.
ARTHUR. Fuck that! This carrot can't
eat
me!
JESUS. Don't do it Arthur. Just put down that carrot ..
.
(ARTHUR
crunches into the carrot
.
A chorus of angels sings. The lights on
stage
s
uddenly turn off)
-Bryan Walko
YOU
By: Holly Cai.Tip
You is a word
I think of at night
You is a word
That makes me feel
right
...
-
...
,:,
-
-
..
-
- --
_,
.X.VU
.Lti
d.
WV.LU
Running deep in my head
You is a word
You is a word
I
write of a
lot
You is a word
That has conquered
My thoughts
You is a word
that
Brings me much pain
You
is
a word that·s
Loud like a train
You is a word
I'm lost here without
ivu
.1.s
a word
That I often
Youis a word
_,__,.
....
bHVUL.
That confuses
my head
You is a word
3ometimes
I
wish
you were
dead
You is a word
That mixes love with hate
You is a word
That's more than just fate
But you are thing
More than a word
You're more like an eagle
Not just a bird
It•
S
yvu
c:1.::.
c:1.
J:)t=L
::;vu
with your smile and heart
It's you that I've dreaiued
of
since the start
But it•s you who has broken
Hy heart 1.n two
And it's me who suffers
now
Not you
UNTITLED
trapped in a darkness we've
created sitting, waiting for a
signal.
.
stuck 1.n
an
oasis on an
endless
journey searching for
questions to which we have the
answers
knowing now where we·ve been
but where we are and the
bright green neon leaves me
sightless, maples with its
word gasping, gagging
I want to throw it all up the
lies, the truth, the secrets
opposites?
•••
maybe or one in
the same
flip a coin choose living or
dying peace or war making love
or sex is there a difference?
continue searching for your
God and show me your way to
heaven and to hell
while I continue to create my
own heaven and live in my own
hell God? ...
I
am my own God
____ ...._ _______ ,,:_,: __ ---J...!--
vabL.Ut:bb .Lt:.L.L'::f.LV.f..l ..,;a;;:;L..i.J..l'::f
stones as citizens burn flags
and trade blocks for guns
dreams turn reality while
reality becomes nightmare in a
merry-go-round playing 'A
spoonful of sugar· laughing,
crying speed
spinning, crashing never
existed figment of the
imagination, the
mind
my
mother's presence
under my
sole burns with the rise in
temperature
and there
standing
tall he
protects
his
members strong,
quiet, firm,
and
reserved he
graces the dark with his
presence
and I recognize, accept, my
want to be the palm at the end
of
IT(f
rr1ind
caiiuni James Keogh
BEYOND OUR DREAMS
Beyond our dreams
Beyond the consolation which leaps forth
Their
stands
a place, no evil action lives
Laughter tells the story and
no tears are trembling
Tender care cradles each breath
and names reflect nothing more
Beyond our lives
Beyond the
·
consolation which leaps forth
Their's place of hearts of humankind
Laughter reflects the story and no one is
weeping
Mothered care cradles each one and
names are meaningless
Beyond our dreams
Beyond the consolation which leaps forth
Their stands a place, no evil action lives
Laughter tells the story and
no tears are trembling
Tender care cradles each breath
and names reflect nothing more
Kevin O'Neill
Untitled
Your true colors,
Came shining through,
Like a torrent
Of raindrops,
Beating against m~head.
The mask you wore,
Shriveled and dissolved
Into the puddles,
Of your insanity.
Left is a blank face,
Which will greet you,
From now on.
Diane R. Kolod
THE SCREAM
The truth is a thing best
left undisturbed lest it break free from it's chains and run amok
throughout
the
world
causing
untold devastation--bringing with it the multitude of demons that
we have
created--we have
caused all that is wrong and we must be the ones to undo all that has
been
undone--we are the ones
who
have
ripped apart what should be and trampled it into the
grass
like a poor ant who
only wants a meal--chaos is what is--we have broken the natural law
with
our own demands and
that is not us--seeking only power and self-gratification-- we hide our
transgressions in
a reality
of
our
own fabrication and never let them show--like bad children told
to
behave
when
company
comes calling--to us righteousness is only semi-apparent and, even then
,
it's a confusing
thing--we
have lost our way and now all roads lead to Hell--we would rather hide
our
heads in the sands of
fate,
than
take the trouble to climb up the dune of salvation--we make
our
own
choices
and
responsibility cannot be passed around and tradded like a baseball
card--never
look at
the sun
for
it is truth and it will ruin you sight-- but sometimes the blind see
better than anybody--will
you be the one climbing to find the mountain-top guru, searching for
enlightenment,
or will
you be satisfied with all the illusions of society?--illumination is the key--it
only
hurts to tum on the
light when you have lived in the dark for a long time--the pain of reality
created
our tylenol world--open
your mind to the warning pulses--society is a lord that never lets
you see
the possibilities--silicon
valleys of progress all flow to oblivion but your king and country
owns all the boats--and who wants to rule
when the black death comes to town?--we never see
the rats and we never see the filth
we're living in--taking all and giving back only in
pretense--living in a ditch drinking the
muddy water and thinking it's champagne--who the hell
wants the good life now that we've found
it?--but we're content because we don't see the
stormdrain ahead sucking us down into
the pits we crawled up from
-
-it's all greed and lies that
make the world revolve--but that was
up
to
us and nobody listens to what we're saying anymore
because it's all the same words--we're going through the motions
acting like we have a million of
them--it's
a Disney world after all, but even Disney
gets paid-- and the sun continues to shine and
we ignore it like all the other fixtures of
our lives--sure we bask in the sun and feel those warm
rays of heaven as we fall asleep dreaming
things we don't care enough about to have--our minds
only there to give our necks a purpose--it's
only a dark ride because someone forgot to tum on
the lights and we never opened our eyes--why
climb when you can sit at the botom drinking
lemonade?--so here I am rambling on and
spouting my mixed metaphors and not doing a god
damned thing--why?--because I
like lemonade and it's too much trouble getting out of that
chair--this is hell, folks, but we don't
want to admit it and I don't like walking out halfway through
the show.
- Mark Francisco
More Winter than Spring
(The
Winter/Spring
Transition)
By
Robert L. Furlong
Tomorrow,
at 9:12 a.m
..
the first day of spring
will
arrive.
Flowers may
bloom; the
air
may have a
sweet-sixteen
scent; singing
robins may return and have offspring;
beautiful girls may
skip in their pretty, pastel
cotton
dresses, saunter with
coy
smiles
as their youthful,
shining
hair gracefully swings to
the beat of
each
frolicking
step
past wiry boys whose hearts are twitchin' at the first
signs
of
the blossoms.
Yet today, this snowy
da in late March, is
the
last da
of winter.
I
want to
relish, experience, give
witness to
Old
Man's Winter's final moments.
To ski, skate, pitch
snowballs,
create a
snowman;
stroll through powder,
shovel,
sweep the six-sided flakes off of
the car; sip
hot chocolate
topped with whipped cream,
taste
steaming
hot oatmeal,
Vermont
toast layered
with butter, honey and jam; then
bravely
climb back
into
my
snowsuit, hat, gloves
and boots in
order
to
slush
towards the face
of
this dying giant
once
again.
Afterwards, as
I recline on my bed, supported
by my
favorite
backrest
stitched by Mom, covered to the
waist
with
my sentimental pilgrim
blue
afghan
crotched by Grandma
, I am
grateful for the feeling of
warmth as I watch the
snow-filled
gusts of wind swirl
outside my second-story window
and hear
the heavy, grating sounds
of the snowplow scraping
the
speedily accumulating 'blanket
de blanc' off to
the side
of
the road.
Inside, however,
it is a classic snow
day for
me
filled
with that unique
serenity only found during
this
hibernating time of
year.
For tomorrow,
it
is
spring.
The sun will be
shared
equally by everyone
on planet Earth - twelve hours
of
daylight
-
twelve hours of nighttime.
It is then
official;
the northern winter
is
over.
We all move
on
. . . . .
Yet today, this season
of
drifting
dormancy
is
still
very much present because of
Old Man Winter's
extraordinary
last ditch efforts.
The withered
ol' guy wants
you
and
me to
know and respect that even
if by
only
a few minutes,
there is
still more solid cold darkness
than
warm
liquid
sunlight,
more roaring lion than
meek
lamb,
more bone-chilling
wind
than soft soothing breeze,
more March snow
than April
showers, more barren white than lush green,
more
withered
brown bark than innocent pink petals, more
aged
closed than
spryly open, more frozen dust
than
floating
pollen,
more
seamless
gray cloud
cover than roaring deep blue
sky, more
idle
solitude than
moving togetherness, more winter
than
spring.
They
walked
all night with their shoes full of blood.
And like Gods, like deities who roamed the earth centuries ago,
they
speared
the dirt into their cupped hands and formed it to
try
to
create new life.
Aah
...
but no new life sprung.
They
walked alone,
for no man so intent on life dare walk with or
near them
for
fear that they too may be cast into the
emotionless darr~ation to which these few endured.
They walked with their hands full of sweat, and their wrinkled
faces
told
a story, yet not a story of heros or of love, but a
story of time.
They walked with their pockets empty from the larcenous men who
stripped them too, of their dignity.
They walked all night, yes, and through fields arrd thickets, and
cement paved roadways.
Through schoolyards, and parking lots of
city offices in which the danmed bureaucratic powerlords sat at
their desks wielding their mighty cross pens.
Their shoes full of blood, blood-the reminder of deathly screams.
And it oozed out the sides as they stepped over the dead that lay
before
them.
And nobody looked their way.
They walked wounded from the bullets that flew from the barrels
of the m-16's that always seemed to be waiting around every
corner.
They walked, unnoticed as they fought to protect the freedom
their country.
-
.&:
VJ..
Hike Pappagallo
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